Curse of the Mistwraith. Janny Wurts
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An image pooled on the deck before the prince. Sanded wood transformed to a drift of silken sheets, upon which two figures twined, naked. Lysaer felt the breath tear like fire in his throat. The man was dark-haired and sword-scarred, unmistakably Avar s’Ffalenn; beneath him, couched in a glory of gold hair, lay Talera, Queen of Amroth. Her face was radiant with joy.
Abruptly, Arithon withdrew from the prince’s mind. He smirked toward the couple on the floor. ‘Shall I show you the rest of the collection?’
Lysaer’s hand closed hard on his sword. His mother and her illicit lover blinked out like blown candles and left, like an after-image, the face of the bastard’s shameless scorn. Seared by rage like white fire, Lysaer saw nothing in the son but the fornicating features of the father. The lantern swung, echoed his motion in a frenzy of shadows as he drew and struck a blow to the side of the prisoner’s head.
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The impact slammed Arithon over backwards. Wired wrists screeched across sail hanks as he toppled and crashed to the deck. Loose as an unstrung puppet, he lay on his side, while blood twined in ribbons across his jaw.
‘What a superb effort, for the flat of the blade,’ he managed between whistling breaths. ‘Why not try the edge?’ But Arithon’s voice missed his usual vicious note.
Jarred back to reason, and burned by a shame that left him soiled, Lysaer strove for control. In all of his life he had never struck a helpless man; the novelty left him aching. Breathing hard, the lifted edge of the sword poised over his enemy, he said, ‘You want me to kill you!’ Sickened to discover his hand shaking, he flung away his weapon. ‘By Ath, I deny you that satisfaction. Your father’s lust for vengeance will fall on some other head than mine.’
The blade struck crosswise against the door. As the clamour of echoes dwindled, Arithon stirred and shut his eyes. A shudder swept him. That brief instant his control slipped, to reveal tearing grief and shocking desperation. Then, his mask of indifference restored, he said, ‘I sailed as first officer on board the Saeriat. The brigantine was my father’s command.’
The crown prince of Amroth drew breath, wrung by terrible understanding. Briane’s original log entry had been correct: Saeriat’s captain had burned with his brigantine. The pirate king of Karthan was dead. Here, helplessly fettered and pleading to die, was his sole heir, the last s’Ffalenn left living.
Arithon did not miss the change in his half-brother’s manner. He raised himself on one elbow, head flung back. ‘Loan me your knife. As one prince to another, I promise, the feud between s’Ffalenn and s’Ilessid will end here without any more cause for bloodshed.’
‘I cannot.’ Lysaer stared down at the mauled face of the captive and qualified with sympathy that cut. ‘Your death would ruin every man on this vessel, by my father’s decree.’
Arithon responded with damning sarcasm. ‘How admirable. Don’t neglect to mention the gold which rewards the virtue of such loyalty.’ Green eyes flicked up, pinned by lamplit highlights. ‘You preserve me solely for the king of Amroth. In his hands, I become a puppet for him to torment, a target for the hatred inspired by our mother, my father, and seven generations of captains who practised piracy before me.’ Arithon lowered his gaze. ‘I beg not to be forced to that role. Let me take my life. That will spare me and your family further shame.’
The bare simplicity of the appeal caught the crown prince like a blow. Left no breath to speak, he avoided answer by retrieving his fallen sword. He rammed the blade into the scabbard with a violence born of raw nerves. The original purpose of his visit seemed tawdry, a meaningless, arrogant charade that unmasked a hypocrite player. Unable to trust his reactions, he backed out of his half-brother’s presence and shot the bolt on the door. A few short minutes of madness had nearly brought him to murder, to sacrifice the lives of loyal sailors to end the misery of a criminal. Shaking, the crown prince of Amroth gripped the companionway rail. ‘Fatemaster’s judgement, you deserve what you get,’ he murmured to the closed door behind him.
‘Your Grace? Are you all right?’ Briane’s first officer had remained on guard in the passage, but with the lantern left in the sail-hold, darkness had hidden his presence.
Lysaer started in surprise. He had thought he was alone, and the sudden discovery of company embarrassed him. ‘I’m all right,’ he said quickly.
The first officer was too much a courtier to offer comment. Instead he fetched the light from the sail-hold, then reset both bar and lock with studied concentration.
Lysaer pushed away from the bulkhead, self-conscious in his sweat-damp silk. The sting of s’Ffalenn manipulation seemed still to pry at his thoughts. Uncertainty weakened the tenets of honour. Worse yet, he still felt pity. Arithon’s plight at the hands of the king would be unpleasant and prolonged. For the first time in his life, Lysaer fully understood his father’s deranged hatred of s’Ffalenn: to the last son left living, they were a breed of fiends.
Aware of the first officer quietly awaiting instruction, the prince raked a hand through his hair. ‘I’m all right,’ he repeated. At least his voice had stopped shaking. ‘Send down the healer, and be sharp about it. I want the prisoner drugged unconscious and this ship under sail for Port Royal before the turn of the tide.’
The first officer raised frightened eyes to his prince. ‘Your Grace, that’s not wise. Prolonged overdose of the herb is sure to cause madness.’
Lysaer raised eyes gone hard as the cut sapphires at his collar. ‘Ath’s grief, man, I know that! But insanity will surely be a mercy beside the judgement and sentence our prisoner will receive as s’Ffalenn. Let this pass beneath the Wheel be an easy one for him, for in truth, he is the last.’
The first officer looked up in surprise. ‘The pirate-king died also?’
Lysaer nodded. ‘That should please my father well enough. If the healer fears royal retribution, tell him and every man of Briane’s crew that I’ll sail along with them to intercede.’
Tracer
Daybreak glimmered through the arches of Rauven Tower and outlined the concerned face of the high mage in silver and deepest shadows. He had stopped pacing the floor. His tired eyes studied the listener who sat at his feet, but the tranced man’s form showed no stir of returning consciousness. The farseer’s features remained remote; fragile hands stayed folded and limp in the lap of his bordered robe as they had since sundown the day before.
The high mage wrestled extreme impatience. No sign hinted whether the images gathered by the listener’s delicate talent were terrible or benign.
‘What has happened to my grandson?’ The words escaped before the high mage realized he had spoken aloud; but worry allowed no chink for regret. The gaunt old sorcerer waited in stillness with the breath stopped in his throat.
The listener opened distant eyes. By the outburst and the expression on his master’s face, he became one of the few to discover how deeply the high mage loved his daughter’s s’Ffalenn bastard. He phrased his answer with extreme tact.
‘I see a place in constant motion, but lightless. It smells of canvas, mould and damp.’ But the listener mentioned nothing of the pain, hunger and thirst also encountered in that place. Why grieve a lonely man’s heart when for hours Arithon’s condition had not altered, except for a brief visit by a prince who wore the gold on blue of Amroth?
The listener closed his eyes once more. What words could tell an ageing man that his beloved grandson had tried to provoke his own death? Did phrases exist that could soften the despair behind such an act; that a king’s blind hatred for a wife’s transgressions might fall upon the hapless flesh of her son?
The listener misliked delivering ill news without a promise of hope. He slipped back into trance, braced to endure Arithon’s misery until he gleaned some small fact to lighten the grandfather’s distress. Far off, beyond