Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

“Hold you? Damn you and your arrogance,” she said. “I have made my vows.”

“My dear, girls leave convents every day. What kind of God would demand your chastity like a jealous lover? If you wish to commit to your God, be my guest, but don’t hide behind your vows.” He smiled. “There. I, too, have thought and thought. And those are the words I say to you.” He took his gloves out of his belt. “I love you, Amicia. But…” He paused, and bit his lip.

Amicia shrugged. “My answer will be the same. You should marry the Morean princess.”

He stopped moving.

“Irene. We all expected you to marry her. Even your own people expected it. Did she have warts or something? I understand that she’s the most beautiful woman in the world-at least, I’ve heard it said.” Amicia smiled. “I really just want you to be happy.”

“So you have placed a mighty working on me?” Gabriel said.

Amicia shrugged.

“Can you remove it?” he asked. “I tried last night and failed.”

“Let me set this out for you,” she said like a schoolmistress for a not-very-bright pupil. “You accuse me of casting some praxis that is protecting you from death. And you’d like it removed.” Her arch tone was almost contemptuous.

His anger flared. “No one else can do this to me,” he spat. “Damn you. But yes. Take it away.”

“Your mother can do this to you,” Amicia said. “I spent a day with her and you know what? I liked her. I found that we agreed on some surprising things. For example, we both agreed that you needed to be protected.” Amicia took a deep breath. “And for this I’m to be damned?”

Gabriel paused.

“You still have a healthy element of small boy in you, shouting I can do it myself. And in many ways you can. But-”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Amicia, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. My mother is not-anyone’s friend. Even her own. She is a Power. ”

Amicia nodded, lips pursed and eyes narrowed almost to slits. “Gabriel Muriens, I am a Power. ” She stood. “Just when you begin to woo me successfully-and you do, the mere sight and sound of you, as God is my witness-your overbearing-” She stopped. “You do yourself no favours. I am not a girl. I am not witless. I can, in fact, heal the sick, and make fire rain from the sky.”

He looked away. “I am not the only arrogant fool here,” he said. He went to the doorway. “I thought we’d go for a ride. And perhaps kiss. And maybe you’d tell me why you’ve placed a working on me. And I’d forgive you.” He shook his head. “Instead, I have to at least consider that you and my mother are working together on whatever fool scheme she’s devised for my future as the messiah of the Wild. I find that hard to credit, but if it is the case-”

“Forgive me?” she asked. Despite her best efforts, tears burst from her eyes. “You would forgive me for saving your life ?” She looked at him, shaking her head. “And you think I’m plotting with the Wild ?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You idiot,” she said.

He took a trembling breath and stepped forward.

She straight-armed his advance. “Go,” she said.

She heard him mount his horse. And she heard him say, “Fuck,” quite loudly and distinctly, and then he rode away, and she gave vent to a year’s worth of frustrated tears.

Ser Gabriel appeared in the great hall just before noon. He was a trifle muddy and more reserved than usual, and Ser John beat him at chess so easily he felt the other man must be distracted.

“I’m not myself,” the Red Knight said, although the acerbity with which he said it made him seem very much himself. “I intend to take my household and depart in the morning.”

Ser John started. “By God, Ser Gabriel,” he said. “I had counted on you for the rest of the council.”

Ser Gabriel shook his head. “I need to get to Harndon. The tournament is what-nineteen days away? I’d like to have a rest and a chance to do a little politicking before I cross lances with anyone. You can plan the logistics of the mobile force as well as I-better for knowing the suppliers. I need to be anywhere but here.”

Ser John raised both eyebrows. “I am sorry. Has my hospitality gone awry?”

Ser Gabriel managed a good smile. “Nothing of the sort. You are a fine host. I brought my own black mood with me.” He frowned. “I still need to discuss the agreement with the duchess.”

He sent young Giorgos, who went and returned.

In his flawless High Archaic, the young man said, “The despoina is closeted with the good sister,” he said. “The duchess is no doubt making her confession.”

“No doubt,” the Red Knight said. He rose, bowed and went out into the yard.

Bad Tom was cutting at a pell.

Ser Gabriel sent Giorgos for his war sword and went to the next pell, displacing a dozen other men who, in one look, decided to do their training elsewhere. He attacked the pell ferociously, and then, with a poleaxe, more pragmatically, raising splinters and then cutting them away.

Tom redoubled his efforts for a while, perfectly willing to compete at pell destruction.

But wood chips were not particularly satisfying, and Bad Tom grinned. “Care for a dust-up?” he asked.

The Red Knight tossed his weapon to Giorgos. Without further words, he stripped his doublet, opening the lacings as fast as his fingers would go.

Ser Michael came out of the back of the stables.

“Cap’n’s going to wrestle with Bad Tom,” Cully said. “Household’s marching tomorrow.” He raised an eyebrow. “His leg still hurt?”

Ser Michael nodded. “Not all that’s hurting, by all accounts,” he said. “We can’t leave tomorrow,” he said.

Out on the sand, Tom and Gabriel, naked to the waist, were circling.

They came together. The captain took one of Tom’s arms, and Tom wrapped him in a tight embrace and held him tenderly.

“You good?” he asked. He hadn’t even bothered to throw the smaller man.

Ser Gabriel leaped away. Then he attacked.

He landed a fist, and Bad Tom bent lower, and the expression of mild pleasure on his face changed to one of joyous ferocity.

“Uh-oh,” Ser Michael said to Toby.

Toby, who was packing armour, sighed.

Tom threw the captain, face first. Ser Gabriel rolled, but Tom was atop him, and caught an arm and forced him to the ground. “Yield,” Tom said.

But he was a second too soon. Ser Gabriel turned inside the grab and spun under Tom’s arm, avoiding the dislocation of his shoulder.

Tom locked his arms around the captain’s head and rocked him back and forth gently. He took a step back. “Yield,” he said again.

Ser Gabriel swung his feet forward in a way that made his friends wince for his neck, got a purchase, and tried to free his head.

Tom let him go.

Quick as a viper, the captain got an arm under Tom’s left arm, passed his head through, and went for the throw.

Bad Tom bellowed in real rage and hooked Ser Gabriel’s foot, kneed him ungently in the balls and dropped him on the ground. In the process he put his knee behind the captain’s knee.

“You stupid fuck,” Bad Tom bellowed, sweat and spittle dripping off him. “I could ha’ maimed you for life. I had your fewkin’ head in a lock. I might hae snapped your fewkin’ neck. And you would na’ yield. What sport is that?”

Ser Gabriel lay on the sand, face up, his hands clasped between his legs, panting. His right leg lay at an odd angle.

“Damn me. I didna’ mean to hurt you, you loon.” Tom reached down and grabbed the captain’s hand.

Ser Gabriel allowed the Hillman to drag him to his feet, and then he screamed and fell.