The Sword Page 10

  “Patience,” Maurice counseled, putting his hand on Teo’s wrist.

  Teo sighed and stared at the ceiling until the poem was finished. He’d heard more than enough and was about to head for the door again when an announcement nailed him to his seat.

  “Our final contestant,” the announcer said, “is a last-minute entry to the competition today. She is a new poet from one of the frontier villages. Her name is Anastasia of Edgeton.”

  The crowd in the recital hall broke into low murmurs. It was unusual to have a contestant from somewhere other than the aristocratic centers of Entrelac or the Citadel. Teo heard scattered comments such as “peasant girl” and “commoner” from the unsettled crowd. The judges turned to each other in whispered conversations. Everything about the scene infuriated Teo—the shoddy poems, the catty girls, the competitive parents, the snobbish judges. But all that receded when Anastasia walked onto the stage and into Teo’s life again.

  She carried herself with poise, standing tall, her hair bound elegantly above her head. Her scarlet gown was fitted to the waist, with a skirt that flowed behind her as she walked to the podium with her harp. An olive-skinned girl sat down nearby with a set of music pipes.

  Ana stepped onto the podium and waited for the crowd to settle, but it did not. Teo sensed her uncertainty. Should she begin? Wait another moment? The chatter continued.

  Teo could take no more. He vaulted the low wall of his box seat and strode toward the center aisle. A new set of murmurs arose as the audience recognized one of the tournament’s favored competitors. Teo glared at the crowd, holding up his hand, palm outward. Each section of the hall to which he gestured fell silent. Finally, he extinguished the last babblers with a sharp command. He took an empty seat on the front row. The hall lay absolutely still.

  Ana’s regal voice announced the title of her poem: The Turtledove Who Could Not Fly. From its opening lines, the piece created an aura entirely different from what had come before. It was a classic ballad, written in the meter appropriate for grand themes, set to a tune preserved in musical lore from ancient times called “Amazing Grace.” Ana sang the lyrics with such clear tones that the cavernous hall was filled with sweetness. The notes swirled among the stone columns, penetrating to each hidden corner. Her harp carried the story’s thread forward, while the pipes provided a haunting accompaniment. Sunlight shimmered from the windows in the upper story, giving the whole place an otherworldly feel. Teo was mesmerized.

  The ballad recounted the story of a lonely turtledove who had never learned the secret of flight. In rich detail, Ana painted a picture of the realm she loved so much. She heightened the pathos step-by-step as she described how the little bird traversed Chiveis and sought wisdom from various creatures but always came up short. The he-goat was too busy chasing the females. The scarab beetle only wished to roll in dung. Though the bat could fly, it was foul, lurking in subterranean caves. None of these creatures had anything to teach. Finally the dove decided to inquire from the yellow-billed chough—that glossy black bird who soared above the highest peaks. Surely it would hold the secret to flight, if anyone did. But when the dove asked for insight, the chough turned cruel, brutally pecking the smaller bird.

  Ana’s final stanzas formed a sad lament, filled with unrequited spiritual longing. In sorrow, the wounded turtledove looked around at its beloved, broken world and mourned for it.

  You mountain-stars, so small and white,

  Your blossom shines like snow.

  Long have you been the folk’s delight!

  Why do you cease to grow?

  You milch-cows who spend alpine days

  With bell-decked heads bent low—

  No more on clover do you graze;

  No milk from you doth flow.

  You summit-heights of wide renown,

  Clad ever in your ice,

  Take care lest you come falling down—

  ’Tis pride, your fatal vice!

  My kingdom fair and full of light,

  What darkness hath crept in?

  O how can you escape this plight,

  To cleanse away your sin?

  The gods, they trample down upon

  My beautiful Chiveis!

  O who will come deliver us

  From pride, our fatal vice?

  I wait, alone, with longing heart

  My soul begins to pine

  For one who reigns o’er all to give

  A prophecy divine!

  As the last notes of Ana’s ballad reverberated in the stillness, the spell that had fallen over the crowd lingered for a final, suspended moment. Ana stood alone on the podium, her crystalline song echoing away in the recital hall. The hint of a smile turned up her lips, and her cheeks were flushed pink. Her hand was poised gracefully at her bosom as she sought to catch her breath. She was indeed more radiant than any woman Teo had ever seen. The crowd began to rise to its feet in a spontaneous ovation—until a harsh voice rang out.

  “Blasphemy!” The annoying priest of the Elzebulian Order who had confronted Teo at breakfast shouted the disparaging word into the awed silence. “I declare this poem to be blasphemy!” He stalked down the center aisle. The crowd was too stunned to speak. Everyone gaped at the turn of events.

  The priest hurried to the judges’ table and loomed over them with a frown on his face. The judges huddled behind their desk, conferring over their notes and whispering among themselves with their backs to the audience. Finally the crowd found its voice as a restless murmur rose to fill the awkward hush in the hall. Teo glanced at the stage. Ana was gone.

  Someone yelled the name of an earlier contestant, and soon the crowd filled the recital hall with raucous shouts in support of their favorites. The agitated judges stared at each other in confusion, looking for someone to take the lead. Finally one of the judges nodded to the Elzebulian priest. He held up the victor’s medal in one hand, and with the other he gestured toward the recently deflowered teenager with the pile of curls and the sparkling eyelids. She pointed to herself hesitantly and, when she received a nod from the judge, began to move forward.

  No! Teo pounded his fist into his hand. This can’t be happening! How can they do this to Anastasia? Furious, he ran backstage, looking for the only woman worthy of the prize, the woman whose poem had so stirred his heart. She was nowhere to be found. After a lengthy search, he gave up and left the hall.

  Maurice met Teo at the carriage. They instructed the driver to head toward the coliseum. For a long time, they rode along in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. Teo brooded over the travesty he had just witnessed.

  At last Maurice spoke up. “Whatever else we may say about today’s events, Teo, one thing is certain—your Anastasia truly is beautiful.”

  “Yes, she is,” Teo answered, looking out the window as the coliseum drew near. “She carries the true spirit of Chiveis in her soul. But apparently my kingdom can’t see it.”

  Ana felt her heart thumping in her chest as she slipped through the backstage area and out a rear door. She had known her poem was a risk. The aristocratic girls could be so unkind, not to mention the demanding judges and the fickle crowd. Ana’s classic style of poetry wasn’t in vogue, though she had hoped to appeal to the patriotism of the Chiveisi. No matter, she told herself. I stayed true to myself. I can hold my head high.

  Where was Captain Teofil? It had been such a surprise to see him come forward with his commanding presence. He was the last person she had expected to see on the front row! She had looked for him but lost him in the tumult.

  As Ana turned a corner in the alley behind the recital hall, a sallow-faced man stood in her way, making her feel uncomfortable. His face bore a leer, and his eyes held no goodwill. He made a vulgar proposition to her, but Ana turned away.

  “You’ll be sorry for that,” he growled. “It’s too bad tonight isn’t the Wild Night!” Ana didn’t fully understand his reference to that disgusting festival of Elzebul she despised so much.

  At last she rea
ched the main boulevard. A man’s familiar voice spoke behind her: “Well done, my beloved daughter!” Ana turned to see her father, Stratetix, along with Helena holding his arm.

  “Thank you, Father! Your opinion means more to me than a million judges.”

  He embraced her. “My opinion is that you’re a woman of tranquility and courage. I couldn’t be more proud,” Stratetix beamed.

  Glancing at her mother, Ana noticed she had tears in the corners of her eyes. Ana was moved at the sight. Though her father was proud of her achievement, only her mother had truly understood Ana’s fears at taking such an artistic risk. Yet it was Helena who had most strongly encouraged Ana to write her classic poem and set it to the ancient tune. She’d carried Ana through the weeks of doubt leading up to the recital.

  “I was nervous,” Ana admitted, “but I knew you would be there supporting me, even if no others would.”

  Helena laughed. “It seems you had at least one other supporter today—Captain Teofil! It was noble of him to intervene on your behalf.”

  “It was! I looked for him afterward, but he was gone. I really wanted to see him.” Ana’s expression changed quickly. “You know—to thank him.”

  “Yes, love,” Helena said with a nod. “I do know.”

  Stratetix offered one arm to his daughter and the other to his wife, steering the two women down the street.

  “If you want to find the captain, I know the place to go. It’s time to see whether I’ve put my bets on the right man. Let’s hope his riding, his arm, and his bow are all strong today—for his own sake as well as for ours.”

  Entrelac was in a festive mood. Because it was a holiday, no one was working the fields or plying the waters of the two seas. Everyone crowded the lanes, laughing and talking with friends. Acrobats, jugglers, and flame eaters in bright costumes performed their tricks for the people’s amusement. A baker hawked honey buns at such a good price that Stratetix bought three, then added six more for the children playing marbles in the dirt.

  “Oh my!” Ana exclaimed. “No marbles will shoot from those sticky fingers!” She pointed to their honey-covered hands, but the delighted children didn’t seem to mind.

  The crowds began to converge on the coliseum at the edge of town. It was a U-shaped building of stone, set on the shoreline with its open end facing the Tooner Sea. The massive structure gathered the Chiveisi in its arms for sport and drink. When the games were over, the coliseum would vomit its occupants out to a night of revelry.

  Ana marveled at the arched facade of the coliseum. Idols of Pon, Elzebul, Vulkain, and Astrebril stood in each archway, for this building belonged to the four traditional gods of Chiveis. She thought about the symbolism in her poem, which the old priest had considered blasphemous. Apparently at least one person had understood her veiled critique of the state religion!

  A colossal golden statue of Astrebril the Great overlooked the main gateway to the amphitheater. He was a dragon god with the bearded face of a man and the body of a serpent. Bat wings rose in covering splendor from his scaly back. His head was crowned with rays of light, symbolizing the sunrise whose daily renewal depended on him—or so it was said. Ana shivered.

  As the family approached the gate, a stern Vulkainian militiaman warned them back. He gestured with his acid spray gun to indicate the reason they must wait: a parade led by the High Priestess herself was approaching the coliseum.

  The priestess’s open carriage was drawn by an enormous bison. The bull’s horns swayed as it lumbered along, its beard hanging low, its powerful shoulders covered in a shaggy mantle of fur. The driver held a set of reins attached to a ring in the bison’s slimy nose.

  The archpriests of the three Chiveisian subdeities followed the carriage in procession. Each rode a horse whose coat had been dyed to match the color of its rider’s order: black for the Elzebulians, bright white for the Vulkainians, and green for the devotees of Pon. Bringing up the rear, a horde of priestlings and monks trailed along on foot. Musicians banged cymbals, gongs, and drums, while flutists and harpists added to the racket.

  “It’s such a ridiculous scene,” Ana whispered to her father.

  “Guard your tongue, daughter.”

  With a tug of the reins, the High Priestess’s carriage stopped in front of the golden statue of Astrebril. She rose from her seat and mounted a platform on the rear of the carriage, letting the crowds see her in full ceremonial regalia. They fell back in awe. The woman was beautiful, remarkably youthful in her appearance, yet old enough to have tasted the urge to wield real power. Her beauty was that of the seductress. It hypnotized the onlookers—a terrible, tangible force that reached out and gripped them hard. In the presence of the High Priestess, each man wanted her for himself. But Ana wondered, Would he be prepared for what she would bring to his soul?

  The priestess’s face was painted white, while her lips, eyes, and fingernails were colored black. She carried a brass scepter with the image of a snake engraved around it. Her straight dark hair was parted so that it swept down beside her face. Standing so close, Ana could see how truly alluring she was. The High Priestess wore a white robe that plunged at the breast, its sheer fabric clinging to her lithe body. Around her neck she wore an iron collar with a ring in it, proving she was Astrebril’s slave. Ana was repulsed by the thought.

  “People of Chiveis, I greet you! Today I give you the spectacles you deserve!” The High Priestess’s captivating voice drew cheers and applause. “My people, hear my words! Let it be known that the contest today is more than mere entertainment. The battles of this day symbolize the battles fought in the heart of every man: Will he join the side of almighty Astrebril, or will he join with evil?”

  “Astrebril! Astrebril! Astrebril!”

  The High Priestess lifted her arms to the skies, her eyes wide with exhilaration. “And what will happen to those who dare to oppose the Beautiful One? Will it be death?”

  “Death! Death! Death!” The onlookers’ faces bunched up in fury, and they shook their fists in the air.

  The High Priestess pointed her scepter to the statue of Astrebril, who smirked at the scene with his tongue dangling between his teeth.

  “FEAR HIM!” she shouted.

  An unearthly roar burst from the statue’s mouth, showering flames and sparks on the people, wreathing them with acrid white smoke. Terror gripped the crowd, and everyone cowered, moaning in fear. Ana shrieked and reached for her father. His strong arm encircled her to protect her from the divine fires. Helena also clung to him. Such an awful noise! It was like thunder on earth, louder than anything Ana had ever heard.

  “Let the spectacles begin!” The High Priestess cracked a whip, and the bison pulled her carriage through the gate into the towering coliseum.

  The people of Edgeton had reserved a block of good seats at the coliseum. As loyal farmers who dared to live outside the Citadel’s protection, they were entitled to first pick. Ana fidgeted in the front row. She had been nervous at the poetry recital, but now the skittering in her stomach was much worse. The contestants in these games could be severely injured. In fact, many had died. What if Teofil was to die? The thought came to her suddenly, and it scared her, though she couldn’t say why. She wanted to pray for him, but to whom?

  Through the coliseum’s open end, Ana stared at the deep blue water of the Tooner Sea. The wind was calm, and the lake shimmered in the sunlight. Its tranquillity stood in contrast to the fever pitch within the coliseum. The place was packed with ravenous spectators.

  The first event was the horse race. An oval track had been laid out on the arena floor, and two hay bales on sturdy platforms were set up alongside as targets. The riders would have to throw their javelins into the targets as they passed by. Small catapults lined the track, ready to hurl distracting ammunition.

  “There he is! Do you see the captain?” Stratetix pointed to the assembled riders as they readied their horses.

  Ana spotted him immediately. Teo wore a dark blue shirt and, tucked into hi
s high boots, riding breeches of the same color. A leather helmet was strapped around his head, scant protection against a horse’s sharp hoof should he fall. Oh, Teofil, don’t fall!

  Ana put her hand on her father’s arm. “It’s only three laps around, right?”

  “Ha! No, remember, this is the Grand Tournament. It will be six laps around, with spears at each straightaway and lots of fireballs coming at them.” Ana’s lip curled down at the thought.

  The twelve riders led their horses to a rope stretched across the starting line. The horses stamped and snorted. At the center of the coliseum, the High Priestess stepped from beneath her awning onto a platform. As she raised her scepter above her head, a hush fell upon the crowd. No one was allowed to speak. Ana’s heartbeat quickened.

  The High Priestess’s arm swept down, and the rope fell. The horses leaped forward at a full gallop, their riders hunched low in the saddle. A quiver of twelve javelins bobbed on the right flank of each horse. Clods of earth were kicked up underneath their furious hooves.

  “A hit!” Stratetix pumped his fist. Teo’s blue spear had struck the target beside the track. It was one of only five to do so. The horses rounded the first bend with Teo in the third position. On the next straightaway, he hit the target again.

  One lap down, five to go! Ana felt no relief yet.

  As the horses raced along, a fireball blazed into their midst. With its orange flames streaming behind, it reminded Ana of the fire arrows she and Teofil had launched at their enemies. When it smashed into the track and burst apart, two riders trying to avoid it tangled and went down, their horses tumbling in the dirt. An audible crack signaled the snapping of a foreleg. Ana winced. The crowd groaned in delight.