by S J Hartland
How he longed to once more know delicious fear prickling his spine, that thrill of danger, wondering if he could lose and die.
He needed to face a bladesman who might just be better, swifter, smarter.
Where? Who? Was there even such a man?
“Even so.” Rozenn’s gaze fell on combatants trading strokes below. “I might choose boredom over that boy’s torment. Kaell knows every bonded warrior dies young.”
Heath sought a blond head among the Mountains men, guessing this must be Kaell.
Sword sheathed, the boy leaned close to an older man with plaited, grey-streaked brown hair who delivered a string of words with expansive gestures. Kaell threw his head back, laughing. His companion slapped his shoulder.
Without understanding why, he shivered. Rozenn’s words? Or clouds momentarily shadowing land, driven by a wind brawling with pennants and flags?
Rozenn turned to Cathmor. “Kaell is still injured?”
“Bruised and battered after that Downs tournament,” the king said. “Apparently the audacious brat hid his face and fought unheralded. Now he hurt his ankle falling down the stairs to the crypt. His men say someone pushed him.”
“They like to make up stories in the Mountains.” Cael-Carren sniffed in contempt. “Nothing else to do. That, or hump goats.”
They liked to make up stories in the Icelands too. Heath wasn’t sure about humping goats though it might catch on.
“What did he want in the crypt? Up to no good, if you ask me,” Cael-Carren said. “The boy must have recovered. He fought that scarred warrior at dawn. Our captains took a keen interest.”
“Any captain will surely wish to watch a bonded warrior fight,” Rozenn said with poisonous sweetness. “But recovered? Kaell’s footwork was off. His balance. A swordsman worth the weight of his blade could see he battled a strained ankle.”
Cael-Carren bristled. “What do women know of fighting?” He whirled to plead to the king: “If Kaell can stand, he can fight. You must send him to Caelmarsh.”
“Must? No king must anything.” Cathmor tugged irritably at his fringe. “Caelmarsh must wait. I promised some villagers Kaell’s help against a nest of murderous ghouls. What could I do? They fell to their knees to beg. So I asked the Lord of Vraymorg to give me the boy.”
“Intolerable,” his uncle said. “The king does not ask. Especially of Vraymorg.”
“I don’t know Vraymorg,” Heath said with idle interest. “What manner of man is he?”
They fell silent. Telling.
He shrugged and turned away, hands pressed on warmed stone. Below Kaell corrected a man’s stroke. Wind billowed his cloak. Sun struck his dark-blond hair. He looked content. Again, nameless unease needled Heath’s neck.
“Vraymorg is a contradiction.” Cathmor’s voice held a strained edge. “He reeks of power but never seeks it. A bladesman with a courtier’s grace and wit but a tongue and temper as abrasive as straw.”
“Bloodless,” Cael-Carren said. “He murdered Caelmarsh’s captain. Pushed Paulin from the ramparts of that Mountains fortress, all because Paulin put an arrow in that boy, Kaell. But not even Caelmarsh will accuse him. He’s afraid of Vraymorg.”
Afraid? A thrill menaced Heath’s backbone. Vraymorg sounded ruthless, a man who could prove a worthy opponent in the fire halls.
That old ache burned. It started in his gut and rose into his breast. A tremor of anticipation. He had to learn more about the Lord of the Mountains.
“He unnerves me.” Cathmor pressed his lips grimly.
Cael-Carren bobbed his head. “He unnerves us all. Best to keep Vraymorg in the Mountains as castellan of that dreadful fortress where the dead walk.”
“He is very beautiful.” Rozenn’s laugh rippled.
Heath grinned. “A woman’s perspective on a man is always useful.” As with beautiful women, handsome men, in Heath’s experience, behaved differently to plain men.
“You could just demand Vraymorg surrender Kaell to you for good,” Cael-Carren said. “You are the king. Such a powerful weapon shouldn’t be in another’s hands.”
“I don’t need Vraymorg as my enemy.” Cathmor gripped his sword belt. “If I openly cross one of Telor’s great lords, the others will mistrust me. No, patience will get me what I want.”
“And subtlety,” said Heath. “That always works for me.” But not so well as murder, treachery, blackmail and occasional mayhem.
The wind gusted. Crows circled the tower. The king sniffed the air. “Let’s retreat to my rooms. Goffren is beginning to stink.”
Rozenn’s fair hair blew about her cheeks. “I like the wind.”
“You like watching young men sweat.” Cathmor laughed as he moved towards the doors. “I’m coming to know you, my dear.”
Heath lingered. “Any particular young man you’re watching sweat?” A little forward, yet she had set the informal, almost confiding tone.
“I’m watching Kaell.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s dangerous.”
“He hardly seems old enough to be dangerous. Though—” He considered the young bladesman. “He looks cocky.”
Rozenn folded arms over a swirling gown. Her hair streamed like golden ribbons. “He’s cocky because he’s not known defeat. One day he will. Every warrior does.”
Do they? Wind howled about Heath’s ears as though mocking him. Swords snarled and sang. Wings beat like whipped flames in the Iceland fire halls where he never lost.
Heath sighed. “If only you are right.”
Aric
The seneschal at the king’s door wrung his hands.
“I won’t disturb His Grace. Not for anyone.”
Aric half edged his sword out. “He’ll see me.”
The man gaped, stammered, “I’ll—ask,” as he quickly disappeared inside. Rumbling voices, a burst of savage laughter threaded through the open door, then the servant’s pleading tone.
Aric slammed his blade back and nudged the door wider. The king and his uncle Cael-Carren stood near doors open to a balcony. The breeze carried the clang and clink of swords.
“Demands?” Cathmor said.
“I mean, I mean, he awaits your pleasure, Your Grace.”
“None of my cousins gives me the least bit of pleasure. Get rid of whoever it is. I’m busy. My wedding is in two days.”
The seneschal cleared his throat.
“Oh, very well. Which cousin? One has already bored me today. Why not another?”
“Aric, Prince of the Isles. Son of King Hatton.”
A silence fell. The two men exchanged a look.
“Prince, indeed,” Cael-Carren said. “I’ll give him prince.”
“My dear uncle, I admire ambition. Let Aric call himself what he likes. When I rule the Isles, this dog shall learn his place.”
“You should put the dog in chains. In case he barks.”
“Or put him down in case he bites.” A drawn-out sigh. “But what’s that old Telorian expression? Too many pleasures at once ruin a man’s character.”
“Then at least keep him close.”
“Oh, I plan to keep him uncomfortably close. Once I’m wed and the Isles mine, I’ll appoint Aric a chamber knight. He can hardly refuse the honour. I may put him in charge of my chamber pot. Ha, Prince of Piss Pots.”
Aric bristled with prideful anger, his fingers seeking comforting steel. He shoved his fury down. He could not afford to let the king rile him. Not now.
“Well.” Cathmor waved a hand. “Show in the Isles ‘prince’.”
Aric retreated as the servant bustled back.
“His Majesty will see you now.”
Rudely he shouldered past, his sword strapped to his back. Guards rushed to challenge him.
Cathmor pushed off the wall near the balcony doors. He sniffed. “Cousin, pretty as always but you dare come armed into your king’s presence?”
With set lips, the belittling jibe stoking his anger, Aric unbuckled his strap and set it as
ide. Get through this. Lie to Cathmor. Kill Khir’s bonded warrior. Save Azenor.
“I expected my bride, Aric,” Cathmor said. “Don’t tell me you misplaced her. The last man who misplaced something of mine ended up in my head house. Well, part of him did.”
Aric fought down another flush of temper. Curse Cathmor’s condescending tone. It got his back up as the king no doubt knew.
“She is at Dal-Decma, Your Grace. Azenor insisted on riding instead of travelling in the carriage with her women. The sun gave her a headache. She has taken to her bed until tomorrow.”
“But the priests wed us in two days.” Cathmor sighed. “She is often ill?”
“No, Your Grace. It’s excitement about the wedding. Azenor is as healthy as a horse.”
“She can look like a horse for all I care. Dal-Decma did you say? That’s only half a day’s ride. I’ll send guardsmen to escort her safely here.”
“No need,” Aric said quickly. “All my men are with her.”
“All?” Cathmor frowned. “You came alone?”
“To explain our delay, Your Grace.”
“I always knew you were a reckless fool, cousin. Our wolf’s heads don’t frighten you? Or ghouls? But then, silly me—you are a bladesman.”
“I am Serravan-trained, Your Grace. Undefeated with the sword from the age of fifteen.”
“And they say I have a big head. I can’t wait to hear more about how excellent you are.” Cathmor yawned. “You’ll dine with me, of course.”
Aric bowed his neck, cheeks heated with indignation. Again, Cathmor deliberately sought to provoke him. To what end?
“Oh.” The king flapped a hand. “Heath Damadar must join us, given who he is. Or what he is. He and his sister Judith yesterday unexpectedly graced Dal-Kanu with their presence. At least, she has grace. He has presence, I suppose.”
“He thinks he’s witty,” Cael-Carren said. “Full of themselves, these Ice lords.”
“Damadar.” A boyhood memory stirred of fishing with Heath at Tide’s End while their elders hammered out a marriage contract. “Why is he here?”
“He says he represents his family at my wedding,” Cathmor said.
Aric dismissed Heath. A distraction. He must focus on one task—murder. It was his job to protect his sister. He had already failed his men. He could not fail her.
“So cousin. Until tonight what amusement can we offer?”
“A mirror so he might admire his reflection,” Cael-Carren said.
A guard at the door coughed to hide laughter.
“Shall I send a woman to bathe you?” Cathmor’s sweetly innocent tone hid contempt. “I can’t promise she’ll be as pretty as you, but we will do our best.”
The guards openly sniggered that time.
“Or perhaps you might like to see the castle library? I’m told you’re fond of anything with dust and ink on it.”
More mockery. More snide remarks about his appearance. Aric curled a fist.
Citizens in Dal-Kanu considered an Isles man’s longer hair, silver bracelets and earrings unmanly. The king’s insults, though, exposed Cathmor’s resentment.
Aric defeated him in battle. Made him look small. In return, the king sought to diminish him. Provoke him to lash out. An excuse to hurl the man he hated into a dark, dank cell.
Or did another, twisted game play out? Aric had no time to learn its rules. He must get to Kaell and kill him.
Cathmor wagged a finger at his uncle. “You angered my cousin. How naughty of you.”
Aric’s patience exploded. “What game is this? Is this how you treat a guest, Cathmor?”
“You’re not a guest,” the king said. “You’re about to become my new brother. That makes you a fair target.”
Thudding blood in his skull drowned sound. Aric snatched at calm. None of this mattered. Only Azenor mattered. “If Your Grace does not object,” he said stiffly. “I need to swing a sword about after the long ride. Perhaps your men train in the ward?”
Cathmor jeered with lifted brows. “How frightfully dull. You have no interests apart from weapons and war?” He patted his mouth again, his manner and words deceptive. Aric knew the real menace beneath.
“Oh go and get sweaty if you must. Though I warn you, cousin. I summoned Khir’s bonded warrior to Dal-Kanu. He and a mob of those dreadful Mountains warriors took over the training field this afternoon before they ride north.”
Aric’s crazed laugh even shocked him. “I hope he might honour me with swordplay.”
Cathmor frowned as though the laugh jarred. “I’m told he enjoys a challenge. I’m also told Kaell is skilled with a blade. Gods forbid he might even mess up your hair.”
Aric offered a formal bow. Retrieving his sword, he stalked past carefully impassive guards. No one waited outside the door. He paused, thinking about Cathmor’s words. Kaell enjoys a challenge. A thin plan formed.
“I don’t like him,” Cael-Carren’s voice carried into the passage. “He wears more jewellery than your mistress. And his hair is like a woman’s.”
“Very pretty hair. And a pretty head. Put it on a spike and we could all admire it. The minstrels might even write another song. I tire of the one about Goffren.”
Aric was about to move away when a woman said, “A man of Caelan blood is far too dangerous to keep here, Cathmor. He reeks of his disgusting gods.”
“Aric reeks of sweat. And what stained his shirt? I should insist he bathe.”
“You joke at everything,” she said. “But you take the gods of the Isles lightly at your peril. Do not forget, they were Roaran’s gods as well.”
Cathmor’s laugh tattered with unease. “Such a pleasant conversation until this talk of dead Telorian kings, Rozenn. Roaran this, Roaran that. Blah, blah, blah. The next fool to mention Roaran Caelan joins Goffren in the head house. At least his head will.”
Aric turned. Cathmor and his insults, his nasty games, must wait.
He had to atone for failing his men. Save his sister.
He had to find a stranger and murder him.
Heath
Heath braced against the wind blistering across the lake to his balcony as though he must fight it. That defined him—the fight. A fire dancer endlessly battled flames, chance and fate, struggled against another man’s hungry blade and will.
Do your worst, he taunted the fire before every contest. Kill me if you can.
Though it snapped with greedy fingers, he knew it could not. Nor could the too-confident fools who tried to dance with him as the inferno spat beneath their feet.
Heath remembered every man he killed. How their insolent smiles faded as they realised they would lose and die. How they stared in terror as the flames embraced them. Each time, triumphant, he raised his sword to shouts of adulation and felt his gods’ pleasure.
They loved him. He knew it. Just as he knew exactly what he was, where he belonged.
So why, why, did Rozenn’s words stir up doubt?
Dead inside.
He shook his head fiercely. Why question his purpose? He was not only a lord of the Ice but a fire dancer gifted by the gods with a keen eye, quick feet, a steady hand and sharp wits.
Yes, the flames must have him in the end. When age weakened his limbs and clouded his sharp mind. The fiery pit took all fire dancers, eventually. But not yet.
Beneath his hands, the balcony’s age-worn stone, bleached by sunlight, felt smooth but cool. A thread of pine stirred, very pure after the stench of the king’s head house. Carelessly he slapped at a mosquito.
Still Rozenn’s words niggled, his desire, his compulsion uncomfortably naked.
Once winning and surviving had thrilled like a dazzling glimpse of destiny. The danger raged through him. Knowing he stood a heartbeat, a thrust, a slip from death, enlivened like nothing else. Not power. Not sex.
Now he fought mechanically, driven by duty and pride. Now staring into the abyss of leaping flames, of spitting ash, there was only an emptiness, a yearning for that old delirium
, for that exhilaration that shouted: this is life, fight for it.
He might still turn to the flames and softly taunt, do you worst. Take me. I dare you. Knowing they would not. Knowing, deep down, no one could beat him.
It was madness surely, to desire that belly-clenching rush. To desire risk. Madness … or stupidity.
Judith would call it that. If ever he were to confess this longing, she’d slap his mouth. Call him a prancing poppy or some nonsense. And he’d grin like a stupid, prancing—whatever he was.
What was he? A serious question that. Even for a man who analysed his intent, his every act. No reason to ask it now—but for Rozenn’s words.
All right, then. What was he? Obedient son? Devoted brother? Smooth-tongued spy? Cold-blooded enforcer? The old Icelands word for a Damadar son trained to serve with steel an older brother born to become lord.
Enforcer. Heath heard it whispered in awe behind his back. That’s Heath Damadar. An enforcer—with a cruel wit and a prideful swagger.
Only Myranthe used the word to belittle. Dismiss. “Enforcer,” his elder sister said in that velvet voice, her dark, hooded eyes a void. “You are nothing less, but also nothing more.”
Oh wicked, wicked Myranthe. She who heard otherworldly voices. She who stunned with a curse, summoned the dead with a song, fell into a trance to watch—
Heath shivered. He peered over the palace walls across the rambling, mud-stenched city of Dal-Kanu to its famed lake. The dipping sun, never warm in autumn, sparkled on its blue waters, coldness tearing into him.
When a bird screeched in a distant tower, he turned fast. Was that Myranthe’s terrible gaze on his back? Yes, he feared her. More than he feared the fire.
“You have that look.” Judith appeared at his shoulder.
Heath wheeled. “What look?”
“That half-witted look when you’re restless and dreaming up mischief.”
He threw her an amused glance. “You think the best of me. This half-witted look is the effect of too much wine. What have you uncovered?”
His sister smirked.
From that smirk, he knew he must tease the information out. He would. Gladly.