Robert Danton stood on the green grass of the palace courtyard, bow at the ready, with arrow nocked but string undrawn. The noon hour had passed; the sun was high and hot in the clear sky. Sweat beaded on his forehead and raised forearms and ran in uncomfortable rivulets into the sleeves and collar of his heavy tunic, but he made no move to alleviate the discomfort. He made no move except to breathe. His attention and his aim were fixed on an open window high atop an ornamented corner tower of the royal apartments, one of the many freestanding structures in the sprawling palace grounds, where he had seen the strange bird alight.
Its size and bearing marked it as a hawk, but with striking red plumage unlike any he had seen in his nine years as steward of the Emperor's rural estate and hunting grounds. The obvious questions raised were immaterial, however; they stabbed fruitlessly at the edge of his concentration. That the bird was a hawk and its perch not a sanctioned rookery was sufficient. It was, in fact, the very reason he had been summoned to the palace grounds from his usual charge, several leagues distant: to cull a nuisance population of predator birds that had come to prey on the fowl that supplied the royal table.
Concentration on a single task to the exclusion of all else came easily; it was one of the first skills Robert had learned in childhood. Patience, on the other hand, the determined patience needed to sustain concentration through minutes and hours of otherwise idle waiting, was a hard-earned product of nine years stalking deer and boar on the estate, and it never came easily. It still required constant struggle to ensure that concentration did not waver, that when the time for action came, it would be as vital and effective as if it had been taken immediately.
The tunic he wore was rough-cut and worn. Its original color was a muted shade of green, so dyed to denote the humble station of gamekeeper, but nine years of constant wear in harsh sunlight had bleached it to a color barely distinguishable from gray. It was ragged in areas, sewn and patched in others, and hardly suitable for a palace errand, but Robert owned nothing more appropriate. The summons to the palace had been unexpected, but urgent; it would not wait on a tailor's work.
The hawk suddenly reappeared, swooping through the window in full flight, but Robert's concentration remained unbroken; he drew his bowstring, corrected his aim, and loosed the arrow as it passed overhead. The aim wasn't perfect; the hawk had swerved at the last moment as if anticipating danger, but it was true enough. The arrow pierced a wing, which exploded in a shower of feathers, and the hawk trailed more feathers behind as it fell to the grass several lengths away.
Robert scowled as he ran to where it had fallen, replaying the loosing of the arrow in his mind. In the moment before he let fly, he was certain he'd seen something carried in the bird's talons. A mouse, perhaps? If so, it was odd that a bird of prey would choose to hunt indoors, where its natural gifts would be useless. Or was it some sort of parcel? He had heard rumors of birds trained to deliver important messages. Perhaps this hawk served a similar purpose?
Robert saw no parcel when he approached, but his attention was suddenly taken with the aesthetic beauty of the hawk itself. It was slightly larger than a rooster from beak to tail, but thinner and far more graceful in form. The feathers on its head and back were a dark, brownish red which faded abruptly to white at the tips, resulting in a slightly mottled appearance, and a beard of mixed red and white feathers flowed down its chest. The hawk stared up at him unwaveringly, in the manner of all hawks, and its unblinking eyes seemed to make a silent accusation. Robert briefly imagined that there was intelligence beyond that stare, and that it was an accusation.
This outlandish thought soon faded, but was replaced by another: that a creature of such rare beauty should be preserved, and rehabilitated if possible. Luckily, the arrow had struck only a glancing blow to the feathering of one wing; there was no blood, and the only apparent sign of injury was that the one wing was slightly favored, perhaps not even broken. He was pondering various means of safely collecting it, and hoping to stumble upon one that didn't risk outright destruction of his tattered tunic, when unexpected sound pierced through his concentration.
There were triumphant shouts and guttural screams, backed by the sustained screech and clang of steel thrust against steel. He had not heard sounds like these since his nine years' exile began, but the memory was as vital as if it were yesterday. They were the sounds of combat.
Instinct was also vital, although the weapon in his hands was not as remembered. The injured hawk forgotten, Robert pulled an arrow from the quiver at his back, and held it in one hand and his bow in the other as he dashed into the emerging shadow of the royal apartments, from whence the sound of battle seemed to emanate. Huddled in a defensive crouch at the foot of the building and sheltered within the shadow, Robert stopped, bewildered. The sound had been clear when he first heard it, but now it was suddenly muddled; a different strain of the battle noise seemed to reverberate from each stone.
He paused for only a moment, however; the sound of battle was unmistakable, rendering any further questions immaterial save for that of where. He came upright, and ran along the bare stone wall toward the far tower, on the corner adjacent the one recently occupied by the hawk. Around that corner, if dim memory served, lay the main entrance to the royal apartments. If battle was engaged within, it would likely have started there.
Robert slowed his pace as he approached the tower. The muddled echo had faded from the walls, and was replaced by the actual sounds of battle, almost as clear as they had sounded as he stood over the hawk. There were shouts and screams no longer; the screeches and clangs were sparse and almost rhythmic. Robert crept around the rounded edge of the tower and found his guess confirmed: the battle had been reduced to single combat.
The two remaining combatants fought near the threshold of the apartments amongst the bodies of the fallen, only a few dozen lengths from where Robert watched. Both wore the unarmored ceremonial garb of the palace guard: a fine blue coat fastened with iron buttons, with matching belted pants rather than roughly-bound leggings. They fought with broadswords of common steel, the first and primary weapon of a soldier, and matching scabbards swung at their waists.
Robert moved nearer to the combatants in fits and starts, taking a step along the wall whenever it appeared that his movement would pass unnoticed. He was no longer shrouded in shadow and the bare walls offered no cover, but he moved deliberately, readying the arrow in his bow as a precaution. Even if he was noticed, there was little danger in this battle for him so long as he remained alert, and ready to draw string and loose arrow. Neither of the combatants would risk an attack on him while joined in battle against each other, and a bow was superior to a sword in all but the closest of quarters.
When Robert came within a dozen lengths, as near as he dared approach, he raised his bow, trying to reclaim the concentration that had come so easily when his targets were deer and birds, and waited for a sign. The two combatants were identically dressed, and fought using the same stances and techniques, the standard methods taught by swordplay instructors in the martial families. But which of them was the aggressor, and which was the guard? They were evenly matched...
They were not evenly matched. Robert frowned, angry with himself for not having noticed before. The dress coat of the soldier furthest from him was marred by a large dark spot on the torso. It was a bloodstain, which indicated a significant injury; draining, and perhaps even mortal. This one fought furiously and with little regard for defense, using attacks that invited reprisal if his opponent ever guessed which he would use next.
The other soldier fought cautiously; his attacks were infrequent and conservative, but also confident, as if he were only toying with the injured man, and waiting for his injury to drain him of any remaining capacity to fight. Robert's hands tightened on his bow, but he still did not draw. It was a cowardly way to do battle, contemptible, but not definitive proof that he was the aggressor.
The injured soldier's constant stream of desperate attacks finally broke. He stumbled, His foot caught on one of the surrounding bodies, and he fell backwards. Without a word to his fallen opponent, the coward raised his sword to deliver a killing blow. It was the sign Robert had hoped for, and his arrow pierced the coward's throat before the stroke had time to fall. The coward dropped his sword and fell to his knees, clutching weakly at the arrow in his throat.
Robert ran forward, pulling another arrow from his quiver as a precaution, but discovered as he came nearer that the wounded soldier had gathered enough strength for a final thrust of his sword, piercing the coward's heart and killing him. Robert watched as the injured soldier dropped the sword hilt, lacking even the strength to pull the blade from the coward's corpse, and collapsed back on the bloodstained grass, breathing shallowly.
The injured soldier watched silently as Robert knelt over him, loosed the buttons on his coat, and retrieved a knife to cut through his undershirt, exposing the injury. The smell of human waste which wafted up from the wound confirmed Robert's fear, and he
pulled his hands away and closed the coat back over the injury with a rough curse. The soldier would certainly die, and it was better that it happen by loss of blood and be over quickly than by a painful rot which could take days or weeks.
"I'm sorry," Robert began when he finally spoke. "I came too late, and I couldn't intervene until I knew which of you was the traitor."
The injured soldier made as if to speak, but coughed instead. A mix of blood and bile rose to his lips, and he turned his head away from Robert to let it spill onto the ground. His quiet, tentative reply came a few moments later, as he still faced away.
"How did you know?"
"An honorable soldier in single combat would have demanded a wounded opponent yield for questioning." Robert replied. "Did any of them pass the threshold?"
"I don't..." the soldier began, then paused as another spasm overcame him. "There were four of them. Three of us."
Robert looked around.
"There are six bodies here."
"And one corpse in waiting." the soldier countered with a dark chuckle that ended abruptly in yet another spasm. When it was through, he turned his head to stare at Robert, wide-eyed. "The princess and the heir are within. They may try again."
"They might." Robert agreed. He looked across the courtyard, and was relieved to find it empty. He at least had enough time for the most important question. "From which family are you?"
"There's only one family." The soldier's expression suddenly became guarded. Robert knew differently, and had no time for the martial families' code of secrecy.
"If you will not tell me, I will strip you naked and find the marks myself." He paused to give the knowledge implicit in his threat time to settle. "I need to know who I can trust."
"You can't trust anybody." The soldier replied bitterly, turning his face back to the sky. "My cousin was among them. It was why I let them come near enough to strike unchallenged. He's the one who ran me through. Check the marks if you must."
Robert shivered at this revelation. Despite their attempts to present a united front, the martial families had been known to work at times in pursuit of separate goals, though such maneuverings seldom approached outright warfare. But within the individual families loyalty was highly valued; familial murder was almost unheard of. What force could tear a family asunder such that a soldier would fight with others against one of his own?
If he could trust no soldier, he had no choice but to rely on his own arm. Rising to his feet, he placed the unused arrow in his quiver and hung the bow at his back. He bent to grasp the hilt of a fallen sword and lifted it, testing the weight in his hand. He heard the fallen soldier gasp in shock.
"You can't-"
"I shouldn't." Robert corrected, "But for her, I will."
The sword was heavier than he remembered, far heavier than the carved saplings he beat against tree trunks in idle moments on the rural estate. He swung it in tentative arcs, then in a full circle, loosing the hilt for a moment to feel it dance across his knuckles, and caught it effortlessly. He was out of practice, but memory and instinct still remained. He hoped they would be enough.
Robert turned his attention back to the wounded soldier in time to watch the man's expression flicker from shock to recognition, and from recognition to disgust.
"They'll kill you if they find you." The man stated flatly. He tried raising his sword arm, but it moved only slightly and fell quickly back to earth. "If I could hold my sword, I'd kill you myself."
He had lingered too long already, but Robert still hesitated. The man was dying, and there was a service that one soldier could provide another, to spare him unnecessary pain on his journey to an inevitable death. Though he was no longer a soldier, mercy demanded that he at least offer his aid.
"Do you wish to end it, soldier?" Robert asked, though he already knew what the soldier's response would be.
"Not by your hand, gamekeeper." The soldier replied, spitting the title out as if it were a curse, and braced for another spasm.
The soldier might have said more once the spasm had finished, but Robert was already gone, dashing through the wide corridors and steep stairwells of the labyrinthine apartments. They were constructed to house not only the emperor's person, but also his wife, children, and any more distant relations that were in his favor; potentially dozens of privileged residents. If one counted the less privileged residents, trusted servants culled from the noble families who lived in less spacious basement quarters, that figure might rise into the hundreds. Now, however, the apartments housed only two royal persons: the princess and her child, the heir. Even the Emperor himself was no longer in residence; maladies of age had driven him to take both food and rest in the throne room for the last several years.
So it was not unusual that the halls were nearly deserted; there were no soldiers posted within, and very few servants. Robert passed one of the latter during his mad dash and saw two more from the corner of his eye, but none dared hinder him. They may have been loyal subjects, but they were servants, not soldiers, and none carried anything more lethal than a meal platter. He considered chasing one down to ask after the princess' whereabouts, but dismissed the possibility almost immediately; fear wouldn't necessarily prevent a servant from lying, and wasting Robert's precious time. He would just have to hope that she was in her quarters, and that they had not changed in these last nine years.
When he finally reached the antechamber of the princess' apartments, he briefly thought his fears confirmed. The antechamber was a narrow room, lined with benches on both sides, in which guests would usually be met by a servant and made to wait until the occupant was prepared to receive them. Robert entered the room unchallenged, and saw the benches on each side were covered with a thin, unbroken film of dust, as if they had not been used in weeks or months. The floor was clear, however, and seemed as though it had been cleaned recently, so he crossed the room to the far door and found it unlocked.
The door opened into the reception room, large enough to host a small banquet, or a comfortable dance for twenty or thirty guests. When last he'd seen this room it had been lavishly decorated, as one would expect for a person as celebrated as the princess, with beautifully woven tapestries hanging on the walls, and tables and chairs casted and carved by the Empire's finest artisans. Now, however, the walls were bare except for unlit torches held in ornate iron mountings, and shuttered windows widely spaced along the far wall. One of the shutters was cracked slightly open, bathing the room with a very faint glow of sunlight that left the corners still in shadow, and throwing a small sliver of concentrated light across the only furnishing in the otherwise empty room.
It was a small wooden table on four thin legs accompanied by two chairs of the same make, all of them roughly crafted, unornamented and unfinished, and of a quality one might expect to find in a peasant's cabin or servant's quarters, but not in the Princess's apartments. The bewilderment lasted only a moment, however, as his attention shifted to what was on the table: a large pewter platter, with two smaller dishes of food. Robert advanced several lengths forward to stand over the table, and held his free hand - the other still held his sword - directly over one of the dishes, which contained a cut of some sort of meat. It was fresh, and still emanated warmth; a familiar smell tickled his senses, and he wondered distantly, insubstantially, whether this might be one of the wild boars he had slaughtered for the Emperor's table on the royal estate.
Turning quickly, Robert began searching the rest of the apartment. Excluding the door which led back to the antechamber, there were four doors in the reception room, two on each side, adjacent to the near and far walls. The doors on each side led to corridors, narrower than the ones through which he had passed to reach this apartment, which ran parallel to the large room, from front to back. Doors along the side of the corridors not adjacent to the reception room led to further rooms in the apartment, affording occupants a measure of privacy in their movements even when the reception room was in use.
Robert found some rooms were still decorated as befitted a princess, but most of these were also inundated with dust and looked as if they had not seen use in years; the more austere the room, the more likely he would find a cracked window shutter, a spent candle that had not been replaced, or some other evidence of recent occupation... but the princess herself could not be found.
The princess' bedchamber was the exception to this rule. It was as well-appointed as he remembered, with a canopied bed and mahogany wardrobes, but not at all dusty. Robert pulled aside the canopy and found the bed unoccupied, but with the covers mussed, indicating that it might have seen use as recently as last night. Hit with sudden comprehension of what he had seen when he first entered the room, Robert looked at his feet and frowned.
In his hurry to open the canopy he had tread on a drab cloth someone had spread at the foot of the canopied bed. It was thick, and rough; almost a canvas, and completely out of place in the otherwise luxurious surroundings. A pile of the same cloth bunched at one end of the spread clinched Robert's evaluation: it was makeshift bedding. But for whom? The princess would sleep on the bed, of course, and a servant obliged to share a room with royalty would nevertheless have at least a cot to sleep upon. The question burned, but just as it had been with all of the other oddities that confronted him on this strange day, it was immaterial. He tore himself away and ran to the next room, one of very few he had not checked.
It was a small, cramped room, likely meant for the servants to loiter in when they were not otherwise required. It was furnished with only a single table nearly identical to that in the reception room, but this one held five candles in brass candlesticks. Four of them were lit, and arranged in a neat line near the center of the table; the fifth, nearer the far edge, was unlit. This odd arrangement begged another question, but before he could examine it, something - a sound, maybe, or a shadow, or perhaps just a change in the air - triggered reflex, and he spun about, raising his sword at an angle across his torso and face, with the flat exposed, bracing the blade away from his face with his free forearm.
Robert prepared his defense only a moment before the blow came; he did not even have a chance to identify the thrown object or his assailant before it hit the blade with enough force to send him stumbling back almost to the table, and shattered into thousands of pieces. The debris from the shattered object stung Robert's cheeks; he shook his head quickly to clear the shock of the incredible blow, gathered himself, and renewed his defense. Dust released by the object's obliteration billowed about in a cloud so thick that it obscured the senses.
Robert squinted into the cloud at the door to the hall, from which the object had come, searching for a target. He saw a human figure outlined against the threshold of the far door, on the other side of the hall, and examined it as he waited for the dust to clear, readying himself to pursue or defend if either became necessary. The figure was tall, but very thin; impossibly thin, Robert might have said, had he not now been confronted with evidence to the contrary. The dust settled, and the figure resolved to that of a woman, or a man dressed as such, and...
With a cry of surprise Robert fell to one knee, eyes downcast, and his sword held crosswise on open palms above his bowed head, in offering. She was dressed in a gray servants' frock, which hung loosely from her wiry frame; she wore no jewelery, and used no rouge. Her complexion was unnaturally pallid; she lacked the subtle tints of red and blue that marked the living, or or even the dead, leaving her skin an unnatural shade of gray. But Robert recognized her, even changed as she was, and assumed a position of absolute penitence for having raised his sword at her. It was her prerogative to pardon, choose an alternative punishment, or even to execute him with his own sword, although the latter option had seldom been exercised on a penitent in recent memory.
"Your Highness." He invoked the honorific as a statement, though with a bewildered tone; her appearance raised even more questions, not least of which was how a woman who looked as though she could barely stand had launched an attack powerful enough to almost knock him from his feet. Nearly a minute passed in silence before she finally spoke.
"Rise, soldier." Her firm voice and imperious tone belied her frail appearance. She continued as Robert rose to his feet, keeping the point of his sword a carefully measured length from the stone floor. "Why are you wearing peasants' garb?"
"I am a gamekeeper, ma'am." Robert would not lie to her, but he hoped that mention of his current station would not trigger recognition; he counted himself lucky to have not been recognized immediately.
"Then why do you carry a soldier's sword?" She countered lightly.
"It's... complicated." Robert returned. It was complicated, and inconvenient; she wasn't a soldier, and wouldn't necessarily respond to his crime with the hatred shown by the dying guard, but she certainly would not trust him. He needed her to trust him; she could trust very few others, and none that wielded a sword. Fortunately, she did not press the question, and moved to enter the room instead. Robert stepped aside to give her access, and respectfully averted his eyes from her as she passed.
"The martial families would not consider it complicated." The amusement in her voice was now clear, and Robert looked up in time to see her lift a candlestick, the only one that seemed to have remained upright and with flame intact amid the rain of debris, from the table. She cradled it in both hands as she returned, and nodded in his direction as she spoke. "You will go ahead."
Robert left the room ahead of her, raising his sword to a ready position once more. Merely doing so in the presence of royalty was no crime, so long as it was clear that the royal person was not the target. The princess hadn't specified where she wished to go, so he moved back toward the reception room, staggering his steps slightly, hoping to catch a sound of footfalls that would confirm she was in fact following. To actually glance at her over his shoulder would be a grave breach of protocol; upon hearing nothing, he settled for a lesser breach, and spoke without turning.
"The martial families have split, your Highness. Some in the palace guard made an attempt on your life."
"Indeed." She replied dismissively, and seemed entirely unsurprised. With no rebuke for having breached protocol, and no questions forthcoming, Robert ventured a bewildered question of his own.
"You knew?"
"I knew an attack was coming; I just didn't know when." she began wearily, "I hoped they might fight it over amongst themselves for a few hours before they came after me."
"But the Emperor-" Robert began in protest, but the princess cut him off.
"The Emperor is dead. Now keep walking."
He had paused in shock upon hearing of the Emperor's death, but at the princess's order he resumed walking numbly along, questions accumulating in his thoughts. Had the Emperor died naturally, or was he assassinated? When? And how was it that the princess was certain of the Emperor's passing while the guard at the threshold seemed ignorant? But there was only one question necessary in the wake of this news, and it was none of these; he posed this one to the princess.
"Where is the heir?" The heir was the princess's son, and her deceased father's grandchild and only male descendant. From the moment of his grandfather's death he became Emperor, at least in name; a Regent would represent his interests in court until he came of age.
"The heir is safe." The princess answered smugly, after a short pause. "Beyond their reach, beyond yours, and beyond mine. That is the only answer you or any other will receive. Do not ask again."
Having passed the threshold of the reception hall, Robert turned to face the princess as she entered behind him.
"What is your intention?" He asked. The question itself would be a breach of protocol in normal circumstances; unless a royal had already solicited one's opinion, asking such a direct question was tantamount to challenging their authority, but Robert had to know if he was to protect her. If the princess's intention was to remain, he could pile furniture in the antechamber to slow the assassins' progress, do battle at the threshold to the reception room, and fall back to the hallways and chambers beyond when it became necessary.
"Take a torch." The princess ordered, and continued speaking as Robert turned to pull an unlit torch from a nearby socket. "Since the heir is safe, I had planned to stay in my quarters and wait for them with a few gifts." She hesitated for a moment over the word gifts, and her expression darkened as she spoke it; the word obviously held special meaning for her. "Like the urn which nearly cracked your head. But now I feel I owe them something more."
She held the candle out at arms length and nodded, and Robert touched the head of the torch he had retrieved to the flickering flame. It quickly came alight, bathing the nooks and sunken crannies of the princess's face in an eerily intense glow as she spoke again.
"Tell me, gamekeeper, are you up for a chase?" Her face broke into an expression that her words suggested to be a mischievous grin, but her sunken features in the harsh torchlight turned it into a macabre parody, a skeletal grimace that shocked Robert into silence.
Despite the princess's words, the journey back along the corridors and stairwells of the royal apartments proved painfully slow. Though Robert carried the only burdens - a torch in one hand, and a blade in the other, with bow and quiver full of arrows slung on his back - the princess, strolling unencumbered behind him, set a leisurely walking pace that refused to increase with his own.
Robert remained silent, and bit back the hurrying remarks he might have used had his charge been any other. Time was precious, but the princess's willing cooperation was even more so. She spoke only occasionally, and only to instruct him to turn down certain corridors, or to use certain stairwells. The instructions were unnecessary; he had guessed her intentions as soon as she had asked for a torch, but he could not tell her so. The basement passage was a closely guarded secret of the royal family; Robert only knew of it by a confluence of impossible events, which culminated in an impossible errand. If he revealed that knowledge he would also have to reveal how he had learned it, and the nature of the errand. That revelation, he was sure, would immediately sever any trust and regard she now had for him.
The halls were deserted as Robert and the princess slowly descended to the ground floor of the apartments; there were no longer any servants to be seen. Robert imagined they were by now huddled in the recesses of one of the vacant apartments, but even if they were not the plodding pace set by the princess, advertised by torchlight and the immutable sound of Robert's heavy boots on the stone floors, would give them ample time to scurry away soundlessly.
At the princess's command Robert turned yet another corner, and found himself unexpectedly treading the main corridor on the ground floor of the apartments, only a few dozen lengths from the stairwell that led to the basement. Further ahead, at least the same distance beyond, sunlight streamed through the open threshold to the courtyard, the same entrance through which Robert himself had come to begin his search for the princess.
Keeping the same maddening pace the princess had maintained since the start of the so-called chase, they covered about half the distance to the relative safety of the stairwell when figures suddenly appeared at the threshold, silhouetted by the light at their backs. There was no place for Robert and the princess to hide, no doors for several lengths beyond and before, and there was no time to take the princess forward to the stairwell or back from whence they had come; they had already been seen.
There were four of them, all soldiers, and all had swords bared. They spread to stand nearly abreast, occupying the entire width of the wide corridor, as they advanced on Robert and the princess at a measured pace. Three of the soldiers were blue-coats, such as he had seen before, but the fourth, who walked slightly ahead of the others, wore an even finer coat of deep scarlet with gold trim on the sleeves and across the collar. They had not come near enough for him to see it, but Robert knew that the sword of the soldier clad in red would be similarly ornate, with a jeweled hilt and fine patterns etched into the blade.
In that moment, Robert knew the certainty of death. The two blue-coats that advanced down the sides of the corridor were very young, their coats were unadorned by medals or ribbons. They were on their first assignment, then, having just completed their training, and likely little more than competent with their swords. The blue-coat that advanced near the center, walking just behind the soldier clad in red, was older than the rest, and had several medals pinned to his coat. He would be far more dangerous; a soldier had to be more than merely competent with a blade to advance in the palace guard.
The remaining soldier, clad in red, was the same age as the younger of his blue-coated companions; this would be his first assignment as well. His coat was also unadorned except for the trim sewn into the sleeves and collar, but no medal or ribbon was needed; coat and blade alone marked him as the Emperor's Swordarm, bodyguard to the Emperor himself. It was the most prestigious assignment a young soldier could receive, highly coveted, and traditionally awarded to the most skilled swordsman of proper temperament among those who had recently reached maturity within the martial families.
Robert thought he might manage to best one or both of the younger guards in single combat despite being out of practice, but he had little confidence that he could prevail against the veteran guard, and none at all that he could prevail against the Emperor's Swordarm. And there was no guarantee they would even afford him the dignity of single combat; if they all came at him at once, he likely wouldn't even land a blow before one of them ran him through.
As the four soldiers approached, Robert noticed that they were studying him, just as he had studied them. One of the first lessons taught to those training in swordplay and other close combat skills was the importance of knowing one's opponent, and observation played a crucial role in that. He wondered what they had observed thus far, and realized with simultaneous self-recrimination and relief that they hadn't seen much; he hadn't moved since the figures first darkened the doorway.
He moved quickly now. If combat was inevitable, Robert at least had the privilege of choosing the setting and circumstances, but he had to do so before they came near enough to simply rush forward to do battle. He swung the torch he carried in a wide arc across the corridor, lighting fresh torches in the sockets on both sides, and dropped his own on the stone floor, where it rolled slightly to land almost at his feet. Not every soldier had the full measure of concentration and awareness of surroundings, and open flame could be a potent distraction, though generally not sufficient to turn the tide of battle.
With the environment thus defined, a moment still remained for misdirection. Robert raised his sword, but assumed a rough parody of the soldiers' combat stance, the sort of stance that someone otherwise unfamiliar with combat might adopt after seeing but a single sword fight. He saw the advancing soldiers' hands tighten on the hilts of their own swords in response, and was relieved when they did not raise them or rush forward.
When the Swordarm had come within several lengths of where Robert and the princess stood he halted abruptly, and the other soldiers followed suit.
"Your Highness." He addressed the princess first, as was only proper, and favored her with a cursory bow that was little more than a nod before continuing. "The Emperor passed this morning. We have come to escort you to the throne room."
Silence reigned for a time, and Robert found himself wondering what the princess had observed as the soldiers advanced; she had been silent since their appearance. Would she trust the Swordarm, and choose to accompany him voluntarily? What would become of Robert then? None of the soldiers appeared to have recognized him, but bearing a sword without sanction from the martial families was a grave offense for any person.
"Have you, soldier?" The princess finally replied, "And did the other soldiers that came have the same intent?"
The Swordarm's expression darkened, whether from the princess's doubtful tone, the accusation implied by her question, or merely because she had addressed him as a soldier rather than use the more exalted title due his position.
"They were traitors, your Highness; traitors to their family and to their charge." He said stiffly, before shifting his eyes to address Robert for the first time. "I assume it was your arrow we found in one of them?"
"It was, sir." Robert mumbled, bewildered. The soldiers had not attacked, and did not seem eager to start; they held their swords at a carefully neutral angle that telegraphed neither attack nor surrender. If their intentions were as the Swordarm had claimed, Robert thought he might even survive this confrontation... provided, of course, that he remained unrecognized. Nevertheless, he maintained his exaggerated stance and tried to keep his expression neutral; he would yield only at the princess's word.
"Then the Empire is in your debt, bowman." The Swordarm began generously. "And the martial family is as well. But your service does not excuse the unsanctioned use of a sword."
Robert said nothing, and held both sword and expression steady, betraying no sign that he had even heard the pointed observation. The pause grew pregnant, then awkward, and he saw the Swordarm's eyes narrow in annoyance.
"Drop the weapon, bowman," The Swordarm said icily, "Unless you intend to wield it."
Robert hesitated at the soldier's ultimatum, unexpectedly torn. Learning to serve a greater objective without regard for one's own life was an integral part of a soldier's training. Just as with the discipline of concentration, however, not every soldier had the full measure of courage needed to make that sacrifice when it was required. Those who did became honored dead in the martial families, and were made subjects of statues, stories, and songs. Those who did not were relegated to the forges, resigned to make the armaments that they would never again be given sanction to wield.
Robert was not a soldier; he had not lived as one for nine years, had not trained as one for even longer. Enough of the soldier still remained in him that he thought himself willing to die for a noble cause, even if that cause was ultimately doomed, but he at least had to know that it was a necessary sacrifice.
"Your Highness?" Robert posed the question to the princess, standing unseen behind him, when he saw the tip of the Swordarm's patterned blade begin to rise from its neutral position. He was surprised to hear his voice ring out strong and clear, confident, unbroken; he felt as though he should be crying.
The Swordarm stilled his sword when Robert spoke, but made no move to lower it as all in the corridor awaited the princess's response. The scowl that crossed his face when the question was posed deepened as the silence extended to become nearly as long as the first.
"I do not wish to accompany these men." She said finally, but her tone was as decisive as if she had spoken immediately.
"Then by my blade, you will not." Robert spoke quickly, before any other in the corridor could register protest, and with a confidence he did not feel. With a small, self-satisfied smile that seemed to further enrage the Swordarm, he suddenly dropped both pretense and parody, and adopted the traditional soldier's stance, sword raised for combat. Having made a soldier's choice and spoken a soldier's oath, he would now fight an honorable battle, a soldier's battle... if only to die a soldier's death.
The stance was unmistakable; inimitable, and the response from the Swordarm and his companions was immediate. They each raised blade spontaneously, but in unison, as if responding to a single command. One of the two young blue-coats had sounded an audible gasp at the sudden change, and both now seemed nearly as likely to flee as to fight. Despite himself, Robert pitied them. Judging by their startled expressions, and the tension apparent in their stances and sword grips, this would be their first taste of actual battle. He hoped the two young soldiers would survive it; he hoped they all would, impossible as that now seemed.
The Swordarm was also affected, albeit far less than the two blue-coats had been; surprise showed plainly on his face, but not in the way he stood or held his sword. Both, Robert noted glumly, were better executed than his own. The veteran alone seemed entirely unmoved; there was no hint of surprise in his face or his manner. If anything, he seemed almost amused, and oddly speculative.
"What game are you playing, bowman?" The Swordarm spat out moments later, all the more angry for having been fooled.
"Gamekeeper." The veteran guard corrected, speaking for the first time to deliver an observation devoid of question or doubt.
"Gamekeeper! Indeed?" The Swordarm posed his astonished query to the veteran standing at his side, but Robert answered it himself with a slight nod. Denying the truth now would gain him nothing.
"Robert... Danton," The Swordarm began, giving the family name a slight hesitation that, in concert with the note of disbelief still in his voice, made it seem almost like a question in itself. "That is what you now call yourself?"
"It's the name I was given." Robert clarified, but the Swordarm dismissed that assertion with a nonverbal scoff. He no longer seemed angry, but the expression that had replaced his scowl was a predatory grin that Robert found even more discomfiting.
"Watch him." The Swordarm suddenly ordered his companions, before turning his head to address the veteran specifically. "And if he moves, kill him."
The Swordarm stepped back, and the veteran stepped forward to take his place in a seamless maneuver. By long tradition the Swordarm wore no scabbard, so he passed the hilt of his ornate blade to the empty hand of one of the young guards to free both of his own hands for the ensuing task.
"The dream of every child born a soldier," The Swordarm began to speak as he laboriously worked the buttons on his sleeves and across his collar. "Is to bring honor to his family. I had just begun training when I heard of your betrayal. I was only a child, and still I wondered what manner of soldier would choose to bring such dishonor on his family, and on his parents.
"It was fitting, then, that the Emperor would name you gamekeeper, and deny you use of a sword." The Swordarm continued, loosing the buttons on his chest. "But it was not enough. It did nothing to erase the stain of dishonor. Your father surrendered his sword - voluntarily - to work the forges these last nine years. But still it was not enough. Your mother took up your father's sword... and fell upon it."
Robert listened silently, ashen-faced, as the worst nightmares of his long exile were confirmed. He had heard nothing of his own family since it began; the martial families buried their failures as ardently as they trumpeted their successes. He had hoped, naively, that his parents would not take his dishonor as their own. Tears welled in his eyes as he imagined his father's sacrifice and his mother's death, but he ruthlessly suppressed them. In any other circumstance he would have cried, and might have even dropped his sword and knelt to receive the soldiers' justice, but in this fight he could not. The princess had stated her will, and Robert had pledged to see it done; to do anything other would only compound his dishonor.
"Did you really expect anything else of them?" The Swordarm posed rhetorically, an incredulous response to the obvious break in Robert's composure, as he peeled the coat from his shoulders and pulled his arms from the sleeves. "They were soldiers! Or did you think that they abandoned honor when you abandoned yours?"
The Swordarm paused, and stared at Robert as though he could extract the answer with the force of his gaze, but Robert stared back at him defiantly; the moment of vulnerability had passed. He draped the heavy scarlet coat across the arm of the young guard, and simultaneously retrieved the ceremonial sword. Raising the patterned blade once again, the Swordarm stepped forward to stand even with the veteran as he rendered judgment.
"By wielding a soldier's sword, you have broken the truce negotiated between our two... families." He began formally, but could not disguise his contempt at the notion - a legal fiction proposed by the Emperor himself - that Robert comprised a noble family. "We are no longer bound by its amnesty."
"For what you have done before, there is no sufficient penalty in my power to assess; no sentence that would convey even a hint of the suffering you inflicted on your family, and deserve to receive in return. But for what you have done today the penalty is clear: for wielding a sword unsanctioned, and refusing to disarm when ordered, you will die with sword in hand. And when you have fallen, I will take up your traitor's sword, deliver it to your father, and tell him that the stain of dishonor has finally been cleansed."
The Swordarm stepped nearer, so close that the tip of his blade nearly touched Robert's own, and his companions retreated a few steps to give him more room for the now inevitable battle. Robert held his ground and wondered if the princess had followed suit; she couldn't have moved back very far without provoking the soldiers' comment. He dared not spare a glance behind, since battle could be joined at any time, and with no additional warning; a criminal was not afforded the rights and protections of a duelist.
Robert waited for the first attack, but it did not come; the Swordarm had paused as if anticipating some word or sign. Robert wondered for a moment what that might be, before realization came with stunned amusement. In his time as soldier, humility had been an attribute nearly as valued as courage. How had things changed so much that one so enamored of the sound of his own voice could be selected Swordarm?
"You removed your coat." Robert noted tentatively, and continued upon seeing his guess confirmed in the Swordarm's expression. "I trust you will allow me to remove my bow and tunic." He finished, though he trusted no such thing.
"I will not, gamekeeper." The Swordarm responded theatrically, making the title as much an epithet as the dying soldier had before. "This is not a duel; I would not afford you that honor. This is your sentence."
And with that the Swordarm swung his blade, and battle was joined.
He swung it in a plain horizontal arc, from just above his waist, and Robert moved his sword to block the simple technique almost reflexively, wondering at the edge of his concentration why the Swordarm would choose to employ a maneuver taught in the first year of combat training. He did not retaliate, however; nor did he move to counter the Swordarm's follow-up, a vertical slash that was nearly as simple. The two techniques were taught first for a reason: they were unlikely to strike, but just as unlikely to give an opening to one's opponent.
The battle continued with simple swings and thrusts, at a pace just quick enough to keep Robert from attempting anything more than a hurried defense of blocks and dodges, and he realized that the Swordarm was playing with him, much as the traitor had toyed with the guard at the apartment threshold, testing to see how much capacity for swordplay still remained. The realization came with a flash of anger, but Robert suppressed it ruthlessly. He could not afford the distraction of anger; no soldier could.
The Swordarm suddenly broke rhythm with a feint retreat followed by a lunge, a technique taught in the second year of training, and Robert managed to deflect the sword only just before it would have pierced his neck. The Swordarm smiled even as his attack was diverted, as though anticipating a quick victory, but Robert had somehow readied a passable defense before the next one came; he blocked it, and the one after that, with nearly as much ease as he had the first-year techniques. The Swordarm's smile faded into surprise, which itself faded into the expressionless mask adopted in heated battle by the most capable or experienced soldiers, the mask Robert supposed he himself wore.
Even with every ounce of concentration he could muster devoted to parrying the Swordarm's attacks, which became more complex and came nearer to breaking his guard with each passing moment, enough awareness existed at the far margins of consciousness to wonder how he still managed to survive. He was, he realized, somehow anticipating the attacks before they came, as if remembering a swordplay sequence he'd studied in his youth. But which one? Robert wondered.
He realized his mistake too late, only an instant before his adversary's sword tore a deep gash in his outstretched arm, just below the shoulder. The question had shattered Robert's concentration, and the Swordarm had taken advantage, modifying the vertical arc of his most recent swing with an almost imperceptible twist of his wrist. Robert stumbled back with a curse, clutching reflexively at the wound with his free hand, but the Swordarm stepped forward to match his movement, raising his sword to press the advantage.
Before the Swordarm could land the next blow, which would likely have killed the injured and distracted Robert, he suddenly fell back. His arms flailed wildly but ineffectively, and he crashed to the floor with such force that the hilt of his sword flew from his grasp. The object that caused the Swordarm's upset rolled forward to rest at Robert's feet, and he stared at it incredulously: it was the torch he had dropped earlier, its flame now reduced to smoldering. He gave it only a moment's attention before kicking it roughly to the side of the corridor; it had served its unlikely purpose, and would not do so again. And there were more pressing matters to consider.
Removing the pressure of his grip from the injury, he instead probed it with his fingers. The cut ran through skin and muscle and almost to the bone, deep enough that it would likely continue bleeding rather than scab over if it wasn't cared for. In the heat of battle, however, it did not seem debilitating; he held his sword, unassisted by the other hand, nearly as steadily as he had before.
The Swordarm had not yet risen from the floor. He appeared conscious, but dazed, and utterly defenseless without his sword. Robert briefly considered killing him where he lay. It would be ignoble conduct in a duel, but the Swordarm's final words had exempted him from those strictures, if he only chose to accept them. Still he remained torn; he had no expectation of survival, but had hoped to die honorably, if only in his own estimation. All things being equal, it was better to die honorably than to live otherwise, but the honor of the princess was an overriding concern.
When he raised his eyes to take in the three soldiers that stood beyond, however, he found the decision was moot. They had not come forward, and would not while the Swordarm still lived unless he gave them leave, but their swords were raised and muscles tensed, as though prepared to spring into action at any time. They would see the sentence applied if the Swordarm could not, Robert realized, and with greater fervor for having witnessed his death. Slowly, so as not to startle the young blue-coats into action, Robert stepped back, and lowered his sword to a neutral position.
As he waited for the Swordarm to recover, Robert finally had an opportunity to ponder the mystery that had triggered this reversal of fortune. On further reflection, he concluded the memory could not have been of a swordplay sequence; at least, not one he had learned. The introductory sword training that all soldiers received focused on single techniques; those who showed exceptional talent in these common classes were assigned individual tutors whose role was to teach how these techniques might best be combined into effective combat against a skilled opponent.
They were all swordmasters, and many had served as the Emperor's Swordarm in their youth, but the methods they taught varied widely. Some only taught the points of connection between the various techniques, and expected their students to craft their own sequences. Others taught techniques strung into dizzying chains of attack, with elaborate flourishes and misdirections. Robert's own tutor favored short sequences of no more than four techniques, to better adapt one's attacks to the changing flow of battle. He would not have used a sequence of more than eight techniques, such as the Swordarm had just employed, much less taught it to one of his students. And Robert had never met any tutor other than his own, except...
Robert had his answer, for what little it was worth. The Swordarm had come to his senses, twisted roughly to his side to retrieve the sword from where it had fallen, and sprang to his feet with surprising agility. He wore the expressionless mask of a soldier no longer; it had been replaced by one of unbridled fury. By following the etiquette of a duel, and sparing his life where he would not have reciprocated, Robert had bruised the Swordarm's honor in front of his subordinates. He found himself smiling at the irony, which only seemed to enrage the man further; without so much as a word to Robert, or even to his own companions, he rushed forward to deliver a new flurry of attacks.
These attacks were quicker and more elaborate than any that had come before, with frequent changes in combat stance and sword grip. Even aided by a dim memory of that sparring match ten years before, each new attack brought Robert nearer to the point at which his guard would fail, with death the inevitable consequence. But as the battle continued he found himself surprisingly unafraid, and oddly expectant. Death was near, but he knew somehow that salvation was nearer still, though he did not know what form it might take. He knew better than to attempt to examine this premonition, but he felt its approach with every slash barely diverted and every thrust barely dodged.
It came in the unlikely form of yet another furious attack. This one was a crosscut maneuver, a horizontal slash at chest level that would immediately be reversed with a modified grip, to comprise a single technique with two points of contact that could segue into any of several subsequent attacks. It wasn't a particularly difficult technique for an experienced swordsman, and had the Swordarm fought stoically, as a soldier should, it would not have posed any great risk of reprisal. But his fury imbued the first slash with an unnatural force that carried the hilt of his sword a handsbreadth further than it should have gone. The opening this provided was small, and its existence was fleeting, but it was enough; having dodged back to avoid the blow, Robert lunged forward and drove his blade through the Swordarm's heart, almost to the hilt.
He died standing, impaled on Robert's sword. Robert saw his eyes widen in shock and his lips move as if to speak before his face suddenly went slack. By some combination of willpower and momentum, however, the Swordarm's final attack still landed; his sword cut a deep gash through tunic and leggings into Robert's thigh before falling from limp fingers to the floor. Robert pulled his own sword from the body, twisting the wide blade in the wound as a final insurance, and the Swordarm's corpse fell heavily to the ground beside his sword.
The three soldiers stood unmoving beyond, mouths agape; even the unflappable veteran appeared shocked by the Swordarm's sudden defeat. Robert raised his sword to signal challenge to any other that would approach, but the pointed tip of his blade quivered, and began to waver, before his eyes. The shadows in the corridor seemed to lengthen and congeal, and the soldiers' figures became blurred and indistinct. Just before his knees buckled, Robert saw one of them - the veteran, he thought - start forward with his sword raised.
"Stand down! You will not harm him!"
The voice was that of the princess, and it came from just ahead. Oblivion beckoned, but Robert forced his eyes open to find himself on one knee, leaning against the hilt of his sword, the blade of which had found purchase in the rough stone floor of the corridor. The Swordarm's blood pooled around his lowered knee, mingled with that which flowed from his own wounds, and Robert added vomit to the rancid mix. He had not killed a man before, and had seen death only at distance.
"He is a criminal, your Highness." A soldier's voice rejoined firmly, and Robert did not need to raise his head to know that it was the veteran who spoke.
"A criminal?" The princess asked doubtfully, "And how is it that a criminal fought an honorable duel where the Emperor's Swordarm would not?"
"He fought with a blade he had no right to wield." The veteran insisted angrily. "By the laws of the Family and the Empire, he did murder today."
When the princess did not respond immediately, Robert finally raised his eyes from the floor. His body protested even at this small exertion; every muscle ached as though he had just run down an injured deer. He found matters largely as he expected; the princess stood facing the soldiers, with Robert at her back. She had retrieved one of the freshly lit torches from its socket, and held it before her to forestall the soldiers' advance. The veteran stood directly in front of the princess, and was largely obscured by her form; Robert could see little of him, but was relieved to note that although the two younger soldiers held their swords raised they seemed uncomfortable with the veteran's lack of deference, and had not stepped forward to join him.
"If he has done murder, then he will face justice." The princess ceded finally. The two young blue-coats relaxed, and one of them sighed in relief, but she had not finished. "In the Emperor's court, where guilt can be ascertained. I will not see him killed to satisfy a soldier's vengeance."
The veteran recoiled at the princess's accusation, but did not lower his sword, and when he spoke again his tone conveyed more than a mere lack of deference.
"This is a Family matter, princess. You have no authority to intervene. You are not Emperor, and the Council has not named you Regent. Now stand aside, or I will make you stand aside."
The two young blue-coats shared an incredulous glance at the veteran's words, but neither moved to help or to hinder. With a groan, Robert struggled back to his feet and raised his sword, which quivered and even wavered in his unsteady hand, but did not fall. If the veteran touched her, he would face Robert's blade, ineffectual as it now was.
"Then so be it." The princess answered flatly. Robert readied himself to intervene, but before the veteran could make good on his threat, a thin tongue of fire erupted from the head of the princess's torch and spiraled quickly around him, engulfing him in flames almost at once. He screamed in agony, dropped his sword, and began pawing at the licks of flame that played across his face and seemed to devour his features, but to no avail; his hands were also aflame. Two more tongues of fire erupted from the torch, and slithered around the flailing veteran like twin snakes to chase down the young soldiers, who had dropped their swords and fled. The fire caught and engulfed them before they had covered half the distance to the threshold, and they died in like manner; the mingled screams of the three soldiers filled the corridor.
When all was silent and movement ceased the princess let drop her torch; Robert watched it rebound off the charred corpse of the veteran, scattering ashes in its wake, and come to rest on the corridor floor, its fire spent. The princess turned to face Robert, and stared wearily down the length of his blade, the tip of which was poised only inches from her throat. He had raised it almost by reflex, but fear and revulsion now kept it steady.
"What are you?" Robert croaked out the question, though the answer was obvious. A witch. The princess is a witch.
She didn't answer immediately, but her eyes brimmed with tears, and she turned her vision to avoid meeting his gaze. Robert forced himself to ignore any inclination toward pity and moved his sword a handsbreadth forward, so the point rested gently against her throat. The gesture was sufficient; her eyes met his, and she gave her answer.
"I am who I have always been." The princess said mournfully. As soon as the last word was spoken she swayed forward - Robert barely managed to withdraw his blade before it would have pierced her neck - then back, like a blade of grass waving in a gentle breeze, and fell to the floor, unconscious.