TWOLAS - 08 - Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  Lysaer's quiet pause gained a spark of grim irony. 'You've come to defeat the Master of Shadow for the greater good of humanity?'

  Yet if his challenge matched the Matriarch's intent, the overture was refused. The hanging ruffled. A rustle of withdrawal, as silk slid on silk, and the Prime's haughty entourage had departed. The man hailed as the Light's avatar was abandoned to fulfil his proud promise and soil his hands with the infirm.

  For a suspended instant, Lysaer s'Ilessid regarded his clenched knuckles, lined in the merciless sparkle of rings. Then his poise broke. The untoward explosion arose from his belly, and swelled into full-throated laughter. He clasped his gold head, disarmingly helpless. 'Blinding glory!' he gasped. 'By all means! Let us keep our caring for others off the administrative chess-board, and past the reach of such bitter authority!'

  Lysaer flashed a dazzling grin to the pair of enchantresses, left at a loss by uncertainty. 'Proceed. I'm not leaving until your last needs are met, and no stricken casualty inside your hospice requires the light of my gift.'

  * * *

  Haplessly trapped in the wake of her Prime, the enchantress deposed from past rank as First Senior also pondered the barbed sally just exchanged with Lysaer s'Ilessid. Lirenda remained forbidden to speak unless she received dispensation. Her spell-bound will still stayed subject to the extreme punishment that tied her in mute subjugation. She held no authority beyond the pawn's chores, tasked to her from moment to moment.

  Today, she was handed the menial assignment of unpacking the sea chests brought by cart from the wharves of Kalesh. Lirenda curtseyed in slaved acquiescence. The wisp of black hair that tickled her cheek could not be shoved back without leave. Sealed in silenced rage, she could not spare her wretched, plain hems from picking up stains from the trampled earth floor of the half-pitched pavilion. The unkempt state of her person and dress ground her down in humiliation.

  She retired to refresh the Prime's wardrobe, all but colliding with the two boy wards unfurling the lavish carpets. More unsworn novices scurried to heat mulled wine and tea and arrange for the Matriarch's bath. Lirenda turned her hands to a maidservant's duty and unlocked the sea trunks. She shook out and aired the Prime's jewelled robes and lace finery. Once the filled buckets and coals for the hot iron arrived, she finished off with a laundress's work and pressed the wrinkles from the ceremonial gauze veils.

  Those lavish trappings should have been hers, had she not been cast out of favour as the Prime's hand-picked successor. Lirenda fumed, beyond consolation. Selidie would never restore her to liberty within the foreseeable future.

  The twelve ranking seniors still rumpled from travel, also stayed unexcused from their Matriarch's presence. They flocked like ruffled hens around her great chair by the brazier, crowding to warm out the miserable damp inflicted by salt-fusty clothing. Unlike Lirenda, whose lips remained sealed, the inner circle lived unaware of the terrifying fact that the woman who ruled the Order of the Koriathain was a spirit locked under possession. To escape death in office, the former Prime had invasively supplanted a younger protege as her living vessel. Now, above all suspicion, the creature walked obscenely clothed in an innocent's purloined flesh.

  While Prime Selidie perched in cosseted comfort, her train fussed over the testing by-play just exchanged with Tysan's regent pretender.

  '... such cheeky nerve!' huffed a withered seeress, nursing her aching joints. She could not sit down: the hastily erected pavilion was not yet furnished, beyond the appointments to honour the Matriarch. 'An upstart, and a supplicant under our roof! To have addressed our Prime with his royal back turned! He asks to be served a sharp lesson!'

  Another senior with five bands of rank laced her fingers in superior censure. 'Your predecessor would never have stood for such insolence!'

  Selidie Prime tossed back her hood. The imperious lift of her chin raised a stinging glitter of gemstones: pins set with rubies and amethyst tamed her netted coil of blond hair. Yet no finery could ease the deformity of her ruined hands, mittened in fur in her lap. 'Lysaer is no supplicant,' she corrected, while a hustling page unclipped her frogged fastenings and slipped off the weight of her mantle.

  She was not perturbed. As Lirenda accepted the cast-off garment to be brushed out and retired, the Prime's unflushed skin and pale eyes displayed no rancour.

  When the prim senior bristled to argue, Selidie snapped her off short. 'No Prime of our order would sink so low, trading slangs in a public display.'

  'The charitable sisters won't grant proper respect for such tolerance' another enchantress felt moved to point out.

  Selidie said nothing. The refreshment tray arrived in the hands of an awestruck child. Rather than risk her gown to a spill, the Matriarch beckoned to Lirenda.

  The debased enchantress was forced to step down from the wardrobe and wait the Prime's table. Lirenda filled the cups, as though she had never possessed a true talent, or been born to a moneyed family. She dispensed spice and sugar to the Senior Circle, mocked by their gloating, ambitious eyes, and snatched what sour comfort she could by tracking the close conversation.

  'I will have what I wished through my server' Selidie declared in due course. Where her predecessor would have snapped fingers, she must exert command through commonplace speech. 'Saysha? You engaged a sigil of rapport over Lysaer and carried out my instructions?'

  The slender initiate bearing one scarlet band stepped forward and gracefully curtseyed. 'My Prime, yes, indeed. Your quarry was most easy to read, his steadfast nature all but transparent. Bank on the fact he will stay the course and not lift his siege under pressure. He may guess at our motive to break his half-brother. Yet he does not suspect we have an enchantress already placed in the citadel.'

  Elaira, cast into the fray as the irresistible lure to draw Arithon, and whose tender love would deliver him into the Prime Matriarch's grasping hands.

  Sunk in turbulent thought, Lirenda lifted the heated pot. She dispensed tea and spooned honey in dutiful servitude. Amid the taut quiet, civilized by the sweet plink of spoons and fine porcelain, she veiled the blaze of anticipation in her tawny eyes, as she considered the upstart sorcerer and masterbard whose interference had seeded her shameful downfall. She, more than any, awaited the day Arithon's captivity became the wedge used to drive the Fellowship Sorcerers onto their knees.

  'Our hook is well-set,' said Prime Selidie, well content to shrug off improprieties. 'Lysaer's grating manners are not worth correction. Let our sisters in grey treat his grievously wounded. Embrace him and smile, knowing his pompous cause and his war host will be played as the pawns to corner our prize for the taking.' From Lirenda's hand, the Prime accepted the mulled wine her maimed grasp could never manipulate. 'To the ruination of the compact, and to Davien's defeat!'

  While the Senior Circle shared her spirited toast, the Koriani Prime Matriarch sipped her spiced drink, replete with satisfaction. 'Where my predecessor failed, I will force the victory and raise our order back to due prominence.'

  She had but to wait for Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn to take her laid bait, then jerk the puppet strings tight at the opportune moment.

  * * *

  Lysaer s'Ilessid did not finish his work with the injured, or leave the Koriathain until almost noon the next day. His rich surcoat and poised elegance were no longer faultless when he finally emerged. Paused just outside the dimmed quiet of the hospice tent, he snatched a moment to straighten his shoulders. His rumpled white silk was marred by flecked blood and water-stains. A tarnish of stubble roughened his chin. Except for gold trim, which the sunlight burnished bright as his fair hair, he could have been mistaken for one of his war-harried senior officers.

  An escort he failed to expect had apparently ridden to meet him. The snap to his posture as he sighted the party evinced his stifled displeasure: two mounted guards and an apprehensive young equerry, holding the reins of his second-string horse.

  Up close, his pallor betrayed lack of sleep. Another night, after the disastrous ass
ault, was unlikely to sweeten his temperament. Ranne and Fennick stayed straight-faced and dared not try to fathom his current, vexed mood.

  The Light's avatar accepted the horse. He mounted without a word. His silence beat at his escort's taut nerves, while the equerry wheeled the odd, lop-eared mare, kept on string for unskilled riders to run errands. Still ungreeted, the small party began its unhurried course towards the Sunwheel command tent. Lysaer rode ahead. Whatever thoughts lurked behind his fatigue, the stamped lines around his blue eyes did not welcome the company.

  The foursome crossed the posted ring of camp sentries, passed the new horse picket, and cut an oblique course around a latrine trench, which had not existed at sundown. More men with shovels dug a fire pit to burn the carcasses of two destriers, while the distant thunder of hammers bespoke a labour team's effort. Lysaer did not pause, or acknowledge salutes, or praise the brisk industry found in his path.

  The supply tents were standing with rolled-up flaps. Within their pooled shade, the dry goods had been organized: the filled casks sorted out by their brands, the sealed barrels of flour separated from the boxes of oiled weaponry nested in straw. A squad of men under someone's crisp orders muscled the inventoried items into neat stacks. More boys rolled and tied salvaged hides. Additional space had been cleared for a practise field. There, squads of recruits with pikes drilled under the squinting review of an officer. Others, between duty, slept in shifts under blankets, while their fellows plied needles and twine, patching tents, or cleaning the singed gear stripped off yesterday's dead.

  Lysaer measured the stamp of brisk purpose in place since his visit to the enchantresses. 'Who ordered you out, and how long were you waiting?'

  Taciturn Ranne raised his eyebrows, while Fennick coughed behind a mailed fist. Neither man rushed to answer. The fury leashed behind that bland tone meant the avatar already guessed the sore point under question.

  The inexperienced equerry plunged ahead anyway, pink with cheerful enthusiasm. 'Our Lord Commander, Sulfin Evend's returned. He arrived by fast boat before dawn.'

  'He's late' Lysaer answered, and dug in his spurs. The horse underneath him grunted and pelted ahead at a gallop.

  When the naive boy kicked his mount to keep up, Ranne clamped a stout fist on the bridle and hauled the boy's mare to a plunging halt. 'Don't think to follow your Blessed Lord now'

  Fennick spoke just as fast. 'Trust us, you don't want to be anywhere near when that pair squares off for their reckoning.'

  * * *

  Sulfin Evend's presence continued to make itself felt when Lysaer reined in at the lavish command tent that also served as his personal quarters. Met by deserted quiet, he dismounted without need to fend off any rush of fawning attendants. No pestering cluster of petitioners milled under the awning to beg for his audience. Only a single, liveried groom appeared to lead off his hot horse.

  A high-handed precedent, the ceremonial guards that flanked the front entry had been summarily dismissed from their post.

  Had Lysaer not been worn flat, he might have laughed for the irony. Plain as shouted warning, his wayward commander had ascertained their meeting would take place in privacy. The front flap, tied open, displayed shaded gloom sparked by the vacated sheen of lacquer and mother-of-pearl furnishings. As Lysaer stepped inside, someone unobtrusive stepped forward: his long-faced valet, for the gentleman's service of taking his soiled mantle.

  'His Lordship Sulfin Evend awaits in your map room' the servant disclosed, then retired with faultless courtesy.

  As the storm broke, there would be no witnesses; if, in fact, anyone sworn to the Light owned the courage to stand in the breach.

  Lysaer crossed the lavish carpets. He slipped through the curtain that masked the long trestle used for war counsel and troop assignments. Candles burned there. A pool of light set off the tactical maps with their array of pinned banners and coloured counters. The deployment had changed, the emphasis shifted from offensive lines to a tight ring for impenetrable containment. Not only in symbol: the troops on the field would be re-formed as well. Sulfin Evend's crisp style chose action before consultation.

  Tireless strategist, the man himself spoke out from the darkest corner. 'I put the heart back into the men with a promise: there will be no more extravagant gestures, and no other messy, headlong assaults.' The accent of the Hanshire aristocrat continued with stripping sting. 'I will give you the victory your allies demand, but not as an epic display soaked in bloodshed. This siege will be won by conventional means. The defenders will die of their own stubborn will, or else lay down their arms, starved into surrender.'

  'I should value such counsel, in hindsight?' Lysaer replied, his indifferent tone a reproach. 'You took your time mooning about on the southcoast. So long, in fact, filling my straightforward muster, it's a wonder you didn't grow roots there.'

  Neither was Sulfin Evend inclined to shy from attacking engagement. 'Good men were burned alive for stupidity. Not over my delay.'

  The Alliance Lord Commander had bathed, since arrival, but had declined the entitled splendor of his formal post. Within masking gloom, the detail of his person emerged under aggressive survey: the plain hose and the commonplace jerkin that embraced comfort, before authority. Then the straight, dark brown hair that was expertly barbered, a sharp reverse: today, his liege was the one on his feet, unkempt and jaggedly sleepless.

  Past question, such uncharacteristic, sleek grooming would be the perfidious touch of the royal valet. That overly fussy, devoted servant bestowed the attention reserved only for his chosen master. Against form, he acknowledged Sulfin Evend as equal. Such care acknowledged the exemplary courage that had once steered the avatar's life clear of jeopardy.

  Sulfin Evend bestirred one polished, black boot, and shoved a padded chair forward. 'Sit down, man. You look eaten hollow. I've taken the liberty of sending for wine.'

  Which amenity had already arrived on the soundless feet of a servant. Lysaer let his aching frame sink into the cushions, and clasped the filled goblet pressed into his hand. As he sipped, he regarded his prodigal officer: lean as a prized hound, and burned ruddy from weeks in the harsh southern sun. As the drink hit his belly, a slow thaw began. 'You took the time starting the pressed men in training?'

  'So you'll see.' Sulfin Evend lifted his glass in salute. 'Your health.'

  Those eyes, level grey, were relentlessly keen. The straight brows and cleft chin could intimidate also, when coupled with acid silence. Lysaer had not forgotten the intractable will, which refused to bow as an underling. Bone-tired, he also regretted the fact he had missed this hard man as a friend. Anger and hurt for the extended absence became much too difficult to sustain. 'Your hatred will never relent, for the witches.'

  'I don't trust them,' Sulfin Evend replied. 'There's a difference.' He never blinked, before he attacked. 'How did you fare with the Koriani Prime? Was the interview your choice, or hers?'

  Lysaer hissed and sat up, catching a dollop of spilled wine in his lap. 'Demon!' he snapped. 'Has it escaped your notice? We have wounded men under charitable care by the auspices of her order. Some are your finest. They won't arise hale, if you haven't heard, without somebody's spellcrafted surgery.'

  Then we're haunted by piteous visions of invalids, done up in unguents and bandages?' Sulfin Evend's teeth flashed as he tasted the fine vintage, then set the goblet aside with an irritable click on the map trestle. 'No. The grey robes and the novices do such menial work. Never, the Prime Matriarch or her secretive clutch of scarlet-ranked seniors! Don't pretend that's not Selidie's pavilion pitched in the midst of their camp. What did she ask of you, Lysaer? Don't hedge!'

  'Nothing' A drawn second passed, while the wine spill soaked in, and the rumpled blond hair shimmered to a run of fine trembling. Lysaer shut bruised eyes. The Matriarch asked for nothing. I was there to attend to my casualties. No more and no less.'

  Disadvantaged, Lysaer reopened pinched lids. This was Sulfin Evend, who mauled every pretence at subterfu
ge. The man deserved an honest hearing; had earned the right, since his heroic role at Avenor, which defeated a deadly incursion by necromancers. Against the last campaign's legions of dead, and the nightmare whispers that tormented his dreams, Lysaer had no bastion left. Distrust of this man became a barrier too high for fraught strength to maintain.

  "The Matriarch passed through,' he admitted. 'She tried conversation, perhaps even tested the tentative grounds for an overture of alliance. I gave my refusal without ever showing her anything more than my back.'

  'Then be assured, we are her acting tools in this game,' Sulfin Evend declared in soft venom. He thrust to his feet. Gave way and paced, and at last the candlelight caught him: more haggard than lean, and fretted inside by unease that spurred him to restlessness. 'Don't underplay that woman's power, or underestimate her long reach. Her initiates act, never knowing her reasons. The arcane trickery wielded by her nest of harpies surpasses the meaning of dangerous. I want the Prime's motive for showing her face, here. Because as things stand, I don't like the taste of knowing we're used as her game pawns.'

  'Are we?' Lysaer regarded his Lord Commander, astonished to realize: the man was needled by more than gruff nerves and exhaustion. The concern that reordered the war camp at speed was lashed on by the Matriarch's presence.

  'If not for testing the climate for friendship,' Lysaer pressed, 'the Koriani Prime might be here because my half-brother's made the sisterhood his inveterate enemy.'