“If you wish,” said Moien again. His voice was tight.
“There are too many things that I wish,” said Torien.
They took the horses off the road, at length—ten miles or so beyond Chælor—to water them at a swift, rocky stream cutting north-and-south across the grain fields. He went a little way away from the rest while the horses drank. He crouched on his heels on the bank and watched the water swirl and churn below him, his thoughts churning in the same way, heavy and dark as the early-morning darkness round him. You know there’s still time, he thought—time enough left to mend it with Tore. Not easy to do, perhaps, but simple, at least. Simple enough to go back to Vessy and ask Tore’s forgiveness himself. Simple enough to go back and let the lie swallow him up and pretend all that mattered was the governorship and his own good name and his duty to empire and emperor. Because what had the truth accomplished in all these years? What had this war accomplished? He hadn’t seen Tauren Risto’s death vindicated, as he’d once sworn he would. He hadn’t seen justice done. It hadn’t serve Berion’s purpose for justice to be done. Twenty years and he’d accomplished nothing but to destroy his family and his father’s name and his inheritance, and Berion and the Marri had stood aside and waited while he did it.
He could salvage some of it still. Not all of it—too late for that. He’d put it off too long. There was the certainty of the governorship and of Tore’s loyalty, if he’d give up this dogged, futile hope for justice under Berion’s Empire—only now, through his own doing, it came at the cost of Tyren’s life.
Out of the corner of his eye, absently, he saw the guardsman bringing the horses back up from the water. He heard Moien making his way down the bank towards him, but he didn’t turn his head, didn’t move. He was frozen with the indecision.
Moien, coming behind him, said, “Torien—”
He ended the word suddenly and didn’t say anything else—made a thick, choked noise in his throat instead. Torien looked up to him, saw him reel forward and land heavily on his knees on the wet black dirt of the bank. Behind him stood the guardsman, drawing out the bloodied blade. Moien swayed on his knees a moment, clutching with both hands at the ragged hole in his chest as if to stanch the blood that way. Then the guardsman pushed him aside with one upraised foot and he went face-down onto the dirt, spreading his hands to break his fall, but without the strength to push himself back up. He coughed and shuddered and lay still.
There was no time to be stunned at it, even really to think about it. Torien struggled up unsteadily to his feet, scrabbling for his own sword—got the blade from the sheath in time to turn aside the guardsman’s first stroke. He staggered backward to give himself the chance to prepare his defenses. He couldn’t find his balance on the crumbling wet earth and the guardsman’s next blow sent the sword winging from his grasp. It landed a short distance away, on a spit of pebbly sand at the water’s edge. He threw himself down the bank after it, stretching out his right hand until his fingers found the hilt in the gravel. He dragged it up again and rolled quickly over onto his back. The guardsman stood over him, sword raised for the death blow. Torien met the blow, as it came down, with a wild arcing of his own blade. It was a desperate move, a misjudged move. It left him sprawled open, defenseless, his sword arm outflung, and before he could recover the guardsman brought his blade back, brought it swiftly down.
It went wide of the heart; the guardsman had aimed the stroke with some hasty desperation of his own. It took Torien in the left shoulder instead, between the joint itself and the collarbone. The pain seared through him, through his chest, up and down his left arm, and blackness tightened at the corners of his eyes and he could taste blood in his mouth from having bitten his tongue. The guardsman drew out the blade, lifted it again, and Torien, gritting his teeth, pushed himself forcibly backward across the spit with his heels—knew he had to regain his feet if he were to live, knew he didn’t have the time to do it. He pushed himself back, threw his weight to the left. He slid down heavily into the water with the sword still clenched in his hand.
The water was icy-cold and it knocked breath and movement from him at first, like a blow to the gut. But he made himself move. He dragged himself away from the spit and into the stronger current at the middle of the stream, pushing with his feet so the current would carry him. He couldn’t hear the guardsman behind him but he didn’t let himself look back yet. He let the current carry him a while and then he fought against it to the far bank and pulled himself up with his left hand caught in some trailing roots, ignoring the fierce pain in his shoulder. When he’d gotten up onto the bank he forced himself doggedly to his feet, blinking the water from his eyes. Then he stumbled round to face the stream again, the sword ready in his hand.
He couldn’t see the guardsman right away and for a long, uncertain moment he just stood there, struggling for breath in the thin early-morning air, searching quickly with his eyes down through the stream, along the opposite bank. Then, over the rush of the stream and the heavy pounding of the blood in his ears, he heard hoof beats. He realized belatedly the guardsman had gone for a horse—could see him now, bringing the horse down towards the water at a hard run.
He ran. He didn’t let go the sword but he tore off the belt with his left hand and let it fall so the empty sheath wouldn’t swing against his legs. There was a little barley field full-grown for harvest on this western bank of the stream, thick black forest beyond, and he ran for the forest. It was dark enough still he could lose himself amongst the trees. Distantly, dimly, he heard the horse coming up from the water behind him. He didn’t look back, didn’t waste the time. He crossed the field and came to the trees, went weaving among the dark trunks, ducking low branches, sliding over the wet dead leaves on the forest floor. He ran blindly, heedlessly—didn’t know how far or for how long, except after a while there was gray pre-dawn light round him, and the heavy, expectant stillness of morning.
By then his breath was coming in great labored gasps, each gasp a sharp pain stabbing through his lungs, and blackness was swimming before his eyes and his legs were trembling. He was fiercely cold from the water. He stumbled to a halt, put out his left hand to the thick, mossy trunk of an oak tree to hold himself up—swore savagely, with sudden frustration, as his weight fell on the arm and the pain from the shoulder swept over him again. He sank down against the trunk, turning so his back was to it. He had the sword in his right hand still. He rested, sucking in his breath through shut teeth, blinking, shaking his head to drive away the blackness from his eyes, and he waited for dawn to come, to bring the guardsman to him.
It wasn’t long to wait. He heard the hoof beats again before a quarter hour had passed—distant, at first, but drawing steadily nearer. He got back up onto his feet with effort, bracing himself against the trunk until the dizziness had cleared enough he could walk. There was a stretch of open ground below him, a little grassy clearing among the trees. He made his way carefully down to it and stood in the middle of it, facing east, leaning on the pommel of the sword to keep himself from swaying.
The horse came bursting out from the trees and he straightened, digging in his heels, lifting the sword in preparation. The horse bore down on him, the guardsman kicking it into a full run now he’d reached the open ground, moving the horse’s reins to his left hand so he could draw his own sword with his right. Torien didn’t move. He waited, feeling the earth trembling beneath him with each hoof beat. His mouth was dry, his heart tight, but his hand was steady.
He moved at the last moment, ducking the guardsman’s stroke, shoving his blade at the horse’s legs. The animal screamed, reared, went stumbling to its knees past him, and the guardsman lost the reins and slid roughly down from the saddle onto the grass. He lay on his back a moment, unmoving. Then he recovered himself. He pushed himself up with his elbows and got up quickly to his feet, turning round to face Torien. Torien recognized his face now; the name strayed through his head from vague memory: Vaurin, Milo Vaurin, hired out of Chælor on Rove
ro’s recommendation—he’d no time to bring anything else to mind, because in the next moment Vaurin had sprung forward, lifting his sword with both hands, bringing it heavily down. Thoughtlessly, from instinct, Torien met the blow two-handed. When it landed the weight of it ran up his arms to his shoulders and the pain flamed up so fiercely he gasped, despite himself, nearly dropping his sword from numbed fingers. Vaurin saw his weakness, adjusted his tack accordingly. He landed another blow on that left side, then another, so Torien was defending himself across his body, unable to turn the momentum to his own use. He found himself giving ground, backing slowly towards the trees. He gritted his teeth and braced his feet and held the blade crosswise before him. Vaurin’s blade landed, slid along the edge. Vaurin flicked his wrist to turn it free. He circled it quickly round again and drove the point into Torien’s belly, into the little hollow under his ribs at the center of his chest.
His first thought was one of detached surprise: the pain wasn’t nearly so keen as it had been with the shoulder; perhaps the shock helped dull it. Then Vaurin drew the blade back out. All at once he felt he’d been trampled by an ox—felt bruised, battered all over. He couldn’t get breath into his lungs. He went down to his knees, leaning raggedly against his sword hilt, gasping for air, sucking down sharp, shallow breaths that burned white-hot inside him. His heart was pounding wildly against his ribs and the sound of it was deafening in his ears.
Vaurin stood over him a moment without moving, getting his own breath.
Torien closed his fingers round the grip of the sword, lifted the blade from the ground, lashed it sideways across the back of Vaurin’s right knee. Vaurin crumpled soundlessly beside him, dropping his sword, groping with his fingers for the severed tendons. Torien pushed himself up, supporting himself on the sword. He kicked away Vaurin’s sword with the toe of his boot. Then he stepped behind Vaurin and put his left hand on Vaurin’s shoulder. He hauled him up and slid the blade across his throat.
“How many of you? How many has Tore bought?”
Vaurin didn’t immediately reply and Torien prodded him, impatiently.
“I don’t have the time, Vaurin. It was Tore, wasn’t it? Answer me.”
“It was Tore,” Vaurin said. His voice was unsteady, thick; he was speaking through clenched teeth. “Tore and Rovero. Rovero’s been on Marro pay for years. He’s the one who arranged for the—for Chalen.”
“And Tore?”
“No. He wasn’t dealing with the Marri. It was that he—he wanted to save the governorship, knew it’d be taken from you if you went to Rien, if you tried to appeal for your son’s release.”
“How does he intend to cover up my death?”
Vaurin might have smiled. His voice was drier now. “No need for that, Lord Risto. No need to cover it up. He’ll say it was for the good of the Empire he killed you, say it was your plot to raise the Cesini in rebellion—yours and Lord Senna’s, with the Senate’s help. He’ll have done the Emperor a service, killing you.”
“There are none at Vessy still loyal to me, then?”
“Few left among the guard. Rovero’s seen to that.”
“I thought better of you, Vaurin,” said Torien.
Vaurin’s shoulders stiffened. He said nothing.
“I couldn’t leave you alive even if I’d the inclination,” said Torien. “This isn’t for betraying me, Vaurin. This is for Sere.”
He threw down the sword afterward and stumbled empty-handed back eastward, through the trees: the important thing now was to get back to the water. He knew, before he’d gone five paces, that he wouldn’t make it. The wood was darkening again round him, though he knew it must be getting on towards the eighth hour by now; there were bird songs in his ears, and the bitter edge of cold had gone from the air. He came to a dazed halt beside a thin ash tree, putting out his right hand to steady himself against it—slipped down to his knees and rested his head against it, swallowing the bile risen suddenly in his throat. There was blood in his mouth again. He spit it out, shook his head. He tried to pull himself back up onto his feet. He gave it up after a moment and settled down wearily against the trunk, shutting his eyes. He listened to the bird songs while the blackness closed.
XVII
The days passed—Tyren didn’t know with any certainty how many. The wound healed well and quickly, didn’t give him much trouble after those first few days. It hadn’t been a serious thing, though the hard riding had left it worse than it might have been. But the other pain lingered, festered inside him. Aino came only rarely now, and when he did come it was with the physician, so he might see the progress of the healing. For the most part Tyren was alone, and in the long, silent hours the thoughts came rushing into his head, drove the sleep from him. Or troubled it, at least—made it restless. The same thoughts, over and over: if only he hadn’t gone to Souvin; if only he’d done as Torien wished three months ago—swallowed his pride and done as Torien wished. No, but he’d been above that, had wanted to show Luchian he was above it, that he could do the honorable thing, if there were no one else left in the Empire to do it. And now Muryn was dead for that, and Alluin Senna for trying to amend the wrong, and Luchian had had his victory just the same.
He wondered if word had gotten to Vessy. Surely it had; Torien Risto had acquaintances enough here in Rien, here at the fort. Old friends from his own soldiering days. Surely one of them had sent him word of his son’s indiscretion. That thought made bitterness rise in his throat. Indiscretion, recklessness—ultimately nothing more than that in his father’s eyes. No way to make him see the truth of it, the gravity of it. A Cesino priest in a muddy farming village on the edge of the Outland. It would mean nothing to Torien. He’d make some deal with Ruso to end it, of course, to save the Risto name from the shame of a court martial—a matter of money and it would be as if the thing had never happened. He, Tyren, would go back to Vessy, and then on to some new post, and he’d forget it himself after a while—slide back into the comfort, the complacency of that life; forget how Muryn and Senna had died; forget he himself had taken lives and given the lives of his men for a thing that meant nothing at all, in the end.
Fierce, harsh, senseless anger swelled inside him as he thought of that. He wouldn’t let that happen. He’d die before that happened. But the anger abated slowly in the long silence. Cold resolve took its place. To die now was nothing: cowardice, defeat. To die now would be to let Muryn’s death and Senna’s be lost in a lie, the same as if he were to let Torien buy his freedom. No, the only way to honor them was to live—to live and to stand before the court martial and let the truth come out like that.
With that in mind he ate, eventually. The food was thick, mealy, tasteless, like ashes in his mouth, but he forced it down anyway, mouthful by mouthful, because it would be nothing to die here in this cell. Before a court martial he could explain himself, at least—could give them the truth. Even if they condemned him for it at least the truth would be out. But if he died here, now, the truth died with him.
* * *
He woke from the shallow, uneasy sleep one night to the sound of the door coming open. It was dark in the cell and in the corridor outside and he couldn’t tell who’d come in until Aino dropped beside him to speak quietly in his ear.
“Get up, Risto,” Aino said.
He made no immediate move. “What is it?”
Aino put a hand on his right shoulder and shook him a little, impatiently. “Damn it to Hell, Risto, get up. There isn’t much time.”
He pulled himself up, a hand on the wall to steady himself. Aino took him by the elbow to hurry him along.
“Put this on,” Aino said.
He took the wool uniform cape Aino thrust at him and pulled it round his shoulders. Aino gave him a helmet next and he recognized dully it was a black-crested helmet of the Guard. He held the thing in his hands a moment, uncertain.
“What are you doing, Aino?”
“Put it on and come with me,” Aino said. “Quickly, Risto.”
&nbs
p; He put on the helmet and buckled the chinstrap. Then Aino took his elbow again, pulling him forward, and they went out into the corridor and down the corridor to the empty common room. From the common room they went out into the yard. The yard lay dark and silent; the only light came from the torches flickering in iron braziers up on the gate-wall. There was no moon, or else the clouds had covered it. From the blue-black sky, and from the thick, wet fog spreading over the yard, scattering the torch-light, Tyren thought it might be a little before midnight.
Aino took him to the stables. A stable-boy was holding two horses ready in the torch-lit stall row, a bay and a black, both in trappings of the Guard. Aino mounted the bay. Tyren went over slowly to the black. He knew, even in the half light, it was the colt. He looked back over to Aino, words readied on his tongue, but Aino wasn’t looking at him, had bent down to give some brief instruction to the stable-boy. Tyren closed his mouth and returned his attention to the colt. He took a lock of the silky black mane in his left hand and pulled himself up into the saddle and gathered up the reins. Aino straightened then, glanced at him, urged the bay forward, and Tyren took the colt after him out into the yard.
The guards at the gate asked no questions of Aino. They saluted him and looked over Tyren only briefly. When the doors were opened Tyren followed Aino out onto the gate path and down to the broad east-west road that ran past the villas to the lower city.
“What are you doing?” he said again to Aino, once the gate was behind them.
“With luck they won’t miss you until morning,” said Aino. “Time enough for you to be well away from here.”
“You told me your loyalty lay with the Marri. Does it serve their purpose, arranging my escape?”
“Lucho Marro’s accomplished all he intended to accomplish. No more need for you to be part of this.”
His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) Page 22