In the Eye of Heaven

by David Keck

  Durand staggered through real sparks and the ones behind his eyes. His tongue felt thick as dead fingers in his mouth.

  Coensar, however, had stood up. "Hmm. I think I see it." Durand fought to stay upright, watching the other man warily.

  "You're a sight quicker than I'd have guessed, but you're missing something." His voice was quiet.

  Durand couldn't muster his thoughts to make any sort of reply.

  "Long ago, I learned that when you must attack, the first swing rarely scores. A good swordsman shows you two faces. Get on him. There's no harm swinging first, but you're not going to reach past a shield—lest your man's drunk or asleep. Every peasant knows to plow before he plants.

  "Here." The captain dropped into his fighting crouch once more. "I ask you: try my head."

  Durand had heard hard-jawed sergeants say the same in a thousand bruising lessons, but he hefted the sword regardless.

  Coensar said, "Do it now."

  Durand steeled himself to make a good show of it. Tugging a sharp breath, he hauled the wooden bat high and yanked it whistling down to clop the captain's skull shut.

  The shield's edge caught it.

  The captain nodded coolly.

  "You knew what I must do. Yes? The ground is poor. We're in a tight spot There's hardly room to dodge a cut like that. I had no choice but to take it on my shield. You forced my hand. With my shield up there, I'm half blind. If it's a feint, you've got my ribs. My knee. If it's not; my eyes?" He inclined his head.

  "If you know what I've got to do," continued the captain, "you've got me. Force and anticipate. Show the man an opening, but be waiting for him when he tries to take it"

  Durand nodded.

  "Now," Coensar said. "It is best of five touches." Durand raised his shield.

  And, though he managed to make Coensar work for each of his bruising "touches," he lost.

  The captain shook his head. "You're quick for the size of you." Durand grunted.

  Coensar raised an eyebrow. "Call me a liar, ox, and it's real blades next."

  "Now that's an idea." Lamoric grinned from the circle, and Durand took a prudent step into the background. "Sharps might add a thrill to the proceedings." He slipped his sword from its sheath and held it, his palm inverted, high over the rest. Durand wondered if the man were drunk.

  "Any takers? Agryn?" The blade seemed to flicker, now pointing at its prospective victim. "I have hired the best. I'd like to see what I've bought. Come along, Agryn. Let's see what those ghosts of yours have taught you."

  Agryn blinked once. He seemed to eye all the others for the briefest instant, as though deciding whether any of the others might be better suited. There was Badan, Berchard, Coensar. Instead, Agryn hauled his own blade from its scabbard. Lamoric's face split in a smile, and both men raised shields.

  "Right then," said Lamoric. "On your guard!" He started his sword into a series of wheeling lunges, drawing flame into the glittering eddies of the blade. Agryn skipped backward, scattering the crowd. This was a thing that got every man's heart pounding. Agryn's sober demeanor belied great agility.

  Lamoric put more and more behind each leaping swing of his blade until he could hardly stop himself. Then Agryn struck, hopping inside one fiery arc, his shield high, and, in an instant, Lamoric's weight poised on the tip of Agryn's sword. Everyone watched for blood to well from the neat slit in the man's surcoat.

  None came.

  'Two swings too many, Lordship," Agryn said. Lamoric grimaced and made a great show of extricating himself from the sword's point.

  Coensar nodded, his manner serious. "You must be as quick to abandon a trick as you were to try it."

  The young lord's fingertips found the split weave of his surcoat for the first time, and the wild glint left his eyes. He was panting. "Yes," he wavered. "I do see. These mock combats.

  I'm not sure I can trust myself these last few days. A man dares too much." With a sharp intake of breath, he bared his teeth in good humor.

  Durand caught Guthred staring at him from among the men standing across the fire. The man did not look away.

  "Would anyone else like to try their master's sword?" Lamoric said.

  He glanced around the circle, then spun back on Durand. Scarred and stubbled faces turned. Durand felt a jolt of fear. He liked the sticks, if he had to choose. Real blades were another matter. It was not that he was afraid of the edges— everyone was afraid of the edges. You couldn't swing. A shield-bearer who maimed his lord did not live long.

  "If you insist, Lordship," he answered, eventually.

  It seemed Lamoric had noticed Durand's slow response. "Afraid you'll hurt me, are you?" asked Lamoric.

  Something in Durand's face must have answered.

  "Very well then. Commendable loyalty. But I mustn't let the new man off so lightly. Perhaps we can find someone else for you to play with." A touch of the playful glitter returned to his eyes. "What about Sir Ouen? I don't think Ouen would be much offended by a scratch or two."

  The scarred faces laughed.

  At first, Durand could not match the name to a face, and, for a moment, there seemed to be no one answering to it. Then something moved in the circle of smiling knights. Huge hands settled on shoulders, and a knight like a carthorse strode into the circle. His shaggy, grinning head loomed over the others as he stepped into the firelight. A knot of stitches still held one eyebrow together.

  Durand had dragged this giant from the field at Red Winding. When the man smiled, every one of his front teeth flashed gold.

  Guthred was still watching.

  "Yes," Lamoric said. "Now we'll see what our man is made of." The grisly pun registered. "Well, Heaven forefend. But it can be so hard to tell in the chaos of a battlefield."

  Though Sir Ouen had a lean chest and a potbelly, his arms looked to have been strung with the bow-cords of a siege engine. He drew a sword of war, four feet long.

  "I suggest," said the man, "that you get yourself into a good thick gambeson. I don't play gentle."

  "After you," Durand said, and, as the smirking giant gave a nodding bow, he followed the man from the circle.

  In the dark, Durand decided that he was insane. This was pride, and nothing else. He had seen Guthred's eyes on him, knowing. Coensar had beaten him. Now, Lamoric had singled him out to meet this Ouen.

  While Sir Ouen found his tent, Durand dug among the tumbled packs where Guthred's lads had heaped the shield-bearers' and servants' gear. Finally, his hand closed on the weighty bundle of his armor among the blankets and loose tack. Ouen had said "gambeson," so Durand could wear nothing more—not without showing himself to be a coward. Leaving the security of iron mail behind, he hauled the stinking padded coat over his head.

  Beyond the meadow and its rings of firelight, something dark was moving—a midnight storm prowling like some soot-gray cat around the Bower. There was no sign of wind or bad weather over the meadow itself. He was trapped and trapped again.

  He tugged the cold stiffness of the canvas straight and turned back toward the fire to find that the gap-toothed ring of knights and shield-bearers had multiplied. "Hells," Durand said. This was not just another knight or two gathered from the neighboring camps. There were flashing gowns around the fire now. Three of the lady's maids from the castle stood in the growing circle. Ouen stood, smoke boiling as he limbered his arms, whipping the shield and massive sword around like toys.

  It had turned into a fairground wrestling match—or a public whipping.

  "Host of Heaven," Durand muttered. For a stolen instant, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw a new figure in the crowd, small but straight-backed—beyond the fire was a familiar face framed in crimson. The girl from the stream, leagues and worlds away, held his eye. He could hardly breathe.

  Durand stepped inside the waiting ring. Ouen bared his gold teeth, lowering his frame into a ponderous fighting crouch. "On your guard," he rumbled gleefully. Durand saw the girl look fully in his direction. Her foal-dark eye
s were suddenly wide.

  Then light snagged in the razor's edges of the giant's long blade, and Creation sagged away. There was only the giant and the sword and the fire.

  Everything began.

  Ouen swung the winking razor-edges like a sledgehammer. The blade flashed in circles—the same wheeling assault that had just failed Lamoric. Durand waited, suddenly in Agryn's shoes. Finally, when the giant reached with a long swing, Durand ducked in, shield high. Ouen caught his counter, the big man's knee ramming Durand in the ballocks. Durand rolled, knowing that Ouen and Lamoric were not the same man.

  "He's got a better memory than that!" Badan said. The wolfish knight was in the circle with him. Before Durand could untie himself, gleeful Badan levered him roughly to his feet.

  Ouen bowed slightly, the fire shivering in his teeth.

  Fighting for air, Durand raised his sword. In the pain and sickness after the heavy blow, some part of his mind noticed the wink of his own blade, and it sparked a realization: In this game, the sword was nothing more than a distraction. A peer could hardly hack a man dead at a campfire sparring match. But Ouen was not Agryn to play some sort of touch-and-talk match. No. This was a fight. Ouen wanted Durand to leave this game black and blue.

  Durand understood.

  The big man crouched, this time advancing until he became a monstrous breathing shadow between Durand and the fire.

  Between one step and the next, Durand darted in, throwing out a flash of steel to cover his real intent. At the same moment, he locked his fist in his shield straps and threw a punch straight from the earth. The tight arc buried the corner of the shield in the knight's kidney.

  But that was not the end. Durand leapt in, ramming his shoulder under the big knight's ribs. He bulled forward. With all his might, he lifted, legs pounding down. The bonfire exploded under his feet. And, as they burst out the other side, Ouen finally toppled backward. The man slammed into the turf among the feet and shins of his scattering audience with Durand's full weight bearing down on his chest.

  The giant's wind was gone. The crowd stood in shocked silence.

  Exultant and more than a bit startled, Durand began to extricate himself, but felt a fist lock in the back of his gambeson. Ouen trapped him face-to-face.

  "Well done," Ouen gasped, baring his big glinting teeth despite what must have been suffocating pain. "But look here." Something wiggled like a trout below Durand's chin and a razor's edge scraped his throat. "A draw, I think."

  Durand looked back into the man's eyes, the sprawling hair, the matted beard, the glinting grin. He had to laugh.

  The hand released him.

  As he swayed to his knees, curtains of silk and fox fur swung shut around him. Though it was skirts that surrounded him, he might have been kneeling in the midst of a four-post bed. Clear, clear eyes looked down.

  "Impressive," said the Lady of the Bower. She reached a tiny hand, and Durand climbed to his feet. As he stood, the scentless warmth of her breath touched his forehead. He blinked into her eyes, taking in lips like dusty cherries and skin without fault or blemish.

  "Thank you," Durand said.

  A minuscule crease appeared where the arc of the Lady's brow approached the bridge of her nose. 'There is something about you," she said. Her eyes held his, as though he were a cipher to be puzzled out. "Broad shoulders. I wonder who you will be. Who you are." Durand's lust stirred as her gaze moved over him, though he saw no arousal in her manner. She was so close. He could see the night air moving in the red down at her hairline. Her lips were not quite closed.

  "I am Durand of Col," he said, carefully.

  "Yes." His answer had been insufficient. Irrelevant.

  She smiled—like an apology. "You are welcome here; Durand." Her fingers pressed his arm, conducting a wave of warmth. She looked up to the others. "All of you are welcome."

  For a moment, as he held her in his eyes, it was all Durand could do to swallow.

  13. The Price of Secrets

  Guthred put him to work. While the others drank or rested, he lugged barrel after barrel to the forest edge. Eerie howls made their way through the branches. The sky churned silently. He saw eye-corner shapes on the move. He worked until something appeared from the trees.

  "Where in God's name?" the doubled shape said, and pitched backward over a barrel of flour. There was a sharp crack, and a white cloud billowed high.

  Setting his teeth, Durand stooped to pick a man out of Guthred's supplies. For an instant, the man's face was covered by a shapeless hat. He grumbled and pushed it back.

  "Heremund!"

  Durand might have laughed, but for the skald's look: wide-eyed through a mask of flour. The skald's expression was one of horror.

  "Durand?"

  "Aye."

  "Oh. I don't like this. Not at all. What're you doing here?" "I'm with Lamoric of Gireth." "What? I thought you were serving Lord—" "No." Heremund must not mention the name. "I'm with Lamoric now."

  "Bloody Hesperand," Heremund grumbled. "I was a half a league from the borders, I'm bloody sure I was."

  "Heremund!" Durand said. He found his hands shaking. The homely skald was like a rope thrown from the past. Durand could hardly speak. "Good to see you."

  "I was bound for Mornaway and Hellebore. There were riders in fine cloaks skittering from hall to hall all through Yrlac, and rumors of Lord Radomor and King Ragnal and—"

  The skald stopped, taking in the tents and the castle and the wide expanse of grass.

  "Oh no. It's the tournament, ain't it? We're over the Glass. Gods."

  Durand heard shouting. He followed the skald's glance and

  was astonished to see the last few men carrying torches out of the camp.

  "I suppose it's underway now," said Heremund, and, muttering like a wise woman, the bowlegged skald marched off toward the light.

  WHEN THEY RETURNED to the field, everyone was gone.

  Durand and the skald stood under a full moon framed by silken billows of cloud. An alien moon in an alien Heaven. The tents were still as the bottom of some brown lake, and the pale watchers from the battlements were the only signs of anything resembling life.

  "Queen of Heaven, Heremund, I just left them."

  "Must have started."

  "In the dark?"

  "This way, I reckon." The little man tramped off in the direction of Durand's well. Durand stalked after.

  "It's a particular sort of vengeance, this," Heremund muttered.

  As they crossed onto the broad shoulder of the green, a scene out of legend stretched before them.

  Gleaming in the preternatural half-light, the Lady and her maids waited below the crest of the long slope to the village, standing as though on a stage. Heremund and Durand hesitated a dozen yards behind the women. It seemed the Lady was carrying a sheaf of flowers. It was hard to make out.

  Below these figures, knights and shield-bearers and grooms and servants waited in two silent ranks, marking an aisle from the salt white castle down to the village fields. Every man wore his full panoply: armor, surcoats, and tall leather crests on the helms under their arms. Everything glittered as cool and colorless as the glacial moon.

  "There was hardly time," said Durand. He had not been lugging barrels so long.

  "Come," said Heremund. "Is that Lamoric there on the left? We'll slip in behind."

  They descended the slope.

  Finally, Durand picked out Coensar's silver wing of hair. "Here," Durand said. It was his turn to lead, bringing the skald into the back rank of Lamoric's conroi. The young lord wore his red helm. Every man was rapt, looking uphill to the Lady and her handmaids, so, with a glance to Heremund, who had nothing to say, Durand slipped forward, compelled to see for himself.

  As he stepped into the front rank, the Lady and her handmaids looked up, though not at him. They stared beyond the double file of knights to the plowed fields of the village below. The peasants of the manor had silently gathered at the far edge of the manor's fields, separate
d as though waiting on facing shores of a black lake.

  At this glance from the Lady, one old man among the peasants nodded and stepped onto the plowed earth, crossing the field for the castle. Although his feet slipped and slithered among the furrows, he kept his balance and his stiff-necked pace never wavered.

  Durand did not, at first, see what was happening nearer to hand: Both the Lady and the maids of the Bower had set out from the hilltop. But he straightened as they passed, bright and solemn as children at a grave.

  Heremund shook his head.

  Just at the edge of the field, the company of maidens met the lonely figure of the old man. He reached up from the mud as the Bower's Lady bent, extending the bulky bouquet she had been carrying. Durand could hear the crackle and rustle of that bouquet—no pale flowers, but rather a moon-silvered sheaf of wheat. The old man reached up and, with wordless dignity, accepted the sheaf as though it were a swaddled child.

  "The Spring Maid," said Heremund. "Seems the Lady of the Bower was a devotee of the women's cults. The full moon and the harvest rite. Last corn. All of it rings of the Spring Maid." He peered into the Heavens. "It must have been the Reaper's Moon when they left."

  The skald's whisper was the only voice. Durand could not have made a sound.

  The villagers on the far bank had dropped to their knees. No one moved. A shiver crawled through Durand. The only things in motion on the whole face of Creation were those nine women.

  But, somehow, Heremund continued to speak. "The Maid's like your blackthorn boys."

  The skald's voice seemed a desecration, wild and impossible.

  "Everything was dying. The Son of Morning and the Host Below had set themselves to ending Creation. Tines of frost slid through the flesh of the world, as the Eye of Heaven guttered. And the Mother finally came. She set the moons over the darkness. She set the wheel of life moving in Creation, drawing man and woman apart, and together. But there was fear. It was not enough. The world was still falling into night. Freezing to the end of time."