Scattered clots of wreckage tossed in the bay; flames streamed like banners, lining the wavecrests a bloody red. A semicircle of guardsmen cordoned the shore, surrounding a solitary figure in wind-whipped robes. But the soldiers held their weapons pointed down at the sand, and their discipline in the presence of their commander seemed queerly lax. The Kielmark grimaced with displeasure. He drew his sword with a stupendous ripple of muscles, slammed the horse with his heels, and drove it, sidling, straight for the lines.
Angry enough not to swerve for the men who dove clear of his mount, he bellowed against the storm. "What passes here?"
But the answer became apparent the moment he broke through the cordon and pulled the horse to a halt. A woman stood on the strand, alone and weaponless. Her hair fell dark as starless night about her shoulders and a mystic's wreath of myrtle twined her head. By the flowers and the unearthly sheen of her blue-violet robes, the Kielmark recognized her for a dream-weaver. The guardsmen's behavior did not stem from carelessness; snared by the enchantress's influence, they struggled to lift weapons grown strangely unruly in their grasp. Sweat sprang along the Kielmark's brow. His great wrist trembled with the effort of keeping his own sword upright, for it suddenly seemed too heavy for his hand.
Anger tore through him. Two incidents of sorcery in the same night utterly stripped him of tolerance. In a tone of killing fury he addressed the woman who had dared turn her enchantments against his men. "What brings you here? Answer quickly. Your presence is most unwelcome."
The dream-weaver regarded him with an expression of clear-eyed appeal. "This night you took a prisoner, one Kerainson Jaric. I am here to ask his release for the safety of your realm and all Keithland. You must not detain him. He is Ivain Fire-lord's heir and his obligation is urgent."
Taken aback, the Kielmark lowered his sword. That the slight blond boy brought in by his guardsmen could be Ivain's son was a development he could never have anticipated. The fact explained much. The Lord of Cliffhaven lowered his weapon and braced his wrist upon the horse's neck; unsheathed steel clanged against his stirrup iron as he leaned forward.
"Who sent you?" he demanded bluntly.
The dream-weaver shouted to make herself heard above the crash of surf. "Tamlin of the Vaere, the same who guided Anskiere to mastery. If you wish the Stormwarden unbound from the ice and gone from your shores, Jaric alone can accomplish the feat."
The Kielmark swore. He straightened in the saddle, jabbed his sword into its sheath with undisguised irritation and extended his hand to the dream-weaver. "Come here. I'll negotiate nothing without a roof to break the wind. Do you drink wine?"
Taen shook her head and tentatively stepped forward. Interpreting her approach as acquiescence, the Kielmark urged the horse ahead to meet her. He bent, caught her strongly in the crook of one elbow and swung her up into the saddle ahead of him. Black hair whipped across his bare shoulders as he reined the horse about. With a gesture he dismissed the guards, then set off up the slope to the fortress.
* * *
Taen perched uncomfortably on the edge of a stuffed chair in the Kielmark's study, her robes arranged to hide the hands clenched whitely in her lap. The Lord of Cliffhaven paced like a wolf before the hearth, shirtless still, a cut agate goblet in his hand. He sipped his wine and treated the dream-weaver before him to a long unpleasant scrutiny.
He stopped without warning and spoke. "You are younger than you look."
Taen watched the flamelight flash and sparkle in the rubies at his throat. "The Vaere sent me only in dire need. Cliffhaven stands in greater peril than you know."
"Indeed?" The Kielmark's eyes narrowed. He waited a lengthy interval for a reply but Taen volunteered nothing. Day brightened slowly beyond the casement, dusting highlights like faery silver through the hair on his chest.
At last the Kielmark said, "You'll gain nothing through seeking to bargain with me."
Taen met his threat with brazen honesty. "My kind don't negotiate. Lord, if I wished to manipulate, I would do so, without your consent if need be."
The statement struck a nerve. The Kielmark slammed his goblet down on the window ledge, splashing wine across his knuckles. The girl in the chair flinched, but did not retract her admonition. Poker straight in her gold-trimmed robes, she held her silence while the servant who had brought the wine rushed off for towels and an ewer of water. The Kielmark dripped on the tiles, oblivious. Though the girl seemed guileless and vulnerable, the myrtle wreath and the robe only came to those trained by the Vaere. At her own craft, this child-woman held as much power as Anskiere.
The manservant returned and after a glance at the Kielmark's face began mopping spilled wine without fuss.
Taen confronted the Lord of Cliffhaven with disquieting assurance. "I would rather deal directly with you." Her restraint seemed genuine; and inspiration for her following line was borrowed from his innermost heart. "The Stormwarden of Elrinfaer holds you in highest regard. In his stead, I bring you warning. Kisburn seeks conquest of the Free Isles. Cliffhaven controls the Straits and so thwarts an ambition now turned to advantage by Kor's Accursed. The demons desire Landfast. Through the machinations of Tathagres, they will support the King against you."
The Kielmark jerked as if he tasted poison. The flush which suffused his features sent the servant scuttling backwards from the room. "Fires! He dares, does he?"
His fury struck Taen's awareness with the splintering force of a mallet. Taxed beyond previous limits, she strove to maintain control. "Lord, listen carefully. You must abandon Cliff-haven and evacuate your following."
The Kielmark's demeanor turned vicious with rage. Seeing his hand reach for his sword, Taen drove to her feet. Power radiated from her person and her voice became forcefully cold. "Lord, heed me. Time is precious and words are wasteful. Look, I will show you."
She spread her arms, loosed the full force of her mastery upon him. Tuned into sympathy with her will, the Kielmark had no choice but stare into the ewer. Images bloomed in the water. Through interlinked chains of circumstance, Taen led him on a journey which began in Kisburn's secret council chamber and proceeded through the debate-ridden governance of the Free Isles Alliance to a forester's secluded cabin beyond the Furlains. In dreams the enchantress showed him Keithland's most poignant weaknesses; of Cliffhaven's strategic importance, she spared nothing. Twisting the Kielmark's emotions into her pattern, she stung him first with a King's thorny ambitions; ruled by her touch, the Kielmark tasted the greed which had transformed a fisherman's guilt-ridden son into a pitiless pawn, knew the cruelty of the woman who had instigated the change. Battered in turn by a sorcerer's geas, he suffered the storm winds of an ocean crossing and Jaric's lonely hours at Callinde's helm. Taen granted no respite. Shifting her image yet again, she drove him deep beneath the ice which buttressed Cliffhaven's northern shore. There the Kielmark heard the bloodlust-crazed screams of the frostwargs; he felt the last desperate hope of a sorcerer treasured like a brother in friendship.
"Free Jaric," said Taen. Her words reverberated relentlessly within the Kielmark's mind. "If you do not, everything you value will come to ruin."
She released him with calculated abruptness. The water in the ewer lost its sheen of visions, became ordinary and clear once more. The Kielmark started. Restored to his own awareness, he discovered tears on his face. "You place me at extreme disadvantage," he said softly and reached for the carafe to refill his goblet.
Suddenly a thunderous knock sounded upon the door. "Lord!" A captain with looped brass earrings stuck his head inside. "Come quickly. There's trouble with the prisoner!"
The Kielmark dropped the carafe. It smashed shrilly on the tiles as he ran full tilt for the door. He wrenched the panel open, jerking his head for Taen to follow. The captain continued his account as they raced the length of the corridor.
"The boy roused screaming. Tore the skin off his wrists trying to break the fetters. The healer had dressed the swordcut and gone, and the guard could find no r
eason for the prisoner's distress. Lord, he rose to summon help. His second on duty opened the door and nearly went blind from a discharge of sorcery." Panting for breath, the captain finished his report. "The guard got thrown from his feet. He bade me inform you that he saw the stormfalcon appear in the cell. Now a wind rips through the keep like a hurricane let loose from its moorings, and not a man dares to go near."
The Kielmark pounded the length of an arched hallway, shouting over his shoulder to Taen, "Can you help?"
Breathlessly, she replied, "If Jaric still has his reason, yes."
The Kielmark whirled. Without breaking stride, he caught Taen in his arms for the second time that morning. Bunched against his shoulders with no more dignity than a bolt of cloth, the enchantress felt his powerful stride lengthen until the guard fell tiredly behind. His fingers bruised. But concerned for the Firelord's heir, Taen barely cared. She endured the sprint to the keep without protest, her dream-sense ranging ahead to reach Jaric.
Contact loosed a flood of terror and pain; and a searing, untameable torrent of power whose intended course had been balked. The force built with each passing second, turning inward against Jaric's spirit with the wanton destructiveness of a cyclone. He had no will left to break, Taen saw. In a moment of shared horror, her control wavered. The geas surged across the dream link. For one agonized instant she knew the full scope of Jaric' suffering. The impact made her gasp. Untrained to handle such a terrible influx of energy, her connection dissolved, leaving her limp and disoriented in the Kielmark's arms.
Taen raised her voice above the noise. "My skills are useless until we reach Jaric."
The Kielmark nodded curtly. He leaped down a short flight of steps and crossed an open courtyard. Rain howled over the roofpeaks, slashing the hair across his brow. Taen's light robes became soaked within seconds. Gusts screamed across the yard, battering shutters and doors with insane violence. Yet the Kielmark would not be daunted. He ran on, until the keep loomed through the downpour, a fixed silhouette against skies churning with clouds. With his head bent against the elements, he ducked beneath the shelter of the arch and kicked open the keep's double doors.
Inside, the rain ceased, but the rush of air became deafening. Slammed by the drafts which eddied up from the dungeons, the Kielmark set Taen on her feet. He wrapped his arm about her shoulders; sheltering her with his own great bulk, they descended the stairwell. Step by labored step, he hauled Taen to the cell where Jaric lay.
The door had been battered open. Harsh white light blazed from within, spilling glare off the rough walls of the corridor. The damp air carried a whetted edge of ozone. Through dazzled vision, Taen caught a glimpse of giant wings, feathers barred in black and tawny gold. The blast of the gale drowned her shout. She clung to the Kielmark's wrist and pointed. But the man had seen the stormfalcon's presence already. He nodded, his profile lined in light above her head, then shouldered stubbornly forward. Wind hammered at his balance. Sweaty fingers bored into Taen's flesh as he reached with his other hand and hooked the grilled iron above the cell door.
Taen's face was buried in his shoulder as he strained to cross the threshold. She felt his muscles strain and quiver under her cheek. But the wind funneled through the narrow opening with the fury of a cataract, making headway impossible. The Kielmark leaned down and yelled into the dream-weaver's ear. "When you reach him, hang on."
Taen nodded, whipped by strands of her own loosened hair. She felt the Kielmark's arm bunch briefly against her back. Then he flung her bodily against the might of the storm, through the door and into the cell.
Blinded by the brilliance of the sorcery, Taen stumbled to her knees, then tripped headlong over a limp body. Lost to all sensation, Jaric failed to react. Unable to see, Taen groped. Her right hand bruised against chain. Links gouged her palm, cutting the skin. She twisted and caught hold. Wind shrilled past her ears like the scream of a torturer's victim. Taen resisted its force. She slid her hand up past the fetter and seized Jaric's wrist. Her fingers dug into flesh gone dangerously cold and slippery wet with blood. Taen knew anguish at the discovery. While the stormfalcon's wings lashed the elements into primordial fury above her head, she steadied her talents to dream-send.
"Jaric!" Her call was desperate and her touch unerring; still her cry of compassion raised no response. Taen flattened herself against the stone at the boy's side and caught his face between warm hands. Then she sharpened her will like a weapon and thrust into his being, dream-weaving a shelter for the beleaguered mind under her touch. Quickly, surely she cast a barrier across his thoughts which the geas could not penetrate. Isolated, the pinpoint concentration of its powers began to dissipate.
The painful brilliance of the enchantment flickered, then disappeared, taking the stormfalcon's image with it. In darkness, Taen wove her bastion tighter and stronger still. The wind dropped to a sigh, winnowing her robes about her ankles. Slowly she sat up and eased her cramped muscles. Jaric still breathed beneath her hands, but his mind held no glimmer of self-awareness.
Something metallic clinked in the doorway. A spark flared, revealing the Kielmark's square features in the glow of flame; a lantern stood braced between his knees, and he was frowning. As the illumination steadied, Taen returned her attention to the Firelord's heir who lay sprawled across her knees. Both wrists were abraded from thrashing against the chain; his eyes stared sightlessly from his pale face, and fine sun-bleached hair fell over Taen's wrists, matted into tangles by wind and salt. Confronted by his physical presence for the first time, Taen was startled to find he was smaller than her initial impression in Seitforest. She brushed his brow with careful fingers. Jaric did not stir; beneath the sodden linen shirt, his skin felt icy as death.
The light brightened and boots scraped stone at Taen's elbow. She glanced up, found the Kielmark standing over her with the lantern. His cold eyes were fixed intently upon Jaric.
Taen answered the Kielmark's thought before he spoke. "I don't know. Perhaps I can restore Jaric to consciousness, but the geas touched him brutally and your handling was just short of inhuman." She touched the chains with distaste. "These must be removed directly. Then I will do what I can. If you bear this boy any pity, provide horses and escort, that he can reach the ice cliffs as speedily as possible."
With uncharacteristic tolerance the Kielmark refrained from comment. Sovereign within his domain, he would take no orders, even from a dream-weaver trained by the Vaere. Too late Taen regretted the tactlessness of her demand. If he crossed her, she wondered whether she could influence him at all, volatile as he was, and savage to the point of unpredictability. With the breath stopped in her throat, she awaited his decision.
Still studying Jaric, the Kielmark knelt. He drew a key from his belt and caught the steel which bound the boy's wrists. The locks sprang with a sharp click. The Lord of Cliffhaven removed the fetters from his prisoner with strangely disturbing gentleness. Taen sighed in relief. Her fingers unclenched in Jaric's hair, and she bent as if weeping over the boy's slack form.
The Kielmark tossed the chain to the floor. He stood then, waiting with ill-concealed impatience for the jangle of echoes to fade. "Do you know? The boy is small, but exceedingly tough. He might just have what it takes to master the Cycle of Fire."
With that he thrust the keys back into his tunic and regarded the dream-weaver who had invaded his island. Wind had torn away her myrtle circlet; black hair rippled across her shoulders, twisted untidily into elflocks. "You have great courage," the Kielmark added thoughtfully. "I think you have earned yourself horses and escort. Beyond that I cannot help. I have an island to defend."
But far removed from mortal hearing, Taen did not absorb the meaning of his words; she had pitched all heir concentration into her craft from the instant Jaric's fetters were released. Her touch ranged deep. Digging for one thin spark of awareness in the limp flesh under her hands, the dream-weaver did not see the Kielmark set the lantern at her side. He departed quietly, leaving her unaware he had
discarded prudence entirely. Stubborn as sea-battered granite, the Kielmark intended to fight Kisburn and his compact of demons. While he lived, the fortress would not be surrendered.
XXI
Ice Cliffs
Lost in a shadowless void near the borderlands of death, Jaric felt a current intrude across his isolation. He recoiled sharply. Unwilling to face any more pain, he lay motionless as the flatfish, which settles on the sea bottom to escape the sharpened jaws of predators.
But the presence would not depart.
"Jaric!" The name pierced the core of his silence and shattered into echoes, each one a pledge of compassion. The call promised peace in a world he had been driven to forsake; it also offered healing. But memory of the geas' lacerating pain lingered like an open sore. Jaric dared not trust. Behind bars, locked in fetters, the voice would bring nothing but ruined hope, like the dream-weaver who had once betrayed him. Anskiere never forgot, never forgave; his geas could grant no reprieve.
"Son of Ivain!" The cry raised a flicker like light rays fractured by water. With weary desperation Jaric sought to drown the glimmer in darkness. His effort was battered aside. Images surged across his mind. They harried him in his solitude. Denied all rest, Jaric cried aloud. The presence broke through, flooded his mind with joy so pure he could have wept.
Sunlight broke into jewels on the surface of a river where a small boy sat with a fishing line. The child was himself and the moment a treasured memory from boyhood. The vision shifted without warning. Snow fell in Seitforest, each flake more intricate than patterned lace against the dark wool of his mittens; in a circle of lanternlight by the shed, Telemark regarded the pelts piled on the drag-sleigh. "You never give up, Jaric. I admire that in a man." The forester added praise for the fine woodsmanship of a boy who had never before trapped an ice otter.