Grand Conspiracy (78 page)

Two crossroads passed. No ambush happened. The order's seeker found no sign of Arithon.

Lirenda breezed back from her conference with the seniors who readied the spring traps and bindings. The serenity fixed on her cameo features implied a vexed mood for the kink in her plans.

Yet the cart and its prisoner rolled inexorably onward without reprieve or intervention.

The sky capped the scene in clouds like sheet lead, with a tireless north wind snagging at hats and ribbons and crackling the streamers of the lance pennons.

‘We'll see a blizzard by nightfall,' the seeress forecast. She touched another sigil to track the image more closely as the cavalcade wheeled around a constricted corner.

Cart and horse reached the sharp, jutted angle where the justiciar's house overlooked a three-way convergence of streets. A horse trough paned over with ice sat beneath a bronze statue of the galleyman whose vessel had marshaled the harbor blockade long years ago in the uprising. Gulls had used the figure's hat for a roost, and decades of dropped guano streaked the shoulders and face, etching the verdigris patina. Past a brick-walled flower bed crusted with snow, the thoroughfare widened into the sloped descent of Broadwalk Way.

The avenue extended like a wheel spoke from the mayor's palace on the rise to the stone-cobbled square beneath the old harbor gate, where fleets of high-prowed Paravian ships had once docked. The stone platform that now staged Jaelot's public executions, in another century and under a clanborn earl, had served as the dais for visiting dignitaries. The sockets that had originally stepped awnings and banners were now inset with iron rings. Two stout posts of oak had been erected in mortar for tying the condemned for the sword thrust. Around these, in tiered piles, lay the bundled pine faggots drenched in seal oil, which would rise into flames and black smoke at a spark's touch.

On a windless day, the fortunate victim might asphyxiate from the fumes before the cruel heat crisped the flesh from his bones, and he screamed his throat raw from blind agony.

Elaira sat on the barrel and watched in the vat as the cart was reined to a halt. She saw soldiers, like toys, dismount from toy horses and ram back the overeager crowd. Men in black
surcoats with Jaelot's gold lions unlashed Fionn Areth's wrists. He stumbled once as they dragged him out of the cart, and again, as his forced step caught on the slick granite stair. Half-carried, half-dragged, he was hauled to his fate at the posts.

Welded into a sealed silence of tension, Elaira scarcely noted Lirenda's rapid speech. The slipstream of words reached her in snipped fragments, broken down by the ugly, defeated apprehension that her faith had been founded on vain hopes. Arithon had come, but had seen no opening to act; and Fionn Areth would die as the pawn whose crowning play might never happen.

More than a Koriani conspiracy would fall in the ashes of this day's defeat.

‘… can't believe he's not acted,' Lirenda said, furious. ‘Of all the contingencies we worked and planned for, this one is the most inexplicable. If the boy's death takes place uncontested, all of our theories are wrong. Every effort we make to find and take the Shadow Master henceforward must be done in deep cover and subterfuge.'

The seeress at the vat turned her head to reply. The opening between her elbow and the seeker to her left let Elaira see clearly as Fionn Areth was lashed spread-eagled between the oak posts. Tears blurred her eyes. She blinked them away, unwilling to separate herself from even one second of his agony. The guilt tore her open, stopped her thought and her breath, that she had been part and party to the atrocity which brought him at last to the stake.

The men-at-arms tore off his thin shirt. As the seeress steadied the image in tight focus, the remorseless detail showed that Fionn Areth was shaking.

Elaira bit her lip, the pain shared, and the relentless strain of dreading the inhumane spectacle yet to come.

A soldier arrived with a pine pitch torch propped upright in a bucket of sand. He set the cresset down alongside posts and faggots, then glanced over his shoulder in unsettled deference and made way for someone beyond him.

Behind the miserable, bared back of the condemned, the executioner mounted the block, cloaked head to foot in coal black.

He was not a large man, but the escorting men-at-arms gave his arrival wide berth. Nor would the stoutest of them meet his glance or acknowledge his human presence. Tinnily faint in the etched stillness and dust, the crowd screamed their crude appreciation. The executioner strode into his place in the tableau,
the hood of his trade riffled against his cheek by the sea wind, and the face underneath obscured by a mask of cut silk. Wrapped in dark cloth, Jaelot's paid killer carried the longsword that would pierce the condemned sorcerer through the heart.

Elaira's stunned gaze fixed on that weapon, morbidly unable to tear free of the horror that must follow when its silver length was drawn and laid bare. The gloved hand on the hilt seemed too easy, too slight, for the rending act of its office.

That instant, time stopped.
Something
caught at Elaira's attention and slapped all the air from her lungs.

Those fine, supple fingers, surely she knew them? A tug of wild hope, in the carriage of those black-clad shoulders, and perhaps, the listening tilt of the head. Though he was cloaked and masked, she felt the shock of stunned recognition pass between the executioner and herself.

Then Lirenda's voice, imperative, shattered through her raced thoughts. ‘I'm speaking to you!'

Elaira flinched and looked up, the inescapable truth betrayed beyond any hope of concealment by the love and desperation in her face.

Koriani trained in the arts of observation, Lirenda seized on that opportune exposure. ‘Ath's deliverance, he's
there
!' She spun toward the vat in an agitated whirl of rich silk. ‘Which one?
Which
one is he
?'

But in the end, she need not ask after all. Given the sure cue of the Shadow Master's presence, his assumed identity became obvious.

Lirenda's shout pealed through the dead air and touched off an explosion of movement. ‘By the power invested by Morriel Prime, we must act fast to confine him! Send word to every initiate we have. Direct them to raise banners of guard across every door, every lane, every shop front and alley that leads away from the main square!'

Winter Solstice Noon 5669–5670

Far south, worn by a bone-stripping ride in cold winds up the West Shand peninsula from Earle, Asandir leads his blown horse through the salt pools of West Fen, then enters the grimward which guards the remains of the great drake, Eckracken; and for the hours, the weeks, or the months he will need to refigure the seals of protection, neither man nor mage might reach him …

In a gabled mansion off Spinster's Alley in Jaelot, an aged woman sits in darkness, attentive to the ranging, dissonant tones that run through her home's stone foundations; in disturbed concern, she addresses the servant who waits, deferent, at her right hand: ‘Jasque, I suspect Koriathain have set wards to cause harm. Go out, will you please? Find out if someone's in trouble …'

Upon solstice noon, the power of a Paravian mystery released by a masterbard's melody peals down Athera's sixth lane; tuned tracks across latitude become reawakened, vibration singing down lateral channels, to skew off the damaged axis of Rockfell Peak, then to peal frustrated, through bedrock, and bare trees; a whisper of that balked resonance doubles into itself, and spills into faint imprint over the ghost track of another spell, the left remnant of a construct that once recalled a Sorcerer from a perilous quest between stars …

S
tripped for the sword thrust to claim his young life, Fionn Areth resisted the fear that battered him toward mewling degradation and weakness. Bitter winds off the bay lashed his hair and reddened the bare skin of his torso. The scent of volatile resins and pine intermingled with the thick, oily smoke from the torch. The fumes clogged his lungs and laced his gut into nausea. Never in his life had he felt so alone, nor so crushed down by despair. No mauling pain left from bruising and cuts could compare with the agonized terror that spurred the raced beat of his pulse.

Around him, the people of Jaelot screamed revilement. They heaved and pressed, a pack of wild animals ravening to tear at live flesh. Their passion to see bloodshed beat the cold air with an almost palpable force. From the cordon of soldiers set around the stone dais, to the craftshops and mansions which fronted the square, fury held him surrounded, an inimical mass of strangers' faces stamped into all range of expression. Those not engrossed with their sick fascination were chillingly ugly with spite. Man or woman, nowhere could the condemned on the block see one who showed sorrow or pity.

In that absence of mercy, all hope drained away. Fionn Areth coughed smoke from a paper-dry throat. Youth and adventure and the lure of a prophecy had brought him to this. He would
leave life as the hapless target of hatred, damned for the crimes of the Shadow Master he had once cherished dreams of pledging his sword to suppress. Nothing remained of his bright fabric of ideals. His shared union with the girl at the inn in the Skyshiels seemed the fragmented wisp of a dream. He owned no goatherd's identity and no fate. Only the cruel, hard certainty of death a handful of minutes away.

The four men-at-arms posted around the piled faggots were all gray-haired veterans, survivors of the legendary defeat arranged by the Sorcerer at Vastmark. Their creased eyes beheld the condemned with etched purpose and the granite satisfaction of a vengeance too long delayed. Nearer to hand, the executioner's enigmatic, wound patience seemed aberrant as forged steel given the breath of life in human form.

Fionn Areth clenched his jaw, unable to quiet his chattering teeth. He endured through the drawn-out, thoughtless delay, while the mayor's wife and entourage pulled up in a black-and-gold-lacquered carriage. Assisted by swarms of liveried footmen, she and her guests were whisked off the street and settled in comfort behind the ornate iron railings of an open-air gallery across the square. Musicians arrived. After them, two more gilded carriages plowed through the press and disgorged their peacock array of wellborn passengers.

While Fionn Areth suffered in tormented suspension, the select innercircle ofthe mayor'sacquaintances flockedin polite company to share the event of his death. Their servants dispensed wine and refreshments. Ladies in fashionable hats and fur muffs exchanged small talk behind the stolid backs of their house guard, brought along to quell rowdy antics or the unplanned small mishaps that might arise in a crowd of mannerless commoners.

From the railed second stories of the merchants' mansions, parties rollicked in similar gaiety. The highborn of Jaelot would enjoy their sensation at safe remove, where velvets were not likely to be spattered with splashed blood, nor the ladies be troubled by noisome stinks and rank smoke.

A herald's horn blared. The state carriage bearing the mayor made its ponderous way through the press. Black plumes on the horses' headstalls nodded in lockstep with the ribboned helms of the city's elite guard. To a second blast of trumpets, his Lordship of Jaelot emerged and ascended the block, attired in his court robes and jeweled ermine hat, his chains of office and emblazoned state finery. He was followed by the city aldermen and the high court
magistrate, then a double-file procession of footmen, who spread a carpet over the cleared end of the dais. More servants arrived with upholstered chairs to accommodate the titled circle of state witnesses.

The magistrate stayed standing, and read out the long list of charges. While the wind snapped his parchment and rouged his mournful nose, the howls of the crowd swelled into a clamor. Barely one word in ten reached Fionn Areth, who scarcely knew which malfeasance had caused his arraignment.

Assaulted by the thunderous wall of raw noise, by the fumes of oiled smoke, and by the sick, sweating nerves of a bottomless terror, Fionn Areth fought to keep loose knees from buckling while the warrant recording his death for city archives was rolled, tied in ribbons, and sealed by a black-robed secretary. Second to second, he forced back the screams of outraged self-pity that beat to escape from his throat.

His last, sorry vestige of pride would be lost if the semblance of dignity escaped him.

Soon the horn shrilled again. The herald and the city justice retired in highbred sangfroid. The men-at-arms in their heraldic lion tabards dressed weapons and signaled an end to the forms of due process.

A hand wave from the mayor, then the herald's ritual pronouncement of execution. ‘Arithon s'Ffalenn, called Master of Shadow! For the sake of your crimes against our fair city of Jaelot, your spirit shall be delivered by sword and fire to your rightful hour of death. Your case now passes to Daelion Fatemaster's judgment, andthence, to Dharkaron'shandforredress. Maythe powers past the Wheel show you mercy for the aforesaid burdens of guilt.'

The bursting, wild cheers seemed to batter the air andshake the chalk clouds overhead. Despite the barrage against overwhelmed senses, Fionn Areth knew the executioner's step at his back. His chilled skin recorded each dread stir of movement, and his breath went shallow with panic. Through blinding tears, he beheld the dark shape of the hooded man who came forward and stopped before him. Black-gloved hands grasped a black-hilted sword. The masked face met and measured his shrinking misery, then the wretched sum of his fear.

‘Mercy on me,' Fionn Areth gasped out, the words mouthed without strength for voice. He wanted to beg the act done with dispatch, but the last scrap of courage deserted him. At the end, he loved life too much.

The hired butcher stepped close, reached out, and grasped his victim's bared shoulder. The move appeared natural. As though he would steady his victim's frail, shivering body and ensure the lethal first sword thrust pierced cleanly.

Fionn Areth shut his eyes. Bravado failed him. A whimper escaped his locked teeth.

He felt the ephemeral brush of cloth near his face. Through the ugly, undisciplined clamor of humanity, someone spoke into his ear. The voice was cut crystal, each word stamped separate from that debacle of chaos as a filament spun from a dream. ‘Boy! Hear me, boy.' Then the insane promise, fired with compassion and backed by a rage to break rock. ‘You shall see death and fire on this day. But by the decree of your crown prince's justice, none of the blood will be yours.'

A shake, as though to awaken a sleeper; Fionn Areth opened his eyes. Devoid of hope, emotionally pummeled past logic or even disjointed thought, he watched in uncomprehendingnumbness as his killer's gloved fingers slipped the ties of the mask. Alone amid a multitude of ravening humanity, he beheld the naked face of the man Jaelot had hired to claim his life by the sword.

Eyes met his, level green, shelved under an upswept browline. The thin, high-set cheekbones slanted into a tapered, neat chin: line for line, as though some mad facet of perception had warped vision into waking delirium, Fionn Areth beheld his own image in the features of Jaelot's executioner.

‘Just so you'll know me,' his double said in dry humor that seared like a struck spark on ice.

The grip on Fionn Areth's shoulder clamped down; the other gloved hand cast away the silk mask. In one driving move, the apparition unsheathed his black weapon.

Light burst, andburned. A white fire of explosion rippedsky and earth into a flash-point flare of primal energy. Amid coruscation to stun breathing life, a sound like no other unfurled, arisen into one burgeoning chord wrought of notes pitched to shatter the very foundations of sanity.

Fionn Areth cried out. He felt as if all his flesh came unraveled, jerked loose and restrung into that ringing cascade of raw power. Overhead, the executioner's drawn blade parted the air, its edge of spelled steel a cry to tear darkness and spin mind and heart into soaring and bridleless joy. Then that same sword descended, still howling its unearthly, keyed splendor.

Fionn Areth cringed, jerked short by tied wrists. Yet no stroke
of bared steel rammed home through his breast. Instead, the ropes parted with a jerk that should have dropped him to a limp heap in collapse.

The man's hold braced him upright. ‘Hang on,' the encouragement a torn rag through that fabric of fearful, wild harmony.

Dizzied and dazzled, rendered witless by that kaleidoscopic maelstrom of tuned sound, Fionn Areth stumbled. By his side, the voice of his rescuer shouted in a pitch that recaptured one facet of the sword's uncanny resonance. Through screams, between the tearing, rending howl of burst metal as the cordonof armed guards were hurled bodily from their feet, his phrasing seemed sheared from forged light.

The forceful words pealed through that cry of celebration, honed and edged by a masterbard's diction. ‘This is a city that dismembers justice and makes murdering sport of the innocent! Stand clear, or stand warned! As your sovereign prince under old kingdom charter, my judgment holds no appeal. As of this moment, by crown law of Rathain, there will be no mercy given to those among you who show none!'

Light and sound reached their hammering, toned peak of crescendo. Weeping on his knees, Fionn Areth felt as if his very flesh would refigure into winged form and take flight.

‘Lie flat! Now!' The swordsman dealt him an urgent shove.

But the warning became meaningless noise to his ears. Fionn Areth found no response. His body seemed substanceless baggage, even when a buffeting push pitched him headlong against the swept stone of the dais. Sprawled gasping, stunned breathless by chill and ripped into helpless, whimpering tears by the peal of wild power from the sword, he scarcely cared as the same ruthless hand pinned him facedown, unrelenting.

All at once, like a gap ripped through the continuity of creation, the tones of primal harmony snuffed out. The black sword fell mute. The wrenching, immediate cessation of song rocked air like a blow. Despair followed after, fit to whirl the stunned mind to insanity. Whipped mindless with panic, the bystanders screamed. Their cries held true terror and a riven, cruel sorrow, as if all the world had been darkened. Cheated of the glorious, exalted step into grand mystery, they found themselves vised back into the ordinary, drab colors of earthly substance.

A heartbeat passed in bludgeoned suspension. Then the sky overhead ripped asunder.

An elemental bolt of lightning jagged down. The impact tore
apart the oak posts set upright amid the piled faggots. Splinters flew airborne and burst into comet tails of shot sparks. In wan, bloody light, the upset on the dais seemed awash in the fires of armageddon. The mayor and his ministers were sprawled prostrate in terror amid their toppled cordon of men-at-arms. Swords, helms, and mail had been warped out of true, as if cast in refraction through water. Except the links of burst mail left exposed flesh scored and bleeding, and the bent sword blades were no nightmare illusion.

Thunder rolled in a slamming shock wave of concussion. Blazing knots of burst wood rained down in clumps and ignited the pitch-soaked faggots.

In orchestrated step, a second explosion whirled the debris like blown chaff. Burning sticks flew airborne. Flaming debris whirled into the screaming, packed crowd like a vengeful storm out of Sithaer.

‘Up now. Can you walk?' The insistent grip tugged.

Fionn Areth coughed out a ratcheting breath. ‘I don't know.'

That instant, the whole world went black.

‘Ath!' he shrilled. ‘I'm blind. I've gone blind! I can't see!'

‘No,' said the benefactor now veiled in blank darkness. ‘You suffer no worse than a shadow.' His assurance became all the more terrifying for its matter-of-fact dismissal. ‘Now, on your feet! Quickly. Things might be tied in a muddle for the moment. But the second these people pull themselves back to rights, the descent of Dharkaron's Black Chariot itself couldn't turn them from shredding us to mincemeat.'

Hauled shakily erect, Fionn Areth sensed movement, then flinched as a warmed fall of wool flicked his icy skin and unfurled over his naked shoulders. Understanding shot home, foolishly late: that the cloth would be black. His look-alike rescuer would be none other than the Master of Shadow himself.

He must have exclaimed his discovery aloud.

‘Oh, very good.' Through rising screams, a wafted stink of charred hair, and the clashing bellows of two armed officers who shouted for torches and buckets, the criminal sorcerer paused. He tacked sharply, then lunged to the right. His sword sheared and clanged against something metallic. Another parry, a darted thrust, then a whine as bared steel ripped into something less solid.