Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  Rykan’s mirth ceased abruptly. “Show me this ridiculous law!”

  Gaslek handed his parchment to Vanyr, who carried it to Rykan. The Duke snatched it, scanning it quickly. Realizing its validity, fury flooded his face. “Majesty, I protest! Where is the precedence for this?”

  “What’s your problem, Rykan?” said Anjer. “His Majesty makes his own precedent, as well you know. It should be enough for you that the protocol exists. You have two choices. Accept the challenge or renounce your rank.”

  Rykan glared, trapped into a situation he had not foreseen. His rage at being thwarted yet again spiraled dangerously. Just then, Sonten leaned forward and whispered in his overlord’s ear. Rykan’s temper cooled visibly. He regarded Anjer, a calculating look in his eye. The unpleasant smile reappeared as he addressed the Hierarch.

  “And what will you wager on this challenge, Majesty?”

  Pharikian studied the arrogant man. His lips quirked. “Andaryon’s throne, of course.”

  Eyes narrowing in hungry triumph, Rykan said, “Then I accept your challenge.” He cast a satisfied glance at Sonten before turning to stare at Anjer. “So, Anjer, you and I are to meet under arms at last, eh?”

  The Lord General shook his head. “Regrettably no, Rykan. Much as I would appreciate the chance to put an end to your arrogance, I must forego that pleasure. However, I declare your acceptance of his Majesty’s challenge duly Witnessed.”

  Rykan frowned and Sonten’s brow also creased. Sullyan felt herself tense and knew her face was white, her eyes huge as she anticipated the Hierarch’s call.

  Rykan stared round the party, dismissing both Ephan and Kryp with disdain. Then his eye fell on Vanyr and his assurance returned. “Well, well, Vanyr, don’t tell me you volunteered for this position? I thought you stayed comfortably behind your Citadel walls these days after that last beating I gave you. As I remember, I sent you running like a whipped cur.”

  Vanyr’s face paled dangerously and his whole body stiffened. Sullyan saw Robin’s start of surprise. He glanced quickly at her, but she didn’t react. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Despite his anger at Rykan’s taunt, Vanyr mastered himself enough to reply levelly.

  “I’m afraid I must disappoint you also, my Lord, for there is one here more worthy than I to be your opponent.”

  His choice of words amazed Sullyan and she eyed him. But Rykan was losing patience with the game and he rounded angrily on the Hierarch.

  “If not Anjer or Vanyr, then who? Who else in your forces has the skill at arms—not to mention the metaphysical prowess—to stand against me?”

  The Hierarch spoke calmly and Rykan suddenly stilled.

  “There is one among my court whom you have deeply wronged, Rykan. One who is your equal both in power and sword skills, one who is deserving of the chance for retribution, and one I am very proud to name my Champion.”

  This speech clearly puzzled Rykan, aware as he was of the skills of the men in the Hierarch’s court. When Pharikian turned in his saddle to beckon Sullyan forward, both pirates and Velletian Guard parting to afford her passage, Rykan failed to recognize her. The dark uniform she wore and the hood of her cloak covering her tawny hair disguised even her sex until she came closer. With a veneer of serenity hiding the rising tide of panic within her, she rode forward to confront her most visceral nightmare.

  She walked her horse toward the dark lord, her eyes never leaving his. Mercifully, the Hierarch’s shielding held even this close, and she could concentrate on hiding her panic. Halting before him, she made herself relax, one hand lightly on the reins, the other resting on the pommel of her saddle. Drawing back her hood, her expression unreadable, she said, “My Lord Duke, I am the Hierarch’s Champion.”

  The puzzlement on Rykan’s handsome face changed swiftly through suspicion to recognition and fear. His eyes wide with shock, he glared from Pharikian to Sullyan. Hissing through his teeth, he snarled, “You, you little witch? That traitor Marik told me you were dead!”

  She allowed herself a tiny smile. “As you see, my Lord, he lied.”

  Rykan gathered himself with an effort, barely controlling his fury at seeing her alive and still in possession of the powers he coveted so.

  “Well, you obviously can’t keep away! Did you so enjoy my hospitality and favors that you’ve come to beg for more? I know you never had a man before I took you, so is that it, girl? None of these men can satisfy you like I did, eh?”

  She heard Vanyr’s shocked gasp. The white-eyed Commander was one of the few who hadn’t yet heard the truth of Rykan’s abuse. His face went tight with fury and muscles jumped along his jaw. Although her own eyes darkened with remembered pain, she was able to hide her rising disgust.

  “As you well know, my Lord, I experienced no pleasure whatsoever in the duress of your company, unless you count my extreme gratification at denying you what you so brutally tried to take.”

  Her words inflamed Rykan, and Anjer moved forward to protect her should the need arise. However, the infuriated Duke contented himself with words.

  “You should have died at my hands, and I should have slaughtered that whining traitor Marik when I had the chance! You would never have escaped without his help.”

  “On the contrary, my Lord, it was your overweening confidence that allowed my friends to rescue me, and it has brought you to this pass. I shall take great pleasure in acting as his Majesty’s Champion tomorrow.”

  This statement froze Rykan’s temper. Glaring furiously, he decided to try another tack.

  “Majesty, surely you can’t be serious in appointing this … this … girl … as your Champion? Look at her! She’s not half my height, she’s female, and she’s not even from our realm!” Grasping at this loophole, he stated, “I’m sure I am not bound by Andaryan law to accept an opponent not of our race.” He glared at Gaslek, daring him to refute this assertion from his parchment.

  The Hierarch was silent. They hadn’t discussed this valid objection and he had no ready answer. Sullyan saw Gaslek frown and knew Rykan was right. There was nothing in the Codes to cover this. It was up to her to save the situation. Forestalling whatever reply Pharikian might have given, she caught Rykan’s attention again.

  “My Lord, would you be so kind as to give us your definition of ‘race’?”

  He swung back to her, fury sparking in his eyes. “Well, obviously, someone who was born in this realm and has Andaryan blood running through their veins!”

  Very deliberately, she leaned forward. “And you would accept a Champion who fulfilled those criteria?”

  He laughed. “Of course!”

  She turned to Anjer and he responded.

  “Heard and Witnessed.”

  Rykan scowled, suspecting he had somehow been outmaneuvered but was unable to see the joke. Sullyan enlightened him.

  “My Lord Duke, I fulfill your criteria on both counts. I was born here, in the Citadel behind me, and I have the blood of Pharikian’s House running through my veins. I trust that satisfies you?”

  There was deathly silence from Rykan, who stared at Sullyan in shock. Then he rounded furiously on the Hierarch.

  “I refuse to believe this! How is it possible? She’s Albian. It is a trick of some kind!”

  “It is no trick, my Lord,” snapped Sullyan, more confident now that Rykan’s veneer of calm was shattered. “How it happened is none of your concern. What matters is that it is true. Your acceptance of my position as Champion has been Witnessed, therefore it remains only to settle the time and the place. My second will finalize the details. I bid you good day.”

  Wheeling her horse, she showed Rykan her back and rode stiffly through the ranks of Velletian Guard. The pirates once more closed around her, murmuring their approval. As she returned to his side, Robin gripped her arm, clearly worried by her pallor and the way her body trembled, but he was the only one who noticed. She turned to watch the final scene of this act.

  Fuming and helpless, Rykan was left facing
the mildly enquiring look on Anjer’s face and the outright satisfaction on the Hierarch’s. Once again, he was defeated and he knew it. But his eyes were coldly calculating as he allowed Anjer and his own second, Sonten, to set a time of one hour before midday on the morrow, agreeing to conduct the duel outside the Citadel’s southern gates. Sullyan shivered as his gaze tore through her once more. Then, summoning Sonten, he viciously neck-reined his stallion and spurred it back to his tent.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Safely back inside the Palace courtyard, Sullyan dismounted and clung to her stirrup until her legs felt they might hold her again. The trembling reaction that had set in once the confrontation with Rykan was over hadn’t abated, and she felt dizzy and weak. She saw Robin fling Torka’s reins at a passing groom and hurry over to help her. Gently, his arm slipped about her waist.

  “Are you alright?”

  She shook her head, trying to stay upright as Anjer and Pharikian approached.

  “That was very well done, Brynne,” said the Hierarch, taking her hand and studying her face. “The shielding obviously worked.” At Robin’s unspoken protest he said, “No, Captain, she’s only exhausted. Where are those huge twins?” He looked about for either Almid or Kester and beckoned one of them over. He could never tell them apart, but it was Almid who swept her off her feet and carried her toward the Palace doors. She vaguely heard the Hierarch telling Robin to let her rest, saying they would meet again that evening to talk over the preparations for the next day.

  Almid carried her swiftly back to the suite and laid her on the bed. She was already nearly asleep, so the bearded giant helped her remove her cloak, jacket and boots. Then he covered her with the goose down comforter and retreated. She slept, not knowing whether he stayed or left.

  *****

  Rienne was sitting with her head tucked into Cal’s shoulder, his left arm tight around her waist. A fit of hysterical sobbing had left her exhausted. Cal, frightened by the intensity of her crying, used his right hand to soothingly stroke her hair. Bull and Taran, both concerned, sat by their fire, huddled in their cloaks against the winter chill. Bull’s face was somber and Taran stared into the flames, wishing there was something he could do. The nearer the time came to the meeting between Sullyan and Rykan, the more helpless they all felt.

  Rienne sighed and eased away from Cal’s embrace. She glanced across at Bull.

  “So, this time tomorrow it’ll all be settled, one way or the other. What realistic chance does she have, Bull?”

  Taran winced. Rienne’s tone was matter of fact, her exhaustion mysteriously gone. The big man beside him narrowed his eyes, clearly reluctant to answer.

  “Of defeating Rykan by the sword?”

  Rienne nodded.

  “Normally I’d say pretty fair, unless he’s extraordinarily good. And even then she’d stand a reasonable chance.” He paused. “It all depends on what physical strength she’s got left. These are not normal circumstances. I’m not sure I like the sound of this sharing of life force.”

  An hour earlier, Bull had communed with Robin. The Captain had told them everything that had happened that morning, as well as the previous evening. Taran listened in as usual, but as he couldn’t understand much of what Robin said, it was left to Bull to explain. The Hierarch’s offer to share life force had at first cheered Rienne, who thought it meant that Sullyan couldn’t possibly fail. But then Bull revealed the full implications, and Rienne’s hope died, sparking her fit of crying.

  Taran was still confused. “But don’t the rules of formal combat forbid the use of metaphysical force? As I understand it, if they agree on swords, then it’s swords and nothing else.”

  “You’re right,” said Bull, “she wouldn’t be able to use metaforce once the bout commenced. I think the Hierarch intends for her to draw physical strength from what they give her, rather than metaphysical. There’ll be no link with any of them once the duel starts.”

  “That’s going to be very hard on Robin,” murmured Rienne.

  Bull nodded. “It won’t be easy on any of us.”

  He fell silent, his right hand slowly massaging his left arm. There was an unfamiliar breathlessness about his voice as he spoke, and Taran thought his face, usually so florid, looked a little grey. He considered mentioning it to Rienne, but changed his mind. Maybe it was a trick of the watery sun. Rienne had enough to think about right now. Poking the fire with a stick, Taran kept his concerns to himself.

  + + + + +

  Robin left Sullyan to sleep for as long as she could. The noon meal came and passed, and still she didn’t stir. Unable to rest, the Captain went to sit with Marik. The Count was looking much better for being allowed out of bed, even if it was only to a chair by the window. His arm and shoulder were still strapped and he was under strict orders not to move his legs or twist his spine if he could possibly help it. Idrimar was usually on hand to ensure he obeyed the physicians’ commands, but Marik had no desire to undo all their hard work.

  He had received an unexpected visit from the Hierarch shortly after midday. Robin was incredulous when he heard the news. “He’s making you a what?”

  “I know, I know,” said Marik, a huge grin on his face. “I can’t believe it myself. He’s only doing it for Idri, of course, but never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever be a Duke.”

  Robin eyed him slyly. “You do realize, don’t you, that once you marry her, you’ll be second in line to the throne?”

  “Oh, gods!” Marik’s face paled and his grey eyes darkened in shock. “I never even thought of that.”

  Robin let the idea sink in before asking, “Have you ever met Pharikian’s Heir?”

  “No! Bloody hell, Robin, what if he doesn’t like me?”

  “It’s his sister you’ll be marrying, Ty, not him.”

  Marik grimaced. “Well, if he’s anything like her, we’ll get on just fine. And she’s a year older, so even if he is the Heir, she should be able to keep him in line.”

  Robin snorted. “It’s what she’ll do to keep you in line that you ought to worry about!”

  Marik smiled maliciously. “Is that the voice of experience? Yes, I’ll bet Brynne Sullyan keeps you on your toes.”

  Robin grinned, then sobered. He simply couldn’t forget his fear of tomorrow’s duel. He felt he was being disloyal if he allowed his doubts to surface, but the fact was Sullyan wasn’t anything like as fit as she should be, whereas Rykan was hale, hearty, and twice as strong. A nightmare image of the darkly handsome lord abusing the tortured Sullyan kept surfacing behind his eyes.

  Marik, who had witnessed it for real, understood what the younger man was feeling.

  “Have faith in her, Robin,” he urged, putting his good hand on Robin’s arm. “Just as she had in you when she was waiting in that filthy cell. She never doubted you for a moment, you know, and you must do the same for her.”

  The young man raised pain-filled eyes and drew a deep breath. He poured fellan for them both and they sat in companionable silence, looking out over the inner courtyard while awaiting Idrimar’s return.

  + + + + +

  Sullyan woke around mid-afternoon and lay cocooned in warmth and comfort, fervently wishing she could stay there forever. Her brain kept replaying the morning’s meeting with Rykan, over and over again, and she couldn’t turn away from it. The effort of keeping her composure while forcing down the panic and revulsion she felt on facing him again had exacted a heavy price from her depleted strength.

  Only a few more hours, she told herself. Only a few more, and then you can rest. Maybe forever.

  Strangely, she was finding the thought of dying less terrifying than before. Her anguished struggles of the past few weeks now seemed as futile as trying to stop the sunrise. She suddenly realized she could actually welcome the thought of oblivion.

  It wasn’t the first time. She had felt this once before, after Rykan’s final malicious rape. She had lain alone in the uncaring darkness, naked, broken, and strangely devoid o
f emotion. His triumphant revelation, grunting out his plans at the climax of his brutal passion, was the catalyst that finally pushed her over the edge. She had decided then that oblivion was preferable to this desperate struggle for survival. Now, knowing what she faced, it was once again an oddly soothing thought, and she let it flow through her mind.

  Suddenly, unbidden, an image thrust this thought aside. It was an image of her mother, lying in this very room, fighting to give life to her child. Sharply drawn, it hung with startling clarity before her mind’s eye. Her mother’s face was ashen and etched with lines of pain, but her eyes held her daughter’s firmly. Sullyan’s lethargy began to recede and the thought that Rykan had already defeated her made her furiously angry. Who was he to hold such power over her? The image of her mother wavered and vanished as her skin grew hot with rage, and she stoked the fire of her anger with memories of Rykan’s evil. Whatever the outcome of their duel, she would somehow exact retribution.

  The decision galvanized her. Rising, she dressed in her normal combat leathers. She had to cinch her sword belt much tighter than usual, and this also fuelled her fury. She had always been proud of her trim figure, honed and smoothed by years of physical activity. Now she was aware of prominent hip bones and angular shoulder blades and knew what Robin thought when he looked at her thin body. The deep and powerful love they had allowed themselves to embrace was far too precious for a man like Rykan to destroy, and the knowledge that his evil had already touched her love heightened her ire still further.

  Striding purposefully from the suite, trailed by the faithful Almid, she went in search of distraction.

  Around the barracks, the Velletian Guard went about their duties. The forces still beyond the curtain walls were occupied in burning their dead, raising huge pyres for the corpses. The Plains before the Citadel would be scarred for months—maybe years—to come.