by Andre Norton
The King, Ashen noted, was a reedy youth. The current fashion called for long surcoats, reaching nearly to the ankle, which was a good thing because the
King's bony knees made his hose baggy. He seemed a little overwhelmed by the crown he wore, but perhaps that was just the fur lining that kept the cold metal from touching the royal head. She searched his face for resemblance to his late father, or even his grandfather Boroth, who had sired her and whom she had never seen until she had been brought into his death-chamber and he had, unexpectedly, acknowledged her as his own child. She found much more of Rannore in him, which was to his credit, though this meant he was probably not destined to be a great fighting King such as Boroth once had been. His interest lay in watching, and laying wagers on this one or that. Rumor was that he had been nearly sick with impatience, waiting for the tourney to begin.
Ysa patted the King's arm and the Great Rings she wore showed clearly, for she chose not to cover her hands with gloves. "Forgive us," she said soothingly. "We are but women and the fine points of tournament play are beyond us."
Ashen had to turn away to hide the twist of her mouth at the Dowager's words.
She knew that Ysa had been following the jousts closely, despite pretending to be gossiping with the woman who had once been her favorite, and that she had marked each one as to his abilities. Just as she would mark the contestants in the events to follow.
They were clearing the field, Steuart having won, as everyone knew he would, in preparation for the set-pieces for the elder nobles. Absently Ashen took a piece of sweet pastry from the platter that was being passed around in the royal box, and a page handed her a goblet of the hot spiced fruit drink she favored. She began to identify the nobles for Rannore, who was a bit shortsighted.
"You recognize Wittern, of course. He is matched against—yes, it is Lord
Royance. Gattor is going against Jakar, which is a good thing, from all the rumors surrounding both men and their disagreement with Royance."
"It would seem that the nobles are being matched according to rank, rather than ability, then," Rannore said. "My grandfather is certainly no chaEenge to Lord
Royance and never was even when he was in his prime."
"Well, it is only an exhibition, after all. I'm sure Royance will not shame the
King's great-grandfather."
Rannore smiled at that. "I suppose we should admire their spirit, which shines as brightly as their white hair."
Ashen smiled in turn. "If the young nobles catch but a trace of the indomitable character that their elders display, our fears about the future of Rendel might be greatly lessened."
"Let them but see the real warriors in action, then, and then they will know what they are expected to live up to," King Peres said. "Ah, there is the trumpet. The contest is about to begin!"
Ashen turned back to view the field of combat. The elder nobles, each seeming determined to show himself hale and hearty, started through their paces, if a little stiffly. She had learned something of swordplay from watching Gaurin at practice, and realized anew that in all of Rendel there was nobody—no, not even
Har-ous—who could equal him. She recognized the moves, the thrusts and parries, the gliding steps and feints. With Gaurin, there was a consummate grace involved as well, a confident bearing that made all who saw him know at once that here was a fighter to be reckoned with.
Here and there on the field, heralds were stationed in addition to personal attendants of the combatants, marking the various areas where the senior nobles were performing for the pleasure of the crowd, and each other. Ashen could almost sense the joy—in some of them, at least—of recapturing some of their earlier prowess as they warmed to their work. Gattor of Birth, however, she noted with a wry smile, matched against Jakar, went through his paces laboriously and, she thought, more than a little reluctantly. They fought in a spot close to Royance and Wittern. She wondered absently where a suit of armor had been located to go around Gattor's bulk or, indeed, if one had had to be specially made.
Suddenly the decorum of the event was shattered. Lord Royance, breaking off from his engagement with Wittem, turned on Jakar. "How dare you, sir!" he shouted in a voice that easily carried to the royal box. "You will retract your words immediately, or by all the Powers, you will answer to me here, and now."
Jakar assumed a defensive posture and heralds began to converge on that part of the field. Gattor stepped back, panting visibly, and accepted a goblet from his attendant. He took off his helm, and despite the coolness of the day, began mopping perspiration from his face.
"I will retract nothing, Royance of Grattenbor," Jakar said, "You are as I stated—a blowhard, a bully, and an indifferent fighter even when you were young.
You received too many blows on your head when you were not wearing your helm. It is long past time for you to retire from public affairs."
Royance uttered a roar of pure outrage and took a step toward Jakar, obviously intending to defend his honor then and there. Wit-tern put a restraining hand on
Royance's arm, only to have it shaken off.
Ashen got a muddled impression of the Dowager's Magician, still down in front of the spectators' stand, making a series of gestures, and then, to her amazement,
Rohan came running out of nowhere.
"Stop!" he cried. "In the name of our lord King and all the Powers, I command all to stop!" In his hand, Rohan held an object whose brightness grew with every word until the dazzling light filled the arena and caused all, even the
Magician, to shade their eyes lest they be blinded.
Twenty
Almost at the same moment that Lord Royance turned on his foe, Jakar of
Vacaster, the amulet Rohan wore beneath his clothing began to burn against his skin. Also, it vibrated, making his teeth chatter. He had no time for coherent thought—he knew only that he had to get the thing out into the open before it burned through straight to his heart. Maddened by this as well as the intolerable tingling on the back of his neck, he held it up by the silken cord.
It was glowing. Dimly he realized that once more Zazar had proven correct.
Now was the time to confront the Magician.
He nearly knocked bystanders to the ground as he shouldered his way through the crowd and raced toward the area in front of the viewing stand, where the
Magician still stood. He caught a glimpse of the Magician's hands as he made certain gestures in the direction of Royance and Jakar, and knew that this person was undeniably responsible for the nobles' folly and mischief.
Rohan held the amulet aloft and the brightness grew until all were quite dazzled, shielding their eyes with their hands. Only he seemed to be unaffected, as if he stood in some kind of core at the center of the brilliance.
"Stop!" he cried again. "Even you, Flavielle."
With the pronouncement of her name, the Magician's male disguise fell away and she stood revealed as the Sorceress. The collective gasp of the crowd could not drown out her hiss of rage. "What have you done!" she said, voice trembling.
"You dare to interfere with me! With—" She glanced up, toward the spot where the
Dowager sat, but Yea turned aside and refused to meet the Sorceress's eyes.
"Why, how now, lady," Rohan said. Full of a newfound confidence, he took a step toward Flavielle and was rewarded by seeing her, in turn, step back. "Do you fear the light? Or perhaps it is the truth that you fear instead."
She drew herself up and spread her arms. Snow drifted down from her outstretched hands and tiny sparks of lightning glittered from her fingertips. "You do not frighten me!" she said haughtily. But her voice trembled, just a little.
"No," Rohan agreed, "I don't think I do. But your powers are not enough to extinguish that which I hold."
Abruptly Flavielle abandoned all pretense of being anything but who she was. She crouched where she stood, and the snow began to gather in a drift at her feet.
"Where did you get that?"
; "Let's just say it was given to me. And so I use it now to conjure you to tell all here present the truth about yourself."
From the stand, a woman uttered a strangled cry. "No—" But then the Sorceress made a gesture and the Dowager was silent.
"You do not want to learn the truth, young sir," Flavielle said. Her voice had lost all its silken quality and now was little better than a hoarse croak. "And
I am sure there are certain others for whom the truth is better left unsaid."
"Such as?"
The Sorceress ignored his question, not bothering even trying to hide the contemptuous sneer on her face. "I once told you that it was unwise to set yourself against me. Now, at least, you will have ample time to reflect upon your folly, and what you have brought on those you hold dear."
"Who holds your real loyalty? I conjure you by this, speak now!" Rohan held the glowing amulet higher and advanced a step; again Flavielle retreated, and he realized that in spite of her bold words, she knew a measure of terror.
She cringed away from the light. "Stay back. Yes, as a man, I was in the employ of Her Gracious Highness the Dowager Queen Ysa. As a woman, I am my own creature! As to where my loyalties lie, I leave it to you to puzzle it out, if you can!"
So saying, the Sorceress straightened once more. She made a gesture, murmured a few words, and a cloud gathered around her. Lightning flashed inside the cloud as it swirled, full of snow, and then, with a clap of thunder that reverberated through the arena and echoed from the mountains, she vanished. A stench of brimstone and a minor snowstorm were all that remained. At the same moment, the amulet ceased to glow.
As if released from a spell, the onlookers began to move, asking questions, and rubbing their eyes in astonishment. Lord Royance and Jakar stared at each other, and each lowered his sword.
"My—my lord," Jakar said shakily. "It seems that I have held a grudge against you without cause and also that I have offered you deep insult. Please, forgive me!"
Royance blinked. "No more than I have had hard feelings toward you, who have always been my friend and ally. I crave your forgiveness in turn. And yours as well, Gattor. Let us mend our friendship."
The senior nobles embraced each other, there on the field of combat, and the crowd, as if sensing that a cloud similar to the thundersnow that had enveloped the Sorceress had dissipated, began to cheer. Glancing behind him, Rohan could see that various of his fellows were following suit. Gidon and Nikolos clasped hands, speaking earnestly to each other, as did Jivon and Steuart. Behind them,
Cebastian lifted one fist in a salute of victory.
Up in the spectator stand, the Dowager Ysa managed to push herself to her feet and move forward until she stood at the railing that separated the royal enclosure from the rest of the area the privileged occupied. "Good people!" she cried. "Good people, pray, listen to me!"
In a few moments, some measure of order had been restored, and all eyes, especially Rohan's, turned toward the woman whom the Sorceress had identified as her onetime employer.
"I swear to you by these"—she held aloft both hands so that the Four Great Rings of Power were visible to all—"that I am innocent of wrongdoing! I engaged this person, whom I thought to be a man, only in the service of Rendel. Through him, or her, and her Power, I hoped to strengthen this, our realm, against our deadly foe to the north. Alas, I fear I was duped. You have heard our dear nobles, Lord
Royance of Grattenbor, Lord Gattor of Bilth, and Lord Jakar of Vacaster beg each other's pardon. Now I must crave your forgiveness as well, knowing that all that
I have done has been for the good of you all."
Then she crossed her hands over her breast—again, Rohan noted, so that the Great
Rings could not be missed—and bowed her head, eyes closed. He could not help but admire the sheer audacity of the woman, putting everything on one cast of the dice before what she had to know was a fickle crowd.
There was dead silence, and then somebody from the ranks of the commoners down at the fence surrounding the arena, shouted out in approval. All at once, the rest of the people there gathered took up the cry.
"Aye, good Queen Ysa," came the shout. "She's always seen to us and our welfare, right enough. And no harm done, either!"
King Peres stood up and, with courtesy beyond that of most ten-year-old boys, conducted his grandmother back to her chair. Then he returned to the railing, opened the gate, and began descending the stairs until he reached the platform.
"I think that when we have reflected on this day's events, we will find that you have done us good service, Rohan of the Oak-enkeep and of the Sea-Rovers," the
King said. "Come forward."
Rohan knew that he should be making certain that the Sorceress was really gone from Rendel, but one did not go against the King's orders. Obediently he approached the platform, set only a hand-span or so above the surface of the ground, just high enough so that the King's boots would not get wet from the cold, soggy ground. It put the King almost at equal height with Rohan.
"Kneel," the King said, and once more, Rohan obeyed. Peres drew a Court sword from the scabbard at his side. It was elaborately chased in gold, and bore many jewels on the hilt. He laid the blade on Rohan's shoulder. "For these good services, I herewith dub you Knight of Rendel. Arise, Sir Rohan."
Things were transpiring a bit rapidly for him. He got to his feet, already in imagination feeling the weight of his new title. "A boon, sir," he said.
One corner of the King's mouth quirked upward. "So soon, my good knight? What is it, then?"
"Sir, I crave that you similarly reward my friend Cebastian, and also knight my companions, the leaders of the companies of the Dowager's Levy, for they are not only my companions, but your loyal men both today and in those perilous times to come."
Now the King smiled openly. "Well said, Rohan. You could knight them yourself, but I agree that it would be better, coming from me. Very well, then, approach all who have striven for my entertainment, draw near, and find your reward."
Then, with Rohan standing nearby, King Peres knighted each of them in turn.
Cebastian was first, and he and Rohan exchanged nods as Rohan remembered the lie
Duig had told about how he was supposedly blocking Cebastian's knighting. It was this incident that had nearly made a rift between them. He looked around, trying to find Duig. He had been among those keeping order on the arena ground, but, like the Sorceress, he had vanished.
"Probably she took him with her," he muttered to himself. "But then, I've always thought he was working for her all along." Why, oh why, couldn't he be off, to make sure? But there was no hope for it. He turned his attention again to the ceremonies taking place. Steuart was next, and to him also went the trophy for the jousting.
Then Peres spoke, his boyish voice a little shrill in the cold air.
"The man or woman who was masquerading as the Magician is gone forever. My friends, enjoy yourselves and be merry! Therefore, by my royal command, the tourney will proceed as if nothing untoward has happened. Let the warriors proceed at once to the lists and let us now have more jousting!"
The crowd shouted its approval, but Rohan could scarcely believe his ears. He gritted his teeth, every fiber of his being urging him to go after the Sorceress and make certain that she had truly vanished. He could not shake off the feeling in his bones that she was going to do one last mischief before she left Rendel altogether, but one did not gainsay a royal Command, no matter how foolish or how unfortunate the consequences.
As soon as the Grand Melee was over, and lingering no longer than good manners required after the prizes were awarded, the Dowager Queen Ysa retired from the cold, damp spectator stand into the warmth of her own apartment. She gave orders to make the fire roar, and Lady Ingrid quickly piled on dry wood, which caught at once. Ysa turned to see Marcala, who had accompanied her, standing hesitantly in the doorway.
"Oh, how wonderful to be warm again!" Ysa said. "Come in, Marcala. Ladies, please
leave us. And Grisella, shut the door. There's a draft. And send for hot wine."
"Yes, Your Highness." Ysa's lady-in-waiting pulled the door to, leaving the two women alone.
Marcala edged her way into the room with even more evident hesitation. No doubt due to the rift that had opened between them, Ysa thought, even as various quarrels had arisen among the men. And what was it about? Marcala's desire to marry Harous? A trifling matter. And now that her latest covert servant had proven a traitor, she must ensure loyalties where she found them.
"Oh, do come in. Let us be friends again. After all, who else is there in all of
Rendel who is a match for either of us?"
Marcala smiled, a little tentatively, Ysa thought. "Madame," she said, with a curtsey. "I have always been your friend."