Springbuck’s
stealthy leave-taking and the deaths of Hightower and Faurbuhl began in him a
desire for some act of violence and retribution, with a vague idea that he
could expiate his shame and redeem his self-respect.
Perhaps there
would come an opportunity in the promised war between Coramonde and Freegate,
if things actually went that far. No major war had been fought in or by
Coramonde in nearly a generation, but Fania—and Yardiff Bey—seemed set on
starting one. There were many and diverse substates under Coramonde; to greater
or lesser extent internal friction was a constant. It wasn’t beyond conceiving
that Springbuck could find support for an attempt at wresting back the Crown.
But there came
to him the lines from the Old Tongue, impressed upon him with admonishments by
his father, regarding civil war:
He should pause
and search his heart well
Who thinks to
go Doomfaring
In the War that
is war between brothers.
A single house
bleeds with
Every
internecine fall of the sword
And the
abattoiral axe.
Could such wounds to Coramonde be justified? The Prince was
unsure.
Still, if
armies were waging war on the far side of the Keel of Heaven, the situation
could come full ripe for the dislodging of Fania and Strongblade.
And Yardiff
Bey.
Springbuck
thought again of the look that had passed between the Queen and the sorcerer in
the throne room, that of vassal to Lord,
Bey in command?
How much, after
all, did anyone know about him? The archives had it that he’d first appeared in
Earthfast over half a century earlier. Since then he’d been away often, for as
long as ten years at a time. He’d come back from one such sojourn, twenty years
earlier, with the bizarre ocular in place of his left eye, object of cautious
speculation.
Rumors about
him were inexhaustible: that his sword Dirge dealt wounds which couldn’t be
healed, that he had an enchanted flying vessel concealed in the mountains of
the Dark Rampart, that some of his hidden conspiracies and secret liaisons led
ultimately to the distant south, to Shardishku-Salamá, where oldest magic still
worked against men.
But little was
known of Bey for sure, and few dared pry.
The Prince
called to mind the one time that he’d seen Yardiff Bey betray emotion. On that
occasion, six months earlier, the wizard Andre deCourteney had come to an
audience with Surehand, bringing with him the madman Van Duyn, who claimed to
be from another universe, or some such.
Bey had scorned
Van Duyn as demented, but appeared to regard Andre deCourteney as a threat, not
so much to his position as councillor extraordinary to the
Ku-Mor-Mai
as
to his very well-being.
But, with Van
Duyn making his outrageous claims and propounding his scandalous ideas for a
government by plebiscite, Surehand had hardly needed Bey’s urgent prompting to
banish the two from Earthfast, provoked as he was by their heresy.
As far as Springbuck
could determine, Van Duyn and deCourteney had gone to the little village of
Erub, to the northeast, to establish an unorthodox school of their own. The
Prince hoped that it was so, and meant to seek them out. He had questions to
ask them, particularly about Yardiff Bey.
As he rode
along mulling all of this, the scenery had gradually changed from the walls of
the gentry who lived near Earthfast to common residences, shop and tavern, and
finally the empty market plaza. He cut across the wide square past the Temple
of the Bright Lady and quickly made his way up winding byways to the Brass Lion
Gate. The guard commander there had just come on watch and was uninclined to
pester himself over an Alebowrenian, all of whom were known for their
truculence, especially since the gate would soon be opened anyway for the
predawn influx of farmers with their produce and other goods for vending, and
so accommodated Springbuck’s exit.
The gate yawned
behind him as the Prince rode across the hard-trodden earth to where the
Western Tangent shone gray and straight in the light of the watchtower. Storm
clouds had gathered and a sparse rain began to fall as he spurred his mount
away eastward toward Erub. Eastward where, perhaps, Andre deCourteney would
have answers and the Prince’s confusion and misgivings would be thrown open to
the light of wise counsel solicited from one of the best-known wizards of the
day.
He let the
roncin out to a gallop, heedless of Micko’s warning, diverting tension and
venting frustration in a wild ride down the broad, seamless Tangent. The rain
misted in a dew on his cloak and the sleek, rolling hide of the horse beneath
him, and he removed his war mask to feel the moisture on his face.
He rode
expertly, crouched low over the roncin’s neck, letting the tearing wind snatch
the events of the night from his brain. Lightning was flashing intermittently
when he came upon a horse incongruously leg-hobbled alone at the roadside. With
a start, he saw that it was his own, Fireheel, and came to a halt.
“I
thought
that
your own horse would give you pause,” said a familiar voice, and the Prince’s
heart clenched with dread. It was a voice he associated with long hours of
exhausting training during which he was exhorted to match its owner—endless,
impossible effort—one of the most capable warriors alive.
Though the rain
was heavier now, and the night dark, Springbuck had no difficulty identifying
the man with bow in hand who stepped from behind a nearby tree and up onto the
raised surface of the Tangent, arrow nocked, deadly confident.
The lightning
flashes showed him Eliatim.
The secret
of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom is courage.
THUCYDIDES,
the funeral speech for
Pericles
HE could see his former martial
instructor only dimly in the broken light until the other brought forth a small
lantern which had been covered, unshrouded its glow and turned up the wick. He
set it down near Fireheel, who dug with a nervous hoof at the impervious
Tangent; then he trained the drawn war arrow, barbs glittering coldly, on
Springbuck.
The Prince
considered his options. His mount was tired and Fireheel looked well rested, so
that Eliatim would have no trouble in overtaking him should he bolt. Besides,
the man was an uncanny marksman when mounted and an incredible one from stance;
Springbuck wouldn’t get two lengths before he was spitted. He gnawed his lip
and watched the rain splatter down, and a hope began to grow in him. If he
could occupy the other’s attention for some little while, perhaps the
master-of-arms’ bowstring would become moist enough in the downpour to make it
slack and give him a chance at escape. In any case, he must make some sally or
be shot down here and now, on the instant.
Thinking all of
this, he answered, “You needn’t threaten me. As you can see, I’m leaving
Coramonde for all time, going far and for good, I swear.”
Gone now were
thoughts of retribution. He wanted only to live, and that urge would supplant
any other but the strongest. The biting memory of his earlier failure of
Hightower tore at him, but immediate danger preempted any bold or defiant words
and his survival instinct prodded him to dissemble and say anything, anything
to live.
Eliatim cut him
short, words curdling with contempt. “You know better than that, boy. We can’t
afford to have you wander off, even if you mean what you say; it wouldn’t be
long before you were located and exploited by some troublemaker or other. One
of the Southern Warlords, or that heretic deCourteney, possibly? Now, look how
easy it was for me, Your Grace. When I returned and found you gone, I had
little problem surmising what had happened. Is it of any interest to you that
the stableboy is dead? I thought so. I had to interrogate him in some haste.
And we’ll hoist that damned slacker Brodur, too, when we find him.
“You must have
taken a roundabout way to the Brass Lion Gate, but I had the guards pass me
through and I knew that we would meet here one last time.”
Later,
Springbuck promised himself, he would think about poor Micko, how they’d played
and joked together, later remember how Micko could sleep between the legs of
the most spirited horse in its stall, since he was that close to animals, and
how he could never lie well, it being foreign to him to twist things or dress
his words up. The Prince must grieve later because now he was poised for the
one chance he might get to elude death.
The appalling
idea struck him that Eliatim was reading his every thought and intention when
the other said, “Come down off your high horse, and I will explain some facts
which, I confess, have been kept from you.”
Springbuck
groped in vain for some reply that would permit him to stay mounted, but
complied.
The
master-of-arms’ eyes were glazed with strong drink or drug. While his tone was
almost amiable, the arrow leveled at the Prince’s heart was not. Springbuck
stood near the roncin and watched the bowstring as if hypnotized, but Eliatim
showed no doubt about his weapon’s effectiveness. The older man’s body was
limber and relaxed, hand steady, and the string seemed taut.
As Springbuck
shuffled his booted feet on the hard, tractive surface of the Western Tangent,
Eliatim smiled through his stiffly waxed mustache and suddenly lowered the bow,
easing tension on the string. “How is it,” he asked huskily, “that you never
sensed how I anticipated this moment? Long and long I’ve waited to put you to
death, and send my star into the ascendant.”
At this the
Prince’s stomach knotted with fear and the fist with which he held his reins
balled even more tightly. His fleeting impulse to leap back onto his horse was
cut short at Eliatim’s next statement.
“If you try to
run I can cut you down before you have both feet in the stirrups. But I do
thank you for saving me a long and tiring chase on horseback, for I fear that
my bow cord became rather wet as I waited for you. I’m grateful that you follow
instructions so well and that you quailed at the sight of my arrow. Now, you
see, we can test whether the years I’ve spent teaching you the policies of combat
were wasted. Let us now weigh your prowess with the sword.”
So saying, he
hurled the bow and arrow aside and took from its scabbard his long, heavy
cavalry rapier. Springbuck tried to moisten his lips with a dry tongue. A vault
to the saddle was out of the question. He let fall his reins and took his cloak
from his shoulders and draped it over his horse’s croup. He reluctantly
unsheathed Bar, whose grip did not feel slick despite the rain and his clammy
palm. Eliatim’s eyes narrowed at Bar’s bright aspect.
“That hanger is
unknown to me,” he said. “From whence does it come? Ah, let it pass. I shall
have a chance to inspect it at my leisure, presently.”
He grinned
wickedly. “And while I think to tell you, your ill treatment of the Lady
Duskwind was unwarranted. She was no part of our alliance against you. How you
found out that Faurbuhl was with us though, I cannot imagine. Serves him
justly, the old dough-pate, that you garroted him; he was so damnable certain
that you trusted him.”
Springbuck’s
mind whirled as he juggled this new information. Faurbuhl a traitor and
Duskwind loyal? He played a gambit to learn more.
“How high do
you stand in this, Eliatim? How many are arrayed against me?”
The other threw
his head back and gave a short crow of laughter. “How many? Oh you fool! All,
or almost all! Duskwind proved difficult to subvert, but we had little need of
her. She’s probably been attended to already. The Court’s been weeded
carefully, with some stubborn holdouts like Legion-Marshal Bonesteel exiled to
duty on far marches and some, like Hightower, killed.” He sighed, then giggled,
and shook his graying head regretfully. “I’m sorry I missed the end of the
great Hightower, but I have business of my own tonight.
“I must say,
though, that you were quite clever to kill Faurbuhl and depart while I was
gone. Since he had no opportunity to signal your escape, no one suspected it at
first. But when Novanwyn and Desenge described their encounter with a peculiar
Alebowrenian whom they thought resembled you, I went to your room to
investigate.”
With this he
brought his blade into line and moved forward on the Prince, who retreated a
step, still hoping for the chance to break away and avoid a duel. To delay
further, he said, “You and Fania and Bey forget one thing: Strongblade is still
my father’s son. It may be that he won’t bend to your plans as readily as you
think.”
That brought
the blademaster up short, but his face was filled with glee, not doubt. “Idiot
child,” he scoffed, “your ‘stepbrother’ is not Surehand’s son, he is Yardirf
Bey’s! D’you think that’s a hard thing for the greatest mage in the world to
accomplish? It was no more difficult than slaying your mother by his arts; and
those stupid Court physicians, how easily they were misled. He’d groomed Fania
almost since birth for the one task of marrying your father and—hi!—how it
vexed him that just as he was about to introduce her at Court, Surehand married
another. Well, all’s remedied and things are on their proper course. Your
father was well taken with Fania, even in his mourning, but on their wedding
eve it was Yardiff Bey’s seed in her belly; Strongblade is no part of your
lineage. Bey’s victory over the Crescent Lands will rest on three children of
his body, the first a girl-child, the second male and the third both and
neither.”
Eliatim told
the tale with huge relish, enjoying its effect on Springbuck, venting
long-checked hatred. “He purchased my soul, yes, but I’m satisfied with the
bargain. We two closed a pact long and long ago on the High Ranges when the
Horseblooded had cast me out, and he brought me to Earthfast when you were a
week old. I’ve served him well and waited out this hour. When you’re dead—few
questions will be raised about your disappearance, I think—I go on to better
things and vengeance of my own.”