Blood of Ambrose Read Online Free PDF Page B

King said, in a clear, firm voice.
    “Excellent, Sire,” applauded Kedlidor, the Rite-Master of Ambrose. “That should be audible for quite a distance, even in the tournament enclosure. The Protector's Men will conduct any further ceremonies attendant on the execution of the sentence. You may properly depart at any point after the inarguable death of the witch—there is no formal close of the ceremony, any more than there is an end to death itself.
    “Now,” Kedlidor continued, “should Ambrosia's champion vindicate her—”
    “What chance is there of that?” cried the King despairingly.
    The withered old man, the only one of the family servants spared in the recent purge, focused his dim gray eyes on his King. “That is of no concern to me, Sire. I am not a gambler, but the Rite-Master of Ambrose. I am charged with knowing and teaching the proper ceremonies for every possible occasion. The Lady Ambrosia's acquittal is a possible occasion; therefore I will teach you the proper ceremony.”
    The King stared sullenly at the floor of the room. The Rite-Master dispassionately struck him across the face. “Attend, Sire. Say—”
    “I know all that stuff,” muttered the King, and he did. He had spent the night reading the ritual book, wondering whether he would be more relieved by Grandmother's acquittal or her death.
    “Show me that you know, Sire. Take a breath, speak loudly and clearly…”
    There was the thunder of booted feet in the hallway outside and the door flew open. The King's uncle, Lord Urdhven, was there with a troop of men wearing his personal device, a red lion standing against a black field. Behind Urdhven was the poisoner Steng. He met the King's eye and smiled gently.
    “It's nearly noon,” the Protector remarked. “Bring his Majesty, Kedlidor.” He turned to go.
    “No, Lord Urdhven,” Kedlidor replied.
    The Protector, resplendent in gold armor, enamelled with his own black-and-scarlet device on the breastplate, paused and smiled ominously down at the gray shadow of a man. “Why not?”
    “It is not fit that I be seen with the King at this ceremony. My rank is too low. Further, your poisoner may not be there.”
    “He won't be. Is there anything else?”
    “Yes. The King ought to precede you. He is of higher rank, you know.”
    The Protector turned his red smile on his nephew. “I do know it. Naturally, Sire , you must go first. All the forms will be met for this ceremony.”
    The King walked past the Protector and the poisoner into the hall of armed men. They fell in behind him, the sound of their feet in the hallway like a stone giant gnashing its teeth. He passed out into the golden light of the enclosure, and there was a unanimous shout from the crowd as the royal procession was recognized. There were soldiers before him, clearing a path, so he didn't have to decide what was the right way to go. While seeming to protect him, they took him to the wooden stair that led to the royal box, above the Victor's Square, at the midpoint of the lists.
    Already the stands of benches on either side were crowded with spectators. The King had never been to a formal combat before, and he was amazed at the mixture of somberness and hilarity among the onlookers. He seated himself amid dutiful cheers, which sounded louder and more impassioned—even hysterical—as Lord Urdhven the Protector appeared and took his place at the King's left hand.
    Opposite the stands stood the prisoner, chained to a stake, her mouth bound with a green rag torn from her appellant's robe. Beyond her was nothing but the dead lands between the two cities that bore the name Ontil. Somewhere beyond the gray hills was the Old City, capital of the First Empire. No one lived there now—it was under the curse of the Old Gods; even the river Tilion had been diverted when the New City was founded by Uthar the Great and Ambrosia centuries ago. But, in name, Lathmar was King of that city too. He had often daydreamed of escaping from