Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  They grinned, their grip brutal as Yenvir realized what was about to happen. He began yelping a stream of pleas and curses.

  Tyavayir gripped the man’s luxuriant mane of black and white hair, and Yenvir shrieked as Tyavayir sawed, then wrenched the bloody scalp away. On the backswing he cut the man’s throat.

  Yenvir dropped lifeless to the dirt, bone-white skull smeared with red looking oddly fragile. Or maybe it was that deadly anger dying with the man. Tyavayir stared at him, sweat dripping off his nose, then looked at the disgusting object in his hand. He dropped it to the ground, put his foot down and sawed away with his knife, cutting hanks of hair close to the flapping, drippy scalp. These he handed out to his cousins, saying, “Remember our orders. We’ll bind these on our helms when we ride against the rest of them.”

  Lefty swallowed against nausea, the runner tight-mouthed as they wound the hair up and stuck it in pockets or pouches.

  Then they turned to see that the rest of their company, who had witnessed Yenvir’s defeat and death, had begun began taking prizes from the last brigands standing. They cut them down one by one, ignoring pleas and promises.

  Cabbage Gannan saw what was going on, remembered what Snake had reported, and had his signal scout blow a summons. “Lancers,” he shouted. “New orders.”

  Noddy sent his honor guard back down the trail to collect Marlovan wounded, then dismounted and handed the reins to Vanadei, who sheathed one of his knives to take the reins. As Vanadei scanned continually around Noddy, knife still at the ready, the crown prince examined the killing field, his expression furrowing at the sight of the carnage. The enemy was no threat now. They were all fled or dead, the domes of skulls bone-white in the ruddy, sinking light.

  Noddy sat down on Yenvir’s rock and stared down at his hands until Stick and Ghost limped up to him.

  “Area secure,” Stick said, coming up alongside Ghost. “Yenvir is dead.”

  Noddy turned his palm up. Those were his father’s orders.

  Ghost added, “It was Cabbage here who saved us.”

  At those words, Noddy looked around, his expression easing. He turned to Gannan, who, catching his eye, broke off talking to a couple of his riding captains and loped across the bloody field to join them.

  Gannan said to Noddy, “We have all the wounded over there.” He pointed. “I sent two ridings to go through the stash in the cave. Said to look first for bandages, then food and fodder. Their horses seem to have stampeded.”

  Stick said wearily, “Ghost. We should ride back down the trail. Maybe some of our people are still alive.”

  “Already seen to,” Noddy said, and turned back to Gannan. “That charge was excellent. This is the second time you saved us—I wish I could give you a reward, one you deserve.”

  Stick and Ghost both agreed with heartfelt exclamations.

  Gannan chewed his lip, weariness giving way to anxiety. Now that Yenvir was dead, there remained the old, still-burning goal, one he’d had since his academy days. Why not bring it out now? “If I had a wing of my own, they would be your First Lancers,” he said fervently, his earnest gaze steady with conviction. “Your First Lancers. You always call us first, and we’ll defend you with our lives.”

  Noddy gazed back just as earnestly. Stick and Ghost were excellent captains, but they were Connar’s. Cabbage Gannan was his captain. “Right,” he said. “My First Lancers. I’ll talk to Da, first thing in my report.”

  Gannan smacked fingers to chest. “Whatever the king says, we’ll obey. But riding as your First Lancers even for a week or two would be an honor.”

  Noddy brightened, then his smile faded as he looked around in the gathering dusk. “Before we do anything, let’s lay the dead out proper, so the healers can Disappear them.”

  “All of them?” Ghost spoke the question in many minds.

  “All of them,” Noddy said, his deep voice a rumble as he gazed at mountaineers and Marlovans lying with limbs tangled, close as lovers. But beyond love, or light.

  The pride and triumph vanished from the sweaty, dirt and blood-smeared faces around him. The runners, led by Vanadei, had already begun the grim task; the warriors still on their feet helped them. They laid out the Marlovans first, singing the Hymn to the Fallen, until all were gone. Then they dealt with the brigands in silence.

  The sun had vanished, the area lit by flickering torches, turning the drying blood to black, when they finished. Someone brought out a drum, and another. They sang, and a voice rose in a raw threnody that shivered with grief.

  One by one the battle laments rose, names of the dead added in verse after verse. As thunder rumbled in the distance and rain began to fall, they moved into the cave, where a couple of runners had found wine, and heated it over a fire, adding some hoarded spice.

  That passed from hand to hand. When the victory songs began to replace those of grief—at first ragged, uncertain, then gathering strength as the bristic dulled pain—Vanadei slipped to an unnoticed corner with a candle, a quill, and a small bottle of ink. As one by one the exhausted warriors slipped into slumber, Vanadei wrote out a detailed report for Quill, and sent it.

  SEVENTEEN

  Connar drilled the entire garrison with a passionate conviction of impending victory that roused everyone, from Kendred and Mathren’s fifty-year-old leftovers to the rawest newcomers sent by the jarls.

  When he released them at the toll of the evening watch, they went off to roister or rest but he worked on, every night, with the best swordmasters in the garrison. He was frequently at it until the night watch, in an effort to fight the gut-churning anxieties about things he could not change, such as the weather, and things he might have done differently, such as going with Stick Tyavayir instead of sending him. Each day that dawned without a messenger had to be gotten through, and the only way he could get through them was by pushing himself to the limits of endurance.

  Lineas, living as a castle runner, looked on with compassion and worry. Everyone knew trouble was coming—it was akin to a boulder rolling downhill, bringing all the smaller rocks with it.

  She wrote every night to Quill, who rode eastward, careful to avoid leaving a trail, then north into the woods.

  By nights he and Lineas exchanged letters, both avoiding the subject of Connar, each anxious not to pressure or distress the other. At first the conversation was tentative. Communication was actually easier by letter, for they couldn’t anxiously watch one another for the slightest sign of hurt, mirroring concern into inarticulate helplessness. On paper (so she thought) one could be brave. He took immense pleasure in relating to her all the wonderful things he had cherished about her over the years, and she, in turn, tried to make him laugh by describing her childhood passion.

  He revealed to her his heart, but not where he was.

  The night before Vanadei sat in Yenvir’s mountain lair, writing his grim report as the welcome rain poured down, Quill reached the outskirts of the hidden army.

  The next day, Quill made his way up a rocky hill on hands and knees, careful to stay out of sight of the increasingly careless sentries—and Braids’ vigilant scouts as well.

  He lay under a prickly shrub on a rocky hill, peering down through his spyglass into the enemy camp as the sun dropped behind him, and then set. He watched the fires lit, and the night watch change places with the day watch.

  Since Yenvir was dead, this had to be Elsarion’s camp.

  Quill remained where he was until at last he saw what he was looking for: a tall, sauntering male with corn-silk hair lit bright gold in the firelight. Mathias Alored Elsarion was instantly recognizable, though dressed in sober colors, like his warriors. His only affectation was that long hair—as long as Marlovans’, who never cut it. But, unlike Marlovans, whose horsetails were damaged by sun, wind, and weather, Thias Elsarion’s hair flowed down his back in ribbon-smooth order, tied at the nape of his neck.

  He joined a group at the main fire. His hands, fine and expressive even at the distance of the spyglass
, gestured as he spoke, holding everyone’s attention.

  Quill’s notecase gave the internal tap of magic. He rolled back out from under his shrub and worked his way down the hill. When he reached a little dell with a trickle of water, he brought out a tiny glowglobe, no bigger than a knuckle. Covering it with a piece of cloth except for a pinhole, he thumbed out the closely written piece of paper, recognized Vanadei’s handwriting in the tiny light, and sat down to read that the camp had broken up, and Noddy had ordered them to ride south to join with his brother.

  He read the ending again—They know a few of Yenvir’s hirelings escaped. At least one has to know where to find Elsarion, so they will be bringing the news. And Snake Wend is on his way to Connar on a grass run. They will probably get to their respective destinations at the same time, near as I can figure from the map, though I can’t be certain exactly where we are.

  Quill sat as the night chill descended, deep in thought.

  When rain began to tap at the canopy of leaves overhead, he withdrew to where he’d stashed his gear and his horse under a rocky outcropping. The horse grazed. Quill ate one of his now-stale biscuits and a drying hunk of cheese.

  By the time he’d worked through this meal, and washed it down with cold water from the stream, he had a plan.

  First, he wrote back to Vanadei, outlining his plan in case the worst happened. Then he wrote to Lineas, warning her that Yenvir was dead after a bloody rout, and that Wend was on his way to report. He kissed the paper then wrote below it, Press your lips here. From me to you, with all my love.

  He sent it off, folded his notecase and weapons into his gear bag, and sent them to his trunk in Darchelde.

  He was now alone.

  He wrapped up in his robe to sleep, and when the first light of dawn began to lift the shadows, he walked the horse downstream until he was certain she would be well out of reach of the enemy. He watched her trot along the bank until she was hidden by the trees.

  He took off his robe then turned it inside out, so that the light lining was on the outside, and the sun-faded dark blue on the inside. He checked that the plain wooden shank buttons at the edge were free, then walked back up the mountain, in full view of the enemy sentries.

  His heart thudded against his chest the way hearts do when the mind is uncertain whether this is a good or bad idea, but is pushing the body ahead anyway.

  The sentries stilled until he drew near, his empty hands held away from his sides, then they surrounded him, weapons out.

  One snapped, “You want to die?” in very bad Marlovan, followed by the same demand in Adrani, and then in accented Iascan.

  Quill replied in Adrani, which has Sartoran at its root, “No, I do not. I’m here to speak to my cousin, Thias Elsarion.”

  At the word cousin, the two spears and the sword wavering a finger’s width from Quill’s throat and heart withdrew a hand’s width.

  “Cousin?” one repeated.

  “Tell him Cousin Senrid is here,” Quill said. Whatever happened here, the name Senrid was so common over Halia that it would not identify him as a royal runner, but it ought to be recognizable to Elsarion.

  “Search him,” the leader said.

  The steel withdrew. The search was thorough, and not especially gentle, then, “Nothing.”

  “What robe is that?” the leader demanded.

  “Scribe,” he said, and watched the sentries’ stances ease further. Runners could be dangerous, but nobody ever looked at scribes when scanning for threat.

  The leader sent the newest recruit to run into the camp with the news, and they waited there, as clouds drifted overhead, and a clean wind toyed with hair and clothes.

  Presently the gangling youth returned, breathing hard. “Said to bring ‘im.”

  The sentry leader stationed a guard on either side of Quill, and the rest of them returned to their patrol, as Quill and his two guards wound their way through the tent city in the process of waking to a new day.

  Over at one side, a brawny captain barked orders, his breath clouding, as men formed up for warmups. Quill noticed their weapons were mainly straight swords, spears, and here and there big men with maces. All foot-warrior weapons, the spears short.

  His gaze ran over the horse picket, which was not long in Marlovan terms: Quill guessed that the commanders rode mounted, and likely runners as well, but the army itself marched and fought on foot. Yes, there, resting against a tree stump, one of the huge, heavy shields used in shield walls.

  Beyond that, mostly hidden by tents, lay a long set of wagons together, with an enormous spar resting on them. Quill’s guide saw the direction of his gaze and snapped, “This way.”

  Quill obligingly turned his head, but he knew what he’d seen: a battering ram, with metal worked around it in bands. The end of the great tree had been clear-cut. Quill suspected that this was an artifact of hiding deep in the mountains, beyond the Wood Guild’s reach, for that clear-cut end was not that of a fallen tree.

  Another strike against you, Quill thought as they entered a clearing.

  At the center lay a large tent, divided into two sections. Mathias Elsarion waited in the outer segment, the opening flaps pulled wide. He lounged in a folding camp chair. Quill noticed he wore knives in both boot tops, a long dagger at his belt, and a sword lay in reach on the top of a trunk. Four men at arms stood behind their leader, hands on the hilts of their weapons.

  “You do look familiar,” Thias said with a smile. “You have to be related to Camerend the Hostage.”

  “He’s my father,” Quill said in Sartoran.

  “So you’re the new uncrowned prince,” Thias replied in the same language. “If you’re still heeding that ridiculous treaty that keeps your family confined within your own territory? You are surely aware that the last of the Montreivayirs who forced that treaty onto your family after backstabbing your greatfather, what, ten or twelve generations ago, died out at the turn of the century?” In other words, See, I know your Marlovan history.

  Quill’s conviction was that anyone who felt they had to make an Aren’t I clever speech usually wasn’t as smart as they thought themselves.

  But they could still be dangerous.

  “I’m the eighth generation. The end of that treaty,” Quill said, “will be my grandson’s problem. If I have one.”

  Thias laughed, and waved his hand casually.

  The men at arms bowed and withdrew from the tent.

  “There. We’re alone. You came here for a purpose, obviously.”

  Quill said, “Thias, it’s true we are some sort of kin, if you go back far enough.”

  “A couple times over,” Thias said appreciatively. “So you’re here to beg for...titles? Land? It’s a little early for that.”

  “I came to beg you to give it up. Go home. I don’t know what your purpose is, but it can’t be worth the cost in lives. Yenvir is dead, a day ago. His band as well. The Marlovans are riding for blood.”

  Thias sat back, the smile hardening on his lips, his eyes narrowed in question. “How do you know that? Oh, but then Camerend did have access to transfer magic, didn’t he? Unlike the rest of your benighted Marlovans? I remember when he came to visit my sister a few years ago. They went on at length about family history, as I recollect, which is how I know we’re related. Then he left by transfer. Convenient, for a hostage, isn’t it? He can go anywhere he wants and your king thinks him locked up safely under his eye.”

  Quill didn’t bother explaining that Camerend had ceased to be a hostage long before he himself was born. “Thias, why are you here? I don’t understand why you’re expending all this effort to become the richest horse thief in history. I don’t believe you’re laying claim to the Nelkereth, which dries up for half of every year. No humans can settle there.”

  Thias uttered a quiet laugh. “You seem to have given up your legitimate claim to your throne, as your father did. Well, if you like being a scribe, no fault to you. The world needs scribes to record the actions of those who d
o have ambition to make something of themselves. And I have ambition. More to the point, I’m not the only one. Your ignorant king has a bigger threat than I pointed straight at his heart from the south, in Demeos and Ryu Nyidri of Perideth. What I believe you Marlovans call Feravayir. See how long that name lasts!”

  When Quill evinced no surprise, Elsarion leaned forward. “Throw in with me, Senrid. Ryu Nyidri has no family feeling whatever, except in acquisition. He and his elder brother want your Darchelde. Says it’s the best holding in all Halia, and it ought to belong to the Dei descendants who can take it.”

  “I’m related to the Deis, too, if you look back far enough.”

  “Exactly, Cousin Senrid! Exactly! So am I. My mother was from the Sartoran branch, you know. That’s why we’re having this conversation! So throw in with me. When I go after the capital from the north, one or the other of the Nyidri brothers will come up from the south. Probably Ryu. I get the sense that Demeos is too lazy. Ryu wants to ride through your Darchelde to secure it first. If you join me, I can keep him from doing that. We can take this kingdom, and bring it into civilization.”

  “Why?” Quill asked, softly.

  “I just told you, I have ambition to make something of myself. Every one of these,” he waved his hand outward, toward the drilling field, “is here because he wants something, too.”

  “How is making war any part of civilization?” Quill said, knowing he’d lost his gamble.

  “Civilization comes after.” Thias’s eyes widened. “First is the fun.”

  “War is fun?”

  “Winning is fun,” Thias retorted, and Quill thought, Oh, you’re one of those Deis.

  Thias went on, “And I’ll win. If Yenvir really is dead, it would surprise me about as much as it would grieve me, which is to say, very little. He was nothing but a brigand, a suitable decoy. He was your horse thief. I’ve got two hardened commanders with me, one demoted due to a power play, the other cheated out of his inheritance by a cousin better liked at court. They want land, and titles, and are willing to do whatever it takes to win them.”