Free Master of Whitestorm by Janny Wurts Page A

chamber until dizziness spoiled his balance. By the time dawn glimmered through the casements, he sprawled on the rug by the mantel, his forearm streaked to the elbow, and his lips tinged blue against flesh translucent as steamed glass.
    * * *
    Sunlight threaded copper glints through Korendir’s hair when at last Anthei chose to return. White wool lay speckled like a slaughterhouse where her prisoner’s restless steps had carried him; prone by the hearth, the man himself was ivory pale against a scarlet mat of carpet. Anthei tossed her head, sharply disappointed. She had come to make his passing unpleasant only to discover he had collapsed far earlier than expected. Cheated of her sport, she crossed the chamber on slippered feet. If Korendir was simply unconscious, she would restore him and make him suffer; his remote facade would shatter and he would beg for death. Lovely as a succubus, Anthei bent and grasped his wrist to check for pulse. She did not notice the boot left braced against the firedog.
    Long, loose hair slipped over her shoulders and caressed the line of his cheek.
    Korendir exploded into motion. He twisted like a dropped cat and pinned Anthei’s hair beneath his shoulder. His motion jerked the snared tresses taut, and Anthei overbalanced. Startled laughter rang in his ears as she crashed across his body. Through dizzied vision, Korendir glimpsed widened, green-blue eyes and an expression of murderous delight.
    “Clever man,” said the witch. But her amusement changed pitch to alarm as he rolled again, and her silky locks snagged on the unfinished edge of his belt buckle.
    Smoke plumed from the contact. Metamorphosis travelled swiftly up the strands, graying their youthful resiliency. Wrinkles spidered Anthei’s forehead. Her remarkable eyes clouded with cataracts, and smooth cheeks puckered with wrinkles as the iron’s fatal unbinding engulfed her face. Years of aging claimed her form in a single instant, puffing slim hands and shrivelling spell-wrought beauty to skeletal ugliness. Red velvet caved and sagged over more angular contours. With a breathy, startled sound like an infant’s cry, Anthei shuddered and collapsed.
    The man disentangled himself from her corpse with savorless practicality. The gatekeeper had correctly named the wardstone responsible for Anthei’s prolonged youth. Subject to earth law, the plain beggar’s iron which fastened his belt had grounded her with reality; shock proved too much for her heart. But the accomplishment left the victor exhausted.
    Korendir rose on unsteady feet. Dizziness sucked at his balance as he braced himself against the mantel and lifted the wardstone from its tripod. He wrapped the jewel in his cloak and rocked drunkenly down the tower stair. The latches on the doorway were fastened without enchantments. Korendir fumbled them open and emerged in the full light of morning.
    Anthei’s front path burned his eyes like a snowfield.
    The bronze gate shimmered at its end, impossibly distant. A blurred form appeared beyond, wildly shouting: Haldeth.
    Korendir blinked and forced concentration. With great effort he lifted the wardstone from his cloak. For an instant, two thousand two hundred and forty facets blazed like fire in the sunlight. Then Korendir swayed and tumbled headlong down the steps.
    He was still struggling to rise when Haldeth reached him. Sure hands gripped his shoulder and settled him gently against the stone of Anthei’s stoop.
    “Neth’s everlasting pity, lad, you’re decked like a cock from the fighter’s pit. Is the blood yours or the witch’s?”
    Korendir stirred, opened bland eyes, and raised his thumb. But the slice opened by Morey’s enchanted dagger was now miraculously healed; apparently contact with the wardstone had closed the spell-cursed cut. Not even a scar remained. Speckled with rainbows thrown off by the gem’s prismatic facets, Korendir laughed. “Haldeth,” he said when at last he regained his breath. “There’s