In the Eye of Heaven (59 page)

Waer was a Coensar. A Gol. A Cassonel. Every move bristled with snares, and a touch of the man's long blade flayed Durand's arm like a glove.

He wasn't going to stand it.

Durand took a high line and another slithering gash. But then he saw something. Something about Waer's arm as the man countered the downward stroke. Durand didn't think but simply launched another downward slash. And now it blazed clear: While the smallest shift of his shoulder would have pulled him free, Waer threw an awkward slapping parry instead.

His shoulder was wrong.

Half the knights in Errest had sprung a shoulder. For all that Waer looked like a block of gristle, he couldn't hoist his right arm above his own neck.

Durand attacked. Blood flew when he swung his sword, first low, then scything back and forth. Blood mashed in his boot Waer jolted backward.

Then Durand raised his blade for the high cut. The high cut
Waer could never reach. He could even see the man's eyes flash, the square blank of his face almost wincing. Then the man vanished.

Durand's blade flashed a few inches short of Waer's crown. He didn't understand. Hands caught him. Gulls were screaming, storming past him all around. Diving. He felt someone peeling his sword away, but he bulled forward. In a sobering moment, he understood. They were forty fathoms above the sea. Waer had stepped off.

"He comes! He comes!" A shout.

Durand was ill.

All the peers of Lamoric's retinue gathered around him. Lamoric had rushed up, dropping his red bucket over his face.

"King of Heaven, what have you done?"
he hissed, but Durand could not see his eyes. The helm twitched toward Tern Gyre, where men were already crossing the bridge. At their head rode Prince Biedin himself, clad only in his tunic. Without a word, Lamoric's men moved to screen the site.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"A dispute," Berchard said. "An accident"

"Who are you?"

Berchard nodded with as much respect as haste could allow. "Sir Berchard," he said. "A knight" "A knight in whose retinue?"

"An accident, Highness. The man, Waer, he fell from the cliff's edge."

"Swords were drawn ..." said the prince.

"An argument. He wasn't careful of the edge."

Durand could see Biedin in his saddle, a long black mantle swung across an undershirt. Berchard was brave to put him off, but Bieden knew. Durand had broken the King's Peace. He had killed a man at a tournament under king's license, and he had done it outside the lists. He could neither take it back nor mend it.

A rider pelted across the bridge, drawing up in a hail of stones.

"Highness!" the man said, leaping from his horse and dropping into a low bow. "You have been to the quay?" Biedin demanded.

"Yes, Highness. He is dead. The men on the quay. They saw him fall." Biedin swiveled back. "Whose man is he?"

"Moryn
Mornaway
's, Highness," Berchard tried, putting him off.

Biedin's eyes flashed with real fury this time. "Whose man is
heV
Now he pointed.

Durand felt Lamoric stepping away from him. He saw hands catch at the young lord's crimson mantle.

"Mine, Highness," said Lord Lamoric, the Knight in Red. "He is mine."

"Red Knight. You acknowledge the fault?"

"I do, Highness. It was a matter of honor between peers."

"Let the dead man's kin see to it, if they must. But the King's Peace is broken. One of your men has broken it Do you agree?"

The wind caught at Lamoric's scarlet mantle, and Durand thought he saw a tremor in the man's legs. He stood his ground. He nodded.

"We will depart at once."

Durand thought he would be ill.

And abruptly, there were birds.

Huge birds descended from the Heavens, wheeling on wings longer than a man might reach. Biedin glanced around himself. Witnesses and accused twitched and turned as talons spread big as hag's fists and beaks gaped wide enough to pluck highland lambs. Slate and spray-white, sea eagles settled.

Then the eagles stood silent; Creation had gone mad.

From the Eldinor Road, great drums thundered. And, as one, the wild eagles turned.

A murmur moved over the crowd, and the hundred peers gathered on the headland looked from the end of the world toward the Eldinor Road. Peers of the realm sank to one knee as eveiy commoner for a league prostrated himself on the flesh of the world.

Durand, Biedin, and the Knight in Red were the only figures standing on the headland when Lamoric, too, sank to his knee. Durand dangled where he stood, unconscious of blood and wounds. Something smelled of beeswax. He thought he saw some manner of procession. Berchard tugged Durand's good sleeve, and he managed to gather wit enough to follow the rest to the ground. Every knight dropped his head.

First came riders, clad in bright robes. These men rode out to flank Prince Biedin, then wheeled to face the oncoming procession. Biedin pulled his cloak shut. Drums big as feasting cauldrons shook the air. Next, two files of chanting priests swayed forward under jeweled robes, swinging censors to bless their master's way.

On tall horses, the Septarim arrived: fearsome warriors to a man, cool as death, and armed in silver mail. These were the men Agryn had left behind.

The Septarim parted around Prince Biedin, finally revealing the man at the heart of it all: a mounted warrior like a hero chieftain from some ancient saga. Lean and broad-shouldered, his gauntlets and mantle and belt and boots were all as jewel-laden as a
Book of Moons
at the high altar. A thousand stones shone in a thousand knots of gold, while on his brow rode a darkly flashing crown of red gold and the fat, black sapphire that had been worn by
every king since Saer
dan Voyager: the Evenstar.

Ragnal, King of Errest the Old, had arrived.

The monarch scowled from his finery like a lion in bows. Every baron on the promontory turned his eyes to the earth.

Lesser men followed: a knot of black-robed functionaries scuttling on his heels, half on donkeys, half on foot, peering about like starlings and noting what they saw on parchment.

Every man bowed lower as Ragnal stopped before his brother.

Durand could only make out embroidered boots as the king dropped from his saddle and stalked up to Prince Biedin, now kneeling in the road before his own fortress clad only in a mantle and the shirt he woke in. A curt wave of the jeweled gauntlet stilled the chanting priests.

"Biedin," said the king.

Biedin bowed deeply, setting his hands between his brother's.

"Great King. My liege. Your Steward of the castle and lands at Tern Gyre welcomes you. My land is your land. My hall is your hall. I welcome you to this, your tournament and Great Council upon the rock at Tern Gyre and thank the Host of Heaven for delivering you safely to us this day."

The gauntlets opened. Ragnal scratched the wet-straw mane at the back of his neck with leather fingers.

" 'My Great Council,'" Ragnal quoted wryly. "Let's get inside; I've been riding hours."

Biedin stood.

"Yes. Of course, brother," he said. "Follow me. There should be room enough for your retainers." The prince twitched his cloak close against the chill.

"Something wrong?" the king asked.

"An accident, they are telling me. Someone has got himself killed. The Gyre is a precarious place."

Ragnal grunted. "Let's get inside, brother."

Biedin led his king across the high bridge.

25. The Woven Rings

T
he mob pulled away, the monks took up their chant, the cool riders of the Septarim led their mounts, and the eagles of the sea took wing.

Barons, knights, and servants followed the king and his brother through the gates of Tern Gyre. Every one of them stepped away from the Red Knight and his men, until only they remained standing in the wind.

Lamoric turned and left, trudging stiff-legged for the tents. The others followed. For a moment, Badan broke the numb silence, leaping for Durand and roaring oaths fit to scald the air. A few of the others kept him from pitching Durand after Waer. Some of the last courtiers looked their way, eyebrows raised as they stepped under the gates.

As Badan subsided into sobs, Berchard glanced to Durand. Durand did not move.

Then there was only the skald and the wind over the sea. "Come on." Heremund pulled his cloak tight. "You'll have to get your things."

Durand looked toward the retreating backs of his comrades, heading off toward the huddle of tents. He looked toward the gates of Tern Gyre. It was done.

"Come on," Heremund said. "You can't afford to leave them now." The bowlegged skald waved him on, walking backward toward the tents. "Gods, and we'll have to look after some of those cuts. The blood. He nearly took that arm with him, looks like. And your leg".

The skald spoke to himself. But Durand followed, reaching the abandoned tents where the others now stood, faces empty and fumbling at the air with their hands.

"Over," Ouen said to Berchard. "It's over."

"Where will you go?" asked Berchard.

Ouen stopped when he caught sight of Durand, meeting his eyes with surprise. Heremund caught Durand's elbow, leading him toward his own tent.

Lamoric stood with Deorwen. Guthred knelt in front of the man. 'Tear it down. Tear it all down," Lamoric said. Deorwen looked to Durand, baffled but pale with premonition. Durand stumbled to his own tent.

He crouched on the threshold. His head spun like a crust in a soup bowl. His fingers touched the earth. He must go. He began to fumble with packs and pegs and guy ropes.

Guthred and a few of the boys stumped in around him, plucking things from the grass and pulling up stakes as Guthred directed them with silent gestures. Another two boys led his horses, while the rest churned and folded all of Durand's belongings into rolls and saddlebags. It could have been magic.

Finally, it all stopped.

"There you are, boy," said Guthred, not rushing. "Get up." The heavy features of the man's face said more about shouldering burdens than gloating at failures. He plucked up the reins and mashed them into Durand's hand.

"Check your bags before you put your head down tonight," Guthred said. He nodded his chin toward the scabbing blood. "Get that cleaned up."

Durand nodded, then turned from the camp and stumbled off, passing faces that stared but never spoke.

For a time
, he rode, not thinking but simply traveling down and down wherever paths ran, like a slow tumble. Finally, he came to the sea, just as old Waer must have done.

It struck Durand that he remembered no scream but the birds.

The precipice did not fall directly into the water, as it seemed to from the heights. Instead, rubble lay over the feet of the old cliffs, smashed by the waves or the long drop so that a man might walk below. Still, the going was rough and he had to lead the horses.

In the hours since the scene on the headland, the Lord of the Deep had grown restive once more. A strong wind howled through the Barbican Strait, driving mountainous waves against the cliffs. The rocks boomed and hissed. Spray lashed the sky like rain.

Durand staggered. It was over. All those men. He shot a despairing glance through the columns of spray, high up the cliffs. They were hard, most of Lamoric's men, but this wild chance had drawn them all in. Wishes: fame, women, land, safe haven. Every man on that ship had been as full of dreams as a boy. And then it all fell off the cliff with Waer.

Another gray mountain exploded. Durand staggered, his thigh stabbing tight as Cerlac's gray gelding lashed its head.

It wasn't a hundred men with steel-bladed lances. It wasn't a squad of fierce soldiers. It was one fool undid them all. His lie. His temper. He had not noticed the fiends as they set the girl in his path. He thought of the blackness under the glowing walls of his tent, making love silently while the men brayed outside. That was madness. He should have turned her around. He had meant to send her away. It was meant to be good-bye.

Waer need not have seen her.

His thoughts fell on the Green Lady's veil. She had said she'd give him a life for the life he'd taken, but how many had he taken now? He snatched at the rag belted round his waist. It could not save him if it could not save the others.