Grand Conspiracy: Second Book of The Alliance of Light

Set into the layered weave of the wood, a cameo cut from milk porcelain, an ancient beech flagged Asandir’s attention. The roots grasped the earth in an embrace that felt boundless and mighty as time, and the limbs framed a vaulted arch for the pearlescent sky. Asandir paused. He gave the old tree his intent, sweeping survey, as if the unveiling powers of his mage-sight would decode the manifest of its destiny in Ath’s primal language of sound and light.

This beech he knew from all other beeches, and it was not the one tree that he probed for: the giant that guarded the heart strength of Caithwood, whose prodigious endowment would be masked and cherished, kept hidden like a cached treasure. Ties of loyalty would reside in this tree as well, and for the ingrained pride of its kind, it would not lightly unveil the trust of its sovereign’s identity.

Asandir untied the tether rope knotted to his mount’s neck and secured the animal to a deadfall. The horse had long since grown accustomed. Too shrewd to expend restless energy, it tipped one shaggy hoof, slanted a hip, and shut its eyes, relaxed to the point where its lower lip dangled. The Sorcerer was not fooled. He was careful to stay well clear of its heels as he settled himself in damp moss. There, he reclined, with his head cradled amid the branching divide where the trunk of the beech engaged its splayed grip on the earth. He, too, shut his eyes, but not to subside into sleep.

Instead, he embraced the dream of the tree, stately, slow, a step in four attenuated beats that marched to the change in the seasons. He drifted there, an immersion into a peace so beguiling, danger lurked for the unwary. The thick crawl of sap lay far removed from the pulse of a red-blooded heartbeat; recast to the dance of a rooted perception, the endurance of a winter’s freezing winds became as poisonously gentle as a soundless, caressing fall of snow. All threads of human personality could unravel, lulled into forgetful slumber, and then drawn into deep coma that would spiral beyond the threshold that marked life from death. A mind trained to power embraced at its peril the engulfing, staid majesty of the greenwood.

The Fellowship Sorcerer took precautions and wove a small spell as an anchoring link to the sun. Should he lose his purpose and drift into languor, too much at one with the sugared tides of sap that subsided below ground for winter, the advent of nightfall would recall him. Earth’s shadow would snap that frail linkage. A jarring cry of dissonance would run through his nerves as that binding gave way into chaos.

Should he fail to harken, his bones might be found, clutched at length in the ingrown embrace of the beech. His mind would be absorbed, welded into the current of dreaming that made up the leafed weaving of Caithwood.

Asandir let go of awareness without hesitation, without fear, with no marring note of unease. He immersed his whole being into the slipstream of life that was the joined multitude, root, trunk, and bough, that comprised the forest of south Tysan. In fullest command of all that he was, unencumbered by barriers that would cloud true perception, he became at one with the gnarled old beech.

The dream claimed him wholly. He was knotted root, tasting the mineral-rich darkness of earth. He was leaves, speaking the summer’s endless, whispered promise of tranquillity. In the grasp of winter’s gales, he was bare branch and twig, drumming the untamed tempo of the elements. He was pollen, sifted under spring sunlight, and the spanging snap of bitter frosts. The old beech’s memory extended like fog past the dawn of Athera’s Third Age.

Beneath the layering of the tree’s individuality ran the currents that interlinked its being with its neighbors; and theirs, to their neighbors, until the forest’s webbed consciousness extended its reach to encompass the far borders of the wood. Asandir rode that tranquil sea of soft whispers, loomed from the speech of blown leaves in the wind, and braided amid the gossamer filaments of root hairs. He sensed flowing water, and the tidal pull of the moon; the warm, flooding canopy of sunlight. He knew the blind, reaching growth of the acorn, and the ground-shaking fall of the elder trunk, claimed by rampaging tempest. The lives of the trees entangled in dream like the trackless silence of owl flight.

Deeper, the flow of arboreal awareness lost its seamless, broad fabric of communion. A directional tide stirred the fathomless depths, spiraling outward in tacit connection with the mystery that encompassed Ath’s creation. Within that singing band of unity, Asandir found the signature he sought, encoded in language of sound and light, and steeped in the gentle nurture that was the wise province of trees.

He knew the wood’s heart, the given Name for the patriarch tree whose great presence could be called to awaken the dream of the forest, and make its form manifest in the minds of animate beings. Granted the key he required to arrange for the defense of Caithwood, the Sorcerer withdrew his consciousness. A whispered act of will freed him back into separation. Such was his care, he left no disturbed ripple to mar the transmission of spirit language. Within the core wisdom of everlasting silence, that ageless current passed yet on the unquiet air, leaf to leaf, tree to tree; and sky to earth at the behest of sun’s fire and cloud’s rain.

Autumn 5653

Handfasting

Seventy-five leagues northward, far removed from the chill of woodland nightfall in Taerlin, candlelight rinsed the carpeted chamber where the oldest daughter of the Lord Elect of Erdane perched on a brocade stool. Her lush skirts spilled a lake of pale rose silk and gilt trim around her primly crossed ankles. Walnut hair fanned over her shoulders, combed into a shining cascade of warmth by the lady’s maid who attended her.

‘Oh, Ellaine, to be so fortunate!’ From a nearby stuffed chair, with a pert, dimpled chin perched on cupped palms, her younger sister mused on, ‘Having a prince ask for your hand in marriage! I could burst from the excitement.’

The tortoiseshell comb slid, streaking sparks of static in the dry air, while the candle’s rinsed glow raised Ellaine’s skin to a flush and glinted off lips like ripe peaches.

The sister’s spun fantasy gushed on through bright hopes and girlish dreams. ‘You’ll go to Avenor and wear diamonds and ermine, and we will all die of envy.’

‘The contract’s just signed,’ Ellaine contradicted in her sweet, retiring alto. While the maid tipped her head to run the comb at Ellaine’s nape, her muffled voice showed apprehension. ‘A thousand things could go wrong.’

Her thoughts skittered and fled like dropped pearls. She tried not to think of the horse with the blue-and-gold trappings just arrived, with a train of liveried attendants. The turmoil of their stabling still upset the evening calm of the yard. Dogs barked in the streets. Every hall in the mayor’s mansion reechoed with the fast-paced dialect of strangers. Ellaine’s damp fingers clamped in her swathed lap. Belowstairs, her mother and father stood to receive the royal suit and exchange courtly courtesies until the moment of her formal presentation.

‘You could worry yourself silly!’ A moue on her cupid lips, the younger sister masked a giggle as the maid crossed her line of view. ‘The trade guilds would scarcely see you lose such a prize! Father’s done nothing but count the coin for your dowry for at least the past six weeks. Believe it. You’re going to stop hearts.’ The maid gathered up the smoothed waves of hair and deftly separated the shining mass into neat strands for braiding. ‘You’re not thinking of shaming us all by throwing a scene as he meets you?’

Ellaine swallowed. ‘No.’ Erdane was no eastland city, to encourage its women to bold acts of freedom and independence. ‘But you know there will be unkind comparisons drawn.’

She would not speak the name of Lysaer’s first princess, who had been Etarran, beautiful and proud and spirited as a wild lioness. During her winter’s stay at the palace of Erdane’s mayor, the girls had known Lady Talith well enough to measure her mettle. She had made no secret of her penchant for the blood sport of palace intrigue. Small good her rebellious intelligence had done her in the end; even her sharpened wit had become eclipsed by the Prince of the Light’s blinding majesty.

The maid’s firm fingers braided Ellaine’s hair, unconcerned, as the sisters took stock of the recent tragedy that cast a dampening chill on the hour’s anticipation. The late Princess of Avenor now lay six months dead, a suicide who had plunged from the high tower battlement that fronted her husband’s hall of state.

‘She was barren and in despair,’ the younger girl insisted, while the maid’s efforts bundled her sister’s dark tresses in consoling, brisk tugs that pulled at her small furrows of worry. ‘All you need do is give the prince heirs. You’ll wear pearls and fine gowns and be comfortable for the rest of your life.’

Other benefits remained politely unspoken, that Ellaine’s promised marriage would also bring Erdane the strength of Lysaer’s royal protection. The city would claim the prince’s defense against the machinations of the Master of Shadow, and also a field-trained division of sunwheel troops to secure the trade roads through Camris.

The indolent young sister lifted no hand to help as the maid stretched and caught up the silk cord for tying: dusky rose, to match the dress, wound in twisted gilt threads for strong accent, and tasseled with a dropped spray of pearls. She laced its rich length through the end of the braid, then coiled the magnificent, shining rope into a headdress to crown Ellaine’s heart-shaped face. Elaborate grooming did not settle her nerves. Refined brows and doe eyes flickered in trepidation as a foot page tapped at the doorway.

‘His Lordship the Elect asks that the Lady Ellaine come down for the presentation.’

‘Stop frowning, you goose!’ teased the sister. ‘And leave off measuring yourself against Lady Talith. You don’t keep forward habits. Nor do you delight in ambushing old, scarred captains at arms in their bathtubs. You won’t gad about playing fire with politics, or get yourself abducted by a sorcerer.’

The maid patted down the last wisp of strayed hair. She garnished the piled glory of coiled braid with a gold-and-ruby pin, her earthbound steadiness in contrast to the sister’s girlish trills of excitement. ‘What will you do but have beautiful, strong babes for the realm? If you dare throw a tantrum, be sure I’ll run ahead of you, begging to go in your place!’

That won the small, bowed ghost of a smile, and a loosening of clammy fingers. Ellaine arose. The pearls on the gold-and-rose ribbon dangled jauntily down the determined line of her back. Primped to a crescendo of magnificent good looks, and finished in the exacting deportment expected of the daughter of a westland city mayor, she dredged up a playful wink for her sister that unveiled the thoughtful, inner fiber of her courage. ‘You shan’t go in my place. If our father wishes me to wed royalty, I’ll find the grace somewhere to make the best of the prosperity bestowed on our family.’

The younger sibling laughed, adoring as she watched the maid smooth and arrange the folds of the magnificent rose dress. ‘Well, I’ll just have no choice but to stay home and wilt from sheer awe.’ She levered herself out of her nest of upholstery, kissed her sister’s cheek, and whispered her most sincere wish for good luck and happiness.

‘Thanks. I’ll need everything.’ Ellaine sucked in a final, deep breath, then sailed out the door and descended the long, curving stair to the salon.

The man who awaited her presence was dressed in shining silk in royal colors, and cosseted in her father’s best chair. His lean hand curled on the stem of a glass of Falgaire crystal. As he smiled his appreciation for the quality of the vintage, he turned his gray head; and Ellaine paused, consternation masked behind manners. This was not the vigorous, fair-haired prince she had been led to expect.

Dry-skinned, sallow, and elderly, the rail-thin Seneschal of the Realm arose on stilt legs. He set the wine flute aside, while her father spoke her name and beckoned her forward. Avenor’s aged envoy accepted her offered hand, his grasp cold and dry as he recited a prepared speech of welcome and acceptance. ‘His Grace, the Lord Prince of the Light, sends his most sincere regrets. He has a war campaign to wind down in the wilds of Caithwood, and an inspection of the shipyard at Riverton overdue since the closing of summer.’ The royal official blinked pouched, hound’s eyes, apologetic and stiff, no doubt recalling the past princess’s lightning wit, and the abrasive fight she had raised each time conflict arose with the Shadow Master’s allies.

Soft civility before her predecessor’s razored style, the Lady Ellaine masked her personal disappointment behind the decorum of her upbringing. She did not interrupt, but listened in patience as the seneschal finished his delivery. ‘The safety of the realm must come before his Grace’s preference and pleasure, as my lady must understand, who will become his crowned consort in the royal seat at Avenor.’

Ellaine endured the seneschal’s bony, chapped clasp and dipped into a flawless curtsy. ‘His Grace is excused. Please extend him my heartfelt wishes for a swift close to the strife in south Tysan.’

‘He has sent the traditional gift in token of his regard.’ The seneschal snapped his fingers. The page boy posted by the door stepped forward, bearing the royal offering.

She accepted the gold-edged coffer with shy grace and opened the lid. The inside was lined with damascened silk, and a plush velvet cushion. Against the shadow-soft nap, the sudden dazzle of gemstones cast back sliced light like a cry. Ellaine murmured polite thanks for the gift, a diamond-and-sapphire pendant hung on a massive chain of roped pearls. Though the piece was an emphatic exhibition of wealth, a male statement of property sent by a prince to mark his personal claim, her smile to the page boy was genuine. ‘Would you help with the clasp?’

The boy bowed, obedient, the gold fastening easy work for his admiring hands. The scintillant, dark jewel and sharp fire of the diamond lay too hard, too weighty against the delicate rose-and-gilt gown. Yet the girl handled herself well under the yoke of the twisted pearl chain. ‘Tell the prince I am pleased.’

Her father stepped in, his thanks more effusive, while the mother whisked her daughter away like the cosseted asset she had become. Erdane’s ambition and welfare would rise on her ability to pleasure Avenor’s prince. The Seneschal of the Realm accepted the hospitality of the mayor’s mansion, the discomfort that lingered after duty was discharged smoothed over in smiles and diplomacy.

The lady handfasted to wed the Prince of the Light in the month after spring solstice was a sweet child, with skin creamy rich as a white, summer peach, and sloe eyes like melted chocolate. Yet for all her unspoiled beauty and innocence, she was no match for the sultry wit of her late predecessor.

Lysaer’s political choice was too evident: the wife selected to bear Tysan’s royal heir was a biddable broodmare, not a mate who could stand as an equal partner in his cause to destroy the Master of Shadow. The nuptials to come would not interfere with his formal promise. The Prince of the Light had sworn to cleanse Athera of the tyrannies perpetuated by the Fellowship’s compact and to eradicate the practice of sorcery. True to sovereign integrity, after Talith’s embarrassments, he had ensured that no spirited wife would swerve him from the pursuit of his chosen destiny.

Autumn 5653

Triangle

Ivel the blind splicer rubbed his nose with the back of a horny fist, eyes rolled like fogged marbles toward the impatient presence of the Riverton yard’s master shipwright. He spat, then resumed tying an endsplice into a hawser. With rankling sarcasm, he said, ‘Should we bathe? Clean our teeth?’ Rope plies whipped into herringbones under flying, competent fingers as Ivel bared his gapped teeth in a grin of challenging mockery. ‘Or should we just sweep up the shavings so his Grace’s velvets won’t soil? Personally, someone should shoulder the broom so we don’t pain our knees when we grovel.’

The gripe concerned the scheduled royal inspection. Granted Ivel’s natural penchant for mischief, the comment’s disastrous timing was aimed to reap a storm of agonized embarrassment.

Feet planted in the scrolled flakes of spruce that blew like shed leaves from the sawpits, the burly master shipwright he tormented was no man’s easy mark. Cattrick maintained his cast-iron calm as naturally as he drew breath. Clad in his best scarlet cloak against the winds that foreran the change of the season, he matched the splicer’s wicked thrust with his own stamp of spiteful courtesy. ‘With all due respect, I must leave your question to the voice of higher authority.’

Goading on Ivel’s insolent disregard for rank, the yard’s master added, ‘That’s presupposing his Grace cares to answer a commoner’s impertinence in the first place.’

Stonewalled behind a laborer’s grave deference, Cattrick bowed to the glittering royal person, just arrived with his guard and his retinue for his long-deferred tour of the shipyard.

Ivel slapped his knee, the report of his callused palm like a whipcrack. ‘Hah! I thought as much! Anybody who hasn’t got the healthy stink o’ tar is bound to wear jewels and airs. So that’s his exalted self, the Prince of the Light, standing stiff-backed and pompous beside you?’