Traitor’s Knot: Fourth Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts
contemplate. Forced away in the face of the High King’s stressed adamancy, the Sorcerer flung back on departure, ‘Trust us, your Grace! In compassion, I ask you to heed Sethvir’s counsel! I can’t tarry to explain. Another crisis is breaking in Erdane, and I must go at once to attempt intervention!’
Late Spring 5670
In the dark, musty garret, the knife that had served as her protection now gone with a loyal man to spare his prince, the ancient seeress encounters the moment foreseen as her hour of death: inside the spent lines of her guarding circles, she is whispering banishments, to no avail; the insatiable ring of cold spectres close in, sucking her failing vitality…
At Avenor, Cerebeld, High Priest of the Light, takes uneasy pause to blot his brow, then smooths his rich robes, descends to the ward-room, and accosts Avenor’s elite palace guard, ‘I want another three galleys sent out! More patrols. Sweep every road-house and country inn. Or how will you laggards respond when the Divine Prince holds inquest over the fate of his errant wife…?’
One moment shy of disaster, Enithen Tuer’s locked door becomes breached by a gust that bursts into scouring light; and devouring shades scatter, as Luhaine of the Fellowship wraps the dying old woman in veils of blue fire and calm: ‘Peace, my dear. I will hold you, secure. Let your brave spirit cross over Fate’s Wheel in safety…’
Late Spring 5670
Three hours before dawn, Lord Commander Sulfin Evend returned to the mayor’s palace. Rumpled and chilled, his rapacious mood fit to stamp an impression in pig-iron, he bowled past the butler with four trusted officers, on the pretence of holding a war council. His party mounted the carpeted stair in a muffled thunder of boots. Their stubbled faces and ready steel brooked no protest as the Lord Commander set them on guard in the ante-room of the state guest suite.
‘I’m going inside. No one follows! You’ll prevent any servants from leaving.’ His wolfish review permitted no questions. ‘Whatever you hear, whatever you think, I rely on you to stand firm. No one, I don’t care who, or what rank, will cross over this threshold behind me. If I don’t reappear to relieve you by dawn, your orders will proceed as follows: set fire to these chambers. Burn the contents, untouched. Let nothing and no one attempt any salvage until this whole wing has been razed to the ground! Am I clear?’
Shock stunned the men silent. Lest they bid to question their commander’s sanity, the senior officer requisitioned from Etarra spoke fast to quash stirring doubt. ‘He’s testing our nerve, you limping daisies! The Prince Exalted’s beyond that shut door. Do you honestly think the immortal Light born as flesh could be harmed by a paltry house fire?’
Still hooded, and masking the burden he carried under the folds of his cloak, Sulfin Evend doused the conjecture. ‘Hold my line! On my word, if you fail, we shall see the day evil triumphs.’ Forced to the grim crux, he tripped the latch and slipped into the royal apartment.
The closed air within was stuffy and dim, cloyed with the herbs the distraught valet was using to sweeten the closets. At the commander’s arrival, he abandoned his fussing, while the officious chamber servant shot to his feet, and the page-boy napped on in an overstuffed chair, snoring beside the lit candle.
Against the appearance of indolent normalcy, the unconscious man stretched on the bed lay ivory pale, and too still. Lysaer’s blond hair gleamed on the tidied pillow, shadowed beneath the rich hangings. Devoted hands had tucked away his marked limbs, then raised the satin-faced coverlet up to his chin to lend the appearance of natural repose. Past one surface glance, the fallacy crumbled. The imperceptible draw of each shallow breath was too sluggish to be mistaken for regular sleep.
Sulfin Evend shoved back his hood. Hard mouth pressed to a line of distaste, he flung off the cloak, which still reeked of clogged smoke from the seeress’s fusty attic. Then he shed his swathed bundle on a marquetry table and addressed the fidgety staff. ‘Roust up the boy. Then, get out, every one of you.’ Jet hair dishevelled, a steel gleam to pale eyes, he forestalled the least opening for argument. ‘My armed men will not allow you to leave. You’ll have to bunk down in the ante-room.’
The scared servant shook the logy page to his feet, hushed his grumbling, and steered for the doorway. The valet did not stir a finger to help. Gangling arms clasped, his grey hair fashionably styled above his immaculate livery, he stuck in dapper heels and refused.
Sulfin Evend met that obstinacy with frightening resolve, an uncompromised fist closed over his sword grip, and his unlaced, left sleeve flecked with blood-stains. ‘Stand clear!’
‘Someone should stay,’ the gaunt servant insisted. ‘Whatever foul work you intend to commit, my master will have a witness.’
‘That’s a damned foolish sentiment, and dangerous!’ The Alliance Lord Commander crossed the carpet, cat quick, prepared to draw steel out of hand. ‘You have no idea what vile rite’s to be done here. Nor have you the strong stomach to last the duration.’
‘I daresay, I don’t,’ said the man with stiff frailty. ‘Nonetheless, I will stand by my master.’
Shown threadbare courage in the face of such trembling fear, Sulfin Evend took pause with the blistering glance that measured his troops on a battle-line. Then he sighed, moved to pity. ‘Why under Ath’s sky should you ask this?’
The valet swallowed and shuffled his feet. His manicured hand gestured toward the bed. ‘For too long, I have watched something evil at work. You are the first who has dared to react. If your trust proves false, then I fear nothing else. His Divine Grace may be saved or lost. If I share in his fate, come what may, I will know that one steadfast friend remained at his shoulder.’
‘Have your way, then, but be warned: I’ll have no interference.’ Sulfin Evend released his weapon, his level, black eyebrows hooked into a frown as he moved past and snapped the curtains over the casements. ‘Fail me there, or breathe a word of loose talk, and I’ll have your raw liver for a league bountyman’s dog-meat. What you’ve asked to observe can’t be done clean, or dainty. If you lose your nerve, or if I fall short, this room’s going to burn, taking every-one with it. My captains won’t pause, or shirk the command. Leave now, and I won’t fault your bravery’
The valet backed a step, rammed against the stuffed chair, and sat as his spindly knees failed him. ‘This time, the command not to speak is a blessing,’ he said, in a quavering voice.
Sulfin Evend had no second to spare and no words to acknowledge such staunchness. Dawn approached, far too quickly. Fingers flying, he stripped off spurs and boots. His surcoat came next, then the corded twill jacket that had masked his mail shirt at the feast. His studded belt clashed onto the pile, followed by his baldric and several sheathed daggers. Stripped to gambeson and breeches, he crossed the chamber and peeled back the carpet. Somewhere downstairs, a kitchen dog barked. A door banged, and a shrill voice berated a scullery maid for returning late from a tryst. Sulfin Evend bit back a harried oath. The household servants were already stirring, no favour, in light of the trial lying ahead.
He built up the fire. Without the oak logs, he used only the birch, split into billets for kindling. As the flames crackled and caught, hot and sweet and fast-burning, he rifled the night-stand, set the filled wash-basin onto the floor, then cracked open the curtain and whacked the bronze latch off the casement. He used the snapped fitting to stub ice from the sill. The chips were dumped in the bowl, where they melted, settling a fine sediment of gritted soot and caught mortar. Hefting the iron poker, he crouched by the hearth and hooked out a smouldering bit of wood. Both coal and hot metal were doused with a hiss, then laid, steaming wet, on the floor-boards.