by Angus Wells
The god—or gods—knew the Durrym had tended him well. He was no longer sure which gods existed, only that he found his ancient enemies now his best friends, kindly and caring. The healers had tended him daily, healing the wounds Fendur had delivered; and Abra was clearly in love with Lofantyl.
Nor were Isydrian and Pyris and Mallandra poor companions. They were Durrym, but they visited daily, several times, and brought him such wine and sweetmeats as he’d never eaten, and gamed with him when he could once again—the gods be blessed for Durrym healers—raise his left arm. A thing they called the Game of Stones was subtle and intrigued him. It was a thing of shifting tablets of wood over a board, all black and white, and jumping to gambits. Abra was adept, and Eben—whom Bartram came to like quite apart from the old wizard’s habit of boasting his own prowess and teasing Bartram about the duel with Per Fendur.
Laurens tended him no less than the healers. The master-at-arms delivered his food more often than the servants, sitting with him and—until Bartram was able again to use his left arm—feeding him. It embarrassed Bartram that he was so weak, but also he felt flattered by such loyalty, and they spoke of many things.
“This Cullyn,” Bartram asked one day as Laurens cut his food, “who is he?”
“He was a forester,” Laurens answered, “an orphan, making himself a living in the woods. But he’s also syn’qui—that’s why all this has happened.”
“The Durrym,” Bartram returned, “speak of this. What does it mean, what is a syn’qui?”
Laurens shrugged and said, “Eben can explain it better than I.”
“But you liege with him. You followed him here.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I came with Fendur; I came after Abra.”
“And saw the truth, no?” Laurens set the plate down, looking toward the window. The sun shone in through whatever material the Durrym used to cover their embrasures—surely sturdier than the flimsy glass of Lyth Keep, surely cleaner; it lit the chamber with dancing light that set the rugs decorating the wooden floor to colorful patterns. “I think he brought us all together, that we make peace.”
“I believe you’re right,” Bartram said. “But peace shall not be easy.”
“When ever was it?” Laurens asked. “War is always the easier option.”
“You become a philospher in your age.”
“Perhaps I do,” Laurens chuckled. “Perhaps I learn from Cullyn and Eben.”
“As, I think, do I.”
EBEN EXPLAINED IT scarcely better: “The boy hardly knows what he does. He only acts, or reacts, but he’s chosen to make decisions that influence us all. Think on it—why did Lofantyl befriend him? Why did Abra fall in love with Lofantyl? Why did Cullyn aid them, or Laurens? It’s fate, my friend, and he pulls fate into patterns that he does not understand, only shapes. That’s what a syn’qui is: a shaper. I’ve the power of magic, I can advise, but I cannot shape the future. He can, even if he doesn’t understand how or why. Perhaps it’s his innocence that grants him that gift—or curse—but that’s why he’s syn’qui.”
They had become friends, these two old men, and Bartram enjoyed Eben’s company no less than that of Laurens or his Durrym hosts, or Cullyn himself. He found the young man a most pleasant companion, and Lyandra delightful. But his greatest pleasure was to see Abra, who came with Lofantyl—whom Bartram now accepted as his son.
“I wonder what shall happen when I go back,” he said one day as they walked away from Afranydyr’s funeral.
Isydrian’s elder son had been consigned to the ground. A pit had been dug and his body, dressed in the armor he had worn when he died, set inside. Then the earth had been piled over him and a sapling oak planted. Bartram had gasped as he watched the young tree grow, sprouting leaves, its roots spreading visibly, to take hold of the corpse and the earth before his eyes.
“Shall you go back?” Abra asked. “Why not stay here?”
“There’s Vanysse,” he said.
“Mourning Amadis?”
“You knew of that?”
“Everyone knew.”
Bartram sighed. “I was a fool.”
“No.” She took his hand. “You were always an honest husband, and a good father.”
“But my wife?” He shook his head. “Besides, I’m sworn to guard the Borderlands.”
“Against what enemies?” She gestured at the solemn group that stood around the sprouting oak. “These? Have you not already sworn friendship?”
“Yes, but …” Bartram hesitated. “I cannot speak for Khoros or the Church. Likely the Church shall send another priest to Lyth Keep.”
“Who might be kinder than Per Fendur.”
“Or not.”
“Aye, there’s that.”
“And you’ll remain here?”
Abra nodded, squeezing her father’s hand. “I’m wed to Lofantyl, and I love him.”
“And with my blessing—he’s a fine fellow. But I’ve still a wife in Lyth and a sworn duty to Khoros.”
“Why do you not speak with Cullyn and Eben?” she asked. “Between them, they seem to speak much sense.”
THE CHAMBER WAS LIT with late afternoon sunlight that painted the floorboards and the walls with dancing patterns of light and shadow. Tapestries and rugs shimmered, the scenes depicted there coming alive. They sat around a circular table more akin to a mushroom than anything carved by human hands. Lord Bartram occupied one chair, Abra and Lofantyl beside him; Pyris and Isydrian sat beyond, then Cullyn and Eben and Laurens, facing him.
Lord Bartram’s hands were clutched about his head as he agonized over his decision.
“This is not easy,” he said. “I am sworn to guard the Border against—”
“Sworn friends,” Isydrian interrupted.
“Who shall no longer look to invade you,” Pyris added.
“That, I believe.” Bartram shook his head in anguish. “But even as I swear that Lyth shall never come against you again, I cannot guarantee my king’s word. And I’ve a wife there.”
“As best I understand it,” Eben said, “your wife—forgive me if I speak bluntly—will not mourn you.”
“That’s likely true,” Bartram allowed, and sighed, “I think her heart was ever with Amadis.”
“Who’s now dead.” Eben was ever blunt: Bartram liked that in him. “So what reason to go back?”
“I’m liege lord of Lyth Keep. I’m sworn to guard the Borderlands.”
“Against …?”
Bartram started to say, “The Durrym,” then broke off as Eben laughed long and loud and gave him back, “Those who’ve healed you and tended you and made you welcome? Do you truly believe them enemies of Kandar?”
Bartram shook his head. Concepts spun there, inside his mind, that he’d never before properly considered. He said, “No, they seem good friends.”
“They are. They’ve no wish to invade Kandar. Perhaps once, when Afranydyr dreamed, but now …” The ancient wizard shrugged, leaving Bartram to make his own decision.
“Stay here,” Pyris suggested, echoed by Isydrian. “You should live well here—honored as the man who slew the invading priest.”
“And Vanysse?”
“Slept with Amadis,” Abra said, blunt as Eben. “Do you go back, then name her adulteress and give her to the Church’s arms.”
“I’d not do that,” Bartram said. “She was, I know, but even so …”
“Then stay here,” Pyris suggested again. “Be welcomed and honored.”
“I’d name you a commander,” Isydrian said, “and make you greater than ever you were in Kandar.”
“Save I took vows,” Bartram returned. “I thank you both for the honors you offer me, but I must go back.”
“Why?” Abra gasped.
“Because I must confront my traitorous wife,” her father replied, “and tell her that her lover is dead, and the priest who supported him. And then I must let King Khoros know that there shall be no more war between Lyth Keep and Coim’na Drhu. A
nd perhaps that shall end this warfare.”
He looked at Cullyn. “How say you?”
Cullyn swallowed hard, embarrassed. “Why do you ask me, my lord?”
“Because you’re syn’qui.”
“Only a forester.”
“Syn’qui! Now answer.”
All the eyes around the table fixed on him. He wanted to look away, to go away, but he met their gazes and fastened his own on Bartram.
“Must I,” he said, “then I’d say go back and deal with your wife as you see fit. And then look to broker a peace between Kandar and Coim’na Drhu. And does the king not listen, then either rise against him or come back here—to friends.”
“Young and foolish, but wise in his simplicity.” Eben nodded his silvered head. “He sees the way to the future, even if he doesn’t recognize it. He’s like a blind man who can take you safely through the darkest night. He might not see it, but he hears and knows, in his blood and bones, and can therefore lead you to safety.”
“I hope so,” Lord Bartram said. “And I shall do my best.”
“And we shall all see where that leads us,” Eben returned.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANGUS WELLS was born in a small village in Kent, England. He has worked as a publicist and as a science fiction and fantasy editor. He now writes full time, and is the author of The Books of the Kingdoms (Wrath of Ashar, The Usurper, The Way Beneath) and The Godwars (Forbidden Magic, Dark Magic, Wild Magic). Lords of the Sky, his first stand-alone novel, debuted in trade paperback in October of 1994, and was followed by the two-book Exiles Saga: Exile’s Children and Exile’s Challenge. He lives in Nottingham with his dog, Elmore.
YESTERDAY’S KINGS
A Bantam Spectra Book / April 2001
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
Copyright © 2001 by Angus Wells.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-57541-8
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