Stormwarden

by Janny Wurts

  Sunset faded over Mearren Ard. Jaric paused to wipe the sweat from his brow and light the lantern looped to a line on Callinde's yard arm. Keldric's unmarried niece arrived with a basket of bread, smoked fish and cheese. Oblivious to the invitation in her smile, Jaric thanked her, his manner restrained with the polish of Morbrith's high court. Beneath his courtesy Taen read the raw pain left by Kencie's thoughtlessness. For all his accomplishments, Jaric placed no faith in the change wrought within himself since his accident in Seitforest; although the prettiest girl in Mearren Ard lingered to watch him eat, he misread her admiration for pity. Misery kept him silent. And too shy to breach his solitude without encouragement, the girl twisted her chestnut hair back under her cloak hood and quietly left as she had for seven nights previously.

  Jaric dusted breadcrumbs from his tunic and resumed work. Jostled by wind, the lantern turned the yard to a circle of wheeling shadows. Removed from the rest of humanity and merged with the rhythm of Jaric's mallet as he fastened heated planks to the hull with tree-nails of locust, Taen almost missed the transition even as it happened. The boy missed stroke. The heavy fastener's mallet banged squarely into his thumb, splitting the skin. He swore once without rancour, and twisted his shirt cuff over the cut to stop the bleeding. The wound itself was slight. But tired as he was, the pain opened an avenue of distraction; his control slipped. The force of the geas welled up inside him, a whirlwind battling to escape the slender check-rein of reason.

  A gust blasted the yard, streaming the lantern flame like blood. Jaric cried out, bent to his knees with his arms cradled against his chest. Wind lashed the hair across his cheek. For one stark instant, Taen saw the black-barred wingtips of the stormfalcon beat in the darkness above his head. Then the vision left her. The disturbance died, leaving only the distant crash of the surf beyond the harbor. Jaric shook himself. He reached for his mallet with the dull mechanical motions of extreme exhaustion; and unable to bear the enormity of his burden, Taen wrenched herself out of contact.

  The grove surrounded her with maddening and changeless serenity. Taen clutched the silken robe about her shoulders though she was not cold and with all the urgency she possessed, summoned Tamlin.

  The Vaere appeared at once. His hands were unoccupied by any pipe and his bells stayed utterly silent. "You saw the stormfalcon," he said softly.

  Taen burst into tears. Irritated by the unwanted display of emotion, she nodded. "How did you guess?"

  Tamlin seated himself in his accustomed place on the stone at the grove's center. "No guess, child, but a natural law of sorcery. Anskiere loosed an energy, the stormcall you perceive in the shape of the falcon. It built a gale, as he intended, and dissipated, carrying out the ruin of Kisburn's war fleet. Left to itself, the seed of that energy had no direction of its own. Under normal circumstances it would lie fallow until its creator unmade its pattern. But when Tathagres interrupted the geas which summoned Jaric, the break opened what once was a closed loop; a structure created by Anskiere stood out of balance, a circumstance he never intended. For such disharmony would attract and bind any loose ends he might have left lying about: in this case, the stormcall."

  Taen twisted the thin silk of her cuff. "What will happen to Jaric?" And Emien, she thought, but did not broach that fear.

  A bell chimed as Tamlin shifted position. "The geas and the stormfalcon stand linked. With each passing day the tempest will build. If we are lucky, Jaric will sail before it breaks."

  But even without asking, Taen knew. Callinde could not possibly be ready in time. She swallowed, reluctant to confront the inevitable conclusion; Kisburn's entire war fleet had been crushed like chaff before the fury of that storm. Tortured by thoughts of Jaric's antique craft being smashed by a thundering avalanche of foam, she found her voice and spoke, hoping the Vaere could silence her fear. "Jaric might never make Cliffhaven."

  Tamlin stood up, his pipe suddenly appearing in his hand. For a prolonged moment he puffed in silence, an expression which might have been sorrow half veiled by rising smoke. "He might not. We can do nothing more for him except pray that he will. He is Ivain's son. There is much reason for faith in that."

  * * *

  But hope was not enough to sustain Taen through the days ahead, while Jaric wore himself ragged repairing Callinde's battered hull. The gaps in her planking closed with what seemed agonizing slowness. By the time he hammered the brass fittings on the raw new shaft of her steering oar, the flat deadly calm Taen recalled from her time aboard Crow had already settled over Mearren Ard. The fir trees stood still and silent on the slopes above the village, unruffled by any trace of breeze; confined to the harbor, fishermen varnished spars and swore at the glassy surface of the sea. And though no man put words to the notion, all thought of the boy struck down by a sorcerer's curse on the decks of Tavish's boat. Talk in the tavern turned restless.

  Jaric continued his labors, possessed and oblivious. He threaded new halyards through the blocks of Callinde's mast and stitched patches on her torn sails. The calm broke in the hour she was launched. Keldric's niece braved the icy, ripping gusts to make her way to the docks, a cloak of green wool bundled in her arms.

  "For you," she shouted, her voice barely audible above the shrill keening of the wind through the stays. Her comely features were scrubbed and hopeful and her braids were tied with red ribbons.

  Jaric scrambled out of the depths of a storage locker, his hair whipped like spun gold against his neck. He accepted the gift with genuine appreciation, but his thanks were stilted with wariness.

  "Try it on then, Jaric." Puzzled by his reluctance, the girl placed a freckled hand on his arm.

  Jaric flinched from the contact, startled. His dark eyes widened with an emotion the girl could not understand. She stammered an apology and retreated, bursting into a run past Callinde's slip. The boy stared after her, frozen in his tracks. He wanted to shout, to call her back and apologize. But words stuck in his throat. He watched until the girl disappeared while the wind screamed around his head, lashing the wool against his thighs.

  "Old storm'll catch you in the harbor," warned Mathieson, shuffling up beside him. "Better to wait her out."

  Jaric shook his head. He tossed the cloak into the locker and latched it closed, then untied Callinde's docklines. Canvas cracked like a maddened animal as he raised the main halyard. Clouds roiled above the masthead and angry gusts puckered the water, sending wavelets curling off the steering oar. Old Mathieson spat and bit his knuckle. Only a madman, or the most brave, would put to sea in such weather.

  Frail against lowering skies, the boat drew away from the dock. Jaric hauled in the sheets, felt the lines slam against the blocks as wind filled the main. Callinde heaved, timber shivering as she gained way. Foam ruffled off her bow. Standing forlorn on the docks, old Mathieson Keldric saw her heel like a lady and run for the open sea.

  "Callinde keep ye safe," he murmured. The gale parted the fur of the ice otter cloak which clothed his stooped shoulders; but pelts which would have pleased a prince meant less than nothing to him. With tear-brimmed eyes he watched the boat which had once been his father's grow small and finally vanish, another man's hand on her helm.

  XIX

  Stormfalcon

  Mathieson Keldric was not the only observer to watch Callinde depart from Mearren Ard. On the Isle of the Vaere, Taen bent over the crystal basin, her vision centered with feverish intensity upon the dusky tanbark sail of the boat which tacked across the harbor. Past the headland, waves battered like rampaging cavalry against Callinde's sides, sheeting spray from prow to keel. Jaric adjusted his course for the open sea and Cliffhaven. The steering oar dragged against his arms and the boat bucked and rolled, her wake a boil of froth. Yet Jaric held true to his heading, though Callinde seemed little more than a splinter tossed haplessly in the path of the elements.

  The point fell swiftly astern. Taen's crystal bowl showed a froth of tumbling whitecaps, Callinde a murky shadow blurred by smoking sheets of spindrif
t. Reminded of the shipwreck and disaster which had traumatized her early childhood on Imrill Kand, Taen chased the contact from her mind.

  The water obediently went blank. Although the basin's chased rim gleamed silver and ordinary beneath her sweating palms, Taen's conscience continued to haunt her. Had she not interfered, Jaric would be in Seitforest still, safely tending traps with Telemark. Taen raised the bowl with trembling hands. Her nerves refused to settle. Water dribbled like tears over her fingers as she placed the vessel on the grass by her side.

  She had been a coward, she realized. The ordeal of Sathid mastery had carved a mark of horror deep within her mind; left the ugly certainty that Emien would betray those closest to his heart rather than confront the error of his ways. Taen ran her fingers through her long silky hair. She had used Tamlin's plans for Jaric as an excuse, permitted herself to believe the Firelord's heir could restore Emien through release of Anskiere from the ice cliffs. That way she need never confront her brother's twisted nature, might avoid entirely the truth the Sathid had revealed.

  Taen stared at her hands. The fingers were longer, shapelier and more graceful than those of the little girl who had first landed on the Isle of the Vaere. She had grown up, but childishly permitted herself to shelter her fears behind the risks of others, even justified Jaric's discomfort for the sake of Emien's need. Now Jaric battled for his life against the force of Anskiere's sorceries. The dream-weaver who had influenced his fate felt shamed.

  Taen dropped her hands into her lap. The calm of Vaerish enchantment left her restless. Its changeless security made Jaric's peril more vivid by contrast. Chastened by his stubborn display of courage, Taen saw she could never leave her brother's future reliant on the efforts of others. The possibility the Firelord's heir might fail had forced brutal recognition; she must try to recover her brother herself, even should she forfeit his love in the attempt.

  Taen settled herself in the grass and glanced carefully around the grove. The clearing was deserted; Tamlin had not reappeared since his explanation of the stormfalcon's presence, nor did he respond to any call. Left entirely to herself, Taen ignored the crystal basin. For the first time since accomplishing her mastery, she closed her eyes and bent her dream-weaver's skills to Kisburn's court and her brother.

  Subtle Vaerish twilight yielded before the hard-edged splendor of a palace ballroom. Candles blazed from tiers of silver sconces, casting brilliant and costly light across gaudily dressed nobles, tables laden with sweetmeats and a quintet of royal musicians. The King had commanded a lavish celebration to honor the eve of the fleet's departure, and there Taen located her brother.

  No trace of a fisherman's origins remained about the young man who perched on the silk cushions of a windowseat, twirling a filled goblet between his fingers. Emien had eliminated his accent; the hand which gripped the wine glass was elegantly uncallused. Clothed in a black velvet tunic with scarlet and gold trim, the boy radiated charm and dark good looks.

  Several court maidens clustered about, vying for his attention. But Taen saw that his wit was barbed and his smile self-derisive. Emien found no joy in the ladies' company. That they should waste admiration on anyone who lacked influence and power made no sense to him. He received their flattery with secret contempt and the wine stayed untasted in his glass.

  Taen gathered her dream-reader's skills. She had no desire to exert influence on her brother amid a chamber full of revelers, particularly where Lord Sholl was certain to be present. Somehow she must entice Emien to leave. Careful not to disrupt Emien's thoughts, Taen awaited her chance.

  A ringletted blond exclaimed coyly. With a toss of her head, she flicked a trailing curl of hair across Emien's wrist. Her ribbons looped in his cuff. Taen seized her opportunity; while the girl's flirting distracted him, she slipped silently into her brother's mind. Emien laughed. He flipped the ribbon away without spilling his wine and returned a witty remark. But his thoughts were far removed from the gaiety of the ballroom, Taen discovered. In a private chamber, Tathagres and the King held conference, finalizing plans for the demon alliance against Cliffhaven. Later, Emien knew, Tathagres would sit alone before a burning candle, hands raised to the collar at her throat and her mind deep in trance. At that moment she would engage three different races of demons and bind them into service, her purpose to bring down Anskiere of Elrinfaer. Ablaze with desire to possess such power for himself, Emien wished he could be present while she spell-wove.

  Taen recognized her opening. With a touch imperceptible as dewfall, she touched her brother's mind and sharpened his inner longing with restlessness.

  The fair girl tossed her hair irritably over her shoulder. "Emien! You're not listening."

  "I'm sorry." The boy rose and pressed his wine goblet into her hand. "Will you excuse me?"

  "You're not leaving, Emien. Not so soon." The girl tilted her pretty head and trailed her fingers along his sleeve. "At midnight there are going to be fireworks."

  Emien ignored the girl's touch. Oddly unmoved, he glanced quickly over the ballroom, but found no guest compelling enough to hold his interest. Oblivious to the dream-weaver whose meddling made him bored with the glitter, the festivities and the young ladies, he pressed past his admirers without speaking. They stared after him in puzzled disappointment as he crossed the polished marble of the dance floor and disappeared through a side door.

  The hallway beyond lay deserted, except for occasional uniformed guardsmen standing motionless at their posts. Taen shaped her touch into a compulsion, causing Emien to hasten his steps. His fine calf boots made no sound on the carpets as he turned down a darkened corridor and let himself outside, into the windy blackness of a colonnaded courtyard.

  Moonlight shone through polished marble pillars and marked concise geometries on the patterned tile beneath. Emien leaned against the door panel, felt the latch click gently shut. Unaware that a sister's compulsion had driven him to seek this deserted place, he shivered in the cold spring air and discovered he was not alone.

  A woman waited amid the silvery landscape of last year's rose garden, her robe of light loose cloth rippling in the breeze. A moonstone gleamed on a chain at her throat, and fine black hair lay braided into coils about her head, laced with a wreath of myrtle blossoms. Stunned by her beauty, Emien gripped the doorlatch in astonishment. The night air stuck in his throat.

  He raised his eyes to the oval of her face. As he studied the delicate arch of her brow and lips, a strange and haunting familiarity made his heart twist in his chest. "Taen?"

  The woman smiled. The sweetness of her expression snapped the last thread of disbelief. Emien drew a ragged breath and dragged his fingers across his eyes. Her presence could not be real; only a dream born of wine and rich food. But when he looked again, she came closer, her step strangely wrong, and her body eerily ripened into maturity.

  "No, I don't limp anymore, Emien," his sister said softly, as if responding to his unspoken thought.

  She moved nearer. The thin silk of her robe swished softly through the grass, leaving darkened trails through the dew. Paralyzed by incredulity, Emien stood with his back rammed against the unyielding wood of the doorframe. Taen's shadow flowed ahead of her, an etched silhouette against the tiles. Two more steps would bring her to his side.

  "No!" Emien raised his arm before his face, as if to ward off a nightmare. "Leave me!"

  Taen closed the distance, stopped scant inches away. "Why should I go, brother? I bring no harm."

  Even with his eyes hidden, Emien felt the warmth of her skin; he could still hear the rustle of silk across her breasts as she breathed. Stirred by the breeze, the skirt of her gown brushed gently against his leg. The boy flinched back, felt the iron rivets of the door bear painfully into his back.

  "I never drowned." Firmly, deftly, Taen built the illusion of her presence into her brother's mind. Her voice echoed convincingly through the confines of the colonnade. "What you behold is the truth. When Crow foundered, Anskiere delivered me safely to th
e Isle of the Vaere. By the tales you can guess the rest. I have grown up, Emien. I am no longer lame. And I have discovered happiness beyond any I could have found on Imrill Kand."

  Encouraged by her dream-weaver's skills, Emien reached out and touched a coil of her hair. But the warm reality of her served only to frighten him. He hardened his hand into a fist, bashed it with bruising force into the door at his back. His reply emerged half-strangled from his throat. "No."

  Taen stared at him, heartbroken. "Why, Emien? Why must you forsake belief? What change has Tathagres wrought, that you find no joy in the news that your sister lives and is content?"

  Emien twisted his face away, every tendon in his neck pulled taut with distress. His mouth quivered. Taen sensed the clamor in his mind, felt his thoughts wheel like a flock of startled birds as pride and fear and loyalty warred. She ached, sharing his pain, yet not for an instant did she relent.

  "There is peace in honesty, Emien, and forgiveness in understanding. Look to your heart." Gently, Taen pressed against his mind, promising comfort and love. "Abandon Tathagres, my brother, for she holds you in contempt."

  The words touched him. Emien spun to face her, his expression darkened with indecision. Taen had spoken the truth, dragged him naked into the light of judgment. Emien gasped. Blackened by the evil of his hatred, he buried his head in his arms and shrank against the door. But his sister's image pursued, engraved like a spell of remembrance against the inside of his eyelids. Her words beat against his ears, bright and innocent as his memory of the goat bells in the meadows of Imrill Kand.