Stormed Fortress (62 page)

Late Autumn 5671

Threads

Far westward, the merchant brig
Evenstar
sets sail from Telmandir, laden down with grain, flour, dry beans, and salt meat; the fine linen, rare herbals, and tinctures for healing; and the barrels of raw spirits granted as relief by the High King of Havish, and bound for Alestron
'
s besieged defenders . . .

Days later, ahead of the next autumn storm building off the Cildein coast, the war fleet under Parrien s
'
Brydion and Vhandon
'
s armed company leaves the haven behind Lugger
'
s Islet, this time using prize hulls to mask their planned raid on Alestron
'
s entrenched enemies . . .

While Sulfin Evend lathers horseflesh on his errand to
T
irans, and Lysaer tosses in the restless dreams influenced by Koriathain, a water-drop falls within a sealed chamber, under the Mathorn Mountains: its downward course is uninterrupted, while the brooding form of an eagle looks on, the splash races ring-ripples across the black well of a virgin spring . . .

Late Autumn-Early Winter 5671

X. Hammer and Anvil

Through the fortnight that followed Duke Bransian
'
s act of misrule, and redress to the Crown of Rathain, the citizens of Alestron waited, suspended between Lysaer
'
s standing war host and the poised sword of unwritten destiny. Tension sang on the air. Each dawn arrived like an unplucked note that burned the heart with pent silence. The sentries remained vigilant on the walls. Grim officers doled out the dwindling rations, while the hollow-eyed clerks maintained the tallies that marked the slow plunge towards starvation.

The season turned. Relentless, the shortening days brought a winter that held no relief. The citadel
'
s routine ground onwards, unchanged, despite the shame suppressed in the furore that brought them the Master of Shadow.

Man, woman, and child, Alestron
'
s people awaited Prince Arithon
'
s promised response.

He gave them no act of saving conjury. No grand plan to counteract the ongoing siege. No word, no sign, and no encouraging gesture salved their unalloyed worry. The ringing declaration of assistance wore thin, with the first creeping whispers abroad that Rathain
'
s prince had misled with a falsehood.

Beneath day-to-day drills, and through the wailing of displaced families, the frustrated urge to disrupt the cold stalemate built into devouring need. Mage-sense unveiled far more: in the glassine bubble of rage, as the Koriani Prime spun her provocative nightmares to force Lysaer
'
s cursed explosion; in the seething of enemy troops on shorn hills, by manic turns sick and craving for home, then the visceral thrill of a violent engagement

If Elaira stayed immersed in her calling as healer, and Dakar found numbness through sleep, no such outlet was open to Arithon. The fanatical pitch of deluded belief that shackled his half-brother
'
s following bled into the flux and inflamed his rogue foresight. Let down his barriers, he could see too far: the posited future of each misled spirit could sweep him to abject despair. His words could not sway them, or shift their blinded fate. Understanding could not grant him heart
'
s ease. Branded by doctrine as minion of evil, and maligned for his own warped campaigns from the past, Arithon could do nothing for folk whose fears demanded a simplistic world, punch-cut into darkness or light.

Truth gave him no solace. The short-sighted concept of fair-weather day never
could
rule supreme, without night, and not parch the green earth, or freeze the timeless, dynamic creation that birthed wholeness through the unseen play of the mysteries.

With nowhere to turn, Arithon sought for the deeper balance within Paravian masonry. Hour upon hour, with Sidir at his back, and Kyrialt guarding the guest-quarters, he sat wrapped against the blustering cold, listening in depth to the chiselled blocks first laid to defend against drakefire. On the high battlement, Rathain
'
s prince harkened by starlight. He tuned his ear to frequencies unknown to men, while the quarter moon sailed bright as shaved silver above. In those still moments, carved in light and black shadow, the rainbow colours that lay hidden between seemed to slummer, scarcely veiled from his questing senses. Sound whispered. The mighty chord that underpinned the great stones
'
aware fastenings eluded his straining cognizance. Arithon heard with a master-bard
'
s ear what might never be placed into melody.

Immersed as he was, he paid little heed to the tramp of Bransian
'
s sentries. They skirted his position, all noise and bluster, or else mincing with unsettled nerves. The careless who trod inadvertently close were warned off by Sidir, whose stripping glance had grown more formidable since his arcane healing. Even the least sensitive soldier must acknowledge his uncompromised character, which had drawn steel to the death without hesitation for his sworn loyalty.

Arithon mapped the cap-stones of the crenels, then moved on to the massive rock that buttressed the fortress foundations. Nothing disrupted his methodical care: not the blistering prod of Fionn Areth
'
s sharp words, or Sevrand
'
s impatience, which arrived in a huff and demanded action.

More blunt than the grass-lander, or the armed sentries, the testy heir to the ducal seat was not deferred by the forest-bred liegeman. Brash and dangerous, Sevrand bore in, imposing in chainmail and broadsword.
'
Ath above, prince! When in Sithaer will you snap out of your mooning and move to uphold our defence?
'

Since Arithon chose not to answer, Sidir bristled.
'
My liege will respond when he
'
s ready!
'

'
Hah!
'
Sevrand snorted.
'
More likely he
'
ll continue to squat like a gargoyle till he sprouts lichens on our south wall.
'
Eyes narrowed, he regarded the prince
'
s tucked form.
'
Such lack of courage would rival the blooms on a ditch-growing daisy.
'

Unlike Erlien s
'
Taleyn, this hulking young man had no cause to respect the murderous agility masked behind delicate fingers: which, right now, stayed folded in infuriating calm over the Teir
'
s
'
Ffalenn
'
s drawn-up knees. No guess might fathom such obtuse behaviour. Strained silence offered no answer. The s
'
Brydion heir grew bored soon enough, poking at an unspeaking target. To Sidir
'
s cool relief, Sevrand stamped off to vent his hot energy sparring.

Naught else could be done but endure the long days. Under full sunlight, or exposed to the wind that moaned in north gusts through the battlements, Arithon crouched with his ear to chill stone, immersed in the depths of tranced calm. At intervals, cued perhaps by his mage-sense, he spoke: asked delicate questions in the lilted cadence of ancient Paravian. Such moments, his tone held a longing and hope fit to challenge the gates of despair. His stretched pauses extended, as though he expected an answer that came, but never quite reached completion.

Outspoken gossip soon claimed he was mad as a dog
'
s midnight howling, or else foolish as the wool-gathering dreamer. Arithon disregarded such comments. He eschewed the tedium of explaining himself; gave no word in defence, even to the mothers who brought gaunt, tearful children, or the harrowed fathers who begged for encouragement. The gift of s
'
Ahelas far-sight was his, crossed with the forevision of s
'
Dieneval: no biddable talent, to stay within bounds, or observe the niceties of convenience. Still raw with that wakening, Arithon traced his way with cold patience. He sought the mystical wardings laced into the stonework, made respectful by the unforgiving awareness that what he encountered might not be controlled.

When his faculties tired, he would rise, hollow-eyed, and slip through the back lanes. Often masked under shadow, he might eat in a public tavern, unnoticed while in plain sight. Except that Sidir
'
s tacit presence never left his unarmed shoulder; no matter how polite the approach, or how eloquent the appeal, the clansman backed his liege
'
s odd choice to stay distanced from the distraught populace.

Arithon found his surcease in the guest tower, snugged in the loft chamber, and the scents of the herbals wafted upstairs from the still-room. His enchantress embraced his fraught presence then, and gentled his reserve with humour. Many an evening he played his lyranthe, a furious cascade of wild harmony and fugue, while she mixed her tinctures and remedies. Often as not, his cathartic melody was pitched to increase their efficacy. As though all the agony ignored in the streets could be salved by the balm set into a sick infant
'
s cough syrup.

'
Beloved, you have not asked,
'
he said once, in late evening when the fire burned low, and the quiet wrapped like fine velvet about them.

Elaira raised her eyes to meet his. A smile turned her lips, almost laughter, despite the harsh tide of public opinion caused by his relentless discipline.
'
You haven
'
t been badgered to mincemeat by everyone else
'
s impatience? You know that Jeynsa kicked Fionn Areth out on his arse for daring the presumption, that Paravian wardings are biddable?
'

Arithon sighed. He laid aside his exquisite instrument, arose, and tucked a strayed wisp back into the ribbon that fastened her braid.
'
No one
'
s answered that riddle. If a key exists, I
'
m determined to find it.
'

'
Or not.
'
Elaira returned his needful embrace. While the fragrances of honey and cinnamon met his swift, inhaled breath, she laced her hands at the base of his neck. The muscle was rock-hard with tension.
'
You
'
ve taken too much weight on your shoulders. You can
'
t spare everyone
'
s threatened life with only your two mortal hands.
'

'
Could I stop trying?
'
he asked.
'
Who would I be, then?
'
Green eyes wide open, he savoured her face. Each candle-lit detail became more exquisite with the delight of his familiarity.

'
My own love,
'
she chaffed.
'
You are freezing! Didn
'
t you notice?
'

'
I had.
'
He gathered her up, herb-stained skirts and mussed braid and soft laughter. She held him close as he bore her to bed, chilled, and half-unspun from the depth of his seeking. Aware that such cherished nights must stay numbered until the Prime
'
s plotting was thwarted, Elaira gave without stint. Morning came, always, too quickly. She let him go, open-handed, and smothered her grief for each moment that his restless quest commanded his absence.

Small things became gifts: given Sidir
'
s bold lead, Kyrialt accepted the enchantress as royal mate under his oath of crown service. That grace lent the strength to match Glendien
'
s saucy flirting with dignified tolerance. If not ties of friendship, Elaira could teach her the principles behind the ways Ath
'
s adepts mixed their simples. The young woman often accompanied her efforts to ease the suffering populace. Willing enough to dirty her hands, Glendien helped treat the chilblains in the garrison, as well as the coughs and the elders
'
sore joints and complaints. If her wildness sometimes strained Elaira
'
s schooled patience, or her passionate jabs incessantly sought to tease Arithon
'
s masculine instincts, no provocation she could devise shifted anyone
'
s inner composure.

Doggedly set, the Prince of Rathain pursued the old wisdom imbued in the citadel and never once broached the inevitable sacrifice: that Jeynsa
'
s deliverance must come at the cost of the protected love shared with Elaira.

'
We will find this, again,
'
he avowed in the dark, while the black sword murmured star song around them. He cupped her face. Kissed her lips with a tenderness fit to sear spirit and flesh incandescent.
'
Whatever comes, know that I live and breathe for the day that no obstacle stands between us.
'

Immersed deeply enough to track his intent, etched into the light of his being, Elaira sensed the reach of his focus. His defiant promise was a blind claim, with the future uncertain before them. Torbrand
'
s descendant:
he would brook no half-measures.
Though the twined glory they had nearly experienced in Halwythwood could only be glimpsed, through the citadel
'
s warding, his vow affirmed that commitment. As clear in his heart was the love in the choice that had claimed his blood oath at Athir: the imperative drive to uphold the mysteries sustaining Paravian survival. He had come too far to abandon that charge, which
also
demanded her place at his side, in the ecstasy of freed union.

'
For this, we exist,
'
she agreed, melted into his living embrace. She let the musician
'
s hands, that fore-promised the brightening hope of the world, uplift her, cherished and close.
'
I will be there for you, whatever the trial demanded to secure our freedom.
'