The Crow's Cry

Anlaida had little stomach for feasting the next night. She did her best to make conversation with the younger noblewomen, but Belaine was with them, and her sharp comments finally caused Anlaida to excuse herself. The jabs about this being Soldor’s “first marriage” were too much for her to tolerate.

She saw Arran and Lirath leaning against the wall of the house. Both were laughing. She did not want to spoil their fun, but neither did she want to stand alone. So she crossed the lawn and went over to them.

Lirath greeted her with a wink. “I’m sure that you didn’t really want to leave the lovely and gracious ladies of Axelarre, so I’m grateful for your company.”

“I assume you’re through with enjoying Belaine’s?” Arran asked her.

Anlaida flushed, but laughed. “Yes, if you can call it ‘enjoying’. She’s in full form tonight.”

“Anyway, back to the performance,” Lirath said. “I’m offering Arran some much-needed lessons in etiquette.”

“I’m very grateful,” Anlaida said, with affected primness. “He really does not understand how to behave in civil society.”

“Quite,” said Lirath. “And that’s another thing, Arran. No nicknames. This isn’t your precious Northland.”

“Sign names,” Arran corrected. “We name after looks, occupation, or behavior. Thus, in the Northland, I’m Arran Crow. You would be Lirath Scribe’s-hand, and Belaine would be Belaine the Pain.”

Anlaida’s mouth burst, and her laughter spilled out. “Arran, you’ve been with Lirath too long. You never talk like this.”

“Me?” Lirath faced her with his most serious expression. “As Arran noted, I am known for being studious, serious, and steadfast—”

Anlaida doubled over with laughter, remembered that she was being unladylike, straightened up, saw Lirath’s expression, and doubled over again.

“Northlanders,” said Lirath. “As I was saying, sign names are inappropriate. You’re both proving my point. Anlaida, assume an appropriate posture and put a book on your head.”

Anlaida coughed out her last laugh and leaned back against the wall.

“All right, no sign names,” said Arran. “But if I get tired of lawn parties and decide to hunt some wild horses instead—”

Lirath shook his head in distaste. “You may have a chance to go boar hunting, though.”

“Boar hun—” Arran began, then stopped. “Here?”

Lirath nodded.

“But Denath thinks hunting is degraded or something.”

“I know, but I heard him talking about having a hunt within the next two weeks,” said Lirath. “Entertainment for the guests, you know. Most Midlanders don’t share Denath’s views on hunting—or on a lot of other things.”

“But—Denath doesn’t know how to hunt boar,” Anlaida objected. “How could he lead?”

“He probably employs huntsmen,” Arran began, but shouts from across the lawn interrupted him.

“You put up all these Denna-trappings, and then call me a foreigner? Are you mad?”

“Then don’t insult my punch!”

Lirath rubbed his temples. “Is your uncle this loud when he’s home?”

“Yes,” Anlaida said. “But he and Denath have a special relationship, as I’m sure you can tell.” Even across the lawn, she could see her cousin Gavon rolling his eyes at the dispute, which was growing louder.

Lirath sighed. “I think I hear my bed calling my name—whispering it, mind you. Unlike some people.”

They bid him good night, but neither one moved. They were too interested in the results of the argument. Kalon and Denath grew louder.

Arran shook his head. “I’m beginning to think that punch must have been too strong.”

“And that Kalon was drinking too much of it, whether he disliked it or no.” Anlaida was relieved when Gavon finally separated the two, mouthing an apology to Denath as he led his father away. “Soldor is going to be glad that he lives so far from his father-in-law.”

“He probably is already,” Arran said.

The other nobles, disturbed by the argument, began drifting toward their rooms. Arran turned his face toward the sky, dark and open above the trees.

“What do you see?” Anlaida asked him.

He was quiet for a moment, staring. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“It’s cloudy tonight,” Anlaida suggested.

He shook his head and turned to follow the others. “The stars are dim here. I’m tired, Anlaida. And it’s late.”
 
One week later, Denath scheduled a hunt—yet another way for him to demonstrate his own importance. Soldor went reluctantly. In the Northland, hunting was done with dogs. Midlanders used birds instead, and he was unaccustomed to the techniques involved. Arran would have voiced a similar objection—the hunting he had done with the People was done by human stealth and skill, without the use of any animals at all—but Lirath convinced him to come along. “Leave me alone—with Denath!” he said. “How could you?”

“Not all alone,” Arran said, but he agreed to join the hunt anyway. A boar was set loose in the forest, and most of the male guests mounted their horses and rode out behind Denath, with bows and spears at their sides.

At Denath’s side, however, was a servingman with a golden hawk, which he carried on a heavily gloved forearm. Once they were a mile from Mithras, the man whistled to the bird, which shook its wings, stretched, and launched itself into the sky. The riders followed it for some miles longer as the hawk circled above them, searching the ground with keen dark eyes. At last it screamed and dipped downward, and the servant began calling out instructions. Denath, Soldor, and over half of the others would scatter, following the bird’s lead, and drive the boar back toward the smaller second group, composed of Arran, Kalon, Gavon, and roughly ten others.

The hawk darted quickly downward and then up, like a golden fish in the blue garden pond behind Denath’s house. But its scream recalled battle to Arran’s mind. He drew an arrow from the quiver that had been given to him and examined it. It was poorly made, but hopefully would fly well enough if needed. But perhaps he would not need it. Boars could be violent—far more so than any animal in the northern lands, save the wyrms that lived in rock crevices far beyond the plateaus that the People had made their home.

The other men seemed to know what to do by instinct. They spread out in a line, waiting, spears held in front of them. Arran copied their posture as best he could. Ronag had trained him to use battle spears, of course, but not on horseback.

For a time they sat still, the horses champing their bits and shuffling. Scattered shouts from the wood arrested their attention from time to time, but they conveyed nothing to the small group of hunters. Arran put a hand over his eyes and looked into the sky. The hawk was far from them now, circling. He sighed and lowered his head. A breeze tossed the ferns against his horse’s knees. The animal stamped and swished its tail.

The bird’s scream jolted them all. Arran turned his face to the sky again, but the golden hawk had disappeared.

“Ready!” shouted Baroth, lord of Palladrim. He waited at the end of their line, to the left, while Corath of Valessa bounded the line’s right end. Arran sat next to Corath, with fingers clenched around his spear-shaft.

There was yelling in the woods—Denath’s voice the loudest—and then cracking sounds, the bones of a hundred trees breaking. Arran heard the horses’ hooves pounding the earth, and the boar burst from the bushes, with Denath, his servant, and two other noblemen close behind. The boar foamed at the mouth, leaving white residue on its yellowed tusks. It was a huge animal for its kind, and it bellowed as it bounded forward.

“Close in!” Denath’s servant called. The line of spearmen moved forward in a semi-circle, spears extended.

Denath’s servant raised his bow and shot an arrow toward the boar, but he missed. The arrow landed left of the boar, and it charged to the right—straight toward Arran. He aimed the spear at it, but his horse sidestepped, and his balance was off. The spear drove harmlessly into the fern, and the boar, furious now, slammed into the legs of the panicked horse.

The world began to slide. Arran tried to leap clear of the collapsing horse, but his foot tangled in the stirrup. He landed in the ferns with the horse on top of his right leg.

“Spears! Spears!” Baroth cried somewhere over Arran’s head. Arran could hear the boar bellowing again, and then he saw it charge Corath. Corath’s aim was good, but the boar twisted as he threw. The spear clipped the animal’s side, leaving a bloody streak, but did no other damage. Weaponless now, Corath backed his horse away.

Arran’s horse screamed and lunged, trying to stand. The creature’s legs were broken, but it at least moved enough for Arran to free his leg. It throbbed, but he struggled to his knees.

The servant galloped toward the boar, barging ahead of the other hunters. Desperate now, the boar wheeled to find a route of escape. And, Arran saw, he was directly in the way.

Arran stumbled to his feet, limping, but upright. The boar. The boar was—

It was charging him. He looked for his spear, but it must have been crushed beneath his horse’s bulk. Corath’s spear was hidden somewhere in the fern. Arran drew his knife, hoping that another rider would distract the boar.

Baroth tried, but his horse tangled with another, blocking the way. Denath shouted insults at the boar, which did absolutely nothing. Corath removed his boot and flung it at the beast, distracting it for a second. Someone released an arrow toward the boar but overshot. The arrow landed in front of Arran, and the boar turned its narrow eyes back to him.

If I run, Arran thought, he’ll only kill me from behind. He drew his knife and waited until the beast was within ten rods of him, then flung it at the animal’s face.

The knife tore across the boar’s head, slashing one of its eyes. The animal screamed in pain, but it did not stop. Arran scrambled toward his thrashing horse and flung himself onto it. The boar’s tusks missed him by inches, but the weight of the animal landed against the back of his legs. He and the boar fell into the fern together. Arran ducked his head away from its flailing hooves and shoved it off of him.

But the boar was faster than Arran expected. He had only struggled to his knees before the bleeding animal was on him again. Throwing himself to the turf, he barely evaded the boar’s tusks.

Denath was shouting somewhere above him. “Shoot it! Come on, man!”

Arran thrust at the boar’s chest with both hands and struggled into a sitting position. The boar bellowed again, but Arran thought he saw one of the riders drawing a bow. Only a few more seconds, he thought. But then the boar hurled itself at him again, and his chest hurt, and the woods became very quiet.
________________________


Two hunters—Baroth of Palladrim and one of the lesser nobles from Gathraine—trotted through the gate with a dead boar suspended from a pole between them. Anlaida, nines’-ball in hand, looked up from her place on the lawn. She meant to shout her congratulations. But the faces of the two men were set like granite.

Lirath broke through the gate next and galloped up to her. He slid off of his horse and ignored it, focusing on her face. “Anlaida—Arran—”

“What?” she gasped, hot with the realization that something was terribly, horribly wrong. “Where is he?”

“He’s alive,” Lirath said, his voice strained. “There was an accident. The boar—”

She stumbled away from him, toward the gates. Lirath caught her arm. “Anlaida, try to be calm. We’ve got to leave him alone until the physician comes. Corath is fetching him.”

Four riders passed through the gates, a makeshift stretcher suspended between them.

“What happened?” Anlaida cried out, straining toward them.

But Lirath held her. “The boar knocked Arran’s horse down. It went for Arran then. We couldn’t reach him quickly enough. Denath’s servingman tried to shoot it. He shot Arran instead.”

“And the boar—”

“Baroth killed it with his spear,” Lirath said.

Anlaida stared after the stretcher. She could not see Arran, not even his head. “How bad is he?”

“The physician will tell us.”

“Lirath,” she said. “Tell me the truth.”

Lirath’s hand on her wrist was shaking. He released her and drew his hand back to his side. “It hit him in the chest. I think it went deep. He may die. But not yet.”

Anlaida stepped forward. Her limbs seemed to creak like the axle of a carriage. And axles, she thought, can be broken.

“Let’s find Soldor,” Lirath said. He lifted her onto his horse’s back and heaved up behind her.

Anlaida stared ahead. The hunters were returning, clustered in sober twos and threes. She blinked and saw him—Soldor, his face twisted like the roots of an old tree. He broke away from the others and rode across the lawn to meet them. He did not speak. She did not think he could. But he reached across the space between their horses and touched her hand. She pressed his fingers in hers.

Lirath nudged his horse toward the house, and Soldor followed. At the steps he dismounted and helped her down. Soldor slid onto the stones. The reins were in his hands, but he forgot them, and Lirath pried them from his fingers. “I’ll come back,” he said to Anlaida. “He’s a fighter. Don’t lose heart.”

Lirath flung himself into his saddle and pulled Soldor’s horse away toward the stables.
 
Zella said:
Oh, my!:eek: I did not expect that.:(
Click to expand...

It surprised you because it surprised me. I really didn't expect that to happen, but once the idea occurred to me, it was inevitable. :rolleyes:
_______________________


Anlaida shut the door and stepped into the hall. Arran was alive. Whether he remained so was anyone's guess. He did not look conscious, and the physician feared that having too many people in the room could prove fatal. His definition of "too many people" was anything over one--himself.

Lirath’s head snapped up. He sat on an over-decorated chair of Denath’s along the wall, picking at a tassel. “What does the physician say?”

“Very little.” Anlaida leaned back against the wood paneling beside him. Lirath stood and offered her his chair, but she declined. “He told me that the arrow did not strike anything vital, but that the next two or three days are critical.”

“Soldor’s off haranguing Denath about the servant who did it,” Lirath said. “I was pretty far off when Arran was hurt, but close enough to see what happened. If Arran dies, he should be flogged for manslaughter, if not hanged outright. That shot was inexcusably careless.”

“But the boar was on Arran,” Anlaida said.

“The man’s a forrester—probably an expert shot,” Lirath countered. “The boar’s entire back is facing him, and what does he hit? Arran.”

Anlaida suddenly dug into her palm with her thumbnail. “Did Soldor see what happened?”

“He was too far away.”

“Come on,” she said. “We need to talk.”

“We are talking.”

“I mean,” she said, “with Soldor.”

They heard him before they saw him. He and Denath were in the library, their voices bouncing harshly off its high ceiling.

“I fired him, Soldor. It was an honest mistake—”

“My brother is dying. Honest mistake or no, it’s manslaughter!”

“Your half-brother,” Denath said dryly, “isn’t dead yet. I can’t punish my servant—former servant, at that—for something that hasn’t happened.“

Anlaida stepped into the doorway, and both men immediately stopped and stared at her. “Soldor, he’s right,” she said. “Let it rest. Can I talk to you?”

“No—that is—of—of course.” Soldor threw a meaningful glance at Denath and then followed Anlaida from the room.

“So,” Lirath said quietly, “where are we going?”

“For a walk,” Anlaida said. “Outside.”

They left Denath’s walls by the small side gate that Lirath and Arran had used several weeks before. Once they were knee-deep in fern, Anlaida turned to Lirath. “Tell him.”

Lirath briefly told what he had seen. “It was inexcusable,” he finished. “I don’t understand how a trained hunter could have made such an idiotic mistake.”

Anlaida looked up at her brother. “Unless it wasn’t a mistake.”

Soldor slapped a hand against his head. “Stupid! I’m not the only one they want. And Arran isn’t getting married.”

Lirath stared at him. “You’re saying someone was trying to kill him.”

“They tried in the Northland to kill both of us,” Soldor said. “Anlaida overheard them in the garden—they won’t kill me until my marriage. But that wouldn’t stop them from going after Arran. I thought we were safe for a few weeks. But from what you said, Arran’s accident could well not have been an accident.”

“But the boar did attack him. You saw it.”

“Only the aftermath,” said Soldor. “But the boar could have been a convenient way to make an intended hunting accident appear genuine.”

“But you don’t have any serious enemies. Who would want both of you dead?” Lirath asked.

“My uncle Kalon stands the most to gain. But he wasn’t one of the two men Anlaida heard talking.”

“The younger man had gone after Soldor in the Northland,” she said. “The older man was planning to kill Soldor after his marriage. They joined forces and decided on the older man’s plan. But if their plans truly were merged, then we should have expected them to come after Arran.”

Lirath bent down and plucked a fern from the forest floor. He straightened, absentmindedly toying with its fronds. “Doesn’t Kalon have two sons?”

“Yes. Gavon and Rath,” Anlaida said. “Are you suggesting that—?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Lirath asked. “That if Kalon wanted the barony, he would enlist the help of his sons?”

“Rath wouldn’t be involved,” Soldor said. “He’s still a boy. But Gavon, on the other hand, is an adult—and Fourth Heir, at that.”

“He was there the day that the carriage axle would have been broken,” Anlaida said. “With Kalon’s hunting party.”

“I didn’t see him,” Soldor countered.

“But Kalon mentioned him getting sidetracked or something. He wasn’t with Kalon when we met him, but Gavon was at Jadoth.” Anlaida lifted her skirts as she climbed over a fallen log. “I can’t identify the two men by their voices, but the younger one could have been Gavon. And he could easily have paid off Denath’s servant. One of our guardsmen was bought that way last fall.”

“What about the older man?” asked Lirath.

“I don’t know,” she said. “That he wanted the marriage to go forward is strange in itself. A jealous suitor wouldn’t do that.”

“Unless he was refused outright by Denath and thought that Linnerill would have more freedom once she left her father’s house.” Lirath shrugged.

Soldor appeared irritated by the suggestion of a rival. “What is this, some sort of melodramatic ballad?”

“Did Linnerill have other suitors besides you?” Anlaida asked.

“I don’t know. ‘Former suitors’ isn’t exactly an appropriate topic for a friendly conversation with your betrothed.”

“Soldor, you’re pouting.”

He scowled. “I don’t pout. I glare steadfastly.”

“Does Denath know about the situation?” Lirath asked. “It’s his man who was probably bought off, and his house that isn’t safe at the moment.”

The annoyed pull at Soldor’s lips faded. “I’d rather keep the situation quiet. Denath could do very little even if he did know. Lirath, I’m holding you to this. Do not tell anyone.”

“My father might know how to help you,” Lirath said.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Do not tell anyone,” Soldor warned.

Lirath hesitated, his jaw working. “All right,” he said at last. “But if there’s another attempt at violence—or if Arran dies—I’m talking to my father.”

“All right,” said Soldor. “As you say.”
 
Anlaida thought that she would have to fight her way into Arran’s bedroom, but Bryn had done that job for her. He sat beside Arran’s bed while the physician, thin and prune-mouthed, watched from a corner.

“The wound heals,” he said to Anlaida. “But he is weak and feverish.”

Anlaida pulled a chair from the wall and set it beside Bryn. It was a full two days since Arran’s wounding. “Where is Mostaras?”

“Weary,” he said. “She watched over him last night. I sent her to sleep.”

“You should have called me.”

He shook his head. “Mostaras went to your room, but she could not wake you. You needed sleep then as surely as she does now.”

“Do you think—?” She could not finish her thought.

“He’ll die if he isn’t left alone,” the physician grumbled from the corner. “Quiet and rest is what he needs, and he’s getting precious little of either.”

She spoke softly to Bryn. “I do not think it is wise to leave him alone.”

“We will talk more,” Bryn said softly. “Later, when there is someone else to keep watch.”

They sat by Arran’s side with the physician stubbornly engrafted into the wall of the room. Hours passed. Arran’s body was covered by woven blankets. Only his face showed, bloodless, above the blankets. There was almost a silver sheen to his skin, and Anlaida wondered if it meant death.

He stirred once, clawing at the blankets with his right hand. The physician detached himself from the wall and rushed to the bedside. “Hold him! He’ll break the stitches.”

Anlaida reached for Arran’s hand, but already it was limp. She laid it by his side and pulled the blankets back over him.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, and the door creaked. Denath stuck his head inside the room. “How is he?” The question was meant for the physician.

“Poorly,” the physician said. “I can do nothing.”

“Stay with him,” Denath said. He looked at Anlaida and Bryn. “You should rest.”

“Later,” Bryn said. “If he is to die, one of us should be here.” He drilled his blue gaze into Denath, who glanced quickly at the floor.

“Of course,” Denath said, recovering himself and meeting Bryn’s eyes. “As you say.”

“Does Soldor intend to continue with the wedding on schedule?” Bryn asked. “I haven’t spoken with him since yesterday, and he was in no mood to make decisions then.”

“I believe,” Denath said, “that he will postpone the nuptials until Arran either dies or recovers. I hope,” he added, “that it will be the latter. And soon. My daughter cannot wait forever.”

He left.

Bryn scowled at the physician, who had re-affixed himself to the wall. “I want you to leave,” he said. “You can do nothing.”

“I cannot leave him to die unaided,” the thin man said. “Lord Denath said—”

“I don’t care,” Bryn growled, “what Lord Denath said. “This is my brother who is dying, and my sister who worries over him. You have no such claim. Leave us.”

But the physician did not move. He could not meet Bryn’s gaze, but he stayed in the corner. Anlaida could see that Bryn was contemplating whether to fling the fellow out, but he held back and turned bent over Arran. “Live, little brother,” he whispered.

Arran’s eyelids fluttered, but he did not open them. They were a dark smudge against his grey cheekbones. But then Anlaida shook her head. Not grey—not yet. Silver.
 
Mostaras came in several hours later, and Anlaida left with Bryn, going into a side room where they would not be overheard. She told him what she had told Lirath and found that he was unsurprised.

“I had wondered,” he said. “Hunting accidents happen, but they are also easy enough to fake. Particularly if you have a servant to blame for the mess. That’s why I don’t want Arran left alone.”

“You’re afraid that someone would come in and murder him?”

“Perhaps.” He leaned against the wall, looking at the closed door. “We cannot know for sure. But I do not want to take chances.”

There were faint blue marks under his eyes, almost like bruises. “Go get some sleep,” Anlaida said. “I’ll sit with Mostaras.”

He turned toward the door but hesitated. “Do you have a weapon?”

“You think that—”

Pushing his coat aside, he unbuckled his belt and slid off a dagger in its sheath. “Will this fit in your pocket?”

“Not without ripping it out,” Anlaida said. “Is Mostaras armed?”

“Not yet,” he said. “She will be. Could you wear a belt, or—”

She shook her head and removed the painted scarf from her neck. “I’ll wrap it in this.”

“Loosely,” he warned. “Don’t make its shape obvious. We don’t know who might be watching.”

“I’ll be cautious,” she promised, and opened the door. The hall was empty. Bryn quietly went out, but she stayed in the room and waited for another minute. Let it not be said that they had been talking together.

Mostaras had taken Bryn’s seat, and Anlaida sat down beside her as the physician hurriedly, and loudly, shut the door. “How is he?” asked Mostaras.

“Bryn said that the wound is closing up. But his temperature is high.”

Arran’s face glistened with sweat, which only added to the odd sheen of his skin. Mostaras looked about for water and a cloth but saw none. “His fever needs to be brought down. I’ll only be a minute.”

“He needs to sweat the toxins out of his system,” objected the physician, but Mostaras was already gone by the time he had finished his sentence.

Anlaida hated the sight of Arran’s still features, and the silence of the room, and the thin physician leaning in the corner. She wished that she could sing to Arran, but she could not remember any of the songs he liked. In any case, he might be unable to hear her.

Mostaras returned with a linen rag and a bowl of water. She set the bowl on the small table at Arran’s bedside, dipped the rag into it, and laid it across his forehead. Water dripped from one tip of the cloth. Anlaida squeezed it gently into her right hand, keeping her left firmly on the scarf-wrapped dagger.

Arran’s left foot twitched beneath the blankets. He breathed in deeply—the blankets bulged around his chest—and then sighed. The blankets dropped down again.

Anlaida brushed hair from her face and leaned against her older sister. Time was slow in that room, like an old storyteller who stretched the climax of his tale until the children wondered if the wyrm might kill Amroth after all. And Anlaida, though no child, wished someone could simply tell her how the story would end.

The sun was looking red-eyed and sleepy through the window when Arran opened his eyes. Anlaida did not even notice at first, because he lay so still, but Mostaras did. She cried out softly, and Anlaida heard.

“Arran?” Anlaida asked.

But Arran’s dark eyes seemed to look through her, as if he were searching for something else. “Ronag?” he asked hesitantly. His voice was small and more afraid than Anlaida had ever heard it.

“He isn’t here, Arran. You’re with me and Mostaras.”

“Stars?” he said.

“No. Mostaras.” Anlaida laid a hand on his forehead. He felt like a star himself, burning, burning. “Your half-sister, remember?”

He lay quietly, struggling to understand her words. “My chest hurts,” he said at last.

“You were injured,” Mostaras told him. “Right now you need to rest. Rest and sleep.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, but then opened them again, confusion in his face. “Is my mother well yet?”

Anlaida heard a buzzing in her ears, and she spoke fast and fearfully. “Arran, your mother is gone from this world. Don’t you remember?”

“She needs help,” he mumbled. “Needs my father. Where is father?”

Anlaida stared helplessly at Mostaras. They had both been at Jadoth in Calwen’s last illness, and Anlaida knew Mostaras, too, carried images that she could never forget. Thirteen-year-old Arran running to their father and begging him to come, but being rudely refused. Uliath said that Vara was suffering from a headache and that he could not come. Arran needed to think of someone other than himself. Arran had pleaded, grabbing his father’s arm. Uliath, angered, struck him across the face. Arran had flown from the room, and the look in his eyes was one that Anlaida remembered still. After his mother’s death an hour later, he had fled the castle. They had thought him dead.

“Arran—” Anlaida stammered. She had to draw his mind away from that time. It might kill him. “Remember Aurah Adair? The story?”

But Arran closed his eyes again. He was lost in the fever, and Anlaida feared that they might never find him again.
 
Denath’s house was quiet. None of the nobles had yet left. There might still be a wedding, and no one wanted the trouble and expense of extra travelling when Denath offered free room, board, and entertainment. But the entertainment was now at a minimum. As Anlaida paced the halls, she saw men playing cards and women sewing. But no tents or games had been set up on the lawn, and the musicians kept to their quarters.

Arran had woken twice since his fevered ramblings the night before. He seemed lucid but weaker, and his skin still burned beneath her fingertips. The wound might be putrifying, said Denath’s physician. And if it did putrify, Arran’s chances of survival were slim to none.

She stepped into Arran’s room again, restlessly. Soldor sat by the bedside now. He was holding an open book while staring out the window. “Soldor?”

The physician hushed her, but Soldor turned his head. “Mostaras and Bryn were up most of the night. I thought I’d take a turn.”

She sat down beside him, frowning at the silvery translucence of Arran’s skin. “Is he asleep?” she said softly.

Soldor nodded and ducked his head toward his book. Anlaida reached for it and flipped to the title page. Axelarran Drilling: Materials and Methods, it read. She shook her head in disgust. “No wonder you can’t concentrate.”

“I probably couldn’t anyway.” Soldor shut the book and glanced at Arran. “We should have stayed together. He’d never done that sort of hunting, and to do it on horseback—”

“Your guilt can’t heal him,” said Anlaida.

“I know,” he said.

The door creaked, and the physician was off his stool to intercept the visitor. But when Linnerill’s light head appeared in the crack, he backed away and returned to his seat. She came on soft feet, her eyes on Soldor’s.

“How is he?” she asked softly.

“He may die,” said Soldor. “Or he may live. We do not know.”

Linnerill turned suddenly toward the physician. “You see that he is cared for,” she said. For a moment her eyes narrowed like a cat’s, but then her face smoothed, and Linnerill was there again, pale and quiet. She pivoted toward the door and went out as silently as she had come.

Arran tried to turn in bed. Soldor jumped to his feet and pressed Arran’s shoulders to the mattress.

“Not too hard,” said the physician from his corner. “You’ll break the wound open.”

“He’ll break it open anyway if he moves,” Soldor snapped.

“Break what?”

It was Arran’s voice, tired and dark.

“Your stitches,” Anlaida said, patting the blankets down over him. She couldn’t very well hug him in his condition and was trying to find a substitute.

“Oh,” he said. “Where is Bryn?”

“Sleeping, I hope,” said Soldor.

Arran saw Soldor, and his cheek twitched in confusion.

“How do you feel?” Anlaida asked.

“Tired,” Arran said. “I don’t know—” His voice stopped, and he stared at the wall above Anlaida’s head as if his conversation script was painted there. “Was there a moon last night?”

“It’s the new moon,” Anlaida said. “But there were stars.”

He stared at the wall again and closed his eyes. “I’m tired,” he muttered, and said nothing more.


Arran’s fever spiked as the sun spread its blood across the western hills. Anlaida put wet cloths on his forehead, but the water they dripped only mingled with Arran’s sweat on his bedsheets. The physician said that infection was taking hold, and that they could only wait.

Bryn shuffled in sleepily. Mostaras, behind him, came in biting her lip.”Go to bed,” she told Soldor and Anlaida. “We’ll watch the night with him.”

Arran’s eyelids struggled open. “Out,” he said quietly.

“They’re leaving,” Mostaras assured him.

“No.” Arran coughed. “Outside. Take me outside.”

Bryn came awake, his shoulders jerking. “Arran, you need rest.”

“Got to go out.”

“You’re too sick to walk,” Bryn objected.

Arran’s good hand seized Bryn’s shirt. “On the lawn. Please.”

“The night air is not healthy,” observed the physician. “Neither is moving an invalid.”

“Arran, we can’t just drag you through the house and grounds.” Bryn gently detached Arran’s clenched hand from his clothes. “You need to sleep.”

“Can’t. Got to see—”

“Take him out,” Anlaida said suddenly.

Soldor’s forehead wrinkled. “Anlaida, that isn’t wise.”

“He’s right,” she said. “He needs to go outside. The air in here is stuffy anyway.”

Bryn frowned.

“Please.” Her lips wanted to tremble, but she pursed them hard. “He’s dying anyway.”
 
They each hefted a corner of Arran’s mattress—the physician sat in a corner twisting his mouth with a sour smugness—and carried him from the room. The trip had to have hurt him, but he closed his eyes and said nothing. Finally they set him down on the lawn, wet beneath the stars.

He sighed and stared at them, like a feral dog in winter eyeing a wandering mare. He was hungry, starving to see. But the stars shone small and cold as Anlaida looked at them. Only Lossyr, the Evening Star, seemed at all near. But her face was cloaked in silver.

Anlaida heard a strange gasping noise coming from her brother, and she bent over his mattress. Arran was crying.

“I told you we shouldn’t have brought him out here,” Soldor mumbled.

“Pain medicine,” Mostaras said. “He needs—”

“It’s not the pain.” Anlaida sucked at her teeth. “It’s—the stars are bigger in the Northland. Closer. He can’t see them here.”

Soldor shook his head. “Arran’s no weakling.”

“It’s not that, it’s—it’s—” She turned toward Bryn. “You’ve heard the stories.”

Bryn picked at his belt, looking down at Arran’s pinched and tear-wet face. “In Iredail, we still remember the stars,” he said, “though they are dim. It isn’t weakness, Soldor. He’s lived with the barbarians—with one of their wise men, I’m guessing. It’s changed him. He could see them at Jadoth, but here—”

“You’re saying that he’s become some sort of mystic?” Soldor snapped. But Anlaida thought that his anger was more like that of an injured animal than an offended nobleman.

“The word ‘mystic’ can mean many things,” Bryn said. “What I am saying is this. The wise men of the barbarians read the stars, learn their dance. It’s difficult to be unable to see them—I’m willing to guess that Arran hasn’t been enjoying his time at Denath’s.”

“He—mentioned them,” Anlaida said. “Briefly, like he was afraid to talk about it—just before the accident. Or whatever it was.”

“To live without the stars, after having known them, is difficult,” Bryn said. “That would be hard enough, but with a second shock to his system, this really is no surprise. I should have expected it.”

He crouched beside Arran and found Arran’s hand beneath the covers. It was cold, like the stars.

“Do you think—the North Wind will take him?” Anlaida asked, remembering their conversation long ago, when winter had spread itself across the plains near Jadoth.

“Not the North Wind,” Bryn said. “His wound is beginning to heal. But the Evening Star—”

Anlaida looked up at Lossyr where she hung, cloaking herself in silver. “I thought she was kind.”

“She is,” said Bryn. “Ends are not unkind. She guards those who find them.” He cupped Arran’s face in his other hand. “Arran,” he said quietly.

With effort, Arran looked at him.

“Oran’s death was a great loss for his people.” Bryn pressed his gaze into Arran’s as if it were a tourniquet, meant to stanch a flowing wound. “As yours would be. The Sky-father rules all lands. Do not mark his presence by that of his messengers.”

“I’m blind, Bryn,” Arran whispered. “To never see—never learn them—”

Soldor stiffened, but then put a hand against Bryn’s shoulder and nudged him away. He took Arran’s hand. “You—you will see them again.”

Arran’s face wrinkled.

“You are free,” Soldor said. “You may return to the people you have chosen.”

He coughed, blinking. “You mean that—”

“I mean that—I release you. Though I would ask that you be a man of peace. There has been no fighting in months. I ask that you seek to prevent more.” Soldor’s cheeks were hard and tight, and Anlaida knew what it must cost him to say those words.

Arran stared at him, fully awake for the first time in days. “You—you—”

Soldor waited.

“Thank you,” Arran whispered.

“Can we bring you back inside?” Mostaras asked gently, leaning over him.

“Rather—stay out—tonight.”

“I’ll look after him,” Bryn said. “The air may be good for him. But the rest of you need sleep.”

Mostaras might have protested, but something in Bryn’s expression stilled her. She turned toward the house, and Soldor followed her. Anlaida lingered. “Are you sure?” she asked Bryn. “The end has been close.”

“Your room is there, isn’t it?” Bryn asked, pointing to a blue-curtained opening in the house wall. “Leave your window open. If the need is great, I will call you.”

She nodded, and, with a last look at Arran on his mattress, went inside. Her room was still. She propped open the window glass and looked out to the lawn, where she could vaguely see Bryn crouching in the night mirk. At first, she though that she heard him singing. But then his voice became a story, rising and falling against the darkness.

“In the beginning, when the worlds were young, the Sky-lord created one great star. He stood above the world in his robes, silver and golden, watching as men appeared in the south. And he tore strips from his clothing and laid them about the sky, and where they fell, new stars, his children, rose to their feet. The Morning Star was birthed in those days, and she stood in the eastern sky, singing. And her brothers cried out in their joy. But then evil came, and envy grew in the hearts of the stars. And in the late hours of the night they armed themselves, and fought against their father, and overcame him. They forced him to his knees and spit in his face, and then they tore him to bits—not only his robes, but his entire being. Gold and silver were scattered across the skies, and the Morning Star wept as the sunrising neared, for her father was gone, and the light of the stars was dim. But as the light grew, and she grieved, a sound fell on her ears. It was the song that she had voiced in the dawn of the world. And she turned and saw that, wherever her father’s remnants had fallen, new stars had grown—young stars, with no taint upon them. And she led them, Eliane, the oldest. They vanquished the stars that had killed their father and drove them from the heavens. Then the sun rose in the eastern sky, and the lands were golden in its light.”
 
I'm finally caught up! :D I'm excited to see that you're adding updates again. Have you had much time to write recently, or is this all stuff you wrote before but did not get the chance to post?
 
MissReepicheep said:
I'm finally caught up! :D I'm excited to see that you're adding updates again. Have you had much time to write recently, or is this all stuff you wrote before but did not get the chance to post?
Click to expand...

I've had more time to write (not being in school is the main reason), and I have also been pushing myself a little more than usual. I'm hoping to have the story done this August. Glad you were able to catch up. :)
 
When Lirath came to Arran’s room the next morning, he found Arran sleeping. Anlaida, sitting by the bed, placed a finger to her lips.

“Bryn said that the fever broke last night,” she said softly. “He’s resting now.”

Lirath shuffled in quietly and sat down beside Anlaida, ignoring the physician’s stare. “He’ll be all right, then?”

“I hope so,” she said. “If his fever hadn’t broken, he’d have died, I think. But he seems better.”

“Bryn stayed with him?” Lirath set his elbows against his knees, leaning toward Arran.

“Yes—outside.” Anlaida smiled. “Arran’s request. I’m glad that we listened.”

“The next few days are crucial, nonetheless,” the physician said, stepping to the foot of the bed. “Sometimes fever or infection will come back, particularly in severe cases. The death will be very sudden. Often the cause is overexertion—”

“And Arran’s is a severe case?” Lirath interrupted.

The physician nodded, fingering a bedpost. “I’ve mixed a medicine for him—the small cup on the dresser. Would you give it to him when he wakes? I made it as soon as I heard that the fever had broken, and I think it has set long enough to be effective. It should lower any inflammation of the wound.”

“Of course,” Anlaida said. “Are you leaving?”

The thin man shrugged apologetically. “I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. I hope to be back in eight. My bed is in the next room. If anything changes—if the fever returns—wake me immediately.”

Anlaida nodded. “Thank you.”

The physician limped out, and Anlaida smoothed Arran’s blankets. “Are all the nobles still here?”

“Every last one,” Lirath said. “Denath, unfortunately, is among them.”

Anlaida muffled her laugh behind one hand. “He’ll be Soldor’s father-in-law. Will that make him my uncle-in-law?”

“More like your step-father-in-law.” Lirath shook his head. “I hope Arran recovers quickly. I’ve enjoyed the company, but Denath is more than I can stand.”

“He’s a little overbearing,” Anlaida agreed. “He could be worse, though. And my uncle Kalon hasn’t helped matters.”

“It’s just the atmosphere of this place,” said Lirath. “Everything of Denna-make.”

“It’s the fashion.”

“A fashion that Denath has helped to create.”

“There was a time that I would not have cared,” Anlaida said. “I’m not so certain anymore. It’s the first time that I can remember being hosted in Salenna.”

“That does tend to change your perspective on life,” Lirath agreed. “The minstrels sing songs about Denath that are…not polite. But they’re not far from the truth. My father used to do business with Denath when I was a small boy. I would often come along.”

“I’ve never been this far south,” Anlaida said. “Never farther than Pirathol.”

“The capital?” Lirath chuckled.

“However you want to call it. I only remember the smell, and pigs in the streets.”

“Don’t forget the pickpockets,” Arran said quietly.

Anlaida blinked and laughed. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“You’re both loud,” Arran said. But he smiled. His face had lost its silver translucence, and he seemed more alert than he had been in days.

“How do you feel?” Lirath asked.

“Better,” he said. “My chest hurts.”

“I think that’s to be expected.” Anlaida’s hands moved to adjust the coverlet, but stopped when she saw it was already adjusted. “Are you hot? Cold? Thirsty?”

“Thirsty,” he said.

“I’ll get water,” Lirath said, standing.

“I’ll wait to give him the medicine until you’ve come back,” Anlaida said. “I’m sure he’ll need something to wash it down with. The stuff probably tastes like fox musk.”

“Medicine?” Arran asked, as Lirath left the room.

“Some anti-inflammatory herbs,” Anlaida said. “The physician is resting. He said to give the cup to you once you woke.”

Arran looked up at the ceiling. “I barely remember a physician. It’s been—two days since the accident?”

“Four,” Anlaida said. “Assuming that it was an accident.”

He turned his head to her. “I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t see much but the boar.”

“That’s understandable.” Anlaida drew her eyes across him, as if he were a piece of cloth to be measured. He looked weary—there were blue hollows beneath his eyes—but the eyes themselves were dark and clear. “You were outside last night. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” he said. “I—”

But then Lirath’s footsteps echoed in the hall, and the door opened. Lugging a pail of water in one hand, and clutching a dipper in the other, Lirath trudged in. He set the pail down. “Is there an extra pillow? He’d have an easier time drinking if we could prop him up more.”

Anlaida could not find another pillow, but there was an extra quilt. Lirath rolled it up and slipped it beneath Arran’s head. Then he scooped the dipper down into the pail and carried it to Arran, who gulped it down.

“More?” he asked, licking the last droplets from his lips.

“The medicine first,” Anlaida said. She lifted it from it dresser—it was dark and lay like oil in the cup—and carried it to his bed.

Arran sniffed at it. “Anlaida, what did he put in this?”

“Herbs, I think,” she said. “I did not see him mix it. He keeps his medicines in his room. This one is small.”

“I—” Arran wrinkled his nose, trying to smell. “I don’t think I want it, Anlaida.”

“Has he given me this medicine before? When I was in the fever?”

“Not that I know,” she said. “You had trouble drinking anything. What’s the matter, Arran?”

“The smell seems—familiar, somehow.” He frowned.

Anlaida thought that he seemed in his right mind. “I suppose we could wake the physician—”

“No,”Arran said quickly. “Don’t. Does Denath keep animals?”

“Only horses and hawks.” Lirath took the cup from Anlaida. “My father’s mare is old. If the worst happens, he won’t mind.” He pulled the door open. “Don’t wake the physician.” Then he stepped out and shut the door behind him.

Anlaida dipped water from the pail until Arran had drunk his fill. “You had us so worried,” she told him.

He glanced toward the door. “The smell—it reminded me of the black beans back at Jadoth Rock. And the oiliness—”

“You’ve a right to be on edge.” Anlaida stood up, walked to the other side of his bed, tugged on the coverlet, and returned to her seat. “The dresser is such a mess.” She went to it and began rearranging things—there were towels, which she folded and piled, and boxes of odd items, which she began sorting.

Arran watched her, saying nothing. She spent some fifteen minutes organizing, recategorizing, and shuffling objects back and forth. Then she stared at her handiwork and sighed.

“Did you see Lossyr last night?” Arran asked.

She turned toward him. “A little.”

He opened his mouth, and Lirath opened the door. Anlaida’s chin jerked. “Did she—is it—”

Lirath entered and quietly shut the door. “The mare began thrashing. I left a groom with her. I do not think she will last the night.”
 
Soldor whirled into the physician’s chamber like a northern snowstorm, nearly blind in his fury. He reached the physician’s bed, gripped the base, and turned it onto its side, spilling the man and his snowdrift of blankets onto the floor.

“Get up,” said Soldor. His face was white.

“What on earth are you doing?” the physician bellowed, kicking at bedclothes. “You northerners—”

“I’m not a northerner,” said Lirath. He strode up to the physician and tore the bedclothes away.

“Nor I,” said Bryn, stepping into place beside Soldor. “Get up, or you’ll be carried. Kicking and screaming, if you like.”

The physician stumbled to his feet, tugging at his nightshirt. “I have a patient to tend to when I’ve finished resting. You men have no right—”

“When physicians poison their patients,” Soldor growled, “our rights are no longer an issue. Poison has been your master’s weakness since the beginning. He should have warned you.”

The physician drew himself up defiantly. “My medicines may be strong, but I am a physician, not an assassin. I do not understand what you are talking about and insist that you leave my chamber.”

“Show us the medicine you made,” Bryn said. “Prove to us that it was not poison.”

“My ingredients—are use up. I intended to send for more when I woke, but—”

“How conventient for you.” Lirath looked at Soldor. “Will you grab him first, or should I?”

“On the count of three,” Soldor said. “One, two—”

The physician lunged, and they grabbed him. Soldor and Bryn gripped his writhing arms, while Lirath tightened his hold on the man’s legs. Without another word to the would-be assassin, they lugged him down the corridor, up a flight of stairs, around more corners than they bothered to count, and into Denath’s office, where they dumped him on the floor.

Denath started from his chair, ears beginning to redden. “What in the name of Virtue are you doing? Soldor, have you gone mad?”

“No,” said Soldor. “But I fear someone else has. This pathetic excuse for a physician just tried to poison my brother. Thankfully, Arran realized that the drink was bad, or the attempt might have been successful.”

“I gave the medicine to one of our horses.” Lirath’s eyes pierced Denath. “It went into convulsions and died about an hour later. A man would have died within minutes.”

“Surely not,” Denath said. “Men and horses are different creatures.”

“According to Arran, the brew smelled like black beans from the South.” Soldor folded his arms and stared at Denath.

“I’ll—punish him, then,” Denath said, and looked at the physician. “Stand. Stop groveling. Answer for yourself.”

“It’s not him that needs punishment,” Soldor growled softly, like a wild dog nearing its prey. “I challenge you, Denath of Salenna. Are you man enough to face me? Or do you always hide behind your servants?”

Squinting, Denath stared at Soldor, as if measuring Soldor’s will against his own. “Dueling may be common practice in the Northland. However—”

Soldor’s mouth hardened. “Yes, dueling is common practice in the Northland. Which is why my uncle Kalon and I duel on a regular basis, while Lord Ulraine’s son would never fight with the lord of Volaris. His death two years ago was an inexplicable accident.”

“I suppose your marriage is off, then?” Denath snarled, no longer pretending politeness.

“My marriage is off,” said Soldor, “when your daughter says it is off, and not a day before. She’s past twenty; she can speak for herself.”

Denath bristled and hunched his right shoulder, eyes flaming. But Soldor stopped Denath’s rising thunderheads.

“It’s fortunate that none of the nobles have left.” He smiled, but his face remained white. “You’ll have ample men from which to pick your border marshals. I’ve chosen mine already. Three marshals apiece. We’ll use swords, if that is to your taste.”

“You’ll die, boy.” Denath grabbed at Soldor’s arm, but Soldor shoved him away.

“You’ll have your chance to touch me. It isn’t today. The match will take place—when?”

Denath paused, but shrugged. “Noon tomorrow should be sufficient.”

“Good,” said Soldor. “Don’t bother trying to kill me in the meantime. It won’t happen.” He turned toward the door. “Don’t bother punishing your physician. He was only doing your wishes, I’m sure. And if he does it again, it won’t be you I’ll go to for justice.” He strode into the hall, followed by Bryn and Lirath.

“Three marshals?” Lirath asked. “Are you counting my father as one of them?”

“I trust his integrity,” Soldor said. “Which is more than I can say for anyone else in the Midlands.”
 
“Let me up, Anlaida. I can sit up by myself.” Arran struggled, but his sister pressed firmly down on his shoulders.

“You can hold a conversation from your bed as well as you could hold one swaying in a chair.” He tried to pry her fingers loose, but she held fast. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

“I had to, Arran.” Soldor sat down on the other side of his bed. “There’s no direct proof tying Denath to either attempt to kill you. He’ll succeed eventually if he’s left alone.”

“I had not thought that he would agree to such a thing,” Arran said. “He is a coward.”

“If he had refused, I would have gone to the other nobles.” Soldor pulled his dagger from its sheath and fingered the blade. “They would have left him little choice. It would have become a question of his honor.”

Arran sat up, ignoring Anlaida’s glare. “But,” he said, “the man has no honor. He would not have agreed to a match if he did not have some means of winning. And Denath is no swordsman.”

“I would not have challenged him if I knew another way.” Soldor resheathed his dagger. “There is none.”

“The first trouble came from Kalon’s house,” Arran warned. “And it is not one of Kalon’s house you are fighting.”

“Arran,” Soldor said. “I know.”

Arran sighed. “Have you chosen marshals?”

“Bryn, and Lirath and his father.”

“They will be careful for you.” Arran rubbed his sore shoulder for a moment. “Do not be afraid to call treachery if you see it.”

“I promise.”

Soldor left some minutes later, as did others, until only Anlaida remained. She grabbed Arran’s shoulders again when he tried to get out of bed. “Arran, do you remember how long you stayed in bed when you came to us?”

He shrugged carefully.

“A week and a half,” she said. “You’ve only been in bed for five days, and you’re more seriously injured.”

“But I only have one major injury this time,” he said. “That helps. I want to look outside.”

She helped him out of bed and stood by him at the window. He leaned against it, staring into the sky. “Only Lossyr,” he said at last.

“She is brighter than I thought a star could be above these lands.”

“An end is coming,” he said. “And she means to guard—to guard those who find it. I wonder whether Oran saw her in his last moments.”

“Did you see her?”

“When I was sick, you mean?” He pressed his fingers against the glass. “Yes.” But then he fell quiet. There was a fullness in his eyes, one too large for words. “I saw her. Eliane is honored as the star of morning, of beginnings and life and new birth. Yet Lossyr—”

Anlaida took his hand. It was cold.

“She is a lady,” he said at last. “And I saw her.”

“Would she guard Soldor?”

Arran turned his face toward Lossyr, her silver bending from the sky. He remembered now that she had shone the night of his mother’s death, as he had stumbled north through the hills. She had only been a distant silver then. Likely, he thought, she looked then much as she appears tonight. He had not known her in those days. But the Lord of sky ruled the stars, and, Ronag had said, not only in the Northland.
 
“O mighty lord of Axelarre,
O master of Salenna,
Stand forth that we may honor you,
Denath of the Denna.

“Not truly Denna-born, of course—
The lady of Salenna,
Confused from labor, named her babe
Denath of the Denna.

“Young mothers, take this my advice
Carried from Salenna,
O let your husbands name your babes—
Or they’ll be of the Denna.”

The impudent minstrel’s voice carried over Denath’s walls, and Arran smiled. Somehow the common folk had learned of the duel, and they were looking forward to it, however the nobles might feel. They had experienced more of Denath’s rule than any person but his daughter, and they hoped to see its end.

“Arrest that minstrel!” Denath bellowed at one of his guards. He had heard the song about his name before, but outlawing it had only made the commoners sing more quietly.

Soldor, across the twenty rod corridor of roped-off green, shook his head in disgust. “Your first business is not with that minstrel!” he shouted. “If you can take my sword, you needn’t worry about his song. Your people will praise you enough.”

Arran smiled, but his fingers were white on the arms of his chair. He had insisted that he be brought outside, despite Anlaida’s repeated scoldings. She stood beside him, rigid, ignoring the arm that Mostaras had wrapped around her.

Around the green corridor were other colors—the blue jackets, dark boots, painted scarves, and violet gowns of the Axelarrain. Corath stood mute with his sisters, their faces arranged as plainly as was manageable. There were few who wished to call Denath a friend. Soldor wasn’t personally disliked by most of the Axelarrain, but they saw him as a Northland barbarian. Essentially, Anlaida knew, the nobility had come to witness a cockfight of more than the usual pageantry.

It angered her. She was angry with the nobility, and perhaps she had been angry for a long time. I wonder for how long? she thought. But Baroth of Palladrim ducked beneath the ropes then and strode to the center of the corridor.

“In an effort to resolve the dispute between himself and Lord Denath of Salenna, Soldor, Baron of the North, has challenged Lord Denath to a contest of swords before the Axelarrain. For Soldor, the following men stand as marshals….”

Linnerill, it was whispered, had locked herself in her bedroom. In any case, Anlaida did not see her. A story was circulating—that fear of her father’s death had driven her mad, that she was curled like an unborn child in the dark womb of her wardrobe.

Lord Baroth left the green, and the six marshals advanced, four separating toward the ends of the ropes, and two facing one another across the middle. Bryn’s face was grim as he took his place. Lirath showed no emotion, but his father Perethor’s forehead was deeply creased.

“May Virtue look upon us with favor,” said Baroth. “Advance when ready.”

Soldor advanced, but Anlaida could see nothing of his face. His sword, which he had borrowed from Perethor (he did not trust Denath’s armory), glinted painfully in the noonday light. Anlaida squinted, but stared. Denath, too, had drawn his sword, and he was slowly marching forward.

The nobles would not find this match very entertaining, thought Anlaida. Half of the time would be taken by her brother and Denath approaching one another. Then they would fight for only two seconds before one of their swords would slip, and it would be over. All of it would be over. Arran would be baron for days, or weeks—months at best—and then they would kill him too, and Kalon would take the barony.

Kalon stood several rods away, pacing, his family standing away enough to give him room. Clearly he did not like the proceedings, but he had voiced no objections. Anlaida had decided not to dwell on reasons for his unusual reserve.

Arran’s eyes were scanning the crowd, but Anlaida returned her gaze to Soldor. He was nearing Denath—nearing him, and—

The clash of sword on sword jerked Arran’s head upright. He grabbed at the arms of his chair, straining to see Soldor’s blade. But it was moving too quickly for either of them to clearly know what was happening, except that, for the moment, Soldor was holding his own.

“Denath is managing better than I had hoped,” Mostaras said softly.

“Yes,” Anlaida said. “He’s holding his sword the right way up.”

Mostaras fell quiet. But the entire field was quiet. Under normal circumstances, men might have called out encouragement to the man they supported. But no one truly supported either combatant. The sun glinted off the swords, and somewhere a bird trilled to its intended mate.

Soldor tried to bring his sword low, to cut at Denath’s midsection, but the older man blocked his sword and shoved him back a step. He jabbed forward, desperately, and the blade drove into Denath’s stomach.

Denath screamed and flung himself at Soldor, wild-eyed, brandishing his sword. Soldor stepped back, and when Denath charged him, his blade again darted forward. This time it slashed across Denath’s neck, and blood bubbled as it passed.

Denath of Salenna wavered, staring at Soldor, and then fell. He was not dead, but he would be. No one could save him, and no one particularly wanted to.
 
Back
Top