Crown of Gold and Ruin, page 20
“Go for Trystan,” Vralen reminded him once again, and then Jaden was squinting against the wind-blown sands, and the crowd’s soaring noise was bright and stringent in his ears, and his greatsword was catching the sun-sparkles.
Their opponents bore down on them, the Lionsbane’s face hooded with the great yellow teeth of the lion skin he always wore, Trystan’s armor a deep jet black. Then the melee began.
They attacked, and Trystan, as predicted by the observant Vralen, swept down upon his resented brother, completely ignoring Vralen, who hurtled past straight into the Lionsbane’s path.
The crowd gathered to watch the contest was whistling and hooting their approval of such a confrontation between a quartet of Elenon’s best fighters. But Jaden heard none of it; his world had narrowed down to Trystan, the arc of his long-sword, his wary stance.
“You know, brother dear,” Trystan grinned, “I really think this is a day upon which I shall triumph.”
Jaden saw a flaw in Trystan’s movement as he closed in, saw how his brother left his left flank open to attack. “You talk when you should fight,” he replied, then dived forward, swinging under Trystan’s sword and delivering a blow to the other man’s thigh; the sword points were blunted, yes, but they still packed an impact like that of a heavy punch.
Trystan buckled and staggered back, scowling. No helms were allowed today—so the spectators and the king could recognize the fighters easily—and Jaden could see beads of sweat already trickling from Trystan’s mussed black hair, could read his blazing green eyes, brimming with rage and resolve. Jaden knew Trystan’s ever-present anger was something that could be used against him.
“Really, Trystan, you can’t do better than that?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Lionsbane—whose skill was strength coupled with grace—deliver a two-handed blow to Vralen’s arm, crushing the imperial warrior’s face into his shield.
Trystan took advantage of Jaden’s momentary distraction and sprang; Jaden snapped back to attention and jerked his chin and torso back, watching as the arching blade cut the air before his eyes. He stumbled back as Trystan pressed forward and was suddenly faced directly into the sun’s blinding brilliance. Spots swam before his vision, and he retreated even further, blocking and parrying Trystan’s moves with wild arcs of his own smoke-dark blade, but never giving any swings of his own.
Jaden knew this wasn’t going to work; he couldn’t allow the other prince to gain the upper hand. As Trystan’s next swing careened towards Jaden’s unguarded right arm, Jaden twisted with the blow, ignoring the pain stabbing down his arm, and managed to stagger past Trystan, away from the sun’s glare. He fell back, willing Trystan to come to him. He passed Vralen and Durran, engaged in a furious clash of steel, and knew the majority of the crowd was probably fixated upon the two legendary fighters, and not upon the two awkwardly sparring royals. He didn’t care, he just wanted, with a fierce, burning desire that surprised him with its sudden venomous intent, to knock Trystan to the ground.
Trystan stalked into Jaden’s trap, and Jaden, smiling to himself, hurtled forward. Speed was what mattered in the crude plan he had devised, so he covered the paces between himself and Trystan in two strides; he writhed aside as Trystan swung his sword in what would have been a clumsy blow at any time, and had just raised his own blade, the dark metal drinking in the watery daylight. Trystan had realized his mistake and had started to edge away, but he was too late, his eyes darkening with the fear of defeat. The crowd noticed Jaden’s imminent victory and had started to cheer him on—when sudden flaring pain shot through his side.
He staggered back, gasping with the dark agony the Briar Road wound always emanated, and whirled, his sword slipping through sweaty fingers. The Lionsbane loomed above him, the pale sun behind him making him into a tall dark silhouette whose sword glittered with razors and shards, whose scar glistened white. Behind him, Jaden glimpsed of a felled Vralen, a huge purple bruise spreading over his temples, and a stab of fear went through him.
His wound shooting fingers of agony like a starburst inside of him, Jaden helplessly slid to the ground, dark spots blurring and swimming before his eyes, making something fearsome of the Lionsbane’s loathing sneer.
He thought he heard the general hiss, “Burn, bastard Prince. Burn.”
* * *
Diana’s heart wrenched as Jaden tumbled to the arena sand, the shadow of the Lionsbane hiding him from her squinted gaze. She recalled, belatedly, the purple-tinged wound Jaden had gotten upon the Briar Road, which had never quite healed. And now the Lionsbane had shoved the hilt of his sword deep into Jaden’s side, the perfect motion to bring a dormant wound flaring to life.
She scrambled to her feet, her eyes on the small figures in the middle of the arena, the Lionsbane now talking, saying something to Jaden that none could hear, except perhaps Trystan who was smirking in the middle of the arena.
Hrothren stood as well, cursing. “Damn it, the poor boy,” he said. “What is wrong with Jaden’s side?”
Di replied briefly, “A wound from the Briar Road battle.” She flicked her gaze to Father as she spun to go; he was staring straight ahead, unfazed at his son’s obvious pain, though his knuckles were taut and white on the arms of his chair.
She bit her lip, and stalked away from the pavilion, onto the arena; she was going to help her brother and damn all who tried to stop a princess from interfering in a sparring contest. Di ran, shooting through the opening into the arena with her skirts hitched around her ankles, and sprinted out onto the field. She heard the smattering of shocked whispers rising through the otherwise hushed crowd at her behavior, but didn’t care; she wouldn’t leave her twin prone and helpless.
She wasn’t the only one running to Jaden’s aid, however, for a glance behind her showed Saskien and Glenn and at least five servants following her.
The Lionsbane was still kneeling beside Jaden, and his fingers Diana saw, to her astonishment and rage, were pressed into where Jaden’s wound was, a slow stream of purple-red blood flowing upon the warrior’s iron-knuckled fingers. Was the Lionsbane intentionally causing pain?
Durran glanced up as he heard Di’s footsteps and smiled, snatching his hand from Jaden. Ignoring all sense of precaution and decorum, she sprang forward, giving way to her anger, and fastened her own hands into the Lionsbane’s mane of dark hair and pulled as hard as she could, yanking the man away from her brother. Of course, his head barely jerked to the side, an attestation to his strength and Di’s weak muscles, but the general slid away anyhow, climbing to his feet to tower over the royal twins.
How I rue the fact I drank Taliesin’s stupid potion. I could have ripped that sword out of his hand and into him, she thought, glaring up at the Lionsbane as she kneeled beside Jaden and cradled his head in her arms.
“How could you?” she demanded. “What is wrong with you, Lionsbane?”
“Princess, it was a contest—” the Lionsbane shrugged innocently.
“Don’t lie to me, General!” she snapped. Jaden’s eyes were flickering open, his eyelids the color of raindrops. “I saw what you were doing, you sadistic monster! Get away from us right now,” she shouted, “unless you want me to tell my father what you did!”
The Lionsbane simply looked amused at her outburst. “Princess,” he bowed gracefully, and sidled away, his steps small and careful as he smiled ruefully at the surprised crowd and clapped Trystan upon the back warmly.
Di turned to Jaden as he gasped and sat up, glaring, his face flushed and angry. “Damn that asshole to hell,” he spluttered, wincing as Di helped him up. “That was a cheat!” He scowled as Hrothren appeared, huffing from the long run from the royal pavilion to the grounds.
“On the contrary, Prince—” Hrothren began.
“Oh, shut up, Hrothren,” Jaden groaned. He gasped as another spasm of pain wracked him.
“Can we please go to Drast,” Di pressed, “and ask him for a cure or healing potion?” Jaden opened his mouth to argue, but she barreled ahead. “I know you already went, but clearly whatever he gave you was not sufficient.”
Jaden whipped his face around, and Di saw the deep red in his cheeks that betrayed how humiliated her brother was. His lips were pressed together so forcefully they had almost disappeared. “Stop telling me what to do,” he said tightly. “I’ll go to Drast if and when I see fit.”
Di narrowed her eyes. “I was only trying to help.”
Jaden spun and limped away, cheeks still flamed like a blood sunset. Di’s world went cold at the rejection. She couldn’t help the spill of acidic anger at the back of her throat at his arrogance, though her own heart ached at his shame.
Hrothren’s firm hand on her shoulder stopped her from dashing after Jaden. “Don’t go after him, Princess. It will only rub salt in the wound of his disgrace.”
She paused, jaw clenched, considering his words. The throng in the arena started to disperse, the king himself rising and leaving the yard in a swish of robes and glint of crown. Vralen had climbed unsteadily to his feet, and was limping toward the stands, whilst Edmund the royal steward stood looking confused and crestfallen as his carefully organized Saturnalia sparring contest fell in ruins around him, the other combatants whispering and pointing and showing no inclination to fight.
“Jaden will be fine, Diana,” Hrothren was saying in a voice that said he doubted his own words. “Your brother lives upon a knife-edge, as does Trystan, the both of them always teetering either to uproarious exultation or complete despair. They are boys upon the threshold of manhood, and both, as far as I have witnessed, are unstable, as likely to hurt themselves as everyone around them.” He hesitated. “And I confess, I fear for them. I fear what the world will make them.”
* * *
Jaden felt instantly guilty, even as he walked away from his sister. He knew for a fact that without her intervention, he would perhaps have stared up at that glaring blue sky for hours, feeling the Lionsbane’s fingers coaxing more pain from him, unable to defend himself. He scowled. The wound … why hasn’t the damn thing healed yet? It had been almost a fortnight since the Briar Road battle.
He came to a halt in his blundering rampage in some deserted corridor buried deep within the Lionskeep. He saw a door left ajar and slipped inside, wanting more than anything to be alone.
The room he had stumbled upon was large, a guest bed-chamber choked with heavy dark furniture coated by dust. Daylight speared through a gap in the ancient window-draperies, lighting odd corners of the place; a bowl of rotted grapes, a broken bronze mirror lying upon the carpet. Most of the unoccupied chambers in the palace were like this, like something out of a ghost town. Leaning against a peeling wall, he ripped his armor off with fumbling fingers, piece by piece, until it lay in a gilded heap upon the carpet, along with the heavy blue wool of his cloak; some servant would find it later and return it to the royal armory. He was left standing in an old, thread-bare white tunic whose right side was liberally stained with spots of dark blood.
Steeling himself, he pushed up the corners of his tunic to examine the wound. He groaned despairingly; the wound was no better than that first moonlight-drenched night among the thorns where a Bjornann axe had hewn into him. It was a slash that started at the top of his right ribs, then extended downwards to end just above the waistline of his breeches; it was dark red tinged with the inexplicable purple, the puckering again mysteriously strewn with crystalline white dusting.
He grimaced as his hand came away stained dark and then jumped as a voice spoke out of the dusty shadows in the deserted bed-chamber.
“That looks rather nasty, Your Highness,” the voice drawled, female and familiar.
Despite himself, Jaden smiled. “Spirits of the air?” he enquired into the light-striped gloom.
Scythe materialized out of the shadows, her hair was unbraided and cascaded down her shoulders in black curls. She wore, as usual, one of her pristine white tunics.
“My shadow,” Jaden said, pulling his tunic down over the exposed wound, “you do a really good job of stalking me, I must say.”
Her face was serious as she approached him, where he slumped against the wall. “I see you take great pride in changing the subject when the predicament involves you. I saw what happened, my prince, and Drast has summoned you to the Healing Hall at once.”
“Drast has summoned me, and you come to …” Jaden mused slowly, letting the pieces of the puzzle fall together. A memory surfaced, a hazy one whose main redeemer was the smell of incense; waking up out of black dreams and seeing a girl leaning over him, hearing her talk to Drast and calling him Master.
“You’re her!” he exclaimed. “Drast’s apprentice, the one who everyone said had left Elenon two years ago …”
Scythe was smiling. “Took you long enough to work it out. I did leave, in fact, to Olderfleet in Zurda; I spent a while studying there in the museum of Mysteries and Healing, then I returned to the home of the Avareths just a few weeks ago.” She shrugged.
“And did Drast tell you to follow me, to become my shadow?” he demanded, momentarily forgetting his wound.
She shook her head firmly. “That’s enough about me for the day, I think.”
He started to protest, but Scythe grabbed a corner of his tunic and hurled him through the door, leaving the bed-chamber of dust and broken mirrors behind them.
“We are,” she announced grandly, pulling him down the passageways with her, taking a sharp left onto a hidden staircase of cracked banisters, “going to the Healing Hall.”
Jaden jerked back. “No. I am not going to the Healing Hall. I refuse and if you persist in dragging me, I shall have to use considerable violence to escape your clutches, my lady.”
Scythe scowled—which looked absurdly pretty—and once again took hold of Jaden’s tunic, yanking him into a niche buried beside a discarded pile of faded old tapestries. Jaden wondered if they had reached the point where she slid a knife into him and left him bleeding to death for disobeying her wishes.
He tried placating her. “Drast already gave me medicine. True, it’s taking some extra time to work, but …” She continued frowning, face inches from his. “If this is a threat,” he whispered into the closeness, “then please do try to recall my last name. It might help you get to your senses.” He shrugged. “If it’s not, then I’m rather enjoying the intimacy,” he teased. The wound ached, like pincers pulling at the flesh there.
Scythe pressed him back, and suddenly, a knife was indeed at his throat.
“That tunic you are wearing is rather tight. Where exactly do you hide the daggers upon your person?”
She was glaring, her emerald eyes blazing with an anger suddenly reminding him of Trystan’s. The dagger pressed into Jaden’s throat, not drawing blood, but deep enough that it hurt and he felt the sudden, intense vulnerability of his life.
“Listen well, Your Majesty. Drast and I are trying to keep you out of danger. Walking around with so vulnerable and volatile an injury making no effort to heal it is not favorable to this cause.” His mouth quirked with amusement, but she continued lecturing him. “Sneaking around behind the King of Gold’s back and getting locked inside dungeons with war criminals, getting stabbed upon the road of thorns, and fighting assassins is no way to—”
He pushed her away with a force that surprised even him; she staggered to fetch up against the opposite end of the niche, knife still in hand.
“Don’t you dare talk about that,” Jaden said coldly. “It is none of your business, and you may have helped in healing me, but you weren’t there. Have you seen your mother, someone you loved so much you would have died for her, slide away blood-stained from an assassin’s cruel sword? Have you?” he growled.
Scythe’s voice was flat. “Bandits murdered my father when I was nine. I saw it all. They attached him to a tree and tortured him, and bled him, and then, when he wouldn’t give them what they wanted, they ripped him to pieces and left him for the Whisperwood’s wolves.”
Jaden was silent, absorbing this morbid and unexpected spill of information. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said at last. “I did not know—”
She shook her head, dismissing his empty words. “There is danger seething at the edges of our world, and you, of all people, have to understand that you must be careful, Jaden.” It was the first time she had addressed him by name.
“Until I am unleashed alongside Trystan like hunting hounds to fight on the battlefields of the Empire War?” he enquired. “Then I can cease being careful?”
She gave him a dark look. “Now,” she said, “are you going to Drast with me, or,” she held up the knife, the edges glinting, “do you require more persuasion?”
The prince steeled himself for nearly the fifth time today, and said, “First choice looks attractive, although, when speaking of the second choice, it really depends on the kind of persuasion we are referring to.”
Scythe smirked, then slipped out of the niche and started gliding up the hallway, already heading for the east wing where the Healing Hall stood brooding. Over her shoulder she called, “Don’t worry. No boy can stand my charms for too long.”
“No lie there,” Jaden mumbled, catching up to her.
Above them, an ancient brass chandelier was swinging in an invisible wind, its glass chimes tinkling against each other. “By the way,” Jaden said sheepishly, “Happy Saturnalia.” He caught her swallowing a smile.
The Healing Hall was a broad structure of stark white marble that sat upon wild black rocks behind the Lionskeep, overlooking the spread of sea and sky beyond the rock-pools of the beach. Its windows were dark, its balconies overgrown with ivy, its tallest tower ending in a spire of bronze and topaz.
The heavy wooden doors swung open at Scythe’s touch, and Jaden followed his shadow inside to where her master dwelled. Inside the Hall, the smell of incense was heavy in the air, mixed with the cloying, rich stench of the patch of poison-petals—a swamp plant with brilliant red flowers—growing in one corner in a carved vase. They passed rows of beds, each draped in white blankets, each beneath a narrow window that looked out onto black rocks and blue sea, and beside one of these, Jaden froze, disbelieving what he saw: the Frenalin prince, Taliesin, who had so disrupted and discomfited the court last night at Di’s Choosing, now reclined easily on one of the beds, calmly reading a book. Of course, the talon-ended white hands that should really be holding the book were folded behind his feline head, whilst the book itself, some thick tome on history, floated just above the creature’s head, suspended by some unseen spell.
