ggk.asongforarbonne-第77节

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how　much　depended　on　his　walking　alive　from　this　field。　And　with　that　his　anger　was　upon　him　fully；　the　familiar；　frightening　daemon　that　came　to　him　in　battle。
　　〃Spare　your　breath；〃　he　said　thickly；　and　surged　up　from　the　ground　to　engage　the　other　man。　There　were　no　words　then；　no　space　for　words　and　indeed　no　breath；　only　the　quick　chittering　clatter　of　blades　glancing　and　sliding　from　each　other；　or　the　harder；　heavier　clang　as　sword　met　blocking　shield；　the　controlled　grunting　of　two　men　as　they　circled　each　other；　probing　with　cold　metal　and　cold　eyes　for　an　avenue　along　which　they　could　kill。
　　Quzman　of　Arimonda　was　indeed　good；　and　driven　by　the　fierce　pride　of　his　country　and　his　family；　and　he　had　a　sworn　vengeance　to　claim。　He　fought　with　the　fluid；　deadly　passion　of　a　dancer　and　Blaise　was　wounded　twice　more；　in　the　forearm　and　across　the　back　of　his　calf；　in　the　first　three　engagements。
　　But　Quzman's　thigh　was　gashed；　and　the　leather　armour　over　his　ribs　was　not　quite　equal　to　the　scything　blow　it　took　on　a　forehand　slash　from　an　Aulensburg　sword　wielded　by　a　man　with　a　passion　and　rage　of　his　own。
　　Blaise　didn't　stop　to　gauge　how　badly　he　had　wounded　the　man。　He　drove　forward；　attacking　on　both　sides；　parried　each　time　with　impacts　that　sent　shocks　up　his　elbow　and　shoulder。　He　registered　the　welling　of　blood　at　Quzman's　left　side；　ignoring　as　best　he　could　the　stiffening　protest　from　his　own　leg　as　he　pushed　off　it。　He　could　easily　have　been　crippled　by　that　low　blow；　he　knew。　He　hadn't　been。　He　was　still　on　his　feet；　and　before　him　was　a　man　who　stood　in　the　path　of　。。。　what？　Of　a　great　many　things；　his　own　dream　of　Gorhaut　not　least　of　all。　Of　what　his　home　should　be；　in　the　eyes　of　the　world；　in　the　sight　of　Corannos；　in　his　own　soul。　He　had　said　this　two　nights　ago；　words　very　like　this；　to　King　Daufridi　of　Valensa。　He'd　been　asked　if　he　loved　his　country。
　　He　did。　He　loved　it　with　a　heart　that　ached　like　an　old　man's　fingers　in　rain；　hurting　for　the　Gorhaut　of　his　own　vision；　a　land　worthy　of　the　god　who　had　chosen　it；　and　of　the　honour　of　men。　Not　a　place　of　scheming　wiles；　of　a　degraded；　sensuously　corrupt　king；　of　people　dispossessed　of　their　lands　by　a　cowardly　treaty；　or　of　ugly　designs　under　the　false；　perverted　aegis　of　Corannos　for　nothing　less　than　annihilation　here　south　of　the　mountains。
　　It　was　one　thing　to　have　ambitions　for　one's　homeland；　dreams　of　scope　and　expansion。　It　was　another　to　use　the　sky…blue　cloak　of　the　god　to　hide　a　smoke…shrouded　inferno　of　men　and　women…a　nation　of　them…thrown　to　burn　on　heretics'　pyres。　Blaise　had　seen　such　fires　as　a　boy。　He　would　never　forget　the　first　time。　His　father　had　clutched　his　shoulder　and　had　not　let　him　turn　away。
　　He　knew　exactly　what　Galbert　wanted；　what　Ademar　of　Gorhaut　would　be　guided　to　do　when　he　came　south。　He　knew　how　strong；　how　wealthy　the　army　of　Gorhaut　would　be　by　the　time　the　snows　melted　in　the　spring。　He　had　seen　those　pyres；　he　would　not　watch　another　burn。　He　had　sworn　it　to　himself　those　long　years　ago；　watching　an　old　woman　die　screaming；　flames　in　her　white　hair。　And　to　stop　them；　to　stop　his　father　and　his　king；　he　had　first　to　defeat　this　Arimondan　who　stood　now　in　his　way　with　a　curved　sword　already　reddened　by　Blaise's　own　blood。
　　
　　The　most　celebrated　troubadours　and　the　better　known　joglars　did　not　watch　the　tournaments　from　the　mons'　standing　ground。　By　courtesy　of　Ariane　de　Carenzu；　as　a　sign　of　their　high　favour　in　Arbonne；　they　were　given　a　pavilion；　not　far　down　the　lists　from　her　own。　An　invitation　to　sit　among　those　in　the　pavilion　was　one　of　the　prime　measures　of　success　each　year　among　the　musicians；　and　this　autumn　marked　the　first　time　Lisseut　had　found　herself　included　in　the　elect。　She　owed　it　to　Alain；　she　knew；　to　his　own　growing　reputation；　and　to　the　little　man's　brash　assertiveness　that　memorable　night　in　Tavernel　when　she　had　sung　his　song　to　the　queen　of　the　Court　of　Love　and　the　dukes　of　Talair　and　Miraval。
　　And　to　the　red…bearded　Gorhaut　coran　who　was　now　battling　for　his　life　on　the　grass　before　them。　It　seemed　he　wasn't　just　a　coran；　though。　Not　since　those　two　bright　banners　had　been　run　up　above　his　tent　and　the　herald's　voice　had　fought　to　be　heard　over　a　roar　of　sound。　She　had　known　since　Midsummer　who　Blaise　de　Garsenc　was　and　had　kept　faith　by　telling　no　one。　Now　he　had　revealed　his　identity　to　the　world；　and　had　done　something　rather　more　than　that。　The　man　she　had　upbraided　so　caustically　in　The　Liensenne　a　season　ago；　and　had　then　followed　to　the　Correze　gardens　later　that　same　night；　was　laying　claim　to　the　crown　of　Gorhaut。
　　It　was　with　a　sense　of　deep　unreality　that　Lisseut　remembered　inviting　him　to　e　back　with　her　that　night　in　Tavernel。　Unlucky　to　spend　tonight　alone　in　this　city；　she　had　told　him。　Unluckier　still　to　have　a　degree　of　presumption　as　rash　as　her　own。　Her　mother　would　likely　be　forced　to　take　to　her　bed　if　she　found　out　about　any　of　this。　Even　now；　months　after；　Lisseut　could　not　stop　herself　from　flushing　at　the　memory。
　　Looking　up　at　those　two　banners　in　the　wind；　she　wondered　what　he　must　have　thought　of　her；　of　the　wet　and　straggle…haired；　interfering；　impertinent　singer　who　had　accosted　him　twice　in　a　night　and　then　taken　his　arm　in　the　street　and　invited　him　to　bed　with　her。　He　didn't　even　like　singing；　she　remembered。　Lisseut；　among　friends　in　a　bright　pavilion；　had　winced　at　that　thought；　too。　No　one　had　noticed。　The　others　were　busy　wagering　on　the　ing　fight；　laying　odds　on　a　man's　death。
　　Then　thoughts　of　herself　and　memories　of　summer　had　gone　flying　far　away；　for　the　two　men　on　the　grass　had　drawn　their　blades；　the　straight　sword　and　the　curved　one；　and　had　advanced　upon　each　other。　Blaise　had　bent　to　throw　grass　and　mud　at　the　other　man's　shield；　something　she　hadn't　understood　until　Aurelian；　without　being　asked；　had　quickly　stooped　to　speak　an　explanation　in　her　ear。　She　had　not　turned　to　him。　She　had　been　unable　to　take　her　eyes　from　the　two　men　on　the　grass；　though　a　part　of　her　was　recoiling　in　horror　even　as　she　watched。　They　spoke　to　each　other；　but　none　of　them　could　hear　the　words。　She　saw　the　Arimondan　react　as　if　scalded　by　something　said；　and　then　spring　to　attack。　She　saw　him　parried；　once　and　then　twice；　as　her　breath　caught　in　her　throat。　Death　was　here。　This　was　not　for　show。　The　reality　of　that　came　home　to　her；　and　just　then　she　saw　the　curved　sword　planted；　unexpectedly；　in　the　earth。
　　And　it　had　been　in　the　next　moment；　precisely　then；　she　would　afterwards　remember…the　Arimondan's　flung　dagger　slicing　through　Blaise's　ear　as　he　twisted　away；　then　the　swift；　bright　flowering　of　blood…that　Lisseut　of　Vezét　realized；　with　a　cold　dawning　of　despair；　that　her　heart　was　gone　from　her。　It　had　left　without　her　knowing；　like　a　bird　in　winter；　flying　north　to　a　hopelessly　wrong　destination　where　no　haven　or　warmth　or　wele　could　even　be　imagined。
　　〃Oh；　mother；〃　she　whispered　then；　softly；　to　a　woman　far　away　among　olive　groves　above　a　coastal　town。　No　one　paid　any　attention　to　her。　Two　men　were　trying　to　kill　each　other　in　front　of　them；　and　one　of　them　had　claimed　a　crown。　This　was　matter　for　song；　whatever　happened；　it　was　matter　for　tavern　and　castle　talk　for　years　to　e。　Lisseut；　her　hands　gripping　each　other　tightly　in　her　lap；　spoke　a　prayer　then　to　sweet　Rian；　and　watched；　even　as　she　felt　the　flight　of　her　heart　from　her　breast　across　the　bright　green　grass。
　　
　　Some　things　about　fighting　Blaise　had　had　to　teach　himself；　or　learn　from　his　brother　at　those　rare　intervals　when　he　was　at　home　and　Ranald　would　consent　to　give　him　a　secret　lesson：　Blaise　was　heading　for　the　brethren；　what　use　would　skill　with　a　blade　be　for　him？　Other　elements　he　had　learned　from　the　men　who　guided　him　in　swordsmanship；　quite　a　few　years　later　than　most　young　men　in　Gorhaut；　in　the　year　after　the　king　had　already　made　him　a　coran；　more　as　a　rebuke　to　his　High　Elder　than　through　any　recognition　of　Blaise's　merits。
　　But　the　greater　part　of　his　education　had　e　in　the　field；　in　war　and　in　the　tournament　melees；　the　nearest　thing　to　warfare　that　peacetime　offered。　He　was　lucky　he　had　survived　in　those　first　months　and　years。　He　knew　that　now。　He'd　been　far　too　callow　and　untutored　to　have　had　any　right　to　expect　to　walk　away　from　battlefields　at　Thouvars　or　Graziani　or　Brissel；　or　those　early　tourneys　at　Aulensburg　or　Landeston　in　Valensa。　By　the　time　of　Iersen　Bridge；　though；　he　had　known　the　craft　of　killing　and　surviving　extremely　well。　And　it　was　there　on　that　winter　field　that　he　had　e　nearest　of　all　to　dying：　which　was；　of　course；　the　darkest　of　many　ironies　at　the　heart　of　a　soldier's　life。
　　In　any　case；　what　Blaise　proceeded　now　to　do　was　as　obvious　to　him　as　the　direction　of　sunrise　or　the　proper　flight　of　birds　in　winter。　The　Arimondan　was　badly　hurt　on　his　left　side。　The　task　then　was　to　make　him　use　his　shield　again　and　again；　to　lift　it　high　against　forehand　blows　aimed　towards　shoulder　or　head。　It　didn't　matter　if　the　blows　landed；　against　a　good　man　they　wouldn't　be　expected　to。　But　with　each　one　warded　by　a　shield　thrust　upward　in　defence；　Quzman's　wound　would　be　forced　open　more　and　hi