Mystic and Rider (Twelve Houses)

by Sharon Shinn

  Kirra’s smiled had widened. “So you can imagine the level of excitement when the royal line produces a child. Who will marry the prince or princess? Which of the Twelve Houses will gain a foothold at the royal palace?”

  “What if the king and queen never have a child?” Cammon asked. “Has that ever happened?”

  “A few times,” Kirra said. “But not for at least a hundred years. When it does happen, all sorts of scheming goes on, as families make alliances and try to produce heirs that will be acceptable to all the Houses. Usually, of course, everyone looks first to Brassenthwaite.”

  “Why?” Cammon said.

  Senneth smiled. “Brassenthwaite has always been considered first among Houses,” she said. “The lands encompass part of the northern seacoast, a stretch of rich mountains, and some of the finest farmland in the country—in short, everything. And the Brassenthwaites have always been most fiercely loyal to the king. It is their heritage—it is what distinguishes them from all other Houses. Thus, there have been many marriages between the royal line and Brassenthwaite. And if there were no heir, Brassenthwaite would consider it had the primary claim to the throne.”

  Senneth glanced at Kirra before continuing. “Now, Danalustrous—”

  “Danalustrous has always been just as loyal, just as strategic, and nearly as wealthy,” Kirra supplied. “So a son or daughter of Danalustrous might as easily be declared ruler.”

  “So if King Baryn and his daughter both died suddenly,” Cammon said, “who would claim the throne right now?”

  “Well, Kiernan Brassenthwaite would probably step right up,” Kirra said. “But a lot of people dislike marlord Kiernan.”

  “With some justification,” Senneth murmured.

  “And I don’t think, say, Halchon Gisseltess would just hand him the crown,” Kirra continued. “And I really believe Ariane Rappengrass and Martin Helven would rather see a Danalustrous on the throne.”

  “Perhaps that would be the answer, then,” Cammon said. “There should be an alliance between Danalustrous and Brassenthwaite. Are their heirs of marriageable age?”

  Kirra stared at him. Senneth erupted into peals of laughter.

  “Yes, Kirra,” she finally managed to say. “If Baryn dies, you should marry Kiernan’s brother, and you and Nate Brassenthwaite can take the throne together.”

  “I’d rather see Halchon Gisseltess be named king,” Kirra said flatly. Senneth laughed even harder.

  “I suppose that wasn’t such a good idea,” Cammon said.

  “Oh, it would be a fine idea, if Nate Brassenthwaite wasn’t such a smug, pigheaded, self-important fool,” Kirra snapped.

  “Stupid, too,” Senneth gasped out, and then started laughing again.

  “Kiernan’s not as bad, but he’s married.”

  “He’s worse,” Senneth said. “Because he’s mean on top of it. Just like their father.”

  “But he’s not stupid,” Kirra said.

  Senneth sobered almost on the instant. “No,” she agreed. “Kiernan is not stupid. And, were I Kiernan Brassenthwaite, I would be looking toward Danalustrous even now. Even if the king lives another twenty years and his daughter becomes a great queen—well, it never hurts to strengthen the northern alliances. Kiernan should be taking the long view, and that view faces straight west toward Danalustrous. If he’s not thinking of a marriage between Nate and your sister, I would be greatly surprised.”

  Kirra made an unladylike sound. “My sister wouldn’t have him.”

  “Would your father?” Senneth asked softly.

  They rode on a few minutes in silence while Kirra appeared to think that over. “He might,” she said finally. “But he would not force Casserah into a distasteful marriage, no matter how it might benefit the House. And Casserah has a mind of her own. It is very difficult to persuade her to do something she does not want to do.”

  Cammon seemed wholly intrigued. “This is very exciting,” he said. “Tell me more. Who are the heads of the other Twelve Houses, and what are they like?”

  So Senneth and Kirra obligingly went through the whole litany for him, the sonorous syllables rolling off their tongues—Brassenthwaite and Danalustrous, tiny Tilt, bustling Merrenstow, peaceful, prosperous Storian. Kianlever and Coravann to the east, Helven and Nocklyn on the southern plains. And claiming the southern coastline, rich Fortunalt, elegant Rappengrass, and ambitious Gisseltess.

  “And the king thinks there is unrest now among all these Houses,” Cammon said. “Do you really think it might lead to some kind of uprising?”

  Kirra and Senneth again exchanged glances, and Kirra shook her head. “Surely not,” she said. “The country has been peaceful for so long.”

  Senneth was silent awhile, watching the road ahead of them. Tayse had circled back and was riding their way; he must have thought it was time to halt for lunch. His eyes went to each of them, one by one, as if counting, as if making sure they had survived these few hours out of his immediate line of sight. “I have no idea,” Senneth said softly. “That’s what we’re riding to find out.”

  THE rest of the day’s journey passed uneventfully, enlivened only occasionally by conversation. Senneth thought Cammon would be willing to spend the whole day asking questions and learning answers, but she eventually grew tired of talking. Too much time alone or among strangers; she had developed the trick of silence. She could not break her habit of watchfulness even when she was among friends.

  Well, some of them at least were friends. Kirra, of course; Donnal, almost certainly, though his first loyalty would always be to Kirra, to the House of Danalustrous. It was too soon to know if Cammon would be trustworthy or not, though Senneth was inclined to like him. Such a fresh young mind, unclouded by all the calamities that had beset him early. He rode beside them like a reflecting pool, casting back their images. She was not sure she wanted to look too closely.

  They were heading almost straight southeast, hoping to cross the tip of Helven lands in a day or two, and as usual, Justin and Tayse were riding behind and ahead. A few hours after the noon meal, Tayse abruptly turned back and awaited them on the road.

  “Travelers ahead of us,” he said shortly. Senneth nodded and brought her horse up next to his so that they rode side by side in the lead.

  “Donnal to the rear—Kirra and Cammon in the middle,” she called over her shoulder. Donnal was not much of a fighter, but he had a certain brute peasant strength. Kirra was hopeless with a blade, and who knew about Cammon?

  The riders appeared around a bend in the road, about nine of them, dressed in Storian livery and looking friendly enough. They pulled into single file to let the other party pass, and the man on the lead horse asked, “What news of the road ahead?”

  “Clear when we left it, though muddy,” Tayse said. “Heavy rain the day before, at least at the coast. But no trouble.”

  The Storian speaker nodded. “Storms back that way, too. Some trees down across the road, but we pulled them to the side, so your way should be clear.”

  Tayse smiled. “We thank you. The next fine lady to pass this way in a fancy carriage thanks you.”

  As the Storian men laughed, Senneth found herself thinking, See that? The man can joke and smile after all. Not something she had witnessed much for herself. They exchanged a few more comments and continued on.

  “And Justin?” Senneth asked when the Storians were out of earshot.

  “He will have stepped off the road as soon as he heard horses coming. He’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Indeed, not long after, Justin came galloping up to make sure they were all well. “And if we had been attacked by these Storians?” Senneth asked in some impatience. “If they had not been Storians at all, but mercenaries or bandits?”

  Tayse grinned. “Then he would have arrived in time to add a fresh blade to our battle—or in time to identify and bury our corpses.”

  “Though I don’t think a few Storian outriders would be enough to trouble Tayse,” Justin said scornfu
lly. Glancing at Senneth, he added with some reluctance, “Or even you.”

  Senneth gave him one quick ironic look, but the compliment warmed her for the rest of the long, cold ride. That night, after they’d made camp and eaten dinner, she stood up and nudged Justin with her toe.

  “Come on,” she said. “Give me a little practice.”

  He glanced first at Tayse as if for permission, but came to his feet willingly enough. The others hastily cleared the way, giving them one whole side of camp beside the fire.

  “Long blade or short?” Justin asked.

  “Whatever you think you can beat me at,” she said. “I want to get better.”

  Justin drew his dagger, but Tayse spoke up from across the fire. “Practice blades,” he said sharply.

  Senneth was annoyed. “I think I can manage not to let him kill me, even if we use metal.”

  “Practice blades,” Tayse said again, with even more emphasis. “You’re both too valuable to lose in a training session.”

  She would have argued except it was pointless; Justin would do whatever Tayse said. So they laid aside their real weapons and pulled out the wooden ones—wicked enough, if it came down to that, to truly hurt a man. Thrust and duck and feint and lunge. Senneth was fast, but Justin was faster.

  “You’re dead,” he said, his point against her heart.

  “Again,” she said.

  Three times he could have killed her, twice with a blade through the heart and once by cutting her throat, but she inflicted some damage, or would have, had the fight been real. Twice she made him stop and show her some move in slow detail, reenacting it with him till she understood the flow and the mechanics. He was unexpectedly patient, Justin who was so edgy as a rule. She actually found herself liking him by the time the session was done.

  “Good,” he told her, taking her wooden dagger and matching it to his. “Practice every day like that for a year, and we might make a Rider of you yet.”

  She couldn’t help grinning. “You don’t want me for a Rider.”

  Almost, an answering smile. “If you could fight like that, I might.”

  Donnal’s voice spoke up from the fireside. “Could I have some training some night, too? I’m good enough to get better.”

  Justin looked at Tayse for the answer. The big man, sitting motionless by the fire, glanced up and shrugged. “No reason not to,” he said. “The boy, too, if he wants.”

  “Me?” Cammon exclaimed. “Yes! I’ve never handled a sword, though. Or a knife.”

  “All the more reason to start.”

  They all stared at Kirra, but no one made her the offer, and she seemed to not even notice that there was a great, gaping hole in the conversation. “I guess I’ll be cooking, then, while the rest of you are warring,” she said. “I’m glad I could bring some skills to this little party.”

  “Besides the ability to change shapes, of course,” Tayse said politely.

  She grinned. “You will see sometime how handy a skill that is.”

  He leaned forward to poke a stick back into the fire. “I look forward to that day,” he replied.

  CHAPTER 4

  THEY encountered nothing of any interest until midmorning of the next day. Once again, Tayse rode ahead and Justin behind; the small group in the middle featured Kirra side by side with Donnal, Cammon beside Senneth, asking his endless questions. Senneth was doing her best to answer them completely and patiently, when all of a sudden he fell silent.

  “What?” she said.

  He pulled his horse to a stop and then turned it in a complete circle, staring with a frown at the countryside around them. They were riding through a lightly wooded area, though this particular stretch of countryside was mostly poor farmland and the occasional small community. They had passed dozens of cottages set back some distance from the road, and a hundred crop fields waiting to be tilled again in the spring.

  “What?” Senneth said again.

  Cammon shook his head. “Something’s wrong,” he said, and circled around again, as if straining to hear something or smell something on the cool, slow breeze.

  Senneth barely raised her voice. “Tayse!”

  Donnal and Kirra had stopped their horses and padded back. “What is it?” Donnal asked.

  Senneth shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think he knows. Says there’s something wrong.”

  Donnal slipped from the saddle and bent low to examine the fringe of dead grass that bordered the road on each side before the trees crept in. Even in human form, he was an excellent tracker, a skill developed in childhood when poaching on Danalustrous lands provided a good income.

  “I don’t see anything,” he said. “I’ll try smell.”

  And that quickly he was in wolf shape, sniffing along the ruts and prints of the road. It always unnerved Senneth, just a little, that he could make the transition so quickly. It unnerved her more that she could see nothing of Donnal’s personality in the wolf ’s eyes. They were merely amber jewels set in a white face framed by a hood of black. If he came at her by night in such a guise, she would raise her dagger to kill him.

  Tayse was upon them before Donnal had done more than nuzzle his way a yard into the woods. “What is it? What’s happened?” he demanded, arriving at a gallop and reining up sharply.

  “I don’t know,” Senneth said. “Cammon says there’s something wrong.”

  She expected Tayse’s face to relax to scorn at those words, but she had forgotten the heart-deep superstition of the trained warrior. As much as anything, a soldier survived on instinct, and Tayse respected that almost as much as he respected skill. “What’s the shiftling see?” he asked, watching Donnal.

  “Well—” Senneth began, but just then, Donnal gave a little yelp and bounded forward, following some scent or some sound.

  “Kirra, Cammon—stay here,” Tayse ordered. “When Justin arrives, send him after us, then draw off the road and find cover till we return.”

  He kneed his horse forward and went into the woods after Donnal. Senneth followed. There was no trail that she could discern, but Donnal seemed to know where he was going well enough. He loped ahead, then waited, furred mouth open in a silent pant, till they caught up. Then he trotted forward again. Easier going for him through these overhung trees, and Senneth considered dismounting, but Tayse didn’t, so she didn’t either.

  They’d gone maybe three-quarters of a mile before they came to a small stone hut sitting by itself in a muddy clearing. Senneth instantly could see that it was accessible by a path that led away from the woods, probably to some smaller country road that they hadn’t crossed. Donnal had come by a more direct route.

  Tayse was out of the saddle and approaching the building in a low, crouching run, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. Senneth followed suit, straining all her senses for danger. Donnal was already nosing at the door, which was unlatched. It fell open when he pushed it aside with his head, and he sprang across the threshold.

  Tayse glanced back at Senneth. “I’m guessing there’s no one in there, or he’d show more caution.”

  “I’d like to think that,” she said, and followed him inside.

  Where they came upon a scene of slaughter.

  Senneth stood just inside the doorway, staring around her in horror. Three—no, four—bodies strewn across the stone and rug work of the floor. Blood had sprayed across the walls, across the spare furniture, lay in dark puddles near the bodies. Very little appeared to have been disturbed except what might have been overturned during a fight. A small table in the adjoining kitchen was set for dinner, all dishes and goblets precisely placed; glassware in cases along the wall sat on their shelves untouched.

  Four people killed, by whom, for what?

  “Donnal,” Senneth said, sheathing her blades. “Can you see how many assailants were here and who they might have been? Which direction they came from, where they went when they left, how long ago?” The wolf put his nose to the floor and began scenting, turning his shagg
y head from side to side as another odor caught his attention.

  Tayse had put away his weapons, too, and now he knelt by the first body. “Dead a day, maybe,” he said. “Not very long. This one’s a woman.”

  Indeed, they discovered as they made a methodical survey of the room, three were women and one was a boy, about fifteen years old. One woman appeared to be Senneth’s age, and the others were older by twenty years or more.

  “A mother, a son, a grandmother, and an aunt, perhaps,” Tayse said in a low voice. “They would have seemed harmless enough.”

  But Senneth had glimpsed something under the body of the youngest woman, who had died with her face against a braided rug. “Let’s turn her over,” she said. “I want to see.”

  Death held no particular terror for Tayse; he showed no distaste as he competently turned the woman to her back. Her throat had been slashed and her face had been cut up, and blood stained every inch of her face and neck. Her hands were bound together before her with a fine rope, and twisted around the rope was a silver chain set with moonstones.

  Senneth swallowed a sob. “Killed because they were mystics,” she breathed, and sat down right there on the hard floor.

  Tayse grunted. “All of them?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  He went from body to body, then, hunting for clues. When he came back to crouch beside her, he balanced himself on the flats of his feet. “Moonstones on each of their bodies somewhere,” he reported. “Hands or throat. Why tie them that way if they’re already dead? Or did the attackers bind them with the moonstones first so they couldn’t use their power to stop the blade?”

  “As if any mystic had that kind of power,” Senneth said in a choked voice. “Most mystics—have such small skills. They can—change themselves—or heal someone else’s cut—or maybe read someone else’s emotion. They can’t—they can’t fight with their power. They can’t hurt anyone. They’re—they’re—there is no harm in them.”