Polgara the Sorceress (43 page)

The final jousting match took place on a breezy summer morning when white puffy clouds were skipping like lambs across their blue pasture. The spectators were all gathered
around the lists and were beginning to grow restive until an extended trumpet fanfare announced that the ‘entertainment’ was about to begin. I was seated on a regal throne flanked by Andrion of Wacune, Garteon of Asturia, and the aged Moratham of Mimbre when the pair of friends, all clad in gleaming armor and with pennons snapping from the tips of their lances, rode forth to receive my blessing and instruction. They reined in side by side and dipped their lances to me in salute.

That sort of thing can go to a girl’s head if she doesn’t keep a firm grip on herself.

My ‘instruction’ was suitably flowery, but my conclusion had some
un
-flowery practicality to it. ‘Don’t hurt each other,’ I commanded them.

Their expressions at that point were a study in contrasts. Count Ontrose, far and away the more handsome of the two, wore a look of civilized adoration. Baron Lathan, on the other hand, seemed so caught up with emotion that his features were almost distorted. There were tears in his eyes as he looked at me.

Then, with a final flourish, the armored pair posted formally to opposite ends of the lists to do battle upon each other. The ‘list’ in a formal joust consists of a stout waist-high rail designed, I think, to keep the horses from being injured during the festivities. A joust is a simple game, really. Each knight attempts to knock his opponent off his horse with a blunted twenty-foot lance. Draws are not infrequent, and in the event that both knights are sent crashing to the ground, they both get up, get back on their horses, and try it again. It’s a very noisy affair that usually provides many business opportunities for the local bone-setter.

At the traditional signaling horn call, they both clapped down their visors, lowered their lances and charged, thundering down the lists toward each other. Their lances both struck true against those stout shields, and as usual, both lances shattered, filling the air with splinters. The jousts at a formal tourney can seriously deplete the supply of trees in a nearby forest.

They both wheeled and rode back to their original starting point.

Ontrose was laughing gaily but Lathan was glaring at his friend with a look of competitive belligerence. Baron Lathan seemed to be missing the point here. A jousting match is supposed to be a sporting event, not a duel to the death. In previous tourneys, I’d been moderately indifferent about the outcome, but
this
time was somehow different. My ‘knights protectors’ in the past had not really loomed very large in my life. They’d been no more than appurtenances to my station. I had an uneasy feeling this time that should Baron Lathan be the victor, he’d cause difficulties later on. Arendish literature positively swarms with improprieties involving high-born ladies and their bodyguards and Lathan seemed to be well-read. Should he happen to win, he’d clearly cause some problems. My impartiality started to slip just a bit.

The second pass with lances proved to be no more decisive than the first, and when the contestants rode back to take their places for the third, Lathan’s look of open belligerence had become even more pronounced.

This was going too far, and I decided at that point to ‘take steps’.

‘No, Pol,’
mother’s voice murmured.
‘Stay out of it.’

‘But –’

‘Do as I say!’
Mother almost
never
took that tone, and it got my immediate attention. I relaxed my gathering Will.

‘That’s better,’
she said.

As it turned out, Ontrose didn’t really need any help from me. Baron Lathan appeared to be so wrought up that his skill deserted him on the third pass. He seemed to be so intent on destroying his opponent that he forgot to brace his shield properly, and Count Ontrose neatly picked him out of his saddle with that long lance of his and hurled him to the ground with a resounding crash.

‘No!’
The fallen knight howled, and his voice was a wail of regret and unspeakable loss.

Count Ontrose reined in sharply, swung down from his saddle, and rushed to his friend. ‘Art thou injured?’ he demanded, kneeling at Lathan’s side. ‘Have I harmed thee?’

I didn’t exactly disobey mother, but I
did
send a quick, probing thought at the fallen baron He was gasping, but that would have been quite normal. Being unhorsed in a jousting match almost always knocks the wind out of a man.

Then the physicians reached the pair, and they seemed greatly concerned. Baron Lathan had taken a very nasty fall, and the steel armor in which he was encased was so dented in on the left side of his chest that he could scarcely breathe. Once the physicians had pried him out of his armor, however, his breathing became normal, and he even congratulated Ontrose on his victory. Then the physicians carted him off to the dispensary.

Count Ontrose remounted his war-horse and rode over to claim his prize – me, in this case. He lowered his lance to me, and, in keeping with tradition, I tied a flimsy blue scarf about its tip as a visible sign of my ‘favor’. ‘Now art thou my true knight,’ I declaimed in formal tones.

‘I thank thee, your Grace,’ he replied in a musical baritone, ‘and I do hereby pledge unto thee my life and undying devotion.’

I thought that was terribly nice of him.

Ontrose, now ‘the mightiest knight of life,’ was one of those rare people who excelled at everything he put his hand to. He was a philosopher, a rose fancier, a poet, and a lutanist of the first magnitude. His manners were exquisite, but he was a complete terror in the jousting lists. Not only that, he was absolutely
gorgeous
! He was tall, slimly muscular, and his features might have served as a model for a statue. His skin was very fair, but, as I mentioned before, his long hair was lustrous blue-black. His large expressive eyes were a deep sapphire blue, and a whole generation of young Arendish ladies cried themselves to sleep over him every night for a goodly number of years.

And now he was mine.

There was a formal investiture after the tourney, of course. Arends love ceremonies. The three dukes, dressed in semi-regal finery, escorted the hero into my presence and formally asked me if this beautiful young man was acceptable to me. What an absurd question
that
was. I
recited the formulaic little speech that enrolled Count Ontrose as my champion, and then he knelt to swear undying allegiance to me, offering up the ‘might of his hands’ in my defense. It wasn’t really his hands that interested me, though.

Baron Lathan was in attendance with his left arm in a sling. His unhorsing had severely sprained his shoulder. His face was very pale, and there were even tears of disappointment in his eyes during the ceremony. Some competitors simply cannot
bear
to lose. He once again formally congratulated Ontrose, which I thought was very civilized of him. There have been times in Arendia when the loser of a jousting match has declared war on the winner. Lathan and Ontrose had been friends, and that evidently hadn’t changed.

We lingered for a time at the fair, and then returned to Vo Wacune, where Ontrose took up residence in my town house.

As autumn touched the leaves, my champion and I rode north so that I could familiarize him with the peculiarities of the duchy of Erat.

‘I have been advised, your Grace, that serfdom doth no longer prevail within thy boundaries, and I do confess that I have been much intrigued by that fact. The emancipation of they who stand – or grovel – at the lowest level of society is an act of sublime humanity, but I am hard put to understand how it is that the economy of this duchy hath not collapsed. Prithee, enlighten me concerning this wonder.’

I wasn’t entirely certain if his education had descended into the labyrinthine sphere of economics, but I tried to explain just how it was that my duchy prospered without serfdom. I was startled – and pleased – by how quickly he grasped certain concepts that had taken me whole generations to pound into the thick heads of my vassals.

‘In fine then, my Lady, it seemeth to me that thy realm doth still rest upon the backs of the former serfs – not in this case upon their unrequited labor, but rather upon their wages. For certes, now can they purchase such goods as previously were beyond them quite. The merchant class prospers, and their share of the tax burden doth lighten the
load borne by the land-owners, thy vassals. The prosperity of the former serf is the base upon which the economy of the entire realm doth stand.’

‘Ontrose,’ I told him, ‘you’re a treasure. You grasped in moments what’s eluded some of my vassals for six hundred years.’

He shrugged. ‘It is no more than simple mathematics, your Grace,’ he replied. ‘An ounce apiece from the many doth far exceed a pound apiece from the few.’

‘Nicely put, Ontrose.’

‘I rather liked it,’ he agreed modestly.

We talked of many things on our journey north, and I found my young – well, relatively young – champion to have a quick and agile mind. He also had an uncharacteristic urbanity that reminded me a great deal of my dear friend Kamion back on the Isle of the Winds.

He was suitably impressed by my manor house, and he had the uncommon good sense to make friends with my Killane-descended retainers. Moreover, his enthusiasm for roses at least equaled my own. His conversation was a delight, his impromptu concerts on his lute – often accompanied by his rich baritone – brought tears to my eyes, and his ability to grasp – and question – obscure philosophical issues sometimes astounded me.

I found myself beginning to have thoughts I probably shouldn’t have had. In my mind, Ontrose was becoming more than a friend. That’s when mother stepped in.
‘Polgara,’
her voice came to me one night,
‘this isn’t really appropriate, you know.’

‘What isn’t?’
My response wasn’t really very gracious.

‘This growing infatuation of yours. This isn’t the man for you. That part of your life is still a long way in the future.’

‘No, mother, it’s not. What you choose to call “that part of my life” will come whenever I decide it’s going to come, and there’s nothing that you or anybody else can do to change my mind. I’m tired of being pulled around on a string. It’s my life, and I’ll live it any way I choose.’

‘I’m trying to spare you a great deal of heartache, Pol.’

‘Don’t bother, mother. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.’

‘As
you wish, Pol.’
And then the sense of her presence was gone.

Well, of course it was rude. I realized that even as I was saying it. That particular confrontation crops up in just about everyone’s life. It usually comes a bit earlier, however.

By morning, I was more than a little ashamed of myself, and as time went on I regretted my childish reaction more and more. Mother’s presence had always been the central fact of my life, and my little outburst had erected a wall between us that took years to tear down.

I won’t demean what I felt for Ontrose by calling it an infatuation. I
will
admit that what was happening in my personal life distracted my attention from something I was supposed to be watching more closely, however. The second Garteon had been succeeded by yet a third in Asturia. Garteon III was an even bigger scoundrel than his father or grandfather had been, and most of his animosity seemed to be directed at Wacune. It was fairly obvious that there were close ties between Wacune and Erat, and the Oriman family had apparently concluded that my duchy could not survive without Wacite support. The Asturian animosity toward me personally wasn’t really too hard to understand, and it probably dated back to the time of Duke Nerasin. I
had
made examples of a fair number of Asturian dukes over the centuries, after all. What the Asturians chose to overlook was the fact that I’d also jerked a goodly number of Wacites and Mimbrates up short as well. The Asturians seemed to want to look upon me as an hereditary enemy who hovered in the shadows waiting for the chance to thwart all their schemes.

What ultimately happened in northern Arendia came about largely because Duke Moratham of Mimbre was in his mid-eighties, and was quite obviously senile. His so-called ‘advisors’ were untroubled by scruples, and, since the doddering old Moratham automatically approved everything they put before him, they were the actual rulers of Mimbre. Garteon III of Asturia saw his chance, and, to put it crudely, he began buying up Mimbrate nobles by the score.

I should have been paying more attention. A great deal of the suffering I’ve endured about what happened to Wacune derives in no small measure from the fact that it was at least partially my fault.

The meeting of the Arendish Council in 2940 was placid, even tedious. Duke Moratham slept through most of it, and there wasn’t really anything exciting enough going on to wake him. I’d have probably suggested a regency, but Moratham’s only surviving son was quite obviously unfit to rule. He took his privileges very seriously, but gave little thought to his responsibilities.

It was after Ontrose and I had returned to Vo Wacune that my father stopped by to see how I was doing.

I was in my rose-garden when my maid escorted him out to see me. Knowing my father as I do, I’m fairly sure that he’d snooped about a few times in the two centuries or so since I’d last actually seen him, but he’d evidently not found anything to complain about, so he’d left me alone. ‘Well, Old Wolf,’ I greeted him, ‘what have you been up to?’

‘Not too much, Pol,’ he replied.

‘Is the world still all in one piece?’

He shrugged. ‘More or less. I had to patch it a few times, but there haven’t been any major disasters.’

I carefully cut one of my favorite roses and held it up for him to see. ‘Would you look at this?’ I said.

He hardly even glanced at it. ‘Very nice,’ he said indifferently. Father doesn’t really have much of an eye for beauty.

‘Very nice? That’s all you can say? It’s absolutely gorgeous, father. Ontrose developed it just for me.’

‘Who’s Ontrose?’