The Lady at the River's Edge

10 - The Coming Dawn

"He is called Sir Jakab," said Mihaly, miserable enough to make one think he had to fight the man. "Seven feet tall, if not more. A true beast." He aimed a meaningful look at Janos. "Known to some as Hadur."

"Hadur..." Erzsebet muttered. She took a drink of wine, unwilling to join the two knights in their ale. "That name sounds familiar."

"Among the pagan Magyar," Janos explained, "Hadur is the god of fire and warfare."

A log spat in the hearth of the guardroom, making Erzsebet jump, much to her chagrin. She glanced at the fire, saw the plume of sparks rise and dance in the air. "You don't sound particularly troubled," she noted.

Janos shrugged. "Some titles are earned, while some are worn only as a festival mask." He took a swallow. "Besides, they have not yet named their champion. I might not have to fight the man at all."

"He is their most renowned knight by a wide margin," Mihaly put in. "If not him, then who?"

"You could name a champion," said Erzsebet. "You needn't fight yourself." Though she didn't enjoy the prospect of another castle soldier taking the risk, better it be someone more seasoned in battle than young Janos.

But he shook his head. "Combat was my suggestion. I could hardly ask another to risk his neck for me."

"Risk his neck?" she repeated. "But Father said it would be only a battle to submission! How much risk would there be?"

"The blades will be true steel, and sharp," he said evenly, "but a blunt sword can kill well enough." It always troubled her, when soldiers spoke of killing like any other chore. "Even a mailed fist can kill, if you strike true."

"But you won't be trying to kill each other, will you? It's supposed to be justice, not an execution."

"If God wills that one of us die, then so it shall be." His eyes found hers, shadowed by the dancing firelight, pools of ink with only a subtle liquid gleam. "That is the Trial's whole purpose: to give God the means to settle the matter."

"I wouldn't trust the palatine to leave it to God," said Mihaly, breaking the spell of their locked gaze. "His champion may well be out for your blood."

Erzsebet coughed faintly. "That isn't very reassuring, Mihaly."

"Janos is no coward! Better he be prepared for the possibility than not."

She looked down at her glass, the swirling wine far too crimson for her liking. "I meant that it did not reassure me." The admission brought warmth to her face, with an unpleasant heaviness.

"Do not fear, my lady," said Janos, with an earnestness that sounded alien coming from his lips. "I swore you an oath, did I not? You'll suffer no grief from my decisions–I hold that still, and forevermore." He reached across to lay a hand on her forearm; she raised her eyes to his once more.

It was Mihaly's turn to cough, then awkwardly finish his flagon. She recalled then, watching the young man rise to his feet, an evening many years and many miles distant, when a younger Mihaly confessed his love to her. Tucked in an alcove well after they ought to have been in bed, their bodies far too close for propriety, he had spoken with quavering voice of his undying devotion, how he had watched her blossom into a true beauty, and on and on. He even recited lines from some poem or play. She could not see his face in the shadows, but she felt his spirit flag and crumple as she rejected him. He should have known from the outset, of course, that the son of a castle knight could have no hope with the daughter of a count, but youth was a wellspring of fancy and hope well beyond such mean powers as social standing.