by Andre Norton
He could not think. He only knew that if he did not act, and act decisively,
Florian would try again, and keep on trying, until Ashen was dead.
"Oh, I do feel much better]" Ashen said, a week later. She had progressed to taking her meals at a table set up in her bedchamber, and now this had become a merry occasion with both Obern and Rohan joining her. "For a while it seemed that the tonic Zazar wanted me to take was making me worse, but it seems to be helping after all. That, and having my family with me once more." She smiled on both of them, particularly Rohan, and the boy beamed in return.
Master Lorgan had not been surprised when Obern had showed up at his door, requesting the potion. "Oh, yes, yes," he had said, "it is very helpful that so many want to take over this task of delivering it to her. And how does your lady?"
"Much improved,' Obern had assured him.
"And so shall I observe, when next I visit. I am much pressed at the moment, but in seven-days' time, certainly."
"You will be most welcome." And surely by that time Ashen would have begun to mend in earnest, Obern thought.
He did not want to consider how, later, Ashen's unaccountable recovery could be explained to the King. But a germ of an idea was beginning to form.
Now Ashen took the goblet and drank it down. "Strange, but it doesn't taste nearly as bitter as it once did. Master Lorgan must be grinding fresher leaves."
"Or he has taken to washing the mortar and pestle," Rohan said mischievously.
"Back at New Void, Dagdya would grind up something bitter and then forget before she ground up something sweet, like the sugar she sprinkled on my porridge. The other women were always complaining about it and I did, too."
Ashen chuckled. "No blame to you!" she said. She looked up at Obern. "Do you think we could leave the castle for a while? It's been so long since I've been outside, in the fresh air."
The plan that had been taking form in Obem's mind, once the first flare of anger had subsided, needed only the doing to make it into reality. He had examined it from every angle, and knew it to be sound.
Or, if not, he knew it would have to do. And if he suffered as a result of it, then that was the price he was willing to pay for keeping Ashen safe. Once he was finished with the vicious young King, Florian would never trouble Ashen again. If all went well, he would do it today. In anticipation, he had dressed himself in his best—the dark green he had worn on his wedding day, his doublet covering a frothy white shirt, and he had pinned the brooch in the shape of a ship on his cap.
"Content you to sit in the window this day, my dear lady," he said. "Master
Lorgan should be looking in on you today. I sent word to remind him. And then, if he pronounces you fit, we will go out tomorrow. I promise."
"Can I go, too?" Rohan was at his father's elbow, looking up pleadingly.
"That you can, but in the meantime, you may go and search out Lathrom, and tell him that I said you might ride out into the countryside. You should enjoy that, after being cooped up for all this time."
Rohan whooped with joy and dashed for the door, not remembering to take his leave properly. Obern would have called him back, but Ashen stopped him. "He's just a boy," she said, smiling. "Let him be one. Please do not scold him."
Obem grasped her hand and kissed it. "I will only follow to tell him to be sure and take his cloak, in case of rain."
Once he was out of the apartment that had begun to lose the smell of sickness and of medicine, Obern headed straight for the Great Hall. He knew that Lathrom would look after Rohan properly, and he knew also that now that he had set his course of action he would not turn aside. Both Ashen and Rohan were safely out of the way, and the time would never be better.
As he neared the big doors, pulled almost shut, he could hear the clash of steel from inside. Good. The class in swordplay under Sword-master Sedem was still in progress.
He opened the door and went in. The Sword-master had paired his students and now wandered among them, correcting this one's stance, that one's footwork. Florian caught sight of him and lifted one arm in greeting.
"Welcome, brother," he said, and, as usual, the nasal quality of his voice made
Obern think of a petulant child. "And how does your lady?"
"Not well, Your Majesty," Obern replied, feigning a sadness he was far from feeling. "She is very like to die soon. I come here to find distraction, if such exists, from my worries about her."
"Distraction is yours. Will you match swords with any here?"
"I might. I am out of practice, though. I could hardly ask any of your fellows to indulge me."
Florian laughed, or rather uttered that bray that passed for laughter with him.
Obern might as well not have mentioned the gravity of Ashen's condition. "It's said that Sea-Rovers are born with swords in their hands? Surely you are too modest."
"My skills are nothing beside yours, I am sure. It is said that you are the foremost swordsman in Rendel."
It was an outright lie, but Obem was almost becoming accustomed to dissembling in this place. He held his breath, for all depended on the King's next words. He fingered the hilt of his Rinbell sword; as a close kinsman of the King, he was allowed to wear it in the monarch's presence.
"I am passing good," Florian said. "But I have longed for the opportunity to test my skills against someone who is not at Court every day, and who does not have anything to gain by letting me win. Somebody, in fact, such as yourself.
Would you care to play a match with me, my brother? A formal exhibition? First one to give three hits wins?"
Obern could not keep a smile from his lips. "Such would lighten my mood most pleasantly, Your Majesty. But neither of us is prepared for a formal match."
"Oh, come, you have your sword. Remove your coat, take a mask and a padded vest.
Find one that suits you, and I will go to my chamber and likewise dress me fit to be seen by the Court. Also, my favorite sword is there, for I won't risk it in everyday practice. Shall we say we begin when I return?"
"Done and done, Your Majesty. Your hand on it?"
"Of course."
Then Obern spat into the palm of his hand and proffered it to the King. After a few moments' hesitation, Florian did likewise.
Then, the bargain being sealed, the King began issuing orders that the mat be set up, that raised platforms be brought for spectators, and that word be sent throughout the castle that Florian of Rendel was matching his skills against those of Obern of the Sea-Rovers, and all who wanted to watch were bid come.
Ten
Florian rushed to his apartment, almost exulting. Not only was his bothersome sister on the point of expiring, but also now he had the opportunity of ridding himself of a brother-in-law who could, he felt confident, be expected to become as much a nuisance in his own way once he was a widower.
Quickly he stripped out of his sweat-soaked practice gear and put on a fresh shirt and deep red breeches, Oak's color. Obern had looked quite dashing, in his dark green, and the King would not be outdone. He took a moment to wash his face and hands as well, and to run a comb through his air.
He chose an unstained padded vest he had not yet worn in practice. It was stitched in such a way that he seemed to have rippling muscles across his chest, and Florian thought it so flattering that he had had half a dozen made. The garment offered considerably more protection than this occasion demanded; still, the combatants would be fighting with weapons that had not had the thin edge of lead applied to the blades, to blunt them, and so there was an element of danger. The main purpose was to remind both men where hits were not allowed. He buckled on a long dagger, the secondary weapon for this kind of contest. Then he got down the sword with the jeweled hilt and unsheathed it.
He was probably good enough to take Obern, but he was unwilling to risk the possibility of not administering a killing thrust. Rummaging in a cabinet, he drew out the bottle from which he had filled the vial given to Jacyne and which she had used to such excellent purpose
. Carefully, he now touched the edges of the sword with the poison, let it dry a moment, and then re-sheathed the weapon.
There. Now he need not run Obern through—by accident, of course. Just a cut, and the potion would do its work, more swiftly than it had done with Obem's lady wife, Florian's despised sister. He needn't even treat the long dagger. Buckling on his sword and, checking his appearance once more in the mirror, the King of
Ren-del left his apartment to return to the Great Hall.
On arriving, he discovered that most of the preparations had already been accomplished and some courtiers were beginning to arrive, talking excitedly among themselves. His mother, the Dowager, was not in evidence, and Florian hoped she would not show up, as her presence would surely make him nervous. Nor was his wife present. Probably sick, as usual, in her apartment.
Nevertheless, their two chairs had been placed in the center of the rows of benches being set up on either side of the Hall, down the length of which ran a scarlet carpet mat, the ground on which the combatants would fight. Stewards were setting flambeaus on the walls and lighting them. There was a buzz of anticipatory speculation among the watchers, and when Florian came through the door, some of them spontaneously applauded.
He noted that Obern had likewise been making preparations. The deep green doublet and cap had been discarded now, and, like Florian, he wore a padded vest over his snowy white, embroidered shirt. His long scabbard also had been discarded, and he had replaced it with one that held a dagger like Florian's.
Now he was taking practice swings with a sword that Florian immediately de-cided was inferior to his. It boasted no jewels or ornamentation of any kind that could be seen, though the blade gleamed brightly enough and seemed forged of good steel.
Obern, sighting Florian, advanced toward him, sword in one hand and mask in the other. "Shall we wait a few minutes and let more of those arrive who want to see their King display his skill?" he said.
"Of course," Florian replied. He smiled, feeling magnanimous. He even clapped
Obern on the shoulder in a comradely fashion. "We've had too much doom and gloom around here, what with women being sick and all the talk about some threat from the North. The King and his brother shall provide good entertainment!"
"As you wish, sir."
Obern gave Florian a deft swordsman's salute, and Florian raised one eyebrow.
The Sea-Rover handled that blade well enough. Perhaps too well. But then there was no cause to worry. Even if he himself lost the match, he would surely score at least one hit. And with that hit, Obern would lose everything.
To Florian's mild surprise, the former sergeant, Lathrom, stepped forward.
Behind him was a boy whose resemblance to Obern made it clear that he must be the son Florian had heard about but not seen previously. He was an attractive boy, and Florian disliked him instantly.
"Obern will need a second, my lord King," Lathrom said. "Would you allow me that honor?"
"Yes. And Sword-master Sedern will second for me. With your approval," Florian added, belatedly remembering the courtesies of the sword.
"No better," Obern said. He inclined his head in Sedern's direction, and the
Sword-master bowed in return. Then he turned to his son. "Rohan, I had thought you absent. This is something you do not need to watch. But now that you're here, go and sit down and whatever happens, do not interfere. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father. But I know you'll beat him!"
Obern laughed. "That is not polite, boy. You're speaking of the King."
"I don't care, I—"
Lathrom clapped a hand over Rohan's mouth and turned him toward the rows of chairs. "Mind your father," he said, and the boy obediently, if a bit reluctantly, complied.
"My apologies," Obern said.
Florian shrugged. He chose to be generous, though if the boy had said much more he might have decided otherwise. "Children will be children. I suppose it is good that he is your partisan."
"Even as you championed your own father."
Florian peered at Obem sharply, but the Sea-Rover seemed to have no guile about him. Well, perhaps he didn't know the uneasy relationship that had existed between the Prince and King Boroth when that monarch had been alive. Florian was well aware of the slight esteem in which Boroth had held him, and he had returned the sentiment wholeheartedly, to the point of wishing for the old man to go ahead and die and get out of the way. Of course, all this had happened well before Obern had become a prominent member of the Court upon marriage with the King's sister. His illegitimate sister, but blood nonetheless.
He decided that Obern had not been intending to rattle him with that remark and so dismissed it.
The seconds were already setting up small tables at either end of the mat, bearing flagons of watered wine and cups for the combatants so they could refresh themselves between rounds. Physicians had been assigned to both sides,
Master Lorgan for the King, and one of his most talented assistants for Obern.
Both Lathrom and Sedern poured from the flagons and drank, to show that the beverage was wholesome. Then they wiped the edges of the cups, and replaced them on the tables.
They returned to the center of the mat and waited for the contestants to approach. By that time, most of the chairs were full and the whispering among the courtiers, particularly the ladies, filled the air like the sound of whirring insect wings.
The Sword-master stepped forward, and the Hall grew silent. This will be an exhibition match between our Most Gracious Majesty, King Florian, and his esteemed kinsman and brother, Obern of the Sea-Rovers, for the edification and entertainment of all," Sedern proclaimed. "You will fight three rounds, timed thusly." He held up a miniature hourglass. "First round shall be fought with masks and vests, second round with masks removed, and the third, should the bout last that long, without vests, the combatants using sword plus long dagger. The first man to bestow three hits upon his opponent will be judged the winner. If at the end -of three rounds there are equal hits between you, the combatants will fight until a winner and a loser is decided. Is this clear?"
Both men nodded.
"Are you ready to begin?"
"I am," Florian said.
"Yes," said Obern.
Then they took their stances on the crimson carpet, blades crossed. Lathrom stepped forward, his own blade drawn. He glanced from one to the other, and then, with a swift upward movement dashed their swords apart.
Immediately Florian pressed to the attack and Obern gave ground. Then they began taking each other's measure with an occasional feint and parry, testing to see where the other man's weakness might lie.
Obern attacked, and it was Florian's turn to give way. They prowled around each other. Behind his mask, Florian's smile vanished, to be replaced with a look of intense concentration. Before he realized that much time had passed, Sedern announced the first round over. The room filled with applause and the sound of excited voices. Somewhere, wagers were being offered and accepted. The next round would surely offer more action, with the vision-blocking masks removed.
Florian and Obern returned to their places at either end of the crimson mat. The
King watched while Obern removed his mask and merely wiped his face on a towel, refusing the wine.
"Later," the Sea-Rover said, "when we are finished." He looked at Florian and raised his voice so he was sure to be heard. "Then we will celebrate the winner together!"
"Agreed," Florian said. He lifted his cup in salute, but took only a swallow.
Then he, too, wiped his face and scrubbed his hands as well. Unaccountably, his palms were sticky. The Sea-Rover was a better swordsman than he had thought.
Florian was accustomed to the mask and Obern was not, and still he had not been able to get through the other man's guard. But this next round should remedy that. Florian resolved that, by fair means or foul, he would inflict a hit upon
Obern even if that meant he had to endure one himself.
Once more, the combatants met in the middle. Again, when he was sure that both were equally ready, Lathrom knocked their blades upward and leapt back as both men tried to press forward an attack. Florian began to get the proper sword rhythm. Abruptly he stepped outside of time, and everything slowed for him.
Other men had spoken of such a phenomenon, but this was the first time Florian had ever experienced it.
Knowing himself in complete control now, he let himself be pushed almost to the end of the mat, hoping to draw Obern into overextending himself. He dropped his guard for an instant, and, just as he had hoped, Obern lunged and, as if in a dream, scored a hit on Florian's left upper arm, In that same instant, but leisurely, just before Obern's second could declare a temporary halt, Florian gave Obern a similar wound. He could hear the fabric of Obern's shirt tear, thread by thread, as the blade pierced it.
