And that night, Nàlwyr went to the Queen Aelathar, and the darkness that was in him shocked her to grief, and she begged him ‘What hath been done to my Captain that looks to have broken all the goodness in thee and sown this darkness in its place?’
“Gilvaleus in his madness, in the fever of dark dreams, believed that ordering Nàlwyr to break his own code of morals would force him to fealty. Shatter his love for the queen. And instead, it pushed the great knight to the place where having lost his honor, he had nothing left to lose by that love.”
And Nàlwyr wept, and would say only ‘Not what I have done but what I will do, in my High King’s name.’ And Gilvaleus was watching with the sight of the Sword of Kings as Nàlwyr and the Queen held each other, and he watched as Nàlwyr rode out alone at next dawn.
“An order was given on a dark night of rage.” The White Pilgrim cannot meet the Golden Girl’s gaze. Cannot fight the tremor at his hands, the racing of his heart. “To break the will of the strongest of the king’s companions, an order to kill all children in the refuge, and thereby ensure that the king’s-bastard would be among them…”
“You lie!”
The Golden Girl’s scream hangs in the darkened silence, is swallowed by mist and lamplight. The White Pilgrim seeks to lose himself in that silence, feels it fight the shadow of memory. But in the end, the words are stronger than he is.
“The madness of the high king scarred those closest to him. Aelathar, betrayed by despair and come to Angarid to forget. Nàlwyr, broken by conscience. Fleeing the court at Mitrost, not to be seen by Gilvaleus again until he came from the mists that morning at Marthai. To stand by his king’s side one last time, and to watch Gilvaleus slay his son in a last act of madness and accept the retribution of the gods for all his sins.”
The Golden Girl wipes away her tears, consumed by anger and by the terrible uncertainty and fear of a life betrayed. Memories and lies. But through her tears, the White Pilgrim feels the strength renewed in her voice, fighting to keep from breaking as she speaks the words again that are the legacy of the father she knows.
“You are Gilvaleus.”
“No…”
“You are Gilvaleus,” she says. “Nothing else matters.”
Then to the refuge of Stondreva came Nàlwyr, who in the madness of his High King’s order slew the guards and masters of that place, shouting aloud the name of Gilvaleus his High King, and told himself he did them mercy, that they would not live to see the children slain. But as he advanced upon the dormitories, there stood one child against him with blade in hand, and all the other children standing fearful behind him.
“That name is broken. That name is lost.”
And Nàlwyr said only ‘Thou diest for the High King Gilvaleus, boy, so close thy eyes that thou might not fear the end.’ But to him the Boy spoke, and said ‘I do not fear thee or any High King who would murder babes in the night, for I know honor, and with honor I will stand against thee.’ And with speed and mercy did Nàlwyr slay the Boy, but even as the children of Stondreva wailed their fear, Nàlwyr saw the blood of the Boy on his blade and hand, and then did he flee in grief and pain, and did not return.
The White Pilgrim stalks away, limping again. He is shivering, he realizes, wet air touching him now with chill fingers. “By the grace of the gods who made us,” he says, “we pay for our sins in death, but death will not have me. Spared from the end at Marthai, because the peace of death would have allowed me to forget what I had done. What I had become. And so I pay with my life. Walking the land I betrayed in the name of my own weakness, and watching its fall into ruin and war. That is the penance I do for the past, until the gods are done with me.”
Then in passing days did a message come to Gilvaleus by courier of horse, which was in Nàlwyr’s hand and said only ‘The blood of children is on thy hands and mine, my Lord, and so I walk the paths of penance to which my King hath sent me.’
He feels the Golden Girl’s hand at his shoulder. She is tall, he realizes suddenly. Possessing the wide innocence of her father’s eyes, the steadiness of her father’s hand as she grasps his, holds it tight.
And Gilvaleus was pleased, and in his pleasure, the sight of the Whitethorn did not sense the boy Astyra and all the rest scattered to their folk as the refuge at Stondreva was emptied, and the spells of warding that Astyra’s mother had placed upon him sealed him away from the sight of the Sword of Kings.
“Only the good has been remembered,” she whispers, weeping. “The people need their king, who vanquished the usurper and restored to Gracia its honor and peace. The darkness will be forgotten. Your legend has undone all sins.”
And even as he reveled in the peace he had long sought, word came from servants and from the sight of the Whitethorn in response that Aelathar had fled. And the voice of the Whitethorn told him that Nàlwyr was broken, and that Aelathar was scoured by her guilt, and all would know of their betrayal, and Gilvaleus turned his sight from them and was content.
“I have heard the legends…”
From outside, through the wickered darkness where it meets the shadowed sky, the shriek of hassas splits the night.
He remembers suddenly. Shadow unravels like fading storm clouds, scattered by cold wind. He sees movement against a distant stone fence, a dark figure walking. A white horse turns to gold, turns to a great bird soaring. That very morning, they watch him. They follow him. He is a fool.
Shouts rise outside the shrine and within, a challenge raised, but the words are too faint to hear. The Golden Girl draws her father’s blade, a blur of silver shadow. The other hand is behind her, slinging free the scabbard belt that holds the wrapped bundle at her shoulder.
She holds it out to the White Pilgrim.
He hears the voice of the Blade call him with its ancient hunger.
His hands stay at his side. He fights to slow his breathing, lets the voice wash over and through him, and he is stronger than it.
“You must go,” is all he says.
“I will not leave you. My father searched for you, to return the sword of kings to you. You must…”
“Go!” he shouts, and his voice is the voice of the king he spends long years forgetting. The memories slip down into shadow, wrapped tight and slowly smothered, and he is gone from the pool court before the Golden Girl can speak again.
Bursting through the doors of dark oak, he runs for the main entry of the shrine by instinct, slowed by the pain at his chest. He sees the Golden Girl from the corner of his eye slip in from the courtyard, ducking down behind the great brazier to wait. He sees the priest and two acolytes at the door, frantic as they struggle to fit the battered wooden beam that will bar it.
He tries to warn them, but the White Pilgrim’s shout dies on his lips as the door disappears in a blast of force and a scouring shroud of flame.
The dying scream of the priest is cut short by the mercy of death as the acolytes flee. Out through the canvas doors, shouting prayers to Crecinu for salvation. The White Pilgrim stumbles forward, feels the heat of spell-fire even as it fades and an unfurling darkness follows it.
A hulking form of armor and shadow steps in from the night as Arsanc and his steed are the first through the doors. The hassa’s wings furl to raise a cloud of dust and ash as the charred body of the priest is broken beneath the great beast’s hooves. The Black Duke leaps down from the saddle, stepping forward as his mount rears behind him.
The Golden Girl is there suddenly, cloak off and rapier drawn. The White Pilgrim pushes forward, keeps himself between her and Arsanc’s force where they push in on foot. More appear to both sides, coming in from the dormitories, from the kitchens. No blood on their blades tells the White Pilgrim that the acolytes are safely fled, and he holds the sudden hope that he understands and can shape the single purpose that brings Arsanc here. A quest of the Black Duke’s that the White Pilgrim can end.
He feels the Golden Girl go to his back, pushing close within a rough wall of blades and black armor. It is the
sergeant, Gareyth, who steps in to grab the White Pilgrim by the arm, drag him from the side of Arsanc’s prize.
The instinct of old battles threads through the White Pilgrim suddenly. He drives arm and shoulder with a strength that belies his age, so that the young sergeant is caught off guard. Too sure of himself as always, the same bravado that sees him bested on the dark road. A fist finds the open space of armor at his waist, and the White Pilgrim sees the telltale lurch of pain that grants him the instant to swing one foot up, strike at the sword arm.
He has Gareyth’s blade in hand before the sergeant can even react. Another kick sends the young warrior sprawling even as Arsanc shouts an order. The White Pilgrim cannot hear it over his own battle cry as he strikes.
Back to back, they fight. The Golden Girl stands single-handedly against four of Arsanc’s company as the White Pilgrim disarms two warriors who step in where Gareyth stumbles back. They let the fight come to them, keep a screen of bodies around them for cover against spellcraft as they move. No word between them, but their tactics are matched perfectly. Two down, then three where the White Pilgrim drops a warrior with a fast strike to the leg. Low and dirty, slashing muscle and tendon at the armor’s weak spot behind the knee.
Fighting in such close quarters, two of Arsanc’s company stumble. One falls back, exposed for just a moment, a killing stroke left open. But the White Pilgrim lets it go, watches the warrior slip back into a defensive posture. Enough blood already on his hands.
The Golden Girl fights to make up for him. Two more down on her side who will never rise again, her blade flashing lightning-fast. Then comes a sudden break in the circling press of weapons and bodies, and the White Pilgrim shouts for her to run.
She stands fast as he knows she will, because he knows the mind of her father. And so she leaves herself exposed where a bolt of spell-force from outside the circle catches her cleanly.
The White Pilgrim feels her scream. He hears the bones of her sword arm shatter beneath the force of the blow. He sees the silver-haired mage, the standard-bearer from the ruined village. He remembers, images like a flood in his mind as he pushes past Justain, swings down on the mage, and is suddenly lifted off his feet.
Arsanc’s spell is a song of pain and sorrow that courses over him like an acrid rain. His body is thrown against the wall, slamming to the ground as the Black Duke laughs.
The White Pilgrim feels ribs broken as he rights himself. He fights through pain and the blood-red shadow of his sight with a fury that sends the closest warriors scrambling back. The blade he stole from Gareyth is gone, so he snatches up Justain’s rapier where it falls. He strikes hard to take the silver-haired mage through the flank, away from the fast blood but dropping her. Two lurching steps take him back in front of the Golden Girl where she writhes in pain.
“Kneel!” the Black Duke shouts, and the White Pilgrim feels the power of spellcraft anchored within the word as it drives him to the ground.
His will is split and splintered. Silence in the shrine except for the bark of steel on stone where Arsanc’s hassa paws its spiked hooves. The Black Duke pulls off gloves and armguards, passes them to the closest of his warriors. A grim smile.
But beneath it, the White Pilgrim sees the sadness of mourning in the black eyes. He feels a pain there that he cannot understand. Something is changed.
“I owe you my thanks,” the Black Duke says, as a nod to the limping Gareyth sees the Golden Girl picked up from the floor with a stifled scream. As the sergeant and two others carry her to the altar stone, the White Pilgrim can only watch.
Arsanc motions another of his warriors in, who kneels at the White Pilgrim’s side with a whispered incantation, and the burning pain is calmed suddenly by the cool shudder of the healer’s touch.
He feels his breathing slow, a preternatural calm twisting through him. With it comes the shadow, twisting to cloud his sight. Memories like splintering glass, reflecting smaller and smaller fragments of the light.
“My duke…” The White Pilgrim’s throat is tight, words choked by the fear he feels. “My duke, the girl has no hand in your quarrel with her father. Please…”
The Black Duke laughs. “The girl will pay for the sins of the father,” he says. “You as a pilgrim should appreciate that. Your kind believe in the payment of life-debt in the old gods’ names. You believe that the Empire fell for its transgressions. Men seeking the power of the gods and paying the price. Is that not what the stories say?”
“Nàlwyr’s crime was not his making. He followed the orders of his high king’s own madness. You seek to break the scabbard that held the executioner’s blade, but the blade itself is laid now before you.”
“This is blood feud, old man, and no matter of yours. I told you that should we meet again, I might need a reason to let you live. You’ve given me that reason and more. Be on your way.”
Two of Arsanc’s warriors lift the White Pilgrim to his feet. A pouch is thrust to his hand, heavy with coin. The open space of the destroyed doors stands behind him. He feels the cool of the night, feels the shadow drawing him on. Telling him to turn from this, to close his eyes to the Golden Girl, writhing where she is pinned to the altar now. Surrounded, hands and feet seized tight, mouth covered by gloved hands.
Her blue eyes find his, the fear in them revealing the child she is. Thirteen summers behind her.
The White Pilgrim shouts as he hurls the pouch to land at Arsanc’s feet. “For the girl’s life, I beg your mercy, my duke!”
He tries to find the voice that he knows is his. The voice that once commanded the armies that turned back a tide of blood from the north and restored the legacy of his father and grandfather in a land of peace. But the Black Duke turns on the White Pilgrim with a sudden fury.
“I will show her the mercy Nàlwyr showed when his blade took my brother through the throat!”
The echo of that voice silences even the great black steed in its restlessness. A trace of shock shows in the Black Duke’s own expression. This is an anger he does not mean to show.
But in that anger, in the pain that threads the voice, the White Pilgrim understands. He knows the horror that lingers behind the dark eyes, the lined face as it steps close.
“Folk forget the legends.” Arsanc’s voice is the ice of the northlands that are his home. “Not many know ever knew the truth behind them. Would you know that truth, pilgrim?”
“My duke… you do not understand…”
“I will tell you of Nàlwyr. Lover of queen and whore,” the Black Duke whispers. “Right hand and sword of the high king Gilvaleus, and I carry the memory of my brother’s throat slit by that sword. Havar was his name. A fox cub killed by a hound knight, torn to pieces by that butcher’s blade.”
The bitterness, the emptiness that rings out in the Black Duke’s voice is a thing that the White Pilgrim recognizes. A madness built on loss and on empty years.
“My brother had twelve summers on him.” The distant gaze of memory fills the black eyes. “And he stood alone with a stolen blade in hand and a dozen terrified children behind him and no one else to stand with him against the butcher.”
“You are Arsanc of Thorfin, Innveig, and Reimari,” the White Pilgrim whispers. “You do not kill children.” He clutches at the words from distant memory, a faint shard of hope held there.
“For long years, no explanation, no knowledge of who attacked that night, then fled. A lifetime of waiting while he hid behind his fear. Nàlwyr the brave. Nàlwyr, killer of children. My brother stood against Nàlwyr and he died to save the others…”
The White Pilgrim turns from the Black Duke. Cannot meet he dark shadow of those eyes, blurred with tears to match his own.
“For my brother’s life, the life of Nàlwyr’s daughter. A fair exchange. Would that the butcher had only lived to see it.”
“My duke, her death cannot bring back life lost…”
And the Black Duke laughs loudly, voice wrapped tight by a lifetime’s pain. “Her death is n
ot your concern, old man. I have waited half my life for revenge. I will take the rest of my life to carry it out if I can.”
Arsanc turns away then. He walks to Gareyth, whose hands hold down the Golden Girl’s broken arm. The Black Duke nods.
A knife in the sergeant’s hand is pressed to Justain’s throat as a convulsion of fear takes her. The blade draws blood as it cuts through the leather thong of the talisman, down the line of her breast as it slashes her tunic to reveal the armor beneath. Laughter around her as she screams while the chain shirt is pulled roughly off. A girl who pretends to be a warrior. Shirt and leggings are torn away by armored hands.
“I am Gilvaleus…”
He whispers it to the silence. The Black Duke is at the altar, a figure of steel and shadow that shrouds the pale shape beneath him. The Golden Girl no longer moves, no longer fights through the tears and the terror of what will come.
“I am Gilvaleus!”
The White Pilgrim shouts it now, and all eyes turn to him. His voice carries all the weight of that confession, the shadow drawing down on him. Denying the truth to his own mind even as he fights to hold it clear. Fights to remember the truth of who he is. Of what he has done.
“I am the source of all your pain, Black Duke. I am the madness that ordered Nàlwyr to murder. I am the hand that wielded the sword anointed with your brother’s blood, and I offer my life to you as debt for blood, here and now.”
He feels the confusion from the scarred sergeant, from the silver-haired mage, from all the rest. Only Arsanc meets his gaze.
“My blood for your brother’s,” the White Pilgrim calls. “My life for hers. Let the girl go and my fate is in your hands.”
And Gilvaleus on the Marble Throne of the Kings of Gracia sat alone, and his Court and Companions were of one voice in their allegiance to him, for all knew that no treachery could stand against the sight of the Whitethorn that was their High King’s power, and the sign of the strength of his reign. And Gracia endured the Peace of Gilvaleus for long years, and sang of the glories of his rule and the Sword of Kings.
A Prayer for Dead Kings and Other Tales Page 34