The Outcast
Page 23
‘She’ll understand.
His look made the old woman feel something akin to shame. She nodded, hiding behind a brisk defence. ‘I’ll tell her.
Tarod leaned forward and kissed her brow. ‘Thank you.
Erminet smiled thinly. ‘I never thought I’d live to be kissed by a demon from Chaos. That would have been a tale to tell my grandchildren, had I had them.
The Imp, silent as a shadow, followed her out of the door. Tarod heard the key grate in the stiff lock, then tried to make himself comfortable as he waited for the drug to take effect. Although the cellar was almost pitch-black without Sister Erminet’s lantern, he could see well in darkness. Not that there was any prospect worthy of attention …
He lay back, ignoring the irrational flicker of hope within himself. Hope was a pointless exercise. One old woman, however kindly her intentions, could do nothing beyond bearing a message; and during the stultified miasma of the days since his capture Tarod had consciously chosen to resign himself to what fate had decreed for him. He had quenched the fires of hatred and vengeance and fury, deliberately deadening all feeling and all thought of the future. If Cyllan were to survive, he could do nothing more.
His eyelids felt heavy, and he wondered if he would dream. If he did, likely as not they’d be fragmented dreams, meaningless; as everything else was meaningless now. Tarod closed his eyes. Briefly, in his inner vision, he thought he saw a many-faceted stone, glittering like a mocking eye, and from far away someone - or something - seemed to call his name with an odd urgency. Lapsing into narcotic-induced confusion he ignored the call, thrust it away. It faded and was gone, and he lay still in the silent darkness of the cellar.
Chapter 12
The Sun’s last light had flared above the Castle wall in brief glory, and the first of the two Moons would soon show its pockmarked face in the East. Torches flickered in the courtyard; groups of people crossed the flagstones and an occasional burst of laughter drifted up to where Cyllan sat at her window staring out, unmoved, at the activity.
She was exhausted by her argument with Keridil Toln, dazed with the effects of the wine, and yet she couldn’t sleep. She had had her one chance to plead for Tarod, however remote the hope of succeeding - and her temper had got the better of her. She’d failed him; and now it seemed there was no other path left.
Fury welled up in her, a bitter railing against the Circle’s justice which could condemn one of their own to a terrible death without a qualm. The ceremony involved fire, Tarod had told her; a supernatural fire that burned more than fleshabruptly Cyllan put a hand to her mouth, forcing back a sick spasm as hideous images sprang unbidden and unwanted into her mind. When the spasm faded she was shaking uncontrollably with the rage of impotence, and with a desperate fear that made her want to scream aloud. Tarod would die, while she sat by in this dismal room, helpless until she should be granted her freedom - and then it would be far too late.
But there was nothing she could do. Keridil had seen to it that she couldn’t kill herself and thereby negate the bargain Tarod had made; Tarod would not abandon her as she had pleaded with him to do; the Circle was intractable. Her only choice, now, would be to go down on her knees and pray to Aeoris for a miracle.
But Aeoris was unlikely to take pity on one who interceded on behalf of Chaos. More likely the White Lord would rejoice at Tarod’s destruction, and, not caring that the thought was blasphemous, Cyllan felt her anger focusing on the god himself. She’d find no help there - better to turn to Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who had claimed kinship with Tarod …
Yandros. The idea shocked her and chilled her blood.
But surely Yandros, of all beings, wouldn’t be willing to see Tarod die, if it was within his power to intervene?
She tried to dismiss the idea as insane. Tarod himself had rejected his links with Chaos, banished Yandros, and spoke of him as a deadly enemy. Yet, Cyllan reasoned, there could be no enemy deadlier than those who were bent on Tarod’s annihilation. Perhaps Yandros couldn’t aid her; perhaps he’d not choose to.
But with every other door closed to her, she had nothing left to lose.
She rose, still shaking, and for a minute or two stared at the slowly rising Moon, which glared back like a malevolent eye. How could she reach out to such an entity as Yandros? The travelling Sisters who had catechised the children of her home village taught that Aeoris heard the most humble of petitions; that a pure heart and spirit was enough to ensure the great god’s benevolence. Cyllan’s heart and spirit were ablaze with a black flame of fury - and petitioning Chaos was a very different matter. By turning to Yandros, she would betray her fealty to the White Lords and damn herself in their eyes. But to reject any possibility that gave her even the most slender thread of hope was a greater betrayal still …
She lowered her gaze to look across the courtyard, beyond the splashes of torchlight and the groups of people, to the brooding bulk of the Castle’s North spire where Tarod had had his eyrie. Her eyes misted as she thought of him, and she said softly, as though whispering to an intimate companion.
‘Tarod … forgive me. There’s no other way left.
Turning, Cyllan sat down cross-legged on the floor.
By tradition all prayers to Aeoris were made while the supplicant faced the East. As Yandros was Aeoris’s sworn enemy it seemed fitting that his petitioner should look to the West, and she quelled an instinctive sense of sacrilege as she set her back to the point of Sunrise.
Closing her eyes, she tried to form an image in her mind, recalling the vision she had seen in the Marble Hall when the defaced statues had manifested their true origin to her. Sharp-etched features, beautiful but cruel; mouth smiling in mockery, eyes slanted and knowing … the picture wavered, eluding her. She concentrated harder, her breathing harsh and loud in the room’s quiet, but still the image wouldn’t form.
If only she had her stones … they would aid her, enable her to focus her mind and her desires. But her pouch lay somewhere in the Castle beyond her reach, and she didn’t dare ask for it lest her motives should be suspected. Cyllan’s eyes flickered open and she sighed.
She was no sorceress - her skills were limited enough even with the precious pebbles; without them she could do nothing.
Then her gaze lit on a bowl which her jailers had earlier placed on the table. In an effort to tempt her appetite, and thus avoid the unpleasant necessity of calling on Grevard’s services to force her to eat, Keridil had sent a dish of Prospect Province fruits from the Castle’s precious supply. She had ignored them, despite their rarity and the fact that she had never been offered such delicacies in her life; but now she realised that the fruit would contain stones … and even a substitute might suffice if her own pebbles were unavailable.
Quickly she snatched the bowl from the table and broke one of the fruits apart. At its centre was a hard, wrinkled stone the size of her thumbnail… discarding the pulp, Cyllan set to work on the other fruits until she had a collection of some dozen seeds. Few enough, but they might be all she needed … She licked juice from her fingers - she was sorely tempted to eat one or two of the ruined fruits, but, having heard of the importance of fasting for magical rites, rejected the impulse - then wiped her palms on her skirt and gathered the stones into her hands.
This time, when she closed her eyes the darkness behind her lids was absolute. And moments later she felt the first prickling sensation at the back of her neck, suffusing through to her scalp. Quelling her excitement she focused her mind, feeling the rough, hard contours of the stones between locked fingers. Hardly aware of what she did, her lips formed a name, whispered it into silence.
‘Yandros …
Her hands were hot, blazing hot; the stones like ice by comparison … and a face was beginning to form in her inner eye, taking shape and life …
‘ Yandros … Yandros, hear me. Lord of Chaos, hear me …
The room’s stillness deepened and the air seemed to cloy around her, as though a vast, dar
k curtain had descended. Cyllan could feel her pulse pounding suffocatingly throughout her body; her hands burned, the stones burned …
‘Yandros, Lord of Night, Master of Illusion, hear my prayer … ‘ The words were coming swiftly, unconsciously; she no longer chose them but they were suddenly there on her tongue, as though an ancient memory had awoken. ‘Yandros, though you were banished, your servants still remember. Return to me, Master of Chaos, return from the realm of Night and aid me?
It was as though the stones had caught fire in her hands. Cyllan cried out with pain and shock, and the fruit-seeds scattered across the floor as she flung them from her with a violent reflex, rocking back. And at the same moment a dull, echoing crack reverberated in her ears.
‘Aeoris!’ The oath, though inappropriate, was involuntary, and Cyllan’s eyes snapped open.
The gloomy walls of her room surrounded her, unchanged. The stones lay on the floor, forming a random pattern which she couldn’t even begin to interpret, and as the shock of their burning heat faded she realised miserably that she had failed. Yandros either could not or would not answer her call, and all she had experienced was the delusion of a fevered and desperate imagination.
She rose, ignoring the scattered stones, and walked to the window. The first Moon was high now - odd; for it seemed that only a few minutes had passed - and its scarred face, near full, mocked her chagrin. Down below in the courtyard the torches had been extinguished and the giant rectangle was empty.
Or was it? Cyllan looked again, and realised that there were figures in the court … but none of them was moving. Each stood like a statue, as though a single moment in their lives had been frozen and preserved.
They looked faintly ridiculous, some with one foot raised in the act of walking, one with an arm held high in some extravagant, arrested gesture … and the fountain was no longer playing …
Instinct warned her in the split second before she heard the softly emphasised sound of a latch clicking behind her. She whirled round - The outlines of a door which hung suspended in the middle of the room were flickering out of existence, vanishing even as she glimpsed them. He stood before her, and with a flowering of panic she realised that she faced something so far beyond humanity that the concept threatened her sanity. Tall, gaunt, gold hair flowing over his high shoulders, he could have been Tarod’s twin - but for the fact that there was no trace of mortality in the beautiful, cruel features, that the smile on his lips made a mockery of human knowledge and ambition. His narrow, feline eyes were opalescent, their colour shifting and changing in the deceptive Moonlight.
Cyllan backed away until her spine jarred against the window-frame. She was struggling for breath, but there was no air to fill her lungs. The being - demon or god, whatever he might be termed - stepped with graceful ease towards her, and as he moved, the outlines of the room warped and twisted as though they and he could not exist in the same space. Cyllan sensed a vastness wiped her palms on her skirt and gathered the stones into her hands.
This time, when she closed her eyes the darkness behind her lids was absolute. And moments later she felt the first prickling sensation at the back of her neck, suffusing through to her scalp. Quelling her excitement she focused her mind, feeling the rough, hard contours of the stones between locked fingers. Hardly aware of what she did, her lips formed a name, whispered it into silence.
‘Yandros …
Her hands were hot, blazing hot; the stones like ice by comparison … and a face was beginning to form in her inner eye, taking shape and life …
‘Yandros… Yandros, hear me. Lord of Chaos, hear me …
The room’s stillness deepened and the air seemed to cloy around her, as though a vast, dark curtain had descended. Cyllan could feel her pulse pounding suffocatingly throughout her body; her hands burned, the stones burned …
‘Yandros, Lord of Night, Master of Illusion, hear my prayer … ‘ The words were corning swiftly, unconsciously; she no longer chose them but they were suddenly there on her tongue, as though an ancient memory had awoken. ‘Yandros, though you were banished, your servants still remember. Return to me, Master of Chaos, return from the realm of Night and aid me!
It was as though the stones had caught fire in her hands. Cyllan cried out with pain and shock, and the fruit-seeds scattered across the floor as she flung them from her with a violent reflex, rocking back. And at the same moment a dull, echoing crack reverberated in her ears.
‘Aeoris!’ The oath, though inappropriate, was involuntary, and Cyllan’s eyes snapped open.
The gloomy walls of her room surrounded her, unchanged. The stones lay on the floor, forming a random pattern which she couldn’t even begin to interpret, and as the shock of their burning heat faded she realised miserably that she had failed. Yandros either could not or would not answer her call, and all she had experienced was the delusion of a fevered and desperate imagination.
She rose, ignoring the scattered stones, and walked to the window. The first Moon was high now - odd; for it seemed that only a few minutes had passed and its scarred face, near full, mocked her chagrin. Down below in the courtyard the torches had been extinguished and the giant rectangle was empty.
Or was it? Cyllan looked again, and realised that there were figures in the court … but none of them was moving. Each stood like a statue, as though a single moment in their lives had been frozen and preserved.
They looked faintly ridiculous, some with one foot raised in the act of walking, one with an arm held high in some extravagant, arrested gesture … and the fountain was no longer playing …
Instinct warned her in the split second before she heard the softly emphasised sound of a latch clicking behind her. She whirled round -
The outlines of a door which hung suspended in the middle of the room were flickering out of existence, vanishing even as she glimpsed them. He stood before her, and with a flowering of panic she realised that she faced something so far beyond humanity that the concept threatened her sanity. Tall, gaunt, gold hair flowing over his high shoulders, he could have been Tarod’s twin - but for the fact that there was no trace of mortality in the beautiful, cruel features, that the smile on his lips made a mockery of human knowledge and ambition. His narrow, feline eyes were opalescent, their colour shifting and changing in the deceptive Moonlight.
Cyllan backed away until her spine jarred against the window-frame. She was struggling for breath, but there was no air to fill her lungs. The being - demon or god, whatever he might be termed - stepped with graceful ease towards her, and as he moved, the outlines of the room warped and twisted as though they and he could not exist in the same space. Cyllan sensed a vastness surrounding him, an alien dimension that clashed with the natural laws of this world. He was here, and yet not here - this was but one manifestation of an entirety whose essence, if once glimpsed, would send her screaming over the brink of madness. This was Chaos …
Propelled by a combination of terror, awe and a fearful reverence, Cyllan dropped to her knees. ‘Yandros ‘Rise, Cyllan.’ Yandros’s voice was like silver, yet the mellifluence only thinly disguised an implacable menace. Shaking, she forced herself to obey, though all her instincts protested, and he walked slowly in a circle around her, his unhuman eyes critical and the small smile still playing on his lips. At last he stopped before her once more, and she felt his scrutiny like a physical pain as he gazed down at her.
‘So you’ve chosen to damn yourself by calling on me.
Yandros spoke with careless amusement. ‘I commend your courage. Or your foolishness.
Cyllan shut her eyes tightly and reminded herself that Tarod had not feared this being. She had summoned Yandros of her own free will; if he proved a harsh master, she must take the consequences. With an effort she forced herself to speak.
‘I had no choice. They mean to kill Tarod, and I can’t help him.’ Taking a grip on her fear she looked up into his ever changing eyes. ‘You’re my only hope.
The Chaos Lo
rd bowed sardonically. ‘You compliment me. And why do you believe that it might be in my interests to save a pledged servant of Aeoris?
He was challenging her to prove herself; as perverse as she might have anticipated … Cyllan licked dry lips.
‘Because you once called Tarod “brother”.
Yandros continued to regard her for a few moments, and she didn’t dare to imagine what he might be thinking. Then he stepped forward, and laid a hand on her head. She flinched inwardly from the cold touch of his fingers, feeling her stomach turn over, but forced herself not to give ground.
‘And you are willing to jeopardise your very soul in order to save him … that’s a very noble sentiment, Cyllan.’ The silver voice was disdainful still, but something akin to affection had crept into the tone. ‘It would seem we chose well when we brought you to the Castle.
Shocked, she stared at him uncomprehending. ‘You - you brought me - ?
Yandros laughed softly; a sound that made her shudder. ‘Let’s say we were instrumental in your arrival.
Exiled we may be, but some of the forces that serve our cause still remain in this land.
Suddenly she understood. ‘The Warp …
‘As you say: the Warp. Even Aeoris and his corruption-ridden brothers couldn’t entirely rid the world of their old enemy.’ Yandros smiled. ‘And when we also find a mortal willing to serve us, our ambitions begin to take form … and that pleases us.
So she had been a dupe, a tool, manipulated by Chaos from the beginning … Cyllan began to feel sick at the thought of that implication and recalled what Tarod had told her of the Chaos Lord’s machinations. Yandros wanted to challenge the rule of Order, to snatch the land back into the maelstrom from which Aeoris had saved it so many centuries ago. And he saw them both as pawns in the greater game.
But however evil Yandros might be, whatever the fate he planned for the world, Cyllan no longer cared. He alone could help her to save Tarod from annihilation, and no price was too great to pay for that.