by Janny Wurts
Outside of dreams, Jaric winced in shame. He longed for the anonymity of Morbrith's archives, but sanctuary was denied.
"Firelord's heir!" The cry raised echoes of despair and the horror-ridden vision of Morbrith in ruins. But the Llondel who had originally framed the warning with images now was dust, bled to his death by an Earl's cold steel. Jaric knelt amid streets choked with bones. He shouted denial; but his anguish was ignored.
"Kerainson Jaric!" The call built to a crescendo of accusation, paired by a vivid view of Mathieson, who grieved alone on a wind-whipped landing, hands knotted in his collar of magnificent fur.
"No." Jaric shuddered. He rejected the vision's unbearable implication, that he was unfit to have demanded such sacrifice and all who had aided him acted in vain. Punished to respond in his own defense, Jaric stirred. His lashes quivered and he opened his eyes, to find that in truth the pain was gone.
His mind cleared of visions. The dream-weaver who once restored his past sat with his head cradled in her lap. But the shining black hair Jaric remembered lay snarled across her shoulders, no longer crowned with flowers. Her pale eyes were swollen from exhausted tears. The hands which gripped his shoulders trembled, warm in contrast with the damp stone floor where he lay.
"By the Vaere," Taen said softly. "I thought I had lost you." Her smile held such sweetness it stopped the breath in Jaric's throat.
A lantern burned by her knee. Beyond its yellow glow Jaric saw windowless walls and bars, and nearby a brighter gleam of steel chain. He touched his wrists and by the sting of torn skin discovered his fetters had been removed.
"The door is open also," the enchantress said.
Jaric sat up, eyes widened with sudden sharp mistrust. Once she had deceived him, and let him sail into suffering on the sea beyond Mearren Ard.
Taen caught his sleeve with firm fingers. "Ivain's son, no."
The sound of the name made him quiver. Jaric's mouth flinched in remembrance of another older pain.
The enchantress released him and sighed with sorrowful regret. "There is a difference between pity and caring. Try to believe me. The last thing Kencie intended was to hurt you. I speak for myself also. The Vaere misjudged very badly concerning Anskiere's summons."
With evident discomfort, Jaric tugged his sleeves over the raw patches on his wrists. Taen had just interceded in his behalf; quite probably saved his life. "I'm sorry. You didn't have to come after me."
"I did." Taen rubbed at her own skinned elbow and ruefully smiled. "The rest doesn't matter. Can you ride? I can subdue the effects of the geas a limited time only, and the storm attached to your presence continues to build. We must go and ask for horses without delay."
She rose expectantly. For a long moment Jaric stared at the broken skin of his hands, his expression stiffly unreadable. Taen waited without probing his thoughts. Unlike Emien, Jaric did not turn vindictive or angry when fate twisted his life into knots.
At last he raised his eyes to her face. "I'll go," he said warily. "Do you suppose you could convince the guards to return my weapons and cloak? They were gifts, and the loss of them troubles me."
But the request became unnecessary. When Taen and Jaric emerged from the keep, both horses and Jaric's confiscated blades awaited, along with five of the Kielmark's guardsmen to escort them to the north shore.
Whipped into sheets by the gusts, rain slashed across the cobbled yard, abrasive as driven sand. The gale had worsened; it hammered horses and men with unremitting fury. Even inside the walls, the angry thud of surf against the breakwater slammed the air like the thunder of the Great Fall itself.
Jaric collected his sword and dagger and mounted a gray with an ugly head. The horse pawed restively as he gathered the reins, hauling against his hold with ears flattened against its soaked neck. Jaric took the pull in his fingers, trying to spare his lacerated palms. Unlike the morning he had fled Gaire's Main, he was no longer too weak to master the animal under his knees. Yet the discovery yielded little satisfaction. His body might have changed, but the sickly boy who once copied manuscripts could not be reconciled with the man who left Telemark's cottage in Seitforest. Neither the one nor entirely the other, Jaric wrestled endless uncertainty, for every aspect of his life had been shaped by the sorcerer's geas which had upended his will at Morbrith Keep. As Jaric rode out of the courtyard in the company of the Kielmark's guards, he wondered how he would feel when he arrived at the ice cliffs and confronted the Stormwarden at last.
* * *
Rain pelted in opaque sheets over the Kielmark's escort as they reined to a halt above the crest which overlooked Cliffhaven's northern shore. Gusts whined through the dune grass, and the crash of breakers against the beach head added deep throaty undertones to a storm still ominously building. Sopping and miserable, the riders sat with hunched shoulders and the horses stood with tails tucked against the wind, snorting the salt taint of spindrift from their nostrils.
One of the guardsmen touched Jaric's elbow and pointed toward the sea. "Over there," he shouted. "You'll come to a sandy beach. Just past where it breaks up into rock, you'll find the ice cliffs."
The surf broke too high on the strand for horses. Jaric dismounted and passed his soaked reins to the guardsman.
"We'll wait for you," called Taen. A small determined figure on the Kielmark's great chestnut, she shivered in robes dulled silver-gray by the damp.
Jaric nodded but did not linger. Uncomfortable with sympathy from strangers, he hastened down the bluff to the strand; the guardsmen who stood vigil on the ridge faded behind. Rain traced icy runnels down Jaric's collar, and eel grass hooked his ankles at each step. But, anxious to complete his journey, he felt no weariness. Presently the dunes gave way to packed sand; close at hand, the grinding boom of waves became deafening. Jaric ducked smoking drifts of spray, his cloak bunched over the hilts of his weapons to keep the salt from the steel. Fifty paces beyond the bluffs he reached a jagged stand of rocks. Glistening in the rain, stone rose like buttresses against the sheer face of a cliff; incoming breakers battered at the base, spouting geysers of foam.
Left no semblance of a path, Jaric splashed through shallows, hurried by the rush of the following breaker. He jammed his boot in a cleft and swung up onto the nearest formation. He dared not look down. The sea sucked and thudded bare yards under his boots, twisting ropy tendrils of weed through the fissures; a man in the water would quickly tangle and drown. Even if he fell clear, current would drag him under like a rag.
Jaric hauled himself onto a narrow ledge. Waves sheeted spray over his back. He crept forward, fingers gouged by barnacles. Yet he dared not move without handholds. Gusts slapped at his clothing, sharp with unseasonal frost. Ahead loomed the ice cliffs. But only when the ledge broadened beneath his feet did Jaric notice the view.
The seas rose beneath, green with lattice marks of current; then crested with a roar that punished thought and broke, hurling foam against steely bastions of ice. Awed by the breadth of the cliffs, Jaric glanced up. But the structure soared upward, obscured by coiling wraiths of mist. He inched across a crevice. The cliff shelved beyond, cut like a road across the face of a precipice. Beyond lay a steep drop to the sea. Breakers battered beneath with the force of primordial creation.
Jaric moved cautiously toward the brink. Pebbles rolled under his boots, bounced outward into air and vanished. He took another step and another. Sorcery flashed, sudden and blinding as lightning overhead. Wind gusted through the defile and built to a screaming rush of sound. Certain the geas had broken free of Taen's protective barrier, Jaric cried out. He flung both hands over his face, prepared to be ripped into agony by Anskiere's implacable summoning.
But the storm died. Wind dropped, weak as a spent breath; the rain ceased. After the violence of rampaging elements, the land seemed deadened under an eerie and unnatural silence. Jaric lifted his head in wonder. Surf still broke over the reefs below; but the wave crests unravelled into foam and subsided, no longer flayed to tatters by th
e gale. Mist eddied over the defile. Trembling in the midst of calm, Jaric watched the storm dissolve around him.
Storm clouds tore asunder and sunlight cast a mantle of gold across Jaric's shoulders. Peace claimed him. Breezes whispered through his hair and a single black-barred feather drifted down. Jaric caught the quill as it passed. He turned its knife-edge length between his hands and wondered what should be done with the seed of the stormfalcon's power.
"Keep it safe, Ivainson Jaric," said the wind.
Jaric started. He stared wildly about, but the rocky escarpment remained empty as before and the ice beyond as majestically desolate. The voice could only be sent by the Stormwarden of Elrinfaer, who had wrought the stormfalcon's pattern and set the geas of summoning upon him. Before apprehension could defeat him, Jaric gathered courage and spoke. "I have come in accordance with your bidding. Dare I ask what purpose brought me here?"
"You are the Firelord's heir," the wind replied.
Exposed on his shelf of rock, Jaric could not know that deep within the fortress of ice Anskiere of Elrinfaer roused from the deep sleep of stasis. Guided by the stormfalcon's feather, his mind ranged to a ledge beyond his confinement, where a young man with earnest brown eyes awaited his fate.
Jaric shivered as the Stormwarden's presence encompassed him. Aware his person was being assessed, he knew a moment of cynical amusement; the Stormwarden of Elrinfaer would find nothing but a starved, sunburned youth with tangled hair, slight stature and a talent for fine penmanship; small reward for such stupendous expenditure of effort. Bitterness deepened the lines of hardship around Jaric's mouth. No doubt Anskiere would conclude he had been mistaken to summon him at all.
But the wind swirled, sharply snapping his cloak hem. The break in the clouds widened. Slanting sunlight touched the ice across the fissure, firing the crystals like prisms. As a prison, the structure was awesomely beautiful; also more permanently secure than any dungeon created by man. Struck by sudden poignant sorrow, Jaric realized the Stormwarden of Elrinfaer was no longer master of his fate. He depended on outside help for his rescue.
The fact sparked a painful reminder of Jaric's earlier inadequacy. Trapped by despair, the boy struggled to define what surely was evident. "I am useless to you, sorcerer. I have no power to assist your deliverance. My father resented your hold upon him. He died swearing his debt would stand unpaid. I survived through another man's sacrifice, and I remain ignorant of any heritage of Ivain's. Let me go. I possess no means to help."
The wind whispered mournfully across the rocks. "Power is your rightful inheritance. The heir has potential enough to surpass his sire. But this you must discover for yourself. I did not call you here to force that choice."
"Then why?" Jaric's shout echoed in wild anguish off the face of the cliffs. "Why summon me at all? Why not leave me at Morbrith or Seitforest and let my days pass in peace?" He waited through dense and implacable stillness. For long minutes it seemed he would receive no reply at all.
"You were called through the debt incurred against me by Ivain," said Anskiere in the voice made of wind. "As his heir you are bound to undertake a task in my name. Complete my bidding and you are forever free of obligation. This I promise: should you succeed in the task, you shall gain everything you desire."
Jaric swallowed. His heart felt heavy as lead in his chest. Memory of the tales repeated in Mearren Ard arose unbidden in his mind. Anskiere was seldom mentioned without a curse and Ivain's name was forever linked with cruelty. Small, uncertain and exhausted, Jaric feared the madness engendered by the Cycle of Fire more than death itself. Still, he summoned the dregs of his pride and phrased the question he most dreaded to ask. "What is the task?"
The wind subsided like a sigh. "You will recover the Keys of Elrinfaer and hold them safe until they can be returned."
No mention of the Cycle of Fire; Jaric took a deep breath, startled by the simplicity of the demand. The Keys to Elrinfaer lay in Kisburn's possession, within reach of mortal means; once returned to Anskiere, Jaric never need concern himself with the Vaerish mysteries which had ruined his father's mind. Ivain's debt charged him to complete but a single feat.
The sunlight shone more kindly over the black granite beneath his boots. Raising his eyes to the ice cliffs, Jaric knew a moment of puzzled regret. "What of yourself?" His question echoed across the chasm, rebounding off the rock. "Would you demand no rescue from me?"
But the winds did not answer. The sea boomed, changeless as time against the reefs below the cliffs. Slowly, disbelievingly, Jaric waited. But Anskiere offered no reply but silence. At last, with a shrug Jaric turned away from frost-locked cliffs and retraced his steps to the sea.
* * *
By the time Ivain's heir gained the beach, Anskiere drowsed within his prison of ice and rock. Troubled by the whistles of frostwargs, he dreamed of a prophecy told by a Llondel master seer. "It is given thus," the demon had said, repeating from flawless memory a piece of his heritage from a generation past. His alien tongue struggled to shape human words. "The fourth ancestor of my mother's sibling sighted a future. She saw there seven times seven Londelei and a yellow-haired son of Ivain Firelord. Then her sight became colored with warning. Guard the boy's life, for should he recover the Keys of Elrinfaer intact, he will also master the Cycle of Fire. And then shall men and Llondel rise from Keithland on Koridan's blessed Flame, to live in peace in the heavens."
While Jaric climbed the bluffs above the dunes, the prophecy receded from dreams to memory. Anskiere of Elrinfaer settled once more into sleep, in hope the Llondel seer proved accurate. Just before he crossed the border of dreams into stasis, the Stormwarden caught the fading echo of a laugh; but whether the mirth was Ivain's or Tathagres' or a reflection from his own imagination, it was impossible to guess.
* * *
Jaric gained the summit of the bluff, startled to find the guardsmen dismissed. Taen remained, along with one other. Mounted on a huge black horse, the Kielmark himself gripped the reins of the gray Jaric had left with the guard captain. By bearing alone, no man could mistake the sovereign of Cliffhaven, though his cloak was cut from plain maroon wool and weapons and mail were ordinary. Perched in a saddle of leopard skin, his watchful eyes reflected chill like glacial water as the heir of Ivain stopped by his stirrup.
Jaric greeted the Kielmark with the courtesy due an Earl; unkempt as he was, he bowed with practiced grace. "Lord, I ask leave to sail. Is my boat still where I left her, or has she been impounded?"
The Kielmark ignored his request. Motionless on his tall horse, he studied the young man with all the imposing arrogance of his reputation. "What do you know of Anskiere?"
Jaric's chin lifted at the sharpness of the query. Brown eyes met blue with a shock of surprise; the boy had not expected to be balked. His resilient show of spirit sparked instant reappraisal by the Kielmark.
Jaric answered with cool impatience. "Perhaps instead I should ask the same question of you, Lord, for I desire nothing beyond recovery of the freedom I have lost. The Stormwarden summoned me through the curse set upon my father. The debt demands I complete one task in his service. Once again, I ask leave to sail from your shores."
The Kielmark's horse sidled irritably against the gray as his hand jerked the bit. "What was the task demanded of you?"
Jaric spoke in near defiance. "I must recover the Keys to Elrinfaer. Would you prevent me?"
"I don't need to." The Kielmark flung the gray's reins into the startled hands of the boy.
Taen gave a small cry of dismay. The Kielmark immediately wheeled his horse to face her. She had been weeping, Jaric noticed, or perhaps arguing. Her cheeks were pinched and white and the set of her jaw seemed far more determined than the situation warranted.
"Consider again, Lady." The Kielmark grinned with wolfish delight. "The Keys are in the possession of his royal Grace, the King of Kisburn, who moves against me with an army of demons. It takes no dream-weaver's talent to guess what would happen to any son of Ivain's,
should he risk an encounter in that antique joke of a fishing boat."
Taen tugged the mare's bridle, her mouth compressed with affront. She chose not to reply. But maddened by the Kielmark's wounding words and the fact his own fate was at issue, Jaric stepped in front of her horse, prepared to intercede in her defense.
The Kielmark softened his tone. "I think you have no better alternative, daughter of the Vaere. I offer you fair bargain: allied with your talents, Cliffhaven has a chance against this threat of demons. Give me the number they send against me and dream-weave a cover for my men. In return I will deliver your shape-shifter to his gods and the Keys of Elrinfaer to Jaric."
Taen spoke without moving. "Lord, I have told you. My kind never bargain."
"Very well." The Kielmark shrugged, his expression bleakly forbidding. "Remember your choices." He jerked his reins from the mane beneath his hands and booted the horse around. Over the boom of surf against the shore he added, "Boy, you are free to sail. Callinde is warped to the south dock in my harbor. Take her and go with my blessing."
"No!" Taen twisted in her saddle, her face pale but composed. "I will stay. For Jaric's sake only, I do as you ask. But if you fail, may the Vaere curse your name to the very gates of hell. They promised my death if I disobeyed."
"Lady, no!" Jaric caught the mare's bridle, shocked by the sacrifice she proposed. "You must not risk yourself for me!"
The Kielmark ignored his protest, a wild light in his eyes.
His stallion stamped the ground, punching great marks in the turf, but he kept his seat easily and his lips drew back in a great shout of laughter. "Kor's Fires, woman, I'll whip Kisburn into the harbor." He sobered with startling speed and glared over the taut line of the horizon. "My captains will think me sea-crazed when they hear what I propose. But my plan will work. There will be no surrender here, not while I can prevent it. And so long as I live, you and Jaric will be safe, my oath as sovereign upon it."