The Master Read online

  Gant was silent, and Keridil knew his words had found their mark. ‘I don’t want to cause undue alarm in the land, especially not at this stage,’ he added quietly.

  ‘But I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t spread the warning, and spread it fast. To be brutally honest, our world could be facing a danger the like of which has been unknown since the fall of the Old Ones. And I’m not ashamed to admit to being afraid.’

  Had he made a mistake in being so frank? The Margrave’s face had taken on a pinched, tight look, and his gaze flickered uneasily to the window and back.

  ‘High Initiate, I find it hard to believe - ‘ he coughed to clear his throat as his voice cracked involuntarily, ‘to believe that the Circle, in which resides the power and the sanction of Aeoris himself - ‘ He made the White God’s sign over his own heart but seemed unable to finish the sentence.

  Keridil sighed. ‘I fervently wish that half the tales which are told about the Circle’s abilities were true, Margrave, but the bald fact is that, whilst we might have Aeoris’s sanction, it would be folly to assume that we have his power, or anything resembling it.’ His expression hardened. ‘That’s a lesson I’ve recently learned through bitter experience, and to pretend otherwise would be to court disaster.’ He clasped his hands together, the knuckles whitening. ‘Without the jewel I told you of, Tarod’s by no means invincible. But if he should find that girl before we do, and recover the stone, he’ll regain his full power. And that means the power to summon back the full forces of Chaos and darkness to the world.’

  ‘But surely no man can command such sorcery!’

  ‘No man, no - but this isn’t a man we’re contending with. Tarod is kin to Chaos; born of Chaos. Don’t doubt his capabilities, Margrave. I once made that mistake.’

  Gant shifted uncomfortably on his chair, chagrined.

  ‘This is far more serious than I realised … I understand your concern, Keridil, and I share it.’ He made a bleak attempt at a smile. ‘Inasmuch as you have your duty, I also have mine, and I accept that personal considerations must take second place. How can Shu Province aid you?’

  Keridil gave silent thanks for the hard edge of innate common sense which characterised the older man, shored up by twenty years of rigid governorship. As well as encompassing the largest and safest sea-port in the land, Shu Province also boasted a strong and efficient militia, and the Margravate’s resources were among the best to be found anywhere. Gant would make an invaluable ally.

  He nodded. ‘I’m grateful for your support, sir, and your generosity - and I don’t mind admitting I’ll need all the help I can find, especially in terms of manpower.’

  ‘Indeed. But you must realise, of course, that once word of this spreads, although you’ll have that help from every quarter you’ll also be running the risk of spreading panic throughout the land.’ He bit his lip. ‘Fear of Chaos is deeply rooted in all of us, and the thought that it might be summoned back … ‘ His shrug, masking a shiver, was eloquent.

  ‘I considered that, but I dare not minimise the peril we’re in,’ Keridil said, recalling the hours of mental torment as he struggled to assess the wisdom of the decision he’d made. ‘People must be told, Margrave. I can’t, in all conscience, keep back the truth.’

  Gant inclined his head. ‘Yes … I see your dilemma, and I think I must agree with you. However, to avoid hysteria it may be necessary to impose certain strictures over and above the laws of our land. In my own province for example - ‘

  Keridil interrupted him. ‘I’ll sanction anything you consider advisable that falls within my own jurisdiction, sir. And if the High Margrave’s consent is needed, I’ll do my utmost to secure it.’

  ‘Thank you. Speaking of the High Margrave … you said that one of your message birds is bound for the Summer Isle?’

  ‘It is, yes.’ The High Initiate hesitated, wondering whether it would be advisable to confide fully in Gant; then he decided that there could be no harm in it. ‘I’ve also sent word to the Lady Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi, at her Cot.’ He hesitated. ‘You may as well know now, sir, that I’ve asked the views of both on the possibility of calling a Conclave on the White Isle.’

  Gant stared at him, stunned. ‘On the … ‘ He swallowed. ‘Surely, Keridil, matters haven’t come to that!’

  ‘They haven’t, no: but they could. And if they do, we might have no choice but to sanction the opening of the casket.’

  Gant made the Sign of Aeoris over his heart again.

  His face had turned the unhealthy colour of putty, and he tried not to think about the implications of what the High Initiate had said. Every child was brought up on the legend of the gold casket which had been Aeoris’s legacy to his world and his followers after the fall of the old race, when Chaos was defeated and banished. The casket was held in a shrine on the White Isle, a strange, volcanic island off the coast of ShuNhadek, and guarded by a hereditary caste of zealots who were the only men allowed to set foot on the Isle’s sanctified ground. Only in a time of gravest crisis could the High Initiate, High Margrave and Lady Matriarch of the Sisterhood of the Aeoris sail to the Isle where, in Conclave, they might take the decision to open the sacred relic.

  And if the casket should be opened, it would summon Aeoris himself back to the world … No, Gant told himself desperately; matters couldn’t have reached such a pass …

  Keridil watched the changing expressions on the older man’s face, and could sympathise with his obvious distress. The thought of being forced to take a decision that had not been faced for thousands of years was enough to give him nightmares - but if it had to be done, he knew he’d do it.

  ‘Margrave, I believe - and I hope - that the possibility is very remote,’ he said. ‘But it must be borne in mind.’

  He paused, then added: ‘At dawn today, I made an oath that I won’t rest until Tarod has been found and destroyed, and I promise you now that I’m as determined to see Drachea’s killer brought to justice. I mean to keep faith with both pledges, whatever the cost.’

  For a few moments Gant deliberated, then, slowly and with reluctance, he nodded. ‘Yes, I understand,’ He looked up, his eyes bleak. ‘And I like to think that, were I in your place, I’d have the courage to make the same decision.’

  Full darkness had fallen by the time Cyllan at last urged the grey gelding through a dense thicket and, to her surprise, found herself clear of the trees on a ridge that overlooked a narrow road. A treacherous but negotiable bank led down to the track, which gleamed the colour of old, pale bone under the night sky, and beyond it the brooding mass of the forest stretched away again into utter blackness. This was no main drove way, only a small, neglected tributary which probably carried little or no traffic: but a road was a road, and a blessed relief after the nightmare of fighting her way through endless acres of branches and undergrowth, with the superstitious fear of woods at night all too close to the surface of her mind.

  The gelding was uneasy, tired and becoming rebellious, but Cyllan held it firmly still while she gazed around and tried to get her bearings. A single cold star hung far away to her right, but the familiar constellations were being rapidly obscured by a heavy bank of cloud driving in from what she guessed was the North-West and bringing a chill, dreary wind. The horse snorted and shook its head, smelling rain on the wind, and a few moments later the first drops stung her face.

  Unless she’d judged wrongly the road ran roughly North to South, and she turned in the saddle to gaze northward, where the pale ribbon vanished among the folds of low hills. Far away in that direction - though how far, she had no way of telling - lay the Star Peninsula, and the grim Castle where she’d had her last sight of Tarod.

  Was he there still? She didn’t know how much time had passed since the Warp snatched her away; if the Circle had recaptured him he might now be dead …

  She bit her lip hard, fighting down a powerful urge to turn the gelding’s head to the North and ride it to the limits of its endurance until she reached the coast and the Castle
. That would be foolhardy - the Circle had marked her as a murderess, and to ride back into their embrace would be to court disaster. All she could do was pray that Tarod was alive, free, and seeking her.

  She pressed her heels to the gelding’s flanks and set it slithering down the steep bank towards the road. The rain was falling more heavily by now and the animal slipped several times on the wet grass; below, the track had taken on a slick sheen. Reaching the bottom of the slope Cyllan turned the horse southward, urging it ahead, and as it settled into a steady, ground-covering trot she pulled her cloak more closely about herself in an effort to keep out the worst of the wet. To either side the forest hissed as rain lashed the undergrowth, and the night took on an unreal edge; black silhouettes of trees flanking and looming with only the cold white ribbon of the road ahead to provide a narrow, mesmeric focus.

  The muffled sound of her mount’s hoofs seemed to echo her own heartbeats, and she began to feel an uneasy prickling in her scalp, as though a sixth sense warned her that some unseen shadow followed in her wake. She shook the thought off, aware that it was triggered by tiredness and the tricky illusions of the dark. Nonetheless, there were real risks in plenty on such a road as this, and she couldn’t - daren’t-stop in this lonely stretch of nowhere, at least until morning broke.

  The gelding checked suddenly, breaking the hypnotic rhythm of its hoofbeats and startling her back to wakefulness. Even as she realised that she had been on the verge of falling asleep in the saddle, another sensation assailed her - a sharp stab of instinct that urged her to look back over her shoulder. And this time, it was no product of an overworked imagination. Her lungs and throat felt stifled and, aware that she was having to force herself not to shiver uncontrollably, Cyllan cautiously turned her head.

  There were four of them; black, formless shapes in the gloom behind her, shadowing her track and slowly closing. For an instant a terrible image leaped into Cyllan’s mind - tales she had heard of ghouls and demons, dead things that left their dismal graves to pursue the unwary traveller - then, faintly on the wind, she heard a restless metallic jingle as a horse chafed at its bit, and realised that her followers were made of flesh and blood.

  Brigands. Irrational fear had clouded her mind to the threat of attack from a physical and all too human quarter - but the mounted men now closing on her were real enough. A woman riding a good horse alone at night would be easy prey, and could anticipate nothing beyond a slit throat, if she were lucky …

  The gelding was dancing sideways, sensing something amiss. It was possible - just possible - that she could outrun her pursuers; though the thought that they probably rode fresh horses while her own mount was near-exhausted chilled her to the bone. But she couldn’t stand and fight them - flight was her only hope of survival.

  She held the gelding back, trying to calm it and give the brigands the impression that she was, as yet, unaware of their presence behind her. But they were moving closer … now she could hear a faint after-echo of hoofbeats that weren’t those of her own horse. Carefully, she reached to her throat and with shaking, fumbling fingers unpinned the clasp that held her cloak. As she did so she felt the Chaos stone dig sharply against her breast, and the unwonted reminder of its presence brought her a flicker of comfort. If Yandros, highest lord of Chaos, watched over her, then surely he would aid her if he could … She gathered up the reins, settled herself more securely in the wet saddle, pressed her thighs and knees as hard as she could against the gelding’s flanks; then gripped the unfastened clasp so that the pin protruded from between her fingers -

  The gelding sprang forward with a shriek of protest as the clasp-pin jabbed through its hide behind the saddle cantle. Cyllan crouched over its neck, clinging desperately and precariously and praying that she wouldn’t lose her grip and fall. Behind her, new sounds cut through the night; men cursing, the sudden thunder of many more hoofs as the brigands spurred their mounts into the chase. Cyllan lashed the gelding’s withers with the looped reins, screaming at it to gallop faster. It laid its ears back, eyes rolling, but she felt the powerful muscles beneath her bunch to greater effort. The road ahead veered crazily, trees seeming to fly past them, and she tried not to think of what might happen if some night animal should suddenly skitter across their path.

  Sweat laced the gelding’s neck and flanks; sensing its rider’s fear it was racing flat out, but even so Cyllan could hear the brigands closing on her. Her mount was exhausted, the last of its stamina draining fast - its utmost efforts wouldn’t be enough to save her. Almost sobbing with terror, she lashed it again and again, all the while knowing that she had only minutes, at most, before they’d be on her.

  ‘Yandros!’ The name broke from her throat in a cracking scream, a last cry of defiance. Ahead, the corpse-white ribbon of the track bent sharply, seeming to plunge back into the forest, and a wild hope surged suddenly in Cyllan. If she could reach the trees she might still elude them - however slight, it was a chance!

  The gelding careered round the bend in the track, sliding dangerously - and then it was rearing and skidding on the treacherous ground as the brilliant glare of torches sprang out of the dark and rough voices shouted a warning.

  Cyllan felt the animal’s hoofs sliding from under it; she pitched forward, clutched wildly at a handful of mane and somehow stayed in the saddle. Then the gelding regained its feet, she saw a blade flash in the hot light, heard someone swearing. Hands took hold of her as the horse slithered to a halt and all but fell, and she was helped from its back to collapse to her knees on the sodden ground. Through her confusion she was aware of other horses shouldering past her, back on to the road down which she’d come; then at last she was lifted to her feet and found herself looking into the astonished gaze of a middle-aged man.

  ‘Aeoris preserve us, it’s a woman!’ The words were punctuated by the crackling and spitting of the torch flames as the rain tried, vainly, to extinguish them. More faces loomed, grotesque in the flaring glow, and someone made a great fuss of opening and proffering a small metal flask. Cyllan accepted it gratefully, her throat too dry for speech, and took a good-sized mouthful of the warming, burning spirit.

  There, now.’ Concern laced the speaker’s voice.

  ‘You’re safe now, lady. Our men’ll catch those murdering devils, and they’ll hang by morning.’

  A Chaun Province accent… Cyllan tried to express her thanks, but her lungs were straining for air and still she couldn’t speak. Someone took her arm to steady her, and another asked anxiously, ‘Are you harmed, madam? Can you tell us what happened to you?’ The deferential manner of his question made Cyllan realise that the men had taken her for a woman of some quality.

  Her clothes, together with the obvious good breeding of the horse she rode, had created an impression that was very far from the truth, and shock made her want to laugh. She took a grip on herself, aware that she’d be well advised not to disillusion them - to disclose her real identity could be very dangerous. But it would be a hard deception to maintain. She’d need to invent a plausible story, and she felt in no condition for quick or clever thinking now.

  Dissembling, she made a pretence of being about to faint - as most well-bred women would have done in such straits - and instantly the men were solicitous and apologetic, helping her to the side of the track and insisting that she sit down. She smiled wanly at them and whispered, ‘Thank you … you’re very kind.’

  ‘It’s nothing, lady - but what of your companions?

  Surely you weren’t riding alone?’

  The idea was unthinkable to them, and Cyllan realised that they’d also have seen the bloodstains on her clothes, and the fact that her horse wore a saddle designed for a man. She swallowed. ‘No -I - there were six of us. My… my brother and I, and-four servants.’ And, anticipating the next question, she added, ‘One of our pack-horses cast a shoe, and we were forced to make camp for the night in the forest. We were attacked, and - one of my brother’s men died defending me.’ She bit her lip, hoping t
hat the grief and fear she had tried to inject in her voice was enough to convince them. ‘In the confusion, my brother threw me on to his horse and set it galloping away.’ She looked up at the questioner, her amber eyes wide. ‘I don’t know what became of them all … ‘

  They believed her, at least thus far, and one said with determination, ‘We’ll find them, lady, be assured of it!’

  ‘If they live,’ another commented under his breath.

  ‘Quiet, Vesey.’ The first speaker gave him a withering look. ‘The lady’s suffered enough without your gloomy predictions.’ He turned back to Cyllan. ‘We’ll send searchers out immediately, and in the meantime two of us will take you to Wathryn town - it’s but a short ride from here.’ He rose stiffly to his feet. ‘Gordach, Lesk - you’ll act as escort for the lady. Take her to Sheniya Win Mar at the High Tree tavern, and I’ll join you there later.’ Holding out a hand to Cyllan he bowed courteously. ‘We’ll have news for you by morning, madam; I promise.’

  Cyllan nodded slowly and thanked him, then let her escort help her on to the gelding, which stood at the side of the road with its head hanging in exhaustion. She assured them she could ride unaided, but the older of the two men insisted on taking the reins and walking at her mount’s head while the other rode by her side, short sword drawn and resting across his lap. The circle of torchlight fell behind, and Gordach - her younger companion - assured her that they’d be in no danger without light; the town was barely a mile away and besides the rain was clearing; any time now they’d have one or both Moons to guide them. He was a talkative youth and kept up a flow of chatter as the horses plodded on. Cyllan learned that her rescuers were part of a volunteer militia formed by order of the Province Margrave in an attempt to stem the rapidly increasing deprivations of the brigand bands. Every town of reasonable size had such a force now, Gordach told her, and no less than fourteen outlaws had been brought to justice and executed in their own district alone. And now with this latest news from the North there’d doubtless be yet more work for them to do.