“Now we enter our final jousting division.” The applause died down. “We have a formal challenge between Lord Dephithus de Nu Traven of Imperious—” a heavy applause rose and Hydra showed off with a controlled rear so that Dephithus was forced to center him again before he could take his lance and settle it into position, “—and our own Lady Larina Moshvue of Dalynay.” Even heavier applause greeted Larina’s name, but Dephithus had expected that in her home stadium. “Let the contest begin!”
Dephithus heeled Hydra and the stallion burst forward with nearly enough force to leave his rider behind. Seconds before the lances crossed he was able to right himself. His lance slid harmlessly off Larina’s chest plate. Her lance caught him more squarely and shoved him back and to the right. The left stirrup pulled free and the stadium went wild with shouts and applause. Dephithus was able to catch himself on the right stirrup and push back into the center of the saddle as he reined Hydra in. He spun the stallion around to the right, using the turn to help him gain his seat again. Larina had turned a bit faster and he could see her hungry eyes peering out of the helmet as she barreled back toward him.
The next two passes they both managed to keep their seats, and Dephithus knew the audience would be getting impatient. Focusing himself, he silently vowed to give the onlookers the show they wanted. On the fourth pass Larina’s lance slid off, but his caught on her shoulder plate, throwing them both violently back. The lance splintered, then broke as Larina toppled off, bringing her mounts hindquarters down with her. Since he was already half out of the saddle, Dephithus swung his leg the rest of the way over and used the other stirrup to push himself away from Hydra. He landed with a grunt on his back and rolled up—not the easiest move in jousting armor—drawing his sword as he stood.
Larina wavered for a moment once free of the saddle and on her feet, yet her eyes were fierce when she pulled her sword. Her breastplate shifted oddly and Dephithus noticed that one of the leather straps holding it up was damaged. Then Larina lunged and Dephithus focused on blocking, striking, and blocking again. He planted several neatly calculated blows, watching with an eager fascination as the damaged strap gave a little more. Larina continued to fight ferociously, leaving her share of marks on his armor and moving in with a stunning aggression. The damaged strap finally gave under the weight of her armor. Dephithus parried her blow then thrust at his unsuspecting opponent, his blade scraping the edge of the breastplate as it fell away. The softer flesh beneath gave easily under the sharp steel point.
The blade trembled in his grip, grinding roughly against bone as it passed between her ribs. Larina’s eyes widened with horror and pain as she stared at him, staggering back to pull free of the blade in her chest. Terror-stricken silence filed the stadium and she turned with a slow stagger to face her family’s seats. Her hands clasped over the gushing wound as though trying to slow the thick red torrent.
Numbness spread through Dephithus. He tossed the sword away and stepped forward to catch Larina as she fell. Cries rose up all around them, but Dephithus could only hear Larina’s mother, wailing as clearly as if she were the only other person there.
Larina’s father reached them first, shoving Dephithus away. He knelt over his daughter. Dephithus stumbled back, staring in stunned silence at the blood on his hands. A choking sound came from Larina and he could see the blood coming from her mouth as she struggled to breathe.
But he had known. He had known exactly when the armor would fail. He should have declared it and stopped the match so it could be tended to.
Dephithus looked around, searching for some sense amidst the confusion. Faces surrounded him, full of distress as they watched the fallen warrior. She was still so young. Barely past her Dawning Day. Dephithus fell to his knees. He hung his head and closed his eyes to those many horrified faces. Still, the choking sounds Larina was making and the wailing of her mother resounded in his ears. A strong hand took hold of his upper arm, pulling him up with no little force.
“Come, you must leave this area.”
Still numb, Dephithus nodded and let Kota lead him stumbling away from the stadium. For a brief moment, a glorious few seconds, the horrified numbness broke and he looked around in panic. Then he spotted one of his family’s servants leading Hydra away from the stadium and the alarm faded, allowing the numbness to return.
*
The room Dephithus had been given in the palace of Dalynay was almost as large as the guestrooms in the Elysium palace, if not nearly as ornate. Dalynay was only a lordship, after all, and should never display such wealth as that of the high lord of these lands. The bed was lavishly canopied with maroon and gold velvet, a traditional heavy style that the Elysium palace had stayed away from. It was a lovely piece with a frame of ornately carved wood, but his family’s home was focused on elegance without the gaudiness.
Dephithus sat on the floor between the bed and the far wall under a large window. The elaborate baseboard pressed into his lower back painfully, but he could not bring himself to move away. Try as he might he could find in himself no sorrow, only guilt. Worse yet, guilt was more because of where it had happened, there in front of all those witnesses, than because it had happened.
What was wrong with him?
There were three slow taps on the door of the room, followed by a pause and two quick taps. Mythan was coming. Dephithus stood, his back groaning as he moved away from the uncomfortable baseboard. Kota had agreed to signal him with taps on the door when someone came. It was certain to be either Mythan or Avaline so they had arranged two different patterns. For once, the large man had shown a more understanding side that irritated Dephithus even more. It was easy to despise Kota the if he could convince himself the man was just a brute, but not so easy to despise Kota when he was being so supportive.
Dephithus sat on the edge of the bed, a somewhat more dignified spot then the floor. When Mythan entered he stood and bowed his head once respectfully, making quick note of the worry and tightness in his den-father’s face.
“Dephithus, my son.” He paused as if he could not bring himself to speak beyond that for several long seconds. “Lord Johan and Lady Olisa have demanded the life of the armorer. It has been determined that their daughter’s death was an accident caused by the faulty craftsmanship of the bindings on her armor.”
Dephithus cringed inwardly. Someone else would die for his evil deed. There was no doubt that the bindings had been poor, but he had known that before they gave. He had been watching, waiting for the binding to give. Keeping his voice even he spoke the words he knew Mythan was about to say. “And I must attend the execution to defend my honor and reputation.”
“Yes. I know how hard this must be for you, but this is the way these things are handled. No one has ever died at your hands and you must believe that there was no way you could have prevented this. Nobody knew this was going to happen.”
I knew, Den-father, I knew. He tried to swallow down the lump of guilt that was making it hard to breathe. Keeping the truth from Mythan only made it worse. “I should change.”
Mythan nodded. “The dark green set you brought for tonight’s dinner should be suitable. There will be no celebration this evening, so it won’t be noticed.”
Dephithus nodded to himself as Mythan stepped out. It was important to dress well out of respect for the deceased. Perhaps it was right that the armorer die. There was no way he could have killed her if the band on the breastplate had not been so weak. In a way the armorer was as guilty of her death as he was. Wasn’t he?
Dephithus changed then moved to stand before the mirror. The man staring back at him looked older than he remembered.
Why? What has happened to me?
The reflection’s silver-green eyes held no answer.
Maybe it was the Dragonkin. If they were related somehow to the sinister daenox, if they were evil, and he was a throwback to them? Could it be that such a curse might lay dormant for centuries then rise again for no apparent reason?
Dep
hithus frowned at his reflection and the reflection smiled.
Backing frantically away from the seditious image, he fell over the edge of the bed, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. Kota threw open the door and looked around the room warily, his hand on his sword hilt. Finally, his eyes settled on Dephithus who had gotten to his feet and was clasping his hands before him to try and hide their shaking.
“Is all well?”
“No, Kota,” he snapped. His voice was shaking. “I just killed a girl not an hour gone. How do you think things are?”
Kota’s stony features were softened by a hint of compassion. “You must be strong. You are Mythan’s heir. Come, it is time you showed yourself.”
“Yes,” Dephithus muttered.
He glanced at the mirror as they walked from the room, but it reflected nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe he was going crazy. Taking a strange sort of comfort in that thought, he sped up a bit so that he was walking a few steps ahead of Kota. Regardless of the circumstances, it would not do for him to be seen moping along behind Kota like a scolded child.
Dephithus joined the rest of his and Larina’s families on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Lord Johan’s face was twisted with misery and he looked away quickly when he saw Dephithus. Lady Olisa was still weeping. One of her ladies in waiting attended her, keeping her supplied with fresh kerchiefs and soothing words. The palace courtyard was packed full of Lord Johan’s subjects shouting angrily at a figure that was being pulled through the midst of them by several guards. The goal of the party was a large scaffold with a guillotine on it. They would behead him. At least it would be a quicker death than Larina’s had been, though not by much.
The guards appeared to be making some attempt to protect the armorer from the onslaught of the angry crowd. However, when the burly man was pulled up the steps Dephithus could see blood on his face where the raging crowds had broken through. The man looked terrified, even from this distance, and he was shouting something that was lost under the din of the enraged crowd. By the top of the steps the man had begun to weep, and his body sagged so that his knees hit the wood of the scaffold with a loud crack before the guards could pull him up again.
When was the last time a public execution had occurred in one of Mythan’s lordships? Certainly not since he could remember. Perhaps they had all been right. His birth marked a time of change, and maybe even a time when the daenox would return. His very existence, a child bearing the markings of the long extinct dragonkin, probably was the bad omen many had claimed it to be. Would it change anything if he had not been born? What if he were to die? Or was it perhaps too late to stop the changes his corrupted presence had set off?
Dephithus shook his head at his own wild thoughts. Then again, maybe he was just being ridiculously dramatic? It was crazy as well as arrogant to think that one person’s life could be so critical.
The scrape of metal on metal as the guillotine blade dropped snapped him rudely back to the matter at hand. The burly man’s body went limp and the dull thud of his head dropping into the wooden box resonated in the sudden silence. He did not recall hearing the man’s name called out or the charges brought against him. Had anyone, outside of the condemned, protested the charges?
Lord Johan walked up to Dephithus and stood facing him as Lady Olisa was led past them into the palace. “Justice has been done and your honor and reputation have been restored.”
Dephithus nodded, kept silent by the misery in the man’s eyes.
Lord Johan’s voice cracked when he continued and tears ran down his cheeks. “But my Larina is still dead, Lord Dephithus, she is still dead.”
“If I could undo…”
Lord Johan interrupted Dephithus with a shake of his head. “I am deeply troubled that your blade did this, but it surely would have been some other if not you and your conduct has remained admirable throughout this trial. For that I thank you.”
Admirable? Which imposter had Lord Johan been watching over the last several hours? Dephithus remained wisely silent and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder as he passed. Johan stopped, laying his hand on top of Dephithus’s, and nodded, accepting the gesture of comfort before continuing into the palace. Dephithus looked out over the courtyard for a few minutes longer, the guilt that had been fading blossomed up stronger than before. Mythan stepped up beside him, looking out beyond the courtyard and the city at the forest.
“Your silence there was very prudent,” Mythan said, his eyes glossed over with sorrow for Dalynay’s noble family. “In spite of these miserable events, I am proud of you.”
Dephithus was again puzzled by this praise. Was there someone running around who looked a lot like him or was he better at deception than he realized. He could see how his reaction on the stadium field might have been mistaken for a gesture of respect and repentance. Still, it was hard for him to believe that he could do this terrible thing and come out looking not only innocent, but dignified as well.
“What happens now?”
“Now,” Mythan sighed as if the weight of all the world bore down on his shoulders. “Now we go home and leave them to the mourning that only they have a right to. Your mother will come up with some token of our sympathy to send them. She is good at that.”
Yes, someone else would lay the balm over the wounds he had opened. That was perhaps as it should be. Dephithus allowed his gaze to look beyond at the trees and the road home. With a solemn nod he led the way back into the palace.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Imperious held its own celebration in remembrance of the deceased Lady Larina. Wrought iron candelabras were placed about the ballroom and the guests danced in subdued lighting. Lovely night blue tapestries were hung on the walls and matching carpets were laid out on the floor to keep the dancing quiet and restrained. Everyone was dressed in dark, elegant colors and wore sedate masks, the same neutral mask for all the men and women, including the servants. Larina’s face was to be the only face they should think of that night.
They drank as well, celebrating life with frequent toasts that all said the same thing in a variety of different ways. Dozens of speeches of remembrance all creatively reworded. Myara attended the celebration and she hovered near Dephithus, touching his arm or shoulder often in gestures of comfort. They barely spoke to one another, however. It was inappropriate to speak of personal things at a celebration such as this.
Practice the next day was conducted in the same somber mood and Dephithus began to feel suffocated by the delicate way others conducted their conversations around him, as if he were too fragile to handle the reality of what had happened. It was his day to practice ground fighting with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. His opponent, Culaine, who was far more skilled with a sword than she was with a brush given the wild disarray of her red hair, fought with reservation, pulling her strikes and uncharacteristically leaving herself open to his attacks. Dephithus was more frustrated than tired when the practice was over.
Wary of his own temper, he turned to leave the practice arena before he could say or do something he would regret, only to find Vicor walking up behind him. Dread created a hollow in his gut.
“Lord Dephithus.”
Vicor hesitated a moment and Dephithus tried not to fidget. It would do him no good to look as impatient as he felt. The whole experience was making him feel like a branch bent near to breaking.
“I… Perhaps I pushed you too hard. You may alter your schedule as you see fit to maintain the required practice levels. I will leave you on fifth watch in the guard towers for now, but you may cut down to five nights if you wish. Just be sure there is someone to cover.”
Dephithus struggled not to let his confusion show. Vicor’s eyes shifted to the floor, then he made himself meet his student’s gaze with a visible effort. He looked like he might throw up. Could it be that the commander believed he was somehow to blame for Larina’s death?
Dephithus shook his head. Was he the only one who would remain free of blame for a de
ath he most certainly deserved it for? “Sir, I find this schedule challenging in a good way. Might I request to maintain my current partners and practice schedule for a while longer?”
Vicor started to shake his head. “It is an aggressive lineup. If you overextend yourself it will wear your down over time and slow your reaction times. Accidents are more apt to occur when you’re not at your sharpest.”
He does blame himself!
Dephithus had to control his reaction, knowing it might draw questions if he allowed his jaw to drop with the surprise he felt. Unless he was mistaken, Vicor believed the harsh schedule he had put Dephithus on made him too slow to stop that fatal strike when Larina’s armor failed. He could think of nothing to say. Nothing at all.
Taking his silence for persistence, Vicor relented some. “If that is what you want, perhaps you can keep to that schedule, but only every other week. On off weeks you will have only five nights on guard duty and an extra free day from Legion practice.”
Not quite what he had hoped for. The hard schedule kept him preoccupied so he did not dwell too much on those things that confused and angered him. It also kept his energy depleted, so his temper had less to fuel it. Still, if he argued too much, he might get even less out of their negotiation. However, if he showed that he could handle the schedule, Vicor might let him add more again in time.
He gave a nod. “Yes, Sir.”
Vicor nodded as well. “Get some rest before watch tonight.”
But rest was not what waited for him. Outside of the practice arena, Myara was pacing back and forth until she spotted him approaching. Then she stopped and stood, still as a statue, her expression as she watched him approach a very curious mixture of hope and reluctance. It was cute, in a vulnerable sort of way that was uncomfortably arousing.
Dephithus mustered up a reserved smile. It would not look good if he appeared too cheerful so soon after the tournament. Hope trumped reluctance and Myara responded with a much warmer smile.
Dark Hope of the Dragons (Elysium's Fall Book 1) Page 15