Curse of the Mistwraith. Janny Wurts

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       V. RIDE FROM WEST END

      The overland journey promised by Asandir began the following morning, but not in the manner two exiles from Dascen Elur might have anticipated. Rousted from bed before daybreak and given plain tunics, hose and boots by Asandir, Lysaer and Arithon hastened through the motions of dressing. This clothing fitted better than the garments borrowed from the woodcutter; lined woollen cloaks with clasps of polished shell were suited for travel through cold and inclement weather. The half-brothers were given no explanation of where such items had been procured; in short order, they found themselves hiking in the company of their benefactors through wet and trackless wilds. In the fading cover of night, Asandir conducted them to a mistbound woodland glen at the edge of the forest and baldly commanded them to wait. Then he and the Mad Prophet mounted and rode on to the town of West End, Dakar to visit the fair to purchase additional horses, and Asandir to complete an unspecified errand of his own.

      Dawn brought a grey morning that dragged interminably into tedium. Arithon settled with his back against the whorled trunk of an oak. Whether he was simply napping or engrossed in a mage’s meditation, Lysaer was unwilling to ask. Left to his own devices, the prince paced and studied his surroundings. The wood was timelessly old, dense enough to discourage undergrowth, twistedly stunted by lack of sunlight. Gnarled, overhanging trees trailed hoary mantles of fungus. Rootbeds floored in dank moss rose and fell, cleft in the hollows by rock-torn gullies. Strange birds flitted through the branches, brown and white feathers contrasting with the bright red crests of the males.

      Unsettled by the taints of mould and damp-rotted bark and by the drip of moisture from leaves yellowedged with ill-health, Lysaer slapped irritably as another mosquito sampled the nape of his neck. ‘What under Daelion’s dominion keeps Dakar? Even allowing for the drag of his gut he should have returned by now.’

      Arithon roused and regarded his half-brother with studied calm. ‘A visit to the autumn fair would answer your question, I think.’

      Though the smothering density of the mists deadened the edge from the words, Lysaer glanced up, astonished. Asandir had specifically instructed them to await the Mad Prophet’s return before going on to make rendezvous by the Melor River bridge when the town bells sounded carillons at noon.

      Arithon said in distaste, ‘Would you stay and feed insects? I’m going in any case.’

      Suddenly uneasy, Lysaer regretted his complaint. ‘Surely Asandir had reasons for keeping us here.’

      Arithon’s mouth twisted in a manner that caused his half-brother a pang of alarm. ‘Well I know it.’ A madcap grin followed. ‘I want to know why. Thanks to Dakar’s tardy hide, we’ve gained a perfect excuse to find out. Will you come?’

      Uncertainty forgotten, Lysaer laughed aloud. After the restraint imposed by arcane training he found the unexpected prankster in his half-brother infectious. ‘Starve the mosquitoes. What will you tell the sorcerer?’

      Arithon pushed away from the tree trunk. ‘Asandir?’ He hooked his knuckles in his swordbelt. ‘I’ll tell him the truth. Silver to breadcrusts we find our prophet facedown in a gutter, besotted.’

      ‘That’s a gift not a wager.’ Lysaer shouldered through the thicket which bounded the edge of the woodland, his mood improved to the point at which he tolerated the shower of water raining down the neck of his tunic. ‘I’d rather bet how long it takes Dakar to get his fat carcass sober.’

      ‘Then we’d both eat breadcrumbs,’ Arithon said cuttingly. ‘Neither of us have silver enough to wait on the streets that long.’ Enviably quick, he ducked the branch his brother released in his face and pressed ahead into the meadow.

      Fog hung leaden and dank over the land but an eddy of breeze unveiled a slope that fell away to a shoreline of rock and cream flat sands. An inlet jagged inward, flanked by the jaws of a moss-grown jetty. Set hard against the sands of the seacoast, the buttressed walls of West End resembled a pile of child’s blocks abandoned to the incoming tide. Looking down from the crest, the half-brothers saw little beyond buildings of ungainly grey stone, their roofs motley with gables, turrets and high, railed balconies. The defences were crumbled and ancient except for a span of recently renovated embrasures which faced the landward side.

      ‘Ath,’ murmured Lysaer. ‘What a wretched collection of rock. If folk here are dour as their town no wonder Dakar took to drink.’

      But where the exiled prince saw vistas of cheerless granite, Arithon observed with the eyes of a sailor and beheld a seaport gone into decline. Since the Mistwraith had repressed navigational arts, the great ships no longer made port. The merchants’ mansions were inhabited now by fishermen and the wharves held a clutter of bait barrels and cod nets.

      The mist lowered, reducing the town to an outline, then a memory. Lysaer shivered, his spurt of enthusiasm dampened. ‘Did you happen to notice where the gate lets in?’

      ‘West. There was a road.’ Arithon stepped forward, pensive; as if his timing was prearranged, bells tolled below, sounding the carillon at noon. ‘Our prophet is late indeed. Are you coming?’

      Lysaer nodded, scuffed caked mud from his heel with his instep, and strode off hastily to keep up. ‘Asandir’s going to be vexed.’

      ‘Decidedly.’ Arithon’s brows rose in disingenuous innocence. ‘But hurry or we might miss the fun.’

      A cross-country trek through sheep fields and hedgerows saw the brothers to the road beneath the gates. There, instead of easier going, Lysaer received an unpleasant reminder of his reduced station. Accustomed to travelling mounted, he dodged the muck and splatter thrown up by rolling wagons with a diligence not shared by other footbound wayfarers. Ingrained to an enchanter’s preference for remaining unobtrusive, Arithon noted with relief that the clothing given them to wear seemed unremarkably common: he and his half-brother passed the guards who lounged beside the lichen-crusted gate without drawing challenge or notice.

      The streets beyond were cobbled, uneven with neglect and scattered with dank-smelling puddles. Houses pressed closely on either side, hung with dripping eaves and canting balconies, and cornices spattered with gull guano. Tarnished tin talismans, purpose unknown, jangled in the shadows of the doorways. Confused as the avenue narrowed to a three-way convergence of alleys, Lysaer dodged a pail of refuse water tossed from a window overhead. ‘Cheerless place,’ he muttered. ‘You can’t want to stop and admire the view here?’

      Arithon left off contemplation of their surroundings and said, ‘Does that mean you want the task of asking directions through this maze?’

      Lysaer pushed back his hood and listened as a pair of matrons strode by chattering. Their speech was gently slurred, some of the vowels flattened, the harder consonants rolled to a lazy burr. ‘The dialect isn’t impossible. On a good night of drinking I expect we could blend right in.’

      The crisper edges to his phrasing caused one of the women to turn. The expression half-glimpsed beneath her shawl was startled and her exclamation openly rude as she caught her companion’s elbow and hastened past into a courtyard. Rebuffed by the clank of a gate bar, Arithon grinned at the prince’s dismay. ‘Try being a touch less flamboyant,’ he suggested.

      Lysaer СКАЧАТЬ