Destiny’s Conflict: Book Two of Sword of the Canon Read online

  Dace worked on deck in the half-light. Supplied with a heated bucket and soap, he took a razor to his liege’s neglected grooming. The rigid jaw being scraped exposed his liege’s clamped tension. Yet Lysaer withheld criticism or encouragement. Dispatched along with his scruff of blond beard, the care-free banter with the lugger’s crew: again the aristocrat, he endured his subordinate’s handling in withdrawn reserve.

  Dace fretted, hoping the rude setting excused his inexperience; while under fog, a port only know at second hand through its history came awake at the water-front.

  High and sweet, the temple bells sounded carillons, stitched by the cries of hawkers and gulls, female laughter, and swearing stevedores. Staccato clacks spoke of board shutters being thrown back on the wharf-side trinket stalls. Miralt had been settled since the early Third Age. Its wide crescent harbour cut into the Camris headland, ice-bound through the winter. The seasonal bloom of brisk trade swarmed over the bones of what had been, for centuries, a back-country settlement: until the Light’s avatar first disclosed his divine mission in the open street.

  A riot sparked off by a captured assassin had been quelled, and a ravening mob stunned into an awed retreat. Yet the spectacular display of Light unleashed then did not explain Lysaer’s reticence. His brooding more likely stemmed from the time of the Great Schism recorded in True Sect scripture.

  The brutal, eye-witness memoir penned in Sulfin Evend’s personal journals provided perspective. The liegeman who had stood his adamant ground for Lysaer’s sanity became a contentious target after the fall of Alestron. The fighting man’s rankled script described his battle-worn troops, denied victory spoils to shoulder the refugee crisis incited by the wrathful dragon that unleashed a fire-storm on Avenor. Amid the smoking ruin, Sulfin Evend’s account sketched the priesthood’s seditious influence. Gouged pen-strokes reflected his efforts to blunt the influence of Desh-thiere’s curse: and which prevailed. Lysaer’s sensible policy had backed Fellowship edict and jilted the priesthood’s demand to rebuild Avenor’s slagged ruin.

  But the triumph had incurred an unthinkable price.

  Then and now, gadded by the Mistwraith’s directive, Lysaer wrestled to curb a fanatically entrenched religion. Again, his pursuit of responsible justice might tip zealotry over the brink.

  Once, Sulfin Evend’s command of armed force had contained the volatile storm like a lightning-rod. His muscular will had transplanted the High Temple’s disputed authority to Erdane. Statecraft and political acumen tempered the Light’s runaway creed, until his heroic, relentless support became undermined by filthy rumours. The jackal pack of his rivals had scented blood in the cries of apostasy from the priests, until charges of collaboration with Fellowship sorcery named him the Heretic Betrayer.

  Dace laid aside the razor and shivered. The perils bequeathed by that past had grown teeth, with centuries of Canon doctrine given a deadlier reach. The battle about to be joined held no quarter if, under the fresh threat of curse-born madness, Lysaer resumed his brash fight to disband the religion.

  Dace reached for the towel, awake to the fury that hardened the shaved jaw-line he blotted dry. The sen Evend descendant could only mourn the ancestral courage that once had foiled the repeated forays of hired assassins. The terrible price spoke yet on the page where Sulfin Evend’s firm grasp on the pen was cut off, reft by the poisoned cup that the priests’ machinations arranged for his downfall.

  Etarran history recorded the aftermath, stripped of the desolate grief: of the beleaguered flight out of Tysan, while Sulfin Evend lay comatose, undone by the near-fatal attack, which left him blinded and crippled with palsy.

  The cryptic summary resumed months later, the fallen champion’s slurred words recorded by a punctilious scribe. Compiled for posterity, that piercing entry shouldered the blame for the mis-step that cost Lysaer his control over the Light’s dedicate troops.

  No chronicle spoke of the intimate strain, or the fear, as Lysaer had defied the swords of the temple war host to salvage the life of his helpless friend. True Sect scripture enshrined only the poisoned account of the Heretic Betrayer’s corrupted influence. Canon history of the Great Schism insisted that Lysaer s’Ilessid had turned apostate to the Light’s cause.

  By unadorned truth, the withdrawal from Erdane had been triggered by ambush, and the harried retreat across Camris, a feat to save Sulfin Evend, condemned by a Sunwheel decree and at risk of being savaged by a zealot mob. Lysaer had been forced to wield light against his deluded pursuit. When the galley he seized escaped to sea out of Miralt, she had rowed into the gales of late autumn, while the handful of trustworthy officers forestalled her pursuit at the dock.

  Of the bravest and best, none had survived to reach haven under the governor’s law at Etarra.

  Oppressed by that history, Dace oiled the razor, and heaved the bucket of suds over the lee-side rail. No surprise, that his liege’s expression stayed wooden. For Lysaer, the clangour of temple bells and the northcoast combers breaking like slivered glass bespoke the ghosts of his sacrificed dead.

  On this day, ruthlessly living, the faithful had multiplied a thousandfold. The True Sect Canon ruled Miralt, the established order emerged into view as the early mist lifted.

  The dazzle of gold winkled first, where slant sunlight polished the egg-shell domes gilded over by temple revenue. Visible next, the milk outlines of buildings, block towers, and the spindled rails of the galleries crowning the headland in many-tiered splendour. Dull trade port no longer, the Light’s worship had repaved the town in palatial opulence, a necklace that shimmered like opal along the wide curve of the harbour. Shrines and sanctuaries and hostels overlooked the bleached wharves, where, in summer, the galleys of the Sunwheel priesthood rocked gently, their pencilled spars varnished citrine and amber, and rigging strung with white pennants streamed gold fringe like the glister of sparkling wine.

  A fair vista, nested with coiled adders, and an insane prospect for a covert venture.

  Breeze shivered the dew from the lines. Through the spangle of droplets, a skiff drawn up alongside delivered the pilot to steer the squat lugger to her paid dockage.

  “I’ll be changing clothes,” Lysaer informed his servant. “Brush up a doublet and trousers tailored in plain cloth of respectable quality. Afterward, if you please, have my luggage strapped up and brought topside for landing.”

  Lysaer’s choice to enter Miralt without artifice made tactical sense to his valet. The jewels sold off to hire his passage left coin enough for a respectable boarding house lodging. Discarded also, the pretext of station, where glittering ornament would have attracted undue envy and curiosity. Yet modest trappings and impeccable manners allowed an unknown young man of good looks into the upper-crust practice hall. Lysaer was admitted to the stylish baths frequented by the unmarried dedicates and the idle rich.

  Dace observed the seamless acceptance, primly composed, from the side-lines. A proper clean towel draped on his arm and his master’s kit parked at his feet, he was skirted like furniture by the more stylish servants. Many an impoverished aristocrat visited Miralt for holy penance, attended by faithful old serving-men.

  But even plain cambric and linen could not reduce Lysaer to anonymity. His skill with the sword sparked whispered comments. Dace adhered to propriety. He disclosed nothing to sate the curious bystanders though ragged nerves made him sweat when an off-hand remark likened his master’s fair grace to the beauty of the divine avatar. Since Lysaer never mentioned his background, his admirers speculated on their own.

  “Likely he’s from a family with too many sons and limited prospects,” suggested the whiskered fellow who managed the idlers’ wagers.

  Heads nodded. Many an ambitious sprig came to Miralt chasing his youthful dreams. Scholarly hopefuls applied to the Light’s priests at the temple. The fiery idealists who craved adventure flaunted their prowess at arms, where their mettle might earn them a dedicate captaincy.

  “That one needn’t lather himself in the
ranks,” a wistful bravo observed.

  His stout companion added a smirk. “Handsome enough to break hearts as he is? The right bed or marriage could better his station without risking his pretty neck.”

  “Do you think?” another gallant remarked. “Those lovely blue eyes might string the ladies along. That heiress from Erdane whose father dropped buckets of gold as a temple offering? Well, she tried to plaster herself to his side. Got her charms refused with sweet words and no interest.”

  Dace fretted, distressed by more than feminine overtures. Within two days, as the hall’s avid sportsmen learned not to waste silver on Lysaer’s opponents, the Sunwheel officers jockeyed to cultivate him as a recruit.

  Their target smiled with disarming candour. Folded into their circle, he consented to spar with the elite dedicates in their company.

  Ever discreet, Dace brought dry towels as bidden. He fetched water, not amused by the performance of youthful innocence. Lysaer risked lethal stakes, blindsiding Miralt’s most devout professionals. How long before veteran sword-play sussed out the experienced ripostes Lysaer withheld from his side of the practice match?

  A week passed without incident. Too personable to seem devious, Lysaer masqueraded a talent too raw to clinch a decisive bout. Dace watched male vanity played without shame to side-step social restraints. A hired valet must support the brash act, while the back-slapping, over-confident victors swept their glum loser along to the bath.

  There, hot water eased battered muscles, and more: amid rosy intimacy and veiling steam, Lysaer’s guile gave teeth to the statesman’s weapon of neutral silence. Loosened conversation echoed into the dressing-room where, meekly waxing his master’s boots, Dace watched the ploy of green innocence inveigle the dedicates’ confidence.

  “… be fighting aplenty, lad. Not only against unbelievers, but the worst breeding enclaves of black practice. Opportunity’s ripe! The move against clanblood opens up a rare chance for early promotion.”

  A mumbled answer, then somebody’s laugh, punched through by a derisive comment, “Well, who said an engagement with free-wilds barbarians gilds a man’s prowess with honour?”

  Through splashes, a gravel voice added, “A campaign led by head-hunters? No detail for faint hearts. It’s like stalking beasts at perilous risk, rife with horrors and gutless wickedness.”

  “Ah, lad, don’t be cozened,” a risen tenor cut through. “D’you suppose we’d give warning in jest? The pestilent creatures lay traps that can butcher an armed man like a noosed animal.”

  Another’s grumble capped that salacious comment, “… not unjustified … the High Temple’s order dispatched The Hatchet to slaughter them to their last woman and child.”

  Metallic chinks from across the dressing-room betrayed the sullen mood of the temple novices assigned to polish the dedicates’ harness. They clumped like inquisitive ferrets, adolescent heads shaved and toothpick limbs clothed in white tunics. Most had been sworn to the Light since their birth. Others were street orphans, inducted as penance for thievery. Past question, their strict sensibilities disapproved of the gossip bandied between their superiors.

  Dace played blind and deaf. He reinspected his morning’s handiwork. The packed kit at his feet was immaculate, the brushed clothing hung, with fresh towels readied for the moment his liege emerged from the communal pool. Yet Dace could not shake a sharp onset of chills, or dismiss the overt reproach the acolytes nursed at his back.

  A servant could not bridle his master’s audacity, while the northland days passed one by one and assumed the cadence of habit.

  The master arose before dawn. Shaved and dressed, he sat for his breakfast, then left on his own, clad informally. Chores left Dace no recourse to track what transpired in the misty streets. He tidied the bed, dropped yesterday’s clothes at the laundress, fetched those cleaned, and made purchases at the market. Back by daybreak to attend daily practice at arms, he carried his liege’s light armour and sword. After the Light’s officers dispersed to their duties, Lysaer ordered a meal at one of the wine-shops frequented by the idle rich. A servant was privy to their casual talk though he was forbidden to sit at table. Dismissed to lug his master’s kit back to the boarding-house, Dace fetched water, cleaned harness, and freshened the clothes chests, wash-basin, and towels.

  His liege retired in the early afternoon, closeted with his correspondence. The letters were never left at large, unsealed. Lysaer hired the couriers himself. The wax for his cover sheets was frugal brown, impressed with a flourished initial, but use of the red wax tucked in the drawer suggested a second seal, nested inside, the weightiest dispatches signed under the Lord Governor’s cartouche. Those would be destined for recipients linked into the network allied to Etarra. Exiled under alias at Miralt Head, Lysaer kept in touch with his informants elsewhere.

  Dace never rifled the missives or pried in his master’s absence. The exemplary servant knew trust must be earned.

  Meanwhile, the dread wracked him, deep in the night and through the agonized days while the sun baked the roof-tiles outside the dormer. His facade masked the turmoil of uncertain thought and strained ears constantly listening. To the pulse of temple processions and prayer bells, Dace memorized the back alleys and by-lanes, and tracked the overheard talk within the walled courtyards. Under noon heat, and the limp flap of the Sunwheel banners, he walked wary, past the hypnotic chants of the priests. He observed idlers, striped azure in afternoon’s shade, where dicers and craftsmen mingled over beer for the latest news from the port.

  His hours of solitude could have dragged, awaiting his master’s whim. But Dace seized the chance to polish his expertise. He thoroughly knew how to maintain a wardrobe but redressed his inability to barber hair. A seamstress taught him to turn hems like a tailor. He practised the poise of a genteel valet, then callused his hands buffing buttons and boots until the temple’s burnished-gold spires dimmed against the citrine sunset. Lysaer always returned when the bell towers shivered the air with the evening carillons.

  His Lordship expected his bath and a change of wardrobe. Immersed in the finicky details, Dace saw his master dressed in style for Miralt’s elite society. Whether his liege stalked the ball-rooms, or pursued the High-Temple’s secretive policy amid the crush of the aristocrats’ wine parlours, the servant who botched his personal appointments would receive short shrift and dismissal.

  Grateful the close air masked his sweating nerves, Dace laced and tied off silken-cord points and blessed the simplicity of summer attire. Dagged sleeves, starched cuffs, and velvet doublets were not fashionable until autumn. Left at leisure, he could eat his frugal meal, then wash before he emptied the bath.

  “You needn’t wait up,” Lysaer always said, arisen to leave in the shadow of dusk.

  “My lord is too gracious.” Ever deferent, Dace clicked the door shut after his liege’s departure.

  Yet he never retired to his cot in the closet under the eaves. Dace sat wakeful by the open casement and lit the lamp when his master’s tread mounted the outside stair. Silent as Lysaer undressed, he received and hung the used clothes, gleaning sparse clues from the fabric: often the musk of temple incense, combined with the dampness of tensioned sweat, or the whiff of acrid smoke ingrained from the taverns. Watchfulness gauged his master’s mood, and accounted the hours of restless sleep from Lysaer’s crumpled sheets come the morning.

  The frisson of Dace’s instincts led to clenched teeth to keep his own counsel. He smothered the impulse to flinch when the pigeons winged aloft, bearing temple messages over distance.

  Lysaer s’Ilessid refused to confide. A spirit bent on a vengeful mission, he acted, implacably fuelled by royal justice, and shame, haunted guilt, and the pattern of inward self-loathing. The grievance of Sulfin Evend’s demise would be driving his deep-set recrimination. To stir the poison would undermine hope and destroy what must be a precarious bid for requital.

  Summer’s height brought the shimmering heat of a glass furnace, and no crack in the s
hield of propriety. The master pursued his pitched course, while the servant recorded the creeping change: slight differences, adequate cause for alarm as Lysaer altered his style on the practice floor, extending himself just enough to decisively win a few matches. Dace observed the most astute veterans shift their outlook, snapped short by an unforeseen depth of experience. Fair-haired and serene, Lysaer fielded their surprise. He smoothed over the stinging transition from arrogant superiority with cool wit, while a stunned hush fell over the officers’ bath, and the faces of the attendant novices resharpened to salacious suspicion.

  There came the late night under candlelight when Dace found a mark scorched by Light on his master’s linen cuff. Somewhere, tonight, a select few in Miralt shared the dangerous secret of Lysaer’s identity. The only reason would be to spear-head an inside conspiracy. Frozen by dread, Dace hung the singed garment. He poured the warmed wash-water, hoping his trembling would pass unremarked in the flow of routine.

  “Ath above, you’re drained white!” Lysaer lowered his hands, wet from rinsing his face in the basin.

  “A man comes to care,” murmured Dace without blinking. “Should that cause astonishment?”

  Lysaer regarded him, blue eyes level with frightening honesty. “No. As well as I, you must be aware I’ve been courting the leap to disaster.”

  Dace proffered the towel. “What use to speak out of turn?” A single mis-step could upset the game, either through a zealot’s public exposure or by the swift back-stab of righteous betrayal.

  “A man comes to care,” Lysaer shot back, shoved erect without taking the offering. Blank as a cameo, he added, “By every honourable code, I ought to dismiss you for your own safety.”