Traitor's Knot

by Janny Wurts

  There, the Mad Prophet pushed through to greet him, his brosy face worried, and his jerkin redolent of the birch coals that made up their scant, woodsman’s fire.

  ‘You’re earlier than we’d hoped.’ Attuned to Arithon’s dispirited quiet and distressed beyond care for exposure, Dakar raised the dripping panes of the candle-lamp. Mottled light showed him the haunted face of a man set stalking for lethal quarry. ‘You’ve lost your vital backing at Alestron, I see.’

  ‘Give the wives time,’ came the wearied response. While the scouts gave them space and helpfully dug through their packs to scrounge a spare change of clothing, Arithon knelt and warmed his chilled hands. ‘Alestron’s women are unlikely to view the issue as settled. If I lost my first move to dissolve troop morale by sowing uncertainty in the barracks, I did gain Dawr’s backing. Although she wasn’t entirely convinced, she did not close her mind. My word of unequivocal severance, set against the hard build-up of enemy troops may be all we have left to shift Bransian’s rock-stubborn pride.’

  ‘An outside hope.’ Dakar sighed. ‘You knew failure was likely.’

  Arithon’s swift upward glance held the pain a fellow seer recognized all too well. ‘That’s a mean comfort, isn’t it?’

  Dakar’s preferred remedy to seek refuge in drink, was not going to succour the cruel edge of this man’s initiate awareness. The scouts also kept their respectful distance. No one need mention the outright disaster: that lacking the support of Alestron’s ships, its stockpiled weapons and armed strength, with the discipline of its field-trained captains, no peace with the towns was going to be possible. Unequally matched, the forest-based clans could never risk the long-term price of a coexistence that might erode their vital heritage by assimilation.

  A gust battered the wood, whisking a barrage of soaked leaves under the flimsy hide shelter. Arithon shook out his sodden sleeves, swiped back his wet hair, and stood. Under the close scrutiny of Melhalla’s scouts, he refused the last word in defeat. ‘If your caithdein will hear me, I’ll present my case. We’re not lost, as they say, until bloodshed.’

  That moment, the oddly strained air of expectancy ruffled his mage-trained awareness. ‘What’s wrong?’

  The scout nearest blurted, ‘Your Grace, we have a Sorcerer already here to meet you on Fellowship business.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Arithon, attentively stilled. The return of poached crystals would never merit the pitched urgency that now surrounded him.

  ‘Traithe was the only one they could spare,’ Dakar admitted with dismal reluctance. ‘This isn’t about amethysts, though the news could have waited until you were dry and had a chance to snatch something to eat.’

  ‘We have horses waiting,’ the lead scout persisted, relentlessly scornful of pauses for comforts that could be expedited, astride. His sceptical distaste measured the pleated sleeves and crushed velvet that remained of the fancy court clothing. ‘Your liegemen gave us their word of assurance that your Grace required no coddling.’

  ‘Vhandon and Talvish? They’re not my keepers, and Dame Dawr’s taste in cloth was designed to please women, not handle the elements in the free wilds.’ Arithon stripped his rich dress and allowed their solicitude to replace doublet and knee-breeches with dry leathers for riding, and a suitable oilcloth rain-cloak. He was rested enough, and could eat on the move, he pronounced with clipped irritation. Then, just as sharply, ‘Does any-one know what bad business has come to demand a Fellowship audience?’

  ‘Traithe would not say,’ the scout captain replied. ‘He awaits your presence twenty leagues from this place, under the roof of the caithdein’s lodge tent.’

  If Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn preferred not to present himself before Melhalla’s royal steward on the edge of defeated exhaustion, he had the resilience to manage the set-back. He followed the scouts’ lead and ducked into the rain, prepared to ride through the night.

  The storm worsened. Scouring wind lashed the downpour in cold torrents, blinding the scouts and draping their path with a barrage of wet-laden branches. The oak forest of Atwood drowned them in dark like spilled ink at every miserable stage of the journey. Without lanterns, the riders could not make speed. Wet to the skin and chafed by drenched saddles, they reached the most guarded encampment in East Halla in the dismal hour before dawn.

  Helping hands caught the reins of their steaming mounts in the flare of torch-light that rinsed the black trees. Arithon misliked the disquieting precedent, that unshielded flame had been kindled to greet him. Nor had dousing weather or hard travel dulled the curious scouts who delivered him. Their critical eyes followed him into the hands of the spry old earl who presented state visitors to Melhalla’s caithdein.

  Whatever that taciturn worthy expected, the slight, bundled form arrived at the lodge failed to match the appalling freight of renown. ‘Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn?’

  The shadowed face under the cloak hood inclined, the barest grant of acknowledgement. The prince’s neat step and unassuming poise might have belonged to any forest-bred clan scout, except that Dakar’s slipshod manners reflected a resharpened respect in his presence.

  Arithon himself was too weary to temper the misconceptions already engendered by his two liegemen’s sealed discretion, and the volatile storms Fionn Areth’s hot-tempered comments were wont to provoke. ‘As you see, I don’t bring the fair winds the open heart might have hoped for. Bad news comes in batches. By the busy reception, I’ve gathered a Sorcerer’s wanting an audience?’

  Thrown such scalding directness, the High Earl of Atwood was pleased to abandon the forms of state courtesy. He leaned through drumming torrent and parted the sodden door flap. ‘Without fanfare, then, would your Grace go within?’

  Arithon entered the dry comfort of Melhalla’s clan lodge tent, redolent of soaked horse and pattering droplets off his borrowed leathers. Caught in the flare of the lamps, he took pause, braced for a seated array of proud chieftains, and the piercing regard of a Fellowship Sorcerer. The moment might have been torn from his past: another bleak rain-storm in Strakewood had brought him before an invested caithdein, exhausted and beset by the wounded horror inflicted by Desh-thiere’s curse.

  Yet in place of inimical strangers, he was greeted by an immense woman whose warm hands presumed and peeled the soaked wrap from his shoulders. ‘Sit, at once,’ she urged with melodic welcome. ‘You should have rested before this encounter. I would send you to bed, if all that is right and true in this world was not being set on its ear.’

  Her caring defused every instinct to bristle. Badgered onto a hassock, his tired frame already yielded. Arithon raised his face to the caithdein of Melhalla, overcome by speechless relief.

  His glance met blue eyes and a brosy face. A clan braid fastened with intricate knots spilled like ripe corn across the coloured shawl draped over her ample shoulders, and her beautiful smile warmed him straight through.

  Arithon captured her pillow-soft hand, wrestling irreverent laughter. ‘My dear lady! You are Teiren’s’Callient? What have I done to receive such delight?’

  ‘Need you ask?’ The power that stewarded a realm left bereft by the death of the last s’Ellestrion high king returned a chuckle of mischievous pleasure. ‘As though your fractious handling of s’Brydion belligerence all these years has not been an Ath-given gift.’ She beckoned. ‘Here, child. Come ahead. I swear, he won’t bite.’

  Her shy youngest entered, perhaps seven years of age. Small steps, and uncertain fingers bore in a tray with hot food, and mulled wine sweetened with raisins. A raven swooped down, hard on the girl’s heels, intent upon snatching a morsel. The child startled, then jerked short as Arithon’s unthinking reflex shielded her face.

  Hand still outstretched, the Prince of Rathain spoke a phrase in actualized Paravian and intercepted the thieving bird on his wrist.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ The child placed the tray on a chest by his knee. ‘Your way of speech made my ears ring.’ Eyes round, she glared at the bird, between bas
hful survey to see if the visitor was nice or forbidding.

  ‘That the rascal could take whatever he wished, if he waited for due invitation.’ The dark stranger steadied the querulous bird. Green eyes enchanted, he added, ‘You do have a name?’

  The child flushed, recalled her courtesy, and murmured, ‘Maretha. I was told you were to be called by “your Grace”.’

  ‘Address me as you please, Maretha. On my promise, nobody’s going to mind.’ Arithon maintained his unthreatening smile, chafed though he was by the unsettled awareness that the caithdein was not the sole form in attendance. Reflex had set one hand to the hassock. His surge to arise met his hostess’s palms, bearing down on his shoulders.

  The raven fluttered, off balance, as the huge woman pinned her royal visitor in place. ‘You will not rise, worn as you are, and too guarded to use formal titles.’

  Yet Arithon failed to be set at ease. ‘Ath’s grace on earth, what affair will not wait, that I might need to ride out before dawn-light?’

  ‘I did warn you, lady’ The Sorcerer Traithe emerged from the deep shadow beyond the pricket holding the tallow-dip. A snap of his scarred fingers recalled the inquisitive raven.

  ‘Quork!’ the bird said.

  ‘You can’t shelter me, friend.’ Prince Arithon tossed the bird off. Ignoring Traithe’s shoulder, the creature flew and perched on the hide frame stretching a scraped pelt in the corner. There, dark bill flashing, the raven hackled his ruff and started to preen.

  Traithe’s softened smile capped the apology, now directed between Melhalla’s caithdein and the state of taut nerves vised immobile on her best hassock. ‘No cosseting care in your generous heart can blunt the acuity of an initiate awareness.’

  ‘Dakar already knows, doesn’t he?’ Arithon accosted, while his intrepid benefactress let go at last and steered the charming child out of his presence. Unswerving, the crown prince’s regard now tracked only the Fellowship Sorcerer. ‘The spellbinder was tight as a clam with respect to complaints. I wondered what else he kept from me.’

  Clipped silver hair, and a clean-shaven face scored with laugh lines: Traithe had changed little in the thirty-four years since their first encounter at Althain Tower. Another, more recent, was no boon to dignity. Yet the echo of intimacy sharpened the moment, while brown eyes with their melting, unshakeable calm completed an unhurried assessment. ‘Sethvir warned me that you have fully unleashed Dari s’Ahelas’s heritage of prismatic conscience. The burden’s no boon, at such moments.’

  Arithon engaged his trained discipline to relax. ‘I didn’t need Sight to notice the mulled wine was laced full of restoratives.’ To check-rein his temper, he waited upon the caithdein’s attendance before he spoke further. ‘Since the late round of s’Brydion recalcitrance could also have rested till morning, I have to ask why an armed party of scouts dragged Dakar out of shelter to meet me. Did you fear I would not have come on my own?’

  ‘No.’ Traithe crossed the lodge tent. Troubled by his stiff limp, he eased himself into a seat by a trestle piled with a parchment map, stuck flat with a set of bone-handled daggers. ‘The Mad Prophet chose to go out of kindness.’

  Arithon sucked a short breath. ‘I’m remiss. By all means, let us chastise my dearth of gratitude, since the recovery of a few Tiriac amethysts never required my presence.’

  Where Sethvir would have met the attack with a bracing reprimand, followed by softening care, Traithe kept his peace. Pensively silent, he folded scarred hands, while the raven spread wings and flew to his wrist, chortling to be stroked. The Sorcerer obliged the impertinent creature, while the scalding quiet extended. Trapped still on the side-lines, Melhalla’s caithdein watched her offered hot meal steam, untouched. She had been too well counselled to try intervention, no matter how her nurturing instincts ached to relieve the pitched tension.

  Arithon finally buried his face in taut fingers. The apology he would not utter became his shocking, sharp cry for release.

  ‘What more could our Fellowship ask of you?’ Traithe gently ventured, over the hiss of the tallow-dips. ‘Would you feel better if we came with hot bricks and knelt to massage your sore feet?’

  The shuttered hands moved. Arithon smiled with such startling sweetness, the woman who watched lost her breath. ‘I would have preferred to sing a balm to soothe your bad joints, but the lyranthe I last played was abandoned. I left her to resurrect a killed hope in Alestron. You can’t want to be here. The sting of my set-back becomes yours as well.’

  ‘More than you know, friend.’ Traithe made no mention of the Black Rose Prophecy, brought so near to the aching verge of fulfillment. Though tonight’s demand must relinquish that future—would plunge this crown prince’s willing accession to Rathain’s throne all the more into jeopardy—the Sorcerer’s bleak thought stayed shielded. Deliberately, Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn had never been told how his choices affected the Fellowship’s hope of reunity.

  Dauntlessly Traithe pressed ahead. ‘Davien had his purpose for luring you to Kewar and granting the key to his library’

  ‘A fool would suppose that he had no agenda.’ Arithon broke the loaf of flat bread, then scooped the torn edge into the thick stew. ‘The price has come due? Then speak, and let it be simple.’

  ‘Anything but.’ Traithe broke his news with savage clarity. ‘Asandir is immersed in a grimward, past reach, and Sethvir lies ill at Althain Tower, burning his own life-force to bind the unstable leaks from two others. Those straits have allowed dire factions the loose rein to act without our constraint. Necromancers have seized a foothold within the Light’s initiate priesthood. Darkling’s diviner’s affected, and Jaelot’s, and worse, the cabal extant at Etarra. That branch is now lying poised to swallow the heart of Lysaer’s delegate government.’

  There, the Sorcerer waited, as Arithon paled and laid down his morsel. A charged interval passed while that impacting news became marked and measured: the virulent, rogue gift of prismatic far-sight must unveil the array of wide-ranging implication. Traithe endured throughout that vicious, slow agony, watched the defiant plan of a future resistance wither, unplucked, on the vine. At one terrible stroke, his stark fact cast its shadow to crush every effort now set in play to dissociate the clans from the havoc caused by Desh-thiere’s curse.

  ‘Which cult?’ Arithon asked at scraped length.

  ‘The nastiest.’ Traithe had no balm to mitigate grief. ‘Grey Kralovir, they are called.’ He need not elaborate. The devastation in those widened green eyes showed that Arithon already knew of that faction’s horrific practice. A cult incursion within the Alliance would not just claim a handful of innocent lives. The blighting danger would spread, masked under the false covenant of Lysaer’s religion. Unsuspecting, undefended, the towns’ entire populations could come to be enslaved through an orgy of blood-rites. Such hideous corruption outlasted death. Its coercive power could unleash a rabid war host no natural armed company could withstand.

  ‘Darkling and Jaelot will pose little threat,’ Traithe resumed in the same candid vein. ‘Kharadmon and Luhaine can move in concert and clear the few trapped in corruption without undue fuss. But the newly raised battlements at Etarra are warded. As you have probably already realized, besides me, our Fellowship has no one else.’

  Arithon swiftly digested the gist. ‘Your other two colleagues are not corporate,’ he broke in, then, as perception leaped further, ‘You need me to quell this?’ His piercing whisper ripped to the heart. No kindness might spare him. Initiate master, he was too dreadfully cognizant of the ghastly price should he falter. ‘How long do I have?’

  Traithe answered quickly to shorten distress. ‘Enough time to plan wisely, since the first incursion has been successfully put down at Avenor.’

  That appalling, near miss was enough to choke speech. Before listening further, Arithon raised his raw will. First act of acceptance, he picked up his dropped meal and started to eat with methodical focus. The warm food was neither tasted, nor savoured. He swallowed sustena
nce as no less than an act of bald-faced necessity. Melhalla’s caithdein observed that staunch courage and fought brimming eyes in pent silence.

  For an interval, no sound interrupted the pound of the rain or the whispered hiss of the tallow-dips. The saucy raven held itself still, a coal figure stamped out of the air by Traithe’s wrist, with eyes like piercing jet buttons. At length, the Sorcerer flicked his scarred fingers, urging the Teiren’s’Callient to sit down. She found a chair, while a prince whose exhaustion should have found solace regrouped hammered wits and responded.

  ‘If my half-brother was touched, there will be complications. I think I’d do better to hear out the list.’

  ‘Lysaer was wrested clear,’ the Sorcerer reaffirmed. ‘You’ll hear details, later. The time constraint stems from the fact that our Fellowship has no clear permission to ward him. He currently bears a ceremonial knife, wrought by the Sanpashir tribes’ heritage. The talisman lends him a measure of defence. But the esoteric properties have distinct limits and won’t guard him from exposure indefinitely’

  Yet again, the fierce speed of unreeling prescience let Arithon grasp the raw irony: that an active entanglement would force his half-brother to reject the enspelled knife’s protection. ‘The blade’s wardings are not compatible with the workings of Desh-thiere’s curse?’ Now sick to his core, Rathain’s prince abandoned his effort to force down the last of his meal. ‘Why did no one inform me?’

  The implied betrayal stung deepest since, at any time before Lysaer sailed south, the added threat posed by a curse-driven encounter might have been deferred, or averted.

  Traithe ceded no ground for that lost opportunity. ‘Sethvir held out hope Asandir would return. The issue need never have touched you. Your effort to secure lasting peace for the clans was beyond all price, and remains so. We still hold out for the chance of reprieve. The torn grimward at Scarpdale could be settled and done, up until the last moment.’