JANNY WURTS

The Ships of Merior

The Wars Of Light And Shadows: Volume 2

Copyright

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1994

Copyright © Janny Wurts 1994

The Author 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.

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Source ISBN: 9780586210703

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007346936

Version: 2018-12-04

Dedication

To my husband,

Don Maitz,

with all my love;

for understanding of desperate, long deadlines

above and beyond the call of duty.

This one’s for you.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

I. MISCREANT

II. VAGRANT

III. FIRST INFAMY

IV. CONVOCATION

V. MASQUE

VI. CRUX

VII SHIP’S PORT

VIII. RENEWAL

IX. SECOND INFAMY

X. MERIOR BY THE SEA

XI. DISCLOSURE

XII. ELAIRA

XIII. WAR HOST

XIV. VALLEYGAP TO WERPOINT

Keep Reading

Glossary

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

I. MISCREANT

On the morning the Fellowship sorcerer who had crowned the King at Ostermere fared northward on the old disused road, the five years of peace precariously reestablished since the carnage that followed the Mistwraith’s defeat as yet showed no sign of breaking.

The moment seemed unlikely for happenstance to intrude and shape a spiralling succession of events to upend loyalties and kingdoms. Havish’s coastal landscape with its jagged, shady valleys wore the mottled greens of late spring. Dew still spangled the leaf-tips, touched brilliant by early sunlight. Asandir rode in his shirtsleeves, the dark, silver-banded mantle lately worn for the royal coronation folded inside his saddle pack. Hair of the same fine silver blew uncovered in the gusts that whipped off the sea; that tossed the clumped bracken on the hill crests and fanned gorse against lichened outcrops of quartz rock. The black stud who bore him strode hock-deep in grass, alone beneath cloudless sky. Wildflowers thrashed by its passage sweetened the air with perfume and the jagging flight of disturbed bees.

For the first time in centuries of service, Asandir was solitary, and on an errand of no pressing urgency? The ruthless war, the upsets to rule and to trade that had savaged the north in the wake of the Mistwraith’s imprisonment had settled, if not into the well-governed order secured for Havish, then at least into patterns that confined latent hatreds to the avenues of statecraft and politics. Better than most, Asandir knew the respite was fated not to last. His memories were bitter and hurtful, of the great curse cast by the Mistwraith to set both its captors at odds; the land’s restoration to clear sky bought at a cost of two mortal destinies and the land’s lasting peace.

Unless the Fellowship sorcerers could find means to break Desh-thiere’s geas of hatred against the royal half-brothers whose gifts brought its bane, the freed sunlight that warmed the growing earth could yet be paid for in blood. With the restored throne of Havish firmly under its crowned heir, Asandir at last rode to join his colleagues in their effort to unbind the Mistwraith’s two victims from the vicious throes of its vengeance.

Relaxed in rare contentment, too recently delivered from centuries of sunless damp to take the hale spring earth for granted, he let his spirit soar with the winds. The road he had chosen was years overgrown, little more than a crease that meandered through thorn and brushbrake to re-emerge where the growth was browsed close by deer. Despite the banished mists, the townsmen still held uneasy fears of open spaces, once the sites of forgotten mysteries. Northbound travellers innately preferred to book their passage by ship.

Untroubled by the after-presence of Paravian spirits, not at all disturbed by the foundations of ancient ruins that underlay the hammocks of wild roses, the sorcerer rode with his reins looped. He followed the way without misstep, guided by memories that predated the most weathered, broken wall. His appearance of reverie was deceptive. At each turn, his mage-heightened senses resonated with the natural energies that surrounded him. The sun on his shoulders became a benediction, both counterpoint and celebration to the ringing reverberation that was light striking shadow off edges of wild stone.

When a dissonance snagged in the weave, reflex and habit snapped Asandir’s complaisance. His powers of perception tightened to trace the immediate cause.

Whatever bad news approached from the south, his mount’s wary senses caught no sign. The stallion snorted, shook out his mane, and let Asandir rein him over to the verge of the trail. Long minutes later, a drum roll of galloping hooves startled the larks to songless flight. When the messenger on his labouring mount hove into view, the sorcerer sat his saddle, frowning; while the stud, bored with waiting, cropped grass.

The courier wore royal colours, the distinctive scarlet tabard and gold hawk blazon of the king’s personal service snapped into creases against the breeze. No common message bearer, he owned the carriage of a champion fighter. But the battle-brash courage that graced his reputation was missing as he hauled his horse to a prancing, head-shaking halt.

The man was a fool, who eagerly brought trouble to the ear of a Fellowship sorcerer.

Briskly annoyed, Asandir spoke before the king’s rider could master his uncertainty. ‘I know you were sent by your liege. If my spellbinder Dakar is cause and root of some problem, I say now, as I told his Majesty and the realm’s steward on my departure: there is no possible difficulty that might stem from an apprentice’s misdeeds that your High King’s justice cannot handle.’

The messenger nursed lathered reins to divert his eye-rolling mount from her sidewards crabsteps through the bracken. ‘Begging pardon, Sorcerer. But Dakar got himself drunk. There was a fight.’ Sweating pale before Asandir’s displeasure, he finished in a crisp rush. ‘Your spellbinder’s got himself knifed and King Eldir’s healers say he’ll bleed to death.’

‘Oh, indeed?’ The words bit the quiet like sheared metal. Asandir’s brows cocked up. Features laced over with creases showed a moment of fierce surprise. Then he started his black up from a mouthful of grass and spun him thundering back toward the city.

Alone in the derelict roadway on a sidling, race-bred horse, the royal courier had no mind to linger. He was not clan kindred, to feel at ease in the wild places where the old stones lay carved with uncanny patterns to snag and bewitch a man’s thoughts. The instant his overstrung mare quit her tussle with the bit, he nursed her along at a trot, relieved to be spared the company of a sorcerer any right-thinking mortal knew better than to presume not to fear.

The city known as the jewel of the southwest coast flung an ungainly sprawl of battlements across the crown of a cove. Built over warrens of limestone caves once used as a smuggler’s haven, the architecture reflected twelve centuries of changing tastes, battered as much by storms as by war, and bearing like layers in sediment the mismatched masonry of refortifications and repairs. Sea trade provided the marrow of Ostermere’s wealth. Walls of tawny brick abutted bulwarks of native limestone, scabrous with moss and smothered in lee-facing crannies by salt-stunted runners of wild ivy. The whole overlooked a series of weathered ledges that commanded a west-facing inlet, each tier crusted with half-timber shops and slate-roofed mansions still gay with bunting and gold streamers from celebration of the king’s accession. If the merchant galleys docked along the seaside gates no longer flew banners at their mastheads, if the guards by the harbourmaster’s office had shed ceremonial accoutrements for boiled leather hauberks and plain steel, a charge of excitement yet lingered.

In all the realm, this city had been honoured as the royal seat until the walls at Telmandir could be raised out of ruin and restored to the splendours of years past. An alertness like frost clung to the men hand-picked for the royal guard. Out of pride for their youthful sovereign, they had the unused north postern winched open and the shanty market that encroached upon its bailey cleared of beggars and squatters’ stalls when Asandir’s stallion clattered through.

In a courtyard still gloomy under overhanging tenements, the sorcerer dismounted. He tossed his reins to a barefoot boy groom grown familiar with the stud through the months of change as town governance had been replaced by sovereign monarchy. Without pause for greeting, Asandir strode off, scattering geese and a loose pig from the puddled run-off by the wash house. He dodged through men in sweaty tunics who unloaded tuns from an ale dray, avoided a bucket-bearing scullion and crossed without mishap through the tumbling brown melee of a deerhound bitch’s cavorting pups.

Just arrived, all but brushed aside with the same brisk lack of ceremony, the captain of Ostermere’s garrison pumped on fat legs to join the sorcerer. A capricious gust snatched his unbelted surcoat. Clutching scarlet broadcloth with both hands to escape getting muffled by his clothing, he relayed facts with a directness at odds with his untidy turnout.

‘It was a damnfool accident, the Mad Prophet so drunken he could barely stand upright. He’d visited the kitchens to meet a maid he claimed he’d an assignation with. Muddled as he was, he kissed the wrong doxy. Her husband came in at just the right time to lose his temper.’ The city captain gave a one-handed shrug, his brows beetled over his beefy nose. ‘The knife was handy on the butcher’s block, and the wound-’ Asandir cut him off. ‘The details won’t matter.’ He reached the servants’ postern, flung it open fast enough to whistle air, and added, ‘Your gate guards are missing their gold buttons.’

Ostermere’s ranking captain swore. An unlikely, swordsman’s agility allowed him to nip through the fast-closing panel. ‘The meatbrains got themselves fleeced at dice. Not a man of them will own up, but since you ask, there were bystanders who fingered Dakar as the instigator.’

‘I thought so.’ Light through an ancient arrow-slit sliced across Asandir’s shoulders as he traversed the corridor behind the pantries and began in long strides to climb stairs. Instructions trailed echoing behind him. ‘Inform your royal liege I’m here. Ask if he’ll please attend me at once in Dakar’s bedchamber.’

Dismissed with one foot raised to mount an empty landing, the city captain spun about. ‘Ask my liege, indeed! I know a command when I hear one. And I’d beg on my knees for Dharkaron Avenger’s own judgement before I’d shift places with Dakar.’

From far above, Asandir’s voice cracked back in crisp reverberation. ‘For the Mad Prophet’s transgressions this time, Dharkaron’s judgement would be too merciful.’

High-browed, intelligent, and shrewdly even-tempered for a lad of eighteen years, King Eldir arrived in a state of disarray as striking as his ranking captain’s. Swiping back tousled brown hair, sweat-damp from a running ascent of several flights of tower stairs, he heaved off cloak, sash and tabard, and shed a gold-trimmed load of state velvets without apology onto a bench in a lover’s nook. In just dread of Asandir’s inquiry, he jerked down the tails of an undertunic threadbare enough to have belonged to an apprentice labourer and mouthed exasperated excuses to himself. ‘I’m sorry. But the drawers the tailors’ guild sent had enough ties and eyelets to corset a whore, and too much lace makes me itch.’

Eldir broke off, embarrassed. The sorcerer he hastened to meet was not attending his injured charge, but standing stone-still in the hallway, one shoulder braced against the doorjamb and his face bent into shadow.

The young king paled in dismay. ‘Ath’s mercy! We reached you too late to help.’

Asandir glanced up, eyes bright. ‘Certainly not.’ He inclined his head toward the door. Muffled voices issued from the other side, one male and laboured, another one female, bewailing misfortune in lisping sympathy.

Eldir’s interest quickened. Even in extremis, it appeared the infamous Mad Prophet had pursued his ill-starred assignation. Then, practical enough to restrain his wild thoughts, Havish’s sovereign sighed in disappointment. ‘You’ve healed him already, I see.’

The sorcerer shook his head. Dire as oncoming storm, he spun in the corridor, tripped the latch without noise and barged into Dakar’s bedchamber.

The panel opened to reveal a pleasant, sunwashed alcove, cushioned chairs carved with grape clusters, and a feather mattress piled with quilts. The casement admitted a flood of ocean air lightly tainted by the tar the chandlers sold to black rigging. Swathed like a sausage in eiderdown, a chubby man lay with a face wan as bread dough and a beard like the curled fringe on a water-spaniel. Caught leaning over to kiss him, the pretty blonde kitchen maid with the knife-wielding husband murmured into his ear, ‘I will grieve for you and pray to Ath to preserve your undying memory.’

‘Which won’t be the least bit necessary!’ Asandir cracked from his planted stance by the doorway.

At his shoulder, Eldir started.

The maid snapped erect with a squeal and the quilts jerked, the victim beneath galvanized to a fish-flop start of surprise. A fondling hand recoiled from under a froth of lace petticoats as Dakar swivelled cinnamon eyes, widened now to rolling rings of white.

The tableau endured a frozen moment. Already pale, the sorcerer’s wounded apprentice gasped a bitten-off curse, then to outward appearance fell comatose.

‘Out!’ Asandir jerked his chin toward the girl, who cast aside dignity, gathered her skirts above her knees and fled trailing unlaced furbelows.

As her footsteps dwindled down the corridor, the sorcerer kicked the door closed. A paralysed stillness descended, against which the rumble of ale tuns over cobbles seemed to thunder off the courtyard walls outside. Beyond the opened shutter, the call of the changing watch drifted off the wall walks, mingled with the bellow of the baker’s oaths as he collared a laggard scullion. The yap of gambolling puppies, the grind of wagons across Ostermere market and the screeling cries of scavenging gulls seemed unreal, even dreamlike, before the stark tension in the room.

Asandir first addressed the king, who waited, frowning thoughtfully. ‘Although I ask that the secrets of mages be kept from common knowledge in your court, I would have you understand just how far my apprentice has misled you.’ He stepped to Dakar’s bedside and with no shred of solicitude, ripped away quilting and sheets.

Dakar bit his lip, poker stiff, while his master yanked off the sodden dressing that swaddled the side the baking girl’s husband had punctured.

The linen came free, gory as any bandage might be if pulled untimely from a mortal wound. Except the flesh beneath was unmarked.

King Eldir gaped in surprise.

Dakar,’ Asandir informed, ‘is this day five hundred and eighty-seven years old. He has longevity training. As you see, the suffering of wounds and illness is entirely within his powers to mend.’

‘He was in no danger,’ Eldir stated in rising, incredulous fury. He folded his arms, head tipped sidewards, while skin smudged with the first shaved trace of a beard deepened to a violent, fresh flush. That moment, he needed no crown to lend him majesty. ‘For whim, the realm’s champion was sent out and told to run my fastest mare to death to fetch your master?’

Naked and pink and far too corpulent to cower into a feather mattress, Dakar shoved stubby hands in the hair at his temples. He licked dry lips, flinched from Asandir and squirmed. ‘I’m sorry.’ His shrug was less charming than desperate.

‘Were you my subject, I’d have your life.’ Eldir flicked a glance at the sorcerer, whose eyes were like butcher’s steel fresh from the whetstone. ‘Since you’re not my feal man, regretfully, I can’t offer that kindness.’

Sweat rolled through Dakar’s fingers and snaked across his plump wrists. His breathing came now in jerks, while lard at his knees jumped and quivered.

Eldir inclined his head toward Asandir. ‘Perhaps I should wait for you without?’ Mindful of his dignity, he side-stepped toward the door.

Alone and defenceless before his master, Dakar covered his face. Through his palms, he said, ‘Ath! If it’s to be tracing mazes through sand grains again, for mercy, get on with your traps and be done with me.’

That wasn’t what I had in mind.’ Asandir advanced to the bedside. He said something almost too soft to hear, cut by a wild, ragged cry from Dakar that trailed off to snivelling, then silence.

Eldir rushed his step to shut the door. But the panel was caught short before it slammed, and Asandir stepped through. He set the latch with steady fingers, turned around to regard the King of Havish, and said succinctly, ‘Nightmares. They should occupy the Mad Prophet at least until sundown. He’ll emerge hungry, and I sadly fear, not in the least bit chastened.’ Between one breath and the next, the sorcerer recovered his humour. ‘Do I owe you for more than your guardsmen’s allotment of gold buttons?’

‘Not me.’ Eldir sighed, strain and uncertainty returned to pull at the corners of his mouth. ‘The oldest son of the town seneschal staked his mother’s jewellery on bad cards, and I’m not sure exactly who started the dare. But the cook’s fattened hog escaped its pen. The creature wound up in a warehouse and spoiled the raw wool consigned for the dyers at Narms. Truth to tell, the guild master’s council of Ostermere is howling for Dakar’s blood. My guard captain held orders to clap him in chains when the fight broke out in the kitchen.’

‘I leave my apprentice to protect you for one day and find you exhausted by a hard lesson in diplomacy.’ Asandir’s grin flashed like a burst of sudden sunlight. He laid a steering hand on the royal shoulder and started off down the corridor. ‘From this moment, consider my apprentice removed from the realm’s concerns. Your steward Machiel should be able to guard your safety well enough, since you’ve managed to hold Havish secure through Dakar’s irresponsible worst. I’ve decided exactly what I shall do with our errant prophet and I doubt he takes it well.’

‘You’d punish him further?’ The habits of an unassuming boyhood still with him, Eldir paused by the window-seat to gather his discarded state finery. ‘What could be worse than harrowing the man with uninterrupted bad dreams?’

‘Very little.’ Asandir’s eyes gleamed with sharp irony. ‘When Dakar awakens, you will send him from court on a travelling allowance I’ll leave for his reassignment. Tell him his task is to keep Prince Arithon of Rathain from getting murdered by Etarra’s new division of field troops.’

Eldir stopped cold in the corridor. After five years, accounts were still repeated of the bloody war that had slaughtered two thirds of Etarra’s garrison and left the northern clansmen feal to Arithon nearly decimated in the cause of defending his life. Motivated by a feud between half-brothers embroiled in bitter enmity; lent deadly stakes by the same powers of sorcery that had once defeated the Mistwraith; and fanned hotter by age-old friction still standing elsewhere between clanborn and townsman, the conflict had since brought the unified opposition of every merchant city in Rathain. The prince with blood-right to rule there was a marked and hunted man. Every trade guild within his own borders was eager to skewer him in cold blood.

Havish’s emphatically neutral sovereign made a sound between a cough and a grunt as he considered Dakar’s penchant for trouble appended to the man called Master of Shadow, that half of the north wanted dead. ‘I shouldn’t presume to advise, but isn’t that fairly begging fate to get Rathain a killed prince?’

‘So one might think,’ Asandir mused, not in the least bit concerned. ‘Except Arithon s’Ffalenn needs none of Dakar’s help just now. On the contrary, he’s perhaps the one man alive who may be capable of holding the Mad Prophet to heel. The match should prove engagingly fascinating. Each man holds the other in the utmost of scorn and contempt.’

Petition

The next event in the widening chain of happenstance provoked by the Mistwraith’s bane arose at full summer, when visitors from Rathain’s clan survivors sought audience with another high chieftain in the neighbouring realm to the west. Hailed as she knelt on damp pine needles in the midst of dressing out a deer, Lady Maenalle bent a hawk-sharp gaze on the breathless messenger.

‘Fatemaster’s justice, why now?’ Bloodied to the wrists, her knife poised over a welter of steaming entrails, the woman who also shouldered the power of Tysan’s regency shoved up from her knees with a quickness that belied her sixty years. Feet straddled over the half-gutted carcass, the man’s leathers she preferred for daily wear belted to a waist still whipcord trim, Maenalle pushed back close-cropped hair with the back of her least sticky wrist. She said to the boy who had jogged up a mountainside to fetch her, ‘Speak clearly. These aren’t the usual clan spokesmen we’ve received from Rathain before?’

‘Lady, not this time.’ Sure her displeasure boded ill for the scouts, whose advance word now seemed negligently scant on facts, the boy answered fast. ‘The company numbers fifteen, led by a tall man named Red-beard. His war captain Caolle travels with him.’

‘Jieret Red-beard? The young s’Valerient heir?’ Grim in dismay, Maenalle cast a bothered glance over her gore-spattered leathers. ‘But he’s Deshir’s chieftain, and Earl of the North!’

A state delegation from across the water, no less; and led by Prince Arithon’s blood-pacted liegeman, who happened also to be caithdein, or ‘shadow behind the throne’, hereditary warden of Rathain. Maenalle let fly a blistering oath.

Then, infected by spurious, private triumph, for she despised formality and skirts, she burst into deep-throated laughter. ‘Well, they’ll just have to take me as I am,’ she ended with a lift of dark eyebrows. I’ve got time to find a stream to sluice off? Good. The hunting party’s off down the gorge. Somebody ought to go after them and let my grandson know what’s afoot.’ She bit her lip, recalled to the deer, too sorely needed to abandon for scavengers to pick.

The young messenger offered to take the knife in her stead. ‘Lady, I can finish up the butchering.’

Maenalle smiled. ‘Good lad. I thought so, but really, this should be Maien’s problem.’

Her moods were fair-minded enough to let the boy relax. ‘Lady, if you both meet Prince Arithon’s delegation reeking of offal, s’Gannley might be called out for insult.’

‘Imp.’ Maenalle relinquished her fouled blade and took a swipe at the child’s ear, which he ducked before he got blood-smeared. ‘Titles aside, Rathain’s warden is very little older than you are. If he cries insult, I’ll ask his war captain to cut down a birch switch and thrash him.’

Which words seemed a fine and suitable retort, until Maenalle’s descent from the forested plateau forced an interval for sober thought. Chilled by the premature twilight of an afternoon cut off from sunlight, she entered the hidden ravine that held her clans’ summer refuge. In silence, she numbered the years that had slipped past, all unnoticed. Red-beard was not a childish nickname. Jieret s’Valerient in sober fact was but one season older than Maien; no boy any more, if not yet fully a man.

Small wonder the young scout had stifled his smile at her mention of birch canes and thrashing.

Hatefully tired of acting the querulous ruler, and greeting nobody she passed, Maenalle crossed the dusty compound with its stinks of sun-curing hide. She barged into the comfortless hut that served as her quarters, flicked up cuffs still dripping from her stream-side ablutions and slammed back the lid of her clothes trunk.

Her hand hesitated over the folded finery inside, then snatched in sharp resolve: not the indigo regent’s tabard with its glittering gold star blazon. Instead Maenalle shook out a plain black overtunic, expensively cut, and worn but once since its making. She would don the caithdein’s sable, by tradition the symbol of power deferred in the presence of her true-born sovereign.

If she still held the regency in Tysan, the office was not hers by choice; the s’Ilessid scion forepromised by prophecy had returned to claim his royal title. But the Mistwraith he had lent his gift of light to help subdue had avenged itself and cursed Prince Lysaer of Tysan to undying enmity against Arithon, Master of Shadow. For that, the Fellowship sorcerers entitled to crown him had withheld their sanction for his inheritance. Grieved beyond heartbreak for the betrayals which had forced their judgement, the realm’s lady steward tugged the dark garment over her dampened leathers. She belted on her sword, firm in this one defiance. Let black cloth remind the envoy sent by Arithon of Rathain that the final call on clan loyalty in Tysan was not fully hers to command, however desperate the cause they surely came here to plead.

A brisk knock jostled her doorpanel. Maenalle raked quick fingers through hair cropped close as a fighting man’s, then straightened in time to seem composed as Lord Tashan poked his white head inside.

‘Your visitors have passed the last check-point.’ The rotten old fox was smiling. As age-worn as she through long years of shared hardship, he would guess she was flustered; and in hindsight, the blighted black cloth was a mistake that would accent any pallor born of nervousness.

Tartly, Maenalle attacked first. ‘I could go and maybe lend a semblance of decorum if you’d make way and let me pass.’

Before Tashan could move, she brushed by, still shrugging to settle the tunic over her shoulders. Canny enough not to query her forceful choice of wardrobe, the old lord hurried his limp to flank her, while dogs barked and dust flew, and sun-browned children in scuffed deerhides ran in a game of hunters and wolves through the stream-threaded shade of the defile. Built under cover on either side, the rows of ramshackle cabins sagged with the wear of storms and weather. If unglazed windows and walls laddered green under vines seemed uncivilized, Maenalle held no bitterness. Here, surrounded by inhospitable terrain; abutments of knife-edged rock and slide-scarred crags where loose shale and boulders could give way and break legs, the persecuted descendants of Tysan’s deposed liegemen kept a grim measure of safety. Even the most fanatical town enemies were deterred from ranging too zealously for fugitives. Poor as her people were, at least the mountains allowed them the security to raise children under timber roofs and to keep horses in limited herds.

The old blood clans elsewhere had far less in the centuries since the merchant guilds had overset kingdom rule, and headhunters rode to claim bounties.

None of Arithon’s envoy travelled mounted, which explained the scout’s misleading first report. Maenalle reached the palings that served as the outpost’s main gate just as the arrivals from Rathain filed through. Except for the eastern inflection as one commented, ‘Ath, will you look? This place could pass for a village,’ the party might have blended with one of her patrols, Jieret’s band were weather-worn, observant to the point of edged wariness, and dressed in leathers lacking any dyes or bright ornaments. Their weapons had seen hard use, and every last man carried scars.

The rangy, tangle-haired red-head who stepped out to present his courtesies was no exception. Near to her grandson’s age he might be, yet when he arose from his bow and towered over her, Maenalle revised her assessment. The eyes that met hers were chilly and wide, the mouth amid a gingery bristle of beard, fixed and straight. This was no green youth, but a man of seventeen years who had seen his sisters and parents die in the service of his liege. Grief and premature responsibilities left their mark: a boy of twelve had grown up with the burden of safeguarding the north against the wave of vengeance-bent aggression that had dogged his people ever since the year the Mistwraith’s malice had overset Rathain’s peace.

In Tysan, where the feud between townborn and clan burned hotly enough without impetus from geas-cursed princes, Lady Maenalle shrank to imagine what extremity might bring this man to leave his native glens, to abandon his people and risk an overland journey through hostile territory to seek her.

‘My Lord Earl,’ she murmured. ‘Forgive the lacklustre welcome, but surely you bring us bad news?’ She accepted his kiss on her cheek and stepped back, unwilling to test her dignity too long against the younger man’s frightening sense of presence.

Jieret bent upon Tysan’s lady steward the unsettling intuition inherited from his late mother. ‘We’ve surprised you.’ The blood on her boots did not escape him, nor the reserve behind her caithdein’s black. ‘Let me ease your mind. We didn’t call you back from the joys of the summer hunt to beg armed support for the sake of my liege lord, Arithon.’

‘Not hers to give, if you had,’ grumbled Tashan.

The comment fell through a misfortunate lull in the racket made by curious children. Stung into movement like a bothered bear, a grizzled, fifty-ish war captain with inimical black eyes elbowed past his young chieftain’s shoulder.

Don’t flatter yourselves for restraint.’ Caolle loosed a clipped laugh. ‘His Grace of Rathain’s quite vicious enough on points of pride without anybody’s outside help. He’d spurn even gold that fell at his feet, did it come to him struck with his name on it.’

Unsettled to learn the prince himself had not backed this surprise delegation, Maenalle forestalled the airing of issues more wisely discussed in private. ‘Your war captain sounds like a traveller sorely in need of a beer.’

‘Well, beer won’t help,’ Caolle groused. ‘Just a fair chance at gutting that blond-haired prandey who lounges in silk, and sends every trained sword in Etarra and beyond thrashing the countryside to harrow us.’

The trail scouts who guided the visitors stiffened, and a youngster close enough to overhear shouted, ‘Hey! That man called our lord prince the Shandian word for a gelded pleasure bo-’

Maenalle spun swiftly and grabbed the child by the shoulder. ‘Don’t say such filth. Your mother would thrash you. And you shouldn’t be concerned with your elders’ speech when to my knowledge you aren’t on my council.’

The miscreant gasped an apology, darted an enraged glance at Caolle, then sidled away as his lady chieftain released him. To the red-bearded caithdein and his grinning, insolent war captain, the steward of the Kingdom of Tysan finished in flat exasperation, ‘By Ath, this visit of yours had better justify the aggravation.’

To which Earl Jieret s’Valerient said nothing. That the two gifted men who had restored Athera’s sunlight were entrapped in an enmity which bent their bright and deadly talents against each other was a havoc too heartsore for reason.

Neither was he inclined to dwell on ceremony. Minutes later, seated by an untouched glass of wine across the planks of the outpost’s scarred council table, he pulled a letter from the breast of his tunic. The dispatch was speckled with bloodstains. Since affairs between clans were never committed to writing, Maenalle’s eyes flicked at once to discern which town seal impressed the broken wax.

Deshir’s youthful earl saw her interest. ‘The seal was royal, and Tysan’s.’ A reluctant pause, then his quick movement as he offered the missive across the trestle. ‘This was captured from a guild courier riding the Mathorn Road under heavy escort. A state copy, you’ll see, bound for official record with the trade guilds at Erdane. Clan lives were lost to intercept it. We must presume the original reached its destination.’

Maenalle accepted the folded parchment, its ribbons and gilded capitols done in the ornate style of Etarran scribes. She verified her kingdom’s star blazon in its couch of indigo wax. Her glance at the flamboyant heading raised a flash-fire rush of antagonism. ‘But our prince was disbarred from royal privilege! Why should he presume to write under Tysan’s crown seal importuning the Mayor Elect of Korias?’

‘Read,’ growled Caolle.

White in dismay, Maenalle scanned down the lines, growing tenser and angrier, until even Lord Tashan’s drywitted tolerance snapped. ‘What’s in that?’

‘A petition.’ Jieret all but spat on the beaten earth floor. ‘From a prince denied right of sovereignty demanding title and grant to lands and city. By claim of birth, Lysaer s’Ilessid seeks leave to restore Tysan’s capitol at Avenor.’

‘He’ll never get it,’ Tashan said, halfway to his feet in indignation. ‘Never mind that the merchant guilds won’t stand a royal presence, the palace is in ruins, now. Not one stone stands upright on a foundation since the rebellion wrecked the old order. Past fears will prevail. Not a townborn mason would set foot there, haunted as they believe the site to be. And no clan in this kingdom can endorse a s’Ilessid claim without lawful sanction from the Fellowship.’

‘But that’s half the point,’ Jieret said, too emphatically calm for a man under twenty years of age. ‘The trade guilds in West End have nothing to lose. If the old land routes are rejoined with the Camris roads, they’ll gain profits. The Mayor Elect in Korias will draw up the documents just for the chance to slight royalty. He’s isolated enough not to know your deposed prince has the finesse to create the impossible. Daelion as my witness, in just five years Lysaer’s reconciled Etarra’s stew of rival factions. He’s got guild ministers and town councilmen kissing like brothers, and every independent city garrison in the Kingdom of Rathain conniving to exterminate my clansmen. If Lysaer can whip up armies to challenge a shadow master and a sorcerer, do you think he can’t get walls and barbicans built around the shades of a few thousand ghosts?’

‘Royal sanction or not, your prince won’t lack funds for his enterprise,’ broke in Caolle. ‘The towns are bothered to panic. To curry favour with the man whose gift of light offers protection against wild fears of Arithon’s shadows, every trade guild owing notes to Etarra has offered their gold to fund armies. What townsman would pause to sort the difference between Arithon’s feal liegemen and clanborn everywhere else?’ Caolle slammed opened hands on the table, causing the thick planks to jump. ‘Fiends! They’re not so damned stupid, citybred fools though they be. If his Grace of Rathain turned up in any clan haven asking guest right, what chieftain would refuse him hospitality?’

‘Havish’s, under High King Eldir, would be wise to.’ Maenalle shut her eyes, her fist with the letter bunched hard at her temple, and her free hand nerveless on the tabletop.

Unless and until the Fellowship sorcerers unriddled a way to break the blood feud engendered by Desh-thiere’s revenge, the perils were too dire to deny.

These men at her table had seen the forefront of the war unleashed between the cursed princes. Even heard at second hand, the ruthless scale of the conflict was enough to bring cold sweats. When Prince Lysaer had raised the Etarran garrison to cut down Rathain’s royal heir, one battle had seen two thirds of Deshir’s clansmen fight to the death, despite the unstinting protections of sorcery and shadows lent by the liege lord they defended. Losses to the attackers had been more devastating. Fears of further retaliation by magecraft had drawn Lysaer to stay on in Rathain to unite its merchant guilds and quarrelsome, independent city governments. Against the rifts of old politics, he had seen stunning success. Every summer, headhunters rode out in greater force to hunt down and slaughter clan fugitives in their search for the Master of Shadow.

For centuries, townsmen had killed clansmen on sight; the stakes now were never more dangerous. The beguiling inspiration of the Prince of the West lent city mayors powerful impetus to pool resources and systematically exterminate enemies already driven deep into hiding.

Having met Lysaer s’Ilessid only briefly, Maenalle still sighed in regret for a gifted statesman’s skills twisted awry by Desh-thiere’s curse. Through the course of just one past visit, her most reticent scouts had warmed to their prince enough to sorrow rather than rage over his treacherous alliance with town enemies. As for Arithon of Rathain, he was mage-trained: secretive, powerfully clever, and too fiendishly innovative to crumple before whatever odds Lysaer would raise against him.

‘Where is your liege?’ Maenalle asked. ‘Does Arithon know his adversary now looks to claim ancestral lands in Tysan?’

Because her eyes were averted, only Tashan saw the exasperated look that flashed between the earl and his war captain. To Jieret’s staunch credit, he found courage to answer her directly. ‘We came to give warning. Of Arithon’s intent, we’ve no clue. When he left us, he made his will plain. He would not have his presence become a target to encourage the geas that drives him and Lysaer to war.’

Still bluntly irked over a clash of wills fully five years gone, Caolle knotted ham fists on the trestle top. ‘We haven’t seen or heard from our liege since the rite sung over our war dead. Ath knows where he is. His Grace himself won’t deign to send word.’

Which explained the hardness behind Jieret’s focused maturity, Maenalle concluded in silent pain. To him alone had fallen the task of guarding his people from Etarra’s seasonal purge by headhunters. The woman in her ached for her grandson, who might come to taste the same griefs.

If Lysaer won title to Avenor, the rift engendered by Desh-thiere’s ills, that had sundered Rathain and sparked old hates to furious bloodshed, must inevitably sweep into Tysan.

‘Our clans will prepare for the worst,’ Maenalle concluded in bitterness. She arose, let the wrung parchment fall on the tabletop, then offered the beleaguered young earl the courtesy due to an equal, for whether he had gained the privilege of swearing fealty to a lawfully sanctioned prince, like her, he was caithdein to a realm without a king. His liege lord did not back him; by himself, Jieret had shouldered the risk, had left Rathain’s shores with the fourteen companions who were his last surviving peers to bring word of Lysaer’s false intent.

For all her sixty years, Maenalle felt tired and disheartened; beaten down with sorrow enough to contemplate what this red-bearded stripling would not, even for grief since the slaughter of his family: break down and give way to hatred, abandon himself to vindictive killing.

‘You don’t resent your prince for going,’ she found herself saying in unabashed awe. Tashan turned around to stare at her, while Caolle looked on, nonplussed.

Their reactions passed unheeded as Jieret gave her the first true smile she had seen. ‘I admire Arithon, much as my father did, though my line’s gift of Sight warned us both that my family would die in royal service.’

‘I met your liege once,’ Maenalle admitted. ‘Though I never saw him work shadows or magecraft, Ath grant me grace, I wish never to cross wits with him again.’

Rueful in grim understanding, Jieret said, ‘Never mind Ath. If my liege has his way, you probably won’t. I believe he finds contentment in obscurity.’

Neither cynical Caolle nor Tysan’s lady steward wasted breath to belabour the obvious: that Prince Lysaer’s public presence and insidious charisma must eventually come to prevail. Arithon of Rathain would awaken one day, else be battered from his complaisance.

Grant

Talith, sister to Etarra’s Lord Commander of the Guard, could recall when early autumn had filled the city with the smell of ripe apples. Hauled in on the farm-wains that toiled up the winding roads through the passes, the fruit had been unloaded in piles on burlap in the raucous expanse of the markets. In imitation of the pranks of older gallants, bored, rich young boys once delighted in upsetting the stacks to the detriment of passing traffic. Birds squabbled over the cidery crush milled under by the cartwheels, and winds whisked their burden of scraping, flying leaves, sharpened by frost off the peaks.

But if the sunlight restored since the Mistwraith’s captivity had increased the orchards’ bounty, Etarra held widespread change.

Spurred to fears of attack by shadows and sorcery, and through promise to aid armed resource with the powers over light that alone could protect and counterward, the brilliant statesmanship of one man had annealed strained politics into alliance. Due to Lysaer s’Ilessid’s dedication, the disparate city governments inside Rathain’s borders now stood united in common cause. The miracle of their accord brought unprecedented co-operation. Against the barbarian clans who had harboured the fugitive Master of Shadow, every garrison in the north levied troops to support Etarra’s campaign.

Apples were now stacked in barrels to discourage pilfering, and the season’s turn jammed streets built wide enough to accommodate the heaviest caravans with shipments of provisions and arms for the bursars. Arranged like a hub in the Mathom Pass, the wealthiest trade centre on the continent spent its treasury to house and maintain a war camp through the winter. The hay-fields nearest to the walls sprouted a muddy, trampled maze of officer’s shacks, supply tents and barracks, each block marked off like street signs by standards with sun-faded banners. Grown yearly more familiar, the taint of coal from the armourers’-fires wrapped the rooftops in haze that deepened with dusk to blue mist.

Lady Talith disdained to share in the commotion of the returning army. She disliked loud-voiced men and salons packed with women nervously desperate for news. That the royal-born-sorcerer Etarra’s new field host was intended to annihilate had so far refused to reappear did nothing to blunt the unease in the streets: his spells and his shadows had bought seven thousand deaths five years past in Deshir. The grief and the terror remained, never to be forgotten. The garrison that endured sustained its festered rage by bloodying what remained of Arithon’s allies, clan barbarians systematically pursued and ferreted out of the wilds. For deeply personal reasons, Talith hated the boastful stories of ambush and campaign, the reminiscences of past seasons. And so she disdained the invitations and the crush, and stood with her chin pillowed on furred cuffs to gaze over the square brick embrasure that faced the mountains.

When the troops first marched in, she had heard what mattered from Diegan: the crack divisions deployed into Halwythwood’s deep glens had returned with markedly poor success. No barbarian camps at all had been found to be put to the sword.

Again, the brigands under Caolle and Jieret Red-beard had made sport of the headhunters’ efforts. Except for one isolated incident, their bands of clan scouts had escaped, despite repeated complaints of raiding and couriers brazenly killed or waylaid as near as the Mathorn road.

Lysaer s’Ilessid had warned that the barbarians would organize; that Arithon’s ongoing disappearance presaged more devious plans. Having met the Master of Shadow just once, Talith shared his unrest.

A light voice cut across her thoughts. ‘I thought I should find you here.’

The postern door had opened silently and the step that approached was dancer-light. Talith did not turn, though the hair pinned in coils by her gold-wired pearls trapped heat at the base of her neck. Haughtily still in her wrappings of tawny velvet, lined by the flicker of the lamplighter’s torch as he shuffled on his eventide route down the wall, she loosed an invisible sigh.

The man most sought after and admired in all the rich halls of Etarra, Lysaer s’Ilessid, called Prince of the West and saviour of the city, perched with poised grace at her elbow. A pause developed as he examined her; a man would be dead, not to suck a rushed breath for her beauty.

Torchlight caught his sapphires like splintered ice as he added, ‘At long last, I’ve had word.’

Talith raked her teeth over her lower lip to redden and brighten her pout. ‘You’ve located your bane? The Master of Shadow has been found?’

His stark and stubborn silence informed her that he had not.

From behind, glass chinked as the arthritic old servant fumbled to unlatch the postern lamp’s cover. Lysaer pushed off the crenellation, gave a casual flick of his hand. A spark jumped from his finger across empty air and snapped the wick into flame behind the smudged panes.

The lampsman gave a violent start and spun around. Made aware of just who stood with the lady, he gulped in pale awe and knelt. ‘Your royal Grace.’

‘Ath bless, you need not bow.’ Lysaer gave the man a grin and a silent, conspirator’s gesture to hurry along on his rounds. Never one to flaunt his gifted powers, this night, the prince was jealous of his privacy.

‘Ah,’ sighed the lampsman, recovering. He returned a wink and hurried off, trailing the oily reek of torch smoke around the bend by the gatehouse. Inside the ward room, a guard lost his dice throw and cursed, his epithets obscured as a wagon rumbled down the thoroughfare below.

Persistent despite interruptions, Talith said, ‘What word could move you but the wish of your heart, to find out where Arithon’s hiding? Ath knows, you’ve searched every cranny in Rathain.’

The prince who had helped wrest the sun clear of mist was never an easy man to nettle. ‘If I’d unmasked that sorcerer’s whereabouts, beloved, your brother’s troops would be marching, winter ice or not.’ Unlike the fashion of the dandies, Lysaer wore no scent. He required none. The closeness of him seemed to burn Talith through to the skin. She needed to shed the clinging weight of her mantle, but dared not.

He touched her arm and gently turned her. Even after five years, the beauty of him stole her breath. The flare of new lantern light fired his gold hair, gilded perfect cheekbones and sculpted chin and a bearing instinctively royal. As earnestly as the city gallants strove to emulate such carriage, inherent majesty eluded them. Then, forthright as no man born Etarran would ever be, the prince cupped her face and kissed her.

Passion flurried and tangled Talith’s thinking.

He was excited by something. His hands trembled and his eyes drank in the sight of her with scarcely veiled anticipation.

Piqued enough by his secrecy to use looks that could bring men to their knees, Talith drew back and struck him lightly on the jewelled sleeve of his doublet. ‘What have you learned?’

Lysaer laughed, a flash of perfect teeth. ‘The best news. Never mind the Master and his shadows.’ Eagerness let him speak of his nemesis without his usual brooding frown. ‘The Mayor of Korias has finally set seal to my claim. Avenor and its lands are to be mine.’ He caught her waist and spun her, while around them, the flutter of night insects battered hot glass in their fatal, blind swoop to the light. ‘We can officially formalize our engagement. That’s if you can find heart to marry a prince who has title, but no subjects, and fields gone to briar and wilderness.’

Talith looked into deep sapphire eyes and shivered. ‘Everywhere you go you have subjects,’ she said. ‘Not least that decrepit old lampblack. He’ll brag to his grandchildren until he dies, for your tricks. Never say it was I who insisted on meaningless propriety.’

He reached, brushed back the loose curl at her temple, then began with abandon to pluck out jewelled pins. Neither of them noticed the dicers’ revealing silence in the gate house as a cataract of wheat-gold hair unreeled over his ringed knuckles. Lysaer touched her brow with his lips. ‘I could accept no estate as a gift from Lord Diegan.’ His mouth trailed down her cheek, caressing. ‘Not when I’m the one laying claim to his sole, magnificent sister.’ He reached the left corner of her mouth. As her lips parted to receive him, he held back for one last rejoinder. ‘I shall plunder this city, nonetheless. The jewel of Avenor’s restoration shall be your hand. My word as prince, your beauty and your children will become the crown treasures of Tysan, and the ones most munificently cherished.’

At long last he tasted her fully.

Down the battlement, the wide-eyed watch clapped and raised rough cheers. Lysaer inclined his head their way in courtly salute, then turned his shoulder and rearranged tawny velvet to shield the face of his beloved from their charring.

Talith melted into his embrace, every nerve in her stretched to match the bent of his desire. She could wish her heart was not cruelly held captive; she could ache with the hard female knowledge this marriage to come must eventually consume and destroy her. Like the moths, she could not steer away and save herself from the blinding.

The man in her arms was too much for her. Foremost a prince, he was the selfless instrument of others dependent on his protection. His daunting gifts already bound him to commitments far stronger than love. The hands that tenderly cradled her, that had casually sparked flame to a recalcitrant lamp, could as easily raise power with the virulence of summer lightning. Against the deceit of Arithon s’Ffalenn, and the scars of a city that had survived a war fuelled with the selfsame shadows that had beaten back the Mistwraith, this man’s defence had been dedicated.

Exalted and imprisoned by shameless happiness, Lady Talith blinked back rising tears. What was Avenor to become, if rebuilt, but a broader base of support for wider campaigns and more armies? She understood with a rage that drove her to hate the more fiercely. Lysaer s’Ilessid would never have peace. Nor would he become fully hers until the day the Master of Shadow was found and run down, to be finally, safely put to death.

Evasions

Taxed to aching exhaustion by another joint effort at scrying, the First Enchantress to the Koriani Prime retorts in ragged exasperation: ‘We’ve swept the lanes through five kingdoms, exhausted every clan haven in Rathain, and set tag spells and trigger traps along trails and roads and taverns for half a decade! If the Master of Shadow had died, or fallen off the face of Athera, we should have recovered some trace of him…’

Far to the east, in a city bounded by the waters of Eltair Bay, a sweating, obsequious millwright stammers frightened excuses to an official in black and gold robes emblazoned with the lion of mayoral authority, ‘But of course, my word of honour, the errors in design shall be corrected. The crown moulding for his lordship’s lady wife shall be redone and delivered to the city inside the next fortnight…’

As autumn days shorten toward solstice and the stunted firs of high altitude moan to the batter of cold winds, Dakar the Mad Prophet begs a ride to the next town; and the charge laid on him the past spring, to find and safeguard the most hunted man on the continent, remains cheerfully ignored for the pleasures of beer and loose women…

II. VAGRANT

Dakar the Mad Prophet opened his eyes to a view of the steamed-over glass in some backwater tavern’s dingy casement. Rain spiked with ice chapped against rondels filmed over with smoke soot. The boards under his cheek were rudely cut, sticky with rancid layers of grease and spilled ale. His mouth tasted as if it had hosted a convocation of snails. Clued by the ache in his back that he had probably slept where he sat, and familiar enough with his excesses to know when the wrong move could hurt, he groaned.

No female rushed to soothe him; the slight noise instead spurred an explosive pain in his head. He stirred, eyes squeezed shut, and pressed chilled hands to his temples. His ankles were also ice cold, result of having parked nightlong in a draught with his feet still encased in wet socks. Both boots appeared to be missing.

The Mad Prophet moaned in self pity, but softly. With caution he managed to straighten up. His eyes refused to focus, a common problem; he had been born nearsighted. The point became moot, that Asandir’s tutelage had schooled him to correct the deficiency, as well as the torment of bad hangovers. To reverse any bodily failing, he needed to be sober and clear-minded, neither one a state to be desired. Dakar fumbled through a succession of capacious pockets in quest of a coin to buy beer.

Across the tavern’s cramped common room, somebody screamed. Drilled through the ears by the sound, Dakar shot bolt upright and banged his knees against the trestle. He aimed a bleary glare at a mule drover who howled still, apparently over a winning throw at darts. The tanner with the frizzled moustache stood up as his opponent doled out the stake, while a half-toothless roisterer on the sidelines shouted, ‘Where’s your courage man? Try another game!’

Dakar winced and groped tenderly through another pocket. As the barmaid whisked past bearing ale to the victor, he dredged up a hopeful smile.

Blonde and fast-tongued and inaccessible, she noticed his search through his clothing. ‘Your pockets are empty as your purse. And no, you weren’t robbed while you slept.’

The Mad Prophet absorbed this, lamenting that she moved too briskly for him to land an effective pinch. He stared owlishly as the flagon was carried on to the victor. Soon enough, the renewed thwacks of a fresh game’s thrown darts pierced through the complaints of the loser.

About then it dawned with awful force that his pockets contained only lint. He found himself destitute on the edge of winter in a sheep farming village in the Skyshiels. Dakar’s yell rivalled the mule drover’s, and the barmaid, incensed, hurried over and clanged her tray of emptied crockery by his elbow.

While Dakar cringed back from the din, she ran on, ‘I said, nobody robbed you. What coppers you had barely paid for last night’s ale.’ To Dakar’s softly bleared gaze, annoyance stole nothing from her charm. ‘I see you don’t remember? That’s odd. You put away fifteen rounds.’

Probably truth, Dakar reflected muddily, the state of his bladder was killing him. He braced chubby hands on the trestle, prepared to arise and embark for the privy.

Warmed now to her tirade, the barmaid unkindly refused him passage. ‘The only reason you weren’t thrown out is because the landlord took pity for the weather.’

Since Dakar had yet to raise concern over what the day looked like outdoors, he surveyed the room to fix his bearings. The tavern was of typical backlands construction: two storeyed, with the ceiling beams that supported the second floor set low enough to bother a tall man’s posture. The single lantern hissed and sputtered, fuelled by a reeking tallow dip that smoked far worse than the hearth. In a dimness tinged luridly orange, darts flurried between support posts into a shaggy straw target. The mule drover cursed a wide throw, which prompted a laugh from the tanner. A gnarled old cooper in the corner muttered slurred lines of doggerel, and sniggers erupted like the feeding squeals of a hog’s farrow. Dakar, brimming and uncomfortable, rolled long-suffering eyes. When the bar wench failed to move, he succumbed to temptation and shoved a hand down her bulging blouse.

No matter how unsteady he was on his feet, his fingers knew their way about a woman.

The wench hissed in affront. Her shove plonked the Mad Prophet backward on the unpadded timber of the bench. The air left his lungs in a whistle. Tediously, he started the effort of dragging himself upright all over again.

‘Slip on the ice,’ snapped the serving maid. She snatched up her tray to an indignant rattle of cheap crockery. ‘The door will be barred when you come back, and I hope your bollocks freeze solid.’

Suffering too much for rejoinder, Dakar pried his gut from behind the trestle and carved a staggering course toward the doorway. As he bypassed the party at the fireside, a dart flew to another barrage of shouts. The mule drover had hit another bull’s-eye.

‘Damn me to Sithaer,’ cried the tanner in beet-faced irritation. ‘You cheat like the Shadow Master himself!’

Dakar tacked sharply and caught himself a bump against the doorpost. ‘Hardly,’ he volunteered to whoever was wise enough to listen. ‘Yon one’s no man for harmless games. His sort of tricks infuriate and kill and make enemies.’

But the Mad Prophet’s slurred advice was pre-empted by warning from another bystander. ‘Don’t speak that name here! Would you draw him, and the winds of ill luck? Sorcerers hear their names spoken. There’s a burned patch, I’ve heard, in Deshir where the soldier’s bones lie that will never again grow green trees.’

Dakar half-turned to denounce this, but lost his chance as the latch let go under his hand. The doorpanel he leaned on suddenly swung wide and spilled him outside in a stumble. He yowled his injured shock as grey slush soaked both feet to the ankles; no boots, he remembered belatedly. The struggle to go back in and search for them entailed too much effort, his hose being already sodden.

The inn yard wore ice in sheets unsliced by the ruts of any cartwheels. Unless there were east-running storms, travellers on the Eltair road were unlikely to choose the byway through the foothills. Beleaguered by gusts that cut straight off the summits of the Skyshiels to rattle the signboard of the cooper’s shack, stung by an unkindly fall of sleet, Dakar yawed and slipped on his errand. He collided with the firewood hovel, a hitching rack and a water trough, and cursed in dark conclusion that mountain villages were an uncivilized place to suffer the virulent effects of brewed hops.

Returned an interval just short of frostbite, with his points tangled and his hair screwed to ringlets by the damp, he blundered back to the tavern door. He had sheltered in the privy until the cold came near to killing him, and was ready primed with pleas in case the barmaid was still piqued. But the panel was not locked against him. Intensely relieved, Dakar hauled his mushy socks into the taproom as furtively as his shivering would allow.

Nobody noticed him.

The door had stayed unbarred in the bustle created by a new arrival, a slender, aged gentleman even now being solicitously ushered to the fireside. The landlord had personally stirred from his parlour for this service, and even the sour-tempered bar wench had brightened in her haste to cheer the gloom with rushlights.

Probably some rich man stranded in the passes by a wrong turn in the storm, Dakar supposed; until he noticed the dart players standing stalled in mute awe with their coins abandoned on the table.

‘Fiends plague me, I never thought to live as witness,’ the mule drover said in a powerful whisper. ‘The Masterbard himself, come to visit our village?’

Dakar blinked in astonishment. Halliron, here?

Beyond the smoke-grimed support beams, the newcomer tossed back his sleet-crusted hood. Shoulder-length hanks of white hair tumbled free, caught with sparkles of unmelted ice. Then, striking and clear as a signature, a mellowed voice addressed the landlord. ‘What a storm. The passes are awful. We have silver if you’ve got quarters for extra lodgers.’

‘Oh, no!’ protested the innkeeper. ‘That is, I have rooms. All tidy. Cleanest linen on the coast side of High-scarp. But your coin stays in your purse. Every penny. Your presence will draw customers just for the news, even if you don’t care to sing.’

‘Your commons won’t go tuneless, for your kindness,’ Halliron promised. Erect despite more than eight decades of age, he had a prominent, aristocratic nose, and spaced front teeth that flashed in a smile. ‘We’ll need two beds. My apprentice will be in as soon as he’s stabled the pony.’

Crouched down to build up the fire, the landlord straightened up, horrified. ‘My boy, didn’t he meet you in the yard? Why, that laggard, no-good -’

The door latch tripped amid the tirade. Wind-driven sleet slashed in on the draught that breathed chill through the fug from the fire as a figure muffled in wet woollens entered, moving fast. Dakar’s parked bulk was side-stepped and a new voice cut in, declaiming, ‘Your anger’s misplaced. Your groom is hard at work. The harness was wet and needed oiling, and Halliron’s pony hates boys. My master would have told you, I usually tend him myself.’

Impatient with his headache and his relapsed eyesight, Dakar squinted at the latest arrival. Layered as he was in tatty mufflers and a cape-shouldered, nondescript mantle, there seemed more wool to him than man. A path cleared before him to the hearthside. Caked ice cracked from his clothing as he undid fastenings to disgorge a long, tapered bundle laced in oilskins. This he deposited carefully out of reach of the fire’s leaping heat. A pair of wet gloves flew off after, to land smartly on top of the settle.

Then movement at the corner of his vision caused the stranger swiftly to spin. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Let me.’

And Halliron, who had reached to unfasten his cloak brooch, found his wrists gently caught and restrained.

‘You must spare those fingers,’ chided the Master-bard’s apprentice. All unwittingly, he had managed to draw every eye in the room.

Too congenial to be embarrassed by public attention, the aged bard gave a hampered shrug. While younger hands worked to shed his weight of sodden mantles, the innkeeper’s spaniel-eyed sympathy raised his humour. ‘Never get old. It’s a ridiculously uncomfortable process Ath Creator should be made to find a cure for.’

Remiss for his neglected hospitality, the innkeeper barked at his barmaid. ‘Mulled wine, girl, and hot soup. And if the wife is still dallying about the kitchen, tell her to cut the fresh bread.’

While the wench hustled off, a thoughtful Dakar propped his swaying balance against the nearest trestle. As unabashed as the dart players, he stared while the bard’s apprentice left off attending his master and turned to peel off his own heavy cloak. The man revealed underneath proved to be an indeterminate age in his twenties, compactly built to the point of slenderness. Nondescript ash brown hair fell lankly over thin cheekbones, and his eyes were a muddy grey hazel.

He was nobody Dakar knew.

While the visitors settled themselves, the landlord retired behind the bar to industriously buff water spots off the few tankards he owned that had glazing. Over the flow of resumed conversation as the dart players renewed their dropped game, the high-pitched exclamations of the tavern mistress rang from the depths of a pantry closet, followed by a banging of pots and hurried footsteps. A drudge appeared with bristle brush and bucket to scour the grime from the boards, while Dakar took himself off to an unobtrusive window nook, brightened by his upturn in prospects. Penniless still, sober enough to be plagued by the granddame of all headaches, he barely winced as other steps thumped the boards over his head: some servant, dispatched no doubt to ensure the linens lived up to the innkeeper’s boasts. The back door banged. Outside, through the whirl of grey sleet, one of the innkeeper’s mop-headed children dashed to spread word that the Masterbard of Athera had taken up residence for the night.

Soon enough, the stable boy came in with the bard’s bundles of baggage. The apprentice accepted the burden and was shown upstairs to their lodgings, while the Masterbard sat by the settle to drink hot spiced wine and share news with the early arrivals. He had come down the cape coast, not through Eastwall, he told the shepherd eager to know the latest price of wool at the inland markets. When somebody else inquired if Minderl’s trade galleys had safely put in for the winter, a silence developed. Halliron admitted he had bypassed the main road and shortcut across the old, ruined trail that wound its way west from the cape.

‘And no,’ he said quickly, before someone asked, ‘I saw no Paravian ghosts. Just old marker stones covered with lichen and acres of bracken bent with rain. The old routes are shunned for no reason under sky I can see.’

‘Sorcerers use them,’ the mule drover muttered. ‘And travellers see strange lights on them at night.’

Since the subject left folk uneasy, the serving wench was sent off in a flounce of skirts to bring back a fresh round of tankards. Dakar, who held small aversion to the hauntings of ruins and unused roads, trained crafty attention toward the bar. In the interval while the girl made rounds with her tray, and the self-important innkeeper held station in the Masterbard’s circle, the beer keg stood unattended.

Something Halliron said raised a round of knee-slapping laughter. The Mad Prophet stood, and sidled, and in a move that bespoke long practice, worked his bulk between the countertop and the broached barrel. His eyes turned innocently elsewhere, he trawled through the suds in the washtub, hooked up a tankard, and positioned it upright for filling. No one looked his way, even through the ticklish task of twisting the spigot behind his back.

Dakar darted a glance toward the fireside. Aware to a hair’s-breadth of the interval needed for a large-sized tankard to brim over, and ready with a vacuous smile, he rolled furtive eyes to make sure of the passage to the kitchens.

A shadow loomed at his flank: the bard’s hazel-eyed apprentice, arrived without sound, and all but standing on top of him. The Mad Prophet gave a violent start that slopped foam in cold runnels down his backside.

‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced,’ he assayed, caught up meanwhile in a disastrous grab to stem the copious gush of the beer. He fumbled the twist. Brew rose hissing over the tankard brim and pattered over the frayed heels of his socks.

The apprentice minstrel gave a wicked grin, leaned across, and deftly turned off the spigot. ‘I’m called Medlir. And I suggest you’re mistaken. I’m very certain I know you.’

‘From some bad line in a ballad, maybe,’ Dakar said, plaintively concerned with rescuing a soap-slicked tankard from upset as he juggled it from his backside to his front. That small victory achieved, he looked the bard’s apprentice in the eye and began pouring beer down his gullet. When the tankard was three quarters empty, it belatedly dawned that the odd little man was going to keep quiet about his theft. Dakar stopped swallowing to catch his breath. His sodden hose squelched in puddled beer as he pressed forward, intent now on making his escape.

Medlir side-stepped and blocked him. ‘Don’t be a fool.’ He tipped his head a surreptitious fraction to show the barmaid, shoving toward them in outraged determination.

The Mad Prophet’s dismay darkened to a glare shared equally between the girl and Halliron’s obstructive apprentice. ‘Ah, damn!’ He prepared in martyred pain to scuttle his purloined brew into the washtub.

‘Not so fast.’ Medlir stopped the move with long, slender fingers and flipped a silver with clanging accuracy into the bowl on the bar wench’s tray. ‘Drink to my health,’ he invited Dakar. ‘The change should pay for the spill on the floor, and keep your throat wet through this evening.’

Startled speechless, the Mad Prophet let himself be ushered away and seated with a squish of wet clothing at a trestle off to one side. Oddly uneasy with the way his luck had turned, he sucked a long pull from his tankard, licked foam from his moustache, and grimaced at the lye taste of soap. ‘Surely a ballad?’ he ventured obliquely.

Medlir sat very still, his lank hair now dry and fallen in fronds against his temples. ‘Actually not. I met your master.’

A nasty, tingling chill started in Dakar’s middle and ended in raised hair on his neck. ‘Asandir? Where?’ He twisted on his bench, his eyes edged white like oyster buttons. Then, in stinging suspicion, he said, ‘But of course! You travel with Halliron. ‘The Masterbard’s friendly with the Fellowship.’

‘Should that trouble you?’ Medlir signalled across a slat of shadow to draw the attention of the barmaid.

‘Oh no,’ Dakar said quickly. The girl arrived, annoyed to a hip-switch of skirts that extended to grudging service in replenishing the now emptied tankard. The Mad Prophet grinned at her, raised his drink to Medlir, and added, ‘To your health.’

The door banged open to admit yet another knot of villagers, men in boots stained dark from the byre and cloaks that in dampness exuded an aroma of wet sheep. Matrons carried baskets of dyed fleece for carding, or distaffs and spindles and tablet looms, or nubby old socks to be darned. The unmarried young came dressed to dance. The village’s cramped little tavern quickly became crowded, and the laughter and chat by the fireside mounted to a roar of jocular noise.

Aware that the trestles were filling, Medlir arose in clear-eyed regret. ‘I’m needed. Perhaps later, we can find time to talk.’

Ever and always agreeable to the man who would keep him in beer, the Mad Prophet grinned lopsidedly back. ‘Here’s to later,’ he said; and he drank.

Day progressed into evening. Half sotted, still in his stockings, and wedged like a partridge between a swarthy little gem-cutter with a squint, and a fresh-faced miner’s wife, Dakar roared out a final, bawdy chorus in excruciating, tuneless exuberance. Overcome by wine and good spirits, the woman beside him flung an arm around his shoulders and kissed him. Dakar, beatific, alternately sampled her lips and his tankard, by now refilled enough times that it no longer tasted of washing suds.

The common room had grown from close to stifling, every available table and chair crammed beyond sane capacity. Planks sagged and swayed to the weight of packed bodies. The floor bricks glistened with slopped spirits. The air smelled of sweaty wool and hung thick enough to cut, and the clientele, either standing, sitting, or comatose in its half-unlaced linens, no longer bothered with decorum. Halliron had not played, but his apprentice was skilled, and possessed of an energy that made the trestle planks bounce to the beat of their stamping.

Which should not have surprised, Dakar thought, in a passing break between reels. Halliron had auditioned candidates for apprenticeship lifelong. This man he had chosen in his twilight years had been the sole applicant to match his exacting standards. Medlir applied himself with abandon to the lyranthe, spinning for sheer pleasure the ditties, the drinking songs and the dances that an upland village starved for entertainment in an ice storm could serve him in bottomless demand.

Midnight came and passed. Two casks had been emptied to the dregs, with a third one drained nearly dry. The innkeeper out of clemency finally elbowed to the fore and pressed a plate of stew on the musician. Medlir flashed him a fast smile, bent aside in consultation with his master, and at a nod from the old man, surrendered the lyranthe to Halliron.

The hum of appreciation dropped to sudden, awed silence.

Halliron Masterbard arose and regarded his audience in wry delight. ‘By Ath, you had better make some noise,’ he said, his voice pitched for the sleepy child who slumped in a young matron’s lap. ‘Too much quiet, and the folks near at hand will notice my knuckle joints crack.’

Medlir arranged the stool and the Masterbard sat. He adjusted the lyranthe in blue-veined hands, and tested the strings for tuning. The pitch was perfect; Medlir knew his trade. But the old man fussed at the peg-heads out of performer’s habit.

The stillness swelled and deepened. From the rear of the tavern, a reveller called out, ‘Master singer! Folk passing out of Etarra speak of a battle fought in Deshir some years back against that sorcerer prince who shifts shadows. Do you know aught of that?’

Halliron’s hand snapped off a run, distinct as a volley of arrows.’ ‘Yes.’ He locked eyes for a second with Medlir, who set aside his meal and said something contrite about forgetting to check on the pony. To the rough-clad miner’s request the Masterbard replied, ‘I can play that ballad. No one better. For in fact, I was there.’

A stir swept the room, loud with murmurs. Folk resettled in their seats, while Halliron damped his strings, bent his head, and veiled in a fall of white hair, sat through a motionless moment. He then made the lyranthe his voice. His fingers sighed across strings to spill a falling minor arpeggio, from which melody emerged, close-woven and transparent as a spell. Notes climbed, and spiralled, and blended, drawing the listeners into a fabric of shared tension.

‘You won’t feel too drunk when he reaches the ending of this one,’ Medlir said to Dakar as he passed on his way to the door.

The Mad Prophet was too besotted to respond beyond a grunt, but the gem-cutter beside him ventured comment. ‘How so? Won’t we be stirred by the war’s young hero, that blond-haired prince from the west?’

Medlir’s lips thinned to tightness. ‘What is any war but a massacre?’ Through the drawing beat of the secondary chords, he shrugged off introspective impatience. ‘Even without lyrics or story, Halliron’s melody by itself could wring tears from a statue.’

The balding gem-cutter looked dubious; while Medlir melted into the crowd to resume his course for the stables, Dakar tangled fingers in his beard, fuddled by thought that the eyes of Halliron’s apprentice should be some other colour than grey-hazel.

Then the spangled brilliance of the Masterbard’s instrument was joined by his beautiful voice, haunting and rich and clear-toned; in its thrall every listener was transported to a morning in spring when the mists had lifted over the marshes of the river Tal Quorin. The odds in their favour ten to one, a town garrison had marched on the forest bred clansmen who dared shelter Arithon s’Ffalenn, the renegade Prince of Rathain also called Master of Shadow.

‘What law has sanctioned a war for one life, when no bloodshed was sought at Etarra? Shadow fell in defence, for no man died by command of the prince to be harrowed.’

There came an uneasy shifting of feet, of creaking boards, and flurried whispers that Halliron’s art skilfully reined back short of outrage. For this ballad’s course commemorated no beloved saviour in glittering gold and sapphires, avenging with righteous bolts of light. This spare, driving, tragic account held no bright hero at the ending, but only men ruinously possessed by their hatreds to grasp the first reason to strike down long-standing enemies.

‘Who shall weep, Lord Steiven, Earl of the North, for the refuge that failed to spare your clan? The prince in your care once begged to fare forth, then stayed; his liegemen were fate-cursed to stand.’

Notes struck the air now like mallet-blows. No one spoke. None moved as the ballad unfolded, each stanza in pitiless stark cadence unveiling fresh atrocity. There were no heroics, but only desperation in a Shadow Master’s talents bent to confuse and detain; in unspeakable measures undertaken in a defence without hope, when the dammed-back waters of Tal Quorin were unleashed in reaving torrents to scythe down Etarra’s trapped garrison. Nor did there follow any salve of vengeance, but only bitter brutality, when a band of head-hunter survivors lashed back in a frustrated foray of slaughter against the encampment that concealed the clan women and their children. The spree of rapine intended to draw their defenders into open ground for final reckoning had seen abrupt and terrible ending.

‘Deshir’s butcher and Prince Arithon’s bane, Lysaer s’Ilessid loosed his gifted light Sixty score innocents writhed in white flame for miscalled mercy, blind justice, and right.’

Halliron’s tones dipped and quavered, searing the pent air with images of horror and tragedy. His lyranthe in an unrelenting, lyrical sorrow bespoke senseless waste and destruction. In Deshir, by design of the Mistwraith, the extraordinary talents of two princes had collided to devastating losses, with nothing either proven or gained.

‘This day, under sky unthreatened by dark, the Etarran ranks march to kindle strife. Headhunters search the wide woodlands to mark one fugitive who owns no wish to fight.’

The last, slashing jangle of chords rang and dwindled in dissonance.

For a suspended moment, nothing stirred. Only when Halliron arose and made his bow, then bent to wrap his fine instrument did the shock of his weaving fall away. Listeners paralysed in unabashed tears cracked into an explosion of talk.

‘Ath’s own mercy! What a skill! The lyranthe herself was made to weep.’ A belated fall of silvers clanged across the boards by Halliron’s stool, mingled with a few muted bravos. The Masterbard had not played for an encore; no one held doubts that this ballad had been his last performance for the evening. Though one maudlin fieldhand shouted for the bar wench to bring out spirits, the rest of the patrons arose and pressed, murmuring, toward the tavern door. As the room emptied, a woman’s tones pierced through the crush. ‘Had I not lost my jewels to those murdering clan scoundrels in Taernond, I could almost feel sorry for the Deshans.’

Dakar simply sat, eyes round as coins fixed morosely on the hands that cradled a tankard of stale beer. In time, some minutes after Halliron had retired upstairs to his room, Medlir arrived, and sat down, and unstoppered a cut-glass decanter. He produced two goblets of turned maple and poured out three fingers of peach brandy, the rich smell piquantly sharp in the heated sea of used air.

One the bard’s apprentice pressed upon the Mad Prophet; the other, he nursed for himself.

In companionable sympathy for a well-timed escape to the stables, Dakar sighed, ‘These folk will go home tonight and maybe think. By tomorrow, over sore heads, they’ll say the Masterbard must have exaggerated. Deshir’s barbarians are best off dead, they’ll insist, and shrug off what they heard entirely when the next Etarran wool factor passes through. What did your master hope to gain?’

Medlir swirled his brandy, his face without expression and his eyes veiled under soot-thick, down-turned lashes. ‘Why care?’

Dakar bestowed a shrill hiccup into a pudgy, cupped palm. ‘You met my Fellowship master, so you said.’

Strong brandy could make anybody patient. Medlir waited. Presently Dakar tucked up his stockinged feet and propped his bearded chin on one fist. ‘Well, you’ll know Asandir’s not the sort to be lenient when he’s crossed.’

‘No wonder you’re driven to drink.’ Medlir hooked the flask from between his knees and refilled Dakar’s goblet. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing,’ Dakar said. ‘That’s my problem. That bastard of a sorcerer, the one the Deshans fought for? I was sent off to find him, and save him being mauled by his enemies. But let me tell you, Halliron’s ballad aside, if you’d met him, you’d cheer Etarra’s garrison.’

Medlir took a sip from his goblet, leaned back against the trestle, and closed his eyes. ‘Why so?’

‘He’s crafty,’ Dakar said, fixed on the sway of the bar wench’s hips as she made rounds to darken the lanterns. ‘Secretive. He doesn’t at all take to company that’s apt to meddle in his business.’

‘And what would his business be, do you think?’ Medlir asked from the darkness.

Dakar stuck out his lower lip and choked through a spray of fine spirits. ‘The Fatemaster himself only knows! But Arithon’s a vindictive bastard with self-righteous aversions to liquor and ladies and comforts. I’d sooner take Dharkaron Avenger to be my drinking companion.’

‘Ah,’ said Medlir. He raised his lids and smiled, his eyes caught like a cat’s in the dying gleam from the fire. ‘If you fear Asandir might catch up with you, why not share the road with us? We’re headed into the low country, then southward to Shand in easy stages.’ He arose, stretched, then set the half-emptied flask companionably by Dakar’s left knee. ‘Halliron’s fingers get sore in the cold and lengthy hours of performance tax his strength. We seldom play long at one tavern. As our guest, you’d have free beer and most of the comforts you could wish.’

‘Oh, bliss.’ Dakar laughed, drained his goblet and licked the sweet dregs from his moustache. ‘I’ve just been kissed on the lips by lady fortune.’ He hefted the decanter with slurred thanks, and savoured the brandy by himself until he passed out in a heap beneath the bench.

The Mad Prophet awakened thick headed and tasting a tongue that felt packed in old fur. If lady fortune blessed him with her kiss the night before, she had stomped on his head the next morning. Peach brandy dealt a hangover to rival the most horrible torments of Sithaer. He could hardly have felt less miserable if somebody bad sunk a pair of fleecing shears up to their handles in both eyes.

His discomfort was not improved by the fact he sat wedged between bundles of baggage in a jostling, low-slung conveyance that just now was rolling downhill. Small stones and gravel cracked and pinged under iron-rimmed wheels that made as much noise as a gristmill. Poked in the ribs by something hard, buffeted to sorry chills by winds that smelled of spruce and fresh ice, Dakar groaned.

‘Oh, your acquisition is alive, I see,’ somebody observed with jilting humour. ‘Should we stop and offer him breakfast? Or no. Better ask first if he needs to piddle.’

Dakar cracked open gummed eyes. Granted a retreating view of a switched-back road edged with evergreen, he groaned and rolled back his head, only to be gouged in the nape by a flat griddle. He was in the Masterbard’s pony cart, inveigled there by Medlir’s sweet tongue and imprudent consumption of alcohol. Being stranded and broke in a backcountry tavern in hindsight began to show merits.

The brandy had spun him wicked dreams.

Badgered through his sleep by a quick-tongued man with green eyes, black hair, and the sharp-planed features of s’Ffalenn royalty, the Mad Prophet wondered what prompted his mind to play tricks and prod him with memories of the Shadow Master.

Then the cart jerked to a stop, which taxed his thought to a standstill. A shadow fell over him. Somebody not much larger than his nemesis in build, but with intentions infinitely kinder said, ‘Do you have to pee?’

Dakar rubbed crust from his lashes. Medlir leaned on the cart side and watched him with eyes of muddied hazel. His smile was sympathetic. ‘I don’t imagine you feel hale. Who’d have thought you the hero, to drain that flask to the dregs?’

‘If there’d been another just like it, I could’ve emptied that one as well. You would too, if you knew the man I’m supposed to be protecting.’ Dakar added with thick urgency, ‘Since you asked, the bushes are a very good idea.’

Medlir let down the tailgate, whose fastening pins and boards and battered binges combined to make a terrible racket. Holding his head, Dakar levered himself up and out from his nest amid the camp gear. He staggered into the roadway, not to relieve himself, but to find himself a cranny in which to crouch and be sick. He managed to reach the ditch by the roadside. There Medlir’s thoughtful grip was all that kept him from pitching head-down into puddles scummed over in ice and stitched with brambles.

That wretchedness finished, back upright on unsteady legs, Dakar realized his feet were no longer unshod. Somebody had kindly, if carelessly, restored his mislaid boots. The beer-damp stockings inside had crumpled in a way sure to chafe him a wicked set of blisters.

Still, Dakar concluded as he hauled himself back to the wagon, he would perish of a million wasting hangovers before he would bend to Asandir’s will concerning the Master of Shadow. If my life wasn’t bothered by sorcerers, maybe then I could stop drinking,’ he confided as he moled his way under a carriage rug.

Halliron unbraced the brake and clucked to the shaggy buckskin between the shafts. The cart rattled south down the Eltair road, that ran like a track of unreeled string, pinched between the black rock shores of the bay and the snow-bearded range of the Skyshiels. Cold winds scoured with salt off the water parted the pony’s rough coat. Halliron drove with his hands layered in mittens, while Medlir walked, his stride loose and long, and his mind preoccupied with recitation of ballads, or some lilted line of melody to which his master would often contribute comment.

A bard’s apprenticeship involved rigorous study, as Dakar came to appreciate in the hours while his hangover lifted. Although Halliron wore his age well, his years numbered eighty-seven. The damp bothered more than his hands, and although he seldom complained of his aches, he was engaged in a desperate race to train his successor before vigour failed him.

In an afternoon stop at a post station, where a room was engaged to allow the old man to rest, Medlir admitted to Dakar that the trip to Shand was for sentiment.

‘The Masterbard was born at Innish on the south coast, where River Ippash meets the sea. He would see his home before he dies and have his ashes laid by the canals near his family.’

‘He has family?’ Dakar said, surprised. As many years as he bad known Halliron, he had never heard mention of roots.

‘A daughter, I think.’ Medlir picked at a plate of sausage and bread, too considerate for unrestrained gossip. ‘The mother preferred not to travel.’

Thoroughly familiar with every road in the continent, Dakar weighed distances and miles. ‘You could make the south coast by the summer.’

‘Well, yes.’ Medlir smiled. ‘We hope to. If every tavern in between can stop flinging us blandishments to tarry.’

The common room was nearly empty, the last relay of messengers from Highscarp being mounted outside in the yard. Flushed from the morning’s raw winds, or maybe the heat of the fire, Medlir appeared not to mind the way Dakar surveyed him relentlessly: from slim, musician’s fingers that tapped whistle tunes on the edges of the crockery, to the unique way he chose to style his shirts, with sleeves full and long to the forearm, the cuffs tight-laced over the wrists to end at the heel of his hands.

In the hour of the Mist wraith’s curse, Arithon bad once fielded a strike from a light-bolt that left him welted from right palm to elbow, Dakar remembered. The unbidden association made him frown. He stared all the closer at Halliron’s apprentice, who leaned back to stretch in the sunlight that sloped through the casement.

His hands proved unscarred on both sides.

Dakar stifled an oath of self-disgust. Paranoia was making him foolish. The Master of Shadow was mage-trained. To another eye schooled to know talent, his aura should have blazed with unshed power against the darkened panelling of this room. By now sobered up enough to use Asandir’s teaching, Dakar squinted and peered, but detected nothing beyond the life-force that should halo the form of an ordinary man in prime health. He relaxed and started to sit back, then swore beneath his breath as he realized: such a detail could be masked with shadow.

‘What?’ Medlir regarded him inquiringly. ‘You seem bothered. Are you certain you won’t share my meal?’

The Mad Prophet looked into the man’s guileless face, then on impulse raised his hands and summoned power until his fingers streamed trailers of mage-fire.

Grey eyes ticked with mustard flecks watched him back, neither dazzled nor curious. Not a lash or a lid quivered at Dakar’s display; the minstrel apprentice’s pupils, widened in the dimness, failed to narrow so much as a hair’s-breadth.

‘Forgive me,’ Medlir said. ‘I wasn’t thinking, of course. You must still be feeling quite shaky.’ He pushed aside his plate, leaned on his elbows, and peeled a flaked callus from a fingertip well thickened from fret board and lyranthe string. ‘We probably won’t be moving on today, anyway. Halliron slept poorly last night. Since he’ll do best if he rests until tomorrow, I will play in the common room to satisfy the landlord. You can have a bed and hot soup.’

Now Dakar grinned slyly back. ‘Actually, I’d rather hear you sing me the ballad of the Cat and the Mead.’

‘Which version?’ Medlir reached across the bench, lifted Halliron’s instrument, and began with enthusiasm to untie wrappings. ‘There’s the one that’s suitable for little children, and the one fit for nowhere but the bawdy house, and a half dozen variations that fall in the range in between.’

‘Oh, try the one that’s obscene,’ Dakar said, his plump chin propped on folded knuckles and his cheeks dimpled in contentment over his scraggle of red beard.

‘The one with eighty eight verses and that awful repetitive chorus?’ Medlir tucked the lyranthe on his lap, made swift adjustment of the strings, and caught Dakar’s nod as he dashed off a run in E major to test his tuning. ‘Well,’ he said with a long-suffering patience that Arithon s’Ffalenn had never owned. ‘About verse fifty, please remember, you were the one who insisted.’

Tribulation

When Halliron took a chill that left him unfit to travel for two days, Medlir accepted the setback in stride. In no haste himself to reach Shand, he regarded his requisite nightly performance in the posthouse taproom as time well spent in extra practice.

Confounded by his good nature, for the apprentice bard spent both mornings and afternoons put to task under his master’s critical ear, Dakar warmed his feet by the hearth and his belly with flagons of ale. He listened to Medlir’s stock of drinking songs, ready to pounce if the repertoire suffered repeats. When the minstrel’s inventiveness did not falter, he snatched sleep in catnaps and escaped any dreams of vengeful sorcerers.

Their last night at the posthouse was made rowdy by a passing company of mercenaries, ten men under a surly, sword-scarred captain who demolished a platter of roast turkey in the best corner and smoked a pipe until the air around his head blued to fug. Still in their mail and rust-stained tunics, his fighting company drank and gambled, enthusiastically abetted by Dakar.

Between the jingle of gear and rattling dice, the bitten curses and sarcastic slurs and rounds of big-bellied laughter, there came the inevitable exchange of news.

‘You come from northwards,’ the captain bellowed across the taproom to Medlir. He paused to pick gristle from his teeth. ‘What’ve you heard? We’re bound that way into Etarra. Ship’s Port was thick with rumour that the Prince of the West is luring on swords to build a retinue.’

Medlir companionably shrugged, his hands in idle play upon his strings. ‘Why should he? The city council keeps him in comfort. Last I heard, he hadn’t yet tired of the garrison commander’s pretty sister.’

The mercenary captain hunched forward like a bear. Through the incisors clamped on toothpick and pipe stem, he said, ‘Well, the recruiter sent out by the head-hunters’ league claimed Prince Lysaer’s been deeded Avenor’s lands. The grant came from the Mayor Elect of Korias.’

The silvery spill of notes changed character, became thinner, brighter, more brittle. If so, the charter’s hardly legal.’

Nobody took umbrage,- the comment was scarcely out of turn, Athera’s Masterbard being a keeper of traditions often consulted to clarify rules of precedence. As Halliron’s probable successor, Medlir would be trained for the day the supreme title might fall to him.

‘Huh. Swords, and not paper, will settle that issue.’ The mercenary captain tossed away his toothpick and removed his pipe, which had stubbornly smouldered and gone out. ‘If there’s pay being offered for a winter position, we’d be fools not to go have a look. At worst, we’d weather till spring in Etarra, then sign with Pesquil’s headhunters when the new campaign season starts.’

‘Well, fortune to you,’ said Medlir, laughing softly. ‘Avenor’s a ruin. One of the old sites that folk won’t go near for the hauntings. There might be pay, if you fancy the chance to lay bricks.’

‘You’ve been there?’ The mercenary captain stared at the minstrel through the curling flame of his spill.

‘No.’ Medlir launched off a sprightly jig, foot tapping, and a gleam to his eyes at strange odds with his earlier humour. ‘Ath grant I never live to see the place.’

The following morning dawned to grey, misty rain and a clammy east wind off the bay. In the tidewater region of the coast, winter’s hold settled lightly. The mild airs drawn north by ocean currents could brew the occasional warm day. Above Jaelot, the road lay softened to muck, through which cartwheels sucked and splattered to the fitful grate of flint-bearing gravel. Medlir strode at the buckskin’s head to steady the bridle as the pony skated and slid through league upon league of soupy footing. Swathed in faded quilts on the driver’s board, Halliron sat looking tired.

‘I’ve no wish at all to stop in Jaelot,’ he insisted, unusually quarrelsome. ‘The town’s a cesspit of bad taste. I won’t have you wasting your talents there.’

‘Well, at least that’s a first.’ Medlir steered the pony cart toward the verge to allow a packtrain bearing southern spices and silk bales to make its laboured way past. Over the yips of the drovers, he said, ‘Not long back, I recall your phrasing the matter quite the other way about, that my fingering was too clumsy to inflict on a tinker, never mind any public audience.’

‘Well, that was then.’ Halliron blotted his dripping nose and sniffed. ‘You still have a great deal to learn.’

Through the jingle of gear and harness, and the whip-snaps as carters forced their ox teams from drifting to scent the horses as they passed, Medlir kept a weather eye on Dakar, perched like a woodchuck on a bony chestnut gelding won over dice with the mercenaries. More accustomed to pack straps hung with cooking pots than to bearing saddle and rider, the creature had wall-eyes and knock-knees and a tail stripped of hair like a rat’s. The buckskin pony shied well clear. More a shambling liability than a source of reliable transport, the chestnut changed nature like a weathercock, friendly and fiendish by turns.

Dakar’s indifferent horsemanship was hampered further by short thighs that stretched like a wrestler’s to straddle his mount’s width of barrel. Watching the pair careen through the pack beasts and drays, reins flying loose and heels drumming to indignant slaps of the silly, naked tail, Medlir was hard pressed not to chuckle.

Halliron looked in danger of swallowing his lips, until he resorted to muffling his whoops behind quilts.

The last laden mule in the cavalcade passed, with the gelding spinning left, and then right, in some doubt of its proper orientation. Dakar thwacked its goose rump with his rein ends and hauled, to no good effect. The narrow, bony head on a great pole of ewe neck swivelled back to stare where the leather had stung, its expression determinedly flummoxed.

Medlir shut brimming eyes.

‘What’s so funny?’ howled Dakar. He stabbed the gelding in its cavernous ribs with his heels and flapped elbows until it ambled in a sequence of steps by no means definable as a gait.

After one prolonged gasp against the buckskin’s wet mane, Medlir tucked his chin in his mufflers and stared without focus straight forward. ‘Ah!’ He made a manful effort, clutched his ribs, and said, ‘No one’s laughing. Halliron has a terrible cough. I could be suffering the same.’

Dakar’s reply unravelled into oaths as the gelding’s racketing shy sallied the width of the roadway. A stiff-featured Medlir applied himself to guiding the pony cart from its parking place amid the burdock, while Halliron wheezed and wiped rheumy eyes and murmured, ‘Ath, now my stomach is aching.’

Their journey resumed under mists spun to gold under late-breaking sunlight. Flocking gulls rose and wheeled in the sea-breeze off the tide flats. To the right, at each turn in the road, steep-sided valleys of evergreens yawned into gorges, some threaded with falls that spilled like frayed floss, and others with deep, narrow lakes lying polished as moonstones.

The country was beautiful, but wild, the foothills scarred by old rockfalls and too steeply pitched to grow fodder. Under sky like lucid aquamarine, the storms seemed remote, that could lash without warning off the bay and hurl salt spume against the mountains. The trees and the moss bore the scars in broken branches, and rock abutments burned clean of lichens. An equinox gale could wreck a steading in a night, with the buildings rebuilt again out of the splintered rubble, or ship’s planks, washed in by the tide. Hostels and posthouses were widely spaced and nowhere inside a day’s ride of a walled town.

When the sun swung behind the peaks and purpled shadow hardened the road in the grip of early cold, Halliron began to shiver with chills. His nose was buffed red, and his eyes shone too bright, and his thickest quilts lent no comfort.

Medlir said nothing, but watched his master in concern through the pause as they watered the horses.

Embarrassed at last by his own misery, Halliron capitulated. ‘Oh, all right. We’ll shelter in Jaelot, to spare you the bother of tending an invalid in the open.’

‘What bother?’ Medlir redistributed the mud-flecked blankets over the Masterbard’s knees. ‘If these townsmen have execrable taste, I could always try those ballads we heard in the sailors’ dives at Werpoint.’

Halliron returned a choked cough, whatever he had in mind undone by Dakar’s antics as he fell off the same stone twice trying to remount the brown gelding.

‘You’ll break your neck getting on that way!’ Medlir called, his fingers busy taking the pony’s surcingle up a hole.

Puffing, beet-faced, in no mood for criticism from a man who understood nothing about the trials of being fat, Dakar clambered back up the rock. ‘Since when do you know so much about horses?’

‘Maybe my parents were drifters,’ Medlir said.

‘Hah!’ The Mad Prophet achieved precarious balance on one foot. ‘Foxes, more like. You say crafty little about yourself.’

A shallow smile touched Medlir’s features, accompanied by ingenuously raised brows. ‘Foxes bite.’

‘Well, I know I’m prying.’ Dakar poised himself, leaped, and grabbed, while his steed staggered into a clattering half-passe. The Mad Prophet landed astride through a miracle, both fists balled in mane-hanks to arrest a pitch over the saddle’s far side. As his mount was coerced to cease milling, he added, ‘Faery-toes makes better company.’

‘Faery-toes? That?’ Halliron poked his nose out of his blankets and fixed dubious eyes on hooves that were round and fluted as meat platters.

‘Well of course,’ said Dakar, offended. ‘The name suits him fine, don’t you think?’

The party moved on; into shadows that lengthened to grey dusk, swallowed early by fog off the bay.

Darkness had fallen as they rounded the bend before Jaelot’s wide gates. Situated on a beak-head of land that jutted out into the bay, the town was walled with black rock. Torches in iron baskets burned from the keeps, which were octagonal, with slate roofs buttressed by gargoyles that loomed and leered and lolled obscene tongues over gate-turrets chiselled from white quartz. These were emblazoned with rampant lions, each bearing a snake in its mouth.

‘Ugly.’ By now querulously tired, Halliron regarded the carvings with distaste while the tarnished strips of tin hung as ward talismans jangled and clinked in thin dissonance. ‘The Paravian gates torn down from this site were said to be fashioned of agate, and counter-weighted to swing at a hand’s touch.’

This was a Second Age fortress?’ Medlir asked. ‘How surprising to find it inhabited.’ He soothed the cross-grained buckskin to a halt as the gate watch called down gruff challenge. He had to answer without hearing his master’s return comment. ‘We’re wayfarers, two minstrels and a companion. We shouldn’t be stopping here at all, except the old man needs shelter.’

‘Pull aside then.’ The watch captain lounged in his niche, his breath plumed in flamelight. ‘The post courier’s overdue from Tharidor, and the gates’ll be opened when he’s in.’

‘There’s courtesy for you,’ Halliron said between sneezes. ‘I knew we should have made camp. If the courier hasn’t come to grief in the dark, well have our choice of three inns, all of them cavernously dim and dirty, and not a one of them honest.’

‘Which has the best ale?’ asked Dakar.

‘Who knows?’ The Masterbard sighed. ‘In Jaelot, they cut the brew with water.’

By chance, their wait became shortened. While Medlir fussed over his master, and Dakar communed with his mount, a barrel-chested wagonmaster in sheepskins rolled in, swearing at his team and unhappy to be missing his dinner. He brandished his whip at the gate house, while his sweated horses sidled and stamped and struck blue-edged sparks from the pavement. It’s that thrice-cursed shipment from the mill I’m carrying, the one with the mayor’s seal on it.’

The gates were opened very swiftly indeed, while something clicked in the brain of Dakar’s camel-necked chestnut that said stable, and comfort, and oats. It pinned back rabbity ears and lunged to harry the wagon team through.

The lead pair were blinkered. The first the near one knew of Faery-toes’ attentions was a nip of yellow teeth at its flanks.

It veered to a bounding grind of singletrees, while Dakar, howling mightily, sawed nerveless mouth with both reins and fell off. He had the aplomb to roll clear, while the carter whipcracked and cursed.

The lash caught the gelding on the nose. He wind-milled sideways on splayed feet, rat-tail flailing. Eyes rolled white, his nostrils expanded into a snort that blew steam, he half-reared and reversed to a thunderous clatter of hooves. His gaunt rump jammed the wheel horse in the shoulder. It staggered, squealing. The rest of the team careened sideways and jack-knifed the dray between the gate turrets with Faery-toes folded amidst them like a misguided log in a torrent.

Oaths became lost in the crack of shod hooves as a brief show of stamping coalesced to a five horse brawl amid the traces.

The carter clung to his swaying box like a man on a half-foundered vessel, plying his lash and a poisonous stream of threats upon his scuffling team to no avail. Leather parted; tenets burst from collar stuffing to a scream of splintering wood. Unnoticed atop the swaying wagon bed, lashings creaked and shifted loose. A springy bundle of cypress teetered, then tipped like an unfolding set of shears and swan-dived onto the pavement.

The splintering crack of impact raised stinging reverberations under the confines of the gate arch. The wheel pair parted sideways in a violent shy and the carter threw down his whip, crying murder, as eighty board feet of rare moulding custom-carved to please the mayor’s wife became milled to pale slivers beneath his wheels.

Through a small, stunned second, the torches dimmed in a swooping gust of wind. Under their demonic flicker, the carter turned red and tare at his sideburns with his fists. The draught team milled, netted in. slackened traces and flighty as shoaling fish; while the mis-shapen cause of the disaster stood nonplussed, conversing in great sucking gusts with the wheel horses.

‘Curse of a fiend!’ The carter unfurled from his box in a frog-leap that landed him beside the russet-brown bundle that was Dakar. ‘What in Sithaer will you do about that misbegotten insult of a horse?’

‘Misbegotten? Insult?’ Dakar inspected the burly antagonist planted over him, fists cocked for mayhem, and his hair screwed free of an oiled felt cap like tufts of snarled wool on a shuttlecock. ‘You’re pretty ugly yourself, you know.’ Through the half-breath while the carter was stunned speechless, the Mad Prophet pushed past, retrieved trailing reins, and hauled Faery-toes out backwards from the tangle of shafts and shredded harness.

While Halliron and Medlir watched amazed, a safe distance removed in the pony cart, Dakar came back, towing horse. He poised before the irate carter, oblivious to the pounding from the adjacent gate houses, as the watch on duty pelted downstairs in armed readiness to forestall an altercation.

‘I suggest you forgive the old boy.’ When the nag butted a congenial head against the carter’s shoulder and knocked him a half-step back, Dakar added, ‘How could you not? He likes you.’

The carter purpled and swung. The suet-round face of his target vanished as Dakar ducked and fled beneath the saddle girth. Bunched knuckles smacked against the barrel-sprung ribs of the horse, who responded from both ends with a grunt and a fart like an explosion.

‘Oh my,’ cried Dakar, stifling a chortle. ‘Your wife’s nose must look like a pudding if that’s your reaction to her kisses.’

The carter dove under the gelding’s neck in a fit of killing fury while the horse, ears flat, parted gaunt jowls and snapped.

Teeth closed over greasy fleece, and the breeches of the carter burst a critical seam. The Mad Prophet sidestepped around the chestnut’s churning quarters, blithe in rebuke as he passed, ‘Leave him alone, Faery-toes. Your affection’s a wee bit misplaced. You know this fellow you’re undressing’s about as nice as a hawk-pecked snake.’

Arrived in a rush that packed the postern, Jaelot’s guardsmen cracked into laughter.

Faery-toes switched its nubby tail just as the carter began his rush. Caught a dizzying lash in the face, and howling falsetto invective, the man lunged with full intent to mangle just as the horse lost its poise. Its knurled spine humped. Enormous hooves battered for purchase as its hind end heaved up and cleared the ground. One hind leg hooked out in a cow-kick that demolished the front wheel of the dray. A descant of splintering spokes sounded above the crash as the hub hammered into the cobbles.

Set dancing in nervy refrain, the unattended team bit their collars. The crippled vehicle dragged in their wake with a blistering screech that harrowed up six yards of paving. Some fast-witted bystander caught their bits and muscled them to a standstill, all unnoticed in the ongoing tumult beneath the archway.

The carter expended one last volley of monosyllabic epithets. Fairy-toes, carried away in a careening sidle, lost the last of his questionable footing. He dropped belly-down in a splay-legged heap to a whistling grunt of astonishment.

Felled by peals of mirth, Dakar buckled to his knees not far off. With both eyes squeezed shut and leaking helpless tears, he failed to notice when the officer of the watch stopped sniggering. Jaelot’s men at arms snapped to in dutiful propriety as a four-in-hand bitch and black lacquered coach thundered up the thoroughfare. Gilded, lion-blazoned doors sparked in the torchlight as the vehicle slowed and pulled up before the obstruction that clogged the city gate.

Stiffened as pokers, watch gate captain’s men saluted as boy grooms in velvet livery leapt down to catch the bridles of the lead horses, which were also black, and matched like images in mirror glass with smart blazes and white stockings. A footman dispatched from the driver’s box strolled over to the carter, even yet hopping back to escape the gelding’s thrashing first effort to rise.

There is some difficulty?’ the footman opened coldly. The gold braid and blazon of the authority he represented glittered through the smoke of the torches.

Speechless, the carter stabbed a skinned finger at the gelding, which gathered its fantastic assemblage of joints and surged, snorting, to its feet.

A woman’s voice called from the carriage. The footman nodded deference, then turned his chin stiffly over his pearl-buttoned collar and inquired, ‘May I ask, in the name of my Lord Mayor, what you have done with the new crown moulding?’

The carter straightened his ripped britches, sweat sliding slick down his temples. ‘I? Vengeance of Dharkaron, that horse!’

Faery-toes curled an insouciant lip and shook like a dog amid a tempest of flapping reins and stirrups. The footman’s regard turned sceptical before he swung back to the carter. ‘I doubt if that bundle of incompetence is able to move four feet in consecutive order.’

‘Well, that says it all in a nutshell,’ cried the carter in exasperation.

‘Who owns the beast?’ The glance of the mayor’s footman ranged loftily over the bystanders, flickered past the pony cart and its pair of frozen figures, then lowered inexorably to the last, still wheezing on the pavement. ‘Who?’

Dakar’s disordered features snapped sober. ‘I just donated him to the city almshouse.’

The carriage door opened and slammed. The footman gave way before a robed secretary with overbred hands. Mincing like a rooster with hackles raised for combat, the official bore down upon the unkempt fat man who, like his horse, belatedly scrambled upright.

‘You will be chained and held in custody until tomorrow, when this matter will be settled in the court hall of Jaelot to my Lord Mayor’s satisfaction. I suggest until then that somebody competent puts that creature away. At least have it removed from the streets before it can cause further mischief.’ To the carter, he added without sympathy, ‘The guard will help clear your debris. If you wish to claim settlement for damages, attend the hearing and make your plea to the mayor’s justice.’

While the watch captain’s men closed in armed force to take the Mad Prophet into custody, and the retinue of the Jaelot’s mayor retired back to the carriage and whisked off on gilded wheels, Halliron pressed mittened hands over streaming eyes and groaned through the muffling fur. ‘Ath, I knew, I just knew! We should never have come into Jaelot.’

Trial

His Lordship the Mayor of Jaelot was not disposed to rise early. In his courts of law, appointments by hour were unheard of; the city alderman sent his list daily to the watch captain, who detailed men at arms to the dungeons. The accused were fetched out without breakfast and escorted to the annex chamber, a window-less, black-panelled vault with groined ceilings built into a cellar beneath the council hall. There, cuffed in manacles that made it difficult to scratch accumulated flea bites, Dakar the Mad Prophet was obliged to wait with two other men and a woman, whose crimes ranged from public brawling to theft and bloody murder.

Through the course of an uncomfortable night, he bad cursed his careless learning. A brass lock or latch, he could have opened with spells,- and had, many times, in egress from the bedchambers of willing wives whose husbands had come home untimely. But the fetters and bars of Jaelot’s dungeons were never fashioned for decor in castings of soft, refined metals. Chilled yet from lying huddled on dank straw, Dakar ground his teeth over dilatory habits that had let him drift through his centuries of Fellowship apprenticeship without fully mastering the contrary properties of alloys bearing cold iron.

The dilemma bequeathed him by Faery-toes had long since ceased to seem funny.

In the beleaguered light shed by one candle, the mayor’s dais and desk loomed over the prisoner’s dock, a marble edifice of gothic carvings and fluted supports and grotesque, hunch-backed caryatids, whose suffering poses were painted in shadows like scenes from Sithaer’s bleak pits. The air smelled of wax, of parchment, of the dried citrus peel and Shandian spices used to overpower the stink of condemned men kept chained in straw acidified with rat urine. Behind the prisoners’ enclosure, board benches lined the rear wall. On these gathered complainants in clean shirts and scrubbed boots; also the wives, the relations and the long-suffering friends of the day’s accused, to wait in fidgeting silence. The curious came too, but unobtrusively. In Jaelot, a loquacious jailer told Dakar, a beggar who had taken illicit shelter in the Mayor’s courtroom had lost all his fingers as punishment.

In this chamber, a merciful sentence might be a swift beheading; a severe one, a dismemberment, or breaking on the wheel before burning. Dakar shifted from foot to foot in an attempt to ease the drag of the chain; the unending bite of fetters whose steel, to one of mage-trained sensitivity, scoured the awareness with the tang of past misery and old blood.

Self-contained in his distress, he noted little beyond the glowering arrival of the millwork’s wronged carter; still, the benches were not empty of friends.

Halliron Masterbard had come, dressed in all the splendour of his rank. From the depths of the gloom, his neat cloak and slashed doublet of black watered silk lined in saffron shimmered like flame with caught light. Topaz studs and gold ribbon sparked and flashed in wry and stabbing satire, perhaps, that the mayor’s state colours were the same. Stationed at his side, Medlir wore brown broadcloth, a modest brooch at his collar.

The carillons that signalled the hour boomed faintly down from the bell tower. Aching and irritable, Dakar endured the arrival of Jaelot’s Lord Mayor with a dawning sense of the absurd. He had seen a high king’s ceremonial open with less pomp.

The hall doors boomed back, held by bowing servants in sable livery. Halberdiers in black armour marched in double files, followed by pageboys who unreeled gold-edged carpet, emblazoned each yard with Jaelot’s snake-bearing lions. A girl in a hooped farthingale fringed with jingling bullion chains strewed hothouse roses from a basket. She was trailed by two braces of secretaries in wool robes cuffed with marten, then their serving boys, bearing satchels and writing papers furled in yellow ribbon. Next, the judiciary, robed in black velvet and white ermine, and wearing a mitred felt cap edged with moth-eaten braid; the city alderman, burdened down like a moulting crane in layers of brocade and ruffled cuffs. After these, soft as pudding, the city’s vaunted mayor, who swayed at each step, his voluminous robe billowed off his padded shoulders like sails let free of their sheetlines.

Forced to duck as a rose struck his face, Dakar stared in amazement as the processional ended. Like trained bears, the players arrayed themselves on the dais. There should have been music, he thought, as the flower maid emptied her basket in the precinct of the mayor’s chair, and the boys unpacked the scribes’ satchels as if laying a cloth for a picnic. The halberdiers dressed weapons with a clang of gold gauntlets, and the tubby mayor berthed himself in his overstuffed throne of state.

Beaked as a vulture beneath his tatty hat, the judiciary rattled a triangle and pronounced, ‘The Jaelot City Court is in session.’

The alderman unrolled a list on parchment and called out Dakar’s name.

‘Well, thank Ath, we’re first,’ the Mad Prophet cracked in dry relief.

Two unamused men at arms who did not wear costly gauntlets caught him under the armpits, hauled him forward and threw him face-down before the dais.

There he was held by two booted feet pressed solidly into his shoulderblades. The alderman cleared his throat, pushed a spidery set of spectacles up his nose, and recited the list of offences: disruption of the city peace; obstruction of the public thoroughfare; wilful damage to the mayor’s property; interference with commerce; negligent handling of horseflesh; and lastly, insolence to officers while in custody.

‘What do you plead?’ The judiciary peered over his spiked and scented beard at the accused crushed prone on the floor.

His jaw jammed against cold granite, Dakar tugged a breath into compressed lungs and swore.

‘Impertinence while in court,’ the alderman droned. Like synchronized vultures, four near-sighted secretaries dipped quills and scribbled the addition to their documents.

‘Fiends and Dharkaron’s vengeance!’ Dakar pealed. ‘What wilful damage? You saw my horse. Did Faery-toes look at all like the sort to attack passing drays out of hand? Ath’s own patience, you’d kick something yourself, if some lout hauled off and rammed his fist in your ribs!’

On the benches, the carter gritted sturdy teeth and restrained himself from springing to his feet to cry protest. Caught up in its rut of due process, the court continued with the prisoner.

Insolence to superiors,’ said the alderman, displaying an unfortunate lisp, while the pens of the secretaries twitched and scratched.

The mayor stifled a yawn and eased the silver-tipped laces on his waistcoat. ‘I never saw your beast.’ In tones of boredom marred by faint shortness of breath, he admitted, ‘My wife was the one out in the carriage. The moulding was cut to satisfy her whim. Its destruction has left her indisposed. As the horse’s owner, you are responsible for its unprovoked fit. Since the question of innocence does not arise on that charge, your punishment must recompense the lady’s losses.’

The carter could no longer contain himself. ‘Does my team and dray count for nothing? Two of my horses are lame, and wheelwright’s services are dear!’

‘Be still.’ The judiciary looked up from adjusting his rings. ‘City justice must be satisfied before any appeal for compensation can be opened.’

Hot and fuming in his town clothes, the carter sat down. Halliron looked deadpan, a sign of irritation; Medlir’s bemusement masked disgust.

Pressed still to the floor, his face twisted sideways and his hair rucked up like a snarl of wind-twisted bracken, Dakar rolled his eyes at the crick that plagued his neck. Heartily tired of embracing clammy stone, he followed the proceedings with difficulty.

An exchange between the city alderman and the prim-faced judiciary again roused the pens of the secretaries. Nibs scritched across parchment like the scurry of roaches, and a pageboy jangled the triangle to some unseen administrative cue.

‘Guilty on all counts.’ The judiciary produced a flannel handkerchief and honked to clear his nose. Then he adjusted his hat and tipped his undershot chin toward the alderman.

‘A fine and six months on the labour gang,’ that official pronounced, then followed with a sum a prince would be beggared to pay.

‘You already confiscated my saddle bags!’ Dakar yelped in outrage. ‘You’ll know I don’t carry any coin.’

‘You’re not lacking friends.’ The mayor swivelled porcine eyes toward the elegant figure of the Master-bard. ‘They may balance the debt for you, should they be so inclined. It is to them you must now beg for clemency.’

They have nothing to do with me,’ Dakar insisted between frog-flop attempts to wiggle free.

The Lord Mayor raised his eyebrows. ‘Then what brings them to Jaelot?’

‘You speak of Halliron Masterbard and his apprentice.’ Dakar stopped struggling, appalled to unwonted seriousness. ‘They ask nothing more than license to practise their art. There’s not a town anywhere that wouldn’t welcome their presence.’

The alderman’s fishy eyes completed their inventory of glittering silk and cut topaz. ‘Is this true?’

Halliron swept to his feet. In a voice burred rough by his cough, but modulated to lyrical acidity, he said, ‘What’s true is that no man alive owns the sum Jaelot’s court of justice sees fit to demand.’ The barbed threat of satire behind his inflection rang without echo into silence.

The Lord Mayor fluttered a hand in capitulation. ‘Well then. We’ll mediate the sentence, naturally. Since my lady was the party offended, it’s fitting that she gain compensation. The spoiled moulding cost four hundred royals, true-silver. The carter’s list of damages will be compiled and paid off to the penny. The city’s fine I will waive on this condition: that Halliron Masterbard entertain my lady’s guests at the feast upon mid-summer solstice.’ A glistening, toothy smile parted the mayor’s lips. ‘License to practise your art, if you will, before this city’s finest. If your playing matches your reputation, no doubt, folk of pedigree will shower their gold at your feet. You might even earn a tidy profit.’

Medlir’s lightning surge to arise was stopped by a feather touch from the bard.

From the floor, Dakar gagged in strangled outrage. ‘That’s rank insult.’

The secretaries’ nibs scraped through a poisonous silence. Halliron, white hair thrown back, light eyes fixed on a point midway between ceiling groins and dais, said nothing. Medlir’s poised stillness showed tension more appropriate to a swordsman than a singer, while the halberdiers who were not one whit ceremonial shifted their balance to readiness.

Strangely desperate, Dakar said, Don’t answer. I don’t require it.’

What bargains you strike between yourselves are entirely your personal affair.’ The mayor parked his hands amid the foamy lace of his waistcoat. ‘The city’s terms will stand: either pay the fine or render performance, with enforced restriction to remain inside city walls until the terms of the sentence are met. You have seven days in which to give your decision.’

At the edge of the candle’s pooled light, the judiciary’s smirk flashed like the teeth of a feeding shark. ‘Set the record.’ His attention brushed Halliron, then bent dismissively to share his amusement with the alderman. ‘It’s a convenient arrangement, since the offender’s stint at forced labour will expire near the same date.’ To the bard, he added gently, ‘Of course you could decline the option. Your companion would then languish in prison till he dies, or his debt to Jaelot is paid.’

On the dais, a striker flared in a scribe’s veined hand. The scent of heated wax curled through the smell of roses, the tang of stale citrus and the unwashed heat of despair that clung to the prisoners uneasily awaiting their turn at trial. The secretaries raised sharp knives and busily resharpened their pens, while the alderman brandished the city seal and impressed Jaelot’s lions on four documents.

‘Case dismissed,’ intoned the judiciary.

The carter pressed forward to cite his damages, while before the marble dais, the men at arms hoisted Dakar upright by his manacles and towed his bulk from the hall. Stumbling and wordless, the insouciance of yesterday bled out of him, he never once turned his head in appeal; while Halliron and Medlir made swift departure through the crooked stair that led upward into the daylight.

Later, in a dingy garret room where winter winds tore at loose slates, and draughts flowed and creaked through the gaps in warped shutters, Medlir sat over a mug of spiced wine, his flattened hands tapping a jig tune on the chipped and dingy porcelain. ‘Will you let him off?’

‘Was there ever any question?’ Four hundred and sixty royals of their store of coin had already been dispatched to the lumber mill and the wheelwright’s coffers. Halliron sat on the pallet opposite, swathed in quilts and coach rugs taken from the pony cart’s baggage. The inn’s bedclothes had been banished into care of the laundress; if this establishment maintained any servant to fill the post. Scraping an idle fingernail through the grime on the bed boards, Halliron was inclined to think not. ‘Your obligation to Asandir must take precedence.’

Medlir jerked his chin up. ‘It does not.’ The fluttering tallow dip underlit his face, lending baleful emphasis to his anger. ‘The Fellowship sorcerers would agree. Your business is in Shand, not in mending the Mad Prophet’s excesses.’

Halliron tisked gently. His slow grin unveiled gapped front teeth. ‘I can teach you as readily here as in the south. Shand can wait.’

‘If six months in Jaelot doesn’t contrive to ruin us both.’ Medlir’s veneer of irritation dissolved as he arose to add billets to the ill-vented hearth, burned down to a smouldering, sullen bed of coals that belched smoke at each breath of wind. As the new wood caught, he sighed. ‘All of this concerns my life before I accepted your apprenticeship. I’d rather you weren’t burdened.’

‘You’re more to me, now, than an apprentice.’ Fresh flame curled up, laying a bronze patina over the spider-tracks of wrinkles that scored the bard’s skin, and gilding age-chiselled face-bones still windburned from the open road. ‘And anyway, you’re the one most inconvenienced. I shouldn’t care to stand in your shoes when the Mad Prophet discovers you’ve deceived him.’

His back turned, Medlir shrugged. ‘Forced labour won’t give him much chance.’

Eyes clear as sky studied the tension in the younger man’s shoulders; noted the absorbed, almost desperate focus he bent upon the slate apron beneath his boots. As if his eyes could see into soot-dusted, grainy layers of stone, and perceive the dance and spark of primal energies that laced its matter into being; as indeed, Halliron knew, they once had, before raw abuse of such powers in Deshir’s defence had raised barriers. A mage once trained to know the mysteries was unlikely to forget the awesome, wild winds of destruction a binding of unmaking could unleash. Backlash and scarring had rendered the spirit blind and mute.

With a gentleness roughened by the congestion in his chest, the bard said, ‘Be patient. The sight will come back to you. Nature offers more than one path to perception, and your musical gifts may grow to compensate.’

The one who named himself Medlir raised hands to cover his face, the beaded ends of unstrung laces swinging and tapping against his knees. He crouched so for a long moment, then gathered himself, stood up, and turned toward his master an expression of unspeakable pain. ‘I’ve felt the power stir in snatches, an echo here and there between notes.’ His frustration revealed his difficulty, that he could not accustom himself to the change. The energies he had studied as pure spirit light felt indecipherably strange, transliterated to vibration and sound.

Halliron’s smile held bedrock firmness. ‘Well, work at it. Six months in Jaelot will certainly leave you the time.’

The Masterbard’s apprentice returned a clipped sigh and bent to unwrap the lyranthe. He extended a foot in a swordsman’s move and hooked the chamber’s one stool. Its broken brace scarcely troubled his poise as he perched on the rat-chewed rush seat.

‘Give me the Ballad of Taerlin Waters,’ Halliron said. ‘Mind you don’t slur the runs in the third bar, or the grace notes that lead into the chorus.’

Medlir flicked back the untied gusset of his cuffs to free his fingers for tuning; here, where disguise was not needed, firelight caught raw and red on a scar that grooved the flesh in a half-twist from right palm to elbow. The hair that fronded his cheek as he bent to the sweet ring of strings was no longer the bland, ash brown Dakar knew, but glossy black as chipped coal.

His eyes, when he finally raised them to sing, were as penetrating a green as the royal ancestor whose natural looks he had inherited.

Links

Before the spring winds thaw the Mathorn Pass, Lysaer s’Ilessid, Prince of the West, rides out at the head of a cavalcade bound for ruined Avenor, his fair betrothed at his side; with him, under heavy escort of Etarran men at arms and ex-mercenaries sworn to feal service, travel a hundred wains bearing funds for his city’s restoration, and tapestries, chests, fine furnishings and the jewels apportioned as his lady’s dowry…

The journey of the royal retinue is marked by covert bands of scouts who relay word through messengers to the borders of Rathain and beyond; until news of Lysaer’s movement is shared by clansmen who muster in deep, hidden glens against the day that Prince Arithon may have need of them…

On the east facing-wall of Jaelot, whipped by cold airs off the bay, the man who is prince and fugitive, Master of Shadow and Masterbard’s apprentice, sends a request intended for Sethvir, Fellowship sorcerer and Warden of Althain Tower; and his missive is not scribed on parchment, but in his own blood upon a flake of slate that he dries over live flame, then tosses into the heaving breakers at high tide…

III. FIRST INFAMY

Committed as an impulsive donation by Etarra’s Governor Supreme to the ruined city Prince Lysaer undertook to restore, Lord Diegan, ex-commander of the garrison, sat his glossy bay warhorse and glared through the pennons that cracked at the head of the unwieldy column bound for Avenor. The gusts off the Mathorn’s high slopes still bit like midwinter; as unforgiving were Lord Diegan’s eyes, bleak and flat as black ice.

He wore the trappings of an Etarran dandy; intrigue still drove him as naturally as each drawn breath, but five summers spent in the wilds on campaign against forest barbarians had tempered him. He knew when boldness would not serve him. Yet masterfully as a man could contain himself, last night’s argument had flared too hotly to be masked behind banality. Lord Diegan found himself glaring once again at the blond-haired prince who rode to his left.

Clad for travel in blue-dyed suede and a cloak of oiled wool, his hair like combed flax under the gold-stitched velvet of his hat, Lysaer s’Ilessid adjusted his reins in gloved hands and suddenly, generously smiled. Still looking forward, as if the roadway behind were not packed with a chaos of groaning, creaking wagons and the whip snaps and epithets of bored carters, he said, ‘Still angry? At least that way you’ll keep warm.’

Too raw not to rise to provocation, Diegan felt his horse startle and jig. Annoyed to have dug in a thoughtless spur, he snapped, ‘I still can’t believe you’re dragging my sister Talith into this.’

Lysaer turned his head. Eyes as brilliant as glacial ice touched Diegan, then flicked away. ‘Be careful. Don’t let me think you believe I take her so lightly as to cast her into needless danger.’

Had Diegan not needed both hands to settle his sidling mount, he could have struck the prince in exasperation. ‘Ah, Ath, why won’t you listen?’ No need to repeat those facts already thrashed through: that town mayors in the kingdom of Tysan had never seen the horrors of the Shadow Master’s powers; to them the massacre that broke an army in Strakewood forest was history told at second hand. Of more immediate concern were the fragmented archives which survived the ancient uprising that first overthrew Athera’s high kings. If few guilds and merchants recalled the truth, that the same barbarian clans who plundered their trade goods once had ruled their cities, Erdane’s mayor was not among them. Scathing letters from his barristers on the subject outlined the ramifications: s’Ilessid blood made Lysaer the last legitimate royal heir and no city in Tysan cared to risk a return to crown rule.

Heated now beyond restraint, Diegan burst out, ‘You know you’ll be arrested and condemned as a dissenter? In Isaer, likely as not, they’ll throw you to the headhunters’ mastiffs. Sithaer’s Furies, man, just for some mouldy historical right to lay claim to clan fealty, you’re the living embodiment of these peoples’ fear of insurrection. I don’t care to see two hundred Etarran soldiers give up their lives to keep you from being savaged by a dog pack!’

‘Well then,’ Lysaer said equably. ‘The Etarran division will be sent home before any political misperception can arise to start any bloodshed.’ In maddening, single-minded majesty, he looked straight ahead as he added, Diegan, this issue is greater than me, more important than Tysan’s disorders. Somewhere in hilling, the Master of Shadow weaves plots. Sitting secure in Etarra flushing out barbarian encampments is never going to make him show his hand.’

To which Lord Diegan could do nothing but clench his jaw, wheel his courser out of line, and pound off at a canter to review the order of his troops. Speechless in frustration, he wished he had a lance in his hand and a living target to skewer. For it was never Lysaer’s dedication to the cause of killing Arithon s’Ffalenn that had been under contention; only the folly of allowing the Lady Talith to believe herself secure amid the troop who rode out to renew s’Ilessid claim to Avenor’s charter.

Prince Lysaer’s cavalcade travelled westward at a pace its seasoned war captains concurred was better suited to the staging of an invalid’s retinue. Those mercenaries with prior experience of moving troops complained mightily to their superiors, then arranged rough drills in the open camps to keep their cohorts smart. Unused to being fresh and idle, their men at arms diced and got fractious with each pause. Settlements and towns along the Mathorn road were favourably disposed toward Lysaer’s retainers, since the barbarian raids out of Halwythwood that distressed their trade had eased through Etarra’s campaigns. Lord Diegan grew accustomed to state dinners followed by exhaustive mornings of fielding grievances.

For the royal cavalcade grew longer, more massive, more weighed down with gifts with every city it passed. If the Prince of the West journeyed into his ancestral kingdom to win allies against the Master of Shadow, each mayor and guild left inside Rathain’s borders set themselves to ingratiate. However they might disparage royalty, they needed Lysaer’s goodwill lest the dreaded sorcerer think to turn on them with impunity once the prince who had defended Etarra was gone. The aftermath became familiar unto habit. Diegan sat in some draughty tent with a lap-desk, grim-faced as he battled the breezes that snatched at his lading lists and tiresome tallies of wagons. From Narms, they had five loads of carpets and woven silk, sumptuously coloured; from Morvain, downcoast, wool bales profitably traded for crystal from the famed glassworks at Falgaire. They had lanterns in wrought brass, barrels of rare wines and brandies, and from some beneficent farmer, foundation stock for a pig herd.

Lord Diegan came to wince at the creatures’ squeals, much as he did when the camp followers shrieked obscenities at cheating customers. Whatever Lysaer believed, a war camp was no place for anybody’s pedigree sister.

Since the baggage train made transport by water impractical, the prince’s retinue crept by road around the shoreline of Instrell Bay. Caught by a late-breaking ice storm, they crawled over the low pass at East Bransing, which parted the weathered summits of the Storlains from the furze-cloaked hills that northward gave rise to the loftier spur of the Thaldeins.

Despite Lord Diegan’s forebodings and a hostile letter of warning delivered by mounted courier from Erdane’s reigning mayor, the cavalcade crossed with the thaws into the realm of Tysan, past seat of the s’Ilessid high kings.

Camped in pastures, quartered in hay byres, they bought wood, milk and early greens from red-cheeked country matrons. To Diegan’s everlasting uneasiness, the company blatantly proclaimed itself to the eyes of every passing shepherd. The bellying, bullion-fringed standard with its brilliant blue cloth bore a sigil not seen for five centuries: the royal twelve-pointed star of pale gold. The curious came out to stare in droves. Whatever the sentiments held by city governments and their mettlesome packs of trade guilds, the crofters of Tysan lent tacit trust once assured the prince’s captains would pay for provender. Young boys watched the marching men in their helms, shining mail, and the bright, sharp steel of their longswords, and dreamed; or else turned up in holed boots and motley tunics, reeking of cow dung from the tilling and begging to be taken on for training.

Lysaer s’Ilessid turned none of them away.

‘Why leave them on the farms where their families must struggle to feed them?’ Oblivious to the squalor, he sat by the hearthside cracking nuts for Lady Talith in a peasant’s croft near Dyshent. Crickets chirruped in the smoke-grimed shadows of the corners and round-eyed children peered through the boards of the cattle stalls, where the matron had locked them for safety. Outside, amid a glitter of campfires, the fighting force sprawled at their ease in the mild night, while the off-duty watch laughed and cast bets, and the day’s new recruits dug pits for latrines behind the thorn fence of a sheepfold. Attentive to the timbre of the officer’s calls that wafted through opened shutters, Lysaer added, ‘These boys’ skills will be sorely needed later. Any unsuited for our fighting force will be given land of their own to husband, once Avenor’s rebuilt.’

‘If we ever get there,’ Lord Diegan grumbled acidly. Dark where his sister was leonine, he dug his knuckles into eyes gritted raw from the dust thrown up by his prince’s ridiculous train of wagons, columns of light horse and pack-mules. The rains ended earlier since the banishment of Desh-thiere’s mists; if the past plagues of bloodsucking insects were lessened, the air hung as close as new summer. ‘We’ll need to cut tents out of carpets, at this pace. Next winter’s frost will catch us before we can raise a roof to keep the rust from our weapons stores.’

‘Spend the cold season in Erdane with Talith, then,’ Lysaer said, and grinned in suave provocation. He wore neither doublet nor shirt. Since his offer to sling yoke buckets in from the dairy, the matron had carped until he stripped off his fine silk. Afterward, nobody remarked that his lack of finesse in the farmyard had left him bespattered with milk. Unjustly magnificent in fitted breeches of blue suede embroidered with seedpearls, he leaned down and scooped another nut from the poke by his ankles.

Across the cottage, the farmwife’s daughter thumped her chum, her gaze never leaving the beautiful prince, except to stab in envy at the tawny-haired lady who curled like a cat at his knee.

‘Or else go back to your Lord Governor in Etarra,’ Lysaer resumed, well aware of his captain’s coiled tension as he flipped up and fielded a nut-meat. ‘The Etarran division will return as I promised, once we reach the crossroad to Camris.’

‘You can’t be serious about that!’ Lord Diegan’s sharp movement rucked the braided hearth-rug and upset the little sack, and nuts cascaded into the embers. ‘You’re carrying the endowment to found a city, and -’

‘And what?’ Lysaer stretched and pecked a kiss on Talith’s cheek, letting her retire before the debate could encompass the Master of Shadow. Left to the censure of her brother, the prince stayed unmoved. ‘This is Tysan. My ancestors ruled here.’

‘For which Erdane’s mayor sent an edict to draw and quarter you!’ Hot in his velvets, Lord Diegan endured discomfort rather than let the dairy girl make unflattering comparisons. ‘The fanatics on his council will have troops out to slaughter your bodyguard before you’ll gain passage through his town.’

Lysaer looked back in reproach. ‘These are my people, Diegan. However I have to win my way past Erdane, whether my troops come to shelter under carpets or wind-breaks cut from our best murray silk, I won’t cross this land in such haste that I cannot understand the land’s needs.’

‘Sithaer take your royal principles, I’d do better arguing with a half-wit!’ Lord Diegan stood, the jingle of his spurs cut by the crunch of scattered nuts as he stalked past the fire and escaped to nurse his pique outside.

The cavalcade pressed on at its snail’s crawl upcoast to Dyshent, over roads rutted deep by the passage of the season’s last lumber sledges. While the chip fires used to season beech blocks skeined dusky smoke above the houses, the prince’s guard troop quartered in yards piled with bark for the tanner’s, or between their own laden wagons, parked amid stacks of green planks. In complete disregard for the craftsmen who spat in the path of his retinue, Lysaer visited the guild halls and the town ministry. Gold saw his officers billeted in the sheds used to season rare woods, and his lordly good manners won over the councilmen’s wives.

Diegan waited, edgy as the captains who lost sleep to stop their men from making trouble; but the deep-seated resentments toward Tysan’s royal blood failed to spark into contention.

Lysaer took leave of Dyshent’s council and rode out in proud form before his cavalcade.

Unappeased, Lord Diegan forced his mount to pace Lysaer’s. ‘This isn’t Isaer, or Erdane, where a few costly gifts can turn heads.’

The peaked roofs of the city’s mills were by then lost to sight. Ahead stretched league upon league of wild downs. Rounded, scrub-clothed hills cradled the stones of a Second Age ruin, and chipped old arches lay throttled under greening trailers of bitter vine. There, where wispy marsh-lights flocked the fogs on dank nights and the spirits of long-dead Paravians were rumoured to wander abroad, no town-bred company cared to linger. Astride his steaming, mud-spattered courser, Lysaer drew firm rein, while behind, in a welter of belatedly shouted orders, his massive column blundered to a stop.

Straight-shouldered in a hooded cloak pinned with a sapphire, the prince waited, while the mists licked through the air between. ‘Are you for me, or against?’ he asked softly.

Lord Diegan ignored the chill that grazed the length of his spine. He strove to stay angry, to outmatch that worldly gaze which caught and pierced him to the heart. But like an onset of sudden pain, emotion wrung the truth from him. ‘I fear for you, friend. You’re the only man we have whose gift of light can match the Shadow Master’s sorceries.’

‘Then give me your trust,’ Lysaer said. ‘Worry does nothing, after all, but undermine morale and abet the cause of an enemy ruthlessly prepared to exploit every one of our weaknesses.’

The next day, they reached the crossing of the Great West Road. Against every reasonable inclination, Lord Diegan presided over commands shouted through a misery of rainfall as the crack Etarran divisions he had personally selected to protect his prince were split off and turned back to Rathain.

Afterward, with the downpour a fringe of silver off his mantle, Lord Diegan huffed through the runnels that channelled through his moustache. “By Ath, I’ll trust you have a plan. Would it strain your royal pride too much to share it?’

‘You couldn’t guess?’ As sodden as the house staff and officers who attended him in gloomy huddles, but oddly outside of their misery, Lysaer shook back wet hair and laughed. ‘My Lord, your Etarrans are too loyal. All filled with brash courage and intent to ruin Arithon, which is just what we’ll do on a battlefield. But since then-numbers are too small to flush out the Shadow Master, just now their sentiments could cause problems. For our safety and theirs, they can’t be risked.’

The long-faced secretary intended for the post of Avenor’s seneschal looked ready enough to offer protest had the prince not spurred his mount to a trot. Any mercenaries who groused over his dispersion of troops found themselves reassigned drover’s work. In rainfall and mud, the caravan slogged its way westward under half its original armed escort.

The trouble Lord Diegan expected found them soon after the Etarran cohorts had passed from sight. A body of lancers swept down on Lysaer’s company in fast moving formation from the north. Through trailing curtains of rain, the men set as watch scouts squinted to make out their banner; the wet rendered everything colourless, except for the axe-blade sigil done in silver, and encircled by a linked wheel of chain.

‘That’s a headhunter company out of Isaer!’ identified an inbound rider. ‘Here under orders to spill the guts of a royal pretender, I shouldn’t doubt.’

The doleful secretary spun in agitation to the prince. ‘Fiends plague your Grace’s stubbornness, your captain at arms tried to warn you. The bounty offered for s’Ilessid blood won’t have changed for the past five centuries.’

Silent and whitely bitter, Lord Diegan spurred his horse to try against weather and odds to assemble a defensive deployment from mercenary captains now scattered throughout the caravan.

But Lysaer’s fist on the bridle rein jerked the Lord Commander’s move short. ‘No, Diegan. Stay. Have your officers hold their position. You’ll start a pitched battle if our troops draw their weapons and I don’t want anybody killed. Not when I’d hoped to be asked to pay respect to his Lordship, the Mayor of Isaer.’

Then the moment for organized defence was lost as the headhunter lancers thundered down and swarmed like bad-tempered hornets around the liveried horsemen and banners that surrounded Prince Lysaer.

‘We’ve come for the upstart who styles himself heir to s’Ilessid!’ The captain who shouted was bald, had a torn ear, and wore chainmail and bracers set with wrist spikes. The huge grey gelding who bore him was ugly, but unscarred, and taken by a sudden, poisonous aversion to standing still. The beast backed and sidled in half circles, gouging up spatters of soaked turf. Its rider sawed reins and cursed, while the younger of Lysaer’s liveried page boys approached and bowed, then announced in his clear child’s treble that his Grace the prince was pleased to accept invitation to call on the Lord Mayor of Isaer.

‘Invitation!’ The captain hammered his mount’s neck with a fist, then hauled its nose around to his stirrup to forestall a bucketing rear. ‘What gall! There’s been no invitation!’ His ire found no other outlet; underneath him, his warhorse went berserk.

Ears flattened to streaming neck, it bit the air, crow-hopped and danced sideways on bunched hindquarters. The headhunter captain stayed astride by dint of determined fury, while the neat ranks of his riders were bashed out of formation by the unravelling temper of his mount. Lances dipped, wavered and cracked into a cursing tangle of men and disgruntled horseflesh.

Too cynical for surprise, Lord Diegan glanced aside to find Lysaer watching the affray, his unruffled, wide-eyed dignity at odds with innocent intentions. The older page half-hidden by his horse cloths was deviously engaged with a handful of smooth pebbles and what looked like a rawhide bird sling.

A lifetime of Etarran politics lent Diegan the presence to mask astonishment. He was prepared and listening for the low-voiced string of orders from his prince. ‘The headhunter captain’s horse is shortly going to bolt. Before it does, I’ll need an honour guard assembled, a delegation from our guild representatives and city officers, and the wagon bearing Lady Talith and her servants. This will be a state visit to Isaer, I shall make it so. But warn the men: on pain of punishment, and despite the most grievous provocation, they must hold their tongues and their tempers.’

No fool, Lord Diegan did as he was bidden; and so he missed the moment when the headhunter’s huge grey at last tore free of restraint and exploded kicking and snorting into a tail-streaming run. Somebody dispatched an equerry at speed to chase after the luckless captain. Before the sergeant left as second in command could restore the wrecked order of the troop, Lysaer rode forward to meet him.

‘Never mind the formalities,’ the prince opened, magnanimously forgiving, and sure enough in stature to shake the confidence of a struck bronze monument. He followed with a phrase that caused several lancers to break into laughter. While the sergeant was torn between outrage, uncertainty, and an explosive attack of pure mirth, Lysaer managed with light-hearted, lordly arrogance to make several sensible suggestions.

The headhunter lancers sorted themselves back into order, to find themselves seamlessly joined by the prince’s personal honour guard, a wagon bearing a woman beautiful enough to leave a man staring and silly, and a dozen trade dignitaries who were fed up with rain, and expressing thanks for the Mayor of Isaer’s timely consideration.

At the sergeant’s stirrup rode Lysaer, at patent length and diffidence inquiring what sort of silk would compliment his Lord Mayor’s colouring; the other gifts, he added hastily, were less personal. Unless the mayor’s lady wife had the misfortune to disdain Falgaire crystal?

Thoughtful, bemused, not entirely without sympathy for the sergeant who stammered answers to the royal inquiries under Talith’s distracting regard, Lord Diegan rode silent through the rain. In a humour that was piquantly Etarran, he watched Lysaer’s masterful diplomacy take the city of Isaer by storm.

There followed six days of formal dinners and protracted hours spent touring guild sheds where last year’s flax harvest lay hackled for bleaching. Lord Diegan followed the talk as he once had ravished the courtesans he seduced from the beds of wealthy patrons.

Yet even under close scrutiny, these discussions pursued the same topics as others in cities to the south, once Isaer’s mayor recovered from the flustered irritation of being hazed into guesting the very same prince he had dispatched his headhunters to set shackles on. The city’s guild ministers in circuitous politeness inquired whether Lysaer intended to launch from Avenor the same campaign he had spearheaded at Etarra: raise a garrison to meld forces with the headhunters’ leagues to clear Tysan’s wilds of barbarians. Trade with Camris, they said, suffered unduly from raids in the Thaldein passes.

Lysaer heard their woes in rapt sympathy. When the banquet was finished and the fine brandies poured, he graciously ventured opinion. ‘The clans of Rathain were stamped out by Etarra because they fell to ill usage by the Shadow Master.’ A frown marred his brows. The glitter of his hair and his jewels hung still in the lamplight as he paused in disturbed reminiscence. ‘Your difficulties in the passes of Orlan must be approached carefully.’ In the face of poisoned fear - that as scion of s’Ilessid he might lay claim to clan loyalty and upset rule in the towns - he said outright, If a way can be found to avoid outright slaughter, I would seek that before war.’

Silence fell, tensioned with threat.

While inimical stares from the councilmen sharpened around the table, and the Mayor of Isaer whispered something to a servant that brought guardsmen in full mail to block the doorway, Lord Diegan groped to draw the hidden dagger in his sleeve.

The prince acknowledged none of this, but centred upon a careworn alderman who fluttered his napkin in dismay. ‘You can’t suggest a treaty with the clanborn! Ath! There’s no way to reason with such, uncouth as they are. Like animals.’ While the mayor’s fat steward retreated without refilling the wine goblets, he added with whispered distaste, ‘ ‘Tis said of Maenalle s’Gannley that she wears uncured animal skins.’

For a moment Lysaer looked blandly mystified. Then he roused and said in forbearance, ‘Forgive me. I can’t support such hasty thinking.’ Under the table, his hand clamped hard on Diegan’s arm, locking the little knife in its sheath. ‘What would an armed campaign accomplish except to drive Tysan’s clans to share grievance with their brethren in Rathain? No. Blood-hunts are too dangerous an option, and Arithon s’Ffalenn too wily an adversary to risk driving allies to his cause. Of all things, I dare not draw his interests to your land to threaten the industry of your cities.’

With a deftness that seemed natural chance, the discussion was deflected to threats of shadow and sorcery; Lord Diegan swept into passionate description of the heinous slaughter that occurred on the banks of Tal Quorin, when a grisly chain of traps had savaged Etarra’s proud garrison.

The telling set him in a cold sweat. Deshir’s clansmen had always been killers; allied with Arithon s’Ffalenn and his demonic touch at spellcraft, they had narrowly been stopped from threatening civilized Rathain. Hands clenched on his cutlery, Lord Diegan spoke; as if the roar of Tal Quorin’s flood still battered his ears, and the screams of those troops swept away. Sucked back into memory like nightmare, he heard the crack of arrows striking through foliage and flesh; the ripping of timber and earth as concealed spring traps and deadfalls left his lancers gutted and bleeding out their lives in whimpering agony. Death did not account for all the losses. Some men were permanently deranged by the maze wards and shadows Arithon had used to bind them into confusion; others had been broken in spirit, prone to fits and raving when relivings wrenched them from sleep.

By itself, the account of the battle the Shadow Master had launched in Strakewood was enough to inspire terror. Isaer’s council ministers departed mollified; by direct command of their mayor, the men at arms tactfully dispersed.

Later, lighted by perfumed candles in a tapestried upper chamber, Lord Diegan chose his moment and cornered Lysaer before the prince called his valet to retire. ‘What are you playing at? I thought we agreed at Etarra that barbarian havens anywhere were too ready a tool for the Master’s use and design!’

‘You’re worried?’ The brandy had been particularly fine; yet an edge of irritation burned through the prince’s flush as he crossed the guest suite’s floral patterned carpet. Contained as smoothed marble, he said, ‘Then rest content, the raids in the passes will be ended. One way or another. By armed force as a last resort.’

Lord Diegan met and held those blue eyes, that could seem inhumanly assured in their candour. ‘Pretty manners and slick language might disarm the mistrust in Isaer. But tonight’s talk at supper would get you bloody and dead on the other side of the passes. Don’t fool yourself. Erdane’s mayor won’t be stood off with sweet talk and gifts.’

A frown knitted Lysaer’s brows. ‘I thought as much.’ He sighed and stifled a yawn behind a blaze of sapphire rings. ‘It’s inconvenient, I admit, but we’re going to need every city’s loyalty against Arithon. We’ll just have to find something else to ease the Lord Mayor of Erdane’s antipathy.’

To which Diegan could say nothing, but only turn on his heel and retire to a bed where sleep did not ease him.

The following morning, the royal retinue left Isaer to rejoin its abandoned caravan, now moved thirty laboured leagues to the west. After the escorting honour guard trailed four ox-wains crammed full of pottery, patterned linen and dyed feathers. The mules bearing the last crates of Falgaire crystal took a dislike to the ox teams, which occasioned much swearing from the drovers.

Surrounded by confusion that stirred a third of the cavalcade into a brew of bawling animals and stopped wagons, Talith’s suave brother screamed orders until his teeth grated from inhaling airborne grit. He ignored the ragged crofters who had paused at their sowing to stare. If he also missed the hoofbeats that approached through the din made by children beating clappers to scare flocking sparrows from the seed grain, Diegan obstinately faced forward as the rider arrived and fell in alongside.

‘Stop sulking.’ Lysaer laughed to his uncommunicative future brother-in-law. ‘When the snow comes, we can haul the fancy feathers out for mattress stuffing.’

‘Did you look in those sacks?’ Diegan reined around his dust-caked mount, his calf gloves fringed with hanging threads where use had torn off the beadwork. ‘They hold goose quills. Stiff ones, for pen nibs. If you can coax my sister to sleep on those, I’ll pick you nettles to plump your pillows.’

Caught on a hill crest against sky, his gold hair wind-ruffled against racing fleeces of spring clouds, Lysaer regarded the riled profile of Avenor’s Lord Commander at Arms. He said in teasing merriment, ‘That merchant’s vixen daughter refused you, I see.’ Which comment got him shoved from his saddle into dung-spread furrows in just and indecorous vengeance.

From astride his snorting charger, Lord Diegan glared down at his prince, who accepted his demise without rancour for mud-spoiled velvets.

‘In Erdane, the headhunters’ league is lawfully sanctioned to torture clanborn captives for public amusement. As a prince in line for the succession, they’d hold a festival over your ripped carcass.’ Hurting in his affection as if his liege were an endangered brother, Diegan finished, ‘Will nothing I say dissuade you?’

Lysaer picked himself up, dusted loose earth from his breeches and cloak, then ascertained that one of his pages had recaptured his cantering horse. His eyes still pinned into distance, he said, ‘Wherever the Mister of Shadow lies hidden, whatever his current machination, he’s unlikely to be exposed without risks. I set out to bring these lands protection from his sorceries.’ Wide as sky, the blue eyes lifted to regard Avenor’s captain at arms. ‘Diegan, don’t ask me to reject a whole city just because its governor is petty, and terrified, and convinced royal blood can harm his position. We will ride through Erdane. Should I come to die there, then Tysan will require no prince. A townborn man like yourself will go forward to rebuild Aveuor and unify this kingdom in my name,’

The last time Lysaer crossed the Thaldeins by way of the Orlan Pass, the mountains had been mantled in mist and blizzard. Hastened then in the company of a Fellow-ship sorcerer, he recalled no landmarks beyond drifts and treacherous abutments of seamed rock. With the visible sky 4 ribbon of blue overhead, the scarp traversed today under knives of morning sunlight looked savage and strange, a tableau of broken slate overhangs, wind-chiselled ridges, and stands of gnarled evergreen slashed and skewed with the boulder-strewn scars of old slides. The road wound and jagged between buttressed peaks, a mere lip in places over vast, windy chasms of cold air. The forested valleys unfolded below like creases in a painted silk fan, delicately blued in haze and crisscrossed by the gliding flight of hawks.

Here, a raffish band of barbarian scouts had once dangled Arithon s’Ffalenn upside down from a rope over a precipice. Lent abrasive reminder of a deceit that had once beguiled his trust and friendship, Lysaer gazed down a cliff wall bared of snow and jumbled with bone-grey, splintered timber and stone shards. He could wish now that the knots in the noose had failed.

Had the Shadow Master fallen to his death on that day, seven thousand Etarrans would still be alive with their families.

Over the bends and the rises, the wagons rattled and groaned, their hubs scraping rocks scarred by a thousand such impacts, while the opposite wheel rims flicked gravel in clattering spurts over the sheared edge of the verge. On the approach to the high pass, the carter’s quips echoed through the narrowing way, until Diegan sent outriders ahead to clear the road. Once committed, the drays could neither turn nor manoeuvre; caught between their lumbering bulk, horses and mules could not pass, should wayfarers meet them head on.

Merchants who hauled goods through the pass of Orlan for that reason eschewed use of carts. Informed of the risks, Lysaer had ignored all advice. Mounted, exposed in the vanguard, he looked least surprised when three riders positioned abreast approached and blocked off the trail.

Their mounts were a matched set of bays in gold-beaded bridles; silken manes and tails, and caparisons of loomed wool fluttered and tugged in the wind. Annoyed to see his advance guard had lapsed in their duty to detain so small a party until the prince’s retinue cleared the narrows, Lord Diegan flicked his boot with his crop and began to swear.

His imprecations trailed tamely into silence as he noticed the leader of the trio was mounted sidesaddle. A woman; a boy in his late teens and an elderly man her sole escort, she carried straight shoulders impertinently mantled in a tabard bearing Tysan’s royal blazon. The habit underneath was of flowing black silk, her grey hair, close-cropped as any campaign-bound mercenary’s. Slung at a practised angle beneath her belt lay a baldric and a gleaming sword.

‘Fiends plague us all,’ Diegan said crossly. ‘Who in Sithaer is she?’

Lysaer raised a hand to halt his column in the roadway. ‘The lady is Maenalle s’Gannley, chieftain of the clans of Camris, and if her records can be trusted for accuracy, empowered Steward of Tysan.’ Then, his lips curved in welcome, he spurred his gelding forward to greet her. ‘To judge by the hang of her blade, I’d hazard a guess it’s the living hides of Isaer’s merchants she hunts to furnish her wardrobe. I’ve been expecting her most of the morning.’

‘You know her? You’ve met her before this?’ Belatedly pressed to neaten his wind-crumpled mantle, Lord Diegan expelled a breathless laugh. ‘You do have a plan!’ Lost to confounded delight, he urged his horse into step.

Fifteen paces beyond his honour guard, Lysaer drew rein. Uncrowned beyond the majesty of his sunlit gold hair, he seized royal prerogative and spoke first. ‘Lady Maenalle, well met.’ His nod acknowledged the elder, whom he recalled as her seniormost peer, Lord Tashan; his friendly smile was for the youngster, now grown, who had attended him as pageboy through his past brief visit, before he had joined his gift of light with an enemy’s shadows to banish Desh-thiere’s mists from the sky. In brisk invitation, Lysaer addressed the lady chieftain who had impressed him with her iron-willed fairness. ‘I go to raise Avenor out of ruin and hope you take joy in my tidings. Will you come, and bring your clans out of hiding to join in rebuilding the sovereign city of old Tysan?’

‘Alliance!’ Shocked to white-faced incredulity, Lord Diegan rounded upon the prince. ‘Are you mad? The realm’s mayors will never condone this!’

In the clan chief’s party, the grizzled aristocrat looked incensed. The young man seemed torn by a longing that drove his gaze sidewards and away; while the lady resplendent in Tysan’s state colours held her emotions so savagely in check that the sun-caught gold in her tabard flashed only once and fell still.

Lysaer inclined his head toward his outraged commander at arms. ‘Why waste the resource to retrain our new garrison to fight and manoeuvre like headhunters?’ He added in compelling reason, ‘The clansmen these delegates represent are masters at wilderness tactics already.’

Maenalle’s mount recoiled as her hand snapped taut on the rein. Amber-pale eyes centred in black like a hawk’s never left the features of the prince. Unlike the young grandson who wore his heart in plain view, and despite an unsettled royal bodyguard forestalled by the interposed body of their own liege from stringing short bows to take her down, she showed neither nerves nor defiance. ‘There has been no oath of fealty sworn here, nor any sanction for crown sovereignty given by the Fellowship of Seven.’ The fine-grained lines on her face stayed unsoftened. ‘How dare you speak of annexing my clans as a fighting force? We have no cause to support your wars.’

‘Do you not?’ The significance of her dress, with the colours of kingdom authority overlying the caithdein’s plain black, had not escaped Lysaer’s notice. Diminished a little by sadness, he crossed his hands on his saddle pommel and sighed. ‘Let me pray, then, that you haven’t been beguiled into giving your loyalty elsewhere. That would grieve me. The clans of northern Rathain were all but wiped out for abetting the Master of Shadow.’

They defended their sanctioned prince,’ Maenalle corrected.

‘With children sent out to stab men in the back who were down and wounded,’ Lysaer shot back in bitter truth. ‘With sorceries and traps that slaughtered seven thousand souls in a day. The scion of Rathain is a trickster without morals, a sorcerer who preys on the innocent.’

‘That’s not how the Fellowship phrased it.’ Unflinching as swordsteel, Maenalle never glanced at her grandson, white-faced and stiff at her side. ‘Nor Jieret s’Valerient, Steiven’s heir, whose parents and sisters all died because of Etarra’s invasion.’

‘Who were these people but deluded allies?’ Lysaer’s attentiveness shifted to the boy. ‘If you doubt me, my Lady, look to your own, who is of the right age to be influenced.’

The young man raised his chin. Silent, near to weeping from betrayal, he touched his mount with his heels. Hooves cracked like a shout against silence as his horse obediently turned, presenting the straight back of its rider to the man who once promised just sovereignty.

‘Oh, but Maien was influenced,’ Maenalle said, as drawn now as the grandson at her side, who held his station, trembling and flushed. ‘But not by Arithon of Rathain. The boy’s loyalty was yours, and his love, until Desh-thiere’s curse wrecked the peace. Let us not confuse our issues and deny the sad facts of this feud. You seek to kill a man who is your half-brother, who has these last six years made no effort to outfit a war host against you. My clansmen cannot support your towns against him. Nor may we acknowledge false claim to Avenor. Our allegiance is to be held in reserve for the one of your heirs that the Fellowship endorses to be crowned.’

A cat’s paw of breeze fluttered the sigil on Maenalle’s tabard. Fresh with ice-scent and evergreen, the air seemed too sharp to breathe. Locked separate by nothing beyond glacial cold and state etiquette, Lysaer and the lady steward regarded each other through a charged and measuring silence.

‘We’re to be enemies then?’ the prince said finally. ‘I’m sorry. That outcome isn’t what I’d have chosen. Let me be clear, for your clans’ sake: you are free at any time to change your mind.’ Magnanimously regal, Lysaer finished, ‘If that happens, send me word. And until then, may Ath show you mercy.’

Maenalle’s bold laugh sheared in flat echoes off the rocks. ‘The Creator need not concern himself. As a guest who swore oath at my table, you will be allowed to leave this place without being stripped of your horse and arms. The same can’t be said for your escort.’

‘That’s insolence.’ Prepared to add more, Lord Diegan lost the chance as the wizened old clansman snapped off a hand signal.

The rock abutments by the roadside sprouted movement, followed by a hissed thrum of sound. The draught team harnessed to the lead wagon abruptly slacked backward in their traces and collapsed with a whistling, surprised grunt of air. The drover at their lines took a moment to start shouting; then every man within earshot shared his anger, that each fallen horse lay spiked through its crest with the feathered shaft of a barbarian broadhead. Creased by flawless marksmanship, the animals died in quivering spasms that sent small pebbles clattering off the brink.

Erect and exposed in his saddle, provoked to lordly affront, Lysaer raised his hands.

He would engage his given gift of light, Diegan saw, dazzled by the lightning flare of power summoned at his prince’s fingertips. One blanketing discharge, and the crannies that sheltered clan archers could be scorched by immolating fires. Prepared to seize the initiative, Lord Diegan drew his blade in a scream of steel. He called swift commands to his mercenaries. Prompt action could see Lady Maenalle and her party taken hostage; Erdane’s mayor would pay a rich bounty for their trial and execution.

But before the Prince of the West unleashed his annihilating burst, a second flight of arrows sang down. The barbarian volley chipped stone in splintering explosion under the belly of his mount. The powerful horse shied back on bunched haunches. Forced to nurse the reins and jab in spurs to curb a rear which threatened to toss him over the ledge, his royal rider lost concentration. The light-bolts he shaped dispersed in flat sheets that threw off a harmless burn of heat.

Above the scrambling hatter of hooves, Lady Maenalle voiced her ultimatum. Don’t think to try killing with your powers, Lysaer s’Ilessid. Tell your men who draw steel to stand down. Or a next round will fly and take every life in your company.’

‘Isn’t that what you planned?’ Diegan shouted, his rage torn through strangling mortification. Fighting the horse that shied under him, he snatched a glimpse down the switch-back. The trailing wagon in the column had wrenched crooked, its ox-team folded at the knees, as cleanly arrow-shot as the horses. The prince’s brash cavalcade was hemmed in from both ends and trapped at the mercy of barbarians. In a cry that rebounded through the winds above the valleys, Diegan cried, ‘What are you, woman, but the pawn of the Shadow Master, after all?’

‘I am sworn only to Tysan,’ Maenalle said, her calm like snap-frozen ice. ‘As appointed steward of the realm, my duty upholds the crown’s justice until such day as the Fellowship sorcerers declare a lawful successor.’

Lord Diegan whipped his horse straight. ‘Where’s the equity in robbery and murder?’

‘Don’t resist and no lives will be taken.’ Maenalle tipped her chin at the elder, who dismounted and passed his reins to the boy. Still vigorous despite his weathered looks, he took charge, while scouts in dust-grazed leathers deployed in fierce order to plunder. Their lady commander ended in brevity that rang like a sentence after trial: ‘Only weapons will be confiscated, and those goods offered as bribes by town mayors. Be assured, any gold that might be used to outfit an army for persecution of clan settlements will be turned to a worthier cause.’

Blade clenched in hand, Diegan dug in his spurs. His horse belted sidewards in a crab-step, frustrated and dragged offstride by a rough-looking girl with scarred hands who had managed to dart in and snatch its bridle. She jerked her head for him to dismount, while someone else with painful force laid hands on his person to disarm him.

Try a dagger in my ribs, you’ll die with me,’ Diegan gasped, struggling.

Don’t be a fool, Lord Commander,’ the prince said in glass-edged urgency. ‘I need you alive!’

The commander at arms cast a smoking glare at Maenalle. Unable to speak as the muscles in his jaw spasmed taut, barely able to breathe for the blow to his pride, he swung from his saddle. The last, grinding irony hurt the most, that the horses and the mules could not be manoeuvred past either one of the disabled wagons. Even had he wished to risk engagement, his men at arms could not bolt over sheer cliffs to find cover. While scouts poured like rats from the ridge top and divested him of jewels and purse, he hurled back insults in sweating, savage bursts. They ripped off his cloak and took the beautiful, chased belt knife bought to match his confiscated sword. Down-trail, the venomous oaths of the mercenaries marked the loss of weapons well proven in battle. The more seasoned officers curbed combative tempers before excuse could be found for barbarian arrows to make bloody end to dissent.

Maenalle’s scouts were thorough, immune as wild goats to steep rocks and bad footing. At masterful speed, Lysaer’s disabled caravan and fighting company found itself weaponless and wagonless, then abandoned afoot in the rim walled gorges that led through the ford of the river Valendale. Bitterness replaced their purloined baggage. Although no man suffered harm, and Maenalle’s matchless discipline had prevented anything worse than wisecracks and whistles to befall Lady Talith, no one inclined toward forgiveness.

The wainloads of goods that had been cursed every league across Atainia now became cause for mortal affront.

Pacing at Lord Diegan’s side, his affianced lady astride the one mount that guest oath had held sacrosanct, Lysaer stayed withdrawn. In boots not fashioned for hiking, he blistered his feet with the rest on the wretched, frost-cracked stone. That he carried the only sword among two hundred seasoned fighting men seemed not to concern him unduly. While the shadows swallowed the cliff walls and the day eased to cobalt twilight, Diegan chafed at the silence. His worried glance at his prince was met and matched by a sidelong flicker of mirth.

In no mood for jokes, he spun with such force that a fir branch switched him in the cheek. ‘Fiends and Sithaer’s fury, your Grace, whatever are you thinking?’

‘You’ve got evergreen needles in your velvets,’ Lysaer observed. He broke into a shocking, sunny smile. ‘Do you miss your horse all that much?’

Avenor’s weaponless commander at arms stared, stupefied. His spurs jangled as he kicked at a moss-coated rock, then recouped sufficient dignity to glare at the prince to whom Etarra’s lord mayor had so high-handedly awarded his service. When Lysaer absorbed his pique in brazen merriment, he frowned. ‘Ath! I’ve seen you blast trees to charcoal at the merest flick of a thought.’

Lysaer said nothing.

Jabbed to suspicion, Diegan added, ‘You pulled your strike against those archers on the slope! You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?’

A dying thread of sunlight bloodied sparkles in gold hair as Lysaer gave back the barest shrug. ‘Not precisely.’ His levity vanished and his eyes went suddenly hooded. ‘You might say I expected things might happen as they have. If I tried for a happier outcome, the end result isn’t setback. No one can say, now, that Tysan’s clans weren’t fairly offered their chance to lay due claim to s’Ilessid loyalty.’

But the issue went deeper than that, Lord Diegan saw in awed respect. As the impoverished victim of a clan raid, Lysaer s’Ilessid had bought footing for condolence. Bound on to Erdane as a charity case, not even the city’s irascible mayor might question his need to raise troops. Far from feeling threatened by the muster, his guilds would be moved to endorse it: the prince’s cause would win aid out of congenial commiseration and sympathy. Etarran enough to appreciate a master turn of statecraft, Lord Diegan laughed in the teeth of the wind.

‘By Ath,’ he said in exultant admiration. ‘You’ll have your kingship of this realm, then your army to harry out the Shadow Master. After the scale of today’s losses, the guilds and the town councils will fall over themselves to lend you their funds to raise a garrison.’

Messenger

Four days after the raid that beggared Prince Lysaer in the Pass of Orlan, a messenger was dispatched at speed from the clansmen’s mountain outpost. No matter that the hooves of his horse were dampened by late-season snow; the muffled vibration of his passage was heard and tracked by a mind a hundred leagues distant.

Through the five centuries since the Paravian races had vanished from the continent, wardenship of the tower built to guard their artefacts and culture had fallen to a Fellowship sorcerer. Most days he could be found in a black-beamed chamber that creaked in the unquiet winds, elbows braced on a library table heaped as a gull’s nest with parchments and opened books. Scrolls stuffed the niches in between, trailing moth-eaten ties, or else weighted flat at the corners by oddments of tea-stained crockery and tinted glass inkwells missing corks. Ensconced amid his clutter like a packrat, Sethvir sat with his ankles hooked on a stool. While his hair grew in untidy tufts, and his maroon robe gathered dust and loose threads, he kept and catalogued records, and tracked world events as they happened.

As long as Athera had lain fogbound, he had followed the phases of the moon through the pull of the tides. He felt the daily tramp of Etarra’s drilling armies shake the earth alongside prints in dry dust traced by fieldmice. A missive scribed in blood that had passed through flame, then rinsed off in brine from the face of a thrown bit of slate, touched him in fourfold vibration; amid the voices of a billion dropped stones, that one he noted and marked apart. He sensed the grand music of the planet’s twelve power lanes, and the warp through weft lacework of energies still channelled over land and air by the residual dance of Paravian mystery.

So long had Sethvir’s mage-sense been twined with the thunderous chord of world life-force, that his thoughts took on the patterned aspects of stone, with but tenuous hold on the present.

When at length the clang of a sword hilt against the portcullis nine storeys down echoed through the bowels of his sanctuary, Sethvir already knew the name and the errand of the courier; had been aware of both since the moment Tysan’s lady steward had dispatched her rider to his tower.

Limned in the gloom of failing day, the Warden of Althain finished a line of spidery handwriting. He leaned sidewards, rinsed his quill in the tepid dregs of a teacup, then raised eyes of pale turquoise that looked vacuous as sky; but in fact, held a relentless train of review as the interstices of this moment’s event unreeled to bear on the future.

Below him, marring the crystalline cry of first starlight, the swordsman continued to hammer. To Sethvir’s ear, the metallic din bespoke forge-fire, and hill steel, and centuries of unrequited bloodshed. I’m coming,’ he grumbled in a tone as tart as an old hinge. He stood up. Dust and bits of scribbled paper settled on a floor already littered with outworn quill pens and the dropped caps of inkwells. The sorcerer sneezed, peered down as if touched to unwitting delight by the faded weave of the carpet, then stumped in his over-sized fur buskins to the casement, which had been unlatched for days, banging and creaking in the gritty north gusts off the desert.

The bulwarks of Althain Tower were fashioned of granite, stark and grey, the rough-chiselled grooves of a desperate need softened under green seals of lichen. Sethvir crossed his arms on the sill, took absent notice of a hole chewed by moths in his sleeve, then leaned through the casement and peered down.

‘I’m not at all deaf,’ he chided gently.

Below him, lent an ant’s perspective, a shaggy bush pony stood with its hip cocked, its reins looped through the elbow of a man in the undyed leathers of a clansman. The shoulders energetically working flinched and stopped. The visitor glanced up, sheepish, from the tower’s locked entry and hurriedly sheathed his sword. While the reverberations from his pounding subsided to a rumble, then a whisper, he called, ‘I beg your pardon. Sethvir of Althain?’

Outlined against dusk by a halo of blowing white hair, the sorcerer grinned like a pixie. ‘Your lady wishes me to bear a message to Arithon, Prince of Rathain. No, don’t speak. I know the contents. What makes you think I’ll deliver it?’

Hotly flustered, Maenalle’s courier said, ‘The caithdein of Tysan asks. She said you were the only spirit in Athera who would know where to seek the Shadow Master.’

Sethvir hooked an ink-stained knuckle through his beard. For a moment he appeared to forget himself, as well as the anxious emissary down below. His gaze encompassed the deepening arch of the heavens as if the answers to unwritten riddles could be read in the white ice of cirrus clouds.

Deferential to the ways of great mages, the courier waited, while his pony dropped its head and cropped the weeds that grew wild over the tower’s sole door sill.

Presently, Sethvir answered. ‘I’ll commit the Lady Maenalle’s message to a parchment inscribed to Arithon s’Ffalenn. But tell her: the scroll will be delivered at the time of my choosing.’

The courier eased in relief. ‘She will be satisfied.’ He gathered up his pony’s reins, prepared to mount and ride immediately.

Sethvir’s eyebrows arched at the lapse implied in his hospitality. ‘No need to rush off. I have oats for your horse in the barn. It’s a very long road back to Camris, and tomorrow will be wretched with rain. You’d do better to weather the storm here. Have a bath, and a bed, and whatever you can scrounge from my larder. Certainly there’s plenty of good tea.’

While the clanborn courier hung poised between uncertainty and blind courage, Sethvir withdrew from the casement, his voice a diminishing echo from the unlighted cavern of the library. ‘Bide there. I’ll be down to unfasten the gates.’

He moved on at sharp speed that belied his dreamer’s appearance; take the stairs too slowly, and the courier would be mounted and gone at a pace his road-weary pony did not deserve. The company of a Fellowship sorcerer had harmed no man; but legend told of many who had emerged changed from the experience. Whether Maenalle’s appointed courier would prove exempt from fate’s handling was a fine point Sethvir was loath to promise.

Eviction

After the confiscated brown gelding, Faery-toes, kicked his stall doors to slivers, bit every groom within reach and knocked the head ostler off his feet, the alderman of Jaelot’s under-secretary at last seized the initiative to set seal to a writ to dispatch the beast to the knacker’s. He grumbled as he waited for the wax to harden. Horse hide, glue and dogmeat were not in high demand; the proceeds from the slaughter of one swaybacked head of stock could scarcely defray all the damages.

The head ostler narrowed his eyes and nursed his bruises. ‘Keep the beast, then, and rack up more costs in wrecked boards.’

The writ was slapped into his hands with the official seal still warm, while in the next room, voices of higher authority heated and flared into argument. The difficulties posed by the horse’s last owner, the fat prisoner consigned by city justice to suffer forced labour until solstice, were never as simply arranged. While the ostler retreated with the horse’s death warrant, invective assailed the secretary’s headache through the shut panels of the doorway, as it had without cease for a week: Dakar took ill in the draughty shacks where the convicts were housed. Poor food made him sick unto misery. His feet swelled from chilblains until he could not arise in the mornings without loud-voiced, piteous complaint.

His fellow inmates used their fists to stop his whining. His moans and his mewling as he languished from their beating disturbed what little sleep they could scrounge after days of backbreaking labour in the mason’s yard, dressing stone blocks for the sea walls that storms crumbled down every spring. With both eyes puffed shut with bruises, Dakar could not see to swing his mallet. Stone chips flew on wild tangents. A guardsman was home with a badly gashed face and an overseer limped on smashed toes.

Packed off to solitary confinement, Dakar passed his hours of punishment with singing. Even cold sober, he had no ear for pitch. The yawling echoes created by his ballads made the prison sentries grit their teeth, then brawl among themselves in driven fits of frustration. A gag was attempted. Dakar somehow ingested the cloth. The coarse fibres gave him a bellyache, but otherwise seemed not to faze him.

The healer dispatched to examine him emerged from the depths of Jaelot’s dungeon, his tongue clicking in amazement behind the scented kerchief he carried to mask the stench. ‘The man’s crazed,’ he said in a nasal twang. He removed the linen and spat into it. After eyeing the sputum with the reflexive habit of his profession, he treated the head warden’s sallow complexion to the same disconcerting regard. ‘Thinks he’s immortal, your prisoner. Insisted he could survive a straight draught of deadly nightshade, and then offered to show me, the mad fool. Keep him chained on a diet of herb broth. Then if you take my advice, send him on to the crazy house run by the Brothers of Ath’s Initiates.’

Cocooned in fur vests to ease a chest cold, the head warder shrugged his exasperation. ‘That would be a frank relief, to be rid of him. But the judiciary’s adamant. It’s the work team for Dakar till the advent of summer, and naught short of death will shift the sentence.’

‘Well, let him lie,’ the healer said, repacking his satchel in sour humour. ‘He might get pox, or perish of rat bite. At least, by Daelion’s justice, he should catch your cough and lose his voice. Does your wife brew cailcallow tea?’

The glum warden shook his head. ‘No wife.’

‘Ah, too bad.’ The healer departed, whistling; and whatever sort of ills beset Dakar’s jailers, the prisoner proved maddeningly immune. He carolled himself hoarse in the darkness, then rasped on in a blithe and froggy baritone, while his guardsmen wore mufflers tied about their ears in an effort to dampen the dissonance.

At mid-spring, with the hemp cloth smock worn by the condemned sagged like empty sacking over his depleted belly, and skin turned mushroom pale, the Mad Prophet informed the man sent down to fetch him that he had never stayed sober for more than a fortnight, even as a babe at his mother’s knee. Three months was a lifetime record, Dakar insisted, as if astounded to still be alive.

Nobody succoured him with beer. He was prodded from his lair in the pits of Jaelot’s dungeon. The blocks shaped at the mason’s throughout the winter were now being loaded onto flat ox-wains and rolled in slow rounds to the headland. There, a team of men at arms in leather brigandines raised their bull voices to harry on a wretched line of workers. Scoured by salt-spray and the white-laced surge of high tide, bleeding from barnacle grazes and stone cuts, Jaelot’s convict labour team bent their backs to restore the torn bulkheads and jetty.

Their work was cruel and dangerous; where currents had undercut the sea wall, the granite might shift and slide. A man could break his hands or his legs, caught in an unlucky place. Incoming waves could crest and slam down without warning, and a seething froth of brine would tumble the huge blocks like knucklebones stewed in a cauldron. Men died pinched like insects, or dragged under to drown in the weight of their fetters and chain.

Dakar had no wish to end ground in shreds to be picked by the bay’s hordes of scavenger crabs.

While the wains were pulled up for unloading, he stole a moment while the watch was diverted, and behind the move of blowing on chapped hands, cast a sharp eye across the waves. His month in the dungeon had left him more time than he liked for uninterrupted concentration; his eyesight was clear as a sailor’s.

A gruff voice shouted behind him, ‘You!’ A pikestaff hit Dakar across the shoulders. ‘Back to work! And hurry on about it.’

The Mad Prophet stumbled forward, caught short of a trip as he ploughed shoulder down into the stone block in process of being jockeyed from the wagon bed onto log rollers for transport. Men swayed. The wagon creaked. The dressed mass of granite shifted, grating, then spun off-balance and dived. Those poles not instantly milled to slivers lumbered out of alignment, while men jumped clear and swore, the slowest ones nursing whacked shins.

‘It’s the fat idiot, again!’ screeched the pikeman appointed to attend the wain’s unloading.

Wide-eyed in affront, Dakar regarded flat folds where once he had sported a paunch. ‘Fat?’

A mailed fist fetched him a ringing thump on the jaw. ‘No talk. Just work. Or ye’ll see yourself pressed to parchment under yon mother of a rock.’

Dakar staggered on rubbery knees and fell spectacularly flat on his fundament. Prods from the pike failed to raise him.

‘Fiends plague us!’ The watch captain arrived, the higher-pitched clink of his accoutrements clear over the deeper tones of shackle chains. ‘Drag the lout into the spray! Cold water should rouse him soon enough.’

Two convicts were waved over to manhandle Dakar clear of the work crew. He lay sprawled at the edge of the sea wall, a crumpled heap in stained rags, bruised and apparently dazed; except that his face stayed raptly turned toward the surf that pounded below. At length, he stirred, not due to the needling spray that sheeted over him, but because he finally sighted the sign he sought amid the moiling whitecaps.

There were fiends in truth, out amid the breakers, riding the incoming tide to replenish themselves. Energy sprites native to Athera that drew fuel from the tumble of the waters, invisible to the eye except as crests that rose and broke, then subsided, unnaturally splashless, into the current of the bay. What the Paravian tongue named iyats, or tricksters, for their tireless penchant to make mischief.

Dakar’s lip curled in an evil smile through split and bleeding contusions. He moaned for effect, rolled over and propped himself on his forearms. Then, eyes clenched shut in a feigned fit of queasiness, he mustered his skills as a spellbinder and inwardly massed a tight, spinning core of focused energy. Sloppily, as a novice might, he let the force bleed into his aura. The miscast conjury was imperceptible, even harmless, little worse than the flash of static discharge that might jump and ground to metal in a dry freeze. But as Dakar well knew from experience, the slightest mismanagement of mage-force was irresistible fare to the appetite of an unsated fiend.

Often enough in the past he had suffered, when negligent handling of his lessons had attracted the sprites to plague him. As much as Asandir tried to castigate him, Dakar’s ways stayed incorrigible. Ever and always he remained an insatiable magnet for fiends.

He felt a shiver thrill the air as they sensed his beckoning presence. The splashless fall of the wavecrests unravelled, spouting into joyous, wild spray as the creatures arrowed from their sport and fastened upon his signature of strayed power. Never before had he revelled in the itches and small tingles that played over his skin as they spun, drinking the energy-spill off his aura. Where one came, more followed. Iyats liked travelling in packs. Prickled and lightly burned through the tuned perception of his mage-sense, Dakar judged to the second when the fiends blithely gathered to feed from his handout became charged and engorged beyond their simple needs. He groaned and groped and stood upright with just enough show to draw the eye of the watching overseer.

For once in league with shouted oaths and harsh orders, the Mad Prophet let the guardsmen prod him. Chivvied, cursed, and shoved on by impatient pike butts, he let himself be hazed into the thick of the work crew, no longer unloading carts, but labouring and groaning to lever the heavy blocks into place on the broken sea wall. The smells of salt-damp wool and sweat combined with the squeak of ropes through blocks and tackle; the grind of stone over stone. Pressed amid the heat of straining bodies, made to shoulder his share of the weight, Dakar licked crusted blood from his teeth and cut off his trickle of leaked energy.

The invisible fiends knit about him in spirals of distorted breezes. They buffeted and pinched and tweaked at his hair in signal fits of irritation. When he refused to give in and fuel their wants further, they lent themselves in their madcap way to tease, to frustrate, to annoy, that they might sip what stray spurts of emotion they could wring from whatever victims were available.

In an eyeblink, the work on the jetty erupted into chaos.

Stone chips and rocks sprang up and whirled airborne, clanging off the helms of the officers and unmercifully pelting the conscripts. Bruised and screaming in wild surprise, men heaved off the encumbrance of their loads. The massive dressed blocks misaligned and jarred awry, then dropped with a thud to quake the sea wall. Granite rasped against granite, grinding off falls of small pebbles that ripped aloft to sting flesh. Men coughed out curses and spat grit while the older blocks already mauled by storms and ice loosened, cracked, and gave way, to fall with thunderous, geysering spray into white petticoats of surf.

A waterspout kicked up where no breath of wind was in evidence. It shrieked and snarled and snaked itself a passage like a whip through mild air. The lead ox teams scrabbled back, whuffing. Pounds of solid muscle strained against the constraints of leather and shafts, while the stout cart behind struck a wall of rock and compressed. The wagon bed groaned and burst in a wreckage of timber. The next dray in line jounced and jammed two wheels in cracked paving, its hubs wrenched off to a squeal of sheared linchpins.

Yards away, three stolid drovers appeared to entangle themselves in their ox goads and fall flat.

‘Ath spare us!’ yelled the captain in charge. He ducked too late to miss the sliced foam off a wave top that poured itself down his back. Red-faced, dripping, ready to murder for sheer fury, he hopped from one leg to the other. ‘We’re caught in a damned plague of fiends!’ The pikestaff in his hands came alive with the urge to bang down and hammer at his insteps.

Bleeding now from a dozen minor gashes, men at arms threw aside polearms to slap at the hail of small pebbles. While the oxen bucketed against their yokes, and bedevilled carters strove to quiet them, iyats possessed the very reins in their hands and exuberantly undid the buckles. The dropped leather twined snake-fashion and laced around ankles and fetlocks. While the animals bawled and the convicts thrashed in their shackles, the beleaguered guardsmen unsheathed their daggers. They bent to hack themselves free, then stamped and slapped at cut bits of leather that groped up their calves like maggots.

‘Men, get the prisoners to form ranks!’ shouted the harried captain.

While his troop pushed, punched, staggered, and shoved the distraught work team into ragged columns, a sizeable stretch of the sea wall began in bounding starts to unravel. Rocks flew and cracked, whistling the air like slingshot.

‘Back!’ screamed the officer of the watch. ‘Inside the gatehouse! The talismans there will fend off the fiends.’

Braced on planted feet just shy of the crumbling jetty, the Mad Prophet laughed through his reddish frizzle of beard. If the little tin fetishes that dangled from the gatehouse had once held power to ward, time and attrition had drained the spells. The residue that lingered might deflect one fiend; never a full pack bent on a spree of wild mischief. Against common belief, the jangle and chime raised by wind-tossed strips of tin caused no warding vibrations. Their sound was good for nothing but warning and the iyats would pass them unscathed. Dakar knew from bleak experience: having tasted the heady discharge of spell-force on his person, the sprites were apt to dog his tracks for days.

As unrepentant instigator, he set his jaw against the throttling tug of his prison smock, that a smaller iyat seemed bent on unravelling into a garrotte. He marched in his shackles through splintered carts and the steaming heaps of dung littered by the terrified ox teams, and felt inordinately cheerful. Singing bawdy ditties in confinement was vastly preferable to hard labour that might see a man’s bones ground for fish food; worth even the torment of a plague-storm of fiends to regain a safe state of idleness.

Four days later, engrossed in a target shoot against Jaelot’s second captain of archers, the Masterbard’s apprentice Medlir poised at the butts in the practice yard to tally the score of his arrows.

An off-duty guardsman hailed him from the gate across the field. ‘Hey, minstrel! Did you hear? That fat man your master must play to redeem was let off his term of forced labour!’

Wrapped in a faded dun cloak, lashed about the ankles by the wind-crumpled stands of spring grass that had finally pushed through the mud, Medlir flicked back his hood. Eyes as changeably flecked as the lichen tinged wall behind his shoulder widened under up-turned brows. ‘You speak of Dakar? What’s to hear?’

His shooting companions clustered around, sand pig-gins empty, their shafts still jammed in straw targets. The silver they stood to lose if the count was completed left them amiably open to diversion.

Now able to laugh at the afternoon’s pestering annoyance, the guard just off watch in the dungeons strode over, his conical helm tucked beneath his arm. ‘Fool bailiff had to release him. No choice. Besides being crazy, the fat man’s a breathing, walking lure for stray fiends. Brings them on like a lodestone draws iron, and not a blighted talisman in the city seems to hold power for protection.’ Arrived at the butts, and soldier enough to count and weigh odds at a glance, he slapped Medlir on the shoulder. ‘You’re winning? With that? Against longbows?’

‘I was.’ The minstrel gave a crooked smile. Long, supple fingers unstrung the horn recurve, then surrendered the weapon to a page boy for return to common stores in the armoury. ‘You didn’t tell Dakar the name of the inn where we’re quartering?’

The guardsman’s brisk humour turned wicked. ‘The city dungeon won’t keep him. Who’s left? I hope you’ve got patience for waking up with your bootlaces snarled into knots.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ Energetically merry, Medlir laughed.

He kept to himself the piquant truth that a masterbard’s art included chords arranged in particular harmonic resonance to repel fiends. Halliron had forbidden his apprentice to perform any music in public; for himself, the old man avowed to make no appearance until the moment he was compelled by the terms of the judiciary’s bargain. If Jaelot was pestilent with iyats due to Dakar’s incarceration, the Masterbard and his singer in training would retreat to their attic and share rich appreciation of the havoc.

Spirit Tracks

Touched across distance by a prompt from the Warden in Althain Tower, a raven flaps and rouses a Fellowship mage, who ignores the stiffness of old wounds to arise, don his threadbare black cloak, and journey eastward across Radmoore Downs toward the spell-guarded stronghold on the edge of the dread mires of Mirthlvain …

In western lands, the same call is heard and declined by another spirit mage who stands watch over an enclave of enchantresses; in particular one initiate with dark auburn hair and a guarded heart, entrapped in the web of greater intrigue that surrounds the Master of Shadow …

Far removed from Athera’s spinning orb and the sphere of Sethvir’s provenance, the discorporate awareness of a sorcerer departs from a world bound in ice and shackled under brooding bands of fog; and as his conscious presence arrows on through the emptiness that freezes the space between stars, he fears the next place he seeks to unlock the Mistwraith’s secrets may prove as lifelessly desolate as the last …

IV. CONVOCATION

Some days after the clanborn courier had taken leave of his tower eyrie, Sethvir, Warden of Althain laid out a fresh square of parchment. With one elbow braced against a tome on celestial mechanics whose listed orbs and planetary bodies lay nowhere near his present world of inhabitancy, he pondered; his hands out of fussy habit trimmed pen nibs the way a duellist might whet fine steel. Then, his left hand curled around a tea mug, the sorcerer penned out the message Tysan’s lady steward had asked him to send on to Arithon s’Ffalenn. Moved by purposeful afterthought, he added an inventory that filled twelve close-spaced pages. The items he catalogued had been on Maenalle’s mind, too lengthy for a courier to memorize. Willing servant to her intent, Sethvir let the breeze dry the ink. Then he rummaged through a cupboard, salvaged a battered seal from a tin full of oddments, and secured the document under the device of the ancient princes of Camris, from whom the lady traced descent.

The waning night beyond the casements was the eve of the vernal equinox, by custom a time for the Fellowship sorcerers to gather in convocation.

Althain’s Warden tucked the finished letter into a satchel already packed for the occasion and descended to his equally cluttered living quarters. There he replaced his threadbare robe with another only slightly less ink-stained. Outside, the sky lightened to dusky pearl. Bright-eyed despite not having slept for several days, Sethvir continued down the stairwell.

No cressets brightened the black iron wall sconces. The commemorative statues of Paravians housed on Althain’s ground floor wore a gloom only fitfully broken as the gleam that leaked through the arrowloops jinked across gold braid and trappings.

Sethvir required no torch to see his way past the ranks of marble unicorns; the homed majesty of centaurs that loomed above his head; the waist-high maple pedestals that elevated the diminutive bronzes of Sun Children. If concern for the future burdened his thoughts, here, the past weighed unquiet as well. Through mage-sense, Sethvir felt the vibrational echoes left by the steps of former visitors. In winnowed air currents like moving chiaroscuro, he could trace the tides of old magics, ones wrought by Paravians in subliminal harmonics; and others more recent, of Fellowship craft, that feathered the skin like a tonic. Surrounding all, enduring as bedrock, lurked the guardspells that sealed Althain Tower from the world and its troubles outside.

The sorcerer bypassed the gold-chased panels, built to mask the massive, geared chains and windlass that worked the tower’s grand portal. His satchel slung like a knapsack, he knelt by an inset trapdoor and paused, apparently overcome by reverie; in fact, his mind sharpened in search and coursed outward, beyond Athera’s cloud layer and into deep vacuum through which the stars drifted like lamps.

But the far distant spirit of the colleague who journeyed to study the Mistwraith’s origin returned no response; nor had for an uneasy score of months.

With Lysaer extending his influence into Tysan, the peace could scarcely last. Time to reclaim the cursed princes from the Mistwraith’s geas was growing sorrowfully short.

Raked by a shiver, Sethvir aroused, recalled to those troubles close at hand. A ring-pull lifted to his touch; defence wards dissolved and the heavy stone rose to a stir of moving counterweights. The chamber’s miasma of aged cedar and wool gave way to the draught that welled up, spiked like a storm-breeze with ozone. A stair shaft cut downward into cold dark, limned like dust on ebony by the silver-blue glimmer of the power focus set into the dungeon below.

Sethvir secured the trapdoor behind him and descended. Daybreak was nigh, its song plain to read in the soft, bursting static of the earth lane’s magnetic signature. Althain’s Warden stepped off the landing. He crossed a concave depression paved with lightless black onyx, then the focus itself, of concentric circles over-scribed in Paravian runes, mapped out in pearlescent phosphor. Tingled by the unshielded play of elemental forces, he positioned himself at the pattern’s centre. His feet rested on the apex of a looping star interlace that met in a nexus of five lines.

He closed his eyes, gripped his satchel and waited.

Outside the tower, sunrise touched light through the mists.

A flux of wild energy crested along the lane, and the focus in the cellar floor responded, crackling to incandescent white. The moment sang into a chord of suspension, laced about with dire powers.

Then the dawn sun-surge peaked and passed. The rune circles shimmered to quiescence, and the Warden of Althain was gone. Air displaced by his departure eddied over gargoyle cornices and sighed to final stillness through attrition.

Relocated three hundred and eighty leagues to the southeast, Sethvir opened his eyes. Through a lingering shudder of reaction, he sucked in a breath dank as fog off a retting pond with the taint of mildew and mould. He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’d forgotten how Meth Isle smelled.’

‘That’s possible?’ His host, the master spellbinder Verrain, stood in straight quiet like a cat-tail, furled against the damp in a mud-splashed, brown frieze cloak. ‘I wasn’t sure, I’ve been here so long.’ Full lips that once had wrung sighs from Daenfal’s fairest maidens crooked in humourless irony. ‘Welcome to the bogs of Mirthlvain.’

Sethvir gave his spinning senses a moment more to settle, then stepped off the lichened patterns of a lane focus centuries older than the one at Althain Tower. Gilded with flickers from the rushlight by the doorway, he gripped the wrists of the apprentice mage, who had stood guard over the dread spawn of Mirthlvain for more years than any soul deserved.

‘You have tea?’ asked the Fellowship sorcerer.

His anxious note caused Verrain to grin. ‘My cupboards are stocked.’ He led off up a brick stair, hollowed by moisture and footfalls. ‘The others await you above.’

The pair climbed in darkness alive with the tick and splash of condensation. From some bleak chamber down a corridor, a caged thing chittered and screeled; the echoes cut at the nerves, caused the hair of warmblooded listeners to prickle and stab erect.

‘Karth-eels?’ Sethvir asked.

‘A breeding pair.’ Verrain unbarred an upper doorway to a squeal of rusted hinges. He retrieved a staff of grey ash, while the spill of filtered daylight traced over knuckles left scarred by bites, and claws, and fell scratchings. ‘A new mutation, I fear.’

‘Hardly fresh,’ Sethvir murmured, ‘if these ones you’ve caught are amphibious, with fangs and webbed feet as well as the usual venomed spines.’

Verrain glanced aside in surprise, his eyes so bleak they looked lightless. ‘You’ve seen footed spawnings before this?’

‘Actually, yes. But not for five thousand years.’ In disquiet thought, the sorcerer hitched at the strap of his satchel. ‘Certainly none since the hate-wraiths who caused the aberrations were prisoned in Rockfell pit.’

‘The records in the library don’t list those.’ Verrain ducked to traverse the peculiar, low arches of a connecting hall. One of Meth Isle fortress’s many cats streaked past as he flung back the door to another stairway.

‘No. They wouldn’t.’ Moved to an airy shift of subject, Sethvir said, ‘There’s a most urgent reason why we chose to meet here for the equinox.’

The light strengthened with the climb, warmed to buttery, cloud-hazed sunshine. This far east, the morning was already several hours gone. Windows battened under diamond-meshed grilles opened onto Meth Isle fortress’s vista of slate roofs and terracotta chimneys, tufted under yellow moss and fungus. Tiled gutters with gargoyle spouts loured over a lakeshore scummed with lily pads and beyond them, darker, deeper waters rippled and scaled silver with wind. Mirthlvain’s landscape of steaming mires loomed in the distance, an imprinted silhouette of marsh maple and cypress cobwebbed with trailing, tattered moss.

But the inside air now carried welcoming heat and a perfume of clean burning birch. An orange tabby bounded across the landing to weave against Verrain’s shins. He crossed a marble antechamber inhabited by beetles in lichened corners and led into the grand hall beyond.

Past the braced doors, lofty hammerbeamed ceilings hung splotched acid green from the damp. A black iron cauldron steamed on the hob, and there Sethvir’s host gestured with the flick of a dimple on each cheek. ‘Your tea water. Sufficient to last out the day, I should hope.’

The sorcerer returned a pleased grin, then hastened on to greet the two colleagues who waited, already seated. Other carved chairs with upholstery felted with cat hair sat empty before the stone gryphons that fashioned the table’s massive pedestal.

A white and tortoiseshell tom poured itself from Asandir’s lap as he arose. ‘Sethvir! Come sit. How long has it been since you remembered to eat?’ Tall, windburned, worn lean from travel, he made room for Althain’s Warden, in the process displacing a sleepy kitten.

The black-clad sorcerer opposite hunched over a plate of smoked fish and scones, his mouth too full for speech. But the raven perched on his shoulder swivelled beady jet eyes and croaked.

‘Hello to you too, little brother.’ Sethvir dumped his satchel on the floor and sat, his diffuse gaze no longer bemused, but trained in sharp inquiry upon the quieter of his two colleagues.

Traithe stayed riveted on his food. His wide-brimmed black hat with its tarnished silver band hung from the knurl on his chair arm. The caped sable mantle he still wore failed to mask the tender movements left over from crippling injuries; in the hour of the Mistwraith’s first invasion, Traithe had made tragic sacrifice to unbind the spells on the South Gate portal and cut off the creatures’ point of entry.

When his raven clipped him a peck on the ear, he looked up, his brown eyes dark with affront. ‘Yes,’ he snapped as though to an unwanted inquiry. ‘My scars ache today. But since meeting was called for at Mirthlvain, I presume we save our strengths for something more pressing than small healing.’

Above a twist of frosty hair the raven had tousled, Asandir and Sethvir locked glances. Had Traithe still possessed his full faculties, no one need say that Mirthlvain’s ills were quiescent.

‘Actually,’ the Warden of Althain admitted, ‘this is the closest active focus to Alestron, where one of us needs to pay a visit. A copy of Magyre’s papers has apparently survived and fallen into the hands of the duke’s scholars.’

‘Black powder again?’ asked Verrain, arrived with a stalker’s silence to settle on Traithe’s other side. He had shed his frieze cloak. Lank blond hair tied by velvet ribbons feathered through the ruffles of a dandy’s collar several centuries out of fashion.

Sethvir sighed. ‘The very same old tired story.’ He looked askance at Asandir, who had forgotten to pass on the scones. ‘It’s scarcely on your way, but you’ll need to visit the city before going north to Rockfell to check on the Mistwraith’s confinement.’

Then, mindful the cruellest of Traithe’s distress would not stem from old injuries, Sethvir tucked his hands in his sleeve cuffs. Carefully, aloud, he said, ‘No, I have yet to hear word.’

His inference was to Kharadmon, their discorporate colleague dispatched across the gulf to resurvey the paired worlds left severed by the closure of South Gate. There, for a purpose beyond comprehension, the abomination wrought of mists and trapped human spirits first became amalgamated into the Mistwraith that endangered Athera.

Worries abounded. The icy, lifeless void between stars was inhospitable, even to the bodiless spirit; worse, the alienated worlds presumably harboured the wraith’s greater portion, still at large and potently malevolent. The calamity that resulted from the creature’s confinement here had unveiled frightening truths: for the mist’s bound spirits were intelligent, able to wrest the key to grand conjury from another mind trained to mastery. They had even proved capable of movement and planning across the threshold of time.

Best of any, the Fellowship sorcerers understood the ugly details. The curse they undertook to unravel to reconcile two princes was daunting in scope, and ranged about with perils that lay outside of all augury.

Kharadmon’s journey had been launched at unmentionable risk. If he suffered mishap and failed to return, far more than the hope of the royal heirs’ reconciliation would be lost. The Fellowship itself might never be restored to its original circle of seven sorcerers.

Amid bitter silence, and stalked by the interest of three cats, the raven spread glossy primaries and dived in to peck at the scones. Traithe beat it back to a flurry of wings, snatched the butter crock away, then hissed until the bird retreated to fluff indignant feathers on his chair back. Since mention of one discorporate colleague brought the other to mind, he said, ‘Luhaine has no plans to join us?’

‘Sadly not.’ Sethvir rescued a scone the bird had mauled and dipped up a creamy scoop of butter. ‘The Koriani witches have renewed their efforts to find Arithon.’ He bit down and chewed with absent relish. ‘For equinox, they’ve planned a grand scrying. A circle of twenty-one seniors, to be matrixed through the Skyron crystal. Luhaine’s needed to try and scatter their energies everywhere else but toward Jaelot, a touchy task. We’d rather his influence wasn’t noticed.’

‘Jaelot?’ Verrain’s expostulation re-echoed off the vaults of the ceiling. ‘That cesspit of snobbery and bad taste? Why Jaelot?’

Asandir sighed, the broad line of his shoulders looking tired. ‘The affair involves an exploit of Dakar’s that’s too idiotic to mention. But to redeem the Mad Prophet’s foolishness, Halliron is confined there till solstice. His apprentice naturally won’t leave him.’ The sorcerer hooked his chin on steepled fingers, not needing to add that a stay of such length left Arithon’s identity as Medlir vulnerable, and not just to auguries done on the balance point of equinox. Since the secret of the Shadow Master’s alias was the fragile linchpin that frustrated the directive of Desh-thiere’s curse, Luhaine was bound to be misleading enchantresses for some while yet to come.

‘Well,’ murmured Traithe in dry conclusion. ‘This isn’t so much a convocation as a gossip list of our weaknesses.’

‘From which we can certainly spare a moment for minor healing,’ Sethvir interjected with a glance of prankish triumph toward his colleague. ‘For the task that lies ahead of us tonight, we can’t do without your sense of humour.’

A flick of amusement rekindled the laugh lines at the corners of Traithe’s spaniel eyes. ‘What’s amiss that’s any worse than the monsters mewed up in these mires?’

Turned blankly vague, Sethvir fiddled pastry crumbs out of the folds of his cuffs. ‘The Koriani Council’s pursuit of Arithon s’Ffalenn. But let that bide for a little.’

His wistful glance toward the cauldron moved Verrain to arise and fetch mugs, and steep a pot of bracing tea.

When eventide dimmed the Mirthlvain marshes, the peepings and shrills, the skreels and the croaks of its nocturnal denizens racketed across the shallows of Methlas Lake. The mists had not yet arisen, to lure out the will o’ the wisps and the seeping flares of the marshlights. Unquiet waters lay black as a facet of obsidian, stippled by the light-prints of stars, and one anomaly: a thread of reflection sculled on the shore’s dying currents, cast out into darkness by a firelit casement high up in Meth Isle fortress.

There, around the stone table in a hall dimmed to cavernous shadow, three Fellowship sorcerers hunched in conference. They concluded their survey of far-reaching responsibilities, for they alone had been left as guardians of Athera’s ancient mysteries since the old races’ inexplicable disappearance. Wards of protection that confined creatures dangerous in malice had been checked over world gates and preserves. As always, defences had weakened; four months of difficult travels lay ahead for Traithe and Asandir. The demands on them both were relentless, with their discorporate colleagues committed elsewhere. Of two other sorcerers outside tonight’s active circle, none spoke: the shade of Davien the Betrayer remained banished in seclusion since the hour of the high kings’ fall; Ciladis the Lost, still gone beyond reach, on his failed quest to find the Paravians.

The sole augury that forecast the Seven’s reunity, the last hope to accomplish the old races’ return: all remained jeopardized by the Mistwraith’s curse, and two princes shackled into enmity. Brought at last to that point, and the reason for gathering at Meth Isle, Sethvir peered into his empty mug. The tea leaves scummed in the dregs deceptively appeared to absorb him, while his eyes mapped the sonorous currents of the earth, and the fine, singing tracks of distant stars. ‘It is time.’

Gaunt and silent, Asandir arose. He collected the used crockery, Verrain’s chipped pot with its sprung wicker handle, and the moth-eaten quills filched from the library. With hands that moved much more freely, Traithe rolled up a marked map. He slipped the parchment into its case and across the cleared table, spread the black cloth of his cloak.

Sethvir stooped by his chair to rummage something from his satchel. While the cats piled next to Verrain’s ankles scampered off, and the one in his lap stretched and left, the Guardian of Mirthlvain out of habit used mage-sense to tag the cause of their unrest. But this time no aberrated creature from the swamps had strayed inside to be hunted. Verrain’s query touched the edge of a cold ward, a boundary field laid down to contain a flux of refined vibration. He realized, alarmed, that the Fellowship meant to cast strands. The augury they could wring out of still air and power would be exactingly accurate, and undertaken only at grave need. More disturbing still, the Warden of Althain straightened up and offered him a tin canister and stone pipe.

Verrain need not unseal the container. The pungency that seeped from the dried herb inside charged his senses with dreadful remembrance of its poisons. Shaken, he said quickly, ‘I shouldn’t need tienelle to follow the progression of a strand pattern.’

Sethvir did not back down, but cradled the master spellbinder’s hands within his own tepid palms. ‘Tonight, we’re not sounding the future.’ Fallen into shadow as Asandir made a spell to darken the glow of the fire, the Warden looked oddly wizened; momentarily no sorcerer at all, but an old man rubbed spiritless and thin by a lifetime’s uncountable sorrows. ‘You weren’t told earlier. But the Mistwraith’s curse that sets Lysaer and Arithon into conflict is far worse than a geas of fixation. The knowledge which might shed light on their condition lies two ages back in the past.’

A creeping shudder harrowed Verrain’s nerves. ‘You wish to tune the strands to examine the methuri that created the abominations here at Mirthlvain?’

‘Desh-thiere’s binding over the princes is not far removed from the corruptions effected by the hate-wraiths.’ Asandir folded his lean length and sat with his usual economy of movement. ‘Both arose from the meddling of spirit entities. Both were imprinted into living flesh, with bonds of compulsion that can’t be undone without losing the victim in death.’

As Sethvir’s touch slipped away, Verrain flicked open the little tin, his dimples erased by trepidation as he cleaned and packed the stubby pipe. The biting smell of the tienelle enveloped him, fierce enough to make him cough. Just how a strand casting could be ranged across time, he desperately wished not to learn.

Sethvir unkindly answered his thought all the same. Time’s riddle is only opaque to those senses attuned through the flesh.’

Verrain’s horrified start shot the canister lid in a clanging arc to the floor. ‘Ath forfend! Can’t we ask Luhaine to handle this?’

But already Asandir had slipped beyond hearing. His tall, dark-robed form lay slumped across the table, his cheek cradled on folded arms. His flesh was a vessel emptied of spirit, with Traithe already set in anguished silence by his shoulder to stand ward and guard.

The plain fact could not be forgotten, that just such a perilous scrying had stripped Kharadmon to discorporate status. Verrain snapped a flame off a finger tip that trembled and ignited the herb in his pipe. As drug-laden smoke twined in ghostly step to the dance of some aimless air current, he called on six centuries of discipline to wrest his uncertainty aside. Then he drew on the stem and gasped as the tienelle’s drug whirled through his senses like wildfire.

Vertigo upended him in a savage, exhilarant rush. There followed a glass-sharp awareness that scoured his dross of flesh, until the stillness of the room compressed his ears like cotton and his eyesight gained hurtful clarity. The lofty, crystalline expansion of awareness overturned him like a plunge from great height. He clung to his chair in desperation to stay anchored, while around him the floor lost its semblance of solidity. Changed perception showed him the layers of dizzy energies that bound its cool stone into matter.

Verrain fought to master the reeling hyperbole that savaged him. As Sethvir’s expectancy jabbed through his trance, he recalled his place and purpose: for the knowledge to redeem Athera’s cursed princes, Asandir now twisted the flow of time. The thread of his existence hung poised in suspension on the threshold between life and death.

The spellfield the sorcerer laid out above the black cloth on the tabletop had limits; its influence encompassed little more than the span of one cubic yard. But the resonance where its edges grazed up against the present raised a whine past the limit of hearing, and a flesh-stripping ache that made human bone marrow shiver and jump like kicked mercury. Hazed by indescribable discomfort, his blond hair strung limp with sweat, Verrain cobbled a grip on his frayed consciousness and spun out three filaments of light.

Sethvir raised power and spoke. An answering resonance of mage-force tingled outward as his words parted drug-heightened senses like razors, touched the strands hanging poised against darkness, and set over them a signature that gave Name.

Ruled in parallel with the life-currents that endowed Ath’s creation, the filaments quickened, interleaved into patterns the trained mind could unriddle at a glance. Verrain called forth another strand, and another, while through some unseen linkage with the time-pocket carved out by Asandir, Sethvir spoke Names upon them that recreated constructs of this stone, and that mud-pool, then seeded them with plants, insects, salamanders and trees in their individual; teeming thousands. Here lay like pen strokes the growth and death of moss. There, in skeined interlace, the play of breezes through reed beds, ringed with black water scribed by stitched curves that marked the life-dance of fishes. In glowing, intricate splendour against a dark like layered velvet, a mile square portion of Mirthlvain’s mire became replicated in a linear analogue of patterns.

Transfixed by awe, and a harmony that wrung him breathless, Verrain wept as he realized: the bogland he viewed was still governed by nature. The creatures there had yet to be enslaved, corrupted and cross-bred to birth the monstrous perversions induced by the hate-wraiths’ possession.

Softly out of shadow, Sethvir said, ‘Commence.’

Verrain felt the hair stir at his nape as channelled power sparked through the strands.

A pent sense of danger prevailed, like the quaver of a note too long sustained, or the chill of sharp steel masked in cloth. Now, any misplayed distinction between the quick force of life and the raw burn of elemental energy might sunder the time-ward’s fragile balance and rip Asandirs spirit from flesh. Verrain trembled in his battle to keep the herb’s explosive prescience tied in to geometric augury as Sethvir alone called forth the final strand, then shaped it to the Name of the methuri.

The matrix mapped an origin Verrain had studied only in ancient text: here, in spikes and jagged angles, he experienced the leaked bit of storm charge that had displaced half-formed beings from the thought-shaped, nether-realm of drake-dreams. In twists and snagged knotwork, he saw anomalies that to this world were half demon, half monster, change vibration and emerge to rampage and slay. The original methurien were creatures deranged by pain, animate consciousness torn into breathing life from an existence of shadowy apparition. Their bodily deaths on Paravian weapons had served only to release their twisted essence as free wraiths.

His centuries of handling the cross-bred abominations left behind as their legacy could not prepare Mirthlvain’s Guardian for the concentrated, driving hatred the methuri had embodied. Needled breathless by passions bent and whetted for destruction, Verrain felt his consciousness twist to escape. The drugs in the tienelle gave no quarter, but held his awareness channelled open through the shivering flinch of full contact.

‘Steady. Hold steady,’ Sethvir cautioned.

Verrain’s fingernails split under the force of his grip on the table as the first wraith ensnared a live victim. The moment of its possession was terrible to witness: clean-edged lines that delineated a mouse unique unto itself in Ath’s creation flickered and spiked into a chaotic jumble that, even two ages later, seemed to shock the night air with scream upon scream of torment. Verrain stung as though every nerve in his body had been sieved out and scorched in hot acid.

Locked into step with the strands’ unfolding sequence, he watched the signature pattern of the mouse blur, coil, then fix in a flare of cold fire into something wholly wrong, in mind and matter remoulded to a parasitic hybrid that was irrationally, unthinkably other. What moved and breathed in the heart of the strands’ reflection was a thing outside the Major Balance, the warp and weft of its birthright wrenched contrary to natural law.

Revolted to spasms of dry nausea, the spellbinder clamped hands to his lips until the blood felt squeezed from his fingers. He compelled himself to abide as Sethvir broadened his study: and snakes, insects, otters and frogs all suffered possession in turn. The moment of change in each case was sliced free of time and dissected; line for line, contortion for mauled contortion, the maligned detail of the hate-wraiths’ workings wrung out in white pain from their victims. Life-force itself became impressed and internally warped until only the husk of the body remained, to spawn its altered, aberrant offspring. The warped things birthed from such breedings in turn became subservient to the whim of the host.

Drenched in a cold sweat, Verrain tracked Sethvir’s analysis of the past as methuri abominations insinuated a rift in earthly order, to knot a linkage through the breathing essence of spirit and the energy coils that underpinned fleshly matter. The conclusion in the strands was most clear. Not only would separation trigger the dissolution of bodily substance, but the wraith in possession could unkey the quickened flesh and impose wilful change with impunity.

Aghast, Verrain whispered, ‘You think Desh-thiere’s curse upon the princes may work in a similar way?’

Sethvir looked up, the strand-wrought, desecrated patterns imprinted in frosty reflection upon his emotionless eyes. ‘That’s what we’re here to determine.’ He succumbed to a shudder, as if his detachment gave way and the horrors reeled off in cold augury overcame him in one slamming wave. Then he blotted damp palms on his sleeve cuffs and spoke a single clipped syllable. The knit mesh of forces that energized the strands bled off in a crackle of sparks.

Asandir drew a racking breath and stirred, while Traithe stepped aside and dropped into a chair as though his knees had failed him.

For an interval spanning several minutes, nobody cared to try speech.

Verrain finally pushed upright and made his unsteady way to the hearth to unshield the fire and brew tea. The toxins in the tienelle had left him dehydrated and queasy; spurious starts of vision still snatched through his senses like flares. Tired to his bones, his hyper-sensitized awareness cringing even from the rub of the grey tom just returned to bask by the settle, the spellbinder struggled for the self-command to weather the withdrawal and transmute the herb’s fatal poisons.

Behind him discussion continued, Fellowship voices mazed in grim echoes as comparisons were drawn from their study of the methuri, and the Mistwraith’s curse on the princes. Verrain rubbed stinging eyes, unable to quell his ripping shudders as true-sight relived the hideous aberrations the strands had etched into memory. The hissing splatter of boiled over water yanked back his straying thoughts. Cold and sick unto lassitude, he bent to mind the cauldron. He could never regard the monstrosities of Mirthlvain in quite the same fashion again; dangerous as they were, and vicious, still, they deserved his full measure of pity.

The chance that two sons of Athera’s royal lines might suffer a similar disfigurement offered horror beyond sane belief.

Braced by hot tea and determination, Verrain reclaimed his chair. He realized with renewed disquiet that the Fellowship prepared another scrying. Though this next divination was simple and harmless, an image drawn from straight recall, Asandir looked hollow-eyed. His craggy profile jutted into hot light as his large-knuckled hands attended the task of striking fresh flame to a candlewick. The wrist Traithe raised to put aside his raven trembled in apprehension.

Even Sethvir seemed on edge. Mantled in tawdry burgundy velvet, his collar caught with hair like snagged fish line, he raised eyes touched to fevered brilliance and regarded each of his colleagues. ‘We’re caught in a critical moment.’ To Asandir, whose part was to draw the scrying, he said obliquely, ‘Will the reliving in depth be too much?’

‘Ath have mercy, it will become so, if uncertainty leads me to procrastinate.’ Asandir’s distress was noticed by the cats, who streaked from dim corners to crowd his lap, lace through his ankles, and vie for the chance to offer comfort. His strong hands moved, returning their attentions in rueful, saddened irony. ‘Little brothers, I’m truly grateful. But our night’s work isn’t through yet.’

The sorcerer’s words reached triangular pairs of ears and imparted uncanny understanding. As clear in their disdain of spell currents as a chance-met douse in cold water, the cats dashed off in a twitching flinch of back fur, a shaking of paws and scything jerks of offended tails.

Verrain might have chuckled at their haughtiness had the moment been less distressed. Whatever troublesome development was afoot, the sorcerers gave no explanation. Asandir set aside the rusted striker and poised in concerned stillness. While his fierce eyes closed, that alone had witnessed the moment when Desh-thiere’s curse claimed its victims, the oddity recurred: this same exhaustive search had been accomplished years since, in the hour the disaster had befallen.

The spellbinder’s puzzlement became crushed aside by a rising wave of bright force. Power coalesced, great enough to melt rock or ignite metal like a twig of dry tinder. Over the dusky weave of Traithe’s cloak, carved out by will and clean conjury, Asandir’s augury reformed the sphere of the candle’s fire, to recreate an event six years past when Etarra’s teeming thousands had turned out to celebrate the crowning of Rathain’s sanctioned prince…

Spring sun flooded over the royal banners, streamered in Rathain’s colours of silver and green. On a gallery overhanging the city’s wide square, above the surge of a multitude, one man’s gold hair and fine jewellery flared in caught light as he raised his arms in sudden violence. His words scribed no sound in the window of Asandir’s re-conjuring; the instant Desh-thiere’s fragmented wraith enacted its possession over Lysaer s’Ilessid, he raised his gift in a lightning-bolt attack against an enemy singled out…

Despite knowledge that the Mistwraith’s vengeance had exploited Lysaer; that its meddling distortion of the justice a benevolent past conjury had grafted into the s’Ilessid royal line had lent it the leverage to wreak ill, nothing could prepare for the naked, wasting passion launched against the Master of Shadow. Racked by a spasm of visceral revulsion, Verrain watched, riveted, as the moment continued to unfold.

The light-bolt sheared on, a fateful, white arc of fire that tore a scream from roiled air. The black-haired victim who was its sure target thrashed to escape, while two terrified, burly merchants held him pinioned at wrists and knees. The sword he might have turned to cut his way free as well had not been in his hand. He ignored his captors’ efforts to wrest the blade away. To Arithon s’Ffalenn, all else lost meaning before the attack set against him by his half-brother.

Pinned like a moth to a card by a needle of sick fascination, Verrain saw the crystalline flicker that sheeted through the burn of Lysaer’s assault: an unexpected, warning blaze of Paravian spellcraft released by Arithon’s heirloom sword. Then the weapon was wrenched away, to fall in mute motion to the pavement.

As Rathain’s disarmed prince raised his hand to shape shadow, Sethvir interrupted like the slap of a whip striking flesh, ‘Stop it there.’

In control that disallowed pity, Asandir locked the scrying. Like a reflection cold frozen in a mirror; or a jewel spiked through a ravelled plane of darkness, he held a fragment excised out of time.

The result felt as rendingly ghastly as a dying man’s drawn out scream. Again, Verrain wondered why the Fellowship sorcerers should distress themselves to launch this irrelevant review.

Arithon s’Ffalenn had tipped his face skyward. Eyes widened to a tourmaline blaze of anguish, he tracked a raven that arrowed in flight above the mob etched motionless in the square. The hand cocked back in the first blooming burst of cast shadow showed his fingers flexed in concentration. The directive to guide the spell’s homing was set for Traithe’s bird, dispatched at need to find Sethvir. A heartbeat shy of disaster, the prince’s concern lay unmasked, not for himself, but for a wasp’s nest of ramifications: that if the Fellowship sorcerers went unwarned of this crisis, far more than his own life and destiny were going to fall forfeit in consequence…

The farsight of s’Ahelas!’ Verrain looked up, shocked by the evidence before him. ‘No one told me Rathain’s prince had inherited the marked gift of his mother’s line along with s’Ffalenn compassion.’

To his sorrow and that of his half-brother also,’ Sethvir affirmed in quiet grief. ‘Both carry the attributes of two royal families.’

Across the table, embattled by raw recriminations, Traithe sucked a fast breath and shut his eyes. ‘Ath’s blessed mercy, I should never have lent him my raven.’

The bird’s guidance changed nothing,’ Asandir disagreed in jarring firmness. Distanced from emotion by the fearful discipline he needed to stabilize the scrying, he added, ‘You’ll see as much once the vibration is refined to show a clear imprint of the aura.’

Unhappiness dwelled like a sore point, that such redefinition was required only to match the shortfalls of Verrain and Traithe; or else for some larger, interconnected reason that remained too elusive to place.

Then Sethvir cut in with an adamance to end Verrain’s laboured speculation. ‘Dare we overlook a single facet? The Mistwraith and its malice are unprecedented. We might need every angle at hand to unkey the riddle of the curse.’

Asandir bowed his head and realigned the augury. Still mazed under influence of the tienelle, Verrain flinched as the image shimmered into a delicate, prismatic fire of patterns. These displayed the character and emotions of Rathain’s prince through the unshielded vibrations of his life-force. The outrage of the merchants showed also, a rinsed flare of ruby that fringed the peripheral edges. But their coarse-textured hatred became discarded like noise before the tight-meshed imprint that was Arithon.

Verrain shuddered, confounded by a warring urge to weep and hold his breath.

The aura of the s’Ffalenn prince sang through the vision in spare and forceful irony, even as Lysaer’s must have done through the hour of crisis when Sethvir and Asandir between them had disentangled him from the possession of the wraith that had sealed Desh-thiere’s vengeance.

Distaste like sand in his gut, Verrain pushed past grief to see more: through passage to Athera by way of the Red Desert, this prince had acquired the matrix imparted by the Five Centuries Fountain, a structure of riddles and spells built and abandoned by Davien the Betrayer in the years before he raised the insurrection to overturn kingdom rule.

‘Fatemaster’s mercy.’ Verrain expelled a sharp exhalation. ‘Both half-brothers came here by way of the Worldsend Gate. Are they equally marked by the Betrayer’s enforced longevity? If so, this geas of Desh-thiere’s could upset the whole continent through the course of five hundred years!’

Sethvir’s hand dropped, warm and steady on the spellbinder’s shoulder. ‘Save thought for more than despair. Davien’s gift of added lifespan might equally lend us grace to achieve the princes’ salvation.’ But in comfortless fact, his platitude held no certainty.

That moment, driven to straight urgency by some unseen cue, Althain’s Warden cried, ‘Now! Jump ahead to the moment of the curse.’

The image in the candle-flame unlocked to kaleidoscopic change; and Verrain felt as a man sent to dam back a cataclysm with only a wish and bare hands.

Lysaer’s bolt struck.

A scintillant flash bisected the sphere of the vision. Seared from palm to right elbow, Arithon recoiled from worse than scorched flesh. Jabbed and enveloped through the crux of half-formed defences, he opened his mouth to scream as he tasted the measure of his downfall.

And peril incarnate closed over him. Lysaer’s killing band of light shimmered and exploded, to unveil the Mistwraith’s covert conjury: the bane-ward of the curse, transferred inside an attack no schooled mind had ever thought to suspect.

‘Slow the sequence,’ Sethvir commanded in a sharp-etched whisper.

Verrain jammed his fists against his temples as the brilliance shed away to unveil the stripped armature of the geas, a serried mesh ugly as flung blood, but never random. The spellbinder who shared its ruthless symmetry could wish his own tears could scald and blind him.

‘Dharkaron witness,’ he managed on a rasped catch of breath. ‘The creature baited its binding with Arithon’s personal imprint.’

‘Lock and key.’ Sethvir’s affirmation came oddly muffled by distance. ‘The bystanders were safe, had we known it.’

Traithe had no comment to offer; and Verrain could only ponder a third time why this scrying should be rewrought in such depth. One glance was enough to establish plain fact: Desh-thiere’s curse and the signature pattern which comprised the extinct methuri held only chance similarity. As the Fellowship certainly realized, no further help for their princes could be garnered from Mirthlvain mire’s dark history.

The present scrying edged forward. In a hideous play of stopped motion, the spell coils netted their victim. Barbed tendrils flung out like grapples and snagged, to shed pervasive currents throughout the s’Ffalenn prince’s being.

His torment, physical and mental, shivered, shocked, and rebounded in a voiceless play of light. Through pain enough to cripple thought, Arithon fought back: in starbursts of mage-fire; in sigils and counterwards knotted and thrashed in harried ink-twists of shadow.

Yet Desh-thiere’s malice had been configured to outflank and countermand every turn of his desperate strength.

Verrain saw the clean bars of will wrapped and smothered, the brilliance of purpose starkly crushed. Through the heartbeat while Arithon’s self-awareness lay slapped back and stunned, the curse spun insidious transformation.

‘Odd, don’t you think, that the creature made its incursion a static one,’ the spellbinder ventured. ‘How much simpler to go the next step and force a degenerative erosion of the spirit.’

Sethvir’s mouth thinned amid a bracketing bristle of beard. His uneasiness stayed unvoiced, that he feared such restraint held a purpose. The Mistwraith had set the princes against each other; it had not overtly destroyed them.

That its works could have done so was plain as the vision unreeled.

Verrain combed through the locked snarl of energies, overwhelmed by the evidence that this geas held no opening for reprieve. Leaving the s’Ffalenn personality symmetrical and intact, the bane-spell had meddled in cruel selectivity. Like a spider staked out in a web, it insinuated itself where hurt would be greatest: across will, emotion, and integrity. It waited, a dread vortex that consumed in cumulative subtlety, even as it pressed the incessant urge to battle its chosen nemesis: to kill Lysaer, and no other, a compulsion harnessed in step with life and spirit and consciousness.

The last coil sliced into place. Scarlet trailers bound close as wire, to vanish without trace in the quicksilver haze of the aura. Conclusion shaped only despair: the curse which shackled the half-brothers was a mirror-image construct that choked envenomed tendrils around every nuance of the victim’s being. To cut or disturb the least jointure would trip a flashfire backlash of dissolution.

Flesh would die and spirit be instantly annihilated. The enslavement at face value might seem less damaging, but its depths were more insidious than any distortion inflicted by methuri possession. Limp as old rags from a helplessness the Fellowship must have gauged in advance, Verrain masked his face in his palms. Five centuries was not enough, he thought sadly, to solve a quandary of such reaching proportion.

‘Well the curse won’t pass to the next generation,’ Sethvir offered to ease the spellbinder’s despondency. ‘Should either prince engender offspring, their heirs will be born unsullied.’

‘Small comfort,’ Traithe allowed, as he gathered his cloak from the tabletop. His resignation showed divided thoughts; whether to bless the mage training that gave Arithon limited means to resist the bane-spell’s directive, or to curse the added peril his schooled talent could present as the conflict renewed, at stakes inevitably more dire.

Made aware by the bound of a cat into his lap that the candle now burned clean of conjury, Verrain welcomed the animal’s small warmth against the chills of withdrawal and grief.

Dawn shed a leaden glimmer through the casement. Dulled as wind-beaten linen in its light, Asandir stretched, his move to arise cut short by Sethvir, who exchanged a weighted glance, then bent to recover his satchel.

‘You’re headed north,’ the Warden of Althain said, settled erect with his hands full. ‘I’d be obliged if you could deliver this to Arithon when his apprenticeship with the Masterbard ends.’

Asandir’s eyes snapped up, keen-edged as steel raised to guardpoint. ‘Not so soon!’ he exclaimed. Then in brittle capitulation, he reached across the table and relieved Sethvir of the satchel. Once his grip closed over the ties, he knew the list of its contents. ‘Nautical charts and Anithael’s navigational instruments? Why?’

‘Arithon asked for them,’ Sethvir replied in painful, unsmiling directness. ‘He hoped to hasten Halliron’s passage to Shand. But the sea may have to answer a more urgent need, and the letter Lady Maenalle sent as well.’

The grievous implication hung through suspended quiet, that the six years of peace Arithon had bought since the massacre at Strakewood forest, that he had wrested from his fate by denying his half-brother any viable target to strike at, might be threatened well before any means lay at hand to challenge the Mistwraith’s fell binding.

Unless and until Kharadmon came back successful from his quest, the hands of the Fellowship remained tied.

Traithe jammed on his hat to mask trepidation.

Afflicted by more personal ties to the princes, Asandir pushed back his chair and strode out with a speed that shed draughts and snuffed the spent flicker of the candle.

Verrain could only clench his knuckles in cat fur, his throat closed against questions too fearful to ask, and his eyes flooded from what he hoped was flung smoke from the wick that glowed briefly and blinked out.

Disclosure

The irksome price of rushing passage across the continent by means of tapping a power lane was the wrenching disorientation that lingered after arrival. Restored to his tower in Atainia with trouble enough on his mind to threaten a thunderous headache, the Warden of Althain paced. Each step squelched across the scarlet carpet in his bedchamber, soaked since a squall had dumped rain through the casement left ajar in his absence. His thick, furry buskins wicked up the wet and added a smell like damp dog to the mustiness already in the room.

‘You know,’ a disembodied voice admonished in reedy bass, ‘there are quite a lot of books in this tower that are going to flock and mould if you don’t amend your poor housekeeping.’

Sethvir stopped short amid puddles and sundry furnishings burdened like a fair stall with clutter. ‘Luhaine? You wouldn’t leave the Koriani witches unguarded for the simple pleasure of berating me.’

The query raised a slow spin of air in one corner, which rocked a sagged wicker hamper crammed to bursting with cast-off socks. Several woolly toes lolled over the brim, unravelled beyond help of darning; but Sethvir’s drifty attentiveness reflected no shame for his negligence.

A moment passed in suspension.

Then, typically sulky, the elusive voice proffered reply. ‘After last night’s exertions, what need to guard? Just now, the Koriani Senior Circle lie tucked up in quilts, comatose as buds in a hard frost.’

Undaunted by Luhaine’s penchant for evasions in flowery language, Sethvir sighed. ‘Don’t say our ruse went for nothing. Asandir’s temper is touchy as if he’d swallowed pins, and though we needed our master spellbinder’s help for scrying dead methurien, Verrain need not have been aggrieved by what else transpired last night.’

‘Well, the choice of decoy was never my idea, if you care to recall!’ Disturbed draughts huffed across the chamber, riffling the pages of a dozen opened books. ‘And ruse? Dharkaron Avenger! What a blundering understatement.’

Since the Koriani had powered their rites at equinox from the fifth lane’s heightened energies, and Asandir at the appropriate moment had raised a facsimile of Arithon’s aura pattern in the tower above Meth Isle’s focus with all the force and subtlety of a thunderclap, the conclusion was shatteringly self evident. ‘Ath Creator could not. have stopped your projection from entangling the Koriani scrying to perdition,’ Luhaine snapped.

The Koriani probe cast out to seek the Shadow Master had been drawn to its match like a homing signal, and stuck there like nails in old oak. If their Senior Circle had been powerless to separate the energies in further search for the living man, the discorporate sorcerer’s testiness was just. The unavoidable sidebar had lent them unwise insight into Arithon’s character and potential. Predictably, the enchantresses had seized full advantage.

‘So, how much did they learn?’ Sethvir asked on a grainy note of laughter.

The request engaged a shadowy blur that defined itself into the corpulent image of the bodiless being he addressed. Robed in scholar’s grey belted at the waist with a doubled band of leather that buckled suspiciously like a harness girth, Luhaine stalked soundlessly forward. Frowning over full cheeks and a wheat-shock bristle of whiskers, he stabbed a stumpy finger in accusation. ‘Considering Dakar’s ploys in Jaelot? By rights his plague of fiends should have drawn Koriani interest like flies to dead meat to peddle talismans against that iyat bane. I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate the enchantresses let that slip past.’

Sethvir raised bushy eyebrows.

The spirit who glided over the moist carpet seldom cursed, but his agitation showed signs of turning stormy. His rejoinder was not delivered in words, but in a cobbled scrap of memory hurled like a slap at his colleague.

For a second, Sethvir shared the tight and detailed vision of a wasted crone in violet veils bent over an ebon table. Around her like flesh-eating vultures in hoods the silky sheen of black grapes, a circle of women followed her interest as she said, ‘Ah, but his endowments are to be envied.’

The subject under discussion was a shimmering web of light captured by determined scrying: the life-print of Arithon s’Ffalenn as unveiled the past night over Meth Isle’s focus. As avidly as spiders might suck the juices from a trapped insect, the enchantresses analysed his attributes. They dissected the spiralled framework of his power, both latent and schooled: of a mage’s chained discipline and a shadow master’s wild talent linked through the blaze of a visionary mind. The cherished potential of his musician’s talents were picked out in all their ethereal shadings, a silver-lace braid wound through a will stamped in flesh like bright wire. Here, the beacon symmetry of s’Ahelas farvision tangled razor-point edges with the nettle and gossamer tendrils of undying s’Ffalenn compassion. There, the enchantresses read the sorrow and despair in the moment of Deshthiere’s conquest: Arithon’s self-awareness like the fixed sting of thorns, that hope and effort could buy him no better than failure.

Sethvir shrugged the burdensome image away with long-suffering patience. ‘The Koriani Prime and her First Senior learned nearly as much from a spying foray six years ago. Although Arithon’s personal Name pattern is now shared in common with the Prime Circle, Morriel is little more enlightened.’

Luhaine sniffed, his bodiless bulk passing without mishap between a side table stacked with gutted tea canisters and a clothes tree festooned with worn bridles. ‘Well, she certainly didn’t know that Arithon and Lysaer had drunk from the Five Centuries Fountain.’

Sethvir stilled. His eyes turned a dreamy, vacuous blue as he engaged direct power to sample the consternation bought on the heels of that revelation. When he found the Prime Circle scurrying in agitation like an ant hill pounded by a hailstorm, he chuckled outright. ‘The news should keep them busy for a little. Why trouble? The only ramification I can see beyond hysterics, is one especially deserving young initiate will gain a course of training she would otherwise be forbidden to merit.’

Luhaine’s lugubrious mood failed to brighten.

The Warden of Althain sighed. As if conceding some unseen point, he sat upon a cot he never slept in, folded veined hands on his knees, and absorbed himself in muttering a cantrip that would banish the damp from his rug. When the binding was complete and the musty smell dispersed along with the dregs of the water, he fidgeted gently and peered at the vortex that comprised his discorporate guest. ‘Luhaine?’

The portly apparition spun about in a noiseless whirl of grey. ‘You can’t say I haven’t witnessed more than my share of the Koriathain’s grand councils. They’ve fixed on the ironies of Arithon’s nature and see nothing beyond surface paradox. That, they’ve concluded, creates an explosive potential for instability. Once their Senior Circle divines the Shadow Master’s chosen course and location, they’re not going to allow him free will. He’s the last of his line, and Morriel’s ancient with spite. You know they’re very likely to launch on a quest to see him dead.’

Sethvir seemed to hold to concentration with an effort. ‘They don’t know Arithon’s mage powers were left impaired since the battle at Strakewood. Given that aura to study in depth, do you think they’re going to plunge in and meddle without caution? We’re speaking of Torbrand’s descendant, after all. By Ath, at that, they’d be entitled to suffer due consequences!’

But the immediacy of the Shadow Master’s peril could not be so lightly dismissed.

‘I don’t care how nasty a temper Rathain’s prince has inherited. If he gets himself compromised by enchantresses and we make an open move to intervene, we’re going to gain a whole world of trouble.’ Luhaine’s image bulked ominously dark against the lit square of the casement. ‘Tell me now,’ he insisted in point blank demand much against his stolid nature. ‘How much time have we bought before the Koriathain try again? They’re bound to bring still more power to bear and we can’t use the same ploy twice. How long before they have their way and unriddle Arithon’s disguise?’

The outlook isn’t good,’ Sethvir allowed in vague discomfort. As Luhaine’s black eyes glared through him, he relented in a gritty snap of grief. ‘At my outside guess, three months.’

‘Midsummer solstice,’ Luhaine murmured. ‘Daelion show us all mercy, we don’t even know if Kharadmon will survive, much less return before then.’

Crisis could fall well before the Fellowship was prepared to match their powers against the Mistwraith’s bane-spell. This time, when no answer was forthcoming, Luhaine lacked the will to badger Sethvir from his silence.

Disruption

The sparrows who scrapped over the breadcrusts on the windowsill stopped pecking after crumbs and flurried away on startled wings.

Their shadows flitted across the work table, cluttered with its melee of opened herb jars, powdered roots, and tied bundles of dried flowers that burdened the air with thick scents. Determined to ignore whatever spurred their panicked flight, Elaira, initiate Koriani enchantress, continued to brew the poultice paste she hoped might treat the lame shepherd; one whose leg had mended awry from a fall through a rockslide, and whom the hospice healers had tried to turn off because his need was not urgent. Though his fused joints made him limp, he could walk enough to manage, if never to scale steep slopes of Vastmark shale to drive his flocks to summer pasture.

No stranger to poverty, Elaira often shouldered illogical causes. Confirmed as a misfit, she was left by her peers to pursue her studies in a niche between the stills and the herb stores. There, in solitary, contented untidiness, she fed songbirds on crusts that were not mouldy, and concocted obscure remedies as she pleased. A loosened coil of auburn hair licked a cheek streaked yellow with powdered groundsel. Steadily swearing in gutter dialect, pale eyes level in concentration, Elaira strove to balance the conjury laid like ghostly embroidery across the heated air above her crucible.

The delicate forces flickered and twined, scorched thin at the edges as crux points strained to spin awry. To reshape a mangled bone and contracted knots of scar tissue took more than astringents configured with seals of forced growth. Renewal of any deformity required a death-spell tempered with runes of rebirth, contrary and difficult fluxes for the most gifted healer to balance; an energy binding Elaira knew better than to try while her mind was tormented to distraction.

She bit her lip, pressed by a reasonless urge to throw a glass flask just for the need to hear it shatter. The alternative was to break inside; to turn to face whoever had raised her door latch and scattered the timid songbirds. Elaira shut her lips in fierce denial, while the filigreed energies she had wrought through the course of an unspeakable morning collapsed in tangles and bled away.

She could bury herself in the pages of musty herbals and brew tisanes until she rotted away into dotage without lifting a jot of her misery. Her arcane sensitivity to water made the sea tides ring in her blood. Awareness of the spring equinox was ingrained in her being, alongside the scrying twenty-one enchantresses had undertaken on last night’s lane surge, to hunt down and locate one man.

Merciful Ath, Elaira begged silently, let the Koriani Senior Council not have found Arithon s’Ffalenn.

Her plea with fate went unanswered.

‘The Prime Enchantress requests your immediate presence,’ the intruder in the doorway announced in a clear-edged child’s treble.

No such summons would come to her if Arithon’s position was not compromised. Elaira moved, stood, acknowledged the blond pageboy who looked young for his eight years in the order’s quilted violet livery. ‘Lead me to the matriarch.’ Through a miracle, her voice came out steady.

Since the ill-starred battle at Strakewood, she had endured the years as best she could, hedged and dogged by the surety that Arithon’s anonymity could not last; not when the Koriani council had named his wild talents a latent threat to society and her knowledge was their bridge to understand him.

Elaira stepped into the corridor on the heels of the page, vexed with her superiors enough to pity his adult composure. On impulse, she said, ‘Let’s take the short cut through the service vaults.’

‘You want to?’ The child grinned around missing front teeth, then raced ahead and nipped through a dingy, arched postern.

The ancient hospice abandoned to Koriani use by the initiates of Ath’s brotherhood was an ungainly, rambling edifice, drilled like a battered honeycomb into the limestone scarps south of Forthmark. Its crumbling warren of storerooms harboured perpetual, clammy humidity, fed by damp, porous rock that seeped from the flow of underground hot springs. The spacious outer chambers used to house the sick were less oppressive, spared by the beat of clean sunlight through south-facing casements. There the pervasive must of mildew was scoured off by boy wards wielding buckets and holystones to earn their keep.

Elaira’s mood better suited the cavernous back staircases and circuitous, low-ceilinged tunnels that twined through rootcellars and storage cells. Cobwebs streamed in the draughts, glistening like shot silk in the glow of widely spaced torches. The air reeked of tallow smoke and corroded metal, and the walls wore patinas of old soot.

Elaira hurried. Her step made no noise, despite hardsoled boots and a stone floor that threw back sharp echoes. Orphan of a street whore, raised from infancy by beggars until an unlucky brush with the law had bound her into Koriani fosterage, she kept the sly habits of her childhood. Yet no matter how unobtrusively she passed, the silver-blond fairness and amethyst silk tunic of Morriel’s personal pageboy drew notice from every peer and scullion dispatched on errands to the cellars.

Ones who did not merit summons before their Prime, and who were the happier for it.

Elaira shrugged off the speculative whispers that hissed in the wake of her steps. Already marked apart for a worldly entanglement she was helpless to alter or break, she took perverse pleasure in watching the Prime’s pageboy spoil his formal grooming. Past the steam-choked laundry, where red-cheeked junior novices gossiped across their washtubs, through a chattering procession of boy wards who hauled in wood for the kitchen, Elaira’s cavorting escort was remarked. Aware to a fine point of the Prime Circle’s use for her flaws, she dared to ignore the huffy senior taking inventory, who brandished her tally slates and scolded.

In breathless vindication, Elaira grabbed the child’s hand and tugged him to refuge in a pantry. A hidden door at the back opened through the annex by the wine stores, to the boy’s smothered gasp of delight.

‘Didn’t know about this byway, did you?’ Elaira grinned, scraped cobwebs from her hair, and cupped the crystal that hung from the chain at her neck. ‘You’ll like it. The floorboards are infested with cockroaches.’ As the power she focused brightened through her hands, she said, ‘Go on. Catch a few if you want. Just don’t let me find you tweaking off any legs or wings. You can horrify your dorm mistress all you like. But if the insects take any harm from your pranks, I’ll blister your tail with a spell.’

The page stifled a whoop and fell to, dirtying the knees of his hose as he scavenged beneath an old grape press. Elaira watched his deviltry in sad silence. The male children selected as Morriel’s pages led proscribed lives, chosen tools of Koriani higher purpose. But unlike her, whose vows constrained for life service, the boys regained freedom at puberty.

She helpfully offered her handkerchief to net and secure the live contraband, then doused her spell and hustled up the timber stair with its rickety rope and tackle, originally strung to lower filled vats, before Koriani tenure had uprooted the vineyards to grow herbs.

Elaira opened the stairwell portal. Someone had smeared lard on the hinges, probably a scullion sneaking off for assignation with a milkmaid. The enchantress shut her eyes, swept by unbidden association: of long, musician’s fingers flicking dry stems of hay from her hair. Whether the tenderness in that memory had arisen from instinctive s’Ffalenn compassion, or some deeper need that touched the heart, she might never determine. Her order’s inflexible codes of conduct disbarred her from amorous pursuits. Elaira shook off forbidden thoughts, while the page reassumed his lapsed duty. He preceded her down the corridor to the columned atrium Ath’s initiates had originally used for their devotions.

Before the casements had been paned with stout glass, the chamber had been a terrace garden open to the sweep of mountain breezes. Marble toned like fine, blue-veined flesh had lain under snow through winter’s freezes. In the hot, amber days of Shandian summer, flowering vines had laddered the pillars, shedding sweet fragrance and petals. Now, the cracked stone planters were planked over as tables, or else spell-sealed as vault space to preserve rare scrolls on arcane practice. The fountains and pools were all mortared in, their scars masked under purple carpets sewn in silver with Koriani seals of ward and guard.

Older sigils carved in the walls and the roof groins channelled more potent powers still: a captured resonance of earth song, or the clear, high vibrations spiralled in sympathy with the constellations along the ecliptic. Except for a poignancy instilled by time and death that marked its brotherhood creators as mortal, the currents ran similar to the ghostly, faded harmonies left imprinted upon the land by the mysteries of the vanished Paravians.

But no past solace imparted by Ath’s initiates could bring comfort to the future. Elaira pressed leadenly forward, into sunlight and space.

Unchanged by the grand turn of centuries, a ceremonial fire burned in the squat bronze brazier set. in the chamber’s centre. Nested in the cushioned chair behind, the Prime Enchantress of the Koriani order awaited audience. She was old, emaciated as a dry stick. The scrappily withered features above her winged collar seemed fused with the porcelain bone beneath. Morriel wore her cloudy hair netted in diamond pins. The lavender and purple mantle of high office enveloped her torso like a calyx, and fine knuckles reduced like storm-stripped twigs rested loose in her lap.

‘I heard you clearly,’ she was saying, her voice the reedy scrape of dead leaves against granite. ‘Your point does not signify in this case.’

The tall, graceful Senior she addressed raised her chin. Eyes of tigerish, tawny brown flashed under the silver-wired band of a high initiate’s cowl. ‘The girl is weak and unsuited. Dare we entrust such responsibility to a vessel twice proven to be flawed?’

Morriel Prime gave a breathy scrape of laughter. ‘Are you befitted to judge?’ She folded clawed hands, then restlessly laid them separate since neither position eased their pain. ‘Take heed and look inward, First Senior. Your view could well be as muddled. For a fact, your speech is unwarrantedly careless.’

Quick instinct made Elaira break habit and allow her next footfall to grate.

First Senior Lirenda whirled at the noise. ‘You!’ A flush stained her aristocratic cheekbones, vivid above the pleated robe that yoked her trim shoulders. Her ebony hair was sleeked back in combs, no single strand out of place. ‘Given the nature of your origins, I should expect you would lurk your way here through the cellars.’

‘It’s quicker,’ Elaira provoked in the street drawl of her girlhood. Unrepentant, she hurried her curtsey of obeisance to the Prime. ‘Your will, Matriarch.’

The crone watched her arise with eyes black and colourless as rubbed glass. She did not speak, but studied, ruthlessly practised in the Koriani arts of subtle observation and analysis. Elaira bore up, the more fiercely determined since street-wise bravado could never face down Morriel’s weight of years and experience. As if her very thoughts were stamped into live flesh, the Koriani matriarch could read the question that grieved her; would measure the assault against pride, that eventually must crumple before need to ask outright for the results of last night’s scrying.

Stiff to her toes before the urge to bolt outright, strained to her limits before a truth that held infinite capacity to wound her, Elaira scarcely heard the words Lirenda used to scold the page. Powerless, now, to assume the blame for the grime on his livery, the young enchantress endured while the hidden handkerchief was discovered and shaken out, to the First Senior’s redoubled annoyance as its six-legged cargo scuttled to shelter under her skirts.

A glint too cold to be humour touched the depths of Morriel’s eyes. ‘But our scrying was unsuccessful, girl. We haven’t yet managed to discover the refuge of Rathain’s last prince.’

Elaira could not quite stifle her shuddering sigh of relief. ‘You summoned. How must I serve?’

‘Sit.’ Morriel accompanied the command with a gesture clipped short by exhausted tolerance and sore joints. ‘Coir efforts were bent awry by chance interference from the Fellowship. The timing in fact lent us insight and our order has gained in the counterplay.’

Past the edge of the carpet, First Enchantress Lirenda pulped a last fleeing insect beneath her heel. Intuitively sure the creature’s swift demise was impelled by more than harmless mischief, Elaira clasped her hands in sweating dread.

‘Show her,’ Morriel commanded.

Lirenda dismissed the chastised page. Lips compressed in capitulation that marred her air of hauteur, she stalked across the carpet. The sun at her back scythed her shadow over figured argent sigils and quenched their surface glitter as she knelt in a crisp sweep of skirts before the burning brazier.

Where Elaira’s elemental affinities predisposed her to conjure through water, Lirenda used fire for alignment. At one with the will of her Prime, she closed her eyes and settled into a light trance.

As the matriarch’s successor in training, her powers were impressively tempered. Grazed by a thrum of current across her nerves, Elaira struggled to quell her apprehension. Too soon, the red gold blaze of the embers changed character, became charged to cold blue that threw neither light nor warmth. Across the fire’s altered energy, ethereal at first as the spell-thread stitched into the rugs, a pattern formed, fused, and blazed into a fixed configuration. Revealed in clear focus through Lirenda’s consciousness, Elaira viewed a mesh of visionary artistry, then ironies complex enough to storm through will and reflex, and arrest her heart between beats. She recognized the strand pattern analogue of Arithon s’Ffalenn’s living aura, exposed in the fullness of Fellowship perception.

She gasped. In uncompromising lines, the man’s hidden self lay mapped out in a nuance that damned. As never before, she saw how vision and compassion, power and sensitivity, strength and pity lay paired beyond compatibility. Morriel’s fear was real, that the added burden of Desh-thiere’s curse might anneal the whole into a laceration of spirit with tragic potential to seed madness.

Since the order’s responsibility had never condoned power with any latent bent toward destruction, the Prime would act before threat became reality. Elaira’s rooted faith, that the Master of Shadow was resilient enough to retain his grip on self-command, became exposed as baseless conviction, too likely the blind offshoot of personal feelings held against the wisdom of her seniors.

‘Dharkaron Avenger!’ Elaira blinked through a rising well of tears. ‘How could any man support such a tangle for more than a natural lifespan? Or am I mistaken? Isn’t that arc and counter-seal an imposed pattern for longevity?’

‘Your insight runs true.’ Morriel snapped dry fingers, signal for Lirenda to relax her discipline. The development caught us off-guard, but shouldn’t have. Both Lysaer and Arithon came to this land by way of the Red Desert’s World Gate. Our natural assumption should have followed, that they drank from the Five Centuries Fountain and succumbed to Davien’s geas.’

That’s why you’ve summoned me,’ Elaira said, relieved as the pattern’s cruel quandary erased at last from the embers.

She blotted streaming cheeks on her sleeve, and so missed Lirenda’s transition from trance to waking consciousness. A jealous, unguarded expression crossed the First Senior’s face, and a glare like distilled venom drilled through the younger woman’s back.

The Prime watched with hooded eyes as her chosen successor masked the lapse. Grim as steel, she held to her purpose. ‘You were called to serve, initiate Elaira. Since we now know the conflict seeded by the Mistwraith will afflict more than one generation, you are asked to submit your crystal for enhancement. You won’t be forced. Consider carefully. The fate of outliving your peers is not always happy or desirable.’

Lirenda maintained an elegant, stiff silence. Only the hands pinched in fists beneath her sleeves expressed her depths of resentment, that a privilege reserved for proven seniors was being offered to a girl who flaunted propriety.

Rough-edged as a hoyden by comparison, Elaira confronted the emaciated crone in her bulwark of robes and the ice-point shimmer of her diamonds. Morriel’s life had extended well past a thousand years; centuries reckoned for in joints worn eggshell thin, and flesh racked and drawn to a husk of brittle fibres by powerful spells of preservation. Unlike the Fellowship of Seven, whose direct grasp of grand conjury could engender lengthened life in concert with physical law, Koriani methods were limited to energy resonance enhanced by a power crystal’s lattice.

There is pain, at first,’ Morriel continued, ‘but only until the body reaches primary equilibrium with the stay-spells. After the first six months, degenerative ageing is reversed until well past seven hundred years. Since Davien’s mark holds influence for only five centuries, you need not live on to endure the afflictions of secondary interference.’

Surrounded by the chipped majesty of the initiates’ ancient carvings, never so aware of the fall of clear sunlight, or the chirp of nesting martens in the cornices outside, Elaira hugged her arms across her breast. The warning of her Prime and the antipathy behind Lirenda’s cool façade lost all impact before trepidation from another source.

Once in dusk by the seaside, a Fellowship sorcerer had offered her counsel in secret. ‘I was sent to you,’ Traithe had said, ‘because an augury showed the Warden of Althain that, for good or ill, you’re the one spirit alive in this world who will come to know Arithon best. Should your Master of Shadow fail you, or you fail him, the outcome will call down disaster.’

There was no decision to be made, Elaira understood in bitter calm; and so her voice did not shake as she said, ‘I accept the bidding of my Prime.’

Silk rustled. A breath of eddied lavender twined on the air as Morriel inclined her head. ‘So be it. Surrender your jewel for attunement.’ A wrist like bundled withies lifted from her lap, its claw-skinny hand cupped to grasp.

Elaira freed a clear quartz pendant strung on braided chain like a teardrop frozen in mid-fall. Small-boned and light-footed and trained to dissemble as a pickpocket, she displayed a courage that embarrassed as the jewel changed grasp. A charged understanding passed between the crone and the young woman who consented to a fate that might ruin her.

Then Elaira’s lips bent into an insolent smile. ‘I wish this course of change, as well.’

‘The more fool you,’ snapped the Prime. ‘You have virtues, but wisdom isn’t one of them.’ She snatched the relinquished chain and jewel to her chest and said in querulous, point blank demand, ‘Tell me. Where do you suppose the Shadow Master is hiding?’

Shocked and stonily defensive, Elaira had no choice but to answer. ‘Where is Lysaer?’

Lirenda bridled in affront.

But Morriel judged the query was not impertinence. ‘Tysan’s prince is marching for Erdane to claim his right to Avenor’s charter.’

Elaira’s stillness turned brittle. In that same forbidden meeting, Traithe had assured her that obedience to her Prime would cause no additional threat to Arithon. Against her deepest inclination, but bound by the perilous nature of her Koriani vows, she answered, ‘Then look for the Shadow Master in any town that borders the eastern sea. He’ll be found, I should guess, as far from Avenor as the confines of dry land will allow.’

‘A sensible deduction. At solstice, we shall scry the seventh lane and test the truth of your theory.’ Worn from the interview, Morriel flicked a terse finger in dismissal.

‘You too,’ the Prime rapped to Lirenda, who lingered, poised to argue further over Elaira’s longevity privileges. Distressed by an emerging flaw in her First Senior’s character no longer too slight to ignore, Morriel tugged her robes around the thin knobs of her knees. I would meditate for an hour undisturbed.’

Lirenda curtseyed and swept out on Elaira’s heels, the swish of her silk sending draughts shimmering across the brazier’s live coals.

Alone with disgruntled thoughts, the Koriani Prime tightened pallid lips. She lacked the time to wait for a more qualified heir; if the current First Senior had flaws needing discipline, she possessed an extraordinary talent. In truth, Morriel conceded, the temptation in this case was not slight. Stamped bright in recall, she held every angle and line and counter-swept curve that configured the s’Ffalenn prince’s aura pattern.

The strength in the man was frightening.

Were she not old, and aching, and daily yearning the release of natural death, she might have wept as Elaira had.

Instead her frail fingers clenched over the spell crystal surrendered to her in forced trust. Her eyes gleamed baleful as arctic night as she muttered, ‘Curse you, son of s’Ffalenn.’

If by his mere existence Arithon of Rathain came to corrupt more than Elaira’s impulsive heart; if his character upset the discipline of the First Senior chosen to be groomed as prime successor, Morriel vowed by the cold fire in her joints that she would see him suffer in full measure for her misery.

Should Lirenda fall short in her training, should she fail to survive the trials of Koriani primacy, the added century Morriel must cling to breathing life to select and mould another candidate yawned frightfully cruel and dark.

Farings

While the trees unfold lush canopies of leaves, Lysaer s’Ilessid makes his penniless entrance into the city of Erdane; and as the city’s reigning mayor jettisons fixed policy to host a guest of royal birth, Lord Diegan is the sole party unsurprised to learn that although the weaponless mercenaries in the prince’s train have gone three weeks without pay, their loyalty remains Unshaken…

In the burgeoning warmth of southern latitude, a hand-picked circle of Koriani Seniors leaves Forthmark on an overland journey; by command of Morriel Prime, who rides with them swathed under quilts in her palanquin, their intent bends toward the solstice yet to come, when another scrying will seek yet again to unmask the elusive Master of Shadow …

Seated in the heart of Alestron’s inner citadel, the Fellowship sorcerer Asandir weighs the claim of the duke’s distraught seneschal, that the lord of the city and his brothers are absent to arrange a betrothal; and though a sweep of the grounds reveals no trace of foundries, nor proscribed treatises on black powder, the official is hedging around the hard fact that the armoury walls bear recent traces of an earth witch’s marks of concealment…

V. MASQUE

The door to Halliron’s attic chamber slammed with a gusto that rattled frame and hinges, but failed to disrupt the dancing play of arpeggios through an exercise in descending sevenths. The notes a seamless cascade beneath his fingers, Medlir raised his eyebrows at Dakar, tempestuously returned from the public baths with his nose buffed apple red. His clothing still hung half-unlaced, his hair was a wet, draggled fringe, and a virulent reek of attar of roses trailed from the bristles of his beard.

‘I didn’t know we’d given you coin for perfume,’ Medlir said.

Peevish for being limited to an allowance too small to keep himself drunk, Dakar shoved aside a bundle of Halliron’s correspondence and flopped onto a hassock. Since his liberty relied on the personal bond of the Masterbard, he managed a civil reply. “The stink’s a kissing present from a doxy.’

‘Ah.’ The scale chords never faltered in their falling, melodic progression. ‘You’ve brought new gossip?’

Dakar fiddled to extricate his shirt cuffs, wadded inside the ribboned sleeve of an orange and green doublet he had scavenged from some backstreet used-clothing stall. ‘Well the city alderman’s wife’s giddy with another affair. Dull news, really, since she throws out a lover every month.’ Defeated by a knotted lacing, the Mad Prophet resumed. ‘Better, you know that fat-assed proprietress at Madame Havrita’s? Well, she got herself a bloody eye. Caught the brunt of a scratching battle after insulting that spinster dressmaker on Threadneedle Street. Both claim their shop’s more overworked than their rival’s, and each one insists their designs will set the fashion for the ladies at the solstice feast.’

The door latch clicked. Dakar swivelled in time to catch the arrival of Halliron Masterbard, back from a shopping excursion with a packet tucked through one elbow. ‘You know,’ the Mad Prophet volunteered through the trill of Medlir’s practice, ‘this fete the mayor’s brewing around your appearance is causing cat-fights in the ladies’ parlours.’

‘They can choke on their ribbons and pearls,’ Halliron grumbled uncharitably.

Critical of Medlir’s touch on the lyranthe strings, he tipped his head. Even his exacting ear could not be other than satisfied. The months cooped up in the inn’s cramped garret had set the finishing edge on Medlir’s style. Drawn in by the liquid transition of sevenths to fifths, the Masterbard felt a shiver thrill through him. He had always suspected his chosen successor might be gifted enough to outmatch him. But actually to hear the notes of repetitive practice raised to a lyric emotion his best technique could not equal stirred him to speechless delight. All he had left to desire in the world was reunion with his estranged wife and daughter.

Seven days remained until solstice. Then at last he would be free to resume his stalled journey to Shand.

‘Look,’ groused Dakar. ‘If it’s sausage I smell in that package, are we going to eat? Leave meals to you, and we’d die of starvation to arpeggios in all eight keys.’

Dragged back to mundane matters, Halliron wended a path through the garret’s clutter of tin whistles, spools of silver wire and little clamps used to wind lyranthe strings, the faded scrolls Medlir bought from the salvager’s bins, and dog-eared leaves of rice paper with their scribbled variations of old ballads. He elbowed aside an awl and an ink-pot, and dropped his package on the table-top, nailed together from scrap boards on the day the tea upset once too often. The inn’s original rickety trestle had ended up feeding the hearth fire. If his apprentice’s hand at joinery showed a style more suited to a ship’s deck, the result at least was stable. Nothing spilled or fell off through Dakar’s vociferous pounce to be first to lay hand on the food.

Halliron settled on the hassock left vacant and gave the musician’s labours their due. ‘You aren’t needing my instruction any longer.’

Medlir rounded off a last arpeggio and deftly damped the strings. ‘I’m not yet willing to do without it.’ His look held more than humour as he added, ‘There’s one ballad left you haven’t taught me.’

‘You guessed that?’ Halliron bent his attention to stretching his fingers to keep them supple. ‘What a pity Jaelot’s mayor won’t have you play in my stead.’ He flicked his apprentice a piercing glance, then shrugged. Even on the edge of summer, stiff breeze off the bay made the streets salt-damp and chilly; the climate went ill with his joints. ‘What’s the rumour in the barracks?’

Leather scraped a plaintive whine from tensioned strings as Medlir slipped wrappings over the priceless instrument. ‘A scandal’s afoot over coin for the soldiers’ pay.’

‘No!’ Halliron slapped his knees in evil pleasure and whistled a fragmented melody. ‘Don’t say! The town bursar’s an embezzler?’

‘Better.’ Medlir set the lyranthe safely down in a corner and grinned. ‘Word goes he’s sold his sister-in-law’s ruby bracelets to hire a herb witch to hide how taxes from the town treasury found their way into the coffers of Gadsley’s pleasure house.’

‘The one that peddles little boys? That’s rich.’ Halliron spun around in time to snatch a slice of bread away from Dakar. ‘I heard the mayor’s shrew of a wife intends a surprise announcement. Her feast’s to have a festival theme. The page who serves her table told me she intends to cut out any couple who can’t afford to buy a mask.’

Medlir’s eyes lit. ‘Dakar! There’s a secret you can leak to your doxy. How awkward, if the back-quarter courtesans had the hat shops engaged, and respectable ladies had to settle for second shrift.’

‘Maybe Havrita’s other eye will get scratched,’ the Mad Prophet said through a cheek crammed with sausage. He tore off another chunk of bread, quiet as Medlir joined him at the table and exchanged easy banter with the Masterbard. As long and as hard as Dakar listened, he had yet to trace any regional accent in the younger man’s speech. Although a musician with a well-trained ear might be adept enough to change his intonation, the fact that Medlir’s relaxed moments betrayed no distinguishing trait preyed on Dakar’s nerves. Almost as much as the oddity that, throughout an entire year, even since provoking a plague of fiends thick enough to draw reprimand from Althain, Asandir had yet to pursue him. Despite blatant disregard of orders to seek out and protect the Shadow Master, no Fellowship sorcerer had appeared to call down his misconduct.

Drunk, Dakar wouldn’t have troubled to lay one question alongside of the other; sober, he mentally thrashed himself to cold sweats in paranoia the anomalies might be connected. How demeaning, if Arithon s’Ffalenn turned out to be holed up in Shand, with himself all unwittingly being drawn there.

With the eve of summer solstice just five days away, preparations for the mayor’s masked feast reached a hysterical pitch. Artisans laboured and swore over tubs of wet plaster, mixed to make moulded figurines, while the gilder’s apprentices lined up to adorn them perched idle on their paint pots and called jibes. The confectioners’ shops were plunged into frenzy, and the thoroughfare through the southern gate was jammed into turmoil by the entrance of yet another mule train bearing cut flowers and myrtle. Footmen wore out boot soles delivering invitations; or else they stole kisses from the serving girls as they carried up parcels of ribbons, or jewellery ordered new for the occasion. Lamps burned in the dressmakers’ all night, as women changed their fancy or their shape. The mayor’s oldest daughter lost herself to excitement and ate enough comfits to spoil her waistline.

Havrita snatched at opportunity like a barracuda and won the commission to sew her new ball-gowns. ‘A lot of teeth gnashing on Threadneedle Street,’ Dakar reported, back from an assignation with a shop girl. ‘But no more bloodied eyes.’

Between the Mad Prophet’s excursions from baths to brothels, and Medlir’s acquaintances among the city guard, all rumours reached the attic, where Halliron spent increasing hours closeted in private with his lyranthe. He was disturbed just once, by two liveried footmen, who knocked with a small trunk of clothing furnished by the mayor for use on the night of the feast.

All but trampled by the pair’s flying haste to depart, Medlir stepped into the garret to find the Masterbard cursing in unmatched couplets, his rare and red-faced fervour focused to a frightening bent of rage.

When the old man’s tantrum at last succumbed to breathlessness, Medlir caught his wrists and sat him down. ‘Care to say what’s happened?’

Halliron shot back up the instant his apprentice loosed his grip. Pacing, distraught, his collar laces swinging undone and the hair at his temples hooked to snarls by the rake of his vehement fingers, he gestured toward the window that faced the inn’s muddy courtyard. ‘Never have I stayed to play for a man who insults me not once, but repeatedly!’

Medlir set his shoulders against the door post to keep from stepping back as the topaz eyes swivelled toward him, wide and snapping with fury. Quiet, he folded his arms.

‘Well, the nerve of Jaelot’s mayor, to dare to suggest what I should wear in the presence of his ridiculous wife!’ Halliron whirled, kicked the low cot to an explosion of dust from the ticking, and staggered a hopping half-step to end bent double in a sneeze. The paroxysm effectively sobered him. He regarded his knotted fists, and the wry twist to his lips unravelled in a burst of sudden laughter. ‘Dharkaron have mercy! Could you see me wearing some dandy’s tight-assed hose? In pink, no less, against a doublet with chartreuse shoulder ruffles?’

Medlir choked back a smile. ‘Imagination fails me. Did his lordship send a mask as well?’

‘Ath. A lamb’s head. You can picture that!’ The Masterbard collapsed on his mattress, loose-limbed as a puppet whose midriff had suddenly lost its stuffing. ‘I’ll be deliriously happy to be quit of this town.’

Far from disarmed by the subject change, Medlir clicked the door shut with his heel. ‘You didn’t say what Jaelot’s mayor sent for me to wear.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Halliron cracked back in caustic, protective sharpness. ‘You at least will stay out of this.’

‘Well, there we disagree.’ The flexible humour Dakar could never shake disappeared. Suddenly more killer than singer, his stance radiating leashed force, the man in the doorway shook out his right sleeve and used his teeth to yank more tension in his cuff ties. ‘I’m going. Don’t pretend you won’t need me.’

The Masterbard locked eyes with the musician he had apprenticed, and the whetted determination he encountered threw him back six years to the memory of a prince’s oath swearing in a woodland dell. ‘I’m no match for Torbrand’s temper,’ he said quickly. ‘But if you make this your duty, and harm comes to you, I’ll go to my grave without forgiveness.’

‘Oh Ath,’ Medlir said on a queer note of change. ‘If you’re worried only for me, then surely there’s hope left for both of us.’

The sunset on summer solstice blazed over a city fragrant with fresh-split birch and cut flowers. Long since finished with his dressing, Halliron leaned on the sill of the opened casement, kneading the joints of his fingers. ‘Sithaer take it, we have a visitor.’

Caught while threading his points, Medlir said sharply, ‘Another servant of the mayor’s? After today, I wouldn’t expect such a one would dare to show his face here.’

‘You still believe there’s a man in this town who was born with any sense of shame?’ At the thump of footsteps on the landing, Halliron wrenched the door open in the face of the startled arrival and demanded, ‘Where’s Dakar? Or is it true that armed guardsmen snatched him off the streets in the middle of Beckburn market?’

The mayor’s footman tugged down his waistcoat, ridden up over the dome of his belly in his puffing ascent of the stairs. Taken aback by the tall elder in his black silk doublet, he fell back a step and ventured, ‘You speak of the mayor’s prisoner?’

‘I speak of a man who carries my personal word as bond on his civil behaviour.’ Halliron did not look aside as Medlir snatched his belt and stepped to his shoulder to back him.

The footman cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

‘But you do know where Dakar is,’ Medlir cut in. ‘Stop hedging.’

Dusk had fallen. Uncertain light from the chamber’s single candle played into the gloom of the hall and raised hard sparkles from the trim on Halliron’s dress clothes. A dimmer gleam of sweat sheened the footman’s pink forehead as he fluttered his hands in ruffled cuffs. ‘Well, I’m not to blame,’ he began, then flinched back, though no one moved forward to threaten him. ‘Your prophet’s set in chains in the banquet hall. My Lord Mayor decreed his fetters shall be struck only after the Masterbard has delivered his promised performance.’

From the street three storeys below, a carriage rumbled by, the harness bells on the team a sweet trill behind a woman’s airy laughter. A dog barked, and a scullion banged the door to the midden as life in the precinct of the innyard ran its indifferent course: in contrast, confined, unspeaking tension gripped the close little garret.

Then Halliron spun on his heel to a near soundless whisper of rich silk. None of his temper showed, nor did his words reflect rancour as he said in terse quiet to his apprentice, ‘Ath forgive me, you were right. In every sense, I will need you.’’

Unobtrusive in his tunic of dove-grey linen, Medlir had no words. The silver-tipped laces of his shirt sleeves tapped and chimed as he hooked the last studs on his bootcuffs. He fetched his master’s wrapped lyranthe from its corner peg behind the bed, and wondered in silent and venomous fury whether any other ruler in Athera’s history had grossly flaunted such ignorance, to repudiate a masterbard’s given word before his very face.

‘Come on now.’ The footman edged toward the stairwell. ‘My Lord Mayor has a carriage ready outside to collect you.’

Another insult: by ancient custom, a masterbard came and went at no man’s pleasure. Halliron said stiffly, ‘Tell your mayor I would break all my fingers before I accepted the ride.’

The brass buttons on the footman’s waistcoat flashed to his protesting breath. ‘But -’

‘The weather is fine. We will walk.’ Anchored against rage by the guiding touch of Medlir’s hand on his shoulder, the Masterbard of Athera swept the mayor’s cringing servant aside.

He left behind a garret picked clean of belongings and a paid up account with the landlord. The pony cart also waited, packed to roll at a moment’s notice, in the post stable nearest to the gate.

‘Dawn,’ Medlir murmured. ‘It can’t come soon enough.’

Master and apprentice reached the base of the stairs and by unspoken agreement turned down the service corridor that let into the alley beyond the kitchen. Behind, the tavern bulked massive and dark, its high, gabled roofline like folded black paper against a sky pricked with midsummer stars. The sea breeze reeked of salt and the fish offal spread to dry for fertilizer. Birch smoke drifted from the festival fires alight in the markets by Dagrien Court. The thready, wild notes of a fiddle spun through the dark, clipped by the slap of harness leather and the grinding turn of wheels as the mayor’s carriage team was shaken up and reined around to leave the stableyard, its conveyance empty of passengers.

Halliron set a brisk pace. The palace lay in the fashionable quarter across from the council hall, a distance made difficult by crooked streets and cobblestone byways that rose and fell with the terrain, or zigzagged unexpectedly into staircases cut into the ribs of the headland. After six months, Medlir knew every shortcut; given the gifts of his mastery, darkness held no impediment.

Tempered back to reason by the anonymity of the night, Halliron gave a rueful sigh. ‘I should have worried more about footpads.’

‘Why? Because of your jewels and gold chains?’ Medlir grinned and turned his shoulder to guard the wrapped bulk of the lyranthe as he passed through a narrow archway. ‘Take a closer look at yourself, my friend.’

The Masterbard glanced down, rocked by a start to see his glittering court finery masked to featureless black. ‘Ath! Your shadows? I should have guessed.’

‘Pray the thieves won’t,’ Medlir said. ‘There’s little risk to use my power here. No one knows my reputation well enough to send an informer to Etarra. And anyway, if you’d set foot in that carriage, I would have broken the mayor’s head. I still might. Do your joints hurt?’

‘Not so much.’ Halliron glanced at the prosperous tall-fronted houses limned in the bronze glow of torches. A high-wheeled phaeton rattled by, driven by a dandy bedecked in peacock plumes. ‘Where are we?’

‘Spicer’s Row,’ Medlir said around a small cough. The last female to share the phaeton’s upholstery had bequeathed enough perfume to shed a cloud of patchouli in the wake of the vehicle’s passage. ‘But never mind if you can’t smell the cinnamon. Turn here.’

They crossed a formal courtyard, where Medlir out of mischief flushed an amorous tom cat from yowling serenade beneath a rose bush. A shutter cracked open overhead, and a toothless matron emerged, shouting invective.

Laughing as he ducked through an arbour of flowering vines, Medlir unlatched a side gate that let into the gutter behind the court house. ‘Mind the horse piss.’

‘Or not,’ Halliron commented. ‘If I stink enough to turn heads, do you guess the mayor’s wife would throw me out?’

‘She’d doubtless roast Dakar for the lapse, then sidestep sensibility by giving you a replacement pair of shoes, fancy ones with satin ruffles.’ Medlir offered an arm to steady his master across the puddle. Through his thin sleeve, the old man trembled shockingly. ‘It’s not much further. We can cut through the guards’ barracks.’

‘That’s not necessary.’ Halliron squared trim shoulders. ‘I need the walk to cool my temper.’

Companionably silent, the pair passed sights grown unwontedly familiar through the course of their enforced stay in Jaelot: the scarred stalls of the butcher’s sheds, and fishmonger’s baskets stacked like nested eggs in the starlit gloom of the alley. Halliron broke step to fling silver into a beggar’s bowl. The mournful, deep bells in the guard tower chimed the hour, rousting up a flapping flock of pigeons. The birds wheeled above the city’s muddled skyline, smudged into soot from coal fires lit to cut the sea damp.

‘It’s hard to believe this place was once the site of Paravian mysteries,’ Halliron commented over the clop of horses and the grind of gilt-striped carriage wheels. Foot traffic crowded the road, couples cloaked and masked and laughing as they hurried to dance at the festival fires in light-hearted contrast with hawkers trudging homeward with handcarts of unsold pastries. ‘The sixth lane resonance once channelled through this headland. At solstice, you’d think I’d feel the pulse of the earth’s song through my very boots. Everywhere else the unicorns danced, at least a ghost echo lingers.’

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