Shadow Over Kiriath (32 page)
“Well,” he said, handing over the book. “Apparently she thinks Leyton is out to use this match to demonstrate my worthiness to marry his sister. . . .”
“What?” Trap scanned the passages himself, then looked up with a frown. “You think he’ll want to cancel the treaty if you fail?”
“I have no idea. Maddie seems to think my winning is important, though.”
Trap handed back both note and book. “Well, then, I guess you’d better hang on to your blade.”
When Abramm arrived at the Hall of Fence that afternoon, he was unpleasantly surprised to find the high-ceilinged main hall set up to accommodate his match, rather than the smaller, more private side chamber he’d requested. In fact, he was quietly furious, for it constituted a direct disobedience of his orders.
Tiered seating had been set up on three sides of the long oval ring—two short banks, one long—the opposite long side lined with tall windows opened to let in both breeze and light. More tiered platforms stood outside against a backdrop of birches sparkling with new spring growth. Over an hour before the match was to start, spectators already filled the benches.
But to make a scene now by demanding the venue be moved to a smaller facility would only compromise the dignity of his office and disappoint his courtiers. He would find out who was responsible for this later—he already had a good idea—and have it out with him in private. Thus he slipped into his changing room without comment, trading cloak and doublet for his white fencing breeches and loose, long-sleeved shirt. Then he started through his warm-up exercises.
When he finally reemerged, supporters lined his path to the ring, offering encouragement and affirmations of their confidence in him, seeming to have forgotten he’d recently been wounded in the fight with Rennalf of Balmark, not to mention the still-lingering damage done by the morwhol. The Chesedhans struggled not to laugh at what they saw as Kiriathan hubris, while Abramm’s supporters scorned them as ignorant fools. It all reminded him ironically of his days in the Games when the fierce rivalry between fighters’ supporters often carried a political subtext.
You need to beat him today,
Maddie had written.
He’ll never respect you if you don’t
. Why did it matter if Leyton respected him as a swordsman or not? As Trap had pointed out a few weeks ago, there was much more to being king than waving a sword around. And he couldn’t believe the Chesedhan truly put stock in such superstitious ways of divining a man’s worth as that contest described in Maddie’s book.
Leyton awaited him in the ring, dressed in slim-cut fencing breeches and a leather jerkin slit low at the neckline to reveal his Terstan shieldmark. To Abramm’s surprise, Briellen stood beside him, a folded square of pink cloth resting upon her palms. As Abramm joined them, she dropped him a curtsey.
“Your Highness,” he said. “I’m honored you have come to watch our little practice match.”
“It is my honor to support you, sir,” she replied, bowing her head again before coming out of her curtsey.
Around them people settled swiftly into silence. When the only sounds were the faint rustlings of their incidental movements and the occasional creaking of the platform boards beneath their feet, Briellen straightened her shoulders. Lifting her chin, she pitched her voice loud enough for all to hear and said:
“In ages past, the Princess Ildana, daughter of the great King Morane, was loved by the valiant Barragon, one of her father’s mightiest men. She in turn loved him, to the dismay of the sorcerer Namoni, trusted advisor to the king, who wanted her love for himself. Seeing at last that nothing save death would break the bond between Ildana and her warrior, Namoni raised up a neighboring kingdom to wage war against Morane. Many died, and the situation became grave. Namoni told the king that to prevail he must have the protection of the fabled Orb of Fire, guarded by the dragon that lived in the high passes of the Aranaak.
“As Namoni had known he would, Barragon volunteered to retrieve the precious orb. On the morning he was to leave, Ildana came to him with her token—a scarf woven of Eidon’s Light. Imbued with her love for him, it would protect him and grant him success. And so it did, for though his battle with the dragon was fierce, the scarf brought him back to her unharmed, and they were wed. So it was that ever after a lady gives to her beloved a similar token before he goes into battle . . . that he might be strengthened by her love and come back to her whole.
“Thus I present to you, my betrothed, a token of
my
love and respect, that you might have success in battle today and return to me whole.” She held out the folded square of pink, then turned her hand, holding on to a pinch of it so that the long swath of silk slithered almost to the ground. It shimmered with a translucent, light-glazed opalescence, edged all round with fine lace.
He took it reluctantly, his nape crawling. What
was
this about? Briellen’s story was far too grandiose for this proceeding and didn’t seem to fit with Maddie’s trial of worthiness by combat scenario, either.
Not knowing what else to do, he gave her a short bow. “Thank you, my lady. I shall do my best to be worthy of it.”
She dropped him another curtsey and then, as the audience applauded, made her way into the royal box set up for her and her ladies. Abramm stood motionless, wondering what to do with her token. He’d stuffed Maddie’s into his jerkin, but that hardly seemed appropriate here. Nor did setting it on the bench. Finally he decided to tie it around his waist. It was long enough he could almost wrap it three times round, but he settled for twice, tying it off and tucking in the ends so they wouldn’t get in the way.
Then, at last, the contest began.
The combatants donned the padded canvas vests they always wore for practice matches, then moved to the center of the ring, where they gave each other a perfunctory bow and assumed their ready positions. Abramm brought his rapier up to meet Leyton’s, his heart pounding like a novice’s. The blades were dull, of course, the tips blunted, but they were still long, narrow rods of steel capable of delivering significant injury. He remained unsure of Leyton’s purpose in this, and that little presentation about wars and dragons and scarves of protection hardly eased his mind.
Still, what could the Chesedhan prince hope to gain by killing the king of Kiriath in front of more than half his court? He’d be killed himself on the spot and the two countries set at war in a heartbeat. So it couldn’t be that.
In any case, at least Trap had taken to working him harder of late, so maybe he wouldn’t humiliate himself as badly as he might have earlier.
His opponent began to circle. Warily, Abramm followed his lead. Leyton Donavan had a solid well-built frame, a little on the bulky side, but he moved with the strength and grace of a natural athlete. The façade of social pleasantry he had worn since he’d arrived had vanished, and while the man might be a bore, he was without doubt also a warrior. His rugged features had hardened, his eyes glittering with ferocious purpose.
They continued to circle, Abramm content to stay out of the line of attack, giving himself time to calm down. Behind Leyton’s half-crouched form, the long wall of windows with their backdrop of sunlit trees gave way to the tiered spectators’ gallery at the ovoid arena’s end. It, in turn, gave way to the longer stretch of gallery opposite the windows and then the other shorter bank of seats and faces beneath a large chandelier. And now, here came the windows again, the pattern repeating as he continued to turn: short gallery, long one, short one, windows . . .
Leyton lunged, the movement sharp and clean, a quick dart in and out. Abramm parried easily and countered with a lunge of his own, diverted just as easily. The tips of their blades wove small circles as the men returned to their slow circling.
Abramm attacked first this time, Leyton blocking and counterthrusting, and they parted again. Circled, clashed, parted again. And again, as the match warmed and they shed their initial tentativeness. Thrusts and counterthrusts came quickly, forcefully, and it wasn’t long before Abramm noted he had adopted the sideways stance again, almost instinctively, knowing his crippled left hand had little use here. Leyton was too good. And Abramm was just good enough to hold him at bay with right hand and long blade alone.
“Weakening already, sir?” Leyton purred. “When we’ve hardly begun?”
Abramm blinked in surprise, barely managing to parry the incoming thrust.
His opponent smiled. “I knew this was going to be easy. I just didn’t expect it to be over this quickly.”
So the Chesedhan was a goader. Well, that was hardly a surprise.
His future brother-in-law rushed him, forcing him backward with a quick barrage of strokes that ended as suddenly as it had begun. Once more they circled. Leyton smiled and spoke again, but Abramm hardly heard him, having long ago learned not to react to empty talk—Beltha’adi himself had tried it and failed. Around and around went the windows and spectators and chandelier. His left hip ached, while the muscles in his recently healed right thigh quivered with the fatigue of repeated lunges, already beginning to cramp.
He thrust quickly, found his blade caught by the other’s dagger, and then here came the counterthrust. His own short blade caught it, and he gripped the haft hard to keep hold of it, but the pain shot up his arm anyway. Then his hand went numb and the dagger spun free. He twisted sideways, out of range, and contact ended.
He heard the gasps of the spectators around him, felt their chagrin and their pity. Across from him, Leyton smiled, dark eyes mocking. Abramm only shrugged inwardly—he’d expected to lose the dagger eventually—and kept his concentration fixed on the task at hand.
Donavan struck again and again, seeming to grow frustrated after a while with only the narrow profile of Abramm’s form as a target combined with a blade that darted every which direction, catching him in whatever he sought to do. Thus, for a time Abramm held his own. But eventually fatigue wore him down.
Finally Leyton lunged and, when Abramm parried, turned his blade to slide the tip through the woven metal basket protecting Abramm’s hand. Pain lanced across Abramm’s knuckles but did not loosen his grip, and when Leyton tried to flip his blade away, Abramm yielded with the movement as he twisted his wrist to catch the Chesedhan’s basket with his own sword tip. Once the two blades were locked, he jerked his arm up and out, swinging his body back to avoid the other man’s dagger, and they slid apart. Leyton attacked at once, coming around with the dagger. Abramm caught it, and realized his mistake instantly, too late to correct. The dulled point of the Chesedhan’s long blade pressed into the canvas over his heart, and he froze.
Leyton grinned at him, his face running with sweat. Abramm glanced down at his chest, then lifted his arms out and away, blade up and stepped back out of contact. “Congratulations, sir,” he panted. “You’ve beaten me.”
But at least you didn’t disarm me
. For the first time he felt the sweat dripping alongside his own face, felt the soaked fabric of his fencing shirt clinging to his chest under the canvas vest and the wicked throbbing of his hip and leg.
Donavan, panting just as hard, lowered his own blades and received his congratulations with a nod. His rugged face was flushed, his blond hair plastered to his skull, but there was a light in his eye that said he would have crowed aloud if he’d beaten anyone other than the king. “You certainly didn’t make it easy for me, sir,” he offered by way of condolence.
Abramm received the words with a half smile, lowering his rapier to his side. “I thank you for the workout, sir.” With that he bowed and strode to the side of the arena, where Headmaster Tedron handed him a towel to wipe his face and servants unfastened the canvas vest. There was no way to ignore the silent shock of the crowd as it watched him.
Well, he’d had a good idea how this would end, and they had, too, for all they’d tried not to believe it. The White Pretender was only mortal, and he’d done the best he could. But it was still embarrassing, and shame still clawed at the back of his throat. He knew all too well that no matter what your past accomplishments in the ring, you were remembered by the last thing you did in it. If that was lose, well . . .
I probably shouldn’t have let myself get talked into this . . . or at least not gone ahead with it in front of everyone after I’d given express orders to use one of the smaller rooms
.
His anger rekindled at that thought. He stopped beside one of the servants. “Tell Count Blackwell I’ll see him in my apartments in an hour.”
As the man slipped off to obey, Abramm glanced at Briellen, sitting in her box at the bottom middle of the long gallery of spectators. She was looking at her brother, so it was another’s eye he caught—Maddie’s. His heart leaped at the sight of her, for he hadn’t expected she would be here. Standing in the box with her sister and her sister’s ladies, she was the only one who had turned away from Leyton to watch Abramm leave and did not look nearly as disappointed as he thought she should. Indeed, the approval in her expression did much to take the sting out of his own disappointment. He considered going over to her, but even as he did, she turned and slipped behind Briellen, her determination to avoid him obvious. Which generated a new and completely different sense of disappointment.
With a cabinet meeting to prepare for and no further reason to linger, he bathed quickly, changed back into his court clothing, and returned to the royal apartments well within the hour he had given himself. While he waited for Blackwell, he stood in his study, fingering the fine lace and silken weave of Briellen’s scarf and admiring the way the light rippled across it.
He’d brought the token back personally, in case she might find it insulting were he to leave it behind with his sweat-soaked fencing apparel—though the scarf was sweat-soaked, as well. As he studied it now, he recalled all that production before the match. He was still no wiser as to what it was about than he’d been at the start, but he didn’t believe for a moment Briellen had given him this for love.
