Casting In Stone Book One of the Averraine Cycle

by Morgan Smith

  Ullien died around dawn, in the dreary not-quite-spring when the snows are gone, but the air still holds its chill.

  The court’s mood was now even more nervous and unstable; it had been long and long since anyone else had ruled here, and the future had never seemed so uncertain. And yet, there was an undercurrent of excitement, too, a sense that change might not be all bad. Some of those landowners and gentry who had seemed to be sympathetic to our cause were fading away, frightened that they might incur Mael’s wrath or just hoping to pick up a few crumbs in the expected aftermath, but a surprising number of heretofore undeclared nobles began hinting that they, too, would prefer a less heavy-handed, might-begets-right direction for the dukedom.

  The Council was called for the morning after the old man’s pyre burned down, and in the two days between the death and the burning, it was as if the whole world held its breath. Even Mael was quiet - he was not a complete fool, after all, and could see the value to avoiding any quarrel or disturbance that might offend the Holy Ones as they conducted the rituals. No leader fights on two fronts if they can help it.

  We came down the stairs, a full warband, ready and armed, though only one of us would fight. The nervousness was palpable, but I didn’t care. My mind was on Mael.

  We had to stop this before it started. We couldn’t let him get as far as the Council chamber, where our youth would lose us the battle before it began, The reality was that only three of us yet held our own lands outright and could be granted the right to speak, and we would be forever outmatched by those with years of experience in finessing the decisions there. It had to be out here in the open courtyard, it had to be a legal challenge, and it had to be final. There was no other way.

  I’d been watching him for months, surreptitiously studying him as he sparred with his friends and supporters on the Dungarrow practice ground. He fought as all big men tend to fight: he used his reach to keep the fight where he wanted it, and he relied on his weight to push people around on the field. Most of his friends were the same, but they tended to concede the tactics and let him dictate the terms. They concentrated more on not being too easily beaten than on neutralizing Mael’s appropriated advantages.

  It’s common enough. People are trained, in a way, to fall into agreement with the loudest voice in the hall.

  But while I wasn’t the smallest person to ever take up the sword, I wasn’t usually the biggest on the field, either. I had had to learn a different way, not of fighting itself, but of how to approach any match with the ability to change and adapt and take control away from that loudest voice. I was used to changing the rules. And while it would have been unwise to spar directly with the man himself, I had managed a couple of good sessions with some of the fighters who most resembled him in size and style. I always made a point of losing to them, as a precaution in case they ever mentioned the fight to Mael.

  I knew, by the time the rituals for the beloved dead were taking place, that he wasn’t anything like invincible. I knew what tricks he was likely to use, and I had a fair idea of what his back-up strategy would be when those initial ploys failed him. I knew, in fact, that I likely could beat him, if I was willing to pay the price.

  The greatest of the land were already at the gate and one could see at a glance which way they thought this wind would blow. They were clustered around Mael like hens around the feed basket.

  “Whatever you do,” Guerin said to me as we headed down the stairs towards the doors out into the courtyard, “Make it quick. We can’t let them have time to think.”

  It was easy for him to say. He only had to stand and watch.

  “Welcome to Dungarrow…cousin.”

  Einon had pitched his voice low and calm, easily heard and utterly dismissive. The pause itself dripped with insult.

  It worked like a charm. Mael might well have been expecting at least a token challenge to his ascension, but something as blatant as this was a spark to tinder for his friends. They bristled like dogs on the scent.

  “The bantling cock crows loudest before the slaughterhouse door,” Mael said derisively, and of all the responses we had anticipated, this one was on the mild side. We’d hoped for something more. Still, it was close enough to work with.

  “Do you deny my claim?” asked Einon, his voice still even. “Do you dispute my right?”

  “Indeed I do. Children have no rights: they do as their elders bid, and I bid you go play with your toys and leave the business of rulership to your betters.”

  This was much better. No one could expect Einon to let words like those go too easily. I flexed the fingers of my sword hand, itching for this part to be over and done with.

  Einon raised his eyebrows and said, almost sorrowfully, “Is that a challenge to me, Lord Mael?”

  “Take it however you like.”

  “Fair enough. Will you fight for it here and now, or will you turn tail and run?”

  There was a gasp and then a swirl of muffled, nervous laughter. You could understand it. Einon stood at least a full head shorter than Mael, still bony-thin in his boyhood. It must have seemed like suicide.

  “Aye, I’ll claim this once and for all…boy.”

  And then, just as we’d rehearsed it, I stepped forward and said clearly, “Lord Einon, I claim right of Champion.”

  More suppressed mirth, and some open grins from those clustered closest around Mael. The mirth didn’t reach the people further out. This wasn’t an auspicious way to start a serious Council.

  “Too scared to fight your own battles, boy?”

  “It is his right,” said someone near the back of the crowd. Thank the Goddess we hadn’t had to raise this point ourselves, and in actual fact, it was only Einon’s right if he were confirmed as duke in law as well as blood. But Mael merely laughed.

  “What’s the difference between one babe and another?” he said, contemptuously, and it was in his eyes as they met mine, that he would kill me and then Einon, and take pleasure in it, too.

  I looked away quickly. I was afraid of only one thing now, and that was that I make him doubt his obvious superiority too soon. Half a duel’s outcome hangs on what your opponent thinks will happen before it starts.

  I walked out into the open space before us and drew my sword. I was ready for anything, including Mael not waiting for the witnesses to declare themselves and the ritual words to be said to make it a legal challenge, but he was in no hurry. He shrugged out of his cloak and handed it off, took up his shield, and drew his blade.

  Lord Siubhan declared for Mael immediately, and then there was an awkward pause. No one seemed to want to be the name attached to Einon’s certain defeat.

  “I declare as witness for Caoimhe of Penliath, champion to Lord Einon.”

  Guerin’s father had a carrying voice. There was a sort of collective sigh of relief, and then the nervous crowd moved back, creating a reasonable arena for the fight. We were only a few feet apart when a priest who had come in the Reverend Mother’s contingent stepped up to say the invocation, and I let my sword waver, just a bit, as if I were trembling. Whatever Mael was, subtle wasn’t ever on the list. I could almost feel his amusement.

  He strode at me the way he always started a bout, using his bulk to reinforce his supremacy. His first shot would start with a feint to the left, it always did, he was good at it and I had had to find and practice a way to make it look as if only luck succeeded in making him miss that first punishing shot, wherever it came from. I skittered clumsily to the right, got slightly behind him and made him turn quickly.

  It’s a problem for bigger fighters, having to maneuver. It throws them off their game. On a battlefield, your enemy is generally right in front of you and there isn’t any finessing it, but one on one, with no distractions, it’s a completely different tale. You need to be able to move and move quickly, and, accustomed to his opponents following his lead, he simply wasn’t used to it. I threw a tentative-looking blow towards his midsection as he came at me again, a shot I knew he could
easily block, and then I hopped out of his range.

  He started towards me again, this time with purpose. He was going to use his second trick, and try to force me off my feet by virtue of his weight, which was considerable. I danced away and ended up behind him again, and he stumbled, a little, as he turned.

  His brow was furrowed, puzzled now, and just a little bit wary. I couldn’t afford that, it was too soon, and I had to get him back to a place where his arrogance would make him commit to something risky. I swung wildly, missing by a mile. He grinned, any momentary doubts erased. He was sure, now, that he had my measure.

  He moved back a half-step to adjust the distance and I let him. I knew exactly what I needed to do. I moved sideways fast, tracking his sword, and let him strike.

  I felt the blow, as the tip of his sword slid past and under my shield, robbed of most of its force by my meeting it sooner than he wanted. I’d misjudged the angle by a hair, but I was now as committed as he’d been and he let his shield drop away a little as he began to step back, as so many fighters will when they’re sure they’ve hurt you, and he was still smiling.

  I was moving with him, inside his range and further, and my sword sank in, deep into his chest, and I pressed it all the way home.

  He was already dead when I pulled it free.

  All around me, things were happening. There were cries of anger, cries of triumph. There were solemn words, and baffled questions. Someone took my sword and cleaned it and handed it back to me. A long moment later, we walked at the head of the crowd, up the steps, down the long hall and into the Council chamber.

  Einon went straight to the duke’s accustomed chair at the head of the table, and not one voice rose in protest. The rest of us arranged ourselves behind him, a statement of force and unity that not a single man or woman raised any objection to. I saw that they were frightened, some of them, and confused.

  I had been right behind Einon, still holding my shield close and my sword still out, as we entered. It was my place, my right, the mark of a ducal champion. I stood there through the various ceremonies: the formal opening of the Council, the calling of the roll.

  Guerin had been astute in his reading. They were in shock. They had had no time to think. They obediently ratified Einon’s right to rule and gave their oaths of loyalty with almost feverish intensity.

  My vision began to waver. I could feel the blood trickling down my side, hot and then cooling as it soaked into my shirt. My knees felt weak and my head grew light, and somehow, without my awareness, I was edged gently further and further back in the knot of young men and women acting as guards to their new liege lord. Eventually, my back leaned gratefully against the wall and I lost track of the proceedings. All my thoughts were on staying upright and not causing a fuss.

  I came back from half-consciousness to the slam of the chamber door and I sighed and relaxed and slid down the wall to sit, uncaring, on the tiled floor. Later I heard from Nesta that I left a terrifying streak of red, all down the fresh white plaster. Suddenly, there was a rise of panicked voices.

  “She’s hurt!”

  “She’s bleeding!”

  I wanted to point out that this hardly mattered. We’d done it. Einon was duke. Part of me was obscenely triumphant, but mostly I just wanted to sleep. Someone tried to give me wine, but I couldn’t make my fingers curl around the cup, and I started to laugh, then stopped. It rather hurt.

  I’d known I was cut. I didn’t think it was too bad. I tried to say so, but this seemed to frighten them even more, so I gave up and just smiled happily at Einon, who looked gratifyingly upset.

  After a bit, a healer came. He was not impressed with me, my wound or my friends’ attempts to make me drink.

  He pushed away my tunic and my shirt, and examined the cut. I knew, as soon as I looked that I had been right. It wasn’t so bad. It was the bleeding that had made me lightheaded and sleepy.

  “You need to get her to her chamber. She needs rest, and plenty of it.”

  “No,” I said, as forcefully as I could.

  “Yes” said the healer, firmly.

  “No,” I said again. “Tonight. The banquet. I’ve got to be seen. No show of weakness.”

  Einon frowned.

  “She’s right,” said Guerin. “If word leaked out…”

  Some people might think it had been a fluke. Some people might decide, on reflection, that Einon’s position was not as strong as it had seemed that morning, that anyone might have the dukedom for the asking.

  Some people would, eventually, but we needed some time. We needed time to bind enough of the nobility to us that we could withstand what was coming.

  I needed to be seen, hale and hearty, in the great hall that night. It wasn’t up for debate.

  The healer, of course, did debate it. He warned that I risked a fever or worse, and that I was courting disaster, which was pretty funny considering the morning I’d had.

  In the end, though, he did as his duke bid him. He cleaned the wound, sewed the cut closed, and wrapped the bandaging flat against my side with no unsightly padding, so that in a clean tunic, nothing would show. He insisted I rest until the last possible moment before I entered the feasthall, and admonished Einon to prevent me from drinking.

  “I must,” I said. “I must drink his health, at least.”

  “Mind the wine’s well-watered, then, and don’t blame me if you are in a high fever by sun-up.” He was still grumbling under his breath as he left.

  Chapter Ten

  Looking back after, it was a good year, that first one. Hard, of course, since we weren’t mistaken about a fair number of the nobles and even some of the gentry thinking that the changes Einon stood for threatened their eminent positions as well as their purses. We were continuously under arms almost from the very start, but there was a certain enjoyment as we surmounted the obstacles, one by one.

  Lord Siubhan was no sooner back on his lands before rumors drifted north that he was plotting. We’d expected it, to be honest. He’d always been close to Mael, of course, and even at that first banquet, watching him toasting Einon, it was obvious to everyone that his loyalty wasn’t even skin deep. Days later, he was home and whispering poison and promises into other men’s ears.

  If anyone doubted my right to my place as Einon’s champion, I earned it many times over in the first few months. Many an older warrior looked me up and down and decided a challenge was less risky than open war, since Einon had managed to win support from a great many people. Killing me was seen as an easy way to power.

  Siubhan went for war, instead, thinking we were just young fools drunk on our victory and all unready for outright rebellion. Not a full month after I’d killed Mael, we met Siubhan’s band of discontented friends and vassals in the hills above Boirand, and the first spear was cast.

  He was no tactician. He led his troops headlong towards us, with nothing left in reserve, and if he’d listened to his scouts, it didn’t show. Lord Fincair had sent two troops of battle-hardened warriors to be captained by Roisean and we’d stationed them in a copse less than a half-mile away, while Einon proceeded to lure Suibhan’s forces into the dales that lay to the west. When we finally engaged them outright, Roisean led out her troops and attacked their flank, folding them neatly into their own lines, and the thing was nearly over when Siubhan decided to cut and run.

  He’d little enough support left, but it would do no good to let him get away. Mischief comes in all sizes - even without his lands and money, he might still do harm. Einon ordered me out with the newly-formed ducal guard, to make sure the man didn’t survive another day.

  I killed a lot of people that year. Siubhan was easy: he’d learned his game from Mael, but not nearly so well, and he’d seen me kill. Defeat was in his eyes even as our swords first met, and I wasted no time with him.

  But even as he lay dying, the holy ones woke up to the fact that an untried boy who still technically should have had a Lord Warder ruling in his stead represented their best chance
to drag us back to the way life had been fifty years before. We went from Boirand to Dungarrow Castle on a forced march at a breakneck pace to find it the victim of a hastily organized siege, which we broke in a bloody battle that cost both sides dearly.

  Einon then barricaded the principal river landings and himself led the delegation to negotiate with the Reverend Mother, pointing out that the island she lived on depended on regular shipments of food and other goods to survive. Einon’s regretful musing that constant war might interrupt those shipments seemed to make his point more forcefully than any show of arms had done, and the Reverend Mother made sure the priesthood understood where their loyalties now lay.

  Over time, the idea that Einon wasn’t strong enough to rule died away, as it became apparent that, boy or not, he was a brilliant general in the field and not at all averse to advice, whether he actually took it or not. He wooed enough of the older nobles onto his side by at least pretending to listen to them, by never losing his temper, and by being realistic enough to not try to change everything overnight.

  There were those, though, that were simply going to be dangerous to the realm, no matter which way the winds blew, and Einon needed them neutralized before they could start trouble. It was my duty to pick quarrels with them and force a duel to remove the potential threat

  Tiernan was one of those, although, petty as it seemed, Einon wanted him gone for more than the simpleminded treason he was engaged in. Those years on the practice ground still rankled, and I had no objection to killing the man, if it would ease Einon’s mind.

  It was a hard-fought bout. Tiernan was no Mael, he was wary from the start and kept his defense high. I had to offer the bait of my shield arm to get him to lose that canniness and follow a fake to his head before he went down, and it was months before I got my full strength back. Even now, that shoulder sometimes pains me in wet weather.