The Knight of the Red Beard-The Cycle of Oak, Yew, Ash and Rowan 5

by Andre Norton

  Zazar sniffed audibly. “Well, let them come and then let them be gone again.”

  “How now, Madame Zazar,” Gaurin said, visibly amused. “You will not be pleased to see Rohan? Or others of your grandchildren? Possibly even great-grandchildren. Young Obern is married now, you know.”

  “No blood kindred,” Zazar retorted. “None at all.”

  “And so the more cherished,” Ashen said, a smile hovering around the corners of her mouth as well. “Perhaps he’s remembered that one piece of magic he could ever master, and will make you a silken rose.”

  Zazar just sniffed again. “I don’t need any roses, silk or otherwise.” She turned to Mikkel. “If you’re so concerned about manners, why didn’t you bring the NordornPrince and your sister with you? Answer me that!”

  “I’ll go get them,” Mikkel said.

  “No need,” Zazar told him. “They were arguing over who went through the door first. I informed them on my way here that they’d better put their disagreement aside, at least for the time being, and get out here to greet their guests or risk my wrath. They’ll be along presently.”

  Nobody, Mikkel thought, ever got the better of Granddam Zaz. For all that she had become very stooped with age, her mind—and her tongue—was as sharp as it had ever been.

  After Granddam Zazar had scolded them and bade them depart in haste to the landing to greet their Sea-Rover guests, Elin-Alditha, NordornPrincess, scowled at her brother, the NordornPrince. “This conversation is far from over,” she told him.

  “Oh, I know,” he replied. “You won’t stop until you get Granddam Ysa’s duchy away from her. Or you think that is what is going to happen. But it isn’t.”

  We shall see, Elin thought. She nodded her head, not quite a bow, and a slight frown on Bjaudin’s forehead smoothed. Go ahead and think you’ve won—for now. I’ll have that nice bit of property, never you fear, my dear brother.

  “Anyway,” Bjaudin continued, “what makes you think Granddam Ysa would agree to such a scheme as making you her heiress unless she thought of it first?”

  In spite of herself, Elin stopped, struck by his words. Of course. Elin had overlooked what should have been obvious. As the implications of what Bjaudin had said sank in, she smiled as another plan unfolded in her mind.

  Granddam Ysa had always been one for schemes and plots. She was old now, but surely she hadn’t lost all of her cunning. Why not, then, enlist her aid, rather than making her an adversary? All Granddam Ysa really needed was a good excuse.

  Elin’s smile widened as she contemplated the avenues of speculation that opened up before her. Father and Mother were both in ill health. Father now confined himself to Council meetings only, leaving the administrative work to his brother, Uncle Einaar. It was a precarious situation at best, one open to charges of collusion and even treason.

  “Thank you, dear brother,” Elin said. “You have convinced me of the foolishness of my request. You will hear no more about it from me, I promise.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment, though his expression told her he did not fully believe her sudden capitulation.

  A bothersome princess, even the NordornPrincess, second in line to succeed to the throne, might find herself married off to the first suitor who seemed likely, and sent away to trouble another land. Her sister had been wed when she was not much older than Elin was now. And that would not do at all.

  Right now, there was the tedium of exclaiming over the new ship to get through, and the greeting of whatever guests had taken it into their heads to visit the Castle of Fire and Ice, and the necessity of guarding her tongue every moment and trying to convince everyone that, while high-spirited, she nonetheless was sweet and mild and compliant in her nature.

  To that end, she allowed her brother to precede her through the doorway and down through the ward and thence to the landing where, she had to admit, the arrival of the ships was a brave sight. She paid particular attention to the new ship, Ice Princess, for she was certain it had been named for her. Therefore, it would, when she had gained enough power, be her own private vessel. She would deck it out in silver and white. The sails would be of snow-thistle silk—

  Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the first wave of guests. Oh. Nothing to be concerned about. It was only Uncle Rohan and his ill-mannered sons. No sign of his daughter Amilia, with whom she could at least have converse even though she was a rough Sea-Rover maiden, or young Naeve who would be amusing to bully. Elin set her features in the pleasant, noncommittal smile she had practiced often before the mirror in the privacy of her bedchamber. Behind that smile she could think as she pleased, or even doze and dream herself a thousand miles distant.

  A sudden burst of laughter, shouting and applause brought her back to the present. She realized that Earl Royance had arrived at the landing, escorting a woman who, though elderly by Elin’s standards, was still passably attractive. The waiting crowd was now offering the Earl congratulations and wishes for a long life and—heirs?

  It had long been a topic of conversation—oh, call it what it was, gossip—that the old Earl had been smitten with the lady whom he always referred to as “the handsome Mjaurita” and she had accepted his attentions without ever committing herself to any sort of deeper relationship. That explained Mjødulf and Ekla’s presence. Mjaurita was Mjødulf’s aunt. She had kept Royance dangling for years now, and apparently, had acquiesced at last to be married.

  The ignorant might laugh behind their hands and make jokes about heirs, but Elin had long known that “Uncle” Royance was quite hale for a man of his years, and those years fewer than most thought. Royance was simply one of those men who had looked mature when he was young, and elderly when he was mature. He enjoyed looking the part of the seasoned statesman and also being still able to deliver a surprising counter to those who thought to take advantage of his supposed infirmity of age. If there would not be heirs from this union, the fault, if any, would lie with Lady Mjaurita, whose childbearing years must be well past.

  Then Elin came fully awake behind her smile. Royance had come to the NordornLand to claim his bride. Such an important wedding demanded the most capable person in the land to organize it, and that would be none other than Granddam Ysa.

  Of course she would be recalled to the Nordorn Court. It would be an unforgivable insult not to do so. Then, Elin would volunteer her services to assist. In the cozy intimacy of making wedding plans, she could remind Granddam that she had long been told she was Granddam’s favorite. What a pity they had been separated so long. What an excellent opportunity to repair that oversight. Perhaps she could even go to live with Granddam for a while, once the wedding was over.

  Later, Elin told herself, I will go and find that bracelet I once saw in Mother’s jewel chest, a bracelet composed, oddly, of nine tiny teeth strung on a thin chain. She had never seen Mother wear the bracelet and, in fact, it had been hidden under the false bottom of the chest itself. She had found it only by accident—well, by snooping, actually. At first, she had thought it composed of baby teeth shed from her and her brothers and older sister, but the shape wasn’t quite right. Anyway, Elin had only three siblings and that would not account for the nine teeth. When she had handled the bracelet, she had felt an odd, almost unsettling vibration as she touched each tooth in its turn. Furthermore, each vibration was subtly different. One tooth, one—person? They did not look like human teeth, not all of them.

  Here, she thought, was an article of Power if only one had the means of divining how to use it. Perhaps now was the right time to try to find that means. Granddam Ysa would know. Or, between the two of them, they could find out.

  That would be her avenue to begin to explore with Granddam ways she could grow more solidly in her favor and become her heiress in fact and in deed.

  Yes, that would work and much better than her original plan. With Granddam Ysa in the forefront—and taking the brunt of the opprobrium and disapproval that would come her way—Elin could work in the background
and, in the end, have the Duchy of Iselin and even the entire NordornLand itself!

  Elin-Alditha NordornQueen. Now there was a name to be reckoned with.

  As quickly as they could manage, Mikkel and Tjórvi slipped away from the crowd now surging toward the Castle of Fire and Ice, bearing with them Earl Royance and the Lady Mjaurita, who, as a prospective bride, had arrived on Ice Princess and not Royance’s yacht. They also managed to elude Yngvar, who showed signs of wanting to be included in their company.

  “Royance and Mjaurita have been all but living together for years,” Tjórvi said with a shrug. “I do wonder what he bribed her with, to get her agree to becoming his Countess, though.”

  “Probably his entire estate of Grattenbor with Åskar thrown in as well.”

  “She already had those, or as good as. Well, it’s a woman’s mystery.” Tjórvi shrugged again, dismissing the entire matter. “Let’s go hunting!”

  No sooner said than done. The boys, not bothering to wait to instruct stewards as to the disposition of Tjórvi’s belongings in whatever guest apartment had been assigned to him, paid a hasty visit to the armory. A short while later, having avoided Yngvar once more, and now accompanied by the warkat Talkin and equipped with bows and a sheaf of hunting spears, they slipped out the postern gate of the Castle of Fire and Ice.

  “They’re starting to call this place Cyornas Castle down south,” Tjórvi remarked as they made their way out of town and toward a copse of woods where reportedly there was small game to be had. With the approach of winter, conies would have put on their layer of insulating fat.

  “Cyornas Castle? Really?”

  “Well, you’ve got Cyornasberg the town, and Cyornas Fjord already. So why not? Too much of a mouthful, all this Fire and Ice nonsense. Makes people think you have too high an opinion of yourselves, if you get my meaning, and maybe need to be taken down a peg.”

  “You mean there are people who would go to war over a—a name?” Mikkel said incredulously.

  “Some people would go to war over the way you wear your hair,” Tjórvi retorted. He glanced at Mikkel meaningfully.

  Mikkel touched his bright red braids. “It’s the Nordorn style,” he said defensively. “When I’m older, I’ll cut it. Maybe.”

  Tjórvi shrugged. “I suppose the braids keep the stuff out of your eyes. But I’m saying there are people who would fight you for just such a minor thing.” He smoothed his wavy hair, a little more blond than red, cut a noticeable manly inch above his collar and secured with a headband. Unruly locks nevertheless escaped and hung over his forehead. “I have this, too.” He showed Mikkel an amulet on a thin silver chain. The amulet was in the shape of an open circle and waves forever crashed inside it. “My da gave it to me on my birthday, for luck.”

  Mikkel had no such amulet—at least not yet. He decided to change the subject. “Why the fourth ship?” he asked. “Surely Mjaurita could have sailed on Spume Maiden or even on GorGull if she didn’t want to be seen by her new bridegroom.” He sniggered, and Tjórvi joined him.

  “Well, as to that,” he said, “Ice Princess is going to have a sea trial. Tordenskjold’s going to insist on it, regardless of the trial she’s already had, both the sailing up the coast and before then. Da will go back in Spume Maiden of course, Royance will be off on his honeymoon in Silver Burhawk, Ice Princess has a quick cruise up and down the coast, and even though it’s late in the season, GorGull is going a-roving.” He paused, relishing his next words. “I’m going to be on her.”

  “No! Truly?”

  “Yes, truly!”

  A sudden suspicion gripped Mikkel. “Does your father know about this?”

  “Not yet.” Tjórvi grinned mischievously. “But by the time he finds out, it’ll be far too late for him to tell me no. Obern’s been set to watch, but I can evade him easy enough.”

  “I suppose, in all the excitement—” Mikkel thought a moment, and then came to an instant conclusion. “I’m going with you. You think there’ll be room for me on the GorGull?”

  “Always room for one more. Well, maybe not Yngvar.”

  Both boys sniggered.

  “Definitely not that stuck-up little princeling in training. Just you and me?” Mikkel said.

  “Just us. I was hoping you’d want to go along. That’s the big reason I told you.”

  “We’ll be cabin boys together, or deckhands, or whatever the captain sets us to do,” Mikkel exclaimed happily. “Who is the captain?”

  “Fritji the Younger. He’s grandson to my grandfather Snolli’s old Wave Reader. He says he has a portion of his grandfather’s gift, too, though I’ve never seen sign of it. His brother Jens has it more, so he wields the Spirit Drums.”

  “What do you think he’ll say or do once he finds us aboard? Will he take us back home?”

  “Not likely. It’s the way of the Sea-Rovers. We take ourselves out to sea when we think we’re ready, and nobody objects. If we are, we are, and if we’re not—Well, it’s a weakling gone and not much mourned.” Tjórvi grinned again. “Fritji’s a fledgling captain. He won’t dare take us back. That would mean his first outing as a Sea Rover was a failure. So we’re set. In fact, that’s why we’re on GorGull. It’s the oldest ship in the fleet, and if it’s lost, there’s not much to mourn. The keel’s already laid for her replacement. It’s to be a sister ship to Ice Princess, and called NordornQueen’s Own.”

  “Never mind that. You’re talking about us maybe being lost as well,” Mikkel said reprovingly.

  Tjórvi threw back his head and laughed aloud. “The keel’s been laid for my replacement, too!” he said. “Mam’s expecting again. Anyway, there’s nothing to worry about. Fritji won’t go far. One good raid and we’ll be back at home, safe and sound, with stories to tell around the fire all next winter.”

  Talkin stiffened, and growled low in his throat. He began to move forward at a crouch, eyes intent on something the boys could not yet see. They fell silent immediately, and followed the young warkat. Tjórvi hefted a throwing-spear, while Mikkel nocked an arrow to his bowstring.

  What seemed to be an entire nest of young conies erupted from the underbrush, scattering in every direction. Talkin raced after them in furious pursuit. Mikkel let fly one arrow, then another. His aim was better the second time. Tjórvi got one with his spear, picked up a rock and brought down another. A high-pitched squeal from farther in the brush told of Talkin’s success.

  “He won’t bring it back, will he,” Tjórvi said. It was not a question.

  “Not likely. But he won’t be trying to steal ours, either,” Mikkel told him. “Let’s skin these and take them back. I know a cook who’ll prepare them in a pie, just for us. With a pastry crust and tubers and onions and lots of gravy inside.”

  Tjórvi licked his lips. “I can fair taste them already!”

  Neither boy paid much attention to the ruination of their good clothes as they knelt in the dust and yanked the skins off the three rather small but plump conies. Stewed with a few vegetables and then baked in a dish covered with pastry, they would make a very good meal for two hungry boys. Later they could occupy themselves with a game of King’s Soldiers, and leave both Yngvar and Mårten to entertain themselves.

  The prospect seemed much more inviting than sitting through what was bound to be a boring state dinner that evening, almost certainly with both of them stuck at the same table with Yngvar.

  Ashen and Gaurin had retired to the privacy of their own apartment, where they could speak freely as they prepared for the evening’s welcoming guest-feast.

  “Do you really think they’re just out hunting?” Ashen asked Gaurin anxiously.

  “Of course they are, my Ashen,” he replied. “Don’t they always, whenever they are together?”

  Ashen had to concede his point. “They should have told us first,” she said.

  “So they should. But they did not. They are both growing up.”

  “And I hate to see it. Oh, I’m being silly.”

  H
e didn’t try to disguise how stiffly he moved; that was reserved for public appearances, when he had to hide the pain. He took her in his arms and put her head on his shoulder, burying his face in her pale hair.

  “You always smell so good,” he murmured. “Clean.”

  She had to smile at that. “You never knew me when I was growing up in the Bog. I knew nothing of soap. Also, I was less than clean while I was following you to give you the Dragon Blade,” she said.

  “And you couldn’t wait to bathe.” He held her closer. “You are as you are. Let your youngest child be as he is.”

  “Only if he returns to make his manners with our guests. Just imagine what Ysa would think or, worse, say!”

  “Speaking of Ysa,” Gaurin said as he released Ashen, “Elin has petitioned that she be allowed to go and give the Duchess her personal invitation to oversee the wedding. She’ll be there and back in less than three days. I am inclined to grant her this request.”

  “It is surprisingly well thought on,” Ashen commented. “Ysa has scarcely visited Cyornasberg since I suggested she turn her energies to the governance of her duchy.”

  “As good as exile. It’s been a very peaceful several years. But now I recognize that we must welcome her back to our midst for the sake of others. Perhaps she’s mellowed.”

  At that, Ashen laughed out loud. “Never!” she said. “You do bring up the question of what gifts we shall bestow on the newly wedded couple, though.”

  “I will discuss it with Bjaudin and Einaar.”

  Then they both took their seats at dressing tables and Ashen rang for Ayfare and Nalren to come and make them ready for the banquet.

  Though Ayfare had been Chatelaine and Nalren Seneschal of the Castle of Fire and Ice for many years, neither would dream of giving up the privilege of being personal attendants and body servants to Ashen NordornQueen and Gaurin NordornKing.

  They took off their gloves, in preparation for donning fresh ones of white snow-thistle silk. Their Maimed Majesties, Ashen thought, gazing at Gaurin’s withered right hand, a match to her own. She picked up a jar of soothing cream prepared by the Court physician, Birger, in collaboration with Zazar. She opened it not without some difficulty, and began applying it to her hands, especially the dry, withered one. Naught but Nordorn-crowned, the saying had gone, could wield sword of dragon spawn. Well, they both had wielded the sword and, though the NordornLand had been saved, both had paid a fearsome price. She handed Gaurin the jar of cream. He applied it to his hands in turn. The cream kept the skin from cracking and bleeding.