Whereas Hibern knew she herself was one of many, and disinherited at that. But she had the freedom to pick any friends she wanted. There was no family to care, no council to disapprove. Atan was so special that every aspect of her life was inspected by her formidable household and council, and so it was only when she escaped to Tsauderei’s that she could behave like an ordinary girl who liked a boy.
Since Atan hadn’t said anything about it, Hibern kept these observations to herself when Erai-Yanya asked for her report. Hibern talked about dragons, and described the encounter with the odd little girl.
To her surprise, Erai-Yanya’s brow lifted. “Ah, you’ve met Julian Dei, Atan’s cousin.”
“Julian Dei?” If there was any family as famous as the Landises—some might say infamous—that would be the Deis.
“Atan promised to adopt her, but she is a troubled child, some think from events before the war ever happened. She balks at any notion of education or even social polish. I’m told she didn’t speak for months, she was so determined against any education.”
“Is that why they called her ‘joel’ instead of ‘princess’?”
“Yes. A nice compromise.”
“How old is she?”
“No one knows. Records about her were destroyed, probably by her mother, who, it’s rumored, had to sign a marriage treaty that cut her and her offspring from the line of succession. There was a scandal with one of the Deis before the war, but as all of the individuals concerned are now long dead, the details don’t matter. Anyway, the child was hidden away with other refugee children.”
She paused, noting the tension in Hibern’s brow, and suspected it had nothing to do with Julian Dei. “If you are not writing down all your observations after these visits, you should start the habit. You don’t have to show them to me. The idea is to chart your self-reflection as well as keep track of details while dealing with powerful people.”
“That’s just it,” Hibern exclaimed. “Though she’s Queen of Sartor, Atan doesn’t seem to think she’s powerful at all.”
“She’s still young. But that,” Erai-Yanya stated, “will change.”
PART TWO
The Alliance Grows
Chapter One
Arad (Secondmonth), 4738 AF
Marloven Hess
SENRID let Chwahirsland and the alliance slip to the back of his mind. No outsider would be the least help if Marloven Hess was in trouble. The Marlovens had never had allies, but then Senrid was well aware that their worst enemies were themselves.
Through all the violent upheavals of Marloven history there was one constant: you obeyed orders, or you died.
Another constant was knowing which rules could be bent, and how to bend them. A wing—three flights, or nine ridings, or eighty-one warriors—of horse and foot taken to a conflict without duly informing the king came under the heading of treason. But any less was deemed enough to defend against hill brigands, horse thieves, or the like.
Therefore, strictly legal were the two flights apiece of horse and foot that the Jarls of Methden and Torac were bringing to the border of Enneh Rual. (The third flight followed at a distance to ‘maintain the supply line.’)
If they attacked the Rualese, that would be war in the eyes of the world. Marlovens would see it differently. If the attack was successful, fellow jarls would hail their success as a just recovery of ancestral lands—and many would no doubt soon be planning similar sorties.
If they lost, diplomatic legalities would be the least of their worries.
So the two jarls had reasoned before issuing orders to their followers.
David-Jarl Ndarga of Methden was aware of a divisive atmosphere among his ranks, signaled at the beginning of their ride from Methden Castle when someone way back in his double column whistled a few notes of a compelling melody, instantly recognizable: the Andahi Lament. No one ever sang that in battle. It was for memorials.
This was nothing less than an exquisitely insubordinate condemnation of the orders.
The jarl heard both flight captains riding down the column to deal with the individual, restoring superficial obedience, but the fact of the whistle disturbed the jarl. In his experience, the lower ranks only dared such insubordination when they had sympathizers.
Traveling from Methden’s castle to the border in winter took a few days. The jarl used the daylight to enforce strict columns, the foot marching in rhythm, to reestablish one mind obedient to his will.
His captains, under his direct orders, were on the watch for disobedience, which would earn immediate and sharp punishment. There was none. Everyone knew what happened if they did not follow orders.
Likewise, nothing untoward happened when Torac and his two flights joined them two days from the border.
They camped early the day before they were to reach the hilly ridge that marked the border, their third wings joining them with the supplies. The jarls spent the last watch of light drilling in preparation for any resistance, not that Methden expected much. The Rualans had once been Marlovens when the rest of the subcontinent was ruled by Marloven Hess, but they had stolidly and stubbornly kept to their Iascan roots as much as they could, their customs inclined toward the sea.
The jarls set out early in the morning under a reasonably clear sky, and Methden, as leader, was reviewing flag signals with his fellow jarl and their captains when one of the outriders came galloping back.
“It’s Senrid-Harvaldar,” the outrider reported. “Sitting athwart the road with several wings of the West, from the banners, and more on either side of the bluffs above the road.”
The words caused absolute silence from behind, save only the jingle of gear and the clop and whuff of fresh horses eager to move.
Torac muttered a curse, scowling at the outrider as if he were the cause of this unexpected wrinkle. Methden knew better than to expect anything but oaths and empty threats from Torac, who had been a follower since their academy days, of each prince in succession. No ideas could be expected from him, and sure enough, he looked back at Methden, blue eyes angry, but empty of intent. He, too, was waiting for orders.
“We’ll flank ’em,” Methden said. And when the outrider made a movement, his horse’s ears twitching, “Or?”
“There’s at least a riding tracking me.”
That meant that this encounter was no happenstance. The boy Senrid had—somehow—got hold of their plan. Lookouts would be posted far to either side. There’d be no surprise flanking maneuver, and a charge would be impossible over such difficult terrain.
“Who leads?” Methden asked.
“Keriam is no commander,” Torac said, and spat into the snow.
The outrider said flatly, “Senrid-Harvaldar.”
Torac uttered a derisive laugh, and scorn was Methden’s immediate reaction, followed by uneasiness. Senrid might be riding in command position, but who was really in command?
A short time later, Methden glared down the road at the fair-haired boy in the center of the mounted warriors, ranged behind the front three rows of foot warriors who stood ready and waiting, shields locked together. Sentiment had no place in ruling the Marlovens. Evan’s boy had never been to the academy, the reason whispered being weakness.
Methden wished he had his own son at his side, but Jarend was doing his two years in the guard, and had received direct orders from this boy king to serve under Senelac in East Army, on the opposite border, for the rest of the winter.
Obey or die.
Senrid watched Methden’s and Torac’s force pull up. He’d picked the ground after hours of agonizing, and here they were. He gulped air, trying to still his thundering heart. He knew he shouldn’t be listening on the mental realm, but he was. Not that anything was clear. He may as well have been standing in the middle of a shouting crowd, only this was worse because of the bombardment of emotion-drenched images, against whi
ch he had no defense when he lowered his mental shield.
“What orders?” the wing captain asked, breaking into his streaming thoughts.
Senrid listened, and sensed his intent to obey in spite of skepticism about whether or not a boy could lead. But so far, everything was right.
So far, everything was right. Senrid shivered, though his nerves were on fire. He’d only had to ride back and forth before Waldevan’s gate three times, his force arrayed behind him, before the parley flag was sent out, at which time Senrid knew he’d subdued Waldevan without shedding a drop of blood.
Now, here were the other two errant jarls. If Methden wished to engage with the cavalry lined along the bluffs, his riders would be forced to ride uphill. And Methden was definitely in command. Torac kept looking his way.
What orders? Senrid said the obvious, to be clear. “If they kill first, then it’s a capital matter. After which you’re justified in fighting to finish.”
He listened again on the mental realm, then shut out the hammer-blow of emotion. The visible signals were clear enough: tight mouths, gloved hands gripping weapons. The shift of horses, sensitive to their riders’ emotions: ears alert, snorts and tossed heads.
Senrid could see the effect of his words on his own force. Waiting for Methden to kill first meant that someone here had to die. Senrid could see righteous anger kindling, and sensed the bloodthirsty determination to break bones and dump Methden’s and Torac’s men out of saddles before letting one of those strutting cockerels get steel into a riding mate’s gut. Much less one’s own.
Senrid’s hands sweated inside their gloves. His toes curled in his boots. He’d transferred back twice to talk out the plan with Forthan, drawing out the terrain on the slate floor in one of the lecture rooms at the academy, and moving rocks and coins around as they talked out endless combinations, but here he was, he didn’t know the pattern, he wasn’t sure when to loose his people . . .
Methden’s force stirred as if a breeze had gone through them. Senrid sensed a corresponding tightening all around him, and knew. “Now,” he said, his voice cracking in a ridiculous squeak.
He cleared his throat to repeat, but the drum of hooves smothered his shout, and then two masses met in a violent meshing of individuals, voices howling in anger and anguish amid the clang and clatter of staves and swords.
Senrid gave up trying to make sense of the conflict, which so far was not quite battle, but more heated than a wargame. Each side was waiting for the other to deal a death blow, while doing their very best to knock one another out of the saddle, or whack each others’ knees out from under them.
He had to hold his mount, which had been trained to charge, but Senrid had no experience with lance, and very little with sword. He could shoot to precision, but had forbidden arrows to his own side in this exercise. He was equally skilled with knives, but did not want to kill his own people. He’d defend himself, if attacked, but he found four riders from West Army grimly ringing him in guard position, probably on Keriam’s orders.
Liere had once said, It’s just like sorting through a crowd of voices for those you know, only you’re listening with your mind instead of your ears. Senrid shut his eyes and listened.
There. He sensed more than saw the instinctive division in Methden’s ranks: there were many, maybe most, who labored under sharp misgivings.
He clapped his legs against his mount’s side. The mare leaped forward; the ring of guards followed a heartbeat after, the captain roaring something Senrid did not try to distinguish. It was enough. Cleaving clean through the Methden force, he led his own in an arrow formation—
His nerves flared painfully: intent. On him. A glance. Over there, a Torac man drawing bow. The honor guard that rode so tightly around Senrid made him an easier target in this crowd, Senrid saw in a heartbeat. Instinct was faster than thought. He snatched the shield hanging at the saddle, whipping it up.
Thunk! The arrow hitting the shield was surprisingly loud. Senrid recoiled, heels locking down hard in the stirrups so he wouldn’t fall as his guards cried out, two going after the Torac man, the others motioning more around Senrid—
And the jarl’s men fell back.
They fell back!
Senrid had already forgotten the Torac man as he sustained the mental bombardment of frustration, the barely-controlled urge to kill. His own force was the worst, the dangerous anger of self-justification, which the leaders were expressing with deliberately broken bones, filling the air with dust and the rumble of hooves, the thuds of blows, cracks, clangs of steel, and cries of pain and outrage.
Senrid shut them out, his thoughts racing: the jarl had lost before he began—act now or it will turn lethal—save honor—
Senrid kneed his horse once again, trusting in his ring of guards, and plunged into the middle of the melee. “Weapons down!” he shouted, hating how shrill he sounded. “Weapons down!”
As he hoped, the guard took up the shout, their bigger voices ringing outward through the entire body. To his captain, Senrid said, low-voiced, “Cut Methden out.”
A nod, a gesture, and with a token resistance, the Methden personal guard fell back—again, nobody willing to kill outright, though from the looks of some, there were bad wounds and breaks.
Senrid found his throat dry as the dust hanging in the air. “Form an honor guard around the Jarl of Methden and we’ll return to Choreid Dhelerei.” Senrid addressed the tall captain of the foot warriors with the rust-red hair. “Captain Marec, you’ll escort Methden’s people home. At a sedate walk, your pace. Take as long as you like.”
Captain Marec’s lips twitched; these Methden turds were going to be eating their own belts before they reached their home castle. He cast a fast, expert glance over the wounded, the worst already dealt with. He recognized from his years of equally rough games during the bad times under the regent that no one was in immediate danger, and struck his fist against his chest, mentally formulating his orders. Methden and his fools could stand around in the cold contemplating their own stupidity while his own people saw to the animals and ate a good meal.
But first.
“What about Torac?” a cavalry captain asked, sending a glare in the jarl’s direction, and Senrid, his nerves unsheathed, winced under the impact of the man’s fury. It was echoed in many, and he caught a stray whisper, “Did you see that boy whip up that shield? He wasn’t even looking . . .”
Senrid wanted justice. Justice, or revenge, or something. He wasn’t certain now which man had tried to shoot him, any more than he knew if that had been on orders or impulse. All he’d sensed on the mental plane was the intent.
“Captain Sereth will escort the Jarl of Torac and his ridings back,” he said, and saw a glance of understanding—of grim intent—pass between Marec and Sereth. They were going to take their time. Good. Torac and his followers wouldn’t enjoy the trip, but it would give everyone a chance to cool off, to think.
It would give Senrid time to think.
A fierce whisper serried through both ranks. He heard words: “shield”—“betrayed”—“Scouts?”
Senrid tried to calm his drumming heartbeat. He’d survived. He’d live another day. Let them think that his Scouts had winnowed out the truth about Methden’s plan. Senrid would not tell them that the Scouts were all outside the kingdom, because one thing for certain, the Rualans would not be sitting on their hands, and he knew he’d have to deal with beyond-the-border trouble over this mess.
Chapter Two
Sartor
ON the third day of Rel’s stay in Eidervaen’s huge, rambling royal palace, the elderly steward in charge of the visitors’ wing came to Rel’s room himself. The man made a first-circle bow, and then asked if everything was all right, if anything could be fetched. The briefness of Rel’s responses (“Yes, thank you,” and “No, thank you”) seemed to inspire the steward to longer inquiries: could he order a m
eal, would Rel be traveling, could they arrange horses for carriage or riding, recommend posting houses?
Rel repeated, “No, thanks.”
The steward put his hands together. “It is our privilege and pleasure to heed the queen’s command that any and all of the Rescuers be housed in this wing, but at the same time, we owe duty to those illustrious guests who have traveled from afar to rediscover, and reconnect, with Sartor . . .”
The soft, pleasant voice went on about how vital communication and trade was, ending with eternal gratitude toward the Rescuers, especially Rel, who had selflessly risked his life though he owed no allegiance to Sartor.
‘Rescuers.’ This was a heroic name for the band of refugee children smuggled by an old mage out of the city when Norsunder invaded. He’d taken them to the forest of Shendoral, where Atan met them in her journey to the capital to break the enchantment. Some had helped her, others had been less helpful, but all were hailed as heroes by the Sartorans. That was all right. Rel had learned that it was good to have heroes, sometimes.
Rel patiently waited the steward out, thanking the man at each pause—assuming that that was what he wished to hear. Finally the steward withdrew, and Rel glanced around the room in puzzlement.
What was that all about? It wasn’t as if he asked for anything, ever. He scarcely left a trace in the room, for he always made up his own bed wherever he stayed, and as for his belongings, they remained neatly folded in his pack so he could grab and go.
He shook his head as he headed out. Atan, he knew, was scheduled tightly all day, but Rel had friends to visit. If it wasn’t for Atan’s insistence, and for the fact that it was difficult to catch Hinder anywhere else, he wouldn’t stay in the palace. He didn’t like palaces, or at least, he wasn’t used to them. That odd conversation was one of the reasons he didn’t like them.
Halfway to the garrison, he stopped short on the bridge leading out of the elite first district, and gazed back at the palace towers jutting above the jumble of city roofs.
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