‘Why are you telling me this?’ Tyrion asked.
‘Because I was thinking that the day will come when we might need a leader like you could become, a warrior who thinks.’
‘Who also happens to be a member of your family?’
‘That would be a bonus. You have everything needed, lad. An ancient line, the look of Aenarion, connections. You could go very far.’
Lord Emeraldsea paused to let his words sink in. They did, far and fast. Tyrion understood what his grandfather was offering and why. Right now, he was very far from being a Phoenix King but he had the potential. Once his grandfather was certain Tyrion understood he spoke relentlessly on.
‘Of course, you have put any chance of that at risk by allowing yourself to be provoked into this foolish duel.’
‘Larien insulted my father and my mother.’
‘He insulted all of us, and he would have been dealt with in time, trust me on that.’
Tyrion did. He realised that he would not like to be subject to any desire for vengeance on his grandfather’s part. ‘Revenge, Tyrion, is a wine which improves with age. It’s one of the things you will need to learn, if you live. If you are to end up where you deserve to be.’
‘I cannot stand by and let my father be insulted.’
‘You will need to learn how to deal with such provocations better. Even if you live, this will not be the last such you will face.’
‘I will do my best.’
‘See that you do, lad, and one last thing...’
‘Yes, grandfather.’
‘Rest assured that if Larien does kill you, my vengeance will be one of which elves will talk for a thousand years.’
‘That would almost make it worth being killed,’ said Tyrion sardonically.
‘No, it would not. Go now and rest and practise. I want you to live. You have a lot to live for.’
Tyrion departed, feeling as if he had just been offered the world, and did not quite know what to do with it.
‘Are you proud of yourself for having provoked this brawl?’ Tyrion looked at his brother, then sprawled in the chair of their shared sitting room. Tyrion could see that he was worried, and that was what was behind his brittle sarcasm.
‘No,’ said Tyrion. ‘I am not. I would have avoided it if I could. I should have avoided it. I can see that now. But I lack your quick wits.’
‘That is not true,’ said Teclis. ‘You are sharp enough when you want to be. I think perhaps you wanted this fight. I think you want the glory of being a famous duellist. I think you are making an early start on a career of violence.’
Tyrion laughed, not least because his brother was right. He could see that now. He did want this fight. He was looking forward to it.
‘It might be a very short career,’ Teclis said. ‘Larien is, by all accounts, something of an expert with the blade. He has killed almost as many elves as Prince Iltharis.’
‘You have been asking around, have you?’
‘Lady Malene told me.’
‘It seems I have become almost as much of a topic of conversation as these daemonic attacks.’
‘Don’t let it go to your head. It most likely will though. There is nothing in that vast empty cavern to stop it.’
‘I am touched by your concern,’ said Tyrion, stifling a yawn.
‘Do not let cousin Liselle keep you awake too long. You are going to need your rest, if you are to survive this thing.’
‘I will survive it, brother, never doubt that.’ It seemed to Tyrion that he was the only one who thought that way.
Tyrion lay beside Liselle on the bed. He stroked her naked back with a feather that had come loose from the pillow during their love-making.
‘That tickles,’ she said, turning to face him and looking long and hard into his face.
‘You are going to have to fight Larien tomorrow, you know,’ she said. Tyrion looked at her. She had obviously heard something he had not.
‘I already knew that,’ he said. ‘I knew it when I struck him.’
‘He cannot be bought off. He cannot be intimidated. He seems to want to go through with this fight almost as much as you do.’ She sounded thoughtful. Tyrion tickled her once again. She squirmed away.
‘You should take this very seriously,’ she said giggling. ‘My grandfather has brought a lot of pressure to bear and it has not worked. That is not usual at all. Usually what he wants, he gets.’
Tyrion did not wonder that his grandfather had not tried to dissuade him. If Tyrion withdrew it would besmirch his reputation and that of his family. He would no longer be a potential candidate for the Phoenix Throne and would become useless as far as his grandfather’s plans were concerned.
‘You do not sound unhappy that this is not the case.’
‘It will not do the old megalomaniac any harm to discover he is not a god. My concern is that you will have to pay the price for his self-knowledge. I do not want anything bad to happen to you.’
Tyrion smiled at her, sensing the insincerity of her words. She was saying them because she felt she had to, because the role she was playing in this drama demanded them. There was no real concern there. She was as self-obsessed as most elves. He could not blame her for this. They had only really known each other for a few weeks. It saddened him. He began to have some idea how lonely a place a city like Lothern was going to be.
‘Rumour has it that Larien belongs to the Cult of the Forbidden Blade,’ she said. ‘They are sworn to kill the Blood of Aenarion to prevent one of them from drawing the Sword of Khaine and ending the world.’
‘Maybe they should start with Malekith. He is a more likely candidate for that than me. I find this world quite appealing.’
‘I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,’ she said. Again, she sounded like an actress playing a role.
‘Nothing bad is going to happen to me.’
‘Death might,’ she said.
‘Well we are alive now and if I am soon to die I want to sample some more of life’s pleasures.’
He reached out for her once again.
chapter twenty-two
It was an odd sensation, rising on what might be his last day of life. Tyrion dressed with care, inspecting himself in the mirror as he did so. He was not pale. He did not sweat. His hands were steady. His heart did not race or pound in his ears. The only thrill he felt was excitement. He considered his response, observing himself dispassionately as an outsider would. He was definitely not afraid. He doubted that whatever happened he would disgrace his family or his famous ancestor. That, at least, was good.
He was aware of the possibility of death, perhaps even its likelihood, but he suffered none of the symptoms of fear or nerves he had heard or read about. He was merely curious as to his own reaction or lack of it.
If he was honest with himself, he was looking forward to the Circle of Blades. It would be his first real test as a warrior. He felt as if he was finally getting to do something he had always wanted to. His curiosity extended to what it would be like to have a life or death combat and how he would perform.
Perhaps this excessive calmness was a reaction to the situation. Maybe his mind was trying to deal with the danger by minimising it. He had read that such things happened. He did not think it was the case for him. Something told him that he would always be this way on the morning before a battle. If it was abnormal then he was abnormal. He was of the Blood of Aenarion, a descendant of the first true elf warrior.
When he came downstairs to breakfast, he could see that others were not taking it quite as well. Teclis looked pale and afraid. His eyes looked huge. Tyrion could tell that he had not slept at all. Lady Malene did not look any better. Her expression was filled with foreboding. Liselle looked wan and pallid.
Tyrion grinned at them as he sat down at the table. He helped himself to water and a slice of bread and butter. He did not want to eat heavily for it would slow him down but he wanted to make sure he had some energy.
His grandfather mer
ely smiled his chilly smile, apparently pleased by the way he was going to meet his fate.
The servants moved quietly around him as if afraid to say anything, as if he were an invalid or a ghost. It was as if some vast formal ritual were taking place, as if they wanted to show support or say farewell. Most of them looked at him curiously as if he were a rare specimen the like of which they might never see again. Many were sympathetic. Some looked jealous or disbelieving, as if they were watching a poor performance by an actor.
Why would that be, he wondered? Did they resent him being the centre of attention? Were they envious of his supposed bravery? Did they secretly dislike him and wish him ill? He felt sure that some did. It did not matter to him. He smiled at them all alike.
Korhien and Iltharis entered. They were formally garbed. Korhien wore his lionskin cloak. Iltharis was garbed in sombre black.
‘Ready?’ Korhien asked.
‘Ready,’ Tyrion said. His voice sounded calm and normal. He wanted to tell everyone not to worry, that it would all be all right, but that did not seem like appropriate behaviour. Instead as he passed Teclis he squeezed his shoulder. Then he was out of the dining room and into the courtyard where the horses were waiting for them. Thirty armed retainers were there as well. They would be needed to make up the circle.
It occurred to him that he might just have seen his brother for the last time. As a thought it was troubling but he felt no emotional response. It came to him then that he really was behaving differently. This calmness and clarity of thought were unnatural. So was the retreat from emotion. They were his body and mind’s response to the danger of the situation.
He was absolutely aware of everything around him, the faint sheen of the sunlight on the horse’s skin, the animal smell, the bulk of it. When he vaulted into the saddle he felt his body’s movements and the interplay of his muscles with the horses as he had never done before.
This intensity of perception continued as they rode through the city. He saw the cracks in the pavements and the plasterwork of the buildings, the feathers on the gulls that perched on pillars. The streets were busy as merchants set up shop and farmers drove their flocks into the city for market. Workers were already making their way down to the docks. Other riders moved through the streets on their own errands. Tyrion drank it all in, noticed everything, smiled at everyone who looked at him.
They rode through the north gate of the city and along the Sea Road, pushing through the late arriving drovers and early arriving travellers as they moved towards Lothern. Korhien took the left-hand path up the Watch Hill. It was traditional that the other protagonist would arrive by the right-hand one. Idly Tyrion wondered who would be first to arrive. Some people made a lot of that. Some chose to arrive early to show they were not afraid, some to come late to unsettle their opponent. For him, it did not matter. The fight was the thing. He was looking forward to it.
They rode to the hilltop and he could see his opponent and his two seconds were already there along with the thirty warriors of his part of the circle. They stood ready, looking at Tyrion with contempt graven on their faces. Tyrion smiled at them with the same friendliness he had shown everyone else this morning. The two seconds looked away. Larien shook his head as if Tyrion had committed some kind of faux pas.
Tyrion turned to look down from Watch Hill. He had a fine view of the Inner Sea approach and the Northern Walls of Lothern. It was not as impressive as the view of the Great Harbour coming in from the ocean but it was still striking. From the hill, you could see over the walls and notice the slate roofs of the buildings, the layout of the streets, the size of the largest statues. The waters of the Inner Sea were a calm mirror.
The sun had fully risen now and the morning was already warm. The sky was a very clear blue overhead. Gulls cawed. In the distance tiny figures made their way along the road. It was curious that they still had everyday business. Down there in the city, merchants bought and sold, lovers held hands, families were sitting down to breakfast. Up here two elves prepared to settle a matter of life and death.
It was the way the world worked. Always somewhere someone would be going about their daily routine while elsewhere mortals fought for their lives.
He rolled his shoulders and stretched his muscles and became aware that the others were looking at him curiously, as if they could not quite understand how he could be so calm. He knew they thought he was young and inexperienced and he supposed they expected him to show nerves. He did not feel any. He was enjoying himself. In a way he even took pleasure in being the centre of attention here. He would have smiled again, but this was a serious business now and deserving of a serious response.
He focused his attention on Larien. His opponent did not look so relaxed. He looked tense but not in a way that would be bad for a fighter. His movements crackled with nervous energy. His pupils seemed very large. All of his attention was focused on Tyrion. When their gazes met, he turned his head and spat, sending a gob of spittle to land at Tyrion’s feet. It was a very grave insult.
Tyrion merely shrugged. This was all posturing, an attempt at intimidation, to unsettle Tyrion and put him in a frame of mind where he would make a mistake. Tyrion looked at Korhien who nodded, and Iltharis who was studying him closely in the way a gambler might study a horse before a race. Tyrion wondered if Iltharis had made a bet with someone and whether it would be for or against him.
It would have to be a bet for me, Tyrion decided. The odds against me would not make risking gold worthwhile. You could get good odds on me winning. That was the decision he himself would have made at least.
‘For or against?’ he asked. Iltharis seemed to understand at once what he meant. He smiled ruefully.
‘For,’ he responded.
‘How much?’
‘Ten gold dragons.’
Tyrion whistled. It was a hefty sum.
‘Your confidence is inspiring,’ Tyrion said.
‘I got excellent odds.’
‘I thought you would. What were they?’
‘You sure you want to know?’ Tyrion understood the question. It might damage his confidence if he knew how little was expected of him.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Fifty to one.’
‘I wish I had known. I would have asked you to put something on for me. It would be a good bet. If I win, I get to spend the winnings. If I lose, I don’t care.’
‘You will not lose,’ said Korhien. He did not sound entirely confident of that, but it was heartening that he cared.
‘You are right,’ Tyrion said, with sudden absolute confidence. ‘I will not.’
Iltharis said, ‘Larien has a tricky feint. He will mount a strong attack high and right and then will stab for the stomach. He will try to get you into the rhythm of defending against the flurry and then switch when you think you see an opening yourself.’
‘I will bear that in mind,’ Tyrion said. He would too, but he would not put too much faith in it. He preferred to study his opponent for himself and work on his own observations.
‘He will use the early parts of the fight to feel you out,’ said Korhien. ‘He will pretend to be slower than he is, so he can take you off guard with the killing strike.’
Tyrion smiled at them both. ‘I thank you for your advice.’
‘But you have had enough of it,’ Iltharis said. ‘I recognise that tone.’
‘I will win this for myself.’
‘Never refuse any advantage you might get in a fight,’ Korhien said. ‘It can make the difference between life and death.’
‘Even if it’s dishonourable?’ Tyrion asked.
‘Especially if it’s dishonourable,’ Iltharis said with a grin. Korhien shot him a warning look. The other seconds were coming forward now. The duel was about to begin. All sixty warriors were forming in a circle, presenting their blades, points towards the centre. The duel would take place within a ring of sharp steel. The warriors would strike down any contestant who tried to flee from the battle.
r /> The formalities were already gone through. Larien was not willing to retract the insult. Tyrion felt that honour must be satisfied. The seconds had done their best to make sure the quarrel had been settled amicably. Duty was done. The fight could begin. Both participants stripped to the waist and took up their weapons.
‘I shall kill you slowly and painfully,’ said Larien, as they walked down into the depression and took their places in the flat space below.
‘The way you think,’ said Tyrion and smiled brightly.
Larien looked hard at him.
‘Slowly and painfully,’ Tyrion said, to make sure Larien got the point.
Things were obviously not going the way he expected. Tyrion’s nonchalance had evidently surprised him. He had come expecting to kill a nervous boy. He had found someone more self-possessed than he was. Tyrion decided that in part this fight was to be won in the mind. He suspected that most individual combats were. It was as much about the attitude of the fighters as it was about skill.
‘I am of the Blood of Aenarion,’ said Tyrion, simply, as if he were explaining something to someone slow of mind. It was an attack designed to increase Larien’s unease and make him less sure of himself.
‘I will soon see what that looks like,’ said Larien. ‘I am guessing it is the same colour as anyone else’s.’
It was a good response and Tyrion smiled at it as if hearing a joke he enjoyed particularly.
‘Shall we begin?’ he asked, looking from Korhien to Larien’s chief second. The two of them nodded. They stepped back to take their places on the edge of the ring. They too presented their blades. There was no way out of the circle now. All of the gaps were closed. Anyone trying to get out would be impaled upon a blade.
Larien sprang forward as lithe as a tiger. Tyrion parried easily enough and stepped forward. Blade strokes blurred between the two of them for the moment. Tyrion kept his guard up and made a few ripostes. He was content simply to ride out the fury of the initial attack and take the measure of his opponent.