Peril's Gate

by Janny Wurts

  The cat had slipped out of the bag too far, this time.

  Gace hopped foot to foot, hounding Cerebeld’s heels as the High Priest snuffed the candles that burned on the altar. ‘We can’t throw a damned blanket over her Grace’s head, or take back the promise she’s spoken.’

  ‘No.’ One syllable, to raise the hairs at the nape for its inarguable lash of finality. Cerebeld reached the threshold, and snapped strong fingers to his remaining acolyte. ‘Fetch my valet. Have him gather my ceremonial appointments and catch up. I will robe in the downstairs vestibule.’

  He hastened onward, soon breasting the rush of the underlings who arrived in a panic to unfurl the sunwheel standard, and unshroud the gold-sewn, ribboned stole of office and chain of clasped dragons he wore for his public appearances.

  ‘Well, say something!’ Gace Steward shrieked in frustration as he rounded the first landing and scurried like a weasel through the press. ‘What in the name of Divine Light will you do to checkrein Lysaer’s harebrained wife?’

  ‘The chit’s forced our hand,’ Cerebeld cracked, his venom held in savage check beneath his knifing temper. Princess Ellaine had been shown copies of a document proving the plot behind Talith’s death. If this was her bid to slip the restraint of authority and bolt to Erdane to expose the information, she would be gagged. The High Priest would use the bared might of his office and travel with her royal retinue.

  The stairwell ended, with the door to the vestry tucked away to one side. Ignoring the royal steward, who still yapped and fussed at his elbow, Cerebeld dispatched a waiting acolyte with peremptory summons demanding an afternoon audience with Lord Koshlin. Then, his deep thoughts contained like the seethe of balked magma, he quashed Gace’s badgering with a blast of withering authority. ‘Nothing’s to be done, yet, you hysterical ninny! A royal son lies dead! Decency demands something more than belated words of condolence. We must make a ceremonial appearance in the square and offer her Grace’s expedition to Karfael the blessing and support of the divine powers of the Light.’

  Late Winter 5670

  Game Pieces

  In Ath’s hostel near Northstrait, where the rolling boom of Stormwell Gulf’s breakers smash themselves into snagged rock, an adept of Ath’s Brotherhood pulls the curtain across the alcove where the motionless body lies, swathed head to foot in bandages soaked in salt water and unguent; and her sigh seems wrenched from the depths of her heart as she says, ‘Khadrim fire burns deep, and the pain by itself has driven him very far from us . . .’

  On the eve that Avenor’s picked garrison prepares to march northward to Karfael, High Priest Cerebeld receives word that her Grace, Princess Ellaine, has vanished from the palace, and though her honor guard and her ladies-in-waiting are subjected to rigorous questioning, none holds the first clue to her whereabouts . . .

  Under wind-whipped tent canvas on Daon Ramon Barrens, a sunwheel priest blots fresh blood from a bronze pendulum, then straightens in triumph and taps a smeared finger on a map. ‘Here, Divine Grace, the new position of the enemy. Our forces steadily close on him. Your call to eradicate the Master of Shadow may be answered inside the next fortnight . . .’

  Late Winter 5670

  VII.

  Threshold

  Twilight stole over Daon Ramon Barrens, sung in by bitter winds and a gauzy, thin dusting of snowfall. Earl Jieret crouched, sheltered, in the lee of a rock scarp, the hood of his bear mantle snugged to his chin, his spill of red beard shielding the gusts from his fingers. His farsighted gaze remained fixed on the gap where two hills folded into a tangle of whitethorn and witch hazel. There, on the hour past the rise of the moon, the fugitive Crown Prince of Rathain would ride through, if the prophecy sent by Traithe’s raven held true to the Sighted scrying two months ago.

  The scout who poised at his chieftain’s shoulder chafed and blew into his cupped hands, equally tense as he received last-minute instructions.

  ‘No noise and no light,’ Jieret stated, emphatic. ‘His Grace has been driven on the run since the solstice, and we can’t risk him thinking we’re enemies. Tell the men, hold position and stay out of sight. No one’s to call out, or make an approach, unless our liege is seen to turn down a valley other than this one.’

  The stakes would not forgive, if someone’s ill-advised move should startle their prince to blind flight. The troops from Etarra and Darkling hazed his trail from behind, bolstered at their south flank by Jaelot’s zealot trackers, whipped on by a spell-turned commander.

  ‘Go,’ Jieret finished. ‘I’ll signal you with an owl’s call the moment I have him in hand.’

  ‘May Ath’s grace stand beside you.’ The scout slapped the wadded snow from his boot cuffs and faded without sound into deepening gloom.

  Earl Jieret sat alone with the dirge of the gusts, moaning over the cragged stone where he sheltered. A cold hour’s vigil stretched ahead of him, less time than he wished to review his turbulent memories of service at the shoulder of Rathain’s prince. The events were too few for his forty-odd years, with no single one of them peaceful. Jieret brooded, his steady gaze pinned to the draw where the shorn, winter hills meshed and met with the darkened horizon. He wondered what sort of desperate creature would ride through that gap, first set to flight through the Skyshiels in winter, then hounded across the desolate barrens, with no human contact beyond the pack of armed enemies hunting him.

  Arithon s’Ffalenn at best form was a difficult spirit. No way to guess in advance how to grapple the fugitive the raven’s prophecy would deliver.

  The night deepened. Between gusts, the whispered tap of dry snowfall nicked through the dead canes of briar. A hare screamed, brought down by a hungry night predator; a kit fox barked in the brush. Jieret tucked anxious forearms over his knees, while the winter stars wheeled through broken clouds overhead, and the new-risen moon sliced a mother-of-pearl rim over the eastern horizon.

  Precisely on schedule, a suggestion of motion ghosted through the weave of the thicket. Jieret sharpened his attention. The disturbance might be the movement of wolves, or a herd of deer seeking forage. When minutes dragged by, and no further sign met his searching scan of bare branches, he almost settled back in disappointment. No doubt he had experienced no more than a phantom wrought of overstrung nerves.

  Then the shadow moved again. Snapped back to vigilance, Jieret made out the forms of three horses as they emerged in clean outline against a pristine palette of snow. Heads raised, ears tipped forward, they poised in wary silhouette and surveyed the swept valley that unfolded before them. No lead reins or bridles cumbered their heads, but two bore laden packsaddles, the bulk of their burden set close to the shoulder to free their balance to gallop. A stilled moment passed. Then the animal in the lead stepped forward, head down and blowing soft snorts. Another hushed movement, and a fourth horse slipped from cover, this one saddled and bridled, but bearing no visible rider.

  Jieret bit his lip to stifle his urge to vent curses in mounting anxiety. He waited, taut strung. His eyes like chilled glass from the strain of his unblinking vigil, he picked out a shape distorting the animal’s forehand.

  The two-legged fugitive moved on foot, a sinuous blur at the horse’s left shoulder, his stride like a stalking, male panther’s.

  Chills chased Jieret’s spine. Never in life had he observed any man, scout or otherwise, skulk with such focused intensity. A savage, stripped grace kept each footfall economical; then the listening pause to assess front and back trail, while the gusty, thin snowfall sifted powder over scabs of patched ice, and the fanned clumps of gorse hissed refrain.

  A fluid leap vaulted the rider astride, with no fumbling claw for a stirrup. He made no sound, nor delivered a visible signal. Yet his small band of horses forged ahead at an unhurried trot, the crisp crunch as their hooves punched through the snow crust diminished by the reach of Daon Ramon’s vast emptiness. Down the throat of the vale, he came on like a predator, every line of him spring-wound to lethal alertness.

  J
ieret shivered outright. He groped, but found no words to disarm such hunted defenses. One wrong step, a chance rustle of caught brush, would flick such tuned instincts into the hair-trigger reflex of a killer. Heart pounding, he gripped a gloved fist to his sword, prepared for the frightening mischance that he might need to defend himself.

  The four horses approached, the mounted one trailing. The man in the saddle stayed pressed to its mane, his presence masked from chance-met sight, and his low profile a foil for enemy archers.

  At a distance of fifteen paces, he drew rein. Braced tense, he raised his head. The expression half-glimpsed under the masking, fur hood showed remote, chiseled pallor under the cloud-filtered spill of the moonlight. The face was no man’s, but a specter’s, pared hollow by privation and burred by the ebon tangles of ungroomed hair and beard.

  Caithdein beheld his sworn liege of Rathain, reduced to a shell more unkempt than a starved, wild animal.

  A gapped instant passed, wrenched from time and reason by the impact of shock and grief. Undone as he battled a weakness of nerves, Jieret could not command the steeled will to arise. The fear turned him craven, that he might discover the creature before him irretrievably lost, broken by months of desolate flight and abandoned to nightmare insanity.

  Then Arithon spoke, his chosen phrase whispered in the Paravian tongue, as though week upon week of forced solitude left him accustomed to addressing ghosts. ‘Ean cuel an diansil?’ which translated from the most ancient of dialects, ‘Are you one who is friendly?’

  Jieret gasped his affirmative in the same tongue, and in painstaking caution, stood up.

  The tableau froze there, but for the wrapped hand that Arithon jerked from the snarl of the horse’s mane. ‘Caithdein?’ he breathed. When the bulked figure before him did not thin and fade into an apparition, the rusted grain of his voice cracked into an unstrung sob of disbelief. ‘Earl Jieret?’

  ‘Liege, I’m here for you.’ Shamed for his momentary lapse into cowardice, Jieret rushed forward and caught the slight frame of his prince in a bear hug as he let go and slid from the saddle.

  Too aware of the prominent bones pressed through the layers of hide clothing, Jieret sought swift distraction in talk. His rescuing words shaped the fondly shared memory, of himself as a boy who had spied on his prince from the brush. ‘How did you know, this time, that somebody waited?’

  ‘Without any telltale mosquitoes?’ Eyes shut, the strain in him tempered to mercuric conditioning that ran too close to the surface, Arithon repressed the urgent need to glance warily over his shoulder. Though civil conversation must have seemed a fool’s act of intrusion, he contained his raw instincts and answered. ‘Your bearskin smells like woodsmoke, not new snow, and the goose grease you use to keep rust from your weapons carries a stone’s throw downwind.’

  ‘Daelion avert,’ Jieret murmured. ‘The most difficult points of your nature don’t change.’ He sensed as he spoke that the long years elapsed since their last meeting in Caithwood had not passed by without impact. Whatever the scathing scope of events, through his hands, already, he understood that his prince required a brother’s attention in private. He broached the most challenging problem straight on, and hoped against nature the surprise of reunion would blunt his liege’s thrice-thorny temperament.

  ‘For a start, we’ll have to attend to your wounds.’ He might have laughed at the irascible draw of Arithon’s breath, had their meeting been in safer country. ‘Don’t think to argue. You’re in no fit state. My whole war band is here to support me.’

  ‘I don’t always argue with unstoppable forces,’ Arithon demurred. ‘Just give your promise, when you strip off the bandages, you won’t cave in to demand that I should be served with a mercy stroke.’

  ‘That bad?’ Jieret said, unfazed by the reference to the bitter clan custom of dispatching the crippled before risking exposure to enemies. ‘Then my scouts can be left to attend to your horses. Best we keep moving into the camp while you’re still upright and walking.’ Concerned for the stained dressing that showed through the torn glove on his prince’s right hand, he sent the owl’s call to signal his waiting companions.

  The leaden, iced course of the River Aiyenne looped a meandering channel across the winter white dales of Daon Ramon. Where the lazy coils bent through layered rock, over centuries, the placid, inexorable current had carved over the deposits of petrified sediment. As ice froze and refroze through an epoch of seasons, the softer sandstones and limestone wore away until the buttressed banks became sculpted to undulant chains of hanging formations and scooped clefts.

  Slack water fell at midwinter, the thaws that would swell the Aiyenne to a race of white foam a promise withheld until spring. The deeper recesses stayed dry in the cold months, and there, Jieret’s war band took shelter from the flaying north winds. A hoarded store of charcoal and seal oil gave them small, smokeless fires and spare light.

  A tight watch was posted. The s’Ffalenn prince just welcomed into their midst brought them a sharp increase in danger. Etarra’s combined forces advanced a day’s march to the east. With Lysaer’s additional headhunters from Narms inbound to cap their set bottleneck, the clan war band became quarry exposed upon open ground. Earl Jieret chose not to take undue chances. Clan sentries patrolled from six outlying camps, while the hill ponies fanned over the country between in compact, separate herds, with mounted scouts set to guard over them. Cloud swallowed the new-risen moon. Night lay on the land like unpressed black felt, silted with deadening flurries of snowfall that muffled the howls of the wolf packs.

  Prince Arithon was sequestered in the deepest, recessed cavern, the entry closed in by a rubble of boulders that baffled the flare of stray light. The declivity of rouged sandstone and gold ocher concretion shed false warmth in the spill of a fired-clay oil lamp. Cast shadows crawled on the sooted rock ceiling. Jieret, on his knees, nursed a pannikin of water, steeping herbs for the mash of a drawing poultice.

  A grated step on loose gravel, then the subsequent absence of sound presaged the approach of a Companion. Braggen, Jieret presumed, since the man’s dauntless nature most often saw him elected as spokesman for the rest. Too taxed to handle uncomfortable questions, the Earl of the North cached a cut snarl of stained dressings under the fleeces of Arithon’s shed jacket. He darted a glance sidewards, reassured. Rathain’s prince would stay settled despite interruption, enveloped like a lost child in the cinnamon pelt of his caithdein’s borrowed bear mantle.

  A split second later, Braggen squeezed his ox frame into the throat of the cleft. His inquisitive survey took in the pale, s’Ffalenn features, eyes closed in oblivious sleep. ‘How bad is he?’ The studs on his jerkin scraped in complaint as he settled on his heels in a niche, forearms crossed on the briar-scarred hide of his leggings. ‘The men outside want to know. Can’t pretend they don’t notice the rank stink on the breeze as the aftermath of a cautery.’

  Earl Jieret looked up, the ends of his beard dipped bronze by the coals just used to heat his second-best knife. ‘Do they want the whole list, or just the details that are worrisome?’

  Braggen snatched a glance of stamped apprehension at the dark, rumpled head engulfed in its calyx of fur.

  ‘Say all you like. His Grace won’t awaken.’ Jieret shared a grin of rueful commiseration. ‘I dosed him unconscious with valerian.’

  ‘He let you?’ Braggen’s eyebrows bristled, shot upward by stunned surprise. ‘By Dharkaron’s Black Spear, never thought I’d see that day.’

  Jieret blotted his dampened knuckles on his jerkin, unable to mask that his sleeve cuffs were spotted with blood. ‘Well, you didn’t see the proud flesh to be scraped away, or the tendons exposed on the back of his hand.’

  ‘Ath, not his sword hand!’ Braggen shot an appalled glance at the prone figure swathed in the bearskin.

  Yet Jieret’s pained nod spoke as much for the music as for concern with potential impairment of his prince’s skilled use of weapons. ‘Given rest and adequate time to
heal over, the fingers will still function well enough to grip steel. But no simple or remedy we have in the field can reverse the damage from scarring.’ The sorrow stopped words, that Athera’s titled Masterbard might never recover the matchless, fierce brilliance of his performance on the lyranthe.

  But Braggen had not shared Jieret’s past trip to Innish, nor the summons by the Fellowship to Caithwood; along with most of the Companions from Strakewood, he had never heard Arithon play. ‘His Grace is unfit?’

  Jieret swallowed, returned a brisk headshake while he forced his closed throat to unlock. ‘No. Except for the hand, which is serious, he has several scabbed-over gashes, some toes nipped to frostbite, and a case of nervous exhaustion.’ He leaned to one side, caught up the green stick kept to stir up the embers. ‘I expect a full night of well-guarded sleep should set the worst back to rights.’

  ‘I’ll tell the men.’ Braggen scraped a thumb under his beard, a pinched and dubious cast to his squint as he measured the unearthly, stilled form of his prince. ‘When you want relief keeping watch, cast a stone. The scout by the river will hear and send someone.’

  ‘This vigil is mine,’ Earl Jieret insisted, then swore a fierce oath as his jab to turn the coals beneath the pannikin shot up sparks that scorched a new hole in his buckskins. ‘Go on. I know how you hate guarding invalids.’

  ‘His royal Grace, anyway.’ Braggen’s lips twitched with distaste. ‘Has a damned flaying tongue when he’s hurting.’