Artesans of Albia: 02 - King's Champion (47 page)

The light outside increased as a pale, watery sun nudged its way over the rooftops. A page appeared at the door and Idrimar turned to Sullyan. “Are you ready?” Sullyan inclined her head, not trusting herself to speak. She and Robin followed the Princess along the corridors, Ky-shan, Jay’el, Ki-en, and the twins walking behind. Clearly they weren’t going to miss this if they could help it, and Sullyan couldn’t refuse them. She nodded as she passed them but didn’t speak.

When they reached the outer courtyard, there was already quite a crowd. Horses had been readied, their hides and gear gleaming, warm breath steaming faintly in the cool dawn air. Sullyan looked for Drum, but although she could see a groom holding Robin’s chestnut Torka, there was no sign of her big black stallion.

The entire royal household had turned out to see the party ride off, and the ladies Falina, Hollett, and Torien were all in attendance on their lords. Kryp and Ephan, still sporting bandages, were dressed in their battle uniforms, but Sullyan suddenly noticed that Anjer wore clothing identical to hers. She frowned.

A stir by the doors to the royal apartments heralded the arrival of the Hierarch, who was followed by his secretary, Baron Gaslek. Sullyan heard Robin’s gasp of admiration and could scarcely blame him, for the tall, patrician ruler was dressed magnificently. His state robes were white, gold, and purple, and he wore a long, flowing cloak of gold gauze trimmed with white fur and purple velvet. It shimmered strangely in the watery sunlight as he crossed the courtyard. Coming over to where Sullyan waited, he beckoned Anjer to him. The two men halted in front of her and as she was about to make an obeisance, Pharikian took her hand.

“We’ll dispense with the formalities today, child, there’ll be enough of that outside very shortly. Now, Brynne, you will doubtless have noticed that your enormous warhorse isn’t here. That’s because we thought it best to keep your presence concealed from Rykan until we choose to reveal the Crown’s Champion. You would be all too visible aboard that huge beast, so I have provided another mount for you today. Stay at the rear of the party, if you will, until we call you forward.”

“As you wish, Majesty.”

He turned to Robin. “As for you, young man, your duty this morning will be to direct the flow of my shielding toward Brynne, as I may well become distracted once we meet Rykan face to face. There’s never been any love lost between us, and there’s even less cause for it now. So don’t allow your attention to wander.”

Robin nodded and the Hierarch turned back to Sullyan.

“My child, the Lord General has claimed the right to be your second, both today and tomorrow. Under other circumstances, the Champion’s lot would have fallen on him, so I think this is fitting. Do you agree?”

“Of course, Majesty. I would be honored.” She smiled up at Anjer’s massive, comforting form. He placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Then I believe we are ready.”

A groom brought the Hierarch’s horse forward. It was a stately golden mare with a nearly white mane and tail. Her coat was burnished and gleaming, her gear polished brightly and glittering with golden fittings. She was decked out with a cloth of gold trapper, and purple bunting adorned the reins. Belying his age, Pharikian swung easily into the saddle, his back straight and strong as he nudged the mare toward the gates. His generals mounted their warhorses and Sullyan settled herself into the saddle of the dapple-grey pacer the groom brought her. It was much smaller than her familiar Drum.

They formed up in the courtyard, Pharikian in the lead with Anjer by his side, Kryp and Ephan following, then Gaslek, and finally Sullyan and Robin. The pirates ranged themselves around her, and no one commented on their presence. A full contingent of Velletian Guard, all wearing purple and gold ceremonial uniforms and led by a brooding, hard-eyed Vanyr, surrounded the party. The Hierarch raised his arm and the many trumpeters stationed on the Palace walls brought their horns to life. To the resulting bellow of sound, the courtyard gates swung open and the party rode onto the Processional Way. With the pale sunlight gleaming off polished swords and gold cloth, they rode in stately fashion, acclaim from the populace ringing in Sullyan’s ears. The noise was deafening as they entered the lower town, and flowers and petals were thrown under the horses’ feet.

When they reached the perimeter road running the circumference of the Citadel’s curtain wall, the cheers of the guards stationed there swelled the clamor. Robin nudged Sullyan’s arm and she caught sight of the patrol commander who had escorted them to the Citadel gates so many weeks ago. She wondered what the man thought of them now. She soon forgot him as Pharikian looked back over his shoulder at Robin, indicating that he should begin concentrating on the shield protecting Sullyan. With an anxious smile, the young man complied.

At a nod from their ruler, the array of heralds on the curtain wall now began their fanfare. For some reason this made Sullyan think of Bull, and she suddenly longed for his comforting presence. Giving herself a mental shake, she turned her attention to the strong flow of metaforce coming from Andaryon’s ruler. As the guards slowly cranked the enormous Citadel gates wide, Robin’s strength was added to the shimmering web of power cast around her mind. His deft skill earned him her grateful smile, and he held her eyes for a moment to convey his loving pride.

As they rode through the gates, the townspeople’s cheering faded into the roar of reverent greeting that rose from the massed ranks of the Hierarch’s forces. Sullyan’s heart turned in her breast as she remembered similar occasions when she and Robin, returning from a victorious campaign, had been the ones so lauded. Glancing at the young man beside her, she knew he was wondering what she was feeling right now.

Feeling, however, was exactly what she was trying not to do. She rode in silence, looking neither left nor right, trying to think no further than her horse’s next pace. Her body’s unexpected reaction to Rykan’s physical presence had shaken her badly. She was not at all confident she could hide it today. The Hierarch’s protective flow of metaforce was doing its job at present, but they still hadn’t seen any sign of the rebel lord. Gathering what little strength she had left, she tried not to think what might happen over the next hour or so.

The party continued through the massed ranks of men, each commander saluting his warlords as they went. The Hierarch and Anjer acknowledged the acclaim with smiles and nods. They reached the edge of their forces and halted there, looking out over the no-man’s-land between the two armies.

The Plains were littered with the dead and alive with carrion birds and rats. A few tangwyrs stretched their enormous wings, circling lazily overhead. They were too big to be comfortable on the ground so near to living men. The stench of death was appalling. Everyone was grateful the fighting had not occurred in the summer heat.

They sat waiting, and Sullyan could clearly see how angered Pharikian and Anjer were by Rykan’s failure to meet them. There was no movement from his command post, although horses were ready, being held by grooms. Just as the Hierarch turned, no doubt intending to send Vanyr to demand the Duke’s attendance, Rykan’s escort emerged from the tent and mounted their horses. Riding the animals forward in line, they blocked the tent from view so no one would see Rykan mount his steed.

The Duke’s heralds blew their own fanfare as the little cavalcade moved forward. Lord Sonten was at its head, lavishly dressed in black, silver, and scarlet with pale blue trim. He was accompanied by two other commanders sporting different family colors. An honor guard of twenty surrounded them, all Rykan’s elite troops. As they drew nearer, the dark lord himself could be seen riding at the rear, mounted on a fine bay stallion. Peering between the pirates, Sullyan noted sourly that its sides were scarred from the spur, its mouth dripped red foam, and the veins stood out on its damp neck.

They advanced slowly, and as they neared, Vanyr rode forward with ten of his men. The commander of Rykan’s elite guard did the same. Sullyan saw Robin glance her way and she nodded, trying to appear composed and serene despite the pallor of her face. He seemed satisfied that the shielding was doing its work. What he didn’t see, because she was doing her level best to hide it, was the rising tide of panic she felt at the thought of meeting her ravisher face to face. Drawing desperately on years of independence and self-reliance, she schooled herself to calm. Despite her best efforts, she felt the fire opal at her throat jump erratically.

Having exchanged formalities, Vanyr and Rykan’s commander now reined back. Pharikian, flanked by Anjer and Ephan, rode forward to accept Rykan’s formal surrender. Halting their steeds a few paces in advance of their party, they waited for the Duke of Kymer to approach.

His men gave ground before him, opening a corridor between them down which he rode his nervy stallion. Robin was staring at Sullyan’s nemesis, and she clearly felt the great surge of hatred welling up inside him. The darkly handsome Duke was dressed in black trimmed with silver and his sword belt was of scarlet leather. Tall, slim, and strongly built, he swayed easily with the stallion’s paces, one hand tight on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, close to his sword hilt. He wore an expression of haughty arrogance, undimmed by the surrender he would be forced to submit. His pale yellow eyes were fixed on the Hierarch, his sensuous lips parted in a faint smile.

Rykan brought his stallion to a snorting stop before the Hierarch’s mare. Hesitating just long enough for insolence, he inclined his head, causing the Hierarch to narrow his eyes. “Majesty,” he said, his deep and silky voice flaying Sullyan’s heart. The last time she had heard it she had been naked and helpless, lying torn and chained beneath his weight. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she struggled for calm.

“Rykan,” said Anjer curtly. The insult given Rykan by the Hierarch’s refusal to acknowledge his greeting caused the dark lord to frown. “Get on with it!” snapped Anjer, his massive frame towering over the slimmer man. The Duke’s face darkened further and he glowered at Anjer. Then the insolent smile returned, and he directed his reply to the Hierarch.

“Majesty, before these witnesses I cede the field of combat.” His ringing voice carried no hint of humility. “I withdraw my challenge to your right to rule, and with your permission will begin a retreat back to Kymer within the day.”

No one spoke. Pharikian held Rykan’s gaze so long that the Duke’s eyes shifted uncertainly. The Hierarch waited long enough to unnerve him before saying coldly, “I think not.”

The Duke started, clearly not expecting this development. Hooding his yellow eyes, he glanced around. Sullyan was suddenly grateful that she and Robin were at the back of the party, sheltered from his gaze. The pirates had closed tightly around them, hiding them from view.

“Majesty?” Rykan’s tone made it clear he was unsure how to proceed.

Capturing his gaze, Pharikian stated, “Lord Rykan, Duke of Kymer, you have committed an act of treason by leading forces against the Crown. Your admission of defeat is noted and the withdrawal of your challenge accepted. However, the Crown chooses to deny you your right of retreat.”

Rykan’s face paled at the charge of treason, although it was just. But the last statement was unprecedented. Sullyan knew there had never been an occasion when a defeated challenger had been denied the right to withdraw.

Rykan knew it too. Drawing himself stiffly erect, he demanded, “Why?”

His rudeness caused Anjer’s hand to drop to his sword hilt. Pharikian quelled him with a look. “Because, my Lord, the Crown chooses instead to issue its own personal challenge. Rykan, Duke of Kymer, consider yourself bound by the Codes of single combat.”

Someone in Rykan’s party gasped. Sonten recoiled in shock, and Rykan himself betrayed a momentary start of fear. But then the arrogance slipped back into place and he sneered. “Are you losing your wits, Pharikian? Both you and I know the Crown can’t engage in single combat.”

Smiling tightly, the Hierarch gestured to Gaslek. The fussy little secretary nudged his cob toward Rykan, a sheet of parchment in one hand. Clearing his throat under the Duke’s hooded gaze, he announced, “This codicil to the Codes of Honor reads thus, my Lord. ‘Subsequent to lawful challenge, and if it so desires, the Crown, on emerging victorious from the field of combat, shall hereby be empowered to likewise issue a challenge of single combat, said conflict to be conducted by a warrior designated by the Hierarch. This warrior shall be known as Champion of the Crown’.”

Startling them all, Rykan snorted, and then gave a roar of mocking laughter. “Gaslek, you pompous old booksnout! Where did you dredge that one from?”

The secretary gathered his dignity around him like a cloak. He sniffed, his unruffled manner drawing approval from the Hierarch. “Seldom used and obscure it may be, your Grace, but this law is well recorded in the annals of our realm.”

Rykan’s mirth ceased abruptly. “Show me this ridiculous law!”

Gaslek handed his parchment to Vanyr, who carried it to Rykan. The Duke snatched it, scanning it quickly. Realizing its validity, fury flooded his face. “Majesty, I protest! Where is the precedence for this?”

“What’s your problem, Rykan?” said Anjer. “His Majesty makes his own precedent, as well you know. It should be enough for you that the protocol exists. You have two choices. Accept the challenge or renounce your rank.”

Rykan glared, trapped into a situation he had not foreseen. His rage at being thwarted yet again spiraled dangerously. Just then, Sonten leaned forward and whispered in his overlord’s ear. Rykan’s temper cooled visibly. He regarded Anjer, a calculating look in his eye. The unpleasant smile reappeared as he addressed the Hierarch.

“And what will you wager on this challenge, Majesty?”

Pharikian studied the arrogant man. His lips quirked. “Andaryon’s throne, of course.”

Eyes narrowing in hungry triumph, Rykan said, “Then I accept your challenge.” He cast a satisfied glance at Sonten before turning to stare at Anjer. “So, Anjer, you and I are to meet under arms at last, eh?”