Peril's Gate

by Janny Wurts

  No polite word of warning prefaced his burst of grand conjury. Blue light flared and crackled over the flask, a turbulent static that lanced between his poised fingertips. Darkness shattered. Limned in the dazzle, the Sorcerer’s face was stamped pewter, his tall form unreeling a ribbon of cast shadow across the glaze-crusted snowbanks. The display flickered out. Ink nightfall returned. Far off, a wolf howled. The sigh of the breeze stirred the fir copse.

  Flash-blinded and dazed, Hewall started as the flask was set back into his hands. The silver-capped horn was cool to his touch, its leather cord supple and unsinged. But a shimmer of phosphorescence trailed on the air like spun smoke as he fumbled the strap over his shoulder.

  ‘Within two hours, your prince will awaken.’ The Sorcerer crouched. Utterly without ceremony, he scribed a circle in the snow at his feet. Fire burned where his line traced, sheet gold and spitting as the ice underneath sublimated into lashed steam. The figure framed a dizzying view of Etarran headhunters with dogs, then a packed company of horsemen, surging over a boulder-strewn notch.

  ‘That’s Leynsgap!’ cried the young scout, appalled. ‘Blessed Ath! They’re all but at our heels. We could be run down before morning.’

  The Sorcerer looked up, poised as the arrow nocked to the drawn bow. ‘I’ll say this just once. Your prince will wake up, because Desh-thiere’s curse will finally drive through the disorientation of backlash. When that happens, his Grace will be under assault. He’ll have only minutes before his free will is broken down for all time. You must give him that flask. He will hear, through his bard’s gift. Harmonic vibration will show him the spellcraft I’ve laid down for his healing. Let him decide for himself whether or not he will drink. If he does, then give him the fastest horse you possess. Tell him to ride for his life.’

  No one interrupted as the fires whirled up. The image of Lysaer’s advance line consumed in a crackling burst, then vanished without trace of smoke. The indented circle remained in the snow as the Sorcerer stood erect. ‘Only one place at hand has wards of guard that can deter the Etarran Lord Commander. If put to the test, the same refuge might shelter your prince from the ills of Desh-thiere’s curse.’

  Amid blanketing night, the young clansman’s features went ashen. ‘No! Never there. Not the Maze of the Betrayer, which leads through Kewar Tunnel!’

  The creature whose artistry had fashioned those caverns did not argue; his prosaic shrug skirted the thin edge of insult. ‘Your prince’s life is not in my hands. I leave you perfectly free to seek help however you can.’

  He vanished. No warning, no move, no grand flourish; one moment he stood, solid and breathing, his brows raised in caustic humor. Then he was gone without sound, and no breath of wind to mark his eldritch passage.

  ‘Damned fetch!’ snapped Hewall, wrung to cranked tension, and enraged by the trembling that spoiled a reliable grip on his sword hilt. ‘Probably been spying on us all along, through the eyes of that wretched eagle.’

  A sharpened voice contradicted from thin air, ‘The eagle is mine, and an ally. As you choose, if you ask, he will guide you.’

  The younger scout looped the gray’s reins and bent over to brace his flushed face with scooped snow. Past the thunderstruck shock of the Sorcerer’s parting, he examined the ground where the uncanny creature had stood. ‘No fetch,’ he said, shaken. ‘Look. Those are boot prints. Whatever visitation we saw bore weight, and walked on two feet as a man.’

  ‘The Betrayer was rendered discorporate by the Fellowship!’ Hewall tugged his hide jacket close, as though sudden cold had fingered his heart. ‘I don’t trust the tricksy turn of his spells. Nor this witched water flask either.’ He cast a discomposed glance right and left, then, beyond logic, straight upward. No eagle circled. Only stars burned serene over ramparts of bleak rock, and the snow-clad expanse of wild landscape. No voice pronounced reprimand. ‘Damn the meddler to the hells of Sithaer’s pit, anyway. I see no other option before us.’

  ‘We should move on, and not lose more time quibbling.’ The younger scout settled the gray gelding’s reins and remounted, ripped to threadbare worry. ‘Balefire and fiends plague the name of s’Ilessid! With trackers at Leynsgap, we would need help from Dharkaron’s Black Horses to win his Grace free to the coast.’

  ‘Man, take care what you wish for. Davien’s visitation was enough!’ Even with enemies riding their heels, Hewall could not shed his rattled composure. Stout as nails, he refused to return to the saddle until he had traced the Sorcerer’s footsteps back to the stand of stunt firs.

  Plain as plain, the trail stopped at the edge of the wood. No marked print went farther. Beyond, mottled snow quilted the ground, pocked with snapped twigs, and small craters where the ice clods had dropped off the wind-battered branches. Nothing alive had disturbed the masked ground, and nothing had walked through that twisted, meshed tangle of tree limbs.

  Arithon roused near the end of the brutal, switchbacked climb that crested the great divide. The high, central ridge marked the spine of the Mathorns, and parted the headwaters north from south. The horses by then were sweated to lather, flanks heaving to draw the thin air. Moonset had ignited the stars to fierce brilliance against the black sky of high altitude.

  If Hewall missed the shuddering gasp of Arithon’s intaken breath, the young scout, behind, had no chance to speak out. The transition came fast, from the limp sprawl of unconsciousness into a thrashing, emergent awareness. The prince convulsed in the saddle, jerked short of a wrenching, failed effort to stifle his whimpering outcry. To keep him astride, his wrists were securely roped around the gelding’s damp neck.

  The half-stifled outburst resounded with anguish to raise the hair at the nape.

  Breath expelled, Arithon shuddered through a knifing cramp. The stresses of backlash intensified with movement and ripped him to gagging nausea.

  By then, Hewall had the gray gelding stopped. The pitch of the slope made everything difficult. To dismount would strain a horse’s braced balance; to vault off would risk a turned ankle. Hewall wisely chose to stay astride. He unslung the water flask fast as he dared, while the young scout shouldered his mount forward to collect it. The spells had not diminished. A pale haze of light blurred the pendulum swing as the leather strap changed hands.

  ‘Your Grace? Arithon,’ addressed the young scout with spare clarity. His skilled handling settled his horse alongside. ‘Here’s a remedy made by a Sorcerer who may or may not wish you well. At your word, I’ll dispose of it. You decide if you’re fit to measure the risks.’

  Arithon turned his head. His eyes were wide-open. The running sweat strung on skin and lashes welled like tears pressure-forced through taut flesh. His breathing was tortured, every wracked spasm savaged by pitiless conflict. ‘Don’t cut me free,’ he cautioned through locked teeth. ‘Just be silent. Allow me to listen.’

  The scout, all but weeping, averted his glance. His liege’s features had become a wracked animal’s, human dignity shredded to rags. His spirit as well had been set under siege, the murderous directive of the Mistwraith’s revenge raging like fire through dry brush. The core of fierce strength had long since been spent. Now, the hard-driving urge to wreak violence fast consumed what worn will still remained.

  A fraught interval passed before Arithon mastered the self-command for clear speech. ‘It’s all right. The draught will help, not cause harm. No!’ as the scout drew his knife to slash the ties binding his wrists. ‘First, help me to drink.’

  ‘Hewall, steady the gray.’ The young scout hooked his reins through the crook of his elbow. Surrounded by snow and naked, black rock, and brushed by restless winds that were backing due south, he prayed the mare under him would not startle, or choose the wrong moment to shake dripping foam from her bit. Hollow with unease, he stripped off humid gloves, then worked the cork stopper free. The spelled water sloshed, without odor, but turned unearthly and strange: pearlescent light streamed from the neck of the horn, as though the liquid inside burned cold white.
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  ‘Steady,’ the scout murmured. ‘Here’s the draught.’ He reached out, touched flesh that recoiled under his palm with the reflex of a trapped cat. ‘That’s my hand. All right? Keep steady.’ Murmuring as he might soothe a whipped animal, he cupped Arithon’s cheek. Twisted sidewards in his saddle, the posture was awkward. He had to brace, hard, to damp the shuddering tremors wracking through Arithon’s frame. ‘Mercy upon us, mercy upon our unborn children,’ the scout whispered in age-old clan benison. Then he touched the tipped rim of the horn to his prince’s lips.

  Arithon swallowed. Eyes squeezed shut, he finished the contents in carefully measured sips. For one queer instant, his form appeared hazed in light. Then the recoiling spasms eased up. A sigh escaped Arithon’s rasped throat. Relief smoothed his dripping face into calm. The glance he returned in swift reassurance showed a wounding, sweet moment of gratitude.

  ‘All right,’ the scout whispered. ‘Don’t talk.’ He looped the drained flask at his saddlebow, while Hewall observed, his knitted brow critical with worry.

  For a drawn-out moment, the Prince of Rathain rested his forehead against the steamed warmth of his horse’s neck. He sucked in a steady, scouring breath. Then he spoke, and his voice sounded lucid. ‘Very carefully, draw Alithiel from my scabbard. If the sword doesn’t glow, you can cut my wrists free.’

  This time, even Hewall’s stout courage snapped. He could not bear to watch the young scout set his hand to Alithiel’s leather-wrapped grip. The black sword sheared free with a whining dissonance that caused Arithon a flinching, shocked gasp. But the sword’s silvered inlay gleamed with no more than the chance-caught reflections of stars, whose Named essence the Athlien Paravians had entwined into song to enable her ranging defense spells. A fraught second elapsed. The blade stayed unroused, its forged length parting air like black smoke, sliced by the pearlescent sheen of cold runes. Night quiet still reigned. Tension eased to the hissed gyre of wind over rock, and a sour, rasped clink as Hewall’s lanky bay champed the bit.

  ‘Thank you.’ Arithon smiled, a fleeting release that scarcely smoothed the marks of a bruising exhaustion. He added a musical phrase in Paravian neither scout had the learning to translate. The untoward familiarity set them apart. Rathain’s prince turned away, the unabashed tears falling in ribbons down his cheeks. ‘Your service has been flawless. Mind and body, I’m whole. Your care has brought hope for me, after all.’

  The strain was straight cruelty, that he dared not dismount to seek rest. Arithon knew. Resignation a palpable weight on his silence, he straightened his worn shoulders before anyone urged him. He asked nothing, but only gathered his dignity, waiting in hard-leashed control while the ties on his wrists were released.

  Erect in the saddle, he loosened the gray’s knotted reins on his own. The scout talked. His Grace listened, his head inclined an attentive fraction to one side. He did not interrupt the steady address, even through the shattering setback, that the route to the coast was not possible.

  Chin turned ahead, his Grace of Rathain did not rail or curse. Only stated, with hammered determination, ‘I’ll ride on anyway. You both need not stay.’

  The scout lost words.

  Arithon accepted his sword back. His hand was cool, his grip calmly steady as he rammed the blade home in the scabbard.

  ‘You won’t go alone,’ Hewall protested.

  Arithon shortened his reins. He did not look back, but spurred his gray gelding up to the top of the slope. ‘Hewall, not this time. A skilled escort saves nothing. If I lose my wits now, no one alive can react fast enough to deter me.’

  Inarguable logic; of one mind, both clansmen jabbed heels to their mounts and trailed their prince over the crest.

  At the rushed clash of hooves, Arithon of Rathain spun around. His raking glance measured the bearing of the men who dogged his doomed path out of loyalty, or for a wretched burden of pity. Their faces stayed masked. Perhaps the low-set brim of Hewall’s wolverine cap and tight jaw underneath snagged Arithon’s empathic instincts. Or maybe the oddity, that the affable young scout with his jaunty earrings shied off from the straightforward contact.

  ‘Dharkaron’s Black Spear, what else aren’t you telling me?’ Presented with helpless, stunned silence from the scouts, Arithon reined in his horse. He forced the pair to narrow, and then close the gap and confront him directly.

  Near at hand, the clansmen observed his self-control was not perfect. However he tried, the nettling drive of the curse chafed at his poise without mercy. Even this added moment’s delay scalded patience like a dousing of lye on stripped nerves. ‘Talk while we ride. What can be so difficult?’

  No man rushed to begin conversation. Arithon edged his horse through the washout that forced the trail through a switchback. Far below, the land spread mottled white and dun, tatted to tussocks where yesterday’s sun had softened the snow from the thickets. No sped pace was possible until the horses reached the low ground. The lengthy descent would prove wearing. Under the wind-fluttered strands of black hair, the royal face showed the stamped pallor of quartz. Green eyes remained fixed on the vista ahead, as though the hieroglyph tracks of the gulches held meaning that might be unraveled, if only a man studied them hard enough.

  An interval passed, tortured, while the horses slid on their hocks down an embankment of rattling scree. Neither clan scout responded, or dredged up the courage to address the source of their clamping dread.

  ‘Well, I’m dead, either way,’ Arithon snapped, stripped down to core desperation. ‘If that’s what we’re facing, and you insist you won’t leave, then I’ll have to ask you to truss me again. When the sword blazes, and I rave beyond remedy, pierce me through the heart. Would you stay the course and render true service? Then hear my bequest! Dispatch me with honor. I ask that decent preference. Don’t let me become the bound tool of the Mistwraith’s stroke of revenge.’

  ‘There is a path,’ Hewall blurted, forced to lay out the unthinkable course that had once, in the past, led to tragedy. ‘A choice that’s deadly, with the potential to lead you to ruin.’

  ‘A way to evade Lysaer?’ Arithon pressed.

  They had rounded a cornice. Below, the cleft vale that should have opened his route to the west spread a brocade pattern of hillocks. The furrowed slope rose steeply on the far side, tucked with gulches scoured by glaciers. Here dragons had once launched in languid flight. The massive horns carved from their dorsal spines had been winded by Athera’s lost guardians.

  Arithon clicked to encourage his horse. Apparently in command, he eased its passage downslope; but his hands on the reins were white knuckled. In the vise-grip, forced calm of a man who endured a sword sheathed hilt deep in flesh, he repeated his hagridden question. ‘You believe there’s a way to elude my half brother?’

  A jerked flash of turquoise, off to his left; the young scout, guiding the blown mare at his side, returned a miserable, curt nod. ‘There may be a chance.’ He still could not meet his liege’s sharp glance, or mention the sad history that had brought Kamridian s’Ffalenn to an unkindly death. ‘Not certain, or safe.’

  But ahead lay only disaster. ‘Then I go on,’ Arithon said, beyond hesitation.

  The Betrayer’s warning had been apt, concerning the dearth of time. Already the pinched lines of his Grace’s carriage showed mounting evidence of strain. Both clansmen caught the corrosive, small signs. All too swiftly, the geas upon him sapped the healing of Davien’s spelled flask.

  As his pitched state of tension unsettled the gray, Arithon soothed a hand down its cable-taut neck. As though, against logic, patent care for his mount might outlast Skannt’s best trackers and dogs, or deflect the elite company from Etarra, whipped on by a half brother’s fanatical fervor to run him down in cold blood.

  ‘Given the opening to find a clean end, I would at least meet my fate unencumbered.’ Arithon shot a glance over his shoulder, then realized the response was cued by the curse. His mouth thinned to savage distaste. He turned forward, sought to anch
or his rocked equilibrium by savoring the warm wind at his back. Its sweet, laden scent held the promise of rain, sure harbinger of thaw before morning.

  Then, recomposed, he assaulted the clan scouts’ reluctance with heartfelt words and quiet force. ‘Let me fight. I can die but once. Of all I have done, of all those hapless spirits I’ve killed in the warped course of my fate, there are worse transgressions yet. I would endure anything not to cross out of life with a brother’s death on my conscience.’

  However he suffered, if the crux came, he would abjure the cold risks of strategy he had attempted, and lost, in his past. This time, he refused to taunt destiny, and invoke Lysaer’s equally curse-bound hatred. He had nowhere to turn. With his own life at issue, and not Rathain’s feal clans, he preferred not to end all his music and dreams, butchered by misled enemies.

  Compassion ruled him. If nothing else mattered, he would spare Elaira the agony of sharing his last flight.

  Even still, the scouts’ close-mouthed reluctance prevailed. They wrestled cruel doubt, allowing the horses to pick their own way down the seamed slabs of the mountain. Silence, and the caress of spring’s breeze, while the slide of hooves against flint-bearing rock spat orange sparks through the darkness. Leading them over the trappy, rough ground was Rathain’s sanctioned crown prince, last of his lineage and their oathbound liege.

  He abjured power and privilege. A man, self-contained, he no longer pressured them, but guided his gelding through the hazards of descent with settled competence, and no undue risk. His grinding burden of sorrows stayed veiled. The desperation walled behind masking gentleness was that of a man who faced execution with no family at hand, no close friend; no deep word to share, beyond an empty apology, that the hour of ending that would lay him bare must become an embarrassment, exposed before strangers.

  He did not, even then, force his will on his escort as a royal command. Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn did not plead. Nor did he need to; the integrity behind his unyielding humility scarred the scouts to intolerable grief.