Janny Wurts - The Cycle of Fire 2 - Keeper of the Keys

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JANNY WURTS

KEEPER OF

THE KEYS

BOOK TWO OF THE CYCLE OF FIRE

This book is an Ace

original edition, and

has never been previously

published.

KEEPER OF THE KEYS

An Ace Book/published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition/August 1988

Cover and interior art by Janny Wurts.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-43275-1

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name "Ace" and the "A"

logo are trademarks belonging to

Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 987654321

For Virginia Kidd in admiration, respect, and warmest friendship

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to: My youngest sister, for proofing,

and two extraordinary friends,

an author from the West Coast and a sailor from the East,

for support and suggestions respectively.

Lastly, to the friend no longer living,

who reviewed the preliminary draft.

Prologue

Chilly wind slapped the swells into whitecaps off the west shores of Elrinfaer, where, a lone fleck of color

under frowning cliffs, a fishing sloop spread tanbark sails beneath the leaden gray of the overcast. She was

an aged craft, patched and stained with the wear of her labors, but now her nets hung slack. Her occupants,

two brothers, leaned idle on the landward rail. Grizzled and gray and dour, they squinted shoreward at a dark

bundle of cloth sprawled on the sand above the tide mark.

The younger one spat into the sea. "It's a boy, that. Flotsam don't wear boots, not that I ever saw."

"You say?" The sibling grunted in disgust. "Only last week, you missed the buoy marking the headland.

Near to run us aground for that, and now you claim you got eyesight!" Still, intrigued, he did not order the

boat put about. "If that draggle o' cloth is human, I'll give a week's coppers, and buy you a beer a night."

"Ye'll lose, then." The younger brother laughed, and sprang to haul in the sheets. Dearly loving a wager,

he braced himself against the shuddering heave of the boat as wind-tossed canvas thundered taut. "If he's

drowned, I get his rings."

The elder brother caught the worn tiller. "We'll see." And he turned the sloop, which reeked of cod, and

sent her dashing in a heel for the beach head.

Lashed ashore by a rampaging flood of surf, the craft's sturdy timbers grated and grounded against sand.

The elder brother leaped the thwart, his callused, twine-scarred hands braced to steady the prow. The

younger brother vaulted after and, kicking sand from his wet boots, stumped up the beach to determine the

winner of the bet.

He bent over the dark lump by the tide line, sending gulls flapping seaward. Tentatively he touched, then

drew back.

Impatient, the brother by the boat bellowed after him. "Well? Who's doing the buying this week?"

The answer came back, subdued against the boom and echo of breakers under the cliffs. "It is a boy." The

younger fisherman paused, and slowly stood straight on the shore. "A sick one."

The elder brother cursed, the exhilaration of the wager abruptly gone sour. Now out of decency they must

take on a passenger; sick, even dying, the wretch would need food and water, and the sloop's hold was not

yet full enough to pay even the cost of reprovisioning. "Better bring him in," he shouted. "And the beer

copper goes for his bread."

The younger of the two fishermen shrugged philosophically, then lifted the limp body from the sand. His

find proved to be slight, black-haired, and dressed in the remains of fine clothing. The eyes opened in

delirium were blue, and the hands ravaged by what looked like burns.

"He probably eats like a flea," the younger brother muttered as he arrived, breathless, and deposited his

burden in the sloop's bow. "Weighs little enough."

But the elder brother remained unsympathetic. He jerked his head, anxious now to be away from shores

that were deserted, ruins of the once fortunate kingdom of Elrinfaer.

"And anyway, you have the sporting instincts of a grandmother," groused the younger. He set his

shoulder to the sloop and shoved her ungainly prow seaward. As she slipped, grating, into deeper waters, the

boy in the bow groaned in the throes of fever.

"Would you have left him, then?" accused the younger, bothered at last by his brother's silence. When he

received no answer, he shrugged; the castaway wore court clothes, badly torn, but the dirt on the tunic was

fresh. Perhaps he would have wealthy relatives who would reward his rescuers for his safe return.

Betrayal

By evening, they gathered in the great hall on Cliffhaven, a rough-mannered crowd of sea captains,

sailhands, and men at arms. All were exiles, lawfully condemned as thieves or murderers by the Free Isles'

Alliance or the outlying kingdoms; except one, a slight, black-haired girl, almost lost in the brocade chair

where she sat with her feet tucked up. Her arms were sunburned and briar-scratched, her nose peeling; but

the robes she wore had the pearly sheen of a dreamweaver trained by the Vaere. For that reason, the bearded

captain who wended through the press of beer-drinking companions approached with guarded respect.

Jostled by celebrants, sailors with silver-hooped earlobes, and officers still wearing mail, he gained the

relative peace of the corner. There the captain set his tankard aside. He had been assigned the task of

ensuring the enchantress's comfort, and at present the girl wore a troubled frown. He had to yell over the

noise; immediately he regretted that his shout sounded gruffer than he wished. "Taen Dreamweaver?"

At her name she looked around, pale eyes enormous under the shadow of her brows. Her age was

eighteen, but seemed less. "Jaric isn't here."

"No? Are you certain?" Surprised the boy should be gone, the captain stroked the knife at his belt out of

habit. He echoed the girl's concern as he scanned the crowd in search of the sole surviving heir of the

sorcerer I vain Firelord.

The victory celebration had been organized hard on the heels of war. The timbers of the main door still

slanted, singed and blackened and half-torn from their hinges by a barrage of enemy sorcery. The crannies

between revelers were stacked with broken furnishings, upholstery bristling with arrows. Men could not yet

be spared from the labor of repairing defense works to clear the hall of wreckage, and the Kielmark, who

ruled this den of renegades, was never a man to pause for

niceties. Abetted by Taen Dreamweaver's talents, his garrison had just repulsed attack by an armada that

included demons. By his orders, the survivors would have their chance to release their aftermath of tension,

and to mourn the loss of dead comrades; but only tonight. Tomorrow captains, crews, and men at arms must

be fit once more for duty.

The atmosphere was predictably boisterous, with arguments and slangs and bouts of arm-wrestling

compounding into a crescendo of noise. Meticulously patient, the captain sorted through the motley press of

renegades, all armed, some bandaged, and most laughing and expansive with drink. Yet from one end of the

hall to the other, where the bodies of senseless sailors snored off their excesses in a heap, his efforts yielded

no glimpse of the tousled blond head of Jaric.

Nearby, someone banged the pommel of his knife on a tabletop, denouncing the careless pitch of a cluster

of singers. The captain winced, unsure whether dream weavers cared for obscenities. He glanced back to the

girl and found her worried gaze still upon him. "You searched?" he asked, referring to her Vaere-trained

powers, which could trace the mind and memories of any man she chose with little more effort than thought.

"No." As if the question were painful to her, Taen knotted nervous fingers in her lap. "I don't have to.

Jaric has gone to the ice cliffs."

The captain sucked in his breath. "Kielmark'll be stark tied. Better tell him now." Purposefully he

recovered his tankard, his intent to steer toward the end of the room where the revelers pressed thickest, and

the great booming laughter of the Sovereign Lord of Cliffhaven wafted over the lesser din of the crowd.

"Corley, no," said Taen, unexpectedly calling the captain by name. But if her powers of cognition were

uncanny, the hand she laid on his arm to restrain was human, and sorrowfully thin. "I'll find Jaric, trust me.

Don't risk what we both know will happen if the Kielmark discovers him gone."

"Kordane's Fires!" swore the captain. But she spoke sense, this enchantress with the eyes of a child. The

Lord of Cliffhaven maintained sovereignty over the criminals who served him through wily cunning and a

distrust that brooked no exceptions. Though only a boy, as Firelord's heir Jaric aroused the Kielmark's

suspicion in dangerous measure, for even the finest fleets and fortifications in Keithland were useless against

the potential of a sorcerer's power. Corley looked at the Dreamweaver, assessing, and saw by the set of her

jaw that she would stop him reporting if he insisted; Vaerish sorceries made her capable. Defeated, he tipped

his head heavenward, his words almost too soft to be heard above the noise. "Girl, on my life and manhood,

I didn't hear you say that."

He glanced back to find the enchantress already going, her silver-gray robe an oddity amid leather

leggings, studded baldrics, and the plainer linens of the sailhands. Corley watched, unsettled, as she crossed

the crowded hall. The most hardbitten fighters in Keithland parted readily to let her by, some drunk and

argumentative, but all saluting her passage with a sincerity rarely seen on their scarred and sea-tanned faces.

The Kielmark had made no secret of the facts: without the Dreamweaver's help, Cliffhaven would have

fallen to King Kisburn's army, and his demons sworn as allies would have spared no lives in their quest of

vengeance against humanity.

Taen slipped between the bronzed bulk of a quartermaster and a sailor with missing teeth. Both raised

their tankards in her honor, and as she vanished into the hallway, Corley silently longed to be elsewhere. The

situation was a right mess; the Dreamweaver had defied her Vaerish masters to stay and defend Cliffhaven.

No mortal understood the extent of her peril by doing so, but the Kielmark had sworn to remedy the lapse

with all speed and set her on a southbound ship no later than dawn next day. Added to that, Jaric's hasty

departure was the height of bad timing. Angry now that the boy could not at least have asked for escort,

Corley's fist tightened upon his tankard. To leave the King of Pirates ignorant when two under his protection

presently traipsed through the wilds of his domain in the dead of night bordered upon an act of insanity.

Corley had served on Cliffhaven long enough to learn what his life was worth; he took a hefty swallow of

beer, and decided precipitously not to honor the Dreamweaver's request.

But even as he strode forward to inform his master of the girl's departure, her dream-touch cut his mind.

'Don't!'

Corley froze between steps and cursed. She watched, then, with the unknowable talents of her kind; her

sending carried awareness that she would stop him by force if she must. Having no wish to test himself

against sorcery, the captain sat carefully in the brocade chair left empty by her departure. He laughed, very

quietly and not without humor. Then, much against his careful nature, he lifted his tankard and quaffed the

contents to the dregs. If the Dreamweaver chose to follow the son of Ivain Firelord to the ice cliffs that

imprisoned the Stormwarden of Elrinfaer, at least one captain in Cliffhaven's great hall decided he wanted no

part of the matter. With luck and a little time, he could arrange to be drunk to the edge of prostration when

the Sovereign Lord of Cliffhaven discovered both enchantress and sorcerer's heir gone from his party with-

out leave.

Outside, a damp salt wind scoured the bailey. Clouds hazed the moon's setting crescent, and gusts off the

harbor blew sharp with the scent of impending rain. Taen paused in the archway, blinking while her eyes

adjusted from the candle-brilliance of indoors to the dimmer flicker of torchlight. Canny enough to be silent,

she stifled the flapping hem of her robe with her hands, and looked carefully for the sentry; revelry on

Cliffhaven could never be expected to slacken the diligence of the Kielmark's patrols. Yet no man waited,

spear in hand, to challenge the girl in the bailey. Empty cobbles shone wet in the dew, and the ring which

normally tethered the saddled horse lay flat, a steely disc of reflection.

At that, Taen caught her breath. She bent her Dreamweaver's awareness to the stables, and immediately

encountered activity. Already guessing the reason, she narrowed focus, and found the sentry questioning the

horse-boy. Between them they would not take long to sort out the fact that someone not under orders had

removed the horse kept saddled and bridled in the bailey for the Kielmark's emergency use at any hour of the

day or night.

Jaric, thought Taen; she muttered an epithet learned from the fishwives of Imrill Kand that would have

reddened even the sophisticated ears of Corley, then stepped swiftly out into the wind. She must hurry

before the sentry carried word to the Kielmark. Pounding, breathless, through the passage to the horse yard,

Taen engaged the talents only recently mastered under the Vaere. The minds she sought to influence were

less informed, and therefore harder to convince than that of Captain Corley. The bailey sentry was an old

hand, well familiar with the Kielmark's temper; and the horse-boy was native to Cliffhaven. All through

childhood he had seen men hung out of hand for disobeying orders. Beside that sure punishment, to him a

dreamweaver's sorcery seemed the lesser risk.

Taen crossed abruptly from shadow into torchlight, making

both sentry and horse-boy start. Neither truly saw her for what she was, a small, disheveled girl with trouble

marking frown lines on her face. Their eyes took in the silver gray of her robes, and stopped, wary.

"Enchantress," murmured the horse-boy. "Kor's grace, don't bewitch us."

Taen paused, swallowed, and wondered if anyone would ever treat her normally again. "Ivainson Jaric is

the key to Keithland's survival." She shifted her regard to the sentry, standing sweating in the light of the

stable lanterns with his hands locked around his spear. "The Kielmark and the Fire-lord's heir must not meet

at this time. The boy is distressed, enough to make him careless. He would cross your master, and certainly

get himself killed. But if you loan me a mount, I can stop that, and ensure you won't suffer any

consequences."

Neither the sentry nor the horse-boy was moved by the promise. The Kielmark's discipline was legend on

land and sea, and no man who gainsaid him survived. A tense moment passed, the gusty dark laced through

with the distant beat of the sea. Taen gripped her whipping robes, and strove to maintain patience. She would

not use compulsion on these two, not unless she was desperate. But when the sentry whirled with a look of

stark fear and bolted, she was unequivocally cornered. Her powers answered, reliably, and blanketed the

running man's awareness. Between one stride and the next, he pitched forward, to land in a sprawl across the

midden.

The horse-boy gasped.

"He's unharmed!" Taen said, and though her skills were still raw and new, she managed to translate

awareness of just how unharmed directly into the boy's shocked mind. "Saddle me a mount," she added

gently. "And please do believe me when I tell you I can manage the Kielmark's rages."

The horse-boy regarded her skeptically, as if he noticed for the first time that she was not so very much

older than he; yet her powers had deceived demons. With a shrug and a shake of his head he turned to do her

bidding. Only his attitude of nonchalance was spoiled by the fact that his knees shook.

Taen leaned back against the timbered half door of a stall. Relieved she had not needed to engage her

dream-sense a third time, and taxed more than she cared to admit from swaying the sensibilities of Corley,

she tried to stop worrying. Around her rose the black granite walls of the stoutest bulwarks in Keithland;

surely for a short time more she would be safe.

Tomorrow would see her ,on a ship bound for the Isle of the Vaere, only five days past the date imposed by

the fey master who had trained her. Even if demons knew of her existence, they could hardly act so swiftly.

In the dark at her back, a horse snorted. Taen started forward, and barely managed not to cry out as a

warm muzzle bumped amiably against her arm. She backed away, just as the horse-boy reappeared with not

one but two mounts on a leading rein. The smaller he handed wordlessly to Taen; the other rolled eyes

showing nasty rings of white. War-trained, it sidled as the boy tugged its headstall and expertly directed it

through the passage, to the tether ring in the bailey. Taen sensed his preoccupied thought. Granting an

enchantress a mount was perhaps excusable, but if the Kielmark chanced to ask for the saddled horse and

found no animal ready, his great sword would answer the offense before he spent breath with questions.

Taen faced the blaze-faced mare she was to ride, and preoccupation with the horse-boy's problems faded

before immediate troubles of her own. She was brought up among fisherfolk—the largest animals raised on

her home isle were goats. Riding even the gentlest mounts invariably gave her the shakes.

She was still staring at the stirrup when the horse-boy returned. "Here," he offered gruffly. Before she

could protest, he caught her around the waist and tossed her slight body into the saddle. "Go before the

sentry wakens." And he punctuated the advice with a clap of the mare's hindquarters. The animal leaped into

a trot, stirrups jarring painfully against Taen's ankles. Skewed sideways, she grabbed mane with both hands,

and barely caught the boy's parting shout.

"If- you're still here when that sentry recovers, he'll be honor-bound to put a spear through your back."

Jolted, gasping, through the gates into wind-tossed dark, Taen made a sound halfway between a sob and a

laugh. Once she centered herself precariously within the saddle, spears became the least of her concerns; the

Kielmark's rages and the ferocious loyalty of his men at least were predictably certain. The reactions of

Ivainson Jaric were not. Wistfully Taen wished the advice of her mentor on the Isle of the Vaere; for Jaric

rode now to return the Keys to Elrinfaer to the Storm-warden, Anskiere, believing that once his errand was

accomplished, his bond to the sorcerer would be ended. What he did

not know, and what Taen had no gentle way of telling him, was that Anskiere now was sealed beyond reach

within his wards beneath the ice cliffs. Without the presence of a fire-lord's skills, the Keys could not be

returned to their rightful master. They could only be guarded, and perilously at that, for the demons would

again seek control of the Keys they had narrowly been thwarted from gaining. Worse, if Kor's Accursed

ever guessed the fact that Ivain Firelord had left a living heir, Jaric would become the prey in a ruthless hunt

for survival, since his latent potential for sorcery might come to threaten their plots against humanity.

Taen gripped the reins. In an agony of fear and courage, she kicked her mount into a canter, and sent it

clattering through the gates. Torchlight and the inner fortress fell behind. The mare slid, scrambling, down

the broad stone stair which cut through, a slope of thorn and olive trees. Below lay the town, a sprinkling of

lights between the dark bulk of the warehouses. The harbor beyond was a scattered patchwork of silver and

black shadows, the moored brigantines of the Kiel-mark's corsairs. Yet Taen did not head downward to the

town-side gate. Instead she tugged the mare to the right, through the northern portal that led to the ridge

road.

The sentries let her pass with alacrity, since Jaric had passed that way earlier. The mare's gaits proved

gentle on level ground, and since she showed no untrustworthy tendency to drag on the bit and run, Taen

gradually relaxed. Her feet found the stirrups, and the rhythmic ring of hooves eased her mind enough to

free her dream-sense. A nagging jab slapped her intuition in the night-dark lane before the outer gate.

She hauled the mare clumsily to a halt, at last giving way to irritation; a check on affairs back at the great

hall revealed the Kielmark in a seething temper, bellowing orders to men at arms who scattered running to

seek weapons, helms, and horses. Never doubting that Jaric and she were the cause, Taen narrowed her

focus and sought the single white-hot thread of consciousness that mattered.

Thought answered her probe, sharp as a whipcrack. 'Enchantress! Meddler! What have you done this

time? Where is Jaric?' Dangerously unstable at the best of times, the Kiel-mark's mind now blazed with raw

fury. Taen encompassed the essence, though it burned cruelly. Sweating with the effort of her talents, she

bent impatience into calm, deflected violence

into confusion, and madness into a hole wide enough to send coherent communication.

'Call off your men at arms. I will look after Jaric.' She sorted the spikes and angles of the Lord of

Cliffhaven's thoughts, and observed that he already guessed the boy had gone to seek Anskiere. The

ravening desire to deploy an armed patrol still overruled any attempt to instill temperance. Sad, now, Taen

countered with the one fact that might restrain him. 'Let the boy be. He won't find what he most wishes to

obtain.'

Surprise answered, followed by calculation, followed by some keenly intuitive guesswork. 'The

Stormwarden is helpless, then?'

Taen sighed in the windy darkness. Mad, but wily as an old wolf, the Kielmark made few mistakes when

it came to assessing Keithland's weaknesses. As his thoughts shifted rapidly future ward, to planning and

intricate countermeasures, the Dreamweaver released the contact. She urged the mare on into the scrub pines

on the heights, certain now that the men who ran to fetch swords would be called back to their beer. The

Kielmark would allow her to seek Ivainson Jaric without interference, and since the ways of enchantresses

could be expected to foul even the most carefully laid network of patrols, probably the sentry would get by

with a tongue-lashing.

Yet barely a mile farther on, with the trees tossing around her and the first raindrops spattering in the

dust, Taen heard a drum roll of hoofbeats bearing down from behind. Not a patrol; the men who kept watch

on the island's outposts never reported alone, and a relief watch would number five. Annoyed now, and

chilled by the wet, the enchantress reined up and waited as the rider overtook her. Expertly slowed from a

gallop, his horse clattered to a stop. Sparks shot from the concussion of steel shoes on stone, and Taen's mare

sidled.

She controlled it, mostly by accident. Her reins tangled uselessly with her fingers, and her legs swung,

clumsily inept. Still, she managed to keep her seat, even when the man she recognized as the sentry from the

bailey jostled his mount against hers and tossed the heavy folds of a cloak into her hands.

"Kielmark's compliments," he shouted breathlessly. Then he grinned. "Said his patrols could see you

weren't ambushed, but damned if he'd have you perish of cold."

Taen grinned back, recognizing Corley's deft manipulation

behind the gesture. Then, as she flung the wool over her shoulders, her hand caught on the huge ruby which

adorned the brooch at the collar. The most feared and powerful man in Keithland had sent her his personal

cloak, and not as an afterthought. In sparing his fortress from Kor's Accursed, Taen Dreamweaver had

earned something more complex than the Kielmark's gratitude. She strove to wring comfort from that fact.

Ahead of her, the troubled heir of Ivain Firelord had a decision to make that would affect the continuance of

humanity; and behind, painfully abandoned at Elrinfaer, was the brother she had lost to the demons.

For Marlson Emien, hope no longer existed. Collected from the sands of Elrinfaer by the unsuspecting

charity of two fishermen, he lay limp beneath a shelter jury-rigged from tarpaulins as the first fall of rain

pattered over the sloop. The brothers who took him in had treated his palms, unaware that his burns were a

caustic reaction to bare-flesh contact with a solution of demon-controlled Sathid crystal. Neither did they

guess that his fever was no illness but the effects of transition as the entities he harbored melded and

established mastery over his mind. Irrevocably possessed by Kor's Accursed, Emien did not hear the

foaming rush of the sea, nor the thump and rattle of planking as the sloop tossed, spume-drenched, on her

heading. Cold did not touch him, even when run-off from the tarps leaked down his shoulders and back. His

opened eyes stayed blind as marbles, his limbs still. Only his mind knew agony. As the Sathid coursed

through his body, his awareness twisted in a pocket of nightmare, utterly powerless to win free.

The sister who sorrowed at Cliffhaven would never have recognized him now. Demon thought-forms

overran his humanity and alien desires ravaged his spirit. Emien had known hatred; but never in life had he

experienced the depth and intensity of spite which racked him as his new overlords raged over the loss of the

Keys to Elrinfaer. A decade of intricate plotting had failed them, and once more their hope of exterminating

humanity had been thwarted. Only one part of the grand design remained to be salvaged: a new pawn had

been gained to replace Merya Tathagres. As the Sathid entity assimilated Emien's personality, the demons

explored their find.

Voices rustled in the boy's mind, dry and numerous as dead leaves whirled by wind. The words were in

no human tongue,

and the speakers far distant, conferring in a place beyond the north borders of Keithland. Yet through the

bridge of the Sathid-link they were a part of Emien, and Emien a part of them. Comprehension required no

translation.

'Who, tell me, who is he?'

Another voice answered, gruffer, and curt with authority. 'Man-child, forsaken-one. Called Marlson

Emien, but ours now, destined to become the bane-of-his-kind.'

'Knowledge, fast-tell-me, what memories does he possess?'

Demon thought-probes jabbed into Emien's mind. He moaned faintly under the tarp, powerless to hinder

as demons rummaged ruthlessly through his being. Most of his past experience they discarded as

meaningless, but not all; where his new masters had interest, they poked and pricked and prodded, pitilessly

sorting out what information they wished. They examined his childhood, the poverty and the shortcomings

and the discontent he had known as a fisherman's son on Imrill Kand. No nuance escaped scrutiny. Demons

knew the rough wooden loft where he had shivered in the misery of his nightmares, and the quiet, careworn

widow who had raised him. They knew the peat smoke and tide wrack, and the sour smells of nets drying

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JANNYWURTSKEEPEROFTHEKEYSBOOKTWOOFTHECYCLEOFFIREThisbookisanAceoriginaledition,andhasneverbeenpreviouslypublished.KEEPEROFTHEKEYSAnAceBook/publishedbyarrangementwiththeauthorPRINTINGHISTORYAceedition/August1988Allrightsreserved.Copyright©1988byJannyWurts.CoverandinteriorartbyJannyWurts.Thisbookmayno...

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