by Helen Lowe
So if I am going to intervene further, Kalan thought grimly, it has to be now.
On the opposite side of the ring the young, black-armored knight took a step forward, ignoring the restraining hand of one of his companions. Almost, Kalan thought, still with that distant, observational part of his mind, as if he’s thinking exactly the same thing I am. The coif concealed the young knight’s expression, but his body stance and the angle of his head suggested a total focus on the endgame now being played out.
In the ring, Orth’s sword thrust forward and the point would have driven between Audin’s pauldron and gorget, piercing the vulnerable armpit area, if he had not twisted clear at the last moment.
More than time, Kalan thought, to finish this.
He drew a deep breath and concentrated power within himself, intense as the summer lightning that flickers above acrid earth. Orth pivoted, drawing his sword back for another hammer blow—and Kalan sent a flare of invisible energy leaping along the giant’s sword blade and up his forearm.
For the first time, Orth was the one to leap back, yelling, although he did not drop his weapon. Audin lurched after him, although it looked as though even lifting his sword took everything he had. The two weapons rang together, sparks flying from the clash of metal—and Kalan released the molten flicker again, unseen beneath the blue Midsummer sky, and shattered Orth’s blade.
Everything degenerated into confusion after that. The marshals leapt forward to hold Audin back while Orth kept yelling, a roar of inchoate rage that increased in volume as he focused on the two mounted watchers on the edge of the crowd. The riders were heralds of the Guild—Tarathan and Jehane Mor, in fact, Kalan registered, in a quick glance around as Orth bellowed out something about murder, revenge, and blood debt.
The yelling was in Derai, but Kalan was fairly certain that everyone present got the gist of thwarted rage and bloody mayhem. Eventually, when the marshals’ poles were barely keeping Orth in his corner, the other Sword warriors mobbed their comrade and dragged him away. Only one of their number remained behind—to hear the outcome of the bout, Kalan supposed, although it was slow in coming.
“He’ll win on points,” Audin said, speaking indistinctly even after they had pulled his helmet off, because his mouth was full of blood. They had half carried, half led him into the shade of a pavilion awning, sitting him down on a wooden barrel that Ado dragged forward. He seemed to be finding it hard to keep his head up, and held the cloth that Kalan had given him clamped against his mouth.
“We thought he was going to kill you.” Ado’s voice was ragged.
Audin lifted his head sufficiently to meet their eyes. “The tourney life,” he replied thickly.
Kalan shook his head. “Ado’s right,” he said. “This went beyond that.” There was the business with the marshals as well, he thought grimly: the way they held back for so long. He hesitated, watching the heralds moving toward them around the edge of the crowd, and wondered how much more he should say.
“Is he all right?” The knight in blue-black armor was standing within a few paces of the awning, but not close enough to intrude. Seen up close, there was no question that he was very young, his dark eyes concerned beneath finely marked brows. Kalan kept his expression noncommittal as Ado went to speak with the newcomer, aware of the intent gaze of the young knight’s companions, standing at a watchful distance.
“I’m fine,” Audin mumbled into the bloody rag, and Kalan caught something else that sounded like: “Not a damosel.”
“You’re not,” he agreed, grinning although his face still felt stiff. “But we should get you back to camp and out of that armor. Count your ribs to make sure they’re all still intact.”
“Be wary of the Derai,” the young man was saying to Ado. “They are murderous and vengeful, even more so outside the ring.”
“I’m not sure I can walk back,” Audin said at the same time.
“Can you ride?” Tarathan asked, overhearing, as he swung out of the saddle. “If we can get you onto one of our horses?”
The black knight was looking at the heralds curiously—almost as though he had never seen one before, although Kalan thought everyone between Ij and Ishnapur would at least have heard of the gray-clad Guild. The marshals, were finally making their way through the crowd, and the young knight must have seen them, too, because he spoke a few more correct words to Ado and left with his companions.
The marshals, as expected, declared Orth a clear winner on points. Audin just nodded when they told him: beyond caring, Kalan suspected. And he was right, winning and losing were just part of the tourney life. As if feeling this, the last of the crowd had melted away to watch other bouts by the time they got Audin up onto Tarathan’s horse. Kalan walked beside the tall gray as they started out for the Normarch camp, putting up a hand to support Audin when he swayed in the saddle.
“Good horse,” Audin muttered. “Like one of Jarn’s.”
And Kalan realized that he had forgotten all about Jarna and his promise to watch her in the final elimination rounds of the horse trials.
Chapter 37
Adept
Outside the narrow windows of the Duke of Emer’s study, fireworks were still bursting against a deep blue dusk, and Malian kept her eyes turned away from the exploding dazzle so as not to lose her night vision. She had entered through the deep window embrasure on the opposite side of the tower room and was crouched in the shadow of the floor-to-ceiling tapestries that served as its curtains. Shadow Band fashion, she kept her body angled to watch both windows and the door into the room while she studied the Darkswarm’s gifts.
As far as she could tell, with a mental reservation around the subtleties of Swarm sorcery, the lamp and map book, like the gifts made to both Ghiselaine and Zhineve-An, were free of either magical or physical traps. Did that mean, she wondered, that the Swarm’s embassy was genuine, or simply that the gifts would have been too obvious a ploy? They already knew about the existence of the Oakward, enough to bespell the welcome cup against detection, so would know that the gifts might be inspected.
“Can you sense anything?” she asked Nhenir, now in the guise of a flat, black felt cap fitting close around her head. “Some passive magic I may have missed?”
“No,” the helm replied. “The gifts are as they seem and fit for their intended purpose.”
“To impress.” Malian pursed her lips thoughtfully, although they had already discussed the gifts’ subtle display of artifice and acumen. A more obvious present, for the Duke at least, might have been fine armor or weapons. Instead, what had been given complimented his known thirst for learning, on which he might well pride himself. The covert implication was clear enough as well: if we have the skill to create these objects, what might we not offer in the way of weapons and the crafts of war?
What indeed? Malian thought. She had not missed another implication either: that a Swarm alliance offering arms and the skill to make them, might well undermine the Derai’s five-centuries-long trade with the River in metal ores, and the finest armor and weapons to be bought in Haarth. A trade, she reflected, that secured much of the food and other supplies that enabled the Derai Alliance to continue garrisoning the otherwise unlivable Wall of Night.
“And,” Nhenir added, “by giving gifts of artifice and learning, the Swarm underlines its own culture and civilization.”
“Compared to those who offer only raw materials or arms—although the hint that these, too, may be forthcoming is still there. Clever,” Malian added, forced to admire the cunning of it.
“The Duke comes,” the helm said. “With his champion.”
Malian was on her feet in an instant, restoring the lamp and the map to their places before concealing herself in the window embrasure, behind the tapestry curtains, as the door began to open. Someone with a light tread—a page, she guessed—lit the lamps, but withdrew as two heavier sets of footsteps entered the room. “You should use your gift lamp,” Ser Ombrose said.
“The o
thers are lit now,” the Duke replied, his tone implying a shrug. A chair creaked, and Malian guessed that he had sat down. “I hear some northern thug came close to killing Audin today.”
“The boy was outmatched.” Ser Ombrose was matter-of-fact. “A herald pair attended his injuries afterward and I’m told he’ll recover, with rest.”
He did not, Malian noticed, mention Kalan’s view—which Ilaise had brought back from the tourney ground—that the marshals let the bout continue far past the point where it was clear that Audin’s opponent intended to kill him. She heard fingers drum against a wooden surface. “No more tourney, eh?” the Duke said. “The lad won’t like that. I take it he’s still at the camp?”
No, Malian thought, because Ilaise had told her about helping organize both the litter and the Bonamark escort that had brought Audin to the Normarch town house, close by the palace.
“I can find out,” Ser Ombrose replied. More fireworks exploded and an outburst of applause followed. Malian heard the chair creak twice after the applause died away, as though the Duke had moved his weight forward and then almost immediately back again.
“And Hirluin?” he asked. “There’s still no word?”
“None,” Ser Ombrose answered. “I’ve sent a company east and I expect word soon, but delays on the road are not impossible, even at the height of summer. Is the Ormondian making demands?”
Caril of Emer’s laugh was a short harsh bark. “No, that’s Queen Zhineve-An’s domain at present.”
“Ah, the business of the Great Marriage.” Was that humor in Ser Ombrose’s voice? Malian wondered. Until now it was not a quality she had associated with the man. “I don’t know where she gets the idea that it was implicit in the invitation your grandfather extended. Our clerks can find no word of it.”
“And tact,” the Duke observed dryly, “is clearly not taught in the temple precincts of Jhaine. Today she conceded that my heir may do just as well if I do not care for the idea.”
“Pack her home,” his champion replied.
“Don’t tempt me.” The Duke’s chair creaked sharply, followed by the sound of pacing footsteps. “But a Jhainarian alliance will benefit Emer, and the last thing we want is the Nine Queens going to Lathayra instead. So I need to find a way to deal with her—and offer something attractive to Jhaine by way of a treaty.”
“You could just meet her demands,” Ser Ombrose said.
The pacing stopped. “I could,” the Duke replied finally. “But I need to know more about this Great Marriage first: whether it is a true marriage or just a rite, and what the implications of either would be for the balance of power within Emer.” The fireworks had stopped now although there was still plenty of noise, the talk and laughter rising above the music that had started up. “And there’s the other business.”
His tone had not changed, but Malian was instantly aware of the seer’s stillness within herself, the recognition that he was saying something that had the potential to profoundly influence the pattern of unfolding events. Concealed behind the heavy curtains, she narrowed her eyes, waiting.
“The endless questions about the River and Guild of Heralds you mean?” Ser Ombrose’s tone was indifferent. “I’ve told them to speak with the River maister, your new cartographer.”
“I believe they’ve already spoken once, when Countess Ghiselaine asked to see the Seasonal Analects.” The Duke resumed pacing, and Malian could almost hear the headshake in his voice as he spoke again. “Clearly, they are looking for someone and their suspicion has fallen on the Guild. The queen is not particularly subtle—and you’ve seen the Seven. They’re wild as half-trained hawks, and with a similar notion of consequences, I imagine. But I don’t want any trouble, Ombrose, not right now, so we need to keep them away from any herald pairs in the city.”
“Or throw them together,” the champion drawled. “See what transpires.”
The Duke laughed again, the same short hard bark. “Not right now, Ombrose. First we need to get through Midsummer.”
“Yes.” Ser Ombrose paused and the Duke’s pacing stopped—caught, Malian guessed, by the edge to his nephew’s voice. When the champion did speak, he sounded as though he was choosing every word with care. “It might be easier to do that, sire, if you did not intend relinquishing the Sondargent name as part of the rebetrothal ceremony. That was never part of the peace treaty—and many gathered here will dislike it.”
“As you do,” the Duke replied quietly. “But sometimes in order to have peace we need to make peace—to give something, as well as demand concessions. And Midsummer is the time for making the world new.”
“Sondargent is the history of Emer.” Ser Ombrose’s voice was tight. “You can’t just give that up.”
Malian heard the Duke move and guessed that he had stepped closer to his nephew, perhaps even clasped his arm. “So is Sondormond, Ombrose. And Ghiselaine is the last of that line. My hope is that if she and Hirluin both take Sond-emer as their name, and their children are born to it, that will help create the peace we want.”
But does Ser Ombrose want peace? Malian wondered, mindful of his reputation from the Lathayran wars. The Duke moved again, his step brisk. “Speaking of Countess Ghiselaine,” he said, “have you made any progress on the business with the cup?”
“Nothing but dead ends—” Ser Ombrose began, but broke off as someone rapped on the door. A moment later a boy’s voice spoke.
“Your Grace, you asked me to call you when supper was about to be served, so you could escort the queen.”
“Ah yes. We’ll talk again later, Ombrose—although I suppose you’ll be retiring early, since you’re to compete in the tourney yourself from tomorrow.” Malian thought the Duke sounded almost regretful, as though wishing he could be the one taking part.
The champion murmured assent, and the page snuffed out the lamps as the men left the room. Their voices receded, cutting off altogether as the page, too, departed, closing the door behind him. Malian waited, just to be sure she was completely alone, before opening the window. The night air was cool, and this side of the tower dark, as she eased onto the ledge.
“I suppose I should join what’s left of the festivities,” she said to Nhenir, “although I gather most of the courtiers will go roistering in the city afterward.” It had been the same in Ar whenever the prince entertained at the palace, with some of the courtiers always ending up fighting with students or the watch before the night was over.
Malian made her way around the ledge to another window embrasure, then down the finger- and toeholds on the buttress that supported it. She was aware of the jumbled roofs and small courtyards below her, but had never been afraid of heights—and despite its sheer appearance the Black Tower was not a difficult climb in these lower reaches. Still, it was not until she finally dropped into one of the courtyards that she allowed herself to review the overheard conversation.
A dead end in respect of the cup was perhaps not surprising with the Swarm in the city as guests. But, she resolved, I need to find out more about this Great Marriage as well, especially if it could affect the balance of power in Emer.
The terraces facing onto the river were thronged with people, and Malian mingled with the crowd, pretending to drink from the goblet she took from a servant’s tray. Queen Zhineve-An was seated amongst a cluster of Emerian nobles, with the Duke talking to others nearby. Malian thought the young queen looked more like Alianor’s gilded doll than ever, her smile fixed in place, and noted how the Seven hovered close, nervous and restive. Ser Ombrose was watching them, too, from his place on the edge of the group, a place Malian thought at odds with both his position and his flamboyant clothes.
The champion’s gaze drifted across the crowd and she felt his regard linger briefly on Maister Carick before shifting on. Malian waited for the tune to end before moving further along the terrace, but could see no sign of Ghiselaine or any of the Normarch knights, and guessed they had already returned to the Gallery wing.
The way
there involved crossing the wide paved courtyard by the main gates, which was as crowded as the rest of the palace. A dancer of Kan’s boon, Malian thought, negotiating the fringes of the bustle. The moon was rising, yellow and not quite round above the palace wall: it would be full tomorrow evening, for the first of the three nights that marked the Midsummer rite.
The door into the Gallery wing banged back and the Normarch company surged down a flight of stone steps and into the yard. Malian watched the torchlight cast fire across Kalan’s tawny hair—except that he was all Hamar here, seen amidst the circle of his friends. They milled at the foot of the steps, waiting for their horses, and Malian thought that all the young knights seemed subdued. Because of Audin, she wondered, or did all the day’s contests go badly? She was about to make her way over to them when grooms brought up the horses with a clatter. One horse shook its head, whinnying shrilly—and a darkness slid along the top of the courtyard wall.
Malian stood very still as the darkness changed form, blending into light as it crept above a lantern bracket, then dropping back into shadow again, but always keeping pace with the riders as they moved toward the gates. The breeze gusted, and an unmistakable Darkswarm taint licked at the edge of her Band-honed seeker’s sense.
“Conceal me,” she said to Nhenir, calling on the helm’s fabled ability to pass by others unnoticed. She was already seeking for additional enemies as she followed the darkness toward the palace gates, careful to let her use of power fray into the nighttime life of the city: the swirl of people around inns and food vendors’ stalls, the stealthy movement of cats and rats in back alleys, and the gossip from one house to another as neighbors prepared to pull their shutters closed. Where there was one darkspawn, there could easily be more—and the spring’s events in Ij made it clear that the Swarm had found assassin allies.
