The Master

by Louise Cooper

  Wathryn town slept on. Whether Sheniya Win Mar had recognised her erstwhile guest or whether she thought herself the victim of a horse-thief, she hadn’t yet roused help - and that was enough to give Cyllan the start she needed. Ahead lay the great arable plains of the South, and finally, Shu Province itself, where, if he still lived, Tarod would seek her.

  If he still lived … Cyllan touched the place where the Chaos stone nestled, and softly murmured a prayer that was not directed to Aeoris. Then she settled herself more comfortably in the saddle, and urged the gelding on into the shelter of the trees.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Keridil?’ The tall, patrician girl had entered the room so quietly that he’d been unaware of her presence until she moved out of the shadows to where the High Initiate stood by the window. He turned, startled, then smiled as she reached up to kiss him.

  ‘You look tired, my love.’ Her voice was warm with concern. ‘You should take time to rest for a while - the world won’t stop turning while you sleep.’

  He smiled again and put an arm about her shoulders, hugging her. ‘In a while. I’ll sleep in a while.’ He nodded towards the window where the day was brightening. ‘We’re still waiting for the first of the messenger-birds to return. They’ve taken longer than I’d have liked; I hoped that their news would be disseminated throughout the provinces by now.’

  Sashka sighed faintly. ‘Then there’s still no word of Tarod’s whereabouts?’

  ‘Nothing. We’ve tried to trace him by magical means, of course; and the Seers of the Sisterhood are using all their skills. But I know Tarod of old - if he doesn’t want to be found, it could take more than our Adepts are capable of to locate him.’

  ‘You’ll find him.’ She spoke with such venom that Keridil was momentarily taken aback to hear a hatred that matched his own. ‘You’ll find him, Keridil. And when you do - ‘ The nails of one hand dug into the opposite palm as she clenched her fingers together.

  When Tarod was recaptured, she would savour his lingering death. Twice now he’d thwarted the Circle; she was determined this time not to be cheated of her pleasure in his final demise. And maybe she would indulge herself by seeing him one last time, to remind him that he had once touched her and known her and loved her … A small, pleasurable shiver ran the length of her spine, and Keridil, noticing, said solicitously, ‘Cold, love?’

  ‘No …’ She let one hand stray to his hip and pressed closer against him, aroused by her own thoughts and by memories from the days before Keridil had replaced Tarod in her affections. Then, unbidden, the image of another girl’s face focused in her mind; small, plain, angular, framed by unkempt, silver-fair hair - and a cold shaft of anger destroyed the burgeoning desire. She moved away abruptly towards the window, her fists clenching again, and said, trying not to betray her feelings, ‘And what of that peasant girl?’

  ‘Cyllan Anassan?’ Keridil watched her, aware of the turmoil in her mind and trying to quell a stab of suspicion as to its cause. ‘He’ll be looking for her; I’ve no doubt of that - and she has the Chaos stone. It’s imperative that we find her before he does.’

  Sashka hunched her shoulders like some predatory bird. That wasn’t what I meant. I know you’ll capture them, Keridil - I know it. But when she’s brought back to the Castle - what then?’

  He didn’t answer immediately, and she turned her head to regard him. He returned the look, his doubts still not entirely allayed, and said at last: There’s a price on her head now, not just for abetting Chaos but for Drachea Rannak’s murder. In all conscience, I couldn’t decree anything else. But in all conscience, Sashka, neither do I like the idea of executing a woman.’

  Sashka’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even a woman who killed a Margrave’s son and heir in cold blood?’

  ‘Even that.’ There was a slight edge to Keridil’s voice as he added, ‘Couldn’t you kill, Sashka? Wouldn’t you, for something you truly believed in?’

  ‘If she believes in Chaos, she deserves nothing better than death!’

  ‘I didn’t say she believes in Chaos,’ Keridil replied evenly. ‘I don’t think she does. But she believes in Tarod.’

  His expression warned Sashka just in time to control her reaction, and she realised that the words were a challenge. If she argued, if she showed emotion or anger, Keridil would suspect the truth - that much of her hatred of Cyllan was rooted in jealousy. She herself had spurned and betrayed Tarod in favour of the High Initiate, but the knowledge that Tarod’s feelings had likewise turned to someone else was almost more than she could tolerate. Especially so when that someone was a common peasant-drover with neither beauty nor breeding in her favour. Now, of all times, she mustn’t allow Keridil to so much as glimpse the truth …

  Her face composed, she paced slowly across the room towards him and laid a hand on his sleeve. Her fingers traced a sensuous pattern on his arm. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said softly, conciliating and thankful that she now knew her lover well enough to reveal what she wished to reveal, hide what she wished to hide. ‘It is hard to condemn out of hand. If, for instance, I were defending you - ‘

  He laughed at the idea, but the tension faded. ‘I hope there’ll never be need for that!’

  She cast her eyes down and raised his hand to her lips to kiss it, her tongue licking lightly at his skin. ‘Still, if such a time were ever to come … ‘ Her teeth nibbled at his fingers. ‘If you needed me … ‘ She let the ambiguous suggestion hang unfinished and was gratified after a moment to feel his arm slip around her waist and pull her towards him.

  ‘If -‘ Keridil began, then stopped at the sound of a commotion in the courtyard. He swung round towards the window, looked out -

  ‘A bird! One of the messengers has returned!’ His hold on her changed its nature and he kissed her quickly, nothing more than a salute, before releasing her altogether. ‘Love, forgive me - I must see what it brings!’ And before she could speak he ran from the room, the door banging behind him.

  Sashka stared at the door, then spat out a curse which, from the lips of a girl of gentility and breeding, would have made her mother faint dead away.

  The hawk was from Southern Chaun. Keridil recognised the distinctive seal of the Matriarch herself, Sister Ilyaya Kimi, as he pushed his way through the gathered onlookers. The Castle’s falconer detached the message from the bird’s leg and gravely handed it to him, while the bird fluttered its wings and settled on its master’s wrist, tired but still ready to lash out at anyone who made an unwary move. Keridil walked a discreet distance away, and as he broke the seal on the tightly rolled parchment he saw Gant Ambaril Rannak approaching through the small crowd.

  ‘High Initiate.’ The Margrave had witnessed the hawk’s arrival from his window, and his tired eyes were hungry and haunted. ‘There’s news … ?’

  ‘A letter from the Matriarch of the Sisterhood.’

  Keridil didn’t unroll the parchment, despite the other man’s obvious eagerness. ‘I think it unlikely that she’ll have tidings of our fugitives. I’m sorry.’ He tried to soften the words with a sympathetic smile. ‘The moment we do hear word of Drachea’s assassin, I’ll send for you.’

  Gant nodded, swallowing his disappointment and remembering, with an effort, that letters sent between two of the land’s three prime rulers were no concern of a mere provincial Margrave. ‘Of course … thank you,’

  he said. ‘When I saw the bird, I simply wondered … ‘

  He straightened his shoulders a little. ‘I’ll return to my wife.’

  Keridil walked with him to the main door, then, as the Margrave climbed the stairs to the upper floors, he hurried back to his study. Sashka rose from his chair as he entered.

  ‘What is it?’ There was a keen edge to her tone.

  ‘A message from Sister Ilyaya Kimi.’

  ‘The Matriarch?’ For a moment Sashka’s eyes widened; as a Novice in the Sisterhood she had been taught to revere their supreme head as little less than wisdom incarnate, and, however exalted she might be as the
High Initiate’s betrothed, the habit died hard. As Keridil sat on the edge of the table and opened the letter, she made no attempt to look over his shoulder as she might otherwise have done, but watched, tense, while he read in silence. And within moments she knew something was amiss.

  Keridil read the crabbed, curlicued script with its over elaborate phrasing several times, half hoping that he had failed to interpret the words correctly. But there could be no mistake; the question that he had raised with such trepidation had been answered.

  Ilyaya Kimi was now in her eighties and infirm, but her mind - barring her eccentricities and a tendency to fits of petulance - was as sharp as ever. Receiving the High Initiate’s message, she had seen immediately the danger inherent in spreading the news of Tarod’s escape - although she agreed wholeheartedly with Keridil’s belief that the truth couldn’t be withheld. Briefly, and with an insight that made him shiver, she outlined her view of the hysteria which could take hold throughout the provinces once the alarm had been raised. Chaos was every man and woman’s ancestral nightmare, a legacy from a past that, though long forgotten, refused to die. And there was, she stated, only one course of action which, in her view, the High Initiate must take.

  Keridil let the hand holding the parchment fall to his side, and rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of the other. He wished to all the gods that his father, Jehrek, were still alive. Jehrek had had the wisdom and judgement that sprang from years of experience, and his son desperately needed that wisdom now, to help him. If only he hadn’t died … And something in Keridil’s soul turned black as he remembered that it was Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who had taken the old man’s life …

  ‘Keridil?’ He had all but forgotten Sashka’s presence in the room, and looked up with a start, as though a ghost had spoken. She was watching him, dark eyes wide, one hand reaching tentatively towards him.

  ‘Keridil, what is it? What does she say?’

  Jehrek was no longer here to help him … but Sashka would. And however wrong it might be to confide in anyone outside the Circle, however strongly the Council of Adepts might disapprove, Keridil needed to share this burden with her.

  He took hold of her hand and said, quietly, ‘Sister Ilyaya Kimi has formally asked me to call the Conclave of Three.’

  Sashka stared at him, stunned. She understood, he knew; but now that the first words were out he had to speak the rest. ‘She asks me to inform the High Margrave, and to begin the preparations. He paused, then:

  ‘She confirms what I feared most, Sashka … that our only hope of defeating Chaos is to sail to the shrine on the White Isle, and open the casket of Aeoris.’

  *****

  The townsfolk who had gathered in the small square fronting the justice house of Vilmado were too intent on their own business to pay much attention to the auburnhaired stranger who rode in on a shaggy, unkempt pony with another trailing resentfully behind her. The afternoon was waning, the Sun slanting in a blood-ruby glow that cast long shadows, and an irritable wind had risen from the North-East, biting through clothing and reminding everyone that Summer was still a long way off.

  Cyllan halted beside a low, shambling row of roofed-over market stalls and slid from the leading pony’s back, slapping its nose hard as it tried to bite her. There seemed to be a meeting in progress in the square; a man in official regalia stood on the steps of the justice house, flanked by others wearing hastily assembled military garb and carrying an assortment of weapons. The official was speaking to the crowd, occasionally stretching out both hands in a calming gesture as his restless listeners began to shout in reply, but Cyllan was too far away to hear what was being said. She turned to the first of the covered market stalls, where a tall, thin woman stood arms akimbo, frowning at the throng.

  ‘What’s to do?’

  The stallholder stared down her long nose, her look unfriendly. ‘Enough to disrupt my trade and send me home with an empty pocket, that’s what.’

  She didn’t seem anxious to elaborate, so Cyllan asked, ‘Is there an inn near by which might have a room free?’

  ‘An inn?’ The woman stared at her again, making no secret of the fact that she was assessing the stranger and contemptuous of what she saw. ‘Try the Two Panniers.

  That’s where drovers and their like usually go.’ She nodded towards a narrow alley. ‘At the far end of that street.’

  Cyllan thanked her and led the surly ponies away.

  Dank shadows closed round her as she entered the alley, and the smells of the lane gutter mingled with the barely more appetising odour of soured food. She found the Two Panniers easily enough - not prepossessing, but it fitted the image she now presented - and tied the animals to a ring in the crumbling wall. Then, on the verge of stepping over the threshold, she paused as fear clutched at her stomach and made her queasy.

  What if she were recognised? Two days had passed since her flight from Wathryn; chances were that the Circle’s message concerning her escape had by now spread throughout the land, and the crowd at the justice house were even now being told of the servant of Chaos with a price on her head. She’d been safe enough on the road, encountering no one but the occasional band of drovers and one small tithe-caravan, but here in a town she was dangerously exposed. And if she should be suspected -

  She checked the train of thought, sternly telling herself she was being foolish. She couldn’t hope to avoid every town and hamlet on her journey southward; she needed to mingle with people if she was to hear any rumour of Tarod or clue to his whereabouts. Besides, she reminded herself, Keridil Toln’s search was for a girl with long, pale blonde hair, riding a well-bred grey gelding. An auburn-headed drover in charge of two surly ponies would merit no more than a single glance.

  The thought gave her courage; but nonetheless her legs felt weak as she pushed open the rickety door of the Two Panniers and stepped inside.

  The tavern-room was empty but for a gangling pot-boy, who looked up as she entered. His eyes took in a plain girl in a man’s cut-down trousers, hide coat and riding boots, her red-brown hair twisted into a rough knot at her neck. She smiled tentatively; he grinned back.

  ‘Avnoon.’

  Cyllan glanced round the room, took in the sluggish fire, the empty tables. There was a smell of food, thankfully more pleasant than the stinks outside. She approached the bar and said, ‘I’ll have a mug of herb beer, and a platter of meats and bread if you have them.’

  The potboy nodded. ‘Got plenty. Twill be crowded when that there meeting’s done in the square.’ He was still looking at her and her skin began to crawl - until she realised that his scrutiny was hopeful rather than suspicious. He grinned again. ‘Got some fresh spiceroots, too; new harvest. I can get you a plate of ‘em to go with the meats.’

  ‘Yes - thank you.’

  He hurried round to usher her to a table near the fire, then, remembering his master’s constant exhortations, his face clouded. ‘You got the money?’ he asked.

  ‘Innkeeper says I can’t serve no one without the money.

  Quarter-gravine.’

  Cyllan felt in her belt-pouch and pulled out a coin.

  The lad took it, bit it, then nodded his satisfaction. ‘I’ll fetch your order.’

  As he loped away, Cyllan leaned her head back against the rough wall and closed her eyes, letting the fire’s small but welcome warmth suffuse through her. So far, so good - she was safe to rest awhile and ease her hunger. And, for a time at least, the new disguise would serve her.

  The drover-band with whom she’d bartered to exchange the Margrave’s gelding for some old clothes, two broken-down ponies and ten gravines in coin had asked no questions, content to spit and close palms on the deal. Cyllan knew she’d sold the horse for under half its value; the ponies were all but worthless, and the gelding would fetch a good forty or fifty gravines from the right buyer, but the fact that the bargain had been so much to their advantage would ensure the drovers’

  silence. Her uncle had conducted enough shady busines
s in his time for Cyllan to know the ways of drovers all too well; there’d be no danger there. She’d bought the hide coat and boots from a travelling clothman, and had completed her disguise in the woods the following morning, when she stripped the young, copper-brown bark from a bellflower bush, pulped it in the water of a small pool and, gasping at the cold shock, washed her hair thoroughly with the mixture to stain it auburn. The coloration wasn’t permanent; she’d have to hide her hair from the rain and the bark’s effects would wear off within a week or so, but until then it would suffice.

  She’d made good progress thus far - barring her close brush with disaster in Wathryn - but she knew that as she advanced further into the well-populated South the journey would become ever more dangerous. She was now, as far as she could tell, in the borderlands between Chaun and Prospect provinces, and the land was becoming kinder; flat, arable country crossed by major drove-roads, but without the dense forests of the North to provide concealment. Last night she’d camped on open ground beside a tributary of one of the great western rivers, only summoning the courage to light a fire when the night became too cold to endure without; during the previous day she’d widely skirted two hamlets, and had forced herself to ride into Vilmado this afternoon simply because to avoid it would have meant a wide and difficult detour. And the further South she rode, the more towns she encountered, the greater the risk of being captured.