I Read What?!

So last time, Jinesse and Arithon had their standoff, Talith made good on an escape, and Dakar had a vision of Arithon's death!

So things are set up to be rather exciting.



So our chapter starts with Talith, still making her escape on the aptly named "Royal Freedom" fishing smack. It's twenty-five days before the ransom, and they've been taking a hell of a trip over the last few weeks. But she's in good spirits:

Mewed up in a hold still redolent of mackerel, and tired of salt meat and green cheese, Lady Talith knelt on damp blankets and combed her fingers through the dirty, cropped ends of her hair. By nightfall, she would be free. She could find a room at an inn, and ask for hot food and soak out her itches in a bath. To be clean again, to walk on plank floors that did not heave at each step, anticipation made her want to sing aloud. Laced through the taint of tar off the ships' rigging, fugitive gusts through the hatch wafted tantalizing scents of baking bread. She picked out heavy incense, and the ripe, earthy smell of dry land. Through the slosh of rank water in the bilges, she drank in the sounds of a harbourside beyond view. The indignant slang of fishermen vying for right of way wove through the wind-snatched cries of hawkers, each with his baskets of salt crabs, or trinkets, or ripe cherries, ferried between ships in oared lighters.

As usual, the descriptions are vivid.

Los Mar was a worldly port built at the junction of a land route. Although the settlement had been but a fishing village at the time of the high king's downfall, when the royal port of Telmandir downcoast had been overset into ruin, the caravan trade brought in wealth. The city had libraries and scholars, and learned men from across the continent knew the beauty of its illuminated manuscripts.

A woman alone should have no trouble hiring horses and an escort, and finding suitable lodging at an inn.

So Talith is triumphant. She's beaten "the Master of Shadows" and "[b]y her own design she would see herself restored to her husband's side at Ostermere."

The Freedom's captain makes to escort her out, and she attempts to pay him her silk pouch of jewelry, and that's when things get interesting:

Before she could protest, he upended the hoard. Rubies, sapphires, citrines and pearls spilled in a tumbling swathe across the rude ticking of her berth. The uneven flare of the tallow lamp nicked sparks out of dimness, each stone a fleck of coloured fire as the seaman stirred through the collection. 'You'll need to hire yourself a retinue,' he chided. 'You can scarcely travel, either, clad in the pitiful rags of one gown.'

At Talith's exasperated silence, he gave a sly chuckle. 'Your Grace, for plain truth, we were leaving the Cascains anyway to try our fortunes elsewhere. Your plans fell in through sheer luck. We'll take due reward for the service, but not all the jewels you own.'

She really has worked her spell on him. Though one could wish he didn't send her jewels/money flying across the room. Anyway, he takes the gold braid that she'd removed from her gowns as payment. Oh, and he hadn't made as much of a mess as I thought. The rest of the jewelry is twinkling on a blanket.

'Keep your baubles,' said the deckhand. 'For the leavings off your dresses, we're content.'

Touched by the unexpected sense of honour shown by the seafaring rogue, Talith scarcely minded that his hurried, last instructions involved patience and more waiting aboard the Royal Freedom.

This is pretty entertaining. Who even SAYS things like that with a straight face. Anyway, the guy tells her that an associate will come at night, with decent attire, to see her on her way.

And indeed:

The princess glimpsed a male figure in dark clothing pass in silhouette against the sky. Despite the encumbrance of a package beneath one arm, he slipped into the hold with a grace that stunned for its dreadful, uncanny familiarity.

Talith's foreboding exploded to viperish anger. 'You!'

'There's a greeting that could never be mistaken for a fish.' The intruder paused, his negligent fingers left braced on a rung as he sketched her a courtier's bow. 'Welcome to Los Mar, princess.'

Oh, you glorious asshole.

But really, Talith should have seen this coming when the ultra disciplined men who worked for money refuse her jewels for "the leavings of her gowns"?

Riled pink in humiliation, Talith snapped, 'You presume rather much, your Grace of Rathain! Tell me, what would you have done if I'd lacked the courage to escape?'

'Courage? Escape?' Arithon paused through a soundless breath of surprise. 'But the format was your own device. My men had simple orders. They were to bring you and your private stock of jewels here to Havish by my appointed date. Since they were bound to leave my service for reasons of their own, I asked them to take you willingly. Am I to blame if your enterprising nature made their crossing a joy to carry out? It's nobody's dark secret that Ivel's entertainment is snide observation and deceit.'

Masked in darkness though he was, his stifled ring of humour was unmistakable. 'Keep your driving obsessions as you like, lovely lady. But if you stay angry and hard bent on hatred, you'd best be prepared to become somebody else's ready tool.'

Hah, so it was a set up all along. Which makes sense. Poor Talith is so used to scheming that she never even bothered to wonder if it was all a little too easy. And once more, I love the Arithon-Talith dynamic.

'Your usage of people is ungenerous, if not unforgivably base.'

'I exploited what faults you presented to hand,' Arithon corrected, unruffled. He tossed his burden on the blankets, then moved on by touch and spiked a fresh candle on the dribbled bracket of the sconce. The new flame he kindled lined his lingering, wry malice as he added, 'I know of no ties that bind you to mistrust. Don't confuse me with your husband, my dear. I've never loved a weakness that can be nurtured into dependency.'

Ooof.

And actually, let's think about that line for a bit. "I've never loved a weakness that can be nurtured into dependency."

Because that's it. That's the real difference between the brothers and their approach. That's the secret of Lysaer's appeal and why he treats the fact that he loves his wife and has a bastard half brother as dirty secrets that he won't dare reveal. Because Lysaer's charisma works best on the weak. The townsfolk who overthrew their social superiors and never got over the fear of retaliation. The headhunters seeking to legitimize ambush and genocide. The little fishermen caught up in a legendary battle. The people of Jaelot who used petty power to abuse a bard. Diegan and his ilk.

Lysaer makes them feel brave and he makes them feel special, but in the process, he encourages their adoration and worship. They need him. Or at least they feel like they do.

Arithon does everything he can to avoid people relying on him. THAT was why he rejected Tharrick so sharply in the first chapter. THAT's why he was so harsh to Jinesse about Fiark and Feylind. If he'd taken a different approach, he could have won them completely. But that's not what he wants from them.

It cost him Merior and Innish. Despite his performances there. Despite his good deeds. By avoiding connections, it became easy for most of the population to forget the music, to forget that Arithon once helped repair some kid's arm. They are ripe for Lysaer's spell.

But Jinesse and Tharrick weren't. They're strong people. Strong enough to fight against Arithon's machinations, but without being foolish enough to fall for Lysaer's pretty stories. They make their own decisions.

What about Talith? She's not the brightest bulb, but she's got a strength of will. We've seen that Lysaer's beauty and charm disarm her. She "needs" him. But is she dependent on him?

Stung deep by that unpleasant truth, Talith endured the stilted interval as her tormentor bent to her rumpled berth, retrieved his parcel, then slipped the knots of its wrapping."

And now that's interesting too, isn't it? An unpleasant truth.

Anyway, so what did Arithon bring? And I really do have to be careful that I'm not excerpting this whole damn chapter:

Inside, folded neat from the tailor's, lay a dress of magnificent tawny silk, roped in sapphires and pearls. To the last gem and setting, the ornaments were the same ones she had paid to the seamen as reward for her passage. Arithon plucked up a fold of saffron fabric and let it slide in a sensuous ripple from his fingers. 'You'll receive the rest of your bullion and gems along with a wardrobe to replace the one you mangled. I will not be accused of petty thievery,' he finished. 'It's demeaning. Your ransom will cover the seamstress's fees, and leave plenty left for my mercenaries.'

...sometimes Arithon's dickishness is utterly breathtaking, isn't it?

So anyway, poor Talith is now installed on the Khetienn, in quarters "befitting her station", as they head toward Ostermere. As they leave the harbor, she notices that the Royal Freedom has already departed. Interesting.

So we time jump ahead to seven days before the solstice. Arithon docks at Ostermere's wharf. King Eldir's delegation waits. And we get some good description here.

Present at the quayside, bunched under cerecloth awnings sagged awry by the damp, King Eldir's delegation waited to acknowledge the arrival. The young king had his pride. He maintained propriety despite unfavourable conditions. Beside the equerries attendant upon their liege, and the muscled bulk of the realm's champion in his ankle-length surcoat and mail coif, the welcoming party consisted of Havish's High Chancellor, lean as a hard run hound, and distinct in his disdain for sodden velvets. To his left, the ministers of Ostermere's trade guilds flocked in ruffles of wilted lace, three of them stiff as sticks, and the fourth, merry-faced and corpulent, but sniffling and blotting his reddened nose in the unkind gusts off the sea. The caithdein of Havish, Lord Machiel, stood a half pace aside. Least troubled by wet, he presented a broad-chested, imposing presence in the traditional unrelieved black. He had a wedged, balding head that once had been blond, and about him still the wary stance of a man unforgetful of his forests and the threat of stalking headhunters.

The sovereign he stood steward for was square-jawed and serious, a brown-haired young man of twenty-two. Eldir's straightforward nature set small store by the dragging weight of Havish's royal tabard, with its gold hawk blazon and embroidered pleats of scarlet silk. The king might have worn a labourer's woollens, for all the care he paid his massive jewels. An heirloom band of ancestral rank crowned an earnest brow, lined now in a faint, troubled frown.

Poor Eldir, getting wrapped up in the brothers' nonsense. There's an interesting possible continuity glitch here. Arithon's mentioned as being clad in the "costly restraint" that he'd worn with Talith earlier. But I thought his silk shirt had been used in the rigging. Of course, I suppose there might just have been extra silk? Anyway, he escorts Talith over, and we get a nice moment of contrast:

Runoff from the awning fringed the air in between as he made his bow, acknowledged prince to foreign sovereign, before King Eldir's staid person. The pair could not have been more unlike: Havish's crowned ruler all stuffed finery and unpolished, granite directness, the Shadow Master before him slim and poised as killing steel, his green eyes glinting with self-mockery.

This look at Eldir, who represents a very different style than Lysaer OR Arithon makes me wonder what the other family scions were like. The s'Ellestrions and the s'Ahelas. Though, to be fair, we met the latter. "Foresight" my ass.

Oh god, I NEED to stop with the excerpts. I genuinely do, but one more:

As Havish's High Chancellor cleared his voice to intone a memorized, formal greeting, the Master of Shadow met Eldir's level glance, then cut in with ice-breaking honesty. 'I think we can dispense with the language. Your weather has summed things up neatly. No doubt, given choice, I'm the last living spirit a king should welcome to his noble realm of Havish.'

Eldir's firm lips twitched in surprise just barely curbed. Too practical to hold the remark as anything less than plain truth, he did not smile as he said, 'My realm has survived the Mad Prophet's misadventures. What could you bring that's any worse?'

Arithon's smile turned wicked. He moved, swept the flat of his hand down the dripping fringes, and in the interval while the waterfall lessened, drew the lady fully under cover. 'I bring you the wife of Lysaer s'Ilessid.' He slipped her slender fingers into the hand of Havish's suddenly flustered young high king. 'Princess Talith, once of Etarra.'

Heheheh.

Eldir is indeed rather stunned by Talith's "tawny magnificence." He can't even respond when Arithon admits that Dakar is actually in this delegation too. (He's overseeing a "royal gift"). Eldir laughs and greets Talith gracefully, with a bit of a sly challenge to Arithon. Unfortunately, the challenge falls flat, because something else catches Arithon's attention.

Crammed like wadded rag between the jewels and damp velvets of state panoply, Sethvir of the Fellowship stepped forward. If the Sorcerer had chosen to be last acknowledged, the effect of his presence was profound.

Arithon s'Ffalenn's veneer of manners cracked away. His face turned ice pale, and his movement, pure reflex, drove Eldir's ministers to fly back as though he jumped them with a knife.

But the sharp surge of speed that dropped him to one knee before that robed and bearded figure held no threat, but only abject humility. 'Warden,' said Arithon. 'Sethvir.' Then, Masterbard though he was, his throat closed; speech failed him.

The fucking fellowship ruins everything.

Also, seriously, no. Arithon. No. After everything they've done, and will do to you. To Lysaer. To Eldir. To Maenalle and Jieret and everyone else. You do NOT have to kneel to this motherfucker. No.

But actually, this moment is pretty fucking powerful. And yes, of course, another excerpt. The rest of this review will be summary, I swear.

The Sorcerer he addressed raised a fragile hand and traced his crown of black hair. As though the prince asked his audience in private, he spoke. 'We should fear, you think? Since your strike at Minderl Bay, the Mist-wraith's geas has deepened its hold and grown worse. Your suspicion is well founded. At each encounter, its curse becomes more troublesome to manage.'

'You do see,' Arithon said, muffled. He looked up. The wells of his eyes were open and wide, his expression unmasked before horror. 'This exchange for the ransom could launch a disaster. If you ask, I could leave at the outset.'

And of course, of course, Dakar isn't here to see this part. But Eldir and Talith are. And indeed, after Sethvir reassures him that they're guarded...

Too late, if Rathain's prince now strove to mask how he cared, that the chancellor's glance turned cold in reserve, and Eldir's courtiers kept their marked distance. To Talith's trained eye, seeking weakness in an enemy, that incongruous moment of sacrifice rocked the very roots of her conviction.

Of course. Of course.

So we shift the scene to discuss Eldir's rule a bit. For once I won't excerpt this, because I want to leave some of this goddamn chapter in the goddamn book. He's in his fifth year and things are still a bit uncertain. There are some emerging factions. There are young ladies vying for his attention, but there hasn't been any favorite candidates yet. (Though apparently ones with no interest in scholarly pursuits have been gently placed at the back of the line, so to speak.)

He's made progress. He subscribes to the original charter. He has fair taxes. He's made edict against clan raids and repealed bounties for clan heads, causing the headhunters to disband. He's got guardsmen patrolling trade routes, day labor restoring paving, and is slowly winning back some of the isolated settlements in Lanshire.

Gosh, amazing what someone can do when they're actually from this place, aware of the major issues, and not constantly being simultaneously manipulated and undermined, FELLOWSHIP.

Eldir has bigger plans now: restoring the clans from exile, restoring the ruins at Telmandir for them. And the townsfolk and mayors are antsy. And now, of course, there's Arithon, stirring up things with his presence.

By the way, we learn that Arithon's gift is ten mares and a magnificent silver-grey stallion. And we're told that Eldir exacted his own "grave style of revenge" against Arithon's insouciance, by showing no favor and letting his courtiers circle the man and sate their interests as they will.

Sadly, it doesn't work. (As Talith could have told him.) Arithon is weaponized assholishness, and very capable of using that in a social setting.

Eldir regarded the blunt failure of his retaliation and the stunning rebuff of his courtiers with his cleft chin parked on steepled fingers. His eyes stayed peat brown in thought. 'Your prince is dangerous,' he said in outright judgement to Sethvir. 'He has no heart in him at all.'

'Do you think so?' The Warden of Althain moved veined knuckles and set a bread crust to one side, unmindful as his transition from vagueness left the ends of his beard in peril of wicking up gravy. 'I should venture, instead, what you see is a man too long hunted.'

Eldir notes that his cathdein isn't like that. But Sethvir points out that the clan steward "only stood guard for his life" not his spirit. He decides to demonstrate.

FUCKING REALLY?

He beckons Arithon over.

Insignificant as the gesture appeared, Arithon saw. For the Warden of Althain, he came in willing, incongruous respect.

'Ostermere's court has established no patronage,' said Sethvir as Arithon paused beneath the dais. 'The treasury's too scant and the trade ministers are uncultured. His Grace has no titled bard in residence.' Althain's Warden finished in a bracing rebuke that startled Eldir to attention. 'If you won't make conversation, I charge you by your office. You owe this court the music you were made and trained to share.'

Arithon's carriage hardened to chiselled anger.

In the face of s'Ffalenn rage, that a half-breath might trigger, Sethvir gave a smile that unstrung his victim for sheer pity. 'It hurts. I know this. I ask in Halliron's memory. This realm is neutral, and I believe the old master would not have your name be reviled on false grounds. You will play and leave nothing to the mercy of unkind hearsay.'

Wow.

This is pretty fucking assholish, Sethvir.

(Hey, remember how the Fellowship is all about consent?)

But okay, I AM very amused by the idea that Arithon must now play incredibly beautiful music in order to expose his pure heart to the world. Because Wurts has a kink.

They get him a lyranthe. (Halliron's is safely aboard ship. Arithon wasn't about to risk it.) And how does it go?

His skill tore their hearts, bled them white, and then bound them, effortless as wind, in haunting sweet resonance like coins thrown down through a rainfall. He made them cry tears for sheer joy. His was a talent not seen on Athera for more than a thousand years, Sethvir admitted through the salt-damp folds of his napkin. When at the last, silvered string was damped still by the bard, the court had been wooed and won over.

They had seen the jewel in their midst in all its rare splendour, and no matter how thankless its cutting edge, nothing could make them give it up. Rathain's prince would have no surcease now, however he bristled and snapped.

It's so purple, it's downright amethyst. And I suppose, to be fair, this is the one time the Fellowship has actually done something to help the guy. Even if I still think their idea of consent is a fucking joke.

But it does have an effect on two people in particular:

Talith had climbed the stair to clear her head. Beside the bench she chose for refuge, swathed in borrowed cleric's robes, the Mad Prophet stood with his elbows stubbed against the marble rail and his knuckles matted through his beard. The irony caught the princess's notice, that the man the pair of them tracked like choice prey was the inimitable Prince of Rathain.

Like Talith, Dakar seemed to ache for a fact intrusively, even desperately denied: that Arithon's viciousness stemmed not from cruelty but from too terrible a gift of compassion.

'He strikes out because of his vulnerable heart,' Talith shared in dismay to the rotund prophet propped by the cushions where she sat, silk skirts farmed about her like frost over glass in stilled shimmers of pearls and embroidery. 'Why should you wish to pull him down? I have my husband's royal honour to defend. What reason do you have to hate?'

'The same, nearly.' Dakar hunched his shoulders, her perception unwanted as the prick of a rapier at his back. 'Prince Lysaer has been my best friend.' He ducked his spaniel head, palms ground into fists for his inadvertent slip into past tense. That brush with conscience was too painful. Revile his nemesis though he would, a small girl's dying had branded itself into memory. Whatever Arithon was, or was not, his care for one child had been genuine.

'If he's acting,' the Mad Prophet promised, 'if he takes just one step awry, he shall receive the full measure he deserves.'

Whatever veiled threat lay behind Dakar's statement, Talith found she had no wish to find out.

...

It occurs to me that Talith and Dakar are in the same boat. Dakar still, to this day, considers Lysaer his best friend. And while that might be true, that's more a testament to his depressing life than it is Lysaer. Lysaer was the primary viewpoint character for a lot of Mistwraith, and he barely tolerated Dakar. If he was close to anyone, it was Arithon himself.

And then Talith...

I think that Lysaer, as he is now, believes that he loves Talith. But we saw that very revealing reaction when Kharadmon revealed her capture. When he dismissed her, basically accused her of being like his mother. That's his love. That's all the love that he's capable of.

Talith may be short-sighted and a little dim, but she fiercely loves Lysaer. I'm not sure Dakar really loves Lysaer or just the idea of him, but he feels it genuinely regardless. Both of them deserve better.

So the other Fellowship sorcerers are around as well. Or getting there. They're all in agreement that Lysaer and Arithon cannot come face-to-face. To even be in the same city will require precautions. And each confrontation makes the curse stronger.

Minderl Bay was bad. For Arithon too. Unlike Lysaer, Arithon's aware and actively fighting the curse, but each encounter weakens his grip on sanity. He wants Lysaer to be required to send a delegate for Talith, and for once, the Fellowship are being useful. They agree.

They acknowledge that Lysaer won't like it, but Lysaer will just have to suck it up. (Meanwhile, apparently Arithon has taken up chariot racing, which sets the Fellowship on edge. Good on him. Luhaine has an admittedly funny line about how Arithon getting milled over by chariot wheels "was by far not the worst that could happen, against Davien's longevity binding.")

For his part, Dakar isn't worried about Arithon. He knows how Arithon is supposed to die. Which leaves him wondering how Arithon's sudden interest may be translating into war plans. And yeah, he's probably not wrong about that. I look forward to his shock and rage when Arithon reveals his intention anyway.

I like Eldir though, because when Dakar bitches about that, Eldir decides to go right up and ask Arithon. For his part, Arithon points out that Vastmark's valleys are seeded with boulders, and chariots would be far too expensive, fragile, and dangerous to actually be useful in war. He specifically says three ransoms in bullion would be needed to man them.

I like Eldir's reaction here:

An accurate enough summary, Eldir reflected later in private, as his valet muddled over his wardrobe for his afternoon audience to hear complaints. A ruler who liked puzzles, and who never shied off from perplexing, obscure twists of subtlety, the king made mental note of Dakar's warning. Then, he ploughed on to mull over Arithon's peculiar choice of phrasing concerning ransoms in triplicate.

He rightly thinks that a prince who is also a Masterbard would be pretty deliberate with his language. So he storms off to get an answer from Asandir. Who sends Kharadmon off to get Arithon.

Sethvir is busy playing with kittens. Asandir asks if he knew about "this".

Through the uncanny, stabbing chill as Kharadmon drifted by, Eldir saw Althain's Warden give an abstracted blink. 'The ransom?' he said presently. His hands stroked the kitten, which retracted tiny claws and yawned. Then insane glee bent the Sorcerer's mouth, half-masked in the bristles of his beard. 'You don't know? The gold has been stolen, of course.'

Hahahaha.

Okay, Sethvir. The fact that you're willing to completely piss off the rest of your band of assholes has made me hate you marginally less right now.

So Arithon comes up to explain shit.

His dark brows flicked up, but not in surprise. 'You've heard the ransom was waylaid,' he surmised without pretence of apology.

'Dharkaron avenge!' Asandir exclaimed. He snatched a chair for himself. 'You had better have your reasons, prince, for no one of us will spare you from punishment.'

'My royal oath,' Arithon gave back in rapid-fire reply. 'The one I swore in blood at Athir that avowed I would do anything in my power to survive.'

Eldir, amazed, saw Asandir of the Fellowship succumb to a wine-deep flush. The words he forced out were beaten metal. 'Go on.'

I'm sharing this mostly for the satisfaction of seeing Asandir hoisted up by his goddamn petard. Also, who the fuck gets to punish a king?

Sethvir on the otherhand is pretty supportive, as long as Arithon's careful enough not to be publicly incriminated. Arithon for his part intends to pay his debts, and of course he's cranky about it. But he's desperate to buy time. He may have succeeded.

We get a scene shift. Midsummer. The Tysan armada is landing to all fanfare. No one realizes yet that the strongboxes are empty. The coin is gone. No one can figure out what happened.

The only notable thing was that, at one point, they encountered a disabled fishing smack left adrift. They dragged it on a cable for three days before selling her to island villagers.

Interestingly, Arithon is the one who bought it from the villagers. Per the documents, it's name is "Royal Freedom". Sadly, it can't be presented for inspection, an accident with a lamp meant it burned.

(If Sethvir knew aught of the false planking which must have concealed a thieving crew; whether his earth-linked senses had seen furtive moves at the dark of the moon when men must have crept hand over hand up the fishing smack's cable, to steal into the galley's hold to exchange the gold in the strongboxes for their ballast sand, he proved to be immersed in one of his vacuous dazes. No matter who addressed him on the subject, he stayed patently deaf under questioning.)

I'm reminded of Hustle. Can't cheat an honest man, indeed. (I wonder if Janny Wurts has considered writing a heist-novel. I'd read it.)

--

The next chapter is Signal.

We're with Feylind now. She's angry and upset, and ignoring her mother's pleas for reason. She's been trying to escape her family for a while, but Tharrick keeps tracking her down and bringing her back. And now the Talliarthe is probably too far downcoast for her to catch up.

Fiark is a good comrade at arms, promising that if Feylind does get apprenticed to the weaver, he'll help her escape. Jinesse, overhearing, is scornful. Trade galleys won't take girls. Feylind thinks the future is sail anyway.

But yeah, it's a miserable situation all around. Tharrick, at heart, sympathizes with Feylind, who acts out, singing terrible sea shanties and weeping in protest, before trying to escape again.

And this time, she manages to attract allies. The songs and the clan whistle she gave at her escape had attracted the attention of Erlien's scouts. Tharrick, who'd gone after her, knows he's beaten this time.

She would make a formidable person, Tharrick saw. No weaver's wool-musty shop could ever contain her in safe bindings of yarn and soft thread.

He needed no threats from armed clansmen to accept the final outcome, that the widow must be made to see reason, to untie the apron strings and let this twin go. 'Take her,' he said to the scouts. 'See her safely to his Grace of Rathain.' Then, to Feylind, man to woman, he added, 'Girl, sail the seas with my blessing.'

The smile that lit her fair face became worth all the world, even if it broke her mother's heart.

That said, it's not all lost. Tharrick himself has realized that he's long lost his taste for war. He realizes what he DOES want to do. And that's take Fiark and Jinesse to Innish. He can work for that factor Arithon knows, guarding the warehouse, and help Jinesse rebuild "her broken home, and her hearth, and her misplaced contentment."

Aw.

--

The last subchapter is Sorrow.

Here, we rejoin Lysaer, who is upset. He knows full well what happened to the gold. He recognizes s'Ffalenn piracy when he sees it. And yet, with no proof, he's still got to raise the second ransom.

To raise the second ransom, every man in his retinue had stripped himself of wealth. His lady's chests of personal jewellery and the coffers in the armada's galleys had been emptied. Men-at-arms forwent their pay.

On the heels of such sacrifice came Arithon's insolent refusal: payment in gems was unsatisfactory when terms had been set in gold coin weight.

Heh. So that means they have to sell the jewels for far less than their value. And they're stuck. Much to Duke Bransian's irritation.

Lysaer still has his personal presence though:

Except in close council, Lysaer spoke and moved in a patience that captivated hearts; he attended the mayor's private socials. He kissed the hands of ladies and discussed rare books in the gardens with the highborn of Cheivalt. Their children adored his indulgence, clamouring at his knee for the games he had learned in his birth world beyond West Gate.

Diegan alone was not fooled. Behind masked blue eyes, the royal temper raged and flared like leashed lightning.

And his purple prose.

Oh, now, that's interesting though. Asandir comes as the messenger from Ostermere. And with him, Dakar, as Arithon's spokesman. A reunion! And more purple prose!

In the airy chamber shown them by trembling servants, Dakar made his bow before the royal half-brother whose company was more to his taste. 'Your Grace of Avenor, I bring joyful news.' He straightened up, smiling, stone sober and tidy in his best brown broadcloth. 'Your last chest of gold lies secure in King Eldir's treasury. At long last, your princess's hour of deliverance lies at hand.'

Lined in the spill of sun through the window, Lysaer bent his golden head. He could have been a statue etched out in pure light, or the motionless figure of a white guardian from Athlieria, come in male form to spin song in the hour of creation.

'Ath bless!' The spell broke to his whispered catch of breath. Lysaer regarded the pair of streamered stick puppets clenched in his hands for the amusement of the Mayor of Cheivalt's dimpled daughter. His fair, straight profile stayed hard set, as though against nature the dolls' painted faces might turn animate and utter a curse on him; as if night after night in the torment of nightmares, he had heard the same news, only to waken to another cruel setback.

But of course, it's the truth! Lysaer makes his graceful exit from the children and we get a reunion in earnest now.

His pat on the head sent the child skipping off. No longer overmastered by the moment, Lysaer s'Ilessid looked up and gave the Mad Prophet the recognition he craved from a friend he had missed for nine years.

The royal features now were a shade less serene, the stainless, clear flesh remoulded over bone to a leaner, stronger beauty. The blue eyes remained unflawed by shadow. Despite Desh-thiere's curse, their gaze held direct in a way that pierced a man's heart. Only the most searching study could unmask in turn the burden such honesty entailed. The lines traced by private grief and self-sacrifice were masterfully eased over; the relentless, lonely imprint of a fair-handed sovereignty contained in majestic reserve.

Dakar turned aside, torn by regret that duty denied him free choice. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered.

Okay, and here we're going to have a pretty large excerpt. Because THIS is interesting:

Lysaer's formality thawed into smiling, sunny pleasure. His warm regard noted the neat clothing and anxious care Rathain's envoy displayed in his behalf. 'You look properly bludgeoned into the role of a courtier.' He arose and clapped Dakar on the shoulder. 'By this, I presume I see a man in crying need of a drink. What's your preference in this heat? Ale? Beer? Fine claret?'

Struck speechless that footing still existed for amity after four years in liaison with an enemy, Dakar allowed himself to be swept into step as Lysaer gestured for his bodyguards to stand away and allow them a moment of intimacy. 'You have my promise, the stores on my galley will admit you to paradise without pain. Indulge yourself as you please while I see to my leave-taking. After that, we'll find time to talk.'

Dakar swallowed back discomfort, his love of rowdy drinking a dangerous habit to encourage on the occasion of Talith's ransom. 'You don't ask of your wife,' he said, stung to more sharpness than he meant.

Lysaer stopped, spun, faced him in all his matured splendour of restraint. 'She's healthy and unharmed?' At Asandir's spare nod, he produced a magisterial smile. 'I can lodge no complaint, then. As a hostage, her needs would seem adequately met.'

And suddenly, there's a new comparison to be made:

Shamed to embarrassment, Dakar kicked himself for a fool. As Arithon's envoy, he was no likely candidate for Lysaer's easy confidence; yet the emotionless language of statesmanship rankled. Unthinking as the first, sliding step through a pitfall, he recalled Arithon at the wharfside in Ostermere. On his knees, Rathain's prince had voiced warning to the Warden of Althain, his horror and fear in full public view without care for political expediency.

Cross-grained, viciously defensive when imposed upon, Arithon s'Ffalenn masked no secrets behind mannered complaisance.

Dakar fell to brooding. Unaware of Asandir's speculative interest upon him, he endured through the seamless courtesies as Prince Lysaer discharged his debt to the mayor's household. He found he could not smile at the quips. Nor did he feel drawn into the camaraderie that bound Prince Lysaer's retinue. The poisonous, creeping, new suspicion refused to be dismissed, that old ties could be used to exploit his recent connections. Strong liquor might be offered to encourage a loose tongue.

And this bit is PARTICULARLY interesting:

The chance to test Lysaer's intentions became lost in the whirlwind as Avenor's guard and servants assembled for swift departure. Pushed aside by the parade of officers seeking direct orders from their prince, Dakar found in distaste he had adjusted too well to Arithon's astringent independence. The fawning adoration of young pageboys; the scrambling bustle of chamber steward, valet, and bodyguards, all tripping over the ship's crew as they vied for position, abraded Dakar's sensibilities. He sought a calm corner where the chatter and commotion would leave him a clear space to think.

A part of me wants to blame the Fellowship for this. Maybe if they'd done as Dakar had wanted, sent him to Lysaer, Dakar would have seen this sooner.

On the other hand, though, I think maybe Dakar wasn't ready to appreciate it until now. Because, until recently, Dakar has always, intentionally been a very weak man. As a spellbinder and apprentice to the Fellowship, Dakar has the potential to be a very powerful person. But he neglects his studies. He has a built in talent that he fears and tries to ignore. He drowns himself in alcohol to the point of an inability to function. He focuses solely on fleeting physical pleasures.

But that's been changing lately. He's stopped drinking to excess. He's refrained from indulging in women. He's been put in a position to regret the lapse in his studies. And he's found power in his vision of Arithon's death.

Dakar will never have Arithon's discipline or austerity, but I'm not sure that we can call him a weak man anymore. And, like Jinesse, like the s'Brydions. Suddenly, Lysaer's charisma isn't having the same effect anymore.

Lysaer is the man who loves nurturing a weakness into a dependency. That's the unpleasant truth that Talith acknowledged, and I think maybe Dakar might be seeing that too.

(Dakar even finds himself missing the brigantines. Admittedly, Lysaer's oarmen are all volunteers labouring in shifts. Lysaer's speech to fire their hearts for swift passage had done little to lift Dakar's spirits. He saw no need for rush, that war could be closed to exterminate a band of Vastmark archers before the onset of winter.)

Diegan defends Lysaer:

'Don't take appearances too much to heart,' he said in reference to his prince. 'He's bled every night since my sister was taken, but in private. No one sees his grief. His Grace refuses the self-indulgence lest his people find cause to lose heart.'

'Cause?' Dakar straightened, surprised by his own vehemence. 'I can't embrace bloodshed clothed over in a mantle of false righteousness. This is no clash of morals you will fight for in Shand, but the drive of the Mistwraith's geas.'

'Do you think so?' Steel jingled as Diegan stretched through a wolfish shrug. 'Then you should be pitied. How dare you overlook the destruction that happened to innocents in Jaelot? Was Desh-thiere's curse the provocation for seven wanton deaths at Alestron? Condone those events and what else have you become but Arithon's lackey after all?'

Oh Diegan. What's that TV Trope? "Nice job fixing it villain"?

Because what Diegan's doing here is no different than Lysaer's done all along. Pushing the narrative of Arithon's terrible deeds to people who have no way to hear the true story. Pushing emotional response over reason.

But Diegan is a moron too. Because he hasn't put two and two together. He doesn't realize that Dakar was THERE for those events. Dakar knows what really happened.

Dakar swore. The truth raised his gorge and half-choked him, that both incidents in their way had been prompted by his own brash faults. Remorse followed, damning him in guilt: for far more than a shepherd child's forfeited life, Arithon had forborne to condemn him. Glad for the night that masked his wretchedness, Dakar took leave of irksome company. The first servant he found he sent scurrying to fetch Lysaer's strongest spirits from the hold.

So Dakar's now attempting to "stun his busy conscience into oblivion with drink".

And it's not working. Because Dakar's not an idiot. And he's not weak. And he GETS IT.

Truth chafed through and sprang stark to the eye. Lysaer bound his following to love and devotion. He was the honed sword, the just light, and the high star to follow. Without the bedazzling example of his strength, like Lord Diegan, the company he gathered to his banner were as men lost. Dakar hiccuped behind a closed fist. He hated deep thoughts when his head pounded. But his maudlin mood kept its terrier's hold; he could not shrug off his conclusion.

A puzzle of subtlety set in absolute contrast, Arithon rejected dependency, spurned even his sanctioned claim to royal ties. He discouraged without mercy the weak spirits who sought to cling. The likes of Jinesse and Tharrick found their need turned around in painful, brisk handling that left them whole and contained in themselves; and enemies found their hatreds used against them.

The spirit who followed the Shadow Master's course in the end acted by informed choice, freely sharing loyalty and respect.

As sorely as Dakar longed for the undemanding warmth of Lysaer s'Ilessid's close company, his yearning came flawed as he played through the temptation of false steps. To take refuge with his friend was to embrace a wrong cause, and hunt down in turn another prince who was innocent at heart of self-blinded delusion.

Desh-thiere's curse had bent Arithon to private subterfuge and flight, not as Lysaer, to raise a public cry to take arms for a misdirected justice.

But that doesn't FIX Dakar's dilemma, does it? Because he CAN save Lysaer from this. All he has to do is let Arithon die.

--

So now it's time for the ransom. And this is done very carefully.

Asandir and Luhaine keep Lysaer and the galleys in one place. Arithon stays in the state apartments of King Eldir, with Sethvir and Kharadmon. This gives them an interesting insight as to the self-awareness of the curse, and the radius of proximity as they keep the brothers apart. They need both princes' gifts to save the world, but every encounter erodes them farther beyond reach of reconciliation.

I wouldn't have thought reconciliation possible at all. For the first time, I'm actually a little intrigued by what the Fellowship might be thinking.

Anyway, Diegan, splendid in white studs and velvet, serves as Lysaer's representative, to collect Talith from Arithon. There's the usual purple prose, but what's more interesting is Diegan's observation of Talith:

Talith looked in good health, if a trifle drawn. Dark eyebrows and lashes framed eyes without artifice, tawny as glints off new brass. Her steps paired Arithon's with unwonted deference, Lord Diegan noticed. Too haughty to be meek, her cream features did not soften to the slightest hint of welcome.

If her spirit was unbroken, her stay with the enemy had not left her unchanged.

But then, we learn that for all this farce has been an embarrassment and inconvenience for Lysaer, he has gotten a little of his own back. Diegan has been charged to offer a small token as a gift, included with the gold extorted.

By design, its strings were not tied. A crescent edge of brass snicked a slice through the gloom as the wrapping fell open. The contents became exposed to the recipient in full public view of the court. Colour left Arithon's face in raw streaks. He needed no second glance to identify the exquisite, engraved cross-staff last seen on the decks of the brig, Black Drake. Off Farsee, for repayment of passage, the instrument had been his free gift to Captain Dhirken. 'You had better say quickly how you came by this.'

'It tells its own story,' Lord Diegan answered in soft malice. 'Another of your collaborators was executed.'

Oh no. Fuck you, Diegan. And fuck you, Lysaer.

Arithon is anguished, insisting, accurately enough, that Dhirken was just someone he hired. She apparently tried to tell them that too. But the cross-staff was too priceless an heirloom, and they decided she meant more to him.

And obviously, they're not wrong. Diegan is elated to realize that Lysaer had "scored an astonishing victory."

But...there are other reactions too:

Talith looked on, startled to a horrified glimmer of epiphany, Dakar hung suspended, while Sethvir raised a hand to forestall King Eldir from a disastrous order to deploy his poised men-at-arms. Yet the ripples of unrest in the background scarcely touched the Master of Shadow.

'I knew the Drake's captain well enough,' he admitted. The steel of his masterbard's discipline unlocked his tongue at last; let him temper useless fury into sorrow.

'If she surrendered her brig, she showed her good faith in the expectation of fair treatment. Your justice betrayed that trust. The ruling which condemned her lay outside of mercy. I repeat, Captain Dhirken had no cause to die for any hired charge I laid on her.'

The Lord Commander of Avenor inclined his head, the sheen of his hair like rubbed onyx in the flame glow and his expression alight in flushed triumph. 'Then, your Grace, take care you befriend no more innocents.'

I think Lysaer may have overplayed his hand here. This might have worked if he himself had been able to strike this blow. He does have that amazing personal charisma after all. But Diegan doesn't have the same talent. Every single person in that room sees the act for what it was. Even before that truly amazing villain line.

Diegan departs, but it's worth noting that Talith casts a fleeting look back at her former captor.

--

So now, Arithon and the Khetienn are gone. Lysaer accepts Eldir's hospitality, so that he can spend the night in "joyful reunion with his lady."

One part of me wants to make a sex joke. But the other part of me is still furious.

But we have a lover's reunion, right?

'Not just yet,' Lysaer murmured in response to Talith's urgent need to speak. 'Let me look at you.' His warm hands roved over the lace that clothed her shoulders, then rose to cup the slant of her jawline. He tipped up her chin and trained a devouring gaze on her face. 'You're more lovely than I ever remembered.'

Talith starts to apologize, but he tells her not to trouble with regrets. But she's not done. She urges him to forget Vastmark and the useless war. She tells him, truthfully, that Arithon's not worth the pursuit. He's got craftsmen, sailhands, half-starved shepherds who support him for no great cause. Lysaer isn't inclined to listen.

The prince decided to make a ceremony of her undressing, and assuage their need to talk through the process. His unhurried hands began to unstring gold eyelets, while his eyes, shaded turquoise, drank her form. 'You weren't at Merior to see, my beloved. But a widow there had her twin children stolen away. A guardsman who lost his rank in the destruction of Alestron's armoury was held captive and horribly tortured. This Master of Shadow you wish to pardon used heated knives to mark his victim.'

'But I did meet Tharrick.' Talith could scarcely forget the scars. 'He told me himself. Arithon had no hand in what befell him.'

A bow slithered undone under Lysaer's ministrations. He worked a finger beneath the fabric and stroked. 'Enspelled by the snake, does the mouse tell the truth? We speak of a sorcerer who corrupts little children and lures them away from their mothers.'

'You speak of Jinesse's twins? Fiark and Feylind?' Talith sat up, the sweet, languid shudder coaxed from her by dalliance cancelled out by distress. 'But Arithon was right. The woman lost her husband. For need and for grief, she wanted her children tied to her apron strings.'

Talith is many things: arrogant, short-sighted, a little stupid. But she's forthright, strong-willed and honest.

This fascinates me a little:

A small thread of chill curled through Lysaer's happiness. He propped his weight on one elbow and regarded his wife, whose allure left him breathless in her unstrung billows of dress lace. 'Lady, beloved.' He sighed, his forbearance framed in gentle patience. 'The Prince of Rathain is nothing if not subtle. You must recall as much from his byplay in Etarra. As well, he's a master at appearances. In ways without parallel, his wiles draw people in.'

We've never heard him use that sobriquet before, have we? "Prince of Rathain" is a legitimacy that Lysaer has never granted his brother before. Interesting that he does it here, with his Etarran wife.

And manipulative, of course. Etarra is in Rathain, and she was raised with that townborn disdain of the possibility of royal return. WHO is Lysaer describing here?

Anyway, Talith admits that Arithon's mind is difficult to fathom. But she's not convinced he's a criminal.

Lysaer tries another tactic:

They were going to want the wine, after all. Lysaer fetched the carafe and filled two crystal goblets. He closed his lady's fingers upon the stem and watched her drink, his sapphire eyes dark with sympathy. 'I was taken in myself once, almost to my ruin. I never told you what I saw in a poor quarter alley the day before the Fellowship Sorcerers tried to crown the man as high king.'

Lysaer set his back against the headboard, then drew her to lean on his shoulder. The hand not tied up with the wineglass cupped her hip as he rested his chin on her crown. 'Arithon once built a miniature ship out of shadow to amuse a pack of knacker's conscripts. They were children, underfed and ill-used. His clever little sorceries made them laugh. I was led to believe he thought no one was watching, and his pity for the young ones made me love him.'

Lysaer spun the fluted crystal in slow turns between his fingers, his eyes fixed in memory, and fine sweat on his brow for a burden that still held the power to chafe him. 'The mask was designed,' he said, deadened by remorse. 'We marched into Strakewood and were slaughtered by traps, by subterfuge, by unspeakable nets of black sorcery. The killing was started and finished by children. They were the bait by which seven thousand townsmen came to die. Too late I understood how this Master of Shadow played upon my sympathies. In deliberate purpose, he made me believe he had a heart and a conscience. Then when the time suited, he used me as a dupe to further his bloody-handed slaughter.'

Talith has her own memory though. Arithon's mask slipping before Jinesse, then Sethvir, and his reaction to Dhirken's death. She suggests to him that maybe what he saw in the alley was real, and the rest was the curse.

Why not, she suggests, withdraw the warhost and wait? The truth will out soon enough, either Arithon will raise arms, or he'll go his own way and bloodshed can be avoided.

Poor Talith. Poor, poor Talith. She thinks she's having a reasonable conversation with her husband.

'Do you honestly believe this campaign is misguided?' Lysaer asked without emotion. 'What made you lose faith in my cause?'

'I saw Arithon s'Ffalenn go down on his knees to plead Fellowship protection from the curse,' Talith admitted. 'I was wrong, before. The crown prince I knew and hated in Etarra was a man I never understood.'

'He's bewitched you,' Lysaer whispered. 'Even you.' He pulled through the clasp of her arms and arose, his gaze still locked to her face. 'Sithaer's blind furies! I don't believe this happened. How many nights did he whisper in your ear to convince you of his innocence at Jaelot? Did he have an excuse for the seven men who burned in the destruction of Alestron's armoury?'

Talith's temper flared at her husband's shocked anguish, and for his assumption as well. 'Arithon s'Ffalenn made no such claim! Nor did he admit me to his confidence. Quite the contrary. We were enemies. But as a woman caught in the conflict between you, I could scarcely hide my eyes and stop my ears! The judgement I've drawn is my own.'

'But of course,' Lysaer said. 'His traps for the innocent are never any less than diabolically perfect.'

"How many nights did he whisper in your ear?"

Talith never learned the whole story, did she? She knows that Arithon and Lysaer are brothers. But she doesn't know how it happened. Lysaer claimed it was rape. Arithon never discussed it.

But Talith isn't just dealing with the curse here, unwittingly, she's also dealing with Lysaer's perception of his mother. And of women in general. And his own lust.

Talith surged erect in a flushed, magnificent rage. 'How dare you!' Her half-discarded gown bared her perfect, rose-tipped breasts. The necklace of white glass at her throat fanned a sparkle at each breath. Unconscious of her charms in the throes of her conviction, she was powerfully seductive, temptation enough to freeze a man's reason and undo him.

Lysaer stepped back, mortally afraid. He longed to stay lost, then trembled for the urge. His honour as prince seemed a strident, dry duty, fed to ripe weakness by the strangling ties of love already spun about his spirit.

In his wife's presence, he beheld his own downfall, and his shocking self-revulsion must have showed.

There's always been this theme in Talith and Lysaer's interactions that I'd commented on before. There was a sense of inequality. Talith would be overcome by Lysaer's beauty, while he seemed almost entirely unmoved by hers.

I think that was better than this.

Talith is horrified and offended. She asserts, truthfully, that he never laid a hand or tie on her.

'Truth or subterfuge, what does it matter?' Lysaer braced his weakened stance on the back of a stuffed chair. 'My nemesis has spoiled your belief in me.'

Her beauty was changeless, unforgettable. The tender need that had made her long months of captivity a living misery to endure coalesced to sharp pain, as a scalpel might open living flesh. The extreme, harsh strength Lysaer engaged to keep from breaking turned his face to a mask of white ice.

Unstrung, not yet unmanned, he clung raggedly to principle. His heartbreak was terrible to witness as he strove to overmaster the bitter fruit of this betrayal. Royal as he was, raised to hold judgement in the face of self-sacrifice, the burden of bloodline had never before shackled him so harshly. Every line of his elegance was racked out of true, his self-belief shaken by mortal passion.

'Oh, my dear!' Talith cried, unable to bear the gulf she sensed as it widened. 'Nothing has changed in my life or my love that ever mattered between us.' She moved again, begging the embrace that promised affirmation, to refound the basis of their union.

Talith, your husband is a fanatic. He doesn't see you as a person. And the idea that you could actually disagree with him about something so fundamental to his world view is something that he can't comprehend.

I'm not even sure that this is something that we can blame on the curse. I feel like this might go deeper than that.

Lysaer cried out. He shoved the chair in her path, one hand raised, while the other fumbled blindly for the latch. Then he reached the door, dragged it open.

He was going to step through. Talith pressed her hands to her lips and pleaded through tears for one word in reconciliation. 'I implore you, don't leave this here. Don't let an enemy stand between us.'

The sight of her, broken-spirited and begging for his sympathy, and yet still firm in her defection, snapped the last of Lysaer's pride. 'Before Ath, how I loved you!' he cried in strangled sorrow.

You're fucking vile.

And of course now, he's flooded with angst. It's as stupid as Arithon's awesome sword angst ever was, but far less harmless or amusing.

For of course, he could not entrust her now to bear his heir. He could never again treasure her unsullied company, nor allow her inside his defences. Not without suffering her suborning influence and the deadly, real chance she might seduce him to abandon law and justice.

Once passion escaped reason, a man could go mad.

Lysaer cursed his weakness. If one fool had been blind enough to lose himself to love, the blame for the turned weapon was an enemy's. Through tears of hurt for his wife's tragic usage, like a litany against demons, the Prince of the West recited the lethal chain of logic that undid him.

'Never gold, you inhuman, soulless bastard. The ransom and the raid, they were all smoke and ruse. Your purpose with Lady Talith was this, and no other: to pierce and to weaken and to level by storm the only exposed place within my heart.'

Notice how Talith isn't even a HUMAN to him, anymore. He thinks about her beauty and his lust, but he doesn't care how she feels. He doesn't give a shit about her pain. It's all about him and the fact that this woman, who clearly loves him, disagrees about ONE THING.

I think this might actually be Lysaer's point of no return for me though.

It's hard, when we talk about Lysaer, to figure out exactly how culpable he is for the terrible things that he does. He doesn't fight the curse, like Arithon does. But it's also not clear how much he knows or understands about the curse. He doesn't necessarily recognize that he HAS to fight it, or that there's something to fight.

Until now.

Because the "temptation" of Talith is that she might actually convince him to let go of his quest. This means that Lysaer, at this point, actually does recognize that there's an alternative that he could pursue. He's not just refusing this alternative, but he's punishing HER for the fact that he may, SOMEDAY, be convinced that he doesn't have to wage a war and cost god knows how many lives.

I'm reminded of the child, Jilieth, and how because of her lack of understanding, her consent had to be obtained in small increments. And in the end, they couldn't get there.

Here, I think we see something similar with Lysaer and his curse. He doesn't consciously understand what's happening, so he can't consent outright. But there are increments. When at the Brotherhood of Ath, Lysaer had a moment where he could see that his behavior was wrong. But that would require an acknowledgment that he had been the monster at Strakewood, and he wasn't willing to admit that. He willingly rejected that enlightenment.

Here, we see Lysaer face to face with someone he theoretically loves, giving him rational and reasonable alternatives. And rather than take them, or even allow them to exist as possibilities in the back of his mind, he removes HER. Because one day, he might be tempted to not cause hundreds or thousands of people to die. And he understands that's what he's doing.

He's willingly rejected the truth. He's willingly rejecting alternatives. And each step reinforces the curse, through his own will.

--

The sneak peek section is Ways and Means.

The first is Sethvir, back to being a dickhead:

Sethvir returns to Althain Tower after an absence of five months and on his doorstep finds Lirenda, First Enchantress of the Koriathain; and to her tartly-phrased demand for the return of her order's Great Waystone, he replies, 'I've been wondering for the past five hundred years when you ladies would trouble yourselves to ask. Why not come in for tea?'. . .

You don't get to pull that bullshit when you didn't tell them you had it. Also, didn't I say when Dakar had his vision of Morriel and the Great Waystone, that I bet I could blame that on the Fellowship too?

The second is Tysan's mayors and trade ministers. They're so pissed by the piracy that they've decided to draft a charter, acknowledging Lysaer's right to high kingship of Tysan, underwritten by signed law.

The third tells us that the royal galley is bringing Princess Talith back to the towers of Avenor, while Lysaer is driving south, with his armies massing on the border of Vastmark.

--

So that was a fun interlude that got dark by the end. See you next week for the next chapter, when Arithon decides to try getting high again. Remember how well that worked in Mistwraith? Yeeeah.