He blinked; the brilliance faded, or melded itself into the
world. Mirain went on with the rite in a cloud of priests and incense. The
moment of the god’s coming might never have been.
Maybe it never had. No one else remembered it. Kav stared at
him when he asked, following the crowd to the hall and the morning feast there;
Olvan laughed and said something about sorcerers’ apprentices.
At first Vadin could not get close enough to Mirain to ask,
and when he pushed and cursed his way to his proper place behind the prince’s
chair, Mirain had taken it into his head to leave the lords to their glory and
break his fast among the common folk in the market. The king smiled and let him
go, and many of the high ones went with him. Vadin’s question lost itself in
the tumult.
oOo
In the third hour of the morning, all but the most
determined feasters streamed down from castle and city to the fields about it,
gathering for the Summer Games: games of strength and skill, war-games and
peace-games, footraces and mounted races and contests between lords in their
war chariots.
This day was Mirain’s, and he sat as ruler of the games,
even the king set beside but slightly below him.
He had stopped when he saw how it was to be, had looked as
if he would protest, but the king met his eye and held it. Slowly he took the
seat ordained for him. Slowly his frown lightened. When Vadin left to take his
place among the squires, Mirain’s unease seemed to have melted, to have turned
all to joy.
The lord of the games could not compete in them. But the
Lord of the Western Marches set himself to take every lordly prize. He heaped
his winnings like the spoils of war, drawing the younger knights to him with
the fascination of his victories.
“My lord is magnificent today.”
Mirain looked down from the high seat, favoring Ymin with a
slow smile. “But,” he said, “he has to take his prizes from my hands.”
She settled at his feet, which was the singer’s privilege.
On the field Moranden waited with a dozen princes and barons, the ragged line
of chariots shifting as the teams fretted. His own beasts were quiet under his
strong hand: matched mares, striped gold and umber. Their manes were clipped
into stiff crests; their hooves were sharpened and pointed with bronze.
Light and whippy though the racing chariot was, Moranden
stood in it with easy grace. Like the rest he wore only a loinguard and a broad
studded belt; the muscles rippled across his chest and shoulders. A garland of
scarlet flowers lay upon them, a lady’s favor.
“He is splendid to see,” Mirain observed without perceptible
envy.
“My lord is magnanimous today.”
Mirain met her bright mirthful gaze and laughed. “My lady is
full of compliments.”
“The air is bursting with them. All Ianon is in love with
you, for this day at least. Does that please you?”
Mirain drew a deep, joyous breath. “It sings in me.” He
spread his arms, which, by more than chance, was the signal for the race to
begin.
The seneldi sprang forward. The crowd roared. Mirain
laughed.
oOo
He was smiling still when Moranden brought his foaming team
round before the dais and leaped, running along the yoke-tree, springing
lightly to the ground. His body gleamed with sweat; his nostrils flared; his
eyes glittered.
Mirain rose with the prize, a harness of gold. Before
Moranden could ascend the dais, he came down. Younger prince faced elder, Mirain
on the second step, Moranden on the grass.
“Well won again, kinsman,” Mirain said. “You do our house
great honor.”
“That is its due.” Moranden accepted the gold trappings with
a deep bow. “After all, sister-son, I’m its only defender on this field.”
“Every king should have such a champion.”
“Is that a southern custom?” Moranden asked. “In the north,
every king is his own champion.”
Mirain’s eyes narrowed, but he laughed. “Why, uncle! You
have almost a southern wit.” He bowed, a king’s bow, catching the sun’s fire in
all his ornaments. “May you win often again for the honor of the mountain
kings.”
He returned to his throne, Moranden to his chariot. Ymin,
watching them, sighed a very little.
The king marked her. Leaning toward her, he said very low,
“Come, child. Stallions will fight and men will strike sparks from one another,
and strong men the more strongly.”
“These,” she said, “are altogether too strong for my heart’s
ease.”
“Strong, and young. Age will calm them.”
“If either suffers the other to live so long.” She shook
herself and smiled at the king. Hope was so rare in him, and so precious. “Ah,
sire,” she said almost lightly, “I seem determined to cast a shadow on your
sun.”
He gestured negation. “You cannot. For see, my son is the
greatest of the victors, and my heir”—his voice softened—“my heir is the
greatest of my princes. And Ianon knows it and him.”
“So,” she added too softly even for him to hear, “do both my
lords. Both equally, and both all too well.”
oOo
Vadin was no Moranden, but he was holding his own. He won
the mounted race; he took a good second at swordplay among the young men. Then
he won again twice, footrace and spearcast, and as he came for the latter prize
he met Mirain’s broad grin and realized with a shock that he had done it: he
had put himself in the running for Younger Champion. So had Pathan the prince
and quiet methodical Kav and a haughty lordling from Suveien.
He thought briefly, ignobly, of running away to hide. Then
Mirain said, “Win it for me, Vadin.”
Vadin glared. “No tricks, Sunborn.”
“No tricks,” Mirain conceded, but his eyes danced. Vadin
left him with a bow and a glance of deep distrust.
oOo
The Younger Champion won his crown in mounted combat, full armed,
with unblunted weapons. It was the same deadly rite as that which made a man,
but easier, Vadin thought as his friends saw to his arming. He did not have to
fight these battles after running the Great Race.
Rami was fresh and eager, and his mood was rising to match
hers. He knew he was good; he had been reckoned one of the best in Imehen.
“We’ll see if I’m one of the best in Ianon,” he said to the mare. She rolled a
molten eye and snorted, scenting battle.
Lightly he vaulted onto her back. Hands passed up his
weapons. Sword on its baldric, dagger at his belt, two throwing spears, the
round shield with its Geitani blazon.
The heralds were singing out his name. He was matched with
the Suveieni. He touched heel to Rami’s side; she danced forward, head up.
One mercy: the Suveieni charger was a mare likewise, a fine
tall roan. No need to fear a goring from this one.
Nor, on trial, was the rider so very much to be afraid of.
He was good enough and he was fast, but he lost his temper easily, and with it
much of his skill. Vadin let him flail and curse himself into exhaustion, and
when his temper had robbed him of defenses, struck him down neatly, almost
regretfully, with a flat-bladed blow.
On the other side of the field, Kav had put up a valiant
fight, but Pathan had not only skill, he had brilliance. It was Pathan who remained
to face Vadin when the vanquished left the battleground, Kav on his own feet
and the Suveieni on his shield.
As Vadin paused to breathe his mount, to lave his streaming
face, to swallow a mouthful of water, he stared at the paragon of squires. The
king would knight him tonight, that was an open secret. And here was Vadin
alVadin, raw recruit two years at least from knighthood, daring to challenge
him.
Pathan did not look as if he feared the outcome. He even
smiled and saluted when he sensed Vadin’s eye on him. Hard though Kav had
fought him, his armor shone unmarred, his handsome face unbloodied, his plume
unruffled. His cream-pale stallion looked newly groomed; he sat the saddle as
if he had been born there, light, easy, breathing without effort.
Rami was still fresh enough, but Vadin was dusty and his
shield had a dent in it and he knew he reeked royally. He drew a deep breath.
Mirain was a flame of gold on the field’s edge; Vadin could have sworn he felt
those eyes on him, daring him to turn tail.
As if Rami would have allowed it. He tightened his grip on
spears and shield, bowed his head to the herald’s glance. He was as ready as he
would ever be.
The horn sang. Rami was already moving. A spear left his
hand, aimed for the center of the prince’s shield.
Wind gusted, struck it awry. A blow like a hammer sent Vadin
reeling back.
He wrenched the spear from his own shield, flung the
second—fool, fool, Adjan would have raged at him, he had not aimed before he
loosed. But neither had Pathan, or perhaps the wind was doubly traitor.
Vadin swept out his sword. At which Pathan had defeated him
before. But not mounted, not with Rami fighting with him. The stallion was
trained and he was swift and he had his wicked ivory horns; but Rami had
learned about stallions and their weapons.
So too had Vadin. And these were sharpened, he could see. It
was allowed. His folly that he had given his heart to a bare-browed mare, his
loss that he would not burden her with horns of bronze set in her headstall.
They were playing, Pathan and the stallion. Teasing,
feinting, pretending that neither could land a blow. Vadin astounded himself;
he landed one, and it rocked Pathan in the saddle. How could the perfect
swordsman have failed to see it coming?
Maybe he was not perfect. His mount shied infinitesimally
from the clash of blade on shield or helm or blade; he did not always seem to
know it, and when he did, the touch of his heel brought the senel in too close,
or not close enough. Vadin could not match his speed, could not quite match his
skill, but maybe—
It had to be soon. Vadin’s strength was waning, his skill
failing even in defense. He held Rami steady between his knees, raised his
aching shield arm a degree, parried a wicked slashing blow.
Pathan’s blade flicked back, flicked aside in a feint,
darted into the gap in Vadin’s parry. By a miracle Vadin was there, and the
force of the meeting nearly felled him.
Nearly. The stallion veered just visibly. Pathan kicked him
inward. He skittered a fraction of a step.
Pathan’s new assault left an opening, a breath’s pause, the
thickness of a good bronze blade. Vadin filled it. Evaded the shield, turned
the point of his sword, and disarmed and dismounted Pathan in the same swift
serpentine movement.
There was a stunned silence. Pathan lay on his back, eyes
open and glazed, and for an instant Vadin knew that he was dead. Then he
stirred and groaned and sat up cradling a hand that stung without mercy.
Vadin knew; he had learned his trick the hard way from the
arms master in Geitan. He sprang from Rami’s back, reaching to help Pathan to
his feet, babbling like a fool. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, it was only—”
“You idiot of a child,” growled Pathan, striking away the
hand that stretched to him, rising stiffly but without visible pain.
Vadin opened his mouth and shut it again. Gods help him, he
had made a fool of this proud prince before all Ianon, ruined the day of his
knighthood, turned his lofty goodwill to bitter enmity.
Pathan’s laughter stopped Vadin short. “Idiot child,” the
prince repeated, and this time his wry amusement was clear to see, “don’t you
ever know when you’ve won?”
Vadin blinked. One of those last fierce blows must have
addled his brain.
He turned slowly. Rami was cropping grass like the veriest
plowbeast. Beyond her the folk of Ianon were going wild.
Pathan struck him, not gently. “Mount up, infant. Go and get
your prize.”
The heralds were there and saying much the same, and one had
Rami’s reins, and now that Vadin was aware of it the roar of the crowd was
deafening. He took a moment to gather himself; as lightly as he could, he
mounted, gathering the reins as Rami began to dance.
She knew what was expected of her. He straightened his weary
shoulders, raised his chin, and set his eyes firmly forward.
Mirain was not on the dais. The Mad One was coming, Mirain
astride bearing the crown of gold and copper that a quick eye and a clever
trick had won Vadin.
Rami champed the bit and bucked lightly. “
Just
so,” Vadin replied, and let her go.
They met at a gallop, black senel and silver, and wheeled
about one another, manes flying, and halted in the same breath.
Mirain said nothing, but his eyes said everything. Vadin’s
cheeks were hot, and only partly with exertion; he ducked his head like a child
praised too lavishly.
A cool weight settled on his brows. He looked up in mild
startlement as Mirain’s hands lowered, empty. “
Go on,” the prince said. And when he hesitated: “Rami, of
your courtesy, salvage your lord’s honor.”
She tossed her head, clamped the bit in her teeth, and began
the victor’s circuit of the field. The Mad One did not follow, and for this
splendidly mortifying moment no one was even aware of him or of the one who
rode him.
Vadin looked back once. Mirain did not mind at all. “Sweet
modesty,” his voice said soft and clear in Vadin’s ear, with laughter in it,
and pride, and deep affection.
Damn it, why did they all have to be so indulgent? Was he a
braidless boy to be smiled at and clucked over and made allowances for? Demons
take them, he was a man grown; and he had proved it.
Anger did what nothing yet had been able to do. Awakened him
to the truth. He had won. He was Younger Champion. He was the best of the
squires in Ianon.
He flung his sword up and caught it to a roar of approval,
and wheeled Rami full about, and sent her plunging madly round that wide and
glorious field.
As the sun began to sink, the games ended in splendor.
Moranden had won the crown that was elder brother to Vadin’s, as he had done at
every High Summer since he won his knighthood. By custom the two champions met on
the field in a dance of war, a crossing of blades and a matching of their
mounts’ paces; rode side by side to the throne and bowed; and clasped hands in
the amity of brothers and warriors.