Arithon.
Verrain shuddered, confounded by a warring urge to weep and hold his breath.
The aura of the s’Ffalenn prince sang through the vision in spare and forceful irony, even as Lysaer’s must have done through the hour of crisis when Sethvir and Asandir between them had disentangled him from the possession of the wraith that had sealed Desh-thiere’s vengeance.
Distaste like sand in his gut, Verrain pushed past grief to see more: through passage to Athera by way of the Red Desert, this prince had acquired the matrix imparted by the Five Centuries Fountain, a structure of riddles and spells built and abandoned by Davien the Betrayer in the years before he raised the insurrection to overturn kingdom rule.
‘Fatemaster’s mercy.’ Verrain expelled a sharp exhalation. ‘Both half-brothers came here by way of the Worldsend Gate. Are they equally marked by the Betrayer’s enforced longevity? If so, this geas of Desh-thiere’s could upset the whole continent through the course of five hundred years!’
Sethvir’s hand dropped, warm and steady on the spellbinder’s shoulder. ‘Save thought for more than despair. Davien’s gift of added lifespan might equally lend us grace to achieve the princes’ salvation.’ But in comfortless fact, his platitude held no certainty.
That moment, driven to straight urgency by some unseen cue, Althain’s Warden cried, ‘Now! Jump ahead to the moment of the curse.’
The image in the candle-flame unlocked to kaleidoscopic change; and Verrain felt as a man sent to dam back a cataclysm with only a wish and bare hands.
Lysaer’s bolt struck.
A scintillant flash bisected the sphere of the vision. Seared from palm to right elbow, Arithon recoiled from worse than scorched flesh. Jabbed and enveloped through the crux of half-formed defences, he opened his mouth to scream as he tasted the measure of his downfall.
And peril incarnate closed over him. Lysaer’s killing band of light shimmered and exploded, to unveil the Mistwraith’s covert conjury: the bane-ward of the curse, transferred inside an attack no schooled mind had ever thought to suspect.
‘Slow the sequence,’ Sethvir commanded in a sharp-etched whisper.
Verrain jammed his fists against his temples as the brilliance shed away to unveil the stripped armature of the geas, a serried mesh ugly as flung blood, but never random. The spellbinder who shared its ruthless symmetry could wish his own tears could scald and blind him.
‘Dharkaron witness,’ he managed on a rasped catch of breath. ‘The creature baited its binding with Arithon’s personal imprint.’
‘Lock and key.’ Sethvir’s affirmation came oddly muffled by distance. ‘The bystanders were safe, had we known it.’
Traithe had no comment to offer; and Verrain could only ponder a third time why this scrying should be rewrought in such depth. One glance was enough to establish plain fact: Desh-thiere’s curse and the signature pattern which comprised the extinct methuri held only chance similarity. As the Fellowship certainly realized, no further help for their princes could be garnered from Mirthlvain mire’s dark history.
The present scrying edged forward. In a hideous play of stopped motion, the spell coils netted their victim. Barbed tendrils flung out like grapples and snagged, to shed pervasive currents throughout the s’Ffalenn prince’s being.
His torment, physical and mental, shivered, shocked, and rebounded in a voiceless play of light. Through pain enough to cripple thought, Arithon fought back: in starbursts of mage-fire; in sigils and counterwards knotted and thrashed in harried ink-twists of shadow.
Yet Desh-thiere’s malice had been configured to outflank and countermand every turn of his desperate strength.
Verrain saw the clean bars of will wrapped and smothered, the brilliance of purpose starkly crushed. Through the heartbeat while Arithon’s self-awareness lay slapped back and stunned, the curse spun insidious transformation.
‘Odd, don’t you think, that the creature made its incursion a static one,’ the spellbinder ventured. ‘How much simpler to go the next step and force a degenerative erosion of the spirit.’
Sethvir’s mouth thinned amid a bracketing bristle of beard. His uneasiness stayed unvoiced, that he feared such restraint held a purpose. The Mistwraith had set the princes against each other; it had not overtly destroyed them.
That its works could have done so was plain as the vision unreeled.
Verrain combed through the locked snarl of energies, overwhelmed by the evidence that this geas held no opening for reprieve. Leaving the s’Ffalenn personality symmetrical and intact, the bane-spell had meddled in cruel selectivity. Like a spider staked out in a web, it insinuated itself where hurt would be greatest: across will, emotion, and integrity. It waited, a dread vortex that consumed in cumulative subtlety, even as it pressed the incessant urge to battle its chosen nemesis: to kill Lysaer, and no other, a compulsion harnessed in step with life and spirit and consciousness.
The last coil sliced into place. Scarlet trailers bound close as wire, to vanish without trace in the quicksilver haze of the aura. Conclusion shaped only despair: the curse which shackled the half-brothers was a mirror-image construct that choked envenomed tendrils around every nuance of the victim’s being. To cut or disturb the least jointure would trip a flashfire backlash of dissolution.
Flesh would die and spirit be instantly annihilated. The enslavement at face value might seem less damaging, but its depths were more insidious than any distortion inflicted by methuri possession. Limp as old rags from a helplessness the Fellowship must have gauged in advance, Verrain masked his face in his palms. Five centuries was not enough, he thought sadly, to solve a quandary of such reaching proportion.
‘Well the curse won’t pass to the next generation,’ Sethvir offered to ease the spellbinder’s despondency. ‘Should either prince engender offspring, their heirs will be born unsullied.’
‘Small comfort,’ Traithe allowed, as he gathered his cloak from the tabletop. His resignation showed divided thoughts; whether to bless the mage training that gave Arithon limited means to resist the bane-spell’s directive, or to curse the added peril his schooled talent could present as the conflict renewed, at stakes inevitably more dire.
Made aware by the bound of a cat into his lap that the candle now burned clean of conjury, Verrain welcomed the animal’s small warmth against the chills of withdrawal and grief.
Dawn shed a leaden glimmer through the casement. Dulled as wind-beaten linen in its light, Asandir stretched, his move to arise cut short by Sethvir, who exchanged a weighted glance, then bent to recover his satchel.
‘You’re headed north,’ the Warden of Althain said, settled erect with his hands full. ‘I’d be obliged if you could deliver this to Arithon when his apprenticeship with the Masterbard ends.’
Asandir’s eyes snapped up, keen-edged as steel raised to guardpoint. ‘Not so soon!’ he exclaimed. Then in brittle capitulation, he reached across the table and relieved Sethvir of the satchel. Once his grip closed over the ties, he knew the list of its contents. ‘Nautical charts and Anithael’s navigational instruments? Why?’
‘Arithon asked for them,’ Sethvir
