by Janny Wurts
‘Arithon!’ he shouted. ‘Desist! The raw might of such power could kill us!’
The spellbinder had endured through hard bursts of elemental shadow before. He had stood on Kieling Tower, when Desh-thiere was imprisoned. Much later, he had suffered a hostile assault, when cursed insanity had claimed Arithon, at Riverton. This bout was different; utterly changed.
The darkness that howled through Evenstar’s hold held a virulent edge that was frightening.
The range of Arithon’s core talent had strengthened. Exhaustion erased stays and limits. No man had witnessed the scope wielded now, a wave of jet ice that sheared through skin and viscera, and reduced the prime reflex of life. The blast did not pass, but set in like dropped lead, a blind scourge unleashed to annihilate.
‘Arithon!’ Dakar urged. ‘Let go!’ A barrel hoop sprung, to a scream of stressed wood. ‘Ath save us, man! The freeze is going to burst all the casks!’
Out of the howling maw of let dark, over the ship’s groaning timbers, Arithon’s protest ground through like rasped glass. ‘The fiends. They’ve backed off? Has the fire gone out?’
And there, in stunned shock, the unlooked-for reprieve broke into awestruck epiphany: Dakar realized the marauding whirlwind of iyats had vanished. Nothing stirred in the hold. Only the lap of the bilge, and the white rush of spray cleaved by no more than the power of sail and the surge of seagoing timbers.
‘Dharkaron’s Five Horses and Chariot!’ The mate coughed inhaled grit from his sanded throat. ‘By glory, sorcerer! We’re snatched from the brink. Have you any clue what you’ve done?’
The reply returned through the glassine black air came equally mangled by wonder. ‘Shadowed the fiend storm, apparently’
Steel chimed against wood. Frozen cloth crackled as Arithon stirred. The ice and the darkness relented, a fraction. With the lamp doused, and the sword’s spells quiescent, the closed hold should have been lightless as pitch.
Yet everywhere, scattered across the shocked dark, pale flecks of marsh-light were drifting.
They hung like small stars, a sequin glimmer in fine shades of blue, tinsel silver, and even a glimmering, delicate violet that strained the far boundary of vision.
Dakar lifted a trembling hand. He touched one. A prickling snap snicked his palm, not unlike a brisk discharge of static. In fact, he could rake the quiescent wisps up, like so many dry autumn leaves.
Eyesight adjusted to the pallid light: showed the mate on his knees, blistered hands pressed against his streaked face. Fionn Areth cradled seared knuckles. Next to the enamel gleam of the sword, a limp wrack of flesh lay curled in on itself beneath the bulked loom of the water-casks.
Left stunned to awe that the brig had been salvaged, Dakar clambered over the ice-coated tarps. He ploughed away oil-soaked blankets. Clumsy with chill and overstrained nerves, he rescued the Paravian sword and laid it aside, somehow without slicing his fingers. On his knees, choking back strong emotion, he laid his bruised hands upon Arithon’s shoulders.
‘How long?’ croaked the mate from the darkness behind. ‘Your Grace, if the fiend storm is bound, will you be able to hold them?’
When the desperate query dangled, unanswered, Dakar shoved back his hysterical tears. ‘We are saved, and indefinitely. Arithon’s gift is an inborn force, a direct access link to the elements. I’ve seen him sustain glamours wrought from shadow for days. At need, the act becomes reflex.’
Erect now, a scarecrow swathed in singed clothes, the mate recovered his dignity. ‘Your liege is asleep?’
‘I think so.’ At least, the breaths rose and fell in a regular pattern under the Mad Prophet’s explorative touch. ‘We should make him more comfortable.’
Yet that cursory assessment proved premature. A jarring tremor combed through Arithon’s stilled frame. His fingers plucked at Dakar’s sleeve-cuff.
‘Be still,’ soothed the spellbinder. ‘Mercy on you, be still. I’ll divine what you want without speaking.’
The instructions were scarcely a trial to fulfill. Arithon wished the Paravian sword left unsheathed and set near to hand. The drifting iyats were to be netted up, then contained and placed at his side.
‘You’ll have help.’ The mate crunched over debris toward the ladder, where his deck-watch relayed swift orders.
Using silk, and the labour of three steady men, the tight, pin-prick flakes of raw light were recaptured, and clapped into the cook’s last available pot.
When the lidded vessel was laid at his feet, Arithon roused back to awareness. He sealed the trapped fiends inside with his gift. Then he adjusted his conjury and bound the brig from stem-post to stern under an unnatural twilight.
Dakar rose to ascertain the strength of his handiwork. ‘Rest,’ he urged. ‘Your ward’s stable and sound. No sprite should cross your spun shadow. The blanketing filter of force you’ve laid down ought to keep us in shielded protection.’
At last, replete, the Master of Shadow accepted the pillow that Feylind tucked under his head.
Vhandon and Talvish arrived in hushed quiet. They stripped Arithon’s soaked clothes, then strung up the hammock the sailhands sent down to ease him. Swathed in dry blankets, Rathain’s prince had no choice but recuperate where he lay.
Topside, for the first time, the deck-lanterns burned. Compass restored, Evenstar plied her warded course to the east. Until the sigil could be stripped from her hull, she could not sail undefended. A man at the hatch guarded Arithon’s peace, with Fionn Areth set on his obdurate choice to remain in the hold through the aftermath.
‘You’ll do him no good here,’ Dakar said, unstrung by impatient exhaustion. ‘Let go. Leave him be.’
The Araethurian stayed planted, even as Alestron’s gruff liegeman prepared to drag him away. ‘Is the Master of Shadow injured, or sick?’
‘May Daelion’s Wheel turn quick for a fool!’ Dakar snapped in exasperation. ‘He’s stood down a frontal assault through a sigil, and reduced a storm of iyats three hundred strong. His Grace is blessed worn-out!’ As reason failed, Dakar warned Vhandon off, and tossed up his hands in disgust. ‘What earthly use do you hope to serve, Fionn?’
A faint voice emerged from the shrouded form in the hammock. ‘He’s burning to ask me a question.’
Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn had opened his eyes, their febrile gleam far too bright in the flood of the lamp slung under the deck-beam. He surveyed his recalcitrant double. ‘I cheated you out of your fair match, with swords. Therefore, by forfeit, you have the right. Ask.’
Before any-one moved, or forced him to silence, Fionn Areth let fly. ‘Why did you let children die in your name when Etarra marched on Tal Quorin?’
The Mad Prophet sucked a shocked breath and blocked Talvish’s incensed rejection. ‘Wait. Can’t you see? As a crown prince, he has to answer.’
And the wearied words came. But not with the self-poisoned, tearing remorse that close friends had braced themselves to deflect.
‘Because all I was then, every wise skill I knew, could not keep them safe and living.’ A taut moment passed. Then, since his answer did not seem profound, or satisfy his inquisitor, Arithon delivered his compassionate promise. ‘There are survivors. Stay, and I will provide you the chance to question them in your own right.’
Early Winter 5671
Rift
On a mild spring night seventeen years ago, a brash, young captain at arms had pounded from Hanshire’s gates at the head of a column of riders, his assignment to escort three Koriani Seniors on urgent business to Korias. His hand had been a white fist on the rein, and his face, flushed with fury from a savage fight with the Lord Mayor, his father.
Youth and hot rage had claimed their bitter toll. For the sake of political rank, and his safety, his light horsemen had delivered their Koriani charges, then followed his impulsive orders. Their elite skills had been offered to Riverton’s town-guard to spear-head an urgent search for the Master of Shadow.
The chase had led them through the bounds of a
grimward, and not a fighting man had returned.
Since that day, the surviving prodigal son had viewed the tall towers of Hanshire just once, from the deck of a sea-going galley. His momentary stop on the wharf had spurned every overture toward a contrite reconciliation. His uncle Raiett had boarded the ship with the intent to cozen him home. Instead, the family’s most powerful statesman found himself bedazzled in turn, swept into foreign service, and granted the post of the Light’s High Chancellor at Etarra. The estranged heir kept his officer’s post at Lysaer s’Ilessid’s right hand; and Lord Mayor Garde was deprived at a stroke of the brother whose shrewd brilliance guided his council.
Now, under the stars of a fierce winter’s freeze, the commander of the Alliance armed force reined his lathered horse from the covering scrub. Its lagging stride rang down the cobble-stone thoroughfare that led to the torch-lit main gate. He rode alone. At the vigorous height of maturity, under challenge by dangers beyond precedent, Sulfin Evend returned: to face his aged parents and the final destruction of his family’s expectations. To a reunion that must scour the scars of old pain, he bore the knife-cut sting of an oath sworn in blood to a Fellowship Sorcerer: a vow of life service that no mortal power under Athera’s wide sky might revoke.
Sulfin Evend shoved back his rough hood. A useless ploy now, to keep his face hidden. Even mounted on a nondescript post-horse, and wearing no sunwheel blazon, his covert approach from the northern wilds was bound to be marked in advance. The Koriani scryer employed by Hanshire’s council watched over the town’s interests like a vigilant hawk.
The Sorcerer’s parting words had not promised immunity from the family’s store of pent rage. Nor might a steadfast resolve to fight necromancy forgive the unresolved impact of past scores. ‘Sethvir has given his sage reassurance. You will reach Hanshire on the hour when you are most sorely needed. Once there, your oath to the land must come first. Caith’d’ein, you are bound before ties of heritage. You stand outside of sovereign allegiances. By choice, you must tread the razor’s edge. Lose your focus, or waver one step, and you will reap the hideous consequence.’
Sulfin Evend drew rein before the stone gate keeps that flanked the land entry to Hanshire. Deep shadow layered its cut arch of black basalt, shadowed under the streaming torches that illuminated the gaudy panoply of draped banners. Yet no sunwheel standard hung from the wall. Dazzled after hours of star-studded darkness, Sulfin Evend resisted the need to wheel his mount and retreat. At his back, the harrowing cross-country ride through the wilds, plagued by Second Age haunts and the unquiet sorrows left imprinted by bloodshed; before him, a living trial by fire: never in his bleakest hour of doubt had he thought to reach journey’s end and not find the Alliance army encamped at full strength by the gate.
Yet no tents were in evidence; no pavilions. No party of loyal officers awaited to give updated reports or provide him with the impervious shield of Avenor’s state backing. Alone in soiled clothes, Sulfin Evend dismounted. If the guard at the sallyport did not know his face, he was going to suffer no end of snide ridicule.
Yet challenge did not arise from the sentries. The main gate was unbarred by a captain in formal parade arms. He strode forth, no less than the officer who had once commanded the misfortunate company lost in Korias. Two mounted lancers rode at his heels, trailed by a liveried groom who led a fresh horse, saddled with a cloth bearing Lord Mayor Garde’s gold ribbons and family blazon.
Chin up, eyes like ice, Sulfin Evend voiced no greeting. He foisted the reins of his hack on the groom, then held out his gloved hand for the remount.
‘You have the nerve in you!’ The guard captain spat with revilement. ‘Seventeen years! Thirty-nine dead who were my finest, and now you. Alive, thrice-entitled, and still with no word!’
Sulfin Evend knew how to mask gouging grief; one learned, under Lysaer s’Ilessid. He mounted the horse. Under the merciless flood of the torches, he stared downward until his accuser flushed red.
More worn, looking suddenly old in his gleaming appointments, the captain struggled not to be first to break under his own round of punishment.
His discomfort bought pain, before triumph. ‘You sent your finest,’ Sulfin Evend allowed, finally. ‘They faced horrors your troops here could never imagine. Nor can you measure the cost I have paid to be crossing this gate, still alive.’ He wheeled the horse. As the waiting escort scrambled to respond, he spurned them without a glance back. ‘I know the way to my father’s palace.’
The captain cracked. ‘Damn you to Sithaer! You ungrateful craven!’ Hard-clenched to stay his hand from his sword, he signalled his bewildered outriders. ‘Orders. See him through!’
‘Sir.’ The men spurred ahead, angry. Their charge did not rein in, which forced the spokesman to shout like a yokel to make himself heard. ‘Lord Mayor Garde is in council. He demands your presence for audience straightaway!’
Hanshire’s hall of state lay between the town’s central guard keeps, overlooking the steep fall of the bluffs. The stone terrace, with its slate-capped battlements, still bore the weathered triaxial knots carved by the ancient Paravians. In Third Age Year Ten, rule had been passed to a clan family appointed by Tysan’s High King, Halduin s’Ilessid. Times changed, since the mists. The descendants now skulked as drifters on the wind-raked downlands, tolerated for the bloodstock they raised and sold at the West End fair every autumn.
Blood-tainted by an outbred clan lineage he rigidly wished to disown, the current Lord Mayor enforced the ascendancy of town law with an iron fist. The Divine Prince of the Light was his ally in name, but no friend; not with Avenor’s crown might tied to interests aligned for a unified conquest.
Coldly received for his title alone, the Alliance Lord Commander left his mount with the sentries who guarded the arch. He strode ahead, still unspeaking. His step echoed off slate flagstones and battle-scarred revetments, glistening with the odd patch of slag left seared by the bale-fires of dragons. Where the veteran captain who trained him had aged, centuries-old stonework endured without change.
Seventeen years could have passed in a day. Sweating despite winter’s chill on the air, Sulfin Evend disregarded the expectancy that would have rushed him through the hall doors. He took pause instead and gazed over the battlements.
From that eyrie vantage, the lower town spread in a jumble of roofs, rammed tight to the flank of the coast. The damp wore the taint of wet thatch, peat-smoke, and kelp from the apothecary’s shacks. Below, the cove harbour lapped the darkened headland, fringed by torch-light where the water-front wharves met the teeming balconies of the brothels.
The distant lamps of the anchored ships rode like spangles across silken water, except one: ablaze in state trappings, the vessel that flew Lysaer’s sunwheel banners stood out like a beacon.
Sulfin Evend could have shouted aloud with relief.
‘My Lord Commander, if you would?’ The liveried lackey sent out to collect him bowed with unsettled urgency. ‘Lord Mayor Garde and the council are already seated in session.’
‘You may send word ahead.’ Since a state delegation could not wait on raw nerves, Sulfin Evend turned back and entered the doubled doors. As the lackey’s rushed footsteps cast their whispered echoes ahead, the absentee son revisited his privileged origins: a melange of patchouli, citrus polish, and ink, and smart servants receiving his mantle and gloves. The one who brushed down his plain, mud-stained leathers met his duty with lofty disdain.
Only the white-headed fellow who knelt to wipe his grimed spurs slapped his calf with familiar affection. ‘Young master, you are returned none too soon. Off you go. Your people expect you.’
‘Freyard,’ murmured Sulfin Evend, surprised. He had not expected a welcome.
The old lackey grinned, ancient now, missing teeth. ‘Your gear looks to be overdue for a polish. I’ll do that myself. Here’s your escort.’
The steward’s officious reserve suggested that no travel-worn swordsman should receive state admittance, far less any off
icer bearing authority bestowed by crown rank at Avenor.
Piqued by a flare of perverse enjoyment, Sulfin Evend strode on, while the council-hall doors of Vhalzein lacquer were whisked open with dispatch before him.
Beyond, the vaulted chamber lay deserted. The vast silence from the galleries was crushing. The dais of carven, serpentine jade left by the ancient Paravians gleamed under the crystal chandeliers. In place of Mayor Garde and his rapacious advisors, Sulfin Evend confronted no worse than a grandiose row of tasselled covers on the state chairs.
‘They’re gathered in the privy chamber,’ the steward said, tart. ‘This way, if you please.’
Sulfin Evend side-stepped the mores of officious ceremony. ‘I’ll go on my own, without fanfare.’ Pushed past, he cut through the warren of clerks’ desks and ducked through the alcove door.
Inside, the air was a stifling blanket, overburdened with perfume and fraught tension. The floor seats were crammed full, and the high dais as well, installed with the full complement of Hanshire’s advisory council and greybeard heads of state.
First sweep, Sulfin Evend surveyed his estranged father: the meaty strength of the face now sagged with pinched discontent. Grizzled as a bony, aged wolf, Lord Mayor Garde leaned back in stiff clothes, in command with laced hands and crossed ankles. Behind his chair stood four Koriathain wearing floor-length purple robes. All wore the red-banded sleeves of ranked seniors. One showed five stripes, an authoritative presence that plucked Sulfin Evend to resharpened wariness.
At right hand, also standing, the weathered Champion of the Guard wore his ceremonial breast-plate; seated left, the hawkish High Minister of Trade lounged in boredom and crusted jewellery. Beside him, the corpulent town justiciar was speaking with stinging disparagement. ‘You can’t imagine you’ll accomplish that feat without forging a Koriani alliance!’
