Dakar tried to recall the last time he heard the prince laugh. "For mercy, how long can this go on?" he asked an unlistening stillness.

No answer came. Just the unending chap of the rain through the rowdier din from the taproom. Dakar rubbed his eyes. The sword in his lap seemed a wrapped bar of ice, his body like storm-sodden clay.

He shifted his shoulders, then ordered his mind in a ruthless effort to stay alert. His gaze drifted anyway. The mingled, fusty scents of wool and hot wax conspired to clog his trained senses.

Then the candle fluttered in spent fuel and went out. Dakar grum- 178.

FUGITI~ I~RINCE.

bled an oath, loath to rise up and scrounge a fresh light. He never remembered falling asleep. But the transition back into wakefulness came like a drowning douse in warm syrup. The Mad Prophet.raised his head. Vaguely alarmed, he fought lassitude and wondered why his mind should seem bogged in a spell weave. He mumbled a cantrip of unbinding by reflex, then chastised himself for absurdity.

He could scarcely be misdirected enough to succumb to his own arcane workings.

Yet the counterspell ripped the blank fog from his mind all the same.

"Arithon, damn you? Fully roused to annoyance, Dakar scram- bled upright. His fists flailed limp cloth, the bedclothes his ungrateful royalty had thrashed off. The sword no longer lay near to hand.

Dakar dived for it, groped, found its firm length fallen beneath tum- bled blankets. He snagged a hangnail, tugged. The hilt remained mired past reach of his burrowing fingers. He shoved erect, frantic, and almost fell flat in collision with a fast-moving body. "Sithaer's black furies, Arithon!"

His cry raised no answer; too much to hope that the Prince of Rathain possessed anything near waking sanity. Arithon could be bent on who knew what mayhem, seized as he was in the grip of vile dreams, and unable to shake the ties of strong sleep spells wrought over him. Whipped to blind fight, few men alive were as dangerous.

Dakar plowed to his feet. Poor candidate for heroics, he whacked his shin on the stool, howled from frustration, and launched off in blundering pursuit. His toe hooked the table leg. The candle dish fell, splashing the floorboards with crockery. Too flustered to question why his mage-sight seemed trammeled, Dakar dove in a tackling pounce through the murk.

He struck flesh, grabbed. An elbow sledged into his jaw. "Merciful Ath! Arithon, you're dreatning! Wake up!"

The mazed creature he grappled spun about, bashed him spine first against the washstand. Basin and tin pitcher clattered askew, dousing his neck in cold water.

"Arithon!" Dakar ripped in a breath that shot branding fire through his chest. "Stop this! Now!" The next hammering blow broke his hold.

He dropped, tasted blood from a bitten lip. The jolt as he crashed full length turned his head. Through dizzying pain and a fall of spun shadow, he heard the grind as the door bar slipped free. "Ath, no!"

The latch clanged, gave; the panel swung wide. An influx of chill air from the corridor wafted past Dakar's damp face. He scrambled back upright, agonized to find his recovery came too late to matter.

179.

J ~e~ eq i-q -~ '~iF ~ I~ q~ ~ He rushed anyhow, tri/~ved over the tih basin, and skated swath off flung water. Beleaguered _ of wind, he made a fu '1~ u .... , hal[~ stu~ed, and griped, Should tu~ ~tori tO (2all War~l~%. %~x~ ~a~ ~rit~o~ ~e~ ~ut ~kt~ ~ ~~ ~ ~xx~ ....

~ ~~ ~ ~x~ ~_ ~ ~ ~.~.~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~. ~.~ ~'~.

~~ _.

~ ~x~ ~ c~ ~ ~ ~t ~ s~ ~. ~ ~ ~ ~iV his a~ile ~uarry ~ the doo~ay.

~ailed boards Goaned and flexed ~ oblig~ reply, but ~0t to block Arithon's passage. ~stead, Dakar ~mself caught the assaul~g st~ of wa~ed forces. He yelped ~ vexation, too braised t0 evade what he only no~ tagged as a ~rror-keyed spell of deflection.

~en ~s own has~ conju~ rebo~ded on its maker and accom- plished its end like fell vengeance.

Dakar s~bbed ~s toe on an ~even plak, crashed full length, and s~dded. His palms caught a nas~ scour~g of spl~ters. The more frig~te~g ~th huzt worse ~an the pa~: b~on~ un~ doubt, ~he ~.

ter o~ Sh~dom mus mielding his t~lent ~or ~gecr~.

"Curse me with fiends, ~at shouldn't be possibleS" Dakar scram- bled upright, vexed to despair.

Always before, the block had rema~ed beyond reach of Ari~ho~s resource, the tra~ed powers of his upbr~g~g shacked in Built ~y his imposed royal gift of compassion. Too late now, to avert a di~a~t~:_ past imaging. ~e Mad ~rophet latched ~ hotfoot pursuit. This was a rea~ where Lysaer's crown campai~ to eradicate sorcery brought vic~ms to the stake without ~ial. Too real, the chance that Earl Jieret's augu~ ~ght come due ~ t~s backwater se~lement.

Bzeat~ess, stabbed at each step by ~e grate of a czacked rib, Dakar reached the opened door. ~e hallway beyond showed ~m rows of closed rooms, the end by the sta~ banked ~ shadow. Dakar dammed back ~s rasp~g breath. ~ough ~e mas~g noise ~om ~e revelers, he listened, but detected no scuffle of footsteps. Arithon s'Ffalenn could move like a ghost, even with no gifts to ~de ~. ~e dar~ess he called to mask ~s escape h~g too t~ck, even to pass the f~e, sig- na~re energies w~ch ~de~ed all t~gs of substance. Dakar s~a~ed ~s mage-sight, but recav~red no gl~mer of vatte~ ~o guide ~.

180.

FUGITIVE I~RINCE.

Resigned, he plunged into that blind dark by touch. His best course lay in reaching the stables. Caolle deserved warning. After i that, the flimsy hope must suffice, that their combined efforts would be enough to extricate the Shadow Master from whatever brawling havoc arose from his foray through the taproom.

Dakar tracked the wall with a palm stubbed with splinters and minced his hampered way forward. Above the racketing clamor belowstairs, he heard someone bellow: Caolle, returned from sad- dling their mounts against need, and confounded to find himself under attack as Arithon sought fugitive exit.

"Don't let him get past!" Dakar rushed to stop Rathain's prince from doubling back through the hallway.

Ahead, grunts of effort, then an alarming thump. A body cracked through the oak banister. Caolle snarled an oath. Someone's knuck- les smacked flesh. An incongruous reek of pitch smoke spiraled up from the stairwell. Dakar winced through a snort of laughter. Barbar- ian to his core, the clansman stuck by his cantankerous habit of lift- ing the coachmen's torches from the stable yard to light his way within doors. Between prince and liegeman, the battle raged on, a no-holds-barred scuffle fought on the steps with fists and fire and fell shadow.

A wooden-sounding thunk bought a surcease from darkness.

Dakar blinked to adjust abused eyesight. Against the filtered glare from the taproom, Caolle poised with one massive fist clenched to the haft of his cresset. The flame had extinguished. Sultry coals still flared from the tip, laced in demonic trails of spent smoke. Collapsed in a heap against his braced feet lay Arithon s'Ffalenn, a welted mass of newly raised blisters glistening across his forehead.

"Ath, he went mad!" Still brandishing his bludgeon, Caolle glanced past his shoulder as if he expected another assault from behind.

Dakar made neither excuse nor denial. "Lucky the meatbrains downstairs are flat drunk. We'd best move your liege before some sweaty john wheedles one of the barmaids upstairs." He ignored his own throbbing chorus of aches, knelt over Arithon, and helped Caolle check for lingering injury.

"No broken bones. That's better than he deserves." Caolle for a mercy never stalled over questions. He licked a bloodied knuckle, jammed his spent torch in the stump of the banister, then bent to the task of hefting royalty. "Runt sized or no, his Grace fights like Sithaer's furies." An accusatory glower shot back as he straightened and took note of Dakar's hitched stance. "Kicked you also, I see."

181.

keep me from riding."

Caolle let thatpass with a dubious grunt and plowed onward with Arithon across his shoulders like bagged game. "Well, whatever undid him, I'll hear a reason. For this, there'd better be cause fit to stop Dharkaron ' s almighty justice."

13ut time was not given, even or Dakar to out[inc the gist of disas- ter. On return to the room, Arithon stirred the moment Caolle ]aid him back on the bed. Since the damaged bindings of the sleep spell were now too perilous an influence to keep, Dakar effected their immediate release.

The Master of Shadow regained full awareness at once, his pupils black and wide in the flare of the candle Caolle brought to measure his reflexes.

"No concussion. You're lucky," Dakar pronounced. Too heartsick to meet the anguished recognition unveiled in those wakened, green eyes, he held out a ripped twist of linen, soal(ed in the spill from the washbasin.

Arithon took the offering. As wary himself of prying observation.

he pressed the compress over his scorched forehead. He asked just one question; heard from Caolle of the torch used at need to take him down. Then he sucked a sharp breath through shut teeth and let the sting to his outraged flesh stall off unpleasant explanation.

Too brusque for tact, Caolle showed him no quarter. "Liege, what evil possessed you?"

"Ath, let him collect himselfi" Dakar snapped, detesting the pit,v that made him speak in defense.

"I can't be spared," Arithon contradicted.

The ground-glass hurt in his voice set even Caolle aback. In word- less embarrassment, the clansman pawed through the fallen blankets to recover the stool. That evasion helped nothing. On the floor lay the Paravian-wrought sword; the bared sweep of black quillohs offered stark enough proof of a trust gone desperately amiss.

"You reached for Alithiel!" Arithon cried, the name of the blade charged with horror.

The Mad Prophet lost his chance to soften the impact.

"Yes, it's the curse!" Arithon snapped, the admission jerked out like barbed steel from a nerve. "Desh-thiere's touch has warped me, never for a moment forget this." For Caolle, he explained his razor- edged quandary. "The geas which drives me to destroy my half brother grows ever more uncontrollable. That's why Dakar holds mv 182.

]ANNY WURTS.

"One rib. Only cracked." Dakar raised a hand to wave off the mat- ter, then gave up the gesture for speech that hurt just as much. "Won't keep me from riding."

Caolle let that pass with a dubious grunt and plowed onward with Arithon across his shoulders like bagged game. "Well, whatever undid him, I'll hear a reason. For this, there'd better be cause fit to stop Dharkaron's almighty justice."

But time was not given, even for Dakar to outline the gist of disas- ter on return to the room, Arithon stirred the moment Caolle laid him back on the bed. Since the damaged bindings of the sleep were now too perilous an influence to keep, Dakar effected th~ir immediate release.

The Master of Shadow regained full awareness at once, his black and wide in the flare of the candle Caolle brought to meast~t'~, his reflexes.

"No concussion. You're lucky," Dakar pronounced. Too h:~rt~ick to meet the anguished recognition unveiled in those wakened eyes, he held out a ripped twist of linen, soalded in the spill fr~,;', washbasin.

Arithon took the offering. As wary himself of prying observation, he pressed the compress over his scorched forehead. He asked just one question; heard from Caolle of the torch used at need to take down. Then he sucked a sharp breath through shut teeth and let sting to his outraged flesh stall off unpleasant explanation.

Too brusque for tact, Caolle showed him no quarter. "Liege, evil possessed you?"

"Ath, let him collect himself!" Dakar snapped, detesting the that made him speak in defense.

"I can't be spared," Arithon contradicted.

The ground-glass hurt in his voice set even Caolle aback. In less embarrassment, the clansman pawed through the fallen blanL,t- to recover the stool. That evasion helped nothing. on the floor lav t i Paravian-wrought sword; the bared sweep of black quillors offer,,,i stark enough proof of a trust gone desperately amiss.

"You reached for Alithiel!" Arithon cried, the name of the charged with horror.

The Mad Prophet lost his chance to soften the impact.

"Yes, it's the curse!" Arithon snapped, the admission jerked ot~t like barbed steel from a nerve. "Desh-thiere's touch has warped me, never for a moment forget this." For Caolle, he explained his razor- edged quandary. "The geas which drives me to destroy my half brother grows ever more uncontrollable. That's why Dakar holds n~v 182.

FUGITIVE I~RINCE.

given permission to reach past my deepest defenses. So long as I keep ~y right mind, the preventative ought to be binding."

A moment passed, rinsed in the buttery glow of the candle. "You're not always sane," Caolle summed up in his usual, hammer-blow ~rithon shut his eyes. The rag in the mangling grip of his fist could scarcely mask his expression. Forced to yield his unwilling confi- dence, he lowered his hand, limp now, the knuckles scuffed red from ~arped violence. "Yes." A shiver coursed through him. "The curse !~as invaded by way of my dreams. Apparently, there, it just claimed ~e." He looked up then, his shaming appeal made the worse by his ~aflinching dignity. "I'm no fit prince to lead Rathain's clans any- n:~re. Caolle, I beg you, accept my release here and now. Take back .~ ~ur oath of fealty before the worst happens. Before ~"

"Before I die by your own hand?" Caolle slammed to his feet.

Never." He spun and paced, his wheeling shadow too large for the ~ tamped room. "Liege, my death is not the worst that could happen.

t~.v your oath, sealed in blood before Fellowship Sorcerers, I stand !~st. Even if your charge to stay alive was not binding,.my heart could ~. t !o less. You are the hope for my Lord Jieret's future. The heritage , f your bloodline is not revocable, your Grace, any more than my , 'wl~ sworn trust."

"Caolle, could you step out," Dakar pleaded, as much to stop that iacerating contest of wills as to seek word with Arithon in private.

"No. Caolle remains, by command of his prince, if he's too much the fool to disown me." Arithon sat straight, faced them, the spark in his eyes too baleful and steady to wear down. "If he stands endan- gered through guarding my flank, he'll not take those risks in igno- rance."

Aware that statement was pitched to provoke, Dakar joined forces, not just to turn Caolle, but to make Arithon withdraw before ruin overtook them. "This time, your Grace, you tapped into your train- ing. You worked talent and wrought conjury against me." Arithon went white.

"Not once, but twice." Dakar steeled his nerve and bored in. "My sleep spells were bent back in deflection against me, and not by an ~utside act of sabotage. When I used force at need to bar your way, all ',.'our sworn permissions were revoked."

You're quite sure?" Arithon looked as if his own knife had slipped ~nd stabbed him through to the heart. "Ath save us all, then the curse has subverted even my royabborn gift of compassion." The forearm half-raised to mask his stark shock dropped nervelessly back in his lap.

183.

~ANNY WURTS.

"Not when you're conscious," Dakar amended quickly. Aching too much to endure forced bravado, he looked aside, and noticed that Caolle retreated also. As if care or this prince posed too punishing ~ bust, the ~ru//cJansman busied his lartte hands to right the crashed washstand and retrieve the dented tin basin.

Dakar strangled pity out of fear and resumed. "Your Grace, we can't argue facts. A masterbard's gift grants you linkage through sound to something akin to your mage-sight. Any performance which recalls the Mistwraith's influence, like tonight's lament for Diet Ken- ton's fallen, may well open channels for its curse to exploit." While Arithon weighed this, Dakar nailed home his point. "I think you know it's dreadfully unwise to proceed with your mad plots in Tysan."

"I must," Arithon insisted. The entreaty on his features too anguished, too vivid, he bared himself to explain. "We need more ships to seek the Paravians. The clans here require sound vessels and crews to spare them enslavement on the galleys. Lord Maenol's peo- ple won't survive the next generation if they are forced to stay land- bound. They have no recourse left, since their former caithdein gave her life to declare them my allies. Against Lady Maenalle's execution on my conscience, I pledged them my word I would help."

No sensible counsel would move him. A swift, sideward glance showed that Caolle saw as well. Bull stubborn, or maybe cow stupid, Dakar tried again all the same. "You do realize that any encounter with Lysaer could send you over the edge. Not just your sanity, but the whole of this world would be threatened."

"I have to go on." A wry bent of humor flexed Arithon's mouth as the stew downstairs roared to crescendo. Still unapologetic, he deliv- ered his adamant conclusion. "What's left but to run? And if I turn tail, that solves nothing. You must understand: this curse just com- pounds as time passes. Evasion will bring the same downfall. Actions and will are all I have left to stave off my own self-destruction. Worse than Lysaer, despair is my enemy."

"Are you sure?" Dakar pressed. "Do you speak true? Or is your thinking corrupted by the Mistwraith's geas itself?"

"Come ahead and find out," Arithon invited. A testy, backhanded delight lit his face, almost welcome for the change as he shoved to his feet in familiar, acid-bright temper. "I've always liked fighting my demons up front. Since I'm dangerous, asleep, we may as well embrace folly headlong and ride on for Riverton tonight."

Dawn blazed over the deep estuary at Riverton, a veiling of cirrus like cloth-of-gold fringe strewn across dove gray silk. Against that gilt 184.

FUGITIVE I~RINCE.

backdrop, the walled inner city spiked a bristle of towers and battle- ments, streamered with pennons and pricked by the rake of ships'

masts. Seventeen centuries of commerce had overrun the original citadel. The flats where the barges docked along the river delta spread crammed to bursting with wharves, the arched gateways of coach inns set chockablock with boathouses and ferryman's lighters.

Arithon and Caolle led the horses ashore for stabling with a livery- man. Ten paces behind, suspended over water on the gangplank, Dakar half sensed something; a fleeting prickle of spent energy, not unlike the imprint of a dissipated spell. He suffered a swift pang of nausea. Nagged by the oddity, he braced half in dread that his gift of prescience might trigger between steps to the dock.

But his tread on dry boards raised only the expected hollow echo.

He frowned, paused anyway, plumbed mage-sense until his head ached. His search yielded nothing. Only the random, silvered dance of energy which patterned grained wood into substance. The air bore ordy the reek of black river mud, skeined through by the mulch of tumed rose beds in the merchants' garden courtyards, and the sea- sonal must of piled leaves.

Dakar rolled his shoulders, irritable and anxious. All week, he had been starting at phantoms, and no wonder. A man with the sense that Ath gave a flea would be anyplace else but in the Shadow Master's company, inside the crown territory of Tysan.