"That scullion's my friend, and no layabout," the prince's page boy defended. "And anyway, how can you tell where we are? This blighted plain has no landmarks."

"Used to trap wolves here," the captain replied. "Packs swarm ~ke vermin, come the snows. A man knows where he is, and't{ow f~r to shelter, or he's like to find his horse hamstrung."

At the page's unsettled review of the landscape, the man-at-arms loosed a gruff chuckle. "Before sun, there's the truth, and may Light strike me down if I'm lying."

"Have a care. His Grace might hear your profanity." The page tipped a weighted glance behind, where Prince Lysaer rode a horse length to the rear of his standard-bearer.

Through the sulfurous silt of puffed dust, the Prince of the Light rode bareheaded, his gleaming, fair hair a diffracted halo in the citrine glare of strong sunlight. Even through dirt, his presence seemed uncanny, a masterwork wrought of alabaster and gilt against the monochrome landscape. The bullion-fringed banner and the stitched silk of its sunwheel seemed brass without luster in comparison.

Voice muffled to awe, the page boy ventured, "Do you believe the realm's seneschal, that his Grace is sent as Ath's servant to drive scourge and shadow from the land?"

The burly captain shrugged mail-clad shoulders. "I couldn't speak the creator's intent, boy. But Prince Lysaer, now, he's real. His powers can be seen and felt." Eyes trained ahead, he finished in respect, "Whether his Grace has divine origins or not, I'll swear by his name as our given defender against evil."

A barely sensed movement flicked a leaf by the verge. To a whick- ered puff of dust, a whine creased the air.

Stabbed by keen instinct, the guard captain shouted, "Archer!" He reined his horse back, sent it crab-stepping sidewards; screamed for his men to close in. "Move! Shield the prince!"

Scarce time to notice the page boy's mount, shying, and the lad unhorsed in the roadway.

Next a searing, actinic crack whipped the sky. A charge of bolt 162.

FUGITIVE I~RINCE.

lightning scalded everything white. Then a slamming report like the hammer of doom thudded echoes across the bare flats. Men were yelling. Their formation erupted to mayhem as they fought the eye- rolling panic of their mounts.

But no casualty had fallen to bowfire. The prince remained astride his blooded cream charger, stopped in the middle of the roadway.

Amid a cavalcade churned into panic, he sat with a statue's compo- sure. No mere assassin's ambush held the power to ruffle his uncanny poise. Heaven's own lightning must leap to defend him, and out of a cloudless, clear sky.

The arrow lay banished to a lacework of blue smoke and a fading whiff of dry carbon.

"Angel of Ath? the guard captain swore.

He stilled his sidling mount between bit and spurs, dimly aware of the men staring dumbstruck beside him; of the page boy's loose horse still plunging against the reins looped through its pasterns. The flat taint of dust and the tang of sweaty leather seemed disjointed and wrong, too earthy a setting for miracles.

Lysaer commanded the tableau like a stage, his lofty magnificence set apart. The moment hurt for pure splendor. For a handful of heart- beats, time's flow seemed erased, the lesser movements of men and beasts jarring.

Then Lysaer s'Ilessid commanded his guard with their half- unsheathed swords to stand down.

The unseated boy moaned and struggled to rise, the fall having injured his shoulder. On Lysaer's gesture, the royal valet scrambled from the baggage train to offer him succor; the loose horse was caught and soothed quiet by a groom.

Still awed beyond speech, the troop's guard captain swallowed in flushed shame, faulting himself for slack vigilance.

Yet the Prince of the Light offered no reprimand as he stirred from that terrible stillness. Swathed in the blinding, stitched glitter of his surcoat, he urged his charger toward the verge. Where the crumbled old tracery of wheel ruts gave way to the tangled brush of the plain, he drew rein. The object of his gaze might have been some beggar's bundle, discarded among the bent weed stalks, except for the hand flung splayed on the earth, blistered with weeping, raw burns.

A barbarian archer, the troop's captain surmised with a horrible twist to his gut. An assassin struck down by what seemed a godlike manifestation of wrath, his bow a charred ruin beside him.

"Bind him up for trial and arraignment," Lysaer s'Ilessid instructed.

163.

]ANN W URTS.

When his stunned guard captain failed to react, he added in encouragement, "The wretch is unconscious, not dead. Any man of Maenol's who holds murder in his heart can live on to oar for just cause."

Roused from its nerve-edged amazement, the prince's settled, re-formed, no man quite bold enough to exchange with comrades, or speak. The misfortune of the page boy persisted, knot of disharmony in their midst. Blanched from the pain of a ken collarbone, his forehead and cheek grazed in blood, he stood shaken feet, supported by the royal valet.

The troop's healer summed up his brisk examination and nounced him unfit to continue astride on a horse that dragged bit, restive despite the groom's efforts to calm it. "The boy can't age with one hand for the rein, and the break in the bone will poorly if he's jostled about in a baggage cart."

"Be still, we won't leave you," Lysaer chided the weeping then turned with crisp orders to his captain. "Mount the clan on the gelding and tie it to the back of a cart. Then set the page behind me. My destrier's gaits are the smoothest."

The valet looked up, aghast, from the boy's dusty limbs ing abrasions. "But your Grace! With all due respect, your surcoat will be spoiled with stains."

"Your Grace, I couldn't," the boy stammered.

Lysaer laughed. His blue eyes held the unshakable, kind censure that melted the hearts of his servants. "Should a man who follows my banner be worth less than a few yards of silk? I think not." The dia- mond in his ring scribed fire on the air as he extended his hand toward the page boy. "Come, lad. Share my saddle, and save your brave face for some worthier fight against darkness."

Once the captive was mounted and lashed and secured under guard, the cavalcade mustered in disciplined order to resume its northbound march. Surrounded by diffident officers, Lysaer s'Ilessici was pressed with advice not to camp on the open plain.

"Better we ride on through sundown," urged the captain. "Your Grace should rest safely inside city walls, protected by a manned gar- rison."

Lysaer refused the necessity. "We must not make our entry at MiraIt unannounced. Our troops will need to be quartered and fed.

As guests of the city, the late hour would pose a discourtesy."

Then that objection was overthrown by the seneschal, who insisted that a cadre of scouts forge ahead to carry word in advance.

"We ride on," the captain said, satisfied. "The mayor's Lord Corn- 164.

FUG ITI'IIE I)RINCE.

mander at Arms shall have his due notice of your Grace's imminent The royal cavalcade closed the last league to the arched gates of ~ before midnight. Despite the late hour, they were met by the ranking officers in glittering, parade formation. These were accompanied by two dozen armed outriders with rich, matched trap- p'mgs, agleam under streaming pitch torches.

Their approach was unhurried. Lysaer had time to note the fringed banners, the silver-gilt helms, and bright bardings stitched from costly dyed silk. His forbearing smile reflected his pleasure and dismay. "By the fanfare, dare we guess? Our scouts' tale of a light bolt and a bar- barian arrow must have caused an excited reception. Those lancers in front look like they're packing half the city treasury on their backs."

The seneschal, mounted at the prince's right hand, squinted through the flare of the torches. "Don't belittle their pride. That's the mayor's personal guard."

Apparently unwilling to risk offense to an envoy shown the favor of divine intervention, the city of MiraIt had turned inside out to arrange a ceremonial entrance.

A taciturn soul who took shocking joy in the occasional gaudy joke, the seneschal observed at bland length, "I imagine they've also planned rounds of slow, pompous speeches."

"Ah." Lysaer's eyebrows rose. "If you're tired, we could duck the long-winded welcome." He inclined his head and addressed the page boy, whose chin bobbed against his left shoulder. "You'd prefer a soft bed and a posset, I suppose?"

When the child returned an appreciative mumble, a curve of lordly amusement bent Lysaer's lips. "Well then, we'll need to outmatch them for pageantry." To his captain, he commanded, "Ready the men.

On my signal, I'd have them dress weapons."

"As your Grace wills," assurance came back from the dark.

When the lanterns on the city walls hove into view, Lysaer laid the reins of his weary charger in one hand, raised his right fist, and dis- charged his gift in a hazed, gold corona over the vanguard of his ret- inue.

Gemstones and bullion leaped into dazzling clarity. Mail sparkled.

Light hazed the sweated coats of the destriers to the gloss of polished satin. A crisp, clear call from the head of the royal column, and the guards in the train raised penhoned lances in salute. The sunwheel standard fluttered in the wash of warmed air, while night became riven to high noon.

165.

]ANN ~U~T$.

Lysaer s'Ilessid in his brilliant white surcoat became the sruning center point in their midst. From battlements and gate arch, the rowed ranks of MiraIt's garrison watched his advance in gaping awe.

Those city ministers and guildsmen called from home by peremptory summons forgot their complaint. The prince's unearthly presence might have seemed an arrogant excess of pageantry, but for the young page riding pillion behind.

As the pair neared the gates, all eyes could see the rich surcoat was not stainless white, but marred with bloodstains and dirt. The boy who besmirched its purity was tear streaked, an ordinary haired victim of mischance who clung in pain-shocked need for solace. The contrast between the child's needy suffering and the Prince of the Light's remote majesty framed an indelible image of mercy.

The Mayor of MiraIt forgot every word of his hastily scribed for- mal welcome. The herald stationed in the gate keep hid his face, reduced to gawping silence as the prince drew rein in the roadway.

Before any minister could recover the aplomb to smooth over the lapse in state manners, Lysaer raised his voice and blessed the city in flawless formal language. In seamless diplomacy, he begged leave of needless courtesies. His train had suffered an assassin's attack. "No man was wounded, but my page boy suffered a battering fall from his horse."

If ceremony could be excused, a healer was asked, and swift dispo- sition for the men, who were hungry and tired.

Dazzled half-blind, awash in shed glare from the unveiled heat of Lysaer's majesty, the Lord Mayor managed a stammered assurance.

His garrison barracks would house Avenor's retinue, and the com- forts of his own palace would be placed at the prince's disposal.

Lysaer inclined his head. "Light's blessing on you," he said, the gracious assurance behind such acknowledgment no less than his regal due.

To relief on both sides that the speeches were dropped, Avenor% captain at arms marched his columns through the stone portals into MiraIt. Curious onlookers lined the thoroughfare to witness the blessed prince's passage. Shutters cracked open; balconies filled as the sleep of the righteous was shattered by the fiery, fierce light that knifed through the glass in their casements. Folk stumbled blinking from their pillows to gawk. Only when the royal cavalcade reached the city square did Lysaer mute the splendor of his gift. The furor kept on, fueled now by pure force of momentum. As the word spread, the whole city was raised, the streets packed as a midsummer festival.

166.

FUGITIVE PRINCE.

Hastily clad in his livery and sash, the mayor's house steward frenetic instructions. Servants were rousted to light guest and air linen. Grooms were kicked out of their pallets and sent to accept the reins of blown destriers. Errand boys fetched merchants to unlock their warehouses and amend shortfalls in and provisions. A healer arrived with bearers and litter to the injured page boy.

Somehow amid the upsurge of commotion, the prince's charger hissed. Inquiries flew.

The mayor's flustered master of horse added his vehement insis- "His Grace never entered my stable yard."

Questions lacked answers. No one seemed to know the royal ,hereabouts.

"Ath save us!" the mayor's house steward fussed in martyred agi- tation. "Suppose our exalted savior has taken offense at some fault in my 1ord's hospitality? Daelion avert such misfortune from our house!

He can't have sought out a common tavern."

Avenor's Lord Seneschal repeated himself twice, then shouted to make himself heard. "His Grace has gone on to the shrine on High Street to give thanks for today's safe deliverance."

Word passed from mouth to mouth. A suitable retinue was assem- bled in haste. But the latecoming guardsmen discovered the way mobbed by curiosity seekers who choked the route to the square. The n~ght streets of MiraIt were teeming and charged into frenzied excite- ment. Even the dim byways held unsettled crowds, surging to glimpse the Prince of the Light, haloed in what seemed an exalted radiance as he made his devotion at the crossroads.

The thoroughfares went from tight to impassable. Not even the city guard could maintain their patrols. Balked citizens crammed into the taverns. Inebriated tosspots were displaced into corners as drudges rushed to light candles, and rumor sparked rampant specu- lation. The anomaly was noticed, that none of Lysaer's weary guardsmen stripped weapons or mail to retire. Half of their hard- bitten number had remained at Ath's shrine, firmly determined to stay through the night on bent knee in thankful prayer. Others whose tastes were more boisterous shed propriety and got them- selves garrulously drunk. To throngs of avid listeners, they described miracles and lightning bolts that seared lethal arrows from clear sky.

"He's blessed, our prince," they pronounced in stark reverence.

"We've borne witness with our own eyes. The shining powers of divine creation saved his Grace from a deadly attack."

167.

]ANNY WURTS.

"Where's the wretch who shot off the arrow!" some roisterer~ from the sidelines.

That first, inflammatory remark was cut by a shout from a butcher. ~ "There's justice due! Where's this filthy clansman who's in league with the Master of Shadow?"

Noise swelled. Trestles swayed to the surging press of bodies as like-minded celebrants accosted the royal guardsmen over the fate 0t the prisoner.

"The Prince of the Light is all our defense against darkness," a fist- shaking bystander insisted. "His murder would strand us without help or hope. Should we leave his attacker unpunished?"

More outcries arose. A touch match to tinder, the racket spilled out of the tavern's close confines and erupted into the street. By then, wine and ale lit the mood of the mob to a vengeful, dog-pack frenz.~'.

When an off-duty guard from MiraIt's garrison volunteered to force the cell where the infamous assassin was incarcerated, a jostling throng of vigilantes howled their eagerness to help.

The ringleaders seized torches. Less scrupulous citizens pried u?

cobblestones and hitching rails, or purloined bricks and sharp rocks from the mason's yard. The yelling horde grew. A torrent in spate, folk poured into the deserted market. There, the zealots whipped them into bloodletting passion. They would visit vengeance ~?0n Arithon's henchman, who had dared to accost heaven's grac~. and deprive them of their protector.

Up and down the side streets, the shuttered, wooden shop trc~nts echoed to the rush of running feet. A cutler's stall yielded before !~tter- ing assault. Stolen knives flashed between angry faces, and ott~,~ ti~~s brandished bludgeons. The mob surged through the commons ~a~'r~ss the hollowed stones beside the city well, where women did laur~.~ ~'~ by day and ragged children begged coppers and filled the moss-~-t~stv horse troughs for wayfarers. MiraIt's citizens rioted past the t~ilared stair to the baths, screaming vicious and frenzied imprecations.

There, progress stalled, jammed from egress where the old hart~c,r storm wall fronted the quays along High Street. From the wharfsid~ mazes, and seamy brothels and sailor's dives, new revelers strean~d to make mayhem. The press grew acute as men elbowed and pushed to funnel into the neck of the avenue.

Then the route to the inner citadel became blocked by a mounted figure muffled in a nondescript cloak.

"What passes here?" he cracked. His imperious manner was too refined for a guardsman. Whatever his business, he traveled without escort. He appeared to carry no weapon.

168.

FUGITIVE I)RINCE.

"Make way, man!" yelled an instigator. "We have business afoot."

"I said, what passes here?" The rider wheeled his horse and set its shoulder against the roiling surge of the crowd. A snarl of frustration greeted his stance. More than one hothead screamed epithets. In warning of tension a hairsbreadth from breaking, a brick flew and smashed a merchant's window. Bodies surged and shouting yam- roered through the costly tinkle of glass.

The rider gave no ground to fury. Target for violence, his destrier jostled by a grinding weight of sheer numbers, he bore in with rein and spur as if clubs and stones held no power to threaten his person.

"Halt there, I say!" His timbre of authority now blistered to anger, he cut through the rising clamor. "By my name and the Light, stand fast!"

A shutter clapped open above. Too deaf and blind to sense disaf- fection, a beldame leaned out of her mansion window and launched into shrill imprecations. "What's become of Ath's peace? You wastrels have worse than the manners of hogs, who shove for the slop in my close stool!" She made ranting promise the contents of that could be hurled on the heads of the rabble.

She ducked back inside to make good her intention, and the sconce from her bedchamber limned the rider below. The thin gleam of flame traced the crest of an unmistakable cream charger.