‘I’m called Halliron and I, too, have claimed guest welcome of the clans of the north.’
Colour drained from Arithon’s features. The irony hit him like pain: before him stood the Masterbard, the single individual in Athera’s five realms who could grant his heart’s first desire; had an unwanted throne not spoiled opportunity.
A candle burned on a staked brass stand not a foot from Arithon’s elbow. He reached out and pinched the wick, a half a second too late; light had already betrayed his naked longing to every stranger present.
He seized his only diversion and unfurled the wadding of his cloak. ‘Take her,’ he said as veiling cloth fell away from the blue-tinged corpse of the child he had carried in his arms since Etarra. Perhaps five years old, she was stunted and drawn by starvation. The bony arm curled and stiff across her breast showed the ravages of a wound gone septic, and the hand half-hidden by its stained shreds of bandage reeked overpoweringly of corrupted flesh.
Those clan councilmen not already standing shot to their feet in distress.
‘She died in the night,’ Arithon said. ‘She was one of yours, conscripted to serve Etarra’s horse-knackers. Others enslaved with her were freed to make their way home as they could. This one was too sick to walk.’
Someone spoke an oath in the old tongue. Someone else hurried forward to relieve him of the dead child’s weight. This last was a woman clad in the leathers of a scout, and in more ways than her hardness reminiscent of Maenalle of Tysan. ‘It’s Tanlie’s girl, can’t be doubt. No other had that mole on her earlobe.’
Caught aback by the sudden change in his balance, and the loosening of an arm bound by cramps, Arithon fought a battering wave of sorrow. ‘Please, then, offer Tanlie my sympathy. Her girl died bravely, none better.’ He slipped the sodden velvets of his tabard and offered Rathain’s leopard blazon for her shroud.
The woman accepted with tears in her eyes. Before the shock could pass, Arithon rounded on the others who advanced to surround him. ‘I bring you no legacy but strife!’
His cry halted nothing. Quite the contrary: their tall, scar-faced chieftain said firmly, ‘Tanlie’s girl is no grief we’ve not seen, and many times, in the generations since Ithamon was torn to ruins.’
‘No. Not this grief.’ Arithon broke through hoarseness to achieve a tone that finally, mercifully, checked them cold. ‘I’ve been bound and spell-cursed by Desh-thiere to fight my half-brother, Lysaer s’Ilessid. There is no sanity in the hatred that drives us both, only unbridled lust to kill. Lysaer has raised Etarra against me, and their garrison will march within days. Would you spend your lives for a stranger not even born in this world?’
Concern rather than force shaded the clan chieftain’s rebuke. ‘Townsmen have held our lives cheaply since centuries before your birth, and for less cause than butchering horseflesh. Tanlie’s girl lived for naught if she failed to teach you that.’ His glance toward the snuffed candle betrayed his suspicion that his liege’s inveigling tactics hid infirmity. ‘By right of Rathain’s charter, the northlands clans have cause to stand in your defence.’
‘Will you listen?’ Arithon lost grip on his temper. ‘Oppose Lysaer, and you’ll call down certain ruin on your loved ones. Rights are not at issue. Causes are fallacy. We are speaking of geas-driven obsession, a madness that holds to no limits. Against my half-brother, I have no shred of conscience. For that most basic fact, I refuse the responsibility. Your clans would become no defence for me, but just another weapon to be squandered.’
A stir rippled through the gathered clan lords, while a sough of breeze spattered raindrops across the tent roof. The storm outside might be ending: the one brewing inside threatened to break into open contention. The fugitive arrived among the clans was unquestionably of s’Ffalenn blood but he spoke with the forevision of a sorcerer, reminding them uncomfortably that his were the powers of the West Gate Prophecy, that had banished Desh-thiere from the sky. He might wear Torbrand’s image; yet he was a stranger, unknown and unnamed, promising disaster and pleading release from his birthright. Hotly awaited though his arrival had been, lives hung in the balance. The council would be wise to listen.
Blunt-faced, his hair greyed as worn steel by years of ambush and skirmish, Caolle urged his chieftain to stay wary. The rest marked his words in respect, for the toughened veteran presented opinions few others cared to voice.
Steiven was moved, but not to caution. He left his place by the council table and took stance beside Halliron. His rangy frame dwarfed the Masterbard, who was not short, and his hazel eyes shone bitter as he admitted, ‘I have Sight. For years I have lived with foreknowledge of the moment and manner of my death. There is no option, your Grace of Rathain, elders. Etarra will march upon the northlands whether or not a Teir’s’Ffalenn is given sanctuary among us.’ He half-turned to face down Arithon, his large hands hooked in the lacing that clasped his belt with its row of black-hafted throwing knives. ‘My liege, our destiny is to defend you. The city garrison will campaign against us, and we must stand to fight. Your choice is simple. Shall we die for an empty title, or a living, breathing sovereign?’
Arithon measured the taller man. His stillness bespoke distaste, for the claim upon his conscience was shameless; also double-binding as Sithaer’s traps for the damned since the plea gave proof of the clan chief’s supreme dedication. Only the tap of the rain across canvas, and the whispered hiss of hot wax as draft fanned the candleflames lent sound to the tensioned atmosphere.
Arithon’s response, when it came, was pitched for the chieftain’s ears alone. ‘My lord. Ath and Daelion Fatemaster have conspired. They should have sent me a regent I could hate, a man drunk on power and tied to petty interests. Where the unlucky accident of my birth would never bind me, your courage leaves me humbled and tied. As the sovereign cause of your death, what is left? It’s a shabby, spiritless gesture, to beg in advance your forgiveness.’
‘That you have,’ said the clan chieftain of Deshir, neither speechless, nor subdued. ‘But in exchange I ask your friendship, Arithon of Rathain.’
The prince managed to curb his recoil at the unexpected knowledge of his name. ‘Did your dreams spoil all of my secrets?’ And then strain and sleeplessness undid him. He had to cover his face with both hands to mask unbidden emotion. ‘What are you called?’ he said through his fingers.
‘Steiven s’Valerient, Earl of Deshir.’
A shudder jarred the prince. The oddly-singed silk of his shirt sleeve slithered back to reveal a seared weal that snaked the length of his right forearm, to vanish under cloth at the elbow. Arithon ignored the murmurs that broke out among the clan lords, as through blistered, shaking hands he swore guest-oath.
‘To this house, its lord, and his sworn companions, I pledge friendship. Ath’s blessing upon family and kin, strength to the heir, and honour to the name of s’Valerient. Beneath this roof and before Ath, count me brother, my service as true as blood-kin. Dharkaron witness.’
