Sinner (5 page)

“WingRidge?”

WingRidge snapped to attention.

“Send couriers to Zared, Sa’Domai, FreeFall, Yllgaine and Askam. We meet with the utmost haste – no later than seventh-day three weeks from now. And send for Isfrael as well.”

Isfrael, now Mage-King of the Avar, was not officially a member of the Council of Five and did not have a vote, but for the past ten years he had attended all the meetings, and given and listened to advice. As Caelum’s half-brother and leader of one of Tencendor’s three main races, he was usually invited as a courtesy.

Besides, no-one particularly liked to make a decision in Isfrael’s absence that might subsequently annoy him.

As WingRidge put his hand to the doorknob, Caelum called him back. “No, wait. Leave Askam. I will send a personal courier rather than one of yours.”

WingRidge nodded, and was gone.

“Zenith?” Caelum smiled at his sister, although his eyes remained tired and careworn. “Why don’t
you
tell Askam?”

“Me? But –”

“The bridge can connect you to Spiredore easily enough, and from there it’s only a short flight across Grail Lake to Carlon.”

“But why me?”

“Because I think Leagh should be here as well. I need to tell her my decision, and I’d rather do it to her face than by courier bird. Don’t you want to see her? Bring them both back by Spiredore. Askam can send his escort north by more conventional means.”

“I don’t know that I want to leave –”

Caelum’s voice hardened into command. “You need to be more involved with Tencendor, Zenith. I am asking you to go, but if you wish I can make your departure slightly more compulsory.”

Zenith’s chin tilted up, and in that movement Caelum saw all of his mother’s fire and determination. “As you wish, brother. I shall leave before sunrise.”

And with a slight but noticeable twitch of her shoulders, she brushed past him and left the room.

S
he preened before the mirror in her chamber, running her hands down her lightly clad body, liking what she saw, what she felt.

RiverStar SunSoar was a lovely, alluring birdwoman, and she knew it. What man had ever been able to resist her?

She lifted her hands to her fine golden curls and shook them out. How they complemented her violet eyes! Her pale skin!

“I
am
irresistible,” she said, then laughed, low and husky.

Irresistible indeed – except to the one who continually resisted her.

She froze at a subtle touch. Power.

His. It stroked at her arms, lifted the material from her breasts, rippled down over her belly, her legs.

Her lover. He was close.

She did not move, pretending not to notice. She would make him beg. She would!

Except he never begged. Always
she
ended on the floor before him, her hands clinging to his legs, her golden
wings spread out in appeal behind her, begging him to bed her.

She would writhe before him, sobbing and shrieking, until he had her so completely in his power that she would scream her gratitude when he finally lifted her and threw her to the mattress.

RiverStar frowned at her reflection. She did not like to have to beg…but, oh gods, how could she withstand him when his power stroked her, caressed her, penetrated her?

As it did now. She shuddered, tears filling her eyes, and when he opened the door and entered the chamber she fell to the floor and begged, begged, begged…

“You are unlike any other,” she whispered into his ear when it was finally done and they lay sweat-tangled amid the sheets. “None.”

“I was made for a purpose,” he said, smiling, and kissed her brow.

“Let me stand by your side as your lover,” she said. “Please. Let all see how good we are together.”

“No.”

“
Why not?
” she screamed, hate for him contorting her beautiful face. “
Why not? You can do anything you
–”

His hand caught at her face, his fingers digging deep, hurting so badly she whimpered.

“You will tell
no-one
about us,” he hissed. “No-one!
Do you understand?
”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered. “I will tell no-one. Never tell. No. Please, love me again. Please…please…please…”

Zenith stopped in her chambers to change into a vivid robe and to give her face and hair a cursory check in her mirror. Caelum was right, it was time she left Sigholt for a while. She’d been thinking much the same thing – thus
her reaction when Caelum had verbalised the unspoken thoughts that had consumed her for almost a week.

Something was wrong. She couldn’t say what, or even what it might be related to, only that for the past few days a feeling of formless dread had been growing in her. Dread, and a sense of loss so deep that for three nights in a row she’d woken drenched in sweat, her hands clawing at the sheets.

Thus the reason she’d been wandering about Sigholt so late tonight.

These nightmares reminded her of those she’d had when she was much younger. Nights when she’d woken screaming, nights when the only way she’d agree to go back to sleep was sandwiched between the comfort of her parents. Axis had always questioned her closely about the dreams, but Zenith could never remember their details – maybe didn’t
want
to remember – and Azhure had refused to let Axis use the Song of Recall to summon them from her murky subconscious.

“Leave the child be,” her mother would say softly, stroking the hair back from Zenith’s brow. “She doesn’t need to remember them, only to be reassured of our love.”

And somehow that love
had
helped Zenith through. The dreams had begun to fade when she was eighteen or nineteen, and were gone completely by the time she’d reached her majority.

Although there was still the problem of the lost hours.

This was something she’d never told her parents about – why, she could not say. But some days she would suddenly find herself in a distant part of Sigholt, or even in a nearby valley of the Urqhart Hills, and have no knowledge of how she had arrived there. Hours, sometimes even half a day, would have been lost to her.

These episodes had also lessened as she grew older, but Zenith still had one or two a year.

And, in the past week, three.

This was the reason she’d hesitated when Caelum had suggested she go to Carlon.

What if she “lost herself” somewhere in Spiredore and came to her senses sitting on an icefloe in the Iskruel Ocean? How would she explain that to Caelum? How could she explain it to
herself?

Zenith hesitated in the centre of her chamber, a stunningly beautiful, slim birdwoman, robed in scarlet that contrasted vividly with the darkness of her wings and hair.

Taking a huge breath, Zenith tried to calm her nerves, wrapping herself so deep with magic it literally blurred the outlines of her figure.

An image formed before her: her grandfather, StarDrifter. It was a memory only, not the actual person; StarDrifter lived far south on the Island of Mist and Memory, devoted to his duties among the priestesses of Temple Mount.

This was a memory that Zenith had carried with her for some thirty years, a memory of a day when she’d been staying with her grandfather on the island, and had found herself wandering the southern cliff faces of Temple Mount with no idea how she’d got there.

She’d been young then, and she’d been growing her wings only a year. They’d still felt strange to her, and she still fumbled on her infrequent flights, so that suddenly coming to awareness at the crumbling edge of a thousand-pace drop had been terrifying.

She’d screamed, sure she was going to die, and then StarDrifter was there, wrapping her in his arms and wings, pulling her back, holding her and singing to her and telling her she was safe, safe, safe.

From that moment on Zenith had adored StarDrifter, treasured him beyond the usual love of a granddaughter for her grandfather.

Now she recalled the image of StarDrifter, his beautiful face full of love, a gentle hand cupping her chin so he could look in her eyes.

“I’ll always be there to catch you,” he’d said. “I’ll always be there for you.”

“Always…” Zenith whispered, and the image faltered and then faded.

“Very pretty.”

She whirled about, furious that anyone should have seen the vision.

Drago was leaning nonchalantly against the doorway that led into her private washroom. His thin face was unreadable, his eyes narrowed, his arms carefully folded across his chest.

A towel was tucked over one arm, and Zenith noticed that Drago’s coppery hair was damp and newly combed back into its tail in the nape of his neck.

“Why not use your own chambers to wash?” she snapped.

“I’d been down in the stables,” he said, standing up straight and throwing the towel back inside the wash room, “helping Stephain with the grey mare. She foaled tonight. Difficult birth.”

“But that doesn’t excuse why –”

“I would have used my own chambers, save that Caelum is stamping and striding about the upper-floor corridors, and frankly the last thing I needed tonight was to run into him. So I thought I’d ask you if I could use your washroom. You weren’t here, so…”

He shrugged, walking over to stand before Zenith. “I heard you come in just as I was finishing up. If you’re concerned, I didn’t stand and watch you change. I may be many things, sister mine, but I am not a voyeur.”

“Yet you saw my memory of StarDrifter.”

“I thought I heard his voice – it made me come to the door. Zenith, I like him too…remember?”

Zenith was rapidly losing her temper which, truth be told, was mainly a product of her shock. And Drago
did
like StarDrifter. She was unsure about so many things regarding Drago, but his genuine feeling for StarDrifter was not one of them. As a child, Drago had enjoyed his months with StarDrifter almost as much as she had. For some reason StarDrifter had been able to reach the uncommunicative youth in a way Axis and Azhure could not – or could not be bothered to.

She looked at her brother, and for an instant emotion threatened to choke her. What could he have grown into if he had been given love instead of rejection? Their parents had, if not ignored him, then favoured all their other children before him. His punishment for plotting against Caelum had left him with little of his rich Icarii heritage: his coppery hair, still thick but kept pulled back into its tight tail, and his violet eyes, although they had faded with age. Against his vivid and powerful siblings he was just a thin, rather plain man, age and frustrated life marking his face with deep lines.

Drago had done wrong, no-one could deny that, but Zenith often wished their mother could have found some other way to punish him that would not have resulted in the destruction of so much potential, the annihilation of so many dreams.

She caught herself before Drago thought to ask why she took so long to respond.

“Well, if you don’t want to run into Caelum – and he
is
in a fearful temper – then you can use my bed for the night.”

Drago arched an enquiring eyebrow.

Briefly Zenith told him what she and Caelum had learned.

“And so now, good girl that you are, you go to do StarSon’s bidding.” Drago yawned theatrically. “Well, off you go now. That bed
does
look inviting.”

Not trusting her temper, Zenith stalked over to the door. Just as she reached it, Drago said softly, “That was a beautiful memory you conjured up into flesh, Zenith. I wish I had that skill.”

Zenith turned and stared at him, not knowing how to take his words. Was he expressing resentment that he no longer had the power to do similar feats, or was he expressing genuine regret?

But Drago gave her no clue. He’d dropped across the bed, his face away from her, and so Zenith left the room, not knowing whether to feel sorry for him, or angry.

By the time Zenith reached the courtyard Drago had slipped far from her mind. Instead she felt the first tingle of excitement. It
was
good to get away, even if only for a day or so.

The guards at the massive gate in Sigholt’s walls nodded to her, and then Zenith was through and on the short space of roadway leading to the bridge that guarded Sigholt’s entrance.

“A good evening to you, bridge,” she called softly as she stepped onto its cobbled carriageway.

“And a good evening to you, Zenith,” the bridge said in her deep, melodious voice. No-one ever understood the bridge, what she truly was, or what magic had created her. She simply existed, and her sole purpose in her existence was to guard all entrances into Sigholt. All visitors, whether by foot, hoof or air, were challenged by the bridge as to whether they were true or not.

No-one ever knew what she really meant by that, either.

But the bridge generally kept Sigholt safe – apart from the one notable exception when the infant Drago had
tricked her into allowing Gorgrael access to Sigholt – and she was good company for nights when sleep refused to come.

“Do you wish to pass an hour or so with me, Zenith?” the bridge asked hopefully. Even so fey a creation as the bridge still liked to gossip whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“No, bridge. I am sorry. Tonight I must go to Spiredore. Can you lead me there?”

“Of course. Where are you going?”

“Carlon.”

“Ah,” the bridge sighed. “I have heard many wondrous tales about Carlon. But wait…there. Spiredore awaits you.”

Zenith looked across the bridge. Normally it led to the roadway that ran the length of HoldHard Pass, but now the other side of the bridge connected into a misty blue tunnel at the end of which Zenith could see the stairway of Spiredore.

“I thank you, friend bridge,” she said, and stepped across.

If the bridge was unknown magic, then Spiredore was a hundred times the puzzlement and even more the magic. The tower that stood on the opposite shoreline of Grail Lake to Carlon belonged to Azhure, although it was as ancient, some whispered, as Grail Lake itself. Its interior was a maze of seemingly disconnected stairwells and corridors, but if one knew how to use Spiredore’s magic, those stairwells and corridors could take you just about anywhere you wished. Azhure had taught all her children – save Drago, of course – how to use the tower, and how particularly to enter it via the bridge at Sigholt.

Now Zenith stepped off the bridge and into the short corridor of blue mist that led to the interior of Spiredore.
As powerful and knowledgeable an Enchanter as she was, all Zenith understood of this process was that somehow the bridge had called across the scores of leagues separating her from Spiredore, and the tower itself had reached out and formed this connection.

From the misty corridor Zenith entered Spiredore at one of its myriad balconies. Glancing quickly up and down, she saw a bizarre outcropping of disconnected balconies and stairs – and even some ladders – that lined the circular interior of the tower. None of them appeared to go anywhere.

“Spiredore,” she said firmly, “I wish to go to Carlon.”

And she walked to the nearest stairwell and stepped down.

Azhure had always impressed on her two winged daughters that they must never fly in Spiredore, as it was so strangely magical they might easily become disorientated and crash into a balcony, or even the floor of the tower. Zenith walked until she felt her calves begin to ache and then, just as she paused to rub them, she saw that around the next curve of the stairs was a flat floor.

Zenith smiled to herself. It was ever so in Spiredore. Just when you thought you could go no further, Spiredore delivered you to your destination.

Once on the floor Zenith saw a door before her, and through that door…through the door was the dawning air about Grail Lake, the harsh cries of the lake birds filling the air as they rose to meet the sun.

“I thank you, Spiredore,” she said as she passed through, closing the door gently behind her.