a treaty with High Earl Barach that establishes fair law and brings stable peace with the clans of Rathain.
—5691 First Book of Canon Law and True Sect law is established at Erdane by the True Sect priests.
—5867 Drake War fought to a standstill by Fellowship Sorcerers at Penstair.
—5902 Treaty signed between True Sect zealots in Tysan and the Crown of Havish establishes a tenuous accord, to expire upon the death of the reigning queen.
Initiate’s Trial
—5922 Last free wraith from Marak is redeemed, and Arithon’s stay of execution is forfeit. On that hour, Teylia arranges for his release, without any of his prior memories, which alters him enough that the Koriathain cannot track him.
—Asandir relinquishes charge of Arithon’s fate back to the Prime Matriarch in a formal audience held at Whitehold, where he swears the Fellowship of Seven to a binding of nonintervention.
—The Prime Matriarch’s death spell to destroy Arithon through a blood binding backfires and claims Teylia’s life in his stead, leaving Arithon as a fugitive on his own devices.
—Arithon takes refuge with Tarens and his family on a croft near Kelsing in Tysan.
—Dakar is summarily discharged as a Fellowship apprentice and evicted from Althain Tower.
—Elaira sets off to seek the Biedar crone and becomes bearer of a flint knife with arcane properties.
—Asandir swears Daliana sen Evend to Lysaer’s service to curb the effects of the Mistwraith’s curse.
—5922–5923 True Sect priests raid the crofters’ home under suspicion they harbour a heretic, and Tarens kills the examiner. He and Arithon take flight under close-pressed pursuit into Caithwood.
—5923 Arithon wakens the wardings of Caithwood to evade an invasion by hostile pursuit, blending ancient knowledge of the Paravians, the Fellowship Sorcerers, and his bard’s arts.
—A resonant intersection in time/space allows High Earl Jieret to bequeath his memories to Tarens.
—A plot by Koriathain and True Sect priests triggers the Mistwraith’s curse, causing Lysaer to abdicate the mayor’s seat at Etarra, join the True Sect cause, and lead the Light’s invasion of Havish.
—A bold move by three clan children: Siantra s’Idir, Khadrien, and Esfand s’Valerient steal the sword Alithiel and set off to seek Prince Arithon.
—Tarens falls out with Arithon after a narrow escape from the True Sect at Torwent. The pair part company, Tarens to escort a band of refugees to safe haven with the High King of Havish at Fiaduwynne, and Arithon to take flight eastward, where he hides in plain sight as a healer in the True Sect war host.
—The great drake, Seshkrozchiel, goes into hibernation, and Luhaine, the Fellowship colleague who is still discorporate and therefore able to survive, assumes the burden of Davien’s bargain.
—Battle of Lithmarin: The Hatchet’s campaign to defeat the crown of Havish and seize Arithon sweeps across Lanshire, pinning Arithon against the shores of Lithmarin. A heroic stand by Havish’s war band wins the opening for Arithon’s escape, but the activation of the Crown Jewels and the land’s attuned power come at the tragic price of High King Gestry’s death.
—An impulsive move: Siantra, Esfand, and Khadrien are under Tarens’s escort home when Khadrien tries to borrow Asandir’s horse to deliver the sword Alithiel to Prince Arithon, who is in flight. The boy gets separated from his companions on the battlefield, and is ignominiously thrown, leaving him unhurt but on foot.
—The loose horse is subsequently caught by Arithon, and the sword it carries is recovered while he flees over the border of Melhalla.
—Dakar and Daliana remove Lysaer from the field at Lithmarin while the war host is still dazed and spirit him away into the barrens of Scarpdale.
Destiny’s Conflict
The season is spring in Third Age Year 5923
| Late Spring 5923 | Stone as my impartial witness, behold! The Terms of the Fellowship’s stay of execution for Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn are withdrawn. Crown debt to Rathain, sworn at Athir, is confirmed. Koriathain are freed to determine his Grace’s fate, henceforward. —Asandir’s oath of nonintervention witnessed in stone at Whitehold Third Age Year 5922 |
Lysaer awoke, groggy, his nostrils clogged with the parched taint of volcanic rocks and blown sulphur. His reflexive cough raised an aching complaint from cramped limbs. He lay bound hand and foot. His stubbled cheek rested against the rough boards of a wagon-bed, splotched by old blood-stains and sliced by the shadows cast by a sturdy, spoked wheel. Dizzy and sick, left with the disjointed recall of a battle, Lysaer squinted through glare and identified the transport the surgeons’ corps sent to move the Light’s wounded.
Which made no sense. He had sustained no injury. Lashed in discomfort, he stirred, annoyed, then lifted his head, furious enough to lambaste the healer who had miscalled his condition. But the wagon loomed empty. No other casualties sprawled, strapped into splints or field bandages. His confused survey met only burlap sacks of provisions, two barrels of ale seared with Cainford tax brands, and a crate of bottled brandy, then the knotted leads fixed to five head of horseflesh, hitched to the cargo rings meant to lash field tents.
Evidently, the dray was not hauling the surgeon’s gear in the baggage train. Lysaer heard no chatter, no gossiping wash-women. The baked air was not clouded with dust from the lance companies’ ranks or popped by the whip-cracks of the war host’s outriders. The vehicle was parked in full sun, in a desert without habitation.
Lysaer gritted his teeth. He tried to roll over, jerked against tight restraint. Whoever bound him also had trussed his frame in oiled canvas. Which extreme measure suggested the horror of madness inflicted by Desh-thiere’s curse, and far worse: the recall of a shameful act, fraught with pain sufficient to break him.
He had killed again, wantonly mass murdered innocents in an act beyond human conscience.
The coward in him preferred not to bear what could never be reconciled. Thousands of times, over hundreds of years, the voice of self-censure condemned him: better he died than survive to fall prey to the next wretched bout of insanity. Logic destroyed the weakness of delusion, that he ever had owned the brute will to defeat the forces that rode him.
Lysaer tested his bonds with a useless tug. Strap leather and rope reinforced with wrapped wire redoubled his crushing despair. Someone’s pitiless foresight already had thwarted the pitch of his desperation. Conjured light could not singe him free. Not without crippling damage to both hands and feet, or risk of igniting the oil-soaked tarp bundled over him. Without recourse, he breathed, while the midday sun scorched the air into ripples. Only pride stifled his frustrated groan.
Lysaer raised his chin. Plagued by a throbbing headache, he surveyed his surroundings to see whose mishandling imposed the ignominy.
Nothing met his eye past the wagon’s edge. Just barren ground: an unbroken flatland of parched lava and gravel. The stabbing flash of flecked mica melted seamlessly into the shimmer of heat-waves. Yet he was not alone. Two of his captors locked horns, beyond view, with a grainy voice Lysaer recognized as Dakar’s shouting over the other’s obstinate protest. “No. That would get us fricassied for betrayal the instant he starts