by David Keck
Abruptly, the smiling maidens turned from a stammering Lamoric to the doorway behind them. The attention of everyone in the courtyard fixed on the empty arch. Finally, a woman appeared. She wore green. Her eyes were clear and wide, and her hair, red as new blood, swept from her face into a thick plait. The double file of maidens curtsied low as she walked out between them.
"I am the Lady of the Bower," she said. "These are the handmaidens of my court."
The women—the handmaidens—returned their knowing glances to the men of the company and executed a slow curtsey.
"It has been my pleasure to attend most of the courts of Errest," said Lamoric. "And still I have never seen anything to match the beauty of this place or its inhabitants." He bowed with a flourish. Some of the other knights tried the same, in a creak of straps and clink of mail.
Pleasure shone from the Lady's eyes, and she stepped closer. With a teasing languor, she walked down the ragged line of Lamoric's men, stirring a wake of discomfiture among the threadbare knights. Durand felt one ridiculous needle of panic, but mastered it quickly. The green silk of the Lady's gown rippled as she moved. Her hair was red on the pale snow of her neck. Then her eyes were on Durand's, looking up for a long moment before setting him free.
She turned to Lamoric. "You are welcome beyond the Glass and to Bower Mead. All of you. You have arrived in time for the festival. The earth has been turned the last time, and so the tournament will begin tomorrow."
"Yes, Milady," Lamoric said.
"We eat only lightly today, but tomorrow," she said, "we shall feast. You may make your encampment among the others on the grounds."
Lamoric seemed to be on the point of protesting. They had to be in High Ashes.
But the Lady only waved them good-bye and turned. Even Lamoric could not force himself to stop her. Durand followed the veiled movement of her thighs until he noted the eight women who remained. Two or three were staring at him in playful accusation. He swore under his breath, and, as one, the women wheeled, following their mistress as she glided back toward the keep.
It was only as the last woman stepped out of sight that Durand realized the grass was in motion. Though it had been mown short, the lawn rippled like the green silk of the Lady's gown—quietly impossible. Slow eddies played in a wake of turning spirals. He watched as wavelets lapped at the scarred toes of his boots.
"I meant to make my excuses and go," said Lamoric.
BEYOND THE WALLS once more, Lamoric rounded on Coensar. "We'll never make High Ashes now. I can't believe— I've as much as promised that we'd fight here. We haven't time!"
Coensar was still as stone in his saddle, his eyes on the castle and the yard. "It is the same as it was," he murmured. "I half expect to meet myself in the lists. A younger man."
"I should turn round and explain. Host of Heaven, I've wagered my every penny and all my holdings on this Red Knight trick. What will Moryn think of us now?"
"The melee will be below," said Coensar. Where the land fell away toward the Eye of Heaven, snatches of amber mist curled in a broad green. A perfect battleground.
The horses plodded on.
"There he will be," said Lamoric, "waiting with the Herald of Errest, passing snide remarks and pointing at the empty seat. I should still be in Acconel—"
First they saw a comer of bright cloth, then, around the flank of a corner turret, a camp of a hundred garish pavilions huddling under the wall. The tents crowded like gowned and drunken dames in the twilight. Mist coiled around their ankles.
Agryn interjected, "There is doom in this, Lordship. To step through this place on the very day when seven years lapse between tournaments. It is not to be—"
Abruptly, Lamoric gasped, "Hells."
There was a shield-bearer on the fringes of the camp. He lugged a horse's trapper. And, before he vanished into the maze of tents before their eyes, every man had seen the pattern on the canvas: diamonds, blue and yellow, azure and gold.
"We're not the only fools to save steps between Red Winding and High Ashes," Lamoric murmured. In one of those tents, they would find the lord of Mornaway.
Guthred was nodding. "All right, lads. There's a flat patch off toward the wall. If I've seen it, you've seen it. Get the gear off the horses, and see your man's comfortable. Doesn't matter where we are. I shouldn't have to tell you."
Durand made to join them.
"No, no, Durand. You come with me. I think I'd best check on Sir Moryn."
"Guthred," said Lamoric, "I think I'll see the man myself."
"A moment, Lordship," said Coensar. "You may want to send your shield-bearer after all."
"I don't plan on hiding from him," said Lamoric.
"No, Lordship," said Coensar. "What are you thinking, Guthred?"
The ugly man nodded. "I'll tell His Lordship we're here, and, if Lord Moryn's got the Herald of Errest with him, I might mention our Sir Lamoric wants a word." He raised an upturned palm.
"I see," said Lamoric.
"Doesn't pay to chase them," Coensar said.
DURAND SHOOK HIS head. "Stiff-necked fool," said Guthred.
Moryn remembered them and was just civil. Still, Guthred had taken an obvious pleasure in announcing that Sir Lamoric was at the tournament, but unable to receive visitors, what with the arduous journey and all.
The Herald of Errest was not in Hesperand.
"Why under Heaven would we be mad enough to let him at Sir Lamoric now?"
Tramping through the tangled rows of tents, Guthred ducked guy ropes and tethered horses. The place was quiet, but its many crossroads were busy with men on silent errands.
An enormous saddle bobbed into Guthred's path. The groom attached to the thing only eyed them, as Guthred made a show of waiting. At the next crossing, a yoke of buckets reeled out, splashing Guthred and the shield-bearer carrying it
"Hells," spat Guthred, slapping water from his leggings. "Why don't you go first?" So Durand took the lead. "You're tall enough you can likely see our way."
Beyond the muddled confusion of canvas alleys, the white battlements of the castle played signpost. Durand tried not to notice the pale soldiers on those battlements, or how each man glowed like the neck of a wax candle, and soon Lamoric's pavilions were in sight.
Then Durand stepped into the path of a massive horse, snatching his boot from under one sharp hoof just before it broke his foot.
He made to throw the rider a good hot look, but found himself back in a Ferangore passageway, toe to toe with Cassonel of Damaryn. The plain, worn hilt of the High Kingdom blade Termagant was at the baron's hip. For an instant, Durand could see the baron's eyes narrow. There were shadows. The man didn't know him at once.
Then there was recognition—a lifted chin—and something almost like regret.
Much too late, Durand bowed and stepped back.
After a few heartbeats, Cassonel clicked his palfrey into motion.
Durand drew himself up. He and the baron held each other's secrets, and, with them, each other's lives. Durand checked a staggering step backward and was surprised to bump into someone on his heels.
Guthred looked into his face, his expression cold.
"He nearly ran me down," said Durand.
Guthred didn't blink.
"It's a dangerous place," Guthred said, finally, his tone laden with menace.
WHEN THEY GOT word of Lord Moryn and the absent Herald, the others laughed with relief. There would be no battle with Moryn until Moryn produced the Herald. They were late for nothing.
As the others fell to brawling congratulations, Durand noted that Guthred slipped aside to say a few words in Coensar's ear. The captain, straightening to his full height, glanced up, searching the jagged skyline. Guthred took a moment to make certain that he caught Durand's eye.
The man had long since lost patience with his new shield-bearer. Durand, spotting one of the other shield-bearers carrying a pair of empty water buckets, stepped in the boy's path and held out his hands. The lad bl
inked up at Durand and handed over the buckets without question.
A string of men trudged back and forth toward the forest with buckets in their fists. Durand set off, putting the others behind him for a time. Against the forest, he saw folk bent round a well.
He thought of Cassonel somewhere among the tents. The man knew Durand had worked for Radomor. He likely knew
about Alwen and might find it odd that Durand worked for the dead woman's brother. Durand had been there at Ferangore; he had said nothing to his new comrades. His career could be smothered in its cradle by a single word. And he would deserve it.
But Cassonel might have another thought in his mind: Durand was a witness. He had been in Ferangore with all the silent listeners.
In the midst of that alien field, Durand hesitated.
He had gone a long way to protect his hide and pride. But the troubles of one man did not have much weight against the kind of treason Cassonel's message portended. A word from a magnate like Yrlac or Beoran could throw hosts into battle— and slaughter the toiling people of the countryside by the thousand.
Although Durand had warned Duke Ailnor, it was hard to believe that Ailnor alone could stop the intrigue. He must remember that his own neck was not worth much compared to a kingdom. He must watch Cassonel.
The sidelong glances of passing pages and shield-bearers goaded Durand back into motion, and he soon reached the black depths of the well. Two men were already there: a sturdy fellow in green and a tall, gangling youth.
The taller man reached the bucket windlass first.
"Good day to you," he said, from under a fringe of rusty-brown hair. He looked too young to be a knight.
Durand nodded a fraction.
The more stocky man smiled. "Evening."
The youth gestured toward Durand's camp, using his chin while he worked the crank handle. "You're with this Knight in Red?"
"Aye," Durand replied, though he wondered how long this would be true.
"How long?" the youth asked, surprising a dry laugh from Durand. "Not long."
"God," the tall youth said. "I don't know how to speak in this place. Who's king in Eldinor?"
Durand scowled, suddenly on his guard. "Ragnal is king." The stocky man laughed.
"And we're under the Blood Moon?" ventured the tall youth.
"Aye...." said Durand.
The youth's teeth flashed, and he eyed the silhouettes among the tents. "Who knows with this land? A man might have been here a hundred winters. Or arrived from a hundred winters past. I was riding the verges with a patrol of my father's men. Then there were these hounds. I've never heard the like. Then the forest was tossing like a man with fever. I fetched up here."
The sturdier man laughed. "I was hunting, me. Riding. I saw a stag, the like of which I'd never seen. Fourteen points. And then there was the tournament." He shook his head.
The tall youth smiled. "It will be only my third time in the lists," he said. "Oh. I'm Sir Cerlac," he said, freeing his blade hand from the chore of cranking the windlass and extending it across the well.
Durand was taken aback. The awkward figure was a belted knight. After a moment's hesitation, he took the man's hand.
The shorter man made a lopsided grin. "I've been in the lists a thousand times. Sir Abem, I'm called." He offered his hand as well.
"Only my second," Durand conceded. "And as shield-bearer."
"Aha," Cerlac said, finally hauling a full bucket from the chill darkness below Hesperand. He passed the bucket first to Abern.
The squat fellow nodded thanks and tipped the bucket, drinking deep.
As Cerlac took the bucket and lifted it to his own lips, Durand saw something strange pass over Abern's face—a slithering of moonlight, it seemed. Durand lashed out, catching the bucket's rim in his fist. "Don't drink!"
Cerlac froze, holding the black water before him as though he'd found an adder. Coils of golden sunset slithered on its surface.
"Hesperand," Durand said, explaining. "Eating and drinking. Kingof Heaven, I'd forgotten." They both looked to Abern. The Eye of Heaven seemed not to touch him. His skin glowed with a pale light.
"Abern?" said Cerlac.
"I've drunk from this well a thousand times," he said.
Like dun and ochre shadows, there were others coming. Not from the camp. Two or three dozen peasants appeared from the forest edge. Sturdy, silent men, they surrounded Abern, who simply smiled. Durand felt a peculiar horror as the peasants came near.
Brown hands curled round Abern's arms. "A thousand times," he said, and the peasants withdrew with him, vanishing into the shadows of branches.
Cerlac set the bucket on the wall of the well.
"You must tell me your name," the shaken man said.
"Durand."
As the Eye of Heaven left the western sky, Sir Cerlac shook Durand's hand for the second time.
SUCH STORIES MULTIPLIED. Guthred, pissing into the bushes at the forest edge, saw a pale hound the size of a colt staring back at him. One headstrong lordling tried to leave the Mead with his people. Only two of his men made it back, and both were torn as if by beasts and the wind.
Trapped and under siege, the men preoccupied themselves.
Though someone had lit a campfire, Durand found a stump of firewood on his own and sat down to work the edge on his gift sword. The ill-fitting scabbard had let fingers of damp insinuate themselves into the spaces around the blade. Already, webs of rust bled from the steel.
The others laughed; he polished.
Durand considered his strange place among these men. There were mistakes. There were small victories. But it was all built on rotten ground, and a word could destroy it all.
Under the circling pressure of his oily rag, the red webs seemed to give way, though it was hard to be sure in the dark. Little light escaped the ring of turned backs around the fire. He felt the nicks and scratches in the steel as he rubbed his way down the blade. His fingers found deep, puckered notches where edge had met edge on the battlefield. Long scores chased the blade where split chain links had screamed down its face. A great many men had likely wielded the thing, and many were likely dead.
Shouts erupted in the circle. Black shadows were wheeling.
Durand was halfway to his feet when the uproar collapsed into laughter and groaning. Two swordsmen swung and danced in the circle.
"Very good," Coensar's voice said, quiet but clear. The captain was circling, a wooden sword in his fist.
"You'd best shut up, Captain, or he'll have you," a brave soul jibed.
Frantic clattering leapt over the whoops of the crowd.
One-eyed Berchard glanced over his shoulder, and spotted Durand, waving him in.
Beyond the blaze, Coensar stood with Sir Agryn lying at his feet. The captain thrust his ashwood sword into the turf, and, bending, offered the man his hand. "I think you let me have that one, Agryn."
"You're wrong."
Coensar hauled the one-time knight of the Septarim to his feet
"I forget how dangerous a man you are."
Berchard shouted in: "For a priest."
'Those old ghosts taught you a few things."
"Litde to do with the sword, if truth be told," said Agryn. "It has been a long time."
Coensar quirked a rare smile, and, as he stood back, spotted Durand's arrival. "Durand, shield-bearer," he said. The wary eyes of the others settled on him as well, shadows cutting deeply. Coensar stood for a moment, his hand idling on the butt of the ash sword. "I hear there's a horse tried to take you from us."
"Aye," Durand said. Guthred had said at least that much. There was a snicker or two. Someone coughed. "But you are well enough now?" Coensar said. "Aye...."
Coensar held out a hand to Agryn who gave up his wooden sword to his captain.
"Everyone tries me one day," Coensar said and held out the sword, its handle suspended between them. Whatever the game was, Durand closed his hand around the hilt
"Best of three touches, then,
" said Coensar.
The gang leapt on him. Grinning shield-bearers tugged and jostled him from all sides, and suddenly he faced one of the most infamous swordsmen in the Atthias.
Durand raised the hardwood blade, thinking that it didn't take much to drive thoughts of magnates and treason from a man's mind.
"Good," the captain concluded, and crouched, facing Durand over the fire. His eyes took in every hint of stance and style Durand betrayed.
Durand circled behind a borrowed shield. Practice swords were good for cracking heads and breaking elbows—teaching hard lessons. Coensar's cool, glass-splinter eyes flickered above the fire, while Durand waited.
"If he waits long enough," Berchard rumbled, "old Coensar may nod off."
The circle laughed.
The fire's heat tightened Durand's face. Striking first with an opponent like Coensar was charging blindly into a house of snares. Unfortunately for Durand and his sound strategy, Coensar would not attack, and the mockers were not on Durand's side.
Durand stared over the rim of his shield. Knowing better rarely did a man much good.
"Have we time to fetch a bench?" someone said.
With a muttered curse, Durand changed his grip and darted. He used speed and reach to dodge the fire in one careering lunge. As the wooden bat whisded down, Coensar wrenched his shield high. The whole crowd flinched at the shock of the impact.
Durand had hardly started his grin, when he felt a punishing jab under his ribs. It might have been a horse kicking him.
"One," was all Coensar said, stepping so that the fire was already between them once more.
Durand sucked a lung full of air and forced his attention back to his opponent, only to catch a subtle wavering of Coensar's shield. Durand might be winded, but the captain looked to be working a set of jarred fingers.
Coensar circled backward to keep the fire between them, and Durand waited, taking a lesson from Lamoric's fight at Red Winding. Suddenly, he saw a misstep. In an instant, the captain's shield boomed yet again. This time, the wily swordsman's hissing counter clapped Durand's jaw shut.