butcher and Prince Arithon’s bane
,
Lysaer s’Ilessid loosed his gifted light
Sixty score innocents writhed in white flame
for miscalled mercy, blind justice, and right.’
Halliron’s tones dipped and quavered, searing the pent air with images of horror and tragedy. His lyranthe in an unrelenting, lyrical sorrow bespoke senseless waste and destruction. In Deshir, by design of the Mistwraith, the extraordinary talents of two princes had collidedto devastating losses, with nothing either proven or gained.
‘This day, under sky unthreatened by dark
,
the Etarran ranks march to kindle strife.
Headhunters search the wide woodlands to mark
one fugitive who owns no wish to fight.’
The last, slashing jangle of chords rang and dwindled in dissonance.
For a suspended moment, nothing stirred. Only when Halliron arose and made his bow, then bent to wrap his fine instrument did the shock of his weaving fall away. Listeners paralysed in unabashed tears cracked into an explosion of talk.
‘Ath’s own mercy! What a skill! The lyranthe herself was made to weep.’ A belated fall of silvers clanged across the boards by Halliron’s stool, mingled with a few muted bravos. The Masterbard had not played for an encore; no one held doubts that this ballad had been his last performance for the evening. Though one maudlin fieldhand shouted for the bar wench to bring out spirits, the rest of the patrons arose and pressed, murmuring, toward the tavern door. As the room emptied, a woman’s tones pierced through the crush. ‘Had I not lost my jewels to those murdering clan scoundrels in Taernond, I could almost feel sorry for the Deshans.’
Dakar simply sat, eyes round as coins fixed morosely on the hands that cradled a tankard of stale beer. In time, some minutes after Halliron had retired upstairs to his room, Medlir arrived, and sat down, and unstoppered a cut-glass decanter. He produced two goblets of turned maple and poured out three fingers of peach brandy, the rich smell piquantly sharp in the heated sea of used air.
One the bard’s apprentice pressed upon the Mad Prophet; the other, he nursed for himself.
In companionable sympathy for a well-timed escapeto the stables, Dakar sighed, ‘These folk will go home tonight and maybe think. By tomorrow, over sore heads, they’ll say the Masterbard must have exaggerated. Deshir’s barbarians are best off dead, they’ll insist, and shrug off what they heard entirely when the next Etarran wool factor passes through. What did your master hope to gain?’
Medlir swirled his brandy, his face without expression and his eyes veiled under soot-thick, down-turned lashes. ‘Why care?’
Dakar bestowed a shrill hiccup into a pudgy, cupped palm. ‘You met my Fellowship master, so you said.’
Strong brandy could make anybody patient. Medlir waited. Presently Dakar tucked up his stockinged feet and propped his bearded chin on one fist. ‘Well, you’ll know Asandir’s not the sort to be lenient when he’s crossed.’
‘No wonder you’re driven to drink.’ Medlir hooked the flask from between his knees and refilled Dakar’s goblet. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing,’ Dakar said. ‘That’s my problem. That bastard of a sorcerer, the one the Deshans fought for? I was sent off to find him, and save him being mauled by his enemies. But let me tell you, Halliron’s ballad aside, if you’d met him, you’d cheer Etarra’s garrison.’
Medlir took a sip from his goblet, leaned back against the trestle, and closed his eyes. ‘Why so?’
‘He’s crafty,’ Dakar said, fixed on the sway of the bar wench’s hips as she made rounds to darken the lanterns. ‘Secretive. He doesn’t at all take to company that’s apt to meddle in his business.’
‘And what would his business be, do you think?’ Medlir asked from the darkness.
Dakar stuck out his lower lip and choked through a spray of fine spirits. ‘The Fatemaster himself only knows! But Arithon’s a vindictive
,
Lysaer s’Ilessid loosed his gifted light
Sixty score innocents writhed in white flame
for miscalled mercy, blind justice, and right.’
Halliron’s tones dipped and quavered, searing the pent air with images of horror and tragedy. His lyranthe in an unrelenting, lyrical sorrow bespoke senseless waste and destruction. In Deshir, by design of the Mistwraith, the extraordinary talents of two princes had collidedto devastating losses, with nothing either proven or gained.
‘This day, under sky unthreatened by dark
,
the Etarran ranks march to kindle strife.
Headhunters search the wide woodlands to mark
one fugitive who owns no wish to fight.’
The last, slashing jangle of chords rang and dwindled in dissonance.
For a suspended moment, nothing stirred. Only when Halliron arose and made his bow, then bent to wrap his fine instrument did the shock of his weaving fall away. Listeners paralysed in unabashed tears cracked into an explosion of talk.
‘Ath’s own mercy! What a skill! The lyranthe herself was made to weep.’ A belated fall of silvers clanged across the boards by Halliron’s stool, mingled with a few muted bravos. The Masterbard had not played for an encore; no one held doubts that this ballad had been his last performance for the evening. Though one maudlin fieldhand shouted for the bar wench to bring out spirits, the rest of the patrons arose and pressed, murmuring, toward the tavern door. As the room emptied, a woman’s tones pierced through the crush. ‘Had I not lost my jewels to those murdering clan scoundrels in Taernond, I could almost feel sorry for the Deshans.’
Dakar simply sat, eyes round as coins fixed morosely on the hands that cradled a tankard of stale beer. In time, some minutes after Halliron had retired upstairs to his room, Medlir arrived, and sat down, and unstoppered a cut-glass decanter. He produced two goblets of turned maple and poured out three fingers of peach brandy, the rich smell piquantly sharp in the heated sea of used air.
One the bard’s apprentice pressed upon the Mad Prophet; the other, he nursed for himself.
In companionable sympathy for a well-timed escapeto the stables, Dakar sighed, ‘These folk will go home tonight and maybe think. By tomorrow, over sore heads, they’ll say the Masterbard must have exaggerated. Deshir’s barbarians are best off dead, they’ll insist, and shrug off what they heard entirely when the next Etarran wool factor passes through. What did your master hope to gain?’
Medlir swirled his brandy, his face without expression and his eyes veiled under soot-thick, down-turned lashes. ‘Why care?’
Dakar bestowed a shrill hiccup into a pudgy, cupped palm. ‘You met my Fellowship master, so you said.’
Strong brandy could make anybody patient. Medlir waited. Presently Dakar tucked up his stockinged feet and propped his bearded chin on one fist. ‘Well, you’ll know Asandir’s not the sort to be lenient when he’s crossed.’
‘No wonder you’re driven to drink.’ Medlir hooked the flask from between his knees and refilled Dakar’s goblet. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing,’ Dakar said. ‘That’s my problem. That bastard of a sorcerer, the one the Deshans fought for? I was sent off to find him, and save him being mauled by his enemies. But let me tell you, Halliron’s ballad aside, if you’d met him, you’d cheer Etarra’s garrison.’
Medlir took a sip from his goblet, leaned back against the trestle, and closed his eyes. ‘Why so?’
‘He’s crafty,’ Dakar said, fixed on the sway of the bar wench’s hips as she made rounds to darken the lanterns. ‘Secretive. He doesn’t at all take to company that’s apt to meddle in his business.’
‘And what would his business be, do you think?’ Medlir asked from the darkness.
Dakar stuck out his lower lip and choked through a spray of fine spirits. ‘The Fatemaster himself only knows! But Arithon’s a vindictive
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