Chapter 7

   

The day of the tournament dawned sharp and bright over Stoneheart. The rain clouds of the previous day had blown through, leaving clear skies and a cool morning. It had drizzled the evening before so the ground was soft yet not slippery enough underfoot to be troublesome, making it perfect for charging animals and wrestling men. The horses were gleaming and colorful bunting flapped in the light morning breeze around the tournament field.

The carpenters had finished erecting the seating arena and, although damp, the small tents that encircled the field had held firm overnight. Each would become the base for a noble family and it was from here their sons would wage mock war on each other. Another larger and less flamboyant tent would house the jugglers, tumblers, dancers, and other entertainers, including a famous fire-eater and contortionist who was in attendance by express request of his royal highness. Prince Celimus.

The younger ladies of the court would be encouraged to try their hand at archery for the grand prize, from King Magnus, of an exquisite pearl pendant. Ylena, who was no beginner with a bow and arrow thanks to Wyl’s training, was looking forward to wearing the pearl that evening. She was sad the King would not be in attendance and, having learned she was not permitted to see him, had sent him a brief note together with a sprig of her orange blossom and some other blooms from her garden. She knew they would convey her love more sincerely to the sick man than the written word.

Despite his sense of caution, Wyl had told Ylena and Alyd that Magnus was dying. All three could imagine how bleak life would be with Celimus sitting on the throne. But this morning Ylena blocked the thought of the vile Celimus and what he would expect should he win the contest. He made the very blood in her veins chill. Ylena pushed the Prince and his lusty thoughts from her mind. She inhaled the scent from her trees and turned to the man she loved on this her most special of all mornings.

“You look wonderful,” she said to Alyd, straightening his shirt front. “Quite the dashing warrior.”

He grimaced. “Hardly.” Pulling her close, he kissed her passionately. “Let’s hope your brother can best him.”

“And spare us—”

Alyd hushed her with another kiss. “Say no more. I must away, my lady, or risk the wrath of the famously bad-tempered red-headed General.” Ylena laughed but he could see anxiety in her eyes, and knew she was reading the same concern in his. “Come on, where’s that famous Thirsk courage?”

“It all lives in Wyl, not me. I’m ashamed to admit.” she said, wringing her hands.

“And he has sworn to defend you, as I have, so you need not fear.”

“Then why am I starting to tremble, Alyd Donal?”

He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “I love you. You have to trust that love. And Wyl’s plan, of course. We’ve done everything we can.”

She nodded, hoping he would be gone before her inevitable tears betrayed her. After Alyd’s departure, Ylena took the final—and, she knew, daring—precaution of sending a page to Orto, the King’s secretary, with an urgent request, then sent her maid hunting for her archery gloves.

The morning session of the tournament had proceeded smoothly, with the joust creating much hilarity for the onlookers as various noble sons were toppled. The population of the city had swelled even more dramatically than anticipated. As a special gesture, Magnus—on Orto’s wise suggestion—had released several dozen barrels of his ale to be distributed freely at the celebrations together with roasted oxen. All the bakers close to the castle had been harried into action and now the air hung heavily with the tantalizing smell of fresh loaves and meat sizzling on the spits.

The midday feast had begun. Purveyors in the Alley’s corridor of tents and awnings were enjoying a brisk trade during this break in the day’s events as everyone enjoyed their food and ale. The latter helped them loosen their purse strings.

A mountebank entertained the meandering folk with his colorful patois, hawking a magical salve that promised to ease all aches and pains. To keep their attention and their laughter high, his pet mynah bird hurled insults at its owner, who deliberately ignored it. The contortionist made his audience cringe but despite the squeals they still threw their coppers for more. Children amassed around the confectioner’s stall where treats they had only dreamed about were on sale for just two mynks each: fairy floss, toffee apples, caramels, sherbets, and hard shapes of brightly colored sugar that could last a full day if sucked wisely. A group of women had joined forces to sell knitted blankets, woven baskets, even a few rugs weaved by a team of their children. And then, of course, there were the sideshows where, among other frolics, passersby were encouraged to throw wet rags at some poor soul who had agreed to stand in a stock for a share of the earnings. Three direct hits won a flagon of mead. Elsewhere, strong men took their turn at hacking through a log. their times carefully monitored and recorded by a stony-faced man with a piercing stare who chewed constantly on a willow twig, absorbing its painkilling juices for his sore joints.

A small queue formed outside the tent of the mysterious Widow Ilyk, who claimed she could tell people their fortunes simply through touch. Wyl smiled as he strolled by. He liked people who poked fun at Morgravia’s old fears. In former years, claiming to have the Sight would have brought forth a howling troop of Witch Stalkers. He was glad those days were done and ingenious people like this widow could make a living from parlor tricks. If there were any positive outcomes from Myrren’s demise, they were that King Magnus had rid Morgravia of Lymbert and his cronies and the Zerque influence had virtually died out. Myrren’s death had horrified many younger onlookers, who were more enlightened than their elders and did not fear sentients; in fact, did not really believe such powers existed. But most people were willing to pay a coin to have someone tell them that their knees would stop aching, or they would indeed marry a wealthy merchant and escape a life chained to a field of barley. Fortune tellers, these days, rarely lacked patrons.

Alyd caught up with him outside the widow’s tent. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to keep my mind occupied.”

“Come on. It’s time we got you ready.”

“Would you pay a bronze regent to learn your fortune?” Wyl mused.

“I’ll tell you what, if you pull off the extraordinary today, we’ll get drunk and celebrate by coming back here to this very tent—what is it? Ah yes, the Widow Ilyk, and we shall have our fortunes told.” He grinned.

“I’m glad you’re confident.”

“I’m not,” Alyd admitted. “The truth is, I’m paralyzed with fear for Ylena.”

“How is she?”

“Have you not spoken with her yet?” Alyd looked aghast.

Wyl pushed his hands into his pockets. “I haven’t. Is she…all right?” he asked sheepishly.

Alyd’s expression turned to one of genuine smugness. “Dare I say, since last night she is glowing.”

General Thirsk put up his hand in mock defeat to prevent his Captain saying more.

“Come, I have a fight to prepare for.”

The city bells tolled the commencement of the afternoon’s entertainment and. to ensure the throng made its now slightly intoxicated way back to the fields, several pages were sent out with handbells to ring loudly through the Alley.

The court ladies’ archery contest was not much of a competition in truth. It was quickly distilled down to Ylena matching her clearly superior skills against Ailen, a ferocious opponent from the House of Coldyn, who not only desired the pearl very badly but had her eyes firmly set on winning the attention of Alyd Donal.

Ailen shot with courage but too much aggression made her aim inaccurate, while Ylena’s arrows, gloriously fletched in her family colors, landed true. A clear winner, she did her best to ignore the scowls of the other contestants and to act graciously. Ylena did not need more jewels, but for sentimental reasons she did want the pearl from Magnus. An excited buzz moved through the crowd as King Magnus was unexpectedly helped to the small stage set up for prize-giving. He looked desperately frail and ill, despite his finery. Orto and a surprised Prince Celimus aided him to stand for the presentation, ignoring the murmurings from the folk, who were shocked at the state of their King.

“Father, this is not a good idea.”

“Still, it is an idea I like” came the prompt response. “Ah. my lovely,” he said, beaming towards his favorite lady. Magnus clasped the pendant around Ylena’s neck so the pearl sat at the base of her throat, and kissed her on both cheeks. “This was meant to hang from one beautiful neck only,” he said, eyes burning brightly with the fever that would soon claim his life.

Ylena curtsied. “Thank you for coming, my King,” she whispered fervently, imagining what it had taken for him to be here.

“How could I resist your request?” he asked, shaking off the arms of Celimus and Orto, forcing them to step back and in so doing winning himself a moment’s privacy. “I’m sorry the Felrawthy clan is not in attendance,” the King admitted. “They should have seen you shine today.”

“I think the Duke is disappointed too, my lord, as is Alyd. His father’s clan is too busy in the north.”

“Mmm, yes so I gather. By the way, child, don’t be frightened,” he whispered, knowing she would understand his meaning. “Your brother is more wily than you credit. Now turn so they can all see your pretty prize.”

“I shall never take it off, your majesty. It will be treasured and will always keep you close to me.”

He smiled as a father to his child, loving her in the same manner. The King straightened to his full height with difficulty. His eyes were damp and he could feel the fever beginning to make his body tremble; knew he must keep it at bay just a while longer.

Ylena stepped away from the podium to rousing cheers and catcalls from the soldiers loyal to her brother, each one of them just a little bit in love with the graceful, golden beauty of the young woman who did not resemble the General in the least.

Meanwhile Celimus moved forward to whisper to the King. His words were cloying and sweet. “Father, it was exceedingly good of you to leave your sickbed for the prize-giving. May I ask Orto to assist you back to your chambers now. sire?”

“Actually, no, Celimus. The fresh air makes me feel brighter just at present,” Magnus lied, “and I hear you and Wyl Thirsk are to provide a special exhibition piece. I should like to see this.”

Celimus gave a terse yet still elegant bow. “As you wish. Father. I feel privileged that you will witness it.”

The old man nodded, despising him. “And I also hear you have a special prize for the victor of this contest. Am I right in understanding that you have invoked the ancient Virgin Blood claim?”

“Yes, sire,” Celimus answered brightly, determined not to be intimidated by the sack of bones before him. “I thought it might add some spice to the sometimes dull occasion of two men matching blades.”

“It was my belief that the addition of real swords would provide enough excitement.”

“In this you are right, my lord. However, I felt inspired to mark this as the most memorable of royal tournaments.”

“And why is that?” the King asked, dreading the answer.

Celimus moved closer still. “Because it shall be your last and we need to mark it well, sire. This tourney did, after all, arise out of celebrations of our ancient customs. It is right that we send your ancient body off in ancient style.”

Magnus worked hard to keep his voice steady. “Indeed, son. I admire your observation of the old traditions, although I cannot admire the rite you have resurrected, the very one my grandfather worked so hard to abolish. It is, if you will forgive me pointing out at this late hour, barbaric and beneath you to perpetrate such a thing on one of the young maidens here.”

“Ah, well, as I so rarely please you. Father, this is but another nail I will gladly hammer into your coffin.”

Magnus was shocked at the vehemence in Celimus’s words, all muttered only just loud enough for the two of them to share.

“You are clearly in a hurry for me to die. son.”

Celimus bent down, his smile to the crowd unfailing but his words chilling as he whispered to Magnus: “I shall give you until Newleaf. Father. If you are not wheezing your last unwelcome breath within that time, I shall personally speed you along to Shar.”

Magnus, feeling his strength leave him as he absorbed how strongly Adana’s blood ran in Celimus’s veins and how he had so completely failed his son. collapsed into a chair that had been conveniently placed behind him by the ever-attentive Orto.

“Your majesty,” the servant started softly, his tone reflecting his concern. He had heard none of the conversation between father and son but knew well it would have brought no cheer to the old King.

Magnus did not allow him to finish. “A drink, if you please, Orto. I wish to watch the exhibition.”

“Yes, sire,” Orto said, a twitch of his fingers sending a page scurrying for a watered ale. “As you command,” he added, reaching into his pocket for the small vial of poppy seed liquor.

Gueryn and Alyd had helped Wyl dress in the ceremonial fighting uniform of the House of Thirsk. They stood now admiring him.

“Pity about the red hair,” Alyd observed.

“Hush, Alyd,” Wyl replied out of habit.

“It clashes so badly with the house colors.” Alyd continued, staring at the magenta and deep ultramarine of Wyl’s show battledress. He wanted to try once more to convince his friend to wear some armor, but knew it would be in vain. Wyl had already refused on the grounds that the contest was to be purely an exhibition.

“Well, you can blame my ancestors for their blindness to pleasing color combinations. They had red hair too.” Wyl scowled at himself in the glass. Gueryn stood beside him.

“Celimus likes to feint to the left,” Gueryn cautioned.

Wyl nodded, taking his sword from Alyd and sheathing it.

“And he likes to show you all of his right side—don’t fall for the ploy and strike. Swipe hard and low to his left.”

“I know this, Gueryn. Be still. There is nothing more I can learn about Celimus’s swordplay that I don’t know already.”

Gueryn knew what was at stake; he knew Wyl must best Celimus to protect his sister, although the consequences for beating the Prince so publicly would be dire.

“When this is over and we’ve seen Ylena and Alyd married. I suggest you take yourself off to the north. You need to get away from here for a while.” He did not notice the glance that passed between the two younger soldiers.

Wyl understood that it made Gueryn feel safer to talk of the future. “Well, only if you agree to accompany me. We can check on the border patrols that so consumed my father.”

“That’s a promise.” Gueryn said gravely. He put his hand over Wyl’s heart and spoke the family motto: “As one.”

Wyl repeated the gesture, holding his own hand over Gueryn’s heart: “As one.”

He accepted Alyd’s brief hug. “Go, be near her. She will be terrified.”

Alyd could only nod. Suddenly he felt his world tipping. He tried to sound confident. “I can already taste our first celebratory ale.”

Gueryn and Alyd left the tent and Wyl followed moments behind, emerging into the glare of the clear, mild afternoon. His friends moved toward where Ylena nervously sat.

He walked into the main arena. The master of ceremonies announced the arrival of General Wyl Thirsk and was quickly drowned out by the loud cheer that erupted from the soldiers encircling the area. If the civilians were intrigued by this contest between two such highly ranked combatants, they were fascinated by the promise that the victor would have the right to Virgin Blood.

Many of the shallower, less wealthy nobles had been thrilled at the whispers of this ancient rite being reinstated at the direct behest of Prince Celimus. They felt that if the king-in-waiting chose their unmarried daughter to lie with, it was almost as good as a royal seal of approval on that union. The richer, more cynical families, stung by the cunning of Celimus on previous occasions, wisely kept away from the royal tournament, claiming illness or urgent business in a faraway part of the realm. None of this mattered to Celimus; he wanted to see the blood of only one virgin on his sheets tonight and she was very much present.

He arrived in the arena to wild applause from the commonfolk who knew little of his true character yet. To them he appeared a glorious king-to-be, the dashing Prince of a much-loved sovereign. His fabulously handsome appearance, seemingly humble acceptance of their cheers, and his bright, wide smile did nothing to dissuade them of this fine opinion.

Magnus grimaced and noticed Wyl did the same. The King joined in the charade with a halfhearted clap and benign smile for good measure, but behind it lay his cold fear. His physic had recently reconsidered his estimate on the King’s longevity. No longer did he believe Magnus would last until the next full moon—in fact, he had curtailed his prediction so savagely it was now his expert opinion that Magnus would barely survive the next few days. It seemed Celimus would get his wish. Magnus thought grimly. Magnus no longer felt guilty for hoping Wyl might prevail, or that he might have found a resolution. The truth was he needed Wyl to beat Celimus. His son was poised to plunge Morgravia into its darkest times and he suddenly realized he was powerless to prevent it.

The two men touched the flat of their swords first to their lips and then against each other’s blade. The sharp metallic sound sent a shiver of anticipation through all from Stoneheart who knew what a formidable fighting pair they were.

The master of ceremonies had announced that the winner would be decreed by whichever opponent drew first blood. This was sinister news to Wyl. It was his understanding this was nothing more than an exhibition. However, it was too late now to argue the finer points. He looked toward Gueryn and noticed the old soldier’s face was a blank contrast to Alyd’s open expression of intense anxiety. Wyl had to look away. There was nothing to be done now except to fight with the blade as well as he knew he could.

The King was given the task of dropping the white square of linen. The handkerchief fluttered to the ground and the two opponents immediately drew their blades back and began circling. Wyl knew Celimus would not be long in this foreplay and, rather than waiting, struck hard and fast.

The dance of the swords had begun.

Whatever Wyl gave away in height and strength he made up for with cunning and speed. Celimus was light on his feet and his strokes were so elegant his dance was beautiful to behold. He smiled the whole time he fought. Wyl’s face was set as a mask and he stood his ground, patiently parrying, ever watchful for the right opening. Gueryn had always admired the shrewd manner in which Wyl wielded his sword. There was nothing flamboyant in his style, his strokes were neat and economical. Celimus liked to move in a wide arc with large, airy strokes, but this was also part of his skill and Wyl knew it. Wyl appreciated how Celimus was enticing him, daring him to take advantage of the room he provided.

And that would be your undoing. Gueryn’s advice rang as loudly in his mind as the sound of the blades rang in his ears. It was all Wyl could hear; the crowd’s murmurings had faded away for him. He had become one with the sword, moving with lightning reflexes.

They were well matched and, as the fight began to extend, none of the onlookers could say that either was getting the upper hand. The audience marveled at the grace of this contest. The combatants moved like well-rehearsed dancers who knew every move the other would make. Even Ylena and Alyd, pale with worry, were entranced by the glint of the swords and the speed and beauty of their movement.

Wyl jumped expertly as Celimus struck low, and then, to the surprise of those watching, Wyl spun around one way to stop a harsh blow coming again at his legs and then reverse-spun to parry another. Sparks ignited as the blades crashed together. It was a wonderful spectacle—not that Wyl was in a position to hear the sounds of high appreciation from the crowd. He knew better than anyone that he was in the midst of a death struggle.

The Prince, slightly less focused, did hear the cheers for his opponent and that made him angry. Wyl heard his competitor’s subtle change in breathing, provoked by wrath, and felt the first nuances that the balance of the contest had changed. Remembering Gueryn’s warning about the dangers of fighting on pure emotion, he pressed harder, feeling his own senses withdraw even further within himself until he could no longer see the Prince but simply the blur of aggressive strokes that he could anticipate and deflect.

The Prince was rapidly becoming prey to his own emotions and his skills suffered.

“Wyl’s beating him, isn’t he?” Ylena whispered nervously to Gueryn.

“I would agree that Wyl’s gaining the ascendancy.” the soldier replied dryly, adding. “If he keeps going like this, the Prince will tire quickly, as he is expending far more energy than your brother.”

Ylena nodded and squeezed harder on Alyd’s reassuring hand.

Wyl leapt forward to thrust, knowing what Celimus would do in reply, and was already feinting left to counter the stroke that inevitably came. He could see the beads of sweat now on the Prince’s brow and he too felt his shirt damp against his back. He had no idea of time. As he danced backward the Prince followed, thrusting and slashing. It seemed Celimus had found his balance again and the strokes resumed their whirring grace.

Both now deep in concentration, neither could detect the enthralled silence that had claimed the audience.

The Prince searched constantly for the opening that would allow him to draw first blood and Wyl just as nimbly defended. Celimus suddenly moved wide, deliberately airing his stroke to reveal one side of his torso, which begged to be slashed. Wyl was so tempted—it would be so easy—but he recalled the caution of Gueryn and just as forcefully moved in the same direction as his royal opponent, ignoring the invitation and surprising the Prince with a hard, arm-numbing smash downward.

Infuriated, Celimus began to take short angry jumps forward. Leading with his right leg he hammered at Wyl’s blade, reverting to brute strength over his shorter opponent. Did he see a grin on Thirsk’s face? Yes. damn him all to hell. Well, he had a few surprises left, and he began a brilliant series of spins and leaps to dazzle the crowd, who yelled their encouragement.

Ylena caught a mutter from Gueryn. He seemed to be repeating something just under his breath. She listened intently and heard it: “…the Magician. Wyl, use the Magician…”

Celimus was still pushing forward, bearing down hard, beating the General back toward one corner of the arena and apparently winning, when Wyl saw it. Saw the potential as the complex series of strokes of the highly difficult maneuver came to mind. It was possible. Celimus, in his arrogance, his confidence that he was in fact winning, would not be ready to counter, for he could hear applause now, was not concentrating quite as ferociously as a minute or so ago.

Gueryn called it the Magician in honor of Fergys Thirsk, who had designed the maneuver and used it to devastating effect in many battles. The older soldier had counseled Wyl on it, claiming only the very skilled in swordsmanship could make it work in a true battle situation—or would have the courage to use it. It needed constant calculation and readjustment depending on the opponent, and many in the heat of the fight could forget one of the tightly woven moves that made it such a formidable trick.

“Its purpose is to confuse.” Gueryn had said during their private practice of this piece of art.

And Wyl would use the Magician to daunting effect now.

He audaciously threw his sword from his right hand to his left. Unbalanced by the curious move, Celimus hesitated. Wyl thrust and the Prince only just blocked in time, but the move pushed him off balance in the other direction. Wyl kept tossing his sword from hand to hand, seizing every opportunity in between to strike. Suddenly it was all Celimus could do to defend and keep stepping away from this blitz of frustrating, seemingly random strokes from both sides.

Wyl could hear the breath coming hard from the Prince now. With one final toss to his left hand he brought his sword from that side, slamming hard from the Prince’s right, intending to slash across his fighting arm. Celimus was dazzlingly fast though, and at the last second countered, their swords shuddering to a halt, crossed in front of their grimacing expressions.

It was now simply a test of strength.

Their faces were almost touching as they bent against each other.

“Yield,” Celimus whispered hoarsely.

“Go to hell!” Wyl replied.

“Yield to me now or those you love will die. Make it look good, for I shall start with le Gant.”

The unexpected threat hit Wyl so harshly that his shocked reaction was immediate. He feigned a trip, stumbling away from the Prince and dropping his sword in the process. The arena was silent. Everyone held their breath, wondering how the General, after such a brilliant display, could be so suddenly clumsy.

“Good decision. Thirsk,” the Prince uttered just loud enough for his opponent to hear. He smiled broadly before whipping his sword expertly from the top of Wyl’s shoulder in a diagonal stroke across his body.

Through the rent in Wyl’s shirt bright red bloomed.

“First blood!” Celimus called proudly and encouraged the crowd to honor his achievement.

In their bewilderment, they did. throwing their caps into the air and cheering wildly, although not one soldier present joined the celebration. Their eyes instead lingered on the anguished figure of their General. Gueryn was first at Wyl’s side. He knew the cut was a surface one. exquisitely laid for maximum visual impact. Wyl would wear the scar forever but the stinging cut would no more threaten his life than would the prick of a rose thorn.

“Do what you must.” he urged Wyl.

Wyl gathered his fractured thoughts and found the wherewithal to bow to his opponent, pick up his weapon, and then touch swords once again to lips and blades. It signaled the end of the contest.

Celimus began to strut around accepting the accolades.

“He said he’d kill you if I didn’t yield.” Wyl groaned, shaking his head with despair.

“I expected something like this.” Gueryn admitted as the master of ceremonies began speaking. “Come on.”

“Your majesty.” the announcer said, bowing to Magnus, who barely acknowledged it. “My Prince”—he turned, bowing now to Celimus. “My lords, ladies, and all gathered here for this festive occasion. I ask you once again to show your appreciation for the most impressive display of swordsmanship I think any of us will ever witness. I’m sure you’ll agree that if this is the standard of our young Morgravian warriors, then Briavel and all who challenge us had better think twice!”

The crowd erupted at the deliberately provocative words. When the noise had died down a little, the man continued. “As you know, there is a special reward for the winner of this particular contest.” A murmuring broke out among the crowd. “Prince Celimus, with the permission of his majesty King Magnus, has reinstated the ancient rite of the claim to Virgin Blood.”

The murmurs turned into discussion. Ylena felt her knees tremble as Celimus slyly glanced in her direction. The cool air surrounding his hot body had caused a gentle drift of steam to lift from him and he stood, proud and regal, his shirt opened to reveal his broad, hairless chest. Ylena was not the only one to notice his disheveled and yet still sensuous appearance. She was, however, one of very few—perhaps the only one. in fact—among the ladies of the court that day who did not feel her blood stir at the sight of this beautiful man.

The master of ceremonies had finished his explanation of the rite: “…which now leaves me with nothing more to say than to invite our esteemed Prince Celimus to make his choice,” he concluded.

Wyl, hardly noticing the burning sensation from the slash on his body, glanced cautiously towards Alyd.

Celimus quietened the excited crowd. “This is a difficult choice for me. Cast your eyes among the beautiful young women of the court and you will see that every one of them defies being ignored,” he said grandly.

Magnus, exhausted and sorrowful at how things had turned out, looked at the square of linen on the grass. He could put a stop to this incident by simply raising a hand, but after his death there would be no one to stop his son and he must consider the repercussions of humiliating Celimus. Magnus knew he would most likely be dead within days, perhaps this very night. He needed to pass on Morgravia in a strong state. If he overruled Celimus now, who knew what might occur and who else—including Valor of Briavel—might consider it plausible to attack when the boy was still vulnerable. No, he needed to hold his tongue and allow this terrible event to take its course. Celimus must ascend to the throne feeling invincible. He was popular with the people after this most public victory; it would be prudent, for the time being, to let sleeping dogs lie. Despite Magnus’s own misgivings about the outcome of this contest, if Wyl was going to stage a coup then it must be his own decision and happen in his own time frame. Only Morgravia mattered now, and this would be the old King’s final sacrifice for his realm. He prayed it would be the only time Celimus would employ the old rite. Yet, as powerless as he felt, Magnus reached toward a way he might ease the balance of power between new King and General in the light of this contest. Wyl would not be easily consoled should Celimus unwisely select Ylena as his prize. Magnus left his ruminations and returned his attention to Celimus’s gallant speech.

“…and so may I ask for the indulgence and indeed forgiveness of all of these adorable young ladies today that I can’t choose each and every one of them.” The Prince grinned, his arms sweeping across the platform where the nobility sat and enjoyed the titter of amusement from the girls who had clearly gone to some pains—or at least their social-climbing mothers had—to make themselves as alluring as possible.

“I choose the Lady Ylena Thirsk of Argorn,” he said, his dark eyes finally coming to rest upon the one woman who would sooner die than give up something so precious to this fiendish man.

Ignoring her slump-shouldered, bleeding brother and the outraged Alyd Donal, the Prince walked to where she stood not far from King Magnus, who had closed his tired eyes at the mention of his ward’s name. Celimus ensured his own hand was outstretched graciously toward her in what, to the audience, looked like a charmingly beseeching manner and yet to Alyd appeared purely predatory.

The Prince had no intention of wasting any time. He would take her to his bed this moment and relish the opportunity not only to loose his passion on someone so comely but to drive a blade into the heart of the two men he knew hated him more than any. Those who might defy him would learn a hard lesson today and it would serve them well for when shortly he took the throne.

Celimus bowed formally. “My lady,” he said, unable to contain the delight at his conniving brilliance.

“Prince Celimus,” Wyl said, stepping up and bending low before the royal. He turned toward Magnus. “Your majesty, if you’ll forgive my intrusion?”

Magnus opened his eyes and nodded, hardly daring to believe that Wyl might have taken his hint as to how to foil Celimus’s plan.

Wyl straightened. “Sire, apologies. I do believe there has been a misunderstanding here.”

“Oh?” Magnus replied, hope suddenly flaring in his heart.

Wyl nodded gravely. He looked at Celimus. “My Prince, as her only living relative, I cannot permit you to choose Ylena.”

Celimus’s smile faltered, turning into a sneer. “I’m not sure your familial ties override the royal claim, Thirsk. Step aside.”

Gueryn’s eyes narrowed. He had no idea what was going on here and he could only pray that Wyl knew what he was doing.

“No, my Prince, I’m afraid I cannot do that. You are not grasping the full import of what I say. It is not I who forbids you to lie with my sister. It is the law of our land.”

Celimus could no longer brook this delaying tactic. He was tired and sweaty; lust was already coursing through his veins for revenge on the Thirsk family, as well as the sweet release that lying with the young woman who stood before him could achieve.

“Law! Which law would that be. Thirsk?”

“The sanctified law of marriage, my Prince,” Wyl said, his face deliberately portraying one of troubled confusion. “I’m sorry, sire, did no one here know?”

“Know what?” spluttered Celimus, looking between his father and the increasingly smug expressions of the Thirsks.

Alyd stepped in. “Perhaps I can explain, my Prince. You see, it is I who forbids you to lie with my wife.”

“Your wife!” Celimus roared, his body shaking with the rage he now felt.

Gueryn, behind him, began to smirk as he pieced together what must have occurred.

Alyd nodded. “Yes. Ylena and I are married. Apologies to all—we thought the loose-tongued priest would have let the whole of Stoneheart know by now,” he said, grinning and taking Ylena’s hand. “We were too engaged in marital pursuits to broadcast our happy news, although we did intend to make formal announcements later today.”

Wyl thought he might laugh at Alyd’s sugary manner.

“Fetch the priest,” Celimus demanded and a page was sent hurrying to find the man. “In the meantime, Ylena, please tell me when this marriage occurred.”

Ylena curtsied to Celimus. “Our wedding took place yesterday, my lord Prince, a little earlier than planned.” She looked toward the King as she spoke, rather than Celimus.

“And I can certainly vouch that my wife is no longer a virgin, probably already with child.” Alyd said, standing a bit taller.

“You knew of this?” Celimus said flatly to Wyl. His voice was harsh and low.

“My Prince, you must forgive me. I gladly gave my sister away to her betrothed, an honor that was also sanctioned by the Crown. I had no inkling that she would be your first choice. But then, as you yourself have mentioned, every young maiden here is delectable in her own right. I know you will have no trouble choosing another.”

The priest arrived, pale and shaking. His pudgy hands kept moving across his mouth nervously.

“Answer me in a word, priest. Did you marry Ylena Thirsk of Argorn to Alyd Donal of Felrawthy?” Celimus demanded.

“Yes,” the priest answered, trembling, then added for good measure, “In Stoneheart’s chapel.”

Celimus closed his eyes briefly in what looked like pain. “When?” His tone was acid.

“Yesterday morning, your highness. It was a private ceremony, attended only by the bride, her brother the General, and Captain Donal. This was done in accordance with General Thirsk’s wishes,” he said, turning to look at the King beseechingly.

“You may depart.” Celimus responded, barely able to contain his rage. “Father, you are legal guardian to Ylena. I presume you have given your signed permission to this union?”

Magnus considered how best to answer his son without betraying the Thirsk family. He looked toward Orto and it was his calm and collected secretary who came to the rescue.

“Sire.” Orto said gently. “I recall the papers being signed two nights ago. It was a brief session, for you were very unwell. If my memory serves me right, you put your signature to only two parchments. This sanction was one of them.”

“Ah, there you have it. son.” Magnus said, but Celimus had already turned on his heel and pointed to one young woman from the nobility, much to the delight of the crowd. He strode away from the Thirsk party.

Wyl glanced toward Magnus, who nodded almost imperceptibly, a wry smile of relief barely touching his mouth. Cunning indeed, young Wyl, he thought. He turned to his manservant. “Come, Orto. I believe we have some pressing paperwork.”

“Yes, sire,” the man said, his solicitous expression unchanged. “Allow me to assist you.”