The Sword, The Ring And The Chalice - The Sword Part 23

"A woman and some children," Draysinko said with a sneer. She glared at him. "You are not too crippled to learn to shoot a bow. You could fish and-" "I am not trained for such work," he said, using the argument he always produced to keep from doing his share. He had been a rug-maker in Grov when the purge began. As long as he was only expected to weave cloth, he worked well. Ask him to do anything else, and he shrieked with complaints. "Hear me, all of you!" he shouted to the crowd. "We must face reality. This summer, yes, we can survive in hiding. But come the snows, what will we do?"

"We'll do what we've always done," Alexeika said, astonished by his cowardice. Yes, today had shaken them all. Every time she thought of life without her father, she grew faint and sick inside. Still, he would not want her, or any of them, to give up. "We'll winter in the mountain caves. And we'll go on with what we must do. With what we vowed to do."

"The war is over," Draysinko insisted. "We can have a full pardon if we will surrender."

"Then what did my father die for?" she asked fiercely. "Why did he spill his blood, if not to put a stop to the evil that has taken Nether? He did not fight today so that I could become a Gantese serf."

"Nothing was said about serving the Gantese," said a man quietly. He was a stranger. She guessed he must be the messenger from Lolta. Even as she sized him up, noting the lean body in mismatched chain mail, the scar on his cheek, the shiftiness to his eyes, and the worn but serviceable sword in his scabbard, Alexeika reminded herself that they should move camp as soon as he left. She did not like the looks of him. Nor would she trust anything he said. Alexeika looked at the bleak and frightened faces turned to her. "There's another thing you haven't thought through," she said. "Will you accept the Reformed Church and renounce the old ways?" That shocked them. Murmurs arose in the crowd. Several women flung their ap.r.o.ns over their heads and began to whimper. Young children, big-eyed still from the news that they had no fathers or brothers, stood huddled together in cl.u.s.ters, watching their mothers panic.

"Nothing was said about that," Draysinko admitted. He turned to look at the messenger, as did everyone else.

The stranger shrugged. "Heard nothing about it."

"You know it will be required," Alexeika said. "That's the trick, isn't it? By law, a serf is required to follow the beliefs of his master. Will you kneel to the Reformed Circle? Will you, Draysinko? Will you, Tleska? Boral? Tomk? Ulinvo?"

No one answered her. She noticed old Uzfan walking toward the rear of the crowd.

Pale and weary, he leaned heavily on a wooden staff.

Drawing in a breath, Alexeika pointed at the priest. "Here is our Uzfan. Remember that he was defrocked by the reformers because he would not leave the old ways. His brethren were beheaded."

Uzfan nodded. "She speaks the truth. The Circle was once a theology of tolerance, embracing old messages and new. No longer is this true. You have lost your kinsmen today in this terrible tragedy. Take care you do not lose your G.o.ds as well."

Alexeika looked at the messenger, her eyes filled with challenge and distrust.

"You've delivered your message," she said. "Go back to Lolta."

The man bowed to her. "I will tell them of the defeat." She frowned, biting her lip, but there was no way to stop him. It was the truth, the dreadful, unflinching, harsh truth. Unbearable, and yet they had to bear it. As the man mounted his horse and rode away, she squared her shoulders with an effort and faced the people again.

"We must grieve first," she said. "Let us give ourselves time for that before we make any hasty decisions. In the morning, we'll move camp and then we'll-" "Why?" demanded Larisa. "Why should we move?"

"For safety," Alexeika replied. "We have always done so after a messenger comes to us."

"But who will strike the tents?"

"We can," Alexeika said.

"It's nearly nightfall," Tleska said sadly. "We can't march in the dark. Our hearts are too heavy."

"No, of course we will not march tonight," Alexeika agreed, masking her sigh. "I said we'll break camp in the morning. At first light."

"But how will my da's ghost know to find me if I move away?" asked a little girl. She was missing her front teeth and had a spattering of freckles across her nose. The wailing resumed, with women turning away, wadding their ap.r.o.ns in their hands. Children scurried after them, clutching folds of their skirts and crying too.

Dismayed, Alexeika felt weary to her bones. Grief had exhausted her. She wanted no conflict now, but Draysinko and the other men still stood there before her, looking indecisive. She could think of only one other way to raise their spirits and bring back their courage.

"Let us not forget why we fight," she said. "Uzfan, when night falls, will you cast the prophecy about our true king once more?"

The old priest shook his head wearily. "Nay, child," he said. "Not this night.

You cannot rouse the hearts of people until their sorrow is spent." She would have argued and cajoled him, but he turned and walked away, leaning on his staff. One by one, the others trickled away, until only Draysinko was left. "The people will not follow you," he said spitefully. "You are not your father.

You are no man, despite your leggings and daggers." "I know what my father would wish me to do," she replied, still astonished by his hostility. Draysinko had always grumbled, but never before had he tried to create open dissension. Perhaps he had not dared to until now. Perhaps he wanted the leadership for himself.

She looked at Draysinko's sour face. "I do not want my father's death to be in vain."

He frowned. "We will choose a new leader tomorrow."

"We'll choose when we reach our new camp. In a few days."

"And who finds this new camp?" he asked with a sneer. "You?" She opened her mouth to say she could, but he turned away. Frowning and feeling troubled, she watched his limping figure a moment, then withdrew into her tent to think.

Her father's presence seemed to fill the small s.p.a.ce. Despite the gathering shadows she could see Severgard lying where she'd left it. It was a potent weapon, powered with magic. Who would carry it into battle now? Sitting down on her cot, she gripped her hair with her fingers and leaned over, her grief mixed with resentment. If only she could have been male. Her father had needed a son to inherit this sword, to carry his name into history, to continue the fight for the true king. She was strong and fearless, but not strong enough to wield Severgard. She could barely lift it, and she knew not how to control its power.

What was she to do? Let these people disperse and surrender? Let the rebellion fall apart? Tell herself she could do nothing except bed a man and bring a son into the world, a son who years from now would perhaps live to carry this sword into battle? Why had the G.o.ds given her an agile mind and a strong will, if her loins were all she was good for?

Worst of all, she was disappointed in her people, disappointed by how thoroughly they had been demoralized. It was as though this blow had killed their hearts, leaving them without the will to continue.

Was she the only one who raged at the ma.s.sacre, who vowed in her heart she would never give up, would never surrender, would never accept Muncel the Usurper as her rightful king? She was ashamed of the people she called friends, ashamed and disappointed in them. Perhaps tomorrow they would regain their courage. But as she listened to the wailing in the tents, she did not think they would. It was hard to lose, devastating to lose, knowing right was on your side, and yet losing anyway. "Oh, Papa," shewhispered through her tears. "What am I to do?"

In lower Mandria, the palace of Savroix was lit inside and out for an evening summertime festival.

Flambeaux atop poles illuminated the garden paths, and richly garbed guests wearing masks as disguises strolled in all directions. Laughter and playful shrieks filled the warm air among the hedges. Lute music played in the distance.

A girl went running by with a merry tinkling of tiny bells sewn to her skirts, her mask slipping and her hair half-unbound. She was pursued by a young man with streaming lovelocks and a short beard. He carried his mask in his hand and was laughing l.u.s.tily.

"Wicked, wicked!" the girl said. Her words were a rebuke, but her tone was all surrender. She ran on, disappearing into the shadows of the shrubbery, the young man on her heels.

Standing next to a stone statue, Pheresa watched the amorous couple vanish. Although she had lived at court for several months now, she remained shocked by these wanton escapades. King Verence was a kindly, good-hearted man, but what misbehavior he did not himself witness he seemed to take no interest in. Nor did he want anyone carrying tales to him. Therefore, the courtiers did as they pleased as long as they kept decorum in the king's presence. As for Verence himself, he kept two mistresses in opposite wings of the palace, and officious little secretaries with pens and parchment were in charge of keeping the two ladies' schedules apart so that they never met each other. Pheresa had not been trained to lead such a life as she saw daily at court. Nor could she bring herself to embrace it, despite the joking advice of others. Often, she felt unsophisticated and alone. She had written only once to her mother for advice, but Princess Dianth.e.l.le's reply was curt. Pheresa had to make herself admired if she was to succeed. No one could obtain popularity for her. Pheresa had no particular wish to be popular among courtiers who were idle and heedless of anything except their next pleasure. She was interested in the workings of government and longed to be allowed to sit in on the meetings between king and council. Once, she had requested permission to attend. Her pet.i.tion had been denied.

Now, her three companions-Lady Esteline, who was Pheresa's court chaperone, plus Lady Esteline's husband, Lord Thieron, and brother, Lord Fantil-observed her round-eyed expression at this evening's festivities and laughed. "That was the little Sofia you saw running into the shrubbery, my dear," Lady Esteline said, giggling behind her slim hand. "One of the ladies in waiting to Countess Lalieux."

Pheresa blinked. The Countess Lalieux was the king's newer mistress. "I see," she replied, but her voice was clipped.

Lady Esteline laughed harder. "Do not worry," she said gaily. "Sofia and her pursuer are engaged to be married. Such a frown you wear." Lord Fantil bowed to Pheresa. "Enchanting," he said, showing his teeth in approval. "Such old-fashioned, country notions of propriety. Most young maidens fresh out of the nuncery are eager to embrace all that they see here. Few are as shy ... and as beguiling ... as you."

Pheresa blushed to the roots of her hair and hoped the shadows concealed her change of color. She looked away from him, feeling his compliments and flattery to be inappropriate.

Lady Esteline laughed again. "Take care, Fantil. This child would rather read the dreary foreign dispatches and harvest accounts than flirt with a handsome man. I think it a grave disservice to teach young maidens how to read. See what comes of filling their minds with such nonsense?"

Lord Thieron threw back his bald head and brayed. The others joined in his laughter. Pheresa smiled to be a good sport. They were always laughing at her and teasing her. She disliked it very much, but she didnot know what to do about it. Nor did she quite know how to acquire friends of her own choosing. Her place at court remained tenuous. The king liked her, and she had the honor of visiting him daily for chats and occasional games of chess. But she had no official position here. Niece of the king or not, she had no duties and no importance. Neither of the king's mistresses had chosen to receive her or invite her to join their circle of companions. Pheresa was relieved because as a member of the royal family, she knew she should not recognize either woman. Yet she was lonely. King Verence's wife had died several years ago, and he had not remarried. Pheresa believed he erred in this, for a queen would have curbed the courtiers'

excesses and organized their society more productively. But she knew better than to dispense either her opinions or her advice. The best and most courteous of the older courtiers spoke to her pleasantly, but most of the younger set did not bother with her at all. Pheresa understood, of course. Until she was engaged to Prince Gavril and officially destined to one day be queen, she meant nothing here.

Now, she and her companions resumed their stroll along the garden path, and Pheresa kept a wary eye on how far away from the palace they seemed to be going. From all sides, she could hear furtive rustlings and giggles in the ornate shrubbery. During the day, she adored the gardens and loved walking through their beauty. On evenings like this, however, she would rather have been safe in her own chamber.

Lady Esteline stumbled and gripped the arm of her husband. "Oh, how silly of me," she said unsteadily.

"This blighted slipper has come apart. Thieron, you must a.s.sist me."

Her husband bent to reach beneath the long hem of her gown. Lord Fantil moved to stand beside Pheresa. She could smell a fragrance on him, something musky and disturbing. Her father had never worn scent. Nor did the king. She did not like the custom.

"Is it easily mended?" Fantil asked politely.

Lord Thieron pulled the slipper off his wife's foot and held it up for inspection in the gloom. "I think not."

"Such a bother," Lady Esteline complained, "and I paid four dreits of silver for these shoes. I shall insist the cobbler refund my money." "Let us go back," Pheresa said with relief. "The men can help you walk, and I shall-" "No, my dear. How can you think of spoiling your evening because of my silly slipper?"

Lady Esteline patted Pheresa's hand. "You really must see the north fountains by moonlight. They are the most enchanting sight. Fantil, please escort Lady Pheresa there."

"Of course," he said eagerly.

A tiny sense of alarm pa.s.sed through Pheresa. "The fountains will wait for another occasion," she said, trying to keep her voice light and steady. "I could not leave you like this, my lady."

"Dear child," Lady Esteline cooed. "So sweet of you to worry about me. But I have my Thieron to escort me. Please go on."

"I am a little tired," Pheresa said desperately.

Fantil took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. "Then we shall not tarry long. But the fountains by moonlight you must see, if my sister has decreed it. Come, my lady."

He led her away into the shadows, away from the palace and the flaming torchlight. Pheresa did not want to go with this man. She knew she should not be with him alone, but her own chaperone had put her in his keeping. She did not know how to extricate herself from this situation without making a fuss.People already considered her quaint and old-fashioned. She would be joked at and mocked even more if she took fright and ran away.

The fountains stood beyond the farthest edge of the gardens, with the woodland park behind them.

Cascades of water poured down and jetted into the air. Although the moon was only a thin sliver tonight, the effect was a pretty one. Pheresa stood there, gazing at the sight, and feeling very conscious of how close to her this man stood, of how tightly he kept her arm clasped within his. "Beautiful," she said.

"Now, let us go back."

She tried to turn around, but he held her where she was.

Pheresa frowned. "Please."

"There is no hurry, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and smooth and a.s.sured. "Let us linger a few moments more to savor all that is special here." From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed another couple nearby. They were embracing in a pa.s.sionate kiss. Lord Fantil bent over her, and she could feel his warm breath upon her cheek.

She felt trapped, too warm, and a little faint. He meant to kiss her, of that she was certain. His arm had now encircled her back. His fingers splayed across her waist, pulling her closer to him.

"You are a beautiful child," he murmured. "Your skin is so white it glows by moonlight. Your lips are-"

Pheresa had a sudden clear thought of the palace and how close she stood to jeopardy here. If Fantil compromised her, she would leave Savroix in disgrace. Certainly she would never marry the Heir to the Realm. With a gasp, she turned her head, averting his lips from hers. He kissed her cheek instead, and she twisted in his hold, giving him a strong push. He released her at once, much to her relief, and held up his hands. "Now, now, my little dove. What do you fear? Have you never savored a man's ardor before?" "I do not intend to savor yours," Pheresa said tartly.

"That is unkind. If I have frightened you, I beg your pardon. Please, my lady, there is nothing to fear. It is pleasant, once you grow used to it." "No doubt," she said, gathering up her skirts and walking around him. He turned to go with her, and she quickened her pace. "But I do not intend to dally here in the moonlight with you."

"Tell me how I displease you," he said, reaching out and gripping her wrist.

She stopped, too furious now to feel afraid. "Release me." He obeyed, but in doing so he allowed his fingers to stroke her arm lightly. She shivered.

"Am I too ugly or too old for you?" he asked.

Pheresa frowned. Lord Fantil was young and very handsome, as well he knew. His games annoyed her.

With a little huff, she started walking again.

"Lady Pheresa-"

"Hush!" she said angrily. "How dare you use my name out here. Do you intend to cause a scandal?"

He did not reply fast enough, and that told her the answer.

She drew in her breath sharply. "I see." "No, I don't think you do," he replied. "Tarry a moment, and let us talk." "There is nothing we need say," she told him, walking faster. "I understand this matter perfectly. You have a younger sister, do you not? One reputed to be beautiful indeed."

"Yes," he replied with caution.

"Yes," Pheresa repeated, nodding to herself. Her anger deepened with every step.

"A sister whom you would like to marry to his highness."

"My lady-"

"Enough! Do not waste my time with falsehoods," she snapped. "You and Lady Esteline think me unprotected and foolish, too naive to guard myself from ruinous seduction. I fear to disappoint you, my lord, but you have overestimated the power of your charm."

He kept pace with her, but even through the shadows she could see how tense he had become. When he spoke, his voice was as tight and clipped as hers. "Forgive my offense. If you believe my family plots against you, you are completely mistaken. My youngest sister is already betrothed to a young man of worth and fortune. She is no rival to your ambition."

Just short of a flambeau, he stopped on the garden path and faced her, his face and shoulders in shadow. "You quite mistook me. My compliments were sincere, but I a.s.sure you they will not trouble you again. Good evening." With a bow, he strode away, leaving her there alone. Pheresa stood next to a large shrub with her face and throat flaming hot. Her mind-momentarily so clear and certain-fell into confusion and she did not know what to think. It seemed she had erred again, and in doing so had insulted a man of importance. All the popular ladies at court had admirers, but she had just spurned her first so clumsily she might never attract another. The nuns had taught her how to read and think for herself, but not how to flirt. Dismayed, she stood there hiding in the shadows until she was certain she would not cry, then slowly returned to the palace.

Far away in Nether, the shadows grew long and darkened inside Alexeika's tent. Eventually, she found a measure of calmness. She thought of the stories her father used to tell her about King Tobeszijian, handsome and strong, with his eld eyes and his thick black hair. When Queen Nereisse was poisoned and the throne overturned, Tobeszijian had acted like the true king he was. He seized the Chalice of Eternal Life from the hands of the churchmen who stole it and rode forth into a cloud of magic, never to be seen again. The Chalice and Tobeszijian's heirs were missing all these years later. It was rumored Tobeszijian was dead, for everyone felt he would have returned to fight for the throne had he been alive.

But his body was never found. Men had searched. Often Alexeika had seen pilgrims trudging along lonely forest paths or steep mountain pa.s.ses, their footgear worn to shreds as they searched tirelessly for their lost king.

Uzfan had cast prophecy and evoked visions, saying the king was lost forever, but that his son would one day return.

"King Faldain," Alexeika whispered now. Her heart stirred at the mention of his name. He would be about her age, perhaps a year older, for she was not born until after the troubles in Nether began. Her older sister had died of some childhood illness. Later her mother had been killed. That was when her father came forth from hiding in exile and took Alexeika into his care. That was when he began to actively campaign against King Muncel. There had been war ever since. If she had anything to do with it, there would continue to be war. She wondered what Faldain looked like, if he was as strong and handsome as his father had been. Did he have Tobeszijian's black hair? Or was he pale and fair like his eldin mother? Where did he live? Did he know of his heritage? Was he training, even now, in the arts of war so that he could return to avenge his parents and seize the throne rightfully his? Was he worthy of his name? Did he have the character and courage to be a king? Or was he spoiled and shallow? She sighed, pushing away her speculation. The problem was that the people needed a man of flesh and blood to fight for. They needed to know that their rightful king existed. Until now, they had put their faith in her father and followed his leadership. But without the general, there was little to keep their hopes alive. If Uzfan would only cast a vision of Faldain, the people might keep going.

If they could see their king, they would know him worth waiting for. She stood up, intending to go to the old priest and persuade him to cast a vision. But as she stepped outside her tent into the soft evening air, she halted. She could not ask again. If Uzfan possessed the strength to conjure up the vision, he would have done it rather than refuse her. It would be unkind to pester him and make him admit he was too weak to perform the task. The evening breeze felt cool and pleasant. The camp lay quiet now, for most people had withdrawn inside their tents. She realized she hadn't scheduled the night watch, but a shadow moved among the trees, telling her the work was being done anyway.

Out on the fjord, the water lay still and dark. A moon was rising in the sky.

She watched it climb the heavens and knew she needed hope as much as the others.

Perhaps more.

Well, then, she would use her own insignificant abilities and cast a vision for herself. Her mother had possessed a bit of eldin blood. Alexeika's gifts were small indeed, and seldom used, for when she'd been younger Uzfan's attempts to train her had been unsuccessful and frustrating to them both. Tonight, however, she decided to try. Perhaps, instead of a vision of the king, she would seek a vision of her father.

As long as she lived, she would never forget the sensation of feeling his soul pa.s.s from this world into another. It had felt like a benediction, his parting blessing, although he had never been a sentimental man given to emotional displays. Already she missed him so much.

Quietly she walked down the steep bank and untied a small fishing skiff. Climbing in, she paddled her way across the fjord until she was well away from the bank. Shipping her paddle, she let the skiff bob there on the surface, waiting until the water grew calm and still.

The moon's pale sliver hung above her. Stars spangled the darkness around it. The water reflected back moon and starlight. She centered herself until she found a place of peace and acceptance.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated her thoughts on her father, envisioning a mist upon the water. Long ago she had tried to part the veils of seeing, as Uzfan referred to casting a vision. She was never very good at it, but now she tried not to think about old failures. In the past she'd wanted to see her mother, and her mother had not come willingly into sight. Tonight, however, Alexeika still felt the fleeting touch of her father's soul. She focused on him, feeling the mists of her mind swirl around her, and opened her eyes, waiting with what patience she possessed. The moonlight glowed deep within the water, shining deeper than she had ever seen it before.