by Melanie Rawn
“Pol.”
He started at the sound of his mother’s voice, tight and clipped, totally lacking its usual music. He went forward automatically and she held out a plain, thin silver circlet. Only then did he notice that both his parents were wearing narrow bands across their foreheads, coronets carved so that the gold seemed faceted like a jewel. He smoothed his hair and set the circlet in place, feeling its chill quickly warm at contact with his skin. Rare were the times he had worn this symbol of his rank; the last time had been his farewell banquet at Radzyn, just before leaving for Graypearl to become Lleyn’s squire. But today of all days he knew he had to remind everyone of his royal status—as if, standing beside his sternly regal parents, anyone would need reminding.
Rohan was inspecting Maarken’s battle harness, tugging at a leather fastening here, checking a steel buckle there. Pol stiffened slightly, then realized that it wasn’t that his father didn’t trust the young men who had armed Maarken; he only needed something to do.
Finally Rohan nodded satisfaction and stepped back. In the interim they had been joined by Davvi and Kostas, Volog, Alasen, and Ostvel. The latter led Maarken’s sleek and glossy stallion, caparisoned in Whitecliff colors. As if Ostvel were still chief steward of Stronghold and not an important lord in his own right, he bowed low to Rohan and said, “Your grace, all is in readiness.”
Rohan inclined his head once. To Maarken he said, “As it is forbidden to engage in such things within the precincts of the Rialla, we’ve found a field across the river. It’s perfectly flat, with no dips or hillocks to make things difficult. You’ll wait on horseback until you’re called, then ride up and make the usual salutes to me and Pol and Andry. Dismount then, and when Andry gives the signal, begin.” He paused, then said, “Goddess blessing, Maarken.”
As they started off, Andry tried to keep his gaze from Alasen, but could not. She wore a plain gown of pale gray, the color of a cloud come to earth. Her long hair spilled down her back in shining waves of gold-washed brown. The green eyes that were very like Sioned’s refused to look at him; but she often glanced through the veil of her lashes at Maarken where he walked beside Ostvel and the magnificent horse. Jealousy stirred in him, then vanished. What he had shared with her in the manner of faradh’im could not be ri valed by the sight of his warrior brother in all his brave finery. Andry had held the essence of her, shown her the joy of her gifts. He had restructured her bright glowing colors when she might have been shadow-lost. He had kept her safe. Only let this be over soon, he petitioned the Goddess, and let me have the time to talk with her alone. Alasen would understand and come with him to Goddess Keep, and he would teach her the wonders of being faradhi. They would be Lord and Lady together, with children to come after them, and—
He was brought up short by the sight of the crowds lining their way to the bridge. A strange rainbow fluttered below the gray sky as people waved ribbons of Desert blue and Radzyn red-and-white and Whitecliff red-and-orange—and Princemarch’s violet. He wondered bitterly if they flung that color aloft for Pol or for Masul.
Pandsala joined them at last, empty-eyed. She bent her head to Andry and her knees to Pol, and took a place at the very end of their small procession. Andry frowned slightly. There was one he would have to bring back into the discipline of Goddess Keep. Princess-Regent or not, she was a Sunrunner; Andrade had loathed her and chosen to ignore her existence as much as possible, but Andry was not so sanguine about allowing her free use of the rings she wore. Andrade had been lax with Sioned, too—but whereas Andry trusted his aunt implicitly, he did not trust Pandsala at all. It would be an interesting knife-edge to walk, he told himself: keeping hold of the duty and loyalty all Sunrunners owed to Goddess Keep when some of those Sunruners were ruling princes. He glanced sideways at Pol. Andrade had thought to have the training of him; now it would be Andry who taught him faradhi arts. Along with them, he would instill in Pol a spirit of cooperation with Goddess Keep. He did not delude himself that it would be easy. But Andrade had broken the rule that faradh’im did not become princes; she had hatched the egg, and now it was up to Andry to teach the hatchling where and how he would fly.
But first they had to rid themselves of this pretender who had dared murder a Sunrunner.
The stallion’s hooves rang loudly against the wooden bridge, echoing the thud of Maarken’s heart in his chest. He was disgusted with himself for the apprehension. He had a fine sword; knives enough to back him up in the unlikely circumstance that he lost the greater blade; strength, youth, and the right on his side. For his princes and for his fellow Sunrunners he would kill Masul. He spared a tiny smile for the perfect harmony that mocked his fears of having the two parts of himself come into conflict. If being athri and faradhi both was always this easy, he had nothing to worry about.
But the future was precisely what was on his mind: the day’s work before him and all the days that would follow. Would Hollis share them or not?
She had been frightened, distraught, wild-eyed when she’d come to him in his tent. Fever had swirled in her dark blue eyes, turning them nearly black with pinpoints of silver like lightning flashes through her soul. Folding her to his heart, elated that she was unresisting, he had felt the tremors shake her body that was almost frail in his arms.
“Beloved, beloved,” he had whispered, “don’t be afraid. I won’t come to any hurt, I swear it.”
“How can you know? How can either of us be sure?”
It was he who had drawn away from her, angry and desperately hurt. “If you have no faith in me—”
“I have every faith in you. It’s them I don’t trust.”
“Who? What are you talking about, Hollis?”
“The ones who want all faradh’im dead. The sorcerers. I’ve read about their ways, Maarken, I’ve helped translate the scrolls. Even if Masul doesn’t know about them or want their help, they’ll give it to him. He’s their challenge against us. Not only against the High Prince and his son, but all of us, all Sunrunners!”
Maarken told himself now that he should be reassured by her fear, for it meant she loved him still. Her pleas to be careful surely indicated a heart that was his alone. But just as suddenly her lips had turned cold under his comforting kisses, and she had extricated herself from his embrace with a terse reminder that the others were waiting for him.
As he had walked through the crowds to the bridge, he had seen her standing with the other Sunrunners. Hollis had been holding tight to Sejast’s hand.
His family went on ahead of him when they reached the field. Ostvel stayed behind, holding the stallion’s head while Maarken mounted. Gathering the reins, he looked down at his old friend’s face.
“Remember he’s larger than you are,” Ostvel said. “Test him out. If he’s slow with his size, use that against him. But if he’s quick and strong—” Ostvel suddenly snorted. “Listen to me, advising you as if you hadn’t been in your first battle at the age of eleven! And as if someone like me knew anything about the arts of war!”
Maarken smiled. “You know more than most, even if you never use it. I remember my lessons at your hands, before I went to Graypearl. You and Maeta used to drill me in swordplay until—” He broke off, wincing at her name.
“She’d be so proud of you right now,” Ostvel told him. “She always was.”
He nodded wordlessly.
“I’d better go take my place with the others.”
“Don’t worry, Ostvel. A quick victory for me, a slow death for him. I promised.”
“To hell with your promise! Kill him however you can, as soon as you can.” He hesitated. “I’ll keep an eye on your lady for you.”
“Thanks,” Maarken replied awkwardly, not wanting to think about her. He must think of nothing but Masul’s death.
The field was encircled with people now, half a measure away from where Maarken sat his horse. The highborns were strictly divided between the opposing parties. The common folk filled in between, everyone silent beneath the slate
clouds. Maarken looked up, thinking that the sky seemed made of the gray ashes scattered at dawn, as if Andrade’s spirit lingered to witness the pretender’s defeat.
At the direction of Rohan’s guards, an opening appeared on either side of the circle, one of them directly in front of Maarken. The crowd parted on the other side, giving him a clear view of Masul. He wore Princemarch’s violet, damn him, and rode the horse he’d nearly killed in the race. It would be Maarken’s pleasure to claim that horse for his own and treat it as so fine an animal deserved.
Despite the cloud cover it was still a warm day, muggy with a confusion of late summer and early autumn, as if neither season yet had dominion. Maarken felt sweat dampen his back underneath the leather and steel of his harness, and resisted the urge to twitch his shoulder blades against the trickle of moisture between them. At last he heard his brother’s voice, indistinct at this distance in the open air, but he knew what Andry would be saying.
First, the identification of claims. Then the statement of Masul’s crime. The pretender rode forward and halted before the High Prince, making no bow—not that anyone had expected him to. His head was at an arrogant angle as he made formal challenge. Andry heard him out, then turned slightly and spoke again. Maarken distinguished his own name and titles, touched his heels to his stallion’s sides, and reined in neatly half a length from Masul. He bent his head to his uncle and his cousin.
“Be then our champion, Lord Maarken,” Rohan was saying in long-established formula. “As this man seeks to prove his claim on his body, so you will prove ours on your own.”
“I will, my prince,” he replied.
Andry signaled both men to dismount. But Masul had one more thing to say.
“I demand assurance that he’ll use no Sunrunner witcheries in this battle.”
“Given,” Maarken snapped before anyone could do more than stiffen with insult.
“Then remove your rings, faradhi.”
Maarken stared at him. Surely Masul didn’t believe that old tale that a Sunrunner deprived of the rings was powerless. Sioned was proof enough of that; she had worn no ring but her husband’s for fifteen years, and all here had seen ample demonstration of her continuing power. He glanced at Andry, who wore a scornful smile.
“Permission is given,” said the Lord of Goddess Keep, “for we would not want the pretender distracted by his superstitions.”
Maarken nearly laughed. Young as he was, Andry had a definite flair for this kind of thing. He bowed to his brother and stripped off his red leather gloves. One by one he removed the rings he had worked so hard to earn. As he did so, his urge to laugh died away. The six small circles in his palm, silver and gold with small rubies, and one more crowned with a garnet, were integral to his pride. They were part of what he was. He hesitated, then walked over and with a low bow gave them to Pol for safekeeping.
He saw a flicker on Andry’s face, gone in an instant. “My prince,” he said to his cousin, “I’ll reclaim them soon.”
“But they’re still on your fingers, Maarken. Look.”
There were thin bands of paler skin where the rings had been. If Andry had a flair, Pol had a positive genius. He smiled at the boy and Pol’s eyes brightened in reply.
Chay came forward then, leading away Maarken’s stallion. Miyon did the same for Masul’s horse. Maarken put his gloves back on, flexing his fingers within thin, supple leather that would keep his grip on his sword firm and sure, and gestured for Masul to precede him out to the center of the field.
As he followed the pretender, he could sense Hollis presence all along his skin. But he did not make the mistake of looking at her.
Segev shifted nervously at Hollis’ side. He was on his own now, and he knew it. Mireva could do nothing, not in working her will through him nor in telling him what he ought to do. Starlight was her weapon; it was day. She was competent with sunlight, but the clouds blotted out the sun. He should have felt exhilarated by the freedom. He felt nothing but apprehension.
Swiftly he surveyed the crowd. Many for and many against Masul—but none of them with power to do what he could if he chose. If he had the courage. If he was willing to risk all for a man Mireva would eventually kill anyway.
No—not for Masul. For himself. Segev explored possibilities, projecting actions and their probable consequences. If he succeeded in killing Maarken with no one the wiser, then Mireva would have to favor him over Ruval when it came time to challenge Pol openly. But with the Star Scroll his, he would not need Mireva at all.
Who was likely to be trouble? he wondered, scanning the faces. No Sunrunner would dare any weavings—no usable sunlight shafted through the clouds, nothing to work with. He smiled in contempt at their weakness. But which of them might sense his own working? Pandsala was the obvious danger; her mother had been Ianthe’s mother, gifted with the powers of the diarmadh’im. Sunrunner she might think herself, but Segev knew better. Urival was a strong possibility. Segev did not forget that he had sensed Mireva’s starlit observations that night in spring.
But only Andry knew and understood enough of the Star Scroll to be a real threat. And that would only happen if Segev was careless.
He watched intently as Maarken and Masul faced off. The first clash of steel sent a spasm through Hollis. Segev had nearly forgotten her. She had escaped him for a time this morning, probably to go see Maarken. As if either of them would glean any comfort from the encounter. He glanced at her white, strained face with its huge eyes, and squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Maarken was perhaps a finger’s width taller than Masul, but the latter was heavier through the shoulders. Still, they seemed evenly matched. Segev cast a quick glance at the water clock that had been brought here from Rohan’s tent to measure the length of the battle. When the level in the lower sphere had risen one mark, Segev would act. Weariness would assail the combatants by then, and tension would draw nerves to the breaking point in everyone else. No one would pay any attention to the obscure “Sunrunner” youth who would decide the outcome of the challenge.
He hid a grin and pulled in a deep, satisfied lungful of the muggy air. He could wait.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Riyan watched with critical eyes as Maarken and Masul tested each other’s fighting styles. There was no doubt that Maarken was the more polished warrior, elegant, graceful. But Masul fought with controlled heat, like a kiln fire stoked to searing strength. Maarken could take the chance of infuriating Masul in hopes that the resulting explosion of temper would make him careless. Or he could trust to his superior training and technique. For the present he played it conservatively, with feints and parries designed to show him Masul’s weaknesses. But Riyan and every other swordsman watching soon saw what Maarken did: Masul’s weaknesses were very few.
The pretender had had a masterful teacher. Riyan could well imagine that some knight in retirement at Dasan Manor had longed for amusement. Lacking sons of his own to train, discovery of so apt a pupil in so unlikely a place must have offered the perfect outlet for boredom. There must be many such young men throughout the princedoms, whose swords could earn them a way out of obscurity into a lord’s or prince’s permanent guard, and perhaps even to holdings of their own. Andry was proof that not every highborn’s son was born to wield a sword; Masul showed that not all peasants were meant for the plow.
Still, there were certain moves of which he appeared ignorant. At first it seemed that Maarken might be overtrained, especially compared to Masul’s brutal directness. But he picked up quickly on the differences in their styles, and when the fight began in earnest Riyan nodded slowly on seeing that Maarken had found the most important weakness. Masul excelled in one-handed thrusts and parries, but he had a bad habit of bringing his sword completely over his left shoulder to add extra force to an inelegant two-handed swing, as if he was hacking at a tree. Had he been able to trick Maarken into losing his balance, the blow would have been effective. But Maarken watched and sidestepped and when the move had been tr
ied twice, took advantage of its third use. He gave Masul time to bring his sword over his shoulder, fooling him with a purposely clumsy recovery, then swung his own blade in a deadly arc right at Masul’s ribs.
The pretender saw it coming too late to evade entirely. His spine arched like an angry cat’s, his right hand slipping from his sword as he struggled to maintain equilibrium. As Maarken’s blade caught him in a wide swipe across his chest harness, his left arm and sword described a powerless half-circle in silver. The first whispers came from the hitherto silent crowd.
Riyan saw Maarken choose the emotional advantage rather than the physical one. Instead of following up on his opponent’s distress, he took a step back and put one hand on his hip: the attitude of a master teacher waiting for an incompetent student to recover himself for the next lesson. Riyan could not hear what Maarken said, but the taunting curve of his lips was unmistakable. He evidently felt that Masul’s unleashed fury would work against him far more effectively than a physical wound. As the pretender regained his balance and lunged forward to the attack, Riyan wondered if Maarken was right to risk it. The anger was still contained.
His attention was diverted from the next few moves by the sight of a young squire in Cunaxan orange and the silver knife badge who sidled around to this side of the crowd. Sorin stopped him, then grimaced and escorted him to where Rohan and Sioned stood. Riyan moved closer to hear what was being said.
“—your graces would care to make regarding the outcome,” the squire finished.
“Your master has one hell of a nerve,” Tobin hissed, her eyes on her son.
“Agreed,” Sioned murmured, and Riyan’s brows shot up at the wicked gleam that lit her emerald eyes. “But we’ll accept the wager, nonetheless.” She glanced at Rohan. “What do you think, my lord azhrei and husband? Free rights to Tiglath for the next ten years against . . . ?”
The High Prince smiled, and the squire took an involuntary step backward. “Against whatever you like, vein of my heart,” Rohan drawled. “You’re the gambler in the family.”