The Swans' War 1 - The One Kingdom (36 page)

She could hear the river muttering along the bank and the emerald frogs singing in the trees. The easy, even breathing of her sleeping companions was only a little reassuring. Who was on watch? It was too dark to see much, certainly too dark to tell who might lie in their blankets and who might not. And then she saw movement below her feet. Some wild animal, she thought, and became suddenly stiff. But it was a person, she realized—or so it seemed— there in the faint starlight.

And then there was a great shout, and someone leapt across the camp, brandishing a sword. Elise recoiled in fear, but the sword wasn't aimed at her.

Whoever leapt over her was suddenly thrown back, his sword spinning into the bush. Elise scrambled up, crouching low to the ground, trying to see, wondering which way lay safety. A figure appeared in the starlight by the river—a woman, it seemed to Elise—and then she went into the water, looking back once. But when she looked back her eyes were pale as moons, her hair glistening like kelp.

Elise thought she must have blinked, for suddenly this woman seemed not to be wearing a stitch, the white of her skin appearing through the long strands of hair. Then she was gone into the river without a ripple. Everyone else was on his feet, the strangers and Gartnn with weapons, wary of one another in the poor light.” It's me," she heard herself saying.” Don't hurt me. It's Elise." "Where is Angeline?" one of the strangers asked.” Here," Elise said, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest.” I'm Angeline." Figures were milling about and someone was moaning in pain.” Fynnol! Are you hurt?" It was Tam speaking, she was sure. Men gathered around a figure lying on the ground, while Cynddl stirred the ashes of the fire looking for embers to rekindle the flame.” What was that thing?" Gartnn asked, an edge of panic in his voice.” A nagar," Fynnol moaned. Kindling crackled madly, and light leapt up to throw itself upon the leaves and faces.” Bring him near the fire," Cynddl ordered; and Baore, Gartnn, and Tam lifted Fynnol gently and placed him on blankets near the flame.” Are you hurt, Fynnol?" Tam asked. Elise could hear the edge of fear in his voice.” I don't know___I don't know what happened. The nagar appeared, here among us, and was bending over Baore. I went at it with Tarn's sword, but I was thrust back.... I can't explain it. It was as though a wall had been thrown at me. And now I feel cold and sore, but when I concentrate on any one part of my body it seems whole." "You can't fight a nagar with a sword, Fynnol," Cynddl said.” What in the world did you think you were doing?" "I was protecting Baore," Fynnol said.” He thinks I do not love him, but he's wrong. I would fight a lion to protect him." And then his eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.

THE GHOSTS OF EREMON-HAFYDD HAUNTED HIS FATHER'S CASTLE, drifting silently up and down the stairways and through rooms, apparently unaware of the presence of the living.

Of course, they were not really ghosts. That was merely how Prince Michael thought of them, for they seemed so completely isolated from the normal life of the castle—as though they existed in some netherworld and but cast shadows into this one.

They never laughed or joked with the other men-at-arms, drank only when a toast was required, paid no heed to the various women, and cultivated no one's goodwill. They were like spirits brought back to life, though devoid of their human appetites. Brought back to life like their master, Hafydd, who was now Eremon.

They did, however, practice the arts of war, and this with a single-minded determination that put all of the Prince's men-at-arms to shame.

Prince Michael found their presence disturbing—chilling, even. They had no human compassion, or passions at all, and they owed allegiance to no one but Hafydd.

Two of them swept past, bowing to the Prince, who stood on the high parapet staring down into the practice yard below. He was a bit embarrassed, for he had thought his presence undetected by the men in the practice yard. In truth, he was watching Hafydd, as he did whenever possible, and had hidden himself away up here where he would not likely be seen by anyone from below.

Hafydd's ghosts swept past, silent and enigmatic like shadows, one indistinguishable from the next, for they had not enough personality for one to be separated from another. In the practice yard Hafydd—the Prince no longer thought of him as Eremon—was practicing with his sword. The same sword that had shuddered and sung as they pursued the man Hafydd always named the whist. For a man of not insubstantial years the knight was still formidable, not so much for his speed—in this at least time's effects could not be denied—or his strength, which was less than the younger men, but for his cunning. He seemed to have countless dodges and tricks. lust when one thought he could not possibly avoid a blow, he employed some new deception that one had not seen before. It was the one thing about the man that Prince Michael was forced to admire. The depth of his cunning was apparently immeasurable. The two ghosts appeared in the practice yard below. Hafydd broke off to converse with them. From his aerie Prince Michael could hear nothing, and guess even less. It seemed somehow appropriate that they moved their lips and no sound came forth. Hafydd suddenly turned and looked directly up at the Prince, then he waved a hand and smiled in invitation. There was little Prince Michael could do but come down. If he merely skulked away he would look craven and . . . well, skulking. He nodded to the men in the yard below and walked leisurely toward the stair. Despite the fact that he was clearly immune to the cruelties of Hafydd, the Prince felt sweat slick on his palms and his pulse pounding down his arms. Hafydd was unpredictable, that was certain. He was like a mad dog in that way. His meetings with Hafydd always left him unnerved, yet he continued to watch the man and make his presence felt. He was not sure why. Perhaps only to make it known to the knight that he did not accept his presence, that he did not trust him or his motives. That someone in the Prince's house was not under his spell. And yet doing this frightened him, not because he was fainthearted but because he knew what he did was dangerous.

He forced himself not to hurry down the steps, arriving at the bottom and into the yard.

"My Prince," Hafydd said, making only the slightest bow.

Prince Michael felt his jaw tighten.” Sir Eremon," he man->ed.

"You have been watching our training? I hope you found it instructive.""It is always good to see how others waste their time, so that one can avoid that particular snare."Hafydd glared at him a moment.” I have often wondered why irony is considered a mark of sophistication. You see, I think you a young pup who has, as yet, no knowledge of the workings of the world. I'm surprised your father lets you out alone. I'm not a sophisticated man, but I've learned much in a lifetime of war, while you have learned little in a lifetime of aimless leisure. Allow me to demonstrate." He turned to the two armed men he had been training with.” Kill him," he said to them casually.

The Prince felt a smile flicker across his face, and then looked into the eyes of the two men raising their swords. His eyes went to Hafydd, who looked on impassively; but just as the two men came within sword's reach, Hafydd threw the Prince his own blade.

Prince Michael caught it by the pommel and ducked as a sword swung viciously at his head. The two men came at him, and the Prince backed away, raising his sword two handed. What was behind him? A wall without doors. A corner where the stair descended, but one of Hafydd's guards had circled that way already. There was no easy escape.

If he backed into the corner he would be trapped, but at least his attackers could not come at him from two sides or from behind. He dared not look up at Hafydd to see if he ap-

peared intent on this murder, for the men before him were not playing. One thrust at his shoulder while the other swept a blade low at his knee. The Prince leapt up and turned, trying to cut the arm of the man who thrust at his shoulder, but he wasn't quick enough. For a few moments he managed to keep the two men at bay with his speed and desperation, but then he realized he was tiring and they were not. In a moment they would cut him down, here in the practice yard of his father's castle. There was nowhere he could go, no ploy he could think of to escape. A blade nicked his free arm, and he felt blood soak into his shirt. His hair was plastered wet to his forehead and sweat ran into his eyes, burning them, but he hardly dared blink. The two men kept coming at him, feinting, dodging. One would attack first to create an opening for the other, or the feint would be the attack and the second man a decoy. He could never know and only avoided ruin by leaping and twisting, suddenly thrusting forward when they did not expect it; but they were wary and did not expose themselves overly. Suddenly one caught his blade and threw it up and the other leapt forward, blade raised, to cut him diagonally from shoulder to waist.” Enough!" Hafydd called, and the man stopped with his blade a hand's length away from ending the Prince's life. Hafydd came forward then, gazing at the Prince, who was doubled over gasping for breath, his arms screaming from the effort.” I would have killed these two men in a moment had I been in your position. That is why I will accomplish what I wish in this life, and you will never be anything more than a drawing-room ornament. Good day to you, my Prince." Hafydd turned and walked across the yard, not looking back, seemingly unconcerned that he had just ordered his men to kill the son of his master. The Prince watched him go, still shaking, and shaken. But there was something else he felt at that moment: Hafydd had spoken the truth, and he could not deny it.

Prince Michael was lying in his room, sore and weakened and disturbed. The small wound on his arm stung where he'd wrapped it clumsily with cotton—unwilling to go to the healer, not wanting anyone to know what had happened.

Hafydd had been right. That was the hell of it. Prince Michael felt the humiliation strongly, but he could not deny it.

I would have killed these two men in a moment had I been in your position. That is why I will accomplish what I wish in this life, and you will never be anything more than a drawing-room ornament.

The truth hurt more than the wound he'd received. He was no match for Hafydd. He pressed his eyes closed. All the time he had watched his father's counselor he had always had the same assumption: he was smarter than the knight. Eventually he would find the man's weakness. But all of his pretenses had been stripped away that afternoon in the practice yard. Hafydd could kill him at any time—and if it was not inconvenient, would do so without the slightest twinge of conscience.

He is ruthless, while I am ... weak.

Weak.

The Prince let his eyes wander around his beautifully appointed rooms, at the books he had collected, the paintings and tapestries. Nowhere was there any weapon displayed, and intentionally so.

I am the son of the Prince of Innes, he thought, the heir of my family. I cannot afford weakness. I have demanded all of the liberties of manhood, but accepted none of the burdens. That must change.

The Prince had thought he'd discovered Hafydd's deficiency when they'd pursued the man he called his whist across the unknown landscape. Hafydd was consumed by his desire for revenge. It overwhelmed all else, including his powers of reason. Certainly this should be a fatal flaw, but somehow Prince Michael could not see a way to exploit it. In the Prince's position, he was sure, Hafydd would have found a way in a moment, but Prince Michael's mind simply did not work that way. A soft knock at his door interrupted his self-flagellation. He rose from his bed and crossed the room stiffly. To his surprise, it was one of Hafydd's guards who stood in the hall. The man bowed to him.” Sir Eremon requests your presence." The Prince stood for a moment with his hand on the door, unsure how to respond. A gust of fear passed through him.” I will be but a moment," the Prince said, and closed the door, going quickly to a wardrobe for clothes. His eye fell on a sword he kept there, and before he went out he buckled the scabbard about his waist. Hafydd wouldn't catch him unarmed again. The silent sentinel led him through the halls of his father's castle, his obvious knowledge of the place distressing Prince Michael. I'll wager he knows the whole of it better than I do myself, the Prince thought. Drawing-room ornaments seldom worry about such things. The night Hafydd comes to kill me it might be my knowledge of the castle that saves my life. They went outside by a small door that let into an alley, and to the Prince's surprise, this emptied into the main courtyard. Another guard awaited them by the main gate, holding aloft a torch that seemed to be hissing at the stars. His father's guard let them out, and the Prince made certain to catch the man's eye, speaking to him briefly. At least his father would know that he'd left the castle in the company of Hafydd's guards—in case he didn't return. They followed the cobblestoned way down to the river and the wharf that served his father's castle. The night was dark, wind gusting out of the north, then dropping to sudden eerie silence. Overhead a few stars appeared among ragged, fast-sailing clouds. A line of poplars were just visible against the sky, bending like longbows toward the south.

"There is a storm coming," Prince Michael said, but neither of Hafydd's guards answered.

The weak can never bear silence, Prince Michael thought, and hated himself for speaking.

In a moment the torch picked out of the murk the hard shape of the wharf, but here the guards turned and followed the path along the riverbank. The Prince desperately wanted to ask where they were going but refused to speak again, as difficult as that was for one who proved his worth with words.

The path sloped up, a steep, treed embankment falling off to their right. They went single file, the torchbearer before him, the second guard behind.

So prisoners are escorted, the Prince thought. The torchbearer turned off and found a path angling down among the trees. Between gusts, the soft sound of the river could be heard clearly. The Prince had to keep his attention on the path lest he trip and go tumbling into the man carrying the torch. Another torch appeared through the trees. In a moment they were down to the lip of the river.

Hafydd was waiting there with two other black-robed guards, all of them silent as the darkness. Michael could see the river, its waves and currents weaving together into a single strand, speeding as though swollen by sudden rains.

Hafydd nodded to Prince Michael, then drew his sword from its scabbard and waded into the water.” Now we shall find your bride," he said.

The blade looked like molten metal in the torchlight. Hafydd thrust the point into the moving water, and the Prince half expected to see steam rise. The knight mumbled something under his breath and then made a series of precise cuts with the blade. He bent and with his free hand cupped a palm full of water. This he brought to his lips and tasted. T?or a long while Vie stood, eyes closed, the torchlight playing madly over his face, his molten sword deep in the river's back.

Slowly, and without opening his eyes, Hafydd lifted a hand and pointed.” She is carried down the Wynnd," he said.” South, toward Westbrook.""I could have guessed that myself," Prince Michael heard himself say, the slightest sneer in his voice.” How else would one travel if one wished to escape?"Hafydd's eyes flicked open and his face contorted, not in a look of rage but in distaste—or so it appeared.” One would never travel by the Wynnd if one wanted to escape me. My whist knows that well." Hafydd thrust a large finger at the Prince's heart, which caused him to stumble back.” And you would do well to heed that? . for the day I come hunting you."

"I forget nothing you say." Prince Michael snatched a torch from a surprised guard and went slowly back up the embankment, trying not to look like he was running.