‘No. You keep out. And stay out.’ Eric’s contemptuous words rang through the room.
Beron pushed his own food at Eric. Eric’s quick hand blocked the bowl. ‘Thank you,’ he said calmly. ‘As you haven’t taken a bite, this food is fit to eat.’ He put his spoon in Beron’s portion.
Beron’s big hands lifted the edge of the long table as he sprang to his feet. The table tipped and all the bowls slid towards the floor: Eric’s strong forearms crashed down, righting the bowls before they fell. Beron flung himself across the table. Yells erupted all round, as Eric grabbed Beron’s hair, jerking his head back, aiming a blow at his stomach. Baron reflexively curled his torso. Eric slammed a fist down on his head.
Boys gathered into an immediate circle, egging on the contenders with cheers and jibes. Landen got out of the way, surprised at how many voiced support for Eric.
The two fighters went at each other, breaking all the rules of hand combat: going for the eyes, using teeth, kicking below the belt. Afraid they’d kill one another, Landen tried to elbow his way closer, ready to defend his friend.
The door slammed open. Emid strode in, shouting in his great voice. It took him no time at all to hurl Eric and Beron apart. They stood glaring and unrepentant, bruises beginning on their faces. Beron’s lip was swelling, and Eric’s left eye turning purple. The crowd of boys stood in rigid silence, as though a huge hand had gagged the room.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Emid asked, full of menace. ‘I’ve told you before, you both serve Archeld. That means you may fight, but only to develop the skills you need in order to be soldiers! I won’t tolerate battles like this between fellow soldiers!’ His yell was frightening. ‘Now come with me.’
Eric and Beron were marched out. Boys quickly returned to their places at the benches. Landen knew neither combatant would be allowed meals until they did whatever atonement Emid set forth. He sat, with a space across from him and beside him, avoiding the stares of the other boys.
* * *
In the weeks leading up to the public seltec, Eric shadowed Landen. The beatings and covert attacks ceased.
Landen noticed signs that the barracks were dividing into two camps, headed by the oldest boys, Eric and Beron. Eric had more adherents, but they were quieter. Beron’s followers continued to throw taunts at Landen, calling him ‘Prince Belly’ and ‘King of Cowards’.
Gradually, Landen’s weakness and stiffness healed, and Eric’s black eye faded. Landen began to feel he’d survive his time of training. Eric was happy to accept his coaching in archery, and Landen was glad of the chance to repay his new friend. As he handled the sharp, deadly arrows of Archeld, he remembered ruefully the blunted arrows and pretty targets of Bellandra.
The former prince started to get the lay of the land. In Archeld, contests of physical prowess were taken most seriously: they were the marks by which boys earned respect. Compassion and gentleness were neither cultivated nor admired. Landen realized why he’d been treated with such disdain and without mercy: because he practised kindness before aggression, fairness before trying to win. In Archeld, these were unforgivable offences, indications of weakness. As he understood this, desire grew in his heart to prove himself and his lost kingdom. He wanted to show these barbarians he was worthy.
Father, you had me trained to shoot a graceful arrow, but never to fight. Now the king who murdered you has given me the means to learn. Emid will never have a better student than the prince who was reared to peace.
Landen did everything he could to learn as much as possible before the grand seltec.
The day of the competition dawned gleaming and fresh. Emid led his trainees out to the fields set aside for seltec. These had been carefully cultivated, with green turf as smooth as scythes could make it. Stands overlooked the seltec. Gaily dressed people thronged them, laughing and chatting. It was the day for archery. Targets stood at intervals. A champion’s platform crowned the range.
Landen thought of the festivals in Bellandra, with contests presided over by King Veldon, where courtesy overcame the drama of competition, and no blood was ever seen.
Emid dispersed the boys to three groups, according to age. While they stood in the heat, King Kareed and Queen Dreea, with Princess Torina between them, walked to the royal seats next to the fields. Flowers were thrown their way, and cheers greeted them. As Landen watched Torina’s carefree step, his heart ached. Not long ago he had lived a prince, walking with dignity beside his father, never guessing how swiftly and terribly that life would end.
Kareed raised his arms for silence. Landen was thrown back in memory, to when he stood on a shining marble floor, reaching for the Sword of Bellandra. The pain of defeat and loss throbbed in his heart. One moment more and I would have held the Sword.
‘Let the seltec begin!’ Kareed roared.
Onlookers tossed scarves and caps in the air, whistling, yelling and clapping, while Landen struggled to hold his grief. Emid called out the rules in his loud voice. Each boy would shoot four arrows. The three best from each of the three age groups would shoot again. Out of these, the champions would be found.
Landen watched as the youngsters, aged eight to eleven, shot. The scores were meticulously logged. Zeon, Westol and Frin were asked to stay, while the others left the field. Landen saw Eric flash Zeon a ‘well done!’ signal. Westol and Frin both belonged to Beron’s camp.
The sun was strong. Tormented by memories, Landen felt a wave of faintness. He banished it.
Now it was his group’s turn. Emid gave out the bows. Landen ran his hands over the wood, fingers seeking defects. Finding none, he let the bow rest on the ground. Dark spots swam across his vision. The earth and sky seemed mixed up, whirling together. He took a deep breath. The present moment is everything. The moment is vast.
The remorseless sun shone, too hot to bear. Landen kept seeing the moment when Bellandra’s Sword was taken, when Kareed put an end to his peaceful homeland. He gripped his bow and forced himself to regulate his breath. Still it came short and shallow.
Jolten, the boy ahead of him, moved forward in long strides. Jolten’s muscles tensed, released, tensed again, released again.
Landen received an arrow from a young boy’s hand. He wiped his dripping forehead. The target looked far and dim. He aimed, pulled, released. His arm tried to shake but he wouldn’t let it. He shot again, three times.
Zeon beamed at him. All four arrows were close to the centre.
The boys in line behind him still had to shoot. Landen joined Jolten in his place, fighting dizziness. He searched his mind for something calm and steady. He recalled the words of old Queen Ancilla. Remember, you can still be the son your father would be proud of.
He looked round at the utterly foreign land he stood in. Realization dawned. Kareed took the Sword, and killed my father. But his daughter gave me my freedom. I must take hold of this life that belongs to me. Bellandra lives as long as I do.
He turned to the field and saw that half the older boys had shot and he was now standing beside two other archers from his group, the rest having gone to the sidelines. He was one of the three finalists.
It was Eric’s turn. He did well, better than he would have earlier in the season, though not well enough to be among the top three. As expected, when the winners were announced among the older boys, Beron proved to be one of them.
Next came intermission for lunch. While the crowd picnicked in colourful groups of laughing enjoyment, the boys were fed seated on the archery field. Steady-handed soldiers held cloth umbrellas over them. There was no stinting on portions. Looking at the food, Landen realized he hadn’t been hungry since Bellandra fell. During his captivity under Vesputo, and afterwards on the nightmarish ride to Archeld, he’d passively eaten what they gave him, hardly seeing it. Then came arrival, and the weeks of torment at Beron’s hands. And now . . . Landen smiled. Now he was hungry.
The food was excellent: tender, flavourful cheeses; flaky, tasty breads and crackers; delicious sou
ps bursting with herbs; stuffed hens simmered in their own juices. Landen ate with a kind of ecstasy, savouring everything. He looked about him eagerly, as if just arrived.
The colourful clothes of the massed spectators blended like an enormous banner. Garlands of flowers decked heads and necks, spreading perfume. Everywhere was smiles and happy chatter. Musicians roved, filling the air with festive notes. The sky made a glorious canopy.
The king signalled for the last round. The championships for archery would be awarded, then the rest of the daylight hours used for dancing and feasting.
Zeon, Westol and Frin, nervous and proud, took their turns again with the bows. Zeon was the clear victor and Emid declared him so. The youngster stood alone on the champion’s platform, radiant and flushed, waiting to be joined by two more.
When his turn came, Landen shot calmly. Two of his arrows landed so close that, from a distance, they appeared one; all four fell in the bull’s-eye. He won the contest for his age group, hands down. Emid announced his victory, and he joined Zeon amid a buzz of surprise from the stands.
Next, the three older boys competed. Beron, Phillt and Bendes. Landen knew Eric wanted Phillt to win, but it was not to be. A stray wind caught the archer by surprise, and one of his arrows barely made the target. Beron lodged all arrows in the bull’s-eye, aiming slowly and deliberately with each. Grinning arrogantly, he added himself to the winner’s circle.
Emid announced that now, for the sport and pleasure of it, these three champions would compete against each other.
Zeon went first, and did his best shooting of the day. He stood beside Landen then, fairly dancing with happiness, buoyed by cheers.
Landen felt light and sure as he took up his first arrow. It flew true and landed in the centre of the bull’s-eye. In quick succession he sent three more after it. All landed in a tight quadrangle. The people in the stands burst into excited applause, a spontaneous roar of approval for his skill. Archeldans liked nothing better than to see proficiency in the arts of war.
Landen wondered if the people watching him knew he was a foreigner from the ‘country of cowards’, as Beron had dubbed Bellandra. If they knew, would they care? Or, would their traditional careless generosity and appreciation of skill win out?
Glowering, Beron took long and careful aim. His first arrow lodged in the exact centre. The cheers were wild. He fit another arrow. Landen heard Zeon breathing loudly and gritting his teeth.
It seemed an age that Beron stood with the bow flexed, squinting at the target, muscles bunched in his back. When at last he let go, the arrow winged to land right next to the first. The crowd erupted with admiration.
Beron repeated his slow aim and the third arrow fit neatly into the first two. Landen took a deep breath. In Bellandra, archery was judged on three counts: accuracy, swiftness of aim and manners. Apparently the second two weren’t categories in Archeld, for Beron was frowning, and taking so long.
The fourth arrow flew, hitting just outside the bull’s-eye. Beron tossed his bow on the ground. Groans of disappointment ran through the stands.
Zeon jumped up and down beside Landen, pumping his arm. Landen spotted Princess Torina waving and smiling, while Kareed and Queen Dreea clapped their hands. The grand winner hardly heard the crowd’s applause. It didn’t matter to him if the watching adults ever knew his name. It was enough that he’d given Eric reason to be proud of befriending him. He’d redeemed his homeland, at least among the boys. This way he could hold up his head even if he made a poor showing in hand combat.
Kareed presented the three champions with garlands, commending them for their diligence and talent. Landen kept his eyes down except when the king gave him a ritual handshake. As those fiery green eyes bored into him, he swallowed hard, wondering if he’d made a mistake by putting himself in the foreground this way. But Kareed seemed to be ungrudging; his congratulations sincere.
There was a gentle touch on his arm. Torina, close on her father’s heels, reached for Landen’s hand. He pressed her palm, accepting her smile.
Kareed raised his arms. ‘Let the dancing begin!’
People rushed from the stands, plumes waving, voices calling, bearing the princess away in their tide.
Elated and tired, Landen felt Eric’s slap on his back. He shook his friend’s hand. Then Eric moved off to meet Phillt and a cluster of other boys, urging Landen to join them.
But Landen wanted only to be alone. As he wove slowly through the throng, strangers stopped him to find out who he was. He thanked them for their interest, and told them his name. When they asked who his parents were, he merely said he was an orphan, courteously detaching himself and drifting away.
Wearily, he sought the trees that surrounded the festival. Once inside the protection of their branches, he headed for the sea, enjoying the sweet, dancing shadows of leaves. The path felt good under his feet, the songs of birds filled his ears. The moment was vast, truthfully this time. He thought of all his father’s patient teaching.
I was groomed to grow into a king, years from now. The future my father planned no longer exists. Now I am only myself. He came out of the trees to where the ground was level and rocky. He took pleasure in the sun glinting on mica in the stones as he walked on towards the cliffs. No kingdom will show me the way.
He came to the cliff’s edge and gazed out on the water, remembering the waves on the beaches of Bellan Bay. Lifting his eyes to the blue that arched overhead, he felt limitless as the sky, full of motion like the waves crashing far below. He looked down at the turbulent water rushing in from far away to spray the sheer rock of the cliff. It occurred to him that just as his life had changed once, it could change again. His thoughts absorbed him so completely that he didn’t hear Beron coming up behind him.
Torina sat beside Ancilla on a blanket, sipping water, getting ready for more dancing. She loved to dance. As her breath settled down, the water cooling her throat, she became aware of an uneasiness she couldn’t name. It troubled her, like a biting insect too small to be caught. She searched her surroundings for anything wrong. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the festival. Restlessly, she fingered the crystal in her pocket. It seemed to pulse in her hand. She brought it out.
In the crystal, she saw an ocean cliff, steep and high. Tiny rainbows shot up from the rocky shore where waves crashed in a riot of spray. Landen appeared, clinging to the face of the cliff by small handholds in its sheer surface, which stretched high above and far below him. His white, perspiring face contorted with the effort of gripping the rock. Then his fingers lost their hold. He fell.
Torina, watching, knew he would not survive that fall. She glanced at Ancilla’s peaceful face. Slipping the crystal into her pocket, she stood, walking rapidly away.
As soon as the trees bordering the seltec fields covered her, she ran hard. A stitch cramped her side. She ignored it, racing on to the king’s stables.
Inside the stables, a forlorn soldier, Bant, lolled on bales of hay. He jumped to his feet as she entered.
Torina spotted a long rope coiled on a high nail.
‘Bant! Fetch me that rope.’ She pointed. He stretched a pitchfork towards it.
Torina went to Amber, the king’s horse, opening his stall.
‘Help me saddle this horse.’
‘Is the king to ride then?’ Bant gaped at her.
‘Hurry!’ was her answer. Bant hefted an enormous saddle. He cinched it on the great stallion. Torina slung the coil of rope over the saddlehorn. She led Amber from the stable, calling thanks over her shoulder.
She leaped on the biggest horse her father owned and galloped away.
Beron ran through the trees as if the king’s dogs were after him. There seemed to be footsteps behind him, many footsteps, pursuing, gaining. His ears roared. He was consumed with only one thought. He had to get back to the festival before he was missed.
The branches of trees caught at him as he ran straight through raw undergrowth. Twigs whipped his face and arms and tore his cloth
es. He pounded on till he staggered, breath loud as a storm wind.
He could see the lighter air ahead where the clearing began. He aimed himself at it. That bright unshaded sun seemed like the assurance of salvation. He would make it. No one saw him leave, he made sure. No one had been there when he pushed Landen over the cliff. No one.
He stopped running just short of the clearing and hung on a sapling, gasping.
‘Training for the races tomorrow?’ A cool, deep voice, nearby, startled him.
There was Commander Vesputo, quiet and unruffled, examining him as if Beron were an amusing, well-known toy. The young man tried vainly to slow his heartbeat and calm his lungs.
‘What’s wrong, champion? Did you run too hard and fast?’ Vesputo took a few steps towards him.
Beron tried to call back his ebbing strength. Vesputo had seen. He was sure of it. The commander had watched him leave, known what he meant to do. Now he would be brought to justice for breaking the first and last code of a soldier: he had killed a fellow soldier. Sweat poured down Beron’s face. He panted helplessly.
‘Come,’ Vesputo said. ‘Perhaps you stood too long in the sun today. Allow me to guide you.’
A strong grip steadied him. Perhaps Vesputo was not going to execute him. Beron stammered his thanks.
‘Not at all.’
They emerged into the clearing. Vesputo helped him through the crowds to the water barrel. Everyone seemed to be laughing, singing, or dancing. Vesputo dipped for Beron. The young man guzzled the water.
‘Beron, you’re nearly ready for a troop. I’m recruiting for mine. Will you serve with me? I like to have champions riding at my side.’
Beron turned a face of worship on the commander. Vesputo’s troop was second to none.
‘Yes, yes,’ he managed to croak. ‘Yes, I’ll serve with you.’
Landen squeezed his eyes shut, straining with every screaming muscle to embrace the cliff.
It was not enough. He would soon fall. His strength was nearly gone, and only Beron knew where he was. Why not let go? The pain of hitting the rocks would be brief.
The Seer and the Sword Page 4
