Crown Duel

by Sherwood Smith

  Vidanric had found nothing to object to in Flauvic’s behavior—unlike his relations. But despite his soft words, his scholarly pose, even despite the occasional flashes of humor that did not always coincide with his poniards of wit, there was a stillness to his posture that could not mask training of some kind.

  Vidanric could not define what: it might be the self-discipline of the courtier, or of the musician. But because he was a Merindar, and not a stupid one, he had been watched.

  Now his lack of presence in the round-up of his mother’s plot worried Vidanric.

  He really did not have much hope of the marquise or Fialma betraying anything. But either of them might well decide to sell Flauvic off to win favors. The Merindar family, once reputed for their dedication and loyalty among themselves, had in recent generations been as vicious to one another as they were to the rest of the world.

  “There you are,” the marquise said, when he entered the tent where they were being held.

  At his order, the best furnishings, a rug, and fine dishes had been set up for their use. The marquise sat at the table, her gem-buckled shoes neatly showing the tips beneath her hem. Her riding clothes had been brushed, her silver-threaded red hair was concealed beneath a hat threaded with gold. A coronet shape, Vidanric realized: a crown hidden beneath the fashionable shape of the hat.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Is that story really true? About you killing twenty—or even ten—or even one man single-handed, when you were a boy?”

  For a long moment Vidanric had no idea what she was talking about. Then he had it: his return from west after his training years. It was when Siamis had come back the second time, in ‘42.

  He had the memory, and then he had the meaning. Galdran had never made any reference to that incident. More to the point, there had been no reference to it in the papers he had left behind after his death. Vidanric had been through them all, and had sought for some sign.

  He met the marquise’s calm gaze. She smiled slightly. ”I never repeat my errors.” There was no fan in her jeweled fingers; Vidanric realized she never had used one to signal meaning. Instead, she stretched out her soft hands, grasped the decanter, and poured out wine. Fialma slouched in her chair, arms crossed, expression sullen. Vidanric waited as the marquise poured out two goblets, and then a third. She sent a gaze at her daughter, causing the latter to straighten up.

  “Your meaning?” Vidanric asked, when the marquise gestured toward the wine. He waited for her to take up a goblet; she took the nearest, Fialma’s gaze flickered between her mother’s face and the goblets as she picked up a second.

  It seems,” the marquise said as she gravely saluted him, “you have foiled me twice.”

  “Then it was you who sent the brigands to kill Savona and me in Mardgar?”

  And when she only smiled, “How many of the other murders were yours, and not Galdran’s at all?”

  “Murders?” she repeated, mocking. “How very dramatic! My brother’s blunders were characterized by bad temper. My own actions I regarded as the judicious pruning of the royal garden. Will you drink?”

  “I will not.” His voice was wry. “I only drink where there is a matter of trust.”

  “Suit yourself,” she responded, without rancor. “The wine was brought by your own servants, as were these cups.”

  “Trust,” he said, “and truth.”

  “In that case, I prefer to drink alone.” She rose, sketched a mocking curtsey, and carried her wine beyond the flap to the inner room of the tent, where Vidanric’s own servants had set up camp beds.

  Vidanric was left with Fialma, who stood up and came near. ”You will drink with me, won’t you, Danric?” She gave him a coy smirk, looking up through her lashes at him. “Let us make peace, and begin anew.”

  “I will if you will honor a whim,” he said. “A Colendi drinking game.”

  “And that is?”

  “Switch glasses with me.”

  Her expression of glee surprised him; too late he realized the extent of the marquise’s last game. He had suspected poison, but only in his glass. Fialma’s triumph made the plan clear—all three were poisoned. He dashed past her, knocking her and the cup out of the way.

  To discover he was already too late. The marquise lay on the camp bed, neat as always, though her lips were fast turning blue. She made a great effort, frowning at him through blurring eyes. “Thrice,” she whispered, and fell back.

  “Guards,” Vidanric called as he lunged through to the front and swiped the wine off the table. But Fialma had never had any intention of taking poison, and now that her mother was gone, she did not have to pretend to the same convictions.

  Instead, she gasped in fury as the last goblet splashed crimson wine over her fine riding gown of egg-shell blue. The edges of the crimson turned a sickly green hue almost immediately, a hint of the vicious type of poison intended for Vidanric.

  “Uh, uh,” she squealed. “Don’t let it touch me!”

  Vidanric could not bring himself to address Fialma, so he gave the orders for her to be conducted without halt to Sles Adran’s border, and though she tried to catch his attention, to demand he listen, even to beg, he walked out of the tent, sickened to the soul. She was still protesting when they forced her into a carriage and rode away.

  Though the constant stream of matters demanding his attention kept him busy his mood stayed dark, reaching its lowest point at dawn, when they formed up to execute the two traitor commanders. Enough people had died already, he felt. But military law had to be harsh to control those who trained daily for the possibility of violence. Those two commanders had ordered not just military slaughter, but the deaths of civilians, and so Vidanric was there, in front, wearing the green and gold of Remalna as silent signal of the authority he meant to uphold. He was not dressed as a king. That was presumptuous. But he did dress as a commander, one who had sworn to protect Remalna. He knew many there appreciated the distinction when he abandoned his blue for the kingdom’s colors.

  Even though he was certain that justice—as much justice as there was in human affairs—had been done, he was determined that justice would not give way to the destructive thirst for revenge. The Merindars—the executions—the flow of demands, pleas, whispered offers of betrayal to gain clemency—all conspired to keep his mood in that dark place until late the next day when an honor guard of his Blues galloped into the camp.

  In the center of their number rode a short figure swathed in Vidanric’s old military cloak, her riding clothes rumpled and sodden. Her coronet of gold-touched brown hair was askew, a misshapen hat mashed on her head, her rain-washed face intent, worry and puzzlement shaping the blue gaze that met his. No trace of deceit or calculation, no smug superiority: he had never seen any sight more dear.

  He had left the tent full of people awaiting his attention when he heard the newcomers ride into camp, so he withdrew inside to deal with the last of them in summary style. He’d gotten rid of several of them when the tent flaps opened and

  a grinning Yora Nessaren entered, her face flushed with pride.

  She gave a succinct report, finishing just before Meliara entered the tent, the black cloak dragging behind her like a train.

  And there she was. Absurd, how one small, untidy female could smash his careful world to splinters just by standing there, clutching his mud-splashed cloak to her as if it was a shield.

  He’d meant to thank her publicly, to make certain she knew how much he appreciated her heroism, but one look at her apprehensive expression and he knew, with a sure instinct borne of a year’s painful errors, that she would hate a speech.

  And so he made a joke instead. ”Twenty wagons, Lady Meliara?”

  It was right. She blushed, but her grin was more proud than embarrassed.

  During the quick exchange that ensued, he wondered if he would have been right the year before: perhaps more had changed than his own understanding.

  It was time to test it.

  One by one he got
rid of his equerries, giving her time to drink her coffee and recover, time to think. And though they departed one by one, she made no effort to escape his presence. As once she would have, he knew, as soon as she decently could.

  Still, he was afraid that the trust he had sensed between them, the nascent understanding, was as fragile as a fledgling. He would begin easily.

  “Questions?” Let her dictate the topic, the mood as well as the mode.

  What a contrast to Fialma! There was no hint of the personal as she leaned forward. “Of course! What happened?”

  He watched her face as he gave his report, as always, finding clues to her thoughts in the flickers of expression she made no effort to hide. Anger—disgust—a wince of profound dis-ease when he came at last to the Merindar mother and daughter. Despite how much Meliara had endured at their hands, there was no gloating, no parade of triumph.

  She closed her eyes and let her breath out. ”Then the Merindar threat is over.”

  It was a heady experience, being able to talk to her without choosing his words. Without trespassing into error that caused yet more misunderstanding and grief. Her brow furrowed; when he said, “I sincerely hope so,” she betrayed how much she had been studying the shapes and shades of his own voice (though he knew how much he hid) by her immediate response, “You do not sound convinced.”

  And so he explained about the private courier, the one that absolutely no one knew about but his parents. She listened with that intent, intelligent focus she gave every problem, from parsing the custom of ring fingers to contemplating political problems of international scope. It was just that look that had first caught him, when they had sat on either side of a campfire as enemies what seemed so long ago—the tilt to her face, the serious curve of her upper lip that had no counterpart in the controlled mask of courtly calm he was used to seeing from his noble friends at Athanarel, from Elenet’s grave self-possession to Flauvic’s scholarly air. Gallant he had always thought her, but since then he had discovered what he had come to believe impossible: that she flailed bravely into adventure not because she wished to figure as a hero, but because she was determined to battle for right, even if she struggled from day to day to define just what “right” might be.

  So he made his second decision, and swung to his feet. “In the meantime, have you any more questions for me?”

  Once again she divined the shift in his tone—though he could hardly have characterized it himself—and stood up, shoulders braced as she huffed in a steadying breath. “No questions. But I have apologies to make,” she began.

  Breathing, expression, voice, the tremble of fingers: each was so attuned to the other, he cherished the realization that she was making the bravest act of her life at the very moment he wanted to spare her the cost.

  Thrice, the marquise had said, before sliding into the unconsciousness that preceded death. Her decisions selfish ones, her purpose the acquisition of power and annihilation of anyone who stood in the way of it. His decisions risked his own heart, for in revealing his secrets he was handing Meliara the keys to the citadel behind which he had guarded it.

  He scarcely heard her fumbling words; he began pulling off the gloves he had worn through three days, ever since he had succumbed to impulse and worn the ekirth ring, an action borne of exhaustion and a wish for connection, however ephemeral.

  But instinct, or a greater connection than he had perceived, had brought them here after all—he, Meliara, and the ring. She watched, scarcely breathing, as he removed his glove, and there it was.

  Her eyes were huge, the pupils dark. Her lips parted. “That’s my ring.”

  “You had it made. But now it’s mine.”

  He waited, willing himself not to move, to step in her way or offer any resistance in case she wished to flee. He could see her pulse in the delicate curve of her neck; her heartbeat thundered, just like his.

  He smiled. Had the poison worked after all, was he lying in some dream state? If so, merry be it, here he would stay. “It is time to collect on my wager.”

  She still did not move—he gave her every opportunity to break away, to ward him off—as he closed his arms around her, enfolding her rumpled, rain-dampened form, sensing the slight, taut body within.

  Careful, gentle, still half waiting for her to thrust him away, he brushed his lips over hers. Until at last her patience broke; she flung her arms around his neck and yanked him down into an inexpert but enthusiastically thorough kiss.

  oOo

  And there she was, riding side by side with him under a rain-washed dawn sky the next day. Neither had slept, and he knew the strength he felt was deceptive, but talking through the night and then riding with Meliara as companion had so consoled his spirit—had so restored the last lingering doubts about the rightness of his place in the world—that he was not tired.

  As well. Danger gripped the back of his neck at his first glimpse of the city. Meliara sat up, her nose lifted as though she was testing the clear air. No one was out and about. What did she sense? Neither spoke. The silence, except for the clop of their mounts’ hooves, was curiously oppressive, charged with expectation.

  Furtive peeks between slats of shutters and behind curtains revealed a frightened citizenry. Here and there a little dog raced low to the ground, looking for cover, a door slammed in a distance; even the birds seemed to confine themselves to the trees.

  Gradually the eerie sense of expectation coalesced into distinct sensory impressions: a faint shimmer in the air, a tinge—almost tasted more than seen—of green. His ears defined the nearly subliminal sounds as rustling, as if he rode through a forest during a wind storm. Yet the air was so still the banners on the shops hung in folds, as did the flags on the royal street before the broad sweep leading to Athanarel’s grand stable.

  Where was the perimeter guard?

  He raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sun, and discovered the silhouettes on the wall, too still to be alive.

  Magic.

  By the time they reached the public entrance to the palace, Vidanric knew that the battle was not only still to be fought, but on terms for which he was utterly unprepared. And that the surprise had been nicely calculated.

  There was only one person who could have outmaneuvered him so neatly. He said nothing in hopes he was wrong, as if not saying the name Flauvic Merindar would somehow place the last puzzle piece safely back at his guarded home with his books.

  His books of magic.

  No time for cursing oneself for short-sightedness. Vidanric briefly considered begging Meliara to wait without, but knew she wouldn’t do it. Brave and loyal and stubborn, she would stay by his side. To send her would be to break the trust they had begun to build. Some day he hoped to have enough understanding to communicate with a lift of the chin and a flick of the eyes, like his parents: now he desperately hoped he had not endangered them both as they walked into the throne room, through doors standing wide in mocking invitation—the attendants frozen into a matching pair of statues at either side, one face evocative of disbelief, the other fear.

  Flauvic sat on the throne awaiting them, dressed all in black except for his loosened, long golden hair. “What took you so long, my dear cousin Vidanric?” he asked.

  That much he had calculated, of course. Cousin: family connections generations ago. Why was he wearing black? Not for any obvious reason, it would be stupid to assume so.

  “Administrative details,” Vidanric said, knowing that Flauvic would have the cat’s instinct, to play with his victims.

  Good. It gave him time to think, to plan. Could he pretend Meliara was a hostage? No, she did not know how to dissemble, and he’d not risk giving her false signals.

  He tried to think of something provocative—to keep Flauvic’s attention on him—but it was too late. Flauvic’s expression altered from smiling calculation to interest. ”Meliara. This is a surprise; I took you for a servant.”

  As a sting to provoke her intentions, it utterly failed. If Meliara had
been a servant, she would have affirmed it with pride. “You have an objection to honest work?” she shot back.

  Flauvic’s eyelids lifted, his hands flitting in the mode of A Stone Speaks! Who wore black in his history? “This.” He gave Vidanric a deliberately insolent wave. “I hadn’t foreseen.” And he went on with a studied insult that revealed three things: that he was attracted to Meliara himself, that he intended to insult her, and that he had so misjudged her motivations and experience that his jibe went utterly past her.

  Three errors from Lord Subtle. Could they be used? Maybe. But far safer to shift the subject away from Meliara. “You included sorcery among your studies in Nente?” Vidanric asked, his tone indifferent.

  And it sufficed. Flauvic reverted to his plan; as he explained he left the throne and dropped down to the marble floor to prowl around, increasing the resemblance to a nervous cat. The statue of poor old Grumareth was explained and then demonstrated on: the cautionary victim. The threat had been obvious from the outset. Vidanric ignored the softly spoken words, trying to think ahead. He had little to work with: his weapons were only of use within reach, and Meliara could be an aid if they could just speak, but she could also end up a target.

  Just step in reach, Merindar. Vidanric flexed his hands behind his back.

  Almost in answer Flauvic slipped a dagger from a wrist sheath, which startled Meliara, but again revealed to Vidanric more crucial clues: how much he’d been trained.

  Come closer, Vidanric thought—just as Meliara braced up for a charge.

  Flauvic’s quickened breathing, the faint smile that showed the edges of his teeth revealed how ready he was, so Vidanric said, “Meliara. Don’t. He knows how to use that knife.” Thus revealing the extent of his own training—but he suspected Flauvic had long since guessed that anyway.

  Amused—superior—spinning out the moment to wrest the last lingering iota of pleasure from it, Flauvic drawled out the last of his plan, but as he did, his wide golden gaze lingered on Meliara, who stood there, grubby from several days straight of riding, her braid half falling down her back, but her color was high as she returned his gaze.