CHAPTER 1
Connor had seen the messenger safely away, escorting him through the silent mass of the dark, deserted courtyard, the light of the lantern flickering over the cobbles. Reaching the stables, they had parted company, Connor waiting until he had heard the soft challenge and reply as the man rode out past the sentries. Then he turned to make his way indoors, walking with quiet steps along the stone-flagged passageway in order not to disturb the members of the household who should have been all abed at this late hour. Arrived at the chamber, which served equally as a study for the master of the household and as the headquarters for his company of men-at-arms, Connor entered without knocking, stopping short on the threshold for a few seconds, before stepping inside and carefully closing the door behind him. Francys was sitting at the table staring bleakly ahead and, by the light of the tabri-oil lamp nearby, Connor saw that his face was ashen.
As he approached, Francys picked up the papers lying on the table before him and handed them over without a word. Connor looked down at them curiously, then glanced up at Francys.
'Read them,' the latter said impatiently.
Taking them over to another chair, Connor sat down to read through the documents. A feeling of increasing puzzlement spread through him as he did so, for what he held was, as far as he could judge, nothing more than the usual monthly report from Artem containing news supplied by the various members of the intelligence network which he contrived to run on Francys' behalf, and there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary in it, certainly nothing that could possibly account for Francys' odd pallor and the tension which surrounded him. Connor's brows drew together in a perplexed frown. He glanced once more at Francys, and turned over the last page ... to find a note attached, written in the personal code reserved for private communications. Was it this that Francys wanted him to read? He presumed that it must be, and accordingly scanned it quickly. A deeper frown etched his brow and he re-read the words unbelievingly.
'Menellen,
I write with some, news of vital import to your personal safety. It -mas conveyed to me by Mikel who, you will surely agree, is a most reliable informant and unlikely to pass on false information. To ensure myself further as to its truth, I have had it cheeked out by others whom I knew to be in a position to do so, and have but this minute received full confirmation.
Mikel reports that there are a number of documents which have been concocted in Carakhas, purporting to be in your handwriting and containing matters of interest to people hostile to our land. I am told that they are the result of a collaboration between certain persons in Carakhas and Vast, with Krapan acting as go-between. In a week's time, these documents will travel to Vast, where they are to be used as the basis for a charge of treachery and secret dealings with the Lord of Shadowe to be brought against you. Tour brother, the Lord Hadran, is the main actor in this. Neither Mikel nor anyone else has been able to discover how they will be delivered to Väst, so it will not be possible for them to be intercepted.
Menellen, if you value "your life and liberty, I beg you earnestly to disappear before they come to take you. You will not be able to refute the charge - they have made certain of that. Be assured that whatever aid I can lend you is yours.
I beg to remain your faithful servant, Artem.'
Connor perused the letter a third time as if to assure himself that he had not imagined the contents. Then he slowly raised his head to look across the room at Francys. Shock robbed him at first of words to express his emotions, but as he sat there, Francys himself began to speak, haltingly:
'How could he do this to me! There must be some mistake. Hadran would never serve me such a wicked trick. Oh, I know he hates me ... but this! No, no, I can't believe it. Dear Sior, I am his brother, his blood brother!'
He buried his face in his hands, unable to look Connor in the eye as he wrestled with the bitter knowledge that his own family had plotted his ruin, and intended death. The older man shifted uncomfortably in his chair, hesitating to speak, yet wishing to convey his sympathy somehow but not knowing how.
Francys could not think clearly. There seemed to be a blanket of darkness over his mind. Thoughts circled and danced in a senseless jumble, unrelated to one another, but all the time coming back to the one question: how could Hadran do this to him? A feeling of desolation crept over him. If his own brother could betray him in such a fashion, whom could he trust? He felt suddenly utterly alone.
Connor became conscious of a terrible anger inside himself. He had served Francys from the day when the latter had become old enough to command, had taken care of his affairs during Francys' enforced absence as prisoner in the South and later in the Land of Shadowe, and had come to cherish a strong affection for his commander, and a correspondingly strong feeling of dislike for the elder Coras brother, whom he considered a bully and a brute. If Hadran had been at his mercy at that moment, he would have had no compunction in despatching him in the most painful fashion possible. But that was not the most important consideration at that present. His first duty was to Francys.
Rising to his feet, he approached the table and, with some slight hesitation, ventured to touch the fair man lightly on the shoulder.
'Menellen,' he said quietly.
Francys raised his head.
'Connor,' he said slowly. 'What am I to do?'
'You must get away to safety,' Connor replied firmly. 'You have a week's grace. Use it.'
Francys turned and looked at the older man.
'You would make of me an outlaw? A hunted creature, abandoned by all my friends and living only to evade the hunters?'
'Better an outlaw and alive, Menellen, than hanged for a traitor. At least you would have some hope of someday proving your innocence.'
'True ... but is it worth it? To live out my life alone, despised ...'
'Not alone,' Connor spoke resolutely. 'And not despised. Don't forget, there are those of us who know the truth - Artem, myself we'll not desert you.'
He marked the sudden flush, the biting of the lip as Francys struggled with his emotions, and tactfully withdrew.
When he returned, bearing a jug of warmed, spiced wine, the fair man was again master of himself, and had, it appeared, been doing some thinking.
'I must leave here tomorrow,' he announced abruptly, accepting a tankard of the steaming liquid. 'It must seem, though, to the household that I have gone merely on an ordinary journey, maybe even to Vast. Once away from here, I shall have to find some means of concealing my tracks ...'
'Our tracks, Menellen', Connor interrupted.
'My tracks,' Francys repeated. 'I cannot in all conscience allow you to share my exile, to give up your name, your honour ... There will be a price on my head once it is known that I have escaped ...'
'Then there will be one on mine also. Menellen, you cannot stop me. You may not ask me, but I shall come all the same, if I have to walk to the ends of the earth.'
'I ... What can I say to that?' Francys said with a shaky laugh. 'You have so phrased it that I cannot refuse, can I? And in truth, I would not wish to. If I must become...
