Cooper,Louise - Time Master 03 - The Master

The Master

Book 3 of the Time Master Trilogy

by Louise Cooper

Version 1.0

Chapter 1

At this early season, the dense forests which covered

most of the western half of Chaun Province provided

scant shelter for any traveller. In places the Spring buds

had burst in isolated explosions of green, and on the

forest floor bracken and brambles were tentatively

showing new shoots; but, apart from the occasional

glowering bulk of a giant pine, most of the woodlands

trees were as yet leafless.

In a clearing not far from the forest's northerly edge, a

tall iron-grey gelding foraged disconsolately in the

undergrowth, the broken reins of its bridle trailing

behind it and catching on the briars. Its saddle had

slipped halfway round its girth and one loose stirrup

banged occasionally on a hind leg, making the animal

flatten its ears and snap at the unseen irritant while sweat

broke out on its withers. Though otherwise it seemed

calm enough, there were tell-tale flecks of foam around

its mouth and ringing the saddle like scum; and every

now and again the gelding would pause in its browsing

for no apparent reason and jerk its head up suspiciously,

alert for some imagined threat.

In the three hours since its extraordinary and terrified

arrival in the clearing, the horse had ignored the still,

slender figure lying sprawled across the protruding roots

of a giant oak. Strict training had conditioned it not to

leave its rider - whoever that rider might be - and seek

freedom; but until the rider showed signs of con-

sciousness, the animal had no interest in her. With the

terrors of the last few hours all but forgotten, it was

content to stay in the relative safety of the wood and

continue grazing until it should be called upon to move.

The girl, clinging frantically to the gelding's saddle as

they exploded out of the howling insanity that had

snatched them in its grip and hurled them here, had been

thrown from the animal's back as it crashed down,

screaming, among the undergrowth. She had slammed

against the oak's gigantic bole and fallen like a shot bird

to lie unmoving among the roots. Her face, half hidden

under a tangle of near white hair and the tattered hood

of a cloak, was drained and sickly, her lips bloodless;

and a bright scarlet stain had spread from her skull

across her forehead, mingling with other, older blood-

stains that weren't her own. But she breathed . . . and

at last, slowly, she began to stir.

As she returned to consciousness Cyllan had no

immediate memories of the events which had brought

her to the forest. At first, dimly aware that she lay on

hard, cold and damp ground, she thought herself asleep

in the hide tent which she'd called home during her four

years as an apprentice drover. But there was no claus-

trophobic sense of enclosure, no stink and bawl of mill-

ing cattle, no ill-tempered yelling from her uncle, Kand

Brialen.

Her droving days were over. A dream - nothing but a

bad dream. Surely, she was still in the Castle . . . ?

It was that thought which brought clarity back to her

mind like a hard slap in the face, and involuntarily she

jerked upright, her peculiar amber eyes opening and a

cry, a name, breaking from her throat before she could

stop it.

'Tarod!'

The gelding lifted its head and regarded her curiously.

Cyllan stared back, bewildered, knowing only that she

had never seen this place before. Hammers were beating

in her skull; with a gasp of pain she slumped back against

the tree trunk, and every muscle protested at the move-

ment, making her feel as though her body were on fire.

Her mind struggled frantically to assimilate the imposs-

ible evidence of her senses. Where was the Castle? What

had happened to Tarod? They'd found her in the stable

when she was trying to reach him, dragged her out into

into the black-walled courtyard where the High Initiate

waited; and then, as the Warp had come shrieking over-

head, Tarod had appeared -

The Warp. Suddenly, Cyllan remembered, and with

the memory came a sickness that clutched at her empty

stomach and made her retch, violently and uselessly,

doubled up against the tree's unyielding bark. She

recalled the confrontation in the courtyard, her own

escape - she had kicked the High Initiate full in the

stomach, bitten the burly man who held her - and her

precipitous flight when, trapped and beyond Tarod's

reach, she had taken the only chance she had and leaped

on to the gelding's back. She'd had some wild idea of

riding down anyone who stood in her path, forcing a way

through to Tarod, but the horse had panicked, bolted -

and careered out through the Castle gates, straight into

the path of the monstrous supernatural storm that raged

in unleashed chaos outside.

Cyllan shuddered as images of the horrors she had

glimpsed in the split second before the storm engulfed

her slid past her defences. The mountains, twisted to

impossible shapes and dimensions; the sea seeming to

rear in a titanic wall of water towering thousands of feet

to the ravening sky; wild, monstrous faces manifesting

from cloud and lightning, serpent tongues darting and

voices bellowing with insensate agony - then the black

wall had thundered in to meet her and she knew only

darkness and madness until she had burst in a howling

cacophony of noise and brilliance and buffeting pain on

to a scene that almost smashed her sanity with its sheer

normality. Then she was hurtling through the air - she

heard the gelding shriek as it fell - and the tree, solid,

real, uncompromising, obliterated her consciousness.

At last the spasms in her stomach faded and she pulled

herself to a less cramped position. She was alive - and

whatever her predicament, that in itself was cause for

sobering gratitude. Everyone in the land was brought up

from childhood with a paralysing terror of the Warps;

there wasn't a soul alive who hadn't heard the high, thin

wailing out of the far North, and seen the bands of sickly

colour marching across the sky, that presaged the onset

of one of the appalling supernatural storms. The Warps

were a legacy of Chaos, a last remaining manifestation

of the pandemonium that had once ruled unchecked in

the world before the rise of Order, and when they came,

terrifying and unpredictable, every man, woman and

child took shelter. Those who failed to find it had fervent

prayers said for their souls by the Sisters of Aeoris, and

left behind friends and relatives who knew that no trace

of them would ever be found. Legend had it that the

wailing scream which accompanied a Warp as it rode

across the land was the massed lamentation of all those

lost and damned, borne on the winds of Chaos.

But twice now Cyllan had survived the indescribable

horror of the storms; twice she'd found herself carried

across the face of the world by the maelstrom and left

battered and bruised, but alive, in some distant and

unknown place. If the legends were credible - and there

was enough gruesome evidence to prove their veracity -

then she should be dead, and damned to whatever hell

awaited the Warps' victims. Yet she lived . . . and the

knowledge of why she lived made her shiver as she

recalled the calculating and coldly invincible being who

had pragmatically chosen to offer her his protection.

Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who claimed kinship with

Tarod and whose machinations had sparked off the

whole ugly chain of events at the Castle of the Star

Peninsula, had answered her desperate prayers for help

when there was no other hope left to her. She remem-

bered the unhuman smile on his beautiful face when, as

she cowered before him, he had revealed his part in

preserving her life and bringing her to the Castle when

the Warp struck in Shu-Nhadek. As the grey gelding

plunged through the Castle gates and into the storm she

had screamed his name in a frantic, involuntary cry for

aid, and it seemed that again he had answered her.

Cyllan had no illusions about Yandros's loyalty or

patronage; he protected her because she was useful to

him, but should she fail in the task he had set her she

could expect no mercy from him. And she knew - as he

knew - that, now she had turned her face once from her

fealty to the ruling lords of Order, she would find no

forgiveness if she ever came to repent what she'd done.

In casting her lot with Chaos, she had irrevocably

damned herself in the eyes of her own gods.

Cyllan shivered again, and reached to the neck of her

grey dress, fumbling at the bodice until she drew out

something that lodged between her breasts. She hadn't

lost it in the wild flight from the Castle - and she felt an

odd mixture of relief and disgust as she looked at the

small clear, multifaceted jewel lying in the palm of her

hand and winking a cold reflection of the drab daylight.

The Chaos stone. A source of power and terror . . . and

the vessel that contained the soul of the man she loved.

Reflexively her hand closed over the stone, hiding it

from view. Torn between hatred of the jewel's nature

and the painful knowledge that without it he was

incomplete, Tarod had warned her of its influence; an

influence, he'd said, which corrupted and tainted any-

thing it touched, or anyone who possessed it. Bitterly,

she reflected how right he was. The stone had already

aided her to kill once, firing her with a demonic blood-

lust that made her revel in the act of murder. The

stigmata of that deed still remained, in the dried red-

brown stains that smeared her hands and clothes, and

she knew how easy it was to fall under that dark influ-

ence. Only Tarod could exert any control over the stone

- and he needed it, for without it he was bereft of all but

a fraction of his power. With the Circle, of which he'd

once been a high Adept, pledged to destroy him, his life

would be in danger until the jewel was in his possession

once more.

If, indeed, he was still alive . . .

It wasn't in Cyllan's nature to cry. Her harsh life had

taught her the futility of displaying any of the traditional

feminine weaknesses, but abruptly she found herself on

the verge of tears. If Tarod lived . . . The last thing she

recalled before the gelding had bolted was seeing him on

the steps by the Castle's main door, unarmed and

pressed by three or four sword-wielding Initiates bent on

cutting him down before he could retaliate. The Warp

had been howling overhead and she had seen no more of

him - but surely, surely even his diminished power was

enough to save him? He could have escaped from the

Castle - and if he had, he would be looking for her.

Though where he would begin, with the entire world to

choose from, was beyond imagining.

Cyllan forced herself to look at the stone again, grim-

acing as it shone like a malign, disembodied eye through

the lattice of her fingers. Then, carefully, she tucked it

back in the bodice of her dress, feeling it settle cold and

unyielding against her skin. However ambiguous her

feelings towards it, the stone was a talisman, her one link

with Tarod, and if such a thing were possible it would

call him to her. Yandros might not be able to lend her

direct aid, but the Chaos lord wanted the gem restored

to Tarod, and if that was her only hope of finding him

then she would do all she could to further Yandros's

aim. She closed her mind to any thoughts of what might

happen beyond that; all that mattered was that she and

Tarod should be reunited.

But a clearing in a forest in the gods alone knew what

part of the world was hardly the most auspicious starting

place for a search. In the short time since she'd regained

consciousness the light had perceptibly faded, telling her

that the weather was deteriorating. She had no food,

water or shelter, and no idea how far she might be from

the nearest village or even drove road. She couldn't

judge the time of day; it might be nearing dusk, and the

forest wasn't a safe place to spend the night - it was high

time she put aside her speculations and looked to the

more practical and immediate problems of survival.

She struggled to her feet, and the gelding raised its

head suspiciously. Brushing debris from her crumpled

clothes - her skirt was badly ripped at one side, she

noticed - Cyllan put two fingers in her mouth and gave a

peculiar, low whistle. The gelding laid its ears back; she

whistled again, and, reluctantly obeying the summons,

the animal approached close enough for her to take hold

of its bridle. As she retightened the saddle and checked

for broken straps, Cyllan was thankful, perhaps for the

first time in her life, for the four years she'd spent travel-

ling the roads on ponyback as an apprentice in her

uncle's drover band. The whistle was a trick she'd

learned early, and could command the most recalcitrant

animal; the gelding would give her no trouble, and she

was inured to long hours in the saddle. With Aeoris - she

mentally corrected herself, smiling wryly to cover her

unease - with luck on her side, she should make good

enough speed to the nearest habitation.

The harness was secure: balancing on a tree root to

gain height, Cyllan swung herself into the saddle. Peer-

ing up through the latticed branches of the trees she tried

to discern the lie of the lowering Sun, but the tiny

patchwork of sky above was overcast. She sat for a

moment, considering, then swung the horse's head in

what intuition told her was a roughly southerly direc-

tion. Most of the forest belts which crossed the western

and central parts of the land ran East to West; therefore

if she rode South she should reach the edge of the

woodland before long, and from there be able to pick up

a drove road without too much difficulty.

She didn't know, and didn't care to speculate, what

might await her on her journey. If Tarod had escaped,

word would soon be out and the hunt under way for him;

possibly for her too, though it was more likely that the

Circle would believe her dead. Somehow, she must find

him before they did . . .

She touched her heels to the gelding's flanks, and

urged it forward among the dense, waiting trees.

* * * * *

The singing that drifted faintly from the direction of the

main hall in the Castle of the Star Peninsula would have

been a delight to hear, had it taken place under less

dismal circumstances. The massed women's voices were

beautiful, their harmonies rising and falling on the light

evening breeze; but Keridil Toln couldn't for a moment

forget that the Sisters of Aeoris were singing a requiem

for the son of the man who sat opposite him in his study.

Gant Ambaril Rannak, Margrave of Shu Province,

listened to the choir with head bowed, one hand unmov-

ing on the stem of his wine cup. Occasionally he looked

up at the open window as though expecting to see some-

thing or someone, and Keridil glimpsed the momentary

glitter of suppressed rage in his eyes.

At last Gant spoke, quietly, calmly. 'The Sisters' sing-

ing is very moving. I appreciate the gesture, High Initi-

ate, on their part and yours.' He blinked; frowned

painfully. 'I only regret that their anthems can't bring

Drachea back from the dead.'

Keridil sighed. He had dreaded having to break the

news that the Margrave's son and heir had been mur-

dered while under his protection. Gant had arrived with

his wife and entourage only that day, rejoicing to hear

that Drachea had single-handedly thwarted the machi-

nations of Chaos and performed a great service for the

Circle. His son was a hero - but instead of sharing in his

glory, the old man had been greeted instead with the

shock of his bloody and ignominious death. Keridil had

anticipated ranting, lamentation, accusation; but the

Margrave's quiet, bitter grief had proved far harder to

withstand. The Lady Margravine had collapsed and now

lay in the Castle's best guest suite, tended by Grevard

the physician; but Gant had refused all offers of seda-

tives or calmatives, and instead, after seeing his son's

corpse, had requested a private interview with the High

Initiate.

Keridil had now told the full story of Drachea's death;

of how he had disturbed Cyllan, after her escape, in the

act of stealing the Chaos stone, and of how she had slain

him. He had wanted to confess to his own sense of

responsibility for the young man's murder, yet apologies

seemed grotesquely inadequate; all he could do was wait

for Gant to say whatever he wished to say. Knowing the

Margrave, Keridil had little doubt that he'd speak his

mind.

The singing faded on a final, poignant harmony, and

the Margrave nodded his head as though in approval.

Then he looked at Keridil again, and this time his eyes

were iron hard.

'Well, High Initiate. Only one question remains in my

mind. What is to be done to avenge my son's murder?'

Keridil glanced at the notes which he'd made earlier in

the day. Though it would bring Gant small comfort, he

could at least report that he hadn't been idle.

'I've already set matters in train, Margrave,' he said.

'You may have heard of the recent experiments carried

out in Wishet and Empty Provinces, with message-

carrying birds - '

'I've heard of it, High Initiate. In fact, I suggested that

the idea might be employed in the search for my son

when he first disappeared.'

Keridil flushed at the older man's tone. 'Indeed . . .

well, the early experiments were successful enough for

us to put the idea into practice here at the Castle. We

have a master falconer visiting us from Empty Province,

and his birds have proved reliable and far faster than any

relay of horsemen.'

Gant's eyes lit feverishly. 'Then you can send out - '

'I already have, sir. Three birds were despatched at

noon today, to carry word of what's happened here to

West High Land, Han and Chaun. As soon as they land,

more birds will leave for the other provinces. The news

should reach the furthest outposts tomorrow, and even

the High Margrave himself will hear of it within the day.'

Gant's eyes narrowed. 'And the girl - that murdering

little serpent . . . you've conveyed her description to

every Margravate? To every militia leader?' His fist

clenched involuntarily on the table. 'She must be found,

High Initiate, and she must be executed!'

The Margrave's single-mindedness was understand-

able in the circumstances, but Keridil had more than

Cyllan's whereabouts on his mind. Of the two people he

sought she was by far the less dangerous, and though he

was determined to bring her to justice he had more

urgent priorities. Nonetheless, he was well aware that

Gant must be handled with care; any hint that his son's

murder took second place to other considerations would

mean more trouble than Keridil could cope with at

present.

He said, 'Indeed we've circulated her description,

Margrave; and I'm confident that she won't be able to

escape the search for long - if she's still alive, which we

can only surmise. The militia are to be put on full alert,

and I've asked for the utmost co-operation from every

province. However, I must add that we're dealing with

something that could have even greater ramifications

than Drachea's murder.' He glanced up, saw the older

man's expression and continued with caution. 'You

know now what's happened here at the Castle recently,

how it came about, and who perpetrated it. That per-

petrator is still at large - and he's a thousand times more

dangerous than Cyllan Anassan. Please - ' he added

quickly as Gant seemed about to protest, 'I share your

anxiety to find the girl and punish her. But I dare not

neglect the search for Tarod. He's far more than just a

killer; he's an incarnation of Chaos.' He leaned forward,

intent. 'Margrave, you've seen and heard for yourself a

little of the havoc he's capable of wreaking. Can you

imagine what the fate of all of us would be if such a

monstrous power of evil were let loose on the world?'

Gant was silent, and Keridil knew his words had

found their mark. 'I don't want to cause undue alarm in

the land, especially not at this stage,' he added quietly.

'But I'd be failing in my duty if I didn't spread the

warning, and spread it fast. To be brutally honest, our

world could be facing a danger the like of which has been

unknown since the fall of the Old Ones. And I'm not

ashamed to admit to being afraid.'

Had he made a mistake in being so frank? The

Margrave's face had taken on a pinched, tight look, and

his gaze flickered uneasily to the window and back.

'High Initiate, I find it hard to believe - ' he coughed

to clear his throat as his voice cracked involuntarily, 'to

believe that the Circle, in which resides the power and

the sanction of Aeoris himself - ' He made the White

God's sign over his own heart but seemed unable to

finish the sentence.

Keridil sighed. 'I fervently wish that half the tales

which are told about the Circle's abilities were true,

Margrave, but the bald fact is that, whilst we might have

Aeoris's sanction, it would be folly to assume that we

have his power, or anything resembling it.' His expres-

sion hardened. 'That's a lesson I've recently learned

through bitter experience, and to pretend otherwise

would be to court disaster.' He clasped his hands

together, the knuckles whitening. 'Without the jewel I

told you of, Tarod's by no means invincible. But if he

should find that girl before we do, and recover the stone,

he'll regain his full power. And that means the power to

summon back the full forces of Chaos and darkness to

the world.'

'But surely no man can command such sorcery!'

'No man, no - but this isn't a man we're contending

with. Tarod is kin to Chaos; born of Chaos. Don't doubt

his capabilities, Margrave. I once made that mistake.'

Gant shifted uncomfortably on his chair, chagrined.

'This is far more serious than I realised ... I under-

stand your concern, Keridil, and I share it.' He made a

bleak attempt at a smile. 'Inasmuch as you have your

duty, I also have mine, and I accept that personal con-

siderations must take second place. How can Shu

Province aid you?'

Keridil gave silent thanks for the hard edge of innate

common sense which characterised the older man,

shored up by twenty years of rigid governorship. As well

as encompassing the largest and safest sea-port in the

land, Shu Province also boasted a strong and efficient

militia, and the Margravate's resources were among the

best to be found anywhere. Gant would make an invalu-

able ally.

He nodded. 'I'm grateful for your support, sir, and

your generosity - and I don't mind admitting I'll need all

the help I can find, especially in terms of manpower.'

'Indeed. But you must realise, of course, that once

word of this spreads, although you'll have that help from

every quarter you'll also be running the risk of spreading

panic throughout the land.' He bit his lip. 'Fear of Chaos

is deeply rooted in all of us, and the thought that it might

be summoned back . . . ' His shrug, masking a shiver,

was eloquent.

'I considered that, but I dare not minimise the peril

we're in,' Keridil said, recalling the hours of mental

torment as he struggled to assess the wisdom of the

decision he'd made. 'People must be told, Margrave. I

can't, in all conscience, keep back the truth.'

Gant inclined his head. 'Yes ... I see your dilemma,

and I think I must agree with you. However, to avoid

hysteria it may be necessary to impose certain strictures

over and above the laws of our land. In my own province

for example - '

Keridil interrupted him. 'I'll sanction anything you

consider advisable that falls within my own jurisdiction,

sir. And if the High Margrave's consent is needed, I'll do

my utmost to secure it.'

'Thank you. Speaking of the High Margrave . . . you

said that one of your message birds is bound for the

Summer Isle?'

'It is, yes.' The High Initiate hesitated, wondering

whether it would be advisable to confide fully in Gant;

then he decided that there could be no harm in it. 'I've

also sent word to the Lady Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi, at her

Cot.' He hesitated. 'You may as well know now, sir, that

I've asked the views of both on the possibility of calling a

Conclave on the White Isle.'

Gant stared at him, stunned. 'On the ... ' He

swallowed. 'Surely, Keridil, matters haven't come to

that!'

'They haven't, no: but they could. And if they do, we

might have no choice but to sanction the opening of the

casket.'

Gant made the Sign of Aeoris over his heart again.

His face had turned the unhealthy colour of putty, and

he tried not to think about the implications of what the

High Initiate had said. Every child was brought up on

the legend of the gold casket which had been Aeoris's

legacy to his world and his followers after the fall of the

old race, when Chaos was defeated and banished. The

casket was held in a shrine on the White Isle, a strange,

volcanic island off the coast of Shu-Nhadek, and

guarded by a hereditary caste of zealots who were the

only men allowed to set foot on the Isle's sanctified

ground. Only in a time of gravest crisis could the High

Initiate, High Margrave and Lady Matriarch of the Sis-

terhood of the Aeoris sail to the Isle where, in Conclave,

they might take the decision to open the sacred relic.

And if the casket should be opened, it would summon

Aeoris himself back to the world . . . No, Gant told

himself desperately; matters couldn't have reached such

a pass . . .

Keridil watched the changing expressions on the older

man's face, and could sympathise with his obvious dis-

tress. The thought of being forced to take a decision that

had not been faced for thousands of years was enough to

give him nightmares - but if it had to be done, he knew

he'd do it.

'Margrave, I believe - and I hope - that the possibility

is very remote,' he said. 'But it must be borne in mind.'

He paused, then added: 'At dawn today, I made an oath

that I won't rest until Tarod has been found and

destroyed, and I promise you now that I'm as deter-

Cooper, Louise - Time Master 03 - The Master

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