Shadowfane, Page 2

Scait blinked and shifted in his chair. If such children existed, they might be taken and exploited. Yet members of the compact could not cross into Keithland to explore without drawing notice. Subterfuge would be necessary.

  The lantern suddenly flickered; in its failing light, Scait's teeth flashed in a leer of wild excitement. There existed one for whom such restrictions would not exist. Maelgrim Dark-dreamer's talents were already controlled by the compact; through him, a way could be found to conduct such a search undetected. Excited now, Scait reached in thought for the mind of the Thienz elder who had recently departed his presence.

  Where is Maelgrim now?

  The image sent in reply was prompt, but clouded with a resentment most probably effected by the ruse concerning the Morrigierj; Scait chose forbearance in his lust for information. All of Maelgrim's Thienz crew had perished of salt poisoning; alone in a boat severely battered by the aftermath of the storm set loose by Jaric, the Dark-dreamer currently struggled to patch tattered canvas, that he might sail for Shadowfane and the north. Scait clicked his spurs in irritation; his new plan must wait until the boy-slave-human returned, a delay that might extend through several months, since winter's inevitable gales would brew up weather unfavourable for passage. Forced to patience, the Demon Lord brooded upon the possibilities presented by rediscovery of the Veriset-Nav computer. Hours passed. The lamp flickered out and predawn gloom infused Shadowfane's empty hall. Spurred fingers stroked the dagger left embedded in cured human flesh, while, outside, wind wailed like a funeral dirge across the frostblasted fells.

  * * *

  Twenty-seven generations after the fall of the probe ship Corinne Dane, the navigational computer that had calculated courses between stars analysed its latest acquisition, a sorcerer's son who aspired to undertake the Cycle of Fire. Small, lean, and calloused from the rigours of the storm that had delivered him to the fabled isle, Jaric was remarkably like his sire, Ivain; except here and there lay clues to differences that extended beyond mere flesh.

  The boy's sun-bleached hair and seafarer's tan seemed oddly misplaced under the red-lit glimmer of the control panels. His clothing had been meticulously mended with a sail needle, before being torn again. His rope belt was not tasselled, but perfectly end-spliced; only his bootlaces revealed haste or impatience, one being tied with sailor's knots, the other whipped into tangles that the mechanical arms of the robots unsnarled with difficulty. The body beneath the clothing proved bruised and abraded, the legacy of hardship and stress.

  The father had chosen his path to mastery in far less agony of spirit; unlike his son, he had arrived upon the isle with a companion at his side, his passage uncontested by hunting packs of Thienz. Much hope or. much setback might arise from Jaric's experience. Unaffected by sentiment, the guardian of mankind's future reviewed his candidacy for the Cycle of Fire with precise and passionless logic.

  The boy under scrutiny remained unaware that the creature he knew as Tamlin of the Vaere was an entity fabricated by a sophisticated array of machinery. Taken into custody from the woodland clearing where he had succumbed to drugged sleep, and bundled by robots into a metal-walled chamber hidden beneath the soil, Ivainson Jaric presently rested within a life-support capsule that once had equipped the starship's flight deck.

  Servo-mechanisms laboured over his body, completing hookups that in the past had enabled human navigators to interface with the Veriset-Nav's complex circuitry. Like every human visitor before him, Jaric would experience only dreams during his stay upon the fabled isle.

  The Vaere had kept its true form secret since the crash of Corinne Dane. Ejected intact from its parent ship, the unit retained power generators and drive field; but with Starhope fallen to enemies, a distress flare would draw attack rather than rescue. Set-Nav found itself shepherd to refugees incapable of defending its data from aliens who could reprogram its functions for their own use. Even as the germ plasms of earth-type flora and fauna had survived and altered the face of Keithland, so had the guidance computer changed, adapted, and evolved, cloaked in a guise of myth. Despite time and attrition, its primary directive remained. Set-Nav even yet sought means to end the predations of psionically endowed aliens that mankind now called demons.

  In its latest, most effective offensive, Veriset-Nav trained psi-talented humans to mastery of a double Sathid-link that gained them direct control over the elements. Jaric was the latest candidate for a procedure fraught with danger.

  Of countless human subjects, only Anskiere and Ivain had survived to achieve dual mastery; but their success had justified the deaths of their predecessors. Paired crystals had granted them power enough to eradicate some species of demons and imprison others. The task of freeing Keithland from threat had begun. But talent capable of training for such feats was sparse, ever difficult to obtain; Ivainson, whose life was already sought by demons, possessed potential both precious and rare.

  A switch closed. Lights flickered green over the access console, tinting Jaric like a wax figure while programs designed for complex navigational mathematics exhaustively mapped his potential. The Vaere matched the crippling self-doubt of this boy's childhood against his determination to achieve a Firelord's inheritance. It tallied strength, weakness, and raw potential and completed its model with direct observations shared by the Dreamweaver, Taen. Information streamed into the data banks, then transmuted, meshed and interwoven to a sequence of intricate probability equations. Inflexibly logical, the Vaere calculated Jaric's potential to survive the dual mastery that comprised the Cycle of Fire.

  The conclusion was disturbing. Never in Keithland history had the Vaere detected such raw potential for power in the mind of a man; yet the latent ability Jaric possessed proved coupled with a personality sensitive to the point of fragility, balanced upon a selfhood newly and precariously established. Considered alone, this analysis might have disqualified the boy from training; but now, with demons aware of the origins of the Vaere, the slimmest opportunity counted.

  An access circuit closed. Alongside Jaric's statistics the Vaere added the composite analysis of Keithland, then an estimated projection of the Dark-dreamer's acquired power. The forecast proved bleak. Maelgrim's mastery derived from a Sathid already dominated by Thienz-demons; his talents would be like his sister's, but reversed. Where Taen wove dreams to heal and defend, her brother would spin visions to destroy. She could influence individuals; but with the combined might of Shadowfane's compact to back him, Maelgrim might instigate wholesale madness, corrupt governments, or incite soldiers to war against the very cities they were armed to protect. Before such an onslaught, even the defences at Landfast might topple.

  The Vaere sequenced scenarios of possible counter-moves for days and nights without let up. At the end, only one held hope. Shadowfane's invasion might be deterred if the Stormwarden, Anskiere of Elrinfaer, were freed from the ice. That task required a firelord's skills. Time was too short to seek an alternative for the Cycle of Fire, even should a second candidate exist within Keithland's population.

  Had the Vaere reacted as a mortal, such a quandary would have caused grief and trepidation; being a machine of passionless logic, it executed decisions within a millisecond. Jaric must be placed in jeopardy; after a brief training period, the boy must attempt Earthmastery. If he retained control after primary bonding, he must go on to attempt mastery of a second Sathid matrix, the most difficult challenge a sorcerer could attempt. He must endure and survive the Cycle of Fire. Should he fail, if the Sathid entities he must battle for dominance conquered his will, both he and Anskiere would perish.

  Then the defence of Keithland would rest upon a Dreamweaver's frail and inadequate resources.

  Lights blinked and vanished, and the consoles went dark beside the amber glow of the life-support unit. Veriset-Nav initiated an entry command, and the circuitry that cross-linked the master navigator's capsule shifted status to active. Monitors winked to life, glowing blue over a boy framed in a nest of silvery wires. The heir of Ivain Firel
ord stirred in the depths of his sleep, even as the guidance systems from Corinne Dane induced the first of a series of dreams designed to prepare him for the trials of a sorcerer's mastery.

  * * *

  Unaware his senses were subject to illusion, Jaric believed that he roused to twilit silence in the grove of the Vaere. He opened his eyes to grass and flowers, and to the same enchanted clearing where he had earlier fallen asleep. A chill roughened his flesh. Nothing appeared to have changed, and that unsettled him. His hands still stung with abrasions from muscling Callinde's helm against storm-winds. Both clothing and skin glittered with salt crystals, crusted by spray upon his person. Puzzled, for he had expected some sign of great magic, he blinked and pushed himself erect. The soil felt cool under his palms. Overhead, the trees arched in the silvery half-light like a congregation of leaf-bearded patriarchs. Irritated to discover that his body had stiffened during his rest on damp ground, the boy stretched, then froze with his arms half-raised. Tamlin of the Vaere sat perched on the low grey rock at the centre of the grove.

  An insouciant grin crinkled the tiny man's features. His beard tumbled in tangles over his fawn coloured jacket. Beads and feathered bells sewn to the cuffs jingled merrily in rhythm with his booted feet, which swung idly above the tips of the flowers, and the pipe in his hand trailed smoke like braid through the air.

  Jaric raked back mussed hair, wary of the lightless black eyes that watched his every move. 'How long have you been here?'

  'Always, and never.' The Vaere made no effort to qualify his oblique statement, but bit down on his pipestem, drew, and puffed out a perfect smoke ring. 'Are you going to ask why?'

  Jaric tucked his knees within the circle of his arms and frowned. 'Would you answer?'

  Tamlin laughed. Feathers danced on his sleeves as he lowered his pipe, yet his mirth dispersed with the smoke ring. 'I have no answers, only riddles. Do you still desire a firelord's mastery?'

  Aware his integrity was under question, Jaric chose his reply with care. 'I wish Keithland secure from demons.' He rose, too nervous to keep still any longer.

  'No difference, then, son of Ivain.' The Vaere leapt from his perch and landed in grass that did not rustle; full height, he stood no higher than Jaric's hip. To spare your people, you must conquer all weakness, then master the skills that were your father's. Are you prepared?'

  'No.' Jaric waited, tense down to his heels. Hemmed in by the eerie stillness of the grove, he shied from remembering the demons, and the fate that awaited the people and the woman he loved if he failed. 'Is any man born prepared to suffer madness? I can do nothing more than try.'

  'You say!' Bells clinked briskly as Tamlin took a step forward. 'You cannot survive the Cycle of Fire without first mastering the earth. For that, your resolve must be unassailable. Is it?'

  Jaric swallowed. With a bitter heart, he pictured Taen Dreamweaver's smile, bright as the song of the woodlarks in Seitforest; he remembered the banners flying free over the towers of Landfast, and the Kielmark's wild anger when Cliffhaven stood threatened by armies with demon allies. These things he treasured, and longed to protect. But it had been the wild clans of Cael's Falls and their sacrifice of thirty-nine lives to preserve him from demon captivity that had irrevocably sealed his resolve to attempt the Cycle of Fire. Nothing short of death could deflect Jaric from his decision, though the passage to a firelord's mastery had worked upon Ivain a total annihilation of identity: a vicious, irreversible insanity that caused people across Keithland to fear him. Years after the morning he had ended his misery with a dagger thrust through his heart, Ivain Firelord was remembered with curses. The mention of his name caused folk of all stations to raise crossed wrists in the sign against evil brought on by sorcery.

  Tamlin gestured and the pipe vanished instantly from his hand. He spoke as though he were privy to the boy's dark fears. 'Son of Ivain, you will need more than determination. The Sathid crystal you must subjugate to gain Earthmastery will already be self-aware at the time it links with your consciousness. It will explore your innermost self, back to the time of birth, seeking weakness that can be turned to exploit you. How much of your past can you face without flinching?'

  Though pressured where he was most vulnerable, Jaric refused to give ground. From the instant he reached the fabled isle, Tamlin seemed bent on intimidating him. The idea dawned that the Vaere's words might not be warnings but a ploy intended to provoke him.

  'So!' Tamlin sprang aggressively on to the stone, his gaze turned terribly, piercingly direct. 'Your mind is quick. But anger will not be enough to overcome what lies ahead. Shall I prove that?'

  Without further warning the Vaere clapped his hands. A dissonant jangle of bells tangled with Jaric's shout as the ground dissolved from beneath his feet. His senses overturned, and he tumbled backwards into a memory from his past.

  II

  Mastery of Earth

  The fruit trees in Morbrith's walled orchard stood stripped of leaves, and branches rattled like bones in the grip of ice and wind. Yet the gardens Jaric recalled from childhood were not desolate, even in the harshest freeze of winter. The footprints of small boys rumpled the snow between the paths, and laughter rang through frosty air. Only Jaric, an assigned ward of the Smith's Guild, hung back from the rough play of his peers. On the morning of his fourth birthday, a big man who smelled of horses had taken him from the hearth of his latest foster-mother. From now on, he understood he would live in the loft over the forge with the rest of the guild apprentices. The other boys were older than Jaric by several years; in the cruel fashion of children, they resented the intruder in their midst.

  'Why, he's nothing but a baby!' Garrey, the eldest, had mocked, and the rest followed his lead like a pack.

  Cold air bit through Jaric's mittens. Longingly he watched the apprentices run and leap at tag-ball; earlier, Garrey had told him he was unwelcome to join their play. But the game fascinated a boy whose foster-mother had kept him separate from her own children, and whispered when she thought he would not hear that his presence brought ill luck to her house. Drawn by the laughter, the running, and the carefree scuffling of the young, Jaric edged closer. Unwittingly he crossed the boundary line of the game.

  Garrey missed a difficult catch. A burly boy, but quick. he spun and dashed after the ball, only to encounter Jaric standing squarely in his path. He checked and slipped, and barrelled heavily into the younger child. Knocked to one knee, Jaric struggled to regain his feet. Garrey whirled before he could run.

  Scowling, his red face speckled with snowflakes, the larger boy curled his lip in contempt. 'Hey! Milk-nose!'

  He did not turn from Jaric as the tag-ball glanced off the wall beyond. The rebound became soundlessly absorbed by a snowdrift as Garrey's companions closed in a semicircle around the slight, blond boy who had clumsily spoiled their play. Jaric backed one step, two, then stopped, cornered against the thorny stems of a rosebush.

  'You're not wanted,' said Garrey. He stripped off his gloves and raised crossed fists in the traditional sign against ill fortune. 'Your own mother tried to kill you, don't you know? And afterwards, the father who spared your life got hung, condemned by the Earl's justice for her murder.'

  'No,' whispered Jaric. 'You lie, surely.'

  'Do I so? Then where's your mother, whore's get? And your father?' Garrey grinned, displaying gapped teeth where a horse had kicked him. His tone turned boastful. 'I saw Kerain die. His face turned purple, and his eyes bled. Ask the Guildmaster.' The older boy knocked Jaric to the ground with a savage shove. Other boys joined in, striking with fists and boots.

  But Kerainson, whose upbringing had been charged to the Smith's Guild, hardly felt the blows that pummelled his body. A peer's thoughtless cruelty had revealed the truth behind the townsfolk's tendency to shun him. For the first time he had words to set to the dream that broke his sleep, week after restless week. The nightmare left him wailing in terror from a remembered flash of silver, followed by a man's bruising grip, and bloo
d smell, and a terrible shout mingled with a woman's scream of anguish.

  As Garrey's band of apprentices tumbled him over and over in the snow, Jaric felt the darkness of those nightmares return. He choked and bit his lip, but could not smother the scream that rose in his throat. Once that scream escaped, another followed, and another, until his senses reeled and drowned in reverberations of remembered fear.

  That day in the past, the apprentices had pulled back. Alarmed, they fled the presence of the boy who screamed as if crazed in the snow. They ignored him when he recovered; and pursued by a horror no longer formless, the boy had repeatedly fallen ill rather than watch their play from the sidelines. Now a man grown, Jaric felt both memory and snow melt away into air. His last cry rang without echo within the grove of the Vaere. Yet even as he separated past from present, the hands now calloused from sword and sheet line remained clenched across his eyes.

  Bells tinkled nearby. Jaric drew a shaking breath and forced his sweating fingers to loosen. When he looked up, Tamlin stood over him, his bearded features vague in the twilight.

  'Ivainson Jaric, to achieve a sorcerer's powers, you must first master yourself. The training will go hard for you. I say again, are you prepared?'

  Jaric swallowed. He spoke in a voice still husky from tears. 'Yes.'

  Tamlin did not relent. 'Would you return to the memory you just left, and suffer the pain of that experience ten times tenfold?'

  Blond hair gleamed in the half-light as Jaric lifted his head. Brown eyes met black, the former angrily determined, the latter fathomlessly dark. For a moment human and Vaere poised, motionless. Then Jaric rose.

  He glared down at the fey form of his tormentor, his stance the unwitting image of Ivain's.

  'Yes,' he said softly. 'Send me back to suffer if you must. Only don't turn me away empty-handed. Should you do that, all that I value will perish. To watch and be helpless would be worse than any torment a Sathid could devise.'