by Glenda Larke
He’d not done it alone, of course.
By then he’d gathered around him a small core of dedicated Unbound, men and women who believed in his philosophy. Meldor had charisma, and he preached a creed that struck a chord among the dispossessed: Chantry was wrong. There were, he said, other ways to fight the Unmaker, other ways to rebuild what Carasma had taken from them. There was even, he said, a way for the Unbound to live in a stable land. And he had shown them how with Havenstar.
At first the movement and the place were small. In spite of his wish to make it a home for all excluded, Meldor was cautious of incurring Chantry wrath. He therefore kept Havenstar manageably small and its existence and its location shrouded beneath rumour and fairytale.
Only some years later did he decide the time was right, not only for Havenstar to be substantially expanded, but for it to be actively used as a base in the fight against Lord Carasma and his Minions. He brought in more people, encouraged Havenstar’s growth, and actively searched for the kind of men and women who could best help him in his fight against the Unmaker. Some of them, like Davron, he showed how to imbibe ley, a skill he’d learned from his reading of the holy texts. In the past, it had been an accepted practice for knights to use ley, until—after several disastrous instances of misuse—the Sanhedrin had named its use a sin of great evil. Even Meldor could see there was some wisdom in this and was careful in his selection of pupils, and even more careful in what he taught them. Only Scow and Davron knew that coercion was possible, and Scow could not use ley anyway.
Chantry began to hear of Havenstar. Rumours drifted about for years, facts mixed with fiction, until it was the fiction—abetted by Meldor’s agents in the Havenbrethren—that swamped the fact.
Sorcerers, it was said. Magic, it was said. A sanctuary guarded by dragons and spells, shrouded in mists, where only the Unbound could go and all others were turned into dragonseed, whatever that was, if they dared to venture there. A place of palaces webbed with filigree buttresses, surrounded by swamps where bunyips lurked to eat unwary intruders. A place where magicians dwelt, who—for a price—would turn the tainted into handsome margraves and margravines… The stories multiplied until not even the most gullible of chantors could believe them. For many years Chantry heard, and scoffed.
But the rumours persisted and in addition the Sanhedrin was sometimes made uncomfortable by an increasing number of complaints from within the Unstable about Chantry’s leadership. The excluded may have been banished from the stabilities, but they were still considered to be children of the Maker, and subject to Chantry’s jurisdiction, their pastoral needs taken care of by itinerant chantors who were themselves Unbound or simply excluded for one reason or another. That was the theory. In practice, the Unbound were increasingly reluctant to accept their maiming as the Maker’s punishment for human intransigence, while the excluded were no longer prepared to accept that their banishment was a justifiable burden because they were different. They should have gone on obeying the word of the Sanhedrin and worshipping in the same old way; instead they spoke heresy, they talked of a blind holy man, and it all seemed to be connected in some way to a place called Havenstar.
And so it was that when Chantor Portron Bittle, tormented by the thought of Keris being led to damnation, came to the Sanhedrin with his story in the hope of rescuing her from Meldor’s clutches and Davron’s arms, he was not received with the ridicule he expected.
~~~~~~~
‘Havenstar? You think they were going to Havenstar?’ Anhedrin Rugriss Ruddleby steepled his hands and looked over the top of them at Portron. The rule-chantor did not look like someone who’d brought momentous news. Rather Portron was pathetic. A worried, fussy little man who had once been plump, but who had evidently lost a lot of weight lately. A halo of white fly-away hair which encircled a shiny bald patch only added to the general air of ineffectuality.
For a brief moment Rugriss lost track of the seriousness of the topic under discussion and preened with just a hint of smug satisfaction. He gloried in his sleekness, and the thought that he was not bald on top, but then he pulled himself back to what was important. ‘And why do you think this fellowship of yours was bound for Havenstar?’ he asked.
Portron wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Where else would they have been going, Anhedrin Rugriss? They weren’t heading for any of the stabs, I’m sure. Yet they were going somewhere settled. I overheard them talking. They promised the lass, Keris Kereven, a shop. There are no shops out in the Unstable. There has got to be a place, a settled place. Where else but this Havenstar?’
‘What makes you think Havenstar is real? Chantor, I’ve heard stories about wyverns and witches, but it doesn’t mean that there are such things.’
Portron, a little desperately, persisted. ‘There are too many rumours about Havenstar for it to be a mere fairytale. I’ve heard whispers of it in the halts and the travellers’ lodges from here to Drumlin. I’ve heard the Unbound speak of it as though it exists. And that man, Davron, he’s Trician, I’m sure. Such a man has made himself a domain somewhere, surely. He may call himself an Unstabler and a guide, but he doesn’t work the route on a regular basis. I checked that out. Nor has he lived on the Storre domain in years.’
‘Very well, Chantor. You’ve made you point. You can safely leave the matter in our hands now.’ The Anhedrin stood, his scarlet silk robes rustling against the nacre sewn to the gold satin of his stole of office. He shook the stole to sound the bells.
The doors swung open in answer to the ringing and Portron was being ushered out by the novice on door duty before he realised what was happening. Then, at the last moment, he balked and Rugriss hid a sigh. He watched as the chantor—all his instincts telling him to go quietly—battled the temptation to take the easy way out, and won.
‘Er—,’ he started, sounding as wretched as he looked, ‘the lass—’
Rugriss raised an eyebrow.
‘She has been subverted by these men. A good lass, only needing the guidance of Chantry, you understand.’
‘You can leave the matter in our hands, Chantor.’
‘But—’
‘You are not saying, surely, that we do not do what is best for our faithful?’
‘Oh—er—no, of course not.’ Flustered, Portron went down on one knee in the posture of subservience and then left the room looking miserable.
Rugriss was no longer even looking at him.
The moment the outer door closed behind the chantor, another opened on the opposite side of the room and Cylrie Mannertee stepped in, her elegant slippers making no noise on the plushness of the carpeting. Rugriss, unsurprised by her entrance, waved a hand at the padded chair just vacated by Portron. ‘You heard?’
She nodded. ‘Edion has surfaced again.’ She leaned back and crossed her legs, arranging her robes carefully about her as she settled.
‘I’m afraid so. Maker, if I’d known he was going to cause us problems like this, I’d have had him dumped on his head from the knighten wind-chime tower instead of just seeing him excluded.’ He looked at her half-hopefully. ‘I don’t suppose it could be anyone else, could it?’
‘Hardly. Portron recognized him. Who’s the other?’
‘The Trician? Davron of Storre. I asked around after the first time I talked to our worthy rule-chantor. There’s an odd story there, too. Storre was a Defender, had a promising career, then suddenly threw it all up, walked out on his wife and children and disappeared into the Unstable. As Portron said, he occasionally turns up doing a spot of guiding. Competent fellow, I understand. Which makes this particular crossing all the harder to comprehend.’ He began to count off the fellowship’s disasters on his fingers. ‘The tainting of a courier’s son, the corruption of a Trician youth, the maiming of a raddled old whore, the subversion of a young woman, a Minion discovered in their ranks, numerous attacks, the destruction of a bridge beneath the girl and her subsequent fall and maiming—what does all that tell us?’
Languidly, she raised a e
yebrow. ‘That it was a rough crossing?’
He ignored her flippancy. ‘That the Unmaker took an amazingly close interest in that particular fellowship.’
‘Or in one particular member of it.’ She began to buff her fingernails on her stole.
‘Exactly. But which one? Edion? Davron? Kereven? And why?’
‘Possibly Edion. Or what about the Kereven girl? A tent that vaporises, a fall from a great height that ends up not being fatal, a hand maimed in a peculiar way…all very mysterious. What’s Portron’s interest there anyway?’
‘Besotted old fool. Hankering after what he thinks of as prime virtue, I suppose. The girl’s obviously as guilty as Chaos. She’s thrown her lot in with ley-users. That worries me, Cylrie. That they use ley, I mean.’
She frowned, and a new set of wrinkles appeared on her face. ‘Why?’
He was angry, knowing that she was asking the question for some devious reason of her own. ‘You know perfectly well why! Because it’s an abomination. Because using it gives people certain—certain powers that are evil. We’ve all seen how Minions use it and Portron just told us that Edion managed to stop him talking about what he saw, for a time anyway. And using ley weakens Order. Holy taint, just think of the damage one ley-user could do if he started splashing it around inside a stab!’
A tiny smile played around the corners of her lips. ‘Specifically, you’re just afraid of what Edion might do with ley.’
‘Damn it, yes!’
‘You’ve always been in awe of him.’
‘You’re needling me again, Cylrie. I’ll say it out loud if you want: Edion scares me. I don’t know what he is after. I can’t imagine that he would ever turn to Carasma, but he’s also not on our side and he is dangerous.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘I just wish I knew what he is up to right now.’
‘He’s on his way to Havenstar,’ she said calmly. ‘Friend Portron just told you.’
He banged a frustrated hand down on the arm of his chair. ‘How can Havenstar exist, Cylrie? How is it possible to have a settlement in the Unstable?’
‘People build halts.’ She swung her leg, admiring the arch of her foot and the elegant heel of her slipper.
‘Yes, but only bang on top of a fixed feature. Which is always a small area. And which gets smaller with every passing year. And even then they have to hope a ley line doesn’t come their way. Did you know that the halt between the Fourth and the Seventh disappeared overnight last month, with fourteen people in it? It simply vanished into a new ley line that had not existed the day before. Disorder be damned, Cylrie, how can anyone build anything large that lasts out there?’
‘Surely what matters right now is not how, but why—and where. We must find it. All the resources of Chantry must be turned to this problem.’ Her casualness was suddenly gone; now she was poised steel, honed on years of intrigue. ‘We’ve been letting Meldor-Edion make a mockery of us, Rugriss. Somewhere out there, under our noses, he’s built a place called Havenstar, and we’ve ignored it far too long. It’s my belief that his plan is to use it as a base to attack us. I can tell you what he wants. He wants power, he wants nothing less than Chantry itself.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘I know Edion.’
‘I doubt it,’ he said nastily. ‘If you’d known Edion, you wouldn’t have thought you could seduce him.’
The look she gave him flashed fire.
‘Oh yes, I know why you hate him. He hurt your pride. You were a fool, Cylrie. Edion is—was, anyway—an ascetic. He took his vows seriously and he didn’t bed women. Or men for that matter. But then, I suppose that was what attracted you in the first place. It always was the excitement of the forbidden, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s all last night’s dreams. Keep your mind on the present problem. What do we do about Edion and Havenstar? Not to mention whosit of Storre, this Kereven woman, and who knows how many others?’
‘I’ve called a meeting of all the available Sanhedrin for immediately after Reverence. I want your vote, Cylrie. That’s why I asked you to listen in on Portron just now. I want to ask for the power to lead out the Defenders of our Stability, and of the Sixth and the Seventh as well, to find and destroy Havenstar. I want Edion dead, and Storre with him. The Kereven lass I want brought here in restraints. I want to find out what it is that enables a woman to drop from a bridge into the Deep and remain unharmed.’
‘Perhaps she’s a Minion. And so probably is Storre. He rejected his family because he became a Minion and a Minion can’t go around hugging and kissing his children and bedding a normal wife.’
‘Then how do you explain the fact that he goes deep into stabilities? Once again, I think you show just how little you know Edion. He would not throw in his lot with Minions.’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know what they are. Surely it’s a simple thing to—er—pull the wool over the eyes of a man who can’t see a damn thing.’
Rugriss shook his head, unconvinced.
‘You’ll have my vote,’ she said. She’d relaxed again, examining her rings as she spoke. They were ostentatiously large. ‘Of course you will. But where will you lead your Defenders to, if you don’t know where Havenstar is?’
‘I have an inkling,’ he admitted. ‘There have been so many reports coming in just lately, and they seem to be saying the same thing. Excluded people, especially the Unbound, are heading south-east in both small and large groups. They talk of a final battle, of being needed by Havenstar. There’s been careless talk in halts and around campfires. A number of chantors and concerned members of our congregations have reported the essence of such talk. Of a ley line called the Writhe, of a place bordered by the Riven. There are clues. We know enough to know where to look.’
‘Clues?’ she looked doubtful. ‘Clues make me think of traps.’
He was dismissive. ‘That’s just your convoluted mind, my dear. What trap could there be? Edion is not about to launch an attack on Chantry. His followers wouldn’t stand for it, for a start. Being critical of Chantry is one thing; waging war against us is another. And how could a few maimed and tainted people entrap the forces of Chantry? Besides, for all Edion’s deviousness, it’s not in his nature to attack. He wasn’t a physical person.’ He smiled in memory. ‘Edion. Edion. Who would have thought he’d walk this road…’
She inclined her head as if she shared the same memory that had prompted his sudden amusement. ‘Do you know,’ she said softly. ‘I have a strong desire to see this Havenstar before you destroy it? May I come with you?’
He stared at her, and then started to laugh. ‘Tell me another. What you want to see is the end of Edion, not the marvels of Havenstar.’
She smoothed down the satin of her stole. ‘So?’ She looked at him steadily. ‘Take me with you, Ru—and you’ll have your vote.’
‘Bitch,’ he said softly. But he smiled.
It was only later that he stirred uneasily in his chair, as he remembered another aspect of Edion’s character he’d almost forgotten. The man had been subtle…
~~~~~~~
Chapter Twenty-Eight
True tragedy comes not from dying, nor yet from living, but from loving; ’tis loving that grinds the soul.
—old saying of the Margravate of Malinawar
Keris halted her horse and sat, transfixed. Before her was Shield, the main settlement of Havenstar. She’d thought she had come to an end of the surprises, but Shield was far beyond anything she had ever expected.
Shield was a celestial city.
Shield floated in the sky.
Shield was anchored to the earth by a group of central pillars, slim elegant pillars, pillars that soared impossibly high, pillars that widened out at the top to support the base of the city, like a tray balanced on the palm of several hands. A tray stacked with buildings.
They’d been riding through the rain, becoming thoroughly wet and uncomfortable and depressed, hoping to see Shield and the end of their journey ahead of them a
ny moment, but all there’d been was endless grey cloud and misty drizzle.
And then, the rain stopped. Ahead the cloud lifted, there were patches of blue sky, and there was Shield above them, floating in the sunshine, high above a lakeside. A shining, sparkling city of ley…in the sky.
And blue water underneath. Blue water that went on and on. Blue.
Keris felt her heart miss its beat under the impact of the sight. What an expanse of water! There were lakes in the First, but they were just puddles compared to this. Here it was only just possible to see the opposite shore, and the lake was large enough to contain islands. It had boats with sails. Sails. She had never seen those before either, except on children’s toys scudding across a village pond.
But her gaze kept drifting back to Shield. It was not just an optical illusion; it really was up in the air, balanced on the pillars.
Speechless with wonder, she urged her horse closer. There were whole streets and squares up there, as well as buildings, buildings that shone with living ley, that glowed in the sunlight.
Impossible, she thought. It can’t be true.
There were also buildings on the ground by the lakeside, port buildings, she guessed. There was a quayside, with ships tied up, their flapping sails luminescent with shifting ley.
She did not know which way to look.
‘How?’ she asked, suddenly aware that she’d been gaping.
‘Why?’ asked the Chameleon, beside her, craning his neck.