These prisoners did not laugh. They stared, open-mouthed. Some began to weep, some cried out incoherently, while others fell to the ground. They spoke out in the quick, darting Keervasti tongue, or in the harsher and more grating dialect of the Islandmen.
They begged for mercy, for clemency, for forgiveness. When even the man he’d punched the night before, his cheek swollen and bruised black and purple, fell to the ground in supplication, Allystaire put away his sword and slipped the whetstone into his belt.
“Listen to me. I, as paladin and Arm of the Mother, protector of Her people in this village, suspend the sentence of death upon you.” A ragged cheer went up, he raised his hands again, and the men fell silent. “I said suspend, not commute. The Voice of the Mother will come to speak to you of repentance, and any who wish will have that chance. Your arms, however, are forfeit, as are half the value of all other goods you brought with you. Agree to this and you may leave this place alive, but be warned: return to it as aught but a friend, and I will see you dead.” He paused, surveyed the field, and said, “Be silent now, and think on what I have said.”
With that, he turned and strode away. The Ravens, who’d drifted a few cautious paces backwards as their prisoners began shouting and falling to the ground, once more stepped forward, adjusting their hands on their weapons and shooting sidelong glances at Allystaire.
He found Torvul waiting for him just out of sight, behind the sloping walls of Henri’s sod-roofed farmhouse. Allystaire opened his mouth, but the dwarf cut him off with a raised hand.
“I haven’t hurt them. I gave them, ah, a truth serum, for lack of a better word, which your northern tongue almost always lacks, in point of fact.” The alchemist recovered from his brief digression with a wave of his hand, went on. “It made them see you for what you are, for one. More to the point, it made them see their own deepest selves. I’m thinkin’ most didn’t like what they found, aye?”
Allystaire nodded slowly. “I suppose not. But how do I explain this mercy to Ivar and her men? Our ways are not their ways, at least not yet. Their brother of battle is dead, murdered by those men.”
“You folk and your brothers of battle,” Torvul said. “As if war and killing were the only noble thing a man can turn his hand to.”
“We owe him something,” Allystaire said. “He died at our command, defending our people. Her people. That is worth something. The Ravens will want blood.”
“I think Iolantes will oblige them.” Idgen Marte suddenly stepped around from the other side of the farmhouse. She hadn’t slept, he could tell that much by the dishevelment of her clothes and general weariness in her brown eyes, heavily bagged and lidded. Still, her shoulders were set and her walk determined. “I’ve just come from the shed where we tossed him. He’s demanding a Trial at Arms.”
Allystaire frowned and let loose a deep sigh. “Against whom?”
Idgen Marte snorted. “Who d’ya think?”
“We don’t have much t’gain by listening to him. You want him dead, string him up,” Torvul said, as the three of them drifted away from the farmhouse and back towards the village.
“Too much to lose by refusing,” Allystaire murmured.
“This is more of that brother of battle rot, hrm?” Torvul eyed Allystaire warily.
“Aye. And I would not call it rot where the men might hear you. If this Iolantes is demanding a Trial at Arms, then he must have it, for the form of the thing.”
Torvul began to speak but Idgen Marte cut him off. “If we hang him, we’re murderers. That’s the tale carried back to Londray. If he demands a Trial at Arms, is given it, and dies?”
“Then we are beyond reproach. More than fair and proven right,” Allystaire said, nodding in agreement. “He will have his chance.”
Chapter 24
Trial-at-Arms
“Iwant a day to prepare, dictate my last testament, regain my strength, and pray with Joscelyn.”
“You’re fartin’ higher than your ass,” Torvul shot back at Iolantes.
What in Cold does that mean? Allystaire had little time to ponder it. “In truth, Captain, you are putting on a good show of indifference for a man who slept his last night in a cow byre,” he said.
Iolantes was redolent of his quarters, which he’d only just been let out of. Despite blinking against the sudden brightness, the man stood with a straight back, and as soon as his eyes adjusted, met Allystaire’s gaze evenly.
“You are not in a position to demand anything.”
“A Trial at Arms will never be seen as even or fair if I’m to go to it half-starved and with no chance to see to my goods or my soul,” Iolantes responded coldly, rubbing at his newly freed wrists.
“You will be fed and allowed reasonable chance to recuperate,” Allystaire said. “I will not grant you audience with another prisoner. Cerisia, yes. Joscelyn no.”
An odd light passed through Iolante’s dark brown eyes, and for a brief moment, he broke the held gaze. “She will not see me. I am certain of that.”
“Then your soul will be left as your Goddess finds it,” Allystaire said.
The man’s jaw clenched in sudden anger. “And will you fight me honestly? Man to man, steel to steel, no sorcery involved?”
“I am no sorcerer,” Allystaire replied. “I have met one, and I killed him,” he added slowly, studying the other man’s expression as he spoke. A slight swallow, perhaps, a drawn cheek. No sign of real fear.
“A vain boast at best,” Iolantes snorted. “Will you agree to like arms, then? Swords, mail, shields?”
“Why do you think you get to dictate terms to me when you are my prisoner?”
“Because you stand to lose by refusing me. You have everyone in this village looking to you, hanging on your words, watching your actions—you’ve no choice but to play the hero,” Iolantes said. “And because I haven’t yet met the man who’s a better swordsman than I am.”
“It might behoove you to note that I have not either,” Allystaire replied. He could feel Torvul and Idgen Marte’s restlessness a few paces behind him. “Well, better swordsmen, mayhap.” He thought briefly of the reaver captain in his green brigantine coat, his fine, thin blade. Bits of flesh and bone smeared against the wall as he pounded the man’s face away. A twinge in the knuckles of his right hand. “But none who are still alive.”
“No doubt you can kill me,” Iolantes said. “No doubt I can kill you, too. If I do, I salvage something of my mission here. If I don’t, then I have a better death than I’ll get back in Londray, or on the Archipelago. Either way, I force you to it. Play the hero, paladin. Or kill me like a coward and show everyone here what you really are.”
“Enough,” Idgen Marte spat. With sudden and savage grace she stepped between them and slapped Iolantes hard across the face once, twice, a third time, her hand leaving a bold white impression upon his flesh. He seemed too stunned to respond. “That, Captain, is my challenge to you. I’ve heard enough talk. You’ll have a Trial at Arms with me, not him.”
The white outline of her hand was suddenly livid on his face, and his hands started to clench into fists. “I’ll not be spoken to by some outcast Concordat whore who thinks she’s a duelist—”
“I will make sure every one of your men, and Joscelyn, and Cerisia, know that you refused my challenge, then. Who’s the coward now, you worthless frozen shit?” Idgen Marte’s voice was as quiet as the drop of a noose, her face as expressionless as the hangman’s mask.
And she’s never been more terrifying, Allystaire thought, even as Iolantes’s jaw clenched in sudden anger.
“Fine. Will you accept my previous terms?”
“Aye. Noon on the morrow. Blades, mail, and shields.” She patted her sword and turned away with one more comment thrown back over her shoulder. “I’ll only need the one.”
As she strolled quickly out of sight, Torvul chuckled broadly and
held up Iolante’s manacles. “All right. Tomorrow at noon. Back in your shed for now, Captain of Cows,” the dwarf said. Iolantes eyed him angrily, and his eyes darted to the side, as if looking for room to run.
Allystaire’s hand fell to his hammer at the same time Torvul’s did to the metal-bound cudgel on his belt, but the dwarf spoke first.
“Do it and save us all the trouble, Iolantes. I’ve no objection to simply having a good go about your head and shoulders with this, right now. I doubt he’ll stop me,” he added, hooking a thumb at Allystaire behind him, who simply shrugged.
Iolantes raised his hands and accepted the manacles. “That she’s a woman will not stay my hand,” he said as the dwarf locked his wrists back together.
“She’d be insulted if it did,” Torvul answered him, ushering him back into the cowshed. “Someone’ll be along with meals, and you’ll be freed but under guard till tomorrow.”
“I will kill her,” Iolantes insisted.
“No,” Torvul said, giving him a gentle shove. “You’ll die like the dog you are. Were I you, I’d leave her something in that last testament you’re so concerned about. A little incentive to make it quick.” The dwarf shut the door of the shed, latched it, and he and Allystaire walked off.
“Got to get a message to Ivar or Renard that he needs to be let out, but under guard,” Allystaire said. “Any idea where they are? And have you any thoughts on how to carry messages man-to-man faster than me always asking you or Idgen Marte where they are?”
“How’d you do it in large armies? And if I were to bet, Renard’ll be somewhere in the village proper, and Ivar’ll be guarding the prisoners and hoping one of them tries to run or fight.”
“Fast runners, fast horses, fast birds. And all that trumpet and drum and flag nonsense,” Allystaire replied. “Not really practicable here. Not what I am asking.”
“I know,” Torvul replied. “And the answer is no, unless we get walls around the whole place. I can’t.” He paused, placed a fist against his mouth as he searched for the word. “I can’t simply magic up one thing to another over a long distance when they aren’t touching. I could do something, like I said, with walls and far more raw gems than we’re ever going to have. And they’d have to be mined from the same shaft, the same vein, born into the world touching each other in the same rock, knowing their grain, for me to attempt something like that.”
“No would have sufficed.”
“Never use one word when you’ve time for several,” Torvul proclaimed. His expression grew briefly wistful, brows knotting very lightly, a tiny half-frown dragging at his mouth. “Besides, you reminded me of the Homes. The Loresingers speak of a place where that very thing was done, where stone called to stone, they say.”
They picked up the pace and walked in silence for a few moments before Torvul finally spoke again.
“You’ve no worries about Idgen Marte taking him on?”
“None.”
“Why not?”
Allystaire let out a slight chuckle. “Have you any worries?”
“Not as such. Still, if she means to fight him fair, blade to blade, bringing none of her gifts into play, could he take her?”
“Idgen Marte was faster than anyone I have ever seen before the Goddess Ordained her. I would not like my chances against her, so I do not rate his. At the same time, any idiot with a sword in his hand can stick someone with it, and he is not entirely an idiot, nor is he green—but she will have thought of that and made her decision. She does not take risks without weighing them first.”
Torvul grunted, nodding agreeably. “That’s what makes her fit to you, I suppose. You can barge in head-first, as you do, and make a good, clear path of blood and rubble for her to follow so she can sort out the mess.”
“That is not how I would say it, but it seems to have worked well so far.”
“I’m off to find Renard, because he is more likely to be closer to something cold and wet and last night was thirsty work,” the dwarf said as they found themselves back in the center of the village. “You ought to escort Mol to the prisoners so they can repent if they’ve the mind.”
* * *
As it turned out, Mol had not waited for his escort. Anxious to make it there, Allystaire had taken Ardent from the stable attached to the Inn, barely taken the time to saddle him, and ridden the destrier out to Henri’s farm. The horse’s sense of his rider’s urgency wedded the stallion’s own desire to run after only walking for several days, and Allystaire arrived at the richly brown, unplanted field windblown and a bit hard for breath.
He need not have worried. With Ivar keeping order, the prisoners had lined up, and one, even as he swung off the saddle and felt his feet sink into the earth up to his ankle, knelt before the Voice of the Mother in her priestly robes. Her hands were settled on either side of his head, and she spoke quiet words that Allystaire could not hear, was not meant to hear.
He gave her a wide berth, watched as her hands slipped from the man’s head. Wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, the man shuffled back off to his comrades, who stood in a loose knot. They made no eye contact with each other, or their guards, and spoke little.
Beaten men, Allystaire thought. They will give us no further trouble. The way they milled about spoke to him of men waiting to be told what to do next, and not expecting to like it. Or fight it.
Mol beckoned him over. When he neared, she lifted her hood and murmured to him.
“Some of these men may choose to stay with us. When the Wit made them look inside themselves, they might find the desire to be better men. If it is so, would you have them, Arm?”
Allystaire bit back the bitter reply that came to him. “All are welcome. None are compelled. We could find a use for anyone. Ivar and Renard could see to their induction into the militia, if any should stay. In the meantime, if you are done here, there has been a development. Iolantes has demanded a Trial-at-Arms.”
Mol looked up at him. Her eyes were large and daring, knowing and wary. “You are bound by no law to give it to him.”
“Not bound, no. Yet…”
She sighed. “When are you meeting him?”
“I am not. Idgen Marte is.”
“Must there be blood for blood? Must there be revenge?”
“I do not think it is about revenge, though you have said yourself, what was it—strong men, who are also bad men, will not cease thieving, raping, and murdering because we ask them.”
“Not quite my words, but yes. It is a different thing, though, to defend yourself, your kith and kin, against an attack, and another to coldly take a life in some spectacle.”
“No one need watch, though I would prefer if the rest of Fortune’s party saw it.”
“Are you so confident of her victory?”
Allystaire nodded. “Aye.”
“Pride is a dangerous thing.”
“Not as dangerous as Idgen Marte. And if it starts to go ugly, I will not let her die.”
“You would interrupt the ritual that you apparently value the form of?”
“I weigh Idgen Marte’s life more than that of all of Fortune’s servants currently guested with us,” Allystaire replied. “Would you not?”
“I would rather not have this barbaric ritual at all.”
“It is a good deal less barbaric than hanging or beheading the lot of them, which is what I thought I was going to do this morning. One man dying in the place of a dozen is an improvement, if you ask me.”
Mol sighed sadly, frowning. “It is, yet it is not good enough.”
“It will never be, Mol.” Allystaire laid a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. The gesture surprised him, as it took that physical touch to remind him of her age, and that she stood barely to his chest. Come to think I’m speaking to a woman grown older and wiser than me when I talk to her now, he thought.
“Unle
ss we make it so,” she insisted.
“So long as we do not sit idle. The Goddess did not call us to wait for the world to change around us,” Allystaire replied. “Now we have a lot of arrangements to make.” He cleared his throat and called out, “Ivar! I need two men for a guarding party.”
In a moment, the black-mailed, spear-carrying warband captain pierced the air with a sharp whistle. “You and you,” she called out sharply, pointing black-gloved fingers at two men. “Go wi’ Lord Coldbourne and do as he asks. On the hop.”
Chapter 25
Who You Are,
Not Who You Were
As the appointed time of the duel drew near, Allystaire found himself looking for Idgen Marte. He tried her tent, the Inn, and finally it came to him: The Temple.
He found her kneeling before the Shadow’s Pillar, wearing the midnight blue leathers that she’d appeared in the night Cerisia had arrived, her scabbarded sword resting on the ground beside her, hanging from the belt she wore across one shoulder.
Allystaire waited a respectful distance away, though he was certain that she knew he was present. He could hear no words coming from her, though her lips occasionally moved, but he could feel the faintest hum of the Mother’s song.
Idgen Marte straightened, hopped lightly to her feet, adjusted the hang of her sword, and took a deep breath.
“Asking for Her favor?”
“Not favor. Permission,” Idgen Marte replied, “and perhaps a bit of knowing.”
“Knowing what?”
She frowned faintly, the corner of her mouth tugging at the scars that ran down her neck. “I…your Gifts from Her, they come and go as you need them, aye? Mine, my speed, the shadows? They are always with me. I no longer know how to move anything less than that fast when it matters.”
“Am I hearing you say you want to win this fight fairly?”
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