Fugitive Prince 
~ Voyager] 
Janny Wurts 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 
The Wars of Light and Shadows VOL UME 4 FIRST BOOK OF 
THE ALLIANCE OF LIGHT 
HarperCollinsPublishers 
 VoyagerAn imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers77-85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London W6 8lB 
The Voyager World Wide Web site address ishttp://www. harpercollins.co.uk/voyager 
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 1997135798642 
Copyright c Janny Wurts 1997 
The Author asserts the moral right tobe identified as the author of this work 
A catalogue record for this book is available from the BśxtishLibrary 
Trade Paperback ISBN 0 00224077 7 
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press,Netley, South Australia 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the priorpermission of the publishers. 
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out orotherwise circulated without the publishersi prior consentin any form of binding or cover other than that which itis published and without a similar condition including thiscondition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
 This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work o~ theauthoris imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental~.' ~:' For Beth Gray,who opened the first doorthat has led to so manyothers. 

Scale in Leagues 
t
 Cities Second Age rainsCity that did not fall in uprisingWorldsend Gates Standin~ Stones 
~. ~  Kingdom BordersRivers  
A  Forests  
~  M~rshes or Mires  

: ... W~stel~nds Second Age Ro~dsTr*de Ro~ds Mountains Acknowledgments
 This book would not be in material form
 without the help of so many, who gave: Jeff Watson,Mickey Zucker Reicheft, Jonathan Matson, John Silbersack,Caitlin Biasdell & Jane Johnson, Sara & Bob Schwager, Pieta Pentr
Lazaris; Don Maitz, my long-suffering husbandmand not least,many hundreds of trees. 
Contents 
First Book
 II.
 III.
 IV.
 V.
 VI.
 VII. 
VIII.
 IX.
 X.
 XI.
 XII. 
XIII. 
XIV. 
Fionn Areth ..................... 1 
Fugitive Prince .................. 41 
Sentence ........................ 83 
Turnabout ..................... 131 
Riverton ....................... 173 
Tangle ........................ 209 
Hunters ....................... 243 
Spring Trap .................... 275 
Setback ........................ 317 
Pursuit ........................ 359 
Fire and Sword .................. 383 
Grimward ..................... 411 
Reversals ...................... 459 
Passages ....................... 505 

Glossary ................... 541 


Winter 5647 
Thirty-five thousand marched to war.Their weeping widows all died poor.Swords against Darkness, reap for LightFell Shadow's Prince and rend false night.
 --verse of a marching song from the
campaign of Dier Kenton Vale
Third Age 5647 

I. Fionn Areth 
Strong arms closed and locked around Elaira's slim shoulders.Fingers strengthened by the sword and sensitized to a master­bard's arts tightened against her back. The dark-haired, drivenman who cradled her surrendered at last to his blazing crest of pas­sion. His lips softened against hers, the restraint, the control, theterri­ble doubts which bound him consumed all at once in a rush of tender need. She responded, melted. Her being exploded into sensation likefire and flight. At one with the prince who had captured her heart,her spirit knew again that single, suspended moment, with itspromise of inexpressible joy.
Then the fulfillment of union snapped shy of release, doomed everto fall short of consummation by the rough intervention of fate. Thistime, a harried, insistent pounding snapped the dream into frag­mented memory.
The small-boned enchantress entangled in threadbare quilts jerkedout of her fretful sleep. A muted cry escaped her. Chilled in thedrafts which flowed over the sill of an unglazed croft window, she fought toregain full awareness. Once again, she grappled the irreversiblereal­ity: Merior's mild sea winds and the Prince of Rathain lay two yearsremoved in her past.
Elaira squeezed her eyes shut against the ache. Instead of themuf­fled boom of breakers creaming against stainless sands, theferocious, 
JANNY WUI~TS 

clawing breath of winter whined over the white-mantled daAraethura.
 Yesterday'~ blizzard had delivered a biting, cold night.
Over the open glens, through stands of scrub oak and acrorustling flats of frozen marsh, the ice whipped in driven bursts,tie the ill-fitted shutters of her cottage at the fringe of the moor.tals found the cracks, tapped at the lintels, and fanned a frostedsilver across the leaked bit of moonlight admitted through thechink. While the eddies moaned and clawed past the beams.eaves, and the spent tang of ash cornmingled with the fragrancecedar and frost-damp miasma of moldered thatch, Elaira exh~deep breath. Given time, the runaway pound of her heart woul~side.
 She untangled the fist still clenched through a coil of aubur~Too many times she awakened like this, struggling against theurge to weep, while the ripping, slow agony of Arithon's m~threatened to stop her will to live. In desperation, against the vcthe Koriani Order which tied her lifelong to a cellbate servicrefuge from despair became the fiercely guarded shelter of he:tude.
 Tonight, even that grace was forfeit. The disturbance whic~torn her from lacerating dreams came again, the insistent hamra fist on wood.
 There would be some emergency, of course. Elaira grumtfilthy phrase in the gutter vernacular of her childhood and kickher tatty layers of quilts. "Fatemaster's two-eyed vigilance! D~all think I'm deaf as a post?"
Whoever pounded for admittance, the abuse threatened tothe tacked strips of leather that hung her rickety door.
Sped by awareness that she lacked any tools for small carpElaira heaved up from her hoarded nest of warmth amid th~clothes. The shock of cold planks against her bare soles dissolv~invective to a gasp. She had retired unclothed, since yesteJstorm had soaked through to her shift. Through forced delay ~fumbled past the clammy folds of her cloak to snatch the first sugarment from its peg, the hammering gained a fresh urgency.
"Fiends plague!" The dank cloak would just have to serve.ever you are, I don't dispense remedies naked!"
Elaira bundled the soggy wool over her shoulders. She closedering fingers to secure the cloth under her chin, then shot the b~stepped back as the door swung inward.
A dazzle of moonlight flooded through. The collapse of th~  left pocketed across her threshold doused her bare ankles in snow.Elaira yelped and leaped back. Her cloak caught in an eddy of wind,snagged the latch, and tugged itself free of her grasp.
The herder boy outside froze in startlement, saucer eyes pinnedto the slide of the wool down the firm, naked swell of her breast.Elaira managed the grace not to laugh at his expression. She
caughtthe errant wool and snugged it back up to her collarbones. "Are yougoing to come in?" she asked with mild acerbity. "Or will you juststand 'til you freeze with your mouth hanging open?"
The shepherd boy shut his baby-skinned jaw with a click. Tooyoung for subterfuge, still innocent enough to flush to the roots of
his tangled hair, he ventured a slurred apology behind the snagged hemof his sleeve.
 "Of course there's trouble," Elaira said more gently. "You've ayearyet to grow before you start calling on ladies for that sort ofrandyinterest, yes?"
The boy shrank and turned redder. Since he was also frightenedenough to bolt back into the night, the enchantress caught his arm ina grip like fixed shackles. She bundled him inside, wise enough toslam the door before she plonked him on the stool by the hearth andlet him go.
"Who's fallen sick?" she demanded, brisk enough to shockthrough his stunned silence. She groped meantime across darkness tosort through the pile of last night's discarded clothing. The firehad done its usual and gone out. Gusts hissed down the cottage's flue andscattered ash across the stone apron where her herbal still rested, adismantled glint of burnished copper and glass reflecting a meticu­lous upkeep. Seized through by a shiver, Elaira drew on the icy linenlayers of her underthings, then laced the stiffened leather of herleg­gings overtop.
The herdboy huddled under mufflers on her stool and could notseem to find his tongue.
"Don't say no one's sick," Elaira murmured through chatteringteeth as she turned her back, cast off the cloak, and wormed into thedank, frowsty cloth of her shift. The hem which had been dripping asshe drifted off to sleep now crackled with thin, crusted ice.
"My aunt," mumbled the boy. He stared at his toes, unaware of thestockyard pungency of goat carried inside on his clothing. "She's inchildbed. The midwife sent me to fetch you."
Burrowed into her tunic and struggling with numbed hands tohook the looped leather fastenings, Elaira said, "How long since herlabor pains started?" 
 "Since just after midda3~" the boy replied, miserable. "I cou]run. Snow's piled too deep." He worried his chapped lip with stteeth. "Will she die, do you think?"
"I'll try not to let her." By reflex, Elaira stilled herthoughts.used the trained edge of her talents to sound the night for the tiPast midnight, she sensed. The tidal pull of the full moon just dippast the arc of the zenith. She crouched to retrieve the fleece bootshad kicked off and left where they fell. One hid in deep shacunder the worktable, scattered still with oddments of tin stamwith the sigils for fiend bane. The mate perversely eluded her. 'you know if her water had broken when you left?"
"Aye, so," the boy affirmed in his broad-voweled grassladialect. "That's why the midwife would have ye. The birthing's ghard, and the caul broke and let forth an unlucky color, so she said
Elaira caught a half breath in foreboding. "What color wasfluid, do you remember? Was there blood?"
"No blood." The boy paused to trace a symbol across hisbreast, to avert the eye of ill fortune. "The stream was thickenedgreenish. That's bad, yes? My aunt's going to pass beneathWheel?"
 "No. She's unlikely to die." Sure of that much, Elaira blew onfingers, reached, found her other boot, the one she had dunked atford when she slipped on a stone and the ice broke. The fleeces vstill clogged and soggy. "It's the babe trying to come who's in t~ble."
 She gritted her teeth and thrust her toe in the cuff before hern~ snapped. No time could she spare to warm the wet out, even werefire still alight. Every second counted, if in harsh fact the boy'scaF~ help had not already reached her too late. She scrambled up offknees and snatched her satchel from the table. Another mi~ strayed as she struck light to a candle stub and gathered up the ~cialized herbs she might need, ones the midwife was least apcarry. More minutes fled, as she groped amid the disassembled cof her still to twist the curved segment of glass tubing from the ~which capped the collection flask. She could only pray it woulcthe right size as she stowed it amid her remedies, to chinking c,plaint from the crockery and small flasks that held her stock of ahol and tinctures.
 "Come on," she urged the boy. "I'd make you some tea to warrrif I dared, but truly, your aunt's babe can't wait."No coals lingered in the hearth to be doused. That lapse in cornbecame a twisted sort of blessing as she rammed out the door 
4 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 plowed knee-high tracks through the dunescape of drifts to the shed.A rumbling nicker greeted her from inside. Then a white-blazed facepeered out from the dimness, hopeful.
"You idiot butterball," Elaira replied. "You won't be beggingmore grain."
The slab-sided roan gelding had come with the croft, no replace­ment in her heart for the spry little bay who had died of old age thepast spring. Some frivolous initiate had named the beast Tassel, forreason outside of all logic. Elaira unhooked the rope hackamore thatserved as his bridle and looped his whiskered nose through thecavesson. He butted her, snuffiing in quest of a carrot as sheflicked his ears through the headstall, then blew a resigned sigh as she bentto raise his forehoof and treat the cleft with goose grease to keepsnow from bailing up against his soles."Wise one," said the boy in whispered diffidence, "I don't ride.""You will. If your aunt's to have help, you must." Elaira stepped tothe gelding's quarters and grasped a feathered fetlock, not withoutheart to spare sympathy. "I'll see you don't fall off." In belated,breathless courtesy, she asked his name.
"Kaid, wise one." From the comer of the eye, she caught theclumsy, mittened gesture he made with intent to ward off spells.
Her stifled smile of irony was lost as the wind flogged her hairagainst her cheek. "You'll do fine, Kaid. Not to worry." The odd con­tradictions of countryfolk, to summon her for the magics that refinedthe craft of healing, then to trace out a hedge witch's symbols toavert the dread effects they feared from the selfsame mysteries.
Elaira had never known the reverent respect once offered toiniti­ates of the Koriani sisterhood. The arts of her order had been viewed with trepidation for as long as she could remember. The ignorantintolerance arisen since the uprising that upset the rule of the oldhighkings had not lessened with defeat of the Mistwraith's fell fogs,which had masked Athera's skies for five centuries. Quite the con­trary, the entrenched distrust the townborn folk held for sorcerieshad been inflamed to root deeper since the hour the vanished sunlighthad been restored.
 The Koriani Prime Enchantress held adamant opinion on the rea­son: the new strife arisen through the Mistwraith's curse of enmity,laid upon the two princes whose gifts had brought its captivity, justprovoked such misguided beliefs. Blame was not shared equallyupon the shoulders of Lysaer s'Ilessid, birth-born to wield thepowersof light. Only the Master of Shadow, Arithon s'Ffalenn, was raisedmage-wise. The Prime and her Senior Circle were swift to point out ]ANNY WU~TS 
his shortcomings. Unlike the royal half brother set against hihad spumed the strictures of his training and invoked the hi~without scruple.
Few would deny that across four kingdoms, Arithon's hamaow linked to destruction and unconscionable acts of bloodshed
 Elaira stamped back that distressed line of thought. The ShMaster's part in the ruin of Lysaer's war host on the field at Die~ton Vale must never become her concern. She knew his heart; hacshared his deepest fears, and knew of the visceral horror of killintormented him, mind and spirit. As sharply as she longed towhether the affray had unstrung his grip on integrity, the unrulytions burned into her heart lent iron to her resolve. Her order never be offered a second opening to use the attraction shared belthem. Shamed to rage that her love had ever come to be tested asto set Koriani ties on Arithon's destiny, the enchantress applied ?to the crisis of the moment. She slapped grease in the roan's laststraightened up, and wiped her hands on a scrap of old burlap.
"Out, you." She gave a suggestive tug at the roan's headsta~pressed to delay for the saddle. "We've a hard night ahead. ~going to have to do a generous bit more than shamble."
Another gust screamed past the comer of the shed. Gossame~of snow unraveled from the lip of the drifts. The eddy streElaira's hair across her eyes. She clawed back the tangles, imp~"Come, boy." A swift touch adjusted the hang of her satchel. '"need to show me where to go." She raised her wet boot in qued,foothold in the buried logs of the woodpile, vaulted astride the ~back, then extended her arm to haul the herder child up before h
He was shaking through his furs, mostly from fear since he s]as her arms clasped around him.
Elaira sucked in a breath musked with wool and the rancid t~ goat. "Which way?"
The tilt of Kaid's chin said north. Elaira faced the gelding a~into the teeth of the wind. Its cold pierced her clothes like honedThe stars overhead were like flecks of chipped ice, and mooJsheared the hillcrests in razor-cut brilliance against the strea:knotted shadows sliced by trees.
"Hup!" Elaira cried. She gathered the roan's reins and thu:him with her heels. The gelding shook his mane, grunted back ~drummed another thud against his ribs. His steaming warmthtrated the damp layers of her leggings, and a breathy snort snfrom his nostrils. Too lazy to show displeasure beyond a flick.tail, he roused into a short-strided walk. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

Elaira shook her cuffs down to muffle her exposed hands. "Howlong did it take you to reach me?"
"I left our steading before nightfall. Snow fell too thick toknow the time." The boy clenched his jaw to still chattering teeth.
Questions remained, over details the midwife might have sharedthat would tell how far the aunt's labor had progressed. Yet as thegelding breasted through chest-high drifts, or plowed a crumpledtrail across the pristine vales carved trackless by the scouringwinds,Elaira held her silence. Nothing but hurry could improve the babe'sthreatened chances. If she failed to arrive at the steading beforethe moment of birth, the infant might already be lost. Rather than passher distress to the boy, she reined alongside a thin stand of alderand picked off a branch for use as a switch to force the placid geldingto trot.
 The night engulfed her in its landscape of silver and black. Amidthe wind-tortured swirls of dry snow, the horse underneath herseemed all that moved in the world. If hare ventured out to gnawbark and dry grasses, or if owls flew hunting mice, she saw no signof anything alive. The tattered plumes of the gelding's breath embroi­dered hoarfrost on her patched leggings. His hooves stitched thehill-crests to avoid the soft drifts, and the boy sent as guide lolledagainsther shoulder and slept. Where the ground was swept bare, she flickedthe gelding to a canter, the glassy chink of snapped ice compactedunder the thud of his passage. The gentle, rolling downlandsstretched ahead and behind, sere under unrumpled snow, the rippledink of oak copse and the grayed trunks of alders snagged through bytinseled skeins of moonlight. Over marshes herringboned in storm-trampled cattails, and past the treacherous, inky wells of sinkpools,Elaira forged ahead in relentless urgency.
The fugitive hours were her enemy. The sensitivity of her talentlet her feel them, slipping inexorably by as sand would sieve through anet. She drew rein at the crest of a dale, confronted below by thesteepflanks of a gully, and the snake black outlines of iced-over current.Araethura's downs were famed for such, obstructions to any travelerunfamiliar with the lay of the valleys. Elaira cursed, remiss withher­self. She ought to have wakened the boy sooner to ask guidance, forthe narrow, swift-flowing streams which fed the River Arwent ran intreacherous, deep beds, too wide to jump over in snowy footing, andunsafe to attempt a crossing without a known ford. The same hadbeen true of Daon Ramon, long ago, before the diversion of themighty $evernir's flood by Etarran townsmen had rendered thatgolden land barren. 
JANNY WURTS

 Elaira gave Kaid's shoulder a shake before the cold let her thoustray further. He said as she roused him, "No need to cross over.steading's beyond that stand of alders."
Shadows obscured the building's outline, a patched, oblate patwhere drifts had silted over the mosaic outline of roof shakes agethe vale beyond. From some hidden byre, the bleat of confinedbreathed in snatched fragments between gusts. Elaira shook uFtired roan, pressed his laboring step downslope. The pricked gleastars came and went as the alders closed around her, branches vracked against the zenith. Two hours until dawn, her tuned av~ness told her. That time of night when death was most apt to becomed by a body and spirit in distress.
She slid off the gelding's back, left the reins to the boy, todism4 as he could and see it stabled. She wasted more seconds, fumblirclose the iron latch of an unfamiliar gate. Finally arrived in thetered space between hay byre and cottage, she thought for a secshe heard the pained groans of a woman. Whether the sotrodborn of labor, or grief, or just a last, cruel trick of the wind, thewe of the moment crushed hope.
Stiff, stumbling across the rutted yard, Elaira tripped the door1 and shouldered her way across the threshold into the cottagKaid's aunt. Darkness swallowed her. Cut off from the clean bil winter, the closed-in smells of lavender and birch coals andingrained musk of grease left from simmering a thick muttonmade the air seem stagnant and dead.
Then, muffled through board walls, the midwife's voice aro~terse encouragement, "Bear ye down, dearie. The time's comeus, and naught can help now by delay."
A brittle, third voice made shrill with the quaver of oldremarked, "Let the babe come. Thefferedon'li's here at last." The.sen term was a bygone word for healer, corrupted from the Paraphrase which meant 'bringer of light.'
Elaira moved on, tense and sharply uneasy, unsure she meritecconfidence and trust implied by the use of the ancient title. The r~she crossed seemed too still, too close, its eaves sealed tight ag~the weather, as if the vast, rolling moorlands of Araethura wer~adversary worthy of a barricade. The cottage held its carven c?and furnishings the way a miser might grasp a hoard of coin~close-fisted family, Elaira sensed through observation; not the so:ask outsiders for favors. The trained perception of her gift alloher to pass their cherished clutter without tripping, to avoid the sning wheel and stool jutted between the wool press and a 
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FUGITIVE I~RINCE 
drawn water arrayed on the flagstones by the hearth. Boards creakedbeneath her hurried tread. This steading was prosperous, to haveglazed and shuttered windows, and better than a packed earthenfloor. Her next step fell softened by a throw rug. The byre andfenced pastures should have prepared her for comforts. Those Araethurianherdsmen less well off let their stock graze at large on the moors.
A paneled door creaked open. Raw, orange light spilled out in aswathe to guide her through to the cottage's back room, a walled-offchamber beneath the beams of the loft, where a row of younger chil­dren peered down, their expressions all dread and curiosity. Elairacaught another flurried gesture to avert spells before she gained herrefuge in the bedchamber.
A tallow dip in a crockery bowl rinsed the broad shoulders of themidwife, a middle-aged matron of competent presence, sleeves rolledback over rawboned wrists where she knelt to administer to Kaid's aunt. The woman she attended was small as a deer, dark haired andwrung limp, far beyond fear or caring whether an enchantress or ademon had entered. She crouched on the birthing stool, her face linedwith sweat, a plait wisped into tangles draped over the wet shine ofher collarbones. Her feet were bare. The rest of her torso was swathed in a crushed mass of down quilts, her shift of undyed linen rucked into bunches above her thighs.
As though sensitive to censure, the midwife said, "It's hotenoughshe is, but the husband insisted." Past a sound of disgust throughher nose, she added, "Matter of her modesty, he claims. It's allfoolishness. No wisdom in it, but the man wasn't bom in these downs who isn'tbullheaded useless over the propriety of his wife."
The girl on the stool convulsed in another contraction, longsince too tired to scream.
 "Steady," murmured the midwife in a striking change of tone. Herbeefy fingers closed over the straining woman's in comfort. "Don'tfalter now, dearie. Just bear down." She held on, encouraging, thickwrists gouged in crescents where suffering fingernails had dugthrough the violent cramping pains, weathering the terrible, fraughtminutes of waiting, holding, resisting nature's overpowering drive topush out a babe long since ready to be bom.
Over the girl's exhausted grunting, from the comer by a clotheschest, a mass first mistaken for a bundle of old rags stirred toscratch. Attenuated, white-boned fingers went on to sketch out a blessing signin welcome. Behind the gesture, faint in the gloom, a withered facesurveyed the enchantress who came as healer.
The traditional seeress, Elaira identified, grateful at least forone JANNY WURT$ 
courtesy. A matriarch gifted with Sight attended every birth, death,and wedding held in these isolate downlands, her place to interpretthe omens and deliver a guiding augury appropriate to the occasion.Elaira made her response in accentless Paravian. "May the future beblessed with good fortune."
Then she knelt on the boards beside the midwife, and caught thelaboring woman's other, clammy hand in reassurance. The waveringglow of the tallow dips threw a sultry gleam off the crown of thebabe's head, just emerged and cupped within the midwife's other,guiding hand, which pressed gently downward to ease the child'sshoulder past the bone beneath the pelvic girdle.
"Ath preserve," Elaira murmured. "I'm not too late to try andhelp."The laboring woman gasped a question.
"Lie easy," Elaira told her. "Let the midwife instruct you. Ifall goeswell, your babe will stay living and healthy."
She straightened, unslung her satchel from her shoulder, and shedher snow-dampened mantle. While she struggled to unfasten thethong knots with chilled fingers, she added quick, low instructionsto the midwife. "Now the birth is accomplished, cut and tie the cord asusual. But do not stimulate the child. It must take no first breath, nor rouse itself and cry before I can clear the fluid from its airpassage."
The midwife raised no question in protest. Quietly busy withtowels and knife, she knew best of any which complications laybeyond reach of her knowledge; had seen warning enough whenthe mother's water had broken, clogged and discolored. The traumaof birthing had stressed the unborn babe and caused it to void itsbowels before it could be pushed from the womb. The fluid whichhad cushioned its growing had become fouled by its own excre­ment. If it chanced to draw such taint into its lungs, the newbornwould perish of suffocation. No herbal remedy in her store of expe­rience would change the outcome. The child would die within min­utes.
 If the Koriani witches knew a spell to avert tragedy, the midwifewas too practical to spurn the aid of the one who had recently takenresidence amid the fells.
 But Elaira did not reach to free the chain at her neck from which hung the crystal her order used to refine magics. She rummagedinstead through her satchel, found the thin, curved tube borrowedfrom the apparatus of her still, then warmed the cruel, outside coldof it away between her shaking hands. Methodical, she rinsed it clean ofcontaminants in a dish filled with her precious store of alcohol. 
10 rife
 dch ged,redd of tn of
 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 The laboring woman moaned through locked teeth at the weak­ened spasm of another contraction.

"No need to push further, dearie," soothed the midwife. Herprac­ticed fingers knotted the slippery cord, last tie to be severed from
the mother. "Work's all done. Ye're naught beyond the afterbirth left todrop now."
Through the frantic few moments remaining, Elaira shut her eyes,wrapped a hold on her nerves to force controlled calm over scream­ing uncertainty. These were fells herders, distrustful of her kind,
and knit close with unbreakable ties of kinship. Should she fail in hereffort to help this child, she well understood its death might be
taken as a bloodletting offense.To the woman's soft query, the midwife said, "Well-done, girl.ByAth's grace, ye've delivered a fine son."Elaira steeled herself, turned, received from the midwife's 
compe­tent, broad grasp the sticky, warm bundle of the child. His blood­smeared skin was pale gray, his limbs unmoving, not yet quickenedby the first breath of life. She laid him head toward her on the
table,aware through the crawling, unsteady light that his wet, whorled
hair was coal black. She pried open the tiny, slack mouth, arranged theskull and neck, and with a hurried prayer to Ath, inserted the tubefrom the still down the throat and into the infant's airway. She
must not tremble. The curved glass was thin, very fragile. Any pressure
at an angle might snap it. Where a straw reed might have offered lessperil, no interval could be spared to search one out. Need drove
her. She must not miss the opening, nor tear the newborn's tender flesh
in her haste. All the while the awareness skittered shivers down her spine, that she had but seconds to complete what must be done.
If the child were to die now, it would be of her own, rankclumsi­ness.
 She felt the tube slide in. A sixth sense, born of her talentsand training, told her the insertion was successful. She bent, set herlips tothe glass, sucked, and spat the juices into the bowl she used to mixremedies. Against the white porcelain, the secretion was greenish,foul. She sipped at the tube again. Another mouthful, and still thedrawn fluid was discolored. She repeated the procedure, wasrewarded with a slight change in hue. The fourth mouthful came outclean.
 "Ath bless," she gasped. She eased the tube free. The hot, closeroom seemed formless around her, the pinpoint focus of her concen­tration the lynchpin of her whole being. She slapped the infant'sfeet. "Breathe," she said fiercely, the exultation of success at lasttearing J~. Wul~$ 
loose, to burst from her heart in searing joy. "Breathe, new spirit.
It's 
safe for you to join the living."

The child's fingers spasmed. His tiny chest shuddered. Smallmouth still opened, he sucked in clear air and screeched as lusty afirst cry in outrage for expulsion from the dark, wet safety of thewomb.
 Elaira bundled the squalling infant back into the care of themid­wife, then found the nearest chair and let her knees give way. Shesat,head bent, her face in her hands, while emotion and relief shudderedthrough her. The cries of the child grew louder, more energetic. Hisflesh would be blushing to pink, now, as exertion flushed lifethroughhis tissues. Elaira pushed straight, scarcely aware of the commotionwhich swirled through the outer room, then the blast of changed airas the door opened. Feeling every aching bone, and all the weight ofa night without sleep, she looked ~.~p.
Then froze, jolted through her whole being as her eyes met andlocked with a man's.
 He had black hair, green eyes. A face of lean angles bent towardher, the rage in each tautened muscle burnished by the hot flare ofthe tallow dips. The rest of him was muffled beneath a caped cloak, tiedwith cord, and woven in the fine, colored stripes preferred by theherders of Araethura.
 Rocked out of balance, Elaira felt a cry lock fast in her throat.For a moment fractured from the slipstream of time, she could not move orthink. Then the nuance of observation she was trained to interpretshowed her the subtle differences: the fist, clamped in rough wool,with thick fingers too clumsy to strike song from a lyranthe string.This man was larger, coarser in build; not Arithon s'Ffalerm, Princeand Masterbard. The rough-edged male who loomed over her wasthe husband of this house, and the newborn child's father.
"Daelion avert!" His fury bored into the enchantress. "What's herkind doing here!"
"Never mind," Elaira said quickly. She had expected hostility insome form or other, since Kaid had appeared on her doorstep. "I'll beon my way directly." She arose, tipped the filth in the basin intothe slop jar beside the birthing stool, then turned her back, steppedover the pile of wadded, bloody towels, to repack her things in hersatchel. Her part was done. The child's danger was past. If the man was ill-mannered enough to dare set his hand on her, he would regret thepresumption.
Like the whine of a whip, the seeress protested. "Thefferedon'liwill not go just yet. Not until the child's augury is spoken." Across the 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

irate glower of the husband, the trembling, diffident anxiety of themother, the crone arose from her comer, moved, an animate bundle ofshawls, to present her appeal last to the midwife. "Tempt no illluck. There's a sacrifice owed by this babe. He would have gained no firmfoothold in this world at all, if not for the hand ofthefferedon'li."
 The husband swore with expressive, fresh venom, his glare stilllocked on the enchantress.
 Comprehension dawned late, like a douse of chill water, or a sud­den fall through thin ice. Elaira understood where the brittle, steeltension had sprung from. Her heart leaped at once to deny her ownpart. "I wish nothing, no tie for my service!" Through the longer,louder wails of the newborn, her voice clashed in rising dissent."Let the boy's life hold to its own course, with no interference from me."
"Ye know better, gifted lady!" the seeress said, tart. "The debtagainst this young spirit is a fair one, and to refuse his givencharge, asign of ill favor and disrespect."
The father spun about, his bellow of rebuttal cut short by morewithering reprimand. "Foolish man! Were ye raised by a nanny goat?Here's a strong son ye'11 have, perhaps to beget other livingchildren of your line! Now let the augury say what he's to grow and become.He may bear your blood. Yet the fate he'll be asked in payment forhis birth is nothing else but his own!"
Silent, even mollified, for it had been her summons which hadbrought Elaira to the steading, the midwife lifted the naked, newbornbabe, wiped clean of the fluids of birthing. A rutched comb of darkhair arched in a cowlick over the vulnerable crown of his skull. His face was rosy, suffused with crying, and his miniature feet lashedthe air in what seemed an impotent echo of the father's outrage.
At the dry, cool touch of the seeress's hands his wails missedtheir rhythm and silenced. The crone raised the boy's small body. Her eyeswere dark brown, clear-sighted and deep, schooled to reflect theinfi­nite whole, from which grand source came the spark to animate allthat held shape in creation. Watching the finespun aura of spiritlightflare up as the woman tapped into her prescience, Elaira experiencedboth relief and sharp dread. The old woman's Sight was no sham, butan untrammeled channel attuned to the resonance of true mystery.
Then the words came, sonorous and full, to augur the coil of thefuture; they were directed, not to the babe's kin, but to Elaira.
"One child, four possible fates, looped through the thread of hislife span. He will grow to reach manhood. Should he die in fire, nonesuffers but he. Yours to choose when that time comes, Fferedon'li.Should he die on salt water, the one ye love most falls beside him. 
JANN. ~URT$ 

Should he die landbound, in crossed steel and smoke, the same orye cherish survives, but betrayed. Yet should this child's days extento old age, first the five kingdoms, then the whole world will plun~into darkness, never to see sunlight or redemption. Your burdenchoose in the hour of trial, Fferedon'li, and this child's to give,the na ural death or the sacrifice. Let him be called Fionn Areth Caid-an. The ancient seeress lowered the babe, the hard spark fading from h~eyes as she closed her final line. "Let his training be for thesword, fchis path takes him far from Araethura."
Elaira stared transfixed at the child just born and Named.wished, beyond recourse, that her hand had slipped in its office,that the dull-witted roan had mired in some drifted-over streaml~ and fallen. Better, surely, if she had arrived too late, and thisherder son had gained no saving help to survive his transition into life. Aher wits shuddered free of paralysis, the enchantress could not shal,off a terrible, pending burden of remorse. The feeling which ha:rowed her lay far removed from the soft, stifled sobs of the motheElaira could not react to the rattling slam of the door, as the fath~stormed out in mute rage, nor to the midwife, murmuring phraseshelpless consolation for the destiny forewarned by the seeress.
The enchantress felt the trained powers of her focus drawn anstrained in a web of disbelief. The babe had such tiny, unformed fixgers, to have tangled the destiny of the Shadow Master betweethem, and all he entailed, the misled fears which had raised marchinwar hosts; the bloodshed and sorrows of an age. 
14 Winter 5647-5648 
Crown Council 
Far distant from Araethura's wind-raked downs, in a wainscotedanteroom trimmed in gilt and agleam with pristine wax candles,an immaculate steward in blue-and-gold livery bowed to KingEldir's ambassador. "His Grace, the Prince of the Light, will seeyou now."
The visiting dignitary on the cushioned bench arose at the royalsummons. A middle-aged man of spare bones and blunt demeanor,he seemed unremarkable for his post. Nor did he display the stylish,warm manner which trademarked the gifted statesman. Clad still inthe travel-splashed broadcloth he had worn from the mired winterharborside, he followed the servant through the massive, carveddoors, then down the echoing corridor which led to Avenor's hall ofstate. Cold light, reflected off a late snowfall, streamed throughthe lancet windows. Here, no stray sound intruded beyond the measuredtap of footsteps upon satin-polished marble.
The palace sanctum where Prince Lysaer s'Ilessid plied the reinsof his government lay far removed from the chopped mud of the prac­tice yard, where the handful of veterans returned from campaigndrilled their surviving field troops.
No secretaries murmured behind closed doors. A lone drudge pol­ished rows of brass latches, her labors methodically silent. The hushfelt inert as the vault of a tomb. Three weeks was too soon for the cityto assimilate the impact of a fresh and unalloyed tragedy. The bur­geoning industry of Avenor, so magnificently restored, seemed 
15 
~ANNY ~URT$ 

stalled; as if even the very resonance of power stood mute, strick~numb by the news that even now rocked the five kingdoms.
Of the forty thousand dedicated men sent to war in the roclscarps of Vastmark, all but ten thousand had died of the strate~unleashed by the Master of Shadow.
The declared neutrality of King Eldir's realm made those casualtino easier to grapple. The ambassador sent by his liege to shouldtoday's dicey audience was a man appointed for patience, and valu{for his skeptical outlook. The outraged grief and shocked nerves 1encountered made even simple needs difficult. Since the hour of 1~arrival, he had weathered a brangle with the seneschal'sundersecreta~ and before that, a harbormaster's flash-point temper, to secure hissta galley a dose anchorage. He chafed at the pressure. To miscall anysm~ point of diplomacy could spark an unforgiving train of consequence.
For the stakes ran beyond mere potential for bloodshed. The dea,locked struggle between the Prince of the Light and his enigmatisworn enemy had widened. Arithon's works now polarized Ioyalti~and compromised trade in four kingdoms. Folk named him Spinnof Darkness since Vastmark. Fear of his shadows and rumors of f~ sorcery attached to his secretive nature.
Sensitive to the pitfalls in the tidings he carried, the HighKinE ambassador reviewed his firm orders. Then his sovereign lordentreaty, unequivocal and clear, given upon his departure: "Your loalty may come to be tested, and sorely. Lysaer s'Ilessid can bedisarmingpersuasive in pursuit of his hatred of Arithon. But the FellowshipSorcere grant no credence to his war to destroy the Crown Prince of Rathain.Yo: errand may well be received in disfavor. Should you find yourselfcomprmised, even imprisoned under wrongful charges, you must keep my realmHavish uninvolved."
 If the ambassador regretted the burden of his mission, the mom~was lost to back down. The steward escorted him through the arch{portals which led to Avenor's state chambers. Masking unea:behind a lift of dark eyebrows, for the credentials from his king h~been public and formal, the dignitary found himself admitt{through a less imposing side door.
In the smaller room used for closed hearings, Prince Lysas'Ilessid awaited. He was alone. A less imposing man, unattendemight have been overlooked on the dais, with its massive oak tab]hedged by tall chairs with their carved and gilded finials, then the:dwarfed in turn by the star and crown tapestry, device of Tysan's pahigh kings. The woven device masked the east wall, gold on bhbeneath the spooled rail of the second-floor gallery. 
en 
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FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Limned by a flood of cold, winter sunlight, this sovereign's pres­ence filled that lofty well of space as a jewel might rest in areliquary.The dignitary from Havish discovered himself staring, forgetfulof protocol or the ingrained polish of court ceremony.Fair, gold hair seemed tipped in leaf silver. The eyes were
direct,the clear, unflawed blue of matched aquamarine. Where Lysaers'Ilessid had always owned a powerful, charismatic male beauty, theVastmark campaign left him changed. Now, his majesty went beyondpoise. As steel smelted down and reforged could emerge from thepunishment of hammer and anvil to carry a keener edge, the pain of amassive defeat had tautened his flesh over its framework of bone. Less given to smiling platitudes, he wore the tempered, private
still­ness of the veteran who has squinted too long over hostile terrain.The strong southland sun, the cruel weather, the indelible griefimprinted by the loss of thirty thousand lives had but rekindled
this prince's resolve; like a lamp set burning on a fuel of sheer faith,to illuminate where a lesser flame would fail.
 The ambassador shook off stunned paralysis. He tendered the bowthat acknowledged royal bloodline, but implied no stature of rank.The detail struck him as curious: the prince had eschewed to displaythe sovereign colors of Tysan. Instead he wore a tabard of white
silk,trimmed with gold cord, and fastened at the neck with stud dia­monds.
 Lysaer s'Ilessid began in a brisk form quite altered from theeffortless courtesy which trademarked his single, past visit to Hav­ish. "You may sit. I will make no apology. This meeting must beshort and private. A gathering of kingdom officials and outsidedelegates is scheduled to take place after this one. Those whoattend have been discreetly handpicked. I hope you'll consent to bepresent, both as an independent witness, and as King Eldir's repre­sentative."
 "It is to his Grace of Havish such apology is due." Bluntfeatures immersed in shrewd thought, the ambassador wondered whether hisequerry might have talked over beer in a tavern. Had word of hisbusiness reached Lysaer beforetime, today's air of secrecy boded ill.He perched on a bench, a touch on edge, his words like thin acidbefore the autocratic whims of royal privilege. "In fact, my appoint­ment concerns an errand for the Fellowship Sorcerers, entrusted toHavish's keeping."
"Indeed?" An unexpected irony raised Lysaer's eyebrows. "Thatbeing the case, all the better if our discussion is kept close." Hestepped around his state chair and settled. The stillness in him now ~ANNY WURTS 
went deeper than patience, went past mere endurance, or the biting confidence a beaten man raised in game effort to shrug off de
About Lysaer s'Ilessid lay a quiet that towered. His immutrestrained force made the glare through the casement seem displ.the hard scintillance of his gold trim and diamonds jarring as ater painter's slipped brushstroke.
He said, "I make no secret of my bias. The doings of Fellowmages are no longer welcomed in Tysan."
The ambassador rejected political wrangling. "Any tie to thecerers is indirect, you shall see. My case concerns the first ranscgold, raised to free your lady wife. The one which vanished d~transit across Mainmere Bay this past summer."
"Five hundred thousand coin weight," Lysaer musedunswerving mildness. "My merchants, who raised the buremember that setback too well." In phrases wiped clean of res:anger, he added, "That sum was purloined by the Master of ShaYou bring me word of the contraband? I'm amazed. The FellowSorcerers were nothing if not in cahoots with that blatant act of p:Go Oll."
 The ambassador folded stiff fingers inside the lace of his cuffscircumspect to pass judgment on the doings of mages, he pickeway cautiously. "Your lost gold was returned by Prince Aritlhand, and surrendered under Fellowship auspices. By appointas neutral'executor, the crown of Havish will restore the full s~your Grace's treasury. The incident, as you claim, went beyondpie theft. The Master of Shadow waylaid your lady's ransom 'as ~tic to stall your war host from invasion of Vastmark."
"Five hundred thousand coin weight in exchange for the tirarrange for thirty thousand deaths." Lysaer never moved, his sless detachment enough to raise frost on hot iron. "What price, fcblood that was spilled in Dier Kenton Vale?"
The ambassador sidestepped that baiting insinuation. "Thesure is guarded aboard my state galley, counted and bound ~seal by his lordship, the Seneschal of Havish. Upon my receisigned documents of discharge, the gold can be consigned to theof Avenor's state council."
 No need to prolong the particulars; a writ of acceptance coudrawn up and sent to the harbor by courier. Avenor's str~resource could scarcely spurn funds, however embarrassing theigin. Havish's envoy straightened, in haste to exchange due couand depart. He had no authority to stay on as witness to the ~noon's clandestine council. 
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FUOITIlIE PI~INCE
 Yet before he could draw the audience to an end, the royalsteward flung wide the door. A tightly bunched cadre of trade ministers
filed in, their clothes trimmed in furs and jewelled braids. Costly, dyedplumes cascaded from their hat brims; their hands flashed,
expressivewith rings.The prince had staged his private meeting to converge with theambassador's presence. Eldir's delegate settled back on his seat,
out­maneuvered by the forms of diplomacy. While the trade worthiesvied like rustling peacocks for the places close to the dais, he
waited in guarded resignation for the play of Lysaer's strategy.This would be a volatile, partisan gathering to judge by the
seals of high office displayed by the men who attended. Trade background letthe ambassador identify at least a dozen of Tysan's ruling mayors,united in their distrust of Arithon. Other delegates with complaintsagainst the Shadow Master had been summoned from extreme longdistance, as shown by the black-and-gold lion of Jaelot emblazonedon a dignitary's tabard.
Another who wore plain broadcloth and boots seemed displaced,all fidgety with nerves as he moved through the trappings of wealthand the suave, mannered men of high power. The table filled, thenthe seats arranged by the side walls. The liverish governor of theWestern League of Headhunters hunched uncommunicative besidetwo stolid commanders at arms with the broad, southcoast vowels ofShartd. These would have suffered direct losses on the field, or
borne firsthand witness to the devastating sorceries wrought from illusionand shadow.
 Rathain's foremost headhunter, Skannt, sauntered in with his 
gleaming collection of knives. He chose to stay standing, armsfolded,in the cranny by the gallery landing. At his shoulder, companionableand stout chested, Lord Commander Harradene chuckled over somepleasantry. To him fell the captaincy of the disheartened remnants ofEtarra's decimated field troops. The chair left vacant by Lord Die­gan's death stayed unclaimed to Lysaer's fight hand. As yet noreplacement had been named to command Avenor's elite garrison.Nearest to the prince, faced bristling across four feet of oak table,a muscled, tight-lipped mercenary traded glares with Mearn s'Brydion,youngest brother of a clanborn duke from the eastshore kingdom ofMelhalla. The scruffy little cleric in scholar's robes placed betweenthem stared through the window, oblivious to the smoldering hatredsentrenched through five centuries of bloodshed.
The men Lysaer s'Ilessid had drawn to his cause were of disparatebackgrounds and loyalties, too fresh in alliance to mingle incomfort, J^~. W~$
 and too volatile a mix to leave standing too long without war to
har­ness their interests. They crowded the small chamber like rivalwolves, the martial devices of the field captains' surcoats bold asgame pieces beside the padded silk pourpoints of city ministers.
Lysaer called the meeting to order. He might wear no coronet ofroyal office, yet the absent trappings of rank stole no force at allfrom his majesty. His opening phrase slashed the crosscurrents ofambition i~ and froze them forcefully silent. "We are gathered this hour to
resolve my claim to the powers of crown rule, offered to me by legitimateblood descent, and sealed into edict by Tysan's independent city.councils." His hand, bare of rings, moved, reached, and lifted a
heavy
document weighted with state seals and ribbons.All eyes in the room swung and trained on the parchment. Againstthe expectant, stalled quiet, something creaked in the gallery,
behind and above the seated audience.
 A snap of air flicked across a taut bowstring, then the whine ofan arrow, descending.
Its humming flight scored through Captain Skannt's scream ofwarning, and above these, the shout of the archer, in sheared, clan-born accents, "Such claim is unlawful!"
A sharp crack of impact; the four-bladed point impaled the parch­ment and skewered it to the table. The chink of shattered wax became lost in the noise as the dignitaries chorused in panic, "Barbarian!Assassin!"
 Pandemonium rocked through the room. Scribes bolted for cover.Overdressed trade magnates and timid mayors ducked, tremblingand frightened to paralysis. Entangled and cursing, war-hardenedcommanders surged erect and charged, bowling over spilled hats andcowering figures. They heaved empty benches before them as shieldsand pounded for the stair to the gallery.
"I want him alive!" Lysaer cried through the clamor. Uncowed andlooking upward, he wrested the arrow from the tabletop. The lac­quered red shaft gleamed like a line of new blood against hisstainless white tabard. The hen fletching also was scarlet, the cock featheralone left the muted, barred browns of a raptor's primary.
"That's a clan signal arrow. Its colors are symbolic, a formaldecla­ration of protest." The speaker was Skannt, the headhunter fromEtarra, his lidded eyes bright in his weasel-thin face, and hisinterest dispassionate as ice water. "In my opinion, the archer struck what heaimed at."
 Lysaer fingered the mangled parchment, slit through its ribbonsand the artful, inked lines of state language. He said nothing to 
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 FUGITIVE PRINCE 
Skannt's observation. Motionless before his rumpled courtiers whocrowded beneath the shelter of tables and chairs, he awaited the out­come of the fracas in the gallery. Five heavyset war captains rushedthe archer, who stood, his weapon still strung. He wore nondescriptleathers, a belt with no scabbard, and soft-soled deerhide shoes. Infact, he was unarmed beyond the recurve, which was useless. He car­ried no second arrow in reserve. As his attackers closed in to take him, he fought.
He was clanborn, and insolent, and knew those combatants whobrandished knives bore small scruple against drawing blood to sub­due him.
 Fast as he was, and clever when cornered, sheer numbers at lengthprevailed. A vindictive, brief struggle saw him crushed flat and pin­ioned.
 "Bring him down," Lysaer said, the incriminating arrow fistedbetween his stilled hands.
 Scuffed, bleeding, his sturdy leathers dragged awry, the clansmanwas bundled down the stairs. He was of middle years, whipcord fit,and athletic enough not to miss his footing. Space cleared for themen who frog-marched him up to the dais. He stayed nonplussed.Through swelling and bruises, and the twist of fallen hair rippedloose from his braid, his forthright gaze fixed on the prince. Heseemed careless, unimpressed. Before that overwhelming, sovereignpresence, his indifference felt like contempt.
Through the interval while rumpled dignitaries unbent from theirpanic, to primp their bent hats and mussed cuffs and jewelledcollars,his captors lashed his wrists with a leather cincture borrowed fromsomebody's surcoat. The clansman never blinked. He behaved as 
though the indignity of bonds was too slight to merit his attention."Slinking barbarian," a man muttered from one side.Another snapped a snide comment concerning the habits of clanwomen in rut.
 No reaction; the offender held quiet, his breath fast but even.His patience was granite. The royalty he had affronted was forced to befirst to respond.
"If you wanted a hearing, you have leave to speak," Lysaers'Ilessid said, forthright. "Consider yourself privileged to be givensuch liberty." A tilt of his head signaled a scribe to snap straight,find his pens, and smooth a fresh parchment in readiness for dictation."Set this on record," Lysaer resumed. "To bear arms in the presenceof royal authority carries a charge of treason."
"Your authority, royal or otherwise, does not exist," the clansman 
21 
 }ANNY WURTSreplied in his clear, antique phrasing, too incisive to be mistakenfor town dialect. "Since my arrow isn't struck through your heart, youhave proof. I haven't come for your death." He lifted his grazedchin. "Instead I bring formal protest. This writ signed by townsmen togrant sovereign power in Tysan is invalid by first kingdom law. Thetenets of this realm's founding charter hold my act as no crime. Yourcla~,~m to crown rule is in flagrant breach of due pro,c, ess."
I need no sanction from Fellowship Sorcerers. Lysaer laid down~the arrow, unruffled. Winter sun through the casement spanned the~stilled air and exposed him; even so, he gave back no shadow of~jduplicity. For a prince who had lost untold lives to clan tactics,then his best friend and commander to covert barbarian marksmen, thisunconditional equilibrium seemed inspired. His reproof held a sor­row to raise shame as he qualified, "I must point out, your complaintas it stands is presumptuous and premature. This writ from Tysan'smayors has not been sealed into law. I have not yet accepted the man-tie of kingship."
To the stir of surprise from disparate city mayors, the murmureddismay from trade factions, and the outright, riveted astonishment ofKing Eldir's ambassador, Lysaer gave scant attention. "As fortreason,let this be your trial." He gestured past the clansman bound beforehim. "The men assembled here will act as your jurors. No worthletcircle could be asked to pass judgment. You stand before the highestofficials of this realm, and the uninvolved delegates from five king­doms. Nor are we without a strong voice from the clans. Mearn s'Bry­dion, youngest brother of Alestron's reigning duke, may serve asyour voice in defense."
"I speak for myself!" the barbarian insisted over the scrapingdis­turbance as upset chairs were rearranged, and the attendant men ofgovernment refocused their interest through the rustle of settlingvel­vets. "Let there be no mistake. Since the murder of Maenalle s'Gann­ley, caithdein and steward of Tysan, her successor, Maenol, hasappointed me spokesman before witnesses. Upon false grounds ofsovereignty, for the act by which you mustered armed force to makewar for a wrongful claim of injustice, hear warning, Lysaer s'Ilessid.Forsake your pursuit of Arithon s'Ffalenn. Or no choice remains for the goodof this realm. The response from my kind must open a clan declara­tion of civil war."
 "I think not." Lysaer set down the arrow. A small move, made withunemotional force; barely enough to stem the explosive outrage fromthe merchants who had lost profits to the Shadow Master's wiles, andfrom veteran captains his tactics had broken and bloodied on the 
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 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 ~iekcL L~tsaer's blue eyes remained stainless, still saddened. Hisregardupon the captive never wavered. "Rather, I believe your clan
ch'~e~ta'm would resist me as an act of insurrection. His grandmother died aconvicted thief on the scaffold. He will see worse, I can promise,
if he persists in rash overtures of violence. Woe betide your people,
should you let your clans be bound in support of a proven criminal. To abetthe Master of Shadow against me is to threaten the safety of ourcities."
 "This is a strict issue of sovereignty!" the clansman pealed
back through the sawn and inimical silence. "Your royal inheritance hasbeen disbarred by the Fellowship of Seven because your fitness torule has been compromised. We serve no cause outside of our land'sfounding charter! This war you pursue against Arithon of Rathain isengendered by the curse laid on you both by the Mistwraith."
The Lady Maenalle s'Gannley had said the same words in the hourof her execution. The heavyset Mayor of Isaer might have borne wit­ness, since she had been tried and condemned in his city, under hisjusticiar's tribunal. 
 Havish's ambassador himself could confirm that the statement held more than a grain of hard truth. But his king's will kept himsilent, even as the other dignitaries expressed their searing
disbelief. Ill feeling already ran hot on both sides. However the thunderingcrosscurrents of hatred bent truth to imperil the prisoner, Havish'srepresentative could do naught but observe.
Lysaer's control was not absolute. Despite his impressivemajesty,no matter how staunch his self-command, distrust of old blood roy­alty made his claim to the throne controversial; more telling still,the question just raised against the morality of his dedicated conflict.Fresh losses still stung. Inside one year, the campaign he pursuedagainst the Master of Shadow had seen the eastshore trade fleet sun­dered and burned at Minderl Bay, then the clash as the armed mightof four kingdoms ended in an abattoir of spilled blood at Vastmark.
As new uncertainty threaded tension through the gathering, alleyes fixed on the prince in his tabard of flawless white and gold.
His stance held straight as an arrow nocked to the drawn bow. Heperused the assembled dignitaries, nestled like plumed birds in ropedpearls and winter velvets; acknowledged the military captains withtheir muscled impatience; then diverted, to touch last on the singleman in the chamber born to a laborer's status. One whose stiff,uneasy stillness stood apart from languid courtiers like a stake ham­mered upright in a lily bed.
"How I wish the threat posed by the Master of Shadow were due ~ANNY WURT$ 
only to the meddling of Desh-thiere." A disarming regret rcLysaer's pause. Then, as if weariness cast a pall over desper~strength, he relinquished his advantage of height, sat down, aplunged on in bald-faced resolve. "But far worse has come to bearthis conflict than rumors of an aberrant curse. This goes beyond aissue of enmity between the Shadow Master and myself. Hard edence lies on record in the cities of Jaelot and Alestron. Twice, unpvoked, Arithon s'Ffalerm wielded sorcery against innocents wdestructive result. Now, in the course of the late war in Vastmarkmore dire accusation came to light. Since it may touch on the c~here at hand, I ask this gather'mg's indulgence."
The prince beckoned for the plain-clad man to mount the stairthe dais. "Your moment has come to speak."
The fellow arose to a scrape of rough boots, his occupation plainhis seaman's gait and hands horned in callus from a lifetime sp~hauling nets. Too diffident to ascend to the level of royalty, hechos stance alongside the accused clansman. His embarrassed g~remained fixed on his toes, unscuffed and shiny from a recent ref~bishing at the cobbler's.
"! was born a fisherman at Merior by the Sea," he opened. "WI~Arithon's brigantine, the Khetienn, was launched, I left my fathelugger to sign on as one of her crewmen. Under command of the Mter of Shadow, I bore witness to an atrocity no sane man could sa~tion. For that reason, I deserted, and stand here today. Wordmonstrous act at the Havens inlet must be told, that justice may colto be served."
 Then the words poured from him, often halting, tremulous wremembered horror. Too desperately, he wished to forget what hhappened on the summer afternoon as the Khetienn put into onethe deep, fissured channels, where the high crags of VastmEplunged in weather-stepped stone to the shoreline of Rockbay Hbor. Today, pallid under the window's thin sunshine, the seamrecounted the affra~ when two hundred archers under Arith s'Ffalenn had dispatched, without mercy, a company five hund~and thirty men strong.
"They were murdered!" the sailhand pealed in distress. "The v~guard were cut down in ruthless waves as they scrambled, exposon the cliff trails. More fell while launching boats in retreat. T1~were dropped in their tracks by volleys of arrows shot out of co~from above." The long-sighted seaman's eyes were raised nclocked to a horrified memory. As if they yet viewed the steep, sh~owed cliffs; the wave-fretted channel of the inlet; the still-runni rode erate
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FUGITIVE I)RINCE
 blood of men broken like toys in the brazen, uncaring sunlight. As
though, beyond time, living flesh could still cringe from thescreams
 of the maimed and the dying, scythed down in full flight, then tum­
bled still quick in their agony into the thrash of the breakers.
"Such slaughter went on, unrelenting." Before listenersstrangled
into shocked quiet, the damning account unfolded. Impelled now by
passionate outrage, scene after scene of inhumane practice were
described in the fisherman's slow, southcoast accent. "Thosewretches
 who fled were killed from behind. Any who survived to launch long­
boats did so by shielding their bodies behind corpses. Their valorand
 desperation made no difference. They were cut off as they sought to
make sail. Every galley turned in flight was run down and fired atthe
 mouth of the inlet. No vessel was spared. Even a fishing lugger bur­
dened with wounded was razed and burned to her waterline. Mercy
was forbidden, at Arithon's strict order. By my life, as I standhere,
and Dharkaron as my judge, the killing went on until no man who
tried landfall was left standing."
The fisherman stirred, came back to himself, and shifted hisfeet in self-consciousness. "All that I saw took place before the great routat Dier Kenton Vale." 
 The last line trailed into appalled, awkward stillness. Cityofficials sat in their numbed state of pride, pricked down the spine by anincomprehensible fear Their poise like struck marble, every veterancommander sweated inwardly, forced to accept that the wretched,slaughtered companies could as easily have been their own men.
The moment hung and then passed. Deep breaths were drawn intostopped lungs. Bodies shifted and hat feathers quivered, and humidhands fumbled through scrips and pockets in quest of comfortinghandkerchiefs.
 Then the floor loosened into talk all at once.
 "Ath show us all mercy!" The minister of the weaver's guildfanned a suety face with the brim of his unwieldy bonnet. "What sick­ness of mind would drive a human being to command such a letting0fblood?"
 "The killing appears to have been done for no reason," theKhetienn's deserter stressed mournfully. "No one who landed at theHavens survived. The wyverns there scavenged the corpses."
But the ambassador from Havish weighed the sailor's lidded gaze,that darted and shied from direct contact. Instinct suggested thiswit­ness had withheld some telling fact from his speech. For malice, per­haps, or personal rancor against his former captain, he might slanthis account to spark vengeful impetus to Lysaer's ongoing feud. 
25 
JANNY WURT$

 "But Arithon s'Ffalerm never acts without design." Timpact of Lysaer's rebuttal spun electrifying tension in.man alive is more clever, or sane. This Spinner of Da~have his reason, cold-blooded, even vicious, to haveffected such slaughter."
Lysaer stood, fired now by conviction which no Ickeep still. The light shimmered across his collar yoketemplate to his distress. "We know the scarps aboveVale were splintered into a rock fall. Earth itself was sweapon to break the proud ranks of our war host. If th~that territory are prone to slides, the ruin rained downwas a feat beyond all bounds of credibility. Whatexploitation of a natural disaster were the cause? Coufact have been used to cleave a new fault line? Even structure of the shale?"
 Disturbed murmurs swept the benches. Feathers ripivet hats tipped, as men shared their fears with their neigl
"Arithon s'Ffalenn was born to mage training!" ~exhorted above the noise. "Through his seemingly wanat the Havens, could he not have tapped the arcane powvery fabric of the earth?"
On orchestrated cue, the shriveled little man in scstarted up from his unobtrusive dreaming. "The premisout precedent," he affirmed in a drilling, treble quaveproscribed practices that herb witches use to tap foremagnetism."
A stunning truth. Every common man-at-arms who e~illicit love philter had observed the filthy practice.
"These distasteful creatures will slay a live animal, tl~ing spells from the spilled effervescence of its life essenc,more potent the power to be gained, if the sacrificialhuman?" The scholar cast his accusation above an un~ lous anger. "Be sure, the massed deaths of five hundredbe enough to cleave the very mountains in twain t~unconscionable destruction on our troops!"
"The question is raised," Avenor's deep-voiced juthrough the uproar. He nodded in respect to hisaddressed the bound clansman. "If the Master of Sha~ dark magecraft, the preeminent arcane order on this conlstepped forth to denounce him. The Fellowship Sorceispoken. Nor have they acted to curb his vile deeds. TtAlthain himself is said to feel each drop of blood spilh 
26 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Every death at the Havens would be known to him. Why should helet this atrocity pass?"A mayor in the front row raised an imperious fist. "The oppositehas happened, in practice!"A scathing point; more than once, the Sorcerers had stood as^rithon's spokesmen.
Havish's royal ambassador stiffened, then stamped down hisurgent protest. In even-handed fairness, hard against their betterjudgment, the Fellowship Sorcerers had also endorsed today's returnof the princess's purloined ransom. Lysaer's avoidance of that truthwas duplicitous. Pained by the loyalty due his own king, the ambas­sador endured through the unjust malignment, while Avenor's justi­ciar widened the charges in his sonorous, gravelly bass.
"What is the Fellowship's silence, if not evidence ofcollaboration? By this lack of intervention, events would suggest that theSorcerers may support all of Arithon's actions against us."
"They gave their vaunted sanction to Rathain's crown prince,"Etarra's Lord Harradene allowed. "If the Fellowship stands togetheras the Shadow Master's ally, the consequence can't be dismissed.They may have become corrupted. If they deem the use of dark mage­craft as no crime, Prince Lysaer, as the public defender of the inno­cent, would naturally be obstructed in his legitimate claim to ruletysan."
The clan prisoner's sharp protest became shouted down byanother voice as accented as his own. "Now there's a braw, cantingspiel, well fitted for a mealymouthed lawyer!"
Mute on the benches, the ambassador from Havish shut his eyes inrelief.
 Volatile as spilled flame in the red-and-gold surcoat ofAlestron's unvanquished clan dukes, Mearn s'Brydion, appointed delegate ofhis brother, sprang up in pacing agitation. "While you bandy conjec­ture in mincing, neat words, let us pay strict attention toprocedure! Ifthis slaughter at the Havens ever happened, where's hard proof?" Hecast suspicious gray eyes toward the sailhand, impervious himself tothe looks turned his way by townsmen distrustful of his breeding."Or will you sheep dressed in velvets let yourselves be gulled by theword of a man disaffected?"
 As the deckhand surged forward, flushed into outrage, Mearnraised a finger like a blade. "I've not said you're a liar! Notoutright.Arithon's a known killer, that much I grant. I witnessed the debaclehe caused in our armory. But whether his slaughter of these compa­nies at the Havens took place as a blood crime, or some cruel but 
JANNY WURTS 

expedient act of war, the killing was done on the soil of Shand. Canmix your legalities for convenience. Town law won't apply to a kin~dom. Under sovereignty of Shand's founding charter, as written bthe Fellowship of Seven, Prince Arithon's offense is against LotErlien, High Earl of Alland. As caithdein of that realm, the Tes'Taleyn is charged to uphold justice in the absence of his high kinIThe question of Prince Arithon's guilt falls under his province !determine."
 "What is the old law to our city councils?" cried the plump, ri~boned spokesman from Isaer. "Just hot wind and words! TI~caithdeins' authority was broken when the uprising threw dowcrown rule. And even if our mayors cared to bow to dead precedenthas this new evidence against Arithon not tainted the clans' leg~claim? What if the Fellowship's morals are debased? Shall we waand watch our cities become victimized?"
 Talk rose, scored through by a treble run of panic. Even thesallo~ bored Seneschal of Avenor thumped his stick fist to be heard. "Shoulwe risk being deceived, or stay willfully blind, then suffer the samruin that leveled whole buildings in Jaelot?"
From all quarters of the chamber, heads turned. Ones bare anclose cropped to accommodate mail, and others fashionably coife~Earrings swung, and jewelry chinked, as every face trained on thPrince of the Light. He alone could speak for both factions, throughard-won respect and ties to an old blood inheritance.
Yet it was Lord Shien, joint captain of Avenor's field troops,whos remark stormed the floor into quiet. "If the barbarian before th~council was sent as an envoy to declare his chieftain's enmity, whave sure trouble here at home!" A large man, with meaty, chappeknuckles and a frown that seemed stitched in place, he raised the bubellow he used to cow recruits. "And whether or not the Master c Shadow has embraced wickedness, or sacrificed lives to buy powedissent from the clans will give him a free foothold here to exploit.~ dare not allow such a weakness. Not before such dire threat."
 Attention swung back. Like blood in the water amidst schoolinsharks, men fastened their outrage upon the offender held boun,within reach. "Sentence the archer! Condemn him for treason! LE him die as example to his brethren!"
"Do that," interceded the long-faced justiciar, "and according ttown edict, he dies on the scaffold, broken one limb at a time."
"He was sent to contest a legitimate point of law!" Mearn s'Br~dion warned. "Take his life in dishonor, and your clans here wi~never be reconciled." 
. Can't t king-ken by'Lord e Teir t king.ace to 
~, rib­! The down ~ents,legal.~ wait 
allow,nould same 
and oifed. the 'ough 
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Bry­will 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 "A child knows better than to break into state chambers bearing
arms!" a southcoast mayor bristled back.
Inexorably, sentiment aligned. The delivery of the chieftain'smes­sage had been insolent, a mockery of civilized practice. No townsmanremembered the bygone tradition, when a ceremonial arrow gavesymbolic exchange of a high king's censure from his liegemen. Wherethose old ways once forestailed needless bloodshed, now, they wereseen as provocation. The trade guilds had suffered too many losses inclan raids to trifle with forgotten forms of etiquette. Nor was LordShien inclined toward forgiveness. Not when his divisions had beenheld home in Tysan, guarding the roads from the spree of vengefulambushes launched after Lady Maenalle's execution. His bloodburned in balked rage for those companies marched south, everycomrade in arms to perish untimely of a sorcerer's fell tactics inVast-mark.
 Only the ambassador from Havish regarded the clan prisoner withpity. The man waited, his stance easy. His attention never shiftedfrom the face of the prince on the dais.
Lysaer s'Ilessid withheld intervention. Serene as smoothedmarble,his form touched in light like the finished planes of a masterpiece,he allowed the dissonant chaos of argument to roll and rebound andgain force. He listened for the moment when his disparate factionsbecame unified, their imprecations a shouted resonance of passion,crying for blood in redress.
Then he held up one hand. A spark snapped from his palm, thesmallest manifestation of his gift. But the flare of illuminationcracked like a whip through raw noise and engendered immediate silence.
Before venomous animosity, he stayed detached, his diamonds likefrost on a snowfield. Then he inclined his head to the captive beforehim. "You're fully aware, a vote cast now will condemn you. Townlaw has small mercy. You could suffer a brutal public maiming beforedeath."
 The clansman said nothing.
Lysaer used the pause. While the atmosphere simmered in fierceanticipation, his study encompassed every minister, hard breathing invelvets and furs. The officers of war endured his regard,unflinching,then the mayors, with their gnawing, hidden fear. The prince theyhad signed into power was royal, closer in ties to clan ancestry thanthey wished. The price of their protection from the Spinner of Dark­ness might come at the cost of their coveted autonomy.
Yet to refute the traditions of city law outright, Lysaer had toknow,he would flaw the amity of their support. Foremost a statesman, he 
29 
JANNY WARTS 

showed no hesitation. "The case of your clans might have fared bestby waiting. Before you shot down your colorful ultimatum, youcould have heard out my answer to this document." He fingered thetorn scroll of parchment in unfeigned regret, as he added, "For yousee, I have no intent to accept the burden of crown rule at thistime."
 After the first, indrawn gasp of surprise, a stunned stillness,as i~ the overheated air had hardened to glue, with every man gaping althe prince.
Lysaer showed long-suffering equanimity. "There are truths to t~conflict against the Master of Shadow even I have withheld from gen.eral knowledge. I wish above all to avoid seeding panic. After thefail. ure of our late campaign, we need order more than ever to rebuild."
He had his factions riveted, the ambassador saw, struck by asurgeof admiration.
 "Arithon s'Ffalenn may have been born a man, but he has foregon~his humanity," Prince Lysaer resumed. "His birth gift presents arunspeakable threat. This, paired with his use of unprincipled magicredoubles our peril before him." Lest the quiet give way to freshalter cation, Lysaer delivered his solution. "I sit before you as thiscrimi hal's opposite, my gift of light our best counterforce to offset 1~shadow. For this reason, I must decline Tysan's kingship. My purpo~against Arithon must stay undivided for the sake of the safety of ottpeople."
The logic'was unassailable. Defeat on a grand scale had shown th~futility of choosing one battlefield for confrontation. Theinevitabl~ striving to forge new alliances, to restore shaken trust afterbroadscal~ ruin, then the wide-ranging effort to buy a mage-trained enemy':downfall, must draw this prince far afield from Avenor.
He said, "For the stability of this realm, I suggest that aregency b~appointed in my name, answerable to a council of city mayors. Tiffwill serve the crown's justice and bind Tysan into unity until thedayhave an heir, grown and trained and fit beyond question for th~inheritance of s'Ilessid birthright."
The stroke was brilliant. Havish's ambassador noted a spark ocomprehension hood the eyes of Mearn s'Brydion.
Though the prisoner pointed out in acerbity that the realm'caithdein held an earlier appointment to the selfsame office, butwith out formal ties to city government, his case was passed over. O1~hatreds lay too long entrenched. Throughout the chamber came,squeaking of benches, a nodding of hats, as guarded interest ease~the tensions of mayors and guild magnates. The most hardened eyfor intrigue, the most shrewd mind for statecraft, must appreciat 
3O 
 best Vou ~] the 
as if 
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FUGITI~/E PRINCE
 that Lysaer gave up nothing beyond the trappings of crown and title.Sovereign power would largely reside in his hands. Except townbornpride would be salved. The uneasy transition back into monarchycould proceed with grace and restraint.
City mayors would keep their veneer of independence. By the timethey left office, their successors would wear the yoke ofconsolidated rule as comfortably as an old shoe."We shall have a new order, tailored for this time of need. Pastcharter law forbids the cruelty of maiming. And this is Avenor,
where my dominion is not in dispute." Lysaer stepped to the edge of thedais, pale as lit flame against oncoming storm as clouds choked thesky past the casement. Whether his gifted powers of light touched
his aura, or whether his gold trim and diamonds shimmered in unquietreflection, the effect was magnificence unveiled.
The ambassador from Havish forced himself to look away from thebrilliance, the drawing pull of a gifted man's charisma, as theprince'sfired, clear diction pronounced final sentence upon the clan archer.
"Here is your fate, by my word as s'Ilessid. Your hand shed noblood. But an ultimatum against me was tendered by your caithdein,Lord Maenol s'Gannley. For that, you go free as my spokesman. Mysafe conduct will see you outside the city gates. Tell Maenol this:
he may come to Avenor before the spring equinox and present himselfbefore me on bent knee to beg pardon. Let him swear fealty in behalfof his clan chieftains, and no one suffers redress. But if he
refuses,should he declare open war, I will enact sanctions in reprisal fortrea­son against all the people of your clans."
A murmur swelled from the benches, slammed still by Lysaer'sbrisk shout. "Hear the rest! I have funds at hand to rebuild the east-shore trade fleet. Every galley and vessel which burned in my serviceat Minderl Bay will be replaced at Avenor's expense. I promise thatevery merchant who receives restitution will suffer no more raids atsea. The Master of Shadow and his minions will think twice about attacking with fire, since the newly launched ships shall be mannedat the oar by chained convicts. Condemned men fairly sentenced as ^rithon's collaborators, and as of this hour, take warning: Maenol'sown people, if he fails to bind his clansmen under my banner to takearms against Arithon of Rathain."
To the headhunters' stiff-backed dismay, Lysaer granted swiftreas­surance. "Bounties will not be repealed for renegade clan scalps. Butif Maenol s'Gannley refuses his allegiance, double coin will be ten­dered for each male barbarian captured and brought in alive."
For a moment, as if deafened by a thunderclap, the clan archer did 
JANNY WURTS 

not move. Then he drew breath like a rip through strained cloth igave answer in blazing contempt. "If any small blessing can be priout of tragedy, I thank Ath my Lady Maenalle never lived to see thwill return to her grandson, caithdein of this realm, and tell him,threaten us with slavery."
Nothing more did he say as his bonds were released, and gua~men were dispatched to see him on his way through the gates.
The ambassador from Havish used the confusion to slip thro~the ranks of halberdiers. Outside in the corridor, he ducked into a vdow niche, while the sweat dewed his temples and curled the s~hairs of his beard. This was not his fight. And yet, even still, hism seemed loath to relinquish the pull of Lysaer's seductive delivery.
The prince owned a terrifying power of conviction. Thirty thsand lives gone and wasted in Vastmark had left his dedica!unshaken. Nor would his adherents awaken and see sense, tied toneed as they were through inherited blinders of prejudice.
The tramp of the men-at-arms and the clansman they esco~dwindled, then faded away beyond hearing. Outside, white on gnew snow dusted downward. The wind's biting cold seemed to s.through the casement and strike an unmerciful ache in the heart.'ambassador shook off the memory of Mearn s'Brydion's thin featuseething in stifled restraint, his clanborn outrage no doubt throt~silent by some stricture from his brother, the duke.
Worn from the effort of leashing his own temper, the ambassafrom Havish shook out his linen cuff and blotted his dampened f~The word he must bear home to his liege boded ill.
On both sides, the corridor was deserted, its white marble arcbathed chilly silver by stormlight. Lysaer's voice carried throughopened door in fiery address to his council. "We are gathered ?today to begin the long work of uniting all kingdoms againstMaster of Shadow. Given his acts of evil, there exists no moral c~promise. Our task will not ease until no dwelling remains on this ctinent where ignorance will lend him shelter. We are come, in úhour, to found an alliance to act against terror and darkness."
Steps pattered across the council room as someone inside move~remedy the door left ajar Sickened, tired, afraid for the future ~anxious to embark on his downcoast run back to Havish, King Eldambassador hastened away, too burdened to risk hearing more. 
32 Spring 5648 
Stag Hunt
 Two months after Lysaer s'Ilessid leveled charges of dark sorceryagainst Arithon s'Ffalenn, the horror instilled by the ruin of the
war host had magnified itself into rumors and uneasy fear. Households inmourning for those fallen on the field did not celebrate the
festivals. Avenor seemed engrossed by industry, as men of war paid in gold fornew swords and laid avid plans to sign on recruits to bolster theirdecimated garrison.
At least one free spirit inside city walls chafed at the endless,longcouncils. Mearn s'Brydion, the rakish youngest brother of the clan-born Duke of Alestron, slammed the door from his quarters andstrode into the ice melt which pooled the cobblestone street. Today,the state garments laid out by his servants had been ditched for abriar-scarred set of worn leathers. In wild joy gloved over simmeringtemper, he snapped in the disapproving faces of his servants, "LetPrince Lysaer's stool-sitting councilmen share their pompous hotwind amongst themselves."
This morning, he would fare out hunting for pleasure, andbedamned to his current assignment as the douce representative ofhis family.
The gray, weeping mists wadded over the battlements failed todampen his fired mood. Draped on Mearn's shoulder like a desert-man's blanket, the scarlet horsecloth with the s'Brydion blazon threwa splash of sharp color against the drab dress of guild craftsmen whohurried, sleepy-eyed, to their shops. The pair of brindle staghounds 
33 ~ANNY WURTS 
just liberated from the kennel yapped at his feet, muddied tofrom their bowling play through the puddles.
Mearn's laconic, off-key whistles scarcely checked thei~ance. His hounds charged amok, tails slashing, to disgruntlein their path. The racket raised Avenor's rich matrons from s~a few howled complaint from cracked shutters. MearnWhile geese honked, and chickens flapped in squawking ffalley cats fluffed tails and bolted, the carters loosed ils!curses above the manes of their shying teams. Mearn ronslaught of outrage with bright-eyed, impervious humor.
He was clanblood enough to relish the upset his antics ca~man townborn. No one was brash enough to hinder him. Thclipped accent turned heads and roused threats, Lysaerdecreed that any old blood family bound to his alliance mi.Avenor's streets with impunity. The duke's youngest brothe~his happy tumult into the royal stable yard and shouted forbring his horse.
Patience sat ill with Mearn. He slapped his riding whip atboot in brisk tempo while the grooms fetched and bridled hiHe paced. The horsecloth hooked over his shoulder flappcbreeze each time he spun on his heel. Restlessness rode his fflike hot sparks, while the deer hounds bounded in frenzied ~around him.
 At last, infected past discipline, they bayed their uncont~Their deep belling note spooked the highbred charger, w~and upset the rake the new horseboy had forgotten to tidy.
Milling, shod hooves crushed the handle to splinters. Tflung back, snapped its head tie, and added its thunderoustion by galloping loose through the stable yard.
Mearn cursed the groom for his inept hands, then toss~copper for his trials. In his bitten clan dialect he added ]which raised the eyebrows of the drayman who idled besid~nessed team. Then he insisted to all inside earshot that he she die his mount for himself.
 "Please, no lord! I dare not allow you," the groom stamm~faced. The rest of the yard boys had wisely made themselv~"Our Master of Horse would see me thrashed bloody if he caslacking my duties."
"He'll thrash you anyway," Mearn argued. "Or does he nyour charges fly loose?" He pursed his narrow lips in disIemitted a piercing, high whistle. His bitch hound howled iwith the noise, but the charger, obedient, stopped its clatterh 
34 belly 
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FUOlTII7E I~RINCE
 It poised blowing, its high neck arched and its ears swiveledback, lis­
tening to its master's approach.
Meam's grumbling irritation changed to endearments. Hestroked
 the bay's glossy shoulder. Then he laughed and spoke acommand
 through the redoubled yaps of his hounds.
The horse turned, dealt him a companionable shove, thentrailed
 him like a puppy as he recrossed the stable yard.
"Fetch out my saddle, and then get you gone!" Mearn called to
the fidgety groom. "This gelding never did like a town-whelped
 runt. Likely you'd just find your skinny butt nipped as youtried to ar~v fasten his girth." Suddenly all pared efficiency, he tossedhis bla­~ his zoned saddlecloth over the horse's back. As the boy stillhovered, he
purpose in
ssid stand  added, "Hurry on! Do you think the deer will wait while you  
calk  there?"  
~ghtheel,y towhet- Minutes later, Mearn vaulted astride, shouted his hounds to and wheeled his mount through the gate. A razor-edged irony  
ted his smile. 
to  As his three older brothers would laugh themselves prostrate  
explain, he held stag hunts in passionate contempt. His  

plying the wilds alone was for game and stakes far larger,dangerous
enough that he risked his life as forfeit.
Belying even the semblance of secrecy, Meam made hisracketing,
flamboyant departure through the moil of the early-springmarket.
 Chaos surged in his wake. Curs barked, and carriages swerved,and
 crated sows squealed in their wagon beds. Even the boredguards on 
 Avenor's inland battlement were relieved to see his turmoil pass the
gates.
He reined off the muddy road into the shrinking, gray moundsof
 01d snowdrifts. The bare, tangled boughs of the oak forestsengulfed
his whipping scarlet horsecloth and his laughing whoops tohis
 horse. The baying of his hounds rode the land breeze, untildistance
 mellowed that also. The s'Brydion line was clanbred, barbaricto the
 bone. Lysaer's captains agreed that their envoy from Alestronwas
 unlikely to be troubled by his murdering, woodland kindred,even
 had any of Tysan's blood chieftains dared to skulk in thebogs within
reach of Avenor's armed might.
The spring was too new for greenery. Ice still scabbed thenorth
 sides of the dales, and the air held its chill like a miser.What warmth 
streamlets. Meam 
if mantled  kissed Mearn's shoulders was borrowed from the sun, half­ 
~d  in streamers of cloud. Their shadows flowed like blown soot  
across  
~s  the valleys, and rinsed the bright glints from the  

~t. gave on his reins, let his horse and his hounds drink thewind at a 
]ANNY WURTS 
run, as man and beast might to celebrate life as frost loosed its]on black earth.
 He carved further inland, his horse settled to a trot, thrcdeeper thickets and trackless mires, beyond range of Lysaer's rforesters. His hounds coursed ahead. If their quarry was not al~a swift-running deer, their master scarcely cared. The hound cobadgered any game they could flush. Wild lynx, or red fox, no tto their training, they were left to track as they pleased, and.whipped off the scent if their hunt veered them northwar~south.
 Due east, Mearn was bound, his brother's ducal blazon now rtied beneath the drab folds of his cloak.
 By noon, under pallid gold sunlight, he reached a bare hillock,:tered with wind-stripped, buff grass. He drew rein there,mounted, loosened his girth. His stag hounds flopped, pantinIsnap at the tickle of dried seed heads as though they were bothby flies. The bitch whined. The horse shook its mane and rubbesweated headstall against Mearn's leather-clad hip.
He shoved back the gelding's nose with a gently spoken epithetrace of roguish pleasure erased from his taut, narrow features.year and events had changed him. His quick mind and observan!were bent now toward other pursuits than tumbling loose ladiesgambling. The breath of the breeze fanned a chill on his neck.lovelock he had worn since his first growth of beard shorn off inpurpose since Vastmark.
A dove called, mournful, from a thicket.
Mearn swung about at the sound, raised the corner of his c]and unveiled the ducal blazon. Then he found himself a dry, flatin a cranny, and sat out of the wind while his horse grazed.
A slow interval passed, with Mearn touched to prickles by thetain awareness that he was being watched from all angles. Then,no ceremony, a young man moved upslope to meet him.approach scarcely woke any sound from dry grasses. He ~undyed leathers and a vest with dark lacing. He carried bow, kand sword as if weapons were natural as flesh. Large framed, delate, he had a step like a wary king stag's. His light eyes, neverswept the hillock behind, then Mearn, and measured him down t.boot soles. On that day, the high chieftain of Tysan's outlawed c]men was nineteen, one year shy as the old law still reckoned rhood.
 "Lord Maenol, Teir s'Gannley, caithdein of Tysan," Mearn gre~He arose, inclined his head in respect, and shared grief for the gr. 
36 ts hold 
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FUGITIVE PRINCE
 son, whose titles and inheritance now burdened his young shouldersthrough Lysaer's murder of his predecessor.Unlike the deceased Lady Maenalle, the heir returned neitherwel­come nor greeting. He stood, chin tilted, silent, while the gustsflicked the laces on his clothing.
No whir less stubborn, Mearn met that challenge with a sheared,bright-edged smile. If the s'Brydion ancestral stronghold had with­stood the wars of the uprising; if his family owed fealty to anotherkingdom and another chieftain on the farthest shore of the
continent,the ways of charter law and the old codes of honor were still held
in common with Tysan's clans in Tysan. Shared trust ran deep beyondwords.
 "You have taken an unmentionable risk to come here," the boysaid at last in his startling, mellow baritone.
"I bear unmentionable tidings," Mearn countered. "And a packet,bound for Arithon, sewn in the lining of my saddlecloth. I wentthrough Sithaer itself to keep that from the handling of Lysaer'soverzealous pack of grooms." He added, "You'll want to read thecontents before you send them on. Your clans are the ones mostthreatened."
 Tysan's young caithdein took that ominous statement in stride;such troubles were scarcely new. His own parents had fallen to head­hunters. "It's risky to be sending late dispatches across," hepointedout, vexed more for the snags in the timing. "Arithon plans to sailas soon as the weather settles."
 Small need to dwell on the risk of disaster, if their covertcrossingsto his island haven at Corith were sighted. The fair, warming weatherwould see the first trade galleys nosing their way from snug harbors,the earliest at sea always manned by the keenest, most vigilant cap­tains.
 "I leave that decision in your hands, then." Mearn strode to his grazing horse, removed girth and saddle, and sat down with theredolent, damp horsecloth. He used his knife to pick out the hemstitching. The packet inside was wrapped in cerecloth, by its weightand thickness no less than purloined copies of state documents.
"Oh, well-done," murmured Maenol. Still standing, stiff backed,against a sky that now threatened fine drizzle, he nipped through thetwine ties with his teeth, then flipped through the pressed, foldedparchments. The dark arch of his eyebrows turned grim as he read.Documents recording rightful claim to clan prisoners to be bound overinto slavery; documents of arraignment without trial for acts t)fdark sorcery, attested and signed, which named Prince Arithon criminal 
37 J^~. W~$
 and renegade. Maenol's sharp features, never animated, stilled to p
quartz as he perused the signatures and seals.
"Merciful Ath," the words torn through his reserve as if jerked
the barbed bite of steel. "Is there no end? How can so many may~
bind these acts into law, upon no proof or surety beyond Lysae
spoken word? It's not canny!"
"It's happened," Mearn said. "I've seen. Lysaer has a tongue li
pure honey. Fiends plague, my own family once fell for his trump~
up cause before we discovered any better. I'll need a courier sent
warn my brother Bransian."
Maenol looked up. "That you'll have." He paused, squared fing~gripping the first lists and requisitions appointed for the plannroyal shipyard; for the galleys where his people might come to su~at the oar, under the whip and in chains. He took a moment, seemto gather himself, then asked, "Is this truth, the accusation Lys~s'Ilessid has laid against Prince Arithon at the Havens?"
Mearn looked back, intent, his mouth turned glass hard. "I dolknow." He could not stay seated, but pushed to his feet, pressuredvent his raw nerves. "But there's one proven fact every charge sothas omitted. Arithon lost his mage powers years ago, in defense of 1own by the river Tal Quorin. If the slaughter at the Havens was colmitted to enable an act of dark sorcery, his hand could not shape tspells."
"The deaths could be his," Maenol said, blunt. "He could haused an accomplice."
Mearn stopped. As his gaze bore into the younger man, relexlessly direct, Tysan's caithdein raised his chin and would neitherbel nor stand down. "I'm this realm's steward, in the absence of its kin~must ask, since our fate's been entangled with Arithon's. As a mawhose talents were blinded and broken, who knows to what lengtdesperation might drive him to wrest back his gift for grand ccjury?"
"You never met him," Mearn said, implacable.
"Once." Maenol all of a sudden seemed heartsore. He star~ toward the wood where a pheasant pair called, while the breeframed the unrestrained joy of a lark. "I was eleven. Arithon seem~retiring, unimportant at the time. All my devotion was for our f~s'Ilessid prince, just arrived. I couldn't imagine he'd betray us."
Mearn at last looked away, his sigh a soundless exhalatic"Arithon's nothing like his half brother. Trust me in this. As for ~guilt, there's no guessing, given the nature of the man. He's det~mined, and beyond any doubt, the most dangerous creature my fa~ 
38 tuned suffer emed ysaer 
:ton't ed to O far ~f his 
' the 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 ily has ever chanced to cross." Attuned to his master's distress,
one of the brindle hounds roused and whined; the horse stamped, anddouds lowered, dimming the earth beneath their soft-footed shroud­ing. The sky threatened torrents before nightfall.
"This much I can say," Mearn added finally, his arms folded asif the chill of the wetting to come later bit through his leathersbefore­time. "I have never yet known Arithon to lie. He received the
Fellow­ship's sanction as Crown Prince. Since his oathswearing to Rathain,his integrity has been tested, once in life trial by the caithdein
of $hand, and again, by my blood family. His morals were not foundwanting. No act he undertook had been done without reason. Before Idared judge on those deaths at the Havens, I would ask in his pres­ence to hear out his sworn explanation."
The breeze hissed through the grasses, rich with the bearing
promise of thawed soil.
"Well," Maenol shrugged in that steely light fatalism better

suited to a man years older, "the tangle won't be yours or mine to unravel,but Earl Jieret's, as Rathain's sworn caithdein. If a boat can be
sent,your dispatches will go across. Given luck, Arithon can be reachedbefore he sails. Rest assured, my runner to your kin in Melhalla
will leave my camp before nightfall."
"One last thing," Mearn said as he offered his forearms for aformal clasp in parting. "Lysaer has set scholars to work. They'll comb theold archives until they've recovered the past arts of navigation."
"So Arithon expected," said Maenol. The practice of star sights,disused and forgotten through the centuries while Desh-thiere's mistshad smothered Athera's skies, could not stay lost for much longer.For each day his Khetienn delayed her departure, the risk ofdiscoveryincreased. Ancient charts might be found, or a rutter, to recall thelocation of the offshore Isles of Min Pierens. Arithon held neither the resources nor the men to repel an assault from the tumbledownfortress at Corith.
 To be caught there would drive him to flight.
Aware like cold death that time was Lysaer's ally, the two clans­men went separate ways. In birdsong, the day waned, while the gen­tle rain fell and pattered chill tears through the dark, blurredbrakes of the oak forest. 
39 

Spring-Summer 5648 
Three Warnings 
The day after Meam's duplicitous stag hunt, couriers bearingsame copied dispatches ride outbound from Avenor, their horse tralpings emblazoned with the sunwheel on gold, new device of t~Prince of the Light; and they pass another messenger inbound frothe south, who delivers King Eldir's ultimatum, that slave-bearigalleys henceforward shall be barred from all ports in his KingdomHavish ....
 While dawn mists mantle the oak forests of Avenor, a black arr~screams over the ci walls, shot from a clan messen er's bowstrin
ty ggaffixed to its shaft, sealed in Maenol s'Gannley's blood, a letterpronounces a forfeit of life against the s'Ilessid pretender who hasdarec break the freedom of the first kingdom charter....
Far eastward, in the greenwood of yet another kingdom, the cl~blood chieftain named Earl of the North cries out in torment from h~ dreams; and the warning delivered by his gift of Sight shows a packe~city square with a scaffold, cordoned about with white banners and~dazzle of sunwheel blazons, and chained there for the blade of alic execution is his sworn liege, the Prince of Rathain .... 
4O Spring-Summer 5648
 the ~!~
 trap­
the ~rorn aring)m 0~ 
rrow ring;p ro­ared 
Ilan-L his ked ~d a 
II. Fugitive Prince
 The prophetic dream broke on a scream of sheer rage, torn from
the throat of a doomed prince.
A second, real cry became its live echo, wrung in drawn
agony from the caithdein sworn to life service of liege and realm.
Jieret, Teir's'Valerient, and Earl of the North snapped awake inRathain with the vision's cruel vista seared into indelible memory.Unmindful of peace, deaf to the birdsong which layered the springdawn in the woodland outside his lodge tent, he eased himself free ofhis wife's tangled limbs and arose from the blankets to stand shiver­ing. Unsettled, naked, he sucked down breath after breath of chillair. The close, familiar smells of tanned deer hide and oiled steel, andthe pitchy bite of cut balsam failed to restore him to balance. "Ath keep our sons!" he gasped through locked teeth.
He could not shed his Sight of the last s'Ffalenn prince,crumpledand still in the swift, welling spurt of his life's blood.
"Another augury?" The bedding rustled. A lavish fall of hairstroked his back, then a cheek, laid against his taut shoulder; hiswife,arisen behind him, to link calming hands at his waist.
His tension would tell her the portent was ugly. Too often, insleep,the prescient vision he inherited from his father warned him of deathand trouble.
 Jieret raked long fingers through his ginger beard. He braced his 
41 
JANNY WURTS

 nerve, spun, and enfolded his lady into his possessive embrace.sorry, dove." The soft, misted peace of the greenwood seemeddenly, desperately precious. "I shall have to travel very far, veryThe life of our prince is at stake."
She would not question his judgment, not for that. Arithonwas the last of Rathain's royal line. Should he die with no heir,his ~ clansmen would forfeit all hope to reclaim their birthright.tt~
 Feithan's fingers unclasped, brushed down Jieret's flanks,withdrew. "How much spare clothing will you carry?" She caughthe blanket, still warm from their sleeping, and spread it to pack~necessities.
 Jieret bent, caught her wrists, and marveled as always.strength in her was a subtle thing, her bones like a sparrow's in h~
'!
 hands, which were broad and corded beyond his youthful years fr0~
relentless seasons of fighting. Their eyes met and shared mute

appeal
"I'11 take weapons and the leathers on my back, and you, first of
all.' 
A smile turned his lips. The expression softene~ the fierce planes ~
his face, and offset the hawk bridge of his nose. Leave the
blanket."~

 He rocked her against his chest, his touch tender. An urgency ~could scarcely contain spoke of the perils he must weather on the s01[tary trek that would take him to Tysan's western shore. Bounties wenstill paid for captured clansmen. Headhunters plied the wilds ~bands, their tracking dogs combing the thickets. Towns and traderoads were no less a hazard, choked with informers and guardsme~sent out recruiting to replenish the troops lost in Vastmark.
The wife in Jieret's arms would not speak of the risks. Strong asthe generations of survivors who had bred her, she absorbed his neec~then massaged to ease his old scars with skilled hands, until hekissed her and slipped free to dress.
Jieret s'Valerient, called Red-beard, was in that hour twenty-oneyears of age. Supple, self-reliant, clean limbed as the deer he randown in the hunt, he was rangy and tall, a being tanned out of o~bark. War and early losses had lent his hazel eyes more than a touchof gray flint. Jieret's inheritance of the caithdein's title hadfallen to him during childhood, both his parents and four sisters slain in oneday by town troops on the banks of Tal Quorin. On his wrist, eventhen, his first badge of achievement: the straight, fine scar fromthe knife cut which bound him lifelong to the honor of blood pact withhis prince. ,~~~Proud of his rugged courage, too shrewd to voice fear, Feithreached beneath their mattress of spruce boughs and tossed him ~worn, quilloned knife. ~ ce. "I'~ ed sua. Bi .~ry fast. ~'Ffalenn ~ his real~ 
~.S, and~ght upack his 
.s. The ;in his's from ~ppeal.c~f all." ~nes of ket." ~cy hete soli­
were lds in trade Ismen 
as the need,dssed 
y-onee ran ,f oak:ouch en to 1 one even a the with 
,than~ his 
FUGITI17E PRINCE 
She smiled, a nip of white teeth. "The sooner you go, the better thechance you'll be back to my lodge before autumn."
Then she folded slim knees behind her crossed arms and watched him bind on sheath and sword belt. If she wept, her tears were wellmasked behind tangles of ebony hair. Not on her last breath wouldshe voice her disappointment. If her young husband did not return,his line must live on in the child she knew to be growing within her.She would endure, no less than any other clan woman widowed in asudden, bloody raid.
Her husband was the oathsworn caithdein of Rathain, hisbirthrightan iron bond of trust. The needs of kingdom and prince must comefirst, ahead of survival and family.
Feithan held no rancor. If the Teir's'Ffalenn died, no clanbornbabe in Rathain could have peace. The future would be kingless, while thetownsmen continued their centuries-old practice of extirpation.Headhunters would keep sewing scalps of clan victims as trophyfringe on their saddlecloths, until at last the survivors dwindled,their irreplaceable old bloodlines too thinned by loss to sustain. 
 "Go in grace, my lord husband," were the last words she said, asher man kissed her lips and stepped out.
 Three days on foot through his native glens in Strakewood saw
Lord Jieret to the shores of Instrell Bay. There, a bribe to aWestfen
 fisherman secured his safe crossing to Atainia. From landfall just
north of the trade port of Lorn, Jieret faced an overland journey ofa
 hundred and fifty leagues. Anviled, rocky ridges arose off thecoast,
the country between summits guttered in dry gulches, and the scrub
thom which clawed stunted footholds in the sands of the Bittern
 Desert.
 Here, where a man made a target against the luminous sky, Jieretkept to the gullies. Sweat painted tracks through his coat of rimeddust. He jogged, walked, jogged on again, refusing to measure theodds that his errand was already futile.
The winter storms had abated. Any day, the Master of Shadowwould raise sail to ply the world's uncharted waters. He would seekthe fabled continent beyond the Westland Sea, and finally know ifAthera held a refuge beyond reach of the Mistwraith's curse.
The Sorcerer, Sethvir, Warden of Althain could have named PrinceArithon's location. Yet at dusk on spring equinox, when Jieret passedhis tower, the Fellowship held convocation. Where Sorcerers worked,the elements paid uncanny homage. The night air seemed charged tocrystalline clarity, the land lidded under a transparent sky with its 
43 
JANNY WURTS 

winds preternaturally silenced. Ozone tinged the silvered glwhich speared in beams from the keep's topmost arrow slits, a~earth itself seemed to ring to the dance of ancient arcane rhytl~Though the clans did not share the widespread fear in the tov~toward the powers called from natural forces, the man was a fool whheld no mortal dread of disrupting the Sorcerers' conjury.
Dawn saw Jieret on his way. His lanky stride ate the distantthrough the rocky, slabbed washes bedded with black sand, pud~still from the snowmelt off the lava crags to the north. Before thef0~ he veered west, to give the trade roads to Isaer wide berth. He kepttditches and hedgerows through the flax bogs and farmlands, anmoved softly by night where the headhunters scoured the flats.stolen horse saw him to cover in the tangled stands of spruce whipatchworked the Thaldein foothills.
There, better mounted by clansmen from Tysan, he galloped sou!with the relays who carried news between their fugitive enclaves ~Camris.
 The first scouts insisted the Master of Shadow would have left h~ winter haven at Corith.
 Flanked by a campfire, the first cooked meat in his belly sinceth desert, and his undone braid fanned in hanks upon shoulders stiglazed from a wash in a freshet, Jieret said, "I know that.". Thbronze bristle of his jaw thrust out and hardened. "I have to tryan~,way."
The scout who lounged across from him spat out the stem~sweetgrass he had meticulously used to scrub his teeth. "Fien›plague, then. Keep your bad news to yourself. We've heard enou~already from Avenor to turn our hearts sore with grief."
Every restive sinew in Jieret's body coiled tense. "What's ha]pened?" A late-singing mockingbird caroled through the gloom wita sweet and incongruous tranquillity. "What has Lysaer s'Ilessid do~now?"
 The scout spat into the embers and spoke, and amid the fragrarpiney gloom beneath the Thaldeins, Jieret Red-beard first heard of tledict which endorsed live capture and slavery.
"Spring equinox has passed, with the ultimatum given," the sco,finished off in bitten rage. "Our Lord Maenol would never swear, b'sent the false prince his black arrow proclaim'mg no quarter."
Lysaer's life, among the clans who by right should grant himfealt was now irrevocably called forfeit. Jieret had no words. The eve:posed a vicious and unnatural tragedy, a warping of tradition prvoked at its root by the evil of the Mistwraith's curse. 
44 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 The breeze carried the odd chill, breathed down from the snow­fields, bathed pristine white under starlight. Jieret felt as if the
cold inside had closed stealthy knuckles around the heart. He sat, eyesshut, and his knees clamped behind his clasped hands. "Events haveturned grim in ways even Ath could scarce believe. How are you setwhen the headhunters start the spring forays?"
"Well enough." The scout shrugged. "Troops and supplies are
depleted since Vastmark. We'll have a year, maybe two, before
Lysaer's Alliance regroups, but mark me. Then we'll see sorrows."

For a moment, like the drawn-out whisper of old grief, the windstroked through the greening briar. Then the scout tipped his
grayinghead. "You'll need to go back," he urged, gentle. "Our people willcarry your message from here. No better can be done. The Khetiennwill have sailed. If she has, your wait for your prince could belengthy."
The stiff pause came freighted with facts left unspoken: thatwhether or not the Master of Shadow had passed beyond reach, theheadhunters' leagues in Rathain were ever in Lysaer's close confi­dence. The defeats freshly suffered at Arithon's hand, then the loss
of their late captain Pesquil by Jieret's own arrow, had fanned theirclamor for vengeance to fresh fervor.
"You see what must happen," the scout said in staid logic."Skannt's going to claim sanction from Etarra's fat mayor to harrowRathain's feal clans the same way."
"I know that." Jieret erupted in strung nerves, reached his feet,and resisted the blind urge to slam his fist into a tree. "Ath, forchained slavery? The guild merchants will cheer and donate the coin to forgemanacles. Morality's no deterrent. For years now, Etarrans have usedour child captives as forced labor." His back to the fire, he seemeda man racked, the passage of each breath made difficult. "I have to goon. What I know must not wait. Nor should my liege hear my word atsecond hand."
 By the embers, the scout swore in sympathy.
Forced to the crux of a terrible decision, Jieret summed up trou­bled thoughts. "My clans are more to me than the spirit in my body,but I am not irreplaceable. The Fellowship can appoint a newcaithdein for Rathain if my liege is not at hand to make his choice.Myspokesman, Deshir's former war captain, Caolle, would agree. Heknows the warning I bring is an augury which bears on PrinceArithon's life."
 The last of his line, this fugitive Teir's'Ffalenn; threat to himended all argument. 
 JANNY WURTS

 "Ath guard your way, then," the scout said, blunt asmetal. "May the clans in the south speed your journey."
 Jieret crossed the Thaldein passes, dismissed his friendlyand grew lean and browned from hiding in ditches through theendale's sun-drenched, plowed farmsteads. He took no careless ~But headhunters picked up his trail west of Cainford. He lefthounds dead, and two men, and limped on with bound ribs and a cwith a festering dog bite. The hedge witch he challenged atfor healing cursed his barbarian tongue, then tried to sell him ~lamulet snagged together from squirrel skin and the strung vertebra~a grouse.Jieret refused her the price of a cut lock of his bronze hair."'Twould be useful for bird snares," the crone muttered. She sfled over her sticky decoction, then knotted a bandage over ansmelling poultice with vindictive and sharp ferocity.~:
 "I like the birds free, and myself most of all." Jieret wanted toflinc~ at her handling, but dared not, with his dagger point pressed to h~back. The crone's hovel had nesting sparrows in its eaves, and the p~on her brazier leaked. Poverty and townborn contempt for her s~ples had leached all her pride in her trade. Jieret harbored thecynic~suspicion that any offering from his person would be sold back ~headhunters by nightfall, twined into a tracking spell to trace him.~
 Despite his need, the crone put a grudge in her remedies. Hisle~: swelled and ached. Through curses of agony, he tore the dress~away and soaked off the salves in a stream. Feverish, limping, h~thrashed his way south through the brush. A second pack of trackintdogs winded his scent and burst into yammering tongue. Freshly!imounted, their masters tried to run him to earth against the guard'~spells of a grimward, which no man living might cross. There, ~might have perished, inadvertently killed by Fellowship defenses setto keep trespassers from harm.
But clan hunters from Taerlin heard the commotion and spiritedhim downstream in a boat. Safe at last under Caithwood's dense cover, cosseted by a girl with cool hands, he slept off his lingeringwound sickness.
 Six weeks, since he had left his wife in Deshir. Early springexchanged lace-worked blossom and bud for the sumptuous mantleof summer. On the sandy neck of Mainmere Bay, Jieret was met by theclan chief whose ancestral seat lay in ruins across silvered waters.She had ridden hard to bear him a message, the scout in her companysaid. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 The hour was dusk, the sky, cloudless azure. Jieret crouched byher campfire under the eaves of scrub maples and spat out thebones of the rock bass netted for supper. While thrushes flutedclear notes through the boughs, and the deer emerged to nibble theverge of the bogs, he regarded the wizened little duchess who boreancient title to Mainmere. She watched him eat, her gnarled handsfolded. Along with age, she wore callus from sword and from bri­dle rein. The leathers belted to her waist were a man's, and shadedunder the fans of white lashes, her eyes met his own with starkpity.
"What's wrong?" Against the soft, sustained lisp of the breeze,Jieret sounded boisterous and unseasoned.
 Lady Kellis touched the battered satchel by her knee. "A docu­mented accusation by Avenor, made against your sanctioned prince."She resumed in her husked, worn alto. "My lord Maenol withheldthis one writ from the packet, for your hand alone, he insisted. Byyour sworn duty, this becomes your legal charge as caithdein ofRathain."
 Her fingers trembled as she loosened the strings of her parcel."For this, we risk another passage to see you safe into Corith. There's achance the Khetienn's departure was delayed. In the month when theice broke, the Shadow Master heard of Lysaer's proclamation of slav­ery. Word came back that he intended to make disposition on behalfof our clans."
 "What's the charge?" Jieret's appetite fled. He rinsed his handsin the leather bucket used earlier to sluice down his whetstone, in nohurry to accept the offered document.
But Lady Kellis had no reassurance to steady him. "I leave you toread," she said in blank reserve. "Then you must act as your oath toyour kingdom demands."
At first touch, the heavy, state parchment filled Jieret withtrepida­tion. He unfolded its leaves, braced as though handed the news of arecent fatality. Then he perused the first lines of official script,and his fists knotted from helpless rage. "But there was never a trial toaffirm this arraignment!"
The Duchess of Mainmere gave a dry laugh. "Be thankful. If therehad been, the towns would have seen your prince burn."
By the time Jieret finished, he was shaking. Traced bronze by theflame light, he bent his rangy shoulders and dammed silent miserybehind the locked palms of his hands.
A caithdein's given charge was the testing of princes, if theFellow­ship Sorcerers were preoccupied. The clans of Tysan were lawfully 
JANNY WURTS 

correct. Any accusation of dark sorcery against his liege belong~nowhere else but with him.
 Heavy of heart, Jieret tucked the document into his shirt. "Iwill ~: on to Corith. Find a boat quickly to bear me."
The grandame arose, touched his arm in mute sympathy, thenhim to a comfortless night. While the stars shimmered throughpuzzle-cut shapes of black leaves, the ugly duty before him at Corit!lent spin to his chafing fear. Rathain's sworn caithdein could notshak~ his dread, that his prescient dream of a city execution and Aven0r'!sealed writ of arraignment might share a fatal connection.
 Passage to the Isles of Min Pierens in a patched-up fishing smacitook three weeks, beating against the season's prevailing westerliesand bouts of calm between squall lines. As the little craftthrough the islands off the headland, Jieret crouched on the deckstripped down to his sun-scorched skin. Between his knees, he braceia bucket of damp sand against the wallowing roll of the deck. ~monologue of curses marked his ongoing effort to scrub the gree~bloom of mold from his leathers.
 "Man, lend it mercy," drawled the craft's only deckhand, perche~like a limpet halfway up the mast with orders to watch out forshoals. "Keep on that, and just weep when yer bollocks tumble out and dan.gle right pretty through the holes."
Jieret looked up, a squint to one eye as he took vengeful aimwith the holystone.
But the sailhand's snide interest had swung toward the land,where the high, russet rock notched the sky in crazed patterns. Turn.bled walls crowned the summit, bleached with sun, and the broke~eggshell rims of the keeps which remained of a Second Age fortressBeyond, unveiled by the sliding shift of vantage as the fishing smacknosed downwind, there arose a trim set of masts stripped of canvas,and a dark, lean hull, rocking serene at her anchorage.
"Swamp me for a half-wit!" cried the sailhand. "Who'd haverisked coin to wager? The Khetienn hasn't sailed after all."
Jieret reached his feet in a rushed, thoughtless movement, andth~~ bucket overset; a wet sludge of sand flooded over the offending setleathers. "Fiends plague!"
The language loosed next won a laugh from the boat's swarthycaptain. "Ach, let her go, lad! The deck won't see harm. For yourstripped buttocks, we'll scrounge a loan from our slop chest."
"My naked arse isn't like to be burned for dark sorcery," Jieretgroused, his distress not at all for soaked garments. He glowered 
48 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 across the closing gap of water. The brigantine's satin brightworkmocked him back, insolent, unmarred by the damage rough weathermight cause to drive her back into shelter. Nor did her decks holdindustrious crewmen, but languished untenanted in the heat. Jieret'sforeboding deepened. His liege should be long away from knownwaters, with no trouble too dire to stay him.
The hard-run little fishing smack put in and launched her doryover the side. "We'll hold off for your signal," said the captainfrom his squint-eyed perch at the rail.
Jieret settled into the tender's stern seat, still damp, but pre­sentable. He brooded throughout the approach to the strand, limnedin the flat glare of noon, the shade like slopped ink beneath thecedars. As the craft neared the shore, a figure built plump and roundas a partridge bobbed amid the rocks, craned a short neck, thenerupted into spectacular strings of epithets.
The oarsman listened, awestruck. "D'ye suppose yon one caught ahornet in his breeks?" He reversed his stroke, and the dory spunabout in the wash of a slack tide breaker. "A collection like that's a rare masterpiece. Never heard the like, not in any cutthroat dive thelength of the westshore dockside."
H'm speculation foundered against a peculiar, chilly reticenceas,boots gripped in hand, his profile like the anviled rim of a thunder­doud, the muscled young chieftain from Strakewood splashed thighdeep in the shallows.
"Well then," the crewman said, stoic. "I'll be off. Show us alightfrom the point if ye want passage back to the mainland."
Oars creaked. The dory reversed direction, leaving Jieret to wadethrough the surf.
The diatribe from the headland hiccuped through a pause, thenswitched key to outraged recognition. "Ath! It's yourself!" Jieret forbore to glance shoreward.
"He's not with you!" The fat man on the beach hopped the laststeps to the tidemark, shook his lard fist, and erupted, "Damn hislice-brained, sow-eared, rutting stubborn mind! He's bent on getting him­self killed."
 Jieret arrived on dry shingle. "Not with me?" he echoed. Stoppederect in noon glare while salt droplets sluiced runnels down hisankles, he gazed from full height into an unkempt, round face andsmoldering, cinnamon eyes.
"Turd-stupid, string-plucking goose," said Dakar, erstwhilespell­binder to a Fellowship Sorcerer, and known far and wide as the MadProphet. He licked bearded lips, then clapped his mouth closed, 
49 J^~. Wu~$ 
belatedly aware that the clansman who loomed over himlike dammed acid with temper. Dakar's layers of mismatcheding heaved as he dredged up an ingratiating shrug. "Well, maybe!a goose, exactly."
"You refer to my liege, Prince Arithon?" Jieret tossed a clipped~ past his shoulder. Behind him, a wing-folded raptor on the settled~of the sea, the brigantine seemed juxtaposed on the view, a wildimprisoned by the natural stone revetments ,w, hich bordered the hibor basin. "Don't you dare claim he isn't here. :
 The Mad Prophet screwed his eyes shut. Wheezing like a rna~from his headlong rush to the beachhead, he raised chubby, pated hands and tugged at his fox brush beard.Since on their last meeting, Dakar had been the Master ofimplacable enemy, Jieret added, "We are speaking of the same
Dakar flounced stiff. "Nobody else drives me to fits of sickand anyway, you should know best. This isn't the first timeyou come chasing his shirttails the length of the continent."
Too wary to mind insults, Jieret kept his fierce glower. Dakarmiracle was not wallowing drunk. Though the clownish,features were still slack from loose living, the spirit inside hispared flesh seemed transformed into change. The pouched eyesa glint of shrewd purpose. A queer incongruity, and one atodds with the Mad Prophet's scapegrace reputation. The silence extended too long.
"What's amiss?" pestered Dakar. "Something's turned wrong.Ath's own Avenger couldn't have dragged you to sea."
"Oh, there's trouble, well enough." Jieret parked his hipagainst:boulder and jammed on his boots to mask his outright anxiety. "P,haps you'd best say where Prince Arithon went."
"Ashore," Dakar said. Sweating in his seamy, worn clothes,looked all at once beaten down, just another bit of flotsam cast upb]storm to wilt on the waterworn rocks. "His Grace is alone, back 01the mainland."
 Jieret confronted the Mad Prophet's moon features like a swordsman stunned silly by a mace. "The mainland," he echoed in stark dibelief. "Please Ath, not now. He can't be."
"Best come up." Sly eyes swiveled askance; Dakar surveyed'Rathain's tall caithdein, bitter himself with shared sympathy. "Youlook like you need to be out of the sun, and besides, there's a risk.We oughtn't discuss his royal affairs so freely here in the open."Jieret looked blank. "What?"
 "Koriani," said Dakar. "Damn prying witches and their bother­
5O 
 FUGI?IVE PRINCE

 ~ane spells." Then he rolled his gaze skyward, remiss. "I forgot.
You wouldn't know how far things went wrong last autumn in Vastmark.The Koriani Prime Enchantress tried her level best to have Arithon s'Ffalenn assassinated."
 Jieret shot tense, hand clasped on his knife, his color gone
shatter~ ingly white. "On my oath as caithdein, is every living faction onAthera dead set to end my liege lord's life?"
"Damned near." Dakar closed his moist grip on the larger man'selbow and tugged. "You haven't brought dispatches in with thesloop? Just yourself? Best move along, then." He nodded toward thecliff path. "I've got quarters up in the old fortress."
Cicadas buzzed amid the crumbled rock stair that jagged up theflank of the headland. The dry air scarcely stirred, thick with theresin taint of cedar. Gray lichens silted like ash in the crannies, andthe onlyvisible inhabitants were the finches, flitting in startled burststhroughthe vines netted over bent limbs and black needles. From the heights, the isle was a fissured, clenched fist, the
fretted shoreline worried by tides, and seamed in jagged grottos, hazed overin lavender shade. Here, in the First Age, Paravian seers had heldcouncil with dragons, who flew the world's skies no more. Againstthe vicious aberrations spawned by the drakes' wild magic, defend­ers from four races had languished, besieged, in the cramped, raggedbounds of the curtain wall. Now strewn like kicked block, the lastridge of foundation housed basking, gold lizards which skitteredaway into cracks.
The eldest living dragons had spun their dream of desperation
and appeal within these baked, cratered keeps, to draw to Athera the aidof the Fellowship Sorcerers. But if any ghost presence from that
pastremained to haunt Corith's ruin, the land retained no thread ofdisso­nance. Just bare stone, tuned shrill by the blaze of summer noon,
and loomed on the untrammeled song of bundled energies which under­pinned all the substance of creation. Centuries of wind and
batteringstorms had swept even the deepest, layered bedrock clean of theimprint of violent vibration.
"Through here," Dakar puffed. He beckoned into gloom and reap­peared beyond a crumbling archway.
Jieret followed, but saw no sign of tenancy. The temporary, safehaven for a Third Age fugitive felt abandoned, as if the site hadbeen owned for all time by naught but the wind and the seabirds.
The stillness sawed at Jieret's suspicion. "Where are my liege'speople? The crew of the Khetienn? Daelion, Master of Fate, save hisGrace, has he kept none but you to stand by him?" 
 Suddenly exposed before dangerous antipathy, Dakar stopsliding, to chinks in complaint from loose stone. "I'm not ycprince's enemy, not anymore. And he's kept the Khetienn's crewfull complement. They're all here, and safe, masked under my w,o,f concealment." A note of plaintive unhappiness crept throuI
That's why, Ath forgive me, I had to stay. Given the choicewouldn't be here."
 Jieret regarded Dakar's sweating tension. "I know the s'Ffal
temper, none better. You were told to hide the brigantine, if gall~
happened on her?"
Dakar nodded, miserable. "Or fire her, should my spells ofillusi~ fall short." He shuffled breathlessly on. "Man, I couldn't stopfrom going. His Grace has a will to stand down the Avenger's Fi~Horses, and no mercy on the fool who interferes. If he gets hin~butchered on some mayor's scaffold, I can't argue his right to ten~fate."
 At Jieret's worried start, Dakar raised his hands. "No, rest assure Arithon's not taunting a death wish. He couldn't if he wanted.Fellowship of Seven forced him to take blood oath last winter. Hibound and sworn to life, whatever the cost, against future threat fr0~ the Mistwraith."
 "Mercy on him," Jieret whispered, shocked. In all Athera's hist0rso strict a measure had never been asked of a crown prince. "Idichknow."
 "That happened after you parted at Minderl Bay." Dakar reache~gap in the masonry. Beyond him, the hazed jointure of sea anddimmed into distance, snagged with fluffs of white cloud. Innoc~now, those scattered fleeces would mass into towers by latenoon, and anvil into a squall line. Just as untrustworthy, Dakarright and vanished into clear space.
Jieret's startled shout entangled with a prosaic reassurance,backward. "Pay no mind to the wards. They're illusion. Thequite safe."
Faced by a jagged opening, then a yawning gap into air, thechieftain muttered imprecations against the spellbinder's fecklesscharacter. A clutch of fractured boulders overhung the drop, ready tolaunch from their settings at the first wrong breath of the wind. Nocoward, Jieret stepped down.
Chills roiled and rippled across his flesh. His senses upended.fierce, hot tingle sang through his nerves, then stopped with abracingjolt.
The Earl of the North bit back a yelp, the steel hilts of hisweapons 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

:rew, he~ ny 
:hoice, 
'Ffaleru galleys 
illusion top him:r's Five himself 
o tempt 
~ssured. ed. The .~r. He's at from 
history,[ didn't 
~ched a nd skynocent ~' after-turned 
, flungDting's 
te clan !ckless ady totd. No 
led. A racing 
apons
 ~lrned hot to his hand. He blinked, wits recovered, to findhimself
 standing in a dusty, flat compound, scattered with tents sewn from
sailcloth. Nor was Corith any longer untenanted. A circle ofsailhands
 in the shade of a gnarled cedar. The ones near at hand
looked aside at him, bored, then resumed quarreling over a dice
throw, the winning stakes a collection of sticks notched with tally
marks. The crescent knife used to keep count flashed in the fist ofa
 prune-skinned little desertman, who stabbed air and hurled his
scathing invective at a ship's boy for rigging the odds.
"The defense spell is spliced reflection," Dakar said, smug."Those
 cliff rocks, and that span of ocean were borrowed intact from a site
halfway down the north slope." As the fracas erupted into knee­
slapping mirth over the ship's boy's scurrilous rejoinder, thespell­
binder admitted, "Of course, the noise was more difficult to mask."
Case in point, a shout pealed out like steel put to the hammer.
The urchin shot erect from amid the pack of dicers. All coltish 
 brown limbs and angular grace, the creature had blond hair tied in aglistening, long braid. The end was cross-laced with a frippery ofrib­bon bleached to rust. A second glance at a body clad in scruffysail­hand's cottons showed the first, shy curves of a girl at thethreshold of maturity."Arithon wasn't on that fishing craft?" she shrilled across thebrassy wash of sunlight.
At Dakar's headshake, she crowed her wild triumph. "Well thenyou owe me six royals! He wasn't to embark 'til the winds changed,and the weather's stayed contrary this season."
"There are still three days left before solstice," Dakar hurledback. "Your silver's not won before then." Soured by the prospect of for­feited coin, he confided to Jieret, "That's Feylind, the pest. Imisspokemyself teaching that girl to wager. She attached herself to Arithonat Merior by the Sea, and for her talent, your liege thought to trainher. She's gifted at navigation and seamanship when she isn't cheatingnumbers on the dice."
 "She has spirit, give her that." Jieret watched her spin back todefend her hoarded spoils, then realized: this girl must be one ofthe twins that Arithon had spoken of granting his oath of protection.Years passed. Feylind had grown beyond childhood; nor would herbrother Fiark remain beardless much longer, wherever his own fatehad sent him.
 "Come on," Dakar urged. "If the heat isn't making you die for a 
drink, ! want all your rumors from the mainland."53 
JANNY WURTS

 Dusk softened over the broken spires at Corith. The:breakwater spread a flat, purple disk. The seasonal squall line rbled off the coast, stalled through afternoon by the chancy, winn0ving breezes. Cloud ramparts loomed off the islands, their sulf~~r~rims stained by the afterglow. When Jieret refused outright ~~ ~~what drew him from Rathain, Dakar parked his bulk upon the ~:r~iing rope pallet he had strung in the shelter of a tumbledo~~.~ dru:tower. The furnishings consisted of axe-cut fir, lashed at the
i~i~~.t~r~ with twine. A water jug, a basin, and a clump of holed sock, 1~cached in the niche of an arrow slit. Beneath this, a sea chest in 
~,~_,~a table held a spellbinder's clutter of bundled herbs, and an ~.dge.pair of shearwater's flight feathers. Jieret chose to sit on the
,lc~rfloor through the exchange of desultory small news.
They suffered but one interruption; the desertman burst h~ w:tt~0~ word or apology, and left a meal of smoked fish and greens. l'h~ ia~of the day slowly fled. The ragged old walls were roofed with ~ t~a:hazard patchwork of sailcloth, worried to threads and gaps k,~ t'r.wind until stars could be counted in constellations. Outside, th~.~ai. hands had laid off their dicing. Someone returned from trappint,, a~:coals were laid in to roast conies. No stranger to the nuance of le,~dir. men, Jieret listened. Through spirited slangs and the odd br~r,tlaughter he noticed the underlying worry.
Arithon's absence weighed on them all, though the subjectstarx'e: scrupulously unmentioned. Even the Mad Prophet's prying, sl~ tal;circled to evade the sore topic.
The temperature cooled. Jieret cracked his knuckles and sud ~n?ran out of patience. "Why should my liege be alone on the .~:~a~,land?"
 Silence; the fallen summer darkness cut by a yelp as a sailhan~burned careless fingers at the spit. Dakar against custom had ncltouched his food. He regarded his laced fingers, as if he justrealize~ his soft, dimpled knuckles were wearing a stranger's rough callus. Htwas not drunk. His clothing was mended, and his beard, trimme~neat, as if dogged grooming might suppress the misery'that impellahis anguished admission. "His Grace sought Cattrick. That huge ma~ter joiner he used to employ back in Merior."
"Dharkaron avenge!" Jieret cried. "His Grace went to Shand?"
"I already know," Dakar supplied. "Official books of grievanct~have been opened on the southcoast. Lord Erlien's clansmen sentwarning. Any town citizen can make claim of injury against Aritho~No proof is required. Just a sealed statement from the plaintiff.Thost women left widowed at Vastmark have wasted no time recording all Voncl tlae
 ú Vll~rlO~. ~lśurous t to sa)e creak. ~ drum ~intures cks layi L1Se as edged 
4thout he last t~~ hap­~y thesail­
Pt!~31TIVE PI~INCE manner ofspur/ous spite. The pages are filled to the margins.and the mayors have promised to appeal for redress at Avenor.""Ibis Cattrick, "]ieret snapped. "Is h/s loyalty secure?""Arithon believed he'd be able to win back the craftsman's 
trust." As this fueled a more alarming shift into fury, the Mad Prophetcringed, and cried out, "You know your liege!"
Jieret showed the fat spellbinder no quarter, but drew up his
legsand busied his hands working the ringed salt from his buckskins. Noneed to reiterate the plain fact: that Dakar's intent was equally
well suspect, outspoken as he had been in the past concerning the ShadowMaster's ethics.
 A thunderclap boomed over the ocean. Echoes shook the ominousfiat air, and growled through the Mad Prophet's explanationú "OnceArithon heard that his half brother had signed formal sanction forslave labor, his temper lit off like fell sparks. No reason moved
him. He would go ashore, use his Masterbard's talent and ply thesouthshore taverns. He meant to recall his craftsmen and recruit 
those who dared on some devious scheme to stall Avenor's injustice."Iieret glanced up, his eyes chill hazel. He asked to borrow an
oiled rag and a whetstone, then deliberately tended the steel of his quil­10ned dagger. Dakar, who had once known the caithdein's father,knew better than to interrupt. The clan chieftain took his time,
then stabbed the blade upright in the rush seat of a footstool. He gave
his considered opinion. "Had I been here, I would have fought my liegebloody, even bundled him in irons to hold him."
"Oh, you could have tried," Dakar rebutted. "His Grace knows thetricks of his Masterbard's title. Even if he couldn't sing tripletsto turn steel, the problem's not simple or straightforward. Arithon haschanged. The campaign brought to ruin at Dier Kenton Vale left himmarked, sometimes too deeply to reach. You don't want to tanglewith his temper."
But that had been true far and long before the devastating war inVastmark. Every one of Jieret's ancestors had lived with the peril ofchallenging s'Ffalenn royalty head-on. The clan chief probed, "You haven't mentioned the Havens."
 ^ sudden, fierce gust slapped the sailcloth overhead. Dakarflinched. Brown eyes slid away in discomfort. "Your war captain,Caolle, saw everything."
Jieret stared back in rancorous bitterness. "My war captain? Whocame back to us changed? He resigned his post, did you know that?Said he would lift a sword for nothing else except to train our youngscouts sharper skills. But no more to kill. He won't say what took 
 JA~

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 OO~on~ s~ff disquiet,~he wi~ rake~ the ~ght,clouds un~l the stars at the ze~th were blackened. Dakar r~x~6~ smile as, ~ boisterous constema~on, the ~x~an~ ...... ~ ~ ~
[~. ~X% ~ ~ ~ ~x~ ~x~ x~ ~ m~ ~ .............
~ ~ ~m~ .~ ~x~ ~ ~m~ ~x~ ~ ~ ..... x~x ~x~
 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~m ~-~-~ -~%~%~
 wks~e~e couX~ xa~e o~x o~ ~e~o~.
 He said softlg '7f Caolle can't speak, then ne~er will I.

Tmstr. word. ~at went wrong be~een the Havens and the cl,~h ~x':Lysaer's war host lies beyond spoken words to explain. He,~ r
adx:: from a kiend. Don't ask your prince. I beg you, keep clear and d0rp~. Let Arithon expla~ if he chooses."
"If he's still alive, and not roasted for sorce~ on some mayor~s ~: of lit ~ggots." ]ieret shot out a fist ~d ~abbed the stout
spellbindeby the collan "By A~, prophet~ ~ere my price is concerned, I'rmore than a ~iend. We're bloodbond! I've ~ice risked my life tt~ard his m~d kom Desh-t~ere's curse." Pa~, naked and deep as~canker burst through. "Dharkaron avenge!" cried Jieret. "I've dra~~s ve~ blood to spare ~s sani~. ~at happened on that shoreline,:his right m~d or not, could scarcely come to sunrise me."
S~angely ~cowed by the clansman's fierce s~ength, Dakar te~away. "It's not what you could bea[ nor what I could~" Just
anguis~blazed t~ough and reclothed ~s rompled di~. "Nor do you quesfion a man's conscience alone, but a masterbard's empathy tumec~der siege by the Fellowship's imposed royal gi~ of compassion. hArithon be, if you have any mercy."
Hemmed in by the howl~g descent of the squall l~e, Earl Jiemwent obs~ate to the bone. "~at one thug I can't do. ~ ths, I am nomy own maste[ but ~e oathsworn caithdein of Ratha~. I am th~realm's conscience ~ maRers of the law~ ~d Lysaer's charges ~dark sorce~ are too weigh~ to drop without question or ~quiw."
~e tempest broke over the cliff top. W~d screamed, and the
bfl. lowed, d~ dust became ~ampled ~der the cloudburst. ~e shabove Cofi~ split apart ~ ac~c tangles of ligh~g. For a dra~span of ~utes, theder sla~ed t~ough the old for~ess. Jier*hung wai~g, racked to naked appeal; he first presumed Dakar hacleft hm. Aga~st the w~te ~sh of the lea~ t~ough ~e sailcloth, Bagoffized words had o~y the sto~'s voice for answen
~en ~om the tempes~ous wail of the elements, the Mad Prophe
 m
 "I~Iow from the kx-x lc~rx~ 5~
 ~-~
 ~ ~ 

 J^NN. WURTS 

place." Jieret paused, snorted through the high bridge of his n0s~erv, 
mixed admiration and disgust. "For stubborn, close secrets, a clam'less lockjawed than Caolle."
Beyond stiff disquiet, the wind raked the night, deepened~clouds until the stars at the zenith were blackened. Dakar raised ~ smile as, in boisterous consternation, the sailhands scurried for sheter. His gaze tracked the broken, white line of the breakers creara~~the reefs far below. Each crest came unraveled in driven, wild $plerdor against shores nothing like another blood-soaked shingle h.wished he could raze out of memory.
He said softly, "If Caolle can't speak, then neither will I.Trust ~ word. What went wrong between the Havens and the clash wiiLysaer's war host lies beyond spoken words to explain. Hear advicfrom a friend. Don't ask your prince. I beg you, keep clear and d0~.pry. Let Arithon explain if he chooses."
"If he's still alive, and not roasted for sorcery on some mayor'sp~of lit faggots." Jieret shot out a fist and grabbed the stoutspellbind~by the collar. "By Ath, prophet! Where my prince is concerned,more than a friend. We're bloodbond! I've twice risked my lifeguard his mind from Desh-thiere's curse." Pain, naked and deep as~canker burst through. "Dharkaron avenge!" cried Jieret. "I've dra~his very blood to spare his sanity. What happened on that shoreline,~ his right mind or not, could scarcely come to surprise me."
Strangely uncowed by the clansman's fierce strength, Dakar t0r~away. "It's not what you could bear, nor what I could!" Just angui~rblazed through and reclothed his rumpled dignity. "Nor do you ques.tion a man's conscience alone, but a masterbard's empathy turnecunder siege by the Fellowship's imposed royal gift of compassion. LeArithon be, if you have any mercy."
Hemmed in by the howling descent of the squall line, Earl Jier~went obstinate to the bone. "That one thing I can't do. In this, I ammy own master, but the oathsworn caithdein of Rathain. I am th~realm's conscience in matters of the law! And Lysaer's chargesdark sorcery are too weighty to drop without question or inquiry."
The tempest broke over the cliff top. Wind screamed, and the b~.lowed, dry dust became trampled under the cloudburst. The sl~above Corith split apart in actinic tangles of lightning. For a dramspan of minutes, thunder slammed through the old fortress. Jier~hung waiting, racked to naked appeal; he first presumed Dakar hacleft him. Against the white gush of the leaks through the sailcloth,t5 agonized words had only the storm's voice for answer
Then from the tempestuous wail of the elements, the Mad Proph~ 
fron in tt~ 12 face
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ret tot he of 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 served his opinion. "Well thank Ath, it's going to be you. Yourliegewould mangle anyone else who challenged his integrity this time.""How nicely opportune," a silvery, smooth voice issued unbiddenfrom the rain. "I can see I've returned just in time to play my ownpartin the satire." Dakar gasped an oath, and Jieret, spun in one surge to his feet,faced the doorway.Lightning flared like a rip in black silk, to limn the arrival
stand­ing there. The man was slight boned, soaked as a seal in plain cot­ton. Temper smoked through each stabbing vowel as he added, "I'mback from the mainland, blown in with a spate of foul weather.Don't cheer," said Arithon s'Ffalenn. He stepped forward, reducedonce again to a voice clothed over in darkness. "Cattrick didn't
sell my killed carcass to the mayors, though assuredly, he had to bewooed."
 Dakar's stupor unlocked all at once. He splashed sliding through
a puddle, and rummaged after oiled rags and a wet length of kindling.Nerves interfered. When his hands dropped the flints, he resorted to
a cantrip, spell driven. A spark erupted in a ripe flare of sulfur.New 
 flame snagged the torch, fought into tormented brilliance by thegusts. Its tittering glow bronzed the first thing to hand, the bentcrown of Jieret's head.
 He had knelt. Taller than his sovereign, a muscled tiger before awraith, he stumbled through the ritual greeting, caithdein to hissworn prince.
Black haired, green eyed, pale as if chipped from veined quartz,the Master of Shadow poised on braced feet with his crossed armswrapped to his chest. He was shivering. Shed droplets rocked offthe plastered folds of his shirt and scribed rubied flecks throughthe torch­light. "There's a parchment," he prompted, succinct. "Let me see it."
At Jieret's upflung glance of distress, the prince's brows angledhigher. "You can hear? Good. Than arise and stop looking amazed.Your mission's no secret. Every forest scout I met crossing Falwoodsaid a writ had been passed to my caithdein's charge. If I'm notover­joyed to find Rathain's left stewardless, at least I'll see why noclans­man in Havish seemed eager to look me in the face."
Jieret stood erect, his every movement cautious. That his princewas unarmed made no difference. The royal presence framed warn­ing like the gleam on a lake of black ice. The pair of them werebl0odbond, and yet, here stood a stranger masked in the features ofa friend. This diamond-edged malice held a febrile, strung focus~0re volatile than Jieret remembered. While thunder boomed and 
 JANNY ~URTS 

shook the ancient foundations, and the rain thrashed intorrents, he became aware of Dakar's tense stillness, as if evenwhisper of a wrongly drawn breath might trigger the springpredator.Jieret's hand did not shake in its office as he said, "I wouldthis, liege, if I could." In the uncanny, grave style inherited fromfather, he drew the bundled document from the breast of hisand passed it across to his prince.Arithon stiffened at first sight of the seals: the crown and star'zon of the purloined s'Ilessid device, and another, stampedlozenge of champagne wax, the rayed sunwheel adoptedmark. The Shadow Master flipped open the folded leaves,tipped them to capture the torchlight.He read. His skin went from pale to transparent, andseemed to stop. Then he stirred. A word passed his lips, thelilt of consonants framed in the grace of old Paravian. Hedown the indictment as though its mere touch burned his flesh.he whirled, bent, and in a move of pure fury, plucked Jieret'sloned knife from the stool seat. "Caithdein of Rathain," he intoned in chiseled, formal"The truth, on my word as your crown prince. If that's notyou'll have your sure proof through a death seal set into thespilled from my body."From the comer, Dakar gasped. Before Jieret could decry thesity, Arithon closed an unsteady hand on the blade, over steelmeticulously sharpened. Scarlet welled from his palm, sthrough lean fingers, and ribboned slick tracks down his wrist.inclined his head to the spellbinder.i "You have my consent. Lay down the binding, my life as surety:!that nothing I speak is a falsehood."Dakar arose. Raised to a grave majesty sprung from stark fear, heclasped Arithon's wet fist. The spell rune he framed burned in lines0t cold light, then twined like barbed ribbon through the rich floodflowing from the knife cut. "Beware," he cautioned. "What you ask ~done. One word of deceit will destroy you."By ancient custom, the last scion of s'Ffalenn then knelt before h~caithdein. The Shadow Master said in metallic distaste, "The deaths at theHavens are all mine, every one. But this charge of dark sorcery hasn0 ground. No spell was spun, light or dark at that inlet. There were nofell tricks. No engagement occurred beyond arrows and steel, noteven the use of my birth-born mastery of shadow." Still trembling, he
 58 ~ 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE 

regarded the spreading, red stain on his shirt cuff and finished hisvenomous delivery. "What happened was simple, cold murder."
lie ~aughec~ then, w~c~e-e~ed, anc~ spun ttxe s~'~ckec~ b~acke.T~xe p~'xx'xtnow angled against his own breast, its chased silver pommel a reck­
treason ancl tixreatenecl to spit me with barecI steel."}ieret sv~aklov~ect, stuffed btank and s'tckened. F~ve hundred
fortylives had been taken in cold blood: the truth forced out in a naked confession that asked neither quarter nor pity.
"You can't find the gall to ask why?" pressured Arithon, stillvent­ing pain into anger. "Or are you waiting for a Fellowship Sorcererto gainsay a testimony made under truthseals?"
"Almighty Ath, that's enough!" Dakar launched himself across hisclutter of belongings and with a competence few would have cred­ited, snatched the knife from Arithon's grasp. He discarded the
blade and clutched the prince's soaked shirt in both hands. To Jieret,
caughtaback as the Shadow Master swayed on his feet, the Mad Prophetcried in rebuke, "What more must you have? Kingdom law has beensatisfied. Daelion himself! A crown prince's blood oath alone shouldhave satisfied that the charge of dark sorcery was false. Your dutycould have demanded far less, since Caolle himself stood as
witness."
 With no gap for reply, he turned his invective toward the princebraced upright in his hands. "By Sithaer, you're freezing! Where'sCattrick? Wasn't anyone aboard to share the watch on your sloop?How long were you out there, manning the helm in the storm?"
"Galleys," said Arithon, abruptly too worn to fuel his own manicfury. "Seven, with registry flags out of Capewell. I lost them sixdaysago, off the shoals of Carithwyr." Against every precedent, hefailed to resist as Dakar pressed him to sit. The drum of the rain nearlycan­celed his speech. "Cattrick's still on the mainland. I meant him tostay.He's agreed to return to my employ.""He's a fool, then." Dakar shoved past Jieret, who felt awkwardand in the way. Displaced wing feathers fluttered helter-skelter as
the spellbinder cleared the trunk and flung up the rickety lid. "I won'task what you promised him."
Folded on the pallet, Arithon said nothing. His face did notshow,his head being bent and resting on his knees. The fire in its
makeshift bracket across the drum tower had finally ignited the oiled rags.Golden light limned his appalling exhaustion. His loose, sailhand'scottons hung off his gaunt frame, except where heavy wet had slickedthe cloth to his flanks. His wrists showed each ridge of old scars
and taut sinew, and the cut on his hand bled too freely. 
JANNY WURTS 

press~
 "Liege, let me help," Jieret begged.
"Find him a blanket," Dakar ordered, terse, thenthrough his things, and snatched out linen strips and tied awrap over Arithon's gashed hand. "Idiot," he murmured. "You 4that damned blade like a butcher. Got tendons laid bare. When~ bleeding's controlled, you'll need to be sewn, or risk scarring~ma"YM7r yřur music'" 
throat isn't cut. I can sing." Arithon lilted a slurred linedoggerel taken from a dockside ballad. Then, as Jieret bent downswaddle him in wool, his maundering humor fled before desper~focus. "Why are you here?" he demanded. A deep tremor racked IfHe locked his teeth through the spasm, then ground on in unsw~ing logic, "Had that parchment reached your hand in RathDakar's right. Caolle could have refuted those charges." ,
"My liege, not now." Jieret scarcely noticed the tug as D~snatched the blanket from his fist. "The other news that brought ncan wait."
 "Ah, no!" Arithon shoved off the wool the Mad Prophet soughtdrape over him. His eyes raked up, fever bright. "I won't have ~sleep spell you've slipped through the weave." He shot to his feerestored to command through animate, blistering irritation. "By y0uoath as caithdein, Jieret, speak."
The moment hung, its tension spun out in maniacal wind and ~distanced percussion of thunder. Leaked droplets pattered under th~sailcloth. The torch spat and hissed, fingered by drafts until evershadow seemed crawlingly alive. Black haired, baleful, Arith~waited, his presence stillness incarnate. He was not a patient marThe fretted, willful energy he used to avert collapse seemed nursefrom a leashed spark of violence, as if his heart's peace had beerazed off in Vastmark, to leave a core of acid-etched steel.
Jieret quailed before apprehension. This was no stranger he c0~fronted, but his crown prince, scarred and haunted by the triabrought down by the Mistwraith's dire curse. The spring's prophetdream lodged too vividly in recall, with its wrenching potential f~tragedy. The vision was terrifying, final: the wide square paved:brick, centered by its cordon of guardsmen and the unpainted risethe scaffold, pennoned in the dazzling glitter of gold cord and suwheel banners. His very pulse seemed to throb to the chantpacked onlookers. He shook off the mesmerizing hold of remerbrance, in thought or utterance unwilling to grapple the silver-briglength of the executioner's sword, then the scream of this sa~prince, fallen. 
6O 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 "I had an augury on your Grace's life," he rasped, tom by his needto be finished.
 "Oh, how merry!" Arithon exclaimed, sardonic. "My fate's alreadywound in auguries like tripping strings. No. Don't plod through thehysterical details. Let me have just the bare facts."
"You must listen!" cried Jieret, frightened by the dismissal.
"After the slaughter at Tal Quorin, would you take my gifted dreamslightly?"
"But I don't." Unrepentant, Arithon accepted a blanket from
Dakar that was combed free of furtive seals to bring sleep. He flicked thewool across his wet frame, winced as he fumbled a one-handed clasp,then stepped back to forestall more assistance. "I can manage. Amdoing so, in fact. Your Sight does run true, more's the pity. But
for the sake of Rathain, I'd have preferred to be spared the unnecessaryfavor. As my oathsworn caithdein, your presence here can't improvemy wretched odds of surviving." He spun, tripped over the stool in astartling turn of spoiled grace. "Now give me the details without
anymelodrama."
 "The time seemed high summer," Jieret resumed, ferociously
bland. "A public execution, under town auspice, with every appro­priate trapping."

"How splendid and trite. How predictable!" Arithon gasped backshrilling laughter. Perhaps goaded on by his caithdein's sharprecoil,he bit back like salt in a sore, "All right, my sworn lord, yourduty'sbeen met to the last grasping letter of the law. By kingdom charter,I've been properly tried and warned. Now for love of the realm, youare free. Return to Rathain. The fishing sloop that brought you sailstomorrow for Carithwyr on my personal orders. Her captain was toldto expect you on board. You will cross High King Eldir's neutralrealm of Havish to reach your homeland, and avoid another tangle withTysan's headhunters."
"Go," Dakar urged, cued by a mix of dread and epiphany, sinceevery shred of bad news out of Tysan would have emerged throughthat prior exchange with the fishermen. Arithon was not sanguinefor very good reason, beside being too spent to cope. The MadProphet grabbed Jieret's elbow, wide-eyed and imploring. "Comeaway. What you're seeing's not temper, but a mannerless plea to bealone."
 The clansman stayed fixed, his bleak, considered .aze upon themotionless form of his prince. He looked as if he mi.ht speak.The Mad Prophet plu..ed his ears, shut his eyes, and crin.ed likea do. that expected a kick. 
~ANNY ~URTS
 Yet Jieret held silent. When no explosion came from theunder the blanket, the spellbinder cracked one eye open."For mercy's sake, Dakar, just get him out," Arithonhoarse, deadened misery.
Like an obedient, fat ninepin bowling down a young oak, theProphet plowed Rathain's young caithdein into prudentthrough the doorway. 
Summer 5648 
Close Confidence
 The squall passed. Above the swept rocks of .the fortress at Corith,stars emerged from the cloud cover Sea winds combed the headlandand slapped through the sailcloth roofed over the ruined north drumkeep. Bronzed by the smoking stub of the oil cresset lit to treatArithon's hand, Dakar sat awake, keeping watch. Long since, thespooled silk and needles used to close up the gash had been tidiedand put away. On the pallet, stone quiet, the Teir's'Ffalenn laysprawled in exhausted sleep.
The Mad Prophet listened to the call of the night-flying owl,mournful between the irregular tap of twine lacings. He waited, alertfor the moment of inevitable aftermath. No man mentioned the Havens inlet in the Shadow Master's hearing that dreams did notcome and goad the prince screaming from sleep. Grateful that fore­sight had seen Lord Jieret dismissed before the inevitable backlash,Dakar settled his chin on plump wrists.
An hour passed, uneventful. The night smelled of puddled rock,mingled near at hand with the astringent bite of medicinal herbs.Gusts thrummed sighing through the cedars down the slope, cut bythe whistle of a sentry, come back from the headland to roust hisrelief watch. Dakar traced out a fine rune. His trained talent as spellbinderraised an appeal to the air, then bent the element's given consent towork a small construct of deflection. When the sailor just wakened inthe compound raised a noisy string of complaint, no ripple of distur­bance crossed the line of soft conjury to upset Arithon's rest. 
63 
 Somewhere in the thickets a fox barked. The arced across the black zenith, their dance unchangedturies since man first inhabited Athera. Against their seasonalmony, a whispered rustle of discord: on the pallet, onehand spasreed closed. The Master of Shadow curled into ahuddle and loosed a harsh breath through his teeth.
Dakar crossed to the pallet. He murmured a cantrip tohis inner strength in the ageless stone of the headland.Arithon moaned, twisted sidewards, and thrashed, heslighter man's shoulder. He caught the fist that snapped uphis chin, winced for the abuse to new bandages, then pressedin firm restraint. The prince he resisted might be sorrowfullybut his struggles were inventive and difficult. Dakar required~force to prevail. He turned the sharp s'Ffalenn features intoblankets and stifled the rising, agonized groan into thebedding.
"Wake," he murmured. "Arithon, throw off the dream and,back." He barbed each word in spell-turned clarity. "This isand everyone is safe."
Dakar waited, spoke again. He absorbed the nextredoubled, blind fight as the Shadow Master tried to bludgeonAgainst his undignified need to cry out, the Mad Prophet held stoafast, until the corded tension under his hands dissolved throug~spasm of transition. The Teir's'Ffalenn in his care passed from nimare into living remembrance of a horror no passage of time miIerase. Then, as often happened, Dakar waited, silent, while the Mter of Shadow softly wept. g~
The cresset by then had dwindled to a coal. Rinsed by ruby lithe Mad Prophet stayed his sympathy, while Rathain's crown prinococked an elbow and pushed himself upright. The single-handed ~to slip pursuit from the mainland had worn him. The resilience heyrecovered since Vastmark had abraded further in the months spe~ashore. Terrors of guilt and conscience dulled the green eyes tharegarded Dakar through the gloom, left them lusterless as seabattered glass. The expressive, fine bones of the Masterbard's hahrested slack on the coverlet, bundled flesh sapped of small grace.
"Daelion Fatemaster forgive me for the way I treated Jieret," we~the first words the Shadow Master said. He looked fevered. Minut~ passed as he steadied his breathing, and his high, sweating flush su]sided back into pallor. "He is Rathain's true caithdein, courage arhonor to his core. So like his father, he's become. Does he know eveyet what he means to me? Should he take harm from Lysaer's mi ['hen, as~ped thetoward d down ly thin,d main ~to the Jdle of 
] COlTIeZorith, 
ght of 
FtlGITI~E I)RINCE

 called judgments, I don't think I could stand it. Let DharkaronAvenger redress his wronged feelings. I had to send him back to hispeo­ple.""You did right," Dakar soothed. "Lord Jieret will go, and soonafter, the Khetienn will sail."An interval passed without speech. Arithon tipped back his tan­gled head and rested against the worn stone of the bastion. Thesteep,angled features of his ancestry carved sharper in the uncertain
scrawl of deep shadows. "If Cattrick succeeds, we'll have ships," he mur­mured, his ongoing effort to control his fraught nerves sketched inpained creases arotmd his eyes. "The clans can be taken to safety.
We 0nly have to find the Paravians." His hope was a refuge from thedrive of Desh-thiere's curse behind the strong wardspells thatmasked them.
 In the dimness, Dakar averted his face. Ill practiced atpatience, hefiddled with his sleeve cuffs, then launched on a sharp change insub­ject. "What will you do about Jieret's new augury?""Ignore it, unless the Khetienn's search fails." Arithon's
bitterness scraped through like old rust. "What can I do anyway? My mage­sight's still blind. Given your help, I couldn't even scry through
to find a sane outcome in Vastmark. Ath knows, since that blunder,naught's changed."
"Stop," Dakar snapped. "You can't let your past write the
future." Like ill omen, the fading last flame in the torch dipped to an emberand died. This moment, Dakar found no comfort in darkness. "Rightnow you would do best by sleeping," he advised.
An oath ripped back in sharp, precise syllables. Bedding rustled.Arithon settled prostrate on the cot. His limbs did not move, butthrough mage-sight, Dakar sensed his eyes were still open. When anhour passed, and his needling conscience kept him wakeful, heloosed a soft word in resignation.
The spidered threads of the spell already prepared betweenDakar's hands enfolded his consent on a thought. The wide, torturedgaze became masked by the sweep of black lashes. Tight breath'ragsteadied. Arithon s'Ffalenn relaxed fully at last, the unquiet gnawof his lacerated spirit eased back into dreamless rest.
Weary, aching, the Mad Prophet arose from long vigil. He shuffledhis way to the keep's narrow doorway, and in the drawing pull of theearth through his bone marrow, measured the interval before dawn.Another figure bulked dark alongside the drum tower's threshold.Lord Jieret lay curled there, his great sword at hand, and his hawkfeatures set in repose. A contradictory tautness knit through hisbody 
~ANNY ~URTS 

warned of the fact he was wakeful. Dakar chose not t~ 
stepped out, his intent to seek solitude and settle drawn nheights overlooking the sea.
A grip like fixed iron trapped his ankle. He tripped,,and bit back an outraged howl as his cheek slapped intodle. Then outcry became moot. Rathain's cait/~dein roll,fe]led form and pinned him facedown in the dirt. A precvised his nape and a knife bit a slanting, cold line across tskin of his throat. Dakar gasped. Contact with the bladejolt of misery through his mage-sense. The kept steel of ishrilled with the strung resonance of despair, dark imprinprince's blood oath.
"Jieret/' he grunted. "For pity, let up."
"Ath, you've a fine sense of arrogance to try and keep ~liege's confidence!" But the hold loosened. The ugly t~knife blade lifted. Lord Jieret backed off and squatted on hwhile his victim rolled upright and swiped a slurry of grhbeard. "You were eavesdropping," the Mad Prophet accused, ["Aye, and where else does any caithdein sleep, but acrosprince's threshold?" Met by affront, the clan chieftaincough of laughter behind his wrist. "Dharkaron's immortyou forget. My forefathers were standing down testprinces while yours were still pissing in swaddling bands.
Dakar blotted his moist face with napped cuffs, spatgritty, and forcibly noosed back his temper. "You cothelped. And your suspicions are wasted. I'm no 1ongeenemy."
"Does that even signify?" Jieret snicked his knife backsheath, careful to damp the steel silent. "I sat with my li~the night when my people died for him at Tal Quorin. Ag~he was forced to burn the trade fleet at Minderl Bay. I've sweeps for the nightmares. I know his fear, that the ones 1~love will lose their lives." All purpose, he finished, "Mystand at his side. Caith d'ein, shadow behind the throne."
"I'm unlikely to test his given will on that matter," saidwants you safely back in Rathain. And he's right. You cahis realm from the uncharted sea aboard his brigantine."
Jieret looked away through .a tigerish pause, the jut oloutthrust against the film of fine mist. "What do you kncaren't saying, prophet?"
"Fiends plague, your whole line was bred to be diffic eak, but~S on the 
~ed fiat,~d pud­v~, r hisy hand
 FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 p~0~ ~ n~'4~,) ~tt\. "%~%'~ .~,,x ~~ ~, ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~k~
a long walk. ~e roc~ here are practiced at ~m~mg themselves, and
your Vxege is secure. I set wards."

~e clan cMef rose also, his oiled s~ide shortened to pace the
Mad Prophet's bobbling progress. ~e ~ikely pair crossed the com­pound, cap,red in mismatched reflecfon through the silver-platescatter~g of puddles. Beyond the gapped walls, ~e cliff path lay
fog­bound, shadowed in ~e refrain of wild surf hewing ~e obduratesh0rel~e.
 ~en the sai~and huddled wakeful by the notch to ~e harbor
hiled to challenge ~eir passage, Jieret raised g~ge~ eyebrows.
"You've set spells of concealment? ~at do you fear? Or do you
already ~ow ~om the Fellows~p ~rcerers that Ari~on's course
carries risk?"

 "Da~ you for berg your mo~er's son after all. She alwaysguessed fir too much." Dakar snatched an irritable swat at Ms napewhere a bloodsuck~g ~sect had bitten. "I share some wider ~owl­edge from ~vir of Al~a~, and Arithon as well, s~ce ~e Paravi~charts he was ~ven to steer by were lent for ~s use by ~e ~rcerer."
~e Mad Prophet stalled, hopeM1, w~le ~e grate of ~s ~ead over
chipped rock and gravel silenced crickets, ~d the ~st silted

dropletsin his hair. Jieret ranged beside ~m, his p~er's s~de soldless,and his expectancy taut as s~g wire.
"Shark," Dakar ripped out. "~e taste of blood, you keep circl~g."He swiped past the dripp~g boug~ of a cedar ~d resumed wigoutapology for his comp~ion's adroit duck to avoid a slap in the chest."Ve~ well, yes, there's more danger than you ~ow, even grantedyour heritage as clanblood." ~e Mad Prophet fo~d a boulder, dampbut sheltered from ~e wind. He sat to expla~ ~e gift of ~e grandea~ l~k ceded to ~e ~rcerer ~thvir by Athera's last guardian cen­taur.
 "~e ne~ork ties ~e ~rcerer's consciousness to eve~tMng onA~era, animate life or still ma~er. But ~e ~ven have pos~lated ~ec0~ection may hold selec~ve bl~d spots. Its weave could be subjectt0 guarding wards set by ~e old races ~emselves." Dakar stabbedfleshy f~gers toward ~e masked edge of ~e horizon. "~e evidencelies ~ dehult. ~e Paravi~s appear to have v~shed from A~'s cre­ation. And yet, though d~shed, ~rough s~ands and deepau~ries, ~eir presence s~11 fi~res ~ the weave of Athera's life pat­tern."
 Simple words, to frame ~is world's penultimate royster. Dakarpaused in sorrowM1 reflection, his brows snarled down above ~s pug 
JANNY ~URT$ 

nose, and his chin bristled out beneath his beard. Whatarcane acts of scrying might yet be uncovered by a mannedtion. The oceans girdled the far side of the world, immensely vastlwide. If an isle existed, wrapped under wards, or some hidden, ~haven lurked on the shores of the far continent, Arithon would~sail in the Khetienn to seek.
 "Your prince hopes to beg sanctuary from the Mistwrai~h's !~curse," Dakar ended. "That scarcely offers much hope for your cla:but the Fellowship Sorcerers agree, Paravian protection of~'~r~:surest possibility of reprieve."
Broad-shouldered as a sentinel against drifting mist, Jiere~~tari out to sea. "The Fellowship Sorcerer, Ciladis, set off on that q~almost two centuries past. He has never come back."
"Nobody argues the choice harbors peril!" Dakar snapperS, ~?old races have no desire to be found, else their presence w~l~.known to Sethvir." He paused, choked silent by memories v~,r'~ i~left alive could understand: of the awesome, pure grace of ti~: ~corns dancing, that could sear sight to blindness from too te~-vi~iesurfeit of ecstasy. His very marrow ached for the deep, dr~'~zpeace of a centaur's presence, or the lyrical harmonies in a su~:~ii~song. These mysteries, once experienced, could draw mortal ~v ~d~..forget food and drink, and waste away, lost, until the spirit ~,~s0~the body, lured beyond all common things of earth.
Aggrieved beyond words for the loss done the world by the. l~ar~vians' passing, Dakar was jerked back to the trials of the pre~:~t ~.Jieret's harsh grip on his wrists. "Take care of my liege. By rn~,.i~I~ as caithdein, see him happy and secure, or bring him back whoi~.. Ei~by Dharkaron's bleak vengeance, I will scour the world's fou~ ~a:ters to find you, and make sure you suffer my judgment."
Dakar gave a raw, hooting chuckle. "That threat cuts both way!you barbarian wolf. To harry me for my failures, you must first sta'alive, and free of a galley slave's coffie." He shrugged, disengage~from the clan chieftain's hold, and heaved his short bulk off the b0~der. Around them, the last of the dark was fast fading. Gullsscrearne~ above the jumbled, gray crags, and the knifing wind wore the srneliof seawrack and salt. Dakar clasped his arms to ward off the chi'~while the charcoal sky brightened and limned his stout form againstilucent pearl backdrop. "Go where your heart calls. The sleep $pell~left won't hold in full sunlight. Your liege will wake and feelreste~ He'll want to see your face and be sure you are well before the h0~comes to sail. Give him that much, for the journey he embarks 0tcould easily span the next decade." 
68 aded the [ expedi­vast and ,n, greenould set 
th's fell IF clans,fers his 
t stared t quest 
,uld be,ry few~e uni­'rible a wning?hild's ntis to )rsook 
Para­~nt byhargeElse quar­
rays,stayaged)oul­med hells :hill,~st a 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Between a breath and a heartbeat, the Mad Prophet was gone, van­ished into the raw cotton mist as if his presence had been knit outof dreams. Jieret was left to the desolate splendor of the cliff head,
con­
sumed by worried thoughts, while the throaty crash of flood tide
slammed white torrents over the seamed rocks below. Suspicion
remained. The Mad Prophet had not disclosed all he knew. A shiver
touched Jieret as he measured how subtly the spellbinder had
changed.
While playing the drunkard, Dakar made it easy to forget hisfive centuries of study under Fellowship auspices.
Disarmingly masked behind vexed words and bother, the fatprophet scored his clear point: he could have exerted his trainedwill at any moment, used powers of sorcery to set one blustering, youngclan chief firmly into his place.
Jieret flushed, then loosed a chagrined shout of laughter. Hechecked the hang of his weapons out of habit and started back towardthe ruined fortress.
 For Arithon's sake, Dakar had indulged him. Whatever reasonunderlay the vicious slaughter at the Havens, the shifty littlespell­binder had entrusted Rathain's prince with the dubious benefits of his loyalty. From that, the realm's caithdein must salvage what peaceof mind he could; his liege would not sail westward into peril with­out an ally to guard his left shoulder.
"Though Ath Creator," Jieret ripped out, as if air itself wouldcarryhis balked temper back to the Mad Prophet's ears, "I'd rather beboarding the Khetienn myself than turn'mg tail back to Rathain." 
Summer 5648 
Checkrein 
For Morriel Prime, Matriarch of the Koriani Order, the rageburned white-hot, even eight months after her failed attempt to assinate the Master of Shadow. Due to the intervention of a bunglilfat prophet, Arithon s'Ffalenn still breathed. Morriel shut her eyes.~ if by cutting off the daylight which flooded her quilted chair by ~casement, she could deny the thorny fact the prince still walkedthis side of Fate's Wheel. Old, withered, reduced by yearslongevity spells to a husk of sagged flesh wrapped over porcel~bones, she endured the weary pulse of blood through her veins; e~heartbeat a throb of endlessly unquiet pain.
More than anything she wished the oblivion of death.
Yet the haven of final rest lay beyond reach. First she must unyothe chains of command and transfer the massive burden of pritpower to the hands of a proven successor.
Forty-three women before this had perished attempting the ~of succession. Fear remained, to poison all pretense of patience. TIyears spent training the current candidate might be wasted, despiall her promising talent.
Morriel breathed in the humid sea air of the southcoast. Decades handling critically potent forces had chafed her senses to unwontesensitivity, until the ceaseless barrage of sound, form and sinebesieged the desperately held order of her mind. Even removedthis high tower, confined in isolation above the sleepy commerce ~Thirdmark's narrow streets, Morriel battled the distractions. T~ 
7O 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 moldered damp of age-rotted stone, even the salt crystal scour of
the breeze through the casement flushed her thoughts to patternlessnoise. Her cognizance at times felt strung thin as cobwebs, until
the air currents themselves seemed to separate into voices. Each passingsecond tapped a pulsebeat against her dry flesh.
Moment to moment, she denied the seductive lie. Inanimate mattercould not quicken in sentient vibration. She would not permit inertreality to rock off reason's track, slip the botmdaries of
discipline, andseduce her to embrace dreaming madness.
She had handled too many sigils of power in the course of herunnatural, long life. The very currents of her aura had been sealedinto containment, to interrupt, then deny nature's cyclic rhythm ofdeath. Attrition thinned the veil between senses and perception. Thespin of bridled power eroded Morriel's control, until one day no
bul­wark would remain upon which to snag the purling thread of insan­ity.
The Koriani Prime endured with the dangerous knowledge thather age was now more than ten centuries. She had clung to breathingflesh far too long. None of her predecessors had dared test the
limits so far beyond earthly balance.
Her will on the matter had been gainsaid by fate; and now, yetagain, Arithon's persistent survival reduced all her works tofutility.The augury she held as fair warning galled most for its absolute,ruth­less simplicity: this last living scion of Rathain's royal line woulddis-rapt the Koriani destiny, destroy a body of knowledge that stretchedback into history to the time before catastrophe and war had drivenhumanity to seek refuge on Athera.
Morriel listened to the cries of the gulls skimming the breezeabove the tideflats. She had never felt so wretchedly helpless. Heracquireddepth of vision only mocked her. Earth turned, day to night,careless,herself a mote on its skin no more significant than any otherunsettled speck of dust.
While the Master of Shadow plied the ocean aboard his brigantine,his unformed destiny hung over her sisterhood's affairs. One malig­nant chain of latent events would snap a succession unbroken forthousands of years.
Morriel endured, her frustration contained. As the Khetiennembarked into tinknown waters, Rathain's prince would lie vulnera­ble to any bout of mischance water and gale could mete out. Heropening arose to spin a new plot over the wreckage of the old. A drysmile crimped the Matriarch's pale lips. No step would be wasted. Noother enchantress in the order need share in the fabric of her design. 
JANNY ~7UQT$ 
The first move in play could be masked to advance theLirenda, First Senior, selected and groomed, but as of thisunprepared to survive the rigors of the accession.
On the eve of summer solstice, while the Fellowship 
worked in concert to complete an arduous conjury that had ' ..m~n~them for over a year, the Warden of Althain would be least indh~take meddling notice of accidents. The Koriani Prime snatchlmoment.
 The bar of warm sunlight slanted through the casement and c0~to a soft flush of red. Morriel soon heard the rustle of silk she ar pated in the stairwell. Her chosen First Senior arrived on the rn0~appointed. Such precise obedience was not petty. For a candidashow less than perfection in all things carried the risk of ill c~quence. One woman alone could wield the full might of the K01Order A small lapse of discipline on that scale of power could d~the course of history, even harrow and scorch the green earth.
The latch grated, gave, and the door swung open. A gush of s~displaced the miasma of dank stone. Then the shuffled step ofdeaf steward who had replaced witless Quen, but who admittedarrival with the same simpleminded devotion.
First Senior Lirenda presented a regal figure, slender, tall, andposeful. Groomed and graceful as a panther, she wore hair like c~satin sleeked into a single, coiled braid. Her feet kept a dancer'sli tread on stone floors. The fine, sculptured bones of her wrists we~off by the gold-banded sleeves denoting her high office, and her ~let silk mantle flowed off her lithe form like water poured frorvase.
 She bowed before her Matriarch. Even in obeisance, her manmaintained innate breeding.
Morriel recalled the same trait in the child. Lirenda had alw owned an elegant self-possession, that bone-deep assurance lentwealth and background that touched servants to instinctive detence. This morning, the drifting perfume of the rose petals she usedsweeten her clothes chests came tanged with a trace scent of b~stone. Apparently the crates which sealed the new fiend banes tubeen troublesome to pack off to market.
Yet if the oversight arose from the duty novice's instructions,ol boy ward had shirked his assigned labor, Lirenda showed no irriltion. Her oval features stayed smooth as a cameo as she murmtwthe ritual greeting. "Your will, matriarch."
That metallic, alto voice betrayed no curiosity, which was weMorriel prolonged her survey of the prime candidate, her eyes li probing black quartz. Power forgave no shortcoming. Distrust ofarcane practice within the walled towns had redoubled since Lysaer'scharge of dark' sorcery against the Master of Shadow. The KorianiOrder could ill afford to risk becoming mired in the backlash offrightened reaction.
"Sit," Morriel commanded in a brevity that stabbed.
Lirenda settled to a rustle of skirts on the bare stone ledge ofthe window seat. Against failing light, her body affected a cat's aloofpoise; her expression settled to waiting. But beneath thatunapproach­able, aristocratic polish, her mind seethed with ambition. The preda­tory spark in those pale almond eyes never slept.
Morriel opened at due length, "The time has come for the firsttrial to prepare you for mastery of our Great Waystone."
Watchful eyes smoldered into full flame. "At last," Lirenda mur­mured. "You'll use every minute before nightfall to prepare," said thePrime, and waved her peremptory dismissal.
 The massive, polished sphere of the Koriani Waystone stoodunveiled under starlight, planed filaments of captured reflectionspiked deep in its shadowy heart. Even seated, eyes shut, a full spanaway, First Senior Lirenda felt the amethyst's aura soak into herstilled senses. With her mind diamond clear from an exhaustive course of ritual, the dark crystal's presence chilled like the breathof a predator: lethal, unforgiving, and charged in pitiless peril. Thestone was as ancient as the order itself. Over a thousand prime matriarchshad wielded its dire focus since the cataclysm and war which had castan uprooted humanity from its homeworlds. The jewel's deep latticewas said to encompass them all; their unquiet memories; the imprintof each departed prime's experience mazed like etched knotworkbeneath its stilled facets.
 At times in past history such knowledge meant survival. Therecords in the crystal could not be replaced. Nor could they betrans­ferred. Stones mined in Athera fell under the Fellowship's compactwith the Paravians. The knowledge from outside worlds was pro­scribed. Limited to those crystals brought in by the order, everyMatriarch since had no choice but to adopt the fixed practice, thatits original set of jewel matrixes must be maintained without cleansing.
No stranger to the contrary properties of first focus stones,Lirenda required firm discipline to stamp down her apprehension. Her gnaw­ing unease was no phantom. The Great Waystone's secrets were heldat perilous cost. Twined through the stored experience of the former 
JANNY WURTS 

matriarchs' collective memories ran vicious, ingrainedthe coiling, sullen residue left layered by centuries of arcanecrammed together and entangled into dissonant, unquiet knots.
One day, these must become the prime candidate's trial
The protections Morriel laid down for this first exposure were~bidding enough to intimidate. Lirenda resisted the urge to break ~cipline and steal a glance through cracked eyelids. Agai~st the ~fabric of summer night, she felt the formed lattice of wards stab~flesh like the prick of a thousand fine needles. The passes the ?r~completed to frame each new sigil raised dire cold, and the sa!:damp that freshened the sea breeze came whetted by a bitter taint~ozone.
 Minutes passed. Through the still blaze of stars and the tidaldra~ of the moon on the western horizon, Lirenda followed the ?ain~shuffle of the Prime's steps, circling, tirelessly circling. The low,t~~t whisper as the Matriarch chanted in rhythm to align each i~qtrica~chained set of runes. Perception itself drowned. Sensed impressi0~strung out to elastic proportions, as if moving time and the trestle:dune grass had slowed to congealment in amber.
Elsewhere, the world turned untouched. From the tide 70~!beyond Thirdmark's harbor, a curlew called. A kicked cur yel?ed,~the fish market alley, and the martial jink of steel as the wall walcchanged guard reechoed off the city's gabled roofs. Sounds reac~e~Lirenda as if muffled through gauze, and then not at all, as her ,~x'ar,hess submersed, ringed about by ambient power.
When Lirenda's consciousness became a joined circle, sealed inirelentless isolation, the Prime Enchantress said, "We are readv ~~begin."
Instructions followed, the husk of each syllable sandpaper s'~,~amid Chat enforced web of stillness. "Do not look upon the '~avst~?as I raise its grand focus. To try. is to beg for destruction. My se~~;~tections cannot shield you from direct interaction with the ex~'~unless you maintain perfect balance. No matter what hal~,l~,:r~through temptation or disaster, remember you follow as obserx, e~Stay passive. On pain of annihilation, however much you feel trau.matized, do not exert your conscious will outside the bounds of r~,.ward ring."
One second passed in unbearable suspension. Lirenda foug~'down the dizzy pound of her pulse. Then in shared resonance, ~plunge snatched her up in a rocketing, exhilarated rush, as Mt)rrie.Prime bent her will and invoked the Great Waystone's focus.
Stark silence descended. Wide as old darkness, deep as the floor 0t 
74 ~r ~e Y ~f 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 oceans, the stillness reigned absolute. Lirenda felt walled in
cable black glass, reduced to a dust speck captured andpris­~ 0ned in jet. Of her Prime's guiding presence, no sign remained, asif
 her aged flesh had succumbed to blank death, then faded to final
oblivion.
 Panic raked through, a blind, clawing terror of abandonment.
Lirenda could be left here, forever entombed beyond reach of life

and movement. She wrestled to breathe slowly as she had been trained.All of her pride and practiced control seemed trampled and torn intoshreds. She had no dignity. In gasping, sweaty struggle, she foughtherself steady. The need to leap up, to flee headlong without heed
for safeguards became almost too overpowering to deny. Then abruptchange overset even terror.The eruption was cyclonic, an invisible whirlwind of force
barbed in malice. The vicious, leading edge had a thousand voices, cursing,crying, tearing with words and far worse: the scything, bitter edges
of passionate hatreds all stabbing to flay and draw blood. Even sealedbeyond harm, Lirenda felt her mind become milled into fragments,her thoughts consumed by unadulterated violence.
No prior experience prepared her, although every other ancientfocus she had handled harbored such coils of trapped rancor. Bynature, all crystals absorbed the essence of spells raised to
resonance through their mineral lattice. If the patterns were not cleared, thevibrations over time and usage thrummed into rank dissidence, aresentful moil of caged energies. A stone pressed to heel by the
will of many mistresses was wont to reflect twisted spite, or worse, becomewarped into hideous subterfuge, to turn on new wielders and seekdomination in turn. Greatest of all matrixes, the Waystone's storedpattems spewed forth in unparalleled viciousness.
Lirenda felt the blast as an obdurate, scorching tide of hatred
that strove to unravel her being. Never had she witnessed such forcefulmalevolence. Her own strength was inadequate. Before such a flux,her deepest defenses would snap like so many dry twigs. She shrankinside the Prime's warded circle, cowed to a whimpering huddle.
She was not alone in her terror. The screams of Koriani predeces­sors who had failed to overmaster the Waystone's maze of trickeryrolled through the crystal's depths also. Their despair charged themind, shrank the flesh, and became a scourge defined unto itself; asif those vanquished, consumed spirits sought to lure fresh victims tosuccumb to the inner flaws that destroyed them. Their bodilessthoughts whirled in tireless search, seeking, prying, scrabbling toexploit any small chink of uncertainty. The peril of their assaultwas 

JANNY WURTS
 real, unforgiving. Lirenda's skin rose into prickles of fear.
assurance of Morriel's wards, the danger sang through
instant before a lightning strike, with her naked selfhood
one breath shy of oblivion.

An inflexible truth, that if the Prime Matriarch failed to
roused Waystone, her frail circle of protections must
thin lines of power once faltered or faded, Lirenda would be.
ruin in the turmoil of upset control.

As never before, the lesson thrust home: to succeed the Prime's
a candidate must become nothing less than a faultless
prime applicant would ever achieve dominion of the amethyst
unbreakable strength and no fault left to admit weakness.

Then Morriel made her presence known. Her confidenceable, she configured the Waystone's seals of mastery, laid thern,in silvered vectors of power, fast and precise as thrown knives.arced into sigils, symmetrical, perfect, to shape ragingorder. Through the convulsed moil of energies, Lirenda caughthalf-glimpsed imprints of past conjuries, the ghost echo of oldrents chained through the quartz axis: of storms and diseaseawry or tamed outright; of the very slipstreamreversed. She heard, too, the dusky voices of past matriarchs,words, their deeds, their arguments all melded like thescrape of dry leaves. Then one last stamp of mastery sheared thewhispers away.
The Waystone's sullen stew of resistance tore asunder, thendered to limpid clarity.
Lirenda watched, awed, as the limitless vista opened before hersecond hand. As often as she had experienced the rushing, exhilara~:joy in her mastery of other focus jewels, the Waystone yieldedorder of magnitude more. An indescribable passion plunged throu~iher, sensation shaved to an exquisite knifepoint of ecstasy. Thefirec thrill of self-awareness seized her unaware, left her flushed andcra~'. ing. She lost herself. Rapture beyond all imagining rolled likes~~:ee~ thunder down her nerves. As if she stood poised at the pinnacleall Ath's creation strung on its axle, turning; and her hand, her~ tcgrasp the rein and drive the wheel, to prod the harnessed vectors'fate to the dictates of her chosen whim.
 Revelation flooded her, a keen exhilaration spiced by addi~ti~'elonging. She would own this power herself one day. At whatever cost.matter the sacrifice, Lirenda knew she would pay any price toceed the Koriani Prime. No risk, even death, would swerve her right­ful claim to that heritage. 
76 the the but 
FUGITIVE I)RINCE
 Impatient for that hour, the First Senior envied Morriel's grasp
of that seamless course of power. She ached for her chance to let tunedawareness thread through the stone's lattice and frame the runes
into sigils of command.The pattern the Prime chose was a basic scrying. Somewhere uponthe world's seas, a brigantine's keel carved westward. A small mote;
a dimple pressed into the wavecrests by a hull hand fashioned ofplanks and sheathed in a bottom of copper. The metal would be sub­ject to personal resonance, stamped bright in imprint of a man's
des­peration, and his all-consuming hope of escape from the geas thathounded his peace.
Arithon s'Ffalenn sailed west on the summer winds, and Morrielshaped her bidding to comb Athera's broad oceans to tag his currentlocation. For sheer display, the move was impressive. Water wasearth's most unbiddable element. Salt of itself balked cast conjury.The call through the Waystone arose in a tumultuous torrent, awhiplash of force before which the wide seas must bow to outrightdemand.
 The search spell released, launched in stamped intent to claimdominance over its target. Yet the connection fell short, maligned
bysome unseen barrier. Another resonance intervened, then captured itsorder Clear sigils were impacted and snarled awry, then diffusedaway into nothing. The sea appeared lidded by impervious shields,and the scrying failed, its pure force dispersed into aimless puffs
of air.
 Lirenda cried out, indignant. "So much for the Fellowship ofSeven and their claim of unshakable morals! Look! They have broken thecode of their own compact, even acted covertly for the sake of pro­tecting a criminal. Did you plan to catch their hand in the act?"
But the Koriani Matriarch kept pensive silence. Beneath her hand,the violet sphere of the Waystone shed chill, its heart a thousandspin­dled planes of trapped starlight. The noosed perils of its focusstayedpoised and still as the glint off an unsheathed axe blade. "TheSorcer­ers have shown a devious cleverness," she finally said, noncommittal."That defense ward left no tracks, no afterimage of structural con~jury." The resonant signature of Fellowship work in fact had beenabsent, as though Arithon's presence had been masked by an unseenforce, or sea itself had joined in conspiracy to hide him.
That piquant anomaly would keep for later study. Morriel cata­loged the nagging incongruity, then moved on, brisk, to the task ofgranting her First Senior a taste of prime powers expanded throughthe Great Waystone. She spun the jewel's focus, sent a new probe {ANNY WUI~TS 
unfeeling over the far lands to the north, where theof Tornir Peaks tore through the spine of the cape, andwhite spume off the Gulf of Stormwell.
Lirenda shared the majestic swoop as the Prime's channeleders changed purpose. Delight stunned her. She reveled in alike flight; knew the thrill of rushed passage, as if spirit could s~over jagged summits where no road ran, and Northerly's trap~never ventured. The foothills were cloaked in a straight shag 0t i:There, wolf packs hunted by the new silver moon, the fanned e~~vescence of hunger and slaughter trailing like smoke in t}~eir ~'a~The Waystone's precise focus could pick out the frost-p~,~nt er~bro~dery of the Fellowship wards which bounded the Sorcerer's !'rese~Through the lens of Morriel's vision, the knitted intricacy of tt~eirc0r. jury looked like crocheted water, random patterns twined i~to ~'accord beyond grasp of matter and logic. The Sorcerers' works ~,e:!like no other conjuries, their core of fey mystery fraught with ?eri~and gloved in an unearthly beauty.
Lest those secretive riddles beckon the mind into circling,~q~adnes!Lirenda marveled instead at the creatures the wards kept imt~,r~s0pecHere flew the last deadly packs of winged predators b~-~,t~ght'~ibreathing life by the dreams of the bygone dragons. Most r~t~ r~ero~of the surviving drake spawn, black Khadrim clustered on it~dges0!volcanic rock. They warbled unending songs of bloodlust. More 0tthem crouched, armored tails curled over their needle-sharp talon!Warmed by the mud pots, they dreamed, ever restless, drinking ~rmemories of the whistling dissonance as high-altitude air thru~r~ecover thundering, taut wing leather. Here and there, a long, p~rr~head arched up and breathed flame. Others jo'med in, until the ~t~>~raked scarps became necklaced with brands like a festival.
Northward, Morriel bent the axis of the Waystone, over ~,e,~'~mailed in ice, or snagged in batts of drifting cloud. Here, on t!~'ri~ walls which bounded the Gulf of Stormwell, lay the mountai~' li~.ing heart, no longer cold, but aflame and bleeding the earth's~t~itc? mineral through shattered seams and caldera. The peaks at the N~,rt?Cape were unstable, a brutalized vista of riven rock. Here, earth ~elements raged in endless war. Volcanoes like angry, fuming behe.moths hurled hot rock and cinders. Magma spewed scarlet lacew0r~into the boil of gray breakers, ever ripping their voracious, tide-driven channels between the shores of the Trow Islands.
 "There," Morriel said, lxer voice the thin tone of droppedporcelain~Lirenda sensed the small peak singled out, its flanks carved lam­bent by lava flows. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 "We shall cap that vent in the earth's crust." Morriel spoke
without arrogance, without even the prideful overtone a child might show atrapped butterfly.
She brought the focus stone's power to bear, a wheeling spin
like forced vertigo. Then, in bursting white lines, she framed the grandseals into sigils. Overwhelmed by their magnificence, Lirenda couldnot discern whether the Prime traced the figures over the amethyst'ssurface, or whether she called them up, blazing, from the grar/ite
dis­cipline of her mind. Some she recognized, for mastery of rock; domi­nance of earth; the interlaced patterns for repression and joining
and guard. Others seemed disquietingly changed, indecipherable despitea haunting familiarity. The train of the construct shaped an unquietstrangeness that razed her to upsetting chills. Her rational
thoughtswere flicked on wild tangents to recoil into confusion.The spell towered, bloomed, achieved finished perfection. Then,like the flight of an arrow from bowstring, the sharp, singing humof release.
 Perception overturned, kicked through an explosive cascade ofchange. Lirenda screamed with the upset as something spun wrong,and cognizance unraveled with the unbound, wild fury of a thunder­clap. All order dissolved, then mastery and rule, leaving dark like
the aftermath of carnage. Next, the slipped threads of power hurled intobacklash. Chaos clapped down. For one yawning instant, natural lawwrenched off course. Every sane tie to reason unhinged, as if tornfrom the span of creation.
The impact slammed through the mind, then froze there in stoppedreverberation. Lawless disorder coiled into itself like craze marks pressed through crushed crystal.
Then the moment cracked free and passed. The earth turnedserene. Summer stars burned untouched. Lirenda recovered herself,gasping and dazed, on the tower felted in the mild air of a bay shorenight in Thirdmark. Etched in the eye of her mind, she still saw thevolcanic basin at Northerly, and the fuming, scarlet lava jettinguncapped through the darkness.
Next she became aware of Morriel's speech, pronouncing maledic­tions in a quavering, vitriolic whisper.
"Matriarch, are you hurt?" she asked, stressed and shaken, inneed of reassurance for herself.
 She held on through a racked draw of breath, while the Primeexpressed rage in a rising, thin shriek. "Damn them all to thedimmest pit of Sithaer! Fellowship meddlers! Curse their hands andtheir eyes and the tongues in their mouths. Let them suffer for this! 
~ANNY WURTS 

May they die, every one, unmanned and weeping, helplessunloved and alone!"
 Lirenda cowered at the tirade, afraid to move or speak, as~Matriarch spun, her features seamed bone in the starlight. "lAthhappened? Ath forbid I should have lived to see the day! The Fetl~ship held our Waystone in custody for five centuries, and oh, we ~fools to have believed they never tampered."
"But Sethvir promised me our Waystone was untouched!" Lire~cried. The order's own tests had assured the Warden's statement' no falsehood.
 "Ah, untouched indeed." Morriel's malice changed to bitter a~ration. "Sethvir did not lie. He did not disturb our stone. Clever fi that he is, he never had to. He simply imprinted the Waystone'snature into every cranny of the world through the earth lindgained from the Paravians. And damn his wretched cleverrhe laid no ward on Arithon, nor broke any thread of moral princThe same trick just upset my scrying." "I don't understand," Lirendasaid.
 "You should, given more time and experience." Morriel qualin that etched, acid tone she used to restore equilibrium. "The ke~in the foundations of Fellowship philosophy, First Senior. The Soers' mastery keeps Paravian precepts. The Seven are bound, and ~live by the Law of the Major Balance, itself a stricture of permissThey believe earth and air, in fact, all solid matter, to be spunanimate spirit. Nothing they do, in craft or in deed, can proceed ~out an exchange of consent. So they have trammeled us. Our ~stone's signature pattern has been given to all that has form irworld; and by Sethvir's knotted conjury, all physical matter intence has been empowered to refuse its channeled force of interventic
Before Lirenda's outrage, Morriel ran on, her rancor fired no'the ancient sting of balked rivalry. "Oh, we're not helpless. Our ~can still tune a circle of seniors into focused unity through the sWe can still curb disease, and even, turn armies. But only toinfluence upon conscious, living beings, and these have wills ofown. Over the earth, against even the lowliest storm, our Way~has been robbed of power."
The wide-ranging impact undermined at a stroke the trium1the Waystone's recovery. For the order's major spell crystalsthemselves irreplaceable. Brought in when the Koriathain first s~Athera, the stones' offworld origins set them outside the scope cParavian-wrought earth link. Only those select conjuries charuthrough their matrices could escape Sethvir's observation. 
8O FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Now, the Waystone's Named signature had been disseminatedabroad by the Sorcerer. The unique, patterned aura of its influencelayhampered in ties of recognition. Its forces had been disempoweredthrough rejection by all things over which the Fellowship's compactheld sway.
Lirenda regarded her Prime Matriarch, shadowed under her hoodof pale silk like a hunting spider noosed in spun gossamer. "Whatwill you do?"
"Whatever I must." Morriel stroked skeletal fingers over the pol­ished, sullen facets of the Waystone. "The Fellowship of Seven haveno given right to curtail our Koriani powers. I will go myself andpre­sent my demand at Althain Tower. The Sorcerers will heed, or besorry. I will gain back our autonomy." 
81 Summer-Winter 5648
 Three Seasons 
In late summer, amid the long train of scholars who bring must~ship's rutters, and the flocked parchments of archived maps, ani!ieven, from Erdane, new proof that the Isles of Min Pierens exist inthe margin of a faded merchant's lading list, a brawny craftsman bowsbefore Lysaer s'Ilessid, and says in his broad southcoast accent,"Your Grace, I'm named Cattrick, and I've come to apply for the master'~ ~!position in your new shipyard at I~iverton .... "
 At twilight on the autumn equinox, while the day fades to nigh~and two seasons shift balance on the fulcrum of change, three Fellow­ship Sorcerers at Althain Tower seal the next layer in the constructwhich has commanded their unsparing efforts for a year; and dea~power spears out in a ruled, white line to pierce the very nadir ofthe heavens ....
 On the wide moors of Araethura, while winter's diamond dustingof frosts silver the stems of sere grasses, the child, Fionn Areth,sur­vives his first year, while his mother weeps for the auguries yet toentangle his future, and his father stands taciturn and silent .... 
82 Winter 5648-5649 
III. Sentence 
mustys, andin the bows "Your ster's 
~ght11ow­truct :lean ,f the 
tingsur­~t to 
On the moming that Arithon's brigantine rounded up andbacked sail off the wind-blasted sands of the far continent,the Fellowship Sorcerer who was Warden of Althain perchedin a sun-baked window seat. He could have held that pose for hours,or even days, hunched like a ruffled gray pelican in the comfort ofhis moth-eaten maroon robe. The lined, ivory knuckles of one handclutched a sheaf of curled parchment. The other wielded a blackswan's quill, fussed sharp as a dandy's rapier point. The pot lastused to dip his nib nestled between his braced knees, a tipped fractionshyof a spill. Stray stains and a threadbare shine to his velvets showedSethvir's small care for vanity. Mere ink could be left to run whereit would while his provenance spanned all the world.
Through the gift of the Paravian earth link, Sethvir sensed thedis­tant, salt splash as the Khetienn's anchor plunged to bite into thepearlescent sands of the shallows. Amid myriad sounds, just one pat­terned resonance of changed air: he heard shouted orders from a halfa globe away, to brail tanbark sails to squared yards at the end ofan arduous passage. Caught between lines of small, precise script, theSorcerer furrowed his seamed brow. Then the poignancy of themoment overcame him.
 He laid his temple against the old stonework and wept.
If the sea gave the Shadow Master a temporary shelter from the 

83 
JANNY ~VURTS 

hatred raised among townsmen against him, his cherished
finding a haven on Athera's far continent was misled. Sethvir
as much, aggrieved by the secrets necessity had forced him to ke~
Kathtairr, the far land, was familiar to him as the creases grained ~
his own flesh. Distance offered no obstacle. The grand earth link
bequeathed him, moment to moment, its endless, weary vistas 0t
ocher and gray. Sun scorched and blasted by the elements, the c0n~.
nent fanned like a snag of singed cloth cast on the jewel-toned sea.
I~ 
rivers were dry, or ran poisoned and alkaline. Its shoreline
extended. 
league upon league, as blank, rippled dunes and swept desert.

Sethvir ached for the tragic truth. To the last sand grain androck. from the cracked, dusty summits of each nameless mountain to theseared, crumbled fissures of the valleys, the land mass beyondAthera's vast oceans was naught but a lifeless waste.
Even in the early centuries of the Third Age, at the height ofthe~ power and ascendancy, the Paravians had shunned the place.
Arithon would find no reprieve in Kathtairr from the bane laid ~him by the Mistwraith. If he gained brief escape through the ti r~~,he spent searching, for each year that passed, Lysaer s'Iles~id :~ul~breed more killing sentiment against him. The longer theKh~t~t'~tl~'i absence extended, the higher the stakes laid against the Shado~~'Nla~­ter's life.
 Between Sorcerers, the issue had already been thrashed toe~.t~z~s. tion. In desperate truth, their Fellowship dared not spurn thes~alle~t borrowed margin of time. They would, and had wreste~ tr~r~Arithon's blind need that span of uneasy peace. Trapped then~-~.t~'~in a race to stave off disaster, they labored to avert an unmenti, ~,~bl~ peril, compounded since the hour of the Mistwraith's confine~.r~t
Sethvir straightened, blue-green eyes grown airy as mist. His ~~,r~draped loose across the unfinished last paragraph on his parc~~:~,~,~t The quill slipped, forgotten, to drift on a whisper to the floor.Amid h~,sprawl of opened books, stained tea mugs, and his cluttered, strayodd­ments of feather and stone scavenged from excursions through ti~meadows, he looked for all the world like a beak-nosed littlegrandra­ther, abandoned to senile daydreams.
In contrary fact, the Sorcerer's trained focus ranged far beyondi~.i~ tower library. Immersed in the broadscale vision of the earth link,tt~. split train of his awareness encompassed all things, from the migi~t?pull of Athera's riptides, to the rustle of solitary grass stems. Theb~s~' tracks of ants reached his ear, and the singular signatures of sandgr~ ~t~sbanked in the gullies of the deserts. Sethvir could count at whimti~, cries of the owl and the albatross, riding the wind's thermalcurre~t~ 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

ted hope of;thvir knewim to keep.. grained in
earth link
 y vistas of
~, the conti­ned sea. Its
 ! extended,
 err.

 ~ and rock,
rain to the
 ~s beyond 

ht of their 
ne laid on ~e time he id would Khetienn' s «ow Mas­
exhaus­smallest ed from ~raselyes~tionable
 s fingers
~chment.
 kmid his
 ray odd­ugh the
~randfa­
'ond his ink, them~ghtyhe busyt grains'tim the lrrents. 
He sensed the grind of polar ice, north and south, and the thunderingshear of each floe calved into the briny arctic seas. The planetitself played its living chord through his consciousness. He knew, like aheartbeat, the molten toss of core magma and the eerie, static pulseof its array of magnetic power lanes. Amid the vast, milling chord offlux and event, two predse notes snagged in dissonance. Sethvir narrowedhis sight to frame these, his brows tugged into worry like muddledcro­chet.
 ^ listening minute later, the Sorcerer moved on. Past the world'smotley cloak of spun cloud, he traced the wheeling arc of the moonthrough deep vacuum, then left its grand dance to encompass thethin, singing tracks carved by stars.
The deeps of the void in between were not lifeless. A massive,near-complete ward construct spread for arc seconds in space. In fancurves, through ruled lines and joined angles that transected time, 
an intricate chain of seals spindled taut in lace point and sapphire,
their phantom imprint a gemstone's planed facets cut intaglio on the drydark. To the paired entities who labored to close the last gaps in
the symmetry, Sethvir sent word, 'Arithon's made landfall on the far conti­ller.'
 "Past time," Kharadmon's brisk comment flung back. Discorporatesince mishap overcame him in the course of Second Age violence, theghost Sorcerer added his usual caustic fillip. "He's Torbrand's
true­b0m descendant, with the same nasty temper when his dignity's ran­kled, or his principles. When he sails back empty-handed, will youhave a ready answer? He's bound to demand why our Fellowshipnever warned him that Kathtairr's seared lifeless by drake fire."
"Mind well, Kharadmon," a fruity, morose voice admonished. "Ifyou fritter away words restating prehistory, there won't be a livingland left for anyone's ship to return to." Luhaine's gloomy nature
had scarcely improved since his body had perished in defense of adeposed high k'mg. Once a corpulent scholar who preferred cautiousorder, in five hundred years, he had yet to savor his free-ranging
exis­tence as pure spirit. Nor had his tart rivalry eased into shared
com­miseration as a shade. "In case you've gone drifty, we've work tocomplete before the advent of solstice."
"Oh, dance on it," Kharadmon retorted. A ripple of energiesshot through by stars, he set to in exuberant relish. "You scold like
some humorless grandmother with nothing to do but knit mufflers andr0ust up windy criticism."
Luhaine chose to ignore him. "Do I surmise we're summoned backto ^theta?" His prim query was presented to Sethvir alone, theinflection 
all plaintive acid. "The timing's a gross inconvenience, as you see.'earth link would show that one last charge of power drawnlane tides at winter solstice would see their long laborfirst stage protection was urgent, and indispensable, againstdire for delay.
'You're needed,' Sethvir insisted. 'The moment can't be helped.s'llessid just condemned his first clan captives to chained slavery.adepts have sent their appeal to invoke our duty to the compact.choice but to confront him. In addition, Morriel Prime and herabout to camp on my doorstep. I might as well have your company inport when she knocks to air her fresh grievance.'
Luhaine huffed his contempt.offer their help, and not wasting themselves in frivolouscap volcanic vents whose existence but serves the earth's balance."~
"Now see who's nattering," injected Kharadmon. "I'm notwatching you argue the stupidity of inviting Koriathain to mixmeddlesome sigils in our works! If Sethvir wants an interviewPrince Lysaer, I'll just be off to string the energy paths." Alaugh and a swirl of sourceless current marked the Sorcerer'stous departure.
"Irresponsible jape," Luhaine grumbled. "Always flitting out."sour eddies that flowed like rippled oil over a backdrop of stars, 
capped a precise flourish to a dangling knit of spell seals. "As ill
loose ends remained here that shouldn't be stabilized first." 
unseen touch launched a spiraling array of circles and
bridge a crucial expanse of deep vacuum. "Trust Kharadmon to ~
like a truant, and meet ugly threats with light raillery. I can't
why we put up with him."

Luhaine listed each shortfall he saw in his colleague'sthen plowed on to include notable past instances when he hadabandoned to tidy disagreeable details. No answer came back. ~the impersonal, high chime of remote constellations. Already,had moved on, his listening presence retuned to Athera, andacross the long leagues into Shand to make contact with anothercerer.
 The discorporate presence of Kharadmon breezed into thechambers at Avenor a comfortable interval before noon. His raised no notice, passed off, perhaps, as an errant winterbreathed through the swagged velvet curtains. The roomappointed in rich carpets and gold. Wax candles shone fromsconces. Against the satin glow of varnished hardwoods, the ~~L~~ 
86 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 valet who served the Prince of the Light fussed to set Lysaer's lastdiamond stud.
 "How right you were, your Grace." Head tipped, the servantstepped back to measure the dazzling effects of his handiwork. "Goldtrim was excessive. You shall shine like a star in full sunlight."
Lysaer laughed. "Here, don't feed my vanity." He flicked thelast pleats in his cuffs into place, his form all pale elegance, and his
fea­tures cut marble beneath a molten ore cap of combed hair. "I don'tneed such show. For the gift of my bullion, the beggars will be
suit­ably awed." Then he smiled at his valet, his unearthly, pure beautytransmuted to intimate warmth.
 The boy blushed. He bobbed a clumsy bow, then stammered an
apology as his elbows jostled the palace officials who waited,

clothed in stiff-faced magnificence. Each one wore a new sunwheel tabard,cut of shining champagne gold-and-white silk.
The realm's chancellor and the Lord High Justiciar forgave theboy's gaffe in cool tolerance. They advanced to attend their prince
in full ceremony, paired as if cued to a stage drill. The dense, beadedthreadwork on their garments somehow looked soiled besideLysaer's stainless presence. In his shadow, they swept toward thedoorway. There, four silent guards dressed their weapons and joinedthem, two ahead, two behind. No man looked askance at the unseenarrival which breezed on the heels of the royal train.
A second, more tangible obstruction awaited to waylay the prince.The young boy who served as the royal bannerbearer could scarcelytake position while a willowy form traced in sparkling jewels blockedoff the arch to the vestibule. She had the prowling smooth stride andrich coloring of a lioness, and for today's prey, she stalked inchill rage.
"Princess, Lady Talith." Lysaer touched the foremost guardsman'sshoulder as signal for him to keep station. Hunter's spear to hertinsheathed claws, he eased past, on an instant the solicitous hus­band. He clasped his wife's hand, drew her into the light, and losthis breath a split second, as he always did.
First sight of Talith's beauty unfailingly stunned a man foolish.She had finespun, tawny hair, and features refined to the delicatetexture of robbed ivory. Her dress skimmed over her devastating curves, forthis meeting, a calculated, flowing confection of damascened silk andjet buttons, cross-laced at wrist and bodice with silk ribbon.
"My dear, you look magnificent." The words framed an effortlesscourtesy, since his glance significantly avoided the cascade of yel­10w citrine which sparkled like poured honey into the tuck of her 
JANNY ~URTS 

cleavage. Her smallest move and breath chased teasing reflecti0~over her pearl-studded bodice, until the eye became trapped, thearrowed downward into a girdle fitted tight enough to hitch thein the throats of Lysaer's waiting attendants. "I'm delighted ~course, but won't your need keep? I promise I'll see you directlafter I've finished my appearance in the plaza."
Lady Talith narrowed dense, sable lashes over eyes like razor~bronze. "The beggars can wait for their alms without suffering.Risen to the challenge, she smiled. Her flawless, fine skin flushedfc the joy of a stabbing duel of wits. "Better still, let yourchancellor d~ pense the day's coin in your stead. Dismiss your train. Now. I'llnev~ settle for begging court appointments, or standing in line for anence."
 "I can't dismiss my train. My chancellor is no fit replacement/'Igrave, caring tenderness, Lysaer clasped her wrist to draw her clear~ the doorway. "If privacy matters, we'll save our discussion for ahour when I'm not committed."
 "Bedarrmed to privacy." Talith tested his hold, felt the steel infingers, and laughed in a sheared peal of scorn. "Why play at p~tense?" She aimed her next barb with all the sugared venom her Etaran background could muster. "My pride wasn't stung by thr~months in Arithon's company." She smiled, digging him with threand innuendo, even daring his temper, since he had not sharedshameful secret with his courtiers at Avenor. They were never tothat the Master of Shadow was in true fact begotten when Lysaelmother cuckolded her marriage in liaison with his father's rnchated enemy.
Gratified by the vengeful jab of his fingers through her sleeve,ith hfted one porcelain shoulder in a shrug. At her throat, the je~'~flashed, enticed, trembled in liquid invitation. "Why not say al0,what every servant in your palace already whispers behind ycback? That time enough has passed since my ransom. A year anthalf gone, and all your court watching my belly like a pack of starrmidwives. What pretense is left? My time in captivity was innocen~dalliance."
 Unlike your faithless mother, her swift, weighted pause suggest,Locked eye to eye, his arctic blue to her molten amber, Talith s~"Since you can't claim avoidance for a nonexistent bastard, what keyou from sharing my bed?"
Lysaer stroked a light finger beneath her chin, while a frownconsummate puzzlement came and went between his brows.love, you're distraught." By an act of brazen sympathy he behavec 
88 '~c air .~d of 'ectly 
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FtlOITIVE PRINCE
 if they stood alone, though the guardsmen behind exchanged discom­fited glances. They knew well enough his nights were spent in theroyal suite, since their ranks supplied the watch set over the
pr'mce'sapartments.
"No doubt, you have cause for distress," Lysaer temporized. "Irealize how desperately you desire to conceive. But chasing me aboutin a lather is unlikely to help your fertility."
Talith hissed out a breath at this vicious twist. "How dare 
you!"Her lashes swept down, a black veil for a murderous flare of hatred."Y0u'll never be able to bury your lapse with state excuses, or
claim I am flawed or infirm. If I'm barren, my ladies-in-waiting all know,
it's because your elaborate show of appearance masks the fact that youwon't couple with me. Tell me, your Grace, what are you hiding? Amistress? Boy lovers? Revulsion on the chance I fell victim to
incest?"
 "Here, I'll be late. Your troubles must bide for a little bit."As she snapped breath to sink her barb of victory, Lysaer cupped her face,slipped a quick kiss on her lips, then handed her off to his rankingman-at-arms. His low, rapid orders cunningly disarmed her mostbrilliantly raking response. "See my lady to a healer for a posset tosoothe her nerves. Say I'll return to check on her the earliestinstant I am free."
 She threw him a withering epithet.
In pained sorrow, the prince shut his eyes: as if by flat denialhe could pretend for a heartbeat such beauty did not harbor so vile acontempt. Then he roused himself, straightened. Every regal inch ofhim contained into painful, mannered sympathy, he reassumed hisplace with his chancellor and Lord Justiciar. Despite Talith's glarelike an auger at his back, he expanded the circle of his confidence. 
 "I'm sorry for the scene." His hushed voice carried backward ashis party advanced through the echoing, high vaults of the hallway. "The10ss of her brother at Dier Kenton Vale so soon after the months she was kept in duress by the Spinner of Darkness have left Talithstrained and unsettled. We must all be patient. Give her care andunderstanding. I'm certain the moment we manage to conceive ourfirst child, her usual staunch nature will prevail."
The chancellor murmured banal commiseration. Less suave, theguardsmen showed pity, while the red-faced valet who watched fromthe dressing chamber gave the princess the gawky, bold stare thatadmired for sheer, brainless loveliness.
Talith swept off with the appointed guardsman, chin raised insmoldering rebellion. Born a pedigree Etarran, she was too well sea­soned to the ways of court infighting to augment Lysaer's strategy 
JANNY WURTS 

with protests. If he sought to discredit her as a womanharsh circumstance, he had to know, the new-forged,spite in her heart would admit no defeat while she breathed.
"On my life," she called after her royal husband in a tone like~cet poison, "I'll birth you an heir to make the s'Ilessid nameeven as your lady mother did before me!"
Appalled by the sharp, sudden pallor that blanched his prince'!face, the Lord Justiciar of Avenor's state council tipped his grayhea~ in assurance, "Give her time. She'll weather her disappointment 0ve~children. Women do." He pursed his lips, prepared to co~ti~ue ~fatherly advice.But Lysaer raised a hand and touched him silent. "Not h~r~,."The royal train reached the outer postern. Composed anti brittle a!an artwork in glass, the Prince of the Light mastered the ~t~rt cer~.mony while a heavy box of coins changed hands from Ave~r's .~l~­ister of the Treasury into the care of his chancellor. He ste?pcd~'i~t his retinue through the outer doorway into the blast of wi~ter ~'i~dThe cold nipped his cheeks back to color Against the luminous, aqua.marine sky, his hair gleamed like the tinseled weave shot throug~ripple of Atchaz silk. His poise, now restored, was steel masked infei~. as he dealt his justiciar a swift and shaming rebuke. "A year and~half is criminally soon to say whether my lady's unfit to bear anhei: Discretion is called for. Her Grace's distress will fare all the w~rse !'. unkind rumors start to circulate."
 Beside the bronze finials of the palace gate spread the circuit,.plaza which centered the city of Avenor. This site retained itsdvsigrsince the Paravian ruin underwent Lysaer's restoration. His ~aste:masons had found the proportions and placement too pleasin~ t~ di~.rupt. The facades of the formal state buildings had arisen on theri~! of Second Age foundations. The ancient worn slates, wit~ theircracked channels of queer inlay, were now paved over in arv, b~r-and.white block incised with a sunwheel pattern. The vista with itsinnat~ grandeur presented the ideal setting for Lysaer's noon practice t~tdi~. pensing largesse to the poor.
Since the crushing defeat in Vastmark, the coins struck for th~ ?~r. pose were embossed with the new order's blazon upon one side,, ~ucstamped on the other with a sigil of ward against darkness. [ ~r~bbedshadow-banes by their recipients, merchants in Tysan took t~t'rn i.~trade, then resold them as amulets for more than their value in ~t~ld
No edict was signed to curtail the practice. "Why sap thef~,unda­tions of the common people'~ hope?" Prince Lysaer gave instt~ctit~r.to his council. "For as long as the Shadow Master lives at larg..,their 
9O ~ dul­
nce's head over ~ his
 kerror is ~ea~ anc~ )us~'li-iecl. Let ~olk grasp whatever comfort
they may.Suffering and losses could harm them soon enough. Folk will farebetter for not feeling helpless in their worry."
Speculation became rooted into belief. The name of ArithonTeir's'Ffalenn was anathema, and feared, and the coins, dispensedwith the blessing of Lysaer s'Ilessid himself. They could not be
other than talismans infused by his blessed gift of light.Prince Lysaer never walked in the public eye without due
presenceand ceremony. His daily custom of charity became a dazzling displayof royal pageantry, while the poor and the downtrodden elbowed for­ward to claim the trinkets which held the reputed power to protectthem.
 This day, the plaza was packed to capacity, despite the bracingwind that snapped the fringed banners on their poles. The out-of­town merchants and the bored rich who thronged to observe from thebalconies clutched their caped cloaks and furred hoods. Below, injostling chaos, the waving, cheering supplicants pressed to catch
sightof their savior. More than the city poor and village crofters
shouted and surged against the guardsmen's cordon. Petitioners now traveledfrom far-distant cities to receive Avenor's royal alms. A second row
of pikemen ringed the central dais to keep order, their polished
buckles and appointments backed by white silk bunting tied up with gilt cordand tassels.
 Lysaer stepped through the gateway just before the advent ofnoon. The wind's icy buffet ruffled his ingot gold hair. His white­clad person seemed etched into air, set off from the commonplace seaof dark woolens like a mote struck into incandescent purity by thesil~,er-ice fall of winter sunlight. The welcoming roar which
greetedPrince Lysaer rocked echoes off the high, amber brick of the watch­t~,vvers. Engulfed in a mounting crescendo of noise, he ascended thedais stair, his honor guard and high council ministers a parade pacebehind him.
 The thronging stew of voices grew hushed as Lysaer s'Ilessid tookhis place. He accepted the bullion coffer from his chancellor, thenaddressed the adoring crowd. "Hail the Alliance of Light! Throughthe dedication of all people, moral strength shall prevail againstdark­nessF' He tipped up his face. As though his appeal was presented toheaven, he summoned the powers of his ~ift. A dazzling shaftspeared down from the zenith to lend grand display to his benefi­cence.
 Yet this time, the flaring, fired brilliance which answered wasnot completely his own. 
]ANN Y ~)~7LIR TS

 The two officers nearest sensed something amiss: as ifwere too fine, too potent, charged through by anforce outside the range of mortal senses. They called insaw their prince jerk up short. His calm shatteredastonishment as his frosty, white finery spun awry in auncanny, cold air.
Unseen, unheard, the Sorcerer Kharadmon linked hisconjury to the tide of the solstice noon. An actinic blast ofillumination exploded over the dais. The ranking royalwere rocked back and dazzled. They strove to reorient, unsure if~should draw weapons, or what form of enemy mightThrough an inrush of winds like a rip in clear air, they heard theof the coin chest, fallen from the prince's grasp. Then thetreble as the shadow-banes burst free, clanging and scatteringthe dais. Plucked off the boards like a captured chess piece,s'Ilessid no longer stood among them. The circle of light justmanifest shimmered empty, while his chancellor and body/gaped in terrified astonishment.
 For Lysaer, seized fast by a presence that disallowed protest,/upset plucked him bodily and hurled him through the howling eye~chaos. He felt torn in half, upended, spun. Nausea threatened toup his guts. He battled to cope in riled anger. Led onc(a spell transfer across longitude, he recognized the forces ofconjury just before the disembodied voice of Kharadmonhim, "You are bound at this moment for Althain Tower in answersummons by the Fellowship."
Then transition ended. The wheeling cascade ofsnapped away. Lysaer felt his person restored to firm stone, but notthe plaza at Avenor. The smells in this place were ozone andcoiled through. an elusive, dark tang of oiled metal. He shielded ~eyes, made out a black onyx floor underfoot. The fierce playstreamed from inlaid strings of ciphers, arrayed in disquietingterns, concentric circles and interlocked rune lines yet limnedwhite in the fast-fading shimmer of spent energies. He recognizedstood at the apex of the power focus laid out in the keep's lowerdun­geon. Its seamless walls were pale marble. Gargoyle sconces crouchedleering at the major points of the compass. Lysaer's flesh crawledwith chills, gift of Luhaine's nearby presence; then that coldintensi­fied as Kharadmon flanked him as invisible escort to prod his stiffstep toward the stairwell.
"You won't get away with abducting me," Lysaer ground out in FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 10w fury. "Nor can raw power absolve Arithon's bloody crimes, northe secret of your dirty liaison.""You're no one's prisoner," Luhaine said, unperturbed. "As forkeeping propriety, this meeting you attend shall be bent outside
time. Your absence at Avenor will last no more than the wings of aninstant." He led up the stair shaft, his spirit reclothed as a
courtesy inthe image of a corpulent bald man from whose dimpled chin hung acataract of silver beard. His stooped shoulders were robed in thedusty slate cloth favored by scholars and clerics, and his sandalsfussed to a waxed shine.
 Behind, manifest as a slim, dapper form cloaked in extravagantgreen velvet with slashed sleeves and linings of flame orange,Kharadmon showed his foxy smile. "Nor need you waste effortmaligning your half brother." He wore a black mustache twisted toraised tips like crossed scimitars. His beard was a spade-point
goatee.The rest of his hair fell loose and long to his collarbones, argentcombed through jet at the temples. He surveyed Lysaer's pique witheyes a sardonic, pale green. "The only man's fate held at issue
todaywill be yours, scion of s'Ilessid."
Every inch the born prince, Lysaer stayed unruffled by theSorcer­ers' cavalier handling. His tread on the worn, concave stair wasassured, his bearing never less than a masterpiece of coolstatecraft. lie filed after Luhaine through the trapdoor to ground level, intothe fragrant tang of cedar and the polished, frozen ranks of Paravianstat­uary. Though past high kings before him had cried aloud for sheerwonder at the antlered, stone majesty of the centaurs that raisedhooves and towered above human height, Lysaer would not turn hisb~_act. Royally assured, he displayed no catch of breath. Nor did hemarvel at the unearthly, stopped splendor of the unicorns, posed indancing steps, with their spiraled horns struck soft pearl in themuted gleam through the arrow slits.
That veneer of indifference soon became forced. The willful,steel nerve he sustained throughout taxing state councils in this placechafed thin, made brittle as a mask of varnished paper. Lysaer foughtthe poignant, swift tug at the mind that moved prior visitors toweep.He refused for staunch pride to unbend. The Spinner of Darkness wasthe Fellowship's minion; moral duty compelled him to stand strong.No matter the price, he dared not let the unworldly grace of a deadpast beguile him into weakness. He walked as a man sealed deaf totemptation, while to the right and the left, the joyful, inspiredartistryof the smallest ones, the sunchildren, ripped his heartstrings andbegged him for laughter. 
JANNY ~URTS

 Ahead rose a staircase oś stark, chiseled granite,centuries of torch soot. Althain Tower had been raised in haste to safeguard the records of the Paravian culture. Itsthe chronicles of the First Age, when the ravaging hordes of,raised to life by the drakes' dreams had led the worldSealed vaults and storerooms contained old weapons fromtimes, rare artifacts of Paravian craftwork. Young byheirlooms recovered from the plunder of the high king's halls sha~shelf space.
The grim stairwell between levels still reflected the primaryfunc. tion as a fortress. Stark, unfinished stone made a wrenching, gr~contrast to the grandeur of the commemorative statues. Here, eve~the most unflinching pride could not evade the imprint of despairThe moan of the drafts and the squeal of a loose shutter bespc~kedes. olation, undying reminder of tragedy and losses endured since thedeparture of the old races. Lysaer set his chin. He refused ~, ~i~e~'a,:to emotion or embarrassment, and that hardened deter~i~,~ti0n t~stand down Athera's past was not missed by the Sor~c'~'~'rs ~.~cescorted him.
 They ushered him across the first landing, past the chamOer~x~her~ the Koriani Waystone had been held secure since the first chaotichour of the rebellion; they ascended to the next, where Althai~'~~'ar. den kept his living quarters. On the third level, Sethvir ~irnsel!awaited, the dusty, threadbare garments he preferred put a,ide i0:state formality: a robe of maroon velvet interlaced at sleeves ,~,~dco',.lar in black cord, and belted with a girdle stitched with river ?c.arls His beard had been tidied. Silk cord looped his hair at his nat~, an~his glance of greeting came sharp as a catchlight on fired t~t~,~r~,l"Welcome to Althain Tower, Lysaer s'Ilessid."
The prince's crisp nod offered civilized replacement for tt~~ald. faced accusation, that in his hall at Avenor, hospitality did not i~~:tude being snatched off by force.
Sethvir met that unspoken fuming with a note of disquieting, purepity. "Beware how you think in this place."
"I fear no one's censure," Lysaer said, and despite his bestcare, thepique showed.
"Perhaps not today, but the future's not written." Sethvirunfolded hands like gnarled twine and flung wide a door of iron-strapped ~,ak.
Inside, the tower's rough stone had been paneled over in li~en~c,/dpatterns of golden maple. A carpet of Cildorn weave graced the I'i,~'~c~r of a comfortable, warm chamber. The furnishings included a table, c~iwaxed ebony, standing lions back-to-back as its pedestal, and ct~,~irs 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 upholstered in dark leather with exquisite, chased ivory finials.Beeswax candles burned, both in tall stands and sconces. Rowedbeneath the paned, lancet windows, and lent the rich depth of choicedyes, the banners of Athera's five kingdoms hung from bronzetapestry rods. The ambiance held a grandiloquent, trapped weight ofhistory before which Lysaer paused, amazed.
"Behold, the chamber of the high kings. Here, your ancestor,
Hal­duin s'Ilessid, knelt and swore oath to the Fellowship. That bloodvow he gave became binding on his progeny, for the length of his
line,and all time. No light matter." Sethvir's gesture encompassed thecleared space before the table, no invitation, but strict command."Through the duration of this audience, you will stand."
Lysaer bridled, mocked at once by Kharadmon's mercuric chuckle."You forget yourself, bantling. Your forefathers were crowned kingson Fellowship authority. Any claim you have to royalty originatedhere, ruling power granted in accord with Tysan's founding charter."
An added voice gruff in the grain as old bedrock lent thatstate­ment full weight. "This is not the world of your birth, to
acknowledgeright of arms or direct ancestry." Unnoticed until he straightened,another Sorcerer moved from his quiet, leaning stance against theebon pilaster that flanked the fireplace. "You walk on Athera, in
the hall at Althain Tower, where blood inheritance is fully revocable!"
Tall, worn to leathery leanness by centuries of life in harshweather,Asandir was not clad for travel. The flames' ruddy glow touched anddrowned in the velvet of robes the deep indigo of midnight. Sleeves,hem, and collar were sewn in silver braid, matching the glint of hishair. Named Kingmaker in legend for the royalty he had crowned, helooked the part: clean-shaven, with sable brows angled in lines likeslashed pen strokes, his cheekbones and nose as rugged as if notchedby an axe out of hardwood.
"What brings your complaint?" Lysaer assumed his place in pride­ful, combative challenge. "I refused Tysan's crown. The sovereignty Ishoulder is none of your making, but springs from city law and a writdrawn by Karfael's mayor."
"Is that how you claim your right to set chains on free men, thensubject them to branding and lifeterm of forced labor on thegalleys?"From the doorway behind, Sethvir sighed. "I think not." He added,"We're all here." Although he moved not a finger, the iron-strappedpanel slammed closed.
Lysaer gave a start, but refused to acknowledge the arrivals whofiled behind him. He took their measure instead as they assumedtheir seats at the table. The lead figure was hooded in a full-length J~. W~$
 white mantle. The face stayed shadowed and genderlesssharp brilliance of candles. Lysaer recognized the collarlinked runes in silver and gold which denoted a life initiate ofBrotherhood. He sucked a grim breath. His prior suspicionfirmed: the adepts were in sympathy with Arithondelegate's presence, an unpleasant, sure proof that theirjoined ranks with the Fellowship against him.
As dark followed day, a fifth Sorcerer limped after, his caped,short tunic, and leggings woven of somber black wool. A ravenhis shoulder, wings spread over a steel gray thatch of hairsurveyed the prince and the assemblage of Sorcerers, but itsand its thoughts were not avian. All of its_~
gence lay reflected in eyes the hue of ripe chestnuts.
"Traithe," Asandir greeted. A swordsman's swift step carriedfrom the mantel to draw out a chair. His care for his collea,mity held deferent respect for good reason. Traithe of thehad been crippled since the terrible day he had raised the wildto seal the passage at South Gate against the Mistwraith'sHis sacrifice then had cut off the invasion. Though fogbound,world had survived. If his quizzical smile and listen'mgeased Lysaer to amity, today, all the laugh lines werevisage looked tired, his mouth a taut fold, grim with years andpain.
Sethvir chose the seat beneath the banner of Tysan, flanked:and left by the mismatched shades of Kharadmon andBetween the one, rapacious as a gambler in a card parlor, andother, staid and somber as a judge, Althain's Warden mighta maundering old man, prone to openmouthed dozing. Excepteyes he raised to the prince were no dreamer's, but a surgeon'ssteel,. to flay skin from bone on a glance.
Lysaer resisted the coward's urge to plead. Fellowshipwere not subject to persuasion. Unlike his packs of recalcitrant:ors, they could not be swayed by sincerity. Trappings of ornamentclothing would not impress them. At will, they could strip him dow~to his naked spirit. To face down all five without trembling in dreadrequired an act of main strength. Lit by the merciless flood of thecan­dies, Lysaer felt sealed outside of time. The tower's very presencedis­tilled his perception into shapes too precise for forgetfulness.Grand causes and ideals were excised and diminished. The strivin~ 0i honor and the layered masks of selfhood became turned ai~.~~~.reduced to flat copies in reflection, a purposeless circling like n~~.­ments of fish behind glass. 
96 pite the,ke and~f Ath's ~d con­nd this ~d had 
cloak,n rode e bird mind ntelli­
~ him infir­vshipOrces 'sion. , the once the's told 
'ighttine. the like the :ept 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Lysaer clasped his hands, steeped to acid resolve. He was the
hawk in the falconer's net, and the Fellowship, deadly and powerful con­spirators acting in concert with a criminal. The right was not
theirs to decry his moral destiny, or to accost him with binding judgment.They could hurl their dire threats, and he could refuse. He had nostake to bargain beyond dignity and life; his sole weapon became hisown staunch fiber of principle. Let the Sorcerers break him with
brute force and conjury if they could. For the sake of all threatened andinnocent people, he would do no less than extend his best effort tostand strong.
Traithe opened in shaded, soft sorrow. "You are aware, our
Fellow­ship acts in accord with the Law of the Major Balance. We bring harmto none, nor does our practice force any man against his given will.The talk in the cities of coercive spells and rituals raised out of
blood­shed is no more and no less than the ignorant bluster of fear.""If choice is still mine, then send me back, now." Lysaer
inclined his head, every inch the magnanimous prince. "Or prove yourselveshypocrites, since the conjury which plucked me up out of Tysan wasan act done without my consent."
"You will listen." Asandir sat forward, his eyes the washed, pale0pal of the tiercel's, and his expression forbidding as granite."Games of rhetoric will not serve, nor will we bandy obstructive, pettyargu­ment. Do you realize, in truth, the place mankind holds in the order of this world? Or do you even care, in your self-righteous cry ofpub­lic sacrifice?"
 Kharadmon flicked one finger. Like the barbed parody of a stagemagician's trick, a shadow-bane flashed and arced airborne. Asandirfielded the spinning coin in one fearfully capable hand. At firsttouch,as if the gold scalded, his mouth flinched into a line.
"Abomination," murmured the adept of Ath's Brotherhood. Thesoft, fluting voice was female, and young, and the shadowy hoodturned a fraction. Unseen eyes bored into the prince and measuredhis regal stillness. "Ah, no," she said. "A mere hedge witch's sigilto ward against darkness could not turn the might of the Fellowship.But stronger powers lie dormant behind symbols. Beliefs cling to met­als. For those reasons, the cumulative resonance of your gold ringsunclean."
 Asandir held the coin cupped between his palms. Through a spanof stilled silence, its cast glow of reflection seemed to light hisseamed face from within. He spoke a liquid, clear word. The language hechose was the ancient Paravian, and the inflection shaped sound likestruck crystal. Time stopped, suspended. The mystery in that moment 
97 
JANNY W URTS 

held the potential to snap thought, or the latent might to rend m0un
tains. But Asandir's summoning framed only kindness. Lysaer k~e~ ~
an instant of scouring, sore grief, that he was but fashioned of n~
0rta'. 
clay. He felt as a child shut in the cold dark, and the wrench all
but 
felled him, that the Name gently spoken was not his.

The shadow-bane melted to that power of compassion. Both sigiland sunwheel flowed molten and smoothed. Asandir ~'as not burned. The disk he laid down and slid back across the t,~ble wastransformed to a pristine blank. The Sorcerer spread his haT~ds flatand looked up while the prince was still nakedly shaken.
"Tricks and spells," Lysaer gasped. "Would any man arg~~e? Al_your bidding a stone mi~:ht be made to wail and weedy."
"Even so, the stone weeps for choice, by our code." Asandir'sspeech stayed dispassionate, uncolored by the fabric of sheer caringhe had just summoned to redeem the shadow-bane. "What codeshapes your life? The deceptive diffraction of Ath's order vor~enc0ur­age shall afflict miseries to span generations. You style uscrin~inals who break lives and spill blood. Do you not do the same for a feud?"
Lysaer snatched at argument to collect himself. "Why not t~,11me? Did Arithon s'Ffalenn weigh the full measure of consequence whenhe tore buildings in Jaelot stone from stone, or placed arms in thehands of Vastmark shepherds?" Flagged confidence returned, becameringing conviction. "What of the five hundred he murdered at theHavens? Or the mountains torn down upon Dier Kenton Vale tocrush tens of thousands more beneath the Wheel?"
 "Those spirits lived and died in free choice within Ath Creator'sordained order," the adept said in metallic soft sorrow. "Theirbeliefs and expectations held no more than error. They fought for lies, butnot faith. The course you now tread would deny the prime sourcefrom whence springs all joy and all life."
Lysaer fielded that sentiment with contempt. "Are they any lessdead for their choice or their truth? Arithon, also, can beguile toturn innocents. If I don't oppose him, who will?"
"Beware, false prince," Sethvir interjected, neither wistful nordif­fused, but earnest in a concern that terrified for its mildness. "Thefears you smooth over in the trappings of moral platitudes will counterbal­ance nothing. Neither can they build. You will find the just fervoryouraise can save no one. In the end, your own followers will dictatev~ur actions. Their will shall rule yours with a needy finality that youwill be powerless to gainsay. We can offer no help for you then."
"I was beyond help the moment I fell under Desh-thiere's curse,"said Lysaer, succinct. His diamond studs flashed like ripped bits of 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 light as he snatched his small opening for riposte. "That was sup­posed to be your problem. By what right do you criticize my methodsbefore you have broached your own failure?"
A pause seized the chamber. Sethvir and Asandir stayed wrappedin glass silence; the spirits of Kharadmon and Luhaine looked
pressedinto the air like stamped felt. The adept made a sound, in sorrow ordismay, and clasped bronzed hands to her lips, while the candlesburned on in smokeless, unreal indifference.
A baleful, black cutout given life in a scene without motion,the raven splayed its left wing feathers. Its head swiveled sidewards.One bead eye stayed fixed, a spark of buffed bronze, as it balanced toits master's shift forward.
 "There is no pretense here, Lysaer." Traithe's rebuke was rustswathed in velvet. "Desh-thiere's ill works pose the true danger, aperil shared by us all. Subject to a curse to kill Arithon you may
be,but that does not rule out choice and action. Mind and will can be yours to command outside of your half brother's presence. Blindhatred can be fought." The raven preened on his shoulder, undis­turbed, as he entreated, "You are gifted to seek justice. Don't makethat a weapon for righteousness. The misery you seed in your questto kill Arithon might live on long past your death. Claim your causeas divine, and you found a tradition that will not be lightly
shaken."
 "You are swift to condemn my role as deceit." Lysaer's fine hairshone a pale, fallow gold beneath the flood of the sconces. When heraised his proud head, all the strain showed, his beautiful facestiff in his forced effort not to weep. "As one human ruler, ! may be inerror. But in all fair conscience, can I stand aside and let Arithon ofRathain turn his sorceries on an unsuspecting society? What binds him to con­straint? You who claim wisdom know better than any. A mortal whocommands unchecked power becomes ripe for corruption. Jaelot andAlestron have already suffered. Why beg for a large-scale disaster?"
The prince turned his head. Despite a transparent desire for pri­vacy, he pursued his point, dogged, to its finish. "If I sacrificeone value for another, if I choose to create a balance of power, who areyou to cry me down? The debt incurred becomes my personal scoreon the slate of Daelion Fatemaster. I am the Shadow Master's oppo­site. My place is to check him. Ath have mercy on us both, for thefate brought upon us by the bride-gift of a sorcerer whose ancestor wastrained by your Fellowship!"
Lysaer faced forward in blazing, brash courage and hurled his owncharge in defense. "If your hand is revealed at the root of ourconflict,tell me why have you not acted?" 
JANNY ~URT$

 Asandir arose, dark brows drawn down over eyes turned ~ding, storm gray. "How dare you mistake us for the street IAvenor, to try and wring sympathy by crying lame causesing the puppet martyred for the grand destiny." He leaned 0n!table, the veins on his hands like vines gnarled into aged oak. "0r~you hope you might finally convince yourself?" His glare flicks'over the prince like crossed lightning. "We have not acted because l~thiere's curse is inseparably tangled with your life aura. As Traithes~: our Fellowship does not kill."
"You claim you would let two lives tear civilized socie~~ a~Lysaer laughed, his widened eyes locked on the Sorc,.~',,;'~ "~iindeed, I have no hope." Honest rage tore through his gritt~ r~'ser:ment, for a second upsetting the ironclad duty dunned into i~t~ xxi~:royal birthright. "Ath, did you think I desired my exile to tt'~>~x'0rl~ Or that I asked to become your sacrificial weapon against the ~i:'.wraith?"
 "The Fellowship has never been a force in Athera to take g~id~charge of human destiny!" A creature of movement andAsandir thrust up from the table. He stalked to the fire, braced an~on the mantel, while the flames at his feet snapped andTheir light played a moving mapwork of lines over his hard,tered features.
 Luhaine retrieved the lapsed dialogue. "Our purpose isstand guard for the land, and to this end, you're being askedharsh questions. Face yourself!" The entreaty was raised, ablade that offered no quarter. "You embark on a dangerouseven beg the ruin of your race! How dare you mask over thethat is the prime source! For arrogance, you put yourself 0n!pedestal in attempt to whitewash a curse-bound directive to end'half brother's life. True justice plays no part. You veilvendetta, for vengeance and base envy, because Arithon willseduced by the evil you seek to attach to his name."Lysaer swayed. His glittering shoulders wavered, almost bent.The adept swept to her feet, relentless. "Unstop your earsten, scion of s'Ilessid. Persist on your present path, and you shall~your desires." As Lysaer's blue eyes widened, she pressed him,yes. Your half brother shall walk in the shadow you create. Butbefore you stand blackened enough to raise despair of acient to break him. Every mortal enclave on this continentvictim to your cause. Your memory shall be sealed in theviolence, for nothing in creation can stand or flourish in theof love. Let us see, in the hour that Arithon's blood stains your 
100 
master.'
 That Untoinc The ligtbright twrong. ~
Asan,txands. '~ hapskx'leape~Kh style,Ba/an 

 FUGI?IVE PRINCE 

whether conviction for your fellowman or overweening pride is yourillaster."
 That bleak forecast raised consternation among the Sorcerers.Unmindful of their stir, Lysaer sank to his knees. Tears wet hischeeks. The light snagged and shivered in his diamond studs as he bent hisbright head in defeat. "Have mercy," he pleaded. "I admit to mYwrong. Lend me your guidance to heal."
Asandir returned to the table and sat, his harsh gaze fixed onhis hands. Silence fell, filled by the tormented sobs of the prince, whoper­haps had been brought to realize the enormity of his acts. NoSorcerer leaped to mete out the last test of surety.
Kharadmon shouldered that burden at the end, his razored, briefstyle expressing the inflexible Law and just consequence of the MajorBalance. "Abjure your call to arms. Publicly renounce your false tieto divine calling. Then you shall have at your side all the help ourFel­lowship can command."
Lysaer pressed his forehead against the patterned carpet. Hairlike combed sunlight fronded the hands he held clenched at his crown. Hewould not look up. Shamed to abasement, he asked of the Sorcerers,"What do I say to ease the grief of the widows and the mothers whoseloved ones were slaughtered in Vastmark?"
"Tell them the truth," Sethvir answered, implacable. "Yourmistake should not be permitted to compound, nor be passed to their sons, todie for wrong cause and false sacrifice."
At that, Lysaer regained the will to stand straight. Throughshock-darkened eyes, he perused the stilled faces of five Sorcerers, thenthe shadowy countenance masked by the hood of Ath's adept. In tear-stained magnificence, he looked like one of Ath's avatars, fallen, asword forged in blood to stand firm against wrongful action. "Athpreserve, you ask me to break my personal, given trust. As I amcursed, so too is my half brother. I can't leave my peopledefenseless before him. Bind Arithon first. Then take my capitulation on anyterms that you ask."
"Ath show you mercy," Sethvir replied. "I am sorry. We now mustdo more than warn."
 A thin, feral smile seized Lysaer's lips. "I thought so!" Heloosed a jarring peal of laughter. "Here is the truth. Power begets force, didI not say so? What will you do now, if not call me down by straightvio­lence?"
 "You mistake us," snapped Traithe, no longer the listening confi­dant, but grim as the raven just flown from a field of raw carnage."Your life in our hands is sacrosanct, and your will, no one's other 
101 ]ANN. ~r U R T S 
than your own. But mankind's place in Athera has never been aright." This was straight fact. The ancestor of every human aliv~first come as a refugee begging for sanctuary. "Settlement here,permitted under strict terms by the compact sworn between our ~lowship and the Paravians."
"Did you think kingdom law was written at our whim?"mon sat forward, his trickster's flamboyance razed away. "Thenal charters were drawn by our hand, but to the old races'Their strictures are not mere rules to be overturned for some mayor's convenience."
Not to be outdone, Luhaine plunged on to lecture, "For theyou have initiated, for setting your seal to chained slavery, andseeking to supplant Ath's order and the Law of the Majoryou have defied the tenets mankind was charged never to violate."
"Now you know." Sethvir tucked folded hands beneath the~fleece of his beard. Diminished by sorrow, he appeared to readnext lines from the whorled grain of waxed maple. "Ourkeeps a trust with the Paravians. Each human child birthed hereand dies on the sufferance of our intercession. We stand suretymankind, all their works, all their laws. Yes, even for their greedand their strivings that could mar every facet of this world. Understandthis. We guard and nurture as we can, but our service is not to ourrace."
 Althain's Warden paused. As if the air to drive spoken wordsbound him mute, he looked aside, the set to his shoulders gone bird-boned and frail. He seemed an old man without mystery, outwornb~relentless attention to detail and a shackling burden of care. "Thereexists no compromise, no quarter Any man to defy the compact, whobreaks the first order set down by the Paravians, must be castoutside our protection. You will leave Althain Tower None here would mis­use grand conjury to upset the fate you pursue. Nor shall we mourn,or answer your cries when the justice of the old races falls upon youand the followers you seduce into blindness."
"You will not break me by intimidation," Lysaer said. "I stand asthe shield for my people."Sethvir bowed his head. No second chance followed, no gap for reprieve. The image fort~sof Kharadmon and Luhaine whisked out like gale-blown candles.
Lysaer felt their presence encircle his form in cold air, whilethe adept slipped her hood and bared features of frost-brittle clarity."The ways of the Paravians are not those of men. They are not born ofearth, but sprung from the prime source itself." Her upraised finger 
102 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE

 accused him. "Woe to you, prince. The wrath of Athera's true
guardians is no light fate to invoke."

An actinic burst sheared the chamber as a rune seal flamed above Lysaer's head. The cipher blazed yellow-white, then faded to violet.Sensation followed, a sourceless wind of fine energies that hazedthrough all the five senses. Lysaer experienced no physical discom­fort. But the vibration rocked on through his mind. Something insideof him howled wild protest for the irrevocable step being taken. Hisawareness became pierced by untenable loss. No grief ever savagedthe heart to such depths, as if for an instant he had gazed upon
par­adise, then plunged for all time into darkness. He wept. Ugly,
rackingsobs closed his throat as something unnamed and brilliant slippedaway and consigned him to friendless desolation.
The hurt sieved and tore him, needles through silk, until hefelt nothing but numbness.
Then Asandir was beside him. Firm hands took his arm, drew hisfaltering step away from the King's Chamber and into the black chillof the stairwell. Lysaer reeled as though drunk. Plain air turned
his head. The stairs felt absurdly hard beneath his feet, and the
shadows pooled under the sconces held menace like teeth, lurking unseen tognaw flesh.
Lysaer called on his gift to blast out the darkness, but no
sparkanswered. His limbs seemed battened in felt. Again he stumbled. ASorcerer steadied him. The touch was raw power and limitlessstrength clothed over in gentleness that plunged a dull ache to thebone.
 "You are deceivers," the prince insisted. "Betrayers of your ownprinciple to shield Arithon." His voice seemed a stranger's, and hiscommitment to honor no more than the soulless whine of spent wind.
Asandir pressed ahead, bundling his charge between the stilledranks of statuary. Their mystery had gone strangely dull; now, thecentaurs, unicorns, and sunchildren seemed nothing more thanexquisitely beautiful carvings. Lysaer felt remorse, and then won­dered in leveled, pure logic why he should pause for regret. Thetricks of the Fellowship were evasively subtle. The guiding hand onhis flesh was creased by the bridle rein, ordinary, no more than acom­mon old man's. Still the contact was comfort and animal warmth;then even that simple solace was gone as Asandir released him by thetrapdoor to the vault.
"Go down." Winter drafts bit deep where the Sorcerer pointed.Lysaer locked his jaw, sliced again by a glass-edged sorrow. Hespoke fast and bitter to fill the void. "The mayors who fear you, did 
J^~. W~11~$
 your Fellowship disown them the same way?" Steadier now,
seized the giddy nerve to laugh. "I've read the musty old
the uprising kept at Erdane. They speak of retribution and
to be claimed for the blood of the murdered high kings. Yet
dred years have passed. Nothing happened." The freezing, dry~
braced him back to banked rage.

"The Paravians are gone," Lysaer insisted. "They might
return. Yet you still threaten and raise dread in their name. I
humanity deserves better than empty rules and the coercive
your sorceries. I shall spread truth, that your compact has no
in present-day governance."

Asandir still said nothing. At the base of the stairwell he.,unnervingly inscrutable. His hands hung still at his sides, emptylarge knuckled as a quarryman's. Lysaer looked away, unbeguiledtthat traitorous semblance of humanity. Before him spread theParavian focus, its patterns strung across in mazed chains of~white quartz embedded in onyx. Then, touched to life by someof bound magecraft, the demon sconces blazed into flame. The'cerer's taut face became etched in copper; then that warmth erasedunyielding, struck iron as captured lane force flared the patternactive. "Step forward," said Asandir. "Your people are waiting at Aven0r.'Lysaer turned his back. He walked in unvanquished pridecenter point of the focus. "I will see mankind released fromtyranny. Justice will follow war. The land will be given a peace free0~ shadows, with no help from absent Paravians."
No word came back. Only Asandir's signal to Kharadmon andLuhaine, who poised, unseen, to engage gathered power for thetransfer. Then chaos clapped down, and time came unhinged. Alllinks to the senses dissolved through a fireburst of light. Spinningvertigo remained, slashed once by the twined cipher of a sorcerer'smark that spanned the whole axis of creation. Through the deluge ofstatic and the keening explosion of channeled energy, Lysaer can~aware of a far-off sibilance of speech...
 "... say something fast to avert panic," his captain at armscall~.d out in shrill urgency. "Just name the event as a portent of Ath's fa~~r. and hurry. If the mob's left to think our prince was abducted by '~r­cery, we're going to see mayhem and riot."
No brave line of pikemen could stand their ground if thebecame stormed by panic. Since the play of uncanny, shimmer~~~.~light seemed the least of two evils, the chancellor had no choice 
104 FUGITIVE I~RINCE 
into the breech. His orator's shout rose above the crowd's
 "There will be alms!" Forced to a desperate semblance of calm,he improvised, "As you see, the Prince of the Light obeys higher
forces! He goes where he's needed upon instant notice. Are we children topine for his continuous presence? The shadow-banes are blessed. Letthem be disbursed by our own public servants, and leave his Gracefree to shoulder the burden of our defense!"
 Just as the mob subsided from its milling roar, the light of
Lysaer'sgift shimmered clean once again. Restored, riled and whole, to hisceremonial dais at Avenor, he was fully exposed to the public eye
and the stupefied shock of his officers. The moment was his to recoupwhat advantage he could.
"I've come back with proof!" he announced, his snap of resolvereborn from quenched terror. "Since Merior, I've known the adepts ofAth's Brotherhood were in league with Master of Shadow. Now theyand the Fellowship Sorcerers have joined in conspiracy against me."
Before the stark awe of his ranking retainers, he whirled faceabout. The crowd in the plaza redoubled their chanting. Cheers pealed andwoke to a howl of animal noise. "Prince of the Light! Prince of theLight!"
Lysaer drank in the adulation. Spurred to fierce exultation,coun­tersurge for a hatred he had long since ceased to resist, he bared.his teeth in a laugh. White clad, gold haired, fired by his gift, heraised his fists in defiance of the Sorcerers who had dared to intimidate and censure him.
 "Behold!" he addressed the masses in a ringing, exuberant shout."You and your children shall be saved from shadow! I am called toserve Athera and oppose the Spinner of Darkness! No cause and nopower will stop my pursuit until he lies dead, and the allies to hisevil works are thwarted!" 
Winter Solstice 5649 
Exchange 
The explosive surge of spell-turned forces just used to restoreto Avenor subsided from the focus beneath Althain Tower. prince's mortal senses had lately discerned but rough stone andimood of pervasive sorrow, for lingering minutes while the lanesubsided, the guarding wards left laced through the rockroused in all of their splendor. A mind attuned to Paraviancould discern their imprint. The fine energies twined intolike hazed water, everlastingly falling: a lightning-laced latticeof' tern came sheathed in a beauty fit to draw spirit from flesh.
While the fitted block walls of the citadel ceased their vibration, the visiting adept of Ath's Brotherhoodthe door to the K'mg's Chamber. Her willowy build and whitemade her form appear cased in brightness against the grimed archthe stair vault.
 Or perhaps the effect arose from the spirit auraates of her discipline when they chose to walk in dim places. Few inAthera were empowered to keep pace with the mysteries of Ath'sBrotherhood.
 One such confronted her now, a Sorcerer who, over thousands ofyears, had been other things in his past.
He leaned on the massive, iron-strapped door in what seemed aderanged fit of woolgathering. His features were glazed in the glowof the candles. Less susceptible than stone to the fluxes of grandcon-jury, wax-fed flame only danced to the drafts, as winter's coldswirled 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 and snatched at the shutters, and moaned through the chinks in oldmasonry.
The adept surveyed Althain's Warden with her tuned awareness.Her shapely hands stayed clasped beneath her embroidered cuffs;threadwork of gold and silver which at times glinted back somethingmore than commonplace reflection. The heavier sconces, flaming iniron brackets on the landing, scrawled moving shadow across her Fel­lowship subject, masked in his disarming vagaries.
Sethvir's eyes alone showed a mind like surgical steel swathed
in misleading burlap. Beneath the spiked tufts of white brows, his gazeremained bleak and trackless as ice on the northern flank of a 
snowdrift. The adept knew a sudden, deep stab of uneasiness, as if a wet
leaf had brushed scraping tracks down her spine. "Never doubt," sheurged, her dusky chin lifted under the shelf of her hood. "Your Fel­lowship chose right and fitting action with regard to Lysaer
s'Ilessid." Sethvir's seamed knuckles tightened on the doorframe. "Right ornot, his expulsion was our forced duty."
Evasive words, to mask chains of happenstance that would come toshape Athera's future. Ath's adept matched his challenge, unwaver­ing in her regard. Drafts stirred the clogged fleece of the
Sorcerer's beard and combed unseen over sinews and flesh he often forgot hepossessed, so many years had his consciousness ridden the intricatetides of the earth link. Against flooding warmth and pale paneling,Althain's Warden seemed an emaciated tree, braced and shaped byrelentless storms.
 The adept laid slim, olive fingers on his sleeve. "Why are youtrou­bled? Should we fear for one man's fate, do you think? The judgmentof the Paravians is sourced in Ath's wisdom. They won't err in behalfof your prince."
By their nature, indeed, they could not. Sethvir knew best ofany.His sustained, rooted patience was the unflinching remorse of a con­science chained still through long years and hard-fought experience.Before such burdensome memories as his, no mere touch in kindnesscould comfort. Althain's Warden therefore yielded nothing, his faceclamped to folds like burled cypress.
The adept firmed her grasp, insistent. "Lysaer shall receive hisredemption from wrong."
"And is his choice wrong?" Sethvir asked. No kindness could sparehim the lacerating vision imposed through the channels of the earthlink. Stamped into his awareness, passed on through her contact, theadept shared the keening, hot surge of a crowd whipped on to devo­tion in the far-distant plaza at Avenor. 
JANN. WURTS
 "What's left to weigh?" Unperturbed, she let Althain'sshare the upset Lysaer's will had once imposed upon thegrove in her brotherhood's hostel near Shaddom. "This princewillful and flawed."
 Outside, a blast of north wind hurled sand like grittedagainst the tower As if flesh were scoured by the sting of eachSethvir shook his head. "Lysaer is terrified beyond life tocare for the innocent."
 "Never mind they need none of his help!" The adept spilled a~very, sharp laugh. "Athera's folk can find their salvation veryThey need no misfit savior playing on their fears to shore upreft of spirit." Still probing, she gave Althain's Warden her mosting pity. "Stay your grief in this hour, you waste anguish onwrong victim. While Ath's order becomes maligned by falseand the masses are fired to worship your Prince of the Light,Arithon s'Ffalenn becomes the spirit in mortal danger of corruption."
"Then you see very well." Sethvir disengaged his arm. "Y~know our Fellowship dreads that beyond anything." Forthe wells of his eyes seemed rinsed blank, both shield and mirraagainst her prying concern. "You name just one ugly crux out ofmany. Each of my doubts is well-founded." He covered her young,woman's fingers with a palm that had worn bloodstains beforethose of ink, and too much of both for lasting quietude. The strengthwhich led her to the head of the stair was anything but an 01dman's.
 She protested his courtesy as unnecessary.
"As you wish." Sethvir let her go. While the tormented flames i~the sconces rinsed his face, Ath's adept read its mapwork of linesand snatched insight: Althain's Warden regretted a hope kept toofiercely.
Swift in riposte, his forthright, sad smile foiled her sympathy."Your Brotherhood can never serve as priests."
The lady gave way, then, no longer able to match that wise gaze.Shaken, not cowed, she veiled her distress in the screening shadow ofher hood. "For all good intent, if we tried, we would seed the veryrift in Ath's continuity that Lysaer s'Ilessid shall create throughselfish error."
 Brotherhood adepts could not intervene in affairs of kingdomsor men. Nor did their high initiates leave their hostels to teach ordraw in new acolytes. They dared not set forth to preach, evenagainst Lysaer's threat of false faith, which could raise the surepower to scatter them. Theirs was not, and never could be, aguide to established religion. Seekers came to them to find insp~­FUGITIVś PRINCE
 as they chose, they might stay and take the path to life's
~stery.
Ath's adepts held to no doctrine and no creed. They kept their

~ clear, their channel to truth unclouded by the arrogance of mor­fools, to misinterpret, or by the greedy who corrupted toThe Paravians who had been their example were departed,with them went the world's pure connection to the miracle ofprime source.
"We cannot let the knowledge we guard fall prey, first to dogma,then to power and politics. If your Fellowship would ask help," the~ept admonished, "then search again for the lost. Should the oldraces return, Lysaer's claim of divinity cannot do other than fail."
"We have sent Arithon," Sethvir said. Nothing more.
Those words should have been arrows, to strike so quick to theheart. "I am humbled," the adept gasped. Tears broke her voice, andtrembling reflections sparked over the thread patterns at her collarand cuffs. "Because of your sacrifice, Ath preserve, yet again, for
the endurance of your Fellowship, the light of our grace may live on."Sethvir's fingers, reclasped to hers, became reassurance andcom­fort. Whatever deep worry he hedged to keep hidden, her standing topressure him was forfeit.
Serenity undone, the adept quit the landing. Her retreat down thestairwell raised pattering, small echoes, no tribute at all to thesor­rows enshrined in the granite walls of this sanctuary. The vast,shift­ing shadows offered no refuge. Nor did the Warden of Althain'spiercing watch ever leave her. His thin, fragile shoulders in theirfor­mal maroon robes stayed unbowed, in full command of a desperatehistory. To one who might hazard the whole scope of that burden,naught was left but to ache. Words were no match for such courageand generosity, that in unequivocating competence assumed Lysaer'sdark tangle in her Brotherhood's stead.
Again, the Fellowship chose to brave every fissure of torncontinu­ity that human works brought to the world.
Worst of all, the decision to champion her Brotherhood'sseclusion was not blind. Sethvir fully recognized the perilous potential posedby s'Ilessid folly. He knew too well how events might grow to jeopar­dize all that his Fellowship had become in their labor on Athera'sbehalf. Risk and sacrifice, the Sorcerer grasped every possibleramifi­cation. No warning could serve; stewardship of the compact mighttest yet again the peace of mind he and his colleagues had earnedamidst the strife of two Ages. 
JANNY W URTS

 They would shoulder this coil, atop the dread quandaries ~ceded to their care by the past flight of the Pararians. Tear~ungrateful gift for such courage;pity fell short as a euJogz
 While the adept sought her peace in the comfort ofSethvir left his post on the third-floor landing. Circlinghim frayed as a scrap of old rag hammered and wrung b3 ,~ $tide. His Fellowship no longer held the Brotherhood's view. th,~t thedisappearance of the Pararians posed Athera's greatest setb,~ckbelief had been violently undone a year past, when Khar,~,~n~c, n5foray to the sealed worlds beyond South Gate had unma,k~,d thedarker face of Desh-thiere.
 Weighed down by the terrifying scope of those facts, Sethx ~rreen­tered the King's Chamber.
There, settled into a solitary vigil, Traithe sat unmoving, hi5with their bands of old scar tissue knotted beneath his cleft daiwa. cut gray hair brushed his collar like tarnish as he roused to t]~,,clank of the door latch. He tracked his colleague's passage throughdark eyes, while ghost silent, Althain's Warden recrossed tht,and pinched beeswax candles one by one.
"You did not broach our problem with the wraiths still ~tupon Marak," he surmised.
"No." The acrid bite of singed string spindled through the ~nu.~khot wax, and the room's ingrained fragrance of citrus-oiled wood.each light extinguished, one shadow died also; like overlaid oiithose remaining capered in pantomime about Sethvir's feet. ~ ~ttBrotherhood won't open their hostels to help thwart Lysaer's [,;'~tizing in Athera, they would scarcely face damnation on tb~.we've encountered for lost spirits eatrapped on a gate world."
"You don't fault them?" Traithe said, prodded out of thetism he brandished like armor against his own measure of des[~,~,'
Sethvir's fleeting smile masked inward distress, that any Fd:',colleague ever required to beg reassurance. Years might pass, b~tongoing tragedy of Traithe's impairment never for a day cei~tsting. "The adepts aren't wrong in their stance." No more th.~ theParavians had been to abandon man's conflict since the hour sunlight was vanquished. "I could ask, but not argue. Desh-thier~'sworks have ever been ours to unravel."
 Wings rustled. The raven swaggered the length of the mantel, ht,~tipped askance and one sequin eye fixed on the Sorcerers.
"I hear, little brother," Sethvir murmured, his regard centeredstill upon Traithe. In the dimmed majesty of the King's Chamber, 
110 r/es already 
; already5nade an 
olitude,ú hts/efts form ~at the ú That
 nod 'S
 J the 

'~en­
gersHis ank fee­'pet 
~ge 
of or s~
 waited, the grip of his patience like the earth wisdom contained inold stone.
 For a colleague left crippled since the hour of the Mistwraith'sforced entry, courage came slowly to define an event too recent andraw to assimilate. "I can't doubt our stern judgment was needed,'*Traithe broached at length. "But, Ath show us mercy, I need to ask.How much of Lysaer's acts arise from Desh-thiere's accursed instiga­tion, and how much, out of wayward self-will?"
Sethvir moved. The last branch of lit candles spoked his step inwheeling shadows. "Do you wish me to show you the aura?" Hestopped again, waited, while the casement panes rattled to the out­side barrage of north winds.
"Yes." Traithe shivered, straightened, laid his hands on thetable. The fingers would not flex fully straight; the elegant, long bones
that onetime were clean as a dancer's lay twisted and ravaged by oldbums. His formless apprehension poisoned the pause. Half the giventalent to set shackles on the Mistwraith lay tied through today's
condemned prince and his inborn power to shape light. "I would know what weface for the future."
 The issue went beyond the corruption of an ancient royal line.Desh-thiere's threat had increased. The step which cast Lysaer out­side of the compact opened yet another pitfall to bring the last
plungeto disaster.
 Althain's Warden extinguished the last bank of candles. Herecrossed the carpet, soft footed, and rested his palms on Traithe'sshoulders. His touch in the darkness came feathered and dry as thechance-met brush of a moth's wing. Instantaneous awareness crossedthat slight contact and seized his mind like dull pain. He knew ashis own the harrowing weariness wrung through the flesh beneath hishands. "Let me carry this," he murmured. 
 "Take my permission, and gladly at that." Traithe raised acrooked grin, the humor forced through his iron bravado an unvanquishedbent for lightheartedness. "You always did like to run things, nevermind your crafty knack for making everyone believe that somebodyelse was in charge."
Sethvir laughed. "I could wish this particular trouble sat else­where. Then we could chat over honey and scones, and brew up anice pot of tea."
He started his work in one seamless second, his bodily sensesdis­carded for the sharp, trained awareness of mage-sight. The chamberaround him transformed to that altered plane of perceptionú Simpleobjects unveiled themselves in complexity, the weavings of Name 
111 
JANNY WURTS

 and history revealed. The pile of the carpet showed its humble ining as wool on the backs of jostling sheep; then shadowedlay, each dye in its coloring, brewed from plantstuffs andinsects and urine; and underlying the weave like the tap of gh0sttgers, the thump of the looms dragging warp threads throughthe hands of chattering craftswomen. The pale shafts ofbespoke honeyed summer days and the bustling industry ofMere flecks of dust adrift on the air gained the lordly, brightof stars. Metal for latches, and the bronze of wroughtpered of dark beginnings in the earth, then shrilled to theof smelting.
At will, Sethvirtery could sort through its light-dance to the bundled spin of energywhich held the imprint of events long past. The ebony tabletop wouldstill house the echo of the commitment that Halduin s'Ilessid had accepted, in signature and seal and blood oath, when he swore touphold Tysan's royal charter. The old stone kept vibrations ofearlier times, when the flutes of the Athlien Paravians had led the joyspring larks, and the winds past the casements had thundered to themating calls of great dragons. Years and change like layers stampedin sediment, through the centuries comprising three Ages, the struc­ture of Althain Tower itself speared its indelible imprint. Itsstone crossed time's arc in fired loops. Its guard pattern bridgedeveryfacet of existence, then soared beyond, an unvanquished fist of whitelight: a lofty splendor of desperation and hope, shot through by theterrible defense wards wrought by the centaur mason who, for love 0fthe land, had fitted each mortised joint in the walls, then spilledhis own blood to bind the seals into permanency.
Even Sethvir could not encompass Althain's dire beauty without ahalf breath lost to awe. A disturbed scrape of claws issued from themantel shelf, cut by a testy croak.
"I won't stay distracted," Sethvir assured the raven. He steadiedhimselL then narrowed his mage-sense intoSlowl)› delicately, he extended his tactile awareness into the auraof his colleague.
Sethvir's whole consciousness embraced that of Traithe. Preparedthough he was, a sick rush of vertigo ripped his frame. He broke intoa cold sweat; stifled his reflexive recoil though horror chased hisskin like the clammy, sharp scrape of wet razors. Intent held him firm ashis vision spun and drowned, sucked into the fearful, gapped chaosof a spirit whose vital energies had been sheared into permanent dis­array. 
112 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 The effect was clean symmetry pulled tragically awry, a mistakefrozen for posterity as a statue half-smelted in a bronzecraftsman's crucible might be quenched in disfigured solidity.By every lawful tenet of nature, the inviolate whole of
Traithe's inner spirit should have gleamed through the damage to his body. Aself-aware being transcended mere flesh. On the contrary, the vibra­tional essence of Name held the changeless template by which a sor­cerer's own powers could restore full health and fitness. But
outside the scope of Fellowship wisdom, one long past, calamitous encounterwith Desh-thiere had snarled Traithe's aura into discord. Unlike Kharadmon and Luhaine before him, he could not shape the crossingto earthplane existence as pure spirit. His awareness had beenwarped too far out of true, entrapped in its cage of crippled flesh.
Sethvir shared the scope of that damage firsthand. The resonantstructure of Traithe's merry essence had been rucked to a madman'stangle. Its bright weave showed odd rifts, as if packs of starvedpredators had ripped through tinseled lace with claws and raveningteeth.
 These, Sethvir must patch with his own resources. His colleague'scontinuity of function must be stabilized to restore complete accessto his talents. Braced for disorientation and mindless, tearing pain,Althain's Warden dissolved his last veil of identity to shore up thewounded spirit that was Traithe.
His mage-sight became shattered. Perception dissolved into crazy-quilt fragments, welted in patternless blind spots. Althain's Wardencried out. Unmanned by the handicap Traithe endured through theongoing course of each day, Sethvir fought down raw fear. Imagina­tion foundered. In grief, he felt humbled by his colleague's bravestruggle to hold fast to humor and sanity.
The heart could but reel before the ultimate cruelty, that suchsuf­fering impairment might have no end and no cure. Against sheerdespair, Sethvir raised a counterflux of power.
The labor he shouldered was painstaking and delicate. No individ­ualized pattern of his signature precisely matched those gaps rivenwholesale through Traithe. The interface was clumsy, a rafted-together construct as unwieldy as trying to join hawsers with thread,or forcing mismatched fragments of porcelain to fuse into a water-fight vessel.
Sethvir closed the last channel. He waited, sustained in pity andpatience, while Traithe groped to assimilate, and talents repressedthroughout five hundred years flexed from their cramped state of dis­use. Lent a fleeting, murky access to the mage-sight once commanded 
113 JANNY WU.RTS 
in his own right, the lame Sorcerer made no demands, but waite~while Sethvir engaged the next step.
Althain's Warden drew on memory. Without judgment, with0u~prejudice, he shared the reflection of Lysaer's spirit aura on themoment that Fellowship verdict had withdrawn the protection ofcompact.
Like some eerie, actinic embroidery spindled against velvetgloom, the recalled vision shimmered into visible light. In cur~esand angles and blazing, arced spirals, the individual vibrationswhich comprised Lysaer s'Ilessid lay exposed, the whole of his beingexcised from the shadow of dense substance for mage-schooled eyesto interpret.
Sethvir held the facsimile static, while Traithe traced the stepsof his colleagues' decision in unconditional review. Predictable anomalieswere sorted aside: here, the seal of Davien the Betrayer's longevity,and there, in fixed imprint lent through maternal blood ties, thes'Ahe­las line's given gift of farsight. Traithe narrowed his study toenc0rn. pass a transection of angles more jarring, that convoluted mesh ofwhorls and jags where the Mistwraith's curse to destroy a halfbrother entangled the true lines of s'Ilessid justice. The instilled royalvirtue no longer ran straight, but bent with insidious and chilling persistenceinto self-blinding misalignment.
Mortal will could scarcely resist such a coil. Set to draw hisinde­pendent opinion, Traithe could not overlook the surrounding linescarved by princely desire and intent.
Lysaer had been cursed to kill his half brother. The tenets ofroyalinheritance led him to endorse that violence with a just cause. Butnestled inside his ardent need to protect society, an uneasyconscience spun new threads of gnawing uncertainty.
Delusion entered in: a magisterial spark of arrogance fueled byoutraged duty. Lysaer clung to the vanity of his privileged royalupbringing. Where the coil of self-perception shaped the ideals ofprinciple, obsession flowered, a hot, hazy spiral that corded throug}~ the aura like coils cast off a dropped spool.
Sethvir shared the resonance of dismay through the link, asresolved his conclusion. Lysaer used his flaws to deafen his ea~'~harsh truth. A lordly, dark pride that brooked no humility before themisguided masses; a caring, honorable sovereign's undoing, thatmeasure of shame and stark horror. No other descendant of Halduin had lived to lead an innocent people to slaughter. That burdensomeguilt crushed thought and will, and gave rise to a desperate denial.Lysaer refused outright to betray his s'Ilessid bloodline. He wouldnot 
 FUGITI~ I~RINCE

 beg mercy and assign himself blame for thirty-seven thousand use­less deaths.
 A penchant for self-sacrifice fueled that chord of victimized

furyand reforged an unswerving purpose. In assurance as cool as a strandof steel filigree, Lysaer chose his next course. For the sake of
those who died carrying his banner, he would forbear his born generosityof spirit and embark on a more grandiose campaign. Arithon mustbecome more than a criminal beyond pardon, but the instrument ofevil incarnate. For honor, for the sake of past losses and grief,
the man who styled himself Prince of the Light would not break down and cryweakness.
 And so in that hour the composite of Lysaer's aura showed histragic, committed dedication. For the enslavement of Tysan's clans­men and the salve of a glorified purpose, this scion of s'Ilessidshaped the course and direction of his fate. Desh-thiere's cursemight drive him to fight Arithon. Its pernicious hold might inten­sify and strengthen the brutality of each encounter. But like anaddiction to euphoric drugs, its pull could not enslave every facetof self-will; nor had it the power to enforce heart or spirit to
giveimpassioned collaboration with its drive to seed bloodshed andwar.
 Hate was the province of the Mistwraith's geas, not conceit orvengeance for vanity.
Too aggrieved to stay silent, Sethvir said, 'Had Lysaer's humanjudg­ment or his gift of true justice stayed uncompromised, he might nothave per­sisted in branding his half brother as evil.'
But outside of conjecture, choices still ended with fact. Thedamn­ing omission which condemned the s'Ilessid prince was his pridefuldesign not to bend.
'Even so,' Traithe admitted in ringing regret. 'Our oath touphold thecompact leaves us no loophole to give Lysaer a reprieve.'
Sethvir dismissed the s'Ilessid construct. Prepared to dropcontact with his colleague's faulted vision, he shivered, swept across by avio­lent burst of d~jh vu. Trained reflex responded. Practiced from hiscenturies of tracking the unsorted flux of the earth link, Sethvirtagged the triggering fragment of event. Then he rummaged throughmemory in pursuit of the happenstance which linked the uncannyassociation.
 The connection became manifest. Breath seized in his chest as the past took him back into the suffocating terror of attack. Once, forsix hours he had been imprisoned in the sheer, slate walls of a wardedflask. He had fled there in peril of his life, hunted down by a pack of ninefree wraiths. 
These had been lured from the dead world of Marak through the
effort to learn of Desh-thiere's origins. Threatened by possession,
termove forced out of cornered desperation, Sethvir had fragmented
and 
tered his consciousness to deflect the force of the assault. 
Voracious ' 
the wraiths had closed in. For a nightmarish second, Althain's Ward~
relived the torment, while malevolent spirits savaged his being like
vivis~c. 
tion done with hot knives.

 In that darkest hour, while the wraiths had devoured those d'~parate bits of his spirit, Sethvir had experienced the paralyzinghorror of a consciousness wormholed with gaps. Shocked to revelation, heperceived the probable cause of Traithe's plight. In the hour o~ p~slcrisis, Traithe had engaged grand co~?a~. ~ ~aran~ke the spe~s ~hichenabled the South Gate as a portal to cut off Desh-thiere's invasi0n.As battle was joined, the collective mind of the Mistwraith may ~'e~have bid for possession.
Traithe had lost memory. Repeated scryings to rect~nstr~ct theevent had exposed only surface images. But there had bee~ ~ spellunleashed that appeared to recoil in backlash upon its creator.Through logic and theory, Sethvir knew Traithe's act had not bee~any miscast conjury.
On purpose, a sorcerer beset beyond hope might shear of~ t~i~tedportions of his being. For the mage-trained, the perils of po~,~si0~and conquest were too terrible a risk to set loose on the ~ ~rld a~large.
Worse, far worse, if such maiming defense had not irn~la~edthose truncated fragments. Laced still in shared contact, ~'th~'irmasked dismay. Those severed shreds of Traithe's consci~,~s~s~might well still exist. If they had survived the cautery of confi: :.tJ~e~. would live in the clutch of the wraiths which devoured them. ~ ;~![o~essence of self could be nowhere else but mewed up under the, d~ci~ivibrations of the wards over Rockfell Pit. The chance was too r~.~i,tha Traithe's hope of healing lay imprisoned with the Mistwraitt~ ~,~tt~. of warped spirits.
The Warden of Althain snapped his fine band of rapport. C.~t ir~of Traithe's blinkered awareness, he shivered. The ordinary ~!~rk ~the King's Chamber enfolded him, its brimstone tang of spent ~. ~rbvcommingling with the faded fragrance of the herbs that kept ~'~t'from spoiling the heraldic banners. Sweat drenched him. A t,~,deep dread compounded his earlier heartache.
He scarcely dared move, lest Traithe be led to sense somethit'amiss and begin a distressed round of questions."Get some rest," Sethvir urged, amazed that his voice should st 
COldli­t scat-i ~lice,~rden ~isec­
dis­~rror ,he~ast 
veil 
the )ell;or.
 FUGITIVE PRINCE 
function. He managed no more. The devastating scope of his findingsovercame him, and pity closed his throat like poured lead.
 While Traithe relieved the ache of his scars in sleep on a cot
in the wardroom, the other four Fellowship Sorcerers in residence gatheredin the cushioned nook off the pantry.
The unwelcome impact of Sethvir's discovery had spun intobrittle silence. Asandir's charcoal eyebrows met above his hawk nose. Seated at adeal table grayed with old rings left by flowerpots, he plowed the
last crumbs from an oatcake into mazes of meaningless lines. In the win­dow seat opposite, feet tucked up on a tapestry stool leaking horse­hair stuffing in tufts, Althain's Warden peered into the dregs of amuch chipped earthenware pot. A mug turned for a sunchild's pro­portions sat clasped between his knobby knees. Sethvir found noth­ing useful to say. The tracks between soggy clumpings of tea leavesheld no remedy to heal Traithe's affliction.
"How often ignorance stings less than knowledge," Asandir saidat last.
 By then, a wintery aquamarine dusk tinted the room's makeshiftcasement. Hoarfrost tendriled the bottle-thick rondels, crudely setinto leading and mortar to seal the aperture of an arrow loop.Failinglight glinted on the diamond inset in some forgotten aristocrat'sfancytable knife. The bone handle had yellowed, and a blade lapsed to tar­nish wore butter in undignifled smears. Nearby, a tin spoon stuckupright in the bubbled glass jar of a farmwife's elderberry jam.
A current of cold out of phase with the season prowled the rim ofthe table. "What does dung do in a byre but get deeper?" remarkedKharadmon's drifting presence.
To stall his rank flippancy, Luhaine spoke from the niche betweenthe rococo cupboards of the larder. "If Traithe's chance of healingis linked with the quandary of Desh-thiere's damned wraiths, in horridfact, we're left with a dearth of alternatives."
"Just the sort of crux in a chess game to drive logicians andtheo­rists to fits." Kharadmon crossed the window in a puff of miffed agi­tation. "We might be advised to set calming wards to safeguard yoursanity as precaution." 
 "How belated," Luhaine retorted. "I'd sooner go mad from yourincessant, childish inanities!"
Kharadmon blew back a raspberry. "Leave things to you, we'dhear you pontificate 'til the fish in the sea become fossils."Long since inured to old spats between shades, Asandir twiddled JANNY WURTS 
crumbs, and Sethvir pondered tea leaves, each one immersed ifurbed quiet. None cared to broach the difficultTraithe's tragic predicament made the cursed princes' livesmore indispensable. Their elemental mastery of shadows andcouM be needed to sort through the Mistwraith's damnedThe outlook on that future stayed unremittingly grim, withhalf-deranged by the pinch of s'Ffalenn conscience, and namedhunted criminal; and Lysaer s'Ilessid poised to launch holyunder threat of Paravian judgment.
Traithe's raven fluffed obsidian feathers from the keystone overdoorway, while Luhaine intoned arch opinion. "There could be a ]efit to this day's bad work. A reprieve might arise out of,Lysaer's aberration of prime law would draw the Pararians outhiding to denounce him."
"No grace remains for discussion in any case." Sethvir raisednose from the dregs of his tea mug, his mood diffused into"We've got company. Morriel Prime's just arrived at the gatesdemand our immediate audience." 
Winter Solstice 5649 
Demand 
~mter gloaming cloaked the sedges, and the raked, brown stalks ofdry weed heads flattened to the gusts that sheared off the BitternDesert. At the edge of the dunelands, under sky like translucentenamel, Althain Tower reared up in blunt contour, spidery runners ofivy and splotched lichens clotted to its southern side. Morriel Primeworked age-stiffened joints through the snipped-off fingers of hergloves. Swathed under layers of thick, hooded cloaks, she drew adeep breath of the knifing, cold air, and quashed back a riptide ofold rage.
Koriani feud with the Fellowship of Seven had lasted since ThirdAge Year One.
Behind her, fidgety amid the slurry of mud and rimed ruts whichseized the stone flags by the gate arch, her young deaf-mute servantstared with his mouth slacked open. No other but Iyan attended her.Too much power and too many secrets lay housed at Althain Tower.Mortals who asked a Sorcerer's hospitality were wont to reemergechanged, since the impacting force of a Fellowship presence was tooheady to encounter without sparking an altered perception. Noenchantress dared count herself exempt. Despite the strict code ofthe initiate's oath, Elaira's faulted faith in the Koriani Order hadstemmed from just one illicit talk with Asandir.
Morriel sized up the massive grilled portal, impenetrable beforeher high arts. That irri~tion galled her with surprising ferocity.Learned as she was, disciplined in the mysteries and dedicated asfine JANNY WURTS
 steel in her convictions, even still, the spelled wards on the
outside her means to command. Seals conformed in
 tied her attuned senses. The ache of them raised
 twinges from the longevity bindings laid in live
flesh.

 In the moan of winter winds, under a zenith deepened to fath0~.less cobalt, the thorny coil of past event transferred its harshsting~the present.Morriel cupped the wrapped Waystone against her breast, t~o ~, ~of her left hand white knuckled to secure her cloak against th.
::,:,Althain's defenses had endured for unnatural centuries, the !~ .:'an age before a destitute humanity had embarked on its flight ~.~.refuge. While spacefaring civilization had torn itself ~t~pack scrap over the bones of its fallen greatness, the l~e] ~ Seven had maintained an isolate residence on Athera.
 Whoever they had been, whatever their unrevealed c~ri~i '.chose this place for their work. During the Second Age. t~turned the bloody tides in the Paravian conflict against t? '~ packs of drake spawn. Rescued from near extinction t.~ ~ had survived to see peace on their overlooked and unct ~ world.
 No such enclave of wise powers had intervened to ~ ~
mankind's beleaguered decline.

Amid the suffering and the atrocities of humanity's ~\ ~a~ ' 'the Koriani Order had been founded to resist the collapse oJ higherculture. Their purpose had been to perpetuate mercy, while otherspecious, greedy factions waged war, and burned a pricel~'~ heritageto ashes.
 ~?tatFragmented ~now~'edge remarried ~o be salYaged 1~:~ o~ t~brink of being lost beyond all recovery. Morriel confront~'~.~ t~efast sanctuary at Althain, her mood like fired obsidian. Too many ~.~[ herpredecessors had begged these same Sorcerers for help. Each ~atri-arch had been unconditionally refused. Now, when her own t~.'rrn 0foffice neared its end, the current Prime shouldered the mored~'t~ea~­ing errand of petitioning for power that was hers.
The necessity ignited a rage of bitter vintage. She alone gt~,~rded access to the imprinted memories of every Prime Matriarch t~ li~'ebefore her. To Morriel, sole protector of mankind's banished hist0r~;the green earth here was no refuge, but a prison kept ward~'d b~'tyranny.
At the dawn of the Third Age, when the refugee survivors arrivedto beg asylum, the Fellowship of Seven claimed no pretense. 'Ihev 
120 
FuG 
sworn to guard the larthe culture that shaperwith indigenous tradition.pact, for which the Fellows!
The Koriani, with their rvoice in that council. To Enchantress should rise ab the burden bequeathed bweary of the proscribed la 
only be passed on to the p~Althain Tower's stark hurting, chill winter twilltime or attrit5on might era.Morriel trembled as th fed her temper. Behind ~past this world's horizon,lization her predecessorslated wisdom of those beyond recovery by the tSorcerers in behalf of thre The moment was past,to do battle on Fellowsh righteous indignation anThe clank of a wind]notice. Counterweightetway as the innermost dfalls echoed through thegate cracked open. Asabehind the lowered grat"sethvir bids you welenged in chisel-cut bhconversation concernir Bransian s'Brydion in ~Morriel released a 1. forward, and rasped h~
 The unveiled preset
across the litter of eml~ 
not yet tidied from ~
entourage felt comfort~
with his knees drawn' 
of the stamped tin spc 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 were swom to guard the land by Paravian law. If mankind would set­tle, the culture that shaped them must be set aside to keep accordwith indigenous tradition. Such were the terms drawn into the com­pact, for which the Fellowship Sorcerers stood surety.The Koriani, with their mission of merciful protection, were lent noce in that council. Tolerance might argue that today's Prime~: :hantress should rise above the outworn grievance of the past.
Yet the burden bequeathed by her office was too heavy. Time left herweary of the proscribed knowledge she sheltered, records that might0nty be passed on to the precarious charge of a successor.
Althain Tower's stark dignity only mocked her in that bone­hurting, chill winter twilight, monument that it was against allthat time or attrition might erase.Morriel trembled as the old flare of rage stirred her blood.
Truth tea her temper. Behind this locked portal lay power enough to grow?acer this world's horizon, to restore at one stroke all the shining
civi­!iz,~tion her predecessors had labored to save; and lost. The
accumu­!ated wisdom of those centuries was dispersed, or else confinedbe,.'ond recovery by the bucolic bounds of a compact sworn by seven5~,;cerers in behalf of three vanished races.
~he moment was past, to mourn, or waver, or regret. Morriel came~< ~o battle on Fellowship ground, armed with naught else but her:':~!~teous indignation and the exhausted rags of her faith.the clank of a windlass heralded the moment her arrival drew ~, ~, Counterweighted chain reverberated inside the sealed arch-y as the innermost defenses were winched open. Then firm foot-r,~ii s echoed through the vaults of the sally port, and the heavy,barred ~;~ie cracked open. Asandir's craggy profile jutted through the gap,i,~':find the lowered grate of the portcullis.
'Sethvir bids you welcome to Althain Tower," he called, thenchal­i~.~}ged in chisel-cut bluntness, "He invites you for tea andspecificc~,nversation concerning an arrow let fly three years past by Duket~r~nsian s'Brydion in Vastmark."
Morriel released a laugh of bloodletting satisfaction, waved Iyanforward, and rasped her reply. "You may tell Sethvir, I accept."
 The unveiled presence of the Great Waystone flicked violet lightsacross the litter of empty plates and the glass sides of the jamcrock not yet tidied from the table. The lone member of the Prime's~t~tourage felt comfortably at home. Iyan perched in the window seatw,~th his knees drawn up, contentedly licking traces of elderberryoff ~t ~he stamped tin spoon. The more elegant butter knife, cleaned the 
 same way, rema'med in the possessive grasp o~ the
hooked to h'~s cross-~artered sh'~r~.

 Sethvir approved the deaf-mute's simplisticchildish innocence. The bearded, sprite's features veiled in thewhich wafted off a fresh tea mug held no guile. As a hostfaultlessly attentive, and yet, the sparkle to his eyes warnedward refusal to address the major talisman Morriel hadbefore him.
 To her stripped ultimatum to reverse his act oś mischief and.
its Named imprint from the earth's eidet~c awareness, he
re?roacht~l com?laisancy 'Z)one is finished Who could live up

the conceit you believe I possess?" His irreverent mannerto gleeful chagrin. "You embarked on a journey of fourleagues in bellel i could sway the will of a planet? My dear, I amas well as sorry for the discomfort and inconvenience broughtyour expectations. But no living power in Athera could move theearth to do as you ask."
Morriel hissed in a sharp breath. "You're lying." Nestled inshawls,ensconced in a padded chair like an egg in a silk-lined cup,shared her glare equally between Althain's Warden and Asandir, wholeaned against the doorpost, his bench lately banished to the lardert0 make room for visitor seating. The afterglow behind the paned arrowslit had fled. Plate rims poised above the pooled shadows cast by atallow dip spiked on an iron pricket.
Unsinged by the Prime's focused ire, blissfully intent onsloshLugthe dollop of cinnamon butter just added to flavor his tea, Sethvirshrugged. "What you think doesn't matter. Your crystal has been rec­ognized, and earth will abide by its own nature."
He might have said more, but Luhaine snatched the opening toexpound. "Stone and soil, you must know, are susceptible to energy.Like the mind of a mimic, they will copy and retain the patterns ofinduced vibrations. No made spell under sky could remand thatgiven property." Warmed now to his subject, the invisible spirit ranover the Prime's reedy protest. "And anyway, the conundrum's notlinked to a balanced equation. To invoke the attempt to dominate aplanet would create an unsolvable backlash. Where could the dis­charge from such a raised force become grounded? Earth itself wouldreject the called power to bind it into subservience! Even if thiswere a mutable truth, how could its awareness of your great crystal's reso­nance be masked? The memory of land is scribed in the language ofepochs. It endures across cataclysm. Ath Creator did not gift itsbeingwith forgetfulness." 
122 ~een ~~~­ted 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 "Then give me a spell of illusion for blinding concealment," Mor­t/el demanded.Sethvir looked up from his mug, his eyebrows tipped in patentinjury. "Just because you accuse me of deceit doesn't mean I'llchangetag character to become so." He glanced across at Iyan, who heldthe spoon in locked jaws, as if he sensed the tensioned undercurrentsto words deaf ears could not hear.
 A/thain's Warden set down his tea. He turned his back, gave the
mute servant's arm a kindly pat, then vacated his chair to share the
cushion in the window seat.
 Balked by his move from polite negotiation, Morriel shiftedtarget
and accosted Asandir. "Indeed, the hour has come to discuss that
arrow once loosed in Vastmark."
 Ghost quiet on his feet, the Sorcerer who arranged theFellowship's
field work moved his tall frame and claimed Sethvir's empty chair.
He slid the filled tea mug aside and laced his fingers over crossed
forearms. "You provoked an attempt to assassinate Arithon s'Ffalenn
by fanning Duke Bransian's urge for blood feud." His riposte
matched hers like test'rag, cold steel. "No light matter"
"For that you hobbled the powers of our Great Waystone, admitit," Morriel accused. Eyes like jet bead bored into the Sorcerer's ofimpenetrable, mirror-glass gray. "You protect Rathain's prince, perilthat he is. A mage-trained master fallen under curse of violence willincite more deaths than that one, on Duke Bransian's arrow. I'll saywhat I think. Your Fellowship has never regarded the people on this~~~rld as more than expendable ciphers."
"We'll set aside the question of whether you're qualified to makeany judgment on that." Asandir gave no sign he was perturbed. "Theissues are separate, in fact."
"I see." Morriel raked up a disdainful cough. "The nature of aninanimate earth and its resistance to change weighs more than ourWaystone's potential to spare cities with children and families fromthe misfortunes of storm or disaster?" She stabbed a stiff fingerfrom beneath her layered fortress of blankets. "Condemn yourself, Sor­cerer, by those answers already given."
The tallow dip flared, streamed by an affronted swirl of draft.But whichever discorporate Sorcerer roused up for rebuttal bowed beforeAsandir's prior claim to defense. "Lady Morriel, where are yourgrounds for dispute? Athera's land and natural resource were neverplaced at humanity's disposal."
"Which point is moot, since your precious Paravians have lefttheir ancestral ground." Morriel jabbed home her point. "Will you 
JANNY WU~T$

 endorse bloodshed lust to hold your Iof~y?lace as guardiansabandoned heritage? WhiIe you mourn for vanished unicorns, ou~cities slide further into violence. Your Teir's'Ffalenn is too perilous apresence to leave at large in the world. I see you're not blind tothe flaws in his nature. If your Fellowship won't act to curb his lethalcleverness, our order must. Lysaer's rule offers selfless governance,a i fair concern for the needs of society. The obsessions the Mistwraithhas driven him to embrace will fade without fuel if Arith0n is removed as his target. I find no justification whatsoever forrestraint. How should any one life be worth the thirty thousand left dead atVastmark?"
 "Because we are not speaking for one individual, but of the~ur­vival of all life on Athera," Kharadmon snapped with blisteringirony.
"That is the root of our quandary," Asandir admitted.
The clipped note to his speech arrested Morriel's tirade. Shenar­rowed seamed eyes and read closer, disturbed by the precedence thatLuhaine permitted his rival's remark to stand unchallenged. Throughthe coarse, ruddy flare of the tallow dip, past the vicious play ofstatic thrown off by the unshielded Waystone, she at last interpretedAsandir's stark patience for the stillness of a desperateuncertainty.
"What have you done?" she whispered point-blank. Then in knifingaccusation, "How is our world set at risk?"
"The peril is not new, but an ongoing extension of the troublebegun when man first created the aberrated mists of Desh-thiere."Asandir sat forward. "If I may?" He caught up the Waystone in longfingers, impervious, as though it possessed no more hazardous anaura than a chunk of unwarded glass.
The Prime Enchantress bridled. Convinced he had the effrontery tomock her by degrading her grand focus as a scrying stone, she gath­ered herself to revile him. Yet he did nothing but pass the jewelback across the table.
 "Your jewel sets off a disturbing dissonance," he temporized ashe ceded its cold weight into her protective grasp. "Better we ease thedistraction before the next subject is explored."
Morriel Prime tugged a silk shawl from her knees and veiled thesullen glimmer of the Waystone. She felt disgruntled, manipulated,and pricked by the awareness that Asandir's gently innocuousrequest urged dismissal of her complaint. She would not be side­tracked from her mission. Nor would she be lulled by the informalnature of Sethvir's bachelor hospitality. Fellowship Sorcerers wereever subtle players. Placed firmly on guard, she must anticipatetheir ploys, even as they offered diversions that led off on tangents. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 "Are the wards on Rockfell Pit gone unstable?" She settled theWaystone in the hollow of her lap and waited in rankling patience.
"Those defenses are secure," Kharadmon assured from his over­head vantage above the door arch. "But Desh-thiere was dividedupon its entry to Athera. The greater concentration of its fog wasturned away, as we have unsettling proof. The uncontained portioncut off on the gate world of Marak is anything but a dead entity."
Lapped like a mummy in quilts and thick shadows, her reed voicestripped to suspicion, Morriel said carefully, "Dead or not, thosewraiths should have no thread of connection to exploit. Unless you'vecontrived some harebrained scheme to restore the old portal to Athera?"
"Ath forfend, never that!" Sethvir interjected, then submergedonce again in his voiceless communion with Iyan. An inimical pauseseized the chamber, strung out on the hiss of the tallow dip.
Asandir turned his hand palm down on bare wood to thwart a visible urge tostrike a fist. "This is properly Kharadmon's story," he said in
quickdiscomfort.
 Luhaine withheld all opinion, nor did he interrupt as the nexusof his discorporate rival drifted down to settle amid the used-up spreadof light supper.
"The tale plays more like nightmare," the Fellowship's mostincor­rigible prankster confessed in chilling sobriety. Over the untidiedjet­sam of dishes and a tea mug abandoned brimful, Kharadmondropped the too casual comment that he had accomplished a crossingbetween stars.
 "I went to Marak with intent to find knowledge to break the Mist­wraith's geas of enmity over the princes. Why look astonished?" Hechuckled for the joy of provocation. "Come now, Morriel, were yourKoriani spies so inept? Did you actually think we would abandon thehalf brothers to the affliction of a cursed fate?"
 The Prime Enchantress fixed his invisible presence with disdainas inscrutable as a sphinx.
"Well, madam, don't rush to lend us due grace with an apology." Aminiature, self-contained wind devil, Kharadmon swept a tempest ofcrumbs into gyrating circles around the teapot. "I shan't lend falsehope. I found no reprieve."
On Marak, where cities had once crisscrossed the continents withglimmering strings of lights, he had encountered a dead waste offreezing winds and ice. No people survived. There, the truncatedmists of Desh-thiere brooded still, redoubled in malice, and hauntednow by far worse than the original matrix of bound entities that hadlaunched past invasion of Athera. 
JANNY WUI~TS

 Kharadmon minced no words. "The fogs still envelopinghave inducted the spirits of every slain human victim." Hisexhibition oś crumbs crashed and scattered, released asto traverse the casement. "The whole world is a stew o~ traloped
Ees, suspended in ac~ve consciousness, and driven mad by u~~uJtedhab~d " The taIIow dip t/uttered and jerked. The Sorcerer g tinsettledmovt~ ment stalked on, to raise the odd shiver from Iyan, who cast asharp,startled glance past his shoulder."Never mind," Sethvir soothed in daft unconcern for the fact thePrime's newest servant was deaf. "Yon shade means no harm."
 While Iyan settled and resumed his absorbed, silent dialoguebetween the silver knife and the jam spoon, a crystalline pausefilled the chamber. The moaning winter wind buffeted the tower andsheared all the warmth from the air.
 "I was attacked," said Kharadmon at unpleasant length, "beset andpursued almost beyond recourse."
Morriel absorbed this, her lips pinched into a bloodless crease,and the frown lines like pleats on her forehead. For a Fellowship mage toadmit to near helplessness shook her to driving unease. This recountwas no ploy drummed up as diversion to upset pursuit of her pur­pose. She measured implications as the grim tale unfolded, of anunexplained silence, then the beacon signal sent off by worried col­leagues to guide an errant Sorcerer safely home.
"We believed Kharadmon was disoriented, even lost." Asandirmade a small, strangled gesture of frustration, then explained howthe sorceries he and Sethvir had raised on summer solstice had been ground-tied through the land's living trees. Last came the harrowingcorollary, given in hammered, steady speech. "Until every trunk,seed, and sapling alive completes its allotted span of years, a faintsig­nature trace of that homing spell will linger. We can't dismiss therisk. These loose wraiths upon Marak might find means to track such aresonance. If they should cross the vast deeps between stars, themists that embody them would sublimate away. Arrived here as freewraiths, they would strike for possession and wreak death anddestruction such as this world has never seen."
 "But surely they would perish outside their containment ofmists,"Morriel said.
 "These don't," Kharadmon admitted, reluctant. "They haven't.Nine of them pursued on my back trail. Those survived the transitionas pure spirit. The measures we invoked to trap and dispel themwould never withstand the event of a large-scale attack." 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 "Which is why you need Arithon alive? How very neat and conve­ient? Morriel gave her most acid riposte. "If you look to a master­'ard's talent to effect a translation of Name and redeem them,
that's a 'esverate, thin straw to grasp at."thin straw's the best hope we have at this time," said Asandir.iti~ shattering dignity. "The logic is not hard to follow." Taken
indi­idually, the scourging spirits could be bound through Arithon'si~ts. His rearing by mages already lent him an advantage of training, r~'~ist hostile attack and possession. "We are also in process of
con­r~cting defense wards to secure this world from invasion."'I see," Morriel said. "All this takes precedence over the
cities we l~'~.,~dy have torn into war by the criminal charges leveled against~ ~ ~iubious savior."
 I~:!~,~it~e flared into rebuttal. "Neither one of the princes are~,~ Vie. Marak at this time is still choked in mists. Powers of
light.i~adow might still be used to entrap the wraiths on the planet.if the fell entities never try the crossing to Athera, our world
is ~,t !t'ee of threat. The wraiths in Rockfell Pit are imprisoned, notqui­
t. The half brothers' talent over shadow and light will be neededt~,,~ay to help lay those trapped spirits to rest."
'. hen confine the half brother most inclined to cause mayhem ifou wish them both to stay living." Morriel sat forward with slittedy'es. "Don't deny you hold the power to do this!"
"The issue of power has no bearing," Sethvir exclaimed in fussy,.0rrection from the window seat. At some point, unnoticed, he hadtt~.~i the spoon and knife from Iyan's hands. "You speak of twor, ~ n men born to free will, and not string puppets. Their lives areurs to use for expedience."
~re they not?" Morriel arose, wizened and bent under trains of~,~ool wrappings, but charged to denounce with the stripping, fierce:in~ of white lye. "What a pitiful excuse! You act when you're moved, ~,r how else did five royal lines come by their gifts in the firstlace? Why should your wasttel apprentice have taken the arrow for~\rithon's sake back in Vastmark? Oh, you dissemble very well. The~rbed powers of our Waystone establish that point beyond doubt."
"Sethvir has curbed nothing," Asandir contradicted. "The earth~e} f is your arbiter. What spells you impose by way of rank force,the ~ ~ has been empowered to refuse. That is all."
"And are lives and children worth less than a storm or an earth­~uake raised by the raw whim of nature? What upstart arrogance!"~orriel startled to a sweet metallic chime as Sethvir tapped the~oon to the knife handle. In no mood for his mooncalf byplay with 
JANNY ~V U R T $

 her servant, she raised her voice over the disturbance. "Relea~
earth's imprinted memory of our crystal. Our help and its
may be sorely needed, to judge by the botch you have
Ma;ak. "That moment, lyan yelped aloud. He shot to his feet, seized ~t
cutlery from Sethvir, and clashed spoon to knife blade in anenerge~'cclatter of wild noise.
 "Daelion Fatemaster wept!" Morriel whirled on Althain's Warden."What have you done to my servant?"
Asandir burst out laughing. "Let him restore the nerves thatafflicted his hearing, apparently."
The Prime Matriarch blanched in shock. "Healed him?" Her d'~s­may filled the room, since the act was no favor. The man's value hadbeen his inability to disseminate her secrets.
Oblivious to all nuance, too elated to perceive a mistress'sembar­rassing, ungrateful hypocrisy, Iyan whooped for joy, then chortled toexperience the music of his own voice.
"You should leave," Luhaine suggested in a solemn bent of humor,"before something else more regrettable happens."
Kharadmon abetted in devilish, barbed irony. "Be nice and smile,or your servant could also acquire speech."
Which effrontery was too much; Morriel Prime lost grip on coldnerves and blazed into rare, scorching temper. "Ath curse you all forfrivolous intervention! What you name restraint, I call cowardice!The Koriani Order is older than your Fellowship. Our first Prime Matri­arch stood at the right hand of free governance before Calum Kincaidsold out his great weapon and became the destroyer of worlds. Whatare you defending in this land but ignorance? I call you tyrants,rank meddlers with what's left of human dignity. Believe this. I shall notforget. Redress will be found for our damaged Waystone, and yourFe~o,wship sha~l .we to regret your urf~ust ir~ter~erence."
She grasped Iyan's elbow and pried kn'~e and spoon ~rom hiscrest­fallen hands. "Come. We are leaving." She shed borrowed blankets,scooped the Great Waystone from the cushions of her chair, anddemanded to be seen down the stair to the gates.
 "Good riddance," Kharadmon announced on the eddy of air as thedoor slammed in the Prime's departed wake. "The lady has a temperlike a snake."
 Sethvir disagreed with a tilt of his head. "The years she hasendured in the seat of Prime office have driven her just a bit mad.Pityher, instead. She's inherited a charge she can never pass on. Sinceher FUGITIVE I~RINCś 
last candidate for succession died in the rite of passage, I suspectthe complexity of her office has become too much for any new aspirant tobear. No initiate in her order, however well trained, could survivethe transfer of power."
"One might have," Luhaine interjected, more than usuallythoughtful. "At least, Elaira shows spirit enough to endure."
"And count our good grace for the fact she is cast out of favor!"Sethvir cried in rife exasperation. "The current Prime Matriarch isheadache enough, with her penchant to ally herself with Lysaer. Asuccessor tied by love to Arithon s'Ffalenn would yield up afrighten­ing collusion." 
129 Winter-Spring 5649 
Loyalties 
In a clandestine meeting, Lysaer addresses the devoted captain of hishonor guard, and a well-trusted healer who had tended the maimedthrough all the horrors of Vastmark: "You are sworn to gravestsilence because I must reveal several dangerous truths well before our peoplehave gained faith of a strength to endure them. Arithon s'Ffalenn wasbegotten by a demon, and his unholy powers have suborned LadyTalith to the point where she'll need to be secretly confined ....
 Safely returned since his audience on Corith, Earl Jieret,caithdein of Rathain, hears in relief the appeal of Caolle, his ex-war captain,who had fostered him since childhood, "My lord, the sword training ofyoung scouts is more properly left in the care of my successor. I begleave to go to the westshore and await the return of our prince. HisGrace might deny the necessity, but a sworn liegeman who bears astrong sword should be there to serve him against the day heland fall .... "
 When spring comes, and rumors fly that Lady Talith will make noappearance for the traditional celebrations, Avenor's royal healeradmits in gentle sorrow to the court: that in distraught state forher failure to conceive, the princess has retired into strict seclusionfor the sake of her delicate health .... 
Spring-Early Autumn 5652 
IV. Turnabout 
J' ust over three years after Lysaer's expulsion from the compact bythe Fellowship of Seven, the brigantine Khetienn lay anchored offthe distant shores of the continent half a globe away. An equatorialsun sliced her shadow in hard outline on the chipped crystal sparkleof salt water. Few fish swam those jewel-toned shallows. Bird criesnever wove through the air. The only wild voice was the rasp of lightbreezes, flapping the single staysail left set to draw ventilationthrough the hatches. Throughout the logged course of six voyages,after arduous problems with restocking stores to provision forrepeated ocean crossings, the brigantine had put into every cove,bay,and inlet along Kathtairr's blighted coast.
That search of the shoreline, and further expeditions on footinto the rugged, stony vistas of the interior had turned up nothingliving.0nly mineral-poisoned rivers and a limitless expanse of sun-blasted,wind-raked desolation.
 Tanned and taciturn where he leaned on the ship's rail in thesti­fling heat, Arithon wore only breeches of stained canvas cinched atthe waist with tarred cord. By preference while at sea, he dressedfrom dregs of the ship's slop chest, as far from the trappings ofroyalheritage as tattered, plain clothing would allow.
His tourmaline eyes raked across the splintered ochre rubble,where the dun contours of scorched earth stitched the cloudless skyline,and 
JANNY ~URTS

 the knees of the headland met sea in lace petticoat ruffles ors
breakers. An ominous, flat inflection demarked his address to
sweating figure by his side. "How long have you ~
offered no refuge?"

The Mad Prophet squeezed his eyes closed against theglare o//the water. "A fair question," he allowed in shrinking mise~"One I don't care to answer." He inhaled the tarred taint oś oakum warmed blistering hot in the thought-shattering fall of noon sunligh~More than just heat left him faint. He feared even to expe/hisdiscora. fired breath, aware to paralysis that if he said nothing, the manathis side would react in spectacular, inventive retaliation.
No use to pretend there had been no intent to lead Arithon indiversion through ignorance.
Dakar re, grou. ped the rags of his nerve. He spoke the truthquietly,anxious to avoid notice from the idle sailhands who sprawled in theshadow by the forecastle. "These shores lay scorched sterile bydrake-fire long before Ath Creator sent the Paravians as living gift toredress all the sorrows of the world. No centaur, sunchild, or unicom hasever walked here. Not through any age of known history."
An uneasy interval, cut by an isolated movement; the Master ofShadow turned his head and delivered his most scathing, level glare.
"The Fellowship needed to buy time," Dakar blurted. "Theywouldn't say why. Some outside crisis concerning the linked gateworlds has kept them clapped close as clams. The only thing thatmatters is what you intend to do now."
"What I intend?" Arithon loosed a piercing, soft laugh. "Theclans need a refuge. If a sea search was required to seek the Paravians,Dae­lion Fatemaster's sorrows, Dakar! We need not have wasted threeyears. For a sweep of the oceans, we'll need a whole fleet, andstrongcaptains, and navigators trained to make star sights."
Then came the striking, inevitable pause Dakar dreaded, whilethought burned behind half-lidded green eyes. Rathain's prince couldconnive with appalling invention, until even Sethvir became sorelytested to unriddle the final result.
 "You had better hope," said Arithon s'Ffalenn, "that Cattrick hasbeen busy keeping the letter of my design back in Tysan."
The impacting force of that statement took a pregnant second toslam home. "In Tysan? Merciful Ath!" Dakar all but shouted. "You'renot plotting to lift Lysaer's new deepwater keels from the royal yardat Riverton!"
 The lean, expressive mouth flexed amid the sharp-planed s'Ffalennfeatures. Where a stranger might mistake such expression for amuse­~ent, Dakar knew to look deeper. But Arithon swung his inscrutableregard to the sapphire edge of the horizon as he said, "For the sakeof ~~?peace, don't share speculation with Feylind,"
 Night claimed the far continent of Kathtairr like ground quartzsown on dark velvet. Restless airs scoured the vivid, flint scent ofdewfall off its vistas of sun-baked rock. The sky spread above theobsidian hills held no k'mdly embroidery of clouds. The stark,
strewn blaze of Athera's constellations scribed the arc of the sea where 
the Khetienn rode at anchor, a stamped silhouette rouged by the glow ofher deck lanterns. From his solitary vantage on a shoreside hillock,Dakar could hear the desultory laughter, as sailhands made cracks ateach other's expense. The windborne exchange of camaraderieseemed disjointed in time, splashed like fragmented dream againstthe acid-leached contours of rain-stripped gullies and sere
landscape.
Despite distance, and the fast-fallen curtain of darkness, Dakarcould pick out the Master of Shadow, propped alone against the sternrail. Whether the Teir's'Ffalenn ached for disappointment, or broodedalone in balked anger, no man dared say. Dakar remained outside hisconfidence. The festering dispute arisen between them concerning hismeddling plots against Tysan's shipworks had abraded those nerveswhich still remained raw from the ache of a tormented conscience.
 For Arithon, Kathtairr's barren shores delivered more than bittersetback. The aftemoon's truths had sealed the death of a desperate,cherished set of hopes.
The Mad Prophet rubbed sweaty palms on his thighs and swore atthe grit that the land breeze sifted over everything. A decision toputabout and sail back to Tysan meant shouldering the risks still lefthanging by Earl Jieret's fragment of augury. With Arithon left mage­blind, the unwelcome burden of scrying fell on the spellbinder'sshoulders. He had small choice but to sound the future for the source of the execution that Rathain's caithdein had foreseen three years inthe past.
Dakar felt inadequate. His birthgiven talent for prophecy hadalways been unpredictable. Despite five centuries of Fellowshiptrain­ing, his unruly, chance-met bouts of vision still blundered roughshodover his efforts to impose reason or mastery. The gift had ever beenan affliction to upset the planned course of his life. Even worse, thestresses of backlash inevitably wrecked his digestion and left himsick as a dog.
"Ah, fiends plaguet" he groused to his audience of desolate,stern boulders. "It's a born sap who dies of stupidiBr." 
 A fool's self-preservation should have kept him frommouth to volunteer. Too late, he wished he had capsized Khetienn'!dory, and seized the lamebrained excuse to beg off, soppingof all, he dreaded to see what his ill-advised search might discover.
Arithon's hot-tempered remark to Earl Jieret still retained itsdamnable accuracy. Too many fact'ions wished the Shadow Master'sdeath. The question became less the timed moment of his end, butwhich one of his enemies would snatch first opportunity to slaughterhim.
 A whistle signaled the change in the ship's watch. Dakar huggedhis arms to his barrel chest, while the sere, desert breezes fingeredthe crimped screws of his sweat-runneled hair. He steadied pluckednerves. In trepidation and solitude, he centered his will, cast histhoughts still, and channeled the untrustworthy powers of his gift.His failure or success would support no observers, far less the dis­cerning eyes of the prince whose confounding integrity had trappedhim in friendship and loyalty.
Dakar held no illusions. He was no sorcerer, no grand power totoywith events. Kathtairr's vast emptiness diminished all that he was,left him puny as a dust speck afloat on dark waters as he narrowed hisscattered awareness. He resisted the pull of a lifetime's rankcowardice and a sidestepping inclination to indulge in aimless woolgathering.Tonight, for the sake of Arithon's life, he opened the undisciplinedaperture of his talent while the sweat of cold dread slid in dropsdown his temples and moistened his thatched ginger beard. The salt tasteon his lips reminded of tears before the blameless, bitter kiss of thesea-spray lately splashed by his inept hand at the oar.
Time passed. Dakar held on in obdurate stillness. His gift couldbe stubborn. Countless times, he had sat with no reward gained but theyowl of a belly pinched to hunger. Yet even as he prayed tonight'sscrying would draw blankness, his mind sank into that cavernoussilence that seemed etched through a void of black crystal. Fore­warned by the first, creeping tingle in his gut that his awarenesstipped over the edge, he shook to a drenching chill of apprehension.Then vertigo swooped down and hurled him headlong through anunraveling stream of wild prescience.
 He saw pine trees, a bright shoreline where turquoise waterspurled intospume, and there, Arithon s'Ffalenn on his knees in white sand, hisblack sword Alithiel drawn and upraised; and through the bone-hurting chordof grand harmony thrown off by the blade's spelled defenses, a unicornpoisedin the rampant, first thrust of a charge aimed to gore him. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

Dakar screamed aloud, earthly flesh unable to bear the beauty andas the sword Alithiel fiashed, then blazed through its star-captured:ward resonance. The Riathan Paravian dipped his silver-maned head,ú horn set to reap; and vision scattered... 
Darkness rolled over him, unrelenting and bleak, stabbed through bythe clean harmony of a lyranthe given voice by the hands of a master.Notes plucked out in Arithon's best style fell like sprays of droppedjewels, orsleet tapping brass, while decades slipped by in a drawn-out,mindless slow agony...
"No," Dakar whispered. He strove to reach out, hook the free­wheeling thread of his talent and bind it; but change ripped throughhim regardless...
 He saw priests clad in vestments with sunwheel emblems, chantinglita­nies against the vile works of the dark.
"Ath show me mercy, no!" The Mad Prophet struggled, his yankedbreath drawn too fast, lungs afire as if he had sprinted flat outwith some ravening terror at his heels. "No." He grasped after trainedstrictures, clawed for the will to wrest back some semblance of con­trol. The vision he wanted was one that Earl Jieret had dreamed... 
He saw blinding summer sun, and the red, bloodied length of a swordlaid across an altar spread in a gold-edged, white cloth.
The image jolted through him, almost slammed his heart still.Screaming now, the Mad Prophet reached anyway, tried to rip pasthis grief to back-trace the event to its source. But the blood wastoo fresh, too red, too real. In slowed motion, the vermilion dropssoaked the white silk, ragged stains scribing an ending too vivid to escape.Dakar shied back, wrung helpless by dread, and the channel of histalent exploded through white sparks to static. His unsteady controlcrumbled after, like an unfired clay vessel dissolved on a tap toblown dust.
 Sunwheel became sun, sinking red to a horizon of weather-strippedhills: Daon Ramon. Before the light palled into featureless night, he behelda new city embedded in tangled black canes of old briar. Somewhere,somebodysobbed in the throes of a gut-wrenching agony...
His own voice, perhaps. Dakar had long since lost wits to tell.String after string of prescience reeled through him, a spate growntoo fierce to divert by means of sane thought or strong discipline.
A city, sheeted infire and burning; a child, dead in the dust. 
]ANN~ ~UQT$
 Milled under and weeping, Dakar let go. The dream claimed himeasure. His senses rushed on in the plummeting slide into the numbhaven of escape. His last thought before unconsciousness drownedhim was his desperate craving to get drunk.
 Much later, there were stars. Dakar pieced together the awaren~that he lay on his back with his eyes open. Returned senses
imprintedan excruciating impression of harsh rock jabbed into limp flesh. Thepain rushed back then, resolved itself into a skull-splitting
headache,to which every nerve in his body responded in a sapping chorus ofaches.
 Nausea knifed through him. He needed to sit up, but lacked thevftaffty.
A shadow arrived at the edge of his vision. A touch breathless,the voice of a bard phrased an oath ripe enough to scale fish. Then handsleft ice-cold from a plunge in the sea grasped his shoulders andhauled him erect.
 That succor given just barely in time; the first, rending spasmfailed to catch the Mad Prophet facedown. Grateful not to lie heaving in hisown filth, he coughed, spat, shivered, groaned, and finally croakedthe name of his rescuer. "Arithon?"
 "Lie easy." When that instruction became impossible to carry out,the Master of Shadow held on until the Mad Prophet's stomachstopped churning.
Dakar sagged into the lean, steady arm that settled him backagainst the lumpy support of a boulder. "I could see nothingcertain,"he husked out, unwilling to sustain the unspoken query for one sec­ond longer than necessary. "Arithon, I'm sorry. You're too stronglyfated. The futures involved are too powerful to sort. I have no surecourse of counsel to offer. Every fragment called in poured throughme as uncontrolled vision."
 He rolled his head sidewards to interpret the other man'sstillness;no need to repeat what events at the Havens and Vastmark hadalready proved in spilled blood. Any prescience he tapped in theform of ranging visions was subject to change with the pressures ofshifting event.
Seconds passed, filled by the rush of white foam gnawing thebleak, stony shingle. With no word spoken, Arithon settled in thedarkness, his shoulders braced to the same rock. No sailhand fromthe Khetienn accompanied him; he had swum from the anchoragerather than roust out the crew to sway out a longboat. The crossingleft him drenched as a seal, and shirtless. Kathtairr's hazeless 
136 ~ 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 starlight sheened the flex of his fingers as he worked the cork froma wine crock, ferried ashore in one of the mesh nets young Feylindtied to catch shiners.
 "Ath bless you," Dakar murmured as the welcome, earthy weightwas passed into his hands, then guided through the arc to his mouth.lie swallowed, eyes closed in relief. One slug, two, and the sour
taste of sickness rinsed away. He savored restored taste, eased and mel­10wed by the sublime, tart bouquet of a rare vintage red from0rvandir.
 ,/~ sigh unreeled through a throat skinned raw from mindlessscreaming. "Bless you again, for generosity. I thought you were sav­ing that bottle for--" Dakar stopped, would have slapped his ownforehead for stupidity, had he retained any strength.
The barren rocks of Kathtairr harbored no cause at all for 
celebra­tion; he had known very well since the day four years past, when thebrigantine had first weighed her anchor for Corith.
The prince who sat in iron quiet beside him seemed to have shedhis rancor for that. Arithon reached, recaptured the wine, pulled adeep draft in turn. Starlight strung sparks through the phosphores­cent runnels on his skin, and streaked premature silver through
black hair as he swallowed. He seemed to think better of speech and,instead, restored the crock into Dakar's needful grasp.
The Mad Prophet drank deep to drown a lancing, sharp urge toweep. When he next looked, Arithon s'Ffalenn had clasped both hiswrists with exquisite, fine-jointed hands, a habit he kept to maskthe disfiguring marks of old scars.
Dakar shivered. The hour had grown late. Kathtairr's harshterrain had traded the day's heat for the keening, cold winds off theinterior. But the gusts which sluiced over his sweat-dampened clothesscarcely touched him, aware as he was of the deeper chill. With hismind still awash in the harrowing images just snatched from theuncertain future, words slipped his grasp before thought. "How canyou bear this, year after year? How can you live, self-aware as youare, of the fate that hangs on your choices?"
"I wouldn't," Arithon admitted. His skin pricked into suddengooseflesh. His thumb traced the thin line healed crosswise overtopof the weals once chafed by iron fetters. The gesture arose fromunpleasant recollection of his blood oath, irrevocably given to holdhim to life by every means at his command. The terrible vow hadbeen sworn to Asandir just after the destruction of Lysaer's fleet atMinderl Bay.
Sensitive now to the one burning question Dakar had never dared 
JANNY ~UI~TS 

ask, Arithon offered his confidence. "You wonder how the FellowshiSorcerers won my consent to that binding." A brief pause, while 6'stars burned in chill unconcern. "I was told the world might notlivei~ I surrendered the struggle in death." Rathain's prince tiptcrown to rest against striated rocks that sprouted no kindly laceworkof lichen. The steep planes of his face might have been sculptedalabaster, except for the small, tensioned wrinkles which nipped atthe comers of his eyes. "I saw that I couldn't trust myself, Dakar.Not once I heard what was left on the gate world of Marak."
"Marak!" The Mad Prophet shot straight to a gurgle of sloshedprotest from the wine. "Ath, Marak! A crisis on a link world acrossSouth Gate. Of course! What else but the severed body of the Mist-wraith could frighten the Fellowship dizzy? Dharkaron avenge! TheSorcerers bound you for that?"
"You need not upset yourself." Arithon's disarming, peaceful tonebut reminded that he owned a masterbard's tongue. Dissemblingcleverness was his second nature. Dakar knew too much not to guessat the pain, and beyond that, to forgiveness that was genuine, as theShadow Master finished, "If the Fellowship Sorcerers sought to divertme to Kathtairr, they will have had urgent reason."
"They've been building wards. I've seen them in dreams when thepowers crest on the solstices." Dakar found his palms sweating oncold crockery. He required a single-minded and desperate care not tofumble as he tipped the bottle to his lips. "The bindings they weaveare unimaginably vast. As if the Sorcerers strive to stave off theadvent of their own defeat."
 Arithon replied after a short silence, his fingers knuckled whiteto his wrists. "We have to find the Paravians, Dakar. For all of oursake,they offer the only sane hope of reprieve."
Those half-glimpsed fragments of augury could bite too viciously,after all. Dakar choked back misery, hating the savage sting thatinevitably arose to sour the fruits of his gift. He sucked down winein one guzzling burst, too racked to set voice to the irony, that h~'had indeed seen a unicorn in his vision, and read death for Rathain'sprince i~the same moment. Life held no sureties. His talent for prescience wasmore fickle than a courtesan. One storm in the path of the Khetienn'scharted course, and that goring on the beach might never come to seedaylight.
A gust whipped the chisel-sharp summits of stone. Hazed by thesting of airborne sand, Dakar wiped tearing eyes. He tipped thebottle again, and cursed when it ran empty. The wine had left him strandedfar short of the drunken oblivion he wished for. 
f~tq C E
The torment on his moon-round face must not, after all, have been
to the grit, since Arithon said in that level compassion that
sliced straight to the quick, "Let's get you back. There's more
wine on the brigantine, and just as well. If I'm going to get in
my cupsalong with you, it's better done after I've launched and rowedyourdory from the strand."Dakar shut his eyes, beholden beyond utterance. Quick temperand subterfuge aside, the Master of Shadow could be trusted tokeepthe most damnable letter of his word. Shepherded back aboard the Khetienn and installed under
blankets
 in the stem cabin, the Mad Prophet was plied with shared wine and
sympathy until his maudlin mood gave way to exhaustion. By the
hour he passed out, Arithon had not forsaken sobriety, though dawn
blushed the sky to the east. The last crock stood drained to thelees.
 Dakar snored in a muddled heap with his cheek pressed flat to the
chart desk. Arithon s'Ffalenn tucked the blanket over his slumped
shoulder, then returned to the quarterdeck, and shouted crisp
orders to roust out the watch. "Stand by to make sail!"As the sun sliced the rim of the horizon, his seamen turnedthe cap­stan to clacking life and raised anchor. Sailhands clambered atspeedup tarred ratlines, then lay aloft to slip gaskets."Clear away the flying jib! Loose and let fall topsails andmain course! Man halyards, sheets, and weather braces! Out spanker!Sheet home!" Canvas the color of old blood slithered free and cracked taut,and the Khetienn gathered way, bound back to old risks on thecontinent.
 Athera's sea winds changed with the advent of autumn, blew inhard, veering gusts, northwesterly, then due north under skies rakedin cirrus as the days shortened. Bowled ahead with the wind on herquarter, then abeam, the Khetienn logged off the leagues, her exhila­rating passage made under cascading sheets of spra)~ The crew keptlight spirits, shearing fast course forli~mown waters. Dakar stayedalone in trepidation. Given his most d~nken spree of imagination, hecould never have foreseen the uncoiling speed with which planninggave birth to event.
Landfall at Corith occurred after dark, a ghosting, windwardapproach made on spanker, staysails, and jibs. A coin silver moonthrew the archipelago's notched summits, into chipped coal relief.Tension gripped the deckhands. Drugged by the scent of bearingland and live earth after month upon month of salt winds and Kath­tairr's seared rock, the off-watch crew crowded the foredeck. What 
JANNY WURTS

 scraps of dialogue wafted astern detailed their eagerness to
an endless diet of salt pork and beans, and hardtack infested
weevils.

 "Don't let me see another ration o' fish soup with the peppersto~ gone," groused another, eyes rolled furtively over his shoulder to besure the cook's ear was turned elsewhere.
 Still as a wraith at the quarterdeck rail, Arithon s'Ffalenn helda ship's glass trained on the bulking dark shoreline. His close, rakingsurvey scoured the unfolding jut of the headland, nicked like a tar­nished engraving with the unraveling foam of spent breakers.
Dakar, given mage-sight, required no glass to see that the harborat Corith was not empty.
"Daelion's arse," he swore in a gust of ill feeling. "DamnLysaer'sindustry, those are masts! Wear ship! We're pointed straight into anambush." Arithon snapped the glass closed on a smile of silken patience.Too sharply aware of smothered chuckles from the quartermaster,Dakar reinterpreted the Shadow Master's quiet with an unholy surgeof disbelief.
 "You didn't smell the breeze?" Arithon laughed, the predatoryflash of his teeth all the more vivid by moonli,~ht. "I doubt we'rein danger of attack from that brig. She doesn't bear a fighting companyscrambling to span arbalests. Just a hold crammed with casks shippedin from the orchards of Korias."
 "Apples." A mystified frown puckered Dakar's forehead. Heshoved back the rumpled screw of hair that the wind flicked back inhis eyes. "Why apples?"
A whispered dance of bare footfalls, Feylind arrived aft to claimher place at the Shadow Master's side. His equal for height, andgrown into a saucy, long-legged, eighteen, she snatched the closedship's glass from his hand. The roped braid slid off her shoulder tolick her small breast as she deployed the brass segments. She rakedpiercing study in turn over the vessel limned dark against needle-worked reflections cast by a low-riding moon.
"Dharkaron's hairy bollocks!" She gave a clear whistle. "The var­nish still shines on her figurehead's tits. It's a mermaid, andlook!" Fired outrage snapped through. "The ship's carvers at Riverton are araunchy band of goats. Bedamned if her nipples aren't gilded!"
"Don't lose our heading," gasped Arithon to the quartermaster,who had folded his grizzled face into his elbow to stifle an inoppor­tune smirk of humor
 "Riverton!" Dakar howled in unadulterated fury. "Save us all, you 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 move fast! If that's Lysaer's vessel, you've had to be conniving atpiracy for years! Why am I always the last one to hear what'safoot?" But the Shadow Master was himself left no standing to answer.Unable to follow his own sage advice, he lay curled in snortingmirth against the brightwork of the rail, while Feylind pummeled hisshoul­der with her fist for the fact he took her offended sex lightly.He had to shield his head with crossed wrists as she changed
tac­tics and lunged to attack with the ship's glass. "Woman, desist! I'mbludgeoned half-silly and left unfit for command. You'll have to laythe Khetienn's course in yourself. If you ram her on a reef, working
in without lanterns, believe it, I'll dock her repairs from yourdowry."
"Keep my dowry for gravecloths, I've no wish to marry." Feylindflicked back her braid, the tanned arm with the glass still upraised:,i~e a cudgel. "You'd let me strike sail?"
"Under threat of gett'mg my skull cracked, yes." Arithonstraight­~,~ ed, disheveled and smiling. "You'll see to ranging the cable andlet the anchor as well. Now be off!" Feylind yelled for joy, hurled the ship's glass straight for hisface, achallenge for even his thoughtless, fast reflex, and spun away toclaim t i,.,, wheel to steer the brigantine in."Ath," Dakar made cautious comment from the sidelines. "Take~~ore bribe than gold to find a willing husband for that minx."
"! heard that, you sorry, fat windbag!" shrilled Feylind. Hercrisp. Jt'r to stand by sent the deckhands scrambling to man braiIs and~ ~lvards.
 "Don't worry," said Arithon in that thoughtful, grave manner thatú ~'faitingly masked seamless subterfuge. "You won't have to guard,~ ~:ainst finding black hellebore in your beer. The Khetienn's pastdue ..... careening, and the moment the sail rig and paint can behastened -ough a refit on that brig, Feylind will serve as her navigator to~-,i~ to pay her brother an extended visit."
~, ~u think I should be pleased with the arrangement?" Dakar said.' ú~,3 purgatives in his drink seemed a piddling, small nuisancea~nst the chance to roll doxies and breathe citrus perfume in the-~ n-warmed brothels of Shand. "What are your prospects?" asked Arithon by way of evasivereply.
~~id you really want to stay and play hermit for the winterhunting.,,. tld deer on these islands?"
 Dakar had two short days to wonder and brood, while the,,,tetienn's trained crew split forces. They carried out whirlwindrangements to send their mismatched fleet of two back to sea, and 
$ANNY

 sailed under straightforward orders to raise funds
vice in honest charter to merchants. Feylind might swa
whoop as she claimed her new post, but the Mad
illusions. i.

 If the Master of Shadow wished the gffl sent awaj6 then dangerwou/d dog/ifs next passage. The risk to the s/ifps in/x/s chargemightbe less, but their pursuit would not stay innocuous.
The course of suspect events started off with an unkindIx', roughcrossing to the mainland aboard Arithon's tiny pleasure slo~~p. Shemade landfall amid the deep coves of Caithwood, under love', leadenclouds and driving rain. A discreet whistled signal drew clansmen tomeet her. In silent efficiency, the band of scouts saw her warpedinto an inlet, and covered in brush and deep cover. An icy drizzlt~ mistedthe flame red of changed maples. Dakar shivered in the chill, thenendured a dank evening in a cave lit by a smoking oil wick, whileArithon's reading of dispatches led to a terse exchange of news.
Swathed like a sausage in his salt-fusty clothing, Dakar blud­geoned through fogged wits to listen.
A grizzled forest captain with an eye patch sat tying newfietchingon his hunting arrows. "Can't offer better than deer jerky. Fires aretoo risky for cooking, with new patrols off the roads out of Quarn."
Arithon's reply came measured, all but inaudible over the trickleof moisture off the evergreen thicket outside. "They've gotten thatsharp?"
A grunt gave him answer, while the clansmar~ plit a goose quillwith his belt knife. "Tracker's a gift from a demon." With thebounties doubled for live capture, muster for headhunters had tripled."They're crown funded, too. Much better outfitted." A lengthy squintdown an arrow shaft, to ascertain the new feather would steer true,then the tart summary, made over the winding of waxed string. "It'san offense against nature, but we've had to set traps for the dogs."
Amid the back-and-forth round of discussion, Dakar fought ebbingattention, jerked out of a doze more than once by grim details ofshore patrols and galleymen, and a stockade built to hold slaves insid~~cit~' walls at Hanshire. His eyes closed at length. Time must have esc,~~,edhim, because he looked up and saw Arithon had changed out ot ~,~il­hand's garb.
Reclad in a laced set of riding leathers of sable, and a woolt~~~~~ trimmed in dark scarlet, the Shadow Master tipped a sheet of reedpaper above the streaming brown fumes off the oil wick. In his hands,what looked like a laborer's tally sheet changed form. Invisiblyinked lines first written in lemon juice burned to reveal a message infugi­
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 ire script. He read, while the words glowed sienna between the cal­lused, sea tan of his fingers. "Princess Talith confined? Forvapors, dueto barrenness, and delicate health? I don't believe it!"The clansman gathered his finished arrows, licked a finger, andbun­died them with a deerhide thong. "Hearsay. But word from clansources shows the same. The princess hasn't been seen in public for threeyears.When Lysaer assembled the train for his journey, our scouts on thewest road were sure that no pedigree lady traveled with him.""Lysaer's left Avenor?" Dakar interjected, snapped erect andbelat­ediv alert.
 Arithon threw him an exasperated glance. "You were snoring
through that part. But yes." He tapped the report in Mearn s'Bry­dion's frenetic script, now flattened across his left knee.

"Lysaer'sthe road to Etarra to ply his honey tongue in diplomacy. Toss apinch of salt, sinister, for sheer luck. There's an unguardedhenyard1,,ft for us foxes once again.""Scarcely that." All at once too aware of the cold, Dakar hooked
up~i~ dropped blanket and snugged the disagreeable scrape of woolunder his chin. "I wasn't asleep for that bit about the herb witch
who g,,t stoned in Quarn. Or the part about Avenor's troop rolls beingtnpled in number since Vastmark. Nor would I lay any coin on dim~,~,~. that our spirits stay clear of the Fatemaster's Wheel if you
make tires on the snake's home ground.""Our home ground, too," the dansman retorted. "Caitdein, Lord\Iaenol, has stayed his blood grievance four years preparing forthis day."Arithon broke in, "Then the wait for my timing hasn't chafed?"
"It has, and unbearably." A shrug, then the bald-faced admission,There were prideful hotheads who railed against your liaison. Only,~ne was given my lord's leave to pursue vengeance. That man had aú ast cause. He'd just lost his sons in a coffle bound for Lysaer'sgalleys."
Dakar knew better than to waste futile argument with any partyjoined to Arithon in conspiracy. He shut his lips and his eyes, whilethe talk wound down. But sleep left him stranded in weariness. Theawful, circling dread of bad prospects harried his mind beyond rest.He kept no illusions in his service to Rathain's prince. Three yearsof suffering tasteless ship's rations and battering ocean gales nowseemed a time of seclusion in paradise. Not least, when the winterahead promised criminal machinations under the armed nose ofTvsan's elite royal garrison.
 Morning broke cold and clear as the shell of a robin's egg. Dakarcrept from the furling layers of his cloaks like a grub from acollapsed 
JANN. WURT$ 

cocoon. His predawn hours of restless tossing had given wayinadequate, heavy sleep. His mind felt logy and thick. Thetwitters of foraging sparrows drilled his ears like the stab oftinker's pins to the brain. Frost traced the leaves at the cave mouth. Dakarbemoaned the lack of any fire as he dressed, and wished for chees~instead of hardtack and jerky to appease his growling belly.He sat for some time, head propped between his hands, before h~noticed the voices outside, raised in ongoing contention."You should be with your earl," Arithon said, a snap to his tone toscale iron. Dakar thrashed through the intervening curtain of brush andpeered, his nearsighted squint like a mole emerged from its burrow.Amid dazzling shafts of early sunshine, he made out the discr~band of clansmen from Caithwood who guested them. Their scoutcaptain stood near, his eye patch raked low, and the reins of twosad-died horses looped in each hand. Beyond their maned necks, past thesteaming back of a third horse which drooped its head from hardusage, another man stood dismounted. The newcomer was builtbroad, an obstinate thrust to his massive, squared shoulders. Hishead wore its cropped hair like filed steel, bristled to cowlicks atthe crown. Born ornery, or else given to brainless bravery, he confront~the sF~ghtly made Prince of Rathain, feet planted like a balked mas­tiff's. -~'
 "Caolle?" Dakar called in disbelief.
 Neither combatant glanced his way.

"Here I stay, liege," carped the northern-born clansman who hadresigned his life's post as Earl Jieret's war captain. "My swordguardsyour back. Live with that gift or behead me for treason."
Dakar missed Arithon's gloved velvet reply. Whatever the content,the sally made the rugged, older swordsman flush crimson.
"So just damn the day of your birth, while you're at it!" Ca011ecracked back. "Since you refused the good grace to die on delivery,Rathain has got a living prince." Immovable oak when charged withhis duty, he hurled his next line like a gauntlet. "I serve thekingdom.Since you plan to hang yourself out in Tysan as bait, you'll have mealong for the sacrifice."
The Mad Prophet shoved through the thicket in clawing dread. Heclosed the last steps to an obliterating crackle of dry leaves, toolate again to catch Arithon's riposte. Caolle maintained his stance,reduced to contentious, stiff silence. His eyes were red rimmed, asif he had ridden all night through rough country, and a disfiguring,fresh scar crossed his jawline that had not been there in Vastmark. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Those weathered, blunt features that had not changed at all wore afrown like black basalt, and the hand closed upon the sheathed hiltof his sword could have been etched into place.
"You might try a smile of welcome, your Grace," Dakar bored in,well aware how the title would rankle. He pressed brashly on, camebetween the too-careful expression of blandness that Arithon pre­sented toward his liegeman. "Ice could be turned into sunshine on awish before you'll talk Caolle home to Strakewood. He's by lengthsmore stubborn than you are, and besides, this time he happens to beright."
"Say that again to my face, should Jieret's young son lose hisfather to a slave galley," Arithon ripped back in blank rage. "By my oath asRathain's crown prince, if that day happens, I'll see you bothbleedingand dead for it." All smoldering grace, he spun away, caught thereins of the nearest horse Caithwood's clansmen held ready, then vaultedastride without pause to measure his stirrup length. "For today, keepup if you can."
No more words, and no thanks did he offer his clan hosts, butclosed his heels and shouted and startled his mount standing to acanter.
 Caolle surged to remount his blown gray.
Dakar grabbed, first the reins, then the wrist of the clansman'sright hand. "No. You'll founder a good horse, and for nothing. We'llget you a remount and breakfast, too, if you're hungry." "Damn breakfast!" Caolle swore.
 The Mad Prophet held on, well aware he risked a sword thrust ifhis grip should give way. Fat, but not gutlessly soft as he had been,he still felt as if he shouldered the part of the numbskull who graspeda bear by the leg at a baiting.
"Curse you, let go!" Caolle dropped his shoulder to battle inearnest, his desperation made vicious by fast-departing hoofbeats ashis prince widened his lead through the forest.
The Mad Prophet clung. Despite tendons set on fire by hischarge'seffort to wrench free, he said, "Don't be a donkey!" Bashed backward,fetched a punch that rattled his brains and left him too jellied toduck the fighter's move set to fell him, he gasped out, "Caolle, havedone! I know where Arithon's bound."
 Kicked hard behind the knee, Dakar hit cold moss on his back. Thejolt robbed his wind. He tasted fresh blood; had ridiculously bittenhis tongue for the damnfool belief he could wring reason from theselfsame rock-headed clansman who had raised young Jieret to man­hood. 
 "I'~x .~s~e~k~x~;' C~o\\e pro~xp~e~, no~ .e~ so~e~6agabst a sky embroidered with evergreen. He waited ~nimpatience, arms {olded on ~s cross-belted chest.
OakaY ~eez~d, ro~ed backbYo~n e~s, a~d ~l ~
thump against a tree root.
"No use/' said CaJthwood's mustached c~tef scoutobsened from the side,es, s~H holding the horse saddled~ad Prophet, "He's down like a clubbed trout." Then, )~Caolie's ~otted pose of frus~afion, he stepped in andvicfim's cheek with long-suffer~g familiariW. "Don't worry,Rathal's henc~an can't go 'til we've found him a mo~tof my scouts are flat s~pid. No one in camp's gong to~ying to force you to ride without breakfasL "
 Four days later, ~ the crowded, grease-pungent taproom 0f ~bargeman's hostel built by the ford over Ilswater, a fat man dressed~a tinker shrugged off the saddle packs slung across his shoulder. Hesca~ed the sca~ered asso~ent of pa~ons seated at trestles andloung~g ~ talk aga~st the upright posts which supported the r~[tresses. ~e light blocked off from the casements in the press wasreplaced by candle lanterns set be~d glass. ~eir panes had b~ncleaned of soot, and faces underneath glowed like lit parchment.
~e t~ker s~died them all. His traveler's wise eye marked thedusW boots and badges of the ox drovers; then the barge captalin,with their boom~g, boastful voices and broad hands; and after them,the lean-bodied caravan masters ~ oiled wool and leather. His su~eybrushed past the merchant's factors draped inUrecloth capes to pr~tect their brocade clothes as they barga~ed passage for trade goodsby the water route across Korias to ~verton.
~e ~ker's brown eyes touched, then fixed upon a slim man bythe hob who had hair like bleached flax, quick eyes of a heathe~~ay-green, and whose clot~ng was embroidered and garnished wi$river pearls. Two tave~aids fluRered over ~m like moths. He gaveno appearance of lead~g them on, but his sweet words and k~dma~er left them desperate ~ their wish that he had.
A smile ~itched the ti~er's ~cked lips. He raised a wrist t0scratch ~s snub nose, and be~nd cover of his sleeve whispered,"~at one."
 Across the dim room, the ranked ~estles and packed benches, and~e bri~ed felt hats of the bargemen, through the autu~ tang ofc~amon and cider, the fair-haired dandy said something which setthe girls laug~g. 
146 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 "No." A hulking, thick shadow against paneled walls, the tinker's
eyebrows like the grizzled pelt of a badger. Half of
face lay swathed in bandages that seeped pus from a sup­
wound. Black gimlet eyes flicked aside and gleamed back in
disbelief. Then a dubious mumble emerged from beneath the
~aked dressing.
"Oh, that's him, make no mistake," the tinker insisted under cover
 of metallic commotion as a chubby scullion stacked empty tankards
on a tray. "He kept fancy clothes aboard the sloop with hislyranthe."
More indeterminate grumbles from beneath the bandages, from
which the word "wager" emerged clearly.
The fat tinker cracked a chuckle that turned nearby heads, but
notably, not that of the blond man. "So we'll see." He shoved his
packs into the arms of his rawboned companion. "Find us a bench in
a comer and wait. I'll order beer and pay a visit to the privy. Mysilver
 laid on eight to three, the first one who follows me out will benone
 other than your royal liege."
Riverfront taverns in south Tysan were all similar, built of mudbrick and split pine beams and lath. The hearths were always largeenough to roast a call and the bar tops, a vast slab of fieldstonelike a bastion, behind which the barrels were stored and kept guarded bylandlords as seasoned as siege captains. On a meat hook behind hungthe inevitable cleaver, kept sharp to carve the huge wheels of cheesebought from the dairies in Korias. In rough seasons, the same steelmight chop fingers from unlucky pilferers, to mark them for thievingways. Customs along the river route south of Mogg's fenlands wereswift and direct, only generous if a man were honest in his habits,or straightforward about his need in ill fortune.
The tinker was soft-spoken and carefully polite. He jostled nopatrons, nor pinched the flame-haired wench who bent to shake outthe straw matting by the back entry. He offered her a copper, askeddirections to the privy, and stepped out the rear door, whistling.
The path he pursued was well beaten, dusty under the glazed goldsun of late autumn. Leaves burned brown at the edges by frost crack­led beneath his slowed step. A breeze blew crisp off the Ilswater,skeined in the scents of wet reeds and black mud, stitched close athand by the taint of sour leather and urine from the mucky compoundof the ox pens. From downriver, a drover called encouragement to histeam. A barge rocked at the landing bollards to a whispered creak ofchafed lines.
 Flecked in the rippled ink shadows of the alders already strippedby the season, the tinker reached the board privy. He heard no one's 
14 7 ~ 
JANNY ~URTS 

step on his heels. Just the uncanny sensation of movement at hisback,a split second before hard fingers bit into his shoulder and jerkedhim face about.
 The blond man from the hearthside confronted him, his fine,beaded doublet masked under a bargeman's caped wool. "Come," hesaid in the razor-cut diction of Arithon s'Ffalenn. "We need to take a little walk."
 The pair turned right, into the dappled shade of the wood whichfronted the river, then veered again, into pine-scented dimnessremoved from the bustle of the teamsters who plied the towpath.
"That took a great deal of nerve, ris~[ing Caolle ~ there,"Arith0n opened. "You'll answer to me if harm c~mes to him.
The fat tinker drew a breath in trepidation better suited to hisrole as a prophet. "I won't take that blame. You might have accepted hisoffer in Caithwood."
 Arithon stopped cold and clawed back the straw wisp of hair thebusy wind flicked at his cheek. "You're risking his life!"
"He's risking his life," Dakar corrected. "I'm flattered if youthink my efforts could stop him."
Looking frail boned in his pale-haired disguise, half-swallowedbythe bargeman's cloak, Arithon started forward with a visible effortto keep a tight rein on his temper. "We could be quartered in Rivertonfor months." His bard's instinct for sound seemed to guide his foot­ing. His step fell almost noiseless through the race of loose leavesin the gusts. He went on, "A winding or two of ill-smelling bandagecan't hide a clan accent from headhunters!"
 "Bandages won't, but a glamour can," Dakar argued. "I can workthe small bindings to make the scar on Caolle's jaw seem far worsethan it is. He'll wear the semblance of an injury to disfigurespeech. Ina port town with sailhand's dives, who would bother to look for aspell to bend air? No one will trouble at all. His halting tonguewill just seem too garbled for anyone but his friends to understand."
"Ath, Dakar!" Arithon stopped again, one hand pressed to hisface. At long last the misery showed through. "He's Earl Jieret's man, andthe only foster kin that boy ever had to replace his slaughteredfamily."
The Mad Prophet spun away, perhaps to lend the pretense of pri­vacy for old grief. Even as the edge returned to Arithon's control,he was unable to meet the appeal in the blank, masking gray of thoseeyes. Nor was he insensitive enough to try platitudes, or argue thatlieret was now a grown man and father to an heir in his own right.Not when the Earl of the North had been orphaned in one ofArithon's former campaigns. 
FU~31?IVE PRINCE 

The loyalties demanded by the ghosts from that past were by far
 "You won't win this one, old friend," Dakar said at last in gruffsympathy. He turned around in the mat of dead pine needles, duckeda low-hanging branch, and forged the way back toward the tavern."That's Caolle's clan heritage you need purloined ships to try andsave. Nor can you shirk all the trappings of your birth or cast offyour'most sensible liegemen. Some will live and others come to die in thecourse of your service. That's their picked fate. Yours is to bearit,until the day comes that the Fellowship Sorcerers grant you theirlaw­ful leave to abdicate."
 That stunned through the force of past sorrows. Arithon s'Ffalennlooked back from his shadow-wrought disguise, his eyes for a secondreverted to their native, blazing green. "Then we're stymied." Hesmiled in that baiting, bright malice he used to divert stingingwords. "A match brought to draw, since the end play can't happen unless Isire an heir for Rathain. You should all leave me."
 Dakar chose to ignore that. "I presume you'll be going intoRiver-ton as a bard? Well, you've just acquired two servants. You mightwant to add some gray hair to fill out the part, since as the fairgal­lant, you'll draw the wrong sort of notice traveling with a dotingmale retinue." 
Autumn 5652 
Design 
The Koriani orphanage in Capewell was housed in the refurbishedshell of a merchant's palace, a five-storied edifice of extravagantfancythat loomed over the harborside market. Stevedores' calls and tl~ dickering insults of house matrons never troubled its residents. Highmarble walls enclosed its stables and inner courtyards. Carved withweathered nymphs and the moss-caked cavities of scrolled waves,the scullery entrance fronted a sun-washed courtyard. A row ofgnarled pear trees in tubs were all that remained of the formal herbgardens famed far and wide in past centuries. The branches laystripped now, blackened skeletons shivering in the veering toss ofthe gusts off Mainmere Bay.
Hatched in their spiderweb shadows, Morriel Prime chafed porce­lain stick fingers to encourage her poor circulation.
The days, the years, blended one into another. She wished shecould scream for the frustrating labor of discerning one from the next,presentfrom past; the jetsam of old memories become all butindistinguishablefrom posited future event. If the gardens where she sat this autumnmorning had outworn their elegance through change, the routine obli­gations of the Koriani Order stayed tediously static. Each daybreakcame, seamless in sameness as the metallic sheen of pooled mercury.
On Morriel's right, from the close little chamber that onceserved the merchant as countinghouse, speech droned through the openedwindow. In muddled accents, a pouch-eyed little cobbler swore theorder's oath of obligation in exchange for a sigil of blessing forhis FUGITIVE PRINCE 
craftshop. A fresh-faced girl novice would duly enter his name on theLists of Service against the day when Koriani need would ask pay­ment in boots or shoes, or some other piece of skilled leatherwork.
The ritual was timeworn as the order's inception. Excepting thesmall sales of simples and remedies too onerously numerous forrecord, enchantresses took no coin for the spellcraft they renderedin service. With no wealth to gain, their practicing code of mercyremained difficult for greed to corrupt.
Morriel loosed a shallow, bored sigh. Entrenched traditionblended,not just days or seasons, but caused years themselves to meldtogether,memories rubbed smooth by repetition until none stood out fromanother. She endured the monotony. Moment to moment, she carriedon with the tenacity of a lichen latched to north-facing rock. Thismoming's task of selecting new page boys for her personal service hadrecurred so many times, she had ceased to number or name them.
The children seemed one long stream through time, as similar aspebbles in a brook. Unblinking, her obsidian eyes surveyed the dozenodd choices. They stood in a mw with their fair hair combed, andcloth­ing brushed formally straight. In age, they ranged from eight to ten.
Some always cringed from the Prime Matriarch's review. Twostared at their feet. The inevitable coward sniffled and shook, whileanother near the line's end presented tearful, flushed cheeks indefi­ant and terrified silence.
 Morriel made her selection on a scant second's thought. "Thatone,and that one." The pair marked apart by her stabbing gesture wereclose matched in height, and possessed of a china-doll innocence."Show the others away."
"Your will, matriarch." A matronly enchantress bustled from thearchway behind. She comforted those children returned to hercharge, then bundled them off to the kitchen with a promise of appletarts and milk.
 The Prime surveyed her latest acquisitions with a vulture'sunwink­ing regard. The near boy watched her back, trapped in awe andmacabre fear, as if her withered limbs in their draping purple velvetbelonged to a corpse, or some nightmare work of carved calcite. Theother child stood frozen with a dripping nose and a chin puckered redin failed effort to dam back his tears.
 "You will serve as my page boys until you reach twelve years ofage," Morriel informed, not unkindly, but rasped thin as steel settoo long to the grindstone. "The work I ask will be light. Do well, andon your day of dismissal, an apprenticeship will be found with a rep­utable trade which suits your inclinations." 
JANNY WURTS

 "Yes, matriarch," whispered the boldest of the boys.
The withered twitch of a smile turned a comer of the crone's
 "How fine, you have manners, boy. Bravery, too. When
abroad in the world, those virtues will be appreciated.
are simpler. Please recall, when I come to address you, I prefer
say nothing at all."

The tearful child whimpered. The forward one shrank intainty from the sting of her mild disapproval. Morriel offeredboys no false reassurance. They would do best to fear her,friends and associates they made in maturity should sharerespect for her office. Like white-painted iron in thewinds that keened off the waves of the bay, she also withheldmissal. Her eyes fixed ahead like sheared chips of slag, andwere unmoving marble.
The rift happened then, without any warning at all.
In one seamless second, she no longer inhabited the chilly autumncourtyard in Capewell. Ten centuries blurred; the friable webs ofper­ception unraveled. The green fields of her village childhood resurgedand wrapped her in sun and the fragrant, honeyed heat of summerhaze. The boys who rolled tussling and yelling amid the new-sprouted barley were her dark-haired, dark-eyed little brothers.Sprites who clung to her ruffled skirts while she simmered berriesinto preserves; who brought her their skinned knees and elbows to benursed; who secreted live beetles inside her jars of dried rosepetals.
She loved them like an addiction.
 When her talent came on too strong to deny at sixteen, herparentshad sent off the young plowman who sued for her handfasting. Deafto her pleas and her stormy bouts of rage, they sent her dowry to theKoriani Order and pledged her to lifelong service. The boys becamethe tie that broke her heart. Scene followed scene as she suffered for their loss, huddled under blankets in the echoing, vaulted stone ofthe dormitory. She wept for her brothers, while merchants' daughtersfrom Cildom bemoaned their lost gowns and jewels, and sly-facedcraftgirls from Narms vied to take illicit lovers before the day theycame to swear vows, and seal themselves forever to the celibate waysof an initiate enchantress.
 Then the years, passing, and the demands of strict learningclaimed all their youthful rebellion. Study of crystals, then endlesspractice with the sigils of power erased their differences ofstation. Girls became women, at one with the Koriani Order, and fewthoughts remained of the families abandoned in childhood.
The regrets which survived were the strong ones. Even after a 
152 FUGITI~ś I~RINCE
 thousand years, Morriel Prime would not suffer her pages to resem­ble the brothers who had grown and gone on to mortal death. No onealive remembered their faces; how they had fared, or where they hadbreathed their last. If they sired descendants, those too were
vanished into forgotten obscurity. The folk who had known them were genera­tions lost; their near kin gone to crumbled dust.
"Prime Matriarch?" A soft voice, then a tentative touch to hershoulder drilled her thought like electrified pain.
Morriel started. Her senses upset, awash in blind static. Themoment became nightmare as she fought to reorient. Buffeted by theincongruous, fishy tang of winds blown off of salt water, she knewblank confusion more vast than the infinite dark beyond the veil.Then eyesight returned with a burning, sharp rush. Two robedseniors waited to one side. Their inquiring, smooth faces should havebeen known to her. Yet her memory would yield up no names; theiridentities blurred into thousands of others, until rank andpersonalityfailed to take on any semblance of importance.
The panic hit then, a slippery, dark wall too sheer for trainedcalm or reason. Fear yawned before her, that she might never recover hersense of time and place. Morriel shut translucent, webbed eyelids.She willed her breath steady while the trip-hammer pound of herheart threatened to burst through the walls of her chest. Years offorced discipline let her clasp the quartz pendant at her throat. Thefocusing properties of its matrix should let her grope out the rightthread of recent memory.
But that remedy failed her. Sharp, questing thought slid past herguard and mired in the stone's composite layers of stored imprints.
She had outlived her time. The crystal she wielded held athousand years of memory, too long a span for a reactive mineral to stay inunbroken contact with breathing flesh. Past due for cleansing, anystone's burdened matrix would develop an ornery character.
Its obstructive nature mocked her now, as if to expose her rankweakness. She regained no connection to the facts she required, butfell into the deluge of residual memories left behind by formerprimes: the disparate, echoed fragments of bygone personalities,strained at random from her use of the Great Waystone.
Morriel choked back a scream, beat down the visceral terror, thather last recollection of her name and identity might be mazed intothe stewed thoughts of dead predecessors.
That instant, like a pane of snapped glass, the disorientationcleared away. As if the cogs of her mind had never once slipped, Mor-riel recognized the swept, white stone of the courtyard at Capewell's 
153 JANN. WURT$ 
orphanage. Against mortised coping and soft, southern marbleished by weathering rains, two small boys stood before her infled obedience, shivering in the north wind.
Though they must learn in due time to wait on her needs, today'slesson was unduly harsh; Morriel blinked Fightless, jet eyes, chilledherself, and uneasy. If age had eroded her grip on self-command, shehad small choice but behave as if no lapse had upset her sound judg­ment. "Have my new pages taken to the seamstress to be fitted forproper livery."
"Your will, matriarch." The younger initiate shouldered the task,though the bands on her robes marked a rank far above petty errands.
The middle-aged enchantress stayed silent in respect while thecourtyard was cleared of small boys.
Morriel refused any moment to compose herself. The dread couldtake root like moss in dim comers, that a second slip might over­whelm her. Until Lirenda was fully trained to replace her, she mustpermit no breach of faith in her competence. "You bring news?" sheprompted, then gestured her formal leave to speak.
The enchantress gave proper obeisance, and said, "Matriarch, ourclairvoyant received word from the lane-watcher stationed in Tide-port. She wished you informed that Arithon of Rathain has made hisreturn to the continent."
 Morriel's interest took fire. "In Tysan? I thought so!" Shewheezed through a gravelly laugh. "Very well! The hour has come to startf0rc­ing the Fellowship's hand." A snake's eye glitter of diamond pinsloured from under her hood as she delivered imperious instructions."I'll require a closed audience with your most gifted clairvoyant.She will send my instructions through the lane-watchers. Afterward,summon your two newest initiates and direct them to attend me inthe observatory. Once I have admitted them, let no one interrupt orunseal the chamber until I emerge or give leave."
The enchantress in attendance showed surprise. Such obvioussteps to undertake a grand conjury would not usually proceed with­out steps to inform the First Senior of momentous events. "You don'twish a messenger sent on to Lirenda at Valenford?"
"How dare you ever think to question my rule!" Morriel cut backin distemper.
"I bow to your will, matriarch." The initiate took chastenedleave,the displeasure of her Prime like the stab of an auger at her back.
 The observatory built into the Koriani sisterhouse at Capewellwas an edifice evolved through the contrary styles of seven centuries.The 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

dainty, five-sided bronze cupola and the fancifully shuttered case­ments which overlooked the town's roof peaks were the latecoming0maments of folly. Mossy stone walls and the flint sills of oldrevet­ments bespoke grimmer beginnings as a watchtower. From its origi­nal vantage, merchants had counted inbound ships at the quay. Thestone had been reset with arrow slits later, when townsmen fortifiedagainst vengeance-bent clansmen through the unsettled years of theuprising. The observatory built on when the keep was roofed overnow served as a chamber consecrated for fine magic.
The inside air had gone musty since the pierced shutters weredarkened with sheets of tarnished silver. Candles of incense-soaked wax fluttered on the shelves of the sills. The inviting, cushionedbenches that once lined the walls were reframed as cupboards withbronze hinges. Door fronts and portals had all been replaced withunpainted oak panels, cut green, dried in fire, then inset with theknotty, counterlooped copper of a thousand runes of ward. Each latchhad been painstakingly welded, then sealed by tin sigils with guardspells to deflect any outside prying. The old, timbered floors wereflagged over in black slate, unpolished to accept the scribedtraceries and seals of forced power.
There, an emaciated predator poised over a webwork of ciphers,Morriel Prime crouched with a sliver of chalk in her hand. If the con­struct she patterned against the Fellowship's constraints showed acalculated, terrifying complexity, its driving plot was most simple:since the Sorcerers placed undue value on Prince Arithon's life, hewas himself made the key to arrange their coercion.
Capture the Master of Shadow as a pawn, and for fear of thethreat lying latent upon Marak, the Seven must bow to Koriani demand.Better than most, Sethvir must own up to the stakes: Morriel wouldseize upon any provocation to see the Teir's'Ffalenn dead. Indeed,the Prime deeply preferred to end his misspent royal life to forestallthe prophesied threat to her succession.
Between each tormented step of her labor, the withered, oldMatri­arch cursed the crux that bred such necessity. With spiteful care,she etched chain after chain of linked ciphers in her wretched, crabbedscript. Here and there, as line crossed line, or a finishing sigilraised latent energies, a sulfurous light flared from the contact. Shedglarelined her hooked profile, fleeting as the flit of a sunbeam. The airbecame glued into uneasy clarity, until the tapping scrape of herchalk ripped the quiet like the snap of flint-struck sparks.
Morriel shuffled another step, closed another circle. The runesignsmight skip like torn stitches beneath her palsied, frail touch, yetthe 
J^NN. WURTS 

vectored arcs laid to move summoned forces stayed precise,scribed by a master mason using a pin compass and cord. At the cter of the floor where the sigils converged stood a low tripod.looped in a silver cradle and masked in black silk, theWaystone stood waiting, center point for the uncoiling layers ofriel's enveloping snare.
Regarding its draped globe in stifled apprehension were theyoung initiates Morriel had chosen to serve her. Though thetered, fireless chamber was chilly, both girls claspedthe folds of gray robes. Fresh from their novitiate, whollyby experience, they waited to give what was asked. When theirstraightened up from her scribery and bid them to placeat the north and south poles of her construct, they accepted theirin stilled dread.
 "Be seated," Morriel commanded. When she asked thema deep trance, they knew, but dared make no protest. Theytake active part in this spellcasting, but serve as its passiveAs their Prime required, energy, talent, even life force itselfbecome siphoned from them. By the strict oath of obedience to the'~order, their Prime Matriarch could demand any sacrifice against theneeds of greater humanity.
"For the mercy of the world," Morriel exhorted them, "do exactlyas you are told. I will be threading your personal energies throughthe Great Waystone. No margin exists for your weakness."
Minutes passed, sluggish under the weight of pent powers. ThePrime visited both initiates in turn and collected the summoningcrystal each one wore at her neck. She traced each with a sigil, thenperformed the Prirne's invocation to claim and attune their personalpowers under her dominion. Time assumed the drugged torpor ofdreaming as the circles upon the observatory floor were called activeand dedicated to the secret, dark side of the moon. Mystery pulsedthrough the febrile veil which tied life to its housing of flesh. Thepaired initiates felt as though a misdrawn breath might shatter thewhole firmament of creation into eddies of glittering current.
Then Morriel spoke a word in command. She clapped witheredhands, and the spells of prime power claimed the girls, spirit andmind.
 All now lay in readiness. The Koriani Matriarch advanced to thetripod. She slipped off its covering cloth, the smoothness of silk acruel contrast to her ruined flesh. Her skin had grown so translucentwith years, at times, she seemed but a spectral shadow, unreal to herown tactile senses.
 This moment the allure of death's peace left her hollow. She sorely 
156 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 missed Lirenda's support. If a relapse of blocked memory shoulddaim her now, she had no one to anchor her through the perils whichlay ahead. Each time she raised the Waystone's great focus, she
shoul­dered the risk that her will might become overwhelmed. Yet thestakes at play to arrange tonight's plot had never before been so
dire. Age had unstrung her sure grasp of self-awareness. Should the cross­grained old jewel finally defeat her, the Koriani Order must
continue. Lest this hour's work come to frame her last act, the untried girls
who backed this spell's pattern were expendable, as the handpicked suc­cessor to prime office was not.
Steeled, heart and will, by fatalistic resolve, Morriel cupped
fleshless palms around the faceted amethyst. Its cold pierced in dousing wavesto her marrow as she eased into trance. Perhaps for the last time,
she locked horns with its spite and grappled to wield its dire focus.
If Fellowship meddling had curbed the stone's reach, its innatestrength was untouched. Charged to the familiar, freewheeling exhil­aration, restored to the pinnacle of power and command, Morrielbent will to accomplish her desire.
If Sethvir had granted the earth backdoor wisdom to encumber thestone with permissions, the works of man were exempt. She stillruled quarried stone and the milled timbers of buildings, bridges,and diked roadways. The signature energies of individuals left vulnerablethrough trusting, blind ignorance remained subject to the Waystone'sspelled influence. Although the Teir's'Ffalenn's training as a mastermage made him elusive prey, his return to the continent had occa­sioned him to accept other company on the road. The former clan warcaptain, Caolle, offered as volatile a personality as any trackingenchantress could wish. The signature seals of the spellbinder'sglam­our which disguised him with scars and slurred speech tagged hispresence. Each move he made flared small pulses of static throughthe world's tracery of magnetic current.
Searched out by the Waystone's piercing focus, Caolle's courseblazed like a beacon. Past, present, and future, his movements couldbe scryed as cleanly as text marked on parchment.
Given such infallible guidance to dog his liege's footsteps, thePrime became the more cautious. The weavings to entrap the Masterof Shadow must be wrought with consummate care. Dakar was a Fel­lowship spellbinder, and guarded. Though Arithon's talents were leftblank and blinded since his past misuse of grand conjury, he stillheld a masterbard's arcane hearing and a trained mage's eye for nuance.The disharmony raised by hostile intent would unsettle his keensense of empathy. 
JANNY WURT$

 The interface must therefore be indirect. In velvet-glovedMorriel wrought. From the riverside tavern where her quarryslept, she quested among the dust in the floorboards. Her searchyielded three flecks of stubble left from Arithon's grooming. Bei0rethe inn's chambermaid arrived to sweep, minute sparks of energyflared in the candleless gloom. The Prime's first tendril ofsp~'llcraflembraced those cut snippets of hair, then wound their purl0inedessence, ephemeral as spun moonlight, into a personal signature toguide the course of her snare.
Next, the Prime Enchantress launched into deep augury. She tracedthe course of event yet to come, sounding the probabilities ofArith0n's close movements as he mounted his foray in Tysan. She narro~'ed thevast might of the Waystone into tightest, fine focus, and targetedthose actions her quarry was likely to take. Then she played the full r~T~e0i probabilities and allowed for the utmost array of cont'mgencies.
A trap of such delicacy could not follow a schedule. Chanc~action held too wide a range to predict the precise timing of event. l~therthan structure her plot into a single, inflexible binding, th~,l'rin~e instead tied its course to multiple chains of tagged markers.
This board in a bridge that Arithon might cross on his travels: ~10r­riel set a hair-fine tendril of spellcraft into the wood's grain thatwould trigger in response to his passage. Here the wax lamps in a taver~'staproom were hazed in small spells of recognition; there, aferryma~t'srope on the shores of the Ilswater became twined in ciphers of watchNext, signposts en route to Riverton were tied into the growingtapestry, then people drawn in as well. That official in the royalshi?­yard who would need to be bribed or misled; a cipher of listening~'as laced through his jeweled chain of office, keyed to Arithon's v~ice.Specific cobblestones in certain city streets; the carvings ondoorl~,bsor lintels; then the gate latches of every harborside inn: allbecause knotted into the weave of an ever so subtle array of spellcraft.
Morriel was patient. She had need to be thorough. One overlookedpossibility, and the whole linked network would fail. Her grand con­struct was shaped, one step to the next, through infinitesimal incre­ments of care. Then each separate facet was masked in a glamour.Dakar's watchful eye must be made to turn elsewhere, through aloosened board set to cause him a stumble; or else the lurking pres­ence of her embroidery of seals must be groomed to mimic the natu­ral resonance of stone, or wood, or wrought metal.
Across the path of Arithon's future, Morriel seeded her smallbarbs and hooks. To these, in ingenious, connected succession, she attachedthe seals and small ciphers to drive Arithon into her net. This rumor 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

would find its way to the lips of a street beggar; that hunch wouldprompt a certain volatile clansman to raise a round of inquiry andsearch. When the orchestrated moment arrived for the coup, Arithons'Ffalenn would be flushed from cover and hazed into desperateflight.
Morriel burned reckless power, affirmed and cross-checked everyvenue of possibility. Her labors cased options until no choice herquarry might try could win free of her invidious design. She adjustedand fine-tuned; twined tortuous traps in tight spirals.
On this hour, when every likely auspice came aligned, an ancientbook from the Koriani Order's closed libraries would fall into the hands of a scholar who owed a sworn debt of service. The knowledgeand the man would make their way to Lysaer; then war galleyswould arm and cast hawsers and sail. The Mistwraith's curse would engage with its victims, and in the heat of its geas-bent obsession,the s'Ffalenn pawn could be spirited away.
A criminal who endangered society would be curbed, and the Fel­lowship of Seven be served its timely comeuppance.
Only the last, great sigil of ending remained to seal the chainof augured event. Tinged nitrous violet by the glow of the Great Way-stone, Morriel grimaced like a skull. Never had she worked so elab­orate a conjury upon resources pressed to such limits. While thedaylight hours fled into night, then the starry sky paled and birthedthe new dawn, she sensed a deep-down, burning discomfort. Shehad drained reckless power and now suffered sharp warning herstrength ran dangerously low.
She pressed on, wrung what she needed to steady herself from thepair of initiates bound to her use through the Waystone. Were thecrystal not restored back to unfettered potency, mankind's rightfullegacy would stay jeopardized; the Koriani charge to restoreciviliza­tion to lost grace would remain threatened by Arithon s'Ffalerm. Mor-riel did not equivocate. She spent ruthless force to shape that lastcipher, and set final linkage between the disparate, trip-wireelements arrayed to bring Rathain's prince to defeat.
At the last, the squared circle of sigils dragged at her mindlike spilled needles. Exhaustion leached her will, pulled like unseen fin­gers against her weak housing of flesh. Willful as old iron, theKori­ani Prime reached out again to tap the initiates who stood as heranchors.
 Something went wrong. The smooth flow of power summoned toher hands ripped through a sharp hesitation. One of the youngwomen rejected the sacrifice, perhaps touched by the sudden, cuttingpanic of instinctive self-preservation. Betrayed in her need, Morriel 
JANNY WUI~T$ 

felt the balance of raised spells veer awry. She screamed in rebu~The forces she grappled seemed shadow and flame, two opposite ele­ments bent toward unbiddable destruction. Lacking her flawless andrigid control, the whole construct could fold into backlash.
Morriel perceived no safe avenue. Poised at the crux, taxed pastthe limit of her visceral frailties, she grappled harsh fact: withoutmonths of recovery, she could never retrace all the steps of this complexc0n­jury. Should this construct tear itself asunder, the iaggedvibrations 0f its collapse would burst even the most rigorous protections. Sethvi~would stand warned. The priceless opportunity to suborn the Fellow­ship would be thrown away for one faithless initiate's weakness.
Fury seared through Morriel Prime. Well aware her demands mustclaim the life of the loyal enchantress who held firm, even still,she engaged her act for necessity.
Power flared up, too bright, too frenetic. Morriel lashed lawlessforces into order, used the channel of the Waystone to reaffirm hercleared will. She jo'med the last sigil. Her drawn-out, wrenching cry0f effort rocked the room. Then the dregs of her strength bled away.Slumped in collapse, her cheek laid to rest on the burning-ice sphereof the amethyst, she gasped out the ritual chant to blinder thejewel'sroused focus.
 No space to wonder, that these words might shape her last act.Her heart raced and throbbed. Each breath rasped like steel filings inher throat. Vast blackness devoured her senses. While the fires in the heart of the great crystal blazed low and flickered at last to quies­cence, the spark of her will bled away.
Morriel Prime closed her eyes. Alongside the risk she might neverreawaken, she measured the sum of her efforts.
A momentous labor was done. Time and the unwinding course ofevents would spring string upon string of chained triggers. Let thescryed snares in her construct play through, and Arithon s'Ffalennwould walk a doomed path into capture. First Senior Lirenda wouldbe called to assume the mantle of prime power. If she held strong, ifshe proved a fit vessel, the memories of past Primes locked into theWaystone would rise up to channel and guide her.
Morriel rested content with the chance she had snatched back lost hope, and salvaged the legacy her sisterhood preserved for posterity.With the Fellowship brought to heel and the Shadow Master curbed,the Koriani Order could preside over mankind's freed future. 
Autumn 5652 
Marvel 
[:~ ~' his diplomatic visit to Etarra in the eastern Kingdom ofRathain,~. ~aer s'Ilessid and his sumptuous state retinue would avoid theIi~a l dein passes. Ship's captains seldom dared the North Cape,where tidal rips cut the inlets of a savage, volcanic shoreline. Theoverland routes through Camris to MiraIt Head were preferred by the autumnL~~'avans, as wayfarers and trade goods raced to meet the last of the.~tbound trade fleets. Before winter churned Stormwell Gulf to a stew of ice floes and spindrift, a raffish breed of northcoastgalleymen;t',~ t uiged their sharp rivalries, driving their oarsmen inrelentless, fastt~.~ssage to the ports across Instrell Bay.
Late warmth was wont to linger in the scrub-grown flatlands ofKarmak. Each year the alkaline soil of the plain lay ground to finepowder by the ox drays. Leaves and brambles entangled on theverges and wilted under a coating of grit, while air draped likegauzein late-season haze bore a windborne tang of churned dust. Theprogress of Lysaer's cavalcade raised muffled thunder in the pow­dery footing. The endless squealing of cart axles, the chink of brassharness, and the sifting grime fouling their trappings drove theprince's guard to clenched teeth. Tempers flared, and armor chafed,and meals came infested with sand.
 Six days beyond Erdane, the low ground still stretched the sameon all sides. A tireless sun stabbed glare off the rocks, and thehorseboyswere too parched to whistle.
FIoro. the mettlesome company chosen to spearhead the prince's 
161 
JANNY

 retinue rode in a squint'rag, watchful wedge. They slapped atwhich lit on their horses and cursed others that escaped to biteflesh.
 "We should make MiraIt Head by tomorrow noon," ventured thecompany's captain, a grizzled former headhunter with a craggy profile and tough hands like silk on his reins. The hair on his wristssprang in tufts through caked grime as he scraped gritted sweat fromhis chin. "That's if the camp cook can pack up his crockery withouthounding his fool scullion for laziness."
"That scullion's my friend, and no layabout," the prince's page
boydefended. "And anyway, how can you tell where we are? Thisblighted plain has no landmarks."
"Used to trap wolves here," the captain replied. "Packs swarm.~ke vermin, come the snows. A man knows where he is, and't{ow f~r toshelter, or he's like to find his horse hamstrung."
At the page's unsettled review of the landscape, the man-at-armsloosed a gruff chuckle. "Before sun, there's the truth, and may Lightstrike me down if I'm lying."
"Have a care. His Grace might hear your profanity." The pagetipped a weighted glance behind, where Prince Lysaer rode a horselength to the rear of his standard-bearer.
Through the sulfurous silt of puffed dust, the Prince of theLightrode bareheaded, his gleaming, fair hair a diffracted halo in thecitrine glare of strong sunlight. Even through dirt, his presence seemeduncanny, a masterwork wrought of alabaster and gilt against themonochrome landscape. The bullion-fringed banner and the stitchedsilk of its sunwheel seemed brass without luster in comparison.
Voice muffled to awe, the page boy ventured, "Do you believe therealm's seneschal, that his Grace is sent as Ath's servant to drivescourge and shadow from the land?"
The burly captain shrugged mail-clad shoulders. "I couldn't speakthe creator's intent, boy. But Prince Lysaer, now, he's real. Hispowerscan be seen and felt." Eyes trained ahead, he finished in respect,"Whether his Grace has divine origins or not, I'll swear by his nameas our given defender against evil."
A barely sensed movement flicked a leaf by the verge. To a whick­ered puff of dust, a whine creased the air.
Stabbed by keen instinct, the guard captain shouted, "Archer!" Hereined his horse back, sent it crab-stepping sidewards; screamed forhis men to close in. "Move! Shield the prince!"
Scarce time to notice the page boy's mount, shying, and the ladunhorsed in the roadway.Next a searing, actinic crack whipped the sky. A charge of bolt 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 lightning scalded everything white. Then a slamming report like thehammer of doom thudded echoes across the bare flats. Men were yelling. Their formation erupted to mayhem as they fought the eye­rolling panic of their mounts.
But no casualty had fallen to bowfire. The prince remained
astride his blooded cream charger, stopped in the middle of the roadway.Amid a cavalcade churned into panic, he sat with a statue's compo­sure. No mere assassin's ambush held the power to ruffle his uncannypoise. Heaven's own lightning must leap to defend him, and out of acloudless, clear sky.
The arrow lay banished to a lacework of blue smoke and a fadingwhiff of dry carbon."Angel of Ath? the guard captain swore.He stilled his sidling mount between bit and spurs, dimly aware
of the men staring dumbstruck beside him; of the page boy's loose horsestill plunging against the reins looped through its pasterns. The
flat taint of dust and the tang of sweaty leather seemed disjointed andwrong, too earthy a setting for miracles.
Lysaer commanded the tableau like a stage, his loftymagnificenceset apart. The moment hurt for pure splendor. For a handful of
heart­beats, time's flow seemed erased, the lesser movements of men andbeasts jarring.
Then Lysaer s'Ilessid commanded his guard with their half-unsheathed swords to stand down.
 The unseated boy moaned and struggled to rise, the fall havinginjured his shoulder. On Lysaer's gesture, the royal valet scrambledfrom the baggage train to offer him succor; the loose horse wascaught and soothed quiet by a groom.
Still awed beyond speech, the troop's guard captain swallowed influshed shame, faulting himself for slack vigilance.
Yet the Prince of the Light offered no reprimand as he stirredfrom that terrible stillness. Swathed in the blinding, stitchedglitterof his surcoat, he urged his charger toward the verge. Where thecrumbled old tracery of wheel ruts gave way to the tangled brush ofthe plain, he drew rein. The object of his gaze might have been somebeggar's bundle, discarded among the bent weed stalks, except forthe hand flung splayed on the earth, blistered with weeping, rawburns.
 A barbarian archer, the troop's captain surmised with a horribletwist to his gut. An assassin struck down by what seemed a godlikemanifestation of wrath, his bow a charred ruin beside him.
"Bind him up for trial and arraignment," Lysaer s'Ilessidinstructed. 
]ANN. W URTS 
When his stunned guard captain failed to react, he added inencouragement, "The wretch is unconscious, not dead. Anyman of Maenol's who holds murder in his heart can live on to oar for just cause."
Roused from its nerve-edged amazement, the prince'ssettled, re-formed, no man quite bold enough to exchangewith comrades, or speak. The misfortune of the page boy persisted,knot of disharmony in their midst. Blanched from the pain of aken collarbone, his forehead and cheek grazed in blood, he stoodshaken feet, supported by the royal valet.
The troop's healer summed up his brisk examination andnounced him unfit to continue astride on a horse that draggedbit, restive despite the groom's efforts to calm it. "The boy can'tage with one hand for the rein, and the break in the bone willpoorly if he's jostled about in a baggage cart."
"Be still, we won't leave you," Lysaer chided the weepingthen turned with crisp orders to his captain. "Mount the clanon the gelding and tie it to the back of a cart. Then set the pagebehind me. My destrier's gaits are the smoothest."
The valet looked up, aghast, from the boy's dusty limbsing abrasions. "But your Grace! With all due respect, your surcoatwill be spoiled with stains."
"Your Grace, I couldn't," the boy stammered.
Lysaer laughed. His blue eyes held the unshakable, kind censurethat melted the hearts of his servants. "Should a man who follows mybanner be worth less than a few yards of silk? I think not." The dia­mond in his ring scribed fire on the air as he extended his handtoward the page boy. "Come, lad. Share my saddle, and save yourbrave face for some worthier fight against darkness."
Once the captive was mounted and lashed and secured underguard, the cavalcade mustered in disciplined order to resume itsnorthbound march. Surrounded by diffident officers, Lysaer s'Ilessiciwas pressed with advice not to camp on the open plain.
"Better we ride on through sundown," urged the captain. "YourGrace should rest safely inside city walls, protected by a mannedgar­rison."
 Lysaer refused the necessity. "We must not make our entry atMiraIt unannounced. Our troops will need to be quartered and fed.As guests of the city, the late hour would pose a discourtesy."
Then that objection was overthrown by the seneschal, who insistedthat a cadre of scouts forge ahead to carry word in advance."We ride on," the captain said, satisfied. "The mayor's Lord Corn­
 FUG ITI'IIE I)RINCE 
mander at Arms shall have his due notice of your Grace's imminent
 The royal cavalcade closed the last league to the arched gates of~ before midnight. Despite the late hour, they were met by the
ranking officers in glittering, parade formation. These wereaccompanied by two dozen armed outriders with rich, matched trap­p'mgs, agleam under streaming pitch torches.
Their approach was unhurried. Lysaer had time to note thefringedbanners, the silver-gilt helms, and bright bardings stitched fromcostlydyed silk. His forbearing smile reflected his pleasure and dismay."Bythe fanfare, dare we guess? Our scouts' tale of a light bolt and a
bar­barian arrow must have caused an excited reception. Those lancers infront look like they're packing half the city treasury on their
backs." The seneschal, mounted at the prince's right hand, squintedthrough the flare of the torches. "Don't belittle their pride.That's the mayor's personal guard."
Apparently unwilling to risk offense to an envoy shown the favorof divine intervention, the city of MiraIt had turned inside out toarrange a ceremonial entrance.
A taciturn soul who took shocking joy in the occasional gaudyjoke, the seneschal observed at bland length, "I imagine they'vealso planned rounds of slow, pompous speeches."
"Ah." Lysaer's eyebrows rose. "If you're tired, we could duck thelong-winded welcome." He inclined his head and addressed the pageboy, whose chin bobbed against his left shoulder. "You'd prefer asoft bed and a posset, I suppose?"
When the child returned an appreciative mumble, a curve of lordlyamusement bent Lysaer's lips. "Well then, we'll need to outmatchthem for pageantry." To his captain, he commanded, "Ready the men.On my signal, I'd have them dress weapons."
"As your Grace wills," assurance came back from the dark.
When the lanterns on the city walls hove into view, Lysaer laidthe reins of his weary charger in one hand, raised his right fist, anddis­charged his gift in a hazed, gold corona over the vanguard of hisret­inue.
 Gemstones and bullion leaped into dazzling clarity. Mailsparkled.Light hazed the sweated coats of the destriers to the gloss ofpolishedsatin. A crisp, clear call from the head of the royal column, and theguards in the train raised penhoned lances in salute. The sunwheelstandard fluttered in the wash of warmed air, while night becameriven to high noon. 
]ANN. ~U~T$
 Lysaer s'Ilessid in his brilliant white surcoat became thesruningcenter point in their midst. From battlements and gate arch, therowed ranks of MiraIt's garrison watched his advance in gaping awe.Those city ministers and guildsmen called from home by peremptorysummons forgot their complaint. The prince's unearthly presencemight have seemed an arrogant excess of pageantry, but for theyoung page riding pillion behind.
As the pair neared the gates, all eyes could see the rich surcoatwas not stainless white, but marred with bloodstains and dirt. The boywho besmirched its purity was tear streaked, an ordinaryhaired victim of mischance who clung in pain-shocked need forsolace. The contrast between the child's needy suffering and thePrince of the Light's remote majesty framed an indelible image ofmercy.
The Mayor of MiraIt forgot every word of his hastily scribed for­mal welcome. The herald stationed in the gate keep hid his face,reduced to gawping silence as the prince drew rein in the roadway.
Before any minister could recover the aplomb to smooth over thelapse in state manners, Lysaer raised his voice and blessed the cityin flawless formal language. In seamless diplomacy, he begged leave ofneedless courtesies. His train had suffered an assassin's attack. "No man was wounded, but my page boy suffered a battering fall from hishorse."
 If ceremony could be excused, a healer was asked, and swiftdispo­sition for the men, who were hungry and tired.
Dazzled half-blind, awash in shed glare from the unveiled heat ofLysaer's majesty, the Lord Mayor managed a stammered assurance.His garrison barracks would house Avenor's retinue, and the com­forts of his own palace would be placed at the prince's disposal.
Lysaer inclined his head. "Light's blessing on you," he said, thegracious assurance behind such acknowledgment no less than hisregal due.
To relief on both sides that the speeches were dropped, Avenor%captain at arms marched his columns through the stone portals intoMiraIt. Curious onlookers lined the thoroughfare to witness theblessed prince's passage. Shutters cracked open; balconies filled asthe sleep of the righteous was shattered by the fiery, fierce lightthat knifed through the glass in their casements. Folk stumbled blinkingfrom their pillows to gawk. Only when the royal cavalcade reachedthe city square did Lysaer mute the splendor of his gift. The furorkept on, fueled now by pure force of momentum. As the word spread,the whole city was raised, the streets packed as a midsummerfestival. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Hastily clad in his livery and sash, the mayor's house stewardfrenetic instructions. Servants were rousted to light guestand air linen. Grooms were kicked out of their pallets and sentto accept the reins of blown destriers. Errand boys fetchedmerchants to unlock their warehouses and amend shortfalls in and provisions. A healer arrived with bearers and litter tothe injured page boy.
Somehow amid the upsurge of commotion, the prince's chargerhissed. Inquiries flew.The mayor's flustered master of horse added his vehement insis­"His Grace never entered my stable yard."
Questions lacked answers. No one seemed to know the royal,hereabouts."Ath save us!" the mayor's house steward fussed in martyred agi­tation. "Suppose our exalted savior has taken offense at some fault
in my 1ord's hospitality? Daelion avert such misfortune from our house!He can't have sought out a common tavern."
Avenor's Lord Seneschal repeated himself twice, then shouted tomake himself heard. "His Grace has gone on to the shrine on HighStreet to give thanks for today's safe deliverance."
Word passed from mouth to mouth. A suitable retinue was assem­bled in haste. But the latecoming guardsmen discovered the waymobbed by curiosity seekers who choked the route to the square. Then~ght streets of MiraIt were teeming and charged into frenziedexcite­ment. Even the dim byways held unsettled crowds, surging toglimpse the Prince of the Light, haloed in what seemed an exaltedradiance as he made his devotion at the crossroads.
 The thoroughfares went from tight to impassable. Not even thecity guard could maintain their patrols. Balked citizens crammedinto the taverns. Inebriated tosspots were displaced into corners asdrudges rushed to light candles, and rumor sparked rampant specu­lation. The anomaly was noticed, that none of Lysaer's wearyguardsmen stripped weapons or mail to retire. Half of their hard-bitten number had remained at Ath's shrine, firmly determined tostay through the night on bent knee in thankful prayer. Otherswhose tastes were more boisterous shed propriety and got them­selves garrulously drunk. To throngs of avid listeners, theydescribed miracles and lightning bolts that seared lethal arrowsfrom clear sky.
"He's blessed, our prince," they pronounced in stark reverence."We've borne witness with our own eyes. The shining powers ofdivine creation saved his Grace from a deadly attack." 
167 ]ANNY WURTS
 "Where's the wretch who shot off the arrow!" some roisterer~ from the sidelines.
 That first, inflammatory remark was cut by a shout from abutcher. ~ "There's justice due! Where's this filthy clansman who's in leaguewith the Master of Shadow?"
 Noise swelled. Trestles swayed to the surging press of bodies aslike-minded celebrants accosted the royal guardsmen over the fate 0tthe prisoner.
"The Prince of the Light is all our defense against darkness," afist-shaking bystander insisted. "His murder would strand us withouthelp or hope. Should we leave his attacker unpunished?"
More outcries arose. A touch match to tinder, the racket spilledout of the tavern's close confines and erupted into the street. By then,wine and ale lit the mood of the mob to a vengeful, dog-pack frenz.~'. When an off-duty guard from MiraIt's garrison volunteered to forcethe cell where the infamous assassin was incarcerated, a jostlingthrong of vigilantes howled their eagerness to help.
The ringleaders seized torches. Less scrupulous citizens pried u?cobblestones and hitching rails, or purloined bricks and sharp rocksfrom the mason's yard. The yelling horde grew. A torrent in spate,folk poured into the deserted market. There, the zealots whippedthem into bloodletting passion. They would visit vengeance ~?0nArithon's henchman, who had dared to accost heaven's grac~. anddeprive them of their protector.
Up and down the side streets, the shuttered, wooden shop trc~ntsechoed to the rush of running feet. A cutler's stall yielded before !~tter­ing assault. Stolen knives flashed between angry faces, and ott~,~ti~~s brandished bludgeons. The mob surged through the commons ~a~'r~ssthe hollowed stones beside the city well, where women did laur~.~ ~'~byday and ragged children begged coppers and filled the moss-~-t~stvhorse troughs for wayfarers. MiraIt's citizens rioted past thet~ilared stair to the baths, screaming vicious and frenzied imprecations.
There, progress stalled, jammed from egress where the oldhart~c,rstorm wall fronted the quays along High Street. From the wharfsid~mazes, and seamy brothels and sailor's dives, new revelers strean~dto make mayhem. The press grew acute as men elbowed and pushedto funnel into the neck of the avenue.
 Then the route to the inner citadel became blocked by a mountedfigure muffled in a nondescript cloak.
"What passes here?" he cracked. His imperious manner was toorefined for a guardsman. Whatever his business, he traveled withoutescort. He appeared to carry no weapon. 
FUGITIVE I)RINCE 
"Make way, man!" yelled an instigator. "We have business afoot.""I said, what passes here?" The rider wheeled his horse and set itsshoulder against the roiling surge of the crowd. A snarl offrustration greeted his stance. More than one hothead screamed epithets. Inwarning of tension a hairsbreadth from breaking, a brick flew andsmashed a merchant's window. Bodies surged and shouting yam­roered through the costly tinkle of glass.
The rider gave no ground to fury. Target for violence, hisdestrier jostled by a grinding weight of sheer numbers, he bore in with reinand spur as if clubs and stones held no power to threaten his person."Halt there, I say!" His timbre of authority now blistered to anger,he cut through the rising clamor. "By my name and the Light, standfast!"
 A shutter clapped open above. Too deaf and blind to sense disaf­fection, a beldame leaned out of her mansion window and launchedinto shrill imprecations. "What's become of Ath's peace? You wastrelshave worse than the manners of hogs, who shove for the slop in myclose stool!" She made ranting promise the contents of that could behurled on the heads of the rabble.
 She ducked back inside to make good her intention, and the sconcefrom her bedchamber limned the rider below. The thin gleam of flametraced the crest of an unmistakable cream charger.
The front ranks cringed back. They knew whom they faced: Lysaers'Ilessid, just returned from the shrine, and en route to the mayor'shospitality.
To others behind, the detail was obscured. Due redress for a mur­dering, traitorous clansman seemed balked by one man, and thethreat of a grandame's tossed jakes."Just cut down the lamebrain!" shouted a knife-bearing smith.Others howled in contempt and pummeled their way forward,determined to smash through all foolish opposition. Their furydrowned protest. "Gut the clansman!" came the chanted slogan. "Killthe barbarian traitor! See him burned as a sorcerer's accompliceI"
The outraged old lady raised an arm to shy her chamber pot, thenquailed before a roaring wall of noise. Below her, a cataract ofhuman­ity shoved and snarled in confinement, slashed here and there by thethreatening sheen of bared steel.
The bottleneck of resistance, become focus for mayhem, the soli­tary rider fought his horse with magnificent skill to stand firm. Hiseffort was futile. Despite ruthless courage, no inspired action couldstem that onrushing tide. The prince must be forced to give way, orelse trample and maim the front ranks who knew him. In seconds, he 
169 
would be pulled down in turn, a rag milled under the teeth ofless stampede.Lysaer raised his fist. "This will stop!"
A shattering arc of light clove the darkness overhead. Hishorse reared up and dislodged his plain hood. Like an angel'saureole, his crown of fair hair took fire from the glare of his gift.Then the illumination waxed unbearably bright, and banished the night ina wave of actinic brilliance.
 The beldame fainted. The rabble recoiled, blinded and screamnag.Their outcries were drowned as a thunderous report slammed overthe merchants' slate roofs. A howling clap of flash-heated airblistered paint from the woodwork of dormers and shutters. Rioters at the forehowled and shrank. They found no escape from the sting as the skinon their faces and hands became singed by the merciless fall of rawlight.
"No man held in bonds for the sake of royal justice shall besubject to vio­lence or bloodshed.t" Lysaer cried through the well of shockedmotion. "Disperse and return to your wives and families, and leave the fateof clan criminals to me."
 "Why should he not die?" blustered a wainwright from the shad­owed protection of a side street. "He's the Shadow Master's minion!Or why should the lightning have surged from on high to deliveryour Grace from his bowshot?"
"He is but a man!" Lysaer rebuked. His gift snapped and blazed.Through that flood of dire brilliance, the diamond white silk andg01dtrim of his surcoat shot his presence in scintillant outline. "Alonewith a bow, do you really believe one mortal clansman could bring downthe righteous arm of the Light?"
No one arose to dare argue that challenge. The prince on hishorse was implacable, cut marble, ablaze in unearthly powers. His fiercegaze searched out one man, then another, and finally encompassedthe whole crowd until stones dropped from abashed hands. Pur­loined knives were cast down in fierce shame.
 "No criminal act can be healed by rash action," the Prince of theLight exhorted. "This clansman you would burn was misled by evil.Before execution, he deserves all your pity. My law has sentenced himto chained service at the oar, a miserable fate. He'll know the whipand the indignity of slavery, sore enough suffering for the error ofhis ways. No one, no matter how outraged, will take his life out of hand!Death will deliver him from the galleys soon enough, but only on thehour appointed by powers outside mortal judgment!"
No sound from the mob. Two men near the fore were reduced to FUGITIVE I)RINCE
 stifled weeping. In rustling movement, others sank to their knees inspontaneous plea for forgiveness.
"Go home, now," Lysaer said, his fury reduced to gentle care. Theradiance softened and dimmed from his fist, benevolent as mellowspring sunshine. "Take my peace to your hearthstones, and my bless­ing to your kinfolk. For every man's sake, spare weapons and rage forbetter causes. If by tomorrow you still burn to fight, my captain atarms will take down the names of new recruits. Should war come again to drive back the Shadow, then every brave heart will be wel­come."
 For a half second longer, that struck silence held.
Then Prince Lysaer reined his destrier around. Moved to emotionby the fading of his gift, darkened to loss by his departure, a lonevoice pealed out his name.
The first cries took root. A man more inspired led into aworshipfulchant: "Hail the blessed lord! Hail the Light! Death to the Spinnerof Darkness!" 
Autumn 5652 
Moments 
Ensconced in his diplomatic post at Avenor despite the absence of theprince, Mearn s'Brydion receives a message from a street beggar sentby Arithon s'Ffalenn, and the note requests a clandestine inquiryinto the disappearance of Lady Talith, Princess of Tysan ....
 Far to the east of Miralt Head, where avid recruits line up toswear service against shadow before Lysaer's sunwheel banner, Earl Jieret'sscouts intercept messengers calling town mayors in Rathain to Etarrato pledge for the Alliance of Light; and foreboding weighs on him forthe inevitable fact that his clans must flee into deep cover....
 Against the strapped oak door to the observatory in the Korianisisterhouse at Capewell, the peeress in charge delivers an ultimatumto her anxious colleagues in the stairwell: "No one opens this door,byMorriel Prime's stated will! If she's died from turned spellcraft,onlyone holds the right to gainsay that command. Her successor in train­ing has been summoned. Until the hour of First Senior Lirenda'sarrival, what lies past this threshold shall bide behind seals,undis­turbed .... 
Autumn 5652
 If tears were hardened stone to carve,
inscribe my cry for life:Let no man raise his unsheathed sword,may no man draw his knife,that this, our sore and grieving land,waste no more hearts to strife! 
verse from the Masterbard's lament for the widows of Dier Kenton Vale Third Age 5649 
V. Riverton 
Forthree hundred years, the rambling, old tavern had stood belowthe river fork where Ilswater joined th,e broad, placid channelwhich drained off the mudflats of Mogg s Fen. Moss shagged itsfired brick walls on the south-facing side. The north wings slicedthe brunt of the winds that scoured the leaves from the roof shakes. Its war­ren of galleries and peaked dormer rooms lay packed, that stormy,cold night. Chimney smoke smudged the deepening gloom, sliced by theneedle tracks of rainfall. Bargemen forsook the damp berths on theirvessels; drovers left the miseries of open-air camps and thronged infor a copper to spread blankets on the common room floor. Driven indoorsas autttrnn's late chill threatened the first, freezing sleet, soakedwayfar­ers huddled elbow to elbow over mugs of soup and mulled wine.
They would have squeezed the accommodations past full, evenwith no bard in residence.
 The racket would let no man rest until he lay drunk or exhaustedby crude entertainment. The taproom was too packed for darts, andthe landlord forbade arm wrestling, since wagers were wont to breedfights. Milling patrons banged the boards and whistled for servicefrom the barmaids.
 The hour was just shy of midnight, with long ballads the solerem­edy for boredom. The bard on his stool by the Kettle was kept toorelentlessly engaged to retire. 
173  ]ANNY ~I7U~T5
 The inn's kindly landlord held one room aside for his use atcharge, for the excessive demand on his talent. The mannerlymoney to keep him sweet. As each song drew to its closing,coins sliced the gloom to chink on the boards at his feet. Ifsinger was built a trifle too fine, or his dress seemed a touch over.done, those delicate fingers on silver-wound strings wove soundlike a net of enchantment. Through the chiming cascade of gifttokens, the whoops of approval, and a general hubbub of noise, thecall of the mousy widow by the casement seemed the lost utteranceof a ghost.
"Pray Ath our bard didn't hear that," Dakar said where helounged,feet braced on a trestle crammed under the jut of the staircase.
"Hear what?" Wedged deep in the gloom with his back to the wallCaolle elbowed the Mad Prophet's side, then spoke his concern for atankard left brimful all evening. "You don't drink, man. When thathappens, I worry if you're sick."
Despite provocation, Dakar's watchful eyes tracked the woman inher ribbons of mourning. "Trust me, I'm hale and dreadfully sober.The misery's the same, nonetheless." Then, on a break into fierceirri­tation, "Damn the silly bitch to black Sithaer! He's noticed."
For the coins had ceased falling with the bard's head stillraised. All theatrical elegance in his slashed murray silk, he had notlaunched into some lilting dance tune to quicken the pace since hislast air. 'Instead, he regarded the nondescript woman in stilled andstriking intensity.
That indefinable instant, the noise lagged. Rain drummed theslates and the windows, and the widow raised nerve to repeat he~request. "Minstrel, play a memorial!" This time, her frail, porcelairtreble reached every corner of the room. "Sing us a lament for th~brave ones who died against Shadow in Dier Kenton Vale."
"Merciful Ath!" Caolle shoved straight, gruff outrage slurredinto mangled syllables by the spell-turned web of the glamour. "He'lrefuse her."
 "His masterbard's title won't let him." Dakar clamped a quellin~hand on Caolle's forearm. "This is sovereign territory to the crown oTysan! Try and stop him, you'll start a brawl and get us pitchedout."
 "Sithaer's dark furies!" Caolle yanked free. "Are we girls, toflind from a douse in cold rain?" Yet he subsided, if only to watch hovArithon would field the unpleasantness.
The bard shifted the lyranthe in his lap. He regarded his hand~fine jointed and stilled, the image of languid elegance. The pose wamisleading. To any who knew him, the mind underneath was a 
174 ~all ~e 
nd ;ifthe 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 
unperturbed as drawn steel. While the taproom grew hushed, andstorm sluiced the eaves, he spoke in mellifluous courtesy. "Mistress,which of your loved ones was lost?"
"My husband, rest him." The woman cried, bitter, "May the Spin­ner of Darkness come to suffer Dharkaron's damnation!"
 "Lady," said the singer in plangent, fierce pity, "rest assured,he already does."
Then, as if unadorned words caused him pain, he flung back hishead, shut his eyes, and struck a chord like a plummeting cry. Nochance assemblage of minor notes, this opening, but the pure chargeand power of a masterbard's art, that ordered the air and snatchedmortal heartstrings and twisted, until all the world became realignedto his measure of gripping, stark sorrow.
A dreadful, ranging chill poured down Dakar's spine. "Caolle," heentreated, in haste to speak before music burned away reason,"tonight, I'll need help. Keep vigil with me at Arithon's bedside,and please Ath, leave your temper behind."
He never heard Caolle's answer. The upwelling surge of anexquisitely made grief enthralled every listening mind. Arithon chosenot to play to console. The deaths he had caused at Dier Kenton Valewere too harrowing a loss to soothe over. Instead, he spun melody insoaring lament and seized his hapless audience by the vitals. Hisnotes sheared past thought like hooks in silk thread, unfurling ashimmering net of fine sound. The musician firmed his hold, draggedthem under, then drowned them in a surge of emotion like tide.
Fingers partnered to unbridled talent, the bard added song, dis­tilled into lyrics to unhinge the mind and make the most callous soulweep.
 If tears were hardened stone to carve
 a monument to grief,
would we let loss and trouble starve
 our spirits for belief?Our men have gone from home and hearthand faith has made us weep!
 Arithon played them their mortality in the pressed heat of thatdingy riverside taproom; first like keening wind, and then like ablade to cleave through skin and viscera. This was no catharsis tosoothe the bereaved. Each line of harmony demanded the question:for memory of those dead at Dier Kenton Vale, Arithon challengedevery moral brought to bear, all principle raised as banner and cause 
]ANNY WURT$ 

for bloody war. He unwound reason, unstrung pride, then
the last thread of dignity in regret for the wasting ruin of broken]
Barmaids and barge captains, beringed merchants and their ~
of servants; all, down to the coarsest, unwashed mule drover
unabashed, that husbands and sons should ever leave home to kill
reasons of policy.

The music surged on, relentless. No one escaped theshame as those surgical tones unveiled the lie of just trappings.Arithon showed no pity for mourners. He endorsed no heroic act 0!sacrifice, but stripped away mankind's penchant for self-righteouszeal to its core of arrogant futility.
 No cause is scribed in fire and star-­
then whose truth must we heed?
 Why bind the will and blind the heart,
more lives to rend and bleed? 

Our men have gone from home and hearth,and hate has made us weep!
 His last line dissolved in a flood of diminished harmonics. The bard damped his strings. Silence descended with the brutality of apublic execution. One second passed, two, with the flames in thelanterns the only movement in the room and the sough of cold rains,the sole sound. People were statues, cast in bowed grief. Breathitself hung suspended.
Then the bard raised his head. His face was bone pale and remote,as if the channels just tapped for his art had undone the ties toexpres­sion. His stance as he rose was unsteady. The fingers left gripped tothe lyranthe's slim neck seemed nerveless as winter-dry sticks.
Dakar roused first out of song-induced stupor. Before the bardassayed even one infirm step, he broke from his lethargy, squeezedpast packed benches, and crossed the cramped space the audiencehad lent for performance. Coin offerings chinked and scattered to hisstep. Their dissonance snapped the Masterbard's spell. People stirredout of stupor, then rocked the close room with sighs and freneticexclamation.
 Whatever they tossed to acknowledge this performance, thereward was unlikely to be silver
Dakar shouted across a mounting swell of noise. "Come on!" Hishand closed on Arithon's moist velvets. The shoulder underneath was trembling, no surprise. The musician had played his very spiritinto sound and kept no reserve for recovery. For a bard of such 
176 
~ped~ves. ~ies ,eptfor 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 
stature, the effects could rival the drifting exhaustion imparted byacts of grand conjury. Arithon swayed.
"Damn you for a fool, don't fold on me now." The Mad Prophetscanned across lanternlit fug; gauged the mismatched cadres ofpatrons, the resilient ones rising, as yet wrung too limp to react inaffront for their shattered equilibrium.
Such backlash would come. The moment their recovery allowed arecap of Arithon's composition, some inquiring hothead would con­nect that the lyrics suggested a treasonous dissent against Lysaer'svaunted Alliance. Violence might be averted only as long as massfury was given no target.
"Arithon," Dakar urged, "you've got to leave, now!"Then Caolle arrived, unquestioning and brisk, his broad shoulderset to brace his liege upright and barge them a path to the stairway.
 Behind a barred door in the upstairs chamber, a candleflame flut­tered in a saucer of puddled wax. The gusts outside laced rainagainstthe shingles, while shifting light stippled the dingy plaster wallsand sprawled felted shadow across the floorboards. On the low pallet,stripped to hose and shirt, and warm under clean bedclothes, Arithons'Ffalenn lay asleep. Black hair fringed the unlaced sleeve and fore­arm which cradled his face. The fair, slim semblance of the dandy hadfled, the small workings of his birth gift erased under force of thespells newly wrought. His awareness lay immersed in dreamlessoblivion, but peace had come at high cost.
Worn from his battle to quiet the ferocious bite of s'Ffalenncon­science, Dakar slumped on a footstool, knees drawn up and fingersshoved through the bristle of hair at his temples. For all his care,he felt nagged by failure.
"Those bindings I set may not hold," he warned Caolle. His voiceseemed unreal, like scratches on glass, to which rain burst intireless applause.
Caolle shifted his stance by the doorway, his reflexes set onflinch­ing edge by the laughter which burgeoned downstairs. Each racket­ing burst from the taproom stewed louder, more shrill, touched to araw pulse of hysteria. "You're thinking we'd do best to ride out atonce?"
 "That's not possible just now." Dakar chewed his lip, while theroistering celebrants rattled the floorboards beneath him. "If ourhorses are made ready and saddled, the precaution is probably sensi­ble."
 Caolle made no complaint for the weather, but snatched up hiscloak and departed. The bursting swell of noise as he slipped throughthe door increased Dakar's breeding tension. The crowd's temperbuilt to a vengeful edge, as each housebound riverman sought to routgrief through indulgence. Beer and carousing could not stem theirblind urge for catharsis. No genius was needed to forewarn that theirmood would grow ugly. 
 When they turned, the bard who had kindled their emotions mustbe far beyond reach down the road.
Dakar heaved erect and refastened the bar. The small garret cham­ber seemed beleaguered by storm and darkness outside, and by thefiery lusts of Sithaer from below. To mask his worry, the Mad Prophetscavenged the crumpled heaps of Arithon's cast-off finery. He foldedand smoothed ribboned velvets and fine lace, then repacked the sad­dlebags, attuned all the while to the prostrate form on the bed.
Left no other diversion, Dakar fretted. His spurious talent forpre-science-stirred to the targetless hunch that peril stalked at hisback. Rather than chafe his nerves into jelly, he delved past the wrappedbulk of Arithon's lyranthe and took up the lethal, cold longswordleft propped against the clothes stand. Even sheathed, the blade sang tohis mage-sense of uncanny, Paravian origins.
"Bloody death, let me not have to use this," the Mad Prophetwhis­pered. He locked sweaty hands to the stained leather scabbard andhunkered down with the sword laid across his plump knees.
Arithon's sprawl on the inn's saggy mattress never shifted. Theuncertain spill from the candle played over his tight-knit frame.Fanned snarls of black hair seemed to drink the faint light, whilehis slackened fingers curled on the sheet seemed masterfully carved outof alabaster. Such stillness unmasked a frightening vulnerability, ahumanity grown too sharply defined in muscle and tendon and bone.Never a large man, Arithon had become alarmingly thin and worn.His wrist might be circled by one finger and thumb, and the cleavededge of his cheekbone stood demarked in drawn flesh.
Dakar tried to recall the last time he heard the prince laugh."For mercy, how long can this go on?" he asked an unlistening stillness.
No answer came. Just the unending chap of the rain through therowdier din from the taproom. Dakar rubbed his eyes. The sword inhis lap seemed a wrapped bar of ice, his body like storm-sodden clay.He shifted his shoulders, then ordered his mind in a ruthless effortto stay alert. His gaze drifted anyway. The mingled, fusty scents ofwool and hot wax conspired to clog his trained senses.
Then the candle fluttered in spent fuel and went out. Dakar grum­
178 FUGITI~ś I~RINCE
 bled an oath, loath to rise up and scrounge a fresh light. He neverremembered falling asleep. But the transition back into wakefulnesscame like a drowning douse in warm syrup. The Mad Prophet.raisedhis head. Vaguely alarmed, he fought lassitude and wondered whyhis mind should seem bogged in a spell weave. He mumbled acantrip of unbinding by reflex, then chastised himself for
absurdity.He could scarcely be misdirected enough to succumb to his ownarcane workings.
Yet the counterspell ripped the blank fog from his mind all thesame. "Arithon, damn you? Fully roused to annoyance, Dakar scram­bled upright. His fists flailed limp cloth, the bedclothes his
ungratefulroyalty had thrashed off. The sword no longer lay near to hand.Dakar dived for it, groped, found its firm length fallen beneath
tum­bled blankets. He snagged a hangnail, tugged. The hilt remainedmired past reach of his burrowing fingers. He shoved erect, frantic,and almost fell flat in collision with a fast-moving body.
"Sithaer's black furies, Arithon!"
His cry raised no answer; too much to hope that the Prince ofRathain possessed anything near waking sanity. Arithon could bebent on who knew what mayhem, seized as he was in the grip of viledreams, and unable to shake the ties of strong sleep spells wroughtover him. Whipped to blind fight, few men alive were as dangerous.
Dakar plowed to his feet. Poor candidate for heroics, he whackedhis shin on the stool, howled from frustration, and launched off inblundering pursuit. His toe hooked the table leg. The candle dishfell,splashing the floorboards with crockery. Too flustered to questionwhy his mage-sight seemed trammeled, Dakar dove in a tacklingpounce through the murk.
He struck flesh, grabbed. An elbow sledged into his jaw."Merciful Ath! Arithon, you're dreatning! Wake up!"
The mazed creature he grappled spun about, bashed him spinefirst against the washstand. Basin and tin pitcher clattered askew,dousing his neck in cold water.
"Arithon!" Dakar ripped in a breath that shot branding firethroughhis chest. "Stop this! Now!" The next hammering blow broke his hold.He dropped, tasted blood from a bitten lip. The jolt as he crashedfull length turned his head. Through dizzying pain and a fall of spunshadow, he heard the grind as the door bar slipped free. "Ath, no!"
The latch clanged, gave; the panel swung wide. An influx of chillair from the corridor wafted past Dakar's damp face. He scrambledback upright, agonized to find his recovery came too late to matter. 
 J ~e~ eq i-q -~ '~iF ~ I~ q~ ~
He rushed anyhow, tri/~ved over the tih basin, and skatedswath off flung water. Beleaguered _ of wind, he made a fu '1~ ú .... , hal[~ stu~ed, and griped,Should tu~ ~tori tO (2all War~l~%. %~x~ ~a~
~rit~o~ ~e~ ~ut ~kt~ ~ ~~ ~ ~xx~ .... ~ ~~ ~ ~x~ ~_ ~ ~ ~.~.~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~. ~.~ ~'~
 ~~ _
 ~ ~ ~~ .~ ~ ~
 ~-~ ~ ~ ~ ~,
 ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~
 ~ ~x~ ~ c~ ~ ~ ~t ~
 s~ ~. ~ ~ ~
 ~iV his a~ile ~uarry ~ the doo~ay.
~ailed boards Goaned and flexed ~ oblig~ reply, but ~0tto
 block Arithon's passage. ~stead, Dakar ~mself caught theassaul~g
 st~ of wa~ed forces. He yelped ~ vexation, too braised t0evade
 what he only no~ tagged as a ~rror-keyed spell ofdeflection.
 ~en ~s own has~ conju~ rebo~ded on its maker and accom­
plished its end like fell vengeance.
Dakar s~bbed ~s toe on an ~even plak, crashed fulllength, and
 s~dded. His palms caught a nas~ scour~g of spl~ters. Themore
 frig~te~g ~th huzt worse ~an the pa~: b~on~ un~ doubt,~he ~.
 ter o~ Sh~dom mus mielding his t~lent ~or ~gecr~.
"Curse me with fiends, ~at shouldn't be possibleS" Dakarscram­
bled upright, vexed to despair.
Always before, the block had rema~ed beyond reach ofAri~ho~s
 resource, the tra~ed powers of his upbr~g~g shacked inBuilt ~y
 his imposed royal gift of compassion. Too late now, toavert a di~a~t~:_
 past imaging. ~e Mad ~rophet latched ~ hotfoot pursuit.This
 was a rea~ where Lysaer's crown campai~ to eradicatesorcery
 brought vic~ms to the stake without ~ial. Too real, thechance that
 Earl Jieret's augu~ ~ght come due ~ t~s backwaterse~lement.
 Bzeat~ess, stabbed at each step by ~e grate of a czackedrib, Dakar
 reached the opened door. ~e hallway beyond showed ~m rowsof
 closed rooms, the end by the sta~ banked ~ shadow. Dakardammed
 back ~s rasp~g breath. ~ough ~e mas~g noise ~om ~erevelers,
 he listened, but detected no scuffle of footsteps.Arithon s'Ffalenn
 could move like a ghost, even with no gifts to ~de ~. ~edar~ess 
 he called to mask ~s escape h~g too t~ck, even to pass
the f~e, sig­na~re energies w~ch ~de~ed all t~gs of substance. Dakars~a~ed ~s mage-sight, but recav~red no gl~mer of vatte~
~o guide ~. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 Resigned, he plunged into that blind dark by touch. His bestcourse lay in reaching the stables. Caolle deserved warning. Afteri that, the flimsy hope must suffice, that their combined efforts
would be enough to extricate the Shadow Master from whatever brawlinghavoc arose from his foray through the taproom.
Dakar tracked the wall with a palm stubbed with splinters and
minced his hampered way forward. Above the racketing clamor
belowstairs, he heard someone bellow: Caolle, returned from sad­dling their mounts against need, and confounded to find himself
under attack as Arithon sought fugitive exit.

"Don't let him get past!" Dakar rushed to stop Rathain's princefrom doubling back through the hallway.
Ahead, grunts of effort, then an alarming thump. A body crackedthrough the oak banister. Caolle snarled an oath. Someone's knuck­les smacked flesh. An incongruous reek of pitch smoke spiraled upfrom the stairwell. Dakar winced through a snort of laughter. Barbar­ian to his core, the clansman stuck by his cantankerous habit oflift­ing the coachmen's torches from the stable yard to light his waywithin doors. Between prince and liegeman, the battle raged on, ano-holds-barred scuffle fought on the steps with fists and fire andfell shadow.
 A wooden-sounding thunk bought a surcease from darkness.Dakar blinked to adjust abused eyesight. Against the filtered glarefrom the taproom, Caolle poised with one massive fist clenched to thehaft of his cresset. The flame had extinguished. Sultry coals stillflared from the tip, laced in demonic trails of spent smoke. Collapsed in aheap against his braced feet lay Arithon s'Ffalenn, a welted mass ofnewly raised blisters glistening across his forehead.
"Ath, he went mad!" Still brandishing his bludgeon, Caolleglanced past his shoulder as if he expected another assault frombehind.
 Dakar made neither excuse nor denial. "Lucky the meatbrainsdownstairs are flat drunk. We'd best move your liege before somesweaty john wheedles one of the barmaids upstairs." He ignored hisown throbbing chorus of aches, knelt over Arithon, and helped Caollecheck for lingering injury.
"No broken bones. That's better than he deserves." Caolle for a mercy never stalled over questions. He licked a bloodied knuckle,jammed his spent torch in the stump of the banister, then bent to thetask of hefting royalty. "Runt sized or no, his Grace fights likeSithaer's furies." An accusatory glower shot back as he straightenedand took note of Dakar's hitched stance. "Kicked you also, I see." 
181  keep me from riding."
Caolle let thatpass with a dubious grunt and plowed onward withArithon across his shoulders like bagged game. "Well, whateverundid him, I'll hear a reason. For this, there'd better be cause fit
to stop Dharkaron ' s almighty justice."
13ut time was not given, even śor Dakar to out[inc the gist ofdisas­ter. On return to the room, Arithon stirred the moment Caolle ]aidhim back on the bed. Since the damaged bindings of the sleep spellwere now too perilous an influence to keep, Dakar effected theirimmediate release.
 The Master of Shadow regained full awareness at once, his pupilsblack and wide in the flare of the candle Caolle brought to measurehis reflexes.
 "No concussion. You're lucky," Dakar pronounced. Too heartsickto meet the anguished recognition unveiled in those wakened, greeneyes, he held out a ripped twist of linen, soal(ed in the spill fromthe washbasin.
 Arithon took the offering. As wary himself of prying observation.he pressed the compress over his scorched forehead. He asked justone question; heard from Caolle of the torch used at need to take himdown. Then he sucked a sharp breath through shut teeth and let thesting to his outraged flesh stall off unpleasant explanation.
Too brusque for tact, Caolle showed him no quarter. "Liege, whatevil possessed you?"
"Ath, let him collect himselfi" Dakar snapped, detesting thepit,vthat made him speak in defense.
"I can't be spared," Arithon contradicted.
The ground-glass hurt in his voice set even Caolle aback. Inword­less embarrassment, the clansman pawed through the fallen blanketsto recover the stool. That evasion helped nothing. On the floor laythe Paravian-wrought sword; the bared sweep of black quillohs offeredstark enough proof of a trust gone desperately amiss.
"You reached for Alithiel!" Arithon cried, the name of the bladecharged with horror.The Mad Prophet lost his chance to soften the impact.
"Yes, it's the curse!" Arithon snapped, the admission jerked outlike barbed steel from a nerve. "Desh-thiere's touch has warped me,never for a moment forget this." For Caolle, he explained his razor-edged quandary. "The geas which drives me to destroy my halfbrother grows ever more uncontrollable. That's why Dakar holds mv 
182 ]ANNY WURTS
 "One rib. Only cracked." Dakar raised a hand to wave off the mat­ter, then gave up the gesture for speech that hurt just as much."Won't keep me from riding."
Caolle let that pass with a dubious grunt and plowed onward withArithon across his shoulders like bagged game. "Well, whateverundid him, I'll hear a reason. For this, there'd better be cause fitto stop Dharkaron's almighty justice."
But time was not given, even for Dakar to outline the gist ofdisas­ter on return to the room, Arithon stirred the moment Caolle laidhim back on the bed. Since the damaged bindings of the sleepwere now too perilous an influence to keep, Dakar effected th~irimmediate release.
 The Master of Shadow regained full awareness at once, hisblack and wide in the flare of the candle Caolle brought tomeast~t'~,his reflexes.
 "No concussion. You're lucky," Dakar pronounced. Too h›:~rt~ickto meet the anguished recognition unveiled in those wakenedeyes, he held out a ripped twist of linen, soalded in the spillfr~,;',washbasin.
 Arithon took the offering. As wary himself of prying observation,he pressed the compress over his scorched forehead. He asked justone question; heard from Caolle of the torch used at need to takedown. Then he sucked a sharp breath through shut teeth and letsting to his outraged flesh stall off unpleasant explanation.
Too brusque for tact, Caolle showed him no quarter. "Liege,evil possessed you?""Ath, let him collect himself!" Dakar snapped, detesting the
that made him speak in defense."I can't be spared," Arithon contradicted.The ground-glass hurt in his voice set even Caolle aback. In
less embarrassment, the clansman pawed through the fallen blanL,t­to recover the stool. That evasion helped nothing. on the floor lav ti Paravian-wrought sword; the bared sweep of black quillors offer,,,istark enough proof of a trust gone desperately amiss.
"You reached for Alithiel!" Arithon cried, the name of thecharged with horror.The Mad Prophet lost his chance to soften the impact.
"Yes, it's the curse!" Arithon snapped, the admission jerked ot~tlike barbed steel from a nerve. "Desh-thiere's touch has warped me,never for a moment forget this." For Caolle, he explained his razor-edged quandary. "The geas which drives me to destroy my halfbrother grows ever more uncontrollable. That's why Dakar holds n~v 
182 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 given permission to reach past my deepest defenses. So long as Ikeep~y right mind, the preventative ought to be binding."A moment passed, rinsed in the buttery glow of the candle."You're not always sane," Caolle summed up in his usual, hammer-blow
 ~\rithon shut his eyes. The rag in the mangling grip of his fist
could scarcely mask his expression. Forced to yield his unwilling confi­dence, he lowered his hand, limp now, the knuckles scuffed red from~arped violence. "Yes." A shiver coursed through him. "The curse!~as invaded by way of my dreams. Apparently, there, it just claimed~e." He looked up then, his shaming appeal made the worse by his~aflinching dignity. "I'm no fit prince to lead Rathain's clans any­n:~re. Caolle, I beg you, accept my release here and now. Take back.~ ~ur oath of fealty before the worst happens. Before ~"
"Before I die by your own hand?" Caolle slammed to his feet.Never." He spun and paced, his wheeling shadow too large for the~ tamped room. "Liege, my death is not the worst that could happen.t~.v your oath, sealed in blood before Fellowship Sorcerers, I stand!~st. Even if your charge to stay alive was not binding,.my heart
could ~. t !o less. You are the hope for my Lord Jieret's future. The
heritage, f your bloodline is not revocable, your Grace, any more than my, 'wl~ sworn trust."
"Caolle, could you step out," Dakar pleaded, as much to stopthat iacerating contest of wills as to seek word with Arithon in private.
"No. Caolle remains, by command of his prince, if he's too muchthe fool to disown me." Arithon sat straight, faced them, the sparkin his eyes too baleful and steady to wear down. "If he stands endan­gered through guarding my flank, he'll not take those risks in igno­rance."
 Aware that statement was pitched to provoke, Dakar joined forces,not just to turn Caolle, but to make Arithon withdraw before ruinovertook them. "This time, your Grace, you tapped into your train­ing. You worked talent and wrought conjury against me." Arithon went white.
 "Not once, but twice." Dakar steeled his nerve and bored in. "Mysleep spells were bent back in deflection against me, and not by an~utside act of sabotage. When I used force at need to bar your way,all ',.'our sworn permissions were revoked."
You're quite sure?" Arithon looked as if his own knife hadslipped~nd stabbed him through to the heart. "Ath save us all, then thecurse has subverted even my royabborn gift of compassion." The forearmhalf-raised to mask his stark shock dropped nervelessly back in hislap. 
~ANNY WURTS

 "Not when you're conscious," Dakar amended quickly. Aching toomuch to endure forced bravado, he looked aside, and noticed thatCaolle retreated also. As if care śor this prince posed too punishing~ bust, the ~ru//cJansman busied his lartte hands to right the crashedwashstand and retrieve the dented tin basin.
 Dakar strangled pity out of fear and resumed. "Your Grace, wecan't argue facts. A masterbard's gift grants you linkage throughsound to something akin to your mage-sight. Any performance whichrecalls the Mistwraith's influence, like tonight's lament for DietKen-ton's fallen, may well open channels for its curse to exploit." WhileArithon weighed this, Dakar nailed home his point. "I think you knowit's dreadfully unwise to proceed with your mad plots in Tysan."
"I must," Arithon insisted. The entreaty on his features tooanguished, too vivid, he bared himself to explain. "We need moreships to seek the Paravians. The clans here require sound vessels andcrews to spare them enslavement on the galleys. Lord Maenol's peo­ple won't survive the next generation if they are forced to stayland-bound. They have no recourse left, since their former caithdein gaveher life to declare them my allies. Against Lady Maenalle's executionon my conscience, I pledged them my word I would help."
No sensible counsel would move him. A swift, sideward glanceshowed that Caolle saw as well. Bull stubborn, or maybe cow stupid,Dakar tried again all the same. "You do realize that any encounterwith Lysaer could send you over the edge. Not just your sanity, butthe whole of this world would be threatened."
 "I have to go on." A wry bent of humor flexed Arithon's mouth asthe stew downstairs roared to crescendo. Still unapologetic, hedeliv­ered his adamant conclusion. "What's left but to run? And if I turn tail, that solves nothing. You must understand: this curse just com­pounds as time passes. Evasion will bring the same downfall. Actionsand will are all I have left to stave off my own self-destruction.Worse than Lysaer, despair is my enemy."
"Are you sure?" Dakar pressed. "Do you speak true? Or is yourthinking corrupted by the Mistwraith's geas itself?"
"Come ahead and find out," Arithon invited. A testy, backhandeddelight lit his face, almost welcome for the change as he shoved tohis feet in familiar, acid-bright temper. "I've always liked fighting mydemons up front. Since I'm dangerous, asleep, we may as wellembrace folly headlong and ride on for Riverton tonight."
 Dawn blazed over the deep estuary at Riverton, a veiling ofcirrus like cloth-of-gold fringe strewn across dove gray silk. Against thatgilt 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 backdrop, the walled inner city spiked a bristle of towers and
battle­ments, streamered with pennons and pricked by the rake of ships'masts. Seventeen centuries of commerce had overrun the originalcitadel. The flats where the barges docked along the river delta
spreadcrammed to bursting with wharves, the arched gateways of coachinns set chockablock with boathouses and ferryman's lighters.
Arithon and Caolle led the horses ashore for stabling with a
livery­man. Ten paces behind, suspended over water on the gangplank,Dakar half sensed something; a fleeting prickle of spent energy, notunlike the imprint of a dissipated spell. He suffered a swift pang
of nausea. Nagged by the oddity, he braced half in dread that his giftof prescience might trigger between steps to the dock.But his tread on dry boards raised only the expected hollow
echo. He frowned, paused anyway, plumbed mage-sense until his headached. His search yielded nothing. Only the random, silvered danceof energy which patterned grained wood into substance. The air boreordy the reek of black river mud, skeined through by the mulch oftumed rose beds in the merchants' garden courtyards, and the sea­sonal must of piled leaves.
Dakar rolled his shoulders, irritable and anxious. All week, he
had been starting at phantoms, and no wonder. A man with the sense thatAth gave a flea would be anyplace else but in the Shadow Master'scompany, inside the crown territory of Tysan.
Dakar hastened on before Caolle's impatience could shatter themorning quiet.
If the wide, tranquil lanes by the barge docks met misty daybreakin restraint, by contrast, the harborside reflected a livelihoodsteepedfrom the rowdier tastes of men who plied deepwater shipping. There,the sky above the roof peaks teemed with raucous gulls. The puddlesin the gutters reeked of flotsam and fish, a furlong removed from theexquisite walled mansions of the riverfront. The division betweensaltwater commerce and fresh lay demarked by the customs keeper'scompound, its seaside encroached on by sagging, tiled roofs and thestorm-weathered planks of old warehouses. The market became thehub of activity, with its channeled gutters of herringbone brickspanned by the pilings of squatters' shanties. Behind them, the half-plank tenements loomed three stories above the street-level sprawl ofbawdy houses and dilapidated taverns. The mews in between heldthe seamier sailors' dives, wedged amid tangles of cobblestone alleysscarcely wide enough to pass single file.
Arithon traversed the bayside mazes on foot, his lyranthe slungfrom his shoulder. His step was unhurried, almost meandering, and 
JANN. WIJI~T$ 

everything living made him linger. He dallied to peruse the trinketsspread on open-air tables; conversed with the idlers leaning on lamp­posts, or carters, wolfing hot pastries over their slackened reins.Caolle wore his sword and shadowed his shoulder. Made jumpy bythe lazy accents of townsmen and the hated enclosure of city walls,he insisted on keeping his hands free. Which left Dakar to heft his tin­ker's gear, the saddle packs of spare clothing, and the manful shareof complaints.
"Don't pretend you didn't notice that circle of ash in the marketsquare." Disgruntled since he had dismissed the painted redheadwhose playful fingers had promised fine dalliance, he groused, "Theyburned some poor wretch for the practice of unclean sorcery only yes­terday."
A pause, filled by the Mad Prophet's puffing as they jagged up anarrow stair and passed a darkened archway through a close. Hischorus rang plaintive echoes through a courtyard choked with frost-withered flowerpots. "The merchants should riot. Who will craftfiend banes if everyone with mage-sense cowers in fear of execu­tion?"
 Down a rickle of heaved flagstones, the party of three emergedback into daylight, with Caolle's grip white on the sword as Arithonstalled again on his course.
Dakar scarcely avoided crashing into him. Blinking like a molepast the bundles clutched to his chest, he snapped, "If you're goingto give silver to every beggar we pass, my back will break before wefind an inn."
 Arithon broke off a quiet sentence with his latest fascination, araggedy old salt propped on a crutch. "That's heartless bad man­ners," he admonished.
Less eloquent, the beggar hawked and spat on the offensiveProphet's boot."You toad-humping spawn of a maggot!" screeched Dakar
The beggar cracked into devilish, deep laughter "Now didn't yousay the same on the day you crammed yourself into that beer caskand we heaved you afloat on Garth's Pond?"
Dakar's eyes widened. The jab of Caolle's elbow into barelyhealed ribs nipped his cry of recognition just in time. "I'm sorry," hegaspedwhen he could manage civil speech. Through another glare atArithon, he added, "Our singer here has a soft heart and a head asaddled as a duck's egg. We'd all join you in the streets before he'dlet a layabout go hungry."
The beggar flashed a tigerish grin, none other than the lame joiner 
186 FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 whose past touch at subterfuge had once helped the theft of aprincess's ransom. "Ye won't lack for beer and feather mattresses,
I'd say. Not in the company of a bard whose playing could charm lifeinto a stone gargoyle. The Laughing Captain, hard by the shipyards,is a tavern to welcome a good singer."
That suggestion passed off in languid disinterest, Arithon
pursued,"If Lysaer's royal guardsmen are busy burning talent, what does thiscity do for fiend bane?"
The beggar scratched his chin. "Well now, the Koriathain
fashioned the talismans for the yard. Merchant guilds signed oath of debt forthat." An expert lag, while scruffy fingers poked for lice; untilArithon's hand obligingly dipped into his purse. In glad
speculation,the joiner delivered. "For the rest, we had a good bell founder."Arithon's interest lit. "Had?"
 "Aye. Man's fair useless to anyone now. Born without perfectpitch, see? Can't rematch the tone since one of his master set'scracked." Nonplussed by Dakar's scowl, the scoundrel joiner palreedcoins as though he had begged all his life. "Strolling that way, areyou? Yon craftshop's off Chandler's Alley."
Yet if the bell founder's plight concerned Arithon s'Ffalenn, thepath he chose to the harborside became everything else but direct.His small party tailed him in and out of three wineshops. Underneaththe planked walkways which linked the close tenements, he sharedbiscuits with the filthy children who lived by picking pockets in theshadows. Dakar battled his shortening temper. Each move seemed tofuel his anxiety. More than once he spun around, certain someonewas dogging his heels. He saw only slinking alley cats and rats. Hisskin stayed nipped into gooseflesh, as if the creatures were golemsraised from bones, and set spying by furtive conjury.
Oblivious, Arithon loitered to gossip with a laundry girl,rinsinglinens on a gallery, while Caolle dodged wind-scattered droplets ofrunoff, and Dakar fumed in annoyance. His chastised survey of eachchance-met acquaintance revealed no other familiar faces.
The day wore past noon. Arithon jaunted through the sailors' mar­ket, loquaciously intrigued with its glass beads and shell trinkets;its whalebone charms against drowning, and its philters and potionsmixed against ague and hangover and whore's pox. He chaffed theapothecary and acquired a posy of dried catmint. A second talismanmaker sold him assorted tin scraps in a sack.
Jostled by a press of tar-smell'rag riggers, they withstood thebuffet­ing sea breeze while Arithon purchased a burgundy silk waistcoattrimmed with mother-of-pearl spangles. 
 Before suffering another zigzagging course through the market,
Dakar balked and dropped all the packs on the cobbles. "No more."

Arithon looked at him, eyebrows raised, then unslung the lyranthefrom his shoulder. "Hold this," he bade Caolle, then balanced hissack of tin leavings on top of the load.
R/ght there in the street, amid rumbling drays and carters whoswore and reined their racketing teams around him, he donned hisridiculous glad rags.
The maroon-and-gold garment clashed stupendously with mossgreen hose. Dakar gave way to disgust. "Spare us all, you're a sightto make a corpse walk."
Arithon grinned, an edged flash of teeth. "I agree. After theclothes,who will look at the face?" He asked back his instrument, to Caolle'srelief, then waded undaunted through the rows of shawled womenpacking salt barrels.
Dakar's vociferous frustration cracked echoes off the mews cho­sen this time for an exit. He sucked in a breath and choked on the miasma of tar and hot wax. His next comment was expelled as acough. They had entered Chandler's Alley from the north. The craft-shop of the benighted bell founder loomed ahead, every casementboarded up, and its signpost demolished to slivers. The cobblesbeneath were sugared in smashed glass and the shards of pulverizedroof slates.
 The Mad Prophet gave the warped door, the bent nails, the litterof bashed casements his expert survey, and chuckled. "Ath. The iyatsare having themselves a field day."
Arithon leaned close, cautious in a realm where mage talents layunder interdict. "They're still here? You can see them?"
Dakar nodded. His trained eye picked out the whorled dimples ofdistressed air which pocked the shop front and the surrounding alley,unmistakable trace of the energy sprites' presence. "The whole placeis riddied. Do you guess this is sport, or plain revenge for the factthe warding bells are out of true?"
"Likely both," said Arithon s'Ffalerm in delight, "and for us, arap­turous throw of fortune." He banged on the door, which swunginward on shrieking, bent hinges.
A short step into a lanternless dimness, then a violent stir fromthe shadows: an angular crane of a man scrunched across a piney spill ofsawdust, most likely scattered to cushion the impact of tools therampaging iyats might throw down. "Are you blind?" he howled incalamitous agitation. "Get you out. We're fiend plagued and closed!"Dakar cringed, face masked in his hands; Arithon tucked back an 
188  xhalation suspiciously like laughter; while the fiends, busy crea­tures, rocked into a wakened frenzy of assault. 
fA tin cup chained to a fallen washbasin gyrated in crazed circles inthe dark. Something else made of wood, a potstand or a close stool,~ galloped to life on a circling course to smash ankles. Caolleyelled,[ stamped down on an offending pair of fire tongs which tried to stabholes in his boots, while a row of tin canisters rocked as if to dumpthemselves over his head.
 "Ath, see what you've done!" the bell founder screeched aboveburgeoning commotion. "The blighted infestation has started all overagain!"
Iyats enjoyed feeding upon human rage. Hand-wringing, ditheringhysteria teased them on. Recharged to delight, they obliged, andseized on wild energy to fuel a new round of pranks.
The cup snapped its tether, shot off into space, and clangedinto a hamper of metal scrap. The lot toppled with a deranged, bell'mgcrash over the workbench with its crucibles and anvil. Filings and scrollsof shaved iron whirred airborne, a threat to eyesight and flesh.
Throughthat scourging storm, and the craftsman's imprecations, a sound todrill through quartz: Arithon whistled a shattering threnody.
Scrap metal dashed to the floor like dropped chaff. The close
stool toppled flat and lay with its legs po'mted skyward, while from everydarkened comer, the artisan's dropped wares belied in resonant, dis­sonant sympathy.
The rampaging fiends ceased their mischief. Under threat of
disso­lution from those ranging harmonics, they unraveled their energiesfrom purlo'med items and fled. Their departure, willy-nilly, raisedsmall flurries of ripped air, the ping of popped nails, and a
staccato barrage of cracked boards and burst shutters. Inside a handful ofheartbeats, the sawdusty gloom subsided to muffling silence.
"Praise Ath Creator!" The bell founder gaped. His protuberanteyes cast right and left, but saw nothing except blessed stillness."Here's a bard!" Nary an iyat remained on his premises, and theimpact of rescue sank in. "A bard with a true ear for fiend bane."
He kicked through his muddle of violated belong'rags, snatchedArithon's sleeves, then thumped to his knees and gushed out his
tear­ful apologies. "I had no idea. None. Forgive my rude welcome. Whatamends can I make to beg for a ward on my shop?"
"A fee." Arithon slipped his wrists free of moist fingers,
amused and cool, but not unkindly. "You've no cause to plead. I don't havethe talent to set lasting protections. But to place the pitch to
recast your cracked bell, a sum of ten silvers will suffice." 
 J..4'..-~.,~v /4r~,'.,4~-5
 "Bless you m~[" ~e craffsm~ scrambled erect and cit~sed on ~
find with doggish, backslapp~g eagerness. "~at's far less than y0m
talent dese~es." C~e ~c~& ~ &~ ~ ~-~x~& ~x~, ~ ~c~ ~ ~ ~respect sho~n ~o ~s Yxege as for the ~voXous delay. Arithoif s h~0~stayed un~ffied. For a private man who disliked berg touched, heweaVered his paffon's ~c~ous handl~g with s~i~ng equa~.~ich anomaly at last snapped Dakar to cold thought. He ~daccompa~ed Arithon's travels too long not to sense another sea~thread of subter~ge. Nor did his h~ch prove ~splaced. ~e repua­~on the bard earned in that one afternoon won them the most sm~ ~ous, private room ~ ~e Laug~g Capta~ Tavern for tb~ ;e~,~)ba,week, free of charge.Event fell out with na~ral elegance that, after Arithon's m0~ngof ply~g gossip kom passersby and his kesh notorie~ at the bellfounder's, a nonstop s~eam of ~verton's folk should stop t0exchange words ~ the taproom.Nor did eve~ admirer wear the face of a s~ger Dakar rec0g­~xzed a ropewalker, a handel of canlkers, ~d ~o doxies ~edthrough the arms of a suspiciously ia~xYxar s~x~and. A stree~ c~k~sidled up, brother to one who had se~ed them before as inform~tthrough a forced stay ~ Jaelot. Ath alone ~ew how the filthy ~ltehad tracked Arithon the width of the con~ent. Inevitably also came Cat~ick, covert conspirator to the ShadowMaster's cause, and paid master of Tys~'s royal shipyard.Dakar caught first sight of h~, a bluff, square man whose muscu­lar ~ead rivaled Caolle's for s~eng~, and whose presence exudedauthori~. He elbowed his way t~ough the press of galleymen,carous~g dec,ands, and off-du~ royal ~ards as if he expected duedeference, ~s immense, callused hands broad enough to span theslopp~g rims of four tankards. ~e squat to ~s eye from sight~gstraight board lengths, or the l~es of new keels on their bedlogs,
had grown more pronounced t~ough the years s~ce the Khetienn's firstlaunch~g ~ Merior La~ shocks of brown hair still licked his wideshoulders, a new gleam of silver at the temples.~e g~ff, ram's horn bellow he used ~ the sawpits vanquishedthe taproom's ra~ noise. "Beer for you, singer, and for your compan­ions. You'll need to get d~ to raise any me t~ough this racket."He barged himself a seat on an overcrowded bench. ~e redolenceof p~e res~ and coal smoke kom the boiler sheds laced through the~g, and earned glares kom a foppish pair of soap merchants. Cat­trick scarcely cared. Braced on ~s forea~ ~ a loose, sailhand's 
190 
shirt, ne cut an enormous, roug'n ~q
clean in his flashy silk waistcoat and
the tankards brimmed over, his still~
~cars arid c['tsm'tssed them. The weal~ca?ec~ cloak me~i~eck ~xo cl, ose~ s,a~windolent, small frame of the singer 1'took note of Dakar's closemouthed,ered back. "Demons take all, minstrbed a bony-arsed spinster. Are yebrought fresh-squeezed cider?"Arithon grinned. "Man enough~C~ta~o i'~rc'bI~,'2f% c~(2Ofr~ AK~rl.k~".reversed, he stung back. "Best youmonth. Or did the street gossips 
 your last brig sailed hull down ov
no doubt, by her ill-fitted seams,
habits." "Tongue .xke a viper, you have.who can shrill sour notes to bm s~ a\\t~m t~ ~oeex,~r~x~ se~X\e~ B~lidded gaze still hunting. "BeyoJyour rffx~k-tongued caterwaulinlmoonSaced in their cups, and I'come the morning. Sprung plan]to sight north and south on a rnbold, you'll have enemies vyinggatekeep."A smile from the bard,,then a4to a standstill, first. It by then,.with the rest, let's find out who'The burly master joiner palrrstare. This game was not new.lence; if they came with quirksnose led, he must expect to cros.,"Well?" needled the bard. Cattrick slammed the trestle tured a man whose interests h~ no regret for that incident; norbargainer chose to bury the ndone and Dharkaron take the 1: tankard in cocky salute, shove{refill, while Arithon received a~ 
]ANNY WUI~TS
 "Bless you man!" The craftsman scrambled erect and closed on hisfind with doggish, backslapping eagerness. "That's far less than yourtalent deserves."
 Caolle scuffed sawdust in stiff-lipped distaste, as much for thedis­respect shown to his liege as for the frivolous delay. Arithon'shumor stayed unruffled. For a private man who disliked being touched, heweathered his patron's unctuous handling with striking equanimity.
Which anomaly at last snapped Dakar to cold thought. He hadaccompanied Arithon's travels too long not to sense another seamlessthread of subterfuge. Nor did his hunch prove misplaced. The reputa­tion the bard earned in that one afternoon won them the most sump­tuous, private room in the Laughing Captain Tavern for the rest ofthe week, free of charge.
Event fell out with natural elegance that, after Arithon'smorningof plying gossip from passersby and his fresh notoriety at the bellfounder's, a nonstop stream of Riverton's folk should stop toexchange words in the taproom.
Nor did every admirer wear the face of a stranger. Dakar recog­nized a ropewalker, a handful of caulkers, and two doxies twinedthrough the arms of a suspiciously familiar sailhand. A street childsidled up, brother to one who had served them before as informantthrough a forced stay in Jaelot. Ath alone knew how the filthy mitehad tracked Arithon the width of the continent.
 Inevitably also came Cattrick, covert conspirator to the ShadowMaster's cause, and paid master of Tysan's royal shipyard.
Dakar caught first sight of him, a bluff, square man whose muscu­lar tread rivaled Caolle's for strength, and whose presence exudedauthority. He elbowed his way through the press of galleymen,carousing deckhands, and off-duty royal guards as if he expected duedeference, his immense, callused hands broad enough to span theslopping rims of four tankards. The squint to his eye from sightingstraight board lengths, or the lines of new keels on their bedlogs,had grown more pronounced through the years since the Khetienn's firstlaunching in Merior. Lank shocks of brown hair still licked his wideshoulders, a new gleam of silver at the temples.
The gruff, ram's horn bellow he used in the sawpits vanquishedthe taproom's rank noise. "Beer for you, singer, and for your compan­ions. You'll need to get drunk to raise any tune through thisracket."
 He barged himself a seat on an overcrowded bench. The redolenceof pine resin and coal smoke from the boiler sheds laced through thefug, and earned glares from a foppish pair of soap merchants. Cat-trick scarcely cared. Braced on his forearms in a loose, sailhand's 
190 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 ~hirt, he cut an enormous, rough figure alongside the bard, neatlydean in his flashy silk waistcoat and cap of feathered, pale hair.While the tankards brimmed over, his stilled, intense eyes took in
Caolle's scars and dismissed them. The weapons concealed by the clansman'scaped cloak merited no closer survey. His attention swept over theindolent, small frame of the singer he knew for the Master of
Shadow,took note of Dakar's closemouthed expectation beside him, thenflick­ered back. "Demons take all, minstrel. Ye've scarcely the substance
to bed a bony-arsed spinster. Are ye man enough, or should I havebrought fresh-squeezed cider?"
Arithon grinned. "Man enough to deplore the childish need for
contests involving strong drink." That opening salvo cheerfully
reversed, he stung back. "Best you stay sober for your launching

next month. Or did the street gossips malign you for nothing? They sayyour last brig sailed hull down over the horizon and vanished. Sunk,no doubt, by her ill-fitted seams, if you rate a man's wits by his
bar habits."
 "Tongue like a viper, you have. Same as every other skinnywarbler who can shrill sour notes to banish iyats." Cattrick downed a vastswallow of beer, his settled bulk like an owl on a branch, his half-lidded gaze still hunting. "Beyond wails for fiend bane, what use isyour milk-tongued caterwauling? Lure out my craftsmen to hangmoonfaced in their cups, and I'll have smashed fingers in the yardcome the morning. Sprtmg planking too, if the lads get too muddledto sight north and south on a measurement. Mind your step. Go toobold, you'll have enemies vying to spike your feckless head atop thegatekeep."
A smile from the bard, then a challenge. "Let me play thistaproomto a standstill, first. If by then you aren't flopped beneath thetrestle with the rest, let's find out who's effete over fine brandy inprivate."
The burly master joiner palmed a belch and gave back a level,hard stare. This game was not new. Arithon chose his associates for excel­lence; if they came with quirks or tmruly character, or balked atbeingnose led, he must expect to cross wits to extract the service heangled for."Well?" needled the bard.
 Cattrick slammed the trestle with a fist, the same that had oncetor­tured a man whose interests had thoughtlessly crossed him. He heldno regret for that incident; nor would he lose sleep if this latestslick bargainer chose to bury the memory. "You want a contest? Said isdone and Dharkaron take the hindmost." The shipwright drained histankard in cocky salute, shoved erect, and plowed his way back for arefill, while Arithon received an unsettled glower from Caolle. 

]ANNY ~UI~ TS
 "I thought you claimed you had Cattrick in hand," the MadProphet murmured, voice muffled as he peered into the dregs of thebeer the ship's joiner had left him. "Those insults came barbed, orI'm a grandmother goat's arse."
Arithon shot off a sparkling run to retest the pitch of hisstrings."It's a[[~ea]ou~)~" he agreed, eyes alight with innuendo. "Somebody'swelcome was a shade ~oo waa~n and that clerkish little guardsmanbehind us returned a bit too pointed an interest,"
Before Dakar could weigh evidence to tell if the threat was aglib śab­rication to divert him, the bard rollicked into the reeling, firstmeasures of a bawdy dockside ballad. His tempered voice cut the noise likestruck bronze, suspending discussion and argument. Nearby drinkerserupted to their feet with yells of delight. Wolfish sailhands stayedtheir dice games, and merchants, their dickering, while barmaids caught thecoppers flung onto their trays and bustled to the tap to fetchtankards. By the time the bard closed the last chorus, the common room rockedto the thrill of discovery. He gave his audience no chance to let down,but flowed seamlessly on to the fast, fired lilt of a hornpipe.
Town ministers started stamping, despite their immaculatevelvets. Tar-begrimed deckhands whistled and leaped on the trestles to clogstep, then dragged doxies along as the frenzied, wild tempo rockedup one key and took flight. A figure of calm amid heaving pandemo­nium, Arithon played, head bent and foot briskly tapping. His spiritled the dance, surrendered on demand to the weave of the intricatemelody. Precise as stitched gold, each grace note splashed out inecstatic execution. His was command of a masterbard's style and toany with mage-sight, the air in his presence became charged intoglit­tering brilliance. His listeners could not help but ignite inconflagra­tion, while the trained snap and flex of his fingers wrought joy fromwound metal strings and inspiration.
Through stamping applause, the landlord shoved in to extendpledge of free lodging. "Whatever the house has to offer, it's yoursas long as you're minded to stay."
"A year for one percent from the till, and the coin any well­wis~ng'r~toss at my feet," Arithon bargained.
"On those terms? Bless you, I'd fund your retirement andcome!" Unable to contain his disbelief and good fortune, the landlordbeckoned to his comeliest serving girl. "Give the minstrel and hisservants any damned thing they might ask."
While her painted, sloe eyes gauged the way the singer filled hisclothes and warmed into frank invitation, the landlord moved off,chuckling. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 "Any damned thing?" Arithon awarded her lush favors the com­pliment of his smile and snapped a sprightly run from his strings."Then keep my friend the tinker in beer. That's work enough for abrigade."
The Mad Prophet's indignant riposte became lost in braw noise asthe tap's salty patrons clanked knives on the boards in demand of arepeat performance. Head tipped aslant, Arithon obliged them, songafter song, until evening wore away and his listening crowd roareditself to exhaustion. While the standing survivors reeled their wayhomeward, the landlord gloated over empty casks and filled strong­boxes, his smile all but nailed in place.
The bard arose then, stretched, wrapped his lyranthe in no
hurry.Caolle knelt unbidden and raked up the abundance of silver tosseddown by generous admirers.
"Do you offer the plate scrapings to the street orphans?" Arithonasked.
 The landlord bobbed up from the gloom behind the bar, a polish­ing rag in his hand. "I give the ones willing to scrub pots all theleav­ings. Do you want to save the small coppers for them? You needn't.That custom's lapsed since my grandsire's time."
Arithon shrugged. "I keep stubborn habits. Just make sure thegirlwho sweeps up knows how to count in fair portions." The instrumentslung from his shoulder, he seemed impatient to depart.
Dakar showed no inclination to move, settled as he was in brosycontent with the barmaid cuddled in his lap. "It's grown desperatelate," he complained in a beery slur. "Can't you bear to forego theindulgence of sucking down brandy with Cattrick?"
"I daren't," said Afithon. "Caolle can watch my back." His stepghostlight before his liegeman's solid tread, he picked a path throughpronerevelers to attend his match with the master of Riverton's shipyard.
"Dharkaron wept!" The Mad Prophet groaned in low misery as hepeeled off the doxie and apologized. "Before you ask, yes. We'resurely as moon mad as he."
Desperate not to care how severely he was weaving, he crossed thepuddled taproom in Arithon's wake, to yelps and grunts from theinebriated bodies he disturbed on his course for the stairway. 
193 Autumn 5552 
Payment and Bribe 
The Laughing Captain's best guest suite still wore its origins as ashoreside madam's boudoir, bed hangings and dagged curtains donein gaudy, flame scarlet, tied back with gold-shot cord. Despite acase­ment cracked open to catch the sea breeze, an ingrained cloy ofpatchouli clung to the air and the rugs. The clothes chests werepearland black lacquer from Vhalzein, new enough that they still smelledof citrus oil. The washstand supported an ewer of gilded enamelflaked with chips at the edges, two rails of embroidered towels, anda pair of pitch-smeared boots just kicked off and crammed with thewads of shed stockings.
Their owner had made himself comfortable on the bed, his back topiled pillows, a cut-crystal decanter propped between the knees ofhis patched canvas trousers. The brandy inside pooled pale amber in theglow shed by beeswax candles on prickets. Not mellow at all in thehaze of soft light, Cattrick tracked Arithon's entrance, slit eyedand primed for contention.
"Ye're a master with that," he opened as the bard tucked hislyran­the away in the wardrobe. "Heard all from here, and it damned wellentertained me. Lysaer will be wild when he learns what's afoot."
When and not if; the inference bristled like hurled insult.
Arithon folded himself into the least-cushioned chair, the deeppleasure instilled by his music yet with him. "Since Avenor's a scantfifty leagues from this dive, shall we avoid the unpleasantness? Ifyou're too cowed to pour, I want to be brought up-to-date/' FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 "Well, here's fine impatience." Cattrick's lip curled in sarcasm.
"Four years is damned long to wait for the asking."
When Arithon said nothing, he dug through the pillows and
unearthed two enormous glazed tankards. The clink of Falgaire crys­
tal and the trickle of neat spirits did little to soothe a stiffpause.Cattrick recapped the decanter and poised the filled tankards onhis thighs. "Since we've rebuilt and launched a replacement foreverygalley that burned in Minderl Bay, the crown's been hiring on
riggers
like ticks. Two-thirds, and the best, are all yours. The caulkers
recruited from Havish were no good."
"Too little pay," Arithon supplied. "King Eldir's no fool. He
funded his craft guilds to keep the well-trained ones at home."
"Then that's old news." Cattrick shrugged. "Your own crews fromMerior have gradually replaced any second-rate labor. Petty infrac­tions did for the rest. The plankers and sawyers all have southshoreaccents. By Ath, we're so infested with talent a man wonders whynone of it's local." He extended an arm in an effortless stretch,passedthe most brimming vessel to Arithon, then finished, "Ye ken how Ispit on pretty boy hair."
An undignified thump intervened from outside. Dakar clanged thelatch and demanded admittance, and Caolle moved fast to let him in.Against a strung stillness, the clansman snapped the door closed, thehands beneath his cloak clasped to the hilts of his weapons.
Too drunken for tact as he sized up the tension, Dakar blunderedon, snatched the second tankard from Cattrick's preoccupied hand,and spouted his venomous opinion. "A friend might believe youwanted the thrill of seeing a sorcerer burned alive."
Cattrick's pelt of whiskers parted into a wolfish smile. "Iprefer tospeak to my associates firsthand." He uncorked the decanter, rolled along swallow of brandy on his tongue, and switched his regard toframe Arithon. "You're not drinking, either. Does that mean we're toocareful to risk any untoward confidence?"
"There isn't an abundance of confidence to share." Arithon sam­pled his drink, grimaced at the sting to a throat stressed fromsinging,then tipped his head back in the chair and shut his eyes. He let go asmall binding. The shadows he used to disguise his appearance ranoff like singed silk in the candlelight. When next he looked up, hiseyes were bright green and his hair the sheened black of a raven'swing. His gift had done more than falsify coloring.
Now none in his presence could mistake his frank warning: theexasperation laid bare, or its unwanted corollary, written into theplanes of bone pressed against hollowed, pale flesh. If such an 
195 
JANNY WURTS

 unmasking had meant to restore confidence, the mistake escaped sal­
vage as Cattrick leaned forward, eager to test how far he might sway
ex?osed weakness.
 Dakar felt a sudden grue ream his spine. Hazed by some thwartedfragment of prescience, or maybe just spurious hunch, he blurted,"Cattrick, are you in Koriani pay?"
"Don't answer that!" Arithon sheared in. "I don't believe it." He did not look settled or sanguine anymore. "Caolle, pass on what webrought from the tinsmith's, if you please."
The clansman slipped the sack from the thong at his belt. Never aman to forbear from sharp action, he hurled it full force toward thebed.
 Cattrick fielded the catch without upsetting the brandy. Sinceits unwieldy bulk required both hands, he nipped off the thong bindingand upended the contents in a caroling chime over the red velvet cov­erlet.
 Dakar's eyebrows shot up. The tinsmith had delivered in pristinegold coinage, struck in Havish's fair city of Cheivalt.
Prepared when Cattrick's lips hardened to contempt, Arithon said,"That's no bribe. I thought we agreed. A man of your stature can bepaid, but not bought."
Cattrick lost all his angst to disbelief. "No! Don't say we'redue wages. The crown of Tysan rewards our work well enough."
"Lysaer's pay is spoils." Enthused beyond weariness, Arithonlaughed at the shipwright's flummoxed startlement. "If you canunbend on that fine point, let's drink your nice brandy andcelebrate. After all, the miserable galley work's finished. You're laying newkeels for my fleet, now."
"Ath!" Cattrick slapped his leg in a stymied explosion of temper"Fiends plague us all, man, you could've sent some sort of word backafter our previous launching! The lads in the yard are the devil tokeep quiet, and I take unkindly to guessing. Did our new brig shakedown in safe passage to Corith?"
"That much and better," Arithon quipped. "The pay for yourcraftsmen was sent from the sale of the cider she carried as cargo.Now could we back off and swill spirits in earnest? You can sell meout to my enemies later if my nasty reputation makes you squeamish.But if we rise tomorrow undamaged by brandy, then all our brashclaims to manly pursuit are going to lie forfeit by default."
 Dakar woke up to hazed pain, as though moths with steel ham­mers set to with rivets and fastened the inside of his skull to his brain. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

His bladder was full, and his tongue, like furred lead. Well versedwith the miseries that came entrenched with cheap beer, he groanedand shoved upright. With his throbbing head plowed facedown into apillow, he fumbled to grab the first container at hand to catch whathis body ejected.
"You look fit to serve time as ship's ballast," said a quiet,etched voice across the room.
 A moan escaped ttie pillow. Dakar unshuttered a bloodshot browneye and measured his tormentor, who sat tidied and dressed in theflamboyant elegance expected of bards who garnered a taproompatronage. "You shouldn't be capable of speech. By Daelion's felljus­tice, that brandy would have knocked anyone else down sick as amule with a belly full of yew."
"You're right." Arithon stood, the slashed velvet sleeves of hisdou­blet tacked with matched studs of black pearls. "I should have been,too, except that I had to render my gorge after Cattrick earned thegood grace to fall senseless. He was packed off home in the sloptaker's cart for the round sum of two silvers."
 "That's thievery." Dakar found the chamber pot. Pillow clenchednow to his heaving belly, he sat, torn by two needs and waiting tosee which bodily orifice was going to demand service first. "Not to men­tion a waste of fine brandy." Then, disgusted to be caught just asblack as the kettle, he folded in half and gave the selfsame libationto the vengeful god of brewed hops.
Erect once again, and vastly more comfortable, he rinsed his sourmouth and regarded the prince, who thoughtfully seemed to be sort­ing out yesterday's clothes for him. "We're going someplace?"
Unwontedly serious, Arithon passed over his shirt, then small-clothes and breeches in turn. "Yes. There's something I need youto see."
 Outside, the daylight had lost its dawn blush. The wind blewbrisk with a warning of rain as the spellbinder trailed in the Masterbard'sfootsteps through the quay alleys which led west through Riverton.Gulls screamed and called in a pale citrine sky. Dakar made his waywith hands clamped to his temples, cursing when his feet trippedhim. The fog-dampened cobblestones gleamed like new lead underthe deep gloom of the eaves. Even that minimal glare hurt his eyes.
"This excursion had damned well better be necessary," he grousedat the crossroads where the wharfside buildings thinned out. Thestone road gave way to a rutted, mud track, interspersed by boardbridges which stitched an uneven course through the mudflats of the 
197 IANN. ~VU n T S 
Ilswater delta. Low ground wore bearded stands of marsh grass,interspersed with the less savory industry drawn by a thriving seacommerce. The air clung with smells. Still sunk in the misery of atender stomach, Dakar pressed his cloak hem over his nose to cutthe reek of the tanneries and the dead animal stink of the stock­yards.
"Where in bleak Sithaer are you taking me?" he demanded asArith0n moved ahead like a wraith through a streamer of late-rising fog.
"No place that's civil. I'm sorry." Reappeared in solid outlinein his elegant gray silk, Arithon descended a weathered log stair His highboots wore a fresh coat of wax, no detriment as he picked his waydown a meandering path churned boggy with cow slots and muck.The ground oozed brackish water, and marsh wrens flitted off thefluffed heads of the reed stalks.
 "Not the barge docks at the estuary." Dakar grimaced as the wetsoaked through the scuffed leather shoes he persistently neglected toupkeep. "That's a nasty, rough place to wear pearl-studded clothing.The meat packers there will knock a man flat just on principle, farless to snatch any wealth they think they can clean off of your person."
"We're not dealing with meat packers." Arithon turned sharplyleft off the path. Ahead, the land undulated, ochre on gray, the tuftedsedges and marsh grass skirting the verge of the sinkpools dirtiedwith crusts of salt rime.
 "Damn you!" snapped Dakar, sunk ankle deep in cold water thatshot pain like iced nails through his headache. "Since reasonablepeo­ple don't wear black pearls for a slogging jaunt through the marshes,you might have warned I'd get wet."
A.r~.thon stopped, turned, caught Dakar's moist wrist in hardfin­gers. "I wil! warn you now to stay silent. Where we're going, i~we're seen, we'll find trouble far worse than a meat packer's mannerlessfisticuffs."
 The corollary stayed unspoken, that to chance-met observers withtoo much curiosity, a bard who wore clothing fit for rough countrywould have business other than minstrelsy. Dakar curbed his com­plaint. He sloshed at Arithon's heels for a miserable half league,while his headache settled to roost in his forehead, and his beardbecame snagged with shed seed heads. Ahead, the damp groundarose into a low bluff, combed at the crest with rustling tufts ofpaledune grass. The chatter of male voices issued from the far side, cutthrough by the metallic plink of a smith's hammer. Someone's coarselaughter was met by a shout. As bard and prophet mounted the slope,they heard an intermittent squeal of wood pressed to wood, telltale FUGITIVE PRINCE
 sign that a barge dragged at fixed bollards in the rip of the tidethrough the estuary."There's a landing here?" Dakar ventured in soft inquiry.Arithon nodded, then crouched to avoid being caught in starksil­houette against sky. Screened by the thickets of grass, he pressedfor­ward, then beckoned for Dakar to share his vantage point.The Mad Prophet knelt in his brine-sodden hose. "Smugglers?" hewhispered.
"You'll see." Arithon's face stayed attentively trained forward."Listen." Stilled as a fox, he strained to glean what he could fromthe windblown rags of conversation.
"Fool dogs didn't scent them," one party blustered. He had rust-spotted chain mail and the stance of a braggart, meaty arms crossedon his chest. "The fiends had masked their back trail using greenbrush smeared with otter's musk."~ Through the ongoing throes ofinvolved explanation, someone else cursed the smith for taking afussy long time with his rivets.
The hammer strokes paused, while a curse was returned, andDakar parted the grasses. The headland where he and Arithon shel­tered overhung an alluvial deposit, piled on the bend in one of thechannels which drained the mouth of the Ilswater. The barge dockwhich hosted the current activity nestled beneath the steep curve ofthe bluffs. The planking was unweathered and new, but built to out­last winter storms. The bollards were well sunk and braced in ropedtriplets, with two vessels currently tied. One was a seagoing galleybythe chipped strakes and dulled paint which bespoke the hard usageof a trader. The other was a river barge fitted out as a slaver.Half-naked clansmen stood or sat, chained to steel rings in her deck.
Dakar knew a white-hot explosion of rage, then an ache beyondwords to express. These were the proud keepers of the old and irre­placeable bloodlines whose sworn bond of service began at the dawnof the Third Age. Now, one man's whim reduced their function tobrute labor. By Lysaer's decree of revenge against Maenol, free menwere reduced to the lives of kenneled dogs: a priceless heritagethrown to entropy and waste; a wild pride darkened to resentmentand despair.
A hand touched Dakar's rigid wrist in restraint: Arithon's, infor­bearing compassion. "Those guardsmen can't realize the impactingscope of their action."
Dakar choked down his fury. No excuse salved his nerves; notwhen he had borne living witness to the past, when the clans hadbraved their place as the link between mortal men and the burning, 
 dire grace o~ ~'ne~ParaV~a~s.~S~~ ~tn%~injustice, reduced now to blind hatred and ignorance.0thor crucltieo for their needlessness. The captives had n0ttving beyond the crump/o;/Og//~c0/~'0]7 t~e]?)t]{'~' Most we;eforward marred with old bloodsta~s, testament to the violence of the huntthat had brought them to capture. ~ey numbered a miserable ~0~//~/d~J clothed and ill fed, their hair wind tangled and theirb0di~ ' ' /~ZKexposed to the chilly caprice of the wea................ ,,~ ~ ~4g~g of royal authori~ oversaw the~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~xm~- k~x~­dom, they traded epithets and }okes as the prisoners were ol~­loaae~ 0,~8~ ~ O..fime_ j~om the b~rge. A small fire flickered on the
verge.
~ere, a bandy-legged smith fitted eac8 convict with"bn ~rdn c~t­
and cuffs. His burly apprentice then closed the steel link whichfixed
 their chains to a bench on the deck of the trader's galley.
"Lookit that gimper. Never guess now, but he's the one who foughtlike a wildcat." The speaker with the sergeant's badge sliced a thickfinger down his cheek. "Left our capta~ with a scar his wife won'tforgive. Man beat the fool wretch half-senseless for that. He onlystopped when six headhunters pulled him off. ~eir kind breathe andpiss for their money, I swear. To Sithaer with all else, the bountywas half if the puking clan vermin upped and died."
Sickened now by worse than a hangover, Dakar saw t~ough themarks of old bruises, and recognized just whose wrists were beingfit­ted with pe~anent fetters. ~e young man who stood, fightingtremors of pain, was none other than the scout from Caithwood whohad provided the spare horse for Caolle.
The sight was one to brand the mind for cruel sorrow: the scout,chin raised, unwilling to show his graff captors one sign that degra­dation and suffering touched his spirit. He did not fl~ch as the ham­mer blows closed the steel rivets, nor when the soldier grasped hislank braid and hacked the hair short at his nape. His face wore thebattering bruises of rough handling. ~e arm and shoulder showedthe livid scabs left from untended wounds. He walked with a stum­bling limp as ~o guards prodded him up the ganglank to the gal­ley. ~ere, his forest-bred ne~e almost failed him. ~e soldiers had tobundle him up to the bench, force him down, and hold him, while theapprentice clubbed his jaw to make way for the tools that wouldleave him chained like an animal.
 Dakar shut his eyes against pi~ and tears. ~e chance was tooreal,that the ships built at Riverton would become the last hope to saveTysan's dwindled clan bloodlines. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 "You do see," whispered Arithon. "Maenol's people must be giventhe fair means to fight back."
Dakar swallowed. He had no argument for stark necessity. Norcould he summon the cold-hearted logic to decry that the dangersposed too grave a risk for a prince already under curse by the Mist-wraith. As a vicious, damp gust raked over the bluff and razed firstwarning of winter in a chill that bit to the bone, he took sharp noteof the season. "It's late in the year. Too late for a galley to roundStormwell Cape. The ice will be moving already in Northstrait. Thatship can't make passage to MiraIt.""No," Arithon agreed. "There's another incentive as you'll see."For the galley captain had poked his head out of his snug cabin.His shout carried clearly to the guard on the dock, who wore the sun-wheel badge of authority. That one unhooked his thumb from his beltand strode aboard. Amid brief discussion, he pulled something fromhis tunic. A tied leather pouch changed hands. The galleyman shookthe contents. The greed in his smile exposed yellow teeth as herippedopen the strings and counted the coin, the pale flash of gold abrightnote under the rubbed velvet of the overcast sky.
"That's a bribe for the harbormaster at Cheivalt," Arithon said.Even through his low tone of voice, the sorrow wrenched through."They defy King Eldir's edict to move the slaves southward throughHavish. Once past Mornos, no mayor in Shand will scruple to disbarslave-bearing galleys from the seaports. These men will be resold inShandor or Vhalzein. If no one intervenes, they might labor untiltheir death on the southern trade routes."
 "We can stop them." Dakar shoved stubby fingers through his hair,thinking furious and fast through his hangover. "Send word aheadthat corruption has undermined Havish's edict."
Arithon's answering smile was cold as the north-shadowed side ofa glacier. "I trust I'm forgiven the price of wet feet? Without anaccu­rate description of that galley, we could do nothing at all."
Dakar blinked. "Demon," he murmured. "How did you knowwhere to look for this shifty transaction?"
"That guard sergeant drank in our taproom last night," Arithonmurmured in reply. "It's a galleyman's dive, you had to have noticed.The fellow made his contact, then got into his cups and bragged ofhis cleverness to a trollop. Amazing, how men with a chit in their lapthink a bard won't take note of plainspoken words while he's play­ing." The Master of Shadow backed down from the crest then, hiseyes grim as fired enamel. "We should go. There are urgent letters tobe written and sent, and no more to gain here but heartache." 
Late Autumn 5652 
Liaison 
Lysaer's royal galley rowed into the snug port at Narms against thebitter gales which presaged the ending of autumn. Despite wind andrain, the city did him honor by staging a sumptuous celebration.Feel­ing ran high in the packed state guildhall. Delegates had traveledfrom the far shore of Rathain to fete the prince's grand entry. Thecities of Highscarp, Jaelot, and Werpoint owned a tangible reason toshow gratitude, since the crown's generous restitution for every gal­ley destroyed by the Master of Shadow at Minderl Bay. Pensions wereallotted for the families left fatherless, and then new ships,replacedout of Tysan's royal treasury; the gifts did not end with fair framesand stout planking. Daily, there arrived the convict clan crews tosat­isfy losses to labor.
Rathain's grateful guildsmen had underwritten the night's feast.The wine and the toasts flowed freely. The hour was late when thePrince of the Light shook off his ardent admirers. He shed the adora­tion of the last clinging sycophants and retired at length to hischam­ber.
 The Lord Mayor of Narms had provided his visiting royalty with alarge suite of rooms commanding the sweep of the harbor. The fur­nishings were heavy, varnished black walnut, and the rugs, woven ingold ropes with the deep scarlet dyes for which Narms was famed farand wide. The bedhangings had been scented with dried rose petals.The basin held lavender water. Towels and soap were of the firstqual­ity, and a tray of rare vintage wine had been left as a courtesy. 
202 FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 Lysaer paused in the first private moment he had known since thehour his state galley had left MiraIt Head. As his body servantlatched the door gently behind him, he resisted the frank urge to raise hishands and massage the ache in his temples. His arrival had gone well.The pledges obtained for money and troops to build the resources ofhis Alliance had poured in, fanned by the bow wake of excitement.Much rode on his ability to fire such sentiment.
This was the first diplomatic visit he had paid to Rathain sincethe catastrophic loss, when the Master of Shadow had bogged down hisgreat war host on the shores of Minderl Bay. Letters and gifts hadkept feelings running high in the Alliance's favor, even after sixyears.Well cognizant of the snares of intrigue and politics still left tosur­mount to bring the Spinner of Darkness to destruction, Lysaer stood,feeling leaden. The luxuries placed in the room for his pleasure didnot comfort, an oddity that jarred after the privations of a roughand arduous sea crossing.
Then memory smashed through the warm haze of wine. On his lastpass through Narms, his best friend and confidant had still beenalive. Now Diegan was dead, and Lady Talith estranged. Lysaer hadno antidote for the loneliness, except to carry forward the cause ofthe Light. Arithon's ruin became the last thing in life to have meaning.
Oppressed by the cloy of patchouli on his skin from thesmotheringadmiration of several trade ministers' wives, Lysaer waved off theservant, Who moved to close the dagged velvet curtains. "Just crackthe latch. I need the fresh air."
 Tired, made tense from the drag of his diamond-and-gold collar,Lysaer closed his eyes and surrendered his person to the ubiquitouscare of his valet. Stripped, bathed in warm water and clove oil, andreclothed in silk, he settled under blankets loomed by the finestcraft-guild in Cildorn.
"Leave the one candle burning," he instructed his servant, thoughthe silent, trained staff who attended him since Vastmark all knew:the one light was never permitted to go out. The prince never slept indarkness lest he suffer the torment of recurrent ill dreams. His ser­vants were discreet. They did not speak of the fear that Lord Dieganhad shared like a brother; that the fate the prince shouldered forthe greater good of humanity might prove too great a destiny for one man.Lysaer stood apart with his given gift of light. He lived by hispromiseas defender of the innocent, though the burden to banish threat ofsor­cery and shadow at times seemed to sear through his blood. Dieganalone had tempered those moments when the mere sight of darknesscould fracture his reason and drive him to targetless rage. 
]ANNY W U~lo
 Now, Lysaer took no chances. His dffving wig to see his nemesisdead must not slip his contro! on the unquiet wings oś night' sshadow.
 The servants had stopped suggesting that he take a mistress.Alter Talith, no woman born could ease the cruel quandary ośh/s solitude.New staff were warned not to question. Since the friend who hadbeen his right hand died in Vastmark, ever and always, Lysaers'Ilessid passed the hours before daybreak alone. His honor guardknew to stand fast at his door. They would admit no one short of amessenger bearing word of war or disaster.
Tonight, Lysaer did not sleep. Weary as he was, relaxed to pam­pered lassitude, an indefinable edge kept him wakeful. The odd feel­ing plagued him, as though something unseen and unheard lurked inthe dimness and watched him. Since the momentous occasion when the shade of a Fellowship Sorcerer had visited with news of hiswife's abduction, he did not feel the fool for indulging in paranoid fancy.
For at least the third time, he surveyed the sumptuous appoint­ments of his bedchamber.
 The painted door was still closed and latched. His jewels andclothes from the feast had been tidied and folded into the chest bythe armoire. The ironbound coffers with his tactical maps and correspon­dence were locked and stacked in neat order. His servants were effi­cient. In well-oiled habit, they had arranged the basin and standwith clean towels. The floor gleamed, mopped clean of slopped water, andbuffed with a shine of new wax. Beyond the cracked casement, thelate-burning torches by the quayside taverns wore cocoons of risingmist. The harbor was peaceful. At the mouth of the inlet, the signal-man's bell clanged to guide inbound ships through the channel. Adog barked, and a carriage ground past. Through the distanced chat­ter of departing celebrants, the rhythmic tramp of a wall sentry car­ried in on the breeze from the tideflats. The night seemed tranquil and ordinary in the port city of Narms.Lysaer combed a last glance through the comer which held thepearl-and-lacquer gleam of the secretary's desk. And this time, hesaw that in fact, the room where he lay was not empty.
A woman sat on the lion claw stool. Her pose was so still thehands clasped in her lap might have been shaped of smoothedivory. Her face lay obscured, sunk in the depths of a hood of violetsilk. Her sleeves and hemline wore six bands in silver, the sheen ofmetallic cloth like chrome ribbon snap-frozen into black ice. Onlythe quartz pendant on its chain at her breast moved in time to herbreathing.
"Koriani," gasped Lysaer. Woolen blankets tumbled over his knees 
204 FUGITIVE ~RINCE
 jackknifed erect in hard startlement. "What are you doing here?fid you get past my guards?"
~ ~.'oman's hood dipped to a fractional tilt of her head. "They...... ~'~ly as much as I wished them to see." One finger flicked-r~;!~~ in sudden, sharp censure. "No. Don't call. I'm not here asenemy."~'~ were not invited," Lysaer said, his consonants clear as,ect crystal. "Let me be pla'm. The Alliance of Light is opposed to~' ! ~.~rannies imposed by the practice of sorcery."
!he glamour which allowed me to slip in with your servants~ ~ached upon no one's free will." The hands were a young~ ~an's, which lifted and removed the dark hood; underneath, aof baby-smooth skin and a coil of salt-and-pepper hair neatly:ulpted with tortoiseshell pins. The eyes were clear brown, and:irect, and not youthful at all. She had lips like the pink undersideof ~ conch, turned up in a half smile of irony. "Credit me with somesem­blance of courtesy. I could have made my presence known while you~.~ere engaged in your bath."
If the enchantress sought to unbalance him, the effort fellshort. ,ysaer turned not a hair, nor blushed, but regarded her with a calm' hat transcended small vanity. "Under any circumstance, I wouldú lave refused your public petition for audience."
The Koriani laughed, a peal of joy like the struck tone of bronze~ells. "You fear for your image of morality, I see, far more than for,,our male pride. Very well. Since I have obtained your close company~n my own, you might as well sit and listen. I've came to offer you~ny order's help to bring down the Master of Shadow."
Lysaer stood up. The quilt slid from the mattress and puddled on,he floor, while his hands closed to fists defined in white knuckles~nd hard tendons. "I am listening," he assured her. "But I warn, betery careful what you say."
He crossed the thick carpet, turned the stuffed chair by thecase­ment, and seated himself on the opposite side of the secretary. Ananearthly gleam seemed to burn in his eyes, the pinned highlighttouched by the candle as hard as a cut facet in sapphire. His damphair clung in fronds to his head, tarnished and heavy as spilled var­nish.
 Through a grave stillness, the enchantress took his measure. Hersmile was gone, and her hands cupped the quartz crystal pendantstrung on silver chain at her breast. "Our kind make no bargains,"she said at chill length. "Nor am I here by any other will but thebid­ding of Morriel Prime. She would have you know that she shares 
205 
your conviction. The M~s~e~ oft %kx~6~o~ ~ose~
growth of society. Koriathain will assist your ~.,ur~ee
one enemy if you ask. Remember our pledge. Keep your captains a~
arms vigilant, no matter the season. We have cast auguries on the
future. My Matriarch would have me say that your opening to take
down Arithon will come far sooner than you think."

The question burned through even Lysaer's state discipline."When will this happen?"
"You shall have fair warning." The enchantress raised a fingerand traced a sigil in burning lines on the air. The glyph flared brightvio­let, then flashed, shocking sight with its blinding intensity. Lysaerthrew his hands up to shield his face. In the second he was dazzled,the light burst and vanished into a soundless clap of heat.
The stool where the enchantress had been seated stood empty inthe draft-torn flutter of the candle.
 Lysaer shot from his chair The beautiful carved back smashed intothe wall, raising chips and a small puff of plaster. Barefoot,sweating,all over unclean from his bone-deep revulsion for magecraft, he pacedover the floor He searched every corner, banged open the doors to thearmoire, even hurled the bedhangings free of their tasseled silkcords. He found nothing. No sign remained of the enchantress who hadinvaded his chamber. The stuffed cushion on the stool felt ice chill in the breath of the drafts. The street beyond the casement lay shadowedand dim, empty of mongrels or carriages.
Lysaer crossed to the nightstand, uncorked the wine bottle, andsucked down the vintage red from Orvandir in gulps. The dry heatthat curled in his belly did nothing to settle the prickle of fear onhis skin. He fought for cool reason. The wild heat in his blood was notrational, he k~e~, but extended back into childhood. The distrustthat ripped him began with his mother, a s'2khel~s w~tch who had marrieda king, and then undone her vows in betrayal. Her perfidy had cre­ated his nemesis, the bastard born Master of Shadow.
Unsettled, Lysaer paced to the window again. The bite of the seawind bit through his thin silk and set him shuddering in waves ofreaction. Too tense to be dreaming, he decided the Koriani presencemust have been an apparition, brought on by a waking illusion.
Real or not, her words remained with him, a branding gift of livecoals well designed to ignite the full flame of his passion. Con­sumed by the spark of his secret desire, Lysaer stared unseeing intothe fog which settled over the dark harbor. He could not rest now.Sleep lay past reach, while the greater good of moral justice didbat­tle with his most staunch private scruple. He sweated and shook, 
2O6 FUGITIVE I~RINCE 
brought to his knees by a need that wrung merit from even thisunsavory liaison.
In the self-searching depths of a tormented honesty, he allowedthat perhaps his harsh judgment had been premature. Spellcraftcould become a tool or a weapon. The outcome depended on whosehands guided the range of its power. The Koriani Order long claimedto champion the cause of humanity. In all fairness, he must grantthem their chance to stand by compassionate principle. Now thattheir arcane support had been offered, he could turn down noprospect of help to bring Arithon s'Ffalenn to destruction. 
207 Late Autumn--Early Winter 5652 
Dualities 
In Narms, after sunrise, when the royal valet undertakes the prince'sdressing, he finds his charge in a rare, testy mood; too timid togain­say the direct order not to speak, he does not mention the odditythat only a personal servant might notice: sometime in the night, a smalllock of hair has been snipped from the nape of the royal neck ....
 A fortnight after Arithon's arrival at Riverton, the master ship­wright, Cattrick, sits morose in his quarters, head pressed betweenhis huge hands; diligently he has tried, and failed, to provokeArithon to distrust, and now time runs out to thwart the betrayal demandedas service for a Koriani oath of debt, sworn years ago to save ayoungsister stricken with fever in childbed ....
 Far south and east, oblivious to the greater machinations of herorder, the enchantress Elaira smiles upon a black-haired child andpromises on the day of his fifth birthday she will saddle her fatgeld­ing and begin his first lesson in horsemanship .... 
208 Early Winter 5652 
VI. Tangle 
Snow silted over the rooftops of Capewell and frost-chilly lightpoured in with the drafts through the tower's misfitted case­ment. On the landing beneath, First Senior Lirenda stood shiv­ering in her layers of travel-soaked woolens. Before her loomed theobservatory door, laced still with the tracework glimmer of sealskeptundisturbed since Morriel Prime's fateful conjury. Raised power hadcharged the air over time. Even the dust held a singed, acrid tang ofcharred carbon. An unsettled presence in the gloom of the stairwell,the peeress of the Koriani sisterhouse and her staff of enchantresseshung waiting.
The dignity of privilege bred into her long bones, Lirenda atlast gave opinion, her husky, bronze tones sheared into a thousandfoldechoes. "The chamber must be unsealed, no matter the risk." Sheinclined her head toward a spiderworked nexus of sigils. "I sensestayspells in play, ones powerful enough to bend the forward flow oftime. That lends cause to hope. Our Prime might still be alive."
The peeress advanced, her soft, oval face dimpled with apprehen­sion. Small need to stress that if the Prime lived, the least upsetto a meshed net of ward fields might compound disaster and kill her.
Well aware the woman's silence masked censure, Lirenda facedabout, all poured grace in her travel-muddied mantles. "What of thetwo initiates trapped inside when the spells sealed? Should they also 
209 
 JANN.

 be left entombed alive? Mercy on them, in the absence of our Prime,the burden of their fate becomes mine."
 The peeress curtseyed, her deference made awkward by the steep,narrow stair, and the enchantresses close pressed behind her. "FirstSenior, no one questions your judgment." For more than the lives ofthree colleagues were at risk; the order's Great Waystone couldscarcely be abandoned in the resonance of malingering influence.
A s?ell had gone wrong within that sealed chamber. Behind sealsthat blocked scr, ving, who knew what raised powers I2qJght e$colveconjured channels and run wild. Such deviated śorces couM not dis­perse naturally, hemmed in by wardfields of containment that timeand attrition would destabilize. Leaked vectors of current mightresurge decades later in unpredictable, even lethal flares ofbacklash. Had Morriel engaged the Waystone's grand matrix to frame the mainaxis of the construct, a derangement of unbalanced forces could seedanything from cyclones to broadscale cataclysm.
The wise old peeress harbored nothing but dread for her FirstSenior's designated duty.
Lirenda bent her head and raised her banded hood, but never tohide trepidation. She might wish heart and mind to share thepeeress'sgrief for the fresh risks to Morriel's plight. The icier trutheclipsed sen­timent: the challenge ahead did not daunt, but instead, incited theFirst Senior's strung nerves to a guilt-fed flame of excitement.
On a threshold of perilous responsibility, when the innate flawsof mor~ality should have shaken self-confidence, Lirenda felt estrangedfrom the shrinking caution of her peers. Authority and rank of them­selves did not distance her. No; what marked her apart was her sin­ful, fierce lust for the chance to acquire supreme power.
Lirenda well knew the deep pitfalls of ambition. Her craving forcontrol could calcify pity, even grow to undermine the Koriani creedof human mercy. Through the long, lonely nights after trials ofinitia­tion, she had battled her willful nature. Yet like the addict'ssecret pleasure, need chafed at restraint. The drive to grasp the reins ofcom­mand found neither outlet nor surcease; self-contained as the huntingtigress, Lirenda understood herself very well. She would rule the pack rather than serve.
"I will rest and eat," she informed the peeress and the anxiouscoterie of enchantresses. "By the advent of noon, I want a contain­ment seal wrought at the head of the stairwell. Set a second one atthe lower entrance. Then my work to breach the wards on the observa­tory will begin." 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 Reclothed in an overrobe of lavender silk stitched with the 
silver bands of her rank, Lirenda withdrew from her survey of the stilettobars of light which demarked the seal construct just raised betweenthe stairwell and the warded threshold of the observatory. The
protec­tions laid down by the sisterhouse's senior circle proved flawless,each detail precise in execution. Lirenda had cross-checked eachinterstice. Should any skewed force slip past her control, the
sister­house residents and the citizens of Capewell would be safe beyondsound defenses.
 "Well-done," she said in perfunctory praise, then opened the boxat her side to unveil the quartz point which would channel her will forthe conjury.
The senior enchantress inclined her gray head in acceptance, thenmotioned her twelve colleagues forward to their places. Sheunmasked a wand crystal to cut and mark the boundary of contain­ment for the conjury about to commence.
No need to review every nuance and precaution; from here, allpro­ceedings would follow an age-old, proscribed set of rituals. Eachiniti­ate chosen for the task was experienced with the perils of unstableconjuries. Their nerves or trepidation stayed masked in decorum asthey knelt in a rustle of purple skirts to serve the greater good ofthe Koriani Order. Arrayed in the traditional circle, each one cupped herpersonal quartz and murmured a cantrip of opening. A slow minutepassed, the crystals a mute spark of light between each pair ofhands. Then their solitary wills caught and engaged with the energeticmatrix of the stones. Each enchantress spun her awareness in tranceto channel through the master crystal held poised between the FirstSenior's palms.
Lirenda engaged the sigils of command to capture each individualthread. Then she framed the binding seals to comb disparate energiesinto aligned subservience. The familiar, tingling build of drawnforce poured down her nerves like a tonic. Her own senses heightened inlink with the quartz crystal's burgeoning resonance. The air gained atranscendent clarity, then transformed, a shimmering veil throughwhich the webworked lattice of raised power seemed as ribbons oflaced silver light. Lirenda's sole will linked her circle of sisterinitiates until their collateral talent framed a spearshaft of balanced intent.
Cipher and rune, Lirenda wrought the last seal. Through themoment of consummation, stray thoughts dissolved. Here, at the heartof Koriani ritual, linked with an empowered focus crystal, she foundthe unalloyed thrill of fulfillment. All the aching, hollow yearninginside her lay banished by absolute control. 
 Her touch, and no other, couJd order the moment. She wasnexus to spin that reservoir of force and break Morriel's wards ofpri­vacy over the observatory door.The sword-edged delicacy of that unbinding took most of the
after­
noon. Those seniors who assisted emerged from tranced melding
exhausted and pale with relief. They grounded their energies, dis­
banded their circle, then asked formal leave with a dutiful lack of
curiosity.
Their First Senior spoke the time-honored release. "Your will isyour OWn."
Outside the slit window, new snow caught the aquamarine tint ofthe afterglow. Farther of L the eventide chime of the kitchen bellsummoned the orphan wards to supper. Lirenda did not crave theteeming warmth of human company. Taxed by her hours of closeconcentration, she touched tapered fingertips to her shut lids.
The flaring, harsh afterimage of the last, enchained sigils feltbranded into her retinas. A tremor shook through her. Dampenedskin under smothering layers of silk prickled through an aftershockof chills, as her stressed thoughts skittered across a razor array ofdark facts. The Prime Matriarch's workings to safeguard this portalhad been unimaginably thorough.
Wrapped in a disapproving silence like armor, the peeressremained stationed in the stairwell. The safety of the sisterhouse atCapewell was her given charge. Far removed from her cozy, first postas a ward matron, and happiest with a toddler on her knee, she shoul­dered the need to witness what passed, despite her stiff grounds forobjection.
Always made to feel unnatural before others endowed with thenurturing, female instincts, Lirenda arose. She closed a chilled handover the icier brass of the latch. Her untamed thrill of anticipationnever showed as she set herself to violate her Prime's most guardedconfidence. Aware that such elaborate defenses might stem from aneed to thwart observation from the Fellowship, Lirenda loosed thebar. She pushed the portal inward, pressured by passions she hadstriven all her life to contain.
 The door swung wide to a whisper of pressed air. Darkness beyondhung like unmarked slate, sliced through by shining lines of argent.Morriel's spell construct sheared across gloom in breath-stopping,mas­terful splendor. Circle upon square, each interstice sang inmeticulous balance, multiple layers of enchained sigils looped in knots likefili­gree wire trapped in felt. The weave displayed an unnerving complex­ity, centrally anchored by a stayspell which fixed its point oforigin in 
212 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

the past. Lirenda found herself mazed into wonder. Those entanglingradiants resisted translation, nor could dazzled eyesight track everyspiral, which channeled the conjury's influence outward to arcthrough an unformed future.
At a predestined moment, this majestic array of spells wouldresolve and shape an event of Morriel's design. "Merciful maker!" Lirenda breathed in awe.
 Imagination foundered. The effects of stark beauty and sheerterror stopped her breath. Sparked to hot jealousy and raging despair, sheknew beyond question her skills were inadequate to match such abroadscale endeavor. If Morriel Prime had passed the Wheel intodeath, that one shortfall might brand her successor forever. Lirendacoveted the knowledge not yet in her hands with a passion of savageproportion.
The paradox stymied her raging ambition.
Either she waited to assume the supreme mantle of her order, orshe lived all her days galled by the loss of an irreplaceable legacy.A live Prime Matriarch or a shriveled corpse: the cipher which entan­gled her destiny lurked in fusty darkness, coiled inside of thoseper­ilous, dagger-edged spells.
The peeress's tentative inquiry shattered her furious thought."Did anyone survive?"
Lirenda called back through the entry, "I'm not sure yet." Shedrew a steadying breath, freighted with smells of dank stone and charredherbs, but no reek of corrupted flesh. An untrustworthy reassurance,since the might of the inaugural stayspell itself would arrest thepro­gression of decay. Nor could she plumb the silence with spells. Wardsdrawn and laid on the axis of the earth were not permeable. Even cur­sory review showed the outermost circle demarked a sealed pocket intime.
 The purpose which guided the construct stayed hidden. To knowMorriel's fate and recover the Great Waystone, her successor mustbridge those dire protections, then walk the convoluted maze to itscenter.
 "You may enter the observatory," Lirenda informed the peeress."I'll need a wise senior to keep vigil."
Three tentative steps masked in rustling cloth; then the stunnedgasp as the enchantress arrived and shared sight of the construct'smagnificence. "First Senior, for prudence, the safest course would bea ritual cleansing to unmake every line of that patterning."
"I know. Yet we daren't." No flutter ruffled Lirenda's poise asshe cupped the spell crystal strung on silver chain at her neck. "The 
JANNY WURTS 

importance of this design must be paramount. How dare we counter­mand our Prime's signal will? I fear worse, to unravel the leastvector of power without knowing the reason for her act of self-sacrifice."
The peeress smoothed back a loose wisp of hair, ill at ease inthe face of necessity. "Be cautious, First Senior, for all of our sakes.With the world brought to strife by the works of cursed princes, the Kori­ani Order cannot afford to lose both Prime and successor."
 Lirenda stared back, her eyes impenetrable as flawed amber "Iwill not fail. And Morriel might still be recovered alive."
Too aware the ordeal would test every facet of her training, shedis­patched her final instructions. "Stay alert. If the energy flow inthe sigils tums sour, don't rely on the wards of containment. Collapsethe construct immediately, and close the door with a grave seal."
The peeress stepped back, torn into reluctant discomfort. "Yourwill, First Senior."
But already, Lirenda forged ahead. The chain in her hand stitchedcobalt reflections across gloom as she bent her trained mind throughthe crystal, then dangled its focus as a pendulum over the rimwardsof Morriel Prime's outer circle.
 Just as a mirror would give back the light, the quartz caughtvibra­tions in resonance. Attuned through its matrix, Lirenda allowed thestone's captured energy to suffuse the waiting, blank eye of her con­sciousness. Guided by discipline, she allowed Morriel's work toimprint its pattern in her mind.
Guard and defense, the ward showed her emptiness, a fathomlesswell of negative space to freeze breathing flesh and stop the heart.The crystal spun deosil on its chain. A hint of a smile bowedLirenda's rose lips. She advanced a half stride widdershins, herquartz poised above the figured ward. Its clear facets flashed likeflaked mica, whirling faster, then faster still. Lirenda took anotherstep. The jewel flared brighter, a blue spark gouged out of stygiandark. Still the fleezing void gripped its interface, translatingthroughto her mind.
 The draw of the circle was steady in deception, its blanknesscloaked in a numbing, seductive sense of peace. Lirenda stayedguarded. A Prime Matriarch's protections were to be feared. Any gapin her personal defenses, and the ward's shrouding vacuum wouldsweep past control and smash her link to conscious memory. An infi­nite expanse of null energy would draw spirit from flesh, and see herlost utterly and forever.
Lirenda trod the rim of the construct, her palms lightlysweating,the chain between her pinched fingers a vibrating thread whirled by a 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 crystal tuned to madness. Step upon step, she sought the one cipherof opening that should be wrought into every formal conjury fash­ioned under Koriani auspices.
Another pace, another; the spinning quartz raised a faint,waspishhum from the chain. The darkness with its smells of tarnish and dust shrouded the edges of vision. Light-headed with strain, Lirendaforced burning eyes back to focus. She refused the underminingdread, that Morriel's design might have omitted the sigil sherequiredfor access.
 That moment the chain jerked. Its tethered crystal snapped thelinks rigid and hung as if nailed to the earth.
Lirenda wrung out a sigh of relief. Her nerve was iron and herleft hand precise as she raised power and engaged the prime successor'scipher through the heart of her focus crystal. The quartz flared acidyellow in reply. As that key answered its matching lock, a handspanarc of the ward circle flickered from blue to acidic gold. The accesspoint opened.
Lirenda crossed the abyss. Dread forces held in abeyance throughher passage scoured her nerves into tingles. Her skin felt scraped byrazor-edged steel and her vision blanched into static. She had noper­ception, no balance, no will. Only faith assured safe completion ofher step. Reason and substance reassembled at last as her foot came backdown on solid stone. She was through. The blinding veils tore away.
Around her, entombed stone and dusty darkness hung with analkaline scent of chalk. Hemmed by the impeccable vibrations of thewards, Lirenda settled her riled senses. Her course was committed.From the moment she engaged with the spell's inner workings, thesigil which granted her entry would fade. Should Morriel still live,the pattern must be followed through to its end without disturbingthe least, subtle vector of laid force. Had Morriel died, Lirendamust survive to contain whatever raging chaos had brought her PrimeMatriarch's downfall.
 Possessed by a clean, analytical calm, Lirenda surveyed herprospects. Behind her, the defense wards glimmered their fixed,arctic blue. Ahead, scribed in lines like hot fire, the active core of the con-jury blazed like a slow fuse, bound to its preset course. The slateslabs underfoot wore a glimmer of chalked sigils, the inaugural runesdimmed to spiderworked tracks where the energy had consumeditself in completion. Among them, Lirenda picked out bronze pans ofspent ashes arrayed at each point of the compass. The scents ofcharred herbs had long since melded into the ambient dust, yet the ~:~i: ~ JANNY WURTS 
placement tied the construct through space and distance in ritualalignment with the land.
Lirenda wadded her cloak hem and skirts into the grip of crampedfingers, that no haphazard eddy could smear the febrile chains ofdead ciphers. She eased her way along the inner rim of the ward cir­cle until she found the Paravian rune, An, which meant prime, or one,or beginning, and without which no work of Koriani spellcraft couldbe engaged on Athera.
The significating figure interlaced with that rune seemed a knot-work of arcs, configured with maddening intricacy. Lirenda pausedthere, confounded. This elaborate work of conjury did not frame thefoil she expected against interference by Fellowship Sorcerers. Ham­pered by the unsettled light, the Prime Senior freed her quartz andchain for another arcane sounding. She dangled the crystal above thefaint chalk lines, hopeful, yet no residual energy remained for thestone to recapture in resonance. She had no alternative but to retirethe sigil, lend it a spark from her own conjured will to trace itsorigi­nal vibration. The quartz as her focus, she bent her will through thematrix. A lifetime of training enabled its virtue to channel hertalent into an applicable force.
She stilled curiosity to listening silence, then threaded atenuous connection. The lines on the floor responded and flared a fleeting,subliminal purple. Their imprinted resonance surged through thequartz link, and touched her ready awareness.
She grasped that the construct framed the individual Name for aman, but no more.
Her sounding of his analog presence stormed through her liketide,an unassailable, blanketing warmth of connection that shattered allpride and restraint. Lirenda could summon no breath for denial; herstunned mind allowed her no grace for retreat. His innate compassionsheared like struck lightning across the quartz interface, to flash-burn her frozen emotions. Unwanted fascination held her in thrall, whileintegrity unraveled before a force like winged song, an aching, pureexpression of melody that pealed through her woman's heart andfilled all the hollowness within her.
 Lost as she touched what could never be hers within bounds of the Koriani Order, Lirenda cried out. However she cringed and postured,this one man held the potential capacity to know her. His intuitiveawareness could strip away pretense and lay bare the self she kepthidden.
 Every buried sorrow escaped from containment as water mightburst from shocked glass: all of a young girl's mute yearning torefute FUGITIVE PRINCE
 her mother's withering criticism. Cosseted by wealth and strictexpectations, hounded to polished deportment, Lirenda still harboredthe sawing, helpless misery left by her childhood feelings of
useless­ness. Her bleeding retreat from self-expression, then the refuge shecarved out of rigid perfectionism had matured to a gnawing ambi­tion. Hurt long denied now became pleasure thwarted, until the maskshe wore ripped away. Her present existence became useless motion,a dance step play of meaningless shadows.
Inner barriers crumbled as the male presence tied through Mor­riel's spell invited her to discard empty posturing and anneal herwhole being into change.
Stranger to herself, spun giddy by a siren call to cast offrestraint and embrace the freedom of laughter, Lirenda understood that herarmor of reserve might dissolve at a touch and bare her vulnerableheart. One man might command such power to change her. Shegasped, torn through by a savagery of need beyond the bounds of herpast experience. Fear snapped her poise. She gave way to a firestormof tears, when in callous fact, she had never before let self-pityover­whelm her.
 Her violated pride at last sparked true rage, to stab throughrank turmoil and redeem her.
 Hurled back into still, dusty dark and the comfortless flare ofsealed spells, Lirenda knelt in the suffocating velvet of her formalrobes of high office. Her quartz pendant and chain hung slack in herhands, as though bone, flesh, and nerve had been scorched. Ath, Athpreserve, she knew this man's nature, with his devastating,forthrightperception of hidden truths. Never mind he was a living danger tothe world, with no thought at all for her dedicated life inside theKori­ani Order. His existence was a threat to unstring heart and mind,then whirl her like a moth to its brainless immolation in a lantern flame.
 Alone in chill darkness, Lirenda gasped a vengeful curse on hisname. For the lynchpin of the construct Morriel had conjured heldnone else but the imprinted signature for Arithon, Prince of Rathain.
The discovery wounded like double-edged steel, that the ShadowMaster's fate lay entangled with Koriani destiny. Lirenda locked herteeth in frustrated resentment. Of course, the Prime Matriarch mustsuspect her hidden weakness for the ill-starred Teir's'Ffalenn. Noother reason expla'med Morriel's need to tie his movements in direspells and secrecy.
Lirenda stood. A twisted cry escaped her. Arithon, unholy firesof creation, Arithon s'Ffalenn had been the instrument of disaster totrig­ger the Matriarch's downfall. The irony all but choked her, that he 
JANNY WURTS 

might also became the signal turn of fate to transfer the reins ofprimepower into her impatient hands. The reason why remained twinedwith the riddle behind Morriel's grand conjury.
Between the glacial glimmer of the defense ward and the surging,core brilliance of active magecraft, the chalked chains of cipherswhich keyed the spell's purpose extended in tangling spirals. Lirendareleased the crushed links of silver embedded into her palm. Unableto quell the tremor in her knees, she buffed the clammy fog ofperspi­ration from her crystal. The misfortune of Arithon's Name as signifi­cator posed a most thorny complication.
Her annoyance found voice in startling venom. "Merciful Ath,prince, if Morriel's died of this, you'll regret the light of daythat saw you born."
Lirenda grasped her quartz and rapped out a cantrip to raise aspark of illumination. Its firefly glow caught the rune Shayn, fortwo,stitched through the seals of a tracking spell. The locus which keyedits activation sprang from a riverside inn along the Ilswater inTysart.Slaved to that sequence, Lirenda uncovered the Name form forDakar, then Caolle's as well, hooked and tagged by the spellbinder'sglamour to disguise his native clan accent. The reason for the triadpresented no mystery. Morriel had wished to trace Arithon's move­ments. As safeguard against his wily nature, she tied in his henchmento assure an unbroken connection.
 The lines off the third figure held branching complexity. Lirendarecognized the triplicate axis of the seer's rune, then the mazedciphers for diversion and secrecy, joined to trigger threads for adeli­cate array of spring traps. The spell became more than a straightfor­ward scrying. Morriel had wrought against the code of the KorianiOrder to curtail the freedom of a prince.
Lirenda refused to pass judgment for that transgression of found­ing principle. Arithon s'Ffalenn was a catalyst of unprecedented andvolatile potential. Discomfited herself by unruly attraction, she sawtoo well how his influence had once spoiled the faith of a promisingyoung initiate. Perhaps in the greater reach of her wisdom, MorrielPrime saw past Elaira's tragic defection to some threat to thesister­hood at large. Or worse: the might of this construct may well havebeen raised to shield Lirenda herself from temptation. Koriani codeheld no recourse. Any romantic entanglement would disbar her fromprime succession.
"Never that," the First Senior avowed, shamed by demeaning pos­sibility. Hatred scorched through her, that the man could exist withpotential to tear the least flaw in her loyalty. 
FUGITIVE I~R1NCE

 She pressed on to shed her embarrassment. Meticulous strings ofsigils fanned into a widening net, until Arithon's movements werenot only traced, but stalked outright. As the first chains of circum­stance branched right and left to rearrange destiny and entrap,Lirenda felt no surprise. By then, leading evidence established hisrole as Morriel's earmarked quarry. The progression unfolded withdiabolical care, the Prime's plot stitched unerringly throughArithon's machinations at Riverton to suborn Lysaer's royal ship­yard.
Lirenda deciphered the unwinding course of events, forced toadmire the artistry of invention, as a bard's salty repertoire madethe Laughing Captain a haunt for sailhands and shipwrights. Through aseason's cagey dealings with Cattrick, while Dakar blunted his wor­ries through drink, Morriel's neat craft passed unnoticed. Springtrapand trigger, Arithon's course became flanked in a narrowing channel,scribed in surreptitious power and plain chalk.
Lirenda paused to stretch a cramp from her hand. The crystal onits chain had warmed from hard use. She nestled it between her palmsand chanted clearing cantrips, while her arcane connection to a frag­ment of happenstance reeled on to display a spectral recast of a dia­logue spoken days since. The trace resonance of sound preserved byspent sigils cast whispered echoes through the deadened air of theobservatory...
 'When's the next launching?' murmured a flaxen-haired bard in avoice unmistakably Arithon's, while from a tucked pose in a scarlet-cushioned window seat, the broad-shouldered master of Tysan'sroyal shipyard weighed his every word with the slit-eyed contentionof a lynx.
'Next week,' Cattrick drawled. 'The gilders are still fussingwith her brightwork. If the riggers and splicers are left to their gnashingrow over top­ping lifts, the shakedown could stretch a bit longer.' A pause for asmile of provocative, white teeth. 'You know this brig's going to be tougher.The disappearance of the last was blamed on green officers, so this timethey'veassigned the tried and trusty.'
The bard sheared a needle-bright chord from his lyranthe. Underhis hands the music held laughter, belied by the shaded intensity ofthe gaze stilled and trained upon Cattrick. 'Your craft is thebuilding ofexcellent ships. My share of the fun is to steal them.' 
The spelled record dimmed, faded back into fusty trails of chalk.Lirenda blinked, brought back to herself. She had screened the 
JANNY ~URTS

 final spent frames of the construct. Ahead stretched the fire-strungnets of live power, preset for events yet to come.
The interface with the present spread at her feet, and the nextsounding she touched would be volatile. Contact might jar the uncoil­ing precision of the spe11's influence. Arithon s'Ffalenn stillpossessedtrained awareness. Blind instinct could warn him if she raised a dis­turbance. Now, the least misstep would unbalance the conjurjz Thesmallest disruption of pent power could destroy her if an inadvertentmove chanced to unravel the delicate bindings.
Lirenda blotted a forehead rinsed in sweat. Around her, theobser­vatory seemed a sealed tomb; cold dark wrapped its core of inferno.Loop upon loop of slaved power lay spring wound and cocked,awaiting the moment of release. Lirenda strove to read the fine linesinked like magma across the dark. The dazzle whirled her to dizzi­ness, and the Great Waystone remained beyond view. Aware shemust risk direct contact through visions, she knew visceral fear. Thedanger before her was no longer malleable. Should she once lose con­trol inside those nets of voracious power, naught would remain offrail flesh and bone but an immolated silt of white ash.
 Carried by her unbending determination, Lirenda stilled herawareness. Blank as cooled glass, she stamped down her traitorous,cringing unease, raised her jewel on its chain, and doused its baredfacets in the surging, live current of the spell. As the upendingrush of seer's vision claimed her, she braced herself to receive...
 The taproom was jammed to an airless, close heat of packed bodiesand uproarious noise. By nightfall, drawn in from the frost and theleaden chill of coastal winter, every yard craftsman and beached sailhand in Rivertoncrammed into the Laughing Captain. Celebration ruled the hour. Thatdayhad seen a successful royal launching. The new brig rode at anchorbehind the seawail, sparkling with lanterns hooked to her yards as theriggers tied inher last running lines. The crew selected to man her for shakedownattended the madhouse festivity. They sat apart, under orders to moderatetheir drink. Despite the close eye of an iron-willed captain, they howled withlaughterand accepted the beer mugs passed across by congratulatory friends.
Only the bard at the settle had elbow room. With the same stilleddecep­tion of a storm's sunlit eye, he stirred the jammed room to afeverish, wildenergy through a reeling succession of dance tunes. The crowdresponded,and stamped, and roared with fine spirits, dry tinder raked for thespark.
Dakar's clumsy, inebriated trip came perfectly timed to fetchagainst abald sailor. The pair of them toppled in a tangling heap, and atrestle crashed over to a flying gush of spilled beer. A bystander's screeched insultprovoked 

PRINCE 

a swung,fist. From behind their captain's cordon, several of thebrig's crewlaughed and shouted in scathing amusement. As though uncoiled from aspell, an agile little caulker whose dinner had been upset snatched apitcherfrom a barmaid's laden tray. He hurled its foamy contents to silencethe ridicule and doused their small pocket of decorum. Through yells ofblind outrage, the bard's measures changed key, then leaped a surreptitiousbeat faster. His disingenuous skill burned the very air to abandon, whiletempersfrayed red, and brawlers set to and sowed mayhem across the packedtap­room... 
"Dharkaron curse the man's effrontery!" Lirenda swore as scriedvision dissolved and freed thought.
Lysaer's handpicked sailhands had been fearlessly targeted, and afool's guess could forecast outcome. To sideline the men of unswerv­ing crown loyalty assigned to choice berths on the brig, the boneset­ters in Riverton would be given a busy night's work. Arithon wouldclaim his diabolical triumph as the scheduled shakedown raised sailwith an alternate crew.
 Burning to uncover how Morriel's construct might serve thes'Ffalenn prince his comeuppance, Lirenda mapped a parallel strandin the weave. She found a fresh spring trap interlinked to a marvelof scried forecast, and already engaged by the Riverton launching. Theconstruct arced across distance and time, and conjoined with another,inset with the trefoil seal of a sworn obligation. Some m'mor Namewho bore oath of debt to the Koriani Order received his call to deliver due service.
 In the stale dark of the observatory, under roof beams nickedscar­let by the agitated light thrown off by arcane powers, the FirstSenior set her will once again and pitched her crystal to imprint its momentof due consequence...
 Amid the gaudy appointments of an Etarran hall of state, a lankyscholar with soft hands arose from his self-conscious bow. Clad in wine velvet, hisbristled, white hair tamed by a cross-laced silk ribbon, he raisedhis chin to squint at the imposing, blond figure on the dais. Fingers damp, andheart pounding, he offered up the aged vellum he had asked private audienceto deliver.
 "Milord Prince of the Light, my translation is done. By Korianirequest,the fruits of rare knowledge are to be freely given to your cause.What youhold in your hands is an early-Third Age treatise on the lost arts ofocean navigation." 

JANNY WUI~TS

 A deep, rolling thrill pricked Lirenda to gooseflesh. Morriel, incol­laboration with Lysaer, against Arithon; the piquancy of that manipu­lative use of politics raised a sharp gasp of astonishment. Seldombefore had a Koriani Prime used power to move sovereign players aspawns. Lirenda traced the spell's ranging reach toward the future.Curiosity fed now on the drive of ambition, she saw the sealed dis­patch from Cattrick which would soon prompt Prince Lysaer toassemble a picked following and leave Etarra in whirlwind secrecyand haste. Cause to consequence, the mighty construct converged,with Arithon flushed into desperate flight. Once he took to the sea,the grand plan would close on him, its culminating force dovetailedinto an ingenious, orchestrated opportunity. The last stroke wouldfall amid the stormy, broad swells of Mainmere Bay. Lirenda reachedAft, the rune of closure, and the construct's cycle showed the endgame to crown its set purpose.
Morriel's clandestine trap would strip Arithon defenseless, thenbind his mettlesome fate into impotence through Koriani captivity.
On her knees before the last sigil, Lirenda pressed narrow palmsto her lips to stifle vindictive laughter. Humiliation lanced throughthe rags of her mirth, that Morriel should judge her too fragile a vesselto bear knowledge of Arithon's defeat. If the Matriarch died of suchoverweening arrogance, fate's backhanded justice was worthy ofDharkaron Avenger.
Lirenda regarded the inner circle of traced, dusty ash and singedherbs. The arced patterns of ending and ward were precise. Shesobered to fact, that the old Prime had left no loose ends. Past thedribbled stubs of dead candles, beyond the ceremonial braziersburned cold on their stands, the amethyst Waystone gleamed insullen quiescence. No vestige of strayed power smoldered uncheckedto draw backlash. Lirenda would require no ritual rune of passage tocross this last ward of protection.
These vital defenses, set to shield the spell's creator from thescald­ing blast of fused energies, had been breached long since. The breakhad been instant. No vestige of guarding virtue had survived longenough to bleed away through attrition.
Lirenda raised her skirt hems in shaking fingers, irrationallyreluc­tant to disturb the fine lines whose sigils had failed to protect.She encountered the reason for the lapse soon enough. A girl scarcelysworn to initiate service lay sprawled across the perimeter, handsout-flung on the charred slate floor. She breathed in a queerly arrestedrhythm, her hollowed, pale features stamped in frozen panic by thepassage of arcane forces. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 Deep rage shattered Lirenda's dispassion.Morriel Prime had not fallen to a flux of miscast energies. She
had been betrayed. The failed nerve of this inadequate chit had undonethe entire circle. Recognition followed, that the Matriarch had
antici­pated, even planned for disaster. Seven chains of stayspells wroughtover the observatory kept the construct in fugue through that
unbind­ing moment of crisis. Awe remained, that Morriel had called up thestrength and sheer will to force her spell to consummation. In
mortal pain, perhaps dying, she had impelled her grand construct to liveon.
 Lirenda straightened up and moved on, leveled to realize sheowned no such depths, nor any grand bent for self-sacrifice. Beneaththe scintillant eye of the Waystone, she confronted the last tragicfig­ures. They lay in their layers of crumpled robes, youth and age liketwo dolls dropped through a fracture in time. The first throat sheprobed for a life sign lay cold; the steadfast initiate who had heldto her vows had perished, her life's spirit drained out of ruthlessneces­sity, that the Prime might survive long enough to stabilize the con-jury.
One bundle remained, cast down like dry sticks in a shroud offine velvets. Lirenda sucked in a steadying breath. Lit by the gleam ofthe Waystone's chill presence, she knelt down and braced herself totouch.
 The wrist she raised felt insubstantial as bleached parchmentwrapped over substanceless bone. But a pulse still threaded the bluenetwork of veins. Though cool, the flesh was not corpse chill.
Against all adversity, Morriel Prime still survived. Unconscious,weakened, perhaps strayed beyond recall, indomitable will kept herbreathing.
Lirenda bent her head, while heated tears welled through her eye­lids. There and then, amid the musky, flat ash of spilled offeringsand the alkaline tang of scraped chalk, she weighed an unthinkablechoice: to collapse the grand construct and draw Morriel clear, or tolet the spell burn on undisturbed to completion, and hope the Prime'stenuous reserves could hang on until the last sigil reached itsplannedclosure.
 Arithon's freedom weighed against Morriel's life; Lirenda snaggedher lip between teeth like small pearls, shredded in the cruel cruxbetween desire and ambition. Prime power in hand, and the chance toseize her autonomy; or a sheltered subservience with demeaningawareness that one man, still at large, held the means to unstringher whole character.
 Lirenda arose. A laugh ripped from her patrician throat, shrillwith ]ANNY
 leashed-back self-loathing. She was prideful and flawed, too desper
ately consumed by desire to rule. Temptation had set its steel clawsin
 her vitals, and she was too threatened to tear free.
Alone in the dark, without voice beyond conscience, Liren&turned her back on the fallen Prime. She shouldered the task of retrac­ing her steps without jostling the spell's course of alignment. Sheheld no regrets. At heart, she was exactly what her mother had claimed: aspirit born lacking the female kindness Ath granted to natural w0m­arthood. The man who might have unchained her closed spirit heldtoo potent a power to ruin her. Once she was confirmed as KorianiPrime Matriarch, her authority would be unassailable. No one alive..P~e-e~ .e_v_e_r_kp_ pw_ of the e~ptiness masked at her core. 
224 Midwinter 5653 
Tidings 
The port of Innish had been known as the jewel of the southcoast foras long as oared ships ranged the seas. During the hard winters, whenthe Stormwell Gulf capes seized with ice, warehouse space at thedockside rented out at a premium. Every shed and stable loft near thewaterfront became pressed into use by the insatiable demands ofcommerce.
 In years when the seasonal snows also sealed the northern passes,the inland attics with sound roofs lay crammed with the silks spun inAtchaz, then packed through the desert by caravan. Crated orangesfrom Southshire towered in stacks under awnings, awaiting sea tradeto the eastern ports along Eltair Bay, or the western cities ofHavish. The streets teemed. Sailhands on leave lounged under the shade ofthe damson trees. Merchants with their trains, breathless errandboys,and half-naked stevedores shouldering bales breasted the chaoticcommotion. Busy men cursed the languidly idle who obstructed theirfrenetic course. The side alleys and the louvered windows of thewineshops rang with the brass bells of the prostitutes. In gilt-dusted lashes, heavy scents, and soft paint, the paid women of Innish couldlure a man into dalliance and drown him in pleasure for hours.
Just crossing the wharf district for a day's business could taxan honest man to short temper. The sights themselves were temptation,the stucco colonnades with their tiled roofs and pierced finials apuz­zle of artful complexity. The allure of Innish could waylay thesenses in the whirl of its milling crowds, its exotic scents, or itsoutright, 
225 JANNY WURTS 
%%'ax'~ ~\%~x.~, c~e~~t out by the riffraff who skulked and preyedoff the wealth that changed hands in the streets.
Feylind's brother, Fiark, had as much as he could handle as a"heyman trade factor. Left wan from the hours spent working over ~master's accounts by lamplight, sweating under his beautifully tai­lored broadcloth in the lush southland heat, he had no patience tospare, even for thrashing through arguments with the twin sister justcalled back in port.
The years spent on shipboard with Arithon's crews had not
blunted her reckless temperament. Her decorum was still nonexis­tent. No woman he knew but a dockside hussy would pick her fights
amid the racketing press of the wharf at noontide, where shouted
conversation could scarcely be heard, and rumors flew mouth to
mouth at the least possible whiff of a scandal.

"Why can't you give us a cargo bound for Ostermere," Feylindshrilled. Clad in the man's dress she wore at her post as navigatoron board the brig Evenstar, she spun sideways to avoid a servantbearinga crate of white doves. "Don't tell me the ladies of Eldir's capital
have given up buying fine silk! Not when the King's Grace just issued apublic proclamation of his handfasting!"
"What would you know of court women and their refined ~',~vs,gallivanting in slops on a ship's deck?" Fiark sniped back.Feylind eyed him askance, unable to accustom herself to his~dt~tt dignity, nor the golden hair trimmed neat at his collar, and hi,
gen­teel, quality clothing. No trace remained of the barefoot boy ,~s hepaused by the bollards and hailed a lighterman to ferry him o~t to abrig at a remote anchorage.
'%. can't duck me so easily," Feylind retorted, her pale braidfly­ing loose strands in the breeze, and her full-sleeved man's ,t~rf ,~dpearl-sewn scarlet waistcoat enough to turn heads for sheer gat:di­ness.
 When her brother merely shrugged, she shot out a toe and ex?ertlyfended the inbound lighter away from the dock. The oarsman cursedher. She fielded his insults with a phrase by lengths more invenfi~›,then crossed her arms and g]owered down her freckled nose at hertwin. Except for appearances, nothing was changed between ~hern.Either they connived hand in glove at appalling acts of mischief~ orthey fought each other like stoats.
Feylind tapped her foot. Fiark would know she would heave himinto the bay in his finery before she let him ignore her.He glared back in anger for only a moment. Then ~he smile sheloved best turned the corners of his lips, and merrimen~ sparkled/n 
his wide cobalt eyes, ".%~~,~x ~.~xetxx, reo~u'tredPrince Arithon's shade tion to the strings ofneed to finagle a passal
Feylind's eyes of id~
ship you're in such a h~

She laughed. spun l
less arc over the turqr
~%~tx~ ~xe seax~a~,. ' 

 .t%~xte~: a coin ~rom P~
 The craft's slightec'bribe:,
 "Such pridedock.
 "Do 
throu~
 "NOW' Two oaths. 
ways.and harbor. Her brigs: theby morey~the 
see." 
his wide cobalt eyes. "You want to gain news of him?" That pronoun,between them, required no naming; they had spent half their lives inl~rince Arithon's shadow, underfoot, or attached out of bold fascina­tion to the strings of his far-flung machinations. "Well, you don'tneed to finagle a passage to Corith to hear."
Feylind's eyes of identical color lit into shrewd recognition."That ship you're in such a hurry to meet?"
She laughed, spun about, and flicked something bright in a care­less arc over the turquoise water which rolled in mishmashed chopagainst the seawall. The offering clanged into the cockpit of thelighter: a coin from Perdith, minted in heavy red gold.
The craft's slighted oarsman yelped in mid-oath. He recovered thebribe, then stood, face upturned, and bowed his unctuous appease­ment. "Where would the lady like to go?"
"Such a way you have with men," Fiark teased, then stung herpride back by extending his hand hke a gallant to assist her off ofthe dock.
 "Do that again, and you'll swim for it," Feylind said. Limber asa monkey, she stepped off the wharf, trod down on the gunwale, thenstartled the lighterman all over again by claiming his unoccupiedbench. She unshipped his spare pair of looms, threaded their leathersthrough the rowlocks, and scarce paused for Fiark to board at thestem before she dug the blades into a ferocious stroke.
"Now I'm in a hurry," she confessed as the lighter shot forward.Two other craft in the way veered aside, the owner of one snappingoaths, Feylind ignored him, intent upon Fiark. "Tell the man wherewe're pointing this tub."
When her brother took his time to indicate direction, Feylindjabbed down one oar like a rudder and shot the lighter craft side­ways. Head twisted, she sized up the motley collection of boats,small and large, riding over their slice-cut reflections in the shelter ofInnish harbor. Her grasp of detail quickly winnowed the clutter of merchantbrigs: the slipshod ones with their sails tied in gaskets, and othersrun by more rigorous captains, rolling neat at their moorings withyardarms varnished and stripped. She assessed crosshatched rigging,the swept decks with baled cargoes, then unerring, spotted the onevessel set apart.
"Haht" she whooped, triumphant. "Belay Fiark's word, I alreadysee." She backwatered, hauled, and jacked the lighter onto her self-determined new heading. "We're bound for the brig with the shame­less bronze tits on her figurehead."
"The Cariadwin," Fiark admitted to the muddled-up oarsman, who 
227 
J^NN.

 sat with his looms raised and dripping. "She's the new-looking brigon the far southwest mooring, and if anyone's shameless while stillfully dotbed, it's my sister. Please accept my regret for her
manners."
 "Shameless, is it?" Feylind jabbed in her right blade and sent arocketing arc of water dousing over her brother's neat head. "Takeworse than a wetting to cool down your insolence, but that will do
for a start."
 "Wench!" Fiark laughed. "For each salt stain and watermark, I'llsee you chained to the washtub at home. Our stepfather won't spareyou from drudgery either. He swore he'd help if I held you down.We've all got ripped hose and holed stockings for darning. High timeyou sat for us, mending."
"You conspired against me?" Feylind accused.
"Well yes." Fiark flipped back the dripping bangs plastered tohis raised eyebrows. "Don't look so wounded. Your mother and I sharethe general opinion that you could stand more practice at needle­work. You ought to cultivate some womanly graces for the day youweary of seafaring."
This time, he was wise and fast enough to duck as the watergrazedover his head. "No chance at all," countered Feylind, carving intothe pull of the next stroke. "If that means getting soft and thickbearingbabes, I'd sooner swim with the sharks." Her expert handling shotthe narrow lighter into the choppy crosscurrents alongside theCariad­win's side strakes.
 Not to be outdone, Fiark dug into his scrip and pressed anothercoin in the palm of the flummoxed lighterman. "Come back at sun­down. Our appointment should finish then." Despite his townclothes and his love of staid commerce, he proved then and there hecould still beat his sister up the battens of a deepwater trader.
The Cariadwin's captain sauntered on deck to meet them. He was athick man, swarthy and wrinkled, with one eye crimped to a perma­nent squint from judging the set of his canvas. Wind and sun, and thetireless barrage of the elements had gnarled his joints, and hisunlaced shirt ruffled against a chest broad enough to muscle a siegeram. He tucked away the rigging knife just used to clear a jammedblock, his sharp glance touching Feylind and swinging at once back toFiark. "Your sister, yes?" His thick, frosted eyebrows tipped upwardwith inquiry. "She have a strong stomach? There's business we'llhave to conduct in the hold that's no pretty sight for a woman."
"Nor for a man, either," Feylind retorted, stance braced againstthe mild swing as the brig turned to the wind on her beam. "I promisenot to puke first." 
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 The captain threw back his head and roared with bass laughter."By Dharkaron's vengeance!" He dealt Fiark's twin a slap betweenthe shoulder blades that might have staggered her forward, had shenot reflexively shifted her footing. "Why couldn't I have found alass like you before I had a wife and eight weans, not to mention sixlustymistresses?"
 "Because lasses like me have no use for weans, and even less for a husband." Feylind grinned back, her teeth like fine ivory, and herhair a gold rope in the sunlight. "Keep your eyes and your insinuationsout of my shirtfront, and get on with what Fiark came for."
Not chastened at all, still very much taken with the femalecurves underneath the breeches and waistcoat, the captain waved a lankyarm toward the opened hatch amidships. "Step into my lair, then,shewolf." He sidestepped to the ladder and led the way down. Morevf his peppery invective boomed up from the cavernous opening."First or last, if you puke, lady, you'll be the one handed thebucket and rag to swab up the mess on my deck."
Fiark elbowed his sister aside before she could effect a reply."A man might think you had bollocks in those breeks, the way you carryon." He ducked Feylind's punch through a hasty descent, thenlaughed at her scowl, framed in cloud fleece above him as she swungonto the ladder. "Step on my fingers, minx, you'll be sorry."
Feylind's retort came more thoughtful than barbed. "Trust me, itisn't your fingers I'm itching to flatten."
They descended into the brig's lower deck, enveloped by gloomand the fusty miasma of damp arisen from the bilges. The hull wasnew, the fug of lamp oil and mildew not yet entrenched through thetarry bite of the oakum worked into her seams. Feylind knew ships,in particular ones fashioned by Cattrick's exacting craftsmen.Attuned to the hull like a sounding board, she analyzed the chafe ofthe lines and the slap of wavelets transmitted through the thick tim­bers; in her critical judgment, she determined the captain was compe­tent. No fittings banged, and no halyards thrummed loose to tap andspin kinks at the masthead. The small talk of three hands at workmending sail drifted down from the forecastle. In the aft cabin, anasal-voiced purser conducted an inventory of stores with the cook,standard enough practice for a ship between legs of a sea passage.
A blue-water trader just cleared into port followed a presetroutine. The lower hold beneath would be cleared and swept, ropes and netstidied in smart readiness for onloading new cargo. Aboard Cariadwinthe main hatch was not open in welcome, but shut fast in the velvetygloom. No lit lamp burned in the ring overhead. Rather than roust 
JANNY WURTS

 out his sailhands for laggards, the captain crouched and whispered apassword.
The countersign returned was a sequence of taps. Then, from theinside, the hatched grating cracked. A brown eye peered upward.Against total darkness, the bared gleam of a knife scribed a thin
line of silver. "It's hiraselś" assured a low voice in clan accents. A stirred exhala­tion came from below, as listeners released pent-back tension."You carry convicts freed from Lysaer's galleys?" Feylind whis­pered in excitement.
"Aye." The captain muscled the heavy grating aside. "They've gotthe news out of Tysan and Havish your brother's been sweating tohear." To the clansmen below, whose lives would be instantly forfeitif the authorities at Innish caught wind of their presence, the brig'smas­ter assured, "You're kept safe enough. Fiark's loyalty's true, andI've three hands with good eyes sitting guard on the forecastle. They'llshout if anyone boards us."
The face moved, then the knife in token of cauti-ous trustgranted."For me," the man said, emphatic, "I'd slit my own veins and leavemy blood to the sea before I'd risk freedom again."
Warm air swirled up from the close, musty darkness, made sti­fling by the lack of ventilation. Someone below unshuttered a can­dle. The weak illumination showed the upper-deck planking hadbeen tacked over with canvas to seal off any chance gleam of light.The men who inhabited this miserable den numbered an odd forty,faces upturned in keen wariness toward the visitors brought by thecaptain.

For all their cramped confines, they were reasonably clean. Thefew knives shared among them kept them shaven and groomed. Torsosroped in muscle from hard labor at the oar were decently clothed,some in the mended rags of forest-tanned leathers, and others inshirts gleaned by sailhands from Innish's used clothing stalls andmotley from the ship's slop chest. No face looked healthy. Most weresorrowfully thin. The wrists and ankles rinsed by the flickeringlightwere disfigured and angry where steel and salt water had chafed intopermanent scars.
Feylind felt sorrow before sickness, then a ripping fresh angeras she reached the base of the ladder and a younger scout brushed byher to replace the hatch. A chance flare of the candle touched theraised, ugly mark left by some mayor's harsh practice of brandingmen sentenced as convicts.
 Fiark sucked a shocked breath, then said without preamble, "What 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

are your needs? You'll have anything in my power that doesn't jeop­ardize my patron or require an outright act of theft."
The clan spokesman pushed forward, squinting through hanks ofsalt-and-pepper hair not yet regrown long enough to braid. Helimped badly, his right ankle fused from a poorly set break. Still,he had not lost the grace of his manners. "Fiark?" He extended a forearmfor the traditional clasp of amity. "My loyalty belongs to the Earlof Taerlin. In his place, hear my gratitude for your strength of heart."
"Speak," Fiark urged. He need not stress that each hour Cariadwinlingered in a port ruled by townsmen, the risk to her fugitivesincreased.
 The clansman bowed his head, for a moment overcome. "Provi­sions, first off. Fresh meat and fruit. Bad diet has left many of ussick­ened."
 "Clothing," Feylind added. "I'll supply funds."
But the freed man touched her wrist in restraint. "Bless you, butno. We won't be beholden for what our cousins in Selkwood are able enough to supply." To Fiark, he summed up, "For that, you need onlysign us a legitimate cargo bound upcoast to Elssine or Telzen."
"Have to be luxuries," the captain chipped in from his laconic,square stance by the ladder. "Our lading list out of Cheivalt saysour main hold's chock full of wool bales and barley bound for the brew­ers upcoast."
"Fine brandy in bottles and some Sanpashir gemstones, will thatdo?" Fiark measured the clan spokesman afresh, a warning hard glintin his eyes. "Should they be underwritten?"
Someone else's barbed dialect jibed from out of the darkness,"What, you don't truly want to stay honest?"
Before light words caused umbrage, the captain reassured, "Thecargo you consign will be safe, with one small delay. We've anunscheduled stop on the coast of Alland to take on what our lists saywe shipped out of Cheivalt."
"That's Erlien's territory," Feylind broke in. Her quick mindleapedahead, taking stock. The barley would have been grown in Orvandir,and the wool shorn from Radmoore sheep. The Cariadwin's pendingillegitimate cargo would be nothing else but the spoils from acaravan raided en route to Sanshevas or Southshire.
 In typical fashion, her brother's thought flanked her. "Are theHighEarl's scout raiders in conspiracy with Arithon?"
"Not precisely," the Cariadwin's captain corrected. "Don't haveto take sides to hate chains and slavery. The High Earl's river inletsin Selkwood make an ideal place to load contraband. I used to shift ]ANNY WURT~
 cargoes from there before Arithon hired me. And anyway, these
days, a number of brash younger scouts want to ship out to Corith
as volunteers for sea training."

"Volunteer pirates, more like," Fiark said, no stranger to themarauding ways of Erlien's chieftains. The factors at Innish knewwell enough: the best silk from Atchaz always moved overland ratherthan risk the river route into Telzen. "You'll want a return cargo?"
"Not just then." In soft words and darkness, the plans were laidout. The brig's share of gold from Erlien's plunder would fund newrigging and canvas from the Southshire shipyards. "Those suppliesand provisions are critically needed at the Shadow Master's outpostat Corith. Cattrick's crews have been busy," the clan spokesman said."Maenol was told to expect three more brigs for refitting early inthe ~p-tr/vo? ,,
"Why can't the Evenstar bear tt/ese"~rr~ev,trt Alland?" Feylindbroke in, still angling for her chance to escape another decorous run dbwnthe southcoast.
 Fiark shook his pale head. "The Evenstar's bills of lading areclean. Need one ship honest and yours was elected. If you didn't know, allher profits are going to buy weapons to outfit the ships purloinedout of Riverton. With luck, by high summer, the clans will have theirfleet of sail to play havoc on Alliance shipping."
"Slave-bearing galleys won't pass with impunity," a hard voiceaffirmed from the darkness. "Once our people have the armed shipsto strike back, we can make rags of Lysaer's new edict by putting thescrews to his trade."
 Feylind was not mollified. "Looks to me like you've alreadystarted with that." She turned upon Fiark, tenacious, to nail home her point."If the Evenstar's clean, I don't see any reason why I can't runcargo toCapewell. The outpost at Corith's a short leg away. Supplies and dis­patches could be left on a regular schedule without any undue risk."
"No." The clan spokesman caught Feylind's shoulder and gave hera fatherly shake. "You care for Prince Arithon?" At her stubborn nod,he bon~ in. "Then see sense! Stay where he's placed you, or see himhurt if you fall to grief!"
Pearls flashed in the shadows as Feylind stiflened to argue.
The clansman cut her off, merciless. "Then look at these men andthe cruelties they've suffered! You have no idea just how tensethingshave grown, and not just in Tysan. Havish's king is caught in con­tention as well."
 They heard the news then, of how the forty men in the Cariadwin'shold had come to be freed by the seal of King Eldir's justice. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 "Three galleymen and the fat harbormaster at Cheivalt were justarraigned for treason." Seated once more, elbows braced on his kneesand his hands jammed through the uneven hair at his temples, theclan spokesman qualified. "Those were put to trial for an exchange ofbribes to refute Havish's crown edict. They'll die, and not nicely.Lysaer's bailiffs have been rebuffed twice, denied any fight ofextra­dition."
 Amid the dense quiet lying on all sides, Fiark accepted the tiedpackets of correspondence from Arithon's westshore contacts. Sweat­ing and sobered, he knelt by the candle to read. As always, the broadrange of sources astonished him. From sheets soaked in the incensefrom the intrigue of court brothels, to others, encasing filcheddocu­ments with official ribbons and cracked seals, the damning, grim pic­ture unfolded, with warnings phrased in stark language. Feylindshared the written pages alongside her brother, cursing as he turnedyellowed leaves too slowly, or the flame fluttered low, making thin,ciphered script too difficult to peruse.
In letters sent by prostitutes, officials, and tavernkeeps, thepoliti­cal brangles unfolded, of relations gone from displeased to con­tentious at every level of government. The coastal mayors resentedKing Eldir's sharp justice. Inbound trade from Tysan would sufferwithout galleys, cut off altogether while the winter's rough weatherclosed the north passage to oared transport. Tension waxed to dis­trust at the border, as Alliance officials were forced to discovertheir Prince of the Light's bold policies received no margin of tolerancein Havish.
 The royal counselors at Ostermere might accept that their kingwould never back down.
 "It's the rock-brained coastal mayors who refuse to hear sense,"the clansman explained at agitated length. "They're howling protest.Most won't understand that charter law can't be changed or repealed.The crown's execution of a few arraigned traitors isn't going todeter them. Bribes will just double. Nobody's fooled. Enough gold willtempt any man to dishonesty, and the headhunters in Tysan arebringing in captives with no heed at all for the season."
Feylind perceived the stakes well enough. Until the ice broke inStormwell, galleymen had no open route except southward throughKing Eldir's territory. Oared ships demanded more fresh water andprovisions; their vulnerable low freeboard required close access tosafe harbors, since storm swells could cause them to founder. Only ablue-water hull with full sail could achieve the passage fromCapewell round West Shand in one leg. 
JANNY WLIRTS

 Fiark tapped the last document against his shut teeth. "I see
back­lash and dangerous pressure coming to bear on Cattrick's shipw0rl~at Riverton," he said softly.
"Man, we know that!" The clansman sheathed the knife he hadused to scratch maps of Alliance troop movements and shoved to hisfeet in bursting, sore agitation. "Maenol himself's said PrinceArith0n should leave. Though how we could help to spirit him cross-countryis a right sticky point at the moment. Can't even protect our ownfami­lies in the forests, Alliance patrols are so fierce."
No need to voice the full scope of the problem. With guildprofitsaffected, more than ever, the Alliance would covet the new vesselstargeted by the Shadow Master's delicate plotting.
"One thing's sure," the clansman insisted, his fists clenched insor­rowful emphasis. "Those ships are the last and only hope to save myLord Maenol's people."
Under mounting persecution from the Alliance, the last bloodlinesin Tysan faced an increasing threat of extermination. Their losswould open the gates to disaster, since the territory the clans spilledtheir blood to keep wild would become razed by the axes of townsmen.
"The cry is raised to seize land for development," the clanspokesman finished in a grief sharpened to desperation. "We are thegrass roots of the Fellowship's compact. Kill us off, and all ties tolaw end." No proven line of descent would remain to keep faith withhumanity's petition for sanctuary. "Ath help us all, if the Paraviansreturn, and the Ath-forsaken mayors have the power in hand to castoff the Fellowship's sanctions." 
234 Midwinter 5653 
Succession 
The Fellowship Sorcerer crossed the barrens of Rathain in the teethof a howling storm. The gale which blasted the swept landscape of DaonRamon razed over the rounded, low hills in an assault of horizontalsleet. Stone and dry gullies lay marbled in ice. The wind screamedand flayed, lent the cruel edge of a billion dashed shards of quartz.In weather that vicious, posted sentries were useless, even at thenarrow mouth of the draw which sheltered the small clan encampment. Thefirst Earl Jieret's scouts knew of Asandir's arrival was the presenceof a steaming dark horse in their midst.
The young swordsman who wore his braid tied with fox tailsgasped and reached in shot panic to draw steel.
His wrist was caught and yanked brutally short by the clampinghand of his elder. "No. That's a friend." To the muffled figure onhis blowing mount, the veteran called, "Kingmaker?"
A nod answered. The cowled Sorcerer dismounted, cloak snappingin the whiteout scream of a gust.
"Take his horse, boy." The older scout turned the younger oneloose with a companionable clap on the shoulder. "Don't be shy. Ifthere's Fellowship business, and not just a traveler's need to askshel­ter, our guest will ask for your High Earl."
Asandir surrendered his wet reins. His reassurance fell like a struck mote of sunlight against the gray storm that kept the landmantied in winter. "Is Jieret in camp?"
The older scout nodded. "I'll fetch him. You'll find his wife Feithan  in the lodge tent, the one with the stag antlers hung on the javelinrack by the door flap."
"I'll find my way." Asandir peeled a glove, used the back of hiswrist to scrape the ice from his eyebrows. His level gray eyes thenmeasured the scout, who was shivering, his buckskins soakedthrough to the skin. He said in tacit handling of stiff pride, "Whenyou find Jieret, give him my word. There are no headhunters out
reiv­ing within eighty leagues of this site. No need to stand guard untilthis weather has lifted. I left wards on my back trail and a spell
of confusion to spin any tracking hounds widdershins. The seals won'trelease for three days. If dogs or armed townsmen try to pushthrough, they'll just make themselves dizzy running themselves into
 "Ath bless you for that!" The scout's reddened features brokeinto a pleased smile, masked as he shouldered head down through thegale.
Asandir tucked his bare hand back under his mantle, then footedhis way over iced rock and the rimed crusts of dead grass to theclus­ter of wind-beaten lodge tents.
The antlers on the rack proved still fresh from the hunt, and thesmall, dark-haired woman who unfurled the door flap was wet to thewrists from a fatty emulsion of boiled deer brains.
When she saw who awaited outside her threshold, her thin,gamine features blushed scarlet. "Come on in. The place reeks." Hershrug framed apology as she let the flap fall, enclosing her visitorin a steamy fog of white woodsmoke and the odorous stench from the potwhere two scraped hides were set curing. "Couldn't be helped. If Iwaited for sunsh'me, the boys wouldn't have the leggings they needto cover their new growth of ankle."
She stepped back to her labor, one skin draped and dripping overa rope stretched taut between the two lodgepoles. "Let me just wringthis out, and I'll see to your needs. No doubt you're famished. Hangyour cloak, if you want, by the fire."
With competent, chapped hands, she flipped the ends of the hideinto a neat loop, tucked in the edges, then inserted a stick throughthe center and twisted. The raw leather gave up its burden of moisture,pattering runnels into the beaten earth floor.
Asandir watched her in light, alert silence. The unassuming move­ments as he cracked the cased ice off his shoulders and peeled offhis layers of soaked wool were deceptive, even ordinary. Yet Feithan'sblush remained high in tacit awareness that everything about her wasbeing measured, from the sable coil of hair fallen loose at her neck,to 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

the skinning knife on its thong that had thinned from too many yearsof sharpening. She felt like that steel: worn with use, but stillstrong,still keen, still able to cope with the hardships that seemed toincrease with each year as Alliance patrols pinched and harried clan move­ments.
 "The scouts have gone for Jieret," Asandir said. Unasked, he hadbent. He caught up her forked stick and fished the next hide from thepot, his upturned smile flashed through his austerity likequicksilver."I'm already wet, yes?" He slung the saturated buckskin over therope and lent his arm to the heavy work of wringing.
"You shouldn't," Feithan chided. "You'll stink just like me."Then she whooped like a girl as she realized just what he was doing withhis hands.
 Magelight flared soft indigo over the wet hide, then brightened,changed, slid down the spectrum to bloom into clear, fiery scarlet.The leather steamed and unfurled, dry and warm from his spell seal,finished inside the span of one heartbeat for its final curing insmoke.
 "I won't have to stretch this?" Feithan asked, dumbfounded.
The Sorcerer shook his head, running his testing touch down thevelvety surface. "Nor smoke it, either, unless you wish to darken thecolor." Luminosity trailed where his fingertips passed. The thick airseemed to shimmer through an unheard song, as though a resonanceof his blessing did honor to the dead buck. "The hide wouldn't havedried before nightfall, and this storm could be better spent sewing.Do you wish me to treat the next one as well?"
"I thank you, yes." Flushed now with pleasure, Feithan steppedback and let him lift the moist pelt still draped on the rope."Though,Ath, I could have used a few of your tricks on the morning I tackledthe scraping. The camp boys were to help, but my truant of a husbandspirited them off to go hunting."
She untied the taut cord, then knelt to collapse the frames usedear­lier for stretching and dry'rag. Immersed in false brusqueness, shetried not to care how desperately her fingers were shaking. But heruneasy questions loomed too large to ignore, and the forceful quietof Asandir's presence was too palpably real at her back. She wouldmask her sharp worry in chatter before she dared to ask why a Fel­lowship Sorcerer should visit her hearth in the comfortless misery ofdeep winter.
Stilled as old oak, his silvered hair lying lank on broadshoulders,the Sorcerer spoke as if he heard her thought anyway. "I'm here toName the next heir to Jieret's title."
 Feithan closed her eyes. The rank smell of deer brains all at once 
JANNY WURTS

 seemed to unstring her senses. Fighting a tight chest, then wheelingfaintness, she crouched half-unmoored, as if the dependable solidityof the earth must give way to a yawning void. She hung on, her lipsclamped shut against desperate fear, and her arms clutched into anawkward embrace around a disjointed bundle of ash sticks.
While the moment hung, she forced her stunned thoughts to sortout what the Sorcerer had told her.
 Jieret's life was not endangered. An heir for his title assteward of Rathain was only chosen by the Fellowship when the s'Ffalenn royalline became threatened.
 No confirmed ill news, then; not an immediate disaster to herfam­ily, but too likely a larger one pending for the realm. In mechanicalhabit, she continued to tidy the collapsed slats of the hide frame.Then she drew on raw courage and a forced, hammered steadiness. "Whichson should I call?"
 A hand touched her shoulder, light as a moth's wing, and uncan­nily warm for a traveler just spared from the battering siege ofharsh weather. "Neither son, lady."
Asandir had reached her side in one long, soundless step. Anothermove saw the wood lifted out of her hands. His understated strengthraised her upright and gripped her in bedrock support. "Dismissevery fear for your husband as well. He stays here in Rathain, undermy binding command if need be. This appointment of succession isbut a formality and, life willing, should stay so for many years tocome."
 Steadied enough to stop shivering, Feithan tipped up her angularface. She surveyed the Sorcerer, who topped her by a head, hispatience like glacial scarred granite. Then the wonder broke throughand wakened a flutter in her veins. "You want Kei?"
 Asandir's smile was quietly luminous, subtle and fleeting as thespill of a moonbeam in the sultry flare of spent coals. "She will beKei no longer. And yes. Be proud. Your daughter shall become the nextTeiren's'Valerient, steward to the royalty of Rathain."
"She's with the neighbor," Feithan explained, straightened nowwith relief. "The smoke from the tanning sometimes bothers the new­borns. Let me just rinse my hands and fetch her back."
 The Fellowship ceremony for Naming the caithdein's heir tookplace in hurried solemnity. There was no feast, no celebration, nojoy­ous gathering of far-flung clans the tradition usually warranted.OnlyJieret and his wife attended the ritual when Asandir in his travel-stained leathers accepted the infant from Feithan's arms. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 On that day scarcely one month old, she was tucked in a sheepskinlaced at the front with plain thongs. Her gems were the glints ofmelted sleet caught in silk of the fleeces. Her wide eyes were blue,still uncolored from birth, but tracking the Sorcerer's finger as hetraced a glyph in white light over the dome of her forehead. "Youwho were Kei shall be Jeynsa Teiren's'Valerient henceforward."
Translation from the old Paravian meant successor to power. For amoment, the Sorcerer's presence seemed raised to a level that tran­scended mortality. His hair, his large hands, the very life in hisveins seemed to sing with a subliminal silvery aura. The babe in his graspseemed both flesh and light, surrounded and infused by the majesticforce of a power too fierce to be captured by reason. Felthah raisedcramped knuckles to dash away tears. Jieret stood silent, perhaps inremembrance of his own hour of oath taking, years past in Strake­wood when his parents stood living beside him.
Slashing winds and the singing whine of the sleet ruled themoment as Asandir's arcane rune sank and touched. Its intricate angles blazed bright as a meteor, and then dimmed, softly meldedagainst the smooth warmth of the girl child's skin. "Jeynsa, littlespirit, be strong. Prove worthy of the destiny you will come to carryforward from the time-honored lineage of your ancestors."
Then the choosing was done. The Sorcerer raised the bundledchild. Smiling and dazzled, she was returned to the care of hermother, More than Name had changed. Jeynsa's future was sealed. Asign like a gossamer tracing in starlight gleamed under the rim ofher hood.
 "My mark will bear witness, she is Fellowship chosen." Dimin­ished once again to a weathered old traveler, sturdy, but worn fromlong service, the Sorcerer gave last instructions. "The sign willfade in one cycle of the moon. Raise the girl to bear the proud title ofcaithdein, with all of the powers and charges therein. She will swearformal service to her prince in the fullness of time."
Earl Jieret touched his daughter's soft cheek. Still wrapped inthe crumpled furs he had worn in the thorn brakes, his wolf-pelt hatdripping ice melt through his braid, he raised his bearded chin andregarded the Sorcerer who stood unmoving before him. In all ofAthera, he was one of the few who stood tall enough, and bred of astern enough fiber to endure a prolonged, level stare. "You're notstaying?"
Asandir's silence became palpably heavy. For a second,'he seemeda phantom figure, pressed out of velvet against the dimmed hides of thelodge tent. "I can't," he admitted at unpleasant length. "The Koriani 
239 ]ANN. ~LIRT$
 witches have been much too busy śor anyone's peace of m/nd." Theregret in his words held the masked strain oś dangers unfit to beshared.
 Yet Jieret was no man to settle for plat/fudes, far less from aFellow­ship Sorcerer. "If the enchantresses pose any danger to my prince,best tell me." His courage was agony and his heart, hammered steel,as he refused to back down under pressure. "I know from Dakar thatMorriel Prime once laid a plot to assassinate him."
Asandir did not try to evade brutal truth; neither would heanswer directly. "Your liege has Caolle at his side. Bide here. There'snothingmore you can do for your crown prince or your realm in the west,except suffer the most ugly of deaths."
When Jieret drew breath out of protest, the Sorcerer spun away,snatched his cloak from the stool by the fireside, and flung it,still wet,over the squared frame of his shoulders. "No, Jieret. You cannot comewith me. I am bound now for the focus circle at Caith-al-Caen, andfrom there, with all speed, on a m/ssion more urgent than this one."
Hands clutched to a child whose life was now promised to the ser­vice of people and realm, Feithan sucked back a small gasp for thehurt unexpressed behind Jieret's wooden dignity.
Asandir fastened his cloak. In the close, reeking air, stillbefouled with smoke and the lingering, grease stink of tanning, he shook outhis damp gloves. Deliberate in each precise movement he made, andwith no spell expended for comfort, he slipped the chill leather overhis capable hands. Then he looked up. His eyes were rinsed slate,utterly blank and unreadable. "Jieret, we are not stewards of anyman's life, no matter how precious his bloodline. What can be done,will be. Sethvir has cast auguries. His assurance was this: theenchantress who works healing in the moorlands of Araethura hasnot been recalled by her Prime Matriarch. Whatever the Warden atAlthain perceived, he said, keep you here in Rathain. Until the Kori­ani initiate named Elaira is pressed back into active service by herorder, your prince should fare well enough under Dakar's wards andprotection."
Jieret bent his head. Better than most, he understood the strictlim­its the Law of the Major Balance set over Fellowship actions. Thefists at his sides locked in helpless, white tension. Unwittingly recast inthe image of his father, his anguish screamed through every restrainedjoint of his bearing. "You will tell me, at once, if there's anythingI can do?"
 Asandir reached out his gloved hands and grasped the caithdein ofRathain by both forearms. "Trust us that much. For now, for your 
240 FUGI?I~E I~RINCE 
there will be small reprieve. Lysaer's convocation at Etarra isto lose impetus. All the armed resource the guilds raised for theAlliance to scour the forests of Rathain will soon be diverted else­where. Pack up your camp when the storm breaks. For this year at'least, you can summer in Halwythwood with no more than the usualprecautions."
There was no more to say. Too proud to plead, too stubborn to askwhere Lysaer's crack officers at Etarra would march troops, if notinto Rathain's hidden glens to hunt clansmen, Jieret watched in numbed
as the Sorcerer touched Feithan and murmured his formal farewell. Then he slipped back into the chaos of the storm, drawnaway by more desperate crisis. 
241 ~te I~inter 
Turnings 
In the fullness of night, amid pelting sleet, Lysaer s'Ilessid andhis closest retainers mount in urgent secrecy; given covert knowledge ofthe Shadow Master's piracy at Riverton, they ride from Etarra'spostern gate and swing west on the Mathorn Road, their intent toseek passage by sea out of Narms and effect swift return toAvenor ....
 Late night, under broken clouds and the stabbing-bright glints ofhard starlight, Earl Jieret walks the wind-beaten crests of DaonRamon and curses his Sight for the snatched, fickle dream, which hasshown him no sign of his liege's predicament; but only a circle ofKoriani Seniors, gathered whispering around a white crystal, while aFellowship ward of protection is smashed wholesale, and the cries ofwinged predators whistle enraged off a backdrop of snow-coveredmountains ....
 Dakar the Mad Prophet suffers fitful, ill dreams until a flash ofpre­scient talent rips him awake with an entangled warning of dangerlaced in dark images of fire and smoke, and hot blood on a batteredmain gauche; through the course of another violent row, he entreatsArithon s'Ffalenn to leave Riverton, with no more success thanbefore .... 
'~e Winter 5653 
VII. Hunters 
Since Arithon made his covert request for an inquiry into the fateof Princess Talith, Mearn s'Brydion grew back his lovelock. Athorough and leisurely round of seductions of ladies-in-waitingand chambermaids would yield him sure word whether Lysaer'spublic declaration of retirement covered a madwoman's seclusion, orincarceration of an unwilling prisoner. When pillow talk boughtMearn no more than the court knew, and uproarious drinking withthe palace garrison drew owlish blank looks and speculation, his: ~'owling search slipped past locked doors. By night, he perused the,;ivate ledgers kept by Avenor's tight-faced Minister of theTreasury.Even there, outright facts stayed elusive. One odd, recurrent entry:~ ,r high-council security allotted gold to six guardsmen without:,~corded names. Another, in Lord Eilish's fussy capitals, awarded a~!ipend for the princess's retreat that was suspiciously meager tosup­port a full staff and the comforts for a cosseted royal wife.
Mearn's lips quirked in jaundiced thought where he crouched,lightly clad in bitter air, his chosen vantage now the wind-rakedslates atop the ornate, spired roof of the council hall.
Yesterday's snowfall had cleared off to a brilliance of wintercon­stellations. Beneath, emptied streets traced a gleam of tarnishedsil­ver, frozen to ruts sliced by cart wheels. The respectable tavernshad closed for the night, their banked kitchen fires trailing thin smoke 
243 
JANNY WURTS 

from the chimneys. The upper-story window frames lay paned ~adimmed glass, pocked by the odd candle flame where a restless eccen­tric clung to deepless act~vi~ Mearn's barfive presence passedunseen. Left a cold trail by the happier pursuits oś loose-livingfemales and beer, he snugged co//ed rope across his trim shoulders,then chalked resin on the soles of his thinnest kid slippers.
By the dark of the moon, he set out to test the one lead priedloose by dint of his maternal grandmother's advice.
'Townborn will always dissemble and cheat,' he recalled heradmonish­ing through a youthful attempt to talk his way through a scrape.'That's what nature breeds out of landowning avarice.' White haired,diminutive, as flawlessly neat as a porcelain lily, she peered up athim, her chuckle all vinegar delight as she jabbed home her pointwith the blackthorn stick she brandished in old age like a weapon.'Ath above, boy! You keep all your brains in your cock? To know astates-man's true heart, you must first track his wealth. Only his goldnever lies.'
 By coin's sterling testament, the keep which fronted Avenor'sstate palace held the realm's most fugitive secret. At least, Mearn hadlearned after tailing the self-important senior clerk who paid wages,the anonymous six guardsmen played watchdog to the locked andbarred tower attached to the building's south wing. The structure washexagonal, built of the fired fawn brick used to expedite therestora­tion of Tysan's capital. From Mearn's stance by the pillars whichbraced a dome vaulting, the keep's north facade cut a ruledsilhouette through the smoke silver stipple of stars. No pennon flew from itsblunt, leaded roof. The banded masonry beneath the upper battle­ment held no carved follies or gargoyles. Only the simple sunwheelemblem graced the dressed-granite lintels of the entry below, a cav­ernous portal of strapped oaken doors, studded in steel and squarebosses. This, Mearn discovered, stayed barred to all but a handpickedcadre of the realm's highest officers.
Avenor's new fashion of zealous idealism made bribes too chancyto contemplate. Hands t~cked in the crook of his elbows for warmth,Mearn suppressed a dry snort. Never mind his recent, scapegracereputation, earned in the boudoirs and wineshops; as the ducalambassador for his clanborn brother, Lysaer's officials clung totheir prejudice against his credibility.
Townborn rancor ran deep as the root of the Fellowship's compact.A man who preferred his grudges blood fresh, Mearn doused prickedtemper to taciturn silence time and again, while the courtiers spunto their hatreds like weathercocks. He observed, his knife hand lockedinto stillness, when tempers flared up during councils of state. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

Always some merchant who lost goods to Maenol's forest raiderswould yammer the old accusations. Then every pigheaded guild min­ister in sight would ignore five centuries of history: s'Brydion ofAle­stron had never preyed upon caravans. Mearn met each outburst andpigeon-brained insult with cynical, ingrained suspicion. S'mce evenhis most innocently posed inquiries were likely to worsen his ques­tionable clan standing, he chose to sidestep the quagmires ofintrigue.The bare-handed adventure of scaling the tower held much more tohis taste.
 A gust hissed over the cornices and snapped the royal pennons ontheir lanyards. No comfortqoving sentry would stand his watchexposed to such lacerating cold. Mearn snatched his chance to crossthe roof peak unseen. By touch, he avoided the patches of glaze ice;his soft soles made no sound against slates raked bare by the ele­ments. Below him, the snow-covered gables of Avenor wore the nightlike a mantle spun from frost opal and woodsmoke.
To the west, his view commanded the black sweep of the sea,flecked by carnelian watchbeacons. Eastward, over the square wallsand past the crowned turrets of the gatekeeps, a ragged mound tore ascar in the flank of the hill. There the Paravian stones cast down byLysaer's builders lay jumbled as lichened bones, silted in rubblewhere the crumbled Second Age towers had been razed off the foun­dations to make way for his grander design. The dells the ancientruin once defended fanned inland, pocketed in winter-silent drifts. Foresthad encroached on the older boundary where mankind's tilledacreage ended, and the inviolate expanse of Paravian provenanceonce began. Horned centaur guardians no longer trod under the mas­sive oaks crowning the hillcrests. No sunchildren danced in thevales,with their tangling skeins of shallow streams. The glens whereTysan's dead high kings had met to hold council with Athera's lostraces lay grown over with holly and briar, forgotten except by thedeer and the hare, the mice and the night-hunting owl.
Clansmen might stubbornly adhere to past ways, but inside townwalls, the land's former heritage was scorned. A carriage clatteredover the cobbles, bearing some late-going gallant to the sea-quarterwineshops where friends met to vent youthful spirits. A cur yappeddown by the exciseman's sheds. The commotion set off an answeringchorus from the stables next to the barracks, where Lysaer's courserswere kenneled alongside the lean hounds bred by headhunters toworry the fugitive clansmen.
Among them, deep toned, Mearn's own couple of deerhoundsgave tongue. For their heart, he loosed breathless laughter While his 
245 JANNY Wl.i R TS 
dearies kept up the commotion and diverted the bored wits of thesentries, he tucked up against the beaded cornice where the towerjoined with the roof.
Kiln-fired masonry offered no purchase to climbers, an advantagefor defense. To offset its prime weakness, that brick inc/ined toshatter under stoneshot launched from siege catapults, the vulnerable angleshad been laid and faced with blocks of field-hewn granite. Scarcelyas inviting as a stairway, Mearn thought as he sighted aloft to weighhis prospects. The mortar at least was unlikely to crumble. No standingstructure in Tysan's restored capital had stood for more than adecade. Though exposed to the elements, the roof line of the councilhall masked the first stage of the ascent. The blast of the windwould press him into the wall, and drive the keep's anonymous, paid guardsto huddle on the leeward side.
 Since Mearn looked on caution as a mealymouthed word for gut­less procrastination, he tightened the laced wrists of his sleevesand stripped off his gloves. Hands hooked to chill stone, he wedged histoe in the crack of the first course of granite and forsook his safestance on the roof. Either Princess Talith was locked away inseclusion above, or he could send honest word back to Arithon s'Ffalenn thatshe was nowhere inside of Avenor.
 Shouts from the kennels at last quelled the deerhounds. Mearn'sraised vantage over the wall walks chiseled even the small soundsinto-unnerving clarity. Above the hiss of his breath through lockedteeth, he picked out the warbling flute of distressed pigeons, wak­ened by a thief in the falconer's dovecote.
Clamped to exposed rock, shivering from an unrelenting exertionthat scarcely left room for thought, he could do little else butclingand hope the desperate wretch would wring the birds' necks withdispatch. Never mind the s'Brydion posture of alliance, now placedin irrefutable jeopardy. Mearn set his jaw and groped another deter­mined handhold, then forced buming thighs to straighten. The breastof his jerkin scraped another foot up sheer granite. For pure,demented folly, he resisted the breathless urge to laugh. Hisbrothers would gripe themselves prostrate should he become caught by someguard rousted up for a servant's inept pilfering.
If risk of ignominy was not bad enough, an unexpected lightflared scarcely ten yards above. Mearn flinched like a cat. Reflex alonesaved his balance. A fleeting glance upward showed a gleam of new flamebehind a row of slit windows.
 Someone had entered the keep's third-floor chamber.
Mearn gasped out a virulent oath, wishing pustules and pox on 

FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 palace officials taken with urges to bum candles in towers past mid­
night. No afterthought, he added his prayer that the crazed individ­
ual disregard any notion to admire the stars or the view. The niches
where the sills pierced the wall offered the only secure ledge forhim
 to pause. His predicament was not mutable. Not through an unbro­
ken ascent, with the next set of casements a distance of forty feet
higher up. Fatigue already ran searing tremors through his limbs.His
 own labored breath turned his head. He must snatch that stop torest,
or succumb to exhaustion and fall.
 Wind hissed across masonry and thrummed the thick frames of thecasements. Meam shut his eyes against a blurred sting of tears fromthe cold. On a grimace of effort, he unlatched his numbed fingersfrom a handhold, fumbled, then hooked the rough edge of the sill.
The light flickered. A thickset body shadowed the glass, and acomplaining voice Mearn recognized as Quinold, Lord High Chancel­lor, drifted to the casement overhead. "Beastly drafts at thisseason."
 Behind diamond mullions, a scant span apart from the knuckleswhich suspended the climber from a lethal plunge to the roof slates,Lord Quinold's pudgy hands seized the tasseled cord to draw thecurtains. Brass hoops slid on the rod and a heavy fall of velvetdoused the candlelight down to a slit.
Meam hissed with relief. Shaking and runneled in icy sweat, heshifted his weight, hitched himself up the last, saving foot to thelevel stone of the window ledge. The knifing winds which had been hisally now sheared through his clothing. His skin had worn through atthe fingertips. A forthright inspection revealed flesh underneathgonetoo numb to feel the abrasion. Mearn's heart raced with the unpleas­ant awareness that nothing more than thin rondels of glass and theuntrustworthy mask of a curtain guarded his niche from discovery.
Let him be caught inside Lysaer's guarded precinct, and no tri­bunal would trifle with charges of treason. Town law was explicit.Execution of clansmen brought public dismemberment without bene­fit of a hearing, followed by death from a sword blade run throughthe heart.
 Mearn wrapped his forearms around his tucked knees, as much tocontain his outright contempt as to foil the ripping north wind. Hisdiplomacy at Avenor could scarcely bend five centuries of ingraineddisrespect. The ways of city governance confounded and astonishedhim, that these twit-brained townborn with their manned walls andlibraries, their obsessive filing of ledgers and written record,could so arrogantly disown the founding facts of their heritage.
The fugitive forest clans their conceit named barbarian kept no 
~ANN. ~tll~ T$ 
inscribed l~/stotYes. Pe~'seculJon by t~eadl~unters dertied them safehaven to live in shelter and comśort, yet they preserved memory ośthe purpose behind their unmixed bloodlines and ancestry. Mearn'srestless penchant to challenge authority made him rage, that tinbri­dled greed could ever have raised this bloodletting rift between fac­tions.
 As if to bear out his cynical view, the Lord High Chancellorstumped past the gap in the curtains, his diction precise as heresumed brassy carping. "Ath, there's no wine. Some dimwit neglected torestock the cupboard. Damn those breeding pests of barbarians, youknow how ! hate climbing stairs for these meetings."
A gravelly voice Mearn did not recognize answered too low tooverhear. Pricked to curiosity, well practiced from a boyhood spenteavesdropping on his short-tempered older brothers, he set his ear tothe glass.
"... scarcely a matter of clan raiding this time," the bassspeakerfinished in stiff censure.
 A chair scraped. Lord Chancellor Quinold sat down, his next linefiltered through a barrage of squeaks wrung from rush caning andwood. "No wonder you're thin, Vorrice. You fret like a nesting packrat. To judge by your maundering, one might mistakenly think theFellowship Sorcerers were omnipotent. Or are you worried the Para­vians might return in their full and fatal glory overnight? Really,we'd all fare better if you could relax your obsession with burning con­victed talent. The perils posed by the Shadow Master are far moreimmediate, since his overt collaboration with Maenol's clansmen."
"But the old races aren't dead," the one named Vorrice lashedback. His grainy voice stabbed with conviction. "If they were, the accursedtaint of practicing magecraft would be banished from the world alto­gether Obstructions by meddling sorcerers would be ended, besides.Until that day comes, public cleansings become my bound duty."
Outside on the sill, a chill gripped Mearn that bit deeper thananyassault of mere wind. He had watched Lysaer's interdict against sor­cery seed spurious arrests across Tysan. On the street, not a whisperof rumor had emerged to suggest a fanatic invested with high officeto enforce a campaign of persecution.
A knock sounded at the door to the inside chamber. "That must be Tellisec and the other guild ministers," the Lord High Chancellorsur­mised, then huffed through the bother of raising his bulk to admitthem.
 From below, a ruddy flicker in the stairwell arrow slits warnedof another imminent arrival. Mearn hunkered down against icy granite, 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

amazed to have stumbled upon a clandestine conference betweenLysaer's trusted inner circle. He listened to their exchangedgreetings,and by names and accents identified the realm's Lord Justiciar,Avenor's High Gate Keeper, and Lord Mayor Skannt of the head­hunters' league. Tysan's ranking seneschal was away with Lysaer inthe east, but his appointed seat was not empty.
Another man with soft, fruity vowels assumed the authority toofficiate. "Where's Gace?" that one snapped. "He's late. Does anyoneknow why?"
Gace was Prince Lysaer's household steward, a closemouthed,stringy wisp of a creature who tended to slink. Meam misliked theman's habit of lurking in dim comers, unblinking and watchful as arat.
 "If Gace is delayed, he'll have sound reason," Vorrice madegratingobjection. "We need his goodwill. As the Prince of the Light'sclosest servant, it might be politic to trust him."
A whining blast of wind obscured the reply. Meam braved thebrunt, given no other choice. Meeting or conspiracy, he needed totell which, then make clean his escape. Cold and inactivity were nowdeadly adversaries. Prolonged exposure on a north-facing ledgewould soon impair his reflexes. He dared not linger beyond the pointwhere he became too chilled to climb.
 "Our man has arrived," announced the fatuous spokesman. Insidethe chamber, the door from the stairwell opened to a decisive click.Pressed to the casement, his breath fanning frost rime across tippledglass, Meam snagged the newcomer's name from the brisk exchangeof introductions. A frown nicked his brow. What breeding mischiefwould lead a rich trade minister to leave his plush comforts inErdane to convene with Avenor's cabal of power? Meam gave the quandaryferocious thought. He had never met Guild Master Koshlin, but clanrumor from Camris linked the title to a bullish, short man with slyeyes and a penchant for endowments in gold to further the head­hunters' leagues.
While chairs bumped inside, and the cozy assembly settled itselfdown to deal, Mearn chafed stiff fingers, riled to slit-eyed concern.
"Your welcome is accepted here only because of your overtures tosupport Prince Lysaer's alliance against evil," the man in authorityaddressed, his peach-syrup inflection at chilling odds with a blunt­ness that ran contrary to the ingrained town penchant for stylizedmanners and ceremony.
"By all means, let us speak plainly." Lord Koshlin's ruffledsuavitytrailed through a considering pause. "Your prince shall have gold in 
249 
JANNY WUI~TS 

support from a faction in Camris I have been asked not to name. Themoneys will come with no strings attached. If your self-styled saviorcan bring more than folk at MiraIt Head to hail him as an avatar, noone of us will denounce him."
 That raised a bristling rustle, as someone of size roused himselfto take umbrage.
Ever smooth in diplomacy, the High Chancellor intervened. "Letus not quibble over unfounded truths, Vorrice. We few are privileged.Elsewhere, the awareness of Lysaer's blessed heritage has not beenmade common knowledge."
"Divi~e will shall triumph, but the time must be right," a sup­porter chimed in to placate Erdane's minister. "His Grace haspromised each man must find faith and belief for himself. Until hewins due acclaim, our prince poses as mortal."
Lord Koshlin pressed on, impatient. "Why waste any breath ontheology at all? Let your prince inspire the whole world to bow tohis moral righteousness. Every conversion he makes serves our need, inturn. We are dedicated men bound to break the constraint of the Fel­lowship's compact. Our followers in Camris already have instruc­tions. They'll serve your Alliance of Light in coin and information,and even raw resource. By whatever means, they want sorcery sup­pressed and the old clan lineages eradicated. The s'Ilessid claim toimmortal birth is not germane. We view his criminal charges againstthe Shadow Master's allies as a powerful political convenience."
While Mearn battled the rise of his gorge, Vorrice raisedabrasive opinion. "Your hatred of Maenol's barbarians runs deep. Do we alsosurmise you fear the restoration of the Paravians?"
"Don't mistake, we fear nothing." Koshlin paused through whatfelt at second hand like a lingering, oily smile. "Let me suggest,anyforce in Athera who stands for the old ways poses a dangerousimpediment. We wish the Second Age mysteries forgotten."
On the sill, tucked and bitter, Mearn squelched seething fury,while Koshlin's bland monologue expounded upon the self-blinded creedof the townborn.
 "Those bygone beliefs stunt the interests of trade. Why should ahidebound adherence to past ritual disallow more seaports and betterroads?" A fist thumped on wood, to a flickering splash of leakedflame light through slitted curtains. "Since the Paravians abandonedthe continent, mankind should claim rightful use of the land."Koshlin cleared his throat. "The faction I speak for will backLysaer'scause. In secret, we've labored to abolish the compact since theover­throw of the last high kings. Those of our heirs who incline toward 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

religion will scarcely care which name they invoke when they mouththeir prayers to a deity. Once humanity is free to reap this world'swealth, society will flourish. You wish the Prince of Rathain broughtdown and his supporters suppressed to save the peace. We wish toescape the Fellowship's tyranny. Our ends lie along the same course,won't you see?"
"You want the slinking barbarians dead," Lord Mayor Skanntobserved in his drawling, perpetual contempt. "For that end, I'lltake in any man's gold. But first, I'd hear your conditions."
The proposal branched into particulars and questions, whileMearn shivered and fretted on the ledge. The moment had arrived topress on, or jeopardize all of his success. Against the murmuredback­drop of debate, then the Lord High Justiciar's scathing accusation tothe realm's chancellor for fence-sitting, the clansman eased histucked stance. A second he lingered, heart torn into conflict by bloodloyal­ties.
 "Damn all your shortsighted bickering!" Vorrice burst through insurging vehemence. Meam started tense. Inside, a chair rasped backfrom the table. He flattened against stone as crisp footsteps carriedacross the chamber. An angry hand snapped the curtains aside andbared the centermost casement. Time froze. Cramped against theadjacent lintel, Mearn stopped breathing, pinned down a fatalhandspan away from the executioner's suffused profile.
"Barbarians or sorcerers, their twisted nature is the same."Vorrice jabbed passionate fingers toward the gathering behind him. "Thesooner they're exterminated, the better."
Escape was not possible. Mearn clamped his quivering sinews intorigid stillness. If he moved, if capricious luck left him now, hewould be caught as a spy. All Vorrice need do was glance sidewards.
Unblinking, Mearn memorized the man's jowled features. If byAth's grace he came through unscathed, he determined to. know thisnew enemy.
Vorrice's pale eyes fixed unseeing upon the frost-sharp sweep ofthe rooftops. He worked fleshy lips, pinched to tight discontent atthe corners. His stance seethed with nerve-fired agitation, the statker'simpression intensified by a thin nose, and eyebrows napped like wetburlap. He wore his hair cropped. The thoughtless clench of his fistto fringed velvet contrasted a manic neatness. White robes and goldband of office hung stainless and straight, glittering with thegoldensunwheel device.
 "We should take the Lord Master's offer, believe this." Hisadamant diction flecked spittle as he gestured his conviction. "Lethis 
~ANNY ~U~TS 

coin help rout out the canker of sorcer3a What should we fear? PrinceLysaer will shine as our maker intends. Let the faithless beware. Thelight of his presence shall banish corruption wherever man's worksembrace evil."
 "Vorrice," admonished the unseen authority, his fulsome voiceglacial with command, "this is not an inquisition. No sensible giftwill be spumed by this gathering. Not if the coin and the services offeredare being presented in good faith."
Vorrice made no reply, but snapped shut the curtains to a slidingclash of yanked rings.
Veiled in safe darkness, Meam loosed his pent breath. Moistureplumed from his lips, whirler away by anoLhe~r keen~g gust. Thecold at his back seared down to the bone, while rage hazed his moodto fierce recklessness. He seized a short moment to steady his mind,then quit the ledge, athletic and sure as he groped the next handholdhigher up. His mind stayed unsettled, each circling thought struckfrom a mold of hot fear. Erdane's guild ministers had not forgottentheir history since the uprising which dethroned the past high kings.They knew the clan bloodlines were an irreplaceable legacy. To judgebyKoshlin's least sinister insinuations, they understood the connectionbetween the oldest and first ruling families, and the guarded liaisononce maintained between mankind and lost races.
 For few spirits were born with the tenacity to withstand thelivingpresence of the Paravians. Meam knew as much from the chroniclespreserved in Alestron's archives. Those moldered histories read withthe fierce ring of legend. Mortals who survived the experience ofcon­tact quite often went mad, driven distraught by their limited humanperceptions. The fortunate who were stricken found solace with Ath'sBrotherhood. Most others simply wasted away, reft witless by a thirstfor a splendor too majestic to sustain reason. Daily cares, kin, theverynecessities of survival fell into eclipse before Paravian presence,which reflected unsullied the grandiloquent grace of the powerwhich sourced Ath's creation.
 For this, the Fellowship in their wisdom had sworn and sealed thegreat compact. Their act of intervention took charge before the griefof more limited human awareness could tear the fabric of society asun­der.
 Men like Koshlin still fueled the misunderstanding which gaverise to the slaughter of the high kings. Sunk in dangerous resentment,nursed by ignorance and hate, they mistook the clans' past rule forrepression, when in fact charter law compelled bygone sovereigns toa guiding burden of defense. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 S'Brydion clan record said Melhalla's twelfth high king had setseal to Alestron's original city charter. Like many another chosen family,the new overlords made their residence in an abandoned fortress. The old races had forsaken walled keeps after the binding of the drakespawn whose marauding had ended in defeat in the middle of theSecond Age. Every duke since then swore himself to life service, andthe peril as acting intermediary between his demesne and the conse­crated wilds inhabited by the free Paravians. They held vestedauthority, but only in trust. Forests were never to be cut down forfields, nor were fences and roadways ever built, except by grant ofpermission. Mankind had settled Athera on sufferance. Their worksand their governance had been cautiously allowed, that the greatmysteries maintained by Paravian wardship should remain in perpet­ual harmony.
Rule was not based upon power or privilege, but on the fraughtperils of sacrifice. The pitfalls were documented. Lords and crownedhigh kings most often died young, heart torn between dedicated carefor their own, and the terrible, exultant conflict of spirit as theytreated with beings who formed the living bridge across the veil.
Mearn hugged his shivering body to the granite, groped a toe intothe next crack, and shoved upward. The whispered scrape of his shirtover stone, and the moan of the wind through the gulf of starry dark­ness left him too much space to brood. A natural gambler, he mea­sured the odds and concluded that fate dealt the clans a bad throw. His brother the duke had initially backed Arithon for matters of fam­ily honor. But as politics and greed built on the grand impetus ofLysaer's cry for armed justice, that chosen loyalty could well becomean act of desperate survival.
Five centuries past, a misguided war cast off crown justice. Dis­senters had seized the protection of the towns to wrest Athera'sunex­ploited wilds from the sway of the Fellowship's compact. NowLysaer's bright new Alliance of Light lent a glove for the hands ofthose factions who still sought to raise mankind into dominance. Thesinister purpose which first launched the headhunters' leaguesregained its original impetus: to exterminate the link preserved inclan bloodlines and end the resurgence of Paravian mysteries.
Mearn reached the next windowsill winded, his knuckles and fin­gertips raw from the granite. The chamber inside was curtained anddark, its purpose impossible to fathom. If a living princess was heldcaptive above, sleeping guards or attendants might be quartered here.Mearn shut his eyes, listening. Small sounds drifted up from thestreet in diminished, wind-snatched fragments: a slap of hurried footsteps, 
253 ]ANNY WONTS
 then the head falconer's surly phrasing in complaint of a dishonest
scullion. Between oaths and blasphemies maligning the oaf's charac­
ter, the reference to stolen pigeons surfaced in recurrent disgust.
"Daelion Fatemaster's almighty debts!" harangued the falconer."If your duty as Avenor's royal steward won't see the miscreant pun­ished, who in creation's going to act? Should the Captain of Avenor'sRoyal Guard be yanked in to box the ears of a feckless boy? Well,kiss my dead granny's arse, if that's what you think! Bedamned if I'llshow my face at his door to say why he has to roust out."
Mearn twitched narrow lips, his soft snort of laughter damped byhis sleeve as the brangle destroyed the night quiet. Echoes bounced,multiplied, through the tower entry. The theft in the dovecote seemedthe cause of Gace Steward's delay, a setback to nettle his weaselytem­perament into a snarling row. The falconer refused to give back anyground. Delighted to seize on the chance-met diversion, Meam s'Bry­dion nipped from his niche and embarked on the grueling last ascentof the upper battlements.
The watchtower's turret had a crenellated guard walk, inset withdrains to gutter rainwater. These offered the climber a precariousleft handhold while he unslung his grapple and line. He timed his throwbetween gusts, lest the wind spoil his aim. The carrying, metallicchink as the hooks slid and caught prickled his nape into gooseflesh.He could not shake the unnerving conviction that an archer took aimbetween his shoulder blades. Imagination harried him on through themoments he was forced to trust his weight to the rope. Eyes shut,sweat branding the acrid taste of salt on his lips, he swung out overair and scaled the line hand over hand.
 Gusts battered at his progress, fetched him against stone inrepeated, bruising impacts that tore through his shirt and skinned ashoulder. Then he reached the crenellation. He dragged himself upand through, and crouched head down, sheltered at last from the buf­feting cold.
Had guards been stationed there on the wall walk, he should havedied, betrayed by teeth that chattered from fraught nerves and chill.Yet no man-at-arms came to skewer him. Gray stone and pale brickwore nothing beyond ice, except where the reaching scour of the ele­ments swept the battlement clean. Mearn thrived on escapades. Heshrugged his scuffed clothing back to rights, licked a scrapedknuckle, and raked his lovelock free of his collar.
The tower's turret chamber had windows secured with oak-plankshutters strapped in iron. No light shone through the gaps at theedges. With his ear pressed to the wood, Mearn sensed no activity. A 
254 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 questing touch confirmed a barred fastening, likely fitted with a
lock and hasp from inside. The hinges were mounted prison fashion, ontothe outer wall. Meam unlaced the thong ties from his collar points,ripped off his shirt cuff to muffle stray noise, then looped the
heads of the pins with the leather and worried until they slipped free.Left the play in the hasp, and one side unanchored, the shuttergave just enough to allow him an opening to push through.Meam deferred his first move. While the gusts slapped and priedthrough the rip in his shirt, he peered into the stillness, poised
as the predator who tested the lair of unknown and dangerous prey. Faintwarmth touched his skin, dense with the charcoal smoke of bankedembers and a lighter fragrance of lavender. He detected no move­ment, could see little beyond the bronze-bossed handles of whatmight be a lady's clothes chest. Bulked comers of other furnishingslay limned in the starlight admitted by the breached shutter.
Meam raised his thigh, tautened his grip, and hoisted soundlesslyonto the broad sill. A feathered brush of his jerkin across studdedwood, a whisper of calfskin on stone, and he was through, flattenedto the curve of the inside wall. He waited.
 Nothing; just the breathy draw of coals in an unseen grate, andthe fret of the wind outside. His wide, straining eyes discerned theframe of a curtained box bed, the harder gleam of a porcelain ewer on astand, and the pale linen oblong of a towel. The chamber wasappointed for basic comfort, but not in the grace of high luxury. AnEtarran-bred princess accustomed to society and the gregarious con­volutions of city intrigue would be like to go mad from sheer bore­dom. That moment, from nowhere, fierce fingers grasped his lovelock.Meam whirled. His sudden, lithe reflex ripped off the hold. Hiswrist bone jarred metal. The shuttering cover of a hand lamp chinkedback. Caught in the flaring, sudden haze of light, the woman heseized with a wrestler's strength was all molten gold hair and pearlskin. She was fire, gilt-and-white porcelain, and a vision to stun amale witless. Widened bronze eyes flashed up to meet his, blacklashed and deep, with pupils to drown him in primordial night.
The sound that impacted his closed throat wrenched his larynx.Meam lost all grip on his senses. Swept head to foot by a physicalawareness to freeze thought and unstring his reason, the swift,build­ing pressure of desire in his loins ran him through like the shock ofa sword thrust.
 "Ath!" he gasped in a wrenched whisper. "Save us all, lady. You 
255  J^~ Wu~$
 ~ are like the Avenger's own spear, too sharp to touch without bleed­ing." Cramped śingers could be forced to unlock; dumb flesh, be com­pelled to step back.
Her Grace, Princess Talith touched cool fingers to his lips. "Bewary. A handmaid sleeps in the chamber beneath, and her loyalty isnot to me."
 Mearn shuddered and broke her restraint as though burned. Hehad heard all the rumors, even glimpsed Lysaer's wife at state func­tions before her incarceration. At safe remove behind a retinue and attendants, she had been a sight to turn heads. Nothing alive couldprepare any man for the impact of her at close quarters. Meam dis­covered himself helpless to tear his gaze from her face. Thedelicate,ivory line of her shoulder entrapped him, and the sheer fall of thenightrobe whose folds by tums offered and obscured a form ofbreathtaking loveliness.
Words came like bruised increments of noise, struck by afalteringtongue. "You're a prisoner, then?" Mearn forced a next sentence. "Theparty who sent me believed so."
A brute turn of will let him recall the danger posed by the lamp;he snatched back the presence to lean through the casement and closethe skewed board of the shutter. Faced away, wit and speech gained ameasure of reprieve. "Word at court insists you've gone into retreat.Stress and overwrought nerves, Gace Steward says. The upset isattributed to barrenness."
 "Lies," Talith said on a barb of stung spirit. "My bed has beenbar­ren." Bitterness made her laugh, but in venomous, smothered quiet."No husband, no seed, hence, no child. It is Lysaer who fails to getus an heir." She dimmed the small lamp and restored it to a soot-streaked niche in the wall. "For hatred of his half brother, theprincethinks to put me aside."
"The abduction by Arithon caused this?" Mearn straightened andset his back against stone, acute in his private discomfort. Thelady'stower quarters were too cramped to pace. If he stirred one step inanydirection, his retreat would not bring him more than an arm's lengthfrom her. "But why? Eight hundred thousand coin weight in goldbrought you home with your virtue intact."
Talith flung back a ripple of bright hair and regarded him. Thecon­tempt that fired her topaz eyes seemed to roil the very marrow in hisbones. "You say. Yet what proof can I show for my loyalty?"
Mearn swore. A stride carried him to the box bed, impelled by apity too fierce to keep still. "Prince Lysaer's a fool. I can'tchangethat." He locked hands to the spare rope coiled across his sho~lders, 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

flamed to ridiculous, boyish embarrassment for his sweaty state ofdishevelment. Tom shirt, ripped fingers, and wind-tangled hair, hefelt rough as an unsanded plank. "But I can offer means to escape."
"To what?" Talith answered. This time, she spun away in swiftvio­lence.
 Not in time; Meam saw the lucent, gold rims of her eyes dim to asudden flood of tears. He ached to take her into his arms, to circleher glass-and-gold-leaf fragility inside a bastion of comfort. Pridestopped him, then the first, warning prick of intuition. "You stilllove your husband."
Her rancor a core of iron in silk, the princess rebutted, "Shouldmyheart lie with duty, in Avenor?"
But the statement struck cold to a gambler's ear. Hatred couldbreed twisted passions, Meam knew. He watched. The lady opened adrawer and fished out a striker and candles. Her hand stayed toosteady as she lit the fresh wicks. Tears might still glitter throughher ebony lashes, and vulnerability sharpen an allure like thin crystal,and yet, she had been born a pedigree Etarran. A clansman forgot athis peril: her breed fed on intrigue and betrayal since infancy.
Three years of solitary contemplation in this tower might fomenta thousand deadly hopes of revenge. If Lady Talith of Avenor wishedno escape, she would angle to gain something else.
"I need to conceive a child," she announced without prelude.
"What?" Meam exclaimed.

 "You risked much to find me. I trust you like women?" She gave nomore warning, but closed in and cornered him, one exquisite, warmshoulder exposed by an artful slip of her night rail. The curve ofher breast underneath was too perfect to endure without touching. Meamfelt the bang of raw physical sensation hammer the center of hischest. Her soft scent filled his mind. Rife chaos struck through hislabored,trapped logic. "You want," he began in emasculated anger.
She tipped back her head, cupped his jaw in fine hands, and didnot smile at the violent flush to his skin. "Don't be a hypocrite.How­ever much you posture and prickle, you want me in bed wellenough."
"That has little to do with good sense," Mearn gasped. His breathfailed him. His next utterance came out strangled. "A child--"
Reason fled, words dissolved to a groan as she stretched up andlaid her softened lips against the sped pulse in his neck. His armsclosed around her through no sane volition. Touched off by explosive,violent need, he pressed her slim heat against him. The fingers stilltom and stinging from his climb locked in her cascade of bright hair. 
 JANNY WURTS

 Her seduction was no longer passionless or steady as sheslipped her hands through his collar. Prolonged years of loneli­ness ripped away pretense. "You are very fine," she murmuredbeneath his chin. "Brave also. Sire us a prince to make the realmproud."
"Ath, this is madness!" Mearn t~isted free. "My get would behalf-bred." lie caught her wrists, his birth accent snapping. "Lady, youhave no idea what you're asking."
"Oh?" Talith laughed, deep and low in her throat. If his strengthwas too harsh, she did not pull away. Chin lifted, her taut, arousednipple a hairsbreadth from his tormented flesh, she let her posebecome her sweet challenge, well assured he could not resist. Mearn cursed.
 Talith returned a slow smile. "Can a princess be faulted fortaking alover if she is cast off in neglect? Let the court in Avenor hear I'mnot barren, the disgrace will become my f~esh victory. My child of coursewon't be Lysaer's. For that, his much vaunted manhood will belaughingstock."
"Things aren't that simple," Mearn wrenched out. She was tooclose, too desirable. Her appeal for just vindication was too potentto let him think. Nor had he the means to let her down with any properkindness or subtlety. "I can't. Lady, your spirit is great, and yourbeauty unmatched. I could lie with you for sheer pleasure. But I cannever, ever presume the right to make a new life between us."
She broke then, her tears a bright, roll'mg spill over herflawless cheekbones. "Ath's mercy, help me! Won't you see how I need this? Ashamed wife could gain freedom, some measure of autonomy. Yes,the worst could befall. Lysaer may cast me off. At least ! couldreturn to my cousins in Etarra."
"I can't," Mearn said, helpless before her unhappiness. "It's amat­ter of honoring my family bloodline."
Her features stayed blank, confounding Mearn's pity. Etarra was acity founded too late to have any record of the uprising. Unlike thepersistent guild minister from Erdane, Talith would not know of thefacts behind clanborn descent.
 Mearn shut his eyes, anguished. He dared not explain; not afterthe clandestine overture just presented to Lysaer's high counselors. Clannumbers in Rathain were dangerously dwindled from the impact ofthe Mistwraith's curse. The damaging truth in Etarran hands, that theold family bloodlines were not replaceable, might hasten their finaldestruction.
 "Lady," he said through bleak anguish, "let me help you escape. 
s she oneli­~ured 'ealm 
half­you 
FUGITIVE I)RINCE 
Once free, you can flee to Etarra if you like, or even conceive yourbastard at will on any other man that you choose." She did not answer
 Mearn sensed the stir, then the chill kiss of draft on his skinas she widened the distance between them. As he looked, and interpretedher proud determination, he felt as if his powers of cognition hadsuf­fered a dousing in ice water. "Lady," he said, more dangerous now,"what do you know? There's something to this you're not telling me."
Talith smiled. Her neat, narrow fingers adjusted her night railand reclothed her inviting nakedness. "Tell all and give nothing? Howlike a man who has bloodline, but apparently no measure of heatedblood in him. Why am I not surprised? I should be asking, instead,who has sent you."
Mearn grinned. "You sound like my grandmother Dawr. Sharp asvinegar and sand when her males won't do as she pleases. I have nointention of saying which party takes active interest in yourpredica­ment. Shall I end our sweet impasse and go?"
That shook her. "We are bargaining, bloodless man." The glassedge of solitude had eroded her strength. Both fear and contemptrang true as she spoke. "Did you plan to climb down as you came?Then I'll have your rope and grapple to reel in once you set down onthe council-hall roof. Deliver my note to my lover of choice and lethim scale the wall for my favor"
Mearn inclined his head. "I'll bear your note. The rope I wouldleave you in any case, to escape or invite whom you will. The personwho sent me shall hear of your plight without any need for persua­sion."
 He shrugged off the hemp coils, nettled by more than freshscrapesand the stinging of his grazed fingertips. His refusal of her sexlodgedan ache of unassuaged need in his gut. Still, he felt her gaze trackhim,fierce as the heat thrown off magma.
"If you're dedicated as you seem to the cause of Lysaer'sAlliance,this won't matter," Talith said in sudden, terse resolve. "But if youspeak to other clansmen, or have sympathy for ones in Tysan at riskof enslavement, I offer this much. The Koriathain are in league withPrince Lysaer against Arithon. Their kind have sent word: my lordhusband has left Etarra. He returns to Avenor with all speed, insecret, for he knows the Master of Shadow has suborned the shake­down crews at his shipyard."
Mearn blinked. Set upon dangerous ground since no suspicion ofdoubt must touch on s'Brydion loyalty, he tossed off an insouciantgrin. "You lay claim to a knowledge of state secrets,from here?" 

~ANNY ~URTS

 Talith met him with the thinnest of smiles, spiked in thornsmalice. "You didn't know?" She stepped sideward, flicked back a feltcurtain, and seated herself in the box bed. "Beneath lies my jailerand handmaid, who also is mistress to Lysaer's appointed High Priest ofthe Light, Cerebeld. I married a man who now claims to be god sent."
She paused. Mearn said nothing, preferring to listen, while histhoughts spun on tangents of frightful speculation.
The focused intensity of his stillness must have reached her. "Ohyes, you suspect the very truth," Talith affirmed. "The meetings inthis tower seek to seed a religion. Cerebeld and his mad-dog fanatic,Vorrice, have been consecrated to carry out a divine mission. Lysaermakes long-range plans to unleash a holy war against the Master ofShadow."
 Touched by the fluttering play of the candle, Talith gave asmall,resigned shrug. "The s'Ffalenn prince might be a pirate, might plyhis sorcery and connive against innocents, but he does not spin fair liesto justify his killing. Remember that, if you stay to fight him." Herhands had laced themselves taut in her lap, white knuckled inresponse to sharp memory. "Arithon's criminal and clever, but he'struthful. If I can smear Lysaer's reputation just enough to tear downthis false claim to godhood, the world might come to bleed a littleless."
 Again she looked up. This time, her striking beauty held no sub­terfuge, but an appeal stamped in hard desperation. "I might winback a husband who is human if his gifted power to win a followingis besmirched."
 "You love him, not his cause," Mearn confirmed. He could relyupon that to protect the s'Brydion good name. "If you plan to keepmy rope and grapple after I've lowered myself down, what will youdo about hinge pins?"
Talith looked blank for a second, then chuckled low in herthroat. "Pick the lock on the hasp, what else? The Etarran daughter whofailed at that skill was judged unfit to be married." She arose, toowise to offer him mean'mgless thanks, and too worldly to press furtherclaim on his personal loyalty. "If you'll wait, I'll pen my appealfor a bastard."
 Mearn laughed, enchanted by her spirit. "Dear princess, if youare cast off and left lovelorn with cousins, allow me to visit and paycourt. If you liked, I'd spirit you out of Etarra and invite you totea with my grandmother The result would certainly repel boredom."
"With vinegar and sand?" Talith rose in wry grace, tore a leaffrom a book on her nightstand, then dipped water from the ewer and 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

ground makeshift ink from a handful of ashes in the grate. "I'm notsanguine."
A thin quill drawn from the stuffing in her mattress, cut andsplitwith Mearn's knife, made a pen.
"You've brought me precious hope," she admitted as she scribedher perilous invitation to lure a lover. "If you fall getting out ofhere and break your silly head, I'll entreat your grandmother's shade tocome haunt you."
"No need," Mearn quipped. He shed his coil of rope. Volatile inmovement as sparked flame, he took her folded missive and tucked itaway in his belt, then kissed the warm fingers of her hand. "DameDawr has already sworn to do as much anyway, if she doesn't find away to live forever." He blew out the candle. Removed to the win­dow, he tipped back the shutter to an unwelcome blast of night wind."Fate's blessing on you, princess. May you win back your joy outsidethe walls of this tower."
 Much later, returned to the security of his bedchamber, he pennedhis own messages for Maenol's clansmen to bear warn'rag to his duke,and also the Master of Shadow. As he inked his dire findings inclose-spaced, ciphered script, Mearn s'Brydion could not set aside his lastsight of Avenor's royal lady, erect in a silvery outline ofstarlight, thesilent tears falling and falling off the breathtaking, proud slant ofher cheekbones. 
Early Spring 5653 
First Upset 
No sound destroyed Lord Maenol s'Gannley's sleep faster than theinbound drumming of hooves.
Shot to alarm in the misted, predawn gloom, too nerve wound tosnatch for his boots, the man who bore title as Tysan's caithdeinrolled headlong from the cloak which also served him as blanket. Whilecrossing barren scrublands and open territory, he slept clothed injerkin and breeches. His main gauche and daggers stayed sheathed athis belt. Damp earth and tender spring grass chilled bare feet as hesnatched up his longsword, ready on the instant to fight, hide orflee to keep his small company living.
"Don't trouble," he murmured to the scout come to wake him."Guard yourself as you can."
Edging the salt flats, en route to their next seacoast rendezvousto embark with three more of Arithon's purloined ships, none of hisparty slept disarmed.
The rest of his band stirred amid fog-choked hummocks, as hair-trigger wary as he. Their discipline became their young chieftain'ssole pride. No chink of weapons and nary a torch marked their move­ments. Their presence blended like chaff upon burlap with the rise ofthe inland dunes and their low crests, fringed with wind-harriedsedges. Stained dark with walnut, their exposed hands and facesmelted into the rank stands of cattails and brush. Yet here, even themost covert care could not ensure their survival. Fourteen leaguessouth of Hanshire, their picked destination a hidden tidal estuary, 
262 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

their foray offered choice bait to headhunters ranging in search ofscalp trophies, or worse, the double bounty routinely paid by thecrown to muscle the galleymen's oars.
Breezes still spiked with the late season's chill wisped theloose strands from Maenol's clan braid. Every sense trained alert, hebreathed in the lushness of green-budding willow, and the brackishfish taint of the bogs. The threat was still closing. Around him, theshrilling pipe of spring peepers fell silent before the oncoming ham­mer of hoofbeats.
 "Just one light-boned horse," relayed Jyce, whose barrel-stoutframe was small help in an ambush, but whose hearing made up forhis clumsiness. "Not a destrier."
 Maenol stayed wrapped in habitual silence, too spare with wordsto confer. Armed patrols seldom swept this landscape by night,unless they were dealt provocation; and over these reed-choked,stream-tangled lowlands, a war-bred charger would mire too deeplyto canter.
 "Nobody moves out of cover," Maenol said in a terse whisper. "Wemight face a traveler strayed from the road. With luck, he'll pass bywithout finding us."
Yet the rider came on, relentless. The swish of bent willows andthe splash of muddy shallows marked an arrow-straight course throughthe bogs. On Maenol's signal, men prepared to ease steel in a sound­less draw from their scabbards.
 Then a low, trilling whistle signaled warning to the sentries. Nochance-met arrival, the horseman reined in his foam-flecked mare. Hedismounted, sweat drenched himself and half-winded, and shovedthrough the last stand of reeds under escort by one of Maenol's ownwatch scouts. "Tysan's caithdein, is he here?"
Any courier who knew to search these wilds for that name couldbear only calamitous news.
"More slave raids," Maenol surmised. He stepped forward, guttight and braced, his bloodless grip jammed on his sword.
The sardonic male voice which hailed from misty darknessbelonged to no Korias clansman. "No. Not this time." The riderresumed with hoarse urgency, the peppery snap of his eastshoreaccent now clear enough to be recognized. "A trap's to be sprung onArithon at Riverton."
 Maenol advanced another step, piqued by an unwelcome hunch."Mearn? Mearn s'Brydion? Merciful Ath! You have no business risk­ing yourself here, even for such word as this."
"No time for passed messages. These tidings can't wait." Mearn's 
263 ]ANNY ~7URT$
 chin jerked up in a spasm of startlement as a second scout slippedfrom the brush at his elbow to take his reins and attend his blown horse. Prince Lysaer's increased bount/es to slavers had pitched theforestborn clans to a wariness even sworn friends found unnerving.
Lord Maenol gave no apology, but pinned his close scrutiny 0n themare. Relief eased some of the bite from his manner as he marked a rented hack with nondescript markings, and tack without blazt~nedtrappings. The clan envoy from Alestron had been canny enough toseize every desperate precaution. Marshy soil would hold a shodhorse's track for days. Skannt's headhunters might pick up his backtrail. If they chose to pursue, the animal must be cut loose forexpedi­ence, or else bled to de,~,f.b J~*.I~e.~ d,ra~' t,r~e ~ctd~ to Pair' cry.
In the s'Brydion style of rapid-fire summary, Mearn broke thenews that had brought him. "Lysaer's returned." He caught the caithdei~t'swrist in a grasp like wound wire and drew him aside to speak pri­vately. "You can't imagine worse. His Grace has reached Avenor exenas we speak."A woman scout on the sidelines overheard. "That's not possible!"Others echoed her incredulity. To the north, the mouth of InstrellBay and every northern harbor remained locked in the grip of greenice; the mountain route through Camris was sealed shut with drifts,The severity and strength of a lingering winter left the West Roadtrade routes impassable.
"Tornir Peaks are deadly, razed by avalanche at this season, andour scouts from the Thaldeins say the Orlan pass will stay blockedthirty days past the equinox," Jyce protested.
"Yes. That's the lynchpin of Lysaer's strategy." Mearn plung~. dahead, straitly grim. "I presumed the very same, a near-fatalmistak~. Lysaer's forged a liaison with the Koriani witches. They parted thefloes with spellcraft to row a galley into Mincress, then breachedti~c~ Fellowship's wards to bring him southwest through Teal's gap."
"You claim he's crossed Tornir Peaks through the Sorcerer's Pre­serve?" the woman cried into stricken silence. "That's insanity!" X,.~ mortal company could survive that terrain. Every savage pack of fir~,~ breathing Khadrim held confined by the Sorcerers would desceded,and tear an armed supply train to pieces.
"The Prince of the Light's in Avenor," Mearn insisted. "He hadarcane guidance, and could have arrived no other way."
The outspoken scout swore. Her young chieftain met the disastrc,c~s news like unflinching oak, hands firm on the hilts of his weapons.Over the rattle of breeze through stiff sedges, through the mufflh~,salt-heavy mist, he said only, "Give us more detail, if you will." 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 His caithdein's composure and straight stance revealed nothing.Unable to measure his courage in darkness, Mearn matched his tone,talking fast. "The prince arrived in close secrecy. The town's notbeen informed. The outrider's servant I bribed for the gossip said hisGrace planned a conference with the inner cabal of his council. He willboard a waiting galley and put to sea by this dawn's tide, then slipashore again at Hanshire. You can expect him to take the direct routeby road and rejoin his specialized assault troop."
Before Maenol's steadiness, Mearn ticked off a trip-hammerlistingof hard facts. The company came on special levy from Rathain, a divi­sion of Etarran field guard, handpicked, and deadly at infighting.These had already marched south under orders to cordon the roadsand the ferries, and cut off all routes out of Riverton.
"Seven days," Tysan's caithdein extrapolated. "You say that's allwe have to break through with a message, and let friends spirit Arithonout."
 "You've got less," Mearn rebutted. "The elite company bypassedAvenor. They took remounts with them and parted from Lysaer'sguard past the Melor River bridge. They've gone straight across coun­try. I traveled at speed through the night out of hope the high spateoff the peaks may mire their passage by Mogg's Fen."
Maenol seized the gist. The torrent fed by the snowmelt mightopen a frightfully narrow margin for clansmen who knew the highground to engage and delay the advance of the enemy company.
"You'll need to move like Sithaer's winged demons. Damned well !wish I didn't need to be here," Mearn added, vehement. Yet he couldnot shirk inescapable facts. More lay at risk than his s'Brydionfamilyhonor. The next shipyard launching was due a week hence. Boldplans under way aimed for clan crews to abscond with not one, butthree stolen vessels. The temptation to expose Arithon's interestsfor reward would be great for a man without a blood stake on the out­come.
 "Anyone notices where you've gone, and wh~ you could be put tothe sword," Maenol said, then instantly shouldered the risk of thatdebt. "You have my free welcome to take sanctuary among my clans."
Mearn snorted a disdainful laugh through the graying, salt-burdened air. "Don't mind my back. I left town in fine order. Mychambers are barred, with word out I'm drunk to incapacity. Foradded assurance, three whores fill my bed. The house servant's keep­ing them occupied, blissful man. That much gold in their hands, I'lljust have to hope the trulls won't exhaust him too soon, nor carewhose prick stands to greet them." 
265 
 JANN. ~7 ~1R T $

 "Come or go as you. please, then. Make free with our stores ifyou're hungry, but hurry. You'll know we can brook no delay." Toorushed for more than that bare thread of courtesy, Maenol steppedaside to mete out instructions to his war captain. "No help for it,we're going to get bloodied. Send runners in relays. We raise call t0arms. Also, word must be won through to Riverton to warn Arithon.Spend lives as you must. We'll see no free children if those dogs ofEtarrans pin down Rathain's prince in their cordon."
As he caught wind of Meam's clipped request to grain and refreshhis tired horse, Lord Maenol spun back. "Where are you bound betoremorning?"
The youngest s'Brydion sibling bared his teeth in acidic self-mockery."South, wherever else? I have Lysaer's note of safe conduct. Shouldyour efforts fail in the fenlands, this fresh Etarran company has nodue that I'm prostrate, easing a thick head with doxies. If they won't beweaned from bullheaded p~,judice, I'll just indulge them and upholdmy ill-bred reputation."
"For harebrained acts and wild barbarism? I see." Ma~nol regardedhim, thoughtful, his mustache quirked at an angle that almostsmoothed the furrows from his brow. "As Duke Bransian's envoy andAvenor's pledged ally, you'll seed uncivil chaos in the chain ofLysaer's field command?" Before Mearn could muster a mettlesomeretort, he burst into deep-throated laughter. "Go softly. You'll calldown your brother's ducal vengeance on my head if you passbeneath the Wheel on this foray."
Mearn eyed him askance. A lethal spark of fury smoldered throughhis lean frame as he ended discussion with a shrug. "Better worrymore whether Arithon's killed."
 While the Alliance of Light gathered strength through past feudsand political incentives, both men held no illusion: the Master ofShadow became their last hope to stave off decimation of clan blood­lines. 
Early Spring 5653 
Downfall 
On the same misted daybreak that saw Maenol's scouts race east toattempt their desperate stand by Mogg's Fen, the first gold blush oflight rinsed the high battlements of the tower where Princess Talithof Avenor was sequestered.
As always she opened her eyes to deep gloom. The strapped shut­ters leaked only pinpricks of light. Airless and chill, the flintydank­ness of the brick enclosed the fusty odors of soot and beeswax, thelavender sprigs in her clothes chest too refined to drive the must ofmildew from her blankets. Talith lay still, never so agonized by herplight that she gave way to helpless resignation. Where once she hadcommanded chattering maids to serve up scalding tea and the choicesnippets of the night's gossip, now she had only her ears to recordthe ongoing events outside. Born and bred a pedigree Etarran, she wouldlie dead before she renounced her belief she could wrest back her place in court politics.
On calm mornings such as this, at the tide's turn, the exchangesof oaths between the stevedores and crown customs men winnowed upfrom the harborside. By the number of epithets relating to oxen, shededuced that a carter backed his dray down to the dockside. Talithheard the exchange of bawdy jokes, then laughter, which faded oncethe inspection was complete. An excise officer duly stamped the billof lading; then a grinding, hollow thunder tore the quiet, as thedock­workers off-loaded the wainload of barrels. Left to conjecture,Talith wondered if the casks held water for a ship's stores, or whether
 267 
' : . ,"i ~'-; ú another cargo from the brewer's rolled down the quay tohold of a trade galley.
A ruled sliver of sunshine struck through a crack, the onlysnippetof natural light to brighten her chamber all day. The slow hours ofher isolation racked her like torture and stretched highbred nerves todrawn glass. As if to compound that sawing misery, the bastardgrowing in her belly, contrived by liaison with a worshipful palacepage, made her feel drawn and queasy. Talith cherished the stillinter­val after each dawn, and the cozy warmth of the box bed. All too soonthe chambermaid who served as her warden would burst in with wash water and firewood. Made arrogant by her position of propri­ety, the woman always grumbled in monotone while her fussy,brusque hands girded the princess into chilly clothes to endureanother day of grinding emptiness.
Talith became afraid if she retorted in frustration, the screamsshe had smothered through four terrible years would escape all restraint,and leave her mewling with madness. If she could not hear the trillsof skylarks at the meadows' edge, the spring brought her swifts andcliff swallows, nesting under the eaves on the battlement. Throughtheir sprightly chirps, she heard the wind freshen and snap the ban­ners streaming from their poles on the vaulted dome of the councilhall. The bustle from the docks became erased by the gusts, replacedby the clo15 of hooves on the paving as a tight, fast-movingcavalcade cut through the daily grind of farm wagons crossing to market.
An officer called. His querulous order was answered by the defer­ent footfalls of a servant. The ponderous, leaved panels to the lowervestibule were unbarred to the uneasy bristle of activity which spokeof an arriving delegation.
Once, Talith would have arisen to pace the floor in a froth ofbalked curiosity. Prolonged incarceration had not sapped her spirit. Femalewisdom and cold rage let her stop beating caged wings long since.She had learned in her desperate patience to rechannel the cuttingedge of her mind to more subtle venues of subterfuge.
She shrugged off the empty comfort of her blankets, now impatientfor the maid's prompt arrival. The woman had a haughty temper,when provoked. She was ambitious and vain, covetous of her posi­tion as a high priest's clandestine mistress. Rich all her life, andborn to position, Talith knew by her huntress's instinct which jabs wouldrankle the most. The maid was a gold-digging, servant-class whore,and her nettled retorts to a princess's needling could sometimesspring knowledge of outside events.
Yet the mincing, slippered step and piqued puffs of exhalation she 
268 
FUGITIVE 

expected came replaced by the grating tread of boots, embeddedagainst the rumble of masculine voices.
Talith exploded to her feet. She snatched a quilted robe from achairback, and whirled, heart pounding, to confront the charcoalshadow which demarked the barred arch of the doorway.
The approaching steps ground inexorably upward. An explosionof pure rage made her blood race like magma, for this invasion camewith no polite notice and no dignity; then that ire seized to ice, asthe steps outside halted and isolated her maid's obsequious sopranofrom the stairwell.
 "... missed her courses, my brave lord. The linens for suchstayedunstained these two months, though on my word, no man enteredher bedchamber. Each night, I slept across the threshold to the upperstaircase. Below me, always, were the guards sworn to serve thedivine Light. They answer to no man but your exalted self, and to hishigh eminence, Cerebeld."
A man murmured something placating. Then the steps paused.The bar clashed and the panel swung inward.
Barefoot in her nightshift and the dangling toggles of a robejustbarely donned, Princess Talith received no warning beyond a dazozling scintillance of diamonds. Then a damascened glint of pale hairshone by the rags of new flame in the sconce. A lightning clap tounsuspecting rock, her senses imprinted the form of the man whoentered her chamber.
 Least likely of visitors, her s'Ilessid husband strode in unan­nounced, prematurely returned from his state delegation to Etarra.
Four years had changed him, Talith saw, eyes narrowed to theinflux of light, and her arrested breathing resumed to sped rhythmfrom the recoil kick of shocked nerves. His stainless white dress,sim­ple jewels, and lethal charm had been welded into new purpose. Hehad always had majesty. Now, presence lay on him like gold thread invelvet, or fine silk wrapped over tempered wire. His eyes of water-rinsed sapphire upon her showed no shadow of strain. On the con­trary, as if passionate love had never aroused his desire, hismannered tranquillity held a luminous focus that seemed to command the deadair to forced rarity.
Despite her contempt, Talith felt the force of him ripple herflesh to a stabbing prickle of awe.
She could not sustain the keen edge of her anger Every bastion ofher cynical, Etarran pride wavered. Nor could she tear her gaze fromhis features. Almost, she lost to the moonstruck fool's impulse whichurged her to rush into his arms. If Lysaer saw her weakness, he had 
269 
 JANNY WUI~TS 

not come to gloat. His face stayed expressionless, its lordly, fairs~­roetry remote in perfection as a spirit carved from light and air.Talith could have wept then for unjust debasement, that his merereappearance held the power to sear her shunned heart like a brand.She wrestled to shore up her fractured composure. A wrungmoment passed while she recouped resilience, then noticed the otherthree officia:$ who mounted the landing behind him.Raw fury then stained her cheeks heated pink, that her unjust stateof incarceration should be made the public butt of a formal audience.She realized in cringing embarrassment that her hands fumbled tofasten the front of her robe, but failed in their task through herrack­ing torment of raw need.However much she had cause to resent Lysaer, her love was thestronger, a force as unruly as the surge of the tide. Left weak atthe knees, she had nothing else left but her verbal wits and a hamstrungdrive to vent outrage."How like a man and a craven, to arrive with a bootlicking dogpack to heel," Talith said. "Or have you come in overdressed force tocollect my soiled linen for the laundry girl? The gallants in Etarrawould think it the rage, to see royal~ wait on a servant."Lysaer seemed not to hear. Lordly and unruffled as masterworkedcrystal, he assayed neither riposte nor civil greeting, but addressed.:i her instead with the incisive clari~ she had seen him use once on an officer who had deserted. "We'll have no display of false modest~,woman. Your robe must come off. Strip your night rail as well. I'minformed you are bearing. Shall we see?"His train of officials pattered in from the stairwell, no doubt sum­moned to stand legal witness. The sallow-faced leader with the stalk­ing tread swept her with obsidian hard eyes, his voluminous cloak ofermine and gold fretted with chains and wired pearls. The sunwheelerablazoned his cowled robe of office, and one fist, squared blunt asa mason's maul, clutched a scepter encrusted with citrines. Behind himminced the stooped person of the High Seneschal, the sills of hischeekbones windburned to old leather by days of inclement travel.Beyond middle age, and s~mied by events outside the ossified moresof state politics, he gave the cracked stone in the floor hisdiscoretired contemplation. Vorrice came last, as the Light's new-made instrumentto seek out and destroy pet~ sorcery. He gave her a leering, suspi­cious inspection, preened as a fighting cock hung with steel spursfor a match with inferior rivals. Talith felt their collective awareness, avid as crows lined up in anabattoir waiting to gorge on a carcass. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 Her tone was syrup as she let fly her unwounded contempt."Whose shame shall we celebrate? Yours, gutless prince, for thepathetic excuse of my barrenness?"
Lysaer never blinked. "You heard my command. I need not repeatmyself." A crook of his finger brought the traitorous handmaid scur­rying to assist her disrobing.
Talith raised her chin, too proud to give way to a physicalstruggle,or invite them to lay hands on in force. Nor would she assist theignominy herself. Doll stiff, she maintained every breathtaking inchof her bearing, while the maid tugged and circled, divesting eachlayer of her garments.
The kiss of chill air was too sharp to hide. Shivering as thecloth slithered down and bared her defenseless shoulders, Talith reliedupon words for her knives. "If there's truth to this claim, dare youbrand yourself cuckold?"
The handmaid recoiled in prim righteousness, ready to repeat heravowal that no man had passed through her guard; yet the princess,her disdain fixed like acid upon Lysaer, gave that unctuous objectionno chance. "Why not ring the bells in praise of another miracle?Ath's all-powerful avatar shouldn't balk at a child conceived by sublimeintervention. Let your bitch of a watchdog swear by her truth. Givethe realm an heir begotten by miracle, and blessed by the glory ofthe Light. Another lie is scarcely more preposterous than the last. Whata stirring opportunity to fan the ardor of your campaign, and win moreadulation from the masses."
 Lysaer gave back his pitying patience. "I am truth's minion. Myborn calling can't be sullied by the rags of false gallantry, even toprotect yourinfidelity." His eyes on her stayed an implacable, blued steel. "Norwould I exploit an honest servant's gullibility. The Master of Shadow is atRiver-ton, and sorcerer enough that he once gained covert entry to the mostrig­orously guarded keep on the continent." No one could forget the furorover that, since Duke Bransian's citadel had been widely conside~~dimpregnable. Lysaer closed his point. "If you chose to be my enemy'slover, this tower would pose his demonic skills small impediment."
"Had Arithon wished, he'd have done his work earlier, without theinconvenience of skulking." Talith held herself erect, ablaze withthe unalloyed arrogance of pedigree, while the plain, dull cloth of hernight rail slipped down and puddled around her cold ankles.
"Bring the torch," the priest Cerebeld snapped to the handmaid.The High Seneschal flushed red to his wattles, pecking her withswift,sidelong glances as he opened cupboards and chests, and fingered thecontents to mask his driving discomfort. 
 Princess Talith endured, desperate and unflinching, her fine skinfretted to gooseflesh. While the one man she loved with her wholeheart in marriage showed her nakedness no trace of natural human­ity, others who were enemies leered in unconstrained male amaze­ment. The exquisite torment of her beauty became her last weaponagainst tears, as Lysaer's state witnesses sweated in their clothesand ached in stifled frustration. Their lust left them slack jawed astheycataloged her attributes like an ornament unveiled for private auc­tion. The subtle details lay beyond her to hide: the giveaway pallorof morning nausea; the ripe fullness of breast, and the first, softenedcurve of hip and belly. Nor could she mask the smooth, dewy skinthat seemed lit like the satin reflection on a pearl.
"Let the light be brought closer," Vorrice urged, sand ongranite,while the thick, hurried breathing of the High Seneschal sawedthrough suspended silence.
The ordeal seemed a puppet's play, distanced by the suddenclangoras the bell tower tolled the hour. Outside in the freedom of sea-bright,clear air, gulls still cried and swooped. The snatched, wind-tom cryof a ship's officer called for his galley to cast off her lines.
Talith felt every current of disturbed air on her skin. Theminutes dragged by, until the frame of the ordinary must splinter away undertension. Her bravado became a meaningless shield before an unbear­able, annihilating shame. Please Ath, let her waken to safe, lonelydarkness and the after-sweat of a nightmare.
Yet the ponderous, honeyed vowels of Lysaer's new High Priestcrushed hope into damning testimony. "My Lord Prince of the Light,I corroborate the handmaid's suspicion. The woman is certainly bear­ing."
The High Seneschal coughed in queer, strangled haste, thenblurted, "I concur."
"By the Light of Divine Presence, I would see her burn for infi­delity with a sorcerer," Vorrice intoned, then licked his moist lips,his pouched eyes shining with eagerness.
Lysaer looked aside, magisterial in rebuke. "No such cruel sen­tence shall occur without proof, nor shall the law act without aproperhearing and tribunal."Talith broke into a violent shiver. "My lord prince, I must speak."Lysaer gave her plea no reaction, but removed his steady gaze fromhis officer. The torch flame hazed his pale figure in light as hepro­nounced in gentle sadness to the handmaid, "Our business is fin­ished. You may help the accused with her robing."
That frightening, unnatural distance warned Talith that her last 
skin 'hole nan­aze­
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 ed
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FUGITIVE PRINCE 
option left was escape. She still had Mearn's rope and grapplesecreted between the boards of her box bed. That private optionbraced up her pride as Lysaer stepped toward the doorway. Hechided his officers that Ath's tide would not wait. Vorrice and Cere-held came to heel like two dogs dragged stiff legged off a freshkill. The seneschal followed, still cringing. Lysaer's muted words of dis­position arose, wreathed in hollow echoes from the stairwell, as ifthe wife he had once cherished was deaf and mute, and a stranger.
"Keep the woman in good health until the child's birth. If it isdark,Vorrice, have it ritually killed as the accursed offspring ofdarkness. If the infant is of any other coloring, consider it mortal, andblameless. Let my seneschal send word to Etarra in appeal to its maternal rela­tives. If they show offense at the babe's bastard blood, then consignit to a Koriani orphanage. The realm's justice cannot be sidelined forsentiment. The adulteress must stand trial for treason against theCrown of Tysan, under pain of death by the sword." 
273 Early Spring 5653 
Consequences 
Under smoking veils of spindrift hurled aloft by swift oars, anunmarked galley speeds westward; and below her sluiced decks, thestate splendor of his jewels set aside in private pain, Lysaers'Ilessid weeps the desperate tears he could not shed for Talith in the tower,and the love forced to ruin by the wiles of an enemy anneals hisheart to dread vengeance ....
 Midst the bubbling mud pots and rank steam of Teal's Gap, lit bya misted new moon, Asandir of the Fellowship paces the unstableground, unwinding Koriani spells of concealment like clockchain,and sounding each link in the boundary wards for weak points whichmight unravel to free bloodthirsty packs of Khadrim; and he knows,as he works, that his stopgap seals will hold scarcely more than adecade ....
 Near dawn in Avenor, crouched in the rags of the sea mist, anarcher under the High Priest's secret orders discharges his crossbowto dispatch a thorny state problem and deliver the divine prince froma base and damaging embarrassment; his bold shot shears throughrope, and the adulteress suborned from the faith of the Light fallswith a cry to her death .... 
274 Early Spring 5653 
VIII. Spring Trap 
The morning began innocuously enough. The Mad Prophet setout to get drunk and the written verses, commissioned by amerchant for his love-struck young bride, lent the first opportu­nity to absent himself. Arithon asked for a servant to complete thedelivery. Flushed since their horrendous argument at dawn, stillunnerved from the sting of the Masterbard's refusal to abandon hiswiles at Riverton, Dakar volunteered for the errand.
"I need the excuse to get out," he snapped in bruised candor ashe snatched up the ribboned parchment. Only the anonymity of anothertavern would let him drown his sorrows in peace. Stay, and he riskedthe inebriated folly of marching upstairs to battle the same causeall over again.
On the subject of increased risks at the shipyard, Arithon stayeddeaf to reason. To break off as resident bard at the Laughing Captainwithin days of another launching would risk his connection with themen now set in precarious position to spirit the new ships from theharbor.
 In due course, the infatuated merchant received the promisedscroll, his jewels subdued like sunken treasure in the depths of hispil­lared foyer His expansive contentment left three Shandian sovereignsin the hands of the bard's scowling courier.
The Mad Prophet blinked. Dimpled into a smile of moist-eyed 
275 
JANNY ~7 U 1~ T$ 

gratitude, he asked leave to depart through the merchant'scourtyard. He plowed through the daily mayhem of commerce:goods and sweating men loading wains, and made for the seas'lclequarter.
Dakar wasted no time. Racked by distress as devouring as guilt,set after by worry throughout the Shadow Master's string of recklesssuccesses, he reeled from the taproom of the Oyster ten minutes afterit opened. He knew better than to stay. The proprietor's two heaviestook a dim view of patrons who lolled in seamy stupor on the floor.Cheerful from the foresight which spared him their attentions, Dakarclutched a crock of Orvandir's best red in each fist. The contents of a third one sloshed in his belly, and the day seemed suddenly veryfine.
 Languorous, honey sunlight poured over the checked boards ofthe quay. A man in search of quiet could find a sheltered niche if hepoked between the hogsheads of salt pork stacked for bulk sale to thepursers. The spring season also offered up rotting heaps of fishnets,discarded as salvage for ragmen.
Dakar felt no shame for his lapse into debauchery. If Aritho~s'Ffalenn could ignore every sensible warning, then the fool whoelected to stay at his shoulder must squelch a sane conscience bywhatever means lay at hand.
Yet in the cramped alley between the quayside brothels, the bestof laid plans went astray.
A chubby, tousled potter linked Dakar's arm, soon joined by ajourneyman cobbler who was lanky as a pole, and snared in the teethof misfortune.
 "Man, it's my temper gets my fat in the fire, every time," helamented, while the potter peered up, arms folded like a judge, andDakar marked time, scuffing a stripped bone in the gutter. The taleunfolded, a swan song of dismissal from a master's craftshop forpinking a fussy customer with an awl. "What a piss-mongeringshrew, never pleased with anything. I went to chalk her size, and letme tell you! The bitch threatened not to pay if the outline lookedundainty. Kicked like a mule each time your finger grazed her ankle."
The cobbler rolled his eyes. "As if any man with the itch wouldtupa cow like her for relief. Likely that's what keeps her broody. Ishouldn't've jabbed her. But a patten in the groin's a fightingprovo­cation. Damn me! For such a piddling wee trickle o' blood, shescarcely had to squeal like a hog dragged by the haunches to slaugh­ter."
 "Never mind," the potter soothed. "Women get themselves born to 
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FUGITIVE PRINCE

 cause trouble." He added a suggestive nudge to Dakar, who obliged
and surrendered the crock.
 Two shopgirls and a passing sailor's bawd fell in with theconsola­
tion party under the plank walks of a tenement. Pinches were
exchanged amid trilling giggles. The cobbler shrugged off his disaf­
fection. Enlivened by the surge of merry spirits, the bawd drew the
cork on the last crock of wine, the name of her jack-tar forgotten.
By then, Dakar had insinuated a hand under one doxie's blouse.The other, who was blond, kissed him silly until his means to escapeinto a numb stupor had been squandered. He tried to take his leave,but his chance-met acquaintances towed him along, disregardingevery protest as they rollicked their way past the shops on Weaver'sAlley.
Nobody was either upright or sober. To missteps and shrieks ofuproarious glee, they ricocheted off signposts and buildings. Thedoxie donned a wig of yarns cut from the warp ends of a loom, thenembarked on a simpering impersonation of the crown exciseman'ssecond wife. Hurting with laughter and winded as well, after dodg­ing some spiteful matron's barrage of flowerpots, Dakar folded inhalf to catch his wind. When the placement of a lamppost stopped hislist toward the pavement, he seized the moment to take stock.
A hooked sprig of gentian trailed from his ear. Crumbled earthand shards of terra-cotta sifted down his collar from his hair. He suffered the twinges of a bounding headache, and wine fumes made it difficultto think. Instead of drinking himself painlessly senseless, he foundhimself perspiring and itchy as a dog in the untidy wool of hisjerkin.
His uncoordinated squirms to shed the hot garment dislodged hislast sovereigns. The pair rolled in chiming duet down the gutter.
Shopgirls and whore butted heads as they pounced. Since the cob­bler waxed morose, they rescued Dakar from the jammed wads of hisclothing and chivvied him down a back alley to purchase more spirits.
"We need a rum seller," slurred the potter. "Since the day thoseblighted ships sailed and vanished from the harbor, every dive in thequarter's turned lousy with off-duty guardsmen."
Dakar agreed. As principal henchman to the pirate responsible, heheld no enthusiasm for hobnobbing next to crown soldiers. Dis­tressed by untimely reminder of his angst, he latched onto the firstavailable crock and sucked rotgut spirits until his middle felt tightas a blowfish.
 Afternoon passed in a dizzy whirl of noise, the indistinctmoments overlapped on themselves like a salvager's haul of glass and flotsam.Dakar stayed transfixed while the cobbler fell prostrate. Carttraffic 
JANNY ~URTS 

jammed. Burly teamsters shook their fists in an argument over whichshould step down and drag the lout clear of the thoroughfare. The MadProphet bet a penny on the outcome, then wandered in circles, con­fused. A swarthy cooper insisted the combatants were knocked sense­less, while the potter swore by the toes on his feet that the townguardhad dragged off both parties. Dakar blinked like a turtle. Sunk incogita­tion to recall which cheating craftsman still owed him a winning por­t-ion, he tired of walking, and wound up parked on his hams in abakery.
The potter seemed content, crunching down the stale shortbreadstars left over after the solstice. When his gestures grew vehement,he fell off his stool. The baker tried to right him and got his eyeblacked. Tossed back on the street, Dakar had to stop and grope for the coinsto buy another jack of whiskey. His doxie had vanished. He refused togo farther without a replacement, and there she stood, scaling codover a bucket by a cookstall. The potter settled down, obliging,while Dakar kissed his newest find, his gaze gone dewy from her over­whelming perfume of fish oil.
The shops closed. Dusk loomed like smoky pearl through the drift­ing snags of river mist, while Dakar swore and wept, half-prostrateacross the butt of an unopened keg. Four apprentices from the black­smith's helped him free the jammed bung. The singing after thatbecame damaging, with Dakar by then doubled over in the gutter,caught in between a whistling bout of hiccups and the necessity ofrendering his gorge.
Night fell, and the crabbed old torchman lit the lamps. Stumblingpast the flare of his wind-jerked brand, Dakar reeled and collidedthrough streets grown inexplicably crowded. He felt no premonition,no compelling sense of urgency. His tipsy curiosity led him to sur­mise that some disturbance had arisen in the market square. Ratherthan fight the press, he tacked that direction. The throng soonjostledhim away from his companions. If they had gone because his walletwas empty, the fine point scarcely mattered. Mazed by the muddlewhich foreran a damning hangover, Dakar pawed the sleeve of amaidservant to ask why the festival should happen five days late."Can't anybody see? The moon nearest to spring equinox passed herfull phase last week."
Her words about captives and barbarians at the gates seemed aridiculous fiction.
 Dakar called her a liar, swore back as he was sworn at, thenreverted to unctuous, smiling beneficence as her burly pack of brothersgraspedhis collar. Their fists shot him reeling through a mailed cordon ofarmed men, and he escaped getting skewered because he fell. 
PRINCE

 He flung out his arms to break his headlong sprawl and plunged
to the wrists in a warm, clotted mass of bloodied straw. The spill wasfresh. Dakar recoiled, slammed witless with revulsion. He yelled andscrambled upright to denounce the royal guardsmen for staging theirunruly public spectacle in a slaughter yard.
Yet words never came. Speech foundered, as if nervous reflexreacted a heartbeat ahead of trained mage-sight. Jarred from his drunkenstuporas water might slam into rock, Dakar pulled up short, crumpled overbymangling nausea. The pale, phosphor haze twined through the nightair was not steam winnowed up by the chill, but the imprint of spiritlightshocked free of live flesh at the moment of violent death.
 The aura dispersed by this recent act of bloodshed resolved noani­mal's dumb agony. Dakar retched with horror, caught in reverberatedpain pitched too fine to be other than human.
The spasm sapped all his volition to move. Dakar hugged hisgriped middle and wished the rest of his awareness would stop func­tioning. Then perhaps he could deny that what arose above his headwas a scaffold for a public execution. He dared not.look up lest hefind himself damned. Ath preserve, while he drank, Arithon had beenleft undefended. Lord Jieret had delivered them a warning and a prophecy.Regret came, too late, and the sorry, wretched fear: that the bloodon his wrists could be royal.
"Come on, you! Move along! You're in the way." The guardsmenhad outworn their patience.
When they prodded with pike poles and gained no response, theyhauled the barging miscreant to his feet without care for his mewlingdenial. Garbage thrown by the screaming mob splattered against theboards and someone's poor aim raised a bold round of raillery from aprisoner. The accent sounded too clipped to be townborn. Since nocity officer or tribunal seemed in evidence to restore the crowd tocivil order, logic at last wakened reason. The condemned men had to beclanborn. Dakar's chastened glance showed one already dead, withtwo more bound up for disembowelment.
He lurched against restraint and rounded on the guardsmen. "Ath,you can't do this!" He shot a drunken kick at the nearest man-at­arms,impelled by white rage and urgency. The law's murdering, thirstysword must not reap another irreplaceable bloodline. "Your prince hascommandeered these captives as galley slaves!"
A mailed fist smashed back and silenced him. "Not this lot. Now be off."
 Dakar was ejected by two brutes with maces, who rammed himinto the surg'mg onlookers, then closed ranks to re-form theircordon. 
JANNY ~URTS 

"Gutless sheep!" Dakar yelled through a stinging, split lip. "Whoseorder commands this?"
 "Be still, you fool!" A woman snatched his elbow to restore hisgood sense. "These skulking clan curs tried to slip through ourgates.For that, their lives were called forfeit."
But Dakar shook off her well-meant restraint. "Do I look like an idiot? No clansman would visit a walled city unless he was crazedwith a death wish!" Yet even as he spoke, he discerned the contradic­tion: messengers from Lord Maenol might attempt such a course ifthey carried a warning for Arithon.
Belligerent with rum, Dakar rammed the soldiers, screaming todemand a stay of mercy.
Too late; across the pale span of boards overhead, amid thestreamed sparks from crude torches, the sword fell and rammedhome. Blood sprayed from a man's opened chest. Painted in gory, flit­tering light, his death spasms splashed Dakar in a hot, obscene rain."No! Save us all! Stop lest you call down disaster!"
The executioner heeded no outcry amid that raucous sea of noise.Raised above a crowd that howled for a spectacle, he angled hisstroke to claim his last victim.
 "Let the man live!" Dakar ducked a pike staff. Citizens hemmedhim in too closely on all sides. No spell of illusion his power mightfashion could sway them in time to matter. Left no better course, hejammed his shoulder in someone's ribs and tried a fumbling charge tofling himself onto the scaffold.
The bite of armored hands ripped him back. He fought andclawed, flayed the skin off his knuckles in attempt to land puncheson chain mail. The one soldier he felled clamped a hold on his ankle.Another's blunt weapon clouted the back of his neck.
Vision imploded to a blast of white sparks. Dakar swayed as hisknees gave. The torches upended. The studs of a guard's armoredbracer rasped his cheek. Then howling darkness arose and engulfedhim; not from the blow. Nor yet from the hammering kicks whichtumbled his body on the paving.
"Spare me, no," Dakar gasped. But no round of pummeling couldavert his cascading slide into precognizant trance. The noise of thecrowd dimmed inexorably into distance as consciousness frayed intothe welling, black tide of his spurious talent for prophecy.
 He beheld the low, serried fiats near the marshland of Mogg'sFen. Bare tuffs of brush snagged through a floss of pale mist and moonlight.Amid rn~unded hummocks and the quartz sheen of streamlets, men skirmished. 
280 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

The light-looted, furtive ones wore the undyed leathers of clansmen.Their opponents sloshed ahead in a body, encumbered by shields and byrnies.The glint of their helms bobbed like bubbles in lead as they hacked atcattails and sunken logs in attempt to rout out lurking foes. Southward, theypressed, tothe beat and clang of metal. Harried officers kept them moving, whilearrows hissed in, and ambushes and traps minced at their flanks and impededtheir forward progress...
 The vision spun away like a scene in dropped crystal.
In its place, Dakar viewed the high frame of the scaffold. As ifhe were drifting unseen as a spirit, he saw Riverton's executioner flickthe gore from his wide, fullered blade. Bloody handed, the man shedhis hood. His stubbled, lantern jaw pebbled the light like red sand­stone as he ran his gloved fingers over his sword to test for nicksin the edge. Behind his set profile, the three condemned clansmensagged naked and broken in death. The posts which held themspread-eagled stood as pillars against the stars, flicked intocoppery,shifting relief by the streaming billow of the torches. Slack fingersstill wore the glazed sweat of suffering. Unclotted blood seeped, glisten­ing, from the corpses' hacked chests. Dakar failed to banish the hor­rific vista before his seer's gift veered sighted dream intonightmare:
 The gaped-open maw of dead jaws clicked shut. Glazed eyesswiveled in slackened, dead faces and fixed in reproach upon him. Then deadtonguesstirred in dead mouths. 'We failed in our task. Our life's chargebecomes yours. Warn the Teir's'Ffalenn! Forsake plans in Riverton and see himaway before sunrise. Lysaer s'Ilessid marches from Hanshire to closea Kori­ani trap...
 The whispered chorus of the slain leached into a future scourgedthrough by light like a cleaver: a storm-torn night ripped apart, andthe air recoiled to a fell slam of thunder. Ripped out of darkness, amercury oceanfrothed and boiled into steam. Like dropped spills touched to flame,a thou­sand riven fragments of cordage and wood rained down upon the fleckedfoam. The wrecked shreds of ships and the frayed wisps of charredsails hissed through the roiling vapors...
Dakar screamed for the agony of a world gone mad, and thenknew nothing more.
 The stink of rat urine and musty, rotted straw told Dakar wherehe was before he opened his eyes. His scapegrace past had dumped him,manacled or caged, in city dungeons times beyond counting. The 
281 

./~,N N . ~7unT$ 
drip of condensation down nitrous walls seemed common tocells everywhere. Nor was he stranger to the twinge of stiffeneelbruises, or the dull, throbbing aches brought on from an unconsciou~night lying supine on dank floors.
A headache of exceptional virulence made him feel as if demonswith steel hammers played carillons on the bones of his temples.Through excruciating pain and the soured taste of vomit, Dakar ~tclutched his crown to keep his skull from flying to pulverized bitsbetween his fingers. His brain felt like jelly mashed through asieve. The evils of strong drink were never so punishing. By contrast, vilesickness and palsy never failed to afflict him after an episode ofpre­,..~k.~,'~c~.
Against the grandiloquent maceration of his hangover, a racket ofechoes spiraled down a stairwell: "... disorderly conduct, attackingroyal guardsmen, not to mention disrupting the peace at a publicfunction." The speaker added in nasal superiority, "There's certainto be a stiff fine."
 Dakar plugged pudgy fingers in his ears, too late to evade thedis­mal conclusion. "Those who can't pay get hard labor on the hulkstowed out for dredging the harbor."
The talker scraped to a stop outside the barred cell gated shutwith riveted-steel strapping. "He's in here. You did say the man youwant's the fat loony?"
Dakar cracked an eyelid and winced through a spearing dazzle oftorchlight. "Is it night, or next morning?" he rasped. He could notrecall why he felt nagged by a shadowy sense of urgency.
No one gave him answer. Outside the cell, hatched in squares byforged bars, Caolle flourished the slate he carried to overcome theglamour which slurred his clanbom accent. His tough, swordsman'shands scrawled sincere imitation of a yokel's straggling script, thenthrust the message under the turnkey's beaky nose.
"You say he was drunk?" the jailer huffed. "That's no excuse.You'll find the offense with the minor charges listed afterdisorderlyconduct. The fat wretch is your friend? Then toss a penny in thet'lde to give dame fortune her due. If the raving idiot hadn't been sottedwitless, our guards would've seen him spitted beside that pack ofcondemned barbarians. Best take him in hand. He won't have a longlife, showing pity for that breed of felons."
Caolle scratched out a new sentence, then flipped his slate likea tray and cast a chiming spill of coins over the letters whichspelled,'fine, paid in full.' Then he tipped his laden tablet toward theturnkey.
Gravity obliged; the gold pieces slid. The jailer watched what 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

amounted to a generous year's salary tumble toward the stinking,runneled floor. Decision became reflex. His spidery fingers swoopedto capture the bribe. "This is irregular," he grumbled, in no hasteto unhook the keys from his belt. "The city's grand magistrate ought tobe called to preside over due process."
Caolle proved impervious to argument. He snatched the loose keyring, tongued the iron in the lock, and clashed open the hasp andgrilled portal. Dakar cringed from the clangor of iron. His evasionsaved nothing. His rescuer caught his wrist and hauled him headlongfrom his noisome nest in the straw.
 "Damn you, for bingeing," Caolle muttered as he towed hisredeemed miscreant toward the narrow turnpike stair.Dakar moaned. "Let me stay. The risers are too steep."
When he tried to collapse, Caolle shook him. "Sober up, fool!You're needed." Steel shackles in putty, his hold never loosened asthe Mad Prophet stumbled and tripped. "Arithon's taken with some sortof fever."
 "If you have to shout," Dakar groused, "at least wait until we'reoutside."
 "I'm not shouting." Caolle slammed shoulder first through theupper-landing portal, and chivvied his charge through the magis-trate's chamber, a cavernous space of scarred wooden benches andthe fetor of old sweat and dried ink. The Mad Prophet shivered asthey passed the justiciar's dais, then the prisoner's dock with itsrows of forged rings for manacles.
Torches still burned by the entry. Gagged by a billow of oilysmoke,Dakar missed his stride. His fragmented vision resurged and gavebirth to a hollow spasm of alarm. He bludgeoned dulled senses togauge the turn of the stars. Only two hours left before dawn.
Caolle was still energetically speaking, his words unintelligiblegibberish to the sentries standing bored watch by the portal. "Wehave trouble afoot. Those clansmen who died were Lord Maenol's own cousins. They would scarcely have wasted their lives in a townwithout the most dire reason."
 Dakar lagged again as full memory returned like a batteringonslaught of cavalry.
"Don't mind the guards," Caolle snapped in abrasive impatience."I bribed them on my way in."
The Mad Prophet gave up his effort to shield his tender eyes fromthe sconces. Tugged stumbling into the sea-damp night, and a mistlike dew-sodden velvet, he grumbled in plaintive injury, "Youneedn't tear off my arm. I know the message those couriers carried." 
283 ~ANNY WURT$ 
"What?" Caolle plowed to a tumultuous halt. "Ath, man, youspoke to them?"
"No." Necessity and pain made Dakar succinct. "Their executionwakened my prescience. And Arithon's not ill." He broke off, wrungby a pestilent shiver.
Caolle suffered the delay in steaming, clamped patience. Aroundthem, the clogged air clung like silt. Lights from the wharves shotruddy spears through the tenements, and seepage off the overhang­ing eaves splashed echoes through the darkened alley. Dakar groundon between dry heaves. "We're in deadly trouble. If I'm right, yourliege has been touched by the madness of Desh-thiere's curse."
Never slow to grasp threat, Caolle began running. "Then some-one's told the s'Ilessid prince we've compromised the shipyard?"
"Worse," Dakar panted. Even crimped like a bolster, he madeevery effort to match the increase in pace. "Lysaer's marching onRiverton with a fighting company at his heels. They would've arrivedyesterday, but clansmen from Korias slowed them down. LordMaenol's messengers died to bring warning. We have maybe twohours left to force Arithon away before a royal cordon seals thegates."
"Much easier said than accomplished." Caolle added a string ofpungent epithets. Too real, that Earl Jieret's dreamed vision mighthappen on Riverton's fresh-bloodied scaffold.
 The Laughing Captain's upper story lay dark, the candles setburn­ing to guide patrons to their rooms long since drowned in sooty wax.The door to Arithon's chamber was closed. No light leaked under thesill.
 Dakar stalked down the corridor, his flesh napped with chills ashe touched Caolle's sleeve. They had agreed he should disrupt thebard's privacy first.
A board squeaked underfoot. The hallway with its ingrained tangof lye soap and floor wax, and the stale fust of overused beddingraised too clear a memory of another tavern hallway, and the ShadowMaster hurled outside reason.
 No lingering pinch of guilt plagued his royal Grace this time,but the proximity of Lysaer himself. Dakar rolled back his sleeve cuffs.Perspiration snaked down his neck. If he misjudged and the fatal bal­ance tripped, disaster would follow beyond any power to contain.
The unlocked door latch gave at a touch, the plink of the barlike a cry against silence. Unnerved by apprehension, Dakar eased open thepanel. 
284 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 Darkness met him, thick as warmed felt and stamped with indis­tinct shapes. The mullioned casement latticed diamonds across a rect­angle of indigo sky. The feeble, ruddy gleam of coals in the gratebrushed the textured bedhangings, and scattered sequin reflectionsover the yams of gold tassels. Steeped in the mingled fragrance ofcit­rus oil and beeswax which toned the wood of the Masterbard's lyran­the, Dakar searched the gloom.
His mage-trained acuity found nothing amiss. The silk shirt andpearl velvet breeches Arithon had worn the day before were drapedover a chairback, creased by an ornate clasped belt. The bard's full-length cloak hung in order from its peg. His wrapped instrumentrested on the clothes chest. The accustomed coils of refined wire layon the marquetry table by the casement, nicked to scarlet glintswhere the light caught; nearby, the spare winding pegs and pearl-handledknife the Masterbard used to trim lyranthe strings. Everything keptits accustomed place, except for the item that counted.The Paravian-made sword was not on its hook by the armoire.Dakar shrank to a stab of alarm. Innocuous stillness became sinis­ter as he moved on and surveyed the bed. The hangings were tiedback: recessed in the shadow of the dagged velvet curtains, the blan­keted outline of a sleeper. Dakar shut burning eyes in relief, thenadvanced in quick stealth to take down his quarry unaware.
Movement sighed from the shadow behind, a friction of leatheragainst cloth. Dakar caught his misjudgment a split second before achill pinpoint pricked at his nape.
He swore in venomous constemation. The uncanny attunement ofhis mage-sense informed that the irreplaceable blade he required nowthreatened to skewer his neck. Lost, his one chance to deflect Desh­thiere's geas; the sword's enspelled virtue would only deploy if thedefender held to a just cause. In Arithon's hands, the malignment of the cursewould keep its defense spells dormant.
"If you plan to wreck the peace, make your stroke count," Dakaraccosted. "You were awake."
 "In fact, I never slept," said Arithon s'Ffalenn in his mostabrasive ill temper. "Whatever else did you expect?"
"Not words of brotherhood and courtesy." Dakar chattered on inthe spurious hope he could mask Caolle's presence in the hallway."Your promise to Lord Maenol has become a bad risk. If you knowLysaer's coming, we'll agree, you can't stay here, no matter how uglythe fate of chained clansmen."
 "But I can," Arithon contradicted. "I've a launching in two days,and plans I've no wish to abandon." 
285 
JANNY

 If the voice held its usual pared sting of mockery, speechoffered an untrustworthy gauge of a masterbard's state of mind. Dakar cursedthe sword, which forestailed his need to turn around. Even in dark­ness, his trained senses must discern more than Arithon wished toreveal. The inimical bite of the blade turned informant as a f'me­grained tremor ran through its steel.
"Arithon, hear me. You're not yourself." Through the pound of hisheart, hammer to anvil against the wound pain of his headache,Dakar forced himself to keep talking. "If you stay, you'll be lettingDesh-thiere's curse overset your mind and integrity."
The sword moved, as if Arithon noticed the price of its bearingpressure. "And what if I planned this to be the last bloodbath?"
Dakar gathered up the rags of his courage and spun face about inthe darkness. "If you had," he said, tremulous in terror andentreaty,"then as I was born, I'd not stand here." He pitched all his resourceto unmask the man facing him, and desperately wished he had not.
The sword blade divided the air in between, an obsidian lineagainst a less palpable darkness. Arithon no longer wore his delicatepale-haired disguise. Alert and reverted to his natural coloring, hehad also cast off fancy clothes. "Since I didn't cut you down as youcame through my door, you may accept my invitation to leave."
"You know I can't do that." Dakar licked dry lips. His headacheredoubled, the throb of forced blood at his temples a trip-hammermisery of pain.
Arithon said nothing. Reclad in fitted riding leathers, his formseemed sheared out of black watered silk. He did not look derangedor demonic. Excised by the curse from the encumbrance of loyalties,he looked ready to scythe down any obstacle in his path.
"I won't move aside," Dakar said in ultimatum. "To get past,you'lljust have to kill me."
A tensioned thread of suspension snapped. Mage-tuned intuitionsensed the event as a frisson of vibration shot through the weave ofAth's creation. Only then, too late, the Mad Prophet realized whathis tactless handling had cost. Until this instant, Arithon had beenaware,and still fighting the pull of curse-driven directive.
"Stand me down at your peril," came his silken invitation fromthe dark.
 The infinitesimal shift in tone speared chills down Dakar'sspine.Opened to mage-sight, he witnessed the change as the last sane con­trols burned away.
Now wholly ruled by the Mistwraith's design, the Shadow Mastershowed the fixated viciousness of a cat as it tracked a lamed kill. "I'm  FUGItiVE I~RINCE
 sure the whole Fellowship would applaud your good sense for dyingto stop the inevitable.""Mercy on us all," Dakar whispered, unable to outface theferocityin those unprincipled green eyes.
This was what Earl Jieret stood down at Minderl Bay; and anothertime as well, on the banks of Tal Quorin, when as an orphaned child,the boy had thrown himself between Arithon s'Ffalenn and the abyssof geas-bent destruction. The Mad Prophet was made of no such sternstuff, to stand firm as a friend's private self came undone. Nor didhe own even that child's advantage: the direct, binding tie of a bloodoath sworn in amity, while Arithon still commanded his mage talent.
"Could I remake my choice, I'd be far from this place." Yet evenDakar's cruelest honesty had lost any power to wound."Drunk, surely," Arithon mocked. "Or else buried to your shorthairs in some willing woman's flesh. You'd have been better off."However one might ache to hear regret in that tone, none existed.Then, "You've interfered enough," the Master of Shadow said.Without further warning, he attacked.
Dakar escaped the first sword thrust because his knees gave wayas he ducked. He had poor success with the well of bleak shadowwhich clapped down and masked his trained sight. He resorted tomagecraft, begged help from the air, then drew on its reserves tofash­ion a banespell to stop Arithon. The exchange of raw force settledchill through the room as warmth fed the draw of his need.
Before Dakar framed the seal to balance the conjury, the energiesripped from his grasp. The next breath he drew sheared his chest likewhite frost. Just as before, the effect of the curse let Arithonwrest his own powers against him. He gasped, coughed, wrung his lungs emptybefore killing cold stopped his heart.
Dakar's warding cantrip emerged as a whisper. "Avert!"
Defense and counterspell locked and unfurled. Barely in time;through a ratcheting, starved breath, Dakar heard a low, trillingwhis­tle. He felt the ward bend, like stress applied to a green stickclenched in his fingers. The sound built and focused, and the symmetry of thespell suddenly let go and twisted. Whatever fell package of magecraftrained down, the shock lanced Dakar's nerves like spilled needles.He rechanneled the worst. Backlash smote the floorboards. Wood squealed and burst into smoking cracks under the kick of wild ener­gies.
Half-paralyzed by pain, Dakar resisted. "Arithon, don't!"
But pleas could not save him. At his peril, he dared apply nomore talent. Arithon's refined ear picked up the vibrations of sorcery.
 287 
.IANNY WURTS 

Though the powers were not of the Shadow Master's making, he hadknowledge enough, and a fearsome command lent through histrained gift for music. He would simply keep on retuning the pitch toaug­ment and reverse summoned forces.
 Edged steel sliced the darkness. Dakar blundered clear. The swordsnatched a rip in the doubled-up cloth of his shirtsleeve. He rolledto evade the next cut. Each desperate move, each flurried thought butentrenched the bite of the spell turned hostile against him. Hisflesh felt stitched with white-heated wire. Each effort to think cost him agony. He denied his need to enspell a release. Any arcane defensewould only be hurled back in hostility against him.
If he could not fight back, he still held Arithon's given powerto bind. Dakar rushed through a string of entangling cantrips, thenlaced these through with the true power of Name, enforced by ritualpermissions. The stayspell deployed and sealed. If the mangling painseemed to let go a fraction, or the blind of wrought shadowsrelented,the sword hissed down in a cut to his head like the howling descentof pure vengeance.
Dakar flung open the door to the armoire to break the force ofthe blow. Lacquer-worked ebony jounced to the scream of turned steel.Chipped abalone pelted his knuckles. He rammed the slivered doorhard into his attacker and deflected the following thrust. Somethinghard bashed his shoulder: the pommel of the sword. His arm wentnumb, and he crashed into a chair. Through a rain of split rungs anda mire of bard's clothing, he snatched what defenses he could. Rolledfabric muffled his bludgeoned forearm. The chair seat made a tempo­rary shield.
The sword Alithiel whined off wood and snicked a hungry tearthrough the silk. Dakar gained a scratch instead of an amputation,but the sting rocked his mental equilibrium.
"Saved," he wheezed, while the blade zinged and clanged, "by theshirt off your back." As the barrage whittled slivers out of thechair seat, shrill fear and the limpet throb of his hangover impelled himto inane hysteria. "You know you've gone mad. Arithon."
No word came back. Only the clang as a murderous riposte gougedanother scallop from the wood. Splinters rained down on the spell­binder's cheek. Flat on his back like an upset turtle, Dakar cringedas stout oak gave way in his hands. A whimper escaped through lockedteeth.
 One heartbeat; two; the lunge he expected would come to impalehim never fell. Dakar heaved in a raxed breath. He recouped the pres­ence to map a defense ward and cast another snare across the doorway. 
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 He felt Arithon sense the surge of channeled energies. Braced,he absorbed the counterpull as the strength of his binding by
permission
was grappled, and then sorely tested. Now aware he was bound,
Arithon eschewed all attempt to match sorcery. He smashed the glass
casement instead.
 "No, you don't." Dakar clambered clear of the mangled chair,then shed on the fly the entangling veils of silk shirt. The belt heretained,and swung like a sling, which Arithon's blade intercepted.Silver clasps sheared off and clanged into the wall to apatteringfall of chipped plaster.
"Stop now!" Dakar snapped. "Don't you realize how closely youjust came to shattering the lyranthe Halliron Masterbard passed on asyour legacy?"
Arithon used the emerald pommel of his weapon to sweep brokenglass off the sill. "That's a touching concern, but irrelevant. Myhalf brother isn't going to lie down and die from the glorious rapture ofmusic." He set his hand on the frame, but Dakar had anticipated.White sparks ripped out. The branch snare of the spell set to sealoff the doorway stung Rathain's prince into recoil. "Curse you for med­dlingS"
"That was your own permission just blistered your skin!" the MadProphet cried in correction. "Don't try your birth gift of shadow.You'll find yourself curbed there, as well." He seized the washbasinand pitcher from the stand, dumped out their contents, and soughtfor a point of aim by the casement~ "Why not simplify things andhold still?"
 The solution required no genius. He need only batter an armed anddemented adversary into a state of unconsciousness. The sulky thoughtfollowed, that long before, Caolle should have seized the advantagebought out of his desperate diversions. As Arithon's liegeman, theman must try something to bring his sworn charge back in hand.
"You're not speaking," the Mad Prophet accused. "From you,silence never bodes well."
 He shied the pitcher, waited for the smash as sword steel fendedoff porcelain, then winged the basin on a corrected trajectory. Thatvessel also became deflected by weaponry. Arithon must have seizedhis sly chance to fetch out his quilloned dagger
Dakar met the changed odds with a vexed string of oaths, and fin­ished in plaintive injury. "Two blades make for butchery. You knowwhen I'm drunk I don't even carry a penknife!"
No answer; armed now with both sword and main gauche,Arithon bid to wrest back his mastery of shadow. 
JANNY ~URT$

 His geas-bent will slashed against sealed restraints anddeflected onto the spellbinder. No surprise to Dakar, that the attack brought afragmenting explosion of agony. Arithon's talent encompassed thecommand of elemental darkness. He required no effort to raise simpleshadows. If a ward of permission denied his access, he need do n0more than apply testing pressure to wear down the inhibitingstayspell.
Dakar held firm, teeth locked in misery through a pain thatplucked him at random. He suffered the bearing, innovative feints asArithon quested to find weakness. The scalpel-swift slice of eachforthright attack hazed him dumb with torment. Wrenched andpulled as though milled in a spate, he hung on, though his sensesshut down at each onslaught. Leaching numbness beset his extremi­ties. Next, his balance succumbed to mangling weakness. He toppled.Only the intervening bulk of the armoire saved his doomed effort tostay upright.
He clung, victim tied to ruthless antagonist through the grant ofpermission which founded the first rune of stasis. The spell whichcurbed Arithon from use of his mastery keyed into Dakar's fast-failing strength. No recourse lay open to retaliate. A call forassistance from air or from matter would invite a flank strike from the bard's use of dissonant sound.
 "Ath, where is Caolle?" gasped Dakar, as his sight dissolved in ahowling rain of white static.
His chest felt cumbered in molten lead. Each nerve end felt dippedin raw acid. The fight had been futile, outmatched from the start,with him pitched alone against an opponent beyond his depth andresilience. Dakar had no genius reserves of bright talent. Only afool's suicidal tenacity to bear up and sustain under pressure.
"Arithon. Listen." Pain racked the plea to a whisper. "I can'tlet you go. A sword and a dagger can't stay Lysaer's army. Fight for yoursanity, damn you!"No answer from the creature claimed as Desh-thiere's instrument. Dakar crumpled. A horrid, sucking pull swallowed his mind as theforce of resistance drained him. This was a contest drawn outside of mercy; wise limits were long since abandoned. The only way left tostave off disaster was to borrow off his own life force.
 Weeping, Dakar tapped that last well of resource, though he knewthe end was upon him. Arithon stayed in thrall to the Mistwraith'sdark violence. Already he advanced on his victim. Paralyzed bythrottling agony and dizziness, Dakar scarcely tracked his murder­ous, light tread. The dormant spells in the Pararian weapon gave 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 mage-sense fair warning of his peril. Air brushed his skin withpreter­natural clarity as the blade poised to cleave hapless flesh.Then the Masterbard's voice, cold as no man ever heard. "Be adead fool, then, for interference."
The whetted, steel length of Alithiel descended. Dakar shut his
eyes. Limp as a hare stunned and stretched for the knife, he kept
obdurate hold on his bindings.
"In Earl Jieret's name, leave that spellbinder be!" Metalclanged ina screeching collision and arrested the sword in midfall.Dakar flinched. Whimpering beneath a trip-hammer exchange offierce swordplay, he realized a burly figure with a torch had rushedin to claim his defense. "Merciful Ath!" The prince's gruff liegeman had not abandonedhim after all. "Caolle."
 "I went for my mail shirt," the clansman flung back by way oftestyapology. Harried across the carpet by Arithon's attack, he beat off arain of furious ripostes with blunt and deliberate competence. Theyears he had served as Earl Jieret's war captain matched Arithon'sfierce brilliance through experience. The pair had sparred often.Caolle knew his opponent's fast style and quirky, unpardonabletricks. But this was no straightforward match in the open. The maddrive of Desh-thiere's geas set him at extreme disadvantage. Thecaithdein's sworn man, he dared take no life. His slighter antagonistobeyed no such scruple, but sidestepped and angled to kill. Nor didCaolle have better weapon than his accustomed hand-and-a-halflongsword.
In cramped quarters, the blade's greater reach spoiled accuracy.Close and tight as he parried, the tip clanged off furnishings orstabbed and hung in the curtains. The torch in his left hand spathellish sparks as he turned the wooden haft to deflect the swift furyof Arithon's dagger hand. Cinders showered the carpet. A sickeningreek of singed wool laced the room.
Caolle flicked his wrist to haze off the flame which streamered and singed his leather bracer. Through the clangorous dance of thrust andparry, he resumed his belabored dialogue. "Nor would I fight a pos­sessed demon again without light. You just keep tight hold on thosefiend-plaguing shadows." A feint, a disengage; Caolle's sword bat­tered against the smoky sheen of Alithiel, then screamed through asliding bind. "If I'm blinded in darkness, we're dead men."
A pillow struck the floor, slashed to leaking feathers, closefol­lowed by a crash as the pricket was raked from the nightstand. Caolleslipped as the candle rolled under his boot. "Dakar," he entreated 
JANNY WURTS 

through beleaguered balance, "if you aren't injured, please Ath, Ineed you to move."
Dakar scuttled clear as the fight clattered past him. He coughedsour fumes, swiped sweat from his lashes. "You're oathsworn toJieret!" he accosted the Teir's'Ffalenn. "Dare you murder the veryman who raised your caithdein from boyhood?"
"Never mind parley, his Grace won't hear you!" Caolle grunted. ^scorching scream tore the air as sheer force of strength cleared hisblade from entrapment on Arithon's crossed sword and dagger. Thetorch absorbed another lunge. Sparks flurried and peppered spilledfragments of glass with pinpoint stars of reflection. "As you lovelife,prophet, move your fat arse and do something to back up my light."
Roused to the danger, Dakar winnowed up eddies of loose downin a hands and knees scrabble across the chamber.
 Backdrop to his effort, a half-snarled curse as a fighter snaggedin the bedhangings. Velvet tore. A hacked tassel sliced into the gloom.Dakar wrenched open a drawer, tossed out papers and pens, butfound nothing of use to strike a spark. A toe gouged his calf;Caolle's,in retreat. Again the duelists clashed in attack over the crown ofhis head. The puddle by the washstand slickened the footing. Caolleslipped, ejaculated a stringent oath as his guard suffered an unluckybreak.
 Arithon's weapon licked in like black lighting; rang into animpro­vised defense. Blood flew. Caolle sustained a nick above his bracer. The whirl of his torch barely foiled the following left daggerthrust,while the jerking, snatched flame chased glints across quillon andguard.
Both men felt fatigue. The fight lagged a split second. Dakar,look­ing up, caught a glimpse of green eyes. The prince who was born tos'Ffalenn compassion, whose music could raise tears from stonehearts for generosity, appeared to be vanquished beyond recall. Soul­less, inhuman, the creature who advanced to take down his ownliegeman seemed unreal as a fetch wrought into the form of a dread­fully familiar body.
Lips peeled back in murdering ferocity, the Master of Shadowlunged again.
Dakar flung back from that killing bash of steel and coweredbehind the clothes chest. "You'll have to disarm him!" If means still existed to salvage Arithon's mind, the Paravian defenses held dor­mant in Alithiel offered the last avenue for hope.
The washstand crashed over. Back and forth, the duel raged, whileCaolle's fast-pressed weapon gouged slivers from furnishings, or 
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 stabbed jagged furrows in plaster. The belling crash of swordplayroused sleepers from their beds. Someone's raised voice shouted fromthe outer hallway, while weapon clashed to weapon, a tirelessroulade of raw fury stitched through the descant jingle of Caolle'smail shirt.
 Dakar cursed a head still melon thick from drinking. The din
drilled his ears and scattered his labored train of thought.

Caolle's cause could not be helped. That quicksilver exchange of thrust andblocking parry confounded his blurred eyesight. His effort to rise
was undone by the palsied, nauseated weakness brought on by over­played talent.
Caolle fared no better. Veteran though he was, his strength was
not speed, but methodical, polished execution. Rucked carpet and thehazards of upset furnishings presented countless pitfalls to defeat
the reach and sweep of his weapon. Again and again he was forced todefer to the darting strikes of Arithon's dagger.
The Mad Prophet snagged the wrapped bundle of the lyranthe,shoved her clear of the fray as clansman and prince sprang apart.Heaving rasping gulps from exertion, the pair faced off, the stolid,iron-haired veteran like a battered stone buttress, and the ShadowMaster opposite, light boned and slim, and possessed of a weasel'spoured grace. Blades raised, eye to eye, they stood locked through ameasuring pause.
Caolle surveyed his liege, a study that flickered over carriageand mien, and ended infallibly with the hands; a habit begun in contemptand adversity, done now as an unthinking sacrifice in behalf of aprince he had learned to respect. Then its heartbreaking counterpart:the echo of the grave, listening intentness Arithon served those whohad won his most difficult trust. All his empathetic gifts ofperceptionstood reversed by the curse. He subjected Caolle to a combing searchfor the first fatal weakness to exploit.
Against razor tension, some concerned citizen knocked at the doorand inquired for the safety of the bard. The latch rattled, foiled bythe bar Caolle had dropped as he entered.
Suspension shattered into movement. The renewed, wailingonslaught of metal beat at metal in relentless intent to draw blood.Arithon's dagger scored once, then twice, as Caolle's sword scythedthrough the bedhangings. Swagged cloth slowed his counterstroke.Again the striking main gauche sought his flank.
The clansman parried, squarely in form, but the torch cracked atlast under punishment. The lit end sheared away. Shadows wheeledthrough its arc as the spluttering stub bounced under the clawed feet of the tipped washstand. Streamered flames lit the towels. The MadProphet chose not to stop the conflagration. He owed Caolle betterthan uncertain light. Since the Laughing Captain's landlord requiredstrong incentive to enforce his house rule against brawling, Dakarhooked the unlit end of the cloth and hurled its burning lengthacross the tossed sheets on the bed.
 Fire blossomed. Close walls banked the heat and flung back ahellish glare of light. Smoke billowed, licked through by the flickerof steel. The combatants met and parted in circling concentration. Whilethe racket in the corridor changed pitch to alarm, Caolle ran out ofoptions. Another bind; his wrists flexed in practiced response. Tem­pered steel shrieked and parted, leaving him pinned to the cracklingblaze of the mattress.
 Dakar perceived the last choice as it happened. "No! Caolle,don't! Let the smoke haze him dizzy. We can take down your liege as he fal­ters."
 But the clansman saw well enough how the stakes lay. He acceptedthe one fleeting opening and lunged. His sure stroke rammed homethrough Alithiel's cross guard. Faultless in timing, steadfast insacri­fice, he recovered his stance, set both hands in leverage, andtwisted.
 His right side, exposed, took the thrust of the dagger he lackedanyweapon to parry. His grunt as cold steel bit under his mail shirtentan­gled with a dissonant outcry of metal: his blade still engaged withAlithiel's cross guard. Falling, his warrior's reflex at last brokethe Shadow Master's grip.
The Paravian-made sword arced free. At that instant, Dakar spoke her Name to engage the bright powersinstilled by the centaur who forged her.
Light ripped the air, hard followed by sound, a struck chord toraise the wild elements to exultation. Wrought in a terrible, undyingharmony, the note reshaped perception, until earthly existenceseemed a shabby reflection to be suffered against loss that carriedno tangible name. No one in range of that resonant, clear power provedexempt from its force. Time suspended. Thought and memory andawareness lost meaning. The shattering peal of Ath's primal mysteryshocked the tie between spirit and flesh.
Arithon screamed. "Caolle? His voice pierced through the sword'sdiminished vibrations in a transfixing agony of restored wits. "Ath'smercy on me, Caolle!" He fell to his knees. Undone, distraught, helaid horrified hands on the bleeding wound in his stricken liegeman'sside. "Dharkaron strike me, it's death I have dealt for yourservice."
 His remorse rent through the whispered harmonics of the sword's 
FUGITIVE 13RINCE

 fast-fading vibration. Flame light laid bare his terror and histears as he labored in feverish need to stop the ebb of life beneath his
fingers."Dakar, in the clothes chest. There are shirts to staunch the wound.Hurry! Shove my sword in the fire. The blade will be needed forcautery."
Dakar pushed erect, crossed the chamber, but not to fetch rags
or follow orders. He recovered the dropped sword. For tragic and sor­rowful necessity, he reversed the grip and struck Arithon a blow onthe back of the neck with the pommel.
The Shadow Master dropped in a slackened heap of limbs across
the shoulder of his dying liegeman.

"Well done," Caolle gasped. "Now, heave him up and haul him outof here." He paused, rendered silent by a shuddering spasm, thenlabored through another ragged sentence. "Take his lyranthe. He'll begrieved if he finds we let her burn."
"Caolle," Dakar said. He coughed on rising smoke.
"No! Leave me! You must!" The clansman snatched Dakar's arm in a frightful, harsh fist. "Don't spurn my sworn duty. If Rathain'sprince is lost, I have just thrown away all I was ever born toserve."
 Dakar scrubbed sweat from his eyes and trembled with anguisheddenial. "Ath, if I do this, what about Arithon? You know the force ofhis grief could turn inward and cripple him."
"See it doesn't." Caolle gasped, seized again by a quiveringparox­ysm. Eyes shut, jaw clamped, he forced will to prevail against theextremity of agony. "If this is my fate," he resumed, "inform my LordJieret that my last service was to fight the Mistwraith at myprince'sside." Through a horrible, wrenching lag, he wrestled to draw breathand finish.
 "Tell my liege..." As though he sensed refusal in the harrowedquiet of the Mad Prophet's attention, he grew frantic. "Tell him!" Hehad to speak over the yammering noise as alarmed citizens poundedat the door. "Say to Prince Arithon, when the Fellowship Sorcererscrown a s'Ffalenn descendant as Rathain's high king at Ithamon, onthat hour, he will not have failed me."
The bar on the door burst to a flying rain of plaster. Flamesfed on draft and leaped high and licked in a roar across the ceiling."Go!" Caolle begged. "You must, can't you see?"
Shouts hailed from the doorway and thrown water flailed throughthe murk. Coughing back tears, Dakar bent, found the sword,rammed its scabbardless length through his belt.
"Daelion keep you, I won't let your liege die." The ripped shirtsuf­ficed to cover the exposed s'Ffalenn features. The Mad Prophet 
IANNY WURT$ 

remembered the lyranthe, then caught Arithon's slack wrists anddragged him like deadweight through the smoldering litter ofsmashed furnishings.
Hands from the corridor reached to assist him. Someone astute hung the lyranthe strap which had fallen askew off of his shoulder.
Dakar snatched breath for thanks and responded to the landlord'shysterical inquiry.
"A thief," he improvised as someone's servant stepped in to helpshoulder his wrapped royal burden. "Broke in and knifed the bard'sservant. Smashed out the window to make his escape." Before anyonethought to question the lie, he entreated, "My master's man stilllies in there, wounded. I beg of you, do what you can for him."
Two bystanders arrived to help fight the fire bent at once tosoak cloth and mask their faces. Dakar never knew if they managed a res­cue. Slave to the demands of desperate necessity, he stumbled ontoward the stairs and started down in a dumb fog of misery. To thevolunteer bearing Arithon behind, he snapped, "I'll need to borrow acart from the stable. At once! The bard can't be left on the street,unconscious, and someone needs must fetch a healer."
A stableboy passed off his two slopping buckets and sprintedahead to commandeer horses and harness. Dakar leaned on the newel, half-blinded by tears. The excuse of the cinders masked hisundignified sorrow as he played arcane seals through the smoke. Heensured what he could: the fire would not spread. Through the bed­lam raised by the bucket brigade, his furtive acts of conjury werecer­tain to pass unremarked.
No one would notice his furtive escape, or recall Arithon'sprecipi­tous departure. 
296 Early Spring 5653 
Feint 
Dawn mists loured over the estuary at Riverton, stained as dirtiedfleece where the gate lanterns leaked sulfur light through the gloom.The company of mud-splashed guards sent to seal the city's northpostern established their post in smart expectation of the Prince ofthe Light's formal entry. The captain entrusted to seal every egress outof Riverton was a stocky, scarred veteran, flushed in the face and runto vile temper from a cross-country march beset by unimaginable diffi­culties.
 The last men under orders reached their designated checkpoints atthe docks, wharves, and gates through his incandescent drive to mowpast upset plans and diversions.
The most recent and diabolically irritating of these stillremained, athorn in his side in the shape of a lean, impertinent clansman. Thefel­low knew field war. His laconic, whip-stinging criticism held anaccu­racy that shamed the men scarlet and generally fragmented morale.Flights of high temper seeded shouting between rankled officers andflustered subordinates. Bright eyed, avid, the clansman pickedfights.With them since midnight, and onerously underfoot through theexhausting, last leagues of forced marching, he clung to their com­pany like a pill on knit wool until most of the officers would havebeen pleased to ram unsheathed steel through his gizzard.
None did. The s'Brydion claim to alliance against shadow wasunfortunately backed by a safe-conduct bearing Lysaer's own signa­ture. 
~ANNY WURT$

 "Horsemen, inbound," called the watch from the tower.
The mists hoarded sound like an arras of dank felt. Strained min­utes passed before the oncoming thud of hoofbeats reached the com­manding captain on the battlement above the main gate.
His rank, furrowed frown raised more volunteer comment fromthe old blood duke's pesky brother. "Look lively, my friend. Yourluck hasn't changed."
"What?" The disgruntled Etarran swung his cast-iron glare fromthe road to the impudent speaker beside him.
Mearn s'Brydion showed him the insolent grin he saved for hiskilling hands at cards. "We aren't getting the reinforcement youexpected."
"You say!" The troop captain peered through the fog, beetledbrows sequined with moisture."Torches," said Mearn, his accent succinct.
Comprehension dawned as the cressets streamed in, socketed inthe upraised fists of the outriders. The vaunted and glorious PrinceLysaer s'Ilessid would not light the column with pitch pine.
"A pity for me you're too griped to bet," Mearn baited. "!could're claimed a delightful small stake, since you'd never have imagined thewomen."
 The captain managed not to rout dignity and retort, since themad­dening assessment was true.
Emerged like blurred tapestry through the silver-gilt tarnish ofdawn, the disciplined cavalcade which reined under the archwayserved escort for three cowled Koriani seniors.
 "Black Sithaer and Dharkaron's bloody vengeance!" swore the cap­tain. "What are their kind doing here? And where in creation isPrince Lysaer?"
"A very sharp question." Mearn s'Brydion's irksome, bright smilegave way to intent speculation.
As the captain stamped jingling toward the stair through thekeep,the barbarian followed, cheerfully assured of his blood-given rightto shadow Etarran authority.
At ground level, the air hung like vaporous cotton, masking thebleached hue of daybreak. Horses stamped like animated shadows tothe pealing, treble chink of harness. The officer in command of theinbound party proved a stranger wearing guard's colors from Hah­shire. The name he gave back when challenged was Sulfin Evend,pitched in a snapping, aristocratic arrogance.
The mist cased the loom of the gatehouse, blurring texture fromstone, and spangling the lichens in dew. Etarran men-at-arms held 
298 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

their stance in the turrets, defined by the bog reek of mud on theirleggings, and by pebbled gray helms, pocked where the dents of latecombat snagged glints from the moving torches.
While Mearn held his interested stance by the postern, theEtarran commander called puzzled inquiry. "Where's his Grace of the Light?"
No one answered. The captain from Hanshire vaulted from hishigh saddle, cloak flung back like a mantied hawk. He turned his leanprofile away and held bridles as the trio of women dismounted. Twobore purple mantles with scarlet-sewn borders, plain warning theirerrand today was not for humanitarian charity. The third wore thegray robes and white hood of a healer.
The one with the triple-tiered bands of a seer's rank bent andcon-suited a scrying crystal. The Etarran commander hissed through histeeth, ill at ease in the presence of spellcraft. More familiar withthe ways of Koriani practice, the Hanshiremen played at their bridlereins to distract their mounts as the faint, tingling current of uncannyforces unreeled through the battening mists.
Two men-at-arms made signs against evil as the cowled seerfinallystraightened. She pronounced in a young woman's voice, "I've con­firmed. The Master of Shadow left Riverton before Lysaer's cordonclosed down the east gate."
"Dharkaron avert!" the Etarran commander exploded. "That's notpossible. My men were in place before anyone here could gain wordof the force sent to take him."
 "Peace on you," said the second witch, the one wearing eighthrank,which set her seniority high enough to intimidate. "All is in order."
Preoccupied by something she held in her hand, she murmured astaccato run of syllables that sounded like arcane ritual. The linesfin­ished with Alt, name for the Pararian rune of ending. When sheturned to stow her fetish in her saddlebag, the officer glimpsed whatlooked like a doll, fashioned from strips of white velvet and pearls,and twisted with strands of fair hair.
 A shudder of distaste made his protest too shrill. "I can'tbelieve this! You expected the Spinner of Darkness to go free?"
The enchantress faced him. Her collected voice and superior bear­ing matched a refined oval face, silk black hair, and eyes the turnedgold of aged varnish. "The trap to take the Master of Shadow is pro­ceeding exactly as planned."
The Hanshire officer who commanded her escort seemed to share her high-handed disdain. "Send a man to summon the Lord Mayor"
The Etarran ignored him. "Where's the Prince of the Light? Istill hold his orders to seal off these gates." 
]ANN. WURTS
 "Be still!" snapped the enchantress, imperious. "Our snare toentrap the Spinner of Darkness was never meant to close here. Lysaerof Tysan is scarcely so reckless! Blameless lives are at risk ifthere's bloodshed. Your liege is a just prince, and merciful. He would nevercomer an unprincipled sorcerer in the midst of an innocent popu­lace."
 "I don't ~,'ust what you say." The Etarran stayed planted, armsfolded over his breastplate, while his men in the gate towers claspeddampened hands to their weapons in chill fear of provoking fell sor­ceries. "Show me you carry Prince Lysaer's authority."
The Koriani senior regarded him, tranquil. As if a man's historylayetched in a face, she said, "You may address me by the formal titleof First Senior. I admire your staunchness, but don't be a fool. Inthis, wework for the same cause." Her eye for detail sought the root of hisobstinacy and as swiftly divined the reason. "We know you for a vet­eran who survived the fight at Tal Quorin."
When her uncanny statement redoubled his unease, her cut-corallips framed a smile. "Fear nothing. No one expected to take theShadow Master unaware. We have him hazed into open flight, andthe moment shall come when he's vulnerable. Do you hear? Thes'Ffalenn outpost is offshore, in the Isles of Min Pierens. PrinceLysaerhas already sailed west with his war fleet to intercept him. TheMaster of Shadow will fall to an ambush at Corith. Now send for Riverton's mayor. We require his council's sealed writ to proceed."
While the Etarran capitulated and called for a runner, a dry-voiced observer remarked from the postern. "You intended the Master ofShadow to slip through?"
"But of course." Lirenda disdained to glance at the speaker. Sheguessed his name already. The Prime's initial scrying had shown herhis presence. He had an indispensable role yet to play to ensure thetrap against Arithon. Through the bustle as horses were led off forstabling, and the bristling talk to establish a hierarchy between theEtarrans and the guardsmen from Hanshire, Lirenda's reply filteredback. "The cordon here is set by design to take down all of Arithon'saccomplices."
Her curious exchange with the s'Brydion envoy became sup­planted as the scryer touched her elbow. "The liegeman from Rathainyou asked me to track has been moved from the inn where the firestruck." She finished in soft urgency, "He's been sheltered in thecook's quarters on Haymaker's Lane. We haven't much longer. He'sdying."
First Senior Lirenda murmured a terse reply, then amended her 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

instructions to the guardsmen. "When Riverton's Lord Mayoranswers my summons, inform him to gather his magistrates and havethem await my arrival at the shipyard."
The three Koriani commandeered a guide from the local garrison.Through imperious autocracy and the well-oiled use of their power tointimidate, they swept smoothly on to their business inside the citygates. The main body of their escort from Hanshire remained at large,without assigned quarters and food. Beset by their flood of unsched­uled demands, the Etarran commander took harried notice that for­tune still granted small favors. The temperamental clansman with thewaspish tongue had finally removed himself elsewhere.
 Lirenda's small entourage sought the burned shell of the LaughingCaptain Tavern. By now, the fire had played itself out. Smokesmudged and coiled through a rickle of fallen beams and the lastsullen pockets of shimmering embers the bucket brigades labored toextinguish. Persistent questioning led them at last to the bedside ofArithon's stricken liegeman.
Caolle sprawled like felled dough on a ticked straw mattress inthe kitchen annex left standing untouched by misfortune. The scullionsent for candles never came back, no doubt out of fear his pettythefts in the buttery might be disclosed by some trick of divination. Theroom that held the pallet remained dimmed in shadow, the squalidmiasma of old grease and turned onions congealed in the heavy, closegloom. At the First Senior's bidding, the Koriani healer knelt toper­form her examination.
 "Bums and blood loss," she concluded. "He's in shock still fromcautery." She laid down the rawboned, sinewy wrist she had claspedto take Caolle's pulse. Her thin face turned toward the stray quillof light which fell through a knot in the shutter. "In an hour, perhapstwo, his spirit will cross over, however he fights the Wheel's pas­sage."
In fact, his obstinate flesh would stay breathing until sundown,one of a laddered array of small details embedded in Morriel's grandscrying. Lirenda stirred, a form out of place against plaster whosegrimed coats of whitewash were streaked where condensation hadrinsed through the tallow soot. Her long, sculpted fingers flickedash from her mantle, and her face showed supreme unconcern. Throughthe ongoing grind of the salvager's wagons across the cobbled yardwithout, and brief outbursts of oaths as men soused the timbers thatstubbornly sprouted new flame from the ashes, her voice was enameland silk. "Could you save him?"
 The healer's hands hesitated, paused, returned to trace over thestained linen bindings swathed around Caolle's flank. Her cape-cutgray sleeves stirred the scents of goose fat and seared tissue, androused a sullen chink from the chain mail no one had dared to remove for fear they might restart the bleeding.
Lirenda smoothed down her disarranged mantle. Her eyes antiquegold and her face like milk cameo, she watched while the healertouched her crystal and traced through an array of testing runes andseals.
 A drawn moment passed before the enchantress dared a prognosis."His wound was taken in the name of his liege. There lies our open­ing. A binding tapped into his past oath of fealty might commandenough power of obligation to stay him. But he's dangerously weak. 
A forced regeneration of the blood must come first. If we stabilizehis condition, his body could recover. Wards and sigils can be used fromthere to arrest the infection and fever."
 The Koriani First Senior folded her arms, her fine, sculpturednails sheathed under her cuffs. Her banded silk hems caught on the boardfloor as she crossed and surveyed the man on the pallet. The glam­ours set by Dakar to mask clan identity had dispensed in the spell­binder's absence. Caolle's strong hands rested slack on the coverlet,scabbed on three knuckles from the trials of an impatient character.The cantankerous clefts of hard living and grief were brought now tounwilling release. Lastly she studied the indomitable broad chest,where the heart beat unvanquished through the draw of each ster­torous breath.
 Lirenda shut her eyes. Her fingers, masked in silk, dug the fleshof her forearms as a white force of rage arrowed through her. Anunswerving devotion to Arithon s'Ffalenn had wrested this clansmanfrom life.
 She could not stop the hurtful comparison to herself. The felledliegeman lay oblivious in extremity and mocked her, that she mightbecome just as haplessly subservient to the drawing force of the
same master. Unlike Caolle, she lived in resentful rebellion, a latent pawnwith potential to be claimed as a vulnerable, unwilling sacrifice.
Just once, she desired to reverse her own punishment, to humbleRathain's prince and make him suffer the impacting cost of the loy­alty he won and then spent without thought.
Moved to a vicious, inspired stab of impulse, Lirenda seized herinitiative. "Do all you can," she charged the healer at her feet.
"If the clansman survives, I would take him captive to sail with us on thechance he may yet prove useful." 
302 FUGITIVE PRINCE 
The woman bent her head and took up her quartz crystal. "Yourwill shall be done, First Senior."
By the order's own tenets, no subservient enchantress could ques­tion her decision. Lirenda shared nothing in confidence. She tooksat­isfaction in her autonomy, that the crowning fillip to Morriel'sgranddesign would bear a twist of her own devising. The defeat of hernemesis would bring sweet revenge by the deferral of one clansman'sdeath. Caolle would make a devastating addition to the shipyard'sscore of hostages when Koriani power at last cornered Arithon at sea. 
303 Early Spring 5653 
Quarry 
Two hours past daybreak, the mist broke and rolled, tom as snaggedknit, over the fields which rimmed the shore of the estuary south­bound from Riverton. The trade road to Middlecross at the mouth of the bay snaked through rotted mud, bounded by timber fences tokeep cattle, and hedgerows of thom, budded with clockvine and bit­tersweet. The terrain was flat. Trees grouped in huddles, salt burnedand stunted on the ocean side by gales, and raked like a drunkard'sgrope to leeward. The blue pan of the sky held the swirling blackflocks of swallows returning to nest in the hay byres, swooped andchivvied by gusts off the Westland Sea. Just past spring equinox,their winter-sharp edge could still flay through a drover's cloak of oiledwool.
 Before the uprising threw down the old role, the mild, boggy sum­mers grew the bull grass shoulder high. Here, the secretive hare hadgrazed, her black-edged, velvet ears attuned to the speech of thebreezes. Midges and dragonflies danced in the sun which streamedlike gold oil, and daylilies had bloomed like outbursts of wildfire.Now, across the wide vista where young dragons once stretched dry­ing wingleather and flew, wattle-and-thatch farmsteads clumped likebrown mushrooms, surrounded by goose pens and pigsties. Therustling, graceful stands of bull grass had gone. Reseeded pastureswere grazed to shorn stubble, or chopped into hummocks by themilch cows who plodded their mindless daily rut from farmyard togate. 
304 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 The stiff winds of equinox did not rustle and whisper off thesea,but burned over the razed ground with flattening force. The squatdrover of the oxcart narrowed his squint eye and muffled reddenedhands in the rug thrown over his knees. His beasts nodded onward intheir yokes, their vast, splayed hooves chinking through glaze icewhere low sun had yet to thaw the puddles. The wain racketedbehind them, a rattletrap conveyance of squealing, pegged boardsand spoked wheels which sucked and dragged through black muckand runoff to a labored creak of worn axles.
 Hunched over the lines, the drover looked as if he suffered thepangs of a pestilent headache. He did not look up as the armed ridersstreamed past, to shouted orders and a military snap of royal ban­ners. Nor did he curse the mud spattered up by their hooves, orprotest as they waved whips or weapons and demanded he roll hiscart to the verge to make way. Had he carried apples, they might havestopped him on demand for provender. Since the wain's unsavory,manure-stained bed held nothing but musty sacking and an emptygoose basket chalked with guano, no guard seemed minded tosearch. A straightforward cipher which prodded the senses to revul­sion was all any competent spellbinder needed to be left to resumehis interrupted way south.
As the sixth such patrol galloped jingling by, the drover cast asoured eye across his load of potato sacks. "You have no idea justhow lucky you are." He received no reply. Only the grinding chirp of theaxles and spring birdsong, blithe, from the hedgerows.
The rider who passed an hour later came alone on a latheredchest­nut. The saddlecloth bore the guard's emblem from Hanshire, but theman wore nondescript leathers beneath the braid of his captain'scloak. Nor was the blade hung by tings from his baldric the issue ofany town cavalry. The acerbic scrutiny he gave wain and drovercould have scraped verdigris off a bronze tack.
Then a grin like a whip disarranged his thin lips. "Ath, it'syour­self. I thought the stink was by lengths too extravagant. Where'sthat shadow-bending little bastard you nursemaid? I bear him a pressingmessage."
By the sniping humor and an accent like shot darts, Dakar recog­nized the s'Brydion scion who had been the first man in twelvedecades to fleece him at both cards and dice. "I've disowned him."
 But Mearn had not missed the sidelong glower directed at theruclded sacking."He's there?" The s'Brydion blasphemed through six sentences ofadmiring incredulity. 
305 
JANNY WURT$

 Drawn pale by the drummed-out dregs of a drink hangover andthe diminishing spasms of palsy, Dakar shrugged. "I'm not at all cer­tain I'm going to survive the invective when he wakes up."
The clan envoy's gaze lingered, riveting sharp, while his forcedstab at levity floundered into brooding, and his eyes stayed trainedahead, circled and darkly haunted.
"Bad, was it?" The chestnut shook the bit to a spatter of whitefoam,while Mearn played her sideways to keep her abreast of the creepingoxcart. "You won't like what I have to tell you any better." Neverone to hold off delivery of ill news, he plowed on. "You're caught in theteeth of a Koriani conspiracy, did you know? They flushed you fromRiverton in full expectation of netting your Teir's'Ffalenn in anambush off the Isles of Min Pierens. Lysaer's been at sea for sixdayswith trained navigators. His fleet's destination is Corith."
Dakar swiveled sideways in dumbstruck shock. "At sea? Lysaers'Ilessid? Ath, he can't be! Arithon was driven to break his disguiseby full onslaught of Desh-thiere's curse. Only Lysaer's immediateproximity could provoke such a fit of murdering insanity!"
Mearn shook his head, the thick stubble on his jaw graining thehollow of his cheek. "Spells and trickery." He suddenly soundedevery inch as tired as he looked. "Yon curse was triggered by Korianiintent. I saw the accursed tangle of hair and silk scraps they usedto shape Lysaer's proxy."
Horror whitened Dakar's rumpled features, and the cloudlessspring sun sparked small, silver glints on the hair roots at histemples,changed from ginger to white overnight. "You're saying the witchesbrought on the whole incident by means of a conjured fetch?"
"Why else would their First Senior be carrying a wee doll made oftied rags and blond hair?" Since the ramifications were too grievousto grapple, that Arithon could be hazed hither and yon by a bundledspell created by a Koriani whim, Mearn traced the flight of a marshfalcon who snapped from its high, lazy spirals to stoop. "His Gracecan't flee to Corith. He'll find Lysaer waiting with a war fleet wellprimed to carve his s'Ffalenn liver into stew meat."
Dakar glowered down the roadway, which unreeled straightahead, between the capped horns of the oxen. "I won't ask what yourisked to deliver the warning."
Meam laughed. "There's not enough gold in Ath's whole creationto pay the whores to preserve my randy reputation."
"What?" The starting ghost of a dimple dented the cheek aboveDakar's rumpled beard. "Past experience should have taught me. Thes'Brydion line runs to madmen who are born addicted to danger." 
306 
FU~I?IVE

 Mearn's grin widened, then became the triangular smile his broth­ers had learned to regard with extreme trepidation. "You never sawme," he said. "For the past seven days, I've been in bed at Avenori~usting the lights out of three willing doxies."
"I see." Dakar rolled a walleyed glance of apprehension towardthe muddle of lumps in the sacking. "Forgive me when ! tell you I wishthat had been the plain truth."
"Oh man," Mearn agreed, turned sharply restive as the horsewhich stamped and curvetted underneath him. He glanced over hisshoulder, and the Mad Prophet heard too: through the weave of thegusts, the oncoming hooves of yet another patrol sent to scour theroads out of Riverton.
 "You should go," he advised Mearn. To be seen under questioningby a man with Hanshire trappings would draw perilous attention totl~em both.
 "As you suggest." Mearn's humor changed to a wicked slice ofmalice as he gave rein to his head-shaking mount. "I leave you theroad, and wish you joy on the moment when yon testy mountebank~rakens. Upset his temper, he's got a tongue can raze scales off thei~nocent fish."
 The ox wain rolled on into the afternoon, while the blue skyclotted with high-flying clouds, and the sun dimmed and vanished into haze.Dakar ate cheese with the gritty, hard bread provided by the farmwifewhose goodman had sold him the wagon. He absorbed himself lick-i~g sticky crumbs from his fingers. The lines threaded unattendedthrough the fist on his knee when a sneeze and a shudder beneath thepotato sacks reminded of his fugitive passenger.
Dakar tossed off the last crust for the birds and halted the oxen. He considered, then decided against releasing his mild spell cipher.
The next moment, the burlap stirred and parted. An angular faceshaded in beard stubble emerged, capped by moldered stems of oatstraw stuck through untidy black hair. Eyes of a burning and terribleemerald blinked and regarded the wind-flattened briars in the~edgerow, ragged border to a ladderworked mesh of fallow fields,then absorbed the rutted groove of the roadway. The intelligencebehind stayed mercifully baffled and blank.
"Potatoes," the bard murmured, puzzled. His glance turned toDakar, inquiring, and his light touch explored a clotted scab on onecheekbone. "No doubt a just punishment for tupping the farmer'seager daughter, except that I can't recall the chit's face."
A pause; hands that in daylight showed the scurfs and congested 
307 
~ANNY ~URT$ 

bruises of a ruinous combat received an absorbed inspection. Reas­sured at last that all his joints flexed, Arithon raked clingingchaff from his collar and lapsed back to a dusty puff of rot from the sack­ing. "Dakar," he said, muffled, "the guano is a stroke of pure bril­liance, I admit. But may we dispense with the manure and the offal?If I suffer my fair deserts from a hangover, I could manage rather wellwithout the stink."
 Then, from a shattering and sudden break in thought, a rippedintake of breath: Arithon s'Ffalenn came fully and finally awake. Hisnext words reviled in distilled venom. "Should I curse you or thankyou for my deliverance? Or better, give you the whip hand to sendme straight on to damnation and Dharkaron's black vengeance?"
His unspoken anguish hung on the pause, 'For Caolle, there existsno redress.'
 Dakar clamped helpless fists to the lines and slapped the wornleather over the backs of the oxen. "You swore oath at Athir," hereminded through the squealing protest of stressed wood as the wainsucked free of the mud and rolled onward.
 "Oh Ath, that I hadn't, or better that I could have renouncedlife and breath on the day of my birth." Arithon sat upright, his facepressed behind his opened, marked hands and his shoulders bracedagainst trembling.
"Your survival had to come first," Dakar insisted, unmanned him­self, and too much the coward to watch. Nor could he quite mask theflick of an honest revulsion as he made tactless effort to ease an impossible grief. "All hope isn't lost. Arithon, your stroke didn'tkill him, not at once, I swear this. Caolle still breathed when I lefthim."
 "Ath, no!" the Shadow Master cried, shot straight and sawnthrough by redoubled remorse. "He is clanborn, and hurt, and whathave I done but left him helpless among enemies? His own peoplewould have served him a mercy stroke!"
The cry drowned echoless in the winds of the flats. While a wedgeof flying geese sliced the gray sky, and the oxen nosed brainlesslyfor­ward, Dakar found nothing to say. Nor could he ease the unbearabledistress of the prince who refused even tears in his locked andhorri­fied silence.
 Fragile as a silk moth's spun filament, the blood oath alonestayedthe force and fury of Arithon's natural reaction. Moment to moment,while the warm life in his veins seemed a cruel violation, and thebeat of his heart framed insult to his integrity, he sat in bound quiet.Eyeswide, hands slack, he dared not even flinch to be served the uncondi­tional gift of the land's beauty. Not now, Dakar sensed with a wound­
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

ing, sure pity: not when all sound and all movement revolted thenerves, and a mind lay torn and trapped in the grasp of transfixinggrief.
The sough of the breeze in the budding briars, and the mournfulcries of the hawk and the marsh wren filled all the world with oblivi­ous industry, while the wain rolled and bore the Master of Shadowinto the cheerless dusk.
 They made camp in a hollow with a stream, under the leafed-outcrowns of a willow grove. The trees were ancient. Their dry-rottedtrunks offered nest hollows for owls, whose plangent hoots and glid­ing, swift flight made the oxen whuff and back against their tethers.Low clouds shed a steady, fine drizzle that sluiced a varnishingglazeof damp over man and beast, and made the fireless night a bitter mis­ery.
Dakar served out the last of the farmwife's provisions, a heel ofryebread and strips of jerked beef cured hard as glass through thelengthof winter's storage. The spellbinder chewed without appetite. Inoathbound responsibility, he noted Arithon's attempt to do the same.
But exhaustion and stress exacted their toll. Two unobtrusive tripsinto the brush came and went before the Mad Prophet noticed any­thing amiss. Every scrap of sustenance the Shadow Master dutifullyforced down was rejected with wretched persistence.
Dakar could have wept and sworn both at once for the cost of theblood bond imposed by the Fellowship at Athir. Since straight painwas suddenly preferable to the ongoing cruelty of silence, hescrounged out the flask of sour wine he had hoarded and shoved ittoward Arithon's chilled hands.
 "Drink. You need it. And talk, for Ath's sake. If you can makesuch a dogged effort to eat despite the fact you're too sickened, you cantryjust as hard to make plans."
Arithon looked at him. Wrists hugging one on another about hisdrawn-up knees, and his fingers like clamped bone under the soggy,grimed cuffs of his sleeves, he said nothing. Neither did he acceptthe offered solace of the wine.
 "Well, you can't risk sailing to Corith!" Dakar exploded. "Youknow if you try to face Lysaer again, you'll become slave to Desh­thiere's curse."
 The ruinous fact could not be evaded. The awful limit must be faced. Intent had not served; free permissions had proved woefullyinadequate; the working of the geas strengthened with each contact.Dakar gnawed a torn thumbnail, demoralized and mute. As well as 
JANNY WURT$ 

he, the Shadow Master knew: if not for the saving intervention of thesword, he would have lost his mind into irreversible insanity atRiverto,.
Dakar dragged in a breath that felt heavy as liquid glass. "Youdon't know the worst yet. Koriathain are involved." Pained for thenecessity which made him twist the knife, he repeated what Mearns'Brydion had seen, the terrible proof that the flight out of townhad been launched by means of a golem wrought of spells. "To assistLysaer's cause, they deliberately triggered the bane of the Mist­wraith's geas."
That unbearable news carried vicious implication, that Lysaers'Ilessid had been leagues at sea, and no threat. Plans for thelaunchingand abduction of three ships were upset for naught. Lastingly worse,Caolle had fought and fallen to Arithon's sword for no true threat atall, but only manipulative illusion.
In comfortless grief, set isolate by the needling fall of finerain,Dakar could not bear to strike light and measure the scope ofArithon's anguish. He feared worst of all to broach what no emptyoffer of solace might disguise, that every associate and accomplicebrought in for the launching remained still in Riverton, unwamedand defenseless against whatever machinations the Koriani FirstSenior might devise.
Dakar chewed his lip in agonized suspension. He waited through apause grown dense as lead crystal, while soft rain wet his cheeks andtrickled from the untidy bristle of his beard. No night birds called.Just the whispered tap of droplets, and subliminal rustles as willowfronds bowed to their burden of damp. The weather promised nosurcease; clouds would sheet in from the north until dawn. Nor did amere spellbinder know of a palliative to ease wounded pride, orshore up the wreckage of a man's priceless care and integrity.
Human balm did not exist to relieve an inhuman quandary. Nofriend could mask the impact of inborn s'Ahelas farsight, that wouldturn the birth gift of a ruthless insight ahead to map the course ofa poisoned future. Helplessness remained, of a dimension to grindthought down into despair for a balance inevitably foredoomed.
A masterbard whose compassionate heart had been torn out thriceover in the cause of meaningless destruction could not have limitlessstrength.
The rain and the dark embraced Arithon's stilled form. The wine flask lay untouched by his feet, while the drizzle pattered andseepedand leaded the tender shoots of new greenery.
Against every interfering impulse, despite the oblivious, brashdecadence that prompted his fleshly excesses, Dakar kept his palms 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

jammed over his lips. He would not speak. Even through the tor­menting, perilous awareness that the blood oath sworn to the Fellow­ship Sorcerers allowed but one terrible course.
If Arithon kept faith and held his gift of Shadow in reserveagainstthe greater threat of the Mistwraith, he would be forced to spare hisown life through the ruin of uncounted others. No reason could easethat abnegation of free will. The wait seemed to span the arc ofobliv­ion, while time wound into a brutal, shared tension to shred the moststeadfast patience.
"I dare not attempt to save the men or the outpost at Corith,"Arithon announced at drawn length. With Koriani led into conspiracywith Lysaer, he saw well enough. No place remained inside the fivekingdoms where he could depend on safe refuge. "Nor can I recoverthe launched ships for the clans. No course is left but to recoverTal­liarthe and sail south and east to regroup."
Dakar set his chin in his hands. He could make no answer, over­whelmed as he was by the sweet rush of astonishment and gratitude.Nor could he repress his outright awe for the character of Rathain'sprice. He knew no one else capable, no spirit with the outright, mul­ish fight to reach past such branding ignominy and guilt, and fornoth­ing if not another compounding act of self-betrayal. The torment ofCaolle's tragedy did not end here, but extended to embrace lossesunbearably larger.
As if no friend wept for the grievous depth of character thatcarved up such tenacious resilience, Arithon laid out his decision with theicydispassion a surgeon must find, when forced to amputation with notime to spare for anesthesia. "There's a fishing village south ofTor-went in Havish remote enough to lend short-term sanctuary. Fromthere, I'll send word to Fiark at Innish. He can release the Khetiennfrom her current merchant charter. The Evenstar's not to be compro­mised, for Feylind's sake. Her runs can enable safe drop points forstores to extend our blue-water passages."
His admission came in agonized quiet, that no shred of his hopescould be salvaged. That because of his presence, Lysaer's deadly,trained force from Etarra was drawn into Tysan, where clansmenfought now for survival. The men, the ships, the months of meticu­lous and dangerous work to redeem threatened bloodlines: alldesigns fallen short on the brink of completion, then abandoned inone cruel stroke.
 The last line in summary, dredged up in pain for a world futurebought at a damning price in shed blood. "We must sail offshore,alone, and quarter the seas until the Paravians are found." 
JANNY ~URTS

 No mention was made of the third brig, Cariadwin, sailing under aclan crew to Corith, where she must inevitably fall to Lysaers'Ilessicl as a sacrifice. Nor did Arithon belabor past choices, or wallow inself-castigation for what might have been saved, had his bid to freeMaenol's clans from enslavement been pursued in less brilliantaggression. But Dakar knew him too well; having seen the s'Ffalennprince through the atrocity at the Havens, having offered the shoul­der that steadied him after the horrors unleashed at Dier Kenton Vale,the dispassionate, stark outlines of tonight's recast strategy spunhim no false reassurance.
 He could do no more than stifle his sorrow for what went unsaid in the dark and the rain. The change he had most feared to witness hadcome. Never through even the ugliest setback had he heard Arithon'svoice turn flattened and dull in defeat.
 At the time which spanned the midpoint of night, that suspendedhour equidistant from sundown and dawn, the Mad Prophet gave uphis failed effort to rest in the clammy shelter of his cloak. Hestole to his feet and listened. Arithon lay still, huddled limbs furled inoiled wool and his breathing soft and regular. He was not asleep. The rainhad freshened, and the pattering stream of moisture from the wil­lows' arched canopy conjoined into trickles of runoff. Rising wetdrove the mice to their burrows. The owls had ceased silent flight.
In trust that his absence would be taken for a routine call to relieve himself, the Mad Prophet crept from the campsite. He followed thethroaty voice of guttered water and crossed a ditch with a streamlet.The eddies flowed clogged and tan with drained clay, too muddled toserve his intent. A few paces on, he found a wide puddle cast to thesullen gleam of pooled mercury under the haze of the storm scud.
The water proved clear enough for scrying.
Dakar knelt. He raked away sodden leaves and a sandy detritus ofgravel. Into the softened mud on the verges, he traced out the radi­ants invoking the cardinal points of direction. Then he settledhimself,cleared his fraught mind, and immersed himself into mage-trance.Between the night's whispered rainfall and the fluting shrieks ofspring peepers, he sought the voice and the essence of water. Heasked and exchanged a permission. Raindrops still fell fine as pins,pocking the puddle with their fleeting circular imprints. A softword,a rune, and the surface sheeted still. Palms sweated now with the con­centration of refined talent, Dakar invoked a star's Name, the onewhich rode the meridian on this particular hour, at the nadir ofnight's span of darkness. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 Lastly, he ripped off a thread from his sleeve, rusted brown withdried blood spattered from Caolle's wound. This he soaked clean inthe puddle. He restrained his fretted nerves as he waited, while theessence dissolved and released its magnetic aura.
A minute came and went, sevenscore heartbeats set to the impactof a numbered fall of raindrops. The tone traced over the puddle'ssurface flared like weak phosphor and drifted. Dakar gathered hisinner faculties, ordered will into balance, and murmured, "tiendar,"the Paravian call to invoke the linking tie between spirit and bodilyflesh.
 Had Caolle died, no such connection would remain and the con-jury just set would fade away unrequited.
But as Rathain's prince had so desperately feared, the liegemanfrom Deshir yet clung to life. In the shadowy depths of the puddle animage formed, a scrying forged through the delicate energies of onestar's ascendancy, and a clansman's fierce will to survive.
 Candlelight in a cramped chamber, where a youthful woman in gray-and-white robes labored over a brazier and pot, brewing a steaming herbtisane. She paused as she stirred to attune small magics through the crystalon the chain at her neck, and to chalk sigils on the stiff squares of paperwhich held her medicinal plants and dried rootstock.
Just past the edge of that circle of light, eyes like boredgimlets of obsidian,Caolle watched her, his colorless, blunt features sweating in theextremity ofhis pain. He still wore the mail shirt, though the links and thegambesonbeneath had been dragged up his torso to bare his wounded side forthe Kori­ani healer's ministrations.
 As if his fixed gaze were abrasive, the enchantress glanced asidefrom her work. "No," she informed with acerbic exasperation. Though he had notspo­ken, she answered his direct thought. "The mail can't come offwithout tear­ing your wound. Your life's to be spared by command of our FirstSenior, andI won't risk restarting the bleeding."
 Caolle's life given over to Koriani design; Dakar spared nosecond to mourn this sure confirmation of disaster. Nor did he delay to sizeup the anguish the news would inflict upon Arithon's already shat­tered peace of mind. A scant interval remained before his conjuredconnection to the star's power waned and passed. A rune, anothercipher, swiftly composed to exploit the connection with First SeniorLirenda, who had intervened outside of mortal consent to stay thenatural course of death. Dakar's construct widened to summon another image in the puddle. 
J^~. Wu~$
 More candles burned in the loft above the cIerk's shed. Here the royal ship­yard's hired master stored his drafting pens and his tools. Theclosely kept plansdrawn up for his three-masted brigs lay unrolled on broad trestles,weighted atthe comers with gray, rounded rocks from the river bottom. Though thehour was past midnight, Cattrick's personal domain was not private. Thebenches bythe wall where he issued his daily instructions to his laborers werestill occu­pied. Clad in their dark robes of judgrnent, Riverton 's tribunal andjusticiar satinformal session, while a secretary scribbled out transcript,
Before them, a wretched southcoast rope splicer knelt in sweaty,shiveringfear from the aftermath of an interrogation made under the burningcompul­sion of arcanely wrought sets of truth seals. His shock held himpassive whilethe shipyard's blacksmith hammered the rivets to close the steelshackles on his wrists.
 "That's the last of them," pronounced the aristocratic woman witha dis­dain to slice through the clangor. Her expression was abstractporcelain, andher gown, a sweeping purple robe with red borders. "Lock him awaywith the rest until the launched hulls are made seaworthy."
The smith finished his task and shouldered his satchel of hammers and tongs. Blinking and stiff from the long hours spent hearingtestimony, River-ton's officials arose. Uneasy, without talk, they shook the creasesfrom their clothes and made their pompous way through the door to the outsidestair.
 Lastly went the guards with their workaday armor and drawnswords, toremand the chained prisoner into custody.
The Koriani First Senior remained, composed as fine ivory in theunset­tled spill of the flame light. The focusing jewel she had used towrest open theprivacy of men's minds lay tucked between her clasped hands, eachcurled,slender finger arranged into line like the fluting on a blush-coloredshell.
 She was not alone. A broad-shouldered man stepped out of thegloom andskirted the laden trestles. If the eyes set amid his measuring squintstayednervelessly direct, his step held a stalker's sharp caution.
"What now?" challenged Cattrick. He extended his work-hardened,sinewy wrists in a gesture of mock supplication. "Have you noshackles for me? Or am I to stayfree in reward for my peerless service?"
Lirenda returned an imperious flick of her nails. "Busy man.Never pre­sume to take freedom for granted. Be grateful. Your place remainshere."
 As Cattrick's brows frowned in distrustful surprise, she deignedto profferexplanation. "The gossip must eventually reach Arithon. When helearns you were the one who effected his betrayal, your worth will be sadlydimin­ished as a hostage." Her enameled gold eyes shimmered with contemptas she swept her gaze head to foot, and dismissed him. "You're Lysaer's man,now,and if you have sense, will remain so." 
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 FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 High overhead, behind banked layers of cloud, the star crossedthe zenith, its span of ascendancy past. The scrying linked through itsenergies flicked out. Left staring at raindrops stamping faint ringsover and over in a puddle, Dakar gripped his knees through anunpleasant shudder. Beset by the aftershock of sorrow and distaste,he engaged the familiar, ritual steps to release the used frame ofhis construct. Three handclaps and a breath disbursed the life tie toCaolle. A scribed rune of passage unwound the spiraled energiesbound by permission to water. A green stick blessed and borrowedfrom a bush made a sweep to erase the directional markers. Once theleftover traces of his craft were disbursed under blessing, Dakarstretched his sore shoulders. He gathered himself, but stopped shorton the point of arising.
Some intuited warning of disturbance made him glance over hisshoulder.
 A whiff of rain-wet leather and a shadowy presence: Arithons'Ffalenn stood like a wraith at his back.
 "Dharkaron's bleak vengeance!" the Mad Prophet swore, then shutstinging eyes. A high surge of relief combed through him for the factthe prince's mage-sight lay blinded. His Grace may have borne wit­ness to every step of arcane ritual, but the train of summoned imageswould for a mercy lie beyond the reach of his five mortal senses.
As if private thought had been shouted aloud, Arithon contra­dicted in searing irony. "Trust me, I heard the whole coil all toowell."
 No apology sufficed to fling back in rejoinder. Nor was spacegivenfor Dakar to venture even a token attempt. While he ached for a pitybeyond words to express, the Master of Shadow spun on his heel andstrode off. 
Early Spring 5653 
Recoils 
Infuriated that their quarry escaped them at Riverton, the Etarranofficers hold an argumentative council to salve the pride of theirchaf­ing troops by sending them reiving after the forest clansmen whomight lend the fugitive Shadow Master shelter; while they deliberate,the Hanshireman, Sulfin Evend, requisitions forty men on fast horsesand leaves the gates under Koriani orders to pursue Arithon's trailwith sharp fervor....
 Upcoast, at Avenor, the crown council of Tysan releases formalpublic announcement of Princess Talith's fatal plunge from a hightower battlement; and the verdict delivered to the shocked andmourning court names her death as a suicide brought on by despairand a tragic inability to conceive her fair husband an heir....
 On the third day, the Koriani healer reports to First SeniorLirenda concerning her charge's condition. "Caolle will be well enough tomove, and can sail with the hostages if he's given a secure berth.His wrists cannot be set into irons, as you hoped. It's a paltry enoughset­back, but the gashes on his forearms for some reason seem to havefestered .... " Early Spring 5653 
IX. Setback 
N' ight lidded the sky over Korias Flats like a bowl of thick cobaltglass. Yesterday's bleak weather had blown away south,chivvied out by a cutting north breeze that moaned over thebarren lowland terrain with its swept slabs of calcine granite.Stands of witch hazel and thorn, and the storm-trimmed fronds of bent wil­lows rustled and tossed in the gullies, twigs dusted in the faintlightof a waning crescent. North of the river course, where ancientglaciers had plowed up a shoal of dry ground, the land fell away in agradual slope that eventually cradled the steaming, dank pools ofMogg's Fen. That way, alone, fared a lean rider nursing a trail-blownhorse.
 The traveler knew his purposeful way in the wilds. He trackedsteadily north, the polestar lending him guidance. His mountwent shod, but no chance grate of steel rang upon unclothedgranite. Sparing of the animal's last strength, he moved where hecould up the throat of the gullies, and avoided the scoured brushon the rims.
 Despite his most diligent care and sly knowledge to foil observa­tion, his stumbling, spent gelding could not pass entirely withoutnoise. Mearn s'Brydion reined back in nettled annoyance as four menwith drawn steel stepped out of the thicket in his path.
Their challenge was alert and crisply professional. The nasal ring 
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JANNY ~URTS 

to their speech identified them as the elite muster Prince Lysaer hadmarched from Etarra.
 Against fitful shadow and the mottled ink patterns of bare thornand hazel, Mearn made them out, clad in mail dimmed with soot todamp the chance gleam of the moonlight. Each one was outfittedwith horn, bow, and steel, unafraid to meet trouble with force. Theircarriage reflected a centered, light balance, decidedly more lethalthan their garrison-trained countrymen who wore the sunwheel bla­zon at Riverton.
 Caught without knowledge of the password they demanded,Mearn refused answer until their advance had brought them insideone stride of him. The hand under his mantle rested taut on his knife. He kept his spurs ready to wheel his spent mount into immediate,hard flight, for no saving grace could lift the hair-triggerpotential fordisaster. These were townbred veterans with hard-core disaffections. Here in the free wilds, where clan accent alone could provoke abloodletting misunderstanding, Mearn had no wish to claim the pro­tection of Prince Lysaer's Alliance with his family. A s'Brydionpres­ence abroad with credentials, but no escort, would raise all the wrongsort of questions.
"Who passes?" the sentry repeated. "Say your name and your pur­pose!"
Mearn let his dragging exhaustion sap the lilt of clan originsfrom his tone. "Courier, northbound."
Then more crawling chills flicked the length of his spine. Thewhis­pered rustle of branches from behind gave warning as more menclosed at his back. His straits were now unequivocal. He rode alone,with no lawful witness within miles to gainsay the fight actions ofmen who held him surrounded with drawn steel.
 The next query carried a cold snap of suspicion. "What brings youhere? Your path takes you far from the public road."
Mearn kept his birth dialect blurred, and his hands light andtaut on his weapon. "Alliance business." To his right, where the gulchheld pooled water, the chorus of spring peepers had silenced. Thesemen would have concealed archers placed there, backing them upagainst mishap.
Ready to wheel his horse's startled weight and ram the twoswordsmen behind him, Mearn measured his odds. If the bowmenhad poor eyesight and miserable aim, he might narrowly manage tobeat an escape through the brush. Very likely he would be wounded.Any lead he might gain could last only as long as some headhunterthought to set dogs on him. Without knowing the size of the camp FUGITIVE I~RINCE 
these men guarded, dissembling stayed his best option. Mearnassayed an impatient, townborn inflection. "I have northbound dis­patches. Very urgent."
The Etarran officer was steady enough not to kill out of hand.Scarcely a day's march away from the river, he must know an overtbarbarian presence was unlikely in the middle of wide-open country.Mearn waited, unbreathing, to see whether sweet luck or mischancewas going to present his next opening.
The duty officer called for a torch. "Let's have a look."
Flint and steel were produced with no fumbling. One of the sen­tries had rags soaked in pitch already prepared and waiting. As theflame burst and flowered, carnelian light played over Mearn'sleather-clad knee, then the sable and scarlet colors of the officer'scloak he had purloined from the gatehouse that morning. Behind thefolds of his mud-spattered hem, his gelding still wore the matchingsaddlecloth with its Hanshire blazon, that he had forgotten he car­ried.
 The Etarrans fixed on the city mayor's device, and troubled tolook no farther.
 "Dharkaron's bollocks!" somebody carped from the sidelines. "Notanother of you louses! Gave up my bed to your kind last night. Thepeacock disdained to fold up his blankets, far less say thanks ingrati­tude. Treated everyone he met like the get of a bootlickingscullion."
 "Be still, you!" Defined in the light by the braid on hissurcoat, theauthority proved a man of middle years, rangy and fit and intolerantof nonsense. To Mearn, he made swift disposition. "All right, sir.You need not prove out the unpleasant reputation your countrymen leftwith my troops. You pass. Then you speak to the captain on watch. Ifyour needs can be met, he'll look after the arrangements."
Mearn masked a thrill of delighted inspiration behind faintlysneering reserve. Weary, hungry, and hagridden by the urgency tomove on, nonetheless, the gambler in him refused to ignore the dubi­ous gifts dame fortune cast in his lap. He tipped a superior nod tothe sergeant. Then he gathered his reins, risen to an arrogance no lesswithering than the Hanshire aristocrat who preceded him.
"Fiends plague!" a plaintive voice announced in oversight. "He'llneed tonight's password if he isn't to find himself skewered on theswords of the inner watch."
 Mearn pulled the gelding up short, his expression sure prelude toa burst of reviling temper.
The sergeant grumbled his unembarrassed apology and shared theprearranged signal. Mearn inclined his head, touched firm heels to his horse, and passed by, girded to wring what advantage he could,starting with a hot meal.
Behind him, the disaffected patrol indulged their dismal opinionof Hanshiremen. "Not a trustworthy lot, never have been. Hate royaltylike plague. The fish-eaters consort with witches and soothsayers, aswell as abet Koriani. You knew their Lord Mayor's high council issaid to dabble in black magic?"
"Stow the loose chatter!" snapped the sergeant.
His chastened men broke up to resume their lapsed posts, whileMearn moved on out of earshot. In apparent routine, he let hisexhausted mount pick its own way through the rim-lit gulches andlow brush. The farther he progressed, the more fresh unease chafed athis overtaxed nerves. Again, he surveyed the plain. The shaved moontextured a panorama like etched lead. He detected no sign of a camp.Only a storm-raked wrack of bent trees that marked the dry conflu­ence of a watershed. The hollow he crossed was scarcely a notablelandmark in the lowland face of the Flats. He heard no human sound. Just the rustle of a fox, and the endless sough of the wind throughthe budding twigs of bare branches. Whatever business an armed camphad here, these Etarrans knew enough to use even this barren terrainto advantage.
Mearn slowed the gelding, sobered by an ingrained campaign wis­dom to revise his original estimate. Given two lines of sentries, andno discernible activity, cold instinct lifted his hackles. An armedpres­ence that maintained such secrecy would not be inept, or unleashedfor any other Alliance agenda than the harrying of Tysan's freeclans­men.
 Made aware like a douse into ice water that his danger was fargreater than he realized, Mearn combed the shadows more closely.He saw nothing still. His palms sprang a cold sweat and his warninginstinct changed from mild to rousingly urgent. A covert retreat nowcarried more than chance risk in this country, where a mouse couldnot cross these stands of dry brush without telltale rustles ofsound.
 Mearn weighed a dangerously cruel set of choices. Best odds ofsurvival were to bleed the horse dead, then try and creep back pastthe alert ring of sentries he had just hoodwinked to protect his
iden­tity. If he slipped through unseen, he would then be on foot, easy
preyfor the tracking dogs dispatched to run him to earth. Hot pursuitwould inevitably close at his heels. A horse carcass would drawnotice, perhaps even before the watch reported his presence at thenext routine change of the guard.
He could trade his anonymity for short-term escape, or he could 
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FUGITIVE PRINCE 

play for high odds and act out his guise as a bullying blue-bloodedHanshireman.
 Had the stakes been less grim, Meam could have laughed for thedamnfool straits of his predicament. By that hour, he had been mov­ing at speed through rough country for the better part of five days.His rest had been snatched between showers in the thom brakes; hislast meal, a chunk of sour cheese bought from a farmwife out feedingher geese. His judgment was failing, each separate thought strainedas though drawn through a pall of black silk. Had he not been aboutt(~ nod off in the saddle, he might have bypassed the first pack ofsen­tries altogether.
Mearn stroked the neck of his flagging mount. To reward the poorgelding for trusting service with the furtive thrust of a knifeseemed the ungrateful act of a coward.
An insatiable gambler, Mearn let the rash heat in his blood callhis fate. Since trained soldiers were likely to dog his path anyway, hetnight as well snatch the bold opportunity to gain provisions and afresh horse.
 "Oats and a rubdown for you then, old man," he whispered inwisecrack resolve. His bluff would carry more thrill for wild stakes,never mind the maniacal temptation to gripe the Etarrans in the mostevil manner he could. He pressed the gelding's scrambling, tiredgait,swearing as noisily as any Hanshire townsman whose urgent orderssent him across an inhospitable wilderness.
The inner ring of sentries came at him like sharks in their hasteto issue their challenge. Through snapping sticks as the horse foughtbad footing, Meam gave the password in the sloppy, soft vowels thatcenturies of affected fashion had evolved into citybred speech.
"State your business," the guard demanded, unsatisfied."Courier," barked Mearn. "You can't see with the two eyes Ath putin your face?" He added a phrase in the west coastal dialect thatwould raise a ripe flush on a galleyman.
"From Hanshire?" The flustered guard jerked up his chin, thensnapped for a henchman to unshutter the light.
Slit eyed in the blinding flare of a lantern, Meam gave hisobstreperous opinion. "Fiends plague! You Etarrans always check onthe obvious with the plodding stupidity of fed ticks."
Three guards slapped swift hands to their weapons, insulted. Nofool, the young officer waved the arrival on quickly. He could dolittle else without risking a brawl unlikely to stop short of bloodshed.
Meam smiled like a fox and rode past.
A bowshot ahead, he encountered the camp, a row of dark tents 

321 ]ANNY ~'URTS 
hunkered into a hollow carved out of the stony debris of afloodplain.The site lay well masked, set into the willows that knitted the lowground in the flats. The shelters were invisible unless an observerall but stumbled into their midst. Mearn saw no loose ends, no telltalegleams of chance firelight. The fitful, hard gusts did not slap atslack canvas, nor did stray talk ride the breeze.
This field troop displayed deadly, meticulous care. In sheer sizealone, their presence bespoke a planned devastation, the work oftrained reivers moving fast into enemy territory. Mearn disliked theunpleasant bent of his hunches, that Lord Maenol's clan scoutswere going to receive a grim retaliation for upsetting the late marchinto Riverton. Nor did informed hindsight applaud the decision tobeard the wolf pack in its chosen lair. This strike force was sea­soned by the wiles of headhunters, and likely as fast to take scalpswithout question if they caught wind of an infiltrator inside theircamp.
Though contentious escapades were Mearn's personal specialty,the banner which flew above the command tent made him wonder if even his brazen wit could pull off a challenge this grand. For thefield captain in charge here had served the s'Brydion family as a merce­nary until the campaign at Vastmark had brought an abrupt changeof patron. The duke's brothers were far more than passing acquain­tances, and Mearn's false claim of identity as a Hanshire courierwould be seen as a killing offense.
A stick snapped on his back trail. Mearn spun, saw the two-leggedshadow that stalked him, and snarled a silent obscenity. His presencehad apparently stirred enough doubt that a guardsman had been sentto tail him. Most likely the creature was instructed to make sure hereported straightaway to the acting officer of the watch.
Hazed to a spurt of riled temper for this latest unlucky setback,Mearn drew a deep breath, then turned to engage every twist of cun­ning wickedness he could raise to secure his stake in survival.
"If you're going to follow," he drawled in contempt, "might justas well do so up front, where you won't take the point of my knife inmistaken belief you had thieving eyes on my purse."
The stick-cracking rustles hitched through a pause, then resumedas a stocky, perturbed soldier elbowed his way through the pricklesof a hazel copse. Despite his large build, he moved well. His balancereflected a swordsman's neat tread, and though self-controlled, histemperament was by no means phlegmatic enough to withstand thebarrage of Mearn's baiting. If he dared not strike back at a Hanshirecourier, he would settle for shedding an unwanted responsibility as 
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 fast as humanly possible. "Head groom's still awake. He'll care foryour horse."
"I'll care for my horse," Mearn shot back in distemper. He dis­mounted and loosened his saddle girth, running on in snide languageunder his breath about the ineptness of rattle-pated grooms. Forsheer, stinging mischief, he added an insolent phrase in dialect hepicked up by the Riverton gates, when the officer whose mantle hefilched had swept in.
"Fatemaster's bollocks!" The stout guardsmen peered past thesloped neck of the gelding. "Is every living one of you also relatedto the priggish family of the mayor?"Mearn smiled, sly in malice as a weasel. "Thick witted, are you,to take so long to notice the connection."The pair crossed inside the camp perimeter, the alleged Hanshirecourier all peevish-sharp nerves, and the heavyset soldier tagginghis heels in contrasting, subservient awkwardness.
No torches burned, even damped behind canvas. Those men whohad not turned in for the night hunkered down in small groups, con­versation held to low whispers. They blended into the pitch shapes ofthe shadow, faces and hands stained with walnut dye to mask thepallor of bare flesh. Their shelters were sturdy and weatherproof,showing the odd scurfs and mends of hard use, and a layout takenfrom a headhunters' practice, with tents placed in rows ofpredictablewidth to allow ease of movement in darkness. Mearn lightened histread, made cautious by the lethal stamp of competence reflected inevery salient detail.
This camp was laid out for instantaneous action, from swiftreloca­tion to surprise attack. Men called to arms from the deepest of sleepcould move, fight, and organize without tripping over tent pegs andropes. No clutter lay about, no stray gear or strings of washedcloth­ing. At a table with camp seats placed near the center, three wakefulofficers clustered in conference, a tight-shuttered lantern betweenthem. Yet no gleam of flame gave their presence away in the faint,mottled fall of the moonlight.
Led into their presence, Mearn used the snagged hair of the geld­ing's mane to obscure direct view of his face. His posture stayedstraight, every inch of him arrogant. At length the camp watch cap­tain broke off discussion and issued a testy inquiry. "Don't standthere dumbfounded! If you have any purpose here, state it."
Since the uppity Hanshireman deigned not to speak, his disgrun­tled escort was forced to step UP and explain. "Here's a courier,bound north bearing urgent dispatches." 
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il
 A drawn pause; the watch captain waited, braced on mailedelbows. His expectation made the silence unbearable. Red-faced, thesentry resumed his report, unable to refute the implied chain of
com­mand. "Yes, he needs food. Care and grain for his horse."
Mearn forced his breath steady as the lamp was raised up, and acauffous, brief finger of light tJJcke~ed over his c/oak and the Hah­shire blazon on his saddlecloth.
 Blunt as the mace he wore at his belt, the watch captain pressedhis gruff inquiry. "You know him?"
"Sithaer no! Thank the power of Light for that blessing." Thesol­dier glared with pure rancor at Mearn, who gave back a smile full ofteeth.
 Across the table, one of the subordinate officers clapped a handto his beard to mask humor. The duty captain noticed, and snapped,"Swellhead or not, he can't stay in camp unescorted."
The guard braced his posture in bitten-off protest. "Respectfullysir, I'm posted on the inner perimeter until midnight. Since thisdan­dified errand boy requires a servant, will you hear my advice? Assignhim somebody's unseasoned page. Preferably one with an insolenttongue that's deserving a stiff round of punishment."
"Just make sure he knows how to clean a man's boots," Mearnremarked from the sidelines.
 The watch captain lost his breath to astonishment, then strugglednot to laugh at the stilted discomfort of the soldier caught in thebreach. "I understand your position," he said, straight-faced. "Byall means, we don't pander to mincing state guests." He nodded dis­missal to his disaffected veteran. "Return to your post with my co~­pliments."
Relieved at vindication, the heavyset guard grinned in parting."Be sure the daisy attends his own horse. He's already told me ourgrooms aren't fit to pluck the arse end of a goose."
Left with the watch captain and two inimical senior officers, allof them thankfully strangers, Mearn held his ground, wary. His airs andaffectations in fact bought no immunity. This strike force was notwarmly disposed toward strangers, nor did it welcome unannouncedcouriers who impinged with a claim of hospitality.
"You will leave all your weapons with us," the watch captaininstructed, stretching the hard muscles of his forearm. Moonlightsnagged on the links of his mail as he leaned his massive weight overthe table. "No one here knows you. We don't leave men armed whoaren't vouched for."
 Mearn said nothing, but yanked loose his sword belt. He knotted 
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 ti~, ends of the leather around the scabbard and, in masterful pre­~~nption, pitched his offering toward the seated officers; as if allhis li~~s, any man near him would naturally scramble to vie for thefavor ~t his service. To judge by the fast reflexes of the brute whoreceived tt~e catch, his best chance was to stay on the offensive anddiscouraget~,,) close a scrutiny.Before the captain could phrase a demand for his dagger, MearnClustered back in disdain, "Since I'm not an assassin, will youinsist t~~at I eat with my hands?"
Any competent killer would use a noiseless garrote before steel;a fine point the watch captain was shamed to concede since the daggerremained in Meam's custody.
.he first throw fell to s'Brydion wiles, that freewheelingcomplaint~-,~ , .~d a grating embarrassment in this bastion of pridefulauthority.X,o more argument ensued as a page boy was rousted and assigned~!te mean task of dogging Mearn's presence in camp. The steamingnorse and its troublesome rider were dispatched straightaway to thepicket lines, to long-suffering sighs of relief.
Granted limited autonomy and a precarious state of safe-conduct,'.,,~eam adopted the sneer he liked best to intimidate crews on the,lecks of his brother's war galleys. Cardplay had taught him the ele­.;ant fine points of intimidation without the crude bluster ofexertion. n one withering glance, he sized up his escort, a swaggering, lanky~oy of sixteen who tripped over his own feet at each step.
Since braggarts typically feared contradiction, Mearn spun on hisheel. He tugged his mount in the wrong direction, his blunder a cer­tainty since the wind in his face carried no tang of manure.The boy plucked at his sleeve, then flung back as Mearn bristled."Don't touch me, whelp." In sterling offense, Mearn faced forward andcontinued on his wa~ The page followed. Three dozen strides passedbefore the boy raised the nerve to correct the displaced orientation.
By then, the s'Brydion envoy had finished his count of the tents,and by swift extrapolation, set a crude limit on the strength ofAlliance numbers. This force kept no camp followers. Servants andsupport troops were pared to a minimum, and an overheard scrap ofconversation had informed that even the healer bore arms. More than one shelter's ridgepole displayed trophy scalps, clan braids knottedtogether like rope, or wound in the blood-crusted thongs the livingman's wife would have tied in before battle.
 Enraged and grieving, Mearn came at last to the picket lines.This division was light horse, the animals all prime, kept glossy withgrainand condition. By contrast, the hack he tied up and rubbed down was 
JANNY WURTS

 thin and straight shouldered, an eyesore of a livery horseoutclassed by its neighbors.The page boy fatuously pointed this out.
Mearn ignored him. By clan belief, all things alive were madeequal, no animal given more worth than another, and no man's lifevalued above either. Moved to cross-grained annoyance for the boy'stownbred ignorance, he fixed his whole attention on tending the
tired gelding's legs.Just like the chained dog spumed by the free one, the snubbedpage inflated his boasting to compensate.Meam did not comment. Thin features cast to indifferent disdain,he listened and absorbed each stray fact the boy spouted. Bv theti~e the gelding was cooled, fed, and groomed clean of sweat, he hadcata­loged a major array of tactics used in past raids against Red­
beard's clans in Rathain. When the page boy wound down, he venturedlaconic opinion that as yet, he remained unimpressed.
Done with the picket lines, his saddle and the Hanshire horsecloth slung over his shoulder, he pursued his quest for a meal. At thecook's tent, a well-placed disparagement sent the boy inside to fetchbread and jerked meat. Mearn waited, sharp-eyed and observant onthe sidelines, overhearing stray phrases and talk from the men whocame and went about unnamed business.
 "... give the forest-slinking lizards their comeuppanc~-.? apike-man said, chuckling.
Through a lull in the breeze, a companion enlarged on the story,his gestures expansive and vehement. "... for what they did in the bogs.Let them suffer harkaron s fell vengeance for all eternity... nothing
D ' else but a tenday of sharpening weapons. Have blades in our bandcould split hairs with a cat's breath behind them..."
Low talk from another quarter cut in between gusts of wind. "Man,they'll be swept up like leavings. No chance .... other troops movingin through the mountains .... them surrounded, and clan scalpsenough to make felt to restuff our Lord Mayor's upholstery."
Riled as a cat doused in rainfall, Mearn capped the blaze of histemper. Bit by bit, patient, he assembled each gamered fact. UnderAlliance orders to sweep northward, these crack Etarran troops held acrown disposition to hunt down free clansmen in Tysan. Stung pridewould be vindicated. Having suffered and bled through laid ambushin the wetlands, these men were rested and hot to take down the bar­barian vermin who had abetted the Shadow Master's clean escape.Nor were their officers anything less than prepared for the trickscor­nered clansmen could mete out. 
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 Mearn had quartered the camp. As s'Brydion knew war, he recog­t~ized excellence. After five seasons spent plowing the forests ofI~bain for Jieret Red-beard's unscrupulous breed of scout, they were!~:~r iened veterans, lethally practiced at keeping a near to
invisible ?r~,~ence.
He ate what the page brought, suborning racked nerves to assuagehis body's demand for replenishment. Emerged from a seamless tem­'.~est of thought, he laid down the wild card hand he had cut from
the :loth of desperate courage and chance."I'm tired," he announced without preamble. Lest the flustered:~a~e seek a superior officer to ask for bedding and shelter, Mearn
~ :;ht the boy's wrist with insistent fingers. "I won't sleepunder :anv,~. Too smelly. Fetch me a blanket. I'll choose my own place setout of the wind, where I won't scratch from picking up head lice."
Once the blanket was found, he crossed the camp again, the saddleand cloth still carried across his left shoulder. He took painstakingminutes to cut and skin a green willow branch. With that oddment in~and, he acquired a seemingly limitless enthusiasm for exploring the!~rush between tents. He poked under bushes. His vexing, erratic:ourse wound in circles around a structure of tight-lashed canvas,then stalled into another confounding silence.
The page grew rebellious. "That's the supply and the armory," hevolunteered in exasperation.
"I do have a nose, whelp." Not to be hurried, Mearn extended hissearch and turned over each leaf on the ground. "One can't be too:areful. Tracking dogs might have pissed here."
"They're kept caged in wicker," the page disallowed.
Since Mearn had detected neither barking nor whines, he madechill conclusion that this company practiced the headhunters' crueltyof cutting the dogs' vocal cords to make them run silent.
Scarcely able to mask his shudder of distaste, he unloaded hissad­dle, folded his lean frame in the blanket, and lay down full lengthon bare earth. "Good night."
"What?" The befuddled page glowered.
"I said, good night." As a final eccentric foible of privacy,Mearn arranged the crusted saddlecloth with its bold Hanshire blazon overhis exposed head and face.
The page stood at a loss with his mouth open. As Mearn's breath­ing steadied, then slowed to soft snoring, the boy paced, kickingstones in bilious frustration. His orders to watch this high-handedcourier included no avenue for relief. Nor was an officer nearby toconsult or say where his irregular duty left off. The boy stood; he 
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 deliberated; he went foot to foot in sore doubt. Finally, resigned,he
 sat down in the brush to keep boring vigil. The prospect ofwatching
a prig sleep through the night underneath the ripe felt of asaddle­
plaint among peers, a boy could do little but sulk and endure the
injustice.
Hours crawled. The watch changed. The last wakeful men retiredto their tents. The courier from Hanshire did nothing but lie inunmoving, oblivious quiet, while the page leaned his back on asapling. Tired, he dozed once or twice. The final time he opened hiseyes, the brush over his head rang with the chirps of springsparrows.Dawn had broken. Through a pearl haze of fog, men stirred, seekingbreakfast or the latrine ditch. The page stretched, rubbed his eyes,and through the complaint of stiff muscles, ascertained his chargehad not strayed. The courier's boots and spurs still poked from theblanket. Naught else had changed; the red-and-black saddledothremained creased like a tent over his insufferable, swelled head.
The page endured privation in eye-watering discomfort, thenfinally gave in to bodily need and relieved himself in the brush. TheHanshireman slumbered on, oblivious. The sun rose, melting thestreamers of mist and unveiling a day like a chisel-cut diamond.The camp was fully aroused before an irritable petty officer sent bythe watch came inquiring to see why the courier had failed to makean appearance.
"He's asleep, still." Grouchy and feeling unjustly martyred, thepage boy tossed a pebble just shy of the blanket. "Probably lies insilk sheets until noon in that decadent city he comes from. You kick himawake. He has thankless manners."
 The petty officer stroked his clipped beard. He eyed the man-shaped muddle of horsecloth, saddle, and blanket with visible trepi­dation. Then, touched to a sudden, chill plunge of intuition, hestepped forward and stamped his booted foot with full strength ontothe courier's midriff.
 Sticks snapped. The blanket collapsed, sagged in folds thatrevealed the form underneath to be nothing else but an artfularrangement of twigs and dry grass.
"Murdering fiend!" the officer gasped. "The confounded dog was aspy!" He elbowed aside the gaping page and raced headlong to raisethe alarm.
 The Etarran camp erupted like a nest of kicked wasps, but not toa wild stir of noise. Men reacted in a chilling, oiled flow ofdiscipline,tearing down tents and searching through every nook and cranny of 
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 packed baggage. Twenty minutes after the stunning discovery, theofficer of the day watch stood in straightlaced formality and deliv­ered the raw news to his captain.
"The man's not in camp, though his horse, his sword, his saddleand cloth are still here. The outlook is no good. He slit the tent
canvas with a dagger and crawled into the armory. All the tactical maps aretaken from the locked chest. He snatched an excellent sword, thencaused enough mischief to make us all choke in embarrassment."
"Sabotage?"The officer swallowed. "Yes sir." He shifted huge shouldersunder his mail, braced his nerve, and recited the list. "All the steel
broad­heads were cut from their shafts, and the fletching stripped off thearrows. Sword blades were unwound at the tang and separated fromtheir hilts. At the horse lines, we found all the bridles cut apart.
We'd fix them with string, but no one in camp can find a damned bit forhis horse, or a girth that has any buckles.""Embarrassment, you say?" The captain stabbed his eating knifeupright in the crust of his scarcely touched bread loaf. "I call it
may­hem." His eyes narrowed with thought and a chilling, leashed tem­per, he snapped his strong fingers, causing the page who knelt by
his elbow to jump. "Go. Fetch my parchment and seal."Then he leveled his blue eyes at the duty officer, and said,"You're not finished?" The man caught under scrutiny fidgeted, the sweat rolling fromunder his steel helm. "No, sir. The kennelman claims the meat for the dogswas tainted. At least, since he fed them, every last one's fallen sick."The account suffered a break as the page boy returned, bearing
the troop commander's lap desk and the tied leather bundle which pro­tected the state seal with its su~nwheel blazon of authori~.
 "Keep talking, man." Resigned to the setback that spoiled hisbreakfast, the captain unburdened the page boy. His hard fingersflipped open the lap desk. "If our scouring of the clans is no longera surprise, the other troops have to be warned. You can talk while Iwrite." He accepted the wrapped packet containing the sunseal, thenpaused, his frosty brows snagged in a frown."Something wrong, sir?" The duty officer blotted his moist face.The troop commander showed his teeth, an animal response tomurderous fury as he snatched up his knife and slashed the thongties. The rolled leather fell away and revealed an old knotted rootleft in place of the sunwheel seal to attest crown authority. "Why, thatslithering get of a snake! For this, I'll see his entrails torn outby dogsand his scalp taken under my dagger!" 
JANNY WURT$

 The page boy launched into panicky excuses. "The lock wasn'tloose on your coffer, sir. No papers were missing." Then the damningworst, from the lips of foolhardy innocence. "Whoever stole the sealfrom your things had to know just where to look."
"Be silent." The captain fingered his steel, his temper leashedthrough hardened experience, and his slate-colored eyes fixed backon the man ~,,hose report was unfinished, and whose perspirin. fea­tures showed inordinate lack of surprise. "There's more?"
"Yes, sir." The forbearing sigh this time seemed to rise fromth~~ harried man's boot soles. "The groom on the picket lines was given arequisition order, sealed and signed in what looks to be preciseforgery."
"What did that groom give, say quickly." No idiot, the troop caN­tain thrust to his feet. "The facts are by far more important th,~tl~,blame."
 The reporting officer braced himself. "Six horses, half of themsalt-died and bridled, and the last three apparently on lead reins. ~.c'~.examined the tracks. The creatures were roped in pairs. The da~'~~patrol saw someone they believed to be ours, leaving with remout~t~in tow. He carried packeted orders under your wax seal, and we c~'tfault them, the sunwheel blazon was genuine. A short dista~c~ fr~,~~our outer line, the trail scouts say the horses slowed down. Thentheir tracks diverge to all points of the compass."
"You tried dogs?" said the captain, not truly expecting theobvious had not been covered.
 "First thing, sir." The watch officer rubbed his moist hands onhis surcoat. "The two bitches well enough to stand up lost the scent nextto the picket lines. That's where the groom said the rogue mounted.We can follow that horse, but that's wasted motion." This spy hadproven inventively clever. He had likely climbed from one saddle toanother before he sent the loose horses packing.
"All right," said the captain, all ironbound purpose. "I wantaction. Now. Each one of those horses will be tracked and brought in, I don'tcare if their trail leads through Sithaer itself. Every man will beques­tioned. If anyone saw this traitor's face clearly, I want hisdetailed description. Next, we assume he's barbarian blood. Why else steal thetactical maps, if not to send word to the enemy? We're marchingnorth anyway. Last night's little blunder just lit the fires underour order of march a bit hotter. At the end, we'll face men who arewarned and desperate. By the Light, if there's justice, our linesentries are going to stand front and center when we close with the murderingfugitives." 
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 A searing, short pause, as the captain recalled the humiliationthat he had no seal for his orders. Nor could he verify his dispatch toAvenor to send formal complaint of the infamy.
"Damn the motherless, slinking little weasel!" he exploded inlivid heat that promised a reckoning in bloodshed. "When we net his closekin, I will personally sew their damned scalps as a fringe on my sad­dlecloth."
 By noon, sweating in the humid spring warmth that chafed blis­ters under gambesons and made chain mail weigh like poured lead,the men ran down the last horses. Not one bore a rider. The spy'stracks were not found, though the hound couple which survived themorning's bout of poisoning whuffed and milled in baffled circles.They sprawled on .their sides, muddied and panting, while theirirritable handlers persisted. The next hour entailed the miserable,wet labor of leaping across hummocks and scouring the verges ofthe waist-deep, dank pools in the fenland. Sedges and cattailswaved in the wind. Half-budded maples trailed lichened branchesand tough roots into the peat black waters of the sinkholes. Hardeffort flushed nothing but otters and the flap of displaced crows.Nothing moved but the high-flying hawk, while clouds gatheredand plumed like combed silver overhead and threatened more rainbefore nightfall.
In due course, the search was called off. The guileful courierhad left no trace of his passage, and his clanblood relations wouldinevitably receive the premature warning of trouble.
The setback raised grumbles, but no loss of morale. These wereseasoned fighters who had marched against clansmen before. Theyknew to expect balking tricks and sly tactics that time and againdeferred victory. This campaign might go hard, but the ending wasassured. Without ships, the barbarian enclaves in south Tysan weredoomed, soon to be reaped by the vengeful steel of Lysaer's Allianceof Light.
 In the late afternoon, the gathering storm rode the west windsrak­ing in off the ocean. The rain drizzled, then gushed, then hammereddown in white sheets. The barrage chased the dark pools in themarshes to stippled pewter, and glazed the bent limbs of the maples.Mearn s'Brydion waded shin deep to keep dogs off his scent, his wetleathers clinging like glue at each stride, and his fingers locked tothe straps of three rolled leather map cases. The brass-capped endsbashed his thigh when he stumbled, his ankles caught back by thesawing tangles of sedges. Only the relentless chill kept him wakeful. 
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His thoughts came in fragments, their mean'mg unmoored by theexpanding spirals of exhaustion.
He slogged his way past another islet of hummocks. The suckingpull of the mud continually mired and slowed him. Yet he dared nottraverse the high ground, not with an Alliance armed force at hisback, enraged by his suborning trickery. Some of the dogs might sur­vive the pulped water hemlock he had used to taint their dried meat.Etarran field troops were not fools in the wilds, and no lack ofbridles and girths would swerve them from their orders to march north.
Breathless, shivering, gnawed to the bone by the ache of spentmus­cles, Mearn perched his hip on a deadfall. Rain pocked the water inrings at his shins. Premature dusk banked deep shadows beneath thestained boles of the trees. The low, misting clouds showed no sign oflifting. Rain blew and swirled and trickled from his eyebrows, andrinsed streams through the garlands of watercress plastered over histhighs. Failing light was going to upset his bearings. Mearn tippedback his head and fought off a flattening rush of disheartenment. He hadonly the lichens for orientation. On the south sides of trees, thesalt winds from Mainmere burned off their splotched growth; and the shagmoss did not grow north-facing.
Mearn shut stinging eyes, every nerve end and instinct alive tohis danger. Range too far east, he would find only distrustful fenlandersin their lowly wattle-and-mud huts. Pass too far west, and he wouldencounter high ground, fair game for a second armed troop the mapsshowed would be beating a line inland from Hanshire. South lay theEtarrans he had riled like jabbed hornets, and north, and if lucksaved him, he might find the armed bands of Lord Maenol's scouts who hadfoiled the Alliance's cordon of Riverton.
 Geese called in the reeds. Daylight was fast waning. The gloomseemed cast in lead silver between the plummeting curtains of rain­fall. Mearn shoved off through the vast, empty maze of stilled bog-land, no longer able to mind his own noise as he snapped through thesticks of the thickets. He tripped again, slamming his shoulder onthe knob of a willow bough. "Forgive," he gasped, breathless, by time­worn clan custom acknowledging the mistake of his own clumsiness.The nurturing trees might overlook his offense, but the needs of hisbody could not be deferred for much longer.
The willow grove thinned. Hedged by gathering darkness, theground snaked away into tarnished, dull pools inked with the kneesof dead tree roots. A lightning-struck oak thrust a blackened shellskyward, the stripped husks of burned saplings angled like spearsthrough the rioting tangle of briar. The past fire had scorched offthe 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

moss and the lichen. A few sloshing steps brought the water waistdeep. Mearn paused, half-immersed. He wiped streaming wet fromhis eyes, while the wind slapped and battered at his hair and hisclothing. He hitched the map cases up to his shoulder to protecttheir waxed hide from immersion.
 Rain blurred the landmarks. The sere, muddy banks held no signof an otter's den, or any other small animal burrow to hint whichdirection lay south. Only the unreliable, buffeting west winds lenttheir unkindly semblance of guidance.
These fens were not safe to traverse after dark, with mud sinksthat could swallow a man's foot in one step and suck down his bonesbeyond finding.
Mearn slogged ahead, splashed into a hole, then managed a claw­ing recovery back to raised ground. He would have to double back.The effort would certainly turn him around. Trail instinct did notapply in this land, with its puzzle-cut maze of tangled, brown hum­mocks, and meandering pools inscribed by hammering rainfall.
Immersed in deep thickets, clawed raw by green thorns, he losthis bearings again. Faced by a deeper stand of water than before, he nowshivered uncontrollably. The relentless chill stole his body'sreserves. He knew his survival hinged upon finding immediate shelter andfood. Sleep now was his enemy. To yield to his craving for overduerest would see him a skeleton picked clean by predators. The urgentwarning he carried would become lost, and the maps, which detailedthe Alliance sweep through south Tysan for the purpose of eradicat­ing clan bloodlines.
Mearn thrashed into another grove of maples, hampered by clos­ing darkness. A gray heron startled into flight from her fishing. Herecoiled from the noise. Twigs clawed at his burden. He caught backthe loosened bundle before the straps gave, and clasped the rolledleather to his chest. Breath sucked through his locked teeth. He nolonger knew if the whine in his ears was the shrilling of springpeep­ers, or yet another warning of overtaxed senses about to let go andfail him. He kept moving regardless, unwilling to give way to thebeckoning void that offered him painless unconsciousness.
Through the sheet-lead expanse of another shallows, Mearn lostnorth again. He groped for a tree, a stripped stump, any firm objectthat might still harbor a telltale colony of shag moss. His touch metcold mud. Reeds slapped his face. Cattail down snagged in hisnostrils and smeared yellow fuzz on his eyelids. He coughed intodarkness that seemed too thick to breathe, and shoved on against abattering tempest of cold wind. The rain sluiced and hissed and 
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rinsed through wet leaves. He knew he must stop, find some sort ofshelter, and wait out the night or the storm. Vertigo threatened tounstring his balance. Already he could have become turned aroundand be moving back into the armed camp of the enemy.
Time slipped. He became aware that he sat underneath the drip­ping crown of a marsh maple. Gusts roared through the branches,and clattered the loosened, dead runners of vines. Far past feelingcold, he crimped his hands on the straps that secured the purloinedmap cases. Fear and worry were numbed, his cognizance flattened toinsipid and dangerous lassitude. The rain drove down, relentless, andscattered thin trickles off the wicked ends of his hair. Only theotters fared well in this weather. Meam heard the splash as they dove fromthe banks, hunting small crayfish, or cavorting for sport in thedark­ness.
 Or perhaps their noise masked the doings of men. He could nolonger tell. The vise grip of exhaustion left his skull feelingpackedwith wet cotton. Overcome by inertia, he attempted more than onebrutal measure to regain his feet and keep moving.
Nothing changed. His last strength was long spent. Mearn sat,huddled with his forehead bowed on his knees, and his smearedwrists tucked at his ankles. Weariness sapped his last spark ofvitality,but not stubborn will. He still held the map cases clenched to hisbreast. Asleep or unconscious, he did not respond as the splashingdisturbance approached him. Nor did he stir in the flare as someoneunshuttered a wick lantern. The breath of the storm winnowed the reek of hot fat, then the must of wet clothes, sewn from the skins ofsmall animals. A skiff made of bark glided through the shallows.From a perch in the bow, a wizened little grandmother raised a hornlantern, while two younger male relatives pointed and whispered inthe singsong dialect of the fenlands.The poleman paused. Shoved by contrary wind, his boat drifted.On the greening bank, the spearpointed sedges bent and flattened,streaked like ruby glass with reflections. The juddering light pickedout the arrivals, with their stitched leather caps tied withtalismans fashioned from feathers, and strung acorns, and little stars woven offlax straw.
 "It's a man sitting there. Has no boots on, that's odd," thegrand­mother observed in a mollified, half-toothless warble.
Rain slanted through the purl of the mist. "Could be dead," musedthe squat uncle, who rinsed the offal from the last kill from hishands. He jabbed a thumb rubbed shiny from endless hours spent twistingfish twine. "Has a sword, see? Could be dangerous." 
 "Isn't moving," the third party ventured.
The skiff jostled closer. The thwart gouged the peat bank.

"Still breathing," said the trapper, kneeling down. "Justbarely." Hestabbed his bloody knife into the reed basket shining with the scalesof gutted fish, while his companions reached out tentative hands andlightly fingered the stranger gone lost in the bogs.
"Clanborn, and in trouble," the grandmother determined.
Another chimed in soft counterpoint, "Shelter then."

In silent efficiency, the two men arose from the skiff andsteppedonto the marshy bank. Shadows wheeled, stitched with carnelianwhere plummeting raindrops sliced through the flickering lamplight.They bent, grasped Mearn's arms at the elbow and shoulder, thenstartled back with hissed breaths as their find stirred and lifted his head.
 He had gray eyes, the pupils wide and black with shock. The twofen folk poised, stilled as scared rabbits, while the rain sang andsplashed unabated. The man squinted through the downpour. Hisvision seemed reluctant to focus, as if the skiff and its occupantswere a nightmare come visiting, or a madman's distortion of DharkaronAvenger's Black Chariot, filled with wizened little people withblood­ied knives and insistent plucking fingers.
Then he spoke, the ingrained courtesy of his ancestors set in theantique speech of his breeding. "Please. I beg help. If you know, ifyoucan spare a runner to seek, let these cases I carry reach Lord Maenols'Garmley or his kinsmen with all possible speed."
The grandmother clicked her tongue through shut teeth. "Whist,bring him in. Or this one that he seeks will receive his cold bonesfor naught but last rites and a burial." 
335 Early Spring 5653 
Appeals 
At Althain Tower, the mood changed from downcast to grim in thedarkened, chill hours before dawn. Sethvir sat, chin on fist, atthe massive stone table in the library chamber, half-swallowed by thegloom which gathered under the star-patterned beams of the ceiling.As his mind ranged through yet another chain of auguries, his fore­head stayed pinched into creases. The last such cast sequence hadalready fretted the white ends of his beard into finger-caughttangles.The dark, polished table before him was swept clear of books. By hiselbow, a filled mug of tea had gone cold. The casement windows athis back were latched shut, the tight fastenings kept under tirelesssiege by a barrage of sharp winds that, farther south, coalesced as arainstorm.
 The one dribbled candle alight in the stand fluttered anyway,tor­mented by the gyrating presence of a visiting discorporate colleague."Just say what you see," Kharadmon urged at length, his pique thesnarl of a mewed-up predator, and his worry unsubtle as the flayingedge of a storm front. "I'm well aware the news out of Tysan bodes nogood. Can the details make things any worse?"
Sethvir shut his eyes. Unmoving, he answered, "Dakar's warningframed an accurate judgment. Arithon eats, but his body rejectssuste­nance afterward. He speaks, he perseveres. He stubbornly enacts allthe movements of living. But the fire, the passion, his sense ofself-worth and entitlement have all been strangled by grief. Like thePara­vians, who waste away in the absence of hope, our Teir's'Ffalenntries 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

to endure against the grain of his born nature. He keeps the verylet­ter of his oath to survive."
 Through a plangent, fierce pause, Kharadmon spun in suspension."Say on. I can already guess."
"Oh, the gist isn't new." Sethvir stabbed distraught handsthroughthe hair at his temples, the farseeing span of his vision allbitterness. Morriel Prime had foreseen this crux years ago, that Arithon'sinheri­tance from two royal bloodlines created an incompatible legacy. "Thegifts of s'Ahelas foresight cross-linked with s'Ffalenn compassionpoisons all that he does, all that he thinks. Now he's forced tobetraythe loyalties he holds sacrosanct, he has no defense against guiltand despondency."
While his colleague's roving angst churned a crock of quill pensinto rustling agitation, Althain's Warden summed up. "In the absenceof grace, entropy triumphs. The flesh loses its natural drive torenew itself."
 "Then you fear our Teir's'Ffalenn will succumb into wastingdisease,over time." Kharadmon's presence sheared over the bookshelves, rais­ing dust like fine smoke from the rows of old, musty covers. Pagesflipped madly on another opened tome propped on a lion-carvedlectern. "Well give him some news." The self-contained tempestpaused on its course, reversed direction, and whirled the quill penson the opposite spin like small weathercocks. "Find him some word ofencouragement."
The Warden of Althain simply looked up, his gaze the blank blueof a robin's egg.
Kharadmon stopped, a poured well of cold that exuded biting frus­tration. "There are moments your mind's just like knotted string, toovexingly layered to unravel."
Sethvir stirred, unfolded crimped fingers, and with a fingernailshowing a black rim of ink, traced a circle on the obsidian tabletop."You won't like what you see."
"Well, that's nothing fresh," Kharadmon breezed on. "These timesare rank chaos. Though Luhaine is a pessimist, and his theories aregalling, I have to agree that entropy's been winning since Desh­thiere came calling through South Gate."
"Peace, here." Althain's Warden traced a glyph in blue light onthe air.
 Then he laid light palms on the table and pronounced a phrase inthe slow, rolling consonants that awakened the Name for the primalawareness of this stone which held his attention. A permission wasexchanged in language and pitch beyond range of ordinary hearing. 
JANNY WURTS 

Sethvir traced another glyph inside the closed figure, and awaited aninward alignment.
A connection closed like a spark in his mind. He framed hisintent and sank his awareness into the dance of meshed energies whichbound the obsidian into solidity. His grasp of grand conjury accom­plished what no other arcane order on the continent could achieve onthe wings of pure thought: he invoked shift in resonance, and raisedthe vibrational frequency of dense matter.
Within his drawn circle, the stone's matrix dissolved, transmutedto a state of pure light.
Rinsed in a flare of actinic brilliance, Althain's Warden reachedout again. He said, hand poised, the spiked snow of his eyebrows trainedtoward Kharadmon's breezy fidgeting, "The fish, at least, led theproperfishermen to the catch. I give you the brightest thread in thetapestry."
"Well, we can't all be scatterbrained and capture such nuance bydreaming." But this once, Kharadmon's baiting humor fell short.
Althain's Warden did not smile as he touched the field of unformed matter with his forefinger and imprinted the reenactment of a scenedrawn in through his tie to the earth link...
 Rain splashed and guttered through the reeds in Mogg's Fen, wherea soaked party of marsh trappers poled their skiff northward throughnight'sinky maze of shoals and mudbanks and flat water. Wrapped in furs andgreased hide, a shuddering clansman lolled half-unconscious, ragingcurses against an Alliance invasion in feverish fits of delirium... .
 "Meam s'Brydion? Taken north? But you know his warning willcome far too late." Kharadmon wheeled over the shadowy aumbries,sarcastically unimpressed, since Lysaer's gathered forces werealready present and closing upon Maenol's clansmen. "What's onecoal raked from the flames of a building conflagration? Merciful Ath!If that's a success, you'd better show me the failures. Or Luhainewill claim I've traded my bollocks for outright, shrinking fainthearted­ness."
 Sethvir bowed his head. "Wiser, perhaps, to discount pride andpraise the one gift as a blessing." But he honored Kharadmon's bid­ding and set the small linkage between transmuted stone and hispowers of earth-linked perception. The scenes he translated throughthe ring of his scrying were indeed unrelenting bad news.
 Lysaer's war galleys swept down on the Isles of Min Pierens andoverran Arithon's small outpost at Corith. The site had no defenses. Theramshackle FUGITIVE PRIN›ś 
sheds, the tools, the small sail loft which refitted the stolen hullsfrom River-ton were razed and burned inside the first hour of landing. Thelaborers had been trapped, killed as they resisted, or run down and captured asthey fledthrough the brush by headhunters and trained packs of tracking dogs.The handful of survivors now languished in chains with the wounded,shortly tosee the Alliance destroy their last outside hope of a rescue.
Into the harbor, unsuspecting, ran the Cariadwin with her crew offreed galley slaves and her hold filled with clan scouts just signed on asuntrained volunteers. These expected to man three forthcoming new ships, andwere yetunaware of the setbacks inflicted by Koriani intervention. None ofthem knew of the launching just gone bad at Riverton; neither they northeir cap­tain realized as they sailed that an Alliance trap lay in waiting.
 Sethvir spoke a word, and time bowed to his bidding. The colorsin the scrying on the tabletop bled into the ghostly gray presciencethat unveiled the unformed future. The sequence firmed into sharp­ening focus, as the few tracks of possibility in play merged into aremorseless junction. Kharadmon saw that the coming sea fight atCorith would end in a vicious defeat. Against an outfitted war fleet,caught in confined waters, the Cariadwin's fierce defense was fore­doomed.
 "Aft," Sethvir murmured, the Paravian rune that marked closing.The silver-point tones of unborn event bled away, replaced byanother vision, this one a view of the Alliance shipworks atRiverton,grained in a mist of falling rain.
"What you see next occurred just this afternoon," Althain's War­den added in subdued explanation; and Kharadmon shared all thesorrowful details of Caolle's survival, now entangled with the lastthread in the Koriani design that devolved from the arraigned yardworkers and sail crews kept hostage to force Arithon's capitulation.Sethvir's scrying perused the firelit chamber where Lirenda, FirstSenior, signed the requisite papers of extradition in the smug com­pany of Riverton's mayor. With a crystal wineglass poised in onehand, and an expression serene as milk porcelain, she delivered herorder for the prisoners to sail on the dawn tide three days hence.
"I don't like her eyes," Kharadmon observed tartly. "Vindictiveas nightshade to stop a man's heart in his sleep."
"She looks that way when she's hiding something." Althain's War­den considered the sorry prisoners held in chains in the cramped cellthat once had confined Dakar. "The three new brigs will be divertedfrom crown orders by her Prime's will to form a blockade. If ourTeir's'Ffalenn crosses through Korias without mishap, he could 
JANNY WURTS 

certainly fall to Morriel's conspiracy as he sails his small sloopout of Mainmere."
 A wind like black ice, Kharadmon's course riffled a stack ofloose parchments weighted down by a chunk of iron meteorite. "You sentme summons. What do you ask? What else have you seen that you are soloath to tell me?"
 Still reluctant to answer, Sethvir raised one finger. His softword sang release over his suspended conjury, and the bindings inside hisdrawn circle let go. The sustaining, fine energies carried from thePrime Source spiraled downward. Spell-fired light sank to a palehalo, then vanished. Residual heat fanned and stirred the pale endsof the Sorcerer's hair and beard, while spent forces dispersed, sighingaway to stilled silence.
Between Sethvir's elbows, the stone table reverted to form, seam­less black as before, the sole remnant of change the upright candle,now snuffed to a febrile ember. Out of chill darkness, a stir of worncloth as Althain's Warden stood up. "! can't say what tomorrow willbring. There are too many free-will choices involved to guess whetherArithon s'Ffalenn can achieve his escape into freedom. Yet one factcan't be argued: at large or held captive in Koriani hands, he cannotlong sustain a despair of self-damning proportion."
Sethvir's library suffered another tempestuous dusting as Kharad­mon seized on the gist. Neither one of the half brothers had escapedthe deranging sorrows linked to the bloodshed at Tal Quorin, MinderlBay, and Vastmark. But where Lysaer s'Ilessid became driven to self-sacrifice for morality, ennobling his losses through a publiccampaignof justification, Arithon s'Ffalenn more quietly bled in compassionuntil his solitary resilience ran dry. No need to belabor the painfulnecessity, that the one threatened life held the lynchpin of theBlack Rose Prophecy's resolution. All hopes for the Eellowship'srestoration back to seven still hinged upon a crowned prince for Rathain.
"You want a mitigator," Kharadmon burst out, his mercuric impa­tience the springboard to seize on the direction of Sethvir'sthinking."Someone to reforge the bond of his trust with himself?. Who's toask? Daelion Fatemaster wept! We're talking of Kamridian s'Ffalenn'sdirect descendant, and nothing we tried in that hour of trial turnedhis mind to seek self-redemption."
"I know." Sethvir reclaimed his tea mug and sipped its cold con­tents as he shared consternation and the grievous past memory of avaliant s'Ffalenn high king, driven to his doom in the Maze ofDavien, where the Betrayer's insidious coils of truth spells faced aman with his own mirror image. Arithon's ancestor had died, torn 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 apart by the pangs of guilt-driven conscience. The thread which hadseen him undone at the last was his line's royal gift of compassion.
"We lost King Kamri despite every conscious protection, and hehad no damning entanglement with the effects of s'Ahelas farsight."A spark jumped and grounded into the stone floor as Kharadmonvented his testiness.
 "I thought you claimed Luhaine was the pessimist." As if thedregsof his tea showed him nightmares, Althain's Warden secreted themug amid the snarl of old twine he scrounged when he needed abookmark. He knew by Kharadmon's complete lack of argument thathe could not mask the bare truth. Out of today's breeding quagmireof circumstance, the same tragedy that had ended King Kamridian'slife could be repeated with Arithon. Sethvir pondered bad odds,while outside, the wind slapped and whistled against his sealed shut­ters, and within, Kharadmon expended his angst in small fits thatraised havoc among his belongings.
As if the innate peace of the darkness had fled, Sethvir touchedthe wick of the candle alight. The feeble spear of new flame creasedshad­ows over the timeworn hollows of his face. Worry pinched his lipslike cracked leather, and lent his clasped hands the transientfragilityof flesh that was fallibly mortal. "I know of only two individualswith the power to lay claim to Arithon's heart."
Kharadmon froze into ominous stillness. "The enchantress Elaira and Earl Jieret s'Valerient."
 Sethvir nodded, brooding over the relentless perils implied byhis posited remedy. "The lady could heal Rathain's prince the fastest.Her influence would be reliable and sure, but she must first step forwardin free will and transcend the limitations the Koriani Order has imposed between her and the man she would love."
"I can't take that risk!" Kharadmon protested, all trace of theprankster razed off by uncoiling horror. "What if she martyrs herselfas a sacrifice? She might well break her vows and accept self-destruction!" The quill pens flurried airborne and circled, caught upin the shade's consternation. "By the Avenger's black Spear andChariot, Traithe already questioned her once. Luhaine also. Bothmet the same obstacle." Elaira had seen no truth beyond Morriel'sbinding; nor did she perceive her own power to ask help to claimback her right to free spirit.
Althain's Warden could not argue the razor-edged chancesinvolved with breaching Elaira's self-imposed solitude. Shouldersbowed, arms tucked to his chest, he crossed to the sill of thecasement. While the storm raged with unrelenting raw violence against  d~ A N N Y ~i~' U R T 5
 Althain's spelled stone and latched glass, he did not sharepain, that often his wardenship weighed on his heart like l~/t~',les. ~e ~gh~ protections of a dead centaur stonemason could 0~no comfort, nor provide any haven against the pending poten~tal
i0: disaster Desh-t~ere's curse stewed up in south Tysan.Nor was ~aradmon left blinded to nuance, that a disc~rporatespirit could accomplish the errand to Araethura with neater
dispatch.His capi~lation came barbed with the sardo~c fire he used whe~ ~emasked hurtful sentiment. "If L~a~e went once, I'll bear teat rv~enow. At least the woman won't have to put up with his wi~d~ ~ ~of lecturing."
~thvir~ ]~s ~itched wJ~ ~e b~rest t~ ~o~ '~J~l~ ,~z~z,;~,'__h~ ~o[~bA~ ~,~'~it~,~woman' s' sens~ili~, ~ fact. Take wam~g&om that. Her superiors never did break her stree~ise impudence.Airs ~d au~oriW of any kind still raise her blister~g contempt."
Outside, the gusts ripped and savaged the ~ers of ivy latched~to blot stone. By lengths more obdurate, Sethvir laced chilled f~­gers.under his beard, ~s elbows propped on the sill. His statementblurred ~to the dream of the earth l~k as he summed up his finalappeal. "If you fail ~ Araethura, and Earl Jieret is called, ~speople inRathain will be left ~ the hands of an ~fant successor. He will ask our help for safe passage. Even so, ~s journey wi~ take severalmonths. We could lose the short marg~ of time that is left to spareArithon's equanimiW. Go swiftly."
By the t~e the echo of the words died to silence, Altha~ Towerheld no outside company. ~thvir was left to his own dis~rbedthoughts and the aimless whirl of the dust motes unmoored by~aradmon's soldless depar~re.
 In distant Araethura, where the herbalist's small cottage snuggedinto the sweep in the moors, the spring downpour drummed inbalked thunder against thatch netted down with twine and stoutstones. Deep night wrapped the land. In velvet-grained darkness, theincessant winds rattled shutters and door, and moaned litanies underthe eaves. After six years, the complaints of harsh storms werefamil­iar enough that Elaira did not stir in her sleep.
When Kharadmon's presence poured under the gap in her doorsill,the enchantress lay curled beneath tumbled blankets, wrists tucked toher breast. The spell crystal defensively cupped into one fist heldher guard, the signature field spun off its facets like smoke hazed to aglow of spun phosphor That shifting, uncertain luminosity picked outdetails a discorporate mage could perceive with no shift invibration. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 Sethvir of Althain had said for years that this woman's handsheld the threads of Arithon s'Ffalenn's future happiness. Since the fateof Athera also rode the same course, Kharadmon gave the sleeper hismost exacting survey. The thin, elfin profile pillowed in waves ofher deep auburn hair was serene. Her closed lips had softened from thehabitual wry tilt of impertinence. Open to plain view was her heed­less sensitivity, the vulnerable heart she would defend withattackingdry wit when aware.
Brushed by a finger of inquiry from behind, Kharadmon stilled. Apinpoint of cold amid the rough play of drafts, he revolved in place,amazed as the touch came again. Apparently the woman had placedsmall defenses on her cottage. His embarrassment stemmed from theastounding oddity that her contrary wardspells had picked out hispresence before he had noticed their existence.
He swept her surroundings. The tiny cottage reflected a charactertoo large to contain it, from the fleece-lined boots flung offhelter­skelter, to the clothes lopsidedly hooked on the tine of a deerantler. Her pleasures were simple. Elaira had planted jonquil bulbs in acrock. Two quilted pillows stuffed with lavender and dried catmint seemedthe gift of a moorland matron. She kept a vase filled with fallen owland crow feathers. Three slate bits with holed centers strung on athong hung over a black bowl lined with marble for water scrying.
The crammed trestle table where she mixed her herbals showed no trace of the frivolous dreamer. The brazier, the worn pestles andcups,the stone knife, and earthenware jars of the healer's trade layjumbledtogether with scarcely a bare space between them. More herbs driedin bundles dangled from the rafters. Last autumn's rootstock waswrapped in willow baskets, carefully labeled, and preserved with sig~ils against rot. The runes and seals radiated a faint golden glow andthe razor-edged haloes of energies that landscaped a spirit's percep­tion. Shoved by another questing emanation of inquiry, Kharadmonsent back a pure touch of compassion, and back-traced the carrier rayto its source.
 Beside the wand crystal used to potentize the fine energy proper­ties of herbs, four rounded chunks of river granite rested inalignmentwith the cardinal points of direction. Their awareness was raised,and glowing faint blue with the intent the enchantress had set upon themto serve her as guardian protection.
Kharadmon found their awakened perception most piquant, sincepractice of earth magics ran against strict form. The peculiarityspokevolumes, that a small wisdom kept by field witches and countrygrandmothers should fmd credence here, in the dwelling of an initiate  Aroused, proppea o~, ,~'~.;;;~,c ~'r,:;7og;~2z_-:ij:r~r:~z':2:_-_?
d~:: the blank air by her worktable, the enchantm~ c~,~3%':~.:'~%~ed. "Nor do hex~ets address pla~ stones from thin air.
your presence'~~~~m me cou~esy and reveal your­_ -t~ tt

 ~aradmon did her o~uur,-~b, ~*~red the iraace o~ a taXX,per personage furled ~ a flamboyant green cloak ~:i~: t~,~' ~hair swathed w~te at the temples, a sha~, spade-p ~;*;~ 'eyes the flat jade of a cat's. He swept into a bow, his ~like a courtier's. "No sweet lan~age of mMe could t- ....your guardian stones to betray you. ~e one to the east t..~­perament of a crone."
"~at's why I placed her opposite the door. She won't bend f{~te~ or nonsense." Elaira sat up, mantied in blankets and a m,~g~{~­cen~ amowed Z~JJ o/bronze ~aiL "You're FeHows~p of ~ven ?"
For all her bravado, tile import heMrid tgat query revealed a
tremor of distress. ~aradmon straightened, still the posering
lant. "Sweet lady, I'm the fou~ to be granted the privilege of me

{'~­ing with you face-to-face."
A sMver seemed to mn through the woman's thM &ame, thou~.,l~sfie masked ~e artease behind movement and ~cked ~e rough we,up under her chq. "Should I thank ~thvir? Or doesn't fie usuaii)dispatch shades to pay una~ounced social calls while his victims aredisadvantaged and in bed?"
Touched to delight by her quick, stabbing humor, ~aradmonraised Ms peaked eyebrows. "For you, like the cat born with all ofits claws, there exists no Mequity, lady." His image lit with the wicked,bright smile he used to deflect L~aMe's baiting. "I see where yourstones acquired their ripe tongues."
"Were they kind, they would have barred you from en~." Nowthe tremor caught hold, let the Sorcerer read into the deep, raggedpa~ behind her effort of seamless composure. "If you've come tospeak of Arithon s'Ffale~, be warned. My Prime Matriarch is hisimplacable enemy, and I but a tool to her hand."
~aradmon flowed ~to pacMg, carelessly le~g one shM passthrough an oak stool that lay in Ms path. "You are never a tool,lady, 
544 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

except by allowance or consent." His glance darted questingly side­wards.
 The enchantress had gloved !~oth her hands in the blanket andpressed the cloth to her mouth, as if the gesture flamed a bastionagainst her own thoughtless and desperate speech. There were tears,bright as jewels, brimming her eyelids. Yet the pride in her silencewas stark iron. "! was a six-year-old fool in trouble with Morvain'sauthorities," she admitted. Her voice held its timbre through sheerstubborn strength. "Nor are four crotchety old stones from a riverbottom quite proof against the might of the Skyron aquamarine. Sincemy vows are not revocable, why are you here?""Why indeed?" Kharadmon pressed, and waited, poised utterly still.But the woman did not ask for his help to unravel the conundrumhe posed her. Raised self-reliant, too resourceful to seek pity, shelow­ered her fingers and laced them, sure and still, on the tent of herdrawn-up knees. "Say what you came here to tell me, since you'vealready stolen my peace."
Kharadmon spun into vexed agitation, the breeze of his passagegone bitingly blunt as the frost that sang through his consonants."Your prince has just learned that Koriani spellcraft can raiseLysaer'sessence as a fetch. In fact, your Prime Senior laid a trap to ensnarehim. Her minions used that cheating, uncivil trick of spellcraft atRiverton, to sad and disastrous effect. Earl Jieret's past warcaptainfell to his sworn liege's steel."
Elaira drew in a shaken breath, stilled as white marble in thedark­ness. "Ath's mercy, Caolle? Arithon's sword took down Caolle? Thenwhat you have is a man torn by grief and entrapped in a web ofdespair. Is that why you came here? For advice to contain the Princeof Rathain's bitter conscience?"
 Kharadmon stilled again, wholly noncommittal, but the volume ofhis silence became mistaken for consent.
 Eyes shut, her hair like wound bronze tanged with rubbed glintswhere the ends curled, Elaira said slowly, "As I love him, I can tellyou the truth. Give him his release from your blood oath sworn atAthir."
 At Kharadmon's specious startlement, she stared back, nervelessas coal-fired steel. "Oh, I knew of his oath on the hour it happened.You had to have seen. Since the healing spells we engaged in tandemat Merior, an empathic link still remains open between us."
"You could use that to spare him the pitfalls, as you choose,"Kharadmon ventured in angling argument to coax fresh review of herlogic. 
345 ]ANNY WU~TS
 But Elaira shook her head. "I won't be his crutch. He needs none of my weakness. Nor will he thrive on any feminine instinct that giveshim the child's role through mothering a grown man's mature pain. Iurge you instead, return his free will. Give back his choice to ownlife or death. As things stand now, the very fact his hand is forced willonly add coals to his anguish." The flex in her modulation snappedfor a second, and revealed all the tenderness beneath. "Ath, I knowhim, none better. He has strengths and depths even he doesn't yetacknowledge. I believe with all my heart he will endure and surviveeven a grievous remorse such as this."Kharadmon pressed her. "You could risk his life on that premise?"Elaira stared back at him, level. "I'd let him risk his life. There was no evil done. He did not succumb to the Mistwraith by choice. Norwould he endorse a forced act of insanity by turning the craven anddestroying the royal heritage Caolle sacrificed himself to preserve."
"He has lost everything," Kharadmon pointed out.
Elaira swallowed, fighting down the passionate need to give way,to lean on the Sorcerer's power and presence and find ease for herown stricken heartache. "His Grace of Rathain has already lost every­thing twice before this. What has changed since the banks of TalQuorin?"
"Brave lady," Kharadmon conceded, forced to yield at last beforethe unflinching moral fiber of her love, and her relentless displayof raw courage. "I see we have also underrated your strengths. Be verysure, I shall argue against any one of us making the same mistakeever again." His image snuffed out, leaving a turning, chill vortexof air that even the drafts treated deferentially. "With your stones'per­mission, I will leave you a ward, that your Seniors not know I havebeen here."
 Then he was gone, in the space of a breath sped on northward,where, between Daon Ramon Barrens and the deep glens of Halwyth­wood his charge was to extend his appeal to Earl Jieret, caithdein ofRathain.
 Behind him, he left the hollow drum of the rain and the cry ofthe winds on the lonely, dark moors of Araethura. Huddled in blankets,shot through with sorrows, Elaira released the hot flood of tears shewould not shed in his presence. Her vows to her order left her nograce and no quarter. A child and a prophecy yet hung in the balance.Worse than death, she dreaded her inevitable fate, that on the dayshe next met with Arithon s'Ffalenn, in all likelihood she would beforced by her Prime to arrange for his final betrayal. 
Early Spring 5653 
Legacy 
The rain still smoked down over the marshlands of Mogg's Fen, ruf­fling the pools to a sheen like dark pearl, and greening the spearsof the sedges. Through the passage of day and into the next night, thesingsong language of running water seemed to leach endless tracksthrough Mearn's dreams. Undone in delirium, he raged aloud forDharkaron Avenger to give him a place in Sithaer where, if he suf­fered, his nerves might be spared from the trials of incessant mois­tare.
 Hands touched him, pressed him back and down into a madden­ing mire of clinging, smothering dampness. Mearn shouted. Hisprotest emerged muffled against the rag somebody forced to hismouth.
 A voice that splintered into a roar like flood tide implored himto be silent. Since he could not swear his outrage, or make his willknown, he struggled, inflamed by the red rage of fever. Nobody suc­cored him. A woman came instead, her hair strung with feathers. Redcheeked, dark eyed, and wrinkled as a harridan, she dealt his wetcheek a r'mging, hard slap, then shoved a sticky wad of medicinalherbs into his mouth. Then more hands clamped his jaw while fouljuices numbed his tongue, and the world spat white sparks andtamed black.
 Later, he rubbed open sleep-crusted eyes. Detached from all rageby debilitating weakness, he blinked. The sky had rearranged fromweeping gray clouds to an opaque roof of pressed mud and sticks. He 
347 
~ANNY WURTS 

swallowed, and discovered his throat scraped nearly rav~ :~dtongue furred in what felt like the wrack from a bird's nest.
Off to his right, somebody groaned. Mearn shut sv~'t~ll~~aching and limp, and too spent to unravel the straits that had '~.!tflattened and disoriented with illness. His sinuses felt w,~dde~~xxitt~ red-hot rags. Someone he could not recall had peeled his leather~from his body. A throw of sewn rabbit skins covered his nakedness. Ifthe tanning was poor, his clogged head mercifully blocked his senseof smell. He lay, too inert to fight his discomfort, though the silkyfur clung to his sweat-runneled neck, and gave rise to pestilent itches.
Reason eventually assembled the awareness that he sprawled ondank clay, enclosed by the dim mud-daub walls of a fenland~,r',hovel. The dwelling had no windows, just one door of roughset into an uneven frame of peeled logs. A rushlight burned in ,~lined with slate. The groans of human misery he had heard it~sleep were not any figment of dreaming. Arranged like bund le~inert cloth around him, he made out the shadowy forms of fact'slimbs strapped in splints and stained bandages.
Mearn wrinkled his nose in distaste. He had seen enough fieldhos­pitals to recognize the close and fetid quarters where men thrashedin the throes of wound fever.
 "Ath, how did I get here?" he croaked out in cankerousirritation. He struggled to sit up. Assaulted by immediate, wheeling faintness,he swore, then started halfway out of his skin as somebody grippedhis left shoulder.
 "Lie easy. You're safe." The deep voice of assurance was male,and sure in the grain as burled oak. "The fenlanders brought you amongfriends."
 Meam swiveled his head, his neck still mired in the garrotingclingof damp fur. "Maenol? Lord s'Gannley of Camris?" Horrible, chillingfear ran him through. He might already be too late, with the casual­ties around him brought down by the very Alliance cordon he hadtried and failed to thwart by his timely warning. "How long have Ibeen ill?"
 "A day and a night." The hold on him released, and the backlitshadow at his side revealed itself as the square, solid presence ofthe caithdein of Tysan. Sympathetically aware of Mearn's burning ques­tion, he answered in the same measured steadiness, "The men herewere hurt several days ago. Their tactics delayed the Alliance'sfirst march on Riverton."
 Not too late; sapped by relief, Mearn clawed the offending furfrom his throat and rubbed his lids to clear his clogged vision. Even dim 
FUGI?IVE PRINCE 

~'~~t~light showed him too much. The young man who held chieftain­ship of Tysan's clans looked more worn, more drawn, his dependable~ature fretted into a hagridden mask of desperation since their meet­,.~g on the tideflats by Hanshire. Strips of white-and-black hidelaced ~t~~ his clan braid signified mourning for the blood cousins who had~ied to take warning to the Master of Shadow in Riverton. Raw.,~~d ~rance remained, of a stripe to rival a mountain for tenacity.
"My sorrows are yours, for the lives of your kinfolk," Mearnbegan. "I see you have word of their fate already."
The sturdy line of the shoulders under Maenol's mud-spatteredt~:~thers stayed unbowed. He said gravely, "You informed me your­self, though not in the mannered condolence you wished."
~'\s Mearn stiffened, horrified, the Lord of Camris held himdown. No offense. Quite the contrary. In delirium, your rude opinion ofi,',iverton's mayor and council delivered a more satisfying consola­tion." Nor was this caithdein's settled patience in any way forced ashe ~vaited for an invalid to compose scattered thoughts and rejoin thetumbling mainstream of life.
Mearn drew in a breath like dipped fire. "Sky and earth! Howmuch was I raving? The maps~"
"They are here. Your message of the Alliance invasion has reachedus." Maenol's pale eyes, intense as his mother's, saw deeper thanmost through a difficulty. In response to an agonized, unspoken ques­tion, he said with sparse clarity, "When the fenlanders brought youin, you carried three map cases with seven sets of tacticalinstructions. If that's your concern, we have already acted."
Mearn sank back amid the drowning clasp of the furs. A hard chillspeared through him. He had to struggle to keep his teeth from chat­tering. "Too late," he ground out. "I stumbled into that Allianceencampment by chance. By the time I lifted those plans, Lysaer's cor­don was already in place and closing."
The wind whipped against the gapped planks in the door. Tracedin flickering rushlight, Maenol leaned forward, his rawboned handsclasped to his drawn-up knees. "Not all is lost. We've set lines indefense, and no few traps to slow the Alliance advance. Hounds can'ttrail in these fenlands. Many of the women and young ones may yetfind escape through the mountains." Born of harsh times and a cruelpracticality, he faced the unflinching truth with an unyielding equa­nimity. "We still have our hidden refuge in the Thaldein passes. Thatwill just have to serve to safeguard those bloodlines that survivethrough another generation."
Mearn swallowed, silenced by the overwhelming weight of sorrows 
349 
~ANNY WURTS 

Maenol tacitly faced without speech: that the high mountain defilesmight foil the Alliance campaign for a short time. The caithdeinknew,none better, that long-term safety for his people could not beassured without the ships just torn beyond reach by the Koriani conspiracy atRiverton.
 "You stay to fight," Mearn managed at last. "Why?"
In the dimness, the hiss of the rushlight became the thread uponwhich existence loomed its firm fabric. A wounded man groaned. Thewind outside bespoke more rain pending, and time stood as the com­fortless enemy. Maenol regarded his interlaced fingers. His featureswere too grim for his twenty-five years, and the conviction thatshaped the steel of his character lent his answer the grit of scaledcar­bon. "As Tysan's caithdein how could I leave? We are kingless. Theland's charter, therefore, becomes mine to uphold, in line with myancestors before me. I will not see living acreage carved up intoboundaries, or trees and streams and hillsides exchanged asspiritlessdeeds of writ that ignorant men believe can be bought and sold with­out penalty. Earth's life and town greed share no common ground,and I have no stomach for compromise."
"Brother," Mearn said. He fought a hand free of encumbering fursand touched Maenol's wrist in the sympathy of their common her­itage. In Third Age Year One, clanblood had been consecrated touphold the Paravian law of unity which kept the earth's mysteryintact. The world's bounty and heritage were the binding fiber tohold Ath's design, and no man's to unwind for the divisive reasons ofdomination and profit.
"We are not yet defeated." Maenol shifted, straightened, the dig­nity knit into the blood and the bone of him like the dauntless,stilled majesty the rooted oak must show the honed axe blade. "While thereis one patch of forest in Tysan still free, I stay to resist thewrongthinking that threatens the peace of the Fellowship's compact.""My heart would stand with you," Mearn s'Brydion said fiercely."Save us, you cannot!" Maenol's objection turned forceful."Lysaer's Alliance has no respect for limitations. The day must nevercome, that your duke in Alestron should face the same forces ofdestruction our cursed prince has unleashed in Rathain and Tysan."Too large a spirit for the cramped gloom of the hovel, Maenolexhorted in sorrow, "Our people are scattered. Every man andwoman who carries a bow has a vengeance arrow with the name ofLysaer s'Ilessid engraved on the point. There is no joy in thisimpasse.I implore you, do nothing. The very suspicion you had betrayedLysaer's interests would break a most fragile balance. That would  FUGITIVE I~RIN(~E
 ,~,~'ve nothing, but call down sure ruin on your fugitive clans inMel­
"A sword in the hand would feel better, nonetheless." Mearn'sr~'ame sagged into his rough pallet of rushes, but his eyes held thebanked fires of resentment. "The truth gives no ease. Not when the~~'ind is likely to blow the Alliance's troubles our way anyhow."
Hat­~:~ the fact he must deliver ill news while lying flat on his back,
he ~,~ve terse explanation why those engraved arrows were unlikely to~.~d the man they were fashioned to bring down. "Koriani duplicity~n far deeper than we knew."
Diminished by the caithdein's sudden, prepared stillness, Mearnfaltered. The chills as his fever broke racked him in waves, and the:?!fficult words he must now assemble weighed like piled rock on his~,est. "Lysaer sailed for Corith, not Riverton," he forced out atlength.!'nned now under Maenol's unnerving attention, he related how~,, ~riani design had enspelled a fetch of Lysaer s'Ilessid to awakenthe '.:istwraith's geas and drive Arithon s'Ffalenn into madness. "Thespells did exactly as the witches had planned, and set him topurpose­less flight."
The pause as Tysan's caithdein measured the root cause for theruin of his people, contained a stunned force of sorrow to etch the momentinto wretched clarity. The next breath Maenol drew could have madethe air bleed, or the rain to change into salt tears in midfall.
When the first shock let go, and speech could be managed, thecaithdein of Tysan had but one word. "Why?"
Mearn shook his head, without answer. "Who knows the mind ofMorriel Prime? Her works always have run contrary to FellowshipconceiTIS."
 One of the wounded stirred from thick sleep. Maenol arose. Allstripped grace and silent economy of movement, he crossed thehovel, dipped water from a leather pail, then borrowed the fen-woman's long-handled horn cup and made rotrods. For the power ofresponsibility he carried, he wore neither ornament nor jewel, norany token of finery to set him apart from his scouts. His brown,weathered hands offered drink to the wotmded without care for rank. He gave encouragement as he could to those whose voices were fret­ful. With the natural dignity of a man who had never been pamperedby servants, he rearranged soiled bedding for others who had slippedbeyond conscious awareness.
On the cot, helpless and weak in the sweat of his broken fever,Mearn s'Brydion watched the care the caithdein held for his doomedpeople. He knew, then, whose hands had tended him through his ]ANN. WURTS 
own illness. The rage rose up, blistering hot with the bite of anunen­durable grief. He had read every one of those maps beforehad seen how improbable lay the margin for hope. Truth andtactics held no ambiguities. Of the clansmen who had errbarked t0delay Lysaer's Alliance from containing Arithon s'Ffalenn in River-ton, few would escape to reach safety. The routes into thernor~~t~ins from Caithwood would be sealed by armed troops within days. ~hatwould leave only the coastline, already set for blockade at Mainmereby the selfsame ships that, by Arithon's intervention, could haveopened the way for clan freedom.
In the squalid, dense gloom of a fenlander's hovel, the sturdycaithdein in his ordinary leathers seemed unmarked by the immanentfinger of fate. Divested of his weapons, except for a hunting knife,he paused on one knee to laugh at a woman's rough joke. He flippedback his braid of ash-colored hair, abandoned to a moment of boyishembarrassment as an older woman half-hidden in shadow called something back in rejoinder.
"My grandmother should be alive to hear that," Maenol said.gers still busy, he replaced a slipped bandage in frowningtion. Then, as if disaster were not present and closing to put an~.t~! the spirited joys of small byplay, he moved on, in meticulou ....attending the needs of his wounded.
Meam shut his eyes, too agonized to watch. Though his fami ,, ,,,not fugitive, he knew forestborn customs too well not to shrink. It~t! wilds, the clan codes of survival imposed since the uprising h~..~space for pity or compromise. Any scout here who was unfit t( '.,would not be permitted to fall into the hands of the enemy. Wi;hAlliance troops marching in force on Mogg's Fen, those wound.~.,~would ask for a mercy stroke rather than burden their halecompmaior~.
Under the faltering flare of the rushlight, whether man or w()mi~each face showed determined calm in the face of such shatteri'.:,zuncertainty. It was the outsider among them who battled the urg›stem fate and scream outrage for the injustice imposed by a pri~,.,turned false to his bloodline.
 When Maenol had finished, he returned to Mearn's side, bearit~the sewn-leather bucket and horn dipper. The citrine gleam of therushlight traced the stubble on his cheek, and the gaps tom in thefringe on his deerskin where thongs had been cut off at need to mend,or tie bandages or tourniquets. Lives and blood would be given asgenerously to defend the needs of the land.
Mearn labored to regather the lost thread of his composure.Before accepting the same care from the hands of the man who was Tysan's 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

reigning caithdein, he demanded in rankling honesty, "My Lord ofCamris, why are you still here?"
The unaccustomed use of his formal title touched the younger manto stiff wariness. He crouched. The water dipper all but snapped ashis hand clenched, and his face showed a startled and sudden vulner­ability that exposed the youth in his twenty-five years. Carefully,slowly, he set down the water. Clan habit did not waste the gifts ofthe earth, nor take life's bounty for granted. He settled on his heels,strong wrists draped on his knees, while the carnelian glow of therushlight mapped the small scabs ripped by briars, and the deeperscars left by war on his knuckles. In the same grave steadiness thatflinched from no hardship, he answered, "! had to ask a boon of you,in behalf of my clans."
Thirst forgotten, Mearn refused the wringing weakness in hislimbs and elbowed himself half-erect. Inadequately braced againstthe wadded mat of the rushes, he shook back the stuck ends of hishair and matched the other man's courage headlong. "Whatever youneed will be given. My word on s'Brydion clan honor."
Maenol looked away, perhaps overcome. "! accept that word fromyou. Ath bless your willing heart." He paused, then added through aharsh burr of regret, "Sleep now. We'll speak of this later."
He arose, clasped his benefactor's shoulder in salute. Moved byuncharacteristic reticence, he averted his direct glance, and Mearn,in suspicion that the caithdein was weeping, did not press, but left theman to his dignified privacy.
The fever had left him light-headed in any case. Drained from hiseffort to keep focused composure, he gave in to the sapping demandof his flesh and lay back. Despite his fierce worry and his musty,uncomfortable nest of damp fur, sleep came like an ambush anddropped a black cloth over his thought and his senses.
 When Mearn s'Brydion reawakened, the rain had cleared into achill, gusty night. The rushlight burned now by the cracked opendoorway, where a fenwoman bent, stirring fish stew in a cauldron.She was typical of her breed, built rawboned and short. Hair of anindeterminate color was bundled beneath a string cap. Feathersswung from hoops in her earlobes, and her layered skirts were sewnwith dark threads into queer, whorled patterns and luck signs. Threepurses made from the shells of marsh turtles dangled from a cinctureat her waist, and two raggedy children sucked their fingers andpeered from the well of deep shadow behind her. A third infantwaved from the carry sack she wore strapped to her back. 
353 
JANNY ~URTS 

If her household was typical, her fenlander husband would be far­ing out in his skiff, trapping and fishing for the family.
Mazed in the lassitude left by his illness, Mearn took too longto notice the hovel was emptied of wounded. The furs where the clanscouts had languished were rolled in neat bundles, lashed with fibertwine twisted from wild flax. Maenol s'Gannley was gone, replacedby a toothless elder smoking a root pipe. Beside Mearn's shoulder satthe last of the clansmen, a boy of twelve years. He had blond hairtied into a neat braid, and hands too large for his still-growing frame.Sword and knife rode in sheaths at his waist. His belt was his onlyornament, sewn with simple designs of wooden beads and otter fur.He waited, stiff backed and composed in the tight, sober silence thatcame over the young in times of crisis.
Touched by foreboding, Mearn fisted the hand hidden under thecovering furs. "My word as given," he said at careful length. "Justwhat have I bound into promise?"
The boy started. His dark eyes went wide, the pupils dense blackas he realized his charge was awake. He said nothing, but insteaddrew two letters out of his jerkin and passed them across to Meam'skeeping. Then he rose. He seemed all knobby joints, rail thin for hisgrowth. Despite tender age, he knew how to move to accommodatethe adult weapons he carried. His voice had just started the changeto a man's bass timbre, yet the cracking child's treble which intrudedas he addressed the fenwife put no crimp at all on his dignity.
"Mistress," he requested, then thanked her generosity in fairdialect as she surrendered the use of her rushlight.
The flame jerked and fluttered as the boy brought the wick. Mearnran his thumb over the wafer of wax, impressed with the ancient sealemployed by Tysan's caithdein for personal use through the centuriesof fugitive exile. The choice of devise confirmed a most risky neces­sity, unrelieved by the fact the first missive set down upon formalparchment was inscribed to his Grace, Eldir, High King of Havish.The second note bore Mearn's own name in a script astonishinglyerudite. He had never seen Maenol's written hand. By wary habit, theforestborn clans wrote no messages for fear such might fall into thehands of town enemies.
 That Lord Maenol had seen fit to wield pen and ink bespoke des­peration and appalling finality. Mearn gripped the note, reluctant asstone. For an agonized instant, he wished himself far from this sitein the marshes, that he not be the one left to carry whatever burden thesealed parchment was bound to contain.
Then, as if stung into branding impatience, he ripped the seal 
354 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 open. Wax bits arced through the gloom like flung gravel. Tagged bythe flickering, uncertain flame light, eyes stinging with humility,Meam read.
 The first line requested his assistance to deliver an appeal toKingEldir. Tysan's caithdein would beg sanctuary in Havish for therefugeesurvivors who managed to win free of Alliance persecution againstclanblood. The cost in pride, in pain, in the sheer magnitude of thatunderstated defeat raised a knot of remorse in Mearn's chest. Scarcelyseven years since the massive downfall at Vastmark, Prince Lysaerhad succeeded in unseating a clan presence whose roots went backfive thousand years. Words were inadequate to express grief andheartache, that without the trials of the Mistwaith's curse, these same clansmen should have sworn the same man their loyalty.
Now naught could be done but watch entropy march through thebreach. The bottomless demands of trade and crown treasury heldsmall care for the great mysteries. No means existed to soften theblow, that Arithon's loss of three brigs at Riverton might impact allfuture generations. A clan abdication of Tysan's free territory wouldleave townsmen free rein for desecration. Unwilling to admit such aweight of despair, Mearn stamped back bleak thoughts.
The boy watched his face, restrained into choked stillness thatbespoke an unkindly awareness of consequences. The hovel's thickwarmth and the fenwoman's welcome lent him no ease.
 Mearn tucked the missive for King Eldir away, then fought for thepresence to peruse the second request.
There, even Lord Maenol's steady hand faltered, the lettersformed into jerked lines of reluctance as they charged s'Brydion by word ofhonor to admit the boy named Ianfar s'Gannley into Mearn's per­sonal household as a page.
'The boy is my uncle's son,' Maenol's words stated, torn by smallgaps as though more than once the ink had dried on the quill nib. 'Asof this moment, he stands as my heir. He will inherit should I passthe Wheel without leaving progeny. My scouts just brought word the Allianceforces are closing the east passes. I see no better way to ensure the boy'ssafe deliver­ance from Tysan's sovereign territory. I charge you, by your familyName,keep him safe. If my war captain in Camris survives me, the raisingof Ianfar must fall to him. Should that one perish, seek fosterage with anyforestborn family you see fit. Be sure he learns what he must to rule after me.'
Meam closed his fingers, crumpling the parchment with a burst ofanimal savagery. Too grim to weep, he used all his anger to resmooththe crushed leaf, which he then rearranged into razor-sharp folds andtipped into the spill of the rushlight. Smoke billowed black. Theacrid 
JANNY WURTS 

reek of burned hide rode the air, and the fenwife shot upright,exclaiming.
One look at Mearn's face shocked her silent. Through the dirtyorange flame that crawled up the charred missive, the brother ofDuke BransJan s'Brydion met the paralyzed gaze of young Ianfars'Gannley. "I accept both charges laid on me by your chieftain. Willyou formally agree to my guardianship?"
The boy tucked his hands under his arms, too brave to show hewas shivering. He knew well enough his consent entailed theunspeakable possibility that his clans might be driven to yield uptheir sovereign charge in Tysan. Almost, his heart seemed to failhim. The underlit shadow thrown by his lashes made his eyes seem toolarge and too bright.
Then the stark, gritty fiber of his people shone through. "I bowto the will of my caithdein and the demands of necessity." His dignityfar more in that moment than many men managed in a lifetime, hebowed. "In gratitude, s'Gannley gives thanks for the generosity ofs'Brydion."
"This is not charity, boy," Mearn denounced, gruff. He tossed thelast flaring embers to the floor, which was earth, and damp enoughnot to lend fuel to the sparks. "Under my roof, you'll have standingas a brother. Be sure, if my family has any resource to give, you won'tend your days in foreign exile."
Had the child been younger, even by two years, a grown mancould have extended his arm and gathered that awkward, stiff forminto an embrace for comfort. But hardship had imposed too early amaturity. The boy stepped woodenly forward and offered his wristfor the clasp to seal a pact between adults.
Mearn blinked. He hoped the scalding blur to his sight was solelydue to his fever. With his jaw clenched hard against any words thatmight unmask the pity that tore him, he pretended the wrists heaccepted were not cold, or drawn taut with fear and uncertainty.
"Don't you mind, boy," he said in dry humor. "We're in poor statetogether. If I'm not mistaken, our first act must be to beg help fromthese fenlanders to thread a safe path through the mires. Then wemight need to pilfer a post horse to make our way back to Avenor.We'll need to go swiftly." One corner of his mouth crawled up infierce irony as he remembered the gold and the compromised straitsof his house servant, still embroiled in the ruse concerning severalslydoxies. Their extended service to cover his absence by now must haveseeded a staggering collection of wild rumors. "If I'm going to lookpeaked, it's all in good form. A man who's been worn to his bones by 
356 pright, 
~ dirty.~er of Janfar ú Will 
w he t the :1 uphim.
 ~ too 
~, tofar he of 
the ~ghits tl't 
tn m a st 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 
three women over the course of a fortnight would be nothing elseexcept prostrate. Do you bet?"A tentative nod. The boy's fingers stopped trembling a fraction."That's good," Mearn assured, and lightened his touch. "We'll getalong fine. I'll stand you five silvers for the bone buttons on yourboot cuff that when my brother the duke learns about my randy reputa­tion, he'll send sealed word by fast courier. He'll say that mydallyingis shameful, and for clan's sake, the time's come to marry."
By then, Lord Maenol's bitter note of appeal lay in immolatedbits on the floor. The fenwife bustled over, indignant, and poured waterover the ashes.
 "! could have used that to drink, pretty mistress," Mearn said inreflexive protest. He released his steadying hold on the boy, grabbedthe empty bucket, and tucked it into Ianfar's stilted grasp. "Go,man,"he urged. "Refill this for the lady, and take as long as you like."
The release came no moment too soon. Run to the end of his flag­ging strength, Ianfar bolted outdoors to unburden his anguish in pri­vate.
 Left to the breathless scolding of his benefactress, Mearn shuthis eyes against branding pain and the flame of a burgeoning headache.When the fenwife understood he was not going to argue, he manageda beautifully worded apology that sapped the very last of hisreserves. Before the maw of oblivion claimed him, he made a vowwith the unyielding endurance of black iron. Once back in Avenor,when Ianfar was delivered into absolute safety, he would seek out thename of the man who had betrayed Arithon's faith and precipitatedthe premature flight out of Riverton. For Lord Maenol's losses, andfor the clans' forced abdication of their age-long stewardship of akingdom, that one would suffer the harsh edge of s'Brydion justice 
until Dharkaron Avenger himself interceded to ask human mercy. 
Early Spring 5653 
Three Moments 
In a tavern along the road south of Middlecross, a middle-aged min­strel clad in scarlet sits down and tunes his lyranthe for hisnight'sround of performance; and his accustomed audience of tradesmenand farmhands is swelled by a half company of crown soldiers undercommand of another man, whose nondescript mantle covers the sun-wheel blazon of authority, and who hears through each ballad withmounting suspicion and a frown of incensed disapproval ....
 A fortnight following Arithon's clean escape out of Riverton, hisimprisoned accomplices are boarded into the holds of the three brigsnewly commissioned; while the appointed royal captains call orders tomake sail, Cattrick stands at the trestle in his loft, a sharpenedshim of graphite clenched in his fist, and his heart lit with rage fit tomurder...
 On the same day, Mearn s'Brydion returns to Avenor, Ianfars'Gannley alongside him; and the first gossip he hears as he handsoff his blown livery horse is the word of Princess Talith's fatal plungefrom a high tower battlement, named by the shocked and mourn'ragcourt as a suicide caused by despair.... 
358 Spring 5653 
X. Pursuit
 The three brigs newly commissioned under Lysaer's sunwheel
banner raised anchor to a windward fide. Before the rip grew
too stiff to ride for advantage, the pert little fleet raisedstainless,
fresh sails and began its mincing, piloted run down the estuary toply
open waters to Corith.
Confined in the narrow gloom of the male's cabin, and crammedhead and feet in a hammock ill suited to the frame and muscle of a man given lifetime service as a war captain, Caolle listened to the
\~xx~ s 'kx"~ of orders which maneuvered the flag vessel, Lanceof Jus­tice, through her intricate, bending course down the narrows. Sincehis complaint that the fumes of fresh varnish turned his head, thedoor to his quarters was latched back and open. His ankles by thenwere already chained to forestall him trying escape. By the free airthrough the quarterdeck hatch grating, and the brackish miasma ofthe salt bogs, he mapped the layered headlands of a shoreline hecould not see.
 Moment to moment, Caolle rode his taxed senses. However hiswound ached, he asked for no posset. Too easily, the reins of clearconsciousness might slip his grasp and spin him back into circlingdelirium. The Koriani healer meant him well, but her remedies gavehim sleep that brought nightmares,. and no peace of mind when hewoke. 
359 
Early Spring 5653 
Three Moments 
In a tavern along the road south of Middlecross, a middle-aged m'm­strel clad in scarlet sits down and tunes his lyranthe for hisnight'sround of performance; and his accustomed audience of tradesmenand farmhands is swelled by a half company of crown soldiers undercommand of another man, whose nondescript mantle covers the sun-wheel blazon of authority, and who hears through each ballad withmounting suspicion and a frown of incensed disapproval ....
 A fortnight following Arithon's clean escape out of Riverton, hisimprisoned accomplices are boarded into the holds of the three brigsnewly commissioned; while the appointed royal captains call orders fomake sail, Cattrick stands at the trestle in his loft, a sharpenedshim of graphite clenched in his fist, and his heart lit with rage fit tomurder....
 On the same day, Mearn s'Brydion retums to Avenor, Ianfars'Gannley alongside him; and the first gossip he hears as he handsoff his blown livery horse is the word of Princess Talith's fatal plungefrom a high tower battlement, named by the shocked and mourningcourt as a suicide caused by despair.... 
358 

Spring 5653 
X. Pursuit 
The three brigs newly commissioned under Lysaer's sunwheelbanner raised anchor to a windward tide. Before the rip grewtoo stiff to ride for advantage, the pert little fleet raisedstainless,fresh sails and began its mincing, piloted run down the estuary toplyopen waters to Corith.
Confined in the narrow gloom of the mate's cabin, and crammedhead and feet in a hammock ill suited to the frame and muscle of a man given lifetime service as a war captain, Caolle listened to thetense strings of orders which maneuvered the flag vessel, Lance ofJus­tice, through her intricate, bending course down the narrows. Sincehis complaint that the fumes of fresh varnish turned his head, thedoor to his quarters was latched back and open. His ankles by thenwere already chained to forestall him trying escape. By the free airthrough the quarterdeck hatch grating, and the brackish miasma ofthe salt bogs, he mapped the layered headlands of a shoreline hecould not see.
 Moment to moment, Caolle rode his taxed senses. However hiswound ached, he asked for no posset. Too easily, the reins of clearconsciousness might slip his grasp and spin him back into circlingdelirium. The Koriani healer meant him well, but her remedies gavehim sleep that brought nightmares, .and no peace of mind when hewoke. 
~ANNY WURT$

 Like a crippled, old dog, he felt he had outlived hisusefulness.
 enchantresses' meddling fed his unease, tick tight as they were wit
Lysaer s'Ilessid's Alliance. Dread fanned that anxiety, that his
parthis liege Iord's flight out of Riverton might become their best toolt clinch Prince Arithon's downfall. Now the brig was under way, ostensibly to reinforce the s'Ilessiassault on the outpost at the Isles of Min Pierens.
Caolle was not resigned. Discomfited by the roll of rough passafas her crew worked ship in the tideway, he traded straight pain f~awareness. The hammock swung and creaked from its rings asvessel slipped astream of the ebb. Canvas cracked overhead.sails caught aback., a_n_d o~to~,'~irg-~.~ffthbs fii~sed as thequartermast~spun t~~e helm hard alee to swing her stem down the channel. Ter~,orders volleyed through the rocking lag of the stay, as drift bore ffvessel past the sandy tongue of a spit. Then the shivering bang fro~aloft as her yards braced full to the wind; new foam dashed offrudder. The brig regained way and sailed close-hauled down the necof the Riverton Narrows.
 Caolle's hammock rocked to the heel of the deck. He clamped hteeth and stifled the oaths that would draw unwanted attention. T? straits of his captivity were worse than demeaning. The least cramin his limbs could not be eased without begging outside help. Hweakness was not deemed a reliable jailer: the festered wounds on hforearms were poulticed, dressed wrist to elbow in bandages whicalso served as restraint. Immobility left him more time than he couluse without fretting.
Abovedecks, the leadsman called off the mark. The captain barkefor a two-point change in course.
"Smarten up on those braces? howled the mate to some laggard"Are ye blue-water hands, or a pack o' coast-hugging galleymen?"
The lookout sang out and the lead line confirmed shoaling wateOther crewmen stationed at the port cathead let go the ring painteThe cockbilled anchor splashed to windward to a rattling fall ofcabl. While the bow was stayed through the tug of an eddy, Caolle pitchehis forest-sharp senses to take fullest stock of his surroundings.
By now, he judged the ship's company included twenty-flYcombat-trained guardsmen. Half of these sprawled idle, polishinmail, or shooting dice for small coin in the galley. Their lessseawo2 thy fellows shared the rail on the main deck, unmercifully roustehither and yon by rushed seamen as the brig wore again, and theside changed port to starboard. Two dozen more sailhands bertheforward as crew, each one vouchsafed by merchant references or 
360 
 FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

paper with a justiciar's seal to affirm lawful background from a cityof lifelong residence.
Others on board, Caolle recalled from the Laughing Captain's tap­room. These included the brig's handpicked officers, a captain, twomates, a grizzled and temperamental quartermaster, and the serving-class appointments of cook, purser, and cabin steward. At large alsowas a street brat, caught stowing away, and pressed into crown ser­vice as ship's boy. His vociferous, guttersnipe insolence came andwent through the companionway as he fetched and carried for theKoriani First Senior.
 Since spells and scryings wrought through quartz-crystal reso­nance could not be made to span open salt water, Lirenda and thehealer, brought along to tend Caolle, made passage on the same ves­sel. They shared the captain's quarters in the stem cabin, while thedisplaced officers occupied the chart room a scant breadth of a bulk­head away.
More orders sang out, and the brig hauled her wind; the changedquarter of the breeze wafted the smell of fish stew from the galley,mingled with soldier's oaths and the cook's nasal carping. By thebite of his temper and a doleful emphasis on assignment of unfairduties, Caolle learned that seventy-two of Arithon's accomplices,exposed by Koriani conjury languished, chained, in the brig's hold aswell. By default, the two vessels trailing the flagship must bear theEtarran fighting companies imported to defeat the Shadow Master atCorith.
 A war captain's instinct died hard, to know the strength andposi­tion of his enemies.
 Caolle closed his eyes. From habit, he reconstructed the mate'scabin in detail from memory. On his right hand, a hanging lockerleaked a tanner's tang of new oilskins; then a stand and basin, rowedwith latched hooks holding buckets of drawn seawater and a meshbag with lye soap for washing. To his left lay the mate's berth, anda small niche for an officer's sea chest, with a brass lantem mountedin 
.imbals overhead, swinging unlit to the toss of the hull. Caolle gaveno ground to discomfort. He quizzed his recall until he knew hecould find his way without mishap, even in total darkness. Then hecatnapped as he could, restive with distrust and the incessant throbof bound wounds.
 For a while, the rush and slap of rip currents in the estuarykepttime to his uneasy dreams. He drowsed and woke and drowsed again.When sunset faded into silver-gray dusk, the vessel cleared the lastshoals at the mouth of the inlet. The commotion as she raised topsails, 
361 
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then the change to the long, swinging roll of fresh sea swell:ened Caolle back to full consciousness.
 Flaring light jinked through a seam in the bulkhead as tlsteward kindled the lantern in the chart room adjacent. A di,.in progress resumed on the heels of his departure. Through tclump of the captain's seaboots, a woman's soprano raisecwhich burgeoned into rife argument. The captain's bitten aclashed into female rejoinder.
"We will not lay our course for the Isles of Min Pierens,"contradicted, chill as new ice on a freshet. "That was sheer ption on your part since, in fact, our quarry will not sai~ there ei
The first mate's grufś bass backed his captain's disagtwhelmed into thundering canvas as crewmen aloft shookreefs in the mainsail.
 Then Koriani reply, in dictatorial steel. "No. By no means. ?has the future been scried for full surety, but we have deliallowed Arithon s'Ffalenn to hear warning of Prince Lysaer's pclipped, sulky venom, the First Senior qualified. "The ShadoKknows an Alliance blockade will close over him if he sails tc We've foreseen his reaction. He'll flee south for Torwent. Sealed has already shown us the cove where he'll reclaim his sloop andHis point of vulnerability lies in the estuary at the head of MaitreIf our spellcraft restrains his shadows, your three ships plying thof the inlet can pin him down as he bolts for open water."
"That's a coast run," cracked the captain, tired and brittle ~long, fussy hours of seamanship required to run the Rivertrows. "You'd have been better off to charter a galleyman w~cargo through Tideport and Mainmere."
"You're afraid?" Lirenda's derisive accusation chilled C ugly foreboding. "I'm surprised. Three ships with armed co~against a pleasure sloop crewed by one man and a bumbdrunk would seem an auspicious engagement."
The captain's slow-strided pacing stopped short. "Do youfor a fool? You speak of the shadow-bending sorcerer who ca~trade fleet to burn at Minderl Bay."
"Against whom you've the backing of the Koriani Prim.arch. Gainsay her will, and you also betray the Alliance of [refusing your help to corner the Spinner of Darkness." Lirenddebate with aristocratic dismissal. "Do fetch out your charts,Our course is a foregone conclusion. The trap which my orde:will be sprung, the fate of your enemy is already destined an,through multiple wards of grand augury." 
362 sharp­
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Lirenda esump­her." ;ement,~ut the 
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)m the~ Nar­hauls 
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FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Distressed to alarm in the salt-muggy confines of the mate'scabin,Caolle heard the captain expend his last argument. "I don't like yourodds, witch. This felon commands the very fabric of darkness. Nomortal fighting company can close on a prize they can't see. Nor canmy quartermaster steer clear of the reefs if he's reft blind on leeshores in an inlet?
 "You worry for nothing." Lirenda arose to a breezy rustle ofsilk. The crack in the wall flickered as she crossed through the light toleave by means of the companionway. "The Master of Shadow willcome readily to heel once he learns of our cargo of hostages."
"Are you mad?" The captain of the brig banged frustrated fists onhis chart table. "The man's a fell sorcerer and a thrice-confirmed killer! Do you actually believe he'd give himself up to spare a merecoffie of lackeys?"
The latch clicked and held as Lire,~da paused at the threshold.Her conclusion came freighted with menace to seize the hottest man's blood. "Then, captain, you must lay us a course for the Lanshirecoast on the strength of my Koriani Order's requirement."
Lashed prone in his hammock, Caolle measured the stakes andweighed his own judgment concerning Prince Arithon's chances. Heheld no false hope. Set against the entrenched s'Ffalenn gift of com­passion, the undermining sense of guilt engendered by just oneaccursed sword thrust seeded the opening for disaster.
Caolle understood he was not made as the realm's sworn caithdein,to test and grapple the fires of s'Ffalenn royal conscience. Norcould he swerve from implications that nagged like a poisonous aftertaste.He could not stand down, not for his life's sake: not afteroverhearingthe harsh, focused hunger which charged the First Enchantress's toneat each mention of Prince Arithon's name.
 Forty years with the burden of command left Caolle a sharp judgeof character. Whatever Morriel's successor believed, her reasons forseeking the Shadow Master's ruin were entrenched and intenselypersonal enough to raise the hair at his nape. In defiance ofdespair,and the straits of mortal pain, Caolle gritted his teeth. He linkedhis fists through hemp netting and began in stark need to chafe the linenbound over his poultices.
 Midnight brought the change in the watch, with the flagship lead­ing her sister vessels on a dogleg course which would bear straightoffshore for a clandestine passage, then bend on a rhumb line to makelandfall through Mainmere Narrows. The fleet of three ran before fol­lowing winds when the Koriani healer closed off the mate's cabin and 
363 
 ~ANNY WURTS

 laid down her satchel of remedies at Caolle's side. Each night andnoon, she came to renew the regenerative spells on his wound, thatstrict schedule kept since the First Senior had remanded his care toher charge.
The lantern lit by the ship's boy at sundown had burned low, itsweakened flicker made worse by the strong pitch of the swells kickedup by the equinox shift in the wind. The brig tossed stem to stem inlong, rolling corkscrews, doused under back-fallen arcs of carvedspray. New varnish sweated to the influx of sea damp. Snatched incrawling shadows and sliding spears of wan light, the convalescentstirred in his hammock. A groan escaped his clenched teeth.
Moved to pity for the wearing discomfort caused by the rigors of~a ?~,tge, t~e enct~antress sighed and deferred her intent to trimthe neglected wick. The sigils she required to reverse fatal woundingcarried an unkindly resonance. F_nspelled tissues closed at the priceof nagging pain, and the clansman was stubborn as grit. He rejectedthose possets she mixed to bring ease through the gift of oblivioussleep.
Yet tonight, even his stiff pride seemed forced to bow before thedemands of his suffering. "Something's not right," Caolle groundthrough a gasp. "The dressing's turned sodden."
"Easy. We'll see." The enchantress touched his brow, found himclammy with chill. Her frown deepened. She thrust a palm under theblanket. Caolle's shoulder and chest were also running fresh sweat."You're fevered," she soothed in that bedside gentleness she used todisguise deep concern.
For the ciphers and seals still actively binding spirit to fleshwere far from safe or beneficent. If Caolle's wound had gone septic, thesame conjuries which regenerated torn tissue would outrace theirproper intent. Sigils as a rule were unselective, a vectored spell offorced impetus. A starting suppuration would engage their figuredenergies, then turn on itself and run rampant. All risks came redou­bled. Misread the first signs, and Arithon's liegeman could die in anhour, consumed from within by infection.
Now grateful for the dimness which masked peripheral distrac­tions, the Koriani healer hooked out the silver chain which hung herspell crystal from her neck. She dangled the jewel above Caolle'sflank, then shut her eyes and smoothed her awareness into trance.The peace of her craft settled over her mind and distanced the ship'sclamor of stray noise. The squeal of the rudder cables dimmed intothe mirth of the hands who idled on the afterdeck to share a lewd jokewith the quartermaster. Channeled to heightened sensitivity through 
364 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

the attuned matrix of her quartz, the enchantress sounded each of thesigils intermeshed with the clan liegeman's life energies. Naughtseemed amiss. The layered streams of vitality interlaced through hisaura showed no ominous stain of dull gray. She listened, diligent,and rechecked her findings. The first sign of dissonance could be subtlein warning of fresh inflammation.
The explosive attack took her without warning. A hand grabbedher hair and yanked her headlong toward the hammock. Trancedulled her reaction. The sharp break from mage-sight hurled herdizzy, and the shock never let her assemble her balance to strikeback.
 Too late, she regretted her reckless compassion, to treat a man'spain before thinking to test the intent he might hold in his mind.Something hard clubbed her neck. She toppled with scarcely a cry.Panic coalesced into split-second instinct. She framed a sigil of airto alert her First Senior. Then power of defense slipped her grasp alto­gether as ruthless fingers snagged her spell crystal. The quartz torefrom her hold. She felt the chain snap as her senses upended in spin­ning descent through bleak darkness.
 Jerked out of sound sleep by an air-fired sigil of distress,First Senior Lirenda shoved erect on her berth in the stern cabin. The detested inconvenience of seafaring extracted rough payment forhaste; her head thumped into the deck beams. "Motherless hell? Shethrashed free of damp blankets, her hatred of ships unabated as sherammed an elbow on the timbers which crowded the edge of her mat­tress.
 "Dharkaron avenge!" She stood up and staggered as a bucketingroll nosed the brig down the face of a swell. No friend to water, themore so since her gifts of power were founded in firesign, she clawedback tumbled hair in annoyance.
Whatever mismanaged turn of disaster had upset the healer, illtemper would lend her no asset. Lirenda soothed her rattled nervesback to cool equilibrium. Gooseflesh raked her bare skin. She gropedthrough the darkness to find the hook which hung her violet over-robe, then listened as she wrapped the silk over her shoulders. Shesensed no overt disturbance.
 Canvas and timber worked to the drive of fair winds. No deck­hands shouted. Since naught seemed amiss with the crew, she chosenot to summon the watch officer The draw of filled sails and the surge of rucked foam rushing under the counter would defeat herbest effort to keep her inquiry unobtrusive.
The captain's outspoken show of dissent still rankled thesubordinate 
JANNY WURTS 

seamen. A//on board knew the brig's easterly course had been cha~'tedunder duress, and the enchantress was a fool who would give theship'~officers fresh grounds to challenge Koriani authority. Whatever l~adarisen to upset her colleague, the First Senior would have factsbeck,reshe abandoned discretion.
 Lirenda cupped her white crystal on its chain. Clad in th~~length fall of her robe, her porcelain shoulders doused underink snarls of hair, she strode on bare feet from her cabin.
The signature trail of the sigil led her past the chart r~~ot ~plank door was shut; she engaged her quartz focus to augmentsenses, but no waking activity stirred in the darkness behind.brig's captain slept, or else walked the deck, fine-tuning his ve~e~through shakedown.
Beyond the stepped bulk of the mizzenmast, the entry to thequarters cracked open. The streamed phosphor track of the sigilnated within. Lirenda stole closer. She extended her awareness tacit, light contact with her crystal, prepared at need to raiseconiur'~
 The brig slogged through a trough and rose at the bow. Newiyforged hinges swung free to her roll, and the panel gaped furtheropen. The sultry glow of a failing wick etched the interior of thecabin, with the bulk of Caolle's hammock a dim silhouette overtop.Lirenda heard a woman's groan. Quickened to alarm, she made out afemale form, held pinned and struggling beneath the rucked folds ofa healer's mantle.
 "What ails you, wench?" teased Arithon's liegeman in muffled,derisive clan accents. "Only boys mind a virgin. Keep still and enjoythe fine sort of fun you've been missing."
A hissed breath of rage escaped Lirenda's clenched teeth. "Howdare you!" She closed the last steps, shouldered into the smallcabin,and unfurled a barbed spell to sttm the male occupant of the ham­mock into unconscious paralysis.
"First Senior, my lady," murmured Caolle in obliging regret, frombehind, as the door panel crashed shut at her heels.
Before she could whirl, something hard struck her nape. Lirendalost wind to curse her mistake as she measured her length on thedecking.
 She roused to the chill splash of water on her face. Restoredaware­ness brought her the sawing throb of a headache. Her hands, herankles, and her mouth were bound with strips of bandage filchedfrom the healer's satchel. She was still in the mate's cabin, thevelvetygloom thick with the scents of copal varnish and new planking. The 
366 ~arted ? ship's~r had before 
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FUGITIVE PRINCE
 ship's heel pressed her backwards. Someone hadpropped her shoul­ders like a doll's against the shut door to the companionway.Runnels of water seeped down her brow and combed through thestrands of her lashes. She blinked to clear her bleared vision. "Now, don't ye look fit to murder," Caolle mused in soft threat.Not a half pace away, he sat braced on the sea chest with his backto the hanging locker. His feet were still fettered. The heavy ironchains had been inventively muffled with a slit length of sleeve off anoil­skin.
 He had unhooked the gimbaled lantern during the interval whilehis victim recovered full consciousness. The wick was now trimmed. A clear, bright flame stabbed mirrored reflections in the depths ofinimical, dark eyes. "Foolish, to think I'd sully myself with a
witch who kept me living as bait to bring down my liege. Not to mind," heran on, as Lirenda jerked stiff. "She's there, in the hammock,
triced upneatly as you are. How obliging of her to struggle and moan just asyou made your appearance."
Caolle paused, flexed his shut jaw, and shook through a visibletremor. "Oh, ! know I might die for my troubles," he admitted whenthe spasm of pain let him speak. "That's why we'll rush things along.Take my point straightaway, I'm a man who makes promises ratherthan blustering threats."
He raised his left hand. Something bright skittered and flashedto the bucketing toss of the hull: a quartz crystal on a sparklinglength offine chain.
 "This belongs to your colleague," Caolle said. "But you're damnedright to worry. Your own isn't still linked around your pretty neck."
Eyes pinned wide, pupils expanded and black in a stark and impo­tent hatred, Lirenda matched his stare like a baited tigress. Herdig~nity was rags. Whatever the cost to her rankled pride, she dared waitno longer to summon the help of a crewman. Bereft of her voice, she raised her bound ankles to hammer her heels on the deck.
 Her captor had already foreseen that resistance and muffled herfeet with nothing less than the folds of her mantle of office. Thatmoment, the lingering chill of the draft gained a horrid and levelingsignificance. The gag stopped her shriek. Stripped naked as well asbound wrist and ankle, Lirenda paled to an explosion of rage all themore deadly for being mute.
"I didn't like being fingered by ladies I don't know, either,"Caolle agreed in unswerving complaisance.
The length of his forearm was laced in fresh blood. His struggleto strip off both poultice and dressing had torn open his wounds, a just 
367 
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and fitting penalty for the unwise demands made uponflesh. Lirenda savored the petty satisfaction that the pain undidhis-~ dexterity. He made a rough job of tilting the lamp. Several minutesfled by while he fumbled to lift the latch which fastened the pane.
Yet he was not unnerved. Every ruthless art of Korianiobservation failed to strip his cragged profile for other significant weakness.f~d­
ily discomfort did nothing at all to blunt his tactician's mind.Caolle watched her conclude this, unfooled. He was too seasoned a cam­paigner to entertain false belief that an enemy held captive was nothreat. In stony dispassion, he raised the strung jewel above theopened cover of the lamp. The healer's dedicated quartz jounced andspun on its tether as his unsteady grasp teased it back and forth~2~ &ke ~9a~'xe.
 Given liberty for speech, Lirenda could have explained that thewards on the stone would offset the ravages of fire. She displayednt~ uneasiness, that the attuned focus of her colleague's born talentsshould become this deadly man's plaything.
"She's a bonny enough flower." Caolle inclined his head tos~ ,~rdthe healer, his features filed iron, each suffering hollow br~~ise.~iit~ dull shadow where crinkled flesh masked the bone. Never l~a,~ i~t,looked more the part of the hardened killer.
The healer who had obeyed direct orders to spare him wat, i~ec~back in glazed fear, her shining loops of blond hair netted throu gt~t't ~e rope mesh of the hammock. Each roll of the hull rocked her tru ;--,,dform to and fro like a sausage.
"Would you say that her youth's an illusion?" Caolle mt~,,,~~,"There's a fact or two whispered in the lore of our clans concernin~the ways of your kind." He lifted the gemstone, heated now, th~~unquiet shimmer of its facets thinly tarnished under a layering otsoot. "Do you know, I've a perverse curiosity to find out how ancientyour colleague really is."
Russet light wheeled as he shifted the lamp. The bent of hiscruelt',struck through at last as First Senior Lirenda realized he held aniro~'~ bucket braced between his tucked knees.
 Her cry pealed into a defeating wad of cloth.
"Yes, the water was dipped from the sea," Caolle said in affir~nation of her ghastliest nightmare. "Salt water and an iron bucket,:believe, were the talismans listed for the ritual to ground and clear~: spelled crystal."
'But not elemental fire, never that,' Lirenda raged in gaggedanguish.
Caolle's jet eyes held her pinned like a shark's as he opened hisfin­gers. The chain with its irreplaceable pendant slipped free. 
ealed d his ~utes 
it-ion ~od­~olle ~m­
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 tnd
 rth 

FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Hot quartz struck cold water. A sharp hiss, a shot geyser of
steam,as the crystal shocked out of resonance and shattered. The fragmentssliced in terrible, thin clangs against the metal confines of the
bucket. Trapped helpless in mage-sight, Lirenda beheld a cloudy burst ofstatic. Then an actinic flare of silver bloomed above the rim as wrought sigils let go, and a lifetime's figured energies bled off
and vanished into air.
 On the hammock, death visited with wrenching finality as thestabilized seals to retard aging gave way. The healer's slim bodybucked once. An inhuman screech shrilled through the linenwound in layers across her mouth. Muscle, nerve, and bone, herbody convulsed, shivering the hammock on its rings. Her boundlimbs thrashed. Joints cracked and cartilage popped to the lash ofunnatural stresses. Spasmed hands jabbed and fought their re­straints, then seemed between heartbeats to shrivel. Tendons con­tracted. Splayed knuckles bent. Bone clenched to bone, leaving notfingers, but claws, cranked fight into rigor like the leg-folded
husks of dead spiders.Then the fit which contorted the woman's wasted sinews let go.The remains sagged limp and the covering cloak slid away.
"Daelion Fatemaster's mercy," Caolle gasped, despite himselfstunned into pallor. Throughout his rough life, he had killed count­less times, but never so hideously as this.
For the hammock now cradled the shriveled corpse of a hag whichcould have languished three centuries in the grave. Leached cobwebsof hair trailed off the wax skull, swaying to the roll of the ship.
Caolle recovered himself first. Having grappled the horrors ofdeath all his days, he averted his eyes, more concerned with thelivingenchantress held captive at his feet.
Lirenda gave him back a sheet-gold glare of pure murder
For of course, he possessed a second purloined crystal to spin incold threat above the lantern flame. Despite features pinched bysleeplessness and suffering pain, his glacial deliberation leftLirenda in no doubt that her peril was real. This was the clan war captainwho had helped Arithon s'Ffalenn engineer the atrocities at Tal Quorinand the Havens, and after these, the most unconscionable of all, thethirty thousand casualties which had bloodied the field in one hourat Diet Kenton Vale. He owned no unmoored nerve to revolt. The First Senior watched, wholly defenseless, as Caolle hooked up the braidedchain which fastened her personal crystal. He rebalanced the lamp,played the stone through the flame, his ultimatum served up in a 
silence like dammed acid. 369 
JANNY WURTS

 No threat, but a promise: he could repeat his lethal act if h~and strangle his conscience pangs afterward."I'm glad that you grasp the,,true reach of the stakes," heobserved~
 as he measured her stillness. Now listen up sharp, because here's!how we're going to play this."~ Lirenda heard him through, racked by humiliation. The shambled her sick, that she had ever dared to take personal liberties wi~Morriel Prime's intricate plan. When she stayed Caolle's death, shshould have recalled he was a scarred veteran, clanbred to sens'Ffalenn royalty. Liegeman to the bone, he would see her killed, andcare not a whit if he lost his own life in the balance. The pitfallof her pride lent him his foothold for victory.He survived by her weakness, and refused her even the face-savinImercy of asking her word of agreement. Pragmatic as earth, he rifledthe dead healer's satchel, then used her stone knife to slice throughthe ties which bound his live victim's ankles. While Lirenda's fire-hot quartz swung suspended over the maw of the bucket, he skidded theblade across the wood deck for her to fumble and clasp. Throughseemingly endless, awkward minutes, she wrestled to manipulate tiedwrists and brace the haft between her bare knees. She was left to saw her bonds free on her own, and to cut away the sour knots of the gag.Caolle's gaze never wavered despite the pounding the ship'smotion dealt the reopened wounds in his flesh. He knew his limits,and had sounded hers: he expected she dared raise no outcry."I don't envy the death my order will mete out for your a, t~, ~fcoercion and murder." Scuffed dusky red with the marks o~ hi~, i~an­dling, Lirenda arose with a glacial sangfroid and a fury b~, vor~,! ,~11 forgiveness.Caolle's brows met in a frown of contempt. "I'll shrug oft '~i7,,irsting, you bloodsucking spider. Nothing else matters but th~~t ~~.prince should escape from your unclean web." He flicked the chain.Her crystal shivered a bare fraction above the rim of the bucket;close enough to make her heart shrink and skip, he well knew. The quartzwould not escape sure destruction if she tried the least hostile movewith the knife. "So, die with me, bitch," the clansman invited. "Lack'mg you~guidance, I very much doubt an untried fleet of three can take orPrince Arithon and survive." His frank male regard became statement enough he was content tcrest on that judgment. Lirenda snatched the folded silk from unde:her feet. She reclothed herself in graceless, clipped jerks, thenspun o~her heel to depart. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

"Ah, no," Caolle snapped. "That knife stays with me. And remem­ber, the oil in this lamp won't outlast a quarter of an hour."
That was the paltry allotment of time he gave to complete hisdemands. "You'll shut yourself into your cabin after that." Thequartzflashed and spun its unequivocal, dire warning. "One step wrong,raise one whisper of alarm, and your doom at my hand is a certainty."
Lirenda quashed back her overwhelming blind rage. She had norecourse. Perform as he asked, and Caolle might keep his word andset her ashore to go free. Guarantees were all forfeit. His perilousploymust be launched and forced through before his promise could be putto the test. Nor was Lirenda's own risk of exposure assured a felici­tous outcome. She could shrink a man's bollocks out of fear for her rank, but sham could not survive direct challenge. Deprived of herquartz link to empower her drawn sigils, she had no sure means toconceal the betrayal this fell bargain would level against the brig'sunsuspecting crew. With her crystal under the threat of annihilation,she could fashion no spells. Even the petty illusions devised by theleast tutored hedge witch lay outside the reach of her talent.
The predicament galled her to singular bitterness. Brought undercoercion, and alone on the sea, she could blame no one else for herdownfall. By her own headstrong miscalculation, the end play toMorriel Prime's grand conjury might fall to an inexcusable reversal.
 The latch to the mate's cabin clicked shut after the First Senior Lirenda"s departure. Caolle slumped back against the bulkhead of thehanging locker, his large frame shaking head to foot from the pain inresponse to unwise exert'ion. He dared not acknowledge the grislyremains in the hammock. His nerves would revolt. The bucket would become an immediate catch basin for the rejected contents of hisstomach. The minutes crept past, while he sweated. Ath knew, he setsmall store by prayer. Nor would he yield to his hypocrite fears, andbeg the creator's indulgence.
The plan set afoot rode now on the strength of First SeniorLirenda's stung pride. For Arithon s'Ffalenn, everything hinged uponher counting ambition above her own life as a bargaining chip.
Caolle braved another shuddering wave of discomfort. Well sea­soned to danger, plagued by agonized doubts, he flicked the smallchip of quartz crystal through the lantern flame like a talisman.While the light sparked in demonic patterns from the facets, he reviewedall the small things which could spin awry. One single upset would cre­ate a cascade, calling down risks like rowed dominoes.
The witch could stop him, and die. Or she could pitch her wits 
371 
~ANN. ~URTS 

against his word of honor, and hope for a mistake to spin the 0~back in her favor. Few men aboard ship would gainsay the will of'Koriani First Senior. Not without reason. Her orders would not rai immediate questions; nor would anyone think to deny her a visitthe convicts in the hold.
 The brig pitched through a trough. Caolle locked back the gro~which threatened to rip free as the jostling speared fresh tormeIthrough his flank. His vigil over the crystal and chain must not flathough his vision blurred, and reeling spells of dizziness leachedhis will to stay conscious. On deck, he thought he heard the watch cathe hour. No shouting started, nor did he pick up any other small siof anything gone amiss.
The sails creaked to the bear'rag pressure of the winds, and thfoam slammed and lisped through the rudder.
Caolle clung to the reassurance of each sound. He endured th~grim seconds one after the next in tight-breathing, bulldog tenacity.Inside a few minutes the lamp would bum dry. By then, the last ofArithon's collaborators must be set free from their chains. Either their little hired captain, a foul-tongued West Shandian, would arrivebringing confirmation, along with the keys for the leg irons and alsothe brig's forward arms locker; or Dharkaron damn the conse­quences, Lirenda's quartz focus would be dropped in salt water toshatter.
 No loophole existed, outside total failure. Whatever the outcome,Caolle understood the harsh stakes. He might buy his prince one lastchance for reprieve. In the unlikely event he survived abusedwounds, and won this wild gamble against fate, for himself, the dayshe had left must be numbered. For his cold-blooded murder of th~ healer, if not for balking Lirenda, he was now a man marked apart fo~Koriani vengeance. 
372 Spring 5653 
Second Upset 
Night advanced. In the open waters of Mainmere Bay, the turn ofspring stars crossed through the zenith to the complaint of rawwinds, chasing their freight of fretted wavecrests. The sea heavedblack and molten, web silver beneath cloudless skies. Across atableau like spilled indigo, the three Alliance brigs sailed inconvoy.In the main crosstrees of the second vessel in line, the lookouthailed the watch on the quarterdeck."Trouble's here. Lance o' Justice looks to be listing to starboard."Minutes later, the fitful flash of a signal lantern confirmed thatthe flagship was taking on water. The mate himself climbed the ratlinesto the crow's nest to translate the lines of blinked code.
 "Deck there!" he called. "She plans to heave to! We're asked toround up alongside and take on most of her cargo of prisoners."
The surly first mate snapped closed the ship's glass,considering,while the air plucked moist fingers at his cloak, and the dark rim ofthe horizon swung like a plate. By the time he completed his descentfrom the rigging and conferred on deck with his captain, their ship'scompliance was settled. The exchange made plausible sense. Many ofthe criminals packed onboard the Lance were craftsmen trained asskilled shipwrights.
"Can't be a blighted loose timber in her hull their sort can't bepress-ganged to fix." To those crewmen who were wont to dodge saildrill to eavesdrop, he snapped, "It's the other wretches who aredead­weight we'll pick up. Sailhands set in chains for conspiracy with the 
 JANNY WURT$ 

~d.~ 
Master o' Shadow. Their carcasses litter the decking in the hol
Dharkaron's black arse, that's all got to be pulled to see which
faulty~
seam the Lance has sprung in her bilges."

Return signals were sent, then sails and course altered to drawthe two vessels side by side. The swell was running too high to grapple.Boats were swayed out to a melee of shouted orders and uncertainflickering lanternlight.
Then, through moonless dark, the longboats rowed back, trailed byothers put off by the Lance. Each craft breasted and slogged down thewaves, made unwieldy by their protesting burden of prisoners. Thefirst boats reached the brig, to redoubled confusion, since convictsin irons could not climb the side battens. One by one, they had to behoisted aboard like landlubbers in a bosun's chair The clumsymaneuver raised a running, obscene commentary from those amongthem who were seamen. The most ribald and ruthlessly damningremarks were volunteered by a swarthy West Shandian captain whoproved vitriolically loyal to Prince Arithon.
The brig's snappish mate peered down his. nose at the turmoilfanned over heaving, jet waters. "Pitiful waste, that leg irons donaught to crimp shut the yap on that wretch."
For no mark proved exempt: the prisoner possessed a deadly sharpeye for slack seamanship, and a tongue to scale rust from black iron.Worse yet, his railing came poisoned with wit to crack the most dourman's ribs. The oarsmen who ferried him across in the longboat losttheir timed stroke, unraveled into helpless laughter. They arrived,doubled over their banked oars, shut eyes leaking tears, while windand drift fetched them headlong against their mother ship's sidestrakes.
 The sea rose and dipped; varnished gunwales raked new plankingto a roaring scrape of gouged wood.
Screams from the outraged officer topside collided with the Shah-dian's peal of ridicule. "Ath, you blind ninnies! It's a wonder youall managed to get yourselves born, if you'll row for a coxswain whorams a brig broadside with his eyes open."
The victimized oarsman shot from the stern seat to defend his maligned competence. In calamitous mistiming, the shove whichfended the longboat off the ship rocked into the rising lift of aswell. The coxswain windmilled his arms and sat down with a smackingsplash in the ocean.
"Dharkaron's arse, lookit you!" cried the Shandian in amazement.To rounds of explosive chuckles from the other boat's crews, andagainst jeers from the ~allery of idle hands just arrived to crowdthe brig's rail, he ranted, "I'd have to give my one-legged grand auntiethe better odds to stay upright! Not only can Lysaer's brave seamennot row! By Ath, cold sober, they can't even keep their bunglingbutts dry in a longboat! If this is the measure of an Alliance royal ship,then for mercy strike my chains. I swear, I'll drown sooner if I'm forcedto ply my fortune under the same breed o' captain."
"Silence that upstart!" the brig's master called down from thequar­terdeck.
 His command passed unheard. An oar splashed to a murderousyell from the swimmer."Toss the poor wretch a rope!" cried an onlooker.
"Better not," quipped the Shandian. "He'll just get it loopedround his neck."
 His bent of hilarity turned from harmless to obstructive asderisive suggestions flurried down from those sailors on deck who were stillsafe and dry, to the oarsmen who manned the indecorous longboat.Each remark proffered a more outrageous solution to fish theirsoaked coxswain from the water.
 "Why bother?" The Shandian laughed in withering disgust."Sharks don't care beans if they eat stupid meat."
"I said, shut that wretch up!" Flushed with ill temper from beingignored, the brig's captain stormed from the quarterdeck.
He plied elbows like rams and laid a path through the pack ofshirkers amidships. Forced to stumble over clusters of chained pris­oners, he shoved aside the last gawkers. But his new vantage at therail gained him small satisfaction. Below him, wild splashes and asteady round of oaths issued from beyond a rocking circle of lamp-light. To his left, some inveterate pest was taking odds down forwagers, as though anyone on shipboard could reliably sort out theroistering mayhem ongoing under cover of darkness. Scribbledreflections thrown off murky swells defeated the most determinedattempt to sort out the salient details. Nor could a captain enforcehis chain of command without correct names to assign to the faces of themiscreants.
 Left no sure target for reprimand, he locked horns at last withhis mate. "Are we running a shambles?"
"Well, ding me dead!" whooped the Shandian in renewed delight."We're getting the old man himself, come to teach us lowlifes theobvious."
 The captain lost his temper. "You oarsmen! Let that oaf in thewater shift for himself. I want every Sithaer-forsaken one of theseprisoners clapped in the hold straightaway! We make sail in an hour. 
375 
J~N~. WUR~$ 

By then, the last boat will be stowed in smart form. If I hear.gard's still bumbling at the oar, he'll be cast off as flotsam forsharks!"
 "Oh, smart thinking," cried the Shandian in whetted, brightcasm. "Leave the shirkers adrift. I wouldn't want to strike topsailyards, either, underneath of some louts who can't hoist their flea­bitten bones up a side batten."
"Gag that prisoner, or kill him," snapped the captain to themate,who still chuckled at his shoulder. "Whatever it takes, bring our menback in line. I don't care if you have to break heads, just show me adiligent crew!"
Far from cowing the sailhands back to order, his enraged threat0f violence only seeded a frenetic, new snarl of confusion. Sailhandsjos­tled and yelled oaths from behind. They pressed their captain'sstance, apparently possessed by a brainless urge to start brawling.More shouting erupted from the oared boats port and starboard. Thenboth lanterns were doused in unison. Darkness clapped down, anoddity which meant the brig's deck lamps had also extinguished.Screams ripped through the laughter before anyone realized: theboats alongside were not friendly.
The prisoners themselves were escaped from their chains andbearingarms in a battering attack.
"Ath preserve, we're being boarded!" The brig's captainshouldered past his first mate and fell fiat, still yelling. Other men went downwith him, raining blood from slit throats. More onlookers skidded andcrashed from missteps in warm puddles as the enemy's murderingsteel chewed through their disorganized resistance.
"Daelion save us all, it's the Shadow Master's treachery!"For the crews who brought in the longboats from the Lance werenot the same ones who had manned the oars at the launching.
In belated distress, the brig's captain screamed for hisquartermas­ter to ring the alarm. "Sound warning to the third vessel! Let themhear that we're under assault! The Lance, save her, must be alreadyfallen to the enemy."
"Can't, sir!" His officer's explanation filtered back, harried,through the percussion of steel striking steel, and live flesh andbone in maiming thuds. "Some whoreson has cut down the ship's bell!"
"Sithaer, this can't happen." The captain locked his teeth,foughthis way upright, and ducked a bloody sword. He plowed through thechaos and grabbed his first mate by the scruff. "Get below! Now!Roust out that useless Etarran fighting company! We need them tokill as they're paid for." 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 But the bad news returned, that the royal men-at-arms were not
sleeping or deaf, but confined. Some fiend had battened the hatches."They'll come out disarmed, or be poisoned with smoke," said astranger with soot-blackened features who must have crept aboardthrough the thrashing display put on by the posturing coxswain."Since we don't rightly care if the poor bastards suffocate, you
mightwant to declare them our captives."
"You won't get away with this." The captain stiffened to the prodof a sword at his spine, then flinched, as beside him, his arguingmate was cut down by a stroke that gutted him to the navel.
Then, the insufferable last straw, the Shandian captain swarmedupthe strakes and leaped the rail in swaggering insolence. "Strike yourcolors and surrender this vessel." His grin came and went, alluncivil,sharp teeth. "Or die valiant while we run up the leopard of Rathain.It's all one to me. This brig's already befouled to her scuppers.We're going to have to find pails and swab up your mate's liver, anyway.Refuse, and you'll just make that unsavory task the more grisly." 
377 Spring 5653 
Reckoning
 The meeting took place just past dawn in the Lance's overcrowdedchart room, the aftermath of hard action reshaped to crisp order bythe Master of Shadow's freed henchmen. Fate and Caolle's coura­geous ingenuity had bought them a stunning reprieve. Theirs now todecide, 'the new course of action for the Alliance's two suborned 
ves­sels. In addition, they held the Koriani First Senior and fifty
smoke­sickened men from the Etarran fighting company, kept alive for useas hostages. The latter had been imprisoned in the hold where,
lately,their ebullient captors had escaped the selfsame misfortune.
The vessel still listed, albeit suspiciously. No hands could beheard manning pumps. The defeated captain rowed across from the otherprize cursed in hindsight, now aware the flagship's ballast must havebeen shifted to lend her the appearance of leaks and sprung planking.On deck, in the pale flood of daybreak, he had deciphered thesequence of signal flags being strung up on a halyard. In due time,the third brig still sailing in legitimate crown loyalty would receiveplacidword that the Lance of Justice intended to retire to Tideport. Hercourse change made plausible sense; once in sheltered waters, the convictshipwrights she carried could ostensibly mend her stressed timbers.
The two other brigs, in tandem, would sail east for Mainmere Nar­rows to effect the blockade intended to trap Arithon s'Ffalenn. Nobreak in procedure hinted of problems. With appearances main­tained, the assumption followed suit that the flag captain's sealedorders had been transferred to a sister ship with sound seams. The 
378 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 third vessel would have no reason to suspect her command ship was
now manned by armed enemies. Undisturbed, still serene, she
remained unaware of the past night's nefarious piracy.

Tired to the bone, his breeches and shirt splashed with driedblood from his murdered first mate, the brig's deposed captain currentlylanguished in the same chains lately struck off his Shandian counter­part. The ignominy left him indisposed at sea for the first timesince he was a ship's boy set free of his tearful mother's apron strings.His shame was not eased by the damning sharp seamanship displayed bya band of rank criminals.
 Behind the chart desk, bound in plain rope, sat his fellowofficer in misfortune. The dispossessed captain of the flag vessel, Lance,appeareddisheartened and pale, unmarked by signs of rough handling. Hiscloth­ing was still uncreased and clean, and his face showed no worse thanthe wear of taut nerves and lost sleep.
Packed around the chart table, in swift, whiplash dialogue, theescaped shipwrights and crewmen, and another man who proved tobe a cianbom scout, exchanged viewpoints. The course and directiontheir strong words debated had nothing to do with Tidepor~t as afirst port of call.
"Dharkaron avenge!" the brig's captain whispered in bleak fury.These devils can't just spin us around and start gutting tradegalleysfor spoils!"
The iron-haired flag captain turned a face with sad eyes, hisshrugstrained by the pull of his bonds. "You think our last brig can fightpast surprise and prevail?" His mouth flexed in resignation as helooked at his boots, worn at the toes from his distinguished recordof crown service. "No. You'll hear, if you listen. They've planned thelast move. Our sister vessel will be attacked after sundown. She'll surren­der or bum, her fate to rely on the fight put up by her seamen." The beaten man's tone shocked for its flat certainty.
"Why did you give in?" asked the captain, painfully aware that headdressed a colleague he had once respected as his senior comman­der. "When you suffered attack, you sent us no signal. What madeyou betray the Alliance?"
"They suborned the Koriani First Senior, Ath knows how. Shecalled me below, and I walked straight into an ambush. Is it sohard?" The fleet captain coughed, eyes averted, while he shifted his shoul­ders to accommodate the splash of the wavecrests retreating beneaththe stem counter. Concerning the proud ship he had relinquished tothe marauding use of the enemy, he had disgracefully little torelate. "That fiend of a West Shandian gave me a choice. Leave this vessel ]ANNY WURTS 
intact to Lord Maenol's barbarians and endure a five-day rur~ i~,t0Caithwood, or else stay in chains and be bound over as hostage to theMaster of Shadow. Better, I think, to survive as a traitor, than torisk death and Sithaer knows what sort of evil at the hand of that servant of Darkness."
 But the brig captain dared not say what he thought, that afterthe royal edict condemning clan prisoners to lifelong misery as galleyslaves, he very much doubted Lord Maenol's scouts would let anytownsman walk free.
 Much later, the conference in the chart room broke up. The brigdrove east on her bearing, and the Alliance prisoners settled undertight guard, when a man tapped quietly at the door to the sterncabin. He awaited no answer, but slipped into the stillness within.
The one who kept vigil by the berth where Caolle lay arose, gavea nod, and departed. The newcomer settled down in his place, andwithout asking, volunteered all the news.
"Everything's been decided as you wished, and no argument. Thebrig's to be rechristened just Lance. She'll sail as Arithon firstplannedat her launching, and take on a crew of Earl Maenol's clansmen. Wecan't speak for them, here. They'll have to determine which course totake, whether to pick up the Shadow Master's orders at Irmish, or tosail west to Corith and bid against Lysaer for any of ours who maystill be alive."
 Caolle lay with his eyes closed, his breaths fast and shallow andhis skin like limp parchment with suffering. "The plan's sound enough,"he whispered at long length. If the men chose the fight in the Isles,they would have the brig and the Koriani First Senior as bargainingchips, as well as a sea captain and the Etarran company to play foran exchange of hostages. "The First Senior's jewel is well away?"
The man he could not see paused a moment to smile. "Aye, so. Shelet fly with unlovely language when she heard. If the brig's crewwins through, they'll do as you asked, and send her spelled quartz on toPrince Arithon with your compliments."
For certain, Caolle knew, he himself would not live to seethroughthe events he had used his last wits to enact. Still as he lay, hecould feel the warm life seep from his limbs. This, his last campaign, wasfought against an enemy no steel could conquer. Spellcraft had noremedy that his straightforward war strategy understood. In slowand insidious progression, his extremities were invaded by a crawl­ing, unnatural numbness he could only presume was the backlash setloose when he had shattered the healer's quartz crystal. No recourse into
 the risk 'ant 
FUGITIVE I~IR I NCE
 remained as the Koriani seals which kept his body alive undid them­selves through attrition.In time, he asked if it were nightfall, the cabin seemed so coldand dark. The roll of high seas dissolved into the spiraling spin ofblank vertigo. He could not feel his blankets. The breath in his lungs
felt insubstantial and light, not like true air, but some vaporous drugwhich wafted his mind into dizziness.
 "It's afternoon," the man said, never far from his side. His
accent had the syrupy vowels of the southcoast, and his hands, a. ship­wright's thick callus. "The curtains aren't drawn. You can't see thesunlight through the stern window?"
A pause came, through which the clansman said nothing, and
upon which cold truth paid attendance like a vulture.

Then, in a tact striking for its compassionate acceptance, warmfin­gers closed over Caolle's shoulder. That firmness he could feel dis­tinctly, and'the craftsman's straightforward kindness as he spoke."Never mind. Day or night, should it matter? Say whatever you wantto Prince Arithon and your kin. One of us will see your thoughtsreach him."
 Across a span of gluey distance, Caolle regrouped scattered wits.He had no words, then or now, to express what he felt in his heart.Gruff to the bone, no dabbler in niceties, he could not shed hisflint-edged habit of honesty. Nor could he let go of life in false peace.He gave in, content to let his ornery nature have his last breath. Forhis final, most lacerating care and his need to release a friend'sburdened conscience, he assembled his thoughts as sparely as arrows to be shotin hard arcs toward the future.
 "Let my people and my prince hear that I died in the assault totoss out the Koriani witches. No less than plain truth." Caolle deniedclutching fingers of pain just enough to wrench out a gritty,disparag­ing grin. "Tell the Teir's'Ffalerm, too... every word I said to Dakarat Riverton is still binding. But add one thing more .... I've survivedmany worse than the pinprick he gave me. His Grace has a punysword arm, and may Dharkaron Avenger damn him for a weakling ifhe doesn't choose another liegeman to stand at his shoulder in myplace." 
Spring 5653 
Turning Points 
In the Isles of Min Pierens, where Corith's mined fortress notches asunset sky, Prince Lysaer s'Ilessid reviews disposition of histroops,his war galleys, and the captured brig, Cariadwin, awaiting with keenanticipation for the hour when Arithon s'Ffalenn will be led by theKoriani witches to sail into his preset ambush ....
 In the mountain wilds of Taerlin, Maenol s'Gannley and his dwin­dled band of scouts meet the swords of Alliance forces, and whileclan blood flows yet again to allow the threatened families to fleebehind them, the caithdein whistles the retreat, too aware that no more time can be bought for his people; either King Eldir will grant hi:petition for sanctuary, or all will be lost on the wooded shores o~Mainmere ....
 Stopped to water horses on the Middlecross road, the Hanshirecaptain, Sulfin Evend, straightens up from discussion with a dairymaid, and his sudden flush reveals his elation as he calls his armectroop to attention: "We're onto him, now. The Shadow Master and hi~fat henchman passed yesterday, apparently driving an oxcart. There'~a company of sunwheel soldiers with Lysaer's Crown Examine:ahead of us. If we move fast without springing the alarm, we coulccatch our quarry by nightfall .... " 
382 Spring 5653 
XI. Fire and Sword 
Rumpled, hungry, all but giddy with fatigue, the Mad ,Prophetreined his rackety oxcart alongside the wayside tavern s stonewall. After a seven night of sleeping in thorn brakes, he smelledlittle better than his draft animals. The beasts stood with lowered heads,tails switching to dislodge the black, biting flies which descendeduponthe Korias flats from the moment the sun thawed the soil.
 "Ath, are you certain you're up to this?" He filched a glanceside­wards, not trusting appearances as the Masterbard stepped down, hislyranthe slung from a strap at his shoulder, and the silence likepoured lead between them.
The lacerating despondency settled since Riverton this morningseemed tightly leashed. Arithon had washed and shaved at a stream­side. His torn shirtsleeves were mended in meticulous stitches; thetailored cuffs cleaned, old bloodstains bleached away by the lye soapbegged from a dairymaid. His dark leathers had been brushed untilthe singed patches were scarcely noticeable. Gaunt from eight cold,wet days of foraged meals, the Master of Shadow looked more thepart of a courier or light swordsman than a bard on itinerantsojourn;tmtil he turned his head.
 Then the light touched his face and revealed what he was: a self-haunted fugitive with exhaustion etched down to each fitted angle ofbone. 
]ANNY WURTS
 "You're unwise to try music in public so soon," Dakarconcerned for the exposure an honest performance must demand."We have to eat. We haven't got a coin between the two of us, andI'm up to this because it's safer than risking my fingers trying toskin
 cone3~s ~vjth m ma~n &~auche. "~e~athe~'ed bJack b~'o~ Jel~o o/1~
~own and ajvped up in acidic inquiry "Unless you prefer snaring
songbirds? I thought not."
"Sithaer's dark furies," Dakar swore. "Why do I stay with you?""For maudlin entertainment, no doubt." But against every prece­dent, Arithon s'Ffalenn was first to turn aside.
One charged moment led into another, an abrasive progressionunbroken since the hour Caolle had fallen. Beyond the wall, a womansoothed a crying child, and a stableboy's rush broom scraped rhyth­mically through the lazy spring warmth.
Standoff, while the Mad Prophet held his mutinous seat on thebuckboard. Then the Shadow Master's lips curled in sarcasm like arazor cut, at odds with his careful speech. "We haven't seen a patrolin two days. Stop look'mg over your shoulder and fretting, or I'llhave to mix goose grease and wintergreen to treat you for cricks in theneck."
 Dakar felt too heartsick to return the slight. "You aren't up tothis,"he insisted.
 Arithon hitched up his lyranthe with hands that betrayed all hisstress in fine tremors. "All right, I'm not up to this. That's why weagreed. You're staying to mind the wagon." His departing stride heldthat tigerish poise which warned when his temper was rankled.
Dakar watched the sunlight fall like white ice over his trimshoulders and back, the sleek ends of black ha'~r feathered into the drawstringruf­fles of his collar. In the nerve-racking boldness which trademarkedhis style, Arithon refused a disguise. People, he insisted, were leastobser­vant of things left out in plain sight. He passed the inn's gate, andthe broom of the stablehand stilled to his clear call of inquiry.
Abandoned in the company of cud-chewing oxen, Dakar crossedhis arms to muffle his yowling stomach. Unease scraped his nerves,though the road stretched empty north and south. The ruts carved upby recent thaw lay hemmed in puddles, tinted lapis and moonstoneunder a sky sliced by diving black swifts. Brisk trade moved by seaon the southcoast of Tysan until spring dried the mud and the grassoffered fodder for caravans. Midmorning was too late for the farm-girls bearing spring eggs to the Middlecross markets, and too earlyfor the afternoon relays of post couriers to clatter in asking forremounts. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 An early breeze riffled the blossoming apple trees. The droningindustry of bees cut the air, and the thin bleats of lambs, grazingat large with their dams on the flats.
Dakar sulked. His natural penchant for long naps in bright sun­light seemed permanently displaced. He had small taste for idle lurk­ing in a rattletrap cart that made him a creeping target for sunwheelguardsmen and headhunters' arrows.
Nor did he like stringy game eaten cold in the brush, a practicenow likely to continue. From inside the wall, Arithon's mild speechraised a howl of vehement distress.
 "Another bard? Here? Spare us all, send him packing!" A heavydoor slammed. Then a hail of agitated footsteps slapped across thecobbled yard, and a voice otc indignant propriety cut off Arithon'snext question. "I'm sorry. You mustn't stay, times aren't safe. Anherb witch got herself stoned last week. She only sold a girl a lovesimple,but that was enough to raise trouble. Tysan's Crown Examiner camewith a half company of sunwheel soldiers who could ride back anymoment and clap you in irons for singing the wrong sort of ballad."
"Fiends eat my liver and lights!" The Mad Prophet snapped upstraight, shot off the buckboard, and raced to the heads of the oxen."Back! Hup!" He grabbed at their headstails, snatched green-slobberedbits, and gave an almighty jerk. "You splay-footed whoresons, moven0w.t Or by Ath, I'll singe your hairy rumps to blisters! We'll haveroast tongue for supper. While I think of it, we'll hack the rest piecemealand string out your entrails for fly bait."
The oxen rolled reproachful brown eyes. They shook their cappedhorns, bawled through whiskered nostrils, and begrudged him alumbering half step. The shaft groaned, jackknifed, and the wainsquealed to a chorus of gapped boards and stressed pe~, Willie tileMad Prophet yowled epithets, all four misfitted wheels rocked askewon warped axles and jammed.
Dakar clenched his teeth in forbearance. "For mercy," he pleadedinto four tureen ears. "For Daelion's sake, save your miserablehides!" The fact he could hear no oncoming hoofbeats offered him small reasosurance; a dozen crown mercenaries could be taking their easeunseen in the innkeeper's taproom. Still hauling rein leather, hesized up the merits of hazing the beasts with his drover's cape.
Then another cool hand slipped over his hot ones. Arithon's voicesaid, "Desist. We're not followed."
"I should believe you?" Dakar cranked his head around like a tur­tle who suffered a pinched tail. A bay, muscled shoulder filled hiswhole view. 
JANNY WURTS

 The Master of Shadow pried the spellbinder's fingers
and replaced them with a supple length of bridle rein. "Leave
cart. We're going astride."
"What?" Dakar gawped at the post horse attached to his
"Have you taken leave of your senses?"
A fine-boned, race-bred mare snorted behind the bay,
flat, as a barefoot horseboy hauled in her girth with indecorous
The horse nipped in protest, caught short by an elbow as Arithon'looped his lyranthe to her saddlebow. Dakar's urgent questions wereignored. Back turned, the Shadow Master scrounged underneath thecart's filthy cargo of sacking, then straightened, buckling on hisbaldric with its sheathed burden of sword and dagger.
From the innyard, the fussy infant wailed on through commotion,while some unseen servant shouted to a scullion, "Hurry up andfetch that satchel from the loft!"
 "Damn you! What's afoot?" Dakar shoved between stampinghorseflesh, his cloak wadded up in the crook of his elbow, and hisfeet in grave threat of maceration. "No innkeeper in his right mind tradesprize post mounts for two bone-skinny oxen and a wain overdue tobe hacked up for kindling."
Arithon flipped the mare's reins over her high neck and mounted."There's a free singer in trouble." His fingers, flying, adjusted thehang of a stirrup. "Time's short. You'll hear as we ride."
Dakar stuck his toes in to argue, while the horseboy disappeared.A potbellied graybeard scurried from the yard, burly arms clutchedround a saddlebag. Slung across his shoulder was a fleece-wrappedbundle that looked to contain a second lyranthe.
"Here." The man wheezed to a stop and unloaded his burden intoDakar's already taxed charge. "The singer naturally couldn't take hisbelongings. Left here in irons, poor wretch." A coin sack teeteredonto the top of the load, forcing Dakar to bobble sidewards to avert aspill.
"There's his silver, as well," the innkeeper explained. "Mine'san hon­est house. Won't take advantage of a man caught aback by misfortune."
"What misfortune?" Dakar ejected through the horse-reekingleather of the saddlebags.
"You didn't hear?" The landlord scrubbed moist hands on his apron. "Sunwheel soldiers and a weasel-faced examiner arrested theminstrel I had quartered here. Condemned him to burn. They saidthat the singing of legends threatens innocents. I tell you, what'shap­pened to good sense? Unkempt louts drew cold steel in my taproomand bedamned to any grace of hospitality. Never mind it's my innwill suffer the blame and the satires." 
/ 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 "This has nothing to do with us," Dakar insisted. He juggled hisload, and ineffectively tried to return the unwieldy collection. Thelyranthe slipped and banged his knee with a ringing, hollow clunk,and a harness buckle snagged in his mustache. "Will you listen?" hecried in breaking, fresh temper. "My companion and ! are not inter­ested."
 But the landlord only shouted to roust up some laggard from thetavern. "Wenj! Jump on it! They need those provisions now, not nextweek!"
 The prospect of victuals deflated Dakar's protests. He stood,breathing hard, while the innkeeper narrowed incensed, dark eyes,saying, "Dharkaron's Spear strike the unsavory brutes! My reputa­tion's in ruins. Better I ask for the Fate Wheel's turning than see afree singer take harm during his stay in my tavern. There's curse and mis­fortune in the breach of a bard's right to shelter."
"You'll have no such bad luck," Arithon assured, then beckonedfor haste as the horseboy trotted out with a third mount, this one afancy iron gray gelding with snowflake dapples, and a bridle whichtrilled, sewn with bells and flamboyant red tassels.
"The singer's own palfrey," the landlord explained throughDakar's flabbergasted glare of mutiny. "Bless you both! If you canspare that poor wretch from the fire, the horses are yours with mycompliments. That's the best I can do. Grain-fed mounts aren't easyto come by, not since the season's been harsh. But you'll need theadvan­tage to outrun the sunwheel guardsmen."
"Guardsmen?" The sidling horse trod on Dakar's toe. Before hefell over in an avalanche of goods, the horseboy stepped in, hooked thelyranthe and packed saddlebags from his wobbling grasp, andsecured them onto the palfrey.
"Rip off the bells," said Arithon, succinct. "We don't need thenoise to betray us."
"If you think we can save anybody, you're mistaken," Dakarsnapped.
"Oh dear." The innkeeper wilted. While the horseboy paused, theplink of bronze bells choked in dispirited fists, he implored, "Whoelse is left?"
 Dakar shot a venomous glower at Arithon. Green eyes watchedhim back, implacable as glints in sheared emerald, with all the freshsorrows of Riverton like a spiked canker beneath.
The Shadow Master insisted, "I gave my promise."No plea, but a warning; Dakar shut his teeth in balked temper. Asthe inn's kindly matron fluttered out with a bulging pannier of 
387 
 JANNY WURTS

 provender, he shrugged; and discovered the coin sack still grasped
i~ the hand underneath his rucked cloak. That saving fact raised ~smile like gilt on bad tin. "Well then. We'll give your bard's
rescue ou diligent best."
Dakar crammed the silver down the neck of his shirt before innkeeper recovered his aplomb. The venture perhaps madeble sense. Gifts of coin and horses were no sort of boon for two tives to spurn for the overnice scruple of honesty. Whileinnkeeper gushed his effusive relief, and Arithon took directions tothe hamlet, the Mad Prophet busied himself checking the bay's girthto make sure his tat bulk could stay mounted.
"The burning was to happen between the flour mill and the,glass­works," the inn matron finished, while the horseboy tossed over thepalfrey's neck rope, and Arithon set heels to the mare.
Caught flat-footed, Dakar forgot to shut his mouth. Departinghooves churned up a gobbet of mud, which vengefully clipped him inthe teeth. Hornet mad, he spat grit, clambered astride, and gavechase, while stirrups too long to suit his short legs clanged andbat­tered his dangling ankles.
A league down the road, stretched flat at a gallop, he shoutedthrough a stinging lash of mane. "You can't mean to try this. Therisks are enough to serve up our guts raw on the sword of Lysaer's execu­tioner! Even if we bolt now, someone will remember our foolishexchange at the tavern. Since you chose such rash lengths to be quitof those oxen, we'd be wise to turn off of the thoroughfare."
"I spoke in good faith," Arithon flung back, breathless, whilethe horses careened neck and neck through a turn. "Didn't you recognizethe silver bosses on the gray palfrey's saddle?" Dakar's rank epithet allowed he had not.
Arithon steadied his mare's stride and urged greater speed, ran­kled to acid impatience. "The free singer they're to execute isFelirin the Scarlet." As his mount stretched her nose and thundered ahead,his voice eddied back through the turbulence. "You'll rememberFelirin once helped save my life."
"Red tassels, oh Ath, of course!" The Mad Prophet regained recol­lection; as well as loud clothes, the free singer affected completeindis­cretion before bone-headed, townborn intolerance. "Felirin always didknow just the right ballad to set headhunters brawling with fists."Dakar tried and failed to match his companion's sinuous agilityastride. His seat smacked the saddle, his mount jibbed and pecked;left trailing by three lengths, he hollered admonition, "You know you'returning one minstrel's misfortune into a lunatic's play fordisaster." 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 But Arithon by then had forced too wide a lead to bother to framea reply.
 The Mad Prophet scrubbed sweat from his neck and saggedagainst the gapped boards of the glassmaker's shed. "Ath, I'm tooold and fat for this."
 His breathing ran ragged. His heart sped too fast. The muffledthunder in his ears came as much from the beat of his own rushed blood, as from the rumble of the mill's vanes, turning. The two
frame buildings notched the mild rise, and beyond them, the tide-driventhrash of sea breakers, ripping a white, sandy headland. The hollowbetween held a spindly row of cottages, a cobbler's shop, and a
black­smith's: the hamlet they had lathered good horses to reach beforethe free singer's burning.A glance at the gathering packed onto the commons showed thatthe plight of the minstrel was hopeless.
"You don't have an obligation," he exhorted to Arithon, crouchedmotionless behind the glassmonger's rickle of supplies. "What youface is a clear invitation to suicide, and if you try, I'll have nochoice but to invoke the blood oath you swore under Fellowship sanction atAthir."
 "Who would answer? The Sorcerers are all gone to Havish for KingEldir's wedding." Arithon did not turn his head, but shifted his van­tage between the piled quartz sand, the green piggins of iron oxides,and the sacks imported from the fens of West Shand where saltwortwas burned into soda ash.
 "Why can't you hear reason for once in your born life?" Dakarclapped his cheeks in frustration. "Now would be a nice time to startlistening."
Sweat trickled down his spine, steamed through his clothes by thekilns, which beat rippled air through the gapped boards. Whilethe miller's dogs yapped, and a woman's railing punched throughthe sonorous bass of crown authority, the sun scudded under a burl ofcloud. Catcalls from the bystanders maligned the prisoner on his pileof oiled faggots, no encouragement. With at least ten guardsmenattached to the official now citing the formal charges, Dakar readbad odds. The crown soldiers were from Lysaer's elite division, theirsun-wheel cloaks white as strewn snowdrifts amid the drab motley of thecountryfolk.
Arithon regarded the tableau with the unswerving attention thatboded the worst sort of consequence. "Felirin is condemned forsinging the ballad of Tal Quorin, as written by Halliron senAl'duin," 
 JANNY WURTS
 he said. "Ath knows where he learned the rendition. He must have
 spent time with the clans."
"Daelion's bollocks!" Dakar shivered, hands latched in his cloakto
 shut out the plucking breeze off the sea. "Small wonder they'll bum
him."
 "They won't." Arithon ducked, doubled back, and slid downbeside Dakar. "Since I can't turn that crowd with steel in plainsight,I'll need to borrow your mantle."The Mad Prophet rammed upright, swearing. "Man, that's a deathwish! You dare not be seen here!" Certainly not after anunexpurgatedballad which maligned the s'Ilessid prince as a butcher made blindbyself-righteous morality and arrogance."Your cloak," Arithon repeated. "Dakar, stop arguing.t"The Shadow Master spun in fraught urgency as the door banged atthe front of the glass house. A boy hurried out with a torch fromthe kiln fires, streaming a tang of dark smoke.Still Dakar hesitated. "I can't sanction such risk."
 "Then I must." The Shadow Master snatched up the drover's oiled
wool, ripped the cloth through unwilling fingers until his companion
stood stripped to his jerkin.
"Felirin delivered no less than the truth! A free singer'srightsshould hold his life sacrosanct, and I am Halliron's successor! If Idon't stand forth and protest this injustice, can't you see? Any minstrelin Tysan could burn for composing an ordinary satire!"In Arithon's hands, the vast, caped cloak flared and settledover taut shoulders. "I need you to frame up two runes of mastery forele­mental fire. Draw them here, in my palms."
He pressed a twig of charcoal scavenged from the glassmaker'smidden into the spellbinder's nerveless grasp. "Damn you, think!Dakar, I can't douse live flame with bare shadow. Not when my magetalent's blinded."
 A surging cry from the onlookers marked the moment the sun-wheel guard captain bent and set torch to the faggots.
The Crown Examiner hailed over their noise, "May DaelionFatemaster find you repentant as you pass his Wheel in judgment!"
"Dharkaron, Ath's angel, avenge me instead!" the condemnedmusician hurled back. Disheveled, not young, his face scraped andbruised, he let outrage fuel his dignity. His voice sliced throughthe burgeoning crackle of flame and carved the first lines of a bard'scurse.
 Dakar pressed stubby fingers to his face. He could not look, lesthe weep. While the singer's defiance clipped short in a rasping cough, 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

speech failed him. His throat closed, too parched to shape words togamer the ritual permissions.
Arithon's prompt spurred on laggard memory. If his talent wassilenced, he still had trained knowledge. The graven discipline of amasterbard's diction bridged a channel for clear concentration, eventhrough the first stifled whimpers from the victim chained on thepyre. Then his slim, urgent hand, thrust through Dakar's damp one,firm enough to steady them both as the branching runes to blight firewere inscribed in crumbling ash.
"Touch anything, even your weapons, and the marks are going tosmear," Dakar cautioned.
Arithon tossed off a nod, tucked cupped hands out of sight in thefolds of the cloak.
 Irrevocably committed, he emerged from the cover of the glass­works, strides limned by the diamond-shard heaps of white cullet. Headvanced past the rain-channeled mounds of pure sand, straight asDharkaron Avenger's ebon spear in the furling layers of his leathers.When his head tipped that familiar listening angle askance, a friendcould do naught but feel the heart tear for the moment's brazen,doomed courage.
"Daelion Fatemaster wept!" the Mad Prophet ground out. "Formerciful sense, turn back."
For one hagridden moment, dogged by the leaping surge of theflames, Arithon raked and measured the backs of the crowdranged against him. They were fifty against one: the curs circlingthe fringes in whining excitement; the knots of weeping women;and the glassmonger's burly craftsmen, bare arms and furrowedforeheads ruddied by the heat. They still wore hide apronssmeared with ash and the singe prints of cinders, while the rodsand tongs of their trade hung cool between idle fists. Beyondthem, drawn in from the plow, farmsteaders watched with theirdroves of barefoot children, the clappers to scare the wild birdsfrom the seed grain clenched silent in slender fingers; next thehands from the mill, blanched head to toe with musty flour; thenthe grandames and old men, stoic as aged oak with the soldiersbetween them, impassive in their white-and-gold cloaks andprideful, expressionless faces.
All eyes tracked the fire, braiding hot tongues of carnelianthroughthe snagged heap of faggots. In horror, in macabre, slack curiosity,the manifest presence of death held them riveted. The free singer writhednow for their sick fascination. His suffering became a spectacle,sup­ple hands rammed taut in steel bonds, all the gifted splendor of his 
391 
 voice broken hoarse as the inevitable, blistering pain crackedthroughits fallible timbre. Arithon's survey touched last on the crown's high official, hisbril­liance sullied by the risen smoke of his sacrifice, and hisrighteous­ness backed by the helmed ranks of his retinue.
Lord Examiner Vorrice sat enthroned on a plank propped acrossthe clouded bricks that were pigs of raw glass, stacked ready forexport to town craftshops. He wore the sunwheel of vested authoritywith an unswerving dedication, his jowls shaven, and his fleshy ~mouth tucked like pleats basted into raw silk. His view was untram­meled as the slight, dark-haired Masterbard broke his stance andstepped forward, voice raised and soaring in song.
Th~ vcr~ und m~lody in ~r~ a cappella were the same ones per­formed long ago for Halliron's widow at Innish.
Dakar heard the words, mute. He sensed the true notes spin theirharmonic magic. This was the appeal that Arithon's dead master hadwritten for his art, a plea for mercy and a cry for understandingfrom a family abandoned through the demands imposed by his talent. Inan expression of distilled pain, Halliron had claimed freedom topledge his life to the immortal tradition of music.
Flattened against the glass shed, Dakar felt the first lines stabthrough him, whetted to a lance of bright power. Stripped of accom­paniment, Arithon's voice became a honed weapon. The spare, severehandling of each flowing lyric came tempered to unassailable force.Another step, a second verse; song unstrung every tie of resistanceand stormed the floodgates of emotion.
Arithon crossed the beaten earth of the commons. Through the rip­tide of release as his powers reached resonance, his directive heldtrue: to captivate, then to bind, through a suspension ofirresistible beauty. On his makeshift dais, the Lord High Examiner's pouchedchin jerked in startlement. Below him, heads turned, those hatlessand wind tangled and bald, and others in gold-blazoned helms. Thenthe bard who demanded in naked, clean song reached their midst.
He would be recognized. The yelping cur silenced. Humanitypaused, pierced through by a masterbard's construct of absolute,unalloyed sorrow.
A figure alone, Arithon parted them. His nerve stayed as iron.Above the evil crack of caught flame, his melody unreeled, simpleand fine as poured water.
The sea breeze now wafted a sickening stink of singed flesh.
Sheltered, still safe, Dakar laced his hands over the clench inhis gut. "Ath, merciful Ath." 
392 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 Nearest to the pyre, Arithon s'Ffalenn must endure through thereek of the fumes. His concentration must not waver. Pitch and syn­tax must cleave to perfection, even through the ugly, shudderingmoan as the victim's gray head thrashed to the first nip of agony.
The bard's step trod its measure, nerveless, detached. His voice
did not quaver. Each sustained note razored out in true pitch, harmonyand word interlaced to create one matchless tapestry. Power as wideas new morning forced the horror at bay; drew each of the onlookerssingly and turned them. Pitted against time, and the fire's cruel
lead,Arithon s'Ffalenn weaned the watchers away from their morbid fasci­nation. He thralled them to his art with spellbinding clarity. Eachstep, each staid beat, he must be aware: once Felirin gave way to afull-throated scream, his effort would be shattered wholesale.
The enchantment he fashioned was founded on nothing beyond afugitive brilliance of sound.Second to second, he fused his art's focus. His will, his voice,
his irrefutable bearing netted guards and bystanders, and held them inrooted attention. Dakar watched them, terrified, aware of the flaw
in the odds; his heart skipped for cold knowledge that one whelmingdissonance would splash those superb ties of empathy to ruins.
All eyes tracked the bard, now, except for one rheumy, bentgrand­mother.
 "Damn her, she's deaf," Dakar whispered through the unbidden,salt taste of tears. Sweat dripped through his beard. His lungs feltstrapped in lead. The thud of each heartbeat slammed hammer toanvil against the locked bone of his sternum.
Arithon threw back his head. Face tipped to sky, he hurled all hewas into the song's final verse.The talent he commanded ran through him like light, and snatchedthe stilled air into feeling.
Nothing moved but the flames. Dakar, himself paralyzed, feltmage-sense cry warning. Such winding power as this could not beindefinitely sustained. The tension had climbed to the threshold ofperil, with each listener poised like blown bubbles of glass that thefirst jarring tap must collapse.
Then, at last, elbowed by the wizened grandfather at her side,the recalcitrant old woman turned her head. "Now!" Dakar whispered. "Arithon, you have them, act now.t"Immersed mind and heart in the throes of his art, his audience net­ted like fish, the bard freed his hands from the cloak. Dakar croakedthe ritual word of release; and the sketched charcoal runes to bindfire laid into Arithon's palms raised their element to primal awareness. 
 ~,~',x~,'~'-,~,,~,While all eyes were averted, an unnaturaland smothered the flames on the pyre. Felirin broke into choking, hysterical sobs.
Throughout, the descending beat of sung melody nevermissed precise rhythm. Each note rang true, each wordplace to hold the disparate bystanders enthralled. In timingthe fine hairs at the neck, Arithon s'Ffalenn reached the dais.stopped. He hurled down his falling, last line like a gauntlet; and
fell silent at the feet of the crown's Lord Examiner. In the aboT-m~,e of art, the tmchartged voice of nature groundas a shock on the ears. Past the ramshackle eaves of the craft sheds, surf slammed andhissed over unyielding sand. The racketing creak of the mill'sturningvanes, and the shrill calls of gulls grated on dream-wakened
nerxes. Against that structureless absence of melody, Felirin's wi~i~npersstruck like a whiplash of shame.
Through the riveted focus cauterized by his art, Arithons't~'tal~,nnaddressed the robed man on the dais. "What is a song, or a wo~'dbrita thought given wing? A man should not burn for expression ~,!
id~.as. The sentence passed here offers frightening precedents. tit-l~asforthright speech become one and the same thing, to be tr~,.~t as adeed that caused harm? Do we allow you to end a man's life ~~ ~
tire because you disagree with his music?"
"That's rank impertinence!" Vorrice leaned forward, t~r~. '~:~draised to summon his guardsmen, and the knuckles of tt~t ,~thersplayed over the pristine lap of his robe. "This was a crown try. ~~
held under seal of the realm's lawful regent." His tight, narrowe~~ ~'vesrefused the appeal, and his brows clumped above his wedged nos­trils. "I see no grounds for any commoner to intervene with the
works of Prince Lysaer's justice."
Arithon stood his ground, arms lightly crossed beneath the capedshoulders of the drover's cloak. "I'm Athera's titled Masterbard,affirming the law of the land and a free singer's right, as you see."Chiseled, imperious, yet in the crowd's sympathy through the spelledmeshes tied by his song, he cracked a command to the guards. "Youthere! Unshackle the minstrel you have wronged. He's no felon, butthe victim of injustice."
The ploy almost worked. Two soldiers broke ranks in reflexiveobe­dience. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 Vorrice surged to his feet. "Hold hard! Are we half-witted dupes
to jump for the first softhearted meddler who speaks?" To Arithon, heshouted, "You presume far too much!" The snap of his rage reorderedhis guardsmen, and a murmur arose, as one, then another of thebystanders awakened to the fact that the flames in the pyre had
extin­guished."There's sorcery here, sure as the mother who bore me," someonecried.
 Farmhands and craftsmen made signs against evil, while matronssnatched their children and hustled them to safety inside the craftsheds and cottages.
Dakar ripped out an oath, while fear stirred a palpable currentthrough the gathering. The unarmed onlookers crowded a step back,while first one, then another guard's sword sang from their sheaths.They advanced, bristling; not to un!eck shackles, but to hem Arithons'Ffalenn inside a nervous circle of steel.
 "You mistake what you see," Vorrice said, his confidence oiled bythe shielding ranks of his guardsmen. He smoothed a wrinkle fromhis robe and explained in condescending forbearance, "Felirin doesnot burn as a singer. He stands duly sentenced as the minion of theMaster of Shadow. As such, every man must agree, he poses gravedanger to all of us. No masterbard's privilege can excuse those whoside with the Spinner of Darkness. Such license would lead us toruin. My given office, by the seal of this realm, is to rout out hiddenser­vants of evil. You could be one of them. Tell me your name."
"Tell me yours, instead, puppet!" A brazen contempt sharpenedArithon's voice, clear over the crowd's stirring murmurs behind him."Or do you not wear another man's gloves, and parrot another man'slies to give yourself airs and importance? Show these people here youcan think for yourself. Or take my promise, you'll have a satire thefive kingdoms won't readily forget!"
"Remove him!" snapped Vorrice. "He has upset proceedings."
The guardsmen pressed in, hampered. They were many rangedagainst one, without proper space to wield arms. Dakar watchedthem close in, racked by agonized helplessness. Like the stag men­aced by the jaws of a wolf pack, their quarry must know: the leaststep in retreat would trigger aggression against him.
Arithon's feet shifted stance beneath the cloak as he answered in searing, soft mockery. "A contest of force cannot make your causeright. You're a misled zealot, or else hopelessly stupid."
Vorrice bristled. "Should I care what you think?" Gold braidflashed at his cuff as he snapped knobby fingers at his guardcaptain. 
395 
JANNY ~URTS 

"Clap him in irons! He'll share the minstrel's pyre. Let him die inanonymity. The mother who named him won't even weep when thesea wind has scattered his ashes."
 "But his mother didn't name him," a gruff, broken voice cut in."No," Dakar groaned.
Forgotten at the stake, sick and bewildered from inhaled smokeand the blistering pain of burned legs, the condemned minstrelcleared his throat and spoke out. "You don't know whom youaddress?"
 Felirin raised his smudged face and laughed in dazed triumph forthe fact he still breathed, singed and degraded, but graced with anunlooked-for protector. "You face the Master of Shadow himself,called Arithon by his maternal grandfather. And burn him? Just try!With my own eyes, in Tornir Peaks, I once saw his birth gift quenchthe fires spat from the jaws of a Khadrim."
Arithon's shout pealed through the crowd's shocked astonishment."Fool!" he cried to Vorrice. As though he were not cornered, norhelp­lessly outmatched, he surged ahead, seized the towering mistake ofFelirin's loose tongue as a tactic of raw desperation. "Did you thinkyoucould threaten a sorcerer's minion with a mere ten guardsmen todefend you?"
He hurled off the cloak. The scream of black steel drawn from his sheath came entwined with a soundless descent of pure darkness.Then that seamless, unnatural night burst in turn, smashed asun­der by unbridled light.
The guardsman singled out as Arithon's first target reeled backas the runes in the longsword, Alithiel, flared into white mage-fire injust cause of Felirin's defense. The Paravian blade in a masterbard'shand could not but welcome a free singer's right to disseminatetruth,clothed in the fine art of music.
 Its cry of bright power sheared the air into recoil.
Undone by terror before blows could be struck, the sunwheel sol­dier fled. Behind the glass house, Dakar dropped prone as theuntamed chord which had first Named the winter stars knifed through the ramshackle hamlet.
Seared blind by fierce light, struck deaf by a peon of resoundingcelebration, every man ranged against Arithon s'Ffalenn lost his willto attack. Thought faltered and stopped. Grand harmony grown toorefined to endure held them rooted, until mortal spirit longed toescape the bounds of its own living flesh. Onlookers unmanned bysheer splendor broke down and wept for a rapture too mighty for rea­son to encompass, and for a beauty too sharp for the clay of earth­bound senses. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 The enchantment built to a shattering crescendo. Reduced to
shrill screams, Vorrice cowered on the dais. His less fortunate guards lostwits to flee as the land itself woke in reply. The ground shook to
that spiraling resonance of celebration. Dust flew as the wild windssprang aloft, to spin the arch of the sky into ecstasy. Caught in
the breech, man's works became winnowed like so much chaff set to theflail.
 The glass pigs whined into crystalline cracks. First one, thenanother of them sheared through and collapsed to a sleeting slide ofwhite fragments. The crown's Lord Examiner toppled from skewedplanks and landed, raked bloody and weeping. None heard his dis­tress. Any whose feelings had maligned Felirin became trapped in thewell of raised force from the sword.
 Deadwood burst new leaves. Forged metal heated in sympatheticvibration, until swords and armor racked apart into smashed linksand tinseled shards. Within heartbeats, the prostrate, stupefiedguardstood stripped to the shreds of their gambesons.
At the apex of power, charged head to foot by a wave of unbridledjoy, Arithon s'Ffalenn cried aloud. Athera's titled Masterbard, soundwas his element. Ceded a cresting tide of roused earthforce, herequired no mage-sight to apply the fine dictates of his training.
Dakar thrust to his feet, prepared for the outcome. TheTeir's'Ffalenn had accomplished much the same feat before, when anaccident of song had unleashed the grand mysteries during a summersolstice in Jaelot.
 Arithon raised his schooled voice. Merged with the harmoniesfired by the sword, he sang the exacting resonance to wake steel. Thebolts snapped in Felirin's fetters. Chain and shackles clanged free.Limned in the glare of the Paravian guard spell Arithon kicked asidesmoking bundles of faggots. Cinders whirled, sullen, in his wake ashe reached the dazed singer and shouldered the man's failing weight.
"Run!" he implored.
In his hand, the sword passed through its crescendo. The sheetingflare off the runes bled from white to silver, then sank, sparklinginto subliminal haze. While Arithon spun shadow to confuse their escape,Dakar reached his side, hands outthrust to stave off Felirin'scollapse.
He said, urgent, "You don't have to walk far, we have horses."Together, he and Arithon hauled the singer away from the charredbundles of faggots. Drunken flight carried them through the dazedguardsmen. They wove past the stacked saltwort, and ducked underthe eaves of the craft shed, to explosions of fragmenting glassware
as the sword's diminished vibration unleashed fresh destruction inside. 
J~N. WUR~$
 To Arithon, in horrified admiration, Dakar gasped, "Ath preserve!If you planned this, you know you've just handed Lysaer's Allianceall the fighting cause they need to raise the whole countrysidea~ai~st yOU."
Running as though traced in a frozen strobe of lightning, Aritl~0n stung back in dry irony, "That's presupposing we manage to surx i~'ethe next hour. Once that examiner and his guard find their x~'~ts,they'll be at our heels like fell vengeance." 
398 Spring 5653 
Parchment and Seal 
Nine years into crowned rule, King Eldir of Havish still bore theweight of royal office like the encumbrance of effete finery drapedon the shoulders of a laborer. His blunt nose, square face, and bluffman­ner were misleading. More than his high council and his guild minis­ters had been fooled into believing they could intrigue as theypleased, masked in deferent manners and false honesty. When theshrewdest of them all, the Lord Mayor of Westcliff, took a hard fallin his effort to thwart the disbanding of the headhunters' leagues, theking was barely eighteen, still fresh from his Fellowship coronation,and nicked with scabs from inept first acquaintance with a razor.
By the hour of his Grace's twenty-first birthday, those titledoffi­cials left standing knew not to regard the Westcliff affray as a slipof poor luck or chance accident. By main strength and hard wits, hisGrace of Havish had routed the most entrenched town policies fromtheir bloodletting feud against clansmen.
At the age of twenty-six, the realm remained in firm hand, withthe Second Age site at Telmandir crawling with stonemasons working tolift tumbled walls out of ruin. If Eldir still donned his state jewelswith reluctant, stiff-shouldered forbearance, only those outsideambassadors who were deaf to advice misread his farmbred appear­ance. Even in private conference with a Sorcerer, his p~at brown eyesstayed disarmingly direct. His hands, square and blunt, rested atease. Beneath them, the inked script of state parchments unfurledacross the battered deal planks which served as his council-halltable. 
JANN. WURT$
 "Choose your stance firmly," said Sethvir of Althain, perchedopp0­site. His woodsprite's face peered out in concern from a wren's nestof tangled white hair. Shadowed by the gloom under soot-darkenedceiling vaults, he seemed a bundle of discarded maroon velvet,crossed legs tucked up like a child's in the ostentatious gilt chairEldir kept at hand to mollify disputing merchants. His inquisitive fingerstraced the earthenware mug nestled askew in his lap as he added,pity the need that makes this step necessary, and I warn, what peaceyou buy will be temporary."
Without visible emotion, the king snapped his fingers to histary, then accepted the waiting, dipped quill. He jagged theloops of his signature as if the act by itself framed defiance. intr~~th~ no foot'rag for compromise existed. The ban on slave labor ~~',~ apoint of charter law, held in faith by the Fellowship Sorcerers'compact with the Pararians.
"Since I don't plan to abdicate, pity has no place." Eldir'sregard rested back on Sethvir. "I won't have my edict againstdefied. Nor will I see my harbormasters tempted with bribe~beguile them to treason, or bend them to the whim of Tysan'spolitics for the sake of a shipping guild's profits." The king's eye­brows knitted in distasteful memory of the death sentenceenacted against three high-ranking offenders. "My relations witl~Prince Lysaer are already strained over principle. Well then, my portmagistrates need waste no more trials collaring the scoundrelsmeddle in the breech."
 If Prince Lysaer's guilds pursued trade with the cities of H;~,.they would ply the king's coast in galleys rowed by free crews.
The pen was passed back. The efficient, mousy secretary had ~,~already heated, Havish's great seal and scarlet ribbons prepared tro~long habit as the royal fingers snapped again.
Eldir impressed the realm's blazon, the formality of his wordsodds with his gesture as he skated the parchment across the wor~'trestle to Sethvir. "As King of Havish, sanction is asked withsealed intent. This day I request Fellowship assistance to enforcerealm's charter, bound to me by oath from my line's founding ance~.for, Bwin Evoc s'Lornmein."
"By your leave." The Sorcerer traced an apparently negligent fin­ger over the wafer of warmed wax. His gaze stayed fixed on the othe~hand, aimlessly rolling his mug to and fro, while his drifty regar~~seemed absorbed by the shifting, whorled patterns sluiced throug)~the grounds by the dregs.
King Eldir knew better. Moment to moment, immersed in the 
400 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 world's multiplicity of events, Sethvir tracked the life threads ofmen,and sparrows, and flies. On that one second's effortless thought,
his consciousness unriddled a chain of disturbance that whipped thes0uthcoast of Korias to a burst of unseasonal activity.
His far-flung awareness sensed three riders in flight, two of
them unwell; and a storm brewing; and the shouts of post riders dis­patched at speed to raise Alliance guardsmen from Middlecross. Inthe immediate quiet of the king's patient presence, magecraftbloomed under the Sorcerer's touch. A star of etched light flared
over the fresh wax. Deft, precise, Sethvir traced a circle of glyphs.Spellsstitched the air like the indelible glitter of foil ribbon. When he
lifted his hand, the cipher remained, a fiery imprint cast across the royalblazon to seal promise of a Fellowship binding.
"Post fair warning," he murmured, while untold miles to the
north, a gray palfrey stumbled and her rider whimpered in pain.
Speech maintained his divided train of thought. "In thirty days'

time,Traithe will travel your coastline to raise an enchained spell of
prox­imity. When his work stands complete, any galley to raise sight ofHavish's shores will have no fettered oarsmen, on peril of
Fellowshipintervention. Every man set in manacles or kept under duress willhave his steel struck by cold sorcery. Slave convicts go free, with
their captains and crews to be held at the mercy of crown justice.""And the ships?" the King asked. "They'll remain tagged withbanespells?"
Sethvir shifted, his half-lidded gaze rinsed the lucent turquoiseof a sky-caught imprint in a rain puddle. His distracted reply whisperedechoes across the lofty expanse of the hall. "Impound them. Or setthem afire as you please, though they'll float without hindrance fora paid crew."
Outdoors, the sun emerged from a cloud. Barred light streamedthrough the west bank of lancet windows, hazed with airborne dust.The sliced edge of the mote crossed the Sorcerer's bent knee. Againstthe lit flare of wine-colored velvet, his hand clamped into a fist.
"Trouble?" asked King Eldir.
"Not yet." Seconds passed, while the secretary fidgeted andSethvir's pixie features retreated into the semblance of dodderingblankness.
 A dutiful page boy poised by the doors rushed a step to rescuethe tea mug, in danger of upset amid the folds of the Warden's robe.
The king's quelling gesture deflected the kindness. "Let be, lad."A minute trickled by, elusive as the fall of sand grains sievedthrough an hourglass. Then Sethvir blinked, stirred, and linked 
]ANNY WURTS 
crooked knuckles through the rumpled fall of his cuffs. He flashed aconspirator's wink to the page and rescued the canted mug himself."A trip to the kitchen would not be amiss. Could you bring back afresh pot of tea?"
His pert smile saw the boy off on his errand, yet the glance hebestowed back on King Eldir stayed as lapsed into distance as a fog-bank. "Merciful maker," he grumbled. "If I'm overtaxed by any onething, it's intransigent princes who run amok without the saving badgrace of planting even one bastard on a tavern wench. When youmarry next week, grant our Fellowship a boon. Breed up a clutch ofroyal heirs."
A cough as rich as aged oak escaped Eldir's sturdy palm. "Dare Iguess?" Orfiy one other ch'fidless scion in/Mh~ ,~so~e,,~a~gbis,ofamily line. "Is Arithon being difficult again?"
Sethvir raised miffed eyebrows. "That sort of indulgence wouldbe blessed relief where the Teir's'Ffalenn is concerned, well you knowas much." King Eldir curled his knuckles against his lips to nip hisimpoliticlaughter. One disruptive visit to his court had been enough;
Rathain's prince had countered Tysan's public campaign of eradication througha volatile mix of unlawful conniving and a devilish bent for playingunconscionable stakes. No matter that Havish stayed neutral throughthe feud sown by Desh-thiere's curse. All spring, the dockside atOstermere had seethed with bold talk concerning the rigged shipsdisappeared from their Riverton launchings. If rumor held truth, themarauding crews included disaffected clansmen from Tysan.
Since no mind might fathom the full scope of Arithon's design,
the King of Havish asked outright, "What's Rathain's prince done thistime?"
 Sethvir blinked. "Raised a hue and cry that has every crown­commissioned guard in south Korias lathering good horses to kill
him." He scowled into space, while the reflexive span of his

conscious­ness mapped the speed and direction of more than one far-distant setof hoofbeats. Then his branching thoughts riffled like cards through
a player's deck, testing the probable offshoots of consequence.
Amid myriad moments of unformed possibility, one stood forth, adiamond-clear crossroads of movement and intent pared to the fixededge of destiny: in three days' time, guardsmen under a Hanshire
captainnamed Sulfin Evend would close upon the three fugitives. The spells
of illu­sion and misdirection the Mad Prophet spun to evade them would fail,because in the past, their commander had studied with the boy wards
of the Koriathain. He understood very clearly how spellcraft could upsetthe hierar­
chy of politicaito confront the The King cAlthain's ~ wind array ~would come to 
Under the ligh~
cast the constr~ 
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him catalog .
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FUGITIVE PRINCE 
chy of political power. The grown man had sworn his sword to theAlliance to confront the source of that fear.
 The King of Havish said something.
Althain's Warden replied, his m'md still enmeshed with the whirl­wind array of unborn happenstance: when Dakar the Mad Prophetwould come to scribe a distress rune in blood upon the surface of astone. Under the light of a chilly, gray dawn, he would dry the figureinflame, thencast the construct into a streamlet. At the hour his appeal for helpreached the Fellowship, time would be too short to act.
Sethvir shifted the arc of his thoughts. A fraction of an
instant let him catalog what resource he might call to hand. Though his powersas a Fellowship Sorcerer were overwhelm~mgly sufficient to effectcomplete rescue then and there, he would not, must not, do other
than allow the threatened parties to act to save themselves. The reprieve
he had won from a past outside of Athera's historical record stillhaunted; still seared his waking awareness. A stock of experience
too bitter to endure had stamped its mark of immutable truth.By the Law of the Major Balance, his Fellowship could not usedirect force to intervene without unseating the course of theworld's destiny.The audience with King Eldir suffered a small lapse as the
grievouspain of past losses weighed on the Sorcerer's heart. He was not com­placent. Once, before drake-dream had snatched the Fellowship ofSeven to Athera, he and his colleagues had enacted their will for a 
 cause. They had paid for their meddling with appalling conse­quences. He could not but ache before the chill wisdom that forDesh­thiere's curse, his Fellowship must resist the temptation to relivethe same choices again.By the compact's clear terms, their powers were sworn to
preservethe Paravian mysteries; mankind might accept steering counsel andassistance on request, but the ultimate course of humanity's
survival must be shaped through self-will and free choice. "Your tea has arrived," King Eldir prompted.Sethvir looked up, found a smile for the page, then exhumed hismug from the folds of his robe and set it upright on the table. Worn
as he was, and tested by conscience, his gnarled grip held no palsy.Through the interval while a royal servant refreshed his cup, the
Sor­cerer unreeled his considered response in the form of three directappeals.
A call arrowed out to touch Asandir, just ridden the breadth oftysan to test the new patterns of prejudice fanned by Lysaer's cam­paign to repress mage talent.

 A second tracer flagged down Kharadmon, on watch amid
grand ward against a cold backdrop of stars; and tied in a
the brewing spring storm in Athera's arctic latitudes.

A third touch raised the awareness of a patriarch tree,and twice seared by lightning, and exchanged a pact of permission.
One last vectored inquiry mapped cause and effect, andtheir impact on the future. Sethvir foresaw no trend ofunderstanding arise out of Arithon's brash rescue of Felirin. The~mer would bring on more trials, more burnings, morerecruits led to enlist by unsettled fears and strained politics.
The spi­raling trend of Prince Lysaer's maligned belief would gain heatedimpetus, fresh spark to the trend which drew men to embrace thecause of the Alliance of Light.
Misunderstanding of a sword's gifted powers served only to
ignitea new wave of fear. The price of Fellowship assistance as alwaystouched off wider ramifications.
 Sethvir sought prosaic comfort from his mug of scalding tea.When he raised his tormented ~aze to EldJr. he offered his sorrowful for~ cast, "Very soon you will be pressured to take sides on the issue ofpracticing sorcery. The mage talented will come seeking refuge withinyour borders before the advent of summer solstice."
"There's no decision to be made," Eldir said, his strong handsreaching to gather up the spelled parchment. "Tysan's burnings areunjust. The condemned are not criminals." For the scion of a linerenowned for mild pragmatism, he finished in vehement force. "Mycrown is a mockery if Havish can't provide them with sanctuary.We've already spoken for the refugees who flee Tysan's persecutionof the clanborn."
 Sethvir touched his crabbed fingertips against his closedeyelids.Shadowed by the finials of the massive gilt chair, he could have beenmistaken for an arthritic grandfather, mantied in velvets too volumi­nous for their framework of brittle, aged bones. His voice was sub­dued as he tendered the only bright truth he could offer. "YourGrace, because of your mercy, more than one irreplaceable clan bloodlinewill be saved. That could be the one act to salvage the balance onthe hour when the Paravians choose to return."
 The spin of the Fatemaster's Wheel meantime would scarcely stopfor a platitude. The Sorcerer diffused his attention back into frag­mented awareness; while far off to the north, amid the hummockedland­scape of Mainmere's ruined keeps, Asandir drew rein, wheeled hisstallion,and sent it thundering back down the road he had just traversedthroughCaithwood. Elsewhere, a storm gained intensity; a battered treeconsented to 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 the hour of its death; and the Hanshire captain named Sulfin Evendclattered
 into a Middlecross posthouse, shouting for provisions andremounts with a ~! zeal the laziest horseboy must attend.
Beyond these small happenings, hazed into momentous event withthe passage of years; snicked warp through weft with the turn ofsea­sons, and the fall of changed leaves, and the byplay of iyats,
Sethvir
 saw sunwheel priests raise vast armies, to carpet the summer land­
scape. Rank upon rank crossed the Lanshire border to bring Lysaer's
cause by fire and by sword into the Kingdom of Havish.
Unwilling to dwell uFo~ the so~o~,s Des~-t~ere's curse might
inflict on the future, he immersed himself in particulars. "Please
extend to your bride my Fellowship's profound regret," he said. "Due
to an unforeseen difficulty, Asandir will be late for your wedding."
"No matter." King Eldir arose, staid as plain granite against thestitched silk of a tapestry. He thrust the rolled parchment under hisarm and returned his rare, even smile. "We won't see hurt feelings.Every city mayor and guild minister your colleague shamed intocompliance for my coronation will more likely be silly with relief.They've complained in the past that Asandir's scrutiny just makesthem sweat rings through their expensive brocades."
But Sethvir sensed how the lightness was forced. He and Havish'sking matched an agonized glance of understanding.
Then Althain's Warden clasped the royal wrist. "Trust your heart,your Grace. Your decisions today have been fitting and right."
No longer did the Sorcerer seem aged, or careworn unto fragility.His myopic air of fuddled inattention could not mask what he was: aspirit annealed to unassailable strength through a past few otherswould survive. He owned the endurance to brave trials yet to come,and King Eldir s'Lornmein was too wise to stay blind to consequence:the impact of the day's event would not happen in his reign, but mustfall like a blow upon the shoulders of his unborn descendants. 
405 Spring 5653 
Impasse 
Days later, shivering in the predawn chill of the Korias flats, Dakarthe Mad Prophet licked blood from a nicked thumb and cast hisstone construct into the shallow current of a streamlet. He ached from the soles of his mud-spattered boots to the uncombed crown ofhis head. His vision held the treacherous shimmer brought on byoverstrained hours of mage-sight. He linked pudgy hands andstretched a kink from his back, then swore aloud for the misery thatthe landscape offered dim prospects for a trio of fugitives. Drivenoff the coast road, a rider could find himself mazed amid farmsteads,with their yapping dogs and screaming geese, and where treacher­ous stands of pasture fencing could yield up angry bulls or lethaldelays spent backtracking from unexpected cul-de-sacs. The low rollof the fields carried sound far too clearly, and extended visibilityfor miles. Those expanses too thin for tillage or grazing formed a vast,washed floodplain of poor, stony sand, patched over with scrub toosparse to mask fleeing hoofprints.
Huddled amid a witch-hazel thicket wadded with morning fog,the horses nosed the ground for straggling shoots of sawgrass, earslimp and coats matted into dry whorls of sweat. Felirin could dolittle to tend them. Salt leached into the raw burns on his hands, thoughevery plain shirt in his saddlebag had been torn up at need to makedressings. Arithon had packed the worst blisters and weals with bur­dock sprouts beaten in egg whites before he himself had succumbedto his backlash. The inevitable penalty he must pay for channeling 
406 
 FUGITIVE I~RIN~E 

unrefined earth powers with his mage talent blinded left him drainednear to incapacity.
Prone amid the stripped saddles with his head cradled on hislocked arms, he made small complaint, though the tight-lippedexpression he wore when he moved told Dakar how deeply he suf­fered. Nor had the sorrows inflicted at Riverton been lifted by hiskeeping good faith with his charged duty as Masterbard. Like snagsin deep current, that unseen despondency leeched him, ebbing hisreserves without letup. He needed henbane tea and a bed warmedwith stones to ease the spasms which racked him. But sunwheelguardsmen searched door-to-door. Farmwives would sell him to hisenemies out of fear before they would offer him shelter.
Faint go~ck Ym~se6 ~/n~ d~ogge~, misty air. The fog was startingto thin. Dakar clutched his ribs to suppress a chill, aware that thethicket provided inadequate shelter. The mists would lift in less than anhour,leaving horses and riders a sitting target for the oncoming Alliancepatrol.
The mare chose that moment to fling up her head and whinny adeafenixt. g inquiry. Dakar swore. "Just let the whole world knowwe're here, you worthless bundle of dog meat." He dealt a pebble bythe streamside a temperamental kick.
The stone arced aloft, but the predictable crack of its impactnever happened.
Wary, Dakar glanced up.
Five paces ahead, an inked phantom against mist, a black horseand cloaked rider confronted him, their approach uncannily silent.Even the clang of shod hooves on rinsed rocks failed to raisetelltale clatters. The horse halted, meeting Dakar's sharp start with prickedears, but no trace of a shy. A ghost eye gleamed like frosted glassthrough the veils of dawn mist. Under a dark mantle, the riderstirred. A hand unfurled from a gray-banded sleeve, and let theabused pebble drop to the streambed with a murmured phrase ofapology.
"You!" Dakar cried. "Did you have to scare a hunted man out ofhis living skin?"The Sorcerer Asandir inclined his head in reproof, his regard onthe spellbinder's thumb. "You did send a summons."Dakar glanced down, caught aback, then closed shaking fingersover his still bleeding cut. "We need help," he admitted. "I've
scried
 warning. The patrol I can't shake will close in by noon. If Sethvir
doesn't already know, Earl Jieret's had Sight of a public execution,the
 condemned man being Prince Arithon." 
~ANNY ~URTS

 Asandir sat the black stud, patient, but without speech.The Mad Prophet flushed slowly crimson. "I ask for Arithon'ssur­vival," he defended.
The Sorcerer touched the black's neck, soothing it from stamping
off the midges which swarmed at its mud-spattered fetlocks.
"Arithon suffers backlash, yes? As well he should expect from his
prior experience, when he raised the Paravian mysteries at Jaelot."
"You won't see him?" Dakar demanded.
 "He has not asked." The Sorcerer touched his horse again, and asif language had passed between master and beast, the stud backed ahalf step and wheeled to go. While Dakar stood, helpless, his bleed­ing hand clenched to a frustrated fist, the hooded head turned.Silver eyes met his, and one bristled brow tipped up. "How you'vechanged," Asandir commented. "I should have expected at least animpertinent question demanding to know where I'm bound."
One moment; two; the birdsong rang loud through the thicket, andthe horse stamped. Asandir gave him rein, and nearly too late, Dakarcaught the drift of abstruse insinuation.
"Wait!" He surged forward, hopeful, while the stud snorted hisannoyance at being checked back to a halt. "Where are you bound?"
Asandir glanced over his shoulder, his mien like graven flint."There's a Paravian grimward northeast, did you know? I will be test­ing its guarding boundary for soundness, and since Luhaine is busy,no one will check on my back trail. A foolhardy traveler might strayinside. Should that happen, the perils are unforgiving."
Well aware he was cued, and blanched to hollow nerves by theimplied suggestion, Dakar recited, "Kill no beast, break no branch orleaf from a living tree, set no fire and remove no twig or pebble."
"Just so." Asandir's smile seemed lit as a shaft of breakingsunlighttouched his mouth underneath his deep hood. "A horse should bemuzzled to stop him from browsing. Let Arithon rest, he'll recover.And bring Felirin with you to Shand. If the friends you have therewon't take him in, Halliron's daughter surely will. She's been lonelyand morose since her mother's death, and the city could use a newstoryteller."
Dakar drew a weak breath to proffer his thanks, but an influx offog surged between. When the air cleared, both horse and Sorcererwere gone with no sound to mark their departure.
"Did you have a successful scrying?" husked a voice at the MadProphet's shoulder.
The spellbinder gave yet another bounding start. "Dharkaron'sblack vengeance!" he hissed to Felirin, crept up on poulticed feet. 
408 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 "Does everyone in creation have to sneak in here and scare me out of
my skin?"
"I'm sorry." The singer padded to a halt, his soiled cloak tuckedaround his shoulders like a blanket. He had always possessed ele­gance, with a handsome, straight nose and cleft chin. Stress made hisprominent bones appear gaunt, and the hair that once spilled inwaterfall waves to his shoulders now clung to his skull, frizzled andsinged like matted wool in the damp. "I thought I heard you saysomething. Wouldn't you rather somebody checked to make sure youweren't lost in a fit of prescient trance?"
The spellbinder focused his discomfort toward his boots, as ifthe hard, stony soil underfoot might sprout untrustworthy sinkholes."I've had guidance from the Fellowship, after a fashion." "And theysaid?" Felirin probed.
"Daelion's bollocks!" The outburst set a meadowlark to flight,but did nothing to lift the Mad Prophet's rumpled scowl as he stompedoff to untie the horses. "We're to lose our pursuit by crossingthrougha grimward."
Felirin blanched. Hazel eyes still inflamed from the pyre showedbloodshot rings of disbelief. "You do know it's said that those sitesguard the sleep of the great drakes. Perhaps the very ones whose truedreams led this world to the brink of destruction before the dawn of the First Age." He slipped a wrapped hand from the layers of hiscloak to discourage a sprig of briar that latched its green thorns ina tassel. "Are those legends true, as the sun was?"
"I never asked," Dakar admitted, his moon face furrowed in dis­tress. "Althain's Warden himself never said. Asandir refused to dis­cuss the grimwards, except to relate they were ceded to Fellowshiptrust when the old races fled from the continent. Ath knows what those circles confine. I could wish we'd never find out."
 Another rolling billow of sea fog shredded itself under sunlight.Bythe time the horses were saddled, the land would be laid nearly bare.
"I hope you like Shand," Dakar finished, the spur of hastedrivinghim breathless. "Because if we escape from the sunwheel guardsmen,there's a very good chance you'll end up there." 
409 Spring 5653 
On the Korias flats at the hour of noon, a headhunter tracker sootheshis cringing hounds and refuses to cross the shimmering light whichframes the boundary of the Paravian grimward; despite all advice tothe contrary, the brash captain from Hanshire swears through histeeth, calls his forty select men, and overrides their quaveringdread to continue pursuit of the Master of Shadow ....
 Three days later, a gale off Stormwell Gulf brings rain and windsthat raze trees like a scythe, and one of those fallen is a patriarchoak which sweeps a sunwheel courier from his saddle; he recovers from asharp blow to the head, forgetful of the tidings which dispatched himto Avenor: that of the riders who followed Sulfin Evend into the Para­vian grimward, nary a one has returned ....
 In the observatory at the Koriani sisterhouse at Capewell, thelast spiraling glimmer of power fades from the grand conjury made totrap Arithon s'Ffalenn; and like old, dried paper, the ancient Primestirs from her coma and opens sealed eyes to the galling discoverythat her quarry has slipped through her net without scathe .... 
410 Late Spring 5653 
XII. Grimward 
' nside the shimmering, mercurial barrier which bounded the Para­vian grimward, the natural progression of time dissolved. Asú spellbinder, Dakar noticed the alarming development when hissubliminal connection to sun, moon, and stars became cut off likesnipped thread. Footsore, exhausted, and snappish from hunger, heshut his eyes and milked his recalcitrant memory. He retained ashamefully sparse store of facts for his years spent in Asandir'stute­lage. What fragments he gleaned could be counted on three fingers,jumbled as trivia between detailed reminiscence of his past trystsand wistful hours spent wenching.
By contrast, each one of his two-silver harlots stood out with ajewel's exotic clarity. The quirk moved him to teeth-grinding worry,that the fragment of lore that might key their survival would stayobscured by the decadent pursuits of his past.
"Well how was a drunk to know what his life might come todepend on?" Dakar snapped to Felirin's sensible inquiry.
Distempered and soaked in cowardly sweat, the Mad Prophetdrummed his heels against his horse and drove its balky stepsthrough the ward's shifting bands of coiled energy. The bard and theShadow Master rode behind him like shadows, the former reduced toa petrified silence, and the latter, too undone to care where hismare's herd instincts might lead him. 
411 
 The Mad Prophet wished in jangled irritation that Arithon's witswere not scattered. This once, the other man's unmerciful perceptionwould have posed an indisputable advantage. For his own part, thespellbinder found such exactitude wearing. Escape into thoughts of alush woman's favors seemed resounding good sense beside the out­right insanity of braving the perils now at hand.
Dakar yanked a wrinkle from the knee of his trousers before hechafed a new saddle sore. He needed no scholar's insight; nothingabout a Paravian grimward would seem canny to human awareness.The location of all seventeen known phenomena might be charted atAlthain Tower, but whole years at a stretch, a man might pass thosemarked sites and encounter no trace of their presence. Through hisfive centuries as a Fellowship apprentice, Dakar could not rememberone time when the Sorcerers did not attend to the grimwards alone.
The protections which turned the inadvertent traveler from a dis­astrous step through their boundaries were laid down with ruthlesspotency. When the seals required adjustment or rebalancing, the taskwas always shouldered by Asandir or Sethvir. Their discorporate cobleagues Kharadmon and Luhaine might sometimes assist from thesidelines by misdirecting strayed game or even the occasional two-legged trespasser, but Dakar retained the distinct impression thatsuch places held consummate danger for any spirit left unshielded bymortal flesh.
 At any cost, a man must not come to die here. Not unless hewished to be struck from the Fatemaster's Wheel for all time. Of all the trials suffered in Prince Arithon's service, this one trod thesurest course to folly.
Dakar tugged a snarl of hair from his mouth, his rude stock ofoaths an inadequate quaver as three muzzled mounts bore his smallparty of fugitives irrevocably into the unknown.
Ten paces ahead, his unsettled senses ripped back into clarity.As if an eyeblink had remade the landscape, the vista ahead showedseared trees and sterile dust, charged in a flat tang of ozone.Currents of wild energy flicked over riled nerves. The Mad Prophet found histeeth set on edge, and his vitals clawed with unease. The interlacedspells which defended this border threw off a debilitating resonance.Leaves shriveled as they unfolded from the bud, and trees becamestunted, shedding skeletons. The blight on the land fed Dakar's dis­quiet; he knew of the Fellowship's aversion to cause harm to anythinggrowing.
Yet in this place, that dearly held tenet had been broken withstark and appalling violence. As if this circle of spelled seals confined 
412 
 wits ptiont, the~ofa out-
e he ling~ess. ~ at
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 his
 her 
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 ~l­le
 )­
it 
FUGITIVE PRINCE
 something unworldly that would not respond to the kindlier magics
wrought out of natural forces.
The air wore the musk of seared earth and dry rot. What skyglim­
mered through the clawed fists of bare branches loured under blank
haze, unblessed by the face of sun or moon.
Dakar attributed the eerie, flat murk to the proximity field ofthe wardspells. He glanced behind. Felirin found courage in lilting
gentle
nonsense to his horse. Arithon had shaken out of his stupor enough
to gaze about. His features might seem as blank as chipped chalk.Yet
 the man who held his intimate trust could unmask that expression
and discern the agonized frustration of a master driven sight-blindto
 mage talent.
"Keep close," Dakar warned. Exhausted as he was, and unfit toride point, the others were plainly in worse state. Felirin's wrappedhands fretted and fumbled to maintain a grip on his reins. If hazardthreatened, Arithon could scarcely stay erect in his saddle. Whichperhaps was as well; Dakar had a nasty stab of intuition that theblack sword, Alithiel, should not be drawn in this place.
Its uncanny, bright power framed too stark a contrast to theshad­owy forces he sensed, laced into queer, subliminal eddies by theblameless stir of their passage.
That disturbed awareness was torn short as his mount balked with a jarring snort. Dakar curbed its rank fear. He peered ahead, wary,then gasped in outright awe.
The sere ground gave way to an expanse of polished granite.Ancient, quarried stone was veined in tangled strata of obsidian andmilk quartz, and incised with grand arcs and figures scribed acrosswith Paravian runes of glowing silver.
"You're wise to be jumpy," Dakar cajoled his timid gelding. "ButI'm the best chance you have to stay breathing. Throw me off, you'llend up as fly meat."
He dug in his heels, to no avail, until Felirin's more willing graythought to pass him. The bay's competitive nature reasserted with abounding start forward. Dakar swore and snatched mane as his horseclattered onto the massive, smoothed block, the mare at its heels,her breath sucked in fast, nervous snorts. The unease of the animals wasjustified. The array underfoot was centaur work, each dressed stonefitted seamlessly into the next with matchless and uncanny precision.The charged coils of power in the joined ciphers made living skinbum and tingle in waves, and threatened a ranging headache.
Dakar could take no measure of their strength. The magic knithere reached beyond mortal senses, mighty as time, as stately as thesteadfast 
JANN. WU~TS

 turn of the earth, and wrought on a scale to strike terrorarmor of knowledge. Through a shrill, singing dizziness, the scounted the eight seals for banishment. His horse skittered overdirectional, six-sided figures for safeguard, matched to thepoints, and vectored above and below. These stood laced throughward after ward of containment. He identified an'alt, thesymbol for infinity, stamped over and over in ribboned light.runes he did not recognize at all, but the force in them struck like
blades of ice through the thick leather boots in his stirrups."I don't think I've ever seen the rune for safe-crossing aligned
with so many ciphers to annul power," observed Arithon, ridden up on hissweat-draggled mare.
Dakar swiveled in surprise. "You can read these?"
"Only some of them. My grandfather's library at Rauven was lim­ited." Arithon frowned through a fallen thatch of hair, more thanweariness making him haunted. "The resonant harmonics I can hearthrough my bard's gift are dissonances, all. Not what I'd call
reassur­ing."
Then, with no warning, the paved expanse ended. The horses crab-stepped off a razed edge in the stone and into a rustling growth offorest. One heartbeat before, no trees had been anywhere in evidence.To the rear, the rune ring had vanished away into shadowed, randomavenues of oaks. The spellbinder took that for an ominous sign. Theguarding sigils at the portal had sealed the way closed behind them.No return course was possible by the path they had entered. Ifanother safe exit to known territory existed, they must endure what­ever perils lay ahead and unriddle the grimward's dire mysteries.
"Ath, where is this place?" Felirin gasped. "No timber of thissize grows on the Korias Flats."
"Well we aren't there anymore," Dakar ripped back, testy as hebludgeoned his upended senses to gain the full use of his mage-sight.
Yet a discipline which should have responded like reflex escapedhis effort entirely. Trained access seemed blocked. He could traceout none of the underlying patterns to this forest's vibrant energies.The too-sharp barrage of his unrefined vision rattled him down to the pitof his vitals. Sight framed an impossible discrepancy. The foliage ofthese giants grew out of phase with the season, cinnabar and giltwith the fireburst palette of autumn. The maples, the beeches, and thecrowned, ancient oaks soared aloft in vaulting splendor.
No such stand of primal forest should exist inside the fiftyleaguesseparating the grimward's location from the old tracts the clans heldin Caithwood. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 Dakar withstood his craven impulse to rein in by tugging his
beard with brisk worry. "We'll need to make time. There's no guaranteewe're not still being pursued, if those guardsmen were fools enoughto follow us."
 But the terrain itself thwarted haste. No paths cut these wilds.While the party of riders ducked vines and low branches, theirmounts picked their way in uneven steps over ground laced withroots like snagged rope, and through hollows where stones weredeceptively quilted in moss deep and lush as a king's robe. Felirinmarveled in monologue under his breath, as though he sought tocommit such strangeness to verse. Arithon curled on his mare'screst, fists crushed to his forehead in pent-back, dazed misery,
leav­ing Dakar to tax his bewildered wits and effectively function asguide.
He soon discovered the impossibility of keeping straight bearingsthrough a grimward. The place was possessed by bewitchingstrangeness. A man might choose an opening between two pillaredoaks, only to find his steps redirected him ten paces further to theleft,and on through a different byway altogether. What passed for sun­light shone a pale, lambent gold, with ruled shafts slanting throughglades of stippled shade. Maintaining a constant sense of directionshould have posed his trail-wise party no difficulty, except theunnerving tricks of the landscape mazed and bemused the aware­ness.
 While Dakar puzzled to unravel the anomaly, Felirin broke off hisongoing composition. "Whatever sort of magery's afflicted oursenses, we seem to be traveling in a circle."
"Spiral," Arithon corrected, half-muffled through folded fingers.His speech seemed almost drunkenly slurred, the inflection lapsedback to the antique dialect of the splinter world of his birth."Don't you hear? A harmonic resonance patterns this existence that guidesthe placement of each footstep."
"What?" Dakar swiveled to stare, startled enough to ignore thebranch which slapped his exposed side. The surprise seemed unfair,that Arithon had observed more than anyone else while apparentlylapsed into a stupor. A tug on the rein stopped his gelding, whilethe Shadow Master's mount followed suit by dumb instinct.
Felltin halted his gray, his plain, honest face charged towonder­ment. "Masterbard," he murmured, "in truth, Halliron's teachingunveiled your true destiny. My life has been spent in devotion tomusic, and yet, my ear can't detect this nuance you speak of."
Sunk as the Shadow Master was in discomfort, his precise sense of 
415 
JANN. WURTS 

language never left him. Caught back in reflective speculation by oneword, Dakar twisted aside to pursue inquiry. "Existence?"
Like a child in creased clothes iogged out of a drea~~~ :\rith0!straightened. He blinked unfocused green eyes. His ha~~i~ ransweat where he changed grip to the saddle out of shamelessstay upright. "Don't say you hadn't noticed the landscape i~ble."
 "Damn you!" Dakar resisted a hysterical laugh. Through tl~c tre~to the right, he had just glimpsed a broad, grassy plain. Beyo~tskyline edged in mountains whose shattered white peaks belong:tedno range in Athera. "Why not use your boot and kick me awake?be eternally grateful."
But this time, the victim was too spent to counter that lameof sarcasm. His painstaking effort to order plain thought bec,~.~uetrial to witness. Felirin politely averted his gaze, whilesought to translate impressions with comprehensible clarity. "Iadd that the earth where your horse treads is anything butground."
"Well, try the next riddle with an answer at the end." TheProphet looped his reins in the crook of one elbow and massagt.,tpounding temples. His balked effort to plumb the phenomel~.~mage-sight had left him high strung and dizzy. "If I didn't kno~'ter, I'd swear my talent's gone blind and dead as your own."
An hour spent immersed in furious thought had left thebinder no whit the wiser. Here, the sparkling energy ties which lacthe very substance of creation did not follow any pattern laidby natural forces. The aberration chewed him hollow with dread,the trees, the moss, the very sun on lit leaves remained dense andsive to mage-sense. Petrified to plumb the extent of his helpless~:~Dakar shrugged. "If I could accept the impossible, I'd say nothin~this place has an aura."
Eyes shut, Arithon snapped off a nod. "You're surprised? Thisity isn't alive by any founding law of Ath's creation."Dakar bridled to hear his foreboding confirmed. "Howeveryou know?"
Too stressed for impatience, Arithon said, "I still have my barear. The vibration of this existence is not myriad, but seems toloomed from one thread." He labored to qualify. "The song ofbeing does not change register, not for a tree, or a rock, or anSince the shadows as well won't answer my gift, I have to presuthey're illusions. The logical end point is scarcely reassuring. We mbe traversing a path through a dream." 
416 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 A chill splashed over Dakar's moist skin. "Save us all, don'tsaythat. If that's true, somewhere there must be a great drake, stillalive and sleeping."
But Arithon had retreated back into dazed silence. The bay mare
bore his suffering weight, hunched and half-senseless in the saddle,
leaving Dakar floundering and alone with his terror.
The warning strictures remonstrated by Asandir posed a fearfularray of hidden pitfalls. Their small party dared not disturb anyaspect of symmetry in this unworldly place. To take even apparentlife, or to strip so much as one green branch would cause a strand ofcontinuity to shift resonance. A balance would change, demandingharsh forfeit, and no power of mercy might spare the offender fromthe fate of that unknown consequence. Whatever fell power enactedthis sphere of illusion must not be aroused to the presence of tres­passers.
"As you love life, walk softly," Dakar entreated, aware the leastact could distress the loomed pattern of integral consciousness surround­ing them.
Their footsteps were now guided by a force of unknown magni­tude, and retreat of any kind was impossible.
Felirin alone retained the brash whimsy to flirt with poeticphras­ing. "Will we or nil we, we're drawn toward the center. I wonderwhat we're going to find?"
"Something Asandir never spoke of, even on his good days." Fedup with the minstrel's feckless temperament, Dakar let fly out ofpique. "Take great care you don't snap any twigs."
For whatever unearthly pocket this grimward carved out, they hadno choice but to grapple its uncanny mystery headlong. 
The first time the apparent season changed, Felirin cried out inshock.
 Dakar gawped and inhaled the frizzled ends of his mustache. Hisperception had not lied. The leafed autumn wood had transformed atone step to the cobalt gloaming of winter twilight. Low, rollinghills lapped away to a snow-clad horizon. Treeless, the crests woremantling drifts like honed cleavers. The wind snarled and gusted.The breath Dakar drew to indulge in rank curses sieved cold likespilled mercury through his lungs.
The forest was gone as if expunged from existence, and the newvista offered no shelter. Too exhausted to bolt, the horses shiveredand stamped, their labored exhalations trailing white plumes againstthe deepening purple of dusk. The stars blazed overhead like chips in 
417 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 
A chill splashed over Dakar's moist skin. "Save us all, don't sayIf that's true, somewhere there must be a great drake, still aliveand sleeping."
But Arithon had retreated back into dazed silence. The bay marebore his suffering weight, hunched and half-senseless in the saddle,leaving Dakar floundering and alone with his terror.
The warning strictures remonstrated by Asandir posed a fearfularray of hidden pitfalls. Their small party dared not disturb any aspect of symmetry in this unworldly place. To take even apparentlife, or to strip so much as one green branch would cause a strand ofcontinuity to shift resonance. A balance would change, demandingharsh forfeit, and no power of mercy might spare the offender fromthe fate of that unknown consequence. Whatever fell power enactedthis sphere of illusion must not be aroused to the presence of tres­passers.
"As you love life, walk softly," Dakar entreated, aware the leastact could distress the loomed pattern of integral consciousness surround­ing them.
Their footsteps were now guided by a force of unknown magni­tude, and retreat of any kind was impossible.
Felirin alone retained the brash whimsy to flirt with poeticphras­ing. "Will we or nil we, we're drawn toward the center. ! wonderwhat we're going to find?"
"Something Asandir never spoke of, even on his good days." Fedup with the minstrel's feckless temperament, Dakar let fly out ofpique. "Take great care you don't snap any twigs."
For whatever unearthly pocket this grimward carved out, they hadno choice but to grapple its uncanny mystery headlong. 
The first time the apparent season changed, Felirin cried out inshock.
 Dakar gawped and inhaled the frizzled ends of his mustache. Hisperception had not lied. The leafed autumn wood had transformed atone step to the cobalt gloaming of winter twilight. Low, rollinghills lapped away to a snow-clad horizon. Treeless, the crests woremantling drifts like honed cleavers. The wind snarled and gusted.The breath Dakar drew to indulge in rank curses sieved cold likespilled mercury through his lungs.
The forest was gone as if expunged from existence, and the newvista offered no shelter. Too exhausted to bolt, the horses shiveredand stamped, their labored exhalations trailing white plumes againstthe deepening purple of dusk. The stars blazed overhead like chips in 
417 
 JANNY WUI~T$ 

black ice. No moon arose to diminish their splendor, nor did thestellarions form any pattern familiar to Athera.
Arithon volunteered his sparse comment through a pause to sharethe brandy the innkeeper's wife had tucked into the provisions in thesaddlebags. "I know this sky. The stars were never so bright, but onDascen Elur, ships' masters navigated by these same constellations."He passed the flask on to Felirin, and added, "I wonder if ourthoughts could be bending the dream?"
"Then you recognize this plain?" Dakar swiped off the icecrystalslodged in his brows, too dispirited to show disappointment as theMaster of Shadow shook his head.
 "This landscape doesn't match my memory of Dascen Elur. Atleast, no landmass encountered by my father's ships seemed thiswretchedly desolate." Arithon's voice seemed leached of all feelingas he qualified. "Even on those barren archipelagoes where familiesmined salt from the silted lagoons, scrub thom grew on the highground."
Worried afresh by the lifeless flatness to the Masterbard'sexpres­sion, Dakar attempted to hold his gaze and measure the depths of hisinternal despair. But Arithon refused even that slight contact, hismouth a taut line of strained nerves.
 The small party pressed on when the brandy was finished. Felirinrode with his eyes shut, lips working, perhaps in a verse from someancient ballad, or in prayer to Ath. Huddled in his singed cloak withboth hands swathed and poulticed, and his pert scarlet tassels shred­ded to threads from unkindly fire and hard usage, he seemed a tatter­demalion beggar left witwandering in the night.
Dakar pondered their changed surroundings, not a bit reassuredthat the sky overhead seemed to match Arithon's recollection. He hadnever thought to ask Althain's Warden whether dragons had flownpast the Worldsend Gates. That fine point might come to matterdearly in the future. If in fact the great drakes had not cached thememory of these far-off stars as a backdrop for their present-daydreams, then trouble would shadow the chances of their mortal sur­vival.
 The danger could not be discounted or ignored, that thisdisjointedframe of existence might prey upon human thoughts, then manifesttheir dark contents. If such linkage occurred, then Arithon'sshattered equilibrium could couple with Felirin's penchant for foolhardy fancyand brew up an unconscionable risk. The chance was too frightening,that the impassioned knots of subconscious pain might weave them­selves into the loom of the uncanny forces that clothed thisalternate ~on-
FUGITIVE 
reality. If so, the unimaginable guilt held in check by a blood oathcould unleash, all unwitting, a murderous, tormented revenge as asubjective nightmare of horrors.
Shaken stark silent, Dakar sketched a sign to avert the illthought,that the grimward's effects might come to magnify Arithon'sdespair. The best-willed intent to repress a death wish might twistfree of constraint and remanifest in this place as a parallel act ofself-punishment.
Through the pound of his heart, Dakar leaned across and spokedirectly to Arithon. "Use your mage training. Wrap your mind intosilence, and don't for a second drop your guard."
The Master of Shadow opened tortured green eyes. "Ath save usall, I've already done so." He cast a weighted glance towardFelirin's turned back.
 For of course, the free minstrel owned no such schooleddisciplineto lock down the unrestrained play of the mind.
Dakar chewed his lip. He knew illicit lore, had knowledge ofsigilsto force the will and bend a man's acts through the use of shearedlines of power Such craft broke the Law of the Major Balance. Eddiesof recoiling damage could backlash on both the victim and wielderYet here in this place, such a safeguard might mean the differencebetween life and death.
 Left cold to the bone by the bent of his thoughts, even grantedthe impetus of a terrible expediency, Dakar startled to the suddenrestraint of a hand on his wrist.
 "Don't, Dakar," said Arithon s'Ffalenn. His shackling grasp didnot loosen. "I thought the same once on the banks of Tal Quorin. Believeme, no stakes are worth such a cost. I've lost direct access to mymagetalent as a penalty, and would give any price in my power to reversethat decision."
 Dakar swallowed, undone by the leveling force of an honesty hecould not match. Nor could he restate the horrid, cold fact, that theharmonious continuity of Athera yet hung on the thread of PrinceArithon's life. "If need warrants, even you cannot stop me," he saidfinally.
The hold on him released in an unspeakable surrender That act,and the numbing silence that followed ran against every tenet of fight inArithon's character. An ominous sign, with no joy in the victory,that Dakar held such sway over a friend whose innate strength had alwaysoutmatched him. "I'll hold my decision," he temporized, to no avail.
The Teir's'Ffalenn had retreated past reach behind the stone maskof his training. 
JANNY WUR?$

 Very quickly after that, all concerns became moot before the rawcruelty of the elements. Gusts bit through every inadequate layer ~clothing. Horses could not withstand such punishing colcl v~\~xx\rations o[ grain and śodder. Half-shed into their sleek summer hair,they were already suffering. Nor did the queer, bending trackthrough the gloaming permit a retreat by retracing their steps intoautumn. Concerned that Arithon and Felirin were left in more fragilecondition than he, Dakar insisted that the pair ride double on thegrayand share the warmth of the drover's cloak between them.
 The small party plowed on, horses laboring chest high throughsifted pockets of snow. Stuffed like a sausage in two of Felirin'scourt-style tunics, Dakar blinked melted snow from his lashes and startledto the clang of shod hooves on rock. The frigid air left his lungs ina gasp as the stars and bleak snowfields all vanished.
The three riders moved now under a sky streaked with dawn,across sands grooved and black as raked basalt. The air held theforge-tang of desert and a flint-dry cloy of fine dust. No birdsflew. The arid vista seemed lifeless as Kathtairr, except for the massive,clawed tracks of a predator which scored the ribbed flank of a dune.
"Seardluin," Dakar whispered through a throat parched to paperby a devastating stab of fresh fear. In Athera, Fellowshipintervention may have battled the monstrous killers to extinction; yet in theshel­tered existence of drake-dream, the creatures would prowl still,their marauding thirst for blood raised to a scale of unimaginable vicious­ness. "If even one catches wind of our horses, we're finished."
Felirin pushed back the limp folds of the drover's hood."Arithon's unconscious," he said softly.
The Mad Prophet vented an explosion of oaths. No telling, now,whether the defenses ingrained in the Shadow Master's mage train­ing might contain the subconscious poison past memories and griefmight engender.
Between blowing on numbed hands and fighting to slip the stiff­ened straps of the buckles on his saddlebags, the Mad Prophet flungback stopgap instructions. "Felirin, pack up that cloak. You may needyour hands free. And we'll have to shift Arithon back onto the mare."
The spellbinder scrounged out two stout pairs of horse hobbles.Focused and made desperate by full awareness that he must safe­guard the body that housed the self-haunted powers of s'Ffalenn con­science, despite the latent potential for disaster that same mindmightseed to envelop them all, Dakar tossed the restraints to Felirin."Tie your Masterbard astride. Don't think of pity. Strap him down fight,or he's lost if we have to gallop." 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 "The horses are spent. We ought to be leading them." Felirin fum­bled with poulticed hands to assist as Dakar directed. Together, theyfastened the stiff leather cuffs around Arithon's wrists and ankles,and bound his slack form to his horse's girth and breast strap.
That grim preventative was scarcely completed when Dakarlooked up. "Dharkaron wept!" A massive, dark shadow slunk sinu­ously into the hollow where they took shelter. He snatched the bard'swrist. "Don't move or breathe."
 Felirin glanced back, aghast. The next moment the three horsesshied sidewards and tore at the reins trying to bolt.
Dakar held on, half-weeping, though both of his hands wereskinned raw. Standing or running, they had no chance at all once themonsters that approached charged to hunt.
There were four of them, coats like rippling sable, and hornedheads burnished to polished gold under the harsh desert sunlight.The powerful, maned shoulders stood high as an ox. The forefeet borefearsome talons. The muzzles extended into jaws with scaled plates,and fangs that were cruelly poisonous. The eyes were pale as pouredoil, and slitted like a snake's. Dakar was aware through the hammerof his pulse that nothing alive looked more lethal. While at large onAthera, Seardluin had outrun the gazelles of Sanpashir, which tookbounding flight like racing shadows over parched grass and flintsands.
 Never had the spellbinder known such blank fright as thatmoment, when the creatures on the dune paused to snuffle the wind,ears pricked to strain out the footfalls of prey. Those wide-set,mean yellow eyes swung and fixed, and seemed to stare right through him.
Then the lead creature howled in a key to bristle the hair andtear a hole through a man's slackened bowels. Slumped on the mare's crest,Arithon groaned.Dakar reached out, pitiless, and muffled the cry with his palm.Then, as if tuned to one thought, the Seardluin moved on, lithe,deadly, and uninterested. They passed not three yards from thehorses, who quivered and dripped sweat in rank fear.
Felirin shrank, shaking, against the damp heat of his gelding."Ath's blessed mercy, I don't think they knew us."
Weak kneed with shock, Dakar resisted the urge to collapse wherehe stood. "We must not be visible to them in this spectrum of dream.If we were, I assure you, we'd be torn limb from limb."
Felirin offered no argument. Once the horses had settled enoughto walk calmly, he remounted and pressed on, trailing the mare whichbore Arithon. From behind, the wind carried a drawn-out howl, then  JANNY WURTS
 the sounds of a snarling fight. Screams that sounded human slic~the baked air, then the drumroll report of hapless horses set toflightsheared through by a chilling clang of steel. ~~ "Hold fast!" Dakar tightened his grip on Arithon's reins,twisted to see over his shoulder.
 Five horsemen burst over the ridge at his back, mounts stretche›a lathered gallop. Down a grade unsuited to headlong flight, theyand skated. Sand caved and gave way beneath panickedAgainst the fierce, copper glare off the dunes, Dakar made outHanshire town blazon sewn on their saddlecloths and surcoats.
 "Felirin!" he cried, tensed to stab heels to his own mount and run. Even here, the Alliance pursuit had overtaken them.Yet even before reflex could spur startled flight, the last
guardsman~cleared the crest, shouting like a madman and driving his horse withthe unsheathed flat of his sword. A grue like the precursor toprophetic sight caused Dakar to hold back raw instinct. He reined
in. While the guardsmen plunged closer, and the sand scarp ripped looselike unraveled knit beneath their destriers' pounding sprint, he
spuna fast cantrip to mask his horse's copycat impulse to bolt.
The stayspell locked down barely in time. Arithon's mount hit therein in a spinning plunge, shredding new skin from Dakar's fingers;then hot on the heels of the Hanshire guardsmen came the predatorswhich hazed them.
 Seardluin burst over the skyline, four streaks of muscle andbared talon that came on like shot oil to overtake. Plowed sand and rippedfooting caused them no missed stride. Nor was time given for prey toreact or defend.
 The lead creature sprang with sinuous speed. It overtook thetrail­ing rider, closed a stride and a half lead in one bound, its thick,platedtail streamed behind. One snap of armored jaws decapitated thehorse. The animal pinwheeled, fountaining blood. Its rider catapultedahead. He crashed in a rolling spray of sand, but never came to restbefore the predator pinned him. One goring swipe of its horn left hima disemboweled carcass.
 The survivors pounded on through another mired stride before theSeardluin charged among them. Their horses' berserk panic scatteredthem right and left, chaff before the oncoming stroke of Sithaer'sscythe. The king male snatched a mare by one hind leg. Half herhaunch tore away in one razor-clean swipe. His Seardluin matecleared the steed's scissoring struggle in a powerful leap. Shelanded ahead of the next horse, tucked and rolled, then extended a talonedforepaw as a hook. The horse was jerked out of its run like a galled FUGITIVE I~RINCE 
fish. It crashed, splayed and gutted. The downed guardsman died asfast, bludgeoned silent by a swipe of the Seardluin's armored tail.Blood pattered a fine rain on parched earth, the spray masked by thewhistling shriek of another gelding, collapsed with a severed wind­pipe. The final horse thrashed in a heap of maimed limbs, its ridercrushed in the tangle.
Dakar never knew how the last came to die. The butchery endedtoo quickly. Nothing alive remained standing to kill. Seardluinstalked narrow eyed through the razed carnage, their frenzy of blood-lust unsated. They slashed and snapped at the slain underfoot, whilethe rent limbs of horses and men shuddered through the tormentedspasms of flesh torn untimely from life.
The furnace-dry breeze wafted the reek of ripped bowels and thestench of violent death. Dakar's bay gelding and Arithon's maresidled in demented fear. The gray trembled, with Felirin doubledover the pommel of his saddle in the throes of a gut-rending nausea.
The spell cantrip on the horses was fading. The Mad Prophetyanked the mare's bit before flight instinct could revert intostamped~ing terror, then curbed his own milling horse by forcing its panicinto frustrated circles. While Arithon's mount jibbed and jolted againstthe lead rein, he shook off stunned shock and strove through a virulentattack of the shakes to sort out what mage-sight now showed him.
"Those men, those horses had no auras," he forced out in astrained whisper. "If they were alive when they entered thisgrimward, they became changed into something unnatural."
As though the recent deaths had not signified, no shocked dis­charge of animal magnetism hazed the air with blank light; and yet,the Seardluin had tracked every hapless victim that they slaughteredon sight.
Felirin straightened, wrung pale as a specter. "What are you say~ing?" He wiped his mouth with the back of a wrapped hand, andinsisted with gritty disbelief, "Those were guardsmen from Hanshire.I knew them."
 Behind, on the dune, amid the strewn gore of carnage, the preda­tors crouched down to gorge. Snarls carried downwind, punchedthrough the snap of cracked bone. The horrors worried their kills asthey ate, tearing and ripping through meat and entrails with greedy,savage abandon.
Dakar's stomach turned. "I don't care if those men were your milkbrothers from childhood, we'd better get out of here, now!"
The slightest release of his hold on the rein, and the horses hegripped plunged ahead. Dakar resisted their snorting, brash lunges. 
423 JANNY WURTS
 He could do nothing more than cling to blind faith that theiT part?would not be attacked. Headlong flight could not outstrip ~ Seard.luin's charge. If he gave way to nerves and let the horses gall~p
~~,the loose sand would tire them beyond any chance of recover~'Felirin eased his jigging gray up beside Dakar's flank. "WI~those drake-spawned furies see our presence?"
Dakar swallowed hard, yet the rank taste of bile stayed w~tn him."I can but guess;_In some wa)~ we haven't crossed fully into theirrealm of existence. We traverse a dream. Our lives are not }~:~,t ~,~it,but only passing through."
"Those guards," Felirin started, then coughed back aspasm. Wretched beyond speech, he shook his head.
"I can't know for certain." The mare plunged ahead, yankedyet again by Dakar's iron hold on the reins. Swearing, he lostanotl~r patch of raw skin before he resumed his snagged thought. "Th(~emen must have interfered with the dream in some way. Drago~~,unruly and powerful beings, a law unto themselves. Theirminds could seed life. Why not the reverse? If a man in careles~rance killed game in the wood, or lit a small fire for comfort, '~~,~a thread of continuity would be tom by his act. A kinetic balance ,,.,become inadvertently upset. In forfeit, the drake might well [31(,,~,!the offender's life aura, and knit the repossessed magnetic en~into the dream's fabric to restore the gap."
"Ath's mercy on them," Felirin murmured, his sad, lined eyesahead. "If you speak the truth, they are lost for all eternity, andtheir fear and their suffering was no less for the fact that theirspirit~were unstrung before death."
Dakar had no word of comfort to assuage the minstrel's sorrowf~~insight. Nor did he dare broach the evil possibility that Arith~nunguarded mind may have seeded that vortex of killing violence.nursed his tired mount over loose, sliding sand, or the brittle salt~t cracked hardpan. Though the site of the slaughter might lie behi~the ugly memory persisted, too vivid and sharp to unburden. Aled in circles by worry and privation could not help but imagine ~,h~fates might befall the rest of the company from Hanshire, drawn herin determined and foolhardy duty, and left to the perils of theirigncrance.
 Other packs of Seardluin prowled the desert. More than oneclawed spoor stitched across the spiraling track carved out by thehorses' labored passage. By the wayside, the hacked and guttedcorpse of a young dragon lay broken. Splayed wing leather shriveled,half-silted under blown sand, and the ripped coils of entrails were 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

strewn like sun-blackened rope in clots of rank, congealed blood.Here, most oddly, Dakar sensed the hazed energies of torn life force;as though the continuum of Fate's Wheel still contained theunmoored wraith of this creature's whole being at the moment anuntimely death claimed it. The enigma gave rise to a headache, out ofphase with the throb of his skinned palms. Dakar endured. Herefused to acknowledge the chorus of complaint from an overweightbody kept in the saddle too long. Nor would he hear the fool's urgeto dismount and ease the discomfort of racked joints.
To guess by the pug marks pressed into stained sand, theSeardluin which had stalked the slain drake weighed as much as a draft horse.
Then that kill, too, fell behind. As the riders' blown mountsbreasted another crest in the dunes, the desert with its perilsmelted away, replaced by what seemed like a southland orchard gone wild.Glossy leaves rustled, stirred by kind winds to a ruffled embroideryof orange blossom.
Another chill puckered the hair at Dakar's nape. No natural treesshould bear ripened fruit and spring flowers in the same season.Almost, it seemed as if the grove was presented in temptation, invit­ing tired travelers to forget the firm strictures by which they mightwalk this existence unscathed.
 "Don't pick any fruit," the Mad Prophet cautioned. He wonderedin stark honesty whether Arithon's deranged guilt could be party tothis latest invention; or whether Felirin's loose fancy offered thedeadly peril of a sleepy, spring grove whose climate encouraged tiredtravelers to linger.
Those creeping suspicions entwined with another current, elusiveand powerful, but there as a sparkle of unseen energy that invadedthe periphery of vision. Dakar knew spellcraft. Step upon step, hissuspicion gained impetus, that something or some power temperedeach new train of event, and dammed back the cascade of disaster. Yeteach time he tested to fathom the source, the currents he searchedfor slipped past him.
Felirin brushed a shower of shed petals from his hair, too painedand dispirited to indulge his ebullient imagination. His gray wasstumbling tired, and fretful in its efforts to evade its rope muzzleand snatch at the knee-high grass under the fruit trees. Out of pity, thebard dismounted to walk.
 For the bay mare, they could offer no such relief. Arithonremained fallen into a stupor. The drawn angles of his face were mercifullyeclipsed by the shadow of the drover's cloak, and his hands dangledslack from the restraints which secured him to the saddlebow. He  J~ss~ WURTS 
would not arouse, despite Dakar's efforts. Even a spell-turnedcation to his Name failed to raise any flicker of awareness. Ifs'Ffalenn prince was lost in the dreaming quagmirethe combined debilitation of backlash and despair would findhealing in this place. Nor could aught be done to reverse hismalady, but keep on and hope for the relief of escape.
"We can't ioumey on indefinitely without water," Felirin husked~long length.
Dakar drew rein, sucked clean of the will to laugh for the"We aren't likely to find water here. If we did, it would be toodrink."
 "What makes you sure?" No matter how desperate his statevation, the bard's curiosity knew no bounds.
"Great dragons hated a drenching worse than a cat does, orSethvir once explained." Dakar stamped back the ripe fearthreatened an explosion of temper. His nerves were drawn wire.heaved his fat bulk from the saddle and almost collapsed in afrom the spike of sharp pain which shot through hisand hips. In mulish rebellion against abused dignity, he pursuedthought to the end. "Rainstorms were said to send the great drakesinto rampaging fits of irritation. That's just as well. We dare notinter­act with anything we didn't bring with us. Heed well. The penaltycould be to share the same fate as those foolish guardsmen from Hah-'shire."
 The minstrel breathed in the incongruous, sweet tang of theorangetrees, morose. "For a creature that gloried in live flame, wetweather would naturally pose a problem." The tightening scabs on his bumsmade him seem a slouched and arthritic old man. "How long do yousuppose we can survive in this place?"
The Mad Prophet had no answer that did not offer outright dis­couragement.
Overhead, the sky burned a lingering gold, lucent as marigoldenamel. The grove melted away like a lifted curtain into a wind-beaten vista of steppelands. Dakar set his back to the task ofdrivingon balky horses without help from the switch he needed, but darednot braid, out of plucked stems of tough grass. He could not fathomhow far they had traveled, nor yet, how much longer they could ven­ture without falling victim to lethal mishap.
Seemingly out of nowhere, the deep, booming note of a centaur'shorn call shook the ground, answered Flke echo by the clarion replyof a mature male dragon. Felirin stopped short with a gasped cry ofwonder. 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 Dakar stared also, amazed and gaping. High over the beaten-brassfurrows of the plain, a mated pair of dragons cavorted, sleek as shotquarrels as they closed leathered wings and swooped from the zenithto the horizon. Sun-caught scales flashed fire like tipped gold, andtails streamed and snapped like armored ribbon. No legend, no aweddescription, even from Sethvir's keen memory, could do justice to thesearing, unworldly grace of the great drakes at their prime strength.Before their vast size, the Khadrim were as toys, and the wyverns ofVastmark no more than petty and quarrelsome vermin.
The drakes spiraled upward and dwindled to gilt flecks, lost atlast in the molten brass dome of clear sky.
Dakar expelled a gusty sigh, brought back to awareness that hehad suspended his breathing.
Felirin shed his awe in an uncharacteristic bent of practicality."Before we see more inhospitable country, do you suppose we'd bewise to rest?"
 "Better to push on," the Mad Prophet disagreed. "Whatever isspinning this dream we experience, it's being tempered by some out­side influence." He resisted another tug at the reins as the maretried again to snatch grass. "I can't imagine the immensity of powerneeded to stabilize this existence enough to allow for our presence,but there won't be a second chance should we outstay the limit set onour welcome."
 In stark proof of concern, the ground changed again. Plains andgrass flowed away, replaced by volcanic rock and a blackened,clogged sky. The air churned with smoke like stirred sludge, and thefoot'mg rippled with heat haze. Jagged stacks of porous rock notchedthe scarp, scoured to red veins where magma had leached glowingsores through the crust.
The horses tossed their heads, sidling, tails high and nostrilsdis­tended. Their hooves clanged on rock, a rugged array of slabbedbasalt ledges, seamed with the angry flows of lava and bubbling, sul­furous mud pots.
"If this is a drake's dream," the Mad Prophet ventured, "what wenow cross would be their preferred habitat." He broke off, forced tocough from the acidic bite of swirled ash. "Sethvir told me once thedragons used to roll in molten rock the way birds splash theirfeathers in a rain puddle. Burned the dross off new scales as a snake wouldshed an old skin."
 Had the horses not been dull with exhaustion, main force couldnot have coerced them to abide such a crossing. The ground was hotenough to blister through boot leather, and singe nasal membranes at 
427 
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each breath. Scoured eyes streamed hot tears. The porous, sharpedges of solidified lava slit skin at a glancing touch.
Suffering still from smoke-damaged lungs, Felirin hacked andspluttered. Then Arithon's mare gashed her fetlock in a stumble.Though she moved lame, Dakar feared to stop. The ground wasunstable. Too much could go wrong if they tarried to shift theprince'sslack form to another mount.
 "If we linger, we'll sicken," he rasped through a raw larynx."The fumes here are poison."
No choice remained but push on, each stumbling stride accom­plished in unalloyed misery. Through the plodding, grim labor,Dakar could not tell if the spiral they walked seemed smaller andtighter, or whether the effect was the offshoot of headache anddizzi­ness. Feathered drifts of ash caved in to hide tracks. Canyons ofetched lava confounded each effort to sight lines for orientation.lie could scarcely manage the task of tugging his horse and Arithon'sforward. All hope was lost if the spiral's last coils departed from asafe track.
 At weary length, the lava flows faded to smoking pits of usedash. The stone smoothed, bleached to a powdery, fine dust as clinging aspulverized porcelain. Smoke and fumes leached away to a turbid,blank haze, and the heat ebbed to dry, cruel cold.
No moss grew; no trees. What passed for sky seemed a drumheadof cloud, stretched the flat, dull pallor of scraped chalk. Againstthat unmarked, monochrome backdrop, a skeleton loomed like spirediron. The ribs spanned through air in vast, gabled arches. Long, scy­thing horns on the knobs of each vertebra spiked upright, a giganticarray of pronged tusks. The bones gleamed a glossy, unearthly pearlwhite, with stripped cartilage lucent as quartz.
"Dragon," breathed Felirin. He blinked, rubbed soot fromgummed eyelids. The splayed, flint black curves of three talonspierced the ground, of a size to paralyze reason. A destrier couldhave walked underneath without hindrance. Speechless, stunned, the min­strel stared, riveted. "Ath, the terrible size of her!"
Dakar as well felt his flesh bathed in chills. As a child, he had seen living Paravians, whom none could encounter without change. Thisbehemoth wreckage was long dead, and yet, it commanded a pres­ence which rankled his nerves into shivers. No feat of mortal imagi­nation could capture the monumental grandeur of what was scribedin these glyphs of naked bone.
Braced in arched rows, such ribs could have served as the vaultsof a palace; and had, Dakar recalled through a vague flick of memory. 
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Melhalla's last high kings had convened court and served judgmentunder just such a buttressed hall. The domed, copper roofs had beenshingled in drake scales, a legend even before the great uprising,when the ruling seat at Tirans had been gutted by fire and cast downinto ruins.
 The tail, with its delicate, vaned rudder and needle-thin spinesrested curled in an exquisite, neat grace that bespoke the coiledthreat of a predator. Despite such vast size, no creature from any past erain Athera could react with the speed of a dragon.
"Sethvir once confided the great drakes were agile enough tobrave the crosswinds in a thundercloud." Dakar shook his head, bemusedto amazement. Credibility balked at the scale of such feats. Theseshining remains had tasted the ice crystals combed into white cirrus,when once, clothed in glittering gold scales and wild malice, thelive dragon had knifed through the riptide currents of high altitude.
The skull they encountered loomed the size of a hay byre. Itsblack,shadowed eye sockets did not seem empty. Even in death, theiruncanny survey guarded the shadowy realms past the Wheel. Theyappeared alert still, broodingly hooded in massive, spiked horn, andoverlapped plates of etched bone.
Felirin ventured a timorous query. "Is it so, that the relics ofdrag­ons carry a bane?"
"Who knows?" Dakar stamped back his shivering dread. Theinescapable fact remained that their steps were being guided evernearer to the colossal skeleton. "There's truth to the saying thatwhere centaurs fell, the stones of the earth weep in sorrow. Dragon bonesare much older and by lengths more eldritch. I've heard the skulls of theunhatched younglings have ties to dark magecraft, but that could betaletelling, for all I know of the details."
They rounded the serrated spurs of a forelimb. Ahead, likesheared porcelain, the long, scything fangs propped open the gates of hornedjaws. Rows of incisors gnashed through the blanketing dust, razortipped as the prongs on a whipsaw.Nor were the three exhausted fugitives the first to arrive at thesite. Light shattered the clogged air like hurled blades, fanned throughthe points of knobbed bone. A figure in dark robes astride a blackhorse shouted in pealing urgency. He bridged the small gap wherethe dragon's forked tongue had once flickered, his outstretchedhands streaming power like beacons. The flux of raised forcesstormed across mortal senses like the roar of impending cataclysm.
Felirin froze in his tracks, undone by dread. "Ath Creator keepus safe." 
~ANNY ~URTS

 "Not Ath at all. That's Asandir." Dakar shot out an arm and hauled the bard forward. The unwholesome fumes seared his throat as he croaked, "We can't linger."
No Fellowship Sorcerer ever burned reckless power without cause.By the singing charge that lashed his awareness, Dakar understoodthe danger loomed too vast to grapple. Only once before had be seenAsandir unleash his full strength, and that on the hour theMistwraith had attacked Lysaer and Arithon at Ithamon.
Then as now, the power streamed outward in crackling rays, n0brute stab of force, but the unbridled might of fine energies calleddown by a spirit schooled into peerless unity with every facet ofAth's creation. The result ranged harmonics like a hammer blow to bronze,showering light in waves of continuous vibration.
"Come on," Dakar gasped. "We're in deadly peril." The unshieldedmight of a Fellowship Sorcerer could derange mortal thoughts, evenleave a man witless and paralyzed.
The spellbinder fell back upon ingrained reflex and impelled l~isstunned limbs to keep moving. However he cowered and shrankfrom close contact, he feared worse to cross the outright command ofa Sorcerer raised to the flash-point pinnacle wrought from bridledchaos and immaculate intent. Dakar prodded the horses' stumblingstrides to narrow the last distance between.
 Felirin hung back, stupefied, until an appeal from Asandir yokedthe gray with a word that could have moved rooted granite. Thehorse led the minstrel, bonded in light, and a mystery outside plod­ding reason.They crossed inside the proximity of the Fellowship conjury."Well-done, but hurry," Asandir exhorted. "The currents of thisdream state aren't kindly or biddable." His voice cut through actinicbursts of refined power as if speech had been honed by somethingbeyond sound. "I won't be able to temper the forces here to keep youalive for much longer."
Dakar forced the question. "Then this isn't Arithon's creation ofdespair?""Never that," Asandir flung back, strained. "Move him on. Hurry.He's unconscious because his own trained defenses are killing him."
But the order itself proved most difficult to carry out. Thepotencyof the Sorcerer's wards of themselves seemed to hamper free move­ment. Dakar felt as though each of his steps was dragged throughshimmering mercury. The powerfield scoured his mage-sight untilvision dissolved behind a deluge of silver-tipped sleet. His tiredmind could not compensate. 
43O FUGITIVE I)RINCE
 He was vaguely aware of passing the gateway between thedragon's front teeth. Two horses followed, their breath hot on hisneck, and through that sensation, the ghost-feather touch ofAsandir's guiding hand on his shoulder.
"Keep going, as you love life!" The Sorcerer's raw strengthstead­ied him over the pothole of bone that yawned between the vast jaw­bones. "Don't worry about shielding. I'll see that Felirin comes tono harm."
 "The dragon," Dakar asked. "Do you fear she'll awaken?"
Asandir faced him, his surprise etched in glare, and his eyes theflecked gray of rinsed granite. "Ath, no. She's been dead for twoages.You don't see? This grimward contains the left dreams of her haunt."
"A ghost's imprint?" Dakar stared, his skin ashen. "Dharkaron'sown tears! You're saying a live one would dream the more power­fully?"
"Enough to reweave the known fabric of creation." Asandir's briskpush sent him onward, under the ribbed vaults of the gullet. "Gonow. To leave, you must enter the inner chamber of the skull. Thepas­sage won't be smooth or comfortable, but rest on my word. You'llemerge unmarked in due time."
The Mad Prophet tightened his sweaty grip on the lead reins. Thehorses trailed at his heels without protest, thralled to submissionbyspells. "You're not coming yourself?"
Asandir shook his head. "Forty Alliance guardsmen crossed intothe grimward's sealed circle. Twenty eight have perished for theirfolly. If they killed game, or broke off so much as a leaf in thisplace,my powers could not stay their spirits from entanglement. More willbe lost ere they reach my protection. For the sake of any who maylive to win through, I have obligation to stay. Once I lift my influence,the dream will revert back to entropic chaos. Only another great drakecould survive, and then solely because it could remake the tornstruc­ture of its being."
The Sorcerer's last words splashed a patter of echoes through athousandfold crannies of chambered bone. "Dakar, caution yourprince." The admonishment filtered through the ringing reverberaotions of hooves striking the slagged plates of the fire vents at eachside of the dragon's throat. "Any guardsman who emerges alive fromthis grimward will remember his fear and cry vengeance. Be wary.Blame will fall on the Master of Shadow for all of Hanshire's slain company."
"Tell my prince," Dakar grumbled..He resisted the craven urge toshut his eyes and ignore the forbidding cavern which yawned ahead 
JANN. WURTS 

of his quaking steps. "Since when did I ever swear fealty towanted dead by half the townsmen on the continent?"
Any future concern seemed a pittance before the crossing stillto surmount. From behind, a flurried prayer as Felirin braved thedark on the tails of the glassy-eyed horses. Dakar crept into thefustydarkness. His boot soles slipped and minced across a surface ~watered marble, while the unseen, vaulted cranium flung backechoes of each wheezing breath. In blind trust, the Mad Prophethoped Arithon stayed on the mare as the lightless cavern engulfed !him. Sound just beyond the high range of his hearing seemed to rip­ple like ribbon across his ears. Then his vision shimmered, punchedthrough by sparks and sequins of chipped obsidian. A rash of fineprickles stabbed over his skin, and vertigo twisted his senses.
Then a magic wrapped in energies he had never known bathed allof his nerve ends in fire. Every last tie to creation unraveled.Sucked into the well of primal oblivion, Dakar realized in panic that thiscrossing was nothing like a guided spell transfer from a familiarPara­vian focus circle. As his mind spiraled down toward the heart of nulldarkness, he cried out in sheer panic. He did not know how to untan­gle this pattern. Nor had he the clues to the necessary knowledgecached amid his muddled memories of prostitutes. No one hadtaught him the guidepost to relocate the haven of Athera's known ter­ritory. 
432 Late Spring 5653 
Recall 
Just before solstice, the nights in Caithwood held a soft, breathingwarmth, the air thick as milk in the pearlescent moonlight whichstreamed through the dense crowns of old oak trees. These ancientgroves had never tasted the axe blade. Nor had black soil known thebite of the plow, or the turned iron rim of the cart wheel. The pale,whorled bark of ancient copper beeches wore mottles like coin silverwhere the strung-floss motes speared the darkness. Rolling combersoff Mainmere Bay lisped through, sea and earth joined in dialogue bythe whisper of the leaves that stirred to the tireless breezes. Themock­ingbird's song and the whistles of nightjars spilled liquid notesthrough the stillness, much as they had in Paravian times when cen­taur guardians had reigned, and the sunchild dancers had calleddown the mysteries that moved, incarnate, with the wild grace of theunicorns.
 In Third Age 5653, no Athlien flutes rang through Caithwood'sglades to celebrate the joy of the season; nor did centaur horn callsreverberate under the eaves of the oaks. Yet in their absence, thelow,sandy shoreline which faced Havish and the sands at Torwent did notpass unpatrolled. In furtive, tight bands, Lord Maenol's scouts keptwatch for oncoming Alliance ships.
A month past, the contents of Mearn s'Brydion's warning hadreached them, word of the coming blockade brought in by runnerfrom Mogg's Fen. The Caithwood clans knew of the Koriani conspir­acy at Riverton which had set Arithon s'Ffalenn to blind flight. They 
433 
 JANNY WURT$ 

received the worst news with grim determination, that three finisvessels had sailed from their launching, packed with Etarran men-at­arms and sealed orders to cut off Mainmere Narrows until nothingalive could slip through. At all costs, the handful of scouts under­stood they must hold the coastline open, that the families set toflightfrom the north could stay free to seek promised sanctuary in Havish.
Never mind their strength was insufficient for the task, theirnum­bers pared thin by bloodshed and necessity. Lord Maenol's ap?ealasked no quarter, allowed space for no preference or pity.
Despite closing threat, no one thought of desertion. TheCaithwo0d scouts kept their posts, their forest held sacrosanct by a hard-bitten few, sworn to lay down life and safety for their caithdein.
Not even the lean fisherman's dory run in by dark escaped theirexhaustive vigilance.
"Two occupants," whispered the woman who had just sprinted infrom the lookout at the mouth of the Narrows. "One passive, an~~ theother manning the oars. Neither looks armed. We saw no glint ofweapons, but then, sure's storm, they haven't come here to go codfishing."
The stem elder who captained the outpost made his immediatedecision. "Watch then. They don't leave the shingle unchallenged." Ahand signal sent two reserve scouts off on foray, with the elder him­self at the fore.
 By the raked dunes at the shoreline, the three clansmen crouchedwary in rustling stands of sea grass, while the dory knifed in tomake landfall. Its sharp prow and muffled oars formed a cut black phantomagainst lucent lace sheets that billowed and surged where the frothof spent breakers receded. As the curl of the surf shot the craftthroughthe shallows, the old scout made comment. "Torwent fisherman. Seethe woven string bracelets? He's also damned good with the boat."
The man dragged his broad looms, and in dauntless competence,let his keel gently ground into sand.
The other figure in the stem seat clambered out, the brimmed hathe wore obscuring his face from clear view. While the inboun~combers fountained over his shins, he leaned down and recovered ~satchel he had tucked safely under the stern seat. An older man, h~seemed an enigma, his simple, dark clothing too plain to identify ~regional origin. Though his burden was not heavy, an odd hitch to hi~movements bespoke stiffened scars or old injuries. The hands thaclasped the dory's thwart and redirected it seaward were gnarled antbent, if still competent.
His spoken farewell did not carry. The oarsman nodded i~ 
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clipped respect, then dug in his looms to hurry his return passagebefore the riptide raced through the Narrows. The one he hadcovertly delivered to Caithwood waded shoreward, his limp grownpronounced as the wet sand mired his ankles. Once on dry ground,he paused, the flat spill of the moonlight licking the hanks ofwhite,shoulder-length hair. He tipped his face skyward. Beneath thebrimmed hat, his features were cragged and intent, as if he expected~lll omeI1. Out of the night, a raven flapped down and settled upon his raisedwrist.
 He lilted a greeting. The bird answered back, then sidestepped toperch on his shoulder."Here's a friend." The scout captain stood in the shoulder-highdune grass, his distrust melted into glad greeting. "Traithe?"The Fellowship Sorcerer turned his clean-shaven chin and smiled."My blessing, yes. You're Maenol's captain?"
"For Caithwood, I am." The elder strode forward, then beckonedfor the other hidden scouts to reveal themselves. While the velvet thick breeze stirred the fronds on the seed heads, and the raven onTraithe's shoulder stretched a coal wing to preen, the older captainpresented the courtesy of the clans to visiting members of theFellow­ship. "How may we serve the land?"
Traithe hooked the strap of his satchel, and stroked the bird'sbreast with his knuckle. "My tidings aren't joyous. I need you totell me where I might find Earl Jieret s'Valerient, who serves PrinceArithon as caithdein of Rathain."
 "Please Ath, not a death!" The female scout fanned off trailingmosquitoes and strode forward. "Or do you bring warning of theAlliance attack we've expected for over a fortnight?"
The Sorcerer reached out at once and touched her tense wrist,laced into its bowman's leather bracer. "Not a death. But I can't keep thatpromise without your help and swift action. Is the Earl with yourband?"
 "He's four hours north of here, quartered in a hidden glen." Thescout captain extended a hand to assist with the satchel, thendeferred as Traithe chose to retain the burden himself. Since a Sorcerer's wayswere no man's to question, the captain moved on without embarrass­ment. "Shore's not altogether safe with Alliance galleys plying thebay on patrol. We'll send a runner."
But Traithe shook his head as he fell into stride. "Spare yourman." The play of the breeze riffled his platinum hair, while the hat'sloom­ing brim threw a shadow like ink over his urgent expression. "If you 
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know the way to this glen that you speak of, describe the terrain.:raven can lead me."
 "The path is straightforward." The captain's pinchedaway from his uneasy survey of the offshore horizon. "Best wethe details out of sight from this beachhead. If your birdguidance, the camp where Jieret's quartered keeps horses."
Traithe's gratitude showed as a gleam of white teeth in jetshadow. "My raven can summon him, then. If Earl Jieret can manage to behere before daybreak, the land will be served very well."
"You bring news of the Alliance?" pressed the other scout. Lanky,and just come to early manhood, he kept a swaggering fist on hissword hilt. More than the others, he seemed drawn by the stress 0tthe pending Alliance invasion.
"Nothing so simple." Traithe no longer smiled, the bracketedlines at the comers of his mouth grooved deep with the wear of hardtravel. "In a desperate move to cut off pursuit, Prince Arithoncrossed through a grimward."
"Ath preserve!" the woman scout whispered.
Before her aghast fear, the Sorcerer used what logic he had tofeed hope. "Rathain's prince was well trained by a master at mage­craft. He survived the dangerous passage well enough, but his con­science is troubled. He required more than self-discipline to keephis despair in check. Now those defenses have driven him farbeyond waking consciousness. He will stay lost between dimen­sional realities unless Jieret s'Valerient can reach past the veiland find him."
 Surrounded by worried clan faces, and a quiet that bred despera­tion, the Sorcerer flexed his shoulders in a tight shrug. The ravencroaked in complaint, its wings unfolded for balance. "We have nochoice. The ties of the blood pact sworn between the caithdein andhis prince must be enacted to recall the Teir's'Ffalenn across time andspace." In gentle reminder, Traithe hastened his step toward the shebtering dark of the forest. "Timing is crucial. The opening spells tobridge the connection must be enacted at dawn."
He did not speak of the dire hurdles to be crossed, nor mentionthe unconscionable intensity of Arithon's grief, or the mind-stripping,ingrained misery which might come to thwart his best effort. Theprospect of failure was too real, too immediate. Arithon's downfallmight lie at hand despite all his help, and Earl Jieret's willingduty tobe called to shoulder the sacrifice. A Sorcerer left crippled by pastconflict with the Mistwraith could do naught but listen, as his birddid the same, head cocked to one side, while the Caithwood captain 
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gave terse description of the location and landmarks of the campwhere Earl Jieret took shelter.
 "Go brother," Traithe murmured. A testy croak answered. Theraven flapped silken wings and launched on its errand. Its flightclove the falling, gossamer moonbeams like a silent, obsidiancleaver,then arrowed up through a gap in the foliage.
The Sorcerer stared after his bird's vanished form, hands knottedover the strap of his satchel. The bird bridged what access he couldwring from maimed talent, and until it returned, he was both mortaland blinded. Too aware the comfort of polite hospitality fell short,the scouts pressed close and took charge. "You must be fired. Let usknow if you're hungry." In soft words and brisk movement, theyshared every amenity they could offer under the eaves of the forest.
Their outpost was temporary, a narrow, hidden glen tucked behindthe bulrushes of a tidal marsh. Maples and oaks leaned over a brookwhose banks were entangled in brambles. The scouts not on watchdozed on piles of bracken, cut fresh to drive off biting insects.They litno cookfire. Swords were kept within immediate reach, and no onepacked belongings beyond skinning knives and a hunting bow.Through the lush season, they foraged fish and game, and smokedfood for the trail when hunting would slow their swift progress.
At ease with the untamed fabric of night, Traithe's form meltedinto the tangled darkness under the leafed crown of old forest. Histacit awareness tracked the flutter of moths and the rustles of mice in the undergrowth, while someone's shy boy offered him dried meatand berries, and a chilly dipper of springwater. Weary though he was,he chose not to sleep.
Patient for the return of his raven, he spoke his thanks in aresonant baritone, one knee drawn up and clasped to his chest. If sheer calmcould command the elements, his poise could have arrested the fugi­tive trickle of water over rocks in the streamlet. His ever-presentworry lay perfectly masked, while each minute fretted past, and ahunting owl flew, and a late-singing mockingbird caroled a solothrough the last hours of darkness.
His vigil did not pass without camaraderie. While the windstroked through the boughs overhead, and summer stars marked andmeasured their courses, three wakeful scouts exchanged jibes anddesultory small talk. "Not to worry," assured one, caught nappingbetween topics. "Quiet's thick enough to suffocate. An inboundhorseman is going to draw notice like a drum squad."
The scarred veteran who wound bowstrings from a coil of driedgut resumed listing the particulars of the Alliance campaign that 
437 JANNY WURTS 
savaged the wilds of south Tysan. "No good news, from upstream.We've a precious narrow margin, and no hope at all if our sea~'a~'dhorizon doesn't stay empty. It's plain once the ships come,haven't a prayer."
The battle-scarred woman raked her whetstone in a vehement passacross the weapon bridged across her bare knees. "Sunwheelare riddled through the vales above Mainmere. Person can't walk tothe riverside to piss without being set after by dogs."
Another scout wearing an otter-claw necklace filled in lac~nicdetail. "They've swept the forests as far south as Cainford. No~vescapes their patrols, it's that tight. We have families trapped ~mountains who've had to hole up past the snow line. They canscarcely brave the open plain to cross Camris. Armed companie~move in too fast off the trade road, and time's now our bitterestenemy."
Traithe worked his ~ .~arred knuckles to keep the joints supple.unable to deny the assessment. Scarcity of game, or bad weather i~autumn would eventually drive the trapped clan fugitives out of hid­ing. Already, the Alliance net spread over the lowlands to snarethem.
 "They could survive well enough in the heights," another sco~~~picked up. "But no one can win past to send them provisions. We'vebloodied ourselves trying. Too many armed companies withwheel banners are camped tight as ticks in the foothills. Goldthe trade guilds keeps them supplied, and their dogs have be~,~ ~ ~.~t t~ run silent."
 "And Lord Maenol?" Traithe asked, carefully neutral lest h~sapprehension burden the troubled scouts further.
The one blacking his features with charcoal in readiness fortossed his used stick into the streamlet, his frustration a whisF~.~'leathers in darkness. "Our caithdein's trapped down in theFenlanders shelter him as best they can, but he's been on the runthe springtime."
A jagged gap held the dammed-back questions no one daredconcerning the overdue Alliance ships. For well past a fortnight,watch on the shoreline had expected armed forces to seal a blockac~over the Narrows. The Alliance's crowning strategy would cut o~flast avenue of escape for the clan families driven south, whoclaim safe sanctuary under King Eldir in Havish.
Traithe stared at the scarred knuckles laced like braid over sound knee tucked to his chest. He could give no encouragen~en'..News from the Warden of Althain always ran through his raven, andthe latest sending had held only the images of two brigs in convoy at 
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 sea. He had not picked up any visible landmark to guess their prox­imity to Caithwood."I'm sorry. I bear you no news, ill or good." The Sorcerer
chafed,pulled a raw breath, then admitted, "If Earl Jieret can pull PrinceArithon through, the spellbinder Dakar will be with him. Our com­bined efforts can bridge a clear contact to the Warden at AlthainTower. Sethvir will have the answers you need."
The earth link would show where the danger lay, and giveaccurate account of the Cariadwin's fated landfall at Corith.
 Despite the gravity of clan woes in Tysan, one sharp-eyed youngstrategist picked up the unspoken thread. "You imply Rathain'sprince may not be successfully recovered?"
"There is that grim chance." Traithe looked up, his coffee eyesbleak with an honesty that admitted no shame for his weakness. "The Fel­lowship Sorcerers are beleaguered with troubles. At this time, I wasthe only one able to come here. Ath grant us the grace that Jieret'scourageand my services will be enough to bring Prince Arithon through."
After that, there was indeed little to say, and nothing to do butwait out the night in defined, silent tension.
Ink against darkness, a shape rode the air in the stilled, murkyhour before dawn. The scout captain started, hand closed on hissword until a touch from the Sorcerer calmed him. "Peace. No harm's come."
 The raven fluttered down and settled with a boisterous croak on its master's black-clad shoulder. The rider it had summoned cantered in a moment later and dismounted at the head of the glen. Unasked, theyounger scout rose to take the reins and care for the horse. Thearrival himself made almost no sound as he strode into the encampment.Jieret s'Valerient was clad in laced deer hide with fringes thataccen­tuated his firm breadth of shoulder. He smelled of bruised greeneryand overheated horse, underlain with the tang of oil from the well-kept weapons at his waist. Adverse to language where actions wouldserve, he raked a glance over the seated forms of the scouts, thenfixed on the Fellowship Sorcerer.
No hesitation marked his greeting as he sank before Traithe onbent knee.
 His clan braid had been freshly bound, a reflection of his quietpride and sure bearing, though his straight posture gave clear enoughindication that he sensed the gravity of this meeting. "What do youask for the realm?"
 "Caithdein, Steward of Rathain," Traithe intoned. He arose infor­mality, while around him, Caithwood's scouts backed off to grant a 
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respectful privacy. "I ask by your oath to your kingdom, that yourisk life and limb for your prince."
Jieret's reply was clipped iron. "By my ancestor's promise t~ theFellowship, my consent lies in your hands already."
Traithe shifted his weight, unable to find surcease from the ?ullold scars. More than bodily pain plagued him as he reached andcaught Jieret's wrists and raised the younger man before him.
The clan chieftain loomed a handspan taller. His leonine headbent to the Sorcerer's regard, Jieret said, "You're distressed. Why? D~fear that I carry the weal of the realm as an unwanted burden?"
"You should fear." The Sorcerer released his clasp intrepid~ti~~n."What you face could become far more than a burden. I invok~ freeconsent because the need you must answer lies outside the world youunderstand. I come to beg your willing heart to let your spirit ridethe winds." A pause, while the impact of that statement sank in. "If yourprince is to be safely recalled to Athera, that's the last way i~,~tto draw him."
 Jieret shivered despite his most firm resolve. "Where did youse~d him?" he demanded, the first dangerous edge to a trust alreadygranted without question.
Traithe did not rebuke, nor distress his set loyalties, but metch,~lenge with a sincerity that could have breached the interlockedmatrix of diamond. "To escape certain death at the hands of the Alliance,Asandir allowed your crown prince to pass through a grimward."
Jieret flinched. Force of will held him steady for a runningstring ofheartbeats. Then his hands clamped, and he tipped back his face."How my father would weep." Eyes shut in agony, he swore until heran out of breath.
 "That's scarcely the evil fate you imagine." Traithe drew himaside where the whisper of foliage could settle and ease his cranked ten­sion. "Your prince sealed off his mind, that his poisonous guilt forCaolle's death would not ruin him. There's the problem, you see.Arithon's trained barriers are unimaginably strong. He's locked hismind behind a protective unconsciousness few things alive couldbreak through. That kept him safe from the grimward's dire influ­ence. Only now, he has sealed his awareness too deep. Even Sethvircannot cross his defenses to reach him."
 Jieret reached out and braced against the rough bole of an oak.His profile shone pale in the waning moonlight, and his stance stayedwide set, as if earth itself threatened his balance. "Ath guard myprince." He managed to stay the biting unease from his final reply tothe Sorcerer. "My consent is yours, freely. Now, what do you need?" 
44O 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 "Your trust, first of all." Traithe's unbroken calm remainedsteady­ing despite the discomfort to his lamed leg. "I will give you everyadvant.~ge I can, believe it. Prepare yourself. Such a passage isbest started in the gray hour of twilight."
Saddened for the strain behind Jieret's set face, he added, "Youwon't like the method. I'm sorry. My powers are not whole, andbecause of that damage, we're going to have to use blood magic."
"I gave my agreement," Earl Jieret said, stiff. "There are nocondi­tions. By whatever means, to bring back my liege, I serve the need ofRathain."
 "Bless your straight courage." Traithe's break into gratitudecould have masked tears as he bent and shouldered his satchel. "We haven't much time left before dawn. If you can bear this, we'll have to startnow."
 The wind rustled through the dense crowns of the trees, andcoiled through brush fringed and heavy with the foil and pearl droplets ofsummer dew. Enriched by greenery and bearing soil, the darkspanned the forest like uncut velvet, still scribed by ruled rays ofmoonlight. Yet the sky seemed more indigo than sable, and the mock­ingbird's solo had silenced. All Caithwood seemed poised at thecusp, while the world's axis turned toward the ending of night.
"I'm ready." Jieret flanked the Sorcerer, his rangy strideshortened in deference to the other's halting gait.
Traithe moved upstream. A short walk led into the grotto thescouts used to draw their fresh water. An underground spring welledin streamlets from a crack in the rocks. Trickles of runoff channeled through moss and boulders to form a shallow pool that spilled intothe dagged foam of the creek. There, the current lay divided in thedry months of summer by a washed islet of rounded stones. Traithesplashed through the ankle-deep channel and laid his satchel amongthe lush cap of moss strewn with the fragrance of shed pine needles.The site owned an innate tranquillity, alive with the melodioussplashwhere the split watercourse rejoined, to gutter and leap down a wind­ing channel that widened and eventually rippled into the pewterstands of the tidal marsh.
 "Sit," the Sorcerer instructed, his voice like worn silk and hisgrandfatherly understanding pitched to transcend ragged nerves. "Ihave some brief preparations to make."
A pause, while he murmured a phrase to his bird. The ravencroaked. Every bit the miffed gentleman, it shuffled sulky wingfeath­ers, then sidled down its master's arm and hopped off. One effortlessglide saw it settled upon the bough of a nearby maple. Traithe spoke what sounded like a Paravian epithet in reply to its avian imperti­nence, then resumed his dropped thread of human dialogue. "Mylord Jieret, whatever happens, you may rest assured you will neverexperience any pain."
The raven cocked its head, avid as a critic, while the Sorcererknelt. He nursed his scarred hands with relentless patience and undid theknots on his satchel, then removed a thin quartz crystal. Insequence,he took out a stone knife, five clay bowls, and a clean beeswaxcandle. Last came a leather-wrapped bundle that contained folded packets ofdried herbs. He placed each item on the moss before his knees withits Name and a ritual blessing.
Then he looked up at Jieret, whose apprehension all but sangaloud like a strand of overcranked wire. "If you have tight clothing,loosen the laces. The ground here is soft. Choose a place where you can liedown and be comfortable."
 Jieret scraped his wrist bracer across the bristled red beard onhis jaw, then busied himself stripping off his sword and the bone-handled throwing knives that he had claimed from his father's deadbody. "Will I sleep?"
Traithe stood once again, a clay bowl in hand. His reply floatedback as a disembodied whisper as he trod careful steps to the spring."Your body will. Not your mind."
He spoke over the water in the cadence of Paravian, then dippedthe bowl and placed the filled vessel on a nearby stone. Jieretwatched, heart pounding, as the black-clad Sorcerer crumbled an ar0­matic herb into another readied bowl. This one had painted animalson the side that seemed to shift and move in the darkness. Traithe closed his eyes. His features were seamed like the ancient, whitebirch, mapped by rough usage, yet wholly tranquil as he asked a for­mal permission. Jieret recognized the Paravian phrase for the livingfire, then started as a spark jumped between Traithe's spread hands.The herbs in the bowl sprang into pale flame. Smoke arose, a twiningsilver braid that turned in the air as if alive. It sifted a veilinghaze through the breeze as Traithe stood erect and offered to eachcardinal point of the compass, then harkened to the elemental powers of thefour directions. Last, he took up the thin crystal. More words ofinvo­cation, the symmetry of each syllable fluid as liquid light. Jieretcould not tell whether the play of the smoke or the language eased hisnerves into harmony. He sat, relaxed and half-mesmerized, while asoft glow arose from the palm of Traithe's hand and kindled the crys­tal into an adamantine blaze of raised force.
 The Sorcerer used that summoned power to scribe a clean circle 
F~!GITIVE PRINCE 

around the small islet of stones. Where the quartz wand passed, athin sound keened, striking a blade of pure energy that parted a ripthrough the air.
"Not to fear," Traithe assured as if from great distance. "Theseare but simple protections to bind and contain the regenerative forceswe'll raise here."
 Yet somehow Jieret sensed the import was more weighty, as if thespelled circle cut ties through time and space and engaged powersbeyond mortal understanding. The raven launched into flight.Dense as pressed ink against the substanceless night, it shuttled inpatterns overhead. The rings of its passage dizzied the mind. Jieretblinked, disbelieving, as his eye seemed to track an uncanny energycombed into alignment by the bird's feathers. Each quill seemedattached to a streamer of light. Rather than lose himself forever inbewitching mystery, he settled for the ordinary task of unbucklinghis belt.
 Around him and past the water's purled edge, Traithe movedabout his work, his lamed tread uncannily silent. He placed whatseemed an empty bowl to the east, then the fire bowl to the south,water to west, and one he had filled with plain dark earth to thenorth. Each pause involved a singing invocation that ignited anotherstrand of unseen current, and wove its flow to the joined circle.
Jieret clamped back the unease that surged through his gut. As ifviolence could somehow reground his turned senses, he yanked theleather tie on his braid, then plowed stiflened fingers through thehair at his temples, dragging the plait loose at his nape. Another glance,darted sidewards; "You're making my hair stand on end."
Straight on his feet with his eyes closed, Traithe appearedhalfwayremoved from the world, his cragged features remote as chased mar­ble; and yet, when he answered, his human warmth was never morereal and immediate. "Not to worry. There is no power raised here ~hatis not a part of Ath's order." At the center of the circle, he tookup thefinal bowl and shook out the last packet of herbs. This plant looseda fragrance biting as snow, and a pungency that stripped all fivesenses to preternatural wakefulness.
"Tienelle," Traithe explained. He tipped back his hat to unstickdamp hair at his temples. "What you commonly know as seersweed.The properties of the flower break down the barriers between spaceand time, and release the mind to an unclouded view of the contin­uum. For your safety, the full potency will be weakened. You'llreceive just enough smoke to loosen the ties to your body, that yourspirit can be freed to search." 
443 Jieret said nothing, his throat dried to sand that left him unable toswallow.
 Traithe's glance held a grave and reassuring kindness as henoticed the earl's knotted fists. "You don't have to go through with this. Wecan stop now."
Jieret jerked up his chin, just shy of offense. "Keep on. I amblood bonded with my prince. This is my job and no other's."
"But a straight battle with steel would be simpler," Traitheadmitted in bald understanding. "Be steady. I stand with you, never forgetthat."
 He called fire and lit the herb. The smoke whirled and twined,spun silk against a darkness ingrained with the faint paling imprintof daybreak. Jieret drew a fast breath, apprehension tightening hischest despite every verbal resolve. He had but one moment for shat­tering fear. Then the herb's fragrance burned through the floor ofhis lungs, seized his heartstrings, and hurled him into a spiralingvertigothat whirled him headlong from the earth.
Dimly he realized Traithe was still speaking. Hands touched h'~sskin, a nagging distraction that badgered him to lie down. Wrungthrough and disoriented, he fretted at the contact. His mind ram­paged through turmoil, then found its release like a beast sprung outof a trap. His awareness burst open. The shrill song of starsthreaded the gaps between leaves, and the wind sighed through his being. Itsrustling passage through summer green branches framed a languagehe could almost understand.
 Traithe loomed above him, his dark clothes the same shimmering,iridescent obsidian as the plumage of his raven. He towered, a figureof primordial mystery punched through the spun cloth of twilight.He raised the stone knife, its blade of white chert trailingfilaments of blue light.
Jieret blinked, while the earth turned, the majesty of her dancea vibration that thrummed through his bones. The stars paled, thenburst into pearlescent sparks that burned through the backdrop ofdaybreak. Then the clouds ignited also, their drifting serenity shotinto fire-opal patterns. Nesting thrushes sang out a chord thatknitted the air into ecstasy. Jieret felt warm fingers clasp his right hand,then bear down, pinning his forearm. The textures of cold dew and mossystones screamed detail like etched light down the trackways of over­stimulated flesh.
 He heard Traithe's voice, a whisper of sound strung on a filamentthat corded the arc of eternity. "By your blood bond to PrinceArithon s'Ffalenn, by the ties that lie beyond life and limb, you will seek.Let two become one." 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 Then the knife traced the scar of a much older cut, taken before a past battle that left the banks of Tal Quorin soaked with the reapedfruits of hatred. The stone edge of the blade that was now scored andbit. Its savage, hot sting raised a sleeting, bright numbness. Freedblood scalded hot over the caithdein's bared skin. The knife's edgesmoked light. Through half-opened eyes and a mind deranged by theherb smoke, Jieret watched the uncanny, cold fires off the sharpenedchert meet and join with the haze that misted from the flow of hisopened vein.
"Ride the winds with my blessing, Jieret s'Valerient!" Traithescribed a sign that melded the trifold forces of stone knife, flesh,and life. The twined powers blazed, then towered, transformed into reso­nance fierce enough to blind vision and scatter the last vestige ofrea­son.
 A wind out of vacuum rushed through Jieret's mind. He criedaloud, his voice a splash of raw noise amid the howling expanse ofthe infinite. Then his last tie to human awareness hurled up and outthough the crown of his head. He whirled on the vast chord of soundand light that wove the span of Ath's universe, insignificant andfrail as a leaf unmoored by the chill gales of autumn.
 The sun rose, spilling dappled gold spangles over the spring,and cascading sequined reflections off the small stream. But insidethe scribed circle, where Traithe sat on vigil, the gray half-lightof dawn hung and lingered. Time froze in place there, poised on thefilament of Earl Jieret's courage and the Sorcerer's cast force ofintent. A small stone pipe by Traithe's knee held the spent ashes ofmore tienelle leaves, the last ember gone cold with the morning.Submerged in deep trance, poised as a bridge across the veil of themysteries, he cupped his scarred hands over the brow of the pros­trate Earl of the North. The stone knife was cleaned, the cut wristneatly bandaged. Jieret's hawk features were a stilled casting inwax, his fox hair a cry of bright color against a pillow of emeraldmOSS.
 Nothing moved in that tableau. The raven kept watch, its eyesamber beads that scarcely shifted or blinked though the days cameand went in their natural rhythm outside of the spell-circle laidthrough the crystal.
Then, as if summoned by some unseen cue, the bird launched intoflight and disappeared. Traithe's tranced awareness sensed its depar­ture, as under the distant guidance of Althain's Warden, it departedthe plane of dense matter and crossed into the spirit worlds, strung 
445 J^~. Wu~?$ 
like infinite cast shadows between the poles of primal energy andfir­mament.
 Though Traithe's eyes remained closed, he stared beyond the brinkof time's prison and into the limitless unknown. He held guard inthat place marking space for the gateway, while a finespun trail ofmagnetic light traced the path of Earl Jieret's journey. Behind thecaithdein's lead, a shot arrow of feather and bone, a bird who wasmore than mere life and flesh flew on a mission of recovery. Thereexisted no recourse. Either the blood tie would call Earl Jieret to Prince Arithon, and afford a firm contact to draw from, or all threewould be lost, bird, man, and prince; and the prophet and bard alongwith them.
 "Fly brother," Traithe urged in spun dream to his raven. "Follow,and bridge the connection to bring them all back."
There were no guarantees. Earl Jieret's awareness might ride thewinds seeking for an untold span of time. If, in that interval, theAlliance attack swept through Caithwood, or if even one man dis­turbed the precise spells of suspension Traithe had laid down, thecaithdein of Rathain would be torn back into the linear patterns oftime and entropy. Should that misfortune happen, his comatose fleshwould again become subject to the cruel passage of days. Severedfrom consciousness, Jieret's tie to breathing life would fade andweaken. Attrition would claim his body and organs, until his vitalsigns failed and Fate's Wheel turned, bringing final oblivion anddeath. 
Early Summer 5653 
Discovery 
Summer sun streamed through the wide windows of the Koriani sis­terhouse at Capewell, laden with the tang of green herbs from thegardens, and the brisk tonic of salt winds off the sea. The fishmarkets teemed under pale, golden light. Elderly women exchanged gossip atthe well, their pails and jugs clumped on the cobbles, while throughthe lingering heat of afternoon, the craftsmen's wives gathered onthe colonnaded balconies and sewed sequined masks for the harvest fes­tival. In the shade of the walled courtyard, the orphan boys shoutedat their games, free through the indolent days while the crops slowlyripened, and the crofters required no labor. If the waterfront innscatered to men-at-arms wearing sunwheel surcoats, or if the roadswore the passage of couriers and patrols in hanging clouds of finedust, Tysan's crown treasury honored its debts for their lodging. Inthe lazy month while the barley ripened, the season left time forindulging the gifts of earth's bounty.
The Koriani Prime Matriarch harbored no such soft sentiment through her tedious days of convalescence. Imprisoned by her debili­tating weakness, and fed on the brew of yet another bitter defeat,she lay swathed in thin coverlets. Her eggshell flesh showed each bluetrack of vein. Bones pressed against skin seamed and worn to translu­cency, the joints like knobbed pearl beneath. Through the weeks sincethe spell construct's release had roused her from coma, herglisteningblack eyes lent the sole spark of life to her visage.
She refused idle company. The least small disturbance barraged 
447 
JANNY ~VU R TS 

her strained nerves. Sound and light taxed her senses pastas if the trial of living exhausted repetitive discipline. Theber appointed for her recovery was always kept dim for that reason.Thick curtains were drawn over the paned windows to close out thenoise and the frenetic stimulation brought in on strayed currents 0ibreeze. The dammed-in heat of the summer afternoons burdened the stilled air, dense as a wool blanket, and choked with the scents ~~the medicinal teas to cosset her wasted flesh. The gnawing needs ~~ ~,~intellect were more difficult to appease.
Each day, by the sweltering light of a beeswax candle, a senior-rank seeress in dove gray silk sat in strict attendance with a scryin.cr~'~al tucked on her knees.
 "Matriarch," she responded, as she had countless times to the ~scantly whispered request, "I search, but find no sign or prese~ ~iArithon s'Ffalenn. The crystal shows me naught yet again but ~hvcold fog of the veil."
A dry breath stirred the bundled form in the bedding. "He's t~clever by far. That's the bane of his mother's lineage." Morrielforc›~ out another thready whisper, rough as scabbed rust in the gloom."Ida: is not on Athera, then." Her hands lay half-curled, crabbed as thefevt of a petrified songbird, each hideous detail exaggerated in shadv~,­spun by the crawling spearpoint of flame. "Proceed."
"Your will, matriarch." The seeress bent to her travail, thebound knot of her hair bone ivory in the gloom, and her collar stuck ~o h~rmoist neck. The drill she enacted would follow repetitive routi~~ !~refforts divided between three futile searches, none of whichch~'~'c~,~.tfrom one day to the next. Already, the resident Senior Circle ~'~~~i~ sisterhouse whispered in corners that the Prime had lapsed in',~t~.,.~dotage. The rumors were kept guarded, with no successor at h~..~ t~,receive an appeal for review. The peeress stayed loyal, and as a: ~'~sider, the seeress chose not to speculate. Bound by her vows ~-,unquestioned obedience, she blotted the steamed moisture off l~rpalms, then rebalanced her mind and gazed once more ihto the v~tdepths of the crystal.
This time, her intent was cast to draw in the location of First$eni, ,?Lirenda.
 Ever since her awakening amid the spent ash of her construct,ti' ~,Koriani Prime had been consumed by frustration. Her mind w~ dnot rest. Not until she knew what had destroyed her laid plan t~ cap­ture Arithon s'Ffalenn.
 Always before this, the crystal scrying had shown darkness, abar­rier of blank, impenetrable density that the most gifted talent could 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE 

not pierce. Resigned to another failure, the seeress tuned her effortwith all the skilled force her experience could command. Her willbecame the refined filament, drawn like steel thread through theaperture of the mysteries.
This time the wall yielded as if no impedance had existed. Theseeress gasped. Her mind reeled into vertigo as her gift met andtapped into a scene of turbulence and light. She centered andgrounded, by instinct steadying the contact. Sound immersed her, awelter of voices all shouting at once. Jubilation reigned, amid arushed tumult of tumbling impressions. Somewhere on a beachhead,a small knot of clan scouts were pounding each other's backs andwhooping in ecstatic celebration.
The kaleidoscopic chaos of this scrying resisted even the best-trained discipline. The seeress shifted her seeing crystal and probedfor the reason. The scenes jerked and spun, spliced one to the next,tethered by what looked like a sparkling strand of silver chain.Dark­ness and blinding sunlight interfaced at random as the viewpointswirled and jounced through a packed mass of bodies clad in theplain fringe of forest clansmen. A voice filtered through, distinctabove others. "Ath, be careful! That trinket's no booty to send toyoursweetheart, but the spell crystal of a Koriani witch, and bound foranother hand than yours."
The seeress's horrified gasp ripped the sanctity of Morriel'sbed­chamber.
 "What has happened?" came the Prime's drilling treble.
"I'm not sure yet." The seeress clasped her stone, desperate notto break ugly news until she could verify her first impression. "Let memake better sense of the images." Sweat stuck her skirts to herthighsas she engaged a sigil to force order through whirling turbulence.Imagery continued to assault her trained senses. The smelting heat inthe bedchamber dulled her touch as she grappled to find a thread toseize continuity.
"What do you see?" Morriel asked, querulous. Her hand twitchedon the coverlet. "Has mishap befallen my First Senior?"
Eyes closed, hands cupped light as a butterfly's shut wingsaround the warmed sphere of quartz, the seeress at last captured one angleof contact. She framed another sigil of control and froze the vision inplace, then engaged the trained logic of observation to assess thestilled scene by its content. "I see a beach where clansmen weep,run,and shout in celebration. They are hunters or scouts, to judge by thecarved-bone talismans laced into the cuffs of their boots. One is a chieftain, the son of a duchess by the four stranded knots in hisbraid. 
JANNY WURTS 

In the cove, at anchor, ride two blue-water brigs. They're not undercommand of Lysaer's Alliance of Light. The banner flying at theirmasthead is no sunwheel, but a crude rendition in dark colors." Shepaused, tipped the crystal, but failed to extract any further helpfuldetail.
 On the high bed, Morriel hissed in displeasure. "So. My planfailed at sea. What went wrong? I had allowed for every possible setbackcontingency." She ranted on, relentless, her words the grate of d~,adleaves dragged over unyielding granite. "What of my First $eni~~r?She should have sailed with those ships. Is she held captive amenemies?"
 The seeress swallowed, her dampened palms clouding a fo~crystal's slick surface. "Matriarch, no." In distress and unc~,~'t,~ishe blotted the moisture on her sleeve and exerted her power:analysis. "I keyed my scrying to Lirenda, as you asked. It wouldthat I did not find her directly. Instead, I appear to have capturedresonant signature of her personal quartz pendant." A pause, w~she braced to conclude the unthinkable. "What I read is not the ~ Senior. herself, but the crystal that has come to be separated fi~presence."
The closed quiet of the chamber acquired the tension of thebow, or the measured arc of the spear as it rushed to transfixtissue. On the bed, the silk coverlet stirred to snatched movernet~the Prime's fingers closed into fists. "Who has caused this desction?" She never asked whether Lirenda still lived; that fact wasobvious. A long-distance scrying could not have connected in thefirst place if the imprinted crystal had lost its energetic tie to thewoman.
 Gilt touched with sweat as she leaned to trim the wick of the can­dle, the seeress resisted the folly of platitudes. Well awareMorriel's ire would find small surcease, she bent again to peruse her crystal.Past the flames' renewed glow, the sealed darkness soaked her inthick, scented silence. No sound intruded. Remote with trance, theseeress suspended cluttered thoughts and quested through the deepfocus of her quartz sphere. Now aware her linked imagery arosethrough an unfiltered contact with the matrix of another mineral, shealigned her intent to compensate for the random sequence of imagery.
Somewhere inside the stone's spiraling lattice, caught in frozenlight, she should find an imprint of the desecrating thief who haddared to strip a First Sentor of her focus jewel. The stored memorywould be encoded as a sequence of vibration from which her linkedstone could reassemble a sequential string of events. Through thepowers of sigils designed to draw truth from falsehood, she mightsift 
FUGIT!~E PRINCE

 thrc)ugh the traces and unveil the purpose of the stone's present-day
mishandling.
Long minutes passed, pressed in the musty atmosphere of sun-heated felt. Morriel's breath rasped in and out, stirring through thestale musk of age. The astringency of brewed herbs hung over a roomthat resonated with the hollow stillness of a sealed drum. Silence reigned, fraught with the Prime's brooding fury. The candle burned, asmokeless, bright finger in its graceful bronze stand, the floortiles and the tapestries glinting rich colors only inside of its inadequatelight. The spun gold of its touch edged a corner of silk counterpane,and mapped each infinitesimal crease surrounding Morriel's blackeves. Nothing else moved. The Prime's features seemed a cast-porcelain impression, assembled from a caricature of knotted old rags?inned on a framework of skull. Her fingernails gleamed dulledivory, the skin shriveled beyond any inclination to give or takesimplepleasures.
Only power remained, a dragon's balefire caged in sapped flesh bythe thorns of bound duty and a dauntless, implacable dedication.Though each passing second bespoke final failure, and the allure ofoblivion and death, the Prime's obsidian pupils stayed focused andsharp, sparked by a dangerous impatience.
If that last, held bastion of will should give way, the Matriarchwould pass from her office unsucceeded. None other than she couldmeasure the scope of such loss, or comprehend the risk of backlashinto cataclysm as prime power ranged free with no prepared vessel athand to contain the accumulated burden of stored consciousness. Too aware of the fragility holding the balance, the seeress responded,her words like scratched glass against her Prime's nettled expectation."The crystal was parted from our First Senior by a liegeman of PrinceArithon's. He. bore the name Caolle."
 "What?" Morriel's screech of astonishment shocked the dense quiet, and the quilts jumped to the lash of her fist. "That manshould have perished in Riverton of blood loss brought on by a swordthrust!" Hurled into rage beyond reach of aged strength, the PrimeMatriarch ranted on in a whisper. "What has my First Senior done?"
"Your pardon, matriarch. I do not know." The seeress cringed,shaken out of contact with her talents. "I cannot see her. The crystalwill not show her presence, no matter where on the continent Isearch."
 Morriel blinked, her eyes two jet rivets. "That's because she ismasked by salt water." One forearm twitched, as if under the skin,the nerves leaped to jolts of pure fire. Next to the duller agony ofstiff ]ANNY W URT$ 
joints, the torment of pure gall burned the hotter. The Koriani Prim,had spent painstaking centuries grooming a successor, only to sufferthis balking defeat at the hands of a dying clan swordsman. "More tothe point, where is Lirenda's spell crystal now? Who guards theimprinted key to her life, and for what unprincipled purpose?"
Another strung interval, while the seeress bent her head andsought answers across time and distance. Behind tight-latched mr~l­lions, the curtains did not stir to the crack of the late-afternoon sea breeze. Morriel lay, her shut lids like blued eggshells. In one ofthe windows, a trapped fly buzzed and battered for freedom. Its wingsstriking glass made her nerves flare and sear in sparks of pain fromthe sound.
 In the end, submersed m a suffocating tension, the seeress'sanswer came clear as flung acid with the impacting force of ill news.
"The crystal resides in the hands of Lord Maenol's barbarians.They have instructions to give it into Prince Arithon's keeping.There can be no chance of its rescue, even by the invasion of Caithwood bythe Alliance troops. The clan scouts are jubilant with the freshne~xs that the ships out of Riverton's royal yard were retaken. Due t0Caolle's intervention, and our First Senior's coercion, every one ,,!tt~e Shadow Master's condemned henchmen escaped from ca~.tt,.tt?while at sea."
 Morriel's eyes flickered open, her weighted quiet an obsidia~k~ie that could have scored lines in new iron. "There has been a bet~ ~-,~,~',"she announced at raw length. Her clawed forefinger crooked .,r~ t!'~ecounterpane. "Come here," she directed. "I would know whe',~ ~,t~rFirst Senior hides now. I can find out by means of your talents, b~tonly if your link to her spell quartz is given over to my disposal."
The seeress swallowed. Sweat trickled at her throat. Though s!~c.knew her free will was demanded in sacrifice, her vows left ~recourse to refuse. Her talents were at the command of her order :,,spend for the greater good of humanity.
"You will come to no harm," Morriel assured, brisk, and beckon~dagain for close contact.
The seeress arose; not young herself, her knees stiffened inct~,:~plaint from the hour spent seated on bare flooring. She offered t,~crystal between her cupped hands in surrender to the will oi herPrime Matriarch.
 Morriel extended a skeletal finger. Her palsied touch traced adark sigil over the quartz sphere. If her body was wasted, her powers wereimmense. A force rocked the sealed room like the shock of a thunder­clap. The seeress quailed outright, chilled by recognition that shewit­
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

nessed none other than the cipher of prime dominion, imprintedupon each initiate who swore oath. The one mighty cipher set a brandlike a shackle, and granted the Koriani Matriarch her authorizedascendancy over all aspects of free will.
The sigil sieved into the clear quartz like a stain, a shadowwroughtfrom the stuff of deep nightmare that spilled and frayed and dark­ened the crystal's bright depths. There, the force hovered, pulsingwith currents that shocked through live flesh and negated the mostpassionate coil of desire. Lightless and cold, it realigned the corematrix of the quartz, then spilled over and laid claim to theseeress's awareness.
 She flinched in recoil. The crystal's transmission released ashearingsting of heat against her cradling palms. Engulfed by vertigo, shewas unable to move as Morriel Prime pronounced the guttural words to keymastery. The sigil fired and took form. Its barbed force claimedthoughtand mind, then erased the last imprint of individuality. Theresonance of subjugation shattered the frail web of the seeress's consciousness.W'dl,self, and senses sucked away into vacuum, first dashed to powder,then whirled into void by a tide of cyclonic intervention. Oblivion remained.
 Seconds passed, or eternity; time lost all meaning as thespiralingforce of the crystal's transmission ranged across distance.
Then, like smashed ice re-formed through smelting heat and direcold, new sensation reassembled. The seeress no longer beheld thesun-drenched beachhead by Mainmere, noisy with exuberant clans­men. The eyes she gazed out of were not her own, but those of FirstSenior Lirenda...
 Under a sky silted in low-hanging stringers of cloud, the harborat Corith lay untenanted except for the churned phalanxes of whitecapsas the brig Lance threaded her inbound course through the chain offlanking islets. She dropped anchor against a stiff wind. The rockbasin which gleamed fired russet in sunlight, under dampness worethe blotched tang of rusted iron. Slate waters rolled, and the airsmelled of wet rock, and the faint trace of ozone which warned of anoncoming gale.
By the aft rail, the Alliance captain deposed by Caolle's boldstrat­egy stared shoreward. His locked hands stayed braced on new var­nish, while over and over, the unraveling spume of the breakerssheeted the jagged crescent strand. The testy temperament onceraised in defiance of Koriani sailing orders had deflated to fretfulhumility since the loss of his flagship command. 
J^N~. WUR~$

 His pride was ashes. Anxious to please lest the First Senior'smony reveal the sad fact of his damning lack of fight before surren­der, he volunteered his opinion concerning the vacant anch0r~g~."The Alliance fleet from Hanshire included oared galleys. Weath~r'sset up to blow, as you see. If Prince Lysaer's ships are still here,ti~~,v'1Ibe tucked up tight in deep shelter. Captains who'll row on blue~~ater know weather, or they don't survive. They'd have winched u?land, high and dry on log skids. Else they're crammed into some covebehind a barrier reef, where Sithaer's own demons couldn'tenough swell to kick up a rank sea into combers."
Another gust thrummed through the stays. First Senior Lir~~~daclamped manicured fingers over her billowing silk. Astrand of dark hair escaped anyway, to stream and snap a refrait~ toher fierce irritation. Her lighter mantle buffeted against theoiled cloak, while the silence magnified her indifference towardticulars. Whether or not the Prince of the Light would agree totrade,off hostages with a pirate crew loyal to the Shadow Master, the,stakes to her personal dilemma stayed unchanged. Momentmoment, she lived in blank dread, besieged by the knowledge herbonded crystal was withheld on the mainland, guarded by e~.~hands.
 The Min Pierens archipelago, with its forbidding, scarred clifft~ ,~wind-mangled stands of crabbed cedar, wore its mantle ~fcloud in savage reflection of her mood. Yet where nature co~ltithe unrestrained elements into primordial fury, she must guar(!vulnerability behind a mannered facade of restraint. She ct~ul~inothing but suffer her impotent rage for talents removed be..access. Beneath anger and poisonous humiliation, she wrestlt,~!insidious fear, that mishap could unstring every thread of her ambi­tion and ruin her beyond salvage.
She had scarcely spoken through the weeks since the Lancemade covert landfall in Havish. There the prize crew loyal to Ari::had boarded a mannerless cohort of fortune-seeking mercenaries.sea, the men had no enemy but boredom. They wrestled andcrapulous and picked fights. Rather than suffer their attacks ofhumor, Lirenda stayed out of sight. The fortnight's offshore passag~to the Isles had been spent locked in the privacy of her cabin.came on deck for the landfall well aware she must keep up theblance of appearances. Clothed in the eighth-rank robes of a Kori,~nFirst Senior and the empty trappings of power, she despisedreduction to female uncertainty, disposition of her fate given intohands of these rough-cut, fallible men. 
454 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 The lookout hailed down from the crosstrees. "Longboat sighted!
Bearing in on our starboard quarter, and flying the sunwheel blazon!"Lirenda throttled the urge to cross the deck and gawk alongsidethe sailhands. Nor would she acknowledge the vanquished captain'sself-blinded lift of optimism. The rippling gilt snap of Prince
Lysaer'sbanner against the crocheted heave of the wavecrests promised herno deliverance. Reprieve from captivity would not remove her fromjeopardy. Not when a thousand ways existed to erase the attunedbindings which linked her lost quartz to the spells that extended
her vitality. If few rituals offered the horrific severance that Caolle
had arranged for the healer, some were deadly innocent enough to occurthrough ignorant mishap.
A moment's inept handling might plunge the stone into the sea.Saltwater cleansing would follow, a gentle dissolution of the wardsthat would span the course of several days. The first symptom mightbloom with a nagging, dull headache. Weakness would follow. Thena fumbling loss of reflex, which would progress into fits of sicktrem­bling and convulsions, until she died at last of paralysis, as herinter­nal organs failed and ruptured, torn apart by the unleashed backlashof stayed time.
The slap of raw winds made her feel her mortality, and theunblemished hand held clenched to the rail only mocked her: shecould wake any morning and find herself trapped in the witless,shriveled body of a hag.
Jostled movement beside her upset her dark thoughts. Lysaer'sdisplaced captain had turned aside to make inquiry, while on deckbehind, a clipped shout in clan accents called for the deckhands tosway out a boat.
"Koriathain, my lady?" The deposed captain faced back andaddressed her. "Signals have been relayed through an officer fromLysaer's royal galley." Uncertainty checked him. His palm left abroad, misty print on new varnish as he shifted to scrape at thebeard stubble he now owned no blade to raze off. "The clan brigands agreedI should plead for an exchange of prisoners with the Prince of theLight."
"Those plans have changed?" Lirenda gave him her haughty atten­tion. "State what you wish."
The man cleared his throat, his diffidence laughable. Deprived ofher crystal, Lirenda owned no powe~s to cow him beyond glacial man­ners and deportment. If keen observation could still let her fathomthe gist of his disorganized thinking, no schooled methodology couldrestore her lost key to access the complex sigils of spellcraft."State 
JANNY WURT$ 

your wish," she repeated. To hide her distaste for his jettisonedmale pride, she fixed her tigerish gaze on the tumbled and desolate sh0re­line.
 The man's knot of dread and embarrassment loosened. "An officer from the Alliance flagship has insisted, by word of his Grace, thatyoube the one sent to speak for the hostages."
Which warped twist of fate held a piquant justice; Lirenda c~uldhave howled for the irony. Had her towering rejection of intimacy ~0tforced her need to defeat Arithon s'Ffalenn, Morriel Prime's desi~nto ensnare him would have succeeded without setback. No fool's r~und of bargaining over prisoners and slave oarsmen would need u~der­taking at all.
Caolle would have passed the Wheel back in Riverton, withLirenda spared from her present coil of entanglement.
The First Senior made certain as she sealed an empty promist,that her voice masked her sorry self-derision. "If human lives can beredeemed from the Shadow Master's henchmen, the vows of myorder require me to act to the absolute limit of my resources."
 Individual awareness reawakened. The seeress snapped back intoherself, disentwined at a stroke from Lirenda's close thoughts, andthe leveling sting of shared shame. Jerked back into the heat of aCapewell afternoon, she raised her damp head. Her heart raced toofast. The lingering horror reeled through her from the secondhandtaste of the First Senior's appalling disgrace. The seeress blinked,then shuddered in revulsion, unable to bear the closed, cloying dimness ofthe Prime Matriarch's bedchamber.
 The quartz burned, the etheric web of its matrix torn by the mas­terful force of the sigil Morriel Prime had rammed through its trans­mission. Pillowed in stained lace, the Matriarch lay motionless. Herfeatures were an expressionless skull, swathed in crimped skin, onlyanimated by the devouring intensity of jet eyes. Her glance in thathour could have pierced flesh and bone to plunder thought straightfrom the mind. Of all harbingers of disaster, this day's scrying haddelivered the penultimate stroke of ill news.
No setback could strike with such profound impact: the continu­ance of Koriani power had hung on Lirenda, First Senior.
Terrified to breathe lest any slight motion rip the dreadstillness and ignite Morriel's leashed wrath, the seeress froze in suspension.Alive to the unseen currents of danger, she hesitated to ask back herscrying sphere from the Prime Matriarch's clasped fists.
Then the decision was spared her. Morriel unlocked her grasp on 
456 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

the quartz, though nothing else moved under the tucked layers of thecounterpane. The pleats at her brow seemed starched into place. Herbitterness poisoned the stifling shadows that speared where the can­dle's flame faltered. Her seamed lips held the limpid pallor ofkilled fish as she waved the seeress back from her bedside. "You may sit."
"Your will." The enchantress sank down, unsure whether shedared ask permission to cease further efforts at scrying. She knew ofno precedents. If a betrayal had ever happened this high in the ranksduring the order's long history, none of her colleagues remembered.Lirenda's defection left her stunned to incapacity, with the Prime'sdisappointment an unvoiced anguish all the more deadly for beingsuppressed through an invalid's weakness.
Nor had the seeress ever witnessed an augury cast across opensalt water. She had always believed such a practice lay past the reach ofthe most advanced Koriani arts. The chill truth struck home, that theMatriarch's seat required more preparation and knowledge than asenior enchantress imagined. Given the harsh fact, the enormitybecame crushing, that the one groomed successor had failed to main­tain her integrity.
"Well you should fear," said Morriel Prime. "There is only oneglyph that can span the salt ocean. That is the sigil of masterywhich I hold over each and every one of you, impressed on your oath of initi­ation. Spells spun through its vortex will track an enchantress,beyond every defense and safeguard. No place in this world liesexempt. There is no hiding. One who breaks faith cannot escape for­feit, no matter how far her flight takes her. Even death grants nosurcease. Such spells have been used at need to call halt on thespiritin its final passage across the Wheel."
The seeress knotted wet hands, shaking now, and unable to discernwhether her Prime's words were a warning, or a threat laid againstthe damaging evidence of Lirenda's disobedience.
Nor did Morriel waste hoarded strength to volunteerclarification. "Leave me. Your duty is finished. You will tell nobody what you havewitnessed concerning our order's First Senior." If setback and defeatat last undermined the tenacity of the Prime's will, she yielded nosign. Her faint, husking voice still delivered her authority insnappingshort consonants and clipped vowels. "The matter must bide untilLirenda returns. I will choose the day and the hour when she standsbefore me to receive my formal charge against her conduct." 
457 Summer 5653 
Reprieves 
Inside the circle of the Paravian grimward, Asandir defers histion and looses another net of spells to hold the dream of thedrake stable; while inside the bewildering coil of its spiral,another sunwheel soldier meets oblivion in spilled blood, leavh~gthree survivors of the original forty who followed the Hanshiretain, Sulfin Evend, in pursuit of the Master of Shadow ....
 In the null gray mists between the veil of the mysteries, Jier~'trient's naked spirit rides the winds, called ahead by the drawbond with his prince; and on the faint trail of his passage fliesraven, bearing the tracking presence of Setheir, who waits andat Althain Tower in the poised hope of effecting a rescue ....
 Steaming mists rise off the pools of Mogg's Fen, whereMaenol crouches with a blooded band of scouts; and they m~v~,crash the lines of yet another Alliance patrol, as yet uninformedthe campaign to break his clan foothold in Tysan has been defang,,~,iin the south: that two brigs from Riverton have made [andfallMainmere, but flying the leopard blazon of Rathain .... 
458 Summer 5653 
XIII. Reversals 
Lirenda's meeting with Prince Lysaer was not to take place in thewarmed comfort of a state galley's cabin, but ashore, on theopen cliff top. The same shattered ring of First Age foundationshad sheltered the Shadow Master's sailhands before his unfruitful voyage to Kathtairr. No trace remained now of that habitancy. Sixyears of winter storms had scoured off the ashes of the cookingfires. The bones of fish and hunted game tossed onto their midden werelong since cleared off by scavengers. Even the sail canvas Dakar hadused to roof the shell of the sole standing watchkeep had rotted, thefrayed threads picked away by industrious kittiwakes to line theirnests in the rocks.
 Set ashore by her escort of officers, First Senior Lirenda hadbeen left to manage the ascent by herself. On that hour, the low-flyingstorm scud wore the gloom of a premature dusk. The gusts whichlashed and moaned through bent cedars, in these heights shrilledacross barren stone. Lirenda's light mantle flailed and snapped atthe hem. Each blast assaulted her layers of silk robes, as if theelements conspired to strip her naked. Her pinned coils of jet hair succumbedas well, first torn from confinement, then flogged into tangles likewhipped ink against the flushed pink of her cheeks. The dark, con­gested clouds overhead streamed like frothed smoke in a vat, chasedby intermittent thunder. 
459 
JANNY W URTS

 Raised in cosseted wealth, accustomed ever since to theregime of Koriani sisterhouses, Lirenda held no love for wildShe minced over stones too rough for kid soles, and battled tothe proud, erect grace of her carriage. Stressed to primal nerves b,oncoming gale, she chewed her lip, while the discharge of far offlightning glazed mercury over the upthrust tangs of sharp rock. Shecould imagine no motive for Prince Lysaer to insist on holding anaudience in the midst of a ruined fortress.
 Logic spurred on her intuitive unease. The setting was all wrong.Based on the observations drawn from years of Koriani lane watch,the indulgence of demeaning gestures matched nothing of Lysaer'sruling style.
Denied her reflexive access to power, Lirenda felt her nerves themore keenly as she swept the barren summit in search of a shelteringpavilion. No such royal trapping met her eye. Just the wind-flutedrims of tumbled-down walls in the poured tones of rust, lead, andink. Stone here had been witness to violent death, and under bruisedcloud, the sorrows of antiquity seemed to cry out for the voice of abard to waken their brooding memory. When the fortress at Corithhad stood in defense, the site had been burned desolate by drakefire.Abandoned to wreckage, even the tenacious island cedars could notpry a stunted foothold to take seed. Too late, Lirenda consideredtl~e pitfalls. The Prince of the Light had ever been wont to wrest fulladvantage from the lofty affectations of court ceremony. Hischaracter did not incline toward brooding. Never before this had he been a manto choose a glowering, windswept terrain to conduct his crown busi­ness of state.
 She saw him at last, against every precedent unattended where hestood against a backdrop of gale-ravaged sky. His elegant silkdoublet leaped out like the sheen of found pearl amid the stripped blocks ofa rampart's foundations.
A gust screamed. Lirenda wrestled the billowing tug of hermantle,then snagged its purple folds in a death grip to keep it fromflagginglike a sail. If she wished to turn back, the moment was forfeit.Prince Lysaer turned his head and caught sight of her.
No option remained but to close the last yards over treacherous,uneven footing.
Lirenda's fluttery uneasiness could not be dismissed in brashpre­tense. Koriani life was communal. Those rare occasions she had spentin male company afforded untrustworthy insight. No man within herliving memory had owned the presence of this prince, daunting andpolished to flawless grace as he inclined his head and acknowledged 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

her arrival. He offered his hand to steady her last step, his graspfirm and warm around her cool fingers, and his hair like snagged goldagainst the jeweled edge of his collar.
"Come," he greeted in unsmiling courtesy. "I invited you here toshare the spectacular view."
Three steps down a defile, one sharp turn to the right; theabruptcessation of the wind all but rocked Lirenda off-balance. Lysaer'ssure strength caught her back from a stumble. He steered her downwardinto the niche where the ancient foundation arched over a gully inthe cliffside. They halted in that isolate pocket of hushed air, whilethe gusts shrieked on unabated up above, and balked eddies careenedthrough the defile, shearing through spindly stands of racked treesand harrying their branches like weed stalks. Far beneath, the strandmet the sea in stepped ledges, a jumbled bulwark of silt gravel andboulders where the raging surf hurled itself ragged.
The gale was still building. Already the bay wore the loomedstripes of spindrift, where wind sluiced the tops from thewavecrests.
 On the pending edge of twilight, the beaten stretch of shorelinetugged the heart with its pristine splendor. Time could be felt here,the mighty deeds of bygone ages compressed against the present likea telescoped view through a jewel facet. Lirenda gripped her thinsilks, diminished by awe, and eroded by the demeaning recognitionthat her life span mattered to the earth not at all. She gave way toa contradictory relief, that she did not wear her crystal in thisplace.Had her quartz been in hand, its channels would be quickened. Thepast might have burst forth and shaken her with the vast, deep tonesof the horns that centaurs once used to call dragons.
"You may sit," Lysaer said, breaking through her inadvertentabsence of mind. In seamless, reserved grace, he handed her onto afallen slab of coping.
She would not cast off pride. Rather than decry her spell-blindedstraits, she bent her cool gaze to wring the uttermost from herKoriani arts of observation. "In my sisterhouse, it would be I granting youthat permission."
Lysaer smiled, his candor a weapon's cleared edge. "This siteadheres to its own grand sovereignty, except for the Shadow Master'smeddling."
"We need not stand upon dignity for that." Lirenda gathered thespilled folds of her mantle and made space for him on the stone.
He chose to stay standing. She scrutinized his poise, unblinkingand still as a snake that sized up choice prey. Lysaer met her regardwithout qualm, a feat few men dared to sustain beyond the brute 
JANNY ~URT$ 

span of a moment. The bedrock calm that lent this prince majesty wasin fact the intent of a spirit schooled into a seamless, listeningpatience. Whatever she did or said in his presence would be heardwithout personal prejudice. No judgment would be passed until theirexchange had been weighed in its entirety.
That striking attentiveness, paired with the grave impact of malebeauty, lent the man his stunning charisma. Lirenda searched hisclean features for the fine, marring evidence of selfishness, andfound no line in the flesh out of harmony with its framework of bone. Hewas all substance and firm moral courage. His skin wore its youthlike an oak tree's new leaves, and yet, he was not young. Lirendatried to imagine him as a boy with scraped knees and tousled hair',and failed utterly.
Even here, where the elements lent no man contrived artifice,Lysaer's natural bearing bespoke inborn royalty stamped all the wayto the marrow.
 Made aware through her own armor of deportment that she andthis prince shared more similarities than differences, Lirenda gaverein to her impulse. "If you could have chosen the course of yourlife,would you be here today?"
Lysaer did not lift his regard from her, nor did the scoured,limpidblue of his eyes once deviate from directness. "I was born a king'sheir. I know nothing else."
But his hands gave the lie, unrelaxed against the foil thread ofhis hose. Lirenda sensed a glass edge to his poise, as though he had madehis first stance on the cliff top in challenge, daring the gale torise upand smash his works into oblivion.
 Lirenda said, "This seems an odd site for a king's heir to holdaudi­ence. What made you come here?"
"I needed solitude in which I could be myself." His answeryieldedno shred of shared trust as he settled his shoulder to the rocks. "How­ever, even here we are not alone. Our ties of responsibility stillbind us. Can you see them?"
The seed pearls on his sleeve pocked the gloom as he pointedtoward the carnelian gleam where the Lance's stem lantern bobbedamid saw-toothed wavecrests.
 Lirenda maintained her tight survey of his face. "Do you speak ofthe hostages who are offered in exchange for the clan slaves keptchained on your galleys? You could bend to demand. Or do youbelieve the Teir's'Ffalenn's allies drive too high-handed a bargain?"
"A prince must give way to no man. His guide must be the princi­pled tenets demanded by justice and mercy." Yet new lines crimped 
FUGITIVE DRINCE 

the comers of Lysaer's eyes. A fractional tautness to his jaw exposedhis fleeting, raw edge of discomfort.
Some recent event still caused him an intense and personalanguish. A thrill piqued Lirenda's interest, that Koriani arts mightallow her a glimpse of his most private core.
"The common subjects of the realm must receive the same law asothers born to wealth and position," Lysaer qualified. "My will isnot at issue, lady enchantress, now or at any time. Today, I must passsen­tence on men who failed in their orders. Tomorrow, for the weal ofthe realm, I may have to sign an execution for treason against the womanI took to wife."
 There lay the hidden vulnerability, a raw nerve betrayed in thetrembling flash of his jewels. In Princess Talith lay the source ofthe agony Lysaer lacked human outlet to express. "You loved her,"Lirenda accused, aware through h'ls front of equanimity that the con­fidence she probed for was unlikely to be shared with anyone.
The temper of his voice came back like sheared metal. "TheShadow Master knew. He sought to use her to ruin me."
Lirenda studied Lysaer's shuttered features, the pain embedded sodeeply that not even tears might flow; a wounding as bloodless as theblued tang of steel broken off inside vulnerable flesh. If this washow love could mangle free choice, she was all the more determined tokeep her own spirit unencumbered. "Why did you bring me here?"
"Did you not guess?" Rings and gold braid sparked to a faint playof lightning. "This is a trial, your hearing, for my impartial royaljudgment, since the Lance has not delivered the Master of Shadow inchains. Your order's part was to drive my enemy to flight out ofRiverton. I want to know how he chanced to gain warning of my trapset and waiting here at Corith."
Lirenda all but shot to her feet in stunned shock. Barely intime, herreflexive poise slapped back the impulse and saved her. She pulled ina chain of deep breaths.Lysaer watched, his eyes on her impartial as sky-printed water.Relief surged over her like a shot pail of ice as she recouped blud­geoned wits and reminded herself he was not yet aligned in decisionagainst her. The Prince waited, prepared to hear her explanation, theonly ruffled part of him now the gilt hair left snarled by the wind.
"You must understand," he pressed, gentle as though he mistookher silence for reluctance to name a guilty party. "No inquest couldbe made in the presence of the men-at-arms who serve with my fleet.Each has lost brothers and loved ones in the war against the truedark. For the fact that Arithon s'Ffalenn slipped the net, they would respond like a dog pack. Unveil a conspirator, and they'll cry forfresh blood until a death has righted the balance."
Some sly fact stayed unsaid. Lirenda caught the shrewd set to hisstillness, alongside the unpleasant insight that more than royaljudg­ment would be passed in this unwitnessed hearing. Like his halfbrother, Lysaer s'Ilessid bore the royal gifts of s'Ahelas on thedistaff side of his pedigree. However he pronounced sentence for the mis­play at Riverton, his indictment would bear a calculated stake in thefuture. While the night deepened, and the storm broke in turbulentforce against the headlands, she realized that Koriani observers toooften neglected to allow for the mother's inherited farsight.
"The wise man knows the master always outlives his hounds,"Lirenda threw back in provocation.
"Only one opportunity has been lost to take down the Spinner ofDarkness," Lysaer s'Ilessid allowed. "We agree, that's no cause toindulge in the hysteria of disappointment."
Against five centuries' longevity, the event lost its impact. ThePrince of the Light would not trifle with recriminations. He wouldinstead reshape this setback in deliberate calculation to steer laterevents to his purpose. Lirenda's suspicion bloomed into swift anger.Morriel Prime would be mortified to learn any Koriani Senior hadstrayed inside the reach of such usage.
"Is this royal prerogative?" Lirenda provoked. "Are we not tobrand your conspirator in public?"
Lysaer withheld response; and the fear shot cold through her,since she had no way to fathom how much he knew, or how much he reliedupon guesswork, concerning the reverses brought on by her med­dler's choice to prolong Caolle's survival.
Across gale-torn waters and thickening gloom, the firefly danceof the ship's lantern mocked her. She found herself mortal and exposedin this crux as the Lance's miserable, deposed captain. The guttedpride of her First Senior's rank made her loath to cross moral witswith the man hailed as Prince of the Light.
This moment's freight of uncertainty became as grueling a punish­ment as the loss of her link to prime power. Against masterful state­craft, Lirenda had no true shield, but only bare wits and a scathingself-contempt.
At length, without censure, Lysaer gave his answer. "There canbe
 no conspiracy. The orders you follow are not yours, but your
Prime's."
 The multiple snares of innuendo bit deep. "Must you insist on
attaching blame?" Cornered behind her last shred of confidence, 
464 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

Lirenda fell back upon pretense. "If so, you have no guilty party,but only a poor choice of scapegoats. No man broke your faith. For rea­sons of mercy, my order spared a liegeman of Arithon's. Caolle'swounding was mortal. At the end of his strength, no one foresaw hemight become the weapon to turn in the hand and wrest the ShadowMaster's capture off course."
"Caolle, who once served as war captain to Steiven s'Valerient,and later, to the heir, Jieret Red-beard? My lowliest Etarran footsoldier would have weighed that man's character with better prudence."Dangerous now as struck flame, Lysaer faced the sea. A sudden, sheet­ing flare of lightning scoured his profile to the ennoblized stamp ona coinface. "Such a man could never be harmless until he lay dead." Hewaited again in sly pressure, prepared to let silence condemn her.
Lirenda would not stoop to volunteering the Koriani role behindthe question he posed by implication.
Lysaer raised his eyebrows in acidic irony. "Weren't you planningto importune me about hostages? Or does the Lance not sail under abarbarian crew, with my sworn company of Etarrans held locked inher hold as their captives?"
"Is that an issue?" For surely he had noticed: the inbound stormstripped the night's secrets. For minutes on end, Lirenda had markedthe ongoing flurry of activity around the hull of the anchored Lance.Another bolt of lightning rinsed the ocean dull pewter. From thecliff top, wrapped in the scent of gathering rain, one could make out thebusy flotilla of oared boats bearing fugitives off the moored ship.As she watched, the leading party made a sheltered landing in a covenotched into an offshore islet.
 "Of course," Lysaer said, "we came for the view, since the scriptis too obvious. My men-at-arms and original sailhands are still impris­oned on board the flagship. Since they'd not be left free, the crewin the boats are undoubtedly Arithon's, leaving. They work for a pirate.What would they expect except shiftless treachery, no matter whoseword should be asked as surety for their safety? Dogs forced to skulkknow well when to cringe. As my father learned in Amroth, to hiseverlasting sorrow, there is no dealing with s'Ffalenn hirelingsthrough any honorable exchange."
Lirenda uncrimped her hands from balled silk, displeased to findherself sweating. "Why make them a display for my benefit, then?"
Lysaer gave her his complacent survey, as if he might memorizethe precise pattern of loose hair trailed across her domed forehead,or set a mold to the secretive slant of her eyelids. "For my own men,nat­urally, there can be no choice. And I asked you here to bearwitness." 
JANNY WURTS

 Full night had fallen. Beyond the white crash of breakers on theheadland, the dark between forks of lightning became a wind-textured veil of black air, pinpricked in distance by the solitaryflame of the abandoned flagship's stem lamp. Lysaer in his doublet of milksatin and worked pearl seemed no ordinary man, but an avatar sentdown to earth in a form wrought of silvery light. Lirenda saw himturn from her, his expression resolved into a stem serenity she foundterrifying for its perfect absence of uncertainty. Then he raisedt~is right arm.
She foresaw his intent a heartbeat too late. "Mercy on them, you can't!" Her cry entangled with a torturedshriek as his raised gift of light slammed land and sky into recoil.
Thunder fit to crack rock shook the ruins. This was no dischargebrewed by natural forces and clean storm, but the retort of lethalfuryunleashed as an act of vengeful judgment. Heat sheared in backlash.The fresh-whetted tang of ozone rode the air as the bolt arced downto meet the sea and its defenseless target: the fragile, wood-chipfrailty of the ship which swung unsuspecting at her anchorage.
Deafened, dazed half-blind, Lirenda reeled backward againstcrumbled stone. She saw the point of impact as a blooming, oran.estar. Timbers and furled canvas and cordage ignited, and with them,Tysan's entrapped subjects exploded amid a horrific maelstrom ~f fireand debris.
 Then all light extinguished. The pealing echoes of spent forcequaked the hills and slapped the ground, while the gusts disperse~clotted streamers of flame. Wreckage and cinders settled and snuffedout amid a scrim of storm-racked waves.
 The next snap oś ord~ar)' l~ghtaing unveiled no more than shred­ded drifts of smoke.
 Lirenda clawed back upright. She smoothed the disarranged foldsof her mantle, raked back fallen hair, and through flash-burnedvision, saw the Prince of the Light turned back once again to faceher.
 His posture was straight as Daelion's justice, and his eyes, theunrelenting, fierce blue of zenith sky.
"For mercy," he said, his gaze locked to hers. "Behold the truecost of your intervention in my plan. Every death upon that vessel mustlie on your own conscience, lady."
When Lirenda tried speech, he cut her off with brute sovereignty."Far more is at issue than the Shadow Master's destruction. You will advise your Prime that mankind deserves a future unencumbered bythe meddling intervention of factions who manipulate our societywith magecraft." 
466 FUGITIVE I)RINCE
 Lirenda felt steel rise up with her gorge. "Why you arrogantbutcher!" Sickened, appalled, she regrouped her shocked nerves. "Isthis pique, for balked plans? Some berserk fit of hatred?" Summaryjustice was a high king's fight, and he, granted less than legalsanc­tion as crown prince. "What have you done here, but show in coldblood you can self-righteously murder the innocent?"
"Yes, but were they innocent?" Lysaer's formal civility clashedat odds with the heat of her roused female outrage. "You alone wouldknow, First Senior." He took her hand, drew her to the cliff pathwith such vehemence she nipped her tongue. "Take warning, enchantress,lest your kind cross my wishes again."
Lirenda resisted his urge to call an end to the audience, even asthe force of his close presence tested the depth of her ire. The rocksthem­selves conspired against planted feet. She stumbled, caught the hemof her mantle beneath her heel. Silk tore like the whisper of screamsthe wronged dead had been granted no time to utter."You have no authority over Koriani affairs," Lirenda snapped."You believe so," Lysaer corrected, and then qualified with thatmagisterial arrogance that brought the most obstinate guild ministersto their knees. "One captain, a ship's crew, and a company of men-at­arms failed in completing my orders. Whether they did so throughnegligence, or if they were coerced by the power of your Koriani sis­terhood does not matter. Their fate at my hand became a foregone con­clusion on the instant they permitted the Lance to change course fora landfall in Havish."
 Another step out of shelter, and the gale winds would tear awaywords. Lysaer let her pause to lend his conclusion due emphasis. "Ican afford no loyal officer to fear others before me. Such a weaknesscould only open the sworn honesty of innocents to risk. Let yourKoriani Order leam well from your mistake. The men in my Alliance.will not be allowed to become the ready tools of outside powers. Iwill not have them suborned!"
 He let her go. The sudden release staggered her backward andbruised her heel against an unkind angle of rock. Men's lives hadbeen sacrificed, and an insolent ship's boy, not for their own actsmade in guilt or innocence, but for hers, as example to an absentPrime Matriarch.
 Lirenda pushed straight, shook the chaff of winter-burned mossfrom her robes, while the rising gale screamed, and lightning jaggedlike sullen cracks shot through crystal against the blackenedhorizon. Her eyes caught the glow, lit bale fire in reflection, as shedismissed Lysaer's face and fair person. "No prince, but a manslayer. Tysan's 
JANNY WURTS

 clans were well advised by their caithdein not to entrust you with
kingship."
His effrontery showed flawless and deferent manners as he
clasped her hand to escort her away. "I'm gratified to see my point
taken so courteously to heart."
Lirenda stiffened. She would not ask what measure of justice
would befall the Shadow Master's men, gone to ground as maroons
with no shelter beyond the overturned keels of four longboats.
Lysaer widened the breach by telling her in detail. "Traitorsancl pirates are condemned through fair trial under the written annals ofthe realm's law. My governance of men who are not my sworn liege-men is a matter of public record. No harm will befall the fugitivesfrom the Lance until they've been captured and arraigned by due pro­cess."
 Lirenda drew breath to warn him: the renegade crew from the brigyet included the cleverest of Riverton's turncoat shipwrights. Pureinstinct stayed her. She observed the prince with her arts until thefalse complacency sprang stark to the eye and belied his impartialstatement. The line of Lysaer's mouth was too knowing, too hard. Hisquiet was not born of calm, but an act to smooth over a keen, intro­verted calculation.
 Lirenda's trained perceptions pierced that facade and exposed theunderlying face of the truth: that for the linked network of PrinceArithon's supporters, the end would come later, upon the hour ofLysaer's choosing. Whatever rebellion their actions fomented wouldfirst be used to leverage further impetus toward Alliance consolida­tion of power, and then to extend the quest to wreak the ShadowMaster's downfall into a force of dominion to command every king­dom on the continent.
 "You think I don't mourn for the waste of good lives," Lysaersaid. "I've watched as you base your calculations upon the careful beget­ting of a power base. But your thinking is flawed. You reason withoutpity. Otherwise you must see, I act for this cause because there isno one else capable."
Lirenda stopped cold on the path as the impacting power ofLysaer's sincerity rocked her. Game pieces and conflict acquired newmeaning. Now she could not evade the overwhelming recognition ofthe pain he had managed to hide behind the artful trappings of statedignity.
"The Fellowship of Seven refused the burden," Lysaer admitted asher gaze returned to reassess every majestic angle of his face. Thebarest note of leaked bitterness strained through as he dismissed her 
468 
JANNY WURTS 
clans were well advised by their caithdein not to entrust you withkingship."
His effrontery showed flawless and deferent manners as heclasped her hand to escort her away. "I'm gratified to see my pointtaken so courteously to heart."
Lirenda stiffened. She would not ask what measure of justicewould befall the Shadow Master's men, gone to ground as maroonswith no shelter beyond the overturned keels of four longboats.
Lysaer widened the breach by telling her in detail. "Traitors andpirates are condemned through fair trial under the written annals of the realm's law. My governance of men who are not my sworn liege-men is a matter of public record. No harm will befall the fugitivesfrom the Lance until they've been captured and arraigned by due pro­cess."
 Lirenda drew breath to warn him: the renegade crew from the brigyet included the cleverest of Riverton's turncoat shipwrights. Pureinstinct stayed her. She observed the prince with her arts until thefalse complacency sprang stark to the eye and belied his impartialstatement. The line of Lysaer's mouth was too knowing, too hard. Hisquiet was not born of calm, but an act to smooth over a keen, it~tro­verted calculation.
 Lirenda's trained perceptions pierced that facade and exposed theunderlying face of the truth: that for the linked network of PrinceArithon's supporters, the end would come later, upon the hour ofLysaer's choosing. Whatever rebellion their actions fomented wouldfirst be used to leverage further impetus toward Alliance consolida­tion of power, and then to extend the quest to wreak the ShadowMaster's downfall into a force of dominion to command every king­dom on the continent.
 "You think I don't mourn for the waste of good lives," Lysaersaid. "I've watched as you base your calculations upon the careful beget­ting of a power base. But your thinking is flawed. You reason withoutpity. Otherwise you must see, I act for this cause because there isno one rise capable."
Lirenda stopped cold on the path as the impacting power ofLysaer's sincerity rocked her. Game pieces and conflict acquired newmeaning. Now she could not evade the overwhelming recognition ofthe pain he had managed to hide behind the artful trappings of statedignity.
"The Fellowship of Seven refused the burden," Lysaer admitted asher gaze returned to reassess every maiestic angle of his face. Thebarest note of leaked bitterness strained through as he dismissed her 
468 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

from private audience. "Today, to my sorrow, I have found yourKoriathain cannot be trusted to act with me for the common good."
 The gale pounded over the Isles of Min Pierens in bands of ram­paging winds and white rain squalls. In the cliff caves where themain body of Lysaer's fighting companies and ships' officers took refuge,the gusts took voice and fluted in diminished minor tones where theeddies snagged across rock. The caverns had been carved by waterand winds, before the mazed array of branching tunnels had beenbored by the hot breath of dragons.
Attrition still reigned. Like the fortress above, time crumbledthe stoutest stone bastions. Flooding and springs had crystallized lime­stone into a petrified silt that smoothed over the scored marks ofdrakes' claws.
 Amid echoed bickering, men vied over the best alcoves to hunkerdown with their bedding. The convoluted ceiling allowed but onefire, and that was reserved for their prince.
First Senior Lirenda kept to herself. Given a dry cranny, a mealof smoked fish and ship's rations, and the blankets an officer sharedout of courtesy, she observed the royal men-at-arms as they diced orbandied lewd jokes and smart talk; in grumbling, closed groups, theypolished the rust the sea air raised on their weapons and mail. Oneboisterous party chalked out a circle, stripped their shirts, andarranged bouts of wrestling. The enchantress in their midst wasignored. Whether at Lysaer's order, or through the inherent dreadmost townborn felt toward spellcraft, every man in the company gavethe Koriani First Senior wide berth.
 Like any other who had sworn life service to the sisterhood,Lirenda was inured to overt signs of distrust. Long experience lether disregard the unsettled glances, the furtive signs to wardspellcraft cast her way when men believed her attention lay else­where.
 Not all of the posturing sprang out of ignorance. Lysaer'srankingofficers kept their scrupulous distance as well. The Koriani FirstSenior was excluded from their council concerning the sprung newsthat the Spinner of Darkness had slipped through their net. Nor didany man in her hearing mention the summary execution of thosecomrades just burned alive in the hold of the Lance.
Whether Lysaer s'Ilessid had given them notice of his justice, orwhether they would be left to believe the vessel had been sunk by astroke of natural lightning, Lirenda was not privileged to know.Reduced to the rankling role of an eavesdropper, she strained tocatch from private audience. "Today, to my sorrow, ! have found yourKoriathain cannot be trusted to act with me for the common good."
 The gale pounded over the Isles of Min Pierens in bands of ram­paging winds and white rain squalls. In the cliff caves where themain body of Lysaer's fighting companies and ships' officers took refuge,the gusts took voice and fluted in diminished minor tones where theeddies snagged across rock. The caverns had been carved by waterand winds, before the mazed array of branching tunnels had beenbored by the hot breath of dragons.
Attrition still reigned. Like the fortress above, time crumbled thestoutest stone bastions. Flooding and springs had crystallized lime-s,~,~e i~t~ a ~*vi~qex4 silt t.~t s.~,,'~**~d ~ ~e scord ,~arkz ~efdrakes' claws.
 Amid echoed bickering, men vied over the best alcoves to hunkerdown with their bedding. The convoluted ceiling allowed but onefire, and that was reserved for their prince.
First Senior Lirenda kept to herself. Given a dry cranny, a mealof smoked fish and ship's rations, and the blankets an officer sharedout of courtesy, she observed the royal men-at-arms as they diced orbandied lewd jokes and smart talk; in grumbling, closed groups, theypolished the rust the sea air raised on their weapons and mail. Oneboisterous party chalked out a circle, stripped their shirts, andarranged bouts of wrestling. The enchantress in their midst wasignored. Whether at Lysaer's order, or through the inherent dreadmost townborn felt toward spellcraft, every man in the company gavethe Koriani First Senior wide berth.
 Like any other who had sworn life service to the sisterhood,Lirenda was inured to overt signs of distrust. Long experience lether disregard the unsettled glances, the furtive signs to wardspellcraft cast her way when men believed her attention lay else­where.
 Not all of the posturing sprang out of ignorance. Lysaer'srankingofficers kept their scrupulous distance as well. The Koriani FirstSenior was excluded from their council concerning the sprung newsthat the Spinner of Darkness had slipped through their net. Nor didany man in her hearing mention the summary execution of thosecomrades just burned alive in the hold of the Lance.
Whether Lysaer s'Ilessid had given them notice of his justice, orwhether they would be left to believe the vessel had been sunk by astroke of natural lightning, Lirenda was not privileged to know.Reduced to the rankling role of an eavesdropper, she strained tocatch 
~ANNY W URTS 

what fragmented conversation she could as a rain-sodden couriercame in with word from the fleet snugged down in safe anchorage.
"... galleys are hove up in the coves on the lee side of CaincyrIsle,as planned." The young man peeled off his dripping oilskin. Hisrough-cut features and perfect teeth gleamed with avid good spirits,touched to copper relief by the fire. "The convict oarsmen and theother Corith prisoners are held in chains ashore, under close guardbythe ships' crews."
Lysaer's reply lost itself in a dissonant screeling of steel astwo zealous Etarrans put their shoulders into sharpening halberds.Lirenda caught no more than the clipped inflection of the royalquery,implying some detail failed to satisfy. She gathered the gistconcerned the prize Cariadwin, surrendered to the Alliance, but having no loyalcrew of her own.
 "The brig's keel drew too much water," the courier explained,shoulders squared and voice risen in loyalty to the royal fleet'scom­manding admiral. "Daelion preserve! My Lord said to tell you herblue-water captain has a temperament like a spring nettle. As he wasthe Shadow Master's minion, he won't cooperate, and our galleymenget twitchy under sail in strange waters. Would your Grace risk men'slives? The shoals in those inlets shift with each tide. The rutter we're using with a gale at our backs is six centuries old, and written inarchaic language!"
A pause, while someone with seagoing experience injected aquelling comment; then laughter, cut by Lysaer's stark inquiry,"¬fell,if the Cariadwin's not in the coves with the galleys, where in theLightdid your officers decide to snug her down?""At anchor, your Grace. She's secured in the narrows of the cut."Silence, of yawning and disastrous proportion; the spirited factionsby the wrestlers stilled. Men honing weapons were asked to desist.Even the rowdiest dicers held t~eir next throws, heads turned to fol­low the rising altercation.
"What's wrong?" asked the courier, made the isolate center ofattention by the revealing firelight. "The brig is unmanned, for com­mon sense. Storm could snap her cables any time and set her downon the rocks. No crew could save her. She'd break up in minutes. Rip-tide's too fierce the way the swell's running to allow a strandedcom­pany to launch off boats if she wrecked."
Across the weather-stained vaults of the cave, over the heads ofmen-at-arms and Alliance officers, Lirenda saw Lysaer glance herway. His eyes were hard blue, and scarcely amused: the cliff-top van­tage of his audience with her, and the summary act of his judgment 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

had not yet been shared with his people. None of them knew thatmen loyal to Arithon had been left at large in the storm. Since thelongboats which accomplished furtive escape could not have beenseen from the shoreline, she alone shared the clandestine awarenessthat Arithon's crew from the Lance had more than likely survived.
Those men could not be traced now. The ferocity of the gale wouldhave covered their tracks, even if a boat could venture the crossingto the islet where they had sought refuge.
"Your fleet admiral said risk no lives for the prize," thecourier answered in earnest response to the sudden outburst of questions. "Ifa watch crew stayed aboard, what good could that do? They'd be leftto fate's mercy. The brig can scarcely beat her way out. Wind's likea funnel at the eastern inlet. To the west lie the Snags, submergedreefs and rocks fit to mill a hull's timbers to wreckage."
Lirenda arose. Having breached Lysaer's trust, she felt moved tooffer a gesture to salvage what she could of her order's damagedintegrity. She gathered her damp mantle and stepped through thegrouped men, while hands snatched their strewn dice up out of herpath, or made signs against spellcraft at her back. She paid theinimi­cal gestures no mind. The smells of moist cloth and oiled steel andhumanity oppressed her as the mass of the company quieted. All eyesfixed her way. Her wet kid shoes made less sound than a wraith asshe traversed the sweating limestone floor to reach the firesideenclave with the prince.
"Loan me one of your diamonds," she said.
Lysaer asked no question, but drew his knife and cut a stud fromhis doublet. His hands retained their enviable poise as he placed thegem into her keeping.
Lirenda knelt before the fire. She pushed back the lush, sablefall of her hair. The beat of close flame dewed a sheen on her forehead as she turned the small jewel between her fingers. She rotated the chasedsetting and measured the illumination which played through thestarred planes of its facets, until an arrow of frozen light threwits focused reflection across the centerline of her palm. The stone'simprint was not dedicated to her; she could exert no will through itsmatrix. But given the sensitivity of her inborn talent, and guided byknowledge of runelore, she might link the stone's resonance intoLysaer's need to know, and shape a rudimentary scrying.
The enchantress closed out the furtive rustles as the curious gath­ered at her back. Her mind brooked no distraction. She unreeled her awareness deep into the stone's core until she captured the stillpoint atits heart. Then she raised her distanced vision across the fire's emission 
JANNY WURTS 

of rippling smoke and hot sparks. She narrowed her eyesight upo~ theplanes of Prince Lysaer's face, that no nuance of expression sh~L~tdescape her.
"Stare through the flames and gaze deep into the matrix of thedia­mond," she instructed. "Hold to your wish. Let your thoughts notstrayfrom your purpose. While you own your desire to its fullest extent.I'll scribe an amplifying me-field. If your will stays steadfast andfort~~n~ favors, the answer you seek will become manifest in the fire."
As Prince Lysaer concentrated, Lirenda stretched and extendedt~er awareness. The distraction of the fighting company dissolved asrelaxation stilled her outer senses. Preternaturally conscious of thegrounding quiet rooted throughout the cavern, she embraced theweighty tonnage of the earth, then expanded her consciousnessbeyond. The gale outside touched her nerves as a tantrum of windand element. She felt the white waves which drummed throughCorith's headland, and the vibration of thunder through bedrock.This place, which had been the past lair of great drakes, made hereffort feel sadly diminished. She fought the sudden, overwhelmingfutility, that her order's works seemed little more than the industryof ants, which died to raise cities from sand grains.
Through the muffling calm of her inner alignment, she heardLysaer's word of dismissal. Changed air brushed her skin. She sensedthe dispersal of men from the fireside, and wondered what secret thePrince of the Light wished to keep from his ranking officers. Thenher last thought dissolved into full trance. Held in suspension betweenprince and diamond, she raised her hand and scribed the openingcipher for the first ordained rune of power...
 The bright scrim of the flames gave way to combed sheets of rain,and another live fire, quenched in a darkness measured between the staticbursts of new lightning. The scrying lent vision where the storm reignedsupreme,and the waters of a rock-bounded estuary lay thrashed to boiling leadby thebrunt of the whipping winds. The snubbed hull of a brig loomed infaint sil­houette through the veiling rags of spindrift. The Cariadwin had beensecured by competent seamen, her spars and topmasts struck for foulweather, with spring lines made fast and a double length of cablepayed outfor added security. Storm made a mockery of even the most stringentprecau­tions. The brig tossed and slammed like a maddened beast. Theshelteringinfluence from the islet to windward afforded her scanty protection.Behind the roll of her counter, the peril of a lee shore: a spit of rawboulders sieved through by ribbons of green water and spume. Jagged reefs gnashed thefroth in the shallows, seething up geysers of spray. 

 FUGITIVE PRINCE

 Despite the fury of wind and' wave, the brig's decks held men,strugglingagainst the murderous elements to hoist her topsail yards to hercaps. Indetermined struggle, sails were bent on, with spunyard stops, andgasketscast off, to ready her canvas for setting on instantaneous notice.The spell-caught vantage sharpened into focus and revealed their desperation:the slipped hand or foot as,gusts raked the ratlines; the cried orderslost or not heard at all as rain and waves drummed white torrents on her decks. And yet, even blind, even deafened by the gale's thundering tumult, themen worked in concert. They cajoled the ship like a reluctant maiden.Firstfore­sails and main yard were hauled aback; then the silvered stroke of anaxe blade chopped her anchor line at the hawse. The wind claimed her then for its own.
 A bone in the teeth of a maelstrom, the Cariadwin spun, slewedabeam as her foresail was cut free. She heeled under her flogging yards ofcanvas. Then more sails bloomed from mizzen and spanker gaff. To the peal ofsomeone's exuberant whoop, she backed, stern to. Another unheard, frantic ordersent crewmen scurrying to haul the braces. The helm was reversed. Stressedsails slammed full, laid for a starboard tack.
"Saved!" cried her distant, gamecock captain in a paean ofexultation. Through a brash feat of daring in defiance of all odds, the brigrecovered in Prince Arithon ' s name skirted the foaming fangs of the reef and ranthe openchannel, to be lost into howling dark.
 "Show me the cove where my galleys are snugged down," Lysaerbroke in with hard urgency. But cold logic scarcely required ascryingto confirm the extent of the enemy's resourceful sabotage. TheLance's crew had included forty war-hardened clansmen set free by KingEldir's justice. They had predictably matched a choice opportunitywith thorough tactics. Nor had they shown any mercy in vengeancefor the kinsmen they found enslaved with the royal fleet. In shadowyimages, the bad news emerged: of hulls left holed and unfit for pas­sage, and a score of dead sentries, dropped at their posts withslashed throats. All that remained of the two hundred clan convicts Lysaer'sjustice had chained for the oar were the sheared-off ends of theirfet­ters.
 "A victory for your nemesis," Lirenda observed. Her laughterwelled up for the lofty irony, that Lysaer's self-righteous publicscru­ples had led to his own comeuppance.
"For today, one might think so." The prince's response was too calm, too knowing, and his gesture, a courtier's indifference as heextended his hand to recover his borrowed diamond. "The sweetest gains fall from the jaws of defeat. What seasoned galleyman could 
J^NN. 

possibly believe that brig could sail clear in the teeth of a gale,
except
through an act of dark sorcery?"

He let that sink in, while a crook of one finger brought a pageout of nowhere to secure the loose stud in his baggage. The boy blushedunder his blinding smile, then retired out of earshot as theexhilarat­ing impact of Lysaer's attention fastened back on the enchantress."Our departure from Min Pierens will be delayed for some weeks.Since no message can be sent until my damaged galleys are made sea­worthy, my council ashore will be tied. If Maenol's rescued clansmenstrike to plunder before then, affairs back in Tysan will be primedand set for a righteous retaliation. My deferred reappearance will repayevery setback. I'll find public fervor whipped to a fever pitch theinstant we make landfall on the mainland."
 Lirenda stared, while the stopped air in her chest compressedinto stunned disbelief. "Ath's mercy, you could not have intended this!"
"I will prevail, for the good of this land and the innocentpeoplewho rely on my protection." Across the dwindling rags of the fire,Lysaer s'Ilessid resumed in a flawless and chilling sincerity. "Nonewould have been more surprised than I to see this small venture suc­ceed. After the slaughter at Dier Kenton Vale, what fool could pre­sume the Shadow Master's capture could occur without hardship andsacrifice? My inner council at Avenor is scarcely naive. Each man wasselected to outlast small defeats. Between the warning your Primedispatched to Etarra and today's predictable setback, I have gainedmy sure proof to expose wider truth. Mankind's endangerment doesnot spring from the Spinner of Darkness alone. The pitfalls of spell-craft pose an equal threat to society."
Lirenda's appalled comprehension came magnified by the telltalerustle of her mantle.
 Lysaer granted her unease a statesman's smile, laced with danger­ous irony: reversal of his high-handed strategy was in fact nosetback at all. His dedicated quest to bring the Shadow Master's downfall hadbeen expanded to eradicate the practice of great and lesser sorcery;for that cause, he would let conflict widen and foment. In due course,his call to arms could extend his control across the entire continent.
 "You begin to understand," Lysaer said, satisfied. "Davien theBetrayer's fountain in the Red Desert has expanded the game boardacross the next five centuries. Time enough to usher in sweepingchange. As the guilds suffer predation from s'Ffalenn ships and rene­gade crews, I'll gain for Avenor and my Alliance the omnipotent sup­port to raise standing armies across the continent. My crowningstrike must be withheld until I have won the sworn loyalty of every city in 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 Athera. Then I shall bring down the s'Ffalenn bastard, and with him,
the Fellowship of Seven, and any other factions in the land whoobstruct
 the growth of human destiny."
Lysaer arose, the majesty he carried like an extension of hisflesh made no less by a setting of uncivilized rock. "Now my warning toyour Prime is explicitly clear." His pearls and his diamonds snaggedbaleful lights from the coals as he stopped, and faced her, and gavehis dismissive conclusion. "Be sure she hears the extent of my disap­pointment for her false principles."
While the embittered calculation of Lysaer's long-range purposeswept her damp skin into chills, Lirenda felt his eyes on her, fierceand wholly dedicated. She now had the measure of him; could sensethe trapped depths. His pose of self-honesty shielded some deep andunconsoled anguish. "What will you tell your men of the sacrificeyou will demand of them?"
The smoldering spark of his righteous rage struck through hisquick laugh like a barb. "Should I not use the same lie you thoughtto foist upon me for your order's covert conspiracy? Are we not alike,lady? Both capable of committing errors of mercy for men whosecriminal acts lie outside the constraints of human decency."
But they were not alike, First Senior Lirenda sensed in hard-corecertainty; not yet. She had ordered Caolle's survival out of hatred,with precise intent to ruin the man whose character might ensnareher through unbidden emotion of the heart; for no living being wouldshe endure the blind agony Prince Lysaer s'Ilessid suffered in secretfor the love he had rejected in Princess Talith. Nor did she seek theaccession of prime power for the purpose of public crusade.
Lirenda seized on the opening she had gleaned to inflict the laststinging word. "On the day you command your princess's death,your royal Grace, I invite you to present the same question again."Then she gathered the spoiled folds of her mantle and removed her­self from the grace of Lysaer's presence. 
475 Summer 5653 
Crossing 
The darkness burst into shards and smashed rainbows. Dakar recap­tured the distinct impression he was screaming, while a painless dis­tress tore him limb from limb and flayed all the meat off his bones.Through one wrenching moment, he passed the shuttered eye oftime.
 Then perception reassembled with a jolt that slammed like an axeat the base of his skull.
 The veil ripped away to a redolence of midsummer greenery.Through somebody's cry of hysterical terror came the shout of a stu­pefied clan sentry. "Avert and protect!"
Dumped headlong upon a rich fragrance of loam with a hot blan­ket of sun on his back, Dakar found no breath to respond. Whether hecame to die for his failure, he had no choice but to let his unrulystom­ach take charge.
Doubled over with dry heaves and thoroughly miserable, healmost wished a clan spear in the back to resolve his shatteringupset.Half-unmoored by the disorientation that racked him, he gasped inrecovery. The air seemed too rich and thick; too real. Delivered fromthe irrational side of the veil, his return to the solid terrain ofAthera came as an assault upon body and mind. Befogged faculties fumbledthe sharp-edged barrage of sensation. His wits were reluctant tofunc­tion. He did not want the obligation of reassembling the pieces ofproblems more comfortably left abandoned.
Already in dread of the consequences, he sat back on his haunches, 
476 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE

 blinking. Birdsong laced the treetops. A dragonfly lit on hisforearm,unfazed by the stink of singed wool and the holes where volcanic
cin­ders had burned through the weave of his jerkin. Dimly he realizedthat he wore the wrong clothes for the season. The steady, richwarmth of high summer laced sweat through his cold chills, while therattled clan sentry slammed out of the brush and repeated his chal­lenge again.
Eyes shut, Dakar rediscovered the function of language. "Wherein the name of Sithaer's furies are we?"
 Clipped accents changed from belligerent surprise to indignantcomplaint. "Ath! Is that Dakar? You're in Caithwood, as if droppedthrough the sky by a lightning bolt. If you planned to whiskRathain's prince out of Riverton by means of magecraft and thunderclaps, didyou need to keep him stashed for three months? Earl Jieret halfkilled himself in a cross-country run through Havish. Then the SorcererTraithe came, and both of them vanished also. The comings andgoings have been fair hard on the nerves, these past weeks." Thescout paused as he took in the sorry condition of the bay gelding,then accused, "We've worn out a dozen couriers trying to find all thefolks who've gone missing, in particular since the crew of the Lanceleft us some liegeman's ashes to be given the grace of last rites."
"The Lance? Brought Caolle's ashes?" Dakar raised his head andcracked open bloodshot eyes to find three muzzled horses with cin­ders in their manes regarding him in mournful reproach. "Then hedidn't die in Koriani hands at Riverton?"
 "Aye, well, she did, and damn well, he didn't." The scout was ayoung man with frizzled brown hair, and foxy, irrepressible goodhumor. He peered over the hindquarters of Felirin's gray. His plainleathers were soaked through, though the sky showed no rain in evi­dence.
 "You're wet," Dakar blurted.
"Aye, well." The scout swiped runoff from the fringes of hisbuck­skins. "I fell arse first into the stream when your ruckus eruptedfrom nowhere." He blushed, still disgusted enough to try and excuse hisbruised dignity. "Who wouldn't? An arrival like yours was damnwellnothing canny. The game will be scattered for miles."
To Dakar's stiff and forbearing patience, he laughed. "You'rebehind on events?"
 The Mad Prophet scrubbed at his face with his knuckles as if asmith had forged spikes through his temples. "Last memory I have, itwas springtime."
The scout squeezed his wet braid, wrung out his cuffs, and plunged 
JANNY WURT$ 

in with loquacious relish. "Lysaer's new flagship made landfall here,but flying Rathain's royal leopard. Came in last month with wordtt~at Caolle had killed a Koriani witch before he found grace and passedthe Wheel. There's a feat by a clansman worth a masterbard's eulogy!"
Dakar planted his palms into grass in determined effort to groundout his giddy rise of dizziness.
The scout rattled on in excited adulation. "What a fighter, wasCaolle! His pyre was laid out with full honors. The raid plans heheft when he gave his last wishes won two other vessels for PrinceArithon. Then the Lance took on mercenaries and set sail for Corith. They say she burned there, but not before her crew had freed everyclansman that Lysaer's royal fleet held in chains. Under cover of agale, they stole back the Cariadwin and left Avenor's force strandedwith holed galleys. Near two hundred clansmen sailed home to theirfamilies, and we've had to feed a whole pack of refugee shipwrights.They have nothing to do, but they say they won't leave until theyfind out if the Master of Shadow will return with plans to employ them.Where is Rathain's prince, anyhow?"
"I'm sorry," Dakar said. "We've missed all the news." Thenfeelingovercame him. He ducked his head between his knees, caughtbetween bursting laughter and tears, and a rush of overpoweringrelief. Caolle had not died by Arithon's hand after all. Nor had themen at the outpost at Corith been abandoned wholesale to the Alliance. Thejoyseemed unreal, that the Riverton ships were reclaimed to fight theoppressionof Maenol's clans. Life and breath suddenly became unimaginably pre­cious. A friend could dare to hope for the reprieve those snatchedvic­tories might bring to the Teir's'Ffalenn.
Hunched and dripping and loquaciously oblivious, the youngclansman circled the nose of the gray and poked an inquisitive fingerinto what seemed a wadded lump of charred rags draped over theanimal's neck. The bundle shifted to expose the marble features ofFelirin the Scarlet.
 "What trouble did you bring us? You know this one's out cold?"Reverted on a breath to forest-bred wariness, the scout took faststock of the second form tied to the back of the mare. "Is the other one brought for last passage rites, also?"
"You'd better hope not!" Dakar snapped, recovered enough toscramble erect. "That's his Grace of Rathain, and if he's not tended,I'll let your caithdein apologize to Earl Jieret for your mannerlesslapseof hospitality."
The scout raised his eyebrows, prepared to repeat his glib testi­mony that Earl Jieret had disappeared, leaving no tracks. 
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 His words were lost to sound as a stupendous thunderclap rockedsky and earth into recoil. The horses startled. Dakar was thrown tohis knees with the lead reins clutched in blistered hands. He yelledwarn­ing to the scout, who moved just in time to catch Felirin's uncon­scious tumble from the saddle.
 "Ath's very grace!" The scout staggered under the minstrel'sslack weight, caught in a misstep as his sword scabbard swung and hookedthe back of his knees. "Why'd you do that?"
"I didn't." Dakar barely managed to calm the stressed horsesbefore their deranged instincts shredded the last patch of whole skinon his fingers. "You can lay the singer down in the grass before youtrip and fall flat."
The scout looked offended. "Is he sick?" "I don't think so. He probably fainted." The Mad Prophet had nochance to see whether Arithon suffered the same problem.
The next second, a bursting flash of light erupted from behindthe trees. Dakar howled as the horses shied all over again. A deafeningreport shivered the ground, but this time he managed to tag the sig­nature phrase of the spellcraft. "That's a Fellowship ward circlecom­ing down!" he cried, before the scout lost his last wits and bolted."Hold steady."
A confused, milling moment, while Dakar tugged the bridle of themare and shouldered the bay gelding from trampling his toes intostew meat. "Steady." His assurance lacked confidence. Whatever pro­tective binding the Sorcerer had raised was being released in blindhaste. The pungency of ozone raked through the sweet scent of themeadow and a razing spin of energies puckered his mage-sense as aslipstream in time intercepted with the present, and shook like awind through the leaves.
The horses milled in terror, despite every effort to stay them.
Then the problem was lifted from Dakar's stripped hands as ablack raven swooped down. White light trailed from its wingtips,combing disturbed energies back into alignment under the remoteguidance from Sethvir's earth-sense. The horses snorted and settled,while the wild gusts slackened, reduced to small eddies that win­nowed and spiraled through the grass heads.
"Traithe?" Dakar said. Pelted by grasshoppers and the odd butter­fly released from the dissipated vortex, he surveyed the wood.Presently, a familiar figure in dark clothing and a broad-brimmedblack hat emerged, limping from the shadow.
At the Sorcerer's shoulder strode another, his large handsclenched to an unbelted bundle of weapons, among them a matched set of 
~ANNY ~URT$ 

bone-handled throwing knives. Dakar took in the tall framewolfish stride with a leap of glad recognition. "Earl Jieret
The caithdein of Rathain looked like a man just shaken fromsleep.His clan braid was undone. The mane of red hair fanned over his strong shoulders was caught with odd tangles and small twigs. ^bandage covered his right wrist. His windburned, cragged face andhawk nose wore a blank flown, and he failed to acknowledge Dakar'sgreeting.
Traithe touched his wrist, directing his bemused attention to thecluster of horses in the glen. "Look there. You've succeeded."
Jieret turned his head. As if drawn by a magnet, his eyes fixedand locked on the figure of his prince, still tied over the neck of theexhausted mare. His disoriented bearing transformed on a cry ofalarm. "My liege!"
He cast down his weapons, uncaring, and sprinted, too centered torespond to Dakar's reassurance that Arithon s'Ffalenn still breathed.
"He won't for much longer if you don't lend your help," Traithesaid, arrived in uncanny quiet to clasp the spellbinder's elbow. "Weneed a fire. At once. Can you see to it?"
Dakar knew enough not to delay for questions. He surrendered thereins of the horses to Traithe, who turned his scarred fingers tounbuckling girths and bridles. He heaved off the bay's saddle andaddressed the stupefied scout, "Explanations can wait. If you haveprovisions, stew and a blanket would be helpful."
"I have only jerky." Aroused to the crisis, the clansman snappedto and stepped in to assist stripping tack. "There's a buried cache inthe glen with a cooking pot, but no meal. We always forage at thisseason."
 "Then go htmting, please, once these horses are turned loose. AsI know Sethvir, you'll find a deer waiting if you allow my raven tolead you."
Traithe accepted a headstall from the scout's hand, then slappedthe bay's rump with the gentle admonishment, "Go roll, brave heart.Eat grass and find water and rest."
Once assured the animals would be competently handled, Traithestrode through the grass and knelt by Felirin's prone form. He ranswift hands over the minstrel's body, while the raven flew circlesover his hat, a slice of cut nightfall set intaglio into the hazed summerbril­liance of sunlight.
"How bad is he?" Dakar asked, returned strewn with lea,~es andan armload of dead oak branches clutched to his chest. His plumphands left sweated prints as he shifted his hold to contain theunruly,loose wood. 
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 "Nervous exhaustion." Traithe moved tacit fingers above Felirin'sscorched tunic, touching unseen points in the air. A spark jumpedfrom his fingers each time he paused. The raised power diffused intoa bloom of faint light, which misted downward into the free singer'saura, then sank and absorbed through the cloth into flesh.
"Sound sleep will set him right." Traithe's ministrations moveddown the right arm. There, he held still, with the singer's limpwrist clasped left-handed, as his right trailed over the grimed rags thatcov­ered the burns. "His hands are another matter," he concluded sadly."The fire left damage."
"He already knows he's lost his fingertips." Dakar thumped thewood at his feet, too nettled to wrestle the earth's gravity. "He'ssaid he can turn his bard's talent to storytelling. Asandir suggested he'dfind a warm welcome at Innish."
 Neither spellbinder nor Sorcerer belabored the tragedy, that ifTraithe's faculties were still whole, or if this crisis had been metbyany other member of the Fellowship, Felirin's disfigurement might beameliorated.
 After all that had happened, the frustration flared too hot tocon­tain. Dakar bent and began snapping dead sticks into kindling, deter­mined to offer what sympathy he might. "Truth lies with the fact westand here together. Don't count the small losses. Without yourassis­tance, non~ of us would have wakened to see air and sunlight, norwalked on Athera's soil again."
A shadow flicked over Traithe, cast by Jieret Red-beard, whoapproached with the slack form of Arithon s'Ffalenn cradled like achild in his arms. "He's cold as death and scarcely breathing."
"I don't wonder." Traithe's lined face tipped up, drawn with con­cern. "Lay him down in the sun and get him stripped to his skin.We'll need his clothes. Also every cloak you can find in the saddlepacks."
The Mad Prophet stood, stricken. His glance flickered quicklypastArithon's slack face, then flinched from the pale, lifeless handsthat dangled, grooved on the backs from the prints of the hobbles, whichfor expedience had secured him to his horse. The normally scintillantaura of the Masterbard seemed dimmed and gray to his mage-sense.
Alarmed by the rapid ebb of a life that could not at any cost bereplaced, Traithe turned brusque. "Dakar! If you're planning to growroots with that bundle of wood, the fire's more important. We'll alsoneed a pit dug in the open."
The rumpled, fat spellbinder wasted no argument. "You'll use hotrocks?" 
JANNY W URT$

 Traithe's smile came out like the sun, rekindling the lost linesof humor that ran in starbursts from the corners of his eyes. "Yes.Choose willing ones so they don't shatter. There's a creek bed tenpaces inside the trees. And find six straight saplings that arewillingto make sacrifice."
 Dakar moved off, intent, to reaccess the rusty tenets of histraining.Caithwood was sealed under Pararian law, which demanded strictform and fine harmony with the earth, no live wood taken withoutproper blessing and a clear gift of permission. "Fiends plague," hemuttered, still fighting a thick head. "We haven't come back just tolose Rathain's prince for want of a sweet-tempered tree!"
"Just use plain language and say whose life's at stake," Traithesug­gested. "Without Arithon s'Ffalenn, the Alliance will triumph. Clanbloodlines will die, and every green thing in this forest is wellaware no centaur guardians will return if Desh-thiere survives and claimsfinal conquest."
 The clan scout dragged the cleaned carcass of a buck into theglenan hour later. As he broke through trees, the pleased whistle carriedover from his successful hunt died into openmouthed silence.
Miracles had happened in his absence. At the center of theclearing,on a bent framework of willow poles, Dakar finished tying thedrover's cloak and the gaudy layers of the free singer's court dou­blets into a shaded enclosure. Traithe stooped by the entrance, bear­ing a long-handled stick. The fork at the end cradled a stone fromthe riverbed, baked red by fire, and crackling to the caress of thebreeze which kissed its glowing surface.
The scout gawped. "Ath! That's not possible!" He was no bornfool: mere flame took at least the length of a day to raise a riverstone to extreme temperatures.
A reedy voice answered his doubt from the grass. "A fine piece otspellcraft, yes?"
The scout leaped back startled. The dropped carcass of the buckslumped into a heap, its glazed eyes fanned with stirred dust."Fiends plague!" He backstepped before he spotted the minstrel, seatedupright, and busy fussing the tangles from his hanks of singed hair.
"Dharkaron's own spear! Last I saw, you were prostrate." Thescout vented relief, that he had not ~ntirely taken leave of hissenses. "Man, you fair lifted me out of my skin."
Slouched in his motley rags of smudged clothing, Felirin sighedwith forbearance. "I'm sorry." His bandaged hands returned arexpressive, wry gesture. "The day seems made for surprises." 
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 Bent over to reclaim the buck's tined antler, the scout shot asuspi­cious glance toward the fire pit, where the Sorcerer plied his stickand scooped out another glowing rock. "How did he do that?"
"What, heat the stones?" Felirin unhooked his tarnished pearlstuds, and flapped his stained shirt open at the collar. His mannerstayed amused as Traithe shoveled the stone into the darkened shel­ter of the willow frame. "He called sunlight down through his crys­tal." The minstrel's gaunt features showed delight at the memory."The event will become my first epic story, how a blinding light shotout of blue sky, a bolt of tamed golden lightning."
Visibly miffed to have lost his listener's attention to a gutted,dead deer, Felirin peered disdainfully down his long nose at the stickyblood painting crushed grass stems. "I suppose you want help. Thatwas the last rock Traithe just shifted. Though I'm not fond of fire,I could help roast your game if you like."
"Soon as you have the skin off, I'll need to haul water," Traithesaid.
 Felirin and the scout both started in unison, spun, anddiscovered the Sorcerer standing quiet behind them. "Time," he said gently, asif the one word could explain his uncanny comings and goings. "Wehave none to spare." He knelt, his drawn knife in hand. The bladewas plain steel, unmarked by runes, or any ritual sign of power, andyet, its metal glowed blue as he spoke a Paravian blessing over thewound where the scout's arrow had pierced the buck's heart. A finemist of energy spun away at his words, then disbursed into the blacksoil of the earth. Peace remained, and a sense of core balancerestored as Traithe turned his deft blade to the work of skinning and butcher­ing.
To the clan scout's reddened embarrassment, the Sorcerer had thegreen hide worked free within minutes. His fleeting, mild winkacknowledged the marvel that such haste had not torn holes throughthe pelt, or left even one hacked edge. "No tricks or spells,"Traithe admitted. "My knife is old and knows this work very well." He arosewith a mild wince at the twinge in his bad knee, and rolled the rawskin hair side in. "Dakar will cut you a spit for the meat. Then prayto Ath that Earl Jieret and I can deliver a live prince to share venisonwith you at sundown."
 Inside the willow frame, masked under patched layers of tiedclothing, Jieret s'Valerient kept vigil with the head of his liege inhis lap. The changes he saw would have torn out his heart, had worry notdone so beforehand. Arithon s'Ffalenn lay full length on the earth. 
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 The glow of rocks in the pit mapped his frame in dense, ruby warmth,the gleam of old scars written over gaunt flesh, and the angry onesfresh from his battle with Caolle. Despite the radiant heat, his
cheek felt ice-cold. Each pulse through slim wrists seemed a vestige
without force. As though life stayed by rote, his lungs scarcely carried thefunction of breathing from one moment into the next.
Jieret clenched his swordsman's fist in black hair, tied between 
rageand regret. "Live, damn you," he exhorted. "Caolle died content inthe belief you survived him."
The hard-edged triangle of daylight at the entry dimmed one lasttime as Traithe entered with the deerskin sloshing with creek water"Close us in, please."
Outside, Dakar battened down the heavy wool cloak, then sealedthe last gap with one of Felirin's belied shirts.
Limned in the vermilion glow from the stones, Traithe poured thewater into the pit. Steam shrieked and exploded, whirling the airinto a scalding, opaque curtain. Jieret shut his eyes, dizzied, and momen­tarily confused by what seemed like voices, embedded between themeshed cry of four elements, wedded amid the primordial darknessand circling his frame in a chiaroscuro dance of wild energy.
ú "Don't mind if they speak." Rendered formless in shadow,Traithe knelt and sprinkled a handful of crushed herbs, which showeredbright sparks and infused fragrant smoke through the darkness."They are spirits born of fire, earth, water, and air, and they ariseto help call your prince back to himself."
Jieret began a deep breath, then stopped short as the scaldingsteam burned into his nose and scoured the back of his throat. He realized by the fact that his forearm was cramping that his fingershad fastened a death grip in Arithon's hair. "You're saying the earthknows how important he is?"
Traithe sat, the hide with its reservoir of drawn water cradledbetween his tucked feet. He had removed his boots. By the pulsing,carnelian glow of the stones, the sole of the right one showed apuck­ered mass of scarred tissue, drawn like the mark of an old burn."Athera knows all of our names," he admitted, thoughtful andpleased for the rarity of indulging in philosophical discussion. "Noone person's ranked ahead of another. In Prince Arithon's case, theelements plead aloud for the sake of the service he may yet be askedto perform."
"Service!" Irritable as sweat trickled and stung through a brushburn acquired from his hurried, rough ride, Jieret gave vent to deepbitterness. "It was unstinting service that exposed my liege tounrea­
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sonable peril in the first place. The needs of this land are whatkill him by slow inches. He would not be undone by a poisoned con­science had he not been asked to face troubles a sorcerer would be hard-pressed to handle!"
"He is mage-trained," Traithe reminded.
But Earl Jieret was not mollified. Though he faced no enemy, hefelt unreasonably impelled to birth his wedged hurt into the concealingdarkness. "A hundred stout liegemen would not be enough to man­age the burden he carries!"
"You're right, of course." Still mild, the Sorcerer splashed acuppedhandful of water into the pit. Again, the steam swirled, dark-patterned tarnish on shadow. Beyond that blank veil, his words camedisembodied. "Duty won't be what calls Arithon back."
"What else does he have?" Once started, Jieret found hisrestraint had slipped reason. The moist heat made him careless, and the slackweight of his prince made pity a dull blade that sheared off everyciv­ilized platitude. "Or will you release him to follow his preferencefor music?"
 Traithe responded to the first question only, his cragged faceand pale hair wreathed in sweet smoke from the herbs. "He has his friend,who is living and with him. That matters far more than anything."
"Your logic is flawed." Shaking and savage, Jieret failed to notethat the lean, hollowed cheekbone pillowed on his thigh showed thefaintest, thin flush of rose. "What can his friends do other than diefor him?"
 "They can live for him," Traithe said, acerbic at last. "Do youthink Caolle would change his fated end if he could?"
"Ath, no!" Earl Jieret's surprise burst through as a breath offree air. "He died as he lived, for love of his prince. I've heard the details.He could have stopped fighting and chosen a less painful passage. As Iknew him since infancy, I'd swear this for truth: however much heclaimed that his duty came first, in fact, he gave out of personalloyal­ties."
 Traithe's correction came gentle. "And are you so different?"
The scald of the steam choked Jieret's instinctive denial. He snorted, coughed, then let grief tear asunder to release as aleveling ofsoft laughter. "No," he admitted. "My days would lack savor withoutthe deep caring to give the bad moments their meaning. This princeholds my true heart." Eyes shut while Traithe sprinkled the rocks yetagain, and the heat rolled in waves to strip the last pall fromrestraint,Jieret lapsed into reminiscence. "I think that's been so since myboy­hood, on the night when I trailed his Grace into the forest. He'djust 

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sworn his royal oath as crown prince, and was savage with misery forit. Did you know that I eavesdropped on his tienelle scrying? Henever lost patience. Nor would he admit that my prank cost himagony, though he had to have seen. I was just a fool boy come withmean intent to belittle him."
 "As well you should have," a rusted voice interjected. Scarcelyaudible through the coiling hiss of the steam, and by far less fluidthan the wraith language used by the elements, the limping speechstumbled on. "Certainly then, I was a prince seeking to escape theburden of my people's hopes. In hard fact, nothing's changed."
"Arithon?" Jieret jolted straight, his hungry eyes struggling topierce veiling murk. When vision fell short, he resorted to touch.Bat­tened about in whorled darkness and moisture, the cold ,flesh of hisprince was now heated, and streaming thick sweat. Yet the hand Jieretfumbled and grasped was still limp.
Then a flare from the stones as the steam eddied; Jieret saw thegreen eyes were opened, and wide, reawakened to a pain-filledawareness that violated privacy to witness.
Elation wrenched through him, then brought sharp remorse forstraight guilt. His joy of recognition could not be denied, even inthe face of such suffering. Helpless, Jieret could not even look away."Myliege, I have no words at all."
"Words are not necessary." Sweat or tears threaded down the hol­lows at Arithon's temples. The slicked whorls of black hair weredripping. "Your love calls too strongly, and mine, it would seem, isdestined always to answer."
A break like cut glass in the suffocating womb of close shadow."Don't apologize. I'm the one who owes restitution. That was an uglyreward I gave Caolle."
Jieret yanked breath to protest, caught short just in time byTraithe's quelling gesture and silent, mouthed words, "No! Let himrant!"
 "You should know, he died true to himself." Arithon's fleshspasmed through a violent shiver. His grainy, scraped voice bore no'semblance of the grace gifted to him through bardic tradition as helabored through his distressed confession. "His courage and his loy­alty were of priceless coinage. I could live my whole life withoutfault from this moment, and still fall short of repayment. Nothing is leftfor you, Jieret. My hands are more empty than a beggar's. I have nothingto give back but the bankrupt husk of my sorrow."

"Your hands are not empty," Jieret forced out past the rock-hardwedge in his throat. "They hold a masterbard's talents, and more, the 
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living promise of crowned sovereignty for a whole people. If younever sit on the throne at Ithamon, you can still keep that trustthrough your progeny."
Which words pierced twofold, for the fact of a burden unwanted,and for the ruin Desh-thiere's curse had ripped through anoathsworn integrity. Arithon shook with the force of those sorrows,then turned his face, helpless as his agonized shame unmanned him.
Jieret's hands held steady and strong, unwilling to relinquish ator­mented spirit to the throes of a solitary grief. Without prompting,this time, he found the wisdom to let the torrent unleash. "You're notalone, ever, despite your belief we would do better outside your com­pany. The Mistwraith's hold is a wound we all carry. Some of us bleedfor it. Others give their lives. Those who survive receive thepricelessgift of your sacrifice, and the ones closest keep faith andfriendship as~e may."
But no words could succor the pain that escaped in riven bursts.Arithon's stripped body curled under the force of an anguish hisdwindled strength could not deny. Jieret's arms gripped him, circlinghis wretchedness with unconditional compassion. "Brother, we areone. My sword does the killing, no less than yours. I can offerforgive­ness for trials no man could pass without scathe. You and Rathain'speople are one mind and one heart. Never see yourself as separate, nomatter how far the curse madness drives you. If you bear theinsanity,let us be the unity that draws you back and receives you. Won't yousee there's no blame? Caolle's content. He knew, as I do, that oursis the easier portion to bear!"
"You could die for those words," Arithon gasped. His splayedhands pressed into the sides of his face, as if physical pressurecould somehow contain his coil of untenable torment.
 Jieret stroked back coal hair, fingers callused from handlingweapons infused with near reverent gentleness. "We all pass theWheel. When I do, I'll know peace, no matter the cause. Believe this,my sons and my daughters will be there to steady your next steps inmy place."
"For what price?" snapped Arithon, the wounded edge of his sar­casm striking in savage rebuttal. "Your shackles are wearing! ForDharkaron's punishment, how many times must I sing a lament overSteiven s'Valerient's grave cairn?"
Earl Jieret fought back, planted granite rejecting the thrust offine steel. "For as long as it takes to defeat Desh-thiere and seat acrowned king at Ithamon."
"Is that so?" Arithon resorted to premeditated viciousness. "Then 
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how many times must Lady Dania's descendants suffer rapine andslaughter under the swords of sunwheel fanatics?"
Jieret flinched. That dart pierced and struck as no other could,the family he had lost to the horrors of Tal Quorin still coiled inmemoryand the black nightmares that ravaged the peace from his sleep. Yet Caolle had trained him.
 He clung, dogged, his mind pitched to grasp for advantage. Fromthe shocked reverberation of his own pain, he could gain the measureof Arithon's: a thousandfold worse, to have used such a personalweapon to strike with intent to wound. And there lay the vulnerabil­ity and the weakness at once. This was not attack, but defense of avile and desperate proportion.
"You have a vicious tongue when you're bleeding," Jieret man­aged. His voice shook. He steadied it, determined, and smashed pastthe barrier of empathy that could have, would have stopped him short,if his care had existed only for an ironbound duty to a kingdom."Makes it harder than plague to bind up your wounds. Even so,Steiven loved you."
"He's bones in cold earth, as you will be," Arithon slashed back.Had he one bodily resource to break Jieret's hold, he would haverisen and fled elsewhere. Trapped helpless, he could only use wordsfor his weapons, and no shield to spare his naked awareness from thelacerating impacts of remembrance. Left unsaid, all the unassuagedhurt of his severance from mage-sight, a brilliance of talent chokedoff in' blood on the banks of Tal Quorin; there existed no weal for itsabsence.
 The Earl of the North was not swayed by pity. "Dania loved youequally well. She would call you impertinent, and say to you nowthat because of your sacrifice, her bloodline survives. Her fourdaughters still live unspoiled in my memory. If by Ath's grace youdefeat Desh-thiere in my lifetime, then every one of my family willstand with me in spirit on the hour a Teir's'Ffalenn accepts hiscoro­nation."
 "Let me be dead, first.TM Arithon gasped. "What rightful princeever murders his feal liegemen?"
The despair, the deep canker of shame stabbed by guilt, at lastwas
 laid bare between them. Across misted darkness, Traithe leaned
sharply forward. "The moment has come. Jieret, speak now!"
Rathain's caithdein set his jaw. Hardened against heartbreak, he
bent and dealt his prince a hard, vengeful shake. In stark force, he
said, "Listen to me! Stop crying martyr! Caolle chose not to die of
your sword thrust. He got up on his feet and marched back to war 
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wearing bandages! Nor were the ships lost, or the craftsmen andcrews arrested in Riverton. Arithon, he triumphed, despite everyobstacle. By his choice and devotion, he gave back your design withonly a few torn stitches. Cariadwin was even recovered from Corith,and full half of the men from the outpost."
"This is a dream," Arithon whispered, the spirit leached from hiswords, and the fight in him flattened to a whisper.
"No." Jieret held him, his unvanquished courage enough to causepain, and his grasp unrelenting with the promise of the bittersweetdichotomy of life. "Everything's real! If you run now, prince, you'llnever see the fruits you spent yourself penniless to reap."
Steam billowed. Traithe splashed more water on the rocks, whichshowed scabrous gray patches from cooling. The stifling darknessspun time into fluidity, while the herb-scented heat rose in wavesand eroded all barriers between mind and emotion. Jieret waited. Each breath in his chest flamed new agony. The stillness in the body heldclasped in his arms became harrowing, and despair crushed out hopelike the immovable wall of a glacier. He understood too well: thiswas the crux point, the fragility of moment when victory or defeat hungin the balance, awaiting the flick of fate's finger.
Ever the swordsman, taught to fight for as long as his hand heldone weapon, Jieret Red-beard launched his last, stabbing thrust."Caolle left you a legacy in the form of a Koriani witch's spelledquartz."
At Traithe's start of astonishment, the clan chieftain laughed,bro­ken free like snapped wire from the unmerciful, cranked pressure ofstrain. "Yes, it's true."
Another racked moment; then Arithon's frame began to shake, firstin small jerks, and then in running tremors that caused Jieret aspurtof stark panic. He shoved to his knees, dragging Arithon half-upright.His lungs filled to howl for a loss he had no fiber left in him towith­stand.
 But Traithe touched him still.
 The s'Ffalenn prince was laughing in jagged, hysterical spasms."A spell crystal?" Arithon ground on through a shrieked, wheezingbreath. "Morriel must be spitting like a goosed cat. Whose is it?"
"I'11 tell you," Jieret promised, stunned stupid by relief.Somehow he found the aplomb to sort language. "But not until you have eatenand rested. You're so worn right now, the irony would kill you, whichwas not what Caolle intended."
 Lapsed back into quiet by weakness that skirted the brink of col­lapse, Arithon turned his head into Jieret's strong shoulder. "Caolle 
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~~ was a rabid fox, and you are more devious than that fiend of a fatherwho sired you. I will do as you ask, just to share in the joke. Nowyouhave my word, can we please let in some fresh air?"
But Traithe had already anticipated. Dakar pulled the mufflingcloth free from outside, and light streamed in on an inrush of c001breeze that started Jieret shivering. While hands reached to assist,he turned his glad strength to pull Arithon out into daylight. Beforetheycould bundle his spent limbs in the drover's cloak, his princedrifted into a faint.
 "Don't worry," Traithe said, his face all wry delight as hepeeledthe soaked hair from his neck. "He'll revive fast enough when wedouse him clean in the stream. The scout has stew waiting, and sleepwithout dreams will do much to mend lost resilience."
 "Oh, Ath," groaned Jieret. He stood up, wobbly at the knees withArithon's wrapped weight in his arms. "That's if we survive the spateof raw language. The one thing this prince hates like fire is beinghan­dled like an invalid."
 "Well, that will just provide more incentive." Traithe's grin waspure mischief. "If he wants us to stop, he'll just have to rebuildhis strength."
 In fact, Arithon succumbed before they had extracted him from therock pool. Dried and swathed in the drover's cloak, he slept withoutmoving throughout the late afternoon. As evening fell, he rousedlong enough to taste the stewed venison shared out in the bowlsTraithe kept at hand for his spellcrafting. Twice, Jieret's reflexesrighted the container that slipped from his liege's slack fingers. Noscalding invective marked either incident. When Arithon slipped offinto sleep once again, Traithe scribed a healing glyph over his fore­head and snapped for Earl Jieret to stop pacing.
"Worry serves nothing. What we're seeing is nervous exhaustion."Like echo, he fielded a sleepy croak from the raven, gone to roost tothe night chorus of frogs in the marsh. "I know, little brother, you,~ too," he agreed in tart sympathy. Then, to Jieret, who hovered uncer­tain with his hands whitely clenched to the tang of his broadsword,he added, "Keep watch. If I'm right, your liege will rouse in thedark­est hours before dawn. He'll want to talk, and share the need forunderstanding companionship."
Settled to keep watch, while the studded patterns of summer con­stellations wheeled through the gaps in the oak leaves, Jieret oiledhis knife sheaths. He compared stories with the scout, then, helped totie new fletching onto worn arrows. While Dakar dirtied his hands 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

scraping the deer pelt, Felirin tested his new art of storytelling,
until 
midnight saw all but the Sorcerer settled to rest.

"I haven't apologized, or thanked you properly for your help,"Jieret said, his hands empty at last and folded against the stainedleather of his baldric. "You've helped to restore a number of greatgifts, among them the heart of my people. Like these scouts ofMaenol's, we could see a harsh future as long as the Alliance keepsbuilding. The headhunter campaigns from Etarra take their toll, butwe can face anything, hopeful."
Traithe lifted his hat and raked back loose hair, the scar at hiscrown a jagged dark knot that belied his mild stance in the darkness."The world will spin differently, because of tonight. All things areconnected, as Arithon knows, since he was raised to think like a sor­cerer. He still tries to honor his grandfather's teaching. That's whyhis failures strike hardest. You did well ,.'~ your handling. Few couldhave made him attentive after the sorrows that took place at Riverton."
"He is as my brother, more than my liege," Jieret admitted, thenblushed for a feeling he had never dared mention.
Traithe arose, tactful, to leave him in privacy for the hour whenhis prince must stir out of dreams and ask for account of Caolle's dying.The ending was two-edged, that the stay of victory for Tysan's clans­men had been won with no chance for a last word exchanged in rec­onciliation or parting.
Arithon's branding memory would still be of the sword thrust thathad felled the friend who had righted the damage the Koriathain hadset in his design.
"He will live with the gifts," Earl Jieret promised. "Though Iswear I'd fret less if I had to bash the wind out of him, making the pointstick with my fists."
The Sorcerer laughed. "You wear Caolle's stamp alongside of yourfather's. He will live on, for all that." Traithe gathered hissatchel and snapped crippled fingers for his raven, which glided down from 'itsroost in the treetops. It alighted, feathers folded like knives as itcroaked testy inquiry from the threadbare perch of his shoulder.
"Fare you well, Earl Jieret. Wish your prince my regards." Thenin short, limping steps, the Sorcerer turned away, to be far from Main-mere by morning.
Left alone with his thoughts, Earl Jieret listened, while thenightcelebrated its chorus of crickets and sheltered the rustles of foragingmice. The forest breathed life. Water and wind braided together incounterpoint. The agile bats swooped like manic shuttles, weavingtheir unseen strands on the loom of creation. Oddly content that his 
JANNY WURT$ 

fresh loss of Caolle could be shared, he almost missed the first stirof movement as Arithon roused in the drover's cloak.
 The first words came spare with the acerbic, dry wit he remem­bered. "You've got me tied like an infant in swaddling. Damnedlucky I don't have a killing need to piss."
Jieret settled back against the bole of an oak, his fringedbuckskins blurring his angular form in the darkness. "If you did, we'd makewagers on how long you would take to fall sound asleep with yourbreeks down."
 Arithon snorted. His hands moved, restored to a semblance of dex­terity as he freed the tucked cloak and flexed his constricted shoul­ders. Painfully gaunt, he paused to examine the shirt someone hadgiven to cover his nakedness. "Make sure you say which scout lshould thank."
 "You don't like charity?" Jieret dared a grin behind his raisedwrist. "What you wore was scarcely fit for a rag to oil the edge of aweapon."
Arithon said nothing, the tenor of his quiet like a test.
"The shirt was mine," Jieret admitted. "Though you could haveguessed that by the pitiful fact we had to hack a handspan off thecuffs."
 "And the shoulders fall down to my elbows, I know. Caolle alwayssaid I was too slight to bear weapons, and I just broke my pact. Iwasn't going to be first to pick trouble." Jieret swallowed.
 The crickets filled in as Arithon shifted, then with tenaciouseffort,pushed his frame upright. Depleted as he was, his spirit was drawnwire. "Never mind the fool etiquette between prince and caithdein. Asyour oathbound brother, I'm sorry. Caolle was the right arm I neverdeserved. I'm grieved to have taken him from you."
"He took himself," Jieret said, truthful, and the difficult wordsof a sudden came easily as he described the altercation caused by hisbull­headed past war captain on the subject of his prince's protection."Did you know, he tossed the younger men who volunteered into theriver to make his point? The irascible bastard said if they couldn'tbest him at wrestling, they weren't fit to keep guard on the slop inyour chamber pot."
"How like him? Turned pensive, Arithon also found the questionspilled gently, without the barbed lash he had dreaded. "How did hedie? You made me a bargain to buy my return, and by Ath, you'llneed to deliver."
 Under the kindly mantle of summer foliage, Jieret shared thetears and the triumphs that had won back the launched vessels from Riverton. 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 "So whose spell crystal have I inherited as my legacy?" Arithon,~sked at due length.
"You couldn't guess?" Earl Jieret reached into the loosenedbreast ~~f his jerkin and tugged a fine silver chain over his riot of redhair. "Caolle never did things by the half measure. He's left you his lastpower of revenge upon First Senior Lirenda."
Arithon choked, hands pressed to his lips, while his shouldersspasmed with dammed-back delight and wild laughter. "Oh,Dharkaron's sweet Spear! That's too rich." He extended a thin armand accepted the gift. Caught starlight in the crystalline facetsflashed like the forerunning bolt of a tempest. His remonstrance held humoras he closed his marked fist, silver links snagged like a loopedstrand ~f tinsel between his irreverent fingers. "You know such an objectshould be veiled in silk?"
 "So ask a townsman," Jieret said, piqued. "If the bitch finds hernerves pricked, that's her just deserts for trying to play us likestringpuppets."
But if Arithon shared the release in snide humor, his gravecounte­nance showed no breaking sign. He seemed queerly grieved, headtilted a listening angle to one side, while the chain magnified therun­ning fit of trembling that had reft the peace from his hands. "Is mylyranthe nearby?"
Jieret straightened, astounded by his urgency. "She's safe withthe saddle packs. Why?"
Moved by Arithon's sudden, sweet smile of relief, he arosewithout question and fetched the priceless, wrapped bundle that had almostbeen lost in the disastrous flight out of Riverton. When the fineinstru­ment was restored to the hands of the bard, Arithon laid the quartzcrystal at his feet. He caressed the carved wood, musician to hiscore,and rapt with the call of his muse as he struck and fine-tuned eachneglected, silver-wound string.
Then he launched into a haunting, free melody.
The cadence and the harmonies were like nothing before, speakingin lyric of sorrow and joy caught enraptured in a fired, doublehelix. Earl Jieret wept. The notes spilled and soared, each one an exquisiteneedle of inflection too fine to endure, and each measure an unfet­tered, tingling ecstasy bridged over desolate emptiness.
In the gloom of the trees, the scout stirred and gasped. Felirinawoke, raised his head, and crumpled, his maimed hands clasped tostill the demand of a mourning he could not bear to release lest hedamage the sheer majesty of the spell.
Of the thralled listeners embraced by the Masterbard's talent that JANNY WURTS 
night, only Dakar the Mad Prophet came to suspect the melody wasnot wrought for Caolle; nor yet for the tragedy of a free singer'sburned hands; nor even to commemorate the survival of a mostsevere trial of s'Ffalenn conscience. The phrasing, stamped intoempathic clarity, was Arithon's tuned response to the cry of asolitaryspirit imprisoned in the lattice of a Koriani spell crystal. 
Summer 5653 
Catalyst 
Lirenda dreamed of a man and a melody, and awoke with tear-flooded eyes.
For one second, two, the sweeping immediate, razor-edged mem­ory held her fast across the transition. Still, she could hear therip­pling, sweet peal of struck notes. Plangent, silvered strings spoketheir appeal just for her, a cry to flood joy through everyunfulfilled cranny in her heart.
Weeping as a creature possessed, she suffered through the jarringreorientation of finding herself bereft, alone, and jostled in therollingdiscomfort of a blue-water ocean passage. As her elbow struck anuncompromising edge of adzed wood, and the pull of the oarsthumped in vibration to the beat of the coxswain's drum, she recalledher true place aboard Prince Lysaer's royal galley. That awarenessrevived her mazed will. The beguiling cascade of lyranthe notes losttheir hold, snapped away like a net of burst thread.
She sat up, mired in a salt-musty snarl of damp linens.Protective as a provoked lioness, she let trained perception dissect the shredsof impression that even now slipped through her memory. At once, shepicked out the familiar trace resonance of her personal crystal. Sheknew then. Her chain-lightning leap into fury kindled a startlingsting: the dream had ridden on the carrier tie between herself andher lost quartz. By the aching wound opened by that one-shot bolt of compas­sion, then the pang of regret that was hers, inflicted as the harmonytangled and dispelled, she could surmise the hand of the meddler. 
495 ]ANNY WURTS
 Her fleeting recall yielded the vision of shadowed green eyes.She still felt the deft empathy which had combed through the haunteddepths of her mind, grasping after impressions to reclothe in music.
She knew; and her rage brimmed over and outran all restraint.Arithon s'Ffalenn had come to inherit possession of her personalspellcrystal. Her life-tie to the quartz lattice had betrayed her, let himbare every weakness she possessed.
Her frustration found no outlet aboard Lysaer's galley. Alone inher cabin, surrounded by sleeping crown officers and men-at-armssworn to the Alliance, she could not share confidence with anyone.The tedious, rolling beat of pulled oars offset nothing but the thrumof sea winds, and the hissed wash of cloven wavecrests. The denseheat of summer languished belowdecks and bathed her in trickles ofsweat.
 The repaired royal fleet rowed the last leg of the crossing fromCorith to the mainland. But denied vital access to the channel of her crystal, Lirenda remained as blind to event as the common seaman ondeck. She could do nothing but throw off stifling bedclothes and liein her close, lampless berth, awaiting the moment when the mastheadlookout sighted first land beneath the louring towers of seasonalthunder squalls.
Lirenda slept again just past dawn. Drugged by heat and the cir­cling mill of her frustration, she suffered no dreams. This time nomusic came to haunt her. She emerged from a drowning, black well ofoblivion to the filtered light of late afternoon. Clear over thegroan ofworking timbers, she heard the running thump of sailors' bare feetover the decking above her. She clawed clinging tangles of ebony hairoff the damp skin of her collarbones. Fighting groggy senses, shearose to refresh herself.
 While she dressed in her meticulous layers of silk skirts andgauze-thin mantle of office, the activity on deck reached the fever-pitchanticipation provoked by an imminent landfall. She gathered fromthe bursts of excited talk and the flying strings of orders from theship's officers that the peppery little navigator had not failed withhis charts. He had led the fleet safely in to Orlest on the southwestshore of Tysan.
Swathed in her wind-fluttered, violet silk, Lirenda swept up thecompanionway. She displaced two off-duty oarsmen to gamer aview at the rambade. The stroke of the crew on the benches below seemed enlivened. While the tumult of anticipation quickened abouther, the late weeks at sea seemed an interval removed, time sealed ina pocket of salt-scented tranquillity. The breeze led the change. It 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

brought smells of smoke and fish grease from the shoreside cook-fires, mingled into the sour, muddy reek of tidal marshes. Shoalingwaters between ship and shingle heaved in striated tones of greenenamel. Gulls flew, dipped gold in the late-day sun, which slashedthrough clouds strewn like feathers. The headland itself lay slattedin shadow, citrine as new ale where the marsh grasses spread tasseledseed heads.
 During the burning, dry months of high summer, when thestorms threw their rains off the coast, the tidal estuaries of southTysan were worked for deposits of salt. Amid the fringed reeds atslack water, women raked crusted cakes into piles, while half-grown children sewed the glittering harvest into burlap for trans­port.
Past the low ground, flocks of goats grazed the stepped, rockybluffs, raised like rucked baize above the path where a herdboy racedto warn the town of the arriving fleet.
Lirenda knew Orlest as a galleymen's haven. Here, captains put into replenish provisions on their coast-hopping runs between theRiverton inlet and the rich ports past Hanshire.
As the oarsmen muscled the flagship against the chop of ebb tide,the town hove into view, tucked in a fold of the shoreline. Impressedin haze, and bounded in front by the scarred pilings of the traders'wharf, the crescent-shaped settlement was ruled by the runningswell off Mainmere Bay. The low-lying houses were built upon stiltsagainst the floods whipped in by offshore storms. Trapped heat rip­pled the sprawl of limed fishing shacks, their humped roofsthatched with cut reeds, and netted down with pendulous stoneweights. Beside their unassuming stolidity, Sailhands' Alley stoodout like a gaudy twist of silk, with its signboard array of brothelsand wineshops.
The town also hosted a seasonal fishing fleet. While Lysaer'sgal­leys steered a bending course through the cork floats of vacant moor­ings, word of their arrival ran ahead. Doors banged and craftshopsemptied. A burgeoning crowd lined the docks as the flagship drovein, sunwheel banners streaming.
As the oarsmen's stroke sheared her patched hull shoreward, fromrail and rambade, one could pick out the pristine white tunics ofoathsworn Alliance guardsmen cutting an agitated swath through thegawkers like the mismatched gleam of thrown ice.
"Something's afoot," the watch officer remarked, creased eyestrained ashore. "Or why would a contingent of royal men-at-arms bebilleted in force at Orlest?" 
JANNY ~URTS

 The steersman chimed in, "They would come to hold news for hi~Grace." A likely enough guess; Orlest or Tideport were the loawait an inbound fleet from Min Pierens.
 Lirenda tapped manicured fingers on the rail, raked over by rabidfrustration. Her curtailed powers would not let her access laneauguriesat a glance, and the ignominy burned. The possibility for upset couldnot be dismissed: her misjudgment over Caolle's life may well haveallowed Arithon s'Ffalenn to seize bold advantage on the continent.
She must have unwittingly mused her irritation out loud.
"But of course, the enemy would not stand idle through the sum­mer." The reply intruded a pace from her shoulder; Lysaer s'Ilessidhad apparently crept up through her moment of self-absorbed brood­ing.
He also had dressed for the landfall. Offset by the delicatesheen of her silk, his presence lost none of its magnificence. His impeccable,trimmed hair shone as burnished as filigree, and his pearls were coldfire in the sunlight. He was not smiling.
Anyone less than a Koriani observer would have missed his subtlesatisfaction, as he added, "Did you truly believe the Shadow Mastercould be driven to unchecked flight without unpleasant repercus­sions?"
 Lirenda's expression was fine marble veneer, impenetrable andaloof. A mere hour ago, she could have agreed without any sense ofconflict. Now self-betrayed, subverted through access to her unde­fended quartz, she found herself battling phantoms. A masterfullytailored line of melody tugged her emotions on wild tangents, as ifthe imprinted perception of Arithon's intent gave the lie to his halfbrother's conviction.
 Discomfited by Lysaer's probing interest, Lirenda returned astare like chipped amber. "Why jab in pretense?" Her impulse forvengeance sparked out as small malice. "New discord but serves you.Bring down the Master of Shadow, by all means. Should I do less thanapplaud the picked course of your destiny?"
Lysaer laughed in that forthright honesty which effortlesslyrecap­tured the heart. "Lady, your barbs are magnificent, but misplaced.Let us weigh the ill tidings before we presume to salvage the fruits ofdis­aster."
 Yet as the royal galley tied up at the wharf, no deft planning,nor calculated strategy of advance handling could smooth over thetumult which awaited the Prince of the Light. 
 FUGITIVE I~RINCE

 Full night lay over the harbor, heavy as syrup with trappedwarmth. Between the summer flicker of heat lightning, the rippledwaters lapped like dark tarnish against the pilings, spindled withreflections from the torch pans set alight at the quayside. Amid thatcast tangle of jittering light, Lysaer s'Ilessid stepped ashore.
The bystanders gathered to greet his return roared with one voiceat first sight of him. Man, woman, and child, they surged against themen-at-arms who pressed to clear space for his egress. The princetook such mannerless enthusiasm in stride. All white silk and fitted elegance, he left the gangway, unhurried. As he passed down thewharf, his path became flanked by a wall of grasping, outthrusthands. The boldest strained against the cordon of soldiers, strivingto touch his person for shared fortune, or to pluck at his glitteringgar­ments for a ribbon or lace to treasure as a memento.
 Lirenda paced the prince one step behind, daunted by the sheervolume of noise, and by the relentless needy scramble of the crowd.The wharf narrowed past the jut of the ship's chandlery, with itsstacked hogsheds of salt pork and beef. Royal guardsmen jostled aclear path with difficulty. The enchantress found herself unable tobreak away, even to lend polite semblance of privacy when the royalcourier stepped to the fore.
He carried urgent news for Avenor's prince, a personal messagetoo dire to withhold. "Your Grace, there's been tragedy. Best hearnow, and quickly."
Caught in unwanted proximity, Lirenda shared the formal lan­guage of state which informed that his bewitchingly beautiful wife,Princess Talith, had passed the Wheel three months ago.
"By her own hand, your Lord Seneschal pronounced." Headsturned. The cheering near at hand faltered; still the messenger hadto 
shout to make himself heard through the clamor. "Her Grace fell toher end. Succumbed to despair for her childless state and jumpedfrom a high tower window."
Despite his matchless instinct for statecraft, Lysaer s'Ilessidmissed stride.
 For that given instant, he was no savior, no prince, no shiningexample to his people, but only a man, stunned by an unexpected,dark anguish. Grief exposed his humanity with leveling force. He fal­tered, stopped short. The flare of the firepans etched him inunmerci­ful light, each tremor of shock magnified by his jeweled studs andstitched seed pearls.
The sight of him humbled by wounding mortality struck Lirendawith inexplicable force. 
499 
JANNY WURTS

 She lost her own breath at the devastated speed with which hissustained strength came unraveled. The draw of his charisma hadclaimed her, unwitting, his dedicated campaign against the Master ofShadow became a mainstay she required to buoy her tripped sense ofbalance.
 As a hapless observer, she felt strangely bereft; as if perfectquartzcracked like glass under polishing, or clouds on a whim had trans­formed into lead, to crush the green earth with blind force.
Lysaer seemed oblivious to the presence of an audience. Eyesclosed, his ethereal majesty transformed to unalloyed sorrow, he mur­mured aloud in his anguish, "My dear, my dear! If not for the machi­nations of the enemy, I should never have strayed from your side."
The First Senior moved on blind instinct. She would offer her man­tle, try any inadequate, stopgap gesture to shield his shatteredpoisefrom the insatiable maw of public curiosity.
Yet fast as she reacted, another pushed past and reached thes'Ilessid prince ahead of her.
This one wore the sweat-stained leathers of a courier who had transferred from post horse to post horse with small break for restor refreshment. The chalky dust of the flats lined tired features, andhis person wore the smell of hot horses and urgency.
He caught Lysaer's hand and dropped onto one knee. "Great lord,forgive me. I bring unpleasant tidings."
The Prince of the Light raised his head, eyes open and direct, ifsus­piciously bright. "Speak," he bade the man. "No tragedy of mine is sogreat that I cannot respond for my people."
Then he waited in all of his shattered splendor for a secondround of ill news.
 Lirenda stood near enough to overhear the fact that forty of Han-shire's finest men-at-arms had pursued Arithon s'Ffalenn into acloudy veil of magecraft.
"That event happened some time ago. It's not canny, to haveescaped official notice this long. But the first courier sent toAvenor was waylaid by a freak accident. His report was delayed for twomonths." The dazed messenger tipped his face up to the prince, torninto terrified appeal. "Search parties have swept the flats east towest,until the worst can't be doubted. The whole company of forty has dis­appeared, and left not a trace on the landscape."
Lysaer met the entreaty head-on, the shimmer of the tears hewould not shed apparent to his circle of observers. "My loss, and mypeople's loss is not so different." Even in grief, his acute sense ofkindness prevailed. "Had you kin among the missing?" 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 The messenger looked devastated. "A brother."
He received the hand of the prince on his shoulder. "Then we sor­row together, as we act side by side." Lysaer summoned a voice likegrained iron. "There are widows in Hanshire this day who arebereaved by the loss of a mate, as I am. For them, you will go nowand arrange mounts for myself and twenty-five of my personalguard. Find a guide who knows the countryside. Tell him he may askany sum he desires from my treasury if he will show us the place onthe flats where this happened."
When the original courier in Avenor's city colors elbowed hisway in to protest, the prince quelled his concern with hammeredsteadiness. "There are no remains to attend, I trust?" Since hislady'sdeath had occurred in the spring, he scarcely waited for affirmationthat Talith's body had long since been cremated. "Then the cere­mony to celebrate my personal regard for her can certainly bide a bitlonger."
Lysaer made a painful effort to collect himself. Surrounded bydarkness, beyond reach of the sultry glow from the firepans, hiswhite tunic and jewels made him seem etched in light, a being set apartfrom the weathered squalor of the galley wharf. The dichotomy of hishumanity hurt to behold as he raised his torn voice to explain. "Ishall not return to Avenor until I have expended every effort to redeemthis lost Hanshire company from the spellcraft which has spirited themfrom us."
 The bystanders overheard. Struck by his purposeful denial offresh loss, several women were moved to tears. First one man, then anotherbegan raggedly to chant, "Lysaer of the Light!" until the entirecrowd at the waterfront had taken up the cry.
All at once, the night reechoed with a synchronous frenzy ofadmi­ration. The awe of the multitude expressed palpable excitement, thatthe Prince of the Light should give himself to their need before hisown deeply personal sorrow.
His gold head a glittering beacon against the looming bulk of thewarehouses, Lysaer s'Ilessid beckoned to the standing officer of hisroyal retinue. "Ready the best and the steadiest of my guardsmen."Over the tumult, his edged tone was the drawn sword, that would cutin fulfillment of its purpose. "We ride at speed for the Middlecrossferry!"
Very suddenly, Lirenda became the only stilled point in the mael­strom, as purposeful activity erupted around her.
Men-at-arms came forward to depart for the flats, and servantsran to gather clothing and supplies for the journey. While the fleetcaptains 
 JANNY WURTS ~!1 who had managed the sea campaign at Corith were reorganized forreturn to Avenor, the Koriani First Senior believed herselfforgotten.But where an ordinary man might have overlooked her insignificance,the Prince of the Light turned about.
He took her hand in his own and eased her small difficulty withthe inspired attention to detail that marked his brilliance as aleader. "You wish to be elsewhere."
 "I've been too long away from my order." Lirenda took an inadver­tent step back, shaken by the impact of his caring.
Her trained senses perceived far too clearly. Lysaer's eyes weredark from the shock of his princess's death. Nor was his grip steady.Ridden by an all-too-visible anguish, the marred grace of hisfeatures reRected a ~ranscendenf need which drew on the heart like a magnet.
Even in weakness, his presence turned lives.
Yet again, Lirenda killed her surge of instinctive response.Sweptby a sharp, reckless longing to cast off all ties and follow thisprince indefense, she sampled firsthand the pull which caused men to leavehome and swear service for life. Her Koriani discipline was scarcelyenough to stand down the temptation, and recall the stakes of thesac­rifice.
 Belatedly she noticed that Lysaer was speaking, his offer aninvita­tion to accompany his royal retinue as far as the landing at Middle-cross.
 "Weren't you bound for the Koriani sisterhouse in Capewell?" Thediamonds at his collar flicked like held stars as he raised her fingersin a gesture of warmth and inquiry. 'q presume you'd rather cross theinlet by ferry than ride the long way round through Riverton."
His selfless solicitude struck a chord of reciprocal concern."Listen,you must know," Lirenda burst out in unpremeditated warning."Those men-at-arms from Hanshire very likely entangled themselvesin the bounds of a Paravian grimward. If you persist in seeking whatbecame of them, you ride into unimaginable danger."
"They were lost on my orders in pursuit of the Spinner of Dark­ness." Lysaer's affirmation was clear-cut dedication over therhythmi­cal adulation of the crowd. "None of them will be abandoned for the sake of my safety. Your place is to accept my offer of escort as faras Middleton. There our ways part. Leave the fate and disposition of mypeople to me. You must serve your own order and bear my messageon to your Prime."
Under the lucent weight of Lysaer's gaze, Lirenda knew no logicalreason why she should feel humbled or shamed. Regal chivalryshould not have overwhelmed pride. Bound into his debt by his dedi­FUGITIVE PRINCE 
cated sincerity, she could not shake the illusion that she was thelesser power. Though her poise stayed unbroken, all her wisdom andaccomplishment as First Senior seemed diminished before his truegrace as she accepted the gift of his kindness. 
Summer 5653 
Checks and Balance 
The hour that Arithon's sloop Talliarthe makes sail to cross Mainmerechannel to Havish, a clan messenger departs for the sisterhouse inCapewell, in his hand a packet addressed to Morriel Prime whichbears Rathain's leopard seal: the content, with Arithon's cordialregards, holds the First Senior's purloined spell crystal and crypticpromise that the debt has been duly discharged for Caolle's death ....
 In the central chamber of the dragon skull at the vortex of thegrimward, the Sorcerer Asandir leans on the shoulder of his blackhorse; near blind with fatigue, exhausting his last thread ofdepletedconcentration, he frames the clear memory of the focus circle setinto the dungeon of Althain Tower....
 in the mires of Mogg's Fen, Luhaine carries tidings to thecaithdein of Tysan, that Arithon is safe across the channel to Torwent, andthree brigs crewed by clansmen guard Mainmere Narrows to bear therefugee families into sanctuary under High King Eldir's justice; andamid tears and sorrow for those too late to spare, Maenol makespainful disposition that henceforward, every surviving clan bloodlinewill maintain a secure branch on the protection of foreign soil .... 
504 Summer 5653 
XIV. Passages 
The handpicked company which rode out with the Prince of theLight pressed straight on through the night. They traveled lightand without fanfare for speed, with only one bannerman toannounce the royal presence. The muggy, moist heat of the flatlandsclung like syrup over the land. Darkness rang loud with the clicks ofsinging insects. The men behind the torch-bearing outriders moppedtearing eyes from streamed trailers of oily smoke. They held theirfor­mation in columns two abreast and trusted their horses to negotiatethe hard-packed alkaline footing.
They thundered down to the sea inlet as fast as the posthousescould supply their urgent demand for remounts.
On that hour, the sheltered cove by the ferry wharf lay wrappedin woolly fog, the herring gulls wheeling and crying unseenagainst the filtered, rose blush of dawn. While horseboys still tou­sled from sleep in the loft led off their blown mounts, the servinggirls from the ferryhouse brought them a meal of bacon, hot bread,and steamed fish. Men grown slack from their long weeks at seacursed their new saddle blisters and stretched the kinks from their legs.
"Damnfool waste of effort, all this rush," a fresh recruitgroused to apair of weathered veterans who lounged by the tied boats at thewater­front. Experience had long since taught them not to waste themselves 
 JANNY WURTS 

fretting. They listened, noncommittal, working their way throu.h ha~lcheese and buttered biscuit.
 While the incoming tide slapped at the bollards, their lessexperi­enced colleague nattered on. "Those riders from Hanshire have beenlost for months. Whatever dark sorcery led them astray, they're prob­ably dead. If not, what's the difference? Another day, or a week areunlikely to matter." Engrossed in self-pity, he failed to notice hiscom­panions had stiflened and stopped eating in disquiet. "if you ask me,we tire men and horses in a cross-country race to no purpose."
Seemingly out of nowhere, hard fingers locked onto the whiner'sshoulder and jerked him face about toward the innyard.
"No man oathsworn to fight the shadow at my side shirks hisgiven duty to his fellows," cracked Lysaer s'Ilessid. The pale whiteof his tunic melding into the mist, he had moved up unseen.
The grief of his past night's loss still marked him. Yet eventhroughexhaustion and the incandescent fire of just anger, he noticed thefer-ryman's youngest toddler, wandered in his wake from the guest­house. He knelt in the dust. "Go, child. The morning's too fine tospoil with shouting when you can pick shells from the beach."
As the girl wandered off, he straightened, confronted the miscre­ant, and resumed his lashing reprimand. "I will have it knownbeyond question that anyone needing help against the works of evilsorcery shall receive what they ask. Assistance will reach them withall the speed that crown resource can muster. My will on this mattershall brook no challense. For today's lack of diligence, consideryour­self released from your oath of service to the Light." The recruit began a shocked protest.
Lysaer s'Ilessid cut him off. "Don't trouble to speak. I won'thear excuses." His blue eyes as inexorable as arctic ice, he insisted,"There can be no faint hearts in my ranks. As we shoulder the coming waragainst darkness, every man must stand ready to give his life withoutquestion."
"Mercy, bright lord." The young man fell to his knees, unmannedand broken to pleading. "Don't cast me out of your service!"
Lysaer snapped his fingers. The royal guard's captain stepped inon smart cue and ripped the sunwheel badge from the sleeve of thedisgraced recruit's tunic.
"Leave us," commanded the Prince of the Light. "Stay clear of ourcrossing. The rest of this company has a task to accomplish indefense of this land and its people." He turned his back, let his icy regardsweep the rest of the company. "Believe this! Any man who looksback will be dismissed as well. Before threat of sorcery, we musthar­
 FUGITIVE PRINCE 

bor no weakness. Veer from our commitment for any man's faults,and the victory can never be ours."
 Set against an ebb tide, the ferry passage to Middlecrossrequired ahalf day to complete. The landing was accomplished amidst heat andhaze in the close, summer fetor of a port town. While a ditheringhar­bormaster recovered from receiving the royal party unwarned,Lirenda went her separate way and arranged passage by galley toCapewell.
The Prince of the Light saw her off with smooth courtesy, thenmade his presence felt among the town council through the due pro­cess of royal requisition. His small company prevailed againstgather­ing crowds and deafening cries of adulation. On demand, his captainprocured the fittest, fresh horses. Under the limp folds of the sun-wheel banner, the two dozen mounted and rode out, watched byawed merchants and idle children, and by sailhands staggeringdrunk from the taverns who wandered upon the commotion. Theprince's guard left behind a furor of fresh hope, and rumor thatwould spread east and north by the trade couriers.
Under sparse clouds like melted enamel, they left the trade roadand crossed into the flats with a local guide to lead them. Acrossthe windswept leagues of tilled farmland, past barking dogs and thestares of herders and goodwives, they pressed lathered horses. Fourmen were left when remounts ran short, and the day bled awaytoward sunset. Angled light stabbed flecks in the mica which crustedthe striated rock. In ragged order, the company clattered across bar­ren crests and dried gullies. They churned, slapping midges, throughthe mud of the sinkholes where the fog was first to gather, thencamped by the glow of a three-quarter moon veiled under bridal-lacemist.
 Astride once more in the half-light of dawn, the sea fogs likesmoke about them, they passed the last inhabited farmstead; then its outly­ing sheep stanks of tumbledown stone, crusted in moss and graylichen. Except for chinking bits and the creak of saddle leather, theriders might have been ghosts. They poured through the cross-stitched fronds of the willow thickets and exchanged no chatter atall.
 Prince Lysaer led, his gleaming gold hair and scintillant jewelsunearthly against the bald slabs of striated granite which scabbedthat desolate setting.
The men at his back had outworn their will to raise spiritsthroughrailing banter. While the fogs rolled and shredded, and hazed sunspeared down and raised trickling sweat under padded gambeson 
 JANNY WURTS 

:!~/~i!
and helm, they dared set no words to their dread. No mind amon.
them could grapple the horrors they might be required to face.

Somewhere ahead, forty competent soldiers had been swallowedalive by fell magic. The ones who rode now in sworn duty to try res­cue owned no better protection than steel swords and their obduratefaith in the Light.
For Lysaer s'Ilessid himself, the bleak landscape leftunpleasant,slack hours to think. His aching grief for Talith's loss became ator­ment of wretched persistence. As though the mainstay to his intellecthad splintered like glass, pain left its branding reminder. Circlingmemories reopened old scars. The cycle of betrayal and abandonbegun by his s'Ahelas mother now magnified and replayed, until hewished he was numb to all passion.
The friend who might have shared his hour of mourning lay dead,slain along with the war host massacred by the dark on the field atDier Kenton Vale.
 Nor could the Prince of the Light claim the luxury of solitude,even with the onset of night. The warren of scrub willow where the fieldtroop made camp afforded no privacy for grief. Lysaer spoke and atewhere necessity demanded. Duty bound to the needs of his men, helay wakeful and watched the summer constellations melt slowly intothe mist. The hour saw him more alone than he had ever been since the hour of his birth. Isolated by his royal rank, and by the causethat he shouldered to amend the defenseless plight of humanity, he stillcould not hide from himself.
 Around him, no sound but the dry scrape of crickets; the plink ofseeping water from a rock spring could not lull him to the forgetfuloblivion of sleep. Nor could he silence his rampaging hurt.
Once, his marriage to a single woman had threatened to seducehim from his oathsworn obligation to bring down the Master ofShadow. Now Talith was gone. Temptation removed, he had notgained relief. Death had not brought him one iota of freedom fromthe drawing agony of her allure, which had dreadfully threatened tosnap his integrity and undermine all his high principles. He feltnewly lost. No grand cause could bridge the terrible vacancy love hadleft torn through his heart.
The only fire that remained to be fanned was his hatred forArithon s'Ffalenn.
 The Shadow Master's cleverness had manipulated Princess Talithto betrayal. In the months of her abduction, his accursed, schemingwiles had orchestrated her estrangement. Lysaer s'Ilessid endured thechill fact that he owned nothing dear in the world on which to builda 
so8 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

bright future. Empty himselL royal justice demanded he not shirk hisresponsibility for the needs of his people. His life had meaning onlyif he delivered their destiny from the manipulative powers of the mage­born.
 Yet even the comfort of resolve left him hollow.
 Lysaer locked his teeth against flooding, bitter rage as thescourgeof his faithless mother's s'Ahelas farsight mocked him to grittyself-honesty. At least for tonight, he could not mask the lie: heshouldered the challenge of the grimward for raw need, that the rooted aversionhe held for all sorcery might drown out the pain of his loss.
Dawn saw him the first man arisen from his blankets. He still led the company through the baked heat of high morning. Starburstreflections jumped off the mica from the flood of sun overhead.Where bare rock was covered, the horses plowed chest high throughtopaz tassels of goldenrod and saw grass. Their hooves thudded oversod matted with gorse and bracken in the gullies which still hoardedmoisture.
 The land seemed empty, a circle of silence sealed under limitlesssky. Then, with no warning, the horses took alarm. They snorted,necks rigid, their tails and ears raised, as if some uncanny presenceraised distrust. No effort would settle them. Spur and rein, andfeats of skilled horsemanship failed to restore their willing temperament.
"We'll dismount." Lysaer vaulted off his skittering mount, thenwaved for the hook-nosed local shepherd who served as guide toapproach for immediate consultation. "Are we near the place wherethe men disappeared?"
"Your Grace, no." The man rammed the cork in the neck of his skinflask, mopped his dripping mustache, and glanced uneasily overboth shoulders. "That site lies another day's ride to the east."
Down the ranks, a man slapped a fly. The report caused the guideto start out of his skin. "We should leave here. Animals are wiser to danger than we."
"I didn't come this far to run at the first breath of trouble." Lysaerraised his head, squinting against the glare of full noon. Thestrained quiet extended, while around him, the breeze stilled and died. Menshuddered with odd chills and gooseflesh. An insidious need stoleover the mind to turn tail and beat swift retreat.
 Chin up, eyes forward, his dust-caked surcoat straight on trimshoulders, Lysaer s'Ilessid masked the icy, first onset of fear. Onlyhis stance of unmalleable determination kept the men steadfast at hisheels.
 A horse stamped. On a choking intake of breath, the local guide 
JANNY WURTS 

whirled and ran, thrashing a headlong course through the brush inblind panic to take himself elsewhere.
"Steady, keep sharp!" barked the captain. "Docked pay for anyman who breaks from his place in the ranks!"
Suddenly the air gained an unsettled density, unsubtle and heavyas quartz. Sunlight fell magnified in unexplainable brilliance, asthough the sky itself had tumed refractive. The stabbed reflectionsoff mail shirts and metallic gear caught in queer, actinic sparkles thatbefuddled clear vision. Then all natural sense of direction dissolved.
 "By the light, we're being witched!" the bannerman gasped,shaken.
 Lysaer touched the man's shoulder with quelling strength. "Bestill." In reckless defiance, he raised his fist high and issued hisown challenge in pure light.
The bolt seared aloft like the quenching shriek of hot steel. Itsdaz­zling radiance slammed into resistance and summoned a veil of blankfog. Gray wisps eddied and curled, first as disorganized rags ofvapor, then as a frothing, impenetrable veil which expanded to maskthe known landscape.
To the men-at-arms rooted in trembling obedience, the surge ofLysaer's gift seemed to collide with an uncanny barrier of mage­force.
 "Light save us!" the royal equerry cried through the murmur ofanother man's prayers.
The words rang flat and echoless with distance. Seared blind bythe stifled, white radiance of his effort, Lysaer s'Ilessid fed the hardedgeof his terror through the inborn channels of his talent. The morefighthe raised, the more tightly he felt the unmalleable vortex of forcetwine like wire about his person. He sensed the connection. On theshaken verge of panic, he burned his gift like bale fire, determinedto rout the magecraft which bore down as if he had been chained as itstarget.
Visceral fear ripped through him.
Then the veil which masked mortal sight from the infinite toreacross and shattered into light. The beacon this time was not of hismaking; his birth mastery could not grapple or bind it.
He beheld no land, no rock, no live body. Around him and throughrang the dance of pure energy that fired the chord of Ath's mystery.A fist of dauntless power embraced him. He could not move, could notthink, only be, melded as one with the forces which pealed to unbear­able crescendo and Named him out of the void.
 A cry like a shard of. clear crystal lanced his mind.
"Lysaer, Prince of the Light, deliver me safe from the darkness!" 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 For one sustained second, ephemeral as moonlight on snow, or thewhisper of thermals through a hawk's wing, the whole substance ofdisplaced reality seemed to pivot and spin on its balance.
Then a peal of thunder cracked the luminescent air. Vibrationsslapped his person with ranging force, tearing earth and sky backinto solidified existence.
 The land had not changed. Clear sun shone down, untrammeledby strange mists. Shocked speechless and scarcely able to standupright, Lysaer s'Ilessid saw that his company of guards had beenthrown to a man from their feet.
 For a disjointed moment, they remained in stunned fear, flinchingand paralyzed from reaction. Then a breeze stroked the weed tassels.A wren sang. The day resurged in all its diverse normality, whileshocked men rubbed flash-blinded eyes. They groped after droppedweapons. A stupefied handful of seconds crept by before any of themnoticed the miracle.
 A dust-coated, haunted captain at arms was sprawled weeping atLysaer's feet.
The prince blinked. He could not place the man's wiry, dark hair,nor the bloody gash raked down his forearm. The filthy, tom blazonon his surcoat was no sunwheel, but a sable stag on a scarlet shield.
His own captain was first to exclaim from the sidelines."Hanshire? Sulfin Evend?" The name raised a babble of incredulous shouting.
"Look! Ath, it's him!"
"One of those who was taken by dark sorcery!"
"Behold! Did you see? My Lord Prince of the Light has recoveredthe lost company's commander from the well of oblivion!"
Lysaer took firm grip on his rattled nerves. Plunged into shockedchill, still half-unmoored and consumed by his struggle to dismissthe chord of grand mystery which had touched him, he fell back onreflexive inspiration. He caught the prostrate man's pitifully thinshoulder and raised him in a brother's embrace.
 Then he studied the face, a square-jawed stranger's.
His racing heart rejected the implication, though to his bones,he knew. The powers which had redeemed the lost captain were none ofhis own. His memory of their uncanny strangeness pried at logic,undid belief, to the massive upset of clear principle.
Denial remained. If sorcery was wrought from the heart of life'ssource, if music and grand harmony and clean balance framed itspowers, then Lysaer rocked on the edge of the abyss. All that hestrove to accomplish in the world became unveiled as a misguidedillusion. 
such diabolicalIy craśted illu~-~i"o~ to dis~'~ .....
~'~-~'~Z~'~:-~'"~'~:'-::':;~_~.~.~ 
~ ....... x ....~ ~-~ ~ ~o~ ~-~ ~ ~o~ ,ř~o~~

 ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~xx ~ ~x~ ~ ~ than to cloak perfect evil ~ a sea,ess, ~c~~~-. ~
 Around him, ~s dedicated comply were clamor~g for a~enfi~ j~He heard words, felt the heat of their wors~pful astonis~ent. Su~ 'Everid was speaking of his sojourn through terror, of see~ his
small troop of men tom and savaged by monsters drawn ~om the E~stAge. ~ u~J~ J~dscapes cloaked ~ ice which had chan~ed :~nt0
r~k be~een o~, ...........mo~ta~s, or chasms of b~il~g ......... ~ n's ~te~ and the next. "O/all who followed ~ pursuit of the Shadow Master, 1 ~'as~he last left alive."
 "Fellow, you're bleed~b" the royal capta~ ~te~ected. "Let's seethat a~." At his reprimand, the equer~ was sent to fetch bat~..tagesfrom a saddlebag.
"~ere was a Sorcerer," Sulf~ Evend gasped, while a man k~eltand cut away ~e clo~ed sh~ds of ~s sleeve to bare his unt~dedwound. "He wore dark robes. ~ile the rocks of Si~aer itself b(~iledand burned and r~ molten about me, he came and forced me t(, ~alkdown ~e t~oat of a dragon's skull. I fought ~m. He told me t(~ ceases~ggl~g, that resistance was wasted. ~en he fl~g me i~t() thedark."
 "Ugly, but just scrapes," the royal capta~ ~ormed, his examina­tion complete. "You're lucky the mess hasn't festered." He accepted~h~ ~e[ke~ of ~oultice ~aste the remiss equerry had mixed from
stored remedies and a waters~.
 ~ile his gashes were dressed, the vic~m ~sistently ~,~ued ~i~story, trembl~g from shock and amazement at his del v~rance. ~'I~ew I would be imprisoned in that place for all time. I~ ~' h()ur0idespair I called on ~e Name of the Price of the Lig~t. 'arid ~'asheard!" He ~med s~g, worship~l eyes upon the b~,~)~d-hairedsalon of s'gessid who stood a half step removed &om h~ ~0~0rguard. "Praise your Grace~ ~e blessed powers of Light have t~.umphed over dar~ess, ~d I stud before you alive."
~e ~stant the bandage was secure on his arm, he pusheci t}~r0u~
~ the men ~d ~elt once aga~ at the feet of Lysaer s'Ilessic~ ~I have ~seen the ~th. You are sent by div~e mission to deliver us fi ~)~
dark. ~ hess." ~ 
 JANNY WURTS '~l
 "No." Lysaer shut his eyes, his two hands locked and shaking. ~Conflicted by self-honesty and devastated pride, he ached through amoment of absolute crisis, before he recalled his own truth: theadeptsof Ath's brotherhood once sought to sway him the same way. They hadused such diabolically crafted illusion to distort his perception, andblind honor, and convince him that Arithon s'Ffalenn was born innocent.
Indeed, what better way to seduce a mortal will from right actionthan to cloak perfect evil in a seamless, evocative beauty?
Around him, his dedicated company were clamoring for attention.He heard words, felt the heat of their worshipful astonishment.Sulfin Evend was speaking of his sojourn through terror, of seeing his smalltroop of men torn and savaged by monsters drawn from the FirstAge. He described landscapes cloaked in ice which had changed intomountains, or chasms of boiling rock between one man's step and thenext. "Of all who followed in pursuit of the Shadow Master, I was thelast left alive."
 "Fellow, you're bleeding," the royal captain interjected. "Let'ssee that arm." At his reprimand, the equerry was sent to fetch bandagesfrom a saddlebag.
"There was a Sorcerer," Sulfin Evend gasped, while a man kneltand cut away the clotted shreds of his sleeve to bare his untendedwound. "He wore dark robes. While the rocks of Sithaer itself boiled and burned and ran molten about me, he came and forced me to walkdown the throat of a dragon's skull. I fought him. He told me tocease struggling, that resistance was wasted. Then he flung me into thedark."
 "Ugly, but just scrapes," the royal captain informed, hisexamina­tion complete. "You're lucky the mess hasn't festered." He acceptedthe dollop of poultice paste the remiss equerry had mixed from storedremedies and a waterskin.
 While his gashes were dressed, the victim insistently pursued hisstory, trembling from shock and amazement at his deliverance. "Iknew I would be imprisoned in that place for all time. In my hour ofdespair I called on the Name of the Prince of the Light, and washeard!" He turned shining, worshipful eyes upon the blond-hairedscion of s'Ilessid who stood a half step removed from his honorguard. "Praise your Grace! The blessed powers of Light have tri­umphed over darkness, and I stand before you alive."
The instant the bandage was secure on his arm, he pushed throughthe men and knelt once again at the feet of Lysaer s'Ilessid. "I haveseen the truth. You are sent by divine mission to deliver us fromdark­ness."
 Surrounded by the worshipful circle of his men, the prince under­stood he must keep the pretense of manhood and react. If not, herisked being forced to explain how narrowly he had escaped an insid­ious and subtle attack of enemy subterfuge.
He laid his crossed hands upon Sulfin Evend's bent head. Unableto imagine how a man could stay sane through a harrowing ordealwrought of sorcery, he chose utmost tact and said gently, "You neednot still serve."
 The Hanshire captain's fervent response became the balm whichcemented cracked faith, and distanced the grief of Talith's passing. 
 "My lord prince, I would walk through Sithaer yet again to joinin your battle against darkness!" Sulfin Evend tipped up his trans­formed, avid face. "Your Grace of the Light, let me ride at the fore­front of your troops, that the spirit you have saved from the pit ofevil should inspire others to stand strong."
Touched to relief, that a man of such fiber wished to carry hissun-wheel banner against the legions of Shadow before him, Lysaers'Ilessid raised the wiry Hanshire captain to stand erect at hisside.
 "You shall command the host of my field army." His royal admira­tion was no less than sincere as his choice squared batteredshoulders under the singed tatters of his Hanshire surcoat. "The cause ofhumanity stands strengthened this day by the priceless gift of yourcourage. Your mettle is proven, Sulfin Evend. Your name shallresound unforgotten throughout history. No braver heart in all ofAthera could spearhead the honor of the Light!"
 Weeks after Lysaer's new Commander of Armies received hisinvestiture at Avenor, the focus circle beneath Althain Towercapturedlight and then blazed into an actinic coruscation of raised power asa spelled tracer crossed the veil. A template of slipped timeinterlocked and aligned. Hurled through that storm's eye by the much delayedimpetus of his homecoming, Asandir set foot on firm stone and stag­gered.
The Warden stood waiting by the center of the pattern; Sethvircaught his colleague's weak-kneed, failing weight before he mea­sured his length."Blessed Ath," Asandir whispered. "I'd hoped you might meet me."Around him, the restive flare of raised lane force sparkled andchurned like a river flood sucked into whirlpool. Its brilliantintensityall at once shattered thought. His eyes would not focus. The lacedmesh his own powers had called into being hazed into a blur, and hisknees buckled under him after all. Despite the help of the Warden's 
513 
JANNY WURTS 

staunch shoulder, Asandir understood in dismay he was not going tostave off collapse.
The dwindled reserves he tapped for clear speech became unimag­inably precious. "The Major Balance is served." He paused to controla spasming shudder. "The Hanshire captain has been sent throughalive."
 "I know. He crossed back six weeks ago." Matter-of-fact beforethe shocking, hot touch of Asandir's clothing, Sethvir shifted his grip."Don't speak." He clapped out a spark of conflagration with hispalm, felt the stout weave of cloth and worn leather tatter away intoash. "I'm here. You don't have to fight to stay standing anymore."
With utmost gentle care, he eased his colleague's rangy frameonto the cool, grounding stone of the floor. One quelling word scribed arune on the air. In response, the excited flare of stressed powerdis­persed. The focus patterns dimmed and subsided back into theirdancing blue glimmer of quiescence.
"The second lane's left in chaos," Asandir murmured, eyessqueezed tight shut. The coiled tension in his body did not let go,as if his contact with dense matter, or even the currentless mild aircaused him a sourceless pain. "The upset will have to be remediedquickly."
Between the spin of his' unruly senses, he could not ignore thesnagging ache of vibration thrown into disharmony. The unbalancedbacklash shocked through the earth's lanes like a damping spill ofpoison. The black stone which channeled that energy beneath Althainbelied in shared dissonance as the wayward, reverse polarity of thegrimward strained distortions through the weakened geometry of thewardspells demarking its boundary in Korias. The world's naturalweather would suffer in resonance if the magnetic turbulence was notcurbed and sealed separate.
"Never mind." Sethvir's murmured assurance pattered echoes offthe veined agate floor and glanced in multiplied whispers from theceiling vaults. "Other hands will correct the imbalance this time.You're in no shape to do so yourself."
Asandir felt his senses slip, unraveling on a hurtling plungetoward chaos. He smelled metal and rust. Still dazed by deliverancefrom the reek of dead bone and charred rock, the dusky fragrance ofsagebrush and meadow grass which clung to Sethvir's robes halfunmoored him. The grateful, euphoric dizziness of knowing he wassafe threatened his balance worst of all.
 "I'm unfit to stand up," he allowed at last. His words fell awayinto distance like shot arrows. "You know the problem can't wait." 
514 ~. to 
!ag­trol
 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 He forced his eyes open. Around him, the tower's white-marblewalls fractured into light. His awareness remained vised in an uncon­trolled flood of mage-sight, until thought and vision lost their formlike run wax. The enveloping, lapping tingle of lane force strayedfrom the earth's tuned chord of identity and degenerated into spatsof insensate static. "A magnetic disturbance on that scale is almostcer­tain to--"
 "You cannot concern yourselL" Sethvir interrupted. "Not now."
"I must. Who else can you send?" Unable to separate which suffer­ing was his, and which the ripped pulse of the world's discord,Asandir belabored the frayed rags of discipline to recoup a sure holdon his faculties.
 "Be still!" The Warden's remonstrance clove his will like jarrediron. "Let me."
 Through the jangled membrane of his skin, Asandir felt Sethvir'ssensitive fingers. Touch came and went with the lightness of mothwings, testing, then mapping the vortices of fusion where hisbiologi­cal body engaged with the more subtle frequencies of spirit. His col-league's ministrations shored up flagging stamina, soothing withsympathetic infusions of fine energy; even so, Asandir felt therever­beration of each release drill through the marrow of his bones.
"Don't call Kharadmon." His strained eyes stayed open. Theshocked, widened pupils were rimmed at the edge, the ephemeral,veiled silver of thin ice paned over turbulent water. "Especiallynow. The star ward must never be left unguarded for an instant."
"No," Sethvir agreed. He spun a thought like loomed silk. Acircle of mystic seals gleamed above his cupped palms. He blew them to acloud of indigo and silver, then let their essence purl like pouredwater over Asandir's crown, where they sank into the weave of histangled, dusty hair. "Luhaine will come."
In a parallel response to that promised reassurance, Asandirsensed a needle of thought align with the pattern underneath him.Traced by that delicate key of vibration, the focus blazed active.Like the dislodged grain of sand which presaged a rockslide, lane forcesresounded on Sethvir's command and sent forth his summons for assistance.
 "Fires and light!" Asandir winced. "The Prime Matriarch herselfmust sit up and take notice of that."
Sethvir's concern cracked into a puckish glimmer of devilment."She's meant to." He spread ink-stained hands and quelled his col-league's move to arise with a shockingly small stir of effort."Luhaine's been riding herd on Morriel's councils since her plot to 
JANNY WURTS 

snatch Arithon came to light. A call sent through earth will bridgeher wards fastest. Let go. Rest now. I daresay the world will continue toturn without your hand on its axis."
Asandir groaned through a dull burn of agony. He never intendedto give way. But the coiling smokes of oblivion he grappled stolethrough his weakened defenses. Darkness slipped in on ghost feetand trampled the glimmering last spark of his protest.
 The Warden of Althain rocked back on his heels. Lapped in thewarm summer fragrance of herbs, and maroon robes like old, fustyparchment, he drew a long, calming breath. The patience he bor­rowed from stone itself could no longer stem his sharpened state ofanxiety.
"For mercy and the world, we cannot keep on like this." Eyes shutthrough the moment he required to steady himself, he thanked everypower in creation for Arithon s'Ffalenn's resolve to renew his off­shore search for the Paravians. Each hour that the Shadow Master spent provisioning his brigantine at Irmish seeded the potential foranother disaster. The Mistwraith's curse had embedded too deeplysince the great war in Vastmark. Lysaer's grand cause now com­manded too widespread an influence, and simple evasions would nolonger serve. This time no less than a Fellowship Sorcerer had nearlybeen lost in the breach.
 Again, Sethvir ran distressed fingertips over his colleague'slimpflesh.
 Cinder burns had branded livid trails of blisters across Asandir's craggy features. Couched in cavernous bone, the pinched, closed eyesseemed to battle the drawn veil of sleep.
"You pushed your limit far too dangerously close," Sethvir admon­ished the Sorcerer who lay slack at his knees. Shaken by pity, hecupped his hands over cheekbone and jaw. His feather touch tracedthe lean, corded neck, then trailed over a chest that wore too littleflesh over its vaulting of ribs. He paused, repeated his survey, thenfrowned and moved on, over the abdomen, and down the full lengthof long legs.
Then he arose and set to work.
 Asandir never moved. The chamber beneath Althain seemed a cap­sule of stillness as Sethvir removed his soft shoes. Through theexpedi­ent decision to recharmel lane force as a restorative, the afflictedSorcerer scarcely seemed to keep breathing.
Head tipped askance, Sethvir weighed his task through theextended spectrum of mage-sight. Refined perception unveiled the 
516 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 streaming cloud of the aura, and the energy knitted in layeredoctaves
 of transmission over the skin. Each bandwidth received his remorse­
less survey.
The damage he mapped made him ache with shared sorrow. Amage of Asandir's strength and stature should celebrate hisexistence wrapped in a mantle of pure light. His raiment of spirit was thelimit­less power of creation, maintained into flawless balance. The axis
of
 his being should shine as a beacon, his shimmering vitality stitched
like tamed lightning through the tapestry of sinew beneath. For aFel­
lowship Sorcerer, self-renewal became reflex. The infinite wholesus­
tained his existence, channeled and tuned to harmonic alignment that
flowed with each breath and surged to the rhythm of each heartbeat.
Instead, Sethvir beheld a fabric rubbed threadbare as old muslin.Where the weave should have blazed with energetic life, he saw dullvoids, their edges dimmed to a fuzzy, splotched gray, etched likedark tamish on lead. Where the energy vortices tangled, he reached throughhis mage-sense, raising the resonance and stroking out blockage. Hecoaxed each stressed channel, and whispered phrases of compassionateencouragement to the inner will, which would comprehend frequencyand sound. No effort was spared. Past the blinds of unconsciousness,Asandir's senses still functioned. The mind would record, and thebodyrespond, and rally the life force for healing.
Sethvir tuned with his breath, then used specific harmonic tones,released with ritual intent. His ordered precision called sparklinglight to bridge and then settle the gapped paths of each stress-tommeridian. Nor were his hands still, all the while. He tapped throughresistance, threaded current in bright bands through a body he knewlike a brother's.
 Sealed in timeless concentration, his work seemed a moment dis­placed from the far-distant past. Throughout their Second Age trialsagainst drake spawn, he had accomplished the same service manytimes, as Asandir had done likewise for him.
Yet when three hours of meticulous labor failed to seal over the deficit which opened stray gaps in the flux, Sethvir straightened. Hesighed and faced the damaging fact that Asandir needed more thanrest and quiet. His prolonged manipulation of the entropic forcesinside the grimward had shifted the polarities in his body. Thosesub­tle interfaces grown too damaged to clear must be combed back intoalignment by magnetics.
Sethvir arose. With remarkable strength for his wiry stature, hegrasped Asandir's slackened wrists and arrayed his muscled frameinto line with the north and south axis of the pattern. The large, ]ANNY WURTS 
craftsman's hands he placed palm upward on the intercepting a~'cswhere the circles for sun, moon, and the twelve mariner's starsstrad­dled the east and west meridian. He removed the scorched leather of Asandir's boots, stripped off the soiled hose underneath. Bare heelswere arranged on the southernmost angles of the grand hexa~0nwhich connected the sixfold arcs of the earth circle.
 "Forgive," he apologized. "The bath that you long for willhave to wait." Through a monologue of trivia, the Warden of Altha~ncombed the smoke-stained, tangled hair with his fingers.smoothed the stressed wrinkles from singed leather and cloth,loosened the ties of laces and corded silk belt.
 "Lie easy. You won't be abandoned," he whispered, hands flaAsandir's forehead. Then he rose and poured all his worry into haste.
Upstairs in his stillroom, Sethvir scoured his cupboards, fm~,~.~flying. He bundled dried leaves of sage and sweetgrass and ceEach herb was separately tied in specific laced patterns.of d~~,~string. Returned to the focus, he set his offerings in the sockets ofcarved gryphons which crouched in stilled vigil at the comt,.~,~points. He shaved birch and oak bark from two faggots filched f:t,his woodpile and leaved them into a spill. Then he blew goldeninto the crumbled lumps of copal resin snatched from his jar inlibrary. When all was laid ready, he faced north. His single,word of command called a spark from the earth's vibrant consci~,'.ness.
 For a long-drawn moment, plant fragrances mingled with t ~ ~,stone of the chamber. Then a seed of white flame arose from t',,and winnowed smoke like living blue silk. Sethvir held the t, ~.,bark aloft. He spoke an appeal, received a permission, then ~east and called a wild spark from the mantle of air, and b~i ~sconce by Name to ignite.
The stone gryphons crouched, crowned in the south's cleansingfire. As if tuned to resonance by ordinary flame, the pattern whisperedand bloomed to a coruscation of golden light.
Barefoot, Sethvir walked the pattern's outer circle. He blew outthe wood spill and scribed phrases of runes in a knitted, running line ofstreamed smoke. Where the written hoop closed, he positioned him­self on the key figure, invoked mastery, and stepped his mind'svibra­tion into attunemerit with the majestic chord of the third lane.
Again he invoked a release; then he asked a second permission.The pattern sang back, embracing his being through contact with his 
518 
FUGITIVE PRINCE 

bare soles and charging the smoke runes to a glowing royal purple.Ringed in bands of unconditional, free conjury, Althain's Wardenspread his arms wide. His blessing and invocation called power fromsun, moon, and stars, and raised each grand circle of the focus tocap­ture its counterpart reflection.
One moment, he paused to give thanks. Then he appealed, andreceived third and final permission, which granted his use of raisedpower to heal.
In careful stages, he mediated the balance, tamed and down-stepped the whorled vortex of magnetic energy which belted the cen­tral axis of the pattern. In spare, precise steps he aligned thesubtle currents to match the damaged imprint of Asandir's aura. His workwas meticulous. A misstep would trigger failure, or a backlash tofuse havoc down to the heart-core of the earth. The contact points ofentrymust be utterly precise, each line mathematically correct. No anglemust jar. The ranging harmonics of each thread of power must singexactly on key, the energy colors of each step in conjury matched tothe individual.
 Time passed. The patterning built, then glimmered with resonantharmony. Mage-sight revealed the comatose Sorcerer cocooned in ageometric lattice of pure light.
Sethvir squinted through the balefire glare of his handiwork.Made wise through his earth sense, he knew the planet's energies couldheal all that lived under sky, given time to allow their quietinfluence.
 But to a grievously shorthanded Fellowship, idleness was not anaffordable option. As Sethvir completed the last step to fine-tunethe outer band of energies, a waft of chill air flapped his robe againstthe spiked bone of his ankles.
He paused, caught his streaming beard in two tufts, and accordedthe invasive breeze a glance like the tart nip of hoarfrost. "Youtook your sweet time arriving."
"Well, your summons was thoughtlessly inopportune." Luhainehuffed into a spin across the chamber. "The Koriani Prime Matriarch'strouble enough without you upsetting her complacency."
"She's just about paralyzed," Sethvir corrected, while escapedstrands of hair slashed his ears, and streamed smoke from the sconcesmade his eyes water. "She's been battened in silk quilts and healerssince the hour she wakened without the strength to stand up."
Luhaine disagreed. "Her temper's a volcano waiting to blow."Tight, spinning eddies kicked trails through the fug as the spiritwhirled again and plowed on in lugubrious pique. "You knew herFirst Senior's in detention at Capewell? Yes? Then I scarcely need 
 mention the mischief that's certain to brew the moment she's called in to give her formal accounting. You'll have to agree the next round6f intrigue will go all the worse for no watchdog on Morriel then."Sethvir braced his feet against Luhaine's errant tempest, stillclutching beard, while his eyes shone the vacant, flat blue of
polished
turquoise. "Whatever the Koriathain are plotting must wait upon
Asandir's need."
 Luhaine ceased his petulant prowl in the cavernous vicinity ofthe stairwell. "Very well. A Few minutes won't hurt."Sethvir cocked his head, all his faculties disconcertinglyaligned onthe present. "When you left," he said, concise, "Morriel was
teaching
a green initiate the selective process for expunging the dross of an
unwanted vibration without detuning a quartz-crystal matrix."
Luhaine was not mollified. "Which tidbit happens to bear directlyon why Asandir needs assistance at all." In a blasting, crispsibilance of arctic air, he exploded. "You'd think, having blinded theadvantageof his mage-sight, the Teir's'Ffalenn could refrain from twisting thesnake's tail this once!"
 Sethvir's brows rose. He opened clenched hands. The cascade offreed beard spilled down his chest like wool dropped fresh from itscarding. "You speak of Prince Arithon's gracious return of Lirenda'spersonal spell crystal?"
"I refer to the specific disharmonies in her quartz that heretuned with compassionate melody, yes." Luhaine shrank to a pinpoint ofcold and lit on the snout of a gargoyle. "Morriel knows we left Dakarto guard him, but a spellbinder's wards are not an infallible protec­tion."
 To stave off the chill, Sethvir retrieved his bushkins, andfrowned at a spot worn long past salvage with a patch. "We are grown too fewto manage our burdens, and since we can't borrow our spellbinderback, you're going to be gone more than minutes." He eased his tiredfootwear over baby pink toes, chin tipped toward the prone formarrayed in the pattern. "Asandir can't be left to heal unattended.Traithe's south in Havish, finishing the wards on the coast for KingEldir. Who's left but me to ride out and rebalance the damaged sealover that grimward?"
A spirit obsessed with tight focus, Luhaine paused at last andseized the gist. "Ath spare us from ruin! How long was Asandir inthere?"
 Sethvir declined comment. The intricate conjury drawn and sealedthrough live lane force offered a grim enough testament: Asandir'ssacrifice had detained him to the bitter limit of survival. His perilous 
52O  FUGITIVE PRINCE 
victory had stabilized the unruly fabric of the haunt's dream longenough to spare one more foolhardy human from the throes of a fatalpredicament. Now came the cruel cost: the grimward's tangentialpolarities had drained his regenerative faculties beyond the pointwhere he could recover on his own.
 "I couldn't have done that," Luhaine said outright. "Never mindthe ~act I don't possess a body." Blunted now to respect like scrapedbedrock, he admitted, "Prince Arithon's life is essential to see theBlack Rose Prophecy completed. But to take on such risk for the sakeof a misguided captain at arms was an act of softhearted insanity."
For the penalty extended beyond individual infirmity; the Fellow­ship's resources were already taxed beyond salvage. Luhaine couldnot shoulder the task which faced Sethvir. Stripped of mortal flesh,the fine energies of his spirit would become misaligned and erasedupon contact with the raging, dire forces ringed inside the spelledbounds of a grimward.
Too fussy a perfectionist to stay passive in a crisis, thediscorporateSorcerer abandoned his perch on the gargoyle. He drifted over thepattern of the focus, and gave Sethvir's work his criticalinspection.Where he perceived nuance beyond reach of an entity encumbered byflesh, he came and went as a stiletto point of light, fretting achain of minute adjustments to the energies already laid down. Luhaine con­cluded on a note of grudging admiration. "What has been gained forthat one life, but a dangerous, misguided incentive? You know SulfinEvend has sworn to become all Lysaer ever asked of a warrior priest."
"Balance," Sethvir snapped. His unwonted shortness revealed hisown depth of misery as he padded toward the lower stairwell. Underthe vaulted archway, he turned, his beard ends and hair wisped intofrost cobwebs against the blank shadow beyond. "When Asandirwakens, he's to rest. Make sure he does if you have to barricade thedoors to contain him."
 "Borrow his horse, then," Luhaine suggested. "You won't keephim, otherwise." The eddy of his presence settled and rearranged,surrounding his colleague's battered form in a mantle of radiancethat blazed sympathy in contradiction to his dour, ending comment."Stubborn as old granite, and pernicious when crossed. Well youare!" Luhaine insisted, as though Asandir had spoken in defense.
$ethvir hid his smile behind his crooked fist and ducked out,while Luhaine lectured the unconscious colleague he tended. "You'veshown the bad grace and poor manners to walk through my beingbefore, when I tried making sensible comments on your health." 
Late Summer 5653 
Judgment 
Swathed in quilts sewn with sigils of vitality chain-stitched insilver thread, and propped upright against goose-down pillows like piledsnowdrifts, Morriel ruled the Koriani Order from an enormous,carved bed at Capewell. Reduced to a skeleton swathed in blanchedskin,. she held the reins of her power close to her breast, her eyesstill like fathomless beads of chipped jet. Her speech was sparing, eachword precise as engraving.
She was attended night and day, served in her fragile state ofinfir­mity by no less than the sisterhouse peeress, her matched pair ofpages, and a young girl initiate of exceptional talent, broughtacross Tysan in whirlwind haste from her first initiation at Cainford.
On the same afternoon Sethvir mounted his colleague's black stal­lion and rode out of Althain Tower, Morriel had a circle of seventh-rank Seniors immersed in deep trance at her bedside. Behind heavy,drawn drapes, the medicinal air wore expectancy like a brewingstorm. Twelve candles burned upon silver stands arrayed in a perfectarc. Each enchantress was linked to a distant seer, tied by giftedsightto the free lane force that ranged in bands across Athera.
No draft flickered the beeswax candles. No shimmer teased the embroidery. The women held still as figures in wax. Their trancedtal­ents activated an array of quartz-crystal balls, pocketed in a half-circle formation amid the rose-pattern quilts tucked over the Prime's crip­pled knees.
The Koriani Matriarch probed into the orbs like the listeningspider 
522 
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FUGITIVE I~RINCE 
slung in the strands of her web. One of these showed the dark horseand the rider, standing knee high in gold meadow grass. A maggot whitesmile turned the crone's bloodless lips as that particular scryingunfolded.
 She did not miss the fleeting moment when the crystal appeared tocloud over. Satisfaction twitched a ghost imprint of amusementacross her emaciated face. "Watch closely," she instructed the molli­fied young girl who attended the scrying at her elbow.
The initiate leaned nearer. Her braided blond hair trailed across the heaped bedclothes, and lush, rosebud lips loosed a sigh of awestruckwonder.
 Inside the crystal, almost too faint to catch, a starred pulse oflightflicked and vanished. A waving expanse of empty gorse remained,while a barred hawk arose and soared on spread wings. It circled theflinty spire of the tower, then banked and sheared in a gracefulglideabove the road which carved through the greener hills to the south.
"Hah!" The Koriani Prime gave a cackle of reedy delight. "I'dhoped so!" A withered stiff finger signed a rune of thanksgiving inthe coppery light of the candles. "Events progress in fair form.Althain's Warden has no choice but to engage the Great Circle at Isaer."
With his tower's main focus pattern fully engaged to stabilizeAsandir's life signs, the lane force at that site could not beretuned for transport. Nor could an unstable grimward be accessed as a homingpoint for the Sorcerer in transit.
Reedy with satisfaction, Morriel finished her thought. "We cansafely presume Sethvir will cross by magecraft from Isaer to the Sec­ond Age ruin at Mainmere. He'll be forced to ride the Taerlin road."A round distance of a hundred and fifty leagues gave due time to planwithout Fellowship interference.
The child initiate raised a round, freckled face, still written 
across 
with amazement. "Can the Fellowship Sorcerers really shapeshift?"

"Dear, no." Morriel fixed her with lightless, fierce eyes hoodedunder domed lids and milk lashes. "Sethvir is a master illusionist." She tapped the scrying crystal which imaged the flying hawk withthe yellowed tip of a fingernail. "The travelers he encounters on hisway will not see him. Even those with clairvoyance will believe theywere brushed by no more than the shadow of a bird."
She trailed off, words lapsed into the labored hiss of forcedbreath. For long moments, the sealed, airless quiet of the room absorbed herstifled frustration. The Great Waystone offered the power to cutthrough Sethvir's ploys of illusion. Yet Morriel dared not attemptmastery of its matrix in her current depleted condition.
The mere effort of speech left her prostrate. Eyes shut, her hands 
523 
JANNY WURTS 

curled on the coverlet like the wind-frozen claws of a spa~needed long minutes to ease her heartbeat enough to dismiss tlcircle and the twelve remote scryers. The quartz spheres:arrayed on the quilt. Each was now attuned to track the deflec!events imprinted on the earth's lane force. The sealed crystacontinue to reflect their sequence of distant events until naturaldisunified the linking sigils.
With Sethvir's departure, no development held preceden,of the snag in affairs arrived home to roost at the Capew~house.
 Cut off from her access to the Great Waystone, Morriel hheld her most critical business until the Fellowship wLuhaine, had been recalled to Althain Tower. Each passin~became precious. Morriel hoarded her dwindled stamina ~last of the Seniors filed out in a whispery rustle of silk. The door latch clicked shut.
 "Veil yourself," Morriel ordered the sisterhouse peere~musky stillness and the cat-footed shadows cast by the slov~candles, the shattering impact of her next command caunprecedented lack of formality. "The hour has come to pment. You shall stand as the order's Ceremonial Inquisitor, ~my voice through the coming closed trial."
The stout peeress started, then inclined her head. "Your w
arch." Her round, suet face turned prim with austerity as sh
to the armoire to don the black robes of high office. Despitt
posture and clipped movement, she held no qualms
assigned role; justice would be served for tho_~ ~-x~ of cfis
which had disrtkvto~ .~%-~ ~renfty of her sisterhouse.

rl~e wide-eyed young initiate remained seated in stunnedthe bedside. The ritual about to commence was older than Ko~ dence on Athera. Afraid her presence may have been summariten, she shrank, while one of the blond pages unpacked thesilver-bordered layers of the inqu'rsitor's veils. When Morriel'..gers closed over her elbow, she jerked with a soft, breathy cry."Bide, girl." The Prime's peremptory whisper seemed theglass beads through old dust. "You will stay on as a witness t
To the statue-still page boy at her right hand, she de]whipcrack instruction. "Fetch me the box with the Skyron fo~go and inform the sisterhouse warden that the hour has conaccused to stand before me and answer for her misconduct." 
FUGITIVE PRINCE

 Upon receipt of her summons, First Senior Lirenda arose from herwillow embroidery frame. She tidied her gold thread with unshakenhands. The needle she left pressed into drum-tight silk, like afallen ray of light speared through darkness.
She could only hope the desperate strain did not show as she gavethe page boy her acquiescence. Apparently without hurry, sheremoved her purple mantle from the clothes chest. Its folds sleekedher shoulders like poured Cheivalt wine, and spilled with extrava­gant grace over the shining cuffs of her matched bracelets, and hereight-banded robe of high office.
She had been Koriani First Senior for fifty-six years. Preparedin every detail for this audience, clear relief all but shook her, thatthe unbearable days of strained waiting had finally come to an end. Shehad not lost her heart or her spirit. Ignominy had not overtaken hercourage and let her lapse into endless, pleading petitions for herPrime's intercession.
 Yet the confidence born of her grip on main strength bled away asshe arrived at Morriel's chamber. The page boy swung open the strapped oaken door. "Madam," hebade her. "Enter."
 Darkness as stilled as a panther's tread awaited over thethreshold. The air within breathed of close-kept secrets and a dusty perfume ofdried lavender. For as long as living memory, the Koriani Prime hadpre­ferred the night for her significant meetings. When council could notbe avoided in daylight, she ordered her chambers kept dark. The curtainswere sewn of black damask and velvet. The dagged valance was loopedon silver rings, each cast in the sigil for eternity, the triple-coiled snake trapped forever in the act of swallowing its own tail. The sulfurous,can­dlelit well by the bedstead seemed sealed in an ironclad silence.
Lirenda loosened her fingers before they impressed sweaty markson her immaculate silk. She, who had feared nearly nothing in life,almost lost the will to step forward.
Discipline saved her. Unbending in pride, she clamped down onraw dread and assumed the paper-thin semblance of dignity.
She advanced and acknowledged Morriel's presence, a meeting ofeyes like crossed sword blades. Then she sank in traditional obei­sance. "Your will, matriarch."
The Prime returned no verbal greeting. A presence swathed in vio­let veils, she seemed a wire puppet embodied in cloth, with ableached death's-head skull, and the folds of loose garments pinnedin place with set diamonds. Seconds dragged by. The Prime spoke noword of acknowledgment. Apprehension sliced a dagger of ice 
J~N. WUR~$ 

through the pit of Lirenda's stomach. While the pause stretched intoan engulfing stillness, the page barred the door at her back.
Three others were present by Morriel's behest, one an untriedgirlwith flaxen-fair braids, and another a grown woman wearing a blank-faced, idiot's stare. Lirenda took a moment to discern the foreheadtattoo which signified an initiate who had failed in her vow ofobedi­ence. A deeper chill shocked her as she recognized the emptied crea­ture's face. There stood the young initiate who had failed in hersworn charge to hold the circle of Morriel's grand conjury. Thetradi­tional penalty allowed no appeal. She would serve out her days as amindless slave, her identity stripped through the power of the vowssworn through the Prime's master crystal.
Morriel would have her cruel reason for demanding the witlessone's presence. Lirenda had not thought; had never imagined that shemight be tested for the selfsame transgression.
This was no audience for private reprimand, but a closed-trialcham­ber. Subject to the Koriani Matriarch's sole judgment, Lirenda under­stood her defense might become her last chance for cognizant thought.
A darker veiled shadow embedded in the gloom to the right ofMorriel's bedside called for the accused to stand before her Prime to be examined.
 Lirenda arose. The unaccustomed, bitter taste of humility closedher throat as she gave the time-honored reply. "I stand before mybet­ters to serve."
 She had taken her privilege and authority for granted. Now thesharp drop in status among her own kind left her frightened and rud­derless as the Prime laid unsteady, bird-claw hands on the ironboundcoffer held by her second page boy. Her whisper invoked the releaseof the seals. Each protection gave way with a whine like parted wire,and points of burst light stabbed the dimness.
As Morriel raised the strapped lid, the young girl who cowered bythe bedside rubbed forearms raised into gooseflesh. Lirenda knewwell her chills were no phantom. The Skyron stone's presence wasinimical as a predator, its etheric web steeped in old malice. Overthe centuries while the Great Waystone had been held in Sethvir's cus­tody at Althain Tower, the smaller aquamarine had carried the bur­den of the order's heaviest rituals. Years and hard use had left its channels surly with overload. That imbalance could never be recti­fied; not without losing the stored records of a thousand vows ofser­vice chained like steel-bolted ice through its heart.
As the knifing hostility of the unveiled jewel settled over thecham­ber, Lirenda's dread became overwhelming. Her palms broke into FUGITIVE I~RINCE
 clammy sweat. The witless woman's stare drilled into her face, whilefrom the chair that formerly had been hers, a green novice witnessedher fallen status with enormous cornflower eyes. Since by rigid
tradi­tion, the order's Prime Matriarch never addressed an oathbreaker,the Ceremonial Inquisitor intoned the opening accusation.
"Enchantress Lirenda, you stand before your Prime to answer forwillful acts and disobedience against your vow of Koriani service."The matronly peeress smoothed the silver-bordered edge of her veilin prim self-importance and listed the formal charges. "You areaccused of crossing a sealed ward without cause, and disrupting anact of grand conjury."
Lirenda bristled. After weeks of smothered pride in PrinceLysaer'scompany, and the ignominy of losing the crystal that accessed hertrained talents, the moment's grinding weight of humility threatenedher last grip on control.
Then Morriel signaled her readiness with a flick of a twig-thinfin­ger. "Begin."
The Skyron stone lay unveiled in its coffer, its surface cold andglit­tering blue as the faceted heart of a glacier.
"Enchantress Lirenda, by your vow of obedience, you are asked tostare into the crystal's matrix," the Ceremonial Inquisitor com­manded. "Lower your defenses. Surrender your mind for thisinquest, that your innocence or guilt be established beyond anyshadow of doubt."
 Lirenda snapped at that moment. "Merciful Ath! This charge ofoathbreaking is a mockery." Her protest slammed through the quietlike a shattering fist forced through lead. "As First Senior of theKoriathain, the authority was rightfully mine to use as I saw fit. Iwas summoned to Capewell because my Prime Matriarch had suffered astate of collapse. Certainly, ! broke no vow of initiation through mydeci­sion to enter the observatory! If a personal shortcoming flawed mysub­sequent choices, that lapse is the one I must atone for. I demand ahearing in private. I will answer to my Prime for her broken conjury.Whether I forfeit free will for impertinence, I refuse to submit toexami­nation for a transgression I did not commit!"
Behind silver-edged muslin, the Ceremonial Inquisitor huffed abreath for scathing rebuttal.
Yet the jerk of the Prime's skeletal forefinger froze her silent.Jet-dark eyes sheared across sullen gloom. Lirenda felt their angryweight bore into her, through her, reading and weighing; testing herdown to the naked pith of the fear beneath her defenses.
She scarcely dared tremble. Her overpowering terror must surely 
JANN. WURTS 
rip through, unstring her last pride and see her weep. She could notcall back the ultimatum just issued. Unmasked by the threat of theSkyron crystal, shamed before three indifferent witnesses, she couldonly endure, while sweat rolled down the channel of her back andsoaked ragged stains in her silk.
No one spoke. Against the patched play of shadows, the few tallcandles cast tips of sulfurous light. Splashed like disjointedfragmentsof dream, the quartz spheres on the counterpane flashed impressionsof ordinary events recapped from distant sites on the continent:afiy­ing hawk, a dark-haired shepherd child, a leaping trout in a stream.In Tysan,a master shipwright inspected a load of new wood. In Havish, theroyal mid­wife confirmed a queen's pregnancy. In Shand, a fat spellbinder paceddown the Innish wharf to meet a dory off an inbound brig.
Wrenched by longing for the warmth of carefree sunlight, Lirendafelt as if she might suffocate. She battled the urge to fall to herknees in abject, begging appeal.
Then Morriel Prime stirred to a hiss of silk coverlets and pronounced,"This closed trial is over." Diamonds spat glints like snap-frozenrainfall as she turned her head and excused the Ceremonial Inquisitor. "Youare dismissed. As you leave, take the witless one with you."
The sisterhouse peeress slipped her veils with a disapprovingbus­tle of industry. "Matriarch," she ventured, "should the juniorinitiate not be bidden to leave also?"
 The Prime's sharpness fell like storm-cracked wood. "I may notwalk, but I've not lost my faculties! No. The girl stays. The matterat hand concerns her most closely."
Emphatic enough warning, Lirenda understood. Morriel wouldnot keep an untried initiate at hand, except as a successor intraining.Lirenda needed to sit, but that comfort was denied her. Minutespassed, while her knees shook, and the peeress vented her vengeful,small cruelty by spending a maliciously long interval to smooth hermussed clothing and remove the half-wit from the chamber.
The final clank as the page boy reset the bar saved Lirenda frominvoluntary collapse. Now, when shaken nerves left her weakened,the Prime Matriarch pressed ahead with a scalpel's dispassion.
"You have claimed your right to autonomous responsibility. Thatis well." Eyes dark as death stayed pinned straight ahead. The bleached-paper finger of one hand stirred to point. "Had you not spoken,madam, your worth to me would have become less than nothing. Atthe ninth hour, you've dared the initiative to claim your mistake.For that, you have won small reprieve. I wait to be shown whether youcan satisfy the balance and master the means to redeem yourself." 
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FUGITIVE PRINCE
 Lirenda swallowed. Through firsthand, hardened experience shesensed that no forward step would be easy. Morriel Prime would notvolunteer her any grace of kindly assistance. Whatever petition thestakes would allow, the deposed First Senior understood she mustassemble her case for herself. All the steel in her character was scarcely sufficient to let her ignore the puppyish, staring younggirl.Battling a wildfire surge of resentment, she treated with the Primeas if the ongoing audience had been offered in perfect privacy.
"I let personal feelings interfere with clear judgment."Admission was painful. The darkness, the candles, the inimical bite of theSkyroncrystal's aura abraded her cornered resolve to survive and reclaimher lost grace. "Give me trial by recompense. ! would atone for theimper­fections in my character, and see your trust in my competencerestored."
 Morriel's hooded stare pinned with a vulture's intensity. "Trustin your competence is the least of the issue. Your lapse will bring dam­aging consequences. In cold fact, the ramifications could prove moredire than you possibly imagine." Lirenda ventured nothing.
"Oh yes," Morriel went on. Her stilled, folded fingers stirred toinsec­tile life and fussed at a fold in the coverlet. "What you name amistake may well cost the Koriani Order its unbroken thread of continuance."
"I can't see how," Lirenda burst out, unable to mask disbelief."Arithon s'Ffalerm by himself could scarcely threaten the might ofthe entire sisterhood."
 "You think not?" Morriel glared back, inimical. "He is theworld's cipher to checkrein the Fellowship. We need him for that. Withouthim, we risk my succession itself. I have scried proof. Left atliberty,the course of the Shadow Master's destiny holds full potential todestroy us."
"I couldn't know!" Lirenda cried, crumbled in devastation. "Mymisjudgment back at Riverton stemmed from Caolle's life, and hewas no more than the prince's sworn liegeman."
"Damage resulted." A hooded cobra nestled in bed linens, theMatriarch spat words in contempt. "You will have heard that mylower limbs are paralyzed. I cannot set another web of grand conjuryfrom the confines of a sedan chair! At this time, active use of theGreat Waystone presents too strenuous an ordeal. I must have complete restto recover my strength just to pass on the secret of its mastery!"
No need for a tedious review of the obvious; Lirenda knew wellenough. Without the Great Waystone, the full transfer of prime powercould never be passed on intact. 
529  J^~. Wu~$
 Morriel resumed on the rags of a stertorous rage. "Since my ~i~0~~oi,m~s \~\ ~x ~ ~e ~ ~x ~\X~, ~ ~x~ ~ x~ ~ ~ ~
 X~s~ ~x ~cMXess ac~x~t' Lirenda stepped back, numbed as though the last air in existencehad been forcibly reft from her lungs."Yes/' Morriel snapped off a nod. "I see that you grasp myimplica­tions in full." She took perverse malice ~ her fallen First Senior's
dis­comfiture. "If you are ever to wield my authority, then you mustaccomplish this feat before I die. Until then, you are not my namedsuccessor. You may claim neither honors nor title within the Koria~Order. Neither will your status improve until the hour that you
placethe Prince of Rathain in my hands as a living captive."
"Capture Arithon s'Fhle~I" Lirenda shrank before the sweep~gaudaci~ of the demand. "Merciful Ath! ~at would set me alone against the might of the Fellowship Sorcerers~" She had lost herquartz jewel. Without its focus to amplify the inborn resonance of
her talent, the simplest ward of protection lay outside of her reach. ~eplea wrenched from her and fell smothered .against the hangingswhich masked out the daylight. "You have handed me a virtual deathsentence, or worse, an impossible penance to break the mind andheart."
 "You wish to walk in my shoes and sit the high seat of prime
power?" Morriel laughed in bloodless castigation. "~en you will
strive and not fail. Or all I have accomplished in your years of

privi­leged s~dy has been a waste of my effort."Lirenda struggled to dam hopeless tears. "My jewel was lost tothe Shadow Master's henchmen," she whispered in crashing humility.
"Prince Arithon returned it by courie[ long since~" Morriel beck­oned to the girl, who startled up from riveted fascination as if herround cheek had been slapped. "Show her/'
~e self-conscious initiate fumbled open the drawstrings of the
silk remedy pouch in her lap. Her childish fingers removed the shining,white crystal on its original braided chain.
Lirenda's heart turned over. Before thought, she raised a yearninghand to touch the crystal's shining facets and reestablish rapportwith its presence. Yet even as her being cried out for the link of her
lost quartz's resonance, the impact of change stepped be~een. Ficklememory recaptured a living line of melody that stormed her mind,snapped her last hold on emotion, and broke her down in regret.
Under the Prime Matriarch's critical review, Lirenda burned into ablush. Tears she could no longer contain brimmed over and tracedsal~ ribbons down her cheeks. "~e stone was tampered with." Her 
FU~I?IVE I~RINCE 

voice emerged like an overcranked string, stressed past its usualsmooth alto.
 "Obviously so." Morriel's colorless lips twitched in distaste."When the girl here masters the art of selective resonance, yourcrys­tal may be returned to you cleansed of its meddlesome influence.Until then, other enchantresses must supply the power you lack. Mywrit will command them."
 A finger flicked in permission let the young initiate veilLirenda's confiscated quartz. Morriel bided with eternity's patience while thegirl's stubby fingers tripped over ties and strings. When the remedybag was meticulously secured, she bade, "Be my hands, child."
Under the Prime's cryptic instruction, the initiate delved amongthe quilts. One quartz sphere was selected from the array left tunedby the scryers on lane watch. As the girl timidly cupped its chillweight, Lirenda glimpsed the mirrored image of the nondescriptshepherd child. Only now, the boy's barefoot play had been joined bya Koriani enchantress whose loose hair gleamed auburn in thebleaching kiss of strong sunlight.
"Start there," Morriel said, then motioned for the girl tosurrender the seeing crystal to Lirenda. "Consult the one of ours who knowsyour quarry's habits best."
Another quartz sphere was added to the first. This showed asouthcoast wharf, where a fair-haired young woman stood in sail­hand's garb, engaged in an energetic conversation with a slovenly fatman recognizable as the Mad Prophet. Lirenda had no more time tonote details before the crystal changed hands to the leveling tone ofMorriel Prime's summary.
"The Shadow Master himself is laired up at Innish in the attic ofa merchant's mansion. He has not been well. The pair you observethrough the lane's eye are his keepers as of this hour. Study them tokeep track of his movements."
Then the penultimate word, cast in dismissal and sentence. "Inthree days' time, Sethvir will enter the Paravian Circle at Isaer,"the Prime decreed, her wasted posture insistent. "While the Wardenengages his power for spell transit to Mainmere, his earth-sense willbe temporarily suspended by the chord of raised lane force. You willcome to me then, and deliver the details of your plot to takeArithon. Mercy upon you if a sound plan of action has not been drawn up bythat hour" Late Summer 5653 
End Game 
Shivering and clammy in the aftershock of dread, Lirenda soughtrefuge in a window seat ablaze with afternoon sunlight. The courtyardview outside, with its tubs of laden dwarf pear trees, seemed dis­placed from her fractured reality. A high-flying cloud cover combedto fine floss warned of a weather change to come. Yet even the oppres­sive summer heat through the glass could not offset the chills ofMor-riel Prime's final sentence. Nor had the curious, pitying stares fromthe peers she no longer outranked been easy to pass off withindifference.
 Her world felt as if the foundations had crumbled, with herselflike blown ash, cast adrift.
Lirenda shut her eyes. Her porcelain skin still burned ruddy withshame. Each step she had taken had been remarked, even by theimpertinent laundry girls who dragged their wicker hampers ofsoiled linens from the sisterhouse nursery.
The gossip was unkind. The event of a first senior's downfall wascertain to titillate for an uncomfortable interval to come.
 Lirenda refused to retreat in self-pity. Chin raised, nervesstinging,she combed out, rebraided, and coiled the jet-satin length of herhair. Grooming helped steady her. If the small, shabby chamber with itslye-scoured floor reflected her sharp drop in station, at least shewas given her privacy. While her hands slowly ceased their helpless shak­ing, she arose, slipped on a fresh robe, and laid a ritual fire inthe grate. She regretted her need to muffle the daylight behind curtains,but she needed full darkness to work. 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE

 Her birch fire caught and flowered. She fed the new flame witharomatic herbs whose virtues heightened clairvoyance. A lick of goldlight touched her offering. The fragrance of moonflower arose, min­gled with the stinging pungency of tobacco ground and soaked in aninfusion of tienelle blossom. Blue smoke scrolled through the closedchamber and flowed in vagrant script toward the rafters. The onechair, the bare clothes chest, and the straw-ticked cot in the comercame and went amid a sienna pavane of dense shadow.
The fumes thickened, a raw bum on the tender membranes of noseand throat. Lirenda welcomed their acridity, let the familiarexpansivelift whirl her to sensitized awareness. Her natural affinity forflame resurged through her, a taproot of current awaiting the expression ofher will. Like an addict starved for the intoxicating rush of spelledpower, she chose the quartz sphere tuned into the sixth lane, whichtracked events at the merchant household at Innish where Arithon s'Ffalenn took his refuge.
The reflection within still depicted the flamboyant blond woman,changed from sea slops into a blouse with silk ribbons. She sat nowat the scrubbed planks of a kitchen table, tanned arms crossed amid thecrumpled-up folds of a shirt tossed down for mending. Lirendashowed no surprise at the scene. The Shadow Master himself wasnotoriously hard to track. Mage-trained since childhood, he wellknew to keep his mind stilled. Since lane force deflected toemotional vibrations, in his case the Koriani scryers were most often left tomapthe affairs of his more volatile associates.
 The girl under cold scrutiny in the quartz appeared to beimmersed in scathing argument with a pallid woman who shook a woodenspoon. Flour flew like wafted pollen when the girl tried to placatebysetting a hand on the woman's wrist. The effort raised a startled,wide glance, then redoubled the tirade.
Lirenda cupped the crystal sphere in cool hands. The shell rimsof her lids veiled amber eyes against the play of caught flame. Thestone warmed, lined in light. While the resonance of its energies ran inpar­allel with her thought, the enchantress invoked three seals ofmastery.A lifetime of discipline let her fuse her awareness. Linked to thequartz through her inborn affinity for fire, she embraced the tunedsynergy and accessed the stone.
Her body seemed to lighten, and the room fell away. Lirendabreathed in the pungent smoke of the herbs until the closed barrierof her mind gave rise to white clarity. Her conscious awareness let goin a rush and merged with the scene in the quartz... 
 Leagues distant in Shand, Feylind crashed down her rope-callusedfist. The plank jumped. Cheap crockery bowls bought used from themarket flounced in response, and fine flour puffed from the meal justsifted for bread dough. "Lysaer? Sail ships? That's a laugh to stun alive jack fish!"
She wrinkled her tanned, peeling nose. Azure eyes flashed in purescorn at her mother, who stood with thin hands clenched to the spoonas if plain wood could ward off a tempest.
Feylind gave her timid rebuttal no space. "Tysan's prince mightsay his new fleet's the best thing afloat, but Arithon's crews callit the royal shambles. It is, too! Look at the mess they made of their firstengagement. The Shadow Master's men were boarded in chains, andthey needed no more than the onset of night to upset Lysaer's sailingorders."
 Jinesse rubbed her nose with the back of her wrist in transparentneed to mask a wince. That news had reached Innish. The unflatter­ing details spoke of three vessels taken on their maiden voyage bythe same pack of convicts they had been dispatched to escort intoslavery.
Feylind pounced again, unrelenting. "So, you did hear." Sheflipped back her straw braid and shot to her feet, restless alreadywith four landlocked walls and the cozy domesticity of bread making. Ontheir hooks by the hob, the polished copper kettles tracked herreflec­tion in a wave of rippling energy. "Bet no one's bragging of theprizethe Alliance lost at Corith, either. Ten royal galleys were assignedto safeguard her. Every last one got their keels chewed. Took thosecrews half the summer to make simple repairs and limp home. Yousay I'd do better under officers like those? Sithaer's couplingfuries,mother! Their sort can't tell a hawser from what hangs cringing limpin their breeks!"
 "Young lady!" Jinesse shouted, her china-frail features flushedinto a delicate pink. "This is no ship's deck. Remember your manners asyou were brought up in this house!"
The girl twitched her shoulder in an insolent shrug, the blouseshe had donned in token femininity worn untucked above button-frontbreeches and sailhand's boots with brass buckles. "I speak thedamned truth. You want me to sign on an Alliance ship? That's aflank surprise, since the Master of Shadow himself has been givenshelter in your attic."
A cavernous silence filled the kitchen.
 For drawn, disastrous seconds, the coal glow from the ovensmudged sulfur light over the cracked and oil-stained flagstones.Outside the high window, disjointed with life, the clatter of hooves 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE 

heralded the noon change of watch, and the cry of a vendor spiraledfrom the tent stalls of the shanty market.
Then tension broke with the bang of a squall line as Feylindswore her annoyance. "Fiends and Dharkaron's black bollocks!" Her expos­tulation tangled with Jinesse's mortified explosion, pitched throughthe arched door behind her.
 "Fiark! Come here this instant!" Incensed to dauntless, maternalrage, she snatched her skirts up in fluttery fingers. Her banty-henmarch to the hallway collided with a solid young man in neat townclothes.
 Fiark eased her balance, straightened the pleats of his clerk'sbroadcloth doublet, then turned slate-colored eyes in smokingreproof upon his more volatile twin sister. "She wasn't meant toknow."
 "Ath's two-eyed vengeance!" Feylind swore. One breath ahead ofher mother's renewed diatribe, she added, "I'm sorry, Fiark.""Arithon! Here?" Jinesse closed in again to confront her son, abristling head shorter than he. "This is your doing?"
Her shrill incredulity clashed outright with Fiark's nettledbetrayal. "Feylind, you pest! How did you find out? The secret wasnever let loose in the stews at the dockside."
 From snatched refuge behind the bread bowl, hands gripped onglazed crockery as if she might press-gang the first solid object indefense, Feylind flashed a grin of pure devilment. "I met Dakar atthe landing."
Then the doorway darkened again. A voice with more gravel thanFiark's rolled over Jinesse's imprecations. "The spellbinder wouldhave been honest to claim the invitation was mine."
 Jinesse spun about, her nettled agitation displaced against thegen­teel shabbiness of the kitchen. "Tharrick]" Her thin fist smacked hischest. Slight as a straw wisp before the towering bulk of herhusband,who wore the studded leather brigandine and cuffed bracers of a gen­tleman's guard captain, she nonetheless managed to prevail. "Youdid what?"
 Fresh from a street fight in front of his employer's warehouse,Tharrick seemed caught aback that his morning round of scrappinghad extended beneath his own roof. "I gave Arithon s'Ffalenn myleave to stay in the textile loft." He squared his shoulders, browsraised. "As I should have, considering the debt that I owe him."
Jinesse stiffened, her back ramrod straight beneath her limpmuslin as she flew at him like a gnat. "You owe that man nothing, least ofall charity."
 535 
JANNY WURTS

 Tharrick caught his wife's flying fists and restrained her beforeshe tore her thin skin on his wrist studs. "Easy." His mercenary'sstature made even the kitchen's high southland ceilings seem cramped. "Notfor love or fury will I share your dislike of Rathain's prince."
Jinesse glared at him, breathing too fast, her limbs in his graspas pliant and slim as cut withies. The whorled scars which disfiguredhis arms above the top edge of his bracers spoke with more eloquencethan language: she could never forget the hot-tempered men in PrinceArithon's service who had put her husband to torture with hot ironsduring his absence.
"I sorely provoked them, but that scarcely matters," Tharricksoothed in the face of her smoking silence. He dared conflagrationand kissed her knuckles one by one. As if she had softened, he lether go, then eased the leg which had stiffened and sat himself at theplank table. "Come on, girl," he invited Feylind. "We might as wellsuffer the wife's disapproval together."
When his stepdaughter relented and settled beside him, he flung abrawny arm across her young shoulders, as much to hold her downas he gave the subject his definitive dismissal. "You can't run himout,anyway, Jinesse. His Grace of Rathain has already left."
"What?" Feylind struggled to rise, spitting outrage like a dousedcat. "He can't have! Dakar would have told him I was just back inport!" Still wildly grappling against Tharrick's restraint, sheappealedto her twin. "Arithon would scarcely go without taking me along."
Sober in his tailored doublet, Fiark returned his level regard,cou­pled with implacable silence.
"Well, then, how dare he?" Feylind's features gained a violent,fresh flush. She strained hard against Tharrick's imprisoning arm.Slight as she was, ship life had muscled her. The man grunted.Jostled as though he battled a tiger, he braced his fist against the trestle,which rocked to their locked clash of wills.
 Jinesse's protest went unnoticed as Feylind continued to howl."His Grace can't leave me stranded on a merchant brig for anotherpig-rutting year!" While her mother resignedly dove past to rescuethe bread dough, Fiark backed from the fray to spare his neatclothinga cross-fire dusting of flour.
"Damn him thrice over, and fiends plague his rigging for hisslippery,finagling tongue!" Feylind snarled past the leather and studs of herstepfather's chest. "The Shadow Master knows how I hate those brigswith their wallowing round bottoms." A rebellious kick caught thetres­tle, which swayed with alarming violence. She snapped, "Sithaer'showling hd/mts, Tharrick! Will you damned well let me get up?" 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

The stepfather shot her twin a questioning glance, his forearmlocked and unrelenting.
"Let her go," Fiark said from the scullery doorway. "Force hasnever stopped her before, and she keeps a mean grudge when she'sfurious."
 On Tharrick's release, Feylind uncoiled from the bench and boltedbefore anyone but her twin sensed the tears behind her fierce anger.Her flying footsteps dwindled through the doorway and tapped overthe scuffed floor tiles which adorned the run-down grace of the sea-quarter houses of Innish.
Lacking the spitfire heat of her presence, the workaday kitchenseemed suddenly airless and dead. Jinesse rubbed the stuck wisps ofhair from her temples. Pale against the age-darkened paneling, shebreathed in the mingled scent of beeswax and stale cooking, then satin defeat beside Tharrick. "That girl could so easily come to a badend, and for what? Arithon s'Ffalenn needs none of her help. She'sheadstrong and wild, and no one's good sense has the impact to moldher opinions."
Since Tharrick had no sound consolation to offer, he gathered hiswife's tired shoulders to his side and caressed a smear of flour from her cheek.
 "Let her be." Fiark moved the chipped bread bowl to the drain-board, puffed away the few stray flecks on his sleeves, then lent hisgood-natured advice. "Doesn't anyone notice? Feylind takes care ofherself. She listens to Arithon. We'll just have to trust his soundplan­ning will keep her out of harm's way."
Tharrick raised craggy brows, his eyes on his stepson grownpierc­ing. "Better speak if you know something you haven't told us."
Fiark's subtle, secretive nod burst his restraint and exposed acon­spirator's grin. "Arithon's own planning. You'll see."
Moments later, an earsplitting scream slapped echoes back downthe corridor. Jinesse startled. From mercenary's instinct, Tharrickreached for the broadsword he forgot he always left at the armory.
When the cry changed pitch into shattering joy, Fiark took pityon his mother's confusion. "The Master of Shadow left her a letter."
 Above the approaching patter of Feylind's swift feet, and anotherpealing crow which set tremors through the crockery on the shelves,Fiark answered Tharrick's puzzled inquiry. "Rathain's prince hasbound us over clear title to the merchant brig, Evenstar. She's mineto ship cargoes, and Feylind's to captain. So I much doubt my sisterwill curse round-bottomed tubs after this. In fact, I'll lay silver hershare of the vessel never gets sold to meet her woman's need for a dowry." 
JANNY W URTS

 Now Jinesse straightened with surprising distress. "How long doeshe plan to be gone?"Tharrick stared, amazed. "Then you're not glad he's left?"
"He was a friend," Jinesse stated in perfect aplomb. She shot upand paced to the small copper sink and splashed water over her face."I just don't approve of his Grace's activities where the safety ofmydaughter's concerned. Now answer my question. When does hecome back?"
 Tharrick's honest features showed a disconcerted unease. "Never." His attentive regard held upon his wife's back as he qualified withsoft sympathy. "Arithon made his will plain in absolute terms. Hewould hear no plans to renew ties on this continent for the rest ofhis natural life."
 Far removed to the northwest, amid the firelit heat of hercrampedroom in Capewell, Enchantress Lirenda swore as she cleared hermind from the vivid scene in the quartz sphere. "Damn him! Fiendscurse him for a conniving, clever bastard!"
No s'Ffalenn prince since Torbrand had ever welcomed anyone'sprying; Arithon's unearthly, clever machinations made her problemby lengths more difficult.
Lirenda closed her eyes, the fine tendrils of hair at her templeslicked to her flushed, sweating face. She put off her disgruntledlonging for the comforts of a cool, scented bath. The knot held hertied. While her future swung in the balance, her quarry was nolonger conveniently ill, languishing in cosseted vulnerability atInnish.
 Again, Arithon had escaped to the open sea, where the lanescryersheld no chance in creation of finding a trace of his movements.
Neither could she devise any way to predict the erratic, closesecrecy of those landfalls he chose to arrange. If Morriel Primeexpected a plan by the time Sethvir reached Isaer Circle, three daysremained to deliver. The last avenue of inspiration was the quartzsphere which reflected the baked downs at Araethura, where theostracized initiate Elaira sat in the hot dirt, drawing stick figuresof animals beside a tattered shepherd urchin.
Stabbed by pinprick resentment for the carefree innocence oftheir play, Lirenda took up the scene reflected in the crystal's stoneheart. The dry days that foreran the ending of summer touched the downsto a sea of gold grass. Woman and child shared the antique glaze ofbuttery, late-day sunlight. The herder's boy seemed an ordinaryenough creature, his bare feet rimmed with powdery dust, and his 
FUGITIVE I~RINCE 

sturdy wrists thrust out of ragged cuffs where growth had overtakenhis wardrobe.
 Elaira shared a like-minded untidiness. Her knuckles were briar scraped from foraging herbs, and her blouse of a faded, mulberry-dyed cotton clashed with the jarring, hard fire of her wind-tangledauburn hair.
 Lirenda surveyed the exchange, secure within her groomed ele­gance. Her kohl-lined lids slitted with contempt that verged uponboredom until the child chanced to look up.
Through fronding black hair, his eyes were the identical,piercinggreen of any royal-born scion of s'Ffalenn. His expression ofinnocent entreaty gouged up the unbidden association: woke the echo of agrown prince's compassion with the opening force of a thunderbolt.
Lirenda froze with stopped breath.
In the quartz, trapped unguarded in the same moment, Elaira'stanned face recorded her unwitting and identical response: a flash-pointsurge of tender emotion, brought to light on the wings of a memory.
For the span of one fated second, the displaced First Senior feltas if the whole universe had rocked and resettied in her hand.
 Then logic reasserted. The penciled arch of Lirenda's browsmoothed. Clear thought reengaged and stamped back the unbridledcontamination of wild fancy. A high-order senior and a street-orphaned field herbalist held nothing at all in common. Resentmentremained, that Elaira's headstrong fascination with Prince Arithon'scharacter had been the original catalyst to bring Morriel's disfavoron them both.
 Lirenda tapped an impatient nail against the crystal. Inspirationbent her thoughts to exquisite, fine malice. How better to amend ashared fall from grace than to see Elaira swept into the center ofthe plot to take down Arithon s'Ffalenn?
In the quiet, sealed room, wrapped in the musk of her heat-soddensilk, Lirenda sat straight. The quartz sphere itself seemed to kindlewith fire as inspiration unfolded into a hard plan of action. ThroughElaira, sure means could be formulated to match Morriel's demand.Satisfaction curved Lirenda's coral lips, then widened to a smile assensuous and sure as the stalking crouch of a panther.
If Arithon s'Ffalenn could not be bought with gold, or trackedwith spells, or snared into captivity through dark lures of compulsivemagic, he still had one weakness for which he would hold no rear-guard defenses. The s'Ffalenn royal gift of compassion could not begainsaid. He must come to the net of his own accord if the stakeswere aligned, and the bait for her trap was an innocent. 
Late Summer 5653 
Intervals 
In the overfurnished sitting room of a cottage at Innish, Felirin theScarlet winces and casts his lyranthe aside, resigned that his fire-scarred hands can no longer play for his living; nor is he aware ofanyobserver until Halliron's spinster daughter addresses him from thedoorway: "Never mind. This house cries out for the retired bard itnever came to shelter. I would be pleased if you would consent tomake your permanent home here with me .... "
 At Avenor, faced across the pearl-inlaid lacquer of a table in afash­ionable tavern, Mearn s'Brydion pours fine brandy for a drunkenpalace scribe, and presses the inveigling question he has waited likea snake to present: "Never mind principle. For the Light, I'd pay goldto congratulate the stout man who sent his letter to Etarra,betrayingthe Shadow Master's interests at the Riverton shipyard .... "
 When the Paravian focus circle inside the Second Age ruin atMain-mere flares active to receive the spell-turned energies of Sethvir'scross­ing, Morriel Prime rules on the proposal Lirenda presents atCapewell:"Your plan to take Arithon has one severe drawback, and that, thefifteen-year span to achieve his final defeat. Yet the premise issound,The quarry will succumb. You have my permission. Proceed .... " 
540 
GLOSSARY 


AL'DUIN---deceased father of Halliron Masterbard. pronounced: al-dwinroot meaning: a/--over; duinne--handALESTRON--city located in Midhalla, Melhalla. Ruled by the DukeBransian, Teir's'Brydion, and his three brothers. This city did not
fall to
 merchant townsmen in the Third Age uprising that threw down thehighkings, but is still ruled by its clanblood heirs.
pronounced: ah-less-tronroot meaning: alesstair--- tubborn; an--oneALITHIEL--one of twelve Blades of Isaer, forged by centaur Fferetons'Darian in the First Age from metal taken from a meteorite. Passedthrough Paravian possession, acquired the secondary name Dael-
Farenn,or Kingmaker, since its owners tended to succeed the end of a royalline. Eventually was awarded to Kamridian s'Ffalenn for his valor indefense of the princess Taliennse, early Second Age. Currently in thepossession of
Arithon. pronounced: ah-lith-ee-elroot meaning: alith--star ; iel--light / rayALLAND--principality located in southeastern Shand. Ruled by theHigh Earl Teir's'Taleyn, caithdein of Shand by appointment. Currentheir to the title is Erlien. pronounced: all-androot meaning: a'lind--pine glenALTHAIN TOWER---spire built at the edge of the Bittern Desert, begin­ning of the Second Age, to house records of Paravian histories. ThirdAge,became repository for the archives of all five royal houses of menafter rebellion, overseen by Sethvir, Warden of Althain and Fellowship Sor­cerer.
 pronounced: al--like "all," thain--to rhyme with "main"
root meaning: air--last; thein--tower, sanctuary

original Paravian pronunciation: alt-thein (thein as in "theend")AMROTH--kingdom on West Gate spl'mter world, Dascen Elur, ruled bys'Ilessid descendants of the prince exiled through the Worldsend Gateat the time of the rebellion, Third Age iust after the Mistwraith'sconquest.
pronounced: am-roth--to rhyme with "sloth"root meaning: am--state of being; roth~brother "brotherhood"
AN'ALT--Paravian name for the rune symbolizing infinity.pronounced: an-alltroot meaning: an--one/first; alt--end / lastARAETHURA--grass plains in southwest Rathain; principality of thesame name in that location. Largely inhabited by Riathan Paravians
in the Second Age. Third Age, used as pastureland by widely scatterednomadic shepherds.pronounced: ar-eye-thoo-rah
 root meaning: araeth--grass; era--place, landARITHON---son of Avar, Prince of Rathain, 1,504th Teir's'Ffalennafter 

 JANNY ~URTS 

founder of the line, Torbrand in Third Age Year One. Also Master of
Shadow, the Bane of Desh-thiere, and Halliron Masterbard's successor.pronounced: ar-i-thon--almost rhymes with "marathon"root meaning: arithon--fate-forger; one who is visionaryARWENT--river in Araethura, Rathain, that flows from Daenfal Lake,
through Halwythwood to empty into Instrell Baypronounced: are-wentroot meaning: arwient--swiftestASANDIR--Fellowship Sorcerer. Secondary name, Kingmaker, since hishand crowned every High King of Men to rule in the Age of Men
(ThirdAge). After the Mistwraith's conquest, he acted as field agent forthe Fel­lowship's doings across the continent. Also called Fiend-quencher,for
 his reputation for quelling iyats; Storm-breaker, and Change-bringer forpast actions in late Second Age, when Men first arrived upon Athera.
pronounced: ah-san-deer
root meaning: asan--heart; dir--stone "heartrock"

ATAINIA--northeastern principality of Tysan.pronounced: ah-tay-nee-ahroot meaning: itain--the third;/a--suffix for "third domain"
originalParavian, itainia
ATCHAZ---city located in Alland, Shand. Famed for its silk.pronounced: at-chasroot meaning: atchias---silk
ATH CREATOR--prime vibration, force behind all life.pronounced: ath--to rhyme with "math"root meaning: ath--prime, first (as opposed to an, one)ATHERA--name for the world which holds the Five High Kingdoms;
four Worldsend Gates; original home of the Paravian races.pronounced: ath-air-ahroot meaning: ath--prime force; era--place "Ath's world"ATHIR--Second Age ruin of a Paravian stronghold, located in Ithilt,
Rathain. Site of a seventh lane power focus.pronounced: ath-earroot meaning: ath--prime; i'er--the line/edgeATHLIEN PARAVIANS---sunchildren. Small race of semimortals, pix­
ielike, but possessed of great wisdom/keepers of the grand mystery.pronounced: ath-lee-enroot meaning: ath--prime force; lien--to love "Ath-beloved"AVENOR--Second Age ruin of a Paravian stronghold. Traditional seat
of the s'Ilessid high kings. Restored to habitation in Third Age 5644.Became the ruling seat of the Alliance of Light in Third Age 5648. Located
in Korias, Tysan.pronounced: ah-ven-orroot meaning: avie--stag; norh--grove 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE BITTERN DESERTmwaste located in Atainia, Tysan, north of AlthainTower. Site of a First Age battle between the great drakes and theSeard­luin, permanently destroyed by dragonfire.
pronounced: like bitter
root meaning: to sear or char
BLACK ROSE PROPHECY--made by Dakar the Mad Prophet in Third
Age 5637 at Althain Tower. Forecasts Davien the Betrayer's

repentance,and the reunification of the Fellowship of Seven as tied to Arithons'Ffalenn's voluntary resumption of Rathain's crown rule.
BRANSIAN s'BRYDION--Teir's'Brydion, ruling Duke of Alestroh.pronounced: bran-see-anroot meaning: brand--temper; s'i'an--suffix denoting "of the
one"/the
one with temperBWIN EVOC s'LORNMEIN--founder of the line that became HighKings of Havish since Third Age Year One. The attribute he passed onbymeans of the Fellowship's geas was temperance.
pronounced: bwin--to rhyme with "twin," ee-vahk--as in "evocative,"lorn as in English equivalent, me'm---to rhyme with "main"root meaning: bwin--firm; evoc---choice 
CAINCYR ISLAND--islet located in the archipelago at Min Pierens, in
the We~tland Sea. pronounced: cain-seerroot meaning: caincyr---ailfish
CAINFORD---city located in Taerlin, Tysan.pronounced: cay-in-fordroot meaning: caen--vale; ford--not from the Paravian "ford at the
vale" CAITH-AL-CAENmvale where Riathan Paravians (unicorns) celebratedequinox and solstice to renew the athael, or life-destiny of the
world. Also the place where the Ilitharis Paravians first Named the winterstars---or encompassed their vibrational essence into language. Corrupted by
the end of the Third Age to Castlecain.pronounced: cay-ith-al-cay-en, musical lilt, emphasis on second andlast syllables; rising note on first two, falling note on last tworoot meaning: caith----shadow; a/---over; caen--vale "vale of
shadow"
 link with prime power An old Paravian colloquialism forunicorn. CAITHDEINmParavian name for a high king's first counselor; also, theone who would stand as regent, or steward, in the absence of thecrowned ruler.
 pronounced: kay-ith-day-inroot meaning: caith--shadow; d'ein--behind the chair "shadow behind
the throne" CAITHWOOD---forest located in Taerlin, southeast principality ofTysan.
pronounced: kay-ith-wood
root meaning: caith--shadow "shadowed wood" 

 JANNY WURTS CALUM KINCAID---the individual who invented the great weaponwhich destroyed the worlds of humanity, and caused the refugeefaction,including the Koriathain, to seek sanctuary on Athera.
pronounced: calum kin-caderoot meaning not from the PararianCAMRIS---north-central principality of Tysan. Original ruling seatwas
 the city of Erdane.pronounced: Kam-ris, the i as in "chris"root meaning: caim---cross; ris--way "crossroad"CAOLLE--past war captain of the clans of Deshir, Rathain. Firstraised by, and then served under, Lord Steiven, Earl of the North andcaithdein of Rathain. Planned the campaign at Vastmark and Dier Kenton Vale forthe Master of Shadow. Currently in Jieret Red-beard's service, andfeal liegeman to Arithon of Rathain.pronounced: kay-all-e, with the "e" nearly subliminalroot meaning: caille--stubbornCAPEWELL---city located on the south shore of Korias, Tysan. Home ofa major Koriani sisterhouse.CARIADWIN--ship stolen from the royal shipyard at Riverton, by Cat­trick's conspiracy with Prince Arithon.
pronounced: care-ee-add-winroot meaning: ciaria--swallow; dwin--tailCARITHWYR--principality consisting primarily of a grassland in Hav­ish, once the province of the Riathan Paravians. A unicorn birthingground. Currently used by man for grain and cattle; area name has
become equated with fine hides.pronounced: car-ith-earroot meaning: ci'arithiren--forgers of the ultimate link with prime
power. An old Paravian colloquialism for unicorn.CATTRICK--master joiner hired to run the royal shipyard at Riverton;once in Arithon's employ at Merior by the Sea.
pronounced: cat-rickroot meaning: ciattiaric--a knot tied of withies that has themagical
property of confusing enemiesCEREBELD-~Avenor's Lord Examiner, whose given task is to hunt outand try those who practice dark spellcraft.
pronounced: cara-belldroot meaning: ciarabeld--ashesCHEIVALT---coastal city south of Ostermere in Carithwyr, Havish.
Known for its elegance and refined lifestyle.pronounced: shay-vaultroot meaning: chiavalden--a rare yellow flower which grows by the
seaside CILADIS THE LOST--Fellowship Sorcerer who left the continent inThird Age 3462 in search of the Paravian races after theirdisappearancefollowing the rebellion. 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE
 ~ronounced: kill-ah-dis
 root meaning: cael--leaf; adeis--whisper, compound; cael'adeis

collo­quialism for "gentleness that abides"LDORN---city famed for carpets and weaving, located in Deshit,.thain. Originally a Paravian holdfast, situated on a node of
the third 
pronounced: kill-domroot meaning: cieal--thread; dornmnet "tapestry"ORITH--island west of Havish coast, in Westland Sea. Site of a drake~ir, and a ruined First Age foundation. iHere, the council ofParavians ~et during siege, and dragons dreamed the summoning of the Fellow-hip Sorcerers. First site to see sunlight upon Desh-thiere's defeat.
pronounced: kor-ithroot meaning: cori--ships, vessels;/thawfive for the five harborswhich the old city overlooked 
DAELION FATEMASTER--"entity" formed by set of mortal beliefs,which determine the fate of the spirit after death. If Ath is theprimevibration, or life force, Daelion is what governs the manifestationof free will. pronounced: day-el-ee-onroot meaning: dael--king or lord; i'on---of fateDAELION's WHEEL---cycle of life and the crossing point which is thetransition into death. pronounced: day-el-ee-onroot meaning: daelmking or lord; i'on--of fateDAKAR THE MAD PROPHET--apprentice to Fellowship Sorcerer,Asandir, during the Third Age following the Conquest of the Mist-wraith. Given to spurious prophecies, it was Dakar who forecast thefall of the Kings of Havish in time for the Fellowship to save the heir.He made the Prophecy of West Gate, which forecast the Mistwraith's bane,and also the Black Rose Prophecy, which called for reunification ofthe Fellowship. At this time, assigned to defense of Arithon, Prince ofRathain. pronounced: dah-karroot meaning: dakiar---lumsyDANIA--wife of Rathain's former regent, Steiven s'Valerient. Died bythe hand of Pesquil's headhunters in the Battle of Strakewood. JieretRed­beard's mother. pronounced: dan-ee-ahroot meaning: deinia---parrowDAON RAMON BARRENS-- entral principality of Rathain. Site whereRiathan Paravians (unicorns) bred and raised their young. Barrens wasnot appended to the name until the years following the Mistwraith'scon­quest, when the River Severnir was diverted at the source by a taskforce under Etarran jurisdiction. 
 ]ANNY WURTSpronounced: day-on-rah-monroot meaning: daon--gold; ramon--hills/downsDASCEN ELUR--splinter world off West Gate; primarily ocean with iso­lated archipelagoes. Includes kingdoms of Rauven, Amroth, andKarthan. Where three exiled high kings' heirs took refuge in theyears foblowing the great uprising. Birthplace of Lysaer and Arithon.
pronounced: das-en el-urroot meaning: dascen---ocean; e'lier--small landDAVIEN THE BETRAYER--Fellowship Sorcerer responsible for provok­ing the great uprising that resulted in the fall of the high kings
after Desh-thiere's conquest. Rendered discorporate by the Fellowship'sjudg­ment in Third Age 5129. Exiled since, by personal choice. Davien'sworks included the Five Centuries Fountain near Mearth on the splinterworld of the Red Desert through West Gate; the shaft at Rockfell Pit,used by the
Sorcerers to imprison harmful entities; the Stair on Rockfell Peak;and also, Kewar Tunnel in the Mathore Mountains.
pronounced: dah-vee-en
root meaning: dahvi--fool, mistake; an---one "mistaken one"
DAWR--grandmother of Duke Bransian of Alestron, and his brother,
Mearn s'Brydion.

pronounced: dourroot meaning: dwyiar--vinegar wineDESH-THIERE--Mistwraith that invaded Athera from the splinterworlds through South Gate in Third Age 4993. Access cut off byFellow­ship Sorcerer, Traithe. Battled and contained in West Shand fortwenty-five years, until the rebellion splintered the peace, and the highkingswere forced to withdraw from the defense lines to attend their disruptedkingdoms. Confined through the combined powers of Lysaer s'Ilessid'sgift of light and Arithon s'Ffalenn's gift of shadow. Currentlyimprisonedin a warded flask in Rockfell Pit.
 pronounced: desh-thee-air-e (last "e" mostly subliminal)
root meaning: desh--mist; thiere--ghost or wraith

DESHIR--northwestern principality of Rathain.pronounced: desh-eerroot meaning: deshir--mistyDHARKARON AVENGER--called Ath's Avenging Angel in legend.Drives a chariot drawn by five horses to convey the guilty to
Sithaer. Dharkaron as defined by the adepts of Ath's Brotherhood is thatdark
 thread mortal men weave with Ath, the prime vibration, that createsself-punishment, or the root of guilt.
pronounced dark-air-onroot meaning: dhar---evil; khiaron---one who stands in judgmentDIEGAN--once Lord Commander of Etarra's garrison; given over by hismayor to serve as Lysaer s'Ilessid's Lord Commander at Avenor.
Titular commander of the war host sent against the Deshans to defeat theMaster of Shadow at Tal Quorin; high commander of the war host mustered at 
548 

 FUGITIVE PRINCE Werpoint. Also brother of Lady Talith. Died of a clan arrow in theBattle of Dier Kenton Vale in Vastmark, Third Age 5647.
pronounced: dee-ganroot meaning: diegan--trinket a dandy might wear/ornamentDIER KENTON VALE--valley located in the principality of Vastmark,Shand, where the war host thirty-five thousand strong, under com­mand of Lysaer s'Ilessid, fought and lost to the Master of Shadow
in Third Age 5647. The main body of the forces of light were decimatedin one day by a shale slide. The remainder were harried by a small
force of Vastmark shepherds under Caolle, who served as Arithon's war cap­tain. pronounced: deer ken-tonroot meaning: dien'kendion--a jewel with a severe flaw that may
result in shearing or cracking 
EILISH--Lord Minister of the Royal Treasury, Avenor.pronounced: eyeqishroot meaning: eyalish--fussyELAIRA--initiate enchantress of the Koriathain. Originally a street
child,
taken on in Morvain for Koriani rearing.pronounced: ee-layer-ahroot meaning: e--prefix, diminutive for small; laerewgraceELDIR s'LORNMEIN--King of Havish and last surviving scion ofs'Lornmein royal line. Raised as a wool-dyer until the Fellowship
Sorcer­ers crowned him at Ostermere in Third Age 5643 following the defeatof
 the Mistwraith. pronounced: el-deerroot meaning: eldir--to ponder, to consider, to weighELSSINE---city located on the coast of Alland, Shand, famed for stonequarries used for ships' ballast.
pronounced: el-seenroot meaning: elssien--small pitELTAIR BAY--large bay off Cildein Ocean and east coast of Rathain;
where River Severnir was diverted following the Mistwraith'sconquest.pronounced: el-tay-er
root meaning: al'tieri---of steel/a shortening of original Paravianname dascen al'tieri, which meant "ocean of steel," whichreferred to the color of the waves ERDANE---old Paravian city, later taken over by Men. Seat of old
princes
of Camris until Desh-thiere's conquest and rebellion.pronounced: er-day-na with the last syllable almost subliminalroot meaning: er'deinia--long wallsERLIEN s'TALEYN--High Earl of Alland; caithdein of Shand, chieftainof the forest clansmen of Selkwood.
 pronounced: er-lee~an stall~ay-en 
 JANNY WURTS root meaning: aierlyan--bear; tal--branch; an-~one/first "of firstone
 branch" ETARRA--trade city built across the Mathorn Pass by townsfolk afterthe revolt that cast down Ithamon and the High Kings of Rathain. Nest ofcorruption and intrigue, and policy maker for the North.
pronounced: ee-tar-ahroot meaning: e--prefix for small; taria--knotsEVENSTAR--first brig stolen from Riverton's royal shipyard by Cat­trick's conspiracy with Prince Arithon. 
FALGAIRE--coastal city on Instrell Bay, located in Araethura,
Rathain,
famed for its crystal and glassworks.

pronounced: fall-gair--to rhyme with "air"
root meaning:fal'mier--to sparkle or glitter

FALWOOD--forest located in West Shand. pronounced: fall-woodroot meaning: fal--treeFATE's WHEEL--see Daelion's Wheel. 
FEITHAN--wife of Jieret s'Valerient, Earl of the North, and caithdeinof Rathain. pronounced: faith-anroot meaning: feiathen--ivyFELIRIN--minstrel known as the Scarlet Bard; a past acquaintance ofPrince Arithon. pronounced: fell-eer-inroot meaning: fel--red; lyron--singerFELLOWSHIP OF SEVEN--Sorcerers sworn to uphold the Law of theMajor Balance, and to foster enlightened thought in Athera.Originatorsand keepers of the compact made with the Paravian races that allowedMen to settle on Athera. FENLANDERS---the marsh dwellers who inhabit Mogg's Fen, descendedfrom renegade townsmen, outlaws, or townborn supporters of the clanswho were displaced during the rebellion.FEYLIND--daughter of Jinesse; twin sister of Fiark; born in Merior bythe Sea, and currently serving apprenticeship as a navigator underArithon s'Ffalenn. pronounced: fay-lindroot meaning:faelind'an-~outspoken one/noisy oneFFEREDON-LI--ancient Paravian word for a healer, literally translated"bringer of grace"; still in use in the dialect of Araethura.
pronounced: fair-eh-dun leeroot meaning:ffaraton--maker; li exalted graceFIARK--son of Jinesse; twin brother of Feylind; born in Merior bythe 
Sea, currently employed as a factor by an Innish merchant.pronounced: fee-arkroot meaning:fyerk--to throw or toss 
 FUGITIVE I~RINCE FIONN ARETH CAID'AN--shepherd child born in Third Age 5647; fatedby prophecy to leave home and play a role in the Wars of Light andShadow.
 pronounced: fee-on-are~eth cayed-ahnroot meaning: fionne arith caid an--one who brings choiceFIRST AGE--marked by the arrival of the Paravian Races as Ath's
gift toheal the marring of creation by the great drakes. 
GACE STEWARD--Royal Steward of Avenor.pronounced: gace---to rhyme with "race"root meaning: gyce--weaselGARTH's POND---small brackish pond in Merior by the Sea, on theScimlade peninsula off Alland, Shand.
pronounced: garth--to rhyme with "hearth"root meaning not from the ParavianGREAT WAYSTONE--amethyst crystal, spherical in shape, once thegrand power focus of the Koriani Order; lost during the greatuprising,and finally recovered from Fellowship custody by First Senior Lirendain Third Age 5647.GREAT WEST ROAD--trade route which crosses Tysan from Karfael onthe west coast, to Castle Point on Instrell Bay.GRIMWARD~a circle of dire spells of Paravian mak'mg that seal andiso­late forces that have the potential for unimaginable destruction.With the disappearance of the old races, the defenses are maintained byembodied Sorcerers of the Fellowship of Seven. There are seventeen separatesites listed at Althain Tower. 
HALDUIN s'ILESSID--founder of the line that became High Kings ofTysan since Third Age Year One. The attribute he passed on, by meansof the Fellowship's geas, was justice.
pronounced: hal-dwin
root meaning: ha/---white; duinne--hand
HALLIRON MASTERBARD---native of Innish, Shand. Masterbard of
Athera during the Third Age; inherited the accolade from his

teacher Murchiel in the year 5597. Son of Al'Duin. Husband of Deartha.Arithon's master and mentor. Died from an injury inflicted by the
Mayorof Jaelot in the year 5644.pronounced: hal-eer-onroot meaning: hal--white; lyron--singer
HALWYTHWOOD--forest located in Araethura, Rathain.pronounced: hall-with-woodroot meaning: hal--white; wythe--vistaHANSHIRE--port city on Westland Sea, coast of Korias, Tysan;
reigningofficial Lord Mayor Garde; opposed to royal rule at the time of
Avenor's restoration. pronounced: hah-sheerroot meaning: hansh--sand; era--place 
 JANNY WURTS 

HARRADENE--Lord Commander of Etarra's army at the time of the
muster at Werpoint, still in power after Vastmark campaign.pronounced: har-a-deenroot meaning: harradien--large muleHAVENS---an inlet on the northeastern shore of Vastmark, Shand.HAVISH--one of the Five High Kingdoms of Athera, as defined by thecharters of the Fellowship of Seven. Ruled by Eldir s'Lornmein.
Sigil:
gold hawk on red field.pronounced: hav-ishroot meaning: havieshe--hawkHIGHSCARP---city on the coast of the Bay of Elfair, located in DaonRamon, Rathain. 
IANFAR s'GANNLEY---cousin and heir designate of Lord Maenols'Gannle~ caithdein of Tysan.pronounced: ee-an-far s gan-leeroot meaning: ianfiar--birch treeILITHARIS PARAVIANS--centaurs, one of three semimortal old races;disappeared at the time of the Mistwraith's conquest. They were theguardians of the earth's mysteries.
pronounced: i-li-thar-isroot meaning: i'lith'eans--the keeper/preserver of mysteryILSWATER--both a lake bordering the principalities of Korias and
Taer­lin; and the river which carries the water trade route fromCaithwood to
 Riverton. pronounced: ills-waterroot meaning: iel--lightINNISH---city located on the southcoast of Shand at the delta of theRiver Ippash. Birthplace of Halliron Masterbard. Formerly known as "theJewel of Shand," this was the site of the high king's winter court,prior tothe time of the uprising.
pronounced: in-ish
root meaning: inniesh--a jewel with a pastel tint
INSTRELL BAY--body of water off the Gulf of Stormwell, that

separates
principality of Atainia, Tysan, from Deshir, Rathain.pronounced: in-strellroot meaning: arin'streal--strong windISAER---city located at the crossroads of the Great West Road in
Atainia,
Tysan. Also a power focus, built dur'mg the First Age, in Atainia,Tysan,to source the defense-works at the Paravian keep of the same name.
pronounced: i-say-er
root meaning: i'saer--the circle
ITHAMON~Second Age Paravian stronghold, and a Third Age ruin;
built on a fifth lane power-node in Daon Ramon Barrens, Rathain,

and inhabited until the year of the uprising. Site of the Compass PointTow­ers, or Sun Towers. Became the seat of the High Kings of Rathainduring 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE the Third Age and in year 5638 was the site where Princes Lysaers'Ilessid and Arithon s'Ffalenn battled the Mistwraith to confinement.
 pronounced: ith-a-mon
root meaning: itha--five; mon--needle, spire

IYAN---deaf-mute servant of Morriel Prime. pronounced: ee-anroot meaning: i'on--fateIYAT---energy sprite native to Athera, not visible to the eye,
manifests in
 a poltergeist fashion by taking temporary possession of objects.Feeds upon natural energy sources: fire, breaking waves, lightning.
pronounced: ee-at
root meaning: iyat--to break 

JAELOT---city located on the coast of Eltair Bay at the southernborder of the Kingdom of Rathain. Once a Second Age power site, with a focuscir­cle. Now a merchant city with a reputation for extreme snobbery andbad taste. Also the site where Arithon s'Ffalenn played his eulogy forHall-iron Masterbard, which raised the powers of the Paravian focus circlebeneath the mayor's palace. The forces of the myst~ries and resonanthar­monics caused damage to city buildings, watchkeeps, and walls, whichhas since been repaired.
pronounced: jay-lotroot meaning: jielot--affectationJEYNSA~daughter of Jieret s'Valerient and Feithan, born Third Age5653. 
pronounced: jay-in-saroot meaning: garnetJIERET s'VALERIENT--Earl of the North, clan chief of Deshir;caithdein of Rathain, sworn liegeman of Prince Arithon s'Ffalenn. Also son andheir of Lord Steiven. Blood pacted to Arithon by sorcerer's oathprior tobattle of Strakewood Forest. Came to be known by headhunters asJieret Red-beard. pronounced: jeer-etroot meaning: jieret--thornJINESSE--widow of a fisherman, mother of the twins Fiark and Feylind;formerly an inhabitant of Merior by the Sea. Remarried and nowresides in Innish.
 pronounced: gin-ess
root meaning: jienesse--to be washed out or pale; a wisp

JYCE--scout in Lord Maenol s'Gannley's band noted for his hearing.pronounced: like ice with a Jroot meaning: jiess--hare 
KAMRIDIAN s'FFALENN--Crowned High King of Rathain, a tragic fig­ure who died of his conscience under th.e fated influence of the Kewar Caverns, built by Davien the Betrayer into the Mathorn Mountains. 

 Ji~NNY ~i7 U R TS pronounced: cam-rid-ee-anroot meaning: kaim'riadien--thread cut shorterKARFAEL--trader town on the coast of the Westland Sea, in Tysan.Built by townsmen as a trade port after the fall of the High Kings ofT.san. Prior to Desh-thiere's conquest, the site was kept clear of buildingsto allow the second lane forces to flow untrammeled across the focus site at Avenor.
 pronounced: kar-fay-elroot meaning: kar'i~fael--literal translation "twist thedark"/colloqui­
alism for "intrigue"KARMAK--plain located in the northem portion of the principality ofCamris, Tysan. Site of numerous First Age battles where Paravianforces opposed Khadrim packs that bred in volcanic sites in the northernTomir Peaks. pronounced: kar-mackroot meaning: karmak--wolfKATHTAIRR--landmass in the southern ocean, across the world fromParavia.
 pronounced: kath-tear
root meaning: kait-th'era empty place

KEI--birthname for Jeynsa s'Valerient.pronounced: kayroot meaning: ka'i--the girl
KELLIS---clan elder and Duchess of Mainmere. pronounced: kell-issroot meaning: kiel'liess--balm of griefKHADRIM--drake-spawned creatures, flying, fire-breathing reptilesthat were the scourge of the Second Age. By the Third Age, they had
been driven back and confined in the Sorcerers' Preserve in the volcanic peaks
in north Tysan.pronounced: kaa-drimroot meaning: khadrim--dragonKHARADMON~Sorcerer of the Fellowship of Seven; discorporate sincerise of Khadrim and Seardluin leveled Paravian city at Ithamon inSec­ond Age 3651. It was by Kharadmon's intervention that the survivorsof the attack were sent to safety by means of transfer from the fifthlane power focus. Currently constructing the star ward to guard againstinva­sion of wraiths from Marek.
 pronounced: kah-rad-munroot meaning: kar'riad en mon--phrase translates to mean "twisted
thread on the needle" or colloquialism for "a knot in theworks" KHETIENN--name for a brigantine owned by Arithon; also a small spot­ted wildcat native to Daon Ramon Barrens that became the s'Ffalenn royal sigil.
pronounced: key-et-c› ›n
root meaning: kietienn---mall leopard 


 FUGITIVE PRINCE 

KORIANI--possessive form of the word "Koriathain"; see entry.pronounced: kor-ee-ah-nee
KORIAS---southwestern principality of Tysan.pronounced: kor-ee-asroot meaning: cor--ship, vessel; i'esh--nest, havenKORIATHAIN---order of enchantresses ruled by a circle of Seniors,under the power of one Prime Enchantress. They draw their talent
from the orphaned children they raise, or from daughters dedicated toservice by their parents. Initiation rite involves a vow of consent thatties the
 spirit to a power crystal keyed to the Prime's control.pronounced: kor-ee-ah-thain--to rhyme with "main"root meaning: koriath--order; ain--belonging toKOSHLIN--influential trade minister from Erdane, renowned for hishatred of the clans, and for his support of the headhunters' leagues.
pronounced: kosh-lynn
root meaning: kioshlin---opaque 

LANSHIRE--northwestern principality of Havish. Name taken fromwastes at Scarpdale, site of First Age battles with Seardluin thatseared the soil to a slag waste.pronounced: lahn-sheer-e (last "e" is nearly subliminal)root meaning: lan'hansh'era--place of hot sandsLAW OF THE MAJOR BALANCE--founding order of the powers of theFellowship of Seven, as written by the Paravians. The primary tenetis that no force of nature should be used without consent, or againstthe will of another living being.LIRENDA--First Senior Enchantress to the Prime, Koriani order; Mor­riel's intended successor.
 pronounced: leer-end-ahroot meaning: lyron--singer; di-ia--a dissonance (the hyphendenotes a glottal stop)
LORN--town on the northcoast of Atainia, Tysan.pronounced: lornroot meaning: loern--an Atherian fishLUHAINE--Sorcerer of the Fellowship of Seven---discorporate since
the
 fall of Telmandir. Luhaine's body was pulled down by the mob whilehe was in ward trance, covering the escape of the royal heir to Havish.
pronounced: loo-hay-neroot meaning: luirhainon---defenderLYRANTHE--instrument played by the bards of Athera. Strung withfourteen strings, tuned to seven tones (doubled). Two courses are
"drone strings" set to octaves. Five are melody strings, the lower three
courses being octaves, the upper two, in unison.pronounced: leer-anth-e (last "e" being nearly subliminal)root meaning: lyr--song, anthe--box
LYSAER s'ILESSID~prince of Tysan, 1497th in succession after Halduin, 
 ]ANNY WURTSfounder of the line in Third Age Year One. Gifted at birth withcontrol of Light, and Bane of Desh-Thiere.
pronounced: lie-say-er
root meaning: lia--blond, yellow or light, saer--circle 

MAENALLE s'GANNLEY--former steward and caithdein of Tysan; puton trial for outlawry and theft on the trade roads; executed byLysaers'Ilessid at Isaer, Third Age 5645.
pronounced: may-nahl-e (last "e" is nearly subliminal)root meaning: maeni--to fall, disrupt; alli--to save or preservecollo­
quial translation: "to patch together"
MAENOL--heir, after Maenalle s'Gannley, steward and caithdein of
tysan.

pronounced: may-nailroot meaning: rnaeni'alliw"to patch together"MAINMERE--town at the head of the Valenford River, located in theprincipality of Taerlin, Tysan. Built by townsmen on a siteoriginally keptclear to free the second lane focus in the ruins farther south.
 pronounced: main-meer-e ("e" is subliminal)root meaning: maeniwto fall, interrupt; miere--reflection,colloquial
translation: "disrupt continuity"MATHORN MOUNTAINS--range that bisects the Kingdom of Rathaineast to west. pronounced: math-ornroot meaning: mathien--massiveMATHORN ROAD--way passing to the south of the Mathore Moun­tains, leading to the trade city of Etarra from the west.
pronounced: math-oreroot meaning: mathien--massiveMEARN s'BRYDION--youngest brother of Duke Bransian of Alestron.
Ducal emissary to Lysaer s'Ilessid's Alliance of Light.pronounced: may-amroot meaning: mierne--to flitMELHALLA--High Kingdom of Athera once ruled by the line of
s'Ellestrion. The last prince died in the crossing of the Red Desert.pronounced: mel-hall-ahroot meaning: rnaelhallia--grand meadows/plain~also word for an
open space of an~, sort.MELOR RIVER~located in the principality of Korias, Tysan. Its mouthforms the harbor for the port town of West End.
pronounced: mel-orroot meaning: rnaeliur--fishMERIOR BY THE SEA---small seaside fishing village on the Scimlade
peninsula in Alland, Shand. Once the temporary site of Arithon's
shipyard.pronounced: mare-ee-orroot meaning: rnerioren--cottages 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE 

MIDDLECROSS---town on the shores of Riverton Narrows, in Korias,
Tysan.
MIN PIERENS---archipelago to the west of the Kingdom of West Shand,
in the Westland Sea.

 pronounced: min--to rhyme with "pin," pierre-ins
root meaning: rnin--purple; pierens--shoreline

MINCRESS--port town on Stormwell Gulf, in Camris, Tysan.pronounced: min-cressroot meaning: min--purple; crias---'mletMINDERL BAY--body of water behind Crescent Isle off the east coast
of Rathain. pronounced: mind-earlroot meaning: rninderlmanvil
MIRALT HEAD--port city in northern Camris, Tysan.pronounced: meer-altroot meaning: tn'ier--shore; alt--last
MOGG's FEN--marsh located in Korias, Tysan.pronounced: mog's fenroot meaning: miog---cattail
MORNOS--city on the westshore of Lithmere, Havish.pronounced: more-noseroot meaning: moarnosh--a coffer, specifically where a greedy
person
would hoard valuables. MORRIEL--Prime Enchantress of the Koriathain since the Third Age4212.
 pronounced: more-realroot meaning: moar--greed; riel---silverMORVAIN---city located in the principality of Araethura, Rathain,
on the 
coast of Instrell Bay. Elaira's birthplace.pronounced: more-vainroot meaning: morvain---swindlers' market 
NARMS--city on the coast of Instrell Bay, built as a craft center byMen in the early Third Age. Best known for dyeworks.
pronounced: narms--to rhyme with "charms"
root meaning: harms--color
NORTHERLY--remote fishing and fur trappers' village on the northern
point of Tysan.

NORTHSTRAIT--narrows between the mainland spur of northernTysan, and the Trow Islands. 
ORLAN--pass through the Thaldein Mountains, also location of theCamris clans' west outpost, in Camris, Tysan. Known for barbarianraids.
 pronounced: or-lanroot meaning: irlan--ledgeORLEST--galleymen's port on the coast of Korias, Tysan; also known
for its salt harvest. 
557 ~ 
 JANNY WUI~TS
 pronounced: or-lest
root meaning: iorlest---salt

ORVANDIR--principality located in northeastern Shand.pronounced: or-van-deerroot meaning: orvein--crumbled; dir--stoneOSTERMERE--harbor and trade city, once smugglers' haven, located in
Carithwyr, Havish; current seat of Eldir, King of Havish.pronounced: os-mr-mereroot meaning: ostier--brick; miere--refiection 
PARAVIAN--name for the three old races that inhabited Athera before Men. Including the centaurs, the sunchildren, and the unicorns, theseraces never die unless mishap befalls them; they are the world'schannel,or direct connection to Ath Creator.
 pronounced: par-ai-vee-ans
root meaning: para--great; i'on--fate or "great mystery"
PERDITH---city located on the eastshore in East Halla, Melhalla;

known
 for its armorers. pronounced: per-dithroot meaning: pirdith--anvilPESQUIL--Mayor of the Northern League of Headhunters, at the time ofthe battle of Strakewood Forest. His strategies caused the Deshirclans the most punishing losses. Died of a clan vengeance arrow during thecrossing of Valleygap in Third Age 5646.
pronounced: pes-quil like "pest-quill"
root meaning not from the Paravian 

QUARN--town on the trade road that crosses Caithwood in Taerlin,
tysan.
pronounced: kwarn
root meaning: quatin--ravine, canyon
QUEN--deceased half-wit who once served as door guard and servant
to the Prime Enchantress of the Koriathain, Morriel.

pronounced: cue-en
root meaning: quenient--witless
QUINOLD--Lord Chancellor of Avenor, and a member of Lysaer
s'Ilessid's inner cabal.
 pronounced: kwin-old
root meaning: quen--one who is narrow-minded 

RADMOORE DOWNS~meadowlands in Midhalla, Melhalla.pronounced: rad-moreroot meaning: r/ad--thread; mour--carpet, rugRATHAIN--High Kingdom of Athera ruled by descendants of Torbrands'Ffalenn since Third Age Year One. Sigil: black-and-silver leopard
on green field. 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE pronounced: rath-aynroot meaning: roth--brother; thein--tower, sanctuaryRAUVEN TOWER--home of the s'Ahelas mages who brought upArithon s'Ffalenn and trained him to the ways of power. Located onthe splinter world, Dascen Elur, through West Gate.
pronounced: raw-venroot meaning: rauven--invocationRIATHAN PARAVIANS~unicoms, the purest and most direct connec­tion to Ath Creator; the prime vibration channels directly through
the horn. pronounced: ree-ah-thanroot meaning: ria--to touch; ath--prime life force; ri'athon---one
who
 touches divinityRIVERTON--trade town at the mouth of the Ilswater river, in Korias,Tysan; site of Lysaer's royal shipyard.ROCKBAY HARBOR--body of water above Southstrait that dividesShand from West Shand. ROCKFELL PIT~deep shaft cut into Rockfell Peak, used to imprisonharmful entities throughout all three ages. Located in theprincipality ofWest Halla, Melhalla; became the warded prison for Desh-thiere.
pronounced: rock-fellroot meaning not from the ParavianROCKFELL VALE--valley below Rockfell Peak, located in principality
of West Halla, Melhalla.pronounced: rockfell valeroot meaning not from the Paravian 
s'AHELAS--family name for the royal line appointed by the FellowshipSorcerers in Third Age Year One to rule the High Kingdom of Shand.Gifted geas: farsight.
pronounced: s'ah-hell-as
root meaning: ahelas--mage-gifted

SANPASHIR~desert waste on the southcoast of Shand. pronounced: sahn-pash-eerroot meaning: san--black or dark; pash'era--place of grit or gravelSANSHEVAS----town located on the southcoast of Alland, Kingdom ofShand. 
pronounced: san-shev-asroot meaning: san--black; sheivas--flints'BRYDION--ruling line of the Dukes of Alestron. The only old bloodclansmen to maintain rule of their city through the uprising thatdefeated the rule of the high kings.pronounced: s'bride-ee-onroot meaning: baridien--tenacitySEARDLUIN~clrake-spawned, vicious, intelligent, catlike predatorsthat roved in packs whose hierarchy was arranged for ruthless and 
 JANNY ~URT$ efficient slaughter of other living things. By the middle of theSecond
 Age, they had been battled to extinction.
pronounced: seerd-lwin
root meaning: seard--bearded; luin--feline
SECOND AGE--Marked by the arrival of the Fellowship of Seven at
Crater Lake, their called purpose to fight the drake spawn.

SELKWOOD-~forest located in Alland, Shand.pronounced: sellk-woodroot meaning: selk--pattemSETHVIR--Sorcerer of the Fellowship of Seven, served as Warden ofAlthain since the disappearance of the Paravians in the Third Age
after 
the Mistwraith's conquest.pronounced: seth-veerroot meaning: seth--fact; vaer--keepSEVERNIR--river that once ran across the central part of Daon RamonBarrens, Rathain. Diverted at the source after the Mistwraith's
conquest,
to run east into Eltair Bay.pronounced: se-ver-neerroot meaning: sevaer--to travel; nir--souths'FFALENN--family name for the royal line appointed by the Fellow­ship Sorcerers in Third Age Year One to rule the High Kingdom ofRathain. Gifted geas: compassion/empathy.
pronounced: s-fal-enroot meaning: ffael~clark, an---ones'GANNLEY--family name for the line of Earls of the West, who stoodas 
caithdeinen and stewards for the High Kings of Tysan.pronounced: s-gan-leeroot meaning: gaen--to guide;//--exalted, or in harmonySHADOWBANE--gold talisman coin struck at Avenor, bearing Lysaer'shead, and a bane against darkness. Thrown out as largesse each day
at
 noon in the square by the royal palace.SHAND~High Kingdom on the southeast comer of the Paravian conti­nent, originally ruled by the line of s'Ahelas. Device is falcon on acres­cent moon, backed by purple-and-gold chevrons.
pronounced: shand--as in "hand"
root meaning: shayn or shiand--two/pair

SHANDIAN--refers to nationality, being of the Kingdom of Shand.pronounced: shand-ee-anroot meaning: shand--two
SHAYN--Paravian rune for two. pronounced: shaneroot meaning: shayn--twoSHIEN--joint captain of Avenor's field troops, who maintained the
home garrison while Lord Diegan marched to Vastmark.pronounced: she-enroot meaning: shien---cord 
 FUGITIVE PRINCE s'ILESSID--family name for the royal line appointed by the FellowshipSorcerers in Third Age Year One to rule the High Kingdom of Tysan.Gifted geas: justice.pronounced: s-ill-ess-idroot meaning: liessiad--balanceSITHAER--mythological equivalent of hell, halls of DharkaronAvenger's judgment; according to Ath's adepts, that state of beingwhere the prime vibration is not recognized.
pronounced: sith-air
root meaning: sid--lost; thiere--wraith / spirit

SKANNT--headhunter captain, served under Pesquil.pronounced: scantroot meaning: sciant--a lean, hard-run hound of mixed breedingSKYRON FOCUS--large aquamarine focus stone, used by the KorianiSenior Circle for their major magic after the loss of the Great
Waystoneduring the rebellion.pronounced: sky-runroot meaning: skyron-~colloquialism for shackle; s'kyr'i'on-­
literally
"sorrowful fate" s'LORNMEIN--family name for the royal line appointed by the Fellow­ship Sorcerers in Third Age Year One to rule the High Kingdom of Hav­ish. Gifted geas: temperance.
pronounced: s-lorn-main
root meaning: liernmein--to center, or restrain, or bring into

balance SORCERERS' PRESERVE--warded territory located by Teal's Gap inTornir Peaks in Tysan where the Khadrim are kept confined by
Fellow­
ship magic.SOUTHSHIRE--southcoast port town located in Alland, Kingdom ofShand; known for its shipbuilding and orange groves.STEIVEN--Earl of the North, caithdein and regent to the High Kingdomof Rathain at the time of Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn's return. Chieftain of the Deshans until his death in the battle of Strakewood Forest. Jieret Red­beard's father. pronounced: stay-vinroot meaning: steiven--stagSTORMWELL--Gulf of Stormwell, body of water off the northcoast oftysan.STRAKEWOOD--forest in the principality of Deshir, Rathain; site ofthe battle of Strakewood Forest. pronounced: strayk-wood, similar to "stray wood"root meaning: streik--to quicken, to seedSULFIN EVEND--Hanshire guard captain who leads a company of Menin pursuit of Arithon s'Ffalenn.
pronounced: sool-finn ev-endroot meaning: suilfinn eiavend---colloquialism, "diamond mind"--­one who is persistent