Stormed Fortress: Fifth Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts

      Despite the late hour, Bransian’s expectation burned incandescent as he addressed the captive delegation. ‘Do you bring us news of Prince Arithon? Has he changed heart? By Dharkaron’s thrown Spear, if he has, we have a need that commands our survival.’

      Dakar broke that hope quickly. ‘No change, my lord. I am Fellowship-sent, bearing a mandate from Melhalla’s caithdein. Rathain’s crown must stay clear of your personal blood-bath. We have come instead to pull Jeynsa out of here.’

      ‘Did you, by Ath?’ Liesse tucked worn fingers to a gleam of pearl rings. ‘And how will you propose to do this against the young lady’s free will?’

      Sidir folded his arms, the fresh scars on his wrists shining baleful under the flame-light. ‘You’re going to back her against us?’ He skirted the indelicate brunt, that to try would defy charter law, by disregard of a crown steward’s edict.

      ‘It’s our children’s lives and s’Brydion heritage,’ Liesse stated, blunt, while the red-rimmed, dark eyes of Sindelle observed with a glass-brittle calm that would shatter reason.

      ‘You can’t stop us,’ the bereaved woman attacked. ‘Nor can Melhalla’s long arm reach us, now. Dare you break your own code, and censure us with the use of unbridled spellcraft?’

      ‘Won’t, rather,’ snapped Dakar, looking rumpled and flustered, the grey streaks grown prominent in his cinnamon hair. Strong spells and prolonged use of mage-sight had drained him. The appalling effort he required to think fast undid his remaining resource. ‘There are limits. The ethics I follow mean something more than your use, for political convenience.’

      ‘Expediency,’ Sevrand drawled, insolent. He lounged back, his main gauche drawn to rout dirt from beneath a ripped thumbnail. ‘Tear us down from within, you’ll just feed the lunatic madness of Lysaer’s forsaken Alliance.’ A shark’s grin split his beard as he snicked his steel back into its well-oiled sheath. ‘Jeynsa’s dug in her heels. That point’s uncontested. How can you think you’ll stop Arithon?’

      Which was the bone in the meat of the unwelcome challenge to start with. Duke Bransian watched, alert as the coiled adder, to see who would choose to flinch first.

      There, tension hung, to Elaira’s wise silence, and Sidir’s almost seamlessly self-contained rage.

      The candles streamed, choked by untrimmed wicks, while the curtains hung limp in the stillness. Everyone sweated, while the freshened breeze off the harbour whined and buffeted at the latched casements.

      Dakar fought to stay upright. The airless room had started to spin. He swayed, bedazzled by heraldic bulls, heads lowered to charge in rash fury.

      Sidir spoke, finally, with the stark dignity that had snap-frozen fights between Halwythwood’s proud chieftains. ‘One can hope, with a Fellowship spellbinder present, that Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn might not choose to stoop to the part of a nose-led sacrifice.’

      Bransian leaned forward. ‘And the woman, Elaira? What is her interest?’

      ‘She’s a schooled healer,’ Sidir said without blinking. ‘I’m amazed that you’d brush off three Sorcerers’ counsel. Stay this course through, and you’ll need to beg Arithon’s good graces! Though as his liegeman, I’d venture to caution. Your space for apology rests on thin ice.’

      ‘We should run like a forest-born squirrel for a tree?’ Sevrand grinned in contempt. ‘Clansman, for shame! You’ve sent your cowardly mind ahead of your carcass to Sithaer!’

      Liesse interrupted, to stop slanging abuse. ‘Do we even know where among Dharkaron’s damned your Master of Shadow happens to be?’

      ‘Dakar does,’ Sindelle reminded with fixated focus.

      Sevrand slapped the boards, rocked by cynical laughter. ‘Well in that case, we’re sunk! Did you look at your prophet? He’s sloshed in his chair. How much liquor did you have to slug into him to raise the guts for this interview? By the list to his posture, I’d give him an hour before he keels over comatose.’

      Sidir’s pale eyes narrowed. He dared make no move: not since a chopped signal from Duke Bransian had summoned the men-at-arms in from the ward-room. Weaponless, the Companion had no leverage to argue, as Dakar was dragged from his chair.

      Nor could the spellbinder help himself. His overtaxed faculties slid him towards collapse. The fevered skin and reeling faintness of back-lash left him saucer-eyed as an owl, dazzled half-blind in the candlelight.

      ‘Sober him, then!’ Elaira jabbed back. ‘Find out what you’ve earned, by your efforts.’

      Yet even that withering satire failed. The duchess gave the barest shake of her head: in warning, Liesse set the urgent example. Bale-fire burned behind her duke’s eyes. Since Keldmar’s death, her husband’s temper had frayed beyond reach of appeasement.

      ‘Stay, Sidir!’ Dakar mumbled. Manhandled upright, he raised no fight as he was dragged to the centre of the carpet. His legs failed him at once. He sat there, unstrung, a mound of limp russet, eyes shut and round features slackened. His brosy, alcoholic’s complexion completed the picture of witless beatitude.

      Bransian shouted. ‘Daelion forfend! You’re a barrel of sops! Left to yourself, I doubt you’d be competent shoved up against the eighth gate of Sithaer!’

      Patience was absent. The garrison remedy to shake a drunk out of stupor sent a man to the spring cellar for a filled bucket. The rich carpet was soon puddled with ice melt. Dakar dripped, curled up in a shivering lump. Pink and coughing, he glared daggers at his tormentors.

      The s’Brydion paused for no civilized apology; no solicitous offer of blankets.

      The moment the water ran out of his ears, Dakar was accosted by Bransian’s demand for Prince Arithon’s location.

      ‘How should I know?’ The spellbinder screwed his eyes shut, trusting Sidir to keep sense and curb the justified outrage that could only spur on the duke’s cruelty. In tried forbearance, the Mad Prophet mocked, ‘Who trusts a libertine? By the time the Master of Shadow confides in me, everyone else has forgotten.’

      Sevrand stood and up-ended the sloshing dregs over his victim’s soaked head. ‘If you don’t know, you wallowing skinful, then find him. We have no clue where to look, and no liberty! Nobody’s heard from your ingrate liege since the hour he walked out of our hall and abandoned us.’