He coughed, retched, choking violently; his eyes were blinded by the salt, his ears filled with the ringing of the sea, his mouth deluged by wave after wave so that the water rushed back in even as he coughed it up. Kicking hard, lungs burning, he managed with the last of his strength to turn himself onto his back, so that he floated even as consciousness fled...
He stood in a crisp bowl of light, watching the sunbeams shatter and scatter and play over the fountain's basin. Its white marble glistened in the sunlight, striking tiny rainbows from droplets caught in the fronds and furs of mosses that grew in cracks around the rim.
Before him and all around him, rippling behind the sheet of fine spray thrown up by the fountain, rose the weathered grey walls of the Great House of Roke. Their imposing grandeur should have shadowed the courtyard in gloom, but instead the square was light and empty. Above his head, stretching higher than he could reach, young trees of ash and elm, of hazel and rowan waved their slender branches, dancing slowly with the breeze. Unseen, birds sang softly in the fragrant spring air, their liquid song mingling with the laughter of the fountain and the quiet murmur of the leaves as they shifted restlessly in the wind.
The sky above was clear and blue, the fountain's water cool on his fingers as he reached, entranced, for the nearest sparkling jet, watching as the crystal droplets ran together and formed a pool in the cupped palm of his hand. Dappled sunlight shimmered off the surface of the water, and he was suddenly aware of his thirst.
It should have seemed like sacrilege, but somehow it was the most natural thing in the world to lift his hand to his mouth and slowly tip the water onto his tongue. His eyes widened at its cool sweetness, gently warming in his mouth; he swallowed, gasping as it chilled his stomach.
Slowly, a strange feeling began to move through him, spreading outward, gradually suffusing his body; an odd, cool, tingling sensation, as though the water had mingled with his blood and now flowed within his veins. He shook himself, surprised - and realised that more was changing than mere sensation. It seemed as though the fountain sang softly to itself in a tongue that he could understand, though the words slipped away when he tried to reach for them; it seemed that the birds spoke to each other of matters ordinary to them, yet beyond his comprehension. Even the leaves seemed to be whispering words that only half-formed inside his head, so that though he tried he could not catch their meaning.
And even as the world whirled around him, it was as if a white light began to burn, strong and steady; he focused instinctively on it, one point of constancy in the sudden maelstrom of understanding.
The light came closer, and through the murmur of the fountain and the chatter of the birds he heard a voice, low and quiet, yet with a deep strength in it beyond anything he had ever heard; it was speaking the language of the birds and of the leaves, a language that he now felt he had known all his life, a language that was not only spoken but lived and breathed and danced...
Strong hands touched him lightly on the forehead, on the temples, on the shoulders, and the roaring in his ears died to a murmur, a whisper, and was gone. Yet he knew that it was not gone, only quieted; that he could, if he wished, hear any part of it again.
He realised that he had closed his eyes as the first touch fell upon him; now he opened them, and the transition from darkness to incandescent light made him flinch and screw them up again.
Gradually, his sight returned - and when it did so he quickly knelt, for the man in front of him, dressed in a robe of the purest white, was none other than the Archmage, the man they called Sparrowhawk.
A touch made him lift his head, and through the trailing ends of his blonde hair he saw the man who had tamed the Dragon of Pendor, who had sailed the Dragons' Run unscathed, and who had brought the Ring of Erreth-Akbe back from its tomb in Atuan, whole and remade. His face was reddish-dark, with a nose like the beak of a hawk; white scars traced across his left cheek, four thin, deep scores like the clawmarks of some fell beast. He carried a staff, a stout length of dark yew, but neither leaned on it nor held it like a weapon; instead he held it as a craftsman holds a tool, lightly and easily, with a touch born of long acquaintance.
"Rise, boy," he said, his voice calm and even, "and tell me why you've come."
The boy stood, nervously, pulling his letter of introduction from the pocket of his tunic, fumbling and almost dropping it in his haste; he waited whilst the Archmage read it, trying to stop himself from shifting from foot to foot in his disquiet.
Finally the hawk's head lifted and the dark eyes fixed him with a steady gaze. "I know your master's name, Kell of Ilien; I studied with him in the Immanent Grove when Starrel was Patterner. But that does not answer my question. Why have you come here to Roke?"
Consciously or not, Kell had schooled himself for this moment, readied words and explanations, but something in the air, something in the water, something in the Archmage's voice made only the truth possible, and it came spilling out of his mouth in a great rush. The knowledge that he was different, that he wanted things others did not, and could do things that others could not; the knowledge that a gift lay within him, untrained and largely untapped; and the need to do something with that gift, to train and tap it, as anyone would wish to tap a well in a dry land.
Throughout it all the Archmage regarded him impassively, nodding here and there; when Kell had finished, he sat down on the edge of the fountain's basin and stared into the crystal water that rippled there with unseeing eyes, drawing his white cloak close about his shoulders. For a long time he merely gazed into the shallow bowl, until Kell thought himself dismissed and turned to go; then the Archmage rose, reaching out and taking Kell by the shoulder even as the boy turned back to face him.
Those bright, fierce eyes seemed to look into him and through him, reading every thought, every impulse, every desire as though they lay spread out below him on the paving stones; then the feeling passed, and the dark eyes softened.
"Eyes that see, and ears that hear, and to have drunk from the fountain; is there no end to your talents, boy?" A hand was on Kell's chin, tilting his head up so that his green eyes met the Archmage's. "Let us see."
The man's hands shifted to rest atop Kell's head, and he began to murmur the words of a spell; hearing those words with his new inner ear, Kell recognised them as a fortune-telling charm, used by witches as they sang over runestones or ogamsticks so that they would give up the secrets of the future. It seemed strange to the boy that so great a man as the Archmage would use a witch's charm, but he bore the man's touch without complaint, submitting to the spell like a tame animal. And as he did so, he realised that in the Archmage's hands, this spell had true power, and a far greater scope than the simple will-he, won't-he of a rune casting.
What the Archmage's eyes saw, he did not know, but it seemed as if they stood there whilst the years passed and the trees grew, and the sun whirled across the sky. Images flashed before Kell's eyes - of a white city by the sea, and a bright sword atop its highest tower; a great rust-red dragon, framed by the fire of sunrise over some far island; and a grove of trees, ancient and slender, glowing green and golden in the sunlight. He saw himself walking in the quiet beneath those trees, gazing up at the shining sword, and - his breath caught in his throat - speaking to the dragon with arms outstretched, dwarfed by its immense bulk. Then his eyes burned, and the visions were gone before he could catch them and store them in his memory, gone like a dream that vanishes on waking.
When he came back to himself, the Archmage's eyes were fixed on him, contemplative, thoughtful. He shook his head a little, trying to clear the last of the disorientation, and dropped his eyes before that evaluating gaze.
But the man said only, "Welcome to the School, boy. Hawthorn there will take you to your room."
Turning, Kell found a boy a few years older than himself, tough and wiry like his namesake and clad in the grey cloak worn by all students of the School, waiting in the archway through which he had entered the courtyard. He knelt again to the Archmage, keeping his head bowed as he rose and walked to meet his guide; when he paused under the archway and looked back, the man had resumed his seat on the fountain's brim and was staring into the water, murmuring gently to himself, his voice almost lost amongst the chatter of the fountain and the whisper of the trees.
Then Hawthorn touched his arm, and he was led away through a maze of corridors, to find a cloak, a room and some food - for the journey from Ilien had been long, at least for one as unused to travel as he, and he had not eaten in some time...
Ged watched him go from beneath hooded eyes, musing on what he had seen as the foretelling did its work. The picture had been hazy and incomplete, as any vision of the future must be, but whilst Kell had seen scenes and places, he had seen faces - a young man with a waterfall of dark hair and depths of strength and sorrow in his eyes; Azver the Patterner, his ageless, ice-green eyes creased as if in pain; another man, his face handsome and cruel, bright scheming eyes beneath drawn-down black brows; and the face of Thorion the Summoner, only that face was a corpse, with maggots crawling in the sockets of its eyes. And last of all he had seen the face of the boy himself, the green eyes dim and empty, the features slack as though in death, the golden hair limp and straggling wetly across dead-white skin.
Beyond that all was darkness, but that itself was strange, for foretellings did not follow the dead across the Wall; had the boy truly died, the spell would simply have ended there, its power spent. Instead, there was a sense of something out of reach, hidden from view; something that was not the blankness of death.
For a long time Ged simply sat, listening to the talk of the fountain, contemplating what he had seen, and pitying the boy for the weight that must, in time, lie heavy upon his shoulders. In silence he sought the boy's true name, and into his mind there came an image - that of a young tree, its branches heavy with yellow catkins. He shook his head, saying to the fountain and the trees and the sky,
"When my name has been forgotten, yet men will speak of you."
A trill of birdsong made him look up, to where two trees, a rowan and a hazel, had grown close together, their branches reaching for one another as a lover reaches for the arms of their beloved. They whispered to one another in the wind, the contented murmur of two who have been long in each other's company and have long ceased to need words to say what can be said by touch alone.
Slowly, the harsh white scars that seamed his left cheek creasing as he did so, the Archmage began to smile.
For a moment Kell thought he could still feel the fountain's spray cool on his cheek and the warmth of the sun on his forehead, but the gentle past evaporated as consciousness slowly returned. That cool spray became a torrent of icy water; the sun's warm radiance became the burning cold of the storm-tossed sea. The shock helped bring his wandering mind back to his battered body, whence it had been driven by the impact with the unforgiving waters of the ocean.
He writhed desperately, fruitlessly against his bonds as wave after wave broke over him; his hands were held fast behind him, and he choked as freezing seawater cascaded into his mouth. Water already rattled in his chest, preventing him from drawing breath. Darkness began to encroach at the edges of his vision; the strength began to seep from his limbs, drawn like the heat from his body, escaping into the bitter ocean.
Still he struggled, the water-softened skin of his wrists tearing against the tarred ropes as he fought his bonds. The sudden sting of salt on wound caused him to catch his breath, but cuts and bruises all over his body were already screaming; he caught his lip between his teeth and prayed for the icy water to numb his pain. He didn't care that his suffering was the only thing keeping him conscious - it was now only a matter of time before the cold overcame his resistance. Only minutes before his lungs gave up their fight, before his life, too, leached out into the relentless waves, a spark snuffed out by the uncaring waters.
He thought he heard a splash somewhere off to his left, a sound like a stone tossed into the water, but the howling of the wind and the roar of the waves made it difficult to be sure. The chill was already numbing his arms and legs, the pain easing, replaced by the dull ache of creeping cold. Frigid tendrils reached toward his heart, seeking the last of his warmth, seeking to draw it out of him and leave him floating cold and lifeless on the waves...
He could not feel the hand that closed around his arm, but he felt the tug as tide fought grasp; the numbed tingle from his lacerated wrist roused him enough to struggle half-heartedly against the grip.
Strong hands caught him underneath his arms, stilling his labouring resistance and buoying him up against the cloying pull of the ocean. His head broke surface, and he gulped in breaths of air he had not known he lacked, his chest heaving convulsively as his lungs fought to expel the invading water. He could not think, could not feel; the whole universe contracted down to his need for the next breath, the desperate battle to fill his burning lungs.
"Stop struggling, boy," a voice hissed in his ear, a voice that caught at his memory, that would have been familiar had the searing pain in his chest not filled his thoughts and swept away any chance at remembrance. It was hoarse with effort, shaking with the unbearable cold, yet held a deep resonance that he knew he would remember if he had but a moment...
Then consciousness fled again, and he slumped limply against the Master Chanter's chest, only the Master's hand beneath his chin keeping him from slipping beneath the surface and drowning.
The Chanter stared down at the pitiful limp bundle on the deck, making no move to help the comatose boy; blood dripped from his hand where the rope that had brought both he and the boy to safety had torn away the skin. It now hung slack around his waist, trailing through the mess of mingled water and blood that flooded the deck, scarlet streams chased and divided as the rain poured down.
Before him, the Masters Patterner and Doorkeeper knelt beside Kell's unconscious body, the Doorkeeper turning the boy's head aside as the Patterner pounded his back. After a few moments Kell coughed and retched, seawater spilling from the corner of his mouth. Life returned to his lifeless body, sight to his sightless eyes; he trembled, trying to move.
"Lie still," the Patterner said quickly, his hand on the boy's arm, and, "Give it time," murmured the Doorkeeper, examining Kell's wounded wrists, his robe stained with the blood which still pulsed red from the ragged tears wrought by the cruel rope. The Changer and Windkey stood over them, the latter wringing his hands in distress.
"If only the Herbal had come," he was saying, agitated. "The best healer in Earthsea, and we didn't bring him. Deyala could have healed him with a touch..."
He broke off, the words choking in his throat as the Patterner's head snapped upwards, eyes blazing; the Doorkeeper touched his hand, a restraining gesture, then unobtrusively drew some white bandages from the pocket of his robe and bound Kell's bleeding wrists.
"Is the Unmaking come already, that true names are spoken aloud, and carelessly?" His voice was quiet, mild, chiding, his hands deft and gentle at their work; the Patterner's green eyes still burned. The Windkey stammered, his hands still twisting over one another; then he hung his head, and the Changer took his arm to lead him away.
"We are come on strange times." The Chanter's voice was still rough with cold, but he spoke with a singer's resonant tones and practised cadence. "It may be that we will wish for the Master Herbal before this day is out."
At that the Doorkeeper too raised his head, and his calm eyes smiled a little in the dim light. "No knife can wound the righteous, no spear can maim the just," he quoted, raising a weak smile in answer from the Chanter as the other recognised the familiar Deed of Morred. Then the sparkle in his eyes died, though his placid expression did not change. "If five of us cannot mend this wound," and he laid his hand over Kell's heart, "all the Herbal's skills would not avail us."
At that the Chanter bowed his head, but not before a cloud had passed over his face - the slightest shadow, a wince as at a painful memory. He caught Kell's eye and drew the rune Ges, that gives strength, in the air; but he did not smile, and drew away without a word.
Into the silence the Patterner spoke, his voice little more than a breath above the hammering raindrops and the crashing of the waves.
"Strange times indeed, when the Windkey's tongue is loosed and the Chanter's bound."
At that the Doorkeeper's quick smile came again, the lines around his eyes deepening, but he signed the Patterner to silence, and bent again over the frightened, bloodied boy.
Nothing happens quickly at sea, even when ships fly on wizards' winds. As far as Arren could tell, the two vessels were almost evenly matched - the ship from Roke was lighter, fleeter, but the Pelnish craft carried more sail. So he lay there, now bound hand and foot, on the soaking deck as the stormbringer's tempest howled around him and great waves broke over the bow of the ship, straining for a glimpse of the Masters' ship through the storm. Occasionally one of the mages paused in their scurrying to kick him or spit in his hair, but he bore the abuse with an unwavering stoicism, ignoring the shooting pains in his bruised crotch that threatened to double him over, ignoring the hot-ice ache of a sprained ankle, ignoring the sickening waves of nausea that made the bile rise in his throat. Looking always for an opening, a second of lapsed vigilance, a chance to free himself and flee for safety.
A slender hope, but one to which he clung with all his might, if only to prevent the guilt from rising up and overwhelming him. He had no way of knowing if Kell was dead or alive; the only reason he had not shared that desolate, uncertain fate was because he was useful. He should have bargained, traded on that usefulness, pleaded for his lover's life. If Kell were dead...
No. He shook his head violently, refusing to give in, refusing to surrender to the rising panic. I had no hold on them. Bound and helpless as he was, what could he have threatened? Better that he make himself of use now, watching for that slender chance of freedom. Yet in his mind's eye he could not help seeing the waves carrying Kell's body further and further from him as the black-sailed ship flew over the waves to Paln.
His sword still hung at his side, useless with no hand to wield it. It lay heavy on his hip, as though weighted by the centuries, as though it chided him for his weakness. He twisted, wrenching the muscles of his arms, fighting against the ropes that held him, but they only bit more tightly into his skin. So weak, that he could be held thus! No spells to bind him, no enchantments to stay him; only a few handsbreadths of rope, and he was helpless.
Enraged by his own impotence, he writhed again, and bit his lip as the ropes chafed him, hating the tears that rose hot and stinging into his already swollen eyes. No sword, no spells, no aid, and alone amongst powerful enemies. What am I to do?
Wait, and watch, his mind answered. Watch for anything you can use. Rivalries, arguments, jealousies - if there are none, create them. They have a common goal - the throne of Havnor - but only one can wear the crown. They must come together to defeat Roke, but each will ever be watching the others, watching for the first sign of treachery. Once Roke is beaten, it will be every mage for himself. That is their weakness - and one that can be exploited by anyone, mage or no.
Slowly, deliberately, Arren pulled his knees up to his chest, then tried to roll until they were underneath him. Every muscle in his abused body protested, but he clenched his teeth against the pain and levered with his elbow, forcing until he thought the bone would snap, pushing with all his strength against the dead weight of his body. In the chaos of the storm he had been flung across the deck, finally coming to rest against the gunwale, and now he used that surface as a brace to push himself over. Twice the motion of the ship defeated him, pitching him back onto his side just as he thought he had achieved his goal; on the third attempt he used that motion to help him, gauging the right moment to push so that the shifting of the deck toppled him over onto his knees.
He stayed motionless for a while, head resting between his legs, while the world spun around him. Even that little effort had tired him beyond belief, and he once more cursed his weakness.
Eventually he regained his equilibrium, and tried to prepare himself for the beating he was about to receive. He closed his eyes, reaching down inside himself to tap that deep stream of strength that flowed within him, that had brought him across the dark land living and to the far shore of the day. Forgotten in its soaking amulet bag around his neck, the small stone that he had brought from those dark mountains shifted as his shirt stretched across his chest, biting into his skin even through the thick, soft fabric of the bag, and he smiled, knowing that what strength had done before, it could do again.
First, the distraction. He threw back his head and began to sing.
His voice was rough with disuse, made husky by salt and weak by pain, but he fed it with his strength as one feeds a flame with wood. Slowly the thin, wavering notes became fuller, more resonant, pealing out even over the roar of rain and sea. He sang the first song that came to mind, the first he had ever been taught - the Deed of the Young King, and as he sang he smiled, for it told of the victory of the White Enchanter over his dark Enemy. The song lent hope to his heart, even as he knew the singing would bring him pain.
And it did; his enemies swung round, faces twisting with anger, already striding toward him as he soared into the second canto. His split lip had cracked open, and blood trickled freely down his chin, mingling with the freezing rain and stinging sea-spray, but he sang on uncaring.
The first blow caught him across the side of the head, slamming his face against the wet, rough wood of the gunwale, cutting off his song. The second hit his aching shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain.
"Stop!" The word lashed out like a whip; his two tormentors whirled round to face the speaker. The lead mage stood there, one hand upraised, eyes flaring.
"I said enough! Let the boy sing, let him scream, let him curse our souls, I said enough!"
The young, long-haired mage stepped forward, his hands clenching into fists, anger flashing in his eyes. "And since when did you care about his suffering? Let him learn that we are his masters now!"
"We need him alive, fool. The boy only has so much blood in him. When the time comes it shall flow to your heart's content, but not yet!"
Arren let his head loll against the planking, feigning unconsciousness as the argument raged around him. Tempers were short, with Roke so close; he hoped that he had lit the fuse of a powder keg, hoped against hope that he had helped the Masters, however little.
Perhaps he could manage more. Carefully, slowly, he tugged at the bonds that held his arms. He had been tied wrist to elbow, his arms folded in a parody of relaxation behind his back; his right hand was at his left side, mere inches away from the hilt of his sword. If he could draw it an inch, work his bonds against the edge...
Of course, the slightest misjudgement and the sharp steel might cut his wrist to the bone, leaving him bound and helpless on the deck while his lifeblood trickled from his veins, but with his lover already dead in the freezing waters, what would that matter? At least he would deny the mages their triumph, prevent them from legitimising their rule. For now, though, the fire of life burned hot and insistent in his blood, crying out to him to take every chance.
He dared not move too openly, lest his pretence be discovered, but he shifted as slowly as possible, hiding his left side against the gunwale. He stretched the fingers of his right hand until they ached, until cramp began to bite into his wrist; the pommel of his sword brushed tantalisingly against his fingertips, strangely warm against his cold skin. A moment's rest, and then he strained again, stretching till he thought wrist and elbow and shoulder would all come from their sockets, finally managing to hook two fingers around the hilt. He tightened his grip to the utmost, until his whole arm screamed with tension, and then began to draw...
The whisper of steel on leather was barely audible above the howl of the storm, but Arren's heart rejoiced to hear it. Now, carefully, carefully - too far, and the sword would clatter to the deck and betray him; not far enough, and it would not reach his bonds. Another inch, tortuously slow, another - it slipped from his grasp, sliding too quickly from its sheath. He grasped frantically at the blade, feeling it bite into his fingers, slicing into the soft pads of flesh. Hot blood welled up from the cuts, spilling down the blade and leaving no stain, washed clean away by the rain.
He had it, though, a hard-won prize. Before its keen edge the rope parted, though so slowly that he almost cried out in his impatience. Any moment the mages would notice, would see the constant shifting of position required to keep his bonds moving over the sword blade, and he would be lost. He dared not imagine what they might do to him; he had endured all the pain that violence could inflict, but spell could wreak more havoc than boot or fist.
Finally; a faint pressure on his wrist, and then the rope fell away. His left wrist was still bound, tied tightly to his right elbow, but he had a slight range of movement with his sword-arm - and a second's grace in which to use it. No use in freeing his legs - where was there to run? No; better to do as much damage as he could in the time that he had, and hope to win the Masters whatever advantage he could give them.
He threw himself forward, bringing his arm around as hard as he could, the sword keening through the air, and felt the blade bury itself deeply in the calf muscle of the closest mage.
In that moment, even as he drew back his arm for a second strike, even as the mage's high, unearthly scream pierced the storm, a long grinding crash rent the air, and he knew they were aground. They were on Paln.