‘The old Eastern geomancy,’ Erminet said musingly.
‘I’d thought the technique was all but dead.’ And when Cyllan didn’t reply, she smiled. ‘So you’re a seer, eh?
‘No!’ The denial was too vehement, and Erminet saw fear in Cyllan’s eyes.
‘There’s little point in denying the obvious, child, not when your guile doesn’t extend to hiding the evidence!
Abruptly, and to Cyllan’s surprise, her tone softened.
‘Just be thankful that as yet I’m the only one to have divined your secret. The others all think you harmless enough, despite the protests of that spoiled little Margrave’s son.
‘Drachea … ?’ The word came involuntarily from Cyllan’s lips; her hostility wavering in the face of puzzlement and a growing curiosity.
‘Is that his name? Yes; the arrogant brat’s still here, and no doubt his proud father and the entire brood will soon be on their way from the South to bask in his reflected glory.’ Erminet’s voice was acid, and Cyllan’s confusion redoubled. Such harsh words, from a Sister of Aeoris? She didn’t understand …
Suddenly Erminet came back to the bed and stood looking down at her. ‘Who is Yandros?
The change of tack caught Cyllan by surprise - as the Sister had intended - and she couldn’t collect her wits in time to hide her chagrin. She swallowed. ‘I’ve never heard the name.
‘Oho, you haven’t! So unfamiliar it is to you that you called on it no more than a dozen times in your fever!
The old woman bent closer. ‘You babbled a pretty parcel of words while you slept, girl. If I was a suspicious woman, I’d have sworn on my oath that they were a litany designed to call up something better left undisturbed!
Oh, yes; the arrow had struck its target. Terror and guilt flickered in Cyllan’s eyes before she could hide them. Then the peculiar amber gaze hardened.
‘And if it was, Sister?’ she replied venomously. ‘Do you see a legion of demons ranged around the walls of this room? Do you see a supernatural army storming the Castle gates to my rescue? Whatever I might have tried, I failed!
She was lying; Erminet knew it as surely as she knew the Sun would rise tomorrow. ‘Did you?’ she said softly.
‘Or does that wound on your arm tell only half the story?
Cyllan frowned, then looked quickly at her left wrist.
The livid mark had been treated with a healing salve, but its ferocity was undiminished. She flexed her fingers and remembered Yandros’s knowing, unhuman eyes as he bent to touch his lips to her wrist. Excitement and a sick fear churned in her - then it was real; it had truly happened … Chaos had answered her summoning …
Slowly she drew her arm close against herself, as though to protect the scar the Chaos Lord had inflicted from Sister Erminet’s scrutiny. As odd, not quite rational smile distorted her mouth.
‘Whatever story it tells or doesn’t tell,’ she whispered, ‘you can’t change it. Not you, not Keridil Toln; no one.
It’s too late.
Erminet felt uneasy, and began to wonder if, in her determination to see justice done, she had made a grave error. She was in no doubt now that Tarod hadn’t made a second mistake by putting his trust in this girl. She would do anything to save him, no matter what the consequences to herself or anyone else, and such single-minded devotion could be deadly. Tarod, they said, was of Chaos - an accusation he hadn’t denied. If it was true, then it followed that he might have allies who also owed their existence to that same evil; allies who could be called upon in an hour of need …
She looked at Cyllan again and told herself that the idea was nonsensical. Chaos was dead - if Aeoris had failed in that task, her own Sisterhood would never have been created to keep faith with the memory of such a titanic victory. And the girl was no sorceress. She had a seeing talent, but that was all. It was love that drove her; and Sister Erminet empathised all too well with such a motivation.
And so she had to decide between duty and conscience. Stickler though she was, Erminet’s code of honour was peculiarly personal - and whatever the High Initiate or her own Sisterhood might dictate, she had given her word on one matter, at least…
She met Cyllan’s angry gaze once more, and said without any preamble, ‘I have a message for you.
The girl’s defiance wavered, but she wouldn’t allow herself to ask the question that lurked in her eyes.
Erminet licked her lips. ‘He said to bid you remember your first visit to the spire … and that he took nothing you were unwilling to give.
She knew there would be a reaction, but was unprepared for its nature. Cyllan froze, her mouth opening as though trying to speak - then her body heaved and she broke into agonised sobs, covering her face with both hands and crying as though her soul were tearing apart.
‘Child!’ Chagrin made Erminet forget her studied acerbity, and she put her arms around Cyllan’s shoulders. ‘Child, don’t weep!
Cyllan tried to push her away as a surge of fear and grief and desperate longing overtook her. She had tried to contain her emotions as best she could, knowing that they were the worst form of self-torment; but Tarod’s words, so carelessly conveyed by this old woman, had brought back all the bitterness of the memories which, now, were all she had of him. Struggling to find an outlet, her feeling could only express itself in two helpless, futile and broken words.
‘Oh, gods Erminet cursed herself for not stopping to think of the effect her lover’s message might have on Cyllan. A shared secret, a private jest between them - no wonder the girl wept at the ugly circumstances under which the message had been sent and delivered. She could easily have wept with her.
‘Cyllan, listen to me!’ Her fingers pressing on Cyllan’s shoulders were rough, but she knew no other way to call her out of the depths of her misery. ‘You must listen!
Cyllan drew a great, heaving breath. Her hands dropped away from her face, and the eyes that stared into Erminet’s were wild with loathing.
‘Why should I listen to you?’ she retaliated ferociously. ‘You’re no different from any of them! Tarod has never harmed you, but you’ll stand by and nod your sage approval when they take him to the Marble Hall to kill him won’t you?’ She was shaking from head to foot, close to hysteria. ‘And all the while you keep me locked in here, and I love him, and I can’t do anything to stop this madness, and Tarod’s going to die!
Erminet, horribly moved by the outburst, gazed steadily back at her and said, ‘Not if I can help it.
Her words took a moment to register, but when they did Cyllan’s face froze. ‘What… ‘?
‘You heard me.’ Aeoris help me, she thought, what have I said? She’d spoken on impulse, responding to the girl’s distress and to a discomforting and growing sense of injustice in her own mind. When she left Tarod’s cell she had been angry - partly with herself, partly with him for resigning himself to death so passively, but mostly with the uncontrolled chain of circumstances which had led to the condemnation of a young and vital life. Now she understood Tarod’s reasoning, and pitied both his and Cyllan’s plight. Romantic old fool that she was, she
wanted to help them - and because of that quixotic urge, had let her tongue run away with her. But she wouldn’t - couldn’t - go back on her word.
She made as if to move back, but Cyllan’s hand shot out and locked on her wrist. Behind the shocked immobility of her expression, Cyllan’s thoughts were in a turmoil of stunned astonishment, disbelief and hope.
This strange old woman had brought her a message which could only be from Tarod’s own lips - and that must mean that Tarod trusted her. Sister Erminet didn’t want him to die … and Yandros had said that help would come from within the Castle; that when it came she would recognise it …
‘Sister -‘ Cyllan’s voice was hoarse with desperation.
‘Please - can you help us?
Erminet stood up, pulling her arm free and suddenly unsure of herself. ‘I don’t know …
Cyllan twisted he
r hands together, hardly aware of what she was doing. Almost in a whisper, she pleaded, ‘You have the key to this room. You could let me go free .
‘No.’ Erminet took a deep breath. ‘I want to help you.
The gods know why, but I’ve taken a liking to your Adept; I pity him, and I pity you. But it isn’t easy - you must understand that. I can’t simply let you slip away into the night. If it were to be known that I … ‘ she faltered. ‘That my sympathies were - against the tide -
I’d have no defence. And I value my life, albeit that I haven’t many more years left to me.’ A trace of her old tartness returned as she smiled. ‘I’ve no wish to meet Aeoris just yet - at least, not with such a deed on my conscience.
Cyllan subsided, fighting back her disappointment as she acknowledged that Erminet was right. Besides, freedom alone wasn’t enough. She had to have the Chaos stone if she was to save Tarod and fulfil her pledge to Yandros.
She bowed her head nodding. ‘I’m sorry, Sister. I thought - hoped … but I understand.’ Through the curtain of her hair her expression was intense. ‘Will you, then, answer me a question?
‘If I can.
There’s a stone … Tarod used to wear it in a ring, and the High Initiate took it from him when he was first captured.
Erminet remembered the gem. She had seen it on Tarod’s hand at their earliest encounter; and rumour ran that it contained his soul …
‘I know it,’ she said cautiously.
‘Do you know where it is now?
A snatch of conversation, overheard as she went about her work in the early aftermath of Time’s return … ‘Yes … ‘ said Erminet.
Cyllan’s eyes lit feverishly. ‘Tell me!
‘Why is it so important?
Cyllan hesitated, then decided that she had no choice but to tell Erminet at least a part of the truth. She remembered Yandros’s words, and said softly, ‘Because it must be returned to its rightful owner.
If the tales concerning that gem were true, then to reunite it with its rightful owner could bring ruin on them all. Soulless, Tarod was formidable enough …
but with the stone in his possession he would be a far more deadly adversary. Erminet had to be sure of what she was doing. Chaos or no, that black-haired Adept was a man of honour. If he gave his word that no harm would come to the Castle through him, she would trust that promise. Not the girl, though - she’d use the stone against anyone, friend or enemy, who tried to thwart her. And however just her motive, Erminet couldn’t take such a risk.
Aloud, she said, ‘No. I won’t tell you, Cyllan; not yet.
And as the girl began to protest she held up a firm hand.
‘I said, no. I don’t trust you, girl. And I don’t intend to put my head on the execution block for your sake.’ She turned and began to gather up her philtres. ‘But I will see your Tarod again, and I’ll speak with him. If - ‘ she swung round, wagging an admonishing finger, ‘and only if he gives me his word that no harm will come to this Castle through any aid I might give you, then I’ll reconsider what you’ve asked of me.’ She gave Cyllan a grim but sympathetic little smile. ‘I can do no more.
It was so little … and yet it might be enough. Cyllan met Erminet’s gaze, and hope flickered in her odd amber eyes.
The old woman smiled grimly. ‘In the meantime, do you wish me to give him any word from you? I’ve been a go-between once; I might as well be one again. Besides, he’s as suspicious as you are - if I don’t bring him some word, he’ll accuse me of keeping his message from you, and I could do without bearing the brunt of his temper.
In spite of herself, Cyllan couldn’t help returning the smile. ‘Yes … say to him that the wound was quickly healed.
‘ “The wound was quickly healed”.’ Erminet repeated the words to commit them to memory, then gave Cyllan an old-fashioned look. ‘Another cryptic riddle! No wonder you two are so well suited; you’re as bad as each other for intrigue. Not that I care what your private jests might mean … ‘ Then her expression softened. ‘Don’t worry child. I’ll tell him.
Cyllan nodded, and the look on her face tore at Erminet’s heart. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ she whispered almost inaudibly.
The tawny bird looked this way and that from its perch on the master falconer’s arm, surveying its audience with something approaching disdain in its beady eyes.
The falconer - a swarthy, hook-nosed native of Empty Province - leaned forward and whispered to the bird; it screeched in reply, extending its wings, then settled.
The falconer glanced at the High Initiate and smiled faintly. ‘If your message is ready, sir …
Keridil stepped forward out of the small crowd which had gathered in the Castle courtyard. In one hand he bore a single sheet of parchment rolled into a small, tight scroll. The falconer took it, and with a deft hand attached it to a looped thong that dangled from one of the bird’s legs, ignoring its attempts to peck his fingers.
His smile broadened to become a vulpine grin.
‘Now we’ll see if she’s learned her lessons well.’ He whispered to the bird again, and again the creature screeched, as though issuing a challenge to some unseen enemy. This time it extended its wings to the full, and a few of the crowd gasped in surprise at their span. The falconer flung his arm high; the bird sprang, the great wings cracking the air, and hung for a few moments hovering some ten feet above his head. Then with a speed that drew further astonished exclamations it hurled itself upwards, arrowing into the clear, cold sky until it was barely more than a dark speck against the blueness. It hovered again - then it was winging away South towards the mountains, vanishing in seconds beyond the high Castle wall.
A ripple of spontaneous applause broke out from the watchers, and Keridil clasped the falconer’s gloved hand.
‘An auspicious beginning, Faramor.
The swarthy Northerner’s face wasn’t designed for expressing pleasure, and his answering smile was laced with embarrassment. ‘She’s a long way to fly yet, High Initiate. But if all goes as it should, the return bird should arrive by the time the Sun sets tomorrow.’ He blinked as the tall, chestnut-haired girl who had stood at Keridil’s side for the small ceremony stepped up and bestowed a dazzling if faintly condescending smile on him.
‘And then it will be no time at all before the whole world has heard our good news.’ She linked her arm in Keridil’s possessively. ‘Isn’t that so, my love?
Keridil covered her hand with his fingers and squeezed it. ‘Certainly. You have our thanks, Faramor.
As they moved away, the falconer was besieged by eager questioners - mostly from the ranks of the younger Initiates, Keridil noticed with amusement.
Assuming that this early experiment succeeded, he thought, Faramor and his kind would have no shortage of apprentices to learn the new skill.
The idea of using birds as messengers was something that the High Initiate knew could prove to be a very valuable asset to the Circle. Falconers from Empty Province had been experimenting during his father’s lifetime, trying to train the ferocious birds they normally used for hunting; but it had taken years and a great deal of patience for this first apparent success to be achieved.
Now, Faramor’s bird was winging its way towards Chaun, where - in theory, at least - another falconer would retrieve it and send his own bird back to the Castle with an acknowledgement of Keridil’s message.
From Chaun, he would also despatch other trained birds to other provinces to spread the news carried by Faramor’s hawk. And if all went according to plan, the announcement of the High Initiate’s betrothal to Sashka Veyyil would spread around the entire land in a matter of days, rather than the weeks that even relays of the fastest horsemen would need.
Keridil had chosen to broadcast this particular news mainly to please Sashka, but also - more pragmatically - because there could be no harm done if the experiment should fail. But he had high hopes, for although much depended on the birds’ reliability, there was lit
tle else that could go wrong. Hawks had no natural predators, and they flew far too high to stray within the range of any irresponsible archer on the ground. If Faramor’s faith in the idea proved sound, it would mean an unimaginable change in the ability of all manner of people to communicate at long distance. The Circle could reach its own Initiates in far-off parts of the world; Sisterhood cots could maintain closer contact with one another; Margraves in need of aid or advice would no longer suffer the frustration and sometimes the dangers of waiting … the possibilities were more than impressive; they were astounding.
It was an innovation, and one that was sorely needed.
In the aftermath of his father Jehrek’s death, Keridil had promised himself that he would make changes at the Star Peninsula. The Circle had stagnated for too long, losing touch with the realities of the world beyond these Castle walls to become little more than nominal upholders of the gods’ laws, with a diminishing active role in the land’s affairs. They had become figureheads; and the danger with figureheads was that they could all too easily turn into anachronisms. It was time - high time - that such a downhill tendency was stopped, before it got out of hand -
And suddenly Keridil felt sick as he remembered where he had heard such words before.
‘You have no good reason to exist!’ In his mind he could hear the silver voice with its edge of shattering malevolence; see the cruelly unhuman face with its ever changing eyes … Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who had stood among the ruined statues of the Marble Hall and smiled with pitying disdain as Keridil tried to bind him with the Seventh Exhortation and Banishment, the Circle’s highest rite against recalcitrant demons. He might as well have tried to topple the Castle with his bare hands … and yet he recalled, with a shudder, the awesome power that Tarod had conjured so effortlessly; power enough to send the Chaos Lord back whence he came …
‘Keridil?’ Sashka was gazing at him and frowning.
‘Are you unwell?
He had stopped walking, he realised, and was sweating profusely. Those memories … they always seemed to ambush him when he least expected or wanted them.
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