Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  The academy seniors under Jethren and Rat Noth’s chosen company met at Old Faral, which had been warned well ahead of time that it would be the site of this game. Amid much anticipatory ribaldry, the companies camped, half outside the walls, half in the courtyard of the old castle.

  Connar met with Jethren and Rat Noth. “The problem is pretty obvious, one army attacks the castle. The other defends. If it ends too soon, we’ll run it again, swapping the armies.”

  “Can the inside force come out on the attack?” Rat asked.

  Connar opened his hands. “Would a castle ride out to the attack?”

  Rat grinned. “Most commanders I know would, if they thought their lancers could hit the siege company hard enough.”

  “Let’s see what they do,” Connar said, and opened his hand toward the two commanders.

  The academy seniors were the first defenders. Despite the loud talk among the boys, and Jethren’s unspoken determination to win, Rat’s company broke in before morning was over; they attacked front and back gates as expected, but while the two attack parties roared and repeatedly raised their ladders and sent showers of jelly arrows over, in pairs covert teams slipped along the walls between the sparsely posted sentries (who were all gazing out cursorily while mostly craning to see the action at the gates). Clamber up, jump the sentry, and they were in.

  After that, defeat was swift. As Jethren had predicted, the seniors weren’t desperate enough. They fell apart quickly, and didn’t surrender so much as stop, as was their habit on their own games. Vaskad would have flogged them all himself, Jethren knew—one of his earliest memories was all the blood—but he kept his teeth shut. Discipline would come, but the initial failure was his own.

  The next day, Rat’s defenders let the seniors try to break in all day, then came roaring out in two noisy groups, a third having sneaked out, crawling through the sun-dried weeds until they encircled the seniors. Then, as night began to fall, they took them utterly by surprise. Almost the same strategy, and Jethren had fallen for it yet again.

  When the commanders met that night, Jethren held onto his temper. Rat didn’t look his way as he said, “This is good for the boys, but we could have foreseen how fast they would go down.”

  Connar turned his way. “You have a suggestion?”

  Rat shuffled his feet. “Split both companies in half. Let the boys mix with my company. It’s what they’ll be doing anyway when they get their garrison assignment next year.”

  “True. Do it,” Connar said. “Between the two of you, divide them up tonight. Let’s see if tomorrow is better.”

  Jethren walked off with Rat, trying to figure out how to take the lead without demanding it. But Rat started in with very accurate evaluations of the seniors, garnered after two days of watching. Since his suggestions balanced the strong and the weak, that left Jethren with nothing to say except agreement.

  Rat sent him a company from Hesea, under Captain of Skirmishers Plum Noth—who was the focus of all eyes the rare times he spoke. Just about every one of those utterances began with “Rat usually says,” or “Rat often does,” and Jethren could see the conviction in all the listeners—even the seniors.

  He wanted to command, but the need to win was greater. And so he accepted Plum’s suggestions.

  This time the challenge took days. Connar rode around smiling at the combatants who, in their turn, worked harder under the king’s eyes, and unnoticed by them all Moonbeam drifted along the perimeter watching, watching.

  At the end of the week they officially called a draw, the king praised them all at a last night banquet at which ale flowed freely, and they parted, promised another game—a different one next year—before they separated.

  Connar often rode ahead alone, but on this return journey he beckoned Jethren forward on the first day, and rode ahead with him, until the column was out of earshot.

  “Rat’s trickery aside, we aren’t much better than Artolei,” he commented.

  Jethren forced out the words, “Rat Noth was better.”

  “Oh, for a game.” Connar flattened his hand. “All he did was adapt his usual two-prong flank attack. That foolishness with sending his insertion team flat against the wall to the midpoint would never happen in a real siege situation. The sentries would be looking down constantly. Those boys stuck midway along the wall were trying to see the fun at the gates.”

  “True.”

  “A setback.” Connar’s voice deepened with dissatisfaction. “Not the only one. I wasted all last winter and most of spring pawing through moldy records to find out exactly how our ancestors took the Iascan castles in the first place. I assumed they had siegecraft that had been forgotten, but from what I could tell, there were two fairly bloody assaults, led by the first king.”

  “We have so many ballads about Anderle Montreivayir,” Jethren said. “He must have left records.”

  “We seldom sing the Hymn to the Beginnings anymore.” Connar slanted a sardonic smile at Jethren. “But you should remember that he was not the first king. That was Quill’s forefather, Savarend Montredavan-An, who lived long enough to conquer Iasca Leror. He might have planned to write his memoirs in his old age, but Anderle’s knife ended that.”

  Jethren mentally shrugged. Ancient history was, well, ancient.

  “According to the Iascans, I discovered, the rest of their nobles negotiated treaties or surrendered outright. And those castles mostly seemed to have been outposts. It was Anderle Montreivayir who started building bigger castles, presumably to keep the Venn from coming after our ancestors. Setback. We’ll try again next year.”

  Jethren said nothing, but inwardly resolved that he had a year to learn everything there was to be known about siege warfare.

  At the royal city, Victory Day arrived, passed, and faded into memory as the academy youths started home and the academy itself had to be readied for winter—which meant emptying it down to the stone.

  No matter how busy Lineas was, awareness of that sealed paper tucked into her journal never ceased. Lineas was curious, but there was also a sense of burden. Kendred’s and Spring’s anxiety and even terror had made that clear.

  After she had helped inventory the academy furnishings and weapons, she donated the jug of honey to the always-ravenous, grateful fuzz in the roost, then went to Pereth to tell him she was going back to the state wing.

  “Thanks,” he said tiredly. Then he gave her a considering look. “Listen. About this magic. Someone said you studied it once. The others here don’t explain very clearly. I think they know it too well, so it becomes like trying to tell someone how to walk. Do you understand the difference between what they call first level, and whatever the second is?”

  Lineas said, “I studied magic, but I failed at it. I was never even able to manage first level spells. However, from what I recollect, second level incorporates such things as healer magic. The Beard Spell, and so forth.”

  Pereth’s brows met. “But that’s simple. I remember that much.”

  Lineas said, “It actually involves changing things on bodies. The Beard Spell could go so very wrong if done wrong. Think of losing all your hair, or worse, having it grow from your eyes, or something.”

  Pereth made a warding motion with his hand. “I get it. Yes, I guess I can see that. Thank you.”

  She left, regretting what was after all only a partial lie. Second level magic did incorporate healer spells, though much more complicated ones than the Beard Spell. It also incorporated magic transfer in all its forms. But orders were orders, and she had that letter to read. Putting it off only meant more thinking about it.

  With it tucked in her inner pocket, she picked up her writing tools and walked over to the state wing, aware that the farther she got from the royal wing, the less tense she felt.

  When she reached the inner chamber, she found it empty, as she’d expected—Quill would be finishing Fox drills in the winter storage extension, and of course Vanadei would be with Noddy.

  She sat dow
n on the nearest mat and opened the letter.

  This is what I saw when the invaders came into Stalgoreth. I was in the mud. Leg broke. Alone on the field. Then I saw Connar-Laef throw the foreigner sword into my jarl Senrid’s back. Senrid, everyone called Cabbage. Senrid fell off his horse. Keth Jethren rode shield to Connar-Laef. I blacked out. My head was bad after I woke. I forgot for a time. When I remembered I told Braids Senelac. He took me to Sindan-An. My sister in Stalgoreth sent a message Keth Jethren’s ferrets searched for me. I have to fix my knee. I can’t ride. So we will go over the sea. Braids said he can’t ride against a king. It will be a war. Not against enemies. Against us. Spring said tell someone you trust. That is you.

  Lineas lowered the letter, her fingers trembling. Why had Kendred given it to her? He was not around to ask—he was a week away, and no doubt traveling as fast as he could.

  “Lineas, what’s wrong?”

  She looked up, startled. Quill crossed the floor in three strides and dropped down beside her. Lineas first crushed the paper into her fingers, then she recollected Kendred’s last spoken words to her, in effect entrusting her with this revelation.

  This burden.

  Instead of answering, she held out the paper, and watched as he scanned rapidly. Twice. Then he lowered it. “How did you get this?”

  She explained.

  He grimaced. “A lot is now clear.”

  “I would be glad for clear.” She folded her arms across her churning stomach and leaned into them. “Like?”

  “Why Braids has not returned to the royal city. Why Lnand was effectively blindsided by him and Stalgoreth, and Jethren’s ferrets were as well. The ferrets seem to have given up entirely, I’m glad to report: three of our people spotted them along the road to the Andahi Pass, though the royal runners were not informed, and so there is no record of their mission.”

  “Not even Pereth knew?”

  “He might have received spoken orders, which included not logging the runners or the message. But that’s guesswork. Going back to Kendred’s letter here, I suspect we also now know why Gannan leveled that accusation against Braids. I’m wondering if a message to Cabbage’s father got garbled along the way, and of course Gannan would interpret it whatever way suited him best.”

  Lineas rocked back and forth. “How many people do you think know about it?”

  “Hard to guess.” Quill looked upward. “Maddar Sindan-An, almost certainly, and those closest to her. We now have firsthand testimony that Braids knows. We can assume those closest to him.”

  “But they haven’t said anything.”

  “I feel certain they’re all aware that bringing an accusation like this against a king is far different than it would have been against Connar when Arrow was alive. They hesitated then, and now it’s probably too late.”

  Lineas’s stomach knotted with tension. “I know Connar always hated Cabbage Gannan. And yet I’m wondering how clear Kendred’s sight was. His head was injured.”

  “And this occurred in the middle of a hailstorm,” Quill said. “But I’ll warrant Braids, at least, interrogated Kendred thoroughly. And this line about ‘throwing the sword into Gannan’s back’ is fairly specific. The healer who examined him said that his spine was severed by a single blow.”

  “Why...?” Lineas whispered.

  “It might not have been calculated. Call it a fit of petulance, the heat of the moment, even the chaos of battle. That has covered many questionable acts in our history. However, that’s all speculation, and we finally have a witness. Which is better than we have with Retren Hauth.”

  “Retren Hauth the lance master?”

  Quill said gravely, “I’ll ask you again, how much of this do you want to hear?”

  Lineas knew from his tone that she would hate anything she heard. But.... “It seems I have to. Quill, the more I think about it, the more I believe Kendred thinks I can somehow get justice for Cabbage.”

  “Yes,” Quill said, handing back the letter. “But getting it from a sitting king is...difficult. I suggest you store that somewhere safe, for now.”

  And then he told her what he knew.

  Connar returned in time for his brother’s Name Day, and life settled into autumnal activities, centered around harvest and tax season.

  There were still bad moments. One morning, a biscuit crumbling in Danet’s hands threw her back to breakfast with Arrow as he impatiently slathered jam on biscuits, half-crumbling them as they talked out kingdom affairs. Sometimes they argued, but it had never been bitter.

  Her stinging eyes turned toward the hallway and the closed door opposite. How that closed door hurt, reminding her with the implacability of stone that there would never again be crumbled biscuits slopping down Arrow’s front, or his snapped fingers, or his impatient prowling around the room.

  His voice.

  She shut her eyes, but knew that closed door was still there. She could knock, of course. Connar always made time for her, but there was that sense that she was interrupting him. At least he continued to come to breakfast, but when he did, the conversation was much as it was when he was young: trivialities. She heard about decisions when the evidence showed up in the ledgers.

  Such as the abandonment of the Nob.

  She brought the subject up one morning, after the word came in that the silver usually bound for the peninsula had been sent to furbish Old Faral castle.

  “That caught me by surprise,” she said carefully. “Of course it’s your decision to make. But I would like to hear your reasoning.”

  “That treaty was pointless.” Connar jerked one shoulder up. “A dead loss, everything about it. Da held onto the Nob to keep it from the Idegans. I don’t care if they’re stupid enough to try to take it.” He smiled, his eyes as bright and clear a blue as ever, but she sensed in his tone that there was nothing to discuss—that he didn’t want to discuss it.

  There was no more partnership, that is, not with her. And that was the way of the world, she told herself. She was aware that she had been granted more of a say in governing Marlovan Iasca than most any other gunvaer, possibly even the great Hadand. It was reasonable and even proper for Connar to share government with his brother. She still handled the kingdom’s tallies, but she no longer controlled where it was spent, or how. Again, that was to be expected with a new king. Nothing wrong.

  But it hurt.

  Connar saw something of that hurt, and left, puzzled. She couldn’t really be regretting the Nob. Maybe she was just missing Da. Noddy still talked sadly of what Da might have wanted.

  Connar crossed over to his suite, to find Fish Pereth waiting with Cheese. Oh yes. He wanted to be called Pereth now.

  “Problems on the third floor?” Connar asked, impatient to get down to the courtyard.

  “No. Everything is fine.” Pereth was bitterly convinced he could drop dead and the royal runners would carry on smoothly and efficiently around his stiffening corpse. But he’d long ago learned not to share opinions unless Connar asked. Which had happened so rarely he could still recollect them all.

  Because of that—because of many things—Pereth actually had two items, but he’d decided after weeks of rumination that broaching the second one depended on what he heard in response to the first. “Since I’m no longer a first runner, I’d like to get married. I realize that royal runners only marry among themselves, but that’s easily adjusted, Hibern’s a scribe over in the city. We could use her on the third floor, especially with New Year’s Week coming—”

  “No. Is that all?”

  “No?” Pereth was so taken aback he forgot old habits.

  Connar sighed. “Can we get into this another time? They’re all waiting on me down in the courtyard.”

  Pereth remained silent. They both knew very well that Connar could keep them waiting half a day and no one would say anything.

  Connar’s eyes narrowed as he studied Pereth’s face, then he said, “Look. We’re both young. Barely thirty. There’s plenty of time for a wife
, who will be wanting your attention, and probably a family, which demands more time. Right now I want your focus on magic. I need to know what I can use, and you’re the only one I can trust to find out.”

  Yes, well, that was the second item Pereth had on his mind. He was now able to complete small spells, and had been experimenting on his own. Magic was dangerous. It burned if you used it too much. But given that, there were all kinds of possibilities—if you were willing to take the risk.

  Pereth had figured Connar might say what he’d said. And being right in that indicated he’d be right in guessing that Connar would require, even demand, that Pereth take every risk to learn what he wanted.

  Maybe someday.

  Like, after he was married.

  “As you wish,” he said, fist to heart, and left.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Early in spring of 4092, the initial spate of messengers after first thaw brought the unsurprising news that the Nob had fallen to the Bar Regren.

  Connar had already received word through his royal runner scouts, who had (with the rest of the Marlovan contingent there) escaped to ships, those with foresight having managed to reduce their holdings to precious metals.

  The two whose goods could not be spirited out spread oil over everything, and set fire to their buildings in the teeth of the Bar Regren.

  There was little reaction in Marlovan Iasca. Life went on as usual.

  Jethren had begun the academy season with another setback, when Connar told him no siege equipment. “This game’s goals are strategy. Timing. Logistics. Remember, we are talking about defense.” But he soon overcame it. The entire academy was lusting to be chosen for the garrison game, as it was now being called. The returning seniors from the year previous had, in time-honored manner, inflated the report of their experience, heightening the sense of competition.

  Jethren used that competition to tighten the consequences of being slow, clumsy, unskilled. Discipline at the academy was much harsher, resulting in more injuries. The riding master who had replaced Bunny resigned, saying to Danet, “It’s ridiculous to take a switch to children whose riding skills are all about the same, whoever is last depending entirely on the animals.”