The White Mists of Power: A Novel

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  1

  THE

  WHITE MISTS

  OF POWER

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “The White Mists of Power” copyright © 1991 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Published by WMG Publishing

  Acknowledgements:

  This book survived two distinct stages in my life. In the first stage, Randy and Jeff Thompson provided valuable criticism; Paul Higginbotham and Kevin J. Anderson provided support and good advice. In the second stage, Nian Kiriki Hoffman added her affection and proofreading skills to theirs. But most of all, I could not have done this without the love and understanding of Dean Wesley Smith. Thanks, partner. I promise the next one will be easier.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART TWO

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  PART THREE

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 23

  PART FIVE

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The wind blew cold off the hills, rustling branches and making the whistle-wood trees moan. Adric shuddered and wrapped his cloak tightly around his shoulders. He glanced back at the great stone palace and, beyond it, the spires of the city. No one had seen him leave. He let out a small sigh. His father would be so angry if he found out where Adric was going.

  He turned and faced the grove of whistle-wood trees. The trees bent and huddled together like old men. The pitted bark caught the wind, sent it through with a tone that changed in pitch with the wind speed. Some said the Old Ones lived in the whistle-wood trees. Adric believed it. He thought he saw faces shifting in the black wood.

  The moans grew into shrieks. Adric put his hand in his pocket and gripped the bell. The Enos wouldn’t hear him, not on an afternoon like this. They would think the bell chime was the cry of a tree. He stared at the hint of the cave opening that he could see through the trees. He might never get another chance to approach the Enos Cache.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily. The tree shrieks sounded almost like laughter. He wondered what the Old Ones thought of him, a ten-year-old boy shivering at the edge of the grove. They knew his future. And so, said the legends, did the Enos. He had to know if he would be a strong leader like Gerusha, or if he would become as useless as his father.

  The wind rustled his hair and then died. The shrieking laughter faded. Adric pulled the bell from his pocket. He gripped the handle when a hand covered his own.

  “No need, Highness.” The voice was soft, raspy, as pitted as the whistle-wood trees.

  Adric made himself turn, although his heart thudded against his ribs. An old woman stood beside him. Her skin was dark, wrinkled, and cracked. Her wispy white hair hung to her shoulders. She wore a long gray robe belted at the waist. She looked normal except for her eyes–eyes with no whites, eyes as black and deep as the mouth of the cave.

  Her hand tightened on his. “You have come to find out if you will be loved.”

  He shook his head. His heart had moved into his throat. “I–” His voice broke and he cleared his throat. “I came to find out my future.”

  Her smile was slow. “A ruler is loved differently than any other, Highness.”

  “I didn’t come here to find out about love,” he said. He had never been this close to an Enos before. He didn’t realize how spooky the black eyes were, how alien they made a face. “I came to find out what will happen to me.”

  “And love is not a part of that?”

  The wind began again. The trees let out a soft, deep hum. When Adric didn’t answer her question, the Enos sighed. “Very well, then. Come with me.”

  She led him through the whistle-wood trees to a small clearing. No grass covered the floor, only dirt and the stumps of trees. A small stone hut with a ridged roof sat in the center of the clearing. Adric stopped. “Aren’t we going to the cave?”

  The Enos looked at him. A clear point of light radiated from her eyes. “Do they teach you nothing at the palace?”

  Adric frowned.

  The Enos shook her head. “Humans are not allowed into the halls of the Cache Enos, Highness. It is our agreement.”

  “Oh,” Adric said, feeling a familiar frustration. He wanted to know so much and they allowed him so little. The ballads said nothing about pacts with the Cache Enos. He followed her across the soft dirt and into the hut.

  The hut was chill and damp, even though Kilot had not seen rain for many months. The Enos lit three candles, casting a soft light about the room. A wooden table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by four chairs. A cot rested off to one side, near the fireplace. In the half-light the Enos seemed to have no eyes at all.

  “Sit,” she said.

  Adric pulled out a chair and sat at the table. He ran a hand along the pitted surface, feeling the ridges and bumps. The table was made of whistle-wood. He tried to stop his hands from shaking. Carving whistle-wood was forbidden.

  The Enos sat across from him. “Place your hands flat on the table,” she said.

  Adric did as he was told.

  “You wish to see your future,” she said, and he could hear the question in her tone. He nodded. She moved a candle onto the table. “I will do my best, but remember: time travels in circles through the mind. All future, all past, all present, is a living entity that exists on its own plane.”

  She covered his hands with her own. Her palms were cool and work-roughened. A sharp pulling, almost a pain, traveled through him and out his fingers. The wooden surface of the table turned hot, and the Enos flung her head back. For a moment Adric thought she was going to faint. Then she brought herself upright, her eyes empty.

  “I see a man running through the forest, a pack of hounds at his heels,” she said, her voice flat. “He wears rags, but carries the white mists of power within his heart. The same man sits on a dais, hearing petitions. The people believe him to be their protector, but the one he protects is you.”

  The whistle-wood burned into his palms, but the Enos’s hands froze Adric’s fingers and wrists. His eyes stung and a throbbing began in the back of his head.

  “A boy’s mind may be molded like soft clay, but a man’s mind has the strength of granite. A child cowers in the corner while his brother dies. The brother mourns for the child pressed against the cold stone wall, the child who must have the strength of ten men and is too young to have the strength of one.”

  Her grip tightened.

  “They train you to be ruled as your father is ruled, as your grandfather was ruled before him. A knife glistens in the darkness. A simple silver ring adorns the hand that guides the weapon on its deadly path, the path that seals the darkness forever.”

  She released him. He yanked his hands off the table and held them against his chest. The pain had grown worse.

  The Enos bowed her head, took a deep breath, and then looked at him.

  “What does it mean?” Adric asked.

  Her eyes were a faint point of candlelight reflecting in the darkness. “I do not know, child,�
�� she said. “I never know.”

  “But you said you would tell me what my future is.” Adric rubbed his hands. His palms were reddening, blistering.

  “And so I have,” she said. “I did not tell you I would interpret the meaning, for I cannot. I can see the present, Highness, perhaps only a bit more clearly than you can.”

  “What you told me can’t help me!” he said.

  The Enos smiled, extinguishing the candlelight in her eyes. “The Old Ones think it can. You wanted me to tell you a bright, beautiful future, to wipe away your sadness. Yet you want to be a great leader like Gerusha. Great leaders are born of hardship, Highness. No one loved Gerusha either.”

  “My father loves me.” Adric held his sore hands together, wishing he had some ointment.

  The Enos pinched out the candle on the table. “That is not what your heart tells me.”

  Adric extended his blistering palms to her. “You burned me.”

  She extinguished the second candle. The near darkness made her seem younger. “Pain is the price we pay for knowledge, Highness,” she said softly.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  i

  White swirls of mist blanketed the trees, hiding the river that flowed along the edge of Dakin’s land. Dakin shivered, wishing he had worn a heavier coat.

  The sharp edges of the crumpled letter bit into his palm. Damned bard. He had looked so trustworthy when he approached the great house. He had been too thin and his gaze had been too bright, but his music had been beautiful. Dakin had always loved beautiful music.

  The damp grass chilled Dakin’s feet. He stared ahead at the forest. The moss-covered trees seemed greener against the fog’s whiteness, making the forest itself appear impenetrable. The bard had nowhere to go. The man would die, screaming, screaming until the hounds ripped his voice from his throat.

  “I hear of another hunt, Lord.”

  Dakin whirled. His Enos stood behind him, dressed in a white robe that matched the fog. Her wizened face, half hidden by the cowl, seemed more foreboding than usual.

  “The bard,” he said.

  The Enos let the cowl down. “Do you think that is wise?”

  “Have you any objections?”

  The Enos shook her head. Water beaded her hair, making her look as if her skull were covered with dewy spiderwebs. “I guard the land, not its inhabitants.”

  She walked away, leaving no impression on the damp grass. Dakin watched her go, feeling slightly unsettled. If she wanted to warn him, she should have come out and said something. Kensington had. In fact, Kensington had been the one who started this whole thing.

  A month ago, Dakin had entertained Kensington in the garden just off the great hall. They sat at a table among the sculptured trees and ate pheasant with wild rice while the bard played for them. After dinner, the servants left, the bard finished his last song, and Dakin and Kensington turned to business.

  Dakin had never liked Kensington. The man was slender to the point of gauntness. The bones of his face stood out prominently against the hollows of his cheeks, and his dark eyes seemed to miss nothing.

  “I am surprised you let that bard serve you,” Kensington said as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Indeed?” Dakin gripped the ridged stem of his glass so hard that his fingers turned white. Kensington was a distant relation of the royal family and ranked above Dakin. Dakin didn’t dare be rude, even if Kensington had no right to discuss Dakin’s household affairs. “And what should my objections be?”

  Kensington shrugged and stared off into the garden. “I can’t believe that you would knowingly harbor a murderer.”

  Dakin took a sip of wine, letting the deep, rich flavor caress the back of his throat before he spoke. He hoped that the liquid would wash the sarcasm from his tongue. “And who is my bard supposed to have killed?”

  “The Ladylee Diana of Kerry.”

  Dakin set his wineglass down. He had heard a hundred stories about the murderer of the ladylee and had believed none of them. “That was over a decade ago. Someone would have caught him by now.”

  “The bard keeps himself hidden. Your lands are about as far from Lady Kerry’s as possible.”

  “The bard served Lord Lafa last. If he did indeed murder the ladylee, I’m sure someone would have recognized him there.” Dakin let the boredom seep into his voice. Shadows crept across the clipped hedges, and the garden was growing cool.

  Kensington glanced at Dakin. The patch of remaining light painted Kensington’s face, darkening the hollows of his cheeks and adding a wildness to his eyes.

  “I was there that night. I was with the Lady Kerry. I had planned to ask Diana to be my wife.”

  Dakin suddenly understood why Kensington had mentioned the bard. Kensington meant no critique of Dakin’s household. Kensington had an old vendetta against the bard. “This is your vengeance,” Dakin said.

  Kensington shook his head. “It is the Lady Kerry’s as well. If you don’t believe me, write her. She’ll be happy to know the bard has surfaced.”

  After Kensington left, Dakin did write to the Lady Kerry. He had her response crumpled in his hand. She knew that the bard had murdered her daughter. She asked Dakin to kill the bard or to extradite him. Dakin would have done neither if it hadn’t been for the uprising, and those insulting, hateful songs the bard had sung the night of the great banquet.

  Footsteps crunched the grass behind him. Dakin turned. The bard stood behind him, held in place by two of Dakin’s manservants. They looked short and fat next to the bard. It almost seemed as if the bard were leading them. He stood tall, the mist shrouding him like a cloak. Chains were wrapped around his waist, holding his hands behind his back. His black hair curled over his collar, and his face, though pale, was darker than the mist.

  In the distance hounds bayed, an eerie, undulating sound that told Dakin they knew of the upcoming hunt. They would be down the trail soon.

  “One last time, bard,” Dakin said. “Who do you work for?”

  The bard lifted his chin so that his eyes were level with Dakin’s. “I work for you, milord.”

  “And not with Rury?”

  “No, milord. If I worked with Rury, I never would have tried to stop the uprising.”

  Dakin slapped the bard across the mouth. The sound echoed through the glen. Dakin’s hand stung. “I don’t appreciate sarcasm from one of my servants, bard.”

  Blood trickled from a corner of the bard’s mouth. He licked at the blood as if to see if it were there, then tilted his head, and rubbed his lips against his shoulder. The blood smeared on the black cloth. “It seems to me, Lord,” he said, “that as soon as I am unshackled, I am a free man.”

  Dakin permitted himself a small smile. “You will be free,” he said.

  He turned. The hounds emerged from the mist, straining at their leashes. The droplets of water on their dark fur made them appear even sleeker and stronger than they were. The four hound masters had three hounds each bound to leashes, wrapped in their hands. They were big men, and rough, but they all bore scars from the hounds. The hounds seemed to pull their masters along. A tangy odor filled the air, and Dakin wondered if it was the smell of the hound masters’ sweat.

  They brought the hounds to the edge of the clearing. The animals stood still, waiting. They watched Dakin. Their eyes were beaded and flat. If he made one threatening movement, they would break their leashes and be on him. He had watched those long, yellow teeth tear into Rury. He didn’t want them to touch him.

  Dakin grabbed the collar of the bard’s shirt and ripped off the bloody shoulder. The bard never looked at the hounds. His gaze stayed on Dakin. Dakin looked into the bard’s eyes. Dakin had never before realized how cold and blue they were.

  Finally Dakin made himself look away. He handed the cloth to one of the manservants, who walked to the hound masters. The hounds, recognizing the ritual, strained toward the manservant. They snuffled at the air, their tongues lolling. A thin thread of drool trickl
ed from one of the hounds’ mouths. The manservant’s hand shook as he reached over the hounds to hand a hound master the cloth.

  The hound master let his three hounds sniff the cloth. They scratched the ground, then tilted their heads back, and howled. Goose bumps ran up Dakin’s spine and a shiver of excitement tickled his groin. He thought of the kitchen wench he had brought up to his rooms the last two nights, and wondered if the violence shimmering in the hounds would excite her too.

  The hound master handed the cloth to the next master, who let his hounds sniff it. The hounds howled in turn, and the others danced around them. The air tingled with suppressed rage and anticipation. When the hounds were loose, they would shred the bard.

  When the last dog howled, Dakin turned to the bard. “They know your scent now,” he said. “They know they are supposed to kill you. And they will kill you. No one has survived my hounds, although I’m sure that each who faced them thought he would be the first.”

  The hounds pointed their noses at the bard. They all stood still, their gazes on him. Their mouths were open and saliva trickled from more than one. The bard still hadn’t looked at them.

  Dakin waved his hand. The manservants let go of the bard. They unlocked his chains and unshackled his feet. He didn’t move but continued to stare at Dakin until they were done.

  “You have one hour,” Dakin said. “Use it well.”