Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (75 page)

“Thanks,” Maarken replied awkwardly, not wanting to think about her. He must think of nothing but Masul’s death.

The field was encircled with people now, half a measure away from where Maarken sat his horse. The highborns were strictly divided between the opposing parties. The common folk filled in between, everyone silent beneath the slate clouds. Maarken looked up, thinking that the sky seemed made of the gray ashes scattered at dawn, as if Andrade’s spirit lingered to witness the pretender’s defeat.

At the direction of Rohan’s guards, an opening appeared on either side of the circle, one of them directly in front of Maarken. The crowd parted on the other side, giving him a clear view of Masul. He wore Princemarch’s violet, damn him, and rode the horse he’d nearly killed in the race. It would be Maarken’s pleasure to claim that horse for his own and treat it as so fine an animal deserved.

Despite the cloud cover it was still a warm day, muggy with a confusion of late summer and early autumn, as if neither season yet had dominion. Maarken felt sweat dampen his back underneath the leather and steel of his harness, and resisted the urge to twitch his shoulder blades against the trickle of moisture between them. At last he heard his brother’s voice, indistinct at this distance in the open air, but he knew what Andry would be saying.

First, the identification of claims. Then the statement of Masul’s crime. The pretender rode forward and halted before the High Prince, making no bow—not that anyone had expected him to. His head was at an arrogant angle as he made formal challenge. Andry heard him out, then turned slightly and spoke again. Maarken distinguished his own name and titles, touched his heels to his stallion’s sides, and reined in neatly half a length from Masul. He bent his head to his uncle and his cousin.

“Be then our champion, Lord Maarken,” Rohan was saying in long-established formula. “As this man seeks to prove his claim on his body, so you will prove ours on your own.”

“I will, my prince,” he replied.

Andry signaled both men to dismount. But Masul had one more thing to say.

“I demand assurance that he’ll use no Sunrunner witcheries in this battle.”

“Given,” Maarken snapped before anyone could do more than stiffen with insult.

“Then remove your rings,
faradhi.
”

Maarken stared at him. Surely Masul didn’t believe that old tale that a Sunrunner deprived of the rings was powerless. Sioned was proof enough of that; she had worn no ring but her husband’s for fifteen years, and all here had seen ample demonstration of her continuing power. He glanced at Andry, who wore a scornful smile.

“Permission is given,” said the Lord of Goddess Keep, “for we would not want the pretender distracted by his superstitions.”

Maarken nearly laughed. Young as he was, Andry had a definite flair for this kind of thing. He bowed to his brother and stripped off his red leather gloves. One by one he removed the rings he had worked so hard to earn. As he did so, his urge to laugh died away. The six small circles in his palm, silver and gold with small rubies, and one more crowned with a garnet, were integral to his pride. They were part of what he was. He hesitated, then walked over and with a low bow gave them to Pol for safekeeping.

He saw a flicker on Andry’s face, gone in an instant. “My prince,” he said to his cousin, “I’ll reclaim them soon.”

“But they’re still on your fingers, Maarken. Look.”

There were thin bands of paler skin where the rings had been. If Andry had a flair, Pol had a positive genius. He smiled at the boy and Pol’s eyes brightened in reply.

Chay came forward then, leading away Maarken’s stallion. Miyon did the same for Masul’s horse. Maarken put his gloves back on, flexing his fingers within thin, supple leather that would keep his grip on his sword firm and sure, and gestured for Masul to precede him out to the center of the field.

As he followed the pretender, he could sense Hollis presence all along his skin. But he did not make the mistake of looking at her.

 

Segev shifted nervously at Hollis’ side. He was on his own now, and he knew it. Mireva could do nothing, not in working her will through him nor in telling him what he ought to do. Starlight was her weapon; it was day. She was competent with sunlight, but the clouds blotted out the sun. He should have felt exhilarated by the freedom. He felt nothing but apprehension.

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.
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 reassuringly.

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 assail 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.

R
iyan 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 amusement. 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 attitude 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 hell 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
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 quantity. “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 grass.

Riyan’s four rings dug into his flesh as his hands clenched in anticipation 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 prickle 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.