TWOLAS - 05 - Grand Conspiracy

  Yet even such victories came at high cost. Within five years, the Alliance of Light would consolidate a pre-eminent foothold in the port cities of four kingdoms. Inside of a decade, that ranging influence would insinuate itself everywhere merchants dispatched trade caravans inland.

  Havish alone held to stable neutrality. Displaced clan families maintained refuge there, to ensure safe continuance of old bloodlines. Controversy arose as their numbers in exile were joined by herb witches and itinerant healers whose lives became hounded by the zeal of Alliance examiners.

  Sethvir chuckled over a quirk of politics that left eight pompous merchants without mansions. 'Well, King Eldir's not going to back down, no matter which damn fool thinks he'll be the first one to bribe him.'

  Crown rule in Havish endured, even-handed and firm, while its queen bore two more sons and another daughter. By the shining, clear lines of emerging character, the next youngest would become the heir designate affirmed by the Fellowship Sorcerers.

  'Ath,' Traithe said, his eyes crinkled with amused delight by the antics in the royal nursery. 'The young prince could so easily have lied about the tadpoles he dumped in his sister's washbasin.'

  By sad contrast, domestic affairs in Lysaer's household in Tysan harbored no such spark of merry devilment. As the decade closed, the strand for Princess Ellaine flared and crossed that of Avenor's confirmed high priest over her right to choose her son's tutors. Cerebeld was a man who held women in contempt, and the wife of his divine master as a nuisance to be suffered in stiff-lipped, watchful distaste. Their contest of wills was short-lived and decisive, with Ellaine left heart-torn in defeat.

  'She can't prevail, more's the pity,' Sethvir said in despair as the child's youthful vigor branched away from her side, dimmed to sad, subtle changes. The imprint of the mother glimmered and withdrew into wan spirals of melancholy.

  Nor did Luhaine's contribution brighten the morose outlook as he moved on to probe the knotted intrigues stirred up by the Koriani Order. 'I don't trust the stillness, here,' he complained at frustrated length. 'The sequences spin too long and too straight without tangling, and Morriel's obsessions run too obsessively deep to reflect such sweetness and light.'

  'She's just letting her plot with that herder boy ripen,' Traithe suggested from the darkness.

  Luhaine released a crisp huff of exasperation. 'She'd like us to think so. But her spiteful calculation grows the more twisted with age.' Well versed in the order's convoluted, self-serving policies, the discorporate mage exhorted his colleagues to delve deeper. 'No right-minded matriarch would keep an incompetent apprentice. There's more afoot here than simple malice toward Lirenda in maintaining the charade of Selidie's aptitude for prime candidacy.'

  Sethvir bent his falcon's gaze over the strands under question. 'I see nothing else to bear out your suspicion.' The patterns for every Koriani senior in the Prime Circle showed no kinks, no runes to mask plotting; nor did he discern any haze of resonant interference to indicate wards of concealment. Through the two remaining years of the augury sealed into surety by the elementals, every chained link of disharmony led through the gloom of Morriel Prime's chamber.

  Had Luhaine owned flesh, he would have gnashed teeth. 'The old witch still broods a damned clutch of nursed rancor. How can we be certain she hasn't shrouded her mad intentions through the powers of the Great Waystone?'

  'You think we would miss the impacts of causation?' Sethvir combed the strands again on that premise, but still found nothing suspect.

  Luhaine remained dissatisfied. 'Then whatever the witch plans hasn't manifested yet.'

  Asandir raised his chin from his clamped fist, his eyes like frost and old tarnish. 'You fear we'll be blindsided? Why wouldn't the Koriani lie low while their plot to lure Arithon ripens?'

  'I don't like the smooth way Morriel bides her time.' Despite his stone patience, Luhaine's frustration seethed without tangible outlet. 'Like rats bearing plague, her Senior Circle carries their poison unseen. They're too well aware we can't stay free to watch every scurrying move.'

  'Perhaps there's no need.' Sethvir traced the one stable line in the pattern. Throughout every sequence of burst continuity, one flame of hope remained steadfast; changeless; an obdurate gleam that burned like a star against darkening misunderstanding: Arithon's brigantines scoured the seas in their exhaustive search for the Paravians. 'When the storm breaks, the Prince of Rathain will have kept his clear-sighted option to choose.'

  The elementals' spun vision had guaranteed stable peace for at least the next dozen years. Arithon could rely on that interval to heal and renew his strength for the next onslaught; Lysaer would not hound him, but preferred to nurture the factions of trade until some triggered disaster opened the floodgates of panic. If broadscale war could be wrung from reaction, the telltale signs were yet hidden.

  'We'll have a reprieve to reorder our affairs. May I suggest we don't waste ourselves wishing a conjectured affray could be mitigated?' Sethvir tucked restive hands into his sleeves and released the bright energies arrayed on the velvet. The pattern dispersed to a residue like snow haze that winnowed to spent smoke and faded. Head bent, aggrieved as his colleagues, he listened while Asandir addressed formal thanks to the unseen presence of the elementals.

  Active flame reignited in the bowl of the firepan; the fountain's voice resumed liquid verse. Then the pall of spelled darkness thinned and broke away, leaving the Fellowship Sorcerers alone in the Hall of Gathering. Through the testy, soft rustles as the raven fluffed wing feathers, each Sorcerer reflected in bleak silence. The strands' augury bestowed an uneasy reassurance, with hidden factors still pending.

  Kharadmon must remain tied down with the wards, posting guard against the free wraiths upon Marak. Nameless, their activity could not figure in strands, except by the impact of effect. The fact that no sign of attack had been manifest did not mean they stayed safely quiescent. Asandir and Traithe would still be hard-pressed. They alone would be left to reaffirm the old seals and mind the boundaries which contained the Paravian sites ceded to Fellowship wardenship.

  Luhaine churned in place, stirred to a formless unease too vague for a hunch and too strong to be passed off as fancy. 'No matter our diligence, the day fast approaches when our numbers will be insufficient. Even now, we can scarcely maintain the sworn terms of our binding. Morriel knows this. She'll tailor her plots to strike that disadvantage.'

  'Well, she fell short the first time,' Asandir pointed out. "The Shadow Master has yet to run out of resources; nor has the Paravian presence he seeks disappeared from the world altogether.'

  'That's pulling at straws, to believe we'll be saved from disaster by the return of the lost centaur guardians.' Luhaine whirled aloft to erase the chalked wards, hard-set for a tirade of pessimism.

  'Straw hope or not,' Sethvir interjected, 'until Morriel or Lysaer makes the first play, our own hands stay tied by the compact.'

  Summer Solstice 5667

  Court Festival

  The feast of summer solstice at Avenor's royal palace had become a women's affair over the thirteen-year course of Princess Ellaine's marriage to Lysaer s'Ilessid. At that season, the ranking captains of the guard were absent on campaign in the field, defending the movement of trade on the roads and suppressing established clan outposts. The Divine Prince himself spent his summers with Raiett Raven and Sulfin Evend at Etarra, there to preside over the Alliance grand council, and to review the green recruits signed in for the annual muster.

  Through the long mild days, while deer browsed in the dappled shadows at the verges of the oak forests, and barley ripened in Avenor's tilled fields, the sharp-faced old seneschal sat in the regent's raised seat and oversaw petitioners and grievances. Lord Eilish turned the cellars inside out and dulled pens through his strict yearly inventory. The common sinew of the realm bent its back to trade and husbandry, which left High Priest Cerebeld immured like a spider in his tower above Avenor's chambers of state.

  From there, he ove
rsaw the brisk traffic of servants bearing ribbons and fine silks from the market. His view of the entry to the grand hall showed him plasterers and painters and gilders, coming and going through the labor of adorning the massive decorations with fripperies. Their industry scarcely pleased him. He held a dim view of the ancient festivals, whose dances took root from Paravian traditions, and whose masks and gaiety were imbued with nine lore and sun symbols disturbingly close to the seals sewn in shining thread on the robes of Ath's adepts. No high-handed fool, to ban an extravagance the Light's core of faithful could not yet suppress, Cerebeld delivered the obligatory blessing to open the gathering and retired to engage in private rites with his devoted new coterie of acolytes.

  Lord Eilish's sallow clerks were whisked away, also, since the memorable year Ellaine's ladies had seduced them with fruit spirits that left them flushed and by lengths too talkative on sensitive issues of policy. Other absent factions pleaded boredom as year followed year; the arena of male politics quit the floor in self-defense as the celebration of summer solstice devolved into a dance ball arranged for the young.

  Tysan's women now reigned, clad in tissue and finery. Their guest list was first drawn by invitation from the three principalities of the realm. As Avenor gained weightier influence across the continent, solicitations were sent to cities far and wide in the kingdoms to the east. Nor did power and influence stand aside in hiatus; each year, the matrons of high privilege and wealth bedecked their daughters in lace ribbons and jewels, and waged fiercely fought contests of matchmaking.

  Princess Ellaine presided from her husband's raised dais, clad in a shimmering gown in Tysan's royal colors. Gold and blue had never set off her fine points. The richest tinseled sapphire brocade turned her dark eyes to sunken pits and made her complexion seem sallow and tired. The few women closest to her recognized that glazed mask, paint and subtle powder applied with the ritual care of steel armor. They knew that the desperation she hammered down under trained deportment was not due to sore feet or exhaustion.

  The young prince, Lysaer's heir designate, was to be presented this night. Avenor's princess had not seen her son through the year since Avenor's high council had obstructed her maternal right to arrange his education. The cost of that ruling had abraded her, body and spirit, from the hour of the boy's separation.

  A swirl of changed movement stirred the dancers, then a stiffening of attention from those nearest the closed double doors; the musicians muted their instruments. Against abrupt quiet, the tabarded heralds by the rear wall raised their horns. A flurried bustle of silk saw the couples cleared from the floor. Then the flourish of brass announced the young prince's entry. Sharp-eyed ambitious matrons formed two lines on either side, with the youngest and prettiest of their pedigree charges placed to the fore to be noticed. The curious craned their necks. The worldly bored murmured gossip; handfastings would follow, but tonight's groomed display was unlikely to yield the sought-after royal betrothal. The weight of Avenor's title rested as yet on the shoulders of a boy of twelve; until Lysaer s'Ilessid consented to hear formal offers of contract, the heir designate he had sired to rule Tysan would stay a child, enamored of swordplay and horses.

  Given the growing tapestry of Alliance power linking cities east to west on the continent, none at Tysan's court could afford to prevaricate. A perilous folly, to regard the legitimate issue of Lysaer s'Ilessid as more than a flesh-and-blood cipher.

  Princess Ellaine sat stately and still on the dais. Her expression appeared patient. Only the nearest observers might note the tremulous flicker of the seed diamonds strung in the gold wire lace of her collar. When the liveried footmen at the far end of the hall swung open the sunwheel-bossed doors, her ringed hands tightened, powerless in her lap. The young prince marched through the entry.

  He came alone. No nurse attended; the engaging, small pages he had counted his friends through the years he had laughed in the nursery were nowhere in evidence. Nor was he clothed as a child anymore, but bore up, straight shouldered, under the weight of a blazoned tabard. The sword at his waist was ceremonial steel; the knee boots were new and, by the scuff of his heels, very likely still pinched him.

  He managed to stride with manly dignity, nonetheless. Only as he mounted the carpeted stair could anyone see that his face was too pale, mouth pinched tight to stop his lower lip from trembling.

  'My mother,' he piped in a dutiful treble. He bowed, as her station demanded. His reddish honey hair caught burnished light from the candles. The eyes of dove gray he raised afterward stayed wide with unsettled conflict. His deportment pleaded to be treated as adult, while the child he still was craved a mother's affection.

  The impact of his suffering stopped Ellaine's breath.

  'My lady, your son,' said Gace Steward, arrived without sound, his weasel interest ever lurking at her shoulder to observe and keep notes and gloat.

  Rage flared and restored her poor color as she rose. 'Kevor, my young prince.' She could smile despite Gace, let her son see for himself she still loved him. 'I'm proud of you, beyond words. Your grandmother is here, and your aunt, and three cousins. All of them honor your courage, as do I.'

  Kevor's chin jerked. His eyes turned suspiciously bright.

  And Ellaine ached for each tear stubborn pride would not let him shed. Words fell too far short. She must find a state gesture that would shake her child from the belief she had abandoned him with complacency. Her smile returned, this time whetted to acid-bright triumph.

  As though her son were grown, and crowned king of Tysan, she curtsied to the floor at his feet.

  Her gesture raised a breezy rustle of surprised murmurs. Gace lost his unctuous humor before that public slap of effrontery. The implicit message she delivered to Avenor's ranking guests all but shattered the young prince's bearing. He flashed a glare of pure hatred at the steward. Then, in a voice that firmed toward the note of authority he aimed for, and just missed, the heir designate of Tysan asked his mother please to rise and be seated in his presence.

  Young as he was, he had inherited his father's sharp instincts. Kevor understood better than to stay beyond the requisite ceremonial appearance. Such a moment of hard-won, prideful victory could last only a handful of seconds. 'Let the solstice festivities resume.'

  He kissed his mother's hand with mannered formality. His tears fell then, despite all his care, and traced hot, salty warmth through her jewels. Ellaine turned her wrist. She cupped his chin with utmost tender subtlety and let her silk sleeve dry his cheeks. Grateful for that shielding, the boy collected himself. He gave her a smile to melt snow into sunlight, then arose and turned his back to a punishing squeak of new boot leather. As the heralds sounded the fanfare marking his exit, none but Gace saw how close he had come to breaking down in blind shame at her knee.

  'You will say nothing,' Ellaine hissed through clamped teeth to the steward, as the musicians struck up, and the couples on the floor flowed back and revolved to the figures of a stately slow-step. 'Or by the name of the powers more ancient than man, I'll see you and Cerebeld's inner circle to Sithaer and the joys of Dharkaron's black vengeance. You are excused from my presence this moment.'

  Gace Steward's expression curdled to surprise, hard followed by a stare of dangerous calculation. 'As my lady wishes.' Insolent as gall, he made no move to leave.

  Clever beast that he was, he had the effrontery to cut her back. Just barely in time, Ellaine perceived the cruel, subtle trap of innuendo: an authoritative show of muscle to enforce her command would destroy her small gesture to shelter Kevor.

  Tired now, heartsore and aching, she stiffened her spine to endure.

  'How like a man, to carry his pea brain in his scrotum and not realize when overbearing male company's unwanted.' That waspish, crone's scorn came packaged in clanborn accents that sheared like wire through the soothing harmonies of the strings. Heads turned. Two of the dancers broke step in the line, and a group of plump matrons tittered.

  Undaunted, as disdainful of
royal propriety as her relatives, the straight little grandmother continued her marching advance up the dais stair. Her hair was short cropped, neat as salt, and unadorned. A gown of white voile wrapped her, wrist to throat, pinned at her high collar with a teardrop ruby strung on a thin, gold chain. Overtop, she wore a shoulder sash of vivid s'Brydion scarlet. One porcelain fist clenched two goblets of wine; the other, with evident, battle-schooled relish, brandished a black briar stick with a silver knurl hefty enough to knock back a charging bull.

  'Go away, foolish man,' she snapped at Gace Steward. 'If you don't, I shall certainly get annoyed.'

  The stick spun in her grasp with a speed to whistle air, and just missed the steward's tucked groin.

  Gace fled, as any man must when assailed by Grandame Dawr in a temper.

  'Duke Bransian's grandmother, if you please,' the peppery old woman introduced herself. Her acid-bright smile flashed and vanished, as clever and genuine as her steel character. 'We met in the receiving line, which doesn't say much. A captain on a battlefront isn't likely to recall names and faces for all the rank and file.'

  Despite herself, Ellaine choked back startled laughter.

  The grandame, whose name she recalled very well, spurned every pretense of royal prerogative. Her dainty self-assurance wouId have wrecked mountains as she settled in the carved chair beside Lysaer's titled princess. 'I thought you looked peaked. Will you take wine?'

  The goblet was pressed into her hand with a firmness that made refusal a frank breach of manners.