Traitor's Knot Page 6
Yet the enemy confronting the restored realm of Havish wielded no concrete weapon.
As the imbalanced weather kept its savage grip, the sown crops were struck cold in the fields. The rich, coastal lowlands fared no better, as frost left the ground, and the driving storms drowned the farm-steads under sheet-silver puddles and ice melt. Swollen rivers were raised to boiling flood. Sea-going galleys were forced to stay battened, snugged to moorings within sheltered harbours. The roads were awash, soaked to bogging mud, and the looming spectre was famine.
Eyes gritted red from a sleepless night, King Eldir slouched in his lion-carved chair. A large man whose presence might not seem imposing, his square chin wore steely filings of stubble and a plain circlet contained his tousle of fading brown hair. The realm’s scarlet tabard had no jewels or gold thread. His sleeve-cuffs were bare of embroidery.
In words just as blunt, he addressed a point of vacant air by the window nook. ‘Our straits are grim, Luhaine. If we can’t charter blue-water ships and skilled captains, the reserve stores we have can’t be shifted an inch.’ His irritation sprang from the exasperating fact: the best crews under sail in rough waters were associates of Arithon s’Ffalenn, whose name was political disaster.
Eldir ran on, his intent features tracking the vexed breath of air, now riffling dust from his tapestries. ‘If, as you say, the rains won’t cross the Storlains, then Havistock’s harvest won’t fail. But word’s in from Quaid. The passes to Redburn are still choked with ice. Mercy on us, the inhabited country-side’s devastated. Tomorrow, I’ll be faced with reports that more children are wasting away from starvation!’
The discorporate Sorcerer paused in response, his florid style turned painfully clipped. ‘That’s not why I’ve come. Your treasury’s not wanting. You can hire more deepwater vessels. If you’re uneasy in bed with his Grace of Rathain—’
‘That choice of alliance could start a war!’ Machiel interrupted, busy hands scraping the firing pin.
Luhaine lost patience. ‘We already have a war! I’m here to help you stay clear of it!’ To the High King, he added, ‘If you balk at liaison, then learn by example: Prince Arithon trained his captains by recruiting the cream of Eltair Bay’s smugglers.’
‘It’s his navigators we need, not his damnable sly habits!’ the Minister of Trade ventured sourly.
‘So who needs to know?’ snapped the spokesman from Mornos. ‘Men with esoteric knowledge can be kept under wraps.’
‘Who could guarantee their unsavoury characters?’ The upright, prim chancellor forgot his ribboned cuffs and folded angry forearms on top of the oil rag. ‘Would they change their stripes for a starving babe, do you think, when the same breed of henchmen cut throats in cold blood for the Master of Shadow’s assault at the Havens?’
‘That’s enough!’ Luhaine’s outburst shook the floor with an ominous, subsonic vibration. ‘Let us not sully facts with irrelevant hysteria.’
Eldir stared back with unswerving brown eyes. ‘Should I be surprised? The one accursed name always saddles us with trouble. In fact, why have you come, Luhaine?’
Machiel remembered, by his disproving glance: the last unsought message from a Fellowship Sorcerer had plunged the royal court into mayhem, playing host when Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn had required sanctioned oversight for the ransom of Lysaer’s first, ill-starred princess. As the pause hung, the caithdein broke in, sarcastic, ‘Don’t tell me the poisonous rumours are true? That Lysaer’s second wife has gone missing?’
Luhaine’s disembodied quiet stunned the air to suspended intensity.
Machiel unleashed a studied string of expletives, while the council-man who guarded the venues of trade leaned forward with fired agitation. ‘Dharkaron Avenger’s Five Horses and Chariot! An outbreak of plague couldn’t sever our rotten relations with the Alliance port towns any faster!’
King Eldir’s jaundiced calm remained fixed, even dangerous, as he challenged the Sorcerer’s silence. ‘Are you here to tell me an estranged royal wife will be scratching at my door and begging for sanctuary?’
‘No one knows what Lady Ellaine will choose,’ Luhaine responded with acid delicacy. Tired of breaking Sethvir’s packets of bad news, he would not give way and temporize. The straight possibility the princess might look south for safety could destroy the last, frayed thread of diplomacy between Havish and Tysan. Strained relations, on top of the ravages of famine, were going to rattle Avenor’s choleric ambassador harder still. ‘Served with timely warning, you can field the problem with diplomacy. I remind your Grace: the lady has borne a living son to s’Ilessid. Since she won’t realize her status under charter law, she could be advised of the fact she’s entitled to ask our Fellowship for assistance.’
Before the harsh point was argued, that the Sorcerers might not have a free hand to answer in time to forestall repercussions, Machiel interrupted. ‘But Lysaer’s son passed Fate’s Wheel. Got himself scorched to heroic cinders by a Khadrim, so we heard.’ Never fully at ease within walls, the forest-bred steward retrieved the cross-bow stock and used his skinning knife to ream out the quarrel slot. ‘We were led to understand that breaking news of the tragedy was what caused his mother’s crazed flight in the first place.’
‘Not exactly.’ The Sorcerer’s shade whisked over the patterned carpet, fanning groomed heads and lace and riffling the coals in the grate to a sullen flare of heat. ‘Prince Kevor’s still alive. An arcane recovery, not yet widely known.’ Now poised by the mantel, Luhaine’s presence all but bristled the air into hoar-frost. He required to say more. But today his fond penchant for diatribe was cut short as a hammering gust battered into the latched glass of the casement. The draught that seeped through stalled his windy voice and engendered a freezing silence.
A crowned high king attuned to all four of the elements, Eldir stood up. Braced short by his move, the wiser council-men stilled, while Machiel shivered outright and ceased his idle fuss with the workings of dismantled weaponry.
‘Spare us!’ Eldir cracked. ‘If it’s bad news for Havish, tell us quickly’
Across the wrenched pause, Luhaine’s shade stopped cold as the urgent summons dispatched from Althain’s Warden exploded across hisawareness…
…in Erdane, amid crawling shadows in a cluttered attic, a strong man stands naked within a raised warding and lays a flint knife to his wrist. His swift stroke enacts the ritual cut. As the flow of let blood wakes a flash of raw light, his shocked outcry reflects an anguished note of betrayal.
‘Oh yes, my fine man,’ whispers Enithen Tuer. ‘You have in fact consecrated that knife’s arcane properties. A binding act, born out of necessity, since that blade alone will enact your primary line of protection! Now listen well: here are the words you will swear, sealing your oath unto your dying breath, or take warning! You will fall to a hideous fate that’s far worse, and suffer the eternal consequence…’
Luhaine recovered himself, jaggedly frantic. The dropped thread of his audience closed with a rush that distressed those who knew his staid character. ‘If the bereaved s’Ilessid mother should chance to make contact, she’s best left to believe that her royal son perished.’
‘Ath’s Grace, Luhaine!’ The king’s shout chimed through the complaint of cleaned steel, as he slammed his closed fists on the table-top. ‘Don’t ask this! I can’t! The very idea’s a straight cruelty!’
The Fellowship spirit whirled in tight agitation, scattering maps and requisition lists, and setting goose-quills to flight like chased leaves. ‘Not in this case! Had young Kevor died, he could not be any more lost to her!’
Machiel’s granite features went pale. ‘Dharkaron avert! A wicked turn, if the boy’s in fact fallen to necromancy!’
‘Mercy! No! Not in this case,’ Luhaine cracked as he spun in pained haste toward the casement. In actuality, that threat confronted the boy’s father, a horror too dire to contemplate. Forced away in the face of the High King’s stressed adamancy, the Sorcerer flung back on departure, ‘Tru
st us, your Grace! In compassion, I ask you to heed Sethvir’s counsel! I can’t tarry to explain. Another crisis is breaking in Erdane, and I must go at once to attempt intervention!’
Late Spring 5670
On Death and Banishment
In the dark, musty garret, the knife that had served as her protection now gone with a loyal man to spare his prince, the ancient seeress encounters the moment foreseen as her hour of death: inside the spent lines of her guarding circles, she is whispering banishments, to no avail; the insatiable ring of cold spectres close in, sucking her failing vitality…
At Avenor, Cerebeld, High Priest of the Light, takes uneasy pause to blot his brow, then smooths his rich robes, descends to the ward-room, and accosts Avenor’s elite palace guard, ‘I want another three galleys sent out! More patrols. Sweep every road-house and country inn. Or how will you laggards respond when the Divine Prince holds inquest over the fate of his errant wife…?’
One moment shy of disaster, Enithen Tuer’s locked door becomes breached by a gust that bursts into scouring light; and devouring shades scatter, as Luhaine of the Fellowship wraps the dying old woman in veils of blue fire and calm: ‘Peace, my dear. I will hold you, secure. Let your brave spirit cross over Fate’s Wheel in safety…’
Late Spring 5670
II. Excision
Three hours before dawn, Lord Commander Sulfin Evend returned to the mayor’s palace. Rumpled and chilled, his rapacious mood fit to stamp an impression in pig-iron, he bowled past the butler with four trusted officers, on the pretence of holding a war council. His party mounted the carpeted stair in a muffled thunder of boots. Their stubbled faces and ready steel brooked no protest as the Lord Commander set them on guard in the ante-room of the state guest suite.
‘I’m going inside. No one follows! You’ll prevent any servants from leaving.’ His wolfish review permitted no questions. ‘Whatever you hear, whatever you think, I rely on you to stand firm. No one, I don’t care who, or what rank, will cross over this threshold behind me. If I don’t reappear to relieve you by dawn, your orders will proceed as follows: set fire to these chambers. Burn the contents, untouched. Let nothing and no one attempt any salvage until this whole wing has been razed to the ground! Am I clear?’
Shock stunned the men silent. Lest they bid to question their commander’s sanity, the senior officer requisitioned from Etarra spoke fast to quash stirring doubt. ‘He’s testing our nerve, you limping daisies! The Prince Exalted’s beyond that shut door. Do you honestly think the immortal Light born as flesh could be harmed by a paltry house fire?’
Still hooded, and masking the burden he carried under the folds of his cloak, Sulfin Evend doused the conjecture. ‘Hold my line! On my word, if you fail, we shall see the day evil triumphs.’ Forced to the grim crux, he tripped the latch and slipped into the royal apartment.
The closed air within was stuffy and dim, cloyed with the herbs the distraught valet was using to sweeten the closets. At the commander’s arrival, he abandoned his fussing, while the officious chamber servant shot to his feet, and the page-boy napped on in an overstuffed chair, snoring beside the lit candle.
Against the appearance of indolent normalcy, the unconscious man stretched on the bed lay ivory pale, and too still. Lysaer’s blond hair gleamed on the tidied pillow, shadowed beneath the rich hangings. Devoted hands had tucked away his marked limbs, then raised the satin-faced coverlet up to his chin to lend the appearance of natural repose. Past one surface glance, the fallacy crumbled. The imperceptible draw of each shallow breath was too sluggish to be mistaken for regular sleep.
Sulfin Evend shoved back his hood. Hard mouth pressed to a line of distaste, he flung off the cloak, which still reeked of clogged smoke from the seeress’s fusty attic. Then he shed his swathed bundle on a marquetry table and addressed the fidgety staff. ‘Roust up the boy. Then, get out, every one of you.’ Jet hair dishevelled, a steel gleam to pale eyes, he forestalled the least opening for argument. ‘My armed men will not allow you to leave. You’ll have to bunk down in the ante-room.’
The scared servant shook the logy page to his feet, hushed his grumbling, and steered for the doorway. The valet did not stir a finger to help. Gangling arms clasped, his grey hair fashionably styled above his immaculate livery, he stuck in dapper heels and refused.
Sulfin Evend met that obstinacy with frightening resolve, an uncompromised fist closed over his sword grip, and his unlaced, left sleeve flecked with blood-stains. ‘Stand clear!’
‘Someone should stay,’ the gaunt servant insisted. ‘Whatever foul work you intend to commit, my master will have a witness.’
‘That’s a damned foolish sentiment, and dangerous!’ The Alliance Lord Commander crossed the carpet, cat quick, prepared to draw steel out of hand. ‘You have no idea what vile rite’s to be done here. Nor have you the strong stomach to last the duration.’
‘I daresay, I don’t,’ said the man with stiff frailty. ‘Nonetheless, I will stand by my master.’
Shown threadbare courage in the face of such trembling fear, Sulfin Evend took pause with the blistering glance that measured his troops on a battle-line. Then he sighed, moved to pity. ‘Why under Ath’s sky should you ask this?’
The valet swallowed and shuffled his feet. His manicured hand gestured toward the bed. ‘For too long, I have watched something evil at work. You are the first who has dared to react. If your trust proves false, then I fear nothing else. His Divine Grace may be saved or lost. If I share in his fate, come what may, I will know that one steadfast friend remained at his shoulder.’
‘Have your way, then, but be warned: I’ll have no interference.’ Sulfin Evend released his weapon, his level, black eyebrows hooked into a frown as he moved past and snapped the curtains over the casements. ‘Fail me there, or breathe a word of loose talk, and I’ll have your raw liver for a league bountyman’s dog-meat. What you’ve asked to observe can’t be done clean, or dainty. If you lose your nerve, or if I fall short, this room’s going to burn, taking every-one with it. My captains won’t pause, or shirk the command. Leave now, and I won’t fault your bravery’
The valet backed a step, rammed against the stuffed chair, and sat as his spindly knees failed him. ‘This time, the command not to speak is a blessing,’ he said, in a quavering voice.
Sulfin Evend had no second to spare and no words to acknowledge such staunchness. Dawn approached, far too quickly. Fingers flying, he stripped off spurs and boots. His surcoat came next, then the corded twill jacket that had masked his mail shirt at the feast. His studded belt clashed onto the pile, followed by his baldric and several sheathed daggers. Stripped to gambeson and breeches, he crossed the chamber and peeled back the carpet. Somewhere downstairs, a kitchen dog barked. A door banged, and a shrill voice berated a scullery maid for returning late from a tryst. Sulfin Evend bit back a harried oath. The household servants were already stirring, no favour, in light of the trial lying ahead.
He built up the fire. Without the oak logs, he used only the birch, split into billets for kindling. As the flames crackled and caught, hot and sweet and fast-burning, he rifled the night-stand, set the filled wash-basin onto the floor, then cracked open the curtain and whacked the bronze latch off the casement. He used the snapped fitting to stub ice from the sill. The chips were dumped in the bowl, where they melted, settling a fine sediment of gritted soot and caught mortar. Hefting the iron poker, he crouched by the hearth and hooked out a smouldering bit of wood. Both coal and hot metal were doused with a hiss, then laid, steaming wet, on the floor-boards.
Pinned by the valet’s dubious eyes, the Lord Commander plucked the wax candle from its pricket. Stuck upright, it joined the array on the floor. Snatched light cast his movement in fluttering shadow as he stripped off his gambeson, then advanced to the bed.
He tore off the blankets. Lysaer’s night-shirt was sacrificed, next, yanked away from his wasted frame with a snarl of ripped cloth and burst laces. All but unbreathing, the victim remained
slack and pale as a day-old carcass. Careful, so careful, not to brush against skin with even a glancing touch, Sulfin Evend jerked the tucked sheet from the mattress and bundled his stricken liege into his arms.
Lysaer weighed little more than a parcel of sticks. His golden head dangled. Poked from the wracked linens, his bare feet showed blue veins like the crackled glaze on antique porcelain.
Sulfin Evend ignored the valet’s incensed glare, for what must appear callous handling. Enithen Tuer had been adamant concerning her detailed list of peculiar instructions. Charged not to skip steps, the commander knelt. He spilled the Blessed Prince in a naked heap on the stripped surface of the parquet. Vulnerably thin, his muscles were wire, the joint of each bone pressed against parchment skin, and each cadaverous hollow a pool of jet shadow.
No life seemed in evidence, beyond the reflex as the ribs rose and fell to the draw of each shallow breath.
The lit profile alone kept its heart-wrenching majesty, pure in male beauty as form carved in light, envisioned by a master sculptor. Sulfin Evend shrank away from sight of Lysaer’s face. Already savaged by inchoate dread, he refused to give rein to the rending grief that suddenly threatened to unman him. Braced against worse than the horrors of war, he swathed his grip in a wrapping of sheet and tugged the seal ring from Lysaer’s limp finger. The sapphire signet was cast aside, a tumbling spark of scribed light as it fetched up against the rucked carpet. Still shielding his hands, Sulfin Evend grasped Lysaer by the wrists and tugged his yielding frame on a north-to-south axis. The arms he extended out to each side, at right angles to torso and shoulder. He straightened Lysaer’s bare legs from the hip and arranged a cloth yard of space at the ankles. A towel scrounged from the bath pillowed the unconscious man’s head.