“Doesn’t seem to be a problem for you,” Heden said, watching the knights. This was the first time the two of them had talked alone and Heden winced at his own acerbic attack.
Taethan looked at him. Every time he did, Heden felt like an interloper. A criminal.
“Do you think I’m proud of that?” he asked. “I spoke only the cant for fifteen years, do you think I didn’t dream of being an old man having forgotten there was any other way to speak?”
Heden shut up, and sucked his upper lip in. He hadn’t considered this. The death of Kavalen caused this man to drop the cant, part of his whole way of life. After a moment, he thought better of silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said, half turning to Taethan, not looking directly at him.
Taethan nodded curtly, once. Apology accepted.
Taethan said “You have no interest in the joust?”
Heden glanced at him, and then turned to look at the two knights facing each other across the jousting field.
“It’s a sport for rich idiots,” Heden said.
“You speak of the tournaments they have in the south,” Taethan said.
“Yeah,” Heden said. “In the south.”
“It is different here.”
“I can see that,” Heden said. He’d been watching the two knights for what seemed an entire turn. “How long are they going to sit there?” he asked. “Isn’t there a trumpet or a scarf or something?” Heden looked around to see if anyone was acting as anything other than a spectator.
“The true joust is a test of mind as well as body,” Taethan intoned. “There is no signal to react to. Only knowing the other knight. Neither wants to run first, neither wants to run last.”
“Why not?” Heden asked, interested in spite of himself.
“Running early gives your opponent more time to watch you on approach, more time to react. Forces you to commit to a strategy before he does. Running late means your horse will not reach full gallop and therefore your blow will not be sufficient, should it land.”
Heden thought about this.
“So what do they do?”
Taethan smiled. “They watch each other,” he said. “And think.”
“Exciting,” Heden said.
“They study each other,” Taethan continued, ignoring him, “and when the moment is right, they will both run.”
“At the same time?” Heden asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Because each will know in the instant, that it is the right instant.”
Heden was intrigued.
“It is hard to explain,” Taethan said. “Squires run early or late. Knights never do.”
Heden watched the two knights, each sitting stock still on their horse, lance up, each gazing at the other. The sun beat down. Baking them in their armor.
“You have seen the joust before?”
Heden nodded. He didn’t bother saying that the last time he’d been the guest of the king. It was the kind of thing Taethan wouldn’t have cared about in any case.
“The popular joust is not a sport,” Taethan said. “It’s brutal and quick and thuggish. For the crowd,” he said, looking down at Heden.
“The Green joust only for each other. It is how we resolve some disputes. And to train in the use of the lance against a real opponent, and so keep to the old ways.”
At the end of his sentence both knights spurred their horses on, and began thundering down the field. It was impossible for Heden to tell who ran first, it seemed exactly as Taethan described. Simultaneous.
The hooves of their great chargers kicked up dirt. There was no sound in the clearing but the explosive barrage of hoof beats and the clash of armor as their shields rang against their plate. The horses closed the distance so fast it seemed as though they were being pulled along by some outside force.
They both leveled their lances as they ran. At very nearly the last moment, Lady Isobel appeared to turn her lance sideways, perpendicular to the direction of her charge. Heden stared, forgetting everything but the joust as Sir Idris’s lance reached the point where it would either hit or miss. The point of the lance was so small, it took a moment for Heden to realized he missed.
He then charged at full speed into Lady Isobel’s lance, which had been held crosswise like a barrier. The blow rocked Sir Idris, Lady Isobel’s lance shattered, and the force nearly threw Idris from his horse. The whole thing happened in less than four seconds.
“What the fuck was that?” Heden asked breathless.
Taethan looked at him surprised.
“Sir Idris leveled his lance at the head of Lady Isobel,” he said.
“Okay,” Heden said, following. He was watching the two knights circle around. Each was given a fresh lance.
“The chest makes a bigger target of course, but the plate is designed to deflect any such blow. Even a blow to the shield, if dead center, can throw a man. It is difficult, the head. The most difficult. Lady Isobel saw this, and wagered that Sir Idris would miss.”
“That’s a wager with Cyrvis,” Heden said.
Taethan tilted his head, indicating that perhaps it wasn’t as bad a wager as Heden believed. “It is easier to see when yours is the head the lance is aimed at,” Taethan said. “Idris having taken the hardest of all possible strategies, typical for him, Lady Isobel countered with the easiest.”
“I get it,” Heden said. Taethan finished anyway.
“By turning her lance crosswise, she assured that Sir Idris would encounter it. She gains the surety of the cross-lance, losing any chance of missing, but at the possible cost of stopping Sir Idris’ lance with her head. The cross-lance is not as heavy a blow as the point, but it can unseat a man.”
“What if Idris hasn’t missed?”
“Then Lady Isobel would be dead.”
Heden wheeled around, as though seeing the field for the first time. “Are you saying they’re jousting to the death?”
Taethan nodded solemnly. “I told you, this is no tournament.”
“Cavall’s teeth,” Heden swore. “What were they fighting about?”
Taethan looked at Heden and said nothing.
“Who leads the order,” Heden concluded.
Taethan nodded. “And what to do about you, but they’re much the same thing.”
In the absence of Heden performing the ritual, they were arguing over who should lead them.
“You have to stop this,” Heden demanded.
This piqued Taethan’s interest. He looked down at Heden as though seeing him for the first time.
“And why is that?” Taethan asked.
“It’s not worth it,” Heden said.
“That is for them to decide,” he said.
“No it’s not,” Heden said, thinking madly. “Halcyon decides. Isn’t that what Brys said?”
“Sir Brys,” Taethan corrected automatically.
“That’s what matters to you?” Heden raised his voice in outrage. “You should be out there talking some sense into them!”
“If I thought I could,” he said. “I would. If I could, I would take the blow myself, though it meant my life. Neither of these knights should have to kill their fellow.”
Heden replayed what Taethan had just said, listening for any sign of falsehood. He detected none.
“And they fight for many reasons,” he continued, sounding like a man defeated. “I think perhaps neither truly wants to win. Though each must strive for victory.”
Sir Idris was trading up for a longer lance. Heden shook his head.
“That’s impossible.”
Sir Taethan was not sure what they were talking about.
“There’s no way he can hang on to that thing and ride a horse, it must be ten feet long.”
“Twelve,” Taethan said. “The weight is no matter.”
“Horseshit,” Heden said. “You couldn’t keep that thing steady at a trot, forget a gallop.”
“At the gallop,” Taethan explained, “the horse is smooth, all its weight is moving forward.
” He mimicked the motion with his hands. “Not up and down. It cannot be sustained long, but it does not need to be.”
“But…” Heden began.
“And the lance,” he said demonstrating, “is not grasped using the whole hand as you might expect. The butt is precisely weighted to offset the shaft and tip. A well-made lance can be held perfectly still at the full gallop using only the thumb and middle finger.”
Heden watched.
“At the last,” Taethan said, “at the instant of impact you wrap your whole arm around the lance, and put all your weight behind it. It must be precisely timed,” he said, enjoying talking about it. Admiring the sport.
“I bet,” Heden said.
“The longer lance is harder to manage,” he admitted, “but it grants an obvious advantage.”
“Another wager,” Heden said.
Taethan nodded.
“What stops Isobel from switching out in reaction?”
Taethan frowned at him. “One does not change tactics thus,” he said. “And never against another knight. Each is using the lance they think best for this opponent at this time.” Heden wondered at that, but said nothing.
Taethan and Heden were silent. Waiting for the knights to spur their horses on. Heden’s mouth was going dry, he was holding his breath in anticipation.
So quickly, so violently that it startled him, Heden saw the two knights spur their horses on. Once again, at exactly the same moment.
Heden’s focus was so intent on the two knights that the few seconds the joust took drew out to a seeming eternity.
Idris’ longer lance hit Isobel’s left shoulder, but caught on a rondel and tore it off. Isobel shifted with the blow but it didn’t affect her right side, and she maintained her form. Her shorter lance smashed into Idris’ shield, piercing it and ripping it from his grasp.
“It went right through his shield!” Heden exclaimed. Idris was rocked with the blow and as the horses of the two knights trotted around, back to their starting positions, Idris was clearly hurt by the blow.
“The tip of the lance is steel, and there is a great deal of force behind it.”
Heden remembered Nudd who used his horse and lance to run a giant clean through.
Heden was looking at Brys and Nudd, watching to see their reactions.
“Watch,” Taethan said, putting a hand on Heden’s shoulder. He pointed to Isobel. “Lady Isobel will grant Sir Idris the chance to yield.”
“Why would she do that? Honor?” Heden asked.
“Or mercy. The blow to the shield was a warning, I think.”
“You’re saying she stripped him of his shield on purpose.”
Taethan shrugged. The gesture was not natural for him. “One never knows. Only the man on the horse can tell what his opponent was thinking.”
Lady Isobel was already in position. Idris was getting another lance from Cadwyr.
Lady Isobel let her lance drop slowly to the ground until the tip was touching the dirt. Cadwyr and Dywel pointed and Idris saw it. He appeared to ignore it.
“The offer,” Taethan said.
Idris finished mounting and with no shield, accepted a new lance from Dywel.
He guided his horse into position, and lifted his lance until the point was directed at the sky.
“Refused,” Taethan said. It seemed to Heden as though Isobel’s head dropped slightly, but it was difficult to see at this distance.
The two knights faced off against each other again. Moments passed. Time seemed to slow.
“Who’s going to win?”
“Lady Isobel,” Taethan said.
“You know that?” Heden asked, frowning.
Taethan just nodded.
“Why?”
“Because hers is the purer heart,” Sir Taethan stated matter-of-factly.
Heden stared at him.
“Is that a joke?” Heden asked.
Taethan ignored him. Heden tried a different tack, trying to home in on this knight.
“What would…what would Sir Brys say, if I asked him the same question?”
Taethan, smiled a little, not looking at Heden.
“He would say the same.”
“For the same reason?”
Taethan shook his head slowly once. “He would say because she has the greatest insight into the mind of her opponent.”
Heden understood. Now he was testing Taethan.
“And what would Aderyn say?”
This seemed to surprise the knight. He looked down at Heden.
“She would say Idris,” Taethan admitted. “Because he is the stronger.”
Heden and Taethan watched the knights. Then Taethan said slyly;
“Who do you think will win?”
“Isobel,” Heden admitted.
“And why?”
Heden realized he believed it for the same reason Taethan did. Without realizing when, or why, he suddenly felt like Isobel had to win, because of her dedication to the order and the purity of her service. How could it be otherwise?
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how to explain that he agreed with Taethan.
Suddenly, Idris reached his now shieldless left arm up, and wrestled his helmet off his head, throwing it into the dirt. He faced the Lady without a helm.
Isobel’s horse balked at this, but she brought it back in line.
Taethan took a measured breath, as though recovering from a blow.
“What does he think he’s doing?” Heden asked.
Sir Taethan’s eyes seemed to dance around the field, seeing everything and nothing. It was like a ghost had passed through him.
“He seeks to shame her into withdrawing.”
“What?” Heden said.
“You would not understand,” Taethan said. “He is a noble fool,” he shook his head and was overcome with sadness.
“Ah Isobel!” Taethan whispered. “Ah Idris!” He seemed in physical pain watching the two knights.
Heden couldn’t tell, but Idris’s face looked red.
“I don’t understand,” Heden said. “What difference does it make, he’s just as dead if she hits him with that lance, helmet or not.”
Taethan pulled on his breastplate as though it constricted his breathing.
“Please, Arrogate. Be silent,” Taethan said. “Be silent and bear witness.”
Taethan’s cheeks were wet. Heden realized they were tears.
Heden looked at the other knights. They all seemed distraught. Brys lunged forward as though to grab Lady Isobel, but Nudd reached out one massive hand and restrained him.
“Wait,” Heden said, getting a flash of what was about to happen. “Wait!” he shouted and started to run forward. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he was compelled. He couldn’t stand by and watch anymore. He broke into a full run. “Don’t!” he bellowed.
The two knights at the same instant spurred their horses into the full gallop.
Isobel helm afforded no expression of emotion, if there was any. Idris gritted his teeth and held to his lance, appearing to once again aim at the Lady’s head. Heden watched as the green bled out of Idris’ hair, leaving his natural black behind. He would not die a knight.
The last thing Heden saw as he ran forward was Idris’ face covered in sweat and tears. He too was weeping. Heden would add Idris’ grimace of pain and fear and anger to the catalog of desecration he’d accumulated. The giant’s dead face melded with Idris’ as Heden’s legs fell out from under him.
Idris couldn’t see properly, and so his lance came nowhere near the Lady Isobel.
Her lance hit his breastplate square and pierced it clean through.
The blow separated him from his horse, his arms and legs thrown forward, the forward force of Isobel’s horse and lance lifted Sir Idris up, into the air and back several feet before Lady Isobel released her lance and the knight fell to the ground before her. Dead already.
All of the knights ran forward as Lady Isobel wheeled her horse around.
Hed
en stumbled to his feet and ran to the fallen knight.
Cadwyr and Dywel looked around, confused, at the other knights.
Nudd stared down into the unseeing eyes of Sir Idris. His hair wet with sweat, tears, and blood. It was jet black. His mouth was open in a look of surprise.
Brys stepped forward and pulled the lance from his breast. There was a wrenching sound, and a squeal as the wood scraped against the twisted steel. He threw the lance away.
“What are you all standing around for?” Heden asked, looking at the knights.
Heden dropped to his knees before Sir Idris and began to pray. In spite of Heden’s words, no power manifested.
“Heden,” Brys said. Heden ignored him and continued praying. “Heden!” he said loudly, and pulled Heden off Idris.
The Arrogate scrambled around to face Brys. He looked as though he was going to throttle the knight.
“You forget yourself!” Sir Brys hissed. “He is dead!”
“Damn you,” Heden said, “I can bring him back!”
“He was a servant of Cavall!” Brys shouted at him. “Cavall does not permit! He died at the hands of his sister!”
Heden realized Brys was right. Cavall would not grant Heden the power to return Idris to life. He’d been killed by another servant of Cavall.
Brys’s words made all the knights turn and look at Lady Isobel. She had dismounted and walked over to join them.
Brys saw the looks on the faces of Nudd, Cadwyr, and Dywel, and slow realization dawned. He turned quickly and looked at the helmed form of Isobel.
Isobel looked from one knight to the other. She reached a mailed glove up to her helm and felt it once, as though trying to sense something underneath. Then she pulled the helmet off, slowly. Deliberately. Heden knew what he was going to see.
Her hair was grey. No longer green streaked with grey, just dull grey. The grey of an old woman.
The other knights looked at her in shock.
“Halcyon!” Dywel hissed in fear.
“Milady,” Brys said. “Isobel!” The word was torn from him. Isobel looked at him, disoriented, confused, and pulled some of her grey hair forward as though showing it to Brys.
Priest (Ratcatchers Book 1) Page 27