The Empire's Ghost

by Isabelle Steiger

  Elgar nodded. “You may use your own weapon, Colm.” The man in question drew his sword from its sheath, holding it in both hands in preparation for a swing.

  Seren raised her eyes to the marquise’s; Lady Margraine considered a moment, then smiled. “Well, Seren, I don’t want to make this too easy for you. Use the sword, unless you get into trouble.”

  Seren drew her own blade, and Lady Margraine looked to Elgar. “Will you give the signal to begin, or shall I?”

  “Perhaps we had best let the king do it,” Elgar said. “This is in honor of his coronation, after all.”

  King Kelken said nothing, just turned his attention back to the two combatants, staring hard at them as if he could predict the winner from their faces. Then he extended one hand, spreading the fingers wide. “Begin.”

  Colm leaped immediately forward, bringing his sword down in a stroke that could have split bone. Seren moved only partially out of the way, and his sword had hardly clanged against hers before he swung again, driving her back in a series of brutal strokes she seemed just barely to avoid each time. Eventually she drew near to the assembled soldiers, who tried their best to pull back so as not to seem to have interfered; Varalen thought belatedly that they ought to have marked a circle in the dirt. It turned out they needn’t have worried: Seren dodged sideways instead of backward, and suddenly she was nearly behind Colm, aiming a swing at his shoulder that he only just managed to block. His superior strength and heavier blade forced her sword back just enough for him to turn himself about, and then he was on the offensive again, driving her before him in the other direction.

  Varalen didn’t know precisely what kind of performance he had expected from Seren, but it wasn’t this. Colm might have been one of Elgar’s chosen, but he was no Shinsei. If Seren was truly the best the marquise had, he couldn’t say he was very impressed. She was agile, true, but she didn’t seem able to dodge fast enough to put Colm on the defensive. More grievously, she was much weaker than he was, which meant that every time their blades clashed it was to her disadvantage. She would have to exert herself more just to stave him off, and eventually she would tire and become unable to block his strikes at all. Colm had clearly had the same thought, and he swung at her every chance he got, hardly giving her a moment to get her bearings. He drove her back and forth across the yard; each time she managed to dodge around him before he could box her in, but each time he regained the offensive and pushed her back once more.

  Elgar was trying to keep his face impassive, but Varalen could see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The marquise was smiling too, but it was the same smile she always wore, so it told him nothing. But as he looked closer he thought he could see something in her eyes, a flicker of heat that sparked against the coldness for the first time.

  Then, by chance more than anything, he looked over at King Kelken, only to find him in conversation with the scarred man, whose narrowed eyes were following the fight closely. The king muttered something too soft for Varalen to hear, but his retainer shook his head at it. As he made his reply, he pointed at the combatants, and Varalen did his best to follow the man’s finger, trying to see whatever it was he saw. The scarred man had pointed high, higher than the level of their swords, and Varalen had seen his lips move, directing his liege to look at their …

  Brows, he realized suddenly, turning his own gaze there as well. Look at their brows.

  Varalen obeyed that injunction, and what he saw didn’t make sense. Colm’s forehead was dripping with sweat, his damp hair plastered to his skin, but Seren’s brow bore only a faint sheen, hardly worth the trouble to wipe away. But that couldn’t be right. She ought to be tiring faster, and Colm’s advantage should have been widening. Her dodges and counters ought to have been getting slower, and instead …

  Instead Varalen cleared his mind of what ought to be happening and concentrated on what was happening. He watched Seren’s movements closely, and he suddenly understood. The instant Colm initiated a stroke, Seren’s eyes were already fixed on where it would land, but she waited until the last possible second before she moved out of the way. Even so, her maneuvers were fluid and assured, with not a trace of jerkiness or panic about them. She was not inept, he realized; she was holding back. To conserve her strength, she was doing only the bare minimum to keep from being struck, and Colm, spurred on by how narrowly she seemed to be escaping, was putting all his strength behind every swing. Seren had guessed what he thought of her, and how he’d try to defeat her, and he was so focused on the idea that he would inevitably wear her down that he hadn’t yet noticed she was wearing him down.

  Varalen leaned across to Elgar, lowering his voice as much as he could. “If Colm keeps wasting his strength like that, he’s going to lose.”

  Elgar frowned, narrowing his eyes at the combatants, but Varalen couldn’t tell if Elgar saw what he did. Either way, he called, “Colm, don’t be so haphazard. Moderate your strokes, and watch for an opening.”

  Colm might well look confused; a minute ago Varalen himself would have thought that was terrible advice. But Elgar’s men knew nothing if not how to obey, and he shifted and drew back, adopting a more defensive posture.

  Lady Margraine laughed. “Oh, can we give instructions to our champions now? Then, Seren, I think you’ve entertained yourself enough. Aren’t you supposed to be entertaining me?”

  Varalen felt certain that the entire concept of entertainment was foreign to Seren, but she nodded nonetheless. And when Colm used that opportunity to strike at her, she executed a sidestep that was nothing like her previous ones; she moved so quickly that she seemed to have vanished from in front of him. Her own strike was almost too fast for Varalen’s eyes to follow, and Colm only just drew back in time: the edge of her sword sliced a clean line across his cheek.

  The marquise leaned forward, and there was no mistaking it now: she was watching the match with more than avid interest, her usual dispassion giving way to something else. Despite Elgar’s instructions, the scratch panicked Colm enough to provoke another swing, hasty and poorly aimed; Seren sidestepped him again so smoothly that she didn’t even seem to be in a hurry, but when she lashed out again, Colm caught her blade against his. She was unfazed, though, and quickly turned it; this time the edge slid along the side of his wrist, cutting deeper and letting the first drops of blood stain the dirt.

  Colm’s eyes were wide now, the first traces of fear beginning to show; Lady Margraine smiled as if she could taste it on the air, but Seren didn’t react, only kept her eyes trained on her opponent.

  In the next several exchanges, Seren landed a few more blows, but she only managed a couple of additional scratches and a slice to the leather at Colm’s shoulder, tearing it without drawing blood from the skin beneath. He did not manage to hit her at all. Elgar’s face was impassive throughout, his long fingers stroking his beard; King Kelken looked solemn as always, his scarred servant hardly less so. And Lady Margraine’s eyes danced as she watched them, her fingers curled around the arms of her chair.

  The decisive blow, when it came, looked almost casual: Seren half turned against one of Colm’s particularly exhausted strokes, and her riposte sliced easily through the skin at his shoulder exposed by her previous tear. He fell to one knee, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword as he struggled to hold himself up. Seren paused for a single moment, though Varalen couldn’t have said whether she was waiting to see if someone would order her to stop or if she just wanted to figure out the best angle from which to strike. He knew it couldn’t have been out of pity, as there wasn’t a trace of it on that face.

  Whatever its cause, her stillness did not last. She gutted Colm as nonchalantly as if she were carving a roast, and he slumped to the ground with a wet squelch, blood spreading quickly from under him. Seren took no more notice of him, just cleaned her sword and sheathed it again. She turned back to the rest of them, and bowed once more. Even now she was only mildly sweating.

  Elgar steepled his fingers. �
��Well, Your Grace, it seems I must congratulate you after all. I would give much for a woman of that one’s talents.”

  “I allow her to act in my place,” Lady Margraine said; her tone was lazy, but her eyes remained intent. “I regret to say I have no skills in weaponry—nor, I admit, did I ever have much of a taste for it. There’s so much sweat and dirt involved, and swords just seem to slip from my hands. But Seren makes an art of it.”

  Elgar scowled, but no doubt he couldn’t dispute it. Varalen certainly couldn’t—Seren had moved with a precision he had rarely ever seen before. “It is just as well,” Elgar said at last. “Your suitors would doubtless find abilities such as hers … unsettling, if you possessed them.”

  Lady Margraine laughed. “Perhaps you forget that I am the sole heir to the throne of Esthrades. My suitors, such as they are, are far too persistent to be put off by a bit of swordplay. I could probably be the demon some men claim I am and still have them begging for my favors. It does not mean I have to accept them.”

  Elgar raised his eyebrows. “But eventually you must, surely?”

  She tilted her head. “Why must I? The fellows who seek me out are all so insipid; the best of them would bore me within a week. No, I prefer above all not to be bored. I’d choose a book over a suitor any day.”

  Elgar opened his mouth, but Varalen decided to interrupt before his master could say anything truly regrettable. “Well, either way, Your Grace, as the only one among the three of us, I think, who has ever been married—”

  “Were you?” she asked, surprised. “And are you not married now?”

  Varalen winced. “She died, Your Grace.”

  “Oh,” she said. She did not look abashed, or pitying, or even mocking; she looked polite, and blank. “Well, I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “I never thought I’d care for marriage either,” he continued, trying to think of nothing but the next line of his argument. “But love can change even the most cynical minds.”

  She waved away his words. “If that’s so, I have even less to fear than I thought. It seems that I am incapable of love. So let that be the end to that question.”

  “The books you value so much are filled with tales of those who have said just such a thing, only to find themselves entirely mistaken.”

  “Quite so,” she agreed, untroubled. “Perhaps I should not say so. But whether I say so or not, those who raised me amused themselves all my life by saying so, until it became quite tedious for me. Perhaps you ought to take it up with them, rather than with me.”

  Varalen had thought her impossibly cold after a day; if those who had had to live with her for years held such a worse opinion, he could not imagine what she must be like in her own halls. He responded with the only rejoinder he could think of: “If I may be so bold, Your Grace, it seems you do love one thing: you love the sound of your own voice quite unendurably.”

  She smiled widely, stretching like a cat. “Oh, I do. It’s a dreadful weakness, I know. Perhaps if I were not quite so clever, I should not be quite so vain, but I suppose I’ll never know.”

  “Unfortunately,” Varalen said, trying not to stammer at her audacity, “we are all less clever than we believe ourselves to be.”

  She nodded. “The notion causes me much grief, I assure you. But then, we are generally cleverer than our enemies believe us to be, so at least there’s that.”

  King Kelken cleared his throat, and they all started. Really, Varalen thought, that ability of his to slip from his guests’ minds even when he was right in front of them was damned disconcerting. It didn’t speak much to his majesty as a ruler, perhaps, but it might be useful for all that. He really would have to watch what he said around the boy. “I don’t mean to interrupt you,” Kelken continued, “but, well, she’s been standing there for quite a while. She can retire now, can’t she?”

  Varalen had forgotten Seren entirely, and the hasty way Elgar’s gaze flicked to her suggested he’d done the same; Lady Margraine’s contented smile said she had not. “Retire? And leave me unattended? Surely not.” To Seren, she added, “You don’t have to stand out there, though—let others take the field, if they wish it.”

  Seren inclined her head, and returned to stand under the awning once more. As she passed him, Elgar said, “That was quite impressive, truly. How is it you became so accomplished at killing?”

  Seren looked at him but did not speak. She seemed about to ignore him entirely when Lady Margraine glanced over her shoulder at her. “No, answer that.”

  “I practiced,” Seren answered, without the barest hint of a delay.

  “You practiced killing?”

  “If you like.” Her expression was as flat as her tone.

  “For what reason?” Elgar asked.

  “I thought it a useful skill to have,” she answered, and though that sentence was as dry as any of Lady Margraine’s, she did not give even the ghost of a smile.

  “Fair enough.” Elgar stroked his beard. “Then how did you come to Lady Margraine’s service?”

  “Voluntarily,” Seren said. It was just like talking to her down in the dungeons had been—her answers were so terse that she had to know how infuriating they were, but her face betrayed no hint of humor, no irony, just that same stoic expression.

  Elgar smiled. “I’ll put it another way. Why did you come to Lady Margraine’s service?” When she hesitated, he added, “Well, when a servant is asked such a thing in front of her master, I suppose the proper answer is because of her virtue and nobility, no?”

  Seren looked to Lady Margraine, but she only smirked. “Oh, definitely answer that.”

  Seren turned back to Elgar. “No.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Indeed? Why, then?”

  She paused a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. “To repay a debt,” she said at last.

  For only the second time since Varalen had known her, Lady Margraine looked displeased. There was none of the cold anger, though, that had gripped her the last time, just vague irritation; either it was not the answer she had been expecting, or else not the answer she would have preferred. Captain Ingret frowned as well, and leaned forward, as if this were news to him.

  “A debt to the marquise?” Elgar asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And when will this debt be discharged?”

  “With my death,” Seren said, with no less dispassion than before.

  Varalen laughed, though the back of his neck was prickling. “That must be quite an obligation, then. I certainly wouldn’t want to owe Her Grace anything if she demands such a rate of return.”

  Lady Margraine had no quip to make to that; she was still frowning, gazing vaguely off into the middle distance. Elgar peered at her for some moments, but then decided to leave her be, addressing King Kelken instead. “Well, Your Grace, the lady’s champion has proven her skill—I suppose it falls to us to prove ours? Colm, sad to say, is no more”—wasn’t someone going to remove the corpse, Varalen wondered?—“but I have many other men I believe will fare better—though I’m sure we needn’t spill any more blood, unless you insist on it.”

  “I certainly don’t,” King Kelken said. He twitched his shoulders uncomfortably. “I … I haven’t accustomed my men to things like this. I don’t know how I should match them against you.”

  Elgar gestured at the scarred man, standing tall and stiff beside the king and avoiding all eyes. “This one here seems valorous enough. Why not have him try his hand?”

  The old advisor caught his breath sharply, but it was too late: King Kelken had already turned to his retainer, raising his eyebrows quizzically. “Cadfael?”

  The scarred man, if possible, looked even more uncomfortable, but his voice, when it came, was firm. “No.”

  The king said nothing, biting his lip. He was the one who looked apologetic, as if the roles of servant and master had been reversed. Elgar stared at this Cadfael in some surprise. “You refuse your master, sir?”

  Cadfael turned his gaze on Elgar n
ext, and it only gained in intensity. “I refuse to fight in mere idle displays of strength. I refuse to fight when there is no reason to.”

  Elgar’s expression was mild, but his eyes were hard. “One might say that your master’s bidding is reason enough.”

  “Aye,” the man growled, his fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword. “That is the trouble with masters.”

  “If you despise masters so much,” Elgar asked, “how is it you have come to have one?”

  Cadfael said nothing, only gritted his teeth and turned his face away.

  King Kelken seemed on the point of speaking, but Elgar’s next words drowned him out. “I asked you a question, sir.”

  Cadfael looked at him again, and this time the anger in his eyes was plain. “I have no reason to answer. I have no desire to answer, sir, though I cannot stop you from asking, if it pleases you. Do as you like.”

  “Cadfael,” the king said hurriedly, before Elgar could reply, “the imperator is my guest—”

  “So he is,” Cadfael agreed. “So he is. And so I respect him, in my way, as much as I am able. But I will not answer his questions, or anyone’s, if I do not care to.”

  “And you call that respect?” Elgar asked.

  Cadfael whirled on him. “I call it more than you deserve. I have no part in politics—I want nothing from you, but I’ve seen your work. Call yourself what you like, but I know what you are: a common butcher.”

  Varalen nearly reeled with panic, but Elgar, of all things, smiled. “Well, a butcher, perhaps. But I’d hardly say common.”

  At that point so many things happened so quickly that Varalen was hard-pressed to take them all in: Cadfael took two great strides toward Elgar, and every man of Elgar’s in the courtyard reached for his blade; Cadfael drew his sword half out of its sheath, and as soon as the gleaming steel caught the light, Elgar flung himself so violently away from it that he lost his chair and fell sprawled upon the ground. His men all made abortive movements forward, but Seren was faster than all of them; she laid a hand on Cadfael’s wrist, and his sword stopped where it was, half in his scabbard and half out of it.