Fugitive Prince - Chapter Seven - Hunters
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i_read_whatOkay, so last time, Arithon got to be a sexy, sexy distraction in a scene he wasn't even present for. Also, Jieret has a named successor now. I hope that's not foreshadowing...
So this chapter starts us off with Mearn s'Brydion. If you recall, some time back, Arithon asked him to look into what happened to Princess Talith. Mearn's been working on that, namely by growing back his lovelock, banging a lot of ladies and waiting and chambermaids, and drinking with the garrison.
I like his style.
That actually doesn't get him anywhere, so he resorts to a new technique: breaking and entering.
Even then, it takes a while to find anything useful. He does find some clues though in the Treasury Minister's records though: gold being allotted for six guardmen without recorded names, and a stipend for a princess that looks suspiciously "meager" to support what should be "a full staff and comforts for a cosseted royal wife."
Damn, Lysaer, that's cold. And I think it's a sign of how he's deteriorated. I think even the Lysaer of Merior would have made sure that Talith was living comfortably in exile. After all, it's not her fault she was kidnapped. Even if she was "suborned" by the enemy.
But it does give Mearn a starting point. He thinks about his grandmother, who sounds fucking awesome:
‘Townborn will always dissemble and cheat,’ he recalled her admonishing through a youthful attempt to talk his way through a scrape. ‘That’s what nature breeds out of landowning avarice.’ White haired, diminutive, as flawlessly neat as a porcelain lily, she peered up at him, her chuckle all vinegar delight as she jabbed home her point with the blackthorn stick she brandished in old age like a weapon. ‘Ath above, boy! You keep all your brains in your cock? To know a statesman’s true heart, you must first track his wealth. Only his gold never lies.’
I want to meet this woman. I want ARITHON to meet this woman. I think that would be fucking amazing.
So, Mearn eventually comes to realize where Talith is located: a locked and barred tower attached to the south wing of the keep that fronts the state palace in Avenor. It has a description:
The structure was hexagonal, built of the fired fawn brick used to expedite the restoration of Tysan’s capital. From Mearn’s stance by the pillars which braced a dome vaulting, the keep’s north facade cut a ruled silhouette through the smoke silver stipple of stars. No pennon flew from its blunt, leaded roof. The banded masonry beneath the upper battlement held no carved follies or gargoyles. Only the simple sunwheel emblem graced the dressed-granite lintels of the entry below, a cavernous portal of strapped oaken doors, studded in steel and square bosses. This, Mearn discovered, stayed barred to all but a handpicked cadre of the realm’s highest officers.
Mearn's got to be very careful though. Religious fervor doesn't make a great environment for bribes. And he's clan, so even though he's (apparently) a very loyal and genuine member of Lysaer's Alliance, they don't really trust him. And they're dicks about it. Town grudges are long, and even though the s'Brydions have never raided caravans (they never had to, as they were never deposed or hunted), they're still basically seen as the same as the clans of Tysan.
So this means that Mearn's best option to find out what's going on in the tower is to climb it.
Have I mentioned how much I enjoy the s'Brydion family's sheer "don't give a fuck" approach to life?
I love this bit:
Since Mearn looked on caution as a mealymouthed word for gutless procrastination, he tightened the laced wrists of his sleeves and stripped off his gloves. Hands hooked to chill stone, he wedged his toe in the crack of the first course of granite and forsook his safe stance on the roof. Either Princess Talith was locked away in seclusion above, or he could send honest word back to Arithon s’Ffalenn that she was nowhere inside of Avenor.
"mealymouthed word for gutless procrastination" is such a great line.
So anyway, Mearn's going to go meet Rapunzel in the Tower. It's a hard trip - cold and unpleasant. And at one point, a bit perilous, as someone enters the third floor of the keep and starts lighting candles.
Inside, the Lord High Chancellor, whose name is Quinold, is complaining about the drafts. Happily, because he closes the curtains, it gives Mearn an opportunity to get a rest on the window ledge just outside. He's risking a lot to be here, we're told if he's caught inside the precinct, he'll get executed via public dismemberment without a hearing, and then stabbed through the heart.
FUN.
This does however give Mearn an opportunity to eavesdrop, since it turns out that Quinold is not alone. He's chatting with some guy named Vorrice.
Interestingly, Vorrice doesn't seem to have the skepticism about the Paravians, or the Fellowship, that most of Lysaer's side tends to show. He believes that the Paravians aren't dead, and that they're the reason WHY the "accursed taint of practicing magecraft" still exists. He's a witch-burner, basically, who considers "public cleansings" his bound duty.
This is actually pretty important news. Lysaer's spoken against sorcery, and there's been arrests, but no one knows yet that there's a fanatic in a high enough office to start actually persecuting people large scale.
Things get even better for Mearn, as other ministers enter the room. Basically, he's lucked into a secret meeting by Lysaer's inner circle. Guests include the Lord Justiciar and Skannt of the headhunters. Gace, the household steward (who Mearn thinks of as "a closemouthed, stringy wisp of a creature who tended to slink") is not present, a fact that is noteworthy to the other folks in the room.
The reason for the meeting appears to be a Guild Master named Koshlin. He's known to make generous endowments to the headhunter leagues.
The dynamic here is interesting:
“Your welcome is accepted here only because of your overtures to support Prince Lysaer’s alliance against evil,” the man in authority addressed, his peach-syrup inflection at chilling odds with a bluntness that ran contrary to the ingrained town penchant for stylized manners and ceremony.
“By all means, let us speak plainly.” Lord Koshlin’s ruffled suavity trailed through a considering pause. “Your prince shall have gold in support from a faction in Camris I have been asked not to name. The moneys will come with no strings attached. If your self-styled savior can bring more than folk at Miralt Head to hail him as an avatar, no one of us will denounce him.”
That raised a bristling rustle, as someone of size roused himself to take umbrage.
Ever smooth in diplomacy, the High Chancellor intervened. “Let us not quibble over unfounded truths, Vorrice. We few are privileged. Elsewhere, the awareness of Lysaer’s blessed heritage has not been made common knowledge.”
So what we're seeing here is an interesting shift in policy and politics.
Koshlin here represents Lysaer's original support base. The townsfolk, guild and merchants who follow Lysaer for their own pragmatic reasons. Lysaer's personal charisma is intense, of course, but they follow him more because he gives them sanction basically to do what they've wanted to do all along: hunt down their enemies and pursue profit.
But that's not really what Lysaer is going for anymore. Hunting clan is still pretty high on the priorities, of course. But he's going for a more divine approach. And while I sincerely doubt characters like Skannt, or even Quinold, actually believe in the whole "blessed heritage" nonsense - they're happy to go along with the party line.
Look at Koshlin here:
Lord Koshlin pressed on, impatient. “Why waste any breath on theology at all? Let your prince inspire the whole world to bow to his moral righteousness. Every conversion he makes serves our need, in turn. We are dedicated men bound to break the constraint of the Fellowship’s compact. Our followers in Camris already have instructions. They’ll serve your Alliance of Light in coin and information, and even raw resource. By whatever means, they want sorcery suppressed and the old clan lineages eradicated. The s’Ilessid claim to immortal birth is not germane. We view his criminal charges against the Shadow Master’s allies as a powerful political convenience.”
While Mearn battled the rise of his gorge, Vorrice raised abrasive opinion. “Your hatred of Maenol’s barbarians runs deep. Do we also surmise you fear the restoration of the Paravians?”
“Don’t mistake, we fear nothing.” Koshlin paused through what felt at second hand like a lingering, oily smile. “Let me suggest, any force in Athera who stands for the old ways poses a dangerous impediment. We wish the Second Age mysteries forgotten.”
Koshlin and Vorrice aren't talking about the same thing here. As we see here:
“Those bygone beliefs stunt the interests of trade. Why should a hidebound adherence to past ritual disallow more seaports and better roads?” A fist thumped on wood, to a flickering splash of leaked flame light through slitted curtains. “Since the Paravians abandoned the continent, mankind should claim rightful use of the land.” Koshlin cleared his throat. “The faction I speak for will back Lysaer’s cause. In secret, we’ve labored to abolish the compact since the over-throw of the last high kings. Those of our heirs who incline toward religion will scarcely care which name they invoke when they mouth their prayers to a deity. Once humanity is free to reap this world’s wealth, society will flourish. You wish the Prince of Rathain brought down and his supporters suppressed to save the peace. We wish to escape the Fellowship’s tyranny. Our ends lie along the same course, won’t you see?”
Koshlin's articulating outloud what we knew all along. What I said earlier in this scene. THIS is why Etarra and Erdane and all those groups follow Lysaer.
And so far, that's enough. Skannt's willing to take the man's gold to hunt the clans, of course, though he wants to hear the conditions.
Vorrice though:
“We should take the Lord Master’s offer, believe this.” His adamant diction flecked spittle as he gestured his conviction. “Let his coin help rout out the canker of sorcery. What should we fear? Prince Lysaer will shine as our maker intends. Let the faithless beware. The light of his presence shall banish corruption wherever man’s works embrace evil.”
An "unseen authority" with a "fulsome voice glacial with command" chides Vorrice, pointing out that it's not an inquisition and that they're not going to spurn a sensible gift offered in good faith.
But it is worth noting that, for all that Vorrice is an extremist. He's still a member of the inner circle. KOSHLIN is the outsider here. And I'm not sure he realizes that.
For his part, Mearn is focused on other things. He very nearly got caught during Vorrice's dramatics. However he's far more concerned with what Koshlin revealed. Because in his speech, Koshlin made it very clear that he knows WHY the clan bloodlines exist and are irreplaceable.
The explanation is this:
When humans settled on Athera, it was already inhabited by the Paravians. Very humans can survive direct contact with the Paravians without losing their minds. That is part of the reason that the Fellowship created the compact. The clans are made up of people who have a higher resistance to Paravian everything. They're meant to act as a go-between.
I kind of love that, because up until this point, the Paravians seemed rather like the legends of fairies or what not. Tragic that they've left, but rather passive. This makes it sound more like the Paravians are freaking eldritch horrors.
There's also a bit here that's significant in another way:
Rule was not based upon power or privilege, but on the fraught perils of sacrifice. The pitfalls were documented. Lords and crowned high kings most often died young, heart torn between dedicated care for their own, and the terrible, exultant conflict of spirit as they treated with beings who formed the living bridge across the veil.
I admit, I'm someone who tends to laugh at the idea of the ruling class as "servants" who "sacrifice" for the people they exploit to allow them to live in luxury.
However, it's possibly worth noting something.
Per the Paravia wiki, Lysaer s'Ilessid is the 1467th prince of his line. Arithon s'Ffalenn is the 1504th prince of his. The royal lines were established at the beginning of the Third Age. Curse of the Mistwraith starts in 5637.
Now, I'm assuming when she says "prince of the line", Wurts does not actually mean ruling prince. Because if she does, then the average length of a reign in either family is about 3.8 or 3.7 years. But even if we just assume that they're counting ELIGIBLE royal heirs, including children, that still seems like a LOT.
So Mearn might have a point here.
And he's come to a realization:
Mearn hugged his shivering body to the granite, groped a toe into the next crack, and shoved upward. The whispered scrape of his shirt over stone, and the moan of the wind through the gulf of starry darkness left him too much space to brood. A natural gambler, he measured the odds and concluded that fate dealt the clans a bad throw. His brother the duke had initially backed Arithon for matters of family honor. But as politics and greed built on the grand impetus of Lysaer’s cry for armed justice, that chosen loyalty could well become an act of desperate survival.
So as much as I always loved the s'Brydions for being immune to Lysaer's bullshit even when they sided with him, it's worth noting that they were very much acting against their own interests.
As angry and offended as the s'Brydions were at the treatment of Maenalle, for example, and the persecutions of the Rathain clans, they didn't ever seem to stop and think about what this means for clanfolk in general. The s'Brydions are allies, now. They're useful, now. But if that changes...why exactly would Lysaer and his followers balk at persecuting them as well.
Even now, the s'Brydions switched sides for matters of honor. Not sensibility. Mearn may be the first of them to actually realize the big picture here.
Interestingly, the s'Brydions aren't the only ones making this same mistake. Morriel or Lirenda might want to think about what Lysaer's witch hunters will mean for the Koriani, when THEY stop being useful.
Anyway, Mearn continues to climb. He ends up overhearing the reason that the steward was late for the meeting: some pigeons were stolen from the dovecote and the falconer is pissed off.
It also makes for a good diversion as he Assassin Creeds his way farther up the Tower. There's LOTS of description about the cold and wind by the way. My fingers are going numb just thinking about it.
Eventually though, after many pages, Mearn makes it inside. (He has to work free some hinges that are mounted "prison fashion" to do it.)
So what's it look like?
His wide, straining eyes discerned the frame of a curtained box bed, the harder gleam of a porcelain ewer on a stand, and the pale linen oblong of a towel. The chamber was appointed for basic comfort, but not in the grace of high luxury. An Etarran-bred princess accustomed to society and the gregarious convolutions of city intrigue would be like to go mad from sheer boredom.
I mean, on one hand, fuck the rich. On the other, Talith deserves better than to be locked away like this.
And in fact:
That moment, from nowhere, fierce fingers grasped his lovelock.
Mearn whirled. His sudden, lithe reflex ripped off the hold. His wrist bone jarred metal. The shuttering cover of a hand lamp chinked back. Caught in the flaring, sudden haze of light, the woman he seized with a wrestler’s strength was all molten gold hair and pearl skin. She was fire, gilt-and-white porcelain, and a vision to stun a male witless. Widened bronze eyes flashed up to meet his, black lashed and deep, with pupils to drown him in primordial night.
Talith's not hostile though. She's quick to warn him to be quiet - she's got a handmaid in the lower chamber who is not loyal to her.
We get some more purple prose:
Mearn shuddered and broke her restraint as though burned. He had heard all the rumors, even glimpsed Lysaer’s wife at state functions before her incarceration. At safe remove behind a retinue and attendants, she had been a sight to turn heads. Nothing alive could prepare any man for the impact of her at close quarters. Mearn discovered himself helpless to tear his gaze from her face. The delicate, ivory line of her shoulder entrapped him, and the sheer fall of the nightrobe whose folds by turns offered and obscured a form of breathtaking loveliness.
Not quite Lysaer or Arithon levels, but still quite nice.
Mearn asks her if she's a prisoner, stating that the party who sent him believed she was. He tells her about the word at court: that she's the victim of stress and overwrought nerves due to barrenness.
Talith's happy to set the record straight, of course. She's here because Lysaer hates Arithon. And because he has mother issues.
“The abduction by Arithon caused this?” Mearn straightened and set his back against stone, acute in his private discomfort. The lady’s tower quarters were too cramped to pace. If he stirred one step in any direction, his retreat would not bring him more than an arm’s length from her. “But why? Eight hundred thousand coin weight in gold brought you home with your virtue intact.”
Talith flung back a ripple of bright hair and regarded him. The contempt that fired her topaz eyes seemed to roil the very marrow in his bones. “You say. Yet what proof can I show for my loyalty?”
Mearn swore. A stride carried him to the box bed, impelled by a pity too fierce to keep still. “Prince Lysaer’s a fool. I can’t change that.” He locked hands to the spare rope coiled across his shoulders, flamed to ridiculous, boyish embarrassment for his sweaty state of dishevelment. Torn shirt, ripped fingers, and wind-tangled hair, he felt rough as an unsanded plank. “But I can offer means to escape.”
Mearn's a good egg.
Talith has a different idea though:
“I need to conceive a child,” she announced without prelude.
“What?” Mearn exclaimed.
Talith explains her motives:
Talith returned a slow smile. “Can a princess be faulted for taking a lover if she is cast off in neglect? Let the court in Avenor hear I’m not barren, the disgrace will become my fresh victory. My child of course won’t be Lysaer’s. For that, his much vaunted manhood will be laughingstock.”
“Things aren’t that simple,” Mearn wrenched out. She was too close, too desirable. Her appeal for just vindication was too potent to let him think. Nor had he the means to let her down with any proper kindness or subtlety. “I can’t. Lady, your spirit is great, and your beauty unmatched. I could lie with you for sheer pleasure. But I can never, ever presume the right to make a new life between us.”
She broke then, her tears a bright, rolling spill over her flawless cheekbones. “Ath’s mercy, help me! Won’t you see how I need this? A shamed wife could gain freedom, some measure of autonomy. Yes, the worst could befall. Lysaer may cast me off. At least I could return to my cousins in Etarra.”
It's a very Etarran plan. It's a very stupid plan.
And I think there are a few layers to it, even more than she's saying.
Obviously, the first part is the social revenge. Talith is a woman born and raised in Etarran court society. She knows how that works like the back of her hand. Lysaer robbed her of her social power and humiliated her, she wants to humiliate him in turn to get some of her power back.
I think the second and third parts are more personal. Talith's always known that her sole power is in her beauty and sexuality. That's why her relationship with Lysaer was always a little off putting. While he was attracted to her and professed to love her, he could turn away from those feelings at any time. And has.
So by seducing this man, she's reassuring herself that she still has that power. And of course, after three years, she likely is desperately lonely.
Mearn is young and attractive, but even if he weren't, I think she'd still take this approach.
That said, as we see in Mearn's response...she's picked the wrong guy.
Mearn is young, attractive, and very happy to have casual sex. But he's a clansman. And as we JUST saw in the scene with Vorrice and Koshlin - bloodline is very important to them. He's just been reminded of that.
I mean, personally, I think that having a few bastards about might help preserve the line if something goes very badly. But it wouldn't preserve the culture or the traditions. And that is important to Mearn, so he turns her down.
He begs her to let him help her escape though. She could go to Etarra and conceive her bastard with anyone.
This banter here is pretty charming, I think:
Talith smiled. Her neat, narrow fingers adjusted her night rail and reclothed her inviting nakedness. “Tell all and give nothing? How like a man who has bloodline, but apparently no measure of heated blood in him. Why am I not surprised? I should be asking, instead, who has sent you.”
Mearn grinned. “You sound like my grandmother Dawr. Sharp as vinegar and sand when her males won’t do as she pleases. I have no intention of saying which party takes active interest in your predicament. Shall I end our sweet impasse and go?”
That shook her. “We are bargaining, bloodless man.” The glass edge of solitude had eroded her strength. Both fear and contempt rang true as she spoke. “Did you plan to climb down as you came? Then I’ll have your rope and grapple to reel in once you set down on the council-hall roof. Deliver my note to my lover of choice and let him scale the wall for my favor.”
Mearn is on board, telling her that he'd leave the rope anyway, just in case she decides to escape herself. And he'll pass word on to the person who sent him.
I feel like Talith might have an idea of who her benefactor is, because she does offer him something here:
“If you’re dedicated as you seem to the cause of Lysaer’s Alliance, this won’t matter,” Talith said in sudden, terse resolve. “But if you speak to other clansmen, or have sympathy for ones in Tysan at risk of enslavement, I offer this much. The Koriathain are in league with Prince Lysaer against Arithon. Their kind have sent word: my lord husband has left Etarra. He returns to Avenor with all speed, in secret, for he knows the Master of Shadow has suborned the shakedown crews at his shipyard.”
I do love Talith. She's obnoxious and terrible at times. But she's also pretty great.
Mearn is taken aback. How does she know state secrets in the tower?
Simple: remember the unfaithful handmaid? She's the mistress of the High Priest of the Light, Cerebeld. And apparently, she's prone to gossip. Talith knows that she's married to a man who's claiming to be a messiah.
And that, essentially, is why Talith wants to stay.
Touched by the fluttering play of the candle, Talith gave a small, resigned shrug. “The s’Ffalenn prince might be a pirate, might ply his sorcery and connive against innocents, but he does not spin fair lies to justify his killing. Remember that, if you stay to fight him.” Her hands had laced themselves taut in her lap, white knuckled in response to sharp memory. “Arithon’s criminal and clever, but he’s truthful. If I can smear Lysaer’s reputation just enough to tear down this false claim to godhood, the world might come to bleed a little less.”
Again she looked up. This time, her striking beauty held no subterfuge, but an appeal stamped in hard desperation. “I might win back a husband who is human if his gifted power to win a following is besmirched.”
Talith is such an interesting character to me, because she's so awful in so many ways. She's introduced making fun of a man's shackle scars, after all. She is selfish, scheming, manipulative, and never really changes for the better.
But her downfall, the reason she's in this Tower, has nothing to do with her multitude of faults. She's here because she's honest, forthright, and because she loves her husband enough to think that he'll actually listen to her.
Even now, she still loves him.
That said, I really could get to ship Mearn and Talith. Especially with this:
Mearn laughed, enchanted by her spirit. “Dear princess, if you are cast off and left lovelorn with cousins, allow me to visit and pay court. If you liked, I’d spirit you out of Etarra and invite you to tea with my grandmother. The result would certainly repel boredom.”
“With vinegar and sand?” Talith rose in wry grace, tore a leaf from a book on her nightstand, then dipped water from the ewer and ground makeshift ink from a handful of ashes in the grate. “I’m not sanguine.”
A thin quill drawn from the stuffing in her mattress, cut and split with Mearn’s knife, made a pen.
“You’ve brought me precious hope,” she admitted as she scribed her perilous invitation to lure a lover. “If you fall getting out of here and break your silly head, I’ll entreat your grandmother’s shade to come haunt you.”
Actually, as it turns out, Grandma Dawr is still alive. Awesome. I REALLY hope we meet her.
--
So the next chapter is First Upset.
It's in Early Spring 5653. (The first chapter was in winter, sorry.)
We're with Lord Maenol s'Gannley. He's taking part in some intrigue - namely, he's in a party of men who are en route to a seacoast rendezvous with more of Arithon's stolen ships.
It's pretty dangerous though, there are headhunters and slavers everywhere.
That said, their attention is caught by a rider. A rider who knows how to spot them, and knows to ask for Tysan's caithdein directly - it's Mearn! With very bad news!
Damn man, you didn't waste any time. He's here to warn them: there's a trap incoming, and Lysaer's already made it back to Avenor. Obviously, this isn't possible. Normally. But, Lysaer's got that alliance with the Koriani.
They basically have a week to try to get to Riverton and get Arithon the fuck out of there.
Maenol offers Mearn sanctuary, recognizing the risk he's taking. But Mearn (rather like Talith) turns him down. He's covered his tracks pretty well, and as far as anyone in Avenor can tell, he's drunk to incapacity with three sex workers in his bed. (The house servant is actually keeping them occupied, apparently.)
I really do like s'Brydions. And I really really want Mearn and Talith to get together. I feel like he (and that grandmother!) could help her figure out a way to exercise her talents in fun, useful ways.
That was a surprisingly short subchapter actually, even with the lack of excerpts. Important though.
--
This third subchapter is called Downfall and it takes place in early spring 5653.
So we're back with Talith in her Tower. We get to see a little more about what days are like for her:
As always she opened her eyes to deep gloom. The strapped shutters leaked only pinpricks of light. Airless and chill, the flinty dankness of the brick enclosed the fusty odors of soot and beeswax, the lavender sprigs in her clothes chest too refined to drive the must of mildew from her blankets. Talith lay still, never so agonized by her plight that she gave way to helpless resignation. Where once she had commanded chattering maids to serve up scalding tea and the choice snippets of the night’s gossip, now she had only her ears to record the ongoing events outside. Born and bred a pedigree Etarran, she would lie dead before she renounced her belief she could wrest back her place in court politics.
Apparently, on calm mornings like this, she can hear a lot from the outside surroundings - usually the swearing of sailors and stevedores. Sometimes jokes and laughter. I'm not sure if that'd be better or worse than silence.
She also only ever gets like a tiny sliver of natural light through a crack in the windows. It sounds miserable.
It's even more miserable right now because she's drawn and queasy with pregnancy symptoms. (The father, apparently, was a "worshipful palace page". I'm assuming there are adult pages, since a child wouldn't be able to climb a rope and grapple.)
Talith isn't without some distraction though. She really doesn't like her maid:
She shrugged off the empty comfort of her blankets, now impatient for the maid’s prompt arrival. The woman had a haughty temper, when provoked. She was ambitious and vain, covetous of her position as a high priest’s clandestine mistress. Rich all her life, and born to position, Talith knew by her huntress’s instinct which jabs would rankle the most. The maid was a gold-digging, servant-class whore, and her nettled retorts to a princess’s needling could sometimes spring knowledge of outside events.
That said, the footsteps are wrong. She hears boots. And masculine voices. She snatches her robe quickly. And I'm suddenly reminded of a parallel here: Elaira in her unconcerned nudity as she's summoned to help with a childbirth. Elaira was never a noblewoman. She never knew luxury. Her tiny cottage was probably worse, in terms of base comforts, than even Talith's cell. But she's not a prisoner and she has nothing to fear.
I'm reminded of something I thought back in Vastmark: who could Talith have been if she'd grown up literally anywhere else? If she'd grown up in the Clan, where women like Maenalle or Dame Dawr could use power in their own right. Hell, if she'd grown up Koriani, even. What might she have become?
But she didn't.
She can hear her maid talking about missed courses and unstained linen, swearing that no man entered Talith's chamber. She's talking...to Lysaer.
And how's Lysaer's purple prose today?
Four years had changed him, Talith saw, eyes narrowed to the influx of light, and her arrested breathing resumed to sped rhythm from the recoil kick of shocked nerves. His stainless white dress, simple jewels, and lethal charm had been welded into new purpose. He had always had majesty. Now, presence lay on him like gold thread in velvet, or fine silk wrapped over tempered wire. His eyes of water-rinsed sapphire upon her showed no shadow of strain. On the contrary, as if passionate love had never aroused his desire, his mannered tranquillity held a luminous focus that seemed to command the dead air to forced rarity.
Despite her contempt, Talith felt the force of him ripple her flesh to a stabbing prickle of awe.
It's down right Imperial.
He's also not alone. There are three officials with him.
Talith takes the offensive:
“How like a man and a craven, to arrive with a bootlicking dog pack to heel,” Talith said. “Or have you come in overdressed force to collect my soiled linen for the laundry girl? The gallants in Etarra would think it the rage, to see royalty wait on a servant.”
But Lysaer...
Lysaer seemed not to hear. Lordly and unruffled as masterworked crystal, he assayed neither riposte nor civil greeting, but addressed her instead with the incisive clarity she had seen him use once on an officer who had deserted. “We’ll have no display of false modesty, woman. Your robe must come off. Strip your night rail as well. I’m informed you are bearing. Shall we see?”
Lysaer isn't following the script.
Here's the problem with Talith's very Etarran plan. It would have worked...if she were dealing with an Etarran. Or someone close enough to it. Koshlin, likely, would be easy prey.
But Lysaer is not, and has never been, Etarran. He's not even Atheran. He's from a different world and carries different baggage, and sometimes that matters.
Like now, with a cheating wife.
Who are the officials?
His train of officials pattered in from the stairwell, no doubt summoned to stand legal witness. The sallow-faced leader with the stalking tread swept her with obsidian hard eyes, his voluminous cloak of ermine and gold fretted with chains and wired pearls. The sunwheel emblazoned his cowled robe of office, and one fist, squared blunt as a mason’s maul, clutched a scepter encrusted with citrines. Behind him minced the stooped person of the High Seneschal, the sills of his cheekbones windburned to old leather by days of inclement travel. Beyond middle age, and stymied by events outside the ossified mores of state politics, he gave the cracked stone in the floor his discomfited contemplation. Vorrice came last, as the Light’s new-made instrument to seek out and destroy petty sorcery. He gave her a leering, suspicious inspection, preened as a fighting cock hung with steel spurs for a match with inferior rivals.
Vorrice again. That's probably not a good sign.
Talith is brave. She keeps trying.
The kiss of chill air was too sharp to hide. Shivering as the cloth slithered down and bared her defenseless shoulders, Talith relied upon words for her knives. “If there’s truth to this claim, dare you brand yourself cuckold?”
The handmaid recoiled in prim righteousness, ready to repeat her avowal that no man had passed through her guard; yet the princess, her disdain fixed like acid upon Lysaer, gave that unctuous objection no chance. “Why not ring the bells in praise of another miracle? Ath’s all-powerful avatar shouldn’t balk at a child conceived by sublime intervention. Let your bitch of a watchdog swear by her truth. Give the realm an heir begotten by miracle, and blessed by the glory of the Light. Another lie is scarcely more preposterous than the last. What a stirring opportunity to fan the ardor of your campaign, and win more adulation from the masses.”
Talith is fiery and wonderful, but she's not fighting the battle she thinks she is.
For one, while she knows about Lysaer's current pretense of divinity, she hasn't really appreciated it in context.
She also forgot one very important aspect of Lysaer's character and backstory that he's never, ever forgotten:
Lysaer gave back his pitying patience. “I am truth’s minion. My born calling can’t be sullied by the rags of false gallantry, even to protect your infidelity.” His eyes on her stayed an implacable, blued steel. “Nor would I exploit an honest servant’s gullibility. The Master of Shadow is at Riverton, and sorcerer enough that he once gained covert entry to the most rigorously guarded keep on the continent.” No one could forget the furor over that, since Duke Bransian’s citadel had been widely considered impregnable. Lysaer would pose his demonic skills small impediment.”
Remember when Talith was first kidnapped, how Lysaer's first, horrible reaction was to offer to toast the bastard offspring?
Lysaer is a man who, at three years old, was abandoned by his mother so she could go fuck his father's enemy. He's got issues with women. And Talith, unfortunately, has played right into them.
Talith points out that if Arithon had wanted, he'd have "done his work earlier, without the inconvenience of skulking." But the time for logic has passed.
So they inspect her. It's pretty traumatic:
Princess Talith endured, desperate and unflinching, her fine skin fretted to gooseflesh. While the one man she loved with her whole heart in marriage showed her nakedness no trace of natural humanity, others who were enemies leered in unconstrained male amazement. The exquisite torment of her beauty became her last weapon against tears, as Lysaer’s state witnesses sweated in their clothes and ached in stifled frustration. Their lust left them slack jawed as they cataloged her attributes like an ornament unveiled for private auction. The subtle details lay beyond her to hide the giveaway pallor of morning nausea; the ripe fullness of breast, and the first, softened curve of hip and belly. Nor could she mask the smooth, dewy skin that seemed lit like the satin reflection on a pearl.
Understandably, at this point, Talith's bravado starts to break. She starts to wish, desperately, to wake up from a nightmare.
But no. The High Priest and Seneschel confirm the pregnancy. Vorrice wants to see her burn for infidelity with a sorcerer.
But remember how Lysaer is all about justice? He states that there will need to be a hearing and tribunal.
Talith tries to speak now, possibly to disclose the actual father of her child. But it's too late. She's not Talith anymore to him. She's Talera. And we can see that here:
“Keep the woman in good health until the child’s birth. If it is dark, Vorrice, have it ritually killed as the accursed offspring of darkness. If the infant is of any other coloring, consider it mortal, and blameless. Let my seneschal send word to Etarra in appeal to its maternal relatives. If they show offense at the babe’s bastard blood, then consign it to a Koriani orphanage. The realm’s justice cannot be sidelined for sentiment. The adulteress must stand trial for treason against the Crown of Tysan, under pain of death by the sword.”
Talera's real crime, when it came down to it, wasn't that she ran off to fuck a pirate. It was that she left her son behind. Lysaer has never forgiven her for it.
--
The sneak peek section is Consequences We're still in early spring 5653.
First: On a ship heading westward, Lysaer "weeps the desperate tears he could not shed for Talith in the tower, and the love forced to ruin by the wiles of an enemy anneals his heart to dread vengeance..."
Second: Asandir is doing some magic work to keep packs of Khadrim contained, though it probably won't last more than a decade.
Which, okay, I guess is important, but hi, incoming ambush? Hello?
Third: In Avenor, the High Priest has apparently decided to save their divine prince from "base and damaging embarrassment" - and he does this by having an archer shoot a crossbow bolt through rope, leading an adulteress to plunge to her death.
Poor Talith. She hadn't left with Mearn because she genuinely did love her husband, and stupidly believed that she could reach him. She's again doomed for her virtues rather than her flaws.
The chapter ends here. The next chapter by the way is "spring trap"...so...that sounds ominous!
So this chapter starts us off with Mearn s'Brydion. If you recall, some time back, Arithon asked him to look into what happened to Princess Talith. Mearn's been working on that, namely by growing back his lovelock, banging a lot of ladies and waiting and chambermaids, and drinking with the garrison.
I like his style.
That actually doesn't get him anywhere, so he resorts to a new technique: breaking and entering.
Even then, it takes a while to find anything useful. He does find some clues though in the Treasury Minister's records though: gold being allotted for six guardmen without recorded names, and a stipend for a princess that looks suspiciously "meager" to support what should be "a full staff and comforts for a cosseted royal wife."
Damn, Lysaer, that's cold. And I think it's a sign of how he's deteriorated. I think even the Lysaer of Merior would have made sure that Talith was living comfortably in exile. After all, it's not her fault she was kidnapped. Even if she was "suborned" by the enemy.
But it does give Mearn a starting point. He thinks about his grandmother, who sounds fucking awesome:
‘Townborn will always dissemble and cheat,’ he recalled her admonishing through a youthful attempt to talk his way through a scrape. ‘That’s what nature breeds out of landowning avarice.’ White haired, diminutive, as flawlessly neat as a porcelain lily, she peered up at him, her chuckle all vinegar delight as she jabbed home her point with the blackthorn stick she brandished in old age like a weapon. ‘Ath above, boy! You keep all your brains in your cock? To know a statesman’s true heart, you must first track his wealth. Only his gold never lies.’
I want to meet this woman. I want ARITHON to meet this woman. I think that would be fucking amazing.
So, Mearn eventually comes to realize where Talith is located: a locked and barred tower attached to the south wing of the keep that fronts the state palace in Avenor. It has a description:
The structure was hexagonal, built of the fired fawn brick used to expedite the restoration of Tysan’s capital. From Mearn’s stance by the pillars which braced a dome vaulting, the keep’s north facade cut a ruled silhouette through the smoke silver stipple of stars. No pennon flew from its blunt, leaded roof. The banded masonry beneath the upper battlement held no carved follies or gargoyles. Only the simple sunwheel emblem graced the dressed-granite lintels of the entry below, a cavernous portal of strapped oaken doors, studded in steel and square bosses. This, Mearn discovered, stayed barred to all but a handpicked cadre of the realm’s highest officers.
Mearn's got to be very careful though. Religious fervor doesn't make a great environment for bribes. And he's clan, so even though he's (apparently) a very loyal and genuine member of Lysaer's Alliance, they don't really trust him. And they're dicks about it. Town grudges are long, and even though the s'Brydions have never raided caravans (they never had to, as they were never deposed or hunted), they're still basically seen as the same as the clans of Tysan.
So this means that Mearn's best option to find out what's going on in the tower is to climb it.
Have I mentioned how much I enjoy the s'Brydion family's sheer "don't give a fuck" approach to life?
I love this bit:
Since Mearn looked on caution as a mealymouthed word for gutless procrastination, he tightened the laced wrists of his sleeves and stripped off his gloves. Hands hooked to chill stone, he wedged his toe in the crack of the first course of granite and forsook his safe stance on the roof. Either Princess Talith was locked away in seclusion above, or he could send honest word back to Arithon s’Ffalenn that she was nowhere inside of Avenor.
"mealymouthed word for gutless procrastination" is such a great line.
So anyway, Mearn's going to go meet Rapunzel in the Tower. It's a hard trip - cold and unpleasant. And at one point, a bit perilous, as someone enters the third floor of the keep and starts lighting candles.
Inside, the Lord High Chancellor, whose name is Quinold, is complaining about the drafts. Happily, because he closes the curtains, it gives Mearn an opportunity to get a rest on the window ledge just outside. He's risking a lot to be here, we're told if he's caught inside the precinct, he'll get executed via public dismemberment without a hearing, and then stabbed through the heart.
FUN.
This does however give Mearn an opportunity to eavesdrop, since it turns out that Quinold is not alone. He's chatting with some guy named Vorrice.
Interestingly, Vorrice doesn't seem to have the skepticism about the Paravians, or the Fellowship, that most of Lysaer's side tends to show. He believes that the Paravians aren't dead, and that they're the reason WHY the "accursed taint of practicing magecraft" still exists. He's a witch-burner, basically, who considers "public cleansings" his bound duty.
This is actually pretty important news. Lysaer's spoken against sorcery, and there's been arrests, but no one knows yet that there's a fanatic in a high enough office to start actually persecuting people large scale.
Things get even better for Mearn, as other ministers enter the room. Basically, he's lucked into a secret meeting by Lysaer's inner circle. Guests include the Lord Justiciar and Skannt of the headhunters. Gace, the household steward (who Mearn thinks of as "a closemouthed, stringy wisp of a creature who tended to slink") is not present, a fact that is noteworthy to the other folks in the room.
The reason for the meeting appears to be a Guild Master named Koshlin. He's known to make generous endowments to the headhunter leagues.
The dynamic here is interesting:
“Your welcome is accepted here only because of your overtures to support Prince Lysaer’s alliance against evil,” the man in authority addressed, his peach-syrup inflection at chilling odds with a bluntness that ran contrary to the ingrained town penchant for stylized manners and ceremony.
“By all means, let us speak plainly.” Lord Koshlin’s ruffled suavity trailed through a considering pause. “Your prince shall have gold in support from a faction in Camris I have been asked not to name. The moneys will come with no strings attached. If your self-styled savior can bring more than folk at Miralt Head to hail him as an avatar, no one of us will denounce him.”
That raised a bristling rustle, as someone of size roused himself to take umbrage.
Ever smooth in diplomacy, the High Chancellor intervened. “Let us not quibble over unfounded truths, Vorrice. We few are privileged. Elsewhere, the awareness of Lysaer’s blessed heritage has not been made common knowledge.”
So what we're seeing here is an interesting shift in policy and politics.
Koshlin here represents Lysaer's original support base. The townsfolk, guild and merchants who follow Lysaer for their own pragmatic reasons. Lysaer's personal charisma is intense, of course, but they follow him more because he gives them sanction basically to do what they've wanted to do all along: hunt down their enemies and pursue profit.
But that's not really what Lysaer is going for anymore. Hunting clan is still pretty high on the priorities, of course. But he's going for a more divine approach. And while I sincerely doubt characters like Skannt, or even Quinold, actually believe in the whole "blessed heritage" nonsense - they're happy to go along with the party line.
Look at Koshlin here:
Lord Koshlin pressed on, impatient. “Why waste any breath on theology at all? Let your prince inspire the whole world to bow to his moral righteousness. Every conversion he makes serves our need, in turn. We are dedicated men bound to break the constraint of the Fellowship’s compact. Our followers in Camris already have instructions. They’ll serve your Alliance of Light in coin and information, and even raw resource. By whatever means, they want sorcery suppressed and the old clan lineages eradicated. The s’Ilessid claim to immortal birth is not germane. We view his criminal charges against the Shadow Master’s allies as a powerful political convenience.”
While Mearn battled the rise of his gorge, Vorrice raised abrasive opinion. “Your hatred of Maenol’s barbarians runs deep. Do we also surmise you fear the restoration of the Paravians?”
“Don’t mistake, we fear nothing.” Koshlin paused through what felt at second hand like a lingering, oily smile. “Let me suggest, any force in Athera who stands for the old ways poses a dangerous impediment. We wish the Second Age mysteries forgotten.”
Koshlin and Vorrice aren't talking about the same thing here. As we see here:
“Those bygone beliefs stunt the interests of trade. Why should a hidebound adherence to past ritual disallow more seaports and better roads?” A fist thumped on wood, to a flickering splash of leaked flame light through slitted curtains. “Since the Paravians abandoned the continent, mankind should claim rightful use of the land.” Koshlin cleared his throat. “The faction I speak for will back Lysaer’s cause. In secret, we’ve labored to abolish the compact since the over-throw of the last high kings. Those of our heirs who incline toward religion will scarcely care which name they invoke when they mouth their prayers to a deity. Once humanity is free to reap this world’s wealth, society will flourish. You wish the Prince of Rathain brought down and his supporters suppressed to save the peace. We wish to escape the Fellowship’s tyranny. Our ends lie along the same course, won’t you see?”
Koshlin's articulating outloud what we knew all along. What I said earlier in this scene. THIS is why Etarra and Erdane and all those groups follow Lysaer.
And so far, that's enough. Skannt's willing to take the man's gold to hunt the clans, of course, though he wants to hear the conditions.
Vorrice though:
“We should take the Lord Master’s offer, believe this.” His adamant diction flecked spittle as he gestured his conviction. “Let his coin help rout out the canker of sorcery. What should we fear? Prince Lysaer will shine as our maker intends. Let the faithless beware. The light of his presence shall banish corruption wherever man’s works embrace evil.”
An "unseen authority" with a "fulsome voice glacial with command" chides Vorrice, pointing out that it's not an inquisition and that they're not going to spurn a sensible gift offered in good faith.
But it is worth noting that, for all that Vorrice is an extremist. He's still a member of the inner circle. KOSHLIN is the outsider here. And I'm not sure he realizes that.
For his part, Mearn is focused on other things. He very nearly got caught during Vorrice's dramatics. However he's far more concerned with what Koshlin revealed. Because in his speech, Koshlin made it very clear that he knows WHY the clan bloodlines exist and are irreplaceable.
The explanation is this:
When humans settled on Athera, it was already inhabited by the Paravians. Very humans can survive direct contact with the Paravians without losing their minds. That is part of the reason that the Fellowship created the compact. The clans are made up of people who have a higher resistance to Paravian everything. They're meant to act as a go-between.
I kind of love that, because up until this point, the Paravians seemed rather like the legends of fairies or what not. Tragic that they've left, but rather passive. This makes it sound more like the Paravians are freaking eldritch horrors.
There's also a bit here that's significant in another way:
Rule was not based upon power or privilege, but on the fraught perils of sacrifice. The pitfalls were documented. Lords and crowned high kings most often died young, heart torn between dedicated care for their own, and the terrible, exultant conflict of spirit as they treated with beings who formed the living bridge across the veil.
I admit, I'm someone who tends to laugh at the idea of the ruling class as "servants" who "sacrifice" for the people they exploit to allow them to live in luxury.
However, it's possibly worth noting something.
Per the Paravia wiki, Lysaer s'Ilessid is the 1467th prince of his line. Arithon s'Ffalenn is the 1504th prince of his. The royal lines were established at the beginning of the Third Age. Curse of the Mistwraith starts in 5637.
Now, I'm assuming when she says "prince of the line", Wurts does not actually mean ruling prince. Because if she does, then the average length of a reign in either family is about 3.8 or 3.7 years. But even if we just assume that they're counting ELIGIBLE royal heirs, including children, that still seems like a LOT.
So Mearn might have a point here.
And he's come to a realization:
Mearn hugged his shivering body to the granite, groped a toe into the next crack, and shoved upward. The whispered scrape of his shirt over stone, and the moan of the wind through the gulf of starry darkness left him too much space to brood. A natural gambler, he measured the odds and concluded that fate dealt the clans a bad throw. His brother the duke had initially backed Arithon for matters of family honor. But as politics and greed built on the grand impetus of Lysaer’s cry for armed justice, that chosen loyalty could well become an act of desperate survival.
So as much as I always loved the s'Brydions for being immune to Lysaer's bullshit even when they sided with him, it's worth noting that they were very much acting against their own interests.
As angry and offended as the s'Brydions were at the treatment of Maenalle, for example, and the persecutions of the Rathain clans, they didn't ever seem to stop and think about what this means for clanfolk in general. The s'Brydions are allies, now. They're useful, now. But if that changes...why exactly would Lysaer and his followers balk at persecuting them as well.
Even now, the s'Brydions switched sides for matters of honor. Not sensibility. Mearn may be the first of them to actually realize the big picture here.
Interestingly, the s'Brydions aren't the only ones making this same mistake. Morriel or Lirenda might want to think about what Lysaer's witch hunters will mean for the Koriani, when THEY stop being useful.
Anyway, Mearn continues to climb. He ends up overhearing the reason that the steward was late for the meeting: some pigeons were stolen from the dovecote and the falconer is pissed off.
It also makes for a good diversion as he Assassin Creeds his way farther up the Tower. There's LOTS of description about the cold and wind by the way. My fingers are going numb just thinking about it.
Eventually though, after many pages, Mearn makes it inside. (He has to work free some hinges that are mounted "prison fashion" to do it.)
So what's it look like?
His wide, straining eyes discerned the frame of a curtained box bed, the harder gleam of a porcelain ewer on a stand, and the pale linen oblong of a towel. The chamber was appointed for basic comfort, but not in the grace of high luxury. An Etarran-bred princess accustomed to society and the gregarious convolutions of city intrigue would be like to go mad from sheer boredom.
I mean, on one hand, fuck the rich. On the other, Talith deserves better than to be locked away like this.
And in fact:
That moment, from nowhere, fierce fingers grasped his lovelock.
Mearn whirled. His sudden, lithe reflex ripped off the hold. His wrist bone jarred metal. The shuttering cover of a hand lamp chinked back. Caught in the flaring, sudden haze of light, the woman he seized with a wrestler’s strength was all molten gold hair and pearl skin. She was fire, gilt-and-white porcelain, and a vision to stun a male witless. Widened bronze eyes flashed up to meet his, black lashed and deep, with pupils to drown him in primordial night.
Talith's not hostile though. She's quick to warn him to be quiet - she's got a handmaid in the lower chamber who is not loyal to her.
We get some more purple prose:
Mearn shuddered and broke her restraint as though burned. He had heard all the rumors, even glimpsed Lysaer’s wife at state functions before her incarceration. At safe remove behind a retinue and attendants, she had been a sight to turn heads. Nothing alive could prepare any man for the impact of her at close quarters. Mearn discovered himself helpless to tear his gaze from her face. The delicate, ivory line of her shoulder entrapped him, and the sheer fall of the nightrobe whose folds by turns offered and obscured a form of breathtaking loveliness.
Not quite Lysaer or Arithon levels, but still quite nice.
Mearn asks her if she's a prisoner, stating that the party who sent him believed she was. He tells her about the word at court: that she's the victim of stress and overwrought nerves due to barrenness.
Talith's happy to set the record straight, of course. She's here because Lysaer hates Arithon. And because he has mother issues.
“The abduction by Arithon caused this?” Mearn straightened and set his back against stone, acute in his private discomfort. The lady’s tower quarters were too cramped to pace. If he stirred one step in any direction, his retreat would not bring him more than an arm’s length from her. “But why? Eight hundred thousand coin weight in gold brought you home with your virtue intact.”
Talith flung back a ripple of bright hair and regarded him. The contempt that fired her topaz eyes seemed to roil the very marrow in his bones. “You say. Yet what proof can I show for my loyalty?”
Mearn swore. A stride carried him to the box bed, impelled by a pity too fierce to keep still. “Prince Lysaer’s a fool. I can’t change that.” He locked hands to the spare rope coiled across his shoulders, flamed to ridiculous, boyish embarrassment for his sweaty state of dishevelment. Torn shirt, ripped fingers, and wind-tangled hair, he felt rough as an unsanded plank. “But I can offer means to escape.”
Mearn's a good egg.
Talith has a different idea though:
“I need to conceive a child,” she announced without prelude.
“What?” Mearn exclaimed.
Talith explains her motives:
Talith returned a slow smile. “Can a princess be faulted for taking a lover if she is cast off in neglect? Let the court in Avenor hear I’m not barren, the disgrace will become my fresh victory. My child of course won’t be Lysaer’s. For that, his much vaunted manhood will be laughingstock.”
“Things aren’t that simple,” Mearn wrenched out. She was too close, too desirable. Her appeal for just vindication was too potent to let him think. Nor had he the means to let her down with any proper kindness or subtlety. “I can’t. Lady, your spirit is great, and your beauty unmatched. I could lie with you for sheer pleasure. But I can never, ever presume the right to make a new life between us.”
She broke then, her tears a bright, rolling spill over her flawless cheekbones. “Ath’s mercy, help me! Won’t you see how I need this? A shamed wife could gain freedom, some measure of autonomy. Yes, the worst could befall. Lysaer may cast me off. At least I could return to my cousins in Etarra.”
It's a very Etarran plan. It's a very stupid plan.
And I think there are a few layers to it, even more than she's saying.
Obviously, the first part is the social revenge. Talith is a woman born and raised in Etarran court society. She knows how that works like the back of her hand. Lysaer robbed her of her social power and humiliated her, she wants to humiliate him in turn to get some of her power back.
I think the second and third parts are more personal. Talith's always known that her sole power is in her beauty and sexuality. That's why her relationship with Lysaer was always a little off putting. While he was attracted to her and professed to love her, he could turn away from those feelings at any time. And has.
So by seducing this man, she's reassuring herself that she still has that power. And of course, after three years, she likely is desperately lonely.
Mearn is young and attractive, but even if he weren't, I think she'd still take this approach.
That said, as we see in Mearn's response...she's picked the wrong guy.
Mearn is young, attractive, and very happy to have casual sex. But he's a clansman. And as we JUST saw in the scene with Vorrice and Koshlin - bloodline is very important to them. He's just been reminded of that.
I mean, personally, I think that having a few bastards about might help preserve the line if something goes very badly. But it wouldn't preserve the culture or the traditions. And that is important to Mearn, so he turns her down.
He begs her to let him help her escape though. She could go to Etarra and conceive her bastard with anyone.
This banter here is pretty charming, I think:
Talith smiled. Her neat, narrow fingers adjusted her night rail and reclothed her inviting nakedness. “Tell all and give nothing? How like a man who has bloodline, but apparently no measure of heated blood in him. Why am I not surprised? I should be asking, instead, who has sent you.”
Mearn grinned. “You sound like my grandmother Dawr. Sharp as vinegar and sand when her males won’t do as she pleases. I have no intention of saying which party takes active interest in your predicament. Shall I end our sweet impasse and go?”
That shook her. “We are bargaining, bloodless man.” The glass edge of solitude had eroded her strength. Both fear and contempt rang true as she spoke. “Did you plan to climb down as you came? Then I’ll have your rope and grapple to reel in once you set down on the council-hall roof. Deliver my note to my lover of choice and let him scale the wall for my favor.”
Mearn is on board, telling her that he'd leave the rope anyway, just in case she decides to escape herself. And he'll pass word on to the person who sent him.
I feel like Talith might have an idea of who her benefactor is, because she does offer him something here:
“If you’re dedicated as you seem to the cause of Lysaer’s Alliance, this won’t matter,” Talith said in sudden, terse resolve. “But if you speak to other clansmen, or have sympathy for ones in Tysan at risk of enslavement, I offer this much. The Koriathain are in league with Prince Lysaer against Arithon. Their kind have sent word: my lord husband has left Etarra. He returns to Avenor with all speed, in secret, for he knows the Master of Shadow has suborned the shakedown crews at his shipyard.”
I do love Talith. She's obnoxious and terrible at times. But she's also pretty great.
Mearn is taken aback. How does she know state secrets in the tower?
Simple: remember the unfaithful handmaid? She's the mistress of the High Priest of the Light, Cerebeld. And apparently, she's prone to gossip. Talith knows that she's married to a man who's claiming to be a messiah.
And that, essentially, is why Talith wants to stay.
Touched by the fluttering play of the candle, Talith gave a small, resigned shrug. “The s’Ffalenn prince might be a pirate, might ply his sorcery and connive against innocents, but he does not spin fair lies to justify his killing. Remember that, if you stay to fight him.” Her hands had laced themselves taut in her lap, white knuckled in response to sharp memory. “Arithon’s criminal and clever, but he’s truthful. If I can smear Lysaer’s reputation just enough to tear down this false claim to godhood, the world might come to bleed a little less.”
Again she looked up. This time, her striking beauty held no subterfuge, but an appeal stamped in hard desperation. “I might win back a husband who is human if his gifted power to win a following is besmirched.”
Talith is such an interesting character to me, because she's so awful in so many ways. She's introduced making fun of a man's shackle scars, after all. She is selfish, scheming, manipulative, and never really changes for the better.
But her downfall, the reason she's in this Tower, has nothing to do with her multitude of faults. She's here because she's honest, forthright, and because she loves her husband enough to think that he'll actually listen to her.
Even now, she still loves him.
That said, I really could get to ship Mearn and Talith. Especially with this:
Mearn laughed, enchanted by her spirit. “Dear princess, if you are cast off and left lovelorn with cousins, allow me to visit and pay court. If you liked, I’d spirit you out of Etarra and invite you to tea with my grandmother. The result would certainly repel boredom.”
“With vinegar and sand?” Talith rose in wry grace, tore a leaf from a book on her nightstand, then dipped water from the ewer and ground makeshift ink from a handful of ashes in the grate. “I’m not sanguine.”
A thin quill drawn from the stuffing in her mattress, cut and split with Mearn’s knife, made a pen.
“You’ve brought me precious hope,” she admitted as she scribed her perilous invitation to lure a lover. “If you fall getting out of here and break your silly head, I’ll entreat your grandmother’s shade to come haunt you.”
Actually, as it turns out, Grandma Dawr is still alive. Awesome. I REALLY hope we meet her.
--
So the next chapter is First Upset.
It's in Early Spring 5653. (The first chapter was in winter, sorry.)
We're with Lord Maenol s'Gannley. He's taking part in some intrigue - namely, he's in a party of men who are en route to a seacoast rendezvous with more of Arithon's stolen ships.
It's pretty dangerous though, there are headhunters and slavers everywhere.
That said, their attention is caught by a rider. A rider who knows how to spot them, and knows to ask for Tysan's caithdein directly - it's Mearn! With very bad news!
Damn man, you didn't waste any time. He's here to warn them: there's a trap incoming, and Lysaer's already made it back to Avenor. Obviously, this isn't possible. Normally. But, Lysaer's got that alliance with the Koriani.
They basically have a week to try to get to Riverton and get Arithon the fuck out of there.
Maenol offers Mearn sanctuary, recognizing the risk he's taking. But Mearn (rather like Talith) turns him down. He's covered his tracks pretty well, and as far as anyone in Avenor can tell, he's drunk to incapacity with three sex workers in his bed. (The house servant is actually keeping them occupied, apparently.)
I really do like s'Brydions. And I really really want Mearn and Talith to get together. I feel like he (and that grandmother!) could help her figure out a way to exercise her talents in fun, useful ways.
That was a surprisingly short subchapter actually, even with the lack of excerpts. Important though.
--
This third subchapter is called Downfall and it takes place in early spring 5653.
So we're back with Talith in her Tower. We get to see a little more about what days are like for her:
As always she opened her eyes to deep gloom. The strapped shutters leaked only pinpricks of light. Airless and chill, the flinty dankness of the brick enclosed the fusty odors of soot and beeswax, the lavender sprigs in her clothes chest too refined to drive the must of mildew from her blankets. Talith lay still, never so agonized by her plight that she gave way to helpless resignation. Where once she had commanded chattering maids to serve up scalding tea and the choice snippets of the night’s gossip, now she had only her ears to record the ongoing events outside. Born and bred a pedigree Etarran, she would lie dead before she renounced her belief she could wrest back her place in court politics.
Apparently, on calm mornings like this, she can hear a lot from the outside surroundings - usually the swearing of sailors and stevedores. Sometimes jokes and laughter. I'm not sure if that'd be better or worse than silence.
She also only ever gets like a tiny sliver of natural light through a crack in the windows. It sounds miserable.
It's even more miserable right now because she's drawn and queasy with pregnancy symptoms. (The father, apparently, was a "worshipful palace page". I'm assuming there are adult pages, since a child wouldn't be able to climb a rope and grapple.)
Talith isn't without some distraction though. She really doesn't like her maid:
She shrugged off the empty comfort of her blankets, now impatient for the maid’s prompt arrival. The woman had a haughty temper, when provoked. She was ambitious and vain, covetous of her position as a high priest’s clandestine mistress. Rich all her life, and born to position, Talith knew by her huntress’s instinct which jabs would rankle the most. The maid was a gold-digging, servant-class whore, and her nettled retorts to a princess’s needling could sometimes spring knowledge of outside events.
That said, the footsteps are wrong. She hears boots. And masculine voices. She snatches her robe quickly. And I'm suddenly reminded of a parallel here: Elaira in her unconcerned nudity as she's summoned to help with a childbirth. Elaira was never a noblewoman. She never knew luxury. Her tiny cottage was probably worse, in terms of base comforts, than even Talith's cell. But she's not a prisoner and she has nothing to fear.
I'm reminded of something I thought back in Vastmark: who could Talith have been if she'd grown up literally anywhere else? If she'd grown up in the Clan, where women like Maenalle or Dame Dawr could use power in their own right. Hell, if she'd grown up Koriani, even. What might she have become?
But she didn't.
She can hear her maid talking about missed courses and unstained linen, swearing that no man entered Talith's chamber. She's talking...to Lysaer.
And how's Lysaer's purple prose today?
Four years had changed him, Talith saw, eyes narrowed to the influx of light, and her arrested breathing resumed to sped rhythm from the recoil kick of shocked nerves. His stainless white dress, simple jewels, and lethal charm had been welded into new purpose. He had always had majesty. Now, presence lay on him like gold thread in velvet, or fine silk wrapped over tempered wire. His eyes of water-rinsed sapphire upon her showed no shadow of strain. On the contrary, as if passionate love had never aroused his desire, his mannered tranquillity held a luminous focus that seemed to command the dead air to forced rarity.
Despite her contempt, Talith felt the force of him ripple her flesh to a stabbing prickle of awe.
It's down right Imperial.
He's also not alone. There are three officials with him.
Talith takes the offensive:
“How like a man and a craven, to arrive with a bootlicking dog pack to heel,” Talith said. “Or have you come in overdressed force to collect my soiled linen for the laundry girl? The gallants in Etarra would think it the rage, to see royalty wait on a servant.”
But Lysaer...
Lysaer seemed not to hear. Lordly and unruffled as masterworked crystal, he assayed neither riposte nor civil greeting, but addressed her instead with the incisive clarity she had seen him use once on an officer who had deserted. “We’ll have no display of false modesty, woman. Your robe must come off. Strip your night rail as well. I’m informed you are bearing. Shall we see?”
Lysaer isn't following the script.
Here's the problem with Talith's very Etarran plan. It would have worked...if she were dealing with an Etarran. Or someone close enough to it. Koshlin, likely, would be easy prey.
But Lysaer is not, and has never been, Etarran. He's not even Atheran. He's from a different world and carries different baggage, and sometimes that matters.
Like now, with a cheating wife.
Who are the officials?
His train of officials pattered in from the stairwell, no doubt summoned to stand legal witness. The sallow-faced leader with the stalking tread swept her with obsidian hard eyes, his voluminous cloak of ermine and gold fretted with chains and wired pearls. The sunwheel emblazoned his cowled robe of office, and one fist, squared blunt as a mason’s maul, clutched a scepter encrusted with citrines. Behind him minced the stooped person of the High Seneschal, the sills of his cheekbones windburned to old leather by days of inclement travel. Beyond middle age, and stymied by events outside the ossified mores of state politics, he gave the cracked stone in the floor his discomfited contemplation. Vorrice came last, as the Light’s new-made instrument to seek out and destroy petty sorcery. He gave her a leering, suspicious inspection, preened as a fighting cock hung with steel spurs for a match with inferior rivals.
Vorrice again. That's probably not a good sign.
Talith is brave. She keeps trying.
The kiss of chill air was too sharp to hide. Shivering as the cloth slithered down and bared her defenseless shoulders, Talith relied upon words for her knives. “If there’s truth to this claim, dare you brand yourself cuckold?”
The handmaid recoiled in prim righteousness, ready to repeat her avowal that no man had passed through her guard; yet the princess, her disdain fixed like acid upon Lysaer, gave that unctuous objection no chance. “Why not ring the bells in praise of another miracle? Ath’s all-powerful avatar shouldn’t balk at a child conceived by sublime intervention. Let your bitch of a watchdog swear by her truth. Give the realm an heir begotten by miracle, and blessed by the glory of the Light. Another lie is scarcely more preposterous than the last. What a stirring opportunity to fan the ardor of your campaign, and win more adulation from the masses.”
Talith is fiery and wonderful, but she's not fighting the battle she thinks she is.
For one, while she knows about Lysaer's current pretense of divinity, she hasn't really appreciated it in context.
She also forgot one very important aspect of Lysaer's character and backstory that he's never, ever forgotten:
Lysaer gave back his pitying patience. “I am truth’s minion. My born calling can’t be sullied by the rags of false gallantry, even to protect your infidelity.” His eyes on her stayed an implacable, blued steel. “Nor would I exploit an honest servant’s gullibility. The Master of Shadow is at Riverton, and sorcerer enough that he once gained covert entry to the most rigorously guarded keep on the continent.” No one could forget the furor over that, since Duke Bransian’s citadel had been widely considered impregnable. Lysaer would pose his demonic skills small impediment.”
Remember when Talith was first kidnapped, how Lysaer's first, horrible reaction was to offer to toast the bastard offspring?
Lysaer is a man who, at three years old, was abandoned by his mother so she could go fuck his father's enemy. He's got issues with women. And Talith, unfortunately, has played right into them.
Talith points out that if Arithon had wanted, he'd have "done his work earlier, without the inconvenience of skulking." But the time for logic has passed.
So they inspect her. It's pretty traumatic:
Princess Talith endured, desperate and unflinching, her fine skin fretted to gooseflesh. While the one man she loved with her whole heart in marriage showed her nakedness no trace of natural humanity, others who were enemies leered in unconstrained male amazement. The exquisite torment of her beauty became her last weapon against tears, as Lysaer’s state witnesses sweated in their clothes and ached in stifled frustration. Their lust left them slack jawed as they cataloged her attributes like an ornament unveiled for private auction. The subtle details lay beyond her to hide the giveaway pallor of morning nausea; the ripe fullness of breast, and the first, softened curve of hip and belly. Nor could she mask the smooth, dewy skin that seemed lit like the satin reflection on a pearl.
Understandably, at this point, Talith's bravado starts to break. She starts to wish, desperately, to wake up from a nightmare.
But no. The High Priest and Seneschel confirm the pregnancy. Vorrice wants to see her burn for infidelity with a sorcerer.
But remember how Lysaer is all about justice? He states that there will need to be a hearing and tribunal.
Talith tries to speak now, possibly to disclose the actual father of her child. But it's too late. She's not Talith anymore to him. She's Talera. And we can see that here:
“Keep the woman in good health until the child’s birth. If it is dark, Vorrice, have it ritually killed as the accursed offspring of darkness. If the infant is of any other coloring, consider it mortal, and blameless. Let my seneschal send word to Etarra in appeal to its maternal relatives. If they show offense at the babe’s bastard blood, then consign it to a Koriani orphanage. The realm’s justice cannot be sidelined for sentiment. The adulteress must stand trial for treason against the Crown of Tysan, under pain of death by the sword.”
Talera's real crime, when it came down to it, wasn't that she ran off to fuck a pirate. It was that she left her son behind. Lysaer has never forgiven her for it.
--
The sneak peek section is Consequences We're still in early spring 5653.
First: On a ship heading westward, Lysaer "weeps the desperate tears he could not shed for Talith in the tower, and the love forced to ruin by the wiles of an enemy anneals his heart to dread vengeance..."
Second: Asandir is doing some magic work to keep packs of Khadrim contained, though it probably won't last more than a decade.
Which, okay, I guess is important, but hi, incoming ambush? Hello?
Third: In Avenor, the High Priest has apparently decided to save their divine prince from "base and damaging embarrassment" - and he does this by having an archer shoot a crossbow bolt through rope, leading an adulteress to plunge to her death.
Poor Talith. She hadn't left with Mearn because she genuinely did love her husband, and stupidly believed that she could reach him. She's again doomed for her virtues rather than her flaws.
The chapter ends here. The next chapter by the way is "spring trap"...so...that sounds ominous!