There was a tightness at Torrie’s scalp and it felt for a moment like he was outside his body watching it all, once again.
The world was not a place where everything was clear, but here it was. Forces in Falias were lining up to challenge Dad to numerous duels to the death. Eventually, somebody would either be better than Dad or get lucky, and that was not to be tolerated.
There was a way out. It would be tricky, but not impossible.
“Briefly,” Torrie said. “He tried to kill me in a duel that was only to be to the first blood, and ran himself into my sword. That seems foolish, but—”
“In the pigsty in which you were bred and borne, shit-breath, do they often speak ill of the dead?”
“—but I believe he was pressured into it by someone he must have respected,” Torrie went on gently, “as I intend no offense to his memory or his family, just as I’d brook none with mine. Do you of Falias often interrupt, Reginal del Reginal? Or do you give one a chance to finish his words before deciding whether or not to take offense?” Torrie spread his hands. “As I meant none.” He raised his voice. “Has offense been given here? Who is senior? Who will rule?”
He hadn’t noticed Ivar del Hival leave, but he must have, as Dad and Ivar del Hival were pushing their way through the quickly forming crowd toward them, Mom trailing. Maggie’s mouth hung open.
Verniem del Eleric’s face was as somber as Branden del Branden’s had been. “I am an ordinary of the House, of ancient lines,” he said. “And I’ll declare myself senior, and see if another wishes to take up the burden.”
The whole plaza had gone silent, no sound save for the whistling of wind, softly rattling the leaves of the trees that rimmed it.
Verniem del Eleric sighed. “So be it. I rule that offense has been given. Your terms, Thorian del Thorian the Younger?”
“Here, now. To the first blood only,” he said, and as he said it, people pushed back from the two of them, Ivar del Hival pulling on Maggie’s arm, until, almost instantly, Torrie, Verniem del Eleric, and Reginal del Reginal were alone in a rough circle five or so meters in diameter.
“Seconds? A judge?” Verniem del Eleric asked, quietly. “Where shall we procure them?”
“You to stand as judge; we need no seconds.”
“Now, you say,” Reginal del Reginal said, tossing cape aside. “And now it shall be.”
His sword was already half drawn. The codes would have required that he wait for his opponent to be ready, but the trap Torrie had laid for him had infuriated the larger man.
The damn fool.
Torrie spun his cape in the direction of Reginal del Reginal, drawing his own sword. By the time Reginal had completed a lunge that would have done credit to a sober man, Torrie had stepped to one side and brought his sword up to parry a high-line attack, engaging and binding the other’s blade, coming corps-a-corps with the bigger man.
A quick twist, a push, and Torrie swung his wrist and arm, hard, in a broad circle.
Reginal del Reginal’s sword was tumbling end-over-end, sprained fingers yet to trigger a scream, and Torrie pushed away and slashed once, his sword whistling through the air.
He brought his blade up. “Stop,” he shouted. “I have drawn first blood, and claim victory.”
“You can if you wish,” Reginal del Reginal said, “if you’re peasant enough not to let me reclaim my sword.” He sneered, and spread his arms wide, exposing his chest. “Try your coward’s thrust, pig.”
Torrie forced his voice calm. “I said that I have drawn it, not that I will. Look at the edge of your right hand.” He pointed with his blade. “You’ll find it cut, and your blood on the tip of my blade, Reginal del Reginal.” Torrie pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and slid it down the length of his blade, never taking his eyes off Reginal del Reginal. “I could have decorated my sword from point to hilt with your heart’s blood, mind you, but I do not willingly kill in a duel to the first blood, and I did not.” He snorted. “Be happy you fought me to the first blood and not my father to the death, eh? He would have killed you, and all without any offense being given.”
Torrie lifted the point of his sword and raised his voice. “There’s been some talk of some brave fools who want to face my father, thinking that he’s slowed down. I have reason to know that they’re wrong, that his wrist and eye are as strong as they’ve ever been, and that years of practice have seasoned his mind beyond what you all remember.
“But perhaps I bluff.
“Perhaps he has slowed, just a trifle, and perhaps the best of you has a chance of not lying in a pool of your own blood and urine and feces at the end of a bout with him.” Torrie sheathed his sword with a decided snap. “Then try him.” And, unspoken, because an overt, direct challenge would have to be met: And then you try me.
It might work, or it might seem to work for a time, and that would be enough. Torrie was good with a blade, yes, but he wasn’t invincible, and only an invincible swordsman could survive unending challenges.
But, so far, his gamble had worked: not only had he beaten both of the sons of Reginal, but he had killed the first with one stroke, and disarmed the second with another. Never mind that the first victory came only because Danar del Reginal had gone for a one-touch kill and left himself exposed; ignore that Reginal del Reginal had been played for the drunken idiot that he was: Torrie had pulled it off, and by morning the word would be around the castle that Thorian del Thorian the Younger was, if anything, even more deadly than his legendary father.
Useful.
He could tell by their faces that Mom, Dad, and Maggie didn’t get it, but now wasn’t the time to explain things to them. Torrie spun on the balls of his feet and stalked off. Only when he passed through the archway and reached the balustrade on the walkway toward the tower did he let himself start shaking, and he didn’t stop until long after he was safely ensconced in their rooms.
He had fallen asleep when she came in.
In a dream, Maggie had slipped from her clothing in one smooth motion, her slim body glistening in the lantern light as she knelt down beside the bed to put her mouth on his, her kisses moving down his chest—
“What the fuck was that about?” she asked, shaking him awake.
Damn, damn, damn.
He was muzzy with sleep. “Mom and Dad with you?” “Yes, but—”
“Get them.”
Torrie was already on his feet, reaching for the emergency pack.
Dad had his shirt and boots off, getting ready for sleep.
“Quick,” Torrie whispered. “Get dressed, and get yourself gone.”
He had worked it out in a second. Yes, there would be telltales in the known passageways, and there were guards outside their door, and probably a Son or two hidden away in the Secret Ways between here and home.
But they were waiting for Thorian del Thorian the Senior, a citified duelist, not a man who had learned how to hunt—how to walk silently, how to listen, how to be invisible and unseen—from the likes of John Bjerke and Uncle Hosea. The Sons were sloppy, used to besting ordinary humans with their superior strength and quick bursts of speed—but a man could outrun anything, given enough of a head start.
And besides… perhaps there was a deal to be made here, a deal that could better be made as a fait accompli than otherwise.
A deal that would be kept? he asked himself.
Are you fucking kidding? he answered.
His father had long taken on something approaching Hosea’s sense of honor, of a promise being like, well, like the creation of a natural law. Probably the only thing that would let Dad run now was his promise to Grandpa to take care of Mom.
For Torrie, though, it was different. A promise made to somebody who had had Maggie and Mom dragged off into the night, leaving neighbors behind dead or crippled … that wasn’t just a breakable kind of promise; it was disposable, like a used Kleenex.
“Hurry,” Torrie said. “I’ll handle things here. I’ll delay their discovery that you’re g
one as long as I can, and then hold off telling them about the hidden entrance here as long as I can do that. Get home; I’ll escape and join you when I can.”
Dad shook his head. “No. You’re my son; I can no more leave you than I could—”
“No. You don’t get it, do you?” Torrie reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. “You’re needed to find the way home; I can’t negotiate the Hidden Ways.” There was something strange about them, something that defied mapping. “And the Fire Duke needs a champion, a good one, one who doesn’t care what the subject of the conflict is. It’s clear he’s irritated all the other Cities with his subtle and not-so-subtle threats; it’s time for him to put up or shut up, and for that, he needs a champion.
“I’m it, at least for the time being. You saw the crowd; I can probably trade that off against him not chasing after you—as long as you’re gone, as long as he knows that he can’t simply bring you back.”
Yes, yes, His Warmth would have Torrie locked up, but Torrie had been raised by Uncle Hosea. Every inch of the keep shouted his handiwork; Torrie, of all people, would be able to find his way free.
Get home? That would take some doing, and perhaps he never would.
So be it; he was Thorian del Thorian, son of Thorian the duelist and Karin Roelke Thorsen, and the blood of heroes ran in his veins from both sides of his family.
Let the others escape. He would find his own way.
Dad shook his head. “You’ll never find your way by yourself, any more than your mother or Maggie could. It has to be all of us or none.”
No.
They were counting on the women to anchor the men in place.
But Dad was the key; he was His Warmth’s ticket to power. So remove the ticket, and remove the problem.
“We can’t all escape,” Torrie said. “You know that. It would be noticed by morning at the latest, and you’re the one who told me you need more of a head start than that. He has to need me to champion his challenge, or I don’t have anything to bargain with. Which is why—” Torrie found his voice rising in pitch and volume, and forced himself to lower it. Mom and Dad were never moved by hysteria. “This is our one chance, Dad,” he said, quietly, calmly. “If it doesn’t work, if they capture you, do you think we’ll be left free to try again?”
Dad thought about it for a moment.
“You promised Grandpa you’d take care of Mom,” Torrie said. “What are your promises worth, Thorian del Thorian the Senior? You would keep one to that fat murderer rather than to my grandfather?”
“Your grandfather would have … No. Let it be as you will.” Dad nodded slowly, then turned to Mom and Maggie. “We’ll leave now. Dress in the pullovers from the emergency kit; they’ll help you vanish in the dark.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ll need most of a day’s head start to have a chance. The Ways are long—”
“Not ‘while the evil days come not,’ ” Maggie said with a smile.
“Eh?”
Torrie caught the reference. “Sure enough. You okay, Maggie?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been better. But I guess there’s only so much scared I can get. Can’t wet a river.” The tiny quaver in her voice was the only sign of fear.
Torrie smiled. “Good girl.”
“Good girl?” She started to flare, but fell silent when he offered her his sword, hilt first.
He grinned. “Just an obligatory bit of macho bullshit, and a reminder—the most the locals will think of you is that you’re good with tea and arithmetic, not a sword. If they catch up with you, they’ll be looking at Dad as the problem, not you. I want you to have this,” Torrie said.
“I’ll take the spare one, the one that Dad brought for Uncle Hosea.
“The blade was made by Uncle Hosea,” he said. “There’s some silver in it, I’m sure, and he tempered the edge in his own blood; it’ll kill a Son. Don’t try to get fancy, and don’t try to learn how to use the edge, not now; just keep it out in front of you and stick them with it.”
Dad already had his own sword belted on; he frowned. “I think—”
“No, Dad,” Torrie said, “you don’t. I’ve fenced with Maggie; you haven’t. She’s better than you think she is, and the Sons won’t be expecting anything out of her. You can use every advantage you have.”
Dad nodded, tightly. “As you will.”
Mom shook her head. “I can’t—”
“You can’t waste time now, Mom.” He drew himself up straight. “I’ll handle things. I’m not your little Torrie anymore, eh? I kind of grew up when you weren’t looking.”
She shook her head. “It’s not like that.”
“You can tell me what it is like later.”
There was something wrong about all this, but this part of it felt right: he hugged Mom tight for a moment, then released her. She turned her back as she unselfconsciously shrugged out of her dress, accepting Dad’s offer of the stretch pants and trousers.
Maggie came into his arms. “Torrie, I—”
“Shh,” he said. “Some other time.” Maybe. “Just do what Dad says, and everything should be fine.”
Her lips were soft on his, her tongue warm in his mouth until he pushed her away.
Dad had the lantern lit but rigged the baffles to let only a narrow beam of light out. Their three faces seemed somehow paler than they ought to be as Torrie closed the hidden passage door behind them, then turned and reset the lockwork. There might be a way to do that from the other side, there likely was a way to do that from the other side, but he didn’t know it.
He folded the Paratool and tossed it back on the bed, leaving it out in the open. Naked is sometimes the best disguise.
There was something wrong with all this, but they ought to be safe. That was enough for now.
He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep.
The trick would be to wake before the servants showed up, and cover for the rest.
Chapter Nineteen
Falias
Dawn broke dry and clear, and Silvertop slowed to a walk as the road twisted up through the mountains.
The silver dime was again just a dime, and Ian was just riding on the back of the horse, and if his buttocks hadn’t been battered to what he was sure was black and blue, and if his shoulders and neck didn’t feel like the bones and tendons were cooking over a slow fire, and if—
He wished he could think of last night as just a dream.
Behind them, the road disappeared into the timberline, perhaps half a mile down the slope. Or maybe further. It was hard to tell.
The road had become strange. It was flat and uncracked, although covered in spots with dirt and plants, as though it was the bones of the world peeking up through the brown and green flesh.
Ian shuddered at the image and tried to dismiss it from his mind, but it persisted.
For no reason that Ian could see, Hosea cleared his throat and asked Silvertop to stop.
“We go from here by ourselves,” Hosea said, lowering himself to the road before helping Ian down.
God, he hurt. It took more for Ian to straighten his back than he thought he had in him.
Silvertop took a prancing step, and another of his snorts sent dirt and dust flying into the air.
“I thank you, old friend,” Hosea said, his long fingers stroking the horse’s muzzle gently, clearly out of affection rather than need. It would probably take a pickax to hurt Silvertop, and Ian wouldn’t have wanted to bet that a pickax would do the job.
Upslope from him, the dark gray stones peeked out, like the tip of a jagged dagger pointing at the sky. “Tyr’s Knife, it was once called,” Hosea said. “And here is where we part ways, Silvertop.”
The horse simply turned and galloped away, its massive hooves thundering on the road, clods of dirt and bits of grass and brush flying every which way.
Aesir horses, it seemed, weren’t much for saying goodbye.
Hosea stretched mightily, then started loosening the thongs that held his gear on him; Ian
did the same.
“So what now?”
“Now we rest for an hour or so.” Hosea seated himself on the road surface, tailor-fashion, then spread his cloak out next to him and lay flat on his back. He made a palm-up gesture at Ian to do the same, which, after a hesitation, he did. I mean, what am I expecting? A truck or an Aesir horse is going to come along and run me over?
“And then?”
“And then we climb, and then make our way across a difficult saddle, and come in the back way, and hope that we’re on time.” He sat up. “There is one more thing, friend Ian,” he said, slowly. “The sword you hold was made by me, and its edge cured and tempered in my blood; in your world, I could impart no other virtue to it than this: there is nothing that it can’t kill.”
“You want me to use it to defend you?” Ian shrugged. “I thought that’s what I signed up for.”
“No. That’s not it at all. If all fails, if you believe I am about to be captured, I want, I need—” Hosea swallowed. “I need for you to use it to kill me.” Hosea shook his head. “Promises come easier to your kind than to mine, so I’ll not ask you to promise. I’ll tell you that you’d find it more difficult to do than you think, but I swear to you that it must be done.” Hosea leaned back on his cloak, wide eyes staring at the sky. “And perhaps it’s about time that it be done, eh?”
Chapter Twenty
Breakfast and a Challenge
Off in the distance, dishes clattered loudly enough that Torrie would have feared breakage, if they were his dishes.
Damn. He had wanted to wake before this, but—
Buts never bought you anything. He tossed aside his blankets and stood, then wrapped a linen towel around his waist and came out of his room to confront a Vestri setting out breakfast in front of the picture window.
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