Sorcerer's Legacy (2 page)

“I will go.” She hoped the Inquisitor’s wrath would kill him when he learned of her escape.

She had no chance to reflect further. Ielond seized her wrist in a crushing grip. The light exploded above him with a splitting crackle, enveloping them both in a starry skein of sparks. A great rush of wind followed. Elienne’s hair whipped her face, and through stinging eyes she saw her cell dissolve into spark-shot darkness, replaced impossibly by an expanse of ocean viewed from tremendous height. Stars shone cobalt and white against the indigo depths of the sky.

Fear prickled like an insect down Elienne’s spine. Ielond’s hand on her arm was her only contact with the sorcery that held her suspended over the void. Her predicament was no trick of illusion designed to awe the ignorant; the distant splash of whitecaps and the salt smell in her nostrils was distressingly real.

Such power over natural law lay beyond comprehension. Elienne shut the sight away behind closed eyes. Abruptly oppressed by the unnamed host of implications her simple consent might demand, she had a perverse desire to pull free. The Prince of Pendaire was none of her concern.

Without warning, the night was split by an icy blast of air. Ielond’s cloak streamed like a flag. Elienne was hurled forcefully into his shoulder; the sorcerer shouted instructions, but the words were unintelligible to ears dazed by a screaming rush of sounds. The wind struck again. The gale flung Elienne like a kite. Ielond’s iron fingers burned her wrist. He shouted again, urgently. but Elienne could not understand him. Wind filled her mouth and lungs thick as water. Speech was impossible.

The demon wind eddied. Elienne twisted like a toy. Wrist, hand, and elbow flamed in sudden agony. Ielond’s grip loosened. The wind screeched and tore, then gusted with the shriek of a titan and broke the Sorcerer’s grip.

The sky upended. Elienne’s stomach twisted with the plunge as she plummeted through a tumbling panorama of sky and seafoam cold-lit by starlight. She lost sight of Ielond. A dark, damp streamer of cloud swallowed her effort to find him.

Panic-stricken, Elienne stifled an urge to scream. Instead she flung out both hands and groped.

Her fingers grazed cloth. “Ielond!”

Hands fumbled, then gripped her. Strong arms caught her shoulders, bundling her roughly against a hard, male chest. Muffled in cloth that smelled faintly of spices, Elienne struggled to free her face, without success.

The Sorcerer’s grip only tightened. Pressed so close she thought she would suffocate, Elienne fell limp. To her, dizzied by stormwind and darkness, it seemed as though Ielond would bear her through the Eye of Eternity before the howling fury that buffeted her would abate.

Yet abate it did, finally, with such a wrench the very earth might have stopped turning. Elienne’s feet struck solid ground. Ielond transferred his grip to her shoulders, anger cold and still upon his face.

“Listen with care,” he said. “I have enemies who are powerful and ruthless. They seek your life, for they would rather my Prince remained childless and unwed. So long as you stay within my sphere of influence, you have my protection. But should you, even in thought, wish yourself elsewhere, you imperil us both.”

Elienne covered her face, blocking the Sorcerer from sight. She was shaking. Her skin prickled with apprehension, and her thoughts still echoed with the horror of her fall.

“You made your decision.” Devoid of compromise, Ielond’s voice trapped her wandering attention. “Stand by your word, Elienne of Trathmere. Your life depends upon your commitment. Look upon the extent of it.”

Ielond’s hold shifted. Elienne felt herself twisted about.

“Look well, my Lady,” commanded the Sorcerer.

Elienne lowered her hands and gasped. Bathed in azure twilight, a desolate expanse of icefields spread before her, uninterrupted by habitation or settlement. The blocky spine of a mountain range cut the horizon into hard-edged angles. Elienne gazed upon that eerie, empty landscape and wondered why she felt no sensation of cold.

Ielond spun her gently back to face him. The light Elienne had noticed earlier in the cell drifted above his shoulder like a captive star. He said, “You are protected by my sphere of influence. Three paces from my person, your flesh would freeze to powder in seconds. Take warning.”

Elienne gave no indication she had heard. Trembling and arrogant, she stood still as Ielond fingered the torn ruin of her dress. Her emotionless gaze followed as the Sorcerer summoned his light and balanced it on the tip of his finger. Neither did she blink as that finger extended toward her and the hot, prickling energy of enchantment burned across her face. She simply held still and endured.

The Sorcerer’s touch roved across her person. Where it passed, it transformed. Tangled, sooty hair became combed and shining. Torn clothes and abraded skin knit without trace of flaw, and spun wool acquired the watery, smooth sheen of butter-colored silk.

Ielond paused to admire his handiwork. “That should serve well enough.”

Elienne examined the gown that clothed her. The hand she raised to touch was weighted unfamiliarly with gems at wrist and finger. They were heavy and cold; real.

“The traditional gold of Pendaire‘s brides becomes you well,” Ielond observed, and this time his words drew reaction.

Elienne stiffened. Anger bloomed across her pale cheeks. “Would you marry me to a stranger on the day of my husband’s death?” Hysteria edged her voice, and her eyes sparkled with sudden tears. “Well, would you, Gifted?”

Ielond declined answer. “You are overwrought,” but his intended kindness was lost upon Elienne. She stepped back as he reached for her.

“Overwrought!” said Elienne. “Your heart is cold as Etemity, Gifted. Let Pendaire‘s Prince seek his own bride, if indeed he has the manhood.”

Ielond caught Elienne as she turned, pulling her to him. She expected his immediate anger. She received instead a view of raised brows and a startled, rueful smile.

“I see I did not err in my choice. You must forgive my haste. If we survive the consequence of what you just wrought, I promise you won’t regret.”

“Consequence?” Elienne shrugged coldly, but Ielond did not release her.

“Just that,” said Ielond, and at that moment the whirlwind caught them. Ice-edged and furious, Elienne recognized the same force that had torn her from Ielond’s grasp earlier. Chilled through her thin silk, she braced herself with a rising sense of apprehension. When the Sorcerer’s arms encircled her from behind and gathered her into a bear hug, she did not struggle.

The wind rushed and eddied, carving the ice crystals underfoot into whirling patterns until the air became saturated, opaquely white. Ielond’s cloak snapped back on itself with whipcrack reports. Yet he stood as a rock does when battered by storm and surf, Elienne held secure in his embrace.

The wind passed as swiftly as it had sprung up. Ielond and Elienne stood in silent sheets of settling snow, neither one moving. At last Elienne drew a hesitant breath and spoke. “I caused that?”

Ielond nodded. “You stand within my sphere of influence, under my protection. When you resist me, even in thought, you match your polarity to that of my enemies, augmenting their strength. You provide them opening, since you are within my defenses, and through your dissent I am made vulnerable. This is why I urge you to guard your thoughts.”

Elienne stared. “Then I could have destroyed you?”

“You might yet,” said Ielond flatly. “I consider it worth the risk.”

The snowfall had thinned, relinquishing its hold on sky and landscape. Yet instead of relaxing, Ielond’s grip on Elienne tightened.

“We have been overtaken.” His tone went suddenly cold. “Whatever your sentiments, Mistress, you would be wise to hold them neutral until I am through.”

Elienne followed the Sorcerer’s eyes. Thinly veiled by the last drifting flakes, a rider stood before them, cowled in black. Decorative borders of gold threadwork adorned his neck and hood, framing features incisively lean. His hands were gloved with mail, also of gold. His mount was equine in shape, but its flesh glinted like brass newly polished. Scaled like a snake, it emanated viciousness from armored crest to spiked tail, and its master seemed possessed by the black stillness of Eternity.

“Faisix.” Ielond’s voice startled Elienne.

The rider moved. Pale lips turned upward into a thin smile. “Ielond. Is my projection that good?”

“Adequate,” said Ielond. Elienne could feel the beat of the Sorcerer’s heart through her back, and his arms tightened like a vise around her waist.

Faisix laughed, the sound like a whisper against the cold expanse of the icefields. “By that, I assume you realize I am here in flesh.”

Ielond declined answer. The laughter ceased.

“The woman is unwilling,” Faisix said abruptly. “Twice she has expressed her desire to be released from your care. I answer her call.”

“I refuse your claim,” Ielond responded. “Return whence you came.”

The thin smile repeated itself. “I have brought news from Pendaire. Would you dismiss me before you have heard? Or are you no longer interested in your royal ward?”

“There is little you could tell that I do not already know.”

Faisix crossed his arms and leaned on his mount’s neck. “Indeed? Not even the fact that, in Pendaire, Summer’s Eve is already past? Your Prince failed to meet his deadline, my friend. His seed is sterile. The Council has named him unfit for the crown and the continuance of a royal line. By its decree, the execution ceremony will occur on the morrow.”

“Why!” Elienne burst out. “Do you murder a man in Pendaire because he cannot father a child?”

Faisix transferred yellow eyes from Ielond, and, feeling his gaze upon her, Elienne was suddenly cold.

“It is custom only for Kings, Mistress.” The words were gently stated but somehow inspired no confidence. “Princes have supporters. If the crown must pass into other hands, peace must be kept. There cannot be excuse left for uprising. It is an ancient law, seldom invoked, perhaps because few Princes are born with such an unfortunate aflliction.”

“You have the justice of a toad,” said Elienne hotly, “and your councilmen have the minds of fishes. Certainly Ielond will stop this execution you speak of.”

Faisix shook his head slowly, a final smile thinning his lips. “Certainly Ielond would if he could. But my second piece of news proves otherwise. The Sorcerer known to us all as Ielond died Summer’s Eve in Pendaire.”

“Liar!” cried Elienne. The man at her back was warm, alive, and solidly real.

“Ask him,” Faisix invited. “He will tell you so.”

Elienne turned and searched the face of the Sorcerer who held her. His expression was all seams and twilit shadows, impossible to fathom.

She said, “Is it true?”

“Yes,” said Ielond. “Faisix has named my true death. He has also unwittingly brought me word of success.”

“Can dead men succeed?” gibed Faisix. “Then your Prince will succeed with you, Ielond.”

He returned his gaze to Elienne. “You called me, Mistress, and I have come. Shall you forsake that corpse’s company? Come to me. It was your desire.”

Faisix extended his hand. “Come,” he repeated. The word seemed to release a torrent within Elienne’s mind. All the confusion she had experienced since Cinndel’s death welled up at once, pressuring her to step forward, away from Ielond’s prisoning grasp.

“Be wary,” said the Sorcerer in her ear. “His promises will not be what they seem.”

Elienne gave no sign she had heard. Her face remained drawn with indecision. The small jewels that adorned her throat trembled like pale green waterdrops.

“Ielond cannot hold you.” Faisix‘s voice was honey and ice. “If he crosses your will but once in my presence, Mistress, I can destroy him for you.”

Elienne’s face drained entirely of color. “I thought you said he was dead.” Her voice shook, uncertain.

Faisix ignored the challenge. “Come to me, my Lady,” he urged, and raised one slim hand from his mount’s neck and lifted the cowl from his head. A haze of golden light bloomed under his fingers. Lean features softened and flowed as the illumination touched them, transformed the face to a gray-eyed, chestnut-headed man pleasantly proportioned.

Elienne flinched as though struck by a physical blow. She gasped aloud. “Cinndel!” Her small frame quivered with tension like a harpstring plucked by an unskilled hand.

“Come to me, beloved,” the mounted man said softly. “Come.”

“My Lord is dead.” Elienne’s inflection was lifelessly flat. The torn, bloodied corpse she had dragged from the weapons of the Khadrach had been real enough to shatter even this skilled fantasy. Her husband’s death had been final as Eternity itself. The image on the horse mocked her with false promise. Drawing a great shuddering breath, Elienne broke.

“Mindbender!” she shouted. “Defiler! Release my husband’s likeness. You aren’t fit to wash the clothes he wore. I’ll not have you dishonor his memory with sorceries.”

Cinndel’s features unraveled, exposing the face of Faisix. Anger clothed its delicate, narrow bone structure, and the golden eyes held murder.

“Woman, still your viperish tongue,” he said, whetting his consonants with menace.

But Elienne had passed beyond caution, and the pain within her could no longer be restrained. “Beside you, the abominations of the
mervine
are the picture of innocence. Your presence itself is an atrocity. I would sooner welcome the foulest demon of Hell than suffer the sight of you.”

Elienne twisted in Ielond’s grasp, violently presenting her back to the subject of her insults. She buried her face in the Sorcerer’s cloak, and he, gathering her weeping body close, faced his adversary over her heaving shoulders.

“It would seem your offer has been refused,” he said quietly. “Go from this place.”

Faisix gathered the reins in his mailed fist. For a prolonged moment he sat and glared, the image of fury. At last he pointed to Elienne. “She,” he said coldly, “will regret her words through the Eye of Eternity before I am through,” and like powder blown before wind, both he and his mount dissolved, leaving the ice plain empty in the deepening shadow of night.