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of steel
vibrating, chiming in notes almost too high to be heard.
    In his
surrender to reflexes, coming as it did in close pursuit of his decision to
fight it out with Eliatim, Springbuck found that a new and radical thought had
blossomed in his mind: all his life, Eliatim had been coaching him to lose this
particular match.
    The Prince had
been taught patience, counseled prudence—and infused with hesitation. Certainly
he’d become a superior swordsman, but he’d been ingrained with responses that
made him prey to Eliatim.
    And on the
heels of this thought—his mind insulated now from the exertions of hand and eye
to keep him alive—came insight. He must depart utterly from his conservative
style of swordplay, or die.
    He could think
of only one tactic to meet the need, though he considered and discarded a
desperate flèche. He’d seen it only once, brought back from southern parts by
Lord Roguespur and called—what was it?—the “ballestra.”
    Inspiration
became motion. He poised his body and released it like a gyrfalcon from the
gauntlet. With barely adequate stance, he pushed off with his left foot, right
preceding him in search of purchase.
    He skimmed
forward, fleet and lethal as the Angel of Death, the untried move coming to him
with surreal ease, into an immediate lunge. The actions came as one, executed
virtually as the idea occurred to him.
    Eliatim’s
defense was there, but calculated to stop another feint or convictionless attack.
Bar slid by and found his throat, and the blademaster’s point shot past the
Prince’s ear. Abruptly, Springbuck stood very close indeed to the great Eliatim
as crimson gushed into Bar’s blood channels and across its basket hilt. He
barely retained the presence of mind to pull his sword free, and gaped in
wide-eyed amazement. His adversary sank to the unheeding surface of the Western
Tangent, corpse-face covered with steaming blood and disbelief.
    The Prince
slowly wiped Bar clean on Eliatim’s sleeve and returned it to its scabbard.
    “I shall go
Doomfaring now, in earnest,” he whispered through persistent rain, “and what
final lessons you have taught me tonight, I shall never forget!”
    And his sudden
laughter rang above the wind.
     
    I galloped
out of Earthfast, with running in my head,
    And
putting leagues behind before the Queen’s guard knew I’d fled
    I killed a
man in darkness, to live until the day,
    And
whether that were wrong or not, I can’t, unbiased, say.
    But he was
dead and I alive, and you may take from me
    That as I
fought, I knew that’s how I wanted things to be.
    From The Antechamber Ballads,
    personal compositions attributed
to
    Springbuck
     
     

Chapter Five
     
    So many
gay swordes, so many altered wordes, and so few covered boardes,
    saw I never
    So many
empty purses, so few good horses, and so many curses,
    saw I never.
    JOHN SKELTON,
    “The Manner of the World
Nowadays”
     
    HE cast Eliatim’s body back into
the trees from which it had emerged. The horses presented a knottier problem.
    Determined to
take his own gray favorite now that fate had given him the chance, he took the
heavy, overgilt saddle from Fireheel and hid it, too, among the pines. He gave
brief thought to taking along Eliatim’s bow and quiver, but since his poor
vision rendered him an inferior archer, he decided to forego the trouble.
    He then
transferred the reconnaissance saddle to the powerful, long-legged Fireheel,
blew out the little lantern and hurled it in the general direction of its
owner. Picking up his dampened cloak and resuming it with a slight shiver, he
mounted and took the reins of the riderless horse in his right hand. His way
lit by occasional bolts from above, he trotted off eastward.
    Thoughts buzzed
around each other, vying for his attention. He knew that he’d been lucky in his
duel with his late instructor. Still, he perceived that there was more
substance to the encounter than that. He’d thought for himself, taken a gamble
when the