escape this time in deepwater ships. No. You will catch him landlocked and vulnerable.’ The diviner-priest hovered over his pendulum and map, consumed by the command of his sovereign to glean every detail he could from his art. ‘Since landfall in Jaelot, the Master of Shadow has apparently turned inland. He’s cutting a path through the Skyshiel foothills, on an angle just north of the city.’
‘You know of the forbidden road that leads through that country into Daon Ramon Barrens?’ Sulfin Evend supplied. ‘Baiyen Gap was the ancient name for the pass. Copies of early Second Age record show the Paravian way running straight to Ithamon as the crow flies.’
While the priest rinsed and dried his paraphernalia, the rawboned headhunter showed his contempt. ‘There’s no clan presence there. The site is a ruin. Why would the Spinner of Darkness be bound into such desolate territory?’
Lysaer tapped the parchment where the line of the Severnir’s dry gulch snaked south toward Daenfal Lake. ‘Don’t for a second misjudge this fiendish creature’s resourcefulness. He knows of the ensorcelments laid into the stone watch towers that stand whole amid those smashed revetments. Who can guess what evil may spring from his wiles? What if he intends to lay claim to the site and rebuild the crown seat of his forebears?’
‘That’s no pleasant thought,’ Sulfin Evend allowed, his lean features peaked to hawkish interest. ‘Those towers outlasted the assault of the rebellion. Legend holds that outsiders still need a blood prince’s word to unkey the wards for admittance. The s’Ffalenn defenders besieged there in the past were said to starve to a man, their bones picked by ravens behind unbreached gates. If the Master of Shadow restores the old fortress, he could bid to revive the earth magic. We might see a canker set into our midst that could cost us dear to rout out.’
The weasel-faced captain with the axe at his belt slapped his thigh to a rasp of steel mail. ‘Then we stop him. Cut off his access before he can reach his objective.’
Narms’s mayor set flat palms on the trestle to brace up his spine in objection. ‘It’s deep winter,’ he argued. ‘No mounted courier can bear word to the east fast enough to make any difference. Nor can armed troops sustain a forced march that far overland without supply lines.’
Lysaer s’Ilessid straightened up from the map, his golden hair hazed in low light like a nimbus. His regard felt like touching live embers bare-handed, or staring too long at the sun. ‘When else would the minion of darkness seek foothold, but amid the cruel hardship of winter?’
The mayor lacked words. He could not sustain that attentive regard, or such powerfully riveted sincerity.
‘Forgive me,’ said Lysaer. Recalled to the fact he conversed with a man outside his accustomed circle, he gentled the blaze of his majesty. ‘Of course, you would fret for your people of Narms.’ His smile was magnetic. ‘Put aside all such fear. Your town will be vigorously defended.’ On his feet, incandescent with purpose, he was a male form stamped from foil and light, his charisma too bright to seem human. ‘We’ve prepared well for this hour of trial. The faithful will march on the barrens and rise above inconvenience. Terrain and cold weather can be overcome. No foul tactic from Halwythwood’s barbarians will defer the arm of the Light’s righteous justice.’
The mayor licked dry lips. ‘I have no seasoned men-at-arms here to offer. Only those hardened few headhunters who lay over in south quarter lodgings until spring.’
Yet even the field-tested courage of such men balked at crossing the haunted vales of Daon Ramon. The woodland barbarians themselves gave wide berth to the blessed ground at Caith-al-Caen. Nor did men tread the ancient Paravian road which passed through the ruined heart of Ithamon. At the moon’s full phase, and under her darkened new face, the eerie, silver-point ghosts of the unicorns galloped in silenced passage. Their dead were still seen to pace under starlight. Ethereal spirits of departed Athlien danced in the change of the seasons, and along the avenue of hallowed standing stones stitched across Daon Ramon, the east wind sang as if speaking.
‘We’ll face a more brutal reckoning than old haunts, should the s’Ffalenn bastard establish a presence at Ithamon.’ Sulfin Evend shifted his raptor’s glance to the lanky sunwheel diviner. ‘How soon can you contact the priests of the Light stationed at Etarra and Morvain? Both cities keep garrisons prepared for fast summons. We can march eighteen companies of strike troops due east, and mount twice that number from Etarra. We’ll still be hard-pressed. To cordon Ithamon and crush Red-beard’s war bands, we need our best men called to arms damn well yesterday!’
The diviner knotted his weight and chain between restless, bird-boned fingers. ‘Word can be sent on the wings of a prayer ritual, or faster yet by the will of his divine Grace.’
‘I’ll handle this personally,’ snapped Lysaer s’Ilessid. His vehemence spat glints off gold braid and diamonds as he cut off a burly officer’s objection. ‘By the charge of truth I’m invested to uphold, I’ll suffer no minion of evil to lay his fell shadow on the land.’
Driven in dazzling, prideful magnificence, the prince clasped the Mayor of Narms by the shoulder. ‘My chosen are dedicated, trained, and relentless in their commitment to uphold the Alliance of Light. Be assured of my pledge to secure your deliverance. Nothing will stand in the way of my charge to take down the Spinner of Darkness. From Narms, we’ll require horses, fast couriers, and the skilled guidance of your veteran headhunters. If the Master of Shadow is to be brought down, every fighting man you have with experience in the barrens must lend his unstinting effort.’
Few men could withstand the imperative fire of Lysaer’s intimate company. Those candid blue eyes saw too far into the heart, lucid with a too powerfully seductive perception. Swept beyond memory of his promise to his wife, the Mayor of Narms bowed in unreserved acquiescence. ‘Prince Exalted, is there nothing my household can offer in return to grant you ease or refreshment?’
Lysaer s’Ilessid released his sure grip, warmed into touching gratitude. ‘You can give me the use of a private room, and no interruptions for an hour.’
Winter 5670
High Priest
Dedicated to his post in far-distant Tysan, Cerebeld, High Priest of the Light, was a disciplined early riser. Candles burned in his chamber before the glimmer of daybreak lit the roofs of Avenor the colors of pewter and poured lead. For the watch, shivering through the bitter misery of the night, the carmine glow from the priest’s tower windows infallibly signaled the final hour before dawn. The taciturn pair of novices who attended his eminence had learned not to trouble his solitude. Cerebeld refused to have servants assist with his dress. He donned his layered white robes on arising, and arranged the seven roped chains of high office. Washed, face and hands, in the chill basin filled for his use the past evening, he followed his rigid habit of keeping devotions until after sunrise. None dared cross his threshold before his sharp clap summoned the hot bread he preferred for his breakfast.
No aspirant who demanded an earlier audience would be admitted into his presence. The novices turned petitioners away regardless of rank, no matter their reason or urgency.
Yet predawn on this day, six men-at-arms clad in royal blue tabards with the eight-point gold star of Tysan delivered an irresistible force of persuasion. The steel-strapped oak door to Cerebeld’s chamber crashed back. The lead pair held the novices pinned to the wall, their mailed gauntlets and battle-trained strength overriding the howled chorus of protest. The ruffian in front still brandished the mace just used to mangle the door latch. With a flash of white teeth, the burly henchman who had rammed the locked panel refused any grace of apology. He offered his arm, inviting someone else poised in the stairwell across the High Priest’s breached threshold.
A suave power who matched brute force with calculation, Cerebeld arose from the sunwheel cushion that enthroned him in meditation. He knew who had come. With Prince Lysaer away on campaign in the east, only one voice dared command the elite royal guard from the garrison.
‘Her Grace, the Princess of Tysan,’