Curse of the Mistwraith

The armourers of Dascen Elur had never forged the sword’s equal, though many tried. Legend claimed the blade carried by the s’Ffalenn heirs had been brought from another world. Confronted by perfection, and by an inhuman harmony of function and design, for the first time Lysaer admitted the possibility the ancestors of s’Ffalenn and s’Ilessid might have originated beyond Worldsend. Arithon might have told the truth.

He might equally have lied. Lysaer could never forget the Master’s performance before Amroth’s council, his own life the gambit for whatever deeper purpose he had inveigled to arrange. The same tactic might be used again; yet logic faltered, gutted by uncertainty. Torn between hatred of s’Ffalenn and distrust of his own motives, Lysaer realized that Arithon’s actions would never be fathomed through guesswork. Honour did not act on ambiguity. Piqued by a flat flare of anger, he flung the sword away.

Steel flashed in a spinning arc and impaled itself with a thump in the fisherman’s cloak. Lysaer glowered down at the limp form of his half-brother. ‘Let the desert be your judge,’ he said harshly. Aroused by the blistering fall of sunlight on his head, he left to collect half of the supplies.

Yet beneath the ruined cloak, irony waited with one final blow: the sword had sliced through the last of the waterflasks. Sand had swiftly absorbed the contents. Barely a damp spot remained. Lysaer struck earth with his knuckles. Horror knotted his belly, and Arithon’s words returned to mock him: ‘What do you know of hardship?’ And, more recently, ‘You’ve a chance at life. Don’t waste it…’ The sword pointed like a finger of accusation. Lysaer blocked the sight with his hands, but his mind betrayed and countered with the vision of a half-brother lying sprawled in pitiless sunlight, the marks of injustice on his throat.

Guilt drove Lysaer to his feet. Shadow mimed his steps like a drunk as he fled toward empty hills, and tears of sweat streaked his face. The sun scourged his body and his vision blurred in shimmering vistas of mirage.

‘The wasteland will avenge you, bastard,’ said Lysaer, unaware the heat had driven him at last to delirium.

Arithon woke to the silence of empty desert. Blood pooled in his mouth, and the effort of each breath roused a tearing stab of agony in his chest. A short distance away the heaped folds of the cloak covered the remains of the camp he had shared with his half-brother. Lysaer had gone.

Arithon closed his eyes. Relief settled over his weary, pain-racked mind. Taxed to the edge of strength, he knew he could not walk. His sorcerer’s awareness revealed one lung collapsed and drowned in fluid. But at least in his misery he no longer bore the burden of responsibility for his half-brother’s life. Lysaer would survive to find the second gate; there was one small victory amid a host of failures.

The Master swallowed, felt the unpleasant tug of the scab which crusted his throat. He held no resentment at the end. Ath only knew how close he came to butchering a kinsman’s flesh with the same blade that symbolized his sworn oath of peace. Cautiously, Arithon rolled onto his stomach. Movement roused a flame of torment as broken bones sawed into flesh. His breath bubbled through clotted passages, threatened by a fresh rush of bleeding. The Master felt his consciousness waver and dim. A violent cough broke from his chest and awareness reeled before an onslaught of fragmenting pain.

Slowly, patiently, Arithon recovered control. Before long, the Wheel would turn, bringing an end to all suffering. Yet he did not intend that fate should overtake him in the open. Death would not claim him without the grace of a final struggle. Backing his resolve with a sorcerer’s self-will, Arithon dragged himself across the sand toward the fisherman’s cloak.

Blood ran freely from nose and mouth by the time he arrived at his goal. He reached out with blistered fingers, caught the edge of the wool and pulled to cover his sunburned limbs. As the cloak slid aside, his eyes caught on a smoky ribbon of steel. Cloth slipped from nerveless fingers; Arithon saw his own sword cast point first through the slashed leather of the water flask.

A gasp ripped through the fluid in his chest. Angry tears dashed the sword’s brilliance to fragments as he faced the ugly conclusion that Lysaer had rejected survival. Why? The Master rested his cheek on dusty sand. Had guilt induced such an act? He would probably never know.

But the result rendered futile everything he had ever done. Arithon rebelled against the finality of defeat. Tormented by memory of the lyranthe abandoned at Rauven, he could not escape the picture of fourteen silver-wound strings all tarnished and cobwebbed with disuse. His hopes had gone silent as his music. There stood the true measure of his worth, wasted now, for failure and death under an alien sun.

Arithon closed his eyes, shutting out the desert’s raw light. His control slipped. Images ran wild in his mind, vivid, direct and mercilessly accusing. The high mage appeared first. Statue straight in his hooded robe of judgement, the patriarch of Rauven held Avar’s sword on the palms of his upraised hands. The blade dripped red.

‘The blood is my own,’ Arithon replied, his voice a pleading echo in the halls of his delirium.

The high mage said nothing. His cowl framed an expression sad with reproach as he glanced downward. At his feet lay a corpse clad in the tattered blue and gold of Amroth.

Arithon cried out in anguished protest. ‘I didn’t kill him!’

‘You failed to save him.’ Grave and implacably damning, the vision altered. The face of the high mage flowed and reshaped into the features of Dharkaron, Ath’s avenging angel, backed by a war-littered ship’s deck. By his boots sprawled another corpse, this one a father, shot down by an arrow and licked in a rising rush of flame.

As the sword in the Avenger’s grip darkened and lengthened into the ebony-shafted Spear of Destiny, Arithon cried out again. ‘Ath show me mercy! How could I twist the deep mysteries? Was I wrong not to fabricate wholesale murder for the sake of just one life?’

Gauntleted hands levelled the spear-point at Arithon’s breast; and now the surrounding ocean teemed and sparkled with Amroth’s fleet of warships. These had been spared the coils of grand conjury, to be indirectly dazed blind through use of woven shadow, their rush to attack turned and tricked by warped acoustics to ram and set fire to each other until seven of their number lay destroyed.

Dharkaron pronounced in subdued sorrow, ‘You have been judged guilty.’

‘No!’ Arithon struggled. But hard hands caught his shoulders and shook him. His chest exploded with agony. A whistling scream escaped his throat, blocked by a gritty palm.

‘Damn you to Sithaer, hold still!’

Arithon opened glazed eyes and beheld the face of his s’Ilessid half-brother. Blood smeared the hand which released his lips. Shocked back to reason, the Master dragged breath into ruined lungs and whispered, ‘Stalemate.’ Pain dragged at his words. ‘Did Ath’s grace, or pity bring you back?’

‘Neither.’ With clinical efficiency, Lysaer began to work the fisherman’s cloak into a sling. ‘There had better be a gate.’

Arithon stared up into eyes of cold blue. ‘Leave me. I didn’t ask the attentions of your conscience.’

Lysaer ignored the plea. ‘I’ve found water.’ He pulled the sword from the ruined flask and restored it to the scabbard at Arithon’s belt. ‘Your life is your own affair, but I refuse responsibility for your death.’

Arithon cursed faintly. The prince knotted the corners of the cloak, rose and set off, dragging his half-brother northward over the sand. Mercifully, the Master lost consciousness at once.

Shaded by twisted limbs, the well lay like a jewel within a grove of ancient trees. The first time Lysaer had stumbled across the site by accident. Anxious to return with his burden before the night winds scattered the sands and obscured his trail he hurried, half-sliding down the loose faces of the dunes then straining to top the crests ahead. His breath came in gasps. Dry air stung the membranes of his throat. At last, aching and tired, the prince tugged the Master into the shadow of the trees and silence.

Lysaer knew the grove was the work of a sorcerer. Untouched by desert breezes, the grass which grew between the bent knuckles of the tree roots never rustled; the foliage overhead hung waxy and still. Here, quiet reigned, bound by laws which made the dunes beyond seem eerily transient by comparison. Earlier, need had stilled the prince’s mistrust of enchantment. Now Arithon’s condition would wait for no doubt. The well’s healing properties might restore him.

At the end of his strength when he drank, Lysaer had discovered that a single swallow from the marble fountain instantly banished the fatigue, thirst and bodily suffering engendered by five days of desert exposure. When the midday heat had subsided, and the thick quiver of mirage receded to reveal the profile of a ruined tower on the horizon, the prince beheld proof that Mearth existed. Though from the first the Master’s protection had been unwanted and resented, s’Ilessid justice would not permit Lysaer to abandon him to die.

The prince knelt and turned back the cloak. A congested whisper of air established that Arithon still breathed. His skin was dry and chill to the touch, his body frighteningly still. Blood flowed in scalding drops from his nose and mouth as Lysaer propped his emaciated shoulders against the ivy-clad marble of the well.

Silver and still as polished metal, water filled the basin to the edge of a gilt-trimmed rim. Lysaer cupped his hands, slivering the surface of the pool with ripples. He lifted his hand. A droplet splashed the Master’s dusty cheek; then water streamed from the prince’s fingers and trickled between parted lips.

Arithon aroused instantly. His muscles tensed like bowstrings under Lysaer’s arm and his eyes opened, dark and hard as tourmaline. He gasped. A paroxysm shook his frame. Deaf to the prince’s cry of alarm, he twisted aside and laced his slender, musician’s fingers over his face.

Lysaer caught his half-brother’s shoulder. ‘Arithon!’

The Master’s shielding hands fell away. He straightened, his face gone deathly pale. Without pause to acknowledge his half-brother’s distress, he rolled over and stared at the well. Settled and still, the water within shone unnatural as mirror-glass between the notched foliage of the ivy.

Arithon drew breath and the congestion in his lungs vanished as if he had never known injury. ‘There is sorcery here more powerful than the Gate.’

Lysaer withdrew his touch as if burned. ‘It healed you, didn’t it?’

The Master looked up in wry exasperation. ‘If that were all, I’d be grateful. But something else happened. A change more profound than surface healing.’

Arithon rose. Brisk with concentration, he studied every tree in the grove, then moved on to the well in the centre. The prince watched, alarmed by his thoroughness, as Arithon rustled through the ivy which clung to the rim of the basin. His search ended with a barely audible blasphemy.

Lysaer glimpsed an inscription laid bare beneath ancient tendrils of vine; but the characters were carved in the old tongue, maddeningly incomprehensible to a man with no schooling in magecraft. In a conscious effort to keep his manners, Lysaer curbed his frustration. ‘What does it say?’

Arithon looked up. Bemused, he said, ‘If these words spell truth, Daelion Fatemaster’s going to get a fair headache over the records before the Wheel turns on us. We appear to have been granted a five hundred year lifespan by a sorcerer named Davien.’ The Master paused, swore in earnest, and ruefully sat on the grass. ‘Brother, I don’t know whether to thank you for life, or curse you for the death I’ve been denied.’

Lysaer said nothing. Taught a hard lesson in tolerance after five days in the desert, he regarded his mother’s bastard without hatred and found he had little inclination to examine the fountain’s gift. With Dascen Elur and his heirship and family in Amroth all lost to him, the prospect of five centuries of lengthened life stretched ahead like a joyless burden.

Transgression

Lirenda, First Enchantress to the Prime, glared wrathfully at the junior initiate who sat across the worktable, her hands clenched and idle amid bundled herbs, glass jars and the mortar and pestle set out for the mixing of simples. In a quiet broken by the distant shouts of boys who raced to capture chickens for the butcher, the senior’s face slowly reddened beneath netted coils of black hair. ‘What misbegotten folly do you suggest now, miss?’

Elaira, whose bronze locks perpetually escaped even the stiffest of pins, stared stubbornly aside through rainwashed glass, though fog had marred the view since centuries before her birth.

Her senior ranted on. ‘Asandir rides the west road in haste. Every sorcerer in the Fellowship is alerted, and you tell me, “the second lane requires no watch duty.” A toad has better perception.’

Elaira transferred her gaze from the window to Lirenda’s livid face. ‘Sithaer take the second lane watch!’ She pushed impatiently at the half-made charm between her hands, this one a shepherd’s ward to guard young stock from the lung-sickness that stunted newborn lambs. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ She need not elaborate, that Asandir on the road with Dakar in tow could well indicate the resolution of the great West Gate Prophecy. If sunshine was restored, the diseases she mixed talismans to prevent would be banished along with the fog that had fostered them. Yet Koriani enchantresses had no oracle but guesswork derived from images. Recklessly rebellious, Elaira restated in bluntness beyond any tact to forgive. ‘Why shouldn’t we ask Sethvir to locate the lost Waystone? If we recovered the great crystal the Prime Enchantress would know what was afoot without this tedious idiocy of nitpicking details.’

Lirenda gasped and her smooth, porcelain face drained of colour. Elaira restrained a heady urge to laugh. Though she found the sight of her senior’s distress rare enough to be funny, she had already defied protocol by broaching the two most unmentionable subjects known to the Prime Circle.

Misplaced since the chaos of the Mistwraith’s conquest, the spherical crystal known as the Waystone could encompass the powers of one hundred and eighty Koriani enchantresses and bind them into a single force. Probably Sethvir knew the gem’s location, but the sisterhood by tradition regarded the Fellowship of Seven with deep and bitter resentment. Elaira despised her seniors’ silly pride, which forbade a request for assistance; but never until now had she been brash enough to say so. Through the hush while the First Enchantress recovered her poise, Elaira wished her impulsive words unsaid.

‘You’ll learn prudence.’ Lirenda tilted her head with the grace of a cat stalking prey. ‘Since you daydream through the task of making hearth-cures, and disparage your order’s means of tracking news, you will stand eighteen hours of second lane watch, without relief. If I hear any complaint from the senior in charge, I’ll take the matter before the Prime.’

Lirenda whirled and left the workroom, silk skirts rustling above the hammering fall of rain against the casement. Left alone with the fusty smells of herbs and old dust, Elaira cursed in frustration. Eighteen hours, and there would have to be a storm, she thought miserably; a pity her talents did not encompass all four of the elements or she might have performed her task in flame, warm and dry. But water minded her meagre skills best. Angrily leaving the candle alight, and the jars on the table untidied, Elaira yanked her cloak from its peg, kicked open the planked outer postern and stamped down worn steps into the chilly afternoon.

The slate of the old earl’s courtyard gleamed like steel underfoot, marred with moss-choked cracks. Low walls that once bordered flowerbeds now leaned under hedges of burdock and a rank explosion of briars burned brown by early frost. The sunless fogs clipped short the seasons, to the waste of the earth’s rightful harvest. The hardened black stalks of spoiled berries rattled wizened fists in the wind. A crow stretched dark wings over the dripping lip of a fishpool, then took flight at Elaira’s approach. Resigned, the enchantress perched herself in the space the bird had vacated. She gazed down into brackish, leaf-lined depths.

With trained resolution, she blocked the surface sensations of rain and chill and annoyance from her mind. The details of her surroundings receded, replaced by the poised stillness of perfect inner balance. Presently a thin, pulsating whine struck across her mind; Elaira recognized the siren song of the second lane, one of twelve channels of magnetic force which arrayed Athera’s world. She tuned her consciousness into harmony, then blended, ranging north pole to south, sustained by the current of the lane’s narrow band.

Droplets beaded her hair and trickled icily down her collar. Elaira shivered, unaware. With the finesse of practised control she linked the deflections in the second lane’s resonance to a net between mind and water. A shadow appeared on the pool’s rain-pocked surface. The form sharpened, spindled, and resolved into an image; a silver-haired sorcerer and a fat prophet reined lathered mounts before the lichen-splotched arch of a World Gate. Elaira dutifully recorded their presence, and moved on…

Curse of Mearth

Tumbled past semblance of design, the ruins of Mearth thrust walls like jagged teeth through dunes of rust coloured sand. Lysaer walked into the shadows cast by lowering sunlight and wondered what manner of folk would build a city in a wasteland. Arithon remained largely silent, except to say that heat probably posed less danger than Mearth in the hours after dark. Accordingly, the half-brothers had left the grove under the full glare of noon, and exchanged small conversation since.

Arithon broke the silence. ‘Lysaer, what do you know of your gift?’

Braced for mockery, the prince glanced at his half-brother. But the Master’s gaze rested uninformatively on a gap in the crumbled brick rubble which once had been Mearth’s west postern. ‘How well can you focus light? I ask because we may be needing a weapon.’

Though Lysaer preferred to leave the question unanswered, the perils ahead forced honesty. ‘I had none of your training. Except for the practice of healing, the king banned the elder lore from court after his marriage failed. I experimented. Eventually I learned to discharge an energy similar to a lightning bolt. The force would surely kill.’

Years of solitary practice lay behind the prince’s statement. Control of his inborn gift had come only through an agony of frustration. That Arithon should absorb the result without comment roused resentment.

Lysaer considered the man who walked at his side. Delicate as his hands appeared, they bore the calluses of a master mariner. Wherever ships sailed, Arithon could earn a place of respect. Lacking that, his quick mind and enchanter’s discipline could be turned to any purpose he chose. If a new world waited beyond the Red Desert’s gate, the Master would never lack employ.

Lysaer compared his own attributes. His entire upbringing had centred upon a crown he would never inherit. As exiled prince, he would be a man with a commander’s skills but no following, and neither birthright nor loyalty to bind one. In peace, he might seek a servant’s position as fencing tutor or guard captain; and in war, the honourless calling of mercenary. Hedged by the justice demanded by fair rule and sound statesmanship, Lysaer shrank in distaste at the thought of killing for a cause outside his beliefs. Anguished by a gnawing sense of worthlessness, the prince brooded, studied and silent.

The sun lowered and Mearth loomed nearer. Centuries of wind had chiselled the defences left behind, until bulwark, wall and archway lay like tumbled skeletons, half-choked with sand. The citadel was not large; but the size of the fallen blocks from the gate towers suggested builders mightier than man.

Arithon crested the final rise. ‘According to record, Mearth’s folk were gem-cutters, unequalled in their craft. The fall of a sorcerer is blamed for the curse that destroyed the inhabitants. Beggar, tradesman, and lord, all perished. But Rauven’s archives kept no particulars.’ He glanced with fleeting concern at Lysaer. ‘I don’t know what we’ll find.’

Lysaer waded down the steep face of the dune. ‘The place seems empty enough.’

Remarked only by the voice of the wind, the half-brothers reached the tumbled gap that once had framed the outer gateway. A broad avenue stretched beyond, bordered by a row of columns vaulted over by empty sky. Nothing moved. The air smelled harsh from hot stone. Their shadows flowed stilt-legged ahead of them as they entered the city, breezes sighed across a thousand deserted hearth stones.

Arithon skirted the torso of a fallen idol. ‘Empty, perhaps,’ he said finally. ‘But not dead. We had best move quickly.’

Lacking a sorcerer’s awareness, Lysaer could only wonder what inspired the precaution. He walked at his half-brother’s side through a chain of cracked courtyards, past defaced statuary and fallen porticoes. Stillness seemed to smother his ears, and the whisper of his steps between crumbled foundations became a harsh and alien intrusion.

Suddenly the Master’s fingers gripped his elbow. Startled, Lysaer looked up. Broken spires thrust against a purple sky, rinsed like blood by fading light. Beyond rose the scrolled silhouette of a World Gate; a silvery web of force shimmered between its portal, unmistakable even from a distance.

‘Daelion Fatemaster, you were right!’ Elated, Lysaer grinned at his companion. ‘Surely we’ll be free of the Red Desert by sundown.’

Arithon failed to respond. Nettled, Lysaer tugged to free his arm. But his half-brother’s grip tightened in warning. After a moment Lysaer saw what the Master had noticed ahead of him.

A blot of living darkness slipped across the sand, uncannily detached from the natural shade cast by a fallen corbel. Even as the prince watched, the thing moved, shadow-like, along the crumbling curve of a cistern; the phenomenon was partnered by no visible object.

Arithon drew a sharp breath. ‘The curse of Mearth. We’d better keep going.’ He hastened forward. The shadow changed direction and drifted abreast of him.

Chilled by apprehension, Lysaer touched his half-brother’s arm. ‘Will the thing not answer your gift?’

‘No.’ Arithon’s attention stayed fixed on the dark patch. ‘At least not directly. What you see is no true shadow, but an absorption of light.’

Lysaer did not question how his half-brother divined the nature of the darkness which traced their steps. His own gift could distinguish reflected light from a direct source, flamelight from sunlight and many another nuance. No doubt Rauven’s training expanded Arithon’s perception further.

The shadow changed course without warning. Like ink spilled on an incline, it curled across the sand and stretched greedily toward the first living men to walk Mearth’s streets in five centuries.

Arithon stopped and spoke a word in the old tongue. Lysaer recognized an oath. Then the Master extended his hand and bunched slim fingers into a fist. The shadow convulsed, boiling like liquid contained in glass.

‘I’ve pinned it.’ Arithon’s voice grated with effort. Sweat glistened in streaks at his temples. ‘Lysaer, try your light. Strike quickly and powerfully as you can manage.’

The prince raised clasped hands and opened his awareness to a second, inner perception which had permeated his being since birth. He felt the reddened sunlight lap against his back, tireless as tidal force and volatile as oil-soaked tinder to the spark his mind could supply. But Lysaer chose not to redirect the path of existing light. Against the shadow of Mearth, he created his own.