I must often remind myself that my enemy is a young woman not even twenty years old. All people are corruptible if the right device can be employed. We have tempted her with riches, and she rejected them. We have tempted her with love, and she demurred. But I recall now the wise words of one maston. Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope. We will tempt her with hope, and then we will crush it.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Champion of Comoros
The words of the challenger stilled all conversation within the hall. Maia stared at the young man, who was probably just a slight bit older than she was. He had a solemn bearing, his eyes near glowed with anger, and he had drawn a maston sword, which he held purposefully before him. She saw the glint of the hauberk beneath his white-and-black tunic and cape, and his hair was dark, like Collier’s, only longer.
Carew kicked off the stirrups and landed with a clatter of the spurs on the paving stones. His own sword rung clear of his sheath. He was larger and more intimidating than the young man, although he had recently been wounded.
Maia stood at her table suddenly, feeling the thick tension fill the hall like haze.
“What abbey do you hail from?” she called out to the young man, who had declared his name Hove.
The look he gave her was dark and distrusting, and his gaze almost immediately returned to Captain Carew. “I passed the maston test at Augustin. You will not deceive me with your words as you have these others. Speak no more, woman. I will not hear you.”
“She is your queen,” Carew said angrily, closing the gap between them.
“I will have no bloodshed in my hall,” Maia said with firmness in her voice, though she felt her knees trembling at the prospect of the coming conflict. “Captain . . . disarm him.”
“It will not be difficult,” Carew said with a chuckle.
“So said the giant before he fell,” Hove retorted. He fell into a battle stance, guard held high, eyes focused on Carew.
The more seasoned soldier grunted with mockery and rushed at him with a flurry of blows. Maia remained on her feet, unable to feel the Medium at all amidst the drunkenness and frivolity of the coronation celebration. She had not expected Kranmir to challenge her right to rule so openly, at least not yet. As she heard and saw the two swords clash, she tried to understand the rogue Aldermaston’s motives. Why would he send a stripling, one who had passed the maston test at his own abbey? Certainly, the young man would be totally loyal and obedient, sharing the same regard for him as she herself felt for Richard Syon, but did that explain it?
She glanced over at her chancellor, who had a wrinkled frown on his face as he stared at the spectacle playing out in front of them.
Carew locked hilts with Hove and used his size to drive the young man back, but suddenly the young man dipped and hammered his gauntleted fist into the captain’s leg. Carew’s face twisted with pain, and Maia realized the blow had been delivered to his injured leg, the one that had been wounded in the battle of Muirwood. Carew crumpled and sagged onto one knee, but he countered with a punch to Hove’s ribs. The two men wrestled a bit before separating, both wincing and breathing hard.
“A cruel trick,” Carew sneered.
Hove saluted him with his sword and delivered a mocking smile before coming at the captain again, more vigorously this time. Carew struggled back to his feet, but he was limping now, and Maia felt a trembling of dread that her drunken champion was about to fail.
There were sparks as the blades met, and although he was younger and less experienced, the boy’s passion helped close the gap created by Carew’s skills and size.
“I do not like this,” Maia seethed, watching helplessly as the two men fought. A dark feeling wriggled inside her heart. She felt certain that she needed to stop the conflict. If she did not succeed, something dreadful would happen.
Carew pivoted and folded in, trapping Hove’s sword arm against his body. He snapped his head forward against Hove’s forehead, aiming for the boy’s nose but glancing his cheekbone instead. The young man’s head whipped back in a daze, and Carew twisted him around and threw him to the ground.
Maia saw the look of rage and fury in Carew’s eyes as he went after the young man, his sword raised to deliver a blow.
“Stop!” Maia shouted at him.
Carew ignored her and rushed up to kick the young man in the ribs. Prepared for the blow, Hove caught Carew’s leg before it landed and hoisted it up. Carew tottered and slammed down on his back, hard. There was a gasp from all who were assembled as the captain choked for breath, writhing on the ground. He clenched his stomach, trying to breathe, and Hove got to his feet and kicked the other man’s sword away. He looked down at the fallen captain with triumph, his sword at the ready.