Stormwarden (17 page)

* * *

Well-versed in the lore of herbs, the forester, Telemark, tended Jaric's injuries with gentle hands and a mind better schooled than most in the art of healing. Yet four full days after the assault by the brigands of Seitforest, the boy had still not regained consciousness. Pale against the coarse wool of the coverlet he tossed, sweating, troubled by delirious nightmares.

Concerned by the lack of progress, Telemark prepared a poultice of ladybush leaves in a kettle and hung it from the bracket above the hearth to steep. If the boy did not waken soon, he would not survive. The forester removed the bandage which bound the cut on Jaric's head. With careful fingers, he explored the extent of the damage. For the third time, he encountered inflammation and swelling, but no broken bone; the wound itself was healing cleanly. The boy's hair would hide the scar.

Telemark sighed in frustration and tossed clean dressings into the pot above the fire. The contents hissed and steam arose, pungent with the scent of ladybush leaves. They would act as a potent astringent, but their virtue was beyond question. If the blow had caused swelling inside the boy's skull, increased circulation to the area could do little else but good. And time now was of the essence.

Telemark lifted the pot from the flames and set it on the settle while the poultice cooled. He regarded the boy on the bed with faded, weather-creased eyes, and wondered anew what desperate purpose had driven one so helpless to attempt passage through Seitforest alone. The lawless who ranged the wood were numerous enough that none of the high-born from Corlin would hunt there. Telemark preferred the isolation; game was more plentiful as a result. But this child, who in his ravings had named himself Kerainson Jaric, was obviously unused to the outdoors. His slight build was more delicate than that of a pampered maid. Yet he had more courage than many men twice his size.

With a regretful shake of his head, Telemark tested the poultice and hastily withdrew a burned finger. He reached for a linen cloth to dry his knuckles, and looked up in time to see Jaric stir on the bed. The forester rose instantly to his feet. The boy raised an arm to his face. The man caught his slim wrist and firmly prevented Jaric from disturbing the uncovered wound in his scalp.

"Steady, boy. Steady. You've suffered quite a bash on the head. The healing won't be helped by touching it."

Jaric protested. His eyelids quivered and flicked open. Telemark swore with relief. With his free hand, the forester caught the oil lamp from its peg and lowered it to the small table by the bedside. The boy's pupils contracted sluggishly under the increased light, and his expression remained blankly confused. He twisted against Telemark's hold, distressed and lost in delirium. But he was conscious at last, which was an improvement. Lucid or not, he could at least swallow broth, and chances were good he would recover his self-awareness.

Once Telemark had served as healer to the Duke of Corlin's mercenaries; he had seen enough head injuries to know that recovery could often be painfully slow. A man might temporarily lose his wits, and Kor knew this boy had been dealt a nasty buffet. With hope in his heart, the forester wrung out the fresh bandages and expertly dressed the boy's wound. Jaric lay limp as he worked, brown eyes fixed and sightless. For many days, Telemark saw little improvement in the boy's condition.

But years in the forest had taught him patience. Where another man might have lost heart and placed the lad with Koridan's initiates in Corlin, the forester continued to care for the boy himself. When Jaric recovered his full strength, he would leave, Telemark held little doubt; any purpose which drove a man into Seitforest alone could never be slight.

* * *

The settlement of Harborside on Skane's Edge was small and ill-accustomed to strangers, far less ones who arrived sun-blistered and barefoot in the town square at dusk. But after a night's rest, a bath, and a fine tavern meal, the townsfolk stopped whispering when Emien's back was turned. Tathagres sought passage off the island the next morning. A merchant brig headed for the ports beyond Mainstrait rode at anchor off the breakwater. Since the vessel was obliged to pay the
Kielm
ark's tribute before passing the straits, passengers bound for Cliffhaven required no change in course. Yet the captain looked askance at anyone who wished business with that fortress of renegades. Tathagres' request met stubborn resistance.

"They're pirates, every one of them a detriment to honest trade," objected the captain.

A bribe quickly overcame his distaste, though Emien felt his fee was preposterously greedy; twelve coin-weights gold apiece would have imported a prize mare from Dunmorelands. But unless they wished to wait for another ship, the brig was their only option.

The ship weighed anchor when the tide ebbed. If Emien regretted the four sailhands traded to the harbormaster for the gold to pay their passage, he did not dwell on the thought. The familiar roll of a ship's deck underfoot buoyed his spirits, and before the ridges of Skane's Edge had slipped below the horizon he asked the captain for work. The brig sailed short-handed. He owned nothing but the clothes on his back, and these were sadly tattered; come winter, he had no desire to rely on Tathagres for silvers to buy a cloak and a good pair of boots.

Four weeks of labor in the rigging fleshed out Emien's starved frame, and the sound sleep of exhaustion gradually eased his harried nerves. Happiest when his mind was absorbed with the simple tasks of seamanship, the boy brooded little. By the time the black battlements of Cliffhaven hove into sight to the northeast, he wished the voyage had not ended so quickly.

The mate bawled out orders to furl sail. Emien swung himself aloft with an oddly reluctant heart. As the anchor cleaved the blue waters of the harbor, the boy felt as if his contentment sank with it. The last time he had viewed these shores, Taen had been alive and no burden of murder weighted his conscience. Now his desire for revenge against Anskiere was complicated by an insatiable yearning for power.

The mate shouted and the deck crew swayed a longboat out. An officer waited to escort the strongbox containing the
Kielm
ark's tribute ashore. Emien slung himself off the mizzen yard and descended the ratlines, certain Tathagres would summon him.

But the longboat departed with no word from her. Puzzled, Emien sought his mistress. He knocked at the door of her cabin, half fearful she would turn him away with his question unanswered. But she greeted him pleasantly, and after one glance at his expression, volunteered her intentions without his needing to ask.

"Go to the captain. Release yourself from service and collect what coin you've earned. Then report back to me. We shall go ashore after sundown, for I've no desire to involve myself with the Kielmark. If we are to succeed against Anskiere, our plans must be carefully laid."

The sun was low in the west by the time Emien returned.

Busy with other complaints, the captain had been slow to attend the details of his dismissal and the brig's purser was unavailable until the water barrels and stores were replenished. But silver in his pocket made the boy feel less vulnerable, should his mistress be displeased by his delay.

Emien arrived at her cabin breathless. Tathagres admitted him without complaint, a preoccupied expression on her face. Her earlier garb was replaced by tunic and hose of unrelieved black. Except for the gold torque, she had stripped herself of jewelry, and her bright hair was knotted under a scarf at the nape of her neck.

"I have clothing for you." She waved absently in the direction of the berth. "See whether it fits."

Emien squeezed past, overwhelmingly aware of her in the tight confines of the cabin. Set on edge by his involuntary response, he forced himself to concentrate on the items laid out on the berth. Spread on the mattress were two cloaks, a tunic, and a pair of hose. The garments seemed right. Reluctant to undress before Tathagres, Emien looked up, but the intensity of her mood robbed him of all protest. In silence he turned his back and peeled off his ragged shirt.

"The clothes fit," he announced after an interval. He swung around, boyishly embarrassed, but his mistress paid no heed. She sat before the cabin's small writing desk with her hands clenched in her lap.

Emien took an uncertain step toward her. "Tathagres? The tunic fits just fine."

But his mistress remained unresponsive as a stone statue. Disturbed, the boy moved closer. He peered over her shoulder, and saw that sorcery engaged her attention. Hair prickled on the back of his neck and his hands clenched reflexively into fists. On the desk lay what appeared to be a feather. But closer scrutiny yielded another view superimposed over the first. Above the scarred surface of the desktop, Emien viewed the living image of a cliff side bound by tiered prisms of ice. Gulls wheeled above the heights, their cries faint and plaintive above the boom of the breakers which smoked spray across a shoreline of jagged rocks.

Emien gasped and started back, bruising his elbow painfully against the bulkhead. Tathagres roused at the noise. Absorbed by her own thoughts, she sat silently while Emien rubbed his arm. When she did speak, her words seemed intended for someone else.

"What has he
done?"
Perplexed, she shook her head, then focused on Emien, as though aware of him for the first time. "We shall find out, I suppose, when we get ashore. Do the clothes fit?"

The boy nodded, decidedly ill at ease. Seldom had he seen Tathagres unsure of herself. Yet if her confidence was shaken, she rallied swiftly.

"Boy, to all appearances, Anskiere has set a seal of ice across the mouth of the cavern which imprisons the frostwargs. All attempts to trace his location end at that same barrier. I am certain he cannot have left Cliffhaven. But finding him may prove more difficult than I expected. We must be cautious." She laced her fingers together so tightly the knuckles turned white. "Should we fall into the Kielmark's hands, reveal nothing. The man may be formidably powerful but he cannot deter me. If you keep your silence, you shall be safe."

Tathagres looked up, and the lack of emotion in her violet eyes chilled the marrow of Emien's bones. "But should you betray my trust, you'll wish your mother had never lived to give you birth."

"If Anskiere escapes, I should feel just as miserable," the boy replied hotly.

"That is well." Tathagres stretched like a cat in her chair and smiled. "Then we agree perfectly. Meet me by the starboard davit at nightfall. The captain has agreed to leave us the brig's pinnace."

Familiar with the captain's fussy temperament, Emien dared not guess how that had been accomplished. As he opened the cabin door, he regretted he had not been witness to the arrangements; no doubt his companions in the forecastle would have given their shirts to know.

Tathagres laughed. In that uncanny manner which always unsettled Emien, she answered as if he had spoken his thought aloud. "I won the craft at cards, boy, but Kor wouldn't have sanctioned my technique. When we reach court, I'll teach you, if you remember to ask."

But the friendliness in her offer embarrassed the boy, and he hurried off without answering.

* * *

Taen awoke believing she still lay in the grove amid the oaks. Unaware a machine had taken her into custody, and unable to distinguish the fact that all she experienced since was a dream inspired by advanced technology, she sat up. The Vaere stood on the stone by her elbow. He regarded her in silence and smoke from his pipe twined patterns in the air around his wizened face.

Taen stretched, her mood somewhat cranky. She had worried herself ragged for no apparent reason, and memory of her recent discomfort rankled. "Nothing happened," she accused the creature beside her.

"I beg your pardon." The Vaere stiffened, accompanied by a dissonance of beads and bells. "Quite a bit happened. You were judged, and my kind decided what will be done with your future. Take care, mortal. You are ignorant."

Nettled by the Vaere's superiority, Taen tilted her chin at an angle her brother would have found all too familiar. "I have a
name."

"But few manners," the Vaere observed. "I am called Tamlin. I trained Anskiere, and before him the one you call Ivain Firelord. You were sent here because you possess the rare gift of empathy; you share the emotions and feelings of your own kind."

Taen drew breath to interrupt, but Tamlin waved her silent. "You must learn to listen, child. There are demons abroad who would take your life, for your talent threatens their secrets. Without defenses, some among your own kind would stone you, or worse; and lacking control of your gift, since birth you've suffered the unwanted miseries of others who happened into your presence. But the Vaere would change that."

Tamlin leaped off his rock and gestured expansively with his pipe. "These are troubled times. Certain demons have bound mortals to their cause, to the sorrow and destruction of mankind. Did you hear of Tierl Enneth?"

Taen bit her lip and realized the Vaere referred obliquely to Tathagres, whose obsessive desire to usurp Anskiere's powers could be explained no other way.

"Just so," said Tamlin. "Anskiere is the only defender left, since Ivain Firelord's death." The Vaere paused and chewed reflectively on his pipe stem. "Now more than ever before a channel is needed to sound the minds of men. You will provide that link, Taen."

The girl shivered and drew her knees up to her chin. The most powerful sorcerers in Keithland were trained by the Vaere. Nothing of her upbringing on Imrill Kand had prepared her for Tamlin's proposal. As a cripple and a child who had known adult problems at an unnaturally tender age, she felt small and helpless, a mere cipher in the age-long struggle between demonkind and man.

Tamlin blew a large smoke ring, and his bells tinkled as softly as rain onto glass. "You have great heart for one so small," he said gently. "And though you will pay a heavy price for your learning, the damage to your leg will be mended. When you go, your body will have aged fully seven years, though far less time will have passed in your absence. But never again will you limp, and the dreams and aspirations of all mankind will be within your dominion. Because of you, there may be peace for the next generation."

And though she found hope and much cause for joy in the words of the Vaere, Taen bent her head and wept for the first time since leaving home on Imrill Kand. If Tathagres allied herself with demons, then Emien trod the very path of evil; unless he came to his senses, he would someday meet his sister as an enemy.