by David Keck
A knight Durand had never met swung up into his saddle and erupted from their ranks, lance in hand. At the far end of the lists, another stallion pranced into the long alley. The men loved a joust. Everything a man did was seen.
The first knights lit out. The grunt and slam as they collided sent a flinch through the horses all around Durand. Both men hit the ground before the Lady's seat in the stands. You could hear the two combatants hauling breath through suffocating helms as they fought. Finally, the far champion fell, bludgeoned over the shoulder till he couldn't lift his sword.
Durand watched the women. They were seated close enough to flinch at every blow.
When the first pair of knights had been dragged from the lists, a man in black shrugged off the others at Durand's side to barge into the narrow field, his warhorse high-stepping. And again the ground shook under the Lady's eyes as he rumbled out to meet another champion from the far camp. You could see the shock twitch through the fabric across the black knight's back as his lance struck home.
At Acconel, Durand once saw a standing man struck by a charging horse's shoulder. He landed five paces away. And here there were two horses, with all their speed and all their weight balanced on the point of a lance. Idly, he thought that it was amazing no one had died.
Then he remembered this tournament's rule: There was always one. And it must happen soon. There were only seven pairs left to fight.
Before Durand could finish the count, another knight tore out in a swirl of green. Again, the ground rolled in the narrow place like battle-drums in a bedchamber. Neither man died. The handmaidens sighed for the vanquished man, but were giddy as the green knight bowed and handed up the captured crest of the loser's helm: a gilded lion. A breathtaking woman accepted the mangled leather head with care.
By now, the others were all on horseback. Durand felt Lamoric's hand on his shoulder. It was ridiculous to fight in such close quarters. There were too many people too close to breathe.
Another pair rode out, catching Durand by surprise. He had hardly noticed the last pair fall. They had all been quick. Another knight rode out. There was a crash that left both riders struggling like foals in the grass.
There were only a few of them left now, all lined up.
"I'll go now," said Lamoric.
"Lordship," Durand acknowledged, taking a sharp look down the alley of faces to the horsemen at the far end. And saw Moryn.
The Lord of Mornaway tugged at gauntlets and seated his helm. Durand actually glanced to see that the man wasn't beside him as well. He had changed sides after the fighting began. To play such a trick, Mornaway must have felt very ill-used by Lamoric's evasions.
Now, one bad pass could throw away Lamoric's chance at the Herald and the prince at Tern Gyre. And Lamoric was about to ride out.
"No" said Durand, and caught Lamoric's arm, half twisting the man from his saddle. There was no time to explain. He slapped the rump of the next man's horse, sending the animal lurching into the lists. The rider, a knight in blue slashes, twisted around, but he was in too far to retreat without looking a coward.
Durand could see Lord Moryn falter, his horse falling off stride. Then Moryn spurred the animal on, and the two knights met with a crash that sent the blue knight skidding from the lists, hauled by one stirrup.
As Moryn left the lists—with a long look for Lamoric— Durand noted that no one had died.
"Now. Keep off!" growled Lamoric, nudging his mount into the lists and charged a knight in marine hues. On their first pass, each man's lance detonated. An exchange of fierce cuts ended with the enemy disarmed by a hacking strike across his knuckles. The green knight fell on his knees, vanquished. Lamoric, after gravely accepting the man's surrender, bowed to the Lady and remounted to ride from the lists.
And still no one had died.
"That's you," Lamoric said, jouncing past. And Durand was next—he was also the last.' And the tournament had not yet claimed its victim.
He looked down the corridor of faces: a hundred peers and a hundred peasants. He guided Berchard's sooty brown between the palings and into the lists. Heremund was among the faces. The skald's hat was a knot in his fists. No one said a word.
Durand closed his eyes. Someone might already have died, passing in some surgeon-barber's tent. He looked down the long alley.
At the far end, he saw gold and green. Cerlac's green and gold. With dull astonishment, Durand raised his lance and watched Cerlac answer, his expression neatly shut behind the slit mask of his helm.
Gold and green.
The Silent King knows all dooms, and a wise man does not grumble.
The women of the castle leaned in. The joust would end on the blood-soaked ground right before them. Cerlac was having some trouble settling his horse. The women talked and pointed. There were a multitude of eyes on him. Durand shut the women from his mind and fixed his attention on Cerlac.
Man and horse both were one shifting maze of yellow linen and green diamonds. Durand watched as the shield bobbed— moving squares against the field of diamonds.
He cocked his own Col stags.
Someone was leaning in—astonished, foal-dark eyes, and a fringe of red hair. The Stream Maid. But Cerlac nodded.
Durand snatched a lungful and spurred his horse.
They were off. Walls of staring faces rippled past. As the green edge of the stand flickered by, Durand swung his lance into line. The big brown charged like a bull. At the last, Durand clamped the lance tight against his side.
Twin shocks: shield and lance. Splinters flew. His thumb-knuckle punched his own ribs like the beak of an anvil, but he held his seat.
He ended his rumbling charge in the southern camp, fighting for air. He gulped and swallowed. Men were close around the horse's flanks. There was no time. He needed a weapon. Fumbling his sword free of its scabbard with a shaking hand, he spun. He spotted Cerlac, still in his saddle, also hauling his blade free.
He charged. Cerlac pitched toward him, his sword catching flame in the red dusk. At the last, Durand swung, but there was hardly room. At the point of impact, Durand's knee met Cerlac's. Cerlac's helm struck the cross-guard of Durand's sword, the knight's head snapping round. Durand's blade flew over the crowd. Cerlac hurtled to the sod in a hail of chain skirts and scabbards.
Durand halted the brown as a desperate Cerlac bobbed up, weaving across the turf on all fours, groping for his own sword.
Durand dropped from his saddle—empty-handed, his knee barely taking his weight. The wall of peasants had closed over his sword. One look at their grim faces told him that he wouldn't get it back. Cerlac was already on his feet,! blade in hand. The man reared back. Durand stood before him, defenseless. But Cerlac checked his swing. He gestured, thrusting his chin toward a snapped lance. A good four feet remained—and a point.
The crowd was close enough to whisper as Durand picked up the lance and faced Cerlac. Both men wavered then. Breath hissed. Before Durand's throbbing eyes, Cerlac was a masked shape of gold and green and eye-slit shadow. Durand tried to fill the bottoms of his lungs and stamp some feeling back into his knee. Finally, they stepped into a circling dance.
Durand forced himself to think. The lance would make a passable bludgeon, and the point was sound. He would have to pick his chance. As he circled, his shadow swung over Cerlac, and Cerlac came into the light. In that instant, he saw clear ribbons of freckled skin and red lashes through Cerlac's visor. Durand struck, jabbing high. The point squawked from the top of Cerlac's shield and caromed from the diamond helm.
Cerlac launched an iron hail, and, grimacing under his shield, Durand lashed back. Razor edges flickered between them quick as willow switches. Blows sparked and scrabbled over mail and shields. Durand caught a cross cut below his ear that dazed him, but managed to bash another stroke against the iron cask of Cerlac's helm. Then the first flurry was over, and there was no air left in Creation.
Durand staggered free, stooped as a baited bear. In the lull, Cerlac's sword twit
ched, drawing Durand's eye. They circled. He could do little more than react, following his partner wobbling through the blazing sunset, blind and blinking into the brilliance or stumbling into shadow.
There was no time to get his wind back. He had thrown too much into those first moments. Cerlac darted. A strike against his shield shuddered through the bones of his shoulder. Cerlac's blade flickered like an adder's tongue. The point jabbed at Durand's hauberk, faster than he could stop it He wondered if, even now, some injured man lay in his tent breathing his last Cerlac's point shot for Durand's face, but a flinch sent the blade raking at the mail over his ear. He would not survive much longer.
Abrupdy, Cerlac swung. The shearing overhand bit deep through the lime planks of Durand's shield and stuck. Durand yanked, but couldn't pull free. For an instant, an animal panic gripped him. Cerlac wrenched the shield, twisting the blade— it was a chance. With jaws locked, Durand hauled on his shield and tripped Cerlac in a fairground wrestler's throw that sent the man sprawling even as the Col Stags split—the shield useless.
Cerlac hit the ground.
Durand blinked at the wreckage in his fist, knowing he could block nothing now. His shoulders smoldered like hot lead. But Cerlac was down—helpless for a moment. They were gasping in the stands. Women's voices. Doom turned on this heartbeat: One of them must die.
But Durand closed his eyes. A man cannot choose the time of his ending, only the manner of it. He let the ruined shield fall from his arm and Cerlac get to his feet.
Tense and still, Durand raised the broken lance in salute. Cerlac was looking at him. What they began, they must finish. Cerlac nodded and raised his sword.
The ending began with Cerlac. He reeled forward, casting his blade into a looping sledgehammer's swing. Durand beat the blade aside with his bit of lance, warding his face with his free hand.
Cerlac swung again, forcing Durand to weave and stumble. There was no time to counter. He could scarcely breathe. With every step, the swinging weight of his hauberk pitched and carried him.
Finally, Cerlac aimed another sledgehammer swing for Durand's head. Durand could only bull himself inside, trapping Cerlac's blade high. The other man skipped back. Durand lurched clear and hurled a scything blow at his opponent's shins.
With what fire remained in his blood, Durand barged close yet again. Lights burst in his eyes. He could hear Cerlac's breath rasping against the face of his helm. Durand crashed the broken end of his lance against the painted diamonds there and held on, hammering again and again, almost losing his grip in desperation.
They staggered apart. Durand had nothing left. Cerlac was clawing at his helm. Round pennies of flaked paint glinted where Durand's blows had fallen. For a moment, Durand thought something had happened. Some blow had got through. Then the man caught himself, flinging the helmet aside.
In the final assault, Durand caught blows on his forearm, his shoulder. Staggering, Durand covered his face. Something raked down his head. His ear. There was blood.
And there was a moment. Durand's eyes focused. Cerlac's bare face was a mask of blood. He held his sword high, the blade flashing its image in Durand's eyes. Then he brought it hurtling down.
Durand remembered leaping inside the arc, trying to bring his lance up. There was a scream.
MEN PULLED. DURAND heard a high whistle ringing in the air over the field. There was iron and earth on his tongue. A blade of dry grass had found its way into his mouth. There were voices.
Suddenly, a horizon of trees was rolling like a dropped platter around him—sky the cool pewter of encroaching evening. Hands pressed at him. Shouts. Suddenly, against his will, his stomach was turning itself out. The horizon ducked and spun—its trees like black teeth.
Then he was above everyone, hanging between two men's shoulders. He clawed at the roughness of the iron mail under his fingers. Something swung from the wetness on his cheek and jaw.
He looked up and saw the face of a woman. Then the woman's eyes, clear and full of pain. They trembled, pale amethyst. He wanted to touch the down at her hairline where the cool air played. She reached up, and her pale hands wrapped something round his neck. His bearers bent. Durand's feet slid. They were kneeling. His gaze passed her chest, the jeweled strand of her girdle, and the silk of her tiny slippers.
Her breath was in his nostrils, and he felt a pressure of lips on his forehead.
WHEN NEXT HE woke, he was lolling in a bath.
Scented oil burned from the many necks of the brass lamps suspended about the chamber. Rose petals drifted on the water, spinning under the pressure of his breath, rocked by the beating of his heart. Durand stared. Somehow, the heat and buoyancy conspired to render him insensible of his limbs. He seemed to exist only in two aching points: a jagged knot in his skull, and a much duller throb in the arch of his breastbone.
He stared across the sea of petals to a tapestry across the room. In the weave was a girl in a white chemise. She cradled a rabbit in a bed of hay. It was not just hay, though. Each stalk ended in a drooping head of barley. The rabbit seemed to look up from the world of knots and stitches, favoring him with a knowing stare.
STILL STRUGGLING TO pull his thoughts together, he soon found himself in a white hall within the castle of Bower Mead. Score upon score of mailed knights stood along great feasting tables. Silver lamps of sweet oil filled the air with scented vapors.
Standing, he rocked on his feet, facing the shimmering ranks of warriors. He was at the high table. A few of the leading knights stood with him. They were all rich men. The others were the ladies of the Bower. A few smiled his way. He could think of no response.
Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. Down the table, the Lady of the Bower raised her hands above the room. Her voice chimed in the air.
"Most gracious Mother of All, Empress of Heaven, we humbly offer our thanks. We pray on this night that You may hold us in Your heart wherever we may travel in all the lands under the Moons. We remember Your sacrifice, and we thank You for the gift of life which You have given and will give. Now as then; now as always."
The men stood silent.
"Maiden of Spring. Once born, never dying. Most Holy Sister. Maid of spring and harvest, we offer our thanks on this the night of Your cry in the darkness. We who bear and are born, honor Your taking up of the burden of Creation. In Your memory we undertake to do likewise."
The men intoned: So be it.
After the rumble of voices ebbed away—when the room stood again in silence—Durand saw the Lady nod once. A knight of every conroi made his way to the space below the high table. Each one bowed in his turn and offered his thanks for the hospitality of the Lady and the thanks of his company for the lives and good fortune of his men. When this ritual had been completed, men entered the room from every side. They were the pale knights from the castle walls. Scores of them. Durand had never seen living men so pale. Each one carried a steaming tureen of pottage.
With a great moan of wooden benches, the guests took their seats. Gray hands set bowls before each man. Durand flinched as a long-fingered and bloodless hand slid a bowl under his chin. Then the gray knights retired to the walls.
Along the high table, the Lady and her handmaidens drank, though no one at the tables below moved. Durand could not imagine eating.
Durand left bread and pottage alone. Goose, duck, veal, chicken, and pork followed, baked in pies or minced in herbs and milk. Durand's head ached. There was a hammering ache in his ribs. Dish after dish passed him by, his tongue a bloated thing in his throat.
Durand stared into the rippling silver of the goblet set before him. Finally, he reached out, taking the cup in his hand, raising spiced wine to his lips.
A hand caught his wrist.
The lean face of Moryn of Mornaway was looking back at him. The man would not let go. "Do not drink."
"Host of Heaven," said Durand. Looking out, he now saw that on all the long tables in the hall, not one platter of the hundreds carried from the kitchens ha
d been touched. Gingerly, he set his goblet down.
Quite suddenly, the Lady of the Bower spoke: "Our feast is at an end. As is this longest of vigils for our warriors. Know, all of you, that on this night, the world is under the eye of its Mother. No creature under this moon may do another harm. A lamb could lie in a leopard's fangs. A hare in the jaws of a wolf. You need post no sentries, and keep no watches. All the lands of the world may sleep at ease on this night. Go now in peace."
The men rumbled thanks to the Queen of Heaven, and each conroi presented itself to the Lady of the Bower in turn, offering praise and thanks before departing. Lamoric bowed low, red helm in place. Moryn stood, straight-backed, and bowed. Cassonel—hale now, though with a limp—bowed as well. When they had finished, Durand stood and climbed down from the dais, feeling like a ghost.
"Durand?" It was Heremund. "Here. I've got him."
Berchard shouldered his way against the current of departing guests. "Here. He held out the hilt of a sword to Durand. "After the fight, those peasants just turned and melted off, silent as deer. This bit of steel was left lying there. Coen figured you might need it again if you came around."
Heremund clapped Durand gently on the shoulder.
Berchard shook his head. "If you'd been a step further back—half a step!—that man would have split your head like a cabbage. It was mostly the hilt he hit you with. I'll admit: I had my good eye shut when that blade started down."
Durand touched his forehead.
"I've never seen a sleeping man stab anyone," Berchard continued. "It's easier the other way round. Ouen was saying that lance caught right there."
The man reached out, pressing two fingers against Durand's breastbone. A bruise, a broken rib, throbbed under the man's stabbing fingers.
Then his expression faltered, and he withdrew his hand.
"Durand?" said Heremund.
Berchard nodded, suddenly more serious. "A good knock on the head. Strange things. You lose a few moments. Never remember exactly. A moment before, and then the floor."