The Black Chalice (58 page)

— I think she said: At the hazelstangs. The wolf will open his mouth, and the hunter—

— I recall all that. She said something else. Something about cords and magic.

— Oh… Oh, yes, my lord. Fenrir. Something about Fenrir riding from the south, and they will take cords of linen to bind him, and cords of leather, and cords of iron, and he will break them all, but the cord of magic he will not break.

— Ah, yes. The cord of magic he will not break. I am not Fenrir, Paul of Ardiun; they see all things as in mirrors, backwards. But it’s clear they believe they’re about to destroy me.

I had been watching him as we spoke. Never, at any time in Gottfried’s life, would any man have described him as faltering. Yet he had been dealt, in short succession, three overwhelming blows: the loss of his sons, the ruin of the willstone, and the rejection of the council. Each was devastating, but the loss of the sacred stone was the one which was threatening to undo him— not only politically, but in his heart. For if the stone could be ensorceled, and he could not restore it, they had a power equal to his own.

What would happen, then, in the trial?

— Karelian will be shielded by his demons. And if he is shielded well enough, he will need nothing else.

I did not speak. Surely he could not doubt himself. He could not believe they would kill him… surely not…? I swallowed, feeling sick with fear.

— Over and over you’ve sworn you want to serve me, von Ardiun. The last time, I recall, you said you would do anything. It’s reckless to make such an offer until you know what a man might ask.

— I know you will ask me nothing evil, my lord.

— Evil in whose eyes?

— God’s eyes, my lord. I care nothing for the world’s judgments; I saw enough of those in the council chamber.

— Yes. So did we both. Tell me, then: should a Christian prince fight unarmed against the enemies of Christendom?

— Indeed not, my lord!

— But if Karelian is shielded, then I have been disarmed, for my weapons can do nothing to hurt him. And he knows it; I’ve heard he hardly bothers to practice. And he’s ridden twice from the castle of Stavoren into the wilds— to meet his witches, I suppose. To offer his foul rituals for their aid.

— I didn’t know, my lord.

— I have more ways of knowing things than you do.

— Then I pray your majesty knows some way to defend yourself, for it cannot be God’s will that you should fall.

— I’m not a sorcerer.

— No. But you’re God’s… you’re God’s holy king, and all things are possible to God.

For a long time he considered me. And then he said:

— You are sure of it, Sir Paul? All things are possible to God? And before you answer, think! For many men will leap up and say yes, but when they’re faced with even a fragment of God’s power, and see what it can do, they cringe away.

— I believe all things are possible to God, my lord.

— Even that I should discover a way by which I might defend myself, and bring this demon lord to justice?

— Yes, my lord.

Again he was silent, watching me. He knew how fond I had been of his mortal enemy. He knew I had failed him once already. He must have thought me the most insignificant, the most unworthy of men.

And perhaps that’s why he chose me. Because he knew me so well. He knew my guilt, and my terrible need to expiate it.
You loved him once, this traitor who fouls our altars and plots against our faith. You didn’t know what he was — or perhaps you did, just a little? — it doesn’t matter. It’s left tracks on your soul just the same. And you are the one who must erase them.

If you really want to….

He watched me from an immense height; I could have crawled for a thousand years and never reached his feet.

— Will you serve me in this, Paul of Ardiun? Be careful how you answer me, for any answer will be dangerous.

Dangerous? I almost smiled. What danger was greater than hell? And I do not mean the hell of fire, but the other hell, the hell of knowledge. It was beyond enduring, sometimes, to know what I was. To know what I had lost, and why I had lost it. I might have been Gottfried’s cherished friend; I might have stood at his shoulder and ridden by his side, if it had not been for Karelian, if it had not been for
them
….

— I am at your command, my lord. Do with me as you will.

* * *

I held the crossbow steady, judging aim and angle by feel. I was a good shot, and I had chosen an excellent position.

— Just after a pass, von Ardiun, so when he falters it will seem I have dealt him the blow….

Do you think it was base of me to watch there, unseen? No doubt you do. And no doubt like the fools who spoke of it afterwards, you think I was hidden by sorcery. You may think what you please. I did only what my lord commanded.

I touched my finger against the tip of the shaft; it was deathly sharp, and it seemed harder to me than any metal could have been, hard as the edge of a diamond, hard as the crystal pyramid from Jerusalem.

Hard as the eyes of a god who looks into your soul and sees it as it is, corrupted and empty. He knew I was not free of Karelian Brandeis. I would never be free of him. I loved him, and I hated him. Because he was hateful I loved him better. Because I loved him more than Gottfried, I hated him more than anything that lived.

As I hated him now, so proud in his godless power, slashing at Gottfried and wheeling away and coming at him again, all for his witch queen and his catamite prince. What was righteousness to him, or the empire of Christendom, or Gottfried’s sacred blood? He would glory in bringing them down; he would laugh, and raise his bloody sword, and drink a toast to his demons and take their foul honors and couple with them after in the howling darkness…!

The bolt flew silent, unseen— invisible as the man who fired it, hidden by God’s power in a bare November oak, a winter tree, stark as death against the sky. Karelian jerked upright in his saddle, and I knew my bolt had struck him. He swayed a moment, his sword arm dangling. Those men who were privileged with seats leapt to their feet. Konrad sprang forward in fury and dismay, and had to be restrained by his guards. A great moan passed over his men; some fell to their knees, and soldiers though they were, many turned their heads away.

For a moment, for a few brief heartbeats, it seemed Gottfried had dealt the count a mortal blow. The king was already turning his mount to charge and strike again. At the last possible moment Karelian wheeled out of his way, clinging to his shield, and his weapon, and his life.

And all the powers of hell gathered then, all the fiends and minions who served him, all of them rising black to his summons, so great in his sorcery he had become. They came to him, numberless, and closed him round; they shattered the grace which Gottfried placed upon the shaft, and I saw it.

Oh, God, no, this can’t be happening, it can’t…!

But it was. Everyone saw it. Princes and soldiers and commoners and priests, all of us saw it, and Gottfried, too, as he reared his mount backwards and stared. The prince’s champion had been shot in the back. The justice of the trial had been broken. Men spun one way and then the other, trying to see from whence the treachery had come, but they could see nothing, and it only made them angrier. The moan of dismay turned into a tumultuous roar of fury. Konrad was battling his guards, and dozens of Karelian’s men, led by Reinhard, had by sheer force of numbers broken through the armored guard, and were pouring onto the field. It might have been blood and butchery then and there, that very day, but Karelian’s voice rang clear above the breaking chaos:

“Stay in your ranks!”

He had gathered all his strength for the command. He was the only man there whom anyone was prepared to obey.

“This is a fight to the death, and by the gods I’m not dead yet!”

Yes, he said gods, though of course there are a thousand men who’ll swear they heard otherwise. And they’ll tell you that even as he turned and raised his sword again, the clouds divided, and a burst of winter sun caught against the blade like fire; that was why it shimmered so. They will tell you a dove flew over his head, too, and every other kind of nonsense you might wish.

But I know what I saw. He yanked the pouch from beneath his surcoat, and took the black feather from it, and touched it to his lips, and flung it into the air. It fluttered there for a moment, and turned suddenly into a raven; before the eye could properly discern it, it was gone, flying hard towards the east and the high pass of Dorn.

Why did Gottfried not attack him then, in those moments while Karelian was gathering his powers? Did he think God had abandoned him? That judgment had already been given, and there was nothing further he could do? Or was he praying and restoring his own strength? Down through the years I have wondered, and I have no answer; I know only that he waited, like we all did.

Karelian lifted his sword. There was no sun. I care nothing for what the tales may say; there was not a break in our brooding, ashen sky, not a whisper of God’s light to explain the orange shimmer dancing on his blade. I will not say from whence it came, but I have seen it since.

“Tyr!”
he cried savagely.
“Tyr, wield my sword!”

And he rode at Gottfried.

I see it still, oh so clearly, as though I stood even now on the heath of Stavoren. There was no other sound in the world then, only the crashing of hoofbeats and iron. We all stood as stone men, except for the witless ones who imagined they were in the presence of a miracle, and knelt. Karelian’s first blow struck the king’s shield, and it shattered as though it had been made of clay; all my hopes shattered with it.

He struck again. Gottfried parried the blow with his sword, and the sword broke, three grey splinters scattering wide like startled birds. Karelian flung away his shield; he had no need for it now. He seized his weapon with both hands, rising in his stirrups, and dealt the king his death-blow. It caught Gottfried at the base of the neck on the left side, and emerged on the right, below his armpit, severing all which lay between.

Armor and bones and blood and sacred life, all in one fell stroke undone. I stared, unbelieving, as the king’s trunk hovered a moment in the saddle, gushing blood; Karelian dragged it down as though it belonged to a beast, or something less than a beast, and reared his horse to trample it into the earth.

And stood so, over the broken body of my lord, and raised his sword again.

“Konrad! Hail Konrad, king of Germany!”

A thousand voices took up the cry, or maybe ten thousand; it hit the black sky and thundered back; it echoed off the walls of Stavoren, and rolled back seconds later from the brooding heights of the Schildberge. It echoes still, even now, in the stone walls of my cell. I did for Karelian the one thing he could never have done for himself.

I gave him an absolute victory.

Oh, there are men who say he was a sorcerer. There are men who hate Konrad, and he will be quarreling with the Church through every day of his reign. But from that hour onward the prince was a king, and his champion was a hero. Maybe not a saint, but a hero, and in Germany that’s a far better thing to be. His enemy had proven treacherous, and he had won even against treachery. He had won even with a death wound in his body, and to the whole world of our day, except for a tiny handful, his victory was taken as the clear and final judgment of God.

I looked down, weeping, and I saw my own hands; I saw a vagueness forming in their grasp, and recognized my own crossbow. The sight of it, even more than the horror on the field, made me realize that Gottfried was dead, and his power utterly undone.

Even as the bow took its shape I flung it savagely away, to crash wherever it might upon the heads of the cheering fools. I slithered down from the tree, hidden by its massive trunk from the ranks of men behind, unnoticed by the ranks of men ahead. I could not hear my own sobs for their shouting:

“Hail Konrad! Hail the king of Germany!”

The cries went on. Somewhere across the field, where I could no longer see him through the crowd, Karelian fell forward over the neck of his horse, and slid into Reinhard’s arms.

What happened after I know only from the words of others. The seneschal, they say, wept like a boy, cradling his lord against his knees. Some ran for the surgeons, and others for a priest, but Karelian wanted nothing of either. Nor would he let anyone touch his wound.

“Take me to Lys,” he said.

They looked at each other in dismay:
Dear God, he is raving, he’s already gone…!
But he was not raving. His eyes were still clear, and his voice was steady although losing its strength.

“Reini, if you’ve ever loved me, do as I say. Don’t argue. Make a bier to carry me, and take me back to Lys.”

“It’s several days’ journey, my lord, even for a healthy man. You can’t do it; you will not live—!”

And then Konrad was there, shoving everyone aside, men stumbling over each other to give him place as he swept close and knelt. He cursed when he saw how the arrow was placed; like the others he could see it was mortal.

“Karel… oh, God save us, Karel….”

“Will you grant me a favor, my liege?”

“Anything, my friend, only name it!”

“Order these men to obey me.”

“Do what he commands you, villain!” the king snarled at Reinhard. “Have you no decency at all?”

“Majesty, he wants us to take him home.”

“Home? Back across the mountains?”

“My lord,” Karelian said, “no surgeon can help me. You’re a soldier, you know as much yourself. If there’s help for me, only my lady can give it. If not, then I would die in her arms.” He coughed harshly, and there were flecks of blood on his lips. “My lord, I beg you.”

None of them knew what to say then, or what to do. Some who tell the story say Karelian motioned the king to bend close, and whispered something into his ear. Others insist that nothing private passed between them, and nothing had to. They were neither kinsmen nor old friends, yet in this hour of blood-bought fealty, they were better loved than either.