Fire And Ice (Book 1) (15 page)

             
“Good luck,” Devon said as he came up behind him. 

             
“Thanks.”              

Devon wore a serious expression on his young face.  “I want you to know, if ...if you lose, I will not let him have her.”  There was no need to explain what he meant.

              “And defy a proclamation of the High King?”

             
“Wouldn’t you?” 

             
Coran would, and he knew Devon meant every word.  “I guess I will have to win to keep you from the headsman.”

             
Devon smiled thinly.  “I would appreciate that.”  Then he clasped Coran on the shoulder.  The hand slipped away and Coran stepped forward to meet his fate.

             
Robert stood among the circle of onlookers.  “I will make this clear for the sake of the witnesses so there will be no misunderstandings later on.  By command of the High King, the victor of this duel shall wed his daughter, Katelyn Sundarrion.  At the conclusion of the fight they will be considered officially betrothed.  The loser will give up any claim to her hand in marriage.”  He scanned the score of nobles watching.  “Is that clear?”  Twenty or so heads nodded in agreement.  “Then let it begin.”

             
If Torvilin showed any sign of wavering before it was gone now.  He came forward confidently, a trained warrior ready to fight.  He went for a quick strike aimed at Coran’s sword, hoping to catch him unprepared.  Coran lifted his hand to avoid it and countered.  A thin line of red showed in the tear of the Voltian’s sleeve.  Torvilin’s lip curled up into a snarl as he moved to attack again.

              Katelyn watched in fascination as the two men flowed across the open ground, switching from attacker to defender and back again so fast that she could not tell who occupied which role.   She had seen men training against one another, but this was different.  With two men of such skill it was more like watching a deadly dance than a simple fight. 

             
Torvilin was bleeding from three wounds but they appeared minor.  She watched as Coran took a slash across the chest, but he jumped backwards in time to avoid the worst of it.  She thought watching him ride in the tournament was stressful.  That was nothing compared to this.  Her future, and his as well, were at stake.  One mistake and everything would be over with the thrust of a sword.

             
She could see that Coran was weakening.  He was breathing heavy and stood more hunched over than before.  The chest wound might have been more severe than she first thought.  Luckily, Torvilin was moving slower as well.  The Prince took a step back with his sword lowered.  Coran copied the move to accept the signal for a brief recess.

             
“Your reputation is well deserved,” Coran complimented his opponent.  “I will have an inscription made saying how skilled you are, and have it placed on your grave.”

             
“You are quite good yourself,” Torvilin replied. By his tone it was clear who he thought was superior.  “It is too bad you will not live long enough to gain a reputation of your own.”

             
Coran’s tight-lipped smile was forced.  “I think we should finish this, unless you need more time?”

             
“Not me,” Torvilin slid forward and raised the point of his sword.  “Ready?”

             
The fight continued, anger fueling their movements.  Torvilin’s thrust went a little higher than it should have and Coran dodged, bringing the point of his own sword down.  The Prince cried out as it went through his upper leg.  He still struggled to maintain his stance.  Desperate, he tried to attack, but Coran easily parried the weak strike, and a following swipe sent Torvilin’s sword to the ground with a thump.  Coran put the tip of his blade under the Prince’s chin.               “Do you yield?” he asked with a hint of pain in his own voice. 

             
Torvilin snarled.  He was sweating profusely.  He could not remain standing for much longer.  Blood was beginning to soak through his pant leg.  “I yield.”

             
Coran did not remove his sword yet.  He looked angry and Katelyn wondered if he was considering no quarter.  The few seconds that passed seemed like hours.  “Do you, in front of these witnesses, swear to renounce now, and for all time, any claim of marriage to either Katelyn or her sister?” 

             
Why did he demand that?  Then it came to her.  It was insurance in case Torvilin decided to have him killed some time later.  With Coran out of the way he could make another claim. 

             
When the Voltian balked the pressure on the sword point increased, producing a trickle of blood. 

             
“Do not misunderstand me Torvilin,” Coran said with a voice that would cut steel.  “Swear or I will kill you.”

             
His face pale, Torvilin spoke through gritted teeth.  “I swear.”  The point removed, he slumped to the ground, panting.

             
Two attendants ran forward to Torvilin’s side.  Robert ordered the healer sent for.  Torvilin did not look good.  Without a healer he would surely die from the loss of blood.  Another woman tried to look at Coran’s wound but he waved her away. 

             
“I want to get back to the palace,” he said as he leaned on his sword.

             
Katelyn crossed the distance between them quickly.  “Are you all right?” she asked as she tried to get a look at the wound she knew to be on his chest.

             
“I am fine,” he told her.                

“I think we should all return now,” the King said, looking to where a man in the white robes of a healer ran up
and knelt by the fallen Prince.  “You should let the healer check you over,” he said to Coran.

             
“Really, I am fine.  I just want to go and get cleaned up.” 

             
“Very well,” Robert conceded.  “Will you be joining us for dinner?  With all the guests, we will be eating in the hall.”  Then he looked around, but only Katelyn and Coran were close enough to hear what he said.  “How much did you know?”

             
He did not have to say about what.  Coran spoke no louder than the King.  “I figured out that the High King sent me along to confront Torvilin. The rest?” He shrugged, “It was a surprise to me.”

             
Robert’s brows lowered.  “That was not right.  I am sorry for the part I played in this.”

             
“You did not know that we were unaware,” Katelyn told him.

             
“We?” Robert questioned her.  “You were not aware either?” 

             
Katelyn shook her head.  “I must find a way to apologize to you as well,” Robert said before again checking to make sure that no one was near.  “Do you know why Stemis went to all this trouble?  I know about the political difficulties, but why was this so important?”

             
Katelyn had to think how to respond.  She could not reveal what she knew.  If her Father wanted anyone to know he would not have had it kept secret.  “I can only say that I believe it was well worth it.”  She left Robert to figure out how it was meant.

              As the King left them their friends crowded around.  All except Willa, who accompanied her mother to a coach that was waiting to take them back to the palace.

             
“Nice fight,” Devon commented.

             
“Yes, congratulations,” Rob added.              

“Thanks, but right now I just want to get back to my room,” Coran informed them.

              “I will get us a couple of horses,” Devon said, already walking away in search of transportation.

             
“Ladies,” Rob called, including the quiet Alys, “the coach awaits.”

             
Katelyn crossed the grass covered distance to the open door and took Rob’s hand while stepping up and inside the coach.  Looking out the square window she spotted Lord Onatel standing alone at the edge of the pavilion.  The Lord was staring at Coran with a very thoughtful look on his face.  When everyone was in and the door closed tight, the coach lurched into motion.  The last thing she saw was Devon appearing with two saddled mounts. 

              The room was smaller than he had expected of a Lord, or the son of a Lord.  The small square room only contained a modest bed, a washstand and a small dresser.  These were quarters more fitting a servant.  Not that he really cared where his victim slept, but the problem was that there was no place to hide.  It looked like he would have to play the part of the servant himself. 

             
Everything had gone well so far.  As he expected the few people he saw while traversing the corridors were mostly palace servants going about their own duties.  They had no time to question another of their number hurrying along.  His timing had been lucky as well.  Word came that the nobles were returning and staff members were sent to the wing that contained the royal apartments to make sure wash water was prepared and wine brought so they could ready themselves for the evening meal.  He picked up a bowl for washing, filled it and fell in with the others.  He passed right under the noses of the guards assigned to protect this area.  A few very carefully worded questions led him to the room he sought.               Now he only had to wait.  Hopefully the guards hadn’t counted heads.  He didn’t think so with all the confusion of people passing back and forth.  Luckily none of the other staff members had come in to find him there. 

             
A little later he thought he heard voices stop outside the door.  He jumped up and tried to make it look like he was placing the bowl down on the table.  The door clicked and the voices grew louder before cutting off.

             
“What are you doing in here?” a tall young man with dark hair asked as he stepped into the room.  By the description given to him by his employer, he had to be Coran Tyelin, his target.  A girl was with him, a pretty little thing with black hair.  He stopped the frown from appearing on his face.  Two of them.  It would make things trickier, but he wouldn’t get another chance like this one.  There was no help for it.

             
“I was just bringing the water,” he tried to sound subservient.  “My Lord,  my Lady.”  He bowed awkwardly.

             
The man nodded.  “You have brought it so you can leave now.” 

             
“Of course, Sir,”  He started for the door.  As he passed them the tall young man frowned.  He followed the fellow’s gaze to his feet and cursed.  No one else had noticed.  His hand found the hilt of the curved blade at his back and it was out and striking in a blink.  The man, Coran, reacted faster than he thought possible.  There was no hesitation in Coran’s movements.  Coran’s hands wrapped around his own and drove the knife downward and back, using his own momentum against him.   He gasped when his own blade entered him.  As quickly as he felt the wound burning inside him, everything went numb.  He suddenly felt nothing and his eyes closed.  He thought he heard a thump before the end.

               Coran sat on the edge of the bed.  The body of the man who had tried to kill him lay on its side, curled around his belly.  A knife was stuck in his gut. 

             
“Do you think Torvilin paid him?” Katelyn asked, breaking the silence.  She seemed to have recovered from the initial shock.

             
“I don’t doubt it, but let’s take a look first.”  He slid off the bed and knelt by the dead man.  He looked over the back of the green livery the man wore before gripping a lifeless arm and turning the body over on its back.  The glazed eyes stared up at nothing.  The hilt of the protruding knife was of white bone with gold on the curled cross guard and pommel. 

             
“He definitely was not a member of the staff,” he concluded.

             
“Are you sure?” she asked peering over the body from where she knelt a foot away.  She made no move to get any closer.

             
“Yes.  The first thing I noticed before he attacked was his shoes.  They are all scuffed up and the color is wrong.  The staff normally wears black footwear, not brown.”

             
“The ostlers wear brown,” she pointed out.

             
“Not inside the palace.  He must have remembered that, or he would not have panicked and drawn the knife.  Speaking of the knife,” he touched the gold on the pommel with a finger, but made no move to remove it from the body.  “No one who worked here, or any common footpad would own a knife like this.  If they ever did they would have sold it.  This was important to him.  Like a blacksmith and his favorite hammer.”

             
“An assassin,” she surmised.

             
“A professional killer,” he agreed.  “Here.”  He indicated some dark stains near the green collar of the livery.  “Blood.  Already dry.  That means he has been inside the palace for a while.  Probably came in some time during the tournament.”