A View of the Battle of Pelier.
She had thought they were fighting to get her Prince to his father. When he had sprinted to Silverlocke's aid, it had surprised her for just a breath. Then she was back to trying to win to safety for herself and Alexis. When Calais' rush of panic grabbed her by the throat she tried to spin, intending to cut her way through the ogre-hai behind her, to push her way through to Calais as she had tried to do for her Prince. But time stopped. The events that followed were enacted in her mind's eye as they were for everyone else in that room, while her body remained frozen at the start of her spin.
Released from being frozen in time, she tried to leap to her Prince's side, to protect him from whatever Mia was warning him away from. But it was not necessary. So she stood and heard the King's final words, heard Silver-- no, Prince Martin's sobs. When Rhori had early confided in her about his travels with his captain he had let drop -- he hadn't even noticed it, she was sure -- the comment that Silverlocke was a bastard. She'd puzzled over that and over his position in the court and had come to the conclusion that he was either the King's younger (much younger) brother or the King's son. Glancing at the Crown Prince in the far corner, she knew he was the King's eldest son -- as the deathbed confession had confirmed. Baron Ruby. Prince Martin. Now heir-apparent to the throne of the Isles and Tara.
Had her Prince known? One look at his face and she was pretty sure that he had not. Shock and grief made him look very different. But -- how quickly her Prince assimilated his tragedies, put them aside and proceeded to take command, to all appearances himself again. Her heart ached for him. There had been no tears for her at this stage either, when Jouet fell. Just work to do, orders to see carried out. Later. Oh, gods, there would be a later. Just as there had been for her, sobbing in Lorraine's arms. Her Prince was wiser than she had been; perhaps he would not wait as long to seek healing. He would need someone then, as she had needed Lorraine. The Crown Prince would not be of help; that was clear. Perhaps Sil-- Prince Martin? If his tears here were enough? How, she wondered, would it have felt to cry at the time. She'd not been able to; the need to do had been too insistent. And it would seem her Prince was more like her than like S-- Prince Martin. Perhaps Prince Martin would be the shoulder for William when the time came. But, for now, she resolved, she would stay near, wherever her Prince had need of her -- in case she could be of help in his need.
Her heart ached for him. His words came back to her. "I will never lose my mother as you have." The memory made her want to reach out, to hold him, to wish never to tempt Fate so again. He was no longer the wonderful head of her Order, the inspiring Prince of her land. He was a person -- like herself -- whose parents had died as painfully as hers had. He was a man who would hurt, as she had hurt, when he had time. But now there was nothing she could do but be there.
Then he sent her out, to speak again with Queen Branwen.
False dawn was lighting the sky, smeared with great smoky plumes from the burning city. Here and there marble was cracked, crumbled and splintered, blood and orc bits smeared everywhere. The gate itself had a great black streak from where the lightning bolt had sheered down and struck the statue of the woman whose sword Paris still clutched tightly. Somewhere, nonetheless, a feeble chorus of birds had started, greeting the dawn as they had for, lo, these thousand years, heedless of the carnage round.
The great statue animated by a greater, warm, wise, incredible spirit looked again at her. Spoke again to her. Paris felt almost like a little girl again, warm in her mother's lap. But Queen Branwen's words: yet more danger coming to the land, the kingdom. And -- this sword, this fantastic cleaver of Fell, this legend in itself, was to stay in her hands? She had carried a shield of a princess and now -- and forever! -- would wield the weapon of a queen! Paris was hard put to remember Lady duGryphon's lectures, but basic politeness had been well-drilled into her. "Thank-you, your majesty," she managed to gasp out in wonder, "I -- I will ever strive to be worthy." No, one does not refuse the gifts of a daughter of Bran.
Paris struggled to attend to the rest of the words spoken by the stone giantess. King Essen? No, her glimpse of him -- it had to have been him! -- had been of a man strong and beautiful in his prime. And now he would be wearing the older aspect and aura of the Emperor of Tarot. No, despite Genelle's comment that she herself would eventually die and be replaced in the Major Arcana, Paris did not think it likely that the bones of King Essen would be available now. For an agonizing minute she considered not telling the queen so. But -- Paris must be Paris. "No, your Majesty, I do not think that King Essen will be buried any time soon." She wanted to promise to tell him to have his bones laid in the Tomb, but the statue's sorrowful admonition swept the words away unspoken: "Do not sleep alone, Paris." Paris' mind reeled, the feelings of Ewen's kiss, Calais' panic and her Prince's pain rushed over her. "How can I be alone when I feel so much?" part of her asked and was answered by another part, "To sleep is to commit to a feeling forever." A shaft of sunlight struck the statue. Paris collapsed, unconscious.
Paris woke, the light of day making her wince and the wince raising pains in places she hadn't known could hurt. Someone had unstrapped part of her armor, was trying to pack a bandage into her. The pain wrenched a cry that very nearly caused her to black out again. Giddily she willed herself to hang on, to listen. Vaguely she recognized the voice and, as her vision cleared again, the man. He'd moved to shade her face. Sir Givance. Rodric's father. "I didn't look," she wanted to say and started to giggle. But the laugh brought such pain that she had to hang on again. Concentrate. The chiurgeon thought she shouldn't be alive. Tell me about it! she thought to herself. And then felt a stab of panic as she remembered the others. Were they all right? She had failed to return to her Prince. What had happened?
In the struggle not to give into panic and to retain consciousness, Paris was aware that, despite the ministrations of the chiurgeon, despite the removal of part of her armor, she still held her sword -- The Sword -- in what must be a death grip. I will be worthy, she thought and nearly laughed again at the current impossibility of even lifting that sword. "Can you move?" Sir Givance's voice brought her back. Paris took a deep breath and felt it stab through her. "G-give me a b-bit of time," she gasped. Clearly the Earl had no time to spare. Paris hung on as his corpsmen shifted her onto a stretcher and bore her away from the statue, through the blasted gate, back into the palace, into the throne room.
It was difficult to see from such a position and her head swum trying, but -- yes, William, there. And Calais, there. With relief she noted her other comrades. Rhori looked worse than she felt, if that was possible. But they looked alive. Nothing had gone wrong in her absence -- however long it had been. It couldn't have been that long; they were all still here. S-- Prince Martin. The King's body. William's mother's head? She couldn't see it from her position; didn't want to, really. Gods, this was so cruel. Everything splattered with blood and gore.
The room was gloomy in the early dawn. Dust sparkled as shafts of morning light gleamed through walls where windows had never been planned. Men were slumped in the darkness, moving slightly more than the bodies of the monsters that still lay where they had formed the wall Rhori and Paris had chopped through for their Prince. The smell of drying blood seemed everywhere.
More orders. The Earl of Eastgate and his men seemed in far better shape than those in the throne room. It was they who were there and able to do what the Prince asked, while she scarcely had the energy to regret not doing so. Some day someone would explain what had happened. Clearly Queen Branwen's spell of invincibility required payback in kind.
A tapestry or banner which had somehow survived the battle was torn down from a wall. The King's body was wrapped reverently therein. Paris could see the royal emblem thereon.
Then her Prince. So tired. So sad. Asking what she had learned from Queen Branwen. Paris paused. She had learned.... No -- the last comments played back in her memory -- she couldn't say that in front of everyone. Or that -- as the 'grandson' comment came back. What could she say. Ah! The first part. "My lord, " Paris tried to keep her voice steady, tried to keep pain from making her gasp every few words, "she told me that there is more danger in store for our nation -- and -- and she told me that I was to -- continue to use her sword -- to defend against it."
The silence was broken almost immediately as Sir Givance stepped forward. "She said more than that, your Highness," he claimed dryly, and proceeded to prove that he had been within earshot of the conversation Paris had had with the statue. Paris smiled wryly to herself. Well, that proved at least that she hadn't been unconscious for all that long.
Prince William's response to the short recital did, however, puzzle her. Slowly, painfully he'd risen. Almost reluctantly he seemed to have made a resolve. "A herald." Alexis rose, almost lightly compared to the others found in the throne room, Paris thought. "Here, your Highness." "Can you act for me?" "Yes, your Highness." Prince William looked out through the room. "A Staff of Office" was his next order. The Prince was clearly convening court. Why? Paris wondered. Why, when he just as clearly wanted nothing more than to fall into some bed somewhere. A staff was thrust into Alexis' hands. With a sense of shock, Paris realized that it was the banner of the First Kingdom Heavy Cavalry. To use such an emblem as a herald's staff..?! Alexis leaned heavily upon it. Not so undamaged, after all.
Then Prince William appointed Widow Mia, Royal Confessor. Paris found herself nodding her understanding. How -- right. Mia had heard the King's last confession. William wanted to make that official. If Lucas had responded, it might have been him. But -- this felt right. Her Prince had been a good friend to the Rainbow Church. Paris felt a warm glow of approval. As if she could approve of her Prince more. Paris closed her eyes, suppressing the giggle that threatened. It was hard to stay controlled, she hurt so.
"Can you come here, Paris?" The surprise snapped her eyes open.
He asked. She tried. And failed. Disappointment shot through her. I want to obey, some part of her wailed. I should obey. But already the soldiers had lifted the stretcher and moved her over in front of what remained of the thrones. Sir Givance gave her a hand and, gritting her teeth, Paris managed to sit up, slip over the edge of the stretcher and lower herself onto her knees in front of Prince William. A shaft of sunlight suddenly streamed through a crack in the stone wall opposite, illuminating the Prince, haloing Paris' hair as she knelt.
The ceremony almost flashed by. Paris was still bemused by the fact that they were saying that Queen Branwen had proposed her for knighthood when the senior officers of the Cavalry units started saying that they would accept her. Pain -- and Lady duGryphon's discipline -- kept her from turning to stare, wondering what she had done to merit such words from men she had never spoken with -- as far as she could recall. And then Prince William was saying the words of the oath. She was mesmerized. In his voice the words sounded all the meanings she had studied in class. She felt it in a way that made her know what a precious chain those words formed -- to be bound around a knight's life and honour. Her life and honour -- and the pain of a great many people: her comrades, hundreds of soldiers, Silverlocke, William -- and Queen Branwen. A tiny bit of each one was now bound in everything that made her her, that was her honour. Tears sprang to her eyes. Paris bowed her head, trying to hold back the lump that threatened to choke her. Prince William's voice continued to roll over her. Those were new words, different. She listened closely. Yes, to those too she would be bound. "I will!" she answered, blinking hard, lifting her head, unwilling to brush away the tears but knowing that she could scarcely see her Prince for their presence. "I will!" echoed everything within her.
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