Master of Whitestorm (18 page)

“Damn me, she’s heavy,” the first of them complained as he hefted his appointed load from the dock. “That, on account o’rain too, cost ya extra.”

“You say?” Haldeth returned a glare of practiced menace. “We’ll see how much extra if you like, but I promise no payment in coin.”

“Neth, but ye’ve no sense of humor,” the stevedore groused, and then swore in earnest for allowing himself to be intimidated as he slung the chest to his shoulder and heard metal chinking within.

“Off you go,” Haldeth ordered sharply.

With a grimace more to do with lost opportunity, the stevedore obeyed. His two companions followed with the other chests, muttering among themselves. “First rich man to come to Heddenton, and he has to travel crazy in the wet.”

At the innyard, beneath a swinging, weather-checked livery sign, Haldeth hired a wagon and a nag. The rig came dear, due to an inopportune comment by one of the departing stevedores. But the smith considered time more precious than the money he might save by haggling. Out on the road, with the buckboard jolting loose under his feet, and the driver’s seat giving him splinters, he came to regret his compliance. That the rattletrap vehicle should be rented at all was a robbery of criminal proportions, even had the hack in the harness not kicked like a donkey with hemorrhoids. As its rear hooves hammered the planking repeatedly over the leagues, Haldeth shook his whip and threatened torture if the animal would not level out and haul.

An ear twitched back. The beast tossed its head above the shafts, its eye a half moon of rolling white; and Haldeth exclaimed with enlightenment. He had been rented a harness without blinders. Perhaps the ostler at the tavern had been careless; more likely, he was hoping for a wreck, and the salvage of coins from a burst chest. Whatever the reason, his omission was wasted effort with a smith. Haldeth knotted the reins and dismounted into the soupy mud of the roadside. He strode to the horse’s head and wadded his scarf around the cheek straps of the luckless beast’s bridle.

He resumed driving and the kicking stopped. Unable to see the wagon which followed, and no longer distressed by its rattle, the horse jogged down a turn-off from the road that no man in Heddenton cared to travel. At the end, couched amid dripping evergreens, rose the tower of Orame of the White Circle.

Built of polished stone, and octagonal in shape, the structure rose sheer from the forest floor. The turreted top lay blurred by mist, and though there was an oaken door carved with runes and leering faces, not a single window relieved the imposing expanse of black wall. The mirror-smooth stone reflected the rain and the swaying boughs of the pines, as well as the damp and red-nosed visitor hunched in his rickety cart.

Haldeth looped the reins to the buckboard and stiffly climbed down. Chilled from more than wet clothing, he regarded the tower and shivered. Brash as Korendir had been, he had never attempted anything so harebrained as begging aid from a wizard; that he had avowed the intent before his departure for Northengard seemed a folly far better forgotten.

Stubborn as iron when he wished to be, Haldeth ignored the wisdom of turning back. Instead he left the cart where it stood and paced the tower’s perimeters.

While he squelched over matted pine needles and splashed his way through puddles, he felt he was being watched. The tower yielded no secrets. Seamless stone gave back nothing but his own reflection. The door beneath the pillared arch had neither knob nor keyhole, but only the horned and leering faces of demons and border upon border of runes. The smith stamped across wet flags to the stoop. Rain dripped in his eyes. He longed for a seat in a tavern and a foaming tankard of beer, except Korendir must be wishing for similar comforts, in a cave infested by wereleopards.

Haldeth raised his hand and knocked. The oak was hard and the runes bruised his knuckles. He shifted in trepidation, while more rain dribbled down his collar.

Nothing happened.

The rain continued to fall, and drip, and splash from the needles of the evergreens; the cart horse stamped and snorted runoff from its nose. Irked and feeling stupid, Haldeth knocked again.

He waited, poised for a spell that never came. He would have run at a sound, or the slightest glimmer of magic. Indifference was the last reaction he had expected from a wizard who belonged to the mightiest order on Aerith. And yet, his presence was not entirely disregarded. The crawling goose-flesh between his shoulderblades did not ease. He
was
being watched, and closely, but with patent disregard for manners. Snug and dry in his tower, Orame made no offer of hospitality toward the visitor who froze on his door stoop. That he was a White Circle enchanter and as such not entirely mortal made little difference to Haldeth’s uncomplicated outlook. Orame’s oversight added up to insult.

Haldeth regarded the closed, rune-carved door, then strode across the wizard’s yard to the cart left parked by the trees. He unhooked the traces, marched the hack from between the shafts, then looped the reins through his elbow and cut a pine switch.

“Orame!” he shouted. The wood absorbed his call without even echoes for reply. “There’s a man awaiting your consultation who has traveled a long way to see you.”

The wizard gave no response, yet the air took on a waiting stillness, as if someone’s attention sharpened.

Too annoyed to take heed, Haldeth removed the scraps of scarf he had earlier twisted through the bridle. Then he backed the run-down horse up to the demon-carved portal, firmed his grip on the reins, and slashed the air with the switch at the edge of the animal’s peripheral vision.

The nag arched its bony spine, heaved up its quarters, and let fly a resounding kick at the door panel. Oak slivers and runes bounced with the impact; the boom reechoed through the windowless well of the tower like the fall of the hammer of god.

Hugely pleased, Haldeth raised his crop for another go.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” said an acerbic voice from behind.

Haldeth dropped his stick. He spun around just as the cart horse spoiled his balance with a hard shy backward against the reins. “Whoa!” cried the smith, and braced himself mightily. Brought up short, the horse settled, blowing gusts and rolling its eyes.

The wizard stood two paces off. His age was impossible to guess. The rain fell relentlessly, but his charcoal gray robes showed not a trickle of wet. His hair was very dark auburn, and his eyes piercingly black. Tall he was, and slender, and unquestionably put out.

Haldeth diffidently stepped backward until the door blocked his retreat. He raised his chin, masked fright with defiance, and spoke back in flustered desperation. “I knocked, your wizardship. Twice. What’s a visitor in the freezing rain to do when you choose not to answer your door?”

Orame gestured with extreme impatience. “Great Neth, man, I was a thousand leagues away at the time! What you felt was the spell that wards my tower. I did hear you, even from such a distance, and I was coming. You had only to wait.”

Haldeth recoiled in horrified disbelief, his spine gouged by the knobbly horns of a half dozen carved demons. That moment the horse shook like a dog, and splattered him from head to foot with dirty water.

Orame raised peaked brows in reproof. “Take that beast off my door stoop, you great lump of a blacksmith. Remove its harness and tether it where it can graze. Then I expect you’re hungry, and want a fire, and also have a boon to ask. Though why I should listen after suffering this abuse to my woodwork is a riddle that would perplex the Archmaster at Dethmark himself.”

Haldeth gathered his rented gelding’s reins, and with a look of unvarnished skepticism towed it toward the verge of the trail; little use, he thought, to belabor the fact that the beast could not forage on pine boughs.

“Neth’s image, you mortals,” grumbled Orame from behind. “Seek out a wizard for miracles, and then with gymnastic illogic presume the arrangement of fodder could be any less than impossible.” He snapped his fingers.

The earth seemed to lurch underfoot. Suddenly knee deep in oat grass, Haldeth stumbled through a tangle of seed tassels. The instant he recovered his footing he bent a sour glance at the wizard.

But the yard once again stood empty. Orame had gone. So had the door with its decorative runes and demons. Apparently that imposing front had been an enchanter’s confection of illusion. Revealed beneath the arch was a portal bound in brass, and cut, at waist height, with the crescent indentations made by a startled horse. To the smith’s embarrassment, the latch had been left unhooked. The panel stood ajar in invitation.

Anxious to be quit of the rain, Haldeth attended the livery nag with all speed.

* * *

Orame’s tower held the predictable spiral staircase overseen by stone gryphons and gargoyles. Strangely enough from the inside, there seemed an abundance of casements latched and snug against the rain. The library on the landing above proved comfortably furnished with fur hassocks. The books on the shelves bore no titles. Though curious, Haldeth withheld from comment. The ways of wizards were not his to fathom, and White Circle enchanters were widely renowned for their knowledge of perilous secrets. Orame stood flanked by shoulder-high candlestands wrought in the form of scaled dragons. He motioned his guest to a chair before a tortoise-shell table set with tea and refreshments.

Any thought of indulging in comforts grated, given Korendir’s straits; but after his gaffe in the dooryard, Haldeth was determined to mend his lapse in manners, lest the enchanter take offense and turn him out.

The smith moved toward the offered chair, drew breath to apologize for his rank odor and dripping cloak, and realized with a start that somewhere between the outer door and the landing all of his clothing had dried. The smell of wet horse had miraculously gone with the water. Tongue-tied in amazement, Haldeth sat with a thump that shook the table.

“I know why you’ve come,” the wizard said, before Haldeth could lose the flush on his face. “I know already what you journeyed here to ask me, and before you left, you should have known that gold buys no influence with the White Circle.”

Haldeth reclaimed his poise. “Korendir, is he alive?” Orame enigmatically poured tea. He set a roll on a napkin before Haldeth, and helped himself to another. “Why should this man’s life concern me?”

Having neither appetite nor words for the occasion, Haldeth could find no answer. After a moment, Orame said, “He’s alive.” A frown marred his olive skin as he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “But not for very much longer, I should think.”

Haldeth shoved the bread aside in dismay. “What do you mean?”

Orame flicked crumbs from neat fingers. “Mean?” He sighed. “See for yourself.” And the polished glaze of the tea pot suddenly acquired an image.

Haldeth beheld darkness and torchlight; but the flame was failing, flickering wildly in a draft. Through a weaving murk of shadows, he received the impression of rock walls glazed shiny with water. Then, with a start that all but stopped his heart, he made out a tangle of bronze hair. The torch was held in the white-knuckled fist of Korendir, who climbed with his dagger between his teeth and his sword thrust unsheathed through his belt. The crossbow slung at his shoulder showed blood on the grip, and one whole side of his tunic was sliced to goredrenched ribbons.

“Neth, he’s hurt,” cried Haldeth.

As if he could hear, Korendir turned his head. It became apparent then that he was engaged in a climb through a shaft that seemed bottomlessly dark. In
the wizard’s tower, staring at an image in a teapot, Haldeth saw his friend’s face was worn with exhaustion and hunger, and that something else stalked him from below. Now and again the flicker of torchlight caught on green-golden crescents that were eyes.

“Wereleopards!” Haldeth reached out, bruised his knuckles against heated ceramic, and cursed. The image disappeared, and he frantically looked to Orame. “Neth’s grace, you can’t just let him die.”

The wizard considered, his eyes impervious as obsidian. “To save your friend would require use of a wizard’s gate, and a crossing to Northengard by way of the alter-reality of Alhaerie.”

When Haldeth looked blank, the enchanter qualified conversationally over his tea. “You do know that every ill that has ever plagued Aerith has entered through such rifts into the otherworld. The demons that overran Alathir originated from Alhaerie. High Morien’s holding was destroyed, and all of his following, and he was Archmaster before Telvallind.”

“Then sit there nibbling raisin pastries and do nothing!” Made bold by desperation, Haldeth ranted on. “You said you were a thousand leagues away at the time I knocked on your door. If you’d open a wizard’s gate to answer a mortal’s call, why not to save a life?”

“Because the route from here to Dethmark is guarded well by wards. The passage where your friend flees for his life is a place in the wilds, unfrequented by wizards, and naked of the most basic protection.” Orame laced long fingers around his chin. “But should I let Korendir die? That’s another risk altogether. I’m inclined to believe I dare not.”

The odd implications hinted by the enchanter’s words were too abstruse for pursuit in the face of crisis. “You’ll take the gold, then,” Haldeth offered eagerly, and pushed in haste to his feet.

“No.” Orame set his cup down with a click. “Certainly not. The suggestion alone is preposterous.”

Haldeth bit back an insult. With all the diplomacy he could muster, he said, “Whatever moves you, just ask.”

Orame sat back in his chair. His hair shone in the candlelight, combed and smooth as an owl’s plumage, while he folded his hands in his lap. “If I do this, you will ask Korendir who his parents are,” he said obliquely.

The smith nodded with baffled impatience and stepped back. “The Master of Whitestorm may kill me rather than answer, but I’ll question him.”

“And,” added Orame, “at your first opportunity you will fashion for me a grille of wrought iron. A decorative one, but stout enough to spare my front door from abuse if other travelers use horses that kick to gain entrance.”