Peril’s Gate. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ straightforward task of threading a strap through a buckle. ‘Why can’t you accept that I’m out of my depth?’

      Arithon’s expectant silence stretched taut.

      ‘Very well, I can speculate. Sethvir’s surely known about Fionn Areth’s transformation for years.’ Dakar gave over the truth in stark misery. ‘Since the boy swore the Koriathain his free-will consent over a crystal focus, the Sorcerers can do nothing by way of direct intervention.’

      ‘Go on. There’s more.’ Arithon let down his spoon, well aware his companion’s diligent tidiness was in fact an outright avoidance.

      Dakar jabbed the tang through the leather with a force he withheld from his language. ‘For today’s round of upsets, we’re both in the dark. I warned you before. Something set an aberration through the lane’s flux last night. Such an event on the cusp of the solstice has certainly led to an imbalance. Grievous enough to blind Sethvir’s vision. Or else your bid to reach Jaelot would have been stopped well before the Sanpashir focus reached resonance.’

      ‘That’s old ground for argument, surely?’ Arithon set his stew bowl aside, banal to the point of disinterest.

      Yet Fionn Areth was not fooled. Set on edge by such casual firsthand reference to Fellowship resources and magecraft, he bristled, his unease lent preternatural spin by the spell-charged effects of the wine. Warm food and shelter notwithstanding, he noticed: Arithon had not shed his piercing wariness, either.

      Nor was Dakar convinced by lame gestures. ‘All right.’ His capitulation exposed his threadbare fear. ‘I sent for help, a plea made under the permissions you gave to be used in last line of defense. No Fellowship Sorcerer has answered.’

      ‘Which doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve been sidetracked by a catastrophe,’ Arithon pointed out, reasonable, except for the sly, lightning glance to one side that gauged Fionn Areth’s poorly leashed temper. ‘The Sorcerers might just be allowing matters to run their due course by choice.’

      Dakar glowered back, but had the good sense to keep quiet. He, too, noted the dangerous antipathy the herder showed toward Arithon.

      ‘His Grace will have a plan,’ the Mad Prophet said in a belated effort to soothe. ‘At least, he passed an almighty thick sheaf of orders to the captain he left entrusted with care of his brigantine.’

      ‘There was always a contingency,’ Arithon agreed. Settled enough to have recovered his appetite, he scraped the savory last dregs from the bowl and washed out the residue with snowmelt. Just as seamlessly unperturbed, he requested an oiled rag. Then he cleared his crusted sword from its scabbard and began the deferred chore of cleaning. The fouled blade was rubbed down through an ongoing discussion of covert land routes to Tharidor.

      As though fingers and rag were not crimsoned with stains from six brutally slaughtered guardsmen, Arithon concluded, ‘Evenstar should call in port there sometime before the thaws break. She’ll give us secure passage to Alestron, where Vhandon and Talvish will see us safely back to the Khetienn, offshore.’

      When Dakar looked mollified, Arithon grinned. ‘Well, that was the promise that bought their hardheaded cooperation.’ He gave a critical squint down his blade, the unearthly, dark metal of its forging like wet slate. The inlaid Paravian runes caught the sheen from the fire, sullen in mystery as molten glass drawn on the rod before shaping. Lined in the leaping, uncertain flame light, the thread silver edges gleamed straight and true. The uncanny temper showed no pit of rust, nor the wear left from commonplace sharpening. ‘Vhandon got his chance to revisit home soil, and Talvish couldn’t argue the blandishment. The s’Brydion duke can most likely be cozened to keep Khetienn provisioned in my absence.’

      Arithon tossed the fouled rag in the flames, then companionably offered the oil to Fionn Areth, whose weapon was wet, and not kept preserved by ensorceling spells out of legend. ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ the Shadow Master confided. ‘The s’Brydion clan are warmongering lions who judge a man first by his armament.’

      ‘What makes you think I’ll stand with you to Tharidor? Or that I care for the criminal bent of your byplays with Lysaer’s sworn allies?’ Fionn Areth drew himself up, braced to defiance by the spelled wine. ‘On no count did I promise to stay in your company beyond Jaelot’s outer walls.’

      ‘Well then, oil your sword,’ urged Arithon, agreeable. ‘Because on that count we’re going to fight.’

      ‘Damn you both!’ Dakar plowed erect, the stick he used to poke up the fire dropped in a shower of sparks. ‘I may have wards up, but they won’t protect from an outright indulgence of folly.’

      As Fionn Areth accepted the invitation and the oil, and Arithon, indulgent, tore another strip of rag, the Mad Prophet howled ripe protest. ‘Fiends plague, you goose-brained s’Ffalenn bastard! That boy is scarcely past adolescence! To him, your fool mockery is serious!’

      ‘I’m serious, as well.’ Arithon’s green eyes stayed imperious, their hard brilliance as faceted emerald. To the young man who ranged opposite, drawn steel in hand, plying the rag over and over his weapon’s honed edge, Rathain’s sovereign prince minced no niceties at all. ‘Shall we cross swords? Very good.

      That should settle all differences. Let’s please set the stakes very clearly beforehand.’

      ‘No stakes,’ Fionn Areth rebutted. ‘I just want you dead. That’s what drew me from Araethura in the first place.’

      ‘I took that as given,’ said Arithon s’Ffalenn. ‘Now hear out my terms.’ Against Dakar’s furious, clashing reproof, his challenge continued, implacable. ‘I say you’re on our side, whether you like my morals or not. The Koriathain are to blame for your trial of misfortune, but their meddling left you with my face. Despite my list of disreputable habits, I won’t stand aside and see you gutted as my namesake. Neither will I drag my close friends into jeopardy by saving you from the faggots again. The only men I trust with your safety are my own. To change that, you’ll have to defeat me.’

      For answer, Fionn Areth stripped off cloak and jacket and jerked up his chin. ‘We’ll take this outside?’

      Arithon arose, all trim grace, to meet him. The blanket slipped off his squared shoulders, unnoticed, while the smoke-dusky steel in his hand flashed with a predator’s confidence. ‘Kill me, and the townsmen will heap you with praise. No doubt Dakar will be amazed to see how you go about claiming the hero’s honors while wearing my royal likeness.’

      ‘You can’t do this.’ A contrast of lumbering corpulence, the Mad Prophet shoved upright and attempted to thrust in between.

      Arithon drove him back with a glance, then faced Fionn Areth, the furious temper of his bloodline a welded, unyielding presence. ‘Seize the opportunity,’ he goaded. ‘Take me down! Cast me bleeding in the mud. For the murdered children at Tal Quorin, seize the moment to claim retribution.’

      Fixated, Fionn Areth stalked past the fire. ‘Shall we start?’ He tested the edge on his blade, prepared to cut down that light, silken voice, the withdrawn countenance and cat-footed poise of the spiteful creature who opposed him. Who wore frayed wool and linen with the arrogance of fine velvet, and whose contempt seemed to scald every private, inner wound and gall-broken dream with bright viciousness.

      Dakar watched, stunned breathless, as the goatherd arose to take the thrown gauntlet. Like a moth’s suicidal plunge to the flame, he resumed СКАЧАТЬ