by Janny Wurts
Lysaer bucked, enraged. ‘You are not yourself! Or why would you slaughter your best officers!’
His Lord Commander hardened his fists. Stressed silk tore asunder. ‘Damn you, liege! Be still. Your life, or theirs, I had to choose!’
Wasted entreaty; Lysaer freed his arm. His punch slammed into Sulfin Evend’s left side, hard enough to damage a kidney had the impact not clashed into mail. The Lord Commander hammered in with his knee: again felt abused flesh recoil. This time, beyond mercy, he followed up, ground an elbow into the hollow of Lysaer’s shoulder with a pitiless force that would paralyse.
No more pleading leave, he grappled through the ripped tunic. His bracer gouged scrapes into fine-grained skin. Heedless, he burrowed beneath snagging silk, seeking a hide thong and slung knife sheath. Lysaer’s ragged gasps were obscured by the scream of rent fabric. Sulfin Evend bared the Biedar knife at long last and closed his desperate grip on the handle.
Already, wisps of dull shadow moved at the corner of his eye. Something unleashed by the necromancer’s craft encroached on his peripheral vision. Lysaer jerked. Perhaps aware that an uncanny invasion nipped through his aura to claim him, he tried a mad wrench to break free.
‘Damn you, hold!’ Sulfin Evend snagged the desert-worked knife from the sheath. While his instincts cried scintillant warning of danger, he laid the flint weapon crosswise against Lysaer’s throat.
Barely in time! The creeping invasion of uncanny forces coiled above the unwarded victim’s nose and mouth. Past reach of finesse, Sulfin Evend bore down. He sliced a shallow nick through fair skin.
Lysaer recoiled.
Desperate to keep contact, and not cause lethal harm, Sulfin Evend pressed the warded flint against the seeping edge of the wound. ‘Hold still!’ he pleaded. ‘You are under attack, and this blade frames your only protection!’
Lysaer shut his eyes, then grated, choked short, ‘If you’re not turned by the enemy, what do you See?’
‘A spirit or vile sending of some sort. I’m no sorcerer! Damned if I know what ugly powers have stirred, or what creepish force has come stalking. Don’t move!’ Still winded, Sulfin Evend fought each word through agonized, galling bitterness. ‘Breathe the thing in, it will taint your blood. Your heart might be touched. This blade is your warding. Contact is binding your fragile protection, so sting and be grateful, your Grace. Why didn’t you trust me? Under no circumstances were you to come down, far less seek this place after sunset.’
His anguish towered: three brave men were dead.
Now the horror that might yet enact a possession was arrested just barely from flooding its victim. It poised in mid air, a sinuous veil, arrested by unknown eldritch powers worked into a tribal dagger.
‘A page brought your summons,’ Lysaer said at strained length.
‘His name?’ snapped Sulfin Evend. ‘One of ours, or from the palace?’
‘Does that matter?’ Lysaer ground out. Dispassionate ice-blue eyes raked back. ‘How do I know that you’re not corrupted?’
‘Sithaer’s damned! Have you heard me? My best men were killed because I had no means to defend them!’ No protection existed within this bleak place that could spare them from becoming taken in thrall to a necromancer. ‘You have just one knife,’ the commander appealed in snatched grief. ‘I had to choose which life should be saved. Now burn my casualties! I won’t see them rise! You owe them that much, for their sacrifice.’
Lysaer coughed, his tangled head jammed against the stone stair, sullied gold in the glimmer of flame-light. Whether he sensed the threatened invasion, or whether the harsh knock-down had dazed his wits could not be determined.
‘You must raise your light!’ Sulfin Evend insisted. ‘Tysan’s safety right now depends on your gift. Or your hope to rout out this corruption is ashes!’
‘You have lost hope, regardless,’ declared an intrusive voice from below.
Sulfin Evend froze. Through his strained breathing, he heard furtive movement, then an uncanny shuffle. One of the freshly killed corpses had stirred. Puppet to the black will of a necromancer, it would mount the stair and wreak every form of fell horror.
‘Burn them!’ he gasped. ‘Lysaer, do it now!’
Whether or not his liege meant to comply, the reanimate body kept speaking. ‘I have news of the Master of Shadow, Blessed Prince! Arithon the bastard has flung you a challenge!’
Which statement changed everything. A repeat of the horrific event in Daon Ramon, Sulfin Evend watched a terrible, sweeping change eclipse the reason in Lysaer’s eyes. Asandir had declared the effect was a curse, laid on by the Mistwraith’s malice. Cast geas, or mad principle, the effect was the same: ruling power tossed like straws on a game-board set for unbridled disaster.
‘Lysaer!’ Frantic, Sulfin Evend bore down until the flint blade razed into raw skin. ‘You are being played for strategic diversion. Tell yourself the truth! Fight back, man. Hold your rage. Don’t rise to the bait of an enemy!’
The plea fell on deaf ears. Lysaer’s features contorted to a rictus of fury, while down the stairwell, an obscene aberration with a hole in its heart staggered erect and continued in monologue, ‘Did you know you are betrayed? Arithon s’Ffalenn has suborned the s’Brydion of Alestron. They have sheltered your renegade shipwright, Cattrick, and more. Your wife, in their hands, is now being dispatched to a hostel of Ath’s adepts. The master I serve could hand you the victory. The death of the by-blow who has shamed your name could be delivered into your grasp.’
‘Lies!’ cracked Sulfin Evend. ‘Burn the dead, or we’re lost!’
Lysaer heaved. An animal whipped to an insane pitch of fury, he battered to dislodge the stone-knife from his throat. Sulfin Evend wrestled the slighter prince down. His ruthless fist hardened against Lysaer’s neck, now become as much a deadly liability as an indispensable stay of protection. ‘Hold, liege! You must! You’re being reeled in like a fish!’
‘Let go.’ Implacable, Lysaer clawed to throw off restraint. ‘Stand down. Or burn! I will not be thwarted.’
‘I will not see you make an alliance with havoc!’ Sulfin Evend used his studded bracer as a club and tried to stun his liege unconscious. The effort fell short. The knife gouged and slipped. Blood pooled in the hollow of Lysaer’s throat, while the unmanageable grip of Desh-thiere’s curse trampled down ethics and reason.
The crux wrung the loyal heart beyond bearing: to burn alive in Lysaer’s crazed assault, or to drive home the knife like a butcher. Yet even the choice to serve death had not spared the other three officers trapped in the breach. Black spell-craft had claimed them in ruinous usage, a fate now poised to overtake the most powerful ruler in the five kingdoms. The weal of the Alliance, and who knew how many innocent lives, hung in the horrific balance.
‘Lysaer!’ Sulfin Evend shouted to break concentration, any effort to redirect the burgeoning rip tide of light. ‘Fight your war! But not this way! Don’t join hands with the dark cabal whose twisted acts drove your wife and your son into danger!’
Slammed into a riser, battered half-dizzy, the s’Ilessid prince sucked a wracked breath. ‘They were pawns. Stand aside! Don’t think to obstruct me.’
Out of the cold dark, the spelled voice kept taunting. ‘But your son’s name is not on the rolls of the dead. This I vow! The master I serve could tell you what forces have laid claim to Prince Kevor’s destiny’
Sulfin Evend felt the hardening under his hands. ‘No!’ His scream shattered the welded tension with echoes, while his liege’s mad fury unleashed. Lost beyond hope, the lord commander cried out, ‘Lysaer! Destroy the conspiracy that murdered Princess Talith! Then handle the Spinner of Darkness in a conflict at arms, untainted by black ties of necromancy!’
Success or failure, the shocked air burned white. Dazzled blind, scoured by heat, Sulfin Evend hung on, as hammer to anvil, the percussive clash of Lysaer’s raised light smashed down. He heard ragged speech; realized his liege was weeping the name of his departed beloved. For Talith, t
he force of Lysaer’s outraged assault turned upon the worked tool of the grey cult below him.
The strike roared through the keep like the fires of Sithaer. Flash-point heat glazed the lower cellar to slag. Both ward-room and dungeon were scoured. Doors, walls, and steel glistened red, then ignited. The unnatural fires belched up a curtain of black smoke, as razed masonry bloomed orange and ran molten. The stairwell above became a chimney, blasted by the winds of inferno. Clothing smoked. Skin blistered. Whipped hair singed in the blast. On the landing below, the downed guardsmen sizzled, flesh and bone seared away, while the stink of the fumes ripped the guts of the living into paroxysms of nausea.
Retching, flash-blinded, Sulfin Evend slammed his liege into the stone step with stunning force. Then, scoured fingers still gripped to the knife, he locked his left arm and dragged his unconscious charge in a stumbling rush up the stairwell. He reeled ahead, hauling Lysaer along with him. Hot air seized his throat. Swirling fumes turned his senses. Sulfin Evend could not see, only grope his way upwards. If the mercury shadow of spell-craft still stalked, his gifted talent was blinded. He could but hope the uncanny assault had been thwarted when the necromancer’s string-puppet cabal had been consumed.
Fire raged, beyond salvage. Bricks shattered, red-hot. The dungeon was blasted to ruin.
Coughing, stung bloody as the blast fragments raked him, Sulfin Evend rounded the bend. He saw torch-light, then the pallid square of the upper postern, stamped amid the morass of churned smoke. Cradled in his locked grasp, his liege lay rag-doll limp, a wound running red at his throat. Ahead, faint shapes against the trammelled twilight, he saw his posted guardsmen, responding. Their distressed shouts seemed far off. Sulfin Evend had no voice left to cry warning. He was fordone. If wisps of vile spell-craft streamed through the murk, no recourse remained. He could not enact further remedy.
Above, the grand hall of state was in flames, gone up like a torch to the roof towers. The foundations already crumpled, below. In moments, the whole lower stairwell would give way and collapse into crumbling ruin. Sulfin Evend could not do any more than continue his harried flight upwards.
The men reached him. Hands fumbled and grabbed. Their touch woke his seared skin to agony. Sulfin Evend cried out, even as saving strength hauled him up, then dragged him along with his unconscious burden in a careening rush towards the doorway.
‘That’s the Blessed Prince himself!’ someone cried. ‘Mercy on us, he’s bloodied! What ill force attacked him?’
‘Get him out!’ Sulfin Evend managed to gasp. He could scarcely see, barely hear, while the wheeling roof seemed to plunge in a downward spiral upon him. Before faintness claimed him, he croaked, ‘Chain my liege in bed. Strap this knife to his skin. My orders, on pain of treason! No man is to take me away from his Grace’s presence!’
Aftermath left the harsh, appalled silence that followed an earth-shaking thunder-clap. The blackened, raw scar of the grand hall of state still belched sullen fumaroles of black smoke. Ash sifted over Avenor’s smudged roof-tops, while the smouldering talk in the streets placed the blame on the Spinner of Darkness.
There would be war.
Clad in stark white with a discreet, buttoned collar masking his bandaged throat, Lysaer s’Ilessid confronted his Lord Commander, who lay swathed in dressings soaked with medicinal unguents to cool the raging sting of his burns.
‘I will not deflect the course of this outrage,’ Lysaer declared with crisp sovereignty. ‘This nest of conspiracy at Avenor is cleaned, but connections remain under question. If corruption did not work hand in glove with the Spinner of Darkness, ties existed. Find my wife, or my son, and I’ll prove them.’
Prostrate on pillows, and sweating in discomfort, Sulfin Evend glared back. Hoarse, he still argued. ‘Etarra, first, liege. More trouble lurks there. If the corruption we just defeated has tapped into Raiett’s massive network of spies, the connection you attribute to Shadow is falsehood.’ He held firm on that point. His harrowing acts in the stairwell granted his claim to that licence. Yet the privilege did nothing to lessen the force of his liege’s imperious displeasure.
Sulfin Evend did not waver. If his eyes were raw red, his wits stayed ice-cold.
A populace convinced that the heart of their regency had suffered an assaulting strike by raised sorcery might be blindly convinced to lay blame on a culprit. Frightened guilds would bring outlays of funds for fresh troops; a unified council would speed restoration. But here, in this sun-washed, taut chamber, alone, the Alliance commander would not play shell games with the truth. The palace page who had carried the false message was missing, with the thirteenth fugitive still somewhere at large.
‘Your interests are being played against sorcery,’ Sulfin Evend insisted. ‘You must realize that, liege. A clan war and a siege of Alestron will undermine the Fellowship Sorcerers, then whittle away at the talent that safe-guards the open country-side. Distrust of Ath’s adepts will only serve the cult factions that just tried to lay claim to your talent for their use as a private weapon.’
‘Light has triumphed.’ The statement was too polished. Jewels threw off scintillant glints in the daylight, while the icy draught through the casement still wafted the flint reek of char. ‘Today, the streets of Avenor are safe.’ Lysaer moved, found a chair, and sat by the bedside. His pale grace caught the breath, for the spark of conviction that fuelled what seemed bed-rock earnestness. ‘The plot to destroy my regency is disarmed, and your loyal defence will not be disowned or disparaged.’
That lost love for a woman had been the stay that spared the staunch hero from immolation had gone unspoken. Yet Sulfin Evend’s taut stillness spoke volumes.
‘No disgrace will arise for our difference,’ said Lysaer. ‘A discharge with honour is yours, at a word.’
Sulfin Evend held to his stark silence. He dared not state his view: that war against Fellowship interests, and clan presence, may have been the main thrust of the treasonous cabal’s agenda. If so, then the cause of the Kralovir necromancers had been brilliantly served. When the Light of the Blessed raised arms against Shadow, an untold evil might bid for free rein to slip through the ragged breach.
‘I will fight alone as need be,’ Lysaer promised. Such regal poise would never beg, even at risk of dismissing the sole, selfless friendship that touched his humanity. ‘You need not retain your Alliance rank if my service wears too heavily upon you.’
While Sulfin Evend refused speech, those piercing blue eyes dared not waver. Lysaer pressed on. But his immaculate hands now had locked in his lap, while the trembling flicker of gold braid at his cuffs exposed the pent force of his feelings. ‘This much of your counsel I will take to heart. I promise to test my convictions. Once the hard evidence has been disclosed, woe betide Duke Bransian if his family has worked a covert betrayal against me. For Alestron’s fortified strength is too powerful a resource to align with the powers of Darkness.’
‘I shall keep the command,’ Sulfin Evend rasped back. He had little choice. What he could not blunt, he must now strive to temper.
His oath to a Sorcerer married him to the land. With eyesight unsealed, he had glimpsed the deep mysteries preserved by the Fellowship’s compact. Too late, he perceived the raw conflict: that the blinding effects of the curse that drove Lysaer could never be leashed in restraint. The Alliance ideology would not be laid to rest before the bastard half-brother’s blood stained the field. As a weapon, the geas of Desh-thiere offered a tool without parallel. The inflammatory words just unleashed by the Kralovir’s machinations surely seeded a deadly design: for a wife in the custody of Ath’s adepts, and a clan ally turned, and a son kept alive by no less than mystical sorcery, swords would be raised for the cause of the Light. With Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn as the dangled prize, Lysaer’s flawed will would forge a new war host to launch another assault against Shadow.
Strapped by a blood oath and conflicted honour, the one man at the right hand of the avatar foresaw the tragic crux. The invidious play w
as poised to destroy Athera’s bright powers of initiate mastery. For dark ends, the black cults wanted the world’s greater mysteries torn asunder and broken.
‘I should weep to take up the challenge,’ Sulfin Evend grated at length.
The words raised his liege’s most dazzling smile. The gift of such trust was undeserved. Shamed to the quick, he ached for grief, that an upright man’s justice should have been suborned to spear-head annihilation. Against curse-flawed charisma, and the risen star of a self-proclaimed avatar, Sulfin Evend became the last voice of sanity, wedged in the bleeding breach.
Late Winter 5671
Signatures
Midwinter to spring, when the passes were closed, all items crossing the continent followed the shipping that plied the prosperous, southern sea-routes. As terminus for the silk caravans from Atchaz, whose raw bales were in prime demand, the port of Innish on the coast of Shand became the stewpot for breaking news. Dispatches moved with the commerce of trade. The factors who handled the lading of ships also passed the brisk traffic of state correspondence.
Though Fiark’s obtuse network might be the least recognized, his unerring eye for profitable cargoes suggested the unusual depth and diversity of his contacts. Close-mouthed and quiet, his discretion was legend. He met with his hired captains in public and kept the family interests carried out by his sister the carefully guarded exception.
‘Did you know,’ Feylind groused, ‘that they call you “the clam”?’ Sunburned and raffish, and wearing a man’s jerkin redolent of ship’s tar and fish oil, she grinned, then perched herself with flagrant abandon upon the most comfortable brocade chair. ‘You owe me, for patience,’ she declared without fuss as her brother winced for his cushions. ‘I’ll buy you two beers, with the fact, I didn’t kick any nitpicking customs men off my decks into the harbour.’
‘That’s because Teive kept your temper in hand,’ Fiark denounced, though not without sympathy. Since the Innish port officers had noses like weasels and a rabid aversion to contraband, the Evenstar’s logged movements were dealt a devouring scrutiny each time she hove into home port.
