by Janny Wurts
Copyright
HarperVoyager
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2017
Copyright © Janny Wurts 2017
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Jacket illustration © Janny Wurts
Janny Wurts asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007313914
Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780007384426
Version: 2017-09-07
Dedication
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Maps
Sword of the Canon: Timeline with relevant dates
I. Duress
II. Entanglement
III. Fissure
IV. Debacle
V. Misfit
VI. Interval
VII. Sidesteps
VIII. Fifth Upset
IX. Secrets
X. Riddle
XI. Black Dawn
XII. Exigencies
XIII. Expedient
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Maps
Sword of the Canon
Timeline with relevant dates
—5671/5672 A rash move: Dakar the Mad Prophet uses his Fellowship authority to attach Rathain’s crown with an oath of debt to the Koriathain, enabling Elaira to make use of the sisterhood’s knowledge to salvage Prince Arithon’s life. While she does invoke her initiate training to recall Arithon’s strayed spirit, she alters a very intricate ritual to create a Grand Confluence, making her healer’s lore adhere to the Major Balance precepts taught by Ath’s adepts. This change based on free will replicates an original, extremely ancient construct, historically stolen from the Biedar tribe by the Koriathain.
—The Biedar crone on Athera intervenes: through Elaira’s alteration, she seizes a thread of the working, and when the subsequent conception of a child occurs, calls the spirit of one of her tribal ancients to be reincarnated as Arithon’s daughter, born to Glendien at Althain Tower.
—Interim events following Stormed Fortress
—5672 Birth of Teylia to Glendien at Althain Tower.
—Elaira returns to the Koriathain under summons.
—5674 Arithon is betrayed and taken captive by the Koriathain, ignorant of Dakar’s oath of debt to the crown, since all that occurred at Athir to save him was kept secret.
—Pressured by the Prime’s threat to Elaira’s life as leverage to break him, Arithon sequesters all of his memories of her, together with his perilous knowledge of Grey Kralovir necromancy, into the emerald signet ring of Rathain, which is protected under Fellowship auspices, and guarded by Elaira as his handfast beloved.
—5674 The Fellowship Sorcerers gamble with extreme risk: to prevent Arithon’s immediate destruction at the hands of the Prime Matriarch, Kharadmon collapses the star wards that are holding back a mass invasion by Marak’s free wraiths. Prime Selidie is forced to negotiate, or see the world become devoured, since only a Masterbard’s art can ameliorate the threat.
—The Koriani Prime drives a harsh bargain: for a stay of execution, to last only until the last free wraith is settled, she demands that Sethvir surrender guardianship of Teylia to the sisterhood to seal the bargain.
—5676 Teylia is oathsworn as an initiate Koriathain. Her training to become the Prime’s successor is a disaster, her untrained power so great that every crystal she touches shatters.
—5683 The Great Schism: Lysaer abandons the Religion of Light in Tysan and retires to the mayor’s seat at Etarra. True Sect split of the faithful establishes a High Temple at Erdane.
—5688 Reform Years begin in Rathain: Lysaer’s justice creates a treaty with High Earl Barach that establishes fair law and brings stable peace with the clans of Rathain.
—5691 First Book of Canon Law and True Sect law is established at Erdane by the True Sect priests.
—5867 Drake War fought to a standstill by Fellowship Sorcerers at Penstair.
—5902 Treaty signed between True Sect zealots in Tysan and the Crown of Havish establishes a tenuous accord, to expire upon the death of the reigning queen.
Initiate’s Trial
—5922 Last free wraith from Marak is redeemed, and Arithon’s stay of execution is forfeit. On that hour, Teylia arranges for his release, without any of his prior memories, which alters him enough that the Koriathain cannot track him.
—Asandir relinquishes charge of Arithon’s fate back to the Prime Matriarch in a formal audience held at Whitehold, where he swears the Fellowship of Seven to a binding of nonintervention.
—The Prime Matriarch’s death spell to destroy Arithon through a blood binding backfires and claims Teylia’s life in his stead, leaving Arithon as a fugitive on his own devices.
—Arithon takes refuge with Tarens and his family on a croft near Kelsing in Tysan.
—5922 Dakar is summarily discharged as a Fellowship apprentice and evicted from Althain Tower.
—Elaira sets off to seek the Biedar crone and becomes bearer of a flint knife with arcane properties.
—Asandir swears Daliana sen Evend to Lysaer’s service to curb the effects of the Mistwraith’s curse.
—5922-5923 True Sect priests raid the crofters’ home under suspicion they harbour a heretic, and Tarens kills the examiner. He and Arithon take flight under close-pressed pursuit into Caithwood.
—5923 Arithon wakens the wardings of Caithwood to evade an invasion by hostile pursuit, blending ancient knowledge of the Paravians, the Fellowship Sorcerers, and his bard’s arts.
—A resonant intersection in time/space allows High Earl Jieret to bequeath his memories to Tarens.
—A plot by Koriathain and True Sect priests triggers the Mistwraith’s curse, causing Lysaer to abdicate the mayor’s seat at Etarra, join the True Sect cause, and lead the Light’s invasion of Havish.
—A bold move by three clan children: Siantra s’Idir, Khadrien, and Esfand s’Valerient steal the sword Alithiel and set off to seek Prince Arithon.
—Tarens falls out with Arithon after a narrow escape from the True Sect at Torwent. The pair part company, Tarens to escort a band of refugees to safe haven with the High King of Havish at Fiaduwynne, and Arithon to take flight eastward, where he hides in plain sight as a healer in the True Sect war host.
—The great drake, Seshkrozchiel, goes into hibernation, and Luhaine, the Fellowship colleague who is still discorporate and therefore able to survive, assumes the burden of Davien’s bargain.
—Battle of Lithmarin: The Hatche
t’s campaign to defeat the crown of Havish and seize Arithon sweeps across Lanshire, pinning Arithon against the shores of Lithmarin. A heroic stand by Havish’s war band wins the opening for Arithon’s escape, but the activation of the Crown Jewels and the land’s attuned power come at the tragic price of High King Gestry’s death.
—An impulsive move: Siantra, Esfand, and Khadrien are under Tarens’s escort home when Khadrien tries to borrow Asandir’s horse to deliver the sword Alithiel to Prince Arithon, who is in flight. The boy gets separated from his companions on the battle-field, and is ignominiously thrown, leaving him unhurt but on foot.
—The loose horse is subsequently caught by Arithon, and the sword it carries is recovered while he flees over the border of Melhalla.
—Dakar and Daliana remove Lysaer from the field at Lithmarin while the war host is still dazed and spirit him away into the barrens of Scarpdale.
Destiny’s Conflict
The season is spring in Third Age Year 5923
Late Spring 5923 Stone as my impartial witness, behold!
The Terms of the Fellowship’s stay of execution for
Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn are withdrawn.
Crown debt to Rathain, sworn at Athir, is confirmed.
Koriathain are freed to determine his Grace’s fate,
henceforward.
—Asandir’s oath of nonintervention
witnessed in stone at Whitehold Third Age Year 5922
I. Duress
Lysaer awoke, groggy, his nostrils clogged with the parched taint of volcanic rocks and blown sulphur. His reflexive cough raised an aching complaint from cramped limbs. He lay bound hand and foot. His stubbled cheek rested against the rough boards of a wagon-bed, splotched by old blood-stains and sliced by the shadows cast by a sturdy, spoked wheel. Dizzy and sick, left with the disjointed recall of a battle, Lysaer squinted through glare and identified the transport the surgeons’ corps sent to move the Light’s wounded.
Which made no sense. He had sustained no injury. Lashed in discomfort, he stirred, annoyed, then lifted his head, furious enough to lambaste the healer who had miscalled his condition. But the wagon loomed empty. No other casualties sprawled, strapped into splints or field bandages. His confused survey met only burlap sacks of provisions, two barrels of ale seared with Cainford tax brands, and a crate of bottled brandy, then the knotted leads fixed to five head of horseflesh, hitched to the cargo rings meant to lash field tents.
Evidently, the dray was not hauling the surgeon’s gear in the baggage train. Lysaer heard no chatter, no gossiping wash-women. The baked air was not clouded with dust from the lance companies’ ranks or popped by the whip-cracks of the war host’s outriders. The vehicle was parked in full sun, in a desert without habitation.
Lysaer gritted his teeth. He tried to roll over, jerked against tight restraint. Whoever bound him also had trussed his frame in oiled canvas. Which extreme measure suggested the horror of madness inflicted by Desh-thiere’s curse, and far worse: the recall of a shameful act, fraught with pain sufficient to break him.
He had killed again, wantonly mass murdered innocents in an act beyond human conscience.
The coward in him preferred not to bear what could never be reconciled. Thousands of times, over hundreds of years, the voice of self-censure condemned him: better he died than survive to fall prey to the next wretched bout of insanity. Logic destroyed the weakness of delusion, that he ever had owned the brute will to defeat the forces that rode him.
Lysaer tested his bonds with a useless tug. Strap leather and rope reinforced with wrapped wire redoubled his crushing despair. Someone’s pitiless foresight already had thwarted the pitch of his desperation. Conjured light could not singe him free. Not without crippling damage to both hands and feet, or risk of igniting the oil-soaked tarp bundled over him. Without recourse, he breathed, while the midday sun scorched the air into ripples. Only pride stifled his frustrated groan.
Lysaer raised his chin. Plagued by a throbbing headache, he surveyed his surroundings to see whose mishandling imposed the ignominy.
Nothing met his eye past the wagon’s edge. Just barren ground: an unbroken flatland of parched lava and gravel. The stabbing flash of flecked mica melted seamlessly into the shimmer of heat-waves. Yet he was not alone. Two of his captors locked horns, beyond view, with a grainy voice Lysaer recognized as Dakar’s shouting over the other’s obstinate protest. “No. That would get us fricassied for betrayal the instant he starts to wake up!”
Dread retreated a fraction. Perhaps his nightmare fear was a phantom. Lysaer eavesdropped, hopeful the dispute haggled over the terms for a ransom by Elkforest’s barbarians.
“I won’t shoulder that risk!” Dakar ranted on. “Yes, I lack the main strength. No ranging ward I might weave can subdue an elemental mastery of light. Be patient for another few days. At least until I’ve ascertained we’re clear of Arithon’s fatal proximity.”
Which callous mention of that accursed name triggered Desh-thiere’s geas. Whiplashed by the assault, Lysaer shuddered in agony. The vicious drive to embrace wholesale ruin set his wits under siege. He battled for reason, as always. Clung to the rags of free choice: not to blast everything within reach with a levin bolt charged to melt stone into magma. He suffered in recoil. While the primal torrent surged to consume him, the gall of repeated past failures made a mockery of his resistance.
Torment wrung a gasp from him.
The sound stopped the ongoing argument. Gravel grated. Someone’s scuffed tread approached.
Lysaer twisted for confrontation. Any frail stay to distract him from the drive of the curse.
Glare stabbed his eyes like needles to the brain. Squinting against the white dazzle of sky, he made out the loom of volcanic formations grotesquely weathered and eroded with crumbling arches. Then a shadow flicked over him. A clownish face eclipsed his view, raffishly bearded and wisped with grey hair, streaked by faded chestnut. Cheeks and snub nose wore a peeled scald of sunburn on a countenance stripped of forbearance.
Dakar snapped, “Don’t think to put on your statesman’s mask, Lysaer! I’ll stand for no pretence. Are you able to govern your natural mind? Or speak with frank honesty? Then defend your case. Convince me that you didn’t kill her.”
Which test of trustworthiness needed no name. Viciously personal, the accusation frayed the last thread of sane balance. Lysaer bridled. He sucked an offended breath through clenched teeth. Whether to plead or to scream became moot: as if human language existed to stem the cascade towards disaster.
The idiot spellbinder lectured, oblivious. “This is not Sithaer, but a place in the Scarpdale Waste called the Stacks. Before you cry foul, accept your lot, held under my charge in good faith.”
Lysaer’s temper ignited. His lethal retort in pure light tipped towards destructive release.
Dakar yelped. Eyes widened, he scrambled too late for a stop-gap intervention. Yet what murderous damage might have ensued, his unseen companion’s blow, swung from behind, clipped Lysaer’s nape like Dharkaron’s vengeance.
He dropped limp, hurled back into black-out unconsciousness.
Saved, but not sanguine, Dakar rebounded from shock and glared at his slighter accomplice. “That’s thanks for the killing strike I didn’t field?” he shouted in caustic astonishment. “Best hope your crude remedy didn’t crack his Lordship’s thick skull.”
Daliana hurled aside her makeshift bludgeon: a chunk of fire-wood, padded at need with a grimy Sunwheel surcoat. The billet thudded into the wagon-bed next to Lysaer’s slack form. “Necessity,” she stated, crisp. Stripped to a squire’s shirt and torn hose, she scrambled over the tail-board and knelt to examine her prostrate victim.
Blond and royal-born, chiselled to a statuesque fitness made to bring sculptors to rapture, Lysaer looked, every inch, like the downfallen avatar worshipped by the Light’s faithful. Unwashed, dishevelled in his soiled white tunic, he sprawled with an unconscious majesty designed to wreak female havoc. A stone
heart could but melt at the sight of such helplessness, trussed ankle and wrist in looted strap leather.
Daliana’s features already softened as she explored Lysaer’s goose-egg bruise. “This wants ice.” Flushed by shameless regret, she leaned on Dakar’s scant sympathy. “Might you fashion a construct to freeze a piggin of water?”
“My sleep spell wouldn’t have dunted his noggin,” Dakar grumbled with reproach.
“No.” Daliana unfurled the surcoat from the billet and wadded a pillow for her liege’s bashed head. “But your callous comment left his Lordship no civilized course to salve his wounded pride. Someone had to do that for him.”
When Dakar said nothing, she straightened, contrite, a tanned, slender minx with tawny eyes fierce enough to outface a tigress. She brushed back chocolate hair that a fortnight in barren country had tangled for want of a comb. “Your sack of wound remedies includes poppy? Then perhaps a tisane for headache could be added to his next dose of valerian.”
But when her concession to further drugged sleep failed to lift the fat spellbinder’s frown, Daliana lost patience. “You claimed Asandir had swept Lanshire clear of The Hatchet’s war host under Fellowship mandate!”
“He has.” Dakar’s pouched eyes blinked with injury. “My scrying shows the last companies of rear-guard have withdrawn past Havish’s northern border.”
“Since when?” Her irritable gesture encompassed the spires of lava, pocked in between with ash pits and hot springs rimed with bilious mineral deposits, plumed geysers, and steaming mud pots. “Why are we still skulking like rats in a place fit only for scorpions and lizards?”
Dakar deflated. Careless of splinters, he perched on the dray, which was flat, without shade for relief since an awning increased visibility. “The orderly troops have departed. But I cannot trace every straggler or the criminal bands of deserters.” He cut her off. “Oh, yes! There are rogues holed up in the Storlain foot-hills. They’ll be making their furtive way on the sly. Hungry enough to slaughter our draft team or kill for the theft of a horse.” He need not broach rape. Not after Daliana had braved the peril of the Light’s war camp. Alone, without a stitch of protection beyond several daggers and a lance squire’s dress, she must acknowledge her personal vulnerability.
