Sorcerer's Legacy (4 page)

Dulled like water-polished stone by fatigue, she dragged herself over another seam in the Time-track. The woman on the other side had met despair with mulish defiance. Elienne invaded her consciousness with flat distaste, stunned by a startling discovery; the master pattem that had so long gone unsatisfied at last had found its match. A closer look at the woman who had met the Timesplicer’s qualifications shocked her anew. She faced her own self.

Elienne felt herself hurled headlong into a scene similar to one she had lived only hours earlier in the darkness of Trathmere’s dungeons, but in her dream she was present also as observer. Dirty, tear-streaked, and possessed by grief and wild anger, her former self stood braced against the prison’s barred door. At her feet knelt a Sorcerer magnificently clad in blue. He had cut through the stuff of Time with what she now saw revealed to be a focused projection of his living soul. It shone like a winter star, hard, brilliant, and blue-white. He took the severed strand of Time into his hands, and in growing horror the dreaming Elienne became aware he intended to make a loop; join it back into itself at an earlier point in its own past.

“No!” she cried, momentarily set adrift by revelation; the path just followed had been a Sorcerer’s condensed perception of five thousand years’ search for a Prince’s bride. “You must not!” Newly wise to the laws of Time, she was aware crossing a Time-track back into itself would cause death to its wielder.

The Sorcerer, recognizable as Ielond, glanced up, his face pale with weariness. Yet beneath lay a will too strong for mortal interference.

“I must,” he said simply. “By the time I had unraveled the mysteries of Time and learned to alter its sequence, Darion had already stood before the Grand Council and been condemned. If he is to be saved, the past must be changed.”

Elienne shook her head, blinded by swelling tears. Her throat squeezed shut, trapping her protest unspoken, and the soul brilliance that drifted over Ielond’s hands distorted into starred slivers as her eyelids spilled their salty burden down her cheeks.

Ielond rose from the cell floor. The lining of his cloak echoed the red of Cinndel’s wounds as he stood before her, immovable as chiseled stone. “Elienne, you musn’t weep,” he said gently. “It is the Prince’s life or mine. I make the choice with peace in my heart.”

The words were spoken aloud, and their sound woke Elienne from sleep. Disgruntled and shaken, it was a moment before she realized that she had passed the night in Ielond’s arms. Over his shoulder, an orange sun topped the mountains at the edge of the icefield’s bleak expanse.

Elienne felt rested. Yet the dream’s impact remained irrevocably inscribed into waking memory. All she had been forced to witness through the night was sharp as direct experience, and the tears on her face were real. Elienne stared up at the sliver of light that drifted always in Ielond’s presence. No Guild Sorcerer from her own land could have disciplined self-will to a focus so precise that soul became manifest, a visible pinpoint of force.

Conscious of the Sorcerer’s gaze upon her, Elienne spoke, embarrassed to find her voice shaky with the effect of her tears. “I understand, I think. You splice Time. That is what gives you power over Destiny.”

Ielond shifted his grip and gently lowered Elienne to the ground. “I can influence all destiny but my own,” he said carefully. “It makes little difference. I have built my lifework around Darion‘s future. If he dies, my efforts have been wasted. Since I will not be alive to see them through to completion, I rely on the resources of the woman I send to Pendaire as his bride. Lady, if you fail, there can be no other after you. Are you prepared to devote your life to a man who is a stranger?”

Elienne stared at her feet, reminded by the unfamiliar jeweled slippers which covered them that Ielond’s words carried the weight of finality. A long minute passed before she answered.

“I go only to preserve a life that is dear to you, for you saved my life, and the life of Cinndel’s child.” She met the Sorcerer’s intent gaze. “I’ll give you my best effort, and my son for the royal heir. But I cannot promise I will love your Prince. Husband he may be, but only in name. My heart is not available for bargain.”

“So be it,” said Ielond. “I can ask no more.”

The Sorcerer’s attitude turned brisk. He unpinned the neck of his cloak and drew forth a heavy gold chain. A filigree pendant dangled from its end, set with a glassy, transparent gem that shone like dew on silver in the dawn light.

Ielond cupped the ornament in his hand. “This is a mirrowstone. It will react to any living substance that comes into contact with its surface. This one has been set over a strand of Prince Darion’s hair. You will see his current location reflected within, provided no other influence is touching the stone.”

He extended the gem to Elienne. “Take care when you look. Handle it only by its setting, otherwise you will see nothing but yourself.”

Elienne accepted the jewel gingerly, the gold a hard, warm weight against her palm. With an eerie sense of foreboding, she gazed within. The mirrowstone’s reflection jolted her like a physical blow.

Elienne gasped, “Ma’Diere’s mercy!” It took an extreme effort of will not to fling the object away into the snow. Framed by the ornate grace of the setting, she saw a slim, chestnut-haired man; he wore black, unrelieved by device or embroidery. Manacles adorned his wrists. Whatever emotion lay beneath the pale mask of his face was shuttered behind forced control. Hazel and wide-set, the eyes were haunted. And beyond the stiff line of his shoulder stood a hooded executioner with an ax.

“Do something!” cried Elienne. “They’ll kill him.”

“That is for you to determine.” Ielond was remorselessly curt. “Now listen, because time is precious. That stone has been interfaced by enchantment. In the locus of Pendaire, it will also act as a means of communication; you have only to touch the stone and speak, and Darion will hear you. Do you understand?”

Elienne nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

With steady hands the Sorcerer pulled the chain from Elienne’s fingers and slipped it around her neck. He then summoned his light and carefully joined the end links until no seam remained. When his work was complete, the mirrowstone could be removed only with a file.

“I am going to splice us into my personal study in Pendaire.” Ielond ran his hand over the chain one last time before letting it fall. “The time will be Summer’s Eve. You will find on my desk a sealed writ presenting you to the Grand Council as candidate for the Prince’s betrothed. My tower is situated in the west wing of the palace. You should have little trouble getting the writ from there to the chamber where the Grand Council will convene by noon the following day.”

Ielond placed his hand on the small of Elienne’s back and gently pressed her forward. “I will further alter your own Timepath to converge with Pendaire but an hour past the moment your son was conceived. This will give you a full three days for the Council to affirm your candidacy. You must bed the Prince at all costs before the close of the week.”

Elienne’s expression went wooden. The Sorcerer appeared not to notice. He strode at her side and drew breath to resume his list of instructions.

Elienne interrupted. “And you will die,” she said bitterly, and followed with a curse.

Ielond loosed an explosive sigh. “Mistress, it’s inevitable. My life has already passed through Summer‘s Eve on Pendaire. My reemergence there will create an impossible differential between past and present. The same reality cannot exist twice in a single location.”

The Sorcerer’s brisk manner plainly indicated he wished no more said on the subject. Elienne walked on in mutinous silence as, slowly, the sun’s rising disc stained the horizon yellow-gold. Disturbed more than she cared to admit that Ielond would not survive the transfer to Pendaire, she realized he had won more than cooperation during her short time in his presence. Elienne worried. Denied the stability of his presence, her wayward, outspoken manner would make it difficult to mind her promises concerning Darion. Cinndel had been entertained by her quick tongue; another man might learn to hate it.

Ielond stopped so abruptly Elienne almost bumped into him. Shaken from thought, she looked up and saw they had reached what appeared to be the uttermost edge of the world. The icefield ended almost underfoot. As though chopped by a giant’s cleaver, the plain dropped off sheer into a glassy, crystalline precipice. The base lay thousands of feet down beneath an ocean of dawn-tinted sky.

Ielond gave Elienne no time to recover her breath. “This is the point of our departure, Mistress. Time-wielding requires much space. Since we will be leaving a wide change ripple behind us, it is important the site be uninhabited.”

Elienne said nothing. She knew if she framed her thoughts into words, the useless, angry emotions damned within her mind would prevail. Ielond took a braced stance. He extended his right arm with his light cupped beneath his palm and uttered four words.

Wind sprang up. It swept in from behind, a demon’s howl of cold that clutched Elienne’s skirts wildly against her ankles and whipped her hair like a horse’s mane. The gale mounted, ice crystals driven like a scourge before its fury. Yet Ielond effortlessly bridled the forces of his summoning and funneled the result through the pinpoint focus held balanced between finger and thumb.

The wind keened through the vortex. Faintly over the rush of noise, Elienne heard Ielond speak again. The pull of those three words tugged her soul, made her yearn to escape the confines of flesh and merge with the nexus of power that converged beneath the Sorcerer’s hand.

Ielond raised his voice a third time, and two more words built like a pyramid upon those which had preceded. Elienne experienced a physical wrench, compelled to grasp Ielond’s wrist to maintain her footing.

The light waxed brighter and blazed. Through burning eyes, Elienne saw the ice begin to alter. Fine crystals blew loose and streamed, separate as table salt, over the abyss. Tossed into empty air, the particles spread like a cloud and visibly swelled; from specks, they expanded rapidly to the size of rocks, then touched and intermeshed to form a solid, crystalline bridge whose hard facets shattered sunlight into colors. The sight was one of indescribable beauty. Yet even as Elienne paused to admire, Ielond capped the pyramid of his incantation with one final word. The light shot like a meteor from his hand, trailing a tail of fire over the gleaming arch of ice.

“Come.” Ielond took Elienne firmly by the arm and drew her onto the narrow span of the icebridge. The path was precarious, barely wide enough for the two of them to pass single file. Elienne felt as though the breadth of the sky had expanded, engulfing them like specks poised on a thread above the Eye of Eternity. The icefield fell behind. Ahead, the slender walkway led upward and disappeared through the blazing heart of lelond’s light.

“You may confide in my apprentice, Kennaird.” The Sorcerer’s words fell as a whisper in that wide space. “He will attend to the details after my death. Taroith, also, is trustworthy. He heads the Sorcerers’ League and also holds a seat in the Grand Council. Heed his advice, and look to him for guidance.”

Ielond towed Elienne onward, oblivious to her growing alarm. The orange sun hung off to the right as though suspended, and awash in torrid light, the icefield glimmered behind like the Plains of Hell. Following Ielond’s footsteps, Elienne saw the steady brilliance of his focus begin to shine through the solidarity of his person. At the next step, his cloak glittered like frost-shot glass and sparkled into transparency. Elienne felt the cold tingle of enchantment pierce her inner-most flesh. She wanted to stop, but the Sorcerer pulled her relentlessly forward.

“We have entered the threshold of the Timesplice.” Ielond’s voice seemed diffracted, and both hands and feet disappeared after his cloak. “Ma’Diere’s fortune go with you, Lady Elienne. You are Darion’s last hope in life. Abandon him, and his death is certain.”

The Sorcerer moved directly through the dazzle of light that burned, hot as a star, at the end of the icebridge. The solidity of his body unraveled into a blaze of blue-white sparks and vanished. Elienne felt herself gripped and hurled after him into oblivion. The light snapped out with the speed of a lightning flash, and sky and icebridge fell away into darkness.

Elienne could neither hear nor see. Her throat would not answer her desire to scream, and her very soul was plunged into cold darkness, fathomless as Eternity.

Chapter 3

The Council Major

ELIENNE
wakened
rudely to the stinging, bitter taste of a strange liquid; fumes scoured her nostrils and made them burn. She choked, supported by strange hands. Through watering eyes she caught the blurred impression of an anxious face lit by a candle. All else was darkness.

“My Lady?” said a voice. “Can you hear me?”

Elienne nodded, unable to speak. Whatever she had been made to swallow bound her throat in knots. The cold lip of a flask brushed against her mouth. Fearing a second draught would be forced upon her, Elienne turned her head violently to one side.

“No more,” she managed to croak, and coughed wrackingly so that her objection could not be ignored. Rewarded, after an interval, by the thin clink of glassware being set aside, Elienne blinked away the tears that dammed her eyes.

She lay on a thick-piled carpet magnificently patterned with birds of paradise. Her shoulder was propped against the knobby, carved foot of a dragon whose middle region supported the seat of a chair; and, in the trembling light of a hand-held candle, a sandy-haired man bent over her, thin face drawn with concern.

“Ma’Diere be praised,” he said in a rush. His blue eyes protruded slightly, lending a faintly surprised expression, but his mouth was kindly and generously proportioned. “I was afraid we had lost you too.”

Elienne struggled to sit. “Ielond,” she said, and stopped. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dim room. Over the young man’s shoulder she saw a figure in blue velvet robes sprawled awkwardly across the top of a paper-littered desk. Horror and loss wrenched a gasp from her lips. “No!”

“He is beyond help.” The young man swallowed. “Dead.”

Elienne bit her lip and restrained an obscenity. She was less successful with the urge to weep that followed.

The man gave Elienne’s hand a self-conscious squeeze. “I know how you feel.” His own voice betrayed grief. “Master Ielond has instructed me since my fourteenth year. I loved him better than my own father.”

“Then you must be Kennaird.” Elienne blotted her face on a silken sleeve. “I was told to trust you.”

She disengaged her hand from Kennaird’s clasp and began to rise, but, overcome with dizziness, she made it only as far as the cushions of the dragon chair. “Hell’s Damnation, what’s the matter with me!” The room began to swirl in sickening circles.

Kennaird confessed with embarrassed haste, “It’s the elixir I gave you. It will only bring you sleep.”

Elienne struggled to stand. “Where is Darion? I wish to speak with him.”

“You must not. Not before the Grand Council has sanctioned him as your betrothed.” Kennaird’s words sounded as though they were funneled across a wide distance.

“Eternity take the Grand Council!” Elienne struggled for control. Her tongue seemed swollen and thick. “I have to see Darion.”

But Kennaird remained stolidly unsympathetic. “Ielond guessed as much. It was his final will that I keep you safely in this tower until tomorrow. A little sleep will do you no harm, and it might improve your temper.”

“Damn you,” Elienne responded, shaping her consonants with extreme effort. Her tongue had grown as sluggish as her eyelids. “Damn yooouuu....”

Her eyes closed. For a long moment Kennaird stood and regarded the small, almost delicately proportioned woman intended as Prince Darion’s bride. Ielond had said he would seek a lady of spirit. The apprentice blasphemed with uncharacteristic fervor. “Ma’Diere’s everlasting mercy! He’s sent us a veritable harridan.”

* * *

Elienne woke to warm sunlight. She stirred languidly. Her clothes had been removed, and whoever had done it had also left her in a marvelously soft bed. She felt rested and pleasant, but for the pestilent itch that had developed in the area of her crotch.

Elienne shot upright, sending pillows and bedclothes in a cascade to the floor. More than sleep had invaded her body during the night. She’d have bet every jewel Ielond had given her that Kennaird had also blessed her with a convincing reconstruction of her maidenhead. The thought raised blistering anger.

The apprentice sorcerer chose that moment to poke his head through the door. “Good day, my Lady.”

“You,” Elienne accused scathingly, “have the manners and the morals of a billy goat.” She made no move to cover herself.

Kennaird gaped. The tops of his ears turned scarlet, and he retreated hastily, slamming the door as he went. Through the thick, carven panels, his voice sounded strangled. “Missy, what was done was for Darion’s sake.”

“He damned well better be worth it.” Elienne flung the coverlet aside in anger. “I’ll not suffer every churl and his brother sticking his hands beneath my skirts without granting the courtesy of asking first.”

“Missy, please.”

“You’re not forgiven,” raged Elienne. “Let me be.”

The door opened. Kennaird stood braced as though expecting a blow. But Elienne merely slipped out of bed and stood, wrapped in the chaste folds of a sheet like a barefoot queen.

“My Lady,” the apprentice said coldly, “kindly dress at once. It is already half-past eleven, and you must appear before the Council within the hour. Ielond recommends you to them as a Prince’s bride. Act like one, whether it pleases you or not, or another will pay with his life.”

“Goat,” said Elienne.

Kennaird departed. But he paused on the far side of the door to loose a snort of laughter into his sleeve. Over his work the past night, he had envied Prince Darion the mate Ielond had delivered, but no more. That missy the Prince could have all to himself, and his Grace would be lucky if his hair wasn’t gray before the turn of the season.

* * *

Kennaird sat at Ielond’s desk sorting through papers when Elienne emerged from the bedroom. Alerted by the sound of the door latch, he looked up and studied her with light curiosity. Ielond had fashioned dress and jewelry with the finesse of a master. Golden silk and tourmalines complemented Elienne to the point where it was impossible to imagine her dicey temperament, far less her waspish tongue.

“I am glad you’re not one to fuss overlong with dressing,” said Kennaird. “Ielond’s death has put an already delicate situation squarely on top of a nest of chaos. The Council will be in knots arguing over Darion’s succession, because but seven days remain before his twenty-sixth birthday and he has not fathered even a bastard child. You are the first and only candidate for the Prince’s Consort whom Ielond has entered, and suspicion is already high because he waited so very late. Your case must be presented at the earliest possible moment.”

Elienne offered no response. Instead she gazed about the study with unconcealed interest. Absent were the flasks, braziers, and phials that would have cluttered the dwelling of a Guild Sorcerer from her own land. Though Ielond’s walls were tiered floor to ceiling with the usual rows of dusty leather books, she found no implement of a Loremaster’s practice anywhere in the room.

“Ielond’s sorceries were crafted entirely of mind and will,” said Kennaird. “His art was discipline; his power, self-awareness. He had no need of gimmicks.”

Elienne stared. “Was it he who taught you to read thoughts?”

Kennaird shook his head. “I was guessing. My training has not progressed so far.” He tapped a sheaf of papers with a finger. “But Ielond left much information on you and the place you came from. He had established knowledge of your existence before he broke the barrier of Time and left Pendaire. He had only to locate you and return.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I wished you to know just how much faith Ielond placed in you.” Kennaird rose hastily from his chair, heated for argument.

Elienne interrupted. “I think I already know.” Her annoyance showed. “Ielond gave his life, and I my word, for the sake of Prince Darion’s succession. I realize I am a sorry substitute for your Master’s living presence, but that was his choice. Honor his memory by respecting it.” Elienne paused to rein in another stampede of tears. She was through crying over what could not be changed. “Don’t take your Master’s death out on me,” she finished shakily. “And quit trying to shepherd my conscience.”

Kennaird looked down at the papers beneath his hands as though they held an answer for his uncertainty. The brown jerkin he had worn the night before had been replaced with a heavy black robe bordered at the cuffs with a triple band of blue. The deep colors contrasted harshly with his light hair and complexion, and morning light only accentuated the fatigue that ringed his eyes. For a moment, Elienne regretted her outburst. Ielond had not left his apprentice an easy legacy. But before she could offer apology, Kennaird rose and collected a document crusted with seals.

“My Lady, the time has come to present you before the Grand Council of Pendaire.” With evident annoyance, he scooped the remaining papers into an untidy pile. Then he flung wide the study door and motioned the Lady of Ielond’s choosing over the threshold.

Elienne waited on the balcony that overlooked the head of a spiral staircase while Kennaird set a ward to guard the doorway. His focus resolved after an interval of profound concentration. Compared with Ielond’s brilliant manifestation, the apprentice’s effort shone dimly, no more than a faint bluish gleam over his spread palm.

Yet Elienne watched without criticism as he traced a pattern over the oaken panels above the knob. None of the Guild’s followers could have done as much with so little. Completed, the ward sparkled to invisibility.

Blotting sweat from his brow, Kennaird nodded toward the stairs. “I hope you are as sturdy as you are stubborn. It’s a long way down.”

The words were no understatement. By the time they reached the bottom, Elienne was grateful she had led an unfashionably active life for the wife of a Duke. She wondered briefly whether she would be as free to indulge in hawking and riding as wife of a King.

Kennaird led her through an arched portal at ground level. The view beyond stopped Elienne in her tracks.

The tower opened into an immense garden completely enclosed within a courtyard. Blue, orange, and yellow flowers bloomed in a magnificent array, framing fountains, lawns, and hedgerows with breath-stopping artistry. Above, washed in golden summer sunlight, and brilliant with pennants, rose the spires and battlements of the royal palace.

“How beautiful,” exclaimed Elienne softly, but that moment she caught sight of a flaw amid the garden’s perfection. A dirty, dark-haired child sat huddled beneath an evergreen beside the path. She glared at the two of them, a scowl printed on her smudged oval face.

“Hello,” said Elienne.

When Kennaird turned and saw whom she had addressed, he stopped at once and bent imposingly over the bush and the child it sheltered. “What are you doing here? Does your governess know where you are?”

“No!” The girl shrank into her thicket of needles, hands clenched tightly around scuffed knees.

Elienne grasped Kennaird’s elbow. “Must you be so harsh with her?”

The girl seemed no older than twelve. Elienne stooped and offered her hand, but the child backed violently away. Branches whipped, dealing Elienne a stinging rebuff, and the girl escaped at a run across the emerald expanse of lawn on the far side.

“You insolent brat!” Kennaird yelled after her. “I’ll have you punished.”

Elienne frowned. “Let the poor child be. She was obviously frightened to death of you.”

Kennaird presented her with a startled glance. “That was Minksa,” he said angrily. “She‘s ]ieles’s bastard and, incidentally, one of your enemies. You’ve a lot to learn about this court and its ways before you question my judgment, Missy. Remember that.”

Kennaird strode off before Elienne had time to reply. She was obliged to hurry as the apprentice hustled her without sympathy through an exquisitely carved entry and down a maze of hallways. The decor within reflected the same restrained artistry as the garden. Though Elienne longed to linger and stare, Kennaird‘s hasty step prevented her.

He slowed at last before a wide doorway with broad double panels and a round stag device chased in gold. The knob was set with gems.

Kennaird addressed the liveried steward who guarded the entrance against intrusion with urgency. “I bring with me Ielond’s candidate for the Prince’s Consort.” He waved the sealed document. “This writ was the Master’s last in life. Let me and the maid pass. She is the one chosen to share his Royal Grace’s destiny.”

The steward raised eyebrows in surprise. “You bring a missy endorsed by the Prince’s Guardian? Enter, with my blessing. They’re fighting in there like the two halves of Eternity over His Grace’s future, and—”

“I know. Excuse me.” Kennaird pushed past the steward and opened the door, motioning Elienne after him.

Neither the garden nor the exceptional elegance of the palace halls prepared her for the sight of the Grand Council Chamber of Pendaire. The room was oval-shaped. Loftily domed, a triple row of galleries filled with seated councilmen, tiered its entire circumference. The floor was tiled with a mosaic depicting Ma’Diere’s seasons, fall and winter beneath her shining Scythe, and spring and summer lit with the warmth of the Seed of Life. A dais centered this array, upon which sat an exquisitely dressed collection of notables.