Yesterday's Kings (36 page)

T
HE
D
UR’EM
Z
HEIT HAILED HIM
as he entered the pavilion. They rose to their feet behind the long tables set down the length of the tent and shouted his name, clattering knives against goblets as he halted in confusion, staring nervously around. It was full night by now, but the pavilion shone bright from the silica globes that Cullyn now understood held glowworms. In his cottage it would have been firelight and tallow candles. In Lyth Keep it would have been smoky lanterns and blazing sconces. This was a brighter, more mellow light that matched the magnificence of the pavilion, as if the Durrym simultaneously lived in concord with nature and exploited it.

The floor was grass, but cropped short as any carpet and greener than any grass he’d seen, softer underfoot than rich wool. The tent was all silk and linen, its roof and walls fluttering softly in the gentle night breeze, panels of blue and gold and white. Down both sides ran tables of carved—or was it taught—wood, with high
backed chairs behind, decorated with ornate inlays of shells and stones and gems. And all the folk there on their feet and hailing him.

At the farther end was a dais, a raised platform on which was set a solitary table large enough to accommodate all who sat there. Pyris and Mallandra held the center, Lyandra on her father’s left, Eben and Laurens beyond her. Then Isydrian, with his sons beside, and Abra, who sat with nervous visage as Lofantyl grinned and Afranydyr scowled. The pavilion smelled of roasting meat and rich wine, and Cullyn felt his head spin.

Then Pyris rose and came down the aisle between the tables, bringing Lyandra with him, and Mallandra, one to either side in formal procession. He held their hands and halted before Cullyn. The pavilion fell silent, anticipatory.

Cullyn waited, wondering what transpired, and nervous.

Then Lyandra’s father said formally, “I am Pyris of Ky’atha Hall, Vashinu of the Dur’em Zheit. You delivered us a great victory, for which I thank you. You defeated Afrandyr of Kash’ma Hall, champion of the Dur’em Shahn, and won us much respect. I am obliged to you.”

He bowed; Cullyn gaped. Then he saw Eben motioning to him that he return the gesture of respect, and ducked his head.

Pyris beamed and said, “You have set a mighty geas on the Shahn. You now own Afranydyr’s life, so they cannot attack us again so long as you are with us.”

Cullyn wondered what such a geas might be, but—perhaps learning diplomacy—he said only, “I am happy to have pleased you.”

“More than me,” Pyris returned. “You’ve pleased my daughter, and she’d wed you—even though you be
Garm’kes Lyn.” There was a measure of doubt in his voice, but even so he swung Lyandra forward toward Cullyn, who instinctively took her hand. She smiled at him, and he knew he loved her.

But still wondered what future they might have together.

“And I approve,” Pyris said. At his side, Mallandra said, “And I.” Then Pyris asked, “How say you, Cullyn of Kandar?”

Cullyn hesitated a moment as he wondered where this might lead him. Then he looked into Lyandra’s eyes and felt all his doubts dissolve, and said, “Yes.”

The hall erupted once more as the Zheit lifted goblets and shouted his name and Lyandra’s. She pressed against him and kissed him and whispered, “The unicorns shall be dangerous after we’re wed.”

He blushed and took her hand as her parents escorted them formally toward the high table. He saw Laurens there, smiling his approval, and Eben with an expression of satisfaction on his aged face. Lofantyl smiled his approval, as did Abra. Isydrian sat stark-featured, and Afranydyr, beside his father, glowered.

Cullyn was abruptly aware that the shouts of approval and the raising of cups had come from the Zheit, not the Shahn, who sat sullen and defeated at the feast.

He stepped to the dais, pausing a moment behind Afranydyr to touch the Durrym’s shoulder and ask, “Are you healed?”

Afranydyr scowled through a proud smile. “Well enough.”

“I’d make peace,” Cullyn said. “I’d not have you for an enemy.”

“You shall not,” Isydrian interjected. “You defeated my son—the champion of the Shahn—and now you may dictate your own terms.”

When first Cullyn had seen the Durrym lord he had looked young—even were he Eben’s father—but now he appeared aged, his eyes avoiding Cullyn’s as he studied his older son.

He glanced at Pyris and sighed. “We must discuss this. Does the Garm understand?”

Cullyn took his seat, not properly understanding.

Lyandra whispered, “Dictate your terms.”

Pyris said, “The Garm? Does he not own a name—especially now?”

“Cullyn of Kandar.” Isydrian’s voice rang hollow. “Or is it now Cullyn of Ky’atha Hall?”

The Zheit voiced approval of that latter title, and Cullyn felt Lyandra’s hand squeeze his. He stared out at the tented hall and saw the Shahn imitating smiles that offered neither approval nor humor.

“What’s expected of me?” he asked Lyandra.

Lyandra answered, “A decision.”

He turned to Eben for answers, and the wizard quit his own chair to kneel by Cullyn’s and whisper in his ear, “You defeated Afranydyr in honest battle—now you own his life and can dictate your own terms. You can take him for a slave—”

“No.”

“Or bind him to peace; him and Isydrian, both.”

“That should be better.” Cullyn felt decision fill him. It was as if he were a flask that until now had not been properly topped. Now he knew what he must say, albeit he did not yet understand where the words came from. Only that they burst from him. He rose to his feet and stared at the gathering. “I defeated Afranydyr, who is a great warrior.”

There was a shout of acclamation from the Zheit, a reluctant nodding of agreement from the Shahn.

“And I’d wed Lyandra of Ky’atha Hall, just as Lofantyl of Kash’ma would wed Abra of Lyth Keep.”

The pavilion fell silent then, murmurs running like waves down the tables, like the sea rushing over pebbles that clashed together under the impact. Cullyn looked to Pyris and Mallandra and said, “I am honored that your daughter would consider me for a husband. I am honored that you consider me suitable.” He looked to Lofantyl. “How say you?”

“That we are friends.” Lofantyl rose, still holding Abra’s hand. “That when I went into your Kandarian lands I found a true friend, and a true love.”

Afranydyr scowled, and his father sat blank-faced.

“So let us wed,” Cullyn declared, wondering at his presumption. Was this what it meant to be syn’qui? “I shall marry Lyandra, and Lofantyl shall marry Abra.” He paused. “And Zheit and Shahn shall make peace.” He stared, surprised by his confidence, at Pyris and Isydrian. “How say you?”

Pyris nodded. “I’d not see us go to war. I agree.”

Isydrian scowled and shook his head.

“There are further terms,” Cullyn announced. “You are Eben’s father, and I’d see you make peace with him.”

“No!” Isydrian muttered.

“Then I claim Afranydyr’s life.”

“You cannot!”

“By right of combat, I can.”

Isydrian gusted a windy sigh. “As you say.” His face collapsed into deeper wrinkles. “Name your terms.”

“Acknowledge Eben as your son, and make peace with the Zheit.”

Isydrian nodded reluctant agreement. “What else?”

“That we all speak with Lord Bartram, and forge some kind of peace with Kandar.”

Both hall lords stared at him then, as if he were mad. “It can be done,” he said, wondering where his confidence
came from, aware that Laurens wore the same expression as the Durrym.

And Eben smiled as if all his dreams had come true.

“Now swear the peace,” Cullyn said. “You two embrace and declare it—that Zheit and Shahn no longer fight, but live together.”

He went to where Afranydyr sat scowling and set his hands on the Durrym’s shoulders. “I name this man my brother, as Lofantyl is. Do you accept?”

Afranydyr sat a while, uncomfortable beneath Cullyn’s grip. Then ducked his head in reluctant agreement.

Lofantyl clapped his hands in accord. “Well done, my Garm brother!”

Abra kissed his hand. “Thank you.”

Lyandra took it and kissed his lips. “You are truly syn’qui.”

Eben murmured, “It’s not done yet. There’s still Per Fendur to think of.”

“And,” Lyandra added, “our wedding.”

T
IME MOVES LIKE A RIVER.
Sometimes it rushes forward, as if in spate; at others there are eddies, swirling sideways to slow and revolve in backwaters. Time was different in Coim’na Drhu and Kandar: men and Durrym danced to different rhythms. So it was that Cullyn and his companions might live for weeks in the fey lands even as Per Fendur and his defeated company made their way back across the Alagordar to deliver their news to Lord Bartram.

The priest was not pleased with defeat.

“Your daughter is kidnapped by the filthy Durrym. Taken captive into the fey lands! Can you allow that?”

Per Fendur’s voice rang harsh and the feasting hall, already glum, fell silent. Lord Bartram stroked his gray beard and thought a while. Vanysse stared at her husband even as she found Amadis’s hand and clutched it tight.

“It’s sacrilege,” Fendur continued angrily. “And not only your daughter, but also the heretics—Laurens, the forester called Cullyn, and Eben the wizard. We must hunt them down!”

“To what end?” Bartram asked.

“That they be put to the questioning.”

“Torture, you mean.”

“If necessary.”

Bartram sighed and turned his eyes from the priest’s cold black glare to study his wife. She smiled agreement, and beside her he saw Amadis grin. He wondered, suddenly, what fate they had planned for him, these three conspirators. Fendur and Amadis he thought he understood: they desired power. But Vanysse? The gods knew that Khoros had sent her to him as a bride to bind the south and the Border together, but he’d loved her—and even thought that she loved him, despite the difference in their ages. He’d not argued her affair with Amadis. He acknowledged that he was too old to satisfy so young and lusty a woman, and had turned a blind eye, content to have her with him. But now it seemed she turned against him.

He asked her, “What do you think I should do, wife?”

“Follow Per Fendur’s advice,” she said. “Would you not have your daughter back?”

He suddenly wondered where her true allegiance lay, and if some deep plan rested behind her words.

“We must go across the Barrier.” It was Fendur who spoke now, Vanysse and Amadis nodding their agreement. “We must go in force and bring Abra back. Her and the others.”

“And you believe such an expedition is possible?”

“You know,” the priest said, “that I can find a way. I did before.”

“And were sent running.”

Fendur’s sallow face darkened. “I had only a squadron of horsemen then. And even so it was a narrow fight.” He looked to Amadis for confirmation and got back a nod of deceitful agreement. He did not hear Drak, seated amongst the soldiery, snort laughter. “Give me enough men and I’ll bring your daughter back.”

“To the Church’s questioning?”

“Perhaps not her,” Fendur replied. “But the others …”

“And you believe this possible? That we might bring Abra home?”

“Do you cede me enough men.”

“I’ll cede you all of them,” Lord Bartram returned, “if I can speak with Abra again and know what she desires.”

In his lust for conquest Fendur missed the inflection. “Then we go,” he said. “When?”

“Two days to organize,” Bartram answered. “That many to provision.”

“And you’ll ride with us?” Fendur glanced at Amadis.

“Of course,” Lord Bartram said. And to himself: to discover her wish.

“I
NEVER THOUGHT
I’d want to live here,” Abra told Lofantyl. “I was taught that you fey folk were strange—our enemies.”

“And now?” He took her hand, hopeful of her reply.

“I think not. I think that we Kandarians are your enemies.” She frowned. “This lust for conquest troubles me. You’d not overcome Kandar, eh?”

He shook his head. “We’re happy here. The land favors us, and gifts us with ever stronger magic, so why should we want to go back? Besides, we are far fewer in
numbers than you Garm; should it come to war, you’d outnumber us.”