Stormwarden

by Janny Wurts

  Taen's fingers tightened on the barrel staves. She intruded upon territory tenanted by powers which resented mortal trespass; this she understood by the same intuition which had shown her Anskiere's innocence the day Imrill Kand had betrayed him. Now as then she did not strangle her gift with logic as her brother would have done. Though to set foot on this beach was to challenge the isle's strange guardians, Taen swung her good leg over the rim of the barrel and leaped down. The Stormwarden had chosen this site. Confident of his wisdom, Taen was unafraid.

  Her movement startled the tern into flight. Light exploded from its wingtips, blue-white and blinding. The energy which bound its form unravelled, whining like a dead man's shade as it fled into the air. Overhead the sand swallows wheeled and dove for cover.

  Taen landed, stumbling to her knees in warm sand. A feather drifted where the tern had vanished. Sorry the creature had left, the girl caught the quill in her fingers as it fell. Someone had crumpled it once,; the delicate spine was creased again and again along its snowy length. The resonant violence of the act tingled through Taen's awareness; pressured by a sudden urge to weep, she buried her face in her hands. Imrill Kand lay uncounted leagues distant. Reft of all security, the girl longed to be released from the fate Anskiere had bequeathed her. Yet tears were a useless indulgence. Inured to hardship, Taen drew upon the resilience of spirit which had seen her through Tathagres' threats and the horrors of the Crow's pestilent hold.

  On Imrill Kand, she had felt inadequate, a clumsy child with a lame leg unfit for work on a fishing boat's deck. Forced to remain ashore, she had resented her place with the pregnant women, the arthritic and the elderly. Here at least she could escape the widows in their musty wool skirts who had scolded her often for hasty stitches and girlish pranks; here she did not have to sit silent and straight on a hard wooden chair, knotting tedious acres of netting. No longer must she endure while the gossip of her elders veiled sorrows which Taen sensed but dared never to mention. Steadied by peace she only knew when she was solitary, the girl uncovered her face and discovered her inner sense had erred. She was no longer alone.

  IX

  The Vaere

  Taen blinked, unable to believe her eyes. On the sand before her strode a man little taller than a grown person's thigh. Clothed in a fawn-colored tunic and dark brown hose tucked neatly into the cuffs of his deerskin boots, he walked with a step as fluid as quicksilver. He stopped abruptly before Taen. Beads, feathers and tingy brass bells dangled from thongs stitched to his sleeves; their jingle reminded the girl of the chimes which hung from the eaves of the houses on Imrill Kand for luck against unfavorable winds.

  The little man planted his feet. Black-eyed, bearded and wizened as a walnut, he folded his arms and regarded her with an intensity made disturbing by the fact her inner awareness detected nothing of his existence. Always she sensed when others were near.

  "Who are you?" Taen demanded, irritable rather than bold.

  The creature stiffened with a thin jangle of bells. He ignored the girl's question. "You trespass. That's trouble. No mortal sets foot here who does not suffer penalty."

  "What?" Taen tossed her head, and a black snarl of hair tumbled across her brow. "I was sent here by Anskiere."

  "Surely so. Anskiere is the only mortal on Keithland soil capable of the feat. But this changes nothing." The little man drummed his fingers rapidly against his sleeve. Taen noticed his feathers remained oddly unruffled, though brisk wind blew off the sea.

  Uncertainty made her curt. "What do you mean? I don't know what land this is, far less any place called Keithland."

  "Those lands inhabited by men were named Keithland by your forebears." Suddenly very still, the man smiled in grim irony. "You have landed on the isle of the Vaere."

  Taen tucked her heels under her shift, sat, and gasped. Had she dared she would have sworn like a fishwife. According to stories told by sailors, the Vaere were perilous, fey and fond of tricks; few people believed they existed outside of fable. Confronted by a being which showed no resonant trace of humanity, Taen chose to believe. If the tales held true, the Vaere were guardians of forbidden knowledge and also the bane of demonkind; the unlucky mortal who encountered them invariably vanished without a trace, or returned unnaturally aged and sometimes afflicted with madness. For all their perilous wisdom, rumor claimed the Vaere had one weakness; the man who discovered what it was could bring about their ruin.

  Stubbornly insistent, Taen rubbed sweat from her palms. "The Stormwarden delivered me here for a reason."

  The Vaere disappeared. Astonished, Taen scrambled to her feet. She stared at the empty place where the creature had stood but an instant earlier.

  "Did he so?" replied a voice at her back.

  Taen whirled, discovered the Vaere behind her, now seated comfortably on the rim of the brandy cask.

  Bells clashed softly as he leapt down. "There was a purpose? Well then, we shall find it."

  "Find it?" Annoyed by the Vaere's oblique behavior, Taen scuffed the sand with her foot. "But I don't know how. Anskiere never told me."

  The Vaere laughed, and his bells released a shimmering tinkle of sound. "Nonetheless we shall find it. But you must come with me."

  Taen stepped back, reluctant to leave the beach. She knew little of Vaerish sorceries, except that they frightened her. The thought of following this peculiar creature to an unknown destination made her distinctly uneasy.

  The Vaere sensed her hesitation at once. "I cannot permit you to stay here. Come as my guest or go as my captive, which do you choose?"

  Taen swallowed and discovered her mouth was suddenly dry. "I'll come."

  The Vaere clapped his hands with a merry shiver of bells. "You are a most unusual child. If Anskiere sent you here, perhaps he chose rightly."

  But Taen felt less confident of the Stormwarden's guidance than she ever had previously. As she faced the dark loom of the cedars, she considered changing her mind.

  "No. You mustn't." The Vaere stamped his foot with a dissonant jangle. Taen heard an angry whine. Energy suffused the air around her body; her skin prickled, then burned, as though stung repeatedly by hornets. With a startled cry of pain, she stumbled forward. The pain ceased at once.

  "Don't lag," the Vaere admonished. He shook his finger at her, and knotted the end of his beard with the other hand. "You must abide by your choice, for the wardspells which guard this place are not forgiving."

  The Vaere skipped ahead. Very near to panic, Taen followed up the steep face of a dune. Slipping and sliding as dry sand loosened under her weight, she noticed with foreboding that the Vaere left no footprints. But she had no chance to wonder why. The creature vanished the moment he reached the crest of the dune.

  Taen scrambled after, saw her guide reappear at the edge of the wood. Quick as a deer, he darted between the trees. Taen broke into an ungainly run to keep up. She flailed down the slope, then crashed into the cedars on the far side. The wood was dark, a matted interlace of trunks and branches unbroken by any path. Dead sticks clawed at her and her shift snagged on a briar. Yet the Vaere moved without a rustle through the same undergrowth, a faint jangle of bells the only sign of his presence. Taen pursued. All sense of direction forsook her. Sweat pasted her hair against her neck and her game leg ached without respite. Yet the Vaere kept going. The sound of his bells drew the girl onward like the fabled sea sprites whose songs were said to lure unlucky mariners to their doom.

  She ran on, through forest so dense daylight seemed to have been forgotten. Finally Taen saw a gleam through the branches ahead of her. She stopped, panting, at the edge of a clearing surrounded by oak trees grown lofty and regal with age. Grass grew beneath, fresh as the growth of early spring, and tiny flowers spangled the turf. No sun shone, only a changeless, silvery glow, like the deep twilight of midsummer.

  Before her lay the heart of Vaerish mystery, beside which her own mortality seemed brief and shadowy as a dream. Time held no meaning in this place, and nature's laws seemed
usurped by another less malleable power. No frost would blight the blossoms here; nor had winter burdened the limbs of the evergreens with snow for countless centuries of seasons. Taen balked at the clearing's edge, trembling. To step forward was to yield herself to the magic of the Vaere, and no mortal who did so could escape the consequences.

  The little man reappeared, seated on a low stone in the grass. A soft glimmer of light haloed his slim form. His beads clinked as sweetly as the wind-borne chime of the goat bells Taen recalled from Imrill Kand as he reached into his pocket and drew forth a carved briar pipe. He struck no flame. But when he puffed upon the stem, smoke twined in lazy patterns around his cheeks. He crossed his legs, blew a wobbly chain of rings into the air, and regarded Taen with sharp black eyes. All urgency seemed to have left him.

  "Once a Prince of Elrinfaer paused where you stand now." The Vaere's tone was not unkindly. He blew smoke and continued. "The boy had been delivered here by a mage of great power, who promised he had -the potential talent to ward weather."

  "Anskiere," Taen said softly.

  The Vaere nodded, drew deeply on his pipe, and released three more smoke rings in rapid succession. "Yes, Anskiere. Child, many seek, but few of your kind ever find this place. Fewer still receive the training that only the Vaere can offer. None leave without forfeit. Knowledge, like every thing of power, brings about change. If Anskiere sent you, he did so knowingly. Better you choose with a willing heart, as he did, though he renounced both crown and inheritance, with no more assurance than the faith he held for his mentor."

  Taen bit her lip, uncertain how to reply. And in the instant she demurred, the Vaere vanished, leaving only spent smoke rings to mark the fact he had been there at all.

  Taen twisted her hands in the limp cloth of her shift. The early brash courage which had first prompted her to follow Anskiere dissolved, leaving her desolate. There could be no turning back. She thought of her brother, recalled how Emien had met adversity with rage and hatred; how Tathagres easily had turned that anger to her own advantage. Taen wondered whether the Stormwarden would use her loyalty in the same manner. If she followed the sorcerer's guidance her choice might later set her against her own kin. But any other alternative was impossible to contemplate. Burdened by sorrow and a heavy sense of loss, the girl chose the way of the Vaere. She stepped into the clearing, unaware the powers which guarded that place had keenly observed her struggle.

  Nothing happened. Partially reassured, Taen moved with increased confidence. Worn by the pain in her bad ankle, she perched on the same stone the Vaere had used and waited.

  Silence surrounded her like a wall; the wood sheltered no wildlife, and the leaves remained still as stone in the half-lit splendor of the grove. The fragrance of the flowers lay heavy on the air and the light never altered, blurring any concept of time. Shortly the girl's head nodded drowsily. Instinct warned her not to rest in this place. She struggled to keep her eyes open, but soon, weariness overcame her. Lulled by well-being, she stretched out on the soft ground.

  Snared by the magic of the Vaere, she fell dreamlessly asleep as many another mortal had before her. Presently an alien vibration invaded the clearing. A circular crack sliced through the turf where she lay. Blue light spilled through the gap, jarringly bright against the rough bark of the oaks. Slowly, hydraulic machinery beneath lowered the platform of soil where Taen slept, conveying her below the ground. A specialized array of robots bundled her limp form into the silvery, ovoid shell of a life-support capsule which once had furnished the flight deck of an interstellar probe ship. When her body was sealed inside, the lift rose and settled flush with the outside grass. No trace remained to betray the fact that a high tech installation lay concealed beneath the island.

  Busy as metallic insects, servo-mechanisms completed cable hook-up with the capsule, that the girl within could dream in concert with the Vaere. Though her stay might extend for years, she would never discover the nature of the entity which analyzed, nurtured and trained her. For the electronic intelligence known as the Vaere never disclosed itself to men. Several life forms remained who yet sought vengeance against the descendants of the crew who once had manned the star probe Corinne Dane. The Vaere took every possible precaution that those known as demons never discovered how desperately vulnerable was the primary power which guarded mankind's survival. The hope of their star-born forebears must never be lost, that one day this band of castaways could be reunited with their own kind.

  * * *

  Well-versed in the lore of herbs, the forester, Telemark, tended Jaric's injuries with gentle hands and a mind better schooled than most in the art of healing. Yet four full days after the assault by the brigands of Seitforest, the boy had still not regained consciousness. Pale against the coarse wool of the coverlet he tossed, sweating, troubled by delirious nightmares.

  Concerned by the lack of progress, Telemark prepared a poultice of ladybush leaves in a kettle and hung it from the bracket above the hearth to steep. If the boy did not waken soon, he would not survive. The forester removed the bandage which bound the cut on Jaric's head. With careful fingers, he explored the extent of the damage. For the third time, he encountered inflammation and swelling, but no broken bone; the wound itself was healing cleanly. The boy's hair would hide the scar.

  Telemark sighed in frustration and tossed clean dressings into the pot above the fire. The contents hissed and steam arose, pungent with the scent of ladybush leaves. They would act as a potent astringent, but their virtue was beyond question. If the blow had caused swelling inside the boy's skull, increased circulation to the area could do little else but good. And time now was of the essence.

  Telemark lifted the pot from the flames and set it on the settle while the poultice cooled. He regarded the boy on the bed with faded, weather-creased eyes, and wondered anew what desperate purpose had driven one so helpless to attempt passage through Seitforest alone. The lawless who ranged the wood were numerous enough that none of the high-born from Corlin would hunt there. Telemark preferred the isolation; game was more plentiful as a result. But this child, who in his ravings had named himself Kerainson Jaric, was obviously unused to the outdoors. His slight build was more delicate than that of a pampered maid. Yet he had more courage than many men twice his size.

  With a regretful shake of his head, Telemark tested the poultice and hastily withdrew a burned finger. He reached for a linen cloth to dry his knuckles, and looked up in time to see Jaric stir on the bed. The forester rose instantly to his feet. The boy raised an arm to his face. The man caught his slim wrist and firmly prevented Jaric from disturbing the uncovered wound in his scalp.

  "Steady, boy. Steady. You've suffered quite a bash on the head. The healing won't be helped by touching it."

  Jaric protested. His eyelids quivered and flicked open. Telemark swore with relief. With his free hand, the forester caught the oil lamp from its peg and lowered it to the small table by the bedside. The boy's pupils contracted sluggishly under the increased light, and his expression remained blankly confused. He twisted against Telemark's hold, distressed and lost in delirium. But he was conscious at last, which was an improvement. Lucid or not, he could at least swallow broth, and chances were good he would recover his self-awareness.

  Once Telemark had served as healer to the Duke of Corlin's mercenaries; he had seen enough head injuries to know that recovery could often be painfully slow. A man might temporarily lose his wits, and Kor knew this boy had been dealt a nasty buffet. With hope in his heart, the forester wrung out the fresh bandages and expertly dressed the boy's wound. Jaric lay limp as he worked, brown eyes fixed and sightless. For many days, Telemark saw little improvement in the boy's condition.

  But years in the forest had taught him patience. Where another man might have lost heart and placed the lad with Koridan's initiates in Corlin, the forester continued to care for the boy himself. When Jaric recovered his full strength, he would leave, Telemark held little doubt; any purpose which drove a man into
Seitforest alone could never be slight.

  * * *

  The settlement of Harborside on Skane's Edge was small and ill-accustomed to strangers, far less ones who arrived sun-blistered and barefoot in the town square at dusk. But after a night's rest, a bath, and a fine tavern meal, the townsfolk stopped whispering when Emien's back was turned. Tathagres sought passage off the island the next morning. A merchant brig headed for the ports beyond Mainstrait rode at anchor off the breakwater. Since the vessel was obliged to pay the Kielmark's tribute before passing the straits, passengers bound for Cliffhaven required no change in course. Yet the captain looked askance at anyone who wished business with that fortress of renegades. Tathagres' request met stubborn resistance.

  "They're pirates, every one of them a detriment to honest trade," objected the captain.

  A bribe quickly overcame his distaste, though Emien felt his fee was preposterously greedy; twelve coin-weights gold apiece would have imported a prize mare from Dunmorelands. But unless they wished to wait for another ship, the brig was their only option.

  The ship weighed anchor when the tide ebbed. If Emien regretted the four sailhands traded to the harbormaster for the gold to pay their passage, he did not dwell on the thought. The familiar roll of a ship's deck underfoot buoyed his spirits, and before the ridges of Skane's Edge had slipped below the horizon he asked the captain for work. The brig sailed short-handed. He owned nothing but the clothes on his back, and these were sadly tattered; come winter, he had no desire to rely on Tathagres for silvers to buy a cloak and a good pair of boots.