Arren helped Kell quickly to his feet, supporting him as his legs threatened to collapse again. "Who? Who are coming?"
"No time." Kell was already stumbling towards the boat. "We have to go, now."
Arren caught up with him, still trying to understand. "Why? What is happening?"
Kell shoved him away angrily, throwing out his hand and crying a word aloud; the boat shot down the beach, carving a furrow in the sand before hitting the water with a splash. He threw himself in, landing clumsily and rolling as Arren dived after him.
The king quickly stepped the mast, still uncomprehending. "What are we running from?"
Kell's voice was tight, his face set in a mask of concentration. "Black mages. Five black mages, from Paln. They know you're here, and they're already coming for you. We must get away from here."
Seconds later, he threw up his hands with a curse. "I can't call the magewind."
"Then we'll use the world's wind," Arren replied shortly, already hoisting the sail. "We'll have to tack against it if we're going to get to Havnor in time."
Kell stared at him as if he'd gone insane. "Havnor? Why would we want to go to Havnor?"
He was met by equal incomprehension. "Why? It's the safest place!"
The wizard shook his head vehemently. "We go to Roke. The Masters must be warned."
The king folded his arms stubbornly. "I have to lead my people. The Masters can come to Havnor."
"There's no TIME!" Kell almost screamed. "The dark ones are coming already, and with five of them working the magewind they'll travel ten times faster than we will. We sail for Roke, and we sail now."
For a long second there was silence, the tension singing in the air between them. Then Arren nodded, and the race was on.
They fled west and south, running before the wind as fast as the boat would carry them. The sail bulged, the prow kicked up spray as they worked feverishly to get as much speed as they could.
Neither one voiced the thought in both their minds. We'll never make it in time...
For hours they worked, throwing overboard everything needless, taking turns at the tiller. Several times Kell tried to summon the magewind, but never managed above a breath that was quickly lost in the squalling worldly wind. Arren's hands were raw and blistering from pulling ropes, and he cursed himself - before Havnor, when he had been just a prince on Enlad, he had sailed almost every day, and he would have been able to keep this up for hours. Now Palace life had made him soft.
As the hours wore on, the sky began to darken noticeably. Rain fell, quickly soaking both of them to the skin. Arren began to worry as Kell grew more and more withdrawn, seemingly uncaring about his dripping clothes; the wizard sat in the stern, staff across his knees, face locked in an expression of intense concentration. For long minutes he didn't move, seeming barely to breathe, until finally he cast his staff aside angrily.
"I can't do it!"
Arren was beside him in a moment, hands already stroking his hair, soothing. "What can't you do?"
Kell put his head in his hands, almost crying with rage and frustration. "They're too strong! I'm trying to shield us, make us invisible, but there are five of them and only one of me!" He buried his head in Arren's chest, hot tears of shame mingling with the frigid raindrops. "What am I supposed to do?"
Arren held him then, held him close and tender. Kell's skin burned under his fingers as though with a fever, but the muscles beneath were slack and powerless; the tears would not stop, and fell and fell until at last the king lifted the wizard's head and kissed them away with gentle lips.
"Do what you can. Do only what you can."
With those words he rose, going forward again to stand in the bows and watch the waves carry them onward; he willed the boat to move faster, though she was already flying past the shores of Kamery, far away to his left. To his right the sun was already sinking towards the sea, casting its sullen red light over the dark clouds, making them appear suffused with blood.
The storm came upon them quickly, blowing in from the northwest far faster than any natural storm could move. Pitch-black thunderclouds darkened the sky from horizon to horizon; the rain worsened to huge drops that stung exposed skin with all the ferocity of hailstones. Then came the wind, great gusting squalls that struck without warning, threatening to capsize the boat. Despite the ever-present, ever-increasing danger, Kell knew there was no point in trying to sail onwards in such conditions. Even if his weatherworking talent had been stronger, this was a mage-called storm, not easily sent aside.
Eventually there was nothing for it but to unstep the mast and take down the sail. Between them they stretched the canvas over one corner of the boat and huddled beneath it, barely protected from the stinging, drenching rain, hoarding what little warmth they could. The contact should have been reassuring, but neither drew much comfort from it - they shared instead an intense feeling of peril from which there was no relief.
What seemed like hours later, the rain began to abate slightly. By now the sailcloth was saturated and the bottom of the boat was inches deep in bilgewater. Both king and wizard were soaking and miserable, their spirits sapped by the wretched weather; there seemed little hope of reaching Roke now, with wind and sea driving them south and east instead of west. Arren shot a glance at Kell, but his hope faltered and the words died unspoken on his lips - the wizard looked in no state to call the magewind now. His thick blonde hair was plastered lifelessly to his head, water running down his face; he looked listless, almost trancelike, and remained that way until Arren became worried enough to wave a hand before his eyes.
Kell started visibly, then slowly focused on Arren's face. "They are seeking us again; it's everything I can do just to keep us hidden. If they find us then we're lost; there's no way I can stand against five of them."
Arren half-drew his sword, the well-oiled blade gleaming in the eerie half-light. "We'll fight them if we have to."
Kell looked at him with a mixture of fierce love and mockery. "Swords are no good against them, even one as strong as that. They could strike us down without ever touching us."
Pulling his sword free of its sheath, Arren stood - though he almost lost his footing on the shifting deck - and shouted his defiance to the uncaring sky. "Then let them come!"
Even as the rim of the sun's red circle touched the horizon, they came.
Their only warning was a moment of breathless silence, when everything around them seemed to fall still. Then a great blast of wind struck, tearing Arren's feet from the deck and casting him head-first into the sea, leaving his sword to clatter harmlessly on the deck. Kell clung desperately to the mainsail rope as the boat heeled dangerously, threatening to overturn at any moment. Arren was gripping the rim of the boat in both hands, grimly refusing to let the raging waters carry him away. That, too, was terrifying - only moments before the sea had been relatively calm. Now it seethed, dark and cold, promising a swift, freezing death to any who were separated from their vessel.
Seeing Arren in danger, Kell felt anger boil up inside him. He shouted at the storm, flinging a spell into the teeth of the wind, meeting power with power.
Abruptly, the wind dropped, leaving the two of them to right themselves and their boat - just in time for the second assault. Lightning speared the clouds, slicing the sky in half; bare seconds later, thunder like a thousand firecrackers exploded over the waters, leaving the two boys deafened and blinded in the aftermath. Instinctively, they reached for their weapons - Kell's fingers curled around his staff, while Arren's groping hand found his sword-hilt. Then cold fingers found dripping ones, and forged a link stronger than that mere touch could convey - squeezing gently, sharing reassurance and strength.
Kell's arm shot into the air, raising his staff high above his head - with a single word, cried into the teeth of the storm, it flared up with incandescent magelight. Arren flung back his head and shouted aloud, his defiance ringing across the waves as his sword blazed with reflected glory.
And into their circle of calm, into the eye of the storm, rode a ship with sails black as night and a bow that cut the water in total silence. No oars moved it nor rudder steered it. Five figures stood in the bows, cowled and robed in black, a great cloud of darkness about them. Kell's every sense screamed at him, a great weight of dread fell upon his mind - seeking instantly to combat it, he flung out his staff and yelled a word of power.
The mages barely swayed; one lifted his hand, then simply gestured as if brushing aside a fly, and Kell was flung from the boat and into the freezing ocean.
As the water closed over his head, Kell kept a desperate grip on his staff, its silver radiance dimming slowly. The sea seemed to draw him down, away from the fear and danger, away from the feelings of worthlessness and impotence...
...away from Arren...
No! With a word, torn from his lips in a rush of air, Kell struck back against the lulling song of the enchanted sea. His staff burned again, the magefire brighter than before. Its buoyancy was suddenly far greater than a normal length of wood - it drew him up, up through the silver-dappled waters until his head broke surface.
The boat's gunwale was right above his head; he grabbed hold of it and heaved himself half out of the water. Then his head crested the side, and his eyes took in the scene before him.
Arren was down on one knee, his sword held before his face, which bore an expression of intense strain. The leading wizard was stood over him, one hand reaching down, the fingers curled like claws. His power beat at Arren, forcing the king down, down till his knees gave way and he fell on his side in the bilgewater, his sword dropping from lifeless fingers.
Kell screamed aloud, a long wail of fury and anguish, and tried desperately to heave himself over the side of the boat. However, his staff impeded him, and before he could reach his lover the black mage was already whirling toward him.
Then his enemy's staff came down hard across his head, and Kell knew no more.
Arren gasped as he felt his lover's hand torn from his grasp, but there was no time to go to his aid. Even as Kell hit the water, the lead black mage leaped down from the high prow of his ship, landing in their boat as easily as a cat. Indeed, there was no jolt as he landed - it was as if he weighed nothing at all.
A single shaft of sunlight broke the clouds, gleaming for a moment off Arren's upraised sword; then that sword came down, pointing straight at the black-robed man as he hefted his staff and came at Arren full pelt. Arren dodged, struggling to find a footing on the slick, shifting planks underfoot; seeing an opening, the mage howled in triumph and brought his staff around double-handed, threatening to knock Arren off his feet.
The king danced back, confident now that he had the feel of the surface. This was his element - swordfighting had been one of his favourite pastimes in his father's palace on Enlad, and he had spent many hours training with the weaponsmaster. He knew the heft and length of the sword in his hand as well as he knew his own body, and few could equal his skill.
The sword of Serriadh sang through the air as he whirled, avoiding the mage's too-slow swing - and he saw in that moment his opening. The staff's length was an advantage, for it gave the mage a longer reach than Arren's sword did him, but it was also a hindrance - a swing took a long time to recover from.
Arren leapt back as the mage brought the staff back around for another swing, then pretended to stumble, letting his left leg fold beneath him. His opponent swung, the heavy length of wood whistling through the air, but Arren ducked and it passed harmlessly over his head. Then he pushed off from his left foot, that he had kept pressed flat against the deck; his sword shot forward, aimed straight at his enemy's heart.
At the last second the mage twisted away; instead of plunging into his chest, the point of the enchanted blade sliced through his robe and scored a deep gash through his skin. Arren heard the gasp of indrawn breath; then, even as he recovered himself, the mage shrieked, a horrible sound that beat in his ears and numbed his singing muscles into stillness. He staggered backward, unable to gain his balance, until his legs finally gave way and he sank to one knee.
The mage towered over him, one hand outstretched. Alien syllables hissed and bubbled on his lips; with horror, Arren realised that his strength was draining out of him. He could barely move; it was all he could do simply to keep from falling on his face.
Then, half-forgotten in his hand, the sword began to glimmer with the barest hint of light. It gave him an answering glimmer of hope; slowly, so slowly, he brought it up, till it was crooked before his face. The mage's dark eyes widened; he swore, then raised his staff and dashed the sword from Arren's hand.
Or tried to. As the staff struck the sword it stopped instantly, as if it had struck a wall; Arren felt no blow on the sword blade, but the staff was almost torn from his opponent's grasp. White light flared out from the sword, blinding Arren for a moment and leaving painful violet after-images on the back of his eyes. When he recovered, it was to see the mage staring at the sword as if at a hated enemy.
"So," he spat, his voice sibilant and menacing, "the puppet king carries a master's sword. Were you a true king, child, then you would have killed me with that blow. But Serriadh is long dead, and you are not he."
With those words he stretched out his hand again, the fingers curled stiffly, and spoke a string of syllables that forced Arren down. His muscles would not obey him; there was no strength left in him. He had not the words nor the power to stop the spell - all his fencing talent would not avail him against such magic.
Slowly, slowly, he crumpled to the deck and fell, the sword clattering harmlessly onto the deck. As darkness veiled his eyes, the last thing Arren saw was Kell's face, the mouth open in a great cry of horror, and the mage's long dark staff already swinging towards his lover's unprotected head.
There was darkness. For a long time, there was only darkness, deep and absolute.
Then came the pain. It crippled him, stopped his thoughts. Shards of red-hot ice stabbed his temples, sliced behind his eyes. Fragments of spells, charms to ease the pain, floated up through his aching brain, but his mouth was stopped and he could not speak a word.
Then the darkness came again, and he surrendered to it gratefully.
There was light. A smoky yellow candle, guttering in the corner of the room. By the motion of the wall to which he was bound he knew he was aboard the ship, or at least a ship. His arms were tied to an iron ring above his head, his feet lashed together and the rope tied tightly around his thighs. The gag in his mouth was rough and dirty; he tried not to think about the taste.
It did him no good. His stomach churned from the seawater he had swallowed; he retched violently, almost choking on the unyielding gag. The smoke from the candle filled his lungs as he fought for air, still retching and trying to cough.
Eventually he stilled his aching stomach, though his throat burned from the acid and the salt. His head still hurt unbearably, and the darkness gave no sign of returning to give him relief.
Soft laughter filled the room. Straining his eyes in the dim light, he made out a young man, sitting comfortably against the opposite wall. His dark eyes were pleasant, his long hair straight and sleek, his face open and smiling; only the black cloak around his shoulders told the true story.
"No words of power now, wizard? No spells? No Roke-taught charms to send the dark ones away?" He laughed again, then, such a pleasant sound from such a mocking mouth. "Roke-taught, rote-learnt, they have failed you at the last, wizard."
Kell could say nothing, could not even move, but if he could have he would have hung his head in shame. The dark one was right - he had failed. He was useless; if only Roke had sent someone stronger!
Seeing the look in his eyes, the dark mage laughed again. "At least you know it. That bastard king," he spat the word, "keeps fighting. I hope we won't have to kill him. You wouldn't like that, would you?" His face twisted again, more violently this time. "Ewes don't like seeing their ram killed, do they?"
Kell glared at him, hating him with every fibre of his being, screaming at him with every ounce of will go away! Leave me alone!, but it was no use. He could not speak a word, could summon no power. The mage smirked at him from the floor.
"No matter. Havnor will be a headless chicken without its figurehead, and Roke can't rule without its puppet. Then Paln will take what is rightfully ours."
Rising, he paced the few metres of deck to where Kell was tied, then leant down and tilted the wizard's head up. "Such pretty green eyes you have, wizard, and such fair hair. Just like your beloved Master Patterner." Then he struck Kell hard across the cheek, so hard that he saw stars and almost blacked out. "We'll see if he takes longer to die than you."
Arren woke to feel cold raindrops falling on his face, the chill water soaking his hair and clothes. It felt as if he had not been warm in days, nor dry. His muscles ached, especially his sword-arm. His arms were bound behind his back; his sword was out of reach in its scabbard, still hanging from his belt.
Keeping his eyes closed, he listened hard, trying to learn as much as possible about his surroundings before revealing the fact that he was conscious. The rhythmic slap-slap-slap of waves on wood told him that he was on the black mages' ship. There were voices not far away, arguing. He strained to catch them.
"Can't you send it away?" Soft, persuasive, but with an underlying edge of steel, this was a dangerous voice. The sibilance told him it was the leader; that and the cold malevolence that pervaded every word.
"I like it." This voice was lighter, almost dreamy; slightly petulant at being questioned. "Why shouldn't I make it rain?"
"Darfo," swore the leader, his patience breaking, "can't you see - " He broke off, and there was the sound of footsteps coming closer to where Arren lay. "He's awake."
Arren groaned as though just waking up; he fluttered his eyelids before opening them, trying to maintain the pretence. "What..."
"What happened?" the dreamy voice giggled, almost hysterically. "We caught you, your majesty. Caught you like a rat in a trap."
As his eyes cleared, Arren could see the speaker for the first time. Robed in black like the others, his hood was thrown back; his face was pale as if leached of all colour, his hair the same bleached-white. His eyes were grey, and as they flickered over Arren the king realised with a start that he was blind.
"Like a rat," the blind man repeated, his voice ending on another high-pitched giggle. The leader, a tall man with unfathomable dark eyes, grimaced in annoyance.
Summoning his strength and all his courtly arrogance, Arren fixed the chief mage with an imperious stare. "What am I doing here?"
The man laughed, a long hiss of malign amusement. "Like the stormbringer says, we caught you. On a pleasure cruise with your lover, no less." He smiled, and Arren shivered; it was a cold, cruel smile. "I wonder what Azver would say if he knew you were rutting with his chosen wizard, hm?"
Despite himself, Arren found his cheeks colouring. Even thinking of Kell was painful - he had failed to protect the wizard against the danger into which he himself had put them. "Is he alive?"
"The wizard?" The mage tossed his head dismissively. "For now. He lives or dies by my word, boy. Co-operate, and I shall let him live. Fight me," he leaned closer, "and I shall bring him to you. In pieces."
Hot tears stung his eyes, though he had sworn to himself he would not cry. They spilled over, tracing wet paths through the salt that still crusted his skin.
He had been so stupid! So useless! He had failed the Master Patterner, and the king; neither would ever forgive him. He should have protected Arren; instead, he had been laid low by a single blow.
Fool!
He closed his eyes against the tears, though they burned. Desperately, he writhed against his bonds till his fingers were wet with sweat or blood - but to no avail. There was nothing, nothing he could do. He was truly useless.
Nothing? There was something he had forgotten; he could feel it slipping through his mind, but when he reached for it it slid away. A spell? What use would that be, when he could speak no word and make no movement?
But what spells required no word or gesture? There were few - a healing spell, but he was no healer, and what use would it be?; a simple mending charm; nothing of any importance.
Except...
No...
Arren went cold inside; the sleety rain was warm against his skin by comparison. The mage's threat brought a chill to his stomach, a shiver to his heart. In his mind's eye he saw Kell, tightly bound, a knife pressed against his throat, defenceless. Hot red blood running into the cold sea, shed because he had not fought well enough. His lover's green eyes dimming, the life fading behind them, and all because of him...
"NO!" He cried the word aloud, so loud that the blind weatherworker started backwards, stumbled and fell hard to the deck. The leader spun round, his dark eyes flaring; he hefted his staff and brought it down, aimed at Arren's head. At the last moment the boy arched his body, gaining enough purchase with his bound knees to twist his head out from under the blow.
The mage swore, spat in the king's hair and smashed his boot against Arren's temple with a horrible wet sound; Arren was sure his skull had broken. As darkness welled up behind his eyes, his last thought was of his lover, of that night on the beach, of the sweet touch of Kell's fingers and the gentle whisper of his voice...
Praying that it would work, Kell closed his eyes and sent out tendrils of power in all directions. He could feel the shape of the sea around him, could see the land where it rose from the waves. There was the land of Hosk, still some distance to the west; to the east, Ilien was giving way to Ark. They were racing north, no doubt making for the strait between Hosk and Havnor that would take them back to Paln.
So. Now he knew where they were. Now for the more difficult task.
Straining until sweat stood out on his brow, Kell extended his awareness outward, seeking now not for familiar islands but for a familiar place, and for a person who never left that place. He formed an image of the Master Patterner inside his mind; soft green eyes, hair as yellow as butter, a tall man with mercy and gentleness in his eyes; and he wove into that image the feeling of the man, the kindness he had shown, the quiet praise he had given and the air of silent wisdom that surrounded him.
So woven, he sent the image out, questing across the waters for the man who fitted it -
- and found another. Arren's cry shook him, dragging the fledgling link from his grasp; in that instant, it fixed on Arren, drawing on his love, his warmth, his gentleness. Kell's eyes stung with tears as he saw the true extent of Arren's feelings for him; instinctively, he poured unceasing love back across the link. Then Arren cried out again, this time in physical rather than emotional pain, and Kell felt his presence fade. The wizard was suddenly terrified that Arren was dying; he reached out, stretching mental fingers to stroke Arren's forehead, caress his hair, reassure himself that his lover was still alive. He murmured gentle words in Arren's ear, though he knew the boy could not hear them, gently easing Arren down into unconsciousness and away from the searing pain in his temple.
Suddenly the link broke, severed by Arren's fall into oblivion. Hastily Kell reformed his Patterner-image, sending it with all his strength across the waves to Roke, his heart aching for Arren even as he did so.
The door burst open; he barely noticed. The link had been caught, and held. Cool wind caressed his hair; all he saw was the green-dappled sunlight shining down through the slender branches of the Immanent Grove. Before him stood the tall form of the Master Patterner, the sun shimmering off his spun-gold hair. Intense concern was in his green eyes; he reached out a hand to Kell and mouthed the words that he could not hear, where are you? What has happened?
In a great burst, Kell sent everything he knew - what had happened, who their enemies were, where they were and where they were heading. Over and around and through curled thoughts that he could not hide; his fear for himself and for Arren, his feelings of worthlessness, and that great surge of love he had felt when they had linked for that brief moment.
He hung his head in shame, but the Patterner smiled, despite the concern in his eyes. Again the soundless words - I shall come at once -
- and then the link was torn asunder with such force that Kell screamed against his gag. Before him stood not the Master Patterner, but his shadow - the tall, midnight-cloaked figure of the head mage, his face twisted in anger.
As the blows began to fall, Kell clung grimly to this, his last shred of hope.
They are coming...
"No time." Kell was already stumbling towards the boat. "We have to go, now."
Arren caught up with him, still trying to understand. "Why? What is happening?"
Kell shoved him away angrily, throwing out his hand and crying a word aloud; the boat shot down the beach, carving a furrow in the sand before hitting the water with a splash. He threw himself in, landing clumsily and rolling as Arren dived after him.
The king quickly stepped the mast, still uncomprehending. "What are we running from?"
Kell's voice was tight, his face set in a mask of concentration. "Black mages. Five black mages, from Paln. They know you're here, and they're already coming for you. We must get away from here."
Seconds later, he threw up his hands with a curse. "I can't call the magewind."
"Then we'll use the world's wind," Arren replied shortly, already hoisting the sail. "We'll have to tack against it if we're going to get to Havnor in time."
Kell stared at him as if he'd gone insane. "Havnor? Why would we want to go to Havnor?"
He was met by equal incomprehension. "Why? It's the safest place!"
The wizard shook his head vehemently. "We go to Roke. The Masters must be warned."
The king folded his arms stubbornly. "I have to lead my people. The Masters can come to Havnor."
"There's no TIME!" Kell almost screamed. "The dark ones are coming already, and with five of them working the magewind they'll travel ten times faster than we will. We sail for Roke, and we sail now."
For a long second there was silence, the tension singing in the air between them. Then Arren nodded, and the race was on.
They fled west and south, running before the wind as fast as the boat would carry them. The sail bulged, the prow kicked up spray as they worked feverishly to get as much speed as they could.
Neither one voiced the thought in both their minds. We'll never make it in time...
For hours they worked, throwing overboard everything needless, taking turns at the tiller. Several times Kell tried to summon the magewind, but never managed above a breath that was quickly lost in the squalling worldly wind. Arren's hands were raw and blistering from pulling ropes, and he cursed himself - before Havnor, when he had been just a prince on Enlad, he had sailed almost every day, and he would have been able to keep this up for hours. Now Palace life had made him soft.
As the hours wore on, the sky began to darken noticeably. Rain fell, quickly soaking both of them to the skin. Arren began to worry as Kell grew more and more withdrawn, seemingly uncaring about his dripping clothes; the wizard sat in the stern, staff across his knees, face locked in an expression of intense concentration. For long minutes he didn't move, seeming barely to breathe, until finally he cast his staff aside angrily.
"I can't do it!"
Arren was beside him in a moment, hands already stroking his hair, soothing. "What can't you do?"
Kell put his head in his hands, almost crying with rage and frustration. "They're too strong! I'm trying to shield us, make us invisible, but there are five of them and only one of me!" He buried his head in Arren's chest, hot tears of shame mingling with the frigid raindrops. "What am I supposed to do?"
Arren held him then, held him close and tender. Kell's skin burned under his fingers as though with a fever, but the muscles beneath were slack and powerless; the tears would not stop, and fell and fell until at last the king lifted the wizard's head and kissed them away with gentle lips.
"Do what you can. Do only what you can."
With those words he rose, going forward again to stand in the bows and watch the waves carry them onward; he willed the boat to move faster, though she was already flying past the shores of Kamery, far away to his left. To his right the sun was already sinking towards the sea, casting its sullen red light over the dark clouds, making them appear suffused with blood.
The storm came upon them quickly, blowing in from the northwest far faster than any natural storm could move. Pitch-black thunderclouds darkened the sky from horizon to horizon; the rain worsened to huge drops that stung exposed skin with all the ferocity of hailstones. Then came the wind, great gusting squalls that struck without warning, threatening to capsize the boat. Despite the ever-present, ever-increasing danger, Kell knew there was no point in trying to sail onwards in such conditions. Even if his weatherworking talent had been stronger, this was a mage-called storm, not easily sent aside.
Eventually there was nothing for it but to unstep the mast and take down the sail. Between them they stretched the canvas over one corner of the boat and huddled beneath it, barely protected from the stinging, drenching rain, hoarding what little warmth they could. The contact should have been reassuring, but neither drew much comfort from it - they shared instead an intense feeling of peril from which there was no relief.
What seemed like hours later, the rain began to abate slightly. By now the sailcloth was saturated and the bottom of the boat was inches deep in bilgewater. Both king and wizard were soaking and miserable, their spirits sapped by the wretched weather; there seemed little hope of reaching Roke now, with wind and sea driving them south and east instead of west. Arren shot a glance at Kell, but his hope faltered and the words died unspoken on his lips - the wizard looked in no state to call the magewind now. His thick blonde hair was plastered lifelessly to his head, water running down his face; he looked listless, almost trancelike, and remained that way until Arren became worried enough to wave a hand before his eyes.
Kell started visibly, then slowly focused on Arren's face. "They are seeking us again; it's everything I can do just to keep us hidden. If they find us then we're lost; there's no way I can stand against five of them."
Arren half-drew his sword, the well-oiled blade gleaming in the eerie half-light. "We'll fight them if we have to."
Kell looked at him with a mixture of fierce love and mockery. "Swords are no good against them, even one as strong as that. They could strike us down without ever touching us."
Pulling his sword free of its sheath, Arren stood - though he almost lost his footing on the shifting deck - and shouted his defiance to the uncaring sky. "Then let them come!"
Even as the rim of the sun's red circle touched the horizon, they came.
Their only warning was a moment of breathless silence, when everything around them seemed to fall still. Then a great blast of wind struck, tearing Arren's feet from the deck and casting him head-first into the sea, leaving his sword to clatter harmlessly on the deck. Kell clung desperately to the mainsail rope as the boat heeled dangerously, threatening to overturn at any moment. Arren was gripping the rim of the boat in both hands, grimly refusing to let the raging waters carry him away. That, too, was terrifying - only moments before the sea had been relatively calm. Now it seethed, dark and cold, promising a swift, freezing death to any who were separated from their vessel.
Seeing Arren in danger, Kell felt anger boil up inside him. He shouted at the storm, flinging a spell into the teeth of the wind, meeting power with power.
Abruptly, the wind dropped, leaving the two of them to right themselves and their boat - just in time for the second assault. Lightning speared the clouds, slicing the sky in half; bare seconds later, thunder like a thousand firecrackers exploded over the waters, leaving the two boys deafened and blinded in the aftermath. Instinctively, they reached for their weapons - Kell's fingers curled around his staff, while Arren's groping hand found his sword-hilt. Then cold fingers found dripping ones, and forged a link stronger than that mere touch could convey - squeezing gently, sharing reassurance and strength.
Kell's arm shot into the air, raising his staff high above his head - with a single word, cried into the teeth of the storm, it flared up with incandescent magelight. Arren flung back his head and shouted aloud, his defiance ringing across the waves as his sword blazed with reflected glory.
And into their circle of calm, into the eye of the storm, rode a ship with sails black as night and a bow that cut the water in total silence. No oars moved it nor rudder steered it. Five figures stood in the bows, cowled and robed in black, a great cloud of darkness about them. Kell's every sense screamed at him, a great weight of dread fell upon his mind - seeking instantly to combat it, he flung out his staff and yelled a word of power.
The mages barely swayed; one lifted his hand, then simply gestured as if brushing aside a fly, and Kell was flung from the boat and into the freezing ocean.
As the water closed over his head, Kell kept a desperate grip on his staff, its silver radiance dimming slowly. The sea seemed to draw him down, away from the fear and danger, away from the feelings of worthlessness and impotence...
...away from Arren...
No! With a word, torn from his lips in a rush of air, Kell struck back against the lulling song of the enchanted sea. His staff burned again, the magefire brighter than before. Its buoyancy was suddenly far greater than a normal length of wood - it drew him up, up through the silver-dappled waters until his head broke surface.
The boat's gunwale was right above his head; he grabbed hold of it and heaved himself half out of the water. Then his head crested the side, and his eyes took in the scene before him.
Arren was down on one knee, his sword held before his face, which bore an expression of intense strain. The leading wizard was stood over him, one hand reaching down, the fingers curled like claws. His power beat at Arren, forcing the king down, down till his knees gave way and he fell on his side in the bilgewater, his sword dropping from lifeless fingers.
Kell screamed aloud, a long wail of fury and anguish, and tried desperately to heave himself over the side of the boat. However, his staff impeded him, and before he could reach his lover the black mage was already whirling toward him.
Then his enemy's staff came down hard across his head, and Kell knew no more.
Arren gasped as he felt his lover's hand torn from his grasp, but there was no time to go to his aid. Even as Kell hit the water, the lead black mage leaped down from the high prow of his ship, landing in their boat as easily as a cat. Indeed, there was no jolt as he landed - it was as if he weighed nothing at all.
A single shaft of sunlight broke the clouds, gleaming for a moment off Arren's upraised sword; then that sword came down, pointing straight at the black-robed man as he hefted his staff and came at Arren full pelt. Arren dodged, struggling to find a footing on the slick, shifting planks underfoot; seeing an opening, the mage howled in triumph and brought his staff around double-handed, threatening to knock Arren off his feet.
The king danced back, confident now that he had the feel of the surface. This was his element - swordfighting had been one of his favourite pastimes in his father's palace on Enlad, and he had spent many hours training with the weaponsmaster. He knew the heft and length of the sword in his hand as well as he knew his own body, and few could equal his skill.
The sword of Serriadh sang through the air as he whirled, avoiding the mage's too-slow swing - and he saw in that moment his opening. The staff's length was an advantage, for it gave the mage a longer reach than Arren's sword did him, but it was also a hindrance - a swing took a long time to recover from.
Arren leapt back as the mage brought the staff back around for another swing, then pretended to stumble, letting his left leg fold beneath him. His opponent swung, the heavy length of wood whistling through the air, but Arren ducked and it passed harmlessly over his head. Then he pushed off from his left foot, that he had kept pressed flat against the deck; his sword shot forward, aimed straight at his enemy's heart.
At the last second the mage twisted away; instead of plunging into his chest, the point of the enchanted blade sliced through his robe and scored a deep gash through his skin. Arren heard the gasp of indrawn breath; then, even as he recovered himself, the mage shrieked, a horrible sound that beat in his ears and numbed his singing muscles into stillness. He staggered backward, unable to gain his balance, until his legs finally gave way and he sank to one knee.
The mage towered over him, one hand outstretched. Alien syllables hissed and bubbled on his lips; with horror, Arren realised that his strength was draining out of him. He could barely move; it was all he could do simply to keep from falling on his face.
Then, half-forgotten in his hand, the sword began to glimmer with the barest hint of light. It gave him an answering glimmer of hope; slowly, so slowly, he brought it up, till it was crooked before his face. The mage's dark eyes widened; he swore, then raised his staff and dashed the sword from Arren's hand.
Or tried to. As the staff struck the sword it stopped instantly, as if it had struck a wall; Arren felt no blow on the sword blade, but the staff was almost torn from his opponent's grasp. White light flared out from the sword, blinding Arren for a moment and leaving painful violet after-images on the back of his eyes. When he recovered, it was to see the mage staring at the sword as if at a hated enemy.
"So," he spat, his voice sibilant and menacing, "the puppet king carries a master's sword. Were you a true king, child, then you would have killed me with that blow. But Serriadh is long dead, and you are not he."
With those words he stretched out his hand again, the fingers curled stiffly, and spoke a string of syllables that forced Arren down. His muscles would not obey him; there was no strength left in him. He had not the words nor the power to stop the spell - all his fencing talent would not avail him against such magic.
Slowly, slowly, he crumpled to the deck and fell, the sword clattering harmlessly onto the deck. As darkness veiled his eyes, the last thing Arren saw was Kell's face, the mouth open in a great cry of horror, and the mage's long dark staff already swinging towards his lover's unprotected head.
There was darkness. For a long time, there was only darkness, deep and absolute.
Then came the pain. It crippled him, stopped his thoughts. Shards of red-hot ice stabbed his temples, sliced behind his eyes. Fragments of spells, charms to ease the pain, floated up through his aching brain, but his mouth was stopped and he could not speak a word.
Then the darkness came again, and he surrendered to it gratefully.
There was light. A smoky yellow candle, guttering in the corner of the room. By the motion of the wall to which he was bound he knew he was aboard the ship, or at least a ship. His arms were tied to an iron ring above his head, his feet lashed together and the rope tied tightly around his thighs. The gag in his mouth was rough and dirty; he tried not to think about the taste.
It did him no good. His stomach churned from the seawater he had swallowed; he retched violently, almost choking on the unyielding gag. The smoke from the candle filled his lungs as he fought for air, still retching and trying to cough.
Eventually he stilled his aching stomach, though his throat burned from the acid and the salt. His head still hurt unbearably, and the darkness gave no sign of returning to give him relief.
Soft laughter filled the room. Straining his eyes in the dim light, he made out a young man, sitting comfortably against the opposite wall. His dark eyes were pleasant, his long hair straight and sleek, his face open and smiling; only the black cloak around his shoulders told the true story.
"No words of power now, wizard? No spells? No Roke-taught charms to send the dark ones away?" He laughed again, then, such a pleasant sound from such a mocking mouth. "Roke-taught, rote-learnt, they have failed you at the last, wizard."
Kell could say nothing, could not even move, but if he could have he would have hung his head in shame. The dark one was right - he had failed. He was useless; if only Roke had sent someone stronger!
Seeing the look in his eyes, the dark mage laughed again. "At least you know it. That bastard king," he spat the word, "keeps fighting. I hope we won't have to kill him. You wouldn't like that, would you?" His face twisted again, more violently this time. "Ewes don't like seeing their ram killed, do they?"
Kell glared at him, hating him with every fibre of his being, screaming at him with every ounce of will go away! Leave me alone!, but it was no use. He could not speak a word, could summon no power. The mage smirked at him from the floor.
"No matter. Havnor will be a headless chicken without its figurehead, and Roke can't rule without its puppet. Then Paln will take what is rightfully ours."
Rising, he paced the few metres of deck to where Kell was tied, then leant down and tilted the wizard's head up. "Such pretty green eyes you have, wizard, and such fair hair. Just like your beloved Master Patterner." Then he struck Kell hard across the cheek, so hard that he saw stars and almost blacked out. "We'll see if he takes longer to die than you."
Arren woke to feel cold raindrops falling on his face, the chill water soaking his hair and clothes. It felt as if he had not been warm in days, nor dry. His muscles ached, especially his sword-arm. His arms were bound behind his back; his sword was out of reach in its scabbard, still hanging from his belt.
Keeping his eyes closed, he listened hard, trying to learn as much as possible about his surroundings before revealing the fact that he was conscious. The rhythmic slap-slap-slap of waves on wood told him that he was on the black mages' ship. There were voices not far away, arguing. He strained to catch them.
"Can't you send it away?" Soft, persuasive, but with an underlying edge of steel, this was a dangerous voice. The sibilance told him it was the leader; that and the cold malevolence that pervaded every word.
"I like it." This voice was lighter, almost dreamy; slightly petulant at being questioned. "Why shouldn't I make it rain?"
"Darfo," swore the leader, his patience breaking, "can't you see - " He broke off, and there was the sound of footsteps coming closer to where Arren lay. "He's awake."
Arren groaned as though just waking up; he fluttered his eyelids before opening them, trying to maintain the pretence. "What..."
"What happened?" the dreamy voice giggled, almost hysterically. "We caught you, your majesty. Caught you like a rat in a trap."
As his eyes cleared, Arren could see the speaker for the first time. Robed in black like the others, his hood was thrown back; his face was pale as if leached of all colour, his hair the same bleached-white. His eyes were grey, and as they flickered over Arren the king realised with a start that he was blind.
"Like a rat," the blind man repeated, his voice ending on another high-pitched giggle. The leader, a tall man with unfathomable dark eyes, grimaced in annoyance.
Summoning his strength and all his courtly arrogance, Arren fixed the chief mage with an imperious stare. "What am I doing here?"
The man laughed, a long hiss of malign amusement. "Like the stormbringer says, we caught you. On a pleasure cruise with your lover, no less." He smiled, and Arren shivered; it was a cold, cruel smile. "I wonder what Azver would say if he knew you were rutting with his chosen wizard, hm?"
Despite himself, Arren found his cheeks colouring. Even thinking of Kell was painful - he had failed to protect the wizard against the danger into which he himself had put them. "Is he alive?"
"The wizard?" The mage tossed his head dismissively. "For now. He lives or dies by my word, boy. Co-operate, and I shall let him live. Fight me," he leaned closer, "and I shall bring him to you. In pieces."
Hot tears stung his eyes, though he had sworn to himself he would not cry. They spilled over, tracing wet paths through the salt that still crusted his skin.
He had been so stupid! So useless! He had failed the Master Patterner, and the king; neither would ever forgive him. He should have protected Arren; instead, he had been laid low by a single blow.
Fool!
He closed his eyes against the tears, though they burned. Desperately, he writhed against his bonds till his fingers were wet with sweat or blood - but to no avail. There was nothing, nothing he could do. He was truly useless.
Nothing? There was something he had forgotten; he could feel it slipping through his mind, but when he reached for it it slid away. A spell? What use would that be, when he could speak no word and make no movement?
But what spells required no word or gesture? There were few - a healing spell, but he was no healer, and what use would it be?; a simple mending charm; nothing of any importance.
Except...
No...
Arren went cold inside; the sleety rain was warm against his skin by comparison. The mage's threat brought a chill to his stomach, a shiver to his heart. In his mind's eye he saw Kell, tightly bound, a knife pressed against his throat, defenceless. Hot red blood running into the cold sea, shed because he had not fought well enough. His lover's green eyes dimming, the life fading behind them, and all because of him...
"NO!" He cried the word aloud, so loud that the blind weatherworker started backwards, stumbled and fell hard to the deck. The leader spun round, his dark eyes flaring; he hefted his staff and brought it down, aimed at Arren's head. At the last moment the boy arched his body, gaining enough purchase with his bound knees to twist his head out from under the blow.
The mage swore, spat in the king's hair and smashed his boot against Arren's temple with a horrible wet sound; Arren was sure his skull had broken. As darkness welled up behind his eyes, his last thought was of his lover, of that night on the beach, of the sweet touch of Kell's fingers and the gentle whisper of his voice...
Praying that it would work, Kell closed his eyes and sent out tendrils of power in all directions. He could feel the shape of the sea around him, could see the land where it rose from the waves. There was the land of Hosk, still some distance to the west; to the east, Ilien was giving way to Ark. They were racing north, no doubt making for the strait between Hosk and Havnor that would take them back to Paln.
So. Now he knew where they were. Now for the more difficult task.
Straining until sweat stood out on his brow, Kell extended his awareness outward, seeking now not for familiar islands but for a familiar place, and for a person who never left that place. He formed an image of the Master Patterner inside his mind; soft green eyes, hair as yellow as butter, a tall man with mercy and gentleness in his eyes; and he wove into that image the feeling of the man, the kindness he had shown, the quiet praise he had given and the air of silent wisdom that surrounded him.
So woven, he sent the image out, questing across the waters for the man who fitted it -
- and found another. Arren's cry shook him, dragging the fledgling link from his grasp; in that instant, it fixed on Arren, drawing on his love, his warmth, his gentleness. Kell's eyes stung with tears as he saw the true extent of Arren's feelings for him; instinctively, he poured unceasing love back across the link. Then Arren cried out again, this time in physical rather than emotional pain, and Kell felt his presence fade. The wizard was suddenly terrified that Arren was dying; he reached out, stretching mental fingers to stroke Arren's forehead, caress his hair, reassure himself that his lover was still alive. He murmured gentle words in Arren's ear, though he knew the boy could not hear them, gently easing Arren down into unconsciousness and away from the searing pain in his temple.
Suddenly the link broke, severed by Arren's fall into oblivion. Hastily Kell reformed his Patterner-image, sending it with all his strength across the waves to Roke, his heart aching for Arren even as he did so.
The door burst open; he barely noticed. The link had been caught, and held. Cool wind caressed his hair; all he saw was the green-dappled sunlight shining down through the slender branches of the Immanent Grove. Before him stood the tall form of the Master Patterner, the sun shimmering off his spun-gold hair. Intense concern was in his green eyes; he reached out a hand to Kell and mouthed the words that he could not hear, where are you? What has happened?
In a great burst, Kell sent everything he knew - what had happened, who their enemies were, where they were and where they were heading. Over and around and through curled thoughts that he could not hide; his fear for himself and for Arren, his feelings of worthlessness, and that great surge of love he had felt when they had linked for that brief moment.
He hung his head in shame, but the Patterner smiled, despite the concern in his eyes. Again the soundless words - I shall come at once -
- and then the link was torn asunder with such force that Kell screamed against his gag. Before him stood not the Master Patterner, but his shadow - the tall, midnight-cloaked figure of the head mage, his face twisted in anger.
As the blows began to fall, Kell clung grimly to this, his last shred of hope.
They are coming...