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CHAPTER FIFTY

Ahearn made sure he was on the fo’c’sle when, shortly after dawn, the Swiftsure began tacking up the long, twisting bay that ended at the Dunarran port of Trianthia. It was unusual among Consentium seaports in that it was not walled, but given steep coastal hills and sheer cliffs through which the waterway wound, it had proven unnecessary. Overlooking forts and ramparts were a constant reminder how utterly exposed a ship’s deck was.

Footsteps mounting the stairs from the weather deck turned him around; Firinne waved away his quickly straightened posture. “Enjoying the view?”

“That I am,” Ahearn replied. “The port just now peeked out around that rocky point. Pretty as a picture.” He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “But I still wonder just how safe it is.”

She smiled. “You know, that’s one of the reasons you’re the leader of your lot.”

“I don’t follow you, Captain.”

Firinne laughed lightly. “You’re always worrying, and not just about your own hide. But to put you at ease yet again, we’ve nothing to worry from officials here. As I told you, all the suspicious and military folk are back there.” She waved at the bay’s defenses. “And while Trianthia sees a steady stream of hulls, most of the big cargos go the extra fifty leagues across the channel to Tlulanxu.” She glanced at him. “What I can’t figure is why you and yours insisted that we go here in the first place, since none of you knew much about it. Even Varcaxtan hadn’t been here in a decade. But here you are, at the admirably calm port that you chose, and you’re all nervous.”

Ahearn laughed… convincingly, he hoped. “Ah, we’re just jumpy, is all. Returning to Dunarra and all that. Not exactly friendly to our cause, if you take my meaning.”

“I most certainly do, but then why didn’t you choose one of the smaller port towns I suggested?”

Ahearn paused before beginning his rehearsed explanation. “Well, it’s as you said when you pointed out those little cove towns. They were far less likely to have nosey officials, but a ship like Swiftsure was far more likely to attract attention.” He closed his right hand more tightly around the rail, thereby hiding the real reason for their insistence upon porting at Trianthia: the sai’niin ring. Less than a week out from Dunarran waters, it had awakened and made it very clear that this was the best path. Though gods only knew why.

But still, the proximity to the larger, more developed, and more vigilant northern part of Dunarra made him nervous. “So, Captain, are you saying that the local authorities here won’t bother to report our presence at all?”

She shook her head. “In every port, no matter how small, there’s a harbormaster. And it’s his or her duty to record all the traffic that arrives and leaves from their docks and anchorages. And inasmuch as Swiftsure is not a private vessel, but dedicated to Consentium business, it would be their position and reputation were they to miss recording it.

“But this is not a port favored by black marketeers or other suspicious craft, so Trianthia simply forwards its reports in due course. That usually means a delay of a week, maybe two, before the papers get across the channel to the people who would ask questions. And even if we put in at Tlulanxu, at the biggest, busiest, most scrutinizing port in Dunarra, it would still take a few days for the reports to be read.” She shrugged. “Things being as they are, I suspect agents of the temples would see and remark on us first, but it would still take them a few days to learn what ship this is and who might be on it.”

“So,” she finished, “you’ve no reason to second-guess your choice of Trianthia. It’s as calm a port as you can find, where nothing unusual ever ha—” Firinne blinked, snapped upright. “I may have spoken to soon.”

“Why? What?” asked Ahearn, scanning the docks that had come into full view around the rocky drop that shielded them. He saw nothing “unusual.”

Firinne pointed. “That’s a very strange ship to see here.”

Ahearn followed her finger. It was a three-master, high-sided for high seas. Just above the foretop crow’s nest, a large pennant fluttered in the mostly land-blocked breeze: a white eagle on a black field with three silver stripes at the end of it. “It looks familiar, although I—”

But the captain was already heading down to the weather deck two steps at a time. “That hull’s out of Teurodn. And those stripes means there’s an heir to the throne on board.”

“And that worries us… how?”

“Don’t know if it does, but I mean to find out. Get below. Keep your lot there. I’ll send word when I’ve words to send.”


Ahearn led the others into Firinne’s great cabin, minus Varcaxtan. Three men—in armor and clothes consistent with the regions near Teurodn and the far north of Ar Navir—were in stances of patient readiness: a posture quite common among experienced soldiers: the kind who never completely relax.

“I thought,” Firinne said, standing in the now-open center of her quarters, “that they should be present for introductions. And for the news you bring.”

The youngest of the three men stepped forward. “Our business here is—”

The tallest man touched the fellow’s shoulder. “I shall be my own voice here,” he said. “We are among friends—or so I mean and hope.” He stepped forward, removing his hand from his subordinate’s shoulder and offering it to Firinne. “I am Crown-Lord Darauf of the line of Teurodn, grandson of King Tandric V, and a sworn friend of your people, Captain Firinne.”

“This I know,” she acknowledged with a smile as bemused as his own became. There were a few more words exchanged between them—formal and formulaic—but Ahearn didn’t hear them.

Because he knew the Teurond’s name; Darauf had rescued Druadaen upon the north steppe of the Gur Grehar—the Graveyard—just a few moonphases before they first met in Menara.

The Crown-Lord’s smile was wide and genial. “Your patience with the bothersome rituals of presentation is much appreciated.”

Her smile became wry. “These are as an eyeblink compared to the recitations of lineage and position in some lands, Crown-Lord Darauf.”

“Please, just ‘Darauf.’” His younger aide stirred but managed to hold his tongue.

Darauf smiled as if he’d seen the fellow’s reaction, gestured toward the older man. “May I present my aides, Osanric of the line of Aulenreur—”

A large man, Osanric bowed casually, with a smile almost as amused as his superior.

“—and Sut-Uldred of the line of Koronark. We bear greetings from the court at Teurhark and dossiers of new appointees to our embassy and secure correspondence for the Propretor Princeps, the esteemed Alcuin II.”

Ahearn discovered his lungs were still working and was glad for it; the names that were being bandied about were of persons so elevated that he marveled he could breathe among such high political peaks.

Firinne nodded her gratitude. “You are very welcome aboard the Swiftsure. The Couriers would consider it a great honor and pleasure to provide any assistance or service you might find helpful. And my given name is Merrua.” When they’d exchanged their last obligatory bows, the captain went straight to the question on Ahearn’s mind—and no doubt, his friends’ as well. “It is a singular privilege to meet you in these waters, Darauf—but also, most unexpected.” She stopped shy of asking any questions.

Ahearn suppressed a grin. Aye, yer a shrewd one, cap’n, You start the match, but he must make the first move. Well played.

But evidently, Darauf had not come to play games. “Indeed, Trianthia is not my final destination within the Consentium, Captain.”

“Oh? May I ask where that is?”

“Tlulanxu. I have sent our other ship—a swift packet—ahead with our bona fides and letters of greeting.” He shook his head at Ahearn’s and his companions’ best, and apparently unsuccessful, attempts to render their faces expressionless. “Be at peace. I am well aware you have no reason to journey there.” He smiled. “And probably, every reason not to.” He waited. “Given what you seek.”

Before Firinne could say anything, Ahearn stepped forward. “And what is it you suppose we might be seeking?”

“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if you were in search of a missing friend.” Darauf scanned the group. “And perhaps his uncle, too.”

Firinne stepped between them. “All respects to your king and your line, sir, but I’d be glad to hear why you’d make such a strange—supposition.”

He sighed. “I’ve never had much patience for dancing—of any kind—Merrua, so here’s my best attempt to make a very long answer very, very short. My sires are friends—in some cases, close friends—of your Consentium’s Alcuin II and IV. Who of course are well known to Shaananca. Who was a guardian and mentor to Druadaen. Who I encountered out upon the Gur Grehar—the part we call the Graveyard.”

Ahearn scratched his ear. “Well, that’s as good an answer as could have been had—and with an hour’s less talking.”

Darauf smiled at him. “A man after my own heart, I see. But I wonder, is Varcaxtan about? I was led to believe it was likely.”

Firinne raised a hand before anyone else could respond. “That’s a fair question. But here’s a consideration, before you press me to answer it. Let us suppose that you learned Varcaxtan’s whereabouts, wherever they might be. And then let us say you were asked—well, ‘leading questions’ about him when you put ashore at Tlulanxu. Asked by persons you could not easily turn aside with a meaningless platitude. Let’s say hieroxi of one of the Helper deities that are prominent in your own land.” She paused, held his eyes. “If you prevaricated, would it not potentially compromise your honor, and potentially be detected as deceit, even as you accept the hospitality of Dunarra?”

Darauf’s frown was clearly directed inward. “My question was rash. I withdraw it… and thank you for being a better guardian of my honor than I was.”

Firinne offered a slight bow. “It is always easier to perceive such things from the outside. Besides, I suspect the reasons for your visit here would be equally inadvisable to share with anyone who might be in contact with Consentium authorities within the next, oh, two weeks or so.”

He stared at her. “You might be right. And I take it you have no plans for contacting those authorities?”

“No plans whatsoever,” she answered.

“Even less than that,” Ahearn added.

That raised a smile from Darauf and lightened the mood all around. “Very well. I’m sure you’ve already deduced most of it and shall not be surprised by the rest. As far back as a year ago, I planned to visit the Consentium, but my father requested that I wait. He lifted that constraint several moonphases ago. I am not sure of the causes, but the change came from higher up the family tree. Much higher. It came with instructions that, in addition to visiting the Archive Recondite, I was to present my credentials to the propretors who caretake our alliance with Dunarra.”

“Of course,” S’ythreni nodded, her voice smooth and shrewd. “Just what a scion in the line of succession would be expected to do. Probably overdue, in fact.” She smiled. “So: what is your real reason they sent you to Tlulanxu?”

Darauf’s answering smile was genuine, but pinched. “Mine is a delicate mission. As most of you are probably aware, there has been a change among the temples in Dunarra. Historically, they have strictly refrained from intruding into secular affairs, more so than any other nation on the face of Arrdanc.

“But recently, that has reversed. They have not only become more insistent upon having information about, and a role in, the doings of the Propretoriate, but are increasingly removing themselves from any sort of concourse with temples from outside the Helper pantheon. And even from some of those within it.

“This is a deep concern to the king, but he is extremely reluctant to give unasked advice or even send a private delegation to address these concerns. On the other hand, he can no longer remain a mere spectator. Word has come to the court in Teurhark that hieroxi of Helper creeds common to both our lands have been communicating more frequently—and less openly.”

“Not a promising sign,” R’aonsun muttered.

“Indeed not. So I am here much like bait trailed in the water. I am to make myself accessible to any and all leaders, secular and sacred. Merely seeing which ones contact me and which do not may tell us something. And any who actually invite me to visit them—well, official pleasantries often are shaped by political aims.”

“Not for a thousand coins of gold,” Ahearn said with a shake of his head, “would I want to be on such a visit as lies before you.” He smiled. “You’re sure to wear out all yer shoes.”

Darauf smiled through a puzzled frown. “Wear out all my shoes?”

“Aye, from doing all that dancing you love so much.”

The crown-lord chuckled, stepping forward and offering his hand. “You must be Ahearn, late of Menara. Now of the whole world, from the sound of it.”

Ahearn shook the firm hand—almost as big as his own—while controlling the full measure of his surprise. “And how is it that you know aught of me?”

Darauf’s squint might have been his version of a wink. “I did say my family knows Shaananca, did I not?”

“Yeh did… and yet, you just happen to be waiting for us?”

Darauf’s smile widened. “Well, if I were to guess… she let my grandfather know that useful people would be bound for these waters.”

“Oh, she did, did she?” Nosy old magistra! But I’m glad she’s on our side… whichever that is.

But Darauf hadn’t waited on his reply; he was already working his way around the rest of the group, shaking hands as he went. The crown-lord’s youngest aide followed with a frown, the older one moderately amused at his discomfiture.

Darauf’s steady progress halted when he turned toward R’aonsun. The Teurond started. The dragon-avatar raised an eyebrow in response. “I believe,” the crown-lord said without a trace of banter, “that Mentor Shaananca is awaiting your contact.”

R’aonsun’s eyebrow raised slightly higher. “Indeed?”

Darauf simply nodded, continuing around until he reached Umkhira.

Who crossed her arms against his proffered hand. “I know your name. And your deeds.”

The crown-lord lowered his hand, nodding solemnly. “I regret that spilled blood cannot be unspilt, Mistress Lightstrider.”

Now it was her eyebrows that rose. “I had expected an insult, such as ‘pekt’—not respectful address.”

He frowned, but not at her. “I have never used that word nor contemned your people—by which I mean the ur zhog known as Lightstriders.”

“No: you just slew them—and thousands of our cousins!”

The group was very still. The younger aide’s hand moved toward his hilt: noiselessly.

Darauf turned his head slightly, his eyes suddenly hard and disapproving. Behind him, the aide swallowed and recovered his hand to his belt. Darauf faced Umkhira again. “I do not even contemn those urzhen who dwell in the Under and come a-Hordeing among my people. But I do call them enemies. As they no doubt consider us.”

“Yet some of my people have been among those hosts, and you killed them with the same readiness—and absence of quarter—as you did our urzhen cousins!”

The Teurond closed his eyes. “I would it were not so, but I know it has happened.” He opened his eyes. “But since they were among your kin from the Under, I can only ask this: when your lands are invaded and your people killed, do you—could you—stop to sort out the raiders by their origins? Or do you fight—and kill—those raiders based on the deeds of the whole host?”

Umkhira did not unfold her arms, but her brow was not quite so furrowed as it had been.

“But,” Darauf continued, “I know that you, the ur zhog of the plains, have been hunted—bountied—on your own lands. I swear—on my family and my honor—that such orders were never issued by the present king of Tar-Teurodn, my grandfather. I also know that simply refusing to order killing is in no way the same as issuing a decree prohibiting it. I further know that while many castle-holders and mayors forbade the bountying of Lightstriders, the power of those bans decreased as the distance from those authorities increased.”

Ahearn inspected the crown-lord with a sidelong glance. The setting of those bans: that’s yerself yer talkin’ about, or I’m a feathered fish.

Darauf nodded solemnly. “For all those failures, and the deaths they caused, I apologize, Mistress Lightstrider.” He drew his shortsword slowly and extended it, hilt-first, in her direction. “This was my great-grand-uncle’s. It has been in our family for at least six generations; the earlier provenance of the blade has been lost.” Umkhira’s frown deepened again. “Material things have no value when compared to lives wrongly taken. This is but a means of marking, for all time, the apology I make today.”

Umkhira did not touch the shortsword. “This apology: do you make it on behalf of your king or yourself?”

“I am not empowered to speak for my king. This is my apology to you. As one individual to another. I would be lying to say or suggest it has more scope than that.”

Umkhira looked at the sword again, then looked away. “Keep your blade. Your words—and your eyes as you speak them—tell me what I need to know about you. And here is my answer to your apology; your own actions will decide whether I accept it.”

“You speak as if you will be there to watch them.”

She shrugged. “Unless I am very wrong, I will be.” She held his gaze. “That, too, was in your eyes.”

Darauf nodded somberly and re-sheathed the shortsword, oblivious to the stunned expressions on his aides’ faces. He squared his shoulders. “Master Ahearn, she of the Lightstriders is quite correct; I am here to assist you.”

“In what way?”

“In all ways that I may.”

“That’s a… a kind, but very broad, offer, Crown-Lo… er, Darauf.”

“It is simply ‘unconstrained.’ Come, let’s sit.” The younger aide started forward; his lord stopped him with a slight rise of his hand. “There will be no ceremony here. Happily, in this place, we’ve no need of it. But ashore in Tlulanxu, I am a great-grand-nephew of the king, a high officer in the forces of Dunarra’s closest ally, and known to be a modest scholar in my own right. And so, there will be ceremony.” His smile at Ahearn was sly. “And all too much dancing. So if I’m to hop about as custom demands, let’s put our heads together and see if there’s a way to make good use of it!”


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