None of the mounted fighters could maneuver very quickly now, hemmed in by the fighting foot soldiers all around them, and Aedan saw the emperor, perhaps ten yards away, hacking away like mad as he tried to reach Lord Arwyn. Arwyn, in turn, seemed intent on the same thing. The two were separated by no more than twenty yards, and yet neither could reach the other. Aedan tried to fight his way closer. His breathing was becoming labored, and he felt the soreness in his sword arm as he swung away at his attackers. The standard was an impediment, but he could not let it fall. As Michael engaged a foot soldier who sought to slash his leg, Aedan saw a mounted knight coming up on his rear.
“Michael!” he called out. “Behind you!”
The emperor struck down the foot soldier and quickly turned his horse, barely in time to parry the sword stroke aimed at his head. For a moment, the two of them engaged in a flurry of blows, and then Michael’s sword caught the knight a blow upon his neck, and he went down.
Gylvain fought as well, dressed not in his robes, but for battle. Magic was of little use in a melee, but Aedan noticed that no blade could reach him. As his attackers struck at him, their blades seemed to slide off the air around him, but Gylvain’s blows struck home. Then there was no time to notice Gylvain as a mounted knight bore down on Aedan. They exchanged several blows before two Anuirean foot soldiers leapt up and dragged him from his saddle.
On and on the battle went, furious and bloody, with neither side giving way. Aedan fought more from instinct than will, only dimly aware of the dampness of the sweat trickling down inside his armor, the taste of dust in his mouth, and the smell of bodies surging all around him. From time to time, he caught a glimpse of Michael, and did his utmost to stay close to him, but it was all that he could do to fight for his own survival.
And then it happened. A momentary respite from the blades striking out at him, a brief island of calm within the storm, and Aedan saw Michael battling Arwyn, perhaps twenty yards away, their horses side to side as they engaged. In the area immediately around them, men actually stopped fighting so they could watch. Aedan urged his mount forward, trying to get closer.
The old warlord against the young emperor. Both had unleashed their divine rage, and everyone around them watched, mesmerized, as the two combatants smashed away furiously at each other. They seemed evenly matched, and they were battering each other with such force that both their shields had buckled.
Then Arwyn struck a blow that sent Michael’s shield flying, and Aedan gasped as Michael seemed to lose his balance from the impact. He swayed in his saddle, and Arwyn raised his sword to finish him. But in that moment, Michael suddenly leaned forward as he swayed and lunged sharply, driving his blade point first through Arwyn’s throat.
The momentum of his lunge carried Michael right out of the saddle, and as Arwyn fell back, Michael went with him, over his horse and to the ground. At once, Aedan and Sylvanna moved in to protect him, and then Gylvain was there, as well, and a group of foot soldiers who formed a ring around him. Michael got up. Arwyn never would.
Michael raised his sword with both hands and brought it down like an axe, severing the dead archduke’s head from his body. Then he raised it high and cried out, “Arwyn is dead! Lay down your arms!”
Immediately, the cry was taken up by all the troops.
It happened like a spreading ripple in a pool, moving out from where they were to the fringes of the battle. As the cry of “Arwyn’s dead!” was echoed over and over, slowly, the fighting stopped. The noise gradually died down, and the clash of blades diminished until everything was still. Men simply stopped fighting and stood where they were, dazed and exhausted, staring at one another, scarcely able to believe it was over.
As the dust began to settle and the only sounds upon the battlefield were the piteous moans and cries of the wounded and the dying, several mounted knights of the Army of Boeruine made their way toward where the emperor stood. Their horses came at a walk, and they held their swords by their sides. One knight rode forward and gazed down for a long time at Arwyn’s decapitated body. Then he threw down his sword and reached up to remove his helm. Eight long, hard years had passed since Aedan saw him last, but he immediately recognized Derwyn, Arwyn’s son, and Michael’s childhood playmate.
His face was a mask of misery. For a moment, his glance met Aedan’s, and he nodded. Aedan returned the gesture, and then Derwyn turned to Michael. For several moments, the two of them simply stared at one another as their men gathered around them. No one spoke. Derwyn held his head up high. Not in defiance, but in proud defeat.
“Derwyn …” Michael said, heavily. He could not go on.
Derwyn swallowed hard, then raised his arm and cried out in a loud and steady voice, “Long live Emperor Roele!”
There was a moment’s hesitation and then the cry was taken up by the troops of both sides. “Long live Emperor Roele! Roele! Roele! Roele!”
“Thank the gods,” said Aedan, wearily. “It is over at last. It is finished, Sylvanna.”
But as he turned toward her, she wasn’t there. He glanced all around him, frantically, but he could see no sign of her nor Gylvain. Nor of any of the other elves. It was as if they had melted away into …
“The air,” he murmured, as the wind blew north across the plain.
Book III
THE GORGON
1
Seaharrow was a dismal place in winter, cold and damp and drafty from the fierce winds and storms that constantly blew in off the sea, and Laera hated it. During the summer, the weather was more tolerable, even pleasant, and the society much improved, since the annual Summer Court at Seaharrow was resumed. However, with each summer the old and bitter memories returned in force, along with boiling frustration and resentment, as her brother, Michael, once again arrived at Seaharrow with Aedan Dosiere.
She had come full circle. This was where it had all started. It was the ultimate ignominy that she should wind up here. There wasn’t a place she could go within the castle that did not remind her of a secret tryst with Aedan. The hanging tapestry in the corridor, with the small niche behind it where she and Aedan had coupled passionately; the garden in the courtyard, where they had often met at night; the tower parapet where they had their first encounter; the stables … and the final insult, her own chambers, which had once been Aedan’s when he came to Seaharrow for Summer Court.
Her husband had insisted that she take that room, and nothing she could say would sway him. He must have known. Somehow, he must have learned her secret, though she could not imagine how. The bed she slept in every night was the very bed in which she’d lain with Aedan all those times. It was insufferable. Maddening. But at the same time, it fed her hatred and resentment and firmed her resolve to get revenge.
At first, she couldn’t understand why Derwyn had not denounced her. When she learned of Michael’s victory over Arwyn, her first emotion had been bitter disappointment, for it meant her plans for Aedan and her own advancement had been thwarted. She cared nothing that Arwyn had been slain, but when she learned Derwyn had survived, panic seized her.
Except for Callador, who had disappeared after news of Arwyn’s defeat had reached Boeruine, Derwyn was the only one who knew of her betrayal. When she found out Michael had spared him and Derwyn had declared his allegiance to the emperor, she was certain she was undone. Surely Derwyn would denounce her. She had almost fled right then. But the years and her experience had taught her to be calculating, and after her initial bout of fear, she had forced herself to settle down and think things through.