Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  “Cousin, the Marlovans know who you are.”

  “Old news.” Thias shrugged.

  Quill opened his hands out wide. “Do you really not understand what that means? If you persist in this scheme of yours, you’ll make it a virtue to chase you all the way up the eastern pass to your Elsarion holdings.”

  “That would be my sister’s problem, wouldn’t it?” Thias laughed softly. “In any case, Yenvir proved twice that your Marlovans are not unbeatable.”

  “Surely you know that Halivayir was the smallest jarlate, the older generation outnumbering the young, and Tlen, equally small, was half deserted.”

  Thias smiled indulgently. “Boast of Marlovan prowess if it pleases you. As for coming up the Adrani pass, I’d love to see them try running a raid against castles atop thousand-stride cliffs.”

  “Then your outposts were never really intended to guard against brigands,” Quill said.

  Thias lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Brigands, Marlovans, what’s the difference, except maybe in the color of their garments? As for your information, I will do you the honor of believing your words about Yenvir. We shall prepare accordingly. But....” His eyes narrowed as he raised a lazy hand, signaling to the watching guards a short distance outside the tent. “I think you should probably stay with us, all things considered—”

  “We’re done,” Quill said.

  Thias lunged out of his chair. He was fast, but Quill was faster, touching one of his robe shanks as he spoke the transfer word. Magic wrenched him out of the world, leaving Thias clutching at empty air that tingled unpleasantly.

  He turned away, wringing out his fingers and laughing, as far away in Darchelde, Quill fell onto his bedroom rug, and lay there until he’d recovered from the transfer.

  Then he got up and shrugged out of his robe, turning it about again. He ran his fingers over the other buttons; it was a family tradition not to use the expensive golden coins as transfer tokens that most of the rest of the world used. The theory was fine—that much magic required the sort of object no one would want to lose. But the Montredavan-Ans kept their magic secret, and their tokens, by preference, were ordinary objects. Which incidentally helped when one was being searched by hostiles.

  Quill walked down through familiar halls, until he reached the north wing, which was cooler in summer. There he found Camerend teaching two magic students who would eventually be sent to the royal city as royal runners in training.

  At the sight of him, Camerend broke off what he’d been saying. “Go on, you know what to do.” He indicated the door to the downstairs library, and the students scampered off, one with a backward glance. And to Quill, “Vanadei wrote to me last night. He was pretty frantic that I find and stop you. I take it you were not successful?”

  “No.” Then, wrung with a sense of failure, Quill told him everything.

  Camerend listened in silence, expression sober. After the account of Quill’s killing of the two assassins, he said, “If I could have saved you from that experience....” Here he turned his wrist, slashing his hand through the air in the Eagle Stoop two-handed knife strike. “I would. Being so close to those in power, you will have to come to terms with the tension between moral right and duty. But we’ve talked about that since you were small.”

  “Talking and doing....” Quill made the signs for night and day.

  Camerend replied, “You know your next step.”

  Quill said reluctantly, “I’ll be on the road to Feravayir by morning.”

  Camerend opened his hand, having expected this answer, then he met his son’s gaze. “As for Lineas...I was glad to see you watch out for her like the brother she never had. I was close to her mother at one time, before I married yours. But now....” He raised a hand, palm out. “My experience is irrelevant here, I believe. So I’ll stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what you’re talking about is not merely a matter of the heart. You have ventured into different territory.”

  Quill sighed. “How can you say that? Neither Lineas nor I have made vows—I made certain of that.”

  “True.” Camerend opened both hands. “And you can point out that Connar has lovers across the kingdom. Except as far as I understand the matter, there’s only one he comes back to. And he descends from people not known for their ability to share.”

  Quill’s eyes narrowed. He said warily, “But you’ve always said that children are not copies of their parents.” He lifted his hand, pointing northeast in the direction of Anaeran-Adrani, and the kingdom-sized Elsarion holdings. “That the biggest mistake the Dei family made was in trying to shape their progeny into some ideal.”

  “All true. And yet...with age especially, many of us begin to look for ourselves, and especially those we’ve lost, in the young. You are very much your own person, neither a copy of your mother, or myself. Yet in the variety of your expressions, turns of your voice, even emotional patterns I sometimes catch glimpses of your mother. Shendan. My Dei cousin, whom you’ve never met. And also Mnar Milnari, who is so distantly related to you we might as well not count it, and yet you’ve some of her gestures. All of you do, not surprising as you’ve all been taught by her.”

  Quill opened his hand.

  “And so, we come to Connar. Who is far smarter than either of his birth parents, both of whom I knew from my rides to Nevree, though I only met Fini sa Vaka once. Connar is a blend of them physically, but his nature is different, and in it I can see so much of Danet’s fierce love of family. But every so often, I catch a quick glimpse of Mathren, especially when Connar is angry.”

  “I seldom saw Connar, but I don’t recollect ever hearing of him throwing a tantrum.”

  “Mathren didn’t throw tantrums, either. Garid joked and laughed his way out of trouble, Kendred whined and bellowed, but Mathren was quiet, except when he flirted, and of course when they loosed him on wargames. I also recollect that Jasirle-Harvaldar was savage in punishments, particularly if his son lost those wargames, because Mathren was intended to be a shield arm for Garid.”

  And so he had been, until he contrived his brother’s death and made it look like bandits, Quill thought.

  Camerend went on. “Mathren never raised his voice—ever. In fact, after Kendred took over the regency and Mathren the guards, it was when he whispered that sweat would break out on everyone’s foreheads.”

  Quill grimaced.

  Camerend temporized, “It would be ridiculous to say that Connar is a copy of Mathren, because it’s not true. I can list a hundred differences, beginning with Mathren’s passion for ballads, whereas I don’t know if you ever noticed that both Connar and Noddy would stand there at festival singing staring off into space, clearly bored. As a child Mathren waged a continual, silent, and usually losing battle against his older brothers. He never shared. From the time they could walk, Connar and Noddy did everything together, a genuine bond. And so on.”

  Camerend leaned forward. “Given that, still. Every so often, especially since Connar got out of the academy, I catch glimpses of Mathren in him—and those are never the flirting Mathren, the singing Mathren, they are always the whispering Mathren. So to conclude, your relationship with Lineas might be scrupulously honest on both your parts, but it is unlikely to be private. Because of who Connar is, it’s political.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Quill to Lineas:

  Who was it who said that love is the seeds of light? Somehow my memories of you are always in spring, even when we wore mittens and hats and our breath steamed as we laughed.

  I just arrived here in Parayid, to investigate a remark made by Thias Elsarion about the Nyidri brothers riding north to attack the royal city.

  It’s possible that Ryu or his brother might be acting behind their mother’s back. She’s far too prudent to be reckless. Camerend believes her preference is to win by insinuation, and if she must strike, only against a supine target. If she knows about Elsarion’s plan, I believe she would wait to move until she knows that
the royal city lies in ruins.

  More when I find out.

  What the archivists on either side of the mountains don’t know is that Thias Elsarion chose to attack the Marlovans after a short period of irritated brooding alone in his tent. Who would have thought the Montredavan-Ans would be sneaky enough to ward magic transfer onto wooden buttons?

  Still, he believed ‘Cousin’ Senrid Montredavan-An had told the truth about Yenvir. His army, bored with sitting and waiting, was just as happy to carry the fight to the enemy without having to consider sharing the spoils with a gang of scoundrels they’d despised as much as they distrusted.

  Braids’ scouts, seeing the enemy begin breaking camp, withdrew, sending the fastest rider to Ku Halir. She arrived a day ahead of Snake Wend, who galloped into Ku Halir’s stableyard, gabbled a nearly incoherent account of Yenvir’s defeat to wide-eyed stable hands, then fell off the horse in a dead faint.

  Connar—wound to the snapping point—was summoned to Ventdor’s command center to hear the gist of Snake’s report: Noddy, Gannan, and what remained of Stick and Fath’s companies were riding southward down the edge of the wooded hills above the lake, toward Elsarion’s encampment.

  Connar knew he was now in an anomalous position: his orders had been fulfilled with the securing of Halivayir, and Yenvir’s death. Ventdor, wearing two gold chevrons, had orders to defend the east. If Commander Ventdor wanted to command, he was entitled.

  Connar went straight to the yard, drew his sword and picked up a second sword as if he were a front-line lancer and not a captain. He fought two-handed until he was crowing for breath—which did not prevent his mind from alternately arguing with Ventdor—his father—the world—about why he should be in command, and formulating the orders he would give.

  Sneeze Ventdor, a father as well as an experienced organizer, watched from afar as Connar fought against three volunteers with sweat-dripping intensity, his internal debate scarcely less fervent: what was the right thing to do here? Could he command a battle when he never had before?

  What could Cousin Arrow want?

  That was the right question. He knew what Arrow would want.

  When the night watch bell clanged and Connar put down his sword to get some water, Ventdor approached him. Though they were surrounded by people, no one was in earshot. “I know what your da’s plans are for you,” he said bluntly. “If he was here, I think he’d give you the chance to command if you want it. From what I hear of that business outside Lindeth, you proved you’re ready.” And he opened a hard, callused hand to reveal a gold chevron, pulled from his winter coat.

  Connar looked from that longed-for symbol to Ventdor’s face, and said on an exhaling breath, “I’m ready.”

  Ventdor handed off the chevron, and though his summer coat still sported two on the right arm, he understood what it meant, even if Connar was too caught up in the moment, as the young always were: he had not expected what in effect was retirement to happen so suddenly.

  He looked down at his empty palm, feeling the world shifting away from him as the young took his place. He looked up. This was how the world worked. But he was nowhere near ready to hang up his sword and squat by the fireside until he was toothless. “Then I’m ready to carry out your orders.”

  Connar had craved hearing those words, but never expected to hear them for years and years. Disbelief vanished in the fire of elation.

  That was truly Ventdor’s perception, that the prince blazed with intensity. Ventdor wondered how Arrow’s boy did that, seem so suddenly to be larger than life.

  Connar turned to the nearest runner waiting over by the weapons rack, and opened his hand in summons. “At the hour before dawn, sound the general assembly. We’ll ride out at sunup.”

  Under the deep blue sky of impending dawn, Connar—with that new chevron stitched onto his new coat by Fish’s nimble fingers—faced the assembled warriors in the torchlit parade ground. Everyone saw the glint of gold on his right arm. They all respected field promotions, which were always (unless for dire reasons) confirmed.

  Connar raised his voice. “We’re riding against the enemy.”

  Lineas to Quill:

  ...and then Connar, with Ventdor at his back, and King’s Army Captains Basna and Mundavan completing the diamond, did the sword dance. I have never seen Connar so happy.

  All the warriors shrilled the fox yip. Cama the scribe, who was at that time over in the town fetching a fresh supply of paper, said that the sound rising so suddenly from beyond the garrison walls was so harrowing that the Iascan merchants, artisans, and idlers along the waterfront waiting for the inns to open for breakfast fell silent as the eerie shriek carried on the wind.

  Everyone began to say, “The Marlovans are riding,” and Cama was certain Elsarion’s spies were probably among the traders galloping madly away. Not that word from the spies will be much help, for our Riders will be right on their heels.

  My orders are to wait with the secondary horses, in case word to Ku Halir or the royal city must be sent. They are forming in column now, so I must go.

  I kiss this paper, knowing that it will soon be in your hands.

  Those familiar with the main events of Marlovan history have all heard about the Battle of Tlennen Plain.

  As the ballads attest, Braids Senelaec raised the Sindan-An-Tlennen-Senelaec alliance, who were there waiting when Connar’s and Elsarion’s forces met half a day’s ride outside Tlennen.

  Despite this additional force, Elsarion had the numbers. But the Marlovans had the horses.

  For the third time, the tide of battle turned when Gannan’s lancers—this time charging across flat turf on fresh horses—drove across the plain in a line, smashing into Elsarion’s hastily assembled shield wall with devastating effect. There are still extant tapestries depicting the distended eyes of the enemy as they took in Gannan, pale-haired Ghost Fath, and Stick Tyavayir with hanks of Yenvir’s distinctive black and white mane flying behind their helms, as lightning crackled overhead.

  Another fact the archivists didn’t record after Gannan’s First Lancers arrived so dramatically just as the storm broke: the First Lancers tried to ride down the scattering men, an aftereffect of charges that few brag about, especially when terrified enemies had already thrown away their arms and many fell to their knees, hands up. Lances spitted them and swords lopped off heads just the same, until Gannan—aware of Noddy somewhere behind, watching—rode with Lefty Poseid among them bawling curses, threats, and orders, forcing them back under control.

  The two Adrani commanders had begun marshaling their forces as well when Rat Noth arrived from the south, and though he had fewer lancers, Elsarion’s force had been badly shaken. One again, the Marlovan arrow drove right through the mass, this time shooting with inexorable speed and precision as the horses flew by.

  Another fact the archivist don’t know, but I’ve seen from the dangerously beguiling mirror in the Garden of the Twelve, is how Connar crossed the field on four horses in succession, until foam streaked their sides, in a desperate search for Elsarion.

  Thias watched him from behind a broken supply wagon as Connar killed the toughest of his Adrani commanders with two strikes from a galloping horse, never looking back as he hunted onward.

  Thias wound up his long hair with one hand, his thoughts a mixture of anger and challenge. He’d also seen those helms.

  He pulled a woolen cap over his head, an old cloak over his mail shirt, and slipped away in the heavy rain.

  Lineas to Quill:

  We’re back in Ku Halir, but only to eat and change horses, except for Captain Fath (the pale blond one they call Ghost), who has been ordered to stay to reinforce Ku Halir, since it seems that the enemy commander got away.

  I was with the secondary horse picket, so I never saw any battle, just dust. We waited in a strained semblance of peace broken only when runners came for fresh remounts. They’d shout out what they’d seen, then gallop off again.

  When at last the enemies were
dead or scattered, and the orders went out to collect weapons and wounded, and to lay out the dead, Noddy rode back, then Connar. Noddy was unhappy. You know how much he hates battle. I saw him looking away from those helms with the hair on them. But said nothing to Captain Gannan, whose company was busy taking more of those dreadful hair trophies.

  Noddy told us we wouldn’t ride until the dead were properly Disappeared, then he said to Connar, “We missed Andahi Day.”

  Connar was drinking water. He looked very tired as he said, “There’s always next year, right?”

  I don’t think Noddy heard him. He was looking westward, toward the setting sun all fiery red under the clouds, then he said, “If we ride hard, we can be home by Victory Day.”

  Connar laughed as he leaned over and clapped Noddy on the shoulder. “Excellent idea!”

  I watched them smile at each other, but I don’t think they understood the other at all—or at least their moods were so vastly different. Noddy so low, Connar so restless, happy and tense by turns: I know, because he told me, Connar thought Noddy’s idea to ride through the gates on Victory Day would be a triumph, but I would wager anything Noddy just wanted to be home.

  I rode with the team of oxen they found to pull the gigantic felled tree they called a battering ram, which had been found at the enemy camp. I assumed it would be turned over to the Wood Guild, or used to rebuild the scribe house, but orders got passed along to store it for now.

  When we reached Ku Halir, Connar wanted me with him.

  I don’t know if what he feels is love. I’m not certain anymore that what I feel is love. It is certainly not what I felt at sixteen. I understand so little about love, except that it seems to be as changeable as the sky. When I was sixteen, my passion was the secret center of my day, and my happiness at night. I thought so strong an emotion must endure forever, but I wonder if I was simply in love with the idea of love.

  Now my feelings are more complicated—fondness, with some worry and maybe even compassion, though he would hate that if he knew. Even when I was his nursemaid his last year at the academy, he loathed any word of compassion, which I think he found indistinguishable from pity. Any sign of pity made him so angry he would not talk about anything but immediate necessities for the longest time after he came out of his room. He still doesn’t talk about what is inside his head, and he hates questions. It’s silence he finds comforting.