The boat rocked, unbalanced by the sharp shift of weight. Amid a hellish whirl of shadows, Emien cast the net free. Weights rattled and splashed into the sea. The man's dying struggles sank slowly beneath the waves as, heartlessly practical, Emien kicked the second corpse overboard. He moved aft and took the tiller. The fishing boat ducked, swung, and jibed. Canvas banged taut with a clattering crash of blocks, and the compass needle steadied on a northerly heading.
Guided by Llondel prescience, Jaric peered futureward through a stormy crossing that ended far north on the shores of Felwaithe. There the beloved black-haired brother of Taen Dreamweaver debarked, met at last by the masters who had chosen him for service. Haggard after his weeks upon the sea, Emien stumbled across the sand, to be caught by the waiting hands of demons.
Jaric whispered denial, in vain. Powerless to influence the course of events, he watched Kor's Accursed lift Emien on to a litter and bear him off to the northeast.
The image rippled, changed. Jaric saw beyond the borders of Keithland to a vista of windswept rock. There the land lay barren, unchanged as the desolation before the Great Fall: nothing lived but the sparse growth of lichens. Outlined by empty sky, demon masters bore Emien up the slope of a jagged crag. A fortress reared from the summit, all grey angles and spindled tiers of towers. Overwhelmed by despair, Jaric beheld the keep and knew, though never in life had he gone there. Legend named that castle Shadowfane, prison of the damned and the stronghold of demon might. If Emien ever emerged, his purpose would be the ruin of his own kind.
IV
King of Pirates
Jaric awoke to a fine, soaking rain. Water dripped from his hair, spilled coldly through his fingers, and trickled across the rock beneath. The Llondelian's dream left him desolate; trouble would come from Shadowfane, trouble such as Keithland had never known. His own responsibility could no longer be denied. Once he might have prevented the murder of the fishermen, even spared Emien the damnation of Shadowfane's dark halls. Huddled in the misty darkness of the ledge, Jaric wished he could forget the moment the Keys had been reclaimed on the shores of Elrinfaer; then he had held Emien at bay beneath the naked point of a sword, yet not struck home. Unmanned by the sister's grief and his own reluctance to kill, he had hesitated. Jaric bit his lip. No good would come from that moment of mercy. In letting Emien escape he had only left the demons another tool to work evil upon Keithland.
Slowly, stiffly, Jaric sat up. No orange eyes glared at him through the darkness. The ledge was deserted, empty rock silvered by a patina of water. The Llondel demon had gone. Free to leave, Jaric knew an instant of sharp distrust. Only when he had ascertained that the Keys to Elrinfaer and the stormfalcon's feather remained safe beneath his tunic did he relax enough to assess his position. Drawn by a faint gleam, he discovered his knife on the stone, its handle neatly turned towards him. Nearby lay a second object.
Jaric leaned forward. Pebbles grated beneath his thigh as he transferred his weight and cautiously touched the dagger. No Llondelian appeared to prevent him. Jaric closed his fingers over the hilt with a grateful sense of relief. He sheathed the weapon swiftly. The other item waited, forbidding and pale as bone in the dark. Jaric preferred to go without touching it; but his mistake with Emien at Elrinfaer had taught him never to leave an unknown peril at his back.
Jaric explored the object with tentative fingers. The surface felt strangely warm, as if it had recently lain close to living flesh. Carved of wood, and chased with fine whorls of inlaid shell, the thing was recognizable as a flute. Twelve holes pierced its shaft, spaced for alien fingers. Prompted by intuition not entirely his own, Jaric understood that the instrument had been left for him to use at need. If he sounded the highest note of the scale, he could summon Llondelei aid.
Alarmed by the perception, Jaric flinched. Only demon imaging could prompt an explanation of the gift. No doubt the creature lurked nearby, out of sight, yet watching still. Made cautious by fear, Jaric hesitated. No man dared trust a demon, and possession of any Llondian artifact could bring a charge of heresy within the civilized borders of Keithland. Harmless or not, the demon's gift must be refused.
Jaric returned the instrument to the niche and rose. Poisoned by mistrust, he suspected the dreams. His recent exchange with Anskiere's consciousness might all have been an illusion wrought by Llondian imaging. Possibly the creature had sought to relax his guard, undermine the tenets of his own kind and, as with Emien, bring about his downfall. Though soaked to the skin and aching with stiffened muscles, Jaric flattened himself against the escarpment. He resumed his climb to the ice cliffs with driven determination.
Though the worst of the ascent lay behind, rain-slicked rocks made treacherous footing. Cold had slowed his reflexes, and a misstep could tumble him over the brink, send him crashing down jagged granite to drown, broken, amid the savage maelstrom of breakers and reefs. Jaric inched forward. The smell of seaweed soured his lungs as he breathed. The ledge sloped upward, to widen gradually into an outthrust shelf of rock. Anskiere's prison arose beyond, white ramparts dirtied by drifting fog.
Jaric felt dwarfed to insignificance in that place. Surf reared up, crested, smashed into foam against the ice; the cliffs amplified the hiss of falling spray until it sounded immediately underfoot. Wind sighed over the crags, driving rain that trickled coldly down Jaric's collar. When he had received Anskiere's summons before, the Stormwarden had called to him in words shaped of wind. Jaric had listened against a silence so complete even the sea seemed muted. But this time the elements reflected only the random patterns of storm and tide. No breeze, no word, and no welcome awaited the boy who carried the Keys to Elrinfaer.
Chilled and disheartened, Jaric braced his back against the rock face. 'Anskiere!'
His shout reverberated across the chasm, lost amid drumming waves. Jaric lacked the heart to try a second time. No spoken word could reach the Stormwarden of Elrinfaer, and with a heavy sense of foreboding the boy suspected the Llondel's vision might be accurate. Keeper of the Keys the demon had named him; the title left him bitter. Nothing in life had prepared him for such responsibility. Since the day Anskiere's geas overtook him, he had acted without thought or strategy, forced to complete the sorcerer's bidding within a framework not of his shaping. Now, chilled by the discomforts of rain and fog, Jaric fought to choose for himself. He would seek his own course instead of answering power with like power; rather than attempt the Cycle of Fire with its ruinous train of consequences, he would search until he found some other solution. Surely somewhere in Keithland an alternative existed to answer the threat of the demons.
More alone than he had ever been before, Jaric laced icy fingers over his face. He knew the perils. Each hour that passed lent the demons of Shadowfane time to design against him; more than his own peace might shatter before he finished. One day Taen Dreamweaver would learn of her brother's alliance with the enemy; her Vaere-trained talents made discovery inevitable, for no mortal on Keithland could hide truth from her dream-sense. Despite her exceptional courage, the grief of Emien's defection might break her. Of all risks, that one galled Jaric most sorely. If he ever completed his search, he swore as Firelord's heir he would shelter her.
* * *
Dawn broke dingy and grey through the drizzle which fell over Cliffhaven. Half-buried in the oiled-wool cloak lent by the Kielmark, Taen Dreamweaver perched on a rock above the tide mark, waiting. Jaric would return shortly. She knew without extending her powers; since the Vaere had employed her talents to lure Jaric into the bindings of Anskiere's curse against Ivain, the Dreamweaver perhaps understood the Firelord's heir better than he knew himself. Yet the effects of that betrayal had scarred the boy, and bitterness and distrust still shadowed their friendship. With Jaric, Taen dared not delve deeply. He knew her touch, and far too much of Keithland's safety lay balanced in his hands for her to risk any chance of upset. She sat patiently through rain and the lingering shadow of night until Jaric chose to come down.
Daylight brig
htened the sky above the ice cliffs. Gulls banked and swooped on the air, scavenging morsels the tide had left amid rain-blurred profiles of rock. Taen peeled wet hair off her cheek and tugged her maroon hood forward to shield her face from the wind. The smell of soaked wool mingled with tide wrack and damp. She barely noticed her cold feet. Brushed inwardly by a change subtle as shifting current, she smiled for the first time in days; for, on a ledge above her vantage point, Jaric rose and finally began his descent. He weathered his disappointment well, thought Taen. She sighed with relief. A touch of colour returned to her cheeks, and she lifted blue eyes to the cliffs where Jaric would soon reappear. Although the Vaere had rebuked Taen often for her impetuous nature, she could not help but hope. Both Anskiere's deliverance and Keithland's future depended on Ivainson's mastery of the Cycle of Fire.
The darkest hours of night had passed more easily than those last minutes while Jaric descended the ice cliffs. Taen rose as he leapt the last yard to the strand. He stumbled on landing, muscles stiffened from chill. Light hair tumbled down over his eyes in the rain. Even from a distance Taen could see that he shivered.
'Jaric!' Breaking waves drowned her call. Irritated, the Dreamweaver raised her voice again. 'Jaric!'
He stopped and looked up, brown eyes wide with surprise. Pleased he had not detected her surveillance through the night, Taen muffled a grin behind one wool-draped wrist and ran to meet him.
She arrived breathless at his side and, tilting her face up to look at him, saw exhaustion stamped across his features. 'You've got fish-brains between your ears.' Her hands seemed childishly small as she worked loose the brooch which pinned her cloak. The moment the fastening freed, she flicked the wool open and bundled Jaric inside; the Kielmark's garment was generous enough to accommodate both of them.
'I'm soaked!' he protested.
'Fish-brains!' The word transformed to a gasp as the seal-wetness of him penetrated the dry layers of Taen's shift. 'No you don't.' she added as Jaric tried to draw away. 'You'll hate it more if I have to feed you broth in bed.'
He did not smile, which was unlike him. Instead he glanced at the big, square-cut ruby which adorned the cloak pin. Taen felt him tense.
'That's the Kielmark's,' Jaric said sharply. 'He knows you're here?'
'Fish-brains is too generous,' Taen replied. Warned by her dream-sense that contact with her body was adding to Jaric's uneasiness, she loosened the cloak slightly. 'When his Lordship the King of Pirates noticed you'd left his banquet without permission, he shouted like a madman and told half his captains to arm themselves directly and look for you. I offered to come in their place. I told him I already knew where to find you.' Jaric would know her words were understatement. The Sovereign Lord of Cliffhaven was about as easy to influence as a rabid wolf, particularly concerning strangers who trespassed on his island domain.
Yet Jaric did not probe beneath her light humour. In tight-lipped silence he lifted the brooch from her hand, then rammed the pin violently through the collar of the cloak. When he spoke, he answered the question she dared not voice; and the real reason behind the Kielmark's short-tempered concern: would he accept his heritage as Ivain Firelord's heir, or would he abandon the Stormwarden to the ice and leave Keithland in jeopardy?
'I'm going to the libraries at Landfast.' Jaric paused. expecting rebuttal. Taen held her breath, waited with patience like sword steel until he resumed. 'If there is a way for me to avoid repeating the sorrows my father loosed upon men, I will find it without mastering the Cycle of Fire.'
He took a sudden step forward. Taen stumbled against him as the cloak between them snapped taut. Reminded of her presence, Jaric flung an arm about her shoulders to steady her. 'I'm sorry, little witch.' He phrased the nickname with affection. 'But I'm weary of the ways of sorcerers.'
Argument would not move him. Taen suspected he kept something from her, but the resistant set of his jaw warned against using dreamweaver's skill to probe deeper. If she attempted to tamper with his decision, she would strike where he was guarded, so deeply did he resent the fact that he was puppet to a sorcerer's geas. Worn by more than her nightlong vigil, Taen dragged her feet through the sand.
Jaric's fingers tightened against her sleeve. He freed his other hand and gently tucked an ink-black strand of her hair back under the hood. 'Shall we return this cloak to the Kielmark before he sends one of his bloodthirsty captains to collect it?'
Taen nodded, resigned. She would have to trust him. The struggle to recover the Keys to Elrinfaer had opened new depths in Jaric; his decision to research at Landfast did not entirely disown responsibility. Still, the choice brought little reassurance. If Ivainson found no alternative answer, if Keithland's threat became imminent, with the Cycle of Fire the only choice left to ensure mankind's survival, Taen foresaw an unpleasant consequence: the Vaere might command her to betray him, just as she had done once before.
* * *
The weather grew worse as the day progressed. By the time Jaric caught and bridled his horse, rain battered the earth in white sheets. Leaving the cloak to Taen, he helped her into her saddle, then swung astride his own mount. Bent against a whipping north wind, he reined around towards the main fortress of Cliffhaven. Taen endured the ride, uncharacteristically silent as the horses carried them inland. The terrain sloped upward. Dune grass gave way to thornbrakes, and rocks thrust through mossy tufts of ground cover. The hills beyond lifted into serried ranks of mountains, and cedar-crowned summits reared above valleys choked with fog. The air warmed as the ice cliffs fell behind. The horses scattered droplets from sweetfern and wildflowers, and splashed through streams in the fells. One league from the beach, the two riders broke through to the cliff road where the horses made better speed. Hooves clattered over a beaten track shored up with stone, built to allow fast passage for the Kielmark's patrols. Well before midday, Jaric and the Dreamweaver pulled their steaming mounts to a walk beneath the flint-black walls of the harbour fort.
Jaric led towards the town side entrance, a cramped archway which pierced the fortifications between the matching black turrets of the gate towers. Rain glistened over rounded, weather-scarred stone. Beyond the crenellations loomed the angled roofs of the artisans' alley, shops and forges jammed like blocks against the steep pitch of the slope.
Jaric drew rein before the wall. As Taen stopped her horse beside him, he shook the water from his hair and inclined his head towards the town. 'You go in. I'm going on to the harbour.'
A sudden clang of metal from the gatehouse obscured Taen's protest. Both riders started in surprise as a siege shutter crashed back.
A bearded guardsman leaned out. 'You'll both come in.' he shouted. 'Kielmark's orders. He sent me along to escort you.'
Jaric's mouth flinched into a line. He touched heels to his mount. Hooves banged on wet cobbles as his horse sidled around to face Taen. 'You didn't.' he accused.
Taen shook her head, at first unable to speak over the din as the guardsman wrestled the siege shutter closed. 'I told the Kielmark I would find you, no more. He summons us through no act of mine.'
The officer reappeared in the shadow beneath the archway. 'Hurry along!' His shout sounded surly. 'The watch already sent word of your return, and the Kielmark waits.'
Jaric did not obey. His brown eyes remained intently fixed upon Taen, and his heels made no move in the stirrups. The Dreamweaver shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. Her fingers clamped on the reins until her horse shook its neck in protest. To defy the command would be madness; the Kielmark was ruthlessly swift to punish inefficiency, and the rogues who served him often killed rather than provoke his anger. The officer strode impatiently from the archway. Raindrops caught like jewels in his mail as he closed his hand over his sword hilt. Even then Taen dared engage no dreamweaver's power to search Jaric's reason for delay. If Ivainson were ever to trust her again, her word alone must suffice.
The officer hissed through his teeth. 'Have you both gone crazy?' He spoke out in genuine dismay, and wi
th a start of relief Taen recognized his voice.
'Corley?' She twisted in the saddle to be certain. Rain had darkened the man's beard to burnt chestnut; a mouth customarily crooked with laughter now bent into a grim scowl of annoyance. No ordinary officer of the watch, Deison Corley was the Kielmark's most trusted senior captain. His presence could not be ignored.
'Jaric,' Taen pleaded. 'Will you come?'
The boy accepted with open reluctance the fact that he was beaten. A shiver whipped his frame as he reined his horse towards the gatehouse. Taen's animal needed no incentive to follow. Corley saw his charges turn, and ran to escape the downpour before his last dry patch of clothing became sodden. He preceded them under the arch, his surcoat mottled with damp across broad shoulders.
'Kor!' The captain's clipped north-shore accent lifted over the confined echo of hooves. 'I should have the both of you back to polish gear after this. Two things the Kielmark hates alike, and that's rust on his ships or his officers' swords.'
Taen grinned beneath her dripping hood. The complaint was all bluff and banter; Corley, she knew, kept whetstone and rag in his pockets. During idle moments he maintained the disconcerting habit of sharpening his knives one after another in succession. Once, during a lengthy council of war, Taen had counted nine separate blades on his person; barracks rumour claimed there were more.
Hunched against the weather, Corley glanced over his shoulder at Jaric. 'Well,' he said to the stiff-faced boy. 'Ride at my back, mad as all that, and I'd sure feel less nervous if you'd swear.'
The quip raised no response. The storm met them with a white wall of water on the far side of the archway, and Jaric rode in bitter silence. Battered by wind and discomfort, the party passed through narrow, switchback streets to the Kielmark's inner stronghold. Jaric stumbled badly when he dismounted. Only then did Taen realize his behaviour stemmed partly from chill. Exhausted after his nightlong vigil on the ice cliffs, the boy was numbed to the point where mind and muscle would barely respond. Taen called upon her powers as Dreamweaver and touched Corley's mind with concern.