The Shamer's War

by Lene Kaaberbøl

  “Don’t you dare!”

  And for once, Carmian and I were entirely in agreement, because she caught hold of his other arm.

  “Nico! Don’t trust him!”

  “I don’t trust him at all,” he said. “But there is one bait he might rise to. One way we might avoid having to shoot at children.”

  “And what way is that?” she asked suspiciously.

  He didn’t answer her in so many words. He just raised his voice once more.

  “Drakan. I have a suggestion for you. And a challenge.”

  A challenge?

  “Nico.”

  “Be quiet, Dina. For once in my life I know I am doing the right thing.”

  He looked directly at me. His eyes were calm and deeply blue, and I knew he wasn’t afraid anymore. Finally, I was the one who had to look away. He would not be turned from his purpose, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I had to stand there and listen, ice in my heart, while Nico challenged his half brother to a duel, man-to-man, in the Ring of Iron, the way it was the custom in the Highlands.

  Drakan had learned enough about Highland ways to know what that meant: What starts here, ends here. No aid, no hindrance, no revenge. Nico would come face-to-face with Drakan, yes. Without having to fight his way through a line of children with weapons in their hands. But if Drakan killed Nico, he could leave the Ring a free man, and no Highlander would try to stop him.

  “Are you really that brave, little Nico?”

  “Who is hiding now? In an hour, Drakan. In the Ring of Iron. Just you and me.”

  Carmian dropped her bow in the snow and put her hands over her ears, like a child who doesn’t want to hear the end of a scary tale. I had never seen her do anything so childlike before. But whether or not we heard the words, they had still been said. And it wasn’t long before the answer came back to us from behind the closed ranks of the child soldiers.

  “It will be my pleasure. But know this, little Nico: It will end only in death.”

  “That was the plan,” said Nico.

  DAVIN

  Man-to-Man

  Stamped snow. A circle of swords pounded into the snow. From sword to sword, a rope. That was the way the Ring of Iron looked for Drakan and Nico. Nothing as refined as the Ring they had at Baur Laclan; this was simple, I thought. As simple as death.

  Nico raised his shield. It was a new one, made for him by Dina’s friend Tano, with the Raven of his family House on it, and it was the only part of his fighting gear that was his. Astor Skaya had offered him his own chain mail, but Nico had refused. It was more hindrance than gain, he said, when one wasn’t used to the weight of it. Instead he wore Skaya’s scarred old leather armor. The sword was Callan’s, and the helmet one that the Weapons Master had loaned him.

  I caught a glimpse of Nico’s dark blue eyes across the rim of the Raven shield. He looked determined, yes, but… but still somehow unwilling. Even now. Even now, he hated this.

  “Do it, Nico!” I muttered. “Pull yourself together! It’s not enough to be brave enough to enter the Ring, you also have to have the guts to fight!”

  “What is the matter with the boy?” said Callan. “If he wants to win, he has to fight with a will.”

  Drakan, too, seemed to sense Nico’s reluctance. He put back his head and laughed.

  “Poor little Nico,” he said, lazily confident. “You’re so much more the clerk than the swordsman, aren’t you? This is almost a shame.”

  And then he lunged, so suddenly that a hiss went through the audience, and slashed at Nico’s legs.

  Nico leaped aside.

  “At least the lad is quick on his feet,” commented Ivain.

  But quickness would not be enough, I knew.

  When I heard about the duel, I was sitting on a box in the barbican feeling like myself for the first time in months. The fever was gone. And the dream that had haunted us all in the night, somehow it had taken me more gently than the others. Was it because I was my mother’s son and had lived with the Shamer’s gift all my life? That was part of it, perhaps, but I thought it was more than that.

  “You look better,” said Rose. “Is your fever gone?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me, a sidelong glance that seemed… well, if it had been anyone other than Rose, I would have called it shy.

  “Is there room for more than one on that box?”

  Surprised, I moved over. “Go ahead.”

  “I… I heard that… is it true that Drakan forced you to drink the dragon blood? To make you do what he told you to do?”

  “I suppose so. The first time, anyway.”

  But the other times, no one had forced it down my throat.

  “You’re not doing it anymore though, are you?”

  “The dragon is dead, so no.”

  But even if it hadn’t been, right now, the Whisperers were silent. And suddenly I knew why I felt so much better.

  So many people feared my mother and my sister—and now more than ever. But once you had been in the clutches of the Educators, once you had spent a night in the Hall of the Whisperers, then you knew the difference. Because Mama and Dina might be terrifyingly good at making people feel ashamed, but they did not try to make you hate yourself. They did not try to break you, to crush you until there was nothing left of the person you once were. All they wanted was for you to remember and accept what you had done—and make a different choice the next time.

  Mama was no Educator, far from it. I think the dream I had had in the night had finally shut those whispering voices down. I now no longer had to listen to their incessant accusations that nothing I had ever done was enough, that nothing could be forgiven, that nothing could be made right. I might have made stupid mistakes in my life, but I didn’t have to hate myself. Only learn from those mistakes and do better next time.

  “Why are you smiling?” asked Rose.

  It took me a few moments to find the words.

  “Remember when Killian put my foot back into joint?”

  She shuddered. “Oh yes. It was horrible.”

  “Not afterward. Afterward, it felt right. For the first time in a very long time. And that’s the way my head feels now. As if something has been out of joint, but now it’s been put right.”

  She stared at me. “You’re crazy.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can stop agreeing with me too!”

  “Would you rather fight?”

  “Yes.” There was a looking-for-trouble glint to her eyes that I had come to recognize. “Actually!”

  I moved a little closer to her. Even through all the thick winter clothes, I could feel the warmth of her. Would she get mad if I tried to kiss her? And wasn’t it wrong to kiss your foster sister? Even if you really, really wanted to?

  And that was the moment Ivain chose to walk—no, run—into the barbican.

  “Where is Callan?”

  “In the sick bay.”

  “Can he stand?”

  “Just about, yes. Why?”

  “Because that Ravens boy has challenged Drakan to a duel. In the Ring of Iron. And for some reason the lad wants to apologize to Callan for something first. Just in case.”

  Drakan did most of the attacking. Blow by blow he drove Nico round the Ring while Nico parried with his sword or shield, or turned away at the last moment. Quick on his feet, yes… and that will keep you alive for a while. But if he didn’t soon start to attack as well…

  High above the pass, the sky was gray as slate, but now and then a sliver of sunlight escaped the clouds. It sparkled on the snow and glinted in the blades and on Nico’s shield. Suddenly I saw Carmian, on the other side of the Ring. Her face was completely expressionless, but around her was an odd little space as if people knew, even in this throng, that it was better not to get too close to her.

  Claaaang. Sword against sword. Nico blocked Drakan’s sweep and twisted quickly to one side. And suddenly he did attack, a lightning-quick backhand stroke that caught Drakan fl
at-footed. He saved himself with a hasty parry, the first sight of uncertainty that he had shown. But then he leaped clear and regained his balance.

  “Well, well!” he said, only slightly out of breath. “So the mouse has teeth. It wants to play with the cat.”

  Nico said nothing. Normally, he liked it best when he could do his fighting with words, but he had not uttered a single sound since he entered the Ring.

  He advanced on Drakan. Drakan tried a head strike. Nico caught it on the shield, but Drakan pressed forward until they were body to body, with only the shields between them.

  I couldn’t see what happened. There was a sort of gasp from Nico, but when they broke away from each other, it was Drakan’s shield that dropped to the ground.

  “What happened?” I asked. Drakan was backing now, away from Nico. He made no attempt to pick up his fallen shield, but instead kept as much distance from Nico as he could. And was that blood on his hand? Yes. His shield hand was definitely bloody. Was that why he wasn’t attacking anymore?

  But if he didn’t attack, Nico certainly did. Suddenly, he had thrown caution to the winds. He charged forward as if all that mattered was to hit Drakan, as if it was no longer important that he himself might be hit as well.

  “There is blood in the snow,” said Callan suddenly. “Which of them is it?”

  “I think it’s Drakan,” I said. “His shield hand.” Was that why Nico was attacking so furiously?

  But suddenly Nico stumbled. For no visible reason. On the other side of the Ring, I saw Carmian raise her knuckles to her mouth, as if fighting to hold back a cry.

  “Is he tiring?” asked Ivain. “He looks a bit wobbly.”

  “No,” I said. “Something is wrong.” Nico didn’t tire this easily, I knew that from our bouts in Maudi’s barn.

  Drakan had seen it too. He stopped retreating. It was obvious now that this was what he had been waiting for.

  “Are you tired, little Nico?” he asked gently. “Would you like to sleep? Come here, then. I’ll let you rest.”

  Nico could barely hold up his shield, and I saw his sword arm twitch as if with spasms. The borrowed helmet slid into his eyes, and when he pushed it back, it came off entirely. But his eyes… the reluctance, the dangerous hesitation, all that was gone. Only determination was left. And if I were Drakan—

  “Come on, Nico,” I whispered. “Just one good strike.”

  Drakan picked up his fallen shield. Then he advanced, and something in the way he moved told me that this would be the last attack. He didn’t try to slip past Nico’s parries, he just pounded them, hammering at him, the shield, the sword, blow after blow, while Nico had to stagger back, stagger and fall.

  “No!”

  Carmian’s voice cut through the noise, but she was not the only one shouting. Because if Drakan killed Nico—

  But Nico wasn’t done yet. His sword came sweeping around in a flat arc, just above the snow, and suddenly it was Drakan’s turn to stagger. He dropped to one knee, his boot oddly split. Nico’s desperate slash must have cut the hamstring, I thought. And now Nico threw himself forward, bearing Drakan to the ground with him. For a moment they lay still, Nico half on top of Drakan, pinning him more with his weight than with any controlled effort. And I saw that Nico had his sword at Drakan’s throat.

  “Do it,” I hissed between my teeth. “What are you waiting for?”

  And then I heard Drakan’s voice, cool and drawling as if he were the one on top.

  “Lost your nerve after all, little Nico? I thought so. Just like last time.”

  “No,” said Nico. “I may be stupid. But not that stupid.”

  The sword came down. And Drakan said nothing more.

  Some people were cheering. Not me. I ducked under the rope and made for Nico’s side.

  “Nico? Nico, what’s wrong?”

  He wasn’t getting up. He looked as if he would never get up again.

  “What happened?” Carmian was on her knees next to him. “Nico, what happened?”

  Nico didn’t say anything. He was busy trying to breathe. It was Callan who found the answer: a bloody knife in the snow, a knife with a dragon hilt.

  “He had a dagger,” said Callan. “He let go of his shield in order to use it. That was why there was blood on his hand. Not his, but Nico’s.”

  “And that was why Drakan had no reason to take any more risks,” I said bitterly. “All he had to do was to stay clear and wait until Nico collapsed with the blood loss.”

  Dina was suddenly in the Ring of Iron too, her face stiff and pale with shock.

  “Davin,” she said, “he… where is he hit?”

  Ivain had already drawn his own knife to cut away the leather armor. Nico muttered some half-choked protest.

  “Just taking a look, lad,” said Callan. “It might feel worse than it is.”

  But when we got the armor off him, we could see that his shirt was soaked with blood all down one side. Callan cursed.

  “Through the armpit,” he said. “That is the kind of wound that’s—” He caught Dina’s scared glance and changed what he was going to say. “Not so good.”

  Carmian turned away. She stood with her back to us and her head bowed, as if it was no longer any concern of hers. But I had heard her voice when Nico fell, and I didn’t think she was as unconcerned as she looked.

  “Mama can help him,” said Dina. “Get him inside. It is too cold out here.”

  Nico was still conscious. His breathing was sodden and troubled, and his face was not just pale, it was grayish white. His lips were blue now, like a child that has stayed too long in the water.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked, and then felt like kicking myself.

  “Stupid… question,” whispered Nico. Four Skayas lifted him onto a stretcher, and he hissed with pain and closed his eyes. “Actually… I’d like it… to stop now.”

  They carried him inside, and Mama chased us all out, all except Dina and Rose, who were used to assisting her. I limped around the barbican, kicking at the snow with my good foot. Why the hell hadn’t he been more careful? He had learned how to fight an opponent armed with sword and dagger. But he thought he had been fighting a man with a sword and a shield.

  I paced the barbican for a while. Then I went outside. And then I went all the way back to the Ring of Iron, where Drakan was still lying in the snow, surrounded by a string of onlookers. Callan was there too, looking almost as if he was guarding the body, though I couldn’t see why.

  “What does your mama say about Nico?” he asked.

  “Nothing yet,” I said, not knowing whether that was good or bad. I nodded to Obain, who was standing with a couple of his fellow Arlain fishermen.

  “What about this devil?” said Obain, with a jerk of his head toward Drakan.

  “The eagles can eat him for all I care,” I said through my teeth.

  But Callan shook his head. “No,” he said. “We are decent people. Carry him into the sick bay and put a guard on the door. We do not want to tempt the clans.”

  “To do what?”

  “Many have suffered,” said Callan. “But to avenge oneself on a dead man, that is no good revenge, and afterward they would feel shamed by it.”

  I thought it horribly unfitting for Drakan’s body to lie so close to the bed where Nico was fighting for his life. But when Callan said something in that tone of voice, there was no disobeying him. I had learned that lesson a long time ago.

  Later that evening, Dina came out.

  “Get Carmian,” she said, and her voice was so thin and tired and scared that I grew even more afraid than I was already.

  “Why?” I asked, more sharply than I had meant to. “What does he want with her?”

  “He wants to talk to her. Davin, just do it. And please hurry.”

  Carmian stood on the castle wall looking out across the snow and the mud and the thousands of people who were still out there, crouching by their little fires, freezing cold but also strangely paralyzed.


  “Look at them,” she said. “There’s no one to tell them what to do, so now they do nothing. It’s like they can barely breathe without being told how to do it.”

  Her voice was as bitter as hemlock, and she looked like a ghost. I had never seen her so pale.

  “He wants to talk to you,” I said.

  “Oh, he does, does he? I’m not so sure I want to talk to some damn fool who can’t even dodge a stupid knife.”

  “He didn’t know that Drakan—”

  But she was already moving down the steps, so apparently she didn’t really mean what she said.

  I sneaked into the sick bay on her heels. I could well understand why Mama and Dina needed to be left alone while they were working, but surely by now they had finished binding Nico’s wounds? And if they were letting Carmian in, I felt I had a right. After all, he was my friend too.

  Nico wasn’t flat on his back the way I had imagined; instead, they had supported him so that he was almost sitting up. And as soon as I entered, I heard the hoarse, rattling wheeze of his breath. I could feel my own breath catch in sympathy; it was not a nice sound, and I almost regretted going in there. Why did he sound like that? Had the knife gone into his lung?

  He might die, then.

  I couldn’t keep the thought from entering my mind, it pushed its way in even though I didn’t want it. He is strong, I told myself instead. And the knife wasn’t that long, was it? But I remembered seeing it in the snow, a dark metal shadow, bloody almost to the hilt.

  Carmian looked down on him.

  “Idiot,” she told him. But not very loudly.

  “Yes,” he panted. “Sorry. But. Drakan. Is. Dead.”

  He could only gasp out the words one by one, as if each one was a whole sentence. It made it difficult to understand what he was saying.

  “Oh yes? And what do you expect me to do? Cheer? Clap my hands? Invite everyone to a party?” There was still that anger in her voice, as if he had done something unforgivable. And I might have wanted to call Nico an idiot myself and curse him for not having defended himself better, but what was the use of all that now?