IV
IV
ANTHEI’S TOWER
SHADOW SNARED Korendir in darkness. His eyes seemed wrapped in felt, and the air went strange and thin in his nostrils, devoid of any scent. Certain blindness alone would prove no handicap unless Anthei had set other perils against him, Korendir groped for a landmark to orient himself. His hands met emptiness. Garden foliage had disappeared; the very ground before his feet had dissolved into air, leaving him one step from oblivion.
Korendir straightened and unslung his belt. The buckle shone ghostly white against that unnatural void. As if the proximity of iron weakened the spell, faint radiance traced the outlines of rose leaves against a black as absolute as death. Korendir extended an arm into the glow and felt thorns hitch at his sleeve; with no pause for thought he dropped the buckle like a plum bob. It slithered through foliage and struck earth.
Korendir lifted his foot. He felt the solidity of the garden vanish into nothing as his boot left the ground. Guided by the gleam of the iron, he eased forward. His toe touched soil, but his heel remained suspended over emptiness. With painstaking caution, he slid his foot further into the sphere of the metal’s influence and shifted his weight. The rosebed held firm. Step by deliberate step, movement was possible; but no margin remained for mistakes. Estimating his bearings from memory, Korendir made tortuous headway through the cross-tangle of briar and hedgerow. At last he felt gravel grate beneath his sole. He had reached the central path.
Faint light pinpricked the darkness an arm’s length to his right. Korendir reached down to touch. His fingers scraped gravel and closed over honest wood wound with twine; the illumination arose from the iron tip of his arrow, left embedded in Anthei’s front walk. The broadhead bore the numeral five, and by Korendir’s calculation, the tower door lay fifty paces north. He swung the belt and proceeded, progress marked by the nebulous glimmer of his arrows.
He recovered his last shaft at the foot of Anthei’s front stair. The marble risers stayed firm without need of iron’s virtues to bind their existence. Korendir ascended and gained the landing. Abruptly the pall of darkness lifted. The latch tripped, and brass-bound door panels swung inward, spilling candlelight over the stoop. Anthei waited at the threshold. Framed beneath the carved agate lintel, she was robed in floor-length crimson velvet. Gold braid belted her waist. Her delicate oval features nested like a gem beneath masses of coiled blond hair. The beauty of her stunned Korendir like a physical blow; he had expected a crone.
Amused by his surprise, Anthei laughed with a sound like the ringing overtones of coins falling on glass. “My ways are not those of mortal women. Did you forget? I’m a wizard’s daughter, and to that heritage I have added the powers of the White Circle’s greatest wardstone.”
She considered her visitor with eyes the changing, iridescent green of a peacock’s plumage. “Sixteen men out of seventy-four lived to reach my stair. I offered them the choice I now grant you. Leave with my forgiveness for the desecration you’ve caused within my gates, else enter at your peril. Be warned. No man has yet crossed my threshold and survived.”
Korendir laid his broadheads on a jutting shelf of molding and threaded his belt to his waist. He spoke no word, but his gaze flicked to the latch beneath Anthei’s gloved fingers. Wrought in the form of a dragon, its scaled surface glinted the frost-blue of burnished steel.
“You are a brave and clever man,” said Anthei. “Don’t prove yourself a fool. Once inside, no iron forged can save you.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Korendir stepped forward. Anthei inclined her head as he entered. She pulled the door to, and the latch fell with a sullen clank, echoed over and over by agate walls. Anthei lifted her candle from its sconce and started up the stair. Korendir followed, aware that wits were his only weapon.
The chamber above was carpeted in white wool. Carved agate nymphs pillared the roofbeams, and the collection of armor and weaponry displayed on the walls between might have been the pride of Aerith’s royal treasuries. Precious metals and gemstones threw back reflections like stars, yet their luster seemed dim beside the jewel cradled on a tripod above the mantel. The wardstone of Torresdyr shed all its awesome splendor in that confined space; though no fire burned in the grate and every wall sconce remained dark, the chamber held the warmth and radiance of midsummer noon.
Anthei extinguished her candle and sat on a white fur hassock. Her brilliant eyes followed Korendir as he turned from the wardstone and paced, studying swords, bucklers, mail and helms with evident interest.
“Those are my trophies,” said the witch. “Every man who died for the king’s quest bequeathed me trinkets for my walls. Have you any ornaments to add?”
Korendir faced her, unruffled. “None that would complement beauty such as this.”
“Indeed?” Anthei clasped her hands at her knees. “It need not be wondrous to look upon.”
She rose, all grace and stretch like a cat. From the far wall she removed a dagger from carved ivory pegs. The weapon was stubby and plain, notched steel betraying a history of careless usage; a clouded, uncut stone set in the pommel crowned its ugly appearance. Anthei fingered the blade, her face pensive; then with a sudden flick of her wrist, threw the knife at Korendir’s chest.
He spun on light feet. His hand shot out and intercepted the dagger’s spinning arc. Steel slapped flesh, controlled with no more penalty than a slender red nick on one thumb.
“Ah,” said Anthei, regretful. “So soon you find your bane. That weapon was wrought by the White Circle. A small cut it made, but one that will never heal. Morey of Dalthern thought to take my life so. He has claimed yours instead.”
Blood welled across Korendir’s palm, splashed in soundless drops to the carpet by his boot; without remorse he noted, “I’m going to leave marks on your sheepskins.”
He examined the dagger with deliberation, then settled himself on a divan and turned his gaze upon Anthei. Seated once more on her hassock, she arranged herself with artful abandon, until like the wardstone, her magnificence hurt the eyes. The effect was not lost on Korendir. But where other men quickened their breath and sweated in bewilderment, this one sat like a struck bronze image.
“You’re a well-controlled man,” Anthei observed. For a time she watched the slowly spreading stain which marred the brocade beneath his hand. Korendir made no response. Nettled, she traced her fingers suggestively through fur and added, “What a pity you’re meanly dressed. I could bring you Morey’s tunic and surcoat to brighten your final hours.”
“No.” Korendir balanced the little knife on his knee. “I prefer my own.”
“You’ve nothing to lose.” Anthei gestured toward the buckle at his waist. “Iron only affects sorcery derived from the wardstone, since any spells fashioned through its powers are bound to answer earth law. But Iraz’s lore transcended such basics. His teaching holds all metals alike. Cling to your tinker’s trinket if you wish. You will find it proves worthless against me.”
Korendir offered no reply. Anthei spoke with conviction, but her gloved hands belied her words. Her basic strength might indeed be impervious to iron; nonetheless she was careful to shield herself from its touch. In the hours which remained before he bled to death, Korendir saw no need to yield up even so questionable an advantage.
If Anthei was disappointed by his refusal she masked her feelings well. Bored with his taciturn company, she rose to depart. Reflections from the wardcrystal emphasized her iridescent eyes as she paused a last moment by the door. “You’ll be comfortable here, at least for awhile. I’ll return your corpse to Torresdyr for burial, as I have seventy-four others. Your belt buckle will adorn my east wall. Take comfort from the fact. You were the first to counter a summoning song with a lump of wax. That was the triumph of your life.”
Anthei stepped from the chamber. The latch clicked gently shut. Though no lock turned, Korendir entertained little doubt that sorcery sealed the portal beyond the virtues of iron to open. He had no desire to risk being torn limb from limb because he rushed to try the obvious. Instead he thrust Morey’s dagger through his belt and roved the breadth of the chamber. The worth of the weaponry would easily have ransomed a dozen princes. Between maces and tasseled halberds, four lancet windows opened at each point of the compass. Bare slits at their widest aperture, they would never permit escape. But the wardcrystal lay upon the mantel within easy reach; if Korendir could toss the jewel from the window where Haldeth might retrieve it, all effort might not be in vain. Children would no longer die in Torresdyr, and its pitiful king could shed his burden of guilt.
Without sparing thought for consequences, Korendir unslung his belt. He ignored the bolted catch, but set his buckle against the hinge, his intent to force the pin. Contact roused a dazzling flare of light. Agony lanced his body, ripped screams from a throat which had never opened for any torment of the Mhurgai. Thrown backward onto the carpet, Korendir lay unconscious. He sprawled under the stony shins of the nymphs for close to an hour, while his hand seeped steady drops of blood. Alarmed when he wakened to discover a pool of spreading scarlet, he abandoned attempt on the casement. Anthei’s tower was a prison beyond means of man’s endeavor, and with each minute he bled, his options diminished. Korendir pushed himself to his feet.
He paced the chamber until dizziness spoiled his balance. By the time dawn glimmered through the casements, he sprawled on the rug by the mantel, his forearm streaked to the elbow, and his lips tinged blue against flesh translucent as steamed glass.
* * *
Sunlight threaded copper glints through Korendir’s hair when at last Anthei chose to return. White wool lay speckled like a slaughterhouse where her prisoner’s restless steps had carried him; prone by the hearth, the man himself was ivory pale against a scarlet mat of carpet. Anthei tossed her head, sharply disappointed. She had come to make his passing unpleasant only to discover he had collapsed far earlier than expected. Cheated of her sport, she crossed the chamber on slippered feet. If Korendir was simply unconscious, she would restore him and make him suffer; his remote facade would shatter and he would beg for death. Lovely as a succubus, Anthei bent and grasped his wrist to check for pulse. She did not notice the boot left braced against the firedog.
Long, loose hair slipped over her shoulders and caressed the line of his cheek.
Korendir exploded into motion. He twisted like a dropped cat and pinned Anthei’s hair beneath his shoulder. His motion jerked the snared tresses taut, and Anthei overbalanced. Startled laughter rang in his ears as she crashed across his body. Through dizzied vision, Korendir glimpsed widened, green-blue eyes and an expression of murderous delight.
“Clever man,” said the witch. But her amusement changed pitch to alarm as he rolled again, and her silky locks snagged on the unfinished edge of his belt buckle.
Smoke plumed from the contact. Metamorphosis travelled swiftly up the strands, graying their youthful resiliency. Wrinkles spidered Anthei’s forehead. Her remarkable eyes clouded with cataracts, and smooth cheeks puckered with wrinkles as the iron’s fatal unbinding engulfed her face. Years of aging claimed her form in a single instant, puffing slim hands and shrivelling spell-wrought beauty to skeletal ugliness. Red velvet caved and sagged over more angular contours. With a breathy, startled sound like an infant’s cry, Anthei shuddered and collapsed.
The man disentangled himself from her corpse with savorless practicality. The gatekeeper had correctly named the wardstone responsible for Anthei’s prolonged youth. Subject to earth law, the plain beggar’s iron which fastened his belt had grounded her with reality; shock proved too much for her heart. But the accomplishment left the victor exhausted.
Korendir rose on unsteady feet. Dizziness sucked at his balance as he braced himself against the mantel and lifted the wardstone from its tripod. He wrapped the jewel in his cloak and rocked drunkenly down the tower stair. The latches on the doorway were fastened without enchantments. Korendir fumbled them open and emerged in the full light of morning.
Anthei’s front path burned his eyes like a snowfield.
The bronze gate shimmered at its end, impossibly distant. A blurred form appeared beyond, wildly shouting: Haldeth.
Korendir blinked and forced concentration. With great effort he lifted the wardstone from his cloak. For an instant, two thousand two hundred and forty facets blazed like fire in the sunlight. Then Korendir swayed and tumbled headlong down the steps.
He was still struggling to rise when Haldeth reached him. Sure hands gripped his shoulder and settled him gently against the stone of Anthei’s stoop.
“Neth’s everlasting pity, lad, you’re decked like a cock from the fighter’s pit. Is the blood yours or the witch’s?”
Korendir stirred, opened bland eyes, and raised his thumb. But the slice opened by Morey’s enchanted dagger was now miraculously healed; apparently contact with the wardstone had closed the spell-cursed cut. Not even a scar remained. Speckled with rainbows thrown off by the gem’s prismatic facets, Korendir laughed. “Haldeth,” he said when at last he regained his breath. “There’s a fortune in that tower.”
Haldeth lifted the ward crystal from his friend’s unsteady grasp. Even lit by its radiance his eyes shone much too bright. “You’ve won crown and kingship also,” he observed.
Korendir winced. A pained look crossed his face. “I’d forgotten.” He followed with a vulgar word and hammered his knee with his fist.
* * *
Four days later, he and Haldeth arrived at the palace of Torresdyr, the wardstone slung in a cloak between them. The tired old gatekeeper winched back the portals and stared through astonished eyes at blossoming orchards and lush new grass. Across the kingdom, farmers were plowing weeds from the fields, and though spring lay six months distant, the seeds they sowed sprouted and matured almost under their feet.
The king wept shamelessly. His steward accorded Korendir the courtesy due a prince and babbled excited plans for coronation.
“Cancel that!” Korendir said sharply. “I came for Anthei’s gold. Loan me an apple cart, and I’ll leave with it.”
“You’ll take no reward at all?” said the king, distressed to realize the ruffian meant every word.
“A draft horse and a harness,” Korendir replied, faintly vexed. He accepted no more than that.
Later, as the wagon rattled empty toward the tower which housed their winnings, Haldeth studied his companion; he knew the flush of triumph on those features could never last. Korendir was not a man to put aside his restlessness. Yet had he dared to speculate, Haldeth would never have guessed they would seek to challenge the dreaded Cliffs of Whitestorm, where gales keened over the bones of dead dragons, and not even wizards dared landfall.
* * *
The brig’s captain regretfully regarded the bronzehaired man who had just proved that his gold was not offered in jest. “I’m sorry, young master,” he said at last. “No coin ever struck will buy passage to Whitestorm Cliffs. It’s mutiny I’d have, if I charted a course through those waters, and cut throats for us both ere we rounded lrgyre’s Rocks.”
The stranger, who named himself Korendir, took the refusal in calm stride. Untitled, rootless, and apparently without surname, he had recently acquired both fortune and reputation by rescuing Torresdyr from a wizard’s bane. Rumor had branded him reckless. Still the captain was startled when the young man inquired next of Fairhaven’s shipyards.
“You’ll meet your death, lad,” he snapped.
A bland, chilly smile touched Korendir’s features.
“Perhaps not. Would you recommend a shipwright? I’ll need a responsive craft with sturdy construction.”
“Are you daft?” The captain spat over the seawall.
“The best vessels built become fish bait off the Cliffs of Whitestorm. Foul weather aside, icefloes have the bottoms out o’ them twixt one gust and the next. I’ll not lend my advice to the murder of good timber. That’s begging ill luck.”
Korendir’s smile disappeared. He turned abruptly to leave, and confronted by the determined set of his shoulders, the captain felt strangely moved. He called out. “Ask for Sathig! He’s got an eye for a sound plank.”
Korendir glanced back, jostled by the press of the fishmarket. “Fortune to you,” he said. “Sathig it will be.”
The captain watched the adventurer’s black tunic disappear into the softer beiges of the crowd. Suddenly sorry he had spoken, he sighed and shook his bald head. The idiot would never return alive.
* * *
Parchment was barely laid out on Sathig’s design boards before every sailor in port at Fairhaven had heard of Korendir’s desire. The madman intended to challenge the Cliffs of Whitestorm for the dragon’s hoard trapped in a chain of caves at the tidemark. Once the quest had been common. But at the time Sathig inked the lines for a two-man boat, adventurers no longer talked of treasure. The dragons themselves were bones, solidly frozen in the ice at White Rock Head. Folk whispered at the dockside and sadly stroked their chins. The young fool would die, even as the dragons had, victim of the weather elemental which stirred the shores of Whitestorm to a nightmare of gales and freezing current for the past century and a half.
Unconcerned by the fate which awaited him, Korendir sat in Sathig’s study and reviewed drawings for a twenty-five-foot sailboat of lean contours and shallow draft. She would be fitted with a double set of rowlocks in anticipation of unfavorable winds; thoughtfully, Sathig added a leaded swing keel against the inevitable shoals. Well-pleased, Korendir left the parchment unrolled, and weighted at the corners with a princely sum in coins.
Sathig fitted the little craft well, though onlookers smiled over his work from the day the keel was laid. Korendir was a whistling lunatic if he thought to best a weather elemental with a brace of oars; and nowhere in the Eleven Kingdoms could he hope to find another as crazy as himself to man the second pair.
Korendir met their jibes with features like blank slate. Bent over an adze among Sathig’s craftsmen, he chose not to mention the companion who currently commandeered the forges at the chandler’s shop.
* * *
Grateful for that small privacy, Haldeth released the handles of the bellows, wiped callused palms on his apron, and reached for his hammer. He had no stomach for taunts. Standing over the anvil with his hair slicked to his temples and neck, he pounded out the tines of what soon would be an anchor. He berated himself for a lack-wit. The hook he forged was oversized, even for a mackerel boat, and any current requiring such weight was more than mortal man should challenge. But Korendir was determined.
“The hoard of Sharkash alone is rich enough to build a stronghold from foundations to battlements, with wealth left over to fit out the armory,” his friend had justified firmly. “The opportunity is too great to ignore.”
Annoyed by the memory, Haldeth shoved the anchor into the coals and hauled on the bellows. Korendir would go alone if need be. Hardship had touched the man’s sanity to the point where the fortress he dreamed of building meant more than life and breath. Haldeth cursed and licked a blistered thumb. He hated the sea. But his friend would need someone to splint his silly, shattered bones, if by the grace of Neth he survived the venture at all.
* * *
Haldeth made himself scarce as work on the sloop continued. Her mast was stepped by late spring, and artisans fussed over her brightwork. Korendir spent his days reddened by the reflection of tanbark-treated canvas, while the sailmakers labored to sew a doubly reinforced storm jib.
“ ‘Tis more an elephant sling than a sail,” grumbled the master designer.
Taut-lipped, Korendir silenced the craftsman’s complaint with gold. The sloop was launched the next morning; named Carcadonn after the winged unicorn no man could hope to capture, she sailed in early summer. A crowd lined the wharf to see her off. Sathig stood with the rest, certain he had seen the last of his handiwork. The sloop would not be returning to Fairhaven, even in the baskets of a salvager’s skiff.
* * *
Driven on a broad reach by the summer trades, Carcadonn made comfortable passage despite her short sheer line. Absorbed by charts and dividers, Korendir reverted to silence. Although sail changes and gear repair kept Haldeth busy, long hours at the tiller left his thoughts free to brood. Once, White Rock Head had been a favored harbor with safe anchorage. But since the weather elemental had claimed the territory, tempests raged unabated, savaging the shoreline until the cliffs lost all semblance of their charted contours. In Fairhaven’s taverns, tales were told of Whitestorm’s weather that caused Haldeth to shiver in full sunlight. No curse could ease his misgivings. He detested the cold.
Carcadonn sailed through the Dragon’s Eye and ran east. Though summer reached its height elsewhere, past Irgyre’s Rocks, the temperature began remorselessly to fall. Standing watch one moonless night, Haldeth was first to notice that ocean phosphorescence no longer sparked in the wake. The waters foamed cold and dark beneath Carcadonn’s keel, and blown spray bit his skin like sleet. When Korendir took the helm at midnight, Haldeth wrenched open a locker and tossed his companion a cloak of oiled wool.
“You’ll need it,” he said crossly. Korendir’s sole answer was a shrug.
Seven days later, Carcadonn lost her weather. Wakened by a bang of canvas and the yawing pitch of an unplanned jibe, Korendir clawed out of his bunk. On deck, Haldeth wrestled the tiller, drenched and swearing. The gusts shrieked, rushing in like a boxer’s punch across sixty degrees of change. Overcanvassed, Carcadonn reeled through steepening seas.
“Heave to!” Korendir jammed his feet into seaboots. “We’ll reef the main and switch to the smaller headsail. Which tack steers easiest?”
“Neither!” Haldeth ducked an icy sheet of spray. “Mark me, we’ll be under muscle by morning.”
Korendir vaulted the hatch boards and headed for the foredeck. Gently he said, “You’re a pessimist.”
But the wind belied his outlook. By afternoon Carcadonn bucked over wavecrests blasted to spindrift. Pummeled by gusts, her gear rattled and crashed aloft. The tiller plowed against Haldeth’s hands with the force of a gut-speared boar. Old Sathig’s handiwork could assuredly stand up to punishment; but as Korendir took the helm at dusk, the smith wondered how long the sloop could stay seaworthy. Conditions hereafter would only get worse.
* * *
By morning the wind backed and blew from the northeast. Carcadonn beat to weather, clawing over swells half the height of her masthead. On starboard tack, Haldeth glimpsed land between the waves. The low dunes of Dunharra were replaced by rock-crowned crags which broke the slam of the incoming surf like an unending roll of thunder.
Haldeth shook water from his hair and shoved the tiller hard alee. Carcadonn ducked, came about with a whipcrack of slack canvas, and turned the hazards of the coast astern. The cliffs were proof she made progress. But when Haldeth retired below and discovered the galley fire doused by the damp, he separately cursed every league he had sailed out of Fairhaven’s harbor. Above-decks, a block squealed warning. He grabbed for the rail and missed.
The boom lifted and crashed to the opposite tack. The mainsheet parted like thread. Carcadonn slewed, tossing Haldeth against a bulkhead. Cold oatmeal splattered his chest, and his oath brought Korendir in a bound from the helm to measure the scope of the disaster.
Haldeth sat scraping porridge from his beard, while his companion hunkered on his heels and grinned with infuriating calm.
“When you’re wiped up,” Korendir said, “we’re going to take in sail.”
The smith glared, rose, and jammed his arms into oilskins. The wet patch left by the oatmeal settled like icy fingers against his chest as he emerged unwillingly for labor. While the sloop wallowed under bare poles, he helped Korendir slot rowlocks into her toe rail and benches to the cockpit lockers. Much as Haldeth detested rowing, oars were preferable to riding a whirlwind under banging yards of canvas.
Stripped of sail, Carcadonn made better headway, but her crew suffered for the improvement. Waves broke over the bow, and repeatedly flooded the cockpit. Worn by the drag at his ankles as the water sucked out through the scuppers, Haldeth found rowing a miserable contest of endurance. Cold and fatigue dulled his mind, until time itself seemed suspended.
When the first icefloe reared above the wavecrests, dirty white in the currents which tumbled past the keel, Haldeth shipped oars in silence. He went below to brew hot tea and found no reassurance as the beat of Korendir’s stroke continued unabated above decks. Every pull of the oars brought them closer to Whitestorm, where the elements would batter them beyond hope of survival.
The next day dawned thick as unbleached wool. Fog swallowed the mast down to the spreaders, and gusts screamed through the rigging like the ribald laughter of hags. Carcadonn bucked, graceless as a death-wounded deer. Her crew jounced against the benches, their teamwork at the oars gone ragged. With his eyes streaming runnels of seawater, Haldeth waited for Korendir to admit his folly and turn back. Yet hour after weary hour the man leaned into his stroke. No word passed his lips, and no glimmer of reason relieved his expressionless face.
That night, secured under double anchor, Haldeth stood first watch lest the moorings drag. He huddled in the cockpit and tried to remember what it felt like to be warm, while gusts played a song of endless winter through the stays. The hours crept. With no star overhead to reckon by, the dark seemed to freeze in place. Stiff and shivering, Haldeth retired at midnight. He found Korendir still awake, intently bent over the chart table.
The smith cracked crusted ice from his oilskins. “You’re a maniac, and very soon you’ll be a frozen monument to stupidity. It’s colder than the Mhurga’s third version of hell out there.”
Korendir looked up, eyes impervious as mirror glass in the gimballed swing of the lanterns. “We’re nearly there.” His voice sounded bemused over the rush of wind and waves.
Braced against the heave of the deck, Haldeth examined the chart. The inked line of Carcadonn’s running fix ended almost under the shadow of White Rock Head. Less than two leagues to the north lay the lairs of the dead dragons, and the vortex of the elemental’s force.
“What we are is witless,” muttered Haldeth. For one wild moment curiosity overrode sense; then his thrill of excitement died out at remembrance that his boots sloshed with seawater, and the galley fire was a mess of wet ashes. He cursed aloud at the chart, never noticing the tolerant amusement which touched Korendir’s face as he swung himself up the companionway to finish his turn at watch.