Lysaer stopped as though shot. His tortured eyes closed. Apparently the words touched an echo, inside him. Eventually, he said, 'Once, my half-brother told me that my father's hatred lent him no kindly foothold on which to negotiate.' Tears trembled, behind a tight throat, while the diamonds blazed on through an agonized battle to stay at grips with what might be natural reason. 'Did Sethvir also tell you that my dead wife, Talith, was not suborned to betray me?'
Sulfin Evend ceased breathing.
'I have had that nightmare,' Prince Lysaer revealed. 'That she was put aside while still innocent.' Though her unfaithful conception was not a staged ploy, one had to admit the lost love of his heart had been raised as a pedigree Etarran: too prideful, when estranged from his regard, and not above wreaking a ruinous price for his bitter abandonment. 'Don't tell me,' said Lysaer. 'I can't bring her back.' Unwilling to rail in effusive distress, he killed the unbearable subject. 'Enough hurt has been done, beyond any of mine.'
The reference extended far past the dearth of affection shown the son, Kevor, and the bloodless political expediency that brought his mother, Ellaine, to ill treatment. Spurred to keep pace, Sulfin Evend confronted his own bitter recall: the appalling cruelty of Earl Jieret's fate, and the honest allies destroyed in the deranged fit of fury that wrecked the campaign in Daon Ramon. He dared not stay silent before those raised ghosts! This pain was sanity, if a harsh trial he would never have sought, wracked in the breach as sole witness. 'You know you are cursed.'
'Every hour, since the failed coronation at Etarra,' Lysaer s'Ilessid admitted, distraught. His mouth tightened. 'Every breath, and each moment that rage swallows reason. Did you think I don't thrash in the unending nightmare? Or that this interval, where I can hope I'll wake up, is not bought through a constant struggle?' He glanced up, blue eyes limpid. 'I am as the candle, set aflame at the wick, and without the means to stop myself burning.'
'Merciful Ath,' Sulfin Evend whispered, wrung white. 'I did not choose wrong to stand by you, my friend.'
Lysaer moved again, lest the quagmire of his haunted past suck him down to hand-wringing self-pity. From table, to bedstead, to clothes-chest, to chair, revulsion dogged his circuitous flight. 'Three days ago, something terrible shifted aside. As if a ray of light I'd forgotten touched through a black cloud of hate. When I came to myself, I was burning a cliff head to magma! Such arrogance sought to sunder the tidal rip, and bridge the channel surrounding the citadel with fallen buildings and rubble. The Sunwheel officers with me were cheering. How they chafed for the hour of Alestron's defeat! Cried out, in my name, for the walls to be scaled and thrown down for the sake of the Light. I watched them clamour, eager for rapine. They would see clan children put to the sword, no matter if they were not forest-bred raiders, but civilized people, born into families of hardworking craftsmen. I have built and led a war host to this!'
'Not your true self,' Sulfin Evend said quickly. As though to soothe down a whipped horse, he insisted, 'We are not our mistakes. You can always change course. Rise above the destruction engendered through you by the Mistwraith's design and seek better choices.'
'Could I?' The anguish blazed. Lysaer snatched up the wine. Liquid slopped as he hurled the goblet into the brazier that heated his quarters. The flames shot up, blue, while the glass fragments scattered, bright as flung tears on the carpet. 'I have enslaved criminals. Broken their spirits in chains on my galleys where once, common decency would have lifted such misery from inhumane bondage. A just prince serves a sentence that preserves a man's dignity. Once, I thought I knew who I was! I believed my own goodness could never have ridden a storm that sought visceral thrill by crazed butchery' He paused, stared through by a hollow silence that gibbered with legions of dead. 'The shadow lurks in my own heart, won't you see? The foothold for obsession has been, all along, the spoiled, overheated, childish urge to punish my faithless mother's prized bastard!'
'Yesterday's happened!' Sulfin Evend snapped, blunt. 'You can bleed yourself with recriminations until you crack under self-punishment! Or you can stand firm. Take honest stock of the resource you have, and bear up, keep on striving and heal. My watch officer told me you were brought in by litter, laid out from over-extension.'
Lysaer snorted. 'A convincing act.' Met by disbelief, he folded his arms and leaned on the support for the tapestry that walled the enclosure. When he laughed, his chiding, wry humour was new, and beyond either man's startled experience. 'My fine, strait-laced officer, why should you look poleaxed? If I actually had been prostrate, throughout, you would have returned to the wreck of a dozen sorties! Believe me, I was all too wakefully able! Our warmongering garrisons have none of your sense. My little collapse had to be staged. A puling embarrassment, and the only convincing excuse I could find to absent myself and get my train of fanatics to quit the field.'
"They would turn on you,' Sulfin Evend allowed. He had faced the same fervour, all but died on the knives of the zealots whose weakness demanded the splendour of hailing a saviour. The threat took on a sinister edge, aware as he now was, that a grandiloquent chord of high conjury became all that checked the raw flame of dissent; how much worse, when that steadying influence waned, and the curse-driven conflict resurfaced? 'We are two, and outnumbered,' Sulfin Evend said, thoughtful. 'Like the horse that's been savaged to leap, or fall prey, you've managed to keep things distracted.'
'By hopping through hoops and crab-stepping sideways.' Lysaer shrugged. He might have poured wine, were his fingers not shaking. 'We have weathered, waiting upon your return. Held out, and cajoled Kalesh and Adruin from ravening bloodshed. Ranne and Fennick and your picked cadre of watchdogs have strong-armed the resistance through extended manoeuvres and drills.'
Until breaking news of the ruin at Avenor upset such unbiased care-taking; Lysaer's darkened eyes and frenetic exhaustion told over the difficult ground. He had been alone, the apex of a fractious host still thousands strong, who viewed him as a punitive avatar. They would force his promise to answer the hatred they pinned on the Spinner of Darkness.
Sulfin Evend rubbed his tight forehead, rushed by the pulse-pounding kick of the tea. The courage stunned thought, that the velvet-clad shoulders before him were not yet bowed by defeat.
"They are afraid,' Lysaer admitted with sorrow. 'My own doing. I've abetted Desh-thiere's bleak purpose too well.' He shuddered, wrung by his relentless dread. 'The poison I carry inside will not rest. I don't know how long I may have, before I'm overtaken again.'
How could one man answer this appeal for help, far beyond mortal means to deliver? Desh-thiere's blight was not vanquished. The harmonic working that bought this fragile reprieve was, at best hope, a temporary remedy. Sulfin Evend surveyed the wracked creature before him and saw a frail vessel pushed nigh unto breaking. To broach an appeal to call in the Fellowship would provoke a cursed back-lash Lysaer was untrained to survive. Tonight's admissions had skirted the sore: an abiding distrust of arcane wisdom and sorcerers, begun by the Rauven mages' early rejection. Sulfin Evend dared not petition Sethvir. Even if, one-on-one, Desh-thiere's threat might be handled by strapping Lysaer immobile, the desperate course could not be tried in a war camp with a pack mind-set: men armed and trained, then whipped to blind faith in an invincible, coveted idol.
'How can I go on?' Lysaer said, distraught. 'There are no safe-guards for what I've set loose. Whether I will, or not, death and ruin will happen. I am naked and shieldless to stop such momentum.'
'Then fight against Desh-thiere's incursion with me!' Sulfin Evend implored. 'Make a stand, for your own sake! I won't abandon your side, or revile the effort, no matter how sorry your stumbling failures.'
'I can't retire.' The protest was not arrogance: gadding hatred would raise a new figure-head under which to seek destructive outlet. Lysaer found a chair, let his knees give, and sat, ringed hands shoved through the hair at his temples. 'Nor can you reverse what's become a fixated doctrine.'
'An ambitious rival would just take my place,' Sulfin
Evend agreed.
'You could lose your life!' Lysaer straightened and stared. "The late trip to Tirans was barely enough to divert your upset the last time.'
'All right. That worrisome thorn is well justified. We can't rein back what's already in motion, but only try steering the juggernaut.' Sulfin Evend stood up. He crossed to the side-table, poured a fresh goblet and set the offering beside
Lysaer's damp fingers. 'Drink, man. We're planning. First toss the companies who crave action a sop.'
'Avenor?' Lysaer raised the glass for an unsteady sip.
'This attack by drakefire gives you reason enough to board ship and go back to Tysan. Gather Avenor's tried captains yourself. Sail out of here fast as the weather allows and get clear. I'll serve the most belligerent companies with marching orders, make them pack up and follow your lead. They'll be staged westward, after your advance guard, on the pretext of working salvage after the disaster.'
'You'll stay on here in my name?' The golden liquid shimmered, yet another bell-wether of unrest.
'You must go without me!' Sulfin Evend implored. 'If you stay, we are utterly lost, once you break.' When, and not if; this was no moment to flinch from that fact. 'Command of the East Halla campaign remains mine. I will set Kalesh and Adruin on their ears, bang recalcitrant heads, and find out if ennui and bad storms can't wear down the resolve upholding the siege.'
Lysaer set down his filled glass with a click. 'My dear friend, your noble course is predestined to fail. Don't you see? A great drake flies free. The only fortress built to withstand attack by a dragon lies under an old blood clan duke who has subverted Tysan's regency. We can't condone spies sent as sanctioned ambassadors! Whatever state information was leaked, Mearn's and Parrien's actions served us with treason. Without the Light's fervour, we might stage a pardon for Bransian, since he was not present to handle his brothers. Given time, we could stall, perhaps even mitigate some of the damaging charges. But not at this pass!' Too much engaged resource rode on an outcome emotionally pitched for collision. The Alliance has attached too many factions whose vindication will not brook forgiveness.'
Sulfin Evend leaned across and picked up the abandoned wine goblet. 'Still, that doesn't grant us the licence to throw up our hands and give way' Against Lysaer's dread, the Light's Lord Commander raised the crystal in toast and saluted doomed valor with humour. 'I'll enjoy giving Selidie Prime a sick headache!'
His grim glance locked to Lysaer's, Sulfin Evend acknowledged the relief: that his utmost effort also must ensure that the innocent were not brutalized, should Alestron fall in defeat.
* * *
The small boat, which had crossed Dakar's party of rescuers from the citadel, and Parrien's flotilla of anchored prizes, still rode off the spit across from the harbour mouth. Against breaking dawn, the fugitive fleet was exposed, surrounded by hostile forces and stripped of the covering storm. The free port that might offer Alestron's flag a safe haven lay far beyond these confined waters. Worse, as the tide changed to flood, the fierce rip of the ebb built too swiftly to buck if the ships tried the crossing to Alestron. Even rested, strong oarsmen would be overmatched; and the after-shock from Prime Selidie's compulsion had left Parrien's companies exhausted.
The covert procession stumbling out of the brush scarcely resembled the attackers who had made their rapacious landing the day before. Returned, forlorn, to the wind-raked shingle, the men were beaten and flagging. Short tempers prevailed as the ships' officers took stock and tallied what Parrien's suborned obsession would cost them.
Not all of the s'Brydion galleys might be saved.
'Interfering witches should die for this!' One peppery captain spat in disgust. More grumbled threats couched in gory detail, promising plans for revenge. Deadlocked wills argued the case for retreat, as the bitter wind whined over ice-crusted dune grass, and thrashed the winter-bare heath.
'To Sithaer with Koriathain! We'll fix things, right here!' A weathered first mate with a jut to his jaw pounced first on the saving asset. 'Nab the fat ninny. Somebody ask if he's got the clout to blindside that forsaken blockade.'
Dakar was snagged under the armpits and presented to Parrien's disgruntled senior command.
'Can you?' asked the biggest, stroking his befouled boarding axe. 'Conjure a dab little net of deception to let us raise sail and slip down the channel?'
'Awake, this time, mind you!' another shoved in, pained by frost-bite from last night's forced nap in the open. While the duke's brother watched with unchastened grey eyes, hedged about by Vhandon's picked escort, the loaded inquiry stretched.
'Blundering jackasses!' Feet plugged in the sand like a hefted bull-terrier, Dakar said, 'You'd spit in the teeth of Dame Fortune when she's already smiling full in your face?' The tiresome, on-going need to shape counterwards killed his patience with brangling s'Brydion aggression. 'This far, by my grace, you've got whole skins. Push that luck, keep on the muscle, and you'll find your crews stranded here. I won't look back. Not though you plead like poxed whores, crying for my skilled attention.'
'Peace!' thundered Parrien in his deep voice. 'If you're daring to map out our future yourself, tell us straight up what you're planning'
Reluctant men turned Dakar loose without pummelling. If he wanted to sulk, he forwent the indulgence. Only tugged his mussed clothing to rights and talked fast, jostled by sea-wolves who pushed in to hear what his trained talent might offer them.
The news was unhappy: only a few of the galleys could risk the fraught passage on the out-bound tide. Those picked to depart must go lightly masked, the sharp look-out at Kalesh and Adruin turned aside by a binding akin to Glendien's knack for concealment. Against the meddling interest of Koriathain, little could be tried, past a talisman keyed with ciphers for misdirection.
'I can't guarantee such defences will work!' Dakar said, buffeted in the gusts that parted his beard and snapped through his ginger-and-salt hair. Chilled by the warnings of a back-lash fever, and alarmed as each minute brightened towards daylight, he snarled down Parrien's objection. 'You have no choice! The best ships leave without you. As the target spear-heading Prime Selidie's trap, I can't send you along. Your active protection requires my presence, and the Fellowship's stake in Prince Arithon's lineage commands my return to the citadel.'
'We don't leave the gift of sound hulls to our enemies,' the most grizzled veteran howled.
'Bravo!' Dakar mimed applause. 'How splendid to see someone thinking with more than the brainless edge on a sword-blade!' For of course, the sensible option stayed pitiless: four of the prize galleys had to be culled, then holed and scuttled in the channel. The rest would sail, which left the last, to be boarded and manned by all of the stranded crews. 'Hand-pick your best oarsmen for the sprint into port.'
No seasoned mariner gainsaid that necessity: with the tide turning counter, the shifts at the bench must serve in short relays, breaking their backs at a double-time stroke lest the rip current should overpower them.
'Ah, we agree!' Parrien grinned. 'There's no safety in stalling!' He shrugged, his massive arms folded across his spattered bracers and surcoat. 'We shove off now. If I don't want a nurse-maid in tow, or a chivvying flight back to the fortress, you can't risk the loss, or break your stricture of free permission by trying to stop me.'
'I won't have to.' Dumpy and tousled, his doughy features nipped pink with cold, the Mad Prophet should have appeared ludicrous, holding his ground. Yet the fierce smile that split his beard was utterly unsubmissive. 'Your duke wants you out of Prime Selidie's reach. That means going home, with eight loyal men under orders to knock you down, if need be.' His gesture deferred to Vhandon's armed guard, ripe for a picked fight, with clean weapons.
'Strike at your own, or back down,' snapped their sergeant, who was well-matched for size and armed prowess. 'You cannot accompany the out-bound fleet, Parrien! Your very presence poses a threat, the ships and men under you a hot liability to your family's welfare and survival.'
'Forewar
ned is forearmed,' the glib culprit quipped.
Yet Dakar's stiff silence refused stabbing humour. He need not respond, since the changing tide waited for nobody. Already the winkling, first riffles curled into the sucking swirl of deep eddies. The returning vessel must strike out at once, or forfeit her margin of safety.
The determined glint in Parrien's eyes enlivened his shout to set the men under him moving. To hear him, his fleet would part forces, as planned, with four of the prize galleys sacrificed to lend the muscle to breast the rough current.
The loading began, to the scrape of harnessed weapons on chainmail. Amid the scramble to launch the beached tenders, Glendien elbowed her way to the fore and splashed through the shallows. Her gadding positioned her at Dakar's heels, as the surge of the launch plunged the leading craft through the breakers.
'Don't let Parrien fool you,' she gasped, ducking spray as the keel smacked over a tumbling crest. "That's one stubborn idiot set for a mutiny, if I'm any judge of bad character.'
Dakar blew streaming water from his moustache. 'If you say so, child.'
Glendien hissed an oath, not about to be patronized. 'Watch your back, bucko. The brute will cast back off, once we're set on the dock.'
'He can try.' The Mad Prophet turned a cold shoulder and stowed his bulk on the rocking stern seat. Since sopped cuffs posed a misery, exposed to the wind, he tucked under his cloak like a storm-rumpled owl. 'The night's been hard enough. I'm going to sleep.'
The boat bobbled, as more passengers scrambled aboard. The seamen who steadied the craft waded deeper. Their practised, hard shove, which sloshed up the bilge, caught Glendien by surprise. Forest-bred, and no sailor, she reacted in time. Escaped a raw soaking, but lost her objective: Dakar slouched, already loutishly snoring. No poking jab in the ribs disrupted his complacent nap.
'Pack yer hopes in, lass!' said the grinning, armed bear who threaded his oars amidships. 'Fat lubber won't move. Not for anyone's joy, short of heaving him overboard.'