Yesterday's Kings (35 page)

Cullyn backed away from the swinging sword. “Can we not settle this?”

“With your death,” Afranydyr snarled. And charged.

He was full-armored; Cullyn was not. The Durrym was protected, but Cullyn was more limber, even did his head still swim as if fishes danced inside his skull. It was a curious sensation, as if time slowed and he moved faster, indifferent to his fate as he watched the great sword cleave a path through the sunny air toward his head.

He ducked and swung the mace at Afranydyr’s side as he raised his broken shield against the downswing of the broadsword.

He felt the wooden shield shatter, and a terrible pain lance his side. But Afranydyr was smashed away by his blow, stumbling back with the eyes Cullyn could see through the slits of the hawk’s head helm opening wide in surprise and pain. Cullyn swung again, delivering a blow to the side of the helm that sent Afranydyr spinning away, his great blade waving wildly as he tottered back over the bloodied grass.

He shook his head and reached for the latchings of his dented helm. Tugged them loose and threw the thing aside, his visage furious as he stared at Cullyn.

“Now I shall slay you!”

He raised the broadsword.

Cullyn watched him, hefting the mace: no defense against so great a sword; and his opponent still armored, and he without a shield now. He was, he thought, about to die.

“Sword to sword!”

Laurens’s shout broke his reverie. He flung the mace away and darted back to the weapons stand, where Laurens flung him a blade.

“Not the broadsword,” the soldier said, “but faster. Duck his swings and cut him. Bring the bastard down with points and cuts—like I taught you.”

Cullyn felt no wish to slay Afranydyr; not for all his temper with the recalcitrant Durrym. But Afranydyr was intent on killing him, so he took the sword and did as Laurens advised—and remembered his lessons.

Afranydyr swung his broadsword and Cullyn ducked, deflecting the blow, so that Afranydyr’s cut passed over his head as he cut at the weakest points of the Durrym’s armor.

He stuck his point between poleyn and greave, through the jointure of cuirass, and tasset, even as Afranydyr battered at him with his great sword. And all the time rolled and danced as the broadsword swung toward him and struck only empty earth.

The Durrym’s armor became bloody. Cullyn’s ribs hurt.

“Shall we not give this up?” he gasped.

Afranydyr snarled, “No!” And charged.

Cullyn ducked again under the broadsword’s swing, and struck at his opponent’s legs. Afranydyr toppled, falling onto his side. Cullyn set a boot on his great sword, pinning the blade to the ground, and set the point of his own blade against Afranydyr’s throat.

“Shall you concede?”

Afranydyr cursed and shook his head. Cullyn looked up. He saw Eben and Lauren urging him to end the combat. Pyris and Mallandra stood with arms upraised, their thumbs pointed down. Lyandra clapped her hands.

“Do it,” Afranydyr urged. “One blow, eh? I’ve been defeated by a Garm—to live on in disgrace? No!”

Cullyn said, “I can’t.”

“Then use that lyn’nha’thall my stupid brother gave you. Stick it between my ribs, Garm, and end my disgrace.”

Cullyn said, “No, I cannot: you broke it.”

“If you don’t,” Afranydyr returned viciously, “I shall dedicate my life to your destruction.”

“Even so,” Cullyn said, “I’ll not slay you. So live.”

“May all the gods damn you,” Afranydyr spat.

Cullyn stared at the fallen Durrym, unsure of his next move. The easiest thing would be to simply lean on his sword and drive the blade through Afranydyr’s neck. The easiest and the hardest, for he had no wish to take the warrior’s life. But what else to do? Should he remove
his point he’d no doubt at all that Afranydyr would rise and come at him again, and they fight to the death. And that, he thought, would surely confirm the enmity between Zheit and Shahn; between Kandar and Coim’na Drhu. He became aware of silence around him, as if all the world held its breath. It seemed that the birds had ceased their singing; even Fey stood silent. He looked to the pavilions and saw Pyris and Mallandra urging him to end the combat; Isydrian sat pale-faced, Lofantyl and Abra beside him, staring. Lyandra studied him with a quizzical expression, her lips pursed in a tight smile that he could not interpret.

He turned his gaze toward Eben and Laurens. The soldier clenched his fist, angling a thumb downward; the wizard shrugged and Cullyn saw his mouth shape words he could not hear, but guessed said, It’s your choice.

Cullyn sighed, confused, then stepped back. “I’ll not slay him,” he cried, loud enough that all the company hear. “He fought honorably, and was honorably defeated. I grant him life.”

Afranydyr mouthed curses; Isydrian shook his head, his face abruptly haggard, as if his son’s survival were worse than his death. Lofantyl nodded, grinning in approval. Cullyn saw Lyandra’s smile grow tighter.

Then Afranydyr clambered to his feet, clutching at the broadsword, hefting it in readiness to swing.

Isydrian bellowed, “No!” and the sword lowered, Afranydyr leaning on the hilt as if the blade were a crutch.

“Do you understand what you’ve done, Garm?”

Cullyn shook his head.

“You’ve taken my honor. I am your subject now.”

“I’d not have subjects.” Cullyn frowned, even more confused. “What do you say?”

“That I’m defeated in battle and you own my life, to command me as you will.”

“Then I command you to live, and make peace with the Zheit. And that you have your wounds tended, and after we shall meet and speak of the future.”

Afranydyr spat and nodded. “As you say.” His voice was bitter.

They studied one another, still unsure. Then Eben shouted, “It’s done!” and came to hold Cullyn up, with Laurens, even as Shahn came to escort Afranydyr to their pavilions.

Cullyn watched his opponent carried away, swaying on his feet. His side hurt suddenly in memory of his wounds. He took Lyandra’s token from his belt and saw it all bloody. Then she came to him.

“Why did you not slay him? He’d have killed you.”

He stared at this bloodthirsty virgin he loved and asked her, wearily, “Why should I? Better to make peace, no?”

“Better, indeed,” Eben said, fixing Lyandra with his blue-eyed gaze, “that all be peace.”

“Zheit and Shahn?” she returned. “Durrym and Kandar? You voice impossibilities, old man.”

“Listen to the syn’qui, eh?” Eben smiled at Cullyn. “Listen to him, and follow his advice.”

Cullyn coughed then, and blood came out of his mouth. Lyandra gasped and tenderly wiped his chin. He clutched his side, which hurt horribly, and the worse for Lyandra’s arms about him.

“He needs healing,” Eben declared.

“I need to speak with Lofantyl and Abra,” Cullyn muttered through the heaviness that filled his mouth and throat. “We must …”

Then he could speak no more, because the world spun away and he felt terribly weary. He fell against Lyandra and saw her gown all stained with blood, which he supposed was his own. He was faintly aware of her voice calling out in alarm and of hands grasping him, but then it all went away into darkness.

H
E WOKE TO THE GLOW
of candles, burning, the tent misty before his eyes, so that it took him a while to discern the shapes before him, even to feel the moistened cloth Lyandra pressed to his fevered brow. He forced his eyes to focus on her face and tried to smile, but his mouth seemed incapable of movement, and all that escaped his lips was a groan that he heard like some far-off echo uttered by another. He thought that Eben knelt beside her, and Laurens, and another figure he did not recognize. Then he slipped away again, into the darkness and the swirling dreams.

He fought Afranydyr again, save sometimes his opponent wore Lofantyl’s face, or was Per Fendur. Sometimes he died; sometimes he was victorious. He saw Kandar and Coim’na Drhu join in battle, both lands wasted by the strife. He saw weeping women, Durrym
and Kandarian both, and keeps and castles burning, wood reduced to ashes, stone to rubble. He wondered, in his fevered dreaming, if he wept.

Then light came and he opened his eyes again and raised his head.

“At last.” The smile on Eben’s mouth betrayed the wizard’s stern tone. “We had wondered, you know.”

“About what?” Cullyn saw Laurens, the soldier’s arms easing him up against soft pillows, smiling fondly. Then Lyandra, clutching his hand, touching his face, tears on her cheeks.

“Whether you’d live.”

“Why not?”

Eben chuckled. “You took some sore wounds—things broken, torn up, pierced. But Durrym healers are most efficient.”

“Afranydyr?” Cullyn asked.

“Also lives, thanks to you. You had the right to slay him.”

“I’d not slay anyone,” Cullyn murmured as Lyandra brought a cup to his lips and urged him to drink the potion. It warmed and strengthened him, so he eased farther up against the pillows, for all it took both Lyandra and Laurens to aid him. “Not save I’m forced to it.”

Eben nodded approvingly. “He’s in little better condition: pricked and bled, and sorely wounded. Laurens taught you well.”

Cullyn turned his face toward the soldier, which took an effort, for his head felt weighted and all his muscles weak. “Thank you.”

“It was you, not me,” Laurens said. “You fought a brave battle.”

“And now?”

“You have the choice,” Lyandra said, smiling as she
wiped his brow. “You own Afranydyr’s life. You won a great victory. Do you not understand?”

He shook his head and wished he’d not, for the movement sent the faces spinning.

“You can dictate your own terms,” he heard her say, echoed by Eben.

“You own Afranydyr’s life. He must obey you, and through him, Isydrian. You can dictate a peace between the Zheit and the Shahn.”

“And between Kandar and Coim’na Drhu?”

“Perhaps that, too. Isydrian is bound by honor to hear you out.”

Cullyn was not sure who spoke. A mist closed over his mind and he felt weary. He watched the faces of the people he realized he loved grow dim. He felt a kiss—Lyandra’s?—against his cheek, and went back into the darkness.

C
ULLYN LED A SQUADRON
into battle then, Durrym riding against Kandarians, and he unsure which side he supported. Per Fendur rode at the head, and was opposed by Lyandra, who rode a shining white unicorn that halted as the Kandarian arrows flew and was plucked from her mount. Lofantyl was there, and Abra, reaching down to lift him up and hand him to Eben and Laurens, even as he felt the same shafts as pierced Lyandra pierce him. They said together, Do what you must, and were echoed by Eben.

He woke sweaty and fevered, troubled by the strange dream. Was this what Eben meant, when the old man spoke of him being syn’qui?

He sat up and saw that Lyandra slept in a chair beside his bed, and Eben and Laurens snored loudly on the
other couches. He saw a cup on a table beside him and found it contained water that he drank in copious drafts, gulping it down so that Lyandra woke and smiled at him, bright as the sun that rose beyond the confines of the pavilion.

“I need a bath,” he said. “I feel dirty.”

She put her arms around him, carefully, and said, “I’ll bathe you, my love.”

And eased him to his feet and ordered a tub be drawn, and washed him as might a servant, laughing at his blushes, and then helped him dress as Eben and Laurens woke. Then, laughing anew at his recovery, she brought the news to her parents.