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i_read_whatSo last time, our idiot brothers had made it through the gate, and we learn that apparently the people of this new world (Athera) are depending on some kind of prophecy that requires a descendant (or two) of one of the exiled royal lines to do something to defeat the giant scary mist demon that has engulfed the planet.
I don't know, waiting five hundred years for some idiot princes to stumble through a magic gate seems like a really bad method of problem solving. But I'm not an ancient and powerful sorcerer so what do I know.
I DO however know that trying to manipulate the resident self-destructive chaotic asshole of the cast probably won't end well, Asandir.
So this chapter is "Ride from West End" and it starts off with our characters starting their journey. Lysaer and Arithon are provided with some new clothes, designed for the cold, which fit much better than the hand-me-downs they were given earlier. They're soon led to a glen, where they're "baldly commanded" to wait, while Asandir and Dakar go into town.
...yes, I'm sure that's exactly what they'll do.
And in fact, that is what they do! Lysaer is a bit restless, pacing and studying their surroundings, while Arithon either naps or meditates. (Lysaer is our viewpoint character and he's not sure, while I wouldn't put it past Arithon to just be messing with him.)
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.’
...well, okay, that's what they do for a little while. Lysaer, being somewhat less of an asshole on a good day, hesitates, suggesting that Asandir had his reasons for keeping them there. Arithon's response is basically, "Yep, let's find out why!" With that tiny bit of persuasion, Lysaer's on board for mischief.
So they head off. They seem to already have a pretty good idea of Dakar's general personality, betting that they'll find him drunk in a gutter.
We get some nice description of West End here:
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.
You may or may not have noticed that every location description in Athera involves fog or mist. That's because of the Mistwraith. I'm not sure I left in enough excerpts last chapter to explain that, but it's some kind of sentient demon/ghost/construct thing that has basically enshrouded the world. They haven't gotten direct sunlight or seen the sky in five hundred years. Though presumably they still get enough diffused light and heat to survive. It's magic, don't think too hard about it.
Anyway, Lysaer thinks the place is dour, and has sudden sympathy for Dakar's need to drink. Arithon, on the other hand, looks at it from the eyes of a sailor. He notes that West End is a seaport in decline. Since people can't see the sky anymore, they haven't been able to do the big sea voyages. So now, it's an unhappy fisherman town.
So they reach the gate, and Lysaer is coming face to face with another reminder of his change in status: "Accustomed to travelling mounted, he dodged the muck and splatter thrown up by rolling wagons with a diligence not shared by other footbound wayfarers."
You know, I can feel you there. I rather like that, while Lysaer has come to terms with his change in station for the most part, it's the lack of the little luxuries we take for granted that hit him the most.
We get more description: 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?’
Heh. One thing that Lysaer notes is that the townsfolk speak with a particular dialect: gently slurred speech, flattened vowels and burred consonants. He thinks they might be able to replicate it on a good night of drinking.
Even as he speaks, his crisp phrasing gets the attention of the people he's observing, while an amused Arithon recommends he be a "touch less flamboyant."
Lysaer is a little offended. Recall his beauty that makes maidens weep. He's rather more accustomed to girls that fawn on him, and when he decides to turn on the charm to ask a sausage-seller and his daughter for directions, it goes VERY badly.
The man crashed his fist on the counter, upsetting a wooden bowl of broth. Hot liquid cascaded in all directions. The fork jabbed out like a striking snake, and saved only by swordsman’s reflexes, Lysaer sprang back stupefied.
‘By Ath, I’ll skewer ye where ye stand!’ howled the sausageseller. ‘Ha dare ye, sly faced drifter-scum, ha dare ye stalk these streets like ye own ‘em?’
The girl reached out, caught her father’s pumping forearm with chapped hands and flushed in matching rage. ‘Get back to the horse fair, drifter! Hurry on, before ye draw notice from the constable!’
In a hilarious switch of roles, Arithon's the one to step in and quickly explain that they're lost. The girl actually does give them directions, but not without damning them both "for bad liars".
I'm as confused as Lysaer (I can see why they'd think he's too familiar, but what's with the lying part??). He asks Arithon if he acted "like a churl" and Arithon says, not to him. Lysaer continues to talk, but Arithon is a little preoccupied:
Arithon did not answer. He had paused to prod what looked to be a beggar asleep and snoring in the gutter. The fellow sprawled on his back, one elbow crooked over his face. The rest of him was scattered with odd bits of garbage and potato peels, as though the leavings from the scullery had been tossed out with him as an afterthought.
It's Dakar!
Arithon promptly shoves his hand up Dakar's tunic and steals his purse. Lysaer, amused, calls him a thieving pirate, and they head to the horse fair. Lysaer notes that West End must be either a well-patrolled or well-guarded town, if a man can lay about unconscious and not get robbed. Arithon corrects him: Dakar actually had some magical protections in place. He thinks Dakar must have a reputation. The bindings are careless, but would scald the hands of anyone who tried to rob him.
Arithon's hands, of course, are fine.
The horse fair is much more energetic than the rest of the town. It sounds like fun! Lots of stalls and jugglers and cute kids selling treats. Eventually they find what they're looking for: a nice string of horses. They eavesdrop on a sale, and realize that the colorfully dressed horse dealer speaks with the same sort of clear incisive speech that they do, with barely an accent.
Both Arithon and Lysaer's attention ends up drawn to a chestnut. Lysaer compliments its legs, and that it's built for endurance. So Arithon goes up and asks for the price.
This turns out to be a mistake, but not quite like Lysaer's earlier. The trader, hearing Arithon's speech, thinks he must be a clansman himself, and asks why he's bidding like a townsman and gets offended that Arithon doesn't know what the ownership tassels mean.
Before things get messy however, Asandir steps in. He lays on the flattery, stating that finer horses are already sold, and offers three hundred royals for it. This impresses the drifter, who agrees to sell, but not for "bribe-price". He asks for two hundred royals instead.
Asandir turned a glance quite stripped of tolerance upon the princes who had disobeyed his command. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Untie the chestnut and for your life’s sake, keep your mouths shut while I settle this.’ To the drifter the sorcerer added, ‘The horse is your personal mount. Take the extra hundred to ease the inconvenience while your next foal grows to maturity.’
Hey, dude. Did it maybe occur to you to TELL these grown fucking men why they should stay behind, instead of just commanding them like they're children?
Even a quick: "Hey, your accent will get you ostracized in this region" might have been enough. Well. Arithon. So maybe not. But they'd likely have been more careful how they spoke.
I mean, okay, from what we've seen of Dakar, I kind of get why Asandir is more prone to give commands without bothering with explanation. But that's very obviously not going to work with these two. And you've been in their heads, Asandir, so you should probably know that.
This bit makes me laugh though:
The sorcerer hustled them back across the square. Fishermen turned heads to glare as chickens flapped squawking from under his fast-striding boots. They passed the butcher’s stall, crammed with bawling livestock and strangely silent customers. The chestnut shied and jibbed against the rein, until a word laced with spell-craft quieted it. Dreading the moment when such knife-edged tones might be directed his way in rebuke, Lysaer maintained silence.
Arithon perversely rejected tact. ‘You found Dakar?’
Hah. Of course. I find, when reading books where the author is clearly very enamored with one particular character, that my enjoyment usually depends on whether or not I ALSO enjoy the character. If I don't (like Jaxom or Robinton), the experience tends to be excruciating.
Fortunately, I find Arithon's chaotic assholishness delightful.
Anyway, Asandir did indeed find Dakar, and he is indeed very annoyed with all of them. He tells them again to stay put, and this time gives a reason, namely that people associated with sorcerers end up burned alive. He hands the chestnut's reins to Dakar and goes off to find a fourth horse.
The chestnut doesn't have a bridle, which gets Lysaer's attention. It's apparently a clan lord's horse, so well trained that if Lysaer fell off, it'd probably side-step to stay beneath him. Arithon gets a cute dun, who's not quite so well trained. Arithon doesn't seem to mind this though. I think he's happy that Lysaer got his pretty horse.
So they reunite with Dakar:
The Mad Prophet himself lay trussed and draped across her saddle bow. Someone had dumped a bucket of water over his tousled head, and the damp seeped rings into clothing that still reeked faintly of garbage. The wetting had been as ineffective on Dakar’s snores: he rasped on unabated as Asandir drove the cavalcade at a trot through West End’s east-facing gate.
I ALMOST feel sorry for Asandir, dealing with these three idiots. But then again, I really do think he brought this on himself. LYSAER at least is fairly reasonable, and if given a proper explanation, he probably could have countered more of Arithon's chaotic tendencies. Arithon's probably a lost cause, but given that Asandir decided to put mental blocks in the guy's head, I think Arithon's personality is karmic retribution.
That said, Asandir is capable of his own revenge:
Asandir glanced significantly at Arithon, who fought with every shred of his attention to keep his mare from crabbing sideways. The company of three departed the instant the half-brothers gained the saddle. Asandir led, and did not add that his choice in horses had been guided by intent; he wanted Arithon kept preoccupied.
So Lysaer asks about the drifters and gets an explanation: The drifters are nomads that breed horses, and the townsfolk are wary because the drifters once ruled this place before the rebellion that overthrew the high kings.
Masked by the antics of the dun, Asandir added, ‘There are deep antipathies remaining from times past, and much prejudice. Your accents, as you noticed, allied you with unpopular factions. My purpose in asking you to wait in the wood was to spare you from dangerous misunderstanding.’
You could have just TOLD them that, dude. But that might be why he wanted Arithon preoccupied. Arithon is the sort to point out what a crap explanation that actually is. And even Lysaer starts to ask more, but is cut off. Asandir, calling him "Teir's'Ilessid" (which Lysaer can't translate), tells him that there are better times for questions and he will be given "all the answers [he] need[s]"
That's not the same as getting all the answers. And you KNOW, Arithon would have noticed THAT.
Lysaer ends up watching his brother battle his "flighty, scatter-minded" mount, and tries not to smile. Aw. Brothers. <3
Eventually, Dakar wakes up. He shouts in distress, not just because of his hangover, but because his cloak has wrapped around his neck and seems to be trying to strangle him. Asandir, amused, attributes this to "Iyats" or fiends. Apparently this is a common hassle for Dakar. They like to annoy him.
They try for Asandir too, leaving the cloak and embodying a puddle with levitates off the ground and aims for Asandir's head. Asandir does some magic trickery and explodes the puddle instead. The iyat is weakened by this, and doesn't annoy them further. Dakar, for his part, is left tied to his saddle, as punishment for going binge drinking and letting the brothers roam free.
Eventually, they make camp. Dakar and Asandir sleep, but Arithon and Lysaer are still awake. Lysaer knows his brother enough by now to have put a few things together: He realizes that Arithon thinks the sorcerer wants more from them than just defeating the Mistwraith. He also notes that Arithon sounds quite convinced that the fate won't be pleasant.
They discuss their quest (while Lysaer plays a bit with conjured light):
Lysaer pushed upright. ‘Ath, what are you thinking about? You’ve noticed the sickly taint the fog has left on this land. In any honour and decency, could you turn away from these people’s need?’
‘No.’ Arithon returned, much too softly. ‘That’s precisely what Asandir is counting on.’
Struck by a haunted confusion not entirely concealed behind Arithon’s words, Lysaer forgot his anger. There must be friends, even family, that the Shadow Master missed beyond the World Gate. Contritely, the prince asked, ‘If you could go anywhere, be anything, do anything you wanted, what would you choose?’
‘Not to go back to Karthan,’ Arithon said obliquely, and discouraged from personal inquiry, Lysaer let the light die.
They banter a bit instead about how Dakar thinks Arithon's a criminal, and whether or not he still intends to defy Asandir. (...yeah, that mental block is working amazingly well, isn't it, Asandir? "I don't know WHY, but I feel the need to make your existence miserable." - Arithon, probably.)
For his part, Lysaer tries not to think of home or his lost fiancee, and focuses on his new quest and purpose. It seems to help.
So they keep traveling. The days are, apparently, rather repetitive, though now at least Dakar gets to ride upright. Arithon's mare is calming down a bit. Arithon himself is sullen and quiet. Dakar distrusts Arithon, but seems to like Lysaer a lot. Hoarse, both from laughter and too much talk, Lysaer regarded his taciturn half-brother and wondered which of them suffered more: Arithon, in his solitude, or himself, subjected to the demands of Dakar’s incessant curiosity.
The perils of being nice, dude.
On the fourth day, they enter into a place called Westwood, which also has a quite evocative description:
Here the trees rose ancient with years, once majestic as patriarchs, but bearded and bent now under mantling snags of pallid moss. Their crowns were smothered in mist and their boles grown gnarled with vine until five men with joined hands could not have spanned their circumference. Daylight was reduced to a thick, murky twilight alive with the whispered drip of water. Oppressed by a sense of decay on the land, and the unremitting grey of misty weather, no one inclined toward talk. Even Dakar’s chatter subsided to silence.
Apparently, it had been a much happier place when the sun shone. Arithon is drawn to some interesting carvings, which Asandir explains as having been left by the non-humans who once tended the forest. They vanished when the Mistwraith came, and not even Asandir's colleague Sethvir (who we've seen before) knows where they went.
Oh, I should probably point out, because I forgot to, that the Mistwraith is also interchangeably referred to as "Desh-thiere". Same thing. But a quote might use either.
Then things get rather interesting when they meet a "fugitive" on the roadside. He's wearing scarlet and tassels, and apparently ended up robbed of his horse by an "honest" caravan master. He's a minstrel, which shocks Dakar, who wonders why this dude is starving in the wilderness rather than singing in a tavern. Even Asandir seems shocked when he sees welts on the guy's face. The guy apparently sang the wrong song to the wrong people.
Asandir cast a glance toward Arithon: if argument existed in favour of shouldering responsibility for restoring this world to sun and harmony, here walked misfortune that a fellow musician must understand.
...I'm not sure what some cranky townfolk stealing this dude's horse because he sang the wrong song has to do with Arithon, dude.
But anyway, the minstrel breaks this moment by belatedly recognizing Asandir as "Asandir, Kingmaker" and Dakar as the Mad Prophet. Asandir also knows this guy's name: Felirin the Scarlet, and says that he won't deny his powers of observation, but urges caution, since some folks were burned for harboring sorcerers.
Felirin gets that, but apparently he learned most of his songs from barbarians and is therefore a bit wild himself. (It occurs to me that there are two meanings to this line. First, of course, that Felirin is not afraid of consequence. But also, the barbarians are akin to the traders, and as Asandir explained, the original rulers of the land. Asandir is called "king-maker", so they may well, in a way, be part of the same faction.)
Felirin observes the brothers, but if he's put anything together, he doesn't say. For his part, Arithon offers up his own horse, claiming saddle sores that walking would improve. Dakar knows it's a lie, but Arithon's not about to explain himself further.
The next segment of the chapter is Peaks of Tornir, but interestingly, we actually stick with our now-fivesome. Felirin plays quite a lot at their campfire, which makes Dakar happy. He's an interesting example of the beliefs of average folk in the setting. He doesn't, for example, actually believe in the sun the way that the woodland barbarians do. He likes collecting the folklore and legends.
For his part, Felirin has noticed Arithon studying his hands as he plays. He's started watching back, and at once point when he catches Arithon's fingers doing that twitch that you sometimes see musicians do when someone else is playing, he stops. He blames the weather for his inability to play.
Dakar plays unwitting accomplice, begging for more music, and Felirin suggests Arithon play. This turns into a bet with Dakar about whether or not Arithon can actually play. That's brilliant, really, because of course Arithon can't fight his asshole instincts to make Dakar unhappy.
So he plays:
Startled into rapt concentration, Felirin realized he had discovered a treasure. Whoever Arithon was, whatever his origins and his purpose in accompanying a sorcerer, he had been born with the natural gift to render song. There were rough patches in his fingering and fretwork that could be smoothed over with schooling; skilled guidance could ease some awkwardness in his phrasing. His voice lacked experience and tempering. But even through such flaws, the bard could appreciate his raw brilliance. With Lysaer and Dakar, his heart became transported from the discomforts of a drafty campsite and led on a soaring flight of emotion as a tale of two lovers unfolded like a jewel in the firelight.
Of course. What WAS it with child me and bards?
Though it probably says something about how jaded I am by Dragonsinger still that I'm pleasantly surprised that Arithon's allowed to have some actual flaws in his playing. Arithon refuses to play further, giving back the lyranthe. And we get this exchange:
‘That’s foolishness!’ Felirin reached out more demandingly than he intended, and caught hold of Arithon’s sleeve. The wrist beneath his touch was trembling. To ease what he took for self-consciousness, the bard added, ‘You’re gifted enough to apprentice.’
Arithon shook his head and moved to disengage, but Felirin’s grip tightened angrily. ‘How dare you waste such rare talent? Can’t you accept your true calling?’
Green eyes flashed up, and almost – only Lysaer could recognize it – Arithon drew breath for rebuttal in the same vicious style he had used at his trial by Amroth’s council. Then confusion seemed to flicker behind his eyes. The Master looked away. He worked gently free of the bard’s fingers. ‘Daelion turns the Wheel. One cannot always have the choice.’
...you know, this actually seems like it's WORSE than no mental block, ASANDIR. Since it seems obvious that Arithon knows he won't be allowed to play music like he really wants to, but he can't reason out what the issue is.
Asandir indeed confirms that while Arithon has the gift, music can't be his true calling. Aw.
But hey, we get a sweet moment from Lysaer here:
Only Lysaer lingered. Aware of the steel beneath Asandir’s stillness, and unwarmed by the wind-fanned embers by his feet, the s’Ilessid recalled his half-brother’s reaction to a past, insensitive query. ‘Never to go back to Karthan’ Arithon had said in unresponsive wish to kill the subject. Lent fresh perspective by tonight’s discovery, his half-brother shared insight into a misery that no heroic calling could assuage. Some men had no use for the responsibilities of power and renown. The coming quest to suppress the Mistwraith that restored meaning to Lysaer’s life became a curse and a care for Arithon, whose gifted love for music must be sidelined.
...even your empathy is melodramatic, dude.
The neext morning, they're passing through the peaks. Arithon and Lysaer are leading their horses, while Felirin gets to sit in the chestnut's saddle. Dakar accuses Felirin of conspiring against him. Felirin's not up for talking, really, and just offers to forgive the debt in exchange for a drink.
Arithon and Dakar have a bit of an asshole-off about rigged wagers, pick pocketing, and Dakar's shoddy spellwork. (Lysaer thanks Arithon for shutting Dakar up with that last bit.)
Suddenly, a riderless horse thunders into view, terrified. Felirin recognizes it as one of the caravan horses. Asandir catches it and brings it back. The poor thing has quite a few gashes and claw marks.
Felirin has an idea of what's going on, asking Asandir if there are Khadrim in the pass. Apparently yes, Asandir wants them all to mount up. Hey, at least Felirin has a horse now! (He does complain that the saddle was made for a man with narrow buttocks.) He good-naturedly presumes they're going to be crazy and continue on.
Asandir confirms and tells Arithon to be ready to draw his sword, when and only when Asandir says. From Dakar's reaction, we can assume the sword is going to be very useful here. And indeed, apparently it was forged ten and a half THOUSAND years ago, expressly to fight Khadrim.
Swanky.
Arithon barely heard Asandir’s affirmative reply; he ignored Felirin’s curious query and the hilt which protruded from the scabbard at his hip with absolute, icy detachment. Whatever curiosity he might once have held for his inherited weapon, he had never owned an inkling that the blade might be so ancient. That he carried spell-wrought steel was undeniable, though the nature of its powers had escaped the wisdom of Dascen Elur’s mages. The chance the sword might bind him further to a duty he wanted no part of became just another weight upon his heart.
Having lost his royal inheritance, Lysaer would treasure the chance to bear a great talisman; Arithon caught the suppressed flash of envy in his brother’s blue eyes. Yet before the Master could offer his last true possession as a gift, Asandir came back with rebuttal.
‘You can never relinquish that blade, except to your own blood heir.’
1) The AAANGST.
2) There is something adorable about how he immediately wants to give it to Lysaer.
3) Also, and this is probably why lawyers shouldn't read fantasy novels: Arithon is unmarried, with no children, and both parents are dead. So legally speaking, Lysaer IS Arithon's blood heir.
Arithon continues thinking, but encounters that block again. And it gets him thinking:
Arithon knew an inward surge of protest, a fleeting, angry impression that he had cause to take exception to the sorcerer’s words. Yet as had happened before when Felirin had pressured him over music, the Master could not quite frame the concept. As he tried, his thoughts went vague, and his perceptions scattered, disoriented. By now he had learned that if he stopped fighting back, the confusion would quickly pass; the unreliable dun distracted him sufficiently in any case. Yet each successive incident left Arithon less satisfied with Asandir’s explanation in the woodcutter’s cottage. The gaps in his memory were not natural: that Dakar watched him with predatory speculation each time he recovered lent evidence to justify suspicion. Arithon guessed some telling fact had been withheld from him. Before he could be cornered in a position he could not escape, he determined to find out what and why.
...yes, this whole mental block idea is going swimmingly, Asandir.
So they keep going. They find the caravan, and oh dear:
The stud balked, snorting with alarm. Ahead, between the smoking wreckage that remained of two dozen wagons, the drovers of the caravan who had ousted Felirin lay strewn across the way like dirtied rags. Man and mount and cart-mule, there were no survivors. Corpses littered the ledge. Charred clothing clung to exposed bones and whatever flesh remained had been mauled to ribbons by something not interested in hunting for the sake of sustenance. Lysaer cupped a hand to his mouth, sickened by the sight of an eviscerated woman and a horse with half its hindquarters seared to stinking, blackened meat. Something with monstrous jaws had snapped the head off the neck.
Oh dear.
We get a description of the Khadrim too:
Stung into memories of strife and battle by the bodies of so many slain, Arithon looked quickly beyond. What drained the blood from his face was something black and scaled that lurked, half-glimpsed in the mist: a creature straight out of legend, with silvery, leathered wings that extended an impossible sixteen spans from the ridge of the armoured breastbone to each outstretched, claw-spurred tip.
Asandir orders Arithon to draw his sword, and well:
The dun mare surged forward the instant her rider gave rein. Arithon set his back against her and curbed her hot impulse to bolt; but the mare was too wild to settle. She skittered sideways, carved an angry pirouette by the overturned hulk of a wagon and bucked. One rebellious hind hoof banged against the wreck and a welter of clothgoods spilled loose from the torn canvas cover. The edges of the bolts were singed and horribly spattered with blood. The sudden movement and the smells of death and burned silks caused the mare to rip into a rear.
Oh gosh. You mean to say that giving the guy a horse that he can barely control as a distraction has actually backfired on you, Asandir?
The Khadrim swoops to attack. Asandir screams again about the stupid sword, and then decides to "shape wizardry". The Khadrim dodges the strike and basically breathes fire on Arithon and his stupid horse:
Flame roared in a crackling whirlwind and entirely engulfed the dun mare. Her rider became an indistinct silhouette, then a shadow lost utterly in the heart of the conflagration.
The Khadrim clashed closed its jaws. Hot, seared air dispersed in a coil of oily black smoke, fanned away under the wingbeat of the terrible creature as it swooped and shot back aloft.
On the roadway, within a seared circle of carbon, Arithon sat his quivering, mane-singed mare, untouched and cursing in annoyance.
Annoyance. I find you very amusing, you little dickhead. Anyway, Arithon finally gets out the fucking sword:
The dark blade slipped from the scabbard with a sweet, cold ring. From the instant the tip cleared the guard-loop, Arithon was touched by a haunting sensation like song, like loss, like a peal of perfect harmony set vibrating upon the air. His ears rang to a timbre so pure his heart flinched; and the sword in his hands came alive. Light ripped along the silvered lines of inlay, blindingly intense, a shimmer like harmony distilled to an exultation of universal creation.
The Khadrim shrieked in pain. Like some great, broken child’s kite tossed in the grip of a gale, it flung sideways and crashed with a threshing flurry of wings against the mountainside. The forked tail lashed up rocks, hurled stunted bits of vegetation downslope in a rattling fall of flung gravel. Then its struggles ceased, and it wilted to final stillness, a black-scaled, hideous monstrosity couched in a bed of bloodied snow.
...that's a nice fucking sword.
Arithon had known magework but never had he touched a force that left him feeling bereft, as if the world where he stood had grown coarser, more drab, somehow clumsy and lacking in a manner that defeated reason. Arithon stared at the blade in his hand and felt lacerated for no reason under sky he could name.
Okay, dude. Only you could angst because your sword is TOO awesome.
Felirin is pretty fucking impressed. Interestingly, Lysaer is "utterly crestfallen", but Dakar, in a voice of conspiratorial conciliation, tells him not to feel slighted. His moment will come in due time.
The next segment is Alithiel's Story.
Our travelers are continuing on to Camris. Asandir has Arithon continue to keep his sword unsheathed, so it can glow and warn them of additional attacks. There aren't any, and they make camp.
There's an interesting bit where Asandir starts to describe the view that they WOULD see if not for the mist. Lysaer, from an island world, can't imagine that much sprawling continent.
At campfire, they start talking. Felirin comments that he doesn't know any stanzas about a "Master of Shadow", and Asandir explains that the song hasn't been written yet. And for once, for ONCE, he decides to actually share, telling the guy that he might well see sun and stars in his lifetime.
Felirin's kind of mind-blown by this, wondering how many of the old ballads aren't myths but REAL. Most of them, Asandir says. Now Felirin's one of a very special few who know. Poor guy.
Later that night, Asandir gives them the history of Arithon's sword. A centaur named Ffereton s'Darien crafted it eighteen thousand years ago "from the cinder of a fallen star". Each of the twelve blades crafted took ten years of work and sorcery.
The swords were given over to the sun-children who finished them: making hilts and runes. The unicorns then sang in great spells of defense. They're masters in the "art of name-binding" and had somehow infused the alloy with "harmonics tuned to the primal chord of vibration used by Ath Creator to kindle the first stars with light..
That is a sexy, sexy sword.
Anyway, the enchantment can dazzle the eyes of an enemy, but ONLY if the engagement is just, and very few causes are righteous. Arithon's family had no idea about the sword's true nature. (Hilariously, Arithon is listening to the story with dread and "determin[ation] to control his own fate." Fuck you sword, I do what I want.)
So the swords were forged for six centaurs and six sunchildren. Arithon's sword is an oddity because it's tailored for Ffereton's undersized son. When the son died in battle, the sword was given to the king's heir.
(Arithon heard this and restrained a forcible wish to stop his ears, walk away, even shout nonsense; any reaction to halt this brilliant, weighty tapestry of names and sorrows far more comfortably left to the ghosts of forgotten heroes. Yet the stilled powers in the sword by their nature commanded his respect; he could not bring himself to interrupt.
If Asandir noticed Arithon’s distress, he held back nothing.
Dude, you are lucky he doesn't pitch this thing off a cliff.)
So we get more history. Most notably, the king's heir at the time was a sunchild, and only a span in height. The blade comes up to his chin. So it didn't get used much by his family. A centaur lord wielded it in battle at some point. And then it went into possession of a very legendary hero who Felirin recognizes (Cianor Sunlord). Eventually Cianor gave it to a human who saved his sister. This worked out pretty well, and Arithon's family's carried it ever since.
Lysaer notes that the armorers in Dascen Elur had heard of the sword, calling it the bane of their craft because no one could forge its equal.
Asandir does say something very interesting though when he says that Ffereton probably couldn't repeat it himself, if he still lives. Because Paravians, apparently, aren't mortal like humans are. Dude might still be alive.
So later that night, Arithon goes wandering. He goes to see his mare, who's been named Tishealdi, which is old tongue for splash. He wants to get the fuck out of there but knows he can't. So he's up for dramatic brooding instead.
He's noticed something important, you see. When Asandir told the story, he was very careful not to mention Arithon's family name, or Lysaer's, in front of Felirin. And he's smart enough to realize that means something.
Really dude, why did you even bother with the mental block?!
He's interrupted by the man himself. And this is kind of amazing:
The bard looked askance at the much-too-still shadow that was Arithon. ‘You’re almost as secretive as the sorcerer.’
Which was the nature of a spirit trained to power, not to volunteer the unnecessary; but Arithon would not say so. ‘Why did you come out?’
Felirin returned a dry chuckle. ‘Don’t change the subject. You can’t hide your angst behind questions.’
Arithon said nothing for an interval. Then with clear and deliberate sting he said, ‘Why not? You know the ballads. Show me a hero and I’ll show you a man enslaved by his competence.’
a) I know that Arithon's pretty relentless angst turns off some readers to the series, but it doesn't bother me, because he gets called out for it. A LOT.
b) I also love how Arithon's first reaction is to be an asshole.
So anyway, Felirin doesn't rise to the provocation but instead wants Arithon to make him a promise: if he ever meets a Masterbard named Halliron, he wants Arithon to play for him. If Halliron offers him an apprenticeship, he wants Arithon's oath he'll accept.
And in a moment of emotional weakness, Arithon actually agrees. Though he doesn't think his word will mean much "against the grandiloquent predictions of a maudlin and drunken prophet?"
Felirin just tells him gently that he's too young to live without dreams.
The last section is called Backtrail and it's our sneak peek section.
1) The first is a seer, who hears gossip about a sorcerer and a blond haired stranger, who speak "the speak of the trueborn", and thinks this will mean war.
2) The second is the town mayor in West End, hearing a similar description from a fiddle player in the square, and is sweating.
3) The third tells us of Khadrim retreating back to their sanctuary, and we're told that "the harmonics ring of death by spell-cursed steel not seen for a thousand years".
And thus ends the chapter.
I don't know, waiting five hundred years for some idiot princes to stumble through a magic gate seems like a really bad method of problem solving. But I'm not an ancient and powerful sorcerer so what do I know.
I DO however know that trying to manipulate the resident self-destructive chaotic asshole of the cast probably won't end well, Asandir.
So this chapter is "Ride from West End" and it starts off with our characters starting their journey. Lysaer and Arithon are provided with some new clothes, designed for the cold, which fit much better than the hand-me-downs they were given earlier. They're soon led to a glen, where they're "baldly commanded" to wait, while Asandir and Dakar go into town.
...yes, I'm sure that's exactly what they'll do.
And in fact, that is what they do! Lysaer is a bit restless, pacing and studying their surroundings, while Arithon either naps or meditates. (Lysaer is our viewpoint character and he's not sure, while I wouldn't put it past Arithon to just be messing with him.)
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.’
...well, okay, that's what they do for a little while. Lysaer, being somewhat less of an asshole on a good day, hesitates, suggesting that Asandir had his reasons for keeping them there. Arithon's response is basically, "Yep, let's find out why!" With that tiny bit of persuasion, Lysaer's on board for mischief.
So they head off. They seem to already have a pretty good idea of Dakar's general personality, betting that they'll find him drunk in a gutter.
We get some nice description of West End here:
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.
You may or may not have noticed that every location description in Athera involves fog or mist. That's because of the Mistwraith. I'm not sure I left in enough excerpts last chapter to explain that, but it's some kind of sentient demon/ghost/construct thing that has basically enshrouded the world. They haven't gotten direct sunlight or seen the sky in five hundred years. Though presumably they still get enough diffused light and heat to survive. It's magic, don't think too hard about it.
Anyway, Lysaer thinks the place is dour, and has sudden sympathy for Dakar's need to drink. Arithon, on the other hand, looks at it from the eyes of a sailor. He notes that West End is a seaport in decline. Since people can't see the sky anymore, they haven't been able to do the big sea voyages. So now, it's an unhappy fisherman town.
So they reach the gate, and Lysaer is coming face to face with another reminder of his change in status: "Accustomed to travelling mounted, he dodged the muck and splatter thrown up by rolling wagons with a diligence not shared by other footbound wayfarers."
You know, I can feel you there. I rather like that, while Lysaer has come to terms with his change in station for the most part, it's the lack of the little luxuries we take for granted that hit him the most.
We get more description: 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?’
Heh. One thing that Lysaer notes is that the townsfolk speak with a particular dialect: gently slurred speech, flattened vowels and burred consonants. He thinks they might be able to replicate it on a good night of drinking.
Even as he speaks, his crisp phrasing gets the attention of the people he's observing, while an amused Arithon recommends he be a "touch less flamboyant."
Lysaer is a little offended. Recall his beauty that makes maidens weep. He's rather more accustomed to girls that fawn on him, and when he decides to turn on the charm to ask a sausage-seller and his daughter for directions, it goes VERY badly.
The man crashed his fist on the counter, upsetting a wooden bowl of broth. Hot liquid cascaded in all directions. The fork jabbed out like a striking snake, and saved only by swordsman’s reflexes, Lysaer sprang back stupefied.
‘By Ath, I’ll skewer ye where ye stand!’ howled the sausageseller. ‘Ha dare ye, sly faced drifter-scum, ha dare ye stalk these streets like ye own ‘em?’
The girl reached out, caught her father’s pumping forearm with chapped hands and flushed in matching rage. ‘Get back to the horse fair, drifter! Hurry on, before ye draw notice from the constable!’
In a hilarious switch of roles, Arithon's the one to step in and quickly explain that they're lost. The girl actually does give them directions, but not without damning them both "for bad liars".
I'm as confused as Lysaer (I can see why they'd think he's too familiar, but what's with the lying part??). He asks Arithon if he acted "like a churl" and Arithon says, not to him. Lysaer continues to talk, but Arithon is a little preoccupied:
Arithon did not answer. He had paused to prod what looked to be a beggar asleep and snoring in the gutter. The fellow sprawled on his back, one elbow crooked over his face. The rest of him was scattered with odd bits of garbage and potato peels, as though the leavings from the scullery had been tossed out with him as an afterthought.
It's Dakar!
Arithon promptly shoves his hand up Dakar's tunic and steals his purse. Lysaer, amused, calls him a thieving pirate, and they head to the horse fair. Lysaer notes that West End must be either a well-patrolled or well-guarded town, if a man can lay about unconscious and not get robbed. Arithon corrects him: Dakar actually had some magical protections in place. He thinks Dakar must have a reputation. The bindings are careless, but would scald the hands of anyone who tried to rob him.
Arithon's hands, of course, are fine.
The horse fair is much more energetic than the rest of the town. It sounds like fun! Lots of stalls and jugglers and cute kids selling treats. Eventually they find what they're looking for: a nice string of horses. They eavesdrop on a sale, and realize that the colorfully dressed horse dealer speaks with the same sort of clear incisive speech that they do, with barely an accent.
Both Arithon and Lysaer's attention ends up drawn to a chestnut. Lysaer compliments its legs, and that it's built for endurance. So Arithon goes up and asks for the price.
This turns out to be a mistake, but not quite like Lysaer's earlier. The trader, hearing Arithon's speech, thinks he must be a clansman himself, and asks why he's bidding like a townsman and gets offended that Arithon doesn't know what the ownership tassels mean.
Before things get messy however, Asandir steps in. He lays on the flattery, stating that finer horses are already sold, and offers three hundred royals for it. This impresses the drifter, who agrees to sell, but not for "bribe-price". He asks for two hundred royals instead.
Asandir turned a glance quite stripped of tolerance upon the princes who had disobeyed his command. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Untie the chestnut and for your life’s sake, keep your mouths shut while I settle this.’ To the drifter the sorcerer added, ‘The horse is your personal mount. Take the extra hundred to ease the inconvenience while your next foal grows to maturity.’
Hey, dude. Did it maybe occur to you to TELL these grown fucking men why they should stay behind, instead of just commanding them like they're children?
Even a quick: "Hey, your accent will get you ostracized in this region" might have been enough. Well. Arithon. So maybe not. But they'd likely have been more careful how they spoke.
I mean, okay, from what we've seen of Dakar, I kind of get why Asandir is more prone to give commands without bothering with explanation. But that's very obviously not going to work with these two. And you've been in their heads, Asandir, so you should probably know that.
This bit makes me laugh though:
The sorcerer hustled them back across the square. Fishermen turned heads to glare as chickens flapped squawking from under his fast-striding boots. They passed the butcher’s stall, crammed with bawling livestock and strangely silent customers. The chestnut shied and jibbed against the rein, until a word laced with spell-craft quieted it. Dreading the moment when such knife-edged tones might be directed his way in rebuke, Lysaer maintained silence.
Arithon perversely rejected tact. ‘You found Dakar?’
Hah. Of course. I find, when reading books where the author is clearly very enamored with one particular character, that my enjoyment usually depends on whether or not I ALSO enjoy the character. If I don't (like Jaxom or Robinton), the experience tends to be excruciating.
Fortunately, I find Arithon's chaotic assholishness delightful.
Anyway, Asandir did indeed find Dakar, and he is indeed very annoyed with all of them. He tells them again to stay put, and this time gives a reason, namely that people associated with sorcerers end up burned alive. He hands the chestnut's reins to Dakar and goes off to find a fourth horse.
The chestnut doesn't have a bridle, which gets Lysaer's attention. It's apparently a clan lord's horse, so well trained that if Lysaer fell off, it'd probably side-step to stay beneath him. Arithon gets a cute dun, who's not quite so well trained. Arithon doesn't seem to mind this though. I think he's happy that Lysaer got his pretty horse.
So they reunite with Dakar:
The Mad Prophet himself lay trussed and draped across her saddle bow. Someone had dumped a bucket of water over his tousled head, and the damp seeped rings into clothing that still reeked faintly of garbage. The wetting had been as ineffective on Dakar’s snores: he rasped on unabated as Asandir drove the cavalcade at a trot through West End’s east-facing gate.
I ALMOST feel sorry for Asandir, dealing with these three idiots. But then again, I really do think he brought this on himself. LYSAER at least is fairly reasonable, and if given a proper explanation, he probably could have countered more of Arithon's chaotic tendencies. Arithon's probably a lost cause, but given that Asandir decided to put mental blocks in the guy's head, I think Arithon's personality is karmic retribution.
That said, Asandir is capable of his own revenge:
Asandir glanced significantly at Arithon, who fought with every shred of his attention to keep his mare from crabbing sideways. The company of three departed the instant the half-brothers gained the saddle. Asandir led, and did not add that his choice in horses had been guided by intent; he wanted Arithon kept preoccupied.
So Lysaer asks about the drifters and gets an explanation: The drifters are nomads that breed horses, and the townsfolk are wary because the drifters once ruled this place before the rebellion that overthrew the high kings.
Masked by the antics of the dun, Asandir added, ‘There are deep antipathies remaining from times past, and much prejudice. Your accents, as you noticed, allied you with unpopular factions. My purpose in asking you to wait in the wood was to spare you from dangerous misunderstanding.’
You could have just TOLD them that, dude. But that might be why he wanted Arithon preoccupied. Arithon is the sort to point out what a crap explanation that actually is. And even Lysaer starts to ask more, but is cut off. Asandir, calling him "Teir's'Ilessid" (which Lysaer can't translate), tells him that there are better times for questions and he will be given "all the answers [he] need[s]"
That's not the same as getting all the answers. And you KNOW, Arithon would have noticed THAT.
Lysaer ends up watching his brother battle his "flighty, scatter-minded" mount, and tries not to smile. Aw. Brothers. <3
Eventually, Dakar wakes up. He shouts in distress, not just because of his hangover, but because his cloak has wrapped around his neck and seems to be trying to strangle him. Asandir, amused, attributes this to "Iyats" or fiends. Apparently this is a common hassle for Dakar. They like to annoy him.
They try for Asandir too, leaving the cloak and embodying a puddle with levitates off the ground and aims for Asandir's head. Asandir does some magic trickery and explodes the puddle instead. The iyat is weakened by this, and doesn't annoy them further. Dakar, for his part, is left tied to his saddle, as punishment for going binge drinking and letting the brothers roam free.
Eventually, they make camp. Dakar and Asandir sleep, but Arithon and Lysaer are still awake. Lysaer knows his brother enough by now to have put a few things together: He realizes that Arithon thinks the sorcerer wants more from them than just defeating the Mistwraith. He also notes that Arithon sounds quite convinced that the fate won't be pleasant.
They discuss their quest (while Lysaer plays a bit with conjured light):
Lysaer pushed upright. ‘Ath, what are you thinking about? You’ve noticed the sickly taint the fog has left on this land. In any honour and decency, could you turn away from these people’s need?’
‘No.’ Arithon returned, much too softly. ‘That’s precisely what Asandir is counting on.’
Struck by a haunted confusion not entirely concealed behind Arithon’s words, Lysaer forgot his anger. There must be friends, even family, that the Shadow Master missed beyond the World Gate. Contritely, the prince asked, ‘If you could go anywhere, be anything, do anything you wanted, what would you choose?’
‘Not to go back to Karthan,’ Arithon said obliquely, and discouraged from personal inquiry, Lysaer let the light die.
They banter a bit instead about how Dakar thinks Arithon's a criminal, and whether or not he still intends to defy Asandir. (...yeah, that mental block is working amazingly well, isn't it, Asandir? "I don't know WHY, but I feel the need to make your existence miserable." - Arithon, probably.)
For his part, Lysaer tries not to think of home or his lost fiancee, and focuses on his new quest and purpose. It seems to help.
So they keep traveling. The days are, apparently, rather repetitive, though now at least Dakar gets to ride upright. Arithon's mare is calming down a bit. Arithon himself is sullen and quiet. Dakar distrusts Arithon, but seems to like Lysaer a lot. Hoarse, both from laughter and too much talk, Lysaer regarded his taciturn half-brother and wondered which of them suffered more: Arithon, in his solitude, or himself, subjected to the demands of Dakar’s incessant curiosity.
The perils of being nice, dude.
On the fourth day, they enter into a place called Westwood, which also has a quite evocative description:
Here the trees rose ancient with years, once majestic as patriarchs, but bearded and bent now under mantling snags of pallid moss. Their crowns were smothered in mist and their boles grown gnarled with vine until five men with joined hands could not have spanned their circumference. Daylight was reduced to a thick, murky twilight alive with the whispered drip of water. Oppressed by a sense of decay on the land, and the unremitting grey of misty weather, no one inclined toward talk. Even Dakar’s chatter subsided to silence.
Apparently, it had been a much happier place when the sun shone. Arithon is drawn to some interesting carvings, which Asandir explains as having been left by the non-humans who once tended the forest. They vanished when the Mistwraith came, and not even Asandir's colleague Sethvir (who we've seen before) knows where they went.
Oh, I should probably point out, because I forgot to, that the Mistwraith is also interchangeably referred to as "Desh-thiere". Same thing. But a quote might use either.
Then things get rather interesting when they meet a "fugitive" on the roadside. He's wearing scarlet and tassels, and apparently ended up robbed of his horse by an "honest" caravan master. He's a minstrel, which shocks Dakar, who wonders why this dude is starving in the wilderness rather than singing in a tavern. Even Asandir seems shocked when he sees welts on the guy's face. The guy apparently sang the wrong song to the wrong people.
Asandir cast a glance toward Arithon: if argument existed in favour of shouldering responsibility for restoring this world to sun and harmony, here walked misfortune that a fellow musician must understand.
...I'm not sure what some cranky townfolk stealing this dude's horse because he sang the wrong song has to do with Arithon, dude.
But anyway, the minstrel breaks this moment by belatedly recognizing Asandir as "Asandir, Kingmaker" and Dakar as the Mad Prophet. Asandir also knows this guy's name: Felirin the Scarlet, and says that he won't deny his powers of observation, but urges caution, since some folks were burned for harboring sorcerers.
Felirin gets that, but apparently he learned most of his songs from barbarians and is therefore a bit wild himself. (It occurs to me that there are two meanings to this line. First, of course, that Felirin is not afraid of consequence. But also, the barbarians are akin to the traders, and as Asandir explained, the original rulers of the land. Asandir is called "king-maker", so they may well, in a way, be part of the same faction.)
Felirin observes the brothers, but if he's put anything together, he doesn't say. For his part, Arithon offers up his own horse, claiming saddle sores that walking would improve. Dakar knows it's a lie, but Arithon's not about to explain himself further.
The next segment of the chapter is Peaks of Tornir, but interestingly, we actually stick with our now-fivesome. Felirin plays quite a lot at their campfire, which makes Dakar happy. He's an interesting example of the beliefs of average folk in the setting. He doesn't, for example, actually believe in the sun the way that the woodland barbarians do. He likes collecting the folklore and legends.
For his part, Felirin has noticed Arithon studying his hands as he plays. He's started watching back, and at once point when he catches Arithon's fingers doing that twitch that you sometimes see musicians do when someone else is playing, he stops. He blames the weather for his inability to play.
Dakar plays unwitting accomplice, begging for more music, and Felirin suggests Arithon play. This turns into a bet with Dakar about whether or not Arithon can actually play. That's brilliant, really, because of course Arithon can't fight his asshole instincts to make Dakar unhappy.
So he plays:
Startled into rapt concentration, Felirin realized he had discovered a treasure. Whoever Arithon was, whatever his origins and his purpose in accompanying a sorcerer, he had been born with the natural gift to render song. There were rough patches in his fingering and fretwork that could be smoothed over with schooling; skilled guidance could ease some awkwardness in his phrasing. His voice lacked experience and tempering. But even through such flaws, the bard could appreciate his raw brilliance. With Lysaer and Dakar, his heart became transported from the discomforts of a drafty campsite and led on a soaring flight of emotion as a tale of two lovers unfolded like a jewel in the firelight.
Of course. What WAS it with child me and bards?
Though it probably says something about how jaded I am by Dragonsinger still that I'm pleasantly surprised that Arithon's allowed to have some actual flaws in his playing. Arithon refuses to play further, giving back the lyranthe. And we get this exchange:
‘That’s foolishness!’ Felirin reached out more demandingly than he intended, and caught hold of Arithon’s sleeve. The wrist beneath his touch was trembling. To ease what he took for self-consciousness, the bard added, ‘You’re gifted enough to apprentice.’
Arithon shook his head and moved to disengage, but Felirin’s grip tightened angrily. ‘How dare you waste such rare talent? Can’t you accept your true calling?’
Green eyes flashed up, and almost – only Lysaer could recognize it – Arithon drew breath for rebuttal in the same vicious style he had used at his trial by Amroth’s council. Then confusion seemed to flicker behind his eyes. The Master looked away. He worked gently free of the bard’s fingers. ‘Daelion turns the Wheel. One cannot always have the choice.’
...you know, this actually seems like it's WORSE than no mental block, ASANDIR. Since it seems obvious that Arithon knows he won't be allowed to play music like he really wants to, but he can't reason out what the issue is.
Asandir indeed confirms that while Arithon has the gift, music can't be his true calling. Aw.
But hey, we get a sweet moment from Lysaer here:
Only Lysaer lingered. Aware of the steel beneath Asandir’s stillness, and unwarmed by the wind-fanned embers by his feet, the s’Ilessid recalled his half-brother’s reaction to a past, insensitive query. ‘Never to go back to Karthan’ Arithon had said in unresponsive wish to kill the subject. Lent fresh perspective by tonight’s discovery, his half-brother shared insight into a misery that no heroic calling could assuage. Some men had no use for the responsibilities of power and renown. The coming quest to suppress the Mistwraith that restored meaning to Lysaer’s life became a curse and a care for Arithon, whose gifted love for music must be sidelined.
...even your empathy is melodramatic, dude.
The neext morning, they're passing through the peaks. Arithon and Lysaer are leading their horses, while Felirin gets to sit in the chestnut's saddle. Dakar accuses Felirin of conspiring against him. Felirin's not up for talking, really, and just offers to forgive the debt in exchange for a drink.
Arithon and Dakar have a bit of an asshole-off about rigged wagers, pick pocketing, and Dakar's shoddy spellwork. (Lysaer thanks Arithon for shutting Dakar up with that last bit.)
Suddenly, a riderless horse thunders into view, terrified. Felirin recognizes it as one of the caravan horses. Asandir catches it and brings it back. The poor thing has quite a few gashes and claw marks.
Felirin has an idea of what's going on, asking Asandir if there are Khadrim in the pass. Apparently yes, Asandir wants them all to mount up. Hey, at least Felirin has a horse now! (He does complain that the saddle was made for a man with narrow buttocks.) He good-naturedly presumes they're going to be crazy and continue on.
Asandir confirms and tells Arithon to be ready to draw his sword, when and only when Asandir says. From Dakar's reaction, we can assume the sword is going to be very useful here. And indeed, apparently it was forged ten and a half THOUSAND years ago, expressly to fight Khadrim.
Swanky.
Arithon barely heard Asandir’s affirmative reply; he ignored Felirin’s curious query and the hilt which protruded from the scabbard at his hip with absolute, icy detachment. Whatever curiosity he might once have held for his inherited weapon, he had never owned an inkling that the blade might be so ancient. That he carried spell-wrought steel was undeniable, though the nature of its powers had escaped the wisdom of Dascen Elur’s mages. The chance the sword might bind him further to a duty he wanted no part of became just another weight upon his heart.
Having lost his royal inheritance, Lysaer would treasure the chance to bear a great talisman; Arithon caught the suppressed flash of envy in his brother’s blue eyes. Yet before the Master could offer his last true possession as a gift, Asandir came back with rebuttal.
‘You can never relinquish that blade, except to your own blood heir.’
1) The AAANGST.
2) There is something adorable about how he immediately wants to give it to Lysaer.
3) Also, and this is probably why lawyers shouldn't read fantasy novels: Arithon is unmarried, with no children, and both parents are dead. So legally speaking, Lysaer IS Arithon's blood heir.
Arithon continues thinking, but encounters that block again. And it gets him thinking:
Arithon knew an inward surge of protest, a fleeting, angry impression that he had cause to take exception to the sorcerer’s words. Yet as had happened before when Felirin had pressured him over music, the Master could not quite frame the concept. As he tried, his thoughts went vague, and his perceptions scattered, disoriented. By now he had learned that if he stopped fighting back, the confusion would quickly pass; the unreliable dun distracted him sufficiently in any case. Yet each successive incident left Arithon less satisfied with Asandir’s explanation in the woodcutter’s cottage. The gaps in his memory were not natural: that Dakar watched him with predatory speculation each time he recovered lent evidence to justify suspicion. Arithon guessed some telling fact had been withheld from him. Before he could be cornered in a position he could not escape, he determined to find out what and why.
...yes, this whole mental block idea is going swimmingly, Asandir.
So they keep going. They find the caravan, and oh dear:
The stud balked, snorting with alarm. Ahead, between the smoking wreckage that remained of two dozen wagons, the drovers of the caravan who had ousted Felirin lay strewn across the way like dirtied rags. Man and mount and cart-mule, there were no survivors. Corpses littered the ledge. Charred clothing clung to exposed bones and whatever flesh remained had been mauled to ribbons by something not interested in hunting for the sake of sustenance. Lysaer cupped a hand to his mouth, sickened by the sight of an eviscerated woman and a horse with half its hindquarters seared to stinking, blackened meat. Something with monstrous jaws had snapped the head off the neck.
Oh dear.
We get a description of the Khadrim too:
Stung into memories of strife and battle by the bodies of so many slain, Arithon looked quickly beyond. What drained the blood from his face was something black and scaled that lurked, half-glimpsed in the mist: a creature straight out of legend, with silvery, leathered wings that extended an impossible sixteen spans from the ridge of the armoured breastbone to each outstretched, claw-spurred tip.
Asandir orders Arithon to draw his sword, and well:
The dun mare surged forward the instant her rider gave rein. Arithon set his back against her and curbed her hot impulse to bolt; but the mare was too wild to settle. She skittered sideways, carved an angry pirouette by the overturned hulk of a wagon and bucked. One rebellious hind hoof banged against the wreck and a welter of clothgoods spilled loose from the torn canvas cover. The edges of the bolts were singed and horribly spattered with blood. The sudden movement and the smells of death and burned silks caused the mare to rip into a rear.
Oh gosh. You mean to say that giving the guy a horse that he can barely control as a distraction has actually backfired on you, Asandir?
The Khadrim swoops to attack. Asandir screams again about the stupid sword, and then decides to "shape wizardry". The Khadrim dodges the strike and basically breathes fire on Arithon and his stupid horse:
Flame roared in a crackling whirlwind and entirely engulfed the dun mare. Her rider became an indistinct silhouette, then a shadow lost utterly in the heart of the conflagration.
The Khadrim clashed closed its jaws. Hot, seared air dispersed in a coil of oily black smoke, fanned away under the wingbeat of the terrible creature as it swooped and shot back aloft.
On the roadway, within a seared circle of carbon, Arithon sat his quivering, mane-singed mare, untouched and cursing in annoyance.
Annoyance. I find you very amusing, you little dickhead. Anyway, Arithon finally gets out the fucking sword:
The dark blade slipped from the scabbard with a sweet, cold ring. From the instant the tip cleared the guard-loop, Arithon was touched by a haunting sensation like song, like loss, like a peal of perfect harmony set vibrating upon the air. His ears rang to a timbre so pure his heart flinched; and the sword in his hands came alive. Light ripped along the silvered lines of inlay, blindingly intense, a shimmer like harmony distilled to an exultation of universal creation.
The Khadrim shrieked in pain. Like some great, broken child’s kite tossed in the grip of a gale, it flung sideways and crashed with a threshing flurry of wings against the mountainside. The forked tail lashed up rocks, hurled stunted bits of vegetation downslope in a rattling fall of flung gravel. Then its struggles ceased, and it wilted to final stillness, a black-scaled, hideous monstrosity couched in a bed of bloodied snow.
...that's a nice fucking sword.
Arithon had known magework but never had he touched a force that left him feeling bereft, as if the world where he stood had grown coarser, more drab, somehow clumsy and lacking in a manner that defeated reason. Arithon stared at the blade in his hand and felt lacerated for no reason under sky he could name.
Okay, dude. Only you could angst because your sword is TOO awesome.
Felirin is pretty fucking impressed. Interestingly, Lysaer is "utterly crestfallen", but Dakar, in a voice of conspiratorial conciliation, tells him not to feel slighted. His moment will come in due time.
The next segment is Alithiel's Story.
Our travelers are continuing on to Camris. Asandir has Arithon continue to keep his sword unsheathed, so it can glow and warn them of additional attacks. There aren't any, and they make camp.
There's an interesting bit where Asandir starts to describe the view that they WOULD see if not for the mist. Lysaer, from an island world, can't imagine that much sprawling continent.
At campfire, they start talking. Felirin comments that he doesn't know any stanzas about a "Master of Shadow", and Asandir explains that the song hasn't been written yet. And for once, for ONCE, he decides to actually share, telling the guy that he might well see sun and stars in his lifetime.
Felirin's kind of mind-blown by this, wondering how many of the old ballads aren't myths but REAL. Most of them, Asandir says. Now Felirin's one of a very special few who know. Poor guy.
Later that night, Asandir gives them the history of Arithon's sword. A centaur named Ffereton s'Darien crafted it eighteen thousand years ago "from the cinder of a fallen star". Each of the twelve blades crafted took ten years of work and sorcery.
The swords were given over to the sun-children who finished them: making hilts and runes. The unicorns then sang in great spells of defense. They're masters in the "art of name-binding" and had somehow infused the alloy with "harmonics tuned to the primal chord of vibration used by Ath Creator to kindle the first stars with light..
That is a sexy, sexy sword.
Anyway, the enchantment can dazzle the eyes of an enemy, but ONLY if the engagement is just, and very few causes are righteous. Arithon's family had no idea about the sword's true nature. (Hilariously, Arithon is listening to the story with dread and "determin[ation] to control his own fate." Fuck you sword, I do what I want.)
So the swords were forged for six centaurs and six sunchildren. Arithon's sword is an oddity because it's tailored for Ffereton's undersized son. When the son died in battle, the sword was given to the king's heir.
(Arithon heard this and restrained a forcible wish to stop his ears, walk away, even shout nonsense; any reaction to halt this brilliant, weighty tapestry of names and sorrows far more comfortably left to the ghosts of forgotten heroes. Yet the stilled powers in the sword by their nature commanded his respect; he could not bring himself to interrupt.
If Asandir noticed Arithon’s distress, he held back nothing.
Dude, you are lucky he doesn't pitch this thing off a cliff.)
So we get more history. Most notably, the king's heir at the time was a sunchild, and only a span in height. The blade comes up to his chin. So it didn't get used much by his family. A centaur lord wielded it in battle at some point. And then it went into possession of a very legendary hero who Felirin recognizes (Cianor Sunlord). Eventually Cianor gave it to a human who saved his sister. This worked out pretty well, and Arithon's family's carried it ever since.
Lysaer notes that the armorers in Dascen Elur had heard of the sword, calling it the bane of their craft because no one could forge its equal.
Asandir does say something very interesting though when he says that Ffereton probably couldn't repeat it himself, if he still lives. Because Paravians, apparently, aren't mortal like humans are. Dude might still be alive.
So later that night, Arithon goes wandering. He goes to see his mare, who's been named Tishealdi, which is old tongue for splash. He wants to get the fuck out of there but knows he can't. So he's up for dramatic brooding instead.
He's noticed something important, you see. When Asandir told the story, he was very careful not to mention Arithon's family name, or Lysaer's, in front of Felirin. And he's smart enough to realize that means something.
Really dude, why did you even bother with the mental block?!
He's interrupted by the man himself. And this is kind of amazing:
The bard looked askance at the much-too-still shadow that was Arithon. ‘You’re almost as secretive as the sorcerer.’
Which was the nature of a spirit trained to power, not to volunteer the unnecessary; but Arithon would not say so. ‘Why did you come out?’
Felirin returned a dry chuckle. ‘Don’t change the subject. You can’t hide your angst behind questions.’
Arithon said nothing for an interval. Then with clear and deliberate sting he said, ‘Why not? You know the ballads. Show me a hero and I’ll show you a man enslaved by his competence.’
a) I know that Arithon's pretty relentless angst turns off some readers to the series, but it doesn't bother me, because he gets called out for it. A LOT.
b) I also love how Arithon's first reaction is to be an asshole.
So anyway, Felirin doesn't rise to the provocation but instead wants Arithon to make him a promise: if he ever meets a Masterbard named Halliron, he wants Arithon to play for him. If Halliron offers him an apprenticeship, he wants Arithon's oath he'll accept.
And in a moment of emotional weakness, Arithon actually agrees. Though he doesn't think his word will mean much "against the grandiloquent predictions of a maudlin and drunken prophet?"
Felirin just tells him gently that he's too young to live without dreams.
The last section is called Backtrail and it's our sneak peek section.
1) The first is a seer, who hears gossip about a sorcerer and a blond haired stranger, who speak "the speak of the trueborn", and thinks this will mean war.
2) The second is the town mayor in West End, hearing a similar description from a fiddle player in the square, and is sweating.
3) The third tells us of Khadrim retreating back to their sanctuary, and we're told that "the harmonics ring of death by spell-cursed steel not seen for a thousand years".
And thus ends the chapter.