Peril’s Gate. Janny WurtsЧитать онлайн книгу.
with tapestries in glowing Narms dyes. Dried lavender wafted delicate scent from elegant, cloisonné vases. The space appeared empty. Lirenda shed her mud-splashed mantle by the entry, startled by an unexpected movement in the corner as another travel-stained figure whirled to face the rustle of wool.
‘You!’ gasped Elaira. Tension sharpened her carriage. ‘Are you here to make certain I don’t say too much? Or shall we agree to be allies in adversity?’
Lirenda draped her stained cloak on a chairback, her eyes the pale amber of poured whiskey. ‘Allies,’ she responded, begrudging acknowledgment that Arithon s’Ffalenn had spun a common thread between their disparate stations. ‘You don’t trust me, I see. To prove my sincerity, I’ll offer a warning. Throughout your audience, behave exactly as though you were examined by Morriel herself.’
Elaira weighed this through a pregnant pause, her level brows hooked to perplexity. ‘Should such a threat frighten me?’ In her few past encounters, the deceased Prime Matriarch had treated her with fairness, and at times a grandmotherly sympathy.
No chance remained to test Lirenda’s statement. The inner doors opened, and a liveried, blond page boy called out in formal summons.
Elaira squared her shoulders. Her snagged plait an auburn flame down her back, she clasped the bronze buttons sewn for luck into the lining of her mantle, then strode resolute through the doorway. She did not glance behind as Lirenda ran roughshod over protocol and followed her.
Gloom enfolded the hammer-beamed chamber beyond. The bow windows with their breathtaking view of the bay were curtained in night-colored velvet. Nicked to gold by the flame of beeswax candles, velvet upholstery and damascened silk braid glinted from corners and lover’s nooks. The furnishings were costly southern imports of Vhalzein lacquer and ebony. Carved tables and chairs wore graceful wreaths and the beardless faces of dryads. The carpets, with their twisted fringe borders, were the masterworks of skilled Morvain craftsmen. Glass and silver candlestands showed Paravian workmanship, eight centuries old, and exquisitely rare. Brought up to appreciate beautiful things, Lirenda curbed her wandering eyes and locked glances with the new Prime.
Elaira had already curtseyed to the floor. Lirenda eschewed the same rite of obeisance, instead giving the seated Matriarch on the dais her insolent, tight-focused survey.
Selidie wore silk the cream and lavender of spring irises, her supple, young limbs arranged in the austerity of a lion-bossed chair. The Prime’s mantle of purple velvet with its nine bands of office had been pinned at her neck with a brooch of red gold and amethyst. Her pale, corn-silk hair was clasped in mother-of-pearl combs, not the diamond pins Morriel had favored. No question remained that she wielded the powers invested with the Matriarch’s office. Her eyes watched all that moved, a sustained, nerveless focus as intent as polished steel rivets. A matched pair of ebony stands at her feet wore masked coverings, the ritual patterns of embroidered silk used to veil major focus stones. Flanking these, supported on beaten-ring tripods, were seven matched spheres of clear quartz attuned to the sixfold sigil for scrying.
Lirenda let silent seconds elapse before speaking the traditional statement of service.
Prime Selidie replied in a throaty, clipped alto, stripped of the sweet lisp affected before her whirlwind ascent to high office. ‘Did you think I’d be amazed by your uninvited entry? My page has already set out a chair. You will sit. Keep silent until my interview is done, and initiate Elaira receives disposition and final dismissal.’
A prime’s direct order demanded obedience. Lirenda accepted the chair, her chilled hands clasped in her lap. Elaira was left standing alone before the dais, defenseless beneath the stripping regard of those surgically measuring gray eyes.
‘Come forward,’ Prime Selidie commanded. ‘We are private.’ Yet if no ranking Senior attended her wearing the veils of Ceremonial Inquisitor, the exchange promised the razor-edged tension of an inquiry nonetheless. The outcome might easily invoke a trial, bearing stakes severe as the supreme penalty.
The victim must wait in unflinching subservience while her Matriarch posed the first questions.
‘You are called to serve because Arithon s’Ffalenn is still at large on the continent.’ Selidie paused, subtle in expectation.
Elaira gave away nothing, her calm stance itself a statement of blistering courage.
‘There are factions marching who seek his death. You don’t wonder how he fares in adversity?’ Selidie leaned forward, extended an almond-fair hand, and tapped the crystalline arc of quartz spheres in sequence one after another. Power surged at her touch, waking the sigils of binding. The scrying stones flashed like turned mirrors with light, then resolved to display scenes of tight-focused color and movement.
Even from the vantage of her seat, Lirenda recognized the streaming banners of town garrisons set on winter march across the bleak territory of Rathain. Etarra’s exemplary zeal had responded with eight field companies five hundred strong. Burdened with massive supply trains, slowed by freezing storms, their creeping progress advanced through the desolate terrain of Daon Ramon Barrens.
Another quartz showed Darkling’s militia, armed men and laden mountain ponies breasting the chest-high drifts toward the foothills and the vale of the Severnir. The crystal adjacent displayed Morvain’s bands of veteran headhunters moving apace through the deep glens of Halwythwood, where startled deer fled before them. Beyond all question, the three forces marched to a unified purpose.
‘Your prince faces bad odds.’ Selidie tapped the fourth quartz in its stand. That one aroused to an actinic flash: spurred on by no less than Lysaer himself, Narms fielded a smaller, fast-moving force under the sunwheel standard. They marched the old way through Caith-al-Caen, while the raised blast of Lysaer’s gift of light dispelled the gossamer forms of the unicorns’ memories like so much torched silk before them.
‘The Alliance has raised the hue and cry, as you see. They converge on Ithamon, if trust can be placed in an estimation based on direction.’ Selidie flicked the next-to-the-last sphere to life, unveiling the trials of Jaelot’s pursuit through the haunted pass of the Baiyen. ‘Why should Prince Arithon seek haven, do you think, in the ruin of his ancestral seat?’
Again, silence answered. Chin lifted, eyes wide, Elaira stood in squared quiet, the weight of the mantle she had not removed almost masking her small tremors of dread. Surprised to unwonted admiration, Lirenda locked clammy fingers and awaited the next step in this perilous testing of wills.
Prime Selidie stroked the last quartz in line with the chisel-point tip of her fingernail. ‘Dakar the Mad Prophet is no longer free to play watchdog and royal protector.’ The glass polish reflected her immaculate hand, as well as the travel-stained initiate held trapped in the lucent spill of candlelight. ‘Elaira?’ Selidie cajoled with a cat’s concentration. ‘We know that the Master of Shadow is injured. When he raves, he tends to get careless.’
‘He mentions my name?’ Elaira provoked in the faintest flush of first anger. She had little tolerance for playing the mouse before figures of higher authority. ‘Or how else could you garner the foothold to find him?’
Selidie straightened, the last quartz left blank. ‘He’s the stepchild of cleverness, just as you were never a creature of subtlety.’ Fine silk slithered like the whisper of ghosts as she whisked off the coverings that veiled the faceted jewels on the stands at her feet.
The first spat the glacial glimmer of pressed ice, no less than the Skyron aquamarine. The other, a faceted amethyst sphere, breathed an aura to raise the short hairs at the nape. Its surface seemed to drink in the light. Spindled glints at its heart flared to restless violet, alive with sullen rage and treacherous intelligence. Even from safe remove to one side, Lirenda wrestled the fear raised by the unshielded presence of the Great Waystone.
Elaira swallowed, the rough flush left by wind drained into chalky pallor. She would beg no reprieve. Facing the instruments of terrible, raw power that could strip her mind of free will, she managed the fiber to stop shaking. Straight in defiance, she transferred a glare like an equinox gale on the