A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  The moment he materialized in Maisak he initiated dissociative spells to close the transfer stream. To pursue the discussion Yo Hsi would have to walk from the hold of his nearest secret ally.

  ii) He bears the burden of loyalty

  Eanred Tarlson was one man who never ceased worrying the mysterious exchange.

  Following his encounter in the Gudbrandsdal there was a long period for which he had no memories. His wife, Handte, said he had lain on the borderland of death for a month. Then, gradually, he had recovered. Six months had passed before he could get around under his own power. Kavelin spent that time under intense pressure from its neighbors.

  At home, in the taverns with his men, or maneuvering in the field, Tarlson never stopped puzzling. Something kept ragging the corners of his mind. A clue that only he held. Some memory of having encountered the old man before, long ago. But his bout with death had left his mind unreliable.

  “Maybe it’s a memory from a previous life,” his wife observed one evening, a year after the swap. She was the only one he had told. “I was reading one of Gjerdrum’s books. There’s a man at the Rebsamen, Godat Kothe, who says the half-memories we get sometimes are from other lives.”

  Gjerdrum had just finished a year in Hellin Daimiel, courtesy of the Krief. Handte Tarlson, with a thirst for knowledge and little opportunity to indulge it, had instantly begun devouring his books.

  Eanred frowned. That reminded him of a problem he had to face soon. The Nordmen were upset that a common Wesson, on state funds, was being sent to a university considered a noble preserve.

  It had begun without Tarlson’s knowledge, during his unconsciousness. There had been strong opposition, which was stronger now. Gjerdrum had outperformed his classmates. Though Tarlson felt immensely honored, he feared he would have to ask the boy to withdraw.

  He felt a quirk of irritation. It startled him. It wasn’t like him to feel antagonism over accidents of birth. Still, they couldn’t accuse him of ambition. He had never asked honors or titles, only the opportunity to serve.

  “Maybe. But I’m sure it’s a memory from this life. I’ll find the handle someday.” After a long pause, “I have to. I’m the only one who saw them all.”

  “Eanred, tell the King. Don’t take everything on yourself.”

  “Maybe.” He considered it.

  Weeks passed before he spoke with the Krief. The occasion was his induction into the Order of the Royal Star, the Crown’s household knights. The endowment was hereditary and carried a small living.

  The Nordmen were bitter. But their opposition remained muted. The ceremony took place in Vorgreberg, where Tarlson was immensely popular.

  He could be put in his place when the mad King died.

  Afterward, in his private-audience chamber, the Krief asked, “Eanred, how are you? I’ve heard the pressure’s bothering you.”

  “Fine, Sire. Never better.”

  “I don’t believe it. You showed nerves today.”

  “Sire?”

  “Eanred, you’re the only loyal subject I’ve got. You’re invaluable as champion, but worth immeasurably more as a symbol. Why do you think the barons hate you? Your very existence makes their treasons more obvious. They resist honoring you because it makes you more prominent, makes your loyalty a greater example to the lower classes. And that’s why I refuse to let you take Gjerdrum out of the Rebsamen.”

  Tarlson was startled.

  The King chuckled. “Thought you had that in mind. In character. Bring me a brandy, will you?”

  While Tarlson poured, the Krief continued, “Eanred, I don’t have much time left. Three or four years. If I do things that seem strange, don’t be surprised. I’m chasing a grand plan. So the scramble for succession won’t destroy Kavelin. Thank you. Pour one for yourself.” For several minutes he sipped quietly while Tarlson waited.

  “Eanred, when I’m gone, will you support the Queen?”

  “Need you ask, Sire?”

  “No, but I don’t envy you the task. My remotest cousins will be after the Crown. You’ll have no support.”

  “Nevertheless…” He remembered his wife’s suggestion. “Maybe if we found the true Prince…”

  “Ah. You know. I guess everyone does. But it’s not that easy. There’re facts known only to myself and the Queen. And the kidnappers. Eanred, the Prince was a girl. Fool that I was, I thought we could pretend otherwise…”

  Tarlson dropped into a chair. “Sire, I’m a simple man. This’s a bit complicated… But there’s something I’ve got to tell you. It may help.” He described what he had seen the night of the abduction.

  “The Captal,” the Krief said when Eanred finished. “I suspected it. The creatures in the tower, you know. But I kept asking myself, what did he have to gain? Now I wonder if he was a willing accomplice, or under duress? I’ve no ideas about your attacker. He must’ve been a Power…”

  “You haven’t investigated?” The puzzle had been answered. The old man

  had

  been the Captal of Savernake. Eanred had seen him briefly during the wars.

  “I had my reasons. For now I have a son, though he’ll never be King. Meanwhile, I keep hoping there’ll be an acceptable heir…” For a moment his face expressed intense anguish. “The girl’s no more my blood than the changeling.”

  “Sire?”

  “Don’t know how it was managed. But I didn’t father the child. Haven’t had the capacity since the wars. No need to be shocked, Eanred. I’ve managed to live with it. As has the Queen, though she wasn’t told till recently… I’d run out of excuses. And it was time she knew. She might find a way to give me an heir before it’s too late.” He smiled a tight, agonized smile.

  “I doubt it, Sire. The Queen…”

  “I know. She’s young and idealistic… But a man has to live by his forlorn, twisted hopes.”

  Tarlson shook his head slowly. More than the knighthood, the Krief’s confessions were honors that showed the high esteem in which he was held. He wished there was something he could do…

  He returned home in a dour, bitter mood, silently cursing Fate, yet with a renewed respect for the man who was his lord and friend. Let the Nordmen call him weakling. The man had a strength they would never understand.

  iii) She walks in darkness

  Three times emissaries of the Demon Prince came to Maisak. Each time the Captal sent them home with polite but firm refusals. Then he heard nothing for a long time.

  He considered going to the Krief. But temptation called. He might stumble into something yet…

  News came, whispering on demon wings, of a great thaumaturgic disaster. It stirred awe and fear among sorcerers throughout the west.

  Yo Hsi

  and

  the Dragon Prince had been destroyed. In his hidden fortress deep in the Dragon’s Teeth, the sorcerer Varthlokkur, the murderer of Ilkazar, had stirred and twitched and lashed out with unsuspected power.

  The Captal, like sorcerers everywhere, retired to his most secure fastness to cast divinations and lay a wary inner eye on the Power in the north. The possibilities were unimaginable. The Empire Destroyer loose again. What would he do now?

  And what of Shinsan? Nu Li Hsi’s heir-apparent was a crippled child, incapable of holding the Dragon Throne. Yo Hsi’s daughter was a postulant of a hermitic order, uninterested in her father’s position and power… Would Varthlokkur seize Shinsan before the Tervola could select an Emperor?

  Across the west, sorcerers gathered their strength, saw to their defenses.

  And nothing happened. The Power in the Dragon’s Teeth quietly faded away. The Captal’s probes sensed only patient waiting, not ambition, not gathering sorcery.

  Nor were there thaumaturgic hostings in Shinsan. Both successions proceeded smoothly.

  He returned to his experiments.

  She came at night, under a full moon, three years to the day after the baby change. In her train were imps and cockatrices, griffins, and a sky-patrolling d
ragon. She rode a milk-white unicorn.

  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He loved her from the beginning.

  Shoptaw roused him from slumber with the news.

  “Has the alarm been given?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Great magic. Terrible power. Many strange beasts. Men without souls.”

  “You’ve been to see them?”

  “I flew with five…”

  “And?” A pang of distress. “Someone was hurt?” He loved his creations as a man loved his children.

  “No. Very frightened, though. Not get close. Great winged beast, eyes and tongue of fire, large as many horses…”

  “A dragon?”

  Shoptaw nodded.

  Dragons were incredibly rare, and sorcerers who had learned dragon mastery rarer still. “They didn’t act hostile?”

  “No.” But the winged man drew his crystal dagger.

  The Captal’s gaze wandered its edges and planes. There was a glow almost indiscernible.

  “No inimical intentions,” he translated. “Well, let’s have a look at them.”

  She was a half-mile away when first he spied her, a glowing point below the circling dragon. He recognized the unicorn, was awed. Unicorns, he had on high authority, were extinct.

  “Mist,” he whispered once she had drawn closer. “Yo Hsi’s daughter.”

  She stopped before the gate, showed the palms of both hands. The Captal smiled. He knew the gesture was empty if she intended evil.

  Yet it

  was

  a gesture. No sense antagonizing her when she had Shinsan’s best at her back. A fight would be hopeless. He would last barely long enough to send a message to Vorgreberg.

  He delayed the message pending outcome of the parlay.

  She understood his position. She did not ask that he admit anyone to his fortress. “I’ve come to discuss a matter of mutual interest.” Her bell-like voice turned his spine to water.

  “Eh?” Her beauty was totally distracting.

  “You had an arrangement with my father. I want to renew it.”

  He gawked.

  She descended from her exotic mount, said something to one of her captains. The soldiers of Shinsan began pitching camp with the same precision shown in everything they did. Among the imps there was an increase in erratic, chaotic behavior.

  The Captal found his tongue. “I’d heard you weren’t interested in the Demon Throne.” He glanced at the unicorn. “But I’ve heard other tales that, obviously, were unfounded.”

  She rewarded him with a melting smile. “One must create images to survive a heartbeat from a throne. Had my father believed me interested, he’d’ve had me killed. The greater the power, the greater the fear of its loss.”

  “The bargain with your father,” the Captal said, after he and the woman had made themselves comfortable inside, “became untenable when he lost touch with reality. He made grave errors and blamed them on others.”

  “I know. And I apologize. He was a brilliant man once. I think you’d find me a more compatible partner.”

  Oh, the suggestiveness she put into her words!

  “Show me the profit. You have the Demon Throne, but do you have its power? Dare you look beyond your borders? The Dragon Prince, too, had an heir.”

  “O Shing? I haven’t run him to ground yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

  “Tervola have declared.” The Tervola were the sorcerer-generals who commanded Shinsan’s armies. Traditionally, they gave no loyalties to anything but Shinsan itself. “Not many yet. Lords Feng and Wu support O Shing. Lord Chin has declared for me. You see that I’ve captured his token.”

  “The dragon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uhm. And the unicorn? I’d thought the beast pure fable.”

  “They’re rare. Rarer than dragons. But there’ll always be unicorns while there’re virgins—though we’re rarer than dragons, too.”

  The Captal stirred nervously. “You’re not one of those… those whose power depends on…”

  Her perfect lips formed the tiniest pout. “Sir!” Then she laughed. “Of course not. I’m no fool to hinge my strength on something so easily lost. I’m as human as any woman.”

  The old man felt a twinge of envy for the man who would first reach Mist’s bed.

  “What’s your offer?” he asked.

  “The same as my father’s. But I won’t cheat you.”

  He was hooked, but he continued to wriggle. “What’re your plans?”

  “I mean to test my power. On Shinsan’s borders there’re a few small kingdoms that have been troublesome. And I’ll finish O Shing.”

  “And then?”

  “Then the great eastern powers. Escalon and Matayanga.”

  “Ah?” She was ambitious indeed, though only to fulfill what Shinsan considered its destiny. And he saw an opportunity to hedge his bets. “I might be interested. But you haven’t convinced me. If you succeed in Escalon, then I’ll commit myself.” Escalon commanded sorceries as powerful as those of Shinsan.

  Mist wanted to reopen the transfer link. She had a friend in the west, an Itaskian named Visigodred. His residence was far from the focus of events and he was completely apolitical. She would leave control of the link in his hands.

  iv) Mistress of the night

  She looked seventeen. An enemy might have suggested nineteen. But she was old beyond the suspicions of all but the Tervola. She had been an apparent seventeen when Yo Hsi had engineered Varthlokkur into destroying Ilkazar. She herself was unsure of her age. She had spent centuries cloistered from the temptations of life and power…

  Yo Hsi had never forgotten that he and Nu Li Hsi had usurped their father, Tuan Hoa. He had always anticipated his own usurpation by descendants… Males he had had murdered at birth. Mist had been allowed life on her mother’s promise that she would spend her existence confined to a nunnery.

  Survival had been the obsession of her early existence. She had done everything to assure her father that she had rejected ambition.

  She succeeded. And cozened him into placing upon her the sorceries yielding eternal youth.

  Those victories won, she turned to sorcerous self-education.

  With the centuries never ending there was time to learn cautiously, by nibbles, without being obvious. By the time she was exposed she had become as powerful as any Tervola. The Power was in her blood. Still she showed no ambition beyond the scholarly. Her father chose not to destroy her.

  But she had ambitions. And patience. Varthlokkur and the destruction of the Empire had shown her that Yo Hsi contained the seeds of his own destruction. She needed but wait.

  Varthlokkur had come to Shinsan as a child, a fugitive full of hatred. The master magicians of Ilkazar, trying to evade a prophecy that from a witch would spring the Empire’s doom, had burned his mother. Yo Hsi had undertaken his education, forging a weapon with which to demolish the one power capable of challenging Shinsan. But he had not supervised the boy’s education himself. He had left that to the Tervola. They had seen no reason to keep him from meeting Nu Li Hsi as well.

  Each Prince had thought to use him against the other. He had shaken their mastery, after crushing Ilkazar, and had hidden in the Dragon’s Teeth. When, after centuries, they had striven to regain control, he had trapped them both…

  Mist had ascended the Demon Throne without risk or effort. Only a little muddying of the thaumaturgic visions of her father and Nu Li Hsi. Just enough to hasten them to their fates.

  The conquest of Escalon appeared easy. She needed but overwhelm the magic of the Monitor and Tear of Mimizan. O Shing was on the run. Her back was clear.

  Appearances were deceiving. Escalon controlled more Power than she expected, and O Shing’s weakness was the pretense of the broken-winged pheasant.

  He struck while she was committed in Escalon, during the height of a battle. Only the greater threat of an Escaloni
an offensive saved her by forcing him to assume control of the armies.

  Mimicking O Shing’s game, she struck back while he was involved in a gargantuan operation against the Monitor. She forced another change of command, resumed control of the adventure she had initiated.

  In Escalon she captured some western mercenaries. Among them were interesting brothers named Turran and Valther, minor wizards who had been involved in the affair that had led to her father’s doom. They seemed to have no particular allegiance to Escalon, and no love for Varthlokkur, whom she would have to face someday. She took them into her growing coterie of foreign followers.

  The Tervola issued dire warnings about foreigners. She ignored them.

  The younger brother, Valther, caught her fancy. He was a pleasant, witty man, sharp of mind, always ready with a quip or tall tale. And he was impressed by her looks. Most men were terrified of what she was.

  It developed so subtly that neither recognized more than a surface involvement. They hawked together in lands far from the war, danced on mountaintops deep in Shinsan, skipped through transfer links to cities and fortresses unknown outside the Dread Empire. She showed him the fains and shrines of her father and grandfather, and let him join the hunt for O Shing.

  But there was the war, her war, that had to come before all else, that would mean loss of the Demon Throne if she failed.

  The bond developed, deepened. The Tervola saw, understood, and disapproved.

  There came a night of rites and celebration before the final assault on Tatarian. Spirits were high. O Shing seemed broken. Escalon had little Power left… Over the objections of her generals, she invited Turran and Valther.

  Her pavilion, huge and rich, had been erected within sight of Tatarian’s defensive magicks, and everything in it had been plundered from Escalon. Mist meant to accept the Monitor’s surrender there, in humiliating circumstances. He had caused her untold unhappiness.

  “Valther,” she said, when he and Turran arrived, “come sit with me.”

  The man flashed a broad smile. The demon-faced visors of sullen Tervola tracked him like weapons. His brother sent a dark look after him. Valther sat, leaned close, whispered, “My Lady looks radiant tonight. And ravishing. Good news?”