Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  “I admit only that I don’t trust him as far as I can throw a horse,” I fumed. “We’re still prisoners, and you sit there and laugh! Well, go ahead. I think I’ll go to sleep. The company is better.” And I stalked to the door, went out, and slammed it.

  Of course I could still hear Bran wheezing with laughter. The ancient doors were not of tapestry but of wood, extremely flimsy and ill-fitted wood, serving no real purpose beyond blocking the room from sight. Tapestry manners required I move away at once, but I hesitated until I heard Bran say, “She won’t rat out on us. Let me talk to her, and she’ll see reason.”

  “I’d give her some time before you attempt it,” came the wry answer.

  “She usually doesn’t stay mad long,” Bran said carelessly.

  Again habit urged me to move. I knew to stay made me a spy-ears, which no one over the age of four is excused for being, yet I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. So I stood there and listened—and thus proved the old proverb about eavesdroppers getting what they deserve.

  Shevraeth said, “I’m very much afraid it’s my fault. We met under the worst of circumstances, and we seem to have misunderstood one another to a lethal degree.”

  Bran said, “No, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s ours—my parents’ and mine. You have to realize our mother saw Tlanth as a haven from her Court life. All she had to do was potter around her garden and play her harp. I don’t think Mel even knows Mother spent a few years at Alsais, learning courtly behavior at the Court in Colend. Mel scarcely talked before she started hearing stories on the immoral, rotten, lying Court decorations. Mama liked seeing her running wild with Oria and the village brats. Then Mama was killed, and Papa mostly lived shut in his tower, brooding over the past. He didn’t seem to know what to do with Mel. She couldn’t read or write, wouldn’t even sit still indoors—all summer she would disappear for a week at a time, roaming in the hills. I think she knows more about the ways of the Hill Folk than she does about what actually happens at Court. Anyhow, I taught her her letters a year or so ago, mostly as an excuse to get away from my books. She liked it well enough, except there isn’t much to read up there anymore, beyond what Papa thought I ought to know for preparing a war.”

  “I see. Yet you’ve told me she shared in the command of your rebels.”

  Bran laughed again. “That’s because after she learned to read, Mel learned figuring, on her own, and took it over.”

  “You mean, she took charge of your business affairs?”

  “Such as they were, yes. Taxes, all that. It’s why I told her she had half the title. Life! She could’ve had the title, and the leadership, for all of me, except we promised Papa when he died that we’d go it together. And working toward the war—it was easier when we did it together. She turned it into a game, though I think she saw it as real before I did.” He sighed. “Well, I know she did. Curst traps prove it.”

  “Your family was reputed to have a good library.”

  “Until Papa burned it, after Mama died. Everything gone, and neither of us knowing what we’d lost. Or, I knew and didn’t care, but Mel didn’t even know. Curse it, her maid is sister to the blacksmith. Julen’s never been paid, but sees to Mel because she’s sorry for her.”

  “There has been, I take it, little contact with family, then?”

  “Papa had no family left in this part of the world. As for Mama’s royal cousins, when they moved south to Sartor, my parents lost touch, and I never did see any reason to try…”

  I slipped away then, raging against my brother and Shevraeth, against Julen for pitying me when I’d thought she was my friend, against nosy listeners such as myself…against Papa, and Galdran, and war, and Galdran again, against the Sartorans and every courtier ever born.

  I sat in the room they’d given me and glared into the roaring fire, angry with the entire universe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  But after a time even my temper tantrums have to give way to rational thought, and I faced at last what ought to have been obvious from the very beginning: We’d lost because we were ignorant. And of the two of us, I was the worse off, because I hadn’t even known I was ignorant.

  An equerry tapped at the door and announced that supper was being served.

  I sat where I was and waged a short fierce inner battle. Either I could sit and sulk—in which case they would want to know why—or I could go out there, pretend nothing was amiss, and do what needed doing.

  The table in Shevraeth’s room was set for the three of us. I sniffed the pleasant summer-grass aroma of brewing listerblossom. Somehow this eased my sore spirits. I knelt next to my brother, whose bed pillows cushioned him, and poured myself some of the steep. It felt good on my raw throat.

  For a time I sat with my eyes closed, sipping occasionally, while the other two continued a conversation about the difficulties of supply procurement that they had obviously begun before I appeared. I listened to their voices: Bran’s husky, slow, with laughter in it as a constant and pleasant undercurrent, and Shevraeth’s soft, emotionless, with words drawn out in a court drawl to give them emphasis, rather than using changes in tone or timbre. The complexity of Shevraeth’s reaction was thus masked, which—I realized—was more irritating to me than his voice, which didn’t precisely grate on the ears. It was an advantage that I had no access to; I seemed to be incapable of hiding my reactions.

  The steep restored my awareness of the sense of their words. They were still discoursing on supply sources and how to protect supply lines, and Bran kept looking to me for corroboration, for in truth, I knew more about this than he did. It was an unexceptionable subject introduced so that I might take part; but I saw in that a gesture of pity, and my black mood threatened to descend again.

  Then came the food—roasted fowl, with vegetables mixed into a sauce made from the meat drippings, and a hot tart made with apples and spices and wine, by the smell. My appetite woke up, and all I had attention for was my plate.

  The others conversed little. At the end I’d regained enough awareness of the world around me to discover the unmistakable marks of fever in their faces. Branaric grinned. “What a trio we make! Look at us.”

  Annoyance flared anew. Glaring at him, I said hoarsely, “Look at yourself. I’d rather spare myself the nightmare, which would affright even a half-sighted gargoyle.”

  Bran gaped at me in surprise, then laughed. “Just keep that temper sharp. You’ll need it, for we may be on the march tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good,” I croaked with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

  It sounded about as false as it felt, and Bran laughed again; but before he could say anything, Shevraeth suggested that we all retire, for the morrow promised to be a long day.

  “Curse it,” Bran said the next morning, standing before the fire in shirt and trousers with his shoulder stiffly bandaged. “You think this necessary?”

  He pointed at the padded mail coats lying on the table, their linked steel rings gleaming coldly in the light of two glowglobes. It was well before dawn. The marquis had woken us himself, with the news that Galdran’s forces were nigh. And his messengers had brought from Renselaeus the mail coats, newly made and expensive.

  “Treachery—” Shevraeth paused to cough and to catch his breath. He, too, stood there in only shirt and trousers and boots, and I looked away quickly, embarrassed. “We should be prepared for treachery. It was his idea to send archers against you in the mountains. He will have them with him now.” He coughed again, the rattling cough of a heavy cold.

  I sighed. My own fever and aches had all settled into my throat, and my voice was gone.

  Bran was the worst off. Besides the wound in his shoulder, he coughed, sneezed, and sounded hoarse. His eyes and nose watered constantly. As well, the Renselaeus munificence extended to a besorcelled handkerchief that stayed dry and clean despite its heavy use.

  Groaning and wincing, Bran lifted his arm high enough for a couple of equerries to slip the chain mail over his head. As it sett
led onto him, chinging softly, he winced and said, “Feels like I’ve got a horse lying athwart my shoulders.”

  I picked up the one set aside for me and retreated to my room to put it on, and then the tunic they’d given me. Branaric’s wallet containing Debegri’s letter lay safe and snug in my waistband.

  When I returned, Branaric started laughing. “A mouse in mail!” he said, pointing. He and Shevraeth both had battle tunics on, and swords belted at their sides; what with the added bulk of padding and chain mail they looked formidable, whereas I felt ridiculous. My mail shirt was the smallest of the three, but it was still much too large, and it bunched and folded beneath my already outsized tunic, making me feel like an overstuffed cushion.

  Shevraeth said nothing at all as he indicated a table where a choice of weapons lay, with belts and baldrics of various sizes and styles. I belted on a short sword similar to the one I’d thrown down in surrender above the Vesingrui fortress. I found a helm that fit pretty well over my braid coronet, and then I was ready.

  We mounted on fresh chargers that were also armored. Despite the chilly air I was warm, for we’d each drunk an infusion of listerblossoms against illness.

  High-held torches lit our way as we raced over the ancient road, under trees that had been old before my family first came to Tlanth. Except for the rhythm of hooves there was no sound, but I sensed that forest life was watching us.

  According to the plan two equerries were sent on ahead. The rest of us rode steadily as dawn started to lift the heavy shroud of darkness. A fine rain still fell, and the trees dripped on us, spattering our faces with cold water. Strong was the green smell of wet loam and forest. I breathed deeply of it, finding it comforting. No one talked much, but I kept thinking about the fact that we were riding deliberately into danger—that Galdran would see treachery as expedience. Our plan depended on the Renselaeus warriors being fast and accurate and brave, for they were as outnumbered as Bran and I had been up in the mountains.

  I was also, therefore, intensely aware that my life was now in the hands of people I had considered enemies not two dawns ago. Did they still consider me one?

  I tried to calm my nerves by laughing at myself; for someone who so recently had tried her best to ride to her death, my innards were a pit of snakes, and my palms were sweaty despite the rain. Bran was alive, I was alive, and I wanted to stay that way. I wanted to go home and clean out the castle and replant Mama’s garden. I wanted to see Oria and Julen and Khesot again, and I wanted to walk on the high peaks and dance with the Hill Folk on long summer nights, miming age-old stories to the windborne music…

  I blinked. Had I heard a reed pipe?

  I lifted my head and listened, but heard nothing other than the thud of hooves and clatter of our accoutrements, and the rustle of rain in the leaves overhead.

  At last the equerries returned—safe, I guessed, only because of Galdran’s curiosity and his desire to get his bejeweled fingers around our throats.

  “They’re on the plain below the last hill, Your Grace,” said one, pointing backward. “The king says he will meet you at the bridge over the Theraez River.”

  “Cover?” Shevraeth said, and coughed.

  As if in sympathy, Bran sneezed. In spite of the danger, I felt a weird impulse to laugh. If we win, will our colds be in the songs?

  “Thick, Your Grace. Trees, shrubbery. Both sides.”

  “Right. Then we can expect archers behind every bush, and swords waiting in the trees. Be ready for anything,” he said, waving them on.

  They raced off to spread the word.

  “Well,” Bran said, wincing as our horses moved forward again, “you wanted them in the forest.”

  “Equal things out a little,” was the reply, still in the cool drawl. “Ready, Lady Meliara?”

  “Let’s get it over with,” I croaked.

  The marquis gave me that assessing look, then turned to Bran. “Ready for a ride?”

  “Certainly,” my brother said, though without any of his usual humor.

  Shevraeth reached into his saddlebag and pulled out the flagon. Wordlessly he passed it to Bran, who took a couple swigs, then, gasping, passed it to me. I helped myself, and with tearing eyes returned it. The marquis tipped back his head, took a good slug, then stored it again, and we were off.

  oOo

  There’s no use in talking about the plan, because of course nothing went the way it was supposed to. Even the passage of time was horribly distorted. At first the ride to the hill seemed endless, with me sneaking looks at my brother, who was increasingly unsteady in his saddle.

  The marquis insisted on riding in front of us the last little distance, where we saw a row of four horse riders waiting—the outer two bearing banners, dripping from the rain, but the flags’ green and gold still brilliant, and the inner two riders brawny and cruel faced and very much at ease, wearing the plumed helms of command.

  “I wanted to see if you traitors would dare to face me,” Galdran said, his caustic voice making me feel sick inside. Sick—and angry.

  The marquis bowed low over his horse’s withers, every line of his body indicative of irony.

  Galdran’s face flushed dark purple.

  “I confess,” Shevraeth drawled, “we had a small wager on whether you would have the courage to face us.”

  “Kill them!” Galdran roared.

  And that’s the moment when time changed and everything happened at once. From the trees at either side arrows flew, but none reached us. A weird humming vibrated through my skull. At first I thought it was just me, then I discovered that all the war horses, despite their training, were in a panic. I tried desperately to calm my own mount.

  Galdran’s reared. He shouted orders at his equerries as he fought to keep his seat. The two banner-bearing warriors flipped up the ends of their poles, flicked away some kind of binding, and aimed sharp steel points at the marquis as they charged. All around me was chaos—the hiss and clang of steel weapons being drawn, the nickering of horses, grunts and shouts and yells.

  “To me! To me!” That was Bran’s cry.

  Four Renselaeus warriors came to his aid. I kneed my mount forward and brandished my weapon, trying to edge up on Bran’s weak side. Horseback fighting was something we’d drilled in rarely, for this was not mountain-type warfare. I met the blade of one of Bran’s attackers, and shock rang up my arm. Except for those few days with Nessaren’s riding, I hadn’t practiced for weeks, and now I was going to feel it.

  Wondering how I would make it through a hand-to-hand duel, I glanced around—as one of Galdran’s equerries fell from his saddle. His banner-spear spun through the air toward me. Instinctively my free hand reached up and I caught the spear by the shaft. Ignoring the sting in my hand, I jammed my sword into its sheath and started whirling the spear round and round, making the banner snap and stream as my prancing, sidling horse circled round my brother. Horses turned their heads and backed away; no one was able to edge up and get in a good blow at Bran, who swayed in his saddle, his bad arm hanging limp. The warriors fell back, and no one swung at me.

  Dimly I became aware of an angry, harsh voice shouting over the crash and thuds of battle. Keeping the banner whirling, I guided my horse with my knees, risked a glance over my shoulder—and stared straight into Galdran’s rage-darkened face. He said something, spittle flying from his mouth, as he pointed straight at me.

  A flicker of movement on my left, and Shevraeth was next to me. “Fall back,” he ordered, his voice sharp.

  “No. Got to protect Bran—”

  There was no time for more. The marquis was beset by furious attackers as the king shouted orders. Then more riders appeared from somewhere, and everything was chaos again. I found myself on the edge of the battle; there were too many fighters on both sides between my brother and me. Too many fighters in the liveries of the baron and the king. Despair burned through me, cold as winter ice.

  We were losing.

  Then my horse plunged aside, I shif
ted in the saddle, and I found myself face-to-face with Galdran. He glared at me with hatred; I had this sudden, strange feeling that if we had both been small children facing each other in a village squabble he would have screamed at me, It’s all your fault!

  He bared his teeth. “You, I will kill myself,” he snarled, and he raised his great, flat-bladed sword.

  I cast away the flimsy spear and drew my sword a heartbeat before Galdran struck. The first blow nearly knocked me off the horse. I parried it—barely—pain shooting up my arm into my back. My arm was numb, so I used both hands to raise my blade against the expected next blow.

  But as Galdran’s sword came down toward my head, it was met by a ringing strike that sent sparks arcing through the air—and there was Shevraeth, hair flying, horse dancing, circling round Galdran and forcing his attention away. Then the two fell to fighting desperately, the king falling back. I watched in fascination until two of the king’s guards rode to Galdran’s aid, and Shevraeth was fighting against three.

  It seemed that Shevraeth was going to lose, and I couldn’t watch. Bran! I forced my mount round so I could ride to his aid. But when I spotted him in the chaos of lunging horses and crashing weapons, he was staring past my shoulder, his eyes distended.

  “Meliara!” he yelled, trying to ride toward me.

  I turned my head. The marquis fought furiously against three guards, and once again the king was riding at me, sword scything in a deadly arc, back and forth. I flung my sword at him and ducked. A blow caught me painfully across the back of my helm, and darkness rushed up to swallow me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I woke reluctantly, for my head ached like a stone mountain had fallen on it. I sat up, ignoring the crashing in my skull, and swung my legs over the edge of my cot. I was once again in the wood gatherer’s cottage.