Stormwarden (15 page)

VIII
Skane's Edge

Of the seven sailhands who manned the pinnace from the foundering of the galleass
Crow
only four reached the beaches of Skane's Edge alive. Followed by Hearvin and Tathagres, the survivors chose a dell beside a pool of deep, clear water, refreshed themselves, then slept off the exhaustion of their ordeal.

Emien did not join them. Instead he sought a place farther downstream where willows overhung banks edged by spear-straight ranks of cattails. The brook ran shallow and clean over a bed of rounded stones. Emien knelt and drank deeply. He found the water sweeter than the brackish wells he had known on Imrill Kand, but the improvement brought him no pleasure. Surrounded by the mournful trill of marsh thrushes, he bathed without hurry, rinsed the salt crust from his hair and clothes, and bound his cut forearm with strips torn from his shirt. He was bone tired. His eyes stung with sleeplessness, yet he felt no inclination to rest. Tathagres' hostility had disrupted his confidence, confused his thoughts till they circled in his mind like a pack of dogs balked by conflicting scents. Emien possessed no understanding, only bitterness, and he longed for the harsh life of Imrill Kand intensely. But Taen's death forever barred his return.

Troubled by cherished memories of the beaches where he had scavenged shells as a child, Emien twisted the last strip of bandage into place and tightened the knot with his teeth. The cut beneath was not deep, yet it stung without surcease. A ragged line of blood quickly soaked three layers of linen. The color reminded Emien of the marks his lash had left on the backs of the sailors. On Imrill Kand, brutality of any kind had revolted him; yet the unpleasantness had barely crossed his mind aboard the pinnace. Even now he felt no regret. He had struck the seamen not to punish but to ensure the unquestioning obedience necessary for efficient seamanship.

Inwardly aching, Emien leaned back against the trunk of the nearest willow. The thrushes over his head hopped to higher branches, nervously silent, while he rubbed at his bandaged arm. Emien could not have guessed Tathagres would swim the dangerous shores of Skane's Edge with such ease. Absorbed by his command, he had done nothing but overlook her self-confidence. That was no transgression. His desire to protect her had been right, justifiably human, as her reaction had not been.

A jay scolded on the far bank. Lost in contemplation, Emien traced a finger over his wound. Tathagres had intended no lasting harm; the gash was shallow, running parallel to the muscle fibre, where it would least impair movement. She had
said
she gave him warning, exactly as he had used his lash for laggardliness;
but his sailors were not lazy.
Emien stiffened, chilled by sudden revelation. What if,
like him,
Tathagres had cut to shape him for her own purpose?

Emien drove explosively to his feet. The marsh thrushes startled into flight and vanished with a whir of brown feathers. The stream sounded louder in their absence; yet Emien heard only the recollection of Anskiere's words the last time he had seen Taen alive.

"The waters of the world are deep. Chart your course with care, Marl's son." The Stormwarden had spoken confidently, as if he already knew how roughly the boy he addressed might be used. The advice galled for its patronizing smugness. Emien knew fierce rage. He kicked a stone in a short hard arc toward the stream. It struck shallows with a splash, and fish fled like shadows for cover. But the boy saw only the face of the sorcerer who had angered him. The willows trailed closely about his shoulders, hedging him like the meshes of a destiny he did not want. Near to panic, Emien spun on his heel and crashed through the brush to the beach.

Bathed in afternoon light, the cove was a snowy crescent flecked with the chipped crystal glitter of shells. Soothed by the open sea, Emien could almost forget the painful snarl his life had become. He walked along the tidemark and searched for the smooth fist-sized stones he preferred for hunting rabbits.

The meadows of Skane's Edge were uncommonly lush. From the size of the droppings in the grass, the boy guessed the animals were plentiful and plump; easy prey if he chose good cover. And on Imrill Kand, stalking rabbits with throwing stones had been his favorite escape from chores which he now understood were the thankless inheritance of poverty. He had been right to leave; he only needed space to regroup shattered dreams.

Tathagres had taught him to question the oath of loyalty sworn on Crow's decks. On Skane's Edge the boy might be subject to her will; but the Free Isles numbered more than the souls of Imrill Kand, and the empire beyond was vast. Emien resolved to learn from his mistress's methods, then strike off on his own. With or without her, he would exact the price of his sister's death from Anskiere.

Emien bent and scooped a speckled stone from the sand. He tossed it from hand to hand, testing its balance and weighing choices. His oath did not set limits on ambition. Nothing prevented him from playing Tathagres' plots for his own stakes. Emien slipped the stone in his pocket and presently forgot he had ever missed the village of his birth.

* * *

The cliffs of Skane's Edge gleamed like hammered bronze in the afterglow of sunset and lengthened shadows tangled beneath the boughs in the wood where Emien ran. He stumbled across a gully. Pebbles scattered beneath his feet, fell soundlessly into moss. The boy recovered his balance, then hurried on, anxious to locate Tathagres before dark. He had lingered in the hills far later than he had intended, but the time was not spent fruitlessly; two rabbits dangled from his belt, each killed by flawless aim. Emien fingered the single stone left in his pocket, regretful the daylight had faded too soon to make use of it. Two coneys would hardly feed seven people; but even these were scant use if he failed to reach the lowlands before night hid the landmarks.

Twilight deepened over the forest. Accustomed to ocean and the open tors of Imrill Kand, Emien felt uncomfortably hemmed in. Silver beeches leaned on either side, roots knuckled like miser's fists in rotted mats of leaves. Twigs clawed his clothing and foliage smothered the sky. No star shone through to guide the boy and the light had all but failed. With an unpleasant chill, Emien realized he might be forced to spend the night alone in the wilds. Even Tathagres' haughty company seemed preferable.

But presently a gleam of firelight twinkled through the branches ahead. The rabbits bumped limply against Emien's legs as he increased pace. His shirtsleeve snagged on a thorn, but the boy plunged on, drawn by the familiar smell of wood-smoke and comforted by thoughts of fresh meat.

Yet as Emien neared the campsite, he noticed the crickets seemed eerily silent. Over the limpid spill of the stream, he heard Tathagres' voice raised in anger. Cautious of her temper, the boy crouched in the bush to listen.

Tathagres spoke, and the tone of her voice made his skin prickle. "Your sovereign appointed you to my service. You'll go where I command. Fool. Did you think I would return to Kisburn empty-handed?"

Her rebuke was directed toward Hearvin. Certain the sorcerer's secretive silences boded ill for Tathagres, the boy crept closer. He hid behind a thicket and peered anxiously through the leaves. Hearvin stood with his back turned, a hooded silhouette against the firelight. Though his reply to Tathagres held no emotion, Emien sensed threat underlying, subtle and low as a scraped harpstring. Already the exchange had evolved well beyond the simple quarrel he had overheard on the pinnace.

"But the King did not send me." Hearvin's sleeve flapped about his bony wrist as he gestured conversationally. "His Grace of Kisburn granted you the service of both his grand conjurers, and in ignorance you lost them their lives. One was my apprentice. He was a slow learner, true enough, but he died meanly, for greed. What can you answer for him?"

Tathagres advanced, taut as a stalking leopard. Gold gleamed at her throat. "
I
lost their lives? For a lackey that's a presumptuous accusation! Kisburn wishes the frostwargs loosed. I desire the Keys to Elrinfaer. Tell me, what is
your
interest? Or do you claim no ambition other than charity? I don't believe you have no alliance at all with the King."

Hearvin did not trouble himself with a denial. His manner seemed unruffled, yet Emien suspected that fury burned like acid beneath his placid exterior.

"I came because of Tierl Enneth," the sorcerer said unexpectedly. This time his voice showed an edge.

Tathagres interrupted. "I'm amused. Do be more explicit."

"That's unnecessary." Hearvin moved. Emien flinched, braced for violence, but the sorcerer only clasped his hands behind his back. "Why belabor the obvious? I've seen enough. You wish the source of Anskiere's power for your own twisted passions. The King's will was simple convenience, and his resources your playthings. From the start, you were unfit to command any of the lives placed at your disposal. I swore no oath to Kisburn. But for reasons of my own I see fit to protect the royal reputation. You shall not return to Cliffhaven. The Kielmark will be subdued by other means, and I forbid you the Keys to Elrinfaer." He lowered his voice, until Emien had to strain to hear. "Seek elsewhere, Merya. I have tested your mettle and found it wanting."

The name made Tathagres pause. The flush drained from her cheeks, and her eyes widened, startled. But the gap in her poise lasted only a second. The viperish look she bestowed on Hearvin sent chills down Emien's spine. She would never accept the sorcerer's authority, he observed. And threatened, suddenly, by the fact that his own fate was entangled with hers, the boy dug in his pocket and closed his fingers over the cool rounded surface of his last throwing stone.

"You speak quite nicely," said Tathagres to Hearvin. "Tell me, can you act?"

She baited him, Emien saw. But the sorcerer also knew guile. He pushed the black cloth of his hood back over his shoulders, and his crown gleamed in the firelight, lending him an air of elderly vulnerability.

"Be warned, woman. I will challenge. If that happens, you'll be sorry for it."

Tathagres sobered instantly. "You meddle. Were you trained by the Vaere? If not, your threats are wasted. I shall return to Cliffhaven. Prevent me at your peril."

Hearvin bowed his head, his stance gone strangely rigid. "You will be stopped."

White light flared at the sorcerer's feet. Emien cringed, fearful of the spell. On Imrill Kand, Anskiere had always known when others watched his work covertly. But Hearvin remained oblivious and Tathagres seemed absorbed, intent as a hawk covering prey. She lifted her hands, touched the golden torque at her throat.

"I regret this," she said. But nothing of remorse showed in her expression. "You might have worked with me and been rewarded." She tilted her chin, then spoke a word to focus her defenses. Sparks crackled across her flexed wrists and caught like frost in her hair.

Hearvin waited, motionless. From hiding in the thicket, Emien saw a second spell flicker to life between the sorcerer's fingers, this one harsh and red, a needle-sharp geometric of light. Since Hearvin's hands stayed clenched behind his back, Tathagres was unaware of any additional threat. Emien dared not warn her; Hearvin would count the boy's life cheaply in this contest of wills. Miserably afraid, the boy huddled deeper into the thicket. He could not so much as call out, even for his mistress' sake.

Tathagres lifted her hands from the neckband and a golden haze of illumination quivered in the air above her palms. Poised like a quartz figurine, she pitched the energy at the sorcerer who opposed her.

Light met light with a tortured shriek of sound. Blinded by the flash, Emien buried his face in his hands. The night air shivered with the harmonics, as if tempered steel struck glass which would not shatter. Over the din, Emien heard Tathagres' shout of surprise. He forced himself to look. Through a glare of unbearable brilliance, he saw Hearvin had loosed his second spell; Tathagres struggled like a fly in a web of shimmering strands. She reached for her necklace. But Hearvin riposted with a curt gesture of his hand. The spell snapped into a spindle, symmetrically scribed as a crystal's matrix. Trapped, Tathagres renewed her attack. The energy she summoned backlashed, and an agonized scream escaped her throat. Emien panicked.

Ruled by terror, he ripped the stone from his pocket and flung it at the sorcerer.

His throw struck true. Hearvin swayed and slowly crumpled, blood on his temple. The spell which imprisoned Tathagres unravelled into smoke. But Emien saw nothing. Sorcery clove his awareness, sudden and bright as lightning, and he pitched downward into deepest unconsciousness.

* * *

Emien wakened gradually, his mouth foul with the acrid taste of ash. Water dripped down his neck, and someone shook his shoulder urgently.

"Emien?"

Gentle fingers traced his cheek. The boy stirred, fuzzily aware Tathagres leaned over him, her hands still damp from the stream.

"Emien?"

Her tone of voice might have moved the boy to joy under other circumstances. But with his head aching and his senses confused with dizziness, just opening his eyes was an effort. Speech became more than he could manage.

"Boy, you did well," Tathagres said, her manner more kindly than ever he might have imagined. "Had you not struck Hearvin, I could not have won free so easily."

Emien blinked. Briefly he wondered whether she could have escaped the red spell at all without help. Memory returned with the precise clarity of an etching; Emien recalled the conflict, the stone, and blood on Hearvin's face. In his mind he felt the soft limp fur of the rabbits when he recovered them, still warm, from the grass. Yet this time his prey had been human; revulsion tore through him. He battled a sudden urge to be sick.

Tathagres held him, her touch gentle against his brow. As if she understood his distress, she spoke again, concern in her violet eyes. "You did right, Emien. By your oath of service you had no other choice." Her fingers lingered on his cheek. "You shall accompany me to Cliffhaven. After we deal with Anskiere, we will return to Kisburn. My liege will be told of your courage in defending me. He is no mean King. You shall be well rewarded."

Distressed by the warmth of her praise and unable to escape the sting of his conscience, Emien tensed under her hands. Raised in bitter hardship, he had been taught to treasure life. Appalled to discover how easily he had struck a man with intent to harm, he searched the delicate planes of Tathagres' face with his eyes. She held his gaze. Emien studied her amethyst eyes, all shadows and depth, and complex as weather to fathom.
How alike we are,
he realized, and shrank at the thought. He drew an aching breath. Speech came at last, with difficulty.

"Hearvin," he whispered. "What happened?"

"He is dead." Tathagres shifted, settled herself in the leaves at Emien's side. Her fine hands went loose in her lap. "You killed him cleanly. Kor's Divine Fires, how fortunate you chose a rock! Had you thrown a knife, or any other object crafted as a weapon, the defense ward which grazed you would certainly have taken your life. But a stone could not be traced except by direction. Hearvin was caught off guard. He died instantly."

Emien turned aside, rejecting her approval. Though Tathagres intended comfort, her words wrought only remorse. He had killed. Neither logic nor circumstances would alter the wretched truth; the act was beyond pardon. The details revolted him. The boy gasped, desperately needing to weep. But no tears flowed, and a spasm of nausea wracked him.

Tathagres caught his shoulders firmly. Emien felt the warmth of sorcery in her touch. His retching eased, then stilled, and a queer dreamlike peace flowed over his jangled nerves. Yet not even drowsiness could blunt his need to acknowledge the consequence of his deed. In a voice gone dry and bleak, he said, "That was murder." The word ached in his throat.

Tathagres bent close and sighed. White hair brushed his face, while her eyes gazed down, lovely as jewels, and for once clear of intrigue. "By the Alliance's charter, yes, you committed murder. But you serve me, Emien. I am subject to none but the King. By Crown Law, Hearvin was a traitor. You shall never come to trial, I swear it. And the sailors will never talk. They shall be sold to the galleys and we will use the silver to buy passage to Cliffhaven." She paused and traced Emien's brow with her fingertips. Her touch brought weariness and his lashes drooped.

"Sleep now." Tathagres' voice softened, blended into distance like rain over leaves. The boy sank into slumber.

"We begin our vengeance against Anskiere tomorrow morning."