Jenrosa tried to defend herself as best she could against her opponent, but the mercenary easily got by her guard and stabbed her in the thigh. She stifled her cry and wheeled around, trying to keep her horse’s head between them, but the maneuver made her lose her grip on Lynan and he slipped to the ground. The mercenary gave a shout of triumph and pressed home his attack, forcing Jenrosa away from the prince. Even though she parried as best she could, she knew she was about to die. Strangely, she did not feel afraid, only angry that she had failed to save Lynan.
Kumul saw her predicament and could do nothing to help. Every time he turned, his opponent, the most skillful he had ever met, was there in front of him again, blocking his way and blocking his every attack. In desperation, Kumul flicked his sword in the air, caught it underhand, and threw it like a spear. The mercenary recoiled in shock and batted the sword away, but Kumul had the second he needed. He punched the mercenary in the face. The man’s eyes crossed and his jaw opened. Even as he started to slide backward off his horse, Kumul reached for his knife and drove it into the bottom of the mercenary’s throat, stapling his jaws. Blood spat out between the man’s teeth. Kumul pushed him aside and slid half out of his saddle to retrieve his sword. He propped himself back up and looked for Jenrosa, then saw he would be too late to help her. Jenrosa had been dismounted. She was on one knee, and her opponent was raising his sword for a killing stroke.
And then someone behind the rider reached up, grabbed him by his breeches, and hauled him off. The pair collapsed to the ground. Kumul saw the mercenary getting to his feet, and Lynan, too weakened by his last effort to get out of the way, half crouching on the ground. The enemy gave a terrible shout of rage, lifted his sword, and brought it down. Even as the edge of the blade struck Lynan on the back, the point of Kumul’s sword appeared magically in the mercenary’s chest. The force of Kumul’s charge lifted the man into the air, wriggling on the blade like a speared fish. Blood blossomed on his chest and spilled out of his mouth. Kumul whipped the sword down, dropping the mercenary on the ground, then jumped off his horse and ran to Lynan.
Jenrosa was already there, screaming and screaming, blood all over her as she cradled Lynan’s body in her lap. Kumul knelt down beside them, his heart beating so hard he thought it might explode. Lynan was deathly white, but no blood seeped between his lips. He quickly took the prince from Jenrosa’s arms and turned him over. The cut was deep, but the flesh was red, and he saw no bone or fat. He knew, though, that if they could not stop the bleeding, Lynan would certainly die.
And then he remembered the others. He saw Ager and Gudon, their horses side by side, their arms slowing with exhaustion but still managing to parry every blow, surrounded by eight mercenaries closing in with the scent of victory in their noses.
“Press your hands against his wound,” he ordered Jenrosa. “I’ll be back.”
He ran to his horse and mounted, and with one last effort of will managed to get the mare to work up to a gallop. The horse got half the distance and suddenly collapsed underneath him. He fell to the ground, somersaulted, and was on his feet again. He started running, desperately hoping he could get there in time, but he felt as if he was running in sand.
Then one of the mercenaries pulled back from the melee around Ager and Gudon, and then a second. They turned their horses around and fled. Soon they were joined by a third, and one by one the others peeled off and turned tail. Kumul stopped in wonder, then something long and dark and feathered pierced the back of the last man and he fell from his saddle. Kumul looked at Gudon, but his bow was still in its gorytos.
Suddenly a group of new riders appeared, bows and arrows in their hands, reins held in their mouths, in hot pursuit of the mercenaries. They loosed a flight of arrows, and then another flight and another until all the fleeing mercenaries had been toppled from their mounts, each impaled by a black shaft.
Lynan swam in a sea of agony. Every time he took a breath, he felt his chest and back ripple with pain. He knew his eyes were open because he could see stars, and sometimes the blur of a face. He heard sounds, too, cries and shouts, the stamping of hoofs. Later, hands gently moved him one way, and then the other. More faces appeared. He thought he heard Jenrosa shouting at him, then Kumul. Why were they so angry with him? He felt someone attempt to lift him. He tried to tell them to go away. He hurt too much. Why could they not leave him alone? He was sure if he could just have some peace and quiet, he would fall asleep and everything would be all right. Then he heard Pirem’s voice. No, that could not be right. Pirem was back in Kendra. Then where was he? He was lifted again and he felt himself carried away by new waves of pain.
The ocean. What was it about the ocean? He had to remember. It was important. He did not want to drown. He just wanted to sleep.
And then all was still again, although he could still sense movement. Figures passed him, and the legs of horses. He looked up into the sky and saw that the stars were going out. He wanted to close his eyes, and discovered that they were already closed.
I am asleep, he thought. At last, I am asleep.
Chapter 28
Areava blinked in the sudden rush of light as she moved from the chapel and saw a sea of faces before her. There was a pause, a moment’s stillness, and then the cheering started, first from her nobles and officers and the Royal Guards, and then moving back along the entire crowd like a wave rippling along a pond. It became tumultuous, joyous, and it carried her heart up into the sky. Her people, her subjects, her kingdom.
Kestrels danced in the air, and the kestrel pennant of the Rosethemes fluttered from every flagpole in the palace and the city. She raised the two Keys in her possession and they glinted in the bright sunlight, the Key of the Scepter which gave her the right to rule, and the Key of the Sword, which gave her the right to defend her kingdom come what may and with whatever means at her disposal.
Olio took her hand, and Dejanus and Orkid took their position behind her. She walked slowly down the steps to the forecourt, preceded by the court sergeant holding King Thebald’s ornate Sword of State. The cheering continued, and now she could hear the clapping, the singing, and the blessings coming from her people. Nobles and ambassadors, subject monarchs and guild leaders, priests and malefici, joined in the procession as it moved past them. She left the palace and started the long walk through the capital, the avenue crammed with people kept back by the Royal Guards. As she passed, guards peeled away and used back streets to get to their new positions farther down in the city. She tried to keep a stately pace, but she was so filled with her own joy she wanted to pick up her skirts and run.
Children slipped through the guards and threw flowers at her. She laughed with them. Old women and men reached for her hand, and she gave it to them. Soldiers and peasants and brewers and potters and cloth makers and magickers all called her name, and she smiled at them, each and every one.
When she reached the old quarter near the harbor, people were hanging from second-story windows and looking almost directly down on the queen. They released ribbons in the gold-and-black Rosetheme colors. They drifted, fluttered and whirled down like windblown thistle, covering her hair and dress. She laughed and waved back at them, kissed their ribbons, blessed them in turn. She was so happy tears came to her eyes.
At last the procession reached the harbor itself. A squadron of her warships, their decks polished so highly they shone, their hulls freshly painted, and the kestrel pennant whipping from their masts, waited there. When Areava appeared, the crews, lined along the decks and standing on every mast, cheered so loud the windows in nearby buildings rattled. Seagulls escaped into the sky. She made her way, alone, to a dais built up in front of the ships and on which was perched a solitary chair, plain and unadorned. She reached the chair and turned around. This was the climax of her coronation, and when the cheering finally died, every person was on their knee, their heads bowed almost to the ground.