rematerialized, no trick of illusion. This time, he wore boots cuffed with lynx and a doublet of autumn-gold velvet. Beneath tied-back hair, his tucked eyebrows suggested uproarious laughter.
By contrast, his answer was tart. ‘There are factions who would play your quandary like jackstraws.’
‘The Koriathain have already tried,’ Arithon agreed without blinking.
‘Would I take the trouble to harden your nerves for that pack of hen-pecking jackals?’ Davien showed impatience.
And Arithon felt the grue of that sharpening ream a chill down to the bone. ‘Now you imply they’re no longer alone in their chess match for royal quarry?’
‘Were they ever?’ Davien’s manner shaded toward acid bitterness. ‘The compact permitted mankind to seek haven on Athera. By its terms, subject to Paravian law, the Fellowship could not limit the freedom of consciousness. Therefore, well warned, we let in the dark fears. Such things always come with the narrowed awareness that is inherent in human mortality. The imaginative mind can be dark or light. Its storehouse of terrors can spin shadow from thought. These will find fallow ground, on the fringes, and there, the compact as well as the dragons’ will binds us. Our Fellowship must continually stand watch and guard. No easy task on a world where Paravian presence demands that the mysteries remain expressively active!’
Again, Arithon sensed the subliminal chill. ‘You don’t fear for me, but my half-brother?’ As silence extended, the thin breath of cold worked its invidious way deeper. ‘Show me.’
For he did understand: if Lysaer’s convictions fell to ill use as a tool, Desh-thiere’s curse could become a weapon of devastating destruction. ‘Who else wants to play us on puppet-strings?’
‘My library might offer you certain suggestions,’ said the Sorcerer, in glancing evasion. ‘Though I can assure in advance that you won’t find such things written in the fair hand of Ciladis.’
Yet Arithon had little choice but to place the implied warning under advisement. He knew well enough: the stays just established to check-rein his farsight were too tenuous, still, to withstand an unexplored threat. ‘If there’s news, you can tell me,’ he informed Davien.
The Sorcerer’s parting smile was wolfish. ‘You cede the permission? Pray you don’t regret, Teir’s’Ffalenn.’
Through the following weeks, Arithon pursued rare texts on healing. Discoveries there prompted a deeper study of Athera’s flora and fauna, then more texts on lane tides and fault lines. He studied fish, maps, and the astonishing arcane insights revealed in a folio stuffed with Sethvir’s patterns of geometry. As promised, the Sorcerer who sheltered him brought updated word of outside events. Arithon was informed of Dakar’s and Fionn Areth’s safe arrival at Alestron, and of the pressures of famine harrowing lands to the west. In snippets of vision, shared with an eagle, he saw the Evenstar sail, laden with stores of relief grain dispatched for Havish.
If the after-effects of the equinox grand confluence had enriched the fields in the east, other developments sprung from the event had whipped up a storm of fresh discord. Aware that whole buildings and walls were left torn to havoc by the cresting of harmonic lane force, Arithon received Davien’s updated views: of skilled masons raising new fortifications and founding temples pledged to the Light. On the hazy north plains, under brass sun, the summer’s recruits sweated in training. He saw old talent burn. A fresh wave of acolytes flocked to serve Lysaer’s cause, both as oracles and itinerant priests.
All this, in the east, fell under the masterful sway of the advisor installed to rule Lysaer’s interests at Etarra.
‘Raiett Raven is no friend to the clans,’ Arithon commented, after a poignant, stiff silence. He sat, peg in hand, and one foot set in a looped wire, keeping tension, while his deft twist of the wrist wound a new lyranthe string. The day had finally come. His host had just granted him use of an instrument to try the altered well-spring that sourced his masterbard’s talent.
‘A wise distinction,’ Davien allowed. Poised under candle-flame, he stood with arms folded over a brushed leather jerkin. His boots showed spoiling traces of mud, and one sleeve wore a scatter of burdock. ‘You’ve suspected the man’s not Lysaer’s panting lackey?’
Arithon looked up and unhooked the scored wood of his winding peg. ‘That one’s eyes are too clever. He’d have noticed my actions haven’t matched the ideological agenda. I wonder what actually drives him?’
Davien did not answer.
‘No.’ Arithon coiled his shining, wrapped wire, then reached for the spool on the table. ‘I’m not interested in taking an excursion outside to find out.’
The Sorcerer laughed, short and sharp. ‘Wait too long, you’ll be fielding a holy war.’
‘With no cause to be found?’ Arithon measured out six spans in length, used a knife, and nipped off the fine-grade silver. ‘Troops will lose their edge, speaking foolhardy prayers on their knees.’
‘No cause?’ Davien shrugged. ‘My dear man, Raiett’s a snake in the grass. He will make one.’
‘Not with yokels, still sparring with padding and sticks.’ Unperturbed, Arithon finished stringing the borrowed lyranthe. When at due length, he perfected the tuning, the Sorcerer had departed.
But the undertone troubling the recent discussion struck notes that snapped like live sparks from the musician’s strings.
A wily statesman with a clever network of spies would not lack for resource to support an armed conflagration: a royal wife gone missing and a dead heir at Avenor would become reason enough for unrest.
Arithon passed the afternoon, absorbed by the glory of watching his spun lines of melody key the unseen octaves of light, now unveiled by the healed invocation of mage-sight. Made aware of the pulse thrumming from the low registers echoed back from the polished rock floor, he sensed the slip-stream of time, aligned to the dance of the season. Fully restored to initiate mastery, he reaffirmed his intent to honour Earl Jieret’s bequest: that one day he would forge the blood-binding promised to the s’Valerient daughter in Halwythwood.
The next morning, the strung lyranthe was set aside for more books, heavy tomes inscribed in the fine, flowing runes of the Athlien Paravians. The beings the Sorcerers called sunchildren, more than any, knew the mysteries encoded in air and fire. Arithon studied the properties of the energy sprites, named iyats in the old tongue. He listened through crystals to songs sung by whales, and explored older things, recorded in the pictorial symbols the dragons had used before Athera received her awakened gift of actualized language.
The black volumes bound under iron locks, and kept on warded shelves, stayed untouched. Nonetheless, the uncanny awareness pursued him: like a dousing of ice-water poured down his back, Arithon sensed that the Sorcerer urged him to ask about those, first of all.
Outside of Kewar, summer yielded the harvest. The trees turned and wore the penultimate glory of autumn, except in the west, where the scouring rains lashed their storm-tossed, stripped branches. The High King’s restored capital of Telmandir fared no better under the onslaught. Candles burned behind the steamed glass of the casements to lift the drear damp of the gloom. Outdoors, the harbour heaved like pocked lead, the beaten sea-swells surging in without whitecaps. The sluicing downpour and the hammering breakers made a trial of unlading a ship.
Feylind
