Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  The mouth...her gaze was drawn to well-cut lips as he said, “My Marlovan is unintelligible?”

  She said in Iascan, “All I know are Marlovan dances.”

  “Ah! And you do not dance together. What I think is the shame of a lifetime.”

  Her lip curled. “We dance to watch each other. And drum for each other, of course.”

  “Those drums, I can see the attraction. The beat gets in the blood. But Iascan dance, that can heat the blood as well. Come! Set that down. No one will disturb it. Permit me to show you.”

  It had been three years since her last lover. She didn’t mind a dally, though she mustn’t let it interfere with her search, as she knew that Chelis was very likely to send back a note with payment that there were to be no more coins sent.

  She shrugged, intrigued. “All right.”

  He beckoned her to the edge of the group, and raised his hand. It was as well-shaped as his face, and his body in its high-collared long tunic slit up the sides, trousers tucked into boot tops. “Palm to palm,” he said. “You must learn to sense the other’s movement if you are not to stumble, or draw apart. It is very intimate,” he added.

  It was, once she got used to the awkwardness of attempting to match steps with someone else. But the steps were simple enough, once you caught onto the pattern, and it was a new, intriguing sensation to feel that warm palm against hers, and to look up at that fire-highlighted face smiling back at her. If he didn’t speak, she was thinking, he could pass for Marlovan, with that long corn-silk hair (nearly as pretty as hers!) queued back in the manner of runners.

  When that dance ended, it was the Marlovans’ turn, of course a male dance, since most of the people gathered were male. She returned to her spice wine to find it had already cooled, the spices forming an unpleasant film on the top.

  She looked at it in disgust, then turned to find Handsome at her shoulder, holding out a fresh cup. Well. This was pleasant!

  They got over the boring questions. She said she was traveling, and had a brother in the garrison; he, traveling to see the world, was caught by a snowstorm and ended up staying, and trying to learn Marlovan while there. When he tried out his Marlovan in a heavily accented, stilted sentence or two, she corrected him with well-meaning condescension, which he accepted with gratifying thanks.

  “It is a difficult language,” he said.

  “Difficult!” She laughed. “At least we no longer write in runes!”

  “Runes!” he exclaimed.

  “Well, that was centuries and centuries ago. None of us can read them now. They were mostly decorations on old tapestries, and after the war in the last century, when the Venn attacked, a lot of those were burned. We have one at Yvanavayir much too fine to burn, but it no longer hangs in the Hall of Ancestors. After the war, my great-great grandmother put it in the best guest chamber.”

  “Yvanavayir,” he repeated, eyes wide. “You are from a distinguished family! There is much I could learn from you.”

  Who doesn’t like being in the position of superior knowledge, especially when the other person is attractive?

  She talked about the language for a while, dredging up what she could remember from lessons she’d yawned over. It was pleasant, but she still had her search to plan, and so she finally said, “It’s getting late, and colder.”

  “Will I see you again?” he asked.

  Well, that was gratifying, too. She wouldn’t let him take up too much of her attention, but she could always find time for dalliance with a handsome man. “Call me Pony,” she said. “My given name is only popular with old women. Pony Yvanavayir. And you?”

  “Call me Lored.”

  “Larid?” she repeated, more used to Marloven naming patterns, Garid, Darid, Jarid.

  “That will do. I would very much like to hear more about the famous Yvanavayirs. I’ve always wondered what is life like for your first families.”

  “I’ve things to do during the day. Meet me tomorrow evening,” she said with a pleasant sense of anticipation, “and I can tell you as much as you want to hear.” That would give her a full day for her search.

  “I’ll be here,” he promised.

  ELEVEN

  In Larkadhe, winter had arrived early, and spring was late, at least for those used to less mountainous climes. Restless again, at first melt Connar rode down to Lindeth to meet Tanrid at Commander Nermand’s garrison, in order to map out the patrols for the spring.

  They hadn’t even begun yet when someone bawled up the stairwell, “Grass!”

  From front gate to inner chambers, runners and servants made way, passing the word “Grass.”

  Neit had made a grass run bringing back the king’s corroboration of Noddy’s judgment in the Bar Regren case, and here was another grass run scarcely months after.

  Nermand, Connar, Tanrid and their attendants fell silent as the red-eyed, filthy royal runner stumbled in. Connar barely recognized Quill as the latter offered a small pouch of silk to Connar, saying, “Anred-Harvaldar charged me to deliver these words.” And somehow he even sounded like Da as he recited, “Connar, you now speak with my Voice. You are to lay Jendas Yenvir by the heels, and secure Halivayir.”

  Stunned, Connar slid his fingers into the pouch, feeling the golden chevron, called an arrow, that only a commander could wear. It meant he could summon any captains to execute his orders. Only a garrison commander—with his two golden arrows on his shoulder—and the king or king’s commander who rode to war with three golden arrows—could gainsay him.

  Happiness ripped through Connar with all the force of a wildfire, to dim again when he remembered the rest of the message.

  Halivayir? The smallest jarlate?

  Quill now held out a sealed scroll. Everyone watched in silence as Connar unrolled it, thinking, You kept your promise, Da. He read the scrawled words written in Arrow’s familiar hand. The urge to laugh for sheer joy doused before the reality before him. This was his first true command, and he had to be successful.

  He looked up into faces who had witnessed that flash of joy. But the words that Connar spoke were a shock. “Yenvir and his brigands attacked Halivayir. Killed the jarl and most of his family. Stick, we’re to take our entire company. Commander Nermand, Lindeth is to make a wider ring search covering the west, in case they try to slip this way.” Connar handed the scroll to the commander, who glanced at it then handed it back.

  “Halivayir?” Tanrid exclaimed. “What would they want there?”

  That was a rhetorical exclamation, unanswerable. Everyone knew that Jendas Yenvir was a horse thief. And out of all the northern jarlates, Halivayir, with its hilly environment, was the least known for raising and training horses. Halivayir’s main products were its stone quarries, and wool.

  But why didn’t matter. What did matter was that the prospective dull spring routine had suddenly changed. “Let’s ride for Larkadhe,” Connar said to Stick, and they clattered out, calling for their horses.

  Commander Nermand said, “Royal runner, you know the rule: you get a week’s liberty after a grass run. Tomorrow is Restday. Enjoy the town.”

  Quill blinked, forcing his attention back to the commander. “I’d like to take it at Larkadhe, if there’s no objection,” he said.

  “None. Go catch some rest. I’ll have a report ready for the king when you waken. That way you can ride straight south at the end of your week.”

  When Connar and Stick arrived back at Larkadhe, they left their sweating horses to the stable hands and ran into the garrison, fetching up in the map room. Ghost, alerted by the wall sentries, awaited them, with a pair of scouts in case they were needed.

  Connar explained tersely, then added, “We don’t know how long it’s been. Let’s assume they rode out hot after their attack. How far can they get from Halivayir? That’s our target.”

  Easiest would be if the brigands ran west along the river, which would mean running straight into Tanrid’s regular border patrol along the north bank, and Tyavayir’s on the
south. That would be fastest, but most dangerous. Most likely they’d gone north into ever higher mountains, until eventually they reached Idego and the north coast. East would take them through less daunting mountainous, wooded terrain, but straight into Yvanavayir’s formidable Riders. South, toward ever-vigilant Tyavayir, Senelaec, and Ku Halir Garrison.

  “We’ll spread a net as we ride,” Connar said. “But if we don’t meet up with them, I think we’re going to have to go into the mountains.”

  Stick grimaced. They hadn’t trained for searching in heavily forested, hilly land, where brigands might know every tree and rock. Couldn’t be helped.

  When Stick turned up his hand in acceptance, Connar said to Ghost, “You’ll run the outer perimeter of our net, in case they did venture into river land. You know that territory above Tyavayir, right?”

  Ghost’s palm flicked upward.

  “We’ll split once we reach the outpost here,” Connar tapped the map, “and we’ll go into the hills while you take your company to Halivayir. Clean up whatever you find, and hold it.”

  Ghost ran his hand through his nearly white hair, suppressing a sigh. He wished to be in on the chase, but he knew Halivayir.

  Connar turned to the scouts. “Warn the posts we’re running saddle to saddle, coming in hot. Have horses ready.”

  The scouts departed, grabbing always-ready gear bags on their way out. They departed on their own version of the grass ride to alert the outposts.

  The next morning, under showery skies, Quill rode back to Larkadhe as the rain steadily increased. The previous day he’d stayed only long enough to discover Connar was at Lindeth, then rode straight there.

  Now he walked slowly up the back stair of Larkadhe’s castle, exhaustion weighing every limb as he took off his dripping hooded cloak. Though he’d gotten some sleep, it was not nearly enough.

  He found the runners all waiting in the alcove off the landing where they congregated when not on duty. As a young runner in training silently held out a hand to take the wet cloak, Neit said, “We were hoping you’d stop back here. What can you tell us?”

  He glanced around, repeated the king’s orders, then said, “Where’s Lineas?”

  Vanadei glanced up from repairing a rip in Noddy’s coat. “Probably in her room, since there’s no Yvana Hall today. I’ll take you there.” He folded up the tunic, thinking, And you can tell us both what’s really going on.

  Lineas, as it happened, was writing a letter to Quill. At the sight of him at the door she dropped her pen, spattering ink across her paper, and leaped up with a happy cry.

  No one came up that stairway unless looking for her, but Vana shut the door behind him, and since Lineas only had the little low table and its mat, the trunk, and the bed, she sat on the trunk and let them seat themselves. Vana dropped onto the neatly made bed with the complete unselfconsciousness of someone who has never given a thought to who slept there. Quill, consciously turning his attention away from that bed, opted for the mat.

  “Week’s liberty,” Quill signed in Hand.

  Lineas’s smile was brief, her gaze steady and concerned. “So you were writing to me these past weeks on a grass run? Why didn’t you tell me to wait until you arrived?”

  Vanadei side-eyed him as Quill shrugged, his fingers expressive of flippancy. “I can read in the saddle.”

  “But you were writing, too! How could you have time?” And when he lifted a shoulder, smiling easily, she sensed something he would not say. She was puzzled, but too scrupulous to persist, certain it had something to do with secret orders. After all, wasn’t he shortly to take Camerend’s place as chief of the royal runners?

  So she shifted the subject from personal to general. “Is there any other news?” She reached down beside the trunk in order to brandish her golden notecase.

  Quill signed, “No. We don’t have any royal runners at Halivayir. In fact, I don’t remember any of us ever being sent there. We know nothing more than anyone else.”

  Vanadei rubbed his chin. “What does Camerend say?”

  “He’s in Darchelde, dealing with jarl affairs. He’s as puzzled as anyone. Speaking of whereabouts. Nadran-Sierlaef?”

  “He was invited to take Restday drum with the glaziers, and judge the mastery projects.”

  Quill’s brows lifted. “He knows something about glass?”

  Vana chortled as Lineas smothered a laugh. “He was assured that all he has to do is make an appearance and hand out a few compliments, because of course nothing short of perfection would be accepted as a master work, so there aren’t any surprises by the time the project is complete.”

  “He loves glass,” Lineas added, her long fingers expressive of her own pleasure. “Especially the colored kinds. They have so much of it here in the north. They not only makes it into cups and bowls, they put it into windows!”

  Quill said, “It seems he’s done well here.”

  “Yes,” Vana and Lineas both signed, looked at one another, and smiled.

  Vana added, “Larkadhe likes him. And at least half the household now talks in Hand on Restday, just because he does it.”

  “How long can you stay?” Lineas asked. “There are so many wonderful things to show you. I’ll wager you never ventured beyond the baths in the caves.”

  “It’s true, I didn’t, except for visiting the windharps,” Quill responded. “How about this? You show me some glass windows, and in my turn, as soon as we get a clear night, I’ll make transfer tokens for us to go up to the old atan platform, so we can listen to the windharps under the stars.”

  He remembered that they weren’t alone, and turned to Vana, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. “Sound good?”

  Vana had been watching. He knew Quill, who’d even as teen never talked about his private feelings. But Vana saw the intensity of Quill’s gaze, and heard a note in his voice that was unfamiliar. “Not me,” he said easily. “Do you realize it’s still winter up there?”

  “We can bundle up.” Lineas smiled his way, transparent as a spring in her friendliness and generosity. “It will be wonderful!”

  Poor sod, Vana thought toward his bond-brother. I hope you get over her soon—this can go nowhere good.

  He waved Lineas off with a careless gesture. “I don’t find the windharps nearly as compelling as you do. You can keep your cold and your moaning stone.”

  Quill pitched in to help the other runners, though he was on liberty. The three went to see the colored glass, and attended the Larkadhe theater one snowy afternoon. Four days in, they got their clear night, and Quill and Lineas sat side by side on that high platform, drinking warm, foamy chocolate from the islands and singing old ballads as they watched the slow wheeling of the vast scattering of colored stars.

  The wind sang in counterpoint, the rise and fall so eerie and beautiful that Lineas fell silent, her head tipped back, starlight reflecting tear tracks on her cheeks.

  “Lineas?”

  She knuckled her eyes. “Why is it,” she exclaimed, “that something so beautiful can hit you right here.” She tapped her heart. Then came the quick, anxious look.

  Quill smiled her way. “Yes, it’s normal,” he said. “Do you want me to quote Old Sartoran poetry about the mercy of tears?”

  She smiled back, knuckling her eyes again. “But you’re not weeping.”

  “I...I feel it differently, is all. However, I can bang my elbow and bring up some tears if you want me to match you.”

  She uttered a soft laugh. “It’s better, shared with another, isn’t it? And this place! I can see the stars from my tower, and hear the harps, though in the distance, but this is so very much finer. Thank you.”

  His emotions were too intense—and too conflicted—for the easy release of tears, but he dared not say that. He dared not say anything of what he truly felt, because it was too easy to imagine her confusion, which would lead to self-consciousness, and he would hate to disturb her even more than he’d hate pity, or an earnest, painful explanation about how he
r heart was only loyal to one.

  “Thank you for your company,” he said, and meant it sincerely, but somehow those words brought the experience to its end.

  Quill had worked a safe transfer Destination into his tokens, where they would not be seen. They walked from there to the gate just as Neit arrived from Larkadhe.

  She glanced from one to the other then back again as they exchanged greetings, and she asked, “Where were you?”

  “Out watching the stars and listening to the harps,” Quill said.

  “You’re crazy,” Neit commented bluntly.

  Everyone laughed as they parted, the two to go inside to warm up, and Neit to relinquish her mount and report. She was uncharacteristically quiet as she helped unsaddle and rub down her horse. Usually she joked around with the stable hands, but her mind was preoccupied with what she’d seen on those two faces. Lineas’s in particular. While reminding herself that it never did any good to interfere, she still resolved to watch the two.

  Three days later Quill rode out, to start for the royal city with Commander Nermand’s report, and a handful of other letters.

  Lineas walked him to the stable yard. The three days had passed in a flash of good company and conversation. Somehow there wasn’t enough conversation, and as he saddled up and rode out, she was aware of an ache behind her breastbone at the thought of all the things she could have said. That they might have done.

  Then she remembered that she could write to him, and since this would be a normal ride for him, with time for stops along the way, she ran back inside to get started.

  A day outside of Ku Halir, smoke drifted in a long, brown bank over the bare plains dotted here and there with emerging tufts of spring grass.

  Braids Senelaec, newly promoted captain of the first flight of Queen’s Riders, threw up his fist to halt. All three of his riding captains trotted up the line to him, no one speaking as they gaze northward.

  “Could that be a summer fire?” one asked.

  “Too early,” a Fath cousin stated.

  Braids shook his head. “I don’t know the plains like my brother and da, but I’ve listened to them and ma talk. Spring is too wet for fires.” He glanced down at a shallow pond peacefully reflecting the cloud-streaked sky.