by Cas Peace
Master Physician and Master Artesan regarded each other over Marik’s body. Sullyan’s look was challenging.
“I will not accept an outcome in which the Count is crippled,” she said.
Deshan eyed her grimly. “It will take much time and effort. We must find the extent of the damage, lessen the swelling, check for severed nerves, mend broken bones, and that is all supposing his spine is intact. If it is not ....” He paused, shaking his head.
Sullyan looked down at Marik’s face. He lay on his stomach, his head turned to the left. Reaching out, she gently stroked his discolored cheek.
“He risked so much for me. He kept me alive when no one else could. He undertook this mission for me, and I will not fail him now. I care little how long it takes, Deshan, but while I have breath, strength, and power within me, I will not rest. This is your area of expertise, Master Healer, so I give you control of my power. Direct it and use it as you will. But let us waste no more time. We need to know what we are dealing with.”
Deshan drew a deep breath and Sullyan felt his offered psyche. Accepting the contact, she melded with him, and together they began working to repair Marik’s wounds.
Robin didn’t disturb them. He sat by Sullyan’s side, mutely offering his strength if she needed it. Without acknowledging him or diverting her attention from the delicate work Deshan was performing, she accepted and made use of her Captain’s power. No one else entered the room, but Sullyan was vaguely aware of a tall, lonely female figure keeping an anxious vigil outside the door that long night through.
* * * * *
As grey light streaked the dawn sky, General Sonten emerged from his tent. He stood in silence, regarding the two great armies drawn up facing each other on the Plains. He grimaced. Contrary to his expectations, the Hierarch had been able to summon sufficient numbers from his supporters to confront and hold Rykan’s swelled forces. Constrained by the rules of formal combat, Rykan was now compelled to engage the Hierarch’s troops in an all-out battle for supremacy. If he lost, he would have to capitulate. To say that he was unhappy about this was a gross understatement, and he had spent much of the previous night taking his displeasure out on Sonten.
The General glared at the distant Palace towers, reaching like bared fangs into the new light. No one in the Citadel could possibly be aware that Rykan’s failure to secure Sullyan’s powers was not the first, but the second blow to his far-reaching plans. The Duke’s total confidence in her eventual surrender had not only led him to issue his challenge prematurely, but had also given her friends the time and opportunity to spirit her away. However, taking her captive and forcing her to give up her vast strength had not been part of the Duke’s original plan.
“That bloody Albian Baron!” growled Sonten. “Why did Rykan ever listen to him?”
His scowl deepened. It was the Baron who had given Rykan the Staff, the terrible weapon that would have made taking the human witch’s power possible, and because of this, he felt entitled to make demands of the Duke. Quite why the Baron was so eager to see Sullyan destroyed, Sonten didn’t know, but Rykan was quick to see the merits of the fanatic’s proposal. The subsequent loss of the weapon and Sullyan’s escape had taken the Duke’s fury to new and terrifying levels. Sonten still found it hard to believe that such a fragile and defenseless young woman had resisted the brutal Duke for so long. Yet despite Rykan’s fury at her defiance in the face of considerable pain and torment, Sonten knew he had conceived a reluctant respect for her, doubtless an uncomfortable sensation for one who habitually treated women like disposable playthings. It was something Rykan would never admit, not even to Sonten, and Sonten would certainly never dare mention it.
“Still,” he muttered, “she’s dead. That should please the Void-damned Baron. Now all we have to do is win this bloody war.”
Despite the shock of being confronted by more men than he had expected, Sonten retained his confidence that the Hierarch had no idea of Rykan’s true strength. The outcome of the Duke’s personal challenge didn’t necessarily depend upon metaphysical prowess, so Rykan could still emerge the victor. Sonten assumed that Anjer, a man he both hated and respected, had been unwilling to rely on what he knew of Rykan’s strength and had ordered some of the Hierarch’s closest reserves to mobilize. Even so, Sonten didn’t believe they could stand against the true strength of Rykan’s forces. He consoled himself with the thought of Anjer’s shock when Rykan’s own reserves entered the fray.
Marik’s claim that he had been gifted Sullyan’s power had planted a worm of doubt in Rykan’s mind. Sonten had managed to calm the Duke by assuring him that the Count had been mortally wounded by his desperate knife throw. His actions had initially enraged the Duke, just when it seemed that Sullyan’s coveted strength might still be his, and Rykan had been apoplectic when Marik escaped him yet again. No one but Sonten had dared approach him since, and it had taken the General some time to convince Rykan there was no chance of Marik surviving such a deadly wound.
Sonten was aware that much of Rykan’s rage stemmed from the shock of realizing that Marik was fighting for the Hierarch. His initial outrage at the Count’s daring rescue, when they had all thought him a puling, spineless coward, had cooled, set aside to be dealt with later. The Duke had been convinced Marik would hole up somewhere in terror of his life, so his incredible reappearance at the head of a well-trained band and his audacity in attacking Rykan’s supposedly protected position had inflamed the Duke beyond measure. Rykan simply couldn’t believe Pharikian’s actions. Far from slaying the traitor out of hand, or at the very least incarcerating him, the Hierarch had actually recruited the lackwit, and set him against his former lord. To Rykan, this was another indication of Pharikian’s failing faculties, one more insult for which both he and Marik would pay.
Sonten shook his head and sighed. As the light of the new day grew, showing him more and more of the Hierarch’s forces, doubt formed in his heart. Not because of the potent Artesan powers Marik had supposedly acquired; even if Sonten was wrong and the Count survived, he wasn’t concerned about that. It would take the Count many days, if not weeks, to recover from such serious wounds, and Rykan had always derided Marik’s pitifully weak Artesan gift. Even if the human witch had passed her vast store of knowledge on to him, he would be hopelessly untutored in its use. Rykan would easily crush the worm.
No. What troubled Sonten was the niggling worry that the Count might somehow know about Rykan’s plans. There were already more men facing them than Sonten had bargained for. What if Marik had heard something that led him to suspect Rykan’s true strength? What if last night’s wild chase through the forest hadn’t finished him off? What if he had reached the Citadel alive and managed to whisper his suspicions to Anjer? Anjer would certainly have sent runners through the night to demand more men from his supporters.
Sternly, Sonten shook himself and thrust the doubts aside. No, it wasn’t possible. Marik couldn’t have known. Not even the Duke’s regular troops knew of his reluctant conscripts. They had all been kept well away from the palace by trusted commanders, drilled separately under harsh routines. Marik had been watched while in the palace, and although he had managed to keep his mercy visits to Sullyan secret, neither he nor his men had ever left the palace compound.
These extra forces drawn up in readiness on the Plains had simply been brought in by a nervous opponent—one uncertain of victory. This would work in Sonten’s favor. The Duke’s forces would press forward with determination and their officers would drive them from behind and spend their strength extravagantly. His Grace would win the day, and Sonten would gain his reward.
He gave a hard smile. The Duke’s towering ambitions and the plans of his despised yet powerful Albian supporter were about to be realized. Turning on his heel, the General went to inform Rykan that battle was about to be joined.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Pharikian and Anjer paced the battlements in the early morning breeze. The slight thaw of the previous day h
ad continued overnight and the wind had lost its bitter teeth. Yet it was still strong enough to snap and stream the banner flying impudently above the Duke of Kymer’s tent, well to the rear of his battle lines.
Wrapping his heavy purple mantle even tighter about his lean frame, the Hierarch stared over the ordered ranks of his reservists and regular troops. Anjer stood massively beside him, studying the battlefield and the deployment of Rykan’s men. A movement by the Tower doors drew their attention. Almid and Kester appeared, both scanning the battlements. When they saw the two men standing by the wall, they moved aside to allow Sullyan to pass between them. Dwarfed by their stature, she seemed even tinier this morning, and as she came closer the pallor of her face caused Pharikian to gasp.
She was clearly exhausted. Enormous in the grey light of dawn, her golden eyes were accentuated by the dark rings beneath. She moved with less than her usual grace, and Pharikian remembered that she had been up all night helping Deshan with the wounded Count. He frowned. Surely she should have gone to rest before now?
Seeing his disapproving expression, she raised a defensive hand. “Do not reprove me, Majesty. I need to see this before I can rest.”
She sounded heartsick, and Pharikian’s rebuke died on his lips. Fearing the worst, he said, “How is the Count, Brynne?”
Pain creased her brows and her golden eyes darkened with worry. “He lives, Timar. We have repaired the shoulder, although it will be many weeks before it is strong. The punctured lung and broken ribs mended well. The surface swelling will heal with time. His spine was thankfully intact, but there is severe bruising. Deshan has tended the area and reduced the swelling as much as he can, but the nerves may have suffered irreparable damage. Until he wakes, we cannot know whether he will walk again. He slept throughout, and Deshan has administered a strong sedative to keep him unconscious. It is essential he remains still for as long as possible.”
She fell silent, and Pharikian saw her tremble as exhaustion and worry took their toll. Wordlessly, he gathered her to him and wrapped her warmly in the folds of his cloak. Feeling the gauntness of her beneath his hands, he said, “When was the last time you ate, Brynne?”
She wasn’t listening. Her eyes ranged out over the massed ranks of the two great armies. Pharikian felt her stiffen when her gaze fell on the standard of Rykan, Duke of Kymer. Her hands strayed unconsciously to her belly.
“He succeeded then?”
The Hierarch switched his gaze to the Duke’s men, leaving Anjer to reply.
“Oh yes, Brynne, the Count succeeded very well, as you see. Now it is up to us to continue his work, to engage Rykan in battle, fight him to a standstill, and force him to surrender.”
“And then ....” Her whisper trailed off.
Pharikian glanced down at her. She had looked exhausted before, but now she looked ill. Irritated by her stubbornness, he turned her face with one hand.
“You need rest, Brynne. Where is the Captain?”
She had the grace to smile wryly. “I sent him to bed, Majesty. He sat with me all night and I used his strength as well as my own.”
He stared in exasperation, expelling his breath in a huff.
“Very well,” she said, throwing up her hands, “I will go. But you must promise to wake me if there is any change in the Count’s condition or any developments out there.”
“You have my word, Brynne. Anjer is leaving now to oversee the battle, and I think we can leave that in his capable hands. I’m sure Deshan has stationed healers by the Count’s side who will call you if need be.”
She gave a sidelong smile. “Yes, Marik has the best of healers, Majesty.”
She turned to go, Anjer placing a comforting hand on her shoulder as she passed him. She made her unsteady way to the stairs, Almid and Kester following, and cast a last worried glance over her shoulder at the vast enemy army.
Pharikian watched the doors close behind her, Anjer silently studying his face. After a few moments the Lord General said, “She’s so small and frail, Timar. While I have the greatest respect for her tactical skill and don’t doubt the word of those who’ve fought with her these past few weeks, I confess I’m finding it hard to credit the truth of her reputation. Will she be capable of fighting Rykan when the time comes? You know how skilled and ruthless he is. Might it not be better to choose another Champion?”
The Hierarch sighed deeply, his expression anguished. “You’re watering a dead tree, my friend. I can’t choose another Champion, no matter how much I might wish to. I gave her my word and I can’t take it back. Besides, the reasons for accepting her are still valid. Would you trust that man to adhere to the Codes? Even if we had someone capable of matching his skill with the blade—no offence, my friend!—there’s still the question of his metaphysical rank. As I am prohibited from meeting my challenger in person, there is no one else qualified to face him. Like Brynne, I have no doubt he would use his metaforce if he found himself losing the duel. As she pointed out, why should he feel constrained by the Codes if he plans to put us all to the sword? None of his followers would dare task him for it. No, Anjer, I’m afraid there’s no other way. Brynne Sullyan is my chosen Champion and she will meet Rykan on the day of the duel. But I wish to all the gods she didn’t have to.”
“Is there truly no other way to end this man’s threat?” Anjer’s question was rhetorical, and he returned to his scrutiny of the battlefield, his large hands braced on the wall.
“I can’t see one,” said Pharikian. “I can’t break the Codes, and even if I could, an arrow through the heart would only end Rykan’s ambition. Others would take his place. And killing him won’t help Brynne. Don’t forget, Rykan’s her only hope of cheating death now. We can’t deny her the chance of persuading him to undo the damage he’s done.”
Anjer snorted, his black glare fixed on the Duke’s streaming banner. “How realistic is that chance? Even if he could be ... persuaded to help her, could she physically stand the strain? Deshan seemed to think the damage irreparable.”
The Hierarch groaned and bowed his head. In the short time they had known her, they had both come to deeply respect—and in Pharikian’s case to love—the slight, tawny-haired young woman. Pharikian felt very close to her due to his special relationship with her parents. He still missed Morgan’s support and strength, the only person who had ever been his metaphysical equal. To finally find the man’s daughter, grown so beautiful, so skilled, so accomplished and confident, only to lose her to the spite and brutality of one of his own subjects, was a pain he wasn’t sure he could bear. The one thing keeping him from despair was the fragile hope that Rykan’s power could undo the damage. Despite Sullyan’s own determination never to place herself at his mercy by asking for it, Pharikian was going to make damned sure Rykan knew he must help her or die.
Raising his head, yellow eyes glittering dangerously, he said, “We must make sure she can. Come, Anjer, the sun is well up. We will not allow the Duke any more leisure to plot against us. The sooner we best him, the sooner this will be over.”
The two men and their escort made their way back down the Tower stairs. Within thirty minutes Anjer was galloping through the Citadel gates, riding to join his men on the Plains.
* * * * *
Robin woke midmorning. No one had disturbed their rest since Sullyan came in, and now he stood looking down at her sleeping under the goose down comforter. She had unbraided her glorious hair before undressing, and the tumbled mass of it about her sleep-smoothed face made her look very young.
As silently as possible, the Captain dressed and left the suite. He was hungry, but he wanted to check on Marik before finding breakfast. Nodding to Ky-shan and Jay’el stationed outside the door, Robin made his way to Marik’s sickroom. There he found the Princess Idrimar still sitting in the huge chair someone had found for her last night. She was fast asleep, her hand still clasping Marik’s. The Count lay in drugged slumber on the bed.
Seeing one of the healers, Robin drew the woman aside. �
��How is the Count?”
She glanced at the pair over her shoulder. “There’s no change, I’m afraid, sir. We’re keeping him deeply asleep and so have no way of knowing whether there’s any improvement. Only Deshan, the Hierarch, or the Lady Brynne could tell if his nerves are recovering at this moment. We just have to hope.”
Robin looked at Marik’s face, which was turned toward him. The Count was lying on his left side to ease the shoulder blade and keep his spine aligned. Robin frowned in concern. Having long put aside the guilt, jealousy, and rage which had colored his earlier dealings with the man, he now counted him a friend and was as worried for him as he would have been for Bull. Sighing, unable to do any more, he left in search of breakfast.
Once he had eaten he felt stronger, more capable of coping with what was happening outside. Passing the suite on his way to the battlements, he noted wryly that Ky-shan and his son were no longer at their station, meaning that Sullyan was up and about. He had hoped she would sleep for longer, but he wasn’t really surprised she hadn’t.
He was also unsurprised to find her on the battlements. What did surprise him, however, was that one of her companions was Commander Vanyr. Vanyr stood stiffly on the opposite side of the Hierarch, who stood next to Sullyan, and the atmosphere between the two was decidedly cool. Not so strange, thought Robin, considering that Vanyr’s face still bore evidence of the pirates’ justice. Barrack gossip said he had also been thoroughly chewed out by Anjer and threatened with demotion should he ever do anything so vicious again. Robin wondered why he was here. Over by the Tower doors, he could see both Ky-shan and his son watching the Commander as a tangwyr watches a dying beast.
If Pharikian had noticed any frostiness in the air, Robin thought, he had probably put it down to the animosity he knew Vanyr bore the Major. The Commander remained firmly on the Hierarch’s other side, keeping what distance he could.
