Lysaer forced his fingers to release their cramped grip on the blankets. ‘How long have I been here?’
The raven cocked its head; Traithe knotted his last stitch like a farm wife and nipped off the thread with his teeth. ‘Since yesterday evening.’ At Lysaer’s raised brows, he added blandly, ‘You were very tired.’
Discomfited by more than his saddle sores, Lysaer surveyed the form of his half-brother, sprawled on the adjacent pallet in unprecedented and oblivious sleep. Struck that Arithon’s pose seemed less than restful – more a jumble of limbs folded like knucklebones in a quilt – Lysaer turned away. This once determined to keep the edge and not feel pressured to keep pace with his half-brother’s fast perceptions and trained awareness of mages, he slipped clear of the covers and hooked his breeches and shirt from a nearby chair. He dressed with princely unselfconsciousness, inured to the lack of privacy imposed by the lifelong attentions of servants.
The sorcerer in black was too tactful to seem curious in any case. He moved like a swordsman bothered by old injuries as he pushed aside his mending, shed his raven in an indignant flurry of wings onto the settle and rose to build up the fire. As disturbed embers flared to sudden flame, Lysaer glimpsed palms and wrists ridged with scars that would have left a lesser man crippled.
Unable to picture the scope of a calamity that could harm a Fellowship sorcerer, the prince averted his glance and set about lacing his sleeve cuffs. His awkwardness as always caused the ties to knot. Embarrassed that even so simple an act as dressing could still make him ache for the comforts lost with exile, he jerked at the snarl. Rather than succumb to expletives, he wondered if any place existed in this Ath-forsaken land where there was gaiety, laughter, and dancing in streets not guarded by sentries. He missed the gentle company of women, and his betrothed left beyond Worldsend most of all. Pride forbade the weakness of recriminations. Still, mastering self-pity took all the effort of a difficult sword form, or the thorniest problem of state ever assigned to his charge as royal heir.
When the contrary laces were set straight, the prince had recovered his poise. He looked up to find Traithe finished tending the fire. Still as shadow, limned in that indefinable mystery that clung to spirits of power, the sorcerer regarded him intently. His features were less chiselled than marred by hard usage to wrinkles like cracks in fine crystal. Laugh-lines remained, intertwined through others cut by sorrow. As if moved by caprice, Traithe said, ‘We’re not all relentless taskmasters like Asandir, you know.’ He flipped the poker back on its hook with a playful flourish and smiled.
Startled to reckless impulse, Lysaer said, ‘Prove that.’
‘I should have expected you’d ask.’ Traithe turned back, shamefaced as a dog called down for misconduct. ‘The sorcerer to answer should be Kharadmon. But he left this morning, feckless ghost that he is. As fool, I’d make a sorry replacement.’ Betrayed by a weariness that had not at first been apparent, Traithe settled back into his chair. A snap of his fingers invited the raven back to its accustomed perch on his shoulder where, out of habit, he raised a crooked knuckle and stroked its breast. ‘We could mend bridles,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘Enough worn ones are strewn about, though Ath only knows where Sethvir collects them. Unless Asandir or I happen by, the stables here shelter only mice.’
Amazed at how smoothly he had been set at ease, Lysaer gave back the smile he kept practised for difficult ambassadors. ‘I’m a poor hand with a needle.’
‘Any man would be, who’d eaten nearly nothing for a day and a half.’ Traithe pushed back to his feet. He had the build and the balance of a dancer, and the shuffling hesitation in his stride made harsh contrast as he crossed to the doorway. ‘Shall we see what Sethvir has bothered to stock in his pantry?’ He pushed the panel open, and the raven launched off and flew ahead into the torchlit stairwell.
Lysaer set aside the unbuttered sweetroll he had long since lost interest in eating. Across the narrow, cushioned cranny that Sethvir kept for a supper nook, Traithe elbowed his own crumb-littered plate aside.
‘You feel bothered that Arithon should still be asleep,’ he surmised.
Unsettled enough without having the thoughts in his head voiced outright, Lysaer flinched. His bread knife clashed against the china and startled the raven on the sorcerer’s shoulder to a flurried flap of wings. While Traithe reached up to soothe it, Lysaer looked down and away, anywhere but toward the whitened scars that criss-crossed the sorcerer’s knuckles. The nook might be cozy and the cutlery rich enough for a king’s boards, but the cruciform openings in the walls had originally been cut as arrowslits. The drafts through the openings were icy, the view beyond drab grey. Civilized, sunlit comforts heretofore taken for granted seemed unreachable as marvels in a child’s tale in this world of unending mists and bleak minds schooled to mysteries.
‘We’ve been here since nightfall yesterday.’ Princely manners showed a hint of acid as Lysaer challenged, ‘You don’t find it strange that a man should still be abed after twenty-four hours of rest?’ Particularly one like the Master who tended to recoil out of nerves from his blankets at every two point shift in the wind.
Traithe showed no break in affability as he hissed at the raven which edged down his sleeve toward the table, its sidewards tipped eye greedily fixed on the butter. Careful to turn his disfigurements from the prince’s angle of view, he shoved the candle stand between the bird and temptation. Through haloes of disturbed flamelight, he regarded the s’Ilessid half-brother. ‘Had Arithon been unwell, your concern would be shared by the Fellowship.’
The black-clad sorcerer volunteered nothing else; but his easy manner invited questions.
Lysaer gave rein to curiosity. ‘Would you mind telling me what happened?’
Traithe shrugged. ‘An outbreak of poisonous serpents in the kingdom of Shand took a forceful show of sorcery to eradicate.’
The last was understatement, Lysaer determined, since the mage’s expression was suddenly inscrutable as his raven’s. Piqued to be left out when momentous matters were afoot, he said, ‘I might have liked to help.’
‘Your half-brother was used,’ Traithe stated baldly. ‘His power was channelled from him like wine from a vessel of sacrifice. When he recovers enough to reawaken, he’ll retain no memory of the event.’ Mindful of this prince’s staunch loyalty, the sorcerer added, ‘Arithon volunteered, at the outset.’
The raven chose that moment to try a furtive sidle toward the butter. Traithe batted it aside without ceremony. Through its outraged croak and the breeze fanned up by its wing beats, he said, ‘Has no one ever thought to school you to understand your birth-given gift of light?’
Touched on a life-long source of bitterness, Lysaer spoke fast to keep from hitting something. ‘No one considered it necessary.’
The raven retreated to the top of the door jamb and alit on a gargoyle crownpiece.
‘Ah.’ Traithe set his chin on his fist. ‘For a prince in direct line for a crown, such judgement was probably sound. But you’ve been brought here to battle a Mistwraith. That alters the outlook somewhat.’
