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i_read_whatSo last time, everything went to hell in a handbasket. The titular curse has raised its ugly head and Lysaer, at least, is not dealing with it well at all.
This time in the chapter called "Strakewood", we'll get to see how Arithon is dealing with it. Spoiler: also not well at all.
So we rejoin Arithon as he's fleeing out of the city, through the north, using both Kharadmon's storms and his own magic to conceal himself. But his reserves are going, and his protections are fading. He's also realizing that he has to leave behind Splash, whose Paravian name is something I don't remember at the moment and am too lazy to look up. He's upset about that, which surprises him: "Since Ithamon and Etarra, he had not expected to have any place left in him for sentiment."
You are so melodramatic, dude. Though I suppose you just got chased out of town by your magically corrupted brother, so I can cut you a little slack. Just a little.
Arithon really doesn't have a plan here. The folks in Etarra may believe that he's planning something, but really, he just picked a direction and ran. He's been running for three days and two nights since, and now that he's been caught by scouts sworn to Steiven (we just met him, recall. Maenalle's equivalent in Rathain), he doesn't have the energy to fight or provoke.
They lead him to Steiven, calling him "your Grace", and Arithon is too tired to even bitch about that. So we know he's exhausted. There's an interesting bit about his left arm holding something bulky, cradled in his cloak. We know it can't be his lyranthe.
He tells them that he's asking guest-welcome only, and doesn't claim any fealty. Steiven has another opinion though:
His eyes were adjusting to the dimness, but the dazzle of candles defeated what clarity of sight he regained. The speaker arose, smiling in welcome, and in a nerve-stressed flash of intuition, Arithon beheld his aura as a mage would. This man with his scarred face and arresting dignity had a seer’s gift. Forevision had revealed this moment to him, and his manner held no fear for compromise as he said, ‘You are Teir’s’Ffalenn, and sanctioned for succession by the hand of Asandir. I am sworn to serve your line, as my forefathers before me were appointed regents of the realm until return of Rathain’s true high king.’
‘Caithdein,’ Arithon whispered, white-lipped.
A stir swept the others at his use of the old tongue, but the phrase for ‘shadow behind the throne’ merely caused the large warrior’s smile to broaden. ‘I’ve preserved Rathain’s heritage and fighting strength only in the absence of a royal heir. Claim your inheritance, my prince. My regency is ended.’
Arithon gets enough energy back to try to argue. He points out that he's a bastard and that he doesn't claim their loyalty. But one of the dudes with Steiven, an aristocratic elder type who appears dressed for court, points out that the s'Ffalenn succession has never cared about legitimacy and that direct descent has always been prioritized over cousins or siblings by marriage. This guy knows a shit ton of ballads about that as a matter of fact.
OH, it's Halliron. We met him before too! He's also the dude that Felirin made Arithon promise to play for if he'd ever met him. This of course, leads to Angst.
‘Who are you?’ Arithon repeated, strain setting edges to a tone already rough.
‘I’m called Halliron and I, too, have claimed guest welcome of the clans of the north.’
Colour drained from Arithon’s features. The irony hit him like pain: before him stood the Masterbard, the single individual in Athera’s five realms who could grant his heart’s first desire; had an unwanted throne not spoiled opportunity.
A candle burned on a staked brass stand not a foot from Arithon’s elbow. He reached out and pinched the wick, a half a second too late; light had already betrayed his naked longing to every stranger present.
Oh, but hey, why not MORE angst. Remember that thing Arithon was holding?
He seized his only diversion and unfurled the wadding of his cloak. ‘Take her,’ he said as veiling cloth fell away from the blue-tinged corpse of the child he had carried in his arms since Etarra. Perhaps five years old, she was stunted and drawn by starvation. The bony arm curled and stiff across her breast showed the ravages of a wound gone septic, and the hand half-hidden by its stained shreds of bandage reeked overpoweringly of corrupted flesh.
Those clan councilmen not already standing shot to their feet in distress.
‘She died in the night,’ Arithon said. ‘She was one of yours, conscripted to serve Etarra’s horse-knackers. Others enslaved with her were freed to make their way home as they could. This one was too sick to walk.’
Of course, Arithon freed the captured children. And of course, he carried this one home. The clansfolk take the child and identify her as "Tanlie's girl". Arithon tells them to offer Tanlie his sympathy and that her girl died bravely. Then, of course, he melodramatically declares that he brings them no legacy but strife.
It's going to take more than dramatic declarations to sway Steiven. He essentially points out that they're a persecuted clan and the little girl is hardly the first or last to suffer like that.
But Arithon's problem is admittedly not the ordinary course of business. He proves to us all that he's learned the right lesson from Asandir and that nonsense, and lays everything on the table:
‘I’ve been bound and spell-cursed by Desh-thiere to fight my half-brother, Lysaer s’Ilessid. There is no sanity in the hatred that drives us both, only unbridled lust to kill. Lysaer has raised Etarra against me, and their garrison will march within days. Would you spend your lives for a stranger not even born in this world?’
Good. Arithon can be a melodramatic asshole, but the clanfolk deserve to know what they're getting into.
And of course they're into this. We've heard a bit about Steiven's own grudge before. And Rathain's charter gives them the right to defend Arithon.
Arithon's still trying to explain the situation: it's not a matter of rights or causes. It's a curse. If he and Lysaer face each other, the obsession will hit and they'll become so focused on killing each other that nothing else will matter. The clans will be "just another weapon to be squandered".
That does make the clanfolk a bit uneasy. They can see his ancestry as written in his amazing eyebrows, but he talks like a sorcerer and they know he has weird powers. He's a stranger, and they should listen.
A dude named Caolle, who is known for presenting unpopular opinions, particularly urges wariness. Steiven though, knows exactly what he is after and has a fine sense of manipulation and drama in his own right:
Steiven was moved, but not to caution. He left his place by the council table and took stance beside Halliron. His rangy frame dwarfed the Masterbard, who was not short, and his hazel eyes shone bitter as he admitted, ‘I have Sight. For years I have lived with foreknowledge of the moment and manner of my death. There is no option, your Grace of Rathain, elders. Etarra will march upon the northlands whether or not a Teir’s’Ffalenn is given sanctuary among us.’ He half-turned to face down Arithon, his large hands hooked in the lacing that clasped his belt with its row of black-hafted throwing knives. ‘My liege, our destiny is to defend you. The city garrison will campaign against us, and we must stand to fight. Your choice is simple. Shall we die for an empty title, or a living, breathing sovereign?’
So yeah, Arithon's figuring out pretty quickly that he's not going to be able to ditch these guys. Just his luck that his regent is so awesome. (Alas, his sword is too cool and his regent is too awesome. Woe.) He begs their forgiveness in advance.
Steiven grants it, but asks his friendship in return. He already knows Arithon's name and gives his own. (Steiven s'Valerient, Earl of Deshir, if you're trying to keep track. If you are, I'm sorry. The book has a character glossary at the end. Much needed.)
They swear an oath, and hey, if nothing else, Arithon finally gets someone who'll actually offer a little comfort:
Arithon’s fingers fell away, to uncover features as hollowed as stripped bone. ‘You’ve seen this before,’ he accused.
Steiven laughed. From his towering height, he embraced his royal liege like a son. ‘I’ve lived for it.’
Then, aware that Arithon’s exhaustion threatened collapse, he shouldered the prince’s weight as he had done for his own spent scouts and in peremptory command sent his clan elders packing to fetch bath water, hot food and dry blankets.
Aw.
So basically the war council resumes, once they've tucked in their brand new prince. They're talking tactics. They know Etarra will be sending their full muster, and they have to be ready. The problem is getting reinforcements in time. But they don't really have a choice.
The interactions between the clansfolk is more interesting than the plans themselves. Specifically Caolle, the war captain with the unpopular opinion. He warns that this will end in a massacre, and if they're going to move to get ready, they won't be able to wait for Arithon to get better. (He's still got that nasty arm injury from Lysaer's bolt, among the other problems).
A nice bit of nuance here: we're told that any scout who isn't fit to ride is given a mercy kill. Basically, they're hunted so brutally that they can't afford the time and vulnerability of carrying the wounded on litters, and captivity is worse than death.
I like this because the general set up is a little black and white. The Townsmen (or at least their leadership) are vile, the Clansmen heroic. But for all that they're heroic, they also have to make some pretty nasty decisions to survive. Anyway, Steiven's not too worried. He's pretty sure that Arithon will wake up and be able to walk, if only from spite.
...he does have his measure, doesn't he?
Though they don't actually have to wake Arithon up, because Steiven's adorable children have beaten them to it. There are a lot of them, all of them small and cute and curious. Arithon is miserable and tired, but he can't resist the cuteness so when their mother, Dania, comes to get them, she finds him teaching them some kind of knotwork.
There's a cute bit where Dania realizes that if she curtseys, she's going to upset him, but fortunately babbling children break the awkward moment. One enthusiastically points out Arithon's scars, which gets a gentle scolding from Dania: everyone who escapes from Etarra has scars, but it's not polite to talk about them.
Though Dania had tended him, so she knows that he has older scars than that. But she doesn't know how to ask him about it. She's not upset or suspicious though. Only curious, and it makes a nice contrast from the Etarrans, or even Dakar, who drew conclusions and judgment about the scars. For the clanfolk, scars are normal and accepted. They're a story, that's all.
She's also curious, and a bit upset, about Arithon's negative reaction when she mentions Halliron. Oh Dania, don't worry. Arithon is an onion of angst, each level peeling away to something else.
So Arithon gets ready. The clansmen have provided clothes: black dyed deerhide. No silver thread, as it would catch the light. When Arithon leaves his tent, he's embarrassed to see that his is the last one still up. He notes that he doesn't see any sign of grief for the little girl he'd brought from Etarra, and thinks that these men seem even more hardened than Maenalle's.
Arithon asks what happened the night before. OH, okay. This is actually later than I thought. Apparently, they'd already left camp the night before. He was too tired to ride and ended up falling out of his saddle, and Steiven had taken him up across his saddlebow. There was, of course, some mockery, and I'm a little sad we didn't get to see it.
It's rare that we get to see the guy completely inept, it would have been fun. Arithon, for all that he's prickly about his dignity, generally doesn't get upset by that kind of thing, and indeed, he seems more lost in thought than anything else. At this point in time, he's the only man in the company of old women, mothers and young children.
He thinks about the tienelle that he'd stolen from Sethvir. Apparently, sadly, it's not for getting high. If anyone would benefit from getting high, I think it'd be Arithon. It's for scrying. He wants to find a way to protect the clans. But unfortunately, he needs privacy to use that and well...that's not happening any time soon.
Anyway, due to the whole falling out of his saddle thing, Arithon's got a bit of a reputation now among the men and boys for being weak or helpless. He thinks that it might be helpful to foster that. If they dislike him, then maybe, once the attack is pushed back, they'll let him leave.
Oh god, you're so dumb.
Anyway, we are told that apparently it IS a massive effort to fight the urge to go back to Etarra and attack his brother. And that makes me very sad. Brothers!
-
Anyway, Arithon goes forward with his plan to alienate the clansmen by completely winning over the children. The girls love him, because they'd never met a grown man willing to play games. The boys were won over by cute whistles that he whittled for them. And oh. Actually, that did have some success. The whistles were disruptive enough to get confiscated, by someone who calls him "addle-headed" and that he'll bring the headhunters down on them.
Arithon regarded her with green-eyed, languid resignation, and murmured soft apology. The woman left in disgust.
I should never doubt your ability to be a provocative asshole, dude. I apologize.
So anyway, he's got the reputation as a useless dreamer now. Oh, and also, the whistles were enchanted so as not to be heard by any outside seeker. But he's not about to tell THEM that.
You dumbass.
On the plus/minus side, he ends up in position to hear Halliron play, a lot. Halliron is the Masterbard, of course, and his lyranthe is the more famous one created by Elshian. It reminds Arithon of his own, abandoned lyranthe. He doesn't know what happened to it, yet. I bet that will hurt. Anyway, he listens openly to the music, with tears down his face, which helps with the whole "I'm weak and useless" thing. Arithon's good at multi-tasking, he can angst AND provoke people at the same time.
It's working. But not on Halliron himself. Halliron has noticed that he has an admiring audience that has never once sought closer acquaintance. He's intrigued, but hides it well.
I've been forgoing a lot of the description in this chapter, but I can't resist this one:
The domestic camp moved by night and rested only after full daybreak. On the morn they were to reach their destination, the mists of early dawn ripped and dispersed into tatters, cut by slanted shafts of white sunlight. The birds were loud at their nesting calls. Like strands of silvered silk wound through its green forest tapestry, the river Tal Quorin re-emerged in a bend to flow once again beside the trail. The thin, acid soil of the heights gave up its black mantle of pines. The fertile trough of the watershed here lay broken into long, irregular valleys. Winding through hollows and glens, the river current lisped over glacial deposits of smoothed granite, and skeined eddies around willow roots like the knobbled knees of old men. The demise of Desh-thiere had brought change. Little plants pressed up through moss and pine-needles, and opened coloured petals for the first time in five centuries untrammelled by the sooty prints of fungal spores.
So Arithon's still playing up his annoying useless dreamer persona. Halliron's still watching him with interest. Because of this, Halliron's able to realize that Arithon's not actually dreamily staring at flowers, but doing some complicated mage thingy-whatsits. When he stumbled, Halliron's there to steady him. And of course, they share a moment:
The touch caused Arithon to snap stiff. His head came up, around, and in green eyes the Masterbard caught a flare that looked like smothered anger. The impression was false. Halliron saw past hostility to what perhaps was an envy sprung from offence; indisputably the resentment was directed fully and personally toward him.
Oops.
(Halliron also happens to notice that the forearm he grabbed was wiry and fit. And not that compatible with the persona that Arithon's affecting.)
There's more melodrama here:
Arithon spun away to hide an expression Halliron would have bribed in gold to have read. Between the two men lay a silence heavy with secrets, and as if their burden were at once too much, the prince abruptly sat down. He fingered the edge of a rock hoarded like some hoary, moss-crusted jewel between the miserly grip of old roots. ‘I’m sorry.’ His apology was too quick and cold. ‘I believed I was alone.’
Halliron comments that Arithon has been laying magical wards, and says that if he wants the clans to disown him, he should just desert them. And this is interesting:
That touched a nerve. Arithon’s smile at the barb was full lipped, and brimmingly, off-puttingly merry. ‘Desert me, instead. Your perceptions feel like a tinker’s spilled needles: a punishing trap for false steps.’
Halliron was not easily irritated. Years of settling vain, even senile patrons and short-tempered, envious peers had taught him to treat with human nature sparely, to unwind misunderstanding like a snarl in fine-spun wool. Intrigued by Arithon’s reticence, he gave no ground, even as Arithon pressed to escape and regain untrammelled access to the trail.
For the first time in this entire book, Arithon s'Ffalenn has met a man that he cannot piss off. Amazing.
Halliron asks why Arithon reacted to him like a threat, and Arithon gives a usual melodramatic answer in Paravian that translates to "you are the enemy I never expected to meet". His accent is, of course, flawless.
--
There's more camp preparation. It's actually pretty interesting so of course I'm not sharing it. They seem very efficient. Arithon sits in the shade and naps, in keeping with his persona. Though, maybe not completely:
A scout who passed through the armoury lodge found the tactical maps disturbed. Penned in the margins of a supply draft in fussy, over-ornamented script were concisely drawn summaries of the weapon and training profile of Etarra’s garrison troops, along with names, numbers and insightful characteristics of most of its ranking officers.
But no one puts two and two together, and Arithon "joyously ignores" the acid speculation of his would-be subjects.
Hah, of course.
But in the afternoon, there's an oath of fealty ceremony. It's much simpler and purer than the one in Etarra: kneeling in a beechgrove, everyone still muddy or sweating from their labor.
Steiven assumed position a half-step to one side of the s’Ffalenn prince. Except for recovery of Asandir’s circlet that was proof of his sanction for succession, Arithon still wore the black suede tunic and leggings that had once belonged to Lady Dania’s younger brother. As at the earlier ceremony in Etarra, Arithon carried no ornament beyond his father’s signet. The smoke-dark blade forged by Paravian mastery was struck upright into the earth at his elbow, the emerald in the pommel a hard green sparkle underlying the reflections of the foliage. Already in place on one knee in the crumbled detritus of last season’s fall of copper leaves, he met no one’s interested glance. His attention seemed absorbed more by the cheep of nesting wrens in the branches than in the greeting murmured by his regent.
The simplicity is due to necessity of course, and Steiven regrets that, but I think it's much more suitable.
Steiven presents Arithon. There's an intriguing bit of symbolism where Arithon ("[s]eeming delicate as porcelain before his regent's scarred height" - of course) is made to turn his back on the clansmen, as they're invited to present a weapon to pledge in service and defense. Steiven does this by running the point of his sword into the ground. The others all present knives and swords in token of their trust. I love the symbolism, but I think I'd be terrified. Especially if I just spent the last few days antagonizing them.
So Arithon takes the pledge:
Thin and weary as a fox run to earth, he drew breath to renounce personal claim to the life he had found in Athera. ‘I pledge myself, body, mind and heart to serve Rathain: to guard, to hold unified and to deliver justice according to Ath’s law. If the land knows peace, I preserve her: war, I defend. Through hardship, famine or plague, I suffer no less than my sworn companions. In war, peace and strife, I bind myself to the charter of the land, as given by the Fellowship of Seven, strike me dead should I fail to uphold for all people the rights stated therein. Dharkaron witness.’
Steiven and Arithon share a moment, where Steiven reveals he's aware of Arithon's machinations. They're useless though: the clans are angry enough at Etarra that they don't really need an excuse to fight. Arithon tries again to explain what's going on with Lysaer, and that the Etarran garrison is basically just a tool for this collision, but no one really understands.
This makes me laugh though:
Steiven swore explosively. ‘I know that. You know that. But likeness to his ancestors isn’t going to satisfy my clansmen. If this womanish brooding continues, my war captain has vowed he’ll strip the royal person to his short hairs to find out if they hide a castration. By Ath!’ the former regent ended with rare and exasperated fierceness, ‘If Caolle tries, it’s on my mind I’m going to let him!’
---
The next segment of the chapter is Attraction.
We're back to Etarra for this one, as they prepare day and night for the attack. Not everyone will be leaving for battle though:
The highborn elite, those whose pedigrees traced back without taint to the original burghers who had overthrown the old monarchy, found themselves sidelined in the bustle created by the renegade prince. Their exploits, their mischief and their profligate gambling debts were no longer the talk of the ladies’ parlours. Arithon’s name had supplanted them, and out of fear of his shadows, mistresses and favoured courtesans turned fickle in sudden preference for strapping big fellows with less refined manners and swords.
Apparently the parties have gotten wilder to compensate, with idiot dares and games like racing up the alarm tower to swing from the bell's clapper. Lady Talith is thinking about how once she would have been sitting front and center to egg them on. But her perspective has changed. Now the parties seem like silly shams. Commander Diegan seems to feel the same way. Talith's has a cause of course:
She could not flee the recognition that her life seemed dreary since Lysaer s’Ilessid had stepped into it.
Talith leaned over the balustrade. Never before then had she known admiration that did not arise from flamboyance; humour that did not belittle; power not bought through brutish intrigues or bribes.
The man’s direct nature had cut through Etarra’s convoluted greed and excesses like a sharpened knife through mould rinds.
And speak of the devil, Lysaer appears.
Warm hands reached out and gently gathered the twist of hair that trailed down the nape of her neck. She stiffened, dismayed to realize she could not spin and deal a slap for the impertinence. His fingers had tightened too firmly: like a boat, she was effectively moored.
‘They insisted inside that you had grown tired of the party,’ Lysaer s’Ilessid said in greeting.
She shivered. Then blushed; and would have slapped him then for his boldness, that had wrung from her such a reaction. She was unaccustomed to being played like a fish.
He let her go. Cool air ruffled through the strands his fingers had parted. Mulberry blossoms showered in a swirl of white, and eddied in the lee of the railing.
She's about to use "pretty woman's scorn" to retaliate against him, but then she gets a look at him:
Lysaer smiled. His eyes sparkled with reflections; his face, struck out in shadow and soft light, held a beauty to madden a sculptor to fits of missed inspiration. The pale, fine hair that just brushed his collar was his sole ornament.
The effect stopped Talith’s breath.
He does know how to work the purple prose. And the charm. But he's not just there to flirt. He tells her that the army will be marching out the next day.
Lysaer is angsty too:
Lysaer paused, thoughtful. He seemed not offended or set back. ‘I don’t think anyone in this city understands the threat in the man we leave to cut down.’
‘Arithon?’ Talith tossed back her mane of hair, about to say, disparaging, that even allied to barbarians the deposed prince could hardly challenge a fortified city.
Lysaer stepped to her suddenly and caught her arms below her bared shoulders. He did not shake her. Neither did he raise his voice to chastise. His touch stayed soft and the eyes that stared down into hers were wide open, very blue and anguished only with himself. ‘Lady, I fear for your city, for your safety, for your happiness. And about Arithon s’Ffalenn, I can make nobody comprehend.’
It's rather sad that the one person who would completely understand Lysaer's difficulty here is the brother he's trying to kill. But of course, they've got opposite goals. Arithon wants to avoid this fight, Lysaer wants to pursue it.
I wonder, if they'd warned Lysaer, would he be trying to fight this too?
‘What else is there to know?’ She looked back at him, graceful as some tawny cat assured of its power to captivate.
Lysaer slid his palms down her arms lightly as a breath. He backed away, set his hands on the balustrade and stared out over the darkened garden. He was deeply troubled and she realized with a snap of vexation that her allure had not even touched him. He gave her no chance to retaliate, but said uickly, ‘I grew up in a land that was terrorized by the predations of the s’Ffalenn. We in Amroth had wealth, good ships, skilled men with quality weapons to defend us. We should have triumphed easily, for the isle of Karthan the pirate kings ruled was little more than a sandspit. The people were poor, with few resources, fewer men. But what they had, they used with the cleverness of demons.’
The relationship between Talith and Lysaer is interesting to me, because there's something off-putting about it. They're both beautiful and they have compatible goals. But there's something that feels uneven. Maybe it's just that as a woman in Etarra, Talith's sole source of real power is in her sex appeal, and while Lysaer is attracted to her, he's generally presented as immune to the distraction of it. She's always a little off-balance with him.
So we get more history:
Presently, Lysaer spoke again. ‘The killing and the grief went back for generations, through my great-grandfather’s time. Both of my uncles were lured into traps and sent back to us pickled, for burial. Grief left my father unreasonable, even mad. He lost a wife, before my mother. Two daughters died with her, who would have been my half-sisters, had I known them. No one told me they existed until I was twelve, when I forced my father’s seneschal to say why the royal crypt held an unmarked vault.’
Lysaer took a breath. ‘All my life, I remember the campaigns, the fleets and the generals sent out to eradicate the s’Ffalenn. We accomplished little for great efforts. We managed to burn villages, poor shanties whose loss seemed scarcely to hurt. Karthish lookouts would spot the inbound fleets and warn the people to escape. Men sent ashore to track refugees would scour the desert to no avail. Sea engagements went as badly. Our ships were lured into exhaustive chases, wrecked in shoal waters because the artisans who drew our charts were once fed false information. Our captains and crews died fighting against lee shores in gales. They died of thirst, hunger, mutiny and fire because the weapon of the s’Ffalenn was ingenuity that seemed inexhaustible as the tides. The pirate princes revelled in feuding. Their trickery never repeated itself and they sailed to no predictable pattern.’
Let's look at this for a bit, yes?
a) The first chapter established something about Lysaer having a dead older half-sister. I'm not sure if one there and two here is a continuity error, Lysaer exaggerating the story for manipulative effect (rather like his description of Arithon as a child of rape, in a society that very much blames children for their parents' crimes), or Lysaer's own memories in question.
b) If these memories are accurate, they do give us the feud from the Amroth side. And it's not particularly pleasant is it? Lysaer had talked about Karthan predation before, but Amroth is the one that burns villages. And it's a source of anger that the Karthan people managed to warn the helpless villagers to escape before they're captured or killed.
It's important though, as it's a sign of how deeply the feud runs, to the point of blinding or skewing Lysaer's sense of justice even before the Mistwraith. He never really had a chance, did he?
c) I also like the shifting of blame. The king's behavior isn't HIS fault. The war DROVE him to it.
Remembered anguish drove Lysaer to straighten from the balustrade. ‘These past captains were only men, clever and hungry for bloodshed. The last of their line, the s’Ffalenn heir bequeathed to Athera, is far more. He was born to an enchantress, raised to the ways of power. A sorcerer, a shadow master, his tricks will come barbed in spells.’
His eyes at last turned and met Talith’s, dreadfully deep and revealing. ‘Arithon fooled even me, lady. He drew me to believe he was harmless, then cozened true friendship from me. If not for your brother’s apt questions, if not for the doubts he reawakened, no one might have acted in time. Arithon might never have stood before Etarra and revealed his true nature in the square.’
Talith has faith in Lysaer's power, but he points out that he's a man and men fail. They share a moment. She tries to make things physical, but he gently turns her down, promising that when Arithon is vanquished and the city is safe, he'll return. If she still desires his presence, they'll "build something great between [them]."
And Talith actually manages to make me feel a little sorry for her. She's amazed that he's not mocking her thwarted libido like the men of Etarra might have. Egads, Etarra is fucking terrible.
They dance.
--
The next segment is Deduction.
This one is Elaira's as she presents herself before Morriel and Lirenda for a report. There's a mildly gratifying bit when the narrative mentions "The Fellowship's gross misjudgement over Arithon's failed coronation".
Anyway, Elaira's provided with food, and then Morriel shows her some images in water: the garrison mustering, ten thousand people. Lysaer mounted on his horse.
Arithon in Stakewood during his coronation.
Elaira is bewildered by all of this. The clans are no match for Etarran might. She doesn't understand why the Fellowship is allowing this to happen, when the princes are at the heart. The Fellowship have fled Etarra, abandoning their post, according to Morriel.
She challenges Elaira, telling her that her FRIEND Asandir made a mis-step. Elaira doesn't actually notice that part though, as she's caught up in the idea that if the Fellowship left, they must have had a reason.
Morriel makes it explicit though: they know ALL about Elaira's misadventure now, but it's not important now. Not with war on the horizon. What they want from Elaira is her knowledge about the princes, and how the exile has influenced the royal lines.
They're basically going to use her recall to do it, something that, from Elaira's reaction is serious and dangerous. There's something about unleashed emotions and linked insights, forcing a bond of sympathy with the subject. Sounds messy.
As Elaira goes into her trance, Morriel and Lirenda discuss her transgression. Lirenda thinks that Elaira is being lulled to a false sense of security over her crimes of falling prey to the distractions of the flesh and abetting Asandir. Morriel isn't really interested in that though. From her perspective, Elaira played a "girl's prank" at the wrong place and time, but she's intelligent and insightful...
And of course:
She is intelligent, and gifted with an insight that runs rare and true. Which strengths caused her to see the s’Ffalenn heir through to his depths and let him touch her. I venture to suggest that her reasons for attraction are real, and dauntingly powerful to any mind born female. That is why you alone were called to witness the scrying that shall take place tonight. I would shield our other Seniors from exposure to fearful temptation. There is warning for you in this. Heed the risk.’
Arithon is just that irresistible to a "mind-born female". Amazing.
So anyway, Morriel regrets that she "ruined" Elaira. She thinks Elaira would have recovered from the mistake in Erdane if she hadn't been sent to Etarra. Now, Elaira is a flawed instrument, who will serve until she's driven to forsake her vows.
There's a glimpse of Morriel's personal angst. She wants a successor, but the last trial for initiation is almost always fatal. Lirenda is her forty-third potetial successor.
Anyway, the vision shows Arithon first. Morriel is humbled by Elaira's courage in displaying him first, given her forbidden fascination. Lirenda calls him a throwback. Apparently he's nearly the double of his ancestor. The image is Arithon in the alley, making illusory ships for children:
Elaira had caught him glancing up to see his illusion under way. His face held untrammelled peace. A laugh of delight and satisfaction lightened the corners of his mouth. His eyes were unshadowed and the sharp-angled features of s’Ffalenn inheritance had fleetingly softened to expose, in vivid clarity, the depths of generosity and caring that buttressed his musician’s sensitivity.
The effect was spirit stripped naked. The accuracy of Elaira’s recreation gave the lie to every sharp edge, every cutting word, every difficult and cross-grained reaction that Arithon had ever employed to defend this, his vulnerable inner heart.
Morriel's amazed that Elaira managed to "unmask" him for them. Lirenda...seems to be having a different reaction. Ahem. Anyway, Morriel realizes that there's also s'Ahelas farsight here.
Yeah. THAT nonsense. "Let me leave my husband and bang a pirate, this totally won't make things worse." Fucking s'Ahelas.
They glimpse Lysaer next:
The image of Arithon slipped away, replaced momentarily by another. Now the s’Ilessid prince stood in the fog of a pre-dawn garden, half-lit by a shaft of lamplight that escaped through the gate from the street. He leaned against the pedestal of a statue, his lashes and cloak beaded with damp that sparked as he breathed like fine diamonds. The water was the only jewel on him: for once, his clothing held no artifice. Even his hair lay unbrushed. Although in public Lysaer maintained the flawless manners of diplomacy, here, alone, his lordly fine looks lay hagridden by doubt as he wrestled some inward dilemma his conscience could not resolve. The pain on his face, in the bearing of his shoulders and the lamp-gilded knuckles of clenched hands, was unanswerably intense. Elaira’s observance had peeled back all poise to expose him in a moment of soul-rending self-distaste.
It's noted that he also has the farsight, warring with his sense of justice.
His mouth in this captured instant held none of the tenderness that adoring women back in Amroth had experienced while plying him for kisses. Unyielding as tempered wire lay calculation threaded through by royal upbringing, and the machinations of Desh-thiere’s latent wraith. The result charged the nerves to disquiet; as if for one heartbeat pity were absent, and mercy an omitted concept.
So they've seen enough. Morriel has made her decision and it's actually a little surprising:
Discomfited at last by trepidation, Morriel tucked her arms beneath her shawls. ‘Unlucky and perilous. Arithon’s is an incompatible legacy. His mind is fatally flawed. The Fellowship should never have sanctioned his right of succession, for suffering shall dog his path as surely as seasons must turn.’
Elaira disagrees and says so:
Given this tacit liberty, Elaira insisted, ‘Lysaer’s the one who bears watching. Ath’s mercy, I’ve met him. He’s a living inspiration, the flesh and blood example of human kindness. The masses must flock to his standard, for his cause shall be presented in passionate and upright idealism. Then indeed there will be upheaval and suffering, since bias toward noble principles offers a weapon already fashioned for a ruler of his trained talents. All Prince Lysaer need do is pose in that mould, and set by Desh-thiere’s curse to turn his gifts toward bloodshed, he has no other course.’
Apparently the issue is stability. Lysaer is caught up in a dangerous, but predictable cycle. They think they can anticipate what he does and prepare or compensate for that. Arithon, on the other hand, is too unstable and unpredictable.
This is pretty amazing:
Which is precisely what makes him dangerous, Elaira,’ Morriel corrected sadly. ‘For Lysaer’s sense of justice and farsight will answer to logic, and therefore be reconciled by compromise. But since when can compassion ever be made to condone pain? S’Ahelas blood gives Arithon full grasp of cause and effect; mage-training compounds this with awareness of the forward reactions of power. These traits aligned against the s’Ffalenn gift of sympathetic empathy cancels the mind’s self-defences. The shelter of petty hatred becomes untenable. Arithon is a visionary placed at a nexus of responsibility. Desh-thiere’s curse will embroil him in violence he can neither escape nor master. Stress will prove his undoing, for the sensitivities of poets have ever been frail, and the broadened span of his thinking shall but inflame and haunt him to madness.’
I forgive this book for every moment of Arithon's ridiculous angst for this chapter. Both Steiven's irritated last line earlier, and this bit where Morriel decides Arithon's too angsty to tolerate so they're going to go with the fanatic instead.
Poor Elaira ends up dismissed and devastated. She'd wanted to expose Arithon's inner self to win Koriani sympathy and instead turned them into enemies. It's not your fault, Elaira. Arithon's angst is just that powerful.
--
The sneak peek section is Daybreak.
Lirenda...oh dear:
In a widow’s attic bedchamber, First Senior Lirenda wakens once again, restlessly entangled in her bedclothes; and the dream that spoils her sleep is the same, of a man’s green eyes imbued with a compassion deep enough to leave her weeping and desolate in the icy chill before dawn…
The clansmen are breaking their fast, Arithon nowhere to be found, but Steiven's son Jieret is curious.
And finally, the caravan master that Arithon stole his horse from, in exchange for his pin, is upset. Some guy, a greybeard in maroon, asked him for the pin and he just gave it to him. He can't understand why.
Hey, dick move, Sethvir. This guy was the victim here. You could at least have given him some MONEY for the pin. Or a new horse. Hmph.
Anyway, the chapter ends here.
This time in the chapter called "Strakewood", we'll get to see how Arithon is dealing with it. Spoiler: also not well at all.
So we rejoin Arithon as he's fleeing out of the city, through the north, using both Kharadmon's storms and his own magic to conceal himself. But his reserves are going, and his protections are fading. He's also realizing that he has to leave behind Splash, whose Paravian name is something I don't remember at the moment and am too lazy to look up. He's upset about that, which surprises him: "Since Ithamon and Etarra, he had not expected to have any place left in him for sentiment."
You are so melodramatic, dude. Though I suppose you just got chased out of town by your magically corrupted brother, so I can cut you a little slack. Just a little.
Arithon really doesn't have a plan here. The folks in Etarra may believe that he's planning something, but really, he just picked a direction and ran. He's been running for three days and two nights since, and now that he's been caught by scouts sworn to Steiven (we just met him, recall. Maenalle's equivalent in Rathain), he doesn't have the energy to fight or provoke.
They lead him to Steiven, calling him "your Grace", and Arithon is too tired to even bitch about that. So we know he's exhausted. There's an interesting bit about his left arm holding something bulky, cradled in his cloak. We know it can't be his lyranthe.
He tells them that he's asking guest-welcome only, and doesn't claim any fealty. Steiven has another opinion though:
His eyes were adjusting to the dimness, but the dazzle of candles defeated what clarity of sight he regained. The speaker arose, smiling in welcome, and in a nerve-stressed flash of intuition, Arithon beheld his aura as a mage would. This man with his scarred face and arresting dignity had a seer’s gift. Forevision had revealed this moment to him, and his manner held no fear for compromise as he said, ‘You are Teir’s’Ffalenn, and sanctioned for succession by the hand of Asandir. I am sworn to serve your line, as my forefathers before me were appointed regents of the realm until return of Rathain’s true high king.’
‘Caithdein,’ Arithon whispered, white-lipped.
A stir swept the others at his use of the old tongue, but the phrase for ‘shadow behind the throne’ merely caused the large warrior’s smile to broaden. ‘I’ve preserved Rathain’s heritage and fighting strength only in the absence of a royal heir. Claim your inheritance, my prince. My regency is ended.’
Arithon gets enough energy back to try to argue. He points out that he's a bastard and that he doesn't claim their loyalty. But one of the dudes with Steiven, an aristocratic elder type who appears dressed for court, points out that the s'Ffalenn succession has never cared about legitimacy and that direct descent has always been prioritized over cousins or siblings by marriage. This guy knows a shit ton of ballads about that as a matter of fact.
OH, it's Halliron. We met him before too! He's also the dude that Felirin made Arithon promise to play for if he'd ever met him. This of course, leads to Angst.
‘Who are you?’ Arithon repeated, strain setting edges to a tone already rough.
‘I’m called Halliron and I, too, have claimed guest welcome of the clans of the north.’
Colour drained from Arithon’s features. The irony hit him like pain: before him stood the Masterbard, the single individual in Athera’s five realms who could grant his heart’s first desire; had an unwanted throne not spoiled opportunity.
A candle burned on a staked brass stand not a foot from Arithon’s elbow. He reached out and pinched the wick, a half a second too late; light had already betrayed his naked longing to every stranger present.
Oh, but hey, why not MORE angst. Remember that thing Arithon was holding?
He seized his only diversion and unfurled the wadding of his cloak. ‘Take her,’ he said as veiling cloth fell away from the blue-tinged corpse of the child he had carried in his arms since Etarra. Perhaps five years old, she was stunted and drawn by starvation. The bony arm curled and stiff across her breast showed the ravages of a wound gone septic, and the hand half-hidden by its stained shreds of bandage reeked overpoweringly of corrupted flesh.
Those clan councilmen not already standing shot to their feet in distress.
‘She died in the night,’ Arithon said. ‘She was one of yours, conscripted to serve Etarra’s horse-knackers. Others enslaved with her were freed to make their way home as they could. This one was too sick to walk.’
Of course, Arithon freed the captured children. And of course, he carried this one home. The clansfolk take the child and identify her as "Tanlie's girl". Arithon tells them to offer Tanlie his sympathy and that her girl died bravely. Then, of course, he melodramatically declares that he brings them no legacy but strife.
It's going to take more than dramatic declarations to sway Steiven. He essentially points out that they're a persecuted clan and the little girl is hardly the first or last to suffer like that.
But Arithon's problem is admittedly not the ordinary course of business. He proves to us all that he's learned the right lesson from Asandir and that nonsense, and lays everything on the table:
‘I’ve been bound and spell-cursed by Desh-thiere to fight my half-brother, Lysaer s’Ilessid. There is no sanity in the hatred that drives us both, only unbridled lust to kill. Lysaer has raised Etarra against me, and their garrison will march within days. Would you spend your lives for a stranger not even born in this world?’
Good. Arithon can be a melodramatic asshole, but the clanfolk deserve to know what they're getting into.
And of course they're into this. We've heard a bit about Steiven's own grudge before. And Rathain's charter gives them the right to defend Arithon.
Arithon's still trying to explain the situation: it's not a matter of rights or causes. It's a curse. If he and Lysaer face each other, the obsession will hit and they'll become so focused on killing each other that nothing else will matter. The clans will be "just another weapon to be squandered".
That does make the clanfolk a bit uneasy. They can see his ancestry as written in his amazing eyebrows, but he talks like a sorcerer and they know he has weird powers. He's a stranger, and they should listen.
A dude named Caolle, who is known for presenting unpopular opinions, particularly urges wariness. Steiven though, knows exactly what he is after and has a fine sense of manipulation and drama in his own right:
Steiven was moved, but not to caution. He left his place by the council table and took stance beside Halliron. His rangy frame dwarfed the Masterbard, who was not short, and his hazel eyes shone bitter as he admitted, ‘I have Sight. For years I have lived with foreknowledge of the moment and manner of my death. There is no option, your Grace of Rathain, elders. Etarra will march upon the northlands whether or not a Teir’s’Ffalenn is given sanctuary among us.’ He half-turned to face down Arithon, his large hands hooked in the lacing that clasped his belt with its row of black-hafted throwing knives. ‘My liege, our destiny is to defend you. The city garrison will campaign against us, and we must stand to fight. Your choice is simple. Shall we die for an empty title, or a living, breathing sovereign?’
So yeah, Arithon's figuring out pretty quickly that he's not going to be able to ditch these guys. Just his luck that his regent is so awesome. (Alas, his sword is too cool and his regent is too awesome. Woe.) He begs their forgiveness in advance.
Steiven grants it, but asks his friendship in return. He already knows Arithon's name and gives his own. (Steiven s'Valerient, Earl of Deshir, if you're trying to keep track. If you are, I'm sorry. The book has a character glossary at the end. Much needed.)
They swear an oath, and hey, if nothing else, Arithon finally gets someone who'll actually offer a little comfort:
Arithon’s fingers fell away, to uncover features as hollowed as stripped bone. ‘You’ve seen this before,’ he accused.
Steiven laughed. From his towering height, he embraced his royal liege like a son. ‘I’ve lived for it.’
Then, aware that Arithon’s exhaustion threatened collapse, he shouldered the prince’s weight as he had done for his own spent scouts and in peremptory command sent his clan elders packing to fetch bath water, hot food and dry blankets.
Aw.
So basically the war council resumes, once they've tucked in their brand new prince. They're talking tactics. They know Etarra will be sending their full muster, and they have to be ready. The problem is getting reinforcements in time. But they don't really have a choice.
The interactions between the clansfolk is more interesting than the plans themselves. Specifically Caolle, the war captain with the unpopular opinion. He warns that this will end in a massacre, and if they're going to move to get ready, they won't be able to wait for Arithon to get better. (He's still got that nasty arm injury from Lysaer's bolt, among the other problems).
A nice bit of nuance here: we're told that any scout who isn't fit to ride is given a mercy kill. Basically, they're hunted so brutally that they can't afford the time and vulnerability of carrying the wounded on litters, and captivity is worse than death.
I like this because the general set up is a little black and white. The Townsmen (or at least their leadership) are vile, the Clansmen heroic. But for all that they're heroic, they also have to make some pretty nasty decisions to survive. Anyway, Steiven's not too worried. He's pretty sure that Arithon will wake up and be able to walk, if only from spite.
...he does have his measure, doesn't he?
Though they don't actually have to wake Arithon up, because Steiven's adorable children have beaten them to it. There are a lot of them, all of them small and cute and curious. Arithon is miserable and tired, but he can't resist the cuteness so when their mother, Dania, comes to get them, she finds him teaching them some kind of knotwork.
There's a cute bit where Dania realizes that if she curtseys, she's going to upset him, but fortunately babbling children break the awkward moment. One enthusiastically points out Arithon's scars, which gets a gentle scolding from Dania: everyone who escapes from Etarra has scars, but it's not polite to talk about them.
Though Dania had tended him, so she knows that he has older scars than that. But she doesn't know how to ask him about it. She's not upset or suspicious though. Only curious, and it makes a nice contrast from the Etarrans, or even Dakar, who drew conclusions and judgment about the scars. For the clanfolk, scars are normal and accepted. They're a story, that's all.
She's also curious, and a bit upset, about Arithon's negative reaction when she mentions Halliron. Oh Dania, don't worry. Arithon is an onion of angst, each level peeling away to something else.
So Arithon gets ready. The clansmen have provided clothes: black dyed deerhide. No silver thread, as it would catch the light. When Arithon leaves his tent, he's embarrassed to see that his is the last one still up. He notes that he doesn't see any sign of grief for the little girl he'd brought from Etarra, and thinks that these men seem even more hardened than Maenalle's.
Arithon asks what happened the night before. OH, okay. This is actually later than I thought. Apparently, they'd already left camp the night before. He was too tired to ride and ended up falling out of his saddle, and Steiven had taken him up across his saddlebow. There was, of course, some mockery, and I'm a little sad we didn't get to see it.
It's rare that we get to see the guy completely inept, it would have been fun. Arithon, for all that he's prickly about his dignity, generally doesn't get upset by that kind of thing, and indeed, he seems more lost in thought than anything else. At this point in time, he's the only man in the company of old women, mothers and young children.
He thinks about the tienelle that he'd stolen from Sethvir. Apparently, sadly, it's not for getting high. If anyone would benefit from getting high, I think it'd be Arithon. It's for scrying. He wants to find a way to protect the clans. But unfortunately, he needs privacy to use that and well...that's not happening any time soon.
Anyway, due to the whole falling out of his saddle thing, Arithon's got a bit of a reputation now among the men and boys for being weak or helpless. He thinks that it might be helpful to foster that. If they dislike him, then maybe, once the attack is pushed back, they'll let him leave.
Oh god, you're so dumb.
Anyway, we are told that apparently it IS a massive effort to fight the urge to go back to Etarra and attack his brother. And that makes me very sad. Brothers!
-
Anyway, Arithon goes forward with his plan to alienate the clansmen by completely winning over the children. The girls love him, because they'd never met a grown man willing to play games. The boys were won over by cute whistles that he whittled for them. And oh. Actually, that did have some success. The whistles were disruptive enough to get confiscated, by someone who calls him "addle-headed" and that he'll bring the headhunters down on them.
Arithon regarded her with green-eyed, languid resignation, and murmured soft apology. The woman left in disgust.
I should never doubt your ability to be a provocative asshole, dude. I apologize.
So anyway, he's got the reputation as a useless dreamer now. Oh, and also, the whistles were enchanted so as not to be heard by any outside seeker. But he's not about to tell THEM that.
You dumbass.
On the plus/minus side, he ends up in position to hear Halliron play, a lot. Halliron is the Masterbard, of course, and his lyranthe is the more famous one created by Elshian. It reminds Arithon of his own, abandoned lyranthe. He doesn't know what happened to it, yet. I bet that will hurt. Anyway, he listens openly to the music, with tears down his face, which helps with the whole "I'm weak and useless" thing. Arithon's good at multi-tasking, he can angst AND provoke people at the same time.
It's working. But not on Halliron himself. Halliron has noticed that he has an admiring audience that has never once sought closer acquaintance. He's intrigued, but hides it well.
I've been forgoing a lot of the description in this chapter, but I can't resist this one:
The domestic camp moved by night and rested only after full daybreak. On the morn they were to reach their destination, the mists of early dawn ripped and dispersed into tatters, cut by slanted shafts of white sunlight. The birds were loud at their nesting calls. Like strands of silvered silk wound through its green forest tapestry, the river Tal Quorin re-emerged in a bend to flow once again beside the trail. The thin, acid soil of the heights gave up its black mantle of pines. The fertile trough of the watershed here lay broken into long, irregular valleys. Winding through hollows and glens, the river current lisped over glacial deposits of smoothed granite, and skeined eddies around willow roots like the knobbled knees of old men. The demise of Desh-thiere had brought change. Little plants pressed up through moss and pine-needles, and opened coloured petals for the first time in five centuries untrammelled by the sooty prints of fungal spores.
So Arithon's still playing up his annoying useless dreamer persona. Halliron's still watching him with interest. Because of this, Halliron's able to realize that Arithon's not actually dreamily staring at flowers, but doing some complicated mage thingy-whatsits. When he stumbled, Halliron's there to steady him. And of course, they share a moment:
The touch caused Arithon to snap stiff. His head came up, around, and in green eyes the Masterbard caught a flare that looked like smothered anger. The impression was false. Halliron saw past hostility to what perhaps was an envy sprung from offence; indisputably the resentment was directed fully and personally toward him.
Oops.
(Halliron also happens to notice that the forearm he grabbed was wiry and fit. And not that compatible with the persona that Arithon's affecting.)
There's more melodrama here:
Arithon spun away to hide an expression Halliron would have bribed in gold to have read. Between the two men lay a silence heavy with secrets, and as if their burden were at once too much, the prince abruptly sat down. He fingered the edge of a rock hoarded like some hoary, moss-crusted jewel between the miserly grip of old roots. ‘I’m sorry.’ His apology was too quick and cold. ‘I believed I was alone.’
Halliron comments that Arithon has been laying magical wards, and says that if he wants the clans to disown him, he should just desert them. And this is interesting:
That touched a nerve. Arithon’s smile at the barb was full lipped, and brimmingly, off-puttingly merry. ‘Desert me, instead. Your perceptions feel like a tinker’s spilled needles: a punishing trap for false steps.’
Halliron was not easily irritated. Years of settling vain, even senile patrons and short-tempered, envious peers had taught him to treat with human nature sparely, to unwind misunderstanding like a snarl in fine-spun wool. Intrigued by Arithon’s reticence, he gave no ground, even as Arithon pressed to escape and regain untrammelled access to the trail.
For the first time in this entire book, Arithon s'Ffalenn has met a man that he cannot piss off. Amazing.
Halliron asks why Arithon reacted to him like a threat, and Arithon gives a usual melodramatic answer in Paravian that translates to "you are the enemy I never expected to meet". His accent is, of course, flawless.
--
There's more camp preparation. It's actually pretty interesting so of course I'm not sharing it. They seem very efficient. Arithon sits in the shade and naps, in keeping with his persona. Though, maybe not completely:
A scout who passed through the armoury lodge found the tactical maps disturbed. Penned in the margins of a supply draft in fussy, over-ornamented script were concisely drawn summaries of the weapon and training profile of Etarra’s garrison troops, along with names, numbers and insightful characteristics of most of its ranking officers.
But no one puts two and two together, and Arithon "joyously ignores" the acid speculation of his would-be subjects.
Hah, of course.
But in the afternoon, there's an oath of fealty ceremony. It's much simpler and purer than the one in Etarra: kneeling in a beechgrove, everyone still muddy or sweating from their labor.
Steiven assumed position a half-step to one side of the s’Ffalenn prince. Except for recovery of Asandir’s circlet that was proof of his sanction for succession, Arithon still wore the black suede tunic and leggings that had once belonged to Lady Dania’s younger brother. As at the earlier ceremony in Etarra, Arithon carried no ornament beyond his father’s signet. The smoke-dark blade forged by Paravian mastery was struck upright into the earth at his elbow, the emerald in the pommel a hard green sparkle underlying the reflections of the foliage. Already in place on one knee in the crumbled detritus of last season’s fall of copper leaves, he met no one’s interested glance. His attention seemed absorbed more by the cheep of nesting wrens in the branches than in the greeting murmured by his regent.
The simplicity is due to necessity of course, and Steiven regrets that, but I think it's much more suitable.
Steiven presents Arithon. There's an intriguing bit of symbolism where Arithon ("[s]eeming delicate as porcelain before his regent's scarred height" - of course) is made to turn his back on the clansmen, as they're invited to present a weapon to pledge in service and defense. Steiven does this by running the point of his sword into the ground. The others all present knives and swords in token of their trust. I love the symbolism, but I think I'd be terrified. Especially if I just spent the last few days antagonizing them.
So Arithon takes the pledge:
Thin and weary as a fox run to earth, he drew breath to renounce personal claim to the life he had found in Athera. ‘I pledge myself, body, mind and heart to serve Rathain: to guard, to hold unified and to deliver justice according to Ath’s law. If the land knows peace, I preserve her: war, I defend. Through hardship, famine or plague, I suffer no less than my sworn companions. In war, peace and strife, I bind myself to the charter of the land, as given by the Fellowship of Seven, strike me dead should I fail to uphold for all people the rights stated therein. Dharkaron witness.’
Steiven and Arithon share a moment, where Steiven reveals he's aware of Arithon's machinations. They're useless though: the clans are angry enough at Etarra that they don't really need an excuse to fight. Arithon tries again to explain what's going on with Lysaer, and that the Etarran garrison is basically just a tool for this collision, but no one really understands.
This makes me laugh though:
Steiven swore explosively. ‘I know that. You know that. But likeness to his ancestors isn’t going to satisfy my clansmen. If this womanish brooding continues, my war captain has vowed he’ll strip the royal person to his short hairs to find out if they hide a castration. By Ath!’ the former regent ended with rare and exasperated fierceness, ‘If Caolle tries, it’s on my mind I’m going to let him!’
---
The next segment of the chapter is Attraction.
We're back to Etarra for this one, as they prepare day and night for the attack. Not everyone will be leaving for battle though:
The highborn elite, those whose pedigrees traced back without taint to the original burghers who had overthrown the old monarchy, found themselves sidelined in the bustle created by the renegade prince. Their exploits, their mischief and their profligate gambling debts were no longer the talk of the ladies’ parlours. Arithon’s name had supplanted them, and out of fear of his shadows, mistresses and favoured courtesans turned fickle in sudden preference for strapping big fellows with less refined manners and swords.
Apparently the parties have gotten wilder to compensate, with idiot dares and games like racing up the alarm tower to swing from the bell's clapper. Lady Talith is thinking about how once she would have been sitting front and center to egg them on. But her perspective has changed. Now the parties seem like silly shams. Commander Diegan seems to feel the same way. Talith's has a cause of course:
She could not flee the recognition that her life seemed dreary since Lysaer s’Ilessid had stepped into it.
Talith leaned over the balustrade. Never before then had she known admiration that did not arise from flamboyance; humour that did not belittle; power not bought through brutish intrigues or bribes.
The man’s direct nature had cut through Etarra’s convoluted greed and excesses like a sharpened knife through mould rinds.
And speak of the devil, Lysaer appears.
Warm hands reached out and gently gathered the twist of hair that trailed down the nape of her neck. She stiffened, dismayed to realize she could not spin and deal a slap for the impertinence. His fingers had tightened too firmly: like a boat, she was effectively moored.
‘They insisted inside that you had grown tired of the party,’ Lysaer s’Ilessid said in greeting.
She shivered. Then blushed; and would have slapped him then for his boldness, that had wrung from her such a reaction. She was unaccustomed to being played like a fish.
He let her go. Cool air ruffled through the strands his fingers had parted. Mulberry blossoms showered in a swirl of white, and eddied in the lee of the railing.
She's about to use "pretty woman's scorn" to retaliate against him, but then she gets a look at him:
Lysaer smiled. His eyes sparkled with reflections; his face, struck out in shadow and soft light, held a beauty to madden a sculptor to fits of missed inspiration. The pale, fine hair that just brushed his collar was his sole ornament.
The effect stopped Talith’s breath.
He does know how to work the purple prose. And the charm. But he's not just there to flirt. He tells her that the army will be marching out the next day.
Lysaer is angsty too:
Lysaer paused, thoughtful. He seemed not offended or set back. ‘I don’t think anyone in this city understands the threat in the man we leave to cut down.’
‘Arithon?’ Talith tossed back her mane of hair, about to say, disparaging, that even allied to barbarians the deposed prince could hardly challenge a fortified city.
Lysaer stepped to her suddenly and caught her arms below her bared shoulders. He did not shake her. Neither did he raise his voice to chastise. His touch stayed soft and the eyes that stared down into hers were wide open, very blue and anguished only with himself. ‘Lady, I fear for your city, for your safety, for your happiness. And about Arithon s’Ffalenn, I can make nobody comprehend.’
It's rather sad that the one person who would completely understand Lysaer's difficulty here is the brother he's trying to kill. But of course, they've got opposite goals. Arithon wants to avoid this fight, Lysaer wants to pursue it.
I wonder, if they'd warned Lysaer, would he be trying to fight this too?
‘What else is there to know?’ She looked back at him, graceful as some tawny cat assured of its power to captivate.
Lysaer slid his palms down her arms lightly as a breath. He backed away, set his hands on the balustrade and stared out over the darkened garden. He was deeply troubled and she realized with a snap of vexation that her allure had not even touched him. He gave her no chance to retaliate, but said uickly, ‘I grew up in a land that was terrorized by the predations of the s’Ffalenn. We in Amroth had wealth, good ships, skilled men with quality weapons to defend us. We should have triumphed easily, for the isle of Karthan the pirate kings ruled was little more than a sandspit. The people were poor, with few resources, fewer men. But what they had, they used with the cleverness of demons.’
The relationship between Talith and Lysaer is interesting to me, because there's something off-putting about it. They're both beautiful and they have compatible goals. But there's something that feels uneven. Maybe it's just that as a woman in Etarra, Talith's sole source of real power is in her sex appeal, and while Lysaer is attracted to her, he's generally presented as immune to the distraction of it. She's always a little off-balance with him.
So we get more history:
Presently, Lysaer spoke again. ‘The killing and the grief went back for generations, through my great-grandfather’s time. Both of my uncles were lured into traps and sent back to us pickled, for burial. Grief left my father unreasonable, even mad. He lost a wife, before my mother. Two daughters died with her, who would have been my half-sisters, had I known them. No one told me they existed until I was twelve, when I forced my father’s seneschal to say why the royal crypt held an unmarked vault.’
Lysaer took a breath. ‘All my life, I remember the campaigns, the fleets and the generals sent out to eradicate the s’Ffalenn. We accomplished little for great efforts. We managed to burn villages, poor shanties whose loss seemed scarcely to hurt. Karthish lookouts would spot the inbound fleets and warn the people to escape. Men sent ashore to track refugees would scour the desert to no avail. Sea engagements went as badly. Our ships were lured into exhaustive chases, wrecked in shoal waters because the artisans who drew our charts were once fed false information. Our captains and crews died fighting against lee shores in gales. They died of thirst, hunger, mutiny and fire because the weapon of the s’Ffalenn was ingenuity that seemed inexhaustible as the tides. The pirate princes revelled in feuding. Their trickery never repeated itself and they sailed to no predictable pattern.’
Let's look at this for a bit, yes?
a) The first chapter established something about Lysaer having a dead older half-sister. I'm not sure if one there and two here is a continuity error, Lysaer exaggerating the story for manipulative effect (rather like his description of Arithon as a child of rape, in a society that very much blames children for their parents' crimes), or Lysaer's own memories in question.
b) If these memories are accurate, they do give us the feud from the Amroth side. And it's not particularly pleasant is it? Lysaer had talked about Karthan predation before, but Amroth is the one that burns villages. And it's a source of anger that the Karthan people managed to warn the helpless villagers to escape before they're captured or killed.
It's important though, as it's a sign of how deeply the feud runs, to the point of blinding or skewing Lysaer's sense of justice even before the Mistwraith. He never really had a chance, did he?
c) I also like the shifting of blame. The king's behavior isn't HIS fault. The war DROVE him to it.
Remembered anguish drove Lysaer to straighten from the balustrade. ‘These past captains were only men, clever and hungry for bloodshed. The last of their line, the s’Ffalenn heir bequeathed to Athera, is far more. He was born to an enchantress, raised to the ways of power. A sorcerer, a shadow master, his tricks will come barbed in spells.’
His eyes at last turned and met Talith’s, dreadfully deep and revealing. ‘Arithon fooled even me, lady. He drew me to believe he was harmless, then cozened true friendship from me. If not for your brother’s apt questions, if not for the doubts he reawakened, no one might have acted in time. Arithon might never have stood before Etarra and revealed his true nature in the square.’
Talith has faith in Lysaer's power, but he points out that he's a man and men fail. They share a moment. She tries to make things physical, but he gently turns her down, promising that when Arithon is vanquished and the city is safe, he'll return. If she still desires his presence, they'll "build something great between [them]."
And Talith actually manages to make me feel a little sorry for her. She's amazed that he's not mocking her thwarted libido like the men of Etarra might have. Egads, Etarra is fucking terrible.
They dance.
--
The next segment is Deduction.
This one is Elaira's as she presents herself before Morriel and Lirenda for a report. There's a mildly gratifying bit when the narrative mentions "The Fellowship's gross misjudgement over Arithon's failed coronation".
Anyway, Elaira's provided with food, and then Morriel shows her some images in water: the garrison mustering, ten thousand people. Lysaer mounted on his horse.
Arithon in Stakewood during his coronation.
Elaira is bewildered by all of this. The clans are no match for Etarran might. She doesn't understand why the Fellowship is allowing this to happen, when the princes are at the heart. The Fellowship have fled Etarra, abandoning their post, according to Morriel.
She challenges Elaira, telling her that her FRIEND Asandir made a mis-step. Elaira doesn't actually notice that part though, as she's caught up in the idea that if the Fellowship left, they must have had a reason.
Morriel makes it explicit though: they know ALL about Elaira's misadventure now, but it's not important now. Not with war on the horizon. What they want from Elaira is her knowledge about the princes, and how the exile has influenced the royal lines.
They're basically going to use her recall to do it, something that, from Elaira's reaction is serious and dangerous. There's something about unleashed emotions and linked insights, forcing a bond of sympathy with the subject. Sounds messy.
As Elaira goes into her trance, Morriel and Lirenda discuss her transgression. Lirenda thinks that Elaira is being lulled to a false sense of security over her crimes of falling prey to the distractions of the flesh and abetting Asandir. Morriel isn't really interested in that though. From her perspective, Elaira played a "girl's prank" at the wrong place and time, but she's intelligent and insightful...
And of course:
She is intelligent, and gifted with an insight that runs rare and true. Which strengths caused her to see the s’Ffalenn heir through to his depths and let him touch her. I venture to suggest that her reasons for attraction are real, and dauntingly powerful to any mind born female. That is why you alone were called to witness the scrying that shall take place tonight. I would shield our other Seniors from exposure to fearful temptation. There is warning for you in this. Heed the risk.’
Arithon is just that irresistible to a "mind-born female". Amazing.
So anyway, Morriel regrets that she "ruined" Elaira. She thinks Elaira would have recovered from the mistake in Erdane if she hadn't been sent to Etarra. Now, Elaira is a flawed instrument, who will serve until she's driven to forsake her vows.
There's a glimpse of Morriel's personal angst. She wants a successor, but the last trial for initiation is almost always fatal. Lirenda is her forty-third potetial successor.
Anyway, the vision shows Arithon first. Morriel is humbled by Elaira's courage in displaying him first, given her forbidden fascination. Lirenda calls him a throwback. Apparently he's nearly the double of his ancestor. The image is Arithon in the alley, making illusory ships for children:
Elaira had caught him glancing up to see his illusion under way. His face held untrammelled peace. A laugh of delight and satisfaction lightened the corners of his mouth. His eyes were unshadowed and the sharp-angled features of s’Ffalenn inheritance had fleetingly softened to expose, in vivid clarity, the depths of generosity and caring that buttressed his musician’s sensitivity.
The effect was spirit stripped naked. The accuracy of Elaira’s recreation gave the lie to every sharp edge, every cutting word, every difficult and cross-grained reaction that Arithon had ever employed to defend this, his vulnerable inner heart.
Morriel's amazed that Elaira managed to "unmask" him for them. Lirenda...seems to be having a different reaction. Ahem. Anyway, Morriel realizes that there's also s'Ahelas farsight here.
Yeah. THAT nonsense. "Let me leave my husband and bang a pirate, this totally won't make things worse." Fucking s'Ahelas.
They glimpse Lysaer next:
The image of Arithon slipped away, replaced momentarily by another. Now the s’Ilessid prince stood in the fog of a pre-dawn garden, half-lit by a shaft of lamplight that escaped through the gate from the street. He leaned against the pedestal of a statue, his lashes and cloak beaded with damp that sparked as he breathed like fine diamonds. The water was the only jewel on him: for once, his clothing held no artifice. Even his hair lay unbrushed. Although in public Lysaer maintained the flawless manners of diplomacy, here, alone, his lordly fine looks lay hagridden by doubt as he wrestled some inward dilemma his conscience could not resolve. The pain on his face, in the bearing of his shoulders and the lamp-gilded knuckles of clenched hands, was unanswerably intense. Elaira’s observance had peeled back all poise to expose him in a moment of soul-rending self-distaste.
It's noted that he also has the farsight, warring with his sense of justice.
His mouth in this captured instant held none of the tenderness that adoring women back in Amroth had experienced while plying him for kisses. Unyielding as tempered wire lay calculation threaded through by royal upbringing, and the machinations of Desh-thiere’s latent wraith. The result charged the nerves to disquiet; as if for one heartbeat pity were absent, and mercy an omitted concept.
So they've seen enough. Morriel has made her decision and it's actually a little surprising:
Discomfited at last by trepidation, Morriel tucked her arms beneath her shawls. ‘Unlucky and perilous. Arithon’s is an incompatible legacy. His mind is fatally flawed. The Fellowship should never have sanctioned his right of succession, for suffering shall dog his path as surely as seasons must turn.’
Elaira disagrees and says so:
Given this tacit liberty, Elaira insisted, ‘Lysaer’s the one who bears watching. Ath’s mercy, I’ve met him. He’s a living inspiration, the flesh and blood example of human kindness. The masses must flock to his standard, for his cause shall be presented in passionate and upright idealism. Then indeed there will be upheaval and suffering, since bias toward noble principles offers a weapon already fashioned for a ruler of his trained talents. All Prince Lysaer need do is pose in that mould, and set by Desh-thiere’s curse to turn his gifts toward bloodshed, he has no other course.’
Apparently the issue is stability. Lysaer is caught up in a dangerous, but predictable cycle. They think they can anticipate what he does and prepare or compensate for that. Arithon, on the other hand, is too unstable and unpredictable.
This is pretty amazing:
Which is precisely what makes him dangerous, Elaira,’ Morriel corrected sadly. ‘For Lysaer’s sense of justice and farsight will answer to logic, and therefore be reconciled by compromise. But since when can compassion ever be made to condone pain? S’Ahelas blood gives Arithon full grasp of cause and effect; mage-training compounds this with awareness of the forward reactions of power. These traits aligned against the s’Ffalenn gift of sympathetic empathy cancels the mind’s self-defences. The shelter of petty hatred becomes untenable. Arithon is a visionary placed at a nexus of responsibility. Desh-thiere’s curse will embroil him in violence he can neither escape nor master. Stress will prove his undoing, for the sensitivities of poets have ever been frail, and the broadened span of his thinking shall but inflame and haunt him to madness.’
I forgive this book for every moment of Arithon's ridiculous angst for this chapter. Both Steiven's irritated last line earlier, and this bit where Morriel decides Arithon's too angsty to tolerate so they're going to go with the fanatic instead.
Poor Elaira ends up dismissed and devastated. She'd wanted to expose Arithon's inner self to win Koriani sympathy and instead turned them into enemies. It's not your fault, Elaira. Arithon's angst is just that powerful.
--
The sneak peek section is Daybreak.
Lirenda...oh dear:
In a widow’s attic bedchamber, First Senior Lirenda wakens once again, restlessly entangled in her bedclothes; and the dream that spoils her sleep is the same, of a man’s green eyes imbued with a compassion deep enough to leave her weeping and desolate in the icy chill before dawn…
The clansmen are breaking their fast, Arithon nowhere to be found, but Steiven's son Jieret is curious.
And finally, the caravan master that Arithon stole his horse from, in exchange for his pin, is upset. Some guy, a greybeard in maroon, asked him for the pin and he just gave it to him. He can't understand why.
Hey, dick move, Sethvir. This guy was the victim here. You could at least have given him some MONEY for the pin. Or a new horse. Hmph.
Anyway, the chapter ends here.