Lirenda stiffened. She would not ask what measure of justice would befall the Shadow Master's men, gone to ground as maroons with no shelter beyond the overturned keels of four longboats.

Lysaer widened the breach by telling her in detail. "Traitors ancl pirates are condemned through fair trial under the written annals of the realm's law. My governance of men who are not my sworn liege- men is a matter of public record. No harm will befall the fugitives from the Lance until they've been captured and arraigned by due pro- cess."

Lirenda drew breath to warn him: the renegade crew from the brig yet included the cleverest of Riverton's turncoat shipwrights. Pure instinct stayed her. She observed the prince with her arts until the false complacency sprang stark to the eye and belied his impartial statement. The line of Lysaer's mouth was too knowing, too hard. His quiet was not born of calm, but an act to smooth over a keen, intro- verted calculation.

Lirenda's trained perceptions pierced that facade and exposed the underlying face of the truth: that for the linked network of Prince Arithon's supporters, the end would come later, upon the hour of Lysaer's choosing. Whatever rebellion their actions fomented would first be used to leverage further impetus toward Alliance consolida- tion of power, and then to extend the quest to wreak the Shadow Master's downfall into a force of dominion to command every king- dom on the continent.

"You think I don't mourn for the waste of good lives," Lysaer said.

"I've watched as you base your calculations upon the careful beget- ting of a power base. But your thinking is flawed. You reason without pity. Otherwise you must see, I act for this cause because there is no one else capable."

Lirenda stopped cold on the path as the impacting power of Lysaer's sincerity rocked her. Game pieces and conflict acquired new meaning. Now she could not evade the overwhelming recognition of the pain he had managed to hide behind the artful trappings of state dignity.

"The Fellowship of Seven refused the burden," Lysaer admitted as her gaze returned to reassess every majestic angle of his face. The barest note of leaked bitterness strained through as he dismissed her 468.

JANNY WURTS.

clans were well advised by their caithdein not to entrust you with kingship."

His effrontery showed flawless and deferent manners as he clasped her hand to escort her away. "I'm gratified to see my point taken so courteously to heart."

Lirenda stiffened. She would not ask what measure of justice would befall the Shadow Master's men, gone to ground as maroons with no shelter beyond the overturned keels of four longboats.

Lysaer widened the breach by telling her in detail. "Traitors and pirates are condemned through fair trial under the written annals of the realm's law. My governance of men who are not my sworn liege- men is a matter of public record. No harm will befall the fugitives from the Lance until they've been captured and arraigned by due pro- cess."

Lirenda drew breath to warn him: the renegade crew from the brig yet included the cleverest of Riverton's turncoat shipwrights. Pure instinct stayed her. She observed the prince with her arts until the false complacency sprang stark to the eye and belied his impartial statement. The line of Lysaer's mouth was too knowing, too hard. His quiet was not born of calm, but an act to smooth over a keen, it~tro- verted calculation.

Lirenda's trained perceptions pierced that facade and exposed the underlying face of the truth: that for the linked network of Prince Arithon's supporters, the end would come later, upon the hour of Lysaer's choosing. Whatever rebellion their actions fomented would first be used to leverage further impetus toward Alliance consolida- tion of power, and then to extend the quest to wreak the Shadow Master's downfall into a force of dominion to command every king- dom on the continent.

"You think I don't mourn for the waste of good lives," Lysaer said.

"I've watched as you base your calculations upon the careful beget- ting of a power base. But your thinking is flawed. You reason without pity. Otherwise you must see, I act for this cause because there is no one rise capable."

Lirenda stopped cold on the path as the impacting power of Lysaer's sincerity rocked her. Game pieces and conflict acquired new meaning. Now she could not evade the overwhelming recognition of the pain he had managed to hide behind the artful trappings of state dignity.

"The Fellowship of Seven refused the burden," Lysaer admitted as her gaze returned to reassess every maiestic angle of his face. The barest note of leaked bitterness strained through as he dismissed her 468.

FUGITIVE PRINCE.

from private audience. "Today, to my sorrow, I have found your Koriathain cannot be trusted to act with me for the common good."

The gale pounded over the Isles of Min Pierens in bands of ram- paging winds and white rain squalls. In the cliff caves where the main body of Lysaer's fighting companies and ships' officers took refuge, the gusts took voice and fluted in diminished minor tones where the eddies snagged across rock. The caverns had been carved by water and winds, before the mazed array of branching tunnels had been bored by the hot breath of dragons.

Attrition still reigned. Like the fortress above, time crumbled the stoutest stone bastions. Flooding and springs had crystallized lime- stone into a petrified silt that smoothed over the scored marks of drakes' claws.

Amid echoed bickering, men vied over the best alcoves to hunker down with their bedding. The convoluted ceiling allowed but one fire, and that was reserved for their prince.

First Senior Lirenda kept to herself. Given a dry cranny, a meal of smoked fish and ship's rations, and the blankets an officer shared out of courtesy, she observed the royal men-at-arms as they diced or bandied lewd jokes and smart talk; in grumbling, closed groups, they polished the rust the sea air raised on their weapons and mail. One boisterous party chalked out a circle, stripped their shirts, and arranged bouts of wrestling. The enchantress in their midst was ignored. Whether at Lysaer's order, or through the inherent dread most townborn felt toward spellcraft, every man in the company gave the Koriani First Senior wide berth.

Like any other who had sworn life service to the sisterhood, Lirenda was inured to overt signs of distrust. Long experience let her disregard the unsettled glances, the furtive signs to ward spellcraft cast her way when men believed her attention lay else- where.

Not all of the posturing sprang out of ignorance. Lysaer's ranking officers kept their scrupulous distance as well. The Koriani First Senior was excluded from their council concerning the sprung news that the Spinner of Darkness had slipped through their net. Nor did any man in her hearing mention the summary execution of those comrades just burned alive in the hold of the Lance.

Whether Lysaer s'Ilessid had given them notice of his justice, or whether they would be left to believe the vessel had been sunk by a stroke of natural lightning, Lirenda was not privileged to know.

Reduced to the rankling role of an eavesdropper, she strained to catch 469.

from private audience. "Today, to my sorrow, ! have found your Koriathain cannot be trusted to act with me for the common good."

The gale pounded over the Isles of Min Pierens in bands of ram- paging winds and white rain squalls. In the cliff caves where the main body of Lysaer's fighting companies and ships' officers took refuge, the gusts took voice and fluted in diminished minor tones where the eddies snagged across rock. The caverns had been carved by water and winds, before the mazed array of branching tunnels had been bored by the hot breath of dragons.

Attrition still reigned. Like the fortress above, time crumbled the stoutest stone bastions. Flooding and springs had crystallized lime- s,~,~e i~t~ a ~*vi~qex4 silt t.~t s.~,,'~**~d ~ ~e scord ,~arkz ~ef drakes' claws.

Amid echoed bickering, men vied over the best alcoves to hunker down with their bedding. The convoluted ceiling allowed but one fire, and that was reserved for their prince.

First Senior Lirenda kept to herself. Given a dry cranny, a meal of smoked fish and ship's rations, and the blankets an officer shared out of courtesy, she observed the royal men-at-arms as they diced or bandied lewd jokes and smart talk; in grumbling, closed groups, they polished the rust the sea air raised on their weapons and mail. One boisterous party chalked out a circle, stripped their shirts, and arranged bouts of wrestling. The enchantress in their midst was ignored. Whether at Lysaer's order, or through the inherent dread most townborn felt toward spellcraft, every man in the company gave the Koriani First Senior wide berth.

Like any other who had sworn life service to the sisterhood, Lirenda was inured to overt signs of distrust. Long experience let her disregard the unsettled glances, the furtive signs to ward spellcraft cast her way when men believed her attention lay else- where.

Not all of the posturing sprang out of ignorance. Lysaer's ranking officers kept their scrupulous distance as well. The Koriani First Senior was excluded from their council concerning the sprung news that the Spinner of Darkness had slipped through their net. Nor did any man in her hearing mention the summary execution of those comrades just burned alive in the hold of the Lance.

Whether Lysaer s'Ilessid had given them notice of his justice, or whether they would be left to believe the vessel had been sunk by a stroke of natural lightning, Lirenda was not privileged to know.

Reduced to the rankling role of an eavesdropper, she strained to catch 469.

~ANNY W URTS.

what fragmented conversation she could as a rain-sodden courier came in with word from the fleet snugged down in safe anchorage.

"... galleys are hove up in the coves on the lee side of Caincyr Isle, as planned." The young man peeled off his dripping oilskin. His rough-cut features and perfect teeth gleamed with avid good spirits, touched to copper relief by the fire. "The convict oarsmen and the other Corith prisoners are held in chains ashore, under close guard by the ships' crews."

Lysaer's reply lost itself in a dissonant screeling of steel as two zealous Etarrans put their shoulders into sharpening halberds.

Lirenda caught no more than the clipped inflection of the royal query, implying some detail failed to satisfy. She gathered the gist concerned the prize Cariadwin, surrendered to the Alliance, but having no loyal crew of her own.

"The brig's keel drew too much water," the courier explained, shoulders squared and voice risen in loyalty to the royal fleet's com- manding admiral. "Daelion preserve! My Lord said to tell you her blue-water captain has a temperament like a spring nettle. As he was the Shadow Master's minion, he won't cooperate, and our galleymen get twitchy under sail in strange waters. Would your Grace risk men's lives? The shoals in those inlets shift with each tide. The rutter we're using with a gale at our backs is six centuries old, and written in archaic language!"

A pause, while someone with seagoing experience injected a quelling comment; then laughter, cut by Lysaer's stark inquiry, "fell, if the Cariadwin's not in the coves with the galleys, where in the Light did your officers decide to snug her down?"

"At anchor, your Grace. She's secured in the narrows of the cut."

Silence, of yawning and disastrous proportion; the spirited factions by the wrestlers stilled. Men honing weapons were asked to desist.

Even the rowdiest dicers held t~eir next throws, heads turned to fol- low the rising altercation.

"What's wrong?" asked the courier, made the isolate center of attention by the revealing firelight. "The brig is unmanned, for com- mon sense. Storm could snap her cables any time and set her down on the rocks. No crew could save her. She'd break up in minutes. Rip- tide's too fierce the way the swell's running to allow a stranded com- pany to launch off boats if she wrecked."

Across the weather-stained vaults of the cave, over the heads of men-at-arms and Alliance officers, Lirenda saw Lysaer glance her way. His eyes were hard blue, and scarcely amused: the cliff-top van- tage of his audience with her, and the summary act of his judgment 470.

FUGITIVE PRINCE.

had not yet been shared with his people. None of them knew that men loyal to Arithon had been left at large in the storm. Since the longboats which accomplished furtive escape could not have been seen from the shoreline, she alone shared the clandestine awareness that Arithon's crew from the Lance had more than likely survived.

Those men could not be traced now. The ferocity of the gale would have covered their tracks, even if a boat could venture the crossing to the islet where they had sought refuge.

"Your fleet admiral said risk no lives for the prize," the courier answered in earnest response to the sudden outburst of questions. "If a watch crew stayed aboard, what good could that do? They'd be left to fate's mercy. The brig can scarcely beat her way out. Wind's like a funnel at the eastern inlet. To the west lie the Snags, submerged reefs and rocks fit to mill a hull's timbers to wreckage."

Lirenda arose. Having breached Lysaer's trust, she felt moved to offer a gesture to salvage what she could of her order's damaged integrity. She gathered her damp mantle and stepped through the grouped men, while hands snatched their strewn dice up out of her path, or made signs against spellcraft at her back. She paid the inimi- cal gestures no mind. The smells of moist cloth and oiled steel and humanity oppressed her as the mass of the company quieted. All eyes fixed her way. Her wet kid shoes made less sound than a wraith as she traversed the sweating limestone floor to reach the fireside enclave with the prince.

"Loan me one of your diamonds," she said.

Lysaer asked no question, but drew his knife and cut a stud from his doublet. His hands retained their enviable poise as he placed the gem into her keeping.

Lirenda knelt before the fire. She pushed back the lush, sable fall of her hair. The beat of close flame dewed a sheen on her forehead as she turned the small jewel between her fingers. She rotated the chased setting and measured the illumination which played through the starred planes of its facets, until an arrow of frozen light threw its focused reflection across the centerline of her palm. The stone's imprint was not dedicated to her; she could exert no will through its matrix. But given the sensitivity of her inborn talent, and guided by knowledge of runelore, she might link the stone's resonance into Lysaer's need to know, and shape a rudimentary scrying.

The enchantress closed out the furtive rustles as the curious gath- ered at her back. Her mind brooked no distraction. She unreeled her awareness deep into the stone's core until she captured the still point at its heart. Then she raised her distanced vision across the fire's emission 471.

JANNY WURTS.

of rippling smoke and hot sparks. She narrowed her eyesight upo~ the planes of Prince Lysaer's face, that no nuance of expression sh~L~td escape her.

"Stare through the flames and gaze deep into the matrix of the dia- mond," she instructed. "Hold to your wish. Let your thoughts not stray from your purpose. While you own your desire to its fullest extent. I'll scribe an amplifying me-field. If your will stays steadfast and fort~~n~ favors, the answer you seek will become manifest in the fire."

As Prince Lysaer concentrated, Lirenda stretched and extended t~er awareness. The distraction of the fighting company dissolved as relaxation stilled her outer senses. Preternaturally conscious of the grounding quiet rooted throughout the cavern, she embraced the weighty tonnage of the earth, then expanded her consciousness beyond. The gale outside touched her nerves as a tantrum of wind and element. She felt the white waves which drummed through Corith's headland, and the vibration of thunder through bedrock.

This place, which had been the past lair of great drakes, made her effort feel sadly diminished. She fought the sudden, overwhelming futility, that her order's works seemed little more than the industry of ants, which died to raise cities from sand grains.

Through the muffling calm of her inner alignment, she heard Lysaer's word of dismissal. Changed air brushed her skin. She sensed the dispersal of men from the fireside, and wondered what secret the Prince of the Light wished to keep from his ranking officers. Then her last thought dissolved into full trance. Held in suspension between prince and diamond, she raised her hand and scribed the opening cipher for the first ordained rune of power...

The bright scrim of the flames gave way to combed sheets of rain, and another live fire, quenched in a darkness measured between the static bursts of new lightning. The scrying lent vision where the storm reigned supreme, and the waters of a rock-bounded estuary lay thrashed to boiling lead by the brunt of the whipping winds. The snubbed hull of a brig loomed in faint sil- houette through the veiling rags of spindrift. The Cariadwin had been secured by competent seamen, her spars and topmasts struck for foul weather, with spring lines made fast and a double length of cable payed out for added security. Storm made a mockery of even the most stringent precau- tions. The brig tossed and slammed like a maddened beast. The sheltering influence from the islet to windward afforded her scanty protection. Behind the roll of her counter, the peril of a lee shore: a spit of raw boulders sieved through by ribbons of green water and spume. Jagged reefs gnashed the froth in the shallows, seething up geysers of spray.

472.

FUGITIVE PRINCE.

Despite the fury of wind and' wave, the brig's decks held men, struggling against the murderous elements to hoist her topsail yards to her caps. In determined struggle, sails were bent on, with spunyard stops, and gaskets cast off, to ready her canvas for setting on instantaneous notice. The spell- caught vantage sharpened into focus and revealed their desperation: the slipped hand or foot as,gusts raked the ratlines; the cried orders lost or not heard at all as rain and waves drummed white torrents on her decks. And yet, even blind, even deafened by the gale's thundering tumult, the men worked in concert. They cajoled the ship like a reluctant maiden. Firstfore- sails and main yard were hauled aback; then the silvered stroke of an axe blade chopped her anchor line at the hawse. The wind claimed her then for its own.

A bone in the teeth of a maelstrom, the Cariadwin spun, slewed abeam as her foresail was cut free. She heeled under her flogging yards of canvas. Then more sails bloomed from mizzen and spanker gaff. To the peal of someone's exuberant whoop, she backed, stern to. Another unheard, frantic order sent crewmen scurrying to haul the braces. The helm was reversed. Stressed sails slammed full, laid for a starboard tack.

"Saved!" cried her distant, gamecock captain in a paean of exultation.

Through a brash feat of daring in defiance of all odds, the brig recovered in Prince Arithon ' s name skirted the foaming fangs of the reef and ran the open channel, to be lost into howling dark.

"Show me the cove where my galleys are snugged down," Lysaer broke in with hard urgency. But cold logic scarcely required a scrying to confirm the extent of the enemy's resourceful sabotage. The Lance's crew had included forty war-hardened clansmen set free by King Eldir's justice. They had predictably matched a choice opportunity with thorough tactics. Nor had they shown any mercy in vengeance for the kinsmen they found enslaved with the royal fleet. In shadowy images, the bad news emerged: of hulls left holed and unfit for pas- sage, and a score of dead sentries, dropped at their posts with slashed throats. All that remained of the two hundred clan convicts Lysaer's justice had chained for the oar were the sheared-off ends of their fet- ters.

"A victory for your nemesis," Lirenda observed. Her laughter welled up for the lofty irony, that Lysaer's self-righteous public scru- ples had led to his own comeuppance.

"For today, one might think so." The prince's response was too calm, too knowing, and his gesture, a courtier's indifference as he extended his hand to recover his borrowed diamond. "The sweetest gains fall from the jaws of defeat. What seasoned galleyman could 473.

J^NN.

possibly believe that brig could sail clear in the teeth of a gale, except through an act of dark sorcery?"

He let that sink in, while a crook of one finger brought a page out of nowhere to secure the loose stud in his baggage. The boy blushed under his blinding smile, then retired out of earshot as the exhilarat- ing impact of Lysaer's attention fastened back on the enchantress.

"Our departure from Min Pierens will be delayed for some weeks.

Since no message can be sent until my damaged galleys are made sea- worthy, my council ashore will be tied. If Maenol's rescued clansmen strike to plunder before then, affairs back in Tysan will be primed and set for a righteous retaliation. My deferred reappearance will repay every setback. I'll find public fervor whipped to a fever pitch the instant we make landfall on the mainland."

Lirenda stared, while the stopped air in her chest compressed into stunned disbelief. "Ath's mercy, you could not have intended this!"

"I will prevail, for the good of this land and the innocent people who rely on my protection." Across the dwindling rags of the fire, Lysaer s'Ilessid resumed in a flawless and chilling sincerity. "None would have been more surprised than I to see this small venture suc- ceed. After the slaughter at Dier Kenton Vale, what fool could pre- sume the Shadow Master's capture could occur without hardship and sacrifice? My inner council at Avenor is scarcely naive. Each man was selected to outlast small defeats. Between the warning your Prime dispatched to Etarra and today's predictable setback, I have gained my sure proof to expose wider truth. Mankind's endangerment does not spring from the Spinner of Darkness alone. The pitfalls of spell- craft pose an equal threat to society."

Lirenda's appalled comprehension came magnified by the telltale rustle of her mantle.

Lysaer granted her unease a statesman's smile, laced with danger- ous irony: reversal of his high-handed strategy was in fact no setback at all. His dedicated quest to bring the Shadow Master's downfall had been expanded to eradicate the practice of great and lesser sorcery; for that cause, he would let conflict widen and foment. In due course, his call to arms could extend his control across the entire continent.

"You begin to understand," Lysaer said, satisfied. "Davien the Betrayer's fountain in the Red Desert has expanded the game board across the next five centuries. Time enough to usher in sweeping change. As the guilds suffer predation from s'Ffalenn ships and rene- gade crews, I'll gain for Avenor and my Alliance the omnipotent sup- port to raise standing armies across the continent. My crowning strike must be withheld until I have won the sworn loyalty of every city in 474.

FUGITIVE I~RINCE.

Athera. Then I shall bring down the s'Ffalenn bastard, and with him, the Fellowship of Seven, and any other factions in the land who obstruct the growth of human destiny."

Lysaer arose, the majesty he carried like an extension of his flesh made no less by a setting of uncivilized rock. "Now my warning to your Prime is explicitly clear." His pearls and his diamonds snagged baleful lights from the coals as he stopped, and faced her, and gave his dismissive conclusion. "Be sure she hears the extent of my disap- pointment for her false principles."

While the embittered calculation of Lysaer's long-range purpose swept her damp skin into chills, Lirenda felt his eyes on her, fierce and wholly dedicated. She now had the measure of him; could sense the trapped depths. His pose of self-honesty shielded some deep and unconsoled anguish. "What will you tell your men of the sacrifice you will demand of them?"

The smoldering spark of his righteous rage struck through his quick laugh like a barb. "Should I not use the same lie you thought to foist upon me for your order's covert conspiracy? Are we not alike, lady? Both capable of committing errors of mercy for men whose criminal acts lie outside the constraints of human decency."

But they were not alike, First Senior Lirenda sensed in hard-core certainty; not yet. She had ordered Caolle's survival out of hatred, with precise intent to ruin the man whose character might ensnare her through unbidden emotion of the heart; for no living being would she endure the blind agony Prince Lysaer s'Ilessid suffered in secret for the love he had rejected in Princess Talith. Nor did she seek the accession of prime power for the purpose of public crusade.

Lirenda seized on the opening she had gleaned to inflict the last stinging word. "On the day you command your princess's death, your royal Grace, I invite you to present the same question again."

Then she gathered the spoiled folds of her mantle and removed her- self from the grace of Lysaer's presence.

475.

Summer 5653 Crossing The darkness burst into shards and smashed rainbows. Dakar recap- tured the distinct impression he was screaming, while a painless dis- tress tore him limb from limb and flayed all the meat off his bones.

Through one wrenching moment, he passed the shuttered eye of time.

Then perception reassembled with a jolt that slammed like an axe at the base of his skull.

The veil ripped away to a redolence of midsummer greenery.

Through somebody's cry of hysterical terror came the shout of a stu- pefied clan sentry. "Avert and protect!"

Dumped headlong upon a rich fragrance of loam with a hot blan- ket of sun on his back, Dakar found no breath to respond. Whether he came to die for his failure, he had no choice but to let his unruly stom- ach take charge.