Kieri ran to the downstream side in time to see the boy, encumbered by his heavy cloak, surface and go down again. “Rope!” Kieri yelled; one of the Halverics was already coming with a coil. “IOLIN!” Kieri shouted at the boy. “Rope!” The boy’s face rose again, white and strained; Kieri threw the coil, and it landed near—the boy reached for it, but missed, and thrashed for it as the wind blew it toward shore, out of his reach. Then he floated into one of the pilings for the next landing stage downstream and grabbed on. “Get him!” Kieri yelled into the wind. “Down there—”
Two or three men came from a tavern near that landing, looked where Kieri pointed, and saw the boy. One dropped a rope to him; the others hauled a light skiff down the bank and pushed it out. As Kieri watched, they dragged the boy into the boat and got it back to shore, where they hauled him up the bank and then along it.
Kieri turned to find himself ringed by King’s Squires, and the king of Pargun, Elis, and the Knight-Commander surrounded by Halverics, protecting them from the Pargunese guards, behind whom huddled the Pargunese lords, all but Elis with swords drawn. He wanted to knock all those heads together, but knew that as the natural irritation after a disaster narrowly averted.
“We are not here to fight,” he said. “Put up those swords, and let us get this prince of Pargun somewhere warm, before he freezes or catches a river fever.” No one moved for a moment but the three men pushing the sopping prince along the path. “Now,” he said, putting more bite in his voice. One by one they looked at him, at one another. “We are going to that inn,” he said, pointing, “where there is a warm fire, a hot meal, and dry clothes for this lad—” The dripping prince, now shivering, wet, and blue, had reached the top of the steps. “And warm dry beds,” Kieri said. “For later.”
The Knight-Commander obeyed first, took off his cloak, and put it around the shivering boy. “Come on, then,” he said. The Pargunese king shoved his own sword back, and offered Elis his hand. The Halverics backed away; the Pargunese sheathed their swords raggedly and the Halverics in perfect order.
“Squires,” Kieri said, and they finally sheathed theirs. “Come on now,” he said, as if to a skittish colt or timid puppy. “It’s far too cold to stand out here.” Turning his back on them, he led them up and into the inn.
The innkeeper and his staff asked no questions but found clean, warm fishermen’s clothes for the boy and wrapped him in a blanket in the inglenook. A long table had been laid, with not quite enough places—at Kieri’s nod, the man quickly laid more. The room smelled of fresh bread just baked, roast meats, and spices. The men looked at one another, still clustered in their own kind. It was so like the way the elves and men had been—were still too often, if he was honest. Kieri ignored that for the time being, and let the servants bring them trays laden with hot sib and the herbal drink preferred in Pargun.
“Elis?” he said to her, as she stood near the Knight-Commander. The mark on her face showed bright red against her pale skin. Her father was face to face with one of the Pargunese lords.
“I am all right,” she said. “I should have expected that. I did, from my father’s advisors, but not from Iolin; we were friends as late as … as when I came.”
“And will be friends again, if you let him,” Kieri said. “He is very young; he will be ashamed. Remember your duty; you are a princess of Pargun.”
She nodded abruptly and looked over at the inglenook. The boy was not shivering anymore and had some color in his face; he looked utterly miserable.
“Your dinner, my lords,” the innkeeper said; conversation stopped as two servants carried in a platter with a haunch of venison flanked by two suckling pigs, and another with a whole fish an armspan long. Behind came more servants with more platters: redroots, onions in cream sauce, cabbage sliced fine and steamed with vinegar and sugar—one of the favorite dishes in Pargun, the king had told Kieri. A casserole of steamed grain flavored with southern spices, breads rich with eggs and butter, hot from the oven.
Kieri and the Pargunese king moved to the seats reserved for them; Kieri looked over and saw that Elis had gone to the inglenook. She came out leading her brother by the hand. In a fisherman’s smock and short breeches, he looked like a miniature and unbearded version of his father, sturdy and stubborn. Well, he had convinced their father; surely he could convince the boy … if Elis didn’t. She sat at her father’s right hand, and pulled Iolin into the seat beside her.
That said “We are family” as clearly as anything else; the other lords looked startled but did not argue. The king gave Iolin a sharp glance around Elis, but then nodded and said no more about what had happened. After that, the warmth and food had their way as Kieri had hoped. As the lords ate, the guards were served; most of Kieri’s Squires ate with them; only two stood behind him. He did not protest; it was his kingdom.
When they had eaten the fish, the meats, the soup, the vegetables, the breads, and a dessert of apple tarts topped with heavy cream, one of the Pargunese lords belched loudly, leaned back in his chair, and smacked his hand on the table.
“You give a fine feast, Lyonya’s king, but we are not here to feast. You have our king tricked out in your clothes and a crown we have never seen. You are alive; that woman—” He pointed his elbow at Elis. “—is alive; what means this?” His Common was more accented than the king’s.
Kieri answered him in Pargunese. “I but escort your king, who will speak to you. I will translate for the Knight-Commander of Falk, who does not speak your language.”
The man turned to the Pargunese king. “Einar gave you challenge; you call us here to witness, and yet that king is alive and she is also, and I see no blood on your hands.”
“Einar lied,” the king said. “And not only Einar. Those I sent to escort Elis—”
“She is nameless!” the man said, thumping the table hard enough to make empty dishes dance.
“She is not,” the king said. “Be still and listen!” Grumbling, the man sat back. “Those I sent to escort Elis,” he repeated, “lied to her about my purpose. They told her she must kill Lyonya’s king in the marriage bed.”
A mutter of surprise. Kieri thought it genuine, from all of them.
“She is not an assassin,” the king said. “And she had not had that word from me, myself. Elis will tell you her tale now.” He gestured to her.
“I was angry when I woke and found myself in a boat on the river,” Elis said. “But when they told me my father bade me kill Lyonya’s king, I doubted it was his plot at all. We have all long hated and feared Duke Phelan, but my aunt Hanlin had brought back word he desired peace. I could imagine my father sending me to marry this king and then be an envoy of Pargun at his court …”
Kieri watched the reaction. She had schooled her voice perfectly; she sounded like herself, earnest and grave, angry here and confused there, describing how it had been, alone in a strange land, with her only countryfellows those she was sure had lied to her. One by one the lords gave up their slouches, their dismissive expressions, and leaned forward.
“So I thought, if I cannot marry this king, perhaps I can still speak for Pargun at his court. Only I did not know the language well enough, or the customs, and always my escorts were pressing me to seduce him. My lords, you have known me since childhood—I am not a girl apt at such arts.” She smiled a little then, and two of the lords smiled and nodded. “So I asked the king to let me stay here, in Lyonya, but as an envoy of Pargun, and let me learn. And he suggested Falk’s Hall, where I would be with other young women who, like me, loved riding and swordplay. It is a school, my lords, for those who would be knights.”
Frowns now, but thoughtful ones.
The king took over in that pause. “My lords, if I had known what she was told, I could not have chosen her course better. To listen to her in Common now, she might have been born here—she knows more about Lyonya and its ways than any of us. She might have made a good horse-breeder, as she first wanted, but she is a far better envoy to Lyonya than w
e have ever had.”
“But she has been—”
“Quite safe,” the king said. “You know Elis—if she had been abused, she would say so.” He turned to her. “Speak plainly, daughter of mine.”
“I have been in no man’s bed,” Elis said. “And no man has been in mine. As I was when I left home, so I am now.”
A moment of silence. Then one of the lords looked at the others. “Well. Well, that is not what Einar said. And you, Torfinn, you have never lied to me, even when I wished it. I do not see the black mark of a lie on your face now. Or on hers. And if that is so, then Einar has lied, and Einar’s challenge is not valid. But how we are to convince the others I know not.”
“I still do not know why we are sitting at the Fox’s table and not tasting blood,” the one who had first spoken said. “If he did not tup our king’s daughter, he is still an enemy. We have no friends on this side the river.”
“That’s not true, Hafdan,” the second lord said. “I have friends here, or at least men I trade with. They are not enemies.”
“It is one thing to trade, and another to talk of peace with those who have swords all around us.” His voice had risen; at the lower table, the Pargunese guards looked up abruptly.
“You are free to go,” Kieri said mildly.
“I will, then,” the man said. He shoved his chair back, scraping the floor, and stood.
“No,” the Pargunese king said. “You will not, Hafdan. You will not go until all do, for I see the black mark on your face now. You were not asked; how, then, did you come?”
“I—” He looked at the other lords, who did not meet his gaze. “I wanted—”
The eldest lord looked at the king. “He came upon us as we traveled here, Sir King. We thought by mischance, but thought it best he come, lest by another mischance he carry word to Einar, which you did not wish.”
The king pushed back his own chair and stood glaring at Hafdan. “You murderous traitor—you wanted me dead! You’re Einar’s man.” He pulled off the gold circlet and tossed it on the table. Kieri had a moment to wonder whether it would be better or worse to stand; then Hafdan broke for the door, and the king rushed at him, grabbed him, and threw him down. The other Pargunese lords rose, shouting; Kieri was up without realizing it, and the Halverics had formed a line between the two on the floor and the Pargunese guards.
The innkeeper and servants hurried out and grabbed the goblets and crockery off the table; clearly they had seen dinners erupt into brawls before. Meanwhile, the two men on the floor, rolling over each other, struggled for mastery. The Pargunese lords stepped forward, back, hesitated, looked at Elis and at Kieri.
“What is going on?” Kieri asked Elis.
“Honor,” she said. She had a hand clamped around her brother’s arm, he noticed then, holding the boy back. “Hafdan insulted the king; the king insulted Hafdan by insinuating he was a traitor—he probably is, but it’s still an insult.”
“I should stop them,” Kieri said. The two were both snarling like beasts, smashing each other with fists and head, kicking …
“No,” Elis said. The Pargunese lords glanced at her, and took their hands off their swords. “It is the only way to settle it: man to man.”
“They can kill each other if they want, but not on my land,” Kieri said. “Dammit—I paid too much for a chance at peace to lose it for a brawl in a tavern!” The Pargunese king had the upper hand now and was throttling Hafdan; Kieri strode forward, putting a hand in the king’s collar. “STOP THIS!” he roared, louder than the two men together. His voice startled even him; he had not expected that, or the light that now blazed from him.
The two combatants stared at him; the king’s grip on Hafdan’s throat loosened slightly, but he was not cowed. “It is an affair of honor! Let me alone—he is a traitor; I must prove it on his body—”
“Prove it somewhere else, then,” Kieri said. “It is ill done to break guest-truce, and this landlord does not deserve to have a welter of blood on his floor. It is a Pargunese quarrel and none of mine. Get you across the river, and if you want to fight bare naked with teeth and nails, that is your business. You agreed to this parley, in hopes of a peace between our kingdoms. Bind this man, if you will, but let us not waste the time we have.”
For a moment, the room was silent, everyone motionless, Kieri’s light paling the firelight and lamps. Hafdan squinted against it. “He’s still a traitor,” the king said. He jerked his head at the other lords. “Bind him like a thief.” They came forward, one pulling a leather thong from his pocket. The king loosened his grip of Hafdan’s throat, but still straddled him.
Hafdan’s throat worked. “I thought—Einar was—right. You had—gone soft.”
“Do you try to save your life?” the king asked.
“I only say—you are not soft.”
“I am not, and Einar will find that soon enough.” The king started to rise as the Pargunese lords leaned over Hafdan to grab his arms and bind them.
In that instant, Hafdan twisted, jerked out his dagger, and stabbed the king in the side, saying, “Not soft—but steel is harder.” Before Kieri could do anything, one of the Pargunese had run a blade into Hafdan’s throat.
The king put a hand to his side. “It will kill me,” he said calmly. “But the traitor is dead.” Then, with a groan, he slid off Hafdan’s body and lay unmoving on the floor. “Tell Elis and Iolin …” But his voice trailed away.
Kieri had been stabbed so, by a poisoned blade … and Paks had healed him. But there was no paladin here, and he did not yet have the full royal magery … but what other chance was there? And the light had come, no longer flickering and uncertain, but still filling the room. Maybe …
He stepped over the traitor. “Knight-Commander,” he said. “Come and help me.”
“What you do?” asked one of the Pargunese lords in Common.
“Try to save him,” Kieri said. The king’s eyes were almost closed, but focusing on Kieri. “Breathe,” Kieri said, as he would have to one of his soldiers. “Don’t stop.” He slit the king’s doublet, the winter shirt, the undershirt, and cursed himself for not insisting the king wear mail. The wound in his side was clearly poisoned, already discolored; dark blood flowed out.
“Cannot. Is death wound,” the Pargunese lord said.
“Be quiet and breathe,” Kieri said, to the king. The Knight-Commander knelt at the king’s head; he and Kieri locked eyes. “Knight-Commander, I ask Falk’s aid for this brave man, a king, who has fought for honor—”
“Yes. I will pray—do whatever you plan—”
“I hope the gods will give me healing for him.”
Kieri put his hand on the wound, as Paks had done for him. He had no idea what she had done or how; they had never talked about it. He had thought it beyond anything he would ever do or need to understand. He felt nothing at first but the hot blood, and the heart beating somewhere inside. Then, slowly, something nudged, pushed, urged him to—to what? He tried to understand, but it was not words or thoughts he could follow, just a feeling that this hand had to move, had to—He stared at the elven dagger he now held, his grandmother’s coronation gift.
“No!” One of the Pargunese lords lunged at him, but two King’s Squires stopped the man.
Kieri concentrated … lay the dagger so … let his desire flow down his arm into it … Let him live. Let him live. A shaft of white light shot up from the dagger’s jeweled hilt, then reversed, glowing for an instant in the wound itself. The king cried out, jerked, and something dark flew out of the wound and landed clinking on the floor: the blade’s tip. Bright blood flowed around the elven dagger, then stopped … and Kieri had a sickening view of the wound closing, the gaping flesh pulling together, layer by layer, the blood flow slowing … stopping … and the skin closing over it.
Kieri felt a great exhaustion settle on him, almost like that he had felt at Aliam’s, and yet different. His vision darkened; he did not realize at first that his light had failed at last.
He looked around, blinking. The Pargunese lords huddled together; the one who had stabbed the traitor dropped his sword. It clattered on the inn’s wooden floor. Elis still held her brother’s arm. The Pargunese guards and Halverics still faced one another, tense and worried.
“You … saved me.” The king lifted his arm and looked at his blood-streaked side. “How—?”
“Better gods than yours saved you,” Kieri said. His head hurt; he felt dizzy. “And my grandmother’s dagger.”
“Elf-made?” The king looked scared.
“Yes.” Kieri’s head swam; he tried to push himself up and instead nearly fell over. Strong arms clasped him from behind.
“Sir King! Are you—”
“It’s just … the healing,” Kieri said. The stench of blood and death in the room sickened him. “Fresh air,” he managed to say. Someone ran to the door and flung it open. In blew a gust of cold wet wind and a few snowflakes; he shivered, but the fresher air steadied him. Someone brought a chair and helped him into it. His vision cleared slowly. What a mess they had made of his carefully prepared meeting place. He took another breath, and another.
“You have it all,” the Knight-Commander said to him, across the traitor’s body and the blood.
“All?” Kieri said. His vision was clear now, but he still felt a strong desire to fall into a bed and sleep for a night and a day.
“Do you even know what you did?”
“Healed a wound, with the gods’ aid.” He bit down on a yawn. “I tried to do for him what Paksenarrion did for me.”
“Did she tell you how?”
“No. We never spoke of it; I thought it paladins’ mystery. It was a poisoned weapon, the same as this—the same poison, for all I know.”
“Did she use a symbol of Gird?”
Kings of the North Page 38