Vaujn and the kin raised their swords as a unit and then brought blade to shield in three staccato blows.
“Prince Hiruld of Providayne,” intoned Vaujn formally. “We offer shields to ward and swords to battle. Verklämme!”
Hiruld placed his hand on his breast. “Your swords and shields are a great gift, and honor me. Let the soldiers of King Ruuhigan of the Underkingdom be welcome, but let them also be feared. Sir Bellivue.” He nodded to his herald, who approached Vaujn with a bundle of blue cloth trimmed in gold. “Captain Vaujn, I present you with the colors of my House, to wear in your defense of my person. House Jiraud offers thanks to you and to your esteemed king, and gladly accepts your service.”
Vaujn accepted the tabards with a bow, and then handed them to Mother Chloe. “We will wear your colors with honor,” he said.
Hiruld and Vaujn faced each other in awkward silence for a moment. Bellivue smiled and clapped Hiruld on the back. “That’s the extent of it My Prince,” he said. “This is your Guard now. It is official.”
Vaujn exhaled. The prince seemed equally relieved. He held out his hand to his new captain, a broad smile on his face. “I truly am honored,” he said. “But I was worried I wouldn’t get the words right.”
Vaujn clasped Hiruld’s hand and returned the smile. “Aye, looks as we both made it through, Your Highness.”
Mueszner took care of the details behind them, barking out orders to bring the disciplined kin squad into formation. From this moment on, they would not eat, drink or sleep without their first concern being the prince and his welfare. That was just fine with Vaujn except, maybe, for the drinking part.
“Why isn’t he locked up with the others?” asked Vaujn, pointing at Bellivue. “No offense meant, but I thought we weren’t taking chances.”
“He’s under geas,” Agrylon explained. “He cannot do harm; he cannot be used to do harm. He is inviolate.”
Hiruld laughed from deep in his belly and knocked Bellivue on the back so hard that the herald stumbled forward. “Bells has been my friend since I was knee-high to my brother, and he’s watched over us both. If he’d meant my end, he’d have had it. With or without the spells upon him, I would sooner die than even suspect such betrayal by his hand.”
Vaujn frowned back at the prince and tugged on a war braid. “Hrmph,” he grunted. “Even so. Better off sticking him in the tower with the rest.”
“No,” Hiruld protested immediately, but he turned in surprise when Bellivue’s hand touched his shoulder.
“Yes, My Prince,” the herald said. “It is the wisest course. He is the captain of your guard – he must take no chances. I would do the same.”
“Bells….” Hiruld shrugged the comforting hand away. “First Inulf – now you? You’re the only one left I trust.”
“That is why you mustn’t.” Bellivue counseled with a calm smile. “I will go.”
“But the geas,” persisted Hiruld.
“My Prince,” advised Brohan, “even Agrylon’s wards have been muddied. Who’s to say the geas has not somehow been weakened, also? Listen to your captain in this.”
Agrylon glowered at Brohan, but nodded. “It is sound council.”
Hiruld clenched his fists. “It’s not right. I feel safer with his sword at my back, not having it locked in a tower.”
“Prince Hiruld?” Calvraign stepped forward. “Captain Vaujn must be suspicious of all your guard. One of them is not what he seems. If you keep Sir Bellivue at your side, then time will be wasted guarding against an innocent man when we should be watching for the assassin. It doesn’t besmirch his name.
“And,” he continued, coming one step closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with the prince, “if there is any attack, he will be suspect as much as ally. He may be harmed. It is the best way for Bellivue to protect you – and for you to protect him.”
Hiruld kicked at the dirt, clenching his jaw. In that moment, Vaujn thought he looked more like a petulant child than a prince. But he didn’t judge him. Parting with familiar trust was never easy, for children or princes.
“Very well,” Hiruld agreed, challenge lingering in his voice. “But we will escort you there ourselves, in honor.”
“Let’s get on with it, then,” said Osrith. “We’ve only got a day to prepare and a lot to work out.”
“You heard him,” Vaujn barked. “Form up. Sir Bellivue – you have the Guard. Lead us on, sir – the honor is yours.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
SACRED HOURS
ARTYGALLE practiced the Sacred Forms and recited the Laud of Dawn, both his voice and his swordwork in careful, measured cadence. His sword swept in graceful arcs through the chill air, tracing the smooth ovals of Hirundal’s Butterflies in the dissipating mist of morning. The archer’s yard was empty, and he recited the prayer aloud, each word and each swing bringing him closer to the peace before battle.
“This day, as each, from dawning to dusk,
to the Swords I offer my oath.
My blade, in aid of the weak – to strike, as they may not.
My shield, to shelter the helpless – to defend, where they cannot.
My faith, a Light through Dark and through Shadow,
in battle, peace or parley,
in wisdom, honor and valor,
now and always, in Your way I follow.”
The Laud had been the daily affirmation of his Order since the time of Andulin. It anchored Artygalle’s covenant with the Three Swords, centering his soul on his purpose and his duty. The routine of the prayers was a danger, for too easily it could devolve into unthinking habit. But Artygalle thought of each Sacred Hour and its accompanying devotion as a challenge to be a vessel of Illuné’s Will, rather than an instrument of his own.
After completing the prayer, he continued with the Discipline of Steel. It, too, was an ancient chant, a regimen as old as Mother Church, or older. For where the Laud might feed his soul, the Discipline honed his skill to the precise and careful action that was necessary for victory in battle.
Artygalle shifted his feet, feeling his connection to the earth, the tread of his boots in the dust. “As the Dragon, firm of stance and right of balance.”
He closed his eyes, inhaling, picturing the patterns and principles of attack, defense and counter-attack, that Ghaerieal had passed down to him. “As the Eagle, keen of sight and sound of judgment.”
Artygalle’s long sword flashed in a high inside strike. “As the Mountain Cat, swift and true of aim.”
He returned to his base stance, and then concentrated on his shield work, alternating between high, middle and low guard, hiding a grimace under his helm. The arm was still sore, but serviceable. The armor and shield itself had been repaired and refitted, and Artygalle felt their comforting weight without encumbrance of movement. Daính and Thruhm had delivered the gleaming plate and chain to Inoval before heading to their own rendezvous with the rest of the kin. Vaujn’s accompanying note had wished him the best of luck, noting that they had taken extra care with it, and he expected no payment save a victory to make the oddsmakers weep.
“As the Gryphon, bold of heart and without fear,” he concluded.
Artygalle lowered his weapon for a moment, watching as Inoval led a small group of men to the edge of the yard, and then transitioned without pause into the Form of Eongés. It was a basic exercise, but it suited his purpose. Better to remain a bit guarded with one’s full measure of skill on an open field the day before a tourney, after all.
The leader of the waiting men was dressed in a fine linen shirt of pure white with a velvet doublet trimmed in silver nape fur. He paced the very edge of Artygalle’s range, despite Inoval’s hesitant protests, close enough to demonstrate to the knight and his squire that he wished the exercise to end immediately. Artygalle recognized the man with little affection, and ignored him and his affront until the last of Eongés’ prescribed motions was satisfied.
Although tempted to launch an aggressive display of Xhidar’s Trian
gles just to see if Curate Sinhd would flinch, Artygalle resisted. Practicing one of the Sacred Forms out of spite closed the mind to learning, and if one was not intent on learning, what point in practice? He sheathed his weapon, reminding himself that humility and deference to those of higher office within Mother Church were an integral part of his vows. He owed it to himself, and to Inoval, to honor his oath to the letter.
“Your Grace,” he acknowledged, removing his helm and enjoying the cold air on his hot brow. “I am at your service. How may I-”
“The dragon,” Derrigin sniffed, wrinkling his nose as if he’d come upon something sour. “Is that the provincial version of the Discipline? The proper anchor for your stance is the Bear – fortitude and strength. There is no dragon.”
He wastes no time launching an attack, mused Artygalle. His own version of the Triangles – quick, hard words to thwart balance.
“My Order has always recited it thus,” he answered, after a calming breath, “since the time of Andulin.”
“Yes? Well… We are generations past the reign of Cathellion and his sainted champion, aren’t we? I’d thought such heresies were quelled along with Thunyr and his traitors; it’s small wonder that bits and pieces escaped the purge. Are you Reformers, then, up in Tiriel?”
A parry, and a thrust.
“Of course not, Your Grace. His name is not even spoken, let alone his teachings. The Order of Andulin has always been set apart; perhaps some of our customs are out of touch with Mother Church. I apologize if I offended you. I will submit it to the archbishop’s judgment.”
“No matter,” dismissed Derrigin, kicking a pebble with the toe of his boot. “I’d as soon keep your customs and your Order in antiquity, where they belong. I am not here to school you on orthodoxy.”
Authority is his crutch, not his strength, noted Artygalle, pleased with the revelation of his successful feint. What he readily wields over others, he fears himself.
“His Holiness remains disappointed that he could not accommodate you at Saint Severun’s, and he is concerned that your care here may have suffered from inattention, at best,” Derrigin said, his hauteur returning without pause. “Will you be ready for the morrow?”
Artygalle flexed his fingers and rolled his left shoulder to demonstrate his mobility. “I’m fine, Your Grace,” he answered. “My shoulder and my shield have both been mended well enough, as you can see.”
“His Holiness hopes your new friendships continue to be so valuable – for you. The Cythe has shown somewhat less than due deference to the offices of Mother Church. You, I’m afraid, may be all that stands between Sir Calvraign and the influence of our enemies.”
“Your Grace?”
“While you were resting under their tender care, your merry little band of dwarfs managed to insinuate themselves into royal service, displacing the Prince’s Guard.” Derrigin stepped in close, his powdered nose within a hair of Artygalle’s sweaty cheek. “All at Sir Calvraign’s suggestion, and at the expense of a company of loyal lancers, handpicked by the archbishop for that honor.”
Artygalle wondered if the curate intended subtlety, for he certainly detected none. “You must have been disappointed. I am sure you worked hard for that honor, Your Grace.”
“I care little for my own disappointment,” discounted Derrigin, tilting his chin upward. “It is for the prince that I fear. And for your friend, which is the point of my visit. He has taken none other than Sir Osrith Turlun as his Master-at-Arms.”
Artygalle thought perhaps the curate’s own displeasure was somewhat understated, but there was no mistaking the vitriol when he spoke of the knight. “I do not know that name,” he admitted, “but the kin seem of honorable intent. They have been kind to me. I am certain they will serve the prince well, though why -.”
“No!” interjected Derrigin, spittle flying from his lips as he turned on Artygalle like a feral animal. “Still your tongue and stuff your simple platitudes. The Goddess does not follow in the wake of your humble tread, making things right with the world. Your head is up your arse! Worse, it’s up Andulin’s arse, and yet you think there’s nary a stink. So listen when I speak, sir knight, and speak not another happy word without my leave. If you are to know your duty, and carry it out, you must know your enemy.”
Artygalle pressed his lips together in a thin line, jaw clenched tight, and listened.
“The kin are under Turlun’s thumb. Neither he nor they are to be trusted. Do you think it coincidence that you were held a comfortable hostage while they solidified their position at court?
“And this boy of the Cythe, your friend. What is the foundation of his faith? The training of a bard. Mother Church is tolerated by the barbarians, more than revered, and the bards are no better. Let us hope it is not too late for you to mend any damage.”
The curate paused only long enough to breathe. Artygalle concentrated on measuring his own breath, listening quietly and offering no comment.
“You do not know him?” mocked Derrigin. “Mother Church knows him. I know him. Sir Osrith.” The envenomed honorific betrayed his contempt for the title, as well as for the man. “He is a murderer and liar, and possibly worse. He was a promissory, once, meant for the Order of Myrvoerval. That was before he burned the monastery, and most of the sleeping brothers, to ash. They jailed him, but coin sprang him before the rope could stretch him. Such is the justice of the Iron Coast.
“The surviving brothers and the abbot did not live out a ten-year. He murdered and mutilated them to a bloody man. Even you must have heard the stories of the Bane of Rhiém.”
“I have,” confirmed Artygalle, the words tentative on his lips. He’d never given the legend of that scourge much credence. A whole priory hunted down to the last? It seemed more a dramatic and convenient fiction than a true accounting of fact. It would not be the first parable to inspire fear and increased vigilance in squires and acolytes who might be shirking their vows. “You believe it is this knight, Sir Osrith. That he was the murderer? Then why hasn’t Mother Church brought him to justice?”
“My belief and His Holiness signing a writ of sanction are two very different things. I presented a case to the Holy Tribunal, but the Knights Justiciar ruled against vengeance, even on behalf of their own fallen brothers.” Derrigin took a deep breath. “Such is the justice of Myrvoerval,” he grated through clenched teeth. His eyes darted to the men behind him, and he licked his narrow lips into a forced smile. “I suppose I am a man of emotion and not so well governed by such stoic logic. My uncle was the abbot, you see.”
“I’m sorry. You must have been very young when he died,” consoled Artygalle. “But you do retain the right of challenge, Your Grace. Call this knight out and settle your account, and both your honor and my friend will be spared the taint of this man.”
Derrigin was a pale man, but even so what little color that pricked his cheeks drained away. “When and if we meet on the field tomorrow, you will see I am no slouch with blade or lance, Sir Artygalle, but Osrith Turlun is no easy prey.
“When I was a boy, I watched as the rogue who murdered my uncle paraded through Saint Kaissus Field, tilting the King’s Lance at the royal pavilion in victory. The Fourth Lance had fallen to him at Vlue Macc, and they’d scarcely been ransomed back before Sir Tuoerval fell to him again in tourney. He’d vanquished the best of Guillaume’s peers for the second time in a ten-moon.”
“He sounds formidable,” admitted Artygalle.
“Formidable?” Derrigin scoffed. “There is a taint on him. He crossed blades with the Pale Man and lived to tell it. It’s unnatural. Either he is in league with the Dark, or he survived what no man ever should. Either way, I will not deliver myself as a willing lamb into his arms.”
“Am I to be your lamb, then?” asked Artygalle, calm but frank. “I am willing, if called upon, but I wish you might tell me what you actually want, Your Grace.”
“My wants are irrelevant. It is the archbishop’s desire that I warn you. He thinks you no l
amb. On the contrary, His Holiness believes you may be the last best hope of countering those who have poisoned the king against the church.”
“I have no standing with the king.”
“Sir Calvraign has standing with the king, and you with Sir Calvraign. A scant hope, in my view, offering a nudge where a pummeling is due, but His Holiness wishes to keep these battles in the realm of ideas rather than blood and steel.”
Watch your back, brother.
The words of that anonymous knight tugged at Artygalle’s memory. One whisper. One warning. It had dogged him with a doubt that lamed his trust, supplanting it with a hesitance that made him suspicious and uncomfortable. He supposed that’s what it was intended to do. Either the intent was pure and it truly served as a warning, or, if the intent proved more sinister, to distance him from allies and hinder his mission. In any case, the effect was the same.
“I am a sworn Knight of the Lance,” he said carefully. “I will uphold my vows, and I will do all within my power to help Sir Calvraign live in the same example. Beyond that, I am not sure what I can promise.”
Derrigin’s upper lip curled. “Oh, what more could we possibly ask, sir?”
Ghaerieal had always taught that reciting the names of the Three Swords helped to curb a tongue that might strike out too quickly in anger. Artygalle did it twice. He held the slighter man’s stare, trying to penetrate the mask of contempt and arrogance he wore, but to no effect.
“Your Grace,” he said at last. “You are determined to offend me. What cause have I given you? Or is this some test of my restraint?”
“Restraint is but a civilized word for cowardice,” goaded Derrigin. “Perhaps you are failing the test?”
At this point, any doubt Artygalle may have harbored about Derrigin’s intentions vanished. The curate was hoping for nothing less than a violent response of some sort. Throwing about references to cowardice, whether veiled or not, could only have one purpose. Why he would wish to do such a thing remained a mystery, but Artygalle had no qualms about how he would respond.
In Siege of Daylight Page 62