Sword of Fire

by Katharine Kerr

  Dovina caught her breath. She knew how Grif had died, thrown to the ground and trampled by charging warhorses shod with good iron.

  “It was foolish of us. Pieces, Your Highness. Bruised, bloody, his head half torn off, mangled—”

  “Enough!” the prince said, but gently. “And so, when you thought of revenge, you turned to the old ways, the ancient ways of tradition.”

  Ladoic winced. Knives cut both ways, Dovina thought.

  “Just so,” Standyc said. “Grief can be a kind of madness, Your Highness. It seemed a fit vengeance to me at the time. Haven’t we just heard about the power of ancient traditions?”

  The priest scowled but stayed silent.

  “My heart aches for your grief,” Gwardon said. “But truly, it seems to me that your son’s death was an accident, and the defilement of Ladoic’s son, quite deliberate. Still, your griefs seem to me to be equal, and your losses in balance. I as a mere man am inclined to consider mercy.”

  Some of the listeners nodded. A few whispered to their companions. The priest cleared his throat and turned toward Gwardon.

  “But of course,” Gwardon spoke fast, “let us hear what our ancient laws say on the matter.” He raised an eyebrow and waited for His Holiness to speak.

  The Lawspeaker rose from his chair and looked over the crowded chamber for a long moment. He turned to the prince, and even with her weak eyes Dovina could see how furious he was. The prince had trampled their ancient privileges by speaking first for mercy. The chamber fell utterly silent and waited.

  “The fault must be redressed,” the priest said. “For more than a thousand years, Great Bel has let it be known that the taking of heads displeases him. It is a barbarity, a foul thing, suitable for savages, not men of standing.” He paused for a dramatic moment. “Will you interfere with the will of the gods?” Another pause. “Your Highness?”

  “Never would I,” Gwardon said, “in matters that pertain to the gods. Is this such a one?”

  The priest had the choice of backing down or establishing a legal precedent. He made a snorting sound, then finally said, “It is a matter pertaining to the will of the gods.”

  All graciousness, Gwardon bobbed his head in a gesture of submission to the priest’s direction.

  “Then speak, Your Holiness, and judge this man.”

  “The law requires that the taker of a head be hanged until dead,” the priest said.

  Curses broke out in the back of the chamber, quickly stifled as Standyc’s men remembered where they were. Those seated turned to look, then turned back in a rustle of clothing and whispers.

  “Would that be the man who did the deed, Your Holiness,” Gwardon said, “or the man who gave the order?”

  The priest was near trembling with raw anger. He had been forced into the position of giving the noble-born a reason to resent his priesthood’s hold on the laws, and they, of course, would spread the tale. Standyc’s captain’s face had gone as white as milk.

  The priest cleared his throat several times before speaking. “I would say the man who gave the order, Your Highness. He has asked that it fall upon him.”

  Several among Standyc’s men swore under their breaths. One man grabbed at the place his sword hilt should have been. The gwerbret spun around and shook his head in a no, held up his hand for silence as well, before he turned back to the prince.

  “Is there no ground for mercy?” Gwardon said to the priest. “None?”

  The priest had had a moment to think. “I too am minded for mercy in this sad, sad affair. Bel is great, Bel is good, and he is the very epitome of mercy when the hearts of men show frailty, not evil attempt.”

  “Then shall we have mercy?” Gwardon said.

  “Mercy we shall have. A pound of the purest gold and a pair of white bullocks, I think, for the temple sacrifices, would address Standyc’s fault.”

  Poverty was a better fate than hanging, Dovina supposed. Unused as they were to thinking in terms of coin, Standyc’s men cheered. When Gwardon half-rose from his chair and glared at them, they fell silent. Dovina moved to the edge of her chair, ready to dart forward and keep her father from disgracing himself. Ladoic was standing with his arms tightly crossed over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits, his head thrown slightly back as he considered the priest and the prince. The Prince Regent sat back down in his chair and considered him in turn.

  “Will you accept this settlement?” Gwardon said. “Over the matter of your son’s desecration only.”

  Ladoic’s posture relaxed. He hooked his thumbs over his belt and continued his level stare for a long few moments, but Dovina knew he was struggling to keep from smiling. Finally he said, “I accept it, Your Highness.”

  “Done, then.” The prince turned his head to look at Standyc. “I rule that his fault was accidental, yours deliberate. Will you accept the penance set by the Lawspeaker?”

  Standyc swallowed several times before he answered. He stared straight ahead of him, and his face had sagged, especially around his mouth. “I will, Your Highness.”

  “Very good.” The regent rose from his chair to look around the chamber. The last of the whispers stopped. “We will discuss the rest of the matters that require settlement at a later date in another hearing.” He sat back down and picked up the Sword of Justice. “Adjourned.” He knocked the pommel thrice on the table.

  The crowd rose and swirled in little eddies, some people heading for the door, others joining friends for whispered conversations. Ladoic hurried out with Tieryn Bryn beside him, talking urgently. The prince and the law-speaking priest stayed behind, waiting, no doubt, for the room to clear. As she left the chamber, Dovina saw one of Standyc’s pages leaning against the wall. She made her way over to him.

  “Tell me summat, if you please,” Dovina said. “How fares Gwerbret Standyc’s lady? I heard that she viewed her son’s body.”

  “It was an awful thing, my lady. She fainted when she saw it. So her women took her upstairs to their hall, and they were ever so worried. I heard from her maid that she refused to eat or get out of bed all the next day. She hadn’t come down again by the time we had to leave to come here, so I don’t know any more.”

  “My thanks.” She took her pouch out of her kirtle and got a couple of pennies to give him. “If you hear more, tell my page. Darro, that is, the red-headed lad.”

  “My thanks to you, my lady.” He clutched the coppers tight in his fist. “I will indeed.”

  As she turned away, she saw Merryc making his way through the crowd. She waited for him to join her.

  “Did the prince plan this whole thing?” she said.

  “He didn’t. He can think on his feet, Gwardon can.” Merryc grinned at her. “And parry with the best of us.”

  “Parry? More like a thrust. That’s a huge fine the priest levied. Standyc’s going to want that land he and Father are fighting about even more.”

  Merryc winced. “I hadn’t thought of that. Dovva—may I call you Dovva?”

  “By all means, Merro.”

  “I’m thanking the god who brought you to me.”

  “Actually it was our mothers.”

  He laughed, and in a quick moment she did as well. You’re weakening, she told herself, but oh, well, I suppose I’ll simply have to marry one day anyway. It might as well be him. Her fine indifference was spoiled when he grinned at her. A stab of warmth—she felt as if the ice around her heart had melted.

  * * *

  “Ye gods!” Cavan said. “How greedy are those priests? That’s a huge fine. You could buy the best warhorses for fifty men with a pound of pure gold. And their battle gear, too. And maybe have enough left over for oats and hay.”

  “Where’s Standyc going to get it?” Alyssa said.

  “I have no idea. His guildsmen don’t have that kind of coin. His people can’t afford more taxes. They’re poor
enough already. A Westfolk moneylender, maybe.”

  “That’ll make things even nastier on the border, won’t it?”

  “Much worse.”

  The news of the law-speaking priest’s decision had spread fast in the streets as well as to the embassy grounds—and soon would, Alyssa was sure, to every noble lord within miles. When they met later in the day, Dovina confirmed the latter.

  “Father’s gloating, I’m afraid,” she said, “but the other gwerbretion are furious. A whole pound of gold! The pages and the servants tell me that everywhere they go, they hear talk of the huge fine—inns, taverns, public fountains. Standyc’s been shamed as well as driven into poverty.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “I know. I feel bad for his lady and children. He’s the only one liable for the fine, but they’ll bear the burden just the same. Huh, I wonder what the other lords will think?”

  “They should see that the priests have too much power. Do you think they will?”

  “I don’t. But I can hope. I—what is it?”

  Darro had come bustling into the chamber. “News, my lady,” he said. “Malyc Penvardd is here in Cerrmor. He arrived this morning by ship, and he’s staying at the Bardic Guild’s town house.”

  “More tinder for the fire,” Alyssa said.

  “Ever a ray of sunshine, that’s you!” Dovina said. “But you’re right. Darro, take a message to my betrothed’s mother. We don’t dare meet with Malyc here, where everyone can see him arrive and wonder what we’re talking about. But I’ll wager that Amara will let us get together with him at her town house.”

  Amara, of course, was pleased to do so. That very night the Penvardd was the honored guest at a small dinner, served in her town house suite rather than the noisy great hall. While they ate an excellent fish course followed by grilled beef rosettes, each with all the proper accompaniments, Dovina and Alyssa informed Malyc of the various recent events in Cerrmor. Merryc mostly listened, but with the course of tiny sweet cakes, he weighed in.

  “I’m going riding with the Prince Regent on the morrow,” Merryc said. “If you have your guild apply for a formal audience with him, I’ll do my best to see that you get it.”

  “Most excellent!” Malyc said. “I’ll be endlessly grateful.”

  “Merro, let me know what the prince says as soon as you return,” Amara said. “Then I’ll send pages with messages to our guests. I think we’d best forgo written messages.”

  Before Malyc left, he and Alyssa retired to a small chamber off the foyer to talk in private.

  “If you would like to give a tribute to Cradoc,” Malyc said, “I was thinking you might speak at the justiciar hearing.”

  “It would gladden my heart to do that. I’m still sorry that I had to sneak off and miss hearing your gorchan.”

  “I wondered where you’d got to. I was quite surprised when Lady Tay told me what had been happening behind my back. I probably should deliver some sort of stern rebuke, but in truth, I’m very proud of you all.”

  Alyssa felt her face burn with a blush. She managed to stammer a quiet “my thanks.”

  “Now, I’ve got a hidden dagger in my boot,” Malyc continued. “We may be able to claim that the Fox clan has no legitimate right to rule.”

  “Honored one, do you mean Maelaber, the Westfolk herald?”

  Malyc gaped, speechless for a long moment. Alyssa started to apologize, but he waved one hand for silence and laughed.

  “I do, at that!” he said once he’d recovered. “How do you know?”

  “A woman at Haen Marn told me the tale, and then she arranged for me to meet him. I had a letter asking him to help us. Alas, he wants naught to do with our suit. He told me Ladoic’s support is too important to the Westfolk. They’re not going to anger him over a claim that has little legal basis.”

  “I see.” Malyc thought in silence for a long moment. “Well, so much for my mighty threat, my hidden dagger of truth. This should teach me summat, but I’m not quite sure what the lesson is. One thing it does mean, however, is this. Our words are now the only weapon we have. What we may say in any hearing matters twice as much.”

  Alyssa’s first impulse was to back down, to say that she couldn’t possibly risk speaking and perhaps ruining everything. She pushed the fear away.

  “Then I’ll work twice as hard on my words, honored one.”

  “Excellent! Well, none of these legal affairs will matter unless the regent agrees to hear us. Let us hope he will.”

  “Just so. It’s a good thing we have Clan Daiver’s support.”

  “It is. We’ll see what Lord Merryc can do for us. Not a word till then. One never knows when royalty will find insult where others would find opportunity.”

  * * *

  Prince Gwardon was willing to receive Aberwyn’s chief bard, and not merely to do a favor to a friend, as he told Merryc.

  “The more information I can glean about the situation in the west, the better. This bard’s going to have his own reasons for seeing me, but we can sort that out later.” Gwardon paused to gesture to his councillor. “What about tomorrow morning early? Are we free?”

  “We are, Your Highness.”

  “Excellent! Bring him along to the villa some while after breakfast, Merro, if you’d not mind.”

  “It would gladden my heart to fetch him, Your Highness, and my thanks.”

  Malyc, in turn, was more than glad to be fetched, no matter what the time of day. In honor of his position as a Penvardd, Merryc borrowed his mother’s open carriage, a groom to drive it, and one of her footmen as well, just for the show of the thing. When they arrived at the prince’s country estate, servants rushed out to assist.

  It stood in the midst of gardens with a stable and barracks complex off to one side, hidden behind a row of poplar trees. Merryc handed the carriage over to the grooms, tipped them a couple of pennies, and escorted Malyc to the door. Behind a low ornamental wall, the villa itself spread out around a central courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard stood a tall, slender tower with a flat roof and a precarious flight of stairs wound around it. Merryc noticed Malyc watching everything with a slight smile. Gwardon’s councillor, Bedyl, waited at the door to usher them inside—an honor that brought a broader smile from the Penvardd.

  “The Prince Regent is most interested in meeting you,” Bedyl remarked.

  “And I him,” Malyc said. “One hopes things will be agreeable all round.”

  Gwardon received them in a private reception chamber, where the walls were painted in the Westfolk manner with views of imaginary gardens, thick with red roses. Councillor Bedyl stayed with them as well. As they entered, Malyc paused to view the nearest panel.

  “Those roses never stop blooming,” Gwardon said with a grin. “But of course, they have no scent. Nothing’s perfect in this life.”

  “True spoken, my liege.” Malyc bowed, then began to kneel to the prince.

  “No need, good bard,” Gwardon said. “I’m not the king himself, you know. Do sit down.”

  “My humble thanks, Your Highness,” Malyc said.

  Everyone sat in the chairs by a small round table. A maidservant brought a glass pitcher of white Bardek wine and small glasses. Although Malyc accepted one, Merryc noticed that he drank no more than the first polite sip.

  “So,” Gwardon said. “Lord Merryc here tells me you have a suit to lay before me.”

  “A suit concerning a suit, Your Highness. I’m quite sure you’re aware of the recent trouble in Aberwyn over the death of one of our guild members.”

  “I am.”

  “The guild wishes to receive some compensation for Cradoc’s death or, at the least, a recognition that a grave wrong occurred. We doubt if we can obtain this in the usual gwerbretal courts.”

  Gwardon’s mouth twitched in an abbreviated smile.

  �
��So,” Malyc continued, “we found ourselves thinking about the Justiciar of the Northern Border, a post your royal ancestors founded. We are, of course, much too far away to fall under his jurisdiction.”

  “I see. It would be most convenient if such a justiciar existed on the western border?”

  “Your Highness has spotted the thrust of this argument.”

  “Allow me to parry. The gwerbretion of the western border won’t react well if the throne establishes an independent court.”

  “Quite the opposite of well, Your Highness. We do understand that.”

  “Good.”

  “We’ve put some serious thought into the matter, Your Highness, concerning the difficulties. The arguments are far too long and complex to lay out in an informal meeting such as this. We’d never presume to trouble Your Highness privately with them. But since you’re in Cerrmor to hear other legal proceedings, we were wondering if you could spare a little time to hear our request in some detail.”

  Gwardon glanced at Bedyl, who nodded.

  “Quite possibly we can,” Gwardon said. “Do these arguments include more information about the situation in Aberwyn?”

  “Of course, Your Highness. It’s all most relevant.”

  “One last question. What makes you think you’ve got any chance of winning the case even with a justiciar to try it? My understanding is that Cradoc voluntarily agreed to starve at the gates.”

  “He did, Your Highness, but the laws against bringing death to a bard are very clear and very . . . well, very fierce. Consider the old days! There’s an important precedent in the case of Lord Maroic and Gweran the bard, if Your Highness might have studied that as a student.”

  “We did, truly.”

  “Well, then, Your Highness! If a man so much as threatened to harm a bard, the bard’s lord had the right to seize and hang him.” Malyc slapped his hands together with a loud pop. “Just like that. Done!”

  “Here! I’m certainly not going to hang a gwerbret!”