Destiny’s Conflict: Book Two of Sword of the Canon

Shiny white, the old knot of scar tissue exposed to the rush-light. Apologetic, Arithon freed her shocked grasp. “I’ve no past and no future where you are concerned. Wiser for you to remember that.”

Yet the gathered probabilities of Sethvir’s earth-sense foreshadowed no simple release from his tacit engagement and no turning away. Bred to heal fractious conflict in whatever form, and royally gifted with the insight to forge unity between Mankind’s wayward factions and the mystical presence of Athera’s Paravians, Arithon could not resist his born nature or callously force disentanglement.

A snarling blast of frigid wind yanked the Warden’s distanced awareness back to Althain Tower.

“The hussy is pregnant!” Kharadmon snapped. Two shelved books toppled and smacked into the floor, while precipitate moisture crackled and froze under his ferocious outburst. “Not by Arithon, either, mark that!”

Sethvir caught the whip-cracked ends of his beard and peered through the gyre of snowflakes. “Two days ago, yes. I observed the conception. The woman is bearing the dead trapper’s get.”

“Our prince can’t ascertain that!” Kharadmon fumed.

Which nailed the strategic quandary behind Vivet’s attempted seduction. Sethvir kept his own counsel. Nothing could be salvaged. The Prime’s aimed directive ascertained the by-blow’s paternity would stay blurred until the misfortunate birth.

More, the discorporate tempest of Kharadmon’s rage already vaulted beyond that festering obstacle. “You suggest the Prime’s long-term desire seeks to breed the latent talent from Dari s’Ahelas’s line of descent? Then why hasn’t Selidie fashioned a second campaign aimed at Lysaer s’Ilessid?”

“I can’t say that she won’t; although at the moment, Lysaer’s better guarded.” Quick to divert Kharadmon’s inquisitive prodding, Sethvir pounced with the gambit. “You have Davien’s unlicensed genius to thank since the bold masquerade he staged for Daliana just made Selidie’s prospects immeasurably more difficult.”

Predictably nettled, and roundly upstaged, the discorporate Sorcerer abandoned debate, blew out the latched shutter, and blustered away on his assigned errand.

Summer 5923

Machinations

The three-storey merchant’s house Lysaer rented for residence in East Bransing fronted the bustle of Broad Street, where the port town raised by Mankind encroached upon the Second Age sea-wall, and the crescent breakwater erected by Paravian masons once protected the delicate, moored boats of Sunchildren. No ruin remained of the rope ferry that had crossed the river at the harbour’s inlet. The present-day view from the upstairs casements showed a jumble of sandstone and brick shops stacked against the grade of a cobbled street. The eaves of the tenements notched pleated silhouettes against the tarred rigging that cross-hatched the quay-side. Square built of grim, Blackshear granite, the mansion lacked filigree rails and tiled galleries. Only plain cornices brightened with whitewash inflected its genteel elegance.

Inside, the décor was antique and restrained, the comforts of the gentleman’s chambers served by fusty staff corridors and backstairs with scuffed treads.

Servants came with the house. The master’s privacy was guarded by a tyrannical steward, which stymied a newcomer without proper references, attached from the street at his Lordship’s whim.

Called by Dace Marley, the elderly fellow was viewed askance as an opportune pilferer. Tasked with the kitchen staff under the sharp-eyed cook, Dace endured the smirks that implied no upright valet ever dirtied his hands. Decency should drive off a true man of quality before he stooped to sweating buckets, or lugging the butcher’s cuts for the spit.

Since the Fellowship’s mandate left no slack for snobbery, Dace rose to his wretched lot, swearing.

“His nibs wants you run out, mark my word,” the cook confided with smug hypocrisy. Given a diligent worker in place of the indolent lad, Quince, just unsuitably promoted to the gentleman’s chamber, the man swiped his greasy hands on his apron, and added, “My fuel bin’s low. Get me split hardwood, mind! None of that rubbish pine kindling for cheap. A pitch fire in the stove chimney could burn down the house.”

Dace stifled comment and shouldered the sling. Such mean errands let him survey the town and sift through gossip in the market. A servant in livery might tally the numbers of armoured dedicates in their white surcoats unnoticed, or spy upon True Sect diviners and priests.

Buffeted in the raucous midday street, through the hawkers and seamen on shore leave, Dace also took soiled linens daily to be laundered, then packed the sopped load back in baskets to be dried and pressed by the maid. Jostled by tradesmen and chandlers, snubbed by the factors’ lackeys, he lugged wicker cages of hens from the market to slaughter, then collected them, headless and dripping. Homeward bound, stung by pebbles shied by the dock rats who loafed and cut purses, he ducked into shelter behind the customs shed.

His frustration did not signify against the stakes if he failed. By luck or through infighting, he must raise his station before fate’s stacked hand, or The Hatchet, fomented another disaster.

Yet patience cost dearly. His tiresome days began before dawn, first trip to the well made amid the racketing drays hauling cargo downhill to the docks. Toil finished late, the last buckets drawn for the master’s bath lugged under the guttering lamps, through the raucous drunks’ laughter. Shouts pierced the dark as the harbour watch cracked belligerent heads, and the town’s rag and salvage men scurried for patsy’s pence, paid to finger the malcontents ousted from the shoreside taverns.

The lot were tossed in the gaol and fined, or else handed off to an out-bound ship, one silver for the comatose and upwards to ten for the most obstreperous.

While the water-front’s seamy rambunctiousness tried nerves that no one had cause to suspect, Dace continued to black Lysaer’s boots. Even that lowly service inflamed the steward’s ambitious distrust.

Pouched eyes slitted, the cook volunteered, “Mark me, one slip will see you washing the pots alongside my gutter-snipe scullions.”

Dace doused his resentment. As the vindictive bone caught between rivals, he stood his ground, forced to watch the back postern and guard his Lordship’s interests from belowstairs.

Lysaer liked his pressed shirts stored in camphor, with collar and sleeve points unlaced. He eschewed scented candles. His fastidious taste preferred sheets without starch and the luxury of warmed towels. Royal bearing rebuffed intimacy. He received both petitioners and guests upon formal terms, summoning them from the front foyer for audience in the vaulted sitting-room.

Which rigid etiquette exposed the muffled stranger, slipped in through the pre-dawn fog by way of the servants’ door. The house steward stalked like a furtive crow from the unlit pantry. He dismissed the scullion slicing the bacon and chased off the harried maid eating her breakfast. A murmured exchange saw the unannounced visitor ushered upstairs. Yet the fellow bore no parcel sent from the tailor’s; no evident reason for intimate business conducted in the master’s chambers.

Unnoticed behind the loom of the wash-tub, Dace shed his emptied yoke buckets and snatched wax and rub rag from the broom closet. He dodged the cheeky scullion who snitched and nipped up the backstairs on the pretence of buffing his Lordship’s boots.

This hour, the dressing-room should be empty, street-side curtains drawn before sunrise. Yet light flickered through the cracked-open door from a sconce on the marble-topped mantel. Past the master’s stuffed chairs, the wardrobe’s lacquered doors were flung wide, the fine clothing apparently under inspection. Prone to sea-side mildew, the velvets were often brushed out and aired, though usually under the afternoon sun, and never before the mist lifted. The steward himself hovered by his Lordship’s closed study. Dour features pinched into a thunderbolt frown, he eavesdropped, while Quince’s coarse handling set creases into the master’s best jacket.

Dace suppressed Daliana’s madcap grin. Threatened with demotion to the scullery anyway, he lost little by kicking the hornet’s nest. Rag and tinned wax abandoned, he barged in, and grabbed the boy by a jug-handle ear.

Quince squealed in surprise.

The steward gestured with bilious dismay, frantic to forestall a disruption of the private dialogue on-going inside his Lordship’s shut chamber.

“Bumbling fool!” Dace let fly, oblivious. “What do you think you are doing?”

While the idiot boy squirmed, coarse fists wringing the disputed velvet, Dace rebuked, “Have you no care for costly fabric?”

The thwarted steward bristled. “Get out! Straightaway. Await me in the kitchen!”

Dace rebelled, snatched the jacket, and indignantly whisked at the furrowed nap. “A shameful disgrace, to assign an oaf to tend his Lordship’s garments.”

Which noisy effrontery brutalized protocol. The door to the study banged open. Lysaer filled the entry, from brushed-gold hair to fawn breeches radiating mortified affront. “Take your servant’s quarrel elsewhere.”

The steward temporized, “They’ll both go, milord. I’ll just tidy this mess.”

“You’ll all leave as you’re told!” Lysaer snapped, indifferent to his debased clothing.

Discomposed as a vulture chased off a carcass, the steward had no choice but to scuttle along with his chastened underlings.

Dace feared more than the haughty man’s enmity, stoked to avenge the shameful embarrassment. Instinct had not erred. His impetuous glimpse through the study door showed the stranger’s doffed cloak, draped over a chair. Unveiled, the gilt braid and white vestments that had been concealed underneath. Badges differentiated the Sunwheel priests. Lysaer’s secretive visitor likely came as an inside informant, positioned amid the ranked hierarchy of the True Sect Temple.

Disadvantaged, disgraced, Dace jockeyed to outpace the punitive speed of event. He elbowed past the grumbling Quince, reached the kitchen ahead of the irate steward, and reclaimed his discarded yoke buckets. Luck deserted him as the blindsided cook hounded him in reprisal.

“Larking off, were you? D’you think I’m a fool? Mooners who squat over-long in the privy cut no slack with me. I’ve sent Manda after the water. You’ll fetch her dust-bin and shovel, forthwith. On with you, then! Clean out the grate in the sitting-room fire-place.”

Dace tossed the implements into the ash bucket and bolted, before the steward burst in and sacked him on the spot without pay.

The sitting-room’s drawn curtains plunged the room’s marquetry furnishings into airless stillness and gloom. Spared in brief reprieve, Dace crossed the vacant carpet to the mantel and knelt in despair on the marble apron.

Davien had warned that his course would be harsh. A moment’s impatience may have wrecked his best chance to temper Lysaer’s cursed nature. Bent to a scullion’s task, Dace shovelled up cinders and swore. “Ath above, what I’d give to uncover the report delivered by that slinking spy!”

An intrusive movement flickered in the shadow behind. Dace started, head turned, fearful he had been followed. Yet he encountered no flesh-and-blood presence. Only the fugitive impression of Kharadmon, dapper in lace cuffs and velvet, a sardonic finger touched to his lips.

The room still loomed empty. Frowning, returned to the ash in his dust-bin, Dace beheld a perfect red rose, there and gone in an eyeblink. Two such apparitions were not prompted by nerves. Stilled in thought, Dace picked up the faint sound of voices funnelled through the flue from the master suite’s upstairs fire-place.

In hindsight, the cook’s remedial punishment suggested the sly meddling of a Fellowship shade.