Grand Conspiracy (2 page)

‘That's six-year-old news. We're remote here, not fossilized.' Elaira cast the striker into the wood scuttle, silted under the flaked ash of the charcoal she hoarded to heat her brazier. ‘Does the Koriani Senior Circle believe that's what happened? That Arithon engaged wrongful conjury?'

‘The man's capable, certainly.' Silk rustled, an offended whisper against the diminished clang of abused tinware. Lirenda looked up at last, her eyes like poured oil in the primitive play of the firelight. ‘His malice is documented. None can deny the massacre wrought by his hand. But you know him best. What defense could you possibly offer to exonerate him from those acts?'

‘I would ask him,' Elaira said. To deflect her overwhelming
desire to strike out, to smash through the porcelain-doll certainty stamped on Lirenda's features, she folded her forearms under the scruffy fleece lining her jacket. ‘Whatever his Grace of Rathain did, then or now, he will have his own reason. I have never seen him lie for convenience. Nor have I known him to break from the sound tenets of his character.'

‘Well then, your conviction won't prove any hindrance, at the least.' Satisfaction smoothed Lirenda's dulcet tones. ‘The task your Prime asks should reward such sterling faith. Rathain's prince need do nothing else but confirm your belief in his incorruptible s'Ffalenn compassion.'

‘What are you saying?' Blind panic flared into temper before Elaira could think. ‘Have done with coy riddles. I won't stand being toyed with.'

‘Very well.' Lirenda peeled off her gloves, her enameled veneer of deportment at odds with the rough-cut timbers around her. ‘The Koriani Prime commands your assistance to create a living double who can pass in close company for Arithon of Rathain.'

‘Ath's infinite mercy!' Horror leached the color that cold had burnished into Elaira's cheeks. Intuitively leaping ahead, she cried, ‘You can't be thinking of young Fionn Areth as the unwitting subject of a shapechange!'

The ruthless affirmation Lirenda returned shocked beyond reach of all tact.

‘What's happened to pity?
Has our Matriarch gone mad?
That's a monstrous act for an order whose founders aspired to healing and mercy!' Elaira interlocked whitened fingers. Hackled to a suicidal, insubordinate rage, she shivered, well aware her explosion must not venture beyond the briefest word of hot protest. ‘What need on Ath's earth could be dire enough to cast a child into the breach?' Koriani interests, set against the Alliance's stew of power and trade intrigues, made deadly ground for a game piece. ‘Save us all; Fionn's naught but a herder's son with a blameless life left ahead of him.'

‘You know that's not entirely true.' The superior tilt of Lirenda's chin lent her beauty the chill of an ice sculpture. ‘Our scryers know the boy's birth prophecy. Why shouldn't the destiny groomed by our order be the one to lead him from obscurity?'

‘That's heartless arrogance!' Elaira shoved away from the trestle, too riled to pause for the clash of disarranged contents. ‘Whatever stakes ride on Arithon's life, no end could justify such callous misuse of an innocent.'

‘The preservation of civilized society is all the reason our Matriarch requires. The Shadow Master's powers have already proven an endangerment. Your regrettable attachment won't change that hard truth.' Lirenda picked a caught thread from her hem, eyes narrowed with sulfurous disdain. ‘Soft sentiment aside, this child is a cipher who happens to owe you a life debt. Your Prime is now laying claim to his sacrifice for the greater good of the Koriani Order.'

The statement held threat like a dagger in a sleeve, a signal warning that far more was at stake than the straightforward demands of obligation.

Bitterly, Elaira wished back the bleak anonymity of the darkness. The light left her exposed. Like a cat who toyed with a wounded mouse, Lirenda tracked every erratic interval of stopped breath, the telltale tremor of each flinching nerve as her adversary capped the volcanic burst of her fury. Both women were too well versed in the risks of venting unbridled emotion. Between them, only the tallow dip quavered. Too numbed now to notice the cold, light-headed as an unmoored leaf, Elaira battled the tug of a proscribed love that might recklessly come to cost everything.

Her streetwise instinct for survival gave warning the stillness had lasted too long. She moved on, bent, and tended the fire. While her cast shadow capered like a demon at her heels, she laid two logs of sweet-burning birch over the coals of spent kindling.

‘What earthly good will be served through creation of Arithon's look-alike?' Elaira fenced words with dispassionate tact. ‘No one familiar with his Grace's presence could mistake his living character for a herder boy wearing s'Ffalenn features.'

‘We intend no replacement.' Lirenda laid her thin gloves on the trestle and arose. ‘Morriel wishes Arithon of Rathain taken captive. To that end, she has ordered that his double should be raised as the decoy to draw out his enemies. If Fionn Areth stands trial for the Shadow Master's misdeeds, outraged politics will brand him guilty. We believe the threatened execution of an innocent will lure the Teir's'Ffalenn back ashore. He has an infallible heart, so you say. I know the arrogant pride of his line will not let him suffer another to die in his place. Whichever trait answers, his fate can be played straight into our hands on the puppet strings of his royal-born tie to compassion.'

Elaira felt as if every bone she possessed had been opened to let in the cold. ‘What of Lysaer?'

The amethyst rings on fingers and thumb flashed to Lirenda's dismissive gesture. ‘Be sure we'll find means to see him detained when the moment comes to take action.'

Dizzy, sickened, all but crushed by despair, Elaira snatched at straws. ‘What of the child's parents? How do you intend to gain their consent, and how many scheming truths will you hide on your course to persuade them? It's a dangerous strait, to wear Arithon's face, with the merchant guilds now funneling gold to arm Lysaer's Alliance. Every headhunting band of unattached mercenaries is hiring itself out for the chance to spill s'Ffalenn blood.'

‘Why should the boy's parents ever know?' Lirenda inspected the cot, her dark, cut-silk lashes pinned wide in disdain. ‘These moorlands are isolated, long leagues from the trade road. Since the child is not yet six years of age, the sealed enchantment to remake his features can be tuned to unfold over time. No ignorant herder would distinguish the change from his normal growth to maturity.'

Outlined by the leaping heat of the fire, Elaira let her stunned silence speak for her.

‘You have vowed to serve,' Lirenda reminded. Her regard turned fixed in cruel fascination; as if, deeply hidden, she had a personal reason to savor her victim's unfolding pain.

‘I have vowed to serve,' Elaira agreed, her expressionless face feeling brittle as the crackled glaze on porcelain.

The clear, topaz eyes of her tormentor stayed pinned on her, unrelenting. ‘But a vow is no guarantee of right action.'

‘You
wouldn't
imply I've a choice in the matter?' Elaira let sarcasm ignite into venom. ‘There's a herdwife who lets rooms. She's a wonderful cook. Stay here, and you'll get nothing better than a half portion of stewed hare with pepper.'

‘Whatever unsavory supper you have planned, you need not share a morsel with me. I've dined already.' Lirenda poked under the mismatched layers of bedding, then fluttered her hand to disperse the dust that wafted from the grass ticking. ‘Regarding free choice, your options are limited since the Fellowship can't intervene.'

She looked up, lips curved to a stabbing smile at Elaira's wooden stillness. ‘Oh, be sure that's accurate. Morriel made certain no Sorcerers would meddle. The Warden of Althain is this
moment immersed in rebalancing the protections on a grimward. His earth-sense is deaf. By the hour he emerges, through your help we'll have Fionn Areth's clear and willing consent.'

Elaira held firm through the wreckage of hope. While the wind moaned and hissed through the thatch overhead, she offset her distress with the tenacity taught by the arthritic old thief who had raised her. What use to dwell on the damning array of insupportable consequences? In the end, she must decide which part of herself to betray: the Koriani Order, with its merciless penalty for oathbreaking, which would obliterate her last conscious vestige of character. Or a price for survival that came dearer than blood: the coin of her love for a man who had become her very self, since one fated evening in Merior. Perhaps worse, she must violate a child's blind trust, misuse his very flesh as the vessel to shape the design of her Prime Matriarch's ordained purpose.

‘You'll have a few hours to think and decide,' Lirenda said in dismissal. ‘For the interval, I wish to rest.' She flicked out her mantle and arranged its rich folds over the cot's tumbled bedding.

‘I thought we agreed, there was no choice to make,' Elaira bit back in acerbity. Staunch in the face of explosive despair, she added, ‘If you're dead set on pursuit of this evil, say when you wish to begin.'

‘Wake me in the hours between midnight and dawn.' Lirenda plucked out the tortoiseshell combs confining the sleek fall of her hair. ‘At least, I presume by then the herder boy's parents will be snoring the soundest in sleep.'

Black hair cascaded in waves down the prim slope of her shoulders. Lirenda fluffed the crimped ends with crisp fingers, then settled herself on the cot, her limbs arranged in exquisite wrapped comfort in the thick folds of her mantle. ‘You do stock valerian? Then mix a soporific. The steps will go harder if the boy cries in pain as the shapechanging is sealed. If you agree to keep your sworn faith with the order, be ready when the quarter moon breaks the horizon.'

Lirenda closed lids the delicate, shell blue of a songbird's egg, and settled herself into sleep.

So brief a time to measure a decision that held the potential to rock every facet of the world; Elaira reclaimed her seat and sank down in limp shock at the trestle. Around her, the tools of her trade seemed transformed into items of damning remembrance. Here, the stone knife that Arithon had once borrowed to slice the
galls from an oak branch; there, the small chip in the enamel jar she had made in that fateful, first hour he had chosen to cross over her threshold.

Knotted round her wrist, warm against the sped pulse in her veins, she still wore his leather cuff lace, with its unassuming abalone beads. That treasured, soft length of deerhide had been left behind as a thoughtless gesture; in the safety of dreams, she still savored the competent, steadying touch he had used to bundle her rain-sodden hair and tie the length into a plait.

Each detail hurt now with unbearable force.

Elaira gripped the round stone she used for a pestle, a futile effort to draw comfort from the river-smoothed grain of the granite. The crossroads she faced was unalterably plain. She could fail to arouse Lirenda at moonrise; for disobedience of a Koriani senior's command, she would pay the ultimate penalty of losing all ties to conscious awareness. Forced enslavement would follow. The power of her free will would be called forfeit through the bonds of the initiate's oath she had sworn into the matrix of the Skyron aquamarine. That option offered her peaceful surcease through the painless void of oblivion.

The stone under her palms made her flesh ache with cold. Trapped in the knife-edged coils of irony, Elaira squeezed back angry tears. She could not live the lie. If she allowed her spirit free rein in defiance,
that would be the easy way out
. Her personal stake in the future might be absolved on a word of defiance, but Lirenda's uncanny sharp interest had laid bare the fallacy behind simple refusal.

Elaira set down the rock, reamed to the bone by the tireless drafts that sang through the chinks in her casement. She held no illusions. She was expendable. Her cooperative contribution became little more than expedience within the larger pattern of Koriani design. Should she yield up her identity, Morriel Prime would simply appoint her replacement. The Skyron crystal would retain a full record of her memories and experience. Given that borrowed template, another enchantress would study her perception of Arithon s'Ffalenn and replicate her personal insights of his character in her stead. Fionn Areth would come to suffer the same fate. The plot to arrange the Shadow Master's capture would proceed, with or without her consent to become the tool to enact his betrayal.

The jaws of the quandary bit insidious and deep. Elaira raged, helpless before the inexorable truth. She wanted to rise, scream
and rant like a madwoman, then break anything within reach in a manic spree of vindication. There seemed no justice, that the greatest sacrifice under her power to make would spare no one and
nothing
but her own peace of mind.

She could wish she had chosen the good sense to die before this sorry hour should visit her. That misery recalled another night in chill drizzle, when she had walked the beachhead at Narms in fear for Arithon's safety. Then as now, she had railed against the order's restraint with seething rebellion on her mind. Unbidden, she remembered the warning a Fellowship Sorcerer had delivered, while in darkness and rainfall, the earth turned in balance, and the tidewaters ebbed from the bay: ‘
I was sent to
you
,' Traithe had explained in gentle sympathy, ‘
because an augury
showed the Warden of Althain that, for good or ill, you're the one spirit
alive in this world who will come to know Arithon best. Should your
Master of Shadow fail you, or you fail him, the outcome will call down
disaster
.'

Tonight in Araethura, the burden of that scrying became as a spike through the heart.

Elaira looked inward in brutal self-honesty and understood that her personal integrity amounted to nothing. The Koriani sisterhood's supreme penalty for willful disobedience was no more and no less than a coward's rejection of responsibility. Her love could heal no one in witless obscurity. Cornered by obligations of duty and emotion, she perceived that the conscious road led to a thorny and desperate gamble. No matter the cost, she might go forward and embrace the most tenuous hope: the odds on a hell-bent course toward disaster perhaps might be routed by Arithon's sharp penchant for cleverness.