The Initiate

by Louise Cooper

  "The fanaani..." Cyllan said, and her voice was almost breaking.

  Then Tarod saw them. From this distance they were little more than dark silhouettes rising on the crest of an incoming wave in the moments before it shattered on the rocks. They were moving slowly inshore, and he counted seven before he glanced at Cyllan and saw the tears that glittered on her dark lashes, the look of mesmerized wonder on her face.

  He himself was moved by the sight of the strange, rare sea creatures that haunted the wilder coastlines of the world; from the Star Peninsula it was sometimes possible to glimpse them or to hear a distant echo of their bittersweet song, but never before had he seen them from such close quarters as this. The fanaani were warm-blooded animals, man-sized and almost catlike in appearance but with long, sleek bodies, foreshortened legs and webbed paws adapted for an aquatic life. And, like terrestrial cats, they were telepathic -- though theirs was an intelligence of a vastly higher, if alien, order. Tarod felt privileged to have such rare contact with them.

  The fanaani had now drifted almost to the narrow crescent of beach revealed by the ebbing tide, so that Tarod and Cyllan had to lean perilously out to see them. Once Cyllan almost lost her balance, so intent was she on the creatures far below, and Tarod reached out a hand to hold and steady her. The brief contact broke the spell, and even as they looked again the fanaani were turning, heading back seawards and already almost lost to view against the swell.

  Cyllan sighed and surreptitiously wiped her eyes. "A good omen for you," she said softly.

  "Perhaps." Tarod found himself irrationally wanting to believe her, and with that thought came a memory that he would have preferred to keep at bay in this peaceful place. It goaded him, and he added, "I think we should continue on."

  "Yes..." Reluctantly she rose, and they left the ledge to resume the path down the cliff.

  They found the Spindrift Root growing from a near-invisible crevice in the cliff wall, just out of reach of the worst Winter tides. It was an unremarkable, fleshy plant with greyish-green leaves, and only yielded reluctantly to Tarod's knife. But at last root and stem lay in his hand and he looked at it. There was little of it, but it should be enough for his purpose.

  Cyllan was watching him, her amber eyes uneasy. As he slipped the root into his belt-pouch she said in a whisper, "Please... be careful."

  Her words brought back the memory again. The idyll was over, he realized; and though while it lasted it had been pleasant, it was still an illusion. Grim reality beckoned, and grim reality told him he couldn't afford to delay what was necessary for much longer. Without further words they began the long climb back to the clifftop where their horses waited. The mare greeted her master with a good deal of snorting and head-nudging, while Cyllan's pony stood sullenly unmoving.

  Tarod gathered up his cloak and dropped it over his shoulders, noticing the way Cyllan's gaze flicked quickly to the gold insignia as if by donning it he had recreated the barrier. The Sun was starting to wester and he wanted to reach the mountains by nightfall, ride through the night, anything rather than risk sleep during the dark hours.

  "Thank you, Cyllan," he said quietly. "I'm in your debt -- I hope we'll meet again."

  She nodded. "I hope so, too. Good fortune go with you, Tarod."

  Protocol held that he should leave her with the blessing of Aeoris, an Initiate's traditional and formal duty towards a layman. But he couldn't. The words would have sounded hollow and artificial, and widened the gulf between them. Instead, he said simply, "And with you. Goodbye, Cyllan."

  Cyllan watched until the chestnut mare was out of sight. She had managed to stop herself from praying that Tarod would look back, but when he didn't the disappointment still hurt. Not that there was any reason why he should, she told herself; he was a Circle Adept, high-ranking; she was *a peasant drover with nothing in her mind or body to interest him beyond the demands of courtesy. Their paths had crossed only briefly; they wouldn't meet again. And she was a fool if she entertained, even for a moment, any hopeless fancies about what might have been, or could have been; that was a lesson she had learned long ago, and relearned on each rare occasion when she looked in a mirror.

  But all the same, the image of the tall, black-haired stranger with his feline green eyes and troubled soul would remain with her for a long time to come. Despite their differences he had treated her as an equal, almost a kindred spirit, and for a brief, illogical and glorious moment she had hoped that there could be more. The hope had died -- as part of her had known it inevitably must -- when he rode away without looking back. But she wouldn't forget him.

  She swung herself onto her pony's broad back. As she turned the animal's head westwards, her eyes were stinging with tears that she told herself were nothing more than the effect of the sun's angry glare.

  Chapter 7

  Tarod arrived back at the Castle as a harsh dawn was breaking. He had ridden relentlessly through two nights and the day between them, driving himself and the chestnut mare almost to breaking point, stopping only when to press on would have killed one or both of them. The mare had shown her mettle and her breeding on the long ride but as they finally clattered through the Castle gateway her head was hanging with exhaustion.

  Tarod felt little better than the animal. Such a journey was taxing on the most skilled horseman; his limbs ached fierily from the hours in the saddle, and his head was light and his mind dazed from lack of sleep. As the great black walls rose around him he felt the old sense of oppression returning, and thought wistfully of the vast skies and Sunlit cliffs of West High Land, where for a short while he had been able to forget his torment. Images of the brief interlude haunted him; the scent of the unsullied turf, the eerily beautiful song of the fanaani, the girl Cyllan with her solemn eyes who had given him help and good company while asking nothing in return.... Wearily he slid from the saddle and led the mare towards the stables. A yawning lad was roused from his straw pallet to take care of the animal, and Tarod made his way slowly, reluctantly, to his rooms in the still silent Castle.

  Alone in the confines of his apartments, he drew out the small, precious Spindrift Root and laid it on his work-table. Already it was beginning to wither -- he would have to work quickly before its potency was lost, and the process of extracting and distilling its essence would take some time.

  Tarod's hands were not quite steady as he began his painstaking work. Now and again a haze clouded his vision and his consciousness threatened to swim into a half-dream. Hours passed while he worked on behind the bolted door, oblivious to the everyday activity beyond his window as the Castle stirred into life. No one came to disturb him -- for all anyone, even Keridil, knew, he hadn't yet returned -- and at last, as the day faded and the Sun began to flare into a grim crimson ball of fire beyond the black walls, he was ready.

  The distilled essence was a dark, reddish-purple, cloudy liquid that barely filled a phial. The disgusting stench it gave off pervaded the room, but Tarod was past caring -- numb with exhaustion and depression, he had gone beyond aesthetic considerations. As he looked at the results of his efforts -- which seemed, somehow, unclean and malignant -- he tried to remember each stage of the operation, and ask himself whether he had taken all the necessary precautions. The herb could be a deadly brew in even the most experienced hands... but that hardly seemed to matter now. A tired fatalism had taken hold of him and made him reckless -- whatever might or might not happen, his future was in the hands of the gods.

  He waited until the long shadows had reached out across the courtyard to envelop his room in semi-darkness, then measured out a little of the Spindrift concoction into a cup, diluting it with wine. The smell of the brew and a last glimmering remnant of caution forestalled him, but only for a moment: he tilted his head back and swallowed the contents of the cup in one draught.

  Even good wine couldn't disguise the herb's evil flavor, and it nearly choked him. For a few moments he leaned against the window-ledge, coughing violently; then the spasm subsided and h
e made his way unsteadily through to his second chamber where he stretched out stiffly on the bed.

  The taste of the Spindrift stuck in his throat as he lay watching the last light fade from the window. At times he felt as though he were choking, then -abruptly breathing would grow easier and he relaxed. But when the first major effect of the drug struck him he was unaware of its cause, knowing only that his mind was dulling into a throbbing semi-existence that echoed the weariness of his limbs. His legs felt like leaden weights, there was a weight on his chest and shoulders, pressing him down into sleep... thankfully, Tarod closed his eyes.

  But the pressure began to increase. Each breath was now a physical fight against pain, his lungs refusing to fill with air, his muscles refusing to respond. His mind couldn't rally to banish it; he was starting to asphyxiate....

  With a hoarse shout Tarod flung himself from the bed and fell heavily on the floor. He dragged his body painfully upright again, gripping the bedpost for support, and found he was barely able to stand. His numbed mind forced the realization that something had gone drastically wrong -- he had made a mistake, and the narcotic had taken hold of his entire system, its poison spreading so rapidly that he couldn't fight it.

  Help. The word crawled into his consciousness. He must seek help, or he would shrivel and die here in his own rooms, where no one could unbolt the door and find him in time. Unbolt the door... it looked a thousand miles away, but he launched himself desperately towards it and his hands groped and clawed at the latch. He had no more strength than a child, but somehow the bolt shifted at last and he all but fell out into the corridor. A torch burned steadily at the far end, but the passage was deserted. Tarod staggered in the direction of the stairs, unable to breathe, unable to drag enough air into his body to utter a sound, certain that he couldn't survive another moment of this ordeal. Yet he was still alive when he reached the courtyard and still alive when, finding no one to aid him, he stumbled along the pillared walk to the door that led down into the library vault. Instinct was drawing him towards the Marble Hall, and though he didn't understand it he still retained enough of a savage self-preservation to force himself on until at last, hardly able to stand upright, he entered the library itself.

  The room was lit, suggesting that someone had recently been there and intended to return. But nothing moved among the dusty shadows. Tarod collapsed against a shelf, bringing a shower of books down around him, and with pain-glazed eyes saw the vault ebbing and flowing, harsh light pulsing from the torches on the walls as its outlines twisted and warped. Why had he come here? There was nothing for him here.... His clouded vision roamed the room -- until he fancied he saw something move by the door that led to the Marble Hall.

  With a tremendous effort he got to his feet and moved towards the door. It should have been locked, but it wasn't -- instead as he leaned his weight against it it opened, so that he fell to his knees, staring half blinded at the passage beyond.

  A sound like a gale rushed past his ears and he glimpsed a mad, gibbering face that seemed to hurtle towards him along the corridor before vanishing. Then another, and a third -- all twisted, leering, mocking his delirium. The nightmare was beginning again....

  Remember... Come back...

  Tarod gasped, trying to turn away as the sibilant whisper echoed from the distant silver door at the end of the passage. But his body refused to respond.

  Remember...

  Something was coming along the corridor, moving inexorably towards him. It neither walked nor ran, but seemed to shift without motive power of its own, dreamlike, drifting. The face -- his own face -- smiled, but the smile was an illusion, a human mask hiding something far more terrible. The long, narrow eyes changed color constantly and the gold hair flowed in a rising current of air as the apparition raised its arms, holding out gaunt, long-fingered hands towards him. The ground beneath Tarod vibrated and a high, thin singing note emanated from the grim figure, making him want to block his ears. But he couldn't move, his muscles were locked, rigid --

  The being's lips parted and mouthed a single word. A moment later, Tarod heard his own name whispered in his mind -- and as the echoes died away something within him snapped, shattering the hideous spell. Terror restored the strength taken by the drug and he twisted around, stumbling through the door and pulling on it with all his power, to slam it shut in the face of the approaching vision.

  "I will have no more nightmares!" he yelled, his voice cracking insanely, echoing through the vault. "Get back whence you came -- I'll have no more of it!"

  The two people who were at that moment making their way down the vault stairs towards the library stopped in their tracks at the sound of the demented voice from below.

  Themila Gan Lin blanched visibly. "What in the name of -- " she began, then hesitated. There had been something familiar in the voice, barely recognizable though it was, and a terrible intuition took hold of her.

  Keridil touched her arm, gesturing for her to stay back. "Wait here," he said quietly. "I'll investigate."

  An almighty crash sounded in the library as he started down the last few stairs, and Themila saw his hand go reflexively to the short-bladed sword that hung from his belt. It was a badge of rank rather than a usable weapon, and she wondered fleetingly if she should fetch more help. If there was real trouble in the vault, Keridil was as good as unarmed....

  But it was too late to worry about Keridil's safety. He had reached the door, was pushing it open. She saw him flinch, then --

  "Tarod!"

  "Oh, Gods..." Themila's worst fears were confirmed, and she flew down the stairs.

  As she entered the library, a second crash heralded the fall of an entire shelf of books, and a cloud of dust erupted as they hit the floor. Through it they saw Tarod backed against the wall, head turning violently from side to side as though he struggled to shake off some monstrous assailant only he could see. His teeth were clenched with the effort of trying to breathe, and he was soaked with sweat. Not stopping to think, Themila would have run to him, but Keridil held her forcibly back.

  "Don't touch him!" he hissed.

  "But he's -- "

  "I said, don't touch him!"

  Their voices broke through the daze of agony and distortion in Tarod's brain, and he saw them for the first time. Cautiously Keridil began to move towards him, and something triggered in Tarod's warped mind. Fair hair... fair hair... gold hair... he was responsible, this demon, this amorphous, deadly nightmare... he was the enemy... kill him... destroy him...

  One hand clawed to the knife at his hip, and the cold touch of the hilt awoke a bizarre synthesis of confidence and bloodlust within him. He started forward -- but neither Keridil nor Themila was aware of the threat. They were both staring, transfixed, at the double-image of Tarod's own form which had suddenly and shockingly materialized behind him. It was a negative phantasm of the living man -- dark and light, gold and black -- and Themila felt a sensation as though a fist had slammed violently into her stomach as a chilly wind of power hurtled malevolently through the vault. The blow was a warning, and with a tremendous effort she came out of her near-trance in time to see Tarod stalking, the crazed glitter in his eyes, the knife --

  "Keridil, look out!" she shrieked, and at the same moment Tarod sprang.

  Pure reflex saved Keridil as the knife sheared up. He twisted aside, raising one arm to protect his face, and the blade slashed across his forearm in a shallow slice that he barely felt. Unbalanced by his own impetus Tarod stumbled, then swung round and dropped into a crouch; but his knife hand was shaking violently. As he launched himself forward a second time Keridil struck out, once.

  It was like fighting a child. The knife fell from Tarod's grip, and for a moment a glimmer of sanity returned to the green eyes. Then he seemed to crumple, and collapsed to the floor.

  Themila's heart was pounding painfully as she knelt at Tarod's side while Keridil turned his senseless body over. Neither was willing to be the first to speak of what they had both see
n, but Themila felt an acute -- and cowardly, she admitted to herself -- desire to get away from the vault as quickly as she could. She climbed awkwardly to her feet, forcing herself not to look into the gloomy, shadowed corners.

  "I'll fetch help," she said. "We'll need at least one more man to move him."

  Keridil was trying to take Tarod's pulse, but aware of his own inadequacy. "Yes -- and send someone for Grevard."

  At the door she hesitated briefly, looking back and half expecting to see again the grim apparition which had appeared so briefly at the moment of crisis. All she saw was Keridil, eyes closed, making the familiar sign of Aeoris as he murmured what she suspected was a prayer over Tarod's still figure.

  By the time Keridil and two more men brought Tarod on a makeshift stretcher back to his rooms, a crowd had gathered in the corridor outside. News -- especially bad news -- travelled fast in the Castle, but the onlookers had to be content with a few terse words from Keridil about an "accident."

  The moment they entered the outer room, the men were struck by the lingering stench of the brew Tarod had prepared. One turned back towards the door with an oath of protest, and Keridil, gagging, signalled frantically for the windows to be opened. Themila arrived as Tarod was being lowered on to his bed and made as comfortable as possible, and reported that Grevard was not in his chambers, but was being sought urgently.

  "But that smell -- " she crumpled a corner of her shawl and put it over her mouth, coughing. "What in the name of Aeoris is it?"

  "I don't know... something about it's familiar, but I can't place it."

  "That phial -- " Themila's sharp gaze alighted on the table by the window. "There's something in it...."

  Keridil picked the phial up and cautiously sniffed it. His stomach heaved as the full stench assaulted his nostrils, and he put the tiny glass container aside hastily. "Whatever it is, it's deadly... Gods, where is that damned physician?"