Grand Conspiracy (62 page)

Except that his natural form was in lane flux, translated above the threshold of matter. He dared not close with heavy energies while immersed in a transformed state of higher frequency. The smallest, most subtle attempt to engage adverse forces would open the floodgates to disaster. In unbodied form, the altered vibration of his physical being and the unbinding spells of attack would combine in one shattering burst of annihilation.

Asandir met the reeling onslaught on the knife-edged awareness that his peril was unforgiving of mistakes. Hurled with the focused impetus of the Waystone, strung runes leached his being like flung acid. Sigils of unbinding deranged his perimeter of defenses and threatened his state of pure energy. Each countermove he engaged unleashed more force against him. Spells tied in chains seemed to magnify and splinter into thousands of needling echoes. Nor was the momentum behind them intelligent. The quartz vein in the Skyshiels thrummed like a sounding board, magnifying Morriel's attack to exponential proportions.

Against outright dissolution, Asandir knit veils of intent like bright mirrors to spin distorting energies back on themselves.
While static and vertigo sapped his stability, he traced circles to carve small pockets in time. Given a fractional second, as he pinned those vortices stable, he must effect intervention and freeze the catalyzing cascade of events.

Through that heartbeat of bought time, he engaged his full resources. Senses refined far beyond mortal limits let him parcel the impact of each energy sent in assault against him. From his years spent with sly, temperamental old drakes, he identified the forms of dissolution that cast ordered wisdom into void. Other seals recombined in dark resonance to unbalance and bind. Here, he isolated the sigils to seed terror, and there, a spinning entropy which destroyed human will. Other seals played on the fires of addiction, invoked twisted passions and abject despair. Others engendered a spiraling distortion which led to inexorable decay. To spells of leaching ruin, Morriel had linked gyroscopic spirals of diversion. Cantrips to stall thought, and narcotic procrastination; seals of blight to rot flesh into putrefied liquid. Through these, she had knotted tangling mazes to steal reason and shackle the mind into nightmare.

Speed of reflex held the Sorcerer's only salvation, and also his greatest peril should he slip, or miss even one turning through the morass.

Beleaguered as he was, Asandir admired the Prime's ingenuity. The spells cast against him ranged the gamut of spite, a thousand small shards pitched to wound on the chance he could be overwhelmed and outflanked. Almost, he fell prey to the snares in the mesh, cloaked in false trappings to imprison him. Destroy, or maim, or take captive; Morriel had laid ambush for whatever end she could snatch out of reeling confusion.

Asandir played her net of self-contained fury. Disadvantaged since the moment he had excised and secured the dissident powers in the lane force, he dared not seize the safe route and translate his body back to tangible form. The change would release those disruptive currents. Ripples of shock would thrash through the world's aura; too many vital wardings wrought by the centaur guardians would resound into damage and disintegrate. Khadrim might fly free, released from sealed boundaries, and drake spawn long chained beneath Mirthlvain's dark mire could resurge and rend lives in bloody slaughter.

Quandary remained. Asandir could not sustain that influx of disharmony, safely split into isolate channels, without wreaking havoc on his auric defenses.

His dangers were myriad, and aligned on all fronts, which disallowed a clean strike to negate them. Responsibility to his art of itself stymied action, a twist Morriel had exploited. She sought to entangle his fierce competence through complexity, her weapon the intricate strictures of a code which demanded that every nuance of cause and effect be aligned with due care for the Major Balance. While he served the necessary steps, the spells on his flank chafed and tore at his reserves. Their threat dogged his balance, nipped at his masterful deliberation, and clamored to deflect him to wasting anxiety.

No matter the extent of his personal danger, his first sworn charge was the land. Those damaging energies swept up from the lane must be contained inside a rim of impermeable seals, an intricate conjury with no tools at hand but the bare frames of will and intent. Asandir faced the daunting task without flinching, though to close a clean ward on a field of disharmony while suffering corrosive attack posed dire problems for a spirit in flux amid the volatile currents of live lane force.

His call to prime power ignited a flare of white light. Like cracks crazed through glass, the stacked planes of existence recoiled and discharged a rainbow corona of wild energies. Asandir haltered that force in clear purpose and rewove, asking a swift permission of air. The element responded in joy for his need, his appeal to fire the runes of command given voice by the cry of the wind.

Above the snowy summits of the Skyshiels, a vast gust arose, scooped inward, and carved out a howling whirlwind. The cyclone encased the parcel of warped frequencies Asandir had unraveled from the lane flux. Aligned to that spiral, he spun static charge and wove a barrier that Koriani meddling could not cross. His refrain became the barrage of bass thunder as the ward circles became manifest, each ring a bright arc of chained light. Air cracked into a glassine shield, welded to solid, impenetrable continuity. His construct took form but lacked in finesse. The crisis invoked by Morriel Prime's meddling disallowed a swift closure. Under stress, Asandir could not fashion a safe conduit to quench those warped fields of flux into the brine of Eltair Bay.

He had no alternative. His best effort reset the wardings for change, allowing the imbalance to disperse in gradual, safe increments and ground in the core of the earth. His search for a suitable mountain gave rise to a dangerous delay. Twice, sore beset, he fought off incursions created by entropic attack. Morriel's conjury pressed in, relentless, to wear and weaken and distract. Through
her gnawing swarms of hostile spell seals, Asandir reamed a clear channel. His awareness touched rock, and was recognized. Steadied in patience, he braced through the retentive, slow interval that stone demanded to ponder the scope of his request.

Seconds dragged into minutes, all the more fraught with tension. The fractional trickle of time was his enemy. Let Morriel's assault engage him too long, her dark workings would seek out the breaches. Let one destructive sigil inside, its pattern could shred his foundations to ribbons and drain off his personal strength. In the riptide of weakened control, he risked disclosing every damaging detail of his origins to Morriel's grasping interest.

That above anything, he must not allow. Those ancient blood debts had been fully redeemed. Events carried through on distant soil and other worlds served no place here and now on Athera. Set in the wrong hands, or whispered in the ears of Lysaer's fledgling priests, the damning history of Fellowship affairs might be used as an arsenal to damage the future.

At length, in a bell tone resonance that rang agelessly massive, the iron-dark summit of Quaire Peak responded and offered itself as receptacle.

Asandir paused only to return heartfelt gratitude. Then he snaked a tangling chain of new ciphers into his warded circles. Power flowed through in precise increments.

The backwash of shed forces shot off fierce jags of lightning that grounded themselves in black ore. The leakage to ionized air became minimal. Only a small static discharge bled down the sixth lane, a dance of loosed energies no more harmful than the flares of a northern aurora. Until they played out, they would draw nothing worse than the appetites of stray iyats.

Unyoked at last from encumbering duty, Asandir rallied against Morriel's invasion. He seized on the anchor left rooted in earth amid the old towers of Ithamon. Light pealed, then a rattling slam of deep thunder as he engaged his raised will and downstepped his vibration back into the physical spectrum.

Solidly himself, now standing on frost-silvered grass amid the crumbled foundation of the King's Tower, he tipped up his face. Winter wind flung back his hood and lashed silver hair to his cheek. He screened out knifing cold and the sting of the elements as he linked his right and left hands. Then, eyes closed, he gathered his trained awareness and cast his sharp focus inward.

Morriel's construct buzzed and whined through his aura, shrill
as a swarm of roused bees. His skin tingled and burned, hazed by conflicted forces. Asandir safely ignored the discomfort. For him, minor ills of the flesh held small consequence. So long as the provenance of his spirit stayed whole, he could mend any bodily dysfunction. Free at last to respond to Morriel's assault, Asandir admitted the energies into his being
and claimed them
.

All the horror, all the hate, all the disruptive, chaotic destruction wrought through cramped seals and sigils, he welcomed, then Named as wholly his. On the catalytic crux of annihilation, at the bitter edge of total sacrifice, he reached out with an acid-etched core of intent and engaged every last wasting sigil. Self-will and mastery matched dark force with light. He did not seek to reverse, or control, or manipulate. Instead, he melded the unbinding force of destruction with his own creative exuberance. The gush of that wellspring arose from the core of his individuality. His invention was bottomless. Through an awareness honed into relentless refinement, through the reach of his limitless compassion, he diluted the ruinous barrage set against him into cascading change.

What remained of each warped patterning at the last was its original core of emotion: the impetus behind the enmity that founded the need for Morriel's vindication. Her fear, her dread shame, and her outright worry for the proscribed knowledge she held in trust for her order were as surface ripples over a shattering void of bleak loneliness. No family or friend remembered her girlhood. Her glory days of idealism were spent, leaving only the unbearable burden of an office grown onerously heavy. Her days, her acts, her purpose had grown hollow, until, each hour, she battled her withering, frail flesh, tormented by uncertainty and a burning self-righteous indignation. No consolation might ease her cruel strait. The fate she was sworn to accomplish before death could not be impelled to fruition.

Against a despair beyond tears to encompass, Asandir held his dispassionate balance. His long-suffering strength had known worse and survived. Poised in tender care, with a gentleness that could have cupped a cobweb against a gale, he wrapped that anguished residue in compassion, shored up by his sorrowful understanding. Once he, too, had lost hope to despairing grief and stark hatred. His recovery had come at the bitter end of hope, through the gift of Athera's Paravians.

The channel to prime power their wisdom had opened had
reforged his Fellowship in redemption. That source was inexhaustible as tide, limitless as the flight of an imagination set free of shadow and doubt. Asandir engaged the higher octaves of resonance. He let the life dance of celebration that strung all existence shift the misaligned strands of Morriel's hostility. For a mage of his stature, converting barbed spite into transforming joy was an act as unthinking as reflex.

No discharge of fey power marked the event, no display of dazzling sorcery. The last sigil subsided as a whisper into the abiding stasis of true peace.

Asandir opened his eyes to the white blaze of stars over the dark hills of Daon Ramon. Around him, the four Paravian towers speared skyward. The ethereal harmonies of their pristine wards intertwined with the unquiet lament of the breezes. Ithamon yet sheltered the cries of its ghosts. Air still voiced the imprint of past betrayal through tumbled stone walls and the rims of shattered foundations.

Under his feet, where the transmuted forces of Morriel's malice had been grounded, the frost had melted away. Earth had responded to the influx of grand mystery to raise up a circle of green grasses. Amid their feathered stalks, a briar sprig bloomed, a flawless primrose fresh as new morning. The Sorcerer bent, the weariness in him an ache etched down to the bone. He sketched a blessing over the site, then asked for leave and plucked the bloom before the icy night wind could shrivel its fragile petals. He pressed the flower's sweet fragrance to his face. Burdened of heart, he sighed for the plight of a Koriani Matriarch whose hope and humanity had grown twisted, her altruism warped under too many years of prime rule.

He had been where she sat. For him and his colleagues, how terrible had been the final step into wisdom. Compassionate tolerance had been bought in blood, that ends did not ever justify the means, and that help for the world's sorrows could never be won through the exigencies of power or control.

Tonight's reckoning would bring no succor for Fionn Areth, languishing under threat of an unjust execution.

Asandir faced the larger defeat inside his personal victory, while the cold set him shivering, and Ithamon's sad spirits moaned their perpetual refrain of lament. Morriel Prime had succeeded in cutting off his swift access to Jaelot. Whether or not she dared use her Waystone to mount another assault against him, for prudence, he knew he must not stress the flow of the
sixth lane with another transfer. Not until his stopgap spell of warding expended the pooled reservoir of dissident energies into the summit of Quaire Peak. The elapsed time would delay him until past the day of winter solstice, more if he fared eastward on foot.

Until then, he must hope Elaira's good sense could withstand the mayor's vindictive fury and the pressure of Jaelot's town council.

Winter 5669

The Mayor of Jaelot's dungeon had not changed for the better since the Mad Prophet's fateful incarceration twenty-five years in the past. Seepage from the limestone strata of the headland still beaded and dripped, clouded by the ancient layers of soot the pitch cressets left on the ceiling. The erratic tick of moisture into rank, moldered straw stitched through Fionn Areth's dazed thoughts. His last lucent memory was of the posset given by a Koriani enchantress he could not see in blank darkness. Through a fogging numbness which dulled the worst pain, the touch of her hands came and went, sure in skill, mapping the list of his injuries. He had her assurance that no bones were broken. More pressing worries remained unassuaged, while the herbs in her remedy spiraled his mind between fitful sleep and nightmare.