to remove Desh-thiere to a place of better security; while across the sky at their shoulder, sunset burns angry scarlet on a snarl of storm-clouds that Kharadmon has unleashed, to close over lands to the north…
While on the plain of Araithe, pounding at a gallop away from the city of Etarra, a fugitive mounted on a stolen draught-horse rides hunched against the falling slash of rain…
XV. STRAKEWOOD
The last of the equinox storms that Kharadmon released to pass southward encountered the fierce dark of Arithon’s shadows some leagues to the north of Etarra. The result warped nature. For a long time, snow fell like a madman’s tangle of lacework and patterned lands barely clothed by green spring.
Covered by darkness, given a clear road by the biting, unnatural cold, Arithon spread spells of illusion and concealment over the hillsides he travelled, until his reserves burned dry within him. His protections lifted finally because fury and strength were spent to lassitude.
The snowfall thawed to sleet, and then to rain that slashed in blinding torrents; soaked soil heaved porous by frost churned up to a froth of mud and puddles. The deep footing made his horse labour. All gaits past a walk became a rolling, sliding misery that begged for torn tendons and lameness. Out of pity for the dun mare, Arithon turned her loose to wander the sedge-grown downs before she stone-bruised or crippled herself.
Her markings made her far too conspicuous to keep anyway; for all the good sense in his decision, her relinquishment stung, which surprised him. Since Ithamon and Etarra, he had not expected to have any place left in him for sentiment.
The carthorse he stole to replace his spent mare fared worse. Ill-shod and less sure-footed, it stumbled and careened, until Arithon at last dropped the reins and let it go forward as it could. He had abandoned his saddle, the dun’s girth being too short to accommodate a draught breed. Rain soaked both mount and rider to the skin, the only warm patch shared between them where human seat and thigh made contact with steaming wet horse.
Contrary to belief in Etarra, Arithon had not chosen the north road by design, but only because he had been driven, and because south, there lay only Ithamon.
Three days and two nights of blind flight had left him so wrung by exhaustion that when the scouts sent by Steiven to intercept him closed in a ring to bar his way, he had neither strength nor inclination to wheel his head- hanging mount and try even token resistance.
They brought him under escort to a camp in a copse between the hills channelling a river that wound its course north toward the sea. Dawn had broken and the storm had slackened to drizzle. A silvery patter of droplets off leaves and budding twigs interlaced with bright notes of birdsong. Except for small sounds, the chink of bits and soft snorts from an inbound scout’s mount, sign of human habitation remained scant. No smoke trailed from any firepits, and no dogs whined or barked.
Confirmed in his suspicion of an encampment in enemy territory, Arithon dismounted. The wet ends of his cloak dragged streaks through the muddied lather caked to the gelding’s heaving sides. Barbarian hands steadied him as he swayed on his feet. The draught-horse was led away, while a scout pointed toward a hide tent pitched a short distance off through the trees.
‘Lord Steiven awaits you within, your Grace,’ she said.
Arithon followed her direction, too weary to disclaim the royal title. To move at all required daunting concentration. His hips felt on fire, and extended hours astride had left him a jelly-legged mess of hurting muscles. He stumbled into the lodge tent, bringing the scents of skinned grass and fusty wet wool into an atmosphere of warmth, tinted in autumn colours by fine-patterned carpets and candlelight. As the tent flap slapped shut on his heels, he stood blinking, vaguely aware that a cluster of people regarded him expectantly. A rustle of motion shifted their ranks.
Belatedly he understood that they had not simply sat down at the low table scattered across with quill nibs, tin flagons and battered rolls of parchment. Instead, all four were kneeling behind the clutter: one young man, one middle-aged female and two elders. The fifth, a dramatically imposing man who wore a russet leather brigandine said in deep-voiced command, ‘Honour and welcome to s’Ffalenn, your Grace.’
Arithon flinched. A right-handed gesture of denial spattered droplets from pleated cuffs and laces sadly ingrained with dirt. His left arm held something bulky cradled amid the spoiled and wadded wool of his cloak, while, touched to hard highlights in the candle-glow, the circlet of Rathain gleamed forgotten through a rain-plastered swathe of black hair. He spoke finally, in a rasp that sounded dredged from his bootsoles. ‘I ask guest-welcome as a supplicant and a stranger. None here owes me any fealty.’
His eyes were adjusting to the dimness, but the dazzle of candles defeated what clarity of sight he regained. The speaker arose, smiling in welcome, and in a nerve-stressed flash of intuition, Arithon beheld his aura as a mage would. This man with his scarred face and arresting dignity had a seer’s gift. Forevision had revealed this moment to him, and his manner held no fear for compromise as he said, ‘You are Teir’s’Ffalenn, and sanctioned for succession by the hand of Asandir. I am sworn to serve your line, as my forefathers before me were appointed regents of the realm until return of Rathain’s true high king.’
‘
A stir swept the others at his use of the old tongue, but the phrase for ‘shadow behind the throne’ merely caused the large warrior’s smile to broaden. ‘I’ve preserved Rathain’s heritage and fighting strength only in the absence of a royal heir. Claim your inheritance, my prince. My regency is ended.’
Arithon clamped his teeth against anger. ‘Tell your clansmen to stand up.’ He was too tired for this. The light hurt his eyes and his head spun, and the burden wrapped up in his cloak could not be put off for much longer. ‘I’m a bastard son,’ he added desperately. ‘I lay claim to no man’s loyalty.’
‘Your Grace, that does not matter.’ The aristocratic elder at the clan chieftain’s shoulder was silver-haired and attired as if for court in a black tunic elegantly slashed and lined with gleaming saffron silk. Sure in stride and bearing, he left his place and crossed the piled carpets to bow in quiet style before the prince. As he rose, wing-tip eyebrows turned up. A mouth seamed deep by humour revealed a flash of spaced front teeth. ‘Birth cannot negate your birthright. Illegitimacy has never before deterred the line of s’Ffalenn succession. Back to Torbrand’s time, direct descent has always ranked above the claims of cousins or siblings by marriage. I can name a dozen ballads as quick example.’
Arithon stared at the straight-backed, spare-voiced old man, and weariness spread across his steep features. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.
The gentleman ignored his question and instead raised a voice too flawless to be mistaken for anything less than a singer’s. ‘You are of s’Ffalenn blood, and the Fellowship of Seven themselves have marked you heir.’
‘Who are you?’ Arithon repeated, strain setting edges to a tone already rough.
