by Ru Emerson
'Nisana, now what? It is as Lisabetha said, and as I feared, and now what do we do?’
'There is a way,’ Nisana replied. ‘And we will find it. The folk love you, hold to that. And trust!’ Lisabetha laid a hand on Grewl's sleeve. At the moment she was fully Corlin's daughter. “Father, is there no recourse?”
Grewl thought again, a long, tense silence. “He says sooth. No one can be held to battle where there may be treachery of any kind, or where the parties are poorly matched.”
“But, then—”
“A moment.” Grewl held up a hand for silence. “When the Lady Leffna came to the Plain, she and the folk of the Island Nedao, they came early against the Tehlatta and their enemy, the Llhaza.” Ylia turned to stare at him. What had this to do with Vess? “A duel was set between the chief of the Llhaza and the chief of Nedao, setting against the outcome the ownership of that part of the Plain that was Koderra and south to the sea. But that chief would not fight a woman, lest he bring shame to his clan by the very act. The Queen named her brother champion, as proxy to battle in her stead.”
Marhan caught at her arms, spun her around to face the anxious, waiting folk before she realized the import of the old man's words, and he cried out, “What says Nedao? Shall a champion be found?” A great roar of answer came back: “AYE!!” And Brelian knelt at her feet, blade borne up in his hands. “Name me, my Lady!”
She reached to take the sword, kissed the hilts and gave it back to him. “I do so name you, Brelian, son of Broln, henceforth champion to me and my House!” Her voice gathered strength as she spoke, cut through the babble and subdued it. She turned back to Vess, who looked as dazed as she felt by the swift events. “Accept my thanks, for having aided my people in their need. But your role here has ended, and as one of the Third Circle you are less fitted to lead those gathered here. Since you do not willingly relinquish what you have usurped, for that cause do I give you challenge.” She paused. “Since you fear to do battle with me, you shall fight my champion.” She closed the distance between them, dropped her voice so that none but Vess could hear her next words. “Yours to choose, cousin. Will the folk of Nedao tolerate a proven coward as King? However great his guard?”
Vess glared at her, but he knew the truth of it: refuse to fight her, and he might deal for some time with a disgruntled people. But refuse to fight Brelian, and his own men would drive him from Aresada or slay him. She could almost see the thoughts slipping through his mind as he reached the one choice left him.
“I do accept challenge,” he said finally. His voice was harsh; he cleared his throat. “And I shall fight this man of yours, letting the throne of Nedao-that-was rest upon the outcome. By all the forms I shall abide, asking that your man abide by them also.”
“I shall,” Brelian said quietly. Vess glared at him, but he was rallying rapidly. With reason: he had been accounted one of Nedao's greatest swordsmen. Brelian, by contrast, was painfully young—too young, Vess’ appraising eye judged, to be much threat.
“I further ask,” Vess continued, “that the Chosen watch over the battle, that the rules be preserved and that there be no interference of any kind. That the outcome be without doubt.” ‘He means us!’ Nisana's thought was dryly amused.
Brelian inclined his head. “That is just and fair. I agree.” He turned away; Marhan and Golsat bore him off, Levren close behind. But when Ylia would have followed, Vess caught at her shoulder.
“I see you have brought back my sweet Lisabetha,” he smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “I did not really think she would aid me as I wanted. But then, it was worth the chance. It would have been nice, if she had.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” The smile widened. “She may stay after I kill the boy and exile you.”
“Likely she would rather starve with the rest of us,” Ylia replied flatly.
“Oh, I doubt that. She was ever pliant, my pretty Lisabetha. A sweet child, though not overly bright. But then, that was never required of women.” His gaze lingered on her. “It is a pity. You have beauty, and such a form as to set a man singing. Sweet Lady. A pity you were never interested in what I could have offered you. But, perhaps we can settle this matter more amiably. Come, what say you?”
Ylia looked at him with open loathing. “I would kill you now, this instant.”
He laughed quietly. “You think so, don't you? Except that even if you would kill, even if your skill permitted, you dare not kill me, lest stupid temper ruin your standing with these folk. Is it so important to you? Brandt's crown?”
“As important as it is to you, for better reasons.”
“Is it? I doubt that. But, come. We could share it, you and I.” He laughed lazily. A long, smooth hand reached for her fingers.
“If you touch me, I will not be responsible for what I do. Know that!”
He shook his head. “You have that much in common with other women, at least. You all speak so fiercely, and do not mean half the things you say.”
“Oh?” And as he took another step; she struck him, hard, with the flat of her hand. The smile was wiped from his eyes in an instant. He dabbed at a cut lip with the back of his hand. Over it, his eyes were tight and ugly.
“You will regret that.”
“I warned you.”
“You need not count on starving anywhere,” Vess whispered. “You know the fate of traitors. Those who seek to overthrow an established rule. I will take great pleasure in your death, cousin.”
She smiled, knowing it would anger him most. “Count yourself fortunate I do not call that fate down upon you, Vess. I leave you to my champion's sword.” She turned and strode after Brelian and Marhan. Her palm tingled; a bad taste filled her mouth.
And so I fulfilled my own vow to Scythia, that I would save her beloved daughter's life and return her safely to her folk. That she knew I had done so, that the girl's father knew as well, I never doubted.
35
Torches had been brought in; the walls of the chamber were now visible through a slight smoke haze. But there was a good draft somewhere high above; the air was stuffy but breathable.
Ylia turned back, but Vess had vanished along with his dagger-sworn. She gazed around the chamber, searching for familiar faces—there. Brelian stood in the midst of a crowd, not far away. Golsat was helping him from his mail, Marhan and Levren were speaking earnestly, though it could not have been possible for him to take in their advice since all three spoke at once.
Lisabetha—there. Malaeth and Nisana were with her, three lengths from Brelian and his well-wishers. The girl's eyes were enormous and dark against a pale face; Malaeth whispered against her ear and she nodded, but the strained look did not leave her. She would not even glance in Brel's direction.
Ylia pressed through the crowd to his side. The folk parted as she moved forward, hands touched her arm, her shoulder, the edge of her tattered cloak. She reached the inner circle at last, slipped under Levren's arm.
Marhan glanced up, scowled, went back to his nearsighted appraisal of Brelian's sword. Golsat was rubbing the dagger against his polishing stone.
“Brelian—” Ylia began. He gripped her arm.
“They have told me already what they know of his style of fighting, and I myself have seen him.” There was a grim intensity to his words, but his spirits were high and this clearly was no simple matter of revenge for Lisabetha. “I need from you,” he added with a smile, “only your wishes for luck.”
She leaned forward, kissed his cheek. “Yours, Brel. That was bravely done, champion. The Mothers guide your blades!” The light in his dark face told her she had said the right thing. She pressed back through the crowd to Malaeth.
The old nurse's lips were thinned with disapproval. “Now what happens?” she whispered loudly. “That Vess—your father should have shipped him off years ago, I say! Or thrown him in a sack and then into the River!”
“I agree,” Ylia replied grimly. She looked at the palm of her hand—it was
still mottled red from the force of the blow—rubbed it against her breeches. Ugh. Vess hove briefly into view; Ylia moved swiftly, thrust Lisabetha behind her. “But then, who can say what would have happened if Father had exiled him when he had the chance? Unprofitable to read the past, you know that.” Malaeth scowled at her, mumbled under her breath, finally subsided.
Save to one who knew her well, Lisabetha appeared cool, even calm. But her fingers were shredding the edge of her cloak. And when Ylia touched her arm, she jumped.
“Lisabetha, trust me. This will fall out well.”
“I should not have told him—I should not have had the old Father speak for us—”
“No. He fights for you also, ‘Betha. But who else should have championed my cause? Only Brendan. And he is dead.” Her eyes met Ylia's then, concern and worry pulling her from more immediate fears. “No, it is all right. I am all right, Lisabetha. But there was no one else, only Brel. And did you see,” she added, “how swiftly he came to my aid, and how the people loved him for it?”
“But—Vess. I have seen him fight,” Lisabetha whispered.
“So have I. And with a more critical eye. I could defeat him, I know that much, and Brelian can also. Easily. Brel is stronger than I am. His blade has a longer reach and is more suited to a fight such as this. It will fall out well. And for your own aid.” She smiled at the girl. “I had not the wit to think of the old man, my thanks for that.”
“Lady Ylia.” A heavy hand dropped to her shoulder; she turned. A deep, familiar voice, cultured and urbane, like the man behind it. He bowed deeply, sweeping a battered hat with a dreadfully torn and fouled yellow plume from his head.
“Erken!” She caught at his shoulders. “My Lord Duke, I am so glad to see you here!”
Erken, Duke of Anasela, now twice an exile, smiled conservatively, but his eyes were warm. “I only just now returned, from a pointless hunt, to find the Caves stirred up. Pleasant to discover you as the focus of the fuss. I thought to offer my services and those of my dagger-sworn, if you wish them.”
“If I—Erken—”
“I take it you do. Good. We swore to Vess, but of need only.”
She laughed. “You need not assure me, Erken. I know where your loyalties lie, my Lord, and I appreciate them. More than I can say.”
“Good. I have had my fill of words. And little else, these past days. However.” He took in the situation with keen eyes. “Where is your lad? There? Mmmm—of course, I know him. Old Broln's eldest—Bren—Brendan, that was it.”
“No.” Pain ran light-foot across her inner being. “His younger brother. Brelian.”
“Ah, yes. He's a good one. Lots of promise in the boy. I think,” Erken added blandly, “that we will station ourselves where we can be of use if there is—difficulty, shall we say?”
“Let us not,” Ylia replied, matching his tone, “lest the speaking of it cause it. But yes, do so, my Lord. And we will speak as soon as we can, you and I.” Erken bowed formally, turned to kiss Lisabetha's brow. Three long strides and he had moved back into the crowd. His rich blue cloak, as tattered and filthy as his poor hat, swirled behind him.
Movement caught her eye: Grewl stood in the arena, gestured. “Malaeth, keep an eye to this child for us.” Ylia waved a hand at Lisabetha, a wink and a warm smile taking any possible sting from the words. “Nisana and I must join Grewl yonder, so poor Vess has his guarantee!” Nisana leaped to her shoulder, slid down into her arms as they crossed the chamber.
Preparations were nearly complete: torches marked out an area thirty paces wide, sixty long. Within that area all obstructions had been removed, to the smallest stones. Shadow still reigned beyond the boundaries; strange shapes bent against the far walls as torches flared. People surrounded the fighting ground, three deep.
In a sudden, deep hush, Brelian stepped into the open. Dark hair gleamed in the reddish light; the sword in his right hand, the dagger in his left, shone ruddy.
From the opposite boundary came Vess, sword and dagger bunched loosely in his left hand. He had stripped to boots, breeches and shirt, but against his light-brown hair and dark skin a thin ring of gold caught the light.
Nisana stiffened as Grewl drew near with two Chosen, both younger than he by some years. ‘Have a care!’ the cat's startled—and half-fearful—thought reached her. The mind-touch snapped. Ylia, after one look at the two, made no attempt to renew it. There was a coldness about the priests, an uncomfortable sense that they could see through to her inner being with chill blue eyes. She was relieved when they chose to stand none too near.
Grewl stood in the midst of the floor, hands above his head. Even the whispering ceased. “Each agrees to hold to the ancient laws?” Nods from both. Grewl moved first to Vess, then to Brelian, gravely inspected the weapons they held out to him. He turned away, then, and stepped back into the crowd.
Brelian took a step forward, brought his arms slowly up, out to the side. Vess matched the gesture. There: a triple crossing of the blades, high, low, before—mere taps. Two steps back. The hand that held the dagger then moved to the small of the back; neither man would use the short blade again, save to administer a death-blow. Vess leaped forward in a series of cat-footed lunges, and battle was joined.
Back and forth they fought for some time. But they were both strong, both skilled, and neither was able to gain immediate advantage.
A clanging, scraping noise: Vess’ sword slid down Brelian's and they closed, arms and faces strained. Brel leaped backward, nearly overbalanced his opponent. A rapid, long-drawn clashing of blades. They moved out of Ylia's line of sight. She could see only long shadows battling against the far wall. As suddenly, they were nearly within reach, circling warily. Vess lunged, stopped short as Brelian moved to parry, spun neatly on his heel, and with one deft movement of the tip of his sword, was again out of reach.
Brelian grimaced and the crowd moaned. “First blood!” Vess shouted. Blood ran down the younger man's dagger arm, the least threads of it. Still—Ylia glanced across the chamber; Lisabetha stood still, Malaeth's arms about her shoulders. Her eyes were tightly shut.
“So? What matters first blood, it is last that counts—or so I hear! Lord Vess.” Brelian was coolly mocking, and if he hurt, it didn't show. “Come. You have not slain me with your lucky touch. Try again!” Vess only laughed; he felt himself in control and his face showed it as he moved forward, sword weaving a blur around his opponent's. But Brelian was ready for his tricks, and Vess made no further touch.
Back and forth across the lit arena: Vess pressed forward, Brelian gave ground. He moved suddenly, then, and his sword described that dazzling, high-wristed maneuver that had been his brother's trademark: Vess’ sword spun from his hand and hit the stone floor with an echoing clang. He paled, but Brelian stood back, gestured broadly for the other to regain his weapon.
Vess backed, one slow step at a time, his eyes burning with hate. He would not have been so kind, had their places been reversed. And it was galling to be so easily disarmed, and by a puppy of a swordsman. He caught at the hilts, leaped forward with murderous intent. Brelian sidestepped easily, turned, and the fight resumed.
Worried whispers. The two were circling again. Both were slowing; Brelian's arm still bled, but Vess was breathing heavily and the light-footed dance was gone. Gone, too, the blazing hatred. Something more like fear enveloped him now. He feinted—once; twice. Sought to draw Brelian into an unwary attack. Brelian shook his head, smiled; stalked slowly, easily, to the right.
Vess broke first, after all, moving in an old man's parody of his cat's leap. Brelian dropped, sidestepped, lunged sharply. His sword reached past Vess’ guard, drove deeply into his side. Vess staggered, blinked stupidly. His sword dropped to the stone floor, for a second and final time, and he fell.
No one moved; the only sound was the wounded man's heavy, whistling breath. But Brelian still stood with sword at the ready, making no attempt to bring forth his dagger. “My Lady!” he said loudly.
Ylia jumped. “My champion.” At a nod from Grewl, the two Chosen backed away, and she ran across the open space. Vess glared at her as she approached. Blood pulsed between his fingers, pooled on the smooth stone.
“Give me your bidding concerning this man who is kin to you,” Brelian said finally. “The fight was to the death; still, I will slay him only by your word.”
Marhan forestalled her. “No.”
She stared at the old Swordmaster, amazed. “You jest, Swordmaster! Let Brelian slay him and have done!”
Marhan shook his head. Levren stood beside him. “You cannot begin your ruling sullied with his blood and that of his following,” the Bowmaster urged. “Will you slay them all as well? Exile them! They will not return.”
“No?” She sighed. Shrugged. “All right. Both of you. But no good will come of this. Either way. But—all right.”
“You cannot say so for certain,” Levren argued. “I know no good comes of any death, ever. Too much of Nedao's blood has been spilled. Remember when you said that? Will you add to it?”
“Slay me and have done!” Vess rasped. His eyes locked on Brelian's. “I will not live by her grace!”
But Brelian still did not move. “Ylia?”
“No. I do not wish your life, only,” she could not help adding, “your absence. We will send you hence once you are healed. Do not return.”
“When I am—” Vess laughed, choked and bit his lip. “When I am healed, by all that is fair and noble! You toy with me, woman!” He held up a red-palmed hand. Blood dripped from his fingers. “There is no real life left in me, slay me outright!”
“I will heal you.” Ylia gazed at him coldly. “And I will send you forth to Nar when it is done.” She turned to Grewl. “I need aid to move him. I cannot work the healing among so many and he will need to sleep after.” The old man chose from the younger men around him, indicating Vess with a nod. The fallen man closed his eyes and sagged against one of the blue-eyed Chosen who had mounted guard over Ylia and Nisana during the fight. The priest glared up at Nedao's new ruler, at his own new leader, turned back to his injured charge.
