Peril’s Gate. Janny Wurts

lane,’ Sethvir pointed out, too enervated to be less abstruse.

      Asandir weighed the statement, well aware that the Warden’s checkered thoughts masked disarmingly shrewd ingenuity. ‘Do you imply what I think?’ Sharply fast to grasp strategy, the field Sorcerer clarified, ‘You believe we could give Lysaer’s heir a spelled talisman?’

      Sethvir’s eyes opened, heavy-lidded. To mage-sight, in darkness, their color shone an eerie, serene aqua that reflected a sense of vast distance. Asandir, watching, felt a bolt of black fear strike straight through him. Never before this had he seen breathing life so closely mirror the infinite. ‘Tell me in words. You need grounding. I can hope speech will help.’

      ‘The rock, chastising air?’ The ghost of a smile turned Sethvir’s lips as he struggled to meet the demand. ‘I’d hoped the same plan might be used to spare Arithon, but the adepts refused me the use of a talisman as a bridge. They perceive very well that his Grace of Rathain’s become too fated a cipher.’

      ‘No hostels remain active in Daon Ramon, anyway. Who else could have handled the problem?’ Asandir hooked a footstool, dragged it close to the cot, and assumed the unlikely perch. His lean length of limb and innate balance lent him the hunch of a wing-folded heron. ‘If Prince Arithon was refused, what grounds would grant an appeal for a boy not brought up to honor the old ways? Why should Ath’s Brotherhood offer their sanctuary to safeguard Kevor s’Ilessid?’

      ‘I can’t promise they would.’ Sethvir’s brow furrowed. ‘But suppose we created a talisman stone, imprinted with spells based in parallel with the powers that rule the scrying glass in the king’s chamber. Say it was delivered by a messenger who would not be heard, unless the young prince showed the honesty of his blood heritage.’

      ‘You mean, test him?’ Asandir leaned forward, braced on crossed forearms. The idea had merit. Heirship was sanctioned along similar guidelines. ‘If Kevor has the bare-bones humility to hear truth, and honors his heart ahead of the mores of his upbringing, I catch your drift.’

      Sethvir’s eyes closed, his flesh like worn parchment beaten by storm to its craggy template of bone. ‘We could at least be sure the adepts at the hostel were made aware of his fate. Their compassion would mark his innocence, even if for a moment.’

      ‘But a moment might suffice.’ Lifted beyond pity by a glimmer of hope, Asandir traced the complex thread of logic himself. In extremity and need, the young prince might raise enough emotion and desire to engage the innate talent of his ancestry.

      Given the birthright of s’Ahelas descent, in theory, Kevor could tap that stream of raw power himself.

      ‘Assuming that boy’s gift is strong enough.’ In desperation, or extreme pain, he might unwittingly waken his own talent and tear through the veil into mystery. If so, conscious forces pooled within the sanctuary might answer and draw him to safety. A desperate long shot. Asandir shook his head. ‘Even if all those unlikely conditions were met, you know, in the hands of Ath’s Brotherhood, we must lose him.’

      Althain’s Warden dredged up his reply, whisper faint. ‘We’ve already lost him, entangled as he is in town politics and the thorns of Avenor’s false doctrine. At best, through a talisman, Lysaer’s son might be given a slim chance to claim his redemption. Would you lay the conjury into the stone as a boon, done for me?’

      ‘You’ve already culled a volunteer messenger? Since I won’t have to ride the west trade road in winter, I’ll have the work done before daybreak.’ Asandir gathered the limp hands which rested in disarray on the blanket, then gave back his firm reassurance. ‘One of the river pebbles you’ve cached in the library will surely be willing to give us the necessary service.’

      He arose on the promise he would bid farewell ahead of his departure at dawn.

      Yet before he could go, the outer door cracked. A female adept he had not seen earlier asked her permission to enter. ‘A message has come from our hostel in the Skyshiels.’

      Asandir straightened, half-braced. ‘More bad news from the east?’

      The adept shook her head. ‘Rest easy, no. The Warden’s desire was met. One of our Brotherhood went to Elaira. Her spell quartz has been sent to her peeress, uncleared.’ Which meant the order was not yet the wiser for the fact the imprinted longevity bindings on the enchantress’s life had been supplanted by Fellowship crafting.

      Asandir stood, eyes shut through a moment of welling gratitude. Then he regarded his prostrate colleague and sensed the frail but mischievous encouragement sent by thought across the blanketing darkness. Sparked into hope too fierce to be guarded, he dared to frame the bold question. ‘You had an adept make contact with Elaira?’

      ‘Better still,’ the adept ventured, unoffended by his insolence.

      ‘By morning, the enchantress intends to set off for our hostel in the mountains by Eastwall.’

      ‘But that’s brilliant!’ His turbulent gaze still fixed on Sethvir, Asandir pondered the startling range of changed impact. Jubilation broke through his most solemn restraint. ‘You’re a fiendish, hard taskmaster. Why else would you hold the cheerful gossip for last?’

      A hitched sigh of cloth, as Sethvir stirred under his mantle of comforters. ‘You know why.’ Any one of the quandaries left mapped in glass could cancel out hope at a stroke. ‘The adepts will explain what has passed with Elaira. Did you want our pacts renewed with the earth sprites who tend the lower dungeon gate spells? Then leave me in peace. Or your black stud won’t stand saddled and waiting by the circle on the hour you take leave for Athir.’

       Winter 5670

      Couriers

      Covered by night in the forest of Halwythwood, a clan rider leaps from a steaming mare, bearing urgent word from the north. ‘Morvain’s got a war host on the march in Daon Ramon, and headhunters ride out of Narms, led by Lysaer s’Ilessid himself. Find a fast horse and a rider double quick. Lord Jieret must be told he’s going to receive swarms of unwanted company at Ithamon…’

      Two hours before dawn, Asandir twines talisman spells like fired ribbon between layers of a water-smoothed bit of quartz; once the power coils in balance at the heart of the pebble, he sets his work into concealment with a blessing rune drawn in Paravian, then places the construct on the windowsill, where an owl swoops down on silent wings, then flies off with the stone clutched in needle-sharp talons…

      In the royal suite of Avenor’s state palace, Lord Koshlin bows, ending his private audience with Princess Ellaine, and moved to pity by her terrified pallor, advises: ‘Your Grace, the contents of that document are too damaging to set into a letter. I recommend that you burn the evidence at once, and trust me to bear word of the sensitive issue back to your father in Erdane…’