The Way of Light

by Constantine, Storm

  ‘Pharry, don’t!’ Everna said. ‘This will not help.’

  ‘The Dragon Lord, though magnificent on the battle-field, runs from many other things,’ Pharinet said coldly.

  ‘It is easy for you to speak this way,’ Valraven said. ‘Out here, in the wilderness of Caradore, magic is alive for you. In Magrast, I have to tread daily through a pit of poisonous vipers. There is no magic there. It is all down to human greed and ambition.’

  Pharinet uttered a scornful sound. ‘Tell that to the empress.’

  ‘Don’t bicker!’ Everna said. ‘All that matters at present is to restore Ren and Elly to their home. Send people to Cos, Val, but bear in mind what Pharry has said. Old Caradore should also be investigated.’

  The following day, after what could only be described as a difficult evening with his sisters, Valraven steeled himself for the next unpleasant interview. He must ride over to Norgance and speak to the Leckerys. Pharinet wanted to accompany him, but he could envisage too easily her abrasive interjections while he related his news to Saska and refused firmly to let her ride with him. ‘This will be hard enough without your personal opinions colouring the occasion,’ he said. ‘I must do this alone, Pharry. As you know, Saska considers I owe them a debt.’

  ‘The loss of a son and a daughter,’ Pharinet said dryly. ‘Yes, that could be considered a debt.’

  Valraven ignored the jibe. ‘This will have to be handled carefully. We don’t know how Saska will react.’

  ‘I do,’ Pharinet said. ‘There will be a storm of tears, possibly a fainting fit, and a great kerfuffle of Leckery women. On reflection, you are welcome to it, but return tonight. I want to hear what happened.’

  All the way there, Valraven composed speeches in his head. Mordantly, he considered how he would find it easier to lead his troops into battle than face the widowed Leckery matriarch with upsetting news. Perhaps he should have ordered Merlan to break it to his family after all.

  All around, Caradore was coming to bloom. It reminded Valraven of the time before his and Pharinet’s weddings to Ellony and Khaster; the scents and colours aroused poignant memories. In his mind’s eye, he saw Saska’s laughing face, a reflection of her joy at the union of the houses of Palindrake and Norgance. Then he remembered Pharinet’s pained scowl and recalled his own frustrated anger. Those marriages had doomed both families to terrible pain.

  Predictably, Valraven’s arrival at Norgance caused a stir. He had not been a casual guest at the estate since Ellony’s funeral. Servants were thrown into a flurry when he presented himself at the main door and left him waiting in the hall for some minutes, while they undoubtedly went seeking instructions from their mistress. Eventually, Saska received him in her salon, accompanied by her daughter, Niska. Since the death of Saska’s elder sister, Dimara Corey, the previous winter, Niska had taken on her aunt’s position as Merante, or High Priestess, of the Sisterhood of the Dragon. She was young for the title, but of all the women involved, the most mystical. Valraven knew little of it, as it was women’s business, but Pharinet had told him some time ago that no one had contested Niska’s appointment. The Sisterhood was dedicated to reinstating the Dragon Heir as the spiritual and temporal leader of Caradore. As such, Niska could be seen as his personal priestess and advisor. Previously, Valraven had avoided any contact with the Sisterhood. It discomforted him, because they wanted something from him he was ill prepared to give. Ligrana, Saska’s eldest surviving daughter, was now married to a local landholder. Foylen, her youngest son, was out on the land somewhere. No doubt he would soon be called to Magrast, as his elder brothers had before him. Norgance felt empty and sad, where once it had been a busy household, full of Leckerys.

  The habitually fey Niska looked even more like a drowned revenant than usual and Saska’s once beautiful face was set into a hard expression. Valraven sighed inwardly. He felt like delivering his news bluntly and then leaving without having to bear their response.

  ‘Valraven,’ said Saska crisply, ‘this is unexpected. What brings you to us?’ She knew there would a reason for his visit, of course. Socialising was a thing of the past.

  Valraven bowed formally. ‘I have some news,’ he said.

  ‘Merlan?’ Saska demanded, her hands flying to her throat. Fear made a distorted mask of her face.

  ‘No, no,’ Valraven reassured her hastily, ‘this is not bad news. At least, it is not news of a death. Merlan is very well. I have recently left him in Magrast.’

  ‘What is it, then?’ Saska said. As soon as she’d uttered this peremptory command, she grimaced and shook her head in self-chastisement. ‘Forgive me. Where are my manners?’ She flapped a hand at one of the sofas. ‘Please, sit down. Refreshments will be here shortly. You must understand that I always fear news, because so often it has brought me grief. First my husband, then my beloved Ellony, then Khasterc’

  ‘It is of Khaster I wish to speak,’ said Valraven abruptly, wishing to stem the course of Saska’s recollection, which he knew from experience could go on for some time. He sat down.

  ‘Khaster?’ said Saska in a small voice. ‘What is there to tell me of him?’

  Valraven shivered instinctively and glanced at Niska, realising the cause of his discomfort was the scrutiny of the young woman. Her sea-coloured eyes were staring at him intently and he knew from her expression that what he was about to reveal was not news to her. Perhaps Merlan had contrived to send word to her, but for whatever reason – and he could think of many – she had decided not to reveal what she knew to her mother.

  ‘You must prepare yourself for a shock,’ he said, wishing immediately he’d used one of his gentler scripts. But it was too late to change it. ‘Khaster is alive, Saska.’

  As in Caradore Castle, there was a short silence after his words, but instead of denying the news, as Pharinet had done, Saska suddenly expelled a great wail and went rigid in her chair. Niska rose fluidly and went to her mother’s side.

  ‘Saska,’ Valraven began, wanting to finish what he was going to say, but Saska was making too much noise for him to be heard. It was an absurd reaction, more in keeping with the news of a death, as Saska had feared. Valraven had no idea how to cope with it. The doors to the salon flew open and Saska’s personal maids came hurrying in.

  Niska took control. ‘Terralee, Morla, take my mother to her rooms and give her a posset. I will join you shortly.’

  ‘What has happened, my lady?’ asked Terralee, the older of the pair.

  ‘We have just heard that Lord Khaster is alive,’ Niska answered. ‘The news has been a great shock. Now, I need to know the details. Please see to my mother at once.’

  Saska virtually had to be carried from the room. She uttered a continual moan, which gradually trailed away to silence, as she was taken further into the house.

  ‘Well,’ Valraven said, awkwardly, ‘it is clear I should have handled that differently.’

  ‘Console yourself,’ Niska said. ‘Whatever way you presented it, Mother would have reacted fiercely. The deaths of Ellony and Khaster are still open wounds in her heart.’

  ‘But I’d have thought she’d have been glad to know Khaster was alive.’

  ‘Perhaps she will be, once she has got over the shock. You have to realise how difficult it has been for her. Grief has become her whole being, her religion. Now, she has been told that, in part, it was a false belief.’

  ‘I’m sorryc’

  Niska sat down. ‘Now, tell me the rest of it. I said that Mother might be pleased once she’d got used to the facts, but we both know that might not be the case.’

  ‘You know something already, clearly.’

  Niska put her head to one side and assumed a dreamy expression. ‘Mmm. I would not be worthy of my role as Merante if I did not.’

  ‘Do you know that Khaster has a new identity and that he has recently kidnapped Varencienne and Ellony?’

  Niska’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘He did what?’

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nbsp; ‘I think you heard me. The reason why has yet to be revealed to us, but we suspect he was really after Rav.’

  Niska’s brow creased into a deep frown. ‘That I did not know. I hope you believe me.’

  ‘Then what do you know?’

  ‘Last year, I had a vision while at the Chair. I saw Khaster, alive and well. He did not communicate with me, but I sensed he had received some kind of occult training. I presumed he had staged his own death in Cos, because he was so sick of the life he’d been forced to lead. I also had to presume he had not contacted us, because he feared being dragged back into that life. Naturally, I could not tell Mother this. You saw how she was just now. It would have been cruel to raise her hopes without physical proof, or any promise that Khaster might return to us.’ She folded her hands together on her lap. ‘So, tell me all you know.’

  Niska listened with few interruptions. Occasionally, she asked a question about specific details, but Valraven could not satisfy her in that respect. He admitted that he himself knew only scant facts. Despite his recent dissatisfaction with Merlan, he decided not to mention that Merlan had known that Khaster still lived. Let Leckery deal with that if it ever came out through other means. Valraven concluded his narrative by telling Niska of Pharinet’s suspicions that Varencienne might even welcome Khaster’s involvement and could have taken him to Old Caradore.

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ Niska said. ‘Pharinet does tend to be led by her passions, if you know what I mean.’

  Valraven nodded shortly in embarrassment. He knew exactly what Niska meant.

  ‘But, that said, I do think it’s essential you go to Old Caradore. I will apply myself to discovering any helpful information on a psychic level, and will accompany you to the old domain.’

  Valraven frowned. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Anyway, why do you think I should go there if Ren isn’t there?’

  ‘Because it is time for you to stop procrastinating and fulfil your destined role. I have no fear for Ren. What has happened to her is right and preordained. I am more concerned about you.’

  Valraven laughed awkwardly. ‘Niska, please don’t make this a crusade for the Sisterhood.’

  ‘You scorn us,’ Niska said. ‘I understand why. Four years ago, the Sisterhood was little more than a pantomime, but I have made changes. I have made the sisters work to hone their magical abilities. We are not playing at it any longer, Val. We are worthy of you and your heritage. If I have had a crusade, it has been making sure of that. You must go to Old Caradore to take back what is yours, fully and completely. You must become the Dragon Heir, as you are meant to be. It must be done before anything else.’

  Valraven was taken aback by the strength in her voice. Where had the delicate silent child gone, who’d been more like a mute mermaid stranded on land than a human being? What he saw now was a determined young woman, who despite the passion of her words spoke clearly and firmly. ‘Niska, this is a difficult time,’ he said. ‘Magrast is unstable. Gastern is emperor, but for how long? I have to act very carefully now. Ren and Elly’s rescue consumes my attention. I know you mean well, butc’

  ‘Mean well?’ Niska rolled her eyes in their sockets. ‘Val, how do I convince you? The only way you will understand that what I propose is right is to actually go through with it. Then you will know for certain. But it requires a measure of faith from you, which I see you are unwilling to give.’

  ‘I can’t go to the old domain and lark about doing rituals on the beach while my wife and daughter remain captive. And I have to be seen to be taking action, otherwise my superiors in Magrast will wonder why I haven’t returned to my duties.’

  ‘I appreciate your reservations,’ Niska said, ‘but I’m not asking you to do this because of my personal ambitions for the Sisterhood. I know how unstable everything is, but I also know it is the right time for you to act. You need only send word back to Magrast that you are following a promising lead. Send men to Cos. You might uncover helpful information there. Khaster will have come by sea. If I were you, my first priority would be to seek the vessel he chartered.’

  ‘I had thought of that,’ Valraven said stiffly, ‘and have already sent men to investigate the matter.’

  ‘You don’t have a hope of rescuing Ren and Elly unless you go to Old Caradore and accept your heritage,’ Niska said. ‘Trust me, it is the only way to restore your family and bring stability to the empire. I have no doubt you will discover Ren’s whereabouts at the old domain, and also the true reason for Khaster’s behaviour. He is part of your destiny, as you are of his. Every event is part of a grand design. I know that you and my brother are inextricably linked. It is almost mythical, the replaying of an ancient saga. This too, I believe, will be discovered, or remembered, at Old Caradore. You and Khaster are moving towards a certain point, and we must look upon every occurrence as part of a great ritual.’

  Valraven was silent for a moment. Conflicting feelings coursed through his body. He remembered the moment when he’d stood over Leonid’s corpse and had wondered, for a scant moment, whether he could reclaim his family’s power. Niska’s eyes were fixed upon him. Her gaze was without heat, but held the power and might of the ocean itself. Valraven swallowed, found his mouth dry. He rubbed a hand over his chin, cleared his throat. ‘Then I had better tell you of the Crown of Silence,’ he said.

  Chapter Sixteen: Wolves Hunting

  Tatrini stood in the shady cool of a small parlour just off her private garden, where she had chosen all the trees and shrubs herself, favouring those that drooped and swung like dryad hair: willows and tender birches. Summer had almost come to Magravandias, and Magrast shimmered in an early heat wave. Tatrini watched Tayven and Rav outside, as they sat on the lawn, talking: a picture of contentment and innocence. Her plans appeared to be progressing well. Tayven was co-operating, which she hadn’t expected so soon. There was no doubt he had an agenda of his own, but for the time being, he appeared content to go along with her. Now it was time to set other schemes in motion. Before the year was out, she would transform the known world, but it would look as if others’ hands were responsible.

  Already Gastern was initiating changes in Magrast. Madragorean churches that still retained ancient firedrake altars in underground shrines had been ordered to dismantle the altars. The firedrakes were a remnant of pagan superstition and therefore did not belong in Gastern’s vision of a modern Madragorean world. His decision had alarmed the Order of Splendifers, who despite being Madragorean knights, held dear the ancient beliefs. Their own site of initiation was the fire pit of the drakes just outside Magrast. Tatrini had no doubt that before long Gastern would decree that the Splendifers should discard any pagan leanings. Soon, her eldest son would begin to extend his influence into the empire. She could visualise easily what would happen. Local belief systems would be pronounced heretical and be banned. Allegations of blasphemy and stringent punishment for heretics would follow. For centuries, foreign gods had been regarded as Madragore’s subjects; in much the same way as conquered countries had been the emperor’s subjects. Allowing people to retain their own customs of belief had kept dissension to a minimum. Nothing good could come of Gastern’s pious innovations. It was time now for the Grand Queen Mother to make moves of her own.

  She heard a movement in the room behind her and turned from the window. Grisette Pimalder stood at the threshold. She curtsied. ‘Your grace, Prince Almorante is here.’

  ‘Good. Show him in.’

  ‘Shall I order refreshments?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Thank you.’

  Grisette curtsied once more and backed away. Moments later, Almorante came through the door. ‘Mother,’ he said and executed an abrupt bow.

  Tatrini smiled gently at him. ‘Mante, thank you for coming. I have delicate business to discuss with you.’

  She could almost see the suspicion oozing from every pore of her second eldest son. Not once, in the thirty-six years of his life, had s
he summoned him to her private apartments. As a child, he had played there with his brothers and nursemaids, but once the military academy had claimed him at fourteen – as it had claimed nearly all of them - he had gradually become distant. Family closeness was not an attribute that could be applied to the Malagashes. Now, she and Almorante met only at functions. Once he had grown as a baby within her body, inconceivable to her now. He was virtually a stranger, a man she barely knew, but who she had heard much about. Of all her sons, only Bayard and Leo had remained intimate with her. They were her golden boys. Almorante was dark, where the rest of her brood were fair. When he’d been a small child, there had been gossip concerning his parentage, but it was unfounded. Almorante was a true son of Leonid, but perhaps a throwback to an earlier generation. Tatrini gestured for him to sit in an armchair by the unlit hearth.

  Almorante perched on the edge of his seat, saying nothing. His long dark brown hair hung unbound about his shoulders and his attenuated hands were clasped loosely in his lap. He did not look much like a Magravandian prince, resembling more a brigand lord. Glittering hoops of gypsy gold glinted in his ears and his clothes were functional rather than decorative: soft deerskin that still smelled of the forest. Almorante had changed over the years. Tatrini could remember the times when he’d dressed more like his brothers. He’d looked older then. Now, he gave the impression that he was totally relaxed, but Tatrini was not deceived. He had his camp, she had hers, but she must convince him they could help one another. It would not be easy.

  She too sat down and took a few moments to arrange her gown about her feet. Almorante waited patiently, exuding a fog of silence that seemed to condense the air. ‘There is a task I would like you to undertake for me,’ Tatrini said.

  Almorante shifted slightly. ‘And what might that be, Mother?’