The Curse of the Mistwraith (33 page)

Here the drafts sang in dissonance through arrowloops and murder holes. Sethvir touched ink-stained knuckles to a secondary barrier of carved oak; the arcane bindings he released next collapsed in a blue-white sheet of clean fire, letting in the moist scents of grasses and mist and damp earth.

Sethvir paused, fleetingly touched by regret. That Althain Tower had ever needed its antiquated, second-age defenceworks was sorrowful enough; but that he should require wards, and that he should need to
unbind
such protections to admit another sorcerer of the Fellowship went beyond tragedy.

The guard-spells that Sethvir had dissolved on a thought, that he could have
stepped through
with little more difficulty than breathing, lay beyond the grasp of Traithe who, at cost of the greater share of his powers, had singlehandedly sealed the south Worldsend Gate in the hour of greatest peril. For the Mistwraith that afflicted Athera was but one splintered portion of a vaster whole; had Traithe not limited its access, Desh-thiere’s rank coils would have strangled more than sun, but choked off all life on the planet.

The raven flapped irritably.

‘All right, little brother.’ Harried back to duty, Sethvir unbarred the wooden doors.

Outside, beyond the battered barrier of a final portcullis, stood a sorcerer, his deeply-lined face and hooked nose shadowed under a wide-brimmed hat. A patterned silver band and straight-cut silver-white hair were the only bright aspects about him; the rest of his clothing including scuffed boots was fashioned of unadorned black. The raven did not wait for Sethvir, but bounded through the grille to light on its master’s shoulder.

‘Welcome,’ murmured the Warden of Althain, the usual misty distance restored to his blue-green gaze. ‘I trust your passage was swift?’

Traithe of the Fellowship shrugged, his iron-clad stoicism shaded ineffably toward disgust. ‘I was only in Castle Point.’

The clang of the outer winch re-echoed through the arch while the portcullis ground ponderously upward. Traithe shouted over the din. ‘I searched for six days before I found a captain still willing to sail the coastline!’

The portcullis stopped. Sethvir ejected a rude word that rang isolate across fallen silence. Then he said, ‘That frustration won’t last, my friend. Banish Desh-thiere, and you can restore the lost arts of navigation.’

‘But that would take—’ Traithe’s sombre mien transformed before a smile of wounding hope. ‘The Prophecy of West Gate? Is this why you called me? A prince has returned from Dascen Elur?’

‘Princes,’ Sethvir said succinctly. ‘S’Ilessid and s’Ffalenn, on their way here with Asandir.’

Traithe chuckled outright. ‘Even better! Ath, I was going to grumble about sore feet, and here, you’ll have me dancing on them instead.’ He reached down, lifted the saddle and bridle heaped by his boots as though he no longer felt the miles he had ridden through the night.

Determinedly bent to mind the winch, Sethvir took no brightness from his tidings. That Traithe, who had sacrificed more than any to avert the desecration of Desh-thiere, who was most vulnerable to harm if town factions should discover his identity, who through these late and troubled years was most resilient over his failures – that of the Seven, Traithe must wait weeks and travel miles to receive news that Asandir, Kharadmon and Luhaine had all known on the wings of the moment itself was a grievous injustice.

Through the passage, Sethvir re-set gates and defence-wards with the motions of long habit, while Traithe regarded the statues commemorating old-race heroes of a past that now seemed febrile as a dream, though the jewelled settings were polished bright and the caparisons on the centaurs hung rich as if fresh from the loom. ‘However the world comes to suffer, the sanctity of Althain remains unbreached. Your wardenship rests lightly, here.’

Mildly pleased, Sethvir returned a vague gesture. ‘The upstairs is shambles. If you ask for tea, we’ll need to scrounge for clean cups.’

Traithe made his way in halting steps toward the stairwell. ‘Well, you do have more on your mind than all the rest of us put together.’

‘Sometimes.’ Pursued by echoes, forgetful of lamps, the Warden of Althain began the ascent. Through the pause as Traithe deposited his horse gear in the armoury, he added, ‘Right now, just Mirthlvain.’

Traithe tripped on a door-sill, and not because of his limp. For Mirthlvain Swamp to command his colleague’s undivided attention meant trouble of fearful proportions. The raven resettled disturbed balance with an indignant ruffle of feathers while, worn from travel, and oppressed by the mists, Traithe felt the frost go through to his bones. He fumbled at his belt, hooked the thong that hung his flint striker and seeded a spark in the sconce by the storage level.

In the sulphurous flare of new lamplight, Sethvir’s gaze glinted hard and immediate as chipped glass. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘The tea must wait. Meth-snakes have bred with cierlan-ankeshed venom and Verrain has just now sent word: there are many of them, and a mass migration is imminent.’

Unsurprised that a disaster of such shattering proportions should be announced in the midst of banalities, Traithe said,’And the others?’ Worry eclipsed his weariness. If these meth-snakes spread beyond Mirthlvain, countryfolk from Orvandir to Vastmark could be decimated in a matter of days.

‘I’ve called them.’ Sethvir’s voice seemed to echo beyond the confines of Althain’s stairwell, to bridge the wide leagues that separated the far-scattered members of the Fellowship.

‘Well, at least I’m at hand to be helpful,’ Traithe added, and this time his bitterness showed.

Still focused and fully attentive, Sethvir surveyed his companion from lined, dark eyes to scarred hands, to the limp and travel-stained cloak that the raven had torn threadbare at the shoulders. ‘There was never a time that you failed us, old friend.’

Then, as if Desh-thiere’s desecrations were trivial and large-scale catastrophe from Mirthlvain did not threaten the Kingdom of Shand, the sorcerer clapped both hands to his temples in contrition. ‘Dear me. There must be a thousand or so books heaped in the upper library and Ath’s own jumble of inkwells lying about without caps. By nightfall, we’re going to be needing the table underneath.’

‘Well,’ said Traithe benignly. ‘Between you and the spawn of the
methuri
, we’ve got a dashed handful to tidy up.’

‘Mess?’ Fixed on the underlying concept, Sethvir raised bristled eyebrows. ‘There’s really no mess. Just not enough corks for the inkwells,
that’s
what drives me to chaos.’ He whirled and rushed up the stairs.

Traithe followed. In the deliberate, sure-footed manner that masked the worst of his infirmities, he lit sconces the entire height of Althain Tower. Asandir might not need them, nor would Kharadmon and Luhaine; but two princes arrived from Dascen Elur were bound not to welcome a mage’s disregard of the dark.

Summons

Far off, where daybreak has long since brightened Desh-thiere’s oil-thick murk, cold winds whip across the grass-gowned hills of Araethura, stirred by the essence of a sorcerer who whirls his way south in grave haste…

South and west, with the ease of an entity long discorporate, a second sorcerer once called the Defender rides the force of the flooding tide in response to distress call from Althain…

Under gust-swept peaks in Camris, wrapped in dawn-lit mist, the sorcerer Asandir pauses as if listening on the threshold of his quarters in the barbarian outpost; a moment passes, then he whirls at a run for the guard post to prepare for immediate departure…

IX. ALTHAIN TOWER

Accustomed to threats and fast action, Maenalle’s scouts had horses saddled and provisions secured on the pack pony only minutes after the urgent summons from Althain Tower reached the west outpost and Asandir. Lysaer emerged from his quarters looking hollow-eyed. Secretly relieved to be quit of the company of subjects he found disturbing, he remained in flawless command of his manners, a trait young Maien admired as he held the stirrup for his prince to mount. Not all men would be so pleasant to serve after being rousted at dawn on the heels of a rowdy celebration.

Arithon sat his dun looking murderous. He had not rested. Neither had he been so far into his cups the evening before that indulgence should have spoiled his sleep. As Asandir swung into the black’s saddle, the Master said, ‘I should have liked to ask for audience with Lady Maenalle.’

The sorcerer adjusted his reins without reply; and while the wind chased a cloak-snapping blast of cold off the heights, his reason for silence became apparent.

‘If you wanted to speak for young Grithen, spare the trouble,’ announced Tysan’s lady steward, present all the while as observer. Dressed like her scouts, her hair bundled under the hood of a sewn-hide cloak, she had passed unnoticed in the bustle.

Grudging to show surprise beyond a fractional rise of one brow, Arithon greeted her. As close to apology as Lysaer had ever seen him, he said, ‘Surely I have reason to plead the man’s case.’

Maenalle’s features stayed hard. ‘Tysan’s scouts do not act for personal vengeance. No matter what the provocation, they are forbidden to take hostages. We are not like Rathain’s clans, to extort coin and cattle for human lives. For breaking honour, Grithen must answer. The fact he was invited into his temptation, and that his action also threatened his liege bears very little on his punishment. The code that condemns him is one that upholds clan survival.’

The dun sidled under Arithon’s hand as he fielded the nuance in challenge. ‘You disapprove of your counterparts to the east?’

Maenalle’s lips tightened. Though aware that the dun’s combative crabsteps reflected the mood of the rider, she responded in the bluntness that abashed the most brash of her scouts. ‘Unlike your subjects in Rathain, my following need not contend with the trade city of Etarra. Feud between clanborn and townsman is pitiless there. In the eastlands the governor’s council can execute a man for the offence of singing the wrong ballad. Play your lyranthe in those halls with caution, young prince.’

The Shadow Master said, ‘Spare the title, lady. I might never acknowledge any claim to the city you speak of.’

Maenalle stood braced against a vicious blast of wind. ‘Would you risk the perception that inspires your talent by hardening your heart against need?’

And Arithon suddenly laughed, his anger absolved by admiration for her unflinching toughness. He bent in his saddle, raised Maenalle’s hand and kissed her sincerely in farewell. ‘Were you
caithdein
of Rathain I might find myself sorely oppressed. Dare I suppose that Etarra’s governors would also find their ways compromised?’

Strikingly free of vindictiveness, Maenalle said, ‘If you want my earnest opinion, there can be no remedy for Etarra, except to raze it clean to the ground.’

Piquant as her remark was, the chance was lost to pursue it as Dakar emerged from his cabin, stumbling in the grip of two scouts. They had needed to shepherd him into his clothes, for his voice arose in complaint that his breeches were laced inside out, and both his boots on wrong feet. His keepers only smiled at his protests and hoisted him toward his waiting horse. Maenalle disengaged her hand from Arithon’s grasp and took hurried leave of her sovereign. If Lysaer’s response was cool with propriety, the reason became lost in the rush. The instant the Mad Prophet’s bulk was stowed astride, Asandir wheeled his stallion and urged his party to the road.

‘Ath’s mercy,’ Dakar cried in vociferous injury. ‘What disaster brings this uncivilized change of plans? I
thought
I could nurse last night’s hangover under dry blankets for a change.’

Asandir answered between the snow-muffled thunder of hooves. The words ‘Mirthlvain’ and ‘meth-snakes’ carried forth with incisive clarity and Dakar’s recalcitrance withered.

Lysaer observed this. Despite an ambivalence resharpened by last night’s ballads, he spurred abreast of the dun mare. If the unaccustomed rub of Maenalle’s lyranthe left the creature wayward and edgy, the Master was seasoned to her tricks. Aware his half-brother would respond though his hands were full, the prince called over her rebellious snorts. ‘The page who wakened me said our sorcerer had received emergency summons from Althain. What horror in this land do you suppose might be worse than Khadrim?’

The Master grinned back in speculation. ‘We do seem in a hurry to find out.’ He did not add that Maenalle’s scouts had shown him maps: Althain Tower lay ninety leagues distant, a six-day journey over roads sparsely stationed with posts for adequate remounts. Yet Asandir spurred toward the foothills at a pace not intended to spare horseflesh.

After scrambling descent of a rock-strewn slope, the riders clattered onto a level stretch flanked by wind-stunted cedars. The footing softened to frost-crusted mud, safe for a prudent trot. Asandir shook his black to a canter, and conversation dwindled before the need to duck clods spattered up by its hooves.

The peaks lost altitude as the sorcerer’s party progressed. Under muted daylight, the heavy snows of the passes thinned to slush sluiced by ribbons of run-off. Lowland damp blunted the cold to a miserable ache and the horses streamed lathered sweat. The dun abandoned her antics, her wind and energy consumed entirely by running, and still Asandir pressed on, the stride of his rangy black unflagging through league after passing league.

‘By the Wheel,’ Lysaer called in distress. ‘Is he going to run our horses till they founder?’

Dakar roused from his misery, surprised. ‘Asandir? Never.’ Morosely, he added ‘one could wish the sorcerer spared some pity for the aching head of his apprentice.’

‘Magecraft,’ Arithon explained as Lysaer questioned such unnatural display of endurance. ‘Touch your horse and you’ll feel the energy.’

Lysaer stroked his chestnut’s steaming neck, and snatched back from the tingling warmth that surged in a wave from his fingertips. Nettled to be alone in his ignorance, he glanced across whipping strands of mane. ‘Could you make such a spell?’