by Tad Williams
“Tolly showed up with his little court of complainers just as you left the throne room,” Tyne Aldritch told her, “and was talking loudly about how sometimes people try to avoid those they have wronged.”
Briony took a deep breath. “I thank you, Earl Tyne I would be surprised if he was not talking against me—against us, I mean, Prince Barrick and myself. The Tollys are admirable allies in time of war but cursedly difficult in peacetime.”
“But is this still peacetime?" the Earl of Blueshore asked with heavy significance.
She sighed. “That is what we hope to find out Lord Brone, where is your guard captain?"
“He insisted on bathing before being brought to you.”
Briony snorted. “I had doubts about his competence, but I didn’t take him for a fop. Is a bath more important than news of an attack on Southmarch?"
“To be fair, Highness,” said Brone, “they rode almost without stopping for three days to get here and he has already written everything down while he waited for me to come to him from the throne room.” Brone lifted a handful of parchment. “He felt it would be discourteous to appear before you in torn and dirty clothes.”
Briony stared at the parchment covered with neat letters. “He can write?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“I was told he was born in the country—a crofters son or something like. So where did he learn to write?” For some reason this did not fit the picture in her head of Vansen the guard captain, the man who had stood close-mouthed and emotionless while her brother lay dead in his own blood a few yards away, the fellow who had let her strike at him as though he were a statue of unfeeling stone. “Can he read, too?”
“I imagine so, Highness,” Brone said. “But here he comes. You may ask him yourself.”
His hair was still wet and he had put on not a dress tunic and armor but simple clothes that she suspected by their fit were not even his own, but she was still irritated. “Captain Vansen. Your news must be terrible indeed that you would make the princess regent wait for it.”
He looked surprised, even shocked. “I am sorry, Highness. I was told that you would be in the throne room until after midday and could not see me until then. I gave my news to Lord Brone’s man and then . . .” He seemed suddenly to realize he was perilously close to arguing with his monarch; he dropped to one knee. “I beg your pardon, Highness. Clearly the mistake is mine. Please do not let your anger at me cloud your feelings toward my men, who have suffered much and done so bravely to bring this news back to Southmarch.”
He is too honorable by half, she thought. He had a good chin, she had to admit—a proud chin. Perhaps he was one of those men like the famous King Brenn, so in love with honor that it ate him up with pride. She didn’t like the suggestion that she needed permission to be angry at someone, even permission given by the someone in question. She decided she would teach this crafty—and no doubt ambitious—young soldier a lesson by not being angry at all.
Besides, she thought, if what Brone says is true, we do have more important things to talk about. “We will speak of this some other tune, Captain Vansen,” she said. “Tell us your news.”
*
By the time he had finished, Briony felt as if she had stepped into one of the stories the maids used to tell when she was a child.
“You saw this. . . this fairy army?”
Vansen nodded. “Yes, Highness. Not very well, as I’ve said. It was . . .” He hesitated. “It was strange there.”
“By the gods!” cried Rorick, who had just divined the reason for his own presence, “they are coming down onto my land! They must be invading Daler’s Troth even as we speak—someone must stop them!”
Briony had not particularly wanted him present, but since it was near his fiefdom, and his bride-to-be had been kidnapped with the convoy, she could not think of a reason to keep him out of the council. Still, she found it telling that he had not mentioned the Settish prince’s daughter once. “Yes, it sounds that way, Cousin Rorick,” she said. “You will, no doubt, want to ride out as soon as you can to muster and lead your people.” She kept her tone equable, but to her surprise she saw a small reaction from Vansen, not a smile—the matters at hand were too serious—but a recognition by him that she didn’t think Rorick was likely to follow this selfless course.
Ah, but Vansen is a dalesman, isn’t he? And not as dull as I supposed him, either.
She turned her attention back to her cousin Rorick, who was not even trying to hide his fear. “Ride there?” he stammered. “Into the gods alone know what kind of terrors?”
“Longarren is right about one thing—he can do nothing alone,” said Tyne of Blueshore. “We must strike them quickly, though, whatever we do. We must throw them back. If the Twilight People are truly come across the Shadowline, we must remind them of why they retreated there in the past—make them see they will pay with blood for every yard of trespass . . .”
“Still, these are your lands we are talking about, Rorick,” Briony pointed out, “and your people. They do not see much of you as it is. Will you not lead them?”
“But lead them to what, Highness?” Surprisingly, it was Brone who spoke up: as a general rule, he did not think much of her cousin Rorick. “We know nothing so far. We have sent out a small party and only a few of them have come back—I think it would be a mistake for Lord Longarren or anyone else to ride off to battle without due care. What if we make a stand against these invaders and the same thing happens—the madness, the confusion—but this time to an entire army? Fear will run riot and the Twilight People will be here in these halls before spring. That conquest will not be anything like the Syannese Empire either, I suspect. These creatures will want more than tribute. What did Vansen say that his little monstrosity told him? That she—whoever that might be—will burn all our houses down to black stones.”
The enormity of it struck her now, her contemptuous prodding of Rorick suddenly seemed petty. Unless Vansen was completely mad, they were soon to be at war, and not with any human foe. As if the threat of the Autarch, Kendrick’s death, and their father’s imprisonment had not been enough! Briony looked at the guard captain and, much as she might wish it, could not believe he was telling anything other than the truth. What she had been taking for dullness or priggish honor might instead be a kind of unvarnished simplicity, something she had difficulty recognizing because of where she sat. It could be that here was a man who did not know how to scheme, who would suffocate in the daily intriguing of the castle s inner chambers like an oak trying to grow beneath the strangling vines of the Xandian jungles.
I doubt he can even keep a secret. “Vansen,” she said suddenly. “Where are those you brought back?”
“The guardsmen are waiting to return to their families. There is the girl, too.
“They are not to go home, any of them, or to mix with others. Open talk of this must not be permitted or we will be struggling with our own fearful people long before we ever cross swords with this fairy army.” She turned to the lord constable, who was already dispatching one of the guards to relay her order. “Who else needs to know?"
Brone looked around the chapel. “The defense of the castle and city is my task, and I thank Perin Skyfather that he put it in my head to do the repairs on the curtain wall and the water-gate last summer. We need Nynor, of course, and all his factors—we cannot put an army on foot without him. And Count Gallibert, the chancellor, because we will need gold as well as steel to protect this place. But, Highness, we cannot put an army on foot at all without everyone learning of it.
“No, but we can do as much as we can before we must make it general knowledge.” She looked at Ferras Vansen, who seemed uncomfortable. “You have a thought, Captain?"
“If you will pardon me, Highness, my men have suffered a great deal and they will be unhappy to be confined to the keep.”
“Are you questioning my decision?”
“No, Highness. But I would prefer to explain it to them myself.”
“Ah.” She considered. “Not yet. I haven’t finished with you.”
He looked as though he might say more, but didn’t. Briony was briefly grateful for the power of the regency, for the prestige of being an Eddon, she didn’t want to waste time explaining her every thought just now. In fact, she was feeling a certain pleasure, even in the midst of her great distress at what was happening and what must happen in the days ahead, to know that she was the one who must make decisions, that the nobles must listen to her no matter what they would prefer.
Pray Zoria I make the right decisions. “Bring Nynor and the chancellor and any other nobles that must know. This evening, here. It will be a war council—but do not call it so within the hearing of anyone who will not be joining us.”
“And those bloody-minded Tollys?” asked Tyne. “Hendon will still be the brother of a powerful duke whether Gailon is alive or dead, and the Tollys cannot be ignored in this.”
“No, of course not, but for the moment they will be.” However, she knew she must not be foolish. “But perhaps you could tell Hendon Tolly that I will see him later—that we will talk privately before the evening meal. That courtesy I can give him.”
Rorick excused himself—to down a cup of wine as quickly as possible, Briony guessed. As Avin Brone and Tyne Aldritch fell into a discussion of which of the other nobles must be present at so important a council, Briony rose to stretch her legs. Vansen, thinking she was leaving the room, went down on one knee.
“No, Captain, I am not done with you yet, as I said.” It was a strange, almost giddy feeling, the power that was in her now. For a moment she thought of Barrick and was stabbed by pity and sadness, but also impatience I must give him the chance to be present for this, she reminded herself. It is his due. But she wondered at her own thoughts, because it was indeed his due she was thinking of, not her own needs she was not certain she actually wanted him to be involved, and she was disturbed by that realization. “You will wait outside until I have finished with the others,Vansen.”
He bowed his head, then rose and walked out. Brone looked at him, then at Briony, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.
“Before you go, good Aldritch,” she said to Tyne, ignoring the lord constable.
He turned toward her, not sure what was coming. “Yes, Highness?”
Briony examined the earl’s familiar face, the squint of suspicion, the scar beneath his eye. There was another jagged white line on his forehead only partly hidden beneath his graying hair—a fall while hunting. He was a good man but a rigid one, a man who saw almost all change as trouble. She sensed she was about to make the first of a long series of not entirely happy choices. “With Shaso imprisoned, you and Lord Brone have taken up most of his duties between you, my lord Aldritch.”
“I have done my best, Highness,” he said, a little angry color coming to his cheeks. “But this attack from behind the Shadowline, if it is true, could not have been foreseen . .”
“I know. And I know . . that is, my brother and I know . . . that you have done what you could in a difficult time. Now it seems the times will become more difficult still.” She was aware that she was changing, that she had begun to speak less like Briony and more like a queen, or at least a princess regent. Is this what happens? Is true royalty like some wasting illness that makes you grow farther and farther from everyone even while you remain in their midst* “I wish you to continue, and in fact to become the castle’s master of arms.” She looked quickly to Brone, not for his approval, but to see how he reacted. He, in turn, was looking at Tyne, if he disagreed or agreed with her decision he gave no sign.
Earl Tyne’s cheeks were still flushed, but he seemed relieved. “I thank you, Highness. I will do my best to fulfill your trust.”
“I’m sure you will. So here is your first duty. We must assume this danger is real. We have a few hundred guards in the castle—not enough for anything except perhaps to resist a siege, and if it comes to that, it will mean we have abandoned the outer city. How quickly can we muster a proper army?”
Aldritch frowned. “We can have my Blueshoremen and Brone’s Landsenders here in days, perhaps a week. With fast riders on the Westmarch Road we might be able to draw a few companies from Daler’s Troth soon after, if we can get around this fairy army. Any levies from Marrinswalk and Helrmngsea and the outliers like Silverside and Kertewall will take longer—at the very least two tenmghts, more likely we won’t see them for a month “ His frown became a scowl—Tyne had never been one to mask his thoughts. “A cursed shame, this whole bloody business with Gailon Tolly and his brothers, because our largest and best-trained muster always comes from Summerfield.”
“I will treat with that,” Briony said. “What seems important to me is that we meet this shadow-army, if it is truly moving on Southmarch as the guard captain fears, at least once outside the city walls.”
“With unready troops?” Tyne protested. “Most of what we will turn up here under such haste will be local musters, especially after all these years without war—perhaps only one real fighting man for every dozen who have never swung anything sharper than a hoe.”
“We must test their strength—and ours,” Briony said firmly. “We know nothing of such an enemy. And if they draw a siege around us, we will have trouble getting any more help at all from the farther marches. We will have to rely on ships to bring men as well as supplies, which will make for an even longer wait for the landbound musters.” She turned to Avin Brone. “What do you think?”
He nodded, pulling gently and meditatively on his beard. “I agree we cannot simply wait until this enemy arrives. But we do not know for certain that is what they plan. Perhaps they will harry the outlying marches first. Perhaps they seek only to expand a distance across the Shadowline, then sit on what they have won.”
“It doesn’t seem anything to count on,” said Briony. “If they have brought an entire army across the Shadowline, it seems unlikely they did it merely to burn a few fields and barns.” She almost couldn’t believe she was talking about this so calmly. People were going to die. The country had been largely at peace for her entire lifetime and the Twilight People had not stirred out of their shadows for generations. How had this fallen to her?
Brone sighed. “I agree that we must begin the muster immediately, Highness. The rest we can discuss with the other nobles later today.”
“Go, then,Tyne, and begin it,” she said. “I may be asking an impossibility, but let your messengers go out with as much secrecy as they can and take their messages straight to the local lords and mayors without stopping to discuss it in the taverns. Tell them that if anyone hears of their errand before the one to whom they are sent, they will spend the next year chained in the stronghold next to Shaso.”
“That will not keep everyone quiet,”Tyne argued. “Some will risk shackles to warn their own families.”
“No, but it will help. And we will not give the messengers any information that they do not need.” She summoned a young page from outside the chapel door. He came in as hesitantly as a cat walking on a wet floor. “Call Nynor,” she told him, and when he was gone she said, “I will send out letters under my seal.”
“Very good,” said the Earl of Blueshore. “Then they will not be able to argue they did not understand the importance or that the messenger did not tell them straightly what was needed.”
“You two go and see to it, please, and the arrangements for this evening’s council as well. Send inVansen as you go.”
Brone gave her the raised eyebrow once more. “Do not be too hard on him, Highness, please. He is a good man.”
“I will deal with him as he deserves,” she promised.
*
Chert had managed by a certain stealthiness to make his way home through the back streets of Funderling Town without having to explain why a finger-sized man was riding on his shoulder. He could not, of course, avoid giving an explanation to everyone . . .
“Have you found him?” Opal demanded, then her
reddened eyes opened wide as she saw Beetledown. “Earth Elders! What . . . what is that?”
“He’s a ‘who,’ really,” her husband told her. “As for Flint, no luck. Not yet.”
The little man stood up on Chert’s shoulder and doffed his ratskin hat before making a small bow. “Beetledown the Bowman, I hight, tallsome lady. Chief one of the Gutter-Scouts, directed by Her Sinuous Majesty, Queen Upsteeplebat, to help find your lost boy.”
“He’s here to help.” Chert was tired and didn’t have much hope left—in fact, the whole thing struck him as a bit ridiculous. Opal, however, was seeing a Rooftopper for the first time and for a moment seemed almost able to forget the terrible errand that had brought this newcomer to their home.
“Look at him! He’s perfect!” She reached out a hand, as if he were a toy to be played with, but remembered her manners. “Oh! My name is Opal and you are welcome in our house. Would you like something to drink or eat? I’m afraid I don’t know much about . . . about Rooftoppers.”