Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  If the top portion of the trefoil framed the summer sunset, this would argue for a summer geliath. It was too early to test his theory, and anyway the season was not summer. Still, Quill stood in this peaceful place, taking his notecase out as he wondered if on a clear day one could gaze all the way to the sea.

  He found three notes, covered with tiny writing: one from Lineas, one from Camerend, and one from Vanadei.

  From Lineas:

  Darling Senrid—Quill—you must tell me which you prefer. I confess that hearing the warmth and color in the voices of both your parents when they say ‘Senrid’ so matches what lies in my heart that I have gone back to thinking of you by the name that first enchanted me when I was twelve. But your wishes are of course foremost.

  Here I am, rambling down a side trail even though time presses. I wanted this moment for you and me (because I write these seeing you with me) before I must bring in the world.

  There is news, and I must carry it: Jarend-Jarl of Olavayir, the king’s brother, died in his sleep. The king and queen are both grieving, for they loved this jarl most of the rest of us never met, but about whom no one else said anything that wasn’t praise for his kindness and his love of peace.

  Because the news must go out, along with all else, though the academy and the queen’s training are to begin next week, it is my turn to ride. Mnar is sending me to Commander Ventdor. Ku Halir is not that far, and anyway me the queen was specific in requesting me. The gunvaer said that the Commander and his cousin, Captain Ventdor, will want the news spoken and in a compassionate way, and she trusts me to carry that out.

  So as soon as I write to you, I will be riding out. Seeing the gunvaer’s grief causes me to cherish you the—

  The crunch of gravel from the stone corridor on the other side of the chamber caused Quill to crush notes and notecase inside his robe. He clasped his hands behind his back, gazing through the archway to the distant plains as the steps entered, slowed, and then:

  “What does that say?”

  Quill had expected Fish Pereth. At the sound of Connar’s voice he turned sharply, gravel skittering under his boots, and suppressed the urge to check that the notecase was safely hidden.

  Connar sauntered in from the back entrance, his attention apparently on the words carved in Ancient Sartoran. Quill made an effort to still the hammering of his heartbeat as he became aware that Connar was alone for once, without his mantle of captains and runners trailing behind him.

  Quill cleared his throat. “It says And yet the greatest gifts are those from the world that is invisible.”

  Connar turned slowly, scanning the chamber. “Strut.” He gave a snort of contempt, breath clouding. “As expected.”

  “Strut?” Quill asked, more curious to see if Connar would answer than in anything he might say.

  Connar flung a derisive look back. “What else would you call it? Pomposity? Superiority?”

  “I see an invitation, but I know the context. I once had to write it out fifty times as a correction. It’s from what they used to call the pursuit of the dichotomies, among which was the interplay between the physical world and that of the spirit.”

  When Connar made no answer to that, Quill put his hands behind his back and took up recitation stance. “Love is the only passion that requires another. At its most powerful, rapture obliterates past and future, creating that pinnacle at which time ceases to exist, and the self is erased. The lover of beauty sees it everywhere; the lover of civilization overlooks the petty and timorous to cultivate the virtues that each might possess. There’s more.”

  When Connar did not ask to hear it, Quill raised a hand toward the archway. “Whoever designed it probably wanted to invite one to think about these things while looking out. I suspect,” he added, “this chamber was a chamber of reflection. Or what we’d call a lockup.”

  Connar uttered a crack of laughter. “So they weren’t perfect.”

  “They never claimed to be.”

  Connar had moved to the other end, where the stone had been smoothed, as if once furnishings had been placed there; he wondered if it was a weapons rack. He glanced over his shoulder. “Much more surprising, royal runners got into trouble! What did you do, drop a book? Forget to cap the ink?”

  Quill knew he was being baited, but not why. There was no chance Connar had seen the notecase. The prince’s moods were difficult to discern, but suspicion was not present. Quill had seen Connar suspicious. This mood, whatever the case, was not that. “I ruined a batch of paper—at the mould and deckle stage—because I wanted to get down to the mess hall before the fizz gave out.”

  “What’s mould and deckle?”

  “The frame for making the sheets of paper. Before that a lot of work goes into it. A lot of work,” Quill added under his breath, remembering having to clean up the mess and prepare it again on his own. After the writing assignment, which was intended to give his ten-year-old mind something to work on besides resentment.

  “So that’s the sort of thing they teach you up on the third floor.” Connar dropped onto a boulder, one foot propped on a smaller rock, the other stretched out before him, the knife hilts at the top of his high black boots winking coldly in the pale light. He leaned his forearm on his knee, assuming a posture of one ready to be entertained.

  Connar had only spoken to Quill once during the entire journey to the summit; now, here he was, alone, and talking.

  “We make our own paper, yes.” And Quill thought that if he was to serve as today’s entertainment, he might as well get some use out of it and make one more try to talk Connar out of his bloody intent.

  But Connar forestalled him. “Have you ever considered that, if you go back far enough, you’re the heir to the throne?”

  Quill snorted a surprised laugh, remembering that Thias Elsarion had brought up the same subject. But Quill wasn’t willing to draw any conclusion from that except that Connar knew his Marlovan history. “No.”

  “No?” Connar’s brows lifted in disbelief.

  “Well, I learned early that people in Darchelde cannot go beyond our borders, and they told us why, though the events seemed impossibly distant to us when small. I do recollect seeing our name for the first time when I was reading a history of our early days. I’ve a vague memory of being glad of my escape, considering the bloody ends of so many subsequent princes, or those who claimed to be princes, or those who wanted to make princes out of descendants of kings.”

  “So you’re content to make paper.” Still in that tone of disbelief.

  Camerend had taught Quill to figure out the assumptions behind a question or statement, and to address those if possible, as a way of reaching understanding the quicker—or at least circumventing an argument. The danger was, of course, acting on the wrong assumptions.

  Let’s go back to what I want to talk about. “Well, that’s a very small part of what I do. In any case, I haven’t the temperament for thrones. I would far rather be mashing pulp than leading a war that will bring a lot of destruction but very little gain.”

  Connar sat back, hands propped on his knees, a pose of ease belied by the tension in his shoulders. For a heartbeat Quill missed his knives, sitting at the bottom of his gear bag, an instinctive response that, once his reached consciousness, startled him. There was no reason for Connar to attack him. Nor was he threatening as he sat there, consciously breathing deeply, as they all had to do at this altitude.

  Then Connar tapped his forehead. “The gain is here.” His hand dropped to his knee. “You didn’t stand before the jarls and promise justice for two families completely wiped out.”

  “True. I did not.”

  “Justice, not revenge,” Connar said, even more softly. “You know Elsarion walked away from Tlennen Field. He’ll be back as soon as he can.”

  “Perhaps,” Quill responded, just as calmly. “But if he does, he can’t win.”

  Connar’s lip curled. “So you are a military expert, then?”

  “No. But you are.
” Quill opened his hands. “You will never be caught by surprise again.”

  “Let me give you your first lesson in military strategy. You take the war to the enemy if you possibly can.”

  Before Quill could say Then you wait at the mouth of the pass and catch him if he’s mad enough to try, Connar swung to his feet and sauntered out, leaving Quill looking after him in disgust. There are few things more unshakable than self-righteousness, he was thinking—and then he had to laugh, because he knew he had the same tendency. He had certainly written enough self-reflection essays, growing up under Camerend’s eye.

  Connar made his way back to the others, veering between amusement and irritation. Talking to Quill was like sliding over ice. Impossible to see the below the surface.

  Stick Tyavayir broke off what he was saying to one of the scouts and looked his way. “What?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Three mud-splashed figures trotted into Ku Halir from different directions. Pepper Marlovayir went to the mess hall to see what he could scrounge, while saying cheerfully to anyone who asked, “Nah, no news that I’ve heard. What’s new here?”

  Rat Noth, aware that he was recognized, trusted to his slow approach to cover the fact that he had urgent news both vital and bad.

  Neit was the third, riding in behind a pair of young women driving a cart full of pottery. They chattered in Iascan, she asking how business was, and what kind of paint gave that effect like a rainbow on those drinking dishes, and when they asked what it was like to be a runner, she said it was fun, especially if people got good news and tipped her. “And if they aren’t in any hurry to send me back,” she said with a grin. “Which hothouse do you recommend?”

  They parted amicably, and she led her horse into the castle stable, suppressing the urge to run. Spies everywhere, she reminded herself, a weird thought that intensified a crazy impulse to laugh. She was too tired, that was it, and worried, and shocked, but at the same time, aware of a deep...call it appreciation for Rat Noth. In whom, after days of crawling through mud, sleeping, and eating side by side, she sensed a similar...appreciation. But no intent. She knew when a man was about to ask, or wanted to be asked, and he never did: she suspected he was loyal to someone else. And so she let herself enjoy the appreciation, a shaft of sunlight in an otherwise vile, filthy midden of a situation.

  She made her way toward the command center—and was intercepted by Captain Barend Ventdor, looking haggard.

  “His own quarters,” the captain stated, and immediately turned away.

  Neit took the servants’ passageway to the wing where the officers were housed. The commander’s quarters weren’t much larger than any other room, but he didn’t have to share.

  She found Rat, Pepper Marlovayir, the young, jug-eared scout Wim, and Braids sitting with the commander, who looked tired. He looked old. “They’ve attacked already?” she asked quickly.

  Ventdor looked up sharply at that. “What?”

  Rat turned to the commander. “We’ll get there. Let me finish briefing Senelaec here.”

  Braids’s characteristic grin was gone, rendering him almost unrecognizable, as Neit had the odd experience of hearing her own words about Halivayir succinctly repeated.

  Then Rat opened his palm toward the commander, who was staring down at his empty hands. “Commander Ventdor sent Neit straight to us.” He turned his thumb between himself and Pepper. “Wim here is part of Marlovayir’s riding. He knows this area, as I said before.” He paused, wondering how much he should describe of the arduous, sometimes painful search through brambles and rocky, slippery hillsides down to the lowland marsh north of the lake.

  None of it. He told himself to get to what mattered. “Commander, here’s where you come in. We found an army gathered north of the lake. They’re squatting in the marshland. Waiting.”

  Commander Ventdor’s head jerked up at that, and Neit’s nerves chilled when she recognized grief only as it changed to intent. “How many, and who are they?”

  “Bar Regren,” Neit said. “One night we got close. I recognized Bar Regren words.”

  “And I estimated three battalions, maybe more.” Rat turned to Braids. “That’s when I sent Baudan to summon you in secret.”

  “Shit.” Braids’ blue eyes rounded. “What are they doing all the way down here? Aren’t Bar Regren what they call the mountain people up around the Nob?”

  “...trade city,” Wim said, low-voiced.

  Braids eyed him. “What?”

  Ventdor stated flatly, “You live closest, you should know that Ku Halir is the richest trade town in the north besides Lindeth.”

  Braids reddened. “Never thought much about it.”

  Neit sent a worried look at the commander. “But the traders and merchants do. Everybody coming from the east stops here before going west, and everybody from Larkadhe clear down to the royal city, and even more south, comes this way before heading for the pass to Anaeran Adrani.”

  “Bar Regren used to try to take it every generation or so. They were coming at the Iascans once again right around the time the Marlovans came galloping down from the north,” Wim spoke up; though intimidated by all the chevrons around him, this was his territory. “Marlovans drove them off once and for all and built the first castle here. That’s what my da said. Uh, it was an outpost then.”

  The others knew that much of Ku Halir’s history, as they all had been alive when the king gave the orders to turn Ku Halir’s old outpost into a garrison. Everyone knew someone who had come to Ku Halir to work.

  Rat leaned forward. “So we decided we’d better come in soft. Separate. We know there are spies all over town, and maybe even in this castle. Elsarion’s, who knows what else.”

  “Running in and out of my office, sure as horses shit,” Ventdor said, still in that flat voice, with a tremor beneath it. “Short of dosing every living one of ‘em with kinthus, which is impossible, we have to meet like this until the king decides what, if anything, to do.”

  Braids sent a suspicious look Wim’s way.

  “Rein up, Braids,” Rat said sharply. “If he was running both sides he could’ve betrayed me’n Neit to them any time, and no one would have known. He’s the one found ‘em squatting out there, where we probably would have wandered around lost until they jumped us. Soon’s this is done, I’ll recommend him for promotion.” He said this last to Ventdor, who turned up his palm in approval.

  Braids turned to Wim and said contritely, “Sorry. It’s just, hearing this, I don’t know what to think. Or whom to trust. So they’re waiting for what?”

  Neit leaned forward. “Let’s go back to the spies. Everybody knows the army is taking the war back to the pass.”

  Ventdor said, “Right. The entire town seems to know the lancers will be riding out as reinforcements as soon as we get word. The boys have reported questions from hothouse girls and inn workers like, When are you riding? And What’s the news from the pass?”

  Rat made a spitting motion to the side. “If it was me, and I wanted to bag me a castle town, I’d wait until the lancers rode out, and the defense was spread thinnest. Connar’s got all the western plains patrolled within a day’s sight of each other. And the east. I didn’t think about it until Wim took me and Neit back that way, but none of us patrol what the locals call the Spine the way we do the plains. We’ve ignored those hills and marshes since routing out the brigands.”

  “Not horse country,” Neit said.

  Ventdor pressed his fingers against his temples, his eyes closed. “I have orders about the lancers. There’s no getting around that. There’s also no getting around the fact that we’ll be on watch-and-watch here after they ride out, we’re spread so thin.”

  “Then it’s up to us, is that what you’re saying?” Braids looked appalled. “My orders were clear, to hold....” He gazed into the distance, brow wrinkled.

  “Hold the east to Ku Halir,” Rat said to Braids. “We all got similar orders, I’m holding the midlands, incl
uding Ku Halir, and Olavayir and Lindeth west. Watch and hold. Capture spies, limit movement. Any trouble, bottle it for when Connar brings everyone back. Except this army out there in the marsh, when they come out, they won’t be bottled because they outnumber everybody I’ve got as well as those you’ve got—and mine are spread from the upper river to Hesea Spring.”

  “Mine are just as spread.” Braids looked grim. “I can send someone home to Senelaec, and raise everybody there. Though we aren’t near three battalions.” He sidled a glance Pepper Marlovayir’s way, as if expecting some sort of insult.

  Pepper intercepted that hairy eyeball, noted the commander’s tight mouth, and swallowed the crack he’d been about to air. “It’s too far to send someone to Marlovayir. What about over at Tlen? How many have you got there, Senelaec?”

  “I don’t have anyone! They’re all riding the east. Henad Tlennen’s company is divided between running as skirmishers for Cabbage Gannan and scouting the environs of the pass. I’m not about to ask her for anyone, as they’re first line. Rooster commands at Tlen, and we’ve all been stealing so many from him he’s down to watch-and-watch.” Braids scowled, rapping his knuckles gently on the table in one of the galloping drum beats.

  Rat put fists on his knees. “Commander. You sent us to investigate, and we’ve come back with a completely different strategic situation than was here when Connar left.”

  Neit’s gaze shifted between these tough commanders stating the obvious, and wondered what was not being said.

  “Three times,” Braids said slowly, “I was told to hold Ku Halir. Connar would deal with problems on his return. If I report what’s going on to Amble Sindan and he convinces the jarls of the Eastern Alliance to rise, that’s not holding, that’s taking action.”