Curse of the Mistwraith - Chapter Nine - Althain Tower

[kalinara]

So last time, Lysaer was judgmental, Arithon was melodramatic, and Asandir was a total dick. This isn't really new, but it was pretty entertaining anyway. But this chapter ought to be both entertaining and new, I hope, as it's tilted "Althain Tower". Which presumably means that our heroes reach their destination.



So, we rejoin our favorite idiots as they're being suddenly roused out of bed to depart. Lysaer for his part is [s]ecretly relieved to be quit of the company of subjects he found disturbing but of course, at the same time he remained in flawless command of his manners.

Arithon, on the other hand, is looking "murderous". He hasn't slept at all, and notes that he'd been hoping to ask for an audience with Lady Maenalle. It's about Grithen, of course, because Asandir really does have a gift for guilt-tripping a guy.

Maenalle, psychically, already knows what Arithon wants to say and she does not hold with the same sympathetic view:

Grudging to show surprise beyond a fractional rise of one brow, Arithon greeted her. As close to apology as Lysaer had ever seen him, he said, ‘Surely I have reason to plead the man’s case.’

Maenalle’s features stayed hard. ‘Tysan’s scouts do not act for personal vengeance. No matter what the provocation, they are forbidden to take hostages. We are not like Rathain’s clans, to extort coin and cattle for human lives. For breaking honour, Grithen must answer. The fact he was invited into his temptation, and that his action also threatened his liege bears very little on his punishment. The code that condemns him is one that upholds clan survival.’

Fair enough. Arithon is interested in the mention of Rathain's clans and asks if she disapproves of her counterparts to the east. Maenalle asserts that Rathain's clans have to contend with "the trade city of Etarra", where the feud between town and clan is so bad that the governor's council can execute a man for singing the wrong ballad. She cautions the "young prince" to be cautious when playing his lyranthe.

Arithon's not yet willing to commit to any sort of princely title, but Maenalle calls him out, a little strangely.

Maenalle stood braced against a vicious blast of wind. ‘Would you risk the perception that inspires your talent by hardening your heart against need?’

And Arithon suddenly laughed, his anger absolved by admiration for her unflinching toughness. He bent in his saddle, raised Maenalle’s hand and kissed her sincerely in farewell. ‘Were you caithdein of Rathain I might find myself sorely oppressed. Dare I suppose that Etarra’s governors would also find their ways compromised?’

Strikingly free of vindictiveness, Maenalle said, ‘If you want my earnest opinion, there can be no remedy for Etarra, except to raze it clean to the ground.’

I'm not completely sure I understand what Maenalle is saying here, but Arithon seems to. I really do enjoy their dynamic. I hope Lysaer can learn to speak so frankly with Maenalle, because that's clearly going to be necessary when ruling his land.

Dakar finally emerges, comedically disheveled and unkempt as always. We're told Maenalle "took hurried leave of her sovereign" and if "Lysaer's response was cool with propriety" it was attributed to the rush. Oh Lysaer. I really do hope that you can open your mind. You've done so well so far!

So we get a reason for the haste. Sort of. Dakar asks and Asandir's answer contains the words "Mirthlvain" (that swamp we saw it the chapter section with Verrain and the meth-snakes) and "meth-snakes" and that will never not make me laugh. Sorry, I'm immature.

Lysaer and Arithon banter a bit about their sudden awakening and the rush. Arithon, for his part, had taken the opportunity to look at the scouts' maps, and saw that Althain Tower is ninety leagues, or a six day journey distant. He doesn't mention this to Lysaer, but he's definitely curious about Asandir's obvious (and horse-punishing) pace.

Remember when we first glimpsed Sethvir in one of the early chapters and it became obvious really quickly that he's much more powerful than either Arithon or his grandfather. This is because he's a fellowship sorcerer. Like Asandir, who hasn't really shown his ability much. He is now though, as the brothers realize that he's using magic to sustain the horses. Lysaer asks Arithon if he could do something similar, and the answer is a conditional yes. He couldn't do it for so long or without harm, because it would require the sorcerer depleting himself to sustain the mounts.

So whatever else we can say about the jerk, it is clear that Asandir has far greater reserves of energy than any normal human mage.

So they keep going, with a stop at the tavern. There's a bit of banter between Lysaer and Dakar about the punishing pace, where Dakar claims to have studied for centuries and still not know the limits of a Fellowship sorcerer. Lysaer wonders if Dakar really is that long lived, due to magecraft, or if he's just an obstinate liar. Dude, you drank from a magic fountain.

Eventually, they end up leaving the road and we get some lovely foresty description that I will share for the benefit of one other person:

Asandir turned the black’s bridle and shouldered without reply into holly and briars that hooked and snagged threads from his cloak. A stone’s throw back from the verge the brush subsided. Trees eaten hollow by age choked the light and faint depressions and upthrust stone kerbs revealed the ruin of an older road. Asandir pointed out a canted megalith traced over with weather-worn carving. ‘That stone marks the third lane, one of twelve channels of earthforce we will tap for swift travel to Althain. The soil itself sings with power, here.’ As if the land’s living pulse could also be drawn to sustain him, the sorcerer quickened pace.

There's some more lovely description here, but I should show SOME restraint. They reach a bowl shaped hollow which is too symmetrical to be natural, with a rune covered agate slab. Arithon is awed, identifying it as a power focus. Asandir confirms: this is the Great Circle of Isaer, built to channel "earthforce" to guard the halls of the early Paravian kings. Coool.

Asandir recommends that they rest, as it'll be their last chance before Althain Tower. Arithon asks if there are any Paravian cities still around. Sadly no. Basically every structure from the First Age is gone, except one: the towers of the citadel at Ithamon. The capitol of Rathain.

Now, just in case we got to thinking that Asandir would finally be forthcoming, he passes around a flask of spirits. Arithon and Lysaer drink. Unfortunately neither notice Dakar NOT drinking until it's too late. They're drugged unconscious. Of course they are.

So this is a "lane transfer". And it sounds pretty cool, if disjointed, because we get it from Arithon's point of view. He's out cold, but his "enchanter's sensitivity" is reacting.

 Arithon perceived a stand of reeds thrust through the ink-still waters of a marsh, no mere bog, but a vast expanse of wetlands criss-crossed with crumbled walls. Mist and night chilled air already dank with rotting vegetation: in the absence of moon or stars, ward-glyphs glimmered above drifted fog, wraith-pale and sharp-edged as blades, their forces interlocked to form a boundary. Inside, under apparently calm pools, the swamp’s depths moiled; serpents darted and dived, fanged, venomed, and guarded by a still figure in russet. Disturbed as if startled by footsteps in a place where no man dared tread, the watcher looked up sharply.

A soundless shock jarred the vision as the eyes of the guardian and the perception of the dreamer met; then the marshlands whirled away, replaced by a lofty tower chamber, walled with leather-bound books, and centred by an ebon table upon which a brazier burned like a star. Around this charged point of power, truesight identified the signature energies of Asandir, the Mad Prophet’s muddled contradictions, and a third mage strangely shadowed and overhung by the spread wings of a raven. That moment Arithon felt his awareness gathered in by a touch of inexpressible gentleness. His vision narrowed to encompass the face of a fourth mage seated with the others.

Mildly snub-nosed, seamed like crumpled parchment, the sorcerer’s features expressed grandfatherly bemusement, lent a benign touch of frailty by a woolly shock of white hair and beard tangled for want of recent grooming. The impression of childlike senility proved deceptive. Half-buried beneath bristled brows, eyes of diffuse green-grey reflected all the breadth of Ath’s Creation.

So it's pretty damn cool. Arithon hears his title and snaps awake, in a red-carpeted chamber. He realizes that he must be in Althain Tower. His clothing has been removed. There's some pretty great description of the room too, but it's not really story relevant, so I'll spare you. There are a lot of books though. Lysaer is also here, sleeping content in a nearby cot. Arithon on the other hand feels "nettled as a cat in a drawstring bag" and decides to get dressed and go a-roaming.

He finds the others: Dakar, Asandir, a black-clad stranger (Traithe) and another man with a flowery description: "Opposite sat another, robed in maroon with sleeves banded in dark interlace and rubbed thin at the cuffs. He was neither tall nor portly, but his presence had a rootedness like the endurance of storm-whipped oak and his face and eyes matched that of the sorcerer who had spoken his title and aroused him."

We've met this guy before. It's Sethvir, the Warden of Althain. He bids Arithon to enter and be welcome. (Dakar is annoyed that Arithon is too much of an asshole to be sleeping properly.) Arithon has mage-training though, so he feels the massive magical mojo that our sorcerers are doing and he's decided that he wants to help if they'll let him.

Sethvir is a very different dude than Asandir and before accepting Arithon's help, he magically shows him an image of what they're dealing with:

 Read to his innermost depths, Arithon was touched by a contact so ephemeral it raised no prickle of dread; and yet, the image conveyed to him was harrowing. The swamp-dwelling serpent he had first seen in dream recurred now in migrating thousands, possessed of an intelligence that hungered, and envenomed with a poison more dire than anything brewed up by nature. Secure within Althain Tower, Arithon felt the restlessness that drove the meth-snakes in their hordes to seek the defenceless countryside beyond the marsh. Shown the villagers, children and goodwives whose lives were endangered, he was given, intact, the knowledge of the forces currently at work to stay the migration; then, in blunt honesty, the daunting scope of energy needed to eradicate the threat.

Wow. Honesty. I think Sethvir is my favorite Fellowship asshole so far. Anyway, he tells Arithon that there's no shame in going back to bed, with a protection spell to keep him unaware. He doesn't know Arithon very well.

So Sethvir lays down some terms. Arithon can stay as long as he follows them: Arithon will be acting as support for Dakar. He'll stay in a trance, and be unaware of the proceedings and retain no memory of them. Eeek. Arithon notes that this means if something goes wrong with a spell, "his life would be wrung from his body as a man might twist moisture from a rag." He'll have no warning, control or self-will.

Double eeek. We get reaction shots from the others: Traithe is sympathetic, Asandir is nonjudgmental, and Dakar is contemptuous. Arithon agrees to the terms.

And I think this pretty much shows how Asandir mismanaged Arithon all along. Arithon responds to honesty, clear explanations, and spite. If you told him "don't go into town, your accent will get you mistaken for a barbarian and killed", Arithon...probably would have gone into town, but he'd have kept quiet.

 Arithon bowed his head, aware through closed eyes of Dakar’s unadulterated dismay. The faintest smile curved the s’Ffalenn mouth, then faded as he engaged his self-discipline and submerged his consciousness into trance.

Hee. Spite.

So now that Arithon's out, the sorcerers shamelessly talk about him. God, you're dicks:

‘Difficulty with the succession was an understatement, my friend.’ The Warden of Althain waved an exasperated hand at Rathain’s now unconscious prince. ‘You inferred a past history of blood feud, but this!’

At Traithe’s blank look of inquiry, Sethvir hooked his knuckles through the tangled end of his beard. ‘Our Teir’s’Ffalenn has the sensitivity imbued in his fore-father’s line, but none of the protections. His maternal inheritance of farsightedness lets him take no step without guilt, for he sees the consequences of his every act, and equally keenly feels them.’

It's good to know Asandir is equally as unforthcoming with the others too.

Traithe notes that this doesn't explain his recklessness or "guarded resentment" (read: being an asshole motivated primarily by 45% spite and 55% masochism). Asandir explains that this is a result from the whole Karthan thing, and his own attempt to "ease his despair" "misfired" and "nearly earned his enmity".

Sethvir suggests a sensible option: let the guy go. He can go off and be a musician, get married, and they can get their prince from his heirs. It's been five hundred years, so what's a generation or two?

I knew I liked you, Sethvir.

Traithe thinks things are more time sensitive though: the Etarran merchant factions are a problem and he thinks that if they continue to run wild even after the Mistwraith is defeated, they might end up impossible to contain.

They decide to examine the question further after stopping the meth-snakes.

So then we get to that part, which is cool and mystical, and involves lots of cryptic conversation about directing powers, third lanes and so on. What's more important though is that this is very difficult. The Fellowship is "critically understaffed". Also, Dakar has a funny bit here:

Miserably conscious of his shortcomings, Dakar knotted clammy hands and cursed Arithon s’Ffalenn for scheming arrogance. Never mind that the Master’s magecraft held none of the shifty cunning his conscious mind affected; however he might disparage Dakar for slipshod ways, the trust he gave in trance was clear-edged and forthright as his music.

The paradox that a spirit so exactingly controlled should vengefully surrender all that he was into jeopardy jabbed like insult.

Arithon's such an asshole that he can even be an asshole while unconscious in a trance.

More resentment here:

Although relieved of a burden, the Mad Prophet felt galled to no end that the Master should pass scatheless through a direct challenge of the Fellowship’s wishes. ‘It’s not as if he gave a whistle for the land, or the people, or even a spit over principles,’ Dakar grumbled as he stuffed shaky fingers in his cuffs to wedge them still.

Already attuned to larger matters, Sethvir returned a vague murmur. ‘You misunderstand the man gravely.’

But since the Mad Prophet had been engrossed beyond hearing through the Fellowship’s recent discussion, Dakar believed only that Arithon’s genius for duplicity had caused Sethvir himself to be misled. The Warden of Althain settled in his seat with a rustle of robes, and his trusting regard touched his colleagues.

You know guys, it's not like Dakar is keeping his impression of Arithon a secret. If you think he's wrong (and I agree with that), then you could EXPLAIN IT TO HIM. Dakar and Asandir are going to continue traveling with the brothers, after all. Wouldn't it be easier if Dakar didn't hate the guy? You can't tell me you want to respect his privacy, given the way you talk about him.

So lots of magicky stuff here. Some pretty great description. Not a lot to recap though. Eventually two more Fellowship sorcerers join in: Luhaine, once called the Defender, and Kharadmon. They succeed, yay.

-

The next section is Strands.

Here, Asandir, Sethvir and Traithe, as well as the disembodied sorcerers Luhaine and Kharadmon, are gatered together to talk. Apparently once upon a time, their ebony table would have seated seven sorcerers, five high kings, and a representative from the three Paravian races. Now...only four guys are sitting there. And we have apprentice spellbinders like Dakar and Verrain taking on far more responsibilities than they have training for. Aw.

On the plus side, we get to meet Kharadmon:

A shadow coalesced in the spot, resolving into the slender form of a sorcerer in sable and green. A cloak lined in orange silk spilled from elegantly-set shoulders; the face inside the hood was an elfin arrangement of angles, accented by a spade-shaped beard, a glib smile and a hooked nose. The apparition raised tapered hands and pushed the cloth back, smoothing black-and-white streaked hair. Freed from shadow, the eyes were pale green and direct as a cat’s. The visual projection of the discorporate mage Kharadmon skimmed a glance over the assembled company, and in thoroughly changed inflections repeated, ‘Where is Dakar?’

Kharadmon apparently likes picking on Dakar, and indeed, goes off to rouse him from his post-magickal working nap. They're joined by Luhaine (just after Kharadmon boasts that he always bests him at travel, argument and cards"):

'I protest that statement,’ a bass voice said in reproof. A second discorporate materialized alongside the table, this one wizened and bald, a beard as broad as a waterfall fanned across his chest. His corpulent form was robed in blue-grey. Apple-round cheeks were capped by brows peaked in prim inquiry, and eyes sharp and black as an irascible scholar’s trained upon the elegantly seated image of Kharadmon. More than usually petulant, the newcomer announced, ‘Your claim is unfounded, unjust and entirely unforgiven. We shall contest it later.’

So now it's time to talk about the main characters: they have very direct elemental powers, "evenly split" and are opposites in character and upbringing, and they each have two royal gifts. This makes everyone a bit uneasy, so they want to "cast strands" and seek info about the future.

They use an herb called "tienelle" which Dakar really doesn't like:

The rare, high-altitude herb he wished to avoid at all costs. Valued for its mind-expanding properties, tienelle’s narcotic was also a poison that caused cramps, headache and a sudden onset of dehydration that could end in coma and death. Spellbinders were schooled to transmute its toxicity, for need occasionally arose for them to perceive complexities beyond their training to encompass.

Dakar would rather take nightshade, but he doesn't have the opportunity. Because he chose to drop a sword rather than have a prophecy about the idiot brothers, they now have to do this. (Asandir is good at blaming people into doing shit they don't want to do.)

There's some cool description of this magical working too:

 Power gathered in the hands of Asandir. Above the dark velvet he spun a rod of energy, a glimmer like a line of veiled starlight. To this, he added a second, then a third, each for the triad of mysteries that embodied Prime Power and underlay all Athera’s teeming life. Next he added twoscore lesser lengths, to which Sethvir assigned Names in a Paravian ritual that summoned the essence of the ruler, place, or power and stamped its quickened current on the spell. The strands assumed identity and altered, each according to assigned nature. The governor’s council in Etarra manifested as hurtfully bright, a hedge of scintillant angles; the trio for the Paravian races interwove to the evocative beauty of lacework before fading to a near subliminal glimmer; the spark that captured the collective spirit of the clansfolk in their exile scribed an enduring sweep of arc. To cities, human consciousness and natural forces were added individuals; and after these, plants, animals and natural elements, until a geometric lattice glimmered above the velvet backdrop, an entire world’s interlinked complexity recorded in precise proportion and line.

So now it's time for a prophetic vision:

Desh-thiere’s fall became manifest as an explosion of new lines of power. Forests, fields and all of the natural landscape brightened to an ascendence of recovered vigour. The politics of the trade-guilds whipped into kinks of recoil, and a new axis sheared through their sundered town councils: Lysaer, Dakar perceived in wide surprise. The s’Ilessid prince would one day unite the towns, make war to claim all the wildlands for the mayors, and subdue and finally eradicate the barbarian clans. Arithon’s part appeared, not in Rathain, but as a figure of self-contained elegance that flowed from place to place, dedicated wholly to music. Yet the art he created was framed by a backdrop of unprecedented persecution.

...well, this doesn't look like a great option.  What else have you got?

They look at another possibility: what if the Desh-thiere/the Mistwraith DOESN'T fall: the Paravians fade out and become truly extinct. The Fellowship is NOT on board with that. So that's not an option either. 

(It's complicated as to why, but eventually we learn that Athera is a very complicated setting and the Paravians play a vital role in how the setting works.  So it's possibly a low key apocalyptic event in its own right if they disappear forever.)

Another option, what if they crown Arithon?

 As one, the Fellowship sorcerers rallied crushed hopes. Devastated by necessity, grimly wedded to purpose, they recast an alternative sequence they had earlier hoped to avoid. The strands flickered, interlaced, clean curves and sharp angles reformed to show a coronation at the trade city of Etarra. Charged by the Fellowship to accept Rathain’s crown, Arithon’s line bloomed into a jagged nexus of anguish, that peaked and peaked repeatedly, yet endured; and still the axis of Lysaer’s power roused the townborn to war. A great schism tore the width of the continent, with strife predominant. Yet the cipher that reflected Paravian survival glimmered on wanly, preserved.

Well, that sucks. They realize that the Mistwraith must be the cause of this, somehow.

They keep looking. And well...

 The strands foretold, unequivocally, that Lysaer and Arithon would oppose, with full and bitter consequences. To strip them of their inborn powers as a deterrent in all cases yielded Desh-thiere’s continued dominance. That in itself promised changes in natural order, none of them to the good; but to deny the vanished Paravians a return to natural sunlight was to take the role of executioner. Men might engender war and suffering, but over the course of ages, even fanatical hatreds must fade. To act for immediate peace was to seal the extinction of a mystery beyond mortal means to restore.

Point of order. Why not let them defeat the Mistwraith and THEN strip them of their powers? Lysaer and Arithon are melodramatic idiots, but they're also decent people. If you explained to them that something will happen to set them against each other and bring chaos to the world, then I think they'd agree to it.

But that would require honesty and communication, so ew.

So that leaves one other question: Arithon's inheritance. Put him on the throne or not? Both options seem equally bad, so why not let the poor guy do what he loves? As they discuss, Dakar starts to feel nauseous and zone out. And then, a prophecy:

‘Davien the Betrayer shall hear no reason, nor bow to the Law of the Major Balance; neither shall the Fellowship be restored to Seven until the Black Rose grows wild in the vales of Daon Ramon.’

‘Black Rose!’ Sethvir shot upright, intent as a hunting falcon. ‘But none exists.’

‘There will be one,’ Dakar gasped, slammed by a second precognizance that blazed through him like lightning etched across darkness. ‘The briar will take root on the day that Arithon s’Ffalenn embraces kingship.’

Well, that settles that question. Suddenly Arithon's free will is being set against the one thing the Fellowship wants more than anything else: to be whole.

‘Arithon’s freedom must be sacrificed,’ Traithe said. ‘The choice is a foregone conclusion.’

Sucks to be you, Arithon.

Dakar comes out of it with no memory of his prophecy and sick as a dog. And aww, Kharadmon, "unlikeliest of benefactors" is the one to ease is suffering. Asandir sees him downstairs, while the others think about their tragic losses. There's Davien, who we've heard about. He led the revolt against the kings. He also built the fountain that cursed the idiot brothers to five hundred years of life. And there's Ciladis, who had gone out to search for the Paravians and never came back.

So now, there's the question of how to mitigate the damage and set safeguards. This means Lysaer. If Arithon's going to be on the throne of Rathain, then Lysaer probably shouldn't be on the throne of Tysan. He might still be able to win the townsfolk loyalty, but he should not also have the clans following him.

Poor Lysaer. Hey guys, maybe if you TALKED to the brothers, there might be another option! Or at least told him why this has to happen. Maybe he can avoid it!

(Also if part of the issue is a Town vs Clan thing, wouldn't it be BETTER to have town and clan work together?)

They also decide to bring out another hidden heir, this one to the kingdom of Havish. They need one stable kingdom that won't be embroiled into the inevitable nonsense.

After that, they go their separate ways. Except Asandir and Sethvir, who discuss another problem: the Rathain crown jewels, which are specially created power focuses. This is normally a good thing, but Arithon's a trained mage, so that means the crown jewels could cause his gifts to become "unmanageable."

Okay, I can appreciate that problem. I feel like you could probably just explain this to Arithon. He's a mage after all. And he doesn't like being out of control. He also doesn't like to have too many awesome possessions in general. I feel like he'd be happy enough to forgo wearing them.

Heck, you could just make replicas or something that he could use?

Sethvir and Asandir instead sought a ward to conceal the stones’ arcane nature from the s’Ffalenn prince who must hold them for the duration of his reign.

The project took the remainder of the day.

Dripping sweat, and tinged greenish by reflections thrown off an untidy hoard of cut emeralds, the two sorcerers locked glances as they emerged from combined trance.

‘Ath Creator,’ the Warden of Althain murmured in disgruntled vehemence. ‘You realize the Teir’s’Ffalenn and his confoundedly sensitive perception has brought us one damnable fix?’

Or you could do that. And blame Arithon for the fact that you'd rather exhaust yourself than be honest with him.

To be fair, Asandir has a far better concern: ‘And I’m still concerned. The man has little vanity. Emeralds by themselves won’t impress him, and would you want to try and convince him that his jewellery shouldn’t be traded for something inherently more practical?’

Or you could EXPLAIN that they WOULD HURT HIM, and ask him to keep them safe for his eventual heirs?

Nevermind.

The third section is Artifacts.

We join Lysaer, who wakes up comfortably. He's quite [r]elieved to be free of open-air campsites and barbarian hospitality. He's not alone:

By the settle sat a black-clad stranger, his hands busy with awl and waxed thread, mending a broken bridle. A raven perched on his shoulder swung its wedge-shaped head at Lysaer’s movement, ruffled knife-edged feathers and fixed the prince with a gaze of bead-bright intelligence. As though given warning by a sentry, the man stopped stitching and looked up.

Lysaer’s breath caught.

The stranger’s eyes might be soft brown, and his clipped hair silvered with age, but the implacable stamp to his features and the profound stillness about his presence unmistakably marked him as a Fellowship sorcerer. ‘You must be famished,’ he opened kindly. ‘My name is Traithe, and in Sethvir’s stead, I welcome you to Althain Tower.’

I just really like this description.

Lysaer is disconcerted to wake up with a strange dude in the room, and asks how long he's been here. He also looks over at Arithon ("sprawled on the adjacent pallet in unprecedented and oblivious sleep." we're also told that his pose is "more a jumble of limbs folded like knucklebones in a quilt". Hee.).

There's an interesting brotherly contrast here, as Lysaer gets dressed leisurely and without being remotely self-conscious. He's used to the lack of privacy that comes of having servants. He notices Traithe's scars, and this sends him into a moment of angst.

Unable to picture the scope of a calamity that could harm a Fellowship sorcerer, the prince averted his glance and set about lacing his sleeve cuffs. His awkwardness as always caused the ties to knot. Embarrassed that even so simple an act as dressing could still make him ache for the comforts lost with exile, he jerked at the snarl. Rather than succumb to expletives, he wondered if any place existed in this Ath-forsaken land where there was gaiety, laughter, and dancing in streets not guarded by sentries. He missed the gentle company of women, and his betrothed left beyond Worldsend most of all. Pride forbade the weakness of recriminations. Still, mastering self-pity took all the effort of a difficult sword form, or the thorniest problem of state ever assigned to his charge as royal heir.

You know, it occurs to me, we've never actually heard Lysaer's betrothed's name.

We get even more description of Traithe: His features were less chiselled than marred by hard usage to wrinkles like cracks in fine crystal. Laugh-lines remained, intertwined through others cut by sorrow..

Traithe puts Lysaer at ease and leads him down to find breakfast.

After breakfast, Lysaer is still disconcerted. He's bothered that Arithon is still asleep. (Aw.). It doesn't seem right that he's still out after what should have been twenty-four hours of rest. Especially because this is Arithon, "who tended to recoil out of nerves from his blankets at every two point shift in the wind".

Traithe tries to be evasive, but then explains what happened: outbreak of poisonous snakes in Shand, needed big show of sorcery to fix. Lysaer is understandably piqued to be left out and says he might have liked to help.

 ‘Your half-brother was used,’ Traithe stated baldly. ‘His power was channelled from him like wine from a vessel of sacrifice. When he recovers enough to reawaken, he’ll retain no memory of the event.’ Mindful of this prince’s staunch loyalty, the sorcerer added, ‘Arithon volunteered, at the outset.’

Of course he did.

So Traithe and Lysaer start talking about his lack of training in his own gift, which is a sore spot still. No one considered it necessary, apparently. Wow. Your dad is really fucking stupid, isn't he, Lysaer?

THIS is interesting though:

‘Ah.’ Traithe set his chin on his fist. ‘For a prince in direct line for a crown, such judgement was probably sound. But you’ve been brought here to battle a Mistwraith. That alters the outlook somewhat.’

Lysaer doesn't know what we know, so he doesn't hear what Traithe is actually saying. Lysaer is not going to be a prince in direct line for a crown anymore. This training is being offered as a consolation prize.

You could at least be HONEST with the poor guy as you screw him over for something that may not even be his fault. 

Anyway, Traithe and Lysaer end up looking through the massive stores of Althain Tower. Traithe has Lysaer use his talent to provide light. They're looking for the crown jewels of Havish for the coronation. Lysaer is curious about the royal lines, so we're told that the heir to Havish is a twelve-year-old who lives with a hermit wool-dyer. Poor kid.

They find some other cool things, and are eventually joined by a complaining Dakar. Dakar stumbles onto something VERY interesting: a melon-sized amethyst. This is the Koriani Waystone.

Now you may not remember this coming up before, because SO MUCH happens in this book. But basically the Koriani sorceresses USED to be considerably more powerful. They use stones, and their most powerful was th Waystone. It got lost though, and they've been stuck using a much less powerful aquamarine called the Skyron ever since. Elaira had once suggested that they ask Sethvir if he knew where it was. Elaira is now vindicated.

Dakar is gleeful, noting that the Matriarch, Morriel, "would sell her virginity to know where that thing went!"

Traithe is sharp about it:

 Traithe turned the huge amethyst in his hands, absorbed by the captured light that spiked through its purple-black depths. ‘Since nobody asked your crude opinion, I shall tell you once: the Prime Enchantress had only to inquire after the Waystone’s location.’ His eyes flicked up, piercingly sharp. ‘Naught but Morriel’s stubborn pride kept the jewel at Althain.’

Okay, I like Traithe and Sethvir, but that's bullshit. You have their stuff, you KNOW they won't ask you about it. So give them back their stuff! That's what a decent person would do. But as Traithe admits in narration, they actually prefer the sorceresses not poke their fingers into business "beyond their understanding" so Sethvir is not about to volunteer any information. He's quite deceitful in his own way.

Anyway, they fill Lysaer in on what it is and its significance, and then find what they're looking for: a gold circuit carved with runes and a matched collection of rubies without a setting. Traithe gives us some tragic backstory. The capitol of Havish was the first sacked. They melted the regalia and killed almost every member of the royal family. Only the rubies and one child survived. (Presumably the kid was too young to go into exile.)

Lysaer looks at the rubies and battered circlet and is humbled into some potential character growth:

His inheritance as s’Ilessid on Athera was vast in comparison to the tiny island kingdom left behind on the world of his birth.

The pomp, the wealth, every ceremonial pageantry that had seemed part and parcel of kingship was abruptly rendered meaningless: he perceived how narrow was his experience and how limited his vision. The presumption shamed him, that he had dared to set judgement on the lives of the Camris barbarians. Their plight must be better understood to be fairly handled; a stricture that must start with rebuilding trust with his half-brother. Brought to painful self-honesty, Lysaer realized that to do right by the kingdom of Tysan, he must embrace a new concept of justice. The tinker’s workmanship in the old circlet and the uncanny loveliness of Havish’s crown jewels compelled a cold and difficult review of his mortal strengths and talent.

Aw. Lysaer really is a good guy after all.

Lysaer then tells Traithe that he is thankful for the offer of training, but he knows that's not his duty. His job is to heal the rift between townsborn and clansman and he must be dedicated to Tysan's greater good. Aw.

But of course, he doesn't know what we and Traithe know.

Struck by the depths of sincerity that prompted this prince’s self-sacrifice, Traithe closed his hands, quenching the blood-fire of the rubies. His sorrows as sorcerer compounded with fierce foreboding for the future spelled out by the strands. Like the Great Waystone the Koriani enchantresses ached to recover, the cache of sapphires that were the crown jewels of Tysan must remain in Sethvir’s trust at Althain. That this gently-reared descendant of Tysan’s kings, whose shining talent was inspired rule, should one day through the Mistwraith’s machination refute the fine intentions that now moved his mind and heart seemed an impossibly cruel twist of fate.

It does suck, Traithe.  You know what sucks even more?  The fact that you guys have decided to arbitrarily screw both brothers over based on circumstances that may/will happen in the future, when we don't even know how that comes about.  And the fact that of all the possible scenarios you and the others looked at, never once did you attempt to see what happens IF YOU WARNED THEM AHEAD OF TIME.  MAYBE whatever drove/will drive them apart will still happen, but maybe it wouldn't!

If for example, they have a falling out because someone lies to them about the other...well, if they know someone will decide to do that, then perhaps they can be alert for it!   Maybe it will be hopeless anyway, but I think these guys deserve a chance to TRY before you screw them over!

But that'd require treating the brothers like people rather than pawns, wouldn't it?
--

So now, the sneak peek section: Harbingers

We see a black-clad rider heading south, carrying rubies and a circlet, while a raven swoops above. (Traithe's gone on his way, I see.)

We see Kharadmon, who is heading out to measure and map the power base of the council of Etarra. (I feel like you guys could have done that sooner?)

We see Luhaine heading west to go talk to Maenalle about what's going on. Poor Maenalle.

And thus, with ominous portents, the chapter ends.