Instead, she was readying herself for her wedding this winter to a boy in Rheden. She was working, this day, with her mother and her ladies, embroidering. There were skills a highborn lady was expected to bring to her marriage house.
By contrast to both of these, King Aeldred’s younger daughter saw the world in a very different way, although this, too, had been suffering change, moment by moment, through these last, late days of summer.
Right now, with a pulsing pain behind her eyes and images impinging, erratic and uncontrollable like sparks from a fire, Kendra knew only that she needed to find the Cyngael cleric again, to tell him something important.
He wasn’t at the royal chapel or the smaller one where he’d been before. She was in real distress. The sunlight, late in the day, forced her to screen her eyes. It occurred to her to wonder if this was what happened to her father when his fever took him, but she wasn’t warm or faint. Only hurting, and with a terrifying, impossible awareness of fighting in the west, and a sword in her mind, flashing and going, and coming again, over and over.
It was her brother who found Ceinion for her. Gareth, summoned by a messenger, had taken one frightened look at Kendra sitting on a bench in the small chapel (unable to go back into the light, just yet) and had gone running, shouting for others to join him in the search. He came back (she wasn’t sure how much time had passed) and led her by the elbow through the streets to the bright (too bright), airy room her father had had made for the clerics who were transcribing manuscripts for him. She’d kept her eyes closed, let Gareth guide her.
The king was there, among the working scribes, and Ceinion was with him, blessedly. Kendra walked in, one hand held by her brother, the other to her eyes, and she stopped, desperately unsure of how to proceed with her father here.
“Father. My lord high cleric.” She managed that much, then stopped.
Ceinion looked at her, stood quickly. Could be seen to make a decision of his own. “Prince Gareth, of a kindness will you have a servant bring the brown leather purse from my rooms? Your sister needs a remedy I can offer her.”
“I’ll get it myself,” said Gareth, and hurried out the door. Ceinion spoke a quiet word. The three scribes stood up at their desks, bowed to the king, and went out past Kendra.
Her father was still here.
“My lady,” said Ceinion, “is this more of that matter of which we spoke before?”
She hesitated, in pain, in something more than pain. They burned witches, for heresy. She looked at her father. And heard Ceinion of Llywerth say, gravely, changing the way of things one more time, “There is no transgression here. Your royal father also knows the world of which you speak.”
Kendra’s mouth fell open. Aeldred had also stood, looking from one to the other of them. He was pale, but thoughtful, calm. Kendra felt as if she were going to fall down.
“Child,” said her father, “it is all right. Tell me what you are seeing from the half-world now.”
She didn’t fall. She was spared that shame. They helped her to a high stool where a cleric had been working. The manuscript in front of her on the tilted surface of the desk had a gloriously coloured initial capital, half a page in height: the letter “G” with a griffin arched along its curve. The word it began, Kendra saw, was Glory.
She said, as clearly, as carefully as she could, “They are through the spirit wood. Or the Cyngael prince, Alun ab Owyn, is. He’s the one I can … see. There are blades drawn, there is fighting.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Athelbert?”
She shook her head. The movement hurt. “I don’t … see him, but I never did. Only the Cyngael, and I don’t know why.”
“Why should we understand?” her father said after a moment, gentle as rain. He looked at Ceinion, and then back at her. “Child, forgive me. This comes to you from me, I believe. You have the gift or curse I carry, to see that which most of us are spared. Kendra, there is no sin or failing in you.”
“Nor in you, then, my lord,” said Ceinion firmly, “if that is true, and I believe it is. Nor need you punish yourself for it. There are purposes we do not understand, as you say. Good, and the will of the god, are served in different guises.”
She saw her father look at the grey-haired cleric, in his pale yellow robe of the god. The brightness of the robe hurt her eyes.
“They are fighting?” her father said, turning back to her.
“Someone is. I see swords and … and another sword.”
“Close your eyes,” said Ceinion. “You are loved here and will be guarded. Do not hide from what you are being given. I do not believe there is evil in it. Trust to Jad.”
“To Jad? But how? How can I—”
“Trust. Do not hide.”
His voice held the music of the Cyngael. Kendra closed her eyes. Dizziness, disorientation, unrelenting pain. Do not hide. She was trying not to. She saw the sword again, the one she’d asked the cleric about before, small, silver, shining in darkness, though there were no moons.
She saw green again, green, didn’t understand, and then she remembered something, though she still did not understand. Green was wrapped around this, as a forest wrapped a glade. She cried out then, real pain, grief, in a bright room in Esferth. And on a slope in Arberth above where two men were fighting to the death, someone heard her cry, in his mind, and saw what she saw, what she gave him, and knew more than she knew.
She heard him say her name, in fear, and wonder, then another name. And then, with exquisite courtesy, given what she’d just done to him and what he had understood from it, he paused long enough to offer clearly to her, mind to mind, across river and valley and forest, what she surely needed to be told, so far away.
Who can know, who can ever know for certain, how the instruments are chosen?
Kendra opened her eyes. Looked at her father’s hand which was holding hers the way he hadn’t done since she was small, and she gazed up at him, crying, first time that day, and said, “Athelbert is there. He came alive through the wood.”
“Oh, Jad,” said her father. “Oh, my children.”
If you wanted to defeat a man like this you had a narrow path to tread (and you kept your feet moving). Brand Leofson wasn’t going to fall to some reckless thrust or slash and he was too big to overpower. You needed enough time to mark him, discover inclinations, the way he responded to what you tried, how he initiated his own attacks, what he said. (Some men talked too much.) But the time passing cut both ways as it slashed by: the Jormsviking was fast, and younger than you were. You’d be lying to yourself, fatally, if you thought you could linger to sort things out, or wear him down.
You had to do your watching quickly, draw conclusions, if there were any to be drawn, set him up for whatever it was you found. Such as, for example, a habit—clearly never pointed out to him—of turning his head to the left before he slashed on the backhand, to let the good right eye follow his blade. And he liked to slash low, sea-raider’s attack: a man with a wounded leg was out of a fight, you could move right past him.
So you knew two things, quite soon in fact, and if you wanted to defeat a man like this you had an idea what needed to be done. You were also, a quarter-century past your own best years, still more than good enough to do it.
And no lying to the self in that. Thorkell Einarson hadn’t been prone to that vice for a long time. There was a hard expression on his face as he retreated again and read the backhand cut one more time. He blocked it, didn’t let it seem too easy. Circled right around again, below and then back to level, denying the other man the upslope he wanted. Not hard, not really hard yet. Knew what he was doing still. Could be worn down, would grow tired, but not too soon if Leofson kept signalling half his blows like that. There was a sequence you could use when you knew the other man had committed to a backhand slash.
The light was really very bright, an element in this combat, the westering sun shining along their slope, striking the two of them, t
he trees, the grass, the watchers above and below. No clouds west, dark ones piled up east—and those, underlit, made the late-day sky seem even more intense. He’d known evenings like this among the Cyngael, perhaps more valued because of the rain and mist that usually wrapped these hills and silent valleys.
A land some men could grow accustomed to, but he didn’t think he was the sort, unless in Llywerth by the sea. He needed the sea, always had; salt in the blood didn’t leave you. He parried a downward blow (heavy, that one) then feinted a first low, forehand blow to see what Leofson would do. Overreacted—he would worry more on that side because of his eye. Hard on the hip, though, slashing that way. Ap Hywll’s wife had named her husband’s ailments. It might have been amusing, somewhere else. Thorkell’s could have done the same with his. He briefly wondered where Frigga was now, how the two girls were faring, the grandsons he hadn’t seen. Bern was here. His son was here.
It had been, thought Thorkell Einarson, a long-enough life.
Not without its share of rewards. Jad—or Ingavin and Thünir, whatever was waiting for him—hadn’t been unkind to him. He wouldn’t say it. You made your own fortune, and your own mistakes.
If you wanted to defeat a man like this … He smiled then, and began. It was time.
The raider facing him would remember that smile. Thorkell feinted again, as before, to draw the too-wide response. Followed, quickly, with a downward blow that Brand blocked, jarringly.
Then he let himself seem to hesitate, as if tired, unsure, his right leg still forward, exposed.
(“Watch!” said ap Hywll sharply, higher up the slope.)
(Bern, below them, caught his breath.)
Brand Leofson went for the deception, signalling his backhand again with a turned head. And once he’d committed himself—
Thorkell’s blade moved high, to his own backhand.
Too soon.
Before Leofson had fully shifted his weight. A terrible mistake. Right side and chest wide open to a man still balanced. A fighting man with time (It was time) to change from a sweeping backhand slash to a short, straight-ahead thrust with a heavy sword. Heavy enough to pierce leather and flesh to the beating, offered heart.
Watching, Bern sank to his knees, a roaring in his ears. A sound like the surf on stones, so far inland.
Leofson pulled free his blade, not easily. It had gone a long way in. He had an odd expression on his face, as though he wasn’t sure what had just happened. Thorkell Einarson was still standing, and smiling at him. “Watch the backhand,” the red-haired man said to him, very low, no one else in the world to hear it. “You’re giving it away, every time.”
Brand lowered his bloodied sword, brow furrowing. You weren’t supposed to … you didn’t say things like that.
Thorkell swayed another moment, as if held up by the light, in the light. Then he turned his head. Not towards ap Hywll, for whom he’d taken this fight, or the two young princes with whom he’d gone through a wood and out of time, but to the Erlings on the slope below them, led here to what would have been their dying.
Or to one of them, really, at the end.
And he had enough strength left, before he toppled like a tree cut down, to speak, not very clearly, a single word.
“Champieres,” he seemed to say, though it could have been something else. Then he fell into the green grass, face to the far sky, and whichever god or gods might be looking down, or might not be.
A long-enough life. Not without gifts. Taken, and given. All mistakes his own. Ingavin knew.
CHAPTER XVI
Kendra had been keeping her eyes closed. The light entering the room was still too bright, making the pain in her head worse, and when she looked around, the sense of disorientation—of being in two different places—only grew. With eyes closed, the inner sight, vision, whatever it was, didn’t have to fight against anything.
Except her, and all she’d thought she knew about the world. But now she made herself look up, and open her eyes. Her father and Ceinion with her, no one else. Gareth had come with the herbs, and had gone back out. She’d heard her father giving him another task to do.
They were really just sending him from the room, that he not be burdened, as they were, with the awareness that King Aeldred’s younger daughter seemed to be having the sort of visions that had you condemned for trafficking with the half-world. The world the clerics said—by turns—either did not exist at all, or must be absolutely shunned by all who followed the rites and paths of holy Jad.
Well and good to say, but what did you do when you saw what you did see, within? Kendra said, her voice thin and difficult, “Someone has died. I think … I think it is over.”
“Athelbert?” Her father had to ask that, couldn’t help himself.
“I don’t think so. There is distress but not … not fear or pain right now. In him.”
“In Alun? Ab Owyn?” That was Ceinion. She had to close her eyes again. It really was difficult, seeing and … seeing.
“Yes. I think … I don’t think either of them was fighting.”
“Single combat, then,” her father said. Shrewdest man in the world. All her life. A gift for her and Judit, a burden at times for his sons. She had no certain idea he was right, but he almost always was.
“If two men fought, someone has lost. There is … Alun is heavy with sorrow.”
“Dearest Jad. It will be Brynn, then,” said Ceinion. She heard him sit heavily at one of the other stools. Made herself look, squinting, in pain.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “This is not so … sharp a grief?”
They looked at her. The most frightening thing of all, in some ways, was that these two men believed every impossible thing she was telling them.
Then she had to close her eyes once more, for the images were in her again, imposed, pushing through her towards the other one, so far away. Same as before, stronger now: green, green, green, and something shining in the dark.
“I need this to stop,” Kendra whispered, but knew it wasn’t going to. Not yet.
Brynn was the first one down the hill, but not the first to reach the two of them, one standing with a red sword, the other lying in the grass. Brand Leofson, still caught in strangeness, not sure yet what had happened, saw—another mystery—his young shipmate come up to them and kneel on the grass beside the dead man.
Brand heard a sound from above, saw ap Hywll coming down.
“You will honour the fight?” he asked.
Heard Brynn ap Hywll say, bitter and blunt, “He let you win.”
“He did not!” Brand said, not as forcefully as he wanted to.
The young one, Bern, looked up. “Why do you say that?” he asked, speaking to the Cyngael, not to his own leader, the hero who had saved them all.
Brynn was swearing, a stream of profanity, as he looked down at the dead man. “We were deceived,” he said, in Anglcyn. “He took the fight on himself, intending to lose.”
“He did not!” Leofson said again. Brynn’s voice had been loud enough for others to hear.
“Don’t be a fool! You know it,” snapped the Cyngael. Men were coming over now, from below and above. “You show your backhand every time, he set you up for that.”
Bern was still kneeling, for some reason, beside the dead man. “I saw that,” he said, looking again at ap Hywll.
Brand swallowed hard. Watch the backhand. You’re. giving it away … What kind of a fool … ?
He stared at the boy beside the fallen man. The late light fell on both of them.
“Why are you there?” he said. But he wasn’t a stupid man, and he knew his answer before it came.
“My father,” said Bern.
No more than that, but much came all too clear. Brynn ap Hywll gazed down at the two of them, the living one and the dead, and began to swear again, with a ferocity that was unsettling.
Brand One-eye, hearing him, and with duties here, said, again, loudly, “You will honour the fight?”
Within, he
was badly shaken. What kind of a fool did something like this? Now he knew.
Brynn ignored him, insultingly. The force of his fury slowed. He was looking at Bern. “You understand that he prepared all of this?” Still speaking Anglcyn, the shared tongue.
Bern nodded. “I … think I do.”
“He did.” It was a new voice. “He came through the godwood with us to do this, I think. Or make it possible.”
Bern looked over. Aeldred’s son, the Anglcyn prince. There was a smaller young man, Cyngael, beside him. “He … almost told us that,” Prince Athelbert went on. “I said I was in the wood because of my father, and Alun was for his brother, and … Thorkell said he was a fit with us and would explain later how. He never did.”
“Yes, he did,” said Brynn ap Hywll. “Just now.”
Leofson cleared his throat. This was all blowing much too far in a bad direction. You had to be careful when the rocks got close. “I killed this man in fair combat,” he said. “He was old, he grew tired. If you want to try to—”
“Be silent,” said ap Hywll, not loudly, but with no respect in his voice, none of what should come to a man who’d just saved his entire company. “We will honour your fight, because I would be shamed not to, but the world will know what happened here. Would you really have gone home and claimed glory for this?”
And to that, Brand Leofson had no reply.
“Leave now,” Brynn continued bluntly. “Siawn, we do this properly. There is a dead man to be honoured. Send two riders to the coast to bring word to those of Cadyr who might be looking for the ships. Here’s my ring, for them. No one is to attack. Tell them why. And take an Erling, their best rider, to explain to the ones left there.”
He looked at Brand again, the way one looked at a low-ranking member of his household. “Which of your men can handle a horse?”
“I can,” said the one kneeling beside the dead man, looking up. “I’ve the best horse. I’ll go.” He hadn’t stood up yet.
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