The Firelord's Crown

Traitor's Gait

       Traitor’s Gait 

Alone, in the soft darkness of his tower chamber, watching red flames dance in the down-draught of the hearth, sat Falath, Prince of Dinith. On the edge of his hearing the shutters rattled in the bitter wind. The film of snow that had fallen steadily throughout the day had crusted over and crunched beneath the purposeful tread of the watchmen. He shivered at the sound and lounged back into his chair, crossed and re-crossed his feet, which were held off the floor by a small stool. He reached out to his side-table, felt for the smooth bowl of his goblet and sipped at the spicy wine. Soft cries drifted inwards from where Jano lay in unsettled sleep. Falath glanced up but he was just as uneasy himself.

Falath lurched to his feet and wandered across to the casement. He sank onto the padded seat and breathed onto the glass to clear it. The sky was black, starless, and the moon lay close to the Reaches, seeking warmth in a cloud mantle. A few flakes tumbled aimlessly past the leaded panes. Falath watched them, trying to discern their feathery, six-sided shape, but he quickly tired of the game and leaned back against the wall, his wine-cup to hand. Here, in his private space, he would brood for hours, poring over books and manuscripts as he sought answers to his ceaseless questions. Yet tonight even the questions evaded him. The source of his disquiet, he knew, was the shabby, unassuming wanderer with the uncouth name. He could not explain the effect that Airen had had upon him, the immediate feelings of warmth and well-being that followed his simple touch. Throughout the journey home Falath had felt neither chilled nor weary and, even now, his body tingled with a vitality he thought lost forever. It was nothing short of a miracle. And yet the enigma had not ended there. He took another sip of the wine and forced his thoughts to go on.

Airen had disturbed him with his talk of healing because it threatened all his carefully-built barriers. As he and Rollo walked back to the village together his agitation increased. To disguise his fear he lashed out at Rollo and censured him for his poor showing against Malglint, some of which he witnessed. Rollo, he recalled with a faint smile, accepted it all very meekly, obviously not fooled for a moment. He did suggest there was more to his worsting than lack of skill but Falath was not really listening. The mere thought that Rollo might have been killed was enough to arrest his heart. Somehow Rollo’s wellbeing and the safety of the realm were intertwined. Not that he had ever mentioned this to anyone. It was one of his feelings, nothing more.

At that point they were hailed by Joreb’s errand-runner, who informed them Nar Michal had arrived back at the village but was not alone. Aelgif, the Elder of Bybridge, had also returned and desired words with the prince. Falath cringed. He remembered Aelgif as a querulous, self-assertive man who caused no small trouble for his overlord. Rollo tactfully asked to be excused and disappeared from sight, leaving him to deal with the villager alone.

The Elder immediately launched into a lengthy tirade and though they learned Joreb’s theory was correct, that Malglint had indeed ordered the village destroyed for non-payment of benevolences - the ‘voluntary’ tax paid to the rebels - he whined throughout at the high cost of his loyalty. Falath bore his flustered obeisance and hints for preferment stoically, with vague references to some sort of recompense. Fortunately, a few minutes later Airen reached the north end of the village. The knight posted to watch for him led him through the ruins to where the others were gathered. Eager to be gone, Joreb gave the order to mount up as soon as he saw him. Aelgif made no attempt to disguise his displeasure when he saw the shieran Lord of Chanon in the train and expressed concern that he was forsaking his duties at Bilonac. Falath felt no obligation to respond and was relieved to leave the burned village and its grim Elder.

The return journey began quietly enough. Assured that the rebels had left the area, Joreb went on ahead with Malglint under heavy escort, leaving two knights and their men-at-arms to accompany the prince. With the perversity of mountain weather the storm blew over as quickly as it arose. The snow was already freezing and the horses were skittish, yet it was still a fair evening. The mist had cleared and they could see, many leagues across the crisp white fields, the polestar of the beacon-fire at Syranym.