Trysmoon Book 1: Ascension (The Trysmoon Saga)

by Brian Fuller

  Cormith, Dason had told her earlier, was a perfectly built fighter. He was widely recognized as the second best swordsman in Ki’Hal, second only to Shadan Khairn. Most everyone knew better than to cross the Blessed One in any of his ways, for the one who did would find his head on the floor. Cormith was bald and his body was tattooed with patterns of black dots that some speculated were emblems of a covenant with dark powers. Others said he tattooed one dot on his skin for every person he killed. The Chalaine shuddered as he set his heavy-lidded gaze upon her, and she turned away.

  Close by at the left base of the dais, the six young men who recently merited the privilege of training to join her Dark Guard surveyed the proceedings. Each wore a black, high-collared shirt and a dark coat embroidered with silver moons. The Chalaine knew their masters had awarded them their swords and uniforms in a ceremony earlier that morning, and each wore them proudly. While not yet permitted to eat, they enjoyed the attention they received, and despite being on duty, some talked excitedly to each other or to relatives and friends who passed by. The Chalaine smiled at their budding arrogance and bravado, displayed to good effect to the young ladies, displayed by all—except one.

  And when she saw him, she recognized him immediately as Gen, the one Fenna had brimmed about ceaselessly after the Trials. Unlike the others, his copiously scarred face remained an emotionless blank. In fact, he hardly moved. The Chalaine couldn’t decide whether he was soaking up every detail as Jaron would do, or if he was lost in thought, oblivious to the celebration around him. Indeed, the longer she watched him, the more his stoicism and discipline fascinated her. Only statues stood so still or looked so poised, and only a dead man could have a face so devoid of expression. A chill pricked her skin, a feeling that he knew she was regarding him, and she quickly turned her gaze elsewhere.

  The Dark Guard stood on the opposite end of the dais from their apprentices, and she decided that Gen must be imitating them, as a good apprentice should. They, too, stood still and calm. None could match Gen for sheer control—if that’s what it was. Tolbrook shot menacing looks at the young, court-bred ladies that stopped to talk to the new apprentices, though to little effect.

  The Blessed One ended her observations.

  “Well, Chalaine,” he said loudly, wiping frosting from his hand onto her sleeve as he wrapped a puffy hand around her arm, “what do you say we retire a bit early and I get a look under that veil of yours? We can return later, if you wish it.”

  It wasn’t a request, but an expectation. The Chalaine, horrified, found her mouth open but empty of words. Thankfully, the arrival of Dason gave her an excuse to ignore the question.

  “Milady,” he said, bowing deeply, “I beg your leave to stand by Jaron, if it pleases you.”

  Dason had dressed as a courtier rather than a soldier this night, handsome in a deep golden coat worn over a blue shirt and hose.

  “It pleases me. Take your place, Dason.”

  “You have two bodyguards, then?” the Blessed One commented derisively. “All I need is Cormith. I swear the man never sleeps a wink, which isn’t to say he won’t leave us alone when the need presents itself.” He gave her thigh a firm squeeze and she fought down the urge to yell. “You know,” he joked, “the sooner we get this child born, the better. Should I put it to a vote?”

  The last was said through a mouthful of pheasant, and by his expectant gaze to the crowd, the Chalaine thought he might actually stop the proceedings and ask for a raise of hands to validate his wishes.

  “I think not!” the Chalaine replied, struggling to control of her voice. Several close to the dais were already staring at them and listening. “We shall be upright as the Church commands lest we spoil the prophecy and bring down the wrath of Eldaloth upon us and the doom of Ki’Hal with it! We are to be married in Elde Luri Mora and the child conceived in the light of the moon Trys. Any other course will lead to ruin!”

  The Blessed One laughed. “I’m sure if Eldaloth were going to strike me down for being with a woman, he would have done so long ago! I’m more ‘married’ to you than I was to any of the others. Besides, prophecy says we will be together. Does it really matter if it’s sooner than later? If the child is to be conceived under the light of Trys, then I’m sure it won’t be conceived until then. You will come with me.”

  The Chalaine knew her beauty could pull powerfully on men, but this man had never seen her face. What lust was his came from lewd habits and a lifetime of overindulgence.

  “You’ve obviously thought this through, and I know women are slaves in your country, but I am not your slave and I will not. . .”

  The Blessed One cut her off, tightening his grip on her arm and yanking her close to him. “You will!” he whispered intently, coming to his feet. “You will, woman, because I desire it!” He dragged her upward from her chair and pulled her toward the door that led out to the hall to his apartments.

  The Chalaine turned toward the crowd, time slowing as if to allow her to take in the scene around her. Her mother bowed her head and closed her eyes in an agony and shame she seemed to have expected. Jaron’s knuckles turned white from clenching his sword hilt as he walked forward to follow her. Dason glanced off into the assembly, pretending not to notice. Cormith fell in behind his master, a grin splitting his face. Some of the assembled in the crowd noticed them leaving, but they either did not think anything was wrong or did not care.

  She resisted as best she could without causing a scene, but he was strong, and he was the Ha’Ulrich. Slowly the inevitable enveloped her and her resistance eroded to submission and pain. Tears ran freely from her eyes as the Blessed One dragged her out to deliver the unthinkable, final blow to a lifetime of naive anticipation.

  Dream after dream of their wedding and their wedding night sprinted through her mind. He was so handsome in the dreams. He was a gentleman. He held her hand lightly as they danced in a hall filled with women jealous of his touch upon her. But his eyes were only for her, and hers for him. Now her eyes darted everywhere before returning to the floor in front of her.

  “Let her be!” The voice was loud and the Blessed One faltered but pressed on.

  “Let her be!” This time the words cut through the noise of the crowd like thunder and demanded acknowledgment.

  All fell silent, and the Blessed One turned, naked rage rising in his face. The Chalaine also turned, wondering who would dare stand for her. Mounting the dais, slowly and calmly, was Gen, face relaxed, even bored. The Blessed One released the Chalaine as if she were no longer important, and she fled to stand hand in hand with her mother. Jaron and Dason quickly flanked the Chalaine, and the rest of the celebrants froze in disbelief.

  “Let her be?” the Blessed One said evenly but angrily. “What right have you to order me? I am the Law.”

  “You are not the Law,” Gen returned, not the least bit intimidated. “The prophecy says the Blessed One would ‘speak the law’, which is far different from inventing laws to satisfy your own lusts. And shame,” Gen continued with a sudden fervency, turning his head to include the entire room, “on this company for letting you abuse the Chalaine in this fashion for the entire evening. I will not stand for it any longer.”

  Rage muted the Blessed One’s tongue, and many nobles who had spent the night currying favor with him twitched with outrage and demanded Gen’s head. Others, the Chalaine noticed gratefully, sat quietly and considered.

  “I have recently accepted the charge to protect the honor and life of the Chalaine,” Gen continued, his voice rich and forceful. “The Church includes the chastity of maidens as essential to their honor, even in your country, and you clearly wish to violate that doctrine. I demand honor be satisfied—by combat—as is my right in Rhugoth.”

  The crowd gasped and whispered frantically. A glint bloomed in Cormith’s eye, and he started to stretch and loosen his muscles. A chill ran up the Chalaine’s spine. The Great Hall of Mikmir was large, but Gen filled it with an honest presence and power she had never se
en anyone project before in her life. He could not be ignored or denied.

  “That is Gen,” her mother whispered, voice shaking. “The orphan from Tolnor. He came to Court this. . .”

  “How dare you come here to parley words with me!” Chertanne’s angry retort drowned out her mother’s words. “Do you think yourself so well-read and so smart that you can bandy about ‘law’ and ‘principle’ like a court scholar? What is your name? What is your rank?”

  “My name is Gen. I was a serf from Tolnor and am now apprenticed to become a Dark Guard.”

  Chertanne laughed maniacally. “A serf! A serf? Since when do Tolnorians put swords into the hands of serfs or let them in the company of high-bred society? You forget your place, peasant. In case you were too daft to understand the point of this assembly, I am Chertanne Khairn, noble born and holy born, and you’ve no more right to speak to me than a mutt! In a few weeks my father will make you and all your countrymen slaves.”

  “I am what I am,” said Gen, “and the law is what the law is, and I am no slave yet. Seeking to bed the Chalaine before your marriage is an insult to this court and the principles of the Church. Serfs, commoners, and even the male slaves in your country have the right to challenge, and so do I. It would be wrong in the sight of God if I did not.”

  Some in the crowd demanded the First Mother do something to silence Gen and remove him. The Chalaine felt her mother’s hand tighten around hers as she stood tall and ignored them. The Chalaine’s heart broke, and the walls of defiance that had so easily crumbled at the Blessed One’s insistence rose again, fixed with a stronger mortar. She silently thanked Gen for the return of her dignity, however brief, though she pitied him. As a commoner, he was probably ignorant of the death made flesh that he would face. The Chalaine stared at Gen, hoping to imprint his face in her mind as a reminder to herself of conviction and courage.

  “Well,” the Blessed One said, silencing the crowd with his hand and a sudden light tone, “combat you shall have. But we will do things as they are done in my country and soon yours. In my country what you are doing now is called a Challenge of Possession. The Chalaine is, I think all would agree, mine and bound to obey me. For you to challenge my possession of her, someone must second your challenge for it to be of any effect. Of course, you’re learned enough to know that, right? Is there anyone here who would second the motion of this peon? How about you, Dason? You’re the personal guard of her ladyship and this peasant’s countryman. Will you second and stand with Gen against the wishes of your Savior?”

  “No, your Greatness,” Dason said, lowering his eyes and bowing, “I will not oppose the will of the Blessed One.”

  The Chalaine frowned.

  “There’s a good man. Anyone else?” He turned to Jaron. “How about you?” Jaron regarded the finger pointing at his chest. He fought a war within himself for but a moment, and then his eyes cleared and he stood erect.

  “I will second.”

  “Very well,” the Blessed One accepted flippantly, “The High Protector will act as judge. Where is he? “

  “I am here,” Regent Ogbith rose from a table near the dais and stepped forward. He walked with a limp but was still every inch the soldier he had been in his youth. Close-cropped gray hair stuck out from an angular head that terminated in a powerful, square jaw.

  “You seem to know the rules, boy,” the Regent said, and the Chalaine could sense a hint of pride in the older man’s eyes. “What are your terms?”

  “No, no, no!” Chertanne interrupted. “In a Challenge of Possession, the rules are quite simple. If he wins, she is his. If I win, she is mine and she must obey.”

  “But, Milord,” the Regent said, face concerned. “If he wins. . .” Chertanne laughed.

  “He won’t. I name Cormith my champion in this matter.”

  The Blessed One was extraordinarily pleased with himself and approached Gen, who matched his gaze with an expression of complete disinterestedness.

  Chertanne pointed a finger at Gen’s chest. “And you ought to know, my dear serf, that Cormith has killed more people than you have hairs on your head! If you’re a fighter, you undoubtedly know of Torbrand Khairn, my father?” Gen only inclined his head in the affirmative as a response. “Torbrand trained him. I anticipate seeing your blood on the floor very soon! Let’s get this over with!”

  Chertanne waved Gen off dismissively and returned to his seat.

  “Then let the challenge by combat begin,” Ogbith announced solemnly and a little sadly. “By our custom each fighter has the right to seek a blessing before the fight starts. Do either of you wish it?”

  Cormith declined, but Gen accepted. Prelate Obelard made his way from the back of the assembly, dressed in the white robes of his office. A Pureman in a simple brown habit followed him. Obelard whispered something to Gen and ordered him to kneel. Gen complied as the Pureman pulled a vial from his cloak and anointed Gen’s bowed head with oil.

  “In the name of the most Holy Eldaloth,” he intoned gravely, placing his hand upon Gen’s head, “I seal upon you the victory in this matter if your cause be honorable and just. If your cause be in fault, then I seal your doom and prepare your soul against your death.”

  Obelard extended a hand to help Gen rise.

  “Get on with it!” Chertanne yelled impatiently. “You Rhugothians make such a complicated mess of everything!”

  “Very well,” Regent Ogbith said. “The match is to the death. Prepare yourselves and begin on my signal.”

  Jaron crossed quickly to Gen, and Regent Ogbith held up. Chertanne threw his hands up at this further delay. The Chalaine could just hear Jaron’s words above the fading noise of the crowd.

  “Let me face him, Gen! Name me your champion, and I shall do it! You don’t have the training to beat Cormith. He is skilled beyond your imagining and has killed men with more experience than you have. Only I have a chance. Let me fight!”

  Behind the logic of the plea, the Chalaine could hear the desire for absolution; he felt that he should have raised the challenge.

  “You do not know me,” Gen replied, removing his coat and shirt and tossing them on the floor. “I will fight. The challenge is mine.”

  “Then Eldaloth rest your soul! You are a dead man! A foolish dead man!”

  Jaron strode away angrily and returned to his post. If the bitter rebuke hurt Gen, he did not show it.

  Cormith and Gen, both stripped to the waist, stood at the foot of the dais facing each other. Each was a perfect form of sculpted muscle and flesh, though Cormith the taller and heavier. Servants pushed tables back at Ogbith’s instruction to allow room for the fight. So great was Cormith’s reputation that no one bothered to place wagers on who the winner might be. Captain Tolbrook, Gen’s master, spoke a few words to his apprentice, but Gen’s attention was so firmly locked upon his opponent that he gave no sign that he acknowledged Tolbrook’s advice.

  “Finish him quickly, Cormith. No playing around this time,” Chertanne ordered brightly. “I’ve an engagement with the most beautiful woman that ever lived, after all!” Some laughed at the quip. Cormith just smiled.

  “It should not take long, Highness. He’s but an apprentice, though he’s got some muscle on him! Jaron would have proved a better match. There shall be little sport, I fear.”

  The Chalaine marveled at Gen’s complacency. Perhaps he simply did not understand whom he was facing, for there was no fear, nervousness, or even healthy respect for his opponent in his demeanor. Regent Ogbith stepped back onto the dais and turned to the crowd.

  “The challenge is agreed upon. Both parties are bound to honor its terms, as witnessed by me, Harrick Ogbith, Regent and High Protector of Rhugoth. Let no man interfere till the challenge is resolved by death. You may begin.”

  The Chalaine gripped her mother’s hand, and her mother clutched hers tightly in return. As much as the Chalaine wanted to turn from the awful scene that she knew would result in the butchery of the one man who had the courage to sta
nd for her against a prophetic icon, she could not.

  Cormith strode forward, playfully swinging his sword at Gen, who easily blocked the strokes. Cormith laughed.

  “Well,” he said, turning to the audience with a broad grin, “at least he can block a few lazy swings!” The Blessed One laughed and the crowd followed suit. “Let’s see,” Cormith continued, “if he can land one on me, shall we? C’mon lad! Take a swing! I promise not to hurt you too badly . . . yet.”

  And then Gen made him pay for his arrogance.

  With speed the Chalaine didn’t think possible, Gen laid into Cormith with a vicious all-out frontal attack. Cormith’s look of teasing mirth dissolved into one of surprise and fear as Gen drove him back in a line, ending a furious series of humming overhand strokes with a crushing kick to the midsection that slammed Cormith’s lower back into the edge of a heavy oak table.

  Cormith’s breath exploded from his chest and he grunted in pain, barely recovering enough to duck a wicked slash that would have sent his head skidding across the table. Disbelief registered on every face. Cormith, all hauteur aside, smoothed his features into the same emotionless calm as Gen’s; then the battle began in earnest.

  Blades were blurs of reflected light as stroke and counter-stroke made a quick, irregular beat to which the fighters danced. Inches determined the difference between life and death, sharp edges dodged by less than the breadth of a finger. Cormith sought to use his greater mass to good advantage by wearing Gen down with heavy, powerful strokes. Gen countered with inhuman quickness, seeking to gain advantage of Cormith’s injury by forcing him to twist his body.

  The entire hall went silent as it became clear that the fight was not going to be won easily by either side. The Blessed One watched with rapt attention, and the Chalaine saw that Jaron’s anger had faded, replaced by hope. She barely noticed that Fenna had come to her side, face aglow with girlish admiration.