Master of Whitestorm (7 page)

“He’s avenged,” Haldeth said shortly. Unreassured by the small talk, he hauled Korendir to his feet. “Come back to the fire and let me tend that leg.”

“Not yet.” Korendir shook free and straightened. “I’m going in.” His gray eyes shifted pointedly to the corpses left steaming on the path. “If I wait, Anthei will have another spell guarding her gates. I must go now, or not at all.”

Haldeth responded with reluctance. “Will you be careful?”

Korendir brushed rust flakes from his hands and laughed low in his throat. “I’ll watch the odds.”

Haldeth looked on, appalled, as his friend tossed his tallow plugs aside. No words were suitable for the occasion, but as always Korendir did not care. He strode limping to the garden wall, and without an instant’s hesitation, scaled the stone and dropped on his feet in Anthei’s rose bed.

* * *

Curled comfortably on cushions in her tower window, the witch wrinkled her nose at the stench of ruined spells. “Clever man,” she whispered.

Had Korendir entered through the main gate, he would now be quite dead. Since he had not, Anthei switched tactics to counter. Leaning her elbows on the sill, she framed the man between the angle of her thumb and fingers, and her voice measured phrases to a different tune. Darkness spread like a pall over her garden. Shrub, path, and starlight vanished, as if Neth’s creation had never existed.

IV

ANTHEI’S TOWER

SHADOW SNARED
Korendir in darkness. His eyes seemed wrapped in felt, and the air went strange and thin in his nostrils, devoid of any scent. Certain blindness alone would prove no handicap unless Anthei had set other perils against him, Korendir groped for a landmark to orient himself. His hands met emptiness. Garden foliage had disappeared; the very ground before his feet had dissolved into air, leaving him one step from oblivion.

Korendir straightened and unslung his belt. The buckle shone ghostly white against that unnatural void. As if the proximity of iron weakened the spell, faint radiance traced the outlines of rose leaves against a black as absolute as death. Korendir extended an arm into the glow and felt thorns hitch at his sleeve; with no pause for thought he dropped the buckle like a plum bob. It slithered through foliage and struck earth.

Korendir lifted his foot. He felt the solidity of the garden vanish into nothing as his boot left the ground. Guided by the gleam of the iron, he eased forward. His toe touched soil, but his heel remained suspended over emptiness. With painstaking caution, he slid his foot further into the sphere of the metal’s influence and shifted his weight. The rosebed held firm. Step by deliberate step, movement was possible; but no margin remained for mistakes. Estimating his bearings from memory, Korendir made tortuous headway through the cross-tangle of briar and hedgerow. At last he felt gravel grate beneath his sole. He had reached the central path.

Faint light pinpricked the darkness an arm’s length to his right. Korendir reached down to touch. His fingers scraped gravel and closed over honest wood wound with twine; the illumination arose from the iron tip of his arrow, left embedded in Anthei’s front walk. The broadhead bore the numeral five, and by Korendir’s calculation, the tower door lay fifty paces north. He swung the belt and proceeded, progress marked by the nebulous glimmer of his arrows.

He recovered his last shaft at the foot of Anthei’s front stair. The marble risers stayed firm without need of iron’s virtues to bind their existence. Korendir ascended and gained the landing. Abruptly the pall of darkness lifted. The latch tripped, and brass-bound door panels swung inward, spilling candlelight over the stoop. Anthei waited at the threshold. Framed beneath the carved agate lintel, she was robed in floor-length crimson velvet. Gold braid belted her waist. Her delicate oval features nested like a gem beneath masses of coiled blond hair. The beauty of her stunned Korendir like a physical blow; he had expected a crone.

Amused by his surprise, Anthei laughed with a sound like the ringing overtones of coins falling on glass. “My ways are not those of mortal women. Did you forget? I’m a wizard’s daughter, and to that heritage I have added the powers of the White Circle’s greatest wardstone.”

She considered her visitor with eyes the changing, iridescent green of a peacock’s plumage. “Sixteen men out of seventy-four lived to reach my stair. I offered them the choice I now grant you. Leave with my forgiveness for the desecration you’ve caused within my gates, else enter at your peril. Be warned. No man has yet crossed my threshold and survived.”

Korendir laid his broadheads on a jutting shelf of molding and threaded his belt to his waist. He spoke no word, but his gaze flicked to the latch beneath Anthei’s gloved fingers. Wrought in the form of a dragon, its scaled surface glinted the frost-blue of burnished steel.

“You are a brave and clever man,” said Anthei. “Don’t prove yourself a fool. Once inside, no iron forged can save you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Korendir stepped forward. Anthei inclined her head as he entered. She pulled the door to, and the latch fell with a sullen clank, echoed over and over by agate walls. Anthei lifted her candle from its sconce and started up the stair. Korendir followed, aware that wits were his only weapon.

The chamber above was carpeted in white wool. Carved agate nymphs pillared the roofbeams, and the collection of armor and weaponry displayed on the walls between might have been the pride of Aerith’s royal treasuries. Precious metals and gemstones threw back reflections like stars, yet their luster seemed dim beside the jewel cradled on a tripod above the mantel. The wardstone of Torresdyr shed all its awesome splendor in that confined space; though no fire burned in the grate and every wall sconce remained dark, the chamber held the warmth and radiance of midsummer noon.

Anthei extinguished her candle and sat on a white fur hassock. Her brilliant eyes followed Korendir as he turned from the wardstone and paced, studying swords, bucklers, mail and helms with evident interest.

“Those are my trophies,” said the witch. “Every man who died for the king’s quest bequeathed me trinkets for my walls. Have you any ornaments to add?”

Korendir faced her, unruffled. “None that would complement beauty such as this.”

“Indeed?” Anthei clasped her hands at her knees. “It need not be wondrous to look upon.”

She rose, all grace and stretch like a cat. From the far wall she removed a dagger from carved ivory pegs. The weapon was stubby and plain, notched steel betraying a history of careless usage; a clouded, uncut stone set in the pommel crowned its ugly appearance. Anthei fingered the blade, her face pensive; then with a sudden flick of her wrist, threw the knife at Korendir’s chest.

He spun on light feet. His hand shot out and intercepted the dagger’s spinning arc. Steel slapped flesh, controlled with no more penalty than a slender red nick on one thumb.

“Ah,” said Anthei, regretful. “So soon you find your bane. That weapon was wrought by the White Circle. A small cut it made, but one that will never heal. Morey of Dalthern thought to take my life so. He has claimed yours instead.”

Blood welled across Korendir’s palm, splashed in soundless drops to the carpet by his boot; without remorse he noted, “I’m going to leave marks on your sheepskins.”

He examined the dagger with deliberation, then settled himself on a divan and turned his gaze upon Anthei. Seated once more on her hassock, she arranged herself with artful abandon, until like the wardstone, her magnificence hurt the eyes. The effect was not lost on Korendir. But where other men quickened their breath and sweated in bewilderment, this one sat like a struck bronze image.

“You’re a well-controlled man,” Anthei observed. For a time she watched the slowly spreading stain which marred the brocade beneath his hand. Korendir made no response. Nettled, she traced her fingers suggestively through fur and added, “What a pity you’re meanly dressed. I could bring you Morey’s tunic and surcoat to brighten your final hours.”

“No.” Korendir balanced the little knife on his knee. “I prefer my own.”

“You’ve nothing to lose.” Anthei gestured toward the buckle at his waist. “Iron only affects sorcery derived from the wardstone, since any spells fashioned through its powers are bound to answer earth law. But Iraz’s lore transcended such basics. His teaching holds all metals alike. Cling to your tinker’s trinket if you wish. You will find it proves worthless against me.”

Korendir offered no reply. Anthei spoke with conviction, but her gloved hands belied her words. Her basic strength might indeed be impervious to iron; nonetheless she was careful to shield herself from its touch. In the hours which remained before he bled to death, Korendir saw no need to yield up even so questionable an advantage.

If Anthei was disappointed by his refusal she masked her feelings well. Bored with his taciturn company, she rose to depart. Reflections from the wardcrystal emphasized her iridescent eyes as she paused a last moment by the door. “You’ll be comfortable here, at least for awhile. I’ll return your corpse to Torresdyr for burial, as I have seventy-four others. Your belt buckle will adorn my east wall. Take comfort from the fact. You were the first to counter a summoning song with a lump of wax. That was the triumph of your life.”

Anthei stepped from the chamber. The latch clicked gently shut. Though no lock turned, Korendir entertained little doubt that sorcery sealed the portal beyond the virtues of iron to open. He had no desire to risk being torn limb from limb because he rushed to try the obvious. Instead he thrust Morey’s dagger through his belt and roved the breadth of the chamber. The worth of the weaponry would easily have ransomed a dozen princes. Between maces and tasseled halberds, four lancet windows opened at each point of the compass. Bare slits at their widest aperture, they would never permit escape. But the wardcrystal lay upon the mantel within easy reach; if Korendir could toss the jewel from the window where Haldeth might retrieve it, all effort might not be in vain. Children would no longer die in Torresdyr, and its pitiful king could shed his burden of guilt.

Without sparing thought for consequences, Korendir unslung his belt. He ignored the bolted catch, but set his buckle against the hinge, his intent to force the pin. Contact roused a dazzling flare of light. Agony lanced his body, ripped screams from a throat which had never opened for any torment of the Mhurgai. Thrown backward onto the carpet, Korendir lay unconscious. He sprawled under the stony shins of the nymphs for close to an hour, while his hand seeped steady drops of blood. Alarmed when he wakened to discover a pool of spreading scarlet, he abandoned attempt on the casement. Anthei’s tower was a prison beyond means of man’s endeavor, and with each minute he bled, his options diminished. Korendir pushed himself to his feet.

He paced the chamber until dizziness spoiled his balance. By the time dawn glimmered through the casements, he sprawled on the rug by the mantel, his forearm streaked to the elbow, and his lips tinged blue against flesh translucent as steamed glass.

* * *

Sunlight threaded copper glints through Korendir’s hair when at last Anthei chose to return. White wool lay speckled like a slaughterhouse where her prisoner’s restless steps had carried him; prone by the hearth, the man himself was ivory pale against a scarlet mat of carpet. Anthei tossed her head, sharply disappointed. She had come to make his passing unpleasant only to discover he had collapsed far earlier than expected. Cheated of her sport, she crossed the chamber on slippered feet. If Korendir was simply unconscious, she would restore him and make him suffer; his remote facade would shatter and he would beg for death. Lovely as a succubus, Anthei bent and grasped his wrist to check for pulse. She did not notice the boot left braced against the firedog.

Long, loose hair slipped over her shoulders and caressed the line of his cheek.

Korendir exploded into motion. He twisted like a dropped cat and pinned Anthei’s hair beneath his shoulder. His motion jerked the snared tresses taut, and Anthei overbalanced. Startled laughter rang in his ears as she crashed across his body. Through dizzied vision, Korendir glimpsed widened, green-blue eyes and an expression of murderous delight.

“Clever man,” said the witch. But her amusement changed pitch to alarm as he rolled again, and her silky locks snagged on the unfinished edge of his belt buckle.

Smoke plumed from the contact. Metamorphosis travelled swiftly up the strands, graying their youthful resiliency. Wrinkles spidered Anthei’s forehead. Her remarkable eyes clouded with cataracts, and smooth cheeks puckered with wrinkles as the iron’s fatal unbinding engulfed her face. Years of aging claimed her form in a single instant, puffing slim hands and shrivelling spell-wrought beauty to skeletal ugliness. Red velvet caved and sagged over more angular contours. With a breathy, startled sound like an infant’s cry, Anthei shuddered and collapsed.

The man disentangled himself from her corpse with savorless practicality. The gatekeeper had correctly named the wardstone responsible for Anthei’s prolonged youth. Subject to earth law, the plain beggar’s iron which fastened his belt had grounded her with reality; shock proved too much for her heart. But the accomplishment left the victor exhausted.

Korendir rose on unsteady feet. Dizziness sucked at his balance as he braced himself against the mantel and lifted the wardstone from its tripod. He wrapped the jewel in his cloak and rocked drunkenly down the tower stair. The latches on the doorway were fastened without enchantments. Korendir fumbled them open and emerged in the full light of morning.

Anthei’s front path burned his eyes like a snowfield.

The bronze gate shimmered at its end, impossibly distant. A blurred form appeared beyond, wildly shouting: Haldeth.

Korendir blinked and forced concentration. With great effort he lifted the wardstone from his cloak. For an instant, two thousand two hundred and forty facets blazed like fire in the sunlight. Then Korendir swayed and tumbled headlong down the steps.

He was still struggling to rise when Haldeth reached him. Sure hands gripped his shoulder and settled him gently against the stone of Anthei’s stoop.

“Neth’s everlasting pity, lad, you’re decked like a cock from the fighter’s pit. Is the blood yours or the witch’s?”

Korendir stirred, opened bland eyes, and raised his thumb. But the slice opened by Morey’s enchanted dagger was now miraculously healed; apparently contact with the wardstone had closed the spell-cursed cut. Not even a scar remained. Speckled with rainbows thrown off by the gem’s prismatic facets, Korendir laughed. “Haldeth,” he said when at last he regained his breath. “There’s a fortune in that tower.”