The shock of contact brought Poldarn out of the memory. The first thing he saw was that real-but-imaginary circle, his circle, but once more whole; then the tip of his wooden sword, held out (arms straight, elbows locked) in the rest position, to which it must return after the draw and the cut have been completed. He looked past it and saw Eyvind stretched out on the ground, lying on his face with his arms under his body. At first Poldarn thought Eyvind was dead, but then he realised that he was remembering somebody else who'd lain exactly that way, at some unspecified point in the past. Eyvind wasn't dead, because he was twitching slightly and groaning softly. There was blood on the bevelled side of his foil.
Damn, Poldarn thought; and then, Serves him right for being so quick. It was all Eyvind's fault, he had no doubts on that score. His draw had been a hostile act, regardless of the intentions behind it, and an act is an act, speaking for itself. Poldarn realised that he was going through the closing moves of the drill-flicking the blood off his blade with a quick snap of the wrists, then sliding the sword back into the sash, resetting the sear for the next draw, whenever it came. Meanwhile, both households were staring at him in complete silence, and nobody was moving. What's the matter? Poldarn thought. Haven't you ever seen a swordfight before?
Chapter Sixteen
Two of the Colscegsford men-Poldarn couldn't remember their names-carried Eyvind into the house, while some of the women fussed round with basins of water and bandages. The rest of the crowd melted away, leaving Poldarn in sole possession of the field.
It was, of course, the worst possible thing he could have done in the circumstances; after ostentatiously losing seven bouts, to club down the one man who'd come up with a respectably quick draw, who also happened to be his benefactor and closest friend. (Yes, he told himself, but I couldn't help it, I wasn't even there, I was somewhere else back in the Empire, twenty years ago.) Besides, it was only foils. The last time-but the memory disintegrated as he touched it, like a dandelion clock or the ashes of a burnt page. Probably just as well.
At least the party seemed to be over. Men and women from both households were crossing backwards and forwards across the yard, busy with jobs Poldarn hadn't realised needed doing. Some of them were hefting timbers in a purposeful manner, some of them had tools for cutting and tools for digging-it was like watching ants, he decided, obviously they were all doing something necessary for the general good but no human being could ever understand what or why. He'd hoped that it'd all be different when it was his house, that he'd somehow be able to get a grip on it all, learn the mysteries from the very beginning, but apparently that wasn't going to happen; he'd missed some small but crucial element and now it was too late, the story had already become too complicated for him to follow. The hell with it, he thought, if they need me they can come and find me. He headed for the house without having any clear idea of what he could find to do when he got there.
He passed Elja in the doorway, but apparently she was too busy to stop and talk, though she smiled at him as they passed each other, in a perfunctory way. Inside, once he'd got used to the darkness, he saw Eyvind lying on a pile of blankets. He'd forgotten all about him for a while.
'How are you feeling?' Poldarn asked, kneeling beside him. Eyvind didn't move, but he said, 'Go away.'
'I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?'
'No. I just don't want to talk to you right now, that's all.'
'Oh.' Poldarn stayed where he was, mostly because he had nowhere else to go. 'Look,' he said, 'I'm really sorry about what happened. It was an accident-'
'No, it wasn't,' Eyvind said. There was a broad, messy cut running diagonally from his right eyebrow up to his hairline; someone had gummed it up with spider's web to stop the bleeding, but nuggets of caked blood glittered in the strands like jewels. 'God only knows what you thought you were doing, but it wasn't an accident.'
'No, you're right,' Poldarn said. 'What I meant was, I didn't do it on purpose, not consciously. One minute you were standing there fiddling with your sash, and then-I think I remembered something from when I was in the Bohec valley, something to do with fighting a duel in a ring with a load of sword-monks watching me. And then you were lying there, and I was so stunned I couldn't think what to do.'
Eyvind tried to prop himself up on one arm, but gave it up with a groan. 'What you're saying doesn't make sense,' he said. 'What happened was, I started my draw and you smashed me over the head. That's not how the game works, it's just a draw, not a draw and a cut.'
Poldarn shook his head. 'Not where I learned it, apparently. It was just reflex-I honestly didn't know what I was doing. It happened, but I can't actually remember pulling that wooden thing out of my sash, let alone hitting you. It's like I wasn't even there.'
'Sure,' Eyvind grunted. 'Look, didn't I tell you? Don't go raving mad, stay calm. And you managed it in all the other bouts, you did the moves just right, so don't go trying to tell me you don't know the rules. Then, when it's me you're facing, you suddenly go crazy and bash my head in. Everybody thinks you're a dangerous lunatic or something.'
Maybe they're right, Poldarn thought; how would I be supposed to know, anyhow? 'I promise you,' he said, 'I really didn't mean to hurt you, there wasn't any malice in it. It was like a cat batting at a bit of wool.'
Eyvind didn't reply immediately. 'Well, maybe,' he said grudgingly. 'And I guess it's just as well it was me you bashed, because I guess I can make allowances the way the others couldn't, me not being one of the household. But you've really screwed up this time; it's going to be years before they treat you like a normal person. They're going to think you did it to show off, or because you enjoy hurting people. The thing is, people here don't behave like that. I've been abroad, I know how different they are on the other side of the world. A lot of these people haven't ever been further than Roersbrook or Vitesness. How are we going to explain this to them?'
'I don't know,' Poldarn admitted. 'But that can wait-I don't actually care all that much. What bothers me is that I did this to you. And you've got to believe me, I didn't do it deliberately. I'd never do anything like that on purpose, to you or anybody else.'
Eyvind turned his head slightly so he wasn't looking at Poldarn any more. 'That I doubt,' he said. 'Seems to me you've had a lot of practice. You know, when I first met you I was sure I had you figured out, but now it strikes me I don't really understand you at all. We all thought that once you'd been here a while, it'd all come back to you and you'd slowly pick up where you left off. But maybe we were all wrong about you, and really you're nothing like us at all.' He sighed. 'And it's pointless asking you, because you know even less about who you are than we do. God, this is a mess. They'll just have to find a way of putting it out of their minds, I suppose. Don't ask me how, though.'
There didn't seem to be anything more to say, and Poldarn had aches and pains of his own to complain about, though he couldn't imagine anybody in either household wanting to hear about them. 'I'm sorry,' he said, and went into the inner room, where he was fairly sure of getting some privacy. He'd had enough of his people (these people) for one day.
He lay down on the bed, wincing as he did so. His clothes were filthy with dust and earth, but it was too much effort to take them off, and he was in no hurry to inspect the handsome crop of bruises that he suspected were coming into bloom all over his body. Not the sort of honeymoon he'd have chosen, given the choice. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was only because someone was prodding him on the point of his shoulder, where a couple of substantial hits had landed during the quarterstaff match.