eyes flicked open, lightlessly black under the lantern. Men bent over him. Mail and gold braid hung a starfield of reflections above his head. His whole sight filled with weapons forged for killing; strapped to shoulder, wrist and belt, they shone fiery as the gates of the damned. Hands in scale gauntlets reached out, touched his sweating skin.
Arithon flinched. Chain wailed across stone as he flung an arm over his face.
‘He’s fevered,’ someone said.
Arithon knew the statement for a lie. He was chilled, frosted by the winter grip of the steel which collared the wrist against his cheek. His blood seemed to shrink from the cold and slowly congeal in his veins.
‘Fetch the king’s healer.’ The voice lifted urgently. ‘Hurry!’
Mailed fingers grasped Arithon’s arms. The drug-born demon in his head screamed refusal. No man born would save him as sport for Amroth’s courtiers. Arithon thrashed and the unhinged fury of his strength caught the guardsmen unprepared. Jerked half-free of restraint, he lashed out at the nearest pair of legs. Chain whipped, impacted with a jangle of bruising force.
‘Damn you to Sithaer!’ The injured guardsman aimed a kick in vindication. His boot struck Arithon’s head and the ceiling fell, crushing torches, men and voices into dark.
The banquet to commemorate the demise of the last s’Ffalenn was an extravagant affair, though arrangements had been completed on short notice. The king presided at the feast. Sumptuous in indigo brocade, his red hair only slightly thinned with grey, he gestured expansively and urged his guests to share his enjoyment of good fortune. Crowded on trestles before his dais were bottles of rare vintage wine, one for each s’Ilessid who had died at the hands of a s’Ffalenn. Since second and third cousins had been included in the count, as well as prominent citizens, the tally after seven generations was imposing. Dispatch ships had sailed claret at speed from the cellars of the neighbouring duchy, since the king’s own stock proved insufficient.
Gathered in the great hall to feast and drink until the last bottle had been drained to the lees were Amroth’s courtiers, dressed in their finest plumage. Spirits were rarely high. By dessert, not a few lords were snoring under tables, and even the prudent had grown spirited in an atmosphere of wild celebration. At midnight came the smock-clad figure of the royal healer. Drab as blight in a flower-stall, he made his way between benches and tables and stopped with a bow at the feet of his sovereign lord.
‘Your Grace, I beg leave to speak concerning the health of your prisoner.’ The healer stood, uncomfortably aware of the courtiers who fell silent around him. He hated to interrupt the festivity with such news, but a brutal, exhausting hour spent in south keep had stripped the last shred of his patience. ‘The s’Ffalenn suffers severe drug addiction from his passage aboard the Briane.’
The king silenced the musicians with a gesture. Between the costly glitter of wax candles and gold cutlery, conversation, dancing, and laughter in the vast hall faltered, then settled to an ominous hush.
‘How bad is he?’ demanded the king. His voice was much too soft.
Warned to danger, the healer weighed his wording. Six soldiers had been needed to hold Arithon pinioned while he performed his examination. The brilliant, close warmth of the hall made the experience seem distant as nightmare by comparison. With a shudder, the healer chose bluntness. ‘Your captive’s life is gravely in jeopardy. The herb that was used to hold him passive is ruinously addictive, and an overdose such as he has endured quite often proves irreversible. Withdrawal can cause madness without remedy.’
The king’s knuckles tightened on the handle of his bread knife and the blade glanced in reflection like lightning before a cloudburst. ‘Arithon s’Ffalenn is a prisoner of the crown of Amroth. I’ll have the head of the man who dared to meddle with his fate.’
The banquet hall became painfully silent; musicians fidgeted uneasily over muted instruments, and the advisors nearest to the dais all but stopped breathing. Into that stunned silence arose the voice of the prince.
‘Briane’s healer acted under protest, my liege. I thought my report made that clear.’ Eyes turned, settled on the trim person of Lysaer as he stepped briskly from the dance floor. The prince paused only to see his pretty partner to a chair. The fair-headed image of his father, he strode straight to the dais. ‘My orders alone kept the s’Ffalenn under influence of the herb.’
‘Your orders!’ The king of Amroth regarded his son in narrow-eyed fury. ‘You insolent puppy! How dare you presume to cosset an enemy whose birth is a slight to the kingdom’s honour?’
Stillness settled over the hall and Lysaer turned tautly pale. He had seen his father angry, but never before had the king made mention of his queen’s indiscretion in public hearing. Cautioned by the precedence, the crown prince bowed in respectful ceremony. ‘Your Grace, I acted to ensure the prisoner’s safety. His shadow mastery and his training by the Rauven mages makes him dangerous. No warship on the face of the ocean offers security enough to confine such a man. The drug was the only expedient.’
A whispered murmur of agreement swept the chamber, while more than one royal advisor regarded the prince with admiration.
But as if the prince were not present, the sovereign of Amroth set down his knife. Eyes as grey as sleet turned and narrowed and fixed on the countenance of the healer. ‘If the s’Ffalenn bastard is to be salvaged, what must be done?’
Wearily, the healer shook his head. ‘Your Grace, the prognosis is not good. If the drug continues the body will waste and die. If the drug is stopped, the shock will cause agony that by now may be more than the mind can support.’
On the dais, the royal favourites waited in wary stillness, but the king only threaded ringed knuckles through his beard. ‘Will Arithon be aware that he suffers?’
Grimly, the healer understood the price of his honesty. ‘Most certainly, my liege.’
‘Excellent.’ The king signalled his page, who immediately ran for a scribe. By the time the stooped old man arrived with his inks and parchments the frown had smoothed from the royal brow. If the smile that replaced the expression eased the courtiers’ restraint, it boded ill for the prisoner.
Again the hall stilled. Slouched back with his feet on the table, the king passed judgement on the healer. ‘Arithon is to be brought before my council in a fortnight’s time, cured of addiction to the drug. You are commanded to use every skill you possess to preserve his mind intact. Success will reward you with one hundred coin weight in gold.’ The king plucked a grape from the bowl by his elbow and thoroughly mashed it with his teeth. ‘But if Arithon dies or loses sanity, your life, and the life of Briane’s healer shall be forfeit.’
The healer bowed, afraid, but far too wise to protest. Only Lysaer dared intercede. His honour repudiated, he stepped to the edge of the dais and slammed his fists on the table.
For the first time in living memory, the king spurned his firstborn son. ‘Let this be a lesson to a prince who oversteps his appointed authority.’
The scribe flipped open his lap desk. Too cowed to reveal any feelings, he scratched his quill across new vellum, inking in official words of state the terms of Arithon’s survival, bound now to the lives of two healers. Warm wax congealed beneath the royal seal, setting the document into law.
The king grabbed his flagon and raised it high.
