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the Llondelei are as mortal as you or I."
Mortal; Jaric flinched to hear such an admission from a sorcerer whose deeds
had bent the very course of history. Yet the discovery should not have
surprised him; the Stormwarden was not all-powerful. Prisoner himself,
Anskiere dared not unbind the ice without a Firelord's skills; to loose those
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wards would release the frostwargs, demons themselves, and nearly as deadly as
the Mharg. Jaric felt the blood go cold in his veins. How long could the
Stormwarden survive in stasis beneath the ice, if no candidate mastered the
Cycle of Fire?
Although Jaric lacked courage to voice his question, Anskiere answered
directly. "My days will number less than the span of your own life."
The fire abruptly felt too warm at Jaric's back. He sweated, resisting an urge
to step forward. "What of the frostwargs? If you die, will they escape?"
"Not immediately." As if sensing Jaric's discomfort, the Stormwarden turned
and stared at the tapestry, which depicted a seascape in bleached blues and
greens. The sorcerer qualified in a voice as worn as the thread. "The wards
would deteriorate slowly. If electrical storms stay few and mild, the bindings
might hold for a century and a half."
"The Vaere would send your successor," said Jaric.
"They might." Anskiere did not add that talent was rare; even the most gifted
often failed to endure through the trials of a sorcerer's training. But his
silence on the subject spoke volumes, and Jaric found none of the reassurance
he sought. Every exchange with the sorcerer led him closer to the Cycle of
Fire, until acceptance of the torment which had destroyed his father seemed
inevitable as death.
"No." Anskiere whirled from the tapestry. He lifted eyes passionless as ice
water and added, "The decision to undertake the Cycle of Fire can never be
forced on a man. I charged you with one trial only:
recover the Keys to Elrinfaer and hold them safe until they can be returned."
Jaric shrank from the sorcerer's gaze. Naked before perception which pierced
through denial, and unraveled his dread of Ivain's mad fate to reveal the
inner core of his shortcomings, for the first time he fully understood the
burden set upon him. Memory replicated the conflict at Northsea and the doom
Anskiere pronounced upon Ivain. "..
.And should you die, my will shall pass to your eldest son, and to his son's
sons after him, until the debt is paid."
As if cut by the lash of a whip, Jaric paled. His hands knotted beneath the
cuffs of his tunic. "Can you not relieve me of the Keys?"
Anskiere replied with surprising gentleness. "Only if I am freed, son of
Ivain. Until that day, you, or your children after you, must protect the Keys
from demons."
"I have no such powers of defense!" Too late Jaric wished the words unsaid.
Anskiere smiled, implacable. "You have the potential."
"No!" Jaric abandoned restraint. Cornered by the Storm-warden's presence, and
inwardly seared by the shared recall inflicted by the Llondel's thought-image,
he spilled the horrors which had festered in his mind since the moment he
discovered his parentage. "Who am I to assume those powers?
Kordane's Fires, sorcerer, how many people did my father harm before he ran a
knife through his heart?" Once started, Jaric could not stop. His voice
thickened. "You, Stormwarden, with all your wisdom and compassion, how many
died at Tierl Enneth?"
The accusation died into silence. Jaric stood with his chin lifted; he could
not regret his defiance.
The reproach was surely just. All Keithland remembered the wave which had
roared in from the sea and despoiled the shores of Tierl Enneth. Four thousand
people had died, each one under the
Stormwarden's sworn protection.
Anskiere bent his head, vitality and strength drained from him until suddenly
he seemed an old man. "I'll explain, Fire-lord's heir, though I've told none
before but the Vaere. I pray you have wisdom enough to understand." He lifted
tired eyes. "The demons found a way to twist the human mind and seize control.
A terrible thing, for those they choose to corrupt are the talented. One
called Tathagres came to me asking for apprenticeship. She proved to be the
demon's own, and she discharged the powers of my staff one day while my back
was turned. Such a simple betrayal I never thought to guard against. The staff
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was protected; to this moment I don't know how she manipulated the defense
wards and lived. But her meddling raised the seas and destroyed Tierl Enneth.
The act was done to discredit me."
Jaric let his hand fall, shaken to discover sweat on his palms. "Tathagres is
dead."
The sorcerer responded fast as a slap. "Did her secrets perish with her?"
"Perhaps." But Jaric did not finish the thought, that more likely the witch
had bequeathed her corruption to another. Drawn as an overpitched harpstring,
he closed his eyes, wishing darkness could obliterate the destiny his
inheritance laid before him. The sorcerer held no answer but the Cycle of Fire
to his quandary; and that fate Jaric was determined to avoid, lest power beget
more wrongs for demons to exploit. Since the Llondel had emphasized the perils [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]