Firethorn (27 page)

The Auspices of Rift consulted the entrails of a bull. Rift, as expected, demanded blood for the desecration. The king and the First of Crux also asked for recompense, the one for breaking the king's peace, the other for the craven assault on his cataphract, whether the injury proved mortal or not. The parties were long together under the king's canopy. The Ardor no doubt pled for leniency and the many-mouthed crowd spread rumors, most absurd, some with the stink of truth. Such as that Sire Voltizo had offered up his daughter to Rift in his place, but was refused.

It's best not to dally when gods are offended. Sire Voltizo was given a choice: a warrior's death or a quick one. To no one's surprise, he chose to die like a warrior.

It was agreed that Sire Voltizo would never have committed such an offense—for he was known to be reasonably sober minded and free of blasphemy—if offense had not been given to him. If he wished to keep the nature of the insult secret, that was his affair. But as Sire Galan had offended him, and in so doing caused him to offend Rift, Sire Galan must also pay forfeit: his best warhorse, Semental. Rift was known to appreciate an offering of fine horseflesh. Of the two condemned to die, everyone knew the horse was more gallant than the man. The stallion was to be given the same chance as the man—not a fighting chance, for there was no way to win—but a chance to die well.

Galan knew nothing of this, for he was lying in the priests' tent, pale, cold, and trembling at first, and later pale and sweating. I made barley water and took it to the tent, but the carnifex sent me away, saying brusquely that a man with a belly wound should—of course—take no food or any drink except a purge to empty his guts. “Of course,” I said, and went to sit, shamefaced, inside Galan's tent, where I could watch the comings and goings. At least I was spared the company of Sire Rodela. He'd ridden back to the tourney field to tell the Crux of Galan's condition.

The execution was a fine spectacle, I heard that night when the crowds came back from the tourney field. Sire Rodela wouldn't speak of it. Neither would Flykiller, who had trained Semental from colt to yearling to the age of three, when Sire Galan himself took him in hand. I heard it from Fleetfoot and Ev, who'd stood on the back of Sire Pava's spare warhorse to see over the crowds.

Some days at the Marchfield it was hard to tell nightfall from bad weather. This was one of those days. A brief rain squall hid the sunset. Crowds of drudges huddled on the hills. Those who'd missed the tournament had come running when they heard the news. They watched as a wall of men of the Blood surrounded the tourney field: priests with torches, cataphracts and armigers on horseback with weapons in hand. It was a somber sight in the gloom, but there was great joy afoot among the mud-folk at the prospect of an execution.

Sire Voltizo had the choice of weapons; he picked the scorpion and sword. They gave him Semental to ride. Four priests of Rift were sent against him, but only one of the four rode out to take him on. They judged that would be enough. The priest wore no armor at all, not even a helmet, which the crowd took as an insult to Sire Voltizo.

The vanished Sun gave just enough light for the sharp-eyed to see what was happening on the field. The chosen priest cantered toward Sire Voltizo. The condemned was overmatched from the first blow and parry. His seat was poor, he slewed in the saddle as Semental danced away, and when Semental felt his rider slipping, he helped him fall. He was not the sort of horse to be patient with a bad rider.

In a moment Sire Voltizo was sprawling on the ground. In another moment the priest leaned over and dispatched him, driving the scorpion's point into his armpit through mail and underarmor and ribs. He was commended for making such a forceful blow with only one hand (that being the sort of thing that brought renown to Rift's priests). The priest had to dismount to pull the scorpion out, it was lodged so deep. As was proper, his hand never left the shaft of the weapon. Sire Voltizo expired with a jerk and an exhalation of blood, and so died quickly after all.

If not for Semental, the crowd would have been sorely disappointed. The black stallion made a better show than Sire Voltizo. He'd been trained to stand by Galan, but the man at his feet was not his master. He ran. Ev could not say a word about it, for it cut him deep, so Fleetfoot told me how it was. Semental was penned on the field by the men surrounding it; no horse is fool enough to charge a wall of lances unless a man he trusts is on his back, whispering lies in his ear. As the last light faded from the sky, the priests chased him around the tourney field. He galloped back and forth, he dodged, and three times he neighed a challenge and turned on one of the men who harried him. He ran in and out of torchlight. He was a black horse, and in his green-dyed leather armor he nearly disappeared in the darkness. But they could hear him. The crowd around the field was that silent. They could hear his hoofbeats, the creak of leather and the jangle of metal trappings, and they heard him grow more and more winded until every breath rasped through his windpipe with a harsh grunt and a strange high-pitched whistle.

It required one priest to dispose of Sire Voltizo; it took all four stinging Semental with their scorpions to ride him down. They had to change their mounts twice, for he wore out their horses. He endured thirteen wounds before the one that finished him.

By the time the pyre was built and the sea wind had carried most of the smoke and ash of Sire Voltizo, Semental, and a heap of dry gorse west toward the mountains, everyone in the crowd knew the tale of Sire Galan and Sire Voltizo's daughter. Some blamed Galan; more blamed the dead man, on two accounts: that he had displayed her too freely and guarded her too poorly; most blamed his daughter for the disgrace she had brought on her house and clan. It won her no pity that she was supposed to be dying of love. The sooner the better, they said.

The Crux came back to camp after most of his men, after the tale had been told and retold. He came galloping and stopped in a puddle, splashing mud. He dismounted and thrust his reins at Thrasher, his horsemaster. He strode to the priest's tent and jerked the tent flap closed behind him.

Inside the tent the priest held a lamp in his hand as he talked to the Crux, by Galan's pallet. The flame spilled just enough light to stretch their shadows on the tent wall. I crept back to my hiding place to listen. I was not the only eavesdropper. The cataphracts around the hearth fire paused at their late supper.

“How is he?” asked the Crux.

I could see his shadow kneel. The priest brought the lamp down by Galan's face.

“Fortunate,” Divine Xyster said.

“So he'll live, then.”

“For yet a while—though I never venture to predict how long any warrior will live. His bowels are still whole, and that is the best omen we could ask for in a belly wound.”

“Sire Galan spoke up, saying, “I'm glad to hear it.” He startled me—yet how good it was to hear him speak, though his voice was small and strained with a pitiful bravado.

The Crux stood up abruptly and walked away from him. The priest followed. They lowered their voices.

“How long till he's healed?” the Crux asked.

Divine Xyster answered, “If the wound doesn't fester, he'll be ready to ride in less than a tennight. Ready to fight in two, I should guess. He mends fast, judging by his broken rib. If the wound turns noxious, of course …” He didn't finish the thought. The Crux was already on his way out of the tent.

The priest followed, saying Galan was in his right mind and could be spoken to. The Crux said, “I'll speak to him tomorrow,” and he bit his words so hard they barely escaped his teeth.

I peered from my hiding place behind the tent flap. The priest stayed in the doorway of the tent, looking at the sky. I couldn't tell what signs he might be reading there, in the heavy clouds that covered the crescent Moon and stars. Perhaps he smelled omens in the chill sea wind. He stood there a long time, while the Crux took himself to his own tent and called for his supper.

Around the fire, the cataphracts had fallen silent when the Crux passed them by. Every one of them had felt his anger from time to time. He used it well, nipping their heels to make them run where they should go. This was anger of a different order, and they feared the Crux all the more because he mastered his wrath and made it wait on the morrow, until he had considered what was owing and to whom. There was blame enough to go around. He'd learned of Sire Galan's wager somehow. Not one of them had seen fit to warn him of it, though it touched on the honor of the clan.

I heard Galan shift on his pallet and gasp and curse, as if the pain had caught him hard. I crawled back to sit as close to him as I could with the tent wall between us.

It was not much of a wall. It was merely a sheet of heavy waxed canvas, though it forbade me the other side. From thought to act was quick: I took out my little bone-handled knife and cut a slit crosswise. With one eye I saw Galan lying on a pallet under a blanket of fleece. He was no more than a stride away from me. They'd set a low screen of mats about him, but it wasn't enough to keep out the drafts from the doorway, which made the flame of the oil lamp beside him stretch and bow. In the shadows behind the screen, I saw the altar of Crux, with the blue bowl of the Heavens and the statues of the gilded Sun and the silver Moon in their places upon it. Galan's left arm was outside the covers. His hand was a fist and his face was like a fist, forehead knotted, jaw clenched, nostrils pinched. He stared upward. His skin was chalky and his lips were blue. He might have been a man of stone.

“Sire Galan,” I whispered.

He turned his head toward the sound and whispered back, “Is that you?”

“How do you fare?”

He made a smile that was half a grimace. “Marvelously well. It seems I'm to live a while longer.” His breath came shallow and fast, and made his voice uneven.

“Is the pain bad?”

He denied it, but I could see for myself he lied. I asked just to hear him speak.

“I suppose we lost the tourney,” Galan said. “The Crux seems vexed. I suppose he wagered something he didn't want to lose.”

He was right to fret over the First's mood, but so far wrong about the cause, it stopped my throat. Already we were on dangerous ground. I said in a low voice, “I don't know who won or lost.”

“I can't hear you,” said Galan.

“I said I don't care who won or lost. Once you were wounded, I stopped watching.”

“Well, fetch Rodela then. He can give me the tally.”

He thought so little of my company he preferred Sire Rodela and his surly tongue. I got to my feet without another word, my eyes smarting. I knew what he'd learn from Sire Rodela would wound him again—and he was sore wounded already.

Then I heard him say, “But stay. No need for hurry. Stay awhile with me.”

I sank down again and looked through the hole in the canvas. He was still turned toward me. His brows were drawn together, and I could see the faint luster of his eyes in his shadowed face. It took a moment for me to master my voice. “I'm here, and I'll stay as long as you bid me.” Even as I spoke I cursed myself for a dog that would cringe one instant and grovel the next.

Galan's brow smoothed and he closed his eyes. I looked away and rested my head on my knees.

I should speak to him but every word led to Semental.

After a while he whispered, “Firethorn?”

“Yes?”

“I'm thirsty.”

“I'll fetch the carnifex.”

“No, no. Give me one of your tisanes. I'd drink it without complaint now.

“The priest will have something better. Shall I get him?”

“Stay,” he said.

Another pause, and he said, “You must sacrifice to Hazard in the morning, for my luck is still with me.”

“It's sure you'd be dead if Chance hadn't turned the blade.” I looked through the peephole again.

“Yes, my Luck keeps faith with me.” A faint smile crossed his face and was gone. “She should sit right here, inside the tent. What harm in that?” His eyes closed again, and before long he slept.

I knew he spoke of me, not Hazard. I'd never told him that I was called Luck most of my life, and yet he made me wear the name again. I thought I'd bound him tightly to me, but more than one thing can tie a man to a woman. If that was all I was to him, his luck and nothing more, what was to stop him from turning on me in the morning when he found out he was not as fortunate as he supposed?

But I was not his luck. He'd stored up trouble for himself; now it came upon him when he was weakest. It was none of my doing and so how could I undo it?

As for Hazard, Galan presumed too much on the god's favor, forgetting the god has three avatars, and only one seemed fond of him. When Hazard is female, she is blind Chance, and she has a weakness for bold and reckless men. If she puts a finger on the dice for a man or tips the odds in an even wager or makes his enemy's horse stumble, why then she is his luck, indeed. Like most fighting men, this is what Galan counted on. Warriors court Chance with prayers and sacrifices, and they woo her the more faithfully that she's so fickle.

Hazard's male avatar is Peril. He's owed respect and even fear, but warriors don't love him, for he is too impartial. The god's third aspect has no face, no body, no manifestation aside from a deep thrumming sound that only a few have been blessed—or cursed—to hear. This is Fate, a most unyielding avatar.