by Janny Wurts
Daliana looked up, to the glimmer of seed pearls that trimmed her brocade collar. ‘I have to try!’
The sorrow that rippled through Kharadmon’s presence held empathy wide enough to fill all the world. ‘Sweet lady, you cannot untangle Lysaer’s doomed fate. Koriathain have engaged a spelled fetch to seal him beneath the grip of Desh-thiere’s curse. I suggest that you lack the main strength to prevail against the aggressive designs of Selidie Prime.’
Daliana swallowed, hands clenched in the lap of a tinselled silk skirt that heightened her beauty to sensual radiance. ‘Have you foreseen that immutable future?’
The Sorcerer hesitated, as reluctant to foster false hope as to rend the frail haven of ambiguity.
Daliana gave his reticence her roughshod contempt. ‘I will not be told to embrace desolation. Something could change that you haven’t imagined! Lysaer might wake up to himself, or waver before battle is joined. The curse is not his true self, but a vile geas bound over him! At the last, if his half brother dies, he must come back to his senses.’
A discorporate could not console her through touch or offer a shoulder to lean on. Kharadmon answered with a regret to wring tears from the essence of moonbeams. ‘Lady, your love cannot close this breach. Even restored to his natural mind, Lysaer will not bend before your steadfast courage. This day’s failure will brand him with rage and self-hatred. He will recoil from humiliation. Should you pressure that wound, the venom of recrimination will gall him to the bittermost edge. Your best effort may not break his pride to remorse. Don’t unleash the shame that cannot do other than seal his final undoing.’
Daliana blotted her cheek with her wrist, unselfconsciously weeping. ‘You need not help, then. I will sail on my own, as I must.’
Kharadmon’s sigh raised a shiver of cold that rimed hoar-frost across the drenched window-panes. While the intensity of his unseen survey scoured through her without quarter, he spoke gently. ‘No one before you has ever succeeded.’
But her choice stayed adamant. ‘I will not abandon him. Don’t stop me from making the greater mistake because that is the only sad outcome he knows!’
The Sorcerer could not bear to add the discouragement, that the toll of past failures also lay at the feet of his Fellowship colleagues; and greater than them, had outstripped the limitless compassion of Ath’s adepts.
Daliana was heart-set. To balk the purity of her determination surely would fracture her spirit. Clad in clothes that equaled her matchless magnificence, she would have towered among the past company of Tysan’s most steadfast queens. Her love left Kharadmon no other course. Respun as a dapper image in silk, he bowed in homage and let her go.
Spring 5923
Storm’s Edge
Prescient dreams had disturbed Tarens’s sleep for three nights when at last the family survivors of the Torwent massacre straggled to the end of their journey. The High King’s encampment that promised them protection occupied the north bank of the River Lithwater, a grid of field tents huddled on the high ground above the seasonal flood, thrashed to spate from the melt off the mountain snowpacks. Only the royal war band remained. The combined strength of the garrison troops levied from the coastal towns had lately deployed along the ancient Paravian way to halt the invasion through Ghent and Carithwyr. The vacated ground displayed the raw scars: trampled turf, checkered by yellowed plots of pressed grass where pitched canvas recently stood.
Only Telmandir’s immaculate guard defended the central command. The crisp array of the officers’ quarters clustered like starched linen, offset by the layer-cake peaks of the royal pavilion, its scarlet-and-gold pennons and Havish’s hawk standard whip-cracked at the windy crest overlooking the Paravian ruin at Fiaduwynne.
Tarens surveyed the site. No longer the hayseed crofter, he noted the purposeful movements of men, but no field drills. The pickets of destriers, not tied at rest, but saddled and bridled in full caparisons with attendant grooms at the ready. The scene thrummed with muzzled tension, pitched for the hair-trigger spring.
The grizzled campaigner whose task squad escorted the refugees’ rag-tag approach took notice of Tarens’s keen survey. ‘Aye, we’re spooked, sure enough. The wait chews at the nerves. The assault we expected ought to have hammered our centre by now.’
A fortnight gone, the outriding scouts’ sent reports showed the enemy’s frontal advance slowed down to a crawl. ‘Due to what seems a manic reinforcement of the enemy’s eastern flank, though no one knows why.’
‘Makes no tactical sense!’ The patrol’s dumpy sergeant mopped his florid brow in acute frustration. ‘Why should The Hatchet square off on Scarpdale? The waste has nothing to offer but mud pots and treacherous geysers. Besides volcanic hot springs sulphurous enough to singe a man’s eyebrows, a thrust through there will just pile his troops hard against the lake-shore of Lithmarin. That’s tactical suicide, penned by the Storlain glaciers on one side, and hemmed by our High King’s set wards to guard Elkforest’s edge on the other.’
‘If the Light-blinded fools don’t drown themselves first,’ another man cut in, one burly arm steadied around the thin toddler perched on his saddle-bow. For Tarens, he added, ‘The white-water race of the river’s a maelstrom not readily forded in spring.’
Throughout the exchange of idle speculation, Tarens let the rough footing excuse the fact he listened without comment. The mild descent from the ridge top gradually unfolded the vista that cradled the ancient complex where, record held, a magnificent healer’s gardens had been nurtured by the vanished Sunchildren.
But such marvels evaded Havish’s armed war band. The telir orchards whose purple fruits once fermented ambrosial brandy had faded from legend. Mankind’s memory was brief. None knew to mourn the lavender blossoms that in bygone times had wafted an intoxicating fragrance, while the silvered veils of spring showers unrolled the green carpet of grass across the wild steppelands of Carithwyr. Only the remnant wealth imbued in the land recalled the fertile past, where the rich acreage tilled farther south grew the malt barley prized as gold by the brewers at Cheivalt. The view that opened before the exhausted villagers, burdened down with their plaintive toddlers and bundled children, offered no more than the haunted beauty of long-term desolation. Centuries of neglect had overgrown the beds of cailcallow. Wild foxglove and nightshade twined through the crabbed briar, while the tall, graceful towers crumbled with storm and time, their cast-bronze bells silenced, that had tolled at equinox for the mystical glory of the Riathan migration. Naught but roofless stone captured the breezes this day. Only the remnant bones of the hollowed stairwells fluted their mournful notes to the passage of seasons.
Except that the heart of the ruin was no longer dead. Nearer, the curve of the slope fell away to unveil the old circle, crafted with purpose by the centaur guardians to harness the flux. Tarens surveyed an array of stone slabs polished clean of encroaching sod. The gleaming, offset rings had been fashioned of pearl and indigo onyx, a concave conductor fused by grand conjury, which crackled with the lightning-spark purl of focused lane force.
A concerned man-at-arms cautioned against the perilous fascination evoked by the active circle. ‘That is where the King’s Grace will raise the wardings to repulse the invasion. The overgrowth was cleared by those with old blood talent, before Gestry engaged the attributes of his crown attunement. The site’s latent resonance is dangerous even before the currents were raised to yon heightened state.’
The burly rider who minded the toddler qualified with a warning. ‘Watch the children. See they don’t stray within. The refined energy burns with an intensity to knock a grown man unconscious.’
Ozone spiked the stiff breeze like storm scent, the belt to human senses a tonic that laced the spirit to exhilaration. The freighted air shimmered, rainbowed with moisture thrown up by the foamed rush of the melt-waters, jewel-toned in pale aqua and blue by the moraine swept from Lithmarin’s glaciers.
The proximity to Athera’s mysteries also quickened the urgency
of initiate sight. Tarens realized he dared not defer his presumptuous request. ‘Who should I approach to ask for the king’s ear? I have information, perhaps the reason behind the Sunwheel thrust to the east.’
The patrol captain reined in and questioned at once. ‘What do you know?’
Pressured as the sergeant’s mount also crowded him, Tarens stiffened, annoyed. Though reluctant to broach his affairs in the open, he took his chance to secure a direct audience. ‘I’ve had Sighted visions and several dreams that link the realm’s safety to the fugitive Prince of Rathain.’
The two officers exchanged a discomfited glance. ‘Ath’s sweet mercy, another!’ the grizzled captain exclaimed in exasperation.
Tarens demanded, ‘What’s happened?’
The captain scraped at the stubble under his helm strap, recoiled to frosty evasion, ‘The guard’s first commander will hear you at need. You will not see the king. This war camp has seen trouble enough by way of a small party attached to Rathain’s interests. I’ll see you escorted to the royal guard. They’ll settle you with the other delegates, where you’ll stay for as long as you’re with us.’
The shift to abrasive hostility shocked in the face of the volunteer service just given to succor Torwent’s survivors. ‘What’s wrong?’ Tarens asked. ‘Has someone been murdered?’
‘Not exactly.’ The more affable sergeant glanced away embarrassed, while his senior officer stifled the subject. ‘To our sorrow, you’ll see why we’ve restrained your welcome once you’ve spoken with the Mad Prophet.’
Tarens was not asked to relinquish his sword. But the hackled speed at which the task squad’s armsmen whisked him into isolation stymied his repeated appeal to be heard. Summarily bundled off to join the unknown kingdom envoys held in duress, and unnerved by his chilly reception, he was marched to a tent removed from the main camp, surrounded by taciturn sentries.
The king’s guard kept their distance, too reserved to lay hands on him. But their alert posture suggested resistance likely would provoke them to drawn weapons. Annoyed by the stares raised by his broken face, Tarens glowered back, while his person was handed off with a terse distrust that left him estranged. He approached the tent’s open flap alone, met at first encounter by the rushed whispers of a furtive conversation on-going inside.
‘Ath, Khadrien! We must. The stakes are too grave! Do you think to play with live fire for the sake of a hare-brained prank?’
‘No, Esfand. I’m not joking! If we told, they would take her away from us!’
Tarens lightened his step. As a timely cloud masked the sun and snuffed out his fore-running shadow, he peered into the sepia gloom of a tent whose hidden speakers fell silent.
Enveloped by the gamy musk of green deer pelts and smoke-tainted trail clothes, Tarens made out a row of field cots in varied states of disorder. The strewn assortment of personal belongings included a fringed jacket, and several sheathed knives with antler handles. The one folded blanket cushioned a horn bow, the gut string new enough to be yellow, and clamped with horse glue to set the wound silk that prevented frays where the arrows nocked. Tarens recognized the appointments of the woodland clans, civilized by the loan of bleached linen and woven wool. The turf floor was covered by a rush mat, and a table, furnished with leather-seat stools, held an unlit lamp and stacked pewter utensils.
Tarens ventured a cautious step forward. An athletic rustle from between the cots disclosed a lanky clanbred teen, old enough for a thin scruff of beard, and quick to raise challenge at knife point. ‘Who are you?’
Which indignant assault lost impetus to the flush of the sheepishly guilty.
No fool when it came to the exploits of boys, Tarens craned his threatened neck. A timely glance caught the covert slither as two more youthful culprits scuttled out of a clandestine huddle beside a curtained alcove. ‘Caught you eavesdropping, did I?’
The brutal scar across his mangled nose favoured him with a second’s shocked hesitation: apt enough opening for the offensive strike borrowed from Jieret’s trained reflex. The brash scoundrel found himself smartly disarmed. Scatheless, the divested blade in his possession, Tarens watched the chastised pup rub his wrenched wrist. While the dark-haired companion choked back girlish laughter, the tougher, broader knave at her side more wisely stood off before trying the prowess of a strange opponent.
‘I am Esfand, heir apparent to s’Valerient.’ Stepped forward, he offered neutrality, fists crossed at his heart in formal salute. ‘My insolent cousin owes you an apology, and this is Siantra s’Idir.’
‘Khadrien, here. If I cleaned your boots, might I earn back my dagger?’ When servile flippancy won no reprieve, the redhead grinned to disarm the offence of his outfaced aggression. ‘We were trying to follow the spellbinder’s scrying since we’re pledged to help locate the Prince of Rathain.’
‘But I know where to find your missing prince,’ said Tarens, the volatile content blazed through his dreams too dire to waste over small talk. ‘If your spellbinder’s in there and not deaf, I might solve the problem directly.’ As all three pairs of eyes lit to avid interest, he reversed his grip and returned the disputed weapon. ‘Iyat-thos Tarens. I’ll share what I know if you explain why I’m stuck here with your disgraced company.’
‘Oh, that’s easy.’ Khadrien thumped himself down on the nearest cot with satisfied relish. ‘Dakar fell into a fit during a tactical conference with the royal war-captains.’ Hide boots crossed at the ankles, hands laced through the ginger braid at his nape, the young scoundrel added, ‘Tranced out of his wits, the Mad Prophet blurted a prophecy that forecast the death of the High King.’
‘Shame on you, Khadrien!’ Melted by Tarens’s weary confusion, Siantra shoved forward and qualified. ‘The Caithdein of Havish does not wish her liege to know since the advisors fear that King Gestry may lose heart and shrink from the course of crown duty. We’ve been restrained here until Dakar completes their charged task of sounding a fortunate outcome.’
‘There won’t be one.’ The curtain stirred and admitted a pot-bellied fellow, the beard and mussed hair that framed his moon face faded nearly to white. His myopic blink and artless clumsiness exposed the muddled transition from the depths of an entranced vision just interrupted. Draped in a blanket overtop a night-shirt and laddered hose, he grumbled in grainy misery, ‘It’s the Fatemaster’s curse on my talent. Those futures that burst through during unconscious fits are not known to be mutable.’
Come before the arrival’s tall figure and squinting against backlit daylight, the mageborn prophet peered up and exclaimed, ‘Ath wept! You cannot be Jieret!’ He ground his dimpled fists into pouched eyes and looked closer, rebounded to civil regret. ‘I’m sorry. You have the same carriage as a valiant friend who is more than two centuries dead.’ But the vacuous daze of the moment before had resharpened to acute attentiveness. ‘Who are you? How under sky can you bear the signature mark of the s’Valerient heritage?’
‘What?’ Esfand glared at the blond stranger with the crooked nose and denounced, ‘I should know if my family lineage acknowledged a branch of outbred kinsfolk!’
‘Long story,’ said Tarens, disgruntled himself. Taxed enough by his thankless weeks on the march, he shrugged off the testy barrage. ‘The clans in Caithwood were as fast to draw steel. But embraced by the amity of your prince, they were quicker to offer polite hospitality.’
Dakar’s brown eyes widened. ‘You were shown guest welcome in the company of Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn? Come with me.’ A repressive frown deterred eager followers as the Mad Prophet hustled Tarens into his personal quarters.
The enclosure was warmed by a bronze brazier. Reprieved at last from the brutal spring damp, Tarens perched on a horse-hide hassock before the low table where a lit candle and basin sat inside a precision array of chalked lines. Other tools of the seer’s trade lay nearby: a stone pendulum affixed by a string, a hawk’s quill, a tail feather plucked from a raven, and a clamshell silted with sand and the ashes of aromatic her
bs. The frame bed piled with cushions and quilts breathed a residue of astringent scent that suggested a paste for aged joints. The ruddy boots tossed by the clothes-chest and the crumpled breeches hung up to dry revised that assessment: the fat man had hiked a long way before dawn, over trackless outdoor terrain.
‘The guardsmen keep us apart from the king. We are otherwise given our liberty.’ Dakar shuffled to the end of the table. He scrounged a plate with a halved loaf of stale bread and a near-emptied wine bottle, shoved the food within Tarens’s reach, then parked his broad rump in the ox-leather camp chair.
When his famished guest chose not to eat, Dakar directed his piercing regard through the lambent flame’s halo. ‘Who are you, Tarens? What brought you here? Tell me everything. For the straits of far more than this realm surely hinge upon your information.’
‘What do you know of his Grace?’ Tarens hedged.
‘Arithon?’ Dakar laced pudgy fingers over his gut and groaned in exasperation. ‘Nothing. That’s my thorny problem. Every scrying I’ve cast that concerns Rathain’s prince has gone dark as the damned since three days ago. Oh, please, sit back down! If he were dead, I’d have sounded the crossing where his shade passed the Wheel. Trust this much, I do know my business. I’ve borne the curse of erratic prescience throughout a very long life.’
Stonewalled by Tarens’s wary reserve, the fat seer threw up his hands. ‘Ath above! You’d be wise to speak openly. I was assigned as the Teir’s’Ffalenn’s close protector for nearly three decades, and more, a scar on my back from an assassin’s shaft should have finished Rathain’s royal lineage!’