Curse of the Mistwraith. Janny Wurts
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own voice jarred like a woman’s hysteria. He curbed his temper. ‘Cursing me and my relations will hardly change your lot. Why make things difficult? Your behaviour makes civilized treatment impossible.’
‘Go force your little sister,’ Arithon said.
The first officer flushed scarlet. Not trusting himself to answer, he called orders to his seamen. ‘Bind the bastard’s mouth with a rag. When you have him well secured, lock him under guard in the sail-hold.’
The seamen saw the order through with a roughness born of desperation. Watching, the first officer worried. He was a tired man with a terrified crew, balanced squarely on the prongs of dilemma. The least provocation would land him with a mutiny, and a sorcerer who could also bind shadow threatened trouble tantamount to ruin. No measure of prevention could be too drastic to justify. The first officer rubbed bloodshot, stinging eyes. A final review of resources left him hopeless and without alternative except to turn the problem of Arithon s’Ffalenn back to Briane’s healer.
The first officer burst into the surgery without troubling to knock. ‘Can you mix a posset that will render a man senseless?’
Interrupted while tending yet another wound, the healer answered with irritable reluctance. ‘I have only the herb I brew to ease pain. A heavy dose will dull the mind, but not with safety. The drug has addictive side-effects.’
The first officer never hesitated. ‘Use it on the prisoner, and swiftly.’
The healer straightened, shadows from the gimballed lantern sharp on his distressed face.
The officer permitted no protest. ‘Never mind your oath of compassion. Call the blame mine, if you must, but I’ll not sail into a mutiny for the skin of any s’Ffalenn bastard. Deliver Arithon alive to the king’s dungeons, and no man can dispute we’ve done our duty.’
Daunted by the raw look of fright on the first officer’s face, the healer called his assistant to finish bandaging his patient. Then, too wise to be hurried, he rummaged among his shelf of remedies. ‘Who will answer if the young man’s mind is damaged?’
The first officer drew a ragged breath. ‘Dharkaron, angel of vengeance! We’ll all be executed, even to the cabin steward, if our sailors get panicked and slit the bastard’s throat. He’s crazed enough to provoke them.
How in the name of the king can I be on hand every minute to stop disaster?’
Jars rattled under the older man’s hand. He selected one, adjusted his spectacles to read the label, then said, ‘We’re twenty days’ sail from Port Royal, given weather and luck. No man can be drugged into a coma that long without serious risk of insanity. I’ve read texts which claim that mages possess training to transmute certain poisons. To make sure of your Shadow Master would call for a dose of dangerous potency.’
‘We’ll land at South Island harbour, then.’ Saved by sudden inspiration, the first officer blotted his flushed and sweating brow. ‘The crown prince is there for the summer, to court the earl’s daughter. That’s only five days’ sail, given just middling wind. Drug Arithon only until then, and let his Grace shoulder the task of getting his mother’s bastard presented to the king.’
The healer sighed and reached for his satchel, forced to accede to the plan. Five days of strong possets would cause discomfort, but no permanent harm; and Prince Lysaer’s custody was perhaps the wisest alternative for the pirate heir of Karthan. His Grace’s inborn gift of light was a match for sorcery and shadows, and his judgement, even in matters of blood-feud, was dependably, exactingly fair.
Crown Prince
The tap and clang of swordplay rang from the sun-washed sand of the earl’s practice yard. The courier sent up from the harbour heard the sound and slowed his pace to a walk. Lysaer, crown prince of Amroth, had guested at South Isle often enough that even the servants knew: a man did not interrupt his Grace at sparring if the weapon of choice was steel. Accordingly, the messenger paused in the shaded archway of the portico. He waited, though the news he carried was urgent enough that delay might earn him ill-favour.
The prince noticed the man’s arrival immediately. Sword engaged in a parry, he flung back coin-bright hair, then winked in friendly acknowledgement. He did not seem distracted. Yet on the next lunge his opponent executed an entirely predictable disengage that somehow managed to disarm him. The royal sword drove a glittering arc in the sunlight and landed, scattering sand.
Laughing, generous, handsome enough to make maidens weep, the prince flung up his hands. He turned the dagger he yet held en gauche and flung it, point first, into the soil beside the sword. ‘There’s silver won for your lady, my lord, Ath bless the heir she carries.’
Unexpectedly presented the victory, the dark-haired nobleman straightened on the field in astonishment. ‘Highness, the Fatemaster himself doesn’t know so much of my affairs. Who told you?’
The prince laughed again. ‘About which, the bet or the baby?’ He reached up to tidy his shirt laces, then started for the courier in the portico.
The nobleman suspiciously regarded the sword and the still quivering dagger. ‘You cheated to give me the honour, curse me if you didn’t.’
Lysaer, first son of the king of Amroth, stopped dead between strides. He widened surprised blue eyes. ‘Did I? Well then, I’ll buy your lady a pearl and we’ll fight on the morrow to decide who pays for the setting.’ Then, the smile still on his face, the prince acknowledged the courier. ‘You bring news?’
The runner in the earl’s livery bowed and pointedly glanced at the servant who attended the prince from the sidelines. ‘For your ears, only, your Grace.’
The prince sent the servant to retrieve his discarded weapons, then stepped into the shadow of the arch, his manner immediately sober. ‘My pathetic cripple of an auntie hasn’t fallen from her bed and died, now has she?’
The jest was too graceless to amuse, but the prince had gauged the effect to a nicety. The courier visibly relaxed. ‘That Lady is well, your Grace. The first officer of his majesty’s warship Briane sends compliments instead. I’m advised to tell you that he has in his custody the pirate-king’s bastard, Arithon s’Ffalenn.’
Lysaer stopped as if struck. The flush of recent exertion drained from his face and his hands clenched white at his sides. ‘Alive,’ he said softly.
Seven generations of bloodshed between Amroth and Karthan’s pirates had never seen a moment to match this. Lysaer suppressed a primal surge of triumph. The vendetta had threaded discord and grief through his earliest memories; an altercation before his birth had killed the realm’s first queen and a daughter no one near the king dared to mention. All Lysaer’s life the court had lived in dread of his father’s rages, and always they were caused by s’Ffalenn. Still, the prince fought the irrational hatred the name reflexively inspired. The prisoner in Briane’s hold was his half-brother. Whether he was also a criminal deserving of the cruelty and death that the royal obsession for vengeance would demand was a distinction no man of honour dared ignore.
Trapped in an awkward silence, the courier held his breath; as if his discomfort were a catalyst, the prince tossed off dark thoughts. He touched the fellow’s shoulder to reassure. ‘You need not worry. The fate of my mother’s bastard is a problem too weighty for any but the king’s justice. The commander of Briane’s company was quite right to entrust his custody to me.’
The courier bowed with evident relief.
‘The kitchen staff will give you refreshment,’ the prince insisted. ‘A page from my retinue can run down to Briane to inform that I wish to see the prisoner.’
Excused with more grace than a man with difficult news might expect, the courier bowed again and departed. The prince lingered briefly in the corridor. His blue eyes stayed deep and intense, even as his sparring partner stepped to his side in curiosity.
‘Your