Grand Conspiracy

by Janny Wurts

  That turned Lysaer’s head and earned a considered, sharp stare from the cowled priest who stood in dispassionate quiet on the sidelines.

  By faint starlight, Lysaer’s face held a chiseled, ice sculpture symmetry that momentarily eschewed every trace of human emotion. ‘Dame Dawr’s affray with the priesthood was pardoned after Duke Bransian wrote us a formal apology.’

  Sulfin Evend said nothing.

  The chill darkness became weighted by his charged expectation, and something more sinister, a thread of deep and dangerous concealment, treacherous as the current that sucked through the weir of an unruffled millpond. Prince Lysaer brazened out that nailing regard, silent, while the wind snarled and whistled through the scrub in the gully, and the blossoming star of a firebrand traced the movements of the men who broke camp.

  Since Sulfin Evend had never backed down from a challenge, Jeriayish finally relented. ‘Given firm-handed guidance, and the right crisis as inspiration, Tysan’s rich guilds would have emptied their treasuries. We’d hoped to fund a fortress and garrison as ambitious as the one now under construction at Etarra.’

  The Alliance Lord Commander sucked back a snort of amazement. He regarded the white-clad avatar before him, his perception jarred to cynical reassessment. ‘Then you’ve been outflanked by surprise? Of course, in hindsight, an upset of this magnitude would convince a guild with no fighting arm to pledge every resource to stand on the side of the Light.’ The censure that followed was delivered with the same, distanced ring of soft irony. ‘Still, that can’t excuse the hard facts. In pandering to guild greed for a future gamble, you’ve left a whole kingdom exposed and all but defenseless.’

  The glance Lysaer s’Ilessid fixed on his Lord Commander revealed a grim depth of honesty. ‘Fear has its uses. As the powers of darkness exploit our vulnerabilities, shall we foolishly spurn the same tools? Too much lies at stake. We face an enemy who threatens the stability of the world.’ His acute, inward conflict spurred his fury as he added his bald-faced endorsement to the priest’s veiled hint of conspiracy. ‘Naturally, I would have preferred to arrange a safe means to rock the proverbial boat.’

  Level steel in adherence to the letter of sworn duty, Sulfin Evend asked again for his orders.

  Yet Lysaer clamped tortured fists to his temples, still agonized by indecision. Whatever fell power had crafted this setback, its immediate impact would outpace his most careful expectations.

  ‘I dare not return to reap the rewards I have ripened through years of patience and planning,’ the Blessed Prince confessed. His cry for vindication flawed his conviction as he added, ‘Nor can I fail to rise to the gauntlet thrown down by tonight’s fell round of portents.’ As the world’s given gift to cleanse darkness and sorcery, he could not disregard the real chance that now, innocent lives stood at risk. Wrung by a passion that raged to shed blood, Lysaer finished, ‘I dare not miscall how the Master of Shadow will use his power to unbalance us.’

  The choice of which coast to guard had passed beyond compromise already, with snowfall choking the high passes. Winter storms would allow them no second alternative. Sulfin Evend could assess the logistics well enough. Either their handpicked strike force of officers turned tail now and took the river route through Korias to reach Avenor the long way. Or they committed to go on and cross Instrell Bay and make landfall in Rathain before ice locked the northern strait that would give them swift access to Atainia.

  The thin priest skirted the issue of lapsed morals with delicacy. ‘If tonight’s events are connected with the reported sighting in Daenfal, your Grace fears the worse threat will arise in the east?’

  Lysaer tipped his face skyward. His posture strung taut by a need that poisoned the very marrow of his commitment, he admitted, ‘I fear so, but what if I’m wrong? Avenor and all of Tysan must stand or fall upon the wisdom of an aging crown seneschal and the word of High Priest Cerebeld. As Athera’s given power to defend against Shadow, I cannot afford to miscalculate the site where the Spinner of Darkness will strike.’

  While Sulfin Evend looked on with veiled eyes and masked thoughts, Jeriayish bowed again. The sunwheel priest’s tone raised a silken whisper against the tireless whine of the gusts. ‘Blessed Prince, I have been trained to serve. The way exists to find out …’

  Within the sealed chamber fashioned by conjury beneath the stone mazes of Kewar, a spark of light scalded down and poised in the air above the image reflected in the pool. An answering flicker played through the rune patterns incised into rock underneath. Through a queer, tensioned second, the tall, ascetic figure of a man appeared to lean over the burgeoning ripple of springwater. He wore a leather doublet the burnt orange color of autumn leaves, and a shirt with crisp, pleated sleeves tied at the wrist with braided sable laces. His hair fell shoulder length, a tumble of frost-streaked russet. The planes of his face were ascetic, shaped flint, and his foxy chin was clean-shaven.

  His hand rested wrist deep in the pool. The narrow fingers were an artist’s, long and flexibly capable. Ripples flowed over a cast, silver ring inset with a citrine, and carved with three interlocked crescents that framed the sign of the moon.

  Dark, shrewd eyes surveyed the image still held in suspended reflection: of a blond prince caught in the crux of duplicity as the geas of the Mistwraith’s curse collided with the dictates of conscience, and again, deflected Athera’s future. On the cusp of resolve, before Lysaer s’Ilessid sealed his consent to his priest in the hinterlands of north Camris, the enigmatic figure by the pool far under the Mathorn Mountains straightened up from absorbed contemplation. He raised a wet hand. Droplets scattered to the brisk snap of his fingers. The bright spark of intent poised over the pool flickered out. The scrying erased, and took with it the imprinted form of the watcher.

  The softened play of the light that arose in formation as the water rippled over the channeling course of the rune patterns did not stay unpartnered for long; another spark descended. The next summoned image formed in the pool. This one reflected another incident within the closed walls of Avenor …

  Couched alone in silk sheets in the royal apartments, Princess Ellaine stirred to the sliding rustle of bed curtains. Urgent hands prodded her. She was forced awake despite the unconscious need to remain lost in oblivious dreaming. ‘My lady? Your Grace? You’ll want to arise.’

  Ellaine opened her eyes, aware all at once that the handmaid’s determination held fear. She pushed erect amid a silken slither of comforters and hooked tangled hair from her face. The room was still dark. No candles burned but the one in the pricket gripped in her handmaid’s trembling fingers. ‘What’s amiss?’

  A ghostly presence in the wan flicker of flame light, the woman’s generous features were pinched into terrified pallor. ‘Dread sorcery, madam.’ Her jerked, distraught gesture encompassed the night window, cracked across by an unseasonal flare of lightning. The bright discharge burst and died without sound; no report of shocked air reechoed and pealed into a barrage of natural thunder.

  ‘Light’s mercy upon us!’ The maid shuddered and wailed. ‘Folk say the Spinner of Darkness is returned!’

  ‘Hush,’ Ellaine snapped. ‘You don’t know that for certain.’ She kicked free of her blankets and stood up. Winter’s drafts bit through the fine lace of her night rail, and the icy tiles underfoot set her shivering. ‘I’ll need to dress. Then send for Gace Steward. If we’re being visited by some harbinger of disaster, my son must be seen at my side.’

  When the maid wrung her hands in paralyzed dread, Ellaine lost her poise to impatience. ‘Attend me, at once!’ She padded to her wardrobe, too distressed to observe the everyday grace of courtly propriety. ‘Avenor has need of its ruling family before panic sets in on the streets.’

  Yet as fast as she donned formal clothes and state mantle, Avenor’s High Priest had acted in step to forestall her. One of his obsequious sunwheel acolytes barged into her apartment as she swept from her darkened bedchamber.

  His bow to acknowledge her sta
tion was grudging and brutishly rushed. ‘Lady Ellaine, his eminence, High Priest Cerebeld, has called for an assembly of the council. He requires your presence for form’s sake and reassurance, but Avenor’s seneschal will preside.’

  ‘Where’s my son?’ Ellaine demanded, her tense hands folded into the shimmering silk of the skirt she reserved for ceremonial appearances. Her firm bearing suggested she would let no one’s plans disrupt her immediate priority. ‘I’ll go nowhere and do nothing until I’m assured Prince Kevor will sit at my side.’

  The sunwheel acolyte assumed the role of royal escort unasked and clasped her elbow above her caped sleeve. ‘The young prince’s servants are dressing him now. His attendance will be necessary to assuage the false rumor that Prince Lysaer has abandoned the regency.’

  At fourteen, young Kevor had grown beyond such limited use as a figurehead, but Ellaine saw little point to be gained in bandying words on that issue. She let the acolyte’s curt tug usher her down the corridor, while the tall, lancet windows on either side flickered to another show of uncanny lightning. The wax candles lit at dusk had been left to burn low, their blown glass sconces shaded to umber with soot. The feeble flicker of the last, spent wicks became overwhelmed by the discharge that sparked in blue forks overhead. Dawn would not break for another three hours, and the moonless night showed no threatening wall of cloud or the combed cirrus of an approaching squall line.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Ellaine demanded. ‘Does Cerebeld know? Or will we be maintaining a brave front at Avenor in the absence of my royal husband?’

  Turned down the gleaming marble corridor that led to the vaulted state chambers, the priest’s glance held harried exasperation. ‘His eminence, the High Priest, says there’s been an attack of fell sorcery. What we see are the discharged effects of that imbalance.’

  ‘Lysaer’s at Erdane,’ Princess Ellaine pointed out, determined to outface the man’s patronizing attitude. She could not remedy the fact that Gace Steward cut off her best links to those informants who were versed in state interests and politics. ‘His royal Grace could intercede.’

  ‘No longer.’ The sunwheel servant paused, while two guardsmen in royal colors flung open the archeddoor to the council hall’s anteroom. ‘The sky’s a fell portent, forewarning a change. Cerebeld has received divine word that the Spinner of Darkness intends a return to the continent. The Blessed Prince has already gathered his best officers. They’ve pressed east with all speed to cross Instrell Bay and call a muster of arms to challenge the enemy.’

  A stunned, hollow feeling slammed through Ellaine’s gut. She quashed her instinctive response to ask questions, less successful with the small lines of worry that pleated her forehead. ‘Then Lysaer won’t return to stand guard at Avenor?’ The rejection stung yet, that the blood ties of family never bound the man to his marriage. Cut off from her Erdani kinfolk, Ellaine could but mourn and strive for adult understanding. If moral zeal had sealed Lysaer’s heart from affection, other loyalties should not be disregarded. His son was here, as well as the guildsmen and merchants who had been first to swear fealty to Tysan’s restored monarchy.

  Yet matters of Shadow were Lysaer’s born cause to pursue. As the mother of his heir, Ellaine tried to eschew sentiment in favor of hard practicality. ‘Our winter garrison scarcely offers us an adequate defense if our people believe these queer signs in the sky foretell an assault wrought of sorcery.’

  ‘Then our faith must sustain us. Or was the Blessed Prince not sent to Athera to oppose such unclean practice?’ Cerebeld’s priest produced keys to unlock the royal entry, which allowed direct access to the high dais with its gilt-and-white chairs of state.

  Ellaine had no chance to wonder how he had come to acquire such privilege. The common floor of the hall was already packed with the realm’s ranking dignitaries, showing the disheveled signs of being rousted from bed. No doubt some had been called untimely from the arms of the courtesans they kept in cosseted luxury. Plumed hats slid askew, and aiglets dangled from half-laced points. Clamorous voices locked in shrill argument and rocked echoes off the hall’s vaulted ceiling. The court herald blasted a quavering fanfare to announce the princess’s arrival. His trumpet passed unheard. Everyone appeared to be shouting at once. The thin voice of the realm’s aged seneschal was disregarded as the buzz of a bothersome gnat.

  Ellaine gave the scene a raking, fast glance. The observant few courtiers who noticed her presence dismissed her with preoccupied contempt. Fired to rare annoyance, the princess ripped off her gold crown. She raked the rim in clattering dissonance over the gold-embossed arm of the regent’s chair. As heads turned, she cried out, ‘I’m ashamed! Are we frightened schoolboys masquerading as men when the realm stands in need of strong counsel?’

  The harsh edge to the tumult subsided, as much from surprise as embarrassment. Ellaine granted that reprieve little quarter. ‘We have sound walls! I hear no armed enemy battering our gates, nor do I see a war host outside equipped with rams and siege engines. I have seen lightning, but where is the sorcerer? Our prince has marched east to raise arms against Shadow. Is our courage pinned to his shirttails to the point where Avenor’s high officials can do nothing else but cower and wail over threats that have yet to be manifest!’

  A cosseted merchant with a Northerly accent puffed up and took spluttering umbrage. ‘But my Lady, the portents––’

  The princess cut him short. ‘The portents are a warning! Wise men would not waste themselves arguing, but use what time we are given to prepare. Where is Lord Eilish? Has anyone sent for the captain of the watch? Let those two come forward and start with an accurate list of Avenor’s trained men and resources.’

  A gruff voice arose from the rear of the chamber. ‘Garrison captain’s already here.’

  Ellaine took charge before the crown seneschal could seize opening to force her aside. ‘Let him pass!’

  Sweating guild ministers and agitated merchants made way for the heavyset officer who answered the princess’s summons. He carried a field helm tucked under his elbow; his ceremonial sash with its sunwheel insignia had been left aside in a rush that left time for only his daggers and baldric. Hemmed in by the fretful packs of courtiers who still jammed the dais stair, he squared his shoulders and delivered his report from floor level. ‘Princess, an unruly throng jams the square, chanting for Lysaer of the Light. Every guardsman we have who’s fit to bear arms has turned out to form cordons at the gate. They carry standing orders to hold their ground in the event sweeping panic should cause an assault on the palace.’

  ‘Has a company been detailed to barricade the guildhalls?’ The crown seneschal elbowed his way to the fore, his leathery, hound’s jowls livid pink.

  ‘If iron locks won’t stop trouble, armed men can’t either.’ Ellaine faced down the wiry old man, this once determined to wield the prerogative of her rank. ‘I will not authorize our city garrison to draw steel against our own terrified people!’

  The incredulous yelp of a trade minister cut her off. ‘You’d risk the realm’s wealth to riot and looters?’

  Scarcely aware of the door that opened and closed at her back, Ellaine drew breath, without words. She clenched dampened hands, shamed for the fact she had no shining gift for inspired leadership. The despair became suffocating, that she saw no foothold to grapple rank greed. All the years Lysaer’s policy had catered to self-interest had defined Avenor’s solidarity. Confronted by courtiers decked out in the ostentatious, jeweled trappings of their arrogance, she sensed their dog pack readiness to tear down any obstacle between them and their threatened security. Ellaine tensed, made aware she lacked the authoritative stance to checkrein such ruthless hostility. As the disgruntled mutters from the chamber gathered force, she realized how gravely she had miscalculated the potential for uprising inside Avenor’s headstrong royal court. One move, one word wrong, and two decades of crown rule could be torn down in a flash-fire outburst of mass hysteria.

  Yet before the moment’s impetus cr
ossed the line into violence, someone interceded in a steady baritone that struck a clear note of reassurance. ‘Honest folk don’t panic unless they are given no direction, and are left with nothing to do.’

  Ellaine turned her head, astonished at how closely that tone matched the gifted, state poise of Lysaer s’Ilessid himself.

  Yet the one who had spoken was not the Blessed Prince. Reed slender, clad in the crown and star blazon of Tysan, and a mantle with a sunwheel emblem, the newcomer assumed position at Ellaine’s right hand. His hair was red-gold, not shining blond. The ringless fingers that clasped hers were awkward and large, like the paws of a tiger cub not yet come into the power and grace of maturity. Set against the polished gleam of long-stemmed candelabra, white wainscoted walls, and the rich tinseled backdrop of tapestries, he was raw youth bearing the unmistakable stamp of generations of royal ancestry.

  Before the gaping city counselors and high realm officials stupefied to amazement, Ellaine was first to recover herself. ‘Prince Kevor.’ She swept into a curtsy that forced even the most stiff-necked state ministers to recall their lapsed form and propriety. They bowed before the royal heir who would one day assume crown rule over them.

  Child no longer, Lysaer’s son at fourteen had taken a leap toward his manhood seemingly overnight. His smile acknowledged his mother’s support and melted her heart for its depth of adult sincerity. Then, restored to formality, he released her hand and addressed Avenor’s belligerent courtiers. ‘Our princess speaks sound sense. Force of arms is no use when the people are frightened. Too likely the first fool who lost his head would incite them to needless bloodshed.’

  ‘How else to avert mayhem?’ The cantankerous seneschal stabbed a bony finger toward the massive, closed doors of the council hall. ‘The rabble out there isn’t rational or calm. In case you wainscoted noticed on your way from your bed, there are mounted guardsmen with lances keeping a pack of enraged tradesmen from storming in here for protection. They fear they’ll be slaughtered by Fellowship Sorcerers. Right or wrong, they won’t pause to hear pretty speeches before they start hurling bricks! If we don’t use the armed guard to hold them in line, how would you propose to subdue them?’