Janny Wurts - Sorcerer's Legacy

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Cycle of Fire Trilogy

1. Stormwarden

2. Keeper of the Keys

3. Shadowfane

The Master of Whitestorm

That Way Lies Camelot

The Wars of Light and Shadows

1. Curse of the Mistwraith

and with Raymond E. Feist

Daughter of the Empire

Servant of the Empire

Mistress of the Empire

SCIENCE

FICTION

FANTASY

JANNY WURTS

S ~

orcerer s Legacy

HarperCollinsPublishers

HarperCollins Science Fiction & Fantasy

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

77-85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W68JB

This paperback edition 1994

35798642

Previously published in paperback by Graftoni989

Reprinted twice

First published by Ace Books 1982

Th~ Author asserts the moral right to

identified as the author of this work

~.. :~ ~~~) ISBN 0586204822

Set in Times

Printed in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsManufacturing Glasgow

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or

otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent

in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it

is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

For E.'K. Payne,

whose early enthusiasm first led me

to put stories into words,

and

For D. P. Mannix IV,

who has been friend, advisor, and example

Timesplicer

'So you are the Duke of Trathmere's widow,' said the

ugly, smooth-skinned man who called himself Prime

Inquisitor to the Khadrach Emperor.

A sudded rush of grief forced Elienne to look down.

Scarcely an hour had passed since the Khadrach army had

claimed her home and her husband's life, and the words

had a lonely, unreal sound. The heavy, blood-crusted

boots of halberdiers still seemed nightmarishly out of

place against the glass mosaic floor of Trathmere Keep's

great hall.

'Answer me, bitch!' said the Inquisitor.

E!ienne bridled at his tone, forgetting her torn, soot-

stained gown and swollen face. She raised her head and

glowered at the rat-faced Inquisitor.

'You dare,' she spoke quietly; 'you dare call me that?

Khadrach rnervine! May Heil's own Demons defecate on

your tongue. It seems fit for little else.'

The Inquisitor blinked, hot eyes framed in a reddening

face. His jeweled collar of office glittered like blue flame

in the torchlight as he sat back, slowly. Anger always

made him careful.

'So.' He licked thin lips. 'The Lady can curse like a

mercenary.'

Elienne glared.

The Inquisitor laced his veined hands on the table

before him 'Woman,' he said, 'you're a Duke's widow,

less, even, than the little worm that hatches a fly. You

have no worth. Unless, of course, you carry the Duke of

Trathmere's unborn heir?'

Without pausing for her answer, the Inquisitor flicked

a glance over Elienne's thin body. 'I see not,' he observed.

Eiienne again shut her eyes. The night before, Cinndel

had come to her bed for the first time in weeks, perhaps

knowing it was fated to be his last. There was a small

chance ... but Elienne crushed the memory at once.

Children were not conceived by husbands worn and

hardened like flint before the tides of a hopeless war. And

scarcely a week past, Elienne had had evidence she was

not with child

She opened her eyes as the Inquisitor went on.

'As mother of Trathmere's heir, you would have some

stature in the eye of the Emperor. As Trathmere's widow,

you are an obstacle in his path. By Khadrach Law, only

women of blood descent may inherit. The Duchy of

Trathmere, therefore, becomes a prize of war, and your-

self, my sharp-mannered Lady...' The Inquisitor

paused, smiling venomously. 'You become chattel of the

estate, less, even, than the hens in the byre, for at least

they and their eggs may be eaten.'

Elienne felt her neck warm beneath the thick, dark

knot of hair that had fallen loose across her shoulders.

Despite the fear that nestled like a toad in her stomach,

she drew a long, steady breath. 'Tell me, Inquisitor' - her

tone became acid - 'do all Khadrachi carry their manhood

in their bellies?'

The Inquisitor shot half out of his chair before he could

curb his temper. He rearranged himself like a snake

coiling to strike, and rage splintered abruptly into

laughter.

'That was a foolish challenge, Little One.' He turned to

the halberdlets. 'Have her brought to my chambers at

sundown. She will learn quickly how a Khadrach officer

likes his bed warmed. Until then, lock her away. I find

her manner offensive.'

'Touch me, and you'll learn regret!' said Elienne. The

Inquisitor ignored h. er. He nodded to the halberdiers.

A gauntlctcd hand prodded Elienne's back. Rather

than allow herself to be driven like an animal, E!ienne

gathered the tattered ruin of her skirt and walked from

the hall. Though she did her best to ignore the clanking

presence of her escort, pretended indifference did nothing

to loosen the terror that circled her thoughts like a

garrote. She had acted rashly. Cinndcl was dead. What

had she thought to gain by further resistance?

'I love you for your horrid, saucy little tongue,' Cinndei

had once said to her. The memory brought tears despite

her attempt at control. She stumbled blindly. The misstep

earned her an ungentle shove from a halberd haft. Elienne

blinked quickly to clear her eyes, and found herself guided

around a corner and down another corridor. Lancet

windows cast patterns of light and shadow like a game

board, herself the pawn haplessly manipulated across its

wide squares. Elienne shivered. Already the sun slanted

toward late afternoon. Night would be upon her all too

swiftiy.

The halberdiers stopped at last before a portal bound

with ancient, rusted iron. Lurid orange stains streaked the

oak panels between, caused, Elienne knew, by condensa-

tion from Trathmere castle's dungeons. In her memory,

the door had never been opened. But the shock and

revulsion she felt only inspired amused laughter and grins

from her guards.

'Got cold feet, little Lady?' said one. 'Inquisitor'!l warm

'era, sure's fire.'

The door opened with a torturous groan, spilling a wash

of damp air. A man was sent for a torch. Elienne waited

in silence and struggled to contain her apprehension. The

cresset's guttering, smoky light revealed a littered stair

that plunged down into darkness. Elienne forced an

outward show of courage. Cinndel had disliked women

who were silly and afraid. The chilly touch of a halberd

against her shoulder pressed her forward.

Gritty stone met Elienne's slippered foot, and cobwebs

trailed like ghost fingers through her hair as she

descended. Daylight faded behind, replaced by the fitful

flicker of torchlight. The stair ended in a corridor so low

the soldiers had to stoop. Confined, the reek of tallow

and sweat became stifling. The curses and clangs as helms

scraped against slime-caked stone made Elienne want to

stop her ears.

The soldiers thrust her into the first available cell. A

thin slice of light fell through the barred slot in the door

while the soldiers wrestled slide bolts jammed with rust.

Elienne heard an annoyed order accompanied by the

jingle of steel mail as her escort unslung weapons and

pounded the bolts home.

'Bide well, little Lady.' Rough voices and torchlight

receded, leaving E!ienne in darkness. Minutes later, she

heard the moaning complaint of the upper door being

drawn closed. The echoes died slowly into thick silence

broken erratically by the sullen drip of water. Elienne

reached out to orient herself. Her hand met stonework

soft with slime, and something wet squirmed away from

her touch.

E!ienne flinched back. The curse she uttered would

have embarrassed a stablehand, but the effect was ruined

by the shuddering sob that followed. Cinndel had frowned

upon tears, but he was dead. The spirit he had admired in

her had earned no less than the shame of the Inquisitor's

bed. Succumbing to the despair that had driven her since

Trathmere's fall, Elienne allowed herself to cry. Better

here, she felt, than before Khadrach eyes.

She quieted after a time. The tears dried on her cheeks,

and the water drop's monotonous song became predict-

able and familiar to her ears. It reminded her of the water

clock her uncle had tried to rig with chimes. The mechan-

ical portion had never worked properly, and it was forever

striking the hour out of sequence. Elienne pushed the

memory aside and leaned wearily back against the door.

The Khadrach had burned both her uncle and his silly

clock. The Emperor's armies had marred almost every-

thing that had ever given her pleasure, and uttering

another stinging curse, Elienne lapsed into silence.

Time passed, but Elienne had no way to mark the hours.

The waiting was long - perhaps the Inquisitor had forgot-

ten her? More likely the dark damp solitude stretched

minutes to hours below, while above the sun had not yet

set. Then, abruptly, she realized she was no longer alone.

The darkness remained impenetrable as before, the water

drop an erratic solo against stillness; yet, for no apparent

reason, Elienne sensed a presence with her that had not

been in the cell before. It evaded definition.

Uneasy, but not yet afraid, Elienne pushed herself

away from the door. She reached out, but groping fingers

met nothing. There was nothing there, she thought, stung

by self-reproach. No tangible cue sparked her imagin-

ation, only nerves. Still the feeling persisted. Something,

or someone, had invaded her solitude.

Half in annoyance, Elienne reached out again. This

time her fingers encountered the sharp, cold prickle of an

Enchanter's craft.

Eiienne gasped and drew back. The Enchanters were

surely dead, all of them; Guild Tower had been merci-

lessly leveled by Khadrach. Any survivors would have

learned better than to practice loremagic within the

Emperor's lands. And what could an Enchanter offer but

illusions anyway, Elienne thought. Anger at her helpless-

ness followed.

'Show yourself, meddler,' she said sharply. Her

troubles were great enough without a stranger intruding

on them. 'Show yourself! I am sick to death of guessing

you out.'

A faint light sparked into existence before her. With a

thin snap, it flared into startling brilliance. Darkness

shattered, knifed into sudden shadows. Elienne shielded

aching eyes with her hands, half-blinded, and found

herself face to face with a Sorcerer.

He was dressed richly in the heavy blues of twilight, his

cloak lined with red. His features were mapped with the

usage of centuries. The light, brilliant and dense as a

winter star, hung poised over the palm of his hand.

Without asking Elienne realized he hailed from no Guild

in Trathmere, or in any other land listed in the archivists'

records. This was no dabbler in images. 'Who are you?' she

demanded.

The Sorcerer dimmed his light and, with a flick of his

finger, set it adrift. His mouth reflected forced patience,

and light eyes regarded her with the dispassionate inten-

sity of a snake. 'I am called Ielond.'

Searcher, translated Elienne, wondering even as she

spoke. The name derived from no language she knew.

Meaning could have come only from Ielond's own touch

upon her mind. Overwhelmingly awakened to the fact she

confronted a wielder of intense and dangerous power,

E!ienne was unable to curb the question that rose like a

challenge to meet him.

'What do you seek in Trathmere's dungeons, Gifted?

Khadrach have no love for your kind.'

'1 seek a bride for the Prince of Pendaire.'

Eiienne's temper flared, heated by memory of Cinndel,

whom she loved without thought for another. 'Myself,

Gifted? Am I the one you came for?'

Staring upward, Elienne read her answer in the Sorcer-

er's impassive silence. 'Devil and Demons take that idea!

Keep your Prince, Gifted. Better I take my chances with

that mervine of an Inquisitor. Himself I am free to hate.'

'Keep still.' Above Ielond's shoulder, the light flared

like a small sun. 'You will wed my Prince only if you

prove worthy - and your manner with strangers shows

regrettable lack of courtesy.'

'Then search elsewhere, I beg you.' Elienne fought to

contain sudden tears, overcome by the sensation that

there was nothing understandable left in the world.

Quiet for a long moment, Ielond stood with his head

bent, perhaps listening to the lonely splash of the water.

Elienne glared at him through swimming eyes and noticed

his face had softened a little.

'Will you leave, Gifted? I have little desire to be any

man's companion.'

Ielond spoke at last with measured, forceful phrases. 'I

will go, Lady Elienne, if that is what you wish. But before

you speak, hear me. Your choice will also affect the life

of the child you carry within you.'

Eiienne stepped back, clumsily, into the door. Her

hands moved instinctively to her middle. 'Last night,' she

whispered, and felt chilled. Could it be true, after all, that

Cinndel...

Ielond finished the thought with icy abruptness. 'Fath-

ered a child upon you, yes. Before you allow yourself

hope, hear what alternatives await you. The Inquisitor

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摘要：

BYTHESAMEAUTHORTheCycleofFireTrilogy1.Stormwarden2.KeeperoftheKeys3.ShadowfaneTheMasterofWhitestormThatWayLiesCamelotTheWarsofLightandShadows1.CurseoftheMistwraithandwithRaymondE.FeistDaughteroftheEmpireServantoftheEmpireMistressoftheEmpireSCIENCEFICTIONFANTASYJANNYWURTSS~orcerersLegacyHarperCollins...

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