Yesterday's Kings (31 page)

He went to Laurens. “You’re well?”

“Yes.” The soldier ducked his craggy face. “These Durrym have fine healers. They’ve seen me well.”

Cullyn looked to Eben, who smiled and winked.

Lyandra said, “Sit here, by me.”

He took the chair and sat in nervous silence.

Pyris said, “Wine?” A servant filled all their goblets. Then, courteously: “Which first—talk or dinner?”

“Talk,” Cullyn said bluntly. “I’d know my future.”

“An honest Garm.” Pyris chuckled. “So, then—talk.”

“He’s syn’qui,” Lyandra said.

Pyris glanced at Eben, who nodded. “So we must take care of him, eh?”

“Best that you do,” Eben said, wiping wine from his beard. “I believe the gods favor him—or curse him—but he’s a pivot on which all our worlds turn.”

“You’re sure of this?” Pyris asked.

“I am,” Eben replied. “How else could that priest have followed us so far into your kingdoms? Why else?”

“We need to talk,” Pyris declared. “Privately.”

He ordered their dinner brought in and dismissed the servants, so that the six of them could speak alone.

“The Kandarian Church finds new magic,” Eben said. “Per Fendur was able to find us across the Mys’enh.” He glanced at Laurens for confirmation, and Laurens said: “He boasts of new powers the Church has found, that shall allow them to cross the river. And he hates the Durrym.”

“Why do they want to cross?” Pyris asked. “I’d thought we had some kind of truce.”

“Kandar’s grown too much,” Laurens said. He smiled an apology. “Since we drove you out, all the land—save
along the border—is given to farming, to vineyards, to mining and the like. Kandar prospers and the population grows. King Khoros would find more space, and the Church promises him that—it promises a way across the Alagordar, against a people we defeated before.”

“And can it deliver its promises?”

“I fear so,” Laurens said. “And surely the fact that Per Fendur came across proves it possible.”

Pyris studied the soldier a while. “Why do you tell me this? Am I not your traditional enemy?”

“Perhaps once,” Laurens returned, “but now?” He supped his wine and thought a moment. “I’ve met Cullyn and Eben, and my thinking has changed.”

“And this one?” Pyris asked, glancing at Eben.

“I don’t know, save he’s a wizard and a friend.”

“Who brought you here in search of this girl, Abra?”

“A damnably willful girl,” Eben said grumpily. “And were Cullyn here not entranced, I’d be sitting at home in my cottage.”

Lyandra kicked Cullyn, “Were you?”

“What?” he asked.

“Entranced.”

He nodded, and felt her fingers close tight about the muscles above his knee. He winced—her grip was strong!—and said, “Until I met you.”

And realized that it was true. He looked at her and she looked back at him, and there was something exchanged between them that he could not define, only know.

“However”—Pyris interrupted their exchange—“we face a dilemma. This Garm woman, Abra, is taken by Lofantyl to Kash’ma Hall. Willingly? Or kidnapped?” He looked to Eben and Laurens. “Is all you tell me true, then you Garm might come across the Mys’enh in search.”

“I’d doubt,” Laurens said, “that we could raise
sufficient men to threaten you. Khoros will hardly concern himself with the fate of a Border Lord’s daughter.”

“But this Church of yours?”

“Still develops its magic. I believe that Per Fendur is one of the few to own that ability.” Laurens grew practical. “I think it must take years before there are sufficient priests to guide a real army. And then Khoros must levy his musters before he’s sufficient men to threaten you.”

“But the Church has found a way across,” Eben said. “And perhaps Lord Bartram shall send all his men.” He glanced at Cullyn and shrugged. “He’s a beacon, after all.”

Pyris laughed. “That would be no more than a raid; and easily defeated. I doubt this Lord Bartram has enough men to offer any real threat to Ky’atha Hall.”

“Perhaps; perhaps not,” Eben said. “But I’d not disregard the danger.” He stared at Pyris. “My father is a cunning man, and by all accounts so is Per Fendur.”

Laurens nodded agreement.

“There’s that,” Pyris allowed. “So what do you say?”

“That Isydrian might trade—ally with Fendur: Ky’atha Hall for his aid.”

Mallandra gasped; Cullyn felt Lyandra’s hand tighten.

“Think you so?” Pyris stared aghast at Eben.

Eben shrugged. “You know my father as well as I,” he said bitterly. “Do you think him capable?”

Pyris lowered his head in agreement.

“And if Kash’ma Hall were to make an alliance with Lyth Keep,” Eben said, “then you’d face a mighty foe.”

There was a silence then. The room seemed to draw in, shadows lengthening. The candles flickered and the fire sparked as if in warning confirmation. Cullyn swallowed wine, feeling entirely out of his depth, but still compelled to speak.

“Why not act first?” he suggested.

“How?” Eben demanded.

Cullyn turned to Laurens. “Does Lord Bartram hate the Durrym?”

Laurens thought a moment and then shook his head. “Not hate them, but he’s sworn to defend the border.”

“And he’s honorable?”

Laurens nodded. “A most honorable man.”

“And his argument now is that—as best he knows—Abra was kidnapped by Lofantyl.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Laurens agreed. “To bring her back, and so escape the damned priest’s attentions.”

Cullyn felt his head swirl, a whirlwind of tumbling thoughts, Lyandra’s hand warm on his thigh, her eyes fixed on him as were all the others. He was a simple man, only a forester, not used to such political games. He felt embarrassed as he studied their faces, all intent on his; but something he could not understand compelled him to speak.

“Suppose,” he said, “that we offer both Abra and her father a choice. Let Abra decide whether or not she wishes to return to Kandar. Let Lord Bartram hear her decision, and make his choice. That might”—he eyed his audience, amazed at his boldness—“forge such a peace as could bring Kandar and Coim’na Drhu together.”

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” Eben muttered. Then louder, “Did I not tell you he’s syn’qui?”

“But how,” Pyris chuckled, “do you propose to do that?”

“There’s a way,” Eben said.

“Which is?” Pyris toyed with his goblet, studying Eben with a smile that looked for an answer he might not accept, save it serve him well.

“Do the old rules still apply?”

Pyris ducked his head in agreement.

“Then a challenge.”

“A tourney?”

Eben nodded. “Why not? How else, save open warfare?”

“We might siege Kash’ma Hall,” Pyris suggested. “That would be amusing.”

“And useless,” Eben said. “You’d waste men against Isydrian’s walls, with no guarantee of getting Abra back. Do I know my father, he’d order her throat slit before he’d return her.”

“That’s true,” Pyris allowed, “Isydrian’s a mean temper on him.”

“Unlike you.”

Pyris laughed. “I am moderate.”

“Of course,” Eben said. “You are virtue personified.”

“Which is why I listen to your ramblings.”

“Save are they ramblings?” He stabbed a thumb in Cullyn’s direction. “Or his?”

Pyris ducked his head in acknowledgment and studied Cullyn a while. “If I were to slay him, he’d not be such a signal to the Garm priest. Might that not be the wisest course? Let Lofantyl have his Garm woman, and we fight this Lord Bartram.”

Eben said, “You’d slay a syn’qui?”

Laurens rose from his seat. “Do you threaten Cullyn, I challenge you.”

Lyandra said, “Father!”

And Pyris chuckled. “So much talk of challenges.” He stared at Laurens. “Do you think you could defeat me?”

Laurens shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’d do my best were you to harm Cullyn.”

“And you, daughter?”

Lyandra said, “Let him live. He speaks sense.”

Cullyn felt insignificant. Even were he syn’qui he
heard his fate discussed as if he were not present. He said, defiantly, “I’ll fight my own battles.”

And Pyris roared laughter and said, “So be it! It shall be as Eben suggests—a challenge.” He beamed at Mallandra. “Does a tourney excite you, my love?”

His wife studied Cullyn and her daughter. “Have you fought a tourney before?”

Cullyn shook his head. “What is a tourney?”

Pyris laughed again. Mallandra said, “Lance to lance; sword to sword.”

“I’ve never fought with either a lance or a sword,” Cullyn said as Lyandra’s hand closed tighter on his thigh. “Indeed, I’ve never fought with anyone.”

“But save you’d see the Dur’em Zheit besiege Kash’ma Hall,” Pyris said, “that’s what you must do—are you earnest in your desire to resolve this problem?”

Cullyn looked to Eben. “Is it the only way?”

“I believe so,” the wizard answered.

Cullyn looked to Pyris, who chuckled as if relishing the prospect of combat. “We vie together,” the Durrym explained cheerfully. “Isydrian would seize my hold, if he could. He’d defeat me and make Lofantyl master of Ky’atha Hall—and should he succeed in that ambition, then his clan would own such power as might challenge Santylla—he’d set himself or Afranydyr on the throne in Dobre Henes and rule all Coim’na Drhu.”

“And this hinges on me?”

“Eben and my daughter say that you’re syn’qui.” Pyris sipped wine, staring at Cullyn across the ornate cup. “So, yes.”

Cullyn met the Durrym’s gaze. “I came after Abra, and then became a fugitive. Now I become your champion?”

“Perhaps.” The smile faded a moment from Pyris’s face. “But if you want—”

“To speak with Abra,” Cullyn interrupted, wondering the while how he dared. “To find out what she wants; and Lofantyl. And perhaps …” He broke off, shrugging; uncertain of himself in such exalted company.

Eben murmured, “Speak on,” and Laurens smiled encouragement.

“Perhaps,” Cullyn continued, embarrassed, “that might broker peace between our lands. Were they wed …?”

“What good to Ky’atha Hall?” Pyris demanded. “Some treaty between Lyth and Kash’ma serves me not at all.”

“Save Lord Bartram swears peace with both.” Cullyn supped wine, wondering what he said, amazed at his audacity. “That he accepts Abra’s marriage to Lofantyl, and swears peace with both Kash’ma Hall and Ky’atha—which shall both agree to a treaty beforehand.”

“Under whose aegis?” Pyris asked.

Cullyn swallowed deep, summoning up all his courage before he said, “Mine.”

“To which end,” Pyris replied, “you’ll have to fight for Abra. Isydrian will agree to nothing else.”

“Then I’ll do it,” Cullyn said.

“Excellent!” Pyris clapped his hands. “I shall send messengers out tomorrow.”

C
ULLYN STOOD WITH
L
YANDRA
on the balcony outside his chambers. The night was warm, the lake glinting a silvery blue below, a soft breeze wafting forest scents from the woodlands. Overhead the sky hung star-pocked, glittering with the reflection of far-off worlds, the moon gone down to a slender crescent that tomorrow would fade to nothing—at least in Kandar. In Coim’na Drhu who knew what it might do. Perhaps the Durrym controlled even that.

“So I must challenge Lofantyl, who’s my friend?” he muttered.

“If you wish to speak with Abra.” Lyandra stared at him, almost coldly. “Are you in love with her?”

He looked into her eyes and shook his head. “Once I thought I was, but now …”

“Now?”

“She’s too high above me. Like you.”

Lyandra chuckled, a throaty sound, and her smile grew wide, like the sun emerging from behind storm clouds. Cullyn looked at her mouth and remembered that kiss she’d bestowed.

“You’re syn’qui,” she said. “I’m not above you.”

“I came to escape Per Fendur’s torture,” he returned. “Had Laurens not broken us free—and found Eben to help us—we’d be dungeoned”—he shuddered at the thought—“and set on the rack.”

“But you weren’t,” she said. “You escaped. Because you’re syn’qui.”

She leaned against him, and he felt the hard softness of her body through the thin gown. Her scent was enticing, her breath an invitation. He drew back.

“So everyone tells me.” He set his elbows on the balcony’s wall. “But no one tells me just what that means. That I’m marked by the gods? And therefore must fight a friend? Is that destiny? Have I no choice in it?”

“No,” she said. “No more than I for …” She stilled her next words and took his hands and looked into his troubled eyes. “Abra is taken to Kash’ma Hall, where Isydrian will hold her like a trophy—a victory over the Garm. Lofantyl, it would seem, wants her, and Afranydyr will support his father. Are you to even discuss her fate with her father, then you must fight for her. That’s the way of our world—and now you’re caught up in it, like it or not.”

“What if I went under a flag of truce?”

Lyandra chuckled. “Likely Isydrian would put an arrow in you himself.”

Cullyn sighed, staring out at the pleasant landscape. It seemed, somehow, more benign than Kandar. Gentler, softer—yet just as bloody. “I’m caught up in events I do not understand,” he murmured.