Havenstar (23 page)

And yet she
never doubted that it was him, not for a moment. No human man could
have exuded such power, could have shimmered with something so
manifestly bad, could have glowed with such a seductive light,
could have pierced her with such a look to see her weaknesses... No
ordinary man could have reduced her to a mass of sexual urges and
revulsion just by looking at her.

Davron stood
beside her, unmoving, with surprising passivity. He seemed neither
worried nor pleased—just accepting, as if he acknowledged there was
no way any ordinary mortal could run from the Unmaker.

When he spoke,
though, she knew him well enough now to hear the thread of urgency
underlying his words, even as his tone was measured and calm. She
knew him well enough to recognise that he chose every word with
care and she would do well to listen with equal care.
I must
stay calm. I must listen
.

‘Remember, the
Unmaker is governed by the laws of the Universe,’ he said,
stumbling over the words as he spoke too quickly. ‘He cannot kill
us directly, he can only subvert us, or unmake us.’

Obliterate
them, he meant, as if they had never existed. Erase them from
being, so that their souls died as well, and the memory of them
disappeared from all who had ever known them.

She
shuddered.

‘You have the
Maker within you,’ Davron rushed on, ‘and therefore cannot be
unmade unless you agree to it. Nor can you be enslaved unless you
go to him of your own free will.’

He did not
need to warn her that the Unmaker had a hundred different ways to
make a person succumb to his suggestions of servitude. Nor did he
have to warn her that Carasma could send the Wild after her, or his
Minions, or use the power of the ley line—and all of them could
kill without waiting for the victim’s permission. Torture, bribes,
seduction, threats, tricks, traps. Carasma the Unmaker used them
all directly or indirectly on occasion, and probably sometimes all
at once.

‘Right,’ she
said. Her tone was dry but her voice wobbled. ‘I guess Baraine
didn’t listen to your warning.’

The Unmaker
smiled. ‘Baraine is mine now. We’ve struck our bargain, and it is
sealed.’ He looked down at the man beside him, and bestowed on him
an obscene smile of proud possession. ‘Baraine liked the idea of
eternal youth. He has
such
a splendid body and he could not
bear to think of it rotting into old age...’

Carasma
fingered the silver pendant he was wearing around his neck. The
pendant was the x cross inside the diamond, the one adornment to
his nakedness. He touched it with his hands and took from it a
replica, pulling it out of the original with just the touch of his
fingers. This he dropped over Baraine’s head. It dangled for a
moment, then melded to the Trician’s chest, fused to his skin.
Keris gave an involuntary glance to Davron’s amulet. The sigil was
identical. She bit back her nausea. She was standing in front of
the Unmaker, in the presence of two of his Minions.

Baraine looked
at Davron and her with a mixture of arrogance and defiance. Davron
ignored him and she tried to do the same.

‘So,’ the
Unmaker said, switching his attention wholly to the guide, ‘we meet
again, Master Storre.’

‘Yes.’ Davron
remained apparently imperturbable.

As well he
might—he is dedicated to the service of Carasma, of Chaos...

‘It was
inevitable, as we both know.’

Carasma
inclined his head. ‘As you say. But it is not you I deal with
today. Your time for service has not yet come, Master Guide. I
await the moment that will bring the greatest grief to all... No,
today I deal with the woman at your side.’

Davron raised
an eyebrow just a fraction. ‘
Her?
’ he asked, and the word
contained a slur of contempt. ‘She is worthy of your attention?’ He
turned to look at her, as if seeing her for the first time. Then he
gave the faintest of shrugs, as if to say he couldn’t understand,
but well, if that’s the way you feel, go ahead...

The Unmaker
seemed amused. And then she lost sight of Davron and of Baraine.
And of Quirk, still lying at their feet, and of the animal they had
killed. They all slipped away and it was just the Unmaker and her,
facing one another across a kaleidoscope of sliding colours.

‘You were made
to serve me,’ he said.

‘I doubt it.’
Her mouth had dried out. Her tongue was glued to the insides of her
cheeks.

‘Master Storre
serves me,’ he said. ‘Do not look for help there. What are your
greatest desires, Keris Kaylen of Kibbleberry? I can make them come
true, in return for your pledge of service. I can give you eternal
life and youth as well. Just name what it is you want...’

‘There is
nothing for which I would surrender my immortal soul. Nothing.’

‘Not this?’ he
asked, and gestured with his hand.

She was
looking at a shop. There was a sign swinging over the door and on
it she read:
Kaylen’s Maps and Charts
. She walked towards
it, opened the door and went in. It was exactly as she had pictured
it in daydreams, even after she’d known it was an impossibility:
the shop she would one day own. The shop where she would sell her
maps. There were the master charts, there the drawing boards, there
the rows of paint and ink pots, the leads and brushes and pens. The
walls were covered with charts.
Her
charts. She reached out
and took up one of the master skins, rolled it out on to the
counter top. It was good, and it was signed with her name. She
released it and it curled back up, hiding its secrets.

Through an
open door she glimpsed another room, filled with surveying and
camping equipment. She turned her head and saw through into the
parlour. A man was standing, with his back to her, warming his
hands beside a fire. She felt a wash of love and knew that this
unknown man was her husband. At his feet a child played, wobbling
on baby legs. Her son; she knew that too. She wanted to walk into
that room, to speak, to make that man turn so she could see his
face. Instead, her feet took her the other way, out through the
back door of the shop into the yard. It was clean, neat and
spacious. There were stables, carts, and fine crossings-horses. All
hers. A stableboy was brushing down a riding hack. Hers.

She turned and
tried to re-enter the shop.

And it was
gone. There was only Carasma and herself once more.

‘You can have
it all,’ he purred. ‘That’s my promise, and I cannot lie to strike
a bargain or the bargain is invalid. All your dreams can come true,
Keris. All. For six months in every year you can live in a
stability and serve only yourself and your dreams; for six months
you can roam the Unstable to make your maps and serve me.
Everything you ever dreamed of, and for such a little price. As
Baraine has said so aptly, of what use is an immortal soul if you
can be bodily immortal? Imagine Keris, all you ever wanted...’

She forced
herself to speak. ‘Not all, I think. It’s not plain maps I wish to
make, Lord Carasma. Not anymore. I want the secret of trompleri
map-making—and that is the one thing I think you cannot dare to
give, because a trompleri map would help humankind to thwart the
Unstable. Fellowships and traders could find the weakest parts of
ley to cross. They could see the presence of your Minions and the
Wild and avoid them. There would be few deaths in the Unstable
then, and more people would come to weaken you. There would be less
of the ley-unlit tainted, less of the ley-lit made into Minions.
People would see where the ley is strong. They would know where not
to go, they would see it there, on their maps—’ She was babbling,
too frightened even to know if she was making sense, too terrified
to know if she was saying things that would be wiser unsaid.

He stared at
her, and the triumph in him died as he somehow reached out with his
mind to test the truth of what she said. The look he gave her then
was pure rage. For a moment she expected to die, sure he would
strike her, universal laws or not, but he reined in the passion,
bridled it with a colder hate.

‘Will you turn
down this?’ he hissed, and made another gesture with his hand. She
was back in the shop. This time there was someone behind the
counter: Sheyli. Her mother as Keris had known her before she was
ill, smiling, full of strength and vigour. Sheyli, somehow well and
whole.

‘My mother is
dead,’ she said coldly. ‘Even you cannot bring back the dead.’

‘You left her
for dead,’ he corrected. ‘But that was only a few days ago. She
lied when she told you she was so close to death. She lives still,
weaker, but she does live. My word on it.’

She drew in
breath sharply. ‘How do you know?’

‘The same way
I know your name and your dreams. Ley gives me the power. I may not
be able to create havoc in a stability, but I can see into it. And
I could do good there. I could give your mother back her
health.’

‘If—?’

‘If you will
but serve me.’

‘No.’

‘Think on
it.’

And she did.
Sheyli could live. Be healthy again. And she, Keris, could hold
herself straight again, free of the guilt she’d felt ever since she
had ridden away from Kibbleberry. It would all be so easy. She
could have it all. And it wouldn’t be such a terrible sin, would
it? She would be doing it for Sheyli—

No.

Sheyli would
not want life at such a price.

‘No,’ she said
to Carasma. ‘No. Not even for that. Not even for trompleri skills.
Not even if you could bring back my father again. Never, at any
price.’ But inside she wept.
Forgive me, Mother
—

She expected
to die. Carasma had two Minions right there somewhere at his
disposal. He had the forces of the ley line he could turn on her.
He could whistle up some of the Wild... She waited for death.
Instead he stripped her naked. One moment she was clothed, the
next, the clothes had gone. He knew she’d never revealed herself to
any man; he knew how vulnerable she would be, bared to him like
that. She willed herself not to move her hands, not to try to cover
her nakedness. She tried to stand proud, but felt shamed
nonetheless as he let his eyes wander over her body and his penis
swelled to taunt her.

‘No, no, not
me, little Keris,’ he mocked as she shrank away. ‘Let me give you
what you really want.’

And he was
gone.

She was
standing beside Davron once more. Of Baraine and Quirk there was no
sign. Davron was as naked as she was. He was staring at her, and
his expression was appalled, then yearning, then sickened. His skin
glistened, and he moaned. She was in no better state. She felt
she’d been stimulated beyond endurance, although she had no memory
of such happening, and the lack of memory was worse than
remembering would have been. She was wet between the legs,
desperately wanting something more and not quite sure what it was,
but longing to find out. She was taut all over, turgid—even her
nipples stood up like pinnacles—she was on the brink of something
miraculous, but unable to plunge over the rim and find out what it
was.

She yearned to
reach out and pull Davron to her. She wanted to feel his hands on
her body. She wanted him to kiss her, to do things to her that she
could not detail because she lacked the experience of them, but
knew they would feel good. She was just an inch away from something
wonderful—

‘No,’ he said
flatly. ‘Keris, no.’ He was willing her not to touch him and there
was horror on his face. And something else too: the wolfish craving
of a man who had been denied too long and had just been offered a
feast.

Her hand froze
as it reached out to him. She deliberately dropped her eyes to his
amulet, searching for a way to kill her desire. She moved her lips,
spat out a word at him, packing it full of loathing and contempt.
‘Minion!’ It was as much to save her own integrity as to scorn him,
because in her heart she knew the truth; the Unmaker may have
stirred her passions by some abnormal means, but he had not
directed them. She had done that all by herself. Just as she had
peopled the dream-shop with a husband who would have worn Davron’s
face had he turned.

She stumbled
away, revolted, back towards where she’d left Ygraine and Tousson.
Weak with reaction, she shuddered with self-loathing and unfilled
longing and trembled with fear. She expected to die. She expected
the ley line to erupt under her, she expected Davron’s knife in her
back. Part of her had even given up caring.

By the time
she reached the edge of the ley line safely, she was sobbing
uncontrollably. She stumbled to where Tousson stood patiently
waiting, her tears wetting her face and blurring her vision. With
tired and shaking fingers she untied one of the bundles and took
out another set of clothing. She dressed and was just putting on
her spare pair of boots when Davron arrived.

She shrank
back against the flank of her pack horse, but he barely looked at
her. ‘Here,’ he said and threw her knife on the ground at her feet.
He had also brought back her bow and quiver, as well as his own
knives. ‘Sorry, couldn’t find our clothes,’ he added. It didn’t
seem to worry him that he was still naked. His lack of clothing
enabled her to note that he was no longer obviously aroused and she
felt a momentary relief.

He went to get
more clothing for himself, but when he reached his pack horse he
simply leant, face down, arms spread, against the pack on the
horse’s back. His shoulders heaved, shuddering, but with what
emotion she couldn’t tell. She had to quell the absurd desire she
had to mother him.
Mother him? A Minion of Carasma, for Chaos’
sake? Am I tainted mad?

She slid down
the side of her horse until she was seated on the ground, then
rested her head on her arms. She was mad. She should have got on
her horse and fled. But she didn’t have the energy to go anywhere.
Her legs were weak, her hands shook. Wiping away the last of her
tears, she took several deep, calming breaths. A while later she
became aware that Davron was rummaging in his pack for his clothing
and for something to dress the cuts on his chest. They looked
nasty, the skin slashed open on a background of raised welts.