His feet were wet with dew by the time he had walked through the grass to the stone bench near the tree. He moved around for a few moments, working to get a clear view of the man practicing in the ring without having sunlight glaring into his eyes. Then he sat down and began to draw.
Lord Callo was deep in the ritual, his sword spinning and catching the sunlight. His arm flexed through motions of attack and defense. He moved with an athlete’s grace, but fast enough that Ander had difficulty putting anything down on paper. He struggled with this, discarding several ruined attempts, before he saw the guardsman Obin standing against the rail, watching Lord Callo and himself at the same time. A sudden irritation took hold of Ander. He put his charcoal down and walked over to the ring.
“Good morning, my lord,” said Obin. “I am sorry I was not here before. I never thought you’d be at the ring this morning of all mornings.”
“Yes, well, I wanted to draw.” He glared at Obin. “Alone.”
Lord Callo finished his form and walked over to the rail. “Good morning, my lord.”
“You are up early, Lord Callo,” Ander said.
“This is the best time for the ritual—with his sun just up, on a day like today. But it is cursed humid already. It will be unpleasant on our journey. Good morning, Hon Obin. Where is Hon Islarian?”
“I have not seen him.”
“He is usually here,” Callo said.
“Lord Callo—would you like a practice match?” Ander surprised himself with that request. He shoved his drawing paper and charcoal stick into Obin’s reluctant hands. “I am ready.”
“I see.” Callo grinned. He was all light today, without the brooding tension Ander had noticed in him sometimes. “All right, young lord. Get us some practice swords, will you? If it meets with your protector’s approval, that is.”
The guard shrugged. “With wooden swords, yes, my lord.”
Ander ran into the shed that stood within a few yards of the ring. It was used to store the practice swords and shields, various items of wool padding used for protection in training, and basic first aid supplies. Sometimes Islarian worked in here, sitting on one of the benches and instructing boys in how to care for their leather armor and weapons. Ander paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness of the interior. His eyes began to discern the bulk of the stand that held the wooden swords. He stepped toward it, tripped over something large, and went down.
He rolled away from the bulk on the dirt floor. His mind identified it as a body before his eyes could really see it. Then he made out the sprawled form of his weapons instructor, eyes wide open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling. His tunic was saturated with blood and torn away from his chest, so that Ander could see the ugly wound where someone had stabbed up and under Islarian’s ribs to pierce his heart.
Ander yelped, but the sound was cut off by a hand that clamped over his mouth as another yanked him to his feet. “Not a sound,” growled a deep voice. “Or I’ll take care of you right here like I did him.”
Ander shut his mouth. His heartbeat took off and started racing in panic. His captor took the hand from his mouth, allowing Ander to gasp for air, but held a knife against his throat. Now that his eyes were fully adjusted, he could see two other men. One dragged Islarian’s body against a wall while the other stood, body flattened against the wall near the door, and looked outside.
“Where’s the other one?” demanded Ander’s captor.
“There’s two now,” whispered the man at the door. “The lord, and another one. They’re talking.”
The third man edged toward the door. He held a huge knife. “He’ll come in, in a minute, to find the boy.”
“The tall one is not to be touched,” Ander’s captor hissed. “Remember our orders.”
“I remember ’em as well as you. Mind your mouth, idiot. The kid’s a mage, remember?”
Ander had just barely remembered this himself. He began to reach for the color magery, but the cold line of the knife at his throat dissuaded him. His captor meant business; the knife was actually scraping the skin of his neck, ready to bite. There was no way he could call up the energies before the man could slit his throat.
“Together,” his captor said. “We’re going out, heading for the others. Move fast. They won’t dare attack us as long as we have a knife at his throat.”
Ander thought this was true. Past the slamming of his heart against his ribs he began to think of what Lord Callo might do, what Obin might do. His brain began to work again, slowly. He said, “Let me tell them not to interfere. I don’t want them hurt.” The knife caught him a little. A drop of blood trickled down his neck.
“Just shut up and do what you’re told.”
Ander felt a hand in the small of his back, urging him forward. The hand holding the knife at his throat gave him some room—just enough to move forward. He could no longer feel it on his skin, but it was still there. The strange men were all behind him, using him as a shield. He passed the door frame and stood once again in brilliant sunlight.
He could mark the instant they saw the men with him. Lord Callo’s sword was in his hand and he moved toward the strange men before Ander could draw a deep breath. Obin crouched and moved, fast and deadly. Then Ander’s captor shouted: “Hold! If you move I’ll slit his throat!” Both men froze.
Ander’s captor put the knife closer against his throat. “I mean it. Move and I’ll kill him. You two, take their swords and get them into the shed.”
The two intruders threw Lord Callo’s sword and Obin’s short blade out of their way, into the dust of the ring. Lord Callo was still, tension in every line of his body; his captor was wary, yanking Callo’s arms behind him and pulling out a leather cord.
“Not a move, color mage,” Ander’s captor warned Lord Callo. “If my man sees even a spark, I swear the young lord will be dead.”
So they knew Lord Callo was a color mage. Ander’s last hope fled. There would be no defense from that quarter, not while Lord Callo’s eyes were fixed on the knife at Ander’s throat. He would not use the color magery and risk Ander’s life. Ander felt his captor’s grip on his upper arm, strong as iron. He realized he was holding his breath, and gasped after air. The knife rasped against the skin of his throat.
The other two men shoved the guardsman into the shed. Ander stumbled as his own captor pulled him away, toward the line of trees on the far side of the meadow. Callo’s guard pushed him in the same direction. The morning sun, still at a low angle, shone into the first few yards of the forest and reflected off something metal. There were more armed men among the trees.
Ander wondered desperately where the Northgard patrols were. There had been no sign of a force of this size. The King’s men must have moved fast and stayed in the wooded hills, waiting to ambush him. Or, perhaps this was Sword of Jashan, and his own patrol had betrayed him—could that be? Ander heard a door close at the manse, heard someone call out. He prayed no one else would come down here and risk getting killed on his behalf.
Obin and Callo had vanished into the shed. Ander’s captor prodded him in the back with another weapon, roughly urging him on. Ander tried to think of something he could do, but nothing occurred to him. His brain could think of no escape.
Then the fear struck him.
A corner of his mind wondered why the panic had waited so long to strike. Then, all at once, he could not think at all. A whimper escaped from his throat, and his legs began to shake. Heedless of the knife at his throat, afraid of something far worse, he turned.
The knife was no longer there. His captor backed away. Ander could see the whites all around his irises. The man moaned something over and over—a prayer, perhaps. His hands were trembling so hard that Ander could see them shake.
Lord Callo stood near the doorway to the shed. His amber eyes were fixed on Ander’s captor. Someone shoved past him from the interior of the shed, making the righ lord stumble a little. It was one of the intruders, scrambling away in desperation
, his face white as paper, the blade in his hand useless and forgotten. Ander heard a wail of terror from Obin, similarly afflicted.
Ander’s captor flinched away. Then he was on his knees. The knife fell from his hands into the dust. He shook as he scooted away from Ander.
Ander himself, filled with a terror he had never before experienced, shrieked and tried to run. He tripped over his own feet and sprawled flat on the ground. There his panicked brain gave up, and he froze in a misery of fear.
Someone ran away, toward the woods. It was the second intruder, scared out of sense. The first had not reappeared out of the shed. Ander did not know what was so terrifying, but his heart was beating in a rapid pace that made it hard to breathe.
A hand appeared in his field of vision, pulling up on his captor’s tunic. It was Lord Callo’s hand; he hauled the intruder to his feet and pulled him away from Ander.
“It’s all right,” Lord Callo said in a flat tone of voice. “Ander, it’s all right.”
Just like that, the fear was gone. Ander sat in the dust and stared at Lord Callo. Obin ran out of the shed and struck his sword against the metal disc at the ring, raising the alarm. In just moments, men began to muster from the Hunters’ quarters and from the house.
Lord Callo whipped a leather cord around the intruder’s wrists. He extended a hand and Ander grasped it, letting Lord Callo pull him to his feet.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
His former captor pulled experimentally at his bonds. “That’s two of us,” he said. “What in all the hells was that?”
“Shut up,” Obin said, coming back to relieve Lord Callo of his prisoner. He shoved the man away from both of the righ, letting the man trip into the dirt again. “Get on your feet, you damned slime.” When the man struggled to his feet again, Obin yanked him away.
Mounted Northgard men were streaming toward the tree line where there were signs of a hurried retreat. Ander took a deep breath. It seemed he was safe after all, though he had no idea how. He looked up at Callo’s face. The man looked exhausted. He would not meet Ander’s questioning gaze. Ander walked over into the ring and picked up both of the swords that lay there, returning Callo’s to him hilt first.
“Thank you, Lord Ander,” said Callo. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. But Islarian is dead.” Ander heard the quiver in his own voice and took in a deep gulp of air, trying to stop the trembling that now threatened to overcome him.
A small group of mounted men pulled up before them. “My lords. Are you both all right?”
“Somehow, yes,” Ander said. He cast a sideways glance at Lord Callo, who had not responded.
“We must get you up to the house,” the man said. Without waiting for a horse to be brought, the man began to lift him bodily up onto his own horse. Callo helped, shoving Ander up. Then they were away, Ander grabbing onto the man’s mailed body to keep himself from jouncing over the horse’s rump, feeling like a child again but grateful to be on his way to safety. Two other horsemen galloped beside him, blades drawn, looking to the outside to protect him from further attack. From the corner of his eye Ander saw battle joined along the tree line, horses surging toward each other as the men on their backs raised spears or swords in attack. A surge of fire told him there was a color mage there; it must be Lord Zelan, unless Callo had already made it down from the ring to the tree line.
The main door of the manse swung open. Guards manned the gate, bristling with weapons. One of them put a hand on his shoulder and hustled him inside. He would have protested but he was too glad to see the heavy door close behind him. The interior hall was dim, shuttered for defense.
“Lady Dria Mar is on the top floor,” a man told him. “She is waiting for you, my lord.”
“Thank you.” He began to take the stairs two at a time, anxious to look out the west-facing windows and measure the status of the fight taking place by the trees.
Upstairs, Lady Dria Mar sat in a group of others who had been directed there for their safety. She wore a scarlet tunic and a gold underdress, in the city style. Gold clips kept her nest of black curls tight to her head. She smiled when she saw Ander.
“You are safe,” she said.
“Yes, thanks to Lord Callo. How goes the battle? Whose are those men?”
“I don’t know. Where is Lord Callo? He does not accompany you?”
“I don’t know where he is now.” Ander stood near the narrow open window and watched the two dozen Northgard men engage the enemy. Several men were down, but he could not tell whether they were attackers or defenders from this distance. As he watched, someone tried to cut back and ride into the woods, but was felled by a spear of energy. “Is my lord father down there?”
“He is. What happened, son?”
Ander left the window and came over to her. “Hon Islarian is dead, mother.”
“Is he? He will be honored.” Ander could tell Lady Dria Mar cared not a bit for Hon Islarian. He swallowed, feeling his emotions rise up ready to embarrass him now that the immediate danger was past. He turned aside, sniffing a little, and then Kirian appeared out of nowhere and offered a handkerchief.
“I am glad to see you well. You have seen Lord Callo, you said?”
“He was well when I left. Lady mother, where are the servants and tradesmen? Where is Hon Jesel?”
“Jesel prepares for the wounded,” Kirian told him. “I will make myself available as well.”
“I have no idea where the servants have gone,” said Lady Dria Mar. “I am still waiting to hear what happened, Lord Ander.” The bite in her voice straightened his shoulders. Her dark eyes glittered as she watched him. Any tendency toward tears fled as wariness filled him.
He stood before her and told the story. Kirian stayed nearby, intent on his words. When he got to the part about the intense fear that had felled him and his attackers, Lady Dria Mar stiffened and ordered their companions to the other side of the room.
“Lower your voice,” she ordered. “This is far better proof than I hoped for.”
He did not understand, but finished the story, frowning as he watched her. “What is it, lady Mother?” he asked. “I do not understand what happened, but it was a useful defense.”
“Defense!” she exclaimed. “Yes, since my lord was in such a mood today. No wonder all around him have been singing his praises. Even you, my son, have been influenced to like the man, even while he plots your death.”
“What are you saying? Lord Callo does not intend my death. He saved me today!”
“For a while, until it suits his convenience.”
“Lady Dria Mar,” Kirian spoke up. “Lord Callo is here to help protect your son against the plots of the King. Surely those are King’s men out there right now, who attempted to steal Lord Ander away and slay him. You owe Lord Callo gratitude, not suspicion!”
“I did not ask you to speak.” Lady Dria Mar went to the door and opened it to reveal one of her personal guard, who stood outside the door. “Balan. Pass the word to Lord Zelan’s men. As soon as Lord Callo returns from the battle, I want him confined to his chamber under double guard.”
The man looked confused, but said only: “Yes, my lady.”
Ander was in a whirl of confusion. “But I don’t understand! What are you thinking?”
“There were rumors in Sugetre. This one was secretly passed, not common knowledge. Some guardsman who was present at Seagard during a confrontation with King Martan is its source. It is said that Lord Callo’s father was a ku’an from Ha’las, and that Lord Callo has inherited that aptitude from him.”
“A ku’an! He is a color mage. I have seen it myself.”
“And a ku’an. Do you remember what you have been taught of the ku’an?”
“The ku’an are psychic mages from Ha’las. They can make a person feel false emotions. We have defended against them since—oh, for hundreds of years. The Collared Lords of Seagard are bound to a Watch against them.”
“Do you remember wha
t a ku’an can do?”
“Yes. Of course I do.” Ander was uncertain now. He remembered the fierce terror that had sent him scrambling into the dust. He remembered his heart beating so fast he could barely breathe. Where had that terror come from?
“Lady Dria Mar.” That was Kirian, white in the face. “I ask you to speak to Lord Callo before you take any action.”
“Why? So he can force me to like him too?”
“He would not do that. My lady, he is an honorable man.”
“Do you think I don’t know how—honorable—he is? If I were you, Healer, I would not bed with a man who could force me to lust after him.”
Kirian turned even paler. Ander stepped back, shocked.
“He does no such thing,” Kirian said with dignity.
“My son,” Dria Mar said. “Think on this. Lord Callo has been claimed to the Monteni line in spite of his bastard origins. He is a righ and a color mage and now we know he has the psychic mage ability from his sire. By his own admission, His Majesty has offered him the throne. Why would such a man not seize that opportunity?”
Ander felt his certainty ebbing out from his heart like a receding tide. “He has so much power. I do not know why he would be willing to sit below me.”
“Lord Ander!” said Kirian, sharply. “It is not my place to speak to the righ about their affairs but I know this man. Let us return to reality. Yes, he has great power. He also has a conscience, and no desire to rule.”
Lady Dria stiffened. “You dare too much, Healer. What right do you have to speak so?”
The door opened and Lord Zelan appeared. His hair was flat with sweat and the weight of a helm. His face was spattered with mud.
“What is this I hear?” he said. “Lady Dria Mar, I have been told that orders have been given to imprison my lord Callo when he returns from the fight.”
“How goes the fight, sir?” Ander asked.
“They are defeated, all run off; only cleanup remains. I have sent fresh men to make sure they do not return, and set a new watch. But we have lost two good men today. Now I return from this mess to find my lady wife ready to imprison the man who has twice saved our son. What is this all about, then?”
Sword of Jashan (Book 2) Page 8
