Cloak of the Two Winds

by Jack Massa

  One burning hand gripped Amlina's sleeve and set it smoldering. But Amlina tore free and reached the door. She flung back the bolt and pulled the door open, shrieking again for the Iruks, just as Beryl caught her from behind.

  Lying in bed but not yet asleep, Lonn and his mates heard Amlina scream. At once they jumped from under the covers. Wearing their deerskin garments they rushed from the chamber, each pausing only to grab a sword or spear.

  With Draven in the lead, they ran across the fire-lit common room, where most of the patrons were up and looking about in confusion. Lonn heard Amlina scream again as they dashed up the steps, knocking aside the landlady who had started up with a lantern to investigate.

  A couple of tenants from nearby rooms had reached Amlina's door already. They stood at the threshold, staring inside, dumbfounded. Lonn and Draven shoved them out of the way and started into the room.

  But what they saw caused even the Iruks to pause—Amlina being strangled by a pair of flaming hands, a flaming face above, and nothing more.

  Unnerved for a moment, Lonn and Draven gathered their wits and charged.

  The mask looked up and saw them coming. The gloves whipped Amlina about like a doll and flung her against the legs of the onrushing Iruks.

  Lonn and Draven stumbled over the witch and fell in a tangle. Behind them, Brinda and Karrol had to lurch aside. From the rear Eben threw a spear.

  One of the gloves swept out, leaving a trail of flame. Eben's spear followed the glove's gesture, changing its path in mid-flight to stick harmlessly into the wall.

  The mask tilted back and laughed with mockery. "How puny and inept are your bodyguards. How well they suit you, little Larthang."

  Amlina's robe smoldered, emitting black smoke. Draven beat on the silk with his palms to put out the fire. The other Iruks scrambled up and went after the flaming apparition.

  But before they could reach it the gloves floated up, touched the mask and pulled it forward. Next instant the mask was gone.

  "I will return for you, Amlina," the voice called from nowhere. "Know that and live in fear."

  The Iruks hacked and thrust at the gloves, nearly striking each other in their fury. But the flaming hands floated high, avoiding their weapons. Then one glove gripped the fingers of the other, pulled them forward, and that glove disappeared.

  "And if you chance to see the Cloak, little Larthang, think of me. You will think of me."

  Mocking laughter answered the Iruks' grunts of frustration as the last glove was removed by an unseen hand. Then a strange wind filled the chamber, shaking the desmets and tapestries. Together the wind and laughter seemed to recede into distance, leaving a brittle stillness.

  The Iruks looked at one another in bewilderment and unreleased rage. Amlina lay quivering on the floor, face hidden by her hands. Her sleeve was black and tattered and some of her hair had been singed. Lonn could see blisters rising on her neck.

  Kneeling beside the witch, Draven put a hand on her shoulder. "Amlina, it's over now. The thing is gone."

  "Who was it?" Eben demanded. "Or what?"

  "It was Beryl," Amlina cried, then collapsed into pitiful weeping.

  The Iruks could not quiet her. They had never expected to see the witch so completely unstrung. It disrupted their own confidence even more than had the fiery apparition.

  "Leave me alone," Amlina cried. "Leave me."

  Draven, anguished worry on his face, motioned his mates to join him at the door. A crowd of tenants had gathered outside, watching in mute amazement.

  "I'll stay with her," Draven said. "The rest of you break up this crowd of gawkers, then get some sleep."

  Lonn and the others nodded gravely. Karrol glanced disapprovingly at Amlina's shuddering form, then pushed out through the doorway. Lonn, Eben, and Brinda followed, shut the door, and dispersed the onlookers.

  "What is it? What’s happened?" Elzna the landlady strained to see at the rear of the crowd.

  "It’s all over," Lonn told her. "Everyone can go back to sleep."

  Away from the mazy cluttered streets of the harbor district, beyond the dryland quarters where the wealthy dwelt in their mansions and villas, past the guild halls and government buildings, upon the very tip of the High Acropolis, stood the Palace of the Prince-Ruler of Kadavel, currently occupied by one Hagen of the House of Hessilan.

  On this night, near midnight or just after, Hagen sat in a brightly glowing hall high in an upper story of his palace. The Prince-Ruler was medium-sized, brown-haired and bearded, firmly muscled under the maroon and purple velvets he wore. His mouth was stern and his eyes brooding—although he was surrounded by a scene of riotous gaiety.

  Princes and retainers in brocaded jerkins stood about or reclined on couches, laughed and wagered, drank sweet mead from enameled goblets, pawed lovely courtesans in low-cut gowns.

  The central attraction in this hall full of merriment stood on an iron pedestal in front of Hagen's chair—a miniature arena six feet in diameter. Inside the arena tiny chariots raced round and round, drawn by tiny wolf-steeds, and inch-high gladiators with pins for spears fought dragons the size of human fingers.

  Not the dragons nor the wolves nor the gladiators were real. All were illusions generated by the witchery of the arena. This witchery operated with a kind of intelligence, so that the contests were never repeated or predictable. Hagen had captured this Arena of Illusions in a naval raid against the island of Gon Fu. It ranked among his chief amusements, but tonight it could not divert the Prince-Ruler from his glum preoccupations: the evil portents in the city, the Archimage's fleet at sea.

  Abruptly the shouting and laughter grew quiet. Looking up, Hagen noticed a woman standing at the far entryway. She had made no sound, yet her very presence had drawn the attention of everyone in the hall. She stepped forward, and Hagen found himself transfixed by her shining eyes.

  Could it be? he wondered.

  The woman was tall and slender, beautiful with a strange, unmanning beauty. Her blue fur coat, open in front, revealed numerous necklaces, a golden girdle, a dagger in a ruby scabbard. Her white and gold tunic and elaborate feathered headpiece were obviously Nyssanian. But her delicate features and pale skin spoke of noble Larthangan blood.

  It must be, Hagen thought.

  The intruder walked a straight path across the hushed and crowded hall, servants and aristocrats alike stepping back to give her way. As she came near, Hagen spied a movement about her bosom. A small monkey-like creature with a long tail and a hairless, human head crept out of the woman's collar to sit upon her shoulder. The courtesans let out fluttery sounds of surprise and disquiet. The retainers murmured nervously. The appearance of the treeman, as the half-legendary beast was called, quashed Hagen's last doubt of the woman's identity.

  "I am Beryl Quan de Lang, Archimage of the East, Queen of Tallyba, Empress of Far Nyssan." She faced the Prince-Ruler above the Arena of Illusions. "Don’t fault your sentries, my lord. Their vigilance is adequate. I simply darkened their minds as I passed. I have a matter of importance to discuss with you—if you will pardon my abrupt entrance."

  Hagen had risen from his chair. "My lady, your noble personage and air of command convince me you are who you say. As lord of Kadavel I am pleased to greet you, though surprised that you come unannounced and unattended."

  Beryl smiled, her finger touching a necklace of large black beads. "I find it convenient to come and go unobtrusively. But do not imagine me unprotected."

  "Indeed not," Hagen lifted a hand. "I never meant to imply you were incapable of protecting yourself. Chamberlain, a chair for the Archimage of the East."

  Beryl waved the offer aside. "I will stand."

  "As you wish." Hagen deliberately, cautiously resumed his own seat, while all others in the hall remained standing. "What matter do you wish to discuss with me?"

  "A certain possession of mine was stolen recently," Beryl answered. "The Cloak of the Two Winds."

  She judged Hagen's response, then glanced
about, seeming in an instant to meet the eyes of all present. "It was taken from my bone tower by a former apprentice of mine, a foolish young witch. She tried to evade my pursuit by sailing back to Larthang via the South Polar Sea, but she lost the Cloak to Iruk pirates at the Cape of Dekyll. These brigands in turn were victimized by a deepshaper of this city, who ensorcelled one of the Iruk women to bring the Cloak here. I believe it arrived in Kadavel approximately 20 days ago.

  "That was shortly before the Two Winds began blowing wildly over our harbor," Hagen said.

  "No doubt the two facts are linked," Beryl affirmed.

  Now Hagen scanned the faces of his courtiers, seeking to make certain they were as surprised by Beryl's tidings as himself.

  "This is the first we've heard of the theft," he told Beryl with conviction. "When word reached us that your fleet was anchored off Lustre, we assumed you were the one making havoc of our winds and waters. Now it seems we owe you an apology."

  "None is needed," Beryl said. "Your conclusion was reasonable."

  "You are gracious," Hagen replied. "Of course we will do all in our power to see that the Cloak is returned to you. I must confess I am no expert in such matters. I have little to do with witchery, unless it be harnessed for simple amusements such as this toy of Gon Fu."

  He gestured to the arena where the races and duels continued, oblivious to the great outer world. The treeman crawled about on Beryl' s shoulder making sharp, twittering sounds.

  "I realize you are no mage," Beryl said, "nor even a dabbler in the shaping arts. And yet I've seen in the Deepmind that your fate is somehow tied to the Cloak. Why should this be?"

  "I cannot imagine," Hagen answered.

  "Perhaps I can," Beryl mused. "You are the monarch of a powerful city-state. You have extensive overseas holdings, and no doubt covet more. Though no deepshaper yourself, you have deepshapers in your employ. And you've doubtless heard it said that the Cloak of the Two Winds won my empire almost by itself. Indeed, I can see how a ruler in your position might consider the Cloak a most enviable prize."

  Hagen shrugged uncomfortably. "I have no wish to possess such a prize. Kadavel is strong and prosperous already. At least we have been up till now. I don't know how long even we may prosper under the conditions of these past days. Therefore, my only wish for the Cloak of the Two Winds is that it go back whence it came."

  "Then be comforted," Beryl gazed into his eyes with cold fire. "For soon that wish will be granted."

  "Well enough. How may I assist in bringing about this end we both desire?"

  "Only leave it to me." Beryl raised her hand and an amber ring with the stone worn on the palm side glinted at Hagen. "But if by chance you should learn where the Cloak is, you will think of me, won't you?"

  "Of course," Hagen said, then knitted his brows.

  Beryl saw that the cantrip held in the amber ring had locked onto Prince Hagen’s mind, fixed there by his own words of agreement. Should knowledge of the Cloak's location reach Hagen, his first thought would be of Beryl—and that thought would search her out through the shimmering, indefinite ways of the Deepmind.

  "Good evening, my lord," Beryl nodded and turned to depart.

  "Wait," Hagen called, "Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my palace."

  "Thank you, but no," Beryl answered without pausing or turning her head. "I prefer less conspicuous lodgings."

  As the Archimage moved toward the distant doorway the treeman looked back from inside her collar, chattering and jerking his head rapidly up and down.

  Moments later, as Beryl was descending a grand staircase lit by candles in gilded holders, the treeman crept out to stand on her shoulder and chirp in her ear, making sounds only her mind could interpret as language.

  "Mistress, Mistress. Why tell him so much? What reason in this?"

  "The same reason I had for sparing the Larthangan pup when I could have burned her lodgings down around her. Either of them might lead me to the Cloak."

  "But will he seek it?"

  "Oh, yes. If his fate was not bound to the Cloak before it is now. He is ambitious, and even to one who only partly comprehends its power, the Cloak is a compelling temptation. This very night he will summon his spies and henchmen and set them on the trail."

  "Oh, you are wondrously clever, mistress. How can any of them hope to defeat you?"

  "They cannot," Beryl said.

  But the very thought that she had spoken these words now gave her pause, raised a shade of fear. Amlina’s theft of the Cloak had caught Beryl off-guard. For the first time in over half a century, she had been challenged and—however temporarily—bested. Rage and indignation at this betrayal now drove her actions. But more than that: a tiny seed of doubt had been planted, an excruciating sense of vulnerability. To quell those feelings, she must not only regain the Cloak, she must crush all who opposed her. Amlina, in particular, must be painfully destroyed.

  Brooding on these things, Beryl moved on through Hagen's palace, past the rigid sentries whose minds she had earlier darkened—who now dared not even breathe until she had gone.

  Amlina lay on her bed and stared torpidly into the fire that Draven was tending. The blisters had risen high and, on her instructions, Draven had pierced them with a scalding needle. Then he had applied a salve from the small store of medicines the witch had brought ashore. Now, stepping from the fireplace. Draven glanced down at her and smiled.

  "Your neck looks better already."

  Amlina responded vaguely. "Oh. The burns will heal in a day or two. The ointment will take care of that."

  "Then you'll be all right," Draven said.

  Her gaze returned to the fire. "Beryl broke down my barriers with such ease. I didn't even sense her near me until it was too late."

  The Iruk stared at her grimly.

  "You can leave me," Amlina said. "There's nothing more you can do."

  "Someone should be with you."

  "Beryl won't return tonight. She wants me to live in fear of her a while. Besides, her first interest is finding the Cloak. She knows she can come for me at any time."

  "I will stay," he insisted.

  Amlina felt his compassion, and it raised a response in her heart. It had been so long since she had felt close to anyone, been able to trust … She hesitated, then moved over and asked him to sit beside her. Draven slid onto the bed, warming her with his nearness.

  "Let me hold your hand," she murmured.

  Squeezing his hand in her icy fingers, she could feel his strength flowing into her. She thought she might be draining his vitality, but perhaps it only seemed so. Draven did not flinch or try to pull away, or even seem to notice. It was one of the paradoxes of witchery that a deepshaper, who could wield enormous energies to shape events, was often frail, deficient in the normal energies of the body. Amlina brought Draven's hand to her chest and let it rest wrapped in both her hands.

  Draven gazed at her with heartfelt concern, and she sensed other, less conscious feelings in him. Apprehending the Iruk's passionate nature opened her heart, and she began to cry. Draven held her, and it was a long time before she calmed enough to talk.

  "I'm so afraid, Draven. Beryl is famous for engendering fear, and rightly. I cannot defeat her. I was only deluding myself to believe it."

  "We will find a way," Draven said. "You are a great witch, Amlina. You proved it when you called the fire turtles to free our ship."

  Amlina shook her head, sniffling. "That was by far the greatest magic I ever worked, that and summoning the winds with the Cloak. But to Beryl such feats are commonplace. She is much stronger in the Deepmind than I'll ever be … I didn't tell you the whole truth about myself, Draven. I said I failed at the Academy of the Deepmind, but I also failed here in Kadavel when I tried to make my living as a sorceress. My whole life is a story of running from one failure to the next. I only went to the Academy in the first place because I'd failed to attract a husband by the age of eighteen, and my mother didn't know what else to do with me."<
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  Draven was frowning, trying to keep up with the rush of her words.

  "I'm sorry for you and your friends, that you've gotten involved with me. I've forced honesty out of you, but I've not given it in return. The truth is there's not much chance you'll get Glyssa back. Her mind is probably destroyed by now."

  Draven seized her shoulders and thrust her to arms length.

  "Stop talking that way! We will find Glyssa, and she'll be all right. You will help us find her."

  His anger roared into her, making her tremble. She stared at him through glazed eyes.

  "We will find her," he repeated calmly. "And we will kill Beryl, or else be killed ourselves if it can't be helped. But we will fight her, and you will fight her too. You must. There's no other choice. None."

  Amlina shrank from his fierce gaze, ashamed to have come apart in front of him, more shamed by his courage in contrast. She nodded, and he let go of her, staring again with solicitude, his rage vanished.

  "I'm sorry to have burdened you with my cowardice," she said.

  "Oh, you are too hard on yourself," Draven answered. "You are no burden. Even we Iruks get afraid sometimes. But we have each other to hold on to. You have no one. It’s no surprise if you lose heart."

  Amlina's eyes were tearful again. She leaned against him, and Draven wrapped both strong arms around her.

  A while later, the Iruk noticed that the fire was burning low. But he did not stir to add more fuel. Amlina was sleeping in his arms.

  Asleep downstairs in the pile of furs and mattresses the Iruks had spread on the floor, Lonn dreamed of flaming gloves and masks swarming everywhere, and his klarn trying to fight them. But in the dream the Iruks' knives were useless and their swords melted in their hands. Soon their clothes and hair were on fire…

  Lonn woke stiff and frightened. He opened his eyes and saw Karrol and Eben huddled beside the stove.

  "This is awful," Karrol whispered. "Lonn groaning with nightmares, Draven upstairs coddling the witch, you and I too spooked to sleep. I hate this inn. I always hated the inns in Fleevanport, and I hate this one."

  "In Fleevanport we always got drunk," Eben said. "We need a good dunking in a barrel of mead to lift our spirits."