style="font-size:15px;"> Dakar found himself pinned by a measuring stare that assessed him wholly without judgment.
‘You’ve had longevity training,’ Arithon said at blunt length. ‘I’ve got a masterbard’s ear for true sound. If you build the spell seals to initiate healing, I can link them through music to the signature vibration that defines Jilieth’s life Name.’
If not for the hurt creature that burdened his arms, Dakar would have shot to his feet. ‘Dharkaron’s fell Chariot and Spear! You have no idea what you’re asking.’
‘You’re most wrong.’ Arithon looked away. ‘I’ve a fair enough indication.’ In unadorned phrasing, he described the time he had joined talents with the enchantress Elaira to reconstruct the mangled arm of a fisher lad. The result of that experience, coupled with the mage’s schooling he had received from his grandfather, lent him full awareness of the implications. The aftermath had hurled his heart beyond peace; the woman had been driven to leave Merior.
Dakar shrank from revulsion that pealed like an ache through his bones. ‘I might know your whole mind!’ The unspoken corollary freighted his tension, that the shared course of such bindings could expose every facet of Arithon’s warped character to the intermeshed weave of the link. No secret would stand between them; no subterfuge. If Dakar once lost his grip, he would find his awareness submersed in the quagmire of the other man’s criminal nature, to the everlasting upset of his conscience.
‘I don’t want to be privy to your unsavoury intentions,’ the Mad Prophet declaimed, afraid for what he might suffer.
The concept was abhorrent. His enemy’s deadly aberrance; all the doomed, fell bindings of Desh-thiere’s geas could backlash and imprint his private memory. Though he would not share Arithon’s subjugation to the curse, the Master of Shadow asked him to risk first-hand knowledge of the hates that drove the war against Lysaer; the same amoral passions which had brought the bloody slaughter of eight thousand lives on the banks of the River Tal Quorin, then the burning of the trade fleet at Minderl Bay.
Those horrific burdens were none of his making, to assume for the sake of a child.
Rathain’s prince at least had the decency not to stare while the Mad Prophet pondered the unkindly reach of later consequence. The faltering life held sheltered in his arms became tormented testimony to the list of his personal shortfalls. Dakar stood as a man on the edge of an abyss. One word in consent, one misstep in weakness, and his self-awareness might become forever skewed.
Worse, success could not be guaranteed. He could agree, and shoulder his whimpering fear, and still fail. The girl was far gone already. She could end a cold corpse beneath a shepherd’s stone cairn, surrounded by her circle of weeping kinsfolk.
Dakar closed his eyes against a thorny barrage of selfish thought. He could equally well master the sacrifice and see Jilieth walk whole in the sunlight.
At his back, in drawn quiet marked off by the splash of the rock spring, Arithon awaited his decision. The understanding implicit in his stillness itself became a goad, until Dakar burst out in acrimony, ‘There’s no risk to you! All I have on my conscience is debauchery and vice. Every decadent trait you despise. You fear no remorse. Your self-restraint should scarcely be shaken.’
Arithon’s reply was all steel. ‘I stake a certain independence of mind. Nor am I Sethvir, to pick out every nuance of future impact.’
The child in Dakar’s care shuddered through another racked breath; a wider patch of scarlet flowered through the layers of her bandaging. The spellbinder set his teeth and glared at rain-chiselled stone, that would endure through long ages, indifferent to the trials of mortal suffering. He measured himself in unprecedented cold logic, and understood, should he shy from the choice, the courage of a boy and a little girl’s brown eye, beseeching, were going to haunt him forever. He bitterly dreaded to face their contempt in the dregs of every beer keg, to the ruin of his irresponsible pleasures.
There remained only malice toward the man who laid that irreversible crossroads before him. ‘Damn you,’ Dakar answered to Arithon s’Ffalenn in a tone very like the one Tharrick had used before swearing his oath in Jinesse’s cottage. ‘I cannot refuse, as you’re fully aware. Ath’s pity on us both when we come to regret this hour afterward.’
‘There’s always the chance that we won’t,’ Arithon said; but his pained snap of sarcasm showed his dearth of faith.
The fact such doubt was justified hurled Dakar over the edge. His consent was flung down like a duellist’s challenge, as much to spite the scorn of an antagonist as to save a failing child from certain death.
‘Make me the butt of your hatred all you like,’ Arithon baited in maddening, nerveless composure. He fetched his lyranthe and in fierce, hard jerks began to unlace its fleece wrappings. ‘But unless you wish to tempt disaster, let your feud with me bide until later.’
Dakar chose not to acknowledge the insult. Longevity alignment was no novice’s lesson; five centuries of study made him far from incompetent. Any spellbinder apprenticed to Asandir would be well trained to put by his surface passions for the clear self-control demanded for acts of grand conjury. The practice had never been an exercise the Mad Prophet welcomed; the deep, still quiet required for fine spellcraft often fired his spurious fits of prophecy. If the Fellowship Sorcerers had insisted the gift could be tamed to control, the gut-tearing sickness that followed each episode had been Dakar’s trial to bear. He preferred to escape in debauchery.
The fact hurt now with surprising venom, that he yet lacked the knowledge to initiate Jilieth’s healing. Arithon might be damaged beyond conscious access to his talents; still, he owned the intuitive experience to explain how the trial should be approached. Dakar flicked up gravel in irritation. He had no option except to follow the plan, though trust gouged like sand against his grain. He had no wish to assume the reasoned risks of a man whose penchant for devious artifice held no limit.
Through the sweet, plucked run of his tuning notes, Arithon said, ‘Merciful maker, Dakar. If we’re going to be foolish and corrupt ourselves, let’s not waste time browbeating the issue. Lay the child across your lap. Get comfortable. You may not be moving before nightfall.’ The splashed descent of an arpeggio cut through his measured instructions. ‘The theory should not be unduly complex. I can use music to build a bridge-link to Jilieth, then turn the discipline I learned at Rauven to open myself as a conduit. If you can conjoin into sympathy and thread your power through me, I can transmute the seals into sound and heighten their pull on the girl.’
As Dakar settled in capitulation, the Shadow Master cautioned him further. ‘I can build upon your foundation. But I will be blind to the spell construct as it forms. You must be my eyes as well as the source of raw energy. I can only weave sound on what I hear and sense through my empathic gift as a bard. The result will be measured and limited by the depths to which you can release yourself into sympathy.’
Dakar chewed his beard in unalloyed apprehension as notes sprang and sparked like sprays of dropped crystal through the mournful moan of the wind. The browned tufts of sedges on the stream banks flattened and hissed and shivered. From the musician bent cross-legged with his instrument there came no hint of recrimination for the need to bare himself to an enemy.
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