TWO
COLORS! A KALEIDOSCOPE of colors! Intricate blends of hues dappled the hillsides and overflowed into the valley, a bright-crested wave halted only by the sea. Carnadine and vermilion, sun-gold and earth-green, wind-shifted and tossed until they appeared like the rainbow shell of the Lek tortoise: a collage of beauty that was the bittersweet death-knell of the cycle.
How beautiful, Ashara thought dreamily. How wondrous is the autumn of Faerwyn-Joss. Yet never so replete with loneliness…a life as dreary as a cloud stuck to the sun. And the shadows grew with each passing hour.
Dawn had brightened the sky not long before, yet the morning remained cool. The glowing orb would not rise above the ring of hills surrounding the sleepy hamlet until the middle hour. As she sat by the window overlooking the harbor far below, a mist settled over the rows of tiny cottages lining the shore.
Her rooms lay high within the mighty ramparts of Sherlyn Faer-Van, the ancestral home of the Sids, and she could still see the glistening of early morning dew beading the plants of the garden. She moved to sit near the ledge of her balcony, rhythmically stroking the cinnamon hair cascading to her waist. Her disjointed thoughts meandered between her father’s illness and her impending union. In a few turns, she would celebrate the twentieth cycle of her borning, yet this seemed both anticlimactic and unreal.
Her father was dying. More and more, he preferred to remain in the ancestral home of her mother’s people, the Clan Brynn-Jago, on the shores of Lek Ellryn far to the south. He understood—in his increasingly rare and lucid moments—that he would soon join his long-lost riganna. Only Ashara’s impending majority had been enough to coax him here to this place she loved the most.
As she looked out once more to the sea, she wondered if he too were watching from the shores of the Sacred Isle. She had not forgotten him, or his promise. Yet deep in her soul, she understood it was the purest vanity. Fate had chosen her path long before. Her footsteps must now follow the trail, even if unwillingly.
The duties of state were increasingly being heaped upon her shoulders, though rare were the troubles of Faerwyn-Joss that a trusted subordinate could not handle. Her brother, Shaan, was no help, yet she did not begrudge him his wont of solitude. It was not lack of love or selfishness that kept him away for increasingly longer periods. He had waited longer than most to enter the Great Moot and test his skill with the sword. It was now one hundred and fifty cycles since he had summoned the Flame and joined the ranks of Adepts. She understood why he would wait no longer, yet she feared the probability he would fight Zel, four times victor and current Riark of Swords.
And your betrothed.
She paused in her brushing, for into the harbor had come a sight that instantly gladdened her heart. She held her breath as she listened. On the soft wind came the faint but unmistakable chattering of laughter-filled voices. The dolphins!
She dropped the brush and stood. Her hair, thick and lustrous, billowed outward and floated around her like a shawl as she leaned over the railing. The smiling-faced creatures had become known as the heralds. Rarely did one catch sight of them without seeing one of the sea kings riding in the van. She waited, feeling her momentary happiness recede when she saw no sign of the Rudd.
A small bird picked that moment to land daintily on the balcony's edge. She often scattered seeds to tempt them, for she enjoyed watching their nervous energy and listening to their bright chirping. This was a rare variety. The brilliant red splotch of its breast was unmistakable: a thraxe, as folk called them here, but known to those of Earth as the robin.
Though she could not think of the Genetic Engineers without a tremor of loathing (especially the gaunt form of Daedalus) she could not fault their wonders. Like all creatures of Earth brought here, this one too had found a ready home on Faerwyn-Joss—the Earth-twin.
Though set in galaxies light-cycles distant, the two planets were virtually identical, with only minor geographical differences to set them apart. Even the history of their civilizations had roughly paralleled each other. There had been conquerors and conquered, great civilizations and religions rising only to fall again. Yet there had been no Norn.
Watching the young thraxe drove her to an impulse. She sprinkled a few grains on her palm and focused her attention on the bird. The creature immediately jerked its head up, looking at her with a frozen expression of interest.
Come!
With unbelievable delight, she felt the weight of the small body as it leapt onto her finger. Without fear, it nibbled greedily at the seed. The scratching of the tiny beak tickled her palm, and she smiled even more broadly.
She was certain her Gift was of the High Kind, more than enough to qualify her for the sword. She had trained herself—simple exercises stolen from chance conversations between her brother and other Adepts. Using her considerable resourcefulness, she had progressed at least as far as an Initiate in the early stages of training. Aiding her in her endeavors had been the piece of Ryl: the gift of the Lady so many cycles before. Niobe must have sensed it within her when still a child.
Thinking of it made her touch the small pouch forever resting against her breast. She stroked the well-remembered edges of the rough metal, each of them known by heart. She could now maintain its position against her skin by will alone, yet only for brief periods before her concentration waned. She admitted that without knowing the proper methods she would probably never progress beyond a certain point. She was no Fortunatus. It was maddening. Not even her brother would support her cause.
Her eyes slipped to the surrounding hills. He was out there somewhere, training in seclusion. Would he come? He must know it was nearing the special time of her majority. The festivities would lack any luster if he did not…
It came suddenly, a woeful wailing as loud as the ringing of the Great Horn. The lengthy ululation cut deep into her mind, gripping it with the same intensity as stiffened fingers pulling the strings of a harp. Her other sense vibrated with the torment. Pain and frustration; rage and hatred. Above all—intelligence. A knowing there would be no respite.
She dressed quickly, not bothering to call her lady-in-waiting. She threw on a skirt of softened leather, buttoned in the center and falling to her ankles. Then a fawn-colored shirt of light linen opened at the throat. Her boots laced halfway up her calf. Last, she tied her hair with a silken ribbon and clutched the amulet of Ryl to make sure it nestled snugly in place. She would need it for what she planned.
One corner of her balcony led onto a stone stairway descending to ground level. Vines and creepers grew haphazardly along the edge and formed a low barrier. Her feet skipped lightly across the weather-roughened stone, and a scattering of moss all but deadened any sound. Still, she took extra care to tiptoe.
She reached the base and made her way along the wall leading to the garden. She heard the noise of banging cutlery and pots from the domain of the culinars; even recognized their voices as they chattered while preparing the morning meal.
Stooping, she scooped up the satchel lying in front of the entryway. She had ordered it placed there, supposedly for her morning walk. It contained both water and food: scraps of meat from the previous night’s meal. It must have raised the eyebrows of the head culinar, perhaps even causing him to scratch his head in wonderment.
She continued along the path and into the garden. The mélange of scents would have made her pause at any other time, for here she had grown many strange and exotic wonders. Her eyes lingered on a singular flower, its petals the black of night, concentric, and surrounded by tiny thorns: a black rose, as yet the only one of its kind. But even this could not capture her interest now.
She hurried on.
The castle rested upon a mount. In ancient turns it had been a small island, and the river passing by on either side had provided a natural defense. Now, save for the time of early spring when runoff from the melting snows swelled it to its original banks, it was little more than a forked stream. The old wheel-driven gristmill stood derelict and rotting, long since abandoned as a viable workhorse.
Her feet drummed a steady tattoo as she crossed the wooden bridge leading into the woods wherein lay her father’s Royal Menagerie. She passed the kennel and the stables without pause. The animals moved nervously at her passage, and she heard the plaintive whining of the hounds close beside her. Yet above all was the howling. It had risen in crescendo until it almost deafened her.
Just as she reached the copse of trees, the sound cut off. The sudden hush was a startling contrast she found intimidating. Only sparse light filtered through the heavy foliage. A twig snapped underfoot. There was no other sound but the regular rhythm of her breath.
The cage rested alone in a small clearing the workers had cut to enable it to fit. Only a sliver of sky peeked through from above. She was nervous but in no danger. The cage was kholite, the strongest of metals. In ancient turns, long before the joining, the Rudd had used it to make their starships. Even the immense strength of the beast within could not break it. She could sense it now—a horrible power, wild and untamed. It beat upon her will as though it were a thin wall, causing it to flex and resonate like a drum.
She could barely make out the cage until her eyes adjusted to the dimness. When she lifted her head, she saw two glowing orbs reflecting the meager light and amplifying it. She stood frozen in place. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The outline solidified into sloping shoulders and a huge, shaggy head. The eyes were yellowed pools of fire staring straight at her.
Tharfi.
It was the morning of the second week since the animal had arrived. Each morning for the past five turns she had performed the ritual, as she did now. She leaned forward and placed the food and water in the small opening at the base of the cage. There was no reaction. Yet the bowls were empty, as they had been yestermorn.
Oh, Mendiko, what an ill you have done.
True to his word, her cousin had interceded with the Cachique of the Fifth Wen. Somehow they had captured one of the beasts and transported it to Faerwyn-Joss. She suspected it was out of pity, this granting of a last wish to a dying man—one who now barely remembered even asking for the favor.
The beast had arrived drugged and chained, barely able to move even if it had possessed the will. The cage had long been waiting to house it. The drugs had worn off, and the animal had hurled itself against the unbreakable bars until blood flowed.
They had drugged it again and lined the bars with padding. Only Garth had been brave enough to enter the cage. The beast had recovered consciousness and immediately renewed its attack, ripping and tearing at the tough material in frenzied rage. Though thin enough to be translucent, it resisted even such savage efforts. The tharfi had stopped at once, revealing its intelligence. Rather than trying to escape, it had been trying to kill itself. It now knew the effort would be useless.
As the turns progressed, the creature would not eat or drink. It wasted away before their eyes, willing itself toward a slow death. Yet she refused to give up. On the morning of the tenth turn, she brought food herself. For the next two turns, it was the same. The food and water remained untouched. The creature lay on the floor of the cage, immobile as death. Its eyes were feverish and its tongue lolled, dry and swollen.
She had cried then, for she could ‘feel’ its pain and sorrow. Even more was the longing for freedom.
‘Please don’t die,’ she had whispered. ‘I promise to help you win your freedom.’
She knew the animal had listened. Its eyes had regarded her with great solemnity. Yet she had not realized it understood. The next morning—yestermorn—the food and water had disappeared, and the animal stood as if awaiting her arrival. As it did now. The yellowed eyes continued to stare at her. She sensed the creature’s intelligence must approach hers.
“My poor majestic prisoner,” she murmured, hardly aware she spoke her thoughts. “How I wish you could talk.”
'Speeeeak.'
She whirled, searching for an intruder. Only the dark boles of trees stood silent all around her. When she looked back at the tharfi, the great jaws hung open and the huge fangs glinted.”
'Weeee speeeeak.'
Her eyes rounded in shock, which quickly changed to excitement. With trembling fingers, she clutched the amulet of Ryl. “You…you can talk?”
The answer was immediate. 'Only the miiiind-speeeeak.'
The wonder of it was unexpected. For a moment, she could think of nothing to say. Or rather, she could think of nothing to think. She had not even realized she was no longer speaking.
'Do you have a name?'
'The name of my kiiiind…Wuuulf.'
'Why have you never communicated before…uh…Wulf?'
'Weeee have done so only once…with the Maaaan. Weeee do not trust your kiiiiind.'
'Then why me?'
'Beeeecause of the Maaaan.'
She was uncertain what he meant. ‘What man?'
'Weeee seeee him in your miiiind.'
For an instant, she experienced bewilderment. Then the answer became obvious. Ryder Talisman!
The huge jaws hung even lower, almost as if the animal were grinning. 'Yessss. Our brother. There is peeeeace betweeeen us.'
Her mind jumped to the warren…the remnant of a scar… 'But did you not wound him?'
'Before…weeee thought he hunted…tried to kill him.'
'Why didn’t you?'
'Tried, but could not. His power was greater.'
Already she was more used to the mind link, and the creature’s alien thought pattern was becoming more regular. She digested the information as the tharfi licked thirstily at the water and swallowed the food in gulping bites. Before Talisman had left the warren he had possessed enough power—even weaponless—to defeat both the tharfi and Mendiko. Only to collapse. To where then had the power and memory gone?
She suddenly felt danger arising from the tharfi. Something else had crept into her thoughts; something so subtle and gossamer-thin she might not have known but for the tharfi’s warning in her mind.
She felt it stronger then, a sinuous tentacle searching within, cold and abhorrent as the grave. Her body felt paralyzed, all but her eyes. They flicked to the tharfi. Every muscle quivered, and from his throat issued a low growl. He focused on a spot behind her and his mind screamed a single word.
‘Kill!’
With a struggle, she freed herself and turned. A man stood on the edge of the light, just beyond the trees, motionless. He was only ten paces away, but she could not make out his face. Her mind ticked over, automatically registering several things at once. He was an Adept. For an instant, she thought of her brother…
“Ashara.”
She recognized the voice. Hearing her name on his lips brought back the chill. It felt as though ice water dripped down her spine.
Zel.
He moved toward her. The tharfi’s growl deepened and intensified. Zel’s footsteps did not falter. It was as though the giant beast was beyond his notice.
“I came to greet my lovely bride-to-be.”
Before she could react, he grabbed her hand and kissed it. Though his lips were warm and moist, the touch made her flesh crawl.
Zel straightened but did not release her hand. The tharfi lunged against the wall of the cage and a drop of the creature’s spittle landed on his robe.
She was watching his face, almost in fascination. It did not register any change. The mocking smile remained, yet the eyes drained of all light until they turned black. Like the eyes of a D’ia Mor.
His head turned in slow motion and the body of the tharfi suddenly rose and slammed into the rear wall. Despite the padding, the entire cage shook as the creature dropped to the floor, stunned but not quite unconscious.
“Please…don’t hurt him.” She was ashamed of the weakness in her voice.
Zel regarded her with interest. “As you wish.” His eyes shifted back to the tharfi, already struggling to rise once more. “Is it not amazing? A creature of such size and power…” He raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. “…And yet I could crush it with as much ease as a newborn babe.”
He smiled down at her. “If you insist on having a pet, my love, you must teach it discipline and respect. There are many things you must learn…will learn when you are my bride.”
“He’s not a pet; he is sentient…” She bit her lip, at once regretting her anger and her carelessness.
His goading laugh incensed her. “You do not command me, Zel! Not now, and not when we wed!”
His eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. “We shall see. The ancient rite of the first night, with all its attendant passion…” He licked his lips sensuously. “Such a shock often alters a girl’s—how shall I put it? Virginal outlook?”
She could not keep the loathing from her eyes.
He laughed even louder. “Ah…you disapprove of me. You even regret your oath, I surmise. Such a pity. Were you not so stunning, I might release you from your vow.”
His eyes wandered over her body with naked lust. He stepped closer. He was tall and lean, with the same handsome features as his father, though now he appeared ugly. She saw his lips suddenly twist in a taunting smile. Almost as though he read her thoughts.
“It was not always so,” he taunted her. “You did not think me so uncomely.”
It was true. As a wide-eyed girl of ten cycles he had fascinated her: an Adept already thrice champion of the Korda and son of the archduke. She had thought him handsome in a mysterious way. She had even dreamt of being his companion. But no more.
“You are not the same man I once knew.”
“Oh?” he replied mockingly. “How so?”
Her eyes moved to the shadows beyond the light where two others stood silent and unmoving. There was no need for her to see them to know they were D’ia Mor. “You are no longer your own master.”
Zel’s reaction was shockingly swift and violent. He grabbed her arms, locking them within his grip. Then he crushed her against him. She felt the hardness of his sword pressing into her abdomen and the wash of hot breath on her face.
“Never say that again! I am my own master…and I will be yours!” He caught both her wrists in one hand and his grip was too strong to break. With the other, he kneaded her buttocks, running his lips over her throat as he whispered obscenities. “How sweet is your innocence. The flicker of power you possess can never stop me…but why should you struggle? There are secrets we can share. Things as yet unimaginable. But I can show you…”
“Hail visitors!”
He released her so suddenly she stumbled backward. Her hair had loosened and now spilled down over her shoulders. She could feel the flush upon her face. Zel stood calmly as though nothing had happened.
Shaan moved into the glade, nodding briefly to the D’ia Mor as he passed. He took in the scene at a glance and bowed stiffly to Zel. “The Riark honors our home.”
“Come now, Shaan,” Zel smiled disarmingly. “Soon we shall be brethren twice bound, not only Swordkind but our Houses joined. There is no need for such formality.”
Ashara held her brother’s eyes and saw he had noted her disheveled look. With an Adept’s finely tuned senses, he had read the play and was unmoved by the show of cordiality.
“I merely afford you the honor that is yours by right, Zel. You are the present champion—the Riark of Swords.”
Zel’s smile remained, though his eyes glittered. “You speak as though it were a temporary condition.”
Shaan nodded. “Others have won four times before this and failed to bear the Kryll. Argus…”
“Do not speak to me of Argus!” Zel spat. “He betrayed himself with his fears.” Zel seemed to catch himself. Strangely, he glanced at the D’ia Mor and the sight calmed him. “This will be your first appearance in the Korda, will it not?”
Ashara heard the note of condescension, but her brother merely nodded.
Zel eyed Shaan’s sweat-stained robe as though noticing it for the first time. “The training goes well?”
Shaan jerked his head in assent, still refusing to speak.
“Do not take my words wrongly,” Zel continued politely, “but because of our future connection, would it not be better if we did not cross swords during this Great Moot? Would it not be wiser to delay your entry for another term? I wish no animosity between us. For the sake of your sister…”
Shaan shook his head. “I will fight.”
“Ah…so you think you can defeat me?”
Shaan shrugged his shoulders and spoke evenly but distinctly. “I am not Ulric Germanicus.”
Zel’s jaws clenched, yet he answered in an equally level tone. “I thought all had exonerated me concerning that unfortunate accident.”
“As you say…an accident.”
They stood facing each other like combatants ready to engage. Even without her other sense, Ashara could feel the tenseness.
“You will not defeat me,” Zel warned. “There is no power that will deny me the Kryll. If you persist in this, you do so at your peril.”
Ashara heard heavy footfalls and turned. She saw her father, accompanied by his personal Adept. With them were also Garth and a squad of myrmidon. Odrim appeared to falter as he reached the clearing. Bent over and tapping the ground in front with his cane, he shuffled forward to peer inside.
“Eh? What is this? I heard the damnable howls of that creature clear to the castle. I almost regret the generosity of Lord Shaka.” As he hobbled closer, his eyes lit with recognition. “Zel? And Shaan!” The wrinkled face now wore a boyish smile. “How fortunate!”
Zel bowed first. Then the D’ia Mor offered a stiff, openhanded salute.
“We must organize a feast…”
“Pentarch,” Zel interrupted smoothly, “I regret I cannot stay long. I come bearing an invitation from my father. House Mondragon has organized a moot in the Great Arena of Brigantia five turns hence. We wish to pay homage to the Rianna of Faerwyn-Joss and celebrate her coming majority…also the taking of her vows.” Zel moved closer to Ashara but did not touch her.
Odrim clasped his hands excitedly. “Is this not a splendid idea, Ashara? We shall contribute to the event and honor your invitation.”
Zel spoke easily as though still addressing Odrim, yet his eyes never left Ashara’s face. “We have heard much about your interesting adventures. The whole Pentarchy is abuzz with the news of the stranger.”
“Extraordinary fellow,” Odrim agreed. “Attacked my nephew…”
“Father!” Ashara corrected sharply. “You must remember the council exonerated him of all crimes. You voted in favor of the verdict.”
“It is extraordinary,” Zel murmured, watching Ashara even more closely, “how you can defend a man who has attacked your family.” He smiled with his lips alone. “And they have already inducted him into the Brotherhood of Swords?”
“Yes,” Shaan answered readily. “Nearly four moons ago.”
“Strange that no one informed me. I am the Riark of Swords. One would suppose the swearing-in of a new Initiate would call for my presence.”
“Not so strange,” Shaan argued, eyeing the D’ia Mor. “I believe you could not attend. And there was no need for your presence at any rate. The Pat’Riark was on hand.”
Ashara had been watching both Zel and the D’ia Mor. At the mention of the Pat’Riark, all three tensed.
“The Pat’Riark of Swords, now a venerable Magi,” Zel murmured. There was no reverence in his tone, and his lips twisted in a sneer. “This Dao I’n must be a rare jewel if Fortunatus takes such heed. I shall look forward to our first meeting.”
He moved closer. Ashara was forced to endure as he once again grasped her hand.
“My arrival in Brigantia may be late, but I shall be there. Until then, I remain your devoted servant.” Zel and the D’ia Mor saluted the others and turned to leave.
“We shall accompany you to your Flitter,” Odrim offered.
“It is unnecessary…”
“We insist.”
“Very well, then…” Zel could not hide his annoyance. Impatience accompanied his every step as he moved at the cumbersome pace of the rigan. Odrim paused in his stumbling gait and glanced back at his son and daughter. His look questioned why they did not follow.
“We shall be along shortly, Father,” Shaan answered.
Garth too had hung back. He now cast a sidelong glance at the tharfi, and then at Ashara.
She smiled in answer to his unspoken question. “He now eats and drinks.”
The huntsman nodded in satisfaction. “That is good, Highness. I am no stranger to killing when necessary, but I take no pleasure in watching any animal’s protracted suffering.”
Shaan waited until Garth and the others were out of sight and sound before speaking. “I wanted to speak with you alone,” he began. “You cannot go forward with this marriage. It will afford you only a life of misery.”
“I have sworn sacred oath…”
“When you were but fourteen cycles!” Shaan cut her off harshly. “No one can hold you accountable for a promise made so long before your majority.”
“By natural law, I was a woman a full cycle before,” Ashara argued from stubbornness alone. She could no longer say she disagreed with his reasoning.
“He will destroy you.”
“No,” Ashara shook her head firmly. “I am of stiffer mettle than even you might guess.”
Shaan sighed. “I know you well, my brave little sister; you have the heart of a lion. You think of father…the House of Sid…even Faerwyn-Joss…everything but your happiness.” He shifted a few paces and leaned against a gnarled trunk. “The Pat’Riark is right. We are entering a time of great turmoil, and the Pentarchy is already on shaky ground. We are no longer a union of singularities but have split into obvious groups. The D’ia Mor and the Grimman-Seth on one hand; the Rudd and ourselves on the other. And in between lies the ruling House of Mondragon, their loyalty uncertain. More and more often, the archduke decides every issue—sometimes swaying toward them and sometimes us. And into this cauldron you send yourself!”
Shaan moved suddenly to stand in front of her. He rested his hands on her shoulders and stared deep into her eyes. “I will offer you a bargain. I know your secret. I have suspected for a good while.” He smiled as his finger tapped the hidden amulet. “Since the coming of Talisman for certain. Forswear your oath…no one can force you to keep it. The uproar will eventually die off. If you do this, I will train you with every bit of skill the Pat'Riark imparted to me. After the Great Moot.”
She caught her breath, hardly daring to breathe. It was the culmination of her dream, the very thing she had sought since she had been old enough to reason. Yet she stiffened her resolve. There was an even greater fear in her now, one that superseded her desire. She had seen and touched the true darkness in Zel.
“I will agree…but only if you postpone your entry to the Great Moot for another term.”
He dropped his hands and shook his head. “I cannot.”
“Then we are both honor-bound to continue along the path set for us,” Ashara retorted, but despite her anger she could not leave it so. “Beware of Zel, my brother. There is a darkness in him that makes me fear for your safety, even as you fear for mine.”
“He will not find me unprepared.” Her brother’s tone told her he had concluded their conversation. He stepped back but paused with a question written upon his face.
“I shall remain a while longer,” Ashara told him.
He nodded, and she watched him walk away, tall and proud, an Adept of the First Rank. Yet the fear would not lessen, and there was now an added burden she must bear. She moved to the cage, and the tharfi stood solemnly regarding her. Without hesitation, she reached through the heavy bars and stroked the thick fur on his massive chest.
'Youuu will not forget your oath? Our freeeedom?'
'No, my friend,’ she answered readily. ‘On the turn of my majority, my father will grant me any favor I