Traitor's Knot

by Janny Wurts

  The blistering insults surrounded the fact that no man wished to shoulder aside the broken-down vehicle.

  ‘You’ll shift your pissing load, yourself, damnfool boy!’ howled the overseer to the carter, who stood, reins in hand, by the steaming draft mule in the traces. ‘Won’t catch us doing your stinking job for you! We aren’t being paid to handle any low-life’s haulage o’ jakes.’

  ‘By the curled hair on the Fatemaster’s bollocks!’ Feylind yelled. ‘Why hasn’t some nit gone aboard and asked for a block and tackle?’ Heads turned, bearded and flushed, while the argument spluttered and died.

  Feylind shoved into the sheepish press. ‘While you stand here, ankle-deep, my deck-hands are left twiddling their puds in the hold! They can man a capstan and winch this hulk aside. Move out! Smart! I’ll rip off your bollocks before I watch you bunglers start fisticuffs over a muck-heap!’ As the slackers peeled out, the captain’s invective switched target to the sopped figure clutching the head-stall. ‘You! Get that sorry donkey out of the shafts before I decide to press-gang a new hide for the trusses on my main yard-arm!’

  The cowled head turned. Beneath ingrained dirt, the graceful features were no boy’s. One glance of the wide-lashed, distrustful eyes made Captain Feylind take pause: a heart-beat to realize she confronted a person in desperate trouble. Before thought, she raised a piercing whistle and summoned her trusted first mate.

  No customs keeper’s sluggard, he came at a run, a solid presence arrived at her back that warmed through her sopped layers of oilskins.

  ‘Handle that mule,’ Feylind told him, point-blank.

  Years at her side, blue eyes bright with humour, he took over the reins without question. Feylind’s grin shared her gratitude. Then, as the drover moved to sidle away, she latched on to wet cloak and dragged the stumbling creature into an alley beyond sight and earshot.

  ‘Don’t even try,’ Feylind said through her teeth, as her catch drew breath to cry protest. ‘I realize this mess you’ve arranged was no accident.’

  The woman stopped struggling. Tense, snapped erect, she sized up the ship’s captain without cowering. Her eyes were rich brown as the gloss on an acorn. Fear, or deep-set cold, had started her trembling. Yet authority and intelligence showed behind her exhausted bravado. ‘I’m sorry for your inconvenience. But I have dire need to address his Grace, the High King of Havish.’

  Her accent was north westlands, town-bred, and cultured. Feylind sized-up fine hands that belonged to no slops woman, though the skin looked the part, cracked raw by her noxious profession. Alive to the perils of dock-side rumour, the brig’s master veered away from conjecture. ‘All right. But not here. Will my ship’s cabin serve?’

  The woman hesitated.

  Afraid she would bolt, Feylind tightened her grip. ‘Don’t be a braying ass! There’s no man in my crew who can’t keep his mouth shut.’

  As the woman’s strained features showed panic, Feylind swore. ‘You want the ear of Havish’s king? Then listen, lady, whoever you are! Hang on his stirrup, and all the whores in the district will share your misfortune. By tomorrow, you’ll be the news in the mouth of every drunk sailhand. His Grace won’t have sympathy. He detests subterfuge. Won’t stand one moment for subtlety, either. Never mind this pissing downpour, you stink, ripe as a damned slave-broker’s privy!’

  The woman blinked, shamed. ‘You’re no friend of the Alliance?’

  Feylind released her iron grasp and wiped her smeared palms on her breeches. ‘Damned well not! Canting bigots! I’m going belowdecks where it’s dry to have tea. If you don’t mind the fact I don’t pack skirts, at sea, you can borrow clean clothes, if you want them.’

  ‘Bless you, yes.’ The strange woman put aside wariness, near tears for the refuge just offered. She trailed Feylind’s stalking tread to the wharf, while the eagle who observed with living gold eyes watched unnoticed from a perch on the custom-house cornice. Head turned, fixed as the gargoyles who glared, chins on fists, right and left of its hunched silhouette, the raptor tracked the two women until they had boarded the brig. An eye-blink later, it vanished…

  …to reappear farther north, soaring over a stream, where storm wrack had backed up the flood. The eagle alit on a dead-fallen limb, snagged in the rush of dammed water. There, he shook sodden wing feathers and preened. The thrusting shove as he hurled air-borne again dislodged the dead branch, and the rain-swollen current took charge. Balked water found opening, surged, then roared through as the impedance crumpled and gave way.

  The eagle’s flight followed the foaming, brown crest racing in due course downstream. A small ford became temporarily impassable, and a travel-worn rider who sought passage was forced to make camp, before crossing. His curse at the delay carried on the worlds’ winds and glanced through the mind of Sethvir.

  As the eagle veered east, the Warden of Althain flicked back a caustic reproof above range of audible hearing.

  ‘Meddler!’

  The eagle fluffed its crest, eyes gold as hot sparks. The thought returned was not avian. ‘You would rather have that man ride to your tower door-step with no help at hand to receive him?’

  Sethvir’s retort came, sarcastic. ‘You can hear through the rings of the Radmoore grimward?’

  Had Davien been formed as human, he would have laughed. As eagle, he screamed as he rose on the frigid winds of high altitude. ‘I hear the mourning dreams of Haspastion’s living mate. Asandir will be returned to your side in five days.’

  The subsequent silence was sudden and deep, engraved on the ethers with startlement.

  Experience honed Arithon’s wary awareness, refining his listening senses. Yet no boundary ward he wrought, set in air, served him warning when Davien chose to steal up on him. The Sorcerer slipped past such defences at whim. No subtle shift fore-ran his uncanny arrival. Arithon leaned at last upon prescience: came to recognize the fleeting, ephemeral suspicion that something alive was listening over his shoulder.

  Brushed by that whisper of premonition, Arithon closed a volume of Paravian ballads, transcribed during Cianor Sunlord’s reign. ‘You’ve been sightseeing, again. Is the news so unpleasant? The spin of the world will scarcely falter if I don’t share the plodding details.’

  Davien appeared at ease by the hearth, cut in outline against the brass grilles that covered the shafts drilled for ventilation. His golden-rod cloak was adorned with black knotwork, gently ruffled by the whisper of draught. By contrast, his russet-and-grey hair seemed tumbled by an intransigent wind. ‘Your halfbrother’s in Taerlin, bound west by slow stages. A conspiracy in Avenor will keep him preoccupied. But not long enough, Teir’s’Ffalenn.’

  Arithon traced the embossed spine of the book held in hand, his angular features hardened to adamancy ‘I won’t ask.’

  ‘You must.’ Unsmiling, Davien chose not to mock. ‘The impact might well invoke your sworn oath.’

  Already tense, Arithon turned pale. ‘Which one?’

  Davien advanced to the edge of the agate table, set next to the prince’s chair. ‘You shall see for yourself, Teir’s’Ffalenn.’ His citrine ring burned as flame through the air as he traced a circle on the polished slab. Seen by the extended perception of mage-sight, his touch ignited a line of white light.

  Within the scribed round, stone spoke to stone: the mineral matrix of agate dissolved, revealing a view inside a seamless rock-chamber. Arithon glimpsed a closed well of granite, and a dark pool, encircled by ring upon ring of fine ciphers. Water rippled over the characters, releasing a charged mist of electromagnetic force. The play of raised energy twined in rainbow colours that shimmered like boreal lights against darkness. Then a falling droplet struck the still pool. Circlets of ring ripples fled, unleashing a pristine, clear vision, and more: the distinctive pungence of ship’s tar and varnish, sea-spray, and salt-dampened wool…

  King Eldir of Havish arrived without fanfare, his solid frame an imposing presence that crowded the snug stern cabin aboard the merchant brig Evenstar. Pa
st the cramped threshold, he peeled his wet gloves and swiped back his dripping hair. Eyes grey as the storm beyond the streaked glass fixed at once on the stranger installed on the cushioned seat by the chart table. All else seemed in order: bills of lading awaited, alongside a trimmed quill and ink flask. Not one to dismiss an uneasy detail, the High King held his ground and stayed standing. ‘What have you brought us, Captain? A foundling cast up by the sea?’

  ‘Evenstar ships cargoes, not hard luck passengers,’ Feylind demurred where she leaned, arms crossed by the gimballed lamp.

  The blanket-wrapped presence of the woman defied that impression: the bare feet tucked under her loose trousers were raw, and her diffident voice faintly trembled. ‘I came by land, your Grace.’ Still damp, she pushed back masking wool and unveiled a crimped spill of brown hair, gently salted with grey. Care-worn eyes of a liquid, doe brown watched the royal stance, wary.

  King Eldir decided her reserved poise did not match the menial callus that ingrained her small hands.

  His held silence demanded.

  The woman made haste to explain. ‘Captain Feylind has lent me the use of her cabin to spare the embarrassment of importuning your favour out in the public street.’

  The king’s steel gaze flickered, a wordless query redirected back to the Evenstar’s master.

  ‘Your Grace, I have granted the privacy of my ship. Nothing else,’ Feylind clarified. ‘If you care to listen, the lady has come a long and perilous distance seeking a royal audience.’

  King Eldir advanced to the chart table, then bent his head under the encroaching deck-beams. No servant attended him. Only his taciturn caithdein stood guard in the companionway, close behind. The court clerk would be detained outside, strategically snagged by the mate concerning the matter of a mislaid tally sheet. By now aware the delay was no accident, the king tossed off his soaked mantle. Beneath, he wore no regal tabard. A badge with Havish’s scarlet hawk blazon was discreetly sewn on to his sleeve. His plain leathers were cut for riding. The fillet that gleamed on his brow was thin wire, with the ruby seal upon his right hand the only royal jewel upon him.

  He seated himself, his eyes on the woman who filled sailhand’s clothes with the grace of a birth-born courtier. ‘My lady, you have asked for my ear. Be assured, at this moment, you have it.’

  This crowned sovereign’s demeanour did not overwhelm, or bate the breath like Lysaer’s blinding majesty. Buoyed by a bed-rock patience that appeared willing to wait, the petitioner wasted no words. ‘Your royal Grace, I have come here to beg Havish for sanctuary’

  Eldir held her pinned with his level regard. ‘Under whose name?’

  ‘I prefer anonymity, your Grace. With good reason. My life has been threatened.’

  The caught flame of reflection in the gold circlet stayed steady, unlike the bald caithdein behind, whose wary fingers closed on his knives. ‘Who has threatened your life, lady?’

  She swallowed, uncertain, now unable to mask the tremors of her breaking terror. ‘The regency of Tysan,’ she whispered.

  ‘I see,’ said the king. Yet, he did not. The surprise that flared within those grey eyes was sudden and wide as new morning. ‘Lady, do you have proof?’

  When she nodded, King Eldir commanded his caithdein without turning his head. ‘Fetch Ianfar s’Gannley At once!’

  At the woman’s bounding start, he moved, caught her wrists. Fast as she set her hands to the table, he arrested her thrust to arise.

  She protested, rattled. ‘Your Grace! I have asked for your ear with no outside witness at hand!’

  ‘Princess,’ said the king, stripping pretence away, ‘where you are concerned, there can’t be anonymity! The young man I’ve summoned is the named heir of Tysan’s invested crown steward.’ As her courage deflated, he qualified swiftly. ‘We observe the old law, here. By royal charter, Avenor’s business is his. That is as it must be, or are you not Ellaine, wife of Lysaer s’Ilessid?’ He released her, and waited.

  When she sat, as she must, or go her way destitute, his commanding baritone gentled. ‘Accept your clan spokesman. He is ally, not enemy. For Havish to shelter you would be grounds for war. Your safety can’t be bought through bloodshed.’

  Machiel’s shout filtered back through the strained pause, shortly broken by running footsteps. An energetic man clad in the king’s livery burst in, breathless and scattering raindrops. He was a strapping fellow in his late twenties, come into the grace of his stature. His fair hair was bound in an elaborate braid, and his eyes, dark as shadow, missed nothing. He bowed to the king, fist on chest, as the clans did, his flushed features keenly alert. ‘Your Grace?’

  King Eldir referred him to the woman huddled under the blankets, in borrowed shirt and sea breeches. ‘She is Lady Ellaine.’ As the clan liegeman’s eyes widened, the king qualified, his choice of state language precise. ‘She has come here in appeal against an injustice, claimed against the pretender’s regency at Avenor.’

  The clansman recovered himself, faced the woman who sat opposite, then bowed, fist to heart. To his credit, her dress and rough hands did not merit more than a curious glance. ‘Ianfar s’Gannley, my lady,’ he announced in flawless address. Then he smiled. ‘As a mother who has borne the blood royal of Tysan, freely ask of my service, as heir to my cousin’s title.’

  Ellaine regarded him, taken aback. His accent was crisp as a forest barbarian, and yet, no trace of contempt or antipathy moved him. Accepted in fosterage to Havish’s court, Ianfar seated himself with aplomb, then deferred, as was right, to crowned sovereignty.

  The High King was swift to make disposition. ‘My lady, the tenets of charter law must apply, here. Entrust your proof to the hand of s’Gannley’

  The parchment she produced was stained, and still damp, the seal’s wax cracked from rough handling. ‘This was smuggled out, sewn into my garments,’ Ellaine apologized as she extended the unsavoury document.

  ‘Best take her seriously,’ Feylind declared. ‘The lady worked her way here since last winter, earning a slop taker’s wage in a refuse cart.’

  ‘To the sorrow of my cousins,’ Ianfar said as the soiled parchment changed hands. ‘The news of her hardship does nothing but shame us.’ He flipped open the folds, jarred to bitterness. ‘You could have appealed to the clans for help, lady. Your court at Avenor has misapprised us.’

  ‘As my husband’s confirmed enemies?’ Ellaine burst out, incredulous. ‘Or is your cousin not Maenol Teir’s’Gannley who has formally sworn that Lysaer is an imposter, with his life declared under forfeit?’

  Ianfar flattened the parchment on the chart table, flushed with affront, and not smiling at Feylind, who had moved to brighten the wick in the gimballed lamp. ‘Maenol is that same man. The history occurred before your current marriage. Did you know he made his lawful appeal to s’Ilessid, to challenge false claim to crown title? That just inquiry provoked an infamous reprisal! For as long as our people live under an edict of slavery, my cousin has no choice but to stand in his place as the throne’s oathsworn shadow.’

  Eldir intervened to smooth hackles. ‘The caithdein must serve for Tysan’s rightful successor, not Lysaer, who was never sanctioned by Fellowship authority. Charter law is explicit. Earl Maenol is the voice charged to guard the crown’s unbroken integrity’

  Ianfar bent his flax head to examine the document. As he perused the opening lines, the High King watched the clansman’s demeanor shift from tense to aghast. Prerogative stayed him; he withheld his royal counsel, waited motionless, until the binding signatures with their row of wax seals had been recognized. As father of three sons, with this one raised to manhood among them, Eldir must not flinch for the horrific burden thrust upon Maenol’s heir lest he risk the innocent blood of his realm. The aching pause hung, until Ianfar straightened, and affirmed the most desperate thread of his fear.

  ‘The lady cannot be sent back to Tysan. If she goes, her life could be far more than threatened.’ Ianfar finished, with levelling force, ‘This d
ocument outlines the terms for a murder, and confirms every rumoured suspicion. Your Grace, Avenor’s regency is corrupt and involved in criminal treason.’

  Eldir sighed. The light flickered, scoring the gouged lines of sorrow that tightened his mouth. ‘Lady Talith, I presume?’ His regard measured Ellaine. ‘Your predecessor was not driven to suicide for an unpleasant political expediency?’

  ‘Suicide?’ Ellaine bristled, sparked to regal outrage. ‘The former princess was brought down by a crossbolt, fired by a killer whose hire was arranged by Avenor’s high council. I can’t be certain they acted alone, though my heart tells me Lysaer is innocent. Talith’s premature death scarred him, cruelly’

  ‘We’re not speaking of that sort of venal corruption.’ Ianfar tapped a seal at the base of the paper. ‘This,’ he said, sickened. He appealed to Eldir, ripped to horrified dread. ‘Your Grace saw fit to warn my cousin, long since. Lord Koshlin is the suspected affiliate of a necromancer, and at work for years, cheek by jowl with the appointed high priest who governs the trumped-up regency in Lysaer’s absence…’

  Within Kewar’s library, the Sorcerer Davien raised his forefinger. The image called in from the ship’s chart room flicked out, while he fixed Rathain’s crown prince with wide-open eyes and a hunting cat’s fascination. ‘Do you need to see more, Teir’s’Ffalenn?’

  ‘To realize that Feylind’s endangered? I do not.’ Bristled enough to stay stubbornly seated, Arithon matched the Sorcerer’s challenge. His expression revealed nothing. But the ringless, fine hands on the book were no longer relaxed. ‘Are you implying a lawful appeal to the Fellowship on Ellaine’s behalf won’t bring help?’