by Angus Wells
“That’s true,” Pyris allowed, “Isydrian’s a mean temper on him.”
“Unlike you.”
Pyris laughed. “I am moderate.”
“Of course,” Eben said. “You are virtue personified.”
“Which is why I listen to your ramblings.”
“Save are they ramblings?” He stabbed a thumb in Cullyn’s direction. “Or his?”
Pyris ducked his head in acknowledgment and studied Cullyn a while. “If I were to slay him, he’d not be such a signal to the Garm priest. Might that not be the wisest course? Let Lofantyl have his Garm woman, and we fight this Lord Bartram.”
Eben said, “You’d slay a syn’qui?”
Laurens rose from his seat. “Do you threaten Cullyn, I challenge you.”
Lyandra said, “Father!”
And Pyris chuckled. “So much talk of challenges.” He stared at Laurens. “Do you think you could defeat me?”
Laurens shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’d do my best were you to harm Cullyn.”
“And you, daughter?”
Lyandra said, “Let him live. He speaks sense.”
Cullyn felt insignificant. Even were he syn’qui he heard his fate discussed as if he were not present. He said, defiantly, “I’ll fight my own battles.”
And Pyris roared laughter and said, “So be it! It shall be as Eben suggests—a challenge.” He beamed at Mallandra. “Does a tourney excite you, my love?”
His wife studied Cullyn and her daughter. “Have you fought a tourney before?”
Cullyn shook his head. “What is a tourney?”
Pyris laughed again. Mallandra said, “Lance to lance; sword to sword.”
“I’ve never fought with either a lance or a sword,” Cullyn said as Lyandra’s hand closed tighter on his thigh. “Indeed, I’ve never fought with anyone.”
“But save you’d see the Dur’em Zheit besiege Kash’ma Hall,” Pyris said, “that’s what you must do—are you earnest in your desire to resolve this problem?”
Cullyn looked to Eben. “Is it the only way?”
“I believe so,” the wizard answered.
Cullyn looked to Pyris, who chuckled as if relishing the prospect of combat. “We vie together,” the Durrym explained cheerfully. “Isydrian would seize my hold, if he could. He’d defeat me and make Lofantyl master of Ky’atha Hall—and should he succeed in that ambition, then his clan would own such power as might challenge Santylla—he’d set himself or Afranydyr on the throne in Dobre Henes and rule all Coim’na Drhu.”
“And this hinges on me?”
“Eben and my daughter say that you’re syn’qui.” Pyris sipped wine, staring at Cullyn across the ornate cup. “So, yes.”
Cullyn met the Durrym’s gaze. “I came after Abra, and then became a fugitive. Now I become your champion?”
“Perhaps.” The smile faded a moment from Pyris’s face. “But if you want—”
“To speak with Abra,” Cullyn interrupted, wondering the while how he dared. “To find out what she wants; and Lofantyl. And perhaps …” He broke off, shrugging; uncertain of himself in such exalted company.
Eben murmured, “Speak on,” and Laurens smiled encouragement.
“Perhaps,” Cullyn continued, embarrassed, “that might broker peace between our lands. Were they wed …?”
“What good to Ky’atha Hall?” Pyris demanded. “Some treaty between Lyth and Kash’ma serves me not at all.”
“Save Lord Bartram swears peace with both.” Cullyn supped wine, wondering what he said, amazed at his audacity. “That he accepts Abra’s marriage to Lofantyl, and swears peace with both Kash’ma Hall and Ky’atha—which shall both agree to a treaty beforehand.”
“Under whose aegis?” Pyris asked.
Cullyn swallowed deep, summoning up all his courage before he said, “Mine.”
“To which end,” Pyris replied, “you’ll have to fight for Abra. Isydrian will agree to nothing else.”
“Then I’ll do it,” Cullyn said.
“Excellent!” Pyris clapped his hands. “I shall send messengers out tomorrow.”
FIFTEEN
CULLYN STOOD WITH LYANDRA on the balcony outside his chambers. The night was warm, the lake glinting a silvery blue below, a soft breeze wafting forest scents from the woodlands. Overhead the sky hung star-pocked, glittering with the reflection of far-off worlds, the moon gone down to a slender crescent that tomorrow would fade to nothing—at least in Kandar. In Coim’na Drhu who knew what it might do. Perhaps the Durrym controlled even that.
“So I must challenge Lofantyl, who’s my friend?” he muttered.
“If you wish to speak with Abra.” Lyandra stared at him, almost coldly. “Are you in love with her?”
He looked into her eyes and shook his head. “Once I thought I was, but now …”
“Now?”
“She’s too high above me. Like you.”
Lyandra chuckled, a throaty sound, and her smile grew wide, like the sun emerging from behind storm clouds. Cullyn looked at her mouth and remembered that kiss she’d bestowed.
“You’re syn’qui,” she said. “I’m not above you.”
“I came to escape Per Fendur’s torture,” he returned. “Had Laurens not broken us free—and found Eben to help us—we’d be dungeoned”—he shuddered at the thought—“and set on the rack.”
“But you weren’t,” she said. “You escaped. Because you’re syn’qui.”
She leaned against him, and he felt the hard softness of her body through the thin gown. Her scent was enticing, her breath an invitation. He drew back.
“So everyone tells me.” He set his elbows on the balcony’s wall. “But no one tells me just what that means. That I’m marked by the gods? And therefore must fight a friend? Is that destiny? Have I no choice in it?”
“No,” she said. “No more than I for …” She stilled her next words and took his hands and looked into his troubled eyes. “Abra is taken to Kash’ma Hall, where Isydrian will hold her like a trophy—a victory over the Garm. Lofantyl, it would seem, wants her, and Afranydyr will support his father. Are you to even discuss her fate with her father, then you must fight for her. That’s the way of our world—and now you’re caught up in it, like it or not.”
“What if I went under a flag of truce?”
Lyandra chuckled. “Likely Isydrian would put an arrow in you himself.”
Cullyn sighed, staring out at the pleasant landscape. It seemed, somehow, more benign than Kandar. Gentler, softer—yet just as bloody. “I’m caught up in events I do not understand,” he murmured.
She touched his face, smiling at him. “You’ll do what’s right,” she said. “Because worlds hinge on you, and I believe that you will make the right decision. If not …” She shrugged.
“I am a simple forester,” he protested. “I know nothing of battle, of duels. I’ve fought no one—nor wanted to. I wanted only to be left alone.”
Save as he looked at her he was no longer sure of that. Elvira faded away; Abra’s beauty became a distant memory. He stared at this fey virgin and felt his heart swallowed up. He remembered her facing the unicorn, and before he knew it his arms were around her and their mouths together.
When they parted she whispered, “My champion.”
He studied her face and wondered. She was beautiful and he desired her; but he had desired Elvira and Abra, and he was not sure what love meant. What it was. He felt a great confusion—and more than a little fear at the step he took. She was fey and he Garm’kes Lyn. He pushed her away.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You’re …” He shook his head: he did not understand women. “The unicorn …”
“I’ve ensnared unicorns because I was virgin.” She clutched his shoulders. “Now, however, I’d have you for my husband; my lover.” She pulled him closer. “Likely I feel about you as does Lofantyl about Abra. I love you, Cullyn.”
She closed her arms about him. She was strong, and he felt her bod
y through the thin material of her dress, and responded helplessly.
Then pushed her away again, heat on his brow and heat in his loins. He did not understand why he said it, only that he must. “Before we …” He blushed; she laughed. “Before we … I must settle this business with Abra and Lofantyl. And then ask your father’s permission.”
“He’ll grant it,” she said, “do I ask. And I shall.”
He nodded. “Then after this thing is settled …”
She smiled and stroked his cheek. “I shall hold you to that.”
“IT’S TO BE LANCES,” Laurens said. “Shields and lances. Are you dismounted, you’ll have what hand weapons you prefer.”
Cullyn stared at the old soldier. “I don’t know how to use a lance,” he said. “What of hand weapons?”
Laurens grinned. “You could use a sword.”
“I don’t know how to use a sword.”
“A war axe?”
Cullyn shook his head.
“A hammer?”
“No.”
“What can you use?”
“I’m handy with a bow …”
“We might,” Laurens said, “suggest that. But I doubt your opponent would accept. And you are the one making the challenge—you have to accept his choice of weapons.”
Cullyn swallowed, his throat dry.
“Then I must do what I must.”
“He’ll choose lances,” Eben said. “They enjoy their tourneys, the Durrym. It’ll be a formal affair—your opponent will be armored, and—”
“Armored?” Cullyn gaped at the wizard. “I’ve never worn armor in my life.”
“What kind?” Laurens asked.
“Formal,” Eben replied. “Full-bodied plate.”
“That’s heavy.” Laurens studied Cullyn as if he were some specimen. “Still, he’s big enough.”
“Durrym armor’s light,” Eben said. “Remember, they don’t use metal. The armor will be tended wood, leather—natural materials.”
Laurens nodded thoughtfully. “How long do we have before this joust?”
“Who knows?” Eben shrugged. “Pyris must send a messenger to Kash’ma Hall, Isydrian must respond, the ground must be chosen. It could be weeks.”
“That’s in our favor. It’ll give me time to train him somewhat.” Laurens scratched his scarred cheek. “At least he has a fine, big mount. Was ever a horse built for battle, it’s Fey.”
Cullyn listened to them discussing his precarious future as if he were not there, and interrupted.
“I don’t want to fight Lofantyl,” he said. “I don’t want to fight anyone. I just want to …” What he wanted to say was, “Go home,” but instead he shrugged, thinking of Lyandra.
“Well, it’s a fact of life that we don’t always get what we want,” Eben said.
“Why can’t we just ask Abra?” Cullyn wondered. “Hear what she’s got to say.”
“Durrym rules,” Eben replied. “One is that Lofantyl took her, and might not agree to returning her. Another is that she might not wish to return. Perhaps she’s in love with him—who knows? And then there’s my father to consider—Isydrian would do much to spite me, or Ky’atha Hall.”
“Why?” Cullyn asked.
“Reasons,” Eben said. “I’ll tell you someday. But what I’ll tell you now is that you have no choice—you’re caught up in destiny’s web, and can only dance on the puppet strings.”
“No choice at all?” Cullyn stared at the wizard. “What if I refuse to fight?”
“It’s gone too far for that.” Eben fixed him with a bright blue gaze. “Pyris is committed—likely his messenger has already ridden off—and in a day or so we’ll agree to the terms. Then you’ll fight or become a prisoner here. To refuse a challenge is disgrace to the Durrym. It would leave you without honor, and you’d be outlawed—if not slain on the spot.” He beamed wickedly at Cullyn and added, “As would we. So, you see? All our lives depend on you.”
Cullyn frowned, and Eben’s smile grew softer. “This is a different world, lad, with different rules. Pyris has set his heart on a tourney in hope of disgracing Isydrian—he knows that Isydrian cannot refuse the challenge. So you become Ky’atha Hall’s champion—Pyris looks to you to upset his rival.”
“And I’ve no say at all?”
“None,” Eben replied cheerfully. “Save you’d risk Pyris’s wrath. And lose Lyandra into the bargain.”
Cullyn blushed.
“Win and you’ll become a great man here,” Eben said. “The clans will hail you, and you’ll earn the right to wed Lyandra. Lose and …” He shrugged, his meaning clear.
Cullyn sighed. “Then let’s do it.”
THE SUN STOOD HIGH and Cullyn found his armor uncomfortable. He wore a padded tunic that was over-layed with a breastplate of polished wood, pauldrons on his shoulders and vambraces on his arms. A tasset protected his lower body, and cuisses and greaves his legs. The helmet sat hot on his head, and the visor obscured his vision so that he saw only a narrow slit of the world ahead. He carried a curved shield on his left arm and a heavy lance in his right hand.
Three times now Laurens had knocked him from Fey’s saddle, leaving him sprawled on the grass. This time he rose angry, loosening the straps of his helm so that he might breathe clean air.
“I can’t fight like this!”
“He’ll be armored,” Laurens said.
“And I’ll be dead. I can’t ride with this gear on me.” He flung the helmet away and began to unbuckle straps. “If I must fight him at all, then I’ll do it loose. As best I can.”
“You’ll still need shield and lance,” Laurens said. “So get back up and we’ll try it that way.”
Cullyn stripped off his armor and mounted Fey again.
“THE CHALLENGE IS ACCEPTED,” Lyandra told him. “A week from now.”
He sighed, stretching back on the wide bed as a Durrym healer rubbed unguents into his bruises. “Are you so eager for it?”
“To see you vanquish Kash’ma Hall? Yes.”
“So you think I can?”
She stroked his hair. “You are my champion, and you are syn’qui. Of course you’ll win.”
Cullyn wondered. Lyandra, appeared to envisage him as some great knight—and the folk of Ky’atha Hall saw him as a champion, riding out for their honor. But he was not so sure. It was, in some ways, pleasurable. He was feted about the keep—admired and respected. The fey folk gifted him: he had a collection of swords that Laurens examined daily, and his choice of armor. He had been offered horses, most of them decked in tourney armor. He dined with Pyris and Mallandra on such fine food as he’d never tasted, supping wine that set his taste buds to spinning, Lyandra close beside him. He wished he were a champion, and at the same time that he had never come to Coim’na Drhu. Save now he had no choice left and could only go where fate took him. He thought that to be syn’qui was a curse.
Then word came back, formally, that the challenge was accepted and the ground agreed. The tourney would take place midway between the two holds, where fine grass grew wide between a river and the forest. Both parties would arrive two days before the joust—time enough to set up their tents and feast in celebration of the combat. It would take them both two days to reach the ground.
“YOU’RE LEARNING,” Laurens said. “But when you swing the sword, use your wrists. Swing it, and then cut down.”
Cullyn clambered to his feet. He ached horribly. He hated this training; he did not want to fight Lofantyl—or anyone. He wanted to go home—save that would take him away from Lyandra.
“And if he uses a war axe, or a hammer?”
“Then most likely you’re dead.”
“Cheerful news.”
“I’ll show you how to counter them.”
“In a day?” Cullyn raised the unfamiliar sword.
“You learn fast,” Laurens said. “The gods know, but you’ve learned to use a lance quick enough. How many times have you unseated me now?”
“Seven,” Cully
n answered, not without pride.
From the edge of the practice ground Eben shouted, “You can achieve more than you believe yourself capable of.” Lyandra applauded, and called for Cullyn to attack Laurens again. Cullyn looked at her and wondered at her appetite for bloodshed, but held up his shield and sword and went at Laurens again.
He battered the shield and forced Laurens back. Stroke followed stroke, some on shields, others on the deeply padded practice armor. Their blades were fashioned of soft wood, the shields real. Twice, Cullyn set his edge to Laurens’s neck; thrice delivered cuts to the legs that would have brought a man down; once to the groin, where the armor divided.
“Enough!” Laurens stood laughing. “You’ve beaten me, eh? And you’ll defeat your opponent. You’re a natural fighter, lad. Only watch his lance, and if it comes …”
“You told me,” Cullyn said.
“But if it’s your friend Lofantyl on the other end?”
Cullyn shrugged.
Laurens said, “No matter what you feel, if he’s on the other end of the lance, he’s your enemy. You must unseat him—even kill him. Else he’ll kill you.”
“Defeat him, my champion,” Lyandra called. “Slay him if you must, but defeat him. For Ky’atha Hall and my love.”
Cullyn looked at Laurens and said, “I’d best win, eh?”
Laurens nodded: “For all our sakes, I think.”
ABRA LEANED AGAINST THE BALCONY of her chamber, watching Lofantyl and Afranydyr on the practice ground below. It was as if she stood on the bough of some immense tree, studying her fate being worked out for her. Isydrian and his court sat below, the lord of Kash’ma Hall shouting advice and encouragement to both his sons. She could not, at such distance, see his face clearly, but she could imagine his expression. It would be bloodthirsty, eager for the coming tourney—and confident of victory.
She loved Lofantyl—of that she no longer had any doubt—but his family … Isydrian and Afranydyr seemed fish from a different sea. Where Lofantyl was gentle, they were hard. They extended her basic courtesy, but somehow made it clear she was prisoner, left alive only by Isydrian’s whim. Had Afranydyr his way she had no doubt she’d by now have been made a slave, or a whore. She felt afraid in this strange, magnificent keep, where Lofantyl was her only friend. And he soon to fight Cullyn.
