The Master

by Louise Cooper

  She turned her head to gaze out of the window.

  Across the rooftops the lights of ShuNhadek harbour gleamed, reflecting broken mirror-images on the sea’s calm surface. Mist was stealing in as the night deepened, and the peacefulness of the scene made a bizarre contrast with her thoughts.

  ‘Then if it’s to be prevented,’ she said, ‘we must reach the White Isle before the Conclave can take place.’ She looked round at him, her eyes dark with emotion. ‘And you must do what you’ve been planning.’

  ‘Does the thought distress you so much?’

  ‘I - don’t know. My conscience tells me it’s right, but -‘ she closed her mind to the sudden image of Yandros’s face, and the memory of their bargain, that rose within her. ‘I don’t know, Tarod. I’m so afraid of the consequences. More afraid, I think, than of what might happen if Aeoris and Yandros should clash. What you said, what you described - it’s too remote to affect me.

  Here, in this room in ShuNhadek with you, it doesn’t mean anything; but if you surrender the soulstone it - it’ll dictate our future, and I feel that keenly.’ She gripped her hands together until the knuckles turned white. ‘I’m so afraid of losing you forever.’

  As she spoke the White Lord’s name, Tarod noticed, she hadn’t made the Sign. For anyone brought up as she had been that was an unthinkable omission, and he sensed the other forces that were at work in her.

  Yandros had touched her with far more than a physical scar, and, against his will, he felt a surge of pride in her.

  My brother, she is worthy of us …

  The voice spoke silently in his mind, and it shocked him back to cold reality. Yes … it would be all too easy for them both to be seduced by that ancient power - and he, far more than Cyllan, had good reason to feel an affinity with it. But it mustn’t be. He had to hold fast to his resolution; and if it resulted in the ultimate sacrifice, that sacrifice must be made.

  ‘Cyllan.’ He reached out across the table, pushing aside the remains of the meal to take her hand in a grip that hurt. ‘Cyllan, I won’t let myself be swayed. I came here to fulfil a pledge, and I’ll fulfil it, whatever the consequences. While the Chaos stone exists, Yandros can challenge the rule of Order - but only while he has that foothold in the world. With the stone in Aeoris’s hands, the Conclave will never be called - and this insanity can be stopped.’

  She gazed at him, her expression bleak. ‘And you’re sure, in your own mind, that this is the only way?’

  There was another - but he daren’t dwell on that thought for a moment, lest it should take root … ‘I’m sure,’ he said.

  Cyllan nodded. ‘Very well. If it must be, it must.’

  With her free hand she rubbed fiercely at her eyes, and Tarod couldn’t tell whether or not she was crying. If she was, then knowing Cyllan they’d be tears of anger rather than despair. At length she blinked, sniffed, and said with determined conviction, ‘I was brought up to believe that Aeoris is just and fair. I can only pray that his High Initiate’s blindness doesn’t stand in the way of that justice.’

  Tarod smiled. His grip on her fingers relaxed a little, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Remember my analogy of the insects in the meadow?’ he said. ‘If Aeoris is what we believe him to be, Keridil’s arguments will no more sway him than they could do.’

  Despite their brave words, both Tarod and Cyllan suffered monstrous dreams that night. Cyllan was haunted by tormenting images of an unthinkable future, in which she saw Tarod sacrificed on an altar stone that ran black with blood, while she, hampered by the white robes of a Sister of Aeoris, could only stand by and scream his name over and over again, knowing that nothing she could do would prevent his destruction. She threshed in her sleep, reaching out clawing hands and snatching at invisible assailants; then at last she settled a little as she sensed Tarod beside her, and fell finally into a deeper if just as dismal slumber.

  Tarod lay unmoving and unaware of her distress, but his sleep wasn’t natural. Nor - or so he thought later - were his dreams dreams in the usual sense. It was more as though his mind, troubled by his waking thoughts, had reached out beyond mortal dimensions to a place of atavisms and ancient memories. And there, something awaited him.

  The familiarity of the proud, cruel but beautiful face with its welcoming smile made him ache to the roots of his soul with a feeling he couldn’t define. Yandros emerged from a column of coruscating light, and as he moved, the atmosphere about him shifted subtly between a myriad dimensions, changing colour and form in ceaseless, patternless motion. Around him, something was pulsing - a vast heart, its note too deep to be anything more than a slow, earth-shaking vibration; and it too had no pattern, the rhythm changing each time Tarod’s senses tried to attune to it. And he felt rather than saw other presences; shadow-shapes drawing towards him out of this formless place, entities he had once known and with whom he had shared a shattering affinity.

  Tarod. Yandros’s silver voice had a flat quality, a sound recalled rather than heard, with no true existence beyond memory and imagination. Light flared at the Chaos lord’s heart and focused to the image of a seven-rayed star. Still you try to forget.

  There was no reproach in the voice, only a detached interest which made Tarod realise the extent of Yandros’s weakness. This, he understood suddenly, was no true manifestation of the Chaos realm. He still retained his links with the mortal world, and in that world he was the stronger of the two.

  He smiled, and saw the green of his own eyes reflect momentarily in the Chaos lord’s gaze. I don’t forget, he said calmly. But I have made my choice.

  Yandros considered for a moment, then inclined his head as though acknowledging a viewpoint which, though he opposed it, interested him. You choose a strange path, Tarod. You have seen injustice, bigotry, persecution, murder, all perpetrated in the name of Order - and yet, despite the high principles you profess, you still give fealty to Order’s ways. His eyes - changing now from blue through purple to a disturbing crimson - flickered with amusement. I am intrigued by your logic.

  Logic has never been your favourite weapon in my experience, Yandros.

  The entity laughed. Oh, I choose whatever weapons suit my purpose at the time - as you know full well!

  Images … old loyalties, pleasures, triumphs …

  Tarod forced them away. Then perhaps you should choose more carefully. What I have seen is no true reflection of Order. It’s merely the panic-stricken reaction of those who know no better. And if I knew no better, I’d suspect your hand behind it.

  You flatter me. Yandros smiled malevolently.

  Hardly. For in this world, I have the advantage of you - the advantage of humanity. And I wield the greater power. I banished you, Yandros; and while I continue to live, your power won’t gain a hold here.

  Yandros didn’t reply, but seemed to be considering Tarod’s words. Far off in the distance a voice began to scream at a pitch which had never been mortal; Yandros glanced in its direction and the sound abruptly ceased.

  At last, the Chaos lord nodded. His eyes were oddly quiet and contemplative and he said, Yes. You banished me. And for your fidelity to the Lords of Order you were damned by those same Lords’ servants. Yet still you cling to that fealty, and you believe that though the puppets might condemn, the puppet-master will praise. His eyes flared white-hot. That is a very human sentiment. I might have expected better from you.

  Better? Tarod smiled cynically. Better by whose standards, Yandros?

  Again the Chaos lord laughed, but this time there was an appalling irony in the laughter, as though he were the victim of some celestial joke. Tarod, knowing him of old, was unmoved, and finally the laughter subsided, leaving only echoes which seemed to take on a life of their own before whirling away into nothing.

  By whose standards? Yandros repeated. Ah, Tarod, you’ve forgotten so much! He turned suddenly to face Tarod full on, and despite the gulf which separated them Tarod felt a powerful psychic jolt as the Chaos lord’s finger pointed acc
usingly towards him. Go your way, then, Yandros said. Bow to the corruption of Order and learn the lesson to which mortal life has blinded you! You are beyond my power to control -I must admit it, for you know it as well as I, and in the old days there were no secrets between us. Go, then. Bespeak the demon Aeoris.

  Throw yourself on his mercy, and where there were seven there will be six! He hunched his shoulders, and the column of light in which he stood drew inward, darkening, so that at last Yandros’s bone-white face stared with cold disdain from a fog of blackness, only his brilliant golden hair lending any colour to the disturbing scene.

  His voice carried softly, sibilantly, insinuating in Tarod’s mind as the dream began to fragment and drag him back towards the physical world.

  We shall mourn your passing …

  He woke to a stillness that struck at the core of his being.

  No screaming, sweating explosion out of the realm of nightmare; no muscular spasm hurling him from the depths of sleep - simply the quiet dark of the room in the ShuNhadek inn, and a pattern of Moonlight tracing meaningless pictures on the ceiling. From below, he could hear muted murmurings and the occasional clatter of pewter; it seemed that the tavern-room still stood open to trade and would remain so through the night.

  At his side, Cyllan slept. Her cheeks were streaked with tears long since dried, but whatever night-borne horrors had assailed her seemed to have passed now; her breathing was gentle and even. Tarod reached out to touch her and realised his hand was shaking; on his index finger the Chaos stone glared as a stray Moonbeam caught in the facets.

  Yandros’s last words burned like fire in his brain.

  Whatever term he might choose to give to the encounter, it hadn’t been a dream; and it had struck hard at his confidence and resolve. We shall mourn your passing … but Yandros was the master of lies; no man knew that better than Tarod. His greatest skill was to play on the fears of the unwary, causing the heart to doubt, the mind to question.

  An involuntary shudder left him feeling chilled; he withdrew his hand from Cyllan’s hair and saw the tiny light within the soulstone wink out as his finger moved into shadow; and suddenly he smiled. He had one weapon which Yandros could never counter - his own will. And whatever his subconscious mind might try to argue to the contrary, while consciousness held sway the blandishments of Chaos were impotent. He had the stone, and the stone gave him power. Power that had stood against Yandros once, and could do so again. And though in the dead hour of night it might seem a cold consolation, it was enough.

  His hand was steadier when he reached out again to touch Cyllan. She stirred in her sleep and murmured something unintelligible, but her voice was calm. Tarod leaned over her and let his lips brush her face gently. He didn’t want to wake her - her presence was enough to hold him to the real world.

  He settled back, one arm protectively across her slender body, and closed his eyes, knowing that sleep would come and there would be no more dreaming.

  Chapter 9

  The Summer Sister was sighted off the coast shortly after noon on the following day. Within minutes, a diverse flotilla of craft from fishing-boats to small dinghies and skiffs had put out, forming an impromptu escort to welcome the High Margrave to ShuNhadek, and by the time the tall, graceful ship with her gold-threaded sails came dipping and curtseying into harbour a large crowd had gathered on the dock.

  From the ship a voice shouted orders that were echoed and relayed from bow to stern, and men swarmed into action on the deck. The waiting throng shuffled and parted as harried militiamen struggled to make some semblance of order out of the confusion, and at last a broad gangplank was lowered from the ship’s rail to fall with a noise like thunder on the jetty, where two burly men roped it fast.

  The crowd fell silent. The Summer Sister’s master had ordered his sailors into a tightly formed guard of honour on deck, and abruptly they all stiffened to attention as Fenar Alacar emerged from his cabin and stepped on to the plank.

  Isyn had taken care to instil into his young master the importance of first impressions. This was the first time in his life that Fenar had set foot on the mainland and the first chance that all but a privileged few had had to see their High Margrave in person. And so Fenar had dressed for the occasion, in trousers and coat of fine tapestried silk, with a brocade cloak thrown over and a narrow, jewelled gold circlet on his fine brown hair. An appreciative breath rustled through the throng as he appeared and, as Isyn had coached him, paused at the top of the gangplank; then the rustle swelled into full-throated cheering, while a myriad hands jubilantly traced the Sign of Aeoris in the air.

  The High Margrave raised an arm in acknowledgement of his welcome and took a careful pace down the sloping plank. Behind him walked Isyn, and immediately at Isyn’s back came the Guard of the High Margravate, a handpicked body of swordsmen whose task, while they were on the mainland, would be to protect Fenar from the smallest hint of danger.

  Fenar’s relief as he finally stepped from the vibrating plank to land was profound; he paused a moment to allow the throng to get a closer look at him, then moved forward along the hastily cleared aisle to where an open carriage waited to convey him to the Province Margrave’s residence. Up the steps of the carriage, another pause, another wave, and dust rose from the turning wheels as the caparisoned horses set their heads towards the centre of the town.

  From the open window of their room at the tavern Cyllan could see only the Summer Sister’s tall mast as she rode at anchor; but the noise from the harbour carried clearly on the light Spring breeze, and the people thronging the market square just a street away were clearly visible over the low rooftops. She watched as there was a sudden commotion in one of the wider roads to the far side of the square, then, as the High Margrave’s carriage came into view, she turned from the window to where Tarod reclined on the bed.

  ‘Have you ever seen the High Margrave?’

  He rose and came to join her, crouching at the low window to look out. The carriage was making slow progress across the square, hampered by the jostling press of people anxious to glimpse or possibly even touch their ruler, and Tarod’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at the gorgeously dressed youth in the carriage.

  ‘Gods, he’s no more than a child … ‘ He remembered Keridil’s description of Fenar Alacar after the High Initiate had visited the Summer Isle for the formal and traditional ratification. A sound head on his shoulders, Keridil had said; but his first sight of the young man did nothing to dispel Tarod’s doubts. Any hopes he might have had that Fenar would prove strong enough to stand against the combined opinions of the High Initiate and the Matriarch faded; this boy would be too intimidated by his two elders in the triumvirate to do anything other than follow where they led.

  The carriage was by this time weighed down by tokens and offerings - Spring flowers, sweetmeats, charm-necklaces and all manner of artefacts - that the crowd had showered on their ruler. As it finally manoeuvred its way out of the square and away towards the town’s outskirts, Tarod sighed and turned away from the window. Two out of three,’ he said. They only wait Keridil’s arrival - and I suspect he’ll be here before Sunset.’

  Cyllan rose, stretching a cramped leg. ‘You sound very sure.’

  ‘I’m sure enough.’ He smiled. ‘In the old days, when we counted ourselves the best of friends, Keridil and I had a rapport that at times was near telepathic; and no degree of enmity can altogether destroy that. He’s near.

  And when he reaches the town, I’ll know it.’

  ‘And will he know of your presence, too?’ Cyllan asked uneasily.

  ‘If I relax my guard, he will.’

  Then perhaps we should find some other place to - ‘

  ‘No.’ He interrupted her with a slight shake of his head. ‘I must be vigilant, that’s all - Keridil won’t be a threat to us if we take reasonable care. But his arrival means time is growing short - we must reach the White Isle before the barque arrives to take the Conclave.’

  They ha
d spent the morning, in their adopted guise, inquiring among local fishermen and other boat-owners for a craft that might be hired. Cyllan’s upbringing in the Great Eastern Flatlands had given her a sound knowledge of seamanship; and the currents here in the South were far less treacherous than those around Kennet Head, so that she could handle a reasonable sized vessel without need for a crew. But there wasn’t a vessel to be found. Every last craft that was remotely seaworthy had already been hired or commandeered by people anxious to follow the fabled White Barque when it set sail, and neither money nor status was enough to buy them passage.

  Tarod had refrained from using his powers to secure them a boat, as least thus far; he was wary of causing argument or arousing suspicion, and would have preferred to solve their problem by more mundane means.

  But it was beginning to look as though he’d have no choice - and time, as he had said, was not on their side.

  He said: ‘We’ll look again early tomorrow when the town is quieter. By that time Keridil’s party should be settled at the Margravate, and they’ll hear no word of us until after we’ve departed.’

  ‘And if we still can’t find a boat?’ Cyllan asked.

  His laughter was soft in the quiet room. ‘We’ll find one.’

  The party from the Star Peninsula arrived in the middle of the afternoon. There were eight riders altogether, headed by Keridil and Sashka, with Gant Ambaril Rannak and three of his servants, plus two high-ranking Adepts whom the High Initiate had selected to accompany him.

  They had made astonishingly good time on the long journey, aided by good weather conditions which Keridil, with some relief, interpreted as a favourable omen. The Margrave’s decision to ride with their convoy had disconcerted him at first, but Gant had argued that, with the land in a ferment, his first duty was to his Margravate - and besides, it was unthinkable that he shouldn’t be present to play host to the full triumvirate of rulers when they lodged at his home for the first time in history. The Lady Margravine, still suffering from her shock and grief at Drachea’s death, would remain behind at the Castle until she was fitter; but he would leave for the South with the Circle Party. Reluctantly Keridil had seen the sense in his arguments, and as matters turned out, the Margrave had been far less of an encumbrance on the journey than he’d feared; the old man seemed to possess reserves of physical as well as mental stamina, and proved no hindrance to their progress.