Drawn across the inked site of the city of Karfael, it changed motion again, reversed in an arc toward Avenor. There, it settled at last to a rhythmically circular spin over Tysan’s royal seat.
‘False reading,’ the priest murmured. ‘Blood will call to blood, foremost through the tie of close kinship. Your royal son will shortly be bound for Karfael, did you know this?’
A dazzle of jewels marked Lysaer’s drawn breath, as light nicked the studs on his doublet. ‘He’s fifteen years of age. Old enough to start cutting his mother’s apron strings, I would say. Nor can a prince gain a ruler’s discernment by staying too close to home. My garrison commander at Karfael is competent. If he can’t be trusted to steer a headstrong boy from youthful high spirits and folly, we are lost before we ever raise arms against the true minion of darkness.’ Through a smile of grave humor, the prince signaled for his priest to proceed with the scrying. ‘Quarter the Kingdom of Rathain, if you please.’
The priest moistened his stained lips. Seized in ecstatic trance, he wet his fingers with a freshened mix of blood and saliva, then reanointed the copper weight. The chain whined, disrupted. Like a hound pulled untimely from a hot scent, the weight thrashed and trembled in confused little jerks that zigzagged without clear direction. The diviner carried on with unruffled calm, in exacting, small increments, casting across every detailed feature of Rathain. When the forest-clad coves along Instrell Bay showed him no quiver of alignment, he combed over the wastes of Daon Ramon Barrens. Next he quartered the ice-clad peaks of the Skyshiels. There at last, the pendulum deflected, then thrummed into an agitated spin.
‘He’s there! Oh, well done!’ The Divine Prince shot erect. Shared excitement stirred through his men like a storm charge. Even Narms’s mayor hung with pent breath as his Grace accosted his priest for more facts. ‘Can you see where the demon is headed?’
‘He won’t escape this time in deepwater ships. No. You will catch him landlocked and vulnerable.’ The diviner-priest hovered over his pendulum and map, consumed by the command of his sovereign to glean every detail he could from his art. ‘Since landfall in Jaelot, the Master of Shadow has apparently turned inland. He’s cutting a path through the Skyshiel foothills, on an angle just north of the city.’
‘You know of the forbidden road that leads through that country into Daon Ramon Barrens?’ Sulfin Evend supplied. ‘Baiyen Gap was the ancient name for the pass. Copies of early Second Age record show the Paravian way running straight to Ithamon as the crow flies.’
While the priest rinsed and dried his paraphernalia, the rawboned headhunter showed his contempt. ‘There’s no clan presence there. The site is a ruin. Why would the Spinner of Darkness be bound into such desolate territory?’
Lysaer tapped the parchment where the line of the Severnir’s dry gulch snaked south toward Daenfal Lake. ‘Don’t for a second misjudge this fiendish creature’s resourcefulness. He knows of the ensorcelments laid into the stone watch towers that stand whole amid those smashed revetments. Who can guess what evil may spring from his wiles? What if he intends to lay claim to the site and rebuild the crown seat of his forebears?’
‘That’s no pleasant thought,’ Sulfin Evend allowed, his lean features peaked to hawkish interest. ‘Those towers outlasted the assault of the rebellion. Legend holds that outsiders still need a blood prince’s word to unkey the wards for admittance. The s’Ffalenn defenders besieged there in the past were said to starve to a man, their bones picked by ravens behind unbreached gates. If the Master of Shadow restores the old fortress, he could bid to revive the earth magic. We might see a canker set into our midst that could cost us dear to rout out.’
The weasel-faced captain with the axe at his belt slapped his thigh to a rasp of steel mail. ‘Then we stop him. Cut off his access before he can reach his objective.’
Narms’s mayor set flat palms on the trestle to brace up his spine in objection. ‘It’s deep winter,’ he argued. ‘No mounted courier can bear word to the east fast enough to make any difference. Nor can armed troops sustain a forced march that far overland without supply lines.’
Lysaer s’Ilessid straightened up from the map, his golden hair hazed in low light like a nimbus. His regard felt like touching live embers bare-handed, or staring too long at the sun. ‘When else would the minion of darkness seek foothold, but amid the cruel hardship of winter?’
The mayor lacked words. He could not sustain that attentive regard, or such powerfully riveted sincerity.
‘Forgive me,’ said Lysaer. Recalled to the fact he conversed with a man outside his accustomed circle, he gentled the blaze of his majesty. ‘Of course, you would fret for your people of Narms.’ His smile was magnetic. ‘Put aside all such fear. Your town will be vigorously defended.’ On his feet, incandescent with purpose, he was a male form stamped from foil and light, his charisma too bright to seem human. ‘We’ve prepared well for this hour of trial. The faithful will march on the barrens and rise above inconvenience. Terrain and cold weather can be overcome. No foul tactic from Halwythwood’s barbarians will defer the arm of the Light’s righteous justice.’
The mayor licked dry lips. ‘I have no seasoned men-at-arms here to offer. Only those hardened few headhunters who lay over in south quarter lodgings until spring.’
Yet even the field-tested courage of such men balked at crossing the haunted vales of Daon Ramon. The woodland barbarians themselves gave wide berth to the blessed ground at Caith-al-Caen. Nor did men tread the ancient Paravian road which passed through the ruined heart of Ithamon. At the moon’s full phase, and under her darkened new face, the eerie, silver-point ghosts of the unicorns galloped in silenced passage. Their dead were still seen to pace under starlight. Ethereal spirits of departed Athlien danced in the change of the seasons, and along the avenue of hallowed standing stones stitched across Daon Ramon, the east wind sang as if speaking.
‘We’ll face a more brutal reckoning than old haunts, should the s’Ffalenn bastard establish a presence at Ithamon.’ Sulfin Evend shifted his raptor’s glance to the lanky sunwheel diviner. ‘How soon can you contact the priests of the Light stationed at Etarra and Morvain? Both cities keep garrisons prepared for fast summons. We can march eighteen companies of strike troops due east, and mount twice that number from Etarra. We’ll still be hard-pressed. To cordon Ithamon and crush Red-beard’s war bands, we need our best men called to arms damn well yesterday!’
The diviner knotted his weight and chain between restless, bird-boned fingers. ‘Word can be sent on the wings of a prayer ritual, or faster yet by the will of his divine Grace.’
‘I’ll handle this personally,’ snapped Lysaer s’Ilessid. His vehemence spat glints off gold braid and diamonds as he cut off a burly officer’s objection. ‘By the charge of truth I’m invested to uphold, I’ll suffer no minion of evil to lay his fell shadow on the land.’
Driven in dazzling, prideful magnificence, the prince clasped the Mayor of Narms by the shoulder. ‘My chosen are dedicated, trained, and relentless in their commitment to uphold the Alliance of Light. Be assured of my pledge to secure your deliverance. Nothing will stand in the way of my charge to take down the Spinner of Darkness. From Narms, we’ll require horses, fast couriers, and the skilled guidance of your veteran headhunters. If the Master of Shadow is to be brought down, every fighting man you have with experience in the barrens must lend his unstinting effort.’
Few men could withstand the imperative fire of Lysaer’s intimate company. Those candid blue eyes saw too far into the heart, lucid with a too powerfully seductive perception.