Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  He stopped not twenty-five paces from me and said loudly, “Countess, we request a parley.”

  They knew we were there.

  Questions skittered through my mind. Had Khesot talked? How otherwise could the enemy have seen us? The only noise now was the rain, pattering softly with the magnificent indifference of nature for the tangled passions of humans.

  I stood up. “Here. State your message.”

  “A choice. You surrender, and your people can then disperse to their homes. Otherwise, we start with them.” He pointed to the bridge. “Then everyone else.” He lifted his hand, indicating the ridge up behind us.

  I turned, and shock burned through me when I saw an uncountable host lined along the rocks we’d descended from half a night ago.

  They had us boxed.

  Surrounded. We had walked right into a waiting trap.

  I took in the bridge again. Through the curtain of rain the figures were clearer. Khesot, in the center, stood next to a tall slim man with pale yellow hair.

  I closed my eyes, fought for control, then opened my eyes again. “Everyone goes to their homes? Including Khesot and the four down there?”

  “Everyone,” the boy said flatly, “except you, Countess.”

  Which meant I was staking my life against everyone else’s. And of course there was no answer but one to be made to that.

  With black murder in my heart, I flung my sword down rather than hand it over. Stepping across it, I walked past the equerry, whose footfalls I then heard crunching behind me.

  Wild vows of death and destruction flowed through my mind as I walked down the trail. No one moved. Only the incessant rain came down, a silver veil, as I slipped down the pathway, reached the bridge, then crossed it, and stalked angrily between the lines of waiting warriors.

  When I neared the other end of the bridge, the marquis turned his back and walked inside the fortress, and the others followed, Khesot and the four scouts still some distance from me. I could not see their faces, could not speak to them.

  I walked through the big gates, which closed. Across the courtyard the south gates stood open, and before them mounted warriors waited.

  With them were two saddled, riderless horses, one a familiar gray.

  In silence the entourage moved toward them, and the marquis mounted the gray, who sidled nervously, newly shod hooves ringing on the stones.

  Khesot and the others were now behind me, invisible behind the crowd of warriors in Renselaeus colors, all of whom watched and waited in silence.

  It was weird, dreamlike, the only reality the burning rage in my heart.

  Someone motioned me toward the single riderless horse, and I climbed up. The ground seemed to heave under the animal’s feet, but I shook my head and the world righted itself, and I glared through the softly falling rain to the cold gray gaze of the Marquis of Shevraeth, heir to Renselaeus.

  His horse danced a few steps. He looked over his shoulder at me, the low brim of his hat now hiding his eyes.

  “Ride,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Surrounded by warriors but utterly isolated, I rode at a gallop through the quiet rain as daylight strengthened all around me. Birds squawked warnings, and once a deer crashed through a shrub and bounded with breathtaking grace across the road in front of us. Humans and horses stayed on their path, racing headlong.

  I don’t know how long we rode. At the time, the trip seemed endless; looking back, it was curiously short. Memory warps time, as it does the sights and sounds and smells of reality; for what shapes it is emotion, which can twist what seems clear, just as the surface of a pond seems to bend the stick thrust into the water.

  I know only that we were still deep in the Old Forest, which meant a ride to the north, when at some point we left the road, and then the trails, and at last came to a clearing sheltered by ancient trees, in which stood a very old, mossy-stoned wood gatherer’s cottage.

  The riders fanned out, but my immediate escort rode straight to the overhanging rusty roof that formed a rudimentary barn. The marquis dismounted and stretched out his hand to grip the bridle of my horse.

  “Inside,” he said to me.

  I dismounted. Again the ground seemed to heave beneath my feet, but I leaned against the shoulders of my mount until the world steadied, and then I straightened up.

  The marquis walked toward the open doorway.

  In a kind of blank daze, I followed the sweeping black cloak inside and down a tiny hall, to a door made of old, rickety twigs bound together. The marquis opened this and waved me into a little room. I took two steps inside it—

  And there, lying on a narrow bed, with books and papers strewn about him, was my brother, Branaric.

  “Mel!” he exclaimed. “Burn it, you were right,” he said past me. “Ran her to ground at Vesingrui, eh?”

  A voice spoke behind me: “They were about to drop on us.”

  I turned. The marquis leaned in the doorway, a growing puddle of rainwater at his feet.

  For a century or two I could do nothing except stand as if rooted. The world seemed about to dissolve for a sickening moment, but I sucked in a ragged breath and it righted again, and I threw myself down on my knees next to the bed, knocking my soggy, shapeless hat off, and hugged Branaric fiercely.

  “Mel, Mel,” Bran said, laughing, then he groaned and fell back on his pillows. “Softly, girl. Curse it! I’m weak as a newborn kitten.”

  “And will be for a time,” came the voice from the doorway. “Once your explanations have been made, I exhort you to remember Mistress Kylar’s warning.”

  “Aye, I’ve it well in mind,” Bran said. And as the door closed, he stared at me from fever-bright eyes. “He was right! Said you’d go straight after ‘em, sword and knife. What’s with you?”

  “You said, ‘A trap.’ I thought it was them,” I muttered through numb lips. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Didn’t you see the riding of greeners?” Bran retorted. “It was Debegri, right enough. He had paid informants in those inns, for he was on the watch for your return. Why d’you think Vidanric sent the escort?”

  “Vidanric?”

  “His name,” Branaric said, still staring at me with that odd gaze. “You could try to use it—only polite. After all, Shevraeth is merely a title, and he doesn’t go about calling either of us Tlanth.”

  I’d rather cut out my tongue, I thought, but I said nothing.

  “Anyway—life, sister—if he’d wanted me dead, why not in the comfort of his own home, where he could do a better job?”

  I shook my head. “It made sense to me.”

  “It makes sense when you have a castle-sized grudge.” He sighed. “It was the Renselaeus escort, hard on their heels, that attacked Debegri’s gang and saved my life. Our friend the marquis wasn’t far behind—he’d just found out about the spies, he said. Between us we pieced together what happened, and what I said, and what you’d likely do. I thought you’d stay home. He said you’d ride down the mountain breathing fire and hunting his blood. He was right.” He started to laugh, but it came out a groan, and he closed his eyes for a long breath. Then, “Arrow clipped me on the right, or I’d be finished. But I can’t talk long—I’m already feeling sick. Galdran is right behind Debegri. He’s coming up to make an example of Tlanth himself. Talk all over the countryside…” He stopped, taking several slow breaths, then he squinted at me. “Ask Vidanric. He’s the one explained it to me.”

  “First tell me, are we prisoners, or not?”

  “No,” Bran said. “But mark my words: The end is nigh. And we’re either for Renselaeus or for Galdran.”

  “You mean Shevraeth is coming into the open?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then—he’s going to face the whole army?”

  Bran breathed deeply again. “Galdran has very few friends,” he murmured, then closed his eyes. “But he does have the army in Remalna, and Debegri’s force coming from Chovilun to the west. They’re converging on us here.
Go change. Eat.”

  I nodded, the numbness spreading from my lips to my brain, and to my heart. “Get your rest. We’ll talk when you feel better.”

  I walked out, and closed the door, and leaned against it, my forehead grinding against the rough wood.

  Finally I forced myself to look up, to move. A sudden, terrible weariness had settled over me. I saw an open door at the other end of the little hall, and yellow light pouring from it.

  The light drew me more than anything. Straightening up, I crossed the hall. Inside the room Shevraeth sat at a rough stone table near a fireplace, in which a crackling fire roared. At one end of the table was spread a map, at the other a tray of food, as yet untouched. Against an adjacent wall was a narrow bed, with more papers and another map spread over its neatly smoothed blanket. Three or four warriors in the familiar livery sat on mats around the table, all talking in quiet voices, but when the marquis gave me an inquiring gaze, they rose and filed silently past me.

  I was left alone with the person who, the day before, I’d wanted to kill even more than Galdran Merindar.

  “Take a swig.” Shevraeth held out a flagon. “You’re going to need it, I’m afraid.”

  I crossed the room and sank cross-legged onto the nearest mat. With one numb hand I took the flagon, squeezed a share of its contents into my mouth; and gasped as the fire of distilled bristic burned its way inside me. I took a second sip and with stinging eyes handed the flagon back.

  “Blue lips,” he said, with that faint smile. “You’re going to have a whopping cold.”

  I noticed the color burning along his cheekbones, and the faint lines of strain in his forehead. “So are you,” I said. “Hah!” I added, obscurely pleased.

  His mouth quirked. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Yes.” My voice came out hoarse, and I cleared my throat. “Bran said Galdran is coming after us. Why? I thought it had been made abundantly clear that—thanks to you—we were defeated, and that was after he’d already decided we were of no account.”

  “Here. Eat something.” He pulled the tray over and pointed to the bread and cheese on it, and at the half of some kind of fruit tart.

  I picked up the bread and bit into it as he said, “But his cousin did not encompass your defeat, despite the fact that you were outnumbered and outmaneuvered. This is the more galling for Galdran, you must understand, when you consider the enormous loss of prestige he has suffered of late.”

  “Loss of prestige? In what way?” I asked.

  He sat back, his eyes expressive of amusement, just like his father. “First there was the matter of a—very—public announcement of a pending execution, following which the intended victim escapes. Then…didn’t you stop to consider that the countryside folk who endured many long days of constant martial interference in the form of searches, curfews, and threats might have a few questions about the justice of said threats—or the efficacy of all these armed and mounted warriors tramping through their fields and farms unsuccessfully trying to flush a single unarmed, rather unprepossessing individual? Especially when said individual took great care not to endanger anyone beyond the first—anonymous—family to give her succor, to whom she promised there would be no civil war?”

  I gasped. “I never promised that. How could I? I promised that Bran and I wouldn’t carry our fight into their territory.”

  Shevraeth’s smile was wry. “But you must know how gossip gets distorted when it burns across the countryside, faster than a summer hayfire. And you had given the word of a countess. You have to remember that a good part of our…influence…is vouchsafed in our status, after the manner of centuries of habit. It is a strength and a weakness, a good and an evil.”

  I winced, thinking of Ara, who knew more about history than I did.

  “Though you seem to be completely unaware of it, you have become a heroine to the entire kingdom. What is probably more important to you is that your cause is now on everyone’s lips, even if—so far—it’s only being whispered about. With the best will in the world, Galdran’s spies could only find out what was being said, but not by whom. Imagine, if you can, the effect.”

  I tried. Too tired to actually think of much beyond when I might lay my head down, and where, I looked across the room at that bed—then away quickly—and said as stoutly as I could, “I hope it skewered him good.”

  “He’s angry enough to be on his way to face us, but we shall discuss it later. Permit me to suggest that you avail yourself of the room next to your brother’s, which was hastily excavated last night. We’ll be using this place as our command post for the next day or so.”

  I wavered to my feet, swayed, leaned against the wall. “Yes. Well.” I tried to think of something appropriate to say, but nothing came to mind.

  So I walked out, found my way to the room, and unlatched the door. A tiny corner hearth radiated a friendly heat from a fire. A fire—they used a Fire Stick just for me. Was there a family somewhere doing without? Or did the Hill Folk know—somehow—of the marquis’s cause, and had they tendered their approval by giving his people extras? I shook my head, beyond comprehending anything. Near the fireplace was a campbed, nicely set up, with a bedroll all stretched out and waiting, and a folded cloak for a pillow. Somehow I got my muddy, soggy clothes off and slid the wallet with Debegri’s letter under the folded-cloak pillow. Then I climbed into that bed, and I don’t remember putting my head down.

  oOo

  It was dark when I woke; I’d heard the door click shut.

  I took in the leaping fire. Lying on a stool in front of it—getting warm—lay some clothes. Next to the stool sat an ewer with steaming water, a cloth, and a comb.

  I could have lain there much longer, but I took this as a hint that I ought to get up, and when I remembered Bran lying in the next room, it was easier to motivate myself.

  It did take effort, though. My skin hurt and my head ached, sure signs that I was indeed coming down with some illness. I cleaned up as best as I could, combed out my rain-washed hair, and put on the familiar oversized Renselaeus livery donated by some anonymous person not even remotely my size. Again I stashed the letter inside the tunic, then I left the room.

  I found the other two in Bran’s room, and one look at their faces made it abundantly clear that they felt no better than I did. Not that the marquis had a red nose or a thick voice—he even looked aristocratic when sick, I thought with disgust. But Bran sneezed frequently, and from the pungent smell of bristic in the air, he had had recourse to the flagon.

  “Mel!” he exclaimed when I opened the door. And he laughed. “Look at you! You’re drowning in that kit.” He turned his head to address Shevraeth. “Ain’t anyone undersized among your people?”

  “Obviously not,” I said tartly, and helped myself to the flagon that I saw on the bed. A swig of bristic did help somewhat. “Unless the sight of me is intended to provide some cheap amusement for the warriors.”

  “Well, I won’t come off much better,” Bran said cheerily.

  “That I resent,” Shevraeth said with his customary drawl. “Seeing as it is my wardrobe that is gracing your frame.”

  Branaric only laughed, then he said, “Now that we’re all together, and I’m still sober, what’s the word?”

  “The latest report is that the king is a day or two’s march from here, well ensconced in the midst of his army. Debegri has just met him from the west. It seems there have been some disagreements on the manner in which you two are to be dealt with. Galdran wants to lay Tlanth to waste, but Debegri, of course, has his eye to a title and land at last.”

  Bran rubbed his chin. “Only one of that family not landed, right?”

  “To the Baron’s festering annoyance. Despite their pose of eternal brotherhood, they have never really liked—or trusted—one another. It has suited Galdran well to have Nenthar Debegri serve as his watch-beast, for Debegri has been scrupulous about enforcing Galdran’s laws. Enthusiastic, I should say. If he cannot have land, Debegri’
s preference is to ride the countryside acting the bully. It has made him unpopular, which does Galdran no harm.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “I believe that our best plan is to flush them out. If we can capture them both, there will be little reason for the others to fight.”

  “But if they’re in the midst of the army—” Bran started.

  “Bait, “ I said, seeing the plan at once. “There has to be bait to bring them to the front.” Thinking rapidly, I added, “And I know who’s to be the bait. Us, right? Only, how to get them to meet us?”

  “The letter,” Branaric said. “They know now that we have it.”

  Both looked at me, but I said nothing.

  “Even if we don’t have it,” Shevraeth said easily, “it’s enough to say we do to get them to meet us. If they break the truce or try anything untoward, a chosen group will grab them, and my warriors will disperse in all directions and reassemble at a certain place on my border a week later, at which time we will reassess. I can give you all the details of the plan if you wish them.”

  Bran snorted a laugh. “I’m in. As if we had a choice!”

  “Do we have a choice?” I asked, instantly hostile.

  “I am endeavoring to give you the semblance of one,” Shevraeth replied in his most polite voice.

  “And if we don’t agree?” I demanded.

  “Then you will remain here in safety until events are resolved.”

  “So we are prisoners, then.”

  Bran was chuckling and wiping his eyes. “Life, sister, how you remind me of that old spaniel of Khesot’s, Skater, when he thought someone was going to pinch his favorite chew-stick. Remember him?”

  “Bran—” I began, now thoroughly exasperated.

  “Well, it isn’t the goals, Mel, for we’ve the same ones, in essentials. It’s you being stubborn, like old Skater. Admit it!”