Traitor's Knot Part 31

'It's the worry,' the Mad Prophet admitted, eyes shut. Pink hands laced on his belly, he settled to doze in the shade of the thrumming mainsail. 'Don't wake me until we're at rest in the harbour. That way I might slip the burden of fate, and reach sh.o.r.e without getting sea-sick.'

On schedule, the pinnace hove into Southshire. There, the prankish gusts lifted the wings of the gulls and sent them flocking over the roof-tops. The dock-side hung thick with the pitch tang of oak.u.m, and the dust devils danced, whirling sawdust. The shipworks were winding down for the day. Banging mallets dwindled and died, and the doused coals smoked under the steam-boxes. Sundown painted a pastel sky when Arithon flagged a lighterman to row him ash.o.r.e.

Now red-haired and brown-eyed, he looked comfortably plump in the stuffed cloth of Dakar's spare tunic. He carried his lyranthe for care-free entertainment, to be back, he a.s.sured, before daybreak.

As good as his word, he amused the off-duty watchmen, and the packs of dice-throwing sailhands crowding the water-front taverns. He ate dinner, listening to idle talk, then tuned up and composed a bright satire. Swept off with a rowdy smith and a chandler, he went to taste the free wine doled out by the sunwheel recruiters. For an hour, he sat on a bench with laced hands in the shadowy dusk of the tent. Since he never moved, no one blamed him for the fact that, thereafter, every cask the priest broached appeared to have soured to vinegar. He took polite leave of his casual acquaintances and returned to the dives along Harbor Street.

There, the snake venom sellers were just hitting stride. A juggler with torches was swallowing fire. Skin flasks of rum could be bought for a copper, and a c.o.c.ker was setting his boards in the street, contenders and bettors crowding his crates to size up the hackled combatants. The bard skirted the crowd, whistling, and chose a snug berth between wine-shops, where he played ditties for coin and sweet serenades for the young lovers. Dakar saw him, still there, when he reached sh.o.r.e at midnight, parched for a drink at the Fishnet. When the Mad Prophet emerged from the tavern, replete, the bard was down by the water-front sheds, cracking jokes with the sunwheel guardsmen. Two of the customs office watchmen were with them, bent over in howling st.i.tches.

Dakar parked against the sign-post of a trinket shop and wheedled for favours from three painted doxies. Their simpering drew whistles from a muscular galley-man, who flashed coin, and left the deserted spellbinder brooding. The sunwheel guards on the dock poked fun at his stiff state of misery as they moved off to pick up their beat. The carrot head bard was nowhere in evidence when the three of them paused by the customs' shack, and unaccountably, snoozed at their posts.

Only Dakar noticed the iyats steal in. He watched through slit eyes as they pried all the bungs from the wine tuns stacked under their cover of tarps on the wharf. The excis.e.m.e.n's seals gleamed under the rise of the moon, undisturbed by a pilfering hand as twenty-eight barrels of Orvandir's best spirits gurgled until they were emptied. Their contents trickled through the cracked boards and into the black slosh of the tide with no official at Southshire the wiser.

Crimson dawn saw the pinnace away. The change of the tide brought the inbound brig, complete with her forged bills of lading. Just past the morning change of the guard, the drained barrels on the wharf were replaced by a paid crew of sweating longsh.o.r.emen. They onloaded the dry barrels, then unladed the brig with their equal number of filled replacements.

The wagoner who served the recruiting tents arrived later. He collected his load and delivered his haulage for pay, all unaware he had replenished last night's soured stores with twenty-eight tuns of rank fish bait.

By then, bard and prophet were well gone, sails spread to catch the spanking breeze that chivvied them on towards Shaddorn. They made port in two days, left the pinnace sedately tied, and sought a performer's lodging in one of the tile-roofed, dock-side taverns.

The landlord wiped wet hands on his ap.r.o.n and surveyed the odd pair on his door-step, lukewarm. 'A free singer, eh? You'll pay for your bed. If the company appreciates your balladry, they'll leave a coin or two in your cap. If they don't, you'll not hear your own notes for the noise. If you want yesterday's bread and the fish-stew on the hob, you'll have dinner at the sailhands' cost of two pence.'

'That's fair,' said the minstrel, his blithe nature unruffled. Now sporting a tangle of pallid blond hair, he entered the salt-musty common-room, while the stout companion who tagged at his heels grumbled that the inns on the Tip were unfit for the manners of stable flies. 'It's pinching indecent not to give a free singer bed and board, never mind an allotment of beer.'

The minstrel took a room. Notwithstanding, he paid, and slept undisturbed until dusk. Returned to the tap-room, clad in garish motley, he straddled a bench and tuned up his lyranthe. The tables were bustling when the fast courier rode in, bearing word of the riots at Southshire. 'Fair tore those sunwheel tents into shreds, will you know! The fracas started when the priests ran out of wine and tried to serve up the Light's supplicants with rotten mullet.' Paused for a drink, the parched messenger slapped settled dust from his leathers and broke into braying laughter. 'When the daisies in their sunwheels accosted the stevedores for rest.i.tution, let me tell you, the fisticuffs started in earnest. They say you'll know the Light's minions by their black eyes, and the longsh.o.r.emen's guild, by the over-ripe stink o' thrown fish!'

To no one's surprise, the resident bard composed a satire in commemoration. The packed crowd stamped and clapped, begging for the same ballad again, and crying themselves prostrate with mirth.

The delighted landlord refunded the minstrel's lodging and generously forgave the stout companion for his mean-spirited comments. 'Stay the week,' the inn's red-cheeked matron entreated. 'A month, even.'

The fair-haired bard smiled, and firmly declined. I'm bound north, for Etarra.' Since his performance had captured the bystanders' interest, his explanation cut through conversation. 'Folk say that the troops who are billeted there have so many gold b.u.t.tons they're wont to stake their spare clothing at cards.'

A startled guffaw cracked the ambient quiet.

The minstrel winked, snapped a rollicking arpeggio, and gushed on, 'And I've heard! The white avatar who pays them to die cannot sleep without candles alight at his bedside. If that's the truth, then he's no G.o.d at all. Any wretch who hates darkness needs no divine Light! Give me a sweet lay and a halfpenny wick for my prayer to bring in a safe morning!'

The Southshire courier roared with delight. Half of the inn's replete patrons joined in. Badgered by threats of shadow and war, and pinched by taxes to fund sunwheel troops, they met the free singer's bold, shafting comments with stamping appreciation. Before their mood shifted, he flipped back pale hair and launched into a medley of reels. Each break between tunes, he added a new verse to the infamous saga that described the demise of the righteous to barrels of fish bait at Southshire.

Midnight drew nigh. The tap-room was crammed beyond bursting. The pot-washer ran to a neighboring tavern to roll in a fresh hogshead of beer. The landlord scarcely had cause to complain that the price asked for the brew was extortionate. Both of his cash chests were jammed at the hinges. The customers who were too tipsy to stand overflowed and fell down in the street. The door banged, admitting a stream of new-comers, drawn in to hear the uproarious comedy. Their shouted choruses threatened to raise the wooden pegs from the floor-boards.

The raucous celebration ran unabated until the last keg in Shaddorn was sucked dry.

'Man, we've not had a night to match this!' the landlord enthused.

He surveyed his tap-room and addressed the need for fresh sawdust to sweeten the privy. The teeming moil of bodies thinned, finally, until only the prostrate remained, draped over trestles and benches. Others lay snoring in heaps like dropped rags, under the guttering p.r.i.c.kets.

Grey dawn seeped through the seaside cas.e.m.e.nts when the bard finally laid down his instrument. A shuffling barmaid brought him juice and a sweet-cake, then sat down to ease her sore feet.

'You scarcely seem tired,' she observed, peering sidelong and smiling with invitation.

'Oh, I'll sleep,' the singer a.s.sured her, 'and alone, once the fiends in your hops quit their hammering on the tender insides of my noggin.'

Slumped over the trestle nearby, the fat tinker opened one eye. 'Swilled the lion's share, did you? A sore head's your just penance. Unless you wish to engage a rough pa.s.sage round the Scimlade on some fisherman's reeking lugger, we've a hot, weary tramp through the hills. Or have you in fact decided to stay and try your luck reaping the whirlwind?'

'Our playbill's too volatile?' the minstrel quipped back. 'You don't think the free singer's code will stay the wrath of the priesthood we've slandered at Southshire?' He laughed, his sly features veiled in the gloom as the innkeeper's wife snuffed the tallow-dips. 'By all means, then, the safe route is by sea. If I opt for the lugger, you'll knife me instead?'

Whatever the tinker meant to reply, the inn door slammed open. Stabbing daylight speared in, chased by a young woman's vituperative scolding.

'Husband's in his cups and didn't come home.' The barmaid shoved erect with a sigh, scanned the heaped floor-boards, and pointed. 'That's him, there, madam. He won't hear a word. You might spare us some peace, and pipe down.'

The skirted silhouette left the doorway. Not in concern for her errant wastrel, but vengeance bent for the bard eating breakfast at the inn's table. 'You!' Her contemptuous glance raked him, from his tousled blond curls to his unlaced shirt front, and his dishevelled jacket of motley. 'You are a breed of dog that rends families. What have I to show for your night's ill work? At home, I have six children to feed, and here's a week's silver drunk down by my man in another night's foolish bingeing!'

The minstrel dug into his scrip and skidded a half-royal across the beer-streaked boards of the trestle. 'If your weans are crying, by all means visit the market, then go home and feed them.'

'That can't salvage dignity,' the woman bit back. 'Your insolent charity can't mend slack morals, or forgive the temptation you place upon lack-witted fathers!'

'Perish the thought,' the free singer said, amiable. 'If the rose has such thorns, no wonder the poor, tongue-lashed creatures are drawn to embrace the joy of the tankard. They'll suffer aplenty, once they wake up. I'll tell you now, this inn's brew packs a punch that makes a thrown brick feel like swan's-down. Take your coin, madam, and your shrill abuse some other place on this fine morning.'

'She won't,' the barmaid confided, low-voiced. 'This rabid hussy stays on and shouts. The last time, we got bullish and paid for a longsh.o.r.eman to roll her sot home in a barrel.'

'Did you, indeed?' The bard raised an eyebrow, reached for his lyranthe, and launched into the 'Tinsmith's Implacable Wife.'

Worn as he was, with his voice husked from the pipe-smoke, he had not lost his immaculate timing. Line for brilliant, scouring line, he performed the ballad with infectious delight, providing strategic pauses for the matron's rife tongue to add her part to the performance. Several casualties in the tap-room sat up. Sides gripped, sore heads cradled, they shook with laughter.

The bard reached his last stanza and closed. He stood up and bowed to the glaring female, now planted in pinched fury before him. Before the rolling gales of mirth died, or the enraged wife found a rejoinder, a by-standing galley-man granted the singer the mercy of his appreciation.

The fat tinker accepted the offer at once, of swift pa.s.sage by sea up to Telzen.

Late Spring 5671 Escort Morning sunlight sliced through the mist over Mirthlvain, a blaze as distinct as an edge of hot metal sc.r.a.ped against exposed skin. The flat-bottomed skiff razed through the reeking shallows, bearing its three mismatched occupants. Bent reeds sc.r.a.ped the thwarts. Sc.u.m slid under the keel. Poised upon wide-set legs in the stern, Ianfar s'Gannley flipped his blond braid off his neck and poled the vessel ahead to the explosive clap of wings as a wading heron burst into ungainly flight.

The master spellbinder who knelt by the thwart tracked the bird's wheeling circle. 'Dediari,' Verrain murmured, the word a bright cadence in Paravian. 'Forgive.' He frowned as the creature's skimming descent looped back and resettled to resume its slow stalking.

'Take heed, my winged sister,' Mirthlvain's guardian warned. 'The fish here keep vile company' Soaked sleeves pushed up to his elbows, both wrists and each finger scarred, he clapped his tarred bucket under the surface and gouged up another dollop of bog slime.

The Princess of Avenor stirred from her perch in the bow. Lean and brown from her months spent at Methisle Fortress, and clad like a waif in men's clothing, she and the s'Gannley clansman who tasked himself as her escort ignored their host's habit of thinking aloud. Ellaine offered the empty bucket she held, in trade for the guardian's filled one.

'Gloves first!' Verrain chided. The melting concern within his brown eyes had once conquered the court ball-rooms of Shand, before the rebellion had torn them to ruin.

A court lady no less irresistibly charmed, Ellaine returned her shy smile and retrieved the reinforced gauntlet. 'Don't slosh that, mind!' Verrain resettled himself, poised to make a fresh capture.

Sunlight lanced through the thick air like ruled gauze as Ianfar poled the skiff across the next reed-bed.

As the princess dug wrist deep through the noisome muck, a sh.e.l.led creature with needle-sharp teeth fastened over her leather-clad finger. 'Another!' she announced with cheerful good grace.

Ianfar hissed an oath and clapped a fist to his belt-knife.

A needless defence; Verrain's recoiling move reached the lady's side as her bloodthirsty catch broke the surface.

A leopard snail studded with black-and-red pincers laboured to gnaw its way through the soaked glove.

Verrain's barehanded grip pried off the disgruntled creature. 'Here, you. Let's see.' The lilted phrase was more sorrowful than disgusted, a disarming gentleness that had cozened his guests to lend help with the exhaustive task of spring inventory.

Humidity beading her hair and a s.m.u.tch of slime on one cheek, the retiring princess leaned close as Mirthlvain's guardian mused, 'If you wade in here barefoot, this strain of methsp.a.w.n would snip your flesh to the bone. See the mouth structure? No fangs should mean this fellow's not venomous. Still, let's be sure.'

He pinned the snapping mandibles and peered past the prod of the mollusk's serrated tongue. 'Harmless. Some others with brindle markings are not. Even worse, some have tail spikes. I've seen strains like that pack a walloping poison.'

Ianfar reset his pole. The craft bobbled forward, while Verrain released the distraught mollusk into the sable silk sheen of the water.

'Oars!' he announced. 'We're going back.'

Again, Ianfar slapped a taut hand to his knife. 'Trouble?'

'Mercy, no. At least, not from the mire.' Verrain tilted his chin in salute to the lady, inelegantly perched with sunburned shins in a rolled-up pair of old breeches. 'Princess, word's just been dispatched here from Althain's Warden. Your overdue escort is soon to arrive. That means I shall have expert help with my snails, and you might prefer the chance to retire, at least for a change of clothing. In barely an hour, you're to be given a Fellowship Sorcerer's reception.'

The draughty fortress at Methisle kept no servants. Its Second Age sprawl of masonry towers had been raised first to house detailed records: exhaustive genealogies compiled when Paravian lore-masters and Fellowship Sorcerers laboured to cleanse the dark mire of its parasitic intelligence. At the change in rule, when mankind took refuge, the aberrant wraiths called methurien had been banished from Athera for six millennia. Yet the lichen-stained citadel on its tufted knoll was still maintained in solid repair. Night and day through the turn of the seasons, Mirthlvain's watch keeper worked the age-old bindings, his charge to confine the savage array of warped creatures that, even now, interbred and gave birth to malevolent offspring.

Lady Ellaine did not feel at ease with the screeling wails, the chitterings, and the bone-chilling night whistles of the amphibians the locked gates and tight wardings restrained. If a season in Verrain's unperturbed company had shown her the misted beauty that enfolded the cypress groves and the eerie delight of the marsh lights that drifted like tufted silk through the reeds, today, her hoydenish freedom would end. Flight from Avenor had brought her to face the power of a Fellowship Sorcerer.

She felt no regret, as she set the garnet pins from Dame Dawr to tuck the tight coil of her hair. Her return to clean petticoats and elaborate skirts did not constrict her in spirit. On the contrary: raised to the demure propriety of the Westlands, Lady Ellaine took comfort, if not consolation, in the boundaries drawn by court manners.

She arose, smoothed the lace on her satin sleeves, then used a two-handed grasp to lift the ma.s.sive latch that fastened her chamber-door. Cats scattered before her as she gathered layered hems and descended the worn stone stairwell. Her step stayed firm, despite trepidation. If she must, she would move to the next place of sanctuary. Not for man, or avatar, or sorcerer, would she cede her determined ground. Not until her royal husband came forward to answer for two prearranged acts of murder.

Ellaine raised her chin and swept on through the carved doubled doors that let into the upper-floor gallery. Verrain sat below, furled in a fresh robe of peat brown. Broad-shouldered and poised, Ianfar s'Gannley stood beside him in clan braid and leathers, bearing his sword, with his fingers clasped at his back. He heard the silken swish of Ellafne's entry. Faultlessly courteous, he strode to the landing, prepared to usher her to a seat.

The board trestle was empty. The stuffed chairs supported nothing but cats, watching the shadows in the deep corners with haughty, emerald eyes. Of the Fellowship escort, fore-promised for months, no trace as yet seemed in evidence. Ellaine shivered. Despite the full sunlight that streamed through the row of open-air cas.e.m.e.nts, her skin felt brushed over by a *wintry draught that appeared to have sprung out of nowhere.

'Where is the Sorcerer?' she inquired.

Ianfar drew out a carved chair, winced, and scuffed a felting of hair off the faded upholstery. 'Just arrived,' he admitted. The spa.r.s.e glance flashed in Verrain's direction disclosed an unusual uncertainty. 'Traithe could not come. My lady Ellaine, you must be aware? About Fellowship Sorcerers, that some of them aren't quite -'

'Behind you!' a voice broke through with clipped pique. 'A split-second sooner, and a span to your left, and you would have trodden straight through me.'

Ellaine turned her head, startled, and found herself facing the apparition headlong. Shade or not, the Sorcerer's presence pinned the nerves like a whetted-steel needle. He was tall, and rakishly slender in pearl-studded cuffs and dapper, green velvets. A short-cropped beard sported a badger's streaked white, and his roguish attention showed merriment. 'Forgive the discourtesy, but we've no time to dawdle explaining the fact I'm not corporate.'

Gallant gesture abandoned, Ianfar s'Gannley left off dusting the chair and raised his fist to his heart in a formal salute. 'Kharadmon,' he addressed, 'as caithdein's heir, how may I best serve the land?'

'At home!' The Sorcerer's impatience rejected the bother of court introductions. 'Your cousin, Lord Maenol, must act at once on a message that carries an urgency. Your charge will be to deliver swift word. A horse to bear you at speed to the Thaldeins awaits you at Isaer's Great Circle.'

'But that site lies on the far side of the continent!' Lady Ellaine burst out, then bit her lip in crimson dismay as Kharadmon's disconcerting regard settled back upon her.

'Your steadfast clan escort will not need to fly,' the shade rea.s.sured with asperity. 'Though the prospect would shock the mortal wits from him, the logistics involved are too clumsy. He will be sent on the winds of the flux raised by Athera's magnetics. A three-lane transition across longitude might wreck his digestion, but not to the point where he will be left unfit to stand up and ride.'

Battened behind her mask of state poise, Ellaine fought to calm her quickened pulse. Deportment availed nothing: Kharadmon's intent interest reached past masking pretence and fingered the hidden fear in her heart.

'My lady, you shall not be forced back to Avenor. Ianfar's journey is asked for the realm, but I would not risk his life in a town, any more than you should be exposed to the mysteries at large within the free wilds. You cannot be sent along with this man or take shelter with the clan outpost in the Pa.s.s of Orlan.'

'Our people's bitterness can't be laid to rest,' Ianfar made haste to apologize. 'My lady, your husband's execution of Maenalle s'Gannley was deemed an infamous act. She is the only caithdein in history to have been dealt a criminal's death on a scaffold.'

Ellaine locked her trembling fingers. 'If Lysaer is the killer your people have named him, I would tender your clans my apology.' Her bravery nonetheless was sufficient to challenge a Fellowship Sorcerer. 'Don't expect I'll return to a political marriage that excuses the sacrifice of a son.'

'Lysaer was innocent of what befell Kevor,' Kharadmon stated point-blank. 'Nor was your husband involved, or aware of the traitorous plot that killed Talith.' His turbulent brevity did not rest there, or disregard all tactful kindness. 'How strictly would you have me interpret the law?'

Fragile in that moment as kiln-fired porcelain, Ellaine stated, 'With honesty.'

Ianfar went still, aware of what must come, while at the table, Verrain's taut quiet held braced with compa.s.sionate pity. Kharadmon scarcely hesitated. 'The crown regency of Tysan has never been recognized.'

Through the brief, warning pause, the s'Gannley clan heir pressed a hand to his face. While the sunlight poured down with harrowing clarity, he was, after all, unable to witness a brave woman's desperate poise crumbling.

Inexorably harsh, the sentence must fall, as a Sorcerer called to deliver the truth was compelled by bound service to qualify. 'Therefore, all right to raise arms and each separate claim to serve royal justice must be declared false authority. By kingdom charter, this counts as misrule. Every life lost, and every last drop of blood spilled under Lysaer's cause, no matter to which side the dead or the injured claimed to have rendered their loyalty, must be accounted as a willfully negative impact.'

Ellaine's tears welled and spilled. Straight and pale, she held on, as Kharadmon's level voice gave the verdict. 'Straitly set, that means murder, by wrongful injury. Lysaer is descended from s'Ilessid, and of Halduin's direct lineage. But the accident of birth has never in history implied any claim to high kingship. Nor, under the law that upholds the compact, is any mortal man G.o.d sent, or due any right to impose his held principles over the lives of his fellows.'

At the end, Ellaine crumpled, while Ianfar's grasp, strong and warm, supported her shoulder. 'She cannot return,' he told Kharadmon. 'At Avenor, she will become shut away, wrapped in silk, and imprisoned in silence.'

Head held high, her sienna hair threaded with grey where the ringlets sprang from her temples, Ellaine rallied her shaken poise and bore up. 'My husband is right to cower in fear of your Fellowship's sentence and punishment.'

By her side, Verrain started. Ianfar's shocked fingers tightened.

'Fear us?' Kharadmon's semblance of form momentarily shimmered with sparkling light. 'We are not Lysaer s'Ilessid's accusers! Nor does the hand of our Fellowship mete out any torment in retribution!'

Ianfar recovered in time to redress Ellaine's frowning bafflement. 'Mankind was permitted to settle Athera beneath the mantle of the Fellowship's promise of surety. Since Lysaer s'Ilessid has declared himself above the Sorcerer's grant of protection, his witnessed refusal to answer to them means that responsibility for his injuries cannot be deferred. Nor can any power on Athera's soil offer him an intercession. He stands outside the compact, by his willed choice.'

'Then whose law will answer?' Ellaine asked, courageous.

Since Kharadmon looked tried to knife-edged impatience, Verrain's steadfast calm claimed the burden. 'No law, but the authority of free will. Athera's mysteries are her own defence. Lysaer must stand before the Paravians and speak his case in their unshielded presence.'

Ellaine swallowed. 'He survived what occurred in Daon Ramon Barrens.' At least, rumour held that a centaur had appeared on the field to oppose the trespa.s.s of his war host.

Kharadmon shook his head, charged by obligation to cut down even that misperception. 'What Lysaer faced was an incomplete presence. The Ilitharis may have seemed solid enough to the mortal troops on the field. Yet the majesty of a guardian's will can cross time as a parallel projection. This one's living thought form did not leave tracks.'

Yet a precise understanding of Athera's greater mysteries lay too far beyond Princess Ellaine's sheltered experience. She could not question further, even to know what fate might shape Lysaer's future. 'Where is the hope?' Silk rustled as she raised her hands to catch the sparkling fall of her tears. 'The son who might have salvaged the peace has been lost to us both.'

Silent as only a shade could become, Kharadmon could not offer her the least human touch to lend comfort. 'The lady must decide the course of her own fate,' he p.r.o.nounced at due length. 'I am here to serve the mother of a s'Ilessid son and deliver her where she wills. Either back to mend her torn marriage in Tysan, or else to accept the inviolate sanctuary within the hostels of Ath's adepts. Nowhere else in the land would be safe. Ianfar's clans cannot extend shelter without drawing the vengeful a.s.sault of Lysaer's reorganized war host.'

'What if I wished to stay on at Methisle?' Ellaine managed a watery smile for Verrain, grateful for the antique gallantry that had supported her without stint.

'Lady, I'm charmed.' The spellbinder stirred like a mouldered leaf. His absent, scarred hand stroked a tortoise-sh.e.l.l cat, leaped up to parade on the trestle. 'But I can't recommend this. You already know the long winters are miserable. Hot weather brings the high season for sp.a.w.ning. Dangers move abroad in the summer from which I've no adequate means to protect you.'

Lady Ellaine bowed to the inevitable. Her parting words and her curtsey to Verrain showed the instinctive grace that should have shared a ruler's throne without shame. The chaste kiss she bestowed on Ianfar's rough cheek was impeccable for its sincerity.

At last she confronted the discorporate Sorcerer. Escaped from Tysan in a slop taker's cart, she stood with empty hands and the naked cloth of her dignity. 'Let me go on to the hostel at Spire,' she concluded with strained trepidation.

Kharadmon gave her wounded heart a smile like an unveiled diamond. 'My lady, let me say I'm impressed. As a jewel too rare for the hand of your husband, you are not renouncing Tysan's captivity for another term of confinement. The adepts by their nature must honour free will. They will bid you welcome and respect you with kindness for as long as you care to stay.'

Scarcely prepared for the speed of event, Lady Ellaine found herself deep in Methisle Fortress's cellar, with her hand gripped to Verrain's lean wrist. The chamber had barren brick walls, and an oddly concave floor inset with mystical patterns. Her edged nerves had no chance to settle. As the Fellowship presence commanded the raw flow of Athera's lane flux, the pale inlay of the old Paravian focus circle flared into an incandescent burst of white light. She was blinded, not burned. The dire forces scoured out vision, there and gone in an instant. The after-flash took several seconds to fade.