Wurts, Janny - Wars of Light & Shadow 04 by Wurts Janny

Author:Wurts, Janny
Language: eng
Format: epub

284

FUGITIVE PRINCE

Darkness met him, thick as warmed felt and stamped with indistinct shapes. The mullioned casement latticed diamonds across a rect-angle of indigo sky. The feeble, ruddy gleam of coals in the grate brushed the textured bedhangings, and scattered sequin reflections over the yams 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 constemation. 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. "Whatever else did you expect?"

"Not words of brotherhood and courtesy." Dakar chattered on in the spurious hope he could mask Caolle's presence in the hallway.

"Your promise to Lord Maenol has become a bad risk. If you know Lysaer's coming, we'll agree, you can't stay here, no matter how ugly the fate of chained clansmen."

"But I can," Arithon contradicted. "I've a launching in two days, and plans I've no wish to abandon."

285

JANNY

If the voice held its usual pared sting of mockery, speech offered an

untrustworthy gauge of a masterbard's state of mind. Dakar cursed the sword, which forestailed his need to turn around. Even in darkness, his trained senses must discern more than Arithon wished to reveal. The inimical bite of the blade turned informant as a f'me-grained tremor ran through its steel.

"Arithon, hear me. You're not yourself." Through the pound of his heart, hammer to anvil against the wound pain of his headache, Dakar forced himself to keep talking. "If you stay, you'll be letting Desh-thiere's curse overset your mind and integrity.

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