The Seer And The Sword (12 page)

‘I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t marry you.’

‘Why? Why didn’t you see me when I returned?’

‘Because I heard about Irene.’

‘You didn’t see Irene in the crystal?’

‘No.’

‘Who told you?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You lie.’

‘And you, Vesputo. You don’t even know what the truth is.’

The look he gave her made her shiver with abhorrence: a half-amused, deprecating stare. ‘Perhaps it’s best this way, my love.’

He stood, and she was glad. It meant he would soon leave, and she’d rather listen to Irene’s vapid chatter than spend time with Vesputo. ‘Your mourning period is almost up. Soon, we’ll be man and wife, and then you can have your crystal back. You’ll learn to use it better, and tell me everything it tells you.’

Later that evening, Irene couldn’t do enough for Torina. She hovered round, smiling and sweet.

‘I believe I’ll go to bed, Irene.’

‘Oh! Yes. Would you like me to brush your hair? It’s so beautiful, especially in the firelight.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Torina, I wonder if you would answer a little question for me?’

‘What is it?’

‘What makes the crystal work?’

Torina smiled inside. Irene had given her the perfect opening to tell the lie she had so carefully concocted during her hours alone. ‘Don’t tell Vesputo, but only a woman can make it tell the future.’

Irene nodded eagerly. ‘I won’t tell.’

‘You have to take it out during the full moon, and then again when the moon is dark. You have to be all alone when you do it. That part was ever so hard for me. Then it will start showing you visions, Irene.’

Landen had no trouble evading the garrison that guarded the border. When he reached Desante, he rode for a half-day without stopping, to distance himself from the edges of Archeld. Then he chose a prosperous, secluded farm to trade his stallion for a less valuable Desantian mare and some money.

He made his way to a bustling village not far from the main city of Desan. After examining passers-by, he searched the shops and bought warm black trousers, a flowing shirt of dark red, sturdy boots and a quilted jacket. Most Desantian men had short beards. Landen was glad he’d let his grow since leaving Archeld. In a few days, his thick whiskers would pass for native. He gave his Archeldan clothes to a beggar, trusting dirt and deprivation to erase their foreign lines and help lose his trail. He was bound to be tracked, but he would hide his footsteps wherever he could. His next move was to sell all the weapons he’d brought with him, down to the bow made with his own hands.

He watched as an ageing shopkeeper stowed his bow and sword out of sight and handed him a bag of coins in return.

‘Beautiful workmanship, that,’ the man remarked, eyeing him curiously.

‘Aye. Down on my luck or I wouldn’t sell,’ Landen answered.

‘Can you use them?’ The shopkeeper jerked his head at an array of swords and bows hung on his wall.

Landen nodded.

‘A young, strong man like yourself, with knowledge of weapons, should enlist.’

‘Are they taking soldiers, then?’

‘Oh, very particular, but the king always needs men at the ready.’

‘Particular?’

‘Well, if you have your own weapons and know the business, you stand a chance.’ The man’s gaze went back to his display.

‘How much for a plain sword and bow?’

The man stroked his chin. ‘Well, I’ve a customer will buy everything you’ve sold me, so I can make you a rare deal.’

‘Indeed?’

‘We seldom get the Archeldan swords, and truth be known they’re better metal. And that bow, why, a master craftsman made it.’

Landen swallowed and didn’t contradict. The man seemed in no doubt of where the sword was made.

Wearing Desantian weapons, he rode on to the city of Desan. The wide road leading to its gates had been fortified with pebbles; still it was muddy. Streams of boisterous bearded men, women with bright scarves on their heads, and laden animals passed through the gates into the city. Guards barely glanced at Landen’s unremarkable horse and clothes. They were occupied
detaining a ragged band of minstrels ten paces ahead of him.

The exile entered the city and followed the flow of crowds, looking keenly about him. Narrow streets were lined with simple, well-made buildings of wood and stone. The bustling, rowdy people were friendly with each other, jostling good-naturedly. Landen kept to the main road, listening to the patterns of speech he heard.

‘Desante and Archeld must have the same mother,’ he muttered to himself, glad to find that the languages and accents weren’t far apart. The common people spoke with a rough, oddly clipped slur. But when he heard nobles talk, they sounded much like he did himself.

He stopped occasionally, to buy food from cart vendors. Desantian bread was fragrant and robust. By early afternoon, he reached the market square, which lead into several thoroughfares dense with public inns and taverns. He took a room for the night, and found the groom.

‘Going to see the fight?’ the man asked.

‘Indeed,’ Landen answered, certain that to ask ‘what fight’ would mark him a foreigner.

‘Best hurry then. The mare’s in good hands with me.’

The young man stepped into the street, guided by the direction of the busy crowd. Just ahead of him, a young boy hurried along by the side of an older man. Landen picked out their conversation.

‘Is Tamand going to win?’ the boy asked.

‘Aye, he may, for the soldier gets to wear leather armour, and the criminal none.’

‘They both get swords, don’t they?’

‘Aye. And if Tamand kills the criminal, he gets twenty rashoes in gold. You and me won’t see that much till we’ve worked twenty years with no quitting. You can see why the soldiers fight.’

‘Tamand is strong, ain’t he, Papa?’

‘So they say. The criminal he’s to fight is main burly too.’

‘What does the criminal get if he wins?’

‘He most never does, seeing he’s no armour, and he can’t win without killing. But if he kills, he gets full pardon and can hire for mercenary.’

‘Full pardon for killing a soldier?’ The boy’s wide-eyed question echoed Landen’s thoughts.

‘Ah, they won’t fight if they’ve nothing to gain. No one’s making the soldier do it. Just look at the crowd here. Each one paying their end wage to see. This way, the king can pay his troops, and they say there’s wars again soon.’

‘Jern told me there’s another rule, where neither one gets killed.’

‘Bah! No one’s used that in half a century. Aye, it’s there, but Tamand won’t do that. No point getting to where he could kill, then sparing the criminal’s life and walking away with nothing.’

‘Then why’s the rule there?’

‘They say in the old days, if the soldier felt honour for the man he fought, he’d let him off. Nah, don’t think about that, son. Won’t happen today.’

As the father and son quickened their pace, Landen walked in their wake, shaking his head with disgusted
admiration. So, King Ardesen sponsored blood sports, a sort of entertainment tax on his citizens, to pay the troops that protected their borders! No doubt he ran a tight hold on such interests. Horrible ingenuity; a poor soldier could fight his way to riches by killing one of the kingdom’s criminals; a desperate prisoner purchase freedom by besting a soldier! And whoever died, Ardesen’s wealth would grow, for here were rushing swarms of Desantians: men, women and boys, eager to witness the coming fight, undaunted by the chill of autumn.

Did the king attend these gory spectacles? Did he hand out the prizes himself? And how many times a year were these battles enacted?

Though he had no heart to watch, Landen paid his fare and entered the huge stone amphitheatre, crowded with tiered benches. Below was a round walled courtyard, perhaps thirty paces in diameter. It was empty. Landen found a seat and waited as new throngs made their way in. The roar of humanity was loud. There was no sign of King Ardesen.

The sun was westering but still strong when a man appeared in the courtyard. He carried himself with authority. When he spread his arms, the multitude grew quiet. He raised a hand and another man, dressed in leather armour and carrying a bright sword, danced out to the centre of the courtyard. The crowd cheered him with fierce hurrahs. He kissed his hands to the people and smiled, bowing as if he’d just finished a great performance. Tamand was graceful and cocky. Landen feared it was a foolish stance for a man about to fight for his life.

A third man rushed into the courtyard. He too carried a sword, but wore only a loincloth. Landen recognized the agile strength of a wrestler in this man: those arms and legs, though smaller than Tamand’s, would be supple and deceptively mighty.

Tamand’s attention was still taken by the crowd as his opponent charged. The people yelled a warning. At the last instant, Tamand turned to meet the appalling ferocity of a sword-thrust. Though he leaped away, the sword caught him in the thigh. Blood spurted over the stones of the courtyard. Tamand stared aghast, crying out.

The other man didn’t wait. He struck again, this time to the heart. Then he stood warily, watching while the soldier died. Before the spectators could take in what had happened, guards emerged and escorted the criminal off, presumably to freedom.

Landen gazed mistily at the body on stone below. It lay as though flung, one twisted arm still gripping the sword, blood pooling round it. The people in the stands sat in gaping silence for a few moments.

A rumble of disappointment travelled round the tiers. They had paid to see a fight. Now it was over and their favourite had died without striking a single blow; died protesting the reality of his wounds.

Abruptly, soldiers were thick among the benches, meeting the grumbling crowd. The people were herded through the gates into the street, Landen among them.

As he watched the taverns swell with disgruntled citizens, he guessed many would seek the outlet of frustrated men, fighting each other in alleys, damaging
themselves with heated punches and raw booze. It would not be a night to make friends without paying the price of split lips, broken noses, or worse. Still, the friends made at such times often stuck together for life. Landen hesitated, listening to voices already raised in anger. He ached to do something himself, to forget the laughing young soldier who had underestimated death. He lingered in the street as the sun met the horizon, drawn to join noisy Desantians at the door of a tavern.

No, the timing was wrong. Tomorrow he meant to enlist in the king’s forces if they would take him; he didn’t want to present himself with bruises. He returned to his inn to spend the evening alone. He passed the time thinking of a new name to go with his Desantian life.

In the morning, the groom told him where to enlist. He rode out among the bleary-eyed populace, to the training grounds of the king’s army.

Here I am, exiled again, with ambitions to become a soldier in the service of a king I feel no allegiance to
.

His sword and bow gained him an immediate interview with a captain. Required to display proficiency with a variety of weapons, he easily demonstrated his usefulness. When they asked his name, it was no effort to answer ‘Bellanes’. The chosen alias seemed to belong to him as much as the name that had once been given to a king’s son. He claimed to be from Guelhan, an outer province of Desante, far enough away to account for being unknown.

They told him it was peacetime. King Ardesen had just signed a broad treaty with King Dahmis, the
powerful leader of Glavenrell that men called the high king.

As a soldier, his skills would be used to keep the peace, unless war broke out. Pay was one rasho a year, doled out in monthly stipends, plus room and board. He was issued leather armour and given a place in a contingent led by Captain Hadnell, a decent man who reminded him of Emid. Then he entered training to apprehend criminals and protect citizens.

A few days later, Landen stood in morning review exercise, a cold wind blowing his hair. Captain Hadnell looked over the rows of soldiers.

‘I have news,’ he announced, ‘that may affect our kingdom.’

The men stood erect, waiting. Their captain was not given to overstatement.

‘As you know, across the mountains to the west is our neighbour, Archeld,’ Hadnell continued. Landen braced himself. ‘Ten days ago, King Kareed, her ruler, was murdered with a poison-tipped stiletto.’

So soon!
For a short moment, Landen felt a child’s bursting, painful exultation, to hear this poetic justice. His father’s murderer finally dead! Kareed’s life cut short, just as he’d cut short the lives of so many.

Then he remembered that Kareed had trained him to meet a world he must now live in. Without that training, he’d be lost. And Kareed was
her
father. If he was dead, that meant Vesputo was alive. How did she bear it? He recalled her grieving face the last time he had seen her.

‘The killer escaped, no one knows where,’ the
captain went on. ‘His description might fit many of you!’ His eyes narrowed, and he shrugged. ‘Young, tall man with dark hair, good with weapons and horses.’ There was a collective chuckle. ‘It’s believed this young man may try to set up as a bow-maker.’ Landen blessed the foresight that had ordered him to relinquish his craft.

‘His name is Landen. Rumour says he’s the dispossessed prince of that fabled land, Bellandra, conquered by Kareed six years ago.’ Hearing his name, Landen struggled for calm. It was no more than he had expected. Yet, it was official now. He was a hunted man.

‘Each new entry to the city will be carefully searched and questioned. All new mercenary hires will be examined. He was riding a grey stallion and wearing Desantian weapons and clothes. If you find this man, he’s to be turned over to the king, alive.’

Torina asked for hot water. She bathed, soaking away the traces of her grief. She combed her hair, did it in a single neat braid, and dressed herself with care. Then she sent for Vesputo.

‘Irene says you wanted to see me?’ His voice was smooth as oil.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you through with your mourning?’