Traitor's Knot (45 page)

‘No!' Talvish cried. ‘Hold your weapons! My lord Erlien, can't you see? His Grace will snatch his chance, and all of this country will bleed for it.' His horrified eyes fixed on the Prince of Rathain through a dawning rush of epiphany, he snapped,
‘You were sparing that boy, and perhaps us as your liegemen! If so, I am having no part of this!'

Then Kyrialt broke in, sharp and fast in support. ‘Deny that statement as truth, Teir's'Ffalenn! Refute Glendien's confession, as well. Swear that for my life's sake, you never offered to shoulder the blame for a crime that our clan tradition holds outside of any forgiveness.' Smiling, the youngest blood son of s'Taleyn bent his knee. He laced his hard fingers over the hilt of the weapon his father's own hand had struck upright. ‘Your Grace of Rathain, I will bind myself first. Unless you can give me a single sound reason? Why under Ath's sky should I not serve a prince who counts a stranger's life as more precious than his royal dignity?'

‘Debt of blood,' Arithon admitted, his sorrow laid bare. ‘Your Glendien lost a parent at Vastmark.'

His glance shifted, raised to bridge the disparity between his slighter stature, and Erlien's winter-clear eyes. ‘Her sire was Tanuin? If so, he fell while guarding a notch. The ending was cruel. He held his ground against twenty bowmen while a tribal grandmother and five children were being assisted to safety' Arithon loosed a shuddering breath, as though feeling the stab of barbed steel through his viscera; as, within Kewar's maze, he surely had: the resurgent bite of remembered pain was that desolate. ‘My lord,
caithdein
, keep your son at your side. I was wrong, beyond question. I should never have failed to acknowledge the courage and strength of your clansmen's sacrifice. But I could not thank you for sending those scouts. Too few of them lived to come home to you.'

‘Each one fought for Shand,' the High Earl corrected. ‘They had a prince under Fellowship sanction on the battle-line at their shoulder. The grace of that presence but honours the soil of the free wilds they died to hold sacred. Now accept my son's blade. Swear your royal oath! Or by Ath's very grace, I will have the act done inside an armed circle of archers.'

As Arithon rallied his shocked nerves to protest, Talvish cleared his own weapon. ‘I'll stand sword's honour for the formal oathtaking,' he volunteered with expedient grace. ‘Arithon, kneel! You've earned the award of this man's redress. Such heart as you've shown must accept defeat kindly. Or Vhandon
will just have to break your damned legs. Don't think he won't. He's my senior officer by more than ten years. One day soon, he wants to retire.'

‘A stand-down?' said Arithon, taken aback.

‘On your knees, prince,' Alland's High Earl insisted. ‘I swear by my pride as a father, you
will
bend your miserable, stiff neck here and now, else I'll run you out of the kingdom!'

Returned to the clan encampment on the heels of the unplanned oathswearing, Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn appeared more than harried. Inflamed scabs and raw swelling did not fully explain the haunted look in his eyes. Against the whipped-dog contrition of his two liegemen, his sombre quiet posed a striking contrast to young Kyrialt's euphoric enthusiasm.

No bristled word of dismissal sufficed. A flagrant, trim figure in his trappings of state, the young man determined that Glendien's outrageous behaviour deserved abject care. The insistent choice followed, to escort Rathain's abused crown prince back to the comfort of guest quarters in person. Arrived at the shaded entry to the grottoes carved out by the flood of the Hanhaffin, the royal party ran headlong into Dakar's blistering censure.

‘The fool tangles you spin!' the Mad Prophet accosted, as the miscreant prince darkened the cranny appointed to shelter Rathain's delegation. ‘You could have lost everything for the sake of one life! Not to mention the fact that the Teir's'Taleyn could have finished off his past effort to butcher you!'

‘Worry instead that I might gut the High Earl,' snapped Arithon in brittle annoyance. ‘More's the pity, I can't let go and try. Or break his arrogant head on a rock. I need his scouts, and he needs my help. Which sterling
fact
is the only weak thread holding a stay on the peace.'

‘Dakar. Don't press him,' Vhandon urged, breathless. ‘Not if you don't want your skin peeled.'

‘Would I so!' the furious spellbinder cried. ‘And how much of every-one's skin should be risked because our prince can't contain his bleeding-heart gift of compassion? Was one woman's tears worth what he just staked? Is any man's life price enough to endanger the stability of the realm?'

Spun on his heel to stalk off, the Mad Prophet found himself nose to chest with Kyrialt's virile bulk, the spiked targe with the ancient device of Shand a gleam of cold steel at his breast. ‘One party agreed that the action had merit.' Vivid and brown, the young man amended, ‘It's my life you're tossing like straws on your tongue. I've sworn my feal oath. Does the act not demonstrate my proper gratitude, or the sincerity of my family's honour?'

‘You admire the order his Grace keeps with sharp words?' Dakar raised pudgy fists and yanked at his hair in a fit of hobbled frustration. ‘Well, I doubt that sits well when you're the next target. Don't think that won't happen. Arithon's nerveless. The more so whenever the rest of us fail to keep pace with his fiendish conniving. Look at Vhandon's face! Or Talvish. Ath's living tears!

Both of them were blindsided today, and they've served Rathain's crown prince for years. Ask them, if you don't believe me.'

Kyrialt shrugged, compressed to acid pride. ‘I'd be a sight less comfortable on my knees in white silk, swilling the spout of lying divinity. Give me Sithaer with its nine levels of hell, before I go blind and seek paradise under s'Ilessid.'

‘Arithon could have lost you the free wilds of Shand!' the stalwart spellbinder exploded.

Kyrialt showed teeth like the grin on a snake. ‘Could, is it?' He seized Dakar's collar, and muscled the recalcitrant prophet like a fat puppy to the rim of the ledge. There, above the sweep of the hollow that led to the river's edge, he snagged his targe against the hide flap strung across the open-air entry. ‘See what's happened. Perhaps you're actually jealous?'

His gesture tore off the curtain.

A gathering met them. Bearing sheathed steel, and strung bows, and the badges of house lineage, the clan chieftains of Alland were packed outside to pledge their support without the formality of a hearing. Kyrialt spoke over their raucous acclaim. ‘My father still talks of your prince's skill with a sword. Here's twice we've had to acknowledge his mettle.' He brandished his fist, while the boisterous cheers rocked against the steep face of the cliff. ‘Lysaer's new troops had best tremble. For your Teir's'Ffalenn will now be the voice directing our raiding war-bands.'

‘Well, on that score, you're certain to face disappointment.' Dakar tugged himself free. His offended shrug yanked his skewed tunic straight, and his cinnamon eyes remained hostile. ‘Argue or threaten, his Grace won't listen. Your war-bands might as well toss their drawn blades in the Hanhaffin. You think I'm mad? Then stay and find out. I already know that Arithon's plans will never launch the stupidity of a pitched fight.'

The presence of the Masterbard at her bridal feast scarcely dampened the scorching fire of Glendien's nature. Clad in fine deer-hide with sandy embroidery, and flaunting an outrageous shawl cut from the raided silk, she was a sight to brand memory and eyesight as she weaved her determined way across the torch-lit festivities. Warnings failed to deflect her picked course; the thorny thicket of legend that surrounded the Teir's'Ffalenn's past posed no obstacle. She raised her beautiful, willful chin and sailed straight ahead, trailing scarlet fringes and wide-eyed young men in her wake like an errant comet.

‘Just stop me,' she challenged, as Kyrialt blocked her.

‘You don't think you've degraded his Grace enough in the course of a single day? As you wish. Naturally' Her frowning bridegroom shrugged and gave way.

Glendien girded herself with a challenging smile. Then she barged into Arithon's presence and asked questions that caused Vhandon and Talvish to flinch, and Dakar to choke with his face half-immersed in his beer jack.

Even Lord Erlien paused, transfixed, to observe the offended reaction.

Arithon deflected her sallies with smoking ridicule. His ripostes lost no whetted edge to persistence, until Kyrialt silenced his woman's mouth with a kiss that raised ribald whistles and laughter.

Glendien ripped free of him, flushed, her topaz eyes unabashed. ‘Love, I don't cow in the face of seduction.' She ducked past her protector. Leaned over the trestle where the prince sat, graciously winding new strings for the lyranthe loaned out of somebody's lodge tent, she announced, ‘I'm sorry'

Arithon did not look up.

She raised a bold hand, would have traced the welted scabs on his cheek.

His stinging, swift parry arrested the touch.

Her verbal dart followed, undaunted. ‘Your Grace, I lost the guts to see through the end game. Don't tell me you're sorry as well?'

‘Woman!' snapped Vhandon, on guard to one side, his weathered stance stiff with embarrassment, ‘Your wiles have made things all that much worse. Your madman of a husband bent his knee, drew his steel, and accepted crown oath to Rathain. That act means your future children will become his Grace's feal subjects!'

‘This prince?' Glendien's mirth pealed out like bronze bells. ‘Who else could I trust to keep such as Kyrialt alive long enough to be raising them?'

‘Trust Dharkaron himself,
ei'an ist'thalient.'
Done with twisting silver, Arithon arose, flipped the loop over the drone peg, and rested the lyranthe across his knee to raise the new string to pitched tension. The fall of the torch-light threw his tipped face in shadow, masking the hard spark of irony that might have exposed his true thought. A minute passed, hanging, while Glendien waited with bated breath for his translation.

‘You know your Paravian quite well enough,' Kyrialt chided her presently.

Arithon said nothing. His fine hands nursed the tuning-pegs. At due length he cradled the instrument and caressed the first notes from taut strings. A harmonic triplet speared through, arresting the bursts of coarse comment from the side-lines. As the onlookers quieted, Athera's titled Masterbard tilted his torn face to one side. A snapped sparkle of notes winged from his trained touch. Satisfied with the instrument's quality, he straightened, bowed, and excused himself with soft irony. ‘Breed up your impudent clutch as you can, little bride. Tonight, for my part, you'll be merry. Tomorrow, be warned. For I am quite done being burned by your cutting, mettlesome fingers.'

Before Glendien could retort, or Kyrialt move with redoubled intent to restrain her, those skilled hands moved, and launched into sheer captivation.

The rollicking measures of a fast-paced jig ripped the feast into giddy celebration. Arithon played. He danced the clans of Selkwood to shouting, exuberant exhaustion, and this time, accepted their offer to get reeling drunk in their company.

Dakar abetted the choice. Shoved into the press, he volunteered to broach the bung on a tun of fine claret. That the branded staves wore the house seal
of the Mayor of Telzen only heightened the mood of piquant enjoyment. Arithon folded himself into the thick of the revels, his presence met by slaps on the shoulder and the inevitable ribald good cheer. The quips he gave back tied knots in loose tongues. Challenge and match, the serious drinking devolved to a contest with bows. Arithon shot drunken, as Dakar had not seen him since a long-past winter, spent with tribal shepherds in Vastmark.

While the whining, sped shafts ripped the targets to stuffing, Fionn Areth delivered his stiff-lipped opinion, that such careless abandon was a disgrace. ‘Those arrows pack broadheads, not target points. A man with a bow who can't walk a straight line is begging to cause someone an injury'

‘Leave him be,' Dakar murmured. Determined to savour his evening of peace, he stowed himself at the trestle where the borrowed lyranthe lay, abandoned. He deserved the escape. Alestron's paired liegemen could be trusted to keep their vigilant eye on the dark head ensconced amid Alland's rough pack of roisterers.

‘Your liege has not known a true moment of ease for over a year,' the Mad Prophet admitted. ‘Certainly not since the hour he used Sanpashir's focus to launch his crazed foray to rescue you.'

‘What?' the Araethurian retorted. ‘Fourteen months in the caverns of Kewar were not enough for his restful amusement?'

Pudgy fists clamped to his jack of fine spirits, Dakar shook his tousled head. The mad leap of the shadows thrown off the pitch torches made his features look old, with the silver thread through his chestnut beard grown pronounced since his trials at Rockfell. Eyes owlish, he kept his secret thoughts to himself, that Arithon's release was more likely an ominous sign of the storms the near future might presage. ‘Davien gave the prince shelter,' he admitted at length. ‘But it's the rash fool in that Sorcerer's company who would let down his guard for one second.'

Another shaft ripped into the mark, to a fresh round of whistles and clapping.

‘Arithon will get whipped,' Fionn Areth insisted through the groans of the vanquished bemoaning the score. ‘Watch me. I'll cheer when that happens.'

Talvish turned his flax head. ‘That's just because you can't beat him, cold sober,' he remarked without rancour. ‘Take your sour tongue off. If you're wanting a shoulder to cry on, go mope in feminine company'

Fionn Areth fixed disgruntled green eyes on the swordsman, who took his ease like a lounging lynx with an insolent hip braced on the trestle. ‘As if I could treat a clan woman like a bawd, and not lose my head to her kinsfolk!'