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i_read_whatI'm intrigued by the title for this chapter. The "First Infamy" had been the title of a prior chapter, specifically the one where Maenalle's clan robs Lysaer's caravan. We're starting, of course, where last chapter left off: Arithon and Dakar undertaking a Fellowship mission, with Dakar intending to stab his partner in the back.
So let's see what makes an "infamy".
So we join Dakar as he meets up with the s'Brydion heirs. If you recall, the s'Brydion's have the interesting role of being the only clan stewards who were never deposed just prior to the Mistwraith invasion. Dakar is led to a chamber where the heirs conduct business: a drum tower deep in the inner citadel.
There's some nice description, of course: Despite the neat stool and desk framed with square cupboards for parchments, and library walls lined with a scholar’s collection of books, the chamber was misleading in its air of harmless gentility. Stabbed through the mild scents of papers and ink, a miasma of metal and oil gave warning that weapons were scoured clean of rust in this place more often than scribes penned new manuscript.
Anyway, all of the s'Brydion brothers are present for this meeting. We're told that's true for most things undertaken by this family. They seem impressed by the emeralds. But Dakar doesn't waste any time. He immediately apologizes.
Here's the description for the lead s'Brydion:
‘Sorry?’ Lord Bransian s’Brydion, Duke of Alestron, straightened up, by a head the largest man present. He wore his barbarous, wheatshock hair hacked short to accommodate a mail coif. The beard underneath grew untamed as bristled wire, and the surcoat that mantled his massive breadth of shoulder would have engulfed a lesser frame like a tent. Except for a linked chain of office as old and weighty as his title, he looked every inch the hard-bitten mercenary. His two brows met, scraped iron over eyes flecked like grit stuck in ice.
The other brothers are impressive looking too:
Dakar cleared his throat and eyed the other heads still huddled over the jewel cache. Each had the same mink-brown hair, two tied alike with worn leather, and braided in the antiquated style the old clans once wore for battle. The last crown was cropped as a shearling, except for the lovelock curled in solitary splendour between neat and tapered shoulderblades. If young Mearn looked least imposing in the bull-muscled company of his brothers, his volatile, jumpy reflexes made his presence no whit less dangerous.
There are enough brothers to be potentially confusing, so I'll help:
Bransien is the oldest and biggest, the duke.
Parrien and Keldmar are close in age and almost like twins. They're big. Parrien's the one who is courting someone.
Mearn is the youngest.
They're not sure why Dakar apologizes, as the emeralds are beautiful. But that's just it, Dakar tells them, they're not for sale. Dakar comes clean right away:
Dakar braced his nerve and owned up. ‘The gems were my ploy to gain a private audience, and for an urgent reason. I came to give warning. At this very moment, a spy has breached the security of your secret armoury.’
Well, that gets a reaction. One of the brothers (Parrien) takes the emeralds as "surety" with the intention to impound them until they're sure Dakar's not an imposter. Meh, I have the distinct feeling the emeralds won't stay long in their care. The Fellowship may not care about clans folk being enslaved or massacred, but they definitely keep track of jewelry.
The brothers don't hesitate. They get Dakar bound immediately and start questioning him about the nature of the spy and which city he's from. Dakar is not forthcoming, either because he feels that's one betrayal of the mission too far, or more likely the Fellowship trained him by the same maxim of tell no one anything. Either way, they take Dakar with them to catch Arithon.
Dakar claims to be a craftsman who overheard the planning. He told them because wars are bad for business. They note that there'll be war regardless with whoever sent the spy.
...I'm sure that'll go well for you guys.
Anyway, they make it to the sentries, who have seen nothing. Dakar reveals that the spy is mage-trained and can slip past unseen. The brothers are skeptical as this would mean getting past six guards and twelve locked posterns. But one of the brothers is sent to fetch "Captain Tharrick' and sentries so they can flank their spy.
So they go in. There's more great atmospheric description of murky tunnels reeking of stagnant water, and all along, guards deny seeing a spy. And it's looking less and less likely that Arithon, with his blinded mage sense, would have gotten in. He COULD use bardic technique of course, but that requires sound and here, sound echoes.
Dakar's in a tight spot. If Arithon hasn't gotten in, the s'Brydions will probably turn on him.
I don't actually remember much of this part, but I think I've figured out the trick. We'll see if I'm right.
There's lots of brotherly bickering in this part, by the way. The s'Brydions are all of a type, quick tempered, violent and witty. I didn't excerpt any of it, because except for Bransien taking charge, they're all kind of interchangable.
They go inside. No one's here. Except of course, melodrama:
‘Nobody’s in here,’ Parrien said in cracking, incredulous fury.
Bransian slapped him in the chest to make him quiet. To the prisoner who wheezed at his elbow, he said, ‘How long do you guess your spy’s had access?’
‘An hour or less,’ Dakar answered.
‘That’s if he exists at all!’ Mearn’s stiletto flashed a hot line in the dimness as he snared one of Bransian’s torches.
‘Oh, but he does,’ the Mad Prophet insisted in grim desperation. ‘Be careful, he’s clever as a fiend.’
Then, with a vindication that both maddened and humbled, a bright voice called answer from behind a wedged pile of barrels. ‘Why Dakar, how wonderfully imaginative!’
Hello, Arithon. I'm glad to see you're having fun. And I think my question as to how much Arithon knows is probably answered:
Just beyond sight, the speaker was blithe. ‘What did you trade for my emeralds, my friend? Arbalests? Lances? Shall we count?’
And also:
While the brothers fanned out in a stalking pattern, Arithon resumed his ripping satire. ‘A high king’s crown jewels for a load of tempered steel, or Dakar! Could my life be the stakes that you bargained for?’
I wonder how long Arithon's been practicing this monologue in his head. I bet he was reciting it even while flirting. I still ship it.
So anyway, the brothers try to catch Arithon. Dakar shouts helpful directions. Arithon notes that there's no honour among spies. At some point, he gets to a bow.
Furtive rustles sounded the length of the shelf. The fugitive was moving again. Mearn elected to try climbing, while over the cuirass’s diminished vibration, his brothers traded curses in tandem. Their imprecations were defeated as a banshee shriek creased the air. Arithon had discovered the sheaf of signal arrows. A short recurve bow designed for mounted archers strung and poised in his hand, he watched his first missile silence itself with a vengeful crack a fraction shy of Dakar’s posterior.
‘There’s one from behind, for treachery,’ he chided. The bowstring creaked into another draw. ‘And a second for predictable obsessions.’
The next screamer knifed across the dark, sliced a dry thong, and cut loose a suit of old chain mail. The mass descended, jingling, and snagged Mearn like a cod in a lead-weighted net. Ripped off his perch, he went down. A thump, a grand puff of dust, and a screech of rude words through the bymie marked his landing across the furled canvas of his grandfather’s mouldered field pavilion.
I do like a good turn of slapstick. All the while, Arithon makes blithe commentary about the weapons that he finds, and their condition. At one point, he tsks over dry-rotted bracers, someone had neglected their goose grease.
They chase. At one point, Keldmar lights torches which daze Arithon enough for Bransien to hurl another javelin at him. Arithon ducks back, while the brothers and their men go for axes. But eventually, unsurprisingly, the torches flicker out. And in the darkness, remember after all that the Master of Shadow can see in the dark, Arithon keeps up his blithe commentary. This time offering a warning about getting cocking latches bent.
It's pretty entertaining, this part. The adversaries aren't stupid. They're going about things in an orderly fashion. There's a bit of slapstick when Arithon gets his way, but there's also a bit of tension too. Arithon has the high ground, pun entirely intended, but there are ways that he could fuck up.
‘Entanglements, snares, and misfortune,’ the spy chided in unabashed hilarity; well aware the phrase was borrowed from a ribald ballad about an adulterer’s mistimed assignation, Bransian aligned his gaze to match the sound. A whoosh combed through the air above, knitted through by a soprano clink of curb chain. Caught flat-footed and staring upward, the duke was clobbered by a snaking mess of harness. Half-throttled by the drag of the horsecollar, laced head to foot in oiled strap-goods, he ripped out his dagger and began in frantic bursts to dice leather.
But Arithon does misstep here, and youngest brother Mearn catches sight of him:
A finger of breeze brushed Mearn’s skin. Then his ears caught a telltale creak of wood. A whispered brush of cloth chafed over metal; the spy had alighted from the shelving but a half-pace away from his position.
Mearn dropped his arms in a powerful down-swing. The torches burst back to a dazzle of full flame, and a lithe, compact body folded to one knee under the descent of the hatchet. Black-haired, green-eyed, and merrily sardonic, the spy met the stroke, a sword upraised in each hand. Steel screamed as the hatchet sheared and grabbed on crossed blades braced to guard.
‘Bad luck,’ said the spy on a grunt as the shock knocked him breathless. He let go of his weapons.
Arithon does get away again though, and resumes his merry banter. And that's when they realize what exactly he's doing:
While over the stealthy brush of footsteps, the muted grate of weapons and mail, a soft voice pattered in monologue: ‘Halberds, four score, admirably polished. Daggers for swordplay, eight dozen, boxed. Longswords, less quillons and pommels, two chests’ worth.’
‘By Ath, he’s taking an inventory!’ cried Keldmar in hoarse incredulity.
‘Very good,’ the spy remarked. ‘Only a lunatic would come here to count your nice sharp swords for his health.’ A distinctive, ratcheting clank issued from the bowels of the dark.
Mearn is the one who realizes that he's cocking an arbalist. It's not aimed at them, but the resulting damage does well in hampering the pursuers. Arithon's moved to reciting herbal recipes for some reason. Fuck if I know why, but I'm amused.
There's a point where a lieutenant ends up stepping on an arrowhead. Dakar's the only one who guesses it may have genuinely been an accident. A lot of the havoc he's been wreaking, with the dropping of items, has been to make noise so he can compensate for loss of mage sight with bardic ear.
Dakar’s thwarted spite allowed no admiration, that despite an unpardonable betrayal and a rude disadvantage in numbers, the Prince of Rathain seemed determined to finish the review asked by the Fellowship sorcerers.
...are you fucking kidding me, Fellowship? THAT's the task you sent Dakar to do? A fucking INVENTORY?!
You do realize that people are trying to kill Arithon right now, right?! INCLUDING DAKAR.
Anyway, it keeps up for a while. Suddenly, the shadows lift and we get some genuine, if aborted fisticuffs. But the close quarters and the numbers work against the brothers and the men. Arithon gets away again. And he finds what he's really here to find:
On his feet spitting venom and blood, Mearn blinked. The torches were burning again; or one was. Past the bare frames of the war chariots, limned in a gush of yellow light, the spy held a filched brand aloft in a scuffed and dirty hand. He was staring at the most dearly held secret in Alestron, the great weapon painstakingly created from the proscribed writings left by Magyre.
The culverin was not much to look upon: a mere tube of cast bronze, strapped to a wooden frame conveyed by a harness of pull ropes. Stacked to one side were its missiles: round spheres of stone at a crude weight of thirty pounds; and slung in a barrel, the accoutrements of its firing, assorted wands and hooks whose use was not obviously apparent. Ramming tools, touch matches, and a half-dozen hundred-weight casks that wore a faint reek of brimstone, lay stacked alongside some sewn canvas bundles the size of a man’s doubled fists.
The spy was too clever not to guess the strange contrivance held a purpose connected with warfare. ‘Behold, Sethvir, your rare siege weapon,’ he murmured.
And this, right here, is where Arithon fucks up. And I blame the Fellowship for this. Mostly because it's easy. But also, because they really could have explained how siege weapons work.
Then, in stunning ignorance, he tossed his torch in a hard throw over his shoulder. His intent was to divert the guards who secured the aisleway behind him; then he spun, the conflagration as his cover, to bolt and make good his escape.
Fire spat through a long, burning arc. It landed, malicious in accuracy, in the maw of an upset cask, rolled the full length of the armoury and wisped with the loose straw that had bedded the garrison’s spare helmets.
Mearn screamed, snatched the barding from his legs, and plunged to stifle the flames.
If you recall that bit from the sneak peek a few chapters back...it kind of looked like what the s'Brydion brothers were hiding was GUNPOWDER.
Oops.
Arithon notices the disproporationate panic. There are fumes and smoke and he's definitely smart enough to use that:
‘For my pains and your trials, a gift,’ said the spy, a catch to his tone that at last revealed his cornered desperation.
A touch match hissed. The first arrow arched down in a sizzling line, traced by a fluffed trailer of smoke. Then the shaft struck, and splashed roiling flame on the upset staves of another barrel. Red, gold, and yellow flowered up in a welling spree of wild light.
Apparently the brothers are not smart enough for safety measures. No ready source of water. Only some dust dry canvas for cloth. So they're acting quickly to get the powder kegs clear of fire.
Meanwhile, Arithon comes back for Dakar:
Charged with innocent intent, Arithon seized his chance and scuttled like a thief from the shelving. ‘You’ll want to leave while the bully boys are busy,’ he said to Dakar, who had jettisoned the spent stubs of three torches, and now laboured to rise, no easy feat for a fat man with his wrists lashed in leather.
The Mad Prophet flopped through another frantic heave. ‘Help me up,’ he gasped.
‘There’s some urgent reason why I should?’ Arithon looked on in staid inquiry over a cheek scuffed with dust and grazed bloody. ‘You seemed cosy enough with the duke just a bit ago.’
A fair question. And maybe I shouldn't have blamed the Fellowship, because Dakar explains that the casks against the wall will explode.
Arithon does cut Dakar free, but also:
He poised for the arm-wrenching yank that would haul him headlong to his feet, but none came.
The Master of Shadow had left him to fate, in an armoury stockpiled with black powder.
You know Dakar, I love you. But you kind of had that coming.
Anyway, he starts to chase Arithon, but the brothers catch him instead. They've apparently bought enough time for everyone to get out. Tharrick's soldiers are dragging off the wounded, and even the rats are fleeing with them. Then:
Kaboom.
---
The next subchapter is Interrogation.
Anyway, happy news: Dakar is still alive! Yay! So are the s'Brydion brothers and their men. And they're pissed. Oops.
Dakar's not actually the only one in trouble. Poor hapless Guard Captain Tharrick still can't explain how a spy got past his men, so he's been stripped and flogged. Poor guy.
Especially as I'm pretty sure I know how Arithon got in.
Anyway, Dakar points out that they're punishing the wrong guy. Arithon is a sorcerer after all. Bransien actually does listen enough to have Tharrick taken away (but not released). Now it's time for Dakar to answer questions. And the s'Brydions are prepared:
But no display of obsequious eagerness could deflect four s’Brydion primed to exact painful vengeance. Keldmar and Parrien arrived back from their baths. Each had a gingerly hitch to their stride, suggestive of stiffening bruises. Other tender patches were soothed in silks and ribbon-laced velvets in place of leather brigandines and studs. Still enraged, scuffed with nicks still oozing from scabs, they were quick to point out that the oaken table was sturdy enough to use to strap a victim down. If the inquisition grew prolonged, and torture was needful, chairs were at hand, and servants could be called to supply drink and a tray of cold lamb.
The guardsmen who had lately manhandled their luckless captain knew better than to risk their duke’s displeasure by lounging in wait for direct orders. Before Dakar could draw breath to confess his first word, they hefted him upright, sliced his bonds, and stretched him flat on his back. This time, the men at arms shed then-belts to restrain him. Dakar winced as buckles and studs bit through his thin hose to gouge at the bones of his wrists and ankles. Fear of greater pain set him talking.
Anyway, Dakar starts explaining. Not the truth of course, but more importantly, he's got a trick up his sleeve. He casts a spell, using his toe to trace the symbols. He's enhancing their thirst, so that when refreshments come, the brothers start drinking heavily.
Except Mearn. That could be a problem.
Anyway, Dakar genuinely can't answer the big question: where Arithon would have gone to ground. He keeps talking. It sounds genuinely uncomfortable, but they want answers more than causing pain. Parrien has succumbed to the spell enough to be sleepy drunk but the others are still awake and hale, and sick of the lies.
Finally though, someone arrives to interrupt things before they get really bad.
As though tripped on cue, the latch clicked. The door spun open with decisive, oiled speed, and a dark-cloaked figure strode through. Tall, silver-haired, commanding in movement, the arrival flicked a cold gaze across the prostrate figure on the tabletop. ‘Pray, don’t let me interrupt,’ he said.
‘Asandir!’ Dakar forgot himself, gave a frantic heave, and yelped as his bonds all but dislocated every joint in his limbs.
...so really, you can come here NOW, but not to do your own fucking inventory?
Dakar notes that Asandir's demeanor is exhausted, having used reckless power to keep his horse alive underneath him for leagues of travel.
He uses magic to set Dakar free. And also: Asandir came straight to the point. ‘Why should I trouble to punish you?’ He took a step, the look he trained on his apprentice as depthless as glazed winter sleet. ‘Arithon can handle his own slights.’
...are you fucking serious?
Look, I like Dakar. But are you seriously going to keep letting your apprentice fuck over the guy who you SUPPOSEDLY want to succeed?
So anyway, Dakar's free to go. The s'Brydions are intimidated enough to not interfere, though they try some bravado anyway:
Behind him, the half-sotted Duke of Alestron ventured in an acid show of courage, ‘Apparently the fat man didn’t he about his ties with Fellowship sorcerers. Is he your lackey or that of the Master of Shadow?’
Then Asandir’s reply, never loud, but emphatic enough to pierce through the iron-bound portal as it shut. ‘As soon as you and your brothers sober up, we need to have a serious discussion.’
...I feel like you could have easily waited a week and had this discussion yourself, and we wouldn't have a blown up armory and more people hunting for Arithon's head?
--
But the scene shifts to Arithon, who is waiting in a field. He's looking a bit rough himself:
When midnight came, Arithon still waited in the hayrick alongside the oak grove. The neat linen shirt tailor-made for him in Farsee hung torn at the elbows, grimed with oil and sooty dust. His left cuff was scorched, legacy of a fire arrow. The laces of the right were sliced and blood-soaked, courtesy of a s’Brydion knife throw; another shallow gash scored his ribs. A jagged, clotting scab marred one steep, s’Ffalenn cheekbone, and the soft, cloudy drizzle that had dampened him since sunset wicked up the sulphurous reek of smoke that hung about his person.
He hears something clumsy thrash, and a muffled curse. Hi Dakar.
And actually, this time, Arithon is a little pissed off:
Without moving, Arithon said, ‘Prophet of Madness. Lost your mage-sight, I see, to fatigue?’ He sheathed his stolen dagger and carolled a line of balladry in lyrical, lilting satire. ‘“And whither went thy trust, that thee abandoned?”’
Dakar clawed his way into the open. Adorned like a springtide celebrant with sticks and sprigs of plucked oak leaves, he took a planted stance above his nemesis. ‘Ath, what possessed you to start a fire?’
Arithon looked up, stilled as old rock in the darkness. ‘And what did you expect, since you sent me in unwarned? Those casks contained a firespell, or some other seal of unbinding destruction, and I’m mageblind! People died. I was made the instrument. If you chose me as your proxy to fulfil some promised duty to Sethvir, I’d say you got far less than you deserved.’
Fair, really.
Dakar realizes the obvious truth: Arithon knew he'd betray him. In fact, Arithon admits, his strategy hinged on it.
Called it. Arithon doesn't have most of his magic anymore, but he does have shadow. Dakar warns the brothers, they go down to the armory, and OPENED THE DOORS. All Arithon had to do was follow.
Poor Captain Tharrick.
Dakar decides to be dramatic:
Dakar felt kicked breathless as a man just bludgeoned in the belly. ‘May Daelion speed your spirit to the darkest pit in Sithaer. You’ve been using me all along! What have I been but a living tool to further your unsavoury wiles!’
‘By all means, place the blame where it’s properly due,’ said Arithon in ringing, hard warning. ‘I don’t require self-indulgence. I never asked you for loyalty. But step softly. This time innocents have suffered. Cross me again at your peril.’
Dakar swung a fist to smash those fine-boned, impervious royal features. His blow deflected off a stinging parry. Then hated hands gripped and spun him, hurled him off-balance into the wet, wooded darkness. Words equally scathing pursued him. ‘Just like my half-brother, you’d give all in your power to kill me.’ Arithon laughed in glass-edged malice that Halliron would have known for a foil to mask underlying anguish. ‘You’ll have to do that in cold blood if you can, my injured prophet. But wait for tomorrow. Unless you like the company of the brothers s’Brydion, we had best flee to Kalesh and catch a fast ship at slack tide.’
...is it bad that I still ship it?
--
The last subchapter is Trust:
We're back with the s'Brydions and Asandir for this. There's some grumpy bickering, but mostly they get to business.
Keldmar seemed too fuddled to try speech, his stubbled chin propped on listless fists, and his bleary eyes half-lidded; yet it was he who spoke out of turn. ‘By the Fellowship’s presence alone, I presume the weapon we developed is proscribed?’ At his eldest brother’s snarling glare, he added crossly, ‘Well, you can scarcely pretend our damnfool culverin’s still a secret. Not when the armoury went up in black smoke and a bang to dunt the siege bells in their cradles.’
‘No such secret could stay masked from Sethvir at Althain Tower in any case,’ Asandir cut in.
So what I take from this is that no one from the Fellowship decided to pop in to say "hey, don't do that" before sending Arithon and Dakar. I suppose I can't entirely blame the Fellowship, as we don't know exactly what Dakar was told. But still, I feel like these assholes could have done this sooner.
They realize the "spy" was there for the Fellowship.
Asandir points out that power has no morals, and there's nothing to prevent a greedy man from realizing that the s'Brydion discovery of saltpetre, potash and brimstone could be used to force dominance. The s'Brydions weren't planning to share the discovery, but, Asandir notes, what about their heirs?
He doesn't point out the blood on the carpet from poor Captain Tharrick's flogging, and we're told that this is from tact. But I'm not sure that it's relevant. Torturing a subordinate is horrible, of course, but it doesn't mean the s'Brydions meant to conquer anyone else.
Anyway, Asandir does provide some interesting backstory:
‘You built this culverin from a treatise written by Magyre,’ the sorcerer resumed like struck iron. ‘Had you met him, you’d know he was a frail old scholar whose conscience balked at swatting flies. He discovered black powder by accident, then pursued his study to make displays of fire and noise to amuse his grandchildren on feastdays. The Fellowship set our case before him, as I shall for you this morning. Under guidance of our counsel, Magyre set aside his experiments. Later, we learned he had cached several copies of his papers. For vanity, he could not bear to burn all his records, since his works had brought the young so much pleasure. Here we sit, scarcely one generation later. Already you have turned these pretty flames and loud bangs into a weapon to make widows and orphans. Magyre would weep, were he alive to know, but the damage is done. Your armoury is ashes, your citizens are terrified, and no secret can be harboured past a lifetime.’
Obviously, the brothers aren't going to be cowed so easily. They intend to use any advantage they have.
Okay, admittedly, this line is pretty awesome:
‘You will cast no more such weapons,’ Asandir contradicted. A change touched his aspect, potent and frightening, as a storm charge might gather before lightning. ‘This was never a choice. A different decision will confront you before I leave. When I have finished, you’ll know why.’
So anyway, Asandir explains what will happen if they keep using this kind of weapon, and we get some genuinely interesting backstory of the Fellowship:
And then he spoke, his timbre as compelling as a masterbard’s that no man within earshot could deny. ‘From such weapons will grow others that cause ruin and death to a scope beyond your imagining, and on the power and tyranny enforced by such horrors, you will build a civilization driven by fear.’
‘How can you know?’ demanded Bransian.
The sturdy, capable fingers, tucked one inside of another, spasmed tight as Asandir looked up. ‘I know because I was one of seven who caused such a thing to happen, on a scale this land will never see.’ The merciless flood through the arrowloop touched eyes gone limitlessly bleak. The humanity in them was a fearful thing, paired to a burden more desolate and weary than any charge borne by a mortal.
This was of course, a long time ago and somewhere else entirely. Then the history lesson gets a bit more esoteric.
In the First Age, before Men, or even the Paravians, settled, there were the "greater drakes". Dragons. They spun destructive energies, creating terrifying predators called the Seardluin (which are dead so kind of irrelevant...for now), and other types of monsters that Sethvir watches for.
I have no idea what this has to do with gunpowder, but okay.
He creates a vision of a Seardluin predator killing and killing, even to the point of going after young dragons. Oh. Okay. Eventually things became so horrible that the creator god, Ath, made the Paravians to fix things. The Centaurs, who nurture the earth. The Sun-children, to celebrate life's joy. And the Riathan, or unicorns, to connect all that is and will be.
The Fellowship actually came to Athera because of the drakes. They were apparently SO unparalleled as masters of destruction in their own homes, that the drakes were able to seize their spaceship and bring them to the planet. There, in an attempt to atone, they fought to ensure Paravian survival and destroy the Seardluin.
And then we get an origin story for the Men on Athera. They were refugees from cataclysms on their own worlds, now cinders. They were given permission to settle on Athera, as long as they swore to a covenant or compact. The Fellowship undertook the responsibility to enforce it and make sure that humans can't repeat the steps that destroyed their own homes.
The gunpowder is the beginning of those steps, per Asandir.
Apparently, in the past, when people were a bit too inclined to experimentation and machinery, they were sent through the South Gate to build a civilization of their own. However, that's not an option now. The world through the South Gate is where the Mistwraith originated. Apparently, the humans there managed to fuck up something awful.
So now here's the choice for the s'Brydions: let Asandir remove knowledge of the weapon and gunpowder from their mind. Or they stay in that chamber for the rest of their lives.
Understandably, it's not much of a choice, but the Fellowship doesn't have much by way of resources or alternatives. Fortunately, the s'Brydions are at heart practical people. They don't like it. But they agree.
They do want freedom to pursue the spy though. Asandir had disavowed Arithon earlier, by the way, claiming he wasn't the Fellowship's spy. Even though he fucking was.
Last to capitulate, Mearn said, ‘We’d be free to pursue yon muckle clever spy?’
Asandir spared no second thought. ‘Pursue all you wish. He’s a difficult man to catch.’
Wow. WOW. After all that. After all the scheming and manipulation and lies to get that poor guy on a throne he didn't want. After that stupid prophecy that means that Arithon has to rule for the Paravians to return, and okay fine, you've finally told us why that matters, and for the Fellowship to be whole.
Even though this mess only happened because you couldn't be bothered to discipline your apprentice and bound him magically to follow around a guy he hates, with the only loophole being Arithon's DEATH, and had used YOUR assignment to try to trap the guy, only for things to backfire both literally and figuratively...
(And spoiler, at some point they will actually come very close to succeeding!)
AGH.
Anyway, the brothers wake up after a bit. They realize Dakar's been released, but don't remember anything else. Including Asandir's history lesson. And the gunpowder. They still intend to hunt down that runaway spy though.
--
The sneak peek section is Resolves
1. The Koriani have learned that the Black Drake will be getting Arithon's ill-gotten spoils and bringing them to a place called Merior by the Sea. Elaira will be dispatched there soon.
2. Sethvir gets news from Asandir. "‘The brothers s’Brydion hold no more memory of black powder or culverin; Rathain’s crown jewels are recovered for return to storage at Althain Tower. Luhaine has destroyed the drawings and dismantled the moulds at the bronze founders’. Since the explosion in the armoury was too widely witnessed to recontain, sadly, Arithon must stand as our scapegoat…’"
I really wish Arithon had the opportunity to punch you all in the balls.
3. Poor Captain Tharrick is in a cell, whipped and agonized, and renewing a cold vow of vengeance agains "the Master of Shadow whose tricks had undone a lifetime of honest service …"
...really, Asandir? You just left this poor guy here?
So let's see what makes an "infamy".
So we join Dakar as he meets up with the s'Brydion heirs. If you recall, the s'Brydion's have the interesting role of being the only clan stewards who were never deposed just prior to the Mistwraith invasion. Dakar is led to a chamber where the heirs conduct business: a drum tower deep in the inner citadel.
There's some nice description, of course: Despite the neat stool and desk framed with square cupboards for parchments, and library walls lined with a scholar’s collection of books, the chamber was misleading in its air of harmless gentility. Stabbed through the mild scents of papers and ink, a miasma of metal and oil gave warning that weapons were scoured clean of rust in this place more often than scribes penned new manuscript.
Anyway, all of the s'Brydion brothers are present for this meeting. We're told that's true for most things undertaken by this family. They seem impressed by the emeralds. But Dakar doesn't waste any time. He immediately apologizes.
Here's the description for the lead s'Brydion:
‘Sorry?’ Lord Bransian s’Brydion, Duke of Alestron, straightened up, by a head the largest man present. He wore his barbarous, wheatshock hair hacked short to accommodate a mail coif. The beard underneath grew untamed as bristled wire, and the surcoat that mantled his massive breadth of shoulder would have engulfed a lesser frame like a tent. Except for a linked chain of office as old and weighty as his title, he looked every inch the hard-bitten mercenary. His two brows met, scraped iron over eyes flecked like grit stuck in ice.
The other brothers are impressive looking too:
Dakar cleared his throat and eyed the other heads still huddled over the jewel cache. Each had the same mink-brown hair, two tied alike with worn leather, and braided in the antiquated style the old clans once wore for battle. The last crown was cropped as a shearling, except for the lovelock curled in solitary splendour between neat and tapered shoulderblades. If young Mearn looked least imposing in the bull-muscled company of his brothers, his volatile, jumpy reflexes made his presence no whit less dangerous.
There are enough brothers to be potentially confusing, so I'll help:
Bransien is the oldest and biggest, the duke.
Parrien and Keldmar are close in age and almost like twins. They're big. Parrien's the one who is courting someone.
Mearn is the youngest.
They're not sure why Dakar apologizes, as the emeralds are beautiful. But that's just it, Dakar tells them, they're not for sale. Dakar comes clean right away:
Dakar braced his nerve and owned up. ‘The gems were my ploy to gain a private audience, and for an urgent reason. I came to give warning. At this very moment, a spy has breached the security of your secret armoury.’
Well, that gets a reaction. One of the brothers (Parrien) takes the emeralds as "surety" with the intention to impound them until they're sure Dakar's not an imposter. Meh, I have the distinct feeling the emeralds won't stay long in their care. The Fellowship may not care about clans folk being enslaved or massacred, but they definitely keep track of jewelry.
The brothers don't hesitate. They get Dakar bound immediately and start questioning him about the nature of the spy and which city he's from. Dakar is not forthcoming, either because he feels that's one betrayal of the mission too far, or more likely the Fellowship trained him by the same maxim of tell no one anything. Either way, they take Dakar with them to catch Arithon.
Dakar claims to be a craftsman who overheard the planning. He told them because wars are bad for business. They note that there'll be war regardless with whoever sent the spy.
...I'm sure that'll go well for you guys.
Anyway, they make it to the sentries, who have seen nothing. Dakar reveals that the spy is mage-trained and can slip past unseen. The brothers are skeptical as this would mean getting past six guards and twelve locked posterns. But one of the brothers is sent to fetch "Captain Tharrick' and sentries so they can flank their spy.
So they go in. There's more great atmospheric description of murky tunnels reeking of stagnant water, and all along, guards deny seeing a spy. And it's looking less and less likely that Arithon, with his blinded mage sense, would have gotten in. He COULD use bardic technique of course, but that requires sound and here, sound echoes.
Dakar's in a tight spot. If Arithon hasn't gotten in, the s'Brydions will probably turn on him.
I don't actually remember much of this part, but I think I've figured out the trick. We'll see if I'm right.
There's lots of brotherly bickering in this part, by the way. The s'Brydions are all of a type, quick tempered, violent and witty. I didn't excerpt any of it, because except for Bransien taking charge, they're all kind of interchangable.
They go inside. No one's here. Except of course, melodrama:
‘Nobody’s in here,’ Parrien said in cracking, incredulous fury.
Bransian slapped him in the chest to make him quiet. To the prisoner who wheezed at his elbow, he said, ‘How long do you guess your spy’s had access?’
‘An hour or less,’ Dakar answered.
‘That’s if he exists at all!’ Mearn’s stiletto flashed a hot line in the dimness as he snared one of Bransian’s torches.
‘Oh, but he does,’ the Mad Prophet insisted in grim desperation. ‘Be careful, he’s clever as a fiend.’
Then, with a vindication that both maddened and humbled, a bright voice called answer from behind a wedged pile of barrels. ‘Why Dakar, how wonderfully imaginative!’
Hello, Arithon. I'm glad to see you're having fun. And I think my question as to how much Arithon knows is probably answered:
Just beyond sight, the speaker was blithe. ‘What did you trade for my emeralds, my friend? Arbalests? Lances? Shall we count?’
And also:
While the brothers fanned out in a stalking pattern, Arithon resumed his ripping satire. ‘A high king’s crown jewels for a load of tempered steel, or Dakar! Could my life be the stakes that you bargained for?’
I wonder how long Arithon's been practicing this monologue in his head. I bet he was reciting it even while flirting. I still ship it.
So anyway, the brothers try to catch Arithon. Dakar shouts helpful directions. Arithon notes that there's no honour among spies. At some point, he gets to a bow.
Furtive rustles sounded the length of the shelf. The fugitive was moving again. Mearn elected to try climbing, while over the cuirass’s diminished vibration, his brothers traded curses in tandem. Their imprecations were defeated as a banshee shriek creased the air. Arithon had discovered the sheaf of signal arrows. A short recurve bow designed for mounted archers strung and poised in his hand, he watched his first missile silence itself with a vengeful crack a fraction shy of Dakar’s posterior.
‘There’s one from behind, for treachery,’ he chided. The bowstring creaked into another draw. ‘And a second for predictable obsessions.’
The next screamer knifed across the dark, sliced a dry thong, and cut loose a suit of old chain mail. The mass descended, jingling, and snagged Mearn like a cod in a lead-weighted net. Ripped off his perch, he went down. A thump, a grand puff of dust, and a screech of rude words through the bymie marked his landing across the furled canvas of his grandfather’s mouldered field pavilion.
I do like a good turn of slapstick. All the while, Arithon makes blithe commentary about the weapons that he finds, and their condition. At one point, he tsks over dry-rotted bracers, someone had neglected their goose grease.
They chase. At one point, Keldmar lights torches which daze Arithon enough for Bransien to hurl another javelin at him. Arithon ducks back, while the brothers and their men go for axes. But eventually, unsurprisingly, the torches flicker out. And in the darkness, remember after all that the Master of Shadow can see in the dark, Arithon keeps up his blithe commentary. This time offering a warning about getting cocking latches bent.
It's pretty entertaining, this part. The adversaries aren't stupid. They're going about things in an orderly fashion. There's a bit of slapstick when Arithon gets his way, but there's also a bit of tension too. Arithon has the high ground, pun entirely intended, but there are ways that he could fuck up.
‘Entanglements, snares, and misfortune,’ the spy chided in unabashed hilarity; well aware the phrase was borrowed from a ribald ballad about an adulterer’s mistimed assignation, Bransian aligned his gaze to match the sound. A whoosh combed through the air above, knitted through by a soprano clink of curb chain. Caught flat-footed and staring upward, the duke was clobbered by a snaking mess of harness. Half-throttled by the drag of the horsecollar, laced head to foot in oiled strap-goods, he ripped out his dagger and began in frantic bursts to dice leather.
But Arithon does misstep here, and youngest brother Mearn catches sight of him:
A finger of breeze brushed Mearn’s skin. Then his ears caught a telltale creak of wood. A whispered brush of cloth chafed over metal; the spy had alighted from the shelving but a half-pace away from his position.
Mearn dropped his arms in a powerful down-swing. The torches burst back to a dazzle of full flame, and a lithe, compact body folded to one knee under the descent of the hatchet. Black-haired, green-eyed, and merrily sardonic, the spy met the stroke, a sword upraised in each hand. Steel screamed as the hatchet sheared and grabbed on crossed blades braced to guard.
‘Bad luck,’ said the spy on a grunt as the shock knocked him breathless. He let go of his weapons.
Arithon does get away again though, and resumes his merry banter. And that's when they realize what exactly he's doing:
While over the stealthy brush of footsteps, the muted grate of weapons and mail, a soft voice pattered in monologue: ‘Halberds, four score, admirably polished. Daggers for swordplay, eight dozen, boxed. Longswords, less quillons and pommels, two chests’ worth.’
‘By Ath, he’s taking an inventory!’ cried Keldmar in hoarse incredulity.
‘Very good,’ the spy remarked. ‘Only a lunatic would come here to count your nice sharp swords for his health.’ A distinctive, ratcheting clank issued from the bowels of the dark.
Mearn is the one who realizes that he's cocking an arbalist. It's not aimed at them, but the resulting damage does well in hampering the pursuers. Arithon's moved to reciting herbal recipes for some reason. Fuck if I know why, but I'm amused.
There's a point where a lieutenant ends up stepping on an arrowhead. Dakar's the only one who guesses it may have genuinely been an accident. A lot of the havoc he's been wreaking, with the dropping of items, has been to make noise so he can compensate for loss of mage sight with bardic ear.
Dakar’s thwarted spite allowed no admiration, that despite an unpardonable betrayal and a rude disadvantage in numbers, the Prince of Rathain seemed determined to finish the review asked by the Fellowship sorcerers.
...are you fucking kidding me, Fellowship? THAT's the task you sent Dakar to do? A fucking INVENTORY?!
You do realize that people are trying to kill Arithon right now, right?! INCLUDING DAKAR.
Anyway, it keeps up for a while. Suddenly, the shadows lift and we get some genuine, if aborted fisticuffs. But the close quarters and the numbers work against the brothers and the men. Arithon gets away again. And he finds what he's really here to find:
On his feet spitting venom and blood, Mearn blinked. The torches were burning again; or one was. Past the bare frames of the war chariots, limned in a gush of yellow light, the spy held a filched brand aloft in a scuffed and dirty hand. He was staring at the most dearly held secret in Alestron, the great weapon painstakingly created from the proscribed writings left by Magyre.
The culverin was not much to look upon: a mere tube of cast bronze, strapped to a wooden frame conveyed by a harness of pull ropes. Stacked to one side were its missiles: round spheres of stone at a crude weight of thirty pounds; and slung in a barrel, the accoutrements of its firing, assorted wands and hooks whose use was not obviously apparent. Ramming tools, touch matches, and a half-dozen hundred-weight casks that wore a faint reek of brimstone, lay stacked alongside some sewn canvas bundles the size of a man’s doubled fists.
The spy was too clever not to guess the strange contrivance held a purpose connected with warfare. ‘Behold, Sethvir, your rare siege weapon,’ he murmured.
And this, right here, is where Arithon fucks up. And I blame the Fellowship for this. Mostly because it's easy. But also, because they really could have explained how siege weapons work.
Then, in stunning ignorance, he tossed his torch in a hard throw over his shoulder. His intent was to divert the guards who secured the aisleway behind him; then he spun, the conflagration as his cover, to bolt and make good his escape.
Fire spat through a long, burning arc. It landed, malicious in accuracy, in the maw of an upset cask, rolled the full length of the armoury and wisped with the loose straw that had bedded the garrison’s spare helmets.
Mearn screamed, snatched the barding from his legs, and plunged to stifle the flames.
If you recall that bit from the sneak peek a few chapters back...it kind of looked like what the s'Brydion brothers were hiding was GUNPOWDER.
Oops.
Arithon notices the disproporationate panic. There are fumes and smoke and he's definitely smart enough to use that:
‘For my pains and your trials, a gift,’ said the spy, a catch to his tone that at last revealed his cornered desperation.
A touch match hissed. The first arrow arched down in a sizzling line, traced by a fluffed trailer of smoke. Then the shaft struck, and splashed roiling flame on the upset staves of another barrel. Red, gold, and yellow flowered up in a welling spree of wild light.
Apparently the brothers are not smart enough for safety measures. No ready source of water. Only some dust dry canvas for cloth. So they're acting quickly to get the powder kegs clear of fire.
Meanwhile, Arithon comes back for Dakar:
Charged with innocent intent, Arithon seized his chance and scuttled like a thief from the shelving. ‘You’ll want to leave while the bully boys are busy,’ he said to Dakar, who had jettisoned the spent stubs of three torches, and now laboured to rise, no easy feat for a fat man with his wrists lashed in leather.
The Mad Prophet flopped through another frantic heave. ‘Help me up,’ he gasped.
‘There’s some urgent reason why I should?’ Arithon looked on in staid inquiry over a cheek scuffed with dust and grazed bloody. ‘You seemed cosy enough with the duke just a bit ago.’
A fair question. And maybe I shouldn't have blamed the Fellowship, because Dakar explains that the casks against the wall will explode.
Arithon does cut Dakar free, but also:
He poised for the arm-wrenching yank that would haul him headlong to his feet, but none came.
The Master of Shadow had left him to fate, in an armoury stockpiled with black powder.
You know Dakar, I love you. But you kind of had that coming.
Anyway, he starts to chase Arithon, but the brothers catch him instead. They've apparently bought enough time for everyone to get out. Tharrick's soldiers are dragging off the wounded, and even the rats are fleeing with them. Then:
Kaboom.
---
The next subchapter is Interrogation.
Anyway, happy news: Dakar is still alive! Yay! So are the s'Brydion brothers and their men. And they're pissed. Oops.
Dakar's not actually the only one in trouble. Poor hapless Guard Captain Tharrick still can't explain how a spy got past his men, so he's been stripped and flogged. Poor guy.
Especially as I'm pretty sure I know how Arithon got in.
Anyway, Dakar points out that they're punishing the wrong guy. Arithon is a sorcerer after all. Bransien actually does listen enough to have Tharrick taken away (but not released). Now it's time for Dakar to answer questions. And the s'Brydions are prepared:
But no display of obsequious eagerness could deflect four s’Brydion primed to exact painful vengeance. Keldmar and Parrien arrived back from their baths. Each had a gingerly hitch to their stride, suggestive of stiffening bruises. Other tender patches were soothed in silks and ribbon-laced velvets in place of leather brigandines and studs. Still enraged, scuffed with nicks still oozing from scabs, they were quick to point out that the oaken table was sturdy enough to use to strap a victim down. If the inquisition grew prolonged, and torture was needful, chairs were at hand, and servants could be called to supply drink and a tray of cold lamb.
The guardsmen who had lately manhandled their luckless captain knew better than to risk their duke’s displeasure by lounging in wait for direct orders. Before Dakar could draw breath to confess his first word, they hefted him upright, sliced his bonds, and stretched him flat on his back. This time, the men at arms shed then-belts to restrain him. Dakar winced as buckles and studs bit through his thin hose to gouge at the bones of his wrists and ankles. Fear of greater pain set him talking.
Anyway, Dakar starts explaining. Not the truth of course, but more importantly, he's got a trick up his sleeve. He casts a spell, using his toe to trace the symbols. He's enhancing their thirst, so that when refreshments come, the brothers start drinking heavily.
Except Mearn. That could be a problem.
Anyway, Dakar genuinely can't answer the big question: where Arithon would have gone to ground. He keeps talking. It sounds genuinely uncomfortable, but they want answers more than causing pain. Parrien has succumbed to the spell enough to be sleepy drunk but the others are still awake and hale, and sick of the lies.
Finally though, someone arrives to interrupt things before they get really bad.
As though tripped on cue, the latch clicked. The door spun open with decisive, oiled speed, and a dark-cloaked figure strode through. Tall, silver-haired, commanding in movement, the arrival flicked a cold gaze across the prostrate figure on the tabletop. ‘Pray, don’t let me interrupt,’ he said.
‘Asandir!’ Dakar forgot himself, gave a frantic heave, and yelped as his bonds all but dislocated every joint in his limbs.
...so really, you can come here NOW, but not to do your own fucking inventory?
Dakar notes that Asandir's demeanor is exhausted, having used reckless power to keep his horse alive underneath him for leagues of travel.
He uses magic to set Dakar free. And also: Asandir came straight to the point. ‘Why should I trouble to punish you?’ He took a step, the look he trained on his apprentice as depthless as glazed winter sleet. ‘Arithon can handle his own slights.’
...are you fucking serious?
Look, I like Dakar. But are you seriously going to keep letting your apprentice fuck over the guy who you SUPPOSEDLY want to succeed?
So anyway, Dakar's free to go. The s'Brydions are intimidated enough to not interfere, though they try some bravado anyway:
Behind him, the half-sotted Duke of Alestron ventured in an acid show of courage, ‘Apparently the fat man didn’t he about his ties with Fellowship sorcerers. Is he your lackey or that of the Master of Shadow?’
Then Asandir’s reply, never loud, but emphatic enough to pierce through the iron-bound portal as it shut. ‘As soon as you and your brothers sober up, we need to have a serious discussion.’
...I feel like you could have easily waited a week and had this discussion yourself, and we wouldn't have a blown up armory and more people hunting for Arithon's head?
--
But the scene shifts to Arithon, who is waiting in a field. He's looking a bit rough himself:
When midnight came, Arithon still waited in the hayrick alongside the oak grove. The neat linen shirt tailor-made for him in Farsee hung torn at the elbows, grimed with oil and sooty dust. His left cuff was scorched, legacy of a fire arrow. The laces of the right were sliced and blood-soaked, courtesy of a s’Brydion knife throw; another shallow gash scored his ribs. A jagged, clotting scab marred one steep, s’Ffalenn cheekbone, and the soft, cloudy drizzle that had dampened him since sunset wicked up the sulphurous reek of smoke that hung about his person.
He hears something clumsy thrash, and a muffled curse. Hi Dakar.
And actually, this time, Arithon is a little pissed off:
Without moving, Arithon said, ‘Prophet of Madness. Lost your mage-sight, I see, to fatigue?’ He sheathed his stolen dagger and carolled a line of balladry in lyrical, lilting satire. ‘“And whither went thy trust, that thee abandoned?”’
Dakar clawed his way into the open. Adorned like a springtide celebrant with sticks and sprigs of plucked oak leaves, he took a planted stance above his nemesis. ‘Ath, what possessed you to start a fire?’
Arithon looked up, stilled as old rock in the darkness. ‘And what did you expect, since you sent me in unwarned? Those casks contained a firespell, or some other seal of unbinding destruction, and I’m mageblind! People died. I was made the instrument. If you chose me as your proxy to fulfil some promised duty to Sethvir, I’d say you got far less than you deserved.’
Fair, really.
Dakar realizes the obvious truth: Arithon knew he'd betray him. In fact, Arithon admits, his strategy hinged on it.
Called it. Arithon doesn't have most of his magic anymore, but he does have shadow. Dakar warns the brothers, they go down to the armory, and OPENED THE DOORS. All Arithon had to do was follow.
Poor Captain Tharrick.
Dakar decides to be dramatic:
Dakar felt kicked breathless as a man just bludgeoned in the belly. ‘May Daelion speed your spirit to the darkest pit in Sithaer. You’ve been using me all along! What have I been but a living tool to further your unsavoury wiles!’
‘By all means, place the blame where it’s properly due,’ said Arithon in ringing, hard warning. ‘I don’t require self-indulgence. I never asked you for loyalty. But step softly. This time innocents have suffered. Cross me again at your peril.’
Dakar swung a fist to smash those fine-boned, impervious royal features. His blow deflected off a stinging parry. Then hated hands gripped and spun him, hurled him off-balance into the wet, wooded darkness. Words equally scathing pursued him. ‘Just like my half-brother, you’d give all in your power to kill me.’ Arithon laughed in glass-edged malice that Halliron would have known for a foil to mask underlying anguish. ‘You’ll have to do that in cold blood if you can, my injured prophet. But wait for tomorrow. Unless you like the company of the brothers s’Brydion, we had best flee to Kalesh and catch a fast ship at slack tide.’
...is it bad that I still ship it?
--
The last subchapter is Trust:
We're back with the s'Brydions and Asandir for this. There's some grumpy bickering, but mostly they get to business.
Keldmar seemed too fuddled to try speech, his stubbled chin propped on listless fists, and his bleary eyes half-lidded; yet it was he who spoke out of turn. ‘By the Fellowship’s presence alone, I presume the weapon we developed is proscribed?’ At his eldest brother’s snarling glare, he added crossly, ‘Well, you can scarcely pretend our damnfool culverin’s still a secret. Not when the armoury went up in black smoke and a bang to dunt the siege bells in their cradles.’
‘No such secret could stay masked from Sethvir at Althain Tower in any case,’ Asandir cut in.
So what I take from this is that no one from the Fellowship decided to pop in to say "hey, don't do that" before sending Arithon and Dakar. I suppose I can't entirely blame the Fellowship, as we don't know exactly what Dakar was told. But still, I feel like these assholes could have done this sooner.
They realize the "spy" was there for the Fellowship.
Asandir points out that power has no morals, and there's nothing to prevent a greedy man from realizing that the s'Brydion discovery of saltpetre, potash and brimstone could be used to force dominance. The s'Brydions weren't planning to share the discovery, but, Asandir notes, what about their heirs?
He doesn't point out the blood on the carpet from poor Captain Tharrick's flogging, and we're told that this is from tact. But I'm not sure that it's relevant. Torturing a subordinate is horrible, of course, but it doesn't mean the s'Brydions meant to conquer anyone else.
Anyway, Asandir does provide some interesting backstory:
‘You built this culverin from a treatise written by Magyre,’ the sorcerer resumed like struck iron. ‘Had you met him, you’d know he was a frail old scholar whose conscience balked at swatting flies. He discovered black powder by accident, then pursued his study to make displays of fire and noise to amuse his grandchildren on feastdays. The Fellowship set our case before him, as I shall for you this morning. Under guidance of our counsel, Magyre set aside his experiments. Later, we learned he had cached several copies of his papers. For vanity, he could not bear to burn all his records, since his works had brought the young so much pleasure. Here we sit, scarcely one generation later. Already you have turned these pretty flames and loud bangs into a weapon to make widows and orphans. Magyre would weep, were he alive to know, but the damage is done. Your armoury is ashes, your citizens are terrified, and no secret can be harboured past a lifetime.’
Obviously, the brothers aren't going to be cowed so easily. They intend to use any advantage they have.
Okay, admittedly, this line is pretty awesome:
‘You will cast no more such weapons,’ Asandir contradicted. A change touched his aspect, potent and frightening, as a storm charge might gather before lightning. ‘This was never a choice. A different decision will confront you before I leave. When I have finished, you’ll know why.’
So anyway, Asandir explains what will happen if they keep using this kind of weapon, and we get some genuinely interesting backstory of the Fellowship:
And then he spoke, his timbre as compelling as a masterbard’s that no man within earshot could deny. ‘From such weapons will grow others that cause ruin and death to a scope beyond your imagining, and on the power and tyranny enforced by such horrors, you will build a civilization driven by fear.’
‘How can you know?’ demanded Bransian.
The sturdy, capable fingers, tucked one inside of another, spasmed tight as Asandir looked up. ‘I know because I was one of seven who caused such a thing to happen, on a scale this land will never see.’ The merciless flood through the arrowloop touched eyes gone limitlessly bleak. The humanity in them was a fearful thing, paired to a burden more desolate and weary than any charge borne by a mortal.
This was of course, a long time ago and somewhere else entirely. Then the history lesson gets a bit more esoteric.
In the First Age, before Men, or even the Paravians, settled, there were the "greater drakes". Dragons. They spun destructive energies, creating terrifying predators called the Seardluin (which are dead so kind of irrelevant...for now), and other types of monsters that Sethvir watches for.
I have no idea what this has to do with gunpowder, but okay.
He creates a vision of a Seardluin predator killing and killing, even to the point of going after young dragons. Oh. Okay. Eventually things became so horrible that the creator god, Ath, made the Paravians to fix things. The Centaurs, who nurture the earth. The Sun-children, to celebrate life's joy. And the Riathan, or unicorns, to connect all that is and will be.
The Fellowship actually came to Athera because of the drakes. They were apparently SO unparalleled as masters of destruction in their own homes, that the drakes were able to seize their spaceship and bring them to the planet. There, in an attempt to atone, they fought to ensure Paravian survival and destroy the Seardluin.
And then we get an origin story for the Men on Athera. They were refugees from cataclysms on their own worlds, now cinders. They were given permission to settle on Athera, as long as they swore to a covenant or compact. The Fellowship undertook the responsibility to enforce it and make sure that humans can't repeat the steps that destroyed their own homes.
The gunpowder is the beginning of those steps, per Asandir.
Apparently, in the past, when people were a bit too inclined to experimentation and machinery, they were sent through the South Gate to build a civilization of their own. However, that's not an option now. The world through the South Gate is where the Mistwraith originated. Apparently, the humans there managed to fuck up something awful.
So now here's the choice for the s'Brydions: let Asandir remove knowledge of the weapon and gunpowder from their mind. Or they stay in that chamber for the rest of their lives.
Understandably, it's not much of a choice, but the Fellowship doesn't have much by way of resources or alternatives. Fortunately, the s'Brydions are at heart practical people. They don't like it. But they agree.
They do want freedom to pursue the spy though. Asandir had disavowed Arithon earlier, by the way, claiming he wasn't the Fellowship's spy. Even though he fucking was.
Last to capitulate, Mearn said, ‘We’d be free to pursue yon muckle clever spy?’
Asandir spared no second thought. ‘Pursue all you wish. He’s a difficult man to catch.’
Wow. WOW. After all that. After all the scheming and manipulation and lies to get that poor guy on a throne he didn't want. After that stupid prophecy that means that Arithon has to rule for the Paravians to return, and okay fine, you've finally told us why that matters, and for the Fellowship to be whole.
Even though this mess only happened because you couldn't be bothered to discipline your apprentice and bound him magically to follow around a guy he hates, with the only loophole being Arithon's DEATH, and had used YOUR assignment to try to trap the guy, only for things to backfire both literally and figuratively...
(And spoiler, at some point they will actually come very close to succeeding!)
AGH.
Anyway, the brothers wake up after a bit. They realize Dakar's been released, but don't remember anything else. Including Asandir's history lesson. And the gunpowder. They still intend to hunt down that runaway spy though.
--
The sneak peek section is Resolves
1. The Koriani have learned that the Black Drake will be getting Arithon's ill-gotten spoils and bringing them to a place called Merior by the Sea. Elaira will be dispatched there soon.
2. Sethvir gets news from Asandir. "‘The brothers s’Brydion hold no more memory of black powder or culverin; Rathain’s crown jewels are recovered for return to storage at Althain Tower. Luhaine has destroyed the drawings and dismantled the moulds at the bronze founders’. Since the explosion in the armoury was too widely witnessed to recontain, sadly, Arithon must stand as our scapegoat…’"
I really wish Arithon had the opportunity to punch you all in the balls.
3. Poor Captain Tharrick is in a cell, whipped and agonized, and renewing a cold vow of vengeance agains "the Master of Shadow whose tricks had undone a lifetime of honest service …"
...really, Asandir? You just left this poor guy here?