Solace Shattered (19 page)

“Yes,” she murmured. Her proud chin sank, and she set the paper in her fingers aside.

As Chane suspected, she knew all along what the sword was and had lied to his father to try to keep it for the Sarapostan. “I know the sword is Assaea. I solved the riddle of the name, as did you. My father, however, still has no idea of what he got. Did the Sarapostan know?”

“Not at first. Then I didn’t have a chance to tell him until after your father claimed it.”

“So that explains why he gave it up so easily.”

“Even if he knew, he’d have been foolish to try to keep it. Your father would have found a way to get it.”

“That’s true. The Sarapostan may well owe you his life.”

Willow looked him square in the face. “Will you inform on me, that I withheld the true translation from your father, if I don’t agree to give you the Blue Eye?”

Give him the Blue Eye? So, it was as Chane suspected. The Sarapostan didn’t have the Blue Eye...yet. Otherwise, he’d never have agreed to the fight. He’d have threatened Lerouge with it if the sword weren’t returned. “No. I mean no coercion. I couldn’t bear to see you harmed, and I didn’t come here today to lay claim to the relic.”

His boys ran to him, pinched up the lately folded boats, and darted back to his sister. “My ungovernable temper forced you to draw me into Hell. How can I make any petition for the relic based on that happenstance? I will offer you proof of my ability and character. I have contracted the Sarapostan for a match at Brevard.”

“I don’t see what a tournament match would prove,” Willow said.

“Banishing The Scyon is our goal. The Sarapostan already killed a draeden. If I defeat him, am I not the superior warrior?”

“Prince, I have never doubted your martial skills.”

“You doubt my morals.” Chane looked to the statue of Paulus and then eased up the cuff of his sleeve to show the inked draeden’s tail. “I brought you to this place for a reason. I understand what the Reckoning was. It wasn’t the Maker’s punishment on men. It was men facing their evil choices. I have made evil choices and have faced them in Hell. I call upon Lukis’s and Paulus’s spirits as my witnesses. I have lived my own Reckoning. They didn’t combat The Scyon for kingdoms or riches. With Orlandia at the fore of my concerns, I was misguided. Now I see more is at stake. More is at risk than trading routes and merchants’ coffers. By the Maker’s mercy, my soul will come to a noble fate, and innocents will not be subject to Hell on earth.” He motioned to his children. “Those are my boys. I want them to know their father was the best of men. I want them to have the life the Maker intended, not a life of hiding from the draeden like rabbits in holes, or being forced to abide the worst in our possible natures instead of the best.”

“What if the Sarapostan wins?”

“I give him the weapon and relinquish any claim to the Blue Eye. If you select him to use the relic, I’ll fight by his side and use Artell in our cause. I will be Lukis.” He took a deep breath. He meant what he said. “In any case, I persuaded my father to send our best men with me to the frontier. I know the truth, the real threat facing us. I won’t leave the fight to whatever paltry forces Sarapost raises. What do you say?”

She looked him in the eyes. “I’ll consider what you said. Captain Degarius is an honorable man. But you have more to fight for.” She turned a melancholy glance to his children.

Chane longed to embrace her. To squelch the desire, he removed his hat and worked the brim. How would it have been if the Blue Eye had not come between them? If the draeden had slept another hundred years? He pictured her with their infant in her arms and felt the comforting appeal of life lived in the usual way.

The day would come when nothing stood between them.

Brevard Field, Acadia

A
breeze rippled Degarius’s dressing tent as his assistant buckled his breastplate. It was a cool, overcast day, the best kind of weather for a match. The tent flap swished open and Fassal entered.

“The match before yours started. Good luck, brother, though I know you’ll tell me you make your own.” Fassal thumped Degarius’s chest plate. “You look ready.”

“As ready as I can be.” Like the old days, he had followed a rigorous training schedule the weeks before the tournament. But back then, he hadn’t had to cope with the fact that if he didn’t bind his feet and wear double stockings the skin on them would shred after an hour of sparring. Still, it was good to have his mind focused on one thing and his body pushing it to exhaustion. At night, he had been able to fall asleep with barely a second thought, and sleep the night through as if it only lasted one, refreshing second. His pores had sweated out the impurities of his conscience.

“I’ll be cheering for you,” Fassal said and pushed aside the curtain to leave.

Degarius cracked a half grin. “You’ll be the only one.”

“I doubt that,” Fassal said and let the curtain flutter closed.

What the hell did that mean? Was she here to watch him fight for the sword?

The trumpet sounded. Degarius took off his glasses, gave them to the page bearing his standard, and motioned for the others to follow—one carrying his helmet and shield, the other the silver tray bearing a linen envelope containing the letter Lerouge demanded as a prize.

When Degarius set foot on the field, a sound like the roar of a waterfall poured over him. It was the noise of 30,000 boos. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to please them. Their tauntingly waved red handkerchiefs were a blur of color to his unaided vision. The hissing turned to a cheer. Lerouge must have come afield. Degarius kept his gaze on his standard-bearer, and his mind on the prize as he spread his feet shoulder-width apart.

Lerouge joined him. After taking Assaea from his page, the prince thrust it into the air three times. The crowd cheered even more wildly. He lowered the blade and approached Degarius. “Will you use it? I want no unfair advantage.”

Did the man know what he volunteered? With this sword, Degarius had killed more men than he could count. And perhaps a draeden. It was at home in his hand the way no other blade ever would be. Lerouge was as good as giving him the match. Degarius grasped Assaea. It felt so good. His arm was complete again. Never again would he part with it. Never. He’d become a swordsman to earn the blade. As a swordsman, he’d never lose it.

Lerouge took his own blade from a page. A Te-a Raha. Not Artell, Lukis’s sword.

“Acknowledge your opponent,” the referee ordered.

They touched knuckles.

The look on Lerouge’s face was neither taunting nor smug. All of the cockiness was gone. “Sarapostan,” he said privately, “we share no love and whatever happens on this field won’t change that. But some day soon, we must stand as brothers. I swear that if you win, I won’t hold it against you or Sarapost. I trust you’ll extend me the same honor.”

What a bastard Lerouge was to question his honor. Of course he was professional, would fight with Lerouge just as he did with any other comrade in arms against a foe. “Without a doubt,” Degarius replied with a civil nod before stooping so his page could buckle on his helmet.

A thunder of feet stamping the wooden bleachers began.

The page strapped the shield on Degarius’s arm.

The referee bawled, “Engage your opponent.”

They began by taking slow, deliberate sideways steps. Degarius knew a good swordsman like Lerouge couldn’t be tempted into making a rash, lunging move that opened one to a fall.

Lerouge edged in and delivered the first swing, a short, powerful chop that Degarius deflected with a resounding
clang
. A half-dozen more of these hammering blows followed. Damned, Lerouge was a windmill. Well, Degarius could return it in kind. The moment Lerouge let his rhythm slow, Degarius got his sword up and delivered a punishing swing, then another and another until Lerouge backed away to disengage.

The prince thrust his shield. “Show me what else you have.”

Degarius cocked his sword at waist-height and released a potent upward slice. Lerouge met it, but Degarius came away poised for a wicked hit. On its downward path, his sword made uncontested contact with Lerouge’s armored side.

The crowd hushed as Lerouge lurched away to shake off the strike. It only took a second. In challenge, he beat his sword against his shield, filling the air with the din of metal against metal. A manic cheer erupted from the stands.

Degarius lunged at him and swung a beautiful, hard, heavy, expertly aimed downward cut. He’d put his whole body, whole concentration, into the one perfect movement.

Lerouge’s shield met it solidly.

They went back to pacing the circle, planning the next attack, appraising each other. Lerouge was excellent but beatable. Everyone was beatable. Everyone had a weakness. What was Lerouge’s? It would show sooner or later. Sooner would be better. The bastard had thick, strong arms.

For half an hour, they alternated exchanging blows and stepping away for a breath. It was an endurance contest. Fine. Degarius had commanded a regiment. He knew how to persevere when fatigued on a long trek. Still, Lerouge made no mistake and betrayed no telltale flaw in either technique or strength. Degarius would have to wear him down.

They circled close, shield to shield, staring into each other’s eyes. If the crowd cheered or booed, Degarius made no note. It was as if his ears stopped working because his aching limbs sucked every bit of energy. A man couldn’t carry the weight of armor on his frame for forty-five minutes without feeling it. His left arm was going numb, and the shield was getting heavy. His feet burned, but one more good swing and it would be over. One more.

He stepped back, raised his sword, and sliced it around with all the strength and precision left in him. It hit square on Lerouge’s torso. It was a brilliant hit. The man should be down. He should drop. Why in hell’s name didn’t he fall?

Lerouge roared.

The Te-a Raha, came in an upward arc. Degarius brought his shield around. The blade hit, but he hadn’t tilted the shield forward enough to deflect it properly. It flashed toward his face. He turned his head. A sound a hundred times louder than the Saviors’ Gate bell echoed through his skull. He took a step, then another. The din in his head was unbearable.

Then everything was blue. Why did this all-encompassing blue lay so heavily upon him that it forced the breath from his body? Noise still rang in his head. Lerouge’s helmet came into the blue, and then was gone. Where? Behind him? He must turn to fight, be ready for the next blow.

Degarius tried to move his left arm. It was awkwardly pinned by the shield. With his right, he clawed for his sword, but couldn’t find it. Grass. Finally, it made sense. He was on his back. He’d fallen on the field. Someone was loosing the chinstrap, raising his head. The helmet was off. Someone was taking the shield from his arm. “Stop!” he roared. He had to fight. But the men grasped him under the arms and pulled him to his feet. He sloughed them off. He’d stand on his own, like a man, but his head spun and he wavered. They clutched his arms.

“It’s over Sarapostan,” one of the men said. “The prince took you down fair. Look.” They turned him around. Lerouge was parading a sword aloft for the crowd. Though Degarius couldn’t see it clearly, he knew it was Assaea.

The crowd’s roar cut through the ringing in his ears. Lerouge, in the heavy gait of a man encumbered by armor, strode back to the circle. He took Degarius’s limp hand, put the sword in it, closed Degarius’s fingers around the hilt, and said, “That was the hardest match I’ve ever fought, Sarapostan. You’ll need your sword.”

A deafening cheer cascaded upon Lerouge and covered Degarius in shame. The sword put in his hand was Assaea. He didn’t deserve it.

Degarius’s pages swarmed him. One took Assaea. Another knelt to remove his gloves. The third bore the silver platter. The letter. He ground his palm against his forehead and grimaced. She was watching in the stands. He squinted. Everything, even his forearm before his face, was a blur. A confusion of thoughts, more feelings than thoughts, pounded through his head along with the pain. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the letter, to give it to Lerouge.

“Sarapostan. Our agreement.”

Degarius’s fingers were numb as he picked up the letter and held it out.

Lerouge turned it over. His finger slipped under the packet’s seal.

Damn everything to hell.

The prince paused. “Sarapostan, soon we must fight a real battle for those we love.” He stepped in close and pressed the letter to Degarius’s breastplate. “Next time, don’t lose.”

Degarius’s chest sunk beneath the breastplate and letter. Though the mere thought of saying the words to Lerouge made his throat catch, he had to acknowledge
that
act of mercy. He held the letter in place as the prince removed his hand. “Thank you.”

That evening, Lady Martise’s

A
rvana stood with her arms reluctantly out as the dressmaker finished tying the long sash around her waist. Was the new dress and sash for the princess’s Coming of Age celebration proper enough? The sash, though gray, was cast through with silver threads. “It’s far too fine,” she murmured.

Musette, who’d been watching the fitting from the couch, said, “It’s what our lady ordered. Humility and dignity aren’t exclusive. You can’t go to the princess’s Coming of Age celebration in a patched dress.”

Arvana raised a brow. Musette was usually the dourest of Solacians.

“It is a shame such a sash will only be worn once,” Musette continued. “You’ll have no occasion in Solace.”

That was more like the Musette Arvana knew. “Hera, I wish you to have it when I’m gone. You must go to the princess’s wedding.”

“Humph. I suppose it’s what our lady intended.”

“Any changes?” the dressmaker asked. “You’ve lost weight since I measured you.”

Before Arvana could answer, Musette said, “No, the sash hides it well enough.”

The front bell rang. Perhaps it was the shoemaker with Arvana’s slippers. With the princess’s ceremony only five days away, the tradesmen were keeping odd hours to fill their orders. Through the open door between the parlor and entry hall, Arvana saw the doorman creep backward in a deep bow. Such an act of submission could only mean the king or...