Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  ‘… a mad and unthinkable proposition!’ shouted the westshore’s ranked captain, stabbing an adamant finger. ‘We must withdraw the troops. Now! Abandon this siege. Make a swift return by sea and relieve Tysan’s crown seat at Avenor!’

  ‘Such a journey, in winter? That’s fanciful folly!’ The advisor assigned from Kalesh slammed the planks with a meaty fist.

  While map counters jounced and pinged like flung shot, more objection shrilled from the side-lines. ‘You couldn’t stage such a move! Or deploy enough men to make a damned difference before the spring.’

  That heated point became trampled by the hard-bitten Etarran, left in charge of the field at Alestron. ‘Today’s crisis would already be settled before our galleys sailed halfway round the continent!’

  More contenders clamoured, a deafening chorus demanding instant redress: here, a man urged retaliation for the scores of unburied dead. There, a pack of garrison captains howled for punitive action against an upsurge of desertions.

  ‘We’re facing a disastrous outbreak of crumbling morale!’

  ‘Troubles enough, right here where we stand. This campaign’s under sore threat of failure!’

  ‘But damage to Tysan’s crown regency? Surely disaster on that scale claims precedence!’ That yelp, no soldier’s, came from the seneschal, who managed the ledgers and finance. His clerkly objections became shouted down.

  ‘We’re no pack of nurse-maids employed by the guilds! We took arms to fight Shadow! Not to salve the set-backs to trade, or to guard against the hard-luck losses of merchants.’

  Steel flashed, as a hothead waved a drawn blade. ‘Should our assured victory here be abandoned, and for naught but crying hysterics?’

  Fists shook, to clashing volleys of insults. The smaller disturbance that ruffled the crowd pushed inward, largely unnoticed. Still muffled, the traveller elbowed up to the forefront. As the disarranged officers spun to take umbrage, or snarled to bar his advance, a glance at the face beneath the draped hood forgave the insistent passage. Near enough, now, to gain view of the trestle, the arrival caught a whiff of exotic perfume.

  That fair scent as foul warning, he realized what had thrashed the campaign to backbiting discord.

  Flooded in candlelight, the majestic, stilled figure in the head chair would always command the eye first: Lysaer s’Ilessid, regaled in white and gold, and groomed to the glacial polish that screamed danger to any who knew him. The clasped hands were carved marble, gleaming with rings; the butter-cap hair a combed halo. Before his carved seat, as resplendent in purple velvet banded with red, a slender young woman perched with both hands clasped in a muff of white lynx. The Prime Matriarch of the Koriathain was arrived in state, a striking pale cameo with steel-hard eyes next to her mousy attendant.

  That woman, also, did not deign to rise. Her arranged poise displayed icy calm, while the mounting uproar destroyed decorum, despite the distraught herald’s appeals.

  The pit trap was well baited, with the cream of the war camp’s command ripe for shame, just ahead of the rope snubbed to hang them. Had tempers not flared, the veteran officers should have recalled Lysaer’s ruthless style, when driving a divisive argument to sharp cohesion.

  Sulfin Evend straight-armed his way through the last ranks to the trestle. Accosted the self-contained creature in her Matriarch’s purple as he tossed down wet gloves, with nary a pause to turn back his hood, or declare his titled identity. ‘What brings you here, you blood-sucking witch?’

  Electrically angry, he bowed with neat grace to acknowledge Lysaer s’Ilessid. Then he resumed his ferocious tirade, as his uncivil entry tore through the surrounding uproar. ‘Don’t claim you mean well by any man here! Or that you do us less than lethal harm! Not after I’ve seen the carnage your meddling has left strewn on the roadway inbound from Kalesh!’ Bitter and blazing, Sulfin Evend glared down at the Koriani Prime, who never moved. Unruffled, un wavering, her settled regard endorsed none but the Light’s Blessed Prince.

  ‘My Lord Commander, just returned to our lines from the north,’ Lysaer introduced with suave interest. He inclined his fair head, a lordly gesture that offered no apology for the sting of a favourite’s affront. ‘Answer my officer, Matriarch. His absence has kept him uninformed. Let him share the bad tidings that brought you.’

  Prime Selidie rapped a command to her grey-robed attendant, who lifted a silk-bundled parcel, tenderly guarded between watchful hands.

  ‘If your lordship will deign to see?’ Her subservient courtesy suggested rebuke as she unveiled a shimmering quartz sphere. ‘Please attend.’

  Arms folded, feet braced, and eyes tight with suspicion, Sulfin Evend shoved off his hood. He held his steady gaze on the crystal, although the stone and its entrained spells of scrying set an ache in his teeth. He endured with clamped patience as the Koriani sister unfolded a scene of disastrous impact: a wakened dragon flew free on Athera. Sulfin Evend witnessed the horrific rain of death and fire just visited upon Tysan’s defenceless citizens. The restored council hall at Avenor was laid waste: smoke and ash, all the buildings in Sunwheel Square, with their towering, golden brick keeps. The distressed murmurs and gasps, from behind, raised no comment from Sulfin Evend. When the grim scene dispersed, the Light’s Lord Commander snapped, terse, ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Yesterday’s sunset,’ the seeress replied, her prim hands busy wrapping the crystal. ‘Our sisterhood’s healers attend the survivors and shelter the displaced and infirm.’

  Sulfin Evend bestowed no praise for such charity. ‘Am I to presume that this’ – the flick of a dismissive hand encompassed the Prime Matriarch –’ visit’ – the verb cracked in withering irony –’ offers Lysaer s’Ilessid your proposal to seal a Koriani pact of alliance?’

  Selidie did not appear pained. But a rising flush spoiled her spring-lily complexion as she engaged his direct confrontation. ‘Why object to our heart-felt offer of help? You speak out of rancour. A grudge from your spurned family that’s two decades old scarcely serves the well-being of a people in sore need of their regent’s defence.’

  ‘A clever claim, truly.’ Sulfin Evend’s tight smile invited attack. ‘Don’t play me for a fool. I’m not blind. Or amenable, since both of us know the deadly nature of the little – shall we term them ‘artifacts’ – that Hanshire’s magnanimous sisterhouse saw fit to lend through my father! Whose counsel cajoled him to extend such a peril to serve the cause of the Light? Such an ugly dangerous tool, and a potent gift, perhaps sown as a gambit, that one day might risk summoning the wrath of a dragon! Don’t claim you’re ignorant, or surprised such a monster has aroused to wreak punitive havoc!’

  To Lysaer, whose royal bearing never escaped constraint, the Lord Commander pursued with acid delicacy, ‘Tell me this, as Tysan’s appointed protector: did you misplace the contents of the iron-bound coffer once bestowed by my uncle, Raiett Raven? Were the objects deemed lost when the treasury vault collapsed in the course of your brangle with necromancers?’

  A diamond flashed, jerked by Lysaer’s caught breath. His eyes, never soft, gleamed bright as chipped sapphire: he had always owned courage. Exposed to the riveted ranks of his faithful, he chose not to lie or evade. ‘As you’ve detailed, this happened. I have to say, yes.’

  Sulfin Evend regarded the Prime Matriarch with venom. ‘Madam,’ he said, low-voiced, ‘I rest my rough case.’ Then he added, unwilling to risk his turned back, even to grant his liege deference, ‘May I suggest that you send this scheming creature back to her lair? Then allow me to dismiss these men, pending my martial orders! We need a close talk in private, my liege. There are certain particular facts you should know before you find yourself hobbled in promises that steer us towards certain disaster.’

  Silk hissed, as Prime Selidie arose from her chair. Her pale, aqua eyes raked across her accuser, daggered with glittering malice. ‘No thanks, and no welcome. I shall not forget.’ She inclined her fair head to Prince Lysaer, while the unsettled gathering of officers sh
ifted clear of her startling, swift anger.

  ‘Your offer’s been heard, madam.’ Lysaer issued no platitudes. The flick of a ringed hand confirmed his magisterial dismissal. ‘I remain unconvinced of your order’s intentions. At my leave, you will return to your own, by safe-conduct and under armed escort.’

  ‘Captain Ebrar!’ Sulfin Evend barked, fast, to dispatch the watch officer. ‘See to your sovereign’s request. Send the two women packing!’

  Token insult, and more than a prideful mistake, to haze with a show of force; steel posed a useless threat to a Koriani Prime Matriarch. Selidie acknowledged defeat without flourish. Incensed that her sisterhood’s bargain was forfeit, she swept out, followed in mute obedience by her initiate.

  The disgruntled garrison officers found themselves just as summarily excused.

  ‘I have seen our harsh toll of fallen already!’ Sulfin Evend cut across their exigent demands. ‘I am well aware that we’ve suffered desertion, and more, that uncanny designs have disrupted our troops, and visited murder upon our watch-posts.’ As the loudest contenders shoved forward, unsatisfied, the Lord Commander rapped out brisk orders before the debate could revive.

  ‘You will let our casualties lie as they are! The dead are past suffering. Tomorrow, they can be brought in and tended. I would have their remains respectfully handled! Not trampled over by hot-headed forays, or an ill-starred rush to seize vengeance! Our retort, when it comes, will be savage, well-planned, and made worthy of their valiant sacrifice. Leave your prince to my conference. His justice won’t fail you. Meantime, I want an accounting of stores. A complete list of every man missing. Those tallies will be in my hands before noon, with docked pay shares attached for inaccuracy!’

  Assigned to that course of exhaustive work, the chastened officers cleared the pavilion. The last grumbling cadre had scarcely moved out, when the royal valet shot like a gangling hare from his master’s personal quarters. His gratitude met Sulfin Evend’s hard stance with a gush of effusive relief.

  ‘You’re returned, and none too soon. We’re in need your steadying presence more than you may ever know.’ A bob of his clipped head, then, ‘Allow me the honour?’

  Without pause, his fussy, peremptory hands reached to peel off the plain cloak. Belt and baldric came after, and with tsking disapproval, the travel-stained ruin of the dress surcoat trimmed in gold for state banquets. To the surprise of Lysaer s’Ilessid, Sulfin Evend endured the servant’s deft touch without a whisper of protest.

  Early Winter 5671

  Vigils

  Under moonless night sky, Dakar dissolves the final tie binding the fleet’s crewmen to Koriani compulsion, then clears the last forms and smashes the makeshift lead talisman; and as the freed victims stir, groaning, around him, he strides forward and shakes Parrien s’Brydion by the scruff: ‘Up with you, fellow! Move these wretches out! You’ve still got possession of your sorry lives, but nobody’s safe until we have you inside the citadel …’

  Herded from the Alliance encampment by a suspicious armed escort, Prime Selidie maintains her cankerous silence into the closed sanctuary of her pavilion; and before servants can remove her state clothing, she accosts the senior on watch: ‘That Hanshireman is a black bane in the path of humanity’s progress! I want him dead, or driven insane, and removed from s’Ilessid influence …!’

  Atop Watch Keep, Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn stands unbending, the sword Alithiel blazing like a live star in his fixed hands; while Elaira keeps vigil, Kyrialt’s concerned question brings anguished tears as she answers, ‘How long? By Ath’s glory, how can he keep on, sustaining a light that no mortal was fashioned to harness …?’

  Early Winter 5671

  XII.

  Third Turning

  Usual roles had reversed, with Lysaer fretted and pacing the carpet, while his war commander sprawled in an upholstered chair. Sulfin Evend toyed with a full mug of tea. His horse-stained leathers had been whisked away, along with his soiled shirt and caked boots. Now, his fisted hand propped his scrubbed jaw, still pink from a shave, while sore muscles relaxed in a thick woollen robe, lined inside with cosseting silk. Altogether, he was content not to move. A busy triumph for the opposition: the royal valet had snatched shameless advantage of an active man’s sapping exhaustion.

  ‘You’re not drinking,’ Lysaer observed. Paused between rounds, he leaned on the washstand. Beside him, the bed had not been turned down. Sleepless energy rode him, even in stillness, as he qualified with his back turned, ‘The tea brought by my servant is only spiced. Not drugged with valerian, this time. I needed this audience worse than your claim for an overdue rest.’

  Sulfin Evend measured the too-rigid set to the shoulders, beneath their flawless gold trim and velvet. The mild tone did not fool him. ‘Face me,’ he said. ‘The wine in your goblet is also untouched. You don’t drink, either, when you’re nursing distrust.’ In private, they might broach the dangerous topics too volatile for the dedicate officers. ‘I will speak as you ask for the truth.’

  ‘Very well.’ Lysaer straightened and turned around. ‘The Koriani Prime Matriarch went without fight. Too easily, in fact.’

  ‘You don’t like the sugary after-taste, either.’ Sulfin Evend inclined his head. ‘Selidie possibly has what she wants. Outraged troops will seethe to attack any target, if she seeks to ignite open warfare. Or she bowed out because my case against her bit too painfully close to the bone. That’s more likely. Having lost the initiative, her best option would be to hope the same facts might see us divided.’

  Behind regal bearing, Lysaer’s blue eyes were troubled. Quite terrifying, in fact, for their stripped vulnerability, as he regarded the war-captain who was ally and friend; and also chancy to cross as errant lightning, when his deep sensibilities conflicted. ‘You confided, once, that your uncle Raiett never lied. Yet there has been a falsehood told to me while in your presence. When the dragon-skull wards were brought before Avenor’s high council, and the arcane properties first engaged to mask our intent from the Sorcerers, I was assured that the artifacts were mislaid by the Koriathain. That Hanshire’s men salvaged them after the rebellion, when one of the order’s enclaves burned down.’

  The Lord Commander closed his chapped hand on the mug and drank, with his steel gaze dead level. ‘Raiett’s gift for evasion was without peer. He seldom admitted to all of the facts. Never, if an omission suited his hidden purposes.’ A next sip accepted goodwill at a word, that the strong tea was only a restorative. ‘My uncle may well have known that the dragonet skulls’ recovery wasn’t a kept secret from the Koriathain. If he implied tension between contentious parties, the impression misled you, since none existed. The sisterhood always has worked hand in glove with the mayor’s council of Hanshire. Raiett pursued power, in all of its forms. He could have held more than your interests at heart, aligned to an ambitious agenda. Quite possibly, up to his end in your service, he was still my father’s pawn, after all.’

  ‘And Hanshire hates royalty,’ Lysaer stated, crisp. He snapped into movement, all scintillant fire thrown off by candle-lit gems. ‘Why didn’t you warn me when those hatchling skulls were first unveiled in my presence?’ Unspoken, the remorse behind the hot fury driving his frenetic steps: Avenor had fallen! People were dead for an ignorant error, kept under an unexplained silence.

  Sulfin Evend set his cup down before his tension shattered the crockery. ‘Lysaer! Stop blaming yourself. I can’t apologize for my callow youth. I was a rebel, cast into disgrace. Not all of my father’s unsavoury intrigues were made known to me, then or now!’ The rebuttal rang abrasively loud. Too relaxed from the luxuries, and too tired to field thorny inquiry, Sulfin Evend fought to keep his sharp focus: Lysaer was anything but a fool over the betrayals of striving politics.

  ‘Don’t ever lean on my family, my liege. Never dare set your trust in them.’ Against a calm that was not complacency, alive to the quivering danger, the Light’s Lord Commander chose the straight course, which might win salvation, or
trigger disaster. Beyond pride, he aired the unsavoury history that had shadowed his paternal name for generations. ‘Our mayors have always traded dark secrets. My sire learned the practice at his grandfather’s knee, and Raiett was his closest confidant. Remember that Hanshire’s provided a roost for Koriathain all the way back to the uprising! The town’s history is ugly, its past record core-rotten with treason. The hotbed of ill craft and entangled jealousy began there, with the dissenting minds that fermented the crown massacre intended to unseat the compact.’

  ‘My regency breeds dens of adders aplenty,’ Lysaer declared, but could not hold the mask of regal objectivity over the fresh wound underneath. ‘What secretive innuendo moved you to accost the Prime Matriarch with a long-term, hostile conspiracy made hand in glove with your estranged relatives?’ Was family blood thicker than any sworn oath? ‘How can I be sure I can trust you?’

  The accusation broke across distanced shouts from outside, as a cook’s brat chased a dog run amok, and a strumpet shrieked with lewd laughter. By contrast, the diligent rustle of the polishing rag lent no comfort, nearer at hand. The valet would be listening with a keen ear, while he cleaned soiled gear in the servant’s closet.

  Sulfin Evend ignored his commander’s tuned instinct and closed out the distractions at large in the war camp. Survival right now relied on the taut figure, demanding straight answer, before him; whose coiled stillness must be adroitly handled, despite faculties flattened with weariness. Second chances were forfeit. Miscall one response, and curse-bound reaction would spin irretrievably wrong. Subtle changes made the prospect more daunting, as if tonight’s altercation somehow carried a different thrust. The soft tread on the carpet had suggested retreat, not the pantherish stalk of aggression. Lysaer assumed no airs behind his state clothing. The pique that rejected the vintage wine was not princely confidence, crying the ruler’s self-sacrifice, or the false avatar, mouthing the righteous fire of platitudes that promised triumph and glory. This yawning break was in fact hesitation. The ringed fingers that gouged restless prints in stuffed furnishings exposed a mortal man, cut to the soul by desperate entreaty. Sulfin Evend reassessed what he saw with stark care.