by Tanya Huff
Rael climbed up and sat down, a little farther from Doan than was strictly polite. He couldn’t help himself; something about the captain put him on edge. It wasn’t the man’s appearance—although the barrel chest, bandy legs, and habitual scowl made him far from appealing—it was more the feeling of tremendous power just barely under control that he seemed to project. Palace rumor whispered Doan had dwarf blood and Rael believed it. When he looked at the captain through his mother’s eyes, he felt the same strong belonging to the land that he felt in the Grove but none of the peace or serenity.
Wood cracked on wood and then wood on bone and then one of the men in the ring was down, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead, his quarterstaff lying useless on the sand beside him.
“Get him out of there,” grunted Doan. He turned to the prince and pointed at his sword with a gnarled finger. “The swordmaster says you know how to use that thing.”
Rael’s back stiffened. He’d never trained with the Elite, for theirs was a very close fraternity, but Doan had seen him work with the Palace Guard often enough to know he could use his sword. And his strength and speed were common knowledge.
“Show me.”
As regally as he was able, Rael shrugged and slid off the fence. He drew his sword and tossed his scabbard to one side.
Suddenly, every Elite not on duty surrounded the ring.
Rael looked around at the grinning faces, swallowed nervously, and met the eyes of the captain. They reflected the early morning light in such a way they appeared to glow deeply red. Rael swallowed again and his chin went up. So the new commander had to prove he was worthy, did he? Well, he’d show them.
“Who do I fight?”
A slow smile spread over the guard captain’s face. “Me,” he said. “Your Highness.” And he dropped into the ring.
Doan’s attack came so quickly, the fight almost ended before it truly began. To Rael’s astonishment, his strength and speed alone were not enough and he was forced to use every bit of skill the swordmaster had drilled into him over the years. The prince was a slender flame tipped with steel. Doan stood solid, each movement deliberate and so slow next to the Lady’s son that it seemed he must be cut to shreds. But Rael could not get past his guard, and when their swords met he had to use all of his unworldly strength to block the blow.
Less than three minutes later it was finished.
Doan bent and retrieved Rael’s sword. “You’ll do,” he said as he handed it over. “Commander.”
A cheer went up from the surrounding Elite and Rael became aware that a great deal of coin was changing hands. Snatches of conversation drifted back from the dispersing men.
“. . . told you he’d get his own in . . .”
“. . . expected the captain to beat him to his knees . . .”
“. . . four coppers, you jackass, but then I’ve seen him fight before . . .”
And echoed from more than one direction: “He’ll do.”
“They’d follow the prince because they had to,” Doan grunted as Rael sheathed his sword. “Better you make them want to.”
Rael straightened his shoulders. “And how do I make them want to?”
“You’ve started already.” Doan hacked and spit in the sand. “You’ve proven you can fight.”
“But you beat me.”
“I know. I beat them, too. But you showed them you could’ve made the company on your own.”
Rael flushed with pleasure. “I could’ve?”
“Just said so, didn’t I?” Doan hooked his thumbs behind his broad leather belt and headed out of the practice ring. “Now if you’ll come with me . . .” The pause was barely audible. “. . . Commander, I’ll fill you in on your command.”
* * *
“. . . but the strength of the Elite lies in flexibility. We fight on any terrain, on any terms. It all depends on the lay of the land, the enemy, and the Duke of Hale, who runs mostly cavalry. We’ve fought beside his horsemen before though, and it . . . am I going too fast for you, Commander?”
“Huh?” Rael flushed and dragged himself out of a pleasant daydream where the enemy had been falling back in terrified disorder before his charge. “I’m sorry, Captain. I, I didn’t hear.”
“Obviously.” Doan smiled, an expression that lessened neither his ugliness nor his ferocity. “Drink your ale.”
The mug was at his lips before Rael realized he’d followed the order without thinking. As it was there, he drank. The chain of command definitely needs work, he thought, putting the empty mug down amid the ruins of lunch. When he looked up, he saw by Doan’s expression that the thought had clearly shown on his face. He reddened, then raised his chin and met the captain’s eyes squarely. To his surprise, Doan merely nodded in what seemed to be satisfaction.
“Excuse me, Captain, Commander.” The Elite First sketched a salute intended to take in both his superior officers. Rael had observed his father with the Elite often enough to realize that the First’s apparent disregard for royal rank was, in fact, a form of acceptance and his heart swelled with pride. “The lad’s been found. He’s waiting in the guardroom.”
“Send him in.”
“Did you lose someone?” Rael asked as the First left the room.
“Did I lose someone?” Doan’s brow furrowed as he turned to stare at the prince. “Did I lose someone?” And then he chuckled, a friendly sound so at odds with his appearance that it was Rael’s turn to stare. He was still chuckling when the lad in question entered the room.
The young man, in the full uniform of the Palace Guard, was the prince’s age or possibly a year or two older. He carried his helmet on his hip but, as his pale hair was damp, he’d probably just removed it. He had a strong face with high cheekbones, a thin-lipped mouth, and deep-set, light blue eyes. The glint on his upper lip may or may not have been the beginning of a mustache. He stood self-consciously at parade rest, his eyes regulation front and center, his gaze locked on a spot some three feet above Doan’s head. Every achingly correct inch of him fairly trembled to know why he’d been called into such exalted presence—the exalted presence obviously being the captain of the Elite and not the prince and heir.
Rael wondered what the guardsman had done to bring him to the notice of the Elite Captain. There were no openings in the company. And besides, he was too young.
“Rutgar, Hovan’s son, from Cei.” Doan had stopped chuckling.
“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t a question but it seemed to need a response.
“Joined your Duke’s Guard at fifteen and moved to the Palace Guard last year.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re moving again.” He pointed with his chin across the table. “The commander needs an armsman. You’re it.”
“Sir?” This from both young men. It was enough to drag the young guard’s eyes off the wall. They studied one another for a heartbeat and then Rutgar went back to looking at nothing and the prince turned to Doan.
“But I’ve already got a servant.”
“I didn’t say he was to be your servant. He’s your armsman. The men fight in pairs, live in pairs, the officers can’t. He’ll take care of your armor and your horse—trust me, you won’t have time—and guard your back if it needs guarding.” Red-brown eyes raked over the newly appointed armsman. “He’s young but,” he added pointedly, “so are you. You can learn together. Anyway, he’d have made the company himself before this war’s over.”
A small explosion of air escaped from the pressed line of Rutgar’s mouth.
“Did you say something, Armsman?”
“No, Captain.”
“Good. Get outfitted. Meet us on the reviewing square in half an hour.”
“Yes, sir.” Only the gleam in his eye showed the young man’s emotion as he wheeled and exited the room.
Rael shook his head and his brow furrowed.
&nb
sp; “Problems, Commander?”
“It just happened so fast . . .” Rael squared his shoulders. “What if I wanted someone else as my armsman?”
Earth-colored eyebrows rose. “Do you?”
“Well, no, it’s just . . .”
“A good commander should have faith in his officers.” The tone was not quite sarcastic. “Now, if you’re ready, Commander, we’ll review the troops.”
* * *
The men of Belkar, farmers and herdsmen for the most part, began to gather outside the city. Soon they were joined by the fishermen of Cei and the shepherds of Aliston. Most of these men were skilled with a quarterstaff or spear and some were fine archers, but very few of them could use a sword. In less than two weeks, they had to be an army. It would have been impossible had they not wanted to be an army so badly. Raen was a good king, more importantly he was a popular king, but they wouldn’t be fighting for him. They’d be fighting for their land.
“Riven and Lorn know the mountains and they take care of border raids every winter,” Raen said, jabbing at the map with a dagger. “They’ll do. We can count on Hale to supply cavalry out of those crazy horsemen of his.” He sucked his teeth and looked grim. “They say Melac can field tens of thousands of trained soldiers.”
“Impossible,” scoffed Cei. “Mere rumor.”
But none of the men in the room looked very happy.
The palace bulged with the three dukes and their retinues, officers and couriers, clerks and servants, until it resembled an anthill more than a royal residence.
Rael was up at dawn and in bed long past dark but still there weren’t enough hours in the day.
He had training.
“You just removed the ears from your horse, Commander. Try it again and swing wider.”
He had fittings for new armor in the plain, cold steel of the Elite.
“Stop squirming, Highness.”
“You’re tickling.”
“I assure you, Highness, it’s unintentional.”
He had Royal Obligations.
“But I don’t want to have dinner with the dukes, Ivan. Why can’t I eat with my men?”
“You eat with the dukes, milord,” Ivan finished fastening the red velvet jacket and stepped back to view his handiwork, “because your father commands your presence.” He picked the gold belt off the bed and slung it artfully around the prince’s hips. “And because, milord,” he continued, firmly removing Rael’s hands when he tried to hitch the belt higher, “it is good policy for you to get to know the dukes.”
“I know the dukes.” Rael held out a foot so Ivan could force it into a tight red leather boot. “Aliston will pay attention only to his food and perhaps grunt once or twice if Father addresses him directly. Cei will worry out loud and continuously. And Belkar . . .” A violent shove almost tore the second boot from Ivan’s hands. “I haven’t anything to say to Belkar.” Belkar’s daughter had been left at home.
“Then the dukes must get to know you, milord.”
“They know me, Ivan.” His voice was suddenly bleak and his eyes flared. “And only Belkar looks at me.”
The older man met the brilliance of the prince’s gaze without fear. “Someday they will see you, milord. And when they do, they will stop looking away.”
Rael let the green burn brighter. “And what will they see,” he asked softly.
Ivan smiled. “All that you are. All that you can be. All that you are not.”
The unearthly fires were abruptly banked.
“You’re talking in riddles again, Ivan.” Grumbling, Rael went to have his dinner with the dukes.
He had new people to know.
“What I don’t understand,” he asked as Rutgar unbuckled his practice breastplate, “is why it’s such an honor to be an armsman.” The armor came free and he took a deep breath; the morning’s maneuvers had been particularly strenuous as the Elite honed itself for the battles to come. “I mean, you were moving up in the Palace Guard and now,” he shrugged himself free of the padded undertunic, “now, you’re just a well-armed servant.” He winced. “Uh, no offense, Rutgar.”
“None taken, Commander.” The armsman bent so Rael could reach his buckles in turn. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but all the officers of the Elite were armsmen once. It is, after all, the best position to observe and learn in. Only the best are chosen to be armsmen.”
Rael’s jaw dropped and the corners of Rutgar’s mouth twitched.
“If you’ll sit down, Commander, I’ll get those greaves.”
And still the day to day governing of the land must go on.
“Your Highness, please inform your father that unless something is done soon, the water situation in the camps will become desperate.”
“Prince Rael, I must have more men if I am to make all the arrows ordered by the king.”
“Young sir, a moment of your time. The men of the camps have been tearing the town apart and I can’t get near the king.”
“Rael! Haven’t you got something to do?”
“Yes, Father, but . . .”
“Then do it, lad!”
“Yes, sir.”
There could be no letting up of the pressure, no thought of taking more time to prepare. Not only was there an invasion to meet, but so many men in so little space would become a serious problem if the army lingered too long.
Although it seemed as if he’d done enough work for two years, only two short weeks later Rael heard his father tell the dukes and the captains that they would march with the dawn.
“And tonight, milord?” inquired a captain, one of Aliston’s by his badge.
“Tonight,” replied the king, hitching up his broad leather belt to get at an elusive itch, “I will ride amongst the men.”
“They’ll be glad to see you, Sire.”
“I certainly hope so. Would you like to ride with me, son?” he asked, turning to Rael.
“Me, sir?” Rael felt as if he hadn’t been out of the palace in months.
“Yes, you. If I have another son in this room I haven’t been told.”
One of the captains snickered and Rael felt himself turning pink. “Yes, sir, I’d like to go with you.”
When the king and the heir rode out that evening, they wore plain armor and took only two of the Palace Guard, but everyone in the camp knew the iron-haired warrior and the young man with the fire-green eyes.
Rael drank in the sights and sounds and smells: the kraken pennant of Cei, blood red against the gray of evening; two men cursing genially as they diced; sweat and leather and steel. Here was a different world from those he had known—the forest and the court—cruder, less disciplined, more rawly sensual.
Raen watched the tall young man riding beside him with pride, and some amusement, as his son tried to take in everything without appearing to notice anything at all. He submerged the thought that in war young men die and he buried the fear that this one he loved so dearly could be taken from him.
The men were in good spirits and some called out to the riders as they passed. They had a long march ahead with Lord Death waiting at the end of it and a soldier, even a temporary soldier, makes merry when he can. Many of the sentiments were not those normally heard in the presence of the king and the heir to the throne. A grizzled archer bellowed out a riddle so coarse that the prince blushed, but the King roared with laughter and gave back the answer.
“Aye, the king knows his women,” slurred a loud voice from the crowd. “Pity he can’t find a real one to get a son on.”
Raen stopped laughing. Silence fell. So complete a silence it was possible to hear the soft whistle of the horses’ breath. He held up a hand to stop the Guard from riding forward, and watched his son. He remembered how Milthra had handed him the squalling, naked babe, the love in her eyes lighting up the whole Grove. When Rael looked up, he nodded.
>
A pulse beat in Rael’s throat like a wild thing held prisoner, but it was the only movement visible. His eyes flamed and one by one, not even aware they did it, men stepped aside until a massive soldier stood alone.
Silently, Rael swung off his horse. Slowly and deliberately, as if afraid a sudden movement would release the emotions held rigidly in check, he moved to stand before the man. He felt his mother’s heritage well up within him. The strength of the tree. The strength to withstand wind and storm. The strength to root into bedrock and hold on. His blood sang and his eyes blazed. And his fists clenched, for he was also his father’s son.
“You have no right to speak of my mother.”
His voice was so soft it might have been the passing breeze that spoke.
Swaying unsteadily on tree-trunk legs, either too foolish or too befuddled by wine to see the threat in the slim young man who faced him, the soldier narrowed his eyes belligerently. “Your mother,” he slurred, “was likely a common street whore who spread . . .”
In the stillness, the sound of Rael’s fist striking the other’s jaw rang out like a thunderclap. The soldier’s head snapped back, he hung for a moment on the night, and then crumpled to the ground.
Still outwardly emotionless, Rael remounted. He ignored the blood running down his fingers from where the skin had split over a knuckle. Only the trembling of his hand as he took up the reins betrayed that he felt anything at all.
“His neck’s broken,” said the old archer looking up from the body. “He’s dead.”
“Then bury him,” said the king. And they rode in silence back to the palace where they went to their separate rooms and spent the rest of the night staring sleeplessly in the direction of the forest.
* * *
The Grove was silver and shadow in the moonlight. Clothed in night, its beauty became sharp edges and satin blackness, drawing away from the world of mortals to that of an older time. Within the circle of birches, no nightbirds called, no animals, large or small, stalked prey or were stalked in turn, no breeze wandered to disturb the listening quiet of the trees.