Stormed Fortress: Fifth Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts
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between us. If this was a lie, you would be cut dead. Not invited to juggle a trying conversation.’
Such stabbing satire strangled reserve.
Sulfin Evend rested his forehead on his marked wrists, while his naked unease battled reason. When he found his voice, he dared a cautious truce. ‘I have seen enough to allow you that truth. My best efforts have failed. I could not make Avenor’s crown regent hear sense or abandon pursuit of his blood feud.’
Green eyes resurveyed him, sharply awake. ‘Ath’s sweet grace! You have tried?’ Through a moment of desperate, excoriating pain, the Teir’s’Ffalenn dropped his glance to his unrelaxed hands. ‘You could gain a knife through the heart, for that risk. We are cursed, and not trustworthy, though we are both served with the gift of such adamant loyalty.’
‘I swore oath to the land,’ Sulfin Evend admitted, too mazed for the sense to withhold the confidence.
‘Caithdein, to my half-brother?’ Now, Rathain’s prince stared, shocked. ‘And the Fellowship backed this? You split your loyalty with the Sorcerers at Althain Tower?’
Sulfin Evend folded his abraded wrists in his lap, too flat tired for subterfuge. ‘No way else could I spare the guiding light of the Alliance from falling to usage by necromancy.’
‘Brave man! Since you have accomplished your victory, you also must know that the aftermath dooms you to failure.’ Neither man courted pretence. The Alliance’s troops were already marching. Towns in all three of the eastshore kingdoms now girded for war to take down this calm, dark-haired criminal. Given a stubborn lack of response, the Master of Shadow laid open his heart and bored in. ‘An end like Jieret’s could become your lot. You might die on the sword of a vengeance-bent clansman, or worse: Desh-thiere’s geas can’t honour your principles.’
‘So Asandir warned.’ A coal popped in the fire-pot, flurrying sparks that blinked into darkness. Sulfin Evend said carefully, ‘My lord’s fits of madness notwithstanding, I find that I still have to try.’
‘Who else has the fibre to shoulder the load? I salute you, and grieve,’ stated Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn. ‘Before s’Ilessid, you could break my spirit.’ He tightened his sash, perhaps reamed by a chill, though the desert air wafted in through the cleft carried the baked warmth of summer. Then he said, ‘I am glad that you’re with him. His ruler’s vision has become so dreadfully lost. Lacking the disciplined guidance of training, my half-brother has little chance to resist. Past question, such caring as yours could offer the stance for salvation. As Earl Jieret’s did, thrice over, for me, not least on the field at Daon Ramon.’
Sulfin Evend winced, wounded afresh by the genuine absence of anger. Drug-heightened perception made him see too far. Now, the yoke of old enmity haunted, that had led him to cut a courageous man’s tongue; made him part and party to grotesque hatred, waged upon twisted political viciousness and geas-bent misunderstanding.
Nor could this unwanted, intimate encounter do aught to ease his raw conscience. ‘How can you sit there and not break my neck?’
The creature that Lysaer named Spinner of Darkness did not take offence at the outburst. ‘Within Kewar,’ he said gently, ‘I accepted the gift offered up by a centaur guardian.’
Sulfin Evend hauled in a shuddering breath. Fists jammed to shut lips, he stamped down the sudden upsurge of past vision: of a presence and majesty beyond the bounds of his mortal mind to encompass. He had witnessed such wonder: been overawed and crushed to his knees. Every day since, he survived by the sword, and the force of his abject denial.
This moment, as well, he could not match the grace of an enemy’s sorrowful understanding. The drug’s effect heightened their entwined emotions. Set under such stress, Sulfin Evend could not bear the tearing weight of remorse. Not without smashing the foundation that saw him oathsworn to command the Light’s armies.
‘Death can’t restore what’s already been lost,’ the Master of Shadow declared. ‘Does vengeance or blame ease the sorrow of heart-ache? We all make mistakes. Life can’t be lived without harm to others. Worst of all, I have seen Jieret’s path was self-chosen. That sting was the hardest trial to bear. We can’t buy self-forgiveness. Can’t pay for redress through our sorry penchant for guilt-fed lament and self-punishment. I would have you set free,’ said Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn, ‘since the man you support with such steadfast care is none else but birth kin, and my brother.’
The tears welled too fast, for that tender release. Sulfin Evend masked his wet face, while the soft voice resumed, and pierced his remorse with compassion. ‘Some gifts of friendship cannot be earned. They exist, beyond price, and we cannot hope to match up to them.’
Never so clearly exposed to the debt he might leave to his liege, as survivor, the Alliance Lord Commander crumpled and wept. Did this adversary not know? Sulfin Evend lost the frank speech to inform that he held the sealed order to raise all of the southcoast to arms, a duty now made insupportable by the perverse strait of his quarry’s free-will absolution.
The initiate master whose work had undone the Kralovir’s deadly incursion, in cold fact, was no prejudiced town’s mortal enemy. A bard of such gifted stature would have loved peace, before the pointless strife of Desh-thiere’s cursed war had upset his natural destiny.
‘What brought you here?’ Sulfin Evend snatched dignity, and blotted damp cheeks. ‘Why do the nomad tribes hold you in reverence?’
That woke wry humour, mixed with vexed irritation. ‘Though frost should freeze water, I can’t warn them off.’ Arithon tucked lean fingers under his sleeves, discomfited and defensive. ‘Their seers claim a prophecy. There, our interests collide, since I won’t endorse the bizarre obligation.’
Grey eyes matched green, across open flame, while the well of earth’s silence extended. No man to retreat, Sulfin Evend chose challenge. ‘They say your fate’s written into the flint knife I returned, that Enithen Tuer loaned on my behalf to spare my liege from the Kralovir’s depredation.’
‘Did they so?’ stated Arithon s’Ffalenn with soft venom. ‘Perhaps you don’t want to hear this. But the knowledge that founded all three cults of necromancy originated with the Biedar.’
‘Three cults!’ Sulfin Evend still refused to back down. ‘With the Kralovir gone, that leaves two more. Carry on.’
‘I see why you were set in charge of the troops,’ Rathain’s prince said in nettled rejoinder. Nonetheless, he had the fibre not to recoil. ‘The seals that stay death were once part of a sacred rite, used to commune with the ancestry. The Biedar don’t write. Their tradition is inherited. They waken their talent through a trial of privation that opens initiate memory. Long before mankind settled Athera, Koriathain used arcane channels and disclosed the content. They catalogued everything. By rights, they claimed, since the dedicate purpose laid out by their founders held a mission of preserving all records of human achievement. The library they guarded was not discriminate, nor was it kept with integrity. Somebody tinkered, mixed forms, and experimented. Dark sources were tapped without wisdom. Sigils with binding aspects were forged. Worse forms evolved later, recombined with blood ceremony, which warped offshoot was leaked from the order. As I understand, the breach happened before today’s stringent oath, which shackles each sister to unswerving loyalty. I have observed the knot tied by their Matriarch, first hand. It is utterly unforgiving.’
Arithon lapsed into silence. Whatever the bent of his personal thought now, Sulfin Evend was loath to disrupt him. Where Lysaer was wont to mask pain behind the trappings of royal deportment, the dark half-brother retreated, inscrutable. One recalled that this creature had endured Davien’s maze at Kewar. He had walked out sane. Mage-taught, and fathomless as a pool of black water, his stillness had walls.
Shortly, Arithon came back to himself. ‘Biedar would not be encamped on this world, but to see a responsibility to fulfilment. They are bound, so they say, to recoup the mistake that brought their sacred legacy into ill usage.’ A rustle of silk, as he shifted the unsettling topic