Traitor's Knot (44 page)

‘Sithaer! You're a gelding,' she said to his teeth.

Arithon laughed. ‘Not yet. Though I'm wary if you keep this up, your husband will finish the question.'

‘I'm handfasted, not married.' Glendien eyed his dishevelled hair and flushed skin, moved a sultry hip, and backed off him. ‘Until tomorrow. Then I'll be wed. You could be left with a lifetime's regret. Why sweat in your dreams for the missed opportunity?'

‘Regret?' Arithon blotted his torn lip, saw with distaste that his cuffs were untied, and leaned back upon his tucked forearms. ‘That's an interesting word. Let's see which of the pair of us wears it.'

He looked at her, then. Masterbard, sorcerer, his prolonged survey was no less than a flaying experience. He said presently, ‘Why do you want Kyrialt's blade at my throat?'

She raked him with her brilliant, topaz eyes. ‘Where did you get your scars? If you want a look at my heart, you must pay. One for one, we'll trade knifing answers.'

If her quick stab had cut him, he would not let that show. As fiercely as she could rope men to heel, Glendien must realize there would be no governing this one. His quiet would not release, would not dismiss, but could only shatter the pain she held at the vibrating core of her.

Then he spoke. ‘Very well. I'll disarm yours first. You are jealous; no, afraid.'

Not cruel at all, that insight tore through every tight shield and presumption. ‘Terrified, in fact,' said Arithon s'Ffalenn, ‘that your bridegroom might choose to support me.'

‘Not might.' Glendien flung back her wild banner of hair, too proud to hide her contempt. ‘Your sort of service will see him cut dead. Prince of Bones. Master of Carrion. No price I could pay is worth risking the father I've chosen to sire my children.'

Arithon moved. Wind stirred his dark hair as he pushed straight, his awareness still locked upon her. ‘You had a parent who died in Vastmark? A father, perhaps?' The truth of his guess caught her breath. As though he might strike, she flinched from him.

‘I'm sorry,' Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn said. The words were sincere. If she wanted to hate, he reft even that poison from her. ‘My lady, I once spurned
Erlien's goodwill and his ruler's just pride in a badly failed effort to spare Shand its toll of clan losses.'

Glendien spun away, her flame hair a curtain to hide the taut fingers pressed to her face. When her shoulders shook, Rathain's prince made no move to console. He would not step forward, or touch her.

The harsh moment passed. When she moved again, her natural grace was a passionate wine, self-contained now, and no harlot's. ‘Spare me my husband,' she begged.

Arithon studied her. Washed in the softened shade of the pines, the blood on his face a violation, he seemed woven into the natural setting, a presence both touched and untouchable.

‘Very well.' He presented his back, quick fingers busy restoring his rifled cuff-ties. ‘My lady, return to the camp.'

‘Go now!' Glendien's fury resurged. ‘What is left settled between us? Kyrialt's honour will not let him back down! He will fight and die for this wretched incursion your enemies are raising to exterminate our old blood lines!'

He was patient. ‘Then make your cause stronger. Take your chance. Rip your shirt front. Since seduction won't work, you might change your story. Insist that you pushed off
my
assault, and I can swear not to gainsay that. Play my pride for your ends, I've none left to save. But realize, Glendien. When your man Kyrialt calls me to fight, I will not draw my steel against him.'

Minute to minute, poised between choice, she stood trapped by her rooted uncertainty. He listened. The earth turned, and the pines rustled to the humid play of the sea-breeze. At last, wrapped amid the deep web of his mage-sense, Arithon heard Glendien move.

The slide of fabric against her young skin burned his heart, then the following sound, of tearing cloth, cut him to shivering anguish. He held himself still, but for the unfinished, small moves, as he tied up his last, unstrung laces. He stayed faced away as she walked to the stream-bank, doused her hands, and perhaps, washed her face. Her tears still fell, anyway. Those fine, topaz eyes were now red-rimmed with grief.

Arithon waited. Her step on the fallen carpet of needles made almost no sound as she closed on him. Her fingers reached out, touched his, cold and dripping. Into his hand, she pressed the shorn swatch from her shirt, soaked in the brook as a compress.

‘For your cuts,' murmured Glendien, a wretched apology. ‘I was wrong. You are a prince more than worthy of Kyrialt's loyalty' There, she paused.

Arithon remained suspended between thought. His slight frame was weaponless, unguarded, alone. The patriarch pine-trees soared upwards, and dwarfed him. His calm held no peace, but seemed strung on a wire, grimly held from one breath to the next. He wished her gone, while the heat hammered down, weighting the resinous air to pressed glass.

‘Please go,' he said presently. ‘Too long a delay would be dangerously unwise.'

Clan law in his case would be swift and merciless, if in fact, he appeared to have forced her.

Glendien stayed frozen. The saving course she had cold-bloodedly plotted had turned viciously in the hand. A man she did not know, had seen as a pitiless, warmongering threat, had just offered his priceless integrity to underwrite Kyrialt's safety. Not without care, never without scruple: the misery she experienced was not mirrored, but drowned behind his meticulous silence.

Faced away, the stillness in him as deep as the pines he now used as his anchor against a most vicious onslaught of forerunning prescience, Arithon sheltered behind his hard-leashed quiet. He would not augment pain; not have the young woman who battled to escape a harsh fate understand the scope of his initiate perception.

That future upon future, the range of probabilities cast themselves outwards like ripples upon windless water.
For in fact, her desperation held real foundation.
Kyrialt was as a living flame, struck from his sire's belligerent honesty. Drawn into the snarl of an idealistic conflict, he was unlikely to raise the family this young wife appealed to preserve. Cast clear, he might live, might stay on this side of Fate's Wheel long enough to conceive a successor.

Such brazen courage as this woman possessed deserved the accolade of a calm acceptance. Each moment she lingered, Arithon must endure every tear that welled and spilled down the spirited curve of her cheek. He would not have her see what that cost him. Such care-free beauty torn to sorrow could rend the very marrow out of his heart.

‘Go, Glendien,' he urged. ‘Don't think. What worth do you think I attach to my name? Should Kyrialt's survival mean less to me?'

‘Daelion show us both mercy, your Grace! I can't risk him, or act without selfishness.' Glendien fled, already knowing that the Prince of Rathain had absolved her. The gift stung no less as she regrouped her smashed pride and drove on to spare her man from the throes of a fatal alliance.

Spring 5671

Arithon lingered on in the sheltered glen, delay on his part a prudent necessity given the indelicacy of his position. Though he chose not to flaunt his laid-open face through the first storm of reaction, his snatched moment of peace must be short. Young Kyrialt's enmity, and the High Earl of Alland's murderous temperament now spun him a thorny entanglement.

Here, the play of the breeze through the trees only whispered of spring, and the mysteries of renewal. Yet the haven first chosen to delight Elaira had lost every power to soothe. Plagued by the lingering sting of his weals and the throb of his savaged mouth, Arithon set his back to the patriarch pine whose whorled cones had seeded the grove. Eyes closed, he let go, while the shifting template of prescient reflection unreeled the posited future. No other choice opened.

He required a solid alliance with Shand. No bloodless plan to defuse the sunwheel fanatics could succeed without clan-based support in the south.

Time slipped through his fingers. West-slanting rays nicked the wings of the sparrows that foraged in wheeling flocks through the shade. His solitude fled as his earned loyalties betrayed him: Vhandon and Talvish inevitably assumed the grim task of coming to fetch him. Of the slashed temple and cheek, the bitten lip, they said nothing. But their stopped stance before him stayed stiff and implacable, with the tenor of their silence hard-braced against oaths for his idiot timing.

‘There will be rage,' Arithon admitted. ‘Above anything, you're not to draw steel on them.'

‘May Dharkaron's Five Horses have trampled me first, that I should be confronting the prospect!' Vhandon exploded in anguish.

Touched off by the older officer's shame, Talvish's salvo came next. ‘If you needed a woman as badly as this, why under the score of Daelion's judgement did you have to meddle with that one? You say, don't draw steel! You foreign-born fool! You claim a masterbard's knowledge of law. Don't you realize how you've offended? '

‘For rape of a clan woman, she keeps the child,' mocked Arithon with scathing impatience. Shoved off from the tree, unflinching as ice, he trampled the last shred of decency. ‘Except, angry man, things did not go so far. The bitch used her claws like a wildcat.'

‘Not use steel?' Vhandon echoed. Beneath tan and scars, his hard-bitten face had drained white. ‘Not defend?' Incredulous, he rushed on, ‘This is a
caithdein's
handfasted kin you have violated! Fires of undying Sithaer, your Grace! I should call you to draw for that insult first, to spare myself from the slur of demeaning an oath of crown service.'

Swiftly as Arithon could rise in retort, Talvish's reflex was faster. His viper's grasp caught the older campaigner's taut wrist and locked sliding steel in the scabbard. ‘Stop this! Now. Can't you see? When his Grace hurts, how he strikes to provoke? Don't do as he wants! He would turn us off. Has tried to, and with wretched persistence, since the hour he left us for Jaelot.'

Wrenched back to reason, Vhandon stood down. ‘If that was your purpose, Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn, there are limits! Should I listen to orders from a schemer whose wiles don't cavil at playing a young girl's flesh as a game-piece?'

‘He's right,' Talvish added, eyes stony. ‘If you wished us gone, that was a low ploy. Nor can we go, now. Leave your side, we'd be branded for slinking desertion and cowardice, since son and father will be honour bound to hack you in shreds for this infamy. Your assault on clan lineage enacts charter law, not to mention your flagrant abuse of this realm's good faith hospitality'

‘Even so,' stated Arithon. ‘I will stay alive. But not if you don't let me handle them!'

‘Oh Ath, get this over with,' Vhandon snapped, sick. Grudging, his crisp step made way for his unarmed liege to accept the defended position.

Placed at right and left hand, the paired men-at-arms escorted their prince from the greenwood. Their brisk pace and stark censure rammed against searing silence as they approached the rock caves that concealed the chieftain's main encampment. Their liege awarded their staunch duty no graceful apology. Their oath-given support was as a branding wound, and their guilt, that their wry choice to allow Glendien past as an afternoon's sport, played in trust against Arithon's character, had brought such an ill-starred betrayal against them.

Crown prince and reluctant escort were met at the head of the vale. Against lush, southern greenery, and west-slanting sunlight, the distanced glint of dyed finery flashed through the trees like an intrusive shout of alarm. ‘Oh, this is not good,' Talvish said in fierce dismay.

Caithdein
of the realm, Erlien s'Taleyn awaited, a gold fillet bound over his white clan braid. Mantled for high office in the absence of a sanctioned sovereign, he bore arms. The great sword once drawn to fight Arithon to a standstill was slung over the rich weight of the tabard, loomed with the purple-and-gold chevrons that for five millennia had denoted the adjunct territories comprising the Kingdom of Shand.

He was not alone.

His youngest son, Kyrialt, stood arrow straight beside his sire's vested authority. Sword, paired daggers, and lacquered recurve bow, and with his ice chip eyes unsmiling, he bore the more ancient device of a crescent moon and black falcon upon the spiked targe strapped to his wrist.

Vhandon met the sight of state panoply with a locked jaw and steel resignation.

‘What did you expect?' Talvish snapped, just as clipped. ‘A vaunted public ceremony? At least the charge will be formal and quick. We'll finish the inquest without risk of a mobbing, though by
Ath
, this affray sticks in my retching craw, sideways.'

‘We aren't leaving Shand,' cracked Arithon in rebuttal. ‘No matter what unpleasantness happens, my plan for these people goes forward.'

Thrown a censuring glare from his liegemen, the Master of Shadow insisted, ‘This rising whipped up by misled town fanatics will destroy the breathing heart of Athera's sacrosanct mysteries. You both know this!'

Silence, marred through by leashed breath and checked temper.

‘You might have thought of that, liege,' Talvish said. ‘It's a steep price to pay, there's no question.'

No longer impervious, his marked features drained white, Arithon remained adamant, refusing their plea for retreat. ‘If these forest clansmen hope to stay free to preserve their ancient tradition, they'll have to deal. Charges or not, they have no choice. They need my support to survive.'

‘Brazen harlot!' Vhandon flushed to the roots of his iron grey hair. ‘I don't know how you summon the dung-licking nerve! Don't expect us to stomach the slur on your character. Survive the day, and our oath is discharged. Be sure Duke Bransian will hear from my lips what low sort of ally he's brought to lean on the strength of his family name!'

‘Vhan!' cautioned Talvish. For in fact, their advance had brought them within earshot.

Yet in shattering departure from his stern form, Vhandon refused to be placated. ‘If Shand covers this up under law by a decree of forced marriage, Teir's'Ffalenn, I'll break your randy, insolent neck with naught else but my own two hands.'

Arithon wrenched to a stop and let fly with a venom rare even for his savage tongue. ‘I suffer the penalty for one stolen kiss! You are disgraced, and dead by my hand, if you
ever
dare imply past that.'

Talvish's lightning shove to disarm the combatants was struck short: a surge of rage burst through Arithon's presence, palpable as a pressed wave. Such power, forced in check, might have stopped time, or scorched the free-falling rain into cinders.

‘I will answer the charges,' Prince Arithon said. He side-stepped, and resumed his resolute course. The two liegemen recovered their stride and moved with him, stunned to an uneasy quiet. Three abreast, they broke through the last stand of trees, into sunlight that stabbed down like a blade.

Lit without mercy, they halted. Unabashed, the sanctioned Crown Prince of Rathain presented his welted face to Lord Erlien, High Earl of Alland, and the son, whose handfasted woman had used nails and teeth beyond all excuse to beg pardon.

Only Arithon had the courage to meet Kyrialt's eyes, grey as pressed ice, upon him. He held his ground, wordless. Before his straight stance, the spiked targe and the sword: beside him, two liegemen stamped rigid with shame, oathsworn to shed blood to protect him.

The moment ached, for its motionless dread.

The Shandian clan heir was taller, and broader, a muscled lion poised over prey. ‘By Ath,' he remarked through the pregnant pause, ‘she's marked you up and down like a scratching post. Poor wee man. What did you do to receive the scourge of my lady's disfavour?'

Light wind through the glen riffled Arithon's hair. Black strands, glued with blood, stuck to the scabbed gashes furrowed at his left temple and full length down his opposite cheek. Hands clasped at his back, he never quailed. His adamant stillness stretched, then extended, and his silence admitted to nothing.

His oathsworn liegemen held out with stopped breath. Vhandon's bearing stayed rigid. In wary form, Talvish kept his trained eyes on the clansmen, who, by affronted insult, now must be adversaries.

Yet no spoken reproof or overt hostility shattered their anxious suspension. No accusation was issued. Erlien s'Taleyn, High Earl of Alland stood at his full height, gaze frosty as midwinter sky. Then he reached over, drew his son's sword, and knelt in the tough stand of grass. He drove the bared steel upright in the earth. With his wrists crossed in salute at his chest, he bent his proud head in submission. ‘Your Grace, for the life of my son, what will happen next has my sanction.'

Taken aback, Talvish gasped out, incensed, ‘My lord, you will not kneel to this man! For such as he's done, he'll be stripped of crown title. Once formal word reaches the Teiren's'Valerient in Halwythwood, his Fellowship sanction will be revoked by the terms of Rathain's royal charter!'

Yet Shand's
caithdein
failed to arise.

When Vhandon shoved forward, the hard thrust of Kyrialt's shield arm checked the move to haul his father back onto his feet. ‘His Grace has told you he tried to force Glendien?'

Still down on one knee, Lord Erlien broke in with the bite of a ruler's authority. ‘Liegeman! Take care how you answer! The credibility of my daughter-in-law's word will come to rest on your testimony not to mention the character of Rathain's oath-bound crown prince.'

‘What character?' Vhandon spat in contempt. His flustered glance sidewards smoked with disgust. ‘I've got eyes, more's the pity. I've seen such evidence as I shall take to my pyre with cringing embarrassment! Will you look, there? Yon gutsy savage has got a dog's nerve, to breathe the clean air in our presence!'

Throughout, reviled as though he was deaf, Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn stood detached. With Glendien's handling stark on his face, and the bruise on his neck livid purple, his stillness itself framed a damning refrain to his liegeman's ruthless refutement. Talvish broke custom and averted his glance before suffering the humiliation.

‘What
exactly
did his Grace say?' inquired Kyrialt with razor-edged delicacy.

‘He won't speak, himself,' Vhandon evaded, distressed. At the crux, his innate distaste ran too deep. He could not, after all, say the requisite words to condemn a man he held liege-sworn.

No less revolted, Talvish just wanted the harrowing inquiry over with. ‘Precisely?' His sigh sawed across the strained pause. ‘The tongue in his Grace's head was right churlish. He allowed he was guilty of one stolen kiss.'

The bridegroom, who should have exploded with rage, instead fought a choked snort of laughter. ‘Not from Glendien, then. She's too brazen to run. No matter how damning the evidence, I've seen her provocative manners when pushed. A man keeps his distance, if she's displeased. As my rakish friends have discovered, that she-wolf stands her ground when she's cornered.'

‘You don't believe her?' cracked Vhandon, incensed. And again, his blond comrade's snatched grasp restrained him.

‘Stand down!' Lord Erlien arose to his towering height, discomposed, and finally offended. ‘You don't see her knife in his ribs, foolish man?' As the prince's paired liegemen looked on, one gaping, and the other stunned into guarded suspicion, the High Earl of Alland completed his statement. ‘Then Glendien has told us no less than the truth. The assault that occurred was not caused by your prince.'

Erlien's keen regard fastened back upon Arithon, who had not moved a muscle throughout. ‘There's my son's sword, upright at your feet. A woman handfasted to my household has entangled you in a wrongful effort to shelter her bridegroom. Your Grace, here's my lawful settlement. S'Taleyn would have you kneel to swear oath, since Kyrialt would grant you his fealty'

Arithon shivered. ‘I can't take this charge,' he insisted, steadfast. ‘Whatever Lady Glendien has told you, no grounds exist for such gratitude. Not to receive grant of a crown obligation from Shand, or to bear a loyalty as deep as this one.'

The High Earl of Alland met and locked with those fathomless eyes, that perceived with the chill of a sorcerer. He did not back down, or shrink, though
a fine sweat sprang up and beaded the lines of hard living scored into his features. ‘Then, Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn, swear by the promise of Dharkaron's vengeance! Claim that my son's handfasted woman has lied. Then draw your steel. For you'll have to fight me to defeat again, if you think to enforce your will over the attested word of a kinswoman.'

Of them all, the fair swordsman correctly interpreted the instant of searing tension. He alone saw the shift as his liege marked the challenge, and for the first time, drew breath to answer his case.