by Cas Peace
Almid carried her swiftly back to the suite and laid her on the bed. She was already nearly asleep, so the bearded giant helped her remove her cloak, jacket and boots. Then he covered her with the goose down comforter and retreated. She slept, not knowing whether he stayed or left.
* * * * *
Rienne was sitting with her head tucked into Cal’s shoulder, his left arm tight around her waist. A fit of hysterical sobbing had left her exhausted. Cal, frightened by the intensity of her crying, used his right hand to soothingly stroke her hair. Bull and Taran, both concerned, sat by their fire, huddled in their cloaks against the winter chill. Bull’s face was somber and Taran stared into the flames, wishing there was something he could do. The nearer the time came to the meeting between Sullyan and Rykan, the more helpless they all felt.
Rienne sighed and eased away from Cal’s embrace. She glanced across at Bull.
“So, this time tomorrow it’ll all be settled, one way or the other. What realistic chance does she have, Bull?”
Taran winced. Rienne’s tone was matter of fact, her exhaustion mysteriously gone. The big man beside him narrowed his eyes, clearly reluctant to answer.
“Of defeating Rykan by the sword?”
Rienne nodded.
“Normally I’d say pretty fair, unless he’s extraordinarily good. And even then she’d stand a reasonable chance.” He paused. “It all depends on what physical strength she’s got left. These are not normal circumstances. I’m not sure I like the sound of this sharing of life force.”
An hour earlier, Bull had communed with Robin. The Captain had told them everything that had happened that morning, as well as the previous evening. Taran listened in as usual, but as he couldn’t understand much of what Robin said, it was left to Bull to explain. The Hierarch’s offer to share life force had at first cheered Rienne, who thought it meant that Sullyan couldn’t possibly fail. But then Bull revealed the full implications, and Rienne’s hope died, sparking her fit of crying.
Taran was still confused. “But don’t the rules of formal combat forbid the use of metaphysical force? As I understand it, if they agree on swords, then it’s swords and nothing else.”
“You’re right,” said Bull, “she wouldn’t be able to use metaforce once the bout commenced. I think the Hierarch intends for her to draw physical strength from what they give her, rather than metaphysical. There’ll be no link with any of them once the duel starts.”
“That’s going to be very hard on Robin,” murmured Rienne.
Bull nodded. “It won’t be easy on any of us.”
He fell silent, his right hand slowly massaging his left arm. There was an unfamiliar breathlessness about his voice as he spoke, and Taran thought his face, usually so florid, looked a little grey. He considered mentioning it to Rienne, but changed his mind. Maybe it was a trick of the watery sun. Rienne had enough to think about right now. Poking the fire with a stick, Taran kept his concerns to himself.
* * * * *
Robin left Sullyan to sleep for as long as she could. The noon meal came and passed, and still she didn’t stir. Unable to rest, the Captain went to sit with Marik. The Count was looking much better for being allowed out of bed, even if it was only to a chair by the window. His arm and shoulder were still strapped and he was under strict orders not to move his legs or twist his spine if he could possibly help it. Idrimar was usually on hand to ensure he obeyed the physicians’ commands, but Marik had no desire to undo all their hard work.
He had received an unexpected visit from the Hierarch shortly after midday. Robin was incredulous when he heard the news. “He’s making you a what?”
“I know, I know,” said Marik, a huge grin on his face. “I can’t believe it myself. He’s only doing it for Idri, of course, but never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever be a Duke.”
Robin eyed him slyly. “You do realize, don’t you, that once you marry her, you’ll be second in line to the throne?”
“Oh, gods!” Marik’s face paled and his grey eyes darkened in shock. “I never even thought of that.”
Robin let the idea sink in before asking, “Have you ever met Pharikian’s Heir?”
“No! Bloody hell, Robin, what if he doesn’t like me?”
“It’s his sister you’ll be marrying, Ty, not him.”
Marik grimaced. “Well, if he’s anything like her, we’ll get on just fine. And she’s a year older, so even if he is the Heir, she should be able to keep him in line.”
Robin snorted. “It’s what she’ll do to keep you in line that you ought to worry about!”
Marik smiled maliciously. “Is that the voice of experience? Yes, I’ll bet Brynne Sullyan keeps you on your toes.”
Robin grinned, then sobered. He simply couldn’t forget his fear of tomorrow’s duel. He felt he was being disloyal if he allowed his doubts to surface, but the fact was Sullyan wasn’t anything like as fit as she should be, whereas Rykan was hale, hearty, and twice as strong. A nightmare image of the darkly handsome lord abusing the tortured Sullyan kept surfacing behind his eyes.
Marik, who had witnessed it for real, understood what the younger man was feeling.
“Have faith in her, Robin,” he urged, putting his good hand on Robin’s arm. “Just as she had in you when she was waiting in that filthy cell. She never doubted you for a moment, you know, and you must do the same for her.”
The young man raised pain-filled eyes and drew a deep breath. He poured fellan for them both and they sat in companionable silence, looking out over the inner courtyard while awaiting Idrimar’s return.
* * * * *
Sullyan woke around mid-afternoon and lay cocooned in warmth and comfort, fervently wishing she could stay there forever. Her brain kept replaying the morning’s meeting with Rykan, over and over again, and she couldn’t turn away from it. The effort of keeping her composure while forcing down the panic and revulsion she felt on facing him again had exacted a heavy price from her depleted strength.
Only a few more hours, she told herself. Only a few more, and then you can rest. Maybe forever.
Strangely, she was finding the thought of dying less terrifying than before. Her anguished struggles of the past few weeks now seemed as futile as trying to stop the sunrise. She suddenly realized she could actually welcome the thought of oblivion.
It wasn’t the first time. She had felt this once before, after Rykan’s final malicious rape. She had lain alone in the uncaring darkness, naked, broken, and strangely devoid of emotion. His triumphant revelation, grunting out his plans at the climax of his brutal passion, was the catalyst that finally pushed her over the edge. She had decided then that oblivion was preferable to this desperate struggle for survival. Now, knowing what she faced, it was once again an oddly soothing thought, and she let it flow through her mind.
Suddenly, unbidden, an image thrust this thought aside. It was an image of her mother, lying in this very room, fighting to give life to her child. Sharply drawn, it hung with startling clarity before her mind’s eye. Her mother’s face was ashen and etched with lines of pain, but her eyes held her daughter’s firmly. Sullyan’s lethargy began to recede and the thought that Rykan had already defeated her made her furiously angry. Who was he to hold such power over her? The image of her mother wavered and vanished as her skin grew hot with rage, and she stoked the fire of her anger with memories of Rykan’s evil. Whatever the outcome of their duel, she would somehow exact retribution.
The decision galvanized her. Rising, she dressed in her normal combat leathers. She had to cinch her sword belt much tighter than usual, and this also fuelled her fury. She had always been proud of her trim figure, honed and smoothed by years of physical activity. Now she was aware of prominent hip bones and angular shoulder blades and knew what Robin thought when he looked at her thin body. The deep and powerful love they had allowed themselves to embrace was far too precious for a man like Rykan to destroy, and the knowledge that his evil had already touched her love heightened her
ire still further.
Striding purposefully from the suite, trailed by the faithful Almid, she went in search of distraction.
Around the barracks, the Velletian Guard went about their duties. The forces still beyond the curtain walls were occupied in burning their dead, raising huge pyres for the corpses. The Plains before the Citadel would be scarred for months—maybe years—to come.
Unremarked by the swordsmen, Sullyan stopped and leaned her back against the barracks wall. Resting her hands on her sword belt, she let the familiarity of their bustle wash over her like a balm. The mere normality of the scene reminded her of the Manor. It calmed her and strengthened her resolve. She stared at the ground, half-listening to the swordsmen’s chatter, lost in thought.
After a few moments, a sound made her look up. Commander Vanyr emerged from the barracks door and his white gaze swept over his men, checking they were not idle. Then he turned and his body stiffened as he saw her. Eyes narrowing, he seemed to struggle briefly with himself. Glancing round as if to check who was about, he made up his mind. With an eye to Almid, who stood some way off, he casually walked over to Sullyan. When he reached her, he turned round and leaned his own back against the wall beside her, careful not to come too close.
She didn’t speak. Uncertain of his intentions, she gazed at the ground and waited him out. The silence dragged on for a while before he broke it.
“Major.”
She raised her head but didn’t look at him. “Commander.”
There was another awkward silence, during which his eyes never left his men. Then he awkwardly asked, “Are you recovered now?”
Amazed that he should care, she answered as best she could. “I am well enough, I thank you.”
Clearly he had something on his mind, but she couldn’t begin to imagine what it was. This verbal maneuvering was a clumsy way of getting to the point and betrayed the history between them.
Vanyr stared at his hands. They were strong, long-fingered, browned from weathering, and marked all over with tiny, white scars, as were hers. He raised his eyes to his men again.
“So you’ll meet Rykan tomorrow.”
She stiffened. “It would seem so.”
“Are you well prepared?”
She was tiring of the game and turned to look him full in the face. “Just what is your point, Commander?”
His lips thinned, but he took a breath before answering. “I have fought Rykan before. I’m the only one here who has.”
Thinking he had finally revealed his thought, she said, “Ah! And you feel it should be you who confronts him tomorrow.”
“Hell, no!”
His alarmed reaction caught her off balance. She frowned. “Then what is the point of this? I wish you would speak plainly, Commander. I have enough to occupy my thoughts without playing guessing games with you.”
He stiffened, clearly offended, and she suddenly realized that incredible as it might seem—and clumsy as it was—he was actually trying to offer her something. She sighed and touched him lightly on the arm before he could stride away.
“Your pardon, Commander. I meant no offence. I was preoccupied and forgot my manners. Please, what did you wish to say?”
Her soft tone and frank apology mollified him. She imagined he was finding this interview difficult enough and probably had Anjer’s vicious tongue-lashing uppermost in his mind. Her curt manner hadn’t helped.
Tersely, he said, “Rykan is a superb swordsman, but he is not without flaws. I know his style and a few of his tricks. If it would help you, I could tell you of them.”
Sullyan remained silent and Vanyr shot her a glance, worried she thought he was insulting her skills. Her amazement at his generous offer had softened her eyes, and her lips held a smile of unmistakable friendliness. Unable to help himself, he smiled briefly back.
“That would be helpful indeed, Commander, and deserving enough of my thanks,” she said. “But I would appreciate it even more if you showed me.”
Wariness came into his eyes. He was doubtless remembering their last fencing session. Sullyan, however, had already pushed away from the wall and was waiting for him to accompany her to the training ground. Unable to retract the offer, he nodded.
Watched carefully by Almid, the two sparred for half an hour or more, Vanyr remembering more and more of Rykan’s favorite moves as they worked. Sullyan found him an excellent teacher, and in turn she impressed him by the speed with which she learned. Having fenced with her before and experienced her skill, he was expecting to find her arrogant and unwilling to take criticism. He was surprised when she had him show her each move many times over, and then asked him to assess her execution of them before she was satisfied with her competence.
They were working on the final, very complex, charging maneuver which enabled a skilled fighter to disarm and down an opponent of equal or greater skill when Robin came looking for her. The time had passed so swiftly she hadn’t noticed the fading light. She could sense Robin’s concern at finding her fencing yet again with the untrustworthy Commander, but before he could protest, she sent him an abrupt command for silence. Obediently, he stood beside Almid, watching.
Using Vanyr’s momentary distraction at Robin’s arrival, Sullyan put her learning into practice. She used Rykan’s charging move against Vanyr, and it worked perfectly. The surprised Commander found himself lying in the dust at her feet, minus his sword, and with her foot resting lightly on his empty hand.
As she retrieved his sword, she asked, “Was that correct, Commander?”
He rubbed his wrist where the concussion of her blow had numbed it and looked up without rancor. “You know damned well it was.”
She grinned and held out a hand to help him regain his feet. “I am deeply in your debt, Commander Vanyr. I cannot thank you enough. Your teaching could prove invaluable tomorrow.”
Clearly embarrassed, he brushed her thanks and her hand aside, got to his feet, and stalked off. Robin watched him leave, a speculative look in his eyes.
“What was all that about?”
Raising her head, she stared after Vanyr, who was swearing loudly at one of his men.
“A peace offering, I think, Robin.”
She turned to smile at the handsome young man. She could see him studying her and was aware of the healthy flush to her skin, which was lightly sheened with sweat. Her whole body tingled with welcome vitality and she knew Robin could sense it. Something fundamental within her had changed, yet he was unwilling to be grateful to Vanyr. Hesitantly, he smiled back.
They made their way to their suite to change for dinner. The Hierarch had asked them to dine with him that night and Sullyan had been dreading it. Before, she had felt it was too much like feasting the doomed, but now, in the light of her more determined mood, she found she could approach it with pleasure. It was, after all, a gathering of friends, all of whom shared a common aim.
She and Robin, wearing more comfortable clothing, went to join the party. Everyone seemed determined to enjoy themselves, and for Ephan, Anjer, and Kryp, it was a chance to relax after their labors in the field. Their forces on the Plains were being relieved in rotation, and most were either on funeral detail or guard duty against the depleted ranks of Rykan’s army. Despite the uncertainty over tomorrow’s duel, a pleasant atmosphere prevailed.
All three generals had brought their ladies, and even Falina seemed disposed to be civil. Her husband had clearly told her that Sullyan had probably saved his life, so she was more gracious than before. Hollett was amiable, Torien as friendly as ever, and Idrimar was merry and laughed frequently.
The meal passed pleasantly, and even Pharikian could not complain about the amount Sullyan ate. Her new lighter mood had affected her appetite, and the tasty offerings of game, fish, and fowl were too delicious to resist. She even accepted a little red wine, much to Robin’s amazement, and he whispered a warning in her ear. Laughing at his caution, she allowed him to taste her glass. It was almost half water.
“I
do not intend to let anyone down tomorrow, my love,” she murmured, “least of all myself.” Then she drew him onto the dance floor with the others.
Later in the evening, Sullyan slipped away from Robin and spoke quietly to Almid. The bearded giant nodded once and left the room. He was back shortly with a small packet which he gave to Sullyan. She then accosted one of the Hierarch’s pages—the one who reminded her of young Tad—and he grinned and scampered off. He too returned swiftly, bearing a covered object which Robin, who was puzzled by all these errands, now recognized as the harp that had belonged to Sullyan’s mother.
After placing it on a table, the page went to speak to the musicians. Once they finished their set they laid their instruments down, the unscheduled silence making Pharikian look round in surprise. Sullyan, who had taken the exquisite harp into her lap, caught his eye. She had a few sheets of parchment spread out before her, and after testing the strings, softly began to play.
The melody was simple yet evocative and it brought tears to Pharikian’s eyes. The room fell silent as all the guests found chairs in which to listen to the softly rippling music. Sullyan forgot them all, losing herself in the melodies her father had written. She played three pieces through, and then stilled the strings. There was no applause. They were all too deeply affected by the long-silent music.
His eyes shining, Pharikian rose and crossed to where Sullyan sat. Leaning down, he kissed the crown of her head. “Thank you, my dear,” was all he could say. She laid the harp aside and stood, then motioned for the minstrels to strike up again. Thankfully, they played a completely different set of tunes, so as not to break the mood she had created.
The party broke up shortly afterward. The next day would be momentous for all, and no one wanted to keep Sullyan from her rest. As she and Robin made to leave, Pharikian and Deshan approached her.
“Will you be able to sleep, child?” asked the Master Physician gently.
She smiled, letting him see deep into her eyes. “Yes, Deshan, I believe I will. And if I cannot, well, I have Robin beside me. If anyone can help me, he can.”