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

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      Arithon measured her lustrous hair, the blemished symmetry of temple and cheek, then the expressive eyelashes and pert chin. Against her dispirited anguish, he said, “You are individual as a melody sung once, then lost in a storm. Calm will refound the cadence again. Beauty survives, and healing demands a fallow time for renewal.” His tender entreaty insistent, he added, “I promise you this. The harm you have suffered is an affront to all that is right in the world. You will find the joy that eludes you tonight. But only if you gather your courage, stay the course, and live in the present.”

      Vivet convulsed with sobs. He did not gather her misery close or smooth back the hair slicked to her swollen cheeks. And yet, though his intimate trust remained shaken, he did not disown her suffering.

      “Your affection is not a gift to be squandered over a night’s inflamed passion.” The bitter edge underneath his straight speech eluded her wounded perception. “Entanglement now would upset better choices. Do you understand, Vivet? Your worth is greater than any male stranger’s thankless, quick toss in the sheets.”

      Blinking through tears, she fastened on his promise of requite. “You’ll still see me home?”

      “Better,” said Arithon. “I’ll make sure of your welcome. If your kin cast you out for what happened, we’ll leave them. Your fortune will thrive in a different place, among kindly folk who deserve, and appreciate, the unique grace of your company.”

      Vivet mopped her face, encouraged to venture a tentative smile. “Then you don’t spurn belief in chance-met fate?”

      “That upsets don’t happen by accident?” Arithon shrugged. “I’m too tired to hazard the question.” Slight as shadow itself, green eyes lowered, he stirred to retire.

      Reluctant to release him, Vivet blurted, “My mother told futures. She taught me the art. What will happen is marked in the lines of your palm.” Flushed slightly, she seized his right wrist, poised on the trestle between them. Arithon curbed his recoil. He suffered the touch to appease her and let her uncurl his long fingers.

      Shiny white, the old knot of scar tissue exposed to the rush-light. Apologetic, Arithon freed her shocked grasp. “I’ve no past and no future where you are concerned. Wiser for you to remember that.”

      Yet the gathered probabilities of Sethvir’s earth-sense foreshadowed no simple release from his tacit engagement and no turning away. Bred to heal fractious conflict in whatever form, and royally gifted with the insight to forge unity between Mankind’s wayward factions and the mystical presence of Athera’s Paravians, Arithon could not resist his born nature or callously force disentanglement.

      A snarling blast of frigid wind yanked the Warden’s distanced awareness back to Althain Tower.

      “The hussy is pregnant!” Kharadmon snapped. Two shelved books toppled and smacked into the floor, while precipitate moisture crackled and froze under his ferocious outburst. “Not by Arithon, either, mark that!”

      Sethvir caught the whip-cracked ends of his beard and peered through the gyre of snowflakes. “Two days ago, yes. I observed the conception. The woman is bearing the dead trapper’s get.”

      “Our prince can’t ascertain that!” Kharadmon fumed.

      Which nailed the strategic quandary behind Vivet’s attempted seduction. Sethvir kept his own counsel. Nothing could be salvaged. The Prime’s aimed directive ascertained the by-blow’s paternity would stay blurred until the misfortunate birth.

      More, the discorporate tempest of Kharadmon’s rage already vaulted beyond that festering obstacle. “You suggest the Prime’s long-term desire seeks to breed the latent talent from Dari s’Ahelas’s line of descent? Then why hasn’t Selidie fashioned a second campaign aimed at Lysaer s’Ilessid?”

      “I can’t say that she won’t; although at the moment, Lysaer’s better guarded.” Quick to divert Kharadmon’s inquisitive prodding, Sethvir pounced with the gambit. “You have Davien’s unlicensed genius to thank since the bold masquerade he staged for Daliana just made Selidie’s prospects immeasurably more difficult.”

      Predictably nettled, and roundly upstaged, the discorporate Sorcerer abandoned debate, blew out the latched shutter, and blustered away on his assigned errand.

       Summer 5923

       Machinations

      The three-storey merchant’s house Lysaer rented for residence in East Bransing fronted the bustle of Broad Street, where the port town raised by Mankind encroached upon the Second Age sea-wall, and the crescent breakwater erected by Paravian masons once protected the delicate, moored boats of Sunchildren. No ruin remained of the rope ferry that had crossed the river at the harbour’s inlet. The present-day view from the upstairs casements showed a jumble of sandstone and brick shops stacked against the grade of a cobbled street. The eaves of the tenements notched pleated silhouettes against the tarred rigging that cross-hatched the quay-side. Square built of grim, Blackshear granite, the mansion lacked filigree rails and tiled galleries. Only plain cornices brightened with whitewash inflected its genteel elegance.

      Inside, the décor was antique and restrained, the comforts of the gentleman’s chambers served by fusty staff corridors and backstairs with scuffed treads.

      Servants came with the house. The master’s privacy was guarded by a tyrannical steward, which stymied a newcomer without proper references, attached from the street at his Lordship’s whim.

      Called by Dace Marley, the elderly fellow was viewed askance as an opportune pilferer. Tasked with the kitchen staff under the sharp-eyed cook, Dace endured the smirks that implied no upright valet ever dirtied his hands. Decency should drive off a true man of quality before he stooped to sweating buckets, or lugging the butcher’s cuts for the spit.

      Since the Fellowship’s mandate left no slack for snobbery, Dace rose to his wretched lot, swearing.

      “His nibs wants you run out, mark my word,” the cook confided with smug hypocrisy. Given a diligent worker in place of the indolent lad, Quince, just unsuitably promoted to the gentleman’s chamber, the man swiped his greasy hands on his apron, and added, “My fuel bin’s low. Get me split hardwood, mind! None of that rubbish pine kindling for cheap. A pitch fire in the stove chimney could burn down the house.”

      Dace stifled comment and shouldered the sling. Such mean errands let him survey the town and sift through gossip in the market. A servant in livery might tally the numbers of armoured dedicates in their white surcoats unnoticed, or spy upon True Sect diviners and priests.

      Buffeted in the raucous midday street, through the hawkers and seamen on shore leave, Dace also took soiled linens daily to be laundered, then packed the sopped load back in baskets to be dried and pressed by the maid. Jostled by tradesmen and chandlers, snubbed by the factors’ lackeys, he lugged wicker cages of hens from the market to slaughter, then collected them, headless and dripping. Homeward bound, stung by pebbles shied by the dock rats who loafed and cut purses, he ducked into shelter behind the customs shed.

      His frustration did not signify against the stakes if he failed. By luck or through infighting, he must raise his station before fate’s stacked hand, or The Hatchet, fomented another disaster.

      Yet patience cost dearly. His tiresome days began before dawn, first trip to the well made amid the racketing СКАЧАТЬ