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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 his arm and side would grow weaker。 It was straightforward； routine； any petent soldier would know this to be so。
Blaise became aware after a time that this was exactly what was happening。 It began to be visible in the Arimondan 's face； though his expression of arrogant concentration never really changed。 There was more blood now； welling from the wound in his side。 Meticulously； with the precision all field surgeons claimed and most lacked； Blaise set about exploiting the injury he had inflicted。
His focus was calmly precise； unhurried； patient； so much so that he nearly died。
He ought to have been killed； for he was badly fooled。 What Quzman did was feint a throw with another knife。 For the second time he stepped backwards and stabbed his sword into the flattened grass； reaching towards his leg with his freed hand。 Blaise； alert for the throw； was already dodging； twisting downwards again； when Quzman； on one knee； hurled his heavy shield instead like an athlete's disc with his left hand； cracking Blaise so savagely across the shins it sent him sprawling； crying out with the pain。 The Arimondan seized his sword again and was up with frightening speed； lunging forward with a downward slash intended to decapitate。
Blaise rolled desperately backwards and flopped to one side； gasping at the pain in both legs。 The descending sword bit earth a blade's width from his head； but Quzman was reaching in earnest now for his second knife； at quarters too close for swords as he fell forward upon Blaise。
He never reached that blade。
Years ago； during one of the endless campaigns against Valensa； King Duergar of Gorhaut； who had continued to take an interest in Galbert de Garsenc's curiously rebellious younger son； had called for Blaise to ride out alone with him one morning in the king's circuit of his army's encampment。 On that springtime ride； as a purely passing remark； he had offered a suggestion as to where a useful blade might be secreted upon one's person； before pointing out how cherry trees in blossom were a good place for archers to hide。
In real pain； his sword useless； Blaise rolled again desperately and released his grip on his shield。 And as he did so he claimed his own hidden dagger from the iron sheath he'd had made for it； at his king' suggestion； on the inside face of the shield。 Jamming his right arm against the ground at the end of his awkward roll he rang the shield hard off Quzman's shoulder and then； pulling his left hand free with the blade； he stabbed the Arimondan twice； once deep in the muscles of the sword arm； and then a raking gash across the ribs already wounded。
Then he twisted out from under his writhing foe and struggled to his feet。 He quickly regained his sword。 Quzman； twisting in pain； his sword arm now useless； his left side streaming with fresh blood； lay on the smeared grass beneath him。 There was a sound of people shouting in the distance； oddly remote。 Blaise was aware that he was swaying unsteadily o