The Wars of Light and Shadow (9) – Initiate’s Trial: First book of Sword of the Canon

by Janny Wurts

  ‘No.’ Sethvir lowered his fingers, limpid turquoise eyes widened by acute distress. ‘Last night, his Grace moved at large in the yard of a travellers’ inn with no more protection than a burlap bag used to hood his face.’

  ‘It was snowing?’ Asandir observed, thoughtful. A seasoned winter traveller, he knew that grooms often sheltered their heads with grain sacking under a pinch-thrift stableman. ‘You don’t feel the prince was cautious by restraint, in line with his sly touch for cleverness?’

  The reluctant pause lagged. Sethvir picked up the gold-and-black hawk’s quill with fidgety care, and said presently, ‘Earlier today, a temple high priest claimed to have sensed an act of dark spellcraft disturbing the flux lines. But actually, no such deflection took place. The True Sect’s examiner at Kelsing conducted the search of an innocent’s home under that falsified testimony.’

  Asandir raised straight eyebrows, coarse as steel filings on his weathered face. ‘Ah.’

  Sethvir’s anger acquired a dangerous spark of leashed rage. ‘More, that brazen lie marked an honest crofter for the scaffold and saw his family stripped of their landed inheritance.’

  The logic required a beat to unravel. ‘No craft was used. The lane currents were silent. Else we’d have had Koriathain themselves drawn to Arithon’s refuge like crawling lice.’ Asandir sat very still, sensitive to the myriad threads of inquiry sorted by the vast range of his colleague’s earth-sense. ‘Then whose poisoned suggestion tipped off the prying diviner?’

  ‘A snitch with a rumour,’ Sethvir answered, too tightly succinct. ‘One inept, rebuffed suitor informed the temple those crofters had sheltered a ruffian.’

  ‘Quite a long leap, to peg a mere beggarman sight unseen as an affirmed minion of Shadow.’ The knifed lines of Asandir’s frown intensified. ‘How did Arithon raise undue attention?’

  ‘The deep empathy he evolved to appease Marak’s wraiths has entrained him to hear the nuanced pitch of emotion. A neat trap,’ Sethvir said, ‘exploiting the fact he still is quite defenseless, without a haven, and left with no secure route for escape.’

  With all recourse hobbled in Arithon’s behalf, the old set-backs festered like thorns in the flesh, that the temple’s sway over Tysan remained absolute. The canon’s long-standing doctrine of fear kept the ports and the borders locked under a Light-sanctioned chokehold. Which ironclad security had been what prompted the Koriathain to locate Arithon’s spelled term of captivity at the ruined earl’s court at Kelsing. If their brazen connivance also used the false faith as the sleeve to flush out their fugitive, the move seemed an ominous excess.

  Asandir gauged Sethvir’s raw nerves and probed gently, ‘Prime Selidie cannot fear the s’Ffalenn penchant for vengeful fury at this pass.’ Not if Arithon had yet to recall why he should bear the initiate witches a capital grudge.

  Sethvir folded the sleeked hawk feather into a silk cloth, then picked up the gaudy flask. The indigo glaze, emerald vine-leaves, and scarlet birds glinted with gemstone brilliance as he raised the vessel up to the light and peered askance through the flawed glass stopper. His colleague knew not to press him. When the Warden chose to deliver bad news, his word often struck like the fall of a hammer and smashed every alternate option past salvage.

  ‘The thrust has changed,’ Sethvir allowed. ‘Since Selidie’s settlement rests our oath of noninterference, the Prime’s decided she has the leeway to spin wider plans. I’m loath to suggest that Arithon may be of more use to her, now, as a gambit.’

  ‘They’re angling for Lysaer?’ Asandir snapped point-blank.

  ‘Let’s hope I’m mistaken.’ Sethvir tapped the flawed crystal. His finger touch sparked a blast of raw light. When the flash cleared, the crack that gave the glass character stayed: but the chip was erased, which impaired the stopper’s integrity. ‘Lysaer cannot be other than compromised.’ Either by the roused influence of the Mistwraith’s curse or through the born drive for justice instilled into his royal lineage, the Prime’s exploitive stake in high temple affairs must engage the attention of its forsworn founder.

  With the sinister upshot that the delinquent avatar well might fall prey to that lure. The sisterhood yet bore Lysaer’s entrenched enmity. To thwart their machinations, and to wrest Tysan’s religious populace free of their corrupt influence, he might well step in and resume his lapsed charge as the divine figure-head worshipped by the Light’s faithful. Should the affray in the westlands push him to try, he would flirt with a peril beyond his means to defuse: Desh-thiere’s insidious geas never slept. Its subtle pressure would warp any action he took and distort even the most altruistic morality.

  ‘Is Lysaer yet aware he may face a fresh trial?’ Asandir ventured at length.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The frightful back-lash could not be disowned, that Arithon’s restored freedom inevitably renewed the murderous compulsion to destroy his half brother. Sethvir granted the proof of that horror without words and shared a fragment of image: as nightmares had broken Lysaer’s sleep, and wrung him to cold sweat and dread before daybreak. The vicious dynamic resurged beyond quarter, with his cursed nemesis once more at large in the world. Already, the sterling strengths of true character staged the potential for a tragic relapse.

  ‘We face a bad call regardless,’ Sethvir admitted in gloomy assessment.

  If, against weighted odds, the s’Ilessid sustained his avowed course and renounced his former posture of divine importance, he would leave the religion’s false doctrine intact, ripe for other arcane exploitation. Lysaer’s absence ceded the Prime a wide-open field to keep steering the True Sect’s high priesthood.

  Which naked threat made Asandir bristle. ‘No chance the Matriarch won’t pounce on the choice to leverage the Light’s canon as her ready weapon against us.’

  ‘The Paravians’ return could shatter that web,’ Sethvir murmured, deceptively wistful. But the diamond gleam behind his veiled lashes bespoke tears before dreamer’s bemusement.

  ‘Check, then, if not mate,’ Asandir finished, tart for the venomous irony. For of course, with the old races lost to the world, the chore of house-cleaning such meddlesome spiders fell under the Fellowship’s purview.

  The Koriani Prime would launch her ambitious assault, with the impasse bought by Arithon’s term of captivity broken at last. Marak’s invasive wraths might be banished, but the Fellowship’s hands remained overburdened. The dis­corporate Sorcerers Kharadmon and Luhaine yet laboured to dismantle the mighty wardspells, once fashioned to separate the rogue horde into single entities whence a masterbard’s song could transmute them. A grand construct potent enough to dim the world’s sun must be unravelled, each coil of energy harmlessly dispersed before the onset of explosive attrition. More, the life-web of two other afflicted worlds required to be mended and rebalanced.

  Asandir’s practicality never minced words. ‘Either the Koriathain turn the might of the masses to shatter the compact, or we rend our own solemn oath by desperate means to prevent them.’

  Sethvir picked a napped thread off his cuff. ‘We’re all too conveniently hobbled.’ Cheerless, he placed the repaired vessel in a niche where sunlight would fire the vibrant enamels. If the gesture brightened the cloud settled over the library, no rainbow might ease the gloomy predicament that Lysaer s’Ilessid had been formally outcast from the protective grant made by the Fellowship for mankind’s lawful settlement. An unmalleable point the Prime Matriarch planned to mine for her ruthless advantage. With Arithon’s survival also bound under Asandir’s pledge of noninterference, both of the princes stood at the cross-roads of deadly risk.

  ‘Davien,’ said Sethvir, ‘would be having a field day if he were at liberty to offer comment.’ Not least, for the back-handed reverse, that the traits instilled into Athera’s crown blood-lines had bred so perniciously true. But, of course, no one dwelled upon Davien’s hung fate, wedded to the perilous whim of a dragon.

  The bleak pause after that might have gathered the dust displaced out of Sethvir’s cupboard
, but for the shuffled step on the outside stair, and the cursory bang at the library door that forewarned of another arrival.

  ‘My unfinished business come flocking to roost,’ the field Sorcerer observed, beyond tried, as the latch tripped.

  A plump, brosy man with a salt-and-ginger beard shoved over the threshold with a laden tray. He wore a sober brown tunic, neat as a clerk’s but for the haphazard knots that snarled his laces. The inquisitive dart of cinnamon eyes picked up Asandir’s presence and narrowed.

  ‘I wasn’t told you returned!’ the fellow accused, while several fortnights’ freight of injured offence precipitated a minor disaster. Something crunched under his left-footed tread. Then he tripped on Sethvir’s chunks of river stone and escaped falling flat by a hairbreadth.

  ‘Hello, Dakar,’ greeted Asandir. ‘The bluebirds will lay a fresh clutch by next spring, and your stubbed toe will recover. Before you waste further breath in complaint, we could use a tranced prophecy telling us where the Prime Matriarch plans to wreak her next round of havoc.’

  Once, the rebuke would have flustered Dakar scarlet. But tempered living and wisdom, painfully gained, at long last had established decorum. The tea-tray came to rest on the table without the crash of unbridled pique.

  ‘Could I offer an augury without knowing the facts?’ The spellbinder also known as the Mad Prophet snatched up a cloth napkin, bent his stout frame, and scooped up the pulverized egg-shells. He slid the offended rocks to one side with a genuine word of apology, then accosted the sore point headlong. ‘You didn’t invite me to the Koriani summons at Whitehold! Neither would Sethvir share what occurred or tell me the terms you relinquished to win the Prime Matriarch’s appeasement.’

  Asandir extended lean legs and answered the gripes in strict order. ‘I didn’t. He won’t.’ Reclined with his capable fingers locked behind his tipped head, the field Sorcerer trampled the incensed retort. ‘You stayed here because, on formal terms at the time, you were no longer subject to my apprenticeship.’

  Dakar shut his gaped jaw like a fish revolted by a distasteful morsel. Appalled, then suspicious, he shot a glance sidewards.

  Sethvir answered, his air of innocuous innocence absorbed as he poked through his displaced belongings. ‘You were signed off and sealed as your own master before Asandir ever left to square the debt held against the Crown of Rathain.’ The crock with the spider was removed from harm’s way. Benignly agreeable, the Warden added, ‘Enjoy the autonomy. Pursue your own fate. All your Fellowship ties have been sundered. The parchment was formally entered in record, which means by my count, you’ve been free-loading here for two months and a day.’

  A mild turquoise eye peered askance as though startled to catch Dakar dumbfounded. ‘Do you wish,’ Sethvir mused, ‘to question the surety of the star-stamp I placed on the document?’

  The high flush of fury drained fast as the impact struck home: Dakar faced his discharge from an eight-hundred-and-fifty-year term of formal apprenticeship. More, the severance came vouchsafed under Sethvir’s titled standing as Warden of Althain.

  Dumped unceremoniously on his arse, the Mad Prophet leaped to pick a fight with his erstwhile master.

  ‘No one informed me!’ he fumed to Asandir. ‘Why the blatant surprise? Is this some new test? Or, dare I suggest, a secretive manipulation?’ Stung beyond sense, Dakar renewed his festering grievance. ‘Since I stood for the oath you just brought to closure, in fairness, I should have witnessed the finish.’

  ‘Oh, you started the dismal affray, beyond question!’ Steel eyes half-lidded, Asandir let his former protégé squirm. ‘If you thought I’d be lenient, Sethvir doesn’t forget.’

  Denial was futile. Dakar’s maladroit usage of Fellowship auspices indeed had saddled Rathain’s crown with the ruinous obligation to the Order of the Koriathain in the first place.

  Asandir was not finished, though the accusation lay over two hundred years in the past, and nary a word since had broached the disgrace, or faulted the spellbinder for prior misconduct. ‘The discharge of your jumped-up initiative at Athir has set Athera’s future on tenterhooks and cost a gifted woman her life through an ugly act of self-sacrifice. Don’t trouble to add the misery that a sanctioned s’Ffalenn prince has endured, caged in conditions of inhumane horror throughout centuries of captivity!’

  ‘He’s survived to win free,’ Dakar argued, jaw set. ‘You assured me that Arithon’s mind was not broken.’

  Sethvir’s retort produced three succinct images derived from the earth-sense bestowed by the Paravians. The first replayed the ancient memory of a bereft mother’s tears as her only daughter left Althain Tower at three years of age, by adamant free choice bound to swear service to the Koriathain; the next displayed the terms of Asandir’s oath, lately sealed by stone’s witness at the Whitehold sisterhouse as surety for Fellowship noninterference on the matter of Prince Arithon’s life. The third image, concurrent, wounded the most: of the world’s most brilliant born talent, sanctioned as the last living heir to Rathain. That view showed Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn huddled under an ox manger, bereft of the natural recall of his identity.

  ‘What else could I have accomplished alone, that dark night when the crisis faced me at Athir?’ Dakar blurted, culpable and defensive for his role in that ruinous past string of betrayals. ‘You’ll recall, at the time, your crown prince was dying! When Elaira, or I, tried to contact Sethvir, we were granted no shred of grace! No response came in that hour, and no succour arose from any other Fellowship Sorcerer—’

  ‘What made you think that we could?’ Asandir snapped across vain protestation.

  It fell to Sethvir to respond to the Mad Prophet’s interrupted appeal. ‘Elaira wished me to secure Arithon’s survival, a call that was not mine to make. Clearly so, Dakar.’ Calm, ink-stained fingers carefully lifted the paper wasps’ fragile nest. ‘His Grace’s free will was not compromised! Only his choice to live hung in question, and by the Law of the Major Balance, mortal death is not a matter under our jurisdiction.’

  Dakar paled again, hurled backwards into the agonized recall of the untenable crux thrust upon him, hard on the heels of the ghastly defeat that ended the siege of Alestron. ‘Don’t claim your Fellowship planned to do nothing! Not after you held Arithon’s blood oath to live, no matter the cost or the consequence.’

  ‘We expected the Biedar would step into the breach,’ Asandir corrected, ungently. ‘And the tribe’s eldest did that. But after you had taken rash action first, with the sorry result that the options thereafter were limited.’

  Dakar looked worse than weak at the knees. His desperation found no handy place to sit down. Sethvir’s displaced sea-shells crammed the cushioned window-seat, and stacked books occupied every chair. ‘You might explain why I’m being tossed out! I may have created a grievous set-back, but I promise, my botched efforts stayed within form. No one who was conscious had their preferences compromised. I took care to secure the consent of all parties before the first ritual was undertaken.’

  ‘Did you?’ Asandir sat forward, quick as a coiled snake.

  ‘I made sure!’ Dakar insisted, tinged sullen by stress. ‘You held the power to stake Arithon’s survival. Therefore, I did not turn on him without grounds.’

  ‘Then who is responsible for what happened at Athir?’ Asandir probed like struck iron.

  The silence turned suddenly dense as poured lead. Dakar floundered, aghast, while Sethvir blew the dust from the paper wasps’ confection and restored its frailty to the cupboard. As softly deliberate, Althain’s Warden listed the damning facts from a memory impartially flawless. ‘Who hounded Elaira to make her decision? Or did you not make a sly pact first with Glendien, whose unborn child’s betrayed trust in due course paid the ultimate price? Teylia was forced to salvage the brunt of your maladroit chain of ill consequence. Who else might suffer in further forfeit remains under question.’

  ‘Merciful Ath!’ Dakar exclaimed, trembling. His diligent years of rapt study could not
be dismissed at a stroke for the sake of one bygone grievance. ‘Why wait so long to bring this to light? What raised the issue at this hour?’

  His anguished question stayed brutally dangling.

  ‘The disastrous choices have been made already,’ Asandir declared, un­equivocal. ‘My oath, set in stone, forbids further action on Arithon’s behalf for the future. What you do hereforward is your own affair. You have been released to walk away, or to find the conscience to seek a redemption.’

  Dakar accepted the severance, granted no chink for appeal. He was not crushed pithless. On his way out, he paused only to fling back a cruel dart of his own. ‘Forget my thankless service! Best for you to fall back on your king-making touch to appoint the throne’s shadow, in fact!’

  At Asandir’s startled glance, which all but cracked a legendary demeanour, Sethvir said in arch calm as the door slammed, ‘On that count, no one is joking, dear friend. After all, Tysan is legitimately threatened. There, actually, Fellowship auspices can snatch the initiative and declare the next successor to the s’Gannley title.’

  ‘Which branch?’ quipped the field Sorcerer, too astute to be surprised twice on the subject. ‘Or can you mean both at once?’

  Sethvir’s eyes gleamed with the suspect sparkle of paste, buffed to pass as a swindler’s trifle. ‘How far can we bend the dictates of old law and strain the frayed cloth of tradition?’

  ‘Far enough,’ cracked Asandir, ‘to scald the naked pink flesh of our arses!’ He reached to fortify himself from the tray. To one who knew him, the sadness and grief afflicted by Dakar’s mean departure were poignantly visible. In truth, his return had been most tenderly expected: with faultless care, his discarded apprentice had catered to his personal preference. The delicacies of hot bread, and fresh fruit, so often missed in rough travel, accompanied Sethvir’s pot of steaming tea. The congealed plate of sausage and pickled eggs, Dakar would have arranged for himself.

  The light meal Asandir wished, while at leisure, would scarcely stand him in good stead as he braced for another hard journey. Already expected to crown the new heir on the death of the High Queen of Havish, he understood Tysan’s explosive woes could not rest, shadowed under the deadlier threat of the Mistwraith’s resurgent influence.