"Ah, well, no wonder you’ve lost your lover if that’s the best you do for him." Gilleran reached for Kelryn.
She cringed away, though it cost her a stab of pain.
"Come now. I know you enjoy our company, but we can’t stand here all day. If the Iceman decided to kill you, I’m not certain I could move fast enough to stop him. I only promised I’d try, remember?"
Kelryn chose the lesser of evils. Determined, she planted her lips on Gilleran’s, hating the perfumed smell of him and despising the taste of his lips. Her tongue touched his, and she gagged as much on the thought as the presence of his saliva. His hands explored her with fierce and shameless boldness, and it sickened her. The kiss lasted until the inner pain disappeared, leaving only the nausea. She pulled away, trying to run. But her empty stomach roiled from the experience, and she heaved dry. Dizzy aftereffects dropped her to her knees.
Gilleran laughed at her discomfort. "Do you see how I bind promises?"
"Yes." Ritworth nodded. "I’m convinced. Now we kill her."
Kelryn stiffened.
"No." Gilleran stepped between Ritworth and Kelryn with a quickness that seemed uncharacteristic. “I’m every bit as tied to my oath as she to hers. Killing her would destroy my soul. And I can’t let you do it either."
Ritworth relaxed, apparently satisfied by the answer to his little test. Although Gilleran’s claim proved nothing, his instantaneous loyalty to his oath, even before the partner he was trying to befriend, was convincing enough; and he had knowledge of the manner and workings of magic. “Very well, then," he said grudgingly, clearly still not comfortable about letting Kelryn go free.
Through all the fright and discomfort, a memory surfaced in Kelryn’s mind, words Nightfall had used the same night he had revealed his foul past: "Accident is never reason enough to kill a man. There are better ways to handle mistakes than murdering innocent spectators." Clearly Gilleran had learned this lesson where Ritworth had not. For that, at least, he seemed the lesser evil. Though no longer the focus of attention, she rose cautiously and edged toward the forest. No one tried to stop her.
"What do I have to do?" Ritworth prepared for the process.
"Come here," Gilleran gestured Ritworth to stand in front of him, beneath an oak edging the roadway.
Ritworth moved to the indicated place. Kelryn slipped into the woods, every instinct goading her to run. But, this time, she managed to keep enough presence of mind to remain hidden in the brush. The words the sorcerers exchanged could become vital to the safety of Edward and Nightfall. She peered between branches in time to see Gilleran make the broad, looping cut he had performed just before beginning the spell he had used to bind her. This time, however, he added a guttural phrase.
Ritworth and Kelryn realized the significance at the same time. The maneuver had nothing to do with the oath-bond, nor had it when he cast the spell on her. Gilleran had set Ritworth up for other magic. Even as understanding dawned, sorcery cleaved a massive limb over Ritworth’s head, and it came crashing down upon him. Ritworth dodged aside, too late. The branch slammed him across the back hard enough to snap vertebrae and pinned him to the ground. Kelryn screamed, the sound lost beneath Ritworth’s louder screech of agony and Gilleran’s laughter.
Now, nothing could keep Kelryn in place. She sprinted without thought or direction, dodging and ducking through trees and brush, ignoring brambles that clung to and tore her clothes and skin. At least four times she slammed into trees, once hard enough to send her sprawling, the wind knocked from her lungs. But every time she staggered onward. The Iceman’s shrill cries of agony prodded her like a burning brand, and her thoughts flashed back to the night in her room: The conversation interrupted by Gilleran’s sudden entrance. The wild charge that had grounded a gentle man who had become a friend in a matter of hours. The short struggle-futile. Gilleran’s magical slashes had carved deep, bleeding swathes as easily as he had cleaved the tree limb over Ritworth. The physical mutilation had seemed endless, the suffering cries spiraling her into a hysteria that would not leave her, night or day. If only she had not frozen. If only she could have saved Dyfrin.
Kelryn ran until the sorcerer’s screams faded into the background swish, rattle, and bird calls of the forest. She charged through the woodlands until time, hunger, and exhaustion lost all meaning. Then, when she could run no more, she crumpled into a sobbing heap on the forest floor and prayed to the holy Father that she would someday find the strength to fight back.
The road and forest became familiar to Nightfall and Prince Edward Nargol as they traveled eastward. After the first few days, they found themselves in the constant company of would-be spectators from every land. Nightfall appreciated the crowds. Their talk told him most of what he needed to know about the layout of the tourney fields, the specifics of the combat, and details about the competitors. Where eavesdropping fell short, he supplemented with innocent questions, usually gaining far more than the information he sought. More than seventy nobles and highborn had received invitations. The true tally, of course, would not come until they arrived. As Edward had proven, an invitation did not necessarily mean the invited one would choose to participate. The elimination setup also meant that Edward would not directly battle most of the others. In fact, simple computation of the chances, without assessing skill, suggested even odds that Edward would be eliminated in his first trial. Nightfall would see to it those numbers changed quickly.
At night, they camped. While Nightfall prepared food and chatted with their many short-term companions, Edward pieced together outfits and horse decorations of rich purple to serve as their crest. He had had little choice when it came to colors; Nightfall’s clothes came only in Alyndarian purple and silver. Without time to create the symbol, they would have to temporize with a solid banner. Once the duchy was won, they could work out the details of a crest. This lapse seemed to worry Edward more than the contests themselves, but Nightfall guessed that had more to do with using it as an excuse to take his mind off the possibility of facing off with his brother. Nightfall found competition between the princes no concern at all. Surely, the officials would make efforts to keep brother from standing against brother; and, with any luck, Prince Leyne Nargol would lose early.
Nightfall and Edward arrived at the walled city of Tylantis in the late morning, though a winding line of people blocked their view even of the ramparts. Mounted guards in Tylantis’ orange and bronze rode through the masses, stopping at intervals to question individuals or escort the highborn, their servants and families, to the head of the line. Within an hour, a stately guardsman in mail on a dappled horse approached Edward. "Good morning, good sir. Might I ask your name?"
Not wishing to spend the remainder of his natural life waiting, Nightfall took his cue. "My master is Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar."
The sentry seemed pleased by the name, apparently one he had been counseled to seek. Nightfall hoped that came from the competition, not some message sent by Schiz’ duke. He banished the paranoia. It would take time for Duke Varsah to notice them missing and figure out which direction they had taken. He would also need to decide whether or not to risk pitting duchy against kingdom by hunting a prince over an issue of manners.
"Participating or spectating, noble sir?" the guard asked.
"Participating," Edward replied.
"Very good, sir." The guard glanced at the surrounding crowd. "Do you have retainers or family you wish me to attend?"
"Only my squire." Edward indicated Nightfall with a sweep of his chin.