Stormwarden

  Disturbed by his conscience, Emien stared at his hands as if the cracked and blistered skin held answer to the dilemma of command. "Lady," he began. Tathagres turned her face toward him, and he looked up, at first unable to believe what he saw.

  His mistress wore an expression of joy. Her eyes glittered with a challenge fiercer than any lust. "You will land the pinnace at once," she said firmly.

  Emien's jaw dropped. Fear choked the breath in his throat.

  "You heard." Tathagres leaned close and spoke directly into his ear. Though she wore no scent, her proximity unnerved him. "Are you fit to command, or do you yield your will like a nursemaid for the lives of the scum who serve you?"

  Emien's jaw clenched. Tathagres mocked him; after Anskiere's storm, she viewed his handling of the pinnace as nothing more than sport to amuse her. Now, like a cat grown bored with teasing a mouse, she sought to slaughter the pride he had gained at the cost of his own sister's life. The jest, at such a price, was too bitter to contemplate.

  Emien drew breath, heated by deadly anger. "Lady," he said tersely, "you shall have your landing." And consumed by bitterness which admitted neither regret nor compassion, he yanked the knotted cord from his waist. He strode forward, oblivious to the fact another observed his actions even more keenly than his mistress.

  Hunched like a great scavenger bird in the bow, Hearvin sat with his hood thrown back, bald head exposed to the sky. In stiff-lipped silence, he watched Emien drive the sailhands to the benches with the lash. Wind eddied the sound, landing the crack of the cord across flesh an unreal quality, distant and dreamlike as the spool pictures the sorcerer had viewed long ago during Koridan's Grand Ceremony at Landfast. To compel the deckhands' obedience, the boy inspired them to fear him more than death by drowning; the result was disturbingly brutal. Hearvin watched with stony eyes, until Tathagres arrived and perched herself at his side, her cheeks flushed with unnatural exuberance.

  "You set that boy up to fail," the sorcerer accused drily.

  By the mast, Emien cuffed a recalcitrant oarsman. Wind tossed his black hair like a horse's mane, baring wild eyes and contorted lips. He had channeled his frustrated tangle of passions into violence, and the effect was successful. With curses and wild anger, the boy bullied the crew into submission. Tathagres noted their subservience with satisfaction.

  "Why?" said Hearvin softly. "No amount of cruelty will keep this craft clear of the reef. That boy has given you loyalty already. What will you gain by breaking him?"

  Delicately Tathagres peeled a torn thumbnail with her teeth. "If he fails me now, won't he extend himself to greater lengths to regain my favor?" She smiled, dropped her hand and suddenly sobered. "His loyalty is not enough. For the purpose I have in mind I need his soul as well. Then I will have the weapon to bring Anskiere to his knees."

  If Hearvin replied, his words were buried by the rumble as the men threaded oars onto the rowlocks.

  Emien barely waited until the action was complete. "Stroke!" He slashed the nearest back for emphasis, then raced to the bow. Hearvin moved aside as the boy uncleated the anchor line. Close up, the boy reeked of sweat, and his skin radiated a feverish heat. The line whipped free. Emien hauled, adding his weight to the efforts of the oarsmen. The pinnace eased ahead. Chain clanked and the anchor splashed clear of the sea. Emien bent to secure it, shouting orders over his shoulder. The starboard oarsmen reversed stroke. The pinnace swung. Her bowsprit dipped, gracefully as a maid's curtsy, and pointed toward the forbidding shores of Skane's Edge.

  "Forward, stroke!" Emien dashed aft and ripped the tiller loose. Braced against the plunging deck, he dragged the helm, brought the bow around to the place he had selected. Ahead the water rushed in a dark, angry vee, fenced by gateposts of rock. Emien would have to steer the pinnace through the gap like a raft on rapids. He grimaced, aware of the difficulties. The men must row faster than the current or he would lose steerage; too fast, and the craft would plunge her bow into a trough and pitchpole. The rocks rushed closer. Waves peaked, crashed, and creamed white off the bow as the pinnace closed with the reef. Surf bashed the keel. Vibrations stung Emien's hands as the rudder slammed against the pins. The sounds of human struggle became obliterated by the thunder of the foam. Drenched by spray, Emien flung hair from his face and wrestled the tiller straight. The gap yawned like jaws off the bow.

  "Ship oars!" His shout sounded plaintive as a lost child's. Somehow the men heard.

  A wave crashed to port. The pinnace yawed. Emien hauled on the helm. Though the muscles of his shoulders and arms burned with strain, he dragged the pinnace straight. Through salt-splashed eyes, he saw a seaman fumble an oar.

  Emien shouted, too late. Rock already loomed above them, a buttress of barnacle-studded granite. The oar struck. Jarred against the rowlock, it smashed the man's ribcage. His scream sawed through the hiss of the foam. The pinnace slewed sideways and punched into the stone. Planking slivered; the gunwale burst with an agonizing crack. Emien dropped the helm. He leaped over the benches, caught Tathagres just as a comber burst like an avalanche over the thwart. Water bashed them overboard. In the last frantic instant before the sea swept Emien under, he clamped his hand in Tathagres' shirt. Then he was tumbled downward. Dark angry waters closed above his head.

  Emien struggled to swim. Tossed over and over, he kicked and tried to break free of the current's icy grip. Although Tathagres' thrashing hampered him, he clung tightly to her clothing. He had failed to save Taen; now, with the pinnace wrecked and everything lost except his sworn oath of loyalty, the boy was determined to see his mistress safely ashore.

  Water swirled, plunging him deeper. Pressure crackled his eardrums, and his lungs ached. Emien fought, driven by desperate need for air. Suddenly his shoulder scuffed packed sand.

  The bottom was shoaling. Relieved to find the current had swept him toward land, the boy pushed away the kelp which twined about his body. He caught Tathagres' hair. She had stopped struggling; fearful she might have lost consciousness, Emien twisted, dug his feet into the sea bottom and shoved off for the surface.

  Something sharp grazed his wrist. Stung by unexpected pain, Emien let go. Without warning, Tathagres yanked at the hand still twined in her shirt, forced the boy to release her. Emien broke water, dizzied and starved for air. Foam-webbed water slapped his cheek. In the second before the next wave rolled him under, he glimpsed a reddened gash in the muscle of his lower arm. The wound itself was unmistakable; Tathagres had knifed him to free herself .

  Stunned, Emien mistimed his stroke. The breaker which bore him shoreward surged, lifted, and broke. Current pummeled his flesh, dragging him like a rag doll across the sharpened edges of coral. Clothing and skin tore from his body. Choking, bleeding, and bruised beyond rational thought, Emien sensed the turbulence shift; the wave was ebbing. He flung his good hand down, instinctively sought the bottom. His fingers scrabbled through weed and loose shells, then caught on a rock. He clung until the greedy suck of the undertow relented.

  Emien released and kicked hard. His head broke water. He managed a quick breath before the crash of the next comber overtook him. Tossed like a chip in a maelstrom, he was flung head over heels. This time, his knee struck bottom before the wave receded. He stroked with his arms, dragged himself forward, and managed at last to gain the shallows. Around him, the water thinned into a lacy sheet, and slid seaward with a throaty chuckle of sound. Emien crawled, gasping, and collapsed on the damp sand of Skane's Edge. His throat stung. Blood traced patterns across cheek, shoulder, and arm. The flash of wet shells and mica stabbed into his eyes. He closed his lids. Left faint by the sweet rush of air into his lungs, he lay prone, and the boom of the surf masked the sound of footsteps.

  He did not notice Tathagres' presence until he opened his eyes. She leaned over him, hair coiled like sodden silk around her collar. Her tunic dripped in his face as she fingered the ornamental dagger Emien had often noticed in the sheath at her belt. Her face seemed neutral.

  But when
she spoke, her words were edged with anger.

  "Boy, I will warn you no more after this. No matter what the circumstances, you will never again lay hands upon me without my express command. Should you repeat your late indiscretion, you will suffer far more than a cut as a penalty. Am I clear?"

  Emien coughed, sickened by the taste of blood on his lips. His arm throbbed, and every inch of abraded skin stung with the fury of the lash. Yet his physical hurts were slight compared with the deeper wound in his spirit. Sprawled where he had fallen on the sand, he voiced an apology. As Tathagres turned on her heel and left, tears mingled with the brine on his face. Once, as a child, he had accidentally fouled a fishnet; his father went over the side to correct the mistake, became tangled, and drowned. Then, Emien had been too small to understand what was happening. Now old enough to act responsibly toward those he loved, he had first failed his sister, then suffered a rejection no reason could console. Motionless on the beach of Skane's Edge, Emien wept for the last time in his life. Henceforth his tears would flow from the eyes of others, he resolved; and the overly sensitive emotions which had always made him vulnerable hardened into a knot of aggressive self-interest never to be released.

  The sorcerer Hearvin viewed the scene from an outcrop above the shore, drenched robes flapping in the breeze. His eyes narrowed into slits against the glare as he regarded the boy from Imrill Kand.

  "You've misjudged," he said softly, and though Tathagres was not present, she heard. "I fear this time you've scarred the boy too deeply. Who will pay the price?"

  Hearvin waited, but Tathagres sent no answer. And because he also was chilled and weary from the sea, he was careless and did not pursue the matter further.

  VIII

  Skane's Edge

  Of the seven sailhands who manned the pinnace from the foundering of the galleass Crow only four reached the beaches of Skane's Edge alive. Followed by Hearvin and Tathagres, the survivors chose a dell beside a pool of deep, clear water, refreshed themselves, then slept off the exhaustion of their ordeal.

  Emien did not join them. Instead he sought a place farther downstream where willows overhung banks edged by spear-straight ranks of cattails. The brook ran shallow and clean over a bed of rounded stones. Emien knelt and drank deeply. He found the water sweeter than the brackish wells he had known on Imrill Kand, but the improvement brought him no pleasure. Surrounded by the mournful trill of marsh thrushes, he bathed without hurry, rinsed the salt crust from his hair and clothes, and bound his cut forearm with strips torn from his shirt. He was bone tired. His eyes stung with sleeplessness, yet he felt no inclination to rest. Tathagres' hostility had disrupted his confidence, confused his thoughts till they circled in his mind like a pack of dogs balked by conflicting scents. Emien possessed no understanding, only bitterness, and he longed for the harsh life of Imrill Kand intensely. But Taen's death forever barred his return.

  Troubled by cherished memories of the beaches where he had scavenged shells as a child, Emien twisted the last strip of bandage into place and tightened the knot with his teeth. The cut beneath was not deep, yet it stung without surcease. A ragged line of blood quickly soaked three layers of linen. The color reminded Emien of the marks his lash had left on the backs of the sailors. On Imrill Kand, brutality of any kind had revolted him; yet the unpleasantness had barely crossed his mind aboard the pinnace. Even now he felt no regret. He had struck the seamen not to punish but to ensure the unquestioning obedience necessary for efficient seamanship.

  Inwardly aching, Emien leaned back against the trunk of the nearest willow. The thrushes over his head hopped to higher branches, nervously silent, while he rubbed at his bandaged arm. Emien could not have guessed Tathagres would swim the dangerous shores of Skane's Edge with such ease. Absorbed by his command, he had done nothing but overlook her self-confidence. That was no transgression. His desire to protect her had been right, justifiably human, as her reaction had not been.

  A jay scolded on the far bank. Lost in contemplation, Emien traced a finger over his wound. Tathagres had intended no lasting harm; the gash was shallow, running parallel to the muscle fibre, where it would least impair movement. She had said she gave him warning, exactly as he had used his lash for laggardliness; but his sailors were not lazy. Emien stiffened, chilled by sudden revelation. What if, like him, Tathagres had cut to shape him for her own purpose?

  Emien drove explosively to his feet. The marsh thrushes startled into flight and vanished with a whir of brown feathers. The stream sounded louder in their absence; yet Emien heard only the recollection of Anskiere's words the last time he had seen Taen alive.

  "The waters of the world are deep. Chart your course with care, Marl's son." The Stormwarden had spoken confidently, as if he already knew how roughly the boy he addressed might be used. The advice galled for its patronizing smugness. Emien knew fierce rage. He kicked a stone in a short hard arc toward the stream. It struck shallows with a splash, and fish fled like shadows for cover. But the boy saw only the face of the sorcerer who had angered him. The willows trailed closely about his shoulders, hedging him like the meshes of a destiny he did not want. Near to panic, Emien spun on his heel and crashed through the brush to the beach.

  Bathed in afternoon light, the cove was a snowy crescent flecked with the chipped crystal glitter of shells. Soothed by the open sea, Emien could almost forget the painful snarl his life had become. He walked along the tidemark and searched for the smooth fist-sized stones he preferred for hunting rabbits.

  The meadows of Skane's Edge were uncommonly lush. From the size of the droppings in the grass, the boy guessed the animals were plentiful and plump; easy prey if he chose good cover. And on Imrill Kand, stalking rabbits with throwing stones had been his favorite escape from chores which he now understood were the thankless inheritance of poverty. He had been right to leave; he only needed space to regroup shattered dreams.

  Tathagres had taught him to question the oath of loyalty sworn on Crow's decks. On Skane's Edge the boy might be subject to her will; but the Free Isles numbered more than the souls of Imrill Kand, and the empire beyond was vast. Emien resolved to learn from his mistress's methods, then strike off on his own. With or without her, he would exact the price of his sister's death from Anskiere.

  Emien bent and scooped a speckled stone from the sand. He tossed it from hand to hand, testing its balance and weighing choices. His oath did not set limits on ambition. Nothing prevented him from playing Tathagres' plots for his own stakes. Emien slipped the stone in his pocket and presently forgot he had ever missed the village of his birth.

  * * *

  The cliffs of Skane's Edge gleamed like hammered bronze in the afterglow of sunset and lengthened shadows tangled beneath the boughs in the wood where Emien ran. He stumbled across a gully. Pebbles scattered beneath his feet, fell soundlessly into moss. The boy recovered his balance, then hurried on, anxious to locate Tathagres before dark. He had lingered in the hills far later than he had intended, but the time was not spent fruitlessly; two rabbits dangled from his belt, each killed by flawless aim. Emien fingered the single stone left in his pocket, regretful the daylight had faded too soon to make use of it. Two coneys would hardly feed seven people; but even these were scant use if he failed to reach the lowlands before night hid the landmarks.

  Twilight deepened over the forest. Accustomed to ocean and the open tors of Imrill Kand, Emien felt uncomfortably hemmed in. Silver beeches leaned on either side, roots knuckled like miser's fists in rotted mats of leaves. Twigs clawed his clothing and foliage smothered the sky. No star shone through to guide the boy and the light had all but failed. With an unpleasant chill, Emien realized he might be forced to spend the night alone in the wilds. Even Tathagres' haughty company seemed preferable.

  But presently a gleam of firelight twinkled through the branches ahead. The rabbits bumped limply against Emien's legs as he increased pace. His shirtsleeve snagged on a thorn, but the boy plunged on, drawn by the familiar smell of wood-sm
oke and comforted by thoughts of fresh meat.

  Yet as Emien neared the campsite, he noticed the crickets seemed eerily silent. Over the limpid spill of the stream, he heard Tathagres' voice raised in anger. Cautious of her temper, the boy crouched in the bush to listen.

  Tathagres spoke, and the tone of her voice made his skin prickle. "Your sovereign appointed you to my service. You'll go where I command. Fool. Did you think I would return to Kisburn empty-handed?"

  Her rebuke was directed toward Hearvin. Certain the sorcerer's secretive silences boded ill for Tathagres, the boy crept closer. He hid behind a thicket and peered anxiously through the leaves. Hearvin stood with his back turned, a hooded silhouette against the firelight. Though his reply to Tathagres held no emotion, Emien sensed threat underlying, subtle and low as a scraped harpstring. Already the exchange had evolved well beyond the simple quarrel he had overheard on the pinnace.

  "But the King did not send me." Hearvin's sleeve flapped about his bony wrist as he gestured conversationally. "His Grace of Kisburn granted you the service of both his grand conjurers, and in ignorance you lost them their lives. One was my apprentice. He was a slow learner, true enough, but he died meanly, for greed. What can you answer for him?"

  Tathagres advanced, taut as a stalking leopard. Gold gleamed at her throat. "I lost their lives? For a lackey that's a presumptuous accusation! Kisburn wishes the frostwargs loosed. I desire the Keys to Elrinfaer. Tell me, what is your interest? Or do you claim no ambition other than charity? I don't believe you have no alliance at all with the King."