TWOLAS - 08 - Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  Dakar broke that hope quickly. 'No change, my lord. I am Fellowship-sent, bearing a mandate from Melhalla's caithdein. Rathain's crown must stay clear of your personal blood-bath. We have come instead to pull Jeynsa out of here.'

  'Did you, by Ath?' Liesse tucked worn fingers to a gleam of pearl rings. 'And how will you propose to do this against the young lady's free will?'

  Sidir folded his arms, the fresh scars on his wrists shining baleful under the flame-light. 'You're going to back her against us?' He skirted the indelicate brunt, that to try would defy charter law, by disregard of a crown steward's edict.

  'It's our children's lives and s'Brydion heritage,' Liesse stated, blunt, while the red-rimmed, dark eyes of Sindelle observed with a glass-brittle calm that would shatter reason.

  'You can't stop us,' the bereaved woman attacked. 'Nor can Melhalla's long arm reach us, now. Dare you break your own code, and censure us with the use of unbridled spellcraft?'

  'Won't, rather,' snapped Dakar, looking rumpled and flustered, the grey streaks grown prominent in his cinnamon hair. Strong spells and prolonged use of mage-sight had drained him. The appalling effort he required to think fast undid his remaining resource. "There are limits. The ethics I follow mean something more than your use, for political convenience.'

  'Expediency,' Sevrand drawled, insolent. He lounged back, his main gauche drawn to rout dirt from beneath a ripped thumb-nail. 'Tear us down from within, you'll just feed the lunatic madness of Lysaer's forsaken Alliance.' A shark's grin split his beard as he snicked his steel back into its well-oiled sheath. 'Jeynsa's dug in her heels. That point's uncontested. How can you think you'll stop Arithon?'

  Which was the bone in the meat of the unwelcome challenge to start with. Duke Bransian watched, alert as the coiled adder, to see who would choose to flinch first.

  There, tension hung, to Elaira's wise silence, and Sidir's almost seamlessly self-contained rage.

  The candles streamed, choked by untrimmed wicks, while the curtains hung limp in the stillness. Everyone sweated, while the freshened breeze off the harbour whined and buffeted at the latched casements.

  Dakar fought to stay upright. The airless room had started to spin. He swayed, bedazzled by heraldic bulls, heads lowered to charge in rash fury.

  Sidir spoke, finally, with the stark dignity that had snap-frozen fights between Halwythwood's proud chieftains. 'One can hope, with a Fellowship spellbinder present, that Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn might not choose to stoop to the part of a nose-led sacrifice.'

  Bransian leaned forward. 'And the woman, Elaira? What is her interest?'

  'She's a schooled healer,' Sidir said without blinking. 'I'm amazed that you'd brush off three Sorcerers' counsel. Stay this course through, and you'll need to beg Arithon's good graces! Though as his liegeman, I'd venture to caution. Your space for apology rests on thin ice.'

  'We should run like a forest-born squirrel for a tree?' Sevrand grinned in contempt. 'Clansman, for shame! You've sent your cowardly mind ahead of your carcass to Sithaer!'

  Liesse interrupted, to stop slanging abuse. 'Do we even know where among Dharkaron's damned your Master of Shadow happens to be?'

  'Dakar does,' Sindelle reminded with fixated focus.

  Sevrand slapped the boards, rocked by cynical laughter. 'Well in that case, we're sunk! Did you look at your prophet? He's sloshed in his chair. How much liquor did you have to slug into him to raise the guts for this interview? By the list to his posture, I'd give him an hour before he keels over comatose.'

  Sidir's pale eyes narrowed. He dared make no move: not since a chopped signal from Duke Bransian had summoned the men-at-arms in from the wardroom. Weaponless, the Companion had no leverage to argue, as Dakar was dragged from his chair.

  Nor could the spellbinder help himself. His overtaxed faculties slid him towards collapse. The fevered skin and reeling faintness of back-lash left him saucer-eyed as an owl, dazzled half-blind in the candlelight.

  'Sober him, then!' Elaira jabbed back. 'Find out what you've earned, by your efforts.'

  Yet even that withering satire failed. The duchess gave the barest shake of her head: in warning, Liesse set the urgent example. Bale-fire burned behind her duke's eyes. Since Keldmar's death, her husband's temper had frayed beyond reach of appeasement.

  'Stay, Sidir!' Dakar mumbled. Manhandled upright, he raised no fight as he was dragged to the centre of the carpet. His legs failed him at once. He sat there, unstrung, a mound of limp russet, eyes shut and round features slackened. His brosy, alcoholic's complexion completed the picture of witless beatitude.

  Bransian shouted. 'Daelion forfend! You're a barrel of sops! Left to yourself, I doubt you'd be competent shoved up against the eighth gate of Sithaer!'

  Patience was absent. The garrison remedy to shake a drunk out of stupor sent a man to the spring cellar for a filled bucket. The rich carpet was soon puddled with ice melt. Dakar dripped, curled up in a shivering lump. Pink and coughing, he glared daggers at his tormentors.

  The s'Brydion paused for no civilized apology; no solicitous offer of blankets.

  The moment the water ran out of his ears, Dakar was accosted by Bransian's demand for Prince Arithon's location.

  'How should I know?' The spellbinder screwed his eyes shut, trusting Sidir to keep sense and curb the justified outrage that could only spur on the duke's cruelty. In tried forbearance, the Mad Prophet mocked, 'Who trusts a libertine? By the time the Master of Shadow confides in me, everyone else has forgotten.'

  Sevrand stood and up-ended the sloshing dregs over his victim's soaked head. 'If you don't know, you wallowing skinful, then find him. We have no clue where to look, and no liberty! Nobody's heard from your ingrate liege since the hour he walked out of our hall and abandoned us.'

  'Well, you wouldn't,' Dakar said, sulky. A swipe of numbed fingers scattered the droplets fringing his beard. 'Since his Grace as a rule keeps to his spoken word, I suggest you apply to the Fellowship, the Koriathain, or else bend your iron-clad knees, begging Ath's everlasting mercy!'

  The sullen frown on the duke's livid face, now mirrored by his subordinates, raised unpleasantly brutal memories. Dakar set his jaw. 'Damn you all to Dharkaron!' he cracked to Liesse. 'Since when has the province of charter law become the mouthed word of convenience?'

  'He's sober!' the enchantress pealed into the shocking breach. 'And telling the truth!' Before the armed men were unleashed for bloodshed, Elaira snapped the deadlocked inquiry forthwith. 'I know how to reach Arithon! Be very sure, before you ask, that you are prepared for the consequence.'

  Her courage stopped breath.

  As the duke shifted focus, Dakar heaved his dripping bulk to his feet. 'My lady, Lord Bransian, here are your terms laid down by Melhalla's crown steward: we must be granted our appeal to turn Jeynsa.' Upright in a puddle, pushed to near dissolution, he showed steel beneath his wrecked dignity. 'I am Fellowship-sent'. If the Teiren s'Valerient refuses, if she won't answer my charge as the Sorcerers' agent, then no one can turn back the ruin that has stubbornly been set in motion. Elaira will find his Grace. She does hold that power. If, pray Dharkaron, his mage-taught shields are let down, and if in the binding heat of the moment, he's inclined to toss reason and listen.'

  Duke Bransian smiled, a show of bared teeth that defied Elaira's drawn presence. 'Fetch the girl,' he commanded. To Sidir, who had moved no muscle throughout, he added with provocation, 'I don't care why this woman's come, or why she's placed under your charge. You are all deaf as rock if you don't already see that we're leading a dance of formalities.'

  The steadfast Companion needed no words. He had not been fooled. In blighted fact, they had cut their timing too fine: Lysaer's war host would have the citadel tightened down and surrounded by morning.

  'If Jeynsa refuses, I can't let you go.' The duke's glance raked his three captive adversaries. 'Alestron won't take the risk you might spill what you know of our straits to the enemy'

  Now, Sidir spoke. 'Depend on thi
s: if Jeynsa refuses, we will never leave Prince Arithon's interests so nakedly unsupported. Nor are you above the law of the realm. In the name of Alestron's people, every move that you make will be witnessed and sealed by the eyes of a Fellowship agent.'

  'You'll have to survive, first!' Duke Bransian agreed, a poisonous jab of black humour. 'The Sorcerers aren't much threat. I daresay they're strapped helpless. Or why else would they send in a spellbinder who lacks teeth to back up their vaunted authority? Your fate's now joined to Alestron's, and mine. Who else is left, except Rathain's prince, with the brute power of Shadow to save you?'

  Autumn 5671

  Glimpses

  As the duke's runner leaves to summon Jeynsa s'Valerient, one of Dame Dawr's watching servants observes, and through a ruthless tussle of back-corridor politics, the errand is made to change hands: Talvish is plucked from Mearn's watch on the walls, then charged with the order to escort the young clanswoman throughout her pending audience . . .

  In the central command tent, under mist that drenches the Sunwheel emblems, the false avatar tosses amid his damp sheets, under guard by Ranne and Fennick; and when the cold horror of dreams snaps his rest, they witness his tormented pain, as he paces, awaiting the comfort of dawn-light to scatter his haunting burden of ghosts . . .

  Amid Elssine's harbour, while autumn winds toss the Alliance flag galley's unsettled anchorage, Sulfin Evend rubs tired eyes with his fists, elbows braced on the lists, piled up through his long-deferred muster; then he speaks, to his hovering captain's relief, 'Our work is complete. Tomorrow, we row north to rejoin the Light's entrenched troops at Alestron . . .'

  Autumn 5671

  V. Blood Debt

  The gleam of the full moon sank to the west, slanting shadow through the heart of Selkwood. Since the waking of the old centaur wardings, Lord Erlien sTaleyn had moved his lodge tent. His chieftains' encampment retired far inside the free wilds, where the roused song of the marker stones did not fray the sharp minds of his scouts into the mesmerized fever of backlash.

  Steeped in the old way, the shadowed depths of the forest were no place to wander at large. Even scouts did not fare without guidance. Here lay the core of the land's silent power, and the sites where the mysteries flourished. Here also, the trust preserved by clan heritage in the absence of the Paravians: paths where no human being might walk without due permission. The hushed glades stayed undisturbed, and the most ancient groves, where the moss-hoary crowns of the patriarch pines combed the restless winds risen with autumn. Trees spoke, in the moaning whisper of needles, and through the tap-roots struck deep in black soil. No two-legged intelligence might fathom the hidden tracks under their branches. None ventured the fringes so near sacred ground without the grace of true talent, bred across generations of recorded lineage.

  Even to risk guarded sleep in this place, human faculties brushed the bounds of the veil. Danger lurked for the untrained and stalked the unwary, where a strayed thought could unseal the grand portals. Lord Erlien's chieftains gathered their people in refuge, where no mortal footstep went lightly. Not every hunter dared to stalk the game, or presumed to forage and set cookfires. Ones without subtle perception left such tasks to the gifted among them. Here, to act out of harmony with the land might carry irrevocable forfeit.

  At full moon, when the lane tides peaked, sleepers rode the driving swirl of raised flux, sunk in the meteoric splendour of dreams. Athera's web of active consciousness beguiled them, entwined with the seasonal currents, until even waking thought sailed through the life-quickened stream, where vivid colours and sound ran outside of the familiar senses.

  The initiate mage, and those who were seer-gifted, did not rest at all, as the bore of the mysteries ran through them. Some anchored themselves in the comfort of groups. Others took solace in solitude.

  In the hours before dawn, while the moon's silvered face laced the forest in velvet shadows, Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn sat tucked with his back braced against a mossy boulder. His bare feet were rinsed by a streamlet, run chill since the passing of summer. The air smelled of frost, although Selkwood never saw ice and hard freeze, or the snow, soon to blanket the north. Tonight, his lyranthe was not at hand. He carried no steel, and no knife. Stripped of all things but his leathers and shirt, he held quiet, while the burning, rogue gift of his s'Ahelas heritage traced the land's untamed concourse, listening.

  His beloved's call touched him most easily, there, a contact dispatched from Alestron. Trained master, he curbed his distress for her danger. Right choice, founded by her conviction as healer, had sent her inside harm's reach. Love did not confine her. Nor could Arithon's sovereign straits argue the need that had brought her: to pursue Feithan's headstrong, s'Valerient daughter, and circumvent a disaster.

  Wide open, beyond censure, Arithon gave his enchantress the spark of his joy, alive with the trust of his confidence. 'Best Beloved. Elaira.'

  'I would have you bear witness' she sent in return. Beyond words, the warm invitation extended to share her immediate presence, as Jieret's daughter was brought in for interview. He would see precisely what drove the girl's motives; could measure what childish ideal shoved her into the ugly, cross-chop of politics. The gravity of his decision from Alland would be enabled by first-hand perception.

  Arithon closed his eyes against the seductive allure of the moonlight. Held secure by the trickling flow of the stream, and by the pines standing over him, he let go and sank into the contact. His link with Elaira drew him away, to a closed chamber, clogged with the scents of wax candles and musty travel-stained wool. He experienced the worry that freighted the air, inside the shut gates of Alestron . . .

  * * *

  Elaira was not complaisant. Through Arithon, she discovered that state meetings in the citadel were seldom conducted in privacy. Duke Bransian was likely to post his own listeners, or lurk at a spy-hole behind the carved panelling. Yet Jeynsa was given the semblance of dignity for her encounter with Rathain's delegation. The chamber was cleared of by-standing men-at-arms. Hurried servants removed the splashed carpet. The tall chairs with their heraldic trappings stood empty as the waiting crown spokesmen were brought a carafe of wine.

  Head clamped in pained hands, Dakar could not respond. Since Sidir stayed walled behind his compressed anger, Elaira received the servant's request and declined the offer of drink. Unimpressed by the pretence, she stayed on the backless chair taken first, at the foot of the vacated dais. In travel-stained leathers, hardened fit by her rigorous journey from Halwythwood, she displayed an unbroken composure. Sidir stood at her back. The shadow about his gaunt face and grey eyes ran beyond the shorn loss of his clan braid. Nascent horror still marked him, the iron set of his shoulders reflecting his recent mishandling.

  Dakar slumped on a stool in wet clothing. Huddled under a blanket the serving-man tossed him, he wore his stout flesh like a wad of soaked pulp, sunk to the eyeballs in misery. His aura bled off wisps of shuddering light, sure sign to the refined perception of mage-sense that he had stressed his arcane faculties. Yet Elaira's finesse gave the crown prince in Alland no time to plumb surface appearances. The outer door crashed back and admitted Jeynsa s'Valerient. An unlooked-for grace: Talvish served as her escort. His lithe footstep shadowed her heels, a warning to any that knew him. He bore full arms, the fist riding his sword-hilt bespeaking annoyance that he had been pulled off his watch-post.

  Jeynsa was herself, a bristling young wildcat who tested authority through roughshod defiance. Hauled barefoot from bed, she had dared to wear black.

  Uninvested caithdein, the brazen nerve shocked: even Dakar vented outrage. 'You have no right!' But his cry was snapped short by Sidir's clamped grip on his forearm.

  The Companion knew how to handle her best; had been Feithan's choice to check-rein her daughter's rank insolence. 'Who gave you the clothing?' he said, scarcely nettled.

  For, of course, the affront would not have political backing. Dame Dawr's seamstresses were never such fools.

 
; Jeynsa flushed. She marched into the breach with a rattle of steel, bearing her load of scout's weaponry. 'Who else here would call our crown prince to task? I refuse to condone his Grace's desertion.' Candle-flames whipped as she stopped to rebut Sidir's nerveless interrogation. 'Our clan code does not strand a loyal ally!'

  Up close, the ruse showed: her robe had been filched second hand from a heavy-set scholar. The fabric was streaked by unfinished dye. Sleeves and hem had been hacked down to size with a knife.

  'You're a sight to shame your s'Valerient ancestry' Sidir observed in cool quiet. 'Be glad you face us and not Asandir. Though you will, in due time.

  Never question the certainty. You may have been one month old at your choosing. But now, you are quite grown enough to speak your own mind and reap the sour fruit on your merits! We're not your authorities. This is not a reprimand. Beware of your mouth, girl! Lives ride on your drama. A Sorcerer might call the account for your actions, and where can your mother appeal for relief?'

  'Feithan does not command me,' Jeynsa replied. 'You might share her bed, but don't speak for her!'

  Only Sidir could withstand that cruel barb. No raw venom could unseat his dignity. Throughout, he stayed as sure of his own mind as ever he had been during his hard stint in Vastmark. 'Jeynsa. Sit down. Let go of your anger.' With the same, unimpeachable gentleness, he added, 'If anything could have turned Jieret for home, our liege would have paid any price that was his. He'd have risked his own life before losing your father.'

  'We aren't discussing my sire,' the girl snapped. Unappeased, she accepted the chair that was offered.

  Talvish remained by the door, taut with nerves. His worried, jade eyes sought Elaira, who had not stirred. Dakar kept his own counsel, raw yet with exhaustion. Exquisitely practised at cozening whores, he had never owned this Companion's born skill, to sort human needs and negotiate.