Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  “I claim the right to her power,” declared Rykan, everyone within earshot hearing his intent.

  “Major Sullyan?” The Hierarch turned to her, inviting her to accept or refuse.

  Her eyes never left Rykan’s as she replied.

  “Should my Lord Rykan be the victor today, I will accept his right of claim over my personal power.”

  With a grim smile, Robin acknowledged her clever phrasing. She had neatly avoided granting Rykan access to the donated life force within her. He saw Rykan’s eyes narrow, pondering her words, but as he was unaware of her augmented state, he could find no reason to challenge them. Impatient to start the contest, he nodded curtly.

  The Hierarch turned back to Sullyan.

  “Major Sullyan, do you agree to be bound by the Witnessed terms and conditions of this contest?”

  “I do, Majesty.”

  Pharikian then asked her the ritual question and Robin expected her to lay claim to the Duke’s power should she win.

  She didn’t.

  “Majesty, I claim this man’s life, to do with as I will.”

  A ripple of exclamation ran round the arena and Robin clearly felt Bull’s puzzlement through their link. Rykan was frowning. He knew that simply claiming his life wouldn’t give her access to his power if he wasn’t willing to surrender it. Robin couldn’t imagine the circumstances under which Rykan would be willing, and felt his anxiety rise. If only she had confided in him … but her face was closed, as was her mind, and Rykan had no choice but to agree to the claim.

  Stepping closer to Sullyan, the Hierarch flipped the covering from the package he held. With a shudder, Robin saw that it contained a silver collar much like the one she had worn in Rykan’s dungeons. Careful to hold it by the cloth, the Hierarch unclasped it in order to lock it about her neck.

  Sonten’s harsh voice stopped him.

  “Majesty, we claim the right to inspect this collar as we would our opponent’s weapons.”

  Robin immediately noticed the sudden paling of Sullyan’s face. There was concern in her eyes that she was trying hard to conceal.

  Rounding on Sonten, Pharikian said, “Do you insult me, General? Do you doubt that this is spellsilver?” He thrust the collar into Rykan’s face. “Would your Lord care to handle it?”

  The Duke’s insufferable smile never wavered, although he did step back a pace.

  “Of course not, Majesty.” His voice was silky smooth. “It is a formality only. My second merely asks to observe the protocols.”

  Grimacing, Pharikian almost threw the collar at Sonten. The General weighed it in his hand for a moment before finally nodding to Rykan. The Duke’s smile widened.

  “Check the clasp, Sonten. We wouldn’t want it mysteriously coming undone halfway through the duel.”

  The Hierarch narrowed his eyes but didn’t speak. Anjer fumed silently at his side. Sullyan appeared relaxed. Finally satisfied, Sonten returned the collar and the Hierarch stepped up to Sullyan once more.

  “I am very sorry for this, my dear,” he said, and quickly fastened it about her neck.

  Her face went white and her breathing faltered as she adjusted to the spellsilver’s terrible numbing effects. Rykan watched her closely. Robin could see Sullyan drawing strongly on her donated life force as she slowly regulated her breathing. Her face regained some color, but Robin’s hands trembled with tension. He gripped them tightly together.

  Both seconds then made a show of examining each sword. Anjer moved in front of Sullyan and placed his hands on her shoulders, looking down into her eyes. She smiled at him and even Robin could see that she was now calm. Only the pallor of her face and the blue tinge to her lips betrayed her discomfort at the spellsilver’s touch.

  She shed her jacket, giving it to Anjer. Rykan did the same. After a moment, and despite the chill air, the Major also removed her shirt, leaving only the light, sleeveless chemise she wore beneath. Pharikian drew in a breath when he saw the long, red scar that marred her forearm. Under normal circumstances, Robin knew, she would have spent more time on it. Although it was healed, it hadn’t faded. The Hierarch cast a grim glance over his shoulder at Vanyr, but the Commander wasn’t looking. Robin knew that Anjer had convinced his ruler to say nothing about the incident, especially as Vanyr had already been disciplined. Once the pirates had taken out their rage on the man, Anjer felt there was nothing more to be gained by raking it over again.

  Robin’s attention switched to Rykan, who was watching Sullyan disrobe. He stood at ease, his sword point grounded before him. There was a leering look on his face and he suddenly leaned forward.

  “Why stop there, witch? You have nothing I haven’t already seen and used as I wished!”

  Sullyan didn’t grace him with a reply, didn’t react in any way.

  Rykan’s lips thinned. “Once I have won this travesty of a duel,” he snarled, “you know what to expect from me, don’t you? I will have what I want, girl. Powers and pleasure both! There will be no friends to rescue you this time.”

  Slowly, she raised her golden eyes, her expression full of scorn. She spoke clearly and coldly.

  “May I suggest you save your energy for your sword arm, my Lord? You may have some skill with that weapon, but before witnesses I declare that you have none whatsoever with the one between your legs.”

  There was a ripple of derisory laughter and even a few cheers. Rykan went purple with rage. He raised his sword as if to strike her, but Anjer whipped his weapon protectively across Sullyan’s body before Rykan could lunge. Breathing heavily, the Duke forced himself to calm.

  Sullyan didn’t react, and Robin admired her air of control. He knew she was centering herself, drawing her skills and knowledge to the fore, and planning her strategy. In that state, she wouldn’t have reacted had a whole swarm of tangwyrs come swooping through the arena.

  Once calm was restored, Anjer presented Sullyan with her father’s sword. The two seconds then withdrew, leaving only Rykan, Sullyan, and the Hierarch in the arena. Pharikian studied both combatants before speaking.

  “You are about to commence combat for the right to Andaryon’s throne. You have agreed to the terms of this contest and have been Witnessed by all present. Any deviation from those terms will incur the penalty of disqualification and defeat. In such an event, the victor’s claims will be honored. Do you understand?”

  They nodded and Pharikian stepped back. “The contest will begin once the Firefield is in place. I wish good fortune on you both.”

  Despite his words, his gaze was on Sullyan. She didn’t notice. Her attention had remained fixed on Rykan since accepting her sword from Anjer. She brought it up before her face, the keen edge giving a shiver of steel song. Rykan locked eyes with her.

  Andaryon’s ruler moved to the sidelines and Robin felt the Hierarch’s hands come to rest on his trembling shoulders. He could clearly sense Pharikian gathering his will and power and knew he was preparing the Firefield. Those with the Artesan gift gasped as the glittering, sparking cage of elemental energy crackled into life.

  + + + + +

  Due to the spellsilver’s leaching effects, Sullyan couldn’t actually see the Firefield. Her skills and her power, however, were so much a part of her life, and her Mastery over Earth established for so long, that she could feel the echo and throb of the field where it emanated through the ground. Her nerves tingled with the proximity of Fire and she felt a stab of relief. At least one gamble had paid off. It would have been a severe handicap—although one she had been willing to risk—if her senses had failed her. Her earlier weeks of intimacy with Rykan’s spellsilver had prepared her for what to expect. Still, it was reassuring to have those expectations confirmed. She had experienced a bad moment when Sonten insisted on inspecting the collar, but she had also gambled on Rykan’s reluctance to touch it. That too had paid off. Rykan would have realized instantly, but Sonten had no way of knowing that the silver was actually Rykan’s. Her hunch in bringing the collar from the drovers’ hut had
been borne out.

  Capturing the Duke’s predatory gaze, she concentrated on gathering the strength given her by those who had pawned their life force.

  Rykan assumed a defensive posture as soon as the field became active. She never took her eyes from him and saw with satisfaction that he was unsure how to treat her. Vanyr’s instruction had been invaluable and she intended to make good use of it, but she also intended to use her own judgment and not take anything for granted. It was some years since Vanyr had fought Rykan. A person’s style could change.

  They circled each other slowly. Rykan was right-handed so Sullyan was also using her right hand. She hoped that the long, red scar down her left forearm would give the Duke a false message. Watching him intently, she continued to gather donated strength until she felt her skin would burst.

  Rykan watched her as a cat watches a rat, knowing its prey has teeth but thinking itself superior in strength and size. She saw his eyes flick to her hand, noting how she gripped her sword, and then to her feet, checking her balance. After a few moments of circling, she knew he was ready. His gaze sharpened and his lips parted in a faintly feral smile.

  That slight change in expression was Sullyan’s cue. It signaled a momentary distraction, a change in thought processes. It was what she had been waiting for. With a loud cry—“Hau!”—she gripped her sword in both hands and charged her opponent, allowing her gathered energy to explode in a flurry of furious strikes. Metal rang harshly on metal. Sparks flew from the blades. Her shocking scream, coupled with the sheer ferocity of her unexpected attack, caught Rykan off guard. Driving hard, her father’s blade ringing incessantly on his, she forced him back relentlessly toward the sparking Firefield. Within two minutes she had drawn his blood, to the approving roar of her supporters.

  + + + + +

  Watching from the sidelines, Robin gripped his hands tightly together. Through the touch on his shoulder he could feel the tremor of Pharikian’s body as the fight began. He glanced up. Pharikian’s eyes were wide as he witnessed the skill and fury that Sullyan’s slight, fragile-looking body produced. Robin guessed he was realizing how deeply even he had underestimated her and finally understood what her General had meant when he recommended the Hierarch use her ‘unique talents.’

  His gaze travelled left to where Marik’s white-knuckled hands clenched the rail of Idrimar’s carriage. Robin heard the Count murmuring encouragement under his breath. Beside him, Idrimar watched with wide, pale eyes, shocked by the intensity of Sullyan’s attack. Vanyr looked totally shaken by Sullyan’s ferocity. Robin heard him mutter “Bloody hell!” two or three times and briefly wondered whether Vanyr was feeling thankful that Sullyan hadn’t released this depth of rage on him. Behind Vanyr, Anjer, Ephan, and Kryp all watched with incredulity, clearly praying this unnatural strength would last.

  + + + + +

  It didn’t last, of course. Sullyan knew it couldn’t. It did last long enough for her to force her opponent into the Firefield. Still trying to find his balance and gain an advantage, Rykan had forgotten how close the barrier was. Sidestepping a powerful thrust from her blade, his left foot moved too far and blundered into the raw element. Fire crackled viciously in response. Rykan snatched his foot away. Burned by the power and furious at the pain, his hoarse scream reverberated round the arena. He twisted, snarling, falling back under her incessant rain of deadly strokes.

  “You’ll suffer for that, witch! Yield now before I kill you.”

  Sullyan didn’t waste her breath.

  Favoring his left foot, Rykan kept the Firefield at his left shoulder and continued to fall back before her. She realized he was drawing her on, hoping she would use up her strength. Instantly, she changed tactics. Switching her sword into her left hand, she attacked his unprotected side, forcing him to parry awkwardly. He was still too close to the Firefield, and the tip of his sword just caught its edge. There was a sharp crack! as the metal of his sword flared red-hot. Fire shot up the blade, stinging his hand, and he cried out once more.

  “Curse you!”

  Sullyan immediately came after him, aiming more vicious cuts at his body, forcing him further back. It was a small victory, but she knew he was too good a swordsman not to rally. He had her measure now, and she could see his brain working. Suddenly, he broke away from her attack, giving himself room to breathe. She allowed it, her own first flush of strength nearly spent.

  As they circled each other again, she noted that his hot yellow gaze never left her face. His underestimation of her was now completely reversed, and he was watching her with wary respect as well as anger. She registered this with a flash of unconscious intuition. Her mind was already planning how next to put him off balance, and she still had reserves of donated strength left before she must rely totally on her own.

  Rykan decided to try her own tactics against her and rushed her abruptly, his grip double-handed. She had been waiting for something of the sort and sidestepped his powerful stroke, twisting to come up behind him before he could recover. Her low slash to the leg would have hamstrung him had he not been so agile. As it was, she opened a long, shallow cut on his left thigh, her success bringing a raucous cheer from her supporters. Rykan ignored the wound, pivoting swiftly to catch her before she completed her stroke. She swayed back, sweeping her blade round to meet his. The clash of steel on steel reverberated through the air.

  + + + + +

  Rienne and Bull, his arms locked tight around her waist, her mind enmeshed with his, shared emotions as they watched through Robin’s eyes. Bull had to use all his power to enable Rienne to see, as she couldn’t consciously receive his thoughts. Due to her inability to shield, he was subjected to the full flood of her emotions, and this was uncomfortable for them both. She knew it took all his concentration and control to remain open for her, and her uncontrolled flow of panic, fear, terror, and love confused his senses. His admiration for Sullyan’s skills helped in some measure to calm Rienne’s nerves, but she was all too aware of the strain this was putting on him. His breathing grew ever more ragged and his heart limped in a chest tight with pain.

  She was only vaguely aware of Cal and Taran standing a little way off, both lost in the contest unfolding below them. She imagined them analyzing every sword stroke, every footfall, as they tried to guess Sullyan’s next move. So caught up in the duel was she that she didn’t even wonder whether anyone had recently checked their surroundings.

  + + + + +

  The longer Sullyan fought the Duke, the more familiar each became to the other. She knew he had finally recognized her skill. She could sense his grudging respect, his acknowledgement of the way she used her height and weight to her own advantage. She in turn had learned why he was considered the best swordsman in the land and was beginning to fear she wouldn’t be able to defeat him unless he made a mistake.

  Lithely, he avoided her latest feint, making her grunt with effort as she parried his counter swing.

  Frustration gnawed at her. He was just too tall, too strong, and too good, she thought, whereas she was not at full strength, weeks of illness and abuse behind her. Yet this just made her more determined, and as he came at her again, aiming an overhead strike at her head, she called once more on her fading reserves of donated strength.

  Switching hands yet again to keep him off balance, she got in a few more telling blows, flicking through his defense with the tip of her sword. She drew his blood once more and he gasped in pain. Although the wounds were superficial, psychologically they gave her an advantage. He had only managed to touch her once and she knew it galled him. Gathering her strength she rushed him, driving him relentlessly backward until his left hand once again touched the Firefield.

  “Agghh, you wretched girl!”

  Pain wrung the cry from him. The shame of being forced three times into the barrier ignited a powerful bloodlust in Rykan. He roared his rage, his face turning purple with strain and frustration.

  “You’ve thwarted my plans long enough, you witch! I’m the mo
st powerful lord in this realm and I’m too close to achieving my goal. No one—and certainly not a human witch—is going to stand in my way!”

  Abruptly, heedless of injury or defense, he flung himself against her, trying to use his vastly superior reach and weight to get past her guard. She fell back, letting him rush past her. As he did so, he pivoted, and the edge of his blade just caught her side, opening a long cut down her right flank.

  She gave an agonized gasp.

  The cut wasn’t deep, but it bled freely. Normally she would have closed it with a thought, as Rykan had with his own wounds, but the spellsilver prevented her. Blood soaked her thin chemise and she steeled herself to ignore the pain. The gasp of horror that soughed round the watchers died away as she parried Rykan’s follow-up and came back at him again.

  Furious that his blade had failed to do worse damage, Rykan tried one of his tricks; a sly feinting turn to the left, followed by a thrust partially hidden by his body. Thanks to Vanyr’s expert coaching, Sullyan recognized the move and sidestepped it neatly. She heard Vanyr’s yell of approval as Rykan expended his strength on empty air.

  + + + + +

  On the sidelines, Robin strained unknowingly against the Hierarch’s hands. He was so intent on Sullyan and so inextricably linked to Bull that he barely had a conscious thought left. If Pharikian hadn’t had both hands firmly gripped on his shoulders, he would have run to the Firefield and flung himself against it. He was willing Sullyan on so strongly that he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He knew that the Hierarch had passed Anjer a tense message, and that Anjer had come closer, but didn’t give a thought to whether Anjer might be there to help restrain him.

  In the carriage beside him, he could hear Marik fidgeting with worry. Idrimar constantly murmured to him, obviously doubting the wisdom of letting him watch, for he refused to keep still. She repeated her fears for his recovery, exhorting him not to rise to his feet. Yet he was totally focused on the duel and Robin knew he couldn’t hear her.