Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  Asandir’s gaunt profile turned. He regarded the other, who waited some distance off, and made certain she planned to stay out of earshot. ‘The Biedar elders can be an irresistible force, when they choose to take action.’ Whether or not the tribe stood as his ally, the Sorcerer held his opinion. ‘You’re that eager to be away in my company?’

  For in fact, the root of the spellbinder’s urgency was not his former recalcitrance. The Mad Prophet tucked his round chin in his beard. He tightened his grip on his shapeless brown cloak, tugged in billows by the strafing wind. ‘When you’ve seen the look in Prince Arithon’s eyes, you’ll know why,’ he evaded. ‘He’s awaiting you inside the ruin. We don’t speak, by my preference. I’ve sworn instead to guard Glendien’s trust. But there’s not a night that goes by where I don’t lie awake, questioning whether the turn of events I helped shape could have been any different.’

  ‘Our prince is still alive,’ Asandir said without flinching. ‘His blood oath on the matter is not in debate. Though, naturally, I cannot hold you to blame if you can’t bear his intimate company.’ Tactful before Dakar’s naked relief, the Sorcerer’s glance surveyed the figure still standing, forlorn, on the rise. ‘And Elaira? Does she share your wounding remorse?’

  Dakar stared into distance. ‘She holds Arithon’s true heart. That simplifies conscience. On the subject of Glendien’s abrupt departure, the enchantress said what she hadn’t been told would not trouble her honest rapport.’

  ‘She’s unlikely to breeze in for tea with Sethvir, or chase after Lorn’s midwives, digging for scandal.’ Asandir’s stifled smile suggested sympathy. ‘Though if she did, I’d back Althain’s Warden. He’s always had a touch for bare-faced diversions.’

  Dakar shivered. ‘All the same, I don’t care to watch the exchange you intend for Prince Arithon.’

  ‘I’d prefer that you didn’t,’ Asandir agreed. ‘What business I have to attend should be brief. You have things left to gather? A fishing lugger bound across Vaststrait is scheduled to meet us within the hour.’

  Dakar cast a wall-eyed glance at the surf, steep crests curling over in explosive froth from the swells of an outlying tempest. His complexion turned green. ‘I’ll forgo my breakfast,’ he managed, resigned. Then, ‘Why under Ath’s sky should I choose this?’ Rough passages and lane transfers wrung out his gut. Hard riding chafed him to blisters. Travel with Sorcerers was no kind of life to exchange for warm doxies and drunken oblivion.

  Yet if he expected a master’s sage answer, Asandir had already moved on to address the Koriani enchantress.

  The freshening breeze pried at her coiled bronze hair, and the knuckles clenched on the satchel that bundled her healer’s remedies. Asandir surveyed the dawn tint of her eyes and the lips that still wore the turbulent flush of Prince Arithon’s parting kiss. ‘My brave lady,’ he opened. ‘Do I have to say that our Fellowship owes you a debt beyond any repayment? You chose for a life, come whatever the cost. I salute the sweet gift of that bravery.’

  Elaira regarded the Sorcerer whose grave counsel years ago in a seeress’s cottage had steered her life’s course from the proscribed path set by her order. From silver-grey hair to reactive, poised quiet, he was the same spirit, now. Still, he waited for her to direct the bent of today’s conversation.

  She shut her eyes. Throat closed, language failed her. Arithon’s words, whispered into her ear, still entangled her beyond reason: ‘Until forever, beloved,’ he had said. ‘Our home together is where your life takes you.’

  The Sorcerer’s reserve was unerring: her fight to recover her threatened poise needed none of his help. ‘What little thing can our Fellowship give, that’s racing your heart-beat to ask of us?’ As she seized a deep breath, he added, acerbic, ‘Speak in forthright confidence! Rest assured, if you fear an untoward listener, your request has my sealed ward of privacy.’

  Elaira gasped with surprised laughter. ‘You’d have Prime Selidie smoking with rage if she knew that her will could be thwarted so easily.’

  ‘Then she’d best look out where she sparks off her fires,’ Asandir declared with stripped warning.

  Speech broke then, an unstoppable torrent. ‘I have to return,’ Elaira burst out. ‘I don’t relish the prospect. But one matter of driving importance remains. My personal crystal is still in the Matriarch’s keeping. The question persists, why the quartz chose to bind its right to freedom under my vow to the Koriani Order. The riddle posed by the stone must be answered. Nobody else can pursue that course for me, or honour the peculiarity in my stead.’

  Asandir sighed. ‘Sethvir’s earth-sense cannot unravel that quirk, since your quartz was not formed on Athera. Though you’re right. The mineral’s preference will carry a reason, strange though it seems to our human-based sensibilities. Neither are you one to forsake a friendship that has not turned and betrayed you.’

  She had started to shiver. The Fellowship Sorcerer did touch her then, a warm, callused palm laid against her turned cheek as a shield from the bitter wind. ‘What do you ask of us? Beyond what our Fellowship already has: Luhaine’s surveillance will be ever-present, and Davien has a living dragon at hand, primed to answer your need, should you call him.’

  ‘Save us all!’ Elaira recovered her humour. ‘What’s become of your Fellowship’s vaunted restraint?’

  ‘No more damaged grimwards,’ Asandir allowed. The steel flash in his eyes bespoke no mirth at all, as he added, ‘The gang-up move to protect your good name could get thick, lest Arithon’s fury should jump in first and spark the errant explosion.’

  ‘He’s pacified,’ said Elaira, turned pale at the thought. ‘I’ve promised my hand. He’ll have to abide my Prime’s interests until the time’s fully ripe. Which brings me to ask for your favour. I’d like transport, south.’ The long way by the land road was too heavy with memories to endure the cold journey alone.

  The Sorcerer in his regaled formality regarded her. ‘Brave lady! That’s all? For his Grace’s life’s sake, my Fellowship can do you much better than that.’

  When, again, she said nothing, Asandir’s amusement resurged. He laced his large fingers through hers and drew her away from the leave she had asked, by way of the Paravian circle. ‘Listen well. Sethvir’s augury claims that the Khetienn will make landfall here, shortly before winter solstice. Prince Arithon will rejoin his ship’s company, aboard. He’ll have only Talvish, since he’s bound on to Selkwood with a Masterbard’s condolence for Lord Erlien and Kyrialt’s grieving mother. His Grace also owes the same due respects to Fiark and the other family in mourning at Innish. Why not share his journey? A leisurely deepwater passage could set you ashore in the free wilds of Alland. The smugglers’ coves there are a short hop to Telzen. Unless, of course, you’re delayed by strong weather. Be assured, if that happens, your Prime Matriarch means to retire and sulk in seclusion at Forthmark. That route is best managed by ship, don’t you think? You wouldn’t be wise, yet, to venture a crossing on foot by way of Sanpashir.’

  Elaira grinned. ‘I’d report back to my order all in due time?’

  ‘Well yes. Handfast to Rathain, why not please your betrothed a bit longer?’ Asandir stared out to sea, a fierce light in his glance, that perhaps matched Sethvir’s for dodging connivance. ‘What else could your hobbled Prime Matriarch do, except gnaw on the nubs of her bandages till you arrive?’

  Winter 5671–5672

  Entailment

  If Asandir’s promised conference with Rathain’s crown prince was pointed for brevity, the opening moment came as piquantly charged as Dakar’s most cringing prediction. Yet where the Mad Prophet presumed that the Sorcerer’s entry would meet with a stinging riposte, instead, the staging was set by the lyranthe the bard had just finished restringing. A plangent cascade of melody poured through the spill of new sunlight. The echoes reverberated from old stonewalls, already alive with the whispers of vanished Paravians. Beauty reigned, spun from a minor key that evoked the anguish of parting.

  Talvish crou
ched in the shaded archway just outside of Arithon’s presence. His pale head was masked in the crook of an elbow, braced by his upright, sheathed sword. His loyal guard was not dismissed, a relief the man stood up to acknowledge. The Fellowship were sticklers on matters of integrity; and among Seven, Asandir was the most straightforward taskmaster of all. The fact a sworn liegeman was kept on as witness meant this interview would stay restricted to formal crown business.

  Yet even a Sorcerer on short timing would not impinge on the art of Athera’s Masterbard. The outcry wrung from the raw pain of leave-taking was allowed the matchless, sweet effort to seek a release. When the musician’s hand faltered, at last overcome, Asandir let his arrival be known.

  He stepped through the arch, heralded by his long shadow.

  Inside the tight stonework of Athir’s foundation, the sea-wind was reduced to a salt-scented whisper. Arithon perched with his hair tumbled loose, his back braced to a roofless wall. The posture that still nursed a tender scar was wrapped in an oiled cloak, purloined from the sunk courier’s crew locker. His borrowed shirt was also too large, and his jerkin, cut down from an outworn cast-off.

  Yet nondescript clothing could never hide the stamp of encounter left by Athera’s deep mysteries. The eyes that Dakar had been loath to meet snapped upward and challenged intrusion. An unworldly vision lurked in their green depths, a captured echo of glory past reach of the heart’s ease to tame.

  Swift fingers damped off the strings, faintly thrumming with the last strains of nakedly scalded emotion. To the Sorcerer’s silence, Arithon said, ‘You’ve come for Parrien? If so, you don’t need formal dress to intimidate. He’s been sweating in dread behind snappish pride, until Talvish threatened to grant him relief by clubbing him into unconsciousness.’

  Yet the Fellowship emissary refused to be hazed. ‘The issue of criminal justice can wait.’ His pause left the sunlight vibrating on the stilled air. Where Talvish, behind, sucked his breath in abeyance, Asandir just managed to curb his impulse to chuckle out loud. ‘You can unbend and smile, your Grace. I’m not here to berate you for hair-raising risks. The debt, in lives spared, is quite beyond price. I’m sorry you were abandoned to your own devices, and more. Your grief is acknowledged. The cost paid by some of your own came too dear.’

  Arithon supported that stripping care, moment upon moment, not breaking. ‘I have had Elaira beside me,’ he said. ‘Sidir will wed Feithan. Mearn’s with his wife and new-born, secure under protection at Methisle Fortress, and for my misspent sacrifice in let blood, my writ commands pardon for Parrien.’ He stretched out his arm, and retrieved a tied scroll from within the cover for his lyranthe. ‘I trust you’ll know when to apply this.’

  Asandir accepted the offering. Though his glance never flickered, he noted the wax seal, impressed with Rathain’s royal leopard. ‘You’ve softened,’ he tested. ‘Enough to set your signature under the blazon of your crown birthright.’

  ‘Have I?’ Arithon’s smile unveiled his edged challenge. ‘Try this, instead. Shand’s caithdein, the High Earl of Alland, will place his grievance for Kyrialt’s death with the Crown Steward of Melhalla. I suffered a duke’s brother’s assault subject to her kingdom, also. Kindly as the Teiren’s’Callient is, tendering soup to rude strangers, would she brook any less than my sanctioned signature at trial, for a murderer’s binding reprieve?’

  Asandir’s frown remained purposefully grave, although Talvish, behind, caught the impression such bristled composure was kept for appearances. ‘Melhalla’s charter would not accept less. Never, under my Fellowship’s oversight! Not for a wounding stroke meant to be fatal, against the unarmed talent, entitled as Masterbard.’

  ‘Then I rest my case.’ His lyranthe protectively tucked in his arms, Arithon did his utmost not to show that the stinging correction struck home. ‘My name under seal set against a man’s life? Thrown the miring weight of your crown, I will use its power at my convenience.’

  ‘What of the folk still at risk in Alestron?’ Asandir inquired point-blank.

  While Talvish, behind, recoiled in dread, the Sorcerer bore in, unblinking. His eyes mirror brilliant, he held out until, beyond mercy, Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn lost the poise for his jabbing defence.

  ‘I thought so.’ Asandir’s murmur held more than mere gentleness. ‘Where you’ve tried and failed, perhaps I might succeed. Your writ can be honoured where Parrien’s concerned, though I will take your liberty to choose the timing to repeal the crown’s pending charges. Meantime, let’s see what else might be done for the people still trapped under Bransian’s protection.’

  As Arithon stared, fighting tears, the Sorcerer eased his promise for Alestron’s reprieve with even more nerve-stripping tolerance. ‘Your convenience has done a fine job for three realms. The rude stranger won’t find us ungrateful. My earnest gesture awaits you, outside, one that I trust will delight you. If you’re done belabouring Talvish’s patience? Torbrand also masked over his frightful heroics with no end of testy disclaimers.’

  Arithon laughed. ‘Who’s to blame, there?’ Disarmed at last, he set down his lyranthe and stood, now willing to give the grace of a free singer’s courtesy. ‘I don’t guess that my forebear volunteered for your throne. What blandishment did you offer him?’

  ‘Complete your accession,’ Asandir said, straight-faced. His height a forcefully shameless advantage, he peered down at the miscreant. ‘I promise, your Grace, on that day, you’ll find out.’

  Gangling as he was, and as marked by hard service, the field Sorcerer owned blinding speed when he chose to move. The roofless courtyard was vacated before Arithon managed his scathing rejoinder: that Jeynsa s’Valerient had certainly proven her mettle to steward the throneless plight of Rathain.

  Talvish side-stepped the Sorcerer’s precipitate departure, then dodged again, to escape being flattened by a second rushed figure, incoming.

  ‘Just hobble the insolent yap on his Grace!’ he groused, pleased, as Elaira flew across the cleared threshold into Arithon’s startled embrace.

  The battered fishing lugger engaged by the Sorcerer plied a lumbering passage southbound from Athir across the narrows of Vaststrait. Tossing, she rounded the headland at Northstor. Cantankerous as a balked cow, worked to windward, she seeped at the seams, with rust streaked down the strakes at her chain-plates. The ripe stink of mackerel fouling her bilges earned jeering contempt from the galleys passing down wind.

  Parrien s’Brydion suffered the ignominious crossing under Fellowship custody, and was not requested to navigate. While the grizzled captain and his hard-bitten hands plied their nets, Dakar underwent a rigorous study of weather wards and elementals. Asandir pushed those new skills to the limit, until the spellbinder grumped that his eyesight sparkled with distortion, and his aching head pounded, near back-lash. The decrepit vessel made port only once: an afternoon’s dockage at Perdith to replace a patched sail and reprovision. The harbour officials pinched their disdainful, pink noses, and declined a thorough inspection.

  While the fishermen gutted and sold their ripe catch, and Parrien stewed, constrained aboard, the Sorcerer visited a chandler’s shop that sewed pennons. He returned, brightly whistling, a streamer of deep, midnight blue rolled up under his arm.

  His word set the lugger’s crew back ashore, smug and smiling with callused hands stuffed in their smock pockets.

  ‘Save that Sorcerer from all mothering storms!’ crowed the craft’s relieved captain. What was left, but carousing to celebrate his astounding turn of good fortune? The round sum paid off by Asandir’s charter would commission a handier vessel. ‘For such brash generosity, we’ll have us a tight, snappy lady that’ll breast the cold easterlies without straining her caulking.’

  ‘Won’t miss the leaks that drizzled the berths.’ The fishing crew exchanged a jubilant toast, as their tired old darling cast off. Their derelict, meant for the wreckers come spring, instead ploughed away on her wallowing route south.

  Dakar’s tasked lessons with
wind and water resumed, while Parrien chewed over curses and languished. His slit-eyed ill humour lifted just once, when the lugger wore ship rounding Kalesh, and Asandir unfurled his new pennant to run up the peeling mast. The triangular cloth was slashed, contrary, by a diagonal white bar, with the upper quadrant marked by a six-pointed star: a device not observed by a town on the continent for more than five hundred years.

  ‘Ath!’ declared Parrien s’Brydion, awed, his piratical beard allowed to run wild. ‘What I’d not give to sit above deck! Lounge at this tub’s rail and laugh when the port blockade’s excisemen try their damnable sanctions, enforced in the breach by archers with lints tipped in fire!’

  ‘If they don’t know the banner,’ Asandir agreed, ‘the lapse in town history just might go down a bit hard on them.’

  Which double-edged warning hushed Parrien, fast, and left Dakar advised to tread softly. The lugger plunged onwards, groaning under loose stays. With the odd flag streaming like night under sunlight, she tacked again, side-slipping in churned foam to leeward. Then change occurred, seamless: wind and tide bowed before her worn tackle. More than the ancient banner declared presence, as her blunt prow came about, and suddenly cut an unerring, straight wake against the roiling ebb.

  Fiasco ensued as she sliced the blockade, in flagrant disregard of extortionate fees and war edicts. On both sides of the strait, customs men from Kalesh and Adruin scrambled onto their barges to give chase. Harbour officials in overdone finery yammered threats through their bull-horns.

  Commands to heave to and declare for the Light were ignored. The lugger showed them the gouged paint of her stern, as hot pursuit trailed her course through the estuary.

  The fire archers, perforce, were commanded to shoot, whereupon the natural bent of wave and weather went crazy. No one agreed, afterward, about squalls in clear air. Yet the evidence stayed incontrovertible. The volleys of arrows bent awry in the gusts and kindled embarrassing wild fires. Errant shafts torched off the customs shacks, first; then the spired roofs of the towns’ guild-halls. Both of the mayors’ mansions went up, ignited by wind-borne sparks. The blazes blackened the view of the narrows, while the final round the bowmen unleashed quenched harmlessly into the sea.