Instantly, the hall was stilled. Every conversation and comment was cut off. The librarian jerked up his head. As one, every cresset flickered. The plump Magister must have spoken directly into the thoughts of everyone present. He had that much power—
Prince Bifalt felt the sudden silence like a punch to his chest. Light and dimness flashed in his eyes. For an instant, his heart seemed to stop. Then it began to beat rapidly, hurrying to catch up with itself. His impulse to cringe returned as Magister Marrow turned in his direction. He had to force himself to stand straight, with his shoulders back and his head held high.
What was happening to him?
He knew too well. When he had missed his chance to save Belleger with a simple lie, he had sealed his own fate without realizing it. Somehow, he had opened a door in himself that he could not close.
Belleger’s best—or its worst.
There Prince Bifalt came close to despair. Now he understood that the library’s champion would be his final test. But in that fight, he would not be tested by the Magisters: he would be testing himself.
Proving who he was.
Despite the librarian’s sightlessness, Sirjane Marrow appeared to study Third Father and the Prince. However, nothing in his stance or visage betrayed what he discerned. When he was content with the silence, he nodded to Magister Avail.
In the same voice—a voice heard by every mind, although it was silent and held only sadness—the deaf sorcerer announced, We do not approve of violence, but we have been reduced to it. You have been called here to witness mortal combat. Prince Bifalt will hazard his life to win power for his people. Our champion will fight for our hope of peace.
Then he continued aloud, a change that made what he said sound more human. Almost bearable. “We have no ceremonies to sanctify such an event. We have never been driven to this extreme before. But we do insist on an honorable contest. For that reason, we require surety.”
Gazing around the audience rather than at Third Father and the Prince, Magister Avail asked, “Who stands surety for Prince Bifalt?”
The monk sighed. Pressing his palm to the Prince’s chest, Third Father instructed him to remain where he was. Then the monk made his way through the crowd until he reached the boundary of the arena. There he halted.
Still tucked under his arm, Estervault’s tome was plainly visible.
Magister Marrow must have been able to feel the book’s presence. His surprise was written on his face. “You?” he demanded. “Why do you have—?” Abruptly, however, he closed his mouth. With a threatening scowl, he nodded to Magister Avail again.
“Who stands surety,” asked the deaf sorcerer, still sadly, “for the Last Repository’s champion?”
From the far side of the hall, a stirring of movement passed through the throng. A moment later, Amandis entered the clearing.
As ever, she was wrapped in the demure white silk of her cloak, with her hands clasped in her sleeves.
When Commander Forguile saw her, he grinned like a man who now believed that he would be granted the outcome he desired. With practiced ease, he slid his sword back into its scabbard.
In contrast, Prince Bifalt let out a slow breath of relief. She was not his opponent. He trusted his rifle against her, but he had no wish to kill her. He would prefer to fight Magister Rummage, despite the hunchback’s terrible sorceries.
But the devotee of Spirit was not alone. She was accompanied by Flamora, the devotee of Flesh. The Prince had not seen her since they were together in Set Ungabwey’s wagon.
Her arrival drew exhalations like sighs from many of the men. A number of women shifted uncomfortably or looked away. The physician’s kinsmen or tribe—the savages—made obscure warding gestures with their hands, then covered their eyes.
Once again, Flamora was arrayed provocatively, displaying a sleek expanse of breast and thigh: an invitation to desire. The gaze and the smile she fixed on Prince Bifalt were also invitations.
At the sight, his throat tightened, but not with lust. Instead, he felt alarm. Perhaps he should have been grateful that she was not Magister Marrow’s champion. A contest with her would have been absolutely unfair, unequal, unjust—and not in his favor. An assassin he could fight: Amandis was more than able to defend herself. In contrast, Flamora’s only weapons were her bright eyes and teasing smile, her scanty apparel, her ready womanliness. If the Prince harmed her, he would carry the shame to his grave.
Nevertheless, he was not grateful. For the first time, he thought he knew who the library’s champion would be.
The notion gnawed in his guts like a rat feeding on nausea.
Opposite Third Father, the two devotees stopped at the border of the arena. Together, they acknowledged the monk, Amandis with a solemn bow, Flamora with a playful curtsy. Keeping his head bent and his gaze lowered, Third Father gave the women a bow as grave as the assassin’s.
Seeming to tower in the center of the clear floor, the blind sorcerer waited until the onlookers had mastered their various reactions. When the silence in the hall was complete again, he nodded to Magister Avail a third time.
Still speaking aloud rather than in the minds of his audience, the deaf man commanded, “Prince Bifalt of Belleger, come forward.”
Cursing himself because he was not able to breathe steadily, or to control his trembling hands, the King’s son made his way into the hall. He wanted obstacles; wanted to shove men and women bodily aside. With rough handling, he could have summoned his anger. But the onlookers seemed to melt from his path. He reached Third Father’s side with nothing except alarm beating in his chest.
The rage that had sustained him for days—no, for years—was gone. If he was right—if he had guessed his opponent’s identity—
Without the bare acknowledgment of a glance, the monk nudged him to continue out into the center of the clearing.
Prince Bifalt obeyed. He had chosen this path, or accepted it. Like all his choices, it was probably a mistake. He should have known better, or thought more clearly, or been more cautious. Perhaps he deserved its outcome. But he was who he was. More than that, he needed to be who he was, without the obfuscations of lies and secret intentions.
Grimly, he avoided looking at anyone. He hardly glanced at Magister Marrow. He did not want to see the librarian’s scowl of disapproval, or Commander Forguile’s eager anticipation, or the open contempt of the physician’s people. Striding dull-eyed, he advanced until he gauged that he was ten paces from the blind sorcerer. There, he took his stand.
Once again, Magister Avail spoke. “Champion of the Last Repository, come forward.”
Sickened by his own lack of surprise, Prince Bifalt watched Elgart advance through the crowd and enter the arena.
With that one ploy, the Magisters unmanned King Abbator’s eldest son. Unjust, unfair, unequal. Accepting their challenge, he had done something worse than make a mistake. He had condoned a crime, a betrayal.
As Elgart passed between the devotees, Flamora touched his arm briefly; kissed his cheek. Amandis gave him a stern command, then waved him onward. But the Prince could not hear her. The silence was too loud. It was the drumbeat in his veins. The knell—
Silence or the audience took all the air in the hall. Prince Bifalt had to fight for breath. He watched, flinching inwardly, as the guardsman approached until he, too, stood ten paces from the librarian.
Elgart was dressed like the Prince in garments made for him by the keep’s servants. His weapons were the same as his commander’s: a saber and dagger at his waist, a rifle slung over one shoulder, a satchel of ammunition on the other. While he waited opposite his opponent, he kept his eyes lowered. Although Prince Bifalt searched for it, he saw nothing in his former comrade’s face except determination.
Magister Marrow let the Bellegerins stand there for a moment. Then, his voice raw with vexation, he commanded, “To the death. Realms de
pend on it. Honor depends on it.”
Whirling his robe, he strode from the arena to join Magister Avail and Magister Rummage.
Elgart’s fingers twitched, but he did not reach for his weapons.
Prince Bifalt hunted for some spark in himself that he could fan into flames. He needed anger. He had never needed it more. He imagined asking Elgart, demanding, Is this the truth at last? Did you intend to betray me from the first? To side with these sorcerers?
Elgart had promised—
But while the Prince struggled to find some accusation that his former comrade might deserve, Elgart raised his head. Their eyes met.
In Elgart’s gaze, the Prince saw anguish. He saw resolve and daring. And he knew Elgart’s courage. The guardsman had proven himself too often to be doubted.
The scar on his face gave him the look of a spirit torn apart.
The sight cost Prince Bifalt of Belleger his last hope. Elgart’s distress and conviction—oh, yes, conviction, it was as plain as his distress—forced the Prince to confront his own despair. He could not fight one of his own men, a man who had stood with him and watched his back. He could not fight any Bellegerin, and Elgart was much more than a mere subject of his king. He was a comrade. At Prince Bifalt’s side, he had faced arrows and grenades, bloodshed in darkness and the cruelty of the desert.
Nor could the Prince allow such a man to kill him. That burden Elgart would bear until its weight broke him. It would be Belleger’s death as well.
—not a man at all—
Trembling in every muscle, Prince Bifalt drew his saber and tossed it, ringing, to the floor. His dagger he discarded. With his rifle in his hands, he removed the clip, worked the bolt to eject the chambered bullet, then set the gun and clip by his feet. His satchel he simply dropped.
Defenseless, and shaking like a coward, he walked toward Elgart until he was close enough to put his hands on his comrade’s shoulders.
Elgart regarded him with consternation, even with horror; but the veteran did not flinch. He had ridden through hells and earned his courage.
They were cocooned in stillness. They seemed to be alone in the high hall. The cressets shed no light between them, except on Elgart’s scar. That pale streak gleamed as if it were the place where his divided nature had been fused. Prince Bifalt needed all his strength to ask hoarsely, “You consented to this?”
“I did, Highness.” Elgart sounded as hard as granite, and as brittle as shale. “I have more in common with Klamath than I knew. I have learned so many things! Precious things, Highness. Life has become precious. I want an end to war and killing.
“I came with you to stand at your side. You are my commander. My prince. I gave you my word. I do not wish to fight you. But I will break my promise if I must.” Pleading, he added, “For Belleger’s sake, Highness.”
“Are you blind, Elgart?” countered the Prince. “My death may destroy Belleger.”
“Perhaps,” replied the guardsman. “My death may destroy Amika. One way or the other, we will certainly end the war. And when the war ends, the killing will stop.” With an air of desperation, he insisted, “It must stop. If it does not, the struggle itself will destroy us.
“I do not call death preferable to Amika.”
Time passed while the King’s son warred with himself. It felt interminable. He had no unopened chambers left. He was sure he would be able to persuade his father. With Elgart’s help, yes. King Abbator would understand that peace with Amika was better than death. But Elgart did not know the truth about the library’s Magisters. They did not care who won Belleger’s war. They desired peace for themselves. They had summoned the Prince, misled him, lied to him, because they wanted a defensible border against their own enemies. Peace between Belleger and Amika would not end the killing. It would only change who did the killing.
Nevertheless, Prince Bifalt could not try to kill Elgart. He could not. And he could not let Elgart try to kill him.
If Belleger and Amika were allies, they might stand a better chance of survival.
There was no other way out. The Prince would have to make promises that he meant to keep.
And then—
Then what? He did not know.
While his life lasted, he would question all of his actions. That was the truth about him. He would have to live with it. And he would have to face the consequences of what he did, although he did not know what they would be.
During the silence, Elgart’s look of anguish slowly became confusion. When it began to resemble curiosity, Prince Bifalt made his decision. Without releasing his comrade’s shoulders or his comrade’s gaze, he confessed, “Then I have failed. I am not the man my father trusted.”
That admission seemed to take the last of his strength. His legs threatened to fold under him. He had to cling to the guardsman for support as he turned to address the Magisters.
Hoarse with strain and despair, he vowed, “I will do what you ask. I will be Belleger’s emissary to Amika. I will argue for peace.”
For a moment, the silence around him intensified. He might have been as alone as he felt, as friendless and bereft. Even his father the King might repudiate him now.
Then someone somewhere started to clap. A few people joined in. In an instant, the whole audience erupted. Applause filled the hall like thunder, like an earthquake, like the shaking of the world.
While it continued, Magister Rummage’s glower softened, and his deaf companion beamed. The librarian only nodded; but his posture relaxed, and his shoulders sagged.
The effect on Prince Bifalt was bitter. That so many people cheered his defeat tasted like gall—and yet he was not done. He needed to abase himself further.
He tried to go on, but he could not be heard until Magister Avail intervened. Please, urged the plump sorcerer to every mind. There is more.
The audience took a few moments to comply. Then quiet was restored.
“I will do it,” insisted the Prince, “but it is hopeless.” He spoke in a snarl. “They will not treat with me. They kill every Bellegerin who enters their lands. They will kill me before I can speak.”
Magister Marrow shook his head. Softly, as if he wanted only Prince Bifalt to hear him, he countered, “You have the means to persuade them.”
The Prince understood. He had been given Estervault’s book. Belleger could make cannon.
His bitterness was not relieved.
Raising his voice, the blind sorcerer continued, “Commander Forguile. You have heard Prince Bifalt. How does Amika answer?”
The Amikan’s response was rage. Savagery bloomed in his eyes like an ignited grenade. Snatching out his sword, he held it ready, prepared to vouch for himself with sharp iron. In a whetted voice as keen as his blade, he retorted, “This Bellegerin tried to kill me without provocation. I did not touch my sword, and still he tried. Amika will not treat with him. If he comes to us, we will not let him live. We have no use for peace.”
Magister Marrow made no reply. No one said anything.
Prince Bifalt sighed; but he did not falter. He had fallen too far to reverse his plummet now.
His foe’s sword he ignored. Facing only the Magisters, he said over his shoulder, “Third Father, you hold Estervault’s A Treatise on the Fabrication of Cannon Using Primitive Means.” He needed to lean more heavily on Elgart; but the guardsman took his weight with ease. “I asked you to deliver it to King Abbator,” who might not forgive his son. “Now I ask you to give it to Commander Forguile. He has been searching for it.”
Surprise rustled through the throng, a hiss of quick inhalations and startled movements, but it was not loud enough to muffle the whisper of the monk’s steps as he entered the clearing.
Half-involuntarily, Prince Bifalt turned to watch.
His own surprise did not resemble that of the onlookers. They had not expected his request, or the monk
’s possession of the book. The Prince had other reasons. He was taken aback by the sight of Third Father walking with his head high and his eyes bright—and by the monk’s broad smile.
Crossing the arena, Third Father approached Commander Forguile. With a formal bow, the monk extended both hands, offering Estervault’s book. He sounded vindicated, almost proud, as he said, “I believe you covet this knowledge. It is now yours, Commander, if you want it.”
The Amikan’s confusion was vivid in every line of his visage. A moment ago, he had been filled to bursting with fury. Now his own world reeled. He brandished his sword as if he meant to ward himself from Prince Bifalt’s gift; from any placating gesture made by Belleger. But now everyone in the hall was watching him with the same disapproving suspense they had fixed on the Prince earlier. By degrees, Commander Forguile seemed to recognize the impossibility of his position. Thwarted curses clogged his throat. His king surely had not sent him to the Last Repository to make new enemies. Why else had he comported himself so respectfully? So obediently? His outrage would win him no allies here. A simple, imponderable gesture had defeated him.
And he could not ignore the Prince’s offer. He wanted cannon—
Fumbling awkwardly, he sheathed his sword. With a visible effort, he unclenched his fists to accept the book.
Belatedly, he returned Third Father’s bow.
Elgart wrapped both arms around Prince Bifalt to keep him on his feet. Everyone in the hall waited for the Amikan’s reply.
Staring at Estervault’s tome, Commander Forguile turned it over and over to assure himself that it was indeed the volume he desired. Then he found a measure of composure. Scowling bitterly, he lifted his gaze.
To the Magisters rather than to the Prince, he said gruffly, “I can promise little. I do not speak for my sovereign.” After a brief struggle, he added, “But I promise this. If Prince Bifalt comes to Amika, he will not be harmed.” Swallowing hard, the commander concluded, “I will stand surety for his safety.”
Seventh Decimate Page 25
