Yesterday's Kings

by Angus Wells

  It seemed to Cullyn that the shattering of the friendship blade was a kind of symbol—as much as the giving. A gift from Lofantyl, it was earnest of his intent. That Afranydyr broke it so readily was indication of his intent. These brothers were very different: Cullyn might talk of peace with one, but with the other only of war. He fought Afranydyr only because the Durrym was bloodthirsty and proud, hating the Garm no less than so many Kandarians hated the Durrym—for no good reason that he could see. Yet here he was, locked in mortal combat simply to determine whether or not he be allowed to speak with Abra and find out if she wished to return home, or remain with Lofantyl. And perhaps from her decision broker some kind of peace.

  He longed for peace even as he ducked under Afranydyr’s great blade.

  The sword whistled by his head. He felt hairs cut loose, raining on his face as he ran, as best he could, to the Zheit end of the tourney ground. It felt like swimming—his legs seemed to work only in slow motion as Afranydyr came after him, the broadsword raised to cut him down.

  Laurens handed him a shield that he strapped to his arm even as Afranydyr’s blade came crashing down against the rack, hacking wood and sending weapons spilling in all directions. Cullyn grabbed the first he saw—a mace—and dropped and rolled as the broadsword came at him. It hacked into his shield, splinters falling loose as he fell down under the dreadful impact.

  He tumbled over the grass as Afranydyr’s blow landed on the sward. The force was such that the blade imbedded deep, and Cullyn had time to rise and swing the mace against the Durrym’s helm.

  A wing broke off and Afranydyr stumbled back. Cullyn raised his shield against Afranydyr’s counter and swung again. His blow landed against the helmet and Afranydyr was knocked to his knees. Laurens shouted: “Slay him!”

  Cullyn raised the mace in both hands, braced to bring the weight of it down against Afranydyr’s damaged helmet. It would shatter the battered helm and the skull beneath and Afranydyr would lie dead and defeated before him. But it seemed without honor: he stepped back, lowering the heavy weapon as the Durrym rose. Dimly, he heard Laurens’s snort of disgust, and Eben’s weary sigh. From around the tourney ground there were shouts of approval and deprecation. He backed away as Afranydyr clambered to his feet and lofted the broadsword again.

  Cullyn backed away from the swinging sword. “Can we not settle this?”

  “With your death,” Afranydyr snarled. And charged.

  He was full-armored; Cullyn was not. The Durrym was protected, but Cullyn was more limber, even did his head still swim as if fishes danced inside his skull. It was a curious sensation, as if time slowed and he moved faster, indifferent to his fate as he watched the great sword cleave a path through the sunny air toward his head.

  He ducked and swung the mace at Afranydyr’s side as he raised his broken shield against the downswing of the broadsword.

  He felt the wooden shield shatter, and a terrible pain lance his side. But Afranydyr was smashed away by his blow, stumbling back with the eyes Cullyn could see through the slits of the hawk’s head helm opening wide in surprise and pain. Cullyn swung again, delivering a blow to the side of the helm that sent Afranydyr spinning away, his great blade waving wildly as he tottered back over the bloodied grass.

  He shook his head and reached for the latchings of his dented helm. Tugged them loose and threw the thing aside, his visage furious as he stared at Cullyn.

  “Now I shall slay you!”

  He raised the broadsword.

  Cullyn watched him, hefting the mace: no defense against so great a sword; and his opponent still armored, and he without a shield now. He was, he thought, about to die.

  “Sword to sword!”

  Laurens’s shout broke his reverie. He flung the mace away and darted back to the weapons stand, where Laurens flung him a blade.

  “Not the broadsword,” the soldier said, “but faster. Duck his swings and cut him. Bring the bastard down with points and cuts—like I taught you.”

  Cullyn felt no wish to slay Afranydyr; not for all his temper with the recalcitrant Durrym. But Afranydyr was intent on killing him, so he took the sword and did as Laurens advised—and remembered his lessons.

  Afranydyr swung his broadsword and Cullyn ducked, deflecting the blow, so that Afranydyr’s cut passed over his head as he cut at the weakest points of the Durrym’s armor.

  He stuck his point between poleyn and greave, through the jointure of cuirass, and tasset, even as Afranydyr battered at him with his great sword. And all the time rolled and danced as the broadsword swung toward him and struck only empty earth.

  The Durrym’s armor became bloody. Cullyn’s ribs hurt.

  “Shall we not give this up?” he gasped.

  Afranydyr snarled, “No!” And charged.

  Cullyn ducked again under the broadsword’s swing, and struck at his opponent’s legs. Afranydyr toppled, falling onto his side. Cullyn set a boot on his great sword, pinning the blade to the ground, and set the point of his own blade against Afranydyr’s throat.

  “Shall you concede?”

  Afranydyr cursed and shook his head. Cullyn looked up. He saw Eben and Lauren urging him to end the combat. Pyris and Mallandra stood with arms upraised, their thumbs pointed down. Lyandra clapped her hands.

  “Do it,” Afranydyr urged. “One blow, eh? I’ve been defeated by a Garm—to live on in disgrace? No!”

  Cullyn said, “I can’t.”

  “Then use that lyn’nha’thall my stupid brother gave you. Stick it between my ribs, Garm, and end my disgrace.”

  Cullyn said, “No, I cannot: you broke it.”

  “If you don’t,” Afranydyr returned viciously, “I shall dedicate my life to your destruction.”

  “Even so,” Cullyn said, “I’ll not slay you. So live.”

  “May all the gods damn you,” Afranydyr spat.

  Cullyn stared at the fallen Durrym, unsure of his next move. The easiest thing would be to simply lean on his sword and drive the blade through Afranydyr’s neck. The easiest and the hardest, for he had no wish to take the warrior’s life. But what else to do? Should he remove his point he’d no doubt at all that Afranydyr would rise and come at him again, and they fight to the death. And that, he thought, would surely confirm the enmity between Zheit and Shahn; between Kandar and Coim’na Drhu. He became aware of silence around him, as if all the world held its breath. It seemed that the birds had ceased their singing; even Fey stood silent. He looked to the pavilions and saw Pyris and Mallandra urging him to end the combat; Isydrian sat pale-faced, Lofantyl and Abra beside him, staring. Lyandra studied him with a quizzical expression, her lips pursed in a tight smile that he could not interpret.

  He turned his gaze toward Eben and Laurens. The soldier clenched his fist, angling a thumb downward; the wizard shrugged and Cullyn saw his mouth shape words he could not hear, but guessed said, It’s your choice.

  Cullyn sighed, confused, then stepped back. “I’ll not slay him,” he cried, loud enough that all the company hear. “He fought honorably, and was honorably defeated. I grant him life.”

  Afranydyr mouthed curses; Isydrian shook his head, his face abruptly haggard, as if his son’s survival were worse than his death. Lofantyl nodded, grinning in approval. Cullyn saw Lyandra’s smile grow tighter.

  Then Afranydyr clambered to his feet, clutching at the broadsword, hefting it in readiness to swing.

  Isydrian bellowed, “No!” and the sword lowered, Afranydyr leaning on the hilt as if the blade were a crutch.

  “Do you understand what you’ve done, Garm?”

  Cullyn shook his head.

  “You’ve taken my honor. I am your subject now.”

  “I’d not have subjects.” Cullyn frowned, even more confused. “What do you say?”

  “That I’m defeated in battle and you own my life, to command me as you will.”

  “Then I command you to live, and make peace with the Zheit. And that you have your wounds tended, and after we shall meet and spe
ak of the future.”

  Afranydyr spat and nodded. “As you say.” His voice was bitter.

  They studied one another, still unsure. Then Eben shouted, “It’s done!” and came to hold Cullyn up, with Laurens, even as Shahn came to escort Afranydyr to their pavilions.

  Cullyn watched his opponent carried away, swaying on his feet. His side hurt suddenly in memory of his wounds. He took Lyandra’s token from his belt and saw it all bloody. Then she came to him.

  “Why did you not slay him? He’d have killed you.”

  He stared at this bloodthirsty virgin he loved and asked her, wearily, “Why should I? Better to make peace, no?”

  “Better, indeed,” Eben said, fixing Lyandra with his blue-eyed gaze, “that all be peace.”

  “Zheit and Shahn?” she returned. “Durrym and Kandar? You voice impossibilities, old man.”

  “Listen to the syn’qui, eh?” Eben smiled at Cullyn. “Listen to him, and follow his advice.”

  Cullyn coughed then, and blood came out of his mouth. Lyandra gasped and tenderly wiped his chin. He clutched his side, which hurt horribly, and the worse for Lyandra’s arms about him.

  “He needs healing,” Eben declared.

  “I need to speak with Lofantyl and Abra,” Cullyn muttered through the heaviness that filled his mouth and throat. “We must …”

  Then he could speak no more, because the world spun away and he felt terribly weary. He fell against Lyandra and saw her gown all stained with blood, which he supposed was his own. He was faintly aware of her voice calling out in alarm and of hands grasping him, but then it all went away into darkness.

  SEVENTEEN

  HE WOKE TO THE GLOW of candles, burning, the tent misty before his eyes, so that it took him a while to discern the shapes before him, even to feel the moistened cloth Lyandra pressed to his fevered brow. He forced his eyes to focus on her face and tried to smile, but his mouth seemed incapable of movement, and all that escaped his lips was a groan that he heard like some far-off echo uttered by another. He thought that Eben knelt beside her, and Laurens, and another figure he did not recognize. Then he slipped away again, into the darkness and the swirling dreams.

  He fought Afranydyr again, save sometimes his opponent wore Lofantyl’s face, or was Per Fendur. Sometimes he died; sometimes he was victorious. He saw Kandar and Coim’na Drhu join in battle, both lands wasted by the strife. He saw weeping women, Durrym and Kandarian both, and keeps and castles burning, wood reduced to ashes, stone to rubble. He wondered, in his fevered dreaming, if he wept.

  Then light came and he opened his eyes again and raised his head.

  “At last.” The smile on Eben’s mouth betrayed the wizard’s stern tone. “We had wondered, you know.”

  “About what?” Cullyn saw Laurens, the soldier’s arms easing him up against soft pillows, smiling fondly. Then Lyandra, clutching his hand, touching his face, tears on her cheeks.

  “Whether you’d live.”

  “Why not?”

  Eben chuckled. “You took some sore wounds—things broken, torn up, pierced. But Durrym healers are most efficient.”

  “Afranydyr?” Cullyn asked.

  “Also lives, thanks to you. You had the right to slay him.”

  “I’d not slay anyone,” Cullyn murmured as Lyandra brought a cup to his lips and urged him to drink the potion. It warmed and strengthened him, so he eased farther up against the pillows, for all it took both Lyandra and Laurens to aid him. “Not save I’m forced to it.”

  Eben nodded approvingly. “He’s in little better condition: pricked and bled, and sorely wounded. Laurens taught you well.”

  Cullyn turned his face toward the soldier, which took an effort, for his head felt weighted and all his muscles weak. “Thank you.”

  “It was you, not me,” Laurens said. “You fought a brave battle.”

  “And now?”

  “You have the choice,” Lyandra said, smiling as she wiped his brow. “You own Afranydyr’s life. You won a great victory. Do you not understand?”

  He shook his head and wished he’d not, for the movement sent the faces spinning.

  “You can dictate your own terms,” he heard her say, echoed by Eben.

  “You own Afranydyr’s life. He must obey you, and through him, Isydrian. You can dictate a peace between the Zheit and the Shahn.”

  “And between Kandar and Coim’na Drhu?”

  “Perhaps that, too. Isydrian is bound by honor to hear you out.”

  Cullyn was not sure who spoke. A mist closed over his mind and he felt weary. He watched the faces of the people he realized he loved grow dim. He felt a kiss—Lyandra’s?—against his cheek, and went back into the darkness.

  CULLYN LED A SQUADRON into battle then, Durrym riding against Kandarians, and he unsure which side he supported. Per Fendur rode at the head, and was opposed by Lyandra, who rode a shining white unicorn that halted as the Kandarian arrows flew and was plucked from her mount. Lofantyl was there, and Abra, reaching down to lift him up and hand him to Eben and Laurens, even as he felt the same shafts as pierced Lyandra pierce him. They said together, Do what you must, and were echoed by Eben.

  He woke sweaty and fevered, troubled by the strange dream. Was this what Eben meant, when the old man spoke of him being syn’qui?

  He sat up and saw that Lyandra slept in a chair beside his bed, and Eben and Laurens snored loudly on the other couches. He saw a cup on a table beside him and found it contained water that he drank in copious drafts, gulping it down so that Lyandra woke and smiled at him, bright as the sun that rose beyond the confines of the pavilion.

  “I need a bath,” he said. “I feel dirty.”

  She put her arms around him, carefully, and said, “I’ll bathe you, my love.”

  And eased him to his feet and ordered a tub be drawn, and washed him as might a servant, laughing at his blushes, and then helped him dress as Eben and Laurens woke. Then, laughing anew at his recovery, she brought the news to her parents.

  THE DUR’EM ZHEIT HAILED HIM as he entered the pavilion. They rose to their feet behind the long tables set down the length of the tent and shouted his name, clattering knives against goblets as he halted in confusion, staring nervously around. It was full night by now, but the pavilion shone bright from the silica globes that Cullyn now understood held glowworms. In his cottage it would have been firelight and tallow candles. In Lyth Keep it would have been smoky lanterns and blazing sconces. This was a brighter, more mellow light that matched the magnificence of the pavilion, as if the Durrym simultaneously lived in concord with nature and exploited it.

  The floor was grass, but cropped short as any carpet and greener than any grass he’d seen, softer underfoot than rich wool. The tent was all silk and linen, its roof and walls fluttering softly in the gentle night breeze, panels of blue and gold and white. Down both sides ran tables of carved—or was it taught—wood, with high backed chairs behind, decorated with ornate inlays of shells and stones and gems. And all the folk there on their feet and hailing him.

  At the farther end was a dais, a raised platform on which was set a solitary table large enough to accommodate all who sat there. Pyris and Mallandra held the center, Lyandra on her father’s left, Eben and Laurens beyond her. Then Isydrian, with his sons beside, and Abra, who sat with nervous visage as Lofantyl grinned and Afranydyr scowled. The pavilion smelled of roasting meat and rich wine, and Cullyn felt his head spin.

  Then Pyris rose and came down the aisle between the tables, bringing Lyandra with him, and Mallandra, one to either side in formal procession. He held their hands and halted before Cullyn. The pavilion fell silent, anticipatory.

  Cullyn waited, wondering what transpired, and nervous.

  Then Lyandra’s father said formally, “I am Pyris of Ky’atha Hall, Vashinu of the Dur’em Zheit. You delivered us a great victory, for which I thank you. You defeated Afrandyr of Kash’ma Hall, champion of the Dur’em Shahn, and won us much respect. I am obliged to you.”

&nbs
p; He bowed; Cullyn gaped. Then he saw Eben motioning to him that he return the gesture of respect, and ducked his head.

  Pyris beamed and said, “You have set a mighty geas on the Shahn. You now own Afranydyr’s life, so they cannot attack us again so long as you are with us.”

  Cullyn wondered what such a geas might be, but—perhaps learning diplomacy—he said only, “I am happy to have pleased you.”

  “More than me,” Pyris returned. “You’ve pleased my daughter, and she’d wed you—even though you be Garm’kes Lyn.” There was a measure of doubt in his voice, but even so he swung Lyandra forward toward Cullyn, who instinctively took her hand. She smiled at him, and he knew he loved her.

  But still wondered what future they might have together.

  “And I approve,” Pyris said. At his side, Mallandra said, “And I.” Then Pyris asked, “How say you, Cullyn of Kandar?”

  Cullyn hesitated a moment as he wondered where this might lead him. Then he looked into Lyandra’s eyes and felt all his doubts dissolve, and said, “Yes.”

  The hall erupted once more as the Zheit lifted goblets and shouted his name and Lyandra’s. She pressed against him and kissed him and whispered, “The unicorns shall be dangerous after we’re wed.”

  He blushed and took her hand as her parents escorted them formally toward the high table. He saw Laurens there, smiling his approval, and Eben with an expression of satisfaction on his aged face. Lofantyl smiled his approval, as did Abra. Isydrian sat stark-featured, and Afranydyr, beside his father, glowered.

  Cullyn was abruptly aware that the shouts of approval and the raising of cups had come from the Zheit, not the Shahn, who sat sullen and defeated at the feast.