leaned at last upon prescience: came to recognize the fleeting, ephemeral suspicion that something alive was listening over his shoulder.
Brushed by that whisper of premonition, Arithon closed a volume of Paravian ballads, transcribed during Cianor Sunlord’s reign. ‘You’ve been sightseeing, again. Is the news so unpleasant? The spin of the world will scarcely falter if I don’t share the plodding details.’
Davien appeared at ease by the hearth, cut in outline against the brass grilles that covered the shafts drilled for ventilation. His golden-rod cloak was adorned with black knotwork, gently ruffled by the whisper of draught. By contrast, his russet-and-grey hair seemed tumbled by an intransigent wind. ‘Your halfbrother’s in Taerlin, bound west by slow stages. A conspiracy in Avenor will keep him preoccupied. But not long enough, Teir’s’Ffalenn.’
Arithon traced the embossed spine of the book held in hand, his angular features hardened to adamancy ‘I won’t ask.’
‘You must.’ Unsmiling, Davien chose not to mock. ‘The impact might well invoke your sworn oath.’
Already tense, Arithon turned pale. ‘Which one?’
Davien advanced to the edge of the agate table, set next to the prince’s chair. ‘You shall see for yourself, Teir’s’Ffalenn.’ His citrine ring burned as flame through the air as he traced a circle on the polished slab. Seen by the extended perception of mage-sight, his touch ignited a line of white light.
Within the scribed round, stone spoke to stone: the mineral matrix of agate dissolved, revealing a view inside a seamless rock-chamber. Arithon glimpsed a closed well of granite, and a dark pool, encircled by ring upon ring of fine ciphers. Water rippled over the characters, releasing a charged mist of electromagnetic force. The play of raised energy twined in rainbow colours that shimmered like boreal lights against darkness. Then a falling droplet struck the still pool. Circlets of ring ripples fled, unleashing a pristine, clear vision, and more: the distinctive pungence of ship’s tar and varnish, sea-spray, and salt-dampened wool…
King Eldir of Havish arrived without fanfare, his solid frame an imposing presence that crowded the snug stern cabin aboard the merchant brig Evenstar. Past the cramped threshold, he peeled his wet gloves and swiped back his dripping hair. Eyes grey as the storm beyond the streaked glass fixed at once on the stranger installed on the cushioned seat by the chart table. All else seemed in order: bills of lading awaited, alongside a trimmed quill and ink flask. Not one to dismiss an uneasy detail, the High King held his ground and stayed standing. ‘What have you brought us, Captain? A foundling cast up by the sea?’
‘Evenstar ships cargoes, not hard luck passengers,’ Feylind demurred where she leaned, arms crossed by the gimballed lamp.
The blanket-wrapped presence of the woman defied that impression: the bare feet tucked under her loose trousers were raw, and her diffident voice faintly trembled. ‘I came by land, your Grace.’ Still damp, she pushed back masking wool and unveiled a crimped spill of brown hair, gently salted with grey. Care-worn eyes of a liquid, doe brown watched the royal stance, wary.
King Eldir decided her reserved poise did not match the menial callus that ingrained her small hands.
His held silence demanded.
The woman made haste to explain. ‘Captain Feylind has lent me the use of her cabin to spare the embarrassment of importuning your favour out in the public street.’
The king’s steel gaze flickered, a wordless query redirected back to the Evenstar’s master.
‘Your Grace, I have granted the privacy of my ship. Nothing else,’ Feylind clarified. ‘If you care to listen, the lady has come a long and perilous distance seeking a royal audience.’
King Eldir advanced to the chart table, then bent his head under the encroaching deck-beams. No servant attended him. Only his taciturn caithdein stood guard in the companionway, close behind. The court clerk would be detained outside, strategically snagged by the mate concerning the matter of a mislaid tally sheet. By now aware the delay was no accident, the king tossed off his soaked mantle. Beneath, he wore no regal tabard. A badge with Havish’s scarlet hawk blazon was discreetly sewn on to his sleeve. His plain leathers were cut for riding. The fillet that gleamed on his brow was thin wire, with the ruby seal upon his right hand the only royal jewel upon him.
He seated himself, his eyes on the woman who filled sailhand’s clothes with the grace of a birth-born courtier. ‘My lady, you have asked for my ear. Be assured, at this moment, you have it.’
This crowned sovereign’s demeanour did not overwhelm, or bate the breath like Lysaer’s blinding majesty. Buoyed by a bed-rock patience that appeared willing to wait, the petitioner wasted no words. ‘Your royal Grace, I have come here to beg Havish for sanctuary’
Eldir held her pinned with his level regard. ‘Under whose name?’
‘I prefer anonymity, your Grace. With good reason. My life has been threatened.’
The caught flame of reflection in the gold circlet stayed steady, unlike the bald caithdein behind, whose wary fingers closed on his knives. ‘Who has threatened your life, lady?’
She swallowed, uncertain, now unable to mask the tremors of her breaking terror. ‘The regency of Tysan,’ she whispered.
‘I see,’ said the king. Yet, he did not. The surprise that flared within those grey eyes was sudden and wide as new morning. ‘Lady, do you have proof?’
When she nodded, King Eldir commanded his caithdein without turning his head. ‘Fetch Ianfar s’Gannley At once!’
At the woman’s bounding start, he moved, caught her wrists. Fast as she set her hands to the table, he arrested her thrust to arise.
She protested, rattled. ‘Your Grace! I have asked for your ear with no outside witness at hand!’
‘Princess,’ said the king, stripping pretence away, ‘where you are concerned, there can’t be anonymity! The young man I’ve summoned is the named heir of Tysan’s invested crown steward.’ As her courage deflated, he qualified swiftly. ‘We observe the old law, here. By royal charter, Avenor’s business is his. That is as it must be, or are you not Ellaine, wife of Lysaer s’Ilessid?’ He released her, and waited.
When she sat, as she must, or go her way destitute, his commanding baritone gentled. ‘Accept your clan spokesman. He is ally, not enemy. For Havish to shelter you would be grounds for war. Your safety can’t be bought through bloodshed.’
Machiel’s shout filtered back through the strained pause, shortly broken by running footsteps. An energetic man clad in the king’s livery burst in, breathless and scattering raindrops. He was a strapping fellow in his late twenties, come into the grace of his stature. His fair hair was bound in an elaborate braid, and his eyes, dark as shadow, missed nothing. He bowed to the king, fist on chest, as the clans did, his flushed features keenly alert. ‘Your Grace?’
King Eldir referred him to the woman huddled under the blankets, in borrowed shirt and sea breeches. ‘She is Lady Ellaine.’ As the clan liegeman’s eyes widened, the king qualified, his choice of state language precise. ‘She has come here in appeal against an injustice, claimed against the pretender’s regency at Avenor.’
The clansman recovered himself, faced the woman who sat opposite,
