astonishment, Lysaer stood as if paralysed.
The raid leader went from ruddy to waxen pale. First to react, he stepped back, undermined by horrified, weak-kneed humility. ‘Merciful Ath, how was I to know?’ He set Arithon’s sword point-down in the snow at Lysaer’s feet and dropped to his knees. ‘My liege,’ he said in strangled apology. ‘I place myself and my companions at your mercy.’
‘At last you recall the manners of your forefathers, Grithen, son of Tane.’ Asandir’s cool regard passed over the barbarian to encompass the shocked ragged circle of aggressors as bows and javelins were lowered, then let fall with a clatter onto the trail; movement followed. All the scouts in the company prostrated themselves before their prince until only the sorcerer, Dakar and a stunned-speechless Lysaer remained standing.
For half a dozen heartbeats nothing stirred on the exposed spine of the ridge but swirls of gale-whipped snow. The revealed heir to Tysan’s high kingship kept his feet and his bearing only through unbending royal pride.
Then, encouraged by a smile from Asandir, the reflex of command reasserted; the prince raised a voice of stinging authority. ‘Restore my half-brother to firm ground and set him free.’
A pair of scouts scrambled to their feet, sped by the mention that the captive they had manhandled was royal also. Lysaer showed their consternation little mercy, but swept up Arithon’s sword. ‘You,’ he said coldly. He touched the naked blade against the nape of Grithen’s neck. ‘Mayors might rule in Erdane, but honour shall not be forgotten. Remain on your knees until my half-brother is returned safely to my side. Then, since anger might bias my fair opinion, I leave your fate in the hands of Asandir.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ the sorcerer interjected. ‘The Fellowship of Seven pass no judgement upon men, but Maenalle, Steward of Tysan, will properly perform this office. She is qualified, having dispensed the king’s justice in the absence of her liege most ably through the last two decades.’
Chilled through his leggings by melted ice, and shamed by the steel which revoked his last vestige of dignity, Grithen submitted without a whimper: if the s’Ilessid prince was displeased by the rashness of his scouts, Maenalle was going to be mortified. Her verdict was certain to be ruinous, and no comfort could be gained from the fact that Lord Tashan, clan elder and Earl of Taerlin, had opposed the attack from the start. No doubt the old fox had recognized a true sorcerer, Grithen thought in despair; word of Asandir’s party had perhaps crossed the passes already.
Stilled with dread, acutely suffering from cramped muscles, Grithen silently cursed his sour luck. Given Maenalle’s hard nature, he would not be the least bit surprised if he became disbarred from his inheritance as a result of this one ill-favoured raid.
Despite Asandir’s insistence that Grithen not send ahead with the news of Prince Lysaer’s arrival, his party with its escort of clan scouts was greeted at the head of the valley by no less than Maenalle herself, companioned by a ceremonial guard of outriders.
With the storm past and the cloud cover thinned, the mists of Desh-thiere prevailed still; the vale beyond the passes lay enshrouded in featureless gloom. Warned by the clear call of a horn, then by the dimmed flash of gold trappings, Grithen groaned in pained apprehension. Lord Tashan had indeed roused the camp, for no less than a Fellowship sorcerer could get Maenalle, Steward of Tysan, out of hunting leathers and into anything resembling formal dress.
A companion jeered in commiseration. ‘Who would have guessed the old earl could still skip on his shanks like a lizard?’
The young lord responsible for the disaster in the pass was not the only one taken aback. At the head of the column beside Asandir, the freshly pronounced heir to the throne of Tysan hid confusion behind princely decorum as he confronted the glittering guard from the outpost.
‘The woman who wears the circlet and the tabard with your colours is Maenalle,’ Asandir said quickly. ‘She is Steward of the Realm, last heir to a very ancient title. She and her forbears have safeguarded Tysan’s heritage in the absence of the king through the years since the rebellion. Let me speak to her first. Then you shall greet her with due respect, for all that she rules she has held in your name.’
The travel-worn arrivals drew rein before the ranks of clan outriders. This company wore no furs, but livery of royal blue velvet and swordbelts beaded with gold. The bridles of their matched bay coursers were gilt also and polished to smart perfection. The woman at the fore was boyishly slim, mounted side-saddle and fidgeting with impatience. Her habit was sable, her fur-trimmed shoulders and slender waist engulfed by a tabard bearing the gold star blazon of Tysan. In her hand she carried a sprig of briar, and her greying, short-cropped hair was tucked back under a silver fillet. She rode to meet Asandir, drew rein as he dismounted, then laughed a merry welcome as he raised his hands and swung her down.
A servant took her horse and the sorcerer’s as she raised tawny eyes and offered greeting. ‘Welcome to Camris, Asandir of the Fellowship.’ Her voice was clear as a sprite’s and younger than her face, which wore the years well on prominent cheekbones. ‘You do us high honour, but thank Ath, not often enough for me to grow accustomed to wearing skirts!’
From her hands, Asandir accepted the thorn-branch that symbolized the centuries of bitter exile. A smile touched his eyes. Smoothly as a drawn breath he engaged his arts. Green suffused the stem between his fingers. A burst of new leaves unfurled from the barren sprig, followed by a bud, then the wine-deep flush of a flawless summer rose.
While the company looked on in awed silence, the sorcerer stripped the thorns and tucked the bloom into the steward’s fading hair. ‘Lady Maenalle,’ he said gravely. ‘After this I dare say you’ll need skirts for better occasions.’ He turned her gently, raised her hand toward the rider on the chestnut who sat his saddle like a man born to rule. ‘I give you Prince Lysaer s’Ilessid, scion of Halduin the First, and by blood-descent, your liege lord.’
Lysaer looked down at the steward his kingship would supplant, a woman who radiated command in her own right through every unconscious movement; unsure of his new-found status, he anticipated a reaction of enmity, resentment, even shock. But Maenalle’s hawk-bright eyes only looked stunned for a second before they filled with tears. Then she cried aloud for sheer joy, curtseyed without thought for slushy ground and gave up her hand for his kiss.
‘My royal lord,’ she murmured, looking suddenly fragile beneath the mantling weight of state finery.
Feeling dirty, reminded the instant he smelled her perfume that he reeked of woodsmoke and sweat, the prince set his lips against a palm welted with callouses like a swordsman’s. He mastered surprise at the steward’s mannish incongruities, overcame embarrassment, and belatedly applied himself to courtesy.
‘Your arrival is the light of our hope made real.’ Maenalle smiled brightly, turned, and shouted back to her
