Destiny’s Conflict: Book Two of Sword of the Canon. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ ruled out travelling south, the inhospitable terrain to the east provided a brutal haven. The reduced chance that Lysaer might be seen forestalled the armed rescue that would come in force if word of his presence alerted the True Sect fanatics.

      Daliana tossed back the damp braid pasted against her neck. “Stop lying, then. You don’t need to buy time to perfect any ward ring. You haven’t the means to fashion a shield against elemental light in the first place!”

      Dakar side-stepped. “You can’t know that for certain.”

      Which evasion sparked Daliana’s mercurial laughter. “I wear Asandir’s mark, or did you forget? At Morvain, tossed into the holocaust of Lysaer’s curse-driven fire-storm, even your former master’s ward wasn’t infallible.”

      Trickling sweat, Dakar warned, “Be most careful. It’s a deadly folly to presume with regard to the actions of Fellowship Sorcerers. The power they wield was bestowed by the dragons. They can do the unimaginable, and without limit. Never ever forget the more dangerous list of what actions they might be withholding under some abstruse ethical preference.”

      But reckless as Dakar had been in the past, Daliana shrugged off the gravity of semantics. “Whether or not a sure safe-guard exists against Lysaer’s gift, why not admit the truth? You’re past your depth. We’re here because there’s minimal brush and nothing in range that’s combustible!”

      Dakar deflated, stung by the irony that had landed him on the flip side of his own argument: Lysaer could not be drugged unconscious, indefinitely. The palliative use of medicinal draughts tore away what remained of a spirit already shattered by a cursed compulsion.

      “Why not stand off and allow me to handle him?” Daliana pleaded. “Could I do any worse? Your blunders have done little else but inflame the wound in his self-respect.”

      Mightily worn by his shortfalls in the arena of subtle relationships, Dakar lashed back. “I should abet your impetuous ruin? What happens the next time your liege goes insane and fries the ground where you stand? Don’t tempt fate! You haven’t the strength to constrain him each time he loses his grip.”

      “Then think beyond the use of brute force!” Before the spellbinder shouted her down, Daliana admonished, “After hundreds of diligent years of apprenticeship, surely you’ve learned other options!”

      The spellbinder stared, moon-calf features slackened as though the heat had broiled his wits.

      Daliana reached for her billet, galled enough to hammer him senseless.

      She lost the chance.

      From stunned windless to owlishly rapt, Dakar reversed. “I’ve got an idea.” He surged erect, slapped his forehead, and chortled. “Oh, indeed, yes. My dear! The notion is genius!”

      Daliana glowered in suspicion. “What now?”

      The Mad Prophet’s smile sparkled with teeth. “You’ve asked all along to stay at Lysaer’s side, a death sentence waiting to happen. But not if I stand that prospect upside down.”

      The method was brilliant. Once, Asandir had done the same: wrought a punitive stay that bound Dakar to Arithon’s company with the persistence of a malediction. More, Luhaine had fashioned a similar spell, years later, an obdurate constraint on Fionn Areth’s rebellion, weaving him under protections within the spellbinder’s close proximity. Both approaches opened intriguing possibilities when combined with the homing ciphers stitched into the aura of Asandir’s stallion. Dakar flexed his fingers, empowered by enough sundry knowledge to rig an inventively nasty variation.

      “What in Dharkaron’s name are you thinking?” Daliana broke in.

      “Bless you, sweetling!” crowed Dakar. “I’m going to tie Lysaer’s presence to you! Give him a leash that extends for three leagues, you can duck beyond range of his rages. He might slip your guard at the whim of his curse, but not bolt out of reach without your complicity.” The spellbinder hitched up his pot-belly with venomous satisfaction. “Ath above, I can’t wait. We can leave this forsaken place, soonest. Just nip off a thread from your clothing and loan me a knife to prick his little finger.”

      “No.” Daliana uncoiled from nursing her invalid. “I can’t sanction this plan.”

      Dakar shrugged. “Then I’ll seal the craft-work without you.” Undeterred by the scorch of her rage, the spellbinder bore in, “How many more temple war hosts will wreck the peace for your pride? Canon Law will purge more clanbred families, and for what good end, Daliana?”

      She did not stand down. Small, scuffed with dirt, and rabidly furious, the minx defended her ground. “Dakar, you can’t. This is not a solution. Your proposal does nothing to bolster my liege’s besieged integrity. Compulsion can’t mend his raw self-esteem! You’ll do naught but destroy the last shred of true spirit if you rope down a man already ridden beyond mercy.”

      Dakar slid off the wagon. “Athera cannot afford your squeamish instinct to coddle Lysaer’s cursed madness. You don’t fully grasp the scope of the stakes. Stick now over principle, or hang up on your infatuation, I will the more ruthlessly clip the man’s wings.” The snatched move to unsheathe her belt knife raised only the spiteful slap of his indifference. “Don’t imagine bloodshed will stop my interference.”

      “Should I worry?” Daliana retorted. “The moon will fall out of the sky on a wish before my liege grants you permission.”

      The spellbinder’s crafty smile stretched wider. “A grand gift, for sure, he’s tossed out of the compact, and also that I’ve been dumped from the upright graces of Fellowship auspice.”

      “You daren’t stoop to coercive extortion! That verges upon dark practice!” But as the Mad Prophet braced to take action, Daliana promised, “Try, and I will not rest until I find means to prevent you. I don’t care how many innocents you believe you’ll be saving! The back-lash you cause will strip Lysaer of his humanity and leave us with a monster.”

      A man less resolved should have quailed from her smoking glare on him, except the leeway for debate was exhausted. A muffled groan from the wagon-bed warned that their charge recovered his senses.

      Dakar eyed the tousled blond head sheltered by such untoward sentiment. “You wanted an ice pack to ease his bashed skull? Then strike me a fire to heat a fresh tisane. We need that valerian infusion, right quick.”

      “We? No.” Daliana leaped down from the tail-board, as determined a bundle of feminine rage as ever set off to thwart destiny. “Do the scut work yourself since you fear to burn!”

      Forthwith, she claimed a pair of saddle packs and began to stockpile provisions. “I’ll be taking two horses and Lysaer. You can test the mettle of Asandir’s mark and try to stop me at your peril.”

      Dakar turned his back. However brave, Daliana’s resolve would not upset his decision. Neither did he revel in her misery, or cave in to the tears she swiped off her grimed cheeks as she tacked and loaded the pick of the available string. Stressed as she was by rough living, the spellbinder weighed what had to be done with a cold heart and ironclad purpose.

      Forget the fair fight. Past service to Arithon s’Ffalenn gave him the long view and the scars of unpleasant experience: a sharp adversary corrupted by Desh-thiere’s geas never spurned dirty tactics. First chance, Lysaer would snatch the advantage against any fool who volunteered as СКАЧАТЬ