The Master

by Louise Cooper

  Tarod let out a long, sharp breath, fighting back an impulse to curse the world and everything in it. ‘Cyllan … Cyllan, what you did was insane! Why did you act so recklessly?’

  She turned round at last, her eyes glittering. ‘What else was left to me? You were about to die, and Yandros was the only one, apart from me, who wanted you to live!’ A strange, bitter smile distorted her face. ‘Do you think Aeoris would have intervened to save your life?’

  She’d called on the quintessence of evil, opened herself to damnation, and all for his sake … Tarod was moved to black rage at the thought of what she must have suffered, and painfully touched by her courage.

  True, he would have done as much for her, and more, without a second thought; but he was too well acquainted with Chaos to fear it in any form. Cyllan was another matter.

  Misinterpreting his silence, Cyllan pulled away from him in sudden distress. Her challenging bravado had been short-lived; now she hung her head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I know what he’s done to you, what he is - but I had no choice! I had to save you, and his was the only power I could turn to. Tarod, please - don’t hate me.’

  ‘Hate you?’ He paused, then caught hold of her and, when she tried to resist, pulled her forcibly into his arms and held her tightly. ‘Cyllan, don’t you know me better than that?’ His tone was fierce. ‘All that matters, all I care about, is the risk you ran! I know Yandros, and he gives nothing without taking more in payment.’ The grim thought which he’d tried not to voice suddenly wouldn’t be held at bay any longer. ‘What did you promise him in return for his aid?’

  Cyllan looked up, blinked. ‘My loyalty.’

  ‘Loyalty … ‘

  ‘It was all he asked.’ She laughed in an odd, broken tone. ‘He said I’d already damned myself in the eyes of my own gods by calling on him; so what had I to lose?’

  Such generosity wasn’t in Yandros’s nature. He must have had some ulterior motive, and that motive boded ill …

  ‘He wants you to live, Tarod,’ Cyllan said. ‘He told me as much. And it seems that he wants me to survive, too … at least for the time being.’ She smiled, though it was a wan effort. ‘I asked him to kill me, to release you from the bargain you made with the High Initiate, but he refused. He said … he said that I might be of use to him. And so the pact was made.’

  He touched her face gently, emotion clouding his green eyes. ‘I don’t know what to say; words are inadequate. So much love; so much courage … ‘

  She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t brave. I was afraid of him - and I’m afraid of him still.’ She looked up into his face. ‘I’m so afraid of what might happen if I fail him!’

  His mind touched hers and he sensed the depth of her fear. His eyes narrowed, and a look flickered in them that for an unnerving moment reminded Cyllan all too sharply of the Chaos lord.

  ‘Yandros won’t harm you,’ Tarod told her softly.

  ‘Whatever he might claim, his power in this world is limited. I’ve defeated him once; I can do so again.’ His tone hardened. ‘If he threatens you, I’ll destroy him.

  Believe that, Cyllan.’

  He couldn’t tell whether she was convinced by his words - and he didn’t care to question his own belief in them - but after a few moments a little of the resistance he’d sensed in her muscles receded, though her body was still painfully tense.

  ‘What are we to do now?’ she asked simply.

  The decision hadn’t been easy … but Cyllan’s bravery, and the fear she now felt as a result of what she had done, had served to cement Tarod’s resolution. He pressed his face against the crown of her hair and said, ‘We’ll go on to ShuNhadek, as we always meant to do. We’ll find passage, somehow, to the White Isle - ‘

  ‘But - ‘

  ‘No; hear me out, love. We’ll find passage to the White Isle, and there we’ll appeal directly to the only power in the world which can help us.’

  Cyllan stared at him in terrible dismay, but said nothing.

  ‘Only Aeoris himself can counter the evil of the Chaos stone,’ Tarod went on. ‘Yandros gained a foothold in this world through me, and only I can make the decision to turn that tide. I’m not strong enough to fight him alone. I must surrender the stone to the White Lords … it’s the only way.’

  ‘But it’s more than just a jewel, Tarod; it’s your own soul.’

  ‘I know. But you’ve seen the insanity that’s been turned loose on the land. Directly or indirectly, it’s Yandros’s doing; it’s like a disease eating at everyone and everything, and if it isn’t stopped there’ll soon be no cure. It has to be done, Cyllan. And at least, at Aeoris’s hands, we’ll find the justice that the Circle denied us.’

  She couldn’t argue with his reasoning; but neither could she silence the still, small voice that whispered a warning deep in her mind. She was tired - too tired for coherent thought, despite what she’d said to Tarod, and she could see the need for sleep in his eyes even if it eluded him. She stepped back, disengaging herself from his arms but keeping a hold on his hand, and looked over her shoulder at the dark, misty hills.

  ‘Come back to the shelter with me.’ Her voice was gentle. ‘The Moons are sinking; it’ll be dawn before long. We should rest while we can.’

  He followed her as she moved towards their hiding place. Sleep would be a blessing, if he could find it, and when they lay down he drew her close to him, covering them both with his cloak. She nestled her head in the crook of his arm, and he thought she’d drifted away when her voice, low-pitched, surprised him.

  ‘Tarod … When this is over - if it’s over - ‘

  ‘When, love. Think of it only as when.’

  A slight movement told him that she was nodding acquiescence. ‘When it’s over … I hope I can see Sister Erminet again. She was so good, so kind - without her I’d have lost you, and I don’t think I can ever repay that debt.’

  ‘I know what she did.’ Unbidden, memory of the old Sister’s face came sharp and clear to Tarod’s mind, and his voice caught on the last word. Cyllan turned in his arms. Tarod? What is it?’

  He might have spared her the truth, at least for tonight, but to do so seemed an insult to Erminet, for whom honesty had been a watchword. ‘Erminet is dead,’ he said simply.

  ‘Dead … ?’

  The Circle discovered what she’d done to aid us, and she was arrested. She took her own life whilst under guard in the Castle.’ Tarod realised that his own voice sounded remote, detached; it was far from what he felt.

  ‘She was a skilled herbalist,’ he went on, touched by the disquieting sensation that he was speaking into a void.

  ‘She would have felt no pain, no suffering - though the gods know that’s little comfort!’ His tone had become savage, and he controlled it with difficulty. ‘She didn’t deserve that fate. And hers is yet another death to place at my door.’

  ‘No. At Keridil’s,’ Cyllan said in a small voice.

  He sighed. ‘Keridil would have had no quarrel with Erminet had it not been for me, and I won’t try to escape that truth.’

  ‘No, Tarod.’ Cyllan squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the tears that welled in them. ‘Sister Erminet would have argued that with you. I can almost hear what she’d say.’

  I make my own decisions for my own reasons, and if you think your opinions would sway me you can think again, Chaos fiend or no! It was a fair paraphrase of what Erminet might have acidly retorted to any attempt to influence her. She’d made her own decisions, as much so in the manner of her death as in anything else. Perhaps, despite his self-recrimination, Cyllan was right.

  ‘Aeoris keep her soul,’ Cyllan whispered.

  Tarod’s fingers touched her hair. She was almost asleep, unlikely to comprehend what he said. ‘Or Yandros … ‘ he replied softly.

  Rain had moved in during the night to sweep across the western reaches of Southern Chaun. The sight of the grey, drizzling curtain soaking the fields beyond the Cot’s elegant windows irritated Ilyaya Kimi
as she sat impatiently waiting for her chamberwomen to arrive.

  Everything was ready, the journey planned down to the last detail - and now this. She could anticipate a thorough wetting even on the few short steps between the main door and her litter, and she was far too old to run for shelter, even if the idea alone weren’t an affront to her dignity. So; she would sit cramped and jolting in that damned palanquin while the damp seeped through to her bones, with nothing better to do than listen to the rain pattering on the canopied roof. And before her lay all the tedium of rough tracks and Prospect Estuary to cross before her party even reached a decent drove road She slapped a hand petulantly down on the arm of her chair and, with difficulty, eased herself to her feet. The chamberwomen were late - she had told them to attend her promptly one hour after the tocsin had rung for morning prayers, and the sandglass on her table told her that the hour was well past. Pursing her lips in anger Ilyaya reached for the little handbell that stood beside the glass, and shook it vigorously. She was gratified moments later to hear footsteps running along the passage outside, then the door burst open and her two servants appeared.

  ‘Your pardon, Matriarch; we were so busy with the preparation of the litter - ‘

  ‘Knock.’ The old woman interrupted their apology.

  ‘How many times must I tell you? Knock before you enter my room! Go out and do it again.’

  The chamberwomen exchanged wry glances before doing as they were bidden, and when they entered for the second time Ilyaya gave a curt nod of satisfaction.

  ‘Better. You’re both late, but we’ll overlook the matter this time. How do the preparations progress?’

  ‘Well, Madam. The palanquin is harnessed, pack-horses loaded, and Sister Antasone reports that the escort has been sighted approaching the Cot. They should be here within ten minutes, and then we can leave just as soon as you wish it.’

  ‘Good.’ There was little point prolonging the departure, however reluctant she might feel to face the journey. Better to get it begun and therefore over with the sooner. ‘And the arrangements at ShuNhadek?’ she demanded.

  The messenger left two days ago, Matriarch, to take word to the Margrave. He’ll be sensible of the honour you do him, and will house you in the greatest comfort.’

  ‘If he’s yet returned from the North, he will,’ Ilyaya observed sourly. ‘If not, Aeoris alone knows what manner of shambles we’ll find awaiting us.’ She eased herself stiffly back into the chair, sighing with relief as she sat down. ‘Very well. You may bring me my travelling cloak, and my personal valise. And I want to see the Mistress of Novices before we leave.’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’ The women departed on their errands, leaving Ilyaya drumming gnarled, impatient fingers on the arm of her chair.

  Sister-Senior Fayalana Impridor was alone in the Hall of Prayer when the Matriarch’s servant found her. The Novice-Mistress looked up from the pile of books of Aeoris’s Law that she was tidying in the wake of the morning dedications, and smiled her slow smile.

  ‘Good morning, Missak. Is the Matriarch ready to depart?’

  ‘She is, Sister, and she asks that you attend her before she leaves.’

  ‘Certainly - I’ll come at once.’ Fayalana put down the books, brushed at her robe and followed Missak towards the door. Just as they reached the passage she raised a quirkish eyebrow and asked, ‘And how is the Matriarch today?’

  The question had clear implications, though only the senior Sisters ever had the temerity to voice them.

  Missak smiled thinly.

  ‘Between ourselves, Sister, she was a little pettish and we thought she might go into one of her moods, but it seems to have passed off.’

  ‘Providence be thanked for that,’ Fayalana said fervently. ‘We all have enough to cope with as it is … not, of course, that the Matriarch can help her small foibles.

  It’s an affliction that will come to all of us as our years advance.’

  Missak nodded. ‘Sometimes, Sister, I’ve woken in the night and asked myself whether she should be making such a journey at all. She’s over 80, after all, and not strong.’

  Fayalana’s eyes softened kindly. ‘I know how you feel - it worries us all. But this is something that can’t possibly be delegated, Missak. Aeoris’s own law forbids that anyone save the true triumvirate of rulers may sit in Conclave - there can be no proxies; no substitutions, you understand.’

  ‘I understand, yes. But … she should retire, Sister.

  At her age, she shouldn’t have to carry such responsibilities.’

  Fayalana’s dark eyes seemed to turn inward for a few moments, as though she saw some hidden meaning in the other woman’s words. Then her face cleared and she said drily, ‘I agree, Missak. But I wouldn’t care to be the one delegated to suggest it to her!’

  At about the time the Matriarch’s party began its cumbersome journey South-East towards Prospect Estuary, a ship rocked on the light swell of the dock on Summer Isle. Both on deck and at the shoreward end of its gangplank there was a good deal of activity; men hurried back and forth with provisions, furnishings, trunks; a seemingly endless stream of goods making the perilous crossing from shore to ship. On the after-deck, under the shadow of the great mast, a youngish man wearing the distinctive blue sash of a ship’s master watched proceedings with a relaxed but practised eye, while the crew sat about on or near the rail, talking desultorily or playing Quarters or Strike Anchor. Occasionally a burst of laughter rose above the general hubbub as someone made a profitable win.

  At the back of the dock, well away from the confusion, two caparisoned horses stamped restlessly in the harness of an open carriage until a sharp word from their driver quieted them. Behind them, one of the carriage’s two occupants watched the distant activity with intense interest. He was a thin, brown-haired youth of some seventeen years, his good looks marred by a prominent nose that dominated his face. He was attempting to grow a moustache, both to counter the effect of the nose and to make himself look a little older; but thus far it was only poorly developed. His elaborate clothes - wide-sleeved embroidered jacket over silk trousers, heavily embossed belt with a short and purely decorative sword hanging from a scabbard - were creased with sitting. The carriage springs creaked as he stretched a cramped leg and sighed, and his companion, a much older man, glanced sidelong at him.

  ‘Are you tired, High Margrave?’

  Fenar Alacar rubbed his eyes. ‘Not really, Isyn. Just tired of waiting.’

  ‘It was your own idea to come and see the preparations for yourself.’ The older man hesitated, then smiled a little sheepishly. ‘With all due respect, sir.’

  ‘Don’t call me that, Isyn - you know it makes me uncomfortable! You were “sir” to me for so many years while my father was alive, and I can’t get used to the idea of everything being reversed now!’ Fenar was trying to hide his boredom and frustration but the effort was too great. ‘This,’ he indicated the bustling dock with an imperious sweep of one hand which reminded Isyn sharply of the old High Margrave, ‘all seems such an unnecessary fuss and waste! Damn it, it’s less than a day’s sailing to the mainland, and once we put in at ShuNhadek I’ll be housed as well as if I were still at my own court! Yet look at it - enough food for a whole troop of militia, my own dishes, cups, knives; even my own chair to sit on! It’s ridiculous!’

  Isyn shook his head. Twelve years of tutoring, and still the boy didn’t seem to understand fully what he was, and why he must be so treated. ‘It’s a necessary precaution, High Margrave, especially with things as they are. We daren’t take the smallest risk of any harm befalling you.’

  Fenar snorted. ‘And so I have to have an army of cooks, food-tasters, bed-makers, chair-dusters - and I have to suffer the frustration of waiting and waiting while the damned ship’s loaded with a vast quantity of superfluous nonsense!’ He looked sidelong and resentfully at his tutor-turned-adviser. ‘If the powers of Chaos mean to prevent the Conclave by luring me to my death, I imagine they’ll find a subtler method than poisoning!’
>
  Isyn refused to rise to the bait. Seventeen or no, the boy was High Margrave, and his elevation was still recent enough for him to want to test his authority on occasion. It was a way of covering for his insecurity, and the older man could understand it.

  ‘It’s worth remembering, sir,’ he said gently, and using the term Fenar hated quite deliberately, ‘that the High Initiate’s party won’t arrive for at least another three days; more if they’re held up by bad weather. And speaking personally, I don’t relish the prospect of spending the intervening time in ShuNhadek with only the Lady Matriarch for company.’

  There was a pause, then Fenar snorted again, but this time with suppressed laughter. ‘Gods, the very idea of it!

  D’you know, Isyn, I can hardly believe that the old woman’s still alive. She was older than old when I last saw her, and I was a child then. She must be 100 if she’s a day by now!’

  His words were disrespectful and he was exaggerating, but Isyn felt privately relieved by the display of childishness - it suited the lad far better than his earlier attempt at arrogance. The next few days, he thought, would be a trial in more ways than the obvious; Fenar Alacar feared the impending Conclave, though nothing would make him admit it; and when he was afraid he would, like all young and untried creatures, react in one of two ways - either by retreating into sulkiness, or by trying to flaunt his position as absolute ruler, at least in theory, of all the land. Isyn had glimpsed the beginnings of such a reaction last year when the new High Initiate had visited the Summer Isle court; awed by Keridil Toln, Fenar had at the same time resented his confidence and the aura of the highly occult Circle that he carried with him. Then, he hadn’t had the self-possession to challenge Keridil; now, if they found themselves in disagreement, it might be different - and the High Initiate would be too formidable an opponent for Fenar to cut his teeth on.

  The boy was fidgeting again. He’d seen the sense in Isyn’s words, but they did nothing to assuage his impatience.

  ‘I don’t see why we have to go to ShuNhadek at all,’

  he said irritably. ‘There’s no need for so much pomp and ceremony. Why can’t we simply sail from here directly to the White Isle?’