‘Wouldn’t be caught in his boots, standing here,’ groused another, a feint jabbed at Talvish.
The shied blow was warded, forcefully brisk. Though playful, the fair swordsman encouraged no nonsense: for the length of the wager he was the available target. No bettor who placed hard-earned coin on the outcome would strike at the pair of contestants. Not while he hoped to collect a lucky sum in recovery. Talvish doled two more chits to the barmaid. His purpose was simple: keep the contentious crowd sweet until Fionn Areth was drunk. Lay him flat long enough to silence his turmoil, while the Masterbard’s adept handling of Jeynsa lanced her cankerous grief and let her start healing.
Dakar shouldered the role of buffoon in support. Whatever his reason for amassing beer tabs off half of Duke Bransian’s fighting men, he rocked on splayed legs, stripped down to breeches and shirt-sleeves. His portly frame had lost weight, the linen sagged at his waist gathered in by a belt, ineptly punched to tighten the buckle.
‘Go on, infant,’ he goaded the herder. ‘Your turn to down the next tankard. Show us a thirst that can put men to shame! Six piddling rounds are scarcely enough to whet the spit in my whistle!’
‘Sheven,’ Fionn Areth objected. Black hair in his eyes, he already wobbled like a loose post in a gale. Country-bred obstinacy kept him bolt upright, while the bar-keeper poured the next round and tried not to wince at the tilt in the vessel that captured the beer.
Dakar grinned. ‘You won’t last eight, milksop.’ Blinking, he licked the foam from his moustache and watched his comment strike home.
Fionn Areth flushed purple. ‘Go suck on a goat!’ Chin out-thrust, his napped stockings bunched at his ankles, he tipped his head back and chugged. Reeled back on his heels, he keeled beyond recovery, then toppled like a felled plank. His own splashed beer caught him full in the face and set him coughing.
The bystanders roared. They banged on the trestles, while the losers screamed, and the elated winners bellowed in triumph. Whichever their lot, the spectacle cut short: Dakar, in midcrow for his easy victory, bent in half, then dropped to his knees.
‘Daelion send a confounding wet dream!’ yelled an armourer through pealing mayhem. ‘Tie score, since the fat lout’s gone under!’
In fact, Dakar languished, crouched on his hands, overcome by hammering nausea.
More noise, peppered through by howls of protest over which contestant had succumbed first. Fists swung now, in earnest. Two victims were bloodied as Talvish’s oversight became overwhelmed. He threw down the beer chits; leaped over the ravening scramble as opportunistic bystanders cracked heads to snatch. The lightning move hurled him into the circle, as the tap-room seethed into bedlam. No man’s intervention could rein in the fight. Too many weeks of stifling pressure frayed tempers to wrathful explosion.
Iron-handed, the field-captain hooked Dakar’s arm. His unburdened grip snagged Fionn Areth. Talvish towed away the witlessly fallen, while Dakar, knuckles clenched to his roiling stomach, broke sweat trying to bear his own weight.
‘This is an onslaught of prescient vision?’ Talvish shouted, hell-bent, as he bashed aside brawlers to reach the rear doorway.
Dakar clipped off a nod. ‘The beer’s a frank pittance. This is a light drunk. Duck leftwards. That brute’s got nail studs in his cudgel.’
‘Dharkaron’s red glory!’ Talvish swore, angry. He kicked down the bull-necked combatant. ‘You’ve done this before?’
A groan answered: not Dakar, but Fionn Areth, objecting. The bumping drag across the brick floor had broken his stupor. Talvish paused, too beset to stand off the rank crowd and still man-handle the grass-lander.
‘Pick yourself up!’ the field-captain snapped. ‘Haul your share and help get us out of here.’
‘The yokel’s done for,’ Dakar gasped between chattering teeth. He lunged, grabbed a trestle, and shoved Talvish off, adding, ‘Listen to me! I enspelled the lad’s beer. He’s not going to rise! Find him a haven and leave him to sleep. He can’t cause further trouble, tonight.’
Chilled by that note of stark desperation, now suspecting a worse, pending crisis, Talvish assessed the lad’s rolled-back eyes, then changed strategy and chose a stout bench. He flopped the near-inert goatherd beneath, then hoped by the Fatemaster’s mercy the fool might escape being trampled. Next, he seized Dakar’s floundering weight and rammed a ruthless course towards the kitchen.
They burst, stumbling, into the stifling heat of clay ovens, and relative quiet. Cooks and scullions were absent, pans and chopping blocks abandoned to mount a defensive charge on the tap-room. As the smell of stewed onions ripped Dakar to redoubled nausea, Talvish laced forceful fingers in his damp shirt front and hauled him erect. ‘Speak! I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happening!’
The Mad Prophet swallowed back swimming sickness. ‘Run. Pull your rank.’ Clamped teeth and screwed eyes bought no respite from talent. More visions unhinged his senses. ‘Commandeer a hitched carriage, and quickly!’ The reeling onslaught hit hard and fast, and showed Sidir, again, hard-pressed to the wall by Duke Bransian’s guardsmen, and now bleeding from more than one sword-cut.
Dakar felt a belting slap sting his cheek. The blow scarcely fazed him. Talvish’s shout, and the blast of ice-water splashed on his face only left him belaboured and breathless. Dropped by an ache that skewered his chest like the fatal thrust of cold iron, he gasped through roaring darkness, ‘Send someone you trust to fetch Arithon, now! He’ll be with Elaira. If he’s laid down wards, break his door and demand his attention! His Grace must bring her and meet us, forthwith.’
‘Where, Dakar? Meet us where?’ The cry seemed to spiral away into nothing.
‘Jeynsa’s guest-chamber,’ groaned Dakar. ‘Quickly. Already, we may be too late.’ He forced his eyes open, to no avail, as the ceiling fell in and swallowed him.
The bout of oblivion broke, minutes later. Dakar surfaced, flat on his back, on the jouncing seat of an open wagon. Talvish loomed over him, spring-wound to pounce the instant he regained awareness.
Wracked by shuddering horror, Dakar sucked in bracing air. A last image barraged him, ruthlessly sharp. Mercifully, this time, his seared senses stayed clear. ‘Sidir’s taken a guardsman’s sword through the chest.’ He pushed off bracing hands and shoved upright, weeping in helpless urgency. ‘Just get me there. Fast! He is dying.’
Talvish turned his head, and spoke rapid orders. A driver’s whip cracked. In the reeling dark, the galloping cart-horses swerved in their traces. Dakar hung on. Through the rattle of swingle-trees and the jolt of iron wheel rims, the commandeered brewer’s wagon veered down a back alley.
‘We’re almost to the west tower!’ the field-captain reported, too much the veteran for hysteria. ‘Jeynsa’s quarters, you said? Was that instruction accurate?’
The Mad Prophet nodded, dizzied again as his runaway talent spiked lights through his eye-sockets.
‘Dharkaron’s thrown Spear!’ Talvish yanked him straight before he could faint. ‘What black-hearted mischief has wrecked tonight’s peace?’
Dakar shouldered the misery: no kind words existed for treacherous news. ‘The duke’s taken the Teiren’s’Valerient hostage, with intent to force Arithon’s hand.’
Late Autumn 5671
Jeopardy
Arithon guarded his privacy through the let-down that followed the performance done for Dame Dawr. Halliron’s example had taught him well: the deep receptivity required to channel his talent needed calm for recovery, and the fraught tension that gripped the citadel in war-time demanded more strict shielding, still. Therefore, his wardings enforced a peace he invited none but Elaira to cross. Since Kyrialt would not be moved from his steadfast watch at the downstairs portal, the guest tower’s ground-floor chamber was refurnished as quarters appointed for his use and Glendien’s.
The snug space above became Elaira’s still-room, with pine trestles cluttered with parchments and ink, mortar and pestle and brazier. The trunks and basketry hampers that stored her remed
ies infused the draughts from the stairwell with the perfume of balsam and herbals. That aromatic astringency sweetened the air in the bedchamber above, beneath the black beams of the eaves, where the wind against the latched shutters added traces of sea-salt and frost to the familiar scents of the healer: a melding of wintergreen, lavender, and chamomile; of bitter aloe and tannin and willow bark, which persistently clung to Elaira’s clothes.
Her hair harboured the same exotic mélange. Eyes half-lidded, her warm weight curled with her head rested against his chest, Arithon sifted the rich locks through his fingers with a touch of matchless tenderness. The long day begun by his pre-dawn arrival at last drew to a tranquil close.
‘There will be a solution,’ he murmured, since Elaira would not broach the subject. ‘Your Prime’s tyranny over us denies us our right to individual freedom upheld by the Major Balance.’
Elaira turned her cheek. Green eyes met velvet-grey, and exchanged deep communion, fired through by the flame of frustrated passion. Their discussion had already mapped the fixed obstacles. Had exhausted the obvious avenues, in those shattered, past hours of shared company at Halwythwood: that the Fellowship Sorcerers’ power to act in her behalf remained tied by the inexplicable choice of her personal quartz. Ath’s adepts had been first to unveil the riddle of the crystal’s self-made consent. Aligned to her with a persistence that posed an enigma, the stone’s willing consciousness, partnered to hers, kept it subservient to the Koriani Order. The stone pendant now rested in Selidie’s hands, a powerful game-piece that posed a consummate danger to any outside liaison.
Arithon smiled. The current of joy entrained through his music had not quite tapped out and gone dormant. ‘Patience hurts, I agree. But I won’t spoil the present.’ His thought held cold iron: after his promise to Jeynsa was honoured, the Prime Matriarch had best defend her interests. ‘There will be reprieve for us, though at the moment, our limited straits can’t imagine it.’
He bent his head then, melted her lips with a kiss that gave physical warmth and the keen signature of his emotion. The caress bestowed comfort, but was not yet matchless: not the grandiloquent melding of spirit all but consummated to explosive release three months ago in the night glade at Halwythwood.
Elaira locked her clasp over his loosened silk shirt. At least for tonight, they had each other. All cares could wait. She refused to let the need in her hunger chafe through the vital strength of his hope. His presence alone gifted her beyond words. She nestled close, while in sheer delight, he stroked her dark hair, auburn glints sparkling through his fingers.
In due time, unhurried, they would move on to bed, there to embrace what scant comfort their proscribed straits would allow before the night’s fitful sleep claimed them. Or would have, had Kyrialt’s step not raced up the outside stair.
The door opened, as quickly, without knock for warning, a departure for the young liegeman. Riled onto his feet, Arithon forgave the intrusion, which had been no thoughtless discourtesy.
Mearn’s lady huddled outside in her night-rail. White and shivering, she wore a field officer’s cloak draped over her slender shoulders. ‘Talvish sent me,’ Fianzia announced. ‘He said there’s been trouble. You’re both needed at once. Go directly to Jeynsa’s quarters.’
‘Where is your husband?’ Arithon asked, brisk, as he enfolded her chilled hands in his own and drew her inside his warmed room.
‘Mearn’s still at Dame Dawr’s,’ she replied, teeth chattering, while he sat her down in his vacated place at the fireside. There, he peeled off the cloak and made way for Elaira, who wrapped the bearing lady in blankets just stripped off the bed.
‘My dear, you shouldn’t be out in this state,’ the enchantress admonished, as healer. ‘Why didn’t you dispatch a servant?’
Fianzia shook her head, her blonde hair still disarranged from the pillow. ‘Talvish said not. For political expediency.’ Her enormous, bright eyes tracked Arithon’s expression, igniting his feverish concern. ‘The captain would not risk having a lackey stopped by the duke’s men on the way. You are to know Dakar’s suffered an augury that’s broached a matter of desperate urgency.’
‘Never mind who’s in crisis!’ Elaira snapped, shocked. ‘You aren’t going out again in this state, for the health of your unborn child!’
‘She’ll stay here,’ said Arithon, which settled the problem forthwith.
Elaira left the footstool to ease Fianzia’s swollen ankles, then snatched her wool over-dress out of the wardrobe. Since she was well-practised to act in emergencies, and more than swift, tying laces, Arithon stamped into his outdoor boots without pause to don leathers or jerkin.
‘Be comfortable, lady,’ he entreated Fianzia. ‘Take whatever you need. Glendien’s company will serve you as handmaid until tomorrow, when a closed carriage can come to collect you.’ Of the officer’s cloak, just tossed aside, he added, ‘This belongs to Talvish?’ At her nod, he slung on the garment himself. ‘If you please? The night’s cold enough that the captain won’t mind the opportune loan that returns it.’
Last thing, before leaving, he snatched up his Paravian sword and shouldered the strap of his bundled lyranthe. While Elaira raced downstairs to shove some emergency remedies into a satchel, Arithon closed the door firmly behind and gave rapid instruction to Kyrialt. ‘Stay here! Stand your guard and let none pass but Mearn! Until I’ve seen what’s pushed Talvish to risk underhand action, the Duke of Alestron himself shall be denied leave to know that the Lady Fianzia bides as our guest.’
* * *
The appalling wait ended. At long last, the patter of footsteps broke the quiet of the darkened stairwell. Not soldiers: these arrivals did not pack hobnailed boots or the metallic clangour of weaponry.
‘This should be help coming,’ Talvish reported, tautly poised at the threshold of Jeynsa’s violated guest-chamber. Since the spellbinder remained all too desperately engrossed, the encouragement died without answer. Alone, the field-captain advanced to the stair-head. The night beyond the punched slits of the arrow-loops gave back no cracking echoes of hooves pounding over the cobbles. No grind of iron cart-wheels disrupted the yard. Therefore, the imminent company had engaged no transport, but came at a sprint through the citadel streets. Friend or enemy, at least their approach was discreet.
Talvish gripped his sword, prepared to draw until, emerged out of shadow, below, a slight figure rushed upward, bearing a bundled lyranthe. ‘Arithon!’
‘Here!’ came the instant reply, in a questioning tone that asked volumes. ‘Elaira, also. The bearer you trusted to fetch us is safe, under auspice of Rathain’s protection.’
Talvish shut his eyes in relief, that the nuances of his jeopardized loyalty had not been overlooked. Then Teir’s’Ffalenn and Koriani enchantress reached the landing. Their breathless presence brought a blast of fresh air, whisked in from the cold, starry night. No chase had sent armoured men at their heels, since no signal distress disturbed Arithon’s features.
Now the moment had come, even seasoned nerves faltered. Talvish delivered his bad news with gut-sick reluctance. ‘Sidir’s inside, knocked down with a sword wound.’
‘Defending Jeynsa?’ Always, in the white pitch of a crisis, Arithon’s thought vaulted ahead. ‘Why?’
Seen up close, the field-captain’s hands were smeared scarlet. More tell-tale stains showed where he had tried to stanch gushing blood with the hem of his surcoat. ‘Bransian sent soldiers. They seized her on orders and took her by force.’
Stripped words left no doubt that the battle was lost, with naught left but the wreckage of aftermath: enough to speed Elaira’s step over the threshold; and more than Arithon required to guess that his forest liegeman’s condition was fatal. Above all, Sidir’s oathsworn service was true. Given strength, he still would be upright and fighting.
‘Keep our privacy, Talvish,’ Arithon appealed. ‘I’ve no words to reward your prompt action, except to lay down Rathain’s claim to your service if Bransian’s outstepped his title
d authority.’ A promise, that tonight’s abuse would be challenged, and that Talvish’s captaincy would have an honourable defence, pending a count of insurgency; the same direct kindness that, heart-felt and fierce, had inspired Sidir’s sterling sacrifice.
The accolade maddened, before cruel grief. Talvish snapped. ‘Go in and attend to your fallen!’
Crown rank imposed that dire obligation. Arithon visibly steeled harrowed nerves. The calm his spirit would never embrace forced a masterbard’s empathic discipline. Tears sprang unheeded down Talvish’s cheeks, as Rathain’s feal prince faced forward and entered the room.
Inside, the burdened air reeked of death. Across trammelled shadows, the flicker of flame-light painted a chamber in shambles: split chairs, a rucked blanket, an upset bench, and a smashed crockery pricket, scattered over the scars gouged by hobnails in the stained floor-boards. Here lay the bunched cloth of a man’s tumbled cloak. There, a dropped, clotted blade. Then, sprawled unmoving, the mailed bulk of three strangers’ bodies; Arithon stepped over the first, resolute. Savaged senses recorded the detail: the corpse had Jeynsa’s poniard struck through one wrist. A gleam of bright silver, clear in the gloom: he identified the hilt of Sidir’s hunting dagger sunk into the throat, above a citadel guard sergeant’s gorget.
Breath hitched in sharp dread, that the girl might have suffered an injury during the vehement course of resistance.
Talvish spoke, from behind, to stem frantic conjecture. ‘She’s surely alive! Snatched for leverage. Bransian’s men should have kept their strict orders not to retaliate.’
‘She’s not hurt,’ affirmed Arithon. His blood oath, set for her protection in Halwythwood, had not triggered his inner alarms. Sad fact stung afresh: her choice not to grant reciprocity meant he could not reach out, or touch on her mind, or sound with his talent for more direct answers. Clean ethics denied him. Trust in the moment was all he had, that no harm had yet overtaken her.