The Initiate

by Louise Cooper

  The now familiar wine flagon stood on the table beside his bed, untouched. Reflexively he reached out to take some, then withdrew his hand. Wine had offered no relief thus far; no reason why circumstances should change now. He was tired -- the food Grevard and Themila between them had insisted he should eat had fortified him, but the endlessly troubled nights were taking their toll. If he could sleep without dreaming... but that was impossible. All he could do -- all he could hope to do -- was face the night with whatever courage he could muster.

  The courtyard had quieted as the last of the supplies were borne away to the Castle's storehouse. Tarod lay back on his bed, and tried not to think about the dark hours ahead as his green eyes closed.

  Chapter 6

  Fin Tivan Bruall, the Castle's horsemaster, stifled a yawn as he made his way down the long lines of stalls in the sickly pre-dawn light. His unexpected visitor followed a pace behind, assessing each animal in turn, once or twice shaking his dark head when Fin turned to indicate a possible choice.

  Although he was disgruntled at being hauled from his bed at such an uncivilized hour Fin would no more have shown it than attempted to fly from the Castle stack. Like most of the non-Initiated who served here, he respected the Circle, even if their demands were often unexpected or inconvenient. And though he couldn't remember his visitor's name, the fact that the man was a seventh-rank Adept was enough to make him mind his manners.

  Nearing the end of the line, he stopped before a stall where a taller than average chestnut mare moved restlessly and eyed him with a dangerous look. "If you want a fast, strong animal, master, you'll do no better than this mare here. Only fault is she's troublesome. Throw you soon as look at you, and an unforgiving temper..."He shrugged. "Depends whether the good outweighs the bad, if you take my meaning."

  Tarod stared at the mare. She was well bred -- southern stock to give her height and speed, but enough of the northern blood to add stamina to the mixture... and temper. Ignoring Fin's hasty warning he moved into the stall and laid a hand on the animal's neck. She showed her teeth threateningly, but he spoke to her quickly and quietly, and -- to the horsemaster's bafflement -- the mare quieted.

  Fin made the best of it. "Well, master, she's taken a liking to you and I've never known her do that before!"

  Tarod smiled thinly. "I'll take her. Have her saddled and ready for me in the courtyard half an hour from now."

  He said nothing more, but left the horsemaster to carry out his orders while he went quickly back to his rooms. The Sun was just beginning to rise, but it was unlikely that any of the Circle would be stirring before he left, and that was how he wanted it. If Keridil or Themila had got wind of his planned excursion there would be questions, arguments, alternative suggestions, and Tarod had run through all the possibilities in his mind until he was sick of it. This was the only way left to him.

  As he gathered together a few minor needs for two or three days' journeying he carefully avoided catching sight of his own reflection in the mirror. Fin Tivan Email's eyes had told him all he needed to know about his state of mind and body following the ravages of the last four nights, when the dreams had come screaming out of the dark to torture him, leaving him wasted and broken when morning finally dawned. Since the unhappy episode in the Marble Hall the dreams had, as he'd suspected, redoubled their intensity, until on the previous morning he had woken with the solution coldly and cruelly clear in his mind.

  He couldn't fight the dreams. Not in any orthodox way, at least. The support of his friends was comforting, but it wasn't enough -- far more drastic measures would have to be taken, or the only other option would soon be yawning like an abyss before him. And that other option was suicide.

  A day's research in the library vault had told him all he needed to make his plans. Tarod had never studied the arts of herbalism closely, but he knew enough to guide himself through the library's vast tomes on the subject and find what he wanted. A small cliff plant that grew sparsely on the northwest coast; one of the most powerful narcotics known which could, in the hands of a skilled herbalist, combat any night-borne horrors, no matter what their origin. It could also be used to open the mind's psychic channels, and Tarod hoped that it might break down the barriers that had thus far prevented him from discovering the origins of the visitations.

  It was a dangerous drug, and could kill unless certain procedures were strictly followed, but Tarod was past caring about the risks. No supplies of the Spindrift Root, as it was colloquially known, were held at the Castle; even if they were he doubted if he would have consulted Grevard about them. He had a location, he had chosen a horse -- he'd ride out and find the plant for himself.

  And so, carrying only a few food supplies, some water and his knife, Tarod mounted the skittish chestnut mare while Fin Tivan Bruall looked on anxiously.

  "Watch her, master," the horseman advised as the mare side-stepped under Tarod's light but firm guidance. "First chance she gets, she'll tip you and run if I'm any judge!"

  Tarod drew in the reins, felt the animal quiet under a subtle exertion of will, and smiled. "I'll remember. And I'll bring her back safe and sound in three days or so."

  The gates ahead of him stood open, a dazzle of early sunlight reflecting from the world beyond. He touched his heels to the mare's flanks and she sprang eagerly forward, leaving the Castle behind.

  Dawn was breaking two days later when Tarod finally guided the tired and sweating mare on to the towering cliffs of West High Land Province. Some perverse instinct had prompted him to take the shorter but harder route directly through the mountains, avoiding towns and villages and -- perhaps especially -- the large Sisterhood Cot on the main drove road, where Kael Amion was Senior. The mountain way was notorious as a haunt of every conceivable bane of travellers, from the huge Northern wild cats to bands of ever-hungry brigands; but nothing had threatened Tarod. He had stopped to rest only during the short summer nights, driven by a fear of sleeping and by the desperate need to reach his goal. And now, with the first bloody rays of the sun breaking in the east, he emerged on to a dizzily sloping sward of turf that rolled away to the West High Land cliffs.

  The mare snorted thankfully as Tarod at last released his hold on her and slid from the saddle to stand gazing out across the magnificent vista of sea and sky. Horse and rider had reached a rapport during the long and arduous ride, and before lowering her head to graze the untouched grass the mare nudged affectionately at Tarod's hand while he stroked her soft nose.

  Tarod sank down onto the turf, glad to rest his aching muscles. A Westerly wind blew the tangle of black hair back from his face and for a while he simply watched the sky lightening as dawn gave way to full day. The sea, far below him, glittered like liquid glass and the black humps of a myriad tiny islets were emerging as the early mist began to clear. The air smelled of salt, clean and invigorating; in the distance the sails of a small fishing-fleet, tacking landwards, glinted as the sun cleared the cliff tops. For the first time in many days Tarod felt peace stealing up on him and he grasped and held the feeling gratefully. The urgency of his mission still goaded him -- but for a while, a short while, he could be free of the dark influences that had haunted him for so long.

  He made a pillow of his cloak and lay back, welcoming the sun's warmth on his face. Lulled by the drone of waking insects, the murmur of the sea, the comfortable sounds of his horse cropping grass a few paces away, he slept.

  The mare woke him with a sharp, challenging whinny and he sat up, momentarily disoriented. Then memory came back, and he turned his head.

  The sun was almost at meridian, although this far North meridian was still low in the sky. Light flooded the cliff tops, and against its dazzle he saw the silhouette of a horseman approaching slowly along the inland track. The chestnut mare whinnied again and he sent out a sharp mental command to quiet her. But the other horse was answering with a long-drawn noise that ended in a cough, and Tarod sighed. The solitude of this lonely place was a balm to his mind; he wanted no i
nterruptions, but it seemed he had no choice.

  The newcomer saw him at that moment and reined in with a husky-voiced order. He realized suddenly, from the voice and from the slightness of the figure that dismounted, that his first assumption had been wrong -- the intruder was a woman.

  She came towards him a little hesitantly, and as she moved against the Sun he saw her clearly. Whatever else she might be, she wasn't beautiful. Young -- perhaps three or four years younger than he was -- but not beautiful. Hair so fair that it was almost white hung over her shoulders, and the odd, amber eyes that regarded him through startlingly dark lashes were far too big for her pinched face with its over-generous yet solemn mouth. Her frame was small, almost boyish... and there was something else about her, something only an Adept would see; something he filed away in a corner of his mind....

  She didn't smile, but addressed him with the same solemnity contained in her expression. "I'm sorry -- I didn't realize there would be anyone here. I hope I don't disturb you."

  Inbred courtesy made Tarod rise and bow slightly to her. "Not at all." He could hardly say otherwise... the cliffs belonged to no man.

  The girl nodded, then sat down on the grass a few paces away from him. "It's more than a year since I've been here... I wanted to see it again." She hesitated, then the ghost of a smile lit her plain features. "You're not from the fishing villages?"

  Unshaven and unkempt though he was, his manner had given away that much... Tarod almost laughed without quite knowing why. "No -- I'm not. And from what you say, neither are you."

  The girl looked obliquely at him, as though suspecting some ulterior motive behind the question. She was a strange creature, he thought; dressed in trousers and shirt more fitting to a man, with a stained cape thrown carelessly over her shoulders despite the day's warmth. Her pony -- a shaggy, surly, Northern breed -- was harnessed with a simple bridle and a rough blanket, suggesting that she had been all but born to horseback, and his curiosity was aroused. He held out a hand. "My name is Tarod."

  She clasped his fingers briefly, as if unaccustomed to such formality. "I am Cyllan."

  "And your clan... ?" He reflected a moment later that he, of all people, should be the last to care for someone's clan name.

  The girl smiled quirkishly. "Anassan, for what it's worth... it's a long time since anyone took the trouble to inquire."

  The clan name was unfamiliar, and Tarod was about to ask its origin when she added, almost as though reading his thoughts, "We are from the Great Eastern Flatlands. My parents were drowned at sea four years ago... now I'm apprenticed as a drover to my uncle."

  A girl, apprenticed as a drover? The concept seemed bizarre.

  "We've been trading livestock and hides up from Southern Chaun, on the coast road," she continued. "The men are sleeping off the effects of some successful dealing at an inn a short way from here, so I thought..." She lowered her head as though embarrassed at her own foolishness. "I thought to see the sea."

  "Then I'm the one who's intruding." Tarod spoke gently, wanting to put her at ease.

  "No -- no, not at all. I don't doubt you have business here that's more important than my fancies."

  He shook his dark head. "Nothing that can't wait a while."

  Briefly she flashed him a look that mingled gratitude with uncertainty. "You have the advantage of me. I don't know what your... oh!"

  He followed the direction of her gaze and saw, pinned to the cloak on which he'd been resting, the gold insignia J of a Circle Initiate.

  "I'm sorry," the girl said indistinctly, "I didn't realize -- I wouldn't have dreamed of troubling you -- "

  Tarod stared at his insignia with something approaching distaste. "Oh, that..." he said carelessly. "It's unimportant. My purpose here has nothing to do with Circle business."

  "Nonetheless, I shouldn't have presumed... I'll go now." She was in awe of him -- as he himself would have been in awe of an Initiate, before he had learned better -- and that angered him, for it created an artificial barrier between them. As she started to rise he said suddenly, "No -- stay, please. Perhaps you can help me."

  "Help you?"

  "Yes. You know this coast, while I'm a stranger. I came here to find a plant that grows only in this region. A rare plant, called the Spindrift Root."

  Cyllan's amber eyes narrowed quickly. "Spindrift?"

  "You know what it is?"

  "I know what it does." She looked hard at him, and in that moment Tarod's first instinct about her was confirmed. Then she said, "The help you need isn't of any order I could give."

  Thinly, he smiled. "You do yourself an injustice, Cyllan. I believe that, rather than travelling the roads as a drover, you should have been at a Sisterhood Cot these past few years!"

  Cyllan's cheeks flushed. She hadn't expected him to see beyond the barriers she had created. But then the chances were she had never met an Initiate before....

  "My talents are hardly worthy of anyone's attention," she said, then added with a hint of mischief that belied her solemn expression, "Especially that of a high-ranking Adept."

  Tarod bowed, acknowledging the observation. "Nonetheless, the Sisterhood has need of anyone with a natural psychic skill."

  "Perhaps. But they don't look favorably on orphan peasant girls with little status and fewer means."

  She spoke carelessly enough, but her words told Tarod all he needed to know. Despite its theoretical acceptance of any girl who showed aptitude and promise, in practice the Sisterhood of Aeoris was founded on hard-headed pragmatism. And this odd, pale-haired girl would not fit into the close world of a Sisterhood Cot...

  "Are you a seer?" he asked her. "Or a dream-interpreter?"

  She looked uneasily at him, as though afraid that he was about to either laugh at her or censure her for her presumption. He smiled reassuringly, and she said at last, "I -- read stones and sand. Sometimes I see a person's future in the patterns they make, sometimes events... I can't always predict."

  Tarod was intrigued. "I'm not familiar with the method."

  "In the East, it's an old technique. But there aren't many left now who have the skill, and those who have are -- not looked on kindly."

  Again, her tone implied more than her words. Tarod had never visited the Great Eastern Flatlands, but he had met a few of its native traders at the Castle. They were a dour, humorless breed, superstitious and rigidly conventional; not the kind to welcome any psychic talent in their midst with open arms. He could well imagine that Cyllan's lot among her own kind wouldn't be altogether happy.

  Fleetingly, he wondered if she might be persuaded to read her stones for him, whatever that might entail -- then quashed the idea quickly. There was nothing a peasant girl could tell him that he didn't already know, and even if she saw his future she would probably be unable to interpret what her instinct told her. What had she said -- "the help you need is not of any order I could give"? She was more perceptive, perhaps, than she realized.

  Possibly Cyllan had been entertaining similar thoughts, for she rose suddenly to her feet. "You want to find the Spindrift Root," she said, a little abruptly. "I can show you where it grows, but we'll need to climb to reach it."

  She was looking out to sea with an oddly blind stare, waiting for him to join her. He stood. "Very well. If you'll lead the way."

  The chestnut mare whinnied enquiringly after him as he followed the girl down the sloping turf towards the cliff edge. From here, the view demanded calm nerves and a strong stomach; unremitting tides had hammered the coastline into a ragged jigsaw of soaring buttresses and sharp inlets where the ground fell sickeningly away into hundreds of feet of nothing. Tarod felt the wind snatch mischievously at him, saw it lifting Cyllan's hair away from her face in a pale cloud as she turned to call back, pointing to a spot at the edge of a near-vertical drop: "There's a way down here. The longshore fishermen use it."

  He looked at the sea surging far, far below. "I'll go alone. No reason for you to take risks."

  She shook h
er head. "I've climbed it before -- it's safe." And before he could stop her she had slid her feet over the edge of the drop and was out of sight.

  Tarod swore under his breath. The girl had no cause to endanger herself on his behalf; if her recklessness ended in tragedy it would be rightly on his conscience for as long as he lived. But by the time he reached the cliff edge she was already a good way down, moving with a quick, practiced agility. There was nothing he could do but follow.

  The descent was easier than it had looked from above; crude hand- and footholds had been carved into the harsh granite, and although worn by the wind and by generations of climbers they were secure enough. He caught up with Cyllan as she reached a narrow ledge some two hundred feet above the bay, and they paused to catch breath and rest their muscles for a few moments. She didn't speak as he joined her but crouched staring at the sea, as though waiting for something. The wind was stronger here, slapping and gusting between the cliff walls, and suddenly Cyllan raised a hand.

  "Listen! They're here -- I thought they'd gone, but they're still here! And they're singing..."

  Even as she spoke he heard the sound. Faint and far away, it was a chillingly sweet series of musical notes, carried in on the wind from somewhere out to sea. The notes formed an eerie, haunting harmony, rising and falling in a pattern that made Tarod's spine tingle. And he felt the quietly curious presence of other minds, unhuman minds, reaching out to him.