Janny Wurts The Cycle of Fire 3 Shadowfane

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worked in harmony with the metal's innate pattern earlier. Excitedly he
continued the configuration, until the swordblade rang along its length with
stored force; Jaric joined the ends of the energy complete and looked up, to
lanternlight and the still presence of
Anskiere of Elrinfaer. The sorcerer's eyes were grey and clear and kindly, and
he smiled.
'I think I understand now.' The Firelord lifted the weapon from his lap; its
reddened glow touched his upturned features, underlighting his jaw to more
angular contours, and lending his brows a pronounced arch. His gold hair
gleamed copper with highlights. Through the touch still in his mind, Jaric
shared the Stormwarden's viewpoint; for a split second, he beheld in himself
the mirror image of his father, Ivain.
Anskiere flinched back. Sorcery answered by reflex, and his half-raised hands
sparked blue. A whirlwind ripped into being, sharp with the bite of ozone.
Charts flapped helter-skelter across the table, and the lantern pitched on
gimballed mounts, flame extinguished in the draught.
'No!' Bashed backward into the bulkhead, Jaric dropped the sword. 'Ivain is
dead!' His shout tangled with a belling clang as steel struck the deck at his
feet.
The violence of Anskiere's reaction died away. Air winnowed, then stilled, and
charts ruffled to rest. Beyond speech, the Stormwarden sat and bowed his bead
over sleeves of stainless white.
'I do understand.' Jaric raised himself awkwardly.
Through Llondelei imaging I shared your grief at Elrin-
faer's loss.' His voice turned edged with anguish. 'But how will we ever
conquer demons? You can't trust, and
I cannot be other than myself.'
Anskiere looked up, a tired half smile restored to his face. 'We shall manage,
I think. Look.' And he pointed to the sword, which lay forgotten in the dark.
Steel forged by Corlin's armourer was ordinary no longer, but shining with the
orange-red halo that marked the primary ward of a Firelord's staff. Two more
auras soon would accompany that foundation, one a secondary level of power,
and the third a protection against tampering by strangers.
Like braiding, Jaric grasped the concept; intuitively he knew he could master
the remaining sorceries more easily than the first.
Yet as he lifted the weapon, he damped the light of his accomplishment like
guilt. 'What good is skill if you won't believe in me?'
Cloth rustled; Anskiere touched Ivainson's shoulder in darkness and sighed. 'I
must learn how to forget the past. For in all ways that matter, Jaric, you are
son to the friend I loved like a brother, before the Cycle of Fire overturned
his humanity.'
Ivainson completed the defence wards on his sword in the heat of an Indian
summer calm. The Corine Sea lay leaden and smooth, but Anskiere's winds held
true; Ladywolf neared the shores of Hallowild late the following day. Trouble
met her even before land appeared above the horizon.
The sun shone like a disc of tarnished gold through billowing veils of smoke.
Sailhands gathered at the rail, while the King of Pirates himself climbed
aloft to investigate.
Sweating in the heat, and clad in little but a sword belt and a matched pair
of wristbands, the Kielmark swung down the ratlines. He passed his ship's
glass to Anskiere, who waited on the deck, and said tersely, 'By the heading,
I'd guess Seitforest is ablaze. The weevil in the oatmeal is, why?'
Anskiere accepted the glass, but made no move to focus. 'Not lightning,' he
said presently. 'The nearest thunderhead lies three hundred leagues due north.
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Nor could someone's cooking fire ignite the forest by wind. The air is dead
still in that region. Taen might inform you better.'
The Dreamweaver was below decks, apparently asleep;
the Kielmark ordered his steward to wake her, and also summon Jaric from the
chart room. Then he turned cold eyes to the Stormwarden. 'Make a gale and
drive this vessel into Corlin. She'll blow out sails for certain, but the
damned sticks'll take it.'
But Taen Dreamweaver was not sleeping. When the Kielmark's steward reached the
stern cabin, he found her berth empty. The enchantress was settled
cross-legged on a sea chest, her eyes wide open and unseeing in the depths of
trance. As leery of sorcery as his master, the man hesitated in the
companionway; the creak of a hinge betrayed him. Taen started slightly. She
blinked and shivered. As if she were dazed, her gaze focused slowly upon the
servant poised to enter her cabin.
The next instant she shoved to her feet, urgent with alarm. 'Where's the
Kielmark?' she said quickly. 'Send him here with both of the sorcerers. Peril
has come to Hallowild.'
The steward spun and ail but collided with his master, who chafed at delay and
impetuously sought Taen himself. The servant recoiled, then wisely ducked
clear before the Kielmark shoved him bodily from the companionway.
'Seitforest burns,' the Lord of Cliffhaven snapped directly. 'Can you tell
why, girl?'
Taen met the Kielmark's impatience with a poise like edged steel. 'The
Dark-dreamer brings us war like none fought in Keithland before.' She
abandoned language; the unspeakable could be explained more efficiently
through her talents. Dream-image sheared into the Kiel-mark's mind. He
recoiled with a curse and a gasp as through the influence of sorcery he beheld
Shadowfane's new army. The sight carried horror beyond all imagining.
Bull-mad with outrage, the King of Pirates roared out his orders before the
vision was fully spent. Though called from below decks, his crewmen heard and
obeyed his commands with alacrity. The brigantine came alive as men ran full
tilt up the rigging. Canvas cracked from the yardarms, snapped into curves by
the winds raised by sorcery. Ladywolf sheared into a violent heel and tossed
Taen headlong from the trunk. The Kielmark's great fist caught her before she
slammed into him. He righted her with a brusqueness that allowed no space for
apology. 'Fetch the Firelord. We'll be ashore before nightfall, and both of
you must be ready to land.'
Sunset came smudged by smoke pall. Though waters else 'here lay polished under
calm Ladywolf sheared into the estuary of the Redwater with her stuns'ls and
flying jib flogged into tatters. Anskiere's winds dispersed, leaving canvas
and snarled lines hanging limp as shreds on a scarecrow. While crewmen dropped
anchor, a barge bearing ranking men at arms and the Duke's first commander
approached from the quayside. As the craft pulled alongside, the officer
confirmed Taen's initial dream-search in a voice inflected by fear.
Morbrith's dead had risen. Half-rotted corpses from the fields and towns took
up swords, then marched in grisly ranks to pillage and desecrate and wreak
ruin on domains to the south. Fire might stop them. To that end, panicky [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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