Fugitive Prince: First Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts
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deeps of the void in between were not lifeless. A massive, near-complete ward construct spread for arc seconds in space. In fan curves, through ruled lines and joined angles that transected time, an intricate chain of seals spindled taut in lace point and sapphire, their phantom imprint a gemstone’s planed facets cut intaglio on the dry dark. To the paired entities who labored to close the last gaps in the symmetry, Sethvir sent word, ‘Arithon’s made landfall on the far continent.’
“Past time,” Kharadmon’s brisk comment flung back. Discorporate since mishap overcame him in the course of Second Age violence, the ghost Sorcerer added his usual caustic fillip. “He’s Torbrand’s trueborn descendant, with the same nasty temper when his dignity’s rankled, or his principles. When he sails back empty-handed, will you have a ready answer? He’s bound to demand why our Fellowship never warned him that Kathtairr’s seared lifeless by drakefire.”
“Mind well, Kharadmon,” a fruity, morose voice admonished. “If you fritter away words restating prehistory, there won’t be a living land left for anyone’s ship to return to.” Luhaine’s gloomy nature had scarcely improved since his body had perished in defense of a deposed high king. Once a corpulent scholar who preferred cautious order, in five hundred years, he had yet to savor his free-ranging existence as pure spirit. Nor had his tart rivalry eased into shared commiseration as a shade. “In case you’ve gone drifty, we’ve work to complete before the advent of solstice.”
“Oh, dance on it,” Kharadmon retorted. A ripple of energies shot through by stars, he set to in exuberant relish. “You scold like some humorless grandmother with nothing to do but knit mufflers and roust up windy criticism.”
Luhaine chose to ignore him. “Do I surmise we’re summoned back to Athera?” His prim query was presented to Sethvir alone, the inflection all plaintive acid. “The timing’s a gross inconvenience, as you see.” The earth link would show that one last charge of power drawn from the lane tides at winter solstice would see their long labor complete. This first stage protection was urgent, and indispensable, against perils too dire for delay.
‘You’re needed,’ Sethvir insisted. ‘The moment can’t be helped. Lysaer s’Ilessid just condemned his first clan captives to chained slavery. Ath’s adepts have sent their appeal to invoke our duty to the compact. We have no choice but to confront him. In addition, Morriel Prime and her servant are about to camp on my doorstep. I might as well have your company in support when she knocks to air her fresh grievance.’
Luhaine huffed his contempt. “Those witches should be coming to offer their help, and not wasting themselves in frivolous resource to cap volcanic vents whose existence but serves the earth’s balance.”
“Now see who’s nattering,” injected Kharadmon. “I’m not for watching you argue the stupidity of inviting Koriathain to mix their meddlesome sigils in our works! If Sethvir wants an interview with Prince Lysaer, I’ll just be off to string the energy paths.” A mercurial laugh and a swirl of sourceless current marked the Sorcerer’s precipitous departure.
“Irresponsible jape,” Luhaine grumbled. “Always flitting out.” In sour eddies that flowed like rippled oil over a backdrop of stars, he capped a precise flourish to a dangling knit of spell seals. “As if no loose ends remained here that shouldn’t be stabilized first.” His unseen touch launched a spiraling array of circles and helixes to bridge a crucial expanse of deep vacuum. “Trust Kharadmon to duck like a truant, and meet ugly threats with light raillery. I can’t imagine why we put up with him.”
Luhaine listed each shortfall he saw in his colleague’s character, then plowed on to include notable past instances when he had been abandoned to tidy disagreeable details. No answer came back. Only the impersonal, high chime of remote constellations. Already, Sethvir had moved on, his listening presence retuned to Athera, and thence, across the long leagues into Shand to make contact with another Sorcerer.
The discorporate presence of Kharadmon breezed into the royal chambers at Avenor a comfortable interval before noon. His entry raised no notice, passed off, perhaps, as an errant winter draft breathed through the swagged velvet curtains. The room was appointed in rich carpets and gold. Wax candles shone from glass sconces. Against the satin glow of varnished hardwoods, the young valet who served the Prince of the Light fussed to set Lysaer’s last diamond stud.
“How right you were, your Grace.” Head tipped, the servant stepped back to measure the dazzling effects of his handiwork. “Gold trim was excessive. You shall shine like a star in full sunlight.”
Lysaer laughed. “Here, don’t feed my vanity.” He flicked the last pleats in his cuffs into place, his form all pale elegance, and his features cut marble beneath a molten ore cap of combed hair. “I don’t need such show. For the gift of my bullion, the beggars will be suitably awed.” Then he smiled at his valet, his unearthly, pure beauty transmuted to intimate warmth.
The boy blushed. He bobbed a clumsy bow, then stammered an apology as his elbows jostled the palace officials who waited, clothed in stiff-faced magnificence. Each one wore a new sunwheel tabard, cut of shining champagne gold-and-white silk.
The realm’s chancellor and the Lord High Justiciar forgave the boy’s gaffe in cool tolerance. They advanced to attend their prince in full ceremony, paired as if cued to a stage drill. The dense, beaded threadwork on their garments somehow looked soiled beside Lysaer’s stainless presence. In his shadow, they swept toward the doorway. There, four silent guards dressed their weapons and joined them, two ahead, two behind. No man looked askance at the unseen arrival which breezed on the heels of the royal train.
A second, more tangible obstruction awaited to waylay the prince. The young boy who served as the royal bannerbearer could scarcely take position while a willowy form traced in sparkling jewels blocked off the arch to the vestibule. She had the prowling smooth stride and rich coloring of a lioness, and for today’s prey, she stalked in chill rage.
“Princess, Lady Talith.” Lysaer touched the foremost guardsman’s shoulder as signal for him to keep station. Hunter’s spear to her unsheathed claws, he eased past, on an instant the solicitous husband. He clasped his wife’s hand, drew her into the light, and lost his breath a split second, as he always did.
First sight of Talith’s beauty unfailingly stunned a man foolish. She had finespun, tawny hair, and features refined to the delicate texture of rubbed ivory. Her dress skimmed over her devastating curves, for this meeting, a calculated, flowing confection of damascened silk and jet buttons, cross-laced at wrist and bodice with silk ribbon.
“My dear, you look magnificent.” The words framed an effortless courtesy, since his glance significantly avoided the cascade of yellow citrine which sparkled like poured honey into the tuck of her cleavage. Her smallest move and breath chased teasing reflections over her pearl-studded bodice, until the eye became trapped, then arrowed downward into a girdle fitted tight enough to hitch the air in the throats of Lysaer’s waiting attendants. “I’m delighted of course, but won’t your need keep? I promise I’ll see you directly after I’ve finished my appearance in the plaza.”
Lady Talith narrowed dense, sable lashes over eyes like razor-cut bronze. “The beggars can wait for their alms without suffering.” Risen to the challenge, she smiled. Her flawless, fine skin flushed for the joy of a stabbing duel of wits. “Better still, let your chancellor dispense the day’s coin in your stead. Dismiss your train. Now. I’ll never settle for begging court appointments, or standing in line for an audience.”
“I can’t dismiss my train. My chancellor is no fit replacement.” In grave, caring tenderness, Lysaer clasped her wrist to draw her clear of the doorway. “If privacy matters, we’ll save our discussion for an hour when I’m not committed.”
“Bedamned to privacy.” Talith tested his hold, felt the steel in his fingers, and laughed in a sheared peal of scorn. “Why play at pretense?” She aimed her next barb with all the sugared venom her Etarran background could muster. “My pride wasn’t stung by three months in Arithon’s company.” She smiled, digging him with threat and innuendo, even daring his temper,