The Wars of Light and Shadow (9) - INITIATE'S TRIAL

by Janny Wurts

  Small children in fur caps scuffled between the pillared trunks, kicking a stitched-hide ball. Their vigorous game was played in stark silence, while the drab leathers they wore blended seamlessly against the sun-splashed drifts of the autumn leaves. Wild deer were less wary. The rumpus stopped still as Arithon appeared. Large eyes in gaunt faces surveyed his passage across the sheltered dell, where no adult guardian appeared in evidence.

  The combative independence of such offspring required none. Already wise to the hunt, bred and raised under threat of fanatical slaughter, these little predators measured his size, then his hitched stride, afflicted by yesterday’s bruises. Suspicious, they eyed him for weapons and weighed him up as a target.

  The shattering sadness struck Arithon hard; that in Tysan, the grip of entrenched temple doctrine should stamp such fearful qualities in the hearts of the young. Dormant memory prickled. He flashed back to the recall of a knife in his hand, carving whistles for another skittish band of small admirers. The burst of remembrance faltered at once, broken off by the vicious tenor of these youngsters’ mistrust. This pack would shy off from the stranger who sought to engage their delight. The tenacious impression refused to dispel, that grim as survival had been for the clans, their plight had grown immeasurably more forlorn through his years of extended captivity. Here, the marginal foothold that secured their survival could never withstand the onslaught of an armed invasion.

  Arithon fingered the muslin packet just cadged from the reluctant healer. The herb leaves inside offered him powerful leverage to seek hidden answers. But he needed settled quiet and solitude, and the bold courage to try. If he scarcely had breached the blocked threshold of his prior experience, the true Name just returned, and the treacherous properties of the tienelle provided the explosive keys to pursue his former identity.

  Beyond the dense gloom that concealed the settlement, early sun through the tree boughs striped the sere ground, patched in lace-crystal fans of rimed snow and bronze carpets of beech-leaves. That particular rich shade of auburn made him ache, for some indefinable reason. Arithon felt suddenly wrenched by a sorrow that wrung him to desolation. As ever, the reason eluded his grasp. Determined thought failed to unearth any name behind his unnerved state of emptiness.

  He leaped across the glare ice of a brook, where the camp’s outer sentries passed him without challenge. Their stiff nods mixed deference with formal reserve. One murmured, ‘Your Grace.’

  That annoyed him. Although their instant acceptance had helped to salvage the disastrous impasse of Tarens’s disaffection, the title made Arithon bridle. He flicked the scouts a brusque nod in response and moved on, hunched against the breeze with his bare hands tucked inside the cuffs of his jacket. If clansfolk were raised woodwise, Arithon’s trained skill owned the masterful awareness to let the land’s flux currents guide his direction.

  Unlike the quieter flows encountered in the tamed country-side, the tidal web of the world’s subtle current resounded untrammelled within the free wilds. The delicate ripple of wind in the tree-tops, the staid calm of stone and black earth, and the industrious rustles of foraging animals: all things spoke through the tuned range of initiate senses. Tacit listening led Arithon to a small sun-drenched clearing sheltered by an angled rock ledge.

  A streamlet emerged from its winter armour and trickled over a matted dam of broken sticks and snagged oak leaves. The span of open water swirled through an eddy, then plunged, burbling, back under a grey pane of ice. The playful music pleased his bard’s ear. More, the brisk hour’s walk had eased the complaint of sore muscles. Arithon sat on a fallen log. He snapped off the available cache of dead branches and built a neat fire out of the wind. While the frenetic blaze cooked down to red coals, he picked open the strings of the herbalist’s packet and sniffed the crumble of serrated leaves tucked inside. The scent lanced his nostrils with the astringent sting of sharp potency. Seer’s weed, known as tienelle in Paravian, was an expansive narcotic laced through with toxins.

  Arithon fingered the cache, dried to brittle brown, but alive to the discernment of mage-sense: the effects would purge his body with harsh force. But while the poisons ran their due course and until they loosened their deadly grip, the mind spiraled into an uncontrolled trance. If the assault frayed his damaged identity too far, he might perish under the onset of dehydration and fever. Yet the risk must be taken. His surges of incomplete recall stirred up far too many harrowing questions. Answers of the profound depth he sought would not lie with the loreists’ recounted history.

  To smoke the herb straight could unhinge him headlong; an infused tea diluted the efficacy. Cautious, Arithon consigned just a single pinch to the open coals. Flame ignited a curl of blue smoke, which he fanned into a haze, then drew in on a shallow breath.

  Still, the whirlwind kick upended his senses. Dizziness took him by storm as the uplifting rush magnified his perception. Sounds struck his ears with unbearable force, and the wan, winter light shocked his vision until eyesight rippled, then shattered. The raced beat of his own living pulse trip-hammered the nerves beneath his thinned skin.

  He clung to the log. Distressed, drowned amid the etheric barrage, he tumbled unshielded into the reactive currents of Caithwood’s live flux. Against that streamed turbulence, he imposed his birth name with the focused intent to be recognized. If he had set foot in this forest before, he would find himself in the stamped record left by his first hand experience.

  Time swirled. The ice brilliance of his present surroundings melted into the warm, dappled shade of midsummer . . .

  . . . and unreeled the fleeting fragment of a guarded encounter with scouts amid the wild greenwood. The solemn council convened, with himself clad in leathers and exhorting a bold plan of action with deepwater ships to spare clanblood from illegal slavery. Darkness swallowed the moment. Next, Arithon viewed a night under oak trees and stars, where he touched the teeming heart of a quartz crystal, and on the strings of a superlative lyranthe, he evoked the most plangent of sorrows as melody. Then the black shadow under the oaks melted into another impression: of a lightless, close heat as dense as the womb. There, the arms of a friend clasped his wracked frame while he shivered and wept, and voiced an appeal beyond hope of requital, ‘What rightful prince ever murders his feal liegeman?’

  Cold bit his lungs to the wracked draw of his breath. Winter’s breeze seared his cheeks like red flame. He pinched his split lip in his teeth till the scab tore to stifle his anguished scream. For alongside the birth name he knew for his own, he recognized the volatile agony linked to another.

  ‘Caolle!’

  Plunged into the horror of nightmare, he knew the slick feel of steel sliding home through live flesh, while his mind thrashed, deranged by a madness of spirit beyond endurance . . .

  . . . which shattered . . . !

  . . . raked across by the sliced rush of air through a Raven’s spread wings. The past friend whose steadfast clasp once had staved off despair in the close heat of blind darkness spoke now, softer words that quenched the fraught echoes of pain: ‘This is a dream . . .’

  Wings beat again. Primaries cut from the nethermost void slashed through the cloth of perception, carving up eddies like roiled smoke as Her passage sliced open the gateway to Ath’s greater mystery, where he fell, tumbling, lost . . .

  . . . light exploded. A power like music arrested his plunge. Arithon felt himself lifted, then spiralled effervescently upwards. The laceration of his old grief fell away, banished to wisps that dispersed as the glorious tapestry that was Caithwood spread in panorama over the forested vales in his vision. The flux lines blazed incandescent with life. Their vibrant past glory wove through his being and sang, while the course of the uncharted future unfurled as a ghostly overlay shaded in phosphor. Reshaped by a thought, his sighted awareness might have shared every step once trodden by the Paravian dancers, or else unravelled the thread-fine patterns of every mage-worked construct imbued by the wise. Yet the chance to linger and admire th
ose fleeting impressions streamed by, the wonders of the ages caught up, then surpassed in the explosive course of onrushing unfoldment.

  Arithon had no self-command left to impose. His eyes knew starfields, but did not see: he was blinded, deafened, undone by the brilliant blaze of the presence that suddenly captured and cradled his human awareness. He had known such, before! Surrounded by what seemed a pillar of fire, enveloped by caring more tender than the blush of a new sunrise, the touch cherished all of his imperfect being as undivided and precious.

  Flesh could but weep for the knowledge such beauty had once walked alive in the world.

  Then, as from the velvet glimmer of spring rain, a voice with the unbounded might to shake mountains encouraged, ‘It is not meet to retread what is finished.’

  Wrapped in harmonic sound fit to wring his overstrung nerves unto breaking, Arithon strove to encompass the speaker, shimmering, unknowable, lost to form amid the singing barrage of pure light.

  Mage-sight pierced the dazzle enough to suggest the tall silhouette of a being imbued with the weighty immensity of the earth. The creature’s antlered head wore the flame of a majesty too fierce to tame. Through a tingle of joy sweet as summer sunshine and the ineffable fragrance of clover, the Ilitharis Paravian bade gently, ‘Walk on. Go free.’

  Once before this, those same words had sealed his forgiveness. Arithon cried out, undone by a flash-point release that pierced him with ecstasy. ‘Brave Exalted, have I ever known you?’

  ‘I once stood as guardian for Caithwood,’ the centaur’s sending responded. ‘Teir’ii’dael,’ he added in formal address for a prince granted Fellowship sanction, ‘We have not crossed paths before. The summons that called me forth out of time was raised by my brother, Kadierach, whose life’s tap-root sprang from Rathain. You would know him again, since his touch steadied yours on the hour your willed choice embraced absolution.’

  ‘I cannot remember!’ Arithon lamented, his sore regret as a spear through the heart.

  ‘Tirient!’ Caithwood’s past guardian responded. ‘Abide. Hold as truth that your steps will be guided.’

  Beyond mortal reach, the vast presence let go in farewell. The sharp poignancy of separation inflicted a pang of desolate loss. Arithon shuddered. Wracked spirit and flesh, he poured out his reft protest. ‘Oh, Brave! Ath’s Beloved, is mercy abandoned? Why has the grace of your kind gone away? Who is left to uplift us without the Athlien dancers to quicken the mysteries?’

  The passionate appeal received no answer, but only the fading echo of an admonishment, ‘Teir’s’Ffalenn! I must go. For Caithwood’s defense, you are needed . . .’

  From the drifting deeps, Arithon roused to the disruptive intrusion of somebody shaking his shoulder. ‘Your Grace!’

  The solitary site with its musical brook no longer cushioned his unleashed faculties. Nor had the tienelle’s influence waned. The cobweb awareness of augmented vision still flicked at his senses, scrambled to electrical tingles of torment as the intruder’s unshielded turbulence needled his nerves.

  ‘Your Grace? Teir’s’Ffalenn!’ The bothersome grip worried at him again, ignorant of the cramps that knotted him double, arms clamped to his drawn-up knees.

  ‘Go away!’ The effort of premature speech slammed the pit of Arithon’s stomach to nausea: not yet the fierce spasms of toxic back-lash, but the shock inflicted by a forced reintegration.

  Instead of the space to steady jarred wits, the vigorous punishment continued until he opened his eyes with a snarl of annoyance.

  ‘Your Grace, forgive!’ The diffident scout did not back off but bore in with a galvanic tension that stormed across overtuned senses.

  Arithon reeled, overset by the vivid barrage of etheric detail: of the animals taken for stitched, trail-worn leathers, and the blood cry of the hunt on sheathed steel. Thunderous passion exploded, as well, from the drilled acorn worn as the gifted token of a youthful love match. Through the crescendo of unfiltered noise, the lad’s spoken apology crashed like flung stone. ‘The patrol captain’s sent me. You’re asked to come in. A dedicate force of lancers has crossed over the river for an armed invasion.’

  The herb’s influence sparked off precognitive vision, an unstoppable surge that immersed Arithon into the headlong cascade of unborn probabilities. Poisoned by blood and death, he became the char of a forest put to the reiver’s torch. Through the crackle of fire and choked curtains of smoke, he rang to the steel clash of weapons. Traumatized by the terrified cries of small children, he died over and over, unable to separate his suffering from the clan defenders who fell to the slaughter as the Sunwheel troops penetrated the fast peace of Caithwood. His tears fell at one with the wounded earth as hobnailed boots and shod destriers chewed across wasted acres of blackened stumps and sere ashes. Where the head-hunters’ dogs found no scent on charred ground, he watched True Sect diviners in glittering robes track down the routed survivors. More and worse, the Light’s talent did not act alone. When zealot sinew and resource fell short, the butchery became spurred onwards by subtle sigils spun by a Senior-ranked Koriathain.

  Also engaged in the stream of tranced scrying, that one lowered her violet hood. She looked up, warned aware. Through the arcane vista of tienelle vision, she glared into the eyes of his dreaming Sight with gut-curdling antagonism. Arithon tasted the malice behind her intent, bitter as metallic poison: the chase to recapture him had been sealed ever since he had worked his Shadow to spare Tarens. Clenched by dread that all but stopped his breathing, he slammed into recoil and resurfaced, gasping.

  ‘Your Grace?’ murmured the scout. ‘Our clan presence must be withdrawn at speed.’

  But the bracing tranquillity of the unmarred winter wood did not dispel the sullied imprint of the web the initiate sister plotted to spin. More than the after-taint of smoke and ash raced Arithon’s pulse to stark terror. Disturbed by the same merciless power that once had enforced his captivity, he breathed the cold air in gasps until his lungs cleared. Regrounded enough to shove past the reach of well-meant interference, he dipped his hands in the stream and drank in shuddering gulps. More icy water splashed over his face helped to disperse the whip-lash of prescient overlays. When he glanced up to acknowledge the scout, he found the intrusive breach of his privacy trampled the last pretence of dignity.

  ‘It’s a gang-up conspiracy,’ Arithon attacked. The nurse-maid healer’s effrontery also dragged along the embarrassed young empath. Between them, they carried the rolled blanket and poles to fashion an invalid’s litter. Which mistake met short shrift. ‘No apologies. Pack up your solicitude. Leave me alone if you value goodwill.’

  ‘Time’s too short!’ snapped the healer. ‘We’ve orders to fetch you. Thank your good fortune that we came prepared for the nuisance since you’re unfit to walk.’

  ‘Your Grace, safety demands,’ the empathic talent cut in, desperate. ‘Word’s sent for the war band. But until they can gather at strength, our scouts must move this settlement to refuge deep in the forest.’

  ‘You’re already too late!’ Arithon ran roughshod across protestations. ‘That inbound lance company spear-heads a zealot invasion. More will come after them! Not just from the Valenford garrison. The reserves at the border of Havish will be stripped for swift reinforcement, with men moved by ship across the narrows from Barish and Mainmere. You will face a war host whipped to a blood-frenzy by temple diviners, and abetted by Koriathain! By force of sheer numbers alone, I have foreseen Caithwood’s wholescale destruction. Your stoutest defenders will be mowed to chaff. However bravely your chiefs stand their ground, you’ll see the free wilds of Taerlin razed without quarter!’

  ‘Sound reason for royal blood to leave now,’ the scout interrupted, stung to alarm.

  ‘They are coming for me!’ Arithon rebutted. ‘Take your children and run. Flee ahead of the storm and leave me the space I require to defang the danger!’

  The scout stiffened to argue.

  ‘You doubt my capabilities?’ Arithon uncoiled
from his stream-side crouch. Erect, roughly clad in town clothes, by size alone he should have seemed a larking fool before experts. Except that his eyes held the depths of a sorcerer’s, and his voice rang with desperate sadness. ‘People, I beg you! Consult with your loreists. Ask them to measure the consequence if I should ignore the sent guidance of Caithwood’s last centaur guardian.’

  The scout’s awed gasp tangled with the healer’s bitter contempt. ‘You are unhinged with tienelle! Distraught, stripped of memory, and quite delusional!’

  They were three to his one, fit enough to overpower his fraught state of depletion. Yet Arithon’s mulish fury resisted. ‘I will not abide! For the sake of your lives, I will break every sworn tie held sacred, even fight tooth and nail should you try me.’

  Alone, the young empath steeled his rattled poise and measured the prince’s fraught regard. What he read drained the heated flush from his face. Shocked, he placed his appeal to the others. ‘Trust to history. What’s left? This prince once swore guest oath to Lady Maenalle s’Gannley in the presence of Asandir.’

  Like returned sunlight, Arithon smiled. ‘I share fortune and sorrow as your brother, my service as steadfast as blood-kin,’ he quoted directly. ‘Don’t force me to fail you. The margin remaining for me to act is too dreadfully small!’

  He did not wait for capitulation but turned his back and rekindled his spent fire. The instant the sticks blazed, he spilled the entire packet of herb leaves into the flames. Blue smoke plumed upwards and enveloped his head. To avoid being swept under narcotic influence, scout, healer, and empath scrambled backwards to a safe distance. Through their hasty retreat, against the savage uprush of his unleashed senses, Arithon heard a remonstrance from his past, and knew the fond edge of exasperation for Caolle’s: ‘Dharkaron break me for idiocy, how did I come to swear fealty to a dreaming fool?’