Curse of the Mistwraith - Chapter Thirteen - Etarra

[kalinara]

So, last time, we saw the climactic battle between man and mistwraith. I suspect, however, that we're not going to be done with the story any time soon. We have an entire third left of the book to go. And that's not even counting the OTHER books in the series.

I don't know entirely what happens in this particular chapter titled "Etarra", but I suspect that the rest of the book will be heading toward a coronation. And possibly some chickens come home to roost.



So we rejoin the "Lord Governor Supreme" of Etarra. He's very uncomfortable in his finery. He's accompanied by one of the less irritating Fellowship Sorcerers: Sethvir. Well, less irritating to me. The Governor is not a fan. See, the Fellowship ordered HIM to go all out with the finery for the occasion, but Sethvir himself is wearing a threadbare, ink stained robe. Worse, the maroon clashes with the Governor's own red and gold outfit.

He does think "At least it's not Asandir." Man, I feel you.

Asandir's on his way though. He is the "Kingmaker" after all.

So it's quite a gathering at the outer gates. Guild ministers, trade officials, council governors, and many with "perversely curious wives". I am curious as to whether or not there are women among these groups, or if Etarra is male-dominated entirely. Governor Morfett's own wife and daughters are at home.

Morfett tries to be ominous, telling Sethvir that the governor's council will never acknowledge their pretender. Sethvir just smiles and says to give them time. A woman nearby, in pearls and snow lynx, laughs. She's the sister of Diegan, commander of the guard, who is "stiffly furious." These two might be significant later. Sethvir says that he can't wait to see what happens when they meet their liege.

Morfett has an idea of what to expect:

‘A boy, just barely grown,’ Morfett sneered. ‘He’ll be sorry to find that bribes won’t buy him sovereignty.’

At this, Sethvir seemed stunned speechless.

Lord Governor Morfett stroked his chins and fatuously gave himself the victory.

...that's one prediction at least.

So anyway, Arithon's retinue arrives. We're told that in Etarra, pomp establishes status, so Morfett is expecting something suitably lavish. But instead:

Morfett saw just four horsemen, unattended, on mounts that wore no caparisons. They carried no banners or streamers; neither did they prove to be outriders for another larger party. Asandir was the one astride the black; at least, the dark, silver-bordered cloak that billowed in the gusts was unmistakably his austere style. The fat man in russet on the paint looked too undignified for a prince; his companion, a fair man, owned the bearing, but though his velvets were cut from indigo deep enough to raise envy from the cloth guild he wore no royal device.

That left the slight, straight figure on the dun with the irregular marking on her neck.

Arithon's wearing a green cloak with a silver heraldic leopard. And this does answer a question I'd had back in the earliest chapters: namely how the hell Karthan would have a leopard emblem on an ocean-and-island world. Clearly it was brought by the royals themselves.

Morfett is delighted, calling Arithon a child and assuming that Etarran politics will eat him alive.

I suppose there's one advantage to getting the princes from another planet, actually. While Lysaer and Arithon are handicapped by their ignorance of Athera, they do have the advantage of already being princes. Someone raised as a commoner might be overwhelmed by political backstabbing and machinations. But Lysaer's been raised on this stuff since childhood. Arithon came to his more recently, but still, the heir to a pirate king is not going to flinch easily.

So anyway, they get closer. And the reception is...hostile.

‘Do you suppose he’s inbred, to be so delicate?’ muttered Diegan to a stifled explosion of hilarity. Somebody passed a flask of wine. Fanned by Morfett’s bold sarcasm, the mood of Etarra’s well-born displayed the viciousness gloved in gaiety that would have enlivened an out-of-season garden party. The courtyard’s eight foot high mortised walls reflected the women’s disparaging remarks with the clarity of an amphitheatre.

I'll give Ms. Wurts credit here. I'm not very enamored with royalty and I definitely think they need a better method of determining rulers than snatching people from other planets. That said, Etarra is such a slimy place that I dislike them already.

We get some dramatic description of course:

Morfett moistened plump lips and lingeringly assessed his enemy.

To Etarran eyes the prince who stood revealed was plainly clad to a point that invited ridicule. His tunic and shirt were cut of unadorned linen that anyone less lazy than a peasant at least would have bothered to bleach white. The natural fibres emphasized a complexion that looked tintless and porcelain-pale. When Asandir faced the prince and took slender fingers into his own to escort his royal charge forward, Morfett could have crowed. The s’Ffalenn wore no jewellery. The only gemstones on him were the emerald in his sword-hilt which, though well-cut, could not be called large; and an ordinary white gold signet ring that showed the battering of hard wear.

‘Plain as a forest barbarian,’ jibed the minister of the weaver’s guild.

Actually, per Sethvir, it's s'Ffalenn tradition to be unadorned when crowned. Which raises the interesting question of whether Etarra's grandiose lavishness actually came about as part of their rebellion.

So anyway, the ceremony continues, amidst derisive laughter from the audience. Diegan's sister, as yet unnamed, loudly mocks his shackle-scars. Which just seems petty and mean. But that's probably the point. Diegan finds the part where Asandir scoops up earth and holds it above Arithon's head very amusing, wondering if it was checked for fertilizer.

But then, things are less funny:

The sorcerer must have overheard. He cupped his burden nonetheless and his voice echoed back from sandstone walls, cutting through the busy buzz of satire. ‘Arithon, Teir’s’Ffalenn, direct line descendant of Torbrand, first High King of Rathain, I affirm your right of succession. As this realm will be yours to guard, so are you bound to the land.’

Diegan’s chuckles choked off, replaced by blank rage. ‘Right of succession? Who sanctioned this?’

Caught weeping tears of suppressed mirth, Morfett rounded in a dawning explosion of anger. Without care for the dearth of privacy, he loudly upbraided Sethvir. ‘You said the royal bastard was only to be affirmed in his ancestry!’

...what did you guys THINK was going on? A royal heir comes riding in with a dude called "kingmaker". It's not rocket science here.

The dirt, by the way, has been transformed into a shining silver circlet.

All his adult life Morfett had battled the misfortune that short stature forced him to peer up at even his lowliest scullion. The shock of meeting green eyes that were level with his own caused him an involuntary step back.

‘You need not kneel,’ informed the silver-crowned personage whose face turned out not to be delicate but as bloodless and defined as if chipped from white quartz. ‘I have not accepted your fealty.’

‘Nor will you!’ Trembling with mortification for being duped in public, Morfett curled his lip. ‘The governor’s council, of which I am head, refuses to acknowledge your existence.’

A breeze rattled the dry canes of the roses and flicked a twist of black hair from the circlet. Too late, Morfett saw that this prince had the look of a sorcerer: eyes that were piercing and level and strikingly devoid of antagonism. Like those Fellowship colleagues whose nefarious machinations had produced him, he could answer a man’s unspoken thoughts. ‘If you and your council rule justly, you need have no fear of me.’

I mean, to be fair, for Arithon, this is diplomatic.

The Etarrans are, somewhat understandably, furious. They're also dicks who'll mock someone's scars though, so I don't feel particularly sorry for them. Lord Commander Diegan tries to pull some sort of rank:

 ‘You have not been given any right of sovereignty in this city!’ Diegan, commander of the guard, interposed from behind his Lord Governor’s shoulder.

‘True.’ Arithon’s gaze left Morfett to encompass the courtier who had spoken out of turn, and whose dandyish cloak was thrown back to reveal a hand clenched on a sword hilt. The weapon was flashily bejewelled; if the steel behind its gold-chased quillons was something more than ceremonial, Arithon dismissed the threat. His brows twitched up in flippant challenge. ‘But if this contest were a footrace the outcome would hardly merit contest. Do you bet?’

‘All that I have,’ Diegan answered thickly. ‘That should warn you.’

‘Oh, I was warned,’ said Arithon with poorly concealed impatience. ‘Too well, too late and in rich and tedious detail. In some things, I’ve had less choice than you have.’

Too fast for verbal riposte, and in total disregard for the captain’s aggressive posture, he whipped around to address Asandir. ‘You’ve had your display. Whether or not the person who took charge of my boots reappears with intent to return them, I would be pleased to retire.’

Sometimes, I really do enjoy Arithon's instinct for assholishness. These guys were never going to like him, but he could have played into their sense of drama and show. But Arithon goes for boredom instead. For this group of jaded elitists, that's the most offensive that he could possibly be. Hah.

And well, there's someone else who is quite skilled at diplomacy. Because as these politicians all grumble in Arithon's wake, there happens to be a very charming, impressive looking young man with pale gold hair.

‘Never mind,’ Morfett snapped. ‘You’re one of the royal cronies, and assuredly no help to Etarra.’

Still smiling, Lysaer said, ‘Quite the contrary. I’m the one royal crony who’s not a sorcerer and also the only friend you have who understands the cross-grained nature of your prince.’

The commander of the guard perked up instantly. ‘I know a tavern,’ he invited and, grumbling, Morfett allowed himself to be swept along into their wake.

A part of me wonders if the series wouldn't have gone better if Lysaer and Arithon's kingdoms were reversed, with pirate Arithon governing the raiders of Tysan, while Lysaer navigates these status-obsessed city folk. But alas, we'll never know.

So now we rejoin Arithon, who has retreated to his bedroom. Rather surprisingly, he's polite to Morfett's wife, who offers to attend his needs. He's just looking to sleep undisturbed.

He's pretty appalled by his surroundings, and I can't really blame him:

The glitter made his head ache. Glass beading riddled the panelled walls, and gilt casements with rose-tinted panes clashed unmercifully with a floor laid out in tiles. These also were patterned, a blaring assemblage of lozenges done in saffron, amber and violet; the furnishings had raised knots in gold, every padded edge decked in silk twist and fringe. Even the carpets sported tassels.

A sortie from the bed to the privy would require lighted candles to forestall hooked toes and whacked shins.

That sounds hideous. And also a fascinating contrast with Maenalle's storehouse/dining chamber.

Asandir and Sethvir show up to commiserate, bearing records. Arithon's got a lot of very unpleasant reading to do. Sethvir warns that the guildfolk here like to resolve disputes with assassination.

‘Never mind.’ Arithon hurled the royal fillet into the nearest padded chair. ‘If the governor’s council wants a knife in my back, by morning I’ll make them a reason.’

I have the utmost faith in you, dude.

So Arithon and the sorcerers spend afternoon and evening reading records. Dakar comes in at some point to complain about Etarran ale. At around midnight, Lysaer comes in, very self-satisfied. And to his credit, he's also pretty appalled by the decor, noting that it smells like a "brothel madam's bourdoir".

Anyway, he's been making nice with Diegan and company. And more importantly, getting information about "the foul and secret machinations against our prince". Kharadmon has apparently been busy sabotaging messengers and the like.

Lysaer actually seems to be enjoying this. Anyway, the big news is that the Council will meet tomorrow morning to formalize laws banning the monarchy. However, as hungover as they're likely to be, they'll probably be bickering about language until noon. Lysaer does good work, and even better, since the tavern was owned by the vintner's guild, all the drinks were on the house.

So the next day, a very hungover Morfett is enjoying himself by putting his seal on the brand new anti-monarchy edict, and imagining the prince in irons by afternoon. But even as he's doing that, he's visited by a bunch of very agitated barristers.

Our heroes have been using their early start, you see. They started by reviewing Etarra's condemned, and have discovered that, by the tenets of Rathain's royal charter, a full two-thirds of the city's prisoners were wrongfully tried and sentenced.

Now they've been granted pardons and reprieves from execution. AND Arithon's promised reimbursement of unfair fines from the treasury.

He's also published lists of laws to be repealed, taxes to be eliminated and public servants that shall be relieved without pay.

It's not all legal yet, of course. Arithon doesn't have the power to do this until his official coronation, but these documents have all been posted to become official on the day he's invested as high king.

This has made Arithon quite popular with the mob of farmers and common folk who are now gathering right outside the council hall. Apparently guilds obsessed with class divide, profit, and burning people at the stake for very little reason are not all that popular with the average commoner. They like these new changes and they do NOT like the rumors that the council intends to outlaw the royal charter.

Diegan, at least, is willing to stand his ground, but the other members of the council are not. They realize that if the group outside decide to be lawless, there's a lot of potential looting and property damage that would severely impact trade. They lean on the governor who gets Diegan to back down. They're defeated. But only for today.

  Diegan tugged free of the dignitaries, unpacified. ‘It won’t be that easy,’ he lashed at Sethvir. ‘The rabble might love the idea of a high king today. But when unrest drives them to turn, no blandishments your prince can offer will appease them.’

‘Blandishments?’ Sethvir looked thrilled as a madcap apothecary prepared to make gold from plain clay. ‘I rather thought his Grace would give them back their chartered freedom.’

It occurs to me that one of the many things that Asandir MIGHT have bothered to explain to us is how royal charters work. It does sound like monarchy on Athera may not be quite as simple as monarchy in our world. But we'll undoubtedly learn more about that later.

Anyway, later, Arithon gets to emerge in princely splendour to read the Royal Charter in the guild square. THIS time, we're told that "the ceremony was engineered with enough glitter to make even Etarran excess seem drab."

Of course: "The only man in the city less pleased than the Lord Governor and Etarra’s commander of the guard was Arithon s’Ffalenn himself. "

He does his job with the Charter well enough, playing it like a musician playing a taproom, but the subsequent feast is pretty miserable. Arithon's not really temperamentally equipped to dealing with "a merchant aristocracy of faddish extremes". They've got a new hobby now, "prince-baiting" and they're having fun with it. The ladies are ingratiating, but looking for weakness. The men lace every courtesy with intrigue.

"This was a city where children were urged to select their playfellows according their parents’ rank and importance, and who were often as not sent out visiting with instructions to overhear all they could of the affairs of their schoolmates’ fathers.

Arithon handled the pressure with the jumpy nerves of a cat caught unsheltered in a rain shower.

I'm enjoying the novelty of seeing Arithon suck at something.

It makes sense though, as the narrative reminds us. Karthan was a pirate kingdom, but an honest one. This sort of scheming is irritating. Lysaer's having fun though.

A new player makes her move. Diegan's "tawny-haired sister who could drive a man silly with her looks, but who was poised in her carriage as a snake". She comes up to Arithon, saying he looks unwell. He asks her to dance. They have an interesting chemistry actually:

She took his fingers and her fine, arched brows sketched a frown that was swiftly erased. She had not expected his callouses. The tightening around her eyes made plain that the discovery would be passed to her brother: that despite the appearance of delicate build, this prince’s palms were no stranger to the sword. ‘I find conversation more interesting.’

‘How disappointing for both of us. Too much talk has been driving me mad.’ Arithon returned a regret as impenetrable as chipped quartz. ‘For clever conversation with a lady, I must defer to Lysaer’s charm.’ Gently, firmly, he deposited her on the arm of the blond companion, who disengaged from discussion with two ministers with a panache any statesman must envy. ‘Lord Commander Diegan’s sister, Talith,’ Arithon introduced, and his grin came and went at his half-brother’s blank instant of appreciation.

The lady in her black-bordered, tawny brocades was enough to disrupt conscious thought.

Talith is displeased at being thwarted, but Lysaer is smooth, noting that Arithon can be terrible company.
He's sympathetic, concerned, and non-judgmental and Talith responds to that pretty quickly. She realizes Lysaer could probably be a better source of information than Arithon himself.

She only realizes after the fact that when with Lysaer, she'd been doing most of the talking. Diegan agrees, wishing that they'd had someone like Lysaer to help smooth things over with the angry farmers.

The next morning, Arithon doesn't show up to the council. Lysaer is annoyed by this "irresponsibility" and decides to go find him. He ends up running across Kharadmon, who leads him to the most dismal section of the poor quarter of Etarra.

He hears laughter. Arithon's. So what's going on?

Pique replaced by curiosity, Lysaer edged forward. Past the bend, under the gloom of close-set walls, he saw a band of raggedy waifs, his errant half-brother among them. The prince of Rathain had spurned fine clothes for what looked like a ragpicker’s dress. The elegant presence of yesterday had been shed as if by a spell, leaving him noisome as his company, whose unwashed, cynical faces were enraptured by something that transpired on the ground.

Lysaer stepped cautiously around a maggot-crawling dump of gristle and tendons. His step disturbed older bones. Flies buzzed up in a cloud and his eyes watered at the stink. He covered his nose with his sleeve, just as a brigantine fashioned of shadows scudded out from between one child’s bare legs. Of unknown sex under its rags and tangled hair, the creature screamed in delight, while the ship caught an imaginary gust in her sails and heeled, lee-rail down, through a gutter of reeking brown run-off.

He's making illusions for beggar children. Of course he is. Sadly, the illusory brigatine ends up running straight into Lysaer himself, which spoils the fun and makes Lysaer (who had been entranced too), heartsick. Many children run off.

Lysaer buries the feeling by bitching Arithon out for missing the meeting. This, of course, reveals Arithon's identity to more of the children:

 The accusing stares of his audience were quick to transfer to him. The girl nearest his side recoiled in betrayal, that the man who had thrilled with his marvels was other than the beggar he appeared. Arithon reached out and cupped her cheek. His attempt at reassurance was pure instinct; and remarkable for its tenderness since every other sinew in his body was pitched taut in unwished-for challenge.

Rebuked by such care for the feelings of a vermin-infested urchin, Lysaer relented. ‘Arithon, these governors are your subjects, as difficult in their way to love as thieving children are to the wealthy whose pockets they pick. Show the councilmen even half the understanding you’ve lavished here and you’ll escape getting knifed by paid assassins.’

Arithon abandoned his effort to hold his audience: their fragile trust had been broken and one by one they slipped off. Deserted in his squalid clothes amid a welter of stinking refuse, Arithon’s reply came mild. ‘This bunch steals out of need.’

Lysaer defends the noblemen:

‘You feel the governor’s lackeys don’t? That’s shallow! You’re capable of truer perception.’ Lysaer shut his eyes, reaching deep for tact and patience. ‘Arithon, these merchants see in you an anathema made real. Records left from the uprising have been passed down grossly distorted. Etarrans are convinced the Fellowship sorcerers mean to give them an eye for an eye, cast them from their homes and expose their daughters to be forced by barbarians. They need so very badly to see the musician in you. Show them fairness they can trust. Give to them. They’ll respond, I promise, and become as fine a backbone for this realm as any king could ask.’

...you know what's most interesting about this, Lysaer? The "eye for an eye" part. Because that implies that these townfolk have done exactly what they're afraid of. But he isn't wrong. Arithon DOES have to figure out a way to work WITH these people.

Arithon has his own concern though. That give the opportunity, the city will ingratiate itself to him.

 ‘What in Athera can be wrong with that?’ Whipped on by Arithon’s expert touch at provocation, Lysaer lost to exasperation.

This!’ Arithon gestured at the mildewed planks that enclosed the back of the knacker’s shacks. ‘You socialize amid the glitter of the powerful, but how well do any of us know this city: Did Diegan’s lovely sister tell you the guilds here steal children and lock them in warehouses for forced labour? Can I, dare I, stroke the Lord Governor and his cronies, while four-year-old girls and boys stir glue-pots, and ten-year-olds gash their hands and die of gangrene while rendering half-rotten carcasses? Ath’s infinite mercy, Lysaer! How can I live?’ The fury driving Arithon’s defence snapped at last to bare his nerve-jagged, impotent frustration. ‘The needs of this realm will swallow all that I am, and what will be left for the music?’

Seriously, Fellowship guys. With all your flowery language about "scarred beyond conscience", did it ever occur to you that maybe, just MAYBE, giving a ruler the trait of overwhelming compassion/empathy might be a fucking bad idea?

Lysaer is moved by this and apologizes. Arithon's sorrow subsided to a gentleness surprisingly sincere and says he appreciates Lysaer's diplomatic help, but he's got to figure out this problem for himself.

-

The next section of the chapter is Indiscretion.

We're at a stretch of highway in northern Rathain. We're told that caravans on this road must be heavily armed, or they won't arrive at their destination.

However, there's a solitary old man with a ponycart that doesn't care about such things. He's thin, eighty-something years old, but with "clean, supple and sure" fingers. He's whistling a jaunty melody.

He's promptly waylaid by two barbarian boys. The more aggressive one is Jieret, twelve years old. The other is Idrien. They'd snuck out to play at scouting and unexpectedly found themselves a victim. Jieret notices the old man's topaz brooch and thinks he likely has rich relatives.

So they waylay the guy, who seems more amused then anything else. He goes along with this gamely, and even gives them advice periodically.

When they reach the clan camp, Jieret reports to his father, Steiven, who is Maenalle's counterpart in Rathain. He gets a pretty vivid description:

Steiven, reigning regent of Rathain, was a hard man to miss, even in uncertain light amid his pack of leather-clad scouts. Lanky, dark headed, he ran with the grace of a deer. His eyes, deep hazel, were wary as any forest creature’s whose kind has been too long hunted. His hands were large and strongly made; his clean-shaven chin was square. The bones of his face hinted at a rough-cut, handsome beauty, an impression spoiled at first sight by a scar that grooved his cheekbone and jaw to end in a ridged knot of flesh above his collarbone.

We're given some depressing backstory for that scar. At age ten, Steiven had chased a bounty hunter's wagon to try to get back his brothers' scalps. The caravan master had heated a buckle red-hot. And Steiven had been lucky to escape alive.

...now I'm starting to think we should just raze Etarra to the ground.

So Jieret bringing in a captive brings back some pretty awful memories for his dad, but Steiven decides to hear this out first. And indeed, once he recognizes the old man, he immediately begs his pardon. The old man is Halliron, the Masterbard himself.

Steiven wants Jieret to apologize, figuring the humiliation will be punishment enough. Halliron instead has him care for the pony, who infamously hates young boys. Jieret gets to salvage his pride, but learns a lesson.

In the evening, it's storming and Halliron generously plays for the clan. Afterwards they chat. Halliron's deep trouble is that he lacks a successor. He's auditioned thousands of candidates but, while they had talent, something seemed lacking.

...I WONDER who might have this elusive quality. Heh.

Sadly the lack of an heir haunts Halliron. The clansmen are sympathetic. They're interrupted though by young Jieret. He's had a dream.

If you recall a long time back, one of the sneak peek sections mentioned a clan leader with prophetic dreams. That's Steiven here. Jieret has inherited that gift, and it doesn't sound pleasant at all. He's dreamed that he's seen the king ride from Etarra.

Jieret knows it's the king because he's wearing a silver circlet, a tabard with the leopard, and his face matches the portrait of Torbrand which the clansfolk keep in a cave with the scepter.

Jieret gives more details: Arithon's alone, with just a sword, riding in haste on an exhausted horse. Forty lancers from Etarra's garrison are chasing him.

Steiven thinks it sounds like a real vision. He asks if Jieret saw rain. No, actually, it was snowing. But the trees had new leaves. Spring. Steiven takes the warning and starts to prepare.

--

The next section is Introspections.

We're rejoining Lysaer for this. He's woken up from a nightmare. Apparently not the first. It's the eve of Arithon's coronation. Lysaer intends to go outside. (It's foggy, but we're told that Kharadmon diverted a storm northward, so as not to spoil the ceremony. Oops. Sorry Steiven.)

Dakar's out drinking. Arithon is god knows where. Lysaer is sympathetic though: if the prince of Rathain chose to spend his last night before lifetime commitment to a troubled kingdom in his cups, no friends would fault him for indulgence..

My comment suggesting Lysaer would be better off running Rathain is proven incorrect:

Despite Lysaer’s preference for cities Etarra possessed an evasive, disturbing restlessness. The more determinedly he strove to grasp the deep currents of intrigue, to empathize with the needs of the guild ministers who held the reins of power, the greater his reflected unease. As little as he had liked Ithamon’s desolation, he felt still less at home here.

We're told that Etarran corruption is haunting him in ways that undermine his beliefs.

As prince on Dascen Elur he had held his people’s trust. Their needs had become one with his own, taken into his heart as fully as he had striven to embrace understanding of Etarra’s governor’s council. The high officials were responding; even Lord Commander Diegan had softened his stance to proffer an easy friendship. Confidence in his ability to mete out fair treatment had always before given Lysaer the focus to satisfy his inborn drive to seek justice.

Up until today, honour had seemed a tangible, changeless absolute, that made each choice clear-edged.

Lysaer's trip to the poor quarter has been uncomfortably eye-opening:

He sucked in the perfume of the lilacs and made himself examine why five minutes in the poor quarter should shatter his viewpoint’s simplicity. The dilemma held multiple facets. One could not serve the guilds without destroying the children enslaved in the workhouses; the merchants’ rights to safe trade could not be enforced without condoning headhunters and the butchery that visited bloodshed upon the woodland clansmen.

Whose cause took priority? In this world of divisive cultures and shattered loyalties, no single foundation of rightness existed.

So we see what Dakar meant about Lysaer seeking justice where none can be found. That said, I feel like this isn't the best example of a dilemma. I feel like the enslaved kids and genocide victims probably should take priority.

Principles were what a man made them. Sheltered since birth by the cares of a straightforward kingdom, he found himself painfully lost at formulating law for himself. Etarra tormented him by ploughing up doubts and possibilities: his own lost realm of Tysan might bear equal measure of thorny, insoluble suffering. He had been taught his statesmanship there and had perhaps never seen beyond the walls of his palace to notice.

Was Amroth that straightforward? You had a king who was willing to have a ship's crew murdered for cheating him of the opportunity to torture his ex-wife's son. You had a feud with a starving pirate kingdom. What else was going on?

Anyway, as Lysaer broods, he ends up startled by a new arrival: a cloaked woman that seems familiar (though Lysaer can't quite push past recent memories of Talith in order to place her.)

It's Elaira. Hi Elaira!

So Lysaer makes an uncharacteristically snarky comment about Arithon knowing her better than he does. Elaira reads between the lines and asks if Lysaer doesn't approve of Arithon's late night excursions.

He decided to risk honest answer. ‘I’m not sure. Arithon takes unconscionable risks, looking for pearls among beggars. I prefer the simpler reality, that the means to uplift the unfortunate are better controlled from the council chamber. A man can feed the hungry and clothe beggars all his life and not change the conditions that make them wretched.’

Elaira's response is interesting:

 The lady considered a moment then offered, ‘Your vision and Arithon’s are very different. As a spirit schooled to power, his perception stems from one absolute. Universal harmony begins with recognition that the life in an ordinary pebble is as sacred as conscious selfhood. Both views are equally valid.’

It's a shame we couldn't just make Lysaer and Arithon co-rulers. Justice and Compassion would seem a better balance than either alone. (...maybe that's why there had to be a feud. Because otherwise, eventually they'd have intermarried.)

Elaira does seem to agree that a prince must place love and care for the masses before individual suffering, though. And she also admits that, in disguise, she saw Arithon casting illusions for the kids. She would prefer Lysaer NOT tell him though.

Somehow, this leads Lysaer to put two and two together:

The vehemence she could not quite curb sparked Lysaer to exclamation. ‘You were the lady he acted to defend when Koriani scryers tried to spy out our affairs in Ithamon!’

...I have no idea how he figured that out, but okay. Elaira has no idea what he's talking about and would rather not know. But this bit makes me laugh:

‘Arithon cares for you,’ Lysaer said, his first impulse to soften her distress.

‘He weeps for the grass that he treads on.’ Elaira stiffened, indignant at his solicitude. ‘You should know, as a scion of s’Ilessid, that the s’Ffalenn royal gift is forced empathy!’ She stood in a reckless haste that showered dew from the bushes as her cloak caught. ‘I have to go.’

She's not wrong.

So Lysaer escorts her out. Maybe Elaira isn't completely in agreement with Lysaer though: In a sympathy tuned so closely to his inner dilemma that this time no sensibilities were offended, she said, ‘Speaking strictly for myself, I would spill blood to release those clan children from slavery in the knacker’s yard. But then, female instinct drives me to condemn exploitation of the young. A man might arrange his priorities differently.’

Lysaer notes that it doesn't really matter what he or what she would do. Tomorrow, it'll be Arithon's problem. He hopes the guildsmen don't murder him first.

Elaira's response is that the realm will definitely kill his musical talent, and she thinks he should mourn that instead. Yeah, maybe, but he can't play music if he's murdered by assassins either.

--

The sneak peek section is Preparations.

The first tells us that barbarian couriers are racing to bear call-to-arms to clan encampments in the north and east.

The second tells us that the uncounted entities comprising the Mistwraith, Desh-thiere, are brooding on the half-brothers who doomed them.

Third, the sorcerer who moved the rainstorm is begging the forgiveness of the plants, soil and wild creatures for his violation of nature.

And the chapter ends here. See you later!