Traitor’s Knot: Fourth Book of The Alliance of Light

She swallowed, uncertain, now unable to mask the tremors of her breaking terror. ‘The regency of Tysan,’ she whispered.

‘I see,’ said the king. Yet, he did not. The surprise that flared within those grey eyes was sudden and wide as new morning. ‘Lady, do you have proof?’

When she nodded, King Eldir commanded his caithdein without turning his head. ‘Fetch Ianfar s’Gannley At once!’

At the woman’s bounding start, he moved, caught her wrists. Fast as she set her hands to the table, he arrested her thrust to arise.

She protested, rattled. ‘Your Grace! I have asked for your ear with no outside witness at hand!’

‘Princess,’ said the king, stripping pretence away, ‘where you are concerned, there can’t be anonymity! The young man I’ve summoned is the named heir of Tysan’s invested crown steward.’ As her courage deflated, he qualified swiftly. ‘We observe the old law, here. By royal charter, Avenor’s business is his. That is as it must be, or are you not Ellaine, wife of Lysaer s’Ilessid?’ He released her, and waited.

When she sat, as she must, or go her way destitute, his commanding baritone gentled. ‘Accept your clan spokesman. He is ally, not enemy. For Havish to shelter you would be grounds for war. Your safety can’t be bought through bloodshed.’

Machiel’s shout filtered back through the strained pause, shortly broken by running footsteps. An energetic man clad in the king’s livery burst in, breathless and scattering raindrops. He was a strapping fellow in his late twenties, come into the grace of his stature. His fair hair was bound in an elaborate braid, and his eyes, dark as shadow, missed nothing. He bowed to the king, fist on chest, as the clans did, his flushed features keenly alert. ‘Your Grace?’

King Eldir referred him to the woman huddled under the blankets, in borrowed shirt and sea breeches. ‘She is Lady Ellaine.’ As the clan liegeman’s eyes widened, the king qualified, his choice of state language precise. ‘She has come here in appeal against an injustice, claimed against the pretender’s regency at Avenor.’

The clansman recovered himself, faced the woman who sat opposite, then bowed, fist to heart. To his credit, her dress and rough hands did not merit more than a curious glance. ‘Ianfar s’Gannley, my lady,’ he announced in flawless address. Then he smiled. ‘As a mother who has borne the blood royal of Tysan, freely ask of my service, as heir to my cousin’s title.’

Ellaine regarded him, taken aback. His accent was crisp as a forest barbarian, and yet, no trace of contempt or antipathy moved him. Accepted in fosterage to Havish’s court, Ianfar seated himself with aplomb, then deferred, as was right, to crowned sovereignty.

The High King was swift to make disposition. ‘My lady, the tenets of charter law must apply, here. Entrust your proof to the hand of s’Gannley’

The parchment she produced was stained, and still damp, the seal’s wax cracked from rough handling. ‘This was smuggled out, sewn into my garments,’ Ellaine apologized as she extended the unsavoury document.

‘Best take her seriously,’ Feylind declared. ‘The lady worked her way here since last winter, earning a slop taker’s wage in a refuse cart.’

‘To the sorrow of my cousins,’ Ianfar said as the soiled parchment changed hands. ‘The news of her hardship does nothing but shame us.’ He flipped open the folds, jarred to bitterness. ‘You could have appealed to the clans for help, lady. Your court at Avenor has misapprised us.’

‘As my husband’s confirmed enemies?’ Ellaine burst out, incredulous. ‘Or is your cousin not Maenol Teir’s’Gannley who has formally sworn that Lysaer is an imposter, with his life declared under forfeit?’

Ianfar flattened the parchment on the chart table, flushed with affront, and not smiling at Feylind, who had moved to brighten the wick in the gimballed lamp. ‘Maenol is that same man. The history occurred before your current marriage. Did you know he made his lawful appeal to s’Ilessid, to challenge false claim to crown title? That just inquiry provoked an infamous reprisal! For as long as our people live under an edict of slavery, my cousin has no choice but to stand in his place as the throne’s oathsworn shadow.’

Eldir intervened to smooth hackles. ‘The caithdein must serve for Tysan’s rightful successor, not Lysaer, who was never sanctioned by Fellowship authority. Charter law is explicit. Earl Maenol is the voice charged to guard the crown’s unbroken integrity’

Ianfar bent his flax head to examine the document. As he perused the opening lines, the High King watched the clansman’s demeanor shift from tense to aghast. Prerogative stayed him; he withheld his royal counsel, waited motionless, until the binding signatures with their row of wax seals had been recognized. As father of three sons, with this one raised to manhood among them, Eldir must not flinch for the horrific burden thrust upon Maenol’s heir lest he risk the innocent blood of his realm. The aching pause hung, until Ianfar straightened, and affirmed the most desperate thread of his fear.

‘The lady cannot be sent back to Tysan. If she goes, her life could be far more than threatened.’ Ianfar finished, with levelling force, ‘This document outlines the terms for a murder, and confirms every rumoured suspicion. Your Grace, Avenor’s regency is corrupt and involved in criminal treason.’

Eldir sighed. The light flickered, scoring the gouged lines of sorrow that tightened his mouth. ‘Lady Talith, I presume?’ His regard measured Ellaine. ‘Your predecessor was not driven to suicide for an unpleasant political expediency?’

‘Suicide?’ Ellaine bristled, sparked to regal outrage. ‘The former princess was brought down by a crossbolt, fired by a killer whose hire was arranged by Avenor’s high council. I can’t be certain they acted alone, though my heart tells me Lysaer is innocent. Talith’s premature death scarred him, cruelly’

‘We’re not speaking of that sort of venal corruption.’ Ianfar tapped a seal at the base of the paper. ‘This,’ he said, sickened. He appealed to Eldir, ripped to horrified dread. ‘Your Grace saw fit to warn my cousin, long since. Lord Koshlin is the suspected affiliate of a necromancer, and at work for years, cheek by jowl with the appointed high priest who governs the trumped-up regency in Lysaer’s absence…’

Within Kewar’s library, the Sorcerer Davien raised his forefinger. The image called in from the ship’s chart room flicked out, while he fixed Rathain’s crown prince with wide-open eyes and a hunting cat’s fascination. ‘Do you need to see more, Teir’s’Ffalenn?’

‘To realize that Feylind’s endangered? I do not.’ Bristled enough to stay stubbornly seated, Arithon matched the Sorcerer’s challenge. His expression revealed nothing. But the ringless, fine hands on the book were no longer relaxed. ‘Are you implying a lawful appeal to the Fellowship on Ellaine’s behalf won’t bring help?’

‘Can’t,’ Davien stated. ‘Sethvir lacks the resource. No colleague is left free to answer.’

Unwilling to test the abstruse intent behind Davien’s voluntary exile, Arithon said, ‘Then King Eldir can’t deal. He won’t risk open war, as he must, if he dares to grant Lady Ellaine his sanctuary. This event is on-going? Then you already know the sure outcome.’

‘Your mind is too sharp, prince.’ The Sorcerer would leave a pause dangling to provoke, but not trifle with cruel games of intellect. ‘There’s only one pertinent fact left unsaid. On Ianfar’s behalf, Mearn s’Brydion once signed the Teir’s’Gannley his oath of binding protection.’

Arithon mapped the logic. ‘Therefore, the caithdein’s young heir must take charge of Ellaine and appeal for an off-shore passage. Evenstar’s handy. Feylind won’t resist. She has a true heart. My half-brother’s renegade wife has no last option, except to sail east. Where else would she appeal for safe harbour, except at the citadel of Alestron?’

Davien tapped his shut lips with a restless finger.

Arithon mused on, stirred beyond grim interest. ‘Why show me that scene in the first place? Don’t claim you had any bleeding concern over my standing promise to shield Feylind. What is your stake in the Evenstar’s welfare?’

Davien’s image whisked out, his response tossed back as he drifted past the fire-place. ‘What do you know about necromancy, Teir’s’Ffalenn?’

‘Enough to raise all my hackles at once.’ Arithon tracked the Sorcerer’s presence, alarmed, though he clung to his bent of grim humour. ‘I thought you claimed Luhaine would haze you to Sithaer’s dark pit, should I sample the vile rites written into your collection of black grimoires?’

‘Not mine,’ Davien corrected, precise. ‘The author of those volumes pitched a roaring fit when he noticed his horrid memoirs had been stolen.’

‘That was your light touch?’ Arithon grinned, then laughed outright at the subsequent, mortified silence. ‘Or no. More like Sethvir’s pilfering, I see.’

Davien’s answer rebounded from the arched alcove framing the doorway. ‘What couldn’t for conscience be shelved at Althain Tower must naturally be bundled up and sent here.’ The chill that comprised his essence flowed out through the door-latch, as always ahead of his mocking last word. ‘If you don’t fancy the unpleasant reading, I suggest that you visit my armoury. The wise prince in your shoes would lay aside music and revisit an heirloom Paravian sword.’

‘Alithiel keeps her edge with no help from me,’ Arithon said, his peace shattered. Though practising forms with a stick kept him fit, the mere thought of touching war-sharpened steel moved him to blistering vehemence. ‘If I had any reason to crack a black grimoire, the temptation would likely arise from my sore need to curb your nefarious meddling.’

Autumn 5670

Obligation (#ulink_b9b2dfd0-a780-5dd2-80dd-58efbc122249)

The visitor who reined up at Althain Tower was a lonely speck upon the windswept downs of Atainia. Morning by then was almost spent, lidded under a raced scud of storm-cloud. His horse blew steam in the frigid air as the rider dismounted, stripped both saddle and bridle, then hobbled the gelding to graze. Head bared to the tumbling gusts, he removed a locked iron box from his bedroll, and confronted his grim destination.

Few men, standing under the spire’s bleak shadow, would not tremble and wish themselves elsewhere.

Sulfin Evend proved no exception. Although the sky fore-promised a drenching downpour, he would gladly have turned his back. His binding pledge to the blind seeress in Erdane now seemed an errant act of insanity, no reason not to turn tail and run south, fast and far from this desolate wilderness.

Fear rooted his feet. Lysaer’s endangerment posed too dire a threat to abandon the purpose that brought him. Sulfin Evend gazed upwards, chilled bone deep. High overhead, the leaden gleam of the roof-slates loomed through the masking mist. A raven’s croak floated downward. Wind snaked through the tasselled grass, snarling over the lichened summits of the Bittern wastes to the north.

‘Avenger’s black pox on the doings of mages!’ the townsman snapped, and pressed forward. His reluctant step crunched on the diamond frost that still clung to the flanks of the hollow.

Sulfin Evend’s distrust of the Sorcerers was direct; all his prior experience, confrontational. Having once been ensnared by Asandir’s spell-craft and forced to watch his company of lancers die while entrapped in a grimward, he still suffered the harrowing nightmares. The Fellowship would scarcely welcome the man sworn to rank as the Alliance Lord Commander.

Arrived on the cracked slate at the entry, Sulfin Evend found the outer grille raised. The ancient, strapped portal was also unbarred, its array of geared chains and counterweights a stitched glint of steel under an inside flicker of torch-light. Nobody waited beside the spoked windlass. Past the oppressive gloom of the sallyport, the far gate had been wedged back, as well. No Sorcerer lurked there: only the wind fluted dissonant notes through the black gaps of the murder holes.

Sulfin Evend faltered and stopped. If wards had been set, he sensed no prickle of gooseflesh. Althain Tower stood open before him. The invitation lent no reassurance. He edged forward. One step, two; he paused again. Every nerve strained, he breathed the scents of dank stone and oil, the aromatic resin of pine smoke underlaid by the taint of burnished chain. He assayed a third step.

Nothing happened.

A gust flapped his cloak, making him start, and setting the torch-flame winnowing. The fourth step would see him under the gate arch, no wise move. A man raised to recognize the rudiments of spell-craft should be loath to cross over any sorcerer’s threshold.

‘You have two choices,’ a voice pronounced at his back.