"I said, where is she?"
The old woman sighed. "Very well, then; have it your own way. At this moment, I would imagine she is engrossed in private conversation with the High Initiate, in his study." She glanced slyly at him. "He seemed inordinately anxious to speak with her alone."
Keridil... The sheer magnitude of his deviousness and treachery hit Tarod like a knife in the gut, but he couldn't respond to the feeling; the narcotic kept all but the weakest, simplest responses out of his reach.
He stared at the hard-faced Sister and realized that, despite her brusqueness, the sympathy she had proffered was genuine enough. Trying to inject acidity into his voice, he said, "And you, Madam, clearly don't approve of such a liaison..."
Sister Erminet had rarely heard such bitterness. She regarded Tarod for a long moment, then replied, "That's nothing to me. We've all had such moments in our youth. But I don't approve of cold-blooded betrayal."
"Then she..."
"Betrayed you? Oh, yes. Betrayed, jilted, call it what you please; the little bitch knew exactly what she was doing." She smiled again, grimly this time. "A seventh-rank Adept's one matter; a man with a price on his head is quite another. She's a Veyyil Saravin, after all -- I'm surprised you didn't have the common sense to realize where her path lay."
She seemed to be torn between relishing his predicament and pitying him, and Tarod didn't know whether to loathe her or be grateful. He shut his eyes against a surge of impotent misery, and Sister Erminet came back to stand over him.
"I'm sorry for you, Adept," she said more gently. "No matter what you've done, or what you are, no one deserves such treatment from the hand of one who professes to love him." She hesitated. "I shared your feelings, once; though I doubt that's any comfort to you. I was jilted by a youth whose clan thought me beneath them. I believed he'd defy them for my sake, and I was as naive a fool as you. When I realized my mistake, I first tried to kill myself, then when that failed my family packed me off to the Sisterhood." She licked her lips, suddenly surprised at herself. In forty years she'd not spoken of that long-ago incident to a living soul... but then she reflected that it could do no harm to confess it to a man who would, before many more days were out, carry her secret into eternal damnation....
Tarod was watching her. "Maybe," he said softly, "we're two of a kind. Sister Erminet."
She grunted contemptuously. "As like as chalk and cheese!" Reaching out, she took hold of his left wrist. The new drug had taken full effect now, and he could do nothing to stop her. She rubbed her thumb over the stone of his ring. "That's a pretty bauble. The Initiates have been trying to take it away from you, but it won't come free. They say you keep your soul in it, and that you're not really a man at all, but a thing from Chaos. Is it true?"
Tarod's eyes glittered. "You use the word lightly enough. Aren't you afraid of Chaos, Sister Erminet?"
"I'm not afraid of you. And, Chaos or no, you'll be done with before long, so where's the need for fear?"
This time, it wouldn't be a sword-blade in the back... Keridil would resort to the orthodox rites of the Circle -- and Tarod was all too well aware of what lay in store for him before they finally extinguished his life. Purification, exorcism, damnation, fire... he knew the prescribed ways as well as any man, despite the fact that they hadn't been used in centuries, and they were barbarous. He might persuade Sister Erminet to administer some pain-killing brew before the death-ritual began, though he imagined she was as likely as not to refuse out of sheer perversity. Otherwise, he had only agony to look forward to before he finally went to Aeoris....
Agony. The prospect of such physical pain meant nothing to Tarod; it seemed as remote and divorced from reality as he felt. He closed his eyes, suddenly crushed by a wave of exhausted despair. He hadn't even the strength to rail against his own destiny; it no longer mattered. The bitter taste of Sashka's betrayal had sapped his will, and oblivion would be a blessing....
Sister Erminet's voice broke gratingly into his dismal reverie. "How do they intend to dispose of you?" she asked detachedly. "Do you know?"
He opened his eyes again and stared dully at her. "I've a good enough idea."
"And it won't be an easy death?"
"...No."
She grunted. "I'm no scholar outside my own field, but I've read enough of these things..." Her eyes, bright and beady as a bird's, fastened on his face and she added almost diffidently, "I could give you a narcotic. Not enough to numb you to all of it, or the Circle would suspect something amiss. But it would make matters... easier."
"You're very kind."
Erminet shrugged and turned her face away, disconcerted. She hadn't for a moment anticipated that she. of all people, could find herself moved to pity and even faint stirrings of affection for a condemned stranger; but the feelings were there, and she was honest enough not to deny them. Perhaps it was a natural empathy with one who had fallen victim to a traitorous lover, as she herself had once done; perhaps it stemmed from her deep-rooted dislike of Sashka and other girls like her, whom Erminet considered worthless dilettantes. Either way, she didn't like to see a strong life broken and wasted.
"I'm not kind," she told Tarod, with an edge to her voice. "I'm simply luckier than you are. You're destined to die, while I live on to try to instill some glimmering of herbal lore into empty-headed Novices. And if that's as Aeoris wills it, I'm not about to argue. Besides, if you are what they say you are, we're doubtless well rid of you."
Tarod laughed. It was a soft sound, but unmistakable, and the Sister turned to regard him curiously. "You're an odd one," she observed. "I've seen many die in my time, but none have ever laughed at the prospect."
"Oh, I don't laugh at the prospect of death, Sister," Tarod said. "Only at you."
"Me?" She bridled.
"Yes. Helpless as I am, thanks to your pretty potions, you say you're well rid of me." For a moment an odd fire glimmered in his eyes, then dulled. "I hope for all your sakes, Sister Erminet, that you're not mistaken!"
The sky above the Castle was the color of old, drying blood, tinging the vast flagstones in the courtyard with a gory reflection. From the window of his study Keridil could see the first of the higher-ranking Adepts gathering, making their way towards the door that led down to the library and thence to the Marble Hall. The angry sunset reflected, too, in their white robes, giving them a grim and faintly unhuman aura; they moved slowly as though already constrained by the demands of the ceremonies that lay ahead.
With an effort Keridil tore his gaze away from the window and concentrated on the task at hand. The room was bitterly cold -- this particular rite demanded that no fire should be lit in the High Initiate's presence on the day chosen -- and he was almost glad of the heavy ceremonial clothes, in spite of the fact that generations of disuse had given them a cloyingly musty smell. He wondered who the last High Initiate to wear these purple garments with their elaborate sapphire-thread embroidery had been, and the nature of the crime that had been expurgated on that occasion; and forced the thought away. Last night he had been plagued by the most monstrous nightmares he had ever known, in which Tarod, transformed beyond all semblance of humanity, had pursued him through a warped landscape of mountains that screamed his name like accusers, and winds that burned his flesh until, charred but somehow still living, Keridil had hurled himself face down onto the unyielding ground and prayed for death. He had woken sweating, yelling-hoarsely, and only a cup of wine and the warm arms of the girl who shared his bed had banished the hellish memory.
That girl now sat silently on a chair at the far side of the room, wrapped in a heavy cloak to ward off the worst of the cold. Apart from the time she had spent soothing Keridil in the wake of his nightmare Sashka had slept as soundly as ever, and her face was calmly impassive as she watched him preparing for Tarod's execution. In the seven days since her arrival at the Castle she had spent almost all her time in Keridil's company, and it was now widely accepted that she was, in all but name, the High Initiate's con
sort. Her parents, summoned from Han Province, had arrived in a flurry of haste expecting to find their daughter shamed and bereft, and instead had been confronted by a girl radiant with a triumph that far outstripped her previous ambitions. They were so grateful for the unexpected change of fortune after the appalling news concerning Tarod that they turned a blind eye to the fact that Sashka disappeared to Keridil's private rooms after dinner each night and was not seen again until morning.
Sashka was already discovering that Keridil was far more malleable and easy to understand than Tarod had ever been. She had quickly learned to use all her skills to divert him from any qualms of conscience, and during the past two days, as final preparations for the Higher Rite that would send Tarod to his death were made, she had meekly submitted to a passive role. Once, she had hinted hopefully that she might be allowed to witness the rite, but had accepted Keridil's refusal. Nonetheless, she would have liked to be present... it would have set the final seal on her triumph.
She had made no attempt to see Tarod. Rumor had it that he still lay all but senseless in a locked and guarded room, subject to the ministrations of Sister Erminet; but Sister Erminet never spoke of him -- in fact she seemed to be deliberately avoiding Sashka, which suited the girl well enough. Nonetheless she wondered occasionally how he fared, if he ever thought of her and if he knew that she had betrayed him to the Circle. She would have liked him to know... with a peculiar mixture of bitter resentment and the jealous vestiges of the desire she had once felt for him, Sashka hoped that he was aware enough of his impending fate, and suffering for it....
Keridil was unaware of her train of thought as Gyneth, with studied and unnecessarily fussy deliberation, finally cast a heavy black cloak over his shoulders while he stood immobile. The clasp -- solid gold, and bearing the High Initiate's insignia -- clicked shut at his throat, and Keridil was ready. At a nod from the old steward, two white-robed sixth-rank Adepts moved from the doorway where they had been waiting, and took up positions at either side of the High Initiate. Keridil laid his right hand briefly on the massive ceremonial sword that hung from his hip, and its solidity helped settle his queasy stomach. His eyes met Sashka's and, anticipating him, she rose and crossed the room towards him. Her face was very grave as he cupped her cheeks with his hands.
"It'll be done by morning, love," he said softly.
Tarod would take all night to die... Sashka quelled the flicker of satisfaction within herself and only nodded. Gently Keridil leaned forward to kiss her. "Go to your mother and father, and keep them good company. With the dawn, we can all begin afresh."
His set expression, the somber garb, thrilled her with an excitement she dared not show. She returned the kiss then stepped back, watching as the three imposing figures left the room. Only when both they and Gyneth had gone did she allow herself to smile.
Keridil and the two Adepts walked the Castle corridors to the main door in a chill silence. Circle members whose ranks were beneath that demanded for this ritual had gathered to watch them on their way, and all inclined their heads respectfully as the party passed. The doors stood open; as they moved out on to the steps an icy north wind bit Keridil's face and hands. The last of the daylight was fading, the sunset's bloody glory over, and the courtyard before him looked bleak and malignant. On the far side the other Adepts waited, their ranks now swelled and all but complete. Ghosts, Keridil thought; in the uncertain twilight they might all have been ghosts from a long-dead past... he shivered.
No one spoke as the ranks of Adepts parted, forming two lines between which Keridil walked. Reaching the door that would lead them deep underground to the Marble Hall he turned, and they all waited.
The light that glimmered from the main Castle entrance flickered once, and went out. Then, in the windows of the dining hall, others followed suit. On the upper floors more torches dimmed and were extinguished, one after another, until not a single light remained in the entire Castle. The spectacle chilled Keridil to his bones as he wondered how long it was since this grim ritual had been observed. No light or fire would burn anywhere in the great black building tonight, until the moment when the High Initiate's own hand conjured the supernatural cleansing flame that would finally scourge and destroy Chaos.
The queasiness returned at the thought of what he must do tonight, but he forced it down. This thing had to be -- Keridil had steeled himself to what was necessary, and the knowledge that he had right on his side suppressed his conscience. He only wished that it could have been cleaner, but since the failed attempt to kill Tarod before he fled the Castle he had thought long and hard, and realized that a simple death might not put an end to the evil. A demon wouldn't die as easily as a man -- Tarod must be destroyed by occult means, if the taint were to be truly eradicated. And besides, a quick death wouldn't satisfy the Council, nor the Sisterhood, nor the countless numbers of ordinary folk who looked to the Circle as their spiritual mentors. News of the serpent in their midst was abroad and spreading now -- only the full might of a death-ritual would restore their wavering confidence.
A rustle of movement among the Adepts alerted Keridil suddenly, and he looked up. Across the courtyard, barely discernible in the deepening darkness, a group of figures had emerged from the main door and was moving slowly towards them. Most were white-robed; one, in their midst, was dressed in black and almost incapable of walking; two of his guards supported him and he made no attempt to resist their rough handling. Heading the small procession came another Adept with a shallow hide drum strapped to his wrist, his gaze fixed on the ground before his feet.
Keridil had a sudden picture of the unseen watchers who must be thronging the Castle's darkened windows, witnessing this small spectacle which was all they would see of the night's rituals. And then the approaching figures halted -- and for the first time since the night of Rhiman Man's death Keridil found himself face to face with Tarod.
Under the tangled mane of black hair it was hard to see his face. He swayed, fingers flexing but without coherence. Sister Erminet Rowald had done her work well... and Keridil was both surprised and relieved to find himself unmoved by the sight of his one-time friend in such a condition. He raised one hand, intending to signal for the procession to the Marble Hall to begin -- but before he could move Tarod suddenly jerked his head back. He struggled to focus his eyes, then seemed to get a grip on his senses, and fixed Keridil with a drugged stare.
"High Initiate..." The voice was no more than a cracked whisper, but it was still venomous. "You must be very content with your triumph..."
Keridil didn't answer. The ritual forbade him from speaking until they were in the Marble Hall; even without that stricture he would have had nothing to say.
"Dead things..." said Tarod. "Damnation and annihilation. All of us, Keridil. All of us."
A sharp shake from one of his guards silenced him and Keridil turned abruptly away. Drugged beyond sense though he was, Tarod's rambling words evoked an uneasy feeling. He glanced over his shoulder at the ring, still shimmering nacreously on Tarod's left hand from which the Initiates had been unable to remove it, and suppressed a shudder. Without looking at the black-haired sorcerer again, he nodded to the group of Adepts.
The Initiate who bore the hide drum raised his free hand. With a deft flick and twist he struck the skin, and a dull, funereal sound echoed through the courtyard. Slowly the procession began to move towards the library door, their steps marked by the steady thudding of the drum, as regular and as somber as a dying man's heartbeat.
Chapter 17
It was the sound of the drum that first began to rouse Tarod's senses from the miasma imposed by Sister Erminet's drugs. He stumbled between his captors, feet dragging, limbs refusing to co-ordinate, and with only the haziest idea of where he was or what was happening. Dimly he recalled being forced to drink something that tasted bitterly acrid, trying to resist but not having the strength; now, his clouded brain sensed danger but he felt too dulled and apathetic to care.
Until the dr
um started to impinge on his awareness...
At first he thought it was the muffled beating of his own heart, but then he realized that the sound was coming from beyond his body. It seemed to disturb the air around him, suffuse the floor under him; unconsciously he started to walk in rhythm with it, his movements gaining more coherence. Walls swam into the blurred limits of his vision; a narrow corridor, leading down... he sensed power that flowed upwards, hungrily, from roots unimaginably deep in the rock far below, and the drumbeat was its slow, inexorable pulse. Like a pendulum, swinging constantly, eternally, marking out the passing of time --
His frame jerked with a sudden spasm as a blinding pinpoint of light flickered across his vision. It lasted only an instant, but in that instant he was left with an indelible mental image of a seven-rayed star...
Someone shook him violently and he almost fell, regaining his balance only when he was forcibly pulled upright. Now there was another light; paler, filling the corridor, and the procession slowed to a halt as, with a final roll of the Adept's fingers, the drumbeat ceased.
But Tarod still heard it. It continued in his mind, throbbing, insistent, like a strange, sourceless call. He saw the silhouettes of men turning aside to shield their faces from the cold radiance as Keridil bent to unlock the door of the Marble Hall, but found that he was able to look directly at the pulsating brilliance without flinching. The door seemed unreal, as though he viewed it from a plane that was one step removed from reality....
A hollow click, and the door swung open. Slowly the Adepts advanced into the coruscating mists of the Marble Hall. Tarod felt weightless, motivated by a force outside his control -- he tried to turn his head to look into the shifting, shimmering columns of light, but couldn't. All he could do was move forward, towards the very center of the Hall. And there, he knew, something waited; a pent, eager power that froze his mind with a fear greater than anything he'd ever known. For a moment ice-clear reason returned, and he realized that he had only a few short hours to live.
The Initiate Page 28