Traitor's Knot (16 page)

If the after-effects of the equinox grand confluence had enriched the fields in the east, other developments sprung from the event had whipped up a storm of fresh discord. Aware that whole buildings and walls were left torn to havoc by the cresting of harmonic lane force, Arithon received Davien's updated views: of skilled masons raising new fortifications and founding temples pledged to the Light. On the hazy north plains, under brass sun, the summer's recruits sweated in training. He saw old talent burn. A fresh wave of acolytes flocked to serve Lysaer's cause, both as oracles and itinerant priests.

All this, in the east, fell under the masterful sway of the advisor installed to rule Lysaer's interests at Etarra.

‘Raiett Raven is no friend to the clans,' Arithon commented, after a poignant, stiff silence. He sat, peg in hand, and one foot set in a looped wire, keeping tension, while his deft twist of the wrist wound a new lyranthe string. The day had finally come. His host had just granted him use of an instrument to try the altered well-spring that sourced his masterbard's talent.

‘A wise distinction,' Davien allowed. Poised under candle-flame, he stood with arms folded over a brushed leather jerkin. His boots showed spoiling traces of mud, and one sleeve wore a scatter of burdock. ‘You've suspected the man's not Lysaer's panting lackey?'

Arithon looked up and unhooked the scored wood of his winding peg. ‘That one's eyes are too clever. He'd have noticed my actions haven't matched the ideological agenda. I wonder what actually drives him?'

Davien did not answer.

‘No.' Arithon coiled his shining, wrapped wire, then reached for the spool on the table. ‘I'm not interested in taking an excursion outside to find out.'

The Sorcerer laughed, short and sharp. ‘Wait too long, you'll be fielding a holy war.'

‘With no cause to be found?' Arithon measured out six spans in length, used a knife, and nipped off the fine-grade silver. ‘Troops will lose their edge, speaking foolhardy prayers on their knees.'

‘No cause?' Davien shrugged. ‘My dear man, Raiett's a snake in the grass. He will make one.'

‘Not with yokels, still sparring with padding and sticks.' Unperturbed, Arithon finished stringing the borrowed lyranthe. When at due length, he perfected the tuning, the Sorcerer had departed.

But the undertone troubling the recent discussion struck notes that snapped like live sparks from the musician's strings.

A wily statesman with a clever network of spies would not lack for resource to support an armed conflagration: a royal wife gone missing and a dead heir at Avenor would become reason enough for unrest.

Arithon passed the afternoon, absorbed by the glory of watching his spun lines of melody key the unseen octaves of light, now unveiled by the healed invocation of mage-sight. Made aware of the pulse thrumming from the low registers echoed back from the polished rock floor, he sensed the slip-stream of time, aligned to the dance of the season. Fully restored to initiate mastery, he reaffirmed his intent to honour Earl Jieret's bequest: that one day he would forge the blood-binding promised to the s'Valerient daughter in Halwythwood.

The next morning, the strung lyranthe was set aside for more books, heavy tomes inscribed in the fine, flowing runes of the Athlien Paravians. The beings the Sorcerers called sunchildren, more than any, knew the mysteries encoded in air and fire. Arithon studied the properties of the energy sprites, named
iyats
in the old tongue. He listened through crystals to songs sung by whales, and explored older things, recorded in the pictorial symbols the dragons had used before Athera received her awakened gift of actualized language.

The black volumes bound under iron locks, and kept on warded shelves, stayed untouched. Nonetheless, the uncanny awareness pursued him: like a dousing of ice-water poured down his back, Arithon sensed that the Sorcerer urged him to ask about those, first of all.

Outside of Kewar, summer yielded the harvest. The trees turned and wore the penultimate glory of autumn, except in the west, where the scouring rains lashed their storm-tossed, stripped branches. The High King's restored capital of Telmandir fared no better under the onslaught. Candles burned behind the steamed glass of the casements to lift the drear damp of the gloom. Outdoors, the harbour heaved like pocked lead, the beaten sea-swells surging in without whitecaps. The sluicing downpour and the hammering breakers made a trial of unlading a ship.

Feylind stood on the puddled boards of the wharf, shivering, while the streaming water seeped down the caped collar of her oilskins. The merchant
brig
Evenstar
lay warped to the bollards, while swearing deck-hands fought the jammed hoist. Others wrestled the wind-lashed tarps, chapped raw by gusts that fore-ran a cruel season, come early. The miserable work was already behind schedule when from shoreside, Feylind heard the crash. Shouts slapped off the misted facade of the water-front. Whatever had gone wrong, the king's customs keeper would be watching from behind his steamed glass, with his parcel of ferret-eyed clerks.

The captain's oath could have reddened the coarse ears of the longshoremen, now clumped into a distempered knot surrounding the stopped wagons. The risk of wet grain sacks, and losing damp cargo to rot shortened tempers: arms waved, and accusing voices entangled in argument razored through the pounding rain. Since the customs keeper's officers would wait for a riot and damages before drenching their heads to take charge, a ship's captain who wished to leave on the tide had no choice but chase after the dock-crew.

Grumbling, Feylind wrung the sopped tail of her braid and sloshed shoreward.

A slop taker's cart had snarled the thoroughfare. Misfortune compounded by inconvenience, the ungainly vehicle also blocked off the bridge leading down from the palace. The impasse was not going to clear in a hurry. A split wheel hub had dropped the afflicted axle amid a mess of snapped spokes. The brimful barrels in the canted wagon now leaked under the tail-gate, streaming ripe sewage into a street momentarily due to receive no less than the High King himself. Filthy weather would not deter the royal preference. His Grace of Havish would personally seal the bills of lading, and so nip the temptation of shifty dock-side officials, who might stoop to black-marketeering in a shortage.

The blistering insults surrounded the fact that no man wished to shoulder aside the broken-down vehicle.

‘You'll shift your pissing load, yourself, damnfool boy!' howled the overseer to the carter, who stood, reins in hand, by the steaming draft mule in the traces. ‘Won't catch us doing your stinking job for you! We aren't being paid to handle any low-life's haulage o' jakes.'

‘By the curled hair on the Fatemaster's bollocks!' Feylind yelled. ‘Why hasn't some nit gone aboard and asked for a block and tackle?' Heads turned, bearded and flushed, while the argument spluttered and died.

Feylind shoved into the sheepish press. ‘While you stand here, ankle-deep, my deck-hands are left twiddling their puds in the hold! They can man a capstan and winch this hulk aside. Move out! Smart! I'll rip off your bollocks before I watch you bunglers start fisticuffs over a muck-heap!' As the slackers peeled out, the captain's invective switched target to the sopped figure clutching the head-stall. ‘You! Get that sorry donkey out of the shafts before I decide to press-gang a new hide for the trusses on my main yard-arm!'

The cowled head turned. Beneath ingrained dirt, the graceful features were no boy's. One glance of the wide-lashed, distrustful eyes made Captain Feylind take pause: a heart-beat to realize she confronted a person in desperate trouble. Before thought, she raised a piercing whistle and summoned her trusted first mate.

No customs keeper's sluggard, he came at a run, a solid presence arrived at her back that warmed through her sopped layers of oilskins.

‘Handle that mule,' Feylind told him, point-blank.

Years at her side, blue eyes bright with humour, he took over the reins without question. Feylind's grin shared her gratitude. Then, as the drover moved to sidle away, she latched on to wet cloak and dragged the stumbling creature into an alley beyond sight and earshot.

‘Don't even try,' Feylind said through her teeth, as her catch drew breath to cry protest. ‘I realize this mess you've arranged was no accident.'

The woman stopped struggling. Tense, snapped erect, she sized up the ship's captain without cowering. Her eyes were rich brown as the gloss on an acorn. Fear, or deep-set cold, had started her trembling. Yet authority and intelligence showed behind her exhausted bravado. ‘I'm sorry for your inconvenience. But I have dire need to address his Grace, the High King of Havish.'

Her accent was north westlands, town-bred, and cultured. Feylind sized-up fine hands that belonged to no slops woman, though the skin looked the part, cracked raw by her noxious profession. Alive to the perils of dock-side rumour, the brig's master veered away from conjecture. ‘All right. But not here. Will my ship's cabin serve?'

The woman hesitated.

Afraid she would bolt, Feylind tightened her grip. ‘Don't be a braying ass! There's no man in my crew who can't keep his mouth shut.'

As the woman's strained features showed panic, Feylind swore. ‘You want the ear of Havish's king? Then listen, lady, whoever you are! Hang on his stirrup, and all the whores in the district will share your misfortune. By tomorrow, you'll be the news in the mouth of every drunk sailhand. His Grace won't have sympathy. He detests subterfuge. Won't stand one moment for subtlety, either. Never mind this pissing downpour, you stink, ripe as a damned slave-broker's privy!'

The woman blinked, shamed. ‘You're no friend of the Alliance?'

Feylind released her iron grasp and wiped her smeared palms on her breeches. ‘Damned well not! Canting bigots! I'm going belowdecks where it's dry to have tea. If you don't mind the fact I don't pack skirts, at sea, you can borrow clean clothes, if you want them.'

‘Bless you, yes.' The strange woman put aside wariness, near tears for the refuge just offered. She trailed Feylind's stalking tread to the wharf, while the eagle who observed with living gold eyes watched unnoticed from a perch on the custom-house cornice. Head turned, fixed as the gargoyles who glared,
chins on fists, right and left of its hunched silhouette, the raptor tracked the two women until they had boarded the brig. An eye-blink later, it vanished…

…to reappear farther north, soaring over a stream, where storm wrack had backed up the flood. The eagle alit on a dead-fallen limb, snagged in the rush of dammed water. There, he shook sodden wing feathers and preened. The thrusting shove as he hurled air-borne again dislodged the dead branch, and the rain-swollen current took charge. Balked water found opening, surged, then roared through as the impedance crumpled and gave way.

The eagle's flight followed the foaming, brown crest racing in due course downstream. A small ford became temporarily impassable, and a travel-worn rider who sought passage was forced to make camp, before crossing. His curse at the delay carried on the worlds' winds and glanced through the mind of Sethvir.

As the eagle veered east, the Warden of Althain flicked back a caustic reproof above range of audible hearing.

‘Meddler!'

The eagle fluffed its crest, eyes gold as hot sparks. The thought returned was not avian.
‘You would rather have that man ride to your tower door-step with no help at hand to receive him?'

Sethvir's retort came, sarcastic.
‘You can hear through the rings of the Radmoore grimward?'

Had Davien been formed as human, he would have laughed. As eagle, he screamed as he rose on the frigid winds of high altitude.
‘I hear the mourning dreams of Haspastion's living mate. Asandir will be returned to your side in five days.'

The subsequent silence was sudden and deep, engraved on the ethers with startlement.

Experience honed Arithon's wary awareness, refining his listening senses. Yet no boundary ward he wrought, set in air, served him warning when Davien chose to steal up on him. The Sorcerer slipped past such defences at whim. No subtle shift fore-ran his uncanny arrival. Arithon leaned at last upon prescience: came to recognize the fleeting, ephemeral suspicion that
something
alive was listening over his shoulder.

Brushed by that whisper of premonition, Arithon closed a volume of Paravian ballads, transcribed during Cianor Sunlord's reign. ‘You've been sightseeing, again. Is the news so unpleasant? The spin of the world will scarcely falter if I don't share the plodding details.'

Davien appeared at ease by the hearth, cut in outline against the brass grilles that covered the shafts drilled for ventilation. His golden-rod cloak was adorned with black knotwork, gently ruffled by the whisper of draught. By contrast, his russet-and-grey hair seemed tumbled by an intransigent wind. ‘Your halfbrother's
in Taerlin, bound west by slow stages. A conspiracy in Avenor will keep him preoccupied. But not long enough, Teir's'Ffalenn.'

Arithon traced the embossed spine of the book held in hand, his angular features hardened to adamancy ‘I won't ask.'

‘You must.' Unsmiling, Davien chose not to mock. ‘The impact might well invoke your sworn oath.'

Already tense, Arithon turned pale. ‘Which one?'

Davien advanced to the edge of the agate table, set next to the prince's chair. ‘You shall see for yourself, Teir's'Ffalenn.' His citrine ring burned as flame through the air as he traced a circle on the polished slab. Seen by the extended perception of mage-sight, his touch ignited a line of white light.

Within the scribed round, stone spoke to stone: the mineral matrix of agate dissolved, revealing a view inside a seamless rock-chamber. Arithon glimpsed a closed well of granite, and a dark pool, encircled by ring upon ring of fine ciphers. Water rippled over the characters, releasing a charged mist of electromagnetic force. The play of raised energy twined in rainbow colours that shimmered like boreal lights against darkness. Then a falling droplet struck the still pool. Circlets of ring ripples fled, unleashing a pristine, clear vision, and more: the distinctive pungence of ship's tar and varnish, sea-spray, and salt-dampened wool…