The Curse of the Mistwraith (31 page)

As prince and steward took their seats to thunderous cheers from the clan scouts the banquet began in earnest. Accustomed to court fare as Lysaer was, he could not help being impressed. Surrounded by all but barren rock, caught at impossibly short notice, the Camris barbarians provided hospitality as fine as any grand fete held in Amroth. But although in manner and bearing these people seemed flawlessly refined, their high-table conversation better reflected the temper of the culture underneath.

‘The arrogance of the townsmen swells beyond belief,’ the eldest chief, Lord Tashan confided over his soup. ‘We confiscated a wagon recently. Among the goods were paper documents dividing land into portions and allotting coin value to each.’ The spry old lord laughed hugely. He set aside his spoon and fingered his goblet without drinking, concern threaded through his amusement. ‘Next they’ll be trying to tax the air a man breathes, do you guess?’

‘Mortals have been known to presume far worse,’ Asandir interjected. A sharp glance warned Lysaer to silence as he added, ‘What was done with those papers?’

‘We burned them,’ Lord Tashan said in disgust. Now he did take a swallow, a deep one. ‘Without ceremony, as tinder to kindle a watchfire. It’s an affront against Ath’s creation to number a mountain among one’s possessions. Thrice damned to Sithaer, and Dharkaron’s curse on the mayor who started the infamy. If he dares to cross Orlan, we’ll speed the Wheel’s turning for him, and send the blooded arrow to his heirs.’

Asandir locked eyes with the older noble. ‘The matter is beyond your jurisdiction, and the mayor’s life subject to the king’s justice.’

The chieftain bowed to the rebuke, but his outrage smouldered hot as the candle-caught glint of his rubies as he turned in appeal to Lysaer. ‘I ask pardon, my prince. Avenor has been five centuries in ruins, and as many years have passed since a royal heir has graced our land. Survival has forced a harsh code of law, and from habit, I forgot my place. Judgement remains the king’s right. But I’m confident you’ll resolve the matter firmly on the day your high council reconvenes.’

Lysaer hid unsettled thoughts by toying with the meat on his plate. Land-owning, an inalienable tradition on Dascen Elur, appeared to be bloodletting violation in Tysan. The prince held the concept daunting and uncivilized that he might one day be expected to punish a man for laying claim to the farmland he tilled. If Tysan’s charter of governance denied the security of home and hearth-rights, small wonder the townsmen had let sedition from a spiteful sorcerer incite them to bloody rebellion. Anxious to change the subject, if not the injustice of such laws, Lysaer admired the exceptional beauty of the tapestries.

Lord Tashan chuckled with relish. ‘They were the unwilling donation of the first Mayor of Erdane, damn his memory.’

‘Stolen?’ Lysaer prompted.

The old chief’s smile faded. ‘Not precisely, my liege. The weaving was originally done by the masters at Cildorn, before the old races vanished from the world. The clan chiefs of Taerlin paid fair price for the art, though the records that prove this burned when their holdings were stripped in the uprising. The more valuable spoils were sent north, catalogued as tribute. As a protest, my kinsmen in Caithwood saw fit to lighten the mayor’s wagons. The bloodstains washed out, well enough. But the forest caves turned dismal with mildew since the mists, so the Paravian tapestries were brought here for preservation.’

Lysaer measured the cavernous grotto surrounding him with new eyes: ruffians who lived by the sword would have small use for grand celebrations. The chamber where these barbarians feasted had not originated as a guest hall; more likely it had been fashioned as a storehouse, a vault carved into mountain rock to safeguard generations of plunder.

Maenalle’s eldest son, and Maien’s father, went on to describe the particulars of that historical first raid. Tashan’s comment concerning bloodstains had been no understatement. Trapped in public scrutiny, Lysaer hid disgust like a diplomat. Nobly born or not, these folk endorsed outright robbery. Filled by dismay, the prince who must one day rule them understood that the fine cloth, the jewels, even the plates and cutlery that graced the table were no less than the spoils of generations of ambush and murder. Upright trade did not exist among these clansmen; only knowledge of arms and tracking and a predatory penchant for raiding. Alarmed to find his hands shaking, Lysaer set down his fork. His adroit attempt to change the subject was foiled by his half-brother, whose forthright laughter encouraged further tales of thievery from their hosts.

Unpleasantly reminded of the past, Lysaer lost interest in the food. Arithon had sailed with Karthish pirates; naturally it followed that he had no sensibilities to offend. That he showed no rancour for the rough handling inflicted upon his person in the pass seemed a perverse and unlikely reaction for a man whose intense preference for privacy seemed the cornerstone for an unforgiving character.

The musician who had played Felirin’s lyranthe by the fireside possessed the skills of a consummate actor; for such depths of sensitivity could surely not sanction tonight’s callous enjoyment of violence. Left heartsick and isolated by the temper of Tysan’s clansmen, Lysaer strove without success to rally his equanimity; he had seen the hardworking merchants in Amroth suffer the butt of s’Ffalenn effrontery too many times for complaisance. The blight on s’Ilessid justice remained, and the bitter taste of outrage transferred to any brigand who presumed to rob for gain.

Lysaer endured the meal; guest courtesy forbade him to do otherwise. Distant, even majestically polite, he listened to the rounds of wild stories until the boards were drawn for the revels. Then without compunction he sought counsel from Asandir.

‘How can I rule these clansmen?’ he demanded. ‘The townsfolk are no less Tysan’s subjects than they. In all fairness, is it right to set brigands and thieves as overlords above the very same craftsmen they have victimized?’

Asandir broke off contemplation of something in the chamber’s far corner and weighed the prince’s distress with silver, imperious eyes. ‘Have tolerance, your Grace, at least until you’ve sat at a mayor’s table and listened to the boasts of his headhunters. For where a townsman has lost riches, the clans have paid with the blood of kinsmen and heirs. These whom the townborn name barbarians have seen their children slaughtered like game deer, their wives, sisters, and daughters mercilessly raped and murdered. They inhabit the wastes and the wilds, because everywhere else they are persecuted.’

Hands clenched hard in his lap, Lysaer drew breath to temporize. The sorcerer cut him off. ‘Do not presume that I justify the lifestyles of clansman or townborn. I only point out the dissent that has plagued this land through the centuries since Davien’s rebellion. When sunlight is restored, we must all strive for peace. You’ll have time to study the problems before then, and no end of encouragement and counsel at the time you finally assume your crown.’

Further discussion was curtailed by the evening’s entertainment, a superlative demonstration of knife-throwing, followed by sword dancers who performed an intricate display to no other accompaniment than the rhythmic chime of crossed steel. Lysaer applauded their performance in admiration, for although he had watched similar gymnastics in Amroth, the dancers had never been female. The steps exhibited for his pleasure in Camris had been dangerously more demanding, and performed at frightening speed.

Warmed by the prince’s enjoyment, Maenalle apologized for lack of the gentler arts. ‘We don’t risk our bards in the mountains. Masters of the lyranthe remain in the foothills with our families, that our children learn grace before hardship.’

Lysaer’s surprise must have showed.

‘I forget you weren’t raised among us,’ Maenalle apologized. We’re not entirely the barbarians the townsmen name us. Our women serve with the scouts until marriage, and after that only by choice. The experience at arms is necessity, for in the event of attack, some of the mothers must defend while the households are taken to safety.’

Left selfconscious by his steward’s perception, Lysaer did his best to return her direct courtesy. ‘Your hall need not go tuneless this night. My half-brother is accomplished on the lyranthe.’

‘But I have no instrument,’ Arithon protested, as if all the while his ear had been tuned to the exchange. Having somehow evaded the ceremony due the half-brother of a prince, he wore his plain tunic and much-worn scabbard still. Though conspicuous in his lack of finery his preferences had been humoured without offence until Maenalle saw fit to correct matters.

‘You shall have your pick of instruments,’ she announced, and waved over one of her captains. ‘Escort the prince’s half-brother to the vaults and let him choose a lyranthe that suits him.’

Servants rolled one of the smaller tapestries aside and a key was brought that fitted the grilled doorway behind. Arithon and the leather-clad captain took candles and disappeared within, while Lysaer, who had not missed proof that his surmise concerning treasure-stores was accurate, involved himself with praising the knife-dancers.

An interval later, Arithon returned. Resting in the curve of his arm was a lyranthe so battered and plain it almost looked fit to be discarded. The tuning pegs were chipped and not one string remained intact.

‘He would have none of the jewelled ones,’ the officer who escorted him explained hastily.

Maenalle’s gaze turned stormy. ‘Do you mock us?’ At her tone, the knife-dancers melted away; nearby clansmen broke off conversations and went very suddenly still.

Arithon looked up from the instrument on his arm. ‘I chose the best,’ he said, bemused beyond thought for deceit. ‘Listen, lady.’ He whistled very softly over the sound board just ahead of the bridge. The wood in his hands caught the tone and responded in a resonance of absolute, dusky purity.

The sound caused Asandir, involved in discourse with Lord Tashan, to turn and stare. ‘Ath in his mercy,’ the sorcerer exclaimed. ‘Allow me to examine that lyranthe.’

Clansmen stepped aside as the sorcerer approached and lifted the worn old instrument from Arithon’s hands. Asandir ran his fingers down the wood, scraped grime off one tarnished fret, then turned the neck in his hands to view the back. There, begrimed under layers of yellowed lacquer lay a single Paravian rune, inlaid in abalone that somehow through the years had not chipped.

‘Well, here we are,’ the sorcerer murmured. He scraped at the inlay with a fingernail and bared a rainbow glimmer of fine pearl. ‘There was truth to the tale that a second lyranthe crafted by Elshian remained behind on the continent. ‘ He returned the instrument to Arithon with reverence. ‘One is held in trust by Athera’s Masterbard, Halliron. The other now belongs to you, by courtesy of Camris generosity. Guard her well. The sunchild Elshian was the most gifted bard known to history and an instrument made by her hands sings more beautifully than all others.’

Maenalle laughed in flushed triumph at Arithon’s evident dismay. ‘Return us the gift of your playing,’ she said, and dispatched Maien to the tents to fetch wire.

But Asandir raised a hand in restraint. ‘Wait, lady. Brass strings will break on that instrument.’ He considered a moment, then added, ‘If you provide a few ounces of silver, I can refit her as the maker intended.’

Without hesitation, Maenalle removed her left bracelet.

‘Any bent spoon would do as well,’ Asandir said gently.

Maenalle’s eyes flashed. ‘Mine the honour, Kingmaker.’

The sorcerer inclined his head, accepted the heavy, interlaced band and cupped it between his palms. The clansmen crowded closer to watch as, unmindful of his audience, Asandir bowed his head. No other move did he make, but a power sang upon the air. The bracelet in his hands shimmered, then flashed incandescently white. The watchers nearest to Arithon felt a sear of heat on their faces. Yet the sorcerer’s flesh did not burn. His hands moved, and the light grew blinding, and the ones who dared the dazzle saw the metal in his grip glow red. As if he handled nothing in the least beyond the ordinary, the sorcerer twisted the ore between his fingers and drew out a glowing filament.

The task took scarcely a minute; then light and magic faded and the sorcerer opened unmarked fists. He held half an arc of silver knotwork and a shiningly perfect length of wire. As if the ruined symmetry of Maenalle’s bracelet prompted him to further inspiration, he gave a mischievous glance to the lady steward, then murmured, ‘Indeed, it is not meet that so great a gift should keep such mean appearance.’ And spell-light rinsed his hands once again as he reached out and cupped the fragment of interlace to the unadorned fretboard of the lyranthe.

A snap like a shock whipped the air. When the sorcerer released the old wood, the silver knotwork remained, its pattern transmuted into the ebony as though stamped there from the day of creation. Arithon ran his fingertip over the result. He felt not a single raised edge; the inlay had fused with the surface beyond any hint of a flaw.

When the lyranthe was re-strung with the sorcerer’s spell-tempered wire, the virtue of Elshian’s craftwork became apparent from the instant Arithon struck the first note for tuning. The scratched wood in his hands came alive with a tone that touched the farthest recesses of even that cavernous stone hall. Harmonics seemed to shiver and melt upon the air, and every conversation faltered to a hush. Speakers forgot their next words and listeners heard nothing beyond the dance of Arithon’s fingers and the languid, gliding sweetness of the strings as he turned each peg to true the pitch. When his work was done and the first full chord rang out under his hands, he stopped breathing, bowed his head, then damped the magnificent sound to silence.

‘Lady Maenalle,’ he said, in his voice a jar like heartbreak. ‘This lyranthe is too fine for me. Let me play this one night and return her for your masterbards in the lowlands.’

But the Steward of Tysan dismissed his conscience with an imperious lift of her chin. ‘I don’t begrudge you my bracelet,’ she called across the quiet. ‘And our bards, every one of them, passed over that instrument for another of prettier appearance. Since they chose by their eyes and not their ears, I call their claim forfeit.’