by Janny Wurts
The spelled binding that framed the construct for tracking dispelled as a sheet of blank light.
Ahead of Lirenda’s explosive rebuke, Cadgia let fly her long-suffering temper. ‘No! Enough of this foolery.’ She pushed to her feet as though her back ached. ‘I told you before. Your fugitives lie under Dakar’s warded protection, no easy barrier for our skills to break through, even under auspicious conditions! My circle of seeresses are all bone weary. Your fruitless schemes have exhausted their strength, and I won’t see them down sick by extending them further. Until this storm lifts, accept the harsh fact. Nothing more can be done.’
‘How dare you ignore the Prime Matriarch’s directive!’ Smoothly groomed, her sable hair imperiously pinned since her demeaning affray by the wall, Lirenda advanced in a swish of damp silk.
Yet Cadgia folded broad arms, unintimidated. ‘Don’t start. Not now. You’re behind on events. The old balance of power has shifted.’
‘You’ve had news?’ Paused as though doused by a pail of chill water, Lirenda drew a sharp breath. ‘What are you saying?’
‘That when the wards you had set over Jaelot’s walls were breached by the Shadow Master’s passage, we received urgent word from the lane watch.’ Sobered now, without petty smugness, Cadgia delivered the tidings withheld by the Prime’s express command, until Arithon’s escape was past salvage. ‘Your hope is ashes. The succession is already accomplished.’
Lirenda blinked, gold lit as an old painting against sepia shadow. The impact of meaning took moments to crumble her adamant wall of denial. ‘Prime succession? Then Morriel lost her last faculties?’
Sensitive to the porcelain-frail note of vulnerability, Cadgia broke the shattering gist. ‘Morriel is dead. We bow to the will of a new Prime Matriarch, who bears all the powers of her predecessor.’
Lirenda felt emptied, as though earth itself had dissolved from under her feet. ‘Who?’ she forced out in a glass-edged whisper. ‘Which initiate has come to stand in my stead?’
Cadgia masked pity as she spelled out the cutting truth. ‘Selidie, of course. She was the appointed Prime Senior.’
‘But that’s impossible!’ Lirenda’s disbelief uncoiled to rage, her heartbeat a drumroll within her. ‘That lackwitted girl knew nothing at all. She never completed even a fraction of the requisite course of training!’ Granted blank stares from the onlooking seeresses, who abandoned their posts one by one, Lirenda stemmed her shocked fuming. The disparities she mentioned were not self-evident. She alone had once held the candidate’s position within the Koriani Order. Of all ranking seniors, only she had successfully mastered eight of the trials of initiation.
‘Nonetheless,’ Cadgia said, matter-of-factly. Informed by the avid stillness that Lirenda’s defeat was too public, she snapped a prompt order to dismiss her subordinate seers. Mantles rustled as the women filed out. While the blast of the storm through the rickety doorway spilled in and tattered the tallow flames, the ranked senior resumed speaking. ‘Should the outcome surprise you? Beyond every doubt, you failed your test here in Jaelot. I have not asked to know how the Master of Shadow managed to make his escape. Nor will I concern myself further. My seeresses tried, but their best efforts cannot salvage your gaffe. For the future, no one yet knows if Prime Selidie will renew the mandate for Arithon’s capture. She has sent her summons. We are all to present ourselves for audience in the coastal city of Highscarp.’
Lirenda did nothing but close tortured eyes, a futile gesture. She had guarded against every setback but this, to be supplanted by an idiot initiate who could scarcely be trusted to silk wrap a quartz crystal; a mere child she knew had never progressed to the point of mastering even the least potent of the order’s array of great focus stones. Still stunned by the shock of monumental betrayal, Lirenda fought to muster a civilized response. ‘Go. Leave me. I need time to accept what has happened.’
Cadgia curtseyed. Her large-boned frame and careful tread crossed the dust-shafted glow of the dips. A barrage of raw wind and the clang of the latch saw her gone, leaving Lirenda to choke on the aftertaste of defeat.
She had no comforts, here; no soft carpets; no hot bath; no warm, perfumed mantle to ease the frayed rags of her pride. While the crawling spill of flame light cast overlapping haloes across the uneven floor, and the water abandoned in the scrying vat puckered to paned ice in the cold, Lirenda stood huddled in fine silk and grade wool, shivering through crushing disappointment.
The nadir to which she had fallen lay beyond words to express. Cast from the pinnacle of needy ambition into an abyss of total anonymity, Lirenda beheld the death of her most cherished hopes. She could live for six centuries on longevity spells, and at best earn the title of Second Senior. Always, forever, she must stand behind Selidie, whose interests she had blatantly spurned, and whose youth must inevitably outlast her.
‘Life does have more than one facet, you know,’ observed someone in gentle reproof.
Lirenda spun in recoil, to find Elaira awake and regarding her. The unranked initiate she had always despised sat erect in the shadows, the auburn hair she seldom troubled to plait spilled over her snugly clasped cloak. Between them, unspoken, hung the shared knowledge of Arithon’s recent escape. Elaira had witnessed the despicable drama, had stood by and applauded as Lirenda’s inexcusable lapse granted Rathain’s fugitive prince the loophole he needed to exploit.
Yet Elaira’s gray eyes held no trace of contempt; only sympathy clothed over the steadying framework of prosaic conversation. ‘The Prime’s seat has its drawbacks.’
‘What would you know?’ Lirenda snapped, all at once crushingly weary. Forgetful this once of marring her silk, she braced on the rim of the grape vat.
‘Everything to do with having nothing left to lose.’ Elaira tucked up her feet. Her small, marring frown came and went for the fact her ankles had numbed from the chill. ‘One learns, in the streets, what cannot be taken. Friendship, courage, self-respect. The world’s weave is set on a very broad loom. A single snapped thread doesn’t have to mar the whole fabric.’
Lirenda tipped up her chin. ‘Fine words for you. Easily said, since you never passed into rank.’
Elaira just looked at her, an odd little smile arguing the gravity of the moment. ‘I can’t have what I want, either. That can be supported. There are other joys, other goals, many avenues in which to seek human growth and fulfillment.’
A moment fled by, filled by the moan of the wind, while the tallow dips fluttered and streamed oily smoke, and the door shook on its ill-fitted hinges. Then Lirenda looked away. Had anyone else offered companionship through her hour of abject defeat, she might, perhaps, have loosened the grief fastening her shackled heart. But Elaira’s straight tolerance did nothing but refire the memory of the s’Ffalenn prince’s face, and a tenderness held in the depths of green eyes that, now and forever, would only be there for another.
Elaira had made herself outcast for a love well returned.
For Lirenda, Arithon’s boundless compassion had touched and uprooted her sense of inner alignment. His cool removal left her exposed and unpartnered. ‘You cannot help me,’ she told the woman whose bedrock dignity eschewed refined clothes, and whose bone-simple courage surpassed her. ‘I asked to have privacy. Do you mind?’
‘No. Not at all.’ Elaira arose. She tucked up her cloak hood and let herself into the night, in the earnest, but mistaken, belief she left her sister initiate to the healing virtues of solitude. For Lirenda, alone in the frigid isolation of the derelict vintner’s shed, rage and shame far outstripped any wounding of sorrow. Truth nipped like a gadfly. If Arithon’s kiss had unstrung her defenses and bared her most glaring weakness, the betrayal of Morriel’s promise of redemption assuredly had preceded the bastard’s flight out of Jaelot.
‘Damn you to Sithaer’s nethermost pit!’ Lirenda cursed the lately departed spirit of the Prime. ‘You had to have planned this! Why else should you contrive your passage of the Wheel while I was diverted by the pretense of
proving my worth?’
Why indeed; the stabbing resurgence of logic hitched her breath. Lirenda chafed her numbed hands. A frown marred her ivory forehead, while her mind turned in bitter calculation. The events were too perfectly aligned for less than a calculated endgame. She saw, for all time, that she had become the duped butt of Morriel’s manipulation. The old Prime had set her up, blindsided her with distractions, even played upon her flaws to ensure she would be distant and preoccupied through the crucial change in succession.
Lirenda reviewed the irregular facts, doused by the needling, certain awareness that her presence at hand would have posed a sure threat. Only a former First Senior could have known of Selidie’s outright incompetence. The young woman had never been remotely capable of surviving a second-level initiation, far less the rigors of the ninth test required of all aspirants who had achieved the seat of Prime office.
‘What have you done?’ Lirenda demanded of the departed spirit of the crone who had wrangled and cheated her. ‘Ath, oh Ath, what was your grand plan, that you dared not risk me as a witness?’
The wind gusted, rattling the door on its hinges. Snow crystals scattered in driven bursts against the gapped board walls. Inside, ignited to towering fury, Lirenda paced, the dust lashed to billows at her back. Her cloak snagged a hook on the bottle rack. She snapped the hem free, uncaring as the lining tore with a scream of ruined silk. Her skirts with their elaborate layers of gold stitching flared to her agitation like the charge in an oncoming squall line.
No human balm could absolve her deep pain. The hate scalding through her lacked target or recourse. One stroke had cut off the prize she had pledged her whole life to pursue. The ignominy galled. Her initiate’s vow to the Koriani Order would permit no release into freedom. All her days, she would suffer in dog-pack subservience for the sake of a kiss in an alley. Arithon’s unconscionable intervention sealed her fate. Her name would now wear the same taint of disgrace that Elaira had borne for three decades.
‘May you scream, chained in Sithaer, prince and Spinner of Darkness!’ Lirenda swore under her breath. Even still, his near memory scalded her mind. She relived the branding, hot passion, unwilling, of her lips against his, pliant with ecstatic surrender. Damned for all time for a liaison of the heart, she reviled the love she could neither banish nor conquer.
She would suffer Morriel’s most wretched revenge for that failing. Another ignominy piled on the first, when impatient ambition had driven her to break the original grand construct designed to snare the Master of Shadow.
She had not righted one shred of the balance. Arithon s’Ffalenn still ran free. Ever and always, the cipher that damned was her drawing fascination for his royal gift of compassion. His triumph had fashioned her insufferable downfall, and oh, she knew, might easily do so again.
Lirenda clamped her fists in frustration. She was condemned to mediocrity, but scarcely helpless. If Arithon’s wretched play on her heartstrings had destroyed her brilliant career, she had a lifetime left to exact her retaliation.
Two steps, three, her skirts snagging cobwebs from the staves of half-rotted wine tuns, Lirenda paused between strides. Miracle of miracles, amid avalanching setbacks, the tools for her use already lay in her hand.
Earlier that day, she had imprinted a sigil of command on the captain of Jaelot’s garrison when the man’s gruff competence had to be steered clear of her delicately plotted affairs. Yet the construct wrought at need on the street still remained fully active. Renew that one cipher of manipulative control, then key it to a geas of obsession, and Lirenda could draw the mayor’s captain on puppet strings. Add a tangling net of spells, and Prince Arithon’s flight could be hounded beyond reason and sanity.
The s’Ffalenn bastard would suffer for the snatched kiss that had condemned her to final failure. Lirenda vowed to seal his demise. How easily she could make him the beset hare in the path of a bloodletting hunt.
The idea took firm shape. A warm thrill curled through the enchantress’s black rage. ‘Oh yes, your royal Grace, you’ll pay well for your ill-gotten freedom.’
Lirenda began by inscribing eight ritual circles to cloak her act in deep secrecy. The craft she invoked must not perturb the lane flux. Like the spider who stole from a rival’s web, she worked outside strictures that governed her trained use of power. Rage snapped all restraints. In furtive steps, she laid down the sigils which ensured that the backwash of shed resonance would be absorbed within her own body. A few days of sick weakness would be worth the satisfaction of seeing Arithon s’Ffalenn hunted down like a forest barbarian.
Protections in place, Lirenda knelt by the vat last used for Cadgia’s scrying. Welded to the cause of unvarnished spite, she caught the silver chain and cleared her spell crystal from her high collar.
‘An,’ she whispered, the Paravian rune for one, which opened the first stage of ritual. She traced the primary rune of binding over the membrane of ice on the water, then added in sequence the chained string of ciphers that claimed a man’s will beneath the threshold of consciousness. A breath through her crystal infused her sketched symbols. The construct pulsed active, shedding harsh purple light that could burn to blindness the eyes of the careless. Drawing from the passionate well of her hatred, Lirenda laid the grand patterning, the weave of each strand and interstice as knotted silk over the maw of the vat. Fire was her natural element. The lit ruby lines of her sigil of summoning clashed into ice, scalding up whistling steam. Thawed water exploded to roiling froth, then flattened, subservient to her bidding.
The enchantress laid her dire work onto the blank sheen of its surface. Eighth-rank initiation lent her powers an edge her less-accomplished sisters would envy. She knew the forbidden lore; the annals of chaos, where natural force could be spun in linked seals to cause harm. Sign and countersign paired, each rune and sigil enchained to dark purpose, Lirenda raised a field of charged air over the mirroring water. Her will reigned supreme inside that masked space, and there, she pronounced a Name the ritual three times in summoning. An image resolved, showing the blunt, weathered features of Jaelot’s veteran field captain.
An impatient man, sharpened with years to a deep-set, suspicious awareness, he handled his troops through exacting perception and a brusque, no-nonsense competence. A hard man to know, his trust was infallible. The barbed coils of a Koriani sigil of binding were going to require a specific opening to exploit.
Lirenda gave that hindrance no second thought. Like any born human, the man would have weakness. To an enchantress schooled in the high arts of observation, the seamed lines of the face formed a map of the captain’s innermost character. His secrets could be gleaned through devouring survey, from the measure of resilience that sustained his vitality, to his most stubborn virtues, and his hidden pockets of vice. Each facet of self became hers to entrain in the tailor-made geas to drive him.
A flick of wrought power upstepped the spell’s resonance. Lirenda surveyed the man’s unveiled aura with its chiaroscuro imprint of personality. She unraveled each shadow, the petty dishonesties and shortfalls shot like mean yarn through the bright strands of courage and dedication. The unseen cords of bound energy let her interpret the bonds held between family and kinfolk. She sorted each diverse thread, the lesser ties drawn in friendship, or in strength, or in bullying authority, and gained private insight into the men who comprised the captain’s command.
A half smile curved Lirenda’s lips. Before her, the loom upon which she would weave her curse upon Arithon’s destiny.
Quartz in hand, the enchantress entrained its spiraling axis as the focusing needle for her intent. She began stitching sigils and ciphers into the spell-summoned guard captain’s aura. Ideas would seed thoughts, which would spin urgent plans, until the creature she claimed as her cat’s-paw would rise and muster his troops, then press them to pursue the prey of her choosing.
Since Arithon’s safest line of retreat would lie in the realm of blue water, she arranged sharp prerogatives to send Jael
ot’s troops to sweep the Eltair seacoast. North and south, they would quarter the flat ribbon of shoreline. Each smuggler’s cove and wooded haven would be combed by sharp-eyed patrols. Reserves would be called up for active duty. Seasoned divisions would work hand in glove with the headhunters’ league’s best skilled trackers. Lirenda laid her linked seals like tight slipknots, ensuring which steps would be taken. Dawn would see a trained pack of hounds and mastiffs, backed by two companies of veteran field troops, set upon Arithon’s back trail. Her victim would be driven due west, away from the bay, and into the Skyshiel uplands.
In winter, without resource, Rathain’s prince would be coursed by hardened men who clung to his heels like the damned. If he escaped them, if he had the tenacity and cunning to survive the blizzards that raked the cruel wilds, he would find no rest and no respite. Lirenda twined layers of interlaced spellcraft to assure that his enemies would stay unshaken. No longer men, but instruments tuned to her scouring need for revenge, they would dog Arithon’s trail past the limits of human endurance. They would press him through storm and ice and closed passes with the dauntless persistence of demons.
Against their harrying onslaught, Arithon would suffer exhaustion and frostbite and privation. Lirenda meshed her dark seals like linked chain. Black hatred ruled her. She would destroy his music. All the bright gifts of his s’Ffalenn heritage would be scoured away into mindless, animal instinct.
Until Jaelot’s troops perished, expended like candles, they would not flag in the grip of the geas Lirenda spun through their commanding captain. They would dance their last steps to the tune of her passion, that Arithon s’Ffalenn would draw his last breath in desolate solitude. Let him rot without trace, unrecognized and uncomforted, on the wretched ground ruled by his ancestors.