ggk.asongforarbonne-第95部分

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　　It　was　that　horseman's　movement；　the　instinctive；　almost　unconscious　product　of　a　lifetime　in　the　saddle　with　blade　in　hand；　that　took　Blaise　back；　in　a　blur　and　rush　of　time；　to　his　childhood　and　those　first　clandestine　lessons　his　brother　had　given　him；　at　a　time　when　Galbert　had　forbidden　Blaise　to　touch　a　sword。　Both　boys　had　been　whipped　when　the　deception　was　uncovered；　though　Blaise　hadn't　actually　known　about　Ranald's　punishment　until　long　after；　and　then　only　because　one　of　the　corans　had　spoken　of　it。　Ranald　had　never　said　a　word。　There　had　been　no　more　lessons　though。　Galbert　had　had　his　way。　He　almost　always　did。
　　Blaise　looked　over　at　his　father　then；　at　the　smooth…cheeked；　manding　features。　The　furrow　of　concern　on　Galbert's　brow　had　gone；　he　was　actually　smiling　now；　a　smug；　thin…mouthed　expression　Blaise　knew　well。　And　why　should　he　not　smile？　Ranald　was　ten　years　past　his　fighting　days；　and　Ademar　was　very　possibly　the　strongest　warrior　in　Gorhaut。　The　result　of　this　had　been　assured　from　the　moment　the　challenge　was　made；　and　Galbert；　Blaise　understood　in　that　moment；　cared　nothing　at　all　for　the　life　of　his　son。　Ranald's　death　would　even　simplify　matters。　He　had　bee　almost　irrelevant　to　the　High　Elder；　except；　as　here；　when　he　became　a　nuisance　and　a　distraction；　or　even　a　threat　to　Galbert's　power　over　the　king。
　　In　fact；　if　Rosala's　story　was　true…and　of　course　it　would　be　true…the　honour　or　dignity　of　Garsenc　had　ceased　to　be　important　to　Galbert　in　any　way　that　signified。　All　that　seemed　to　matter　to　the　High　Elder　was　his　control　of　Ademar　and　this　great　burning　in　Arbonne　that　was　allowing　him。　Ripened　fruit　of　his　long　dream。　That　was　what　mattered；　and　one　thing　more：　Cadar。　His　grandson　was　also　a　part　of　Galbert's　cold　stalking　of　power　in　Gorhaut　and　Arbonne's　obliteration。
　　He　must　not　have　him；　Blaise　thought。
　　He　wondered…the　terrible　thought　intruding　like　a　spear…if　Rosala　had　given　orders　to　have　the　baby　killed　if　they　lost　the　battle　here。　It　was　probable；　he　realized；　in　fact　it　was　almost　certain。
　　Grief；　from　all　directions　it　seemed；　closed　in　upon　him　as　he　turned　from　his　father　to　look　at　his　brother　again；　seeing　Ranald　strangely　now；　as　if　from　a　distance；　as　if　he　were　fading　already　into　the　past；　into　mist；　on　a　day　in　Arbonne　brilliant　with　light。
　　
　　Ranald　de　Garsenc　is　also　thinking　of　the　past　as　he　lets　his　body　respond　intuitively　to　the　demands　of　bat。　For　the　moment；　as　the　overwhelming　familiar　first　steps　of　the　dance　begin；　he　is　all　right；　he　is　even；　in　some　unexpected　fashion；　nearly　happy。　He　knows；　absorbing　a　sequence　of　blows　on　shield　and　sword；　slashing　in　response；　that　this　cannot　be　sustained。　He　is　not　that　much　older　than　the　king　but　he　is　far　past　his　best　years；　while　Ademar；　strong　as　a　tree；　is　as　close　to　his　peak　as　he　will　ever　be。
　　As　if　to　make　explicit　what　both　of　them　know；　the　sheer　strength　of　the　king　drives　his　blade　through　a　tardy　attempt　at　warding　and　the　sword　hammers　into　the　light　armour　Ranald　wears。　He　has　always　preferred　to　be　lighter　in　the　saddle；　relying　on　quickness。　Now；　wincing　at　a　hard　lance　of　pain　in　his　ribs；　pulling　his　horse　back　out　of　range；　he　realizes　that　most　of　that　quickness　is　gone。
　　Ten　years　ago；　Ranald　thinks；　though　without　bitterness；　I　would　have　had　him　on　the　ground　by　now。　There　is　no　false　pride　in　the　thought　either：　ten　years　ago　he　had　been　named　by　King　Duergar　as　his　court　champion；　and　for　two　full　years；　fighting　in　the　king's　name；　he　did　not　lose　a　single　bat　in　any　tournament　from　Gotzland　to　southern　Portezza　to　the　Arimondan　court。　Then；　on　a　night　in　the　dead　of　winter；　Ereibert　de　Garsenc　had　died　and　Ranald　became　duke　after　the　obligatory　candlelit　vigil　in　the　chapel　of　Corannos。　The　tournaments　and　banquets　and　the　celebrations　of　his　prowess　among　women　and　men　gave　way　to　estate　administration　at　Garsenc　and　an　inexorable；　trammelling　immersion　into　his　father's　designs。　Not　as　a　confidant　of　course：　Galbert　trusted　in　Ranald　no　more　than　his　son　shared　thoughts　with　him。　Ranald；　as　duke　of　Garsenc；　became　a　tool　for　Galbert's　schemes；　no　more；　and　at　times　rather　less。　It　was　all　a　long　time　ago。　Those　were　the　days　when　ale　and　wine　first　became　his　forts；　avenues　to　oblivion。
　　But　his　thoughts　do　not　linger　among　those　memories。　Even　as　he　parries　another　barrage　of　blows；　feeling　the　weight　of　the　king's　assault　jarring　his　arm　and　shoulder　almost　numb；　he　finds　his　mind　going　even　further　back；　much　further　actually。
　　Unlike　Blaise；　who　never　saw　her；　Ranald　has　a　memory　of　his　mother。
　　Two　or　three　images；　in　fact；　though　when　he　first　spoke　of　them　as　a　child　he　was　sternly　told　by　his　tutor　that　these　were　false　recollections；　unworthy　fantasies　for　a　warrior…to…be。　Ranald　was　two　years　old　when　his　mother　died。　Boys　that　age　could　not　remember　things；　the　tutor　decreed。　When　Ranald　tried；　not　long　after；　to　ask　his　father　about　the　recurring　image　he　had　of　a　red…haired　woman　singing　to　him　by　candlelight；　Galbert　flatly　forbade　him；　on　pain　of　a　whipping；　to　mention　it　again。　Ranald　was　six　years　old。　It　was　the　last　time　he'd　attempted　to　confide　something　of　importance　to　his　father。　Or；　he　realizes　abruptly　now；　to　anyone　else。
　　The　memory　of　the　red…haired　woman　has　stayed　with　him　all　these　years；　though　he　has　never　again　spoken　of　it。　It　occurs　to　him；　for　the　first　time；　that　he　might　have　mentioned　it　to　Rosala。　It　might　have　been　something　to　share　with　her。　He　guides　his　horse　with　a　quick　pressure　of　his　left　knee　and；　ducking　with　a　grunt　under　a　wide　side…sweeping　blow；　delivers　a　backhand　slash　of　his　own；　ringing　it　hard　off　Ademar's　armour。　The　king　is　prone　to　such　flat；　sidelong　blows　he　notes；　a　part　of　his　mind　still　registering　such　things；　as　if　there　is　anything　he　is　going　to　be　able　to　do　about　it。　I　should　have　told　her；　he　is　thinking。　Rosala　might　have　wanted　to　hear　of　such　a　memory；　in　the　beginning；　at　any　rate。　In　the　later　part　of　their　time　together　he　was　less　certain　of　her　interest　but　that；　truly；　was　his　own　fault。
　　Just　as　it　is　his　own　fault　that　he　is　short　of　breath　already。　He　is　feeling　the　effects　of　this　morning's　ale　as　a　thick　heaviness　in　his　limbs；　in　the　extra　pulse　of　time　between　his　awareness　of　a　threat　or　an　opportunity　and　his　body's　slow　response。　It　is　going　to　get　worse；　he　knows。　Ademar　is　not　even　breathing　hard　but　Ranald　is　grimly　aware　that　his　own　shield　and　armour　are　dented　already　by　the　king's　blows。　He　is　afraid　he　may　have　broken　ribs　on　his　left　side；　it　has　bee　difficult　to　do　much　more　than　parry。
　　Ademar　seems　to　be　aware　of　this。　Through　his　lowered　black　visor　the　king　of　Gorhaut　speaks；　contemptuously　giving　Ranald　a　respite。　Softly；　so　that　none　of　the　others　will　hear；　he　says；　〃I　could　almost　pity　you；　were　you　not　such　a　fool。　She　will　be　mine　tomorrow；　I　want　you　to　think　of　that。　I　hope　you　are　thinking　of　it　in　the　moment　I　kill　you。　Tomorrow　night；　when　her　hair　is　down　and　she　wraps　her　mouth　around　my　sex　in　the　way　that　I　shall　teach　her　do　you　think　she　will　mourn　the　poor；　sad；　drunken　man　she　once　had　to　lie　beside？〃
　　Ranald　would　reply；　but　he　lacks　the　breath　to　spare　for　taunting；　and　there　is　nothing；　actually；　he　can　think　of　to　say。　His　ribs　are　extraordinarily　painful　now；　each　breath　drawn　seems　to　slide　a　knife　into　his　side。　He　suspects　the　king　is　wrong；　though；　he　believes　Rosala　told　no　less　than　truth　when　she　said　she　would　die　before　lying　with　Ademar。　This　thought　makes　him　abruptly　aware　of　something：　if　the　king　kills　him　he　is　almost　certainly　killing　Rosala　as　well。　And…a　second　new　thought　like　a　lash　of　the　cold　wind…even　more　surely　killing　the　child。　The　son　he　has　never　seen。
　　I　am　everything　he　says　of　me；　Ranald　de　Garsenc　thinks；　and　now　there　is　bitterness。　I　have　wasted　my　life。
　　He　remembers…and　with　this　memory　as　well　there　is　sorrow　now…his　brother　Blaise　on　the　fogbound　drawbridge　of　Garsenc　only　a　little　time　ago：　You　don't　have　to　follow　him；　Ranald。　You　have　the　first　free　choice　you've　had　in　a　long　time。　He　answered　harshly；　he　remembers；　almost　choking　in　confused　fury。　Corannos　knew；　there　had　been　so　much　anger　in　him　that　night。　Wrongly　directed　though；　he　seems　to　have　turned　in　wrong　directions　all　his　life。
　　There　was　a　time　when　I　would　have　followed　you　to　the　end　of　the　earth；　Blaise　also　said　that　night。　I　never　knew　that；　Ranald　thinks；　his　eyes　warily　on　the　king　of　Gorhaut。　Blaise　is　here　too；　watching　him；　has　claimed　a　crown；　defied　their　father…even　named　Corannos　to　witness　his　doing　so。　He　is　walking　a　path　of　honour；　one　that　might　make　a　man　proud；　even　a　brother。
　　Ademar　lifts　his　sword　and　points　it　forward　like　an　executioner。　He　is　playing　to　the　armies　now；　Ranald　knows。　He　can　hear　them　to　the　north；　a　constant　murmur　of　sound　broken　by　sharp　sudden　cries。　It　is　about　to　begin　again。　And　end；　Ranald　de　Garsenc　thinks。　He　looks　up　for　a　moment　at　the　bright　sun　shining　above　the　fields　and　the　forests　of　this　land　of　Arbonne。
　　He　is　genuinely　not　afraid；　only　sorrowful　and　full　of　regrets；　but　it　really　is　too　late；　he　thinks。　There　would　never　have　been　enough　time　to　make　amends　for　so　many　errors　and　weaknesses。　He　thinks　of　the　red…haired　woman　singing　him　a　lullaby。　He　wonders　if　she　is　waiting　for　him；　if　the　god　might　allow　a　grace　like　that　to　such　a　man　as　he　has　been。　He　thinks　of　his　brother　again；　and　then；　lastly；　of　his　wife　and　the　child　he　has　let　slip　away。　Cadar。　A　strong　name；　one　of　honour　in　the　world。　Far　better　than　the　memory　of　his　own　name　will　be；　he　thinks；　and　it　is　this；　at　the　end；　that　hurts　most　of　all。　And　spurs　him　to　a　last　gesture；　an　attempt　at　redress。
　　Ignoring　the　pain　in　his　side　Ranald　thrusts　his　own　sword　above　his　head；　theatrical　and　arresting。　Ademar　hesitates。
　　Ranald　sucks　precious　air　and　cries　out　then；　as　loudly　as　he　can　through　the　open　visor　of　his　helm；　hoping　the　armies　can　hear：　〃Before　our　most　holy　god　I　name　you　a　false　king；　Ademar；　and　I　set　my　sword　against　you　in　the　name　of　Gorhaut。〃　He　hears　a　new　sound　rising　to　the　north　and　knows　his　words　have　carried。　He　s