Yesterday's Kings (43 page)

“Save had you not, there’d not be peace now.”

“Is there?” Cullyn looked to Lord Bartram.

“So far as I am concerned—though I cannot speak for King Khoros. This venture was all Per Fendur’s doing, and him aided by Amadis. I’d only see my daughter safe and happy.”

“Which I promise,” Lofantyl said.

“And you are?”

“Lofantyl of Kash’ma Hall, son of Isydrian.” He paused, kneeling to touch Bartram’s hand. “By our laws and your daughter’s wish, I am Abra’s husband. I love her, and she loves me.”

“The Durrym prisoner.” Bartram chuckled. “Forgive me, but my eyes grow dim. Abra chose this?”

“She did.”

Bartram glanced at Laurens, who nodded his confirmation. “Then I wish you happiness. But remember—do you fail her, you shall answer to me.”

“I’ll not fail her,” Lofantyl declared. “Ever.”

“Then we’re in accord.” Bartram looked to where Pyris and Isydrian waited. “And we, I think. I cannot speak for all Kandar, but this promise I make you—there shall be no more war between Lyth Keep and your halls. And do I live, I shall endeavor to broker peace between our lands.”

The Durrym lords nodded solemnly, and took the hand of the wounded man in token of agreement.

“Enough!” The healer spoke with authority. “No more talk—only leave us to tend these hurt friends.”

“Indeed,” the second added no less sternly. “Have we not enough wounded to aid? Leave us.”

They walked away—Cullyn and Lyandra, Laurens,
Pyris and Isydrian, Lofantyl—all grave and fearing neither Bartram or Eben would survive. Then Abra came, all wet from the fording of the river; all fearful for her father. Lofantyl caught her in his arms and swung her round before she could run to Bartram.

“Slowly, slowly. He’s sore hurt.”

She struggled against his grip. “He dies?”

“Healers tend him. And he gave us his blessing.”

“I must go to him.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Save see his face! Allow me that.”

Isydrian said, “Let her,” and Lofantyl released her.

“Is it not strange?” Isydrian turned a face on which Cullyn saw tears shining toward the ravaged encampment. “I’ve lost a son this day, but found another—and a daughter.”

“And new friendships,” Pyris said.

“That, too.” Isydrian stared at Cullyn. “What have you brought me, syn’qui?”

“Peace between Shahn and Zheit,” Pyris said. “Perhaps even between we Durrym and the Garm’kes Lyn. Perhaps hope for a brighter future.”

Isydrian began to reply, but then Abra came racing toward them, her face lit by hope, announcing that the healers believed her father would live, and Eben. So Isydrian only said, “Which first? Afranydyr’s funeral or a celebratory feast?”

“Can it not be both?” Cullyn asked, wondering at his audacity. “Perhaps Afranydyr was a sacrifice to a better future. Can we not mourn him and celebrate at the same time?”

Isydrian thought a moment, then nodded. “Yes, you speak wisely.”

“He’s syn’qui,” Lyandra said, holding tight on Cullyn’s arm. “Of course he does.”

T
IME HEALS:
scars form on wounds, broken bones mend, aches ease. Old hurts are forgotten, ancient enmities are appeased.

Lord Bartram learned this as he lay in Kash’ma Hall, tended by Isydrian’s healers—more like an honored guest than any kind of captive. It was a wondrous place of wood that seemed to grow in accord with the Durrym’s wishes, as if the timber spun itself eagerly about the keep, entwining halls and chambers and corridors to shape walkways and windows, balconies and gardens where flowers grew and fountains played. Birds sang from amongst the bushes and the trees, and the sun shone from a cloud-scudded blue sky that was speckled with the darting shapes of swifts and swallows, and such other creatures as he’d not seen before entering Coim’na Drhu.

He rested, and mended, and thought of Lyth Keep.
There, he thought, the gray stone would still be cold, those chimneys he’d joked about with Abra all bundled up with blazing firewood. He wondered how his wife fared, and decided he did not miss her so much. He wondered what Ky’atha Hall was like, and looked forward to visiting there. Pyris had invited him, and he had taken the Durrym’s hand in friendship—no sense of deceit or entrapment, only honesty.

The god—or gods—knew the Durrym had tended him well. He was no longer sure which gods existed, only that he found his ancient enemies now his best friends, kindly and caring. The healers had tended him daily, healing the wounds Fendur had delivered; and Abra was clearly in love with Lofantyl.

Nor were Isydrian and Pyris and Mallandra poor companions. They were Durrym, but they visited daily, several times, and brought him such wine and sweetmeats as he’d never eaten, and gamed with him when he could once again—the gods be blessed for Durrym healers—raise his left arm. A thing they called the Game of Stones was subtle and intrigued him. It was a thing of shifting tablets of wood over a board, all black and white, and jumping to gambits. Abra was adept, and Eben—whom Bartram came to like quite apart from the old wizard’s habit of boasting his own prowess and teasing Bartram about the duel with Per Fendur.

Laurens tended him no less than the healers. The master-at-arms delivered his food more often than the servants, sitting with him and—until Bartram was able again to use his left arm—feeding him. It embarrassed Bartram that he was so weak, but also he felt flattered by such loyalty, and they spoke of many things.

“This Cullyn,” Bartram asked one day as Laurens cut his food, “who is he?”

“He was a forester,” Laurens answered, “an orphan,
making himself a living in the woods. But he’s also syn’qui—that’s why all this has happened.”

“The Durrym,” Bartram returned, “speak of this. What does it mean, what is a syn’qui?”

Laurens shrugged and said, “Eben can explain it better than I.”

“But you liege with him. You followed him here.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I came with Fendur; I came after Abra.”

“And saw the truth, no?” Laurens set the plate down, looking toward the window. The sun shone in through whatever material the Durrym used to cover their embrasures—surely sturdier than the flimsy glass of Lyth Keep, surely cleaner; it lit the chamber with dancing light that set the rugs decorating the wooden floor to colorful patterns. “I think he brought us all together, that we make peace.”

“I believe you’re right,” Bartram said. “But peace shall not be easy.”

“When ever was it?” Laurens asked. “War is always the easier option.”

“You become a philospher in your age.”

“Perhaps I do,” Laurens chuckled. “Perhaps I learn from Cullyn and Eben.”

“As, I think, do I.”

E
BEN EXPLAINED IT
scarcely better: “The boy hardly knows what he does. He only acts, or reacts, but he’s chosen to make decisions that influence us all. Think on it—why did Lofantyl befriend him? Why did Abra fall in love with Lofantyl? Why did Cullyn aid them, or Laurens? It’s fate, my friend, and he pulls fate into patterns that he does not understand, only shapes. That’s
what a syn’qui is: a shaper. I’ve the power of magic, I can advise, but I cannot shape the future. He can, even if he doesn’t understand how or why. Perhaps it’s his innocence that grants him that gift—or curse—but that’s why he’s syn’qui.”

They had become friends, these two old men, and Bartram enjoyed Eben’s company no less than that of Laurens or his Durrym hosts, or Cullyn himself. He found the young man a most pleasant companion, and Lyandra delightful. But his greatest pleasure was to see Abra, who came with Lofantyl—whom Bartram now accepted as his son.

“I wonder what shall happen when I go back,” he said one day as they walked away from Afranydyr’s funeral.

Isydrian’s elder son had been consigned to the ground. A pit had been dug and his body, dressed in the armor he had worn when he died, set inside. Then the earth had been piled over him and a sapling oak planted. Bartram had gasped as he watched the young tree grow, sprouting leaves, its roots spreading visibly, to take hold of the corpse and the earth before his eyes.

“Shall you go back?” Abra asked. “Why not stay here?”

“There’s Vanysse,” he said.

“Mourning Amadis?”

“You knew of that?”

“Everyone knew.”

Bartram sighed. “I was a fool.”

“No.” She took his hand. “You were always an honest husband, and a good father.”

“But my wife?” He shook his head. “Besides, I’m sworn to guard the Borderlands.”

“Against what enemies?” She gestured at the solemn group that stood around the sprouting oak. “These? Have you not already sworn friendship?”

“Yes, but …” Bartram hesitated. “I cannot speak for Khoros or the Church. Likely the Church shall send another priest to Lyth Keep.”

“Who might be kinder than Per Fendur.”

“Or not.”

“Aye, there’s that.”

“And you’ll remain here?”

Abra nodded, squeezing her father’s hand. “I’m wed to Lofantyl, and I love him.”

“And with my blessing—he’s a fine fellow. But I’ve still a wife in Lyth and a sworn duty to Khoros.”

“Why do you not speak with Cullyn and Eben?” she asked. “Between them, they seem to speak much sense.”

T
HE CHAMBER WAS LIT
with late afternoon sunlight that painted the floorboards and the walls with dancing patterns of light and shadow. Tapestries and rugs shimmered, the scenes depicted there coming alive. They sat around a circular table more akin to a mushroom than anything carved by human hands. Lord Bartram occupied one chair, Abra and Lofantyl beside him; Pyris and Isydrian sat beyond, then Cullyn and Eben and Laurens, facing him.

Lord Bartram’s hands were clutched about his head as he agonized over his decision.

“This is not easy,” he said. “I am sworn to guard the Border against—”

“Sworn friends,” Isydrian interrupted.

“Who shall no longer look to invade you,” Pyris added.

“That, I believe.” Bartram shook his head in anguish. “But even as I swear that Lyth shall never come against you again, I cannot guarantee my king’s word. And I’ve a wife there.”

“As best I understand it,” Eben said, “your wife—forgive me if I speak bluntly—will not mourn you.”

“That’s likely true,” Bartram allowed, and sighed, “I think her heart was ever with Amadis.”

“Who’s now dead.” Eben was ever blunt: Bartram liked that in him. “So what reason to go back?”

“I’m liege lord of Lyth Keep. I’m sworn to guard the Borderlands.”

“Against …?”

Bartram started to say, “The Durrym,” then broke off as Eben laughed long and loud and gave him back, “Those who’ve healed you and tended you and made you welcome? Do you truly believe them enemies of Kandar?”

Bartram shook his head. Concepts spun there, inside his mind, that he’d never before properly considered. He said, “No, they seem good friends.”

“They are. They’ve no wish to invade Kandar. Perhaps once, when Afranydyr dreamed, but now …” The ancient wizard shrugged, leaving Bartram to make his own decision.

“Stay here,” Pyris suggested, echoed by Isydrian. “You should live well here—honored as the man who slew the invading priest.”