Traitor's Knot

by Janny Wurts

  The lean companies from Etarra encamped by the south wall were not the advance guard, transporting the critically wounded. In harsh fact, no more troops would be marching home, bearing accolades, honour, and triumph.

  Hours later, the impact still rocked the guests who lingered in the mayor’s palace: news that Arithon, Spinner of Darkness, had escaped beyond reach through the entry to Kewar Tunnel. Everywhere else, that formal announcement might ease the impact of tragedy, even offer resounding relief. The renegade Sorcerer, Davien the Betrayer, had fashioned the maze that lay beyond that dread threshold. The foolish who dared to venture inside did not survive the experience.

  Yet Erdane possessed more accurate knowledge concerning the powers of Fellowship Sorcerers. Here, where the archives had not been destroyed with the overthrow of the high kings, breaking word of the s’Ffalenn bastard’s evasion was received with sobering recoil.

  The terse conversations exchanged in the carriage yard became a trial on Sulfin Evend’s taut nerves. Despite the biting, unseasonable cold, guild ministers decked out in jewels and lace seemed to pluck at his cloak at each step.

  ‘My Lord Commander of the Light?’ The latest petitioner ploughed in, undeterred by the field weapons and mail worn beneath the Alliance first officer’s dress-surcoat. ‘What are your plans? Will the Divine Prince regroup his defence in the east?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sulfin Evend demurred. His hawk’s features turned from the blasting wind, he unhooked the merchant’s ringed fingers. ‘Too soon to tell.’

  ‘The entrance to Kewar should stay under guard.’ The insistent courtier still barred the way, unscathed by the war veteran’s impatience. ‘Did the Prince of the Light leave no company in Rathain to stand watch over the portal?’

  ‘Had any-one stayed, they’d be dead to a man!’ Sulfin Evend barked back, since his tied hands on that score rankled sorely. Although tonight’s bitter weather still gripped all of Tysan, to the east, spring thaws mired the roadways. Ox-trains would labour, slowed to a crawl, with Daon Ramon rendered impassable. Melt-waters now roared through the boulder-choked vales, too engorged for a safe crossing. Supply would bog down in those forsaken notches, riddled with uncanny Second Age ghosts, and enclaves of hostile clan archers. ‘I won’t post my troops as bait to be murdered. Our toll of losses has been harsh enough without risking more lives to stupidity!’

  As the guildsman bridled, Sulfin Evend cut back, ‘That ground is reserved as Athera’s free wilds, and deep inside barbarian territory’

  ‘Your bound duty is not to eradicate vermin?’ a fresh voice declaimed from the side-lines. ‘Our gold fills the coffers that arm your men! To what use, if you pack them up and turn tail each time the chased fox goes to earth?’

  ‘Good night, gentlemen!’ The Alliance commander shoved through the last wave of inquirers, pushed past his last shred of patience. Too many fine officers had died on the field. Left in sole charge of demoralized troops, he found his resources stretched far too thin. Erdane was a stew of insatiable politics, both council and trade guilds riddled with clandestine in-fighting, and coloured by the entrenched hostility held over from past resentment of old blood royalty. The Lord Commander preferred not to billet the men here, worn as they were from the last weeks of a harried retreat. Yet his bursar lacked ready funds for provision, and troop morale was still fragile. Tempers ran too ragged to risk quartering the company at large in the country-side.

  Beside the Master of Shadow’s escape, Lysaer’s regency faced pending crisis: each passing day raised the spectre of famine, as the unnatural, freezing storms rolled down from the north and forestalled the annual planting.

  Yet since the Blessed Prince had wed the Lord Mayor’s daughter, a strategic refusal of this town’s hospitality became a social impossibility.

  Sulfin Evend outpaced the overdressed pack at his heels, stamped slush from his spurs, then mounted the stair from the carriage-way. Admitted through the mayor’s front door, he endured the butler’s imperious inspection. He stood, steaming, for the liveried boy who removed his sunwheel cloak, and sat for another, who buffed his soaked field boots until he was deemed fit to tread on the mansion’s priceless carpets.

  Their service was gifted no more than a copper. The shame was no secret: the Alliance treasury was flat strapped. If the town’s ranking ministers were all jumpy as jackals, expecting appeals for new funding, the mayor’s sleek staff accepted their token with the semblance of deferent charm.

  ‘Your Lordship,’ they murmured. ‘Enjoy a good evening and a sound rest.’

  Sulfin Evend stood up, a whipcord lean man with dark hair and pale eyes, and the well-set, alert bearing that bespoke a razor intelligence. Hanshire born, and the son of a mayor, he showed flawless courtesy, inwardly knowing he dared not trust Erdane’s cordial reception too far. Secret brotherhoods still gathered inside these gates. Practitioners of magecraft and unclean rites lurked in the crumbling tenements by the west wall. Tonight’s wealthy sycophants spurred his concern, as their flurried whispers and rushed, private dispatches widened the breach for covert enemies to exploit.

  The Alliance commander climbed the stair to the guest wing, decided on his response. He would stand his armed guard in the Divine Prince’s bedchamber, and be damned if the mayor’s pretentious staff took umbrage at his distrust.

  His intent was forestalled by the royal equerry, who had obstinately barred Lysaer’s quarters.

  ‘You’ll admit me, at once,’ Sulfin Evend demanded. ‘I’ll have the man whipped, who says otherwise.’

  ‘The Divine Prince himself.’ The equerry’s nervous distress emerged muffled, from behind the gilt-panelled entry. ‘His Blessed Grace is indisposed. By his order, he stays undisturbed.’

  That news raised a chilling grue of unease, fast followed by burning suspicion. Lysaer s’Ilessid had often looked peaked through the weeks since the campaign ended. Aboard ship across Instrell Bay, his Blessed Grace had scarcely emerged from his cabin. The retirement seemed natural. Each widow and grieving mother would receive a sealed writ of condolence from the hand of the Light. Over the subsequent, storm-ridden march, Sulfin Evend had not thought to question the hours spent addressing correspondence in the shelter of a covered wagon. Yet if Lysaer was ill, and masking the fact, the cascade of damages ran beyond the concept of frightening. A man hailed by the masses as a divine avatar dared not display any sign of a mortal weakness in public.

  ‘You will admit me!’ His mailed fist braced against the locked door, Sulfin Evend surveyed the latch, an ornamental fitting of bronze the first hard blow would wrench from its setting. ‘Open up, or I’ll come, regardless.’

  No man in the field troop defied that tone.

  Wisely, the equerry chose not to risk scandal. ‘You, no one else.’ He shot the bar with dispatch. ‘The mayor’s staff was led to understand that his Exalted Grace was overjoyed with the welcoming brandy’

  Sulfin Evend slipped past the cracked panel, at once enfolded in blanketing warmth, expensively scented by citrus-polished wood and bees-wax. As the nervous servant secured the entry behind him, his tactical survey encompassed the loom of stuffed furnishings and the gleaming, shut doors of the armoires. The room’s gilt appointments lay wrapped in gloom, the resplendent state finery worn for the feast long since folded away in the clothes-chests. By custom, one candle burned on the night-stand: the Prince of the Light did not sleep in the presence of shadow or darkness. Amid that setting of diligent neatness, the lit figure sprawled upon crumpled sheets stood out like a shout of disharmony.

  Every nerve hackled, the Lord Commander advanced. The frightened page who minded the flame abandoned his stool and jumped clear. No stammered excuse could dismiss the harsh truth: Lysaer’s condition had passed beyond indisposed. Nor had drink rendered him prostrate. Lifelessly white as a stranded fish, a torso once muscled to glorify marble lay reduced to skeletal emaciation.

  Horrified, Sulfin Evend exclaimed, ‘How long has your master been padding his clo
thes?’

  ‘My lord,’ the boy stammered. ‘His Divine Grace swore us to silence.’

  ‘Blazing Sithaer, I don’t care what you were told!’ Sulfin Evend strode forward. He tugged off his gauntlets, snatched up the pricket, then bent to assess the shocking extent of Lysaer’s condition. The porcelain-fair profile on the pillow never stirred at his touch. The icy, damp flesh was not fevered. Alarmed, the Alliance commander raked back the disordered gold hair. No reflex responded as he pried back the flaccid, left eyelid. The unshielded flame lit a glassine, comatose stare, and a pupil wide black with dilation.

  ‘Answer me now! How long has his Divine Grace languished like this?’

  The equerry quailed before that steel tone. ‘My lord, we don’t know when this wasting began. Grief would blunt the appetite, one might suppose, so soon after the loss of a son.’

  That honest uncertainty seemed reasonable, since the train of personal attendants initially brought from Avenor had all died in the course of Daon Ramon’s campaign. Sulfin Evend shoved back the rucked coverlet and continued his anxious survey. The prior disaster did not bear thought, against this one, sprawled senseless before him.

  ‘Do you actually fear someone poisoned him?’ the equerry ventured from the side-lines.

  Sulfin Evend said nothing—just thrust the candle back toward the page. ‘Hold this.’ While the whipped flame cast grotesque shadows about him, he grasped Lysaer’s arm. Unnerved by the grave chill to the limp wrist, the Alliance commander held out in grim patience while the light steadied, and unveiled the dread cause of the malady.

  Up and down milk pale skin, in recent, scabbed cuts and old scars, Lysaer wore the tell-tale marks of a man being leached by the dire magics of a blood ritual. Sulfin Evend leashed his stark fear. The nightmarish course of this sapping addiction scarcely could have occurred under Lysaer’s informed self-command.

  Nor would such a complex and dangerous binding be invoked by rote or the lore of a fumbling novice.

  ‘Those scabs aren’t infected,’ a new voice declaimed. The prince’s long-faced valet had emerged from the closet where he kept his pallet. Barefoot, still plucking his livery to rights, he padded up to the bed.

  The Lord Commander waved him back, wordless. Peril stalked here for the unwary. Bearing a taint of clanblood in his ancestry, he owned a birth-born talent, if an untrained one. Though that unsavoury history was nothing he wished to make public, he had little choice. Erdane’s mayors had burned the mage-gifted for centuries. Since that policy was also held in force by the Alliance of Light, and the sealed mandate of Tysan’s regency, no initiate healer could be summoned here without causing political havoc.

  Exposed to risk, uneasily aware that his lack of knowledge laid him open to an untold threat, Sulfin Evend ran a tacit, spread palm above Lysaer’s livid wounds. Eyes closed, he sounded the range of awareness outside his immediate senses. The horrid grue all but crawled up his wrist, as his seeking hand ruffled across what felt like a chill flow of wind, ripped with tingles.

  Beyond question, an arcane influence was draining the Blessed Prince of his vitality. Worse, the debilitating tie was entrenched to the point where a recovery might lie beyond reach.

  Sulfin Evend addressed the hovering staff, dangerously level and low. ‘First, how often does his Divine Grace undertake the foul ritual, and next, where are the knife and the bowl?’

  Blank stares from the servants; Sulfin Evend met their stone-walled quiet with fury. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I speak of! Your master has cast his life into jeopardy, and I won’t stand down until you give me a straight answer.’

  ‘But my lord,’ protested the equerry. ‘His Blessed Grace said not to’—which words clashed with the valet’s shrill dismay—‘but my lord, he can’t die! As the avatar sent here to put down the Dark, how dare you imply he is mortal!’

  ‘Avatar or not, he can still cross Fate’s Wheel!’ Sulfin Evend smoothed the slack hand on the sheets. Distaste turned his lips as he lifted the other, which still wore streaked stains of dried blood. ‘Here! See the proof? Our liege may be blessed with unnatural longevity, but he can’t sustain if he’s been enslaved by dark practice. Or are you sheep, too awed to see that he’s skin and bones? Before your eyes, he’s bled himself white! For all we know, the vile rite has been feeding some sorcerous cabal that’s hell-bent to destroy him!’

  Consternation wrung gasps from the pair of servants, while the page-boy looked sick unto fainting.

  ‘Oh, yes! Believe it,’ Sulfin Evend cracked to their stupefied faces. ‘Did you think Avenor’s high-handed Crown Examiner could sweep the length and breadth of the realm executing born talent and not draw a wolf pack of powerful enemies?’

  ‘Merciful Light!’ cried the valet, aggrieved. ‘His Exalted Self claimed he was scrying in search of the Master of Shadow to secure our defence against Darkness.’

  ‘That’s doubtless the lure that first saw him entrapped.’ Raw with disgust, and taking due care not to sully his hands, the Lord Commander resettled the bloodied limb on the mattress.

  Lysaer’s unresponsive, comatose state whipped him to freezing despair. Had the High Priest’s acolyte, Jeriayish, not died on campaign, the Alliance Commander would have flayed the skulking creature skin from bone, here and now: for hindsight suggested that the priest’s rites of augury had opened the access to engage this fell binding. Whether through slipshod practice, or by darker design, the dire plot would not originate there. Someone insinuated into Avenor’s inner council wished Athera’s Divine Prince reduced to a puppet-string power.

  The equerry was speaking. Sulfin Evend refocused his wits and insisted, ‘Excuses don’t matter. Stop dragging your feet! I can do nothing at all if you can’t fetch the bowl and the knife that Lysaer used for the ritual. No! Don’t touch them!’ He barely quelled his imperative shout, as the page-boy scrambled to fling up the lid of one of his master’s clothes-chests. ‘Such objects are unclean and unspeakably dangerous. Lend me a silk shirt to wrap them.’

  A fraught interval later, the Alliance Lord Commander braved the night in a borrowed servant’s cloak, an anonymous shadow bound for the unsavoury district flanking Erdane’s west postern. Crystalline frost crunched beneath his boots. Under the gleam of spring’s constellations, the unseasonable chill cut his exposed skin like a scourge. Sulfin Evend slipped past the grey-on-black timbers of the shuttered shop-fronts and crafthalls. At each skulking step, his left instructions chased through his circling thoughts.

  ‘Guard him! With your lives, do you hear? I’ll send up my captain to stand at his door, and this time, no one comes in!’

  No words could settle his harrowing dread. The alley he sought would be hidden from sight, guarded by ward since Avenor’s harsh interdict, which outlawed the practice of talent. As ranking commander of the Alliance war host, Sulfin Evend knew he risked his life simply by showing his face here.

  He pressed onwards, regardless. The artefacts he held bundled inside one of Lysaer’s silk dress-shirts left him no rational alternative. His rapacious profile masked under his hood, Sulfin Evend closed his eyes and edged forward. One blind step, two; his third footfall raised a crawling chill. The eerie sensation surged through his boot-sole, chased up his spine, and prickled his nape into gooseflesh.

  Sulfin Evend kept his face averted and cautiously unsealed his sight.

  The town-gate loomed ahead, alight in the glow of the watch lamps. To his right, a narrow, nondescript archway opened into rank darkness. Sulfin Evend resisted the urge to use more than peripheral vision. If he tried, the uncanny portal would vanish, not to reappear without use of initiate knowledge. He sucked a deep breath. Braced by a courage as dauntless as any demanded of him on a battle-field, he turned away from the main thoroughfare and plunged through the queer, lightless entry.

  Darkness and cold ran through him like water, then as suddenly fell away. He found himself in a squalid back alley, little more than an uneven footpath overhung by ramshackle eaves
and sagged stairways. The prankish gusts jangled the tin talismans of iyat banes, a dissonance that seemed to frame uncanny speech as he picked his uncertain way forward. The ground-level tenements were shuttered, but not locked. Here, the prospective thief was a fool, who ventured without invitation. Sulfin Evend picked his way forward, the chink of fallen slates underfoot driving vermin into the crannies. The stairway he sought had carved gryphon posts, a detail he was forced to determine by touch, since no lamps burned in this quarter. No wine-shop opened its door to the night, and no lit window offered him guidance.

  By starlight, Sulfin Evend mounted the stair. The creaking, slat risers bore his weight sullenly, no doubt inlaid with spells to warn away the unwary. Against quailing nerves, he reached the top landing, just as the door swung open to meet him.

  ‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said a paper-dry voice. Backlit by a glimmer of candle-flame, a wizened old woman in rags beckoned her visitor inward.

  Heart pounding, skin turned clammy, Sulfin Evend understood there would be a price. Nonetheless, he crossed over her threshold.

  ‘You’ve been expected,’ the crone stated as she fastened the latches behind him.

  Sulfin Evend believed his surprise was contained, until her crowed laughter said otherwise. Hunchbacked and ancient, she spun to confront him. Eyes blinded with cataracts picked at his thoughts as thoroughly as any dissection. No coward, he resisted his urge to step back as her seeress’s talent unmasked him.

  ‘What did you expect?’ she admonished, not smiling. ‘You come to consult, have you not? Would you rather have met with a charlatan?’

  He bowed to her, managed not to sound shaken as he named her with careful respect. ‘Enithen Tuer. Rightly or not, I have come to the only place where I might seek help within Erdane.’

  ‘I know why you’ve come,’ said the crone, fingers tucked in her mismatched layers of fringed shawls. ‘Years, I have known. So many long years, that I am left weary with waiting.’