pack train to relieve us…!’
En route to Karfael, the royal patrol dispatched from Avenor receives a southbound courier bearing news of Khadrim attacks deep in Westwood; warned of the terror and death newly suffered by the region’s trappers and farm hamlets, young Prince Kevor refuses safe return to West End, and claims his heir’s right to ride at the fore, alongside the field captain’s banner…
Winter 5670
The eighty-league ride up the Eltair road from Jaelot to the city of Highscarp offered every discomfort of winter travel to the tight-knit party of enchantresses summoned for audience with the new Prime. Posthouses were few and scattered, and at this season, packed to the rafters. Day or night, the heaving waves of the bay shed chill spume, whipped on the biting east wind. Progress suffered the caprice of changeable weather. Ragged clouds and fair sky warred in crazy quilt patterns, brewed into fogs and wet snowfall as the air off the warmed, southern currents of the Cildein met the ice-honed fronts from the north. A steady onslaught of storms funneled through the Skyshiel summits, howling with shrill fury down the gorges; or they raged inland off the whitecapped bay and unburdened their tropical moisture.
As tangled were the contentions chafing the oathsworn ties of Koriani loyalty. Each enchantress bound to the initiate’s purple held a different view of the Prince of Rathain’s late escape. Cadgia’s circle of seeresses accepted the failure with stoic good spirits, the event just another professional setback to crimp the cogs of higher authority. For Elaira, withdrawn into worried silence concerning the fate of two fugitives abroad in the Skyshiel wilderness, the affray kept its bittersweet edge of snatched victory. Whatever accounting awaited in Highscarp at the hand of Morriel’s successor, her heart’s love still anchored the core of her private thoughts.
Lirenda vacillated. Her porcelain-fair features flushed to rage when discussion touched upon Arithon, or else chilled to an ice-sculpture mask of balked hatred as she choked on the rags of her shame. Once past the jolting news of Morriel’s death, the disparate facts sifted down to a core of disturbing suspicions. Lirenda wrestled her reservations concerning Selidie’s abrupt accession alone, while the winter rigors of the Eltair coast rankled her fastidious taste for silk clothes and comfort and cleanliness.
The days passed like punishment: over roads that softened to muck in the hollows and open-air campsites left trampled by the uncouth livestock tethered on their way to slaughter. Those rare nights spent under a roof offered poorly washed linen, and smoking hearths, and stifling taprooms jammed with boisterous drovers, and bearded, swaggering caravan guards who played dice, roared jokes, and pinched doxies.
On a blustery morning twoscore days past solstice, the travel- worn group of enchantresses drew rein before Highscarp’s gatehouse. Lirenda was windburned and aching tired, wrapped like the rest in mantle and gloves that reeked of woodsmoke, wet horse, and the turpentine bite of the evergreen boughs that had served her as last night’s bedding. The uncivilized journey had revised her priorities. Vengeance-bent hatred of Arithon s’Ffalenn could wait on her need for a bath.
‘If you’re primed for hot water, we’re facing a setback,’ an intrusive voice broached from the sidelines.
Lirenda turned her head, fixed her smoldering gaze on Elaira, who rode with her hood blown back. The gusts played havoc with her bronze plait, streaming tendrils of flyaway hair and snagging the ends into elf locks.
Nonplussed by hot glares and glacial silences, Elaira raised her eyebrows. ‘Look. Over there.’ She pointed toward the swarm of beggars jostling for coin in the lee of Highscarp’s outer keep, most of them missing hands or a foot from mishaps working the quarries. ‘See for yourself. That’s one of our initiates giving alms at the city’s main gatehouse. She’s looking our way. What will you wager? I say the Prime’s scryers have already broken the news of our arrival. Whom do you guess they’ll call onto the carpet for the privilege of the first reprimand?’
‘You might pretend to an earnest concern.’ Lirenda’s fist tightened without thought on the rein. Her mount, in sharp protest, shook its wet crest. A spray of fine droplets snapped off its mane, laden with gravel and ice melt. ‘Brute beast!’ Lirenda blotted her face with her sleeve, then added a silken warning.
‘The new Prime may not prove so lenient toward the weakness you bring to our order.’
‘But I have no regrets,’ Elaira attacked in stripped candor. ‘If I must suffer for my part in Jaelot, the price will be well worth the outcome. Why not join the company of the damned with good cheer? At least bet that chunk of grade amethyst in your cloak brooch. If you forfeit your dignity, you’d have a stake to enliven the sordid end play.’
Yet if Lirenda envied her younger peer’s gift to find humor amid life’s adversity, the haughty set to her lips did not soften. Nor would her cynical silence relent, even as the initiate by the gatehouse abandoned her clamoring circle of beggars. Red-faced from the cold, she threaded a no-nonsense course through the traffic and accosted the sisters from Jaelot.
‘Enchantress Elaira!’ She delivered her unwelcome summons across the clattering rush of guild couriers and the tumult of oxcarts laden with ale casks and firewood. ‘You are called to appear for immediate audience before your Prime Matriarch.’
‘At least there’ll be no tortured waiting.’ Elaira reined her brown gelding aside, well braced for her hour of reckoning.
Drawn to a halt, with her mounted peers bunched into a staring knot amid the pressed flow of commerce, Lirenda waited for the message that would see her included. None came; her presence was dismissed along with the sisters ranked under Senior Cadgia.
The novice gave Elaira the street address where the new Prime had established her residence. ‘Go at once,’ she commanded. ‘You’re expected. One of the orphan boys under wardship will receive your horse in the mansion courtyard.’
A flock of gulls flew, tumultuous as tossed paper against the stirred clouds held over from the last snowstorm. Elaira’s eyes tracked them, perhaps coveting their freedom as she parted from the safe circle of her peers.
While the brave line of the bronze-haired initiate’s back disappeared into the gatehouse, Lirenda raged, her bitterness charged to sheer disbelief as further instructions were delivered to Cadgia, and a stable was appointed to provide for the company’s post horses. In obvious haste to escape the stiff gusts, the Prime’s novice messenger made closure. ‘The rest of you are asked to take lodgings at the sisterhouse. The peeress in charge will make use of your services until the Matriarch calls general assembly.’
Dealt an unprecedented, blanket dismissal, Lirenda sat dumbstruck. Around her, the chatter of her peers rang as meaningless as the incessant cries of the gulls. Unguided, her mount trailed after its fellows through the ox-drawn drays dragging slabs from the quarries, their high, iron wheels grinding over iced cobbles and past weatherworn drivers wrapped in fringed rugs, cursing every other party inbound along Highscarp’s stone causeway.
The catcalls, the pithy challenge of the guard through the wind-torn snap of the mayor’s banner arose as so much patternless noise. As an eighth-rank initiate, set apart by her years of advanced training, Lirenda felt sealed into glass-walled isolation. Her fall from administrative privileges to the meniality of charitable service seemed a punishment of nightmare proportion.
Cast beneath the lowliest scullion who had served on her parents’ estate, she might be required to nursemaid orphaned infants, or treat scabrous beggars, or spoon-feed demented old women in the poor quarter. The ignominy rankled: as a candidate set apart for prime training, she had disdained to mingle with the low-rank initiates. The banter,