Raven Flight by Juliet Marillier
“Hence this combat you have witnessed today, an even fight between two skilled warriors. Warriors I trust, or trusted.” Keldec’s tone was that of a disappointed father, sorrowful and benign. Perhaps, when an Enforcer displeased him, a public humiliation such as this was all the punishment meted out.
“It pains me to do this,” the king said. “But justice must be served, and lessons learned. Men!”
The two fighters stood shoulder to shoulder, arms by their sides.
“You will fight to the death. Unarmed. Win this combat and your indiscretion will be overlooked. This time.”
The men’s self-discipline was exemplary. They might have been responding to a request to provide a demonstration bout for new recruits. They squared off, facing each other at two strides; four Enforcers moved from the ranks of Stag Troop to stand around them, marking the boundaries of the combat area. They fought. I imagined how it would be, knowing you must kill a comrade to save yourself, to prove your unswerving loyalty. Knowing, I supposed, how arbitrary, how unfair this penalty was, for both had shown themselves to be peerless fighters, and surely either could prevail. What if they’d refused to fight? Perhaps the king would have thought of something still crueler, something ingenious, something that might have ended up with both men dead.
It seemed as if this one contest might go on all afternoon, so evenly matched were the two. One would get the other down on the ground, only to have his opponent wriggle from his grasp or surge up in a display of sheer force. One would leap on the other’s back and cling like a barnacle, seeking to choke his adversary, and would be dislodged when the first whirled around in circles until he shook the burden off. The sun moved across the sky; the shadows lengthened. By the fortress gates a fellow with a drum began to hammer out a steady beat, as if to signal change.
At last, at long last, one of the fighters began to flag and, sensing this, the other delivered a series of swift strikes, to the belly, to the lower back, to the face. When his opponent staggered, he moved fast as an attacking wolf, and in a flurry of movement brought the other to the ground, facedown with his arms pinned behind his back. The crowd’s cheers were somewhat muted; it had been long, and folk were tired. Besides, Keldec was full of surprises.
“My lord king.” The victor’s voice was remarkably steady. “I am without weapons. Will you allow the use of a knife for a merciful ending?”
Please, I begged silently. If this must happen, make a quick end to it. Or change your mind and spare them both. You said their errors were small.
Keldec had watched the entire bout impassively. Now he consulted his wife again, and I saw her little shake of the head.
“Were you not listening, Buan? No weapons. Make an end of this.”
Something odd happened then. When Buan released his hold on the fallen man’s arms, the other made no effort to get up and fight until the last. Instead, he rolled onto his back, eyes on Buan, who knelt above him. I could not see what passed between them in that last moment, but perhaps it was a recognition that to be finished quickly by a man you trusted was not such a bad death. Buan put his thumbs on the man’s neck and pressed down, dispatching him with an efficiency no doubt born of long practice. He stood and faced Keldec. “Hail the king!” he cried out, and a great shout arose from the Enforcers stationed around the area, “Hail the king!”
Enforcers from Seal Troop came with a stretcher and bore the dead man away. With a wave of the hand, Keldec dismissed Buan, who bowed low, retrieved his weapons, and disappeared into a group of his comrades. He would be spared to fight another day.
I wondered what the loser had done to deserve death at the hands of a friend. It was a brutal code to live by; a man might almost wish to be enthralled into obedience, since that would mean he was incapable of offending the king. I prayed that somehow Flint’s unauthorized trip back to the isles had not been reported to the king. Let him not be dragged out there before my eyes to face the same harsh discipline. And what lay in store for Tali?
The day was not yet ended. Folk were hauled up and punished for saying one word out of place, for setting one foot over a border, for speaking up to defend the good name of a wife or child or elder. I felt sick, sad, furiously angry. If the gods still looked down on Alban, they must be hiding their faces now.
When the rebellion comes, I thought, when our great battle is won, we will restore the Gathering to what it should be. But we will not forget what it was allowed to become; folk need to remember, so this can never happen again. I tried to imagine Regan’s final plan in action: a great force of men-at-arms and ordinary people, of Good Folk and rebels, surging forward over this flimsy barrier to take on the king’s army in open combat. I tried to think of myself there in the middle of it, using my gift to make things happen. But my eyes were full of horrors, and I could not see it. Even if Regan won his battle and the king was deposed, how could the damage wrought in Alban be set right in one generation, or in two, or even in three? Every man and woman who stood here and watched this unfold without protest, every single person who failed to speak up against what they must surely know to be wrong, was as guilty as Keldec himself. The stain of it was on us all.
It was late afternoon; in the viewing area most folk were sitting down, weary from the long day, perhaps anticipating the roast meat and ale the king had promised. When the horn sounded again, nobody seemed especially excited. But when the king himself stood up to speak, all eyes turned to him.
“Owen Swift-Sword!” Keldec called. “Step forward.”
A man walked out from the ranks of Stag Troop to stand facing the king, and a jolt went through me. It was Flint, his face bare of the Enforcer mask. He dropped gracefully to one knee and bowed his head. Beside me, folk craned their necks to see.
The king waited. Four Enforcers advanced, one from each corner of the open area, to stand around Flint at a short distance. He remained kneeling, head down. What was this, a public execution? A battle of one against four? Cold fingers closed around my heart.
“Look at me!” The king spoke with crisp clarity. “You are called before this assembly to answer an accusation of disloyalty. You are a king’s man, a troop leader, a trusted servant of your monarch. You have given years of fine service; you have acted with courage and discipline. You have lent your king the strength of your arm and the comfort of your wise words. In the face of doubt and distrust, I have spoken up for you; in the face of twisted words and whispers in the dark, I have believed in you.” There was an intimacy in the king’s voice, as if he saw Flint as a true friend, almost a brother; he sounded utterly sincere. And then, in the blink of an eye, the tone changed. “If you have betrayed the trust I placed in you, if you have thrown back in my face the precious gift of friendship, you will pay the heaviest of prices. What have you to say for yourself? Speak now!”
Flint lifted his head; he looked the king in the eye. His face was chalk-pale. “I am loyal to the kingdom of Alban,” he said. His voice was soft, but the crowd was quiet too, captured by the intensity of this exchange. “I challenge any man to provide material evidence that this is not so. I repudiate the accusations made against me; there is no proof. My lord king, I throw myself on your mercy, knowing a king of Alban does not lightly make the choice to punish one who has been among his staunchest supporters. If you believe that I have done you wrong, if you give credence to the testimony of those who have accused me, then I accept that. You are the king. I accept whatever penalty it pleases you to impose on me.”
For just a moment Keldec’s self-control seemed to falter; he appeared moved by Flint’s words, which had been delivered with powerful simplicity. Then Queen Varda got up and murmured in her husband’s ear, and he nodded. When he turned back to face Flint, he was calm and assured once again.
“I am minded to be magnanimous,” he said. “Nonetheless, a penalty must be paid, and be seen to be paid.” He glanced to his left, toward the entry to the Summerfort tower. “Bring out the prisoner!”
No. No, let
Her guards brought her to stand not far from Flint, to one side of the square marked out by his four minders. She glared up at the king. Where another woman might have made pretense of compliance, apologized, groveled to save herself, Tali’s furious defiance was written on every part of her. Whatever Keldec planned for her, she would go down fighting. Queen Varda said something to a woman sitting behind her—a sister, a friend, a confidante—and both of them laughed.
“I’m told this young woman is something of a fighter,” the king said levelly. “Skilled to a remarkable level. Strong to what might be considered an uncanny degree. What have you to say for yourself, girl?”
She glowered at him, then spat on the ground in front of her. One of her guards stepped forward and delivered a heavy blow to her cheek; she staggered, then straightened her back and lifted her chin.
“Nothing to say? No explanation for your ability to account for several men without resorting to any kind of weaponry? No excuse for taking out your anger on a group of peaceable travelers in the middle of the night?”
“If you consider beating and attempted rape peaceable activities, then there is little point in my offering you any explanation.”
A horrified gasp from the crowd as she delivered this statement; she had committed the unthinkable offense of insulting the king to his face, in public. I was cold all through. Oh, Tali, you have just ordered your own death. Couldn’t you have pretended to be less than you are, just for long enough?
The king had returned his attention to Flint. “Owen Swift-Sword! Three of your comrades took this woman into custody after hearing of her suspect behavior. If she were your captive, what penalty would you impose on her?”
Flint had not even glanced at Tali, nor she at him. Only, when she’d spoken, I had seen him start, then recover himself. Before he came into the open area, he had not known she was at Summerfort. I was sure of it. And it was clear from the king’s words that Keldec knew nothing of what Tali truly was. That she and Flint found themselves out there together was no more than a cruel twist of fate. “It is not for me to recommend punishment, my lord king,” Flint said. “That authority is yours.”
“I asked you for an answer.” Keldec’s voice had an edge in it now. Members of the royal party sat up straighter. The four Enforcers around Flint set hands to their weapons.
“As you wish, my lord king. I would put the woman to the test; ascertain whether what has been said of her is true. She could not be recruited to the Enforcers, of course. But if she is indeed a fine fighter, there would be work she could do in your service. Specialized work. Combat skills can be put to many uses.”
“Put her to the test. How?”
“I would not do so here at the Gathering, my lord king. The potential of a warrior takes some time to assess. There is a series of tests we use for men seeking to become Enforcers; they are carried out over a full season. Any new fighter coming into your service undergoes that training. There is no reason why a woman should not do the same, provided she is capable.”
Another burst of laughter from the queen and her women. It was plain they considered the idea ludicrous. Many within the crowd laughed along with them.
“I see.” I could not read the king’s mood from his face; I had no idea where this was heading. “And what then?”
“If she failed, it would be up to you to decide her fate, my lord king. If she met our requirements, there would be many ways in which she could assist us. Helping train new recruits. Acting as a sparring partner for our men. Perhaps a position as a personal guard for my lady the queen, if I may make so bold as to suggest that.”
“This is nonsense.” Varda’s voice was clear and high, like a blade cutting across Flint’s measured words. “A female guard? Ludicrous. The girl’s all spit and defiance, with no substance behind it. I declare Queen’s Privilege.”
I had no idea what she meant, but whatever Queen’s Privilege was, her words silenced the crowd. No laughter now; every face was turned toward Keldec.
For a moment he hesitated. Plainly this was not part of his plan, but it seemed the rules of the Gathering meant he must agree. “Of course, my lady. Will you stand and speak to our people?”
Queen Varda stood. Although she was a little person, something in her drew every eye.
“Here we have a trusted servant who has betrayed his master,” she said, casting her glance over Flint. “And here an upstart country girl with no common sense, a woman who has behaved as no woman should, a person whose abilities tell us she is surely smirched. The solution is obvious. He must demonstrate his loyalty. She must be rendered harmless. Owen Swift-Sword, you are expert in combat. You would not otherwise have risen to be leader of Stag Troop. But you have another skill, do you not? Explain to the king’s subjects the nature of that skill.”
My gut twisted; my heart lurched. Oh no. Oh no, not this. Please, not this.
“My lady, I have on occasion performed an enthrallment at the king’s request.” He sounded calm and courteous; his voice was under expert control.
“Oh, come, Owen, you can do better than that. Are you not foremost among the king’s Enthrallers, the most skilled of all, the one they say never makes an error? I’ve seen you do it. Over the years of your service you must have provided my lord with—how many—ten, twelve of his most loyal retainers? No false modesty, now.”
The playful note made me sick; she might have been teasing a suitor.
“Twelve, my lady.”
Tali began to struggle between her captors, fighting to free herself. At a nod from the king, one of Flint’s minders went in to assist the two who held her; Tali got in a couple of well-placed kicks before he landed a blow to her lower back that saw her bent double, choking with pain. Her captors forced her upright. Her face was gray.
“Twelve.” The queen might have used the same tone in speaking to a beloved pet as she stroked it. “Well, Owen Swift-Sword, let us make that thirteen. If you would have this young woman join the king’s household, in whatever capacity, her attitude must change. We must be absolutely sure of her loyalty. A girl who spits at the king, who mocks his authority, can only be rendered compliant by enthrallment. On this occasion, that process must be entrusted to the most reliable of our Enthrallers: yourself. This will not only ensure the girl’s loyalty; it will allow you to demonstrate yours.” With a sweet smile, Varda resumed her seat.
“It shall be as the queen wishes,” Keldec said, his eyes still on Flint. “You will perform this enthrallment now, here, before the eyes of my people. Do this well, provide us with good entertainment, and both your offense and this woman’s will be set aside.”
Flint had dropped his gaze; he was apparently examining the ground at his feet. “You are aware, my lord king,” he said, “that an enthrallment is usually carried out overnight; it is necessary for the … subject … to be in a heavy sleep before the charm is worked. And better if he or she is left to wake from that sleep naturally.”
“Come now, Owen.” The king was affable; if he had not been well pleased by his wife’s intervention, he was not going to reveal that in pub
Sick to the core, I watched as they prepared the area. My mind sought frantically for solutions—perhaps both Tali and Flint could fake the enthrallment, perhaps she could pretend to be changed, pretend to be loyal and become a second spy at court, perhaps I could provide a distraction, allow them to run for it. No. We were surrounded by guards, right under the eyes of the king. I must not expose myself to view; to rush out there was to become another victim of this sorry day and lose Regan his most powerful weapon. And how could Flint fake this? The charm must be sung aloud. Once he had done that, with his hands on Tali’s head, there would be no reversing it. There must be other Enthrallers here, folk who would know if he erred, folk who would not need to block their ears while the magic was worked. There was no way out. I must stand here as the man I loved destroyed my friend before my eyes. Flint’s strength of purpose would see him go through with this foul act rather than reveal his true allegiance. Tali’s iron will would keep her from showing by so much as a single glance that she knew him; it would keep her from offering a bargain, her knowledge of his double life in exchange for her release. Likely there was no bargaining with Keldec anyway; if Flint refused to do this, his life would be forfeit, and the task of enthralling the rebellious girl would be given to one of the others, who might botch the job.
I was not as strong as they were. I was not even strong enough to keep the tears from falling as I watched them. She was so full of life, so brave, so much herself. She was doing her best to stand straight, though it must be costing her dear after that last blow; she was trying to hold her head high. Don’t turn around, I willed her. Don’t see me, though the fading light made it near impossible that she would distinguish my face in the crowd even if she did turn my way. And at the same time I thought, Look at me one last time, Tali. Let me see the courage in your face and the light in your eyes. Show me the fighting spirit of Ravensburn.