Initiate’s Trial: First book of Sword of the Canon

Within the grand hall at Whitehold, the basin exploded. Water whined into a cloud of white steam, and the spent crystal crumbled to powder. At Prime Selidie’s shriek, her slavish attendant beat showered sparks from her hair and rich gown. The Fellowship Sorcerer observed her distress, impassive, his fierce eyes relieved.

‘What have you done?’ the Prime Matriarch shouted.

But, of course, upright upon bonded stone, Asandir had not lifted a finger: at his shoulder, wrapped in ephemeral spirit light, came the ghost of the departed crone. Gravely direct, his heart saddened, the Sorcerer bowed to the flame of her transient shade. ‘Have I your leave, Teylia?’ he asked, gently reverent. ‘Your remains properly should be returned to be blessed by the Biedar tribe in Sanpashir.’

The crone’s discorporate imprint smiled, fleeting, but like her wayward, importunate mother, without any shred of regret. ‘Kingmaker,’ she answered, ‘look after your own. My birth purpose has been accomplished.’

She faded then, fully, her subtle light snuffed like a candle.

Through the chill vacancy left by her passage, the gathered sisters exchanged whispers sharpened by uneasy fear and suspicion. Prime Selidie glared above them, her soaked finery dusted with chipped quartz and glass, her volatile rage beyond perilous. ‘We demanded custody of the child to vouchsafe your Fellowship’s intent,’ she accosted the Sorcerer. ‘What did you plant by your endless deceit but a serpent into our midst?’

Asandir sighed. ‘Your accusation carries no substance. Or did you brush off Sethvir’s statement when you struck your vile contract and demanded a hostage of us, back at Althain Tower? Our Fellowship has never endorsed, or permitted, the parting of child and mother! Teylia chose to dedicate to your order. She declared her destiny with her first words, long before that unkind fate was asked of her.’

‘As an infant, under three years of age?’ The Prime Matriarch rammed straight, seethed to outrage, while her coterie of Seniors drew hissed breaths of stark disbelief.

The Sorcerer answered with unabashed sorrow. ‘Don’t play your line of indignant ignorance. Teylia was no commonplace child! What arts she possessed sprang direct from her birthright. Admit the straight evidence in your own records! I assure you, her advanced age was no fluke, and her fate, without ties of our Fellowship’s making.’

‘Spin me another false tale!’ snapped the Prime. ‘The woman was gifted by a precocious lineage and stubbornly wayward as well! You foisted her on us. Gave us bad blood, foreknowing such headstrong stock would never submit to our discipline! Honestly, tell me she would have suited your purpose as a candidate heir for Rathain!’

Asandir looked up at the dais, his steely glance harsh but not with pride or vindication. ‘The body begotten amid the raised mysteries on that signal moment at Athir was Arithon and Glendien’s, delivered by natural birth. But the spirit was purely of the old Biedar ancestry. Under the auspices of an ancient rite, Teylia’s incarnate destiny was claimed by the tribal matriarch on the hour of her conception. Your sisterhood embraced that enemy’s legacy at your own peril!’

But the bitter-sweet victory of today’s ordained sacrifice never would console the deep ache of the Sorcerer’s grief – for a small girl consigned, life to death, on cruel terms to an ignoble service: a child conceived in rare joy, brought into the world with prodigious talent, and sprung from an ancestry too mighty to tame. Asandir pressed onwards, left empty-handed, except to honour her steadfast achievement.

‘I clearly warned your machinations would fail,’ he told the Prime enthroned on her dais. ‘So did Althain’s Warden advise you with caution. Pretend you did not heed our words at the start, and I will have Sethvir recall the event, bonded under a sealed oath of truth.’

Prime Selidie fumed in her spoiled state robes. ‘This will not end here! Our lawful rights have become stymied by premeditated manipulation. I demand my due forfeit. By your oath of crown debt, grant me the access you owe to my order! Give over the key to Prince Arithon’s true Name.’

Now Asandir smiled. He gazed down at his feet, planted atop the runes just etched into the slab of cold marble. ‘My dear, I am sorry. You have no grounds at all. I stand on my oath of noninterference, as witnessed by impartial mineral.’

Entrapped as the spider in her own web, Prime Selidie lifted her mangled hands for her diligent attendant to slip into mitts. ‘Your Fellowship cannot side-step this obligation! I will take satisfaction. How dare you presume to forget? The Teir’s’Ffalenn is still my kept prisoner, and through him, you shall suffer undying regret.’

‘Perhaps,’ Asandir allowed with dry irony.

He understood the unmalleable stakes. Upon his departure, the Prime would invoke the fury of her obsession. For hours, or days, she would seek Arithon’s demise through an invocation aligned to his auric pattern. She would try and fail. For the personal imprint no longer existed, as sworn by the Mad Prophet long ago on the night sands at Athir. Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn had been stripped of that memory, along with his greater identity. Nor was the prince still confined by the Prime’s power, not since the Biedar crone’s secretive working at dawn smashed the crystal that constrained his consciousness.

By the earth-linked assurance, sped to Asandir on a thought from the Warden at Althain Tower, the man the Koriani Prime Matriarch would cry down for murder had just crawled, anonymous, under a tarp in a crofter’s rattletrap oxcart. Precariously hidden from hostile eyes, he lay curled in oblivious sleep. As yet, no one realized he was there.

Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn was safe, for this moment. Until greater peril should stalk his location and fashion the ambush to snare him, the refugee slipped from the Prime Matriarch’s clutches did not recall his own name. More, he had lost a daughter he had never known, or been told that his love had bequeathed to existence.

The Sorcerer bled with inward sorrow for that; and for the unparalleled courage that had sealed Teylia’s silence through two hundred and forty-nine years of agonized secrecy. Rivers of tears should have fallen to acknowledge her selfless memory. No consolation might salve such a loss. Grieving, and saved beyond recompense by her monumental achievement, the Sorcerer tendered his final word to Selidie Prime. ‘You will not threaten anyone further, today, madam! Above any faithless action of ours, your debt of constraint against Rathain’s crown for now has been summarily thwarted.’

Autumn 5922

Tidings

The enchantress already knew, aware even before the visitation sent by Althain’s Warden brought news. From extreme isolation, immersed in a healer’s work from an old ice-cutter’s hut shadowed under the aquamarine wall of the Storlain glaciers, she had sensed the profound change on the moment when shock stopped her breath in the pre-dawn chill. Her satchel of simples slipped out of her hand. All her rare herbals and specialized instruments tumbled down an alpine cliff, lost amid puffed explosions of powdery snow.

She had not paused to swear. Had scarcely cared, that her follow-up check on the trapper’s wife’s recent childbirth would be set back by the inconvenience.

Hours later, in daylight, after the long hike round the ridge to access the base of the vertical drop, she wept yet, whiplashed between unbridled release and bouts of joyous laughter. Gratitude overwhelmed her last grip on decorum. Never mind that her russet braid had torn loose. Or that her last pair of gloves became frayed to soaked holes at the finger-tips. She was heedlessly burrowing through rumpled drifts in search of her misplaced belongings when the shade of the Sorcerer tickled her presence.

A power to turn the world’s course in his own right, he slipped in softly, a breath of deeper cold against the sharp chill of high altitude.

‘He’s set free!’ the enchantress was first to declare, overcome once again. Arithon. She could not speak his name for the tears that spilled through another fierce smile of wonderment. The miracle rocked her, that she had endured: decades, then centuries, heart braced to withstand season upon season of unreconciled anguish. The onslaughts survived under crushing despair, when dreaming into the horrors he fought, she wakened each night bathed in terrified sweat, gasping for mercy from every bright power that she might live to see the impossible.

A Sorcerer come hard at the heels of reprieve triggered her most fearful question. ‘Whose help lent his Grace the chance to escape?’

A deep voice, wrought of wind, framed the Sorcerer’s reply. ‘The double-blind scheme was the careful work of the Biedar tribe of Sanpashir.’ Which was no lie, except by omission. If the enchantress sensed the gravity of the particulars that weighted the statement, she was wise enough not to broach the dangerous inquiry. ‘The tribe’s eldest wise woman and her male dreamers invoked the world’s greater mysteries,’ the Fellowship emissary to Elaira hastened to qualify. ‘Their reach extended across the veil and split time to achieve this triumph on Prince Arithon’s behalf.’

‘My Matriarch knows this,’ Elaira mused, quick to wield her trained intuition as circumspect caution required. She straightened up, turned, a slender woman with misted grey eyes, but courageous past measure to face the discorporate being sent as the Fellowship’s harbinger.

He stood, an illusion less solid than air, displayed before her as a dapper personage with tanned skin, and dark hair streaked white at his craggy temples. His extravagant dress was embroidered with lace, jaunty accents of emerald studs and silk ribbon agleam against elegant velvet. Orange satin cuffs set off his clever hands, expressive as his narrow, fox features and clipped spade-point beard: which aspects perfectly mirrored his rapacious preference for edged conversation.

‘Kharadmon,’ the enchantress greeted him, pleased. ‘Always, the suave touch. This isn’t an ambush?’

‘Since Sethvir doesn’t favour the vogue for snared hostages, no.’ The image of the Sorcerer bowed, ever delighted to flights of dry irony by her tart wit. Their last meeting, of course, had been brusquely uncivil, her reproach the piquant reminder that once he had broached her close-warded cottage and disturbed her sleep while in her bed.

Today’s underhand tactic of announcing himself from behind was also deliberate though not a discourtesy. His amused glance directed her attention downwards, where a zephyr winnowed the snow at his feet and exposed the strap of her buried satchel. His own flagrant flourish: a long-stemmed red rose, too fresh to seem real, pierced the pristine drift alongside. ‘I’m not always ungallant. Or demanding. Or rude.’

‘Intrusive,’ Elaira corrected, and laughed. Flushed, she bent and accepted the bloom, her uncovered remedies left until later. ‘Should I also thank your Fellowship for a scandalous hand in the prisoner’s release?’ Her cross-grained concern was not overlooked, however she strove to stay circumspect.

‘We broke none of our covenant!’ Kharadmon snapped. ‘Would that we had, and years earlier!’

No need to expound upon his sudden rage: on-going for millennia, the sparring enmity between Fellowship Sorcerers and Koriani Matriarchs. A foregone conclusion, that the long, vicious pitch of the order’s rivalry must entangle the pawn just wrested away from the covetous Prime’s close control.

‘You can protect him?’ Elaira pressed gently.

Kharadmon dissolved into a self-contained whirlwind that whipped up a cyclone of ice-crystals. ‘Asandir was forced to swear! He laid down an oath by the witness of stone, of Fellowship noninterference. Damn your Prime’s machin­ations to Sithaer! The terms that completed her claim of debt towards the Crown of Rathain have extracted that ruthless stay!’

Which bad news delivered a blow to weaken the knees. Elaira drew in a bracing breath. Under the astringent blue sky of altitude, chilled in the pine-scented shade of the rock scarp, she fought for the balance to curb draining fear. If few staunch spirits could match her bold strengths, none equaled the depth of her love for Prince Arithon. Or her steel endurance, as she dared to challenge the turbulent fury repressed by the Sorcerer’s shade. ‘You cannot lift even one finger to help,’ she accused in bald-faced distress. ‘What of the Biedar? Will their shamans stand guard for your prince? Now he’s freed, might they warrant his safety?’

The discorporate mage drifted to a freezing pause. ‘Who knows what might move the desert tribes to act? In this world, who dares to try them? Biedar wisdom lies outside the compact.’

Elaira gaped in dumbfounded surprise. ‘I never imagined! More tellingly,’ she added the moment her paralyzed wits sorted consequence, ‘has that sharp fact escaped the Prime Matriarch?’

‘Oh, past question, she knows.’ Kharadmon’s image unfurled again, smiling with forthright malice. ‘That sore point’s a matter of recorded history, and no secret buried at Althain Tower. The Biedar people came to Athera before the terms of the compact were struck. They set foot in Sanpashir, just ahead of the Fellowship’s promise of surety, which granted the rest of humanity’s right to fair settlement.’

‘How could that happen?’ Elaira asked, stunned. She had never envisioned the paradox!

Kharadmon’s grin displayed wicked humour. ‘Their tribe’s revered elders did not petition for leave through our Fellowship’s auspices. Are you breathing? Here’s the stinging fly in your Matriarch’s cup! Her Biedar counterpart treated for residence directly with the Paravians.’

Staggered dizzy by her upended assumptions, Elaira required more than a moment to measure the implications. She felt as if mountains had moved at a stroke, with every familiar landmark thrown into radical rearrangement. Changed truth arrived as a blast of fresh air, that the latent power possessed by the tribes far outstripped the reach of the Prime Matriarch’s bidding.

‘A bit of a quandary,’ she sympathized to the discorporate spirit, poised in rapt interest before her.

Kharadmon’s corrosive manner turned fierce. ‘Quite.’ Even his Fellowship must be hard-pressed to reconcile the salient question of sovereign authority. Should Sanpashir’s desert-folk choose to exert their enigmatic autonomy, the might behind their least action could throw any power on Athera an untoward wall of obstruction.

‘You don’t know the limits on the tribe’s intentions,’ Elaira needled, point-blank.