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i_read_whatSo last time, our heroes got up to mischief and met a bard. Also, Arithon suffered a spot of angst over how cool his sword is. Of course he did.
So interestingly, we don't start this chapter ("Erdane") with the boys. Instead, we start in the city of Erdane, with a girl named Elaira.
The description is, as usual, quite cool:
The walls of Erdane had been raised at the crossroads two ages before the uprising which threw down the high kings had bloodied its maze of narrow streets. Now, five centuries later, the city wore change like a tattered, overdressed prostitute. Guild flags and a mayor’s blazon fluttered over the Grand West Gate, built by Paravian hands of seamless, rose-veined quartz. The stone at street level was left pitted and scarred by siege-weapons, and greyed by the passage of uncounted generations of inhabitants. Had the sentries in the mayor’s guard been as vigilant as their counterparts in times past, they would have challenged the woman in the shepherd’s cloak who passed the gatehouse, hooded. Boots of sewn sealhide showed beneath her ankle-length skirts, but their soles were not made for walking. Her hands were calloused from the bridle-rein, and her eyes a clear and disturbing grey.
Now, we met Elaira briefly in a previous chapter. She's a Koriani enchantress who annoyed her superior. She'd been sent to deliver a message. Now, she's playing hooky.
Like West End, Erdane doesn't seem very friendly to sorcerers. Elaira is the first of her kind to enter the city for four hundred years and if she got caught, she would have been stripped and publicly burned after barely a pretense of a trial. Eek.
Apparently the Lord Elect of Erdane has a bit of a guilty conscience. And access to archives that tell him about the sun and a past revolution. And he's considerably more afraid of magical retribution than he is of executing a few innocent women.
Elaira seems to know what she's doing and she slips into a far less pleasant part of the city:
The alley beyond was barely wider than a footpath. Fallen slates and rat-chewed ends of bone clogged the gutters. Seepage dripped in mournful counterpoint to the moss-crusted planks of half-rotted, open-air stairways; and from spell-charmed strips of tin nailed up to ward off iyats. Unlike many such talismans, these held true power to guard. Elaira could sense the faint resonance of their protections as she wound her way past ill-smelling puddles and locked shutters.
There's also something quite interesting odd about the place, and travelers keep finding themselves side tracked away. Elaira, being a sorceress, is not so easily distracted. She's here for a reason: see, after she delivered the scrolls to her destination, she managed to learn some very interesting rumours which have led her to believe that a Fellowship sorcerer and "two old-blood princes" are hanging out in Erdane.
There's a very cute bit where she is recognized as a witch and told she's either very brave or stupid. She agrees, probably stupid. She goes inside, chats a bit with the fortune teller and catches sight of our heroes. Or at least Lysaer, who, as usual, is quite a sight to see:
Elaira’s eyes widened. They were here! And unmistakably royal, the bloodlines perpetuated over many generations still apparent as the nearer one rose to meet her. Light from the sconces edged pale s’Ilessid hair in shining gold. The prince possessed an elegance that went beyond his handsome face. His eyes were jewel-blue. He carried his well-knit frame with the dignity of a man schooled perfectly to listen, and a pride unselfconscious as breathing.
Ah, Lysaer. Lysaer is, of course, a gentleman and takes her cloak. Then of course she notices his brother.
This one regarded her with eyes of s’Ffalenn green, and something else: the still, small shock of an awareness that recognized power. Elaira repressed stark surprise, while the s’Ilessid prince said something polite that her mind interpreted as background noise.
I'm not sure what that means, but okay.
However, the boys aren't the stars of this bit. Instead, the person with the most dramatic description is Asandir:
Asandir proved taller than Elaira had expected from images garnered through lane-watch. Lean as toughened leather, he wore plain clothing with a bearing she had always before thought imperious. In person, she revised that to a stillness that brooked no wasted motion. His hands were still also, the straight, tapered fingers clean as bleached bone on the latch. The face beneath the trimmed silver hair was carved by years and experience to a fierce mapwork of lines. The eyes in their deep-set sockets regarded her with a serenity that unnerved and exposed.
EVERYONE gets a melodramatic description. Well, except Dakar and Felirin, who are sane and comparatively undramatic.
This does tell us a lot about Asandir. For a Koriani sorceress a Fellowship sorcerer is much more intimidating than a couple of princes, regardless of their destiny. Asandir's friendly enough though, asking her why she's here. And Elaira is immensely relatable:
Elaira stared down at her boots and the muddied hem of her skirts which now gave off faint curls of steam. All the excuses, every elaborate and reasonable-sounding word she had rehearsed through the afternoon fled in the rush of her fast-beating heart. She was out of her depth. She knew it; before she could think she spoke honestly. ‘I was curious.’
She knows about the West Gate Prophecy, and she wanted to see if it's really true, and if "Desh-thiere's Bane" has really come to Athera. Asandir tells her that she's passed "its substance" on the way in.
It's apparently Koriani knowledge that Fellowship sorcerers give nothing freely, so she decides to test that. She says that she observed that "Teir's'Ffalenn" has magical training and she asks if that's what will give him the ability to win against the Mistwraith.
I like Elaira. She cuts through bullshit and just asks what she wants to know. In a way, she's rather like Arithon. Without the dickishness.
Asandir notes her initiative and courage, and that neither attribute is particularly valued by her superiors. He'll answer her questions, but he wants her to treat it "with a foresight your superiors might hold in contempt." (Elaira is endearingly astonished that someone else thinks her colleagues are annoying sometimes.)
So Asandir provides her with an explanation: basically that the Sorcerers had trained the heir of s'Ahelas in magic, and when she went into exile, she'd trained her descendants. And after five hundred years of isolation, they figured out some interesting new tricks.
Elaira asks if it's possible, and Asandir notes that "[w]hat is possible does not always coincide with what is wise". (Foresight!) Elaira feels stupid, but Asandir decides to give more explanation instead: basically that together the princes can defeat the Mistwraith, but separately, "their gifts might potentially inflict greater harm than the wraith their powers must defeat."
The discussion continues, touching on Arithon's mage training a little and whether or not Dakar's prophecy is assured. She refers to Dakar by name, indicating that he himself seems to have some measure of fame outside of Asandir.
The conversation ends with a subtle warning about the other Koriani sorceresses, and an encouragement of Elaira's "clear eye for truth." Elaira has a lot to think about.
And we follow her as she thinks. She thinks about her Order's fear and Asandir's trust. She also thinks about how much trouble she's going to be in for meeting with a Fellowship sorcerer to begin with.
Then, proving she's of similar ilk to our heroes, she decides that since she's going to be in trouble already, she might as well go for broke. She gets directions to a place called "the Inn of Four Ravens." As mentioned, Dakar is famous in his own right, and one of the things he's famous for is drowning his miseries.
--
The next segment of the chapter is "The Four Ravens".
So the Ravens is a rough place with an equally rough description. It's not a safe place for women as the customers are often too drunk to tell the difference between "those girls who were goods and others who might be paying customers."
I'm both disgusted and impressed by the evocative nature of that line. You can immediately tell how horrible this place and these people are to sex-workers.
Elaira seems comfortable enough (even if she has to ward off a proposition or two) as she's currently beating a very drunk Dakar at cards. She claims her forfeit: an answer to her question. She wants to know Arithon's name.
Dakar plays dumb and we get more setting information here:
Elaira waited with persistent determination. She dared not reach for her focusing jewel. Even a fool would not try spell-work in this place: not to bring clarity to Dakar’s muddled mind, nor to drive off unwanted male advances. Erdane’s citizens had aversions that ran to violence when confronted by any form of witchery; a disproportionate mix of the most zealous seemed to patronize the taproom at the Ravens. Dakar was crazy to come here at all; except that his sorrowfully rumpled appearance did not equate with his station as apprentice to a Fellowship sorcerer.
Dakar hems and haws, but then gives her Arithon's first name. She's annoyed though that the junior enchantress that SHOULD be watching this lane has been errant. She should have reported Elaira hours ago. Since she hasn't, Elaira needs to stick around and keep playing.
OH, I see what she's doing. It took me a bit. But basically, Elaira knows she's in trouble for playing hooky and going to Erdane. But she's going to get in PHENOMENALLY big trouble for talking to a Fellowship sorcerer. However, if she's spotted at this card game with Dakar, the she'll have an explanation for both what she's been doing and where she got her information that won't get her in nearly as much trouble.
Dakar doesn't seem to know what's going on, but he's happy to take advantage. He makes her buy him ale, since he won't play without it. (There's also a minstrel in the corner of the room. He's taking a break though, which upsets Elaira as it means his listeners are likely to come by to paw at her.)
However things suddenly get interesting when Dakar shoots upright and says: "Like the tax collector, here comes trouble." He passes out. Just as Arithon enters the Ravens. Alone.
And he notices something. There's a royal banner hanging up of a blue on gold star. The s'Ilessid sigil. The banner's mostly been used for target practice. He's shocked by this.
...Asandir, what was the fucking point of that mind block? Because Arithon KNOWS what his brother's family sigil looks like. And my affectionate insults aside, he's not actually an idiot.
Anyway, this leads to trouble. Of course. Because Arithon is distracted, he ends up bumping a bar patron and the he apologizes "like a diplomat", and his accent, if you recall, is a little too distinctive. He realizes the problem just a little too late.
The presence of a "barbarian" amidst this tavern full of headhunters leads to a pretty spectacular fight. And of course, Arithon makes a good showing:
A moment ago, Arithon might have been dizzy, as well as dangerously ignorant; but he was cat-fast to react under threat. He side-stepped the first swung fist. As his aggressor overbalanced and stumbled against the rush of surging bodies, he dodged through a fast-closing gap and nipped behind the nearest trestle table. Plates, hot soup and chicken bones flew airborne as he upended the plank into his attackers.
Never challenge a pirate to a bar fight. At some point he manages to somersault over the ceiling beams and land on someone's head. Then he hoists himself into the rafters. He's lost his cloak somehow and is now in shirt-sleeves and tunic, and visibly unarmed.
Elaira is of course watching this and realizing exactly how fucked they all are, if "the irreplaceable heir to a kingdom" ends up beaten to death by a bunch of bigoted townsfolk. But unfortunately, Dakar's out for the count. The minstrel has the decency to look concerned though. (HI FELIRIN!)
But don't worry, even alone and cornered, Arithon's still able to be an asshole:
Arithon had no allies to call on for rescue. The Ravens’ enraged riffraff swarmed onto trestles and benches, the most maddened and aggressive among them bearing down from two sides on the bracing beams. Arithon leaped across air to the adjacent span of rafters. Cornered against the far wall, he laughed at the mob and called challenge.
You might be a role model, dude.
Elaira is a little worried he might use shadow mastery or magic, which would be bad here if you recall. But maybe Asandir actually bothered to warn the brothers this time. The fight goes on for a while longer, and it's very entertaining, but both Felirin and Elaira have had enough. Elaira asks Felirin to provide a distraction.
He does, admirably, claiming he sees clansmen outside the windows. A dozen attackers go to assess the new threat, and Elaira goes into action with a glamour of concealment.
The explanation sounds pretty cool:
Elaira did not physically vanish, but assumed an aura of sameness, one that mirrored the grain of worn pine, dented pewter and sanded floorboards. Had anyone amid the Ravens’ tumult paused and actually searched for her, she would instantly have been spotted. As it was, the press of the brawl directed Arithon’s aggressors everywhere else but toward her.
Then she does something else interesting, shooting some kind of "rune of binding" at Arithon's back. Then she steals a rolling pin from the kitchen and goes back out into the melee. When Arithon comes into range, she hits him with it.
Now, this isn't actually one of those times when a character will give another a concussion but the text never acknowledges it. She doesn't actually hit him hard. We're told, in fact that he folds at the knees, shocked, but looks about to laugh before she uses that rune that she'd thrown at him earlier to knock him out.
She's used a few other spells, one to make herself look like a "painted doxie" ad the rest to influence and confuse the crowd. She shouts that she claims Arithon's life as spoils, and the crowd ends up going along with this, suddenly seeing a drunken street-rat in place of a barbarian imposter.
Felirin helps out by playing into the confusion, shouting that they should let her have him, and that he's so filthy, he'll probably just give her the pox to remember him. Elaira plays into the angry scolding girlfriend some more, which amuses the crowd and causes the cook to urge her to take it elsewhere. When she points out that she can't exactly carry an unconscious man, some of the kitchen staff helps toss him outside.
Well done!
Felirin meets her outside (having rescued Arithon's cloak) and offers her some reassurance, noting that she saved Arithon's life and that if he doesn't thank her properly, Elaira should break his fingers and tell him Felirin gave permission. Elaira's just happy to meet a friendly face. Felirin helps her hide Airthon in the hayloft before going back to the tavern so his absence won't be missed.
This of course means that Elaira and Arithon are alone. Now that she gets a good look at him, it's Arithon's turn for a flowery description:
Elaira regarded Arithon’s still face, its severe planes and angles unsoftened by her jewel’s faint radiance. Under her hands she felt the corded tautness of him, the light-boned, lean sort of strength that was easiest of all to underestimate. His handling of attackers and pot-hook had proved him no stranger to violence; and the raw new scars that encircled his wrists hammered home the recognition that only his bloodline was familiar. The man himself had a past and a personality unknowably separate. He had not even been raised on Athera.
Elaira is very uneasy about waking him up, figuring that he's bound to be enraged about the attack. And annoyingly, the junior enchantress STILL hasn't spotted her. (Elaira would sense it.) Then...Arithon wakes up.
Elaira doesn't know Arithon the way we do, because of course he's not angry about having pissed someone off and waking up in a new place. It's Arithon. This is Tuesday to him.
To her exasperation, he asks what happened, and we get more world building here. And it's not pretty:
‘Dharkaron, Ath’s avenger!’ Elaira was fast becoming exasperated. ‘You’re in Erdane! Your speech patterns are perfectly barbarian. And the Ravens is a headhunters’ haunt!’
Very still, Arithon said, ‘Whose heads are the hunted?’
His curiosity was in no wise rooted in insolence. Filled by creeping disbelief Elaira said, ‘Asandir never told you? They pay bodyweight in gold for the fugitive heirs of the earls. Half-weight for clan blood and probably every jewel off the mayor’s chubby daughters for anything related to a prince.’
And here's the problem with both Asandir's mind block and his reticence:
Arithon lazed back on one elbow in the hay, his face tipped unreadably forward as he knotted the cloth around his head. ‘And what do you know of any princes?’
Elaira felt her heart bang hard against her ribs. ‘Do you mean to tell me, that you don’t know who you are?’
His response came back mocking. ‘I thought I did. Has something changed?’
‘No.’ Elaira gripped both hands in front of her shins: two could play his game. ‘Your Grace, you are Teir’s’Ffalenn, prince and heir-apparent of the crown of Rathain. All that pompous rhetoric means true-born son of an old-blood high king. Every able man in this city, as well as the surrounding countryside, would give his eldest child to be first to draw and quarter you.’
Oops. It's hard to conceal an identity you don't know about. Especially when phenotypical traits seem really fucking dominant in this universe, and everyone can tell your ancestry because of your fucking wonky eyebrows.
And second oops.
He had not been baiting her: he had plainly not been told. That was not all; around Arithon’s person Elaira sensed a gathering corona of power, invisibly triggered and unmistakably Asandir’s. She had a split-second to note that the forces that rang in opposition to Arithon’s will were in fact an ingeniously-laid restraint; then the gist of what she had said lent an impetus that provided him opening. He reacted with a practised unbinding, and the fabric of the ward sheared asunder.
A snap like a spark whipped the air.
Then Arithon did get angry, a charged, blind-sided rage that left him wound like a spring and staring inward. ‘Teir’s’Ffalenn,’ he said flatly. His Paravian was accentless and fluent and the repeated term translated to mean ‘successor to power’. In the glow of the jewel the ratty twist of rag around his head lent the shadowed illusion of a crown. ‘Tell me about Rathain.’
I have to admit, as flowery and melodramatic as these descriptions can be. Sometimes, they're fucking amazing.
Elaira gives us some more setting info:
His command allowed no loophole for refusal; afraid to provoke an explosion, Elaira chose not to try. ‘The five northeastern principalities on this continent were territories in vassalage to Rathain, whose liege lord once ruled at Ithamon.’ She shrugged wretchedly. ‘Since sovereignty of Athera passed from Paravians to men, the high king crowned there by the Fellowship has always, without exception, been s’Ffalenn.’
Arithon moved, not fast enough to mask a flinch. He ripped the rag from his head as though it were metal and heavy, and an anguish he could not bury needled his reply to sarcasm. ‘Don’t tell me. The people of Rathain are subject to misery and strife and Ithamon is a ruin in a wasteland.’
Yes, of course. But Elaira's smart enough not to say so, realizing that Asandir must have had a reason for keeping quiet. Bit late to shut the barn door now. Especially since Arithon asks after Lysaer.
Elaira is willing to answer this one. He gets a kingdom too. They're sitting in it.
Arithon recalls the banner, and supposes that "such unloving royal subjects" were the reason for Asandir's "reticence". That's a bit more credit than Asandir deserves, honestly. But Arithon's calmer now. He offers to keep "this fiasco" from Asandir.
Elaira thinks he's crazy, because Asandir's like Gandalf level power. But Arithon notes that Asandir wouldn't have expected him to break through the mind block, and explains the whole poke it and pass out thing. Which makes Elaira realize that his moment of unsteadiness at the banner probably WASN'T emotion.
Oh. Wow. Asandir. You're a fucking idiot. It WOULD have served you right if one half of your prophesied savior died because he keeled over in the middle of a homicidal tavern, because a fucking banner caused him to poke his brain with a stick!
She wonders why Asandir didn't tell him, which allows Arithon to go into a melodramatic soliloquy:
‘Kings all too often get their hands tied. And for what? To keep food in the mouths of the hungry? Hardly that, because the starving will feed themselves, if left alone. No. A bad king revels in his importance. A good one hates his office. He spends himself into infirmity quashing deadly little plots to make power the tool of the greedy.’
Elaira looked up into green eyes, frightened by the depth of their vehemence. She argued anyway. ‘Your friend Lysaer would say that satisfaction can be found in true justice.’
Arithon stood up and made a gesture of wounding appeal. ‘Platitudes offer no succour, my lady. There’s very little beauty in satisfaction and justice rewards nobody with joy.’ He lowered his hands and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘As Felirin the Scarlet would tell you.’
Elaira's got his measure now, though. She sees through the "show of surface excuses" to the self-destructive asshole within, and realizes that he'd slipped his leash intending to provoke some kind of fight, even if he didn't know the exact "pitch of antagonism" he'd face.
That said, Arithon is capable of some manners:
In a typically rapid shift of mood, he managed a civilized recovery. ‘I owe you, lady enchantress. You spared me some rather unpleasant handling, and for that you have my thanks. Someday I hope to show my gratitude.’
Elaira points out she saved his life, but reflecting on the fight, realizes that he'd been heading her way on purpose. He'd intended to slip out the midden himself. There's some rather cute banter here:
Arithon smiled. ‘As the possibility presented itself, yes. Have you lodgings? I’d like to see you back safely.’
‘Oh, that’s priceless,’ Elaira gasped. Her eyes were watering. She hoped it was only the dust. ‘You’re a damned liability in this town.’
‘In any town.’ The Shadow Master paid her tribute with a bow. ‘You shouldn’t worry over things that I’m too lazy to bother with.’
‘That’s the problem exactly.’ Elaira allowed him to take her hand and draw her up to her feet. His strength was indeed deceptive, and he seemed to release her fingers with reluctance. She said, ‘I can find my way just fine. The question is, can you?'
She's not talking about whether he can navigate the city. But Arithon's got an excuse ready: Asandir knew he went out for air. There are many smelly puddles and lots of hazardous obstacles. "A man prone to odd fits of dizziness might be likely to trip."
Hah, that would serve him right. Make sure you stand upwind. And then, just as he plucks a strand of hay from her hair, and "all care for pretence was abandoned", THAT's when the junior initiate finally pings Elaira.
That wrecks the mood and her violent wrath startles Arithon, who begs her pardon, thinking he offended her. She waves off his apology as she senses some repercussions in her future, as well, speaking with a prince in a hayloft after midnight is considerably worse than either speaking with a Fellowship sorcerer or playing card games with disreputable prophets. She explains she has her own personal version of Asandir.
Arithon grinned and melted unobtrusively into the shadows. ‘Then I commend you to subterfuge and a fast, soft landing in a midden.’
She heard his soft step reach the ladder.
‘Farewell, lady enchantress.’ Then he was gone, leaving her alone with a larger dilemma than the one she had found in the loft at Enithen Tuer’s.
Can't deny that the man's got a way with an exit line.
--
The last segment of chapter is: "Guardian of Mirthlvain"
The description of this place is pretty awesome:
Cupped like a witch’s cauldron between the jagged peaks of the Tiriacs and the north shore of Methlas Lake, Mirthlvain Swamp was not a place where even the boldest cared to tread. Submerged under vaporous mists, the pools with their hummocks of spear-tipped reeds spawned horrors in their muddy depths that the efforts of two civilizations had failed to secure behind walls. Yet a man did dare the dangers and walk here, on the crumbling stone causeway that remained of an ancient and long over-run bulwark. Grievously shorthanded as the Fellowship sorcerers had been through the years since the Mistwraith’s conquest, never for an instant was Mirthlvain Swamp left unwatched.
This guy is the master spellbinder Verrain. And when I first read this book, I remember being really fucking confused as to which characters are Fellowship Sorcerers and which are not. So I will explain here.
The Fellowship Sorcerers are seven dudes: Asandir and Sethvir, who we've met, Traithe, Kharadmon, Luhaine, Ciladis and Davien. Davien is the one that went rogue and made the cool longevity fountain.
The Fellowship does have allies though, called "spellbinders" like Dakar and this dude, Verrain. They're generally men, probably because the Koriani snap up any women with significant magic talent during childhood.
So anyway, Verrain's having some sort of magical fight with a snake monster. Apparently, it's not uncommon for certain creatures to become hosts for methuri or "hate-wraiths". This one appears to be some kind of nasty poisonous crossbreed of a sort that the Fellowship thought they eradicated. Sethvir is not going to like this report.
--
And now for our three sneak peeks! "Observations".
The first involves a raven dropping out of the sky and landing on the shoulder of a sorcerer in black, who has an awesome hat but dark, sad eyes.
The second involves an enchantress of the watch tattling about Elaira's clandestine hayloft meeting with a prince.
The third involves Sethvir at Althain Tower sending a message to Asandir about the "meth-snakes" in the swamp.
And so our chapter ends.
So interestingly, we don't start this chapter ("Erdane") with the boys. Instead, we start in the city of Erdane, with a girl named Elaira.
The description is, as usual, quite cool:
The walls of Erdane had been raised at the crossroads two ages before the uprising which threw down the high kings had bloodied its maze of narrow streets. Now, five centuries later, the city wore change like a tattered, overdressed prostitute. Guild flags and a mayor’s blazon fluttered over the Grand West Gate, built by Paravian hands of seamless, rose-veined quartz. The stone at street level was left pitted and scarred by siege-weapons, and greyed by the passage of uncounted generations of inhabitants. Had the sentries in the mayor’s guard been as vigilant as their counterparts in times past, they would have challenged the woman in the shepherd’s cloak who passed the gatehouse, hooded. Boots of sewn sealhide showed beneath her ankle-length skirts, but their soles were not made for walking. Her hands were calloused from the bridle-rein, and her eyes a clear and disturbing grey.
Now, we met Elaira briefly in a previous chapter. She's a Koriani enchantress who annoyed her superior. She'd been sent to deliver a message. Now, she's playing hooky.
Like West End, Erdane doesn't seem very friendly to sorcerers. Elaira is the first of her kind to enter the city for four hundred years and if she got caught, she would have been stripped and publicly burned after barely a pretense of a trial. Eek.
Apparently the Lord Elect of Erdane has a bit of a guilty conscience. And access to archives that tell him about the sun and a past revolution. And he's considerably more afraid of magical retribution than he is of executing a few innocent women.
Elaira seems to know what she's doing and she slips into a far less pleasant part of the city:
The alley beyond was barely wider than a footpath. Fallen slates and rat-chewed ends of bone clogged the gutters. Seepage dripped in mournful counterpoint to the moss-crusted planks of half-rotted, open-air stairways; and from spell-charmed strips of tin nailed up to ward off iyats. Unlike many such talismans, these held true power to guard. Elaira could sense the faint resonance of their protections as she wound her way past ill-smelling puddles and locked shutters.
There's also something quite interesting odd about the place, and travelers keep finding themselves side tracked away. Elaira, being a sorceress, is not so easily distracted. She's here for a reason: see, after she delivered the scrolls to her destination, she managed to learn some very interesting rumours which have led her to believe that a Fellowship sorcerer and "two old-blood princes" are hanging out in Erdane.
There's a very cute bit where she is recognized as a witch and told she's either very brave or stupid. She agrees, probably stupid. She goes inside, chats a bit with the fortune teller and catches sight of our heroes. Or at least Lysaer, who, as usual, is quite a sight to see:
Elaira’s eyes widened. They were here! And unmistakably royal, the bloodlines perpetuated over many generations still apparent as the nearer one rose to meet her. Light from the sconces edged pale s’Ilessid hair in shining gold. The prince possessed an elegance that went beyond his handsome face. His eyes were jewel-blue. He carried his well-knit frame with the dignity of a man schooled perfectly to listen, and a pride unselfconscious as breathing.
Ah, Lysaer. Lysaer is, of course, a gentleman and takes her cloak. Then of course she notices his brother.
This one regarded her with eyes of s’Ffalenn green, and something else: the still, small shock of an awareness that recognized power. Elaira repressed stark surprise, while the s’Ilessid prince said something polite that her mind interpreted as background noise.
I'm not sure what that means, but okay.
However, the boys aren't the stars of this bit. Instead, the person with the most dramatic description is Asandir:
Asandir proved taller than Elaira had expected from images garnered through lane-watch. Lean as toughened leather, he wore plain clothing with a bearing she had always before thought imperious. In person, she revised that to a stillness that brooked no wasted motion. His hands were still also, the straight, tapered fingers clean as bleached bone on the latch. The face beneath the trimmed silver hair was carved by years and experience to a fierce mapwork of lines. The eyes in their deep-set sockets regarded her with a serenity that unnerved and exposed.
EVERYONE gets a melodramatic description. Well, except Dakar and Felirin, who are sane and comparatively undramatic.
This does tell us a lot about Asandir. For a Koriani sorceress a Fellowship sorcerer is much more intimidating than a couple of princes, regardless of their destiny. Asandir's friendly enough though, asking her why she's here. And Elaira is immensely relatable:
Elaira stared down at her boots and the muddied hem of her skirts which now gave off faint curls of steam. All the excuses, every elaborate and reasonable-sounding word she had rehearsed through the afternoon fled in the rush of her fast-beating heart. She was out of her depth. She knew it; before she could think she spoke honestly. ‘I was curious.’
She knows about the West Gate Prophecy, and she wanted to see if it's really true, and if "Desh-thiere's Bane" has really come to Athera. Asandir tells her that she's passed "its substance" on the way in.
It's apparently Koriani knowledge that Fellowship sorcerers give nothing freely, so she decides to test that. She says that she observed that "Teir's'Ffalenn" has magical training and she asks if that's what will give him the ability to win against the Mistwraith.
I like Elaira. She cuts through bullshit and just asks what she wants to know. In a way, she's rather like Arithon. Without the dickishness.
Asandir notes her initiative and courage, and that neither attribute is particularly valued by her superiors. He'll answer her questions, but he wants her to treat it "with a foresight your superiors might hold in contempt." (Elaira is endearingly astonished that someone else thinks her colleagues are annoying sometimes.)
So Asandir provides her with an explanation: basically that the Sorcerers had trained the heir of s'Ahelas in magic, and when she went into exile, she'd trained her descendants. And after five hundred years of isolation, they figured out some interesting new tricks.
Elaira asks if it's possible, and Asandir notes that "[w]hat is possible does not always coincide with what is wise". (Foresight!) Elaira feels stupid, but Asandir decides to give more explanation instead: basically that together the princes can defeat the Mistwraith, but separately, "their gifts might potentially inflict greater harm than the wraith their powers must defeat."
The discussion continues, touching on Arithon's mage training a little and whether or not Dakar's prophecy is assured. She refers to Dakar by name, indicating that he himself seems to have some measure of fame outside of Asandir.
The conversation ends with a subtle warning about the other Koriani sorceresses, and an encouragement of Elaira's "clear eye for truth." Elaira has a lot to think about.
And we follow her as she thinks. She thinks about her Order's fear and Asandir's trust. She also thinks about how much trouble she's going to be in for meeting with a Fellowship sorcerer to begin with.
Then, proving she's of similar ilk to our heroes, she decides that since she's going to be in trouble already, she might as well go for broke. She gets directions to a place called "the Inn of Four Ravens." As mentioned, Dakar is famous in his own right, and one of the things he's famous for is drowning his miseries.
--
The next segment of the chapter is "The Four Ravens".
So the Ravens is a rough place with an equally rough description. It's not a safe place for women as the customers are often too drunk to tell the difference between "those girls who were goods and others who might be paying customers."
I'm both disgusted and impressed by the evocative nature of that line. You can immediately tell how horrible this place and these people are to sex-workers.
Elaira seems comfortable enough (even if she has to ward off a proposition or two) as she's currently beating a very drunk Dakar at cards. She claims her forfeit: an answer to her question. She wants to know Arithon's name.
Dakar plays dumb and we get more setting information here:
Elaira waited with persistent determination. She dared not reach for her focusing jewel. Even a fool would not try spell-work in this place: not to bring clarity to Dakar’s muddled mind, nor to drive off unwanted male advances. Erdane’s citizens had aversions that ran to violence when confronted by any form of witchery; a disproportionate mix of the most zealous seemed to patronize the taproom at the Ravens. Dakar was crazy to come here at all; except that his sorrowfully rumpled appearance did not equate with his station as apprentice to a Fellowship sorcerer.
Dakar hems and haws, but then gives her Arithon's first name. She's annoyed though that the junior enchantress that SHOULD be watching this lane has been errant. She should have reported Elaira hours ago. Since she hasn't, Elaira needs to stick around and keep playing.
OH, I see what she's doing. It took me a bit. But basically, Elaira knows she's in trouble for playing hooky and going to Erdane. But she's going to get in PHENOMENALLY big trouble for talking to a Fellowship sorcerer. However, if she's spotted at this card game with Dakar, the she'll have an explanation for both what she's been doing and where she got her information that won't get her in nearly as much trouble.
Dakar doesn't seem to know what's going on, but he's happy to take advantage. He makes her buy him ale, since he won't play without it. (There's also a minstrel in the corner of the room. He's taking a break though, which upsets Elaira as it means his listeners are likely to come by to paw at her.)
However things suddenly get interesting when Dakar shoots upright and says: "Like the tax collector, here comes trouble." He passes out. Just as Arithon enters the Ravens. Alone.
And he notices something. There's a royal banner hanging up of a blue on gold star. The s'Ilessid sigil. The banner's mostly been used for target practice. He's shocked by this.
...Asandir, what was the fucking point of that mind block? Because Arithon KNOWS what his brother's family sigil looks like. And my affectionate insults aside, he's not actually an idiot.
Anyway, this leads to trouble. Of course. Because Arithon is distracted, he ends up bumping a bar patron and the he apologizes "like a diplomat", and his accent, if you recall, is a little too distinctive. He realizes the problem just a little too late.
The presence of a "barbarian" amidst this tavern full of headhunters leads to a pretty spectacular fight. And of course, Arithon makes a good showing:
A moment ago, Arithon might have been dizzy, as well as dangerously ignorant; but he was cat-fast to react under threat. He side-stepped the first swung fist. As his aggressor overbalanced and stumbled against the rush of surging bodies, he dodged through a fast-closing gap and nipped behind the nearest trestle table. Plates, hot soup and chicken bones flew airborne as he upended the plank into his attackers.
Never challenge a pirate to a bar fight. At some point he manages to somersault over the ceiling beams and land on someone's head. Then he hoists himself into the rafters. He's lost his cloak somehow and is now in shirt-sleeves and tunic, and visibly unarmed.
Elaira is of course watching this and realizing exactly how fucked they all are, if "the irreplaceable heir to a kingdom" ends up beaten to death by a bunch of bigoted townsfolk. But unfortunately, Dakar's out for the count. The minstrel has the decency to look concerned though. (HI FELIRIN!)
But don't worry, even alone and cornered, Arithon's still able to be an asshole:
Arithon had no allies to call on for rescue. The Ravens’ enraged riffraff swarmed onto trestles and benches, the most maddened and aggressive among them bearing down from two sides on the bracing beams. Arithon leaped across air to the adjacent span of rafters. Cornered against the far wall, he laughed at the mob and called challenge.
You might be a role model, dude.
Elaira is a little worried he might use shadow mastery or magic, which would be bad here if you recall. But maybe Asandir actually bothered to warn the brothers this time. The fight goes on for a while longer, and it's very entertaining, but both Felirin and Elaira have had enough. Elaira asks Felirin to provide a distraction.
He does, admirably, claiming he sees clansmen outside the windows. A dozen attackers go to assess the new threat, and Elaira goes into action with a glamour of concealment.
The explanation sounds pretty cool:
Elaira did not physically vanish, but assumed an aura of sameness, one that mirrored the grain of worn pine, dented pewter and sanded floorboards. Had anyone amid the Ravens’ tumult paused and actually searched for her, she would instantly have been spotted. As it was, the press of the brawl directed Arithon’s aggressors everywhere else but toward her.
Then she does something else interesting, shooting some kind of "rune of binding" at Arithon's back. Then she steals a rolling pin from the kitchen and goes back out into the melee. When Arithon comes into range, she hits him with it.
Now, this isn't actually one of those times when a character will give another a concussion but the text never acknowledges it. She doesn't actually hit him hard. We're told, in fact that he folds at the knees, shocked, but looks about to laugh before she uses that rune that she'd thrown at him earlier to knock him out.
She's used a few other spells, one to make herself look like a "painted doxie" ad the rest to influence and confuse the crowd. She shouts that she claims Arithon's life as spoils, and the crowd ends up going along with this, suddenly seeing a drunken street-rat in place of a barbarian imposter.
Felirin helps out by playing into the confusion, shouting that they should let her have him, and that he's so filthy, he'll probably just give her the pox to remember him. Elaira plays into the angry scolding girlfriend some more, which amuses the crowd and causes the cook to urge her to take it elsewhere. When she points out that she can't exactly carry an unconscious man, some of the kitchen staff helps toss him outside.
Well done!
Felirin meets her outside (having rescued Arithon's cloak) and offers her some reassurance, noting that she saved Arithon's life and that if he doesn't thank her properly, Elaira should break his fingers and tell him Felirin gave permission. Elaira's just happy to meet a friendly face. Felirin helps her hide Airthon in the hayloft before going back to the tavern so his absence won't be missed.
This of course means that Elaira and Arithon are alone. Now that she gets a good look at him, it's Arithon's turn for a flowery description:
Elaira regarded Arithon’s still face, its severe planes and angles unsoftened by her jewel’s faint radiance. Under her hands she felt the corded tautness of him, the light-boned, lean sort of strength that was easiest of all to underestimate. His handling of attackers and pot-hook had proved him no stranger to violence; and the raw new scars that encircled his wrists hammered home the recognition that only his bloodline was familiar. The man himself had a past and a personality unknowably separate. He had not even been raised on Athera.
Elaira is very uneasy about waking him up, figuring that he's bound to be enraged about the attack. And annoyingly, the junior enchantress STILL hasn't spotted her. (Elaira would sense it.) Then...Arithon wakes up.
Elaira doesn't know Arithon the way we do, because of course he's not angry about having pissed someone off and waking up in a new place. It's Arithon. This is Tuesday to him.
To her exasperation, he asks what happened, and we get more world building here. And it's not pretty:
‘Dharkaron, Ath’s avenger!’ Elaira was fast becoming exasperated. ‘You’re in Erdane! Your speech patterns are perfectly barbarian. And the Ravens is a headhunters’ haunt!’
Very still, Arithon said, ‘Whose heads are the hunted?’
His curiosity was in no wise rooted in insolence. Filled by creeping disbelief Elaira said, ‘Asandir never told you? They pay bodyweight in gold for the fugitive heirs of the earls. Half-weight for clan blood and probably every jewel off the mayor’s chubby daughters for anything related to a prince.’
And here's the problem with both Asandir's mind block and his reticence:
Arithon lazed back on one elbow in the hay, his face tipped unreadably forward as he knotted the cloth around his head. ‘And what do you know of any princes?’
Elaira felt her heart bang hard against her ribs. ‘Do you mean to tell me, that you don’t know who you are?’
His response came back mocking. ‘I thought I did. Has something changed?’
‘No.’ Elaira gripped both hands in front of her shins: two could play his game. ‘Your Grace, you are Teir’s’Ffalenn, prince and heir-apparent of the crown of Rathain. All that pompous rhetoric means true-born son of an old-blood high king. Every able man in this city, as well as the surrounding countryside, would give his eldest child to be first to draw and quarter you.’
Oops. It's hard to conceal an identity you don't know about. Especially when phenotypical traits seem really fucking dominant in this universe, and everyone can tell your ancestry because of your fucking wonky eyebrows.
And second oops.
He had not been baiting her: he had plainly not been told. That was not all; around Arithon’s person Elaira sensed a gathering corona of power, invisibly triggered and unmistakably Asandir’s. She had a split-second to note that the forces that rang in opposition to Arithon’s will were in fact an ingeniously-laid restraint; then the gist of what she had said lent an impetus that provided him opening. He reacted with a practised unbinding, and the fabric of the ward sheared asunder.
A snap like a spark whipped the air.
Then Arithon did get angry, a charged, blind-sided rage that left him wound like a spring and staring inward. ‘Teir’s’Ffalenn,’ he said flatly. His Paravian was accentless and fluent and the repeated term translated to mean ‘successor to power’. In the glow of the jewel the ratty twist of rag around his head lent the shadowed illusion of a crown. ‘Tell me about Rathain.’
I have to admit, as flowery and melodramatic as these descriptions can be. Sometimes, they're fucking amazing.
Elaira gives us some more setting info:
His command allowed no loophole for refusal; afraid to provoke an explosion, Elaira chose not to try. ‘The five northeastern principalities on this continent were territories in vassalage to Rathain, whose liege lord once ruled at Ithamon.’ She shrugged wretchedly. ‘Since sovereignty of Athera passed from Paravians to men, the high king crowned there by the Fellowship has always, without exception, been s’Ffalenn.’
Arithon moved, not fast enough to mask a flinch. He ripped the rag from his head as though it were metal and heavy, and an anguish he could not bury needled his reply to sarcasm. ‘Don’t tell me. The people of Rathain are subject to misery and strife and Ithamon is a ruin in a wasteland.’
Yes, of course. But Elaira's smart enough not to say so, realizing that Asandir must have had a reason for keeping quiet. Bit late to shut the barn door now. Especially since Arithon asks after Lysaer.
Elaira is willing to answer this one. He gets a kingdom too. They're sitting in it.
Arithon recalls the banner, and supposes that "such unloving royal subjects" were the reason for Asandir's "reticence". That's a bit more credit than Asandir deserves, honestly. But Arithon's calmer now. He offers to keep "this fiasco" from Asandir.
Elaira thinks he's crazy, because Asandir's like Gandalf level power. But Arithon notes that Asandir wouldn't have expected him to break through the mind block, and explains the whole poke it and pass out thing. Which makes Elaira realize that his moment of unsteadiness at the banner probably WASN'T emotion.
Oh. Wow. Asandir. You're a fucking idiot. It WOULD have served you right if one half of your prophesied savior died because he keeled over in the middle of a homicidal tavern, because a fucking banner caused him to poke his brain with a stick!
She wonders why Asandir didn't tell him, which allows Arithon to go into a melodramatic soliloquy:
‘Kings all too often get their hands tied. And for what? To keep food in the mouths of the hungry? Hardly that, because the starving will feed themselves, if left alone. No. A bad king revels in his importance. A good one hates his office. He spends himself into infirmity quashing deadly little plots to make power the tool of the greedy.’
Elaira looked up into green eyes, frightened by the depth of their vehemence. She argued anyway. ‘Your friend Lysaer would say that satisfaction can be found in true justice.’
Arithon stood up and made a gesture of wounding appeal. ‘Platitudes offer no succour, my lady. There’s very little beauty in satisfaction and justice rewards nobody with joy.’ He lowered his hands and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘As Felirin the Scarlet would tell you.’
Elaira's got his measure now, though. She sees through the "show of surface excuses" to the self-destructive asshole within, and realizes that he'd slipped his leash intending to provoke some kind of fight, even if he didn't know the exact "pitch of antagonism" he'd face.
That said, Arithon is capable of some manners:
In a typically rapid shift of mood, he managed a civilized recovery. ‘I owe you, lady enchantress. You spared me some rather unpleasant handling, and for that you have my thanks. Someday I hope to show my gratitude.’
Elaira points out she saved his life, but reflecting on the fight, realizes that he'd been heading her way on purpose. He'd intended to slip out the midden himself. There's some rather cute banter here:
Arithon smiled. ‘As the possibility presented itself, yes. Have you lodgings? I’d like to see you back safely.’
‘Oh, that’s priceless,’ Elaira gasped. Her eyes were watering. She hoped it was only the dust. ‘You’re a damned liability in this town.’
‘In any town.’ The Shadow Master paid her tribute with a bow. ‘You shouldn’t worry over things that I’m too lazy to bother with.’
‘That’s the problem exactly.’ Elaira allowed him to take her hand and draw her up to her feet. His strength was indeed deceptive, and he seemed to release her fingers with reluctance. She said, ‘I can find my way just fine. The question is, can you?'
She's not talking about whether he can navigate the city. But Arithon's got an excuse ready: Asandir knew he went out for air. There are many smelly puddles and lots of hazardous obstacles. "A man prone to odd fits of dizziness might be likely to trip."
Hah, that would serve him right. Make sure you stand upwind. And then, just as he plucks a strand of hay from her hair, and "all care for pretence was abandoned", THAT's when the junior initiate finally pings Elaira.
That wrecks the mood and her violent wrath startles Arithon, who begs her pardon, thinking he offended her. She waves off his apology as she senses some repercussions in her future, as well, speaking with a prince in a hayloft after midnight is considerably worse than either speaking with a Fellowship sorcerer or playing card games with disreputable prophets. She explains she has her own personal version of Asandir.
Arithon grinned and melted unobtrusively into the shadows. ‘Then I commend you to subterfuge and a fast, soft landing in a midden.’
She heard his soft step reach the ladder.
‘Farewell, lady enchantress.’ Then he was gone, leaving her alone with a larger dilemma than the one she had found in the loft at Enithen Tuer’s.
Can't deny that the man's got a way with an exit line.
--
The last segment of chapter is: "Guardian of Mirthlvain"
The description of this place is pretty awesome:
Cupped like a witch’s cauldron between the jagged peaks of the Tiriacs and the north shore of Methlas Lake, Mirthlvain Swamp was not a place where even the boldest cared to tread. Submerged under vaporous mists, the pools with their hummocks of spear-tipped reeds spawned horrors in their muddy depths that the efforts of two civilizations had failed to secure behind walls. Yet a man did dare the dangers and walk here, on the crumbling stone causeway that remained of an ancient and long over-run bulwark. Grievously shorthanded as the Fellowship sorcerers had been through the years since the Mistwraith’s conquest, never for an instant was Mirthlvain Swamp left unwatched.
This guy is the master spellbinder Verrain. And when I first read this book, I remember being really fucking confused as to which characters are Fellowship Sorcerers and which are not. So I will explain here.
The Fellowship Sorcerers are seven dudes: Asandir and Sethvir, who we've met, Traithe, Kharadmon, Luhaine, Ciladis and Davien. Davien is the one that went rogue and made the cool longevity fountain.
The Fellowship does have allies though, called "spellbinders" like Dakar and this dude, Verrain. They're generally men, probably because the Koriani snap up any women with significant magic talent during childhood.
So anyway, Verrain's having some sort of magical fight with a snake monster. Apparently, it's not uncommon for certain creatures to become hosts for methuri or "hate-wraiths". This one appears to be some kind of nasty poisonous crossbreed of a sort that the Fellowship thought they eradicated. Sethvir is not going to like this report.
--
And now for our three sneak peeks! "Observations".
The first involves a raven dropping out of the sky and landing on the shoulder of a sorcerer in black, who has an awesome hat but dark, sad eyes.
The second involves an enchantress of the watch tattling about Elaira's clandestine hayloft meeting with a prince.
The third involves Sethvir at Althain Tower sending a message to Asandir about the "meth-snakes" in the swamp.
And so our chapter ends.
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Date: 2020-12-27 03:32 pm (UTC)Compensation for anything?
Yes, the descriptions make me green with envy. They are really good! Also, credit to you for also pointing the positive traits.
"she would have been stripped and publicly burned after barely a pretense of a trial. Eek."
I don't know if even child traffickers deseve this.
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Date: 2020-12-27 05:49 pm (UTC)I wouldn't post these particular reviews on Das_Sporking, since that is more about skewering the bad stuff, but I get to have fun with them. :-)