A soft sound, to the left, as Sidir responded. He gathered Feithan’s slight form as she swayed, lent the shield of his shoulder, while Jeynsa uncoiled and rose to full height, untamed as a wounded lioness. ‘Then where is his Grace? Why is he not here? Why are you and Luhaine sent to speak in his place?’
Braggen’s stripped attention stayed on her. ‘His Grace couldn’t,’ he said, numbed. ‘To evade Lysaer’s war host and escape certain doom through the madness of Desh-thiere’s curse, Prince Arithon claimed refuge by entering the maze in the Mathorns.’
‘Kewar!’ Sidir was rocked.
Eriegal stared, aghast, while Feithan pushed straight, and Jeynsa, wild with malice, burst into jagged laughter. ‘Oh, how apt! The score of his blood debts shall kill him, no doubt.’
But it was Sidir whose grave intellect interpreted Braggen’s strained face. ‘His Grace hasn’t died, has he?’
The Companion shook his head, anguished. ‘In fact, he survived. I’ve been charged to bring word by the Fellowship Sorcerers. The Prince of Rathain withstood the harsh challenge. His Grace is fit, and still sane.’
‘And?’ whispered Eriegal, as the pause grew prolonged.
‘Barach should hear this,’ Feithan broke in.
Yet Jeynsa’s merciless, challenging stare impelled the reluctant answer.
‘The last living blood of Rathain has been granted sanctuary, embraced by the old code of guest welcome. His haven is Kewar, and his host is no less than the Sorcerer, Davien the Betrayer.’
‘A fine, abrasive pair they will make,’ Jeynsa snapped. ‘I wish I could be there to watch the fur fly as they tear each other to ribbons.’ She spun and stalked out, just barely careful to mask the light as she pushed through the door flap.
The shocked quiet lingered, a speechless abyss: the last survivor of Rathain’s royal line remained with the renegade Sorcerer. Davien, whose incentive had fomented rebellion, raised the towns, and broken the rule of the high kings over five hundred years ago.
Against cracking tension, Eriegal moved, crossed the lodge, and rescued the forgotten tray of refreshments. Braggen accepted the brandy thrust into his hand. Then he watched, brooding, as Feithan was coaxed to a seat on Sidir’s dauntless insistence.
She looked frail as cut paper, though her hands, bare of rings, did not tremble. As Eriegal poured a cup for her, Braggen spoke with a tact he had never possessed. ‘No, lady. You will not apologize for Jeynsa’s behaviour.’
‘Her defiance is setting a terrible precedent.’ Feithan sighed. ‘Ath knows, we’ve all tried. I can’t make her listen.’
‘Prince Arithon will handle her,’ Sidir assured, the wing of white in his hair a moonlit patch against darkness. His words offered hope. Of the four who remained, he knew the prince best, having shared the harrowing campaign in the mountains at Vastmark.
Braggen knocked back his drink. Yet no fire in his belly could warm his heart. He had too much to say: the uneasy details that had allowed Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn to evade certain death inside Lysaer’s closed cordon. The Companion who had partnered his Grace must choose whether to disclose the last words exchanged between prince and sworn liegeman, and whether to reveal the tenacious desperation behind Earl Jieret’s terrible sacrifice. Until Barach arrived, and while Feithan regained her composure, Braggen sat with his forehead laid on his fist. Quiet, among friends, he wished he was numb. The trophy foxtail stayed tied to his belt, promised but not delivered to Jeynsa by the father lost in Daon Ramon. Who had broken the heart of his youthful successor because he had commanded another to stand in his place and, inevitably, had not come home.
Summer 5670
The merchant brig, Evenstar sheared into Innish, crammed with barrels of dried orange peel, Elssine steel, and candied peaches from the orchards of Durn. She was warped to the dock, while the shore factor’s stevedores called ribald comments, half-naked in midsummer heat. They waited, observing with ferret-sharp eyes, while the brig’s well-disciplined crew raised her hatches to unlade her hold.
Yet the slim, blonde captain who incited their best gossip had already gone, whisked ashore from the anchorage by the oars of a lighterman. While her first mate settled affairs at the wharf, Feylind rushed up the stairs to her brother’s office, a garret-room set above the tenements and shop-fronts overlooking Innish’s harbour. She found the door locked. Scarcely pausing for expletive, she hammered the oak panel.
‘Fiark! I know you’re in there!’
Her brother’s voice answered, nonplussed, through her racket. ‘No, Feylind. Don’t bother. I’m not going to burst myself arguing, and you’re sailing upcoast beyond Shand. There is famine. I have signed the lading bills to send succour. The shore warehouse already holds your next cargo. My secretary’s primed with the tax-stamped documents, at the custom-house to receive you.’
Shut out in the musty dark of the corridor, Feylind howled a filthy word through her teeth.
‘Beans,’ her twin spoke back in rejoinder. ‘Also salt pork in barrels, dried corn, and flour. Spirits and wine—because of rains and flooding, the low-country cisterns have become uselessly tainted. Children have sickened. You’ll be carrying medicinals. Oh yes, and some nets of fresh limes, dropped by fast galley from Southshire.’
Feylind smiled like lightning unleashed. Captain to a crew of twenty, all male, she unslung her boarding axe and let fly. Moulding and varnish smashed to uncivil splinters as she razed off the outside latch.
‘Feylind, you maniac!’
The lock turned with alacrity. Sunk steel was wrenched from its setting as Fiark jerked open the mangled panel. Feylind immediately began her next stroke. As the door swung wide, the raised blade topped its arc. She snapped her wrists; changed its falling trajectory.
The haft left her hands, and the edged helve impaled in the rim of her brother’s desk. Quill-pens fluttered air-borne. Stacked ledgers toppled. Piles of correspondence disgorged their lead weights, and sluiced in white sheaves to the floor-boards.
Fiark’s fair brow relaxed. Immaculate in his dark velvet and pale lawn, he sized up his twin sister’s strapping, tanned arms, and the sailor’s slops she wore hacked to frayed threads above bare feet and neatly turned ankles. His sigh masked a smile. ‘After the scars from your hobnailed boots, today’s flourish is scarcely significant.’ He met her eyes, of identical blue. ‘You are not sailing east. King Eldir needs a skilled captain, and Evenstar’s the only bottom we have with no dicey political strings on her registry’
‘Bugger that, with a goat,’ Feylind said, furious. ‘You can kiss your High King’s land-lubbing arse! Give him your mouthful of sweet consolation, because I am not sailing to Havish.’
‘I will not start a war!’ Fiark snapped. ‘And dare spew that filth to King Eldir’s face, he’d have your tongue for gutter-snipe insolence.’
Feylind hooked her chapped thumbs in her belt. ‘You know who missed his backup rendezvous at Alestron.’
Her volatile change in subject need mention no name. Fiark shut his eyes, only half in forbearance. ‘Ath, you’re