FREEZING RAIN FELL throughout the morning, spattering the Highlands clearing with patches of ice and glazing the surrounding trees until the interlaced branches gleamed like fine porcelain from across the distant Cholee Sea. The raw, biting air carried the scent of half-frozen mud and wet leaves. The House of Moons, a gray two-story building, stood at one end of the winter-bare grounds, dwarfed by a huge, sprawling brown-stone complex on the other side.
Haemas Tal flung open the House of Moons door and hesitated, her pale-gold eyes desperate. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her braided hair, then ducked her head and fought her way into the hissing downpour. The icy rain streamed off her cloak as she dashed down the crushed-gravel path that led across the grounds to Shael’donn. The chill air knifed through her lungs with each breath, but she ran faster, faster. Not much time, Lising had said. She had to hurry, or it would be too late. Master Ellirt would be gone forever.
The wind buffeted her, screaming like a hungry silsha prowling the lowland forest. She felt her own silshas close by; vigilant, lurking in the surrounding trees like black-furred shadows as she rounded the final turn. They picked up on her anguish and snarled in response, their voices carrying in the wet cold. Haemas’s pumping legs ached and her lungs cried out for air. Ahead, the driving rain sheeted against the larger school’s rough-cut brown granite. Gasping for breath, she raised her fist to beat on Shael’donn’s massive door, but a startled, wide-eyed student swung it open.
She pushed inside, her hands trembling as she ripped off the icy weight of her sodden cloak. The boy took it wordlessly and folded it over his arm. She turned around, the only sound her labored breathing and rain dripping on the entrance flagstones. Quiet hung in the halls like a shroud, and it seemed everything she loved about this ancient seat of learning had already died.
Healing Master Lising’s long legs hurried down the main staircase toward her. He was tall and narrow, his grim face pale above the traditional healer’s black tunic. Haemas pushed stray tendrils of wet white-gold hair back from her flushed cheeks and made herself meet his golden-eyed gaze. “You’re sure?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice. “Master Ellirt is dying?”
Resignation flickered across his thin face. “Best you go up and say your farewells now.”
She hesitated. “What about Kevisson?”
“He’s been called back, Lady Haemas, but I doubt he’ll get here in time.”
Numb with the shock, she bowed her head and swept past him up the steps, wishing he wouldn’t use her title. “Lady Haemas” was someone else entirely, someone competent and at peace with her father, who could never have been tricked into running away—someone other than Haemas Tal, Mistress of the House of Moons, the struggling mindarts academy for girls.
She hesitated outside the familiar door, then forced herself to push the latch. Inside the drapes had been drawn, although Master Ellirt had been blind from birth. A roaring fire illuminated the figure lying in the bed, swaddled in quilts up to his neck against a cold that ate at him from within, not without. The walls seemed to move inward as Haemas was overwhelmed with the muffled smell of the sickroom. She steadied herself against the mantel, fighting to speak around the knot in her throat. “Master Ellirt?”
The dimly seen figure stirred. “Come in, child.”
Crossing to the narrow bed, she sank onto the wooden chair at its side, feeling as if she balanced at the edge of a black precipice. How could it have come to this? Only yesterday her old teacher had seemed hearty enough, his craggy face cheerful as he visited her classrooms and offered suggestions. She, as well as the rest of Shael’donn, had depended on him as if he would go on forever, like the towering mountains that ringed the Highlands or the clear green sky. Taking his gnarled hand, she pressed the papery skin to her cheek.
“I’m ... sorry.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I—” He broke into a cough that wracked his lungs and brought tears to Haemas’s eyes.
“Don’t talk,” she said as the fit subsided.
No, his mindvoice whispered, there are ... warnings I must ... give.
Even though speaking that way did not trouble his breathing, it took even more energy, and he had so little left. “Please—” she began.
You must listen! In her mind, Haemas heard and felt him clearly now, tasting of lemons and sunlight, sounding like his old self. I have very little time left ... I’m not going to spend it arguing, even with someone I care as much about as you. Master Ellirt struggled against the quilts and she loosened them so that she could prop him up on the pillows. His face was haggard in the flickering fire-shadows, the lines of strain standing out like cords. For three years now, I have believed ... in the House of Moons, what it would stand for, what you wanted ... to do for the girls.
If it hadn’t been for her old master’s persistence, the Council of Twelve would never have funded her project, and Haemas understood that better than anyone. It was against tradition to educate female children in the extended mindarts as she herself had grudgingly been allowed to train. Even though her school was smaller than she had visualized, and operated with minimal funds, it was a start and she was grateful. She tightened her fingers over his, as if by her strength alone she could hold him to this world.
If the Kashi people are to survive, we ... must use all our resources. He hesitated, moving his chilled fingers in her hand. But the Lords will ... try ... The white-haired head lolled back against the pillows and she thought he had passed beyond her reach. Half rising, she started to call the healer, but the gnarled fingers held on, anchoring her at his side.
I’ve designated ... Kevisson as my ... successor. His head stirred weakly. If they ... fight it, that will doom the House of Moons. I’m sorry ... the House ... so important ... You and Kevisson ... take care of each ... he’s a good ... man ...
Dropping her mental shields, she laid herself open to him. “What can I do, Master?” Her eyes burned with scalding, unshed tears. “You showed me the way out when I had nowhere else to turn. You gave my life back to me. Tell me what I can do.”
You took your own life ... back. Remember ... that ...
But he had shown her the way. When her cousin, Jarid, had implanted a terrifying false memory in her mind to make her believe she had killed her father, Master Ellirt had helped her sort out the real from the false. No one else had even considered that she might not be guilty.
Watch out for ... for ... The old fingers suddenly spasmed in her grip, then relaxed. She reached for his mind, but found only a soft peacefulness, like the light from a shrouded lamp, slowly fading. She sat there as the fire burned down into embers, holding the familiar hand, frozen in place, feeling that until she moved he was still with her.
Outside the room, Shael’donn went on about its daily business, as yet unaware of its loss, the Kashi boys attending class, working with accomplished Andiine Masters to hone their natural mindtalents and make the best use of their innate Talent. Although Shael’donn had existed for centuries, Master Ellirt had built the school into far more than it would ever have been without him, and against custom and the displeasure of the Council of Twelve, he had made her a part of it, too, in a time when women and girls were never permitted this level of training.
Behind Haemas the door swung open. She felt the sun-gold warmth of a familiar strength enter the room as the only mind she knew as well as Master Ellirt’s reached out to her. She turned. A man in green riding leathers stood in the doorway, his tan face bleak, his gold-brown eyes questioning. She answered him without words, then flew into his arms, holding Kevisson tightly against the black loss that threatened to consume them both.
* * *
Two nimble ilserin skittered around the edge of a quiet, mirror-surfaced pool in the heart of the great forest, their long green fingers exploring the trees, the brush, the drifts of dead leaves, smelling ... listening ... Their bright black eyes, enormous in their expressionless green faces, noted that someone had come to this sacred place and cleared the faded blue leaves away from the broad white steps leading down into the spring-fed pool. A strange, alien scent lingered, faintly acrid to sensitive ilserin noses.
Leafcurl’s four limber fingers clutched convulsively at his male-brother’s arm as he stared down into the pool constructed so long ago that no one, not even the venerated ilserlara—the ancient Third Ones—remembered how it had been made. He shuddered. One of the dull-green shapes that should have nestled in the sheltering mud below was gone. He turned and embraced his brother Streamleap’s slim green body. Sorrow and distress echoed back and forth between them, building until it was more than either could bear. This was wrong—very, very wrong. Such pools were sacred. No one, not ilserin, ilseri, or ilserlara, would ever think of disturbing one. He trembled and buried his face in Streamleap’s cool neck. Now the mothers, those ethereal, distant creatures who but rarely visited ilserin environs, must be summoned. He trembled at the thought of their mysterious, almost disturbing presence. They would be very angry, distressed beyond all measure at the terrible news he had to convey.
But, then, perhaps they would know what to do.
* * *
So the old fool was dead.
Diren Chee compressed his lips, fighting the smile that wanted to settle there. Ellirt’s death eliminated the last true obstacle to his plans. Gazing around the Council Chamber, he reflected that it had certainly taken him long enough to die. The warning mentioned in the old text against vriddis berries had specifically said that, without antidote, death would occur in “one to two hours.” Kniel Ellirt had somehow lasted more than a day, a wily, tough old bastard to the last.
Mind-conjured blue chispa-fire glittered from small bowls arranged along the clerestory ledge, signifying the seriousness of the occasion. Diren took his gilded seat, third from the left, at the long half-circle table of the Council of Twelve. A dozen perfumes vied as people filtered in to fill the tiered gallery. They were all dressed in their best, Lowland and Highland Houses alike, the women swathed in bright velvets and silks, the men stiff and crisp, even a few children, mostly male, wide-eyed and fidgeting. No matter what the excuse, the Kashi loved a chance to gather and gossip.
Somewhere in that blaze of a hundred different shades of golden hair sat Ellirt’s replacement, the next Lord High Master of Shael’donn. Diren Chee was hoping for someone either stupid or greedy, preferably both. Stupid, greedy men seldom concerned themselves with anything beyond their personal profit.
Steepling his fingers, Diren leaned back in Chee’ayn’s hereditary seat, trying not to notice that the ebari-hide covering was peeling and cracked and the silsha-fur stuffing had long since packed down to a pebbly hardness. Though he lacked the funds to remedy such humiliations at the moment, he would not have to endure them much longer. Reaching into his pocket, he fingered the cool, faceted hardness of the latteh crystal. Soon everyone would have to acknowledge the House of Chee.
At the center of the table, the Council Head, Dervlin Tal, glared at the crowd from under fierce bushy white eyebrows. He was dressed in an ornamental gold-brocaded jacket that left no doubt as to who was in charge here. Famous for his temper, Tal was another tough old bastard who might stand in Chee’s way, but he would see to him soon enough. His fingers tightened around the latteh and he savored the quiescent power it contained. Everything would be taken care of in proper order.
Tal rapped on the gleaming wood of the curved table for silence. Diren stared down at his own reflection, approving the confident, golden-eyed man who gazed up at him. He straightened his collar and lounged back in his chair.
“The Council will now take up the matter of Master Ellirt’s successor for the High Mastership of Shael’donn,” Tal announced.
A flurry of latecomers entered the circular room. Diren recognized Haemas Tal and Kevisson Monmart as the pair passed the Council table without glancing aside. Her face was hollow-eyed, strain evident in the carriage of her shoulders and the set of her jaw. He had watched her at the funeral pyre for Ellirt the night before, her somber profile silhouetted against the red-orange flames, always at Monmart’s side. Then, as now, she had taken his breath away. He sensed both power and passion behind those reserved white-gold eyes, and meant to have them both.
Dervlin Tal scowled at their backs with undisguised animosity. The rift between the Council Head and his daughter had grown only deeper and more bitter with the passage of years, and Diren knew the fact that Haemas Tal was often seen with a person of Monmart’s inadequate station did not help. Although second in Talent and training at Shael’donn only to the now-deceased Kniel Ellirt himself, Kevisson Monmart had been born of an undistinguished Lowlands House and his golden-brown hair and eyes were almost dark enough to be those of a common chierra, hardly a fitting consort for the only child of Dervlin Tal, Head of the Council of Twelve.
On Diren’s right, Lord Rald bent his silver-haired head and spoke softly to Lord Killian on his other side. “You shouldn’t have let that girl get away, Aaren. You could have insisted she honor the marriage contract. We would have backed your claim.”
The other man’s eyes glittered like amber ice. “I pride myself on knowing trouble when I see it, and that baggage is considerably more trouble than even an estate like Tal’ayn is worth.”
Rald smiled back, but Diren could see the older man did not entirely agree. Neither did he. Haemas Sennay Tal represented much that even an unambitious Kashi man might want.
She was a Sennay granddaughter, as denoted by her middle name, and had grown into the regal height of that ancient line. And she had inherited, from her mother’s maternal line, the rare Killian coloring of white-gold hair and eyes that cropped up only once in every few generations. She was exotic, and, although too pale for popular taste, she drew him like a lightwing to the flame. This, combined with the Tal bearing and an unusually strong Talent to pass on to her children, made her desirable beyond words—not to mention the fact that the old Tal had no surviving heirs closer than maternal cousins, not even a niece or nephew. In the fullness of time, Tal’ayn would come to his daughter, whether she desired it or not.
Diren had never bothered to approach her. Chee’ayn had been impoverished before his father’s father had been born. He had nothing to offer but a nit-eaten house filled with half-rotted draperies and ramshackle furniture. He didn’t even dare leave the portal in operation when he was home, lest someone decide to drop in unannounced. At any rate, it was widely repeated in the Highest circles that Haemas Tal had sworn never to marry, and that mud-face, Monmart, was always hanging around her in public so that it was difficult to get even the slightest moment of privacy.
He’d seen how women operated, though. As soon as the old Tal died, she’d be quick enough to move into Tal’ayn all right. No doubt Monmart was counting on being the one to live there with her.
At the center of the table, Tal cleared his throat. “As to Master Ellirt’s successor, we must remember that the future of the Kashi is dependent upon the education of our young.” He gazed around the circular chamber, as if daring someone to disagree. “We have always been few, while the unTalented chierra are many, but as long as we maintain our proficiency in the mindarts, we will hold our ascendancy over the chierra multitudes of this world. The day we forget that basic truth will be the beginning of the end for our way of life.”
The golden heads were nodding now. Diren smiled faintly at Tal’s shameless play on their notions of superiority. It was an old topic, but one of which the Kashi’an, the People of the Light, never grew tired: their rule over the dark-haired chierra peoples of Desalaya.
“As you may know, Master Ellirt did suggest a successor.” Tal’s fierce golden eyes fixed Kevisson Monmart for a long moment. “Yet it was nothing more than that, a suggestion, and I am sure he never meant us to accept it without careful consideration as to what would be the best thing for Shael’donn.”
Already bored, Diren shifted in his lumpy seat. Everyone knew that Monmart, who looked like a damned chierra and had no close ties to any of the great Houses, would never get the appointment. At this very second, each High House was maneuvering for influence. The High Mastership of Shael’donn was far too rich a fruit to be wasted on a nobody Lowlander.
Diren stood up, drawing the hundreds of pairs of golden eyes in the room to him. “Esteemed Head.”
Tal’s lined face looked down the table at him. “Yes?”
“As Talented as Lord Monmart obviously is, he is also the sole heir to Monmart’ayn, a position that I am certain will take up more of his time as the years wear on.” Diren sank back into his seat, enjoying the tightening of Monmart’s face.
“A valid point.” Lord Rald nodded his white-haired head. “We should perhaps select someone without serious obligations to divide his attention.”
Diren leaned back and laced his hands together. It was like throwing a bloody scrap before a flock of scavenging lraels. Except for Chee’ayn and Tal’ayn, he couldn’t think of a High House that didn’t have its share of younger brothers, nephews, cousins, and sons to be put to some sort of gainful occupation. He could hear mental muttering as the greedy Lords squared off over the Shael’donn Mastership, none of them even remembering now that Kniel Ellirt had ever existed or left his preference.
A low clear voice rang out over the babble of voices. “Esteemed Council Head.” The eyes in the circular chamber turned to Haemas Tal standing tall and straight in her ankle length tunic and flowing pants, the chispa-fire along the outer rim of the chamber playing on the white-gold of her braided hair. “I knew Master Ellirt better than many here today, and I say we should not discard the carefully thought out decision he left us. He had many valid reasons for naming Lord Monmart as his successor.”
“Perhaps ...” Speaking from his seat, Diren let his voice trail off, as if he hesitated to bring up something unpleasant. “Perhaps it was most important to Master Ellirt that Shael’donn is situated so closely to the House of Moons. Perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of having the two of you parted.” A muffled titter filtered through the room.
Red flushed her high cheekbones. “I will not dignify that insinuation with an answer, Lord Chee. Master Ellirt selected Kevisson Monmart because he is the most experienced, the most Talented, and the most qualified Master currently in residence at Shael’donn. If the Council selects anyone else today, we will all know the appointment had little to do with any of those qualities.” Without looking at Monmart, she settled back into her seat.
Even from across the chamber, Diren could feel the blaze of Monmart’s tight-lipped anger. He had told her not to interfere, Diren realized. Monmart wanted to handle this on his own.
Dervlin Tal bathed his daughter with a burning look. “Your opinion in this matter can hardly be considered unbiased.” Tal spread the sheets of parchment before him. “The chair is open for alternate nominations.”
Monmart stood, his back ramrod straight. “I wish to withdraw my name from the nominations.”
“You can’t.” Tal held up a sheet of parchment. “Master Ellirt nominated you and your name must be considered.”
“Suit yourselves, then.” His face tight with anger, Monmart strode toward the carved doors of Old oak that stood twice as high as a man. “I’m sure you will anyway and I have no wish to be a part of this farce.” A chierra servant darted forward to open the door.
Diren glanced at Haemas Tal, sitting white-faced between the empty seat on one side and that meddling old nit, Enissa Saxbury, who fancied herself a female healer. He snorted. A woman healer, as if there could ever really be such a thing.
She had been Lady of Sithnal’ayn, wife to one of the High Lords and welcome in the Highest of circles—but after his death, she had abandoned her title and helped found the House of Moons, evidently content to be only a Saxbury.
A jumble of names was thrown out, mostly from the High Lords seated at the Council table. Having no idle male relatives of his own of which to dispose, Diren lounged back in his chair and monitored the list, listening for one who would suit his purposes. He hadn’t gone to all this trouble to eliminate Kniel Ellirt just to watch another Lord High Master installed at Shael’donn who was clever or strongly Talented or both.
His interest was piqued when Lord Seffram Senn brought up the name of Riklin Dynd Senn, one of the younger Senn nephews, who was a Master at Shael’donn. Diren had known Riklin during his own days as a student there. They had not only been in the same form, but had roomed on the same floor. Riklin had been a stocky, slow-moving youth, quick to resent injuries and quicker yet to redress them. As far as Diren could remember, although Riklin had been competent at the mindarts, he’d never had an original thought in his entire life—the perfect picture of a man who would never notice a latteh being wielded right under his nose.
Diren studied the gallery, picking out Riklin’s blunt features and curly mop of dusky-gold hair in the back. Rising, he stretched a beguiling smile across his face. “Esteemed Head,” he said smoothly, “I can speak in favor of one of the candidates mentioned, a man whom I have known for many years to be honorable and Talented, a man who should serve us all exceptionally well.”
Or at least as well as you deserve to be served, he thought, keeping a close watch on his shields. All around him then, he felt alliances crumbling and reforming in a swirl of new patterns as the High Houses scrambled for position.
At the end of the first ballot, Riklin Senn’s name ranked third, following Leric Rald, one of the older Rald’ayn cousins who had trained at Shael’donn for many years, but was of little real account, and Alban Killian, a Killian son who had left Shael’donn several years ago. Rald was far too old, Diren thought, and Killian was a shallow womanizer with at least three bastards to his name already, a predilection at odds with the males-only environment of Shael’donn. Diren adjusted his sleeves. With a little help, even a brute like Riklin Senn might win over that pair.
Another ballot was marked, and then a third. Killian was finally eliminated, but neither Rald nor Senn could win a clear majority. The Council broke to take refreshments spread by a brace of Tal’ayn servants, and Diren worked his way through the muttering press of bodies to Seffram Senn’s side.
I would like to see Riklin win this, he said in a tightly broadcast thought.
For old times’ sake? Senn’s lip curled disdainfully. Don’t make me laugh. Besides, Rald doesn’t give a damn what you think.
I have a few favors I can call in. Diren chewed thoughtfully on a slice of mellow cheese. Promise me a starter flock of Old sheep, at least ten, including a good ram. And feed to last the winter.
Senn stared stonily ahead, his eyes narrow.
They say Rald’s cousin is a hard worker, although I hear that he has a quick temper, Diren continued. I would hate to be responsible for letting him at all those young impressionable boys. He brushed the crumbs from his hands.
All right! Senn plunged back into the milling throng from the gallery. But he had better receive a clear majority or the deal is off!
Drawing on his gloves, Diren drifted over to the wall, then pulled the dull-green latteh crystal out of his pocket, shielding it by turning his back. He ran a finger over the irregular facets, still amazed every time he saw it. It was, of course, illegal and forbidden, and all those other things that people always said when someone had a good idea and didn’t want to share it. It was also the road back to wealth and prestige that had been stolen from Chee’ayn generations before he and his older sister, Axia, had been born. It had taken him months to locate, once he’d found descriptions of it in his father’s papers, and then several more months to be able to use it. And even now, he was aware that he had barely grasped the fundamentals of the ancient art of using a latteh to control another’s mind.
Opening his shields, he teased at the energy lattices within the crystal, forcing them into the pattern he had found as much through guesswork as by following directions. When it was buzzing inside his glove-protected hand, he closed his fist around it and edged toward Himret Rald, Lord of Rald’ayn, who was standing by the doors, speaking quietly with his candidate, Leric.
“Lord Rald?” Diren caught the older man’s eye. “Might I have a word with you?” Diren locked his hands behind his back, caressing the latteh with his gloved thumb. “I will only need a moment and it might save us all a lot of time.”
Almost imperceptibly, Rald nodded his gray-haired head, although the man’s wary eyes said plainly he wanted nothing to do with him. Used to that sort of reaction, Diren smiled again. The Chee temperament had earned rather a bad reputation down through the years, but that had been his father’s and grandfather’s doing. It had nothing to do with him.
Rald nibbled at a chunk of pickled whiteroot. “Make it fast, Chee.”
Diren brought his closed hand around. “I have something that might persuade you to change your mind.”
Rald stared down at the black-gloved fist, then put his hand out as though Diren were going to offer him gold or a valuable bauble. With his free hand, Diren pressed the latteh crystal against the bare skin of the other man’s palm.
Rald’s face went slack, his eyes widening in shock, then rolling back. Stand up! Diren hissed into his mind. In a second I will take the latteh away, after which you will announce to everyone that Leric feels unworthy of such a high honor and begs to be excused.
He watched Rald’s eyes for a moment, seeing the pupils contract to pinpoints even though he had set the latteh at only a moderate level of power. And you will remember nothing of this. Say it!
“I will remember nothing,” Rald repeated tonelessly.
Diren pulled the crystal away, then, pocketing it with a smooth motion, reached out to Rald with the other hand. “My Lord, are you all right?”
Rald blinked, then looked about him, his lined face suddenly ashen. “I—I don’t ...”
“Come and sit down.” Diren put one hand under the older man’s elbow. “Perhaps something to drink—”
“No!” Rald flinched back from him and Diren felt his heart stop. “No,” the other man said again, but less forcefully. “I—” He looked around. “Leric? Where’s Leric?”
“Here, Himret.” Leric Rald forced his way between the curious onlookers.
Rald grasped Leric’s tunic with iron fingers.
“With—withdraw, Leric. It doesn’t mean a damn thing anyway.”
“But—!” Leric’s old face sagged in surprise.
Rald’s fingers tightened. “Withdraw!”
Leric turned to the Head of the Council, old Tal, and nodded stiffly, as if the motion pained him.
Tal scowled. “Let it be so, then. By default, the High Mastership of Shael’donn goes to Riklin Dynd Senn.” He glared around the restless, whispering crowd for a moment. “Council is dismissed.”
Rald and his cousin started slowly toward the huge outer doors, just two old men who had been beaten somehow without knowing why, then stopped as Monmart burst into the room.
“Attack!” Monmart gasped, then looked wildly around the chamber. “Lenhe’ayn has been attacked—by chierra!”