This was something she’d never told her parents about – why, she could not say. But some days she would suddenly find herself in a distant part of Sigholt, or even in a nearby valley of the Urqhart Hills, and have no knowledge of how she had arrived there. Hours, sometimes even half a day, would have been lost to her.
These episodes had also lessened as she grew older, but Zenith still had one or two a year.
And, in the past week, three.
This was the reason she’d hesitated when Caelum had suggested she go to Carlon.
What if she “lost herself” somewhere in Spiredore and came to her senses sitting on an icefloe in the Iskruel Ocean? How would she explain that to Caelum? How could she explain it to herself?
Zenith hesitated in the centre of her chamber, a stunningly beautiful, slim birdwoman, robed in scarlet that contrasted vividly with the darkness of her wings and hair.
Taking a huge breath, Zenith tried to calm her nerves, wrapping herself so deep with magic it literally blurred the outlines of her figure.
An image formed before her: her grandfather, StarDrifter. It was a memory only, not the actual person; StarDrifter lived far south on the Island of Mist and Memory, devoted to his duties among the priestesses of Temple Mount.
This was a memory that Zenith had carried with her for some thirty years, a memory of a day when she’d been staying with her grandfather on the island, and had found herself wandering the southern cliff faces of Temple Mount with no idea how she’d got there.
She’d been young then, and she’d been growing her wings only a year. They’d still felt strange to her, and she still fumbled on her infrequent flights, so that suddenly coming to awareness at the crumbling edge of a thousand-pace drop had been terrifying.
She’d screamed, sure she was going to die, and then StarDrifter was there, wrapping her in his arms and wings, pulling her back, holding her and singing to her and telling her she was safe, safe, safe.
From that moment on Zenith had adored StarDrifter, treasured him beyond the usual love of a granddaughter for her grandfather.
Now she recalled the image of StarDrifter, his beautiful face full of love, a gentle hand cupping her chin so he could look in her eyes.
“I’ll always be there to catch you,” he’d said. “I’ll always be there for you.”
“Always…” Zenith whispered, and the image faltered and then faded.
“Very pretty.”
She whirled about, furious that anyone should have seen the vision.
Drago was leaning nonchalantly against the doorway that led into her private washroom. His thin face was unreadable, his eyes narrowed, his arms carefully folded across his chest.
A towel was tucked over one arm, and Zenith noticed that Drago’s coppery hair was damp and newly combed back into its tail in the nape of his neck.
“Why not use your own chambers to wash?” she snapped.
“I’d been down in the stables,” he said, standing up straight and throwing the towel back inside the wash room, “helping Stephain with the grey mare. She foaled tonight. Difficult birth.”
“But that doesn’t excuse why –”
“I would have used my own chambers, save that Caelum is stamping and striding about the upper-floor corridors, and frankly the last thing I needed tonight was to run into him. So I thought I’d ask you if I could use your washroom. You weren’t here, so…”
He shrugged, walking over to stand before Zenith. “I heard you come in just as I was finishing up. If you’re concerned, I didn’t stand and watch you change. I may be many things, sister mine, but I am not a voyeur.”
“Yet you saw my memory of StarDrifter.”
“I thought I heard his voice – it made me come to the door. Zenith, I like him too…remember?”
Zenith was rapidly losing her temper which, truth be told, was mainly a product of her shock. And Drago did like StarDrifter. She was unsure about so many things regarding Drago, but his genuine feeling for StarDrifter was not one of them. As a child, Drago had enjoyed his months with StarDrifter almost as much as she had. For some reason StarDrifter had been able to reach the uncommunicative youth in a way Axis and Azhure could not – or could not be bothered to.
She looked at her brother, and for an instant emotion threatened to choke her. What could he have grown into if he had been given love instead of rejection? Their parents had, if not ignored him, then favoured all their other children before him. His punishment for plotting against Caelum had left him with little of his rich Icarii heritage: his coppery hair, still thick but kept pulled back into its tight tail, and his violet eyes, although they had faded with age. Against his vivid and powerful siblings he was just a thin, rather plain man, age and frustrated life marking his face with deep lines.
Drago had done wrong, no-one could deny that, but Zenith often wished their mother could have found some other way to punish him that would not have resulted in the destruction of so much potential, the annihilation of so many dreams.
She caught herself before Drago thought to ask why she took so long to respond.
“Well, if you don’t want to run into Caelum – and he is in a fearful temper – then you can use my bed for the night.”
Drago arched an enquiring eyebrow.
Briefly Zenith told him what she and Caelum had learned.
“And so now, good girl that you are, you go to do StarSon’s bidding.” Drago yawned theatrically. “Well, off you go now. That bed does look inviting.”
Not trusting her temper, Zenith stalked over to the door. Just as she reached it, Drago said softly, “That was a beautiful memory you conjured up into flesh, Zenith. I wish I had that skill.”
Zenith turned and stared at him, not knowing how to take his words. Was he expressing resentment that he no longer had the power to do similar feats, or was he expressing genuine regret?
But Drago gave her no clue. He’d dropped across the bed, his face away from her, and so Zenith left the room, not knowing whether to feel sorry for him, or angry.
By the time Zenith reached the courtyard Drago had slipped far from her mind. Instead she felt the first tingle of excitement. It was good to get away, even if only for a day or so.
The guards at the massive gate in Sigholt’s walls nodded to her, and then Zenith was through and on the short space of roadway leading to the bridge that guarded Sigholt’s entrance.
“A good evening to you, bridge,” she called softly as she stepped onto its cobbled carriageway.
“And a good evening to you, Zenith,” the bridge said in her deep, melodious voice. No-one ever understood the bridge, what she truly was, or what magic had created her. She simply existed, and her sole purpose in her existence was to guard all entrances into Sigholt. All visitors, whether by foot, hoof or air, were challenged by the bridge as to whether they were true or not.
No-one ever knew what she really meant by that, either.
But the bridge generally kept Sigholt safe – apart from the one notable exception when the infant Drago had tricked her into allowing Gorgrael access to Sigholt – and she was good company for nights when sleep refused to come.
“Do you wish to pass an hour or so with me, Zenith?” the bridge asked hopefully. Even so fey a creation as the bridge still liked to gossip whenever the opportunity presented itself.
“No, bridge. I am sorry. Tonight I must go to Spiredore. Can you lead me there?”
“Of course. Where are you going?”
“Carlon.”
“Ah,” the bridge sighed. “I have heard many wondrous tales about Carlon. But wait…there. Spiredore awaits you.”
Zenith looked across the bridge. Normally it led to the roadway that ran the length of HoldHard Pass, but now the other side of the bridge connected into a misty blue tunnel at the end of which Zenith could see the stairway of Spiredore.
“I thank you, friend bridge,” she said, and stepped across.
If the bridge was unknown magic, then Spiredore was a hund
red times the puzzlement and even more the magic. The tower that stood on the opposite shoreline of Grail Lake to Carlon belonged to Azhure, although it was as ancient, some whispered, as Grail Lake itself. Its interior was a maze of seemingly disconnected stairwells and corridors, but if one knew how to use Spiredore’s magic, those stairwells and corridors could take you just about anywhere you wished. Azhure had taught all her children – save Drago, of course – how to use the tower, and how particularly to enter it via the bridge at Sigholt.
Now Zenith stepped off the bridge and into the short corridor of blue mist that led to the interior of Spiredore. As powerful and knowledgeable an Enchanter as she was, all Zenith understood of this process was that somehow the bridge had called across the scores of leagues separating her from Spiredore, and the tower itself had reached out and formed this connection.
From the misty corridor Zenith entered Spiredore at one of its myriad balconies. Glancing quickly up and down, she saw a bizarre outcropping of disconnected balconies and stairs – and even some ladders – that lined the circular interior of the tower. None of them appeared to go anywhere.
“Spiredore,” she said firmly, “I wish to go to Carlon.”
And she walked to the nearest stairwell and stepped down.
Azhure had always impressed on her two winged daughters that they must never fly in Spiredore, as it was so strangely magical they might easily become disorientated and crash into a balcony, or even the floor of the tower. Zenith walked until she felt her calves begin to ache and then, just as she paused to rub them, she saw that around the next curve of the stairs was a flat floor.
Zenith smiled to herself. It was ever so in Spiredore. Just when you thought you could go no further, Spiredore delivered you to your destination.
Once on the floor Zenith saw a door before her, and through that door…through the door was the dawning air about Grail Lake, the harsh cries of the lake birds filling the air as they rose to meet the sun.
“I thank you, Spiredore,” she said as she passed through, closing the door gently behind her.
Outside the tower looked plain, even though it imposed with its height. Completely windowless, it climbed some one hundred paces into the crimson sky – the sun ascending almost directly behind it.
Zenith stood motionless for long minutes, drinking in the view of the tower, the lake, the stunning city rising on the far shore.
“How wrong I have been to so secrete myself in Sigholt,” she whispered, then sprang into the air with a glad cry, her arms wide as if to embrace the entire world.
Leagh was sitting at her mirror-table, brushing the tangles from her hair and trying to stop yawning.
There was a rush at the window, as if it had been struck by a great gust of air, and then a small pale fist was tapping impatiently at the panes of glass.
“Leagh!” a muffled voice called, “Leagh! Let me in!”
Leagh sat and stared for long minutes, unable to believe what she saw, before she finally roused herself enough to walk over and open the windows.
Zenith almost fell through, enveloping her friend in a great hug.
“Leagh! Leagh! You and Askam are to come to Sigholt – can you believe it?”
Leagh just stared at her.
“And Zared is to be there, too! Come, sleepy-eyes, what shall you wear?”
Zenith did not think it wrong to give Leagh a day of hope and excitement. And it was true. After at least two years, Leagh would finally see Zared again.
5
Speaking Treason
Zared sat on his chair on the slightly raised dais in his reception gallery, trying to hold his temper. Generally he enjoyed holding open court, but this Thursday afternoon had brought such evil news he knew there would be little delight left in the day.
Ranged before him were six men, four peasants from his southern border with the West, and – for the gods’ sakes – Jannymire Goldman, the Master of the Carlonese Guilds himself, and one of his merchant cronies, Bransom Heavorand. The tidings they had brought would sour anyone’s day, Zared thought, let alone mine.
“A third…a third!” he muttered yet again. Obviously the guilds, as the merchants, would be crippled by the tax, but these peasants…gods! They’d had a third of their year’s grain confiscated!
“Gustus!” Zared called, and his captain of the guard stepped forward. “See that these peasants receive recompense from my treasury for their losses.”
Gustus nodded, and moved off. The peasants effused thanks to their Prince, then scurried after the captain.
Zared eyed Goldman thoughtfully. As Master of the Carlonese Guilds, Goldman was one of the most powerful non-noble men in Tencendor. He controlled not only great wealth, but was the voice of the traders, craftsmen and businessmen of Carlon and, by default, most of Tencendor. Why come north himself? And why complain to Zared? Surely his complaints would be more effective directed at Caelum?
“Askam will grow rich at your expense, good sirs,” Zared remarked.
“As yours,” murmured Heavorand.
Yes, as mine, Zared thought, his dark face remaining carefully neutral. Shall I now risk sending my goods to the southern markets via the Andeis Sea? But even pirates would not risk those treacherous waters, and Zared knew he’d lose considerably more than a third of his goods if they went south via the Andeis. Askam had him trapped. He had no choice but to send his goods via road, where they would be snaggled in the web of crossroad taxation posts, while his river transports would not escape the castle of Kastaleon, which sat with its brood of archers on the great central bend of the Nordra like a rabid spider itching to spit its venom at tax evaders.
Gods, what was Askam doing to the people of his own province if he could inflict this hardship on the North?
“It is strange to see you so far north,” Zared said to Goldman. “And at my house.”
Goldman shrugged expressively. “It is a long story, my Prince, and one not suited to this reception gallery.” He looked meaningfully at Zared.
Zared hesitated slightly before he spoke. “My dinner table is ever lacking in long stories, gentlemen. May I perhaps invite you to dine with me this evening?”
Goldman bowed. “I thank you, Sir Prince. Heavorand and I will be pleased to accept your –”
The twin doors at the end of the gallery burst open and two men strode through, Gustus at their heels.
Zared’s mouth sagged, then he snapped it shut, keeping his seat only with an extraordinary effort as Herme, Earl of Avonsdale, and Theod, Duke of Aldeni, stopped three paces away from the dais, saluting and bowing.
Goldman and Heavorand, who had quickly stepped aside for the noblemen, shared a glance that was both surprised and knowing.
“Herme? Theod? What brings you here in such haste? I had no warning that you –”
“Forgive us, Zared, but this news cannot wait,” Herme said. More formality should have been employed, but Herme had something to say, and he wished to waste no time. Besides, Zared was an old friend and one-time family member; Isabeau had been Herme’s sister.
To one side Theod fidgeted. He, too, was a close friend of Zared’s, and his higher ranking than Herme should have seen him speak first. But Herme was older and had the longer acquaintance with Zared.
“Sir?” Gustus put in to one side, but no-one listened to him.
“If it’s about Askam’s new taxes, then I have already heard it,” Zared said, gesturing towards Goldman and Heavorand.
Herme and Theod glanced at them, then looked back at Zared.
“My friend,” Herme said, “matters have come to a head. We cannot –”
“Sir?” Gustus said again, but was again ignored.
“– endure under such taxation! Belial must be turning over in his grave! I suggest, and Theod agrees with me, that we must take this matter to Caelum instantly.”
“Sir!” Gustus all but shouted.
“Gustus, what is it?” Zared said shortly. Never had he had open court like this! We
re half the merchants and nobles of the West en route to complain to him?
“Sir,” Gustus said, “one of the Lake Guard has this minute landed with a summons from StarSon Caelum.”
Every eye in the reception gallery was riveted on the captain of the guard.
“A summons?” Zared asked quietly.
“Sir Prince, StarSon Caelum summons the heads of the Five to Council, to be held at Sigholt three weeks hence.”
Zared stared at him, then shifted his gaze back to Herme and Theod. “I seem to be holding a dinner party this evening. Would you two gentlemen care to join me?”
Goldman placed his fork and knife across his plate, and decided it was time to direct the conversation to more important matters. So far they’d discussed everything from the weave of Corolean silk to the exceptional salinity of the Widowmaker Sea, and Goldman was tired of the niceties. He smiled at the young, impish Duke Theod across the table. Theod was a rascal, but good-hearted, and once he’d grown five or six more years, and survived a tragedy or two, he would become as fine a Duke as his grandfather, Roland, whom Goldman remembered well from his youth.
“You must have ridden hard to reach Sever in from Aldeni, Duke Theod, as must,” Goldman glanced at Herme, “your companion…who had to come yet further.”
“Herme and I were both at my home estates, Goldman. We share a common interest in the management of the Western Ranges.”
Goldman nodded to himself; Theod’s home estates were close to his northern border with Zared. No wonder they’d managed to get here so quickly. “And no doubt you were both as horrified as Heavorand and myself to hear of Askam’s new taxes.”
“No doubt,” Herme said carefully. He was not quite sure of Goldman, nor of the motives which saw him at Zared’s court.
“Enough,” Zared said, throwing his napkin on the table and leaning back in his chair. “Goldman, you came north to say something. Say it.”
“Sir Prince, as you know, Prince Askam’s taxation measures will place an unfair burden on many Tencendorians, rich as well as poor, traders as well as peasants.”
Sinner Page 5