Yesterday's Kings (32 page)

She touched his face, smiling at him. “You’ll do what’s right,” she said. “Because worlds hinge on you, and I believe that you will make the right decision. If not …” She shrugged.

“I am a simple forester,” he protested. “I know nothing of battle, of duels. I’ve fought no one—nor wanted to. I wanted only to be left alone.”

Save as he looked at her he was no longer sure of that. Elvira faded away; Abra’s beauty became a distant memory. He stared at this fey virgin and felt his heart swallowed up. He remembered her facing the unicorn, and before he knew it his arms were around her and their mouths together.

When they parted she whispered, “My champion.”

He studied her face and wondered. She was beautiful and he desired her; but he had desired Elvira and Abra, and he was not sure what love meant. What it was. He felt a great confusion—and more than a little fear at the step he took. She was fey and he Garm’kes Lyn. He pushed her away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You’re …” He shook his head: he did not understand women. “The unicorn …”

“I’ve ensnared unicorns because I was virgin.” She clutched his shoulders. “Now, however, I’d have you for my husband; my lover.” She pulled him closer. “Likely I feel about you as does Lofantyl about Abra. I love you, Cullyn.”

She closed her arms about him. She was strong, and he felt her body through the thin material of her dress, and responded helplessly.

Then pushed her away again, heat on his brow and heat in his loins. He did not understand why he said it, only that he must. “Before we …” He blushed; she laughed. “Before we … I must settle this business with
Abra and Lofantyl. And then ask your father’s permission.”

“He’ll grant it,” she said, “do I ask. And I shall.”

He nodded. “Then after this thing is settled …”

She smiled and stroked his cheek. “I shall hold you to that.”

“I
T’S TO BE LANCES
,” Laurens said. “Shields and lances. Are you dismounted, you’ll have what hand weapons you prefer.”

Cullyn stared at the old soldier. “I don’t know how to use a lance,” he said. “What of hand weapons?”

Laurens grinned. “You could use a sword.”

“I don’t know how to use a sword.”

“A war axe?”

Cullyn shook his head.

“A hammer?”

“No.”

“What can you use?”

“I’m handy with a bow …”

“We might,” Laurens said, “suggest that. But I doubt your opponent would accept. And you are the one making the challenge—you have to accept his choice of weapons.”

Cullyn swallowed, his throat dry.

“Then I must do what I must.”

“He’ll choose lances,” Eben said. “They enjoy their tourneys, the Durrym. It’ll be a formal affair—your opponent will be armored, and—”

“Armored?” Cullyn gaped at the wizard. “I’ve never worn armor in my life.”

“What kind?” Laurens asked.

“Formal,” Eben replied. “Full-bodied plate.”

“That’s heavy.” Laurens studied Cullyn as if he were some specimen. “Still, he’s big enough.”

“Durrym armor’s light,” Eben said. “Remember, they don’t use metal. The armor will be tended wood, leather—natural materials.”

Laurens nodded thoughtfully. “How long do we have before this joust?”

“Who knows?” Eben shrugged. “Pyris must send a messenger to Kash’ma Hall, Isydrian must respond, the ground must be chosen. It could be weeks.”

“That’s in our favor. It’ll give me time to train him somewhat.” Laurens scratched his scarred cheek. “At least he has a fine, big mount. Was ever a horse built for battle, it’s Fey.”

Cullyn listened to them discussing his precarious future as if he were not there, and interrupted.

“I don’t want to fight Lofantyl,” he said. “I don’t want to fight anyone. I just want to …” What he wanted to say was, “Go home,” but instead he shrugged, thinking of Lyandra.

“Well, it’s a fact of life that we don’t always get what we want,” Eben said.

“Why can’t we just ask Abra?” Cullyn wondered. “Hear what she’s got to say.”

“Durrym rules,” Eben replied. “One is that Lofantyl took her, and might not agree to returning her. Another is that she might not wish to return. Perhaps she’s in love with him—who knows? And then there’s my father to consider—Isydrian would do much to spite me, or Ky’atha Hall.”

“Why?” Cullyn asked.

“Reasons,” Eben said. “I’ll tell you someday. But what I’ll tell you now is that you have no choice—you’re caught up in destiny’s web, and can only dance on the puppet strings.”

“No choice at all?” Cullyn stared at the wizard. “What if I refuse to fight?”

“It’s gone too far for that.” Eben fixed him with a bright blue gaze. “Pyris is committed—likely his messenger has already ridden off—and in a day or so we’ll agree to the terms. Then you’ll fight or become a prisoner here. To refuse a challenge is disgrace to the Durrym. It would leave you without honor, and you’d be outlawed—if not slain on the spot.” He beamed wickedly at Cullyn and added, “As would we. So, you see? All our lives depend on you.”

Cullyn frowned, and Eben’s smile grew softer. “This is a different world, lad, with different rules. Pyris has set his heart on a tourney in hope of disgracing Isydrian—he knows that Isydrian cannot refuse the challenge. So you become Ky’atha Hall’s champion—Pyris looks to you to upset his rival.”

“And I’ve no say at all?”

“None,” Eben replied cheerfully. “Save you’d risk Pyris’s wrath. And lose Lyandra into the bargain.”

Cullyn blushed.

“Win and you’ll become a great man here,” Eben said. “The clans will hail you, and you’ll earn the right to wed Lyandra. Lose and …” He shrugged, his meaning clear.

Cullyn sighed. “Then let’s do it.”

T
HE SUN STOOD HIGH
and Cullyn found his armor uncomfortable. He wore a padded tunic that was over-layed with a breastplate of polished wood, pauldrons on his shoulders and vambraces on his arms. A tasset protected his lower body, and cuisses and greaves his legs. The helmet sat hot on his head, and the visor obscured
his vision so that he saw only a narrow slit of the world ahead. He carried a curved shield on his left arm and a heavy lance in his right hand.

Three times now Laurens had knocked him from Fey’s saddle, leaving him sprawled on the grass. This time he rose angry, loosening the straps of his helm so that he might breathe clean air.

“I can’t fight like this!”

“He’ll be armored,” Laurens said.

“And I’ll be dead. I can’t ride with this gear on me.” He flung the helmet away and began to unbuckle straps. “If I must fight him at all, then I’ll do it loose. As best I can.”

“You’ll still need shield and lance,” Laurens said. “So get back up and we’ll try it that way.”

Cullyn stripped off his armor and mounted Fey again.

“T
HE CHALLENGE IS ACCEPTED
,” Lyandra told him. “A week from now.”

He sighed, stretching back on the wide bed as a Durrym healer rubbed unguents into his bruises. “Are you so eager for it?”

“To see you vanquish Kash’ma Hall? Yes.”

“So you think I can?”

She stroked his hair. “You are my champion, and you are syn’qui. Of course you’ll win.”

Cullyn wondered. Lyandra, appeared to envisage him as some great knight—and the folk of Ky’atha Hall saw him as a champion, riding out for their honor. But he was not so sure. It was, in some ways, pleasurable. He was feted about the keep—admired and respected. The fey folk gifted him: he had a collection of swords that
Laurens examined daily, and his choice of armor. He had been offered horses, most of them decked in tourney armor. He dined with Pyris and Mallandra on such fine food as he’d never tasted, supping wine that set his taste buds to spinning, Lyandra close beside him. He wished he were a champion, and at the same time that he had never come to Coim’na Drhu. Save now he had no choice left and could only go where fate took him. He thought that to be syn’qui was a curse.

Then word came back, formally, that the challenge was accepted and the ground agreed. The tourney would take place midway between the two holds, where fine grass grew wide between a river and the forest. Both parties would arrive two days before the joust—time enough to set up their tents and feast in celebration of the combat. It would take them both two days to reach the ground.

“Y
OU’RE LEARNING
,” Laurens said. “But when you swing the sword, use your wrists. Swing it, and then cut down.”

Cullyn clambered to his feet. He ached horribly. He hated this training; he did not want to fight Lofantyl—or anyone. He wanted to go home—save that would take him away from Lyandra.

“And if he uses a war axe, or a hammer?”

“Then most likely you’re dead.”

“Cheerful news.”

“I’ll show you how to counter them.”

“In a day?” Cullyn raised the unfamiliar sword.

“You learn fast,” Laurens said. “The gods know, but you’ve learned to use a lance quick enough. How many times have you unseated me now?”

“Seven,” Cullyn answered, not without pride.

From the edge of the practice ground Eben shouted, “You can achieve more than you believe yourself capable of.” Lyandra applauded, and called for Cullyn to attack Laurens again. Cullyn looked at her and wondered at her appetite for bloodshed, but held up his shield and sword and went at Laurens again.

He battered the shield and forced Laurens back. Stroke followed stroke, some on shields, others on the deeply padded practice armor. Their blades were fashioned of soft wood, the shields real. Twice, Cullyn set his edge to Laurens’s neck; thrice delivered cuts to the legs that would have brought a man down; once to the groin, where the armor divided.

“Enough!” Laurens stood laughing. “You’ve beaten me, eh? And you’ll defeat your opponent. You’re a natural fighter, lad. Only watch his lance, and if it comes …”

“You told me,” Cullyn said.

“But if it’s your friend Lofantyl on the other end?”

Cullyn shrugged.

Laurens said, “No matter what you feel, if he’s on the other end of the lance, he’s your enemy. You must unseat him—even kill him. Else he’ll kill you.”

“Defeat him, my champion,” Lyandra called. “Slay him if you must, but defeat him. For Ky’atha Hall and my love.”