Traitor's Knot (30 page)

‘We're fordone,' Fionn Areth gasped, cringing.

Arithon's fast glance swept the goatherd's tucked rabbit posture and sheltering fists.

‘No.' The rebuttal raised the hard twist of a smile. ‘This is where we snatch respite.'

Before Fionn Areth expressed his contempt, the Master of Shadow pushed straight. Head bent, grip firm on the humming, live sword, he laid the flat of the upright blade to his brow, and spoke a rapid phrase in Paravian. The actualized syllables maddened the air, and ripped exposed skin into gooseflesh. Arithon shivered. He held to his focus, eyes shut, stripped down to the ruthless poise of a marksman offered a life-or-death shot at one target.

Whatever uncanny bidding he framed, the bare steel in his hands interacted. The sword-blade hummed louder. Its rune inlay softened, eased back to a glimmer pure as a clear shine of starlight. The fiends crowding in to macerate flesh recoiled just outside that ring of cast radiance. The deflected objects they wielded crashed into collision, snapping off static and bursts of singed cloth in balked fits of frustration.

Saved, half-unmanned by uncertain relief, Fionn Areth unclenched his arms and rubbed clammy palms on his breeches. ‘You can stand them down with that sword-blade? Dharkaron's fell fury! For how long?'

Arithon finished his rapt invocation. Careful movement lowered the weapon. The uncanny steel stayed ablaze with white light, still sounding that bell-toned vibration. Its power surged through skin and bones, and deep viscera, prickling like a wild tonic. Bemused, the Prince of Rathain shook his head. ‘I don't know. I've forged an active partnership with the craft the Paravian singers laid down for defence. The engagement can be maintained, at small cost. But to hold the conscious lines of intent, I'll have to keep waking awareness.'

Fionn Areth clutched himself, shivering, while a ballast rock arced over his head. The thud as the missile slammed into spoiled silk shuddered the keel underfoot. Muffled shouts and the on-going thumps topside bespoke crewmen still wrestling damages. ‘If you thought this would work, why not spare us earlier?'

‘I didn't know,' said Arithon in stark wonder. ‘We're improvising, remember? I couldn't try out an untested theory. Not while those fiends were rammed full of fresh charge. The bane-song was needful to drain them.'

‘You call these
drained?'
The smashing crunch of another dropped rock contradicted that sweeping statement.

Arithon shrugged. He had no use for argument. Astute observation would show soon enough: the
iyats were
dropping their possessed grip on the heaviest objects.

Turned back to attend his hoard of stacked casks, Arithon struck the sword-point downward through his improvised layers of wadding. The upright weapon shed a ghost ring of radiance, thrumming its uncanny song through the oak staves of the water-casks just saved by intervention.

‘What now?' asked Fionn Areth, his explosive relief finding outlet in nervous chatter.

‘Given we have an established defence? First the lure, then the feint.' Arithon hailed to the sailhand still guarding the hatch. ‘I want wicking string, oil, and the parts to reconstitute a closed lantern.'

‘Fury and frost!' Fionn Areth exploded. ‘You're thinking to risk
open flame
?'

Response came from Dakar, just arrived at the hatch, mottled red from the teeth of catastrophe. ‘Madman! You won't.' He shoved down the ladder. Now livid with rage, he arrived with a splash in the rippling flood of the bilge.

The sight of the light-shot sword struck him silent.

‘Ath's undying glory!' Still staring, the spellbinder swiped off a frayed length of twine pinched between the doughy folds of his neck. ‘I've never
seen
Alithiel's power engaged that way. Do you have the first clue what you're
doing?'
He shuddered, and capped with a quote.
‘“On the day Mother Dark chose to couple with mercy, Chaos was born of their union.”'

‘The desert tribes' myth of creation? How apt.' Arithon's smile held steel, but no warmth. ‘An unpredictably perilous child-birth. If I'm pressed to experiment, why whimper when we have the option to scream? If you plan to revile me using metaphor, it was Chaos that spat out the seed of the sun.'

‘Should I have expected that Davien would tame you?' Bloodied and sapped by his lingering headache, the Mad Prophet recouped his shocked poise. ‘You want a lamp,' he repeated. ‘In case you fall, someone else ought to know just what messy tactic you're trying.' His thoughtful gaze locked to Prince Arithon's face, he added, ‘Do you want my
accurate
spellbinder's opinion on how long you're going to stay standing? No? Then I'm listening.'

Words would cost them time. As the sailhand arrived with the requisite items, Arithon opted for demonstration. ‘Stay here. You'll see.'

He accepted the lamp parts and began their assembly at speed.

The sailhand unreeled the wick string, and nipped off the end with his teeth. ‘Feylind says, hurry. We're taking on water. She needs a team down here to man pumps and sound out the leaks.'

‘I won't need a minute,' Arithon replied. ‘When you go, tell the mate: he'll be bending on sail. I want this brig on a course due off shore, bearing every last stitch she can carry'

The lamp was prepared, and the reservoir filled. Arithon handed the ring off to Dakar, indulging meanwhile, in wry melodrama from an execrable ballad.
‘“Strike a spark, my wilding mage, unleash bold conjury! Swords will speak, and women wail, in ravaged misery.”'

‘They'll be likelier to laugh as you fry us to blisters,' Dakar said in sour reference to Selidie's witches. He had never yet encountered the
iyat
that could resist the lure of a fire. Still, he invoked the neat cantrip to spark the lamp, then trimmed the fluttering wick. ‘You've left those sprites stripped clean out of charge. Starved to mean aggravation, they'll be drawn down like the Ebon Spear from the fist of Dharkaron Avenger—Arithon! Death and mercy,
you can't!'

Yet the spellbinder's furious screech deterred nothing. The Master of Shadow leaned down and tossed what looked like a tangle of spider-silk through the lantern's opened pane. As Dakar foresaw, the seed flame roared up, bright and hot as a solstice bonfire.

Fionn Areth bounded back with a cry, convinced clothing and hair had ignited.

Dakar caught the yokel short before his frazzled panic rallied the
iyats.
‘It's a petty conjurer's trick of illusion,' he exclaimed in reviling disgust. His soaked beard still dripped, despite the sensation of heat that roared in merry havoc about them. ‘A display you could buy at a street fair for less than a beggar's penny!'

‘Well, the
iyats
seem impressed,' Arithon declared. His smile showed no rancour. ‘Could we drop the high dudgeon? I was hoping you'd take the clown's role and keep the appearances going.'

Dakar shut his mouth. As ever outflanked by that arid humour, he stepped through the crackling mimicry and peered into the hold at large.

Lamp-flame and pettifogging huckster's trick, the effect on the swarm was profound. The depleted
iyats
were inexorably drawn to assuage their insatiable hunger. They circled the fake bonfire in flitting frustration, pinned flat against the silvery radiance cast by the Paravian sword.

Dakar surveyed the resistance, his trained eye seeking flaws. Something beyond natural appetite seemed to be leashing the sprites' feckless nature. More than snagged in by the lure of the fire, they prowled the ring's edge, pulled as though snared in obsession. Paravian craft did not act in that way.

Dakar grasped the lightning stroke of epiphany and cracked to incredulous glee. ‘The
sigil?'

‘Dead underneath us,' said Arithon, laughing at last. ‘For as long as Prime Selidie tries her quartz binding, her swarm will stay thralled and flat helpless.' While something banged, topside, to unravelling shouts, and a shudder shocked through the brig, he inquired, ‘Can you keep the lamp trimmed and sustain the illusion?'

‘That alone, not the sword!' Dakar amended. ‘The working you've woven is outside my depth. Ath on earth, I couldn't presume.'

‘You won't have to.' Arithon clapped Dakar's shoulder, prepared to brush past. ‘There are fiends still needing a bane-ward. I'll be topside, helping until the brig is back under way' Stray
iyats
would still be fouling the gear. His
threnodies could be engaged to clear them and dispatch their starved husks to share the spelled circle that knotted the captives, below. ‘As long as I don't get tossed off the ship, I can hold the intent and keep the blade's warding in active alignment.'

Dakar parked his rump on the soaked pile of casks. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, sobered. ‘Inside safe walls at Alestron, I should have cut back on my drinking.'

‘I am not your conscience.' Wrung hoarse, reduced to a tattered form in dripping, dishevelled clothing, Arithon seemed little more than a man in haste to escape the dank chill of the darkness. His soft statement should not have caused a Fellowship spellbinder to turn his face to hide sudden, shamed tears.

Arithon murmured a last word in Paravian, then sloshed on due course for the ladder.

Fionn Areth stirred also, prepared to keep pace.

His nemesis allowed him. ‘If you plan to come, you'll want to stay close. Those
iyats
are snagged, but not helpless. Only a fool would step outside this circle without ward from a masterbard's threnodies.'

Aware of the thump of a yard, abovedecks, and the mate's shouted orders to man halyards, Dakar blotted his cheeks and squeezed in a final question. ‘You'll draw in the wind and drive us off shore?'

Arithon nodded. ‘The tactic's worth trying.'

The simple offensive meant less could go wrong. More leagues of salt water between
Evenstar
and the coast meant Prime Selidie would need to ride her thralled seniors much harder. The massed fleet of galleys lying in ambush also must spread themselves thinner to compensate. Delay would seed fights between captains and crews. If attrition failed, the plot still could be stymied. A lamed vessel's crew would succumb to the elements before they could limp on a jury-rig back to Orvandir. The farther the hard-pressed quarry could run, the less chance the gruelling contest would deliver the prize of a living capture.

‘Bluster and guts,' the bard said with apology. ‘We'll lengthen the stakes past the point of futility and wait for the witch to give up.'

‘If she wants you dead, you'll play into her hand,' Dakar cautioned, though the warning in fact was not truthful. He shared an unsettling nuance with the Fellowship Sorcerers that Arithon had never been told: the Prime Matriarch desired Rathain's royal line as hard leverage to destroy the compact.

Yet the rigors of Kewar
had
altered this prince. His moment of fierce, introspective attention crystallized all at once to a flash of bale-fire annoyance. ‘We sail, rails awash, fast as wind can take us. She wants me alive, beyond question.'

Late Autumn 5670

By sundown, as
Evenstar
sustains resistance against the invasion of
iyats
, Prime Selidie draws more enchantresses from the Forthmark hospice to reinforce her assault; and privy to secrets, aware that Morriel's spirit actually drives her, Lirenda knows the engagement will not relent for less than full forfeit, and final capture of Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn…

As the Sorcerer Asandir rides his black stallion south and east from the focus circle at old Mainmere, and another cloaked rider masked under his warding fares south from Avenor, alone, a conclave of conspirators casts a shielded scrying, then confers as their select prey boards his sunwheel guard onto galleys at Tideport: ‘He's coming by way of Hanshire, not good news,' then the reply, ‘Who will he have in defence, beyond the one untrained liegeman? This time, no contest, we take them…'

As day breaks, a disgruntled priest and his sunwheel retinue retrace their journey back to Kalesh; and packeted for dispatch to Cerebeld in the west are the attested facts that will pivot the strategy aimed to fragment the peace: that Princess Ellaine has claimed shelter with the s'Brydion of Alestron, who have also seen fit to employ a shipwright accused of high treason for past acts of sabotage at Riverton…

Late Autumn 5670

N
ightfall on the day following the Koriani spring trap saw the
Evenstar
reaching off shore, the wind on her port quarter. Few of her crew had seen rest, beyond catnaps, and the ship's cooper, not at all. Hammers banged upon chisels, abovedecks, where men laboured to fish a broken spar in the bowsprit under the gleam of a wan, gibbous moon. Others wore their hands raw mending chafed lines and tattered sails.

Red-eyed after a sleepless night, Feylind tossed back her ragged braid, chilled fingers tucked under crossed arms. ‘We look like a tub that got trounced by a gale.'

His raw-boned hands empty for the first moment since dawn, the mate scraped at the crusted salt that itched his stubbled chin. His hair was in tangles, and his clothing, left fusty from dousings inflicted by
iyats.
No rock in a storm could have owned his staid calm: a solid, dependable shadow, he assessed the soaked crewman hunched at the wheel, then rechecked the set of the stars overtop of the mast-head.

For now, the brig's course was aligned by the heavens, the compass being apt to wander in circles at erratic intervals. ‘I'll say this,' the mate answered with slow-spoken care. ‘Cattrick's proven his worth as a man who knows how to lay a ship's timbers. We still have a keel underneath us.'

The crew did not share that unscathed assessment. Cut and bruised, half the hands sprawled prone at their posts, dozing between calls to man braces. These were blue-water sailors paid to ship cargo, and not war-hardened fighting
men. No merchant brig could carry the man-power to run on shortened watches or withstand a prolonged assault.

‘Some of the men must stand down,' the mate said, too wise to ignore prudent limits.

Feylind rousted the ship's boy to relieve the look-out. The lad arrived, limping. Tired or sore, he fumbled his clasp on the rigging as he slung himself into the crow's nest.

‘Keep a hand for the ship, you!' Feylind barked in warning. To the mate, low-voiced, she shared her distress, ‘We can't keep this up. Not without risking a fatal mistake.'

They had three down, already: two from broken bones, and one with a concussion.
Iyats
were still being lured by the sigil. As
Evenstar's
charted course led her seaward, the spell-bound attractant moved with her. Fiends plying the waves and the winds for raw charge flocked in like flies to a carcass. Under darkness, the sailhands' ragged exhaustion made them easy bait for mishap and malicious sport.

Yet a lamp under canvas posed too dire a risk.

Annoyed to explosion, Feylind clamped her fists. ‘Dharkaron avenge! I could skewer those witches! We can't even risk using the damned jack-lines.' Spare rope rigged for safety just posed one more chance to be snapped up for use as a garrote.

The latest effort to ease their dire straits seemed an uncertain prospect at best: again, the chiming tap of a tin bowl with a spoon carried up from the ship's waist. Tucked against the brisk breeze, two black-haired figures attended the brig's stolid cook, who had hauled his store of bashed pots up on deck at the Masterbard's urgent request. The vessels not put to immediate use had been stacked in the scuttle-butt for convenience. The rest were nested in bights of rope to secure them against the tossing heel of the deck. Two kettles were partially filled up with sea-water. Bent over a third, a spoon and a ladle in hand, one alike man watched the other, who added water in measured increments, poured from a battered tin cup.

‘Strike it again,' said Arithon s'Ffalenn to his Araethurian double. A wearied burr husked his tone as he added, ‘Try the ladle, this time.'

The duplicate rapped the pot under scrutiny. Slightly taller, his square-shouldered frame resisted the ship's plunging reach with the matter-of-fact stance of a post.

By contrast, Arithon knelt with an enviable grace: that indefinably taut self-awareness instilled through a lifetime of training. Head tipped a critical fraction to one side, he assessed the pot's pitch, then added a dollop of water. ‘Again.'

Ladle met tin; the painstaking effort to contrive a mechanical means to sound fiend banes had been on-going for more than an hour. To Feylind's ear, the latest attempt seemed exactly the same as the last.

Yet Arithon winced, stabbed to visceral impatience. ‘No harmonic,' he snapped. ‘The slosh acts as a damper. We've got to have clearer tonality.'

He shoved erect, snatched the rope-handled bucket with intent to scoop up more sea-water. His step toward the rail seemed fluid enough, until like a fray in a fragile silk thread, the mask slipped and exhaustion exposed him. Arithon staggered. He caught himself short on the mainmast pin-rail, overcome by a febrile tremor.

Metal flashed, under moonlight. Fionn Areth dumped his ladle and spoon and surged, empty-handed, to extend his help.

Arithon sensed the move at his flank. As though seared, he shot straight in recoil.

Aware what must come, Feylind shoved off the rail. ‘Sithaer's fires! This can't continue!'

‘Let them be!' But the mate's warning grasp missed her sleeve as she left him.

Plunged down the companionway, Feylind thrust past the cook, just in time to catch the impact of Arithon's scalding rebuff. Fionn Areth flinched and yanked back. His awkward weight slammed her breathless. First to recover, she shouldered the herder's stung anger aside.

‘You won't do this!' cracked Feylind. ‘The boy's right, you're a cat's whisker away from measuring your length on my deck!' She caught Arithon's arm, braced his weight, then clasped him.

His eyes met her face without change of expression, wide-open and limpid in moonlight. His gasped oath was savage. Wrenched out of balance, now shaking in spasms, he twisted away from the bulwark of her support.

‘Bear up, damn you!' Feylind hissed in his ear. ‘You can't afford spurning an offer of friendship, no matter how much the pain rankles!'

‘Go castrate a bull with your mothering tongue,' said Arithon with blistering clarity.

‘You don't mean that,' Feylind answered. Aware of the sparkle that rose in his eyes, though his adamant, turned face sought the darkness, she sighed. Then she shifted her grip, turned her palm, and cupped his exposed cheek in a desperate effort to shield him.

His fingers convulsed in the cloth of her shirt.

To Fionn Areth, who stared open-mouthed, then to the cook, and the riveted deck-hands, the captain rebuked, ‘He won't stand hero-worship. Never has. Never will, though such foolish pride drops him prostrate. He can gut you with words. Don't be fooled. He still needs you.'

Arithon raked her over with resigned contempt. ‘Sheathe your harpy's claws, will you? A man likes his pride given back without shreds. I only intended to rest on the pin-rail.' His effort at boredom
almost
rang true. But the tremors had worsened to shuddering spasms. He could not command the pitch of his voice. Nor could he move: the hot moisture that welled beneath her spread fingers destroyed every effort at pretence.

Aware that his legs would no longer bear weight, Feylind held on through the surge as
Evenstar
ploughed through a trough. She had always conceived of this prince as a giant. In fact, he was slight. Lean and finely made as an injured deer, his propped frame required almost no muscle.

‘Shredded pride has no place!' she chided him gently. ‘If you're going to buckle, you can't fall down on Fionn. What if Vhandon or Talvish stepped in? They'd kill first and question appearances later. You'd have a dead Araethurian before either one realized the boy wasn't caught in the act of a cold-blooded murder.'

Arithon surrendered resistance and leaned. ‘Your brother bests all of my arguments, too.'

As the gusting wind slammed the ship through the swell, Feylind experienced the taut weight of him: close-knit, compact, nothing like the easy, protective warmth she enjoyed with the mate.
This man was different.
The intimate sense of his aliveness suffused her, an electrical tingle that coursed through her being, and wakened a startling ripple of pleasure. The encounter was sensual, and something far more: a contact that quickened the vault of her mind, then hurled a soundless, ranging cry through the uncharted realm of her spirit.

To that lyrical call, that beckoned beyond silence, she found her own voice as clay, without word or language to answer.

Feylind jerked back her unreeled breath. For good reasons, Arithon kept his touch reserved and shied off from physical contact. Impelled by need, one moment of weakness laid bare what could not be masked: initiate mastery augmented the presence of him, at close quarters. Even unstrung, his reactive sensitivity engaged life with an intricacy that her practical nature could never stretch to encompass.

The grief struck, too poignant: that his aware mind and uncanny affairs lay too far outside her reach.
Evenstar
was endangered, with all her stout company, and for no better reason than the fact that this one, complex spirit had led her first steps past a fisherman's daughter's horizons.

Feylind swallowed, looked up, saw the mate at the fringes. He would read her features as no one else could. This moment of tearing discovery was never going to escape him.

Worse, the rare talent she held in her arms also recognized her tangling turmoil. Caught helpless, Arithon could not respond. Her braid pressed against the raced pulse in her neck by the weight of his head on her shoulder, and with his shuddering balance reliant upon her closed arms, Feylind ached. The binding cruelty spared no one. Two men must share the tremulous wrench as she chose for the life that she led. The one that gave her two inquisitive children, and the more limited challenge as mistress of a blue-water ship.

‘Take him, Teive,' she said, her throat tight. ‘Bear him below. Better hope the fat spellbinder knows what to do or can conjure a remedy to ease him.'

For the bane of the
iyats
had now devolved to a trial of brutal endurance.
Evenstar's
resistance could last only as long as Arithon could stave off collapse.

The Master of Shadow was taken from the main-deck down to the hold, closely trailed by Fionn Areth. There, the buffeting darkness swarmed with hazed fiends. The air reeked of sulphur and ozone. Confronted by the thrashed wreck of the cargo, Teive paused in his tracks, and swore murder. If the damage to sails and rigging above skirted the grim edge of ruin, the Atchaz silk and the wool bound for Los Mar were rendered a total loss. Wisped lint from the ripped bales whipped by in the crazed eddies, while fragmented wood and odd stones cartwheeled past, picked out of black air by the silvered glow thrown off by the Paravian long sword.

The mate stared aghast through the pause, while Arithon mustered the rags of his resource and engaged his masterbard's gift. A brief, whistled threnody carved them a course through the seething of the fiend pack. As they crossed into the ranging protection cast by the blade's active resonance, the Mad Prophet shoved to his feet and took charge.

‘Your liege is played through, no mistake,' the mate said, glad enough to relinquish his burden.

Arithon was eased onto the wrapped pile of casks.

‘Just over-extended,' Dakar surmised, his tangled head bent for a cursory examination. ‘I did warn him. His talent's been pushed far beyond prudent limits. Here, could you help? I need him propped upright.'

Blanched as paper, Arithon showed no response, even as the spellbinder shifted the lamp, peeled back a slack eyelid, and measured the sluggish response of the pupil.

‘What's to do?' the mate asked. ‘Has he fainted?'

‘No. He's still with us.' Dakar shoved up Arithon's unlaced sleeve-cuff. The stark lack of protest at such public handling became as much cause for concern as the clammy skin and raced pulse. Even so, the awareness braced up by the mate's solid grasp was anything else but unconscious. Hard-pressed to the edge, Arithon now fought to sustain the concentration that kept the warding sword active.

‘He's worn-out, not dying.' Amid rolling shadows, through the tumultuous motion and noise as the brig sheared ahead through rough waters, Dakar gave his bitter prognosis. ‘The best we can do is attend to his comfort, then sit by his side and share vigil.'

‘I won't lie down. Can't,' husked the Masterbard faintly. While the Mad Prophet shifted a blanket for warmth, and the mate eased away his support, the protest sawed on at a whisper. ‘I'm too likely to drift off to sleep.'

‘Be still!' Dakar's sideward glare warned off Fionn Areth, who had crowded close, still observing. Then, more gently, ‘Be still. We're all here. Whatever you need, we'll assist you.'

Arithon subsided. Limned in the sword's glare, and the hot spill of the lantern, his features seemed cut into knife-edged angles of strain.

‘All right,' said the mate. ‘We'll set watches in shifts. First Vhandon, then Talvish, then me. Dakar stays. We can send down more blankets, dry bread, and small comforts. I'll station a sailhand next to the hatch. He'll run your errands as needed.'

‘I stay as well.' Sea legs still clumsy, Fionn Areth moved in with intent to take charge of the lamp. ‘One watch should be mine, that a man can be spared.'

Evenstar's
mate disapproved, his glance caustic. ‘No.' His stiff arm resisted the goatherd's thrust forward. ‘What you actually want is Rathain's prince, alone. On this ship, you don't ask for a trust that's not warranted.'

‘Trust, you say!' Rankled, the Araethurian attacked. ‘Such a creature could see your Feylind destroyed and never look back on the carnage!'

‘Watch your tongue.' Large, mild-natured, the mate seemed unmoved. ‘My captain believes the man won't let her down.' Yet his taut jaw fairly shouted with warning: he would settle the score with far more than harsh words, if his beloved's impetuous faith should ever come to be broken.