“Nay, sweetling,” said Heribert sternly, “he didn’t lose. He did what he had to do for the kingdom, and don’t ever think otherwise. Defeating the Quman matters more than anything right now.”
She was not to be consoled, but she kept her sorrow quiet, as her father had ordered her earlier that day, and buried her head in Heribert’s shoulder. Such a big girl, she was getting to be. So quick to understand the twists and turns of intrigue that plagued the nobly born.
Zacharias glanced back at Thiemo and Anna, fallen to whispering as the celebration continued on the field beyond and the armies began to disperse back to their tents. He knew they weren’t lovers. Anna was not really old enough, in truth; she couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen. Anyway, Prince Sanglant would never have allowed it—a little piece of hypocrisy that rather cheered Zacharias. It was good to know that even the most admirable of men might succumb to weakness now and again. It made Zacharias feel better, since his own weaknesses seemed so bold and starkly drawn in contrast. He had so very many of them.
Blessing wiped her face on Heribert’s sleeve and wriggled out of his grasp, jumping down to the ground. Heribert was frowning, fingering a leather cord he had recently begun to wear around his neck.
“You don’t like it,” said Zacharias softly, seeing the other man’s gaze on the mob out in the field, surrounding the two contestants. Sanglant had downed his fourth cup of ale.
“It’s what the captain of the Dragons would have done,” replied Heribert, “but he isn’t captain of the’ King’s Dragons any longer.”
“Nay, Brother, you know yourself that the greatest threat isn’t even the Quman. Or so you’ve told me.”
“True enough.” Heribert saw Wolfhere cutting his way through the crowd toward them. “Sister Anne is the greatest threat. So be it.” He moved forward to meet Wolfhere.
Heribert and Wolfhere had gotten thick as thieves lately, plotting and scheming with Sanglant while, as always, Zacharias was left out in the cold, as ignorant as a beggar’s starving brat. Envy made him dizzy as he watched the two men—elegant cleric and elderly commoner—meet and exchange words. Did they not trust him? Did Wolfhere speak against him? Was Zacharias somehow deemed less loyal than the turncoat Eagle? Little use in continuing his feud with Wolfhere, but he could not help himself; that was yet another of his weaknesses, that he held grudges as tightly as a drowning man clutches a spar and would not let them go even when they no longer did him any good. He wasn’t even as good a man as any one of that ragtag group which had remained behind in the ruined fortress that day months ago outside Walburg. Not one of them had betrayed Zacharias’ shameful behavior to the prince. Not one had mentioned it, even though they had all seen him bolt and run, ready to abandon the child they were fighting for.
No wonder no one trusted him.
In his nightmares, and they were plentiful, he still saw those two Quman soldiers pulling around and making ready to shoot him. Sometimes he wished that they had.
Behind, Blessing grabbed hold of Anna’s hand and led her back to the stream’s edge while she chattered on in her piercing voice. “Tell me again about the phoenix!”
Wolfhere and Heribert bent heads together, speaking intently as Heribert’s frown deepened. Zacharias crept closer, but their voices were so low that he couldn’t make out more than phrases and words, nothing to make sense of. After a bit, the prince himself strode up, none the worse for his heavy drinking until you saw the way his eyes tightened with anger despite the pleasant expression masking his face. He took hold of Wolfhere by the shoulder.
on foot stepped back, to leave the field clear for the duelists. Captain Thiadbold of the Lions stepped forward and raised a horn to his lips.
He blew.
The two armies erupted in cheers and whistles as the two riders urged their horses forward, each man holding the reins in one hand and the full cup in the other. Neck and neck, they raced across the meadow, reached the woodland fringe, turned their horses neatly and rode back at a canter. They passed the cleric side by side, neck and neck, and pulled up. The crowd fell silent as they handed their cups to the cleric and she compared the level of ale remaining.
She raised a cup. “Prince Bayan, the winner!”
Shouting and laughter drowned out everything else as Bayan, laughing, demanded a full cup of ale. Sanglant, too, took a freshly poured cup; he downed it in one gulp and asked for a second. Although he had a smile on his face, his expression was grim.
Blessing began to cry. “He lost,” she said, and then, in a lower and more furious voice, “he lost on purpose.”
“Nay, sweetling,” said Heribert sternly, “he didn’t lose. He did what he had to do for the kingdom, and don’t ever think otherwise. Defeating the Quman matters more than anything right now.”
She was not to be consoled, but she kept her sorrow quiet, as her father had ordered her earlier that day, and buried her head in Heribert’s shoulder. Such a big girl, she was getting to be. So quick to understand the twists and turns of intrigue that plagued the nobly born.
Zacharias glanced back at Thiemo and Anna, fallen to whispering as the celebration continued on the field beyond and the armies began to disperse back to their tents. He knew they weren’t lovers. Anna was not really old enough, in truth; she couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen. Anyway, Prince Sanglant would never have allowed it—a little piece of hypocrisy that rather cheered Zacharias. It was good to know that even the most admirable of men might succumb to weakness now and again. It made Zacharias feel better, since his own weaknesses seemed so bold and starkly drawn in contrast. He had so very many of them.
Blessing wiped her face on Heribert’s sleeve and wriggled out of his grasp, jumping down to the ground. Heribert was frowning, fingering a leather cord he had recently begun to wear around his neck.
“You don’t like it,” said Zacharias softly, seeing the other man’s gaze on the mob out in the field, surrounding the two contestants. Sanglant had downed his fourth cup of ale.
“It’s what the captain of the Dragons would have done,” replied Heribert, “but he isn’t captain of the’ King’s Dragons any longer.”
“Nay, Brother, you know yourself that the greatest threat isn’t even the Quman. Or so you’ve told me.”
“True enough.” Heribert saw Wolfhere cutting his way through the crowd toward them. “Sister Anne is the greatest threat. So be it.” He moved forward to meet Wolfhere.
Heribert and Wolfhere had gotten thick as thieves lately, plotting and scheming with Sanglant while, as always, Zacharias was left out in the cold, as ignorant as a beggar’s starving brat. Envy made him dizzy as he watched the two men—elegant cleric and elderly commoner—meet and exchange words. Did they not trust him? Did Wolfhere speak against him? Was Zacharias somehow deemed less loyal than the turncoat Eagle? Little use in continuing his feud with Wolfhere, but he could not help himself; that was yet another of his weaknesses, that he held grudges as tightly as a drowning man clutches a spar and would not let them go even when they no longer did him any good. He wasn’t even as good a man as any one of that ragtag group which had remained behind in the ruined fortress that day months ago outside Walburg. Not one of them had betrayed Zacharias’ shameful behavior to the prince. Not one had mentioned it, even though they had all seen him bolt and run, ready to abandon the child they were fighting for.
No wonder no one trusted him.
In his nightmares, and they were plentiful, he still saw those two Quman soldiers pulling around and making ready to shoot him. Sometimes he wished that they had.