I hate these damned great castles, Colwyn thought as he made his way into the central hall. He slowed and thought to wipe some of the sweat and grime from his face. Around him brightly colored banners and insignia of territory hung limp from the rafters. Torches flickered on mounted armor. Eirig's kingdom was not particularly rich but it was extensive. Its people were not given to ostentatious displays of wealth. In that respect they had much in common with Turold.
It was not money that he sought from the alliance, but brave men ready to fight for their homes and their world. The wise men at court had tried to show him that such an adventure was doomed from the start. The depredations of the Slayers could not be prevented; even to think of doing so was foolishness. It was best to accept one's fate, much as one did a harsh winter or summer flood.
Colwyn refused to accept the inevitability of disaster that some of the wise men had forecast. There was no fear in him of the Black Fortress, nor of the shadowy master it was home to. It did not terrify him that the Fortress apparently came from another world. Just because this affliction was new and alien did not mean it couldn't be cured.
Slayers could be slain like any man, for all that they possessed horrible weapons and did not fight like men. All that was required was the will to fight them, the will and an army of dedicated warriors. Between them, Eirig and Turold might mount such an army.
He started forward again, stumbled over his own tired feet and caught himself. His gaze darted leftward. There had been the briefest giggle.
His eyes stopped at a half-opened doorway. Even in the dimly lit hall it would have been difficult to pass over that flash of color.
Lyssa did not laugh again. She stepped out into the light Her dress was finely but not elaborately embroidered and she was as clean as Colwyn was sweaty. Their eyes met and all such simple thoughts were instantly put aside.
She's so slight, Colwyn mused. A strong breath could blow her away. Or could it? There was something about her that suggested otherwise. A thin tree can have strong roots, he reminded himself. Slim but strong, then, in mind as well as body. Such was the Lyssa he'd been led to expect. She came toward him.
"I have chosen well," she said softly, without guile.
It was there, he thought. The power he sensed deep within
her, the same power that had been in her letters. It was in her voice too, every syllable, for all that they were softly uttered. He had thought to greet a much larger woman, but as he continued to stare at her she expanded in his eyes.
"So have I," he thought to murmur.
"Handsome." Her inspection was direct. "I had not counted on that. It would not have made a difference, but I suppose it's good that a wife should find her husband pleasant to look upon."
"Life is long and full of mornings," he responded. "One should not be displeased by the first face one sees every day." "You speak of days to come. I see by your appearance that the past ones were not as promising. Your journey was as difficult as it was delayed?"
"But necessary. The land between Eirig and Turold is filled with the misery inflicted by the Slayers. We left as many as we could lying in the fields they had destroyed." "You boast of killing?"
"I never boast of killing. There is nothing praiseworthy in making murder."
She nodded slowly. "I was told that you were brave but until now did not know what my advisers meant when they kept telling me you were not the usual sort of warrior. You are wise. And handsome as well. A rare combination." She spread out the folds of her dress and did a little pirouette for him. "Then, you do find me attractive?"
"These past months I've had to deal with innumerable idiotic questions at court. Do not ask me more of the same." He grinned slightly.
"I think I like you, master of the indirect compliment." More seriously she inquired, "How fares your homeland against the Slayers?"
"No worse than most and better than many. They seem to be attacking the poorer kingdoms and smaller towns first. Our turn will surely come if they are not stopped."
"You believe they can be stopped?"
"They can be killed, though they do not die like men. I do not side with those who believe it is our fate to be overrun by them. I do not believe in inevitable happenings. If I did I would not have made this marriage against my father's wishes."
"Nor I against mine."
"We shouldn't waste time. Will the ceremony be held here?" He indicated the vastness of the great hall.
"No, there is a special place within the castle. Tonight, at moonrise, we will begin according to the ancient rites. I have no love for ritual but my father has insisted. He desires that you prove yourself."
"I don't doubt it." He went quiet, his thoughts momentarily elsewhere.
Say something, Lyssa told herself as the silence deepened between them. The man is uncomfortable. Help him to relax. You are to be husband and wife, not business partners.
"My father says that good fighters make bad husbands."
"I too have heard that, only the other way round. What does your mother say?"
"My mother died when I was small. I scarcely remember her. No"—she put a hand to his lips to restrain him from mouthing the usual condolences. "It is long done with and now is not the time to look to the past." She smiled reassuringly at him. "Some say it depends on the husband. What would you say?"
A woman as clever as she was beautiful, Colwyn mused. All that he had been told seemed truth. There were many attractive damsels in both kingdoms, many princesses in kingdoms close by, but only one Lyssa of Eirig.
"I would say that peace and love, whether established between nations or man and woman, depend not on believing old tales and superstitions but rather on forging a relationship free of the meanderings of others."
Her smiled widened. "A good answer.. .Colwyn. I believe this match is well met." She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. The brief touch reminded him of the hot breath from a kitchen oven quickly opened and as quickly shut again. It was both welcoming and promising. They separated with reluctance.
"Proprieties," she whispered, glancing past him to make certain the great hall was still empty and that no one had observed. "We will marry only once, so we must take care to do it properly. I am sure of you, but we must be certain of each other." Her hand brushed his cheek lightly. Then she turned and retreated back through the door from which she'd emerged.
Colwyn stared until the door had closed behind her. His cheek burned where she'd touched him. He was aware that his hands were still steepled together as if still holding hers, and that he was holding his breath like a swimmer who'd just crossed a goodly distance underwater. He exhaled slowly.
The Slayers had best beware. With such a woman at his side he felt there was nothing he couldn't do.
No one could remember who had designed the nexus. The architect of the castle was little more than an honored memo-ry and the plans he had drawn were buried somewhere in the royal archives. The nexus was a special place, utilized only for the most profound ceremonies.
Nor was the reason for its design immediately apparent to the casual observer. An advanced mathematician would have noted the schematic with a start of surprise, but there were no advanced mathematicians in Eirig now.
Two corridors wound a strange course through the lower part of the white castle, twisting and turning until they finally met at the nexus. A small altar and water basin that filled from a stone spigot dominated the far end of the chamber.
Distant music penetrated the special place, but few of those participating in the ceremony paid it much attention. Eirig and Lyssa approached down one corridor while from the end of the other Colwyn and his father anxiously awaited the bride's arrival. Colwyn was impatient for the proceedings to be over and done with, but he did not try to hurry matters. He remembered what Lyssa had said about observing the proprieties.
The men-at-arms kept their eyes forward as the royal pair walked between their ranks, though several could not keep themselves from stealing a look at the exquisitely beautiful Lyssa as she passed them by. Everyone knew that she had turned down many suitors and each man privately measured himself against this successful visitor, the solemn-faced Colwyn of Turold. There was little envy in their thoughts, however. Most of all there was admiration mixed with hope. All knew what benefits the alliance with their powerful neighbor to the west could bring.
As Lyssa's torch passed each opposing pair of soldiers, their own torches sprang to life. Though they had been warned, the sudden combustion still came as a shock. It was this power of the princess's that had put off more than one weak-spined suitor, the power that danced in her eyes and could make the strongest man go queasy in the belly. That such an implied threat had not dissuaded this Colwyn was the strongest point in his favor.
And as Colwyn's own torch had given light to the torches held by the men in the other corridor, glances of approval had come from the men-at-arms. Here at last was a fit match for their princess. Who could predict what good might come of such a union?
They met at last in the domed chamber that was the nexus, the ancient place of bringing-together, the sanctuary where those of power might demonstrate secret truths to one another.
As was his right, Turold spoke first, his voice firm and unwavering. "From this day, my kingdom is no more."
Colwyn removed his hand from the torch he held together with his father. His eyes were half-closed and it almost looked as if he might be falling asleep. But he was more than alert. The torch went out. He blinked and turned to face his bride.
"Nor is mine," Eirig said, assured at last that this Turoldian might be a fit match for his daughter.
Lyssa let go. of their firebrand and the flame fled from the wood as quickly as it had from its counterpart. Turold took a step forward, extended a hand, and placed it on King Eirig's upper arm. Eirig reciprocated.
"A single kingdom under our children. From this day forward let no man speak for Turold or for Eirig. Let our people mingle free and unafraid with each other and help one another in times of prosperity as well as chaps. If any more blood is to be spilt in either land, let it be not the blood of brothers but of Slayers!" –