The Seven Towers

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Laznyr!” Wengarth croaked, and his voice held desperation.

  Laznyr raised the knife. Jermain stopped and jerked his own knife from his belt. With all his strength, he hurled it at Laznyr, just as the other man brought his arm down.

  The ornate dagger plunged through the glowing light that surrounded the wizards and buried itself to the hilt in Wengarth’s chest, just as Jermain’s knife struck Laznyr. Wengarth opened his mouth in a soundless scream and collapsed. The light winked out like a snuffed candle. Carachel cried out and staggered backward, his right hand still outstretched and his face unpleasantly twisted.

  Laznyr made a slow half turn to face Jermain. There was a look of surprise and relief in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said in a ragged voice. “I thought you were with—” A coughing spasm shook him, and blood began to run down his chin into his beard. His knees buckled, and he fell heavily atop his master, Jermain’s knife protruding from his side.

  For an instant, Jermain stood stunned by the unexpected turn of events; then he swung around to face Carachel. “My lord? Are you well?”

  Carachel was bent over, panting, but after a moment he looked up. His face was a mask of rage and frustration. He glared blindly in Jermain’s direction without seeming to see anything. “You fool! I needed—I wanted them alive! What good are they to me now?”

  “Who seeks the power in dying may forget the power of living,” Ranlyn said from the other side of the circle. He stepped forward into the circle and stood looking at Carachel, his face unreadable.

  “You!” Carachel straightened abruptly. He took a deep breath and made a visible effort to calm himself. “You come at a bad time, as you see. Still, I am always anxious for news of the Hoven-Thalar. How soon do you move north?”

  Ranlyn did not answer. Jermain glanced from Ranlyn to Carachel, but though he knew Ranlyn’s message, he did not speak. Ranlyn’s arrival, his description of the Matholych and his news, Wengarth’s charges and Carachel’s answer to them, the wizards’ duel and its unexpected end—all formed an unpleasant pattern. Jermain could not quite believe what he thought he saw, but he could not deny it, either. He waited, hoping for something that would refute his suspicions and not really expecting it.

  “You have no need to fear me,” Carachel said at last. “Come, what news do you bring?”

  Ranlyn took a step forward, and his cloak swirled around him like a cloud. “Truly is it said that he who knows not his debts is cursed. My debt is now to the truth, and to my clans, and to my friends. What obligations are yours, wearer of the Ring of Two Serpents?”

  “I do what I must.” Carachel’s voice was cold.

  “So I have seen,” Ranlyn said. “And I say to you that whatever debt you owe me, I renounce it. If I have a debt of water from you, I refuse it. If I have a debt of blood from you, I relinquish it. If I have a debt of life from you, I repudiate it. For myself, if I owe you water, may it be ashes; if I owe you blood, may it be poison to you; if I owe you life, may it be your bane. And may all obligation be at an end between us.”

  Jermain stared at Ranlyn in shock. During his time with the Hoven-Thalar, he had seen ceremonies where one person had refused or relinquished an obligation, and once or twice he had heard rumors about men without debts or obligations, outcasts and renegades, but that was all. Ranlyn’s formal words were a sweeping condemnation of a kind Jermain would never have expected from any Hoven-Thalar, much less his friend.

  From the look on his face, Carachel, too, knew the implications of the denunciation. He hesitated briefly, then bowed. “If you will have it, then let it be so,” he said, and Jermain heard tiredness and frustration in his voice. “Yet I would like to know why, if you will tell me freely and without obligation.”

  “No man may owe obligation to a Servant of the Red Plague.”

  “No!” Jermain’s involuntary cry made both of the other men turn sharply toward him. Carachel’s expression was one of horror and repulsion at Ranlyn’s accusation; Ranlyn’s face was expressionless. Jermain’s eyes sought Ranlyn’s. “You are wrong, Ranlyn. My lord Carachel seeks to destroy the Matholych, not to serve it.”

  “Wisdom rests in the mind and heart. I do not mean that this one owes obligation to the Red Plague. But he wears a Ring of Two Serpents, and those who wear that symbol gain their power from the deaths of men, even as the Red Plague does. Therefore among the Hoven-Thalar are such men called Servants of the Red Plague, though you in the north call such dealings Black Sorcery.”

  “You do not know what you say,” Carachel said coldly.

  “Why, then, did those who challenge you prefer death at their own hands to death at yours?”

  “If my lord draws power from death, why has he commanded his armies to fight your people with as little loss of life as possible?” Jermain said angrily. “He intended a battle to hold the Hoven-Thalar, not a fight to the death.”

  Ranlyn’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed as he looked at Carachel. “And you wish to destroy the Red Plague.”

  “I will destroy it in spite of you and the Guild of Mages!” Carachel shouted. “I will not allow the Matholych to spread death and destruction through the Seven Kingdoms again!”

  “And to keep the Red Plague from the lands of your people you would destroy mine. The Red Plague grows weaker as it eats, but only the magic of living men can feed it. You would not have your army kill the Hoven-Thalar, for dead we would be no use to you. How long would you have held us, while the Red Plague devoured us from behind? How many men would the Red Plague have taken before it was weak enough for your spells to defeat it?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Eltiron stared at Marreth in utter disbelief. Being excluded from the sword games would be far worse than making a poor showing, particularly when the games were supposed to be in his honor. Marreth did not have to take Eltiron’s place if he wanted to participate; the marshals always left one or two cards empty to hold places for last-minute entries. “You’re taking my place?”

  “Are you missing ears as well as brains? I just said so, didn’t I?” Marreth studied him for a moment, then gave a disgusted snort. “Just as well you won’t be fighting, too; this way I won’t have to worry about you making a spectacle of yourself in front of the whole court. Not that you’d care for a good fight anyway.”

  Vandaris slammed a hand down on the table, making Eltiron and all the dishes jump. “That’s one of the stupidest ideas I’ve ever heard. Don’t you realize what kind of an impression you’ll be giving by replacing Eltiron? I’d be surprised if Barinash didn’t take insult, and—”

  “Nonsense,” Eltiron interrupted firmly. The other two looked at him in surprise, and he went on. “Barinash can only be honored that my father chooses to compete in these sword games, and I will be glad to give him my place if he wants it.”

  “Good!” Marreth settled back in his chair. “That’s settled, then.”

  “I shall, of course, speak to the marshals immediately about taking one of the blank cards myself,” Eltiron continued with more confidence than he felt. “It would not be right for me to miss the games entirely, since they are in honor of my wedding.”

  Vandaris grinned openly at Eltiron. Marreth stared for a moment, then burst into an unexpected roar of laughter. “So you want to be in the games after all! First time you’ve done anything sensible in years. Be sure you get Kaliarth to give you some decent armor; wouldn’t want you at the wedding tomorrow with a hole in your arm.”

  Eltiron breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Marreth’s sudden shift to high good humor was disconcerting, but at least Eltiron had succeeded in staying in the sword games.

  The remainder of the meal passed quickly, and when it was finished Eltiron went to make arrangements with the marshals of the games. They seemed a little surprised by Eltiron’s request, but none of them commented aloud. Eltiron stayed long enough to be certain that the blank card was inscribed with his name and returned to its place on the table, then he went back to his official act
ivities for the day.

  Eltiron spent most of the morning watching parades in honor of himself and his bride. He sat on a platform in the square outside the castle, waving at the marchers occasionally, worrying about Terrel, and sneaking glances at Crystalorn out of the corner of his eye. He thought she looked even more beautiful that usual in the festival gown she wore, and she seemed very different from the companion Eltiron had come to know over the last few days. In his spare moments, he worried about the kind of showing he would make in the sword games. What if his father were right about his sword skill? It occurred to him that Crystalorn would be in the royal box, watching him in the games. Suddenly Eltiron’s anxiety doubled.

  The sword games began at noon. The entire court and at least half the city proceeded to the stands that had been erected on Threehills Green. Seven circles had been laid out on the ground in front of the stands, so that several matches might take place at the same time. The crowd milled around for a few moments, settling into seats or setting up betting booths. Then the horns blew and the marshals picked up the first two cards and announced the names. The contestants marched onto the field, the crowd cheered wildly, and the games began.

  Eltiron’s name was called for the fourth set of matches. As he started to leave the royal box, he brushed by Crystalorn and felt her press something into his hand. He looked down to see a blue ribbon, the sort many of the men wore as a “favor” from their ladies. Eltiron closed his hand on it; all at once he felt much better about being in the games. Vandaris winked at him as he left the box, but no one else seemed to have noticed.

  One of the marshals met Eltiron outside and escorted him to the edge of the field. Kaliarth, the castle swordkeeper, was waiting with a coat of chain and a selection of weighted wooden swords. Eltiron slipped into the coat and tied Crystalorn’s ribbon around his left arm, then turned to choose a weapon. He tried not to hurry; the last match wasn’t quite over, so he still had time to be careful. He tried to remember some of the advice Vandaris had given him, but the only thing that stuck in his mind was her voice shouting, “Keep moving, turtle foot!”

  Finally, Eltiron chose a sword a little lighter than the one he had been using in his practice sessions. He swung it a few times to get the feel of it. Satisfied that he would be able to manage it, he turned back to watch the end of the other match. As he did, he caught sight of Amberglas, wandering toward him along the edge of the field. In a few moments more, she reached him and they exchanged greetings.

  “I hope you are enjoying the sword games,” Eltiron said.

  “There seem to be rather a lot of them,” Amberglas said, “though I understand that’s quite normal. But practically anything is if it happens enough, or at least people think so, so it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, I’ve been wondering, particularly since Vandaris mentioned that the King wanted to take your place, which wasn’t exactly wise of him but perhaps is only what you would expect. So I decided to see you.”

  “I think Terrel suggested it; it’s not the sort of thing Father would think of by himself. Why did you want to see me?”

  “Because I thought I might want to give you this.” Amberglas held out her hand, and Eltiron saw that she was holding a thin gold chain, hardly more than a thread, with a six-pointed star made of gold and silver dangling from it. Eltiron reached out and touched the star, very gently, without taking it.

  “Is it magic?”

  The crowd cheered and Amberglas tilted her head to one side. She studied Eltiron for a moment, then gave a little nod. “Quite so. And of course it wouldn’t be at all proper for you to wear it if it did anything to help you win your matches, but it doesn’t, which is precisely what makes it so very useful in situations like this when one isn’t entirely certain about things. Unless someone else does, but that’s what it’s meant for.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you think someone is going to use magic in the sword games?” Eltiron said incredulously.

  “No, I’m trying very hard not to tell you that, but you’re making it rather difficult.” Amberglas gave him one of her sharp, disconcerting looks. “Still, I don’t suppose it matters, which is extremely fortunate, though not exactly surprising.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “That’s quite all right. At least, it is just now; it won’t be later, but that can probably be managed without too much trouble. Wear it under your mail.”

  Reluctantly, Eltiron took the gold chain from Amberglas’s hand and looped it over his head, then tucked the star out of sight beneath his armor. “Thank you. But are you sure—”

  “Next match, Prince Eltiron Kenerach and Baron Gindreth Markon!” shouted a voice from the field.

  Eltiron bid Amberglas a hasty farewell and went out to his first match. Though he trusted Amberglas, he was uneasy about the amulet, or whatever it was, that she had given him. As a result, he was unusually self-conscious during the beginning of the match; he was trying to watch for anything in his own behavior that might be due to some magical influence. Then Markon swung at his head, and Eltiron forgot about magic and concentrated on fighting.

  He won his first match, thanks in large part to the things he had learned in his practice matches with Vandaris. He left the field with considerably more confidence; he would make a respectable showing in the games, no matter what his father thought! One of the marshals was waiting to tell him when to expect his next match. Eltiron was surprised to learn that he would be on the field again in three rounds of matches; normally contestants had at least five rounds to rest during the early stages of the games.

  After a moment’s thought, Eltiron decided not to bother returning to the royal box for such a brief interval. Instead, he retreated to the semishade under the stands while he waited for his next match. He was not alone; the sun was hot, and there were nearly as many people under the stands as on them. Eltiron made his way to one of the huge wooden posts that supported the top row of seats and leaned against it, watching the crowd. Idly, he glanced in the direction of the royal box and saw Marreth and Terrel, accompanied by one of Marreth’s guards, coming in his direction.

  Eltiron ducked his head, hoping they would not recognize him in the crowd. He did not want to deal with Marreth just then, whether his father was in a good humor or a bad one. He was lucky; neither Marreth nor Terrel appeared to notice him, though they passed close enough to touch him. They were deep in conversation, and as they went by, Eltiron caught part of what Terrel was saying. “. . . your sister, Vandaris, and . . .”

  Without thinking, Eltiron slipped away from the post and followed. The next few minutes were extremely frustrating. Eltiron could not get close enough to hear what Terrel was saying without being seen by Marreth or the guard. Bits of sentences were all he could catch, and what he heard was not reassuring. “. . . been patient long enough . . . feast tonight . . . perfect time; she won’t . . .”

  “All right, then!” Marreth roared suddenly. “But my way, and no more of your arguments! Go see to it.”

  Terrel bowed and turned away; Eltiron was barely able to duck back into the crowd in time. He stared after Terrel until he lost sight of him, then started toward the royal box, hoping he would be able to get there and warn Vandaris before his next match. With most of the afternoon left before the feast, Vandaris might still have time to do something about whatever Terrel was planning.

  Unfortunately, Vandaris was not in the box when Eltiron arrived. “She left for her first match a few minutes ago,” Crystalorn told him in answer to his questions. “I think she’s fighting on the other side of the field. Why do you—”

  The horns blew, announcing Eltiron’s next match. Eltiron cursed, apologized hastily to Crystalorn, promised to explain as soon as he had time, and dashed back to take his place on the field. He made it just in time to keep from forfeiting the match.

  Eltiron’s second opponent was one of Terrel’s supporters, a minor lord named Badelian with a reputation as a poor swordsman. Eltiro
n spent the first few moments of the match in a series of moves intended to test his opponent’s skill. The results were much as he had expected; Badelian was very strong, but slow and rather clumsy. Eltiron frowned in puzzlement. Why had the man even bothered to enter the sword games?

  There was no sense in prolonging the match. Eltiron blocked one of Badelian’s swings, then danced aside and aimed a blow at Badelian’s head. As he started to move, he saw Badelian’s sword come around in a sweeping overhead arc. He twisted to avoid it, and felt the wind of its passing. There was enough force behind the swing to break his shoulder if it connected. The sword reversed and swung back. It was moving fast, impossibly fast; no one could swing a sword that fast. . . .

  Coldness exploded at his chest, and Badelian’s sword slowed to normal speed. Eltiron sidestepped just in time and brought his own weapon down on Badelian’s helm. He heard the marshal’s horn blowing far away, signaling the end of the match, but he had to avoid two more of Badelian’s wild swings before the sound penetrated and Badelian lowered his sword. There was a wary expression in Badelian’s eyes as he watched Eltiron; he hardly seemed to hear the marshal announcing Eltiron’s victory.

  As he left the field and started back toward the royal box, Eltiron wondered what Badelian had been trying to do. He did not doubt that the man had used some sort of spell in an attempt to win the match, and he was equally sure that Terrel had arranged the whole incident, but he did not understand why Terrel would go to such lengths to make him lose a match in the sword games. Losing to Badelian would have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t as if he could have killed Eltiron. Injuries at the sword games were rarely serious; at worst, Badelian might have broken Eltiron’s arm or shoulder, or perhaps a rib.

  Eltiron paused, remembering the force behind Badelian’s swings. He had intended to break something. Eltiron frowned. What could Badelian, or Terrel for that matter, hope to accomplish by breaking Eltiron’s arm? It would be painful and inconvenient, of course, and the wedding might have to be postponed for a day or two, but Eltiron could not imagine how that would benefit Terrel. Particularly since Terrel was the one who had arranged the wedding in the first place. And how had Amberglas known or suspected that someone would use magic against Eltiron in the sword games?