Stormwarden (32 page)

Misinterpreting
Jaric's
stricken silence, Mathieson caught the young man's sleeve in a clumsy attempt at consolation. "She'll bear ye safely, son, my word on't. A grand old lady
Callinde
might be, but there's no leak to her can't be fixed with tools and a sound bit of planking. Ye'll see, then."

Jaric straightened, regarding the old man with clear-eyed honesty. "Thank you. And no, I'll never be changing her name." He pulled the ice otter cloak from his arm, draped it across Keldric's stooped shoulders. "If you'll guide me with the carpentry, I'll make her new again, sound as the day she was launched. That's a promise."

Mathieson Keldric thrust his lantern into the boy's hand and spat on his palm. "Your oath?"

Jaric nodded.

The old man pressed his damp hand to his forehead and stared at his feet, abruptly embarrassed to have insisted on ritual. "Well, then," he said briskly. "Tools are ashore, and I sure's tide can't lug them like I did when I was your age. Or did ye not want to start now?"

"At once," said Jaric. "She ought to be hauled, though."

Keldric grinned. "Aye. That's work for two stout men." He threw Jaric a look of bright-eyed challenge. "How well can ye row?"

Jaric smiled back, his frustration partially alleviated. "As well as I must. Is your grand old lady rigged with oars?"

Keldric answered with a dry cackle of laughter. Aged and lame and heartbroken as he was, Mathieson was villager enough to find humor in Jaric's ignorance. "I've a dory, son," he drawled, and in the foggy darkness the night before spring solstice, proceeded to instruct the boy how
Callinde
should be towed from her slip.

* * *

Enfolded still within the capsule of the Vaere, Taen dreamed she sat in the timeless twilight of the grove. The pale folds of a silk robe clothed a maturity she had only recently come to accept as her own, and a basin of carved crystal lay balanced across her knees, much as it had for the better part of a fortnight while Tamlin taught her the art of casting dream images onto the surface of water. At present three companies of Kisburn's royal troops performed toy-sized maneuvers, bounded by the confines of the chased silver rim.

To Taen the exercise seemed a frivolous waste of time. Through her mastery of the Sathid, she could tap any mind on Keithland at will, then impart her findings through a dream link with the flawless purity of thought. Causing her recipient to
believe
he viewed an image within water was bothersome, an added layer of illusion for which she discerned no useful purpose. Taen sighed, while in the bowl the Grand Warlord-General delivered a command to his aide. Trumpets flourished, signaling inspection of troops was complete. Neat squares of pikemen lifted miniature weapons in salute and the lowering sunlight of late afternoon flashed against polished blades. Even to Taen's unpracticed eye the movement described lethal perfection. After rigorous hours of drill the troops were ready for action; Kisburn intended to sail his force to Cliffhaven within the fortnight, and Emien would go with them. Still Tamlin insisted she refine a showy set of illusions designed to add mystery to her dream-weaver's talents.

Touched by sharp anger, Taen tilted the basin. Water sloshed, scattering droplets over the rim. Kisburn's soldiers streamed into a muddle of scarlet and gold, then vanished as her contact dissipated. "Why?" she demanded, though the clearing at present seemed deserted.

Tamlin appeared instantly. His bells jangled in dissonant displeasure as he gestured toward the basin. "It's a necessary defense. The demons would kill you should they ever suspect your true capabilities. Not only are they telepathic, they also recall every memory of their forebears, back to the dawn of their history; fortunately for mankind they evolved no cultural need for ceremony or legend or ritualized religion."

Tamlin folded his arms across his chest, bushy brows knitted into a frown. "Twenty-seven generations have passed since the Great Fall. Through that time, I have cloaked mankind's most precious secrets in the forms of myth and legend. The demons attach no value to such things; they perceive no logic in faith and no reality outside of racial memory. They observe and fail to discover my intent."

Taen remained unimpressed. Tamlin shifted his weight from one foot to the other and irritably jabbed a finger at the bowl. "If your client believes he sees a vision in water, but that image does not exist for other eyes, then the demon who observes will dismiss the incident as mummery, the time-worn, traditional sort of fortune-telling many a common man will spend copper to hear. The demon does not comprehend man's craving to control his future. In this manner your true talent will pass unnoticed."

Taen traced her hand over the carved crystal, mollified by the tirade. "I'm sorry. I never guessed."

Bells clashed softly as Tamlin seated himself in the grass opposite her. He rested his chin on steepled fingers and spoke in gentler tones. "Understand me, child. More of mankind's heritage than is safe for you to know lies similarly concealed. Landfast itself has no other defense. To save its records from the demons, you must trust my judgment. Now engage your craft once again and show me how Jaric fares."

Taen leveled the basin between her knees, then waited for the water to settle. She needed the interval to steady her own nerves more than any other reason. As often as she looked in on Jaric since Anskiere's geas resumed effect, she had been unable to make peace with herself for his unhappiness; neither Tamlin's insistence nor Keithland's peril could negate her sense of responsibility.

Taen closed her eyes and carefully cleared her mind. Despite her trepidations, Jaric's presence flowed easily through the channel of her talents; through the process of restoring his memory, she had come to know his mind better than any person living. Her call arose like a bird, sped on the silent wings of thought to the north coast and the village of Mearren Ard. With barely a pause for transition, Taen felt the salty tang of the breeze blow against her cheek, sea-scoured and overlaid by the pungent smell of spruce. Within the crystal basin an image bloomed on the water.

In a yard beside a weathered shed, new grass lay sprinkled like snow with the delicate curls of shavings; there Jaric bent over a trestle, busily planing a length of wood which would shortly replace a cracked thwart on
Callinde's
starboard side. Linen cloth clung to his sweating shoulders as he worked, and wood chips speckled his wrists, pale against sunburned skin. Impressed by the play of muscle in his arms, Taen reflected that the wenches of Morbrith Keep would probably treat him to a different sort of teasing were they to observe him now.

But the unremitting pull of the geas and days of constant toil left Jaric too worn to reflect upon himself; plank by plank he labored to restore
Callinde's
rotted timbers. The discomfort of Anskiere's summons permitted him no surcease, even at sundown when other men sought rest. Jaric worked through the nights by lanternlight, feverish and driven, until his fingers cramped on the tools and his body collapsed from weariness.

Watching the strong rhythmic strokes of the plane across the board, Taen ached to reach out, lend him the peace her dream-weaver's powers could provide. But Jaric would tolerate no trace of her contact since the day he had fallen on the decks of Tavish's boat. Convinced she had used him for her own selfish ends, the boy stayed isolated, though loneliness ate him hollow and his arm trembled with fatigue as he lifted the plane to clear the blade. Shavings fluttered to the ground, pale and delicate as moths. For all his inexperience, the boy handled the tool well; even old Mathieson found little cause for complaint. But the dream-weaver saw beyond competence to the measure of pain which inspired it; Jaric acted out of necessity. He derived no joy from his achievements.

Taen shifted the image, caused the basin's crystal rim to frame
Callinde's
hull. Whole sections of her starboard side stood stripped of planking, leaving the bared curve of several ribs exposed against the sky. To port, yellow boards contrasted harshly with the weathered timbers of her keel; Jaric had made remarkable progress. Still his craft was days away from launch; Kisburn's army would not wait. Swift as the clouds which hazed the horizon beyond Mearren Ard's docks, the King's ships would cross the sea; even the Kielmark's fortress could not stay demons.

Suddenly a blur of motion flicked across the edge of the image. Startled by its presence, Taen stiffened. She bent closer to the basin, a disturbed frown on her face.

Tamlin rose to his feet with a clash of bells. "Something's wrong," he said quickly. "What do you see?"

"I don't know." Taen focused her attention on Jaric, seeking the source of the shadow which had passed briefly across her contact. Yet the sunlight shone brightly in Mathieson's yard and Jaric worked on undisturbed. Concerned, Taen refined her scrutiny. The fine hands which once had penned copy for a Duke's library were now blistered and raw from handling adze and hammer. Stress had left the boy gaunt and exhausted. Beneath the sun-bleached hair which spilled over his brow, his eyes were deeply circled; but other than fatigue Taen found no mark upon him.

She looked up, defeated. At a loss to explain the intuitive prickle of warning which stirred the hair at the nape of her neck, she said, "I did see something."

"I know." The Vaere toyed with his pipe. "There's a reason."

But he would not say what it was. When Taen pressed for an answer, he simply vanished, and none of the usual cues would call him back.

Left to herself, Taen lifted the crystal bowl from her lap and laid it aside on the grass. Disregarding Tamlin's directive pertaining to the water, she gathered her powers as dream-weaver and with no more effort than daydreaming bent her thoughts back to Mathieson's yard and Jaric. She would watch, she decided, to see whether the shadow which had grazed the edge of her vision returned.

Westerly sunlight cast steepening shadows through the opened sections of
Callinde's
hull. Sheltered from the sea breeze by the angled roof of the shack, Jaric set his plane aside and with a forester's precision laid a fire beneath the steam box. While the planks heated he took up the adze and began to dress an uncut length of timber. Taen watched the chips fly, pale and silver as flying fish in the failing light. The intensity of
Jaric's
determination awed her. Unlike Emien, this boy had survived the scarring left by the inadequacy which had poisoned his early years. Hurt and pressured and driven, so far he had managed to continue without striking out in hatred. Taen caught her breath. The comparison wounded. Beside Jaric, her brother's shortcomings stood exposed with devastating and bitter clarity. Taen twisted her fingers in the fine silk of her robe. She must not abandon hope. One day perhaps Jaric might guide Emien to regain his faith in human compassion.

Sunset faded over Mearren Ard. Jaric paused to wipe the sweat from his brow and light the lantern looped to a line on
Callinde's
yard arm. Keldric's unmarried niece arrived with a basket of bread, smoked fish and cheese. Oblivious to the invitation in her smile, Jaric thanked her, his manner restrained with the polish of Morbrith's high court. Beneath his courtesy Taen read the raw pain left by Kencie's thoughtlessness. For all his accomplishments, Jaric placed no faith in the change wrought within himself since his accident in Seitforest; although the prettiest girl in Mearren Ard lingered to watch him eat, he misread her admiration for pity. Misery kept him silent. And too shy to breach his solitude without encouragement, the girl twisted her chestnut hair back under her cloak hood and quietly left as she had for seven nights previously.

Jaric dusted breadcrumbs from his tunic and resumed work. Jostled by wind, the lantern turned the yard to a circle of wheeling shadows. Removed from the rest of humanity and merged with the rhythm of Jaric's mallet as he fastened heated planks to the hull with tree-nails of locust, Taen almost missed the transition even as it happened. The boy missed stroke. The heavy fastener's mallet banged squarely into his thumb, splitting the skin. He swore once without rancour, and twisted his shirt cuff over the cut to stop the bleeding. The wound itself was slight. But tired as he was, the pain opened an avenue of distraction; his control slipped. The force of the geas welled up inside him, a whirlwind battling to escape the slender check-rein of reason.

A gust blasted the yard, streaming the lantern flame like blood. Jaric cried out, bent to his knees with his arms cradled against his chest. Wind lashed the hair across his cheek. For one stark instant, Taen saw the black-barred wingtips of the stormfalcon beat in the darkness above his head. Then the vision left her. The disturbance died, leaving only the distant crash of the surf beyond the harbor. Jaric shook himself. He reached for his mallet with the dull mechanical motions of extreme exhaustion; and unable to bear the enormity of his burden, Taen wrenched herself out of contact.

The grove surrounded her with maddening and changeless serenity. Taen clutched the silken robe about her shoulders though she was not cold and with all the urgency she possessed, summoned Tamlin.

The Vaere appeared at once. His hands were unoccupied by any pipe and his bells stayed utterly silent. "You saw the stormfalcon," he said softly.

Taen burst into tears. Irritated by the unwanted display of emotion, she nodded. "How did you guess?"

Tamlin seated himself in his accustomed place on the stone at the grove's center. "No guess, child, but a natural law of sorcery. Anskiere loosed an energy, the stormcall you perceive in the shape of the falcon. It built a gale, as he intended, and dissipated, carrying out the ruin of Kisburn's war fleet. Left to itself, the seed of that energy had no direction of its own. Under normal circumstances it would lie fallow until its creator unmade its pattern. But when Tathagres interrupted the geas which summoned Jaric, the break opened what once was a closed loop; a structure created by Anskiere stood out of balance, a circumstance he never intended. For such disharmony would attract and bind any loose ends he might have left lying about: in this case, the stormcall."

Taen twisted the thin silk of her cuff. "What will happen to Jaric?" And Emien, she thought, but did not broach that fear.

A bell chimed as Tamlin shifted position. "The geas and the stormfalcon stand linked. With each passing day the tempest will build. If we are lucky, Jaric will sail before it breaks."

But even without asking, Taen knew.
Callinde
could not possibly be ready in time. She swallowed, reluctant to confront the inevitable conclusion; Kisburn's entire war fleet had been crushed like chaff before the fury of that storm. Tortured by thoughts of Jaric's antique craft being smashed by a thundering avalanche of foam, she found her voice and spoke, hoping the Vaere could silence her fear. "Jaric might never make Cliffhaven."

Tamlin stood up, his pipe suddenly appearing in his hand. For a prolonged moment he puffed in silence, an expression which might have been sorrow half veiled by rising smoke. "He might not. We can do nothing more for him except pray that he will. He is Ivain's son. There is much reason for faith in that."