I Read What?!

Last time, Arithon went full pirate and kidnapped his brother's wife. It was pretty awesome.



The chapter starts us with Talith. Oh good, this should be pretty entertaining. And already we start in fine form:

Princess Talith weathered her forced passage to the Cascains with all the ill grace of a brooding goose in a pullet's crate. While she stayed immured in the stern cabin, her handmaid emerged at measured intervals for whining bouts that began with demands, and finished with piteous pleading. The Khetienn's brigand captain should order his vessel about and make port at Los Mar for the sake of her ladyship's health.

Yes, I'm sure they'll do that.

I would normally feel bad for mocking a maidservant, but from what we know of Talith, I sincerely doubt she'd be willing to play at fragility. And also Arithon is a dick.

Indeed:

'She's seasick?' Arithon inquired. Poised at the mizzenmast shroud, his loose-fitted sailhand's shirt fluttered by the east breeze and his feet braced to balance the mild roll of the ship, he regarded the servant's hand-wringing affectations with rapt, disingenuous green eyes.

The recount of Talith's suffering filled a long and tiresome interval. At the finish, while the handmaid blinked in dewy-eyed expectancy, he shrilled a whistle through his teeth, then told the topmen who answered to break out staysails and flying jib. His brigantine came alive, slashing through the swell to a thunderous thrum of canvas, while the sheared spatter of spray sheeted rainbows off her sleek bow.

Heh.

Arithon then tells the handmaid to take Talith his condolences and they'll make landfall that much faster. Honestly, half the fun of Talith and Arithon is watching them be shameless dicks at each other. It's Talith at her most likable, honestly, because normally she's a bully, but here, she's up against someone who is exactly the same amount of asshole.

Dakar observes that Arithon is a "miserable, stone-hearted bastard". Dakar is prone to sea-sickness too, recall. Arithon agrees with him, noting that only the cook doesn't agree.

I'm intrigued by this cook. How does Arithon charm them?

So anyway, we're told that Dakar is having his own fun playing sympathetic ear to the maid, promising to speak in Lady Talith's behalf. To be fair to him, he never promises that Arithon will listen to him.

Oh, we do meet the cook!

While the sniffling maid crept below to attend her mistress, the Mad Prophet retired to the galley. There, much too quiet, he peeled onions for the swarthy little desertman who claimed double pay for the roles of cabin steward and cook. The fellow had a face as inscrutable as a walnut. If a whistling lisp left by five missing teeth made him closemouthed enough for Arithon to tolerate his service, he was an adroit hand with the stewpots. Eager to win the man's contrary confidence, Dakar outdid himself as an unctuous, smiling toady.

The cook simply sucked in his crinkled lips and kept on dicing salt beef with a nasty, hooked dagger he had won playing dice with a fishmonger. For all that extended passages were a rarity since Desh-thiere's mists had repressed the finer arts of navigation, the nomads born to Sanpashir's black sands were wizards at knowing which seasonings and spices could sweeten the taste of turned stores. Caught out in chagrin, again and again, Dakar found himself side-tracked from his probing to the chore of slicing lemons and garlic.

The cook was not forthcoming on his views of the Shadow Master's service. Exhausted from failed subtleties, Dakar lacked the nerve to ask outright. The princess herself was off-limits. His earlier brashness replaced by sullen wisdom, Dakar knew precisely when not to trifle with Arithon's affairs.

I like this dude.

Anyway, Talith is apparently miserable, drawing the curtains shut, and uses too much lamp oil, causing the sailhands to complain. Arithon just metes out brutal work and sea drills to quiet them. He doesn't visit Talith at all.

So when they reach their destination after four weeks of travel, Talith decides to make an entrance:

The eastern horizon glowed gold and pink as the lip of a conch shell on the morning the Khetienn nosed in at slack tide, over glassy black waters to seek anchorage. The rock cliffs that hedged the twisty, narrow channel loured, lidded in fog, above her mastcaps; her sails sliced rust-red reflections through the bubbled trail of her wake. No one troubled to inform the princess of the landfall. Her only warning the sour reek of weed washed up by waves upon the rocks, Talith arose and called her handmaid to attend her grooming. Etarran to her core, enraged to frozen spite, she regaled herself in the magnificence of her most imposing court velvets. None who beheld her would fail to mistake the significance of her station. Beside her state jewels and her stylishly rich dress, her husband's half-brother would appear the insolent saltwater ruffian.

She intends to catch Arithon in disarray: with tar rimmed black underneath his chipped nails as he sent his men aloft to stow sails.

I'm not sure why Talith cares that much about nails. Perhaps she's a manicurist at heart.

But don't worry, you can't out-asshole the king:

Instead she found him ready at the companionway to escort her, clad in a green doublet of impeccable light silk and a shirt of unwrinkled, pale lawn. The sable hair worn to sea in a sailor's club had been freshly trimmed; his hands were manicured, and his smile, bright mockery amid the tanned planes of his face.

The setback did nothing for Talith's brittle mood. She hung back in the shadows and swallowed a public explosion better suited to a dockside harridan. More ways existed to jab a man's pride; no male alive had ever dealt the last word. Against this one, she would need all her claws.

Seriously, I really do find these two entertaining.

He also adds a bit of taunt:

As she let herself be ushered into daylight, her captor made a study of her armour of velvets and jewels. A sardonic smile turned his lips. 'My dear, how lucky for you I keep such a tight rein on discipline. You might stall a man guessing to tell whether there's enough of you underneath to make the effort of stripping drapery worth a rape. But as you say, we're a desperate pack of thieves. If I ran my command like the Arrow, I'd break up a half-dozen fights just to see who got to cut your throat to loot your jewels.'

A matched glint of fight in the depths of her eyes, Lady Talith raised her chin another notch. The combed honey coil of her hair made her lashes and pupils seem a sooty, unnatural black. 'Trust a man to mistake discipline for crude intimidation,' she said. 'Am I meant to be impressed?'

'You're meant to be cowed,' replied Arithon, never more serious. 'But who expects that in a princess?' His critical regard raked her over again, to an exaggerated flick of amazement at the sparkle of her bullion chains, and the twisted strands of seed pearls caught like drizzle against the nap of her velvets. 'Are you truly as hot as you appear? At least shed your mantle. Indigo makes your colour look washed out.'

Talith returned a magnificent glare. 'Is my pallor not the fault of your beastly ship? If I'm kept in duress in trade for Tysan's riches, I'd expect you'd have some care for my well-being.'

Arithon handed her up the companionway. 'You'll have no pity from me for cooping yourself up like a broody hen. My cook assures me your appetite's been truly remarkable for an invalid. I scarcely need mention it's been calm enough for chess nearly every night you've been on board. Lady Talith, your beauty's enchanting, I admit. But you'll need to lie better to gain my respect for your wit.'

I'm going to make a sincere effort not to excerpt ALL of their dialogue, as this would be an incredibly long review if I do. But I really do enjoy this. Especially Arithon's surprising leaning toward fashion design. (Though as I recall, I think he recommended a fabric for Jinesse too.)

There's another setback. They didn't make landfall at a habited location. There's no wharf, gangway, or gate that will accommodate her skirts. Also no audience except the sailhands.

Most maddening of all was the Shadow Master's wry joy at her side; then his words, touched in flint to spark her temper. 'My sweet sister-in-law, it's a delightful privilege.' His hands grasped her waist and slung her up in a frothed spill of petticoats until she rested face-down across his shoulder.

Hah. Anyway, they make it to Arithon's little outpost.

His outpost held little beyond a scraggle of tents strung between what looked like the yard of a furniture shop. Small stools and benches and a vehicle that looked like a dogcart lay scattered about in various states of completion. The shoreline was littered in shavings of yellow pine, and the fishy, sour smell of the natural air twined through a cloying reek of resin. The chips were going to cling horribly to velvets.

Talith's not having a great time. But Arithon lays down the law:

Arithon clipped through the lewd comment with a line like a forge-heated blade. 'May I present her Grace of Avenor. She is a princess, as you see. Every man in her presence may bow with the courtesy due her station, or else answer to me later for his insolence. And docked pay for all, a day for each minute the last of you stands idle.'

Arithon's a pirate, but he's a civilized pirate, damnit.

Arithon isn't completely a dictator though, as the men banter back and forth about the benefits of kneeling vs. ogling. They do clear the way though.

'High drama and low comedy,' Arithon said, a pricking spark to his humour. 'We may not be refined, but you can't say you'll lack for entertainment.'

'And which sort is this?' Lady Talith stabbed back.

Hehe.

But there's bigger news. Erlien's messenger is here and surprisingly formal. He's brought horses and cattle. And more. Caolle's arrived to train the mercenaries and so is Jinesse and Tharrick.

Arithon's concerned but the scout has a warning:

The scout shrugged, his footfalls preternaturally quiet as he picked through the wood scrolls silted across the path by the wind. 'That's yours to determine. My lord bade me warn you. Both have fallen hard for Lysaer s'Ilessid's opinion of your morals. The man's yours, despite his squeamish conscience. But the woman's a brittle, dry stick. She followed you only for her children.'

That's not entirely fair to Jinesse, I think. From what we saw, Jinesse wasn't actually swayed by Lysaer at all. She is worried about her kids and wants them safe with her. That's completely reasonable. She's not much different than the s'Brydions when you think about it, but she's smarter than they are. She knows that siding with Lysaer would make things even worse.

So anyway, we then get Talith's view of Tharrick and Jinesse:

The hinges creaked open to reveal a room with a bare table and chairs. A blond, bearded man perched on the unglazed windowsill, his frame strapping and broad as a mercenary. He clasped the hand of a woman in a mousy brown dress who looked nervous and drawn, hair like fine flax tumbled in broken strands around her temples. She gave a timid start at the Master's forceful entry, reached her feet in a worried bound, then froze. Her eyes swept his person, plainly surprised by the rich sheen of silks that forced recognition of royal rank.

Aw.

So Arithon, dipshit as he is, comes in playing aggressive.

Unwilling and unwanted observer, Talith felt pity for her discomfort as Arithon swept aside her stammered greeting. 'Here I am, black as night in Sithaer and shedding blight like last season's leaves. At least, Erlien's scout tells me you believe all the fashionable rumours.' Lightly as he stopped, his tense stance presaged unpleasantness. 'If I'm evil, then make me repent.'

The male confidant in the window shot straight in protective shock. 'For pity, man! She's been worried sick for her children.'

'They're her offspring, not yours, Tharrick,' Arithon corrected. He took another step and leaned on fine knuckles against the tabletop. The faintest ring of horror shuddered through as he added, 'In Ath's name, you know me. What harm did you think I would do them?'

The pale woman swallowed. 'I don't care to survey the mire of your conscience. I came to fetch my twins clear of it.'

'Fetch away,' Arithon quipped on a thin snap of anger. 'Your children aren't infants. Place your boy in service to s'Ilessid, and he'll spend his next years polishing guardsmen's boots and eating table scraps. He'll learn the art of war. Obedience will be his only trade. If he's quick, if he kills well, he may become an officer. If he's not, two shirts, a sword, and an early death will be his lot. Will you be proud to weep at his grave site?'

I still say that Tharrick and Arithon should become friends. Tharrick seems to understand him in a way that few others do, and doesn't hesitate to call him a fucking idiot.

And as mentioned, they're not giving Jinesse enough credit. She'd intended Fiark to have an apprenticeship with a weaver in Shaddorn. It's honest and free of Arithon's influence.

Arithon challenges this idea. He knows the kids well. Fiark's thing is numbers. Feylind is no good with her hands at all. (She's farsighted and her brother threads her needles.) Feylind's talent is sailing.

There's a nice note where Talith admires Jinesse's obstinacy. I don't think Talith has ever been in a position to admire anything about a peasant woman before.

Anyway, Arithon brings Fiark in. He's grown:

Fiark stood on the threshold, puzzled and motionless as he blinked to adjust to the gloom. The moment framed him, a gangling lad with overlarge fists and skinned knees, his spill of flaxen hair tumbled over a tanned, untroubled brow. Stronger and straighter than the day he left Merior, his direct blue eyes held a self-confidence as fresh as the sunlight at his back.

'Mother?' he said, reverted in a breath to boyish astonishment. He stepped into the shack with a heart-tearing mixture of restraint and joyous abandon.

Glad as he was to see Jinesse, he started as she knelt and swept him up, three months of worry compressed in an overpowering, tearful embrace. His high yelp of protest was smothered in brown muslin, and the wrestler's move he engaged to tear free was not at all couth or forgivable.

Unfortunately, he's eleven, and right at that age to get antsy. He already knows his mother's plans to apprentice him and he doesn't like it. (Subtextually, I wonder if this was a factor in why the twins ran away to begin with.)

Arithon gently suggests that he knows an honest house in Innish that would train Fiark as a trade factor. They're aging with no heirs.

Jinesse's response is...definitely a mother's delusion here:

'You have no pity and all the answers,' Jinesse said through tight emotion. 'My son was always difficult, but Feylind was obedient. If she's changed, then you've warped her trusting disposition to your purpose. You turn the young, so they say. I saw you use my son against me now. I know your cause is bloody war. I am going to take my twins and leave this place, and never speak your name to them again.'

I mean look, Jinesse is their mom. It IS her decision in the end, and she's not wrong about the dangers inherent in being in Arithon's presence. But Feylind? Obedient? REALLY?

Arithon calls her out here:

Arithon regarded her, opaque, wholly still; chillingly unlike the fair Prince of the West, who once came honestly and openly to her cottage in Merior to offer his clear-eyed consolation. Black-haired and shadowed, Rathain's prince said, 'Blame whatever you like on me if you can keep your peace of mind. But if you dare to know your heart, I rather think you'll find I'm a damned convenient crutch as a criminal. Condemn me out of hand, and you have the perfect reason to keep your children tied to your petticoats.'

In the end, Jinesse's family issues predate Arithon's arrival. He was a catalyst of course, but the sparks were already there. Jinesse's husband was dead and she'd forbid the kids from going out to sea in a town where EVERY SINGLE PERSON made their living out there. And they were miserable and acting out. She IS using him as a scapegoat, what with the "Feylind was always obedient" crap.

Talith and Tharrick are the audience here, and we're told that even a stranger like Talith could see that Arithon isn't wrong. But it's difficult for Jinesse. Fiark would be safe in Innish, but both she and Arithon know that for Feylind to learn her trade properly, she'd have to stay with him.

Arithon does remind her that she has his signet and pledge. This does mean something. Enough that both immediately lash out at each other.

The reminder hammered Jinesse like a visible impact. 'You know my twins were all that stopped me from sending Lysaer's galleys after you.'

Arithon shrugged. 'As a brother can love, so can he hate. Lysaer, also, will use what falls to hand.' Her shocked expression snapped him to a rust-grained turn of irony. 'You didn't know? He's my half-brother, and fittingly legitimate. He finds the attachment annoying, but I see no point in hiding facts. The Prince of the West has his own soiled linen, but you won't find me parading in the public eye to gain an army.' With lancing sarcasm, he ended, 'As Dakar will surely snatch his chance to tell you, I snare children instead.'

We know Jinesse is lying. We were with her after Lysaer came. But Arithon does enjoy a dramatic reveal.

And if you think about it, it's actually one of his best weapons against Lysaer. Not so much here, with Jinesse and Tharrick. They were never going to be Lysaer's people. But it's a weak point for Lysaer. A chink in his armor. And it's possible that for SOME people, ones interested in truth and family, this dirty little secret may just be relevant. (It's easier to die for a grand cause than a family squabble?)

Tharrick intercedes here, sensibly pointing out that they can discuss the future later. Arithon doesn't have to tear out her heart.

But Jinesse has always been smarter and stronger than given credit for:

'He's sure if he doesn't I won't give my twins space to grow.' Distraught but not witless, Jinesse pushed away the needed offer of protection. 'Let me be. I have to think.'

Arithon tells them that Feylind should be at the landing (and actually we may have heard her catcall when Talith arrived.) So they go.

Talith weighs in when they're gone:

'I grant you the point about the children,' Talith said with quick contempt. 'What can we victims do but admire the diabolical cruelty of your lessons? You have no mercy in you. My husband is well justified to hound you to your death.'

Of course Arithon has a retort, but it's less interesting.

So what is the difference between mercy and compassion when it comes down to it? It's an interesting question, and I think maybe it comes down to motivation. Mercy is a gift from a benefactor. In a way, it's a symbol of power. I spare you because I can do that. It's a demonstration of strength.

That doesn't make it a bad thing, of course.

But compassion is different than mercy. Compassion is a connection between people that goes beyond individual power. A weak man may never be in a position to show mercy, but he can be compassionate. He can shelter and share what he has.

Besides, what Talith is talking about here isn't really mercy. It's not mercy to watch a family suffer. And while Arithon's overstepping a LOT here, it's also true that the twins ran away once. They could do it again.

We do learn that Jinesse had her reunion with Feylind and it was tempestuous. Unsurprisingly. She uses foul language, but not too loud: Arithon would make things unpleasant for her if he knew she was using ugly language to her mother.

Poor Jinesse does talk about the weaving thing, but the kids are not on board. Feylind thinks it's dull, and Fiark would rather count and trade goods. Ultimately, it sounds like she's not completely against the idea of the trade factor for Fiark, though she is waiting in "pallid patience" to demand more facts about this family. She is absolutely (and understandably) opposed to Feylind signing onto the Khetienn as a cabin girl.

Feylind has an idea though, and I love this description of her:

Feylind met the last dory, bearing Arithon. Oblivious to any need for tact, a swagger to her step meticulously copied from Captain Dhirken, she rushed through the falling dark and seized his hand. 'You said Talliarthe is due in with dispatches. Let me take her out when she arrives.' She tossed her head, insistent, the braid down her back like a glistening rope of oil in the flicker of freshly-lit torches. 'I must show my mother I can navigate and reef a sail. When she sees what I can do, she'll understand.'

Arithon thinks she's not strong enough to do it herself, but he's got an idea of how it can work: "You can captain her. Give all the orders. Fiark will go, and Tharrick, and one of the Khetienn's sailhands for muscle in case a gale blows in out of season. If your mother gives consent, you can thread the mazes to the strait and come back. Fifteen days. After that, you understand, I can't do any more. What happens must become Jinesse's decision.'

I appreciate that while Arithon is willing to be the bad guy to Jinesse and Tharrick directly, when he's actually talking to the kids, he's all "Look, it's your mom's choice."

And another important story beat here:

'She'll let me go,' Feylind declared, her young face determined.

Arithon returned a grave shake of his head. 'She'll do what's best.' He worked himself free of her adoring grasp, a twist to his mouth that was wry and sadly tender.

A snag of light in a royal sapphire spun to sudden movement in the gloom; Lady Talith, as observer, whirled and fled. She had no desire, ever, to see this man vulnerable. He was her dedicated enemy, and Lysaer's bastard nemesis, a sorcerer born and bound to clever reiving. Her husband insisted he used children as a ploy.

If his compassion for the feelings of the little ones stemmed from falsehood, Talith would avoid the temptation to let his wiles sap the bastions of her hatred.

The thing about Talith, as I mentioned before, is that for all that she's short-sighted, self-centered, ignorant and arrogant both, she isn't and has never been weak. She might melt to Lysaer's charms, but she doesn't worship him. That said, she IS loyal.

And the next day, when Arithon's gone to do some Arithonian thing, she gets to work.

(There's also a pretty amusing exchange where her handmaid complains that Arithon must be using spells to make his men "work like slaves for an absent master." Talith is annoyed to admit that it's just discipline.)

So Talith scouts, and talks to people. At some point, Jinesse, Tharrick and the twins go off on their adventure. So Talith dolls herself up good:

In a dress cut down from its former state magnificence, unjewelled, but fitted at the waist, she ventured out as though to take the air. She gazed at the sky, the worked wood, and the workers' muscled bodies with all the sultry boredom she could muster, and was surprised.

None of them gaped in smitten lust.

What glances she received were not even curious, but snatched behind her back in irritation. Not every man was impervious; the rare few who were fidgety under her regard would redden and turn fumbling with their tools. One fled outright to take shelter in the privy. But even that fellow came back determined, and assiduously refused to look at her. Badger though she might with her stunning allure, like salt in a raw sore, if she lingered too long, or raised a skirt to rub her ankle, a tougher-willed companion invariably came to ask her victim for unnecessary help with a measurement.

Discipline.

Eventually, she gets info out of the blind splicer, Ivel, who basically tells her that Arithon was very clear to the men what'll happen if they don't "ignore the pride o'manhood in their breeches". The actual orders was just not to touch her. But the men decided that if they ignored her in a pack, it'd be easier to avoid temptation.

I rather like this subversion of the Helen of Troy trope. It's not that Talith isn't incredibly beautiful. Ivel even admits that, from what he hears, she's a sight to steal men's reason. But that's hyperbole. Men are perfectly capable of making rational decisions and checking themselves, and that's what's going on here.

And it completely sets poor Talith aback. Her beauty has always been her greatest and only real weapon.

Talith blinked, set aback. 'Are they men at all, and not animals, to so dread the loss of their manners? Or are they gelded by fear, to give over their male right to act as they please? Why should they cast off pride? It's for the whim of another they abstain from their basic human comforts.'

Oh, Talith. That bit of dialogue tells us so much about life in Etarra. I'm so sorry.

But Ivel does tell her something useful. The men work for Arithon for money. He has hard demands, but he's fair. That allows her to plant the idea in Ivel's mind as she claims she'd give all the jewels she owns and her gold braid to escape this place.

And indeed, her planted seed bears fruit. Ivel comes to find her later, with four men who had planned to leave the area and are willing to take her with them. They've got their own little fishing vessel that they're repairing. They'll leave on "the dark moon" and she's to bring her jewels and keep her handmaid quiet.

To her credit, Talith does think about that young guardsman that helped her out of Avenor and his fate. Talith makes her own additions to the scheme. The handmaid will stay behind and pretend she's ill. Meanwhile, Talith will cut her hair and leave it as a bolster.

Anyway, we're told that the "cutting edge of competence so well enforced by the Shadow Master became strikingly effective, turned against him" and the escape goes off without a hitch. To add insult to injury, Arithon's silk shirt is now being used in strips to muffle the craft's rowlocks.

Talith is delighted, but less so when she learns they've named their craft "the Royal Freedom". Their plan is to make port in Havish and beg sanctuary. It will, unfortunately, be a long trip. Talith says, for her husband's honor and revenge, she'd endure worse.

--

THe next subchapter is On Manners:

It's a Lysaer bit. He's been very busy spreading the word of Arithon's history. The s'Brydions are here too. I rather like the Duke's description here:

Impatient under flittering candlelight, a note out of place amid gold-leafed panels and glossy, tessellated marble, Duke Bransian s'Brydion of Alestron paced, still jinking in rowelled spurs and a surcoat blazoned with his family arms. The cloth was fine silk, but stitched over in patches where hard campaigns had sliced rents in the weave. A man who only shed his mail at night to sleep, and then solely behind guarded walls, he faced the window as Prince Lysaer entered. The imprint of steel links bitten into the nap of the mayor's velvet padded chairs betrayed the number of times he had arisen and sat again. The waxed gloss on the floors showed scuffs from his trips to doorway and casement to peer out.

(Miscellaneous note: brother Parrien has stayed behind. Apparently his new wife is quite willful and has determined that he's not permitted to go anywhere until she's bearing. I like her already.)

Bransien expresses some sympathy over Talith, and notes that Lysaer doesn't look shattered. Lysaer can't afford to be, of course, and he needs Alestron's help to defend the supply lines.

They've figured out that Arithon's probably in the Cascain islands. And that he's probably training archers. Bransien is impressed:

The duke's furred eyebrows gathered over the bridge of his nose. 'That's a sharp move. Very.' The territory had no roads, no ports, no safe harbours; not even trees to break the weather or hide scouting forays and encampments. 'A defender's paradise,' Bransian allowed. 'You'll see your men get picked off like a lady's wing-clipped song sparrows.'

'We'll have the numbers to expend, if need be,' Lysaer said. His own hands, arranged in laced stillness on his knee, did not tremble a hairsbreadth. 'But if the losses become severe, our morale won't last if provisions aren't kept on schedule. I have other cities willing to shoulder the burden, but none who won't suffer the predation of Shand's clansmen. Any pack trains through those wilds will be moving bait for covert raids and ambush.'

Notice how Lysaer is concerned about morale, rather than the lives themselves. For his part, Bransien seems less than pleased with Lysaer's obvious plan to use their clan-blood as a shield.

Lysaer clarifies that he thinks that Bransien can speak the Earl's language. But Bransien points out: he's Melhalla's liegeman, not Shand's.

Oh...here's interesting:

But Lysaer had studied his history. 'Melhalla has no surviving royal line and by legitimate birth I'm maternally descended from Shand's last crowned high king.'

Hm, while it's true that Lysaer probably does have the better claim of the brothers - legitimacy doesn't seem to matter, but birth order may (I think. It's interesting that Lysaer, Arithon, and Eldir of Havish are only children in their respective paternal lines.) But if I remember Arithon's meeting with Erlien, that claim may not go well.

And indeed, Bransien says as much:

Bransian laughed. 'Ath. Make that claim to Erlien's face, you'll risk your twice-royal neck.' He swung his huge bulk from the casement, his bearded chin jutted in combative humour. 'You have steel, prince, I'll give you that. It's true. Lord Erlien's unlikely to wish a brangle between his fighting strength and mine. I'll agree to hold your supply lines with one promise from you as condition.'

They then have their own version of a staring contest:

Lysaer showed him a tolerant smile and said nothing, nor moved in impatience.

The silence stretched into brittle tension, then grew weighted. Bransian's eyes glittered. His quiet transformed to intangible, coiled menace, until the street noise beyond the casement and the cry of a late-going water hawker would have caused a lesser man to flinch.

'Dharkaron's avenging Chariot!' the duke said at length. His bristled poise departed in a strong, fluid stretch, then rebuilt as he cracked the knuckles in his sword hand. 'You haven't a live nerve in your body.'

So anyway, Bransien's condition is that his troops and half his garrison must be at the forefront in Vastmark, and Alestron's officers must share a voice in the war councils. There's a political reason for the last part: as clan, they're sworn to Melhalla's royal charter, which means that they never serve under another realm's prince.

Interesting. Lysaer accepts the terms. But later, behind closed doors, he's less calm about things:

There, in words that carefully masked his relief, he excused his last, hovering servants. Behind locked doors, alone, he threw off his restraint. He paced, hollow-eyed, across and across the rich carpets. No one, not even his personal valet, was permitted to glimpse the unquiet strain upon him since the day his lady fell captive. When he tired, but could not sleep, he sat long, aching hours, lacing together fraught nerves.

This night, like many another before, bled slowly away to cold light. A renewed spill of silver woven through by the stainless, sweet notes of birdsong heralded yet another dawn. Lysaer knitted back his facade of self-control and prayed that his stamina would last through the hours until he could retire again in solitude.

Aw. I'd feel for you, but you're a genocidal asshole waging an unnecessary war. But this is interesting actually:

The fear never left him, that his hold on self-mastery might crumble. A chance word, a careless expression, a wrongly pitched word or inflection might reveal the buried depths of his anguish. The prospect was unthinkable, that anyone beyond Diegan should discover the true depths of his love for Talith.

I feel like this is less about the curse, and more a lesson as the son of his father. And it feeds into his overall character momentum. He cannot be perceived as flawed or human.

And Lysaer thinks about his father:

The misfortunes inflicted by the s'Ffalenn pirates throughout his childhood had taught him not to wallow in his losses. Unlike his father, who had vented his frustration in unconstrained rages, Lysaer sought his ease in the measured, reasoned calm of sound statesmanship. As a forced play of strategy, Talith's abduction must be turned to something more than a blow to his heart and pride. Handled with boldness, he might seize a backhanded advantage and turn the affair into the linch pin of his plan to win back crown rule in Tysan. One bitter spark of gain could be salvaged out of disaster.

--

The next sub-chapter is On Mayhem.

Here, we join Dakar and Caolle. The latter is training the new recruits. The former is watching. There are men and women among them, and Caolle is an exacting master. Arithon's there too. He's won them over through being an asshole basically, and is sharing knowledge of field healing and assisting in close quarters fighting lessons.

Dakar is...thinking.

Like the cat crouched to size up its victim, Dakar weighed words and actions, prepared to pounce on discrepancy. The freedom he longed for required hard evidence. Asandir and the Fellowship must be shown the unseen pitfall, if in fact the princely compassion displayed through a child's failed healing masked some deeper subterfuge, a diversion to shield a manipulative mind bound to a course of mass destruction.

If Arithon was by nature the criminal Prince Lysaer had pledged to eradicate, Dakar would lay bare the truth.

A few chapters ago, Wurts gave us a parallel situation with Lysaer and Dakar. Both men are exposed to a truth that they can't conceive of. Both men react with rejection and denial.

But unlike Lysaer, who has since dismissed the Brotherhood from his mind, except as potential threats later, Dakar is still thinking about things.

Dakar is FINALLY trying to evaluate the entire circumstance. He's collecting evidence, even granting that he has a conclusion he desperately wants to prove. He is at least LOOKING.

For his part, Arithon's transitioned from his fun camaraderie with the archers to "unswerving competence." He does his brooding in solitude. (" Dakar would see him walk the ridges in the silver fall of twilight, wrapped in deep quiet that masked thoughts. One attempt to follow was repulsed, first by words, then, when spoken daggers proved insufficient, for the task, by the incontestable, bared length of a sword.")

Arithon also discusses with the elders what they intend to do with the gold from the ransom. Scholars and books. New stock for ponies. A post courier and a trade wharf, so they can run their own trade as opposed to having city factors and brokers skim off their own cuts.

Dakar admires the method: many of the young men will die in the war, but there will be long term, permanent change and improvement to their lives as compensation.

The bad years might cease to be remarked for their tragedies, the future set free from killing hardship. Babes would no longer grow stunted from malnourishment, nor lambs die from salt shortage, nor injuries mend badly for lack of sound treatment and healers. Dakar penned notations and pledges of agreement, unable to decide if the move stemmed from clemency or genius.

There's enough to the promises to show that Arithon has a plan, not just words. But of course, they have to win the war.

Rathain's prince gave her truth, unflinching as rock, and strive as Dakar might, no flaw in the grain could be found in his masterbard's sincerity.

'We could lose.' Arithon clasped the woman's withered fingers, his entreaty mingled with humility. 'If that comes to pass, I can promise I'll be dead. Not only your tribes in Vastmark will suffer. The peril behind this curse is the Mistwraith's latent threat, which I'm bound by blood oath to answer. I must make my stand somewhere. The mountains here are too formidable for outright conquest. Of all peoples, yours are most needful of change, and through hardihood, the likeliest to survive.'

Arithon also admits that if the warhost IS broken, the best he can hope for is maybe a year's respite to find a haven off shore. ("He gave no false assurance, Dakar took sour note, that the conflict would end here in Vastmark." I love how disgruntled Dakar is here.)

Some weeks later, Arithon and Caolle discuss. Caolle says they're good people. They'll be ready. But Caolle thinks they need experienced men to bolster the ranks. Caolle wants to bring in the clans.

Arithon's reluctant, but Caolle has an edge here. They're not in Rathain, they're in Shand. If ERLIEN wants to nose in, Arithon can't deny him that right. And he might, since Lysaer's been recruiting headhunters.

Aw.

The quality to Arithon's silence changed character, a subtlety Caolle at long last had learned not to miss.

'Liege,' he said in odd gentleness, 'this won't be the same sort of fight as Tal Quorin. This time, you're going to win.'

I wonder if it occurs to Dakar that Caolle knows the truth about the Strakewood events...

--

Anyway, Arithon and Dakar head out after that. And Ms. Wurts decides to share Arithon's outfit this time:

On foot, clad in a wide sash, knee breeches and a shepherd's shirt with tailored cuffs that Dalwyn had woven from wild flax, Arithon lent a disarming appearance of frailty. Beneath wind-flicked tangles of dark hair, his expression reflected the careless ennui of high breeding, the features, sharp-faceted marble. Disadvantaged by the glare, his gaze on the circle of herdsmen looked half-lidded and lazy.

Oh, Arithon is out to provoke today.

'Daelion's Wheel,' swore one in soft reverence. Black-eyed and lounging, muscled as an alley cat, astride a hammer-headed dun, he gave a low whistle. 'I've a small brother could span that pretty wrist with naught but one finger and a thumb.'

Alight with pure mischief, Arithon inclined his head. The glance he awarded rider and horse was brief to the point of insult. From his vantage on the sidelines, the Mad Prophet winced, his teeth set unpleasantly on edge.

'Your brother's not present?' Arithon asked, his politeness dipped to acid clarity.

The man who had challenged gave back a slow grin. 'He's not.'

'Well then,' invited Arithon, 'since you're no small fellow, why not show me in his stead?' He extended his forearm.

...are you flirting?

Anyway, Arithon basically causes the dude to topple out of his saddle, then uses the guy as a step stool to steal his horse. As one does. Arithon's off giving orders.

I rather enjoy this following exchange though:

Hawking up grit between curses, the man blotted a scraped chin. 'Fiends plague!' He grimaced in wry admiration. 'How was I to know I was set to shake hands with a snake?' He worked his jaw, discovered his lip split, and spat out the metallic taste of blood. 'Dharkaron's pity on me if that one treasures his grudges.'

'He doesn't,' Dakar volunteered.

The clansman stared, pity in his dark eyes. 'The claim of hard experience? Poor man! What binds you to his service?'

But the root of that question had grown tangled and deep beyond the pull of a sorcerer's geas. Caught without ready answer, Dakar retreated into silence.

I definitely think that dude was flirting.

And I think maybe Dakar starting, slowly, to work some things out.

That's very inconvenient timing though, as later, Dakar's gift decides to make an appearance.

He saw no fire, no clan scouts, no stewpot. His flesh stung and his ears roared. He beheld the sweep of a wintry hillside razed brown by bitter frost; and felled in dead bracken, that same royal profile, racked by the agony of a death wound. The place was Vastmark. The season wept a dismal cold rain on the scene, and the water splashed lichened ground, stained from the blood that welled between Arithon's fingers. Around his prostrate, shuddering form, a fast-fading tracery of phosphor.

Dakar's captive senses strained after the phantom glimmer of what might have been a dissolving chain of spell seals.

Then the place where Arithon lay dying folded and spun into itself. Darkness followed, ripped through by another strand of augury: he received a whirled glimpse of Morriel Prime, matriarch of the Koriani Order, hunched like a web-making spider above the amethyst gleam of the Great Waystone.

Well, I guess they get their rock back. I wonder if I can blame the Fellowship for this as well. Bet I can.

To make things worse, Arithon's the one that steadies and supports him.

'Ath forfend!' Dakar ground out. He coughed back bile and squeezed his eyes shut.

'Steady,' Arithon said above him. Another touch smoothed back the ruck of hair sucked against his locked teeth by his gasping. 'Steady. You're back with us now.'

Dakar manages to get out that Morriel is no friend of Arithon, which Arithon already knows. And we actually get some backstory for Dakar:

That sight made Dakar weep curses. Pity he had no use for; all his life, his wretched fits had felled him as they chose, ever to the ruin of his happiness. At seven years of age, when he had foretold the fever that would come to kill his mother, his family had rejected him from fear. Maturity had brought him no succour. He had no way to avert the vision's burning grip, but could only flee into dissolute habits that blunted the impact and the pain.

At least while drunk to incapacity, he could escape the vice of moral dilemma that prescience ceded to his conscience.

Ooof.

Then Dakar has a thought:

The Mad Prophet clamped his arms to his chest to still the waves of his shuddering. Not even Althain's Warden would expect the threat unearthed in the surge of tonight's surprise augury. Through fear and discomfort, a wicked thought bloomed: Dakar could have smiled through his sickness. For once in his born life, his wretched gift of prophecy had lent him an advantage he could act on. The power he had longed for, the means to escape an unwanted service, had been dropped at his very feet.

The life of the s'Ffalenn prince he was spell-charged to partner lay in his hands, to cast off or spare as he chose.

At a stroke, Desh-thiere's curse could be sundered. Another royal friend could be redeemed, his spirit won back from the meddling inflicted in the course of the Mistwraith's confinement. The tragedy of that hour could be reversed, when the Fellowship had chosen Lysaer s'Ilessid for the sacrifice to buy the fell creatures' captivity.

So now, Dakar's evaluation has become very important, because Upon Dakar's sole judgment lay the power to forewarn, when winter sleeted rains on the sere hills of Vastmark and the Shadow Master faced his last reckoning.

--

Later, Arithon and Dakar talk. Dakar asks why Arithon doesn't just take the Khetienn and run, like initially planned.

And Arithon doesn't have a good answer. There's a warhost at his back, that's going to march, plunder villages, tumble farm girls whether he's there or not. Can he just sail off and abandon them.

Dakar points out that this means he'll lure the misguided people into Vastmark instead. Which leads to some honesty.

'Shand's villagers never asked to take part in this feud.' Arithon moved, reached, hooked a moss-grained stick of brush, and broke it in sharp, short cracks between his fists. He pitched the bits in fierce bursts at the firepit, and flames leaped up, greedy, to consume them. 'If you're wanting to weigh how much Desh-thiere's curse affects my decisions, I admit, to my sorrow, I don't know. I had friends at Innish and in Merior. Each one came to suffer for my acquaintance. Wherever I go, pain and trouble will follow. I can wear out my conscience trying to sort what's best until I've lost the will to keep living.'

Dakar waited, unrelenting; and the anger he expected bloomed finally and spurred the s'Ffalenn prince to his feet. 'Why not keep things simple,' Arithon said in that cutting malice that could jab, and distance, and raise hackles. 'Let's say when Khetienn sails, I'd rather know for certain just what sort of weapon I'll be leaving unsheathed at my back!'

But not too much honesty.

Dakar gets his own moment of contentment for once:

The Mad Prophet closed his eyes, euphoric enough to feign sleep. After years of being bullied and made wretched through his shortfalls, he had gained his sweet opening for revenge. His enemy's planned future lay proscribed by fate. Whether the brigantine built at Merior ever crossed uncharted waters to buy a reprieve from Desh-thiere's curse, she would never depart now, except through Dakar's personal leave.

Seriously guys, have you considered hate sex.

Or well, complicated emotions masquerading as hate sex? It'd be fun!

The subchapter ends with some annoyed clan scouts realized that they've been won over in spite of themselves, and are now taking care of cows for a prince that isn't even their own. Hee.

--

SO, the sneak peek:

1. Tharrick and Jinesse have made up their mind it seems, as the poor seaman of the Talliarthe gets tied up. Tharrick is apologetic, but notes that Jinesse wants the kids beyond Arithon's plans. Fair enough. (the dude will still be able to sail back.)

2. Oh no. The Black Drake is riding at anchor, only to be surrounded by five armed galleys from Alestron, "to close in and entrap her bold captain as the known cohort of Arithon s'Ffalenn".

3. A fleet of galleys flying s'Ilessid's royal star are bringing the bounty to Eldir's court.

The chapter ends here. AND I AM WORRIED.