Emien joined the crew at the ratlines with trepidation. Uncovered oar-ports could become a hazard in open waters. A sudden squall could drive the waves high enough to let in the sea. Yet the risk seemed less than the prospect of lying motionless at the mercy of the storm every soul on board believed Anskiere's falcon would unleash. And though Emien had not seen Tathagres since the night he had sworn her service, her impatience could be felt the length and beam of the galleass.
Yet even under the strong pull of her oarsmen, three more days passed before the lookout sighted land. The moment the call came from aloft, Emien joined the crowd at the rails, unable to contain his curiosity. All his life, he had heard tales of the stronghold of the pirates; this would be the first time he set eyes on it.
Cliffhaven jutted upward from the sea, black as flint against the sky. The slate roofs of a village glinted between jagged outcrops of rock, and above them, like a battered crown, lay the battlements of the Kielmark's fortress. Emien shivered. No man had ever challenged the Kielmark's sovereignty and won. If the tales were true, beneath the galleass' keel lay the bones of scores of ships his fleet had sunk to the bottom. Here even Tathagres was obliged to move with caution.
Crow entered the harbor beneath a white flag of neutrality. No royal ensign flew from her mizzenmast. On deck, her hands worked quickly, and without chanteys, aware their vessel would receive questionable welcome if she lingered.
Emien helped the sailors sway out the longboat which would carry Anskiere ashore. Beyond the rail, the sun threw a blazing reflection upon waters glazed with calm. Emien licked sweat from his lips and felt strangely chilled. Never had he seen such weather, not in fourteen years of fishing. The sooner the Storm-warden was offboard the better.
Blocks squealed overhead and the boat struck with a smack, scattering ripples. Emien made fast his slackened line and glanced toward the companionway just as Anskiere was brought on deck. Two sorcerers stood guard at his side and fetters still gleamed on his wrists, but there all semblance of captivity ended. Emien gasped. Anskiere stood newly clad in indigo velvet adorned with gold. He carried both staff and cloak, and his silver hair lay trimmed neatly against his collar.
Surprised by such finery, Emien knew resentment. "They treat him better than he deserves."
A nearby soldier spat and shook his head. "No, they condemn him. Anskiere wore those same robes when Tierl Enneth was destroyed."
Emien blinked perspiration from his lashes. "He looks like a king's son."
The soldier grinned outright. "You didn't know? He is a king's son."
Unsure if he was being gulled, Emien fell silent, brows puckered into a scowl. If his ignorant upbringing on Imrill Kand amused people, one day he would find means to end their laughter. Resolved and bitter, he gripped the taffrail while Anskiere descended the side battens and stepped into the boat. Both sorcerers went with him. Hooded like vultures under ebony cowls, they settled in the stern seat.
Emien cast off the line, and felt a hand on his back. At his shoulder, Tathagres called out.
"Stormwarden!"
Startled by her voice, Emien turned, still frowning. Her scent enveloped him, and his ears rang with the fine jingle of gold as she leaned past him over the rail.
"Anskiere, remember the King's will." Tathagres closed her fingers over Emien's wrist in warning.
Below, the oarsmen threaded their looms, and the boat rocked slightly in the glassy calm. At last Anskiere looked up.
Tathagres' grip tightened. Her nails dug into Emien's flesh. "Lest you be tempted, remember those you have left in my care."
Anskiere's gaze shifted to include Emien, and lingered. The boy broke into sweat despite Tathagres' presence. Chills prickled his skin, for that searching look seemed to weigh the balance of his very soul.
"Mistress," said the Stormwarden, "should you gain entry to Elrinfaer, you will be doomed."
Tathagres tossed her hair, and ornaments and amethysts flashed in the sunlight. "Your threats mean nothing. If I win access to the seat of your powers, Cloud-shifter, the ruin shall be yours."
Anskiere ran lean fingers over his staff. "Your plan is flawed. Elrinfaer does not, nor ever did, contain the foundation of my power. For that you must search elsewhere."
"If the keys of Elrinfaer fail me, I will," Tathagres replied. She released Emien and addressed the captain briskly. "Deliver the Stormwarden to the Kielmark. We sail the moment he is ashore."
The oarsmen leaned into their stroke, and the longboat sheared out of Crow's shadow, water curling at her bow. But Emien did not linger to watch Anskiere's departure. He left his place at the rail and bowed before Tathagres.
"Lady, with the Stormwarden gone, will you permit me to fetch my sister from the hold?"
"The girl is a hostage, and valuable." Tathagres studied the boy's face as though assessing the set of his jaw. Suddenly she smiled. "You may visit her. But wait until the longboat returns, and Crow is back underway."
Speechless with gratitude, Emien bowed again. When he rose, Tathagres had gone, and shouted orders from the captain dispersed the crowd at the rails. Yet despite the bustle of activity, the interval before the longboat arrived passed slowly. Emien paced from the rail to hatch grating, consumed by impatience. The moment the deckhands threaded pins into the capstan, he bolted for the hold.
* * *
He stood, blinking in darkness, and the clank of chain through the hawse reverberated painfully in his ears as the anchor rose from the seabed.
"Taen?"
Light flickered overhead. A guardsman descended with a lantern. Emien picked out the dim outlines of baled cargo, and the flash of reflection from a pan of water. A rat raised luminous eyes and darted away from a lump of sourdough biscuit nearby.
Emien shivered. "Taen?" The sight of abandoned food left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Raised plainly, the girl was not one to waste. Nothing moved in the shadows. Emien glanced up at the guard. "She's not here."
"Impossible." The man wheezed, stepped off the bottom rung, and swung the lantern onto a hook in the beam overhead. With a final clang the anchor settled and the echoes faded.
"She didn't eat." Emien's voice sounded loud in the sudden stillness.
"No?" The guard glanced at the bread and sighed. "She's probably hiding. But she won't have gotten far. Her hands were tied."
"Not any more." Emien bent, pulled a frayed bit of line from the sharpened twist of wire which bound a wool bale. The strands were stained dark with blood.
The guard gestured impatiently. "Well, search for her, then!"
Emien stumbled into blackness, nostrils revolted by the smell of bilge and the rotted odor of damp and brandy casks. He tried not to think about the rats. "Taen?"
His call dissolved into silence, overlaid by the bump of oars being threaded overhead. And though he searched the hold with frantic care, he found no trace of his sister. The guard left reluctantly to inform Tathagres.
Soldiers were sent to assist. For an hour, the hold resonated with men's curses and the squeal of startled rats. But they found nothing. Desolate, Emien wiped his brow with a grimy wrist and sat on a sack of barley flour. Helpless anger overcame him. If harm had come to Taen, the Stormwarden would be made to pay dearly.
"The girl could not have escaped," said Tathagres clearly from above. "If she's hiding, hunger and thirst will drive her out in good time. Until then let the vermin keep her company."
* * *
Beyond the shops and houses which crowded against the wharves of Cliffhaven, a stair seamed the face of a rocky, scrub-strewn cliffside. The walls of the Kielmark's fortifications crowned the crest, black and sheer above the twisted limbs of almond trees. While Crow rowed from the outer harbor, Anskiere climbed the stair.
The bindings had been struck from his wrists, and noon shadow pooled beneath the gold-trimmed hem of his robe. He used his former staff as a walking stick. The metal tip clinked sourly against risers so ancient that grasses had pried footholds be
tween the cracked marble. Summer's sun had bleached their jointed stems pale as the bones of fairy folk; and like bones, they crunched under the bootsoles of the two sorcerers sent as escorts.
"You will ask directly for audience with the Kielmark," reminded the one on the Storm warden's left.
Anskiere said nothing. Except for the rasp of crickets, the hillside seemed deserted and the town beneath lay dormant. Yet none were deceived by the stillness. Renowned for vigilance, the Kielmark's guards had surely noticed them the moment Crow's longboat reached shore; as strangers, their presence would be challenged.
Anskiere paused on the landing below the gate, staff hooked in the crook of his elbow. The cloak on his forearm hung without a ripple in the still air.
"Well?" The sorcerer on his right gestured impatiently. "Move on."
But Anskiere refused to be hurried. That moment, the rocks beside the stair seemed to erupt with movement, and the three found themselves surrounded by armed men with spears held leveled in a hostile ring.
"State your business," said the largest soldier briskly. His tanned body was clad in little but leather armor. He carried no device. Only the well-kept steel of his buckles and blade, and the alert edge to his voice, bespoke disciplined authority.
Anskiere answered calmly. "Your weapons are not needed. I wish only words with the Kielmark."
The guard captain studied the Stormwarden with unfriendliness, but he lowered his spear. "By what right do you claim audience, stranger? The Kielmark dislikes intruders. Why should he honor you?"
Before Anskiere could reply, one of the sorcerers pushed forward. As one the weapons lifted to his chest.
"Slowly," the captain warned. "Your life is cheap here."
Livid under his hood, the sorcerer placed a finger upon the steel edge closest to his throat. "Take care. Do you know whom you threaten? You point your toys at Anskiere of Elrinfaer, once Stormwarden at Tierl Enneth."
The captain sucked in his breath. Sudden sweat spangled his knuckles, and his bearded face went a shade paler.
Anskiere smiled ruefully. "To me, your weapon is no toy. I bleed as readily as any other man."
The captain withdrew his spear, jabbed the butt ringingly onto stone. "Are you..." He jerked his head at the elaborate gold borders which patterned the blue robe at cuffs and hem, eyes narrowed with wariness.
"I am Anskiere, once of Elrinfaer, come to speak with your master. Will you tell him?"
The captain turned on his heel without another word. Hedged by skeptical men at arms, the two sorcerers in black exchanged quiet sighs of relief. It seemed Anskiere intended to see the Kielmark willingly. Even with his arcane powers bound and the children from Imrill Kand as hostage, the Stormwarden made an unpredictable charge. The mortal strength he still possessed could yet make their task difficult.
The sorcerers waited nervously in the heat while the looped metal at the head of the staff cast angular lines of shadow across the Stormwarden's face. They watched as he stared at the horizon, and his very stillness fueled their unease.
"The weather doesn't seem to bother him," one sorcerer whispered to his colleague in the language of their craft. "He almost seems part of it."
"Impossible." The other blotted his brow with his sleeve. "He can originate nothing with a spent staff, and the major bindings hold."
"Stormfalcon..."
"Nonsense. She never returned."
A spear flashed in the nervous grip of a guard, checking the discussion abruptly. The tense interval which followed passed uninterrupted until the captain's return.
He emerged in haste from the gatehouse, whitened beneath his tan and dripping sweat. "Put up your weapons."
The men complied with alacrity. To Anskiere, the captain said, "The Kielmark will see you at once."
Stormwarden and escort resumed their ascent of the stair, accompanied by the dry slap of sandaled feet; the men at arms moved with them.
For this the captain shrugged in taut apology. "The men must come along. No one has ever entered the Kielmark's presence armed. With you he makes an exception."
Anskiere paused beneath the stone arches of the gatehouse. "I would surrender my staff, should the Kielmark ask," he said, but his offer did not reassure.
The captain's manner became sharply guarded. "He's not such a fool." Any man with experience knew the touch of a sorcerer's staff caused death. The captain's face reddened in memory of the Kielmark's curt order: "A sorcerer at Cliffhaven is just as dangerous to my interests as one standing in my presence, with one difference. Here I can watch his hands. Bring him in directly."
* * *
The Kielmark waited beneath the arches of a great vaulted hall. There the richness of Anskiere's robes did not seem misplaced, for the chamber was ornamented, walls and floor, with the plunder of uncounted ships. Gilt, pearl inlay and jewels adorned everything, from tapestries to rare wood furnishings; the Stormwarden and his escort approached the dais across a costly expanse of carpet.
Except for a single seated man, the chamber was empty. The Kielmark chose to meet them alone. Tathagres' sorcerers were not beguiled. Their sharp eyes missed nothing. Amid the cluttered display of wealth, they discovered a mind geared toward violence: the great hall of the Kielmark was arrayed in strategic expectation of attack, its glitter a trap for any man fool enough to challenge the Lord of Cliffhaven.
Seated in a chair draped with leopard hides, the Kielmark returned the scrutiny of his visitors in icy detachment. Except for the tap of a single nervous finger, he seemed unimpressed, even bored by the fact Anskiere's name was linked with four thousand deaths. Outlaws came to Cliffhaven to serve or they died there, for the King of Renegades tolerated no disloyalty, and his judgment was swift.
And strangely, the sovereign who reigned in such gaudy splendor was himself the note that jarred, the piece which did not fit. As the sorcerers drew near, they saw, and redoubled their wariness. Beyond a torque set with rubies, the Kielmark wore plain leather armor like his men. But there, comparison ended, for his frame was stupendously muscled, and his brow reflected intelligence untempered by gentleness. Dark hair shadowed eyes blue and intent as a wolf's. The man had all the stillness of a weapon confident of its killing edge.
The sorcerers glanced at Anskiere, and found him calm. Untouched by the tension which ringed him, he stopped before the dais and waited for the Kielmark to speak.
"Why have you come here?" The sudden question was an open challenge.
The Stormwarden answered quietly. "I plead sanctuary."
"Sanctuary!" The Kielmark closed massive fists over the arms of his chair. His eyes narrowed. "Sanctuary," he repeated, and his gaze moved over the blue robes and gold embroidery which made the request seem like mockery. "So. You present yourself as supplicant. Yet you do not bow."
The sorcerers struggled to conceal rising apprehension. The interview had not opened in accordance with Tathagres' plan. And subtly Anskiere extended his appeal. He raised the heavy staff from his shoulder, laid it flat on the dais stair, and stepped back, empty hands relaxed at his sides.
"I do not bow."
The statement met silence cold as death. Shocked by the symbol of a sorcerer's powers relinquished, the men at arms all but stopped breathing. But the staff on the stair roused nothing but calculation on the Kielmark's florid face. His attention shifted to the sorcerers, and in their bland lack of reaction found discrepancy. His lips tightened. "Warden, your colleagues seem strangely unimpressed by your gesture."
Anskiere shrugged. "These?"
The sorcerers shifted uneasily as his simple gesture framed them.
"They are none of mine, Eminence," said Anskiere softly.
The Kielmark sat suddenly forward, brows arched upward. "Not yours? Then why are they here?"
Anskiere met his glare. "Let them speak for themselves."
"Ah," said the Kielmark. He settled back, keenly interested, and laced his knuckles through his beard. Almost inaudibly, he said, "What have you brough
t us, Sorcerer?"
The Stormwarden made no effort to answer. The sorcerers, also, chose silence. For a lengthy interval, nothing moved in the chamber but the flies which threaded circles through the single square of sunlight on the floor.
"What happened at Tierl Enneth?" said the Kielmark. His manner was guarded, and his voice dangerously curt.
Anskiere stayed utterly still, but something in his attitude seemed suddenly defensive. Although at Cliffhaven his reply would be judged with no thought for morality, he answered carefully. "I was betrayed."
The Kielmark blinked like a cat. "Only that? Nothing more?" When he received no answer, he tried again. "Were you responsible?"
Anskiere bent his head, and his long, expressive fingers clenched at his sides. "Yes."
A murmur stirred the ranks of men at arms, silenced by the Kielmark's glare. Tathagres' sorcerers fidgeted restlessly, disquieted by the turn the interview had taken. Anskiere's request for sanctuary had initiated an exchange whose outcome could not be controlled. And with lowered spears at their back, they dared not intervene.
The Kielmark shifted in his chair, muscles relaxed beneath his swarthy skin. "I accept that," he said, and abruptly reached a decision. "You are welcome to what safety Cliffhaven can provide, if you will ward the weather in return."
Anskiere looked up. "There are limits to both." Without explaining how severely his powers were curtailed, he added, "I will do all I can."
The Kielmark nodded, rubies flashing at his neck. "I understand. You may take back your staff. Now what would you suggest I do with the two who came with you?"
"Nothing, Eminence." Anskiere retrieved the staff and straightened with an expression of bland amusement. "For them I claim sole responsibility."
One sorcerer hissed in astonishment. The other whirled, openly affronted by Anskiere's presumptuous boldness. And on the dais, the Kielmark awarded their shattered composure a sharp bellow of laughter. "So. The hyenas have not forgotten their spots," he observed. He sobered in the space of a second, strong fingers twined in the leopard fur. "I will allow you their fate, Stormwarden, but with one difference. I mistrust the intentions of anyone who claims no convictions, be they sorcerers or men. I wish this pair gone from Cliffhaven in three days' time."