After only a few minutes that seemed like hours, Sean made a promise to himself. I will never, ever get into a fight with a bunch of farm boys again.
He tried to hold them off with magic, but that only made them madder and they started to call him a cheater, and he had to agree. It wasn’t fair of him to use something against them that they couldn’t match. After he let them go, they lit into him again. Despite his best efforts to protect himself, they had him pounded to his knees in short order.
Suddenly they stood back, four pale heads, eight light colored eyes staring in the moonlight. “Aren’t you even going to try to fight back?” asked Ramas.
Sean looked up surprised. “What?”
“How can we possibly let you marry our sister if you can’t even fight for her?” said Ramas.
“Hélène said you’re supposed to become our king,” said Gareth. “If you can’t fight, how can you ask us to fight for you?” A flask materialized in his hand and he handed it over.
“I don’t want to fight you. You’re her brothers, for god’s sake,” retorted Sean, exasperated. He discovered water in the flask and drank thirstily for about three gulps before it vanished from his hand.
“If you don’t fight back, I’ll pound you to a pulp and leave you for the wolves to find,” promised Denning; he had eyes like his sister, and the flask was now in his hand.
“You actually want me to fight you,” said Sean. I can’t believe my ears.
Denning dropped the flask and a fist full of mud hit the ground. “Fight, you bastard.”
Well, they asked for it – insisted on it even. Sean raised his fists and tried to face their charge. As he backpedaled, he knew he had to fight well enough to win if he wanted to earn their respect. As he fended off their attacks and maneuvered for time, he racked his brain for something, anything, that might work.
Barely dodging a wild blow from his left, Master Mushovic’s voice rang clearly in his ears as if he were back in his class. ‘Your blade is merely an extension of your arm; use it that way’. If that’s true, then the reverse must also be true. If my blade must be an extension of my arm, then my arm must be an extension of my blade. If I can attack or parry with a blade, then why can’t I do the same things with my arm? With that in mind, Sean began to fight back. He parried a blow with his forearm just as he had been taught with a blade and attempted to step in to backhand his opponent’s chin. His first attempt felt awkward and fell short, but after adjusting his footwork for the range, he was soon blocking and landing more blows than he received, despite the odds.
As the fight wore on, he grew accustomed to the new rules of this type of fighting and his arms became his blades. Once he had reached that point, he found The Way of the Sword at his fingertips and a new type of sword dance well within his grasp.
An indeterminate time later, only Denning and Sean were left standing. Not long after that, neither of them was standing. Then someone came riding pell-mell into the yard.
The young man jumped down from his lathered horse and shook Ramas awake. “Ramas, what happened here? Are you all right? Where’s your father?” The man looked like a walking toothpick with about as much coloring, though that might just be the moonlight.
Ramas sat up with a groan and looked around the moonlight-whitened yard to see Denning and Sean sitting across from each other a few yards away. Denning’s head was cradled on arms resting across his knee. Lars and Gareth sprawled where Sean had left them. “Go home, Berrac; Armelle will be marrying someone else come the dawn.”
“Ramas, I came as soon as I heard. You can’t turn me away like this. Not after…”
“Go home, Berrac,” repeated Ramas. “It’s been decided.” He rolled onto his hands and knees to crawl over to Lars, who was closest to him. He ended up doing a three-legged crawl; he couldn’t put any weight on his right hand.
Berrac just stood there, stunned and indignant.
“Who are you?” asked Sean, without trying to get to his feet. He didn’t trust himself that far from the ground just yet.
“Name’s Berrac Cantrell,” he said, coming over and offering his hand to shake. “And you are…?”
Sean accepted his hand and instantly regretted it. Berrac shook it energetically, and it felt like he might have some broken bones. “I think I’m the ‘someone else’.”
Berrac’s hand froze, then he dropped Sean’s hand like he had just discovered that he was a leper. “Who are you?” he asked, in a voice that almost hissed. “What is this archaic display?”
“Go home, Berrac,” said Ramas a little louder, as he pulled Gareth to sit up and slapped him awake. “The matter has been decided – the old way.”
“You can’t do this to me – to my family. This is an insult. I want to speak to your father.”
Ramas climbed to his feet and pulled Gareth up beside him. “You can talk to my father if I don’t knock you down with the first punch,” he said, as he flexed his left hand and examined the blood on the knuckles of his right hand. “I think I broke my hand,” he said to Gareth conversationally. Then he looked Berrac directly in the face. “Or you can offer a challenge. If you win, then you’ll have earned the right to marry our sister.”
By now, both Lars and Denning had climbed to their feet. Denning pulled Sean to his feet, and turned him to face Berrac.
Sean assessed the man, weighing his ability to fight a fresh opponent no matter how thin he looked. I’ve heard of some pretty small people who could kick ass, but this person is not one of them. He flexed his fists. Maybe left-handed.
Berrac looked around at all of them and settled on Sean. Under their joint stares, Berrac backed up to his horse, then mounted and rode off.
Relieved, Sean asked, “Who’s he?”
“He was going to marry Armelle at high summer, until you came along,” said Ramas. “With the union went about a thousand acres of grassland adjoining ours to the east. We don’t need the land.” He turned to Sean. “With you goes the crown. That’s a bit more important than a few acres of land.”
“Does this mean our fight is over?” asked Sean.
“Yeah, unless he comes back real soon,” said Lars, as he looked over his shoulder at the fading sound of hoof beats.
Sean reached for Ramas’s bloody hand, but he shook his head. “Nah, it’s evidence. Come on.”
“What did he mean when he asked about some archaic display?” asked Sean.
Ramas flexed his bloody hand again. “Old custom. It used to be that a man had to fight a girl’s family and take the girl by force. Mostly it was ritual, but blood had to be drawn on both sides. Nowadays, it’s all ceremony.”
“So, what was all this?” asked Sean, with a wave at the yard where their fight had taken place. The move made his hand twinge painfully.
“Fun,” said Denning with a grin.
“The old way,” said Ramas, as he led them all back to the house.
Apparently, everyone was waiting for the outcome of the fight. Armelle was sitting between her parents, talking to Hélène, and the rest of her relatives, those who hadn’t been put to bed, clustered in groups around the room talking softly.
The combatants were battered and bloody, torn and dirty as they walked across the house to stand in front of Armelle and her parents. Armelle, her parents and Hélène rose to their feet, and the rest of the family froze to watch the proceedings and catch the outcome.
“He is a strong fighter,” said Ramas.
“He fought well,” said Lars.
“He beat all of us,” said Gareth.
“He held back,” said Denning.
“Was the fight fair?” asked Armelle’s father. All four of them nodded. He took his daughter’s hand and touched it to Sean’s face where blood was dripping from a cut on his cheek. “He has shed blood.” He guided her hand to the blood on each of her brothers. “He has drawn blood.” He turned her to face him and held her bloodied hand up in front of her face. “They have done this for your honor. I say that he is
worthy. What say you?”
She looked Sean over.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such remarkable green eyes.
With her bloody hand, she pulled her father’s belt knife and sliced the back of her arm. After a slight hiss, she said, “I shed blood.” Then she turned to each one of her brothers and gave each of them a slight cut equal to her own. “I draw blood.” She showed the bloodied knife to her father. “I defend his honor. I find him worthy enough to fight for.”
The man turned back to Sean. “You have fought for my daughter and she has fought for you; I say you are one.” He laced their fingers together around the knife and held them up for all to see. “Does anyone see fault with this joining?” he asked the room at large.
“Berrac came by,” said Ramas. “He wasn’t too happy.”
“Did he draw blood?”
“No sir,” replied Ramas.
The man scrutinized the room. When no one else had anything to add, he opened their hands and drew the knife across their two palms, quickly drawing a single line of blood across them. “You are joined. Blood binds you stronger than steel.”
With the sober ceremony over, he clasped Sean on the shoulder with a smile as the rest of the room erupted with cheers and congratulations. Drinks were served while Hélène moved among the six combatants and healed their wounds.
Armelle cleaned the knife on the white bodice of her dress, leaving a streak of blood there for all to see before handing the knife back to her father. She then moved to the middle of the room, shooing her relatives to the side in the process, while Sean and her brothers washed the blood from their faces and tried to brush the dirt from their clothes. Someone handed Armelle a wide sash and someone else started to play something that sounded like a violin only throatier. She was going to dance the Dance; Sean recognized the music.
Sean had no sword, and he felt no desire to acquire one, but he did feel the desire to dance. The Dance called to him like before, only stronger. There were other differences that may have stemmed from the fact that it was happening indoors, but he couldn’t say for sure, and his curiosity about the matter didn’t last long enough to puzzle it out. Instead of the fire, she and her parents stood there, and though he used no sword, he needed to protect her and her family; he put himself between them and any who got close, and many tried. Then he needed to entice her from her parents, who sought to keep her back. Once he got her away from them, the two of them began to dance together. She protected him and he protected her from the members of her family who participated in this part of the dance; back-to-back, they warded off the many dangers that surrounded them.
When the sun began to light the eastern windows, their battle was won and Armelle led Sean, spinning and dancing all the way, to a room that had been prepared for them. As the door closed and the music faded, the spell softened some, but the Dance was intoxicating enough; they made love long and hot at first, then slow and careful after. They were joined by more than blood, more than the Dance; it was as if their two souls had become one – whole and complete.
As Sean lay sated and lethargic, bubbles of memories surfaced. There were other men and other joinings with other women – vaguely he noticed that none of them had been blond – and he knew that the magic was responsible for this joined feeling, basic and spelless though it was. There wasn’t a chance in hell of getting a divorce now. It put a whole new meaning to the expression ‘soul mate’. Sean’s Knife Brides were joined to him too, in a similar fashion, but it didn’t hold a candle to this.
He looked out the window and saw the day far along already. He had been planning to clean house today, but he didn’t want to move. Time was egging at him, but he only wanted to lie here like this. He drifted off again.
Cleaning House
Crashing glass levitated Sean out of bed, without a thought to the mechanics of doing so, to confront a tall, lanky youth. He was only a couple inches shorter than Sean, and too thin for his height. It took him a couple moments to recognize Berrac from the evening before. His clothes were mussed and dirty, his almost-yellow hair was in disarray, and his pale face was smudged and streaked. Dark circles under his equally pale eyes turned his thin face into a raccoon’s mask, and he looked very young standing there in all his worked-up fury.
Ignoring the broken glass littering the floor, Sean was in his face long before he had completed these assessments, but Berrac seemed to be ready to challenge him now. Berrac’s right hand darted out in a rictus claw, but Sean caught it only to have Berrac’s left hand come at him from that side.
Sean heard feet thundering up the stairs behind him and knew that someone would be pounding on doors any moment now looking for the intruder. But nothing surprised him so much as his bride. She stepped between Sean and Berrac and pushed the intruder back with the point of a knife just as the door burst open to reveal Lars and Denning.
“Go home Berrac,” said Armelle. “It’s over. I’m married, and I won’t tolerate you trying to interfere.”
“But Armelle…” he pleaded. Sean let him go and he held his hands wide to show that they were weaponless.
“No Berrac. It’s over. We grew up together and I’ve always liked you, but if you don’t leave right now, I’ll gut you right here where you stand.” She emphasized her words with a little push with her knife hand that might have drawn blood if Berrac had not retreated.
“I thought we had an agreement. We had plans,” he pleaded again.
“Plans have changed. Leave under your own power, or I’ll have Lars drag you off,” she said, getting impatient. She jabbed the knife forward another inch.
He let a tiny squeak escape his lips and backed up another few inches. His eyes darted to the bed where evidence of their doings was plain for all to see. “But Armelle, I love you,” he said, then darted into the grasp of the waiting Lars who shoved him, none too gently, from the room.
Armelle’s hand had reared back in preparation for spilling his guts there on the floor at her feet if he had remained another second.
Before Denning could close the door between them, she called after him, “Don’t you ever interfere, Berrac. Not ever.”
Poor Berrac. He had gotten an eyeful of the one thing he thought he wanted most of all. Armelle had stood in front of him in all her youthful, golden glory. Her delicate curves and soft flesh so close, and yet so completely out of reach.
Never before had a woman defended him, not by anything more than a few words at best. It was a strange feeling, and Sean liked it. It felt really good to know someone would go that far for him, even if she was only maybe a hundred pounds, provided she was fully clothed and dripping wet.
With the excitement over, she turned to her new husband with a sheepish grin on her face that quickly disintegrated into tears. She was shaking, so, mindful of the knife in her hand and the broken glass they were standing on, Sean pulled her into his arms and fell back onto the bed where he cocooned them in what he could find of the blankets. With a feather brush of air, he ensured that they hadn’t picked up any glass on the bottom of their feet.
“You are so brave and so fierce,” he said into her soft hair. She smells so good. “I’m glad I wasn’t on the business end of your knife.”
“Oh, I’m so mad at him. I was so scared,” she said into his chest. Her voice shook and she sniffed.
Sean produced a corner of the sheet for her to use, then held her close until she pulled herself together. The sound of the still-protesting Berrac being drug from the house caused her to dive deeper under the covers.
Sean kept her from hearing as one of her brothers silenced his protests, hustled him onto a horse, probably like a sack of potatoes, and then took him or sent him from the yard.
When she finally came up for air, Sean asked, “What now? You’re my wife, right? I assume you’ll be moving to the palace with me, but will you wait for your things to be packed and come then, or would you like to come with me now? I need to get back. I have a lot of work to do; I have t
wenty more districts to bring into line and I can’t even spare a week to each one.” Where did that come from? I’ve never seen a map outlining the districts, and I have no idea what my deadline is.
She listened to his little speech, a smile growing across her face. “Of course I’m your wife now, silly, and yes, I’ll be going to the palace with you; my mother can handle the packing. Just give me a little time to pack a few things to take with me and I’ll be ready to go with you as soon as you want.”
She nuzzled her nose into his chest hair, rapidly distracting him again, but then his stomach betrayed him with a highly audible growl that reduced the moment to a fit of giggles.
Girls and their giggles. Well this one he could lay his hands on. By the time his fingers were done with her, giggling was a mild description.
As they caught their breath, Sean untangled them from the blankets. He was just reaching for his pants when a cold wet cloth hit him in the middle of his back. “Wash first, silly,” she said.
He swung the cloth back at her squeezing it at the same time, spraying her with cold water and winning a shriek. Her family was getting an earful of their antics, but it was fun and a very welcome release from the tension of the last few days.
After their brief water fight, Sean warmed the water and sponged the sweat and blood from her while she did the same for him. He was beginning to rise to the occasion again when a knock rattled the door.
It was her room, so Sean let her answer it. When she cracked the door, her mother passed in a clean change of clothes for both of them. It was only then that Sean realized he had seen no closet in this room, and it wasn’t likely a father would provide his daughter with a wide bed, not here anyway. This room must be the guest room.
They dressed quickly – the clothes provided for Sean must have belonged to one of Armelle’s brothers – then he followed her to the room she shared with her little sisters, who watched him like owls with large blue eyes.
The Making of a Mage King: Prince in Hiding Page 28
