Blinded by the Sun (Erythleh Chronicles Book 4) (21 page)

Eventually, the moment that Lyssia had been dreading arrived. It was time for Kavrazel and Girogis to face each other. The public were aware of the almost familial relationship between the two men, and there had been many jeers of that nature shouted during the day. She couldn't hear the exact insults that Girogis and Kavrazel had called to each other, but when the king began to ride towards her, incurring a thunderous look from his premier guard, she decided that she could guess with a degree of accuracy.

He halted Korost in the same place that he had stationed him to make the blood toast, and called out to her. "My lady, might you grant me some sign of your favour, a symbol for luck and good fortune against my enemy."

His tone was that of pantomime, Girogis had never been his enemy, but there was an undercurrent of something more sinister, something intangible. Regardless, the sentiment that he had proclaimed, loudly and unmistakably to the crowd, "my lady" thrummed through Lyssia's mind. She had only two options: to play along, or to undo all the good work that they had achieved thus far. The foul look from Girogis, the man who had been her friend in this strange country, made her want to deny the king, but it was Kavrazel that stood before her, and she could deny him nothing.

She had no favour to offer him, no trinket, ribbon, or handkerchief to tuck under the guard of his lance. She had only herself, in her dress, and her blade. She saw the king's look of concern when she drew her knife, but she ignored him. There was only one thing she could offer, besides her blood, and that had already been spilled in honour of the event. She plucked out a lock of her hair, and sliced through it.

"Here, my lord." She held out the dark curl. Kavrazel impatiently snatched his gauntlet off before he took it from her with a reverent touch. "Take this as a my favour. May it bring you luck."

"May Taan bless me." No one but Lyssia could have heard Kavrazel's hoarse mumble, but all could see that he tucked the lock of hair into his armour, in place above his heart. For that moment, the fire god had all and nothing to do with the blazing heat between them.

She had been so completely absorbed with observing Kavrazel, caught in the aura of compelling power that surrounded the king, and the crush of everything that was pressing to be said between them, that she hadn't noticed Girogis approaching. She had no idea he was there, until his horse whinnied impatiently.

"My lady... My friend." He hastily amended his address at the sour look the king turned on him. "Might I also beg a token... for luck?"

Lyssia suspected that Girogis wished to antagonise Kavrazel, more than he actually wished to procure public acknowledgement of her regard. But still, he had asked, and he was important to her, he had a place in her heart. It seemed... tawdry to offer Girogis the same favour that she had bestowed on her king. She held out her hand and motioned him to come closer. She could see Kavrazel scowl with disapproval, but she ignored him, as much as she could.

"You may have a kiss, my valiant warrior." She made sure that her voice carried. She had advised the king to give the crowd distraction, and now the incipient and bizarre rivalry between the king and his guard over a slave gave them the perfect opportunity to augment the spectacle. Girogis had still not yet donned his helmet. He stretched out his cheek as Lyssia leaned forward. When her lips met his skin, it was not on his mouth, but the target was so close that the crowd were deceived. The cheer that rose and undulated through the terraces vibrated through the slick, black stones and reverberated through Lyssia's bones.

The stage was set for a great play, an epic battle. Both men rode back to their stations, Kavrazel scowling, Girogis grinning, and the crowd absorbed it all as if it were golden. Hitherto, Lyssia had seen them walking around the edge of the arena together, muttering and pointing out weaknesses and strengths in their competition. Now, a layperson might have assumed that the two men had nurtured a virulent hatred for years. The prize, a substantial amount of gold, was not the goal for either man, and everyone knew it. They competed only for personal pride, and perhaps something else, something more dangerous, the essence of which Lyssia chose to ignore.

Each pair was allowed a maximum of three tilts, three runs at the lists. The main objective was to unseat the opposing rider, and if that was achieved, the match was called won, whether it be the first or the third tilt. For the occasions on which a definitive win could not be called, points were awarded for strikes, the hitting of the lance against the opponent's body, depending on placement and severity. This was where the metal breastplates came into their own. Not only did they offer protection, but they drew and recorded marks. Aiming a hit at a thigh was useless, the scale-mail armour would not show an accurate record of the blow, nor was it likely that the rider would be unseated; injured - almost definitely, but certainly able to hold a lance and complete another tilt. It was in the interest of all to aim their lances at the breastplate. This left the limbs unscathed, for the most part, and ensured that the frivolous competition had no lasting, crippling, aftereffects.

A wooden rail had been erected in the centre of the area. The fence was long enough to span almost the entire diameter. The purpose was to guide the tilts. Competitors took their places at either end of the fence, one on either side of the rail. At the signal, they would gallop at full speed towards each other, angling their lances over the fence at their opponent. Her warriors now took their places. All waited for the horns to sound the commencement fanfare.

There was a peal of harsh notes.

Her heart beat twice... and then was drowned by the thunder of hooves, which was in turn immediately eclipsed by the tumult of the crowd.

She couldn't watch. She couldn't watch. She couldn't look away. And... Oh! The first brutal clash.

Both men reeled back in their saddles but kept their seats. It seemed both had scored a hit. If they were injured or in pain, they were not going to concede, nor would they show it. They were taking their places for the next tilt.

The trumpets had barely spewed their noise into the air when Kavrazel and Girogis urged their mounts forward once more.

She couldn't... They couldn't... They were friends... It was horrible...

Again the awful clang of lance on armour. Again the absence of the thud of a body meeting solid earth.

No. She couldn't watch again. She couldn't...

Lyssia hadn't realised that she was still standing forward with her fingers clenched around the lip of the stone wall; it was as if she were trapped in a dream, until Multha put his rough, warm hand over hers. The scrape of calluses over her knuckles brought her back some mind. She looked down; the hand that was free of Multha's grip was starkly white around at the knuckles.

Then the horns sounded, and she thought the delicate bones of her fingers might snap against the grip she tightened on the unyielding stone.

Closer... closer... She couldn't look away. She owed it to both of them to watch...

Her eyes were open and pointed towards the epicentre of the action, but it was as if her brain did not want to receive the images from her eyes and make sense of them. There was noise, so much noise. The crowd was roaring. The ground shook with the multitude of voices at fever pitch, and with the boom of stamping feet. Perhaps this was the moment that the stadium, which had stood for generations, would fall, brought low by the rapture of the crowd that it contained.

"Who won?" She hadn't realised she had spoken aloud until Multha answered her.

Chapter Twenty

Girogis deserved to be dead. The man had begged for death with his insolent actions, and there would be opportunity in abundance to deliver such as restitution. As well as the jousts, there would be other contests of strength and skill. There would be bouts involving short daggers, the staff, and the mace. If ever there was a time for a man to regret asking a beautiful lady for a sign of her favour, this was that time. Girogis would regret receiving that kiss, that brief press of Lyssia's sweet lips.

The lock of her silken hair burned against the skin over his heart like a molten brand. It would remain there, or as close as possible, for always.

Kavrazel determined he would win, to prove to Girogis, to himself, and to Lyssia...

...To prove what? That he was the better man? The more worthy lover? Certainly not the more constant friend.

The tide of his anger and jealousy receded, just a little, just enough for him to gain a momentary clarity of mind. He scrubbed his fist over his armour, over the spot that itched and tingled, because Lyssia had given him something of herself. She had given him a lock of her hair. She had only given Girogis a kiss. He could keep the token he had been gifted until forever. She had given Girogis nothing so substantial. He saw the truth of what she had done, realised the brilliance of the way in which she had negotiated her path, and was awed. Lyssia was no slave, she had never been, not really. From the moment he had seen her eyes, had seen her struggle against her situation, she had been so much more.

He could forfeit the match. He could replicate her magnanimous gesture. He could leave the crowd salivating for the conclusion of the scene that they had begun, but even as much as he knew that would be the honourable path, he could not take it. The crowd would not be appeased; they might actually become violent in the denial of the finale they wanted. And truth be told, he wanted to prove his own petty point.

The horns sounded for the third tilt. His thigh ached from the glancing blow of the first tilt. Girogis hadn't even been trying, he hadn't realised that his king had been in deadly earnest. Kavrazel's lance had become caught with Girogis' weapon, and so they had both retained their seats.

Kavrazel had maintained poise during the second tilt, but only just. His ribs throbbed from the hit he'd absorbed. He knew there would be an impressive dent in his breast plate, a corresponding bruise on his skin, damage enough to make Lyssia wince. Thinking about Lyssia seeing his chest was doing nothing for his concentration. Those images of fur, and silk, and embers were a world away from the shouting, dust, and sweat of the arena.

Kavrazel drew his lance into position, tight against his hip. He adjusted his grip on the weapon, and steadied Korost with a sharp tug on the reins.

He couldn't see Girogis' expression, the cocky arse had finally pulled his helmet into position, but Kavrazel could well imagine the smirk hidden behind the beaten metal. Girogis had skill and strength, but Kavrazel had a degree of cunning, a way of nudging his horse and angling his lance that deflected an enemy blow whilst ensuring his own landed accurately. He wanted to hit the man's heart with a bump that Lyssia would feel.

The horns sounded their consent. Both riders dug their unforgiving heels into the flanks of their mounts, and surged forward towards inevitability.

~o0o~

The roar of the crowd obliterated anything else - thought, breath, pulse... anything. It rose and rose and rose in a never-ending crescendo, until eventually, thankfully, it began to wane.

Kavrazel was off his mount. Almost before Girogis' body had hit the dirt - from the moment that he had realised that his friend had lost his stirrups, and with that the support of his saddle - Kavrazel had known the victory would be his.

The crowd obliterated all of his senses. He could comprehend the daylight, although it was stark and blinded him. He could feel the compacted grit of the arena floor, although the dust stirred up by hooves and boots caught in his throat until he was near choking. Korost was a patiently heaving and sweaty shadow by his shoulder, but seeing through his own eyes was like looking through a warped pane of glass. Despite the distractions, through sheer force of will to overcome them, Kavrazel approached the unmoving body of his friend.

The bastard heaved himself up and removed his helmet, shaking his head to rid himself of the sweat and murk.

Kavrazel was two steps from Girogis. There was a good chance that the recently recovered man would resume his position flat on his back, thanks to a fist from his king. Kavrazel's fingers itched, but he clenched them and resisted the urge to lash out. His fear that he had actually harmed his friend was riding him hard, and made him want to beat Girogis for scaring him.

The stadium erupted as Girogis got to his feet, a little too unsteadily for Kavrazel's liking, but not so much that any weakness would be visible to the stands. To the rabble, he would appear completely unharmed. Kavrazel pulled his friend into a hug, with a not completely gentle thump on the back to purge his angst and relief.

"You're a stubborn fuck," Kavrazel murmured at Girogis' ear, keeping hold of him to give him more stealthy moments to recover. "Are you hurt?"

"Winded. A little dizzy." Girogis could be an arrogant goat at times, but he had a soldier's common sense. If he was hurt and needed aid, there was no point denying the fact and putting others at risk through his weakness. Kavrazel believed him when he said that was all the damage that he felt.

"Do you need more time?" Kavrazel was frantically trying to think of a way that he could protect Girogis from the view of the crowd if he needed more time to clear his head and catch his breath.

"She won't wait." Girogis gave him a thump on his back, not quite at his full strength, but close enough to ease some of Kavrazel's concern. Kavrazel looked up to confirm what he thought his friend had been referring to. Lyssia was walking swiftly across the arena, her hair, skirts, and loose sleeves billowing out behind her. She looked like a furious goddess, and for a moment Kavrazel's knees were weak; he was not ashamed to admit it was from a combination of lust and fear. He looked about for Multha, and found his General still in the royal box. Kavrazel raised an eyebrow in question, Multha shrugged in answer. Yes, Kavrazel knew well that there would have been no stopping Lyssia from doing what she wanted to do. Movement caught his eye; Otal was all but doubled over with laughter, the bastard.

Lyssia pulled up suddenly before she had quite reached them. Kavrazel could see the conflict flittering across her face, She wanted to berate them both for their childishness, but she knew better than to chastise her king before such an immense crowd. She was worried and furious in equal measure, and Kavrazel didn't doubt that he would hear more on the subject at some point.

She dropped suddenly into a deep curtsey, her forehead almost touching her knee. Kavrazel and Girogis shared a brief, bemused glance, and then turned back as Lyssia rose.

"May Taan be blessed. Our King is victorious." Her voice carved thorough the cheering chatter of the crowd like a blade.

Rapturous applause erupted like one of the northern volcanoes, spewing an avalanche of caps and flowers and anything else that the crowd deemed fit to toss into the air in appreciation. It was true that he had won this round, but there were still another two rounds to complete before the finale of the competition.

"Not yet victorious," Kavrazel called back. "Not completely."

The crowd would not understand his meaning, but Lyssia did, judging by the flush that coloured her skin and the way she dropped her eyes. Girogis had not missed his mark either, if his rough chuckle was any indication.

"But my king deserves some reward for his success, surely? Especially against such a skilled opponent." Her expression was sly and provocative. She might berate him for foolishness later, but he had a growing urge to spank her for this incitement. The crowd was almost completely silent, hanging on every word for the outcome of their debate.

"Your king demands a kiss." Taan be damned. He had the lock of her hair, but he would take the same favour that she had bestowed upon Girogis as petty recompense.

"A kiss would gladly be given."

The resulting roar from the crowd was beyond deafening; it stole all his senses, and from the way Lyssia flinched, it had damn near knocked her off her feet.

Girogis slapped him on the back - with more force than was strictly necessary - and stepped away. His bow would appear deep and respectful to the crowd, but they couldn't see the mocking smile on his face. Kavrazel sighed and resigned himself to the comforting knowledge that if the day came that his closest allies felt that they couldn't poke a little fun at him, it would be the day that he should relinquish his crown.

Kavrazel was pleased with the reaction of his subjects thus far. He was almost overwhelmed by it, but he had yet one more test for them. If he was to be true to his words to Lyssia, if he was to be true to his heart, then he needed to know the consequences of his next actions. He needed to know if the people of Vuthron would ever accept a blood slave as their queen.

Lyssia approached. Her spine was straight, her chin high; her posture was regal but not aloof. As soon as she was within arm's reach, Kavrazel caught her, his arm snaked around her waist as he pulled her close. He was sure he stank with the effort and exertion of the day, but he didn't care a damn. He wanted her, and he would have her. Her nimble fingers gripped his upper arms, not to push him away, but only to steady herself as he bent her backwards, over his arm, unbalancing her from her own feet. She was pressed against his body, chest to knee. Her yielding curves called to him in a way that made him desperate to rut in the black grit. But whilst she had advised public displays of prowess, such an exhibition was not in his nature, and he doubted it had been her intent, either.

He caught a brief flash of green fire. The glint in her eyes was fierce, not with anger, but with desire. He claimed her lips, pulling her inexorably closer. Her sweet taste, the slick silk of her mouth and tongue, the way she matched him, clung to him and yet fought him, made him crazed. He was sure he was losing his mind as he sank into the whirlpool of their embrace. The need to draw breath into his agonized lungs was the only call that could have compelled him to break the moment.

If anything, as they parted a minuscule distance, with Kavrazel bringing them back to a more upright stance, the cheering of the crowd grew louder. Apparently the idea of their king being enamoured of his slave was not abhorrent to them. To be wedded might be a different matter, but the knowledge he had gained this day was encouraging.

He manoeuvred his mouth so that only Lyssia could hear his next words. "This dress is very becoming." He plucked at the fabric at her hip, "But there's far too much of it."

"Shinu promised my outfit for the ball would be your treat, but I'm not sure you deserve it."

Apparently they were going to have their domestic argument in front of thousands. Kavrazel kept her pulled tight against his body, because it was where he wanted her to be. "You started it."

"You didn't have to try to kill him."

"Girogis was never in any danger."

"So you say," She lifted one hand from her grip on his bicep, and cupped it around his jaw, stroking her thumb along his lower lip. Kavrazel had to close his eyes and breathe deep breaths, because that innocently provocative touch sped through the nerves of his body.

"I speak only truth." His words were little more than a grunt, but it didn't matter, because when he kissed her again, claiming her, branding her as his, the crowd obliterated all reality.

~o0o~

Beyond even his own expectations, since he was well aware of the talents of his opponents, Kavrazel had won that day's tournament. He didn't think that his challengers had shown him any leniency; he had the bruises to prove that they had not been afraid to aim true. He hoped they had not, for their own sakes. He did not need the pot of prize money, and since it was technically his own anyway, having been supplied by the crown, he multiplied it by ten and donated it to a number of charitable institutions that operated around the country. His proclamation had been greeted with cheers almost as loud as the ones that had celebrated his kiss with Lyssia. The mob had lapped up every second of the performances and shenanigans that had been presented to them and were thirsty for more.