Part 46 (1/2)

Swiftly he surveyed the crowd. Many for and many against Masul-but none of them with power to do what he could if he chose. If he had the courage. If he was willing to risk all for a man Mireva would eventually kill anyway.

No-not for Masul. For himself. Segev explored possibilities, projecting actions and their probable consequences. If he succeeded in killing Maarken with no one the wiser, then Mireva would have to favor him over Ruval when it came time to challenge Pol openly. But with the Star Scroll his, he would not need Mireva at all.

Who was likely to be trouble? he wondered, scanning the faces. No Sunrunner would dare any weavings-no usable sunlight shafted through the clouds, nothing to work with. He smiled in contempt at their weakness. But which of them might sense his own working? Pandsala was the obvious danger; her mother had been Ianthe's mother, gifted with the powers of the diarmadh'im. diarmadh'im. Sunrunner she might think herself, but Segev knew better. Urival was a strong possibility. Segev did not forget that he had sensed Mireva's starlit observations that night in spring. Sunrunner she might think herself, but Segev knew better. Urival was a strong possibility. Segev did not forget that he had sensed Mireva's starlit observations that night in spring.

But only Andry knew and understood enough of the Star Scroll to be a real threat. And that would only happen if Segev was careless.

He watched intently as Maarken and Masul faced off. The first clash of steel sent a spasm through Hollis. Segev had nearly forgotten her. She had escaped him for a time this morning, probably to go see Maarken. As if either of them would glean any comfort from the encounter. He glanced at her white, strained face with its huge eyes, and squeezed her hand rea.s.suringly.

Maarken was perhaps a finger's width taller than Masul, but the latter was heavier through the shoulders. Still, they seemed evenly matched. Segev cast a quick glance at the water clock that had been brought here from Rohan's tent to measure the length of the battle. When the level in the lower sphere had risen one mark, Segev would act. Weariness would a.s.sail the combatants by then, and tension would draw nerves to the breaking point in everyone else. No one would pay any attention to the obscure ”Sunrunner” youth who would decide the outcome of the challenge.

He hid a grin and pulled in a deep, satisfied lungful of the muggy air. He could wait.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

Riyan watched with critical eyes as Maarken and Masul tested each other's fighting styles. There was no doubt that Maarken was the more polished warrior, elegant, graceful. But Masul fought with controlled heat, like a kiln fire stoked to searing strength. Maarken could take the chance of infuriating Masul in hopes that the resulting explosion of temper would make him careless. Or he could trust to his superior training and technique. For the present he played it conservatively, with feints and parries designed to show him Masul's weaknesses. But Riyan and every other swordsman watching soon saw what Maarken did: Masul's weaknesses were very few.

The pretender had had a masterful teacher. Riyan could well imagine that some knight in retirement at Dasan Manor had longed for amus.e.m.e.nt. Lacking sons of his own to train, discovery of so apt a pupil in so unlikely a place must have offered the perfect outlet for boredom. There must be many such young men throughout the princedoms, whose swords could earn them a way out of obscurity into a lord's or prince's permanent guard, and perhaps even to holdings of their own. Andry was proof that not every highborn's son was born to wield a sword; Masul showed that not all peasants were meant for the plow.

Still, there were certain moves of which he appeared ignorant. At first it seemed that Maarken might be overtrained, especially compared to Masul's brutal directness. But he picked up quickly on the differences in their styles, and when the fight began in earnest Riyan nodded slowly on seeing that Maarken had found the most important weakness. Masul excelled in one-handed thrusts and parries, but he had a bad habit of bringing his sword completely over his left shoulder to add extra force to an inelegant two-handed swing, as if he was hacking at a tree. Had he been able to trick Maarken into losing his balance, the blow would have been effective. But Maarken watched and sidestepped and when the move had been tried twice, took advantage of its third use. He gave Masul time to bring his sword over his shoulder, fooling him with a purposely clumsy recovery, then swung his own blade in a deadly arc right at Masul's ribs.

The pretender saw it coming too late to evade entirely. His spine arched like an angry cat's, his right hand slipping from his sword as he struggled to maintain equilibrium. As Maarken's blade caught him in a wide swipe across his chest harness, his left arm and sword described a powerless half-circle in silver. The first whispers came from the hitherto silent crowd.

Riyan saw Maarken choose the emotional advantage rather than the physical one. Instead of following up on his opponent's distress, he took a step back and put one hand on his hip: the att.i.tude of a master teacher waiting for an incompetent student to recover himself for the next lesson. Riyan could not hear what Maarken said, but the taunting curve of his lips was unmistakable. He evidently felt that Masul's unleashed fury would work against him far more effectively than a physical wound. As the pretender regained his balance and lunged forward to the attack, Riyan wondered if Maarken was right to risk it. The anger was still contained.

His attention was diverted from the next few moves by the sight of a young squire in Cunaxan orange and the silver knife badge who sidled around to this side of the crowd. Sorin stopped him, then grimaced and escorted him to where Rohan and Sioned stood. Riyan moved closer to hear what was being said.

”-your graces would care to make regarding the outcome,” the squire finished.

”Your master has one h.e.l.l of a nerve,” Tobin hissed, her eyes on her son.

”Agreed,” Sioned murmured, and Riyan's brows shot up at the wicked gleam that lit her emerald eyes. ”But we'll accept the wager, nonetheless.” She glanced at Rohan. ”What do you think, my lord azhrei azhrei and husband? Free rights to Tiglath for the next ten years against . . . ?” and husband? Free rights to Tiglath for the next ten years against . . . ?”

The High Prince smiled, and the squire took an involuntary step backward. ”Against whatever you like, vein of my heart,” Rohan drawled. ”You're the gambler in the family.”

”Thank you, dearest. You're so generous to me.” She looked again at the squire. ”My lord husband is a great believer in innovations. We have a project or two in mind that require large amounts of iron. Say, about five hundred silk-weights.”

The squire gulped at her casual mention of this colossal quant.i.ty. ”I-I am ordered to accept whatever terms are offered, your grace. I shall inform my master at once.”

”Do that,” she purred.

Riyan looked a question at Sorin, received a bewildered shrug in reply, and sighed. Whatever Sioned had in mind, it was known only to her and Rohan.

Maarken was still toying with Masul, trying to loose the anger that could only help defeat the pretender. The crowd began to shout its preferences, cheering a well-aimed blow or an artful parry. As Riyan followed each attack and counter, he came to realize that whatever else he was, Masul was no fool. Too much depended on this for him to be tricked into losing his temper. Maarken seemed to sense this as well; his face set into grimmer lines and his sword swung with more ferocity, seeking not to taunt but to kill.

There was blood now on both men, gashes cut in arms and thighs, gouges taken out of leather harness and the skin beneath. Riyan tensed as Masul's blade sought to bury itself in Maarken's skull; the young lord swayed back just in time, but not quickly enough to avoid a glancing slice on his cheekbone. He riposted swiftly with a nasty cut to the pretender's already bruised ribs, where his earlier blow had laid open part of Masul's armor. The man gasped loudly and drew back, one hand clutching his bloodied side. This time Maarken followed through with a long step forward and a vicious swing of his sword designed to dissect the tendons behind the knees. Masul lurched out of his way at the last instant and fell to the gra.s.s.

Riyan's four rings dug into his flesh as his hands clenched in antic.i.p.ation of the final blow. But it did not come. Maarken staggered slightly, shaking his head. And suddenly he raised his sword to strike at something that was not there.

Nervous laughter and derisive shouts surged through the crowd, quickly followed by exclamations as Maarken again thrust his blade at empty air. Riyan gave an incoherent cry as he felt trembling heat circle his fingers. He looked down at his hands, half-expecting the rings to glow, giddy with relief when he saw they did not. But they alerted him to a subtle and menacing p.r.i.c.kle of the same heat in his mind. Maarken was struggling against some enemy seen only by himself-and his real enemy was recovering from shock and pain, heaving himself to his feet. Riyan closed his eyes, concentrating. An oddly familiar flare on the edge of his thoughts, intense fire just out of reach-his breath caught and he remembered when he had felt it before.

The a.s.sa.s.sin's death. The ancient power of his mother's family had responded to the use of sorcery then as now, answered through the burning of his faradhi faradhi rings. So he rings. So he was was of the Old Blood, he thought, fighting back panic as that blood allowed him to glimpse things that threatened Maarken's life as surely as Masul's sword. of the Old Blood, he thought, fighting back panic as that blood allowed him to glimpse things that threatened Maarken's life as surely as Masul's sword.

Sioned clung to Rohan's arm, watching in horror as Masul rose up to renew the battle. But Maarken was flailing his sword at nothingness, whirling to attack things that were not there. ”Sweet G.o.ddess, what's wrong with him?” she gasped.

Tobin screamed her son's name. Masul, careful of the wildly swinging sword, approached and got in a telling blow with the flat of his blade on Maarken's spine. The young lord reeled, turned to slice a gash in Masul's arm. But it was as if he fought not one but two or more men, only one of them visible to the stunned crowd. Only his vast skills as a warrior trained to antic.i.p.ate a dozen swords at once kept him alive.

”Sioned-it's them, someone's here who knows the old ways-”

She barely recognized Pandsala's voice, didn't even notice that for the first time the regent had addressed her by name. ”What? What are you saying?”

Pandsala looked ill, her face as gray as her gown, her eyes nearly black. She was rubbing her hands, twisting the rings on her fingers as if they hurt her. ”I don't know, I can't-oh, G.o.ddess!”

Rohan and Sioned supported her as she swayed. ”Sioned-if she's right, someone has to protect Maarken.”

She knew at once what he was asking. She had s.h.i.+elded him from treachery years ago during his battle with Roelstra, weaving starlight at an impossible distance into an overarching dome through which arrows and knives could not penetrate. But this was different. He was asking her to pit her Sunrunner arts against something she knew nothing about. And there was no sunlight to work with, nothing to weave into a thick fabric of protection. Even if she could, would it be effective against sorcery?

Maarken twisted and fought, sometimes evading Masul's thrusts and sometimes staggering under their impact as he battled specters only he could see. The deep red of his battle harness and the orange-red of his tunic were darker now with another red, an ominous red. Like living flame he writhed and spun from visible and invisible warriors.

Living flame.

She let Rohan take Pandsala's weight. ”Pol! Andry! Urival!” she cried out, and they were at her side even as the first blaze of conjured Sunrunner's Fire sprang up from the ground. She heard the screams, Miyon's furious shout that faradhi faradhi tricks were forbidden, and ignored all as she gathered in the colors of those around her. Sapphire and ruby and emerald and diamond and a dozen other gem tints dazzled and shone within the red-gold flames as they rose higher, higher, running up walls that were not there, meeting in a fiery arch that spread until it encapsuled the battlefield. People shrank back, faces crimsoned by the Fire, terrified by its intensity. Sioned grasped for every shred of tricks were forbidden, and ignored all as she gathered in the colors of those around her. Sapphire and ruby and emerald and diamond and a dozen other gem tints dazzled and shone within the red-gold flames as they rose higher, higher, running up walls that were not there, meeting in a fiery arch that spread until it encapsuled the battlefield. People shrank back, faces crimsoned by the Fire, terrified by its intensity. Sioned grasped for every shred of faradhi faradhi power she could find around her, heedless of the soft despairing cries of Sunrunners already exhausted. But she kept Maarken out of it, cordoned off from the weave that must protect him. power she could find around her, heedless of the soft despairing cries of Sunrunners already exhausted. But she kept Maarken out of it, cordoned off from the weave that must protect him.

The flames flickered, unsteady, as the sorcerer who had wrought Maarken's visions a.s.saulted Sioned, battered at her with powers like yet unlike faradhi faradhi ways. It was as if their hands met on either side of a fine mesh screen, palms and fingers matched, the warmth of skin to skin tangible-yet never really touching. She fought back, drew even more from reeling Sunrunners until they had no more to give. ways. It was as if their hands met on either side of a fine mesh screen, palms and fingers matched, the warmth of skin to skin tangible-yet never really touching. She fought back, drew even more from reeling Sunrunners until they had no more to give.

The Fire held, obscuring all view of the combatants within its dome. She could not know if her weaving had canceled the sorcerer's working. She wanted to believe that the frantic attack on her defenses meant she was succeeding. But she knew that the sorcerer must be found, must be. There was not enough left in the Sunrunners or in herself to sustain this for long.

Sioned felt a sudden loss, a retrieval of portions of power and color back to the faradhi faradhi who owned them. She could not stop to reclaim lost strength; she sought for and found more, moaning as she recognized the brilliant, nearly limitless force that was her son, offered up for her free use. As she had done once before when he was barely a day old, she drew on the raw power of him, and thanked the G.o.ddess for his gifts even while begging her to keep him safe. who owned them. She could not stop to reclaim lost strength; she sought for and found more, moaning as she recognized the brilliant, nearly limitless force that was her son, offered up for her free use. As she had done once before when he was barely a day old, she drew on the raw power of him, and thanked the G.o.ddess for his gifts even while begging her to keep him safe.

Pandsala struggled to rise from her knees, where Rohan had abandoned her when Sioned began her work. She was still a part of that work, could feel Sioned's imperious demand for her strength. Yet it was not like years ago, when she had been helpless in the Sunrunner's powerful grip. She could reclaim the larger portion of herself, and with it her conscious will.

She staggered a few steps, paused to catch her breath, and swept her gaze around firelit, frightened faces beneath the cloudy gloom. Who was it, where, how? Her rings burned her flesh. Her mind was ablaze. Yet for the first time there were two distinct sensations of power, overlapping in some places and remarkably similar, but different in subtle ways. One of them she could easily identify as the faradhi faradhi discipline, seized by Sioned. The other was strangely free of the High Princess, drawn instead toward another, matching power. discipline, seized by Sioned. The other was strangely free of the High Princess, drawn instead toward another, matching power.

Suddenly she knew its source, knew him as instinctively as she knew how to breathe. Fierce eyes in a fire-stained, feral face-a face that had seemed eerily familiar to her before. The eyes were the wrong color, but the face was suddenly an echo of one hated for half her lifetime, a face that laughed at her in nightmares that had been true. Ianthe's face.

Pandsala almost screamed with the agony of knowledge, Ianthe's face, Ianthe's son, Ianthe's victory. She tasted blood in her mouth, sorcerer's blood shared with him, and knew her teeth had bitten her flesh. Her lower lip was on fire, like the circles of gold and silver around her fingers. Sunrunner's rings screaming in the presence of sorcery. Physical pain snapped some thread of tension in her, but instead of igniting fury she felt icy calm.

He was only a short distance from her. She pushed past Chay, who held his nearly senseless wife in his arms, shouldered aside Volog and Ostvel and the wide-eyed Alasen. The boy didn't see her. He held onto the young Sunrunner Maarken wanted to marry, his gaze intent on the fiery dome. She moved closer, every muscle in her body flowing smoothly and silently as water. Sioned's demand for her strength in the Fire-weaving siphoned off a little more of the faradhi faradhi-trained part of her, but she kept the Old Blood for herself, felt its silken s.h.i.+mmer in her veins like the trickles of sunlight seeping now through the gray clouds.