Fugitive Prince by Janny Wurts

Author:Janny Wurts [Wurts, Janny]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, General, Fantasy, Fantasy - Epic, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy Fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Epic, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, Speculative Fiction, Imaginary wars and battles, Lysaer s'Ilessid (Fictitious character), Arithon s'Ffalenn (Fictitious character), Science Fiction And Fantasy
ISBN: 9780061054686
Amazon: 0006482996
Goodreads: 1040472
Publisher: Eos
Published: 1997-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The Laughing Captain’s upper story lay dark, the candles set burning to guide patrons to their rooms long since drowned in sooty wax. The door to Arithon’s chamber was closed. No light leaked under the sill.

Dakar stalked down the corridor, his flesh napped with chills as he touched Caolle’s sleeve. They had agreed he should disrupt the bard’s privacy first.

A board squeaked underfoot. The hallway with its ingrained tang of lye soap and floor wax, and the stale fust of overused bedding raised too clear a memory of another tavern hallway, and the Shadow Master hurled outside reason.

No lingering pinch of guilt plagued his royal Grace this time, but the proximity of Lysaer himself. Dakar rolled back his sleeve cuffs. Perspiration snaked down his neck. If he misjudged and the fatal balance tripped, disaster would follow beyond any power to contain.

The unlocked door latch gave at a touch, the plink of the bar like a cry against silence. Unnerved by apprehension, Dakar eased open the panel.

Darkness met him, thick as warmed felt and stamped with indistinct shapes. The mullioned casement latticed diamonds across a rectangle of indigo sky. The feeble, ruddy gleam of coals in the grate brushed the textured bedhangings, and scattered sequin reflections over the yarns of gold tassels. Steeped in the mingled fragrance of citrus oil and beeswax which toned the wood of the Masterbard’s lyranthe, Dakar searched the gloom.

His mage-trained acuity found nothing amiss. The silk shirt and pearl velvet breeches Arithon had worn the day before were draped over a chairback, creased by an ornate clasped belt. The bard’s full-length cloak hung in order from its peg. His wrapped instrument rested on the clothes chest. The accustomed coils of refined wire lay on the marquetry table by the casement, nicked to scarlet glints where the light caught; nearby, the spare winding pegs and pearl-handled knife the Masterbard used to trim lyranthe strings. Everything kept its accustomed place, except for the item that counted.

The Paravian-made sword was not on its hook by the armoire.

Dakar shrank to a stab of alarm. Innocuous stillness became sinister as he moved on and surveyed the bed. The hangings were tied back: recessed in the shadow of the dagged velvet curtains, the blanketed outline of a sleeper. Dakar shut burning eyes in relief, then advanced in quick stealth to take down his quarry unaware.

Movement sighed from the shadow behind, a friction of leather against cloth. Dakar caught his misjudgment a split second before a chill pinpoint pricked at his nape.

He swore in venomous consternation. The uncanny attunement of his mage-sense informed that the irreplaceable blade he required now threatened to skewer his neck. Lost, his one chance to deflect Desh-thiere’s geas; the sword’s enspelled virtue would only deploy if the defender held to a just cause. In Arithon’s hands, the malignment of the curse would keep its defense spells dormant.

“If you plan to wreck the peace, make your stroke count,” Dakar accosted. “You were awake.”

“In fact, I never slept,” said Arithon s’Ffalenn in his most abrasive ill temper.

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