LITMIR.BIZ

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this reason, I must decline Tysan’s kingship. My purpose against Arithon must stay undivided for the sake of the safety of our people.”

      The logic was unassailable. Defeat on a grand scale had shown the futility of choosing one battlefield for confrontation. The inevitable striving to forge new alliances, to restore shaken trust after broadscale ruin, then the wide-ranging effort to buy a mage-trained enemy’s downfall, must draw this prince far afield from Avenor.

      He said, “For the stability of this realm, I suggest that a regency be appointed in my name, answerable to a council of city mayors. This will serve the crown’s justice and bind Tysan into unity until the day I have an heir, grown and trained and fit beyond question for the inheritance of s’Ilessid birthright.”

      The stroke was brilliant. Havish’s ambassador noted a spark of comprehension hood the eyes of Mearn s’Brydion.

      Though the prisoner pointed out in acerbity that the realm’s caithdein held an earlier appointment to the selfsame office, but without formal ties to city government, his case was passed over. Old hatreds lay too long entrenched. Throughout the chamber came a squeaking of benches, a nodding of hats, as guarded interest eased the tensions of mayors and guild magnates. The most hardened eye for intrigue, the most shrewd mind for statecraft, must appreciate that Lysaer gave up nothing beyond the trappings of crown and title. Sovereign power would largely reside in his hands. Except townborn pride would be salved. The uneasy transition back into monarchy could proceed with grace and restraint.

      City mayors would keep their veneer of independence. By the time they left office, their successors would wear the yoke of consolidated rule as comfortably as an old shoe.

      “We shall have a new order, tailored for this time of need. Past charter law forbids the cruelty of maiming. And this is Avenor, where my dominion is not in dispute.” Lysaer stepped to the edge of the dais, pale as lit flame against oncoming storm as clouds choked the sky past the casement. Whether his gifted powers of light touched his aura, or whether his gold trim and diamonds shimmered in unquiet reflection, the effect was magnificence unveiled.

      The ambassador from Havish forced himself to look away from the brilliance, the drawing pull of a gifted man’s charisma, as the prince’s fired, clear diction pronounced final sentence upon the clan archer.

      “Here is your fate, by my word as s’Ilessid. Your hand shed no blood. But an ultimatum against me was tendered by your caithdein, Lord Maenol s’Gannley. For that, you go free as my spokesman. My safe conduct will see you outside the city gates. Tell Maenol this: he may come to Avenor before the spring equinox and present himself before me on bent knee to beg pardon. Let him swear fealty in behalf of his clan chieftains, and no one suffers redress. But if he refuses, should he declare open war, I will enact sanctions in reprisal for treason against all the people of your clans.”

      A murmur swelled from the benches, slammed still by Lysaer’s brisk shout. “Hear the rest! I have funds at hand to rebuild the eastshore trade fleet. Every galley and vessel which burned in my service at Minderl Bay will be replaced at Avenor’s expense. I promise that every merchant who receives restitution will suffer no more raids at sea. The Master of Shadow and his minions will think twice about attacking with fire, since the newly launched ships shall be manned at the oar by chained convicts. Condemned men fairly sentenced as Arithon’s collaborators, and as of this hour, take warning: Maenol’s own people, if he fails to bind his clansmen under my banner to take arms against Arithon of Rathain.”

      To the headhunters’ stiff-backed dismay, Lysaer granted swift reassurance. “Bounties will not be repealed for renegade clan scalps. But if Maenol s’Gannley refuses his allegiance, double coin will be tendered for each male barbarian captured and brought in alive.”

      For a moment, as if deafened by a thunderclap, the clan archer did not move. Then he drew breath like a rip through strained cloth and gave answer in blazing contempt. “If any small blessing can be prised out of tragedy, I thank Ath my Lady Maenalle never lived to see this. I will return to her grandson, caithdein of this realm, and tell him you threaten us with slavery.”

      Nothing more did he say as his bonds were released, and guardsmen were dispatched to see him on his way through the gates.

      The ambassador from Havish used the confusion to slip through the ranks of halberdiers. Outside in the corridor, he ducked into a window niche, while the sweat dewed his temples and curled the short hairs of his beard. This was not his fight. And yet, even still, his mind seemed loath to relinquish the pull of Lysaer’s seductive delivery.

      The prince owned a terrifying power of conviction. Thirty thousand lives gone and wasted in Vastmark had left his dedication unshaken. Nor would his adherents awaken and see sense, tied to his need as they were through inherited blinders of prejudice.

      The tramp of the men-at-arms and the clansman they escorted dwindled, then faded away beyond hearing. Outside, white on gray, new snow dusted downward. The wind’s biting cold seemed to seep through the casement and strike an unmerciful ache in the heart. The ambassador shook off the memory of Mearn s’Brydion’s thin features, seething in stifled restraint, his clanborn outrage no doubt throttled silent by some stricture from his brother, the duke.

      Worn from the effort of leashing his own temper, the ambassador from Havish shook out his linen cuff and blotted his dampened face. The word he must bear home to his liege boded ill.

      On both sides, the corridor was deserted, its white marble arches bathed chilly silver by stormlight. Lysaer’s voice carried through the opened door in fiery address to his council. “We are gathered here today to begin the long work of uniting all kingdoms against the Master of Shadow. Given his acts of evil, there exists no moral compromise. Our task will not ease until no dwelling remains on this continent where ignorance will lend him shelter. We are come, in this hour, to found an alliance to act against terror and darkness.”

      Steps pattered across the council room as someone inside moved to remedy the door left ajar. Sickened, tired, afraid for the future and anxious to embark on his downcoast run back to Havish, King Eldir’s ambassador hastened away, too burdened to risk hearing more.

       Stag Hunt

      Spring 5648

      Two months after Lysaer s’Ilessid leveled charges of dark sorcery against Arithon s’Ffalenn, the horror instilled by the ruin of the war host had magnified itself into rumors and uneasy fear. Households in mourning for those fallen on the field did not celebrate the festivals. Avenor seemed engrossed by industry, as men of war paid in gold for new swords and laid avid plans to sign on recruits to bolster their decimated garrison.

      At least one free spirit inside city walls chafed at the endless, long councils. Mearn s’Brydion, the rakish youngest brother of the clanborn Duke of Alestron, slammed the door from his quarters and strode into the ice melt which pooled the cobblestone street. Today, the state garments laid out by his servants had been ditched for a briar-scarred set of worn leathers. In wild joy gloved over simmering temper, he snapped in the disapproving faces of his servants, “Let Prince Lysaer’s stool-sitting councilmen share their pompous hot wind amongst themselves.”

      This morning, he would fare out hunting for pleasure, and bedamned to his current assignment as the douce representative of his family.

      The gray, weeping mists wadded over the battlements failed to dampen his fired mood. Draped on Mearn’s shoulder like a desertman’s blanket, the scarlet horsecloth with the s’Brydion blazon threw a splash of sharp color against the drab dress of guild craftsmen who hurried, sleepy-eyed, to their shops. The pair of brindle staghounds just liberated from the kennel yapped at his feet, muddied to the belly from their bowling play through the puddles.

      Mearn’s laconic, off-key whistles scarcely checked their exuberance. His hounds charged amok, tails slashing, to disgruntle what lay in their path. The racket raised Avenor’s rich matrons from sleep. Not a few howled complaint from cracked shutters. Mearn laughed. While geese honked, and chickens

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