by Sharon Shinn
Kirra was actually surprised. She was all poised to tumble into anger when he stubbornly refused to abandon her on the road. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a little faint. “I think this is the nicest compliment you’ve ever paid me.”
He grinned. He still seemed uneasy, but she thought he would abide by his decision. “The only compliment, I think,” he said.
“I can’t recall any others,” Cammon said.
Still, the moment was slightly awkward; all partings were, Kirra thought. “Good, then,” she said, making her voice brisk. “Let’s divide the rations and be on our way.”
That was quickly done. From horseback, they all waved and called out farewells. “Send word from Danalustrous that you’re safe,” Justin shouted back at her a few moments after he and Cammon had set off. “Or I really will come after you, and you don’t want that.”
“You in Danan Hall?” she called back in mock horror. “I’ll do anything to prevent it! Ride safely.”
“You, too.”
It was a relief to be on her way finally. She clucked to the horse and felt it move smoothly underneath her, straight west. Automatically, she looked around for Donnal, to find him a few yards ahead of her, investigating some scent on the rocky ground. As if feeling her gaze, he glanced back, his amber eyes very dark in his white wolf’s face. It was so odd to look at such a foreign creature and know exactly what he was thinking, to feel such kinship with him that it was almost like talking to a familiar ghost or a manifestation of herself.
“Lead the way,” she said. “Danalustrous.”
CHAPTER 7
KIRRA and Donnal were on the road four days before they made Danan Hall. The trip would have gone much faster if she indeed had changed to hawk or falcon or even songbird shape and navigated the miles by air. But there was the horse to consider—a fine black mare from her father’s stables who deserved a better fate than to be set loose in the countryside. If danger threatened and Kirra had to assume animal shape, of course Kirra would leave the mare behind. But no such crisis occurred. They traveled steadily through unaligned territory, just below the southern tip of Tilt and above the northern boundary of Storian. They easily navigated the open land that smoothed from Tilt’s rocky gullies to the green undulating hills of eastern Danalustrous. They met no trouble at all along the way.
Kirra had always loved these solitary journeys, no one but Donnal to share the time with. Even in human shape, he was a taciturn and undemanding companion, able to go days without speaking if she did not appear in the mood for conversation. On the other hand, if she was feeling low, he could entertain her for hours with stories picked up from disreputable relatives and his handful of friends. He had a charming, easy way of telling tales and a subtle sense of humor. Though he showed it to almost no one but her.
At night, she sometimes built a fire and sometimes did not. It was late spring, so the nights never grew too cold. And anyway, Donnal slept always with his body to Kirra’s back, the heat pouring through his thick fur to warm her skin. A couple of times she changed shape before she slept, making herself into a fox or a lion or a wolf, just because it was more comfortable that way when she was faced with a cold camp and a hard bed. She felt safer in animal shape, too, as likely as Donnal to catch any hint of danger that might creep up on them in the night.
But nothing threatened them. Nothing slowed their progress. They crossed into Danalustrous property on the morning of the fourth day.
Almost instantly, Kirra was aware of passing some invisible boundary. The holdings of the twelve marlords were a mix of land owned outright and land held by vassals who paid a complex series of taxes in return for protection and some recognition of status. These were the lesser aristocrats who made up the Thirteenth House, who were far enough down the hierarchy of power to never expect to inherit the great lands surrounding the Twelve Houses, but who nevertheless had connections of blood and history binding them to the highest lords. There had always been some jealousy between ranks, Kirra knew, but also a great deal of pride. A Danalustrous vassal wore Danalustrous red and gold, quoted Malcolm Danalustrous’s every pronouncement and considered himself a faithful, integral part of House Danalustrous.
In turn, Malcolm considered them all in some sense an extension of himself, his land, his holdings. All the marlords did, of course, but with Malcolm—as in so many instances—the intensity of the possessiveness was several degrees higher. He could tell you—often, to the dismay of his daughters, insisted on telling you—who owned every square inch of property in the entire domain, who had owned it before that tenant, and when the land had changed hands. He seemed to know when rain fell along the coastline, when drought hit the southern croplands, even before a rider arrived with the news. It was as if the land itself communicated with him, sent its heartbeat of buried river and seasonal blooming like a slow, steady pulse into Malcolm’s body. So often that it had long ago ceased to surprise her, Kirra had come across her father standing motionless and alone, his head cocked to one side, his eyes fixed on nothing, simply listening. She had asked him several times what he was doing, and he had only shaken his head. “Noticing things,” he had answered once or twice. Or, “Concentrating.” Her only conclusion had been that he had been giving his whole attention to Danalustrous itself.
It was Senneth’s theory that all mystics drew their power from one of the old, forgotten gods. These days, most of Gillengaria worshipped the Pale Mother, the moon goddess, but Senneth believed her ability to call fire came directly from the goddess of the sun. The Wild Mother, who extended her protection to all the animals of the realm, perhaps watched over shiftlings like Donnal and Kirra. Who knew what strange deity might give Cammon his uncommon gifts? Kirra had never heard of a land god, a divinity with power over the soil and rocks themselves, but if there was one, she was sure it had laid its hand across Malcolm Danalustrous.
It was clear to Kirra from the minute they crossed into Danalustrous territory that her father was preparing for war.
Danalustrous was a rich, fertile property on the northwestern corner of Gillengaria. Considered second only to Brassenthwaite in terms of power, prestige, and prosperity, it drew half its wealth from the foreign trade and fishing industry available off the coast, and half its wealth from the arable farmlands that spread over most of its flat and even plains. As she and Donnal traveled at a steady pace toward the heart of the domain, Kirra saw all those lush fields heavy with crops. Even the fields that were usually fallow had been planted and were green with promise.
Most of the workers she saw laboring in the fields were women or young boys. When she spotted any men, they were in uniform and in training, gathered in some warlike formation on the back lot of a lesser lord’s property. Every smithy she passed was clamorous with the sounds of hammers hitting iron. Every seamstress sat in a welter of red fabric, or gold, sewing sashes and vests in the Danalustrous colors.
If Malcolm Danalustrous expected war, war would very likely come.
It was late afternoon on that fourth day before Kirra and Donnal came in sight of Danan Hall itself. She had disguised herself somewhat as they rode through the industrious little town that was situated just outside her father’s estates. If she had not, everyone in the streets would have recognized her, and she would have been stopped every few yards by someone calling out a friendly greeting, wishing to hear the tales of her recent travels. Some other day, perhaps; right now she just wanted to get home. Donnal had modified his appearance as well, and now he ran alongside her horse as an unalarming mixed-breed dog in rough black fur. No one noticed them at all except the vendor from whom she bought an apple, and he was too busy hawking his fruit to other potential customers to pay much attention to her face.
At the wide gates that led to Danan Hall, of course, it was a different story. She presented her true self to the six guards who stood at full attention, scrutinizing anyone who would pass through. Normally there were only two guards at this checkpoint, another sign that Malcolm wa
s preparing for trouble.
“Good evening, friends,” she hailed them, because her father had taught her to greet any man in your employ, by name if you knew it. In this instance, she did not; they were new to Danalustrous service. Malcolm would know their names, though. That she would bet on. “I have come home to Danalustrous at my father’s bidding.”
“Serra Kirra!”
“Serramarra Kirra!”
Each guard called out her name and gave her that low bow signifying greatest respect. No doubt they were familiar with her face from portraits and descriptions; no doubt every guard knew who should be admitted without delay.
“Would you like an escort to the doors, serra?” one of them was asking. The door to the estate lay a half mile away, winding through sublimely green grass and well-tended hedges.
She laughed. “No, I think not. We should be safe going that far alone.”
The “we” caught their attention. Three of them sought for a companion and settled on the dog that was looking around with bright interest. Two of them exchanged glances and nodded, so she supposed they’d been briefed about Donnal as well. “Then go on to the door, serra,” the guard said. “Welcome home.”
She nodded and kicked the horse forward.
Oh, Danan Hall was the most beautiful estate in the entire kingdom. Kirra always felt a small clutch at her heart when she rode up to the doors, especially after a long absence. The house had been exquisitely designed more than five hundred years ago and not marred with clumsy additions built on by misguided heirs. Its perfect proportions encompassed three stories of honey-beige stone supported with white marble columns and graced by white shutters at each of the many windows. Wild roses had completely taken over the western edge of the house, climbing almost to the roof, and they lay their explosions of green and red with unabated fervor along every gutter, around every open window. The lawn seemed to spill behind the house like the train of a bride’s dress, embroidered at the hem with flowers and beckoning statues. Farther, beyond the open expanse of green, were woods filled with thin birch and slender aspen, and laced with two delightful streams.
A person could live forever at Danan Hall and never tire of its beauty or its peace.
Servants were pouring from the door before she had gone halfway down the lane, so either someone had been watching from the windows or the guards had signaled from the gate. A groom ran up to help her from the saddle and take charge of her horse; a footman unstrapped her insignificant bundles of luggage and carried them inside. Another footman whistled for Donnal, but he veered off, heading for the kitchens, where he was likely to be fed. The head cook was familiar with Donnal in most of his forms; she always made sure he was taken care of.
The butler and the steward were both standing on the wide front porch, smiling more broadly than their positions usually allowed, and Kirra thought she glimpsed a gauntlet of maids and footmen gathered just inside the door.
“Serra,” the steward said, stepping forward to take her in an embrace. Carlo had been with her father since before she was born; she couldn’t remember a day she hadn’t been familiar with his slim shape and carefully curled dark hair. “Your father will be so pleased to see you.”
“Not as pleased as I am to see you!” she said, returning the hug and kissing him on the cheek. “And Menten!” she added, greeting the butler. He was a handsome but generally impassive man of about fifty years, but today he was smiling benignly.
“Serra Kirra,” he said, bowing again. “How good to see you.”
She gave him her hands, since she knew he wouldn’t suffer the indignity of an embrace. “How is everyone? My father? My stepmother? Casserah?”
“Well and happy, serra. Happier now that you’re here, I’m sure.”
“Are they home?”
“Your father is. Serra Casserah is out riding. She should be back shortly.”
“Your father is in his study,” Carlo said. “I know he wants to see you as soon as you arrive.”
She laughed at him. “Shouldn’t I pause to change my clothes?”
“Such a trivial thing as a little travel dust will not matter to your father,” Carlo replied.
Kirra felt the smile die on her lips. Perhaps her father had been deadly serious when he wrote her a few weeks ago. It has been too long since we have seen you. Come home, had been the terse message. But that meant nothing—Malcolm Danalustrous was always terse. Stranger would be the day when he wrote a long, effusive missive, ending with how much he missed her.
“Then I’ll go right up to see him,” she said. She nodded at them both, and stepped inside.
The interior of Danan Hall was even more beautiful, more thick with serenity, than the grounds. Every arch, every niche, every piece of furniture in every room was designed to be pleasing to the eye, welcoming to the spirit. Kirra slowly climbed the wide, curving stairs, trailing her hand with a sense of physical pleasure along the polished wood of the banister. On ground level and on the first two landings, servants were gathered to greet her, calling out her name if they knew her well enough or merely bobbing their heads if they didn’t. She smiled, waved, occasionally reached out a hand to touch someone on the arm, but her attention was not focused on the tableaux of loyal domestics and prodigal child. She was thinking about her father.
He was waiting for her in his study on the third floor. She entered the room without knocking and barely took in the familiar furnishings of dark leather and deep crimson. Malcolm Danalustrous was standing at the far window, looking out over his back lawns toward the woods beyond. The failing rays of the sun came in at an almost horizontal angle to illuminate his strongly modeled features, wide mouth, prominent cheekbones, and startlingly blue eyes. His hair, black and thick, was marked with only a few gray strands. A tall man, he had broad shoulders and the athletic legs of someone used to riding. He was still now, but when he was in motion, he gave the impression of being completely unstoppable, whether he was riding on the hunting field, arguing with a vassal, or striding across the room to refill his plate with meat. In the twenty-five years of Kirra’s life, she had never seen him fail to attain whatever it was he most wanted.
She stood just inside the door, waiting for him to notice her. No, that wasn’t right—he had known she was there the minute she stepped inside the room, possibly the minute she stepped inside the house. In fact, she was far from sure he hadn’t realized she was in Danalustrous the instant she crossed onto his lands. He might have been expecting her since she first put foot on Danalustrous soil.
His silent communion ended; he seemed to stir and wake. With one abrupt motion, he turned from the window and plunged through the room in her direction. “Kirra,” he said, putting his arms around her. “It’s good to have you home.”
He smelled like tilled earth and summer leaves and sunshine and horse; he smelled like woodsmoke from a parlor fire, clean cotton, home-brewed beer. He smelled like Danalustrous. She closed her eyes and tightened her hold and felt, for a moment, completely at rest.
Then she pulled away and prepared to do battle. It might not come to that, but it might. With Malcolm Danalustrous, you never knew.
“You’ve been gone too long,” he said.
“I meant to return sooner,” she said. “But this most recent delay was not my fault.”
“Yes, Baryn sent me word that he had asked you to do a favor for him. He wasn’t specific.”
“I’ll wager you know it anyway.”
Her father looked a little amused. His blue eyes and his frequent smiles were almost the only things Kirra had inherited from him, but Casserah was a gentler, prettier copy of their father. “I am glad to learn you have such a high opinion of me. But in this case I am in the dark.”
“Someone—still unclear who—abducted the newly named regent of the realm, holding him hostage, though we don’t know why. He was unharmed by the time some companions and I found him and helped free him from the house where he was being held, an empty holding in Tilt. My party ac
companied him toward Merrenstow, until we encountered a troop of his men. We left him with them, and I returned home.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows had shot up at the first sentence of her story, and surprise continued to shape his face. “The regent abducted,” he said now. “That’s about as bad as news can get.” He didn’t make any observation on her ability to free a man from a guarded cell. “And you have no idea who put such a plan in motion? Or what their motives were?”
“The three I saw were lesser lords. I don’t know if they were acting alone or at the behest of someone more powerful. Romar Brendyn says the members of the Thirteenth House are growing restless.”
“As change comes, violence hovers over our borders,” Malcolm said in a musing voice. “Yes, very likely. But will it really come to armed conflict?”