The White Mists of Power (37 page)

“Well, no one else seemed to know what they were doing.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry about the first attack, but I didn’t know about the ambush. The spy didn’t warn me. But this time I sent word to your archers and they were ready.”

Seymour? Seymour a spy? Byron shook his head. How could he believe that Alma betrayed him and not believe that Seymour would? “Is that true, Seymour?”

“No!” He knelt beside Byron.

Alma watched them. She set down the lute, and ghost chords echoed in its belly. “Then tell me how Vonda knew of the battle this morning. A battle I didn’t even know about.”

Byron put his arm around Seymour and hugged him close. He remembered Seymour’s burned hands, the stench of burned skin, his gratitude that he would no longer have to perform. This fight was Byron’s. His friends had suffered enough. “There’s been enough death.”

iii

The blood flowed and she squeezed it out of the trees. Other Enos joined her, and soon the cavern was splattered with whispering, flowing blood.
Soon there’ll be too much to fight,
Zcava had told them. She was going to wait until Ikaner and her Enos were too tired, and then she would help the Old Ones find their way into the trees, into the future.

Ikaner thought of her bluff, the warm river breeze, trees unthreatened by death. She wanted to see it once more. Zcava was right: there had been more blood in the morning. She knew that once the Enos joined the fight that the blood would flow like her river and it would drown the young whistle-woods.

The young whistle-wood voices were soft, and they dreamed of music, of combining tones, of nurturing seedlings, and creating Enos. Every creature had dreams, even the Old Ones. But the Old Ones dreamed of survival and youth, something they had had. The whistle-woods dreamed of new things: of their future.

iv

Byron’s chambers felt cold. He had been cold since the night he had spent in the garden. He leaned against one of the chairs, Alma beside him, and watched Seymour. The guards behind them were silent.

“And finally, he wants to know if you’re afraid to put your terms on paper.” Seymour looked up from the dispatch. “Well?”

Byron smiled. “Of course not. Get a scribe to take a message.”

One of the guards left the room. Alma’s hand caressed his arm. She was worried about him. So was Seymour. They hadn’t left him since the night he snapped. He wasn’t going to break now. He wouldn’t let himself. His violence would be directed against the one it should have been directed against in the first place: Kensington.

A scribe came into the room, bowed, and took his place beside Byron. The man was old, his skin puckered against his bones. “Sire?”

“I want you to pen a dispatch.”

The scribe set out his pen, inkwell, paper, and wax. Byron set the seal on the table. As soon as the scribe was ready, he began:

“Kensington: My terms are simple. I proposed a one-on-one fight between the two of us. The victor becomes king. Meet me tonight in the field near Anda–the field where you slaughtered my men. Bring witnesses and the weapon of your choice. Before I fight, however, I will need your oath that the fighting between our houses will end.”

“You’re insane,” Seymour said. “Byron, if you lose, everything will be wasted. Everything.”

Byron signed the parchment and watched as the scribe sealed it. Then he placed the seal back into his pouch. “No, Seymour. If I win at the cost of hundreds of lives, what have I gained? A kingdom where the people and the gentry hate me. If I win on my own merits, I’m free to rule as I please.”

“And if Kensington wins?”

“I’ll be put to death, of course. Alma will survive, she always does. Your friend Vonda will save you, and the kingdom will go on as before.”

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” Alma asked. Her voice purred against her throat and her hand had left his arm. “Afraid you aren’t worthy of other people’s lives.”

Byron didn’t move. He wasn’t worth other people’s lives. “This is my fight,” he said. “It’s yours because you chose to enter and Seymour’s because I involved him in it. But the two hundred peasants who died this week had no argument with Kensington. Neither had their families. Now what do all those people do? I’m not in the business of making paupers. I will secure my throne or die trying. It’s cowardly to let others do my fighting for me.”

“I am not going to discuss this anymore,” Byron said. He got up and left the room. The hallway seemed even cooler, but he felt more relaxed. He had made his choice. He would have no more blood on his hands.

v

Ikaner’s hands throbbed. The blisters had popped, letting pus run down her arms. She held the burning torch away from the trees and touched the bark of the old, bowed whistle-woods. No tree spoke back to her, no life flowed through it. These whistle-woods had been dead longer than she had been alive.

We are your wisdom.

The blood will save us.

If you kill us, the Enos will die.

Ikaner felt the strength of the voices in her head, the whispering hush-hush of their logic.
Enos die for their trees,
she thought.

Enos cannot live without us. We grow you, nurture you.

But we fertilize our own seedlings.
The heat from the torch seared her hand. Nothing lived in these trees, but the act she was about to commit seemed unspeakable. She thought of the seedlings, the young trees, and the land, licking blood and absorbing bloodlust. She thought of her bluff, and then she swung the torch around and shoved it inside the whistle hole of the nearest tree. The bark caught, but the tree did not scream. She lit the next tree and the next, and then something grabbed her mind, tried to force her out of it. She put up shields and winced as they broke, shattered, taking portions of her mind with them. The Old Ones were flowing to her, trying to become part of her.

She did not touch the next tree she set aflame. The smoke smelled of dead things and the air grew hotter. She lit another tree and another, until the entire grove burned. Voices clamored in her mind. She sank to the ground, clutching her head. She could feel them holding her, their souls older than hers, stronger, and she was so tired from saving the trees. Her mind faded, and she crawled through the fire, the smoke, to the outside.

And stopped. The bloodlust hushed through her veins: the lies of the Old Ones, dead at the time of the last lust, caused by a white mist the humans called Gerusha. The Old Ones had killed trees then, had tainted the land, and waited until they grew stronger. More Old Ones now, and they hated Enos, hated trees, wanted only their own power.

She grabbed a dead whistle-wood and held it, the shards of her mind gathering into one final picture. The fire seared her clothing, dug into her skin, and she saw her bluff as she had first seen it, leaning over the river, the grasses bending with a light breeze, young trees–her children–calling to her. The water had been cool and fresh, the trees gentle. She had rested among the grasses. She had rested among the grasses–and decided that she wanted to die there.

She reached through the ground for her bluff. It felt her, she knew, across the distance, wrapped itself around her, and as her consciousness flickered against the power of the Old Ones, it promised her it would hold her as she had held it, helping her die so that they could all live.

vi

The field stood under the gray skies. Hundreds of feet had churned the dry earth. Here and there Byron could still see the imprint of a body, but the blood had soaked into the dirt long before. He paced the length of the field, feeling no fear. The calmness that had come with his decision stayed with him. If he didn’t win, it didn’t matter. No one else would die.

Kensington had not yet arrived. He had chosen swords for the fight, and Byron had then specified no shields or armor. He wanted it to end quickly.

Seymour stood beside Alma at the edge of the field. Alma’s eyes were bright with fear and excitement, a small dagger hidden in her hair. Byron had smiled as he watched her insert it that morning. She would survive. She was the strongest of all of them.

Colin waited apart from the others. Byron had refused to let him bring a lute, although composing was Colin’s last test before he could become a bard. Byron did not want this battle to be glorified in song.

A handful of guards stood behind the boy, prepared to whisk Byron’s friends to safety should anything go wrong. Afeno stood with his arms behind his back, watching, waiting. If the guards did not come through, Afeno would.

A page ran across the field to him. “Horses! From the north.”

Byron glanced across the barren land, catching Kensington’s flag in a cloud of dust. He walked slowly back to his people and waited.

Kensington dismounted across the field. His supporters did the same. Seymour walked over to them, his face set. He was to get Kensington’s oath in writing. When he reached the lord’s entourage, he stopped. Byron frowned. Vonda stood beside Kensington. Seymour glanced quickly at her, then turned his back on her. Kensington handed Seymour a piece of parchment which Seymour read. Then, nodding, Seymour returned.

Byron walked to the center of the field, his feet sinking in the dry earth. As Kensington approached, Byron extended his hand. “Good luck, milord,” he said.

Kensington stared at the hand in surprise. Finally, he took it in his own and shook. “And to you.”

The observers gathered around them, leaving just enough room for the battle. The two men separated, pulled their swords, and circled each other for a moment. Byron’s eyes were on Kensington’s, his concentration high. He could feel his muscles tense with anticipation.

Kensington lunged. Byron parried, and steel crashed against steel. Kensington backed away and Byron followed, the swords meeting at each thrust. Kensington’s sword broke free. Byron attempted to flip it loose but failed, losing his balance. Kensington lunged for Byron’s open side. Byron whirled as Kensington’s blade swished past him.

“Very good, milord,” he murmured, recovering himself. Kensington smiled, his blade cutting through the air. Byron’s blade met it and again they were at a stalemate.

Then Byron broke away. Kensington thrust, his right hand tight around his sword, his left open. Byron suddenly realized that Kensington had never fought without a shield or a dagger in his left hand. Parrying, Byron worked his way toward Kensington’s left. Kensington continued to circle and thrust, like a cat toying with a mouse. Byron’s right arm was getting tired, the muscles heavy, but he felt a curious exhilaration. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Alma, her brow creased with concentration. Her concern pleased him and he again turned his full attention on Kensington.

The lord attempted an inward thrust, but Byron moved out of the way. He plunged his sword into the opening left by Kensington’s maneuver and felt a shudder run through him as the blade pierced Kensington’s side. Kensington clutched the wound while he backed away. Byron followed, enjoying the sight of blood on Kensington’s hand. Kensington thrust twice, Byron parrying. Then Byron lunged again. This time Kensington anticipated the action and the swords clashed. They moved close to each other, like two dancers.

Kensington whirled, catching Byron off guard. The lord’s sword hit the bard’s arm with an amazing force. Byron winced as the blade slit through the skin, suddenly angry that he had allowed himself to be hit. He attacked, slashing viciously. Kensington, unable to parry the rapid blows, dodged and then again attempted an inward thrust.

Byron’s sword hit Kensington’s. His weapon flew across the field. The force of the blow snapped Byron’s blade and he tossed away the hilt. Kensington threw himself at Byron. The wind left Byron’s body as his back hit the dirt. Kensington’s hands were about his neck, squeezing tightly. Byron gripped the lord’s wrists, attempting to pry the man away. His lungs burned with lack of oxygen. Near panic, he brought up his knees and used the strength of his legs to roll over.