Curse of the Mistwraith. Janny Wurts
Читать онлайн книгу.
said briefly. His frown changed to chagrin as he recalled his dusty, sweat-damp clothes.
Anxious to please, the nobleman snapped his fingers at the servant who waited with the swords. ‘Send for the prince’s valet.’
‘And the captain of the earl’s guard,’ Lysaer added quickly. ‘Admit him to my private chambers. If he curses the rush, tell him directly that I’ll pour him another beer.’ The key turned stiffly in the lock. Greeted from within by the acid-sharp consonants of a curse, the first officer pushed wide the wooden door. He hung his lantern from a spike in the beam overhead, then gestured for his prince to pass ahead of him.
Briane’s sail-hold was stifling in the noon heat. The air reeked of mildew and damp; though the ship rode at anchor, the hatch overhead was battened down as if for a gale. The lantern threw long, starred shadows which swung with each roll of the swell.
Nervous to the point of jumpiness, the first officer pointed to the darkest corner of the room. ‘There, your Grace. And be careful, he’s roused from the drug, and dangerous.’
Resplendent in gold silk and brocade, glittering with the sapphires of royal rank, Lysaer of Amroth stepped forward. ‘Leave us,’ he said gently to the officer. Then, as the door creaked shut at his heels, he forced back a tangle of emotional turmoil and waited for his eyes to adjust.
Dead still in the uncertain light, Arithon s’Ffalenn sat propped against a towering pile of spare sail. Biscuit and water lay untouched by his elbow. A livid swelling on the side of his jaw accentuated rather than blurred the angled arrogance of features which decidedly favoured his father. His eyes were open, focused and bright with malice.
The look chilled Lysaer to the heart. Hampered and unsettled by the dimness, he lifted the lantern down. The light shifted, mercilessly exposed details that up until now had stayed hidden. The queen’s bastard was small, the prince saw with a shock of surprise. But that slight stature was muscled like a cat, and endowed with a temper to match; the flesh at wrists and ankles had been repeatedly torn on the fetters, leaving bruises congested with scabs. The hands were wrapped with wire and crusted with blood. The prince felt a surge of pity. He had heard the first officer’s report; the fright of the sailors was understandable, yet after fetters and chain the added restraint of the wire seemed a needless cruelty.
Embarrassed, Lysaer replaced the lantern on its hook. He drew breath to call for the bosun, a sailhand, any ship’s officer who could bring cutters and ease the prisoner’s discomfort.
But Arithon spoke first. ‘We are well met, brother.’
The crown prince ignored the sarcasm. A blood-feud could continue only as long as both sides were sworn to antipathy. ‘Kinship cannot pardon the charges against you, if it’s true that you summoned shadow and sorcery, then blinded and attacked and murdered the companies of seven vessels. No rational purpose can justify the slaughter of hapless sailors.’
‘They happened to be crewing royal warships.’ Arithon straightened with a jangle of chain. His clear, expressive voice lifted above the echoes. ‘Show me a man who’s harmless, and I’ll show you one stone dead.’
Lysaer stepped back, set his shoulders against the closed door to mask a shiver of dismay. The first officer had not exaggerated to justify the severity of his actions. In silence, the crown prince regarded a face whose humanity lay sealed behind ungoverned viciousness.
‘“Kill thou me, and I shall helpless be.”’ Arithon capped his quote with a taunting smile. ‘Or perhaps you’re too squeamish to try?’
The crown prince clamped his jaw, unsettled by the depths of antagonism such simple words could provoke.
Arithon pressured like gall on a sore spot, his accent a flawless rendition of high court style. ‘By the rotted bones of our mother, what a dazzle of jewels and lace. Impressive, surely. And the sword. Do you wear that for vanity also?’
‘You’ll gain nothing by baiting me.’ Determined to learn what inspired the prisoner’s unprincipled attacks, Lysaer held his temper. ‘Except, perhaps, a wretched death I’d be ashamed to give a dog.’
‘But you offer a dog’s life,’ Arithon shot back. He twisted suddenly, and wire-bound fingers knocked over the water bowl. Cheap crockery rattled across the boards and a trail of puddles spilled and widened with the motion of the ship. ‘I chose not to lap like an animal from a dish. And bait you? Innocent, I haven’t begun.’
Arithon’s eyes sharpened. A sudden sting of sorcery pierced the prince’s awareness. Too late, he recoiled. In one unguarded instant the Master of Shadow smashed through his defences. A probe like hot wire flashed through the prince’s mind, sorting, gathering, discarding in an instant all the fine intentions that acted for fairness and compassion. The s’Ffalenn bastard repudiated honour. He ransacked his brother’s past to barb his insatiable malice, and into his grasp like a weapon fell the recall of a childhood memory far better left forgotten…
The young prince was much too lively to sleep. Overindulged with sweets, and stirred to nervous excitement by the festivities in celebration of his birthday, he ran on short legs and tumbled, laughing, on the carpet. ‘Want to see mama!’ he shouted to the chamberlain, who looked steadily more rumpled and weary. A day spent managing an over-exuberant three-year-old had taxed his dignity sorely.
The royal nursemaid lifted the child from the floor. Deft as she was with the little ones, still the boy managed to twist in her arms and tangle his nightshirt around his neck. ‘Here,’ she scolded. ‘Want to choke yourself to death?’
The prince crowed with laughter. ‘Want to see mama.’
Exasperated, the nursemaid set his mussed clothing to rights. ‘If I say yes and you stay only long enough for a kiss, will you close your eyes and lie still until you fall asleep?’
The boy smiled in the way that never failed to melt the hearts of his attendants. ‘I promise.’
‘Now, a prince never breaks his word,’ warned the nurse.
Young Lysaer returned a solemn nod.
‘Well, see that you don’t, young man.’ The nurse ruffled his gold hair, then returned him to the long-suffering arms of the chamberlain. ‘Take him down, sir. He’s a good boy, usually, and on his birthday the queen won’t mind.’
The prince chattered all the way down three flights of stairs. Though an elderly man, the chamberlain’s hearing was excellent. His ears rang by the time he reached the royal apartments, and with the prince squirming in energetic anticipation against his neck, he missed the warning gesture of the guard.
Beyond the embroidered hanging, the Lady Talera’s anteroom lay ominously deserted; chests and jewelled tapestries glittered in candlelight abnormally dim for the hour. The chamberlain hesitated. Warned of something amiss, he set the prince down; but the child, too young to notice nuance, tugged his hand free and ran ahead.
The moment Lysaer crossed the threshold to his mother’s chambers, he sensed something wrong. His father sat with the queen, and both of them were angry.
‘You’ll use no child of mine as an axe in your feud with s’Ffalenn,’ said his mother in a tone Lysaer had never heard before. His bare feet made no sound as he shrank in the shadows, uncertain. Trapped helplessly in the foyer, the chamberlain dared not risk the king’s temper. He knotted his hands in white hair, and prayed the young prince had sense enough to withdraw.
But Lysaer was frightened, and too small to understand arguments. He stayed still as a rabbit in the corner, while the queen spoke again. The lilt of her Rauven dialect lent her words raw force. ‘Our son’s gift is no weapon. Dare you abuse him? By Ath, I swear if you try, you’ll get no second child from me.’
Lysaer frowned, tried to sort meaning from the adult words. He knew they spoke of him and the sparkling lights he could make in the air whenever he wished, or dreamed of the sun.
The king rose abruptly