Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  Outside the free wilds, unless the compact was threatened, the Fellowship would not effect a direct intervention. By written code, no Sorcerer dictated the fates of a people inside of established town boundaries. Excited, Bransian snatched a chair, spun it backwards, and straddled the seat. An unholy glee transformed his distress as he grappled the wicked obstruction. ‘You were chosen as heir. Jeynsa s’Valerient, are you here to tell us you never stood for your investiture as Rathain’s caithdein?’

  The girl raised her chin. ‘My sire’s murder gave reason enough to stand back. For Arithon’s sake, my father died under torture.’ Trembling at the edge of exhausted hysteria, she added, ‘Should you cavil at honour? Clan tradition would mediate the loss to my family. Would you not say the prince owes a life debt?’

  ‘Dharkaron’s Black Chariot and Spear!’ Mearn swore.

  ‘That’s scarcely fair play,’ Liesse interjected. ‘If a just call for a clan injury exists, your lady mother should be the one to sue for redress!’

  ‘It’s survival!’ Duke Bransian contradicted. ‘And a compensation that’s due to us, after Mearn’s faithful years of spying on s’Ilessid policy.’ Arisen again, he gestured to a dissonant clash of steel weaponry. ‘Let’s not omit our provision for supply and shelter. Or our staged withdrawal, that reversed Arithon’s straits back in Vastmark.’

  While Fionn Areth watched, wide-eyed, and Talvish clamped teeth to keep his own counsel, Liesse blotted damp palms. ‘Such questionable policy will go hard with Dame Dawr. Ath wept, who will dare broach this news to her?’

  The duke’s beard split into a sharkish smile. ‘What possible point could the old besom raise?’

  A nitpicking magistrate must back the sweet gist: no investiture meant that a steward’s oath did not yet tie Jeynsa’s feal service in direct line to the Fellowship’s compact. Therefore, her case devolved to royal justice, through the dictates of charter law.

  ‘A damnable irony,’ Mearn crowed, despite himself moved to triumphant amazement.

  ‘Victory!’ roared Bransian, rubbing his hands. ‘By Sithaer’s black pit, our weaselly masterbard’s leashed. Legally snagged by his short hairs, in truth, and may Daelion Fatemaster spit on the hindmost! We will win the day, and see Lysaer’s cause forced to a cringing standstill.’

  The scried image that unreeled in the quartz sphere flicked out, leaving a breathless stillness. Afternoon at the Forthmark hospice, the southern heat was oppressive, closed behind the domed chamber’s leaded windows. Rippled patterns cast by the lozenge glass washed across the clandestine gathering. The four robed enchantresses might have been trapped in amber, for their stunned lack of movement and noise.

  The order’s wizened senior healer laced her narrow fingers at length. ‘You named this an augury?’

  Few others might question the Koriani Prime, just twenty years of natural age, and scarcely seasoned since her accession. The young woman stared back in her formal state dress, a willowy coquette who seemed displaced in her high seat of office. Yet a steely authority wrapped her slim form. Flame from the bronze brazier at her feet spat glints through her traditional tiara of amethyst and diamond.

  ‘Our preparations for compassionate relief are in force,’ the sisterhouse peeress prompted gently. That on-going activity jammed the courtyard outside, with snappish drivers handling the mule-teams cut through by the voices of boy wards packing the wagons with supplies. For days, the sisters in grey robes of charitable service had assembled chests of crystals, philtres, and remedies, set coughing under the sulphurous smoke, as the first-rank initiates wrought the copper talismans to repulse iyats and settle the unquiet dead, soon to be sundered by violence.

  ‘Why rush our departure,’ the peeress ran on, ‘or squander more of our resource over clan politics? The siege is inevitable. This forecast could extend the damage, but may not come to pass as we’ve seen it.’

  ‘This pact with Duke Bransian is fated to happen,’ Prime Selidie contradicted. Fair as frost on ripe wheat, she tipped an imperative nod to the seeress, who dutifully veiled the blanked quartz sphere that fire-scarred hands were too crippled to tend. ‘Past question, Jeynsa’s revenge will prevail. The duke is desperate. The dowager duchess may cringe over principle. But preservation of the s’Brydion lineage must force her support in the end. We’re forewarned and poised to act on this opening.’

  The Teir’s’Ffalenn would stand in defence against Lysaer, and the curse of the Mistwraith would unleash a debacle.

  ‘Prescience is not proof,’ the old healer insisted. ‘You would move our order to prying acts for a feckless spellbinder’s maundering?’

  ‘This time, we have a true prophecy.’ The matriarch’s smile was peaches and cream. ‘Dakar awakened from his errant trance, and could not remember his vision.’

  There, even Forthmark’s sceptical seniors lost their last footing for argument. The spellbinder’s gift was a wild talent. The intuitive leaps that outpaced his consciousness always held dazzling accuracy. Even the Fellowship Sorcerers had never fathomed the reason. Despite years of scrutiny at Althain Tower, Dakar’s precocious Sight remained one of the world’s greater mysteries, the source he tapped far beyond the veil, past the limit of cognizant reckoning.

  ‘Jeynsa’s extortion will leave us free rein.’ Prime Selidie savoured the moment, the ruined, claw fingers masked under silk a gall she would never forgive. At long last she was granted the wedge to sunder clan hierarchy and thwart the Fellowship’s compact. ‘Make my palanquin ready. I intend to lead the order’s relief for the war in East Halla myself.’

  Forthmark’s peeress gasped, swept to epiphany as the telling facts behind Selidie’s eagerness finally slid into place. ‘S’Brydion never sundered the terms of the charter!’

  ‘I should live for the day!’ Selidie loosed a satisfied laugh. ‘This time, my sisters, the Fellowship Sorcerers have fully and finally tied their own hands.’

  Asandir’s lawful sanction had affirmed Rathain’s prince. The royal oath of succession, and the formal, initiate ceremony at Etarra had sealed the authority of crown rule. Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn, and no one else, possessed the right to prosecute Jeynsa’s betrayal.

  Soon after Jeynsa s’Valerient made her fateful pact with Alestron, the Master of Shadow left the black dunes of Sanpashir behind. He journeyed alone, his mood knife-edged from the delicate persuasion needed to detach his escort of tribal dartmen. Fourteen days on foot through inhospitable terrain had done little to restore his hale strength. Still thin, worn yet in spirit, he bought their protective release by accepting a quiver of darts and a blow-tube. The knife at his belt was for hunting, not ambush. For cover, he preferred to weave shadow.

  Few ventured the brush to the east of the waste. Where tribal tradition bordered upon the proscribed territory kept under clan vigilance, the road-bound silk caravans went heavily armed. Town dispatches were carried by pigeon.

  Arithon crossed into those wilds, unseen. The dusky weave of his borrowed robe melted into the scrub. He carried his lyranthe slung from a strap and paced his progress with patience. At twilight, he buried the tribe’s gifted weapons, and more carefully disposed of the poison phial, transmuting the toxin through magecraft. Then he crouched in a thorn brake, seized his moment, and slipped unnoticed across the baked ruts of the trade-road that carved inland towards the walled settlement at Atchaz.

  By nightfall, the evergreen fringes of Selkwood closed over him. The milder breeze lost its flint, reclothed in the pungency of pine resin. Arithon lit no torch. Light-footed by nature, he moved without sound over the dense mat of needles. Such care bought no safety. The most furtive intrusion would draw the rapacious notice of Alland’s patrolling clan scouts.

  Since Arithon was tired, and efficiency mattered, he leaned on a tree by a game trail and settled to wait.

  He was seen by starlight in under an hour, then challenged at weapon’s point by three strapping men and a woman bristling with knives. To judge by the game bag bulging with pigeo
ns, the party was inbound from a raid to intercept Alliance dispatches.

  Arithon showed empty hands and gave them his name.

  The armed scouts stood down. Unlike his previous visits to Shand, his slight stature received their combative respect.

  ‘Not Kyrialt,’ they admitted, when he asked whose gossip had made free with his reputation. ‘It’s the vixen wife with the runaway tongue. If you’re wanting to flay her for that, we’ll take wagers.’

  Arithon laughed. ‘With odds on the woman, dare I suggest?’

  A flash of teeth in the surrounding dark, as the rambunctious speaker grinned back. ‘What, trust a redhead for mild behaviour?’

  The ringleader bearing the day’s feathered trophies added his rueful shrug. ‘The she-fox has scarcely been married two months. No sign yet, the husband can handle her.’

  Night-singing crickets filled the slight pause. Still being measured, and fighting the stress of foot travel that spent his reserves, the Master of Shadow forestalled further by-play. ‘I bring urgent news for your High Earl. A guide to his lodging at speed would be welcomed.’

  He was not to be humoured. Too many pairs of sharp eyes assessed him. A soft swish of leather bespoke a hand signal exchanged out of sight. Then the ranking scout said, ‘The outpost is four days’ brisk journey from here. We will rest in the open and send on a runner. Can I hazard a guess that you’re famished?’

  Lent such grace, Rathain’s prince gave his grateful assent. He managed the league’s hike they could not spare, for safety, to a ravine deep enough to risk fire. While the scouts shed their gear, Arithon sat. He fell asleep, tucked up in the folds of his tribal robe, before the coals roasted the day’s by-catch of messenger birds.

  Much later, he wakened. The rocky surrounds, curtained over with ivy, glinted dull orange by flame-light. His escort of four now had additional company. A milling commotion of horses mingled with the muted talk of the arrivals. They already knew they were hosting a prince: from the awkward instant he opened his eyes, they were on him like hawks, falling over themselves to share their savoury stew and hard biscuit.

  ‘Luhaine advised us you might not be hale,’ somebody mentioned, then hastened, ‘We have been told, your Grace. The cost of your victory came hard, at Etarra.’

  Arithon recoiled from hands that would help him erect. Swore under his breath and tossed off the blanket a presumptuous nurse-maid left tucked around his thin shoulders. Embarrassed by the attention fixed on him, to see how he meant to respond, he bent his head and accepted the hot food with a nod, since his voice was not going to be trustworthy. Bad enough, that the lady who offered the bowl could not miss the humiliation. His fingers were chilled to the bone, and not steady, despite the sultry air of high summer.

  He managed to spoon down the broth without shaking. The meat was fresh venison, not tough shreds of pigeon, which bespoke a skilled hunter’s foraging. Only a churl would not finish the meal. When the bowl was scraped clean, the raw streak of dawn glimmered through the trees above the ravine. Eager hands had his lyranthe strapped to a saddle ring. Another scout steadied the horse. Someone else, deferent, hovered nearby should the prince need assistance to mount.

  Arithon stood. He shook out his robe, swung astride without help, took the reins with a nod to the handler. He delivered his thanks with a masterbard’s tongue. Then he salvaged his chafed dignity by clapping his heels to the gelding and setting a brutal pace.

  The forest clans that served Alland’s free wilds were practised at seamless efficiency. They kept swift horses, sited throughout the forest for riding fast relays. Noon saw them remounted for the third time, while zealous youngsters stripped the gear from their spent string, now blowing and streaming white lather.

  Each rider was handed a pouch of jerked meat and dried fruit. They ate astride and shared a flask of Sanshevas rum, driving on at speed through the sun-slashed pines, with the chatter of sparrows stilled in the midday heat. At the fourth change of horses, Arithon lost his balance on dismount. Only the fist in his mare’s steaming mane kept him on his unsteady feet.

  ‘Your Grace,’ a deferent voice ventured, behind. Someone else’s hand gripped his robe and braced his awkward weight upright.

  ‘Do you make the same allowance for toddlers?’ Arithon gasped through clenched teeth.

  The scout laughed. ‘Would you rather sit down arse first in fresh horse-piss? I thought not,’ he added, as the prince’s knees gave.

  Past rejoinder, the Teir’s’Ffalenn slid into strong arms, dropped as though felled by a potion.

  They installed him under the shade of a tent and eased fevered flesh with a compress. An elder whose lineage was practised with herbals was summoned away from the watch-post. She arrived with her remedies, measured his pulse, and, with talented hands, scanned his aura. His collapse was declared the effect of exhaustion, foolishly pushed past the edge. ‘Whoever attended this man in Sanpashir ought to have chained him in bed.’

  ‘Tried, no doubt,’ said the captain of horse, his head poked in through the tent-flap. ‘Simpler to rein in Dharkaron’s Black Chariot. If we paused for rest, that devilsome royal threw away sense and outstripped us.’

  The kind, white-haired woman jerked shut the strings on her satchel. ‘Next time, use a net. Bring him down. Such strain as he’s seen lays him open to risk. Keep on, we’ll be treating an illness.’

  ‘I do know my limits,’ the victim protested, flat prostrate. Eyes shut, he remained wrung ghastly white. ‘We have come halfway. Your scout raiders won’t sleep. Or aren’t they bearing a hot packet of tidings purloined from an Atchaz guild’s dispatches? Among the batch news, your mettlesome High Earl will hear of my presence by sundown. Expect his quick response. Our history’s too rife with contention.’

  The healer snorted and made her way out, while the scout at the entry said nothing. His suggestive pause stretched, the hushed calm before thunder-storm.

  Then the invalid raised his black eyebrows. ‘You’re deaf to the gossip? His lordship’s irked with my matrilineal heritage. I dislike the concept of dynastic reign. But the bone in the craw gets picked all the same. My hackles rise with caithdeinen who try to impose their crown sovereignty over my choices.’

  Through springing sweat, Arithon’s lips flexed. Almost, that smile of combative malice matched the warning the scout had been primed to expect.

  ‘For my part,’ finished the Prince of Rathain, ‘I’ll need the recovery to master your High Earl’s fractious audience by morning.’

  ‘Maybe Lord Erlien will eat you alive?’ The watch scout eased back the tent-flap, and chuckled. ‘Ath above, let’s see who stirs the pot first. I think we should bet. Odds on, you offer more sport than the vice of the town-born, who bait a chained bear with riled dogs in a pit.’

  In fact, Arithon was on his feet sooner, arisen in the late afternoon with none of his keepers the wiser. His time in the desert had left him unkempt. Unnerved as he was by the fuss of the scouts, he enforced his preference as initiate master. A moment’s working masked him well enough to leave the stifling tent and slip through the wood to a stream-bank. There, he indulged in the solitary ease beyond his reach in the waste of Sanpashir.

  The Prince of Rathain slipped off his soiled robe, washed his clothes, and himself, in a trout pool. The languid sun striped his damp skin as he basked. Firm earth and clean daylight cleared his rifted aura, and burned away the residual imprint of terror. Since wet cloth eased the heat, he donned his sopped robe, then settled beneath an ancient willow, whose thick, gnarled roots laced the river-side. Immersed in healing peace, he let the slow swirl of the current and the breeze through leafed fronds work their effortless tonic upon him.

  Whether Arithon intended to fall back to sleep, the lesser warding to hide his presence had not been fashioned to last. Since his secluded hollow was sheltered from the campsite, he did not hear the stir as more horses arrived, hard-ridden as the relay mounts now loosed to graze in concealment. His being stayed wrapped in the cal
m of the willow; lulled by the eddy of free-flowing water. Vulnerable, he lay oblivious when the woman rounded the tree bole and happened upon him.

  Her inquisitive step paused. Sultry eyes widened, surveying her find. ‘Fatemaster’s blessed weaving of chance!’

  Poised as a vixen, she parted the greenery and dared a stalker’s step closer.

  To her delight, and his provocation, those exquisite, fine limbs and musician’s fingers remained sprawled on the moss in abandon. Arithon’s repose stayed unbroken, though she did the unthinkable: invaded his haven and stood over him. The casual drape of the damp, tribal robe hid nothing from her avid stare. Not the bronzed skin of desert exposure, or the welted scars he always kept hidden by natural reticence. His seal-black hair had dried, ungroomed. Tangled strands nested his unshaven cheek, softening his angular profile.

  ‘Where is your vaunted dignity, prince?’ Her vibrant smile exposed even teeth. Bold as a weasel, she flicked back fiery hair, crouched at his side, and dared to extend a pared nail to trace the old burn, seared down his right forearm from elbow to wrist by the strike of his half-brother’s light-bolt.

  Her touch never closed. Aroused and aware, no more dulled by exhaustion, Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn opened his eyes. ‘Glendien, for shame! The same tricks, again?’ With malicious speed, he recoiled, caught the robe closed before she could snatch, then folded his knees and sat up.

  She had tiger’s eyes, hot for teasing mischief, or else the taste of fresh blood.

  Telling which could be murderously difficult. Arithon stifled his first impulse to wound. No grace for surprise, or the awkward timing: he would be a match for her challenge; or not. If their last, memorable encounter had left him the advantage, too apparently his wit still intrigued enough to provoke her.

  ‘Should a wedding have tamed me?’ Glendien licked her teeth, her linen blouse halfway unlaced in the heat, and the sweet skin beneath lightly freckled. ‘This round, I’m not the one compromised.’