Sorcerer's Legacy

by Janny Wurts

  “Gifted.” Elienne stood fast, held the Sorcerer’s cold gaze though it took all of her will.

  At last Ielond looked away. He pulled the hood back over his head, and for a moment silver-banded sleeves eclipsed his face. He spoke, finally, with extreme reluctance. “My Lady, no trial you have yet known will test you so severely as one to come. Through your darkest hour, maintain your courage. Remember I have looked beyond and seen a beginning.”

  “The prophecy is true, then?” Elienne regarded the Sorcerer with hope dying in her heart, and the appeal on her features caught him like a knife’s edge.

  “Forgive me, Lady. Tragedy linked each of the choices I placed before you in Trathmere.” The Sorcerer turned his back.

  “No!” Elienne’s cry echoed, lost, into emptiness. “No, I beg you, spare me Cinndel’s son!”

  But this time Ielond did not slacken his step, and mist swiftly obliterated detail until he was reduced to a shadowy silhouette. “Lady,” he cautioned over his shoulder, “attend your own defense, at once, or all is indeed lost.”

  Elienne longed to follow, to demand outright an explanation for the threat that marred her future. But a dull ache began to pressure her forehead. Warned beyond the barriers of unconsciousness by the sensation, Elienne knew she must obey Ielond’s directive.

  Mist swirled, thickened, and acquired the sickly consistency of cobwebs. Elienne’s step dragged. A sultry flash of light blinded her inner vision. When sight returned, she found her perception of her flesh, and even the brilliant yellow silk of her dress, dimmed to the bleached white of old bones. A shadow crossed her heart. Faisix sought access to her mind through sorcery. Suddenly the pain behind her eyes mounted to the focused agony of a knife thrust. Elienne screamed.

  Anguished and outraged, she turned against the source, roused awareness aligned like a weapon against the enemy who invaded her thoughts. Mist eddied, shredded, and Elienne whirled haplessly with it, sucked through a vast tornado of force. Then the shrill soprano of breaking glass splintered against her ears, and her eyes opened upon intense light.

  Chapter 9

  Duel of Masters

  GLARE shattered against dream-roused senses. Elienne squinted. She lay on a tabletop, ringed by a net of forces that shone with the blue-violet corona of a lightning flash. The sorcery was not hostile. Though still numb from the elixir, Elienne realized that her own resistance had admitted this influx of energy. The harmonics that tingled against her ears were familiar; Taroith’s trained awareness had detected the gap in Faisix’s defenses. The lash of his response as he exploited the break had fallen with immediate and visible result upon those who threatened her.

  Thrown from his feet, the cowled man sprawled amid smashed fumishings and the icy, frost-point glitter of broken glassware. Above him, Faisix clung to the edge of a cabinet, knuckles whitened as though his body were savaged by galewind. Though awed by the intensity of power permitted access through her dissent, Elienne retained wits enough to roll onto her elbow and reach for the mirrowstone.

  “Heggen!” Faisix shouted. “Stop her!” His yellow eyes narrowed, intent upon murder. ‘‘I will break Taroith’s defenses.”

  The black-clothed man stirred. His thick fingers closed, gashed by gritty slivers of glass, yet he seemed oblivious to pain. Through the brilliance of the light, Elienne watched him rise and stumble toward her, cowl fallen back to reveal a hairless, hideous face.

  Faisix shouted in a foreign tongue. The light flickered. Elienne swore, dazed beyond immediate recognition of threat. Vivid as nightmare, yet strangely remote to her drug-stunned senses, Heggen stretched blood-streaked hands through the barrier to seize her.

  Elienne recoiled. The man was recklessly confident; he thought to take her easily as a boy would pin a moth against a lantern. Elienne exploded into sudden fury. Denied speech to voice her contempt, she spat on Heggen’s raised palms. Instantly, the vehemence of her denial admitted a tortured crackle of sound. Blinded by the flaring brilliance, Elienne heard Heggen scream.

  Faisix shouted curses, his cool facade abandoned.

  Elienne clutched the mirrowstone in feverish fingers. Rage mounted, tangible as fire within her, and the polarity generated by her resistance widened, unleashing the powers of those who defended her. Destruction resulted. A flask erupted into a fountainhead of shards. Heggen yelled warning. A shelf careened off the far wall, spilling a thunderous avalanche of books over Faisix’s head. He dove clear. Spilled liquid met hot oil and flame. Yellow fumes roiled upward; sparks flew, acridly laced with smoke.

  “Master!” Heggen’s appeal was hoarse. “Drop the wards over Torkal.” A candelabrum whirled and toppled, streaming tongues of fire. “Would you destroy us? Release the binding before we are stewed like fishes in a pot!”

  Elienne heard Faisix curse again. Then a coarse sound like the tear of canvas ripped the air, and a starburst of light slammed her eyes. Wind clawed her hair. Faintly Elienne heard voices.

  “She’s done it!” The triumphant words were Taroith’s. “The wards over Torkal are down!”

  A reply from the Prince reached Elienne’s ears, distant and ragged with hope. “Ma’Diere guide you. Bring my Lady back unharmed.”

  Elienne drew breath and found her speech freed. “Darion!” The cry raised a gust of wind. Glassware tumbled. Then the air before her split, cloven by sorcery. Within the rent appeared a tall figure clad in wet riding leather and gray wool cloak. Soulfocus light blazed down on sodden white hair and the familiar face of Taroith. Relief flooded Elienne’s eyes with tears.

  The wind died as though strangled.

  “My Lady!” Taroith’s summons cut urgently through the soft sigh of the flames. “Come to me, quickly.”

  Elienne pushed herself into motion. Her limbs responded with reluctance. Drug-blurred senses misjudged the height of the tabletop, and she stumbled, betrayed yet again by shaky legs. She clung to the oaken furnishings, consciousness riddled by yawning gaps. Blackness worried at her balance.

  “Hurry!” Urgently, Taroith flung out a hand to assist.

  But a thin red bar of light shot between, barring Elienne from the Sorcerer. Surly in his spoiled black doublet, Faisix lifted his voice in challenge. “Greetings, Master Taroith. If you wish the Lady’s company, you must win it from me.”

  The red line blazed malevolently through the spectrum of oranges to a peak of dazzling yellow. Faisix smiled, then whipped his spell fluidly about Taroith’s thin shoulders.

  Taroith said, “You are foolish to contest me.” He broke the enchantment’s continuity with a gesture. Light danced and died.

  “Spoken like a true and loyal Master of the League,” Faisix mocked. “How you detest violence.” With the grace of a panther, he stepped across the tangled wreckage of his study. Glass crunched like gravel under his boots. When he stopped, the braced stance he assumed stirred Elienne with uneasiness. His confidence seemed unshakable as Eternity.

  “If you want the woman, fight for her.” Faisix’s deference offered cruel invitation, as though Taroith’s resistance would shape some subtle victory. Elienne felt the skin on her arms prickle. Unseen forces aligned about her, a predator bunched to spring.

  “Strike first, then,” Taroith said softly. “And remember whose choice initiated this conflict.”

  Faisix performed a formal courtier’s bow and, with an arrogant lift of his chin, flung sweat-tangled hair from his face. A sunburst blossomed overhead with the movement. Elienne narrowed aching eyes. Never, in her presence, had Faisix’s soulfocus shone so brightly. The small room blazed, ruddy with reflections.

  Even Taroith flung up an arm and shielded his face.

  “Faisix!” The shout was whetted with rebuke. “Are you possessed? We’ve set no precautionary wards!”

  “What care I if natural continuity is disrupted? I took no oath of Mastery, nor am I subject to the restraints of the League
.”

  The focus brightened. Radiant heat raised a sinuous twist of steam from Taroith’s damp shoulders. The Sorcerer licked sweat from his lips. “Faisix, desist, at least until we have erected proper restrictions. Two others in this room might suffer unjust consequences.”

  The Regent shrugged elegantly. “Heggen can look after himself. If the Lady’s safety concerns you, weaken your own defense and shield her.”

  With staccato snaps, the leaded panes of the casement spawned marks like starbursts.

  Faisix lowered his head, pale hair beaded with light. “Stand your guard, Taroith,” he said sweetly, and struck.

  The focus arced through the air. Shadows pinwheeled across floor, walls, and ceiling, and a flare of incandescence dazzled Elienne’s eyes. Power tore into her; she staggered back and smashed with bruising force into the table.

  “Ma’Diere, have you no scruples?” Taroith cried, shocked. Fuzzily she realized Faisix had directed the brunt of his assault against her, taking Taroith entirely by surprise.

  Savage with disgust, the League Sorcerer roused his soulfocus. Light sheeted, mirror-bright, and deflected the Regent’s attack. A lesser flash sparked across the room as Heggen shielded himself from the backlash.

  Elienne clung to the table, helpless and disoriented. Sweat drenched her hair, face, and neck, and her body shook beyond voluntary control. Vaguely she noticed Taroith had provided some protection. Light still lanced her vision, but damped now to the sullen flare of marsh gas by the thin film of a ward.

  Ozone whetted the air with a prickling scent. Elienne straightened, desperate to assess the action. The conflict beyond the barrier flickered, distorted as though viewed through a swift current. She saw Faisix hurl a raging mass of force. Elienne gasped, fearful Taroith would not escape.

  But the elderly figure in gray raised up a glimmering net. The shield appeared delicate as opalescent glass. Yet the terrible, raw blaze of Faisix’s offense recoiled harmlessly aside. The ward surrounding Elienne opaqued, mercurial silver, and shed the backwash of energy. Transparency returned with a soft flicker of blue light as Taroith’s formidable control unbound the energy set against him.

  The Sorcerers battled on more levels than mortal awareness could encompass, but Elienne understood enough to know Faisix held strategic advantage through his initial assault upon her. Burdened by her defenselessness, Taroith could not let his protection lapse until the Regent was totally subdued, lest the tactic against her be repeated. Diverted attention prevented the Master from assuming the offensive. Time after time, Elienne watched him deflect the fury of Faisix’s attack.

  The contest continued, lacerating her eyes and ears with unnatural forces. Her skin wept clarnmy sweat, and tension clenched her stomach. Heggen apparently shared none of her discomfort. He stood at Faisix’s shoulder casually, an icon’s secretive smile on his lips. Distastefully, Elienne wondered where Faisix had acquired such a companion. The man barely seemed human.

  “Faisix.” Taroith’s sharp tone made Elienne start. “One last time, I ask that you abjure violence and heed the voice of reason.”

  The Regent’s expression turned expansive with delight. “I’m touched by your concern, Master Sorcerer, but the sentiment is wasted.” Slim, sure hands raised another inferno, voracious as the fires of the damned.

  “I am left no alternative.” Taroith frowned. “You compel me to turn the effects of your own summoning back against you.”

  Faisix gestured contemptuously. “I will easily regain mastery of what originated at my command.”

  The light swelled. Heat waves shimmered the air. Elienne saw this attack would surpass those which had gone before. Her grip tightened apprehensively on the table edge. The towering wall of fire made Taroith’s stance seem marked by exhaustion and poignantly human frailty.

  “Faisix, you misjudge me,” said the Sorcerer quietly.

  Yet the spell only blazed the brighter. Drafts stirred the drapes, and tapestries swayed like ghosts against the wall. Faisix’s laughter arose harsh as metal against a grindstone above the crackle of fire. The Regent folded his arms with studied nonchalance, licked by shifting orange reflections. “I am not moved at all. Your threats, I think, are designed to frighten children.”

  Suddenly, startlingly, Heggen stirred, dark skin blanched the color of old bone. “Have a care, Master!” He raised an incautious hand to restrain the Regent. “The Sorcerer’s words are well founded. You are overmatched.”

  “Fool!” Scornfully Faisix ducked Heggen’s hold. “Would you ruin us both? I know what I am about.” And a swift, blurred motion loosed his attack.

  The ward this time failed to opaque. An explosion of light ripped Elienne’s eyes. Through flash-dimmed vision, she saw Taroith respond with a neat, graceful gesture. The surrounding space gained transcendent clarity, as though he stood isolated in a sphere of focused perfection.

  Faisix’s blaze struck with a cobra’s speed. Taroith intercepted with his soulfocus. Impact ignited a starred pulse of bluewhite light. The energy deflected, as though from a mirror, yet even Elienne’s limited perceptions detected alterations in the reverse flow. Somehow Taroith had translated the motivation of Faisix’s intentions into tangible existence. The result was Evil, Hatred, and Greed, ruinously personified. Elienne shuddered in horror. She beheld what seemed the very death of hope. She tore her gaze away quickly, grateful not to be the victim of the Sorcerer’s riposte.

  Faisix’s shout split into a scream.

  “Yield,” commanded Taroith, relentlessly impersonal.

  The Regent reeled backward. His breath caught in tortured gasps, and trembling fingers clawed at the brass latch of a cupboard. “Heggen.”

  Though the appeal was no more than a ragged whisper, Heggen moved in answer.

  “Yield,” said Taroith again.

  His soulfocus pulsed at the extreme edge of violet. Energy backlashed, distilled into nightmare. Faisix flinched, pinned grotesquely against the cabinet doors. His hands scrabbled at the latch. “Heggen!”

  Sweat gleamed on the cowled man’s knuckles as he caught the latch and wrenched the cupboard open. Knives gleamed within, eerily ablaze with reflections from Taroith’s sorcery. Faisix seized the handle of the nearest.

  Taroith moved sharply forward, and his steps spun glass fragments across the floor. “Put up your blade. Physical violence will gain you nothing.”

  A ghastly smile curved Faisix’s lips. He whirled with deadly grace and drove the dagger to the hilt in the heart of his assistant. Heggen gasped in mortal surprise, and crumpled. Blood splashed across the tiles. Too late, Elienne covered her eyes. The image of the murder was already clenched forever in her memory, along with the rustle of Heggen’s contortions as the life left his frame. A stench thickened in her nostrils. Sickened by the taste of bile, Elienne choked and, looking up, saw Faisix trace symbols upon the air with crimson hands. Smoke boiled forth, backlit by the yellow glow of runes. Impressed by a sense of wrongness, Elienne knew at once she witnessed Black Sorcery.

  A hard glimmer of blue-white drew her eye. With an expression seamed and grim, Taroith erected a protective lattice of light. Concentration made him seem inhuman. Colored highlights flickered over shoulders stiff as flint, as though he channeled the sum of his being into the spells carved into existence by his mastery.

  Yet Faisix moved first. Elienne watched him stoop over Heggen’s corpse; the runes fanned a crown of broiling smoke above his hair as he traced an arrow in wet blood upon the floor, then uttered a guttural phrase. His cipher pulsed and came to life. Fumes roiled ceilingward, and the blood leaped forth and ran in a sizzling stream toward Taroith’s corner of the room. Its evil advance struck the clean luminosity of the Master Sorcerer’s defenses with a hideous shriek of steam. Wind fanned the chamber in a hot breath, extinguishing Taroith’s sorceries like blown candleflame; even the ward surrounding Elienne flicked out with a br
ittle snap.

  Gray-black streamers of smoke caught acridly in her throat and left her choking. Through tear-stung eyes, she saw the blood settle, a scarlet puddle at Taroith’s feet, with edges geometrically frayed by runoff into cracks between the tiles.

  Faisix stood, unsteady and breathing hard. “Which of us is helpless now, Master? I can unbind your most powerful ward.”

  Taroith offered no reply.

  The Regent smiled with courtly diplomacy. “I am not unsporting.” He gestured with streaked hands at the pool beside his opponent’s boots. “I have evened the odds between us; quite generously granted you means to triumph over me. Once, before the Grand Justice, you denounced me for Black Sorcery and named me condemned by Ma’Diere’s Law.” The smile became honeyed with sarcasm. “Join me in Damnation, and you might save your Prince’s Consort.”

  Expressionless with exhaustion, Taroith lowered his head. Eyes dark as old ebony fixed, stricken, on the stained floor, and sudden apprehension locked the breath in Elienne’s chest. Surely Taroith was wise enough to resist such an end.

  Yet Faisix resumed his taunts, confidently anticipating a victory. “You hold the advantage, with all your League training. If you dared apply the Black arts, you would defeat me.”

  Taroith said nothing. The knuckles of his locked hands whitened with stress. Heggen’s blood inches from his boot, the sorcerer seemed tormented by indecision. Elienne recalled a statement of Ielond’s, uttered in anguish on the ice plains: “I’d suffer Damnation gladly, Mistress, if I could spare Darion! But my Prince forbade me permission to work the darklore.”

  The royal Guardian’s love for his ward had instead driven him beyond the known limits of sorcery: he had broken the barrier of Time to ensure his Prince’s succession. Elienne bit her lip. The temptation to battle Faisix with Black Sorcery was great; Ielond’s prodigious sacrifices in Darion’s behalf might easily make Damnation seem inconsequential if the royal succession might be secured as a result.