“Garrett, you’re being stupid,” she sighed, “Of course you feel bad about what happened, because you still are a good person!”
“But I don’t!” Garrett said, “I don’t feel bad... not really.”
“What?”
“I mean, yeah, I felt bad when I saw that I had killed him... I felt bad when that girl was yelling at me, but it was like being a little kid who just got caught stealing a cookie or something,” Garrett moaned, wiping the dampness from his brow with his free hand, “I’m not really sorry that I did kill him... I don’t... regret it... What does that mean?”
Haven looked at the little streamers of mist rising from Garrett’s skin, and then down at the flattened grass of the ground beside Garrett’s cot. She gasped.
Garrett leaned forward to look down as well and then let out an anguished sigh as he collapsed back onto his cot.
Haven wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as she whispered, “You’re not a bad guy,” over and over again into Garrett’s ear.
The dark stain of withered grass had already spread from the cot, all the way to the mouth of the tent.
Chapter Three
“Any word from Max?” Garrett asked as he watched a lone falcon soaring in the rose-tinted sky.
“I made contact with him last night,” Cenick answered. He lowered the heavy steel plates of the black armor over Garrett’s head and settled them gently on Garrett’s shoulders. “They have secured a route up the escarpment, but have yet to encounter a single Chadiri soldier.”
“You think it’s a trap?” Garrett asked.
“Almost certainly,” Cenick answered as he threaded the loose ends of several leather cords through eyelets in Garrett’s armor.
“What’s he going to do?”
Cenick shrugged. “What he always does,” he said, “blunder in and rely on cleverness and luck to see him through.”
Garrett winced slightly as Cenick tightened the cords holding the two halves of his breastplate together. His shoulder still hurt a little from the previous day’s wound, but, between Lady Ymowyn’s medicine and the Songreaver’s remarkable healing abilities, it seemed that Garrett had little to fear from pointy bits of metal, no matter how enchanted. He looked down to see that Cenick had managed to hammer out the dent where the lance head had pierced his armor the day before, but only a thin coat of black paint covered the puncture in the steel that only a real armorer would be capable of repairing.
“Try not to get stabbed there again,” Cenick grunted as he hefted Garrett’s shoulder armor into place.
“No problem,” Garrett said, buckling on his sword belt as his fellow necromancer tended to his armor. A thick morning mist hung over the field all the way to the trees beyond, nearly obscuring the colorful tents of the Astorran encampment. Here and there, Garrett could make out men and horses moving around as they prepared to try to kill him in the most civilized manner possible.
“I’ve taken a peek at the folks they’ve lined up fer ya, and I don’ think we’ll have any dragon slayers ta contend with today!” Shortgrass said as he fluttered up to his hiding place in the shadow of Garrett’s left pauldron.
“How’s your wing?” Garrett asked.
“A wee bit stiff, but I shan’t need it with you servin’ as me noble steed!” Shortgrass laughed.
“What are we facing today?” Cenick asked as he stepped back to gauge the fit of Garrett’s gear.
“First up is Sir Anders, who was ta have a go at us yesterday,” Shortgrass said, “He seems competent enough, but his heart’s not in it. I say we lay him flat as quick as we can and let the poor old beggar go home and sleep it off.”
“He’s the one that was worried about Sir Baelan, wasn’t he?” Garrett asked.
“Aye,” Shortgrass answered.
“Let’s be careful not to hurt him too bad, all right?” Garrett said.
“It’s a bit risky, but I think we kin manage it,” Shortgrass said.
“Thanks,” Garrett said.
“Who else?” Cenick asked.
“Well, we got lucky on the draw fer the second match,” the fairy said, “Sir Braece is one o’ the lads that happened to be drinkin’ ta Sir Jons’s memory last night.”
“How’s that lucky?” Garrett asked as Cenick handed him the jousting helm.
“Well,” Shortgrass said, “as it happened, a certain fairy, by tha name o’ Sender, just happened to spill a few drops in their keg from a bottle o’ somethin’ that tha fair Lady Ymowyn had cooked up in her kettle... I dare say that poor Sir Braece and a few other young Astorran noblemen have had a rather unpleasant time of it since.”
“We poisoned them?” Garrett hissed.
“They’ll be fine!” Shortgrass assured him, “Though I do suggest we drag it out a bit, once good Sir Braece has got his knickers bolted on fer tha match... He’s more likely to have his mind on his next trip to tha privy than on puttin’ a stake through yer heart.”
“Oh,” Garrett said, feeling a pang of sympathy for the victims of the fox woman herbalist and the sneaky little violet-haired fairy.
“The third in line, now he may prove a problem,” Shortgrass sighed, “A Sir Gillian... a right cankerworm, that one!”
“What do you mean?” Garrett asked.
“Seems that someone else drew the lot ta fight ya third... a Sir... ah... doesn’t matter now, since Sir Gillian challenged him on the spot fer tha honor, and the poor devil agreed to it.
“Sir Gillian laid the boy out with a knock on tha knot and then stomped tha poor lad’s knee in... just fer tha fun of it, I suppose.”
“They’re fighting each other over who gets to fight me?” Garrett scoffed.
“Aye. I’d say this Gillian fella is lookin’ ta make a name fer ‘imself at yer expense,” Shortgrass said, “So I don’t know as I’d shed any tears for ‘im should some sad misfortune befall ‘im today.”
“All right,” Garrett sighed, “is that all?”
“Well, there’s the other t’ree hundred or so knights jus’ waitin’ in line behind ‘em ta take a poke at ya,” Shortgrass chuckled, “but let’s just focus on tha day’s work ahead.”
“Fine,” Garrett said, slipping the helm down around his ears. He quickly raised his visor as he turned to see Haven and Ymowyn approaching.
“Good Sir Garrett,” Ymowyn said with a grin as she tugged a scrap of white cloth from her sleeve, “Would you do me the honor of wearing my favor today?”
“Your what?” Garrett asked with a bemused smile.
“A lady’s favor is meant to bring the knight fortune in the contest and show his dedication to his courtly virtues,” Ymowyn said.
“You want me to wear a scarf?”
“You wear the favor upon your belt, or anywhere it might be plainly seen,” the fox woman explained, “It has been a custom among the knights and ladies of Astorra since time immemorial.”
Garrett gave Haven a questioning look, but she only smiled and rolled her eyes. “What does it mean if I wear your favor?” he asked Lady Ymowyn.
Ymowyn smiled softly, her eyes falling as she answered, “It’s just a silly dream I had, long ago when I watched my first tournament at my mother’s side.”
Garrett smiled back as she met his gaze again. “Yeah,” he said, “I’d be glad to wear it.”
Lady Ymowyn smiled as she stepped forward to tie the strip of cloth around Garrett’s sword belt. As she finished, she sighed contentedly and stepped away.
“Of course this means that we’re betrothed now,” she said.
“What?” Garrett exclaimed.
“Whatever shall I tell dear Warren?” Ymowyn wondered aloud.
Garrett stared at her in shock.
Haven snorted with laughter, and Ymowyn joined in as well.
“I told you I could make him sweat,” Ymowyn laughed, giving Garrett a wicked grin.
“Very funny,” Garrett said, giving them both a hard look.
“Good luck,” Haven said, leaning clo
se to kiss Garrett through the opening in the face of his helm.
“Thanks,” Garrett said, returning the kiss gently.
“And thank you, Garrett,” Ymowyn said, “I am truly honored that you would carry my favor today.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said, “Did everything go all right with Warren and the others last night?”
“Yes,” Ymowyn said, giving him an amused look, “They’re sleeping it off now... on a pile of stolen Astorran food.”
Garrett chuckled. “And what about Sir Baelan,” he asked, “How’s he doing?”
Ymowyn’s eyes fell. “Baely is... well, I think the air here is good for him,” she said, “I’m going to try to convince him to watch the tournament today.”
Garrett thought for a moment before answering. “I wish we could just let him go now,” he sighed, “I just don’t want to take the chance that he’ll tell Cabre what we’re up to.”
“He knows nothing of the plan,” Ymowyn said.
“But he knows us,” Garrett said, “He’s been around us long enough to know that we aren’t really the kind of people that we’re pretending to be.”
“No... you’re right,” she said, “Perhaps it would be better if we all kept that in mind.” She reached out and started to untie the scarf from around Garrett’s belt.
He put his hand down to stop her. “Leave it,” he said.
“I can’t imagine a merciless slayer of royalty carrying a lady’s token of admiration into battle,” she said with a crooked grin.
“I’m crazy, remember,” Garrett said, snugging the scarf back into place on his belt, “I can do whatever I want!”
The others laughed as Garrett flashed them an insane leer before snapping his black visor down to conceal his face.
Ghausse padded softly toward Garrett through the dew-soaked grass, giving Garrett a curious whine as he approached. Garrett patted the big wolf’s damp fur and then scratched him roughly behind the ear. Ghausse dragged his tongue over Garrett’s faceplate, filling his helmet with the scent of wolf breath.
“Watch where yer puttin’ that!” Shortgrass cried as Ghausse licked wetly at Garrett’s armored face.
“That’s enough,” Garrett laughed, pushing Ghausse’s massive head away, “Let me climb on now.”
Ghausse stretched himself obediently on the grass before Garrett, and Garrett leaned forward across the direwolf’s back before swinging his leg over.
Ghausse rose beneath him then as Garrett settled into position astride the wolf’s back.
Cenick stepped up to help Garrett buckle his shield into place on his left arm. The tattooed necromancer then hurried away toward a stack of gear beside the tent and returned shortly, bearing a rather nice-looking steel-tipped lance, coated in a fresh layer of black paint.
Garrett took the weapon in hand, feeling its balance and admiring the straightness of its shaft. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.
“The ghouls were busy last night,” Cenick chuckled.
Garrett gave a rueful laugh and thanked his friend before turning the wolf toward the enemy lines.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said as he kneed Ghausse into a loping gate.
Sir Anders sat upon his horse in the field between the Gloaran and Astorran camps, awaiting Garrett’s arrival. He carried no lance or shield, and he held his helmet tucked under one arm. Garrett slowed Ghausse to a casual trot as he approached the unarmed knight.
“Kingslayer,” Sir Anders greeted Garrett, his voice betraying no emotion.
“Sir Anders,” Garrett returned the greeting, lifting his visor with the thumb of his lance hand before letting the lance rest against the seam between two plates of his right pauldron.
“I would speak with you a moment, if I may,” Sir Anders said.
“All right,” Garrett answered. His eyes fell to the ribbon of gray cloth tied around Sir Anders’s upper left arm.
Noting the direction of Garrett’s gaze, Sir Anders said, “A token of respect for the fallen... Sir Jons was a good friend, and a worthy man.”
“I’m sorry,” Garrett said.
Sir Anders blinked in surprise.
Garrett quickly cleared his throat and forced his voice into a gravely rasp. “He should have known better than to... try to defeat me,” Garrett said, looking away as he squirmed a bit in his armor. When he met Sir Anders’s gaze again, he saw the man watching him with undisguised curiosity.
“You wear a token as well, I see,” Anders said.
“Huh?”
The knight nodded toward Garrett’s belt.
“Oh,” Garrett said, “Yeah... that’s for Lady Ymowyn. She told me she always wanted to have a knight wear her scarf for her in a fight.”
“Lady Ymowyn,” Sir Anders said, “an Astorran name. She is an expatriate, I take it?”
“No,” Garrett said, “She loves Astorra! I think she’s really patriotic about it.”
A faint smile softened the hard line of Sir Anders’s mouth. “I did not mean to suggest that she was not,” he said, “I simply meant that she no longer resides in her homeland.”
“Oh, yeah,” Garrett said, “The Inquisitor guy, Prex, chased her out.”
“Ah,” Sir Anders said, his face taking on a troubled look, “... if I may be so bold, could you tell me what became of the Inquisitor?”
Garrett frowned, wondering how much of the truth he should share with this man who would shortly be trying to kill him.
“He’s dead,” Garrett said.
“You’ve killed him?” Sir Anders asked.
Garrett hesitated for a moment. “Yeah,” he said at last.
“Did you take pleasure in the act?”
Garrett hesitated again.
“No,” Garrett said.
“And did you take pleasure in killing our king?” Anders asked.
Garrett’s lips twitched, as he looked away again.
“Are we gonna fight, or what?” Garrett demanded.
“I will very shortly be expected to make attempt on your life, young man,” Sir Anders said, his tone even and low, “and, if I am to kill a man, I would like to know what sort of man he truly is.”
“I’m the Kingslayer,” Garrett snorted, “Isn’t that reason enough?”
“Perhaps,” Anders said, lowering his voice, “if you are truly the man who murdered our king.”
Garrett flinched as though caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He stared at Sir Anders, not trusting himself to say anything.
“What’s your game, boy?” the knight sighed.
“What do you mean?” Garrett asked.
“I know a diversion when I smell it,” Sir Anders growled, “and I don’t appreciate being played for a fool!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrett growled, remembering to do the gravely voice again.
“You’re keeping us occupied here while your main forces make another move against the Chadiri,” Sir Anders said, “The same tactic used before by your ink-faced squire when he pretended to be the general of the Gloaran armies the last time your people came against us. Do you take us for simpletons?”
“I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt!” Garrett snapped.
The truth hung like a foul stench in the air between them.
“Well, that’s that, I suppose!” Shortgrass sighed loudly from Garrett’s shoulder.
The Astorran knight started visibly when the brassy little fairy stepped from the hollow of Garrett’s pauldron and waved at him.
“Welcome to tha real war, Sir Anders,” Shortgrass laughed.
“The fae have taken sides now?” Sir Anders scoffed.
“‘Twas your people that chose the sides, Sir Anders,” Shortgrass said, “There’s nae much room fer our kind at the red god’s table.”
“And you would overthrow the House of Haerad and return these lands to fae rule again?” the knight demanded.
“I don’ give a fennel fer yer lands or yer kings,” Shortgrass scoffed, “I’m j
ust here ta see this boy home again safe, if I hafta put a hex on ev’ry shufflefoot in tha kingdom ta do it!”
“Is all this nothing more than a game to you?” Sir Anders hissed, “A good man is dead because of this foolishness!”
“‘Twas his life or tha boy’s,” Shortgrass, growled, “an’ well ya know it!”
“Take your army and go!” Sir Anders said, “We will not be made sport!”
“Oh,” Shortgrass said, “I suppose that settles it then! We’ll just pack off back to tha swamps, an’ all you kind, enlightened folk kin just shine up yer nice pretty armor and nice pretty swords and wait fer tha redjacks ta tell ya when you kin come and finish us off, so’s they don’t hafta get their boots wet!”
Sir Anders’s lips pulled back over his teeth, as he struggled to contain his rage.
“Ya ready ta fight now, Sir Anders?” Shortgrass asked.
Sir Anders glared at the little fairy for a long moment before turning his eyes on Garrett again. “Have your little game then, boy,” the knight said, “I swear you will not have long to enjoy it!”
Garrett watched as the knight wheeled his horse and galloped back toward the list and his squire who stood waiting with shield and lance.
Shortgrass chuckled as he retreated into his hiding place once again, and Garrett rode Ghausse to the opposite end of the list where Cenick had gathered a stack of stolen lances for the day’s tourney.
“Is everything all right?” Cenick asked.
“I don’t know,” Garrett whispered, “Sir Anders recognized you from the last time you were here. He knows we’re just trying to keep ‘em busy.”
Cenick grunted, his eyes on the knight in the dun-colored armor at the far end of the list. “That could be a problem,” he whispered back.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, lowering his lance as Ghausse crouched low, ready to spring into battle.
“For the King and Sir Jons!” Sir Anders shouted as he spurred his horse forward.
The crowd roared their approval in response.
“Be careful, Garrett,” Cenick said.
“Yeah,” Garrett said again as Ghausse gave a terrible snarl and the two combatants charged toward one another with lances aimed at each other’s hearts.
Both lances exploded in a thunderclap that left Sir Anders lying on his back in the trampled grass.
Trials of the Twiceborn (The Songreaver's Tale Book 6) Page 4