Fugitive Prince: First Book of The Alliance of Light

Worse, far worse, if such maiming defense had not immolated those truncated fragments. Laced still in shared contact, Sethvir masked dismay. Those severed shreds of Traithe’s consciousness might well still exist. If they had survived the cautery of conflict, they would live in the clutch of the wraiths which devoured them. That lost essence of self could be nowhere else but mewed up under the deranging vibrations of the wards over Rockfell Pit. The chance was too real, that Traithe’s hope of healing lay imprisoned with the Mistwraith’s stew of warped spirits.

The Warden of Althain snapped his fine band of rapport. Cast free of Traithe’s blinkered awareness, he shivered. The ordinary dark of the King’s Chamber enfolded him, its brimstone tang of spent carbon commingling with the faded fragrance of the herbs that kept moths from spoiling the heraldic banners. Sweat drenched him. A bone-deep dread compounded his earlier heartache.

He scarcely dared move, lest Traithe be led to sense something amiss and begin a distressed round of questions.

“Get some rest,” Sethvir urged, amazed that his voice should still function. He managed no more. The devastating scope of his findings overcame him, and pity closed his throat like poured lead.

While Traithe relieved the ache of his scars in sleep on a cot in the wardroom, the other four Fellowship Sorcerers in residence gathered in the cushioned nook off the pantry.

The unwelcome impact of Sethvir’s discovery had spun into brittle silence.

Asandir’s charcoal eyebrows met above his hawk nose. Seated at a deal table grayed with old rings left by flowerpots, he plowed the last crumbs from an oatcake into mazes of meaningless lines. In the window seat opposite, feet tucked up on a tapestry stool leaking horse-hair stuffing in tufts, Althain’s Warden peered into the dregs of a much chipped earthenware pot. A mug turned for a sunchild’s proportions sat clasped between his knobby knees. Sethvir found nothing useful to say. The tracks between soggy clumpings of tea leaves held no remedy to heal Traithe’s affliction.

“How often ignorance stings less than knowledge,” Asandir said at last.

By then, a wintery aquamarine dusk tinted the room’s makeshift casement. Hoarfrost tendriled the bottle-thick rondels, crudely set into leading and mortar to seal the aperture of an arrow loop. Failing light glinted on the diamond inset in some forgotten aristocrat’s fancy table knife. The bone handle had yellowed, and a blade lapsed to tarnish wore butter in undignified smears. Nearby, a tin spoon stuck upright in the bubbled glass jar of a farmwife’s elderberry jam.

A current of cold out of phase with the season prowled the rim of the table. “What does dung do in a byre but get deeper?” remarked Kharadmon’s drifting presence.

To stall his rank flippancy, Luhaine spoke from the niche between the rococo cupboards of the larder. “If Traithe’s chance of healing is linked with the quandary of Desh-thiere’s damned wraiths, in horrid fact, we’re left with a dearth of alternatives.”

“Just the sort of crux in a chess game to drive logicians and theorists to fits.” Kharadmon crossed the window in a puff of miffed agitation. “We might be advised to set calming wards to safeguard your sanity as precaution.”

“How belated,” Luhaine retorted. “I’d sooner go mad from your incessant, childish inanities!”

Kharadmon blew back a raspberry. “Leave things to you, we’d hear you pontificate ‘til the fish in the sea become fossils.”

Long since inured to old spats between shades, Asandir twiddled crumbs, and Sethvir pondered tea leaves, each one immersed in perturbed quiet. None cared to broach the difficult quandary, that Traithe’s tragic predicament made the cursed princes’ lives all the more indispensable. Their elemental mastery of shadows and light could be needed to sort through the Mistwraith’s damned entities. The outlook on that future stayed unremittingly grim, with Arithon half-deranged by the pinch of s’Ffalenn conscience, and named as a hunted criminal; and Lysaer s’Ilessid poised to launch holy war under threat of Paravian judgment.

Traithe’s raven fluffed obsidian feathers from the keystone over the doorway, while Luhaine intoned arch opinion. “There could be a benefit to this day’s bad work. A reprieve might arise out of darkness, if Lysaer’s aberration of prime law would draw the Paravians out of hiding to denounce him.”

“No grace remains for discussion in any case.” Sethvir raised his nose from the dregs of his tea mug, his mood diffused into vagary. “We’ve got company. Morriel Prime’s just arrived at the gates to demand our immediate audience.”

Demand (#ulink_32a2b9ca-bfe4-5eed-abb9-4dde2df85002)

Winter Solstice 5649

Winter gloaming cloaked the sedges, and the raked, brown stalks of dry weed heads flattened to the gusts that sheared off the Bittern Desert. At the edge of the dunelands, under sky like translucent enamel, Althain Tower reared up in blunt contour, spidery runners of ivy and splotched lichens clotted to its southern side. Morriel Prime worked age-stiffened joints through the snipped-off fingers of her gloves. Swathed under layers of thick, hooded cloaks, she drew a deep breath of the knifing, cold air, and quashed back a riptide of old rage.

Koriani feud with the Fellowship of Seven had lasted since Third Age Year One.

Behind her, fidgety amid the slurry of mud and rimed ruts which seized the stone flags by the gate arch, her young deaf-mute servant stared with his mouth slacked open. No other but Iyan attended her. Too much power and too many secrets lay housed at Althain Tower. Mortals who asked a Sorcerer’s hospitality were wont to reemerge changed, since the impacting force of a Fellowship presence was too heady to encounter without sparking an altered perception. No enchantress dared count herself exempt. Despite the strict code of the initiate’s oath, Elaira’s faulted faith in the Koriani Order had stemmed from just one illicit talk with Asandir.

Morriel sized up the massive grilled portal, impenetrable before her high arts. That irritation galled her with surprising ferocity. Learned as she was, disciplined in the mysteries and dedicated as fine steel in her convictions, even still, the spelled wards on the gates lay outside her means to command. Seals conformed in dire forces unsettled her attuned senses. The ache of them raised bone-stripping twinges from the longevity bindings laid in live currents through her flesh.

In the moan of winter winds, under a zenith deepened to fathomless cobalt, the thorny coil of past event transferred its harsh sting to the present.

Morriel cupped the wrapped Waystone against her breast, the grip of her left hand white knuckled to secure her cloak against the gusts. Althain’s defenses had endured for unnatural centuries, the length of an age before a destitute humanity had embarked on its flight to seek refuge. While spacefaring civilization had torn itself apart in a dog pack scrap over the bones of its fallen greatness, the Fellowship of Seven had maintained an isolate residence on Athera.

Whoever they had been, whatever their unrevealed origin, they chose this place for their work. During the Second Age, they had turned the bloody tides in the Paravian conflict against the ravening packs of drake spawn. Rescued from near extinction, the old races had survived to see peace on their overlooked and uncharted little world.

No such enclave of wise powers had intervened to champion mankind’s beleaguered decline.

Amid the suffering and the atrocities of humanity’s Armageddon, the Koriani Order had been founded to resist the collapse of higher culture. Their purpose had been to perpetuate mercy, while other specious, greedy factions waged war, and burned a priceless heritage to ashes.

What fragmented knowledge remained to be salvaged hung on the brink of being lost beyond all recovery. Morriel confronted the fast sanctuary at Althain, her mood like fired obsidian. Too many of her predecessors had begged these same Sorcerers for help. Each matriarch had been unconditionally refused. Now, when her own term of office neared its end, the current Prime shouldered the more demeaning errand of petitioning for power that was hers.

The necessity ignited a rage of bitter vintage. She alone guarded access to the imprinted memories of every Prime Matriarch to live before her. To Morriel, sole protector of mankind’s banished history, the green earth here was no refuge, but a prison kept warded by tyranny.

At the dawn of the Third Age, when the refugee survivors arrived to beg asylum, the Fellowship of Seven claimed no pretense. They were sworn to guard the land by Paravian law. If mankind would settle, the culture that shaped them must be set aside to keep accord with indigenous tradition. Such were the terms drawn into the compact, for which the Fellowship Sorcerers stood surety.

The Koriani, with their mission of merciful protection, were lent no voice in that council. Tolerance might argue that today’s Prime Enchantress should rise above the outworn grievance of the past. Yet the burden bequeathed by her office was too heavy. Time left her weary of the proscribed knowledge she sheltered, records that might only be passed on to the precarious charge of a successor.

Althain Tower’s stark dignity only mocked her in that bone-hurting, chill winter twilight, monument that it was against all that time or attrition might erase.

Morriel trembled as the old flare of rage stirred her blood. Truth fed her temper. Behind this locked portal lay power enough to grow past this world’s horizon, to restore at one stroke all the shining civilization her predecessors had labored to save; and lost. The accumulated wisdom of those centuries was dispersed, or else confined beyond recovery by the bucolic bounds of a compact sworn by seven Sorcerers in behalf of three vanished races.

The moment was past, to mourn, or waver, or regret. Morriel came to do battle on Fellowship ground, armed with naught else but her righteous indignation and the exhausted rags of her faith.

The clank of a windlass heralded the moment her arrival drew notice. Counterweighted chain reverberated inside the sealed archway as the innermost defenses were winched open. Then firm footfalls echoed through the vaults of the sally port, and the heavy, barred gate cracked open. Asandir’s craggy profile jutted through the gap, behind the lowered grate of the portcullis.

“Sethvir bids you welcome to Althain Tower,” he called, then challenged in chisel-cut bluntness, “He invites you for tea and specific conversation concerning an arrow let fly three years past by Duke Bransian s’Brydion in Vastmark.”

Morriel released a laugh of bloodletting satisfaction, waved Iyan forward, and rasped her reply. “You may tell Sethvir, I accept.”

The unveiled presence of the Great Waystone flicked violet lights across the litter of empty plates and the glass sides of the jam crock not yet tidied from the table. The lone member of the Prime’s entourage felt comfortably at home. Iyan perched in the window seat with his knees drawn up, contentedly licking traces of elderberry off of the stamped tin spoon. The more elegant butter knife, cleaned the same way, remained in the possessive grasp of the other ham fist hooked to his cross-gartered shin.

Sethvir approved the deaf-mute’s simplistic pleasures, his smile all childish innocence. The bearded, sprite’s features veiled in the steam which wafted off a fresh tea mug held no guile. As a host he had been faultlessly attentive, and yet, the sparkle to his eyes warned of wayward refusal to address the major talisman Morriel had presented before him.

To her stripped ultimatum to reverse his act of mischief and erase its Named imprint from the earth’s eidetic awareness, he sighed with reproachful complaisancy. “Done is finished. Who could live up to the conceit you believe I possess?” His irreverent manner expanded to gleeful chagrin. “You embarked on a journey of four hundred leagues in belief I could sway the will of a planet? My dear, I am flattered, as well as sorry for the discomfort and inconvenience brought on by your expectations. But no living power in Athera could move the earth to do as you ask.”

Morriel hissed in a sharp breath. “You’re lying.” Nestled in shawls, ensconced in a padded chair like an egg in a silk-lined cup, she shared her glare equally between Althain’s Warden and Asandir, who leaned against the doorpost, his bench lately banished to the larder to make room for visitor seating. The afterglow behind the paned arrow slit had fled. Plate rims poised above the pooled shadows cast by a tallow dip spiked on an iron pricket.

Unsinged by the Prime’s focused ire, blissfully intent on sloshing the dollop of cinnamon butter just added to flavor his tea, Sethvir shrugged. “What you think doesn’t matter. Your crystal has been recognized, and earth will abide by its own nature.”

He might have said more, but Luhaine snatched the opening to expound. “Stone and soil, you must know, are susceptible to energy. Like the mind of a mimic, they will copy and retain the patterns of induced vibrations. No made spell under sky could remand that given property.” Warmed now to his subject, the invisible spirit ran over the Prime’s reedy protest. “And anyway, the conundrum’s not linked to a balanced equation. To invoke the attempt to dominate a planet would create an unsolvable backlash. Where could the discharge from such a raised force become grounded? Earth itself would reject the called power to bind it into subservience! Even if this were a mutable truth, how could its awareness of your great crystal’s resonance be masked? The memory of land is scribed in the language of epochs. It endures across cataclysm. Ath Creator did not gift its being with forgetfulness.”

“Then give me a spell of illusion for blinding concealment,” Morriel demanded.

Sethvir looked up from his mug, his eyebrows tipped in patent injury. “Just because you accuse me of deceit doesn’t mean I’ll change my character to become so.” He glanced across at Iyan, who held the spoon in locked jaws, as if he sensed the tensioned undercurrents to words deaf ears could not hear.

Althain’s Warden set down his tea. He turned his back, gave the mute servant’s arm a kindly pat, then vacated his chair to share the cushion in the window seat.

Balked by his move from polite negotiation, Morriel shifted target and accosted Asandir. “Indeed, the hour has come to discuss that arrow once loosed in Vastmark.”

Ghost quiet on his feet, the Sorcerer who arranged the Fellowship’s field work moved his tall frame and claimed Sethvir’s empty chair. He slid the filled tea mug aside and laced his fingers over crossed forearms. “You provoked an attempt to assassinate Arithon s’Ffalenn by fanning Duke Bransian’s urge for blood feud.” His riposte matched hers like testing, cold steel. “No light matter.”

“For that you hobbled the powers of our Great Waystone, admit it,” Morriel accused. Eyes like jet bead bored into the Sorcerer’s of impenetrable, mirror-glass gray. “You protect Rathain’s prince, peril that he is. A mage-trained master fallen under curse of violence will incite more deaths than that one, on Duke Bransian’s arrow. I’ll say what I think. Your Fellowship has never regarded the people on this world as more than expendable ciphers.”