15
C
hapter 1
Long Live the Righ
T
he
smell of magic woke me. Immediately my heart was hammering,my throat tight; the terrible delight of raw arcane power washed over me likefrankincense on mountain air. Scents and colors I hadn’t tasted in a decadeteased open parts of me long held closed, telling me things mundane sensesnever could. Death rode on tones of crystal from secret velvet darkness be-tween the stars, wrapped in the purple-gold caress of spidersilk and aromasof peach and shocking blue. The magic hadn’t originated with the ard-righ’swizard Athramail, whose signatures and workings regularly peppered the airof Ilnemedon; it wasn’t the doing of any of the small-time charms dealers whohaunt the back rooms of Ilnemedon’s taverns and the ships that ride the windsup and down the Ruillin. This was a power blacker than any of those mencould imagine and a thousand times more seductive; I struggled to wrenchmy awareness closed, to wrap a thick blanket around my senses, above all notto let my mind stray to the place where that intoxicating song originated. Just before I retreated into my mental cocoon, I felt the arcane circuit complete andfelt the ard-righ die.
Intoxication ed; revulsion and guilt raced through me in its wake. My
own harsh breathing echoed against the dark ceiling and unlit walls. Thememory of a sunlit glade threatened to breach the surface of my mind; my
palms itched. The place in which I’d slept for the past ve years shrank into a
prison cell. I threw myself out of bed and dressed, then sat before the dying
16
re and waited for the cannonade that would mark the ard-righ’s death.
Poor Athramail. Not even the Prince of the Aballo Order of wizards could
have warded o that aack. But that wouldn’t stop the old man from aying
himself half to death with guilt, nor would it necessarily spare his life.
And poor Coran: for the next three minutes, or maybe ve, a son—and
then, forever, an orphan and righ. It is the gravest of cruelties that for a man toascend the throne, his father must die.
Frigid wind beat against my back as I rode up the mountain to Mourne
Palace: making outrageous lies of the Ardan-eve garlands that lay trampled all
over the road, sending the tail of my hair forward to uer like crows’ wings
in my peripheral vision. Spring never comes kindly to Ilnemedon; the cold wet
wind o the Ruillin persists well into summer, seemingly until the moment
when the city turns into a sauna. In ten years I’d grown accustomed to this, but
this aernoon the lowering clouds and biting air felt like a portent.Who would choose this holiday for an arcane assault? The rst light of
spring is a time that favors growth and the seeding of great beginnings, a timeso steeped in women’s energy that only emergent need would persuade mostwizards to draw power. The death of the ard-righ and the chaos that wouldensue couldn’t serve the beginning of anything. Even did one of the otherrighthe delude himself that he could win the ard-righ’s throne, no Aballo wiz-ard would wield that black power.Even if they would, none of them could master it.
A ock of ragged crows haunted the palace as I rode up the nal, steepascent to the gate: perching on the lichen-spoed bastions, wheeling betweenthe parapets and the steel-grey sky. Men on the bastions threw stones at thecrows, trying to drive o the ill omen. It was too late for that, of course; andthe crows were far from the only thing out of sorts here this aernoon. I didn’trecognize either of the men standing guard at the gate—which I should have
expected, as palace security is the responsibility of the tanist, and yesterday’s
tanist had become today’s righ. But this aernoon the usual swordsmen at thegate were augmented by ashmen on the wall.Strange days indeed when a royal will stoop to using ash-weapons, even
if it’s not his own hand wielding them. Worry for Athramail raced through meagain; but a second look at the wall showed me the emerald sparkle of Ath-ramail’s power between the stones, occluded by shadow and invisible to the
uninitiated eye. Usually I did my best to ignore the wards, but this aernoon
they were a minor comfort: Athramail yet lived, yet held the post of HouseHealer to Ilesia, despite his failure last night.
The new guards challenged me, skiish as a pair of two-year-old racerson their rst track.“Good aernoon,” I said, showing them two empty hands but not dis
-
mounting. I refused to acknowledge the ashmen on the wall. “I’m EllionTellan.”
The guards at the gate exchanged nervous glances. Ilnemedon is not a city
17
in which it is wise to oend a stranger, particularly not an armed stranger who
is a head taller and several handsbreadths broader in the shoulder than most
men of the warrior class. But today, their rst day on duty outside an unfamil
-
iar gate, the guards were more afraid of leing the wrong man pass.
I could guess at the tallies being conducted behind those nervous eyes: awarrior knows another at a glance, and in this case the problem was compli-
cated by sucient evidence of wealth that there might be unpleasant conse
-quences for them if they refused me entry in error. The one on the right hadthe look of a horse about to spook: I kept my hands still, my eyes steady, my
aention on the men at the gate rather than the ones on the wall. If one of thesetwo startled, it might well be the ash discharge that reached me rst, and in
this wind the telltale smell of ozone might not hit me before the bolt did. And
I didn’t want to nd out whether I’d violate my vow and draw the power nec
-essary to raise an arcane shield, not with the memory of the working that hadkilled the ard-righ so damnably fresh.
“Er—your name’s not on the list. . .” ventured the guard on the le.“Truly?” I retorted. “A
list
? Where is this thing? The names of all the peo-ple who come and go from this place every day would make too long a listfor anyone but a bard or a harpist to memorize. So it must be in your pocket.
Look again.”
Spooked Horse twitched in a way that bespoke a hand about to reach for a
sword; reex sent mine to my own hilt. Immediately Spooked Horse’s partner,a redhead whose nose had suered more than one encounter with someone’sst or the pommel of a sword, rushed forward to grasp my horse’s headstall.The beast reared, nervous as usual. Ire ared in me; a senseless hope that oneof the ashmen above us
would
re came on its heels.“Back away!” I snapped. “I am Ellion Tellan. I am on my way to visit therigh. If you can’t remember your list, go get someone who can.”“What is your business in Ilnemedon?” Spooked Horse rejoined.“My
business
?”“Tellan’s clear on the other side o’ the world.”
I cast him a withering glance. “
I
live
here
. For ve years now. Unless I miss
my guess,
you’ve
been standing on a wall in Carrickfergus until quite recently.
At this rate you’ll be on your way back by nightfall. Open the fouzhir gate!”
Spooked Horse half-drew his sword, striding towards me; the redheadreached for my horse’s headstall again. I smelled ozone. Terrible anticipationcrackled through me.
“Fools!”
I glanced towards the voice, through the bars of the gate. Den Donard,who had gone to bed last night as leader of a royal son’s personal contingentand been awakened as First Armsmaster to Ilesia, stood there now, scowling atthe guards. I knew I should be relieved, but need tingled in waves across myskin. I willed myself to a semblance of calm.
“Damn your empty heads!” Den snapped.“I don’t know how you did
things out at Carrickfergus, but if you’re to stand guard duty in Ilnemedon
you’ve got to learn to recognize people! That’s the ard-harpist!”The redhead blanched, withdrawing his hand; Spooked Horse ushed
and unlocked the gate.
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The Shadow of the Sun Chapter 1
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