The Winter Prince (The Lion Hunters:01)(43)

The snow falls at my word.



The black months wheel around ere Spring,



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Ice-edged as my cold sword.

I am the one stronger than all



Who march in this parade:



Which of these gay retainers, lord,



Dare turn aside my blade?”



Marcus, in his crown of forced flowers:

“In come I, the Winter Prince,



Son of the Year that’s gone;



Green ivy, hawthorn, and holly I bear



For pledges of the returning Sun.



I will fight for the Old Year:



Though the grim Midwinter’s rod



Strikes the soil, soon the young Sun



Will stir the Spring’s triumphant sod.”



Bedwyr as the New Year answered:

“Pull out your sword, young Harvest Lord,



Defender of the Sun!



As the Year dies, so you shall fall—



You and the Old Year both I shall have



Before I quit this hall.”



Gofan brought forth the swords, staves bound with ribbons and green leaves. Half serious, half in jest, Marcus and Bedwyr began the ritual duel. Marcus cried out in feigned innocence: “The New Year has only one hand! How is he to fight me?” The audience laughed, full well aware of Bedwyr’s skill with a sword, and guessing his opponent to be untrained and woefully mismatched. Marcus retorted smartly to the good-natured jeers of the spectators; but when Bedwyr casually knocked Marcus’s staff aside with his useless arm, Lleu’s voice rang out above the rest in a peal of delighted laughter. Marcus whipped around to face him. “I suppose you can do better?” he challenged. He tore the wreath of flowers from his head, crying, “I’ve been killed eight times today already. Let the New Year fight one who can defend himself!” Faceless still, masked in white linen, he advanced upon Lleu and snatched away the golden circlet to replace it with his own. “A worthy champion for the Old Year!” Marcus announced triumphantly, dragging the protesting Bright One to the center of the floor.

“Pull out your sword, young Harvest Lord,



Defender of the Sun!”



Bedwyr repeated, as Marcus pressed his staff into Lleu’s hand.

Lleu swallowed his mirth and straightened the wreath he now wore, black hair tousled beneath blossom out of season, dark eyes glinting in a face white with excitement: he stood slender and solitary amid the costumed figures, a single human youth among savages or gods. He said to the audience in confidential tones, “You realize how unfair this is. They’ve been practicing all evening.” There was some laughter at that, but it was hushed, for this would be a duel worth watching.

It went on, and on. Even Bedwyr, who had taught him, could not disarm Lleu son of Artos. The revelers cheered and laughed till they must gasp for bre s gawenath, feverish in their pleasure. Marcus shouted at last, “You’re supposed to let him kill you!”

“Why would anyone do that?” Lleu cried, without a gap in his defense.

“So we can get on with this foolish show and eat,” Bedwyr grunted.

Lleu threw down his staff and held his arms out wide, in a comic gesture of frustration and submission. “What must I do, hurl myself upon your blade?” Bedwyr made as though to stab him, and Lleu fell dramatically, taking near as long to die as he had taken to be killed. “Have you finished?” Bedwyr demanded, and to the crowd’s delight Lleu answered distinctly, “Oh, very well.” He closed his eyes and lay still.

Bedwyr breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief, and Caius turned to him in high fury:

“Wretched cur, what have you done,



So to dispatch my only son?”



Now he turned to the crowd.

“Is there a man so wise in art



That he can quicken fast the slain,



Defy the ordered season’s course



And wake this youth to life again?”



Gofan bellowed deeply: “Send for a Magician!”

Now until this moment I had been costumed as were the other rhymers, in a formless suit of leaves and straw, except that my mask was black. Hidden within a little throng of shapeless, faceless men, I had removed the shaggy coat to reveal the black robe underneath. At Gofan’s call I stepped into the open space; I held in my right hand the last of the fire sticks from Cathay. Its glittering white core poured heat-less sparks over the fierce golden dragon coiled around my wrist. The crowd fell silent.