in the teeth of the tracking dogs?’
‘He was gone by then, and you know it!’ Feithan’s composure withstood the cruel pressure. ‘Luhaine swore you his oath that your father was raised beyond pain when his spirit crossed over Fate’s Wheel.’ Upright, arms folded, she drew a fierce breath. ‘But that’s not why you won’t forgive him. Be honest! You hate what happened because Jieret held true to his oath as caithdein. He died, and died well, for this land and his prince. You reject the willed choice of his crossing because of his triumph, that dared come before his own family’
‘What’s to forgive?’ whispered Jeynsa, while the tears welled and spilled. ‘Not Father! It’s the crown prince who left him that I would cry down for Dharkaron’s redress.’
Braggen shoved off the center post. ‘Prince Arithon’s will had nothing to do with this! Jeynsa! I was there.’ Helpless anguish broke through, as, after all, he spoke out before Barach arrived to share witness. ‘Your father broke orders. As caithdein, by right claim of precedence to the realm, he rejected Prince Arithon’s instructions. I was to have been the one sacrificed to Lysaer. Jieret was your liege’s choice to return, safe and sound, to this hearthstone.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Jeynsa gasped, unappeased. Her glimpsed sight of the fox-brush roused more galling venom. ‘I still see the sword fall. Every night, I smell the stench of the pyre. My father’s heart’s-blood runs red through my dreams. He had no tongue, and no voice, beyond the wretched sound Ath gave an animal.’
‘That’s quite enough, Jeynsa!’ Sidir thrust forward; yet Braggen, like rock, only shuttered his face with blunt fingers.
‘I will tell you this much,’ he said, muffled, then lowered his arms, unutterably altered. ‘I heard our prince beg. I listened to his appeal to Earl Jieret. His Grace used words that no man I know could possess the stern fibre to refuse. Naught but one. Out of love, this prince’s caithdein held firm. When I tell you what our liege risked to spare Rathain’s royal blood line, you will realize: Arithon was forced upon Earl Jieret’s mercy. As the man sworn to preserve our crown heritage, your father rejected his liege’s bared will. There is no fault, and no blame for what happened. No reason, past the needs of this kingdom, that have robbed us all without quarter. As the last standing witness, I promise: none suffers more for the death of your father than the prince now left burdened, and living.’
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
