by Angus Wells
“Well said!” Eben clapped his hands. “Even syn’qui need bodyguards.”
Cullyn ceased his nervous pacing, staring at them, knowing he had true friends with him. He took their hands. “Thank you.”
PYRIS CAME AGAIN.
He wore a black shirt topped with a long tunic of white trimmed with silver embroidery and pale fox fur. His breeches were white and his boots black as deepest midnight. His long hair was gathered in a tail by a knot of oak leaves, and Cullyn thought he had not seen so splendid a figure as Pyris bowed formally and asked, “Are you ready?”
Cullyn gulped down the last of his wine and nodded.
Pyris smiled and reached beneath his shirt to extract a package that he extended to Cullyn. “I’d give you this.”
Cullyn unwrapped the parcel and found himself holding a magnificent knife, sheathed in a no-less splendid scabbard. The hilt was ivory—a unicorn’s horn, he suspected—the quillons fashioned from some golden wood he did not recognize that matched the inlay of the butt. The blade was long and wickedly pointed, fashioned from stone or wood—he could not tell—but sharp on both edges, with a fuller running from tip to choils. It was the finest knife he had ever seen, far better than the one Lofantyl had gifted him. He stared at it, turning it in the light.
“It’s superb.”
He stared at Pyris, who said, “No more than you deserve. That lyn’nha’thall Lofantyl gave you broke in defense of Zheit honor. This will not. I fashioned it myself, and it marks our bond.”
Cullyn heard Eben gasp, and from the corner of his eye saw the ancient wizard’s smile grow wider. He sensed a tremendous honor was done him and ducked his head and sheathed the wonderful blade. “You do me too much honor, Lord Pyris.”
“No more than you deserve.” The Durrym smiled. “Now, shall you and your spokesmen follow me?”
Cullyn wondered why his mouth was so dry and his knees so weak as he went after Pyris. Eben and Laurens came after, their faces grave, as befit the ceremony.
Outside stood an escort of Zheit warriors, and beyond them, waiting, a similar squadron of Shahn, surrounding Lofantyl, who grinned and waved at Cullyn. He seemed far less nervous, and far more splendidly dressed in a tunic of oaken color above a shirt that seemed sewn from gold, so that it shimmered as he moved, belted over breeches of dawn’s dark blue, and boots of pale hide that were akin to the sun’s rising.
“Do we not both look splendid?” he called. “Who could not love us?”
Then stilled his smile as his father glowered.
Afranydyr stood beside Isydrian, and both their faces were blank, devoid of any expression save, perhaps, doubt or disapproval. Or resignation.
“Shall we go on?” Pyris asked Isydrian.
“We go on,” Isydrian said. “Honor binds us. You dictate the terms.”
Pyris ducked his head. Afranydyr scowled at Cullyn.
“Beware that one,” Laurens whispered, “for he’ll put a blade between your shoulders does he find the chance.”
“He’d be slain for that,” Eben murmured, “for Durrym honor.”
“Even so.” Laurens glowered at Afranydyr. “I’d not trust him.”
“Do you trust anyone?”
“You,” Laurens answered, “and Cullyn. Lord Bartram. Otherwise, no.”
Cullyn ignored their bickering as he strode with his escort amongst the colorful pavilions. Folk came out to cheer him on his way, and also Lofantyl. They sang, and plucked on stringed instruments, or banged gongs, or shook rattling drums, so that all the morning was filled up with sound, and birds took shrilling flight from the trees and the gurgling of the river was overcome by the sounds of celebration.
THEY CAME TO THE GREATEST PAVILION. It was tented in pale blue, like dawn’s rising or the sun’s setting. Men of the Zheit and the Shahn stood about the entrance, bearing spears and shields in honor, and behind them it seemed that all the Durrym women and their children were gathered, singing their approval of this odd double marriage.
Pyris led Cullyn into the tent, Isydrian bringing Lofantyl.
Lyandra and Abra waited for them, at the high table set at the end of the pavilion.
Cullyn gasped as he saw Lyandra. Her hair was taken up in a pile decorated with pearls and silvery filigree, a silver chain around her slender neck, from which was suspended a green gem that matched the color of her clinging gown. She was smiling demurely, and Cullyn felt his heart lurch.
Beside him, he heard Lofantyl gasp, and saw that Abra looked no less lovely. Save his eyes were fixed entirely on Lyandra, who was, he decided in that moment and all the others he’d seen her, the most desirable woman in the world. His or hers: Kandar or Coim’na Drhu, it made no difference. He loved her.
He bent his knee, unbidden, not knowing what ceremony was demanded, but only asking: “Shall you wed me?”
Her answer was firm: “Yes.”
The crowd gasped as Durrym tradition was overturned. Then gasped again as Lofantyl followed Cullyn’s example and knelt before Abra, and asked, “And shall you wed me?”
Abra lowered her head and said, softer than Lyandra, but no less surely, “Yes.”
“This is not how it’s done,” Isydrian muttered. “This is not the proper way.”
“Times change,” Pyris murmured. “Shall you argue it now?”
Isydrian sighed and shook his head. Both bridegrooms rose, grinning at one another, and were escorted onward.
They halted before the high table from which Lyandra and Abra stepped down to face their suitors. Pyris took a blue cloth woven with gold thread from his tunic; Isydrian did the same. Pyris took Lyandra’s right hand in his and held it out. Unthinking, Cullyn took her hand, and Pyris wound the ribbon about their wrists.
“Do you wed?” he asked. “Do you take you each to be one, in bed and life, forever?”
Before Cullyn could speak, Lyandra said, “I do.”
Cullyn was aware of Pyris’s bright blue eyes on him and nodded. “I do.”
He was faintly aware of Abra and Lofantyl exchanging the same simple vows. But mostly he was aware of Lyandra’s smile and the promise that rested in her eyes.
And then of the shouting that filled the pavilion, a great explosion of acclaim that seemed to come from all of them, Zheit and Shahn together, as cups were banged on the long tables and all stood in toast and approval. It was as if a war had ended and the combatants celebrated.
He wondered what he should do next, and was grateful for Lyandra’s hand in his, and Pyris’s on his shoulder as they guided him to the high table.
Mallandra sat there, beaming, her chair to Pyris’s left. Cullyn was seated beside her, Lyandra to his left, Eben and Laurens beyond her. Isydrian sat to Pyris’s right, with Lofantyl and Abra at his side, and then Afranydyr, still sullen-faced.
Pyris rose, holding a cup of blue glass set round with ivory tracework, and gestured that Isydrian join him. The Shahn lord rose slower, still reluctant. Pyris set a hand on Isydrian’s shoulder and raised his cup, smiling.
“We celebrate a great occasion. Such a thing as has never been seen before. Peace is made between Zheit and Shahn. Durrym weds Garm’kes Lyn. Perhaps even peace with Kandar. Is that not worth a feast?”
He embraced Isydrian as the pavilion exploded in approval.
Cullyn laughed and turned to Lyandra. She kissed him, but when he opened his eyes he saw Afranydyr staring at him, past Lofantyl and Abra embracing, and felt a chill.
Then the feasting began, Pyris and Isydrian urging their people to the tables, and the food was such as Cullyn had never tasted before, not even in Ky’atha Hall. There were rich soups composed of fish or meat or vegetables; hot bread basted in honey or garlic; fried fish golden in their coating of crumbs and herbs; succulent steaks and roasted fowls; whole hares, spit-roasted; venison burned over fires or served in sauces that plucked at his tongue.
It was a magnificent banquet, accompanied by far more wine than he was used to. He felt his head swim and clutched at Lyandra.
“Shall we find our bed, wife?”
She smiled and asked, “Are you ready?”
“I might disappoint you. I think I’ve drunk too much, but even so …”
“Let’s find out, eh?”
They rose and all the folk in the pavilion rose with them, and Cullyn was vaguely aware that Lofantyl and Abra also rose and quit the tent, with smiles and laughter and shouts of approval.
Laurens clapped him on the back and said, “Well done, and do it better now,” and settled back laughing.
“I wish you well,” was all Eben said.
“You’ll not come back to the tent tonight?” Cullyn asked.
And Lyandra clutched his hand tighter and said, “We’ve our own pavilion now we’re wed. Come see it, eh?”
Drunkenly, Cullyn took her hand and followed her into the night.
It was alive with song and laughter, drums and guitars and zithers, playing approving hymns to their jointure.
Lyandra brought him to a tent that was stained blue on all its edges save the canopy, which was purest white.
“The wedding tent,” she said, and brought him inside.
It was a simple canopy, but spread with luxuriant rugs across the floor, a wide bed at the center, covered with linen sheets and exotic furs. There was a brazier on which was set a kettle of mulled wine.
Cullyn gaped, and Lyandra said, “Come to bed, my husband.”
He obeyed.
NINETEEN
LORD BARTRAM SIGHED as his armor was buckled on. It had been a long time since he was engaged in battle, and the armor fit tighter now, crushing the bulges of his body so that he must suck in his belly and feel his face grow red, and wish it had not come to this. It was both an irritation and an embarrassment that his daughter had fled the keep with Lofantyl, as well as concern for her well-being. He cared for Abra. She was his only child, daughter of his long-dead wife, and he wondered how she fared. But he felt that if she had chosen to go with the Durrym, then she knew her own mind—and it should be no bad thing to see Lyth Keep allied by marriage (if that was what Lofantyl planned) to the Durrym hold. If it were other than that—he gasped as the bucklings of his armor were drawn tighter—then he’d deliver such vengeance on the seducer as would leave him unmanned and dead.
But still, he wished none of it had happened.
He sheathed his great sword and decided that he would ask Abra what she wanted—and did she choose to remain with the Durrym, then so be it. But meanwhile he was committed to this expedition; he had no other choice. He had sooner sent emissaries, but Per Fendur denied him that right, and he began to wonder who ruled in Lyth Keep now.
So he went out into the yard where his charger waited, trying not to pant as the armor pressed against him, his wife seemingly dutiful at his side. Vanysse brushed his cheek with her lips. “Farewell, husband. Bring our daughter back, eh?”
And then she was gone, smiling at Amadis. And Bartram thought, Our daughter? Surely only mine, for you’ve no great love for her.
Then he set foot to stirrup and two servants came to help him mount, and he swung astride his charger, which snapped and bucked somewhat because they’d not ridden out in too long, and Bartram suddenly felt a wild excitement that he’d not known in too many years of ease and prosperity. He was unsure what faced him, but he felt alive, younger—and that some great decision was soon to be made. So he took the reins and eased his prancing mount to the head of the column.
Amadis and Per Fendur sat there, the one in splendid, golden armor, the other in black, surmounted by a flowing cloak. Amadis carried a lance, Fendur a broad-bladed knife and no other weapons save his magic. Bartram swung his horse before them.
“I command this sortie, and you shall obey me, eh?” They ducked their heads, but their eyes gave back other answers. “So let us go find Abra, but heed me—we parley first. I’ll not foment a war if it can be avoided.”
He gestured that the gates be opened and they thundered down the road to Lyth and beyond, through the village and across the fields toward the forest that, across the Alagordar, hid Coim’na Drhu.
“THE GODS KNOW but these Durrym hold fine feasts.” Laurens lay back, rubbing at his belly and belching as he stared at the sky. “Where’s Cullyn?”
“Where do you think?” Eben rested against a down-hung willow branch. “Where do you think Abra and Lofantyl are?”
Laurens chuckled and poured himself more wine. “Oh, old man, to be young again, eh?”
“With all youth’s problems?” Eben shook his head. “It’s hard enough to grow old and find there are still problems.”
“But we’re surely settled, no?” Laurens rose on an elbow, that he might see Eben’s eyes. “We remain with Cullyn in this handsome land, liege men to the syn’qui.”
“Save for the priest,” Eben replied. “I doubt he’ll give up his pursuit.”
“Across the Barrier? He’ll surely be confused.”
“He came across before.”
“And was driven back. I doubt he’ll attempt it again.”
“Perhaps, but keep your sword sharp.”
“HERE; WE CAN CROSS HERE.”
Per Fendur indicated the ford and heeled his mount into the river.
The water was shallow, spraying up light sparkling waves beneath his mount’s hooves. Amadis followed him, and then Lord Bartram, and the warriors of Lyth, lancers and swordsmen and archers, as great a force as had crossed the Barrier since the wars.
The priest halted on the farther bank and looked around, sniffing the air, then pointed and said, “This way,” and they rode into Coim’na Drhu. Across the Alagordar—the Barrier that was no longer a barrier to the priest’s magic.
Lord Bartram felt his skin prickle as Fendur brought the war band on into the deceiving woodlands across the river, into the forest beyond the banks, and then deeper, to where new and ancient trees grew together, willows and oaks and birches and hazels all combined in impossible gatherings, with meadows filled with grass between, and strange creatures watching them from the edge of the woods. But the priest rode on confidently, aware of the power rested in him. He could see the way. He knew, as does a scented hound, where the prey had gone. And he would track it down.
But that was for another day.
This night a thin moon hung over Coim’na Drhu, a judging sickle, and the air grew chill as a wind blew up from off the river, so they made camp, hacking down trees to make their fires, setting up their tents and settling for the night. They built their fires high, ignoring fear of Durrym magic to find protection against the creatures that surrounded them, which were unfamiliar and strange.
Lord Bartram sat before a blazing fire, listening to the rustle of odd wings that flapped across the starlit sky. He wondered if the shape he saw flitting past the sickle moon was a dragon, or some gigantic bat. Sometimes they hovered above the Kandarians’ fire, and he wondered if they carried messages back to the Durrym. Crows cawed from the trees, and faces showed from the under growth and brushwood, horned and fanged, sometimes like vast bears, at others like enormous serpents that hissed a warning.
Go back!
Per Fendur stalked the perimeter of the camp, voicing incantations about each watchfire, assuring the guards that all was well, that they were engaged in holy quest—to bring back Abra and defeat the Durrym.
“What do you think?” Bartram asked Amadis. Less from interest than want of conversation to fill the frightening darkness. “Shall we succeed?”
“I place my faith in the Church,” Amadis replied. But his eyes were fixed on the rustling night. “Per Fendur guides us.”
“To what?”
“To bringing your daughter back.”
“And should she not wish to come back?”
“What choice has she?”
“We all have choices.” Bartram faced his wife’s lover. “Abra, hers; you, yours; me, mine.”
“What do you say, my lord?”
“That there must be a deciding,�
�� Bartram answered. “And soon. I cannot let this go on.”
“I do not understand,” Amadis said, protesting innocence.
Bartram returned, “You shall, soon enough.”
And then great wings flapped above them and great dark shapes filled the sky, so low that their passage gusted the fires into spiraling sparks that rose up and were then driven down by the slapping of the leathery wings.
Amadis crouched, brushing embers from his tunic. Bartram laughed and said, “I think they know we’re coming.”
And Per Fendur returned from his inspection and said, “Tomorrow, eh? They know we’re here, but do we travel by night, below the trees where these beasts cannot find us, we shall find them and deliver them the Church’s justice.”
CULLYN WOKE from contented sleep to the pounding of Lyandra’s fists. “What is it?” He rubbed lazily at his eyes.
“An alarm!” She shook his head. “Wake up!”
“What?”
“Can you not hear?”
He raised himself, preferring to put his arms around her again and go back to sleep.
“Get dressed! And quickly.”
He sat up and heard the muffled beating of great wings, a squealing in the sky. Lyandra was already tugging on her clothes. She flung him his.
“And wear that knife my father gave you, and a sword.”
“I don’t understand,” he muttered, even as he tugged on his breeches and buckled up his belt. The urgency of her tone disturbed him. “What is this?”
“A warning!” She was already dressed in the motley leathers he’d first seen her in, a blade at her side, her hair put up beneath that boyish cap. “Come, hurry.”
“I MUST GO.” Lofantyl kissed Abra and rose from their bed. “There’s peril coming for both of us.”
No less aware than Cullyn, she asked, “What peril?”
“I’ve not the time to explain,” he said. “Trust me, eh? And stay safe. Go across the river if you must, and I’ll find you later.”
And then, fastening his shirt, his sword belt flapping about his knees, he was gone.