by Angus Wells
He stepped to the dais, pausing a moment behind Afranydyr to touch the Durrym’s shoulder and ask, “Are you healed?”
Afranydyr scowled through a proud smile. “Well enough.”
“I’d make peace,” Cullyn said. “I’d not have you for an enemy.”
“You shall not,” Isydrian interjected. “You defeated my son—the champion of the Shahn—and now you may dictate your own terms.”
When first Cullyn had seen the Durrym lord he had looked young—even were he Eben’s father—but now he appeared aged, his eyes avoiding Cullyn’s as he studied his older son.
He glanced at Pyris and sighed. “We must discuss this. Does the Garm understand?”
Cullyn took his seat, not properly understanding.
Lyandra whispered, “Dictate your terms.”
Pyris said, “The Garm? Does he not own a name—especially now?”
“Cullyn of Kandar.” Isydrian’s voice rang hollow. “Or is it now Cullyn of Ky’atha Hall?”
The Zheit voiced approval of that latter title, and Cullyn felt Lyandra’s hand squeeze his. He stared out at the tented hall and saw the Shahn imitating smiles that offered neither approval nor humor.
“What’s expected of me?” he asked Lyandra.
Lyandra answered, “A decision.”
He turned to Eben for answers, and the wizard quit his own chair to kneel by Cullyn’s and whisper in his ear, “You defeated Afranydyr in honest battle—now you own his life and can dictate your own terms. You can take him for a slave—”
“No.”
“Or bind him to peace; him and Isydrian, both.”
“That should be better.” Cullyn felt decision fill him. It was as if he were a flask that until now had not been properly topped. Now he knew what he must say, albeit he did not yet understand where the words came from. Only that they burst from him. He rose to his feet and stared at the gathering. “I defeated Afranydyr, who is a great warrior.”
There was a shout of acclamation from the Zheit, a reluctant nodding of agreement from the Shahn.
“And I’d wed Lyandra of Ky’atha Hall, just as Lofantyl of Kash’ma would wed Abra of Lyth Keep.”
The pavilion fell silent then, murmurs running like waves down the tables, like the sea rushing over pebbles that clashed together under the impact. Cullyn looked to Pyris and Mallandra and said, “I am honored that your daughter would consider me for a husband. I am honored that you consider me suitable.” He looked to Lofantyl. “How say you?”
“That we are friends.” Lofantyl rose, still holding Abra’s hand. “That when I went into your Kandarian lands I found a true friend, and a true love.”
Afranydyr scowled, and his father sat blank-faced.
“So let us wed,” Cullyn declared, wondering at his presumption. Was this what it meant to be syn’qui? “I shall marry Lyandra, and Lofantyl shall marry Abra.” He paused. “And Zheit and Shahn shall make peace.” He stared, surprised by his confidence, at Pyris and Isydrian. “How say you?”
Pyris nodded. “I’d not see us go to war. I agree.”
Isydrian scowled and shook his head.
“There are further terms,” Cullyn announced. “You are Eben’s father, and I’d see you make peace with him.”
“No!” Isydrian muttered.
“Then I claim Afranydyr’s life.”
“You cannot!”
“By right of combat, I can.”
Isydrian gusted a windy sigh. “As you say.” His face collapsed into deeper wrinkles. “Name your terms.”
“Acknowledge Eben as your son, and make peace with the Zheit.”
Isydrian nodded reluctant agreement. “What else?”
“That we all speak with Lord Bartram, and forge some kind of peace with Kandar.”
Both hall lords stared at him then, as if he were mad. “It can be done,” he said, wondering where his confidence came from, aware that Laurens wore the same expression as the Durrym.
And Eben smiled as if all his dreams had come true.
“Now swear the peace,” Cullyn said. “You two embrace and declare it—that Zheit and Shahn no longer fight, but live together.”
He went to where Afranydyr sat scowling and set his hands on the Durrym’s shoulders. “I name this man my brother, as Lofantyl is. Do you accept?”
Afranydyr sat a while, uncomfortable beneath Cullyn’s grip. Then ducked his head in reluctant agreement.
Lofantyl clapped his hands in accord. “Well done, my Garm brother!”
Abra kissed his hand. “Thank you.”
Lyandra took it and kissed his lips. “You are truly syn’qui.”
Eben murmured, “It’s not done yet. There’s still Per Fendur to think of.”
“And,” Lyandra added, “our wedding.”
EIGHTEEN
TIME MOVES LIKE A RIVER. Sometimes it rushes forward, as if in spate; at others there are eddies, swirling sideways to slow and revolve in backwaters. Time was different in Coim’na Drhu and Kandar: men and Durrym danced to different rhythms. So it was that Cullyn and his companions might live for weeks in the fey lands even as Per Fendur and his defeated company made their way back across the Alagordar to deliver their news to Lord Bartram.
The priest was not pleased with defeat.
“Your daughter is kidnapped by the filthy Durrym. Taken captive into the fey lands! Can you allow that?”
Per Fendur’s voice rang harsh and the feasting hall, already glum, fell silent. Lord Bartram stroked his gray beard and thought a while. Vanysse stared at her husband even as she found Amadis’s hand and clutched it tight.
“It’s sacrilege,” Fendur continued angrily. “And not only your daughter, but also the heretics—Laurens, the forester called Cullyn, and Eben the wizard. We must hunt them down!”
“To what end?” Bartram asked.
“That they be put to the questioning.”
“Torture, you mean.”
“If necessary.”
Bartram sighed and turned his eyes from the priest’s cold black glare to study his wife. She smiled agreement, and beside her he saw Amadis grin. He wondered, suddenly, what fate they had planned for him, these three conspirators. Fendur and Amadis he thought he understood: they desired power. But Vanysse? The gods knew that Khoros had sent her to him as a bride to bind the south and the Border together, but he’d loved her—and even thought that she loved him, despite the difference in their ages. He’d not argued her affair with Amadis. He acknowledged that he was too old to satisfy so young and lusty a woman, and had turned a blind eye, content to have her with him. But now it seemed she turned against him.
He asked her, “What do you think I should do, wife?”
“Follow Per Fendur’s advice,” she said. “Would you not have your daughter back?”
He suddenly wondered where her true allegiance lay, and if some deep plan rested behind her words.
“We must go across the Barrier.” It was Fendur who spoke now, Vanysse and Amadis nodding their agreement. “We must go in force and bring Abra back. Her and the others.”
“And you believe such an expedition is possible?”
“You know,” the priest said, “that I can find a way. I did before.”
“And were sent running.”
Fendur’s sallow face darkened. “I had only a squadron of horsemen then. And even so it was a narrow fight.” He looked to Amadis for confirmation and got back a nod of deceitful agreement. He did not hear Drak, seated amongst the soldiery, snort laughter. “Give me enough men and I’ll bring your daughter back.”
“To the Church’s questioning?”
“Perhaps not her,” Fendur replied. “But the others …”
“And you believe this possible? That we might bring Abra home?”
“Do you cede me enough men.”
“I’ll cede you all of them,” Lord Bartram returned, “if I can speak with Abra again and know what she desires.”
In his lust for conquest Fendur missed the infle
ction. “Then we go,” he said. “When?”
“Two days to organize,” Bartram answered. “That many to provision.”
“And you’ll ride with us?” Fendur glanced at Amadis.
“Of course,” Lord Bartram said. And to himself: to discover her wish.
“I NEVER THOUGHT I’d want to live here,” Abra told Lofantyl. “I was taught that you fey folk were strange—our enemies.”
“And now?” He took her hand, hopeful of her reply.
“I think not. I think that we Kandarians are your enemies.” She frowned. “This lust for conquest troubles me. You’d not overcome Kandar, eh?”
He shook his head. “We’re happy here. The land favors us, and gifts us with ever stronger magic, so why should we want to go back? Besides, we are far fewer in numbers than you Garm; should it come to war, you’d outnumber us.”
They strolled beside the river, where the water babbled merrily and fat trout jumped at dancing, unwary flies. Abra looked about her and saw what he meant: this was a green and pleasant land, where folk lived in accord with the terrain. Save for the halls’ rivalries.
“Shall your father and brother accept Cullyn’s ruling?”
Lofantyl nodded. “All well.”
“You sound doubtful, my love.”
Lofantyl brought her to a place where willows draped massive limbs over the benches of the river. They were so large their central trunks had split to drape the great branches to the ground, providing comfortable seating. They took places on a down-swinging limb and watched the water go by. A blur of bright color that was a kingfisher flashed by, chased by another as if the birds gamed, or flew some avian ballet.
Then Lofantyl chuckled, shrugging, and added: “I do not much trust my father or my brother.” He laughed. “I never got on with either of them, much.”
“But Cullyn’s sworn them to peace, no?”
“Perhaps …” He turned his eyes toward the river. “I hope it be so, but is it not …” He looked at her, fear and honesty in his gaze. “If it is not, what shall you choose?”
“To stay with you.”
“Even does it come to war with your father?”
Abra swung toward him, cradled by the willow’s branch and his knees, his hands on her shoulders, and said, “Yes. I pray it does not come to that, but if I must make a choice, then it shall be to stay with you. I love you.”
Lofantyl said, fervently, “Thank you.”
“SHALL IT WORK? Can it work?”
Cullyn held Lyandra close as they stared out over the river, unaware that Lofantyl and Abra did the same. The sun was setting now, fading like some vast smiling face toward the horizon, the sky painted all red where the smile decorated the clouds and the blue that announced the rising of the moon. To the east, past the forest beyond which lay Kandar, it was a velvet blue, a sickle moon lofting, accompanied by courtier stars. A breeze blew fresh, but warm, and he felt Lyandra’s body heated against his. A squadron of geese beat westward toward the setting sun, its honking musical as the instruments that played in the Durrym encampment. He watched as the V-shaped flight westered, and in a way wished he might join them—to fly away careless. But Lyandra’s hand was warm in his, and her body soft as his grew hard, so he watched the geese fly away and kissed her cheek.
“You’re syn’qui,” she said, “so I suppose it shall.”
“Peace between Ky’atha and Kash’ma; between Kandar and Coim’na Dhru?”
“Perhaps, if you govern it.”
“Govern it?” he stuttered. “What can I govern?”
“The world’s fate,” she answered. “Now kiss me, eh?”
There were times, he thought, that it was best to obey.
“WHAT IN THE GODS’ NAMES is going on?” Laurens asked Eben. “We came here to fetch Abra back. I understood that, but now …? What are we—emissaries or prisoners?”
Eben grinned at the soldier, settling himself more comfortably on the couch. “Do you really want to go back?”
Laurens frowned.
“Back to your barracks in Lyth? Is the food better there, the wine? Is that cold keep warmer than this tent?” Eben gestured at their confines. “Is your bed softer? Is the company so fine?”
Laurens shook his head, grunting as he filled a glass. “I’m sworn to Lord Bartram’s service. What’s comfort to do with it?”
“Much, I think.” Eben stretched his legs down the length of his own couch and fell back against the pillows. “In Kandar I lived as an outcast. You know what happened to my cottage, and likely Cullyn’s, too.”
“Even so,” Laurens grumbled.
“Even so,” Eben answered, “consider the advantages. Cullyn is to wed Lyandra, and we are, in a way, his liege men. Lofantyl shall wed Abra, and Kash’ma and Ky’atha Halls swear peace. Perhaps even Kandar and Coim’na Drhu, does the syn’qui succeed.”
“He’s but a lad,” Laurens returned, “and I’m a soldier.”
“Would you see peace forged?”
Laurens nodded.
“Then trust me,” Eben said. “And him. He knows not what he does, but the power’s in him, and I place my trust in that.”
“And Per Fendur?”
“Shall be defeated.”
“And even if he is, then shall the Church not send another?”
“Perhaps, but if the Zheit and the Shahn can be brought to peace, then perhaps so can Kandar and Coim’na Drhu. It’s at least a start.”
“Perhaps.” Laurens sighed and poured himself more wine. “I leave these ponderings to such as you. I’m only a simple soldier.”
Eben chuckled. “You’re hardly simple, my friend.”
“Where is he, anyway?” Laurens wondered.
“Walking with his love,” Eben replied. “What else would a young man do on his wedding eve?”
Laurens laughed obscenely.
IT WAS A CURIOUSLY SIMPLE ceremony for a folk so given to display.
Pyris himself came to Cullyn’s tent and asked, formally, for permission to enter. That granted, he asked if Cullyn was ready—would he attend in a hour? The suitor was—for the last few hours, nervously. He was dressed in the outfit Pyris had gifted him: a shirt of soft white linen with golden embroidery about the collar and cuffs, surmounted with a tunic of green dark as oak leaves in high summer, and all stitched with silver thread around the edgings. Breeches of dark blue fit almost embarrassingly snug, and slid into knee-high boots of white deerskin. A leather belt was chased with gold and silver, and equipped with an ornate sheath for his shattered lyn’-nha’thall. Servants had come to shave him and dress his hair, and he had never felt so much the popinjay.
Or been so much laughed at, for Eben and Laurens had taken much pleasure in commenting on his outfit, albeit they were little less splendid. Eben’s ancient robe had been washed and mended, restitched where cabalistic symbols had disappeared under the weight of time. He had even allowed his beard to be trimmed and his own hair washed, so that now he looked like a true wizard. Almost, Cullyn thought, regal.
And Laurens had shaved himself and let a servant crop his hair even shorter. He had accepted a white linen shirt and a blue tunic, breeches of matching blue, and boots like Cullyn’s. He wore a weaponless belt, and seemed uncomfortable for the absence.
“In the names of all the gods,” he grunted when the barbers were done, “I smell like a whore.”
It was true that perfumes had been washed into their hair and unguents applied to their skin, but Cullyn wondered if they did not smell better than any time since leaving Ky’atha Hall. Nonetheless, he paced the confines of the tent plucking at his finery, aware that in his wake he left a trail of scent unlike his usual smell of must and leaf mold.
Eben said, “It shan’t last long. Before the day’s out you’ll stink of wine. And then”—with a sidelong glance at Laurens—“we’ll be on the road again and you’ll smell as usual.”
“Do I smell?” Laurens filled a goblet with the rich Durrym wine.
“Do horses d
rop road apples?” Eben extended a goblet that Laurens filled.
“When shall we leave?” Cullyn asked.
“In due course.” Eben stroked his fresh-washed beard as if he could not quite believe it so clean. “The Durrym have less sense of time than you—they’ll likely celebrate for a week or more. This is a momentous event.”
“It’s my wedding,” Cullyn muttered, wondering if his breeches were indecently tight.
“It’s the marriage of Garm to Durrym.” Eben drank more wine, carefully, a hand covering his beard that he not spill on its pungent silkiness. Cullyn could not help smiling, for all his nervousness. “You to Lyandra, Lofantyl to Abra. This is such an event as has never before happened. This is a turning point for the world.”
Cullyn groaned. More ominous talk of fate and destiny. “Where shall we live?” he asked.
“Abra with Lofantyl, in Kash’ma Hall,” Eben replied. “You and Lyandra, where you choose.”
“I can’t take her back to the cottage—even if it still stands. She’s accustomed to better accommodation. And …” He frowned. “There’s still Per Fendur.”
“Who shall be dealt with,” Eben said calmly. “One way or the other.”
“And those ways are?”
“Worry about that later.” He drank more wine. “You’re syn’qui: you shape destiny.”
Cullyn shook his head and took up a goblet, drained it in one long gulp, and looked to Laurens.
“How say you? You came into all this in my defense, would you go back?”
Laurens paused before answering, downed a goblet of the rich red wine, and then shook his head.
“Save Lord Bartram demands it, no. I’ve thought this over and decided I’ve no love of that priest or Amadis. I’d as soon stay here—Coim’na Drhu seems a most pleasant country, so why go back?”
Eben chuckled.
Laurens ignored him, continuing: “I threw in my lot with you, and I believe this old man”—he shaped an obscene gesture in Eben’s direction—“is wise. So I’ll stay here so long as you remain.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll follow after. You need someone to watch your back.”