Kitabı oku: «Sinner», sayfa 3
3 StarSon Caelum
The great silvery keep of Sigholt sat quiet in the night air, reflecting stray moonbeams across the Lake of Life. At this time of night few people were about. Two or three guards moved about its walls, a servant trotted silently through the courtyard from barracks to kitchens, an Icarii Enchanter stood on the roof, mesmerised by the stars. Around the crescent of the lake, the town of Lakesview sat fat and secure on the shoreline. It was a well-established town now, its people indulging in some trading, some agriculture and much contentment. The nearby valleys and slopes of the Urqhart Hills in the immediate vicinity of Sigholt gave them all they wanted in food and recreation; few within the town pushed themselves to do much more than enjoy what proximity to the wondrous lake was given to them by the magical Keep and the extended family of SunSoars resident within its luminous grey walls.
Almost perfectly centred on the strip of shore between Lakesview and Sigholt was a substantial stone building. Over five storeys high, most of its large unglassed windows and permanently open doors faced the lake, as if the building wished to absorb as much of the breeze, or perhaps as much of the lake, as it could.
From one of the ground-floor doors two Icarii birdmen emerged. They walked slowly towards the lake, eventually standing in close conversation as the waters lapped at their feet. One wore an ivory-coloured uniform with an embroidered device that resembled a twisted knot of golden braid centred on his chest. The other birdman had striking red plumage and hair, the skin of his face and hands so white they seemed to glow in the moonlight.
StarSon Caelum SunSoar, supreme ruler of Tencendor, stood at one of the windows in the map-room of Sigholt, wondering what they talked about so quietly. Caelum was one of the most powerful Icarii Enchanters born, a child of the Star Gods, and even though his keen eyesight could easily pick out the birdmen so far below, he baulked at using his powers to listen to their actual words. Caelum was ever polite, and he trusted the two men below as few others.
Still, they were an enigmatic pair. WingRidge CurlClaw, the birdman in the ivory uniform, was captain of the Lake Guard, a somewhat eccentric force who had dedicated themselves entirely to the service and protection of the StarSon. Even so, Caelum sometimes felt they kept themselves at a distance, not only from the life of Sigholt, but even from himself.
But in itself that distance, and its essential peculiarity, was not surprising – and had a great deal to do with the birdman WingRidge currently conversed with, SpikeFeather TrueSong. The Lake Guard was formed exclusively from the six hundred children SpikeFeather had rescued from Talon Spike many years ago. Rather than risk the children to possible Gryphon attack on the ice trails of Talon Spike, SpikeFeather had pleaded with the Ferryman to take the children to safety via the waterways. The children had reached Sigholt safely, but they had been subtly changed by the experiences in the waterways with Orr, and when they reached their majorities they had formed the Lake Guard. They announced their complete dedication to the service of the StarSon, and chose as their uniform breeches and plain ivory tunics with the strange emblem on their chests.
None of the Lake Guard ever explained it.
If no-one quite understood the Lake Guard, then all trusted them. Again and again the Guard pledged their loyalty to the StarSon. Their lives were dedicated to his word, their hearts to his cause. They might disappear for days, sometimes weeks on end, but they claimed their ultimate duty was always to the StarSon. Caelum, as everyone else, did not doubt it. They were an accepted part of Sigholt, and as mysterious as the Keep itself.
SpikeFeather was almost as enigmatic. He, too, had been changed by his contact with Orr the Ferryman. As payment for Orr transporting the children to Sigholt, SpikeFeather had dedicated his life to the Ferryman, and for the past twenty years had spent much of his time in the waterways with Orr. What SpikeFeather did down there, or what Orr did to the birdman, Caelum did not know.
As Caelum watched, WingRidge and SpikeFeather parted company, WingRidge rising slowly in the air towards the walls of Sigholt where Caelum supposed he would inspect the members of the Lake Guard stationed there, SpikeFeather walking slowly about the shoreline of the lake, apparently deep in thought.
Caelum sighed and turned back into the circular map-room. The centre table was covered with documents, piles of accounts, reports from several of the major towns, and ledgers bound with ribbon and stuffed with loose pages. Caelum fought the urge to sigh again and wandered slowly over to the table, running a hand through his thick, close-cropped black curly hair. Was there never an end to the paperwork? Sigholt sometimes seemed full of secretaries and notaries and bureaucrats, all of them there supposedly to keep track of the vast amount of paperwork that governing Tencendor somehow generated, but Caelum sometimes wondered if they were of any use – his desk never seemed to clear of the damned stuff.
No wonder Axis had handed control of Tencendor over to him! Caelum smiled softly, thinking of his parents, and knowing in his heart that it was far more than paperwork that had seen them leave. Axis and Azhure had remained at Sigholt while their children grew into adulthood, but when Zenith, their youngest, had reached the age of twenty-five, they had increasingly turned to their fellow Star Gods for companionship. Nine years ago, growing ever more inclined to the ethereal and wanting to spend more time exploring the mysteries of the stars, Axis had handed over full control of Tencendor to Caelum in a magnificent ceremony on the shores of Grail Lake, where Axis had proclaimed Tencendor so many years ago. In the years since then Caelum had seen his parents only three or four times. They kept themselves remote, as befitted their status as gods, and left Caelum to manage the realm of mortals.
Even though he had steered Tencendor for nine years, and seen it successfully through several peaceful disputes, Caelum still felt slightly uncomfortable about his position as supreme ruler. Axis had won his right to rule through sheer courage, through years spent on the fighting trail, through heartache and loss and grief. Caelum had been given the realm, almost literally, on a golden platter. Oh, he’d been trained and guided and counselled for years beforehand. Axis had sent him for several six-month periods to the great southern empire of Coroleas, and once for seven months to the intriguing little kingdom of Escator. At the hands, not only of Axis himself, but other petty kings and grand emperors, Caelum had studied the art of governance in depth.
But still Caelum sometimes felt that he should have won his right to sit the Throne of the Stars as his father had. Was the sheer luck of birth order enough to guarantee that a son had the skills and wisdom needed to govern so large a realm? What did his people actually think of him?
“I should get out more often,” Caelum said to himself. “Actually see what’s going on and not rely on reports. How long is it since I’ve left Sigholt?”
“Too long,” a soft voice put in from the window, and Caelum turned about, unsurprised. He’d known who it was even before she spoke, for he’d felt her presence coalesce in the window as he’d muttered to himself.
“Zenith.” He grinned and held out his hands. “It’s been days! Where have you been?”
His youngest sister jumped lightly down from the windowsill and hugged her brother tight. Unlike Caelum, who remained bare-backed like their parents, Zenith had glossy wings, as raven-black as her hair. She was a beautiful birdwoman, even more stunning than her mother, Azhure. Mysterious, intriguing, and yet somehow sad, always apart from the life of Sigholt. Caelum held the hug, wondering why. Even as a child Zenith had seemed troubled. She had often slept badly, suffering formless nightmares, and on many days was withdrawn and uncommunicative. And sometimes … sometimes Caelum had caught her looking at him with an expression that was so unlike her that he’d wondered if …
“Why the frown?” Zenith leaned back and took her brother’s face briefly in her hands, kissing him lightly on the lips.
Caelum folded her wings against her back and stroked them softly. “I was thinking, loveliest of sisters, that it is high time you also thought about fleeing –”
Why had he used that word? Caelum stumbled slightly, but managed to carry on before Zenith could speak. “– leaving Sigholt. How many years since you left? No, don’t answer! Too many, that I know.”
Zenith quietened in that strange way she had, and Caelum sensed a slight withdrawal.
He stood back a little, but kept his hand lightly on her shoulders. “Zenith? StarDrifter would love to see you, I’m sure. You spent a great deal of time with him when you were a child, and the Island of Mist and Memory is a wondrous place.”
“Maybe.” She suddenly grinned, her dark blue eyes mischievous. “Should I take Drago with me, as I did when a child?” Zenith more than half suspected that Caelum’s suggestion was a roundabout way of ridding Sigholt of Drago’s presence for a while.
Caelum dropped his hands and walked away from her. “As you wish,” he said, his voice toneless. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”
Zenith instantly regretted trying to joke about Drago. He was a constant note of disharmony within Sigholt, although he never said or did anything that could be in any way construed as sinister or hurtful. It was just that he was so different from his brothers and sisters. Caelum, RiverStar and Zenith (as also Isfrael, their half-brother) were the children of gods. They were highly magical beings, and their enchanted lives would likely stretch into infinity before they ended. Once Drago had been like them. Briefly. Drago had been born the second child of Axis and Azhure, the elder twin of RiverStar, and potentially one of the most powerful Enchanters ever birthed. But even as a mewling infant he had abused that power, allying himself with his father’s foe, Gorgrael, and plotting to murder Caelum so that Drago might inherit his place.
As punishment Azhure had disinherited him of his Icarii powers. Now, forty years on, Drago wandered the corridors of Sigholt a dark and enigmatic mortal, ageing into useless thin-faced middle years as he watched his brothers and sisters glory in their youth and enchanted powers.
Caelum was never able to trust him, even knowing his powers had gone. It was Caelum who had been the object of Drago’s infant ambitions, who had been subject to the terror of kidnap and abuse by Gorgrael, and it was Caelum who was daily reminded of that horror every time he caught sight of Drago from the corner of his eyes. Zenith knew that Caelum made every effort to avoid Drago whenever he could, but even in a place as large as Sigholt the brothers constantly ran into each other.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly to Caelum’s back. “I did not mean to jest.”
He turned his head her way, and smiled slightly. “It does not matter, Zenith. Drago does not –”
There was a knock at the door, and it opened without waiting for Caelum’s word. WingRidge CurlClaw entered, stopped after precisely five paces, and saluted Caelum. “StarSon.”
“WingRidge. What is it?”
WingRidge glanced at Zenith, but made no comment on her presence. “StarSon, a courier bird has just arrived from Carlon with a message from Prince Askam.”
Caelum took the proffered parchment, unrolled it with a snap of his wrist, and ran his eyes over the text.
“Curse him to … to … oh, damn him!” he cried, and Zenith laid a concerned hand on his arm.
“Caelum? What is –”
“That cursed fool has just levied a third … a third … tax on all goods moved along the Nordra and along the roadways of the West. And slapped a tax on any and every man and family who wants to move north to live. Gods! Look at the amount! That figure must have come to him when he was suffering a nightmare caused by chronic constipation. Oh! I can’t believe this!”
He threw the parchment on the table and stalked away to the window, standing and staring out as he fought to regain his temper. Gods, but Askam and Zared gave him more trouble combined than Borneheld and Gorgrael had ever given his father, he was sure of it! How many times had he had to draw one or the other aside for some diplomatic advice? Between them they controlled half the territory of Tencendor – was it too much to ask of them to try and do that in something even vaguely resembling peace?
Zenith looked at WingRidge, who remained completely expressionless, then picked up the parchment and briefly scanned the contents herself. Her eyes widened as she slowly put it down – no wonder Caelum had reacted so strongly.
“Caelum?” she said, and waited for her brother to look at her.
“Caelum … this time something needs to be done to solve their problems. And Leagh, you must surely end her misery soon.” Although Zenith had not seen Leagh in some four years, they remained in close touch; Zenith not only knew how much Leagh hungered for Zared, she understood why Caelum and Askam were going to deny Leagh her heart’s desire. Poor Leagh, she thought, it’s time she was told to move on with her life. Five years of alternating between misery and gut-wrenching hope was too long for anyone.
Caelum nodded slowly, and rubbed his face with one hand. He suddenly looked very, very tired. “The time has come to solve this. Askam has gone too far with his debt – and Zared should have been astute enough in the first instance to know that a marriage between him and Leagh, especially with Bethiam remaining so stubbornly barren, would be a political impossibility.”
He drew a deep breath. “This needs not only my authority, but the weight of the Council of Five.”
Zenith’s eyes widened. The heads of the leading five families of Tencendor only met on a biennual basis; to call them in now, not eight months since their last meeting, bespoke how serious Caelum thought the problem was. As ruler of Tencendor, Caelum’s final word was law – legally he did not need to call the Council on this matter – but he obviously felt both Zared and Askam needed the judgment of their peers as well as his own word.
“WingRidge?”
WingRidge snapped to attention.
“Send couriers to Zared, Sa’Domai, FreeFall, Yllgaine and Askam. We meet with the utmost haste – no later than seventh-day three weeks from now. And send for Isfrael as well.”
Isfrael, now Mage-King of the Avar, was not officially a member of the Council of Five and did not have a vote, but for the past ten years he had attended all the meetings, and given and listened to advice. As Caelum’s half-brother and leader of one of Tencendor’s three main races, he was usually invited as a courtesy.
Besides, no-one particularly liked to make a decision in Isfrael’s absence that might subsequently annoy him.
As WingRidge put his hand to the doorknob, Caelum called him back. “No, wait. Leave Askam. I will send a personal courier rather than one of yours.”
WingRidge nodded, and was gone.
“Zenith?” Caelum smiled at his sister, although his eyes remained tired and careworn. “Why don’t you tell Askam?”
“Me? But –”
“The bridge can connect you to Spiredore easily enough, and from there it’s only a short flight across Grail Lake to Carlon.”
“But why me?”
“Because I think Leagh should be here as well. I need to tell her my decision, and I’d rather do it to her face than by courier bird. Don’t you want to see her? Bring them both back by Spiredore. Askam can send his escort north by more conventional means.”
“I don’t know that I want to leave –”
Caelum’s voice hardened into command. “You need to be more involved with Tencendor, Zenith. I am asking you to go, but if you wish I can make your departure slightly more compulsory.”
Zenith’s chin tilted up, and in that movement Caelum saw all of his mother’s fire and determination. “As you wish, brother. I shall leave before sunrise.”
And with a slight but noticeable twitch of her shoulders, she brushed past him and left the room.
4 Beggars on the Floor, Travellers O’er the Bridge
She preened before the mirror in her chamber, running her hands down her lightly clad body, liking what she saw, what she felt. RiverStar SunSoar was a lovely, alluring birdwoman, and she knew it. What man had ever been able to resist her?
She lifted her hands to her fine golden curls and shook them out. How they complemented her violet eyes! Her pale skin!
“I am irresistible,” she said, then laughed, low and husky.
Irresistible indeed – except to the one who continually resisted her.
She froze at a subtle touch. Power.
His. It stroked at her arms, lifted the material from her breasts, rippled down over her belly, her legs.
Her lover. He was close.
She did not move, pretending not to notice. She would make him beg. She would!
Except he never begged. Always she ended on the floor before him, her hands clinging to his legs, her golden wings spread out in appeal behind her, begging him to bed her.
She would writhe before him, sobbing and shrieking, until he had her so completely in his power that she would scream her gratitude when he finally lifted her and threw her to the mattress.
RiverStar frowned at her reflection. She did not like to have to beg … but, oh gods, how could she withstand him when his power stroked her, caressed her, penetrated her?
As it did now. She shuddered, tears filling her eyes, and when he opened the door and entered the chamber she fell to the floor and begged, begged, begged …
“You are unlike any other,” she whispered into his ear when it was finally done and they lay sweat-tangled amid the sheets. “None.”
“I was made for a purpose,” he said, smiling, and kissed her brow.
“Let me stand by your side as your lover,” she said. “Please. Let all see how good we are together.”
“No.”
“Why not?” she screamed, hate for him contorting her beautiful face. “Why not? You can do anything you –”
His hand caught at her face, his fingers digging deep, hurting so badly she whimpered.
“You will tell no-one about us,” he hissed. “No-one! Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered. “I will tell no-one. Never tell. No. Please, love me again. Please … please … please …”
Zenith stopped in her chambers to change into a vivid robe and to give her face and hair a cursory check in her mirror. Caelum was right, it was time she left Sigholt for a while. She’d been thinking much the same thing – thus her reaction when Caelum had verbalised the unspoken thoughts that had consumed her for almost a week.
Something was wrong. She couldn’t say what, or even what it might be related to, only that for the past few days a feeling of formless dread had been growing in her. Dread, and a sense of loss so deep that for three nights in a row she’d woken drenched in sweat, her hands clawing at the sheets.
Thus the reason she’d been wandering about Sigholt so late tonight.
These nightmares reminded her of those she’d had when she was much younger. Nights when she’d woken screaming, nights when the only way she’d agree to go back to sleep was sandwiched between the comfort of her parents. Axis had always questioned her closely about the dreams, but Zenith could never remember their details – maybe didn’t want to remember – and Azhure had refused to let Axis use the Song of Recall to summon them from her murky subconscious.
“Leave the child be,” her mother would say softly, stroking the hair back from Zenith’s brow. “She doesn’t need to remember them, only to be reassured of our love.”
And somehow that love had helped Zenith through. The dreams had begun to fade when she was eighteen or nineteen, and were gone completely by the time she’d reached her majority.
Although there was still the problem of the lost hours.
This was something she’d never told her parents about – why, she could not say. But some days she would suddenly find herself in a distant part of Sigholt, or even in a nearby valley of the Urqhart Hills, and have no knowledge of how she had arrived there. Hours, sometimes even half a day, would have been lost to her.
These episodes had also lessened as she grew older, but Zenith still had one or two a year.
And, in the past week, three.
This was the reason she’d hesitated when Caelum had suggested she go to Carlon.
What if she “lost herself” somewhere in Spiredore and came to her senses sitting on an icefloe in the Iskruel Ocean? How would she explain that to Caelum? How could she explain it to herself?
Zenith hesitated in the centre of her chamber, a stunningly beautiful, slim birdwoman, robed in scarlet that contrasted vividly with the darkness of her wings and hair.
Taking a huge breath, Zenith tried to calm her nerves, wrapping herself so deep with magic it literally blurred the outlines of her figure.
An image formed before her: her grandfather, StarDrifter. It was a memory only, not the actual person; StarDrifter lived far south on the Island of Mist and Memory, devoted to his duties among the priestesses of Temple Mount.
This was a memory that Zenith had carried with her for some thirty years, a memory of a day when she’d been staying with her grandfather on the island, and had found herself wandering the southern cliff faces of Temple Mount with no idea how she’d got there.
She’d been young then, and she’d been growing her wings only a year. They’d still felt strange to her, and she still fumbled on her infrequent flights, so that suddenly coming to awareness at the crumbling edge of a thousand-pace drop had been terrifying.
She’d screamed, sure she was going to die, and then StarDrifter was there, wrapping her in his arms and wings, pulling her back, holding her and singing to her and telling her she was safe, safe, safe.
From that moment on Zenith had adored StarDrifter, treasured him beyond the usual love of a granddaughter for her grandfather.
Now she recalled the image of StarDrifter, his beautiful face full of love, a gentle hand cupping her chin so he could look in her eyes.
“I’ll always be there to catch you,” he’d said. “I’ll always be there for you.”
“Always …” Zenith whispered, and the image faltered and then faded.
“Very pretty.”
She whirled about, furious that anyone should have seen the vision.
Drago was leaning nonchalantly against the doorway that led into her private washroom. His thin face was unreadable, his eyes narrowed, his arms carefully folded across his chest.
A towel was tucked over one arm, and Zenith noticed that Drago’s coppery hair was damp and newly combed back into its tail in the nape of his neck.
“Why not use your own chambers to wash?” she snapped.
“I’d been down in the stables,” he said, standing up straight and throwing the towel back inside the wash room, “helping Stephain with the grey mare. She foaled tonight. Difficult birth.”
“But that doesn’t excuse why –”
“I would have used my own chambers, save that Caelum is stamping and striding about the upper-floor corridors, and frankly the last thing I needed tonight was to run into him. So I thought I’d ask you if I could use your washroom. You weren’t here, so …”
He shrugged, walking over to stand before Zenith. “I heard you come in just as I was finishing up. If you’re concerned, I didn’t stand and watch you change. I may be many things, sister mine, but I am not a voyeur.”
“Yet you saw my memory of StarDrifter.”
“I thought I heard his voice – it made me come to the door. Zenith, I like him too … remember?”
Zenith was rapidly losing her temper which, truth be told, was mainly a product of her shock. And Drago did like StarDrifter. She was unsure about so many things regarding Drago, but his genuine feeling for StarDrifter was not one of them. As a child, Drago had enjoyed his months with StarDrifter almost as much as she had. For some reason StarDrifter had been able to reach the uncommunicative youth in a way Axis and Azhure could not – or could not be bothered to.
She looked at her brother, and for an instant emotion threatened to choke her. What could he have grown into if he had been given love instead of rejection? Their parents had, if not ignored him, then favoured all their other children before him. His punishment for plotting against Caelum had left him with little of his rich Icarii heritage: his coppery hair, still thick but kept pulled back into its tight tail, and his violet eyes, although they had faded with age. Against his vivid and powerful siblings he was just a thin, rather plain man, age and frustrated life marking his face with deep lines.
Drago had done wrong, no-one could deny that, but Zenith often wished their mother could have found some other way to punish him that would not have resulted in the destruction of so much potential, the annihilation of so many dreams.
She caught herself before Drago thought to ask why she took so long to respond.
“Well, if you don’t want to run into Caelum – and he is in a fearful temper – then you can use my bed for the night.”
Drago arched an enquiring eyebrow.
Briefly Zenith told him what she and Caelum had learned.
“And so now, good girl that you are, you go to do StarSon’s bidding.” Drago yawned theatrically. “Well, off you go now. That bed does look inviting.”
Not trusting her temper, Zenith stalked over to the door. Just as she reached it, Drago said softly, “That was a beautiful memory you conjured up into flesh, Zenith. I wish I had that skill.”
Zenith turned and stared at him, not knowing how to take his words. Was he expressing resentment that he no longer had the power to do similar feats, or was he expressing genuine regret?
But Drago gave her no clue. He’d dropped across the bed, his face away from her, and so Zenith left the room, not knowing whether to feel sorry for him, or angry.
By the time Zenith reached the courtyard Drago had slipped far from her mind. Instead she felt the first tingle of excitement. It was good to get away, even if only for a day or so.
The guards at the massive gate in Sigholt’s walls nodded to her, and then Zenith was through and on the short space of roadway leading to the bridge that guarded Sigholt’s entrance.
“A good evening to you, bridge,” she called softly as she stepped onto its cobbled carriageway.
“And a good evening to you, Zenith,” the bridge said in her deep, melodious voice. No-one ever understood the bridge, what she truly was, or what magic had created her. She simply existed, and her sole purpose in her existence was to guard all entrances into Sigholt. All visitors, whether by foot, hoof or air, were challenged by the bridge as to whether they were true or not.
No-one ever knew what she really meant by that, either.
But the bridge generally kept Sigholt safe – apart from the one notable exception when the infant Drago had tricked her into allowing Gorgrael access to Sigholt – and she was good company for nights when sleep refused to come.
“Do you wish to pass an hour or so with me, Zenith?” the bridge asked hopefully. Even so fey a creation as the bridge still liked to gossip whenever the opportunity presented itself.
“No, bridge. I am sorry. Tonight I must go to Spiredore. Can you lead me there?”
“Of course. Where are you going?”
“Carlon.”
“Ah,” the bridge sighed. “I have heard many wondrous tales about Carlon. But wait … there. Spiredore awaits you.”
Zenith looked across the bridge. Normally it led to the roadway that ran the length of HoldHard Pass, but now the other side of the bridge connected into a misty blue tunnel at the end of which Zenith could see the stairway of Spiredore.
“I thank you, friend bridge,” she said, and stepped across.
If the bridge was unknown magic, then Spiredore was a hundred times the puzzlement and even more the magic. The tower that stood on the opposite shoreline of Grail Lake to Carlon belonged to Azhure, although it was as ancient, some whispered, as Grail Lake itself. Its interior was a maze of seemingly disconnected stairwells and corridors, but if one knew how to use Spiredore’s magic, those stairwells and corridors could take you just about anywhere you wished. Azhure had taught all her children – save Drago, of course – how to use the tower, and how particularly to enter it via the bridge at Sigholt.
Now Zenith stepped off the bridge and into the short corridor of blue mist that led to the interior of Spiredore. As powerful and knowledgeable an Enchanter as she was, all Zenith understood of this process was that somehow the bridge had called across the scores of leagues separating her from Spiredore, and the tower itself had reached out and formed this connection.
From the misty corridor Zenith entered Spiredore at one of its myriad balconies. Glancing quickly up and down, she saw a bizarre outcropping of disconnected balconies and stairs – and even some ladders – that lined the circular interior of the tower. None of them appeared to go anywhere.
“Spiredore,” she said firmly, “I wish to go to Carlon.”
And she walked to the nearest stairwell and stepped down.
Azhure had always impressed on her two winged daughters that they must never fly in Spiredore, as it was so strangely magical they might easily become disorientated and crash into a balcony, or even the floor of the tower. Zenith walked until she felt her calves begin to ache and then, just as she paused to rub them, she saw that around the next curve of the stairs was a flat floor.
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
