The stormcaller tr-1

by Tom Lloyd

  Isak nodded. He'd seen the stern-faced white-eye stamping around

  the Palace, but the general had offered neither friendship nor con-

  versation. The guards said Lahk had been taken to the Temple of Nartis by Bahl twenty years back. Lahk was the only white-eye other than Bahl to have reached a position of some power, but Nartis had

  rejected him as Krann. His body had been scarred with lightning, and it was whispered in the barracks that his soul had been burnt out too, for the general cared for nothing but serving his lord.

  'Until you met Inch?'

  A flicker of pain ran across Bahl's brow, but he just nodded sadly. 'Ineh.' He savoured the name as he said it, as though it left a sweet taste on his lips. Isak was desperate to ask more, but he was nervous of going too far.

  'Are they right in what they say?'

  'Which is?'

  That it's better to have loved and lost?'

  Bahl gave a short, bitter laugh. There was no humour in his eyes when he answered, 'You really are a strange one. I can't think of that occurring to any other white-eye. No, it doesn't matter; just be careful not to pry too far. Is it better? Perhaps, I felt more alive then; she gave me a reason to be more human. Atro was a tumour in the belly of this tribe, but it was only when I met Ineh that I cared. Only then did I bother to notice the hurt he was causing. To live with such loss I would not wish on any man, but to live without the joy that came before… if a man can stand before the Gods and choose not to have known the one he has lost, he never truly loved her.'

  'I'm sorry.' The words sounded absurd, worthless, and Isak almost winced as he said them. Bahl didn't reply, other than for a tired sigh. For a minute he looked like a sad old man, then the blank visage reasserted itself, burying all emotion deep inside once more.

  'Don't be sorry. Regrets are no use to a Lord of the Parian – which reminds me, Lesarl tells me you have a problem with keeping your own counsel during meetings. That's another skill you could happily study.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean what you called the Marshal of Quetek. However apparent it was, that observation cost Lesarl severely.'

  'Well, the man was being paid enough already, and he was demanding that Lesarl help him arrange a marriage. He was practically drooling at the thought.'

  'The girl's a maid in the palace, no? I've seen her. You'd probably drool yourself.'

  The girl's fourteen summers! The Marshal of Quetek is over sixty, with a grown heir already. He's in no need of another wife.'

  'But he will have one, whether you like it or not. And if you did

  somehow manage to stop him, he would no doubt force his maids into his bed and turn them out of the house when he tires of them. If he marries, there is some constraint on his behaviour – and the girl is going to be married anyway. To wed an old Marshal means she'll soon be a widow of property. Next time, think before you start to moralise to your elders.'

  'I wasn't moralising. I just didn't like the man. Why should I hold my tongue?'

  'And that's what you should learn.'

  Isak frowned. 'Perhaps I should, but I've no desire to. I've spent my whole life biting things back, keeping quiet when I'm in the right and taking every insult I get from men I could break in half. People might still hate me, but at least now they're going to have to be careful about it.'

  For a moment Bahl looked concerned, as though he had just been reminded of a deeply troubling conversation, then he muttered, 'Fine, just don't try to make any more enemies – those will come fast enough without you adding to them. Now go and clear your mind for when the priest comes. The calmer you are, the easier it will be for both of you.'

  'Isak, it's time.'

  Isak didn't reply, but raised a hand to acknowledge Tila's words. He was sat on a cushion in the palace shrine, high under the eaves of the palace. There were scenes of Nartis hunting on ev/ery wall, and the ceiling represented a night sky. The many pillars iin the room were painted like trees, each one reaching up and spreading branches into the ceiling to meet the sky.

  This room was an oasis of solitude, far from the bustle of the palace, and one that only the rich could afford. Even in Isak's formal chambers, luxurious open rooms on the second floor,, there was always noise: the tramp of servants, guards and palace residents shook the corridors, while from outside came the pounding of hooves and constant shouted orders from the training ground.

  Up here, where few were permitted to go, Isak could enjoy his own company in what little free time he had. When not training or shadowing Lesarl through innumerable meetings, he was struggling through a library of dusty texts, learning to be botth politician and religious figure. He was floundering under the sheer weight of both.

  His thoughts turned to the man who would be waiting for him downstairs. Lesarl had taught him never to rush to meet anyone but an old friend. Even for Lord Bahl, Lesarl would calmly find a break in his work and walk to where he was required, retaining his composure at all times. When it was urgent, Bahl didn't have the patience to send a servant.

  Even though it had been only two weeks, Isak could already appreciate the advantages. He couldn't claim to like Lesarl, but his respect for the Chief Steward was growing daily. The man could infuriate with a smile and a gentle handshake. Isak had learned to his cost the price of becoming annoyed and leaving himself open to goading. Lesarl now owned a valuable manor in Anvee: an object lesson, Lord Bahl said, in agreeing to anything – particularly a wager – while angry.

  Lesarl strode around with an aura of almost palpable confidence that made men defer to him almost as much as they did Lord Bahl. Isak recognised that regal presence was something else he should cultivate.

  ‘Tila, did you learn the story of Amavoq's Cup when you were younger?' he asked.

  'Of course,' she said. 'Why?'

  'Because I didn't. I hardly know any of the old tales. There's a picture of it over there on the wall – I'd seen it on a temple wall before, but never thought to ask. Earlier today I saw Lesarl send off a carriage loaded with as much gold as it could carry, to be sent all the way to Merlat, all because of that bloody cup.'

  'Well, Amavoq's Cup was only the origin of the dispute with the Yeetatchen. Quite a lot more has happened in the meantime.'

  'But the point is I didn't have a clue, and when I asked I looked like a fucking idiot – '

  'Isak!'

  He turned at her shocked voice, then realised what was wrong. ‘Oh don't worry, Nartis isn't listening.'

  ,

  Tila was blushing furiously at his words. 'Isak, you can't say such things, especially in a temple! What if anyone heard? Even a can be charged with impiety, and the Gods – '

  'Stop worrying; you're the only one to hear. I think I'm closely enough to Nartis to feel his presence in one of his shrine. As for impiety, how would they enforce it? I'm apparently a figure in the Cult of Nartis, and Lord Bahl is the official head. I would

  assume a charge of impiety against me would require, at the very least, his signature. Even if it doesn't, am I going to be dragged by a few elderly priests to the courts?'

  'What about the dark monks?'

  The who? Something else I'm supposed to know? Is there anything else?’

  'I…1 don't really know, but there's not much I can tell you about

  the dark monks; no one really knows a lot, other than that they're called the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings and people say that they seek out and assassinate heretics throughout the Land.'

  'Wonderful! Religious fanatics and assassins; what a sensible combination. Still, there are none in earshot, so I'm still safe.' He eased himself up off the cushion, wondering idly what myth was behind the lack of seats in any temple dedicated to Nartis. No explanations came to mind and he dismissed it quickly. He had kept Lord Bahl waiting quite long enough.

  He adjusted his long robe, dark blue like those worn by all monks of Nartis. His was distinguished by the dragon brooch pinned on his chest. Nobles were expected t
o wear their crest in some form at all times, and now he knew that, Isak had begun to notice the subtle embroidered patches and jewellery men in the palace wore. Tila was getting more made for him, a number fitting to his high station. He wouldn't have bothered, except for the way Tila said 'your high station' had made it impossible for the wagon-brat in him to refuse.

  He ran a hand over his shorn head and smiled at the thought of what Carel would say if he could see him now. He loved being able to walk into any shop he liked and be fussed over like a prince, although Tila's

  efforts to convert him to fashion were floundering. Every day another outfit arrived for his consideration, though he preferred the simplicity

  of the formal robes that were spurned by most of the nobility of his age. They preferred a gaudier look bedecked with ornamentation. But in all of this, he had managed to keep his scar hidden. He still wasn't quite sure why it mattered, but now he was shadowed by servants and guards he felt he wanted to keep some things secret from the rest of the palace.

  As Isak descended the main staircase, he felt a flicker of trepidation in his stomach. Beside him, Tila's shoes scuffed on the stone steps as she kept up with him. In deference to the High Priest, she wore a white scarf over her head, wrapping it around the single plait that

  ran down her back. As they reached the top of the stair, Tila asked whether any of the charms in her hair were showing.

  Isak suspected that he didn't know the reason for that tradition either, but at least he understood that she didn't want to wear another God's rune so obviously in front of a High Priest, even though adults could wear as many charms as they wanted. Tila had inherited four antique pieces from her grandmother that she loved.

  'Lord Isak,' called the guardsman at the foot of the stair, 'you're expected. This way.' He pointed to his left towards the Great Hall where the last door before the entrance to the hall was open. Swordmaster Kerin stood in the doorway looking uncomfortable in his formal uniform, a dress version of the Palace Guard's black and white livery. The Swordmaster bowed as Isak approached, which made Isak frown in surprise – only that morning Kerin had been screaming curses at him out on the training field.

  'Inside,' he muttered. 'Relax and do what you're told, even if you don't feel like it. The man's going to look inside your mind; it's dangerous, so don't fight him or decide to "try something" yourself, understand?'

  Isak nodded and Kerin backed away through the door to let the Krann pass into the ducal audience chamber, a room fifteen yards long and empty of furniture except for the Lord of the Farlan's ceremonial seat. The room was seldom used these days as most suits and requests went through Lesarl. The Chief Steward maintained offices at both Tirah Palace and Cold Halls, once a palace, now the city administra-tors' offices, on the north side of Irienn Square. He had been known to make people queue outside in bad weather, just to ensure their business was sufficiently important. His personal suite of offices commanded a fine view of the square below.

  Inside, the cluster of men stopped talking and turned. Lord Bahl, in formal attire and wearing a silver circlet on his hooded head, was seated on the massive ducal throne. Beside him, on a more temporary seat, was the High Priest. The flashes of purple and yellow on his dark blue robe marked him as a follower of Larat. There was another priest in similar robes standing beside the High Priest's chair.

  Despite Isak's misgivings, the man – Afger Wetlen, so Tila had told him – looked a far cry from the conniving devotee of Larat he d been expecting. The High Priest was a bony old man with a sickly complexion and rheumy eyes. He seemed to be having difficulty

  enough remaining upright in his seat, let alone pursuing the schemes Of a duplicitous God. The sharp-eyed priest supporting his master's elbow was a different matter, but Isak reminded himself that most people looked that way at a white-eye, so there was no point reading anything into it.

  Four novices who had accompanied them were huddled in a far corner, no doubt terrified by the presence of Lord Bahl. They'd probably been brought along because they were showing some tendency towards magic – it usually started to manifest at puberty. If they could sense power on even the most basic level, they would find Lord Bahl's presence extremely disturbing. Isak grinned widely at them, which made them shrink back even further, and walked over to the seated men.

  Lord Bahl introduced Isak, saying formally, 'High Priest Wetlen, may I present to you my Krann, the Chosen of Nartis, Lord Isak.'

  'My Lord.' The old man struggled to his feet, helped by the young priest at his elbow. 'I presume Lord Bahl has told you something of what I intend.'

  'Not really, not in detail,' Isak admitted, trying not to feel any fear.

  'It is rather difficult to explain. No doubt he thought it best to leave that to me, so I will do so while we get settled.' The old man gestured at a door in the wall of the main chamber that Isak hadn't noticed. 'Lord Bahl has been kind enough to allow me the use of an antechamber as we will need to be alone.'

  'Your Eminence?' The young priest at his side looked rather alarmed, but High Priest Wetlen just waved him away.

  'I will be fine. Your presence will just complicate matters,' he said sternly. 'I'm not so old I can't sit still without your help.' He swatted at his assistant, but his effort ended abruptly with a sharp hiss of pain and he capitulated. 'Very well, help me in there, and then leave us.' Isak could hear the old man's frustration at the failings of his body. The attendant priest made no comment, but waved at one of the novices to bring the chair. The boy scuttled about his task, his eyes darting from one white-eye to the other as the four of them passed Bahl and went and went through the door on his right.

  ‘Come on boy, put it down there – no, facing the table. Fetch that

  cushion and place it before the chair. Lord Isak, I suggest you sit on the cushion and focus your attention on the painting above the table.

  It will help things go smoothly if you have something to concentrate on.' The High Priest eased himself into the seat and gave a quiet sigh of satisfaction before patting at the various charms at his belt.

  'Now then, my Lord – yes, Unmen, you can go, and shut the door behind you – now then, Lord Isak, Lord Bahl has requested that my Aspect guide is not present during these sessions. If you would sprinkle this powder in a circle around us, it will ensure that is the case.'

  Isak took the brass vial the old man had proffered, but he made no move to remove the stopper. Instead, he asked, 'Aspect guide?'

  'Yes- oh, but of course, you wouldn't have one; limiting, if you ask me, but perhaps it is for the best. Do you not know about them at all?'

  'I know what an Aspect is.'

  High Priest Wetlen gave a phlegmy chuckle. 'I assumed you would know that, at least. What I meant was whether you knew about magical guides, but I presume not. The mages understandably don't want it to become public knowledge, but this is how it works: to aid their researches, an apprentice mage of sufficient promise will find a guide to bind to him, and to use to build his grimoire.

  'These guides are creatures of magic, very minor daemons, too weak to exert any control over their mage, but knowledgeable enough to substantially build on what is taught at the colleges. Crucially, they are also intelligent enough to know that their own power will increase proportionally if they do cooperate, and as creatures of magic, their perspective is most valuable.

  'Theologically this is difficult ground, so priests with similar promise take an Aspect of their chosen God instead – a weaker choice, but more acceptable for a religious figure. Ducohs, my own guide, has been with me for more than sixty years.'

  'It has a name?'

  'But of course.' Isak's comment seemed to amuse the old man. 1 have been High Priest for more than twenty years now, and as my strength and ability have increased, so have Ducohs'. Now, make a circle with the powder.'

  This time Isak did as he was told. His curiosity about this withered old man was mounting: he talked about an Aspect of Larat as he would an old friend. Whe
n he had finished, Isak replaced the stopper and handed the bottle back. The priest fumbled as he attempted to reattach it to one of the chains that hung from his waist, but the

  determined set to his mouth made it clear enough that he wanted no

  help.

  'Right, now we are ready. Sit in front of me and concentrate on the picture. This will be disconcerting, so it is better to keep your eyes open and focused on something.'

  Isak sat and stared intently at the painting while High Priest Wetlen wheezed and muttered unintelligibly. The painting, a classical image of Nartis hunting, was old and ugly. Isak scowled. Whoever the artist was, he was an idiot who had no idea how living creatures moved or stood. Nartis himself was grossly parodied: shown almost naked, with deep blue skin and an excessively muscular body. The figure looked brutal, like a daemon, not a God, with no grace or subtlety about it.

  Isak kept his eyes on the painting as the High Priest reached out and touched his head, gently drawing magic from the air around them so Isak's ears began to buzz and ring at the sensation of energies rushing through him. It felt like cool, ghostly fingers dipping into his mind. Then he felt the powers pause and hold, and he himself relaxed and unclenched his fists.

  He smothered the alarm he felt in the back of his mind and took a deep breath, waiting for the High Priest to continue. He trembled as the smooth but relentless fingers traced the shape of his soul, and closed his eyes.

  Swordmaster Kerin watched Lord Bahl as they waited outside in silence. The white-eye had his eyes closed and his head rested heavily on one hand. It was an unnerving sight: a tired king on his throne. To the Swordmaster, Bahl had always been a man of boundless strength and energy, impervious to the burdens imposed by power.

  Bahl's eyes jerked wide open and he was already upright as a blinding crash of light and noise burst through the antechamber door. Kerin

  flinched away from the explosion, arms held protectively over his face as pieces of shattered door flew across the room.