Myrren's Gift (15 page)

Many of the shallower, less wealthy nobles had been thrilled at the whispers of this ancient rite being reinstated at the direct behest of Prince Celimus. They felt that if the king-in-waiting chose their unmarried daughter to lie with, it was almost as good as a royal seal of approval on that union. The richer, more cynical families, stung by the cunning of Celimus on previous occasions, wisely kept away from the royal tournament, claiming illness or urgent business in a faraway part of the realm. None of this mattered to Celimus; he wanted to see the blood of only one virgin on his sheets tonight and she was very much present.

He arrived in the arena to wild applause from the commonfolk who knew little of his true character yet.

To them he appeared a glorious king-to-be, the dashing Prince of a much-loved sovereign. His fabulously handsome appearance, seemingly humble acceptance of their cheers, and his bright, wide smile did nothing to dissuade them of this fine opinion.

Magnus grimaced and noticed Wyl did the same. The King joined in the charade with a halfhearted clap and benign smile for good measure, but behind it lay his cold fear. His physic had recently reconsidered his estimate on the King’s longevity. No longer did he believe Magnus would last until the next full moon—in fact, he had curtailed his prediction so savagely it was now his expert opinion that Magnus would barely survive the next few days. It seemed Celimus would get his wish. Magnus thought grimly.

Magnus no longer felt guilty for hoping Wyl might prevail, or that he might have found a resolution. The truth was he needed Wyl to beat Celimus. His son was poised to plunge Morgravia into its darkest times and he suddenly realized he was powerless to prevent it.

The two men touched the flat of their swords first to their lips and then against each other’s blade. The sharp metallic sound sent a shiver of anticipation through all from Stoneheart who knew what a formidable fighting pair they were.

The master of ceremonies had announced that the winner would be decreed by whichever opponent drew first blood. This was sinister news to Wyl. It was his understanding this was nothing more than an exhibition. However, it was too late now to argue the finer points. He looked toward Gueryn and noticed the old soldier’s face was a blank contrast to Alyd’s open expression of intense anxiety. Wyl had to look away. There was nothing to be done now except to fight with the blade as well as he knew he could.

The King was given the task of dropping the white square of linen. The handkerchief fluttered to the ground and the two opponents immediately drew their blades back and began circling. Wyl knew Celimus would not be long in this foreplay and, rather than waiting, struck hard and fast.

The dance of the swords had begun.

Whatever Wyl gave away in height and strength he made up for with cunning and speed. Celimus was light on his feet and his strokes were so elegant his dance was beautiful to behold. He smiled the whole time he fought. Wyl’s face was set as a mask and he stood his ground, patiently parrying, ever watchful for the right opening. Gueryn had always admired the shrewd manner in which Wyl wielded his sword.

There was nothing flamboyant in his style, his strokes were neat and economical. Celimus liked to move in a wide arc with large, airy strokes, but this was also part of his skill and Wyl knew it. Wyl appreciated how Celimus was enticing him, daring him to take advantage of the room he provided.

And that would be your undoing
. Gueryn’s advice rang as loudly in his mind as the sound of the blades rang in his ears. It was all Wyl could hear; the crowd’s murmurings had faded away for him. He had become one with the sword, moving with lightning reflexes.

They were well matched and, as the fight began to extend, none of the onlookers could say that either was getting the upper hand. The audience marveled at the grace of this contest. The combatants moved like well-rehearsed dancers who knew every move the other would make. Even Ylena and Alyd, pale with worry, were entranced by the glint of the swords and the speed and beauty of their movement.

Wyl jumped expertly as Celimus struck low, and then, to the surprise of those watching, Wyl spun around one way to stop a harsh blow coming again at his legs and then reverse-spun to parry another.

Sparks ignited as the blades crashed together. It was a wonderful spectacle—not that Wyl was in a position to hear the sounds of high appreciation from the crowd. He knew better than anyone that he was in the midst of a death struggle.

The Prince, slightly less focused, did hear the cheers for his opponent and that made him angry. Wyl heard his competitor’s subtle change in breathing, provoked by wrath, and felt the first nuances that the balance of the contest had changed. Remembering Gueryn’s warning about the dangers of fighting on pure emotion, he pressed harder, feeling his own senses withdraw even further within himself until he could no longer see the Prince but simply the blur of aggressive strokes that he could anticipate and deflect.

The Prince was rapidly becoming prey to his own emotions and his skills suffered.

“Wyl’s beating him, isn’t he?” Ylena whispered nervously to Gueryn.

“I would agree that Wyl’s gaining the ascendancy.” the soldier replied dryly, adding. “If he keeps going like this, the Prince will tire quickly, as he is expending far more energy than your brother.” Ylena nodded and squeezed harder on Alyd’s reassuring hand.

Wyl leapt forward to thrust, knowing what Celimus would do in reply, and was already feinting left to counter the stroke that inevitably came. He could see the beads of sweat now on the Prince’s brow and he too felt his shirt damp against his back. He had no idea of time. As he danced backward the Prince followed, thrusting and slashing. It seemed Celimus had found his balance again and the strokes resumed their whirring grace.

Both now deep in concentration, neither could detect the enthralled silence that had claimed the audience.

The Prince searched constantly for the opening that would allow him to draw first blood and Wyl just as nimbly defended. Celimus suddenly moved wide, deliberately airing his stroke to reveal one side of his torso, which begged to be slashed. Wyl was so tempted—it would be so easy—but he recalled the caution of Gueryn and just as forcefully moved in the same direction as his royal opponent, ignoring the invitation and surprising the Prince with a hard, arm-numbing smash downward.

Infuriated, Celimus began to take short angry jumps forward. Leading with his right leg he hammered at Wyl’s blade, reverting to brute strength over his shorter opponent. Did he see a grin on Thirsk’s face?

Yes. damn him all to hell. Well, he had a few surprises left, and he began a brilliant series of spins and leaps to dazzle the crowd, who yelled their encouragement.

Ylena caught a mutter from Gueryn. He seemed to be repeating something just under his breath. She listened intently and heard it: “…the Magician. Wyl, use the Magician…” Celimus was still pushing forward, bearing down hard, beating the General back toward one corner of the arena and apparently winning, when Wyl saw it. Saw the potential as the complex series of strokes of the highly difficult maneuver came to mind. It was possible. Celimus, in his arrogance, his confidence that he was in fact winning, would not be ready to counter, for he could hear applause now, was not concentrating quite as ferociously as a minute or so ago.

Gueryn called it the Magician in honor of Fergys Thirsk, who had designed the maneuver and used it to devastating effect in many battles. The older soldier had counseled Wyl on it, claiming only the very skilled in swordsmanship could make it work in a true battle situation—or would have the courage to use it. It needed constant calculation and readjustment depending on the opponent, and many in the heat of the fight could forget one of the tightly woven moves that made it such a formidable trick.

“Its purpose is to confuse.” Gueryn had said during their private practice of this piece of art.

And Wyl would use the Magician to daunting effect now.

He audaciously threw his sword from his right hand to his left. Unbalanced by the curious move, Celimus hesitated. Wyl thrust and the Prince only just blocked in time, but the move pushed him off balance in the other direction. Wyl kept tossing his sword from hand to hand, seizing every opportunity in between to strike. Suddenly it was all Celimus could do to defend and keep stepping away from this blitz of frustrating, seemingly random strokes from both sides.

Wyl could hear the breath coming hard from the Prince now. With one final toss to his left hand he brought his sword from that side, slamming hard from the Prince’s right, intending to slash across his fighting arm. Celimus was dazzlingly fast though, and at the last second countered, their swords shuddering to a halt, crossed in front of their grimacing expressions.

It was now simply a test of strength.

Their faces were almost touching as they bent against each other.

“Yield,” Celimus whispered hoarsely.

“Go to hell!” Wyl replied.

“Yield to me now or those you love will die. Make it look good, for I shall start with le Gant.” The unexpected threat hit Wyl so harshly that his shocked reaction was immediate. He feigned a trip, stumbling away from the Prince and dropping his sword in the process. The arena was silent. Everyone held their breath, wondering how the General, after such a brilliant display, could be so suddenly clumsy.

“Good decision. Thirsk,” the Prince uttered just loud enough for his opponent to hear. He smiled broadly before whipping his sword expertly from the top of Wyl’s shoulder in a diagonal stroke across his body.

Through the rent in Wyl’s shirt bright red bloomed.

“First blood!” Celimus called proudly and encouraged the crowd to honor his achievement.

In their bewilderment, they did. throwing their caps into the air and cheering wildly, although not one soldier present joined the celebration. Their eyes instead lingered on the anguished figure of their General.

Gueryn was first at Wyl’s side. He knew the cut was a surface one. exquisitely laid for maximum visual impact. Wyl would wear the scar forever but the stinging cut would no more threaten his life than would the prick of a rose thorn.

“Do what you must.” he urged Wyl.

Wyl gathered his fractured thoughts and found the wherewithal to bow to his opponent, pick up his weapon, and then touch swords once again to lips and blades. It signaled the end of the contest.

Celimus began to strut around accepting the accolades.

“He said he’d kill you if I didn’t yield.” Wyl groaned, shaking his head with despair.

“I expected something like this.” Gueryn admitted as the master of ceremonies began speaking. “Come on.”

“Your majesty.” the announcer said, bowing to Magnus, who barely acknowledged it. “My Prince”—he turned, bowing now to Celimus. “My lords, ladies, and all gathered here for this festive occasion. I ask you once again to show your appreciation for the most impressive display of swordsmanship I think any of us will ever witness. I’m sure you’ll agree that if this is the standard of our young Morgravian warriors, then Briavel and all who challenge us had better think twice!” The crowd erupted at the deliberately provocative words. When the noise had died down a little, the man continued. “As you know, there is a special reward for the winner of this particular contest.” A murmuring broke out among the crowd. “Prince Celimus, with the permission of his majesty King Magnus, has reinstated the ancient rite of the claim to Virgin Blood.” The murmurs turned into discussion. Ylena felt her knees tremble as Celimus slyly glanced in her direction. The cool air surrounding his hot body had caused a gentle drift of steam to lift from him and he stood, proud and regal, his shirt opened to reveal his broad, hairless chest. Ylena was not the only one to notice his disheveled and yet still sensuous appearance. She was, however, one of very few—perhaps the only one. in fact—among the ladies of the court that day who did not feel her blood stir at the sight of this beautiful man.

The master of ceremonies had finished his explanation of the rite: “…which now leaves me with nothing more to say than to invite our esteemed Prince Celimus to make his choice,” he concluded.

Wyl, hardly noticing the burning sensation from the slash on his body, glanced cautiously towards Alyd.

Celimus quietened the excited crowd. “This is a difficult choice for me. Cast your eyes among the beautiful young women of the court and you will see that every one of them defies being ignored,” he said grandly.

Magnus, exhausted and sorrowful at how things had turned out, looked at the square of linen on the grass. He could put a stop to this incident by simply raising a hand, but after his death there would be no one to stop his son and he must consider the repercussions of humiliating Celimus. Magnus knew he would most likely be dead within days, perhaps this very night. He needed to pass on Morgravia in a strong state. If he overruled Celimus now, who knew what might occur and who else—including Valor of Briavel—might consider it plausible to attack when the boy was still vulnerable. No, he needed to hold his tongue and allow this terrible event to take its course. Celimus must ascend to the throne feeling invincible. He was popular with the people after this most public victory; it would be prudent, for the time being, to let sleeping dogs lie. Despite Magnus’s own misgivings about the outcome of this contest, if Wyl was going to stage a coup then it must be his own decision and happen in his own time frame. Only Morgravia mattered now, and this would be the old King’s final sacrifice for his realm. He prayed it would be the only time Celimus would employ the old rite. Yet, as powerless as he felt, Magnus reached toward a way he might ease the balance of power between new King and General in the light of this contest. Wyl would not be easily consoled should Celimus unwisely select Ylena as his prize. Magnus left his ruminations and returned his attention to Celimus’s gallant speech.

“…and so may I ask for the indulgence and indeed forgiveness of all of these adorable young ladies today that I can’t choose each and every one of them.” The Prince grinned, his arms sweeping across the platform where the nobility sat and enjoyed the titter of amusement from the girls who had clearly gone to some pains—or at least their social-climbing mothers had—to make themselves as alluring as possible.