His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) (29 page)

It wasn’t long to wait. He heard the hoof beats again before a
quarter hour had passed—distant, at first, but drawing steadily
nearer. He got back up onto his feet with effort, bracing himself
against the trunk until the dizziness had cleared enough he could
walk. There was a stretch of open ground below him, a little grassy
clearing among the trees. He made his way carefully down to it and
stood in the middle of it, facing east, leaning on the pommel of the
sword to keep himself from swaying.

The horse came bursting out from the trees and he straightened,
digging in his heels, lifting the sword in preparation. The horse
bore down on him, the guardsman kicking it into a full run now he’d
reached the open ground, moving the horse’s reins to his left
hand so he could draw his own sword with his right. Torien didn’t
move. He waited, feeling the earth trembling beneath him with each
hoof beat. His mouth was dry, his heart tight, but his hand was
steady.

He moved at the last moment, ducking the guardsman’s stroke,
shoving his blade at the horse’s legs. The animal screamed,
reared, went stumbling to its knees past him, and the guardsman lost
the reins and slid roughly down from the saddle onto the grass. He
lay on his back a moment, unmoving. Then he recovered himself. He
pushed himself up with his elbows and got up quickly to his feet,
turning round to face Torien. Torien recognized his face now; the
name strayed through his head from vague memory: Vaurin, Milo Vaurin,
hired out of Chælor on Rovero’s recommendation—he’d
no time to bring anything else to mind, because in the next moment
Vaurin had sprung forward, lifting his sword with both hands,
bringing it heavily down. Thoughtlessly, from instinct, Torien met
the blow two-handed. When it landed the weight of it ran up his arms
to his shoulders and the pain flamed up so fiercely he gasped,
despite himself, nearly dropping his sword from numbed fingers.
Vaurin saw his weakness, adjusted his tack accordingly. He landed
another blow on that left side, then another, so Torien was defending
himself across his body, unable to turn the momentum to his own use.
He found himself giving ground, backing slowly towards the trees. He
gritted his teeth and braced his feet and held the blade crosswise
before him. Vaurin’s blade landed, slid along the edge. Vaurin
flicked his wrist to turn it free. He circled it quickly round again
and drove the point into Torien’s belly, into the little hollow
under his ribs at the center of his chest.

His first thought was one of detached surprise: the pain wasn’t
nearly so keen as it had been with the shoulder; perhaps the shock
helped dull it. Then Vaurin drew the blade back out. All at once he
felt he’d been trampled by an ox—felt bruised, battered
all over. He couldn’t get breath into his lungs. He went down
to his knees, leaning raggedly against his sword hilt, gasping for
air, sucking down sharp, shallow breaths that burned white-hot inside
him. His heart was pounding wildly against his ribs and the sound of
it was deafening in his ears.

Vaurin stood over him a moment without moving, getting his own
breath.

Torien closed his fingers round the grip of the sword, lifted the
blade from the ground, lashed it sideways across the back of Vaurin’s
right knee. Vaurin crumpled soundlessly beside him, dropping his
sword, groping with his fingers for the severed tendons. Torien
pushed himself up, supporting himself on the sword. He kicked away
Vaurin’s sword with the toe of his boot. Then he stepped behind
Vaurin and put his left hand on Vaurin’s shoulder. He hauled
him up and slid the blade across his throat.

“How many of you? How many has Tore bought?”

Vaurin didn’t immediately reply and Torien prodded him,
impatiently.

“I don’t have the time, Vaurin. It was Tore, wasn’t
it? Answer me.”

“It was Tore,” Vaurin said. His voice was unsteady,
thick; he was speaking through clenched teeth. “Tore and
Rovero. Rovero’s been on Marro pay for years. He’s the
one who arranged for the—for Chalen.”

“And Tore?”

“No. He wasn’t dealing with the Marri. It was that he—he
wanted to save the governorship, knew it’d be taken from you if
you went to Rien, if you tried to appeal for your son’s
release.”

“How does he intend to cover up my death?”

Vaurin might have smiled. His voice was drier now. “No need for
that, Lord Risto. No need to cover it up. He’ll say it was for
the good of the Empire he killed you, say it was your plot to raise
the Cesini in rebellion—yours and Lord Senna’s, with the
Senate’s help. He’ll have done the Emperor a service,
killing you.”

“There are none at Vessy still loyal to me, then?”

“Few left among the guard. Rovero’s seen to that.”

“I thought better of you, Vaurin,” said Torien.

Vaurin’s shoulders stiffened. He said nothing.

“I couldn’t leave you alive even if I’d the
inclination,” said Torien. “This isn’t for
betraying me, Vaurin. This is for Sere.”

He threw down the sword afterward and stumbled empty-handed back
eastward, through the trees: the important thing now was to get back
to the water. He knew, before he’d gone five paces, that he
wouldn’t make it. The wood was darkening again round him,
though he knew it must be getting on towards the eighth hour by now;
there were bird songs in his ears, and the bitter edge of cold had
gone from the air. He came to a dazed halt beside a thin ash tree,
putting out his right hand to steady himself against it—slipped
down to his knees and rested his head against it, swallowing the bile
risen suddenly in his throat. There was blood in his mouth again. He
spit it out, shook his head. He tried to pull himself back up onto
his feet. He gave it up after a moment and settled down wearily
against the trunk, shutting his eyes. He listened to the bird songs
while the blackness closed.

XVII

The days passed—Tyren didn’t know with any certainty how
many. The wound healed well and quickly, didn’t give him much
trouble after those first few days. It hadn’t been a serious
thing, though the hard riding had left it worse than it might have
been. But the other pain lingered, festered inside him. Aino came
only rarely now, and when he did come it was with the physician, so
he might see the progress of the healing. For the most part Tyren was
alone, and in the long, silent hours the thoughts came rushing into
his head, drove the sleep from him. Or troubled it, at least—made
it restless. The same thoughts, over and over: if only he hadn’t
gone to Souvin; if only he’d done as Torien wished three months
ago—swallowed his pride and done as Torien wished. No, but he’d
been above that, had wanted to show Luchian he was above it, that he
could do the honorable thing, if there were no one else left in the
Empire to do it. And now Muryn was dead for that, and Alluin Senna
for trying to amend the wrong, and Luchian had had his victory just
the same.

He wondered if word had gotten to Vessy. Surely it had; Torien Risto
had acquaintances enough here in Rien, here at the fort. Old friends
from his own soldiering days. Surely one of them had sent him word of
his son’s indiscretion. That thought made bitterness rise in
his throat. Indiscretion, recklessness—ultimately nothing more
than that in his father’s eyes. No way to make him see the
truth of it, the gravity of it. A Cesino priest in a muddy farming
village on the edge of the Outland. It would mean nothing to Torien.
He’d make some deal with Ruso to end it, of course, to save the
Risto name from the shame of a court martial—a matter of money
and it would be as if the thing had never happened. He, Tyren, would
go back to Vessy, and then on to some new post, and he’d forget
it himself after a while—slide back into the comfort, the
complacency of that life; forget how Muryn and Senna had died; forget
he himself had taken lives and given the lives of his men for a thing
that meant nothing at all, in the end.

Fierce, harsh, senseless anger swelled inside him as he thought of
that. He wouldn’t let that happen. He’d die before that
happened. But the anger abated slowly in the long silence. Cold
resolve took its place. To die now was nothing: cowardice, defeat. To
die now would be to let Muryn’s death and Senna’s be lost
in a lie, the same as if he were to let Torien buy his freedom. No,
the only way to honor them was to live—to live and to stand
before the court martial and let the truth come out like that.

With that in mind he ate, eventually. The food was thick, mealy,
tasteless, like ashes in his mouth, but he forced it down anyway,
mouthful by mouthful, because it would be nothing to die here in this
cell. Before a court martial he could explain himself, at least—could
give them the truth. Even if they condemned him for it at least the
truth would be out. But if he died here, now, the truth died with
him.

* * *

He woke from the shallow, uneasy sleep one night to the sound of the
door coming open. It was dark in the cell and in the corridor outside
and he couldn’t tell who’d come in until Aino dropped
beside him to speak quietly in his ear.

“Get up, Risto,” Aino said.

He made no immediate move. “What is it?”

Aino put a hand on his right shoulder and shook him a little,
impatiently. “Damn it to Hell, Risto, get up. There isn’t
much time.”

He pulled himself up, a hand on the wall to steady himself. Aino took
him by the elbow to hurry him along.

“Put this on,” Aino said.

He took the wool uniform cape Aino thrust at him and pulled it round
his shoulders. Aino gave him a helmet next and he recognized dully it
was a black-crested helmet of the Guard. He held the thing in his
hands a moment, uncertain.

“What are you doing, Aino?”

“Put it on and come with me,” Aino said. “Quickly,
Risto.”

He put on the helmet and buckled the chinstrap. Then Aino took his
elbow again, pulling him forward, and they went out into the corridor
and down the corridor to the empty common room. From the common room
they went out into the yard. The yard lay dark and silent; the only
light came from the torches flickering in iron braziers up on the
gate-wall. There was no moon, or else the clouds had covered it. From
the blue-black sky, and from the thick, wet fog spreading over the
yard, scattering the torch-light, Tyren thought it might be a little
before midnight.

Aino took him to the stables. A stable-boy was holding two horses
ready in the torch-lit stall row, a bay and a black, both in
trappings of the Guard. Aino mounted the bay. Tyren went over slowly
to the black. He knew, even in the half light, it was the colt. He
looked back over to Aino, words readied on his tongue, but Aino
wasn’t looking at him, had bent down to give some brief
instruction to the stable-boy. Tyren closed his mouth and returned
his attention to the colt. He took a lock of the silky black mane in
his left hand and pulled himself up into the saddle and gathered up
the reins. Aino straightened then, glanced at him, urged the bay
forward, and Tyren took the colt after him out into the yard.

The guards at the gate asked no questions of Aino. They saluted him
and looked over Tyren only briefly. When the doors were opened Tyren
followed Aino out onto the gate path and down to the broad east-west
road that ran past the villas to the lower city.

“What are you doing?” he said again to Aino, once the
gate was behind them.

“With luck they won’t miss you until morning,” said
Aino. “Time enough for you to be well away from here.”

“You told me your loyalty lay with the Marri. Does it serve
their purpose, arranging my escape?”

“Lucho Marro’s accomplished all he intended to
accomplish. No more need for you to be part of this.”

“Muryn’s life didn’t matter so much to you.”

Aino was silent a moment.

“I regret the priest’s death, Risto,” he said, at
length. “There’s nothing I can do for that now. But at
least I’ll not have to regret yours.”

“You’ll have enough else to regret. It won’t take
Ruso long to figure out who did this, and it won’t go well for
you when he does.”

“Ruso will be looking after his own neck. They were his men on
guard duty.”

“And Luchian?”

“I told you that was my concern,” said Aino.

Tyren shook his head. “There’s no need for this, Aino.”

“No, listen to me, Risto. This was the only way. You were to
stand before the court martial tomorrow, and there’s no use
waiting for Vessy to protect you now. Torien Risto’s dead.”

He looked over to Aino in the darkness. “What?”

“Killed as he rode here, three days ago. Your brother’s
work. He sent word to Lucho Marro that it was done, that he’s
taken your father’s stead as governor. Thinking to prove his
own untarnished loyalty, maybe, by preventing your father from
securing your release—knew you’d be a political liability
to the family.”

“My father,” said Tyren.

He said it stupidly, not comprehending—seized onto it out of
the flood of words sweeping all at once through his head. Words only,
all of them, disjointed and incoherent and meaningless; he was too
stunned for any of it to settle into reasonable thought. There was a
sudden deep emptiness in his chest and stomach, the windedness that
comes after a physical blow. He tried to picture Torien in death:
white-faced, glassy-eyed, his proud body broken and bloody. But the
image slid away from him like water between his fingers, oil chasing
away across a hot pan. He’d nothing but the words, and they
were empty, useless—broken shells when the life has flown.

He’d let the reins go slack in his daze and the colt, sensing
his inattention, had wandered lazily, aimlessly to the side of the
road. Aino brought his own horse close, reaching with his right hand
to take the colt’s head.

“Listen to me, Risto. You can go west, stay hid in the hill
country until the searching’s ended.”