Then a soldier's warning cry of "Pre-sent!" told them the Royal Commander was leaving the headquarters building. Danaer glanced around eagerly. Lira Nalu walked by Malol's side, her small hand resting lightly on his arm. Her gown was flame bright, her brown wizard's cloak thrown back from her shoulders, not hiding her. Junior ofl&cers and staff had crowded to windows and porches, and some lined the yard outside the building, standing at attention to see the Commander on his way. Prince Diilbok should have been most prominent in that group, but instead he viewed the scene from a window high in the rocky wall of the fortress. His mistress was beside him, her silver dress catching the sun and hurting the eyes. Since Prince Diilbok had been chastened at Danaer's hearing, he had sulked in his quarters like a punished child, let his woman and his many lackeys comfort him. Now as the pair looked down at Malol and Lira, Danaer felt a strange disquiet, wishing they had remained hidden, and out of his thoughts.
Branraediir and Yistar and a few aides left the lines and followed behind the Royal Commander, of-
fering last-moment good hopes for the success of his conference. Malol said, "Have no fear. Gordt te Raa is a man of honor, and we have his sworn pledge."
"So great a risk," Yistar complained. "Both you and General Nurdanth ..."
Malol smiled at the compliment. "If we fall, there are those as brave and some far younger and hardier to take our places ..."
Gordyan leaned from his saddle and whispered to Danaer, "Who is the woman in red? Does she come with the Royal Conmiander?"
"The Lady Lira Nalu. She is General Nurdanth's sorkra. She will advise Malol te Eldri on matters of wizardry." Gordyan did not care for the answer, but he treated it as of no moment, feigning disdain of Lira's sorkra caUing.
Yistar veered away from the Commander and came to Danaer, flicking imaginary dust from a uniform Shaartre had already brushed vigorously. GrufiBy Yistar said, "See you do me proud, for Nyald and the old days, eh?"
Danaer muttered an embarrassed assurance, then Lira Nalu said, "Will you help me to mount. Troop Leader?" She was standing by her mare. Danaer hurried to her side and cupped his hands. As she stepped up, he saw that beneath her long red gown and wizard's cloak she wore soft Destre boots rather than Sarli sandals. Her weight hardly bore down his hands at all, and she settled gracefully onto a noblewoman's sidesaddle, chastely gathering the folds of her cloak over her legs as she did so. Danaer had heard that the women of Sarlos were modest to the point of prudery, but her action seemed more that of good breeding than of excessive primness. She smiled down at him. "My thanks. I have never mounted so swiftly."
Shaartre and many of Danaer's barracks mates scrambled to the walls to see the spectacle as the Royal Commander's party set forth—three soldiers and the woman sorkra, with two Destre warriors to guard each of them. Soon the little group was well past the gates and outer fortifications, entirely at
the mercy of Gordyan's whim. He took the same trail Danaer had that other night, heading down toward Siank and then turning northward. Malol te Eldri and General Nurdanth rode together, often talking softly as the scene changed. Danaer and Lira Nalu were behind the officers. Before them and behind them and on either side were Gordyan's riders.
"You move a roan well. Troop Leader," the lady said. Danaer raised an eyebrow at her easy use of a common Destre phrase. "I marvel that you have never been wounded by your fellow soldiers, dressed as you are in that mantle."
"I am known to them, my lady. And then I often ride one of the army's blacks; this roan is my own beast, used for scouting and special occasions."
"He is most handsome." But she was not looking at his animal, but at him. "Perhaps I might try him sometime. Is he gentle?"
"For you, I would make him so, my lady."
"My name is Lira. Call me so."
For a while Danaer let his mount have its head, trusting it to follow the tail of the officer's black ahead. The Sarli woman continued to fascinate him. In her frankness she was not wanton. Nor was her manner quite like that of any woman of the plains people. Her alien modesty and the faint hit of Sarlos in her speech added to her intriguing charm.
"I . . . am honored that you give me that permission. Lira," Danaer said at last. "You know much of me, and I so little of you."
"Oh?"
"When first I came to Siank garrison, I did not know you were a sorkra. You are so young and . . . you rarely wear the wizard's cloak. None of the men knew, at the beginning, that you were one of Ulodovol's sorkra Web."
"What did the soldiers think I might be?" Apparently Lira read the answer in Danaer's expression. "The General's woman?" She threw back her head and laughed, her full lips parted, her dark curly hair tossing, and the red ribbons of her headband streaming in a hot breeze. She composed herself and said,
"All the wizard Web may not wear the brown robe— only those who are nearest the Traech Sorkra in learning. I do not yet have that right."
As suddenly as a dust viper would strike, an alarming thought hilt Danaer. "Lady, can you see into my mind?"
She laughed again, more softly, a chuckle pitched low in her throat, hke an ecar's purring. "Have no worry. Sorkra do speak with the mind as well as perform magic. But we do not intrude on the privacy of good people. In fact, in most ways, we are quite ordinary."
"Not at all, Lira, or else we all could make pictures of smoke . . . and chase demons with our spell casting." Danaer wanted to abet her cheeriness, but not if it meant talk of wizardry. He turned words to things inconsequential, such as amusing gossip of the fort— pleasant matters to pass time between man and woman on a long ride. It was a sounding out of each other, a mutually enjoyable adventure, Danaer hoped. All too soon the tents of the Zsed came into view, and the journey was coming to an end.
Gordyan led them at an easy amble around the Zsed and beyond, onto the extension of Siank Plains which lay north. They passed many gaily striped tents with the markings of Siank Zsed. Then began other tribal communities, in miniature, clustered on an open meadow. There were billowing, dun-brown canopies from the eastern clans, the green and gold of the north Vrastre, and even a few woad-blue tents belonging to representatives from the western plains. At the far end of the Zsed lay a field of contest, stretching out from the rolling meadow into the Vrastre. On a rise facing the field a gigantic pavilion had been set up to shelter the chieftains from the sun.
Malol te Eldri beckoned to Danaer. "That is the council tent? Do you see Sovereign Gordt te Raa? You have met him. Troop Leader. We know him only by name and reputation."
"There he is, my lord, speaking to that tall, brown-haired woman."
The ofl5cer had been trying to count the assemblage
beneath the canopy. "Surely not all those people are tribal leaders."
"No, my lord. Some are Siim-Y, and others are their seconds of command or priests. It is the custom among the plains people, even as you have brought with you General Nurdanth and the Lady Lira Nalu."
Gordyan halted abruptly, and those following him were hard put to avoid overrunning his animal's rump. "We are here," Gordyan said simply.
The Siim Rena's servants took charge of the mounts, and Gordyan led the Royal Commander and his party to the pavilion. Gordt te Raa and Lasiirnte Kandra did not sit on thrones, but upon cushions, like all the other Destre. However, from the elevation of this knoll, these powers among their tribes had a fine view of the field of contest. The visitors from the fort were led to a place directly before Gordt te Raa. This was an honor, and it also put them handy to the knives of his bodyguard, should there be any sign of treachery.
Before sitting down, Malol faced the Destre chieftain and recited the formal greetings he had memorized with the help of Nurdanth and Danaer. As the four took their assigned places, the General and Danaer whispered to Malol the names of the various dignitaries of the plains people who were gathered all around them. The Royal Commander scribbled these on a piece of parchment he had brought. Lira Nalu wrote nothing, but her manner told Danaer she would fo
rget none of what she heard.
"Thiirt of Ve-Nya, second in command of the home tribe of Lasiirnte Kandra, the Destre sovereign's woman," Nurdanth said softly, identifying particular leaders by their distinctive mantles.
"And there, my lord," Danaer added, "is Handri-Shaal of Kalisarik ..."
"That is Vandrei, who led the Kakyein rebellion."
"Vandrei was sorely bested by Captain Yistar in that war," Danaer put in. "Well it is that they did not meet here today . . ."
"Jatri of Rierdon-Ne . . ."
"Now you shall see true skill, soldier." Gordyan
broke in upon Danaer's efforts to brief the Royal Commander. The Destre sat close beside the guests. He struck a playful fist against Danaer's bicep, nearly knocking the scout from his cushions. On the field, targets were being set up for the first contest: archery. The row of contestants was small, for the bow was not a favorite weapon among the eastern Destre-Y.
"Troop Leader," Malol began, eyeing the archers thoughtfully.
Danaer knew what interested the Royal Commander. "The shorter men are most likely Sarli half-breeds, my lord. There are always a few of those traveling the Zseds. The big fellows are Tradyans, from the far plains. Lieutenant Branraediir would know them well. When Gordt te Raa was named ruler of the tribes, Stethoj of the West gifted him with a troop of his Tradyan archers, with other warriors to replace those at each Summer's Height. It is a form of tribute most welcome ..."
"Stethoj? Is he here?"
"No, my lord. It is more than a ten-days' ride to his tribe. He could not have been summoned on such short notice."
A shout went up from the spectators and Malol exclaimed, "Look at the shot that Tradyan made! We must have such archers, cousin." General Nurdanth nodded, as intent on the contest as his fellow ojBBcer.
The range was comparatively short when the archery contest began. Then it was increased to eliminate the lesser entrants. Eventually, only two men were left—a Sarli, wearing only knee breeches and sandals and one Tradyan, who went bareheaded in the western fashion and wore an unbelted surcoat rather than a vest. The Sarli knelt to the mark and released his arrows after much calculation for wind and distance. The Tradyan remained standing, aiming with a seemingly careless air. His bow was enormous, and his shafts nearly the length of a man's arm. At last the SarH missed and resignedly unstrung his Httle bow.
"Harshaa, Azsed!" rose from a thousand throats. The call could be a challenge or a cheer. In its present
inflection it was an accolade. The Tradyan accepted the plaudits, shaking his bow triumphantly above his head.
A big foot nudged Danaer. Gordyan was grinning and pointing to another part of the field. "You would not dare ride to that." Workmen were finishing a lance course. It was the most intricate contest Danaer had ever seen. Tiny circlets of bone hung from hairs attached to willow wood frames. These were set at all heights and angles, some appearing impossible for a horseman to spear.
"The army, too, uses the lance."
"Not like this. The lit merely toy with the weapon," Gordyan said loudly.
Danaer knew he was being baited. The big Destre's grin burned at him.
"Do you think you could compete with these tribes-folk, Troop Leader?" Malol te Eldri asked. "Would your competition in this event harm the conference to come?"
Surprised by the Royal Commander's attitude, Danaer said, "If I show badly, my lord, it will not enlarge your standing among the chieftains." In the back of his mind, Danaer was also most aware of Lira's presence.
"Would you show badly?" There was a twinkle in General Nurdanth's pale eyes. "I doubt not that your scouting roan is well versed in these lancing tricks, and he is used to your touch."
Danaer seemed to feel a lance in his hand already. Gordyan slapped his shoulder. "You handle a roan like a true warrior. Can you handle anything else?" Then his expression sobered and he stared at Lira Nalu. "But there must be no sorkra dealing to help you."
Lira's mouth twitched with amusement. "I vow there will be no magic. The Troop Leader will have only bone and blood and heart to sustain him."
Gordyan was satisfied, and Danaer made up his mind. "With your permission, my lords?"
"You have it," Nurdanth said.
Gordyan could move most silently and swiftly for a
giant. He was halfway down the slope leading from the pavilion knoll before Danaer could get to his feet. Lengthening his stride, Danaer caught up with the Destre by the time the lancing contestants had assembled. A covered pail was handed around the circle, and each rider took out a colored pebble to set his order. Danaer was several turns along, directly following Gordyan. He squatted beside the Siim's guard, and together they conmiented on the technique of the first warriors riding the course. The targets were many—at the height of a charging foe, far to one side, far overhead, and one placed at near ground level to simulate an enemy hidden in plains grass. Most of the men and warrior women rode adequately, but without art. They struck the targets squarely with their lances, but bumped obstacles or swung too wide on turns or touched reins too often. It was good enough for warfare, but not for vrentru, where judges and crowds were most exacting.
"My turn!" Gordyan swung up on his horse, a huge, ugly blue roan. "Now you shall see how to handle a lance, friend. Watch!"
Gordyan moved with astonishing lightness and grace. Danaer cheered with the rest of the onlookers as the point of Gordyan's lance stabbed every Httle circlet cleanly. Pride swelled the man's barrel chest as he rode back to the hne of contestants and grinned at Danaer. "Does that meet with the army's standards?"
He was like a youth seeking praise, open and blunt. Danaer Uked the man, despite Gordyan's fearsome reputation and their divided loyalties. "It was most weU..."
The place caller pointed to Danaer and spoke coldly. "You are next, lit. Unless you come to your senses and withdraw now."
"Care!" Gordyan growled. "He is Azsed, and an honored guest at this vrentru."
"Then ae know not of your colors, stander." The caller, skeptical and contemptuous, lapsed into a rich Destre accent.
"Out Nyald." Danaer enjoyed matching the chal-
lenge with his own dialect. "Ain mae of the Siredri ve Aejzad."
Gordyan smiled mahciously at the place caller's stupefaction. Then he took Danaer's sword and helmet. "Warrior, you cannot lance while you carry these. I will hold them in my honor."
"My blood one with yours, Azsed," Danaer answered formally. He was touched that Gordyan volunteered to act as his second.
"Then at it! Let us see how your lance arm fares after the army's tampering."
Danaer mounted at a run, a heady exhilaration seizing him. Vrentru! Lancing contest! Nyald Zsed had known no such festival since Danaer was a boy, and never had they staged one so grand as this. Danaer felt himself newly sworn to manhood again, meeting his first testings—a good roan between his knees and the weapons keeper waiting ahead. The weapons keeper handed up one of the slender contest spears; no man was allowed to use a favorite lance to his advantage. The starter dropped his hand.
The roan broke into an easy lope, and Danaer smoothed a hand along the mottled neck and rough mane. "Calm, now. Let us prove it, Sure-Foot." He let fall the reins and they dangled from the animal's shoulders. Shift of weight and press of knee guided the roan through the targets. The Destre lance was shorter and thinner than the army's weapon. But the moment the wood touched his palm, it was as if Danaer had never handled anything else.
Man and animal must act as one. All the old turns and tricks were still his, and Danaer had taught them to his mount—^for these arts were as useful in war as in contests. No sudden breaks, no awkward movements. The lance must strike true, whether it be target or deadly enemy. One by one, Danaer speared the little trophies. His mount could not have been better behaved. Only the sharpest eye could catch the slight dip when the animal changed leads.
"Harshaa! Har-shaa!"
Elated, Danaer trotted back to the waiting line. In the pavil
ion, the ofi&cers were nodding approval, and
Lira waved the long ribbons of her headband to celebrate Danaer's success. That last was far more reward than the cheers of the crowd, and Danaer was smiling slyly to himself as he dismounted and squatted once more beside Gordyan. He did not crow yet, for this was but the first testing.
Gordyan took him by the nape and shook him, though not hurtfully. "Harshaa, indeed! How did Nyald Zsed ever lose you to the soldiers? You are none of them, Azsed. Come to my lances and be my man."
"My Siim is Straedanfi, and General Nurdanth." Then Danaer softened his refusal. "Then this was but the first challenge. Perhaps I will not last long in the contest."
"You will stand to it," Gordyan said with confidence. "At least until you match with me. School that roan of yours well, then, warrior."
Side by side, they watched the others compete, trading remarks and jests as if they were blood friends of long acquaintance. And one by one, the others were ruled out. Twice more Danaer and Gordyan each passed the judges' demanding eyes. Now stamina counted as much as skill. Danaer thanked Yistar's driU training, which had kept him taut over the years.
And then there were but two left. The onlookers were intently silent as Gordyan rode forth.
One on the ground—done. Another three, far to the sides—done, just when it seemed man and rangy blue roan must overtopple. Mistakes could be fatal when a rider moved at such speed and in such awkward positions. Again and again the lance struck. Even as Gordyan speared the last circlet, Danaer gauged that the big man had been off balance. The giant's gracefulness had failed him in that critical instant. As the Siirn Rena's bodyguard returned to the line, it was obvious he shared Danaer's judgment and was much displeased with his own performance. "A bad lunge, that last one," Gordyan said with an unhappy grunt.
"You struck it fairly." Danaer sensed this was a
man who needed such an assurance, and he did not begrudge it. But as he again took up lance, Yistar's words rang in Danaer's memory: When you ride to the target, put all else from your mind. Strike to kill. Whatever the cost, he would not do less than his best. If defeat rankled Gordyan, Argan would determine the price of victory.
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