Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (33 page)

Two minutes later, Valerian ascended the steps,
accompanied by Kineta.  She was all business, as usual, and the few moments of
observation lent Marik no insights on that particular front.

Finally, after another mark, the one-eighty-one group
climbed the patio steps.  As they passed Marik noted four separate royalguards
checking with their eyes that the cords on their weapons were in fact tightly
bound.  With nothing now obstructing the view, Marik could at last see the
people standing around the thrones.  There was the seneschal, of course, as
well as the ruling couple.  The broad man with gray hair in a military uniform
and fifty pounds in rank insignia over his chest must be the knight-marshal. 
Though Marik had ridden under his command, Marik only ever had a single glimpse
of the man before.

Other faces were familiar, each a person Marik had
seen briefly in Tollaf’s mirror during the frenzied rush to organize a war. 
One face in particular stood out from the others.  He struggled to understand
why.

As they approached the king, Marik studied her
intently, ignoring the royal pair.  He placed the memory after several long
steps.  She wore a simple skirt today, and a silk shirt with a high collar
nuzzling her graying hair.  In his memory she wore different garb.  Then, she
had worn a heavy cotton tunic and an embroidered vest with riding leathers. 
Her name finally surfaced from the murky sludge of his memory.  Celerity.  One
of King Raymond’s court mages.

She, as did everyone else, let her eyes wander over
the five men in the new group.  Despite the conformity, Marik felt certain her
eyes rested on him longer than on Hilliard or the other mercenaries.  A
disquieting tingle ran through his spine.

Hilliard knelt without direction.  His knee came to
rest on a small square pillow that seemed the worse for wear after
one-hundred-eighty previous knees had squashed it against the gray stone. 
Arranged in a line behind the first were six others.  The four mercenaries each
knelt as well, leaving the two outside pillows empty.

“To defend Galemar’s people, to stand in the light,”
King Raymond recited to Hilliard while Marik watched Celerity from the corner
of his vision.  “To uphold the justice of your king with your strength, both
physical and moral.  To protect Galemar’s innocent where others would falter. 
This is the duty demanded of the Arm of Galemar.  Do you stand ready to wield
the Arm?”

“Yes, your majesty.  I stand ready to serve my king
and homeland, at whatever cost is demanded of me,” Hilliard replied in a tone
usually reserved for those experiencing religious ecstasy.  It drew Marik’s
attention back to the king, where he noticed what he had missed in his
preoccupation with Celerity.

Between the two thrones stood a low stone block placed
there to hold drinks or snacks.  Today it held a long glass case that contained
what must be the very thing itself.  The Arm.

At the far end, the case had been propped so it rested
on an upward angle.  Clearly visible from their kneeling positions, the sword
stole Marik’s breath.  Hilliard, he knew, was in purest joy over the prospect
of becoming the ultimate servant of justice.  Marik briefly thought that if the
tournament were still open to the common citizens, he might enter only for the
chance of winning the right to wield this sword.

Exquisite, captivating, yet simple at the same time. 
It was clearly a ‘working sword’, devoid of such elaborate dressings as a
jewel-encrusted hilt or scenic etchings.  Leather wrapped, the hilt had been
molded to the hand, with dips in the surface to allow fingers a firmer grip. 
All three points on the T-guard ended with a forest green metallic sphere that
possessed a fragile quality, but which Marik suspected were actually hard as
the blade’s steel.

As for the blade…  Four feet of liquid silver. 
Water-reflected moonlight somehow captured and made solid.  A single etched
symbol,
probably the swordsmith’s mark,
graced the blade five inches
from the hilt.  Double edged, mere description failed to impart the difference
between this blade and his own.  The technical details might be similar, except
the two were as different as ducks from chickens.

From long ago, Maddock’s words on the road to
Kingshome surfaced in his mind. 
The master swords are on a higher level
still.  They are produced by the truly skilled swordsmiths, and are only
created on demand for those who can afford them.  Usually only a noble will
ever bear a master blade.  They take long to create and are exceptional
weapons.

Exceptional weapons.  This, if ever any sword had,
deserved such a description.  Every inch testified to its creator’s talent. 
The edge, surely no sharper than his own blade’s,
looked
as if it were. 
In a talented fighter’s hands, the sword named Arm of Galemar could be a force
unto the natural world.

“Yes, your majesty.  I stand ready to defend all the
people of Galemar,” Hilliard replied to a question the queen had asked him. 
Marik had been so taken with the sword he never heard her speak.

“Rise, then, and take your place among your brothers. 
May you all ride together, as one, should darkness ever descend upon our home.”

Her lilting voice finished the statement as she took a
cloth band from her attendant.  Waist-length brown hair rippled like a flowing
stream, threatening to spill forward over her shoulders from her movement. 
Long practice steadied it, allowing her to manage her mane without drawing
attention to the fact she needed to.

Hilliard rose with his left arm already cocked.  Queen
Ulecia wrapped the green band around his upper arm.  She tied it quickly by the
twin cords dangling from each end.  The green band displayed a large black
number stitched into it, one-eight-one, bordered in gold thread.

“We wish you luck and thank you for your service,” she
finished.

The mercenaries stood while Hilliard bowed, then
turned to exit.  Marik cast one last glance back at the sword.  He caught
Celerity in his peripheral.  She definitely looked at him.

So what?  You were looking at her and she probably
noticed.  You stare back at people staring at you, don’t you?  And she has met
you before, if only in passing.  She’s probably trying to remember why you seem
familiar.

Probably.  Marik pushed the extraneous thoughts from
his mind.  Hilliard joined the crowd of Thoenar’s upper classes.  A scattering
of nobles persisted in watching the king and queen.  Most had formed into
subgroups, each chattering away, putting birds in springtime to shame.

Marik found it interesting in a peculiar way.  From
across the lawn these people had appeared to be a large crowd.  Up close, the
illusion fell apart when he noticed it was hundreds of small groups clustered
together, never quite mixing into a whole.

The moment Hilliard entered the fray, a few broke off
from their separate clusters and surrounded the young noble like a bizarre flower
that bloomed in reverse.  Most were other young men who were either too young
to enter or too dainty to survive long.  One, with more lace than actual
clothing by first impressions, kept exclaiming over Hilliard’s armband while
holding a silk handkerchief to his mouth.  Marik doubted whether the rapier at
his side had ever been drawn since leaving the shop.  It possessed the distinct
feel of costume, only donned since the tournament for the Arm of Galemar would
be an event where
everyone
wore a weapon.

Hilliard drifted from group to group, his bodyguards
trailing behind.  They stopped a servant long enough to claim cups from the
tray she carried.  Unfortunately, hard-punch or wine were the only drink
available.  If Marik drank enough to quench the thirst that had built during
the long wait under the blazing sun, he would be out cold on the grass.  Food
also concerned him.  The next server’s tray only held a crumbly sort of crud
purported to be cheese, thin pink strips of raw fish, and tea bread.

Walsh better still have his kitchen open when we get
back, or else I’ll
make
him open
it!

After awhile the knight-marshal strode past, his gait
purposeful in a crowd of fops.  Marik could see the living wall around the
patio’s edge had dispersed and the royal pair gone when Hilliard’s current
clique neared the lawn’s edge.  The last contender had received his armband.

Servants lit multi-colored lanterns around the gardens
as well as the permanent iron-dish torches placed along the pathways.  Evening
did little to drive off the heat.  Perhaps they should leave soon if they
wanted to make it back to the inn before midnight.  While that thought still
finished forming, Celerity arrived, greeting Hilliard in a rare moment when no
others clung to him.

“Hilliard Garroway,” he replied, and bowed.  He held
back any flinches at her admitted profession.

“I recall your father Carrick,” she stated in a soft,
melodic tone.  Celerity blended well with the sycophants around them despite
her plainer clothing, except Marik remembered her other side.  This softer
woman could never have looked hard enough to strike sparks from at the Cracked
Plateau if she were truly so pleasant as she made herself out to be.  “He and
his men held fast during the final battle, inspiring many others to do the
same.  The northern front around the central catapult may have collapsed under
the pressure before the tide could be turned, were it not for the soldiers
giving their all.”

The young noble stood tall, the words stiffening his
spine with pride.  “My father has never done less than his best for Galemar.  I
strive to follow his example.”

“And I see the barony of Stonescape will continue to
be as reliable as the stone it is named for,” she replied, without a hint of
falsity.  “I am glad to have met you.  If I may, I would like a word or two
with your bodyguard for a moment.”

That surprised Hilliard, and no less so than Marik. 
“Well, yes, of course.  I have no cause to restrict with whom he may and may
not converse,” he said, making Marik wonder if all these ego-bloated
crustaceans were rubbing off on Hilliard. 
Or probably he thinks we’re going
to talk mage business and shrugged it off.  Is that what she wants?

With trepidation, he faced Celerity, who had
introduced herself as the head of King Raymond’s court mages.  “Yes?”  He
winced when he heard the suspicion ringing through his voice.

Celerity smiled slightly.  “Marik Railson, I believe?”

“Yes,” he repeated, not liking the fact that she knew
him.  “Why do you know who I am?”

She raised an eyebrow at his tone.  “Quite a number of
people know your name.  You hardly remained unobtrusive during the war, did
you?”

“If you mean that stupid song, I was never named in
that!”  Marik was glad the sun had disappeared.  It might hide the flaming
color in his face.

“I did not refer to that.  But that aside, I want you
to describe to me the men you called up during your scrying effort.”

Marik felt his jaw drop.  “How…”

“Tollaf and I know each other very well.  As soon as
he replaced the mirror, he contacted me.  His concern is great over what
transpired, and his own researches have failed to alleviate it.  He sought my
advice.”

“That sneaky old bastard!” he erupted.  “He’s been
blaming me the whole damn time when he knew it wasn’t my fault?  That
conniving, scheming, son-of-a-bitch!”

This time her expression
did
change, to one of
severe disapproval.  Her eyes lost their softness to become lethal stilettos. 
“Mage Tollaf is your master,
Apprentice
Marik.  You may not be fond of
him, but respect is the least you owe.”

He started to retort that he and the old man would be
the happiest pair in the world if Torrance would allow them to never see each
other again, but her expression froze him.  It held an edge that Tollaf’s
angriest moments fell short of matching.

“Why is he so concerned all of a sudden?” Marik asked,
shying back yet refraining from taking an actual step away.  “I tried getting
him to help a hundred times after the mirror broke.”

“A shattered scrying mirror is not a first,” she
replied, her eyes still boring into his skin, her words curt.  “But the
instances of such occurrences are few and far between, and usually only in
cases of separate workings combining with the scrye to work a backlash of
unrestricted etheric energies.”

“So…what?  I’m not a mage, except by chance.  You need
to speak simply to me.”

“Aren’t you?”  Amusement dulled her steel gaze. 
“According to Tollaf you are exceedingly gifted at thinking like a mage when it
suits you.  He has had much to say on that particular matter.”

The fact that a pair of mages, one highly placed in
the king’s court at that, were spending their free time gossiping about him
caused his scalp to itch.  “That…that wasn’t mage work.  That was…something
else.”

“You seem determined to believe you are not as smart
as you truly are.  So be it, then.  It is of no concern to me.  What is of
concern to me is this man you found while searching for your father.”

Did Tollaf tell her everything?
  “Why not about my father?”

“I would hear about him as well, but Tollaf’s
description, which was your own secondhand words, suggests it is the other who
is most likely at the heart of the matter.  This may prove to be nothing at
all, but I haven’t seen Tollaf this agitated since he left the court’s
enclave.”