Janny Wurts - The Cycle of Fire - 1 - Stormwarden

Stormwarden

The First Book of the Cycle of Fire

By Janny Wurts

Prologue

Written in the records of the Vaere is the tale of the binding of the Mharg-demons at Elrinfaer by the

wizard of wind and wave, Anskiere. He was helped in his task by Ivain, master of fire and earth, for the

skills of a single sorcerer were in-sufficient to subdue so formidable a foe. But at the moment of crisis,

when the peril of the Mharg-demons was greatest, legend holds that Ivain betrayed his companion out of

jealousy. Yet, Anskiere survived and the Mharg-demons were bound. The major wards are sealed still

by Anskiere's powers. And though neither Ivain nor Anskiere ever spoke of the dissent which arose

between them on a lonely isle at Northsea, so potent was the magic in the words spoken by Anskiere to

his betrayer, sailors who have visited the rocky spread of beach claim the winds there repeat them to this

day.

"Your offense against me is pardoned but not forgotten. This geas I lay upon you: should I call, you,

Ivain, shall answer, and complete a deed of my choice, even to the end of your days. And should you

die, my will shall pass to your eldest son, and to his son's sons after him, until the debt is paid."

On a nearby ledge, battered by tide, lies a stone with an inscription believed to be Ivain's reply.

"Summon me, sorcerer, and know sorrow. Be sure I will leave nothing of value for your use, even

should my offspring inherit."

Stormwarden

The fisher folk clustered in a tight knot before the cottage door. Wind off the sea tugged their

home-woven trousers into untidy wrinkles, making the cloth look awkwardly sewn. One man, tougher,

uglier, and more sunburned that the rest, finally knocked loudly and stepped back, frowning.

The door opened. Dull pewter light from a lowering sky touched a figure in shadow beyond.

"Anskiri?" The fisherman's tone was rough, aggressively pitched to cover embarrassment.

"I am Anskiere." A quiet voice restored the name's foreign inflection. "Has there been trouble?" With the

dignity associ-ated with great power, the Stormwarden of Imrill Kand stepped over the threshold, a thin,

straight man with sculpted features and harsh gray eyes. Sea wind whipped white hair about shoul-ders

clothed simply in wool.

"Ye're wanted, sorcerer, at Adin's Landing."

"Then there has been trouble, yes?" Anskiere's light eyes flicked over the men confronting him. No one

answered, and no one met his glance. The breezes fanned the fishermen's weathered cheeks, and their

sea boots scuffed over pebbled stone and marsh grass. Their large, twine-callused hands stayed jammed

in the pockets of oilskin jackets.

The Stormwarden's gaze dropped. He laid a slim capable hand on the door frame, careful to move

slowly, without threat. "I will come. Give me a minute to bank the fire."

Anskiere stepped inside. A low mutter arose at his back, and someone spat. If the sorcerer noticed, he

gave no sign. The distant sigh of the breakers filled the interval until his return. A gray cloak banded with

black hooded his silver head, and in his hand he carried a knotted satchel of dyed leather. Somehow he

had guessed his summons might be permanent. No one from Imrill Kand had seen either satchel or cloak

since the sorcerer's arrival five winters past.

A tear in the clouds spilled sunlight like gilt over the shore flats. Anskiere paused. His eyes swept across

the rocky spit of land he had chosen as home and fixed on the ocean's horizon. The fishermen stirred

uneasily, but a long interval passed before Anskiere recalled his attention from the sea. He barred the

cottage door.

"I am ready." He moved among them, his landsman's stride sharply delineated from the rolling gait of the

fishermen. Through the long walk over the tor, he did not speak, and never once did he look back.

Angled like a gull's nest against the cliff overlooking the harbor, Adin's Landing was visible to the

Stormwarden and his escort long ahead of arrival. Towering over the familiar jumble of shacks, stacked

salt barrels, and drying fish nets was a black crosshatch of rigging; five warships rode at anchor. A sixth

was warped to the fishers' wharf. The town streets, nor-mally empty at noon, seethed with activity,

clotted here and there by dark masses of men at arms.

Anskiere paused at the tor's crest and pushed his hood back. "King's men?" A gust of wind hissed

through the grass at his feet, perhaps summoned by him as warning of his first stir of anger. But his voice

remained gentle. "Is this why you called me?"

The ugly man clenched his hands. "Anskiere, don't ask!" He gestured impatiently down the trail.

The sorcerer remained motionless.

"Mordan, he has a right to know." The other's outburst sounded anguished and reluctant. "Five years he

has served as Stormwarden, and not a life lost to the sea. He deserves an answer at least."

Mordan's lips tightened and his eyes flinched away from the sorcerer. "We cannot shelter you!"

"I did not ask shelter." Anskiere sought the one who had spoken in his behalf, and found he knew him,

though the boy had grown nearly to manhood. "Tell me, Emien."

The young man flinched unhappily at the mention of his name.

"Emien, why do King's ships and King's men trouble with Imrill Kand?"

Emien drew a shaking breath and stared at hands already deeply scarred by hours of hauling twine.

"Stormwarden, a Constable waits at the Fisherman's Barrel with a writ sealed by the King."

Anskiere contemplated the sky's edge. "And?"

"Kordane's Blessed Fires!" Emien's blasphemy was laced with tears. "Warden, they call you murderer.

They tell of a storm that arose from the sea and tore villages, boats, and cattle from the shore of Tierl

Enneth. Your doing, they said." The boy faltered. "Warden, they say you watched, drunk with laughter,

as the people screamed and drowned. And they carry with them a staff marked with the device you wore

when you first arrived here."

"A falcon ringed with a triple circle," Anskiere said softly. "I know it well. Thank you, Emien."

The boy stepped back, startled into fear at the sorcerer's acceptance. The penalty for malign sorcery

was death by fire. "Then it's true?"

"We all have enemies." Anskiere stepped firmly onto the trail, and around him, the wind dwindled to

ominous stillness.

Market square lay under a haze of dust churned up by milling feet. The entire village had gathered to see

their Stormwarden accused. Taciturn, a unit of the King's Guard patrolled the streets off Rat's Alley.

Foot lancers clogged the lanes between the merchants' stalls, and before the steps of the Fisherman's

Barrel Inn a dais constructed of boarding planks and pickling vats held a brocaded row of officials.

"We've brought him!" Mordan shouted above the confusion.

"Be still." Anskiere bestowed a glare dark and troubled as a hurricane. "I'll go willingly, or not at all."

"Just so ye go." Mordan fell back, bristling with unease. Anskiere slipped past. Though his storm-gray

cloak stood out stark as a whitecap amid a sea of russets and browns, no one noticed him until he stood

before the dais. A gap widened in the crowd, leaving him isolated in a circle of dust as he set his satchel

down.

"If you have asked for me, I am Anskiere." His pale, cold eyes rested on the officials.

The villagers murmured and reluctantly quieted as a plump man in scarlet leaned forward, porcine

features crinkled with calculation. "I am the Constable of the King's Justice." He paused. "You have been

accused of murder, Anshiri." A syrupy western accent mangled the name. "Over four thousand deaths

were recorded at Tierl Enneth."

A gasp arose from the villagers, cut off as the Constable sighed and laced ringed fingers under his chin.

"Have you anything to say?"

Anskiere lifted hands capable of driving sea and sky into fury. The crowd watched as though

mesmerized by a snake. Yet neither wind nor wave stirred in response to the sorcerer's gesture. Gray

cloth slipped back, exposing slim veined wrists, and Anskiere's reply fell softly as rain.

"I am guilty, Eminence."

Stunned, the onlookers stood rooted, unable to believe the Stormwarden who had protected their fishing

fleet from ruin would meekly surrender his powers. Anskiere stayed motion-less, arms outstretched. He

did not look like a murderer. All of Imrill Kand had trusted and loved him. Their betrayal was ugly to

watch.

The Constable nodded. "Take him."

Men at arms closed at his command, pinioning the accused's shoulders with mailed fists. Three

black-robed sorcerers rose from the dais, one to shackle the offered wrists with fetters woven of

enchantment. The others fashioned a net of wardspells to bind Anskiere's mastery of wind, wave and

weather, and sensing security in his helplessness, the crowd roused slug-gishly to anger. As people

surged toward the dais, the foot lancers squared off and formed a cordon, jostled by aggressive hands.

Anskiere spoke once, mildly. One of the men at arms struck him. His hood fell back, spilling silver hair.

When he lifted his face, blood ran from his mouth.

"Kill the murderer!" someone shouted. The mob howled approval. Kicked, cuffed, and shoved until he

stumbled, An-skiere was herded across the square. Thick as swarming insects, the King's Guard bundled

him away from the crowd, across the fishers' wharf, and onto the decks of their ship. His light head soon

vanished into the depths of the hold.

The crowd screamed and stamped, and dust eddied. Striped with shadow cast by a damp fish net,

Emien bent and shook the shoulder of a small girl who lay weeping in the dirt. "Taen, please."

The child tossed back black hair, her cheeks lined with tracks of tears. "Why did they take him? Why?"

"He killed people. Taen, get up. Crying won't help." Emien caught his sister's hand and tugged. "You'll

be kicked or stepped on if you stay here."

Taen shook her head. "Stormwardensaved lives. He saved me." She curled wet fingers tightly around

her brother's wrist and pulled herself awkwardly to her feet. With one ankle twisted beyond all help of a

healer's skills, she limped piteously. "The fat man lied."

Emien frowned, sickened by the child's naivete. "Did An-skiere lie also? Hesaid he killed people. Could

you count the mackerel inDacsen's hold yesterday? That many died, Taen."

The child's mouth puckered. She refused to answer.

Her brother sighed, lifted her into his arms, and pressed through the villagers who jammed the square.

Taen was un-likely to accept the sorcerer's act as evil. Anskiere had stilled the worst gale in memory to

bring a healer from the mainland when an accident with a loading winch had crushed her leg. Since that

hour, the girl had idolized him. The Stormwarden had visited often during her convalescence, a still, tall

presence at her bedside. Taen had done little but hold his hand. Uncom-fortably Emien recalled his

uncle's embarrassed words of grat-itude, and the long, tortuous hikes across the island with the fish and

the firewood they could not spare. But his mother had insisted, though the Stormwarden had asked for

nothing.

A sharp kick caught Emien squarely in the kneecap. The past forgotten, he gasped, bent and yelled

through lips whitened with pain. "Taen!"

Despite his reprimand, his sister squirmed free of his hold and darted into the crowd. Emien swore.

When Taen wished, she could move like a rabbit. Angrily he pursued, but the closely packed bodies

thwarted his effort. A fishwife cursed him. Flushed beneath his tan, Emien sat on a nail keg and rubbed

his sore leg. The brat could get herself home for supper.

But night fell without her return. Too late Emien thought of the dark ship which had sailed from the

fishers' wharf that afternoon, to anchor beyond the headland.

"I'll find her," he promised, wounded by his mother's tears. He took a sack of biscuit from the pantry

shelf and let himself out onto the puddled brick of Rat's Alley.

The moon curved like a sail needle over the water at the harbor's edge. Emien cast off the mooring of his

cousin's sloopDacsen, fear coiled in his gut.

"Taen, I'll kill you," he said bitterly, and wept as he hauled on the halyard. Tanbark canvas flapped

sullenly up the mast. Emien abruptly wished he could kill the Stormwarden instead, for stealing the child's

trust.

The black shipCrow rolled mildly at her anchorage, tugged by the rhythmic swell off the barrier reefs.

Gimbaled oil lamps swung in the tight confines of her aft cabin, fanning splayed shadows across the curly

head and fat shoulders of the Con-stable where he sat at the chart table. He had shed his scarlet finery in

favor of a dressing robe of white silk and he reeked of drink.

"You disappointed the Guard Sergeant," he said. "He ex-pected the villagers to fight for you, and he

wanted to bash heads. How very clever of you to plead guilty, Anshiri. Blessed Fires! Instead he had to

protect you from them." The Constable crashed his cup, empty, onto the chart locker. He stroked his

stomach. "The Sergeant cursed you for that."

A fainter gleam of white stirred in the dimness beside the bulkhead, accompanied by the clink of

enchanted fetters. "But I am guilty, Eminence." Anskiere spoke with dry irony. "Had I not spared your

mistress's life, Tierl Enneth would not have drowned at her hand."

The fat man chuckled. "Tathagres richly enjoyed your per-formance, you know. It was entertaining to

hear you confess in her place, just to spare an islet of shit-stinking fisher folk. Or were you truly eager to

escape their gull-splattered rock?"

Anskiere sat with his head bent. The oil lamp carved deep shadows under his eyes and tinted his skin as

yellow as an old painting.

"I forgot." The Constable belched. "You love fish stench and poverty and, oh yes, a boy whose sister

has a twisted leg. Tell me, was he good?"

"Innocent as you are foul." Anskiere spoke softly, but his glance held warning. "Why mention the boy?"

The Constable smiled and bellowed for more wine. He licked wet lips, and his hands stilled on his belly.

"Ah, it was touching, Anshiri. The forecastle watch caught the boy climbing the anchor cable. He claimed

his sister had stowed away, for love of you, and he came to fetch her home in a fish-reeking little boat.

He was angry. I believe he hates you."

The Constable's chuckle was clipped by Anskiere's query.

"What? The girl?" The official blinked, then sobered. "We searched, of course, but didn't find her.

Perhaps she fell over-board." Planks creaked under his bulk as he leaned forward, slitted eyes intent on

the prisoner's face. His features oozed into another smile. "You lied, Anshiri. You said Tathagres had no

means to force your will. But I think now that she does."

Taen woke to her brother's sudden shout.

"No!" His words carried clearly to her hiding place in the ship's galley. "I beg you! WithoutDacsen, my

mother and cousins will starve."

Emien's protest was answered by the drawl of a deckhand. "Cap'n said cut her adrift, boy." Laughter

followed.

Taen shivered. The chilly rims of cooking pots gouged her back as she pressed her face against a crack

in the planking to see out. Torches flickered amidships, casting sultry light over the naked shoulders of the

sailors. Black armor gleamed in their midst. Taen saw her brother hoisted in the grip of a foot lancer. The

boy struggled as a rigging knife flashed in a sailor's hand. A rope parted under its edge, and the

whispered flop ofDacsen's sails silenced as wind swung her bow out of the dark ship's shadow.

"That was unjust." Emien's desperation turned sullen with anger. "I've done no wrong."

The foot lancer shook him. In the pot locker, Taen flinched, and her fingers twisted in the cloth of her

shift.

"Cap'n don't like flotsam dragglin' aft." The sailor sheathed his knife and nodded toward the open hatch

grating. "An" he won't have shore rats messin' his deck, neither. You'll go below."

Helplessly Taen watched the foot lancers drag her brother away. The sailors clustered round the hatch,

grinning at Em-ien's curses; aft, the deck was deserted. Taen bit her lip, hes-itant. Earlier she had seen

the Constable push Anskiere through a companion way left unguarded. Abruptly resolved, the girl crept

from the cranny which had sheltered her and slipped from the galley, the drag of her lame foot masked by

the slap of wavelets against the hull. She paused, trembling, by the main-mast. Torches moved up

forward. A deckhand said something coarse, and a splatter of laughter followed. The white crash of

breakers on the reef to starboard was joined by a hollow scream of splintering plank.

Taen blinked back tears.Dacsen had struck. Through wet eyes she saw sailors crowding the forecastle

rail to watch the sea pound the small sloop to wreckage. With a restraint beyond her years, Taen seized

her opportunity while their backs were turned. She crossed the open deck into the dark gloom of the

quarterdeck.

The latch lifted soundlessly in her hands. Beyond lay a narrow passage lit dimly by the glow which spilled

from the open door of the mate's cabin. Taen heard voices arguing within. She peered through, and saw

the two sorcerers who had bound Anskiere's power leaning over the mate's berth. Bright against the

woolen blanket lay a staff capped with a looped interlace of brass and counterweighted at the base.

Be-side it rested Anskiere's leather satchel.

"Fool!" The sorcerer robed in red gestured with thin splayed fingers at the man in the braid. "You may

know your way about a ship,Captain. You know nothing of craft. Anskiere's staff is harmless."

The captain moved to interrupt. Fast as a cat, the sorcerer in black hooked his sleeve. "Believe him,

Captain. That staff was discharged by Tathagres herself. How else could she have raised the sea and

ruined Tierl Enneth? You don't believe the power was her own, do you?"

"Fires, no." The captain fretted uncomfortably and tugged his clothing free. "But I'll certainly have mutiny,

a bloody one, unless you can convince my crew that Anskiere can work no vengeance."

"That should not prove difficult." The sorcerer in red caught the satchel with a veined hand, and in the

doorway Taen shrank from his smile. "An enchanter separated from his staff seldom goes undefended.

Anskiere will not differ." The sorcerer loos-ened the knots of the pouch, upended it, and spilled its

contents with a rustle onto the blanket.

Taen strained for a glimpse of what lay between the men.

"Feathers!" The captain reached out contemptuously, and found his wrist captured in a bony grip.

"Don't touch. Would you ruin us?" Disgustedly, the sorcerer released the captain. "Each of those feathers

is a weather ward, set by Anskiere against need. You look upon enough force to level Imrill Kand,

captain."

The dark sorcerer lifted a slim brown quill from the pile. Taen recognized the wing feather of a

shearwater. She watched with stony eyes as the sorcerer tossed it lightly into the air.

As the feather drifted downward into a spin, it became to the eye a blur ringed suddenly by a halo of

blue-violet light. From its center sprang the sleek, elegant form of the bird itself, wings extended for flight.

Damp salt wind arose from nowhere, tossing the lamp on its hook. Shadows danced crazily.

The red sorcerer clapped a hand to his belt. A dagger flashed in his fist. He struck like a snake. The bird

was wrenched from midair and tumbled limp to the deck, blood jumping in bright beads across the oiled

wood. The bird quivered once, and the breeze died with it.

Taen shivered in the grip of nausea. The red sorcerer wiped the knife on his sleeve while the dark

sorcerer picked another feather from the bed. Before long the hem of his robe hung splattered with

scarlet. A pile of winged corpses grew at his feet, and blood ran with the roll of the ship. At each bird's

death there was a fleeting scent of spring rain, or a touch of mellow summer sun, and more than once the

harsh cold edge of the gales of autumn. At last, sickened beyond tolerance Taen stumbled past the door.

Preoccupied with their slaughter, the men within did not notice.

Beyond the chartroom door, Taen heard the wet bubbly snores of the Constable. The lamp had burned

low. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom. Past the chart table and the Constable's slumped bulk,

Anskiere sat with his head resting on crossed arms. Enchanted fetters shone like coals through tangled

hair, and his robe was dusty and creased.

Taen stepped through the door. At the faint scrape of her lame foot, Anskiere roused, opened eyes flat

as slate, and saw her in the doorway. He beckoned, and the chime of his bonds masked her clumsy run

as she flung herself into his arms.

"The soldiers took Emien, andDacsenwrecked on the reef." Her whisper caught as a sob wrenched her

throat.

"I know, little one." Anskiere held her grief-racked body close.

Taen gripped his sleeve urgently. "Warden, the sorcerers are killing your birds. I saw them."

"Hush, child. They've not taken the one that matters most." Anskiere flicked a tear from the girl's chin.

"Can I trust her to your care?"

Taen nodded. She watched gravely as the Stormwarden made a rip in the seam of his hood lining. He

drew forth a tawny feather barred with black and laid it in her palm.

The girl turned the quill over in her hands. The shape was thin, keen as a knife, and the markings

unfamiliar. Anskiere touched her shoulder. Reluctantly she looked up.

"Taen, listen carefully. Go on deck and loose the feather on the wind."

The girl nodded. "On the wind," she repeated, and started at the sudden tramp of feet beyond the door.

Fast as a rat, she scuttled into the shadow of the chart table. The Constable snored on above her head,

oblivious.

Men entered; the captain and both sorcerers. Blood-streaked hands seized Anskiere and hauled him

upright, leaving Taen with a view of his feet.

"Where is it?" The red sorcerer's voice was shrill. Anskiere's reply held arctic calm. "Be specific,

Hearvia." Somebody slapped him.

The black sorcerer advanced. His robe left smears on the deck. "You have a stormfalcon among your

collection, yes? It was not in the satchel."

"You'll not find her."

"Won't we?" The black sorcerer laughed. Taen shivered with gooseflesh at the sound, and gripped the

feather tightly against her chest.

"Search him."

Cloth tore and Anskiere staggered. Taen cowered against the Constable's boots as the sorcerers ripped

Anskiere's cloak and robe to rags. Near the table's edge, mangled wool fell to the deck, marked across

with bloody fingerprints.

"It isn't on him," said the captain anxiously. "What shall I tell the crew?"

The red sorcerer whirled crossly. "Tell them nothing, fool!" Taen heard a squeal Of hinges as he yanked

open the chart room door. "Confine the Stormwarden under guard, and keep him from the boy."

The stamp of feet dwindled down the passage, underscored by the glassy clink of Anskiere's fetters.

Taen shivered with the aftermath of terror, and against her, the Constable twitched like a dog in his sleep.

The smell of sweat and spilled wine, and the impact of all she had witnessed, suddenly wrung Taen with

dizziness. She left the shelter of the table and bolted through the open door. With the feather clamped in

whitened fingers, she turned starboard, clumsily dragging her twisted foot up the companionway which

led to the quarterdeck.

A sailor lounged topside, one elbow hooked over the bin-nacle. Taen saw his silhouette against the

spoked curve of the wheel, and dodged just as the sailor spotted her.

"You!" He dove and missed. His knuckles barked against hatchboards. Taen skinned past and ran for

the taffrail.

"Fires!" the sailor cursed. At her heels Taen heard a scuffle of movement as he untangled himself from

the binnacle.

Torches moved amidships. At the edge of her vision, Taen saw the black outline of a foot lancer's helm

above the com-panionway stair. Driven and desperate, she flung herself up-ward against the beaded

wood of the rail. Hard hands caught her, yanked her back. She flailed wildly, balance lost, and the sea

breeze snatched the feather from her fingers. It skimmed upward out of reach.

Taen felt herself shaken till her teeth rattled. Through blurred eyes she watched Anskiere's feather whirl

away on the wind. It shimmered, exploded with a snap into a tawny falcon marked with black. Violet and

blue against the stars, a heavy triple halo of light circled its outstretched wings. Taen smelled light-ning on

the air. The man above her swore, and below, a crowd began to gather in the ship's waist.

"Stormfalcon!" a sailor cried. His companions shouted mal-edictions, threaded through with Anskiere's

name, as the bird overhead took flight. Wind gusted, screaming, through the rigging. Half quenched by

spray blown off the reef, the torches streamed ragged tails of smoke.

Smothered by the cloth of her captor's sleeve, Taen heard someone yell for a bow. But the falcon

vanished into the night long before one could be brought. The sergeant rounded angrily on the girl held

pinioned by the deckhand.

"Is that the brat the boy came looking for? I'll whip the blazes out of her. She's caused us a skinful of

trouble!"

But the voice of the black sorcerer cut like a whip through the confusion."Leave the child be."

Startled stillness fell; the wind had died, leaving the mourn-ful rush of the swells etched against silence.

The onlookers shifted hastily out of the sorcerer's path as he approached the sergeant who held Taen in

his arms.

"The harm is done." The sorcerer's voice was as brittle as shells. "The stormfalcon is already flown. The

girl, I'm told, is valued by Anskiere. Give her to me. He will soon be forced to recall his bird."

Taen was passed like a bundle of goods to the sorcerer. The touch of his bony wrists, crisscrossed still

with bloodstains, caused her at last to be sick.

"Fires!" The sergeant laughed. "Take her with my blessing." "Go and tell Tathagres what has passed,"

said the sorcerer, and the sergeant's mirth died off as though choked.

Below decks, a guard twisted a key in a heavy padlock. With a creak of rusted hinges, a door opened

into a darkness filled with the sour smell of mildewed canvas. The black sor-cerer pushed forward and

swore with impatience. Nervously, the boatswain on his heels lifted the lantern higher; light flick-ered

over a bunched mass of folded sails and the gaunt outline of a man chained to a ring in the bulkhead. A

deckhand's cotton replaced the captive's ruined robe and the gleam of enchanted fetters on his wrists

was buried under baggy cuffs.

The black sorcerer studied Anskiere with contempt. "I've brought you a gift." He threw back a fold of

his robe and set Taen abruptly on her feet.

The girl stumbled into Anskiere's shirt and clung. The Stormwarden locked his hands over her quivering

back.

The black sorcerer smiled. "Stormwarden, you are be-trayed." He added sweetly, "Earlier you claimed

you would rather bum for the murders at Tierl Enneth than bargain with Tathagres. But for the child's

sake perhaps you will reconsider."

Anskiere did not speak. Presently, muttered oaths and a scuffle beyond the doorway heralded a new

arrival as two sailors brought Emien, trussed and struggling, between them. The black sorcerer stepped

aside to avoid being jostled. Given a clear view of the sailroom, the boy caught sight of his sister, then the

Stormwarden sheltering her.

"Taen!" His outcry held despair mingled with anger. "Taen, why did you come here?"

When the girl failed to respond, her brother spat at the Stormwarden's feet. One of the sailors laughed.

"Do you find hatred amusing?" said a new voice from the darkness behind.

The sailor who had laughed gasped and fell silent, eyes widened with fear.

"Or did I arrive too late to share some jest?" Preceded by a faint sparkle of amethyst, a tall slender

woman stepped into view. Silver-blond hair feathered around a face of extraordinary beauty; beneath a

masculine browline her eyes were thickly lashed and violet as the jewels which trimmed her cloak at

collar and hem.

The black sorcerer bowed. 'Tathagres."

The woman slipped past the boatswain's lantern and entered. She placed an elegant hand upon the

bulkhead, leaned oh it, and bent a bright gaze upon the Stormwarden and the girl he sheltered.

"You are brought low, Anskiere of Elrinfaer." Her accent was meticulously perfect.

The Stormwarden cradled Taen against his chest. "Not so low."

"No? You'll do the King's bidding." Tathagres fingered the hilt of the dagger at her waist, serene as a

marble carving. "Stormwarden, recall your falcon."

Anskiere answered with grave courtesy. "The bird is beyond my present powers." He lifted his hands

from Taen's shift, and cotton sleeves tumbled back, unveiling the sultry glow of fet-ters. "Dare you free

me? I'll recall her then."

Tathagres' fingers flinched into a fist around the dagger hilt. The skin of her neck and cheeks paled

delicately. "You presume far too much. Do you think your stormfalcon concerns me? She is insignificant,

and you are less. If you value that little girl's life, you'll go to Cliffhaven and ward weather for the

Kielmark, by royal decree."

Anskiere stirred. Gently, he covered Taen's head with crossed palms. Her black hair streaked his

knuckles like ink as he spoke. "Do you threaten?"

"Have you never heard a child scream?" said Tathagres. "You shall, I promise."

Janny Wurts - The Cycle of Fire - 1 - Stormwarden

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