The Outcast Page 7

  Drachea could only nod, and Tarod inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Very well. Then you shall have your explanation.’ He turned to look at Cyllan. ‘He’ll need help to reach the dining-hall. And perhaps you can make him understand that I had no desire to harm him.

  He simply had to be shown.’

  Was he trying to justify himself, Cyllan wondered? If he regretted his behaviour towards Drachea, his voice showed no sign of it. She licked dry lips, nodded, then tried to take Drachea’s arm. He shook her off angrily and turned his back, walking with rigid dignity ahead of them towards the double doors.

  The remote, dusty shadows of the Castle’s great dining-hall were beginning to grow unpleasantly familiar to Cyllan. Entering, she had to suppress an instinctive shiver at the sight of the long, empty tables, the gaping fireplace, the heavy curtains that hung without a trace of a draught to stir them. The Castle seemed to mock the life which had once filled it.

  Tarod moved to the fireplace, while Drachea stopped at one of the tables, staring down at the wood and seeming to find something in the grain to absorb his interest. His face was still an unhealthy grey in the wake of Tarod’s unpleasant demonstration in the courtyard, and his eyes smouldered with hatred. Cyllan realised that the shock of that experience had gone deep, and she wondered how much more he could withstand. With so much damage already done, any further strain could send him over the thin dividing line between sanity and madness.

  Tarod’s voice cut across her thoughts. ‘Sit down, Drachea. Your pride is commendable, but it seems pointless now.’ Their eyes met, clashed, then Tarod added, ‘Perhaps my demonstration was precipitate …

  if so, I’m sorry.’

  Drachea stared back with wordless fury before abruptly subsiding on to a bench. It was on the tip of Cyllan’s tongue to ask Tarod point-blank why he had chosen to demonstrate his powers with such callous disregard for the consequences; but she couldn’t summon the courage. The respect and admiration which he had originally inspired in her were badly shaken by the incident in the courtyard; she was being forced to reassess the impressions of those two previous meetings, and they seemed a world away. Silently, she moved to sit beside Drachea. Under Tarod’s steady, impassive gaze she had the discomfiting feeling that he and they were adversaries facing each other across a battle-line.

  Tarod regarded them, reluctant as yet to speak. He needed to learn the details of whatever inexplicable twist of Fate had brought them through the barrier between Time and no-Time, in the hope that it might provide him with a desperately needed clue to his own dilemma; but in return he was bound to explain the truth of that dilemma to them. Or at least, as much of the truth as would suit his own purposes …

  It all hinged on a question of trust. Tarod had learned, through bitter experience, that to trust even those who professed to be closest to him was a dangerous and self-destructive game. And if Cyllan and Drachea were to discover the full facts behind his story, he could rely on their enmity but on little else. Already the seeds were sown - his angry reaction to Drachea’s challenge in the courtyard had been no more than a catalyst that triggered the young man’s already unstable emotions, but it had spawned a fear that was fast growing into deep hatred. Drachea’s good opinion was of no interest to Tarod; but it would be as well to alienate him no further.

  Cyllan was another matter. Her thoughts were a closed book to him, yet his feelings towards her were kinder. She had a rare inner strength that he could acknowledge and appreciate … but even she, if faced with the full truth, was unlikely to prove a willing ally.

  And impinging on the detached disinterest with which he viewed her opinion or her eventual fate was a worm of reluctance to take any steps which might do her harm.

  The old debt, which he had never repaid, seemed to call to a sense of honour and conscience that he had all but forgotten, and the sensation was uncomfortably alien.

  The safest course, he felt, was to compromise - to tell them as much of the truth as they needed to know in order to be of use to him, whilst sidestepping the full story. It would be easy enough - even the arrogant young Heir Margrave would be unlikely to dare question the Circle’s ways.

  He spoke, so abruptly that Drachea jumped. ‘I promised you an explanation, and I don’t break my word. But first, I must know how you came to the Castle.’

  ‘Must?’ Drachea echoed. ‘I think you’re in no position to make demands of us! When I consider the cavalier treatment I have received since - ‘ And he stopped as Cyllan, who had seen the flash of irritation in Tarod’s eyes, ground her heel hard against his instep.

  ‘Drachea, I believe we owe it to Tarod to tell our story first,’ she said, praying that he wouldn’t be so foolish as to lose his temper. ‘After all, we are the intruders here.’

  Tarod glanced at her, apparently amused. ‘I appreciate your consideration, Cyllan, but it’s not a question of courtesy,’ he said. ‘Some accident brought you to the Castle, and you want to leave. I believe, as I’ve told you, that that’s impossible - but it may be that something in your story will prove me wrong.’ He looked at Drachea again. ‘Does that satisfy the Heir Margrave?’

  Drachea shrugged irritably. ‘Very well; it’s reason enough. And as Cyllan is so anxious to please you, she might as well speak for us both!’

  Cyllan glanced at Tarod, who nodded encouragement. And so she began to tell of the Warp and its aftermath in as much detail as she could recall. But trying to describe the apparition that had appeared in the street outside the White Barque Tavern, she faltered, and Tarod frowned.

  ‘A human figure? Did you recognise it?’

  ‘I … ‘ She looked up at him, her eyes troubled. ‘I thought I did, but … now I don’t know, and I can’t visualise it. It’s as if the memory has been - blotted out, somehow.’ She looked to Drachea for help, but he only shook his head.

  Frustrated, Tarod gestured for her to continue, listening carefully as she explained how they had survived the Warp only to find themselves in the middle of the Northern sea, with the day turned shockingly to night.

  ‘I thought we’d both drown before we could reach land,’ Cyllan said, ‘and so I called to the fanaani for help.’ She swallowed. ‘If they hadn’t answered, we would have died then.’ She looked up again, and Tarod knew that she was remembering a Summer day in West High Land, when she had led him down a treacherous cliff-face to show him where the Spindrift Root could be found. They had seen the fanaani then, heard their bittersweet singing … he pushed the memory aside; it no longer interested him.

  ‘Go on with your story,’ he said.

  She bit her lip, and without any further show of emotion recounted the rest of the tale, to the moment when she and Drachea had finally reached the top of the stack and found themselves facing the Castle of the Star Peninsula.

  There’s no more to tell,’ she said finally. ‘We entered the Castle, and we thought it deserted … until we met you.’

  Tarod said nothing. He seemed to be lost in thought, and finally Drachea couldn’t stand the ensuing silence.

  He twisted around on the bench and brought one fist down on the table-top.

  The Castle of the Star Peninsula, deserted!’ he said savagely. ‘No Circle, no High Initiate - only one Adept who tells us that the outside world is beyond our reach, and gives no answers to our questions that make any sense! A seemingly endless night, with no sign of the dawn - it’s insanity? He stood up. Now that the first words were out, they had opened a floodgate. ‘I’m not dreaming,’ he went on, his voice growing harsher, ‘and I’m not dead - my heart still beats, and even the Seven Hells can’t be like this place! Besides,’ he pointed at Cyllan, ‘she knew you - she recognised you. You live - therefore we must be alive also.’

  ‘Oh, yes; I live.’ Tarod stared at his own left hand.

  ‘After a fashion.’

  Drachea tensed. ‘What d’you mean, after a fashion?’

  ‘I mean that I’m as alive as anything can be, in a world where Time doesn’t ex
ist.’

  Drachea had been pacing alongside the table, but stopped in his tracks. ‘What?’

  Tarod gestured towards one of the tall windows. ‘As you so astutely remarked, dawn hasn’t broken. Nor will it break. Tell me; are you hungry?’

  Nonplussed by the apparently irrelevant remark, Drachea shook his head angrily. ‘No, damn it! I’ve got more important matters on my mind than - ‘

  ‘When did you last eat?’ Tarod interrupted.

  Drachea suddenly understood the implication, and his face paled. ‘In Shu-Nhadek … ‘

  ‘Yet you feel no hunger. Hunger needs Time to develop, and there is no Time here. No hours, no change from day to night; nothing.’

  Very slowly, as though doubting his ability to co-ordinate his movements, Drachea sat down. Now his complexion was ashen and he found his voice only with great difficulty.

  ‘You’re telling me … seriously telling me … that Time itself has ceased to exist?’

  ‘In this Castle, yes. We are in limbo. The world outside continues, but here … ‘ He shrugged. ‘You’ve seen it for yourself.’

  ‘But … how did it happen?’ Drachea was torn between disbelief and a terrible fascination with a mystery beyond his understanding. After the initial outburst he had himself under control, only a faint tremor in his voice betraying any emotion.

  Tarod studied his left hand again. ‘Time was banished.’

  ‘Banished? You mean that someone - but who, in the name of the gods? Who could have done such a thing?’

  ‘I did.’

  There was silence. Drachea, wide-eyed, was trying to assimilate the idea of a power so titanic that it could halt Time - and the concept that a single man, however skilled, could wield it. Tarod watched him, outwardly impassive but inwardly apprehensive, waiting to see how he would finally respond - until the tension was broken by Cyllan.

  She said, simply, ‘Why, Tarod?’

  He turned to look at her, and had the discomfiting feeling that, against his private predictions, she was prepared to believe him. Suddenly he laughed, coldly.

  ‘You accept the word of an Initiate for something that, to any right-minded citizen, should surely seem impossible,’ he said. ‘Does the Circle really have so much influence?’ Cyllan flushed, and the laughter faded to a humourless smile. ‘I meant no slight. But I hadn’t anticipated such unquestioning belief.’

  A bench grated against the floor as Drachea moved to sit beside Cyllan once more. His gaze didn’t leave Tarod’s face, and his expression was an odd mixture of uncertainty, wariness and curiosity. When he spoke, his voice was steadier than it had been.

  ‘Let us say, Adept Tarod, that we do accept the truth of your story - so far as it goes. I don’t claim knowledge of the Circle’s capabilities, and maybe an Initiate can wield a power that’s capable of stopping Time. But you’ve not answered Cyllan’s question. And besides - if you could banish Time, for whatever purpose, why can you not recall it again?’

  Tarod sighed. ‘There is a stone; a gem,’ he said quietly. ‘I used it as a focus to summon the necessary power for my work. When Time ceased to exist, I lost the stone … and without it I can’t alter this predicament.’

  ‘Where is the stone now?’ Cyllan asked.

  ‘In another part of the Castle - a chamber that, because of certain anomalies brought about by the changes here, I can no longer enter.’

  Drachea had been fidgeting with his hands, twisting the fingers together. Without looking up, he said, ‘This - work you speak of. It was a Circle matter?’

  Tarod hesitated briefly, then: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then where are your fellow Initiates now?’

  ‘To my knowledge, they’re neither in your world nor in whatever dead dimension this Castle inhabits,’ Tarod told him. If Drachea chose to misinterpret what he heard, he wasn’t about to correct him.

  The young man nodded. Then this-circumstance- is the result of a Circle working which went wrong?’

  Tarod resisted the temptation to smile at Drachea’s further unwitting irony. ‘It is.’

  Then it seems that, like it or not, we now share your predicament. And unless you can retrieve this gem you spoke of, we have no hope of reprieve.’

  Tarod inclined his head, but his eyes gave away nothing.

  ‘Yet if we have somehow managed to break through this barrier - albeit unintentionally - it surely follows that it’s possible to reverse the process?’ Drachea persisted.

  ‘I wouldn’t deny that. But my own efforts have thus far achieved nothing.’ Tarod smiled a small, chilly smile.

  ‘Of course, it may be that your skills can succeed where mine have failed.’

  Tarod’s sarcasm bit home, and Drachea gave him an angry glance. ‘I wouldn’t presume to suggest it, Adept.

  But it strikes me that we’d be better occupied in at least trying to solve this conundrum, if the only alternative is to wait apathetically for eternity!’

  Tarod saw the motive behind Drachea’s words, and it confirmed his belief that the young man would prove troublesome. Hiding his annoyance, he said indifferently, ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Certainly it’s worth further investigation.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Tarod rose. Then maybe you’d care to consider the problem at your leisure.’ He smiled thinly.

  ‘After all, we don’t have the constraints of Time to hinder us.’

  ‘No … ‘ Drachea’s confident mask slipped and he glanced uneasily around him at the empty hall.

  ‘And now, if you’ll forgive me … ‘ Tarod looked at Cyllan, then away. ‘I think there’s little more we can say to each other at this stage.’

  Drachea might have argued, but Cyllan gave him a warning glance and he subsided, making the best of the dismissal. ‘Come, Cyllan. We’ve taken up too much of the Adept’s time - ‘ he checked himself. ‘A slip of the tongue - old concepts still linger.’ He bowed, not entirely courteously. ‘We’ll take our leave of you.’

  Tarod watched them go, and when they were out of sight he made a small, impatient gesture. The hall doors swung noiselessly shut, and he subsided on to the nearest bench.

  Drachea’s efforts to dissemble had been clumsy and amateurish; but his attitude was clear enough. The young man’s suspicions were aroused, and that could prove irritating. There was little he could do to upset Tarod’s plans, embryonic as they yet were, but his intrusion was an annoying complication none the less.

  Tarod sighed, aware that it wasn’t worth the trouble of taking any action at this stage. If Drachea proved too tiresome, dealing with him could be an enjoyable if brief diversion …

  He rose, crossed the hall. The doors opened once more to allow him through, and he walked to the main entrance. Cyllan and Drachea were nowhere in sight, doubtless making their way to one of the Castle’s empty rooms, to confer. Tarod laughed shortly and softly, and the sound gave back a peculiar echo that might almost have been another, alien voice. Then he turned out of the door and down the courtyard steps towards the Northern spire.

  Chapter 4

  Drachea stalked into Cyllan’s chamber, leaving her to close the door behind them both. As she followed him into the room, he said, ‘Well?’

  Cyllan recognised the challenge in his eyes and in his voice, and turned away, torn between conflicting feelings. Every instinct warned her against trusting Tarod without question; yet she and Drachea were uneasy allies at best, and, irrationally, his attitude now put her on the defensive.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t know?’ Drachea’s voice was laced with incredulous contempt. ‘You’re not telling me that you’re prepared to take the word of that - that tyrant?’

  Cyllan’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘I said no such thing! But neither am I willing to condemn out of hand without more knowledge!’

  ‘Then you’re more of a fool than I thought you.’ He raked her with a searing glance in which she saw the echoes of the wide gulf between them. The fact that she was unwilling to accept his judgement as superi
or to her own infuriated him; and he paced across the room, tension radiating from every muscle.

  ‘First, he launches an unjustified and unprovoked attack on me - is that the behaviour of an Adept? And then he tells us a story of some Circle ritual that went wrong; as unlikely a tale as ever I’ve heard! He’s lying to us; I’m certain of it!’

  Cyllan moved to the window and stared out across the gloomy, silent courtyard. ‘There’s one fact we can’t escape, Drachea,’ she said with an edge to her voice.

  ‘We’re trapped here. Whatever your view of Tarod, you can’t deny that he spoke the truth in that regard.’

  ‘Can’t I?’ Drachea retorted savagely. ‘For all we know, he could have his own reasons for holding us prisoner. The son of a Province Margrave would do well as a hostage, if his captor had sufficient motive - ‘

  Cyllan swung round. ‘A hostage?’ she echoed, astonished by the conceit of the idea. ‘What need would a high Adept have of a hostage?’

  ‘Damn it, how should I know?’ Drachea shouted. ‘It makes as much sense as anything else here! And besides - ‘ His expression worked into a sneer, ‘I have only his word - and yours - that he’s an Adept at all.’

  That’s ridiculous - ‘

  ‘Is it? Or arc you so jealous of your claim to comradeship with such an exalted figure that you’ll hear no word against him?’

  Cyllan bit back the furious retort that came to her lips as she realised, with chagrin, that Drachea had made a fair point. She was prejudiced—old memories had a hold on her still. And that could set a dangerous precedent Think about it,’ Drachea said obsessively, starting to pace again. The Castle of the Star Peninsula trapped in some unimaginable dimension, beyond the reach of Time. Very well, I grant the point you made; that much we can perhaps believe. The Circle gone - dead, fled, in limbo; we don’t know. One man remaining, who implies - implies, mark you; he was careful to admit nothing directly, but allowed me to draw my own conclusions - that it’s all the result of some hideous accident, and that he has no power to right matters. And we are expected to believe him?’ He snorted. ‘I’d as soon trust a snake!’