Stormed Fortress: Fifth Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny WurtsЧитать онлайн книгу.
when he raised the seeress to speak.
She bowed before Kyrialt. The taut atmosphere in the tent became forced as she told over her vision: that Rathain’s sanctioned prince had joined his love with a Koriani enchantress whose talent spoke clearest through water. ‘They are paired in communion, and inseparably mated. Heart and spirit spoke when the marker stones blazed, and the imprint rippled the flux. Far more than the Warden at Althain will have heard the cry that his Grace’s beloved released.’
That young Jeynsa s’Valerient had gone to Alestron, and conspired to entangle the blood oath of protection granted by Arithon at Earl Jieret’s bequest.
Against dumb-struck silence, the seeress pressed on. ‘I shared the destiny to occur as the Teir’s’Ffalenn answers that charge. He will leave for Alestron. The day must come soon. The binding he holds cannot be forsworn, and his trial, to spare the girl from the Light’s immolation of the s’Brydion citadel.’
Here, his mother’s hooded head lifted. She would not show weakness, though her bravery should unman him. Kyrialt could but match his sire’s fixed stance, that straitly mastered a pressure that threatened to tear him asunder.
‘Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn is not our rightful liege,’ Lord Erlien acknowledged, not as father, but by the unflinching iron that commanded him as the realm’s regent. ‘Yet his Grace of Rathain bears the s’Ahelas lineage, endowed in full measure with the royal gifts. He has granted this kingdom a born prince’s duty by his act of unparalleled courage. For last night’s warding of Alland, we can do no less in return. When his Grace leaves in defence of Alestron, he will ask not to accept the full charge of the crown oath my son carries. Until now, the honour pledge bestowed in reprisal has only been kept as a matter of form.’
‘As before, his command would constrain Kyrialt to stay. I’ve foreseen!’ The old seeress acknowledged the young man, arrow-straight, come before them. ‘His Grace would leave you with us here in Selkwood, and not take you north as his own.’
‘Kyrialt, as your father, I bid you to refuse your liege’s dismissal. At his side, this royal deserves the protection assigned to a crown heir of Shand. As the flower of our lineage, I ask you to go. Guard Arithon’s life. Stand shadow for Rathain’s principled ruler with my blessing, through whatever Daelion Fatemaster should hold in store for him.’
Kyrialt swallowed. He bent his dark head. Never to object, but in fact to veil his surging relief. The light in the glen had not left him unmarked: none who beheld his changed presence might deny the course of fate’s choosing. Given the conflict between duty and kin, his father’s grace spared him the cruelty of making his plea to go, anyway.
Yet regret was not painless. ‘When I do this, you know my wife Glendien will insist she should not stay behind. There’s no way under Ath’s sky I can stop her.’ Nor could anyone do so; not without breaking her spirit.
‘Glendien knows, already.’ This time, his mother’s unswerving strength gave the kindness of understanding. ‘Your commitment is not solitary, though we tried. Her own family could not dissuade her. Unless your prince can change her mind, your lady will serve Rathain as the woman beside you.’ The strain upon those silk-veiled features stayed masked, upheld by more than state protocol.
‘Who better to send?’ Her pride rang before those who gathered to witness. ‘You were to become our realm’s next caithdein, and by appearance, the Teiren’s’Valerient has fallen shamefully short!’
Kyrialt bowed. ‘I will defend Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn, as required. Not just for the sake of kingdom and clan, but with the whole of my heart.’
His declaration closed the formalities. No one knew when the last summons would come. The seeress could not say whether the timing would permit a final leave-taking. Therefore, clan family seized on the moment to unburden its private sentiment. His mother swept forward. Silk hood thrown back, eyes wet, she embraced him. Her affection was followed by his full siblings, each one; then by his half-sisters and half-brothers, and their mothers, whose love also flowed without stint.
His father came last. Erlien s’Taleyn gave up his rank and delivered the accolade on his knees. ‘Ath has gifted me with no better son. My blood is diminished, and my name in your shadow, to carry the debt to Rathain that our people can never repay.’
Autumn 5671
Deflections
Touched by the echo of Elaira’s scried insight, Dakar bids the galley-man who gave him passage to put him ashore at the delta up-stream of Pellain; more sharp bargaining procures him three mounts and a stocked pack-horse, which he drives past the verges of Atwood with intent to join company with the enchantress and the Companion, Sidir …
Returned from his search of the vaults underneath the burned ruins at Avenor, Luhaine bears dire tidings back to Sethvir at Althain Tower: that the four hatchling dragon skulls once bound under the influence of Koriani jewels in fact have fallen casualty to the fires, with their shades freed and subject to rise …
The sun chases a blinding glitter of gold over the horse guard escorting Lysaer’s Lord Seneschal, a shimmering form in the Sunwheel tabard of an Alliance ambassador; yet the Light’s vested envoy meets Alestron’s shut gates, and his scribed ultimatum is spurned by Duke Bransian’s adamant silence …
Autumn 5671
The looming spectre of war strained the days that followed the rebuff of Lysaer’s sent envoy. That discordant, first note swelled into the overture that presaged the onslaught of siege. Both fortress towns at the mouth of the estuary dropped their posturing: Kalesh and Adruin launched ships for blockade and unleashed the advance of armed troops.
Parrien’s war galleys still ranged at large. Yet even Duke Bransian’s bellicose temper acknowledged the damaging fact: the massing deployment set under way defanged his fleet as a tactical asset. Oared ships could not breast the rough, autumn sea. No vessel under Alestron’s flag might claim safe harbour in any port sworn to the Alliance. Cut off from access by blue-water sail, and the free territory under clan loyalties as his last source of provision, s’Brydion could only fume. His captains’ rapacious prowess was reduced to the strike-and-flee raiding of harriers. Such engagements might nip at the flanks of enemy shipping. But resupply could no longer reach the citadel with impunity. Not without running the gamut: the narrow inlet, with its vicious tides and its forty leagues of ledged shore-line that daily became entrenched by the tents and banners of hostile encampments.
Each morning, Duke Bransian awoke to his wife, gauging his mood in sharp silence.
‘Death and plague, woman!’ he barked at last, distempered by too many quandaries. ‘Why not just spit out your opinion? By the red spear of Dharkaron’s vengeance, a man could watch his parts shrivel under your hag-ridden glowering!’
Liesse pushed her raw-boned frame upright in bed and eyed the bristling jut of the beard on the pillow. ‘You would actually listen?’
‘I always listen,’ the duke said, annoyed. ‘Just hang your silly, unnatural notion, that hearing means following your orders.’
His duchess snorted with peeling contempt. ‘The day you take instruction from anyone else, we’ll be torching your corpse at your funeral!’
‘Don’t tell me again that we should have tucked tail and not ripped with bared teeth for the jugular!’ Unmoved, lounging flat amid crumpled sheets, the duke crossed his battle-scarred