The Warrior's Bond toe-4 Page 3

  “Do you have lodgings arranged?” I asked.

  “The man from the shrine said we could probably stay there as well.” The girl peeped up at me from beneath her dun-coloured fringe. Her Tormalin was fluent but of unmistakable Lescari origin.

  “If there’s any difficulty, refer it to me. We’re in the upper guest house,” said Casuel officiously.

  “We’ll join you there for dinner.” Velindre turned on her heel with a final smile and before Casuel could shut his protesting mouth her long stride took her out of earshot.

  “So who’s she?” I asked the wizard.

  Outrage was slow to fade from his well-made features. “Velindre is a mage of some standing in Hadrumal but she’s always claimed to prefer focusing on her studies rather than engaging herself with the wider concerns of wizardry.”

  I wondered just where the sneer in his tone was directed but decided his prejudices weren’t worth pursuing. “So she hasn’t been privy to any of Planir’s intrigues over the last year or so?”

  Casuel bridled. “I hardly think intrigue is the right word for the necessary care Planir takes of Hadrumal’s interests.”

  “Could you bespeak the Archmage, please? To let him know she’s here and apparently interested in the colony.” I made my request with a politeness calculated to soothe Casuel’s ruffled feathers.

  “I was intending to do so, naturally.” Of course Casuel had been planning to tell Planir about Velindre; telling tales was another dame-school habit I’d observed in the man over the past half-year. “I wonder if he knows Troanna’s been in touch with her.”

  “Shall we do it now? Planir might have an opinion on Velindre’s reasons for being here, and he’ll certainly want to know what’s happened to Urlan.” I wanted all my birds in a row before I encountered Velindre again and there was little enough for me to do here.

  “Yes, I should see what news the Archmage has for us, shouldn’t I? Let’s get out of this rain.” Those notions sent the wizard scurrying eagerly up the hill, clutching the hood of his cloak tight beneath his handsome chin.

  Once we were back in the guest house chamber he’d appropriated as a study, Casuel set about his wizardry. I’d seen him work various spells over the last season or so, and, oddly, he was at his least objectionable when working magic. The wizard took a seat at the table, setting a steel mirror on the table with a candle before it, lighting the wick with a snap of his fingers and a flourish of the lace at his cuffs. He laid his hands flat on the chestnut wood, eyes fixed unblinking on the reflected flame of the candle

  I sat in a corner, content to watch and listen; Casuel could do the talking. What I wanted was Planir, who presumably had the power to curb this Velindre, told of her arrival here, just in case she had some private ambition that might threaten all I was working for. I had no reason to suspect her, but then again no reason to trust her. I didn’t particularly trust Planir either, having suffered the charming ruthlessness of Hadrumal’s Archmage on my own account, but I knew he would always defend his own interests and for the moment those marched in step with mine and those of the House of D’Olbriot.

  The candle flame burned yellow then darkened to a bloody orange, the colour tainting the reflection. Shimmering across the mirror, magic began to slowly revolve like water stirred with a rod. Where a hollow might have appeared in swirling liquid, a hole in the very fabric of the air spread across the metal surface, elements yielding to the arcane influence of the mage-born. Casuel was frowning, jaw set in utter concentration, the barest movement of light reflecting from a gold ring on one taut finger. Even after all the times I’d seen Casuel do this, I felt my spine tense at such an inexplicable manipulation of the natural order.

  An image appeared in the mirror, magic reflecting the Archmage sat at a table in his study. I recognised it from my own unwilling visit to Hadrumal, a room of elegant furnishings and deadly purpose. Some instinct lifted his dark head and he looked directly across the countless leagues down through Casuel’s spell, fine black brows lifted in surprise. “Yes?”

  “The colonists have arrived,” said Casuel, speaking rather rapidly. “They had trouble making landfall because Urlan injured himself in a fall.”

  “Badly?” Planir leaned forward, face intent. “Have you seen him?”

  “Not yet, it’s his legs you see, he’s been taken to the infirmary.” Casuel sounded like a slack apprentice trying to excuse himself to my father.

  Small in the mirror, the Archmage’s image nodded abruptly before gesturing in unmistakable dismissal. “Go and see him for yourself and then bespeak me again at once.” My father had no time for underlings coming to him with tales of a task half done either.

  Casuel cleared his throat. “Velindre arrived in Bremilayne on the same tide. It seems she’s eager to speak to D’Alsennin.”

  “Is she?” Planir’s tone was noncommittal, but even at this distance I could see his lean face was unsmiling.

  Casuel was nonplussed. “So what should I do? What should I say to her?”

  Giving her some credit for saving the stricken ship would be a good start, I thought silently.

  “You make the introductions she seeks.” Planir sounded faintly surprised that Casuel needed to ask. “And you make note of her questions, whom she asks them of and the replies she receives. Then you tell me.”

  Casuel preened himself visibly at the idea of being thus taken into the Archmage’s confidence. It looked more like a fool’s naivety being used against him to me as Planir’s mouth curved like the merciless smile of a shark.

  “Is she seeking some advancement?” persisted Casuel. “She always says mastery of her element is more important than rank within the halls or recognition by the Council.” His bemusement was plain; that someone might disdain the status that he so ineffectually craved.

  I heard Planir drum his fingers on the table in an uncharacteristic betrayal of tension. “I’ve heard her name mentioned as a possible candidate for Cloud-Mistress,” he said lightly. “I’d be interested if she were to say anything that suggests her own thoughts turn that way. Though you’re not to raise the subject yourself, Casuel, understand?”

  “But Otrick is Cloud-Master,” frowned Casuel.

  “Indeed,” Planir replied flatly. “And will remain so, whatever Troanna might say.”

  But that old wizard was locked in enchanted unconsciousness, laid low by aetheric malice along with so many others in the fight for Kellarin the summer before, souring the triumph I’d shared with Temar, the mercenaries backing him and the mages who’d paid them. Finding some means of restoring those unfortunates ranked high among the obligations prompting me to continued service to Messire D’Olbriot. Fortunately, as a leading Prince of the Empire, the Sieur was foremost among those backing the search for lore to counter Elietimm enchantments. That’s why I had spent the first half of the year shepherding Casuel round distant dusty libraries while my beloved Livak had taken herself clear across the Old Empire on a quest for knowledge held by the ancient races of wood and mountain.

  Planir’s next words diverted me from wondering how she might be faring. “Ryshad, good day to you.”

  I couldn’t prevent a faint start of surprise; I’d been thinking the spell wouldn’t reach to my distant seat. “Archmage.” I gave the amber-tinted reflection a nod but moved no closer.

  “I heard from Usara a few days ago,” Planir continued in friendly fashion. “Livak’s keeping well. They’re heading north to see what Mountain sagas might teach us all.”

  “Did they find anything of note in the Great Forest?” asked Casuel anxiously. He’d been voluble in his contempt for Livak’s theory that archaic traditions could hold unknown wisdom, so any success on her part would make him look a mighty fool. Armed with a book of old songs she insisted held hints of lost enchantments, Livak had set off determined to prove him wrong.

  “Nothing conclusive has come to light.” The Archmage raised his hand again and the glow in the mirror flared bright. “If there’
s nothing else, I’ve much to attend to here, as you know.”

  “Give Usara my regards the next time you bespeak him.” The shimmering void closed in on itself, leaving no more than an after-image burned on the back of my eye. I blinked, not sure if Planir had heard me or not. Still, at least I knew Livak was in good health and I hugged that knowledge close. She was with Usara, and I reminded myself that it wasn’t magic I mistrusted, just certain mages. Usara was competent and honest and that weighed heavy in the scales against Planir’s deviousness and Casuel’s mean spirit.

  “I’d better see how Urlan is.” Casuel was looking abstracted. “Then I’d better review my notes, to get questions for D’Alsennin clear in my mind.” And to remind himself of those few fragments of possible knowledge he’d pieced together from scraps of unheeded parchment and books faded with age. He’d want something of his own to mention casually to Planir, to counter anything Livak might find in the Forest or the Mountains. She’d certainly crow loud and long over him if she returned successful, so I could hardly blame Casuel for that. I stifled my recurrent longing for her exuberant company by reminding myself I’d agreed to her trip, so I should hardly be complaining about her absence. And her quest was only one half of the two-handed plan we hoped would secure us a future together, and Casuel wouldn’t be the only one feeling the lash of her tongue if Livak returned to find I’d failed to play my part. Smiling at that thought, I recovered my damp cloak from its hook. “I’ll go and see how they are getting on at the dock.”

  Casuel was already deep in his books; so much for his concern for his fellow mage. I left him to it and went back down the hill to the harbour. Seeing Glannar’s men at their ease in front of the barred warehouse door, I looked for Temar. He was standing amid burly dockers, counting out coin into the gang-leader’s calloused palm.

  “A fair rate for the day,” I observed, calculating the Tormalin Crowns bright in the man’s filthy hand. The docker grunted noncommittally.

  “But with the weather hardly fair, I think something over for the cold and the wet.” Temar dropped a couple of silver Marks on to the gold and a grudging smile lifted the docker’s lip to reveal stained brown teeth.

  “Pleasure to do business with you, Esquire,” he nodded before stowing the coin securely in a money belt and whistling up his crew with a gesture towards a nearby tavern.

  “You don’t want to get a reputation as an easy touch,” I warned Temar.

  He shrugged, unconcerned. “If the ships of Kel Ar’Ayen are known to pay well, we will never lack for labour to get them unloaded.” He nodded towards the ship that had brought Velindre. “So who is this wizard that I owe my life? How does she arrive in so timely a fashion?”

  “Her name’s Velindre, but that’s all I know of her,” I admitted reluctantly. “She says she’s interested in the winds and currents of Kellarin’s coast, but Planir thinks she may have ambitions to make a name for herself in Hadrumal.”

  “If she hopes for a salvage due, she had best get in line behind those others looking to make a claim on the colony,” said Temar lightly.

  I looked at him, assessing the hint of seriousness in his words. With an easy assumption of D’Olbriot authority over Kellarin running through the idle gossip of sworn and chosen over the last season, I’d been the only one suggesting the game might play out differently.

  “Temar!” A thin woman came striding over the cobbles towards us, hood falling back from brown hair liberally streaked with grey and concern deepening the lines of age in her face. Though the rain had all but ceased, she was wiping her face in unthinking, repetitive gestures, speaking rapidly to Temar. Her speech was too thick with the intonation of Old Toremal for me, but I recognised her as the Demoiselle Tor Arrial, one of Kellarin’s few other surviving nobility. Temar nodded and looked at me. “Avila wishes to know where we are to lodge. Most of the crew and other passengers are claiming rooms in these inns.”

  “We have everything you need made ready at the Shrine of Ostrin.” I spoke slowly in my most formal accent. Avila Tor Arrial looked at me sharply, one chapped hand clutching a cloak pin set with rubies and pale rose diamonds at her throat. After a pause she nodded and her gesture needed no translation, so I led the way, leaving behind the ramshackle dock-side for the more regular streets around the circle of Ostrin’s walls.

  “I thought there were supposed to be more of you,” I remarked to Temar.

  He shrugged. “When it came to it, they all found reasons to stay. The more we talk to the sailors, to the mages, the more we learn how our world has changed. At least in Kellarin we know what we are dealing with.” He fell silent and we walked without speaking until we reached the embrace of Ostrin’s walls.

  “It’s this way.” I waved Avila through the gate welcoming all comers into the stone circle. The broad gravel sweep inside was busy with new arrivals, two coaches unloading a vociferous family presumably taking ship to north or south.

  “Perhaps they were right to stay,” murmured Temar, eyes wide as he looked back out of the gate at the thriving town. “It is all so different, nothing as I remember it.”

  “Let’s get you warm,” I urged, seeing a pallor I didn’t like in his face.

  He followed me without protest to the comfortable guest house behind the main shrine to Ostrin. Maidservants were busy about the hospitality that is ever the god’s chief concern, offering soft towels, ewers of warm water and hot tisanes to stiff and chilled arrivals, porters discreetly depositing battered luggage in bedchambers.

  “There are rooms reserved here for you and the Demoiselle Tor Arrial.” I led Temar up the broad stairway, wooden panelling gleaming with years of dedicated polish. “The sailors and mercenaries can shift for themselves in the inns but Messire thought you would welcome some privacy.” The exaggerated tales of the mariners and freebooters could supply sufficient grist to satisfy the rumour mill, so there was no need to expose Temar to intrusive curiosity.

  That thought sparked another as I opened the door to the room I’d chosen for Temar. “The mage Velindre has invited herself to dine with me and Casuel this evening. Why don’t you and Avila eat in the upper parlour?”

  Temar halted on the threshold to give me a narrow look before shrugging. “As you see fit.”

  “There’s clean linen, shaving soap, razor.” I nodded at the washstand. “I’m next door if you need anything else.” I hesitated, wondering whether to offer companionship or allow the lad some solitude to gather his thoughts. A footfall behind me heralded a maidservant with a steaming jug of water so I stepped aside to let her pass.

  “You must want to change.” Temar nodded at my sodden leather boots. His tight smile didn’t quite meet his eyes so I took the hint and withdrew, pulling his door closed.

  A quick trip to the kitchens housed across the courtyard meant I could leave my cloak in the drying room and once I was satisfied that my orders for the evening’s meals were clearly understood I hurried back to the guest house. I found Casuel and Allin squaring up to each other in the main hall. Her high colour was cruelly unflattering but her folded arms were braced with resolve. Casuel, clutching a folded bundle of white, looked more baffled than annoyed.

  My arrival gave Allin the chance to escape. “I’ll see you both at dinner.” With her curtsey a touch too hurried, she walked away just fast enough to betray her eagerness to flee.

  “I only asked her to do some mending,” said Casuel crossly.

  “I’m sure one of the maids would be glad of the extra work,” I suggested. “It’ll only cost you a few pennies and I don’t suppose a wizard’s linen is any different to anyone else’s.”

  The realisation that he was standing there holding his small clothes for any passer-by to see sent Casuel scurrying up the stairs. Following at a more leisurely pace, I shed my soaked clothes gratefully, getting my blood flowing again with warm water and vigorous towelling before having a contemplative shave. I needed to know what Temar hoped to achieve on this visit, I decided, and some clue
as to Velindre’s business would be useful. Concluding that it wouldn’t hurt to remind her of my standing with D’Olbriot, I dressed in the elegant attire my new status entitled me to claim from Toremal’s finest tailors at Messire’s expense. The price to me was wearing a mossy green that I didn’t particularly care for. A knock on my door came as I was buttoning my shirt. It was the Steward of the Shrine with a query about how long we were staying and just how many rooms were required, so I took up my more prosaic duties once more.

  The Shrine of Ostrin, Bremilayne,

  9th of For-Summer in the Third Year of

  Tadriol the Provident, Evening

  Temar lay down on the bed and hid his head beneath a down-filled pillow. Clamping it tight over his ears shut out the noises of the guest house: a man passing his door with a shouted query, someone else’s demands for fresh towels, the rough bumping of heavy burdens dragged up the wooden stairs. But he couldn’t banish the memories assailing him, the agony of the injured mage, the frantic prayers of his companions that Dastennin calm the sea, that Larasion quell the winds, that Saedrin spare them. The foul and desperate curses of the sailors echoed in his memory, the groans of ship’s timbers stressed beyond endurance, the wicked crack of snapping rope and the scream of someone lashed by the vicious ends. After all they had been through, after all they had endured, he and his companions had nearly drowned, so close to shore, within very sight of safety, all their hopes and those of the colony they had left behind sunk beneath Dastennin’s malice to feed the scavenging crabs.

  Time passed unnoticed until loud disagreement from the room above forced itself into Temar’s misery. He emerged red-faced from beneath the pillow, tears and dirt smeared on his face. One shrewish voice rose indignant, prompting a harsh response that rang through the floorboards.

  Temar couldn’t make out the meaning. How was he ever going to make good his bold boasts to Guinalle when it took all his concentration just to comprehend what people were saying? Albarn, Brive, all the others, they’d turned back from this insane attempt to revisit the world they had lost and no one had thought the worse of them. Why couldn’t he have done the same?