14.

Winter 5647-5648 Crown Council Far distant from Araethura's wind-raked downs, in a wainscoted anteroom trimmed in gilt and agleam with pristine wax candles, an immaculate steward in blue-and-gold livery bowed to King Eldir's ambassador. "His Grace, the Prince of the Light, will see you now."

The visiting dignitary on the cushioned bench arose at the royal summons. A middle-aged man of spare bones and blunt demeanor, he seemed unremarkable for his post. Nor did he display the stylish, warm manner which trademarked the gifted statesman. Clad still in the travel-splashed broadcloth he had worn from the mired winter harborside, he followed the servant through the massive, carved doors, then down the echoing corridor which led to Avenor's hall of state. Cold light, reflected off a late snowfall, streamed through the lancet windows. Here, no stray sound intruded beyond the measured tap of footsteps upon satin-polished marble.

The palace sanctum where Prince Lysaer s'Ilessid plied the reins of his government lay far removed from the chopped mud of the prac- tice yard, where the handful of veterans returned from campaign drilled their surviving field troops.

No secretaries murmured behind closed doors. A lone drudge pol- ished rows of brass latches, her labors methodically silent. The hush felt inert as the vault of a tomb. Three weeks was too soon for the city to assimilate the impact of a fresh and unalloyed tragedy. The bur- geoning industry of Avenor, so magnificently restored, seemed

15.

~ANNY ~URT$.

stalled; as if even the very resonance of power stood mute, strick~ numb by the news that even now rocked the five kingdoms.

Of the forty thousand dedicated men sent to war in the rocl scarps of Vastmark, all but ten thousand had died of the strate~ unleashed by the Master of Shadow.

The declared neutrality of King Eldir's realm made those casualti no easier to grapple. The ambassador sent by his liege to should today's dicey audience was a man appointed for patience, and valu{ for his skeptical outlook. The outraged grief and shocked nerves 1 encountered made even simple needs difficult. Since the hour of 1~ arrival, he had weathered a brangle with the seneschal's undersecreta~ and before that, a harbormaster's flash-point temper, to secure his sta galley a dose anchorage. He chafed at the pressure. To miscall any sm~ point of diplomacy could spark an unforgiving train of consequence.

For the stakes ran beyond mere potential for bloodshed. The dea, locked struggle between the Prince of the Light and his enigmati sworn enemy had widened. Arithon's works now polarized Ioyalti~ and compromised trade in four kingdoms. Folk named him Spinn of Darkness since Vastmark. Fear of his shadows and rumors of f~ sorcery attached to his secretive nature.

Sensitive to the pitfalls in the tidings he carried, the High KinE ambassador reviewed his firm orders. Then his sovereign lord entreaty, unequivocal and clear, given upon his departure: "Your lo alty may come to be tested, and sorely. Lysaer s'Ilessid can be disarming persuasive in pursuit of his hatred of Arithon. But the Fellowship Sorcere grant no credence to his war to destroy the Crown Prince of Rathain. Yo: errand may well be received in disfavor. Should you find yourself compr mised, even imprisoned under wrongful charges, you must keep my realm Havish uninvolved."

If the ambassador regretted the burden of his mission, the mom~ was lost to back down. The steward escorted him through the arch{ portals which led to Avenor's state chambers. Masking unea: behind a lift of dark eyebrows, for the credentials from his king h~ been public and formal, the dignitary found himself admitt{ through a less imposing side door.

In the smaller room used for closed hearings, Prince Lysa s'Ilessid awaited. He was alone. A less imposing man, unattende might have been overlooked on the dais, with its massive oak tab]

hedged by tall chairs with their carved and gilded finials, then the: dwarfed in turn by the star and crown tapestry, device of Tysan's pa high kings. The woven device masked the east wall, gold on bh beneath the spooled rail of the second-floor gallery.

16.

en ky gY FUGITIVE PRINCE.

Limned by a flood of cold, winter sunlight, this sovereign's pres- ence filled that lofty well of space as a jewel might rest in a reliquary.

The dignitary from Havish discovered himself staring, forgetful of protocol or the ingrained polish of court ceremony.

Fair, gold hair seemed tipped in leaf silver. The eyes were direct, the clear, unflawed blue of matched aquamarine. Where Lysaer s'Ilessid had always owned a powerful, charismatic male beauty, the Vastmark campaign left him changed. Now, his majesty went beyond poise. As steel smelted down and reforged could emerge from the punishment of hammer and anvil to carry a keener edge, the pain of a massive defeat had tautened his flesh over its framework of bone.

Less given to smiling platitudes, he wore the tempered, private still- ness of the veteran who has squinted too long over hostile terrain.

The strong southland sun, the cruel weather, the indelible grief imprinted by the loss of thirty thousand lives had but rekindled this prince's resolve; like a lamp set burning on a fuel of sheer faith, to illuminate where a lesser flame would fail.

The ambassador shook off stunned paralysis. He tendered the bow that acknowledged royal bloodline, but implied no stature of rank.

The detail struck him as curious: the prince had eschewed to display the sovereign colors of Tysan. Instead he wore a tabard of white silk, trimmed with gold cord, and fastened at the neck with stud dia- monds.

Lysaer s'Ilessid began in a brisk form quite altered from the effortless courtesy which trademarked his single, past visit to Hav- ish. "You may sit. I will make no apology. This meeting must be short and private. A gathering of kingdom officials and outside delegates is scheduled to take place after this one. Those who attend have been discreetly handpicked. I hope you'll consent to be present, both as an independent witness, and as King Eldir's repre- sentative."

"It is to his Grace of Havish such apology is due." Blunt features immersed in shrewd thought, the ambassador wondered whether his equerry might have talked over beer in a tavern. Had word of his business reached Lysaer beforetime, today's air of secrecy boded ill.

He perched on a bench, a touch on edge, his words like thin acid before the autocratic whims of royal privilege. "In fact, my appoint- ment concerns an errand for the Fellowship Sorcerers, entrusted to Havish's keeping."

"Indeed?" An unexpected irony raised Lysaer's eyebrows. "That being the case, all the better if our discussion is kept close." He stepped around his state chair and settled. The stillness in him now

17.

~ANNY WURTS.

went deeper than patience, went past mere endurance, or the bit ing confidence a beaten man raised in game effort to shrug off de About Lysaer s'Ilessid lay a quiet that towered. His immut restrained force made the glare through the casement seem displ.

the hard scintillance of his gold trim and diamonds jarring as a ter painter's slipped brushstroke.

He said, "I make no secret of my bias. The doings of Fellow mages are no longer welcomed in Tysan."

The ambassador rejected political wrangling. "Any tie to the cerers is indirect, you shall see. My case concerns the first ransc gold, raised to free your lady wife. The one which vanished d~ transit across Mainmere Bay this past summer."

"Five hundred thousand coin weight," Lysaer mused unswerving mildness. "My merchants, who raised the bu remember that setback too well." In phrases wiped clean of res: anger, he added, "That sum was purloined by the Master of Sha You bring me word of the contraband? I'm amazed. The Fellow Sorcerers were nothing if not in cahoots with that blatant act of p: Go Oll."

The ambassador folded stiff fingers inside the lace of his cuffs circumspect to pass judgment on the doings of mages, he picke way cautiously. "Your lost gold was returned by Prince Aritl hand, and surrendered under Fellowship auspices. By appoint as neutral'executor, the crown of Havish will restore the full s~ your Grace's treasury. The incident, as you claim, went beyond pie theft. The Master of Shadow waylaid your lady's ransom 'as ~ tic to stall your war host from invasion of Vastmark."

"Five hundred thousand coin weight in exchange for the tir arrange for thirty thousand deaths." Lysaer never moved, his s less detachment enough to raise frost on hot iron. "What price, fc blood that was spilled in Dier Kenton Vale?"

The ambassador sidestepped that baiting insinuation. "The sure is guarded aboard my state galley, counted and bound ~ seal by his lordship, the Seneschal of Havish. Upon my recei signed documents of discharge, the gold can be consigned to the of Avenor's state council."

No need to prolong the particulars; a writ of acceptance cou drawn up and sent to the harbor by courier. Avenor's str~ resource could scarcely spurn funds, however embarrassing thei gin. Havish's envoy straightened, in haste to exchange due cou and depart. He had no authority to stay on as witness to the ~ noon's clandestine council.

18.

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30.

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to he ler of Ire be ~ed )ri- -~sy :er- FUOITIlIE PI~INCE Yet before he could draw the audience to an end, the royal steward flung wide the door. A tightly bunched cadre of trade ministers filed in, their clothes trimmed in furs and jewelled braids. Costly, dyed plumes cascaded from their hat brims; their hands flashed, expressive with rings.

The prince had staged his private meeting to converge with the ambassador's presence. Eldir's delegate settled back on his seat, out- maneuvered by the forms of diplomacy. While the trade worthies vied like rustling peacocks for the places close to the dais, he waited in guarded resignation for the play of Lysaer's strategy.

This would be a volatile, partisan gathering to judge by the seals of high office displayed by the men who attended. Trade background let the ambassador identify at least a dozen of Tysan's ruling mayors, united in their distrust of Arithon. Other delegates with complaints against the Shadow Master had been summoned from extreme long distance, as shown by the black-and-gold lion of Jaelot emblazoned on a dignitary's tabard.

Another who wore plain broadcloth and boots seemed displaced, all fidgety with nerves as he moved through the trappings of wealth and the suave, mannered men of high power. The table filled, then the seats arranged by the side walls. The liverish governor of the Western League of Headhunters hunched uncommunicative beside two stolid commanders at arms with the broad, southcoast vowels of Shartd. These would have suffered direct losses on the field, or borne firsthand witness to the devastating sorceries wrought from illusion and shadow.

Rathain's foremost headhunter, Skannt, sauntered in with his gleaming collection of knives. He chose to stay standing, arms folded, in the cranny by the gallery landing. At his shoulder, companionable and stout chested, Lord Commander Harradene chuckled over some pleasantry. To him fell the captaincy of the disheartened remnants of Etarra's decimated field troops. The chair left vacant by Lord Die- gan's death stayed unclaimed to Lysaer's fight hand. As yet no replacement had been named to command Avenor's elite garrison.

Nearest to the prince, faced bristling across four feet of oak table, a muscled, tight-lipped mercenary traded glares with Mearn s'Brydion, youngest brother of a clanborn duke from the eastshore kingdom of Melhalla. The scruffy little cleric in scholar's robes placed between them stared through the window, oblivious to the smoldering hatreds entrenched through five centuries of bloodshed.

The men Lysaer s'Ilessid had drawn to his cause were of disparate backgrounds and loyalties, too fresh in alliance to mingle in comfort,

19.

J^~ W~$.

and too volatile a mix to leave standing too long without war to har- ness their interests. They crowded the small chamber like rival wolves, the martial devices of the field captains' surcoats bold as game pieces beside the padded silk pourpoints of city ministers.

Lysaer called the meeting to order. He might wear no coronet of royal office, yet the absent trappings of rank stole no force at all from his majesty. His opening phrase slashed the crosscurrents of ambition i~ and froze them forcefully silent. "We are gathered this hour to resolve my claim to the powers of crown rule, offered to me by legitimate blood descent, and sealed into edict by Tysan's independent city.

councils." His hand, bare of rings, moved, reached, and lifted a heavy document weighted with state seals and ribbons.

All eyes in the room swung and trained on the parchment. Against the expectant, stalled quiet, something creaked in the gallery, behind and above the seated audience.

A snap of air flicked across a taut bowstring, then the whine of an arrow, descending.

Its humming flight scored through Captain Skannt's scream of warning, and above these, the shout of the archer, in sheared, clan- born accents, "Such claim is unlawful!"

A sharp crack of impact; the four-bladed point impaled the parch- ment and skewered it to the table. The chink of shattered wax became lost in the noise as the dignitaries chorused in panic, "Barbarian!

Assassin!"

Pandemonium rocked through the room. Scribes bolted for cover.

Overdressed trade magnates and timid mayors ducked, trembling and frightened to paralysis. Entangled and cursing, war-hardened commanders surged erect and charged, bowling over spilled hats and cowering figures. They heaved empty benches before them as shields and pounded for the stair to the gallery.

"I want him alive!" Lysaer cried through the clamor. Uncowed and looking upward, he wrested the arrow from the tabletop. The lac- quered red shaft gleamed like a line of new blood against his stainless white tabard. The hen fletching also was scarlet, the cock feather alone left the muted, barred browns of a raptor's primary.

"That's a clan signal arrow. Its colors are symbolic, a formal decla- ration of protest." The speaker was Skannt, the headhunter from Etarra, his lidded eyes bright in his weasel-thin face, and his interest dispassionate as ice water. "In my opinion, the archer struck what he aimed at."

Lysaer fingered the mangled parchment, slit through its ribbons and the artful, inked lines of state language. He said nothing to 2O.

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Skannt's observation. Motionless before his rumpled courtiers who crowded beneath the shelter of tables and chairs, he awaited the out- come of the fracas in the gallery. Five heavyset war captains rushed the archer, who stood, his weapon still strung. He wore nondescript leathers, a belt with no scabbard, and soft-soled deerhide shoes. In fact, he was unarmed beyond the recurve, which was useless. He car- ried no second arrow in reserve. As his attackers closed in to take him, he fought.

He was clanborn, and insolent, and knew those combatants who brandished knives bore small scruple against drawing blood to sub- due him.

Fast as he was, and clever when cornered, sheer numbers at length prevailed. A vindictive, brief struggle saw him crushed flat and pin- ioned.

"Bring him down," Lysaer said, the incriminating arrow fisted between his stilled hands.

Scuffed, bleeding, his sturdy leathers dragged awry, the clansman was bundled down the stairs. He was of middle years, whipcord fit, and athletic enough not to miss his footing. Space cleared for the men who frog-marched him up to the dais. He stayed nonplussed.

Through swelling and bruises, and the twist of fallen hair ripped loose from his braid, his forthright gaze fixed on the prince. He seemed careless, unimpressed. Before that overwhelming, sovereign presence, his indifference felt like contempt.

Through the interval while rumpled dignitaries unbent from their panic, to primp their bent hats and mussed cuffs and jewelled collars, his captors lashed his wrists with a leather cincture borrowed from somebody's surcoat. The clansman never blinked. He behaved as though the indignity of bonds was too slight to merit his attention.

"Slinking barbarian," a man muttered from one side.

Another snapped a snide comment concerning the habits of clan women in rut.

No reaction; the offender held quiet, his breath fast but even. His patience was granite. The royalty he had affronted was forced to be first to respond.

"If you wanted a hearing, you have leave to speak," Lysaer s'Ilessid said, forthright. "Consider yourself privileged to be given such liberty." A tilt of his head signaled a scribe to snap straight, find his pens, and smooth a fresh parchment in readiness for dictation.

"Set this on record," Lysaer resumed. "To bear arms in the presence of royal authority carries a charge of treason."

"Your authority, royal or otherwise, does not exist," the clansman