by Janny Wurts
The afternoon brought Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn, politely requesting an audience.
The scouts caught lounging off duty ceased their horse-play. They retrieved their oiled cloaks and filed outside without grumbling. The bard who had wakened the old centaur wardings had earned their uneasy respect. Only Kyrialt walked without nerves in his presence. If this prince preferred to evade crown formalities, his liegeman would not let his entrance pass unremarked.
Given privacy, Arithon came forward, skin wet. He offered due courtesy to the reigning high earl with no trace of needling irony.
Lord Erlien did not rise. He laid down the strips of oiled leather in his hand and raked his diminutive royal guest over with his usual aggressive inspection. ‘My sentries are all dripping like drowned foxes, too. Why aren’t you singing for one of my women, being plied with mulled wine in comfort?’
Arithon flipped back his streaming black hair and showed his teeth in delighted affront. ‘Because wet fingernails tear, on a lyranthe’s wound string. And because your huntress in residence likes to use darts before words to nail down my wool-gathering attention.’ He added, across the pervasive ambience of goose grease and freshly honed weapons, ‘I’ve brought a wine-skin. The vintage is an exquisite year, from the vineyards of West Halla.’
‘The prize you won over a contest with bows? I heard about that. My scouts don’t, as a rule, lose their bouts to outsiders. They’re never going to settle your triumph without demanding a rematch.’ Lord Erlien leaned forward, his folded arms braced on the boards, where he had been wrapping new grips on his knives. ‘What’s my woman guessed that you haven’t told us, your Grace?’
‘Am telling you.’ Arithon uncorked the shoulder-slung flask, pulled a neat swallow, and passed the choice red across the razor array of bared steel on the trestle. ‘I need to ask a boon of the land’s steward.’ He did not take a seat on the vacated bench, plain enough indication that his request would be other than commonplace.
Erlien belted back a stiff slug, though the fine wine deserved a more-delicate appreciation. ‘You drink like a milk-nosed virgin,’ he accused, his frosty eyes kindled to warning. ‘Did you come bearing sops as bribe to appease me? Or did you think to bolster your courage before asking for something unreasonable?’
‘Merely unreasonable? Why not outrageous?’ Arithon accepted the gurgling skin. He sipped without hurry, and smiled with a candour that would have pitched Dakar to jangling anxiety. ‘After all, I bear the lineage of Shand’s ancient kings, along with the mettlesome brew sprung from Dari s’Ahelas’s rogue talent.’ Before the realm’s caithdein could bridle, Rathain’s prince attacked without blinking. ‘I want no authority, but only permission to visit the King’s Glade in Selkwood.’
Steel rattled, as Erlien slammed to his feet. ‘Dharkaron Avenge! Your gall has no limits! You may have blood heritage, but no rightful claim! Don’t cite me Rathain! Your legitimate inheritance remains incomplete. As an affirmed prince, you have yet to receive the attunements that finish a royal coronation.’ To the son, whose steadfast bulk guarded the shut door flap, Erlien snapped, ‘Kyrialt! Did you know his Grace meant to ask this?’
‘I didn’t consult,’ Arithon broke in, tart. He recorked the flask, tossed the last of its exquisite joy to his liegeman. Throughout, he regarded his outraged antagonist with maddening, unruffled sobriety. ‘Do I have your blessing? Or will I have to play games and win my way past the ornery knives of your war-captain?’
‘We should stand aside while you take such a risk? Ath’s blinding glory! You could shred your mind! Lose yourself, until you forget every tie that preserves your earthly identity.’ Erlien peeled off his fringed jacket and paced. ‘Sky above, prince! What wretched point are you trying to prove? Selkwood lies under sufficient protection to weather this rising of town-based fanatics.’
‘This is not about adding to Alland’s defences.’ No longer reticent, Arithon stepped into the light. Haunted tension sharpened his face. Even within the wood’s guarded preserve, his aroused gift of far-sight entrained disturbed dreams: the overlaid patterns of violence spun off by the s’Ilessid assault on Alestron that would come to abrade his held mastery of Desh-thiere’s curse. ‘If I’m to surmount what awaits in the north, I’ll need more than commitment and courage. Bound by oath alone, I can’t stand off disaster. Dangerous measures are called for, I think! I would go to the King’s Grove to invoke higher wisdom. Beg for the strength to lay claim to this task with more than my own human grace. There are risks,’ he agreed. ‘But where’s the alternative? Who am I, to shoulder the perils of a geas-cursed war on the faults of my blind limitations?’
Chill truth gripped the stillness. Even Lord Erlien’s contentious nature could not deny this appeal had true cause. The depths of those green eyes upon him retained the unquiet imprint of nightmare. When Arithon chose to expose his defences, the ugly reminder shocked thought: that little more than three fortnights ago, his horrific travail with the Kralovir’s witcheries had all but torn the spirit out of his breathing flesh.
Arithon pitched his case now, unswerving. ‘No man might ask this permission of you. But I am a high kingship’s sanctioned heir, and also a titled masterbard. Even without the fulfilled powers of Rathain, a liaison with the force that quickens the groves is a claimed part of initiate heritage.’
Erlien dared not reject this request. Yet neither could the titled ruler of Shand turn a blind eye to such scalding presumption. He had been asked to bless an unguided encounter with the perils that guarded the sacrosanct mysteries. No light matter, to be dismissed without fear. ‘If you do this, your Grace, you will take my son Kyrialt with you. He will watch your back at every step.’
Arithon knelt. ‘My lord, no. I implore you. Allow me to court this particular danger in solitude.’
But under his ironclad oath as caithdein, the High Earl of Alland planted his feet. ‘Set-backs are life, and my heir is the realm’s pledge. He will be there to safeguard your welfare for as long as his strength can give service. You have earned that regard from my people, your Grace. If Kyrialt comes to harm as your man, another of my lineage will supplant him. We are the ones transient. Shand’s legacy will survive all of us.’
‘Kyrialt,’ said Arithon, still on bent knee amid the soaked scatter of pine-needles, ‘I would reject the choice that demands your feal company.’
‘Never.’ Kyrialt strode forward, caught his liege by the elbow, and raised him. ‘You would go in the morning? Then I will be ready.’ At the slight shudder of recoil, he added, ‘Say nothing! Abide. Selkwood’s seeress has already joined my fate to yours. Nothing you try will gainsay this. Beyond argument, you can’t deny that you’ll need a s’Taleyn to show you the hidden way.’
Naught could be done. No protest might sunder the bond with the self-contained swordsman who braced him. Arithon tried anyway. The taut moment hung, while he sorted the tissue of prismatic far-sight that razed him through like a fire-storm. Some lines converged with too cruel a clarity. Arithon was forced to acknowledge the shimmering knot that twisted the threads of paired destiny. Regret remained: that Lady Glendien had once entrained a bold bid to turn her husband away from a loyalty that might rob the fruits of her marriage bed. Her brazen tactics had failed, the opportune victory ceded in spring when her stubborn courage had faltered. Now, while a rampaging autumnal storm battered the peace of the lodge tent, the double-edged gift of joined fellowship with s’Taleyn could never again be dismissed.
‘I stay at your side,’ Kyrialt insisted, ‘no matter where you dare to tread.’
Prince Arithon bowed his dark head in surrender. He accepted the wrist clasp. ‘Then let us not live to regret.’ His rare smile burst through, alive with the sudden, shattering warmth that stopped the breath for its heart-felt sincerity.
The gale broke, before daybreak. Its moist cover of cloud flayed away in brisk winds that scattered the wet like flung diamonds. The wood smelled of resin and fresh, rain-soaked earth, and Kyrialt awaited, as pr
omised. He had dressed in tradition for the occasion. His leathers were masked by a heraldic surcoat, and the sword at his hip was an heirloom. Silver wire wrapped the shining, black grip. The pommel was inset with the chevrons of Shand, inlaid in fine amethyst and citrine. On the hour he presented himself before Arithon, his dark hair was rebraided in the s’Taleyn clan pattern, and his blue eyes were clouded to smoke. Apprehensive concern for his liege undercut the gravity of formal trappings.
‘I have no intention of playing the fool,’ Arithon reassured as he gestured his readiness to depart. ‘I promise I’m not going to shame you.’
‘Your Grace,’ said Kyrialt. Nothing more. Though his swift, sidelong glance as they left the encampment reflected a tacit approval. The prince
The escorted showed proper humility, and came in accord with ancestral customs. Arithon had done away with scout’s leathers and boots. Today, he wore only the sashed robe from Sanpashir, and thonged sandals, woven from sweet-grass. Those would be discarded, as morning wore on, and the threshold that demarked the subtle boundary between the free wilds and Selkwood’s pristine, inner sanctum was crossed. Arithon walked empty-handed, as well. His lyranthe remained in the guest-quarters. Where Shand’s ancient high kings would have shone with the circlet and crown jewels bestowed at their ritual coronation, Arithon wore no adornment at all, nor carried so much as a talisman. Unarmed and unheralded, he came with only the cloth on his back and the grace of hard-won self-awareness.
His slighter build seemed an unfinished child’s, in the shadow of Kyrialt’s muscle. Even so, his quiet presence turned heads. The stillness inside him towered. The light stride that ventured into the deep wood held the poise of the initiate sorcerer.
‘You know we can’t stop to forage at noon,’ Kyrialt warned as they passed through the check-point, waved on by the scouts.
‘I am meant to be fasting, though I may drink running water from any stream we may cross on the way.’ Arithon smiled. ‘Sethvir and Halliron between them made certain that I was well versed. Since I may not know everything that applies, here in Shand, your instructions aren’t taken amiss.’
Kyrialt pointed towards the left fork in the trail. ‘That way, liege.’ His reluctance was palpable: plainly, he would give anything to avoid that particular turn in their pathway.
Yet the fickle fall weather gave him no excuse. The new day was a jewel, around them. Sunlight spun slanting beams through foliage lit like a riot of cut silk. Still sheltered from frost, the last, blooming asters flecked the clearings where deer had grazed off the underbrush. Tree branches rustled to the wing-beats of birds and squirrels at their nesting. The mud at the verges bore the flurried prints of mice, the pug marks of bobcats, and in velvet shade, the more secretive, southern lynx.
‘Leftwards, again, by the leaning maple,’ said Kyrialt. Speech seemed an intrusion against the hush, which gathered and built at each step. The path to the King’s Glade did not lead them straight but bent into a spiralling curve, that closed with impeccable gentleness. The approach was a kindness. The slow, upward shift in the resonant flux allowed body and mind to acclimatize to the range of exhilarated sensation.
The expanded state of awareness caused thirst. Both men paused to drink at the rock-springs and streamlets. Their breathing deepened, although the terrain underfoot was not arduous. They walked steadily on, while the energies sang in ever-tightening bands, which thrummed solid bones and stretched ear-drums. Oppressed by the mantle of their human flesh, the two travellers exchanged no conversation. Shortly, without warning, Arithon bent. He unlaced his simple grass sandals. Though the morning was brisk, and the sky stretched above, wind-swept to a cold, cloudless azure, he must walk barefoot, henceforward.
Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn trod in the same steps, as those of Shand’s ancestry had, before him.
Soon enough, the path led to the pair of live oaks, that Paravian hands had braided into an archway as saplings. Ancient now, streaming moss and speckled with lichens, the twined trees carried living awareness as sentinels.
Through their wakened gateway, no man might pass, except by rightful purpose and with due permission.
Arithon touched Kyrialt’s forearm and stopped. He had sworn not to spurn the old ritual. Committed, still steady, he loosened his sash, then slipped his robe free, and left the cloth in the trembling grasp of his liegeman. Naked as birth, he must enter the glade, as every crowned sovereign before him. Yet where those past supplicants had held the jewels of s’Ahelas heritage to protect, and act as a beacon before them, Arithon brought nothing else but his voice, and the frame of his human intention.
He advanced, flushed to sweat, but not frightened. His step made little sound in the carpet of leaf mulch. Up to the knotted, black portal of branches, he made his way without flinching. There, on his feet, his hands loose at his sides, he looked upwards. Dwarfed by the boughs of centuries-old oaks, he drew breath and uttered his Name.
Wind arose, on a breath. The first, breezy overture built, then screamed, wrapping his form in a whipping, tight gyre, until his exposed flesh became scoured. The force could have hurled him onto his knees, thrown him down and smashed bones in reprisal. Arithon braced his stance. Eyes shut, determined, he held his footing. The gale slashed his hair, stung his skin to red gooseflesh. Upright, though the buffeting shoved him left and right, he staggered a step, and recovered. He did not give way, though his frail body shivered, ripped through by a chill that could kill if he stayed without respite.
Then the tempest parted. The twisting, last gust chased leaves down the trail. The dry grasses rippled beyond the oaks’ arch in a capriciously mild invitation.
Arithon had received leave: the way to the King’s Glade lay open before him. Kyrialt took the liegeman’s place at his back. As the Teir’s’Ffalenn crossed through the portal, the youngest son of s’Taleyn followed, remarked by no more than a whisper of air through the rustling leaves overhead.
Whether or not the cold posed a hindrance, Arithon showed no hesitation. He walked upon ground that had known no man’s step since the death of the last King of Shand: a boy crowned one generation after the uprising, at the tender age of eighteen.
The ancient path meandered. It traced the earth as the barest, single-file indent, overgrown with flowers and myrtle, and bird-scavenged stands of wild oats. The ivied trunks of the pines and the spreading, grand crowns of the oaks cast their shade, dusted by motes of sunshine. Breeze frisked the foliage and scattered the seed down of paint-brush and late-blooming hawk’s eye. Midday had passed. The air was alive with the chatter of sparrows and the lilting cry of a falcon. Kyrialt moved as though wrapped in a dream, sucked into light-headed vertigo. What Arithon experienced could not be guessed, exposed as he was to the land’s direct energies, barefoot upon the warmed soil. Here, where the tides flowed as a palpable force, the mind and the heart sensed the pulse of the flux. Mortal flesh shuddered, wrung into ecstasy by the effervescent cascade.
The pervasive presence that rang through this place was not fashioned for breathing humanity. Kyrialt walked at Prince Arithon’s heels, his unstrung nerves lulled beyond sense. The danger stayed real: madness, addiction, or unrequited longing afflicted those who experienced the wakened mysteries for too long.
Sundown approached, a lit glory of gold, when the path reached its end, and the King’s Glade lay unveiled before them.
The hollow encompassed a gently sloped mound, ringed by the hoary crowns of twelve live oaks. The trees were old, their twined roots overgrown by dry grass. The tipped seed-heads lapped at a weathered stone slab, where the bared bones of the rise jutted through. The rock was laced round by a tangle of wild rose, still bearing the reddened hips of the late blossoms. Kyrialt trailed Arithon up to the crest. No spoken word passed, between them. In time-honoured custom, he spread the shed cloth of Arithon’s mantle over the mossy face of the granite. Here, where Shand’s former high kings had petitioned the Paravians to answer the needs of the realm, a prince who was not the lan
d’s titled sovereign presented himself, just as naked in supplication.
The sentinel oaks that had granted him entrance made no guarantee for his safety. Unattuned to the role of his Shandian ancestors, Arithon dared to invoke the wild powers, for a consequence beyond precedent.
Here, at the crux, Kyrialt forced speech through the blaze of his scattered senses. ‘Nothing I say can dissuade you from this?’
‘No harm dwells here,’ Arithon replied at a whisper. ‘Sleep, if you can. The dream-state will lift the stress from your mind, and protect you from suffering withdrawal.’ As the young man took issue, he added, most firm, ‘There’s no need for you to stand watch, in this place. The initial danger is already past. Or I would have been flensed skin from bone on the moment I queried the trees at the gateway.’
‘You addressed the sentinels?’ Kyrialt asked in surprise.
Arithon drew in a bracing, quick breath. ‘No. I gave myself over. As I will again. If I live to return, and the forces that quicken their being decide to let go and release me.’
His bid had been cast. He could not turn back. No matter what fate should await him by night, Arithon stayed resolute. He climbed onto the slab. Though the breeze that riffled across his stripped skin fore-promised a vigil of misery, he prepared to lie down for the consequence.
Kyrialt wrestled the salt prick of tears. ‘My liege,’ he gasped, helpless.
But naught could be done. Words of disharmony lost their edge, where the flux burned flesh and blood with the volatile fire of unworldly majesty. Kyrialt assumed the caithdein’s post at the feet of his sovereign lord. He seated himself on the ground by the slab, torn by the shame of frank cowardice.