Tau set Inda’s letter down on the wardroom table and rubbed his aching eyes. The ship was pitching at every angle, sending the lantern swinging, which would make reading even good handwriting difficult.
Maybe he had better wait for daylight, when Inda’s rapidly disintegrating handwriting could be read on deck. The light would be stable, even if the ship wasn’t. But Tau wanted to get it all read, so he could take the intervening time to compose an answer intended for two.
Did Inda perceive that he was acting as a conduit for messages to Evred? Laughing is good . . .
The watch bell tinged, and the off crew thumped down the ladder into the wardroom, stamping and shedding snowy slush in all directions. Tau rolled up the letter and slipped along the companionway to his tiny cabin.
Tau threw himself in his hammock, wondering whether Evred was depending on Inda to send oblique messages back. Very oblique. Maybe it was Tau being too oblique? Evred probably didn’t give Tau a second thought. “Want me to add anything? I’m writing to Tau,” Inda would say. And Evred would say, just to please Inda, “Tell him the description of the green and purple lightning in that storm was interesting . . .”
Tau laughed, his breath freezing and falling. He knew better than to ascribe his own emotions to anyone else. But he’d taken a lot more interest in this almost nightly exchange of letters—answering Inda’s scrawls with amusing letters he mentally composed all day—just to get back the gratifying message that Your note made Evred laugh.
By the fourth day, tempers were snappish. The throne room was bitterly cold, impossible to warm. Inda wondered if Convocation was deliberately held in winter. Sartoran tradition had established New Year’s Week in winter, but who said Convocation had to be at New Year’s Week?
Evred had said, They all talk about how I should get chairs, or even mats, but I give them the bran gas about tradition. The truth? I found it in the one existing record written by Savarend Montredavan-An before my ancestor stabbed him in the back. He said making them sit on hard benches in the cold would get ’em through the business faster. It’s certainly why we have benches in the boys’ mess down in the academy.
Cama Tya-Vayir, now Camarend Idayago-Vayir, Jarl of Idayago, had come south for three purposes.
First, to make his vows. That had been done. Second, to bring Radran before the king, so that he could give the queen the banner and tell its story as Ndand Arveas had requested—and apparently promised all the women in the kingdom. That he had also done.
His third purpose was not spoken to anyone. He watched his brother as the days passed. He talked with everyone, observed everything, making little comment except when his old friends pulled him into late-night reminiscence, and once, when Inda wanted to talk over some training ideas.
He kept silence during the brangles of Judgment Day, watching the Jarls’ alliances form, split, and reform with Horsebutt trying desperately to gather an opposition to the king. Just to be doing it. Cama said nothing about that, either.
Then came the day of departure, and Cama would not be back for five years, unless something happened that required him to present himself before the king. He made the rounds of his friends, saying his farewells, but when the Tya-Vayir procession departed (for Horsebutt did not see fit to talk to his brother at all, much less bid him farewell), Cama rode out behind them, a sword strapped across his back, another at his saddle, and knives in sleeves, boots, and sash. He was alone except for two picked Runners flanking him, each as tough as he was.
The line of Runners behind Horsebutt Tya-Vayir shifted when Cama trotted past the column, looking fierce.
Stalgrid “Horsebutt” Tya-Vayir was in a furious mood. What an abysmal week. Every plan ruined, every coward running, just because that young fool Evred had that scar-faced pirate at his side—
A confusion of horse hooves behind him caused him to look round just as his brother rode up.
Cama flicked up a hand at the banner man. “Halt.”
Horsebutt said furiously, “How dare you give orders to my men?”
Cama said, “You want this conversation in front of them?”
Horsebutt glared at his brother. Cama was alone, except for his two Runners, and Horsebutt had the maximum permitted Honor Guard, two flights.
But they were in sight of the castle walls, where no doubt that scar-faced pirate was watching.
Horsebutt struck his hand out in the flat-handed signal to stay, and urged his horse alongside Cama’s, the snow crunching and squeaking under the animals’ hooves, everyone’s breath clouding.
Then Cama stopped. His voice was low and harsher even than their father’s had been before he died, unmourned, in a duel with the Jarl of Tlennen just after the two led, and lost, a battle against pirates.
“I am now a Jarl. I am not your Randael. I am not under your orders, Stalgrid. We are equals, so I will say this once. If you make any more trouble for Evred Montrei-Vayir, then I will ride back down here and challenge you before the Jarls. You’ll wish you were Buck Marlo-Vayir before I am done with you.”
Cama turned away, kneed his horse, and thundered back to the royal city to fetch young Radran. And smiled: his three purposes were complete.
Stalgrid stared after Cama until he became aware of whispering behind him. He slewed in his saddle, glaring.
His personal Runner, used to his ways, urged his horse forward. “Message? Problem?”
“Nothing,” Stalgrid said, hating Camarend, hating the pirate up there with the king. Hating himself. Because he knew he would never dare challenge Camarend, who he used to kick into hopeless tears just because he could. “Nothing at all,” he said bitterly. “Ride on.”
From the towers the horns blew again, and the Tlen-Sindan-An and Tlennen Jarls rode out, now that Horsebutt was safely ahead. They looked splendid from above, banners bright against the smooth white-blue expanses of a heavy snowfall.
Inda was tired. His days had jerked between eternities of intense boredom while he stood motionless, and short bouts of angry, low-voiced arguing over minutiae between the Jarls, most of it started by Horsebutt. The evenings had been filled with banquets and too much wine.
The horns blew the chords for a prince’s heir. It was his turn for relief as he watched Branid ride away.
Evred’s head pounded from the effort it had taken to balance between all the demands: the individual Jarls as well as Jarls in group; the war reparations and the future; the constant friction of too many people interrupting the regular rhythm of the castle’s life as they pursued their own concerns; and above all, above all, the long watches while he sat on that throne trying not to be distracted by the sound of Inda’s breathing, the rustle of his clothing, the shift of a foot.
When the last banner had vanished beyond the snow-smooth hills Evred turned away abruptly. Inda waited, receiving no beckon or word. Evred sometimes did that, and Inda figured he was lost inside his head, reviewing the endless list of tasks that had been laid aside. He took off the other way, mentally sorting his own list of undone tasks.
Evred appeared again just before midnight as Inda was about to end his day with his sentry walk around the walls and towers. “Your observations?”
Inda had been thinking about them all along. In part, his letters to Tau had been practice in organizing his thoughts. He held up his gloved fingers, folding one down on each point. “Branid was as confused as I was. The others were taught things about treaties and laws we weren’t. Cherry-Stripe isn’t an heir, but it sounds like Buck has been having him share Jarl business for the past year.”
“It’s true.”
“Took me about three days to catch up, figure out what they were talking about. Branid seemed quicker, but Cassad and the others taught him over breakfast, Cama told me.”
“Go on.”
“Well, overall everything seemed fine. No one yelped about the oaths. Everything got resolved, except those two questions of Horsebutt’s from the first day, about who gets the foals from the animals th
ey had to loan the army according to treaty, and him insisting that the Marlo-Vayirs owe him sixty-some animals. They kept postponing deciding on that from day to day, and then agreed to wait for next year. Even Horsebutt. Though I think that was because Cherry-Stripe and Cama had . . . had . . .” Inda frowned, flicking his earring with his fingers.
Evred was distracted by the guards they passed. They all deferred and saluted, but many of them altered subtly when they met Inda’s eyes: faint smiles, twitches of shoulders. Like they wanted—expected—to be noticed. “Ruby earrings? But Cama and Cherry-Stripe do not wear them.”
“I know. I asked Cama about that. He said only those on the floor of the pass are worthy, and everyone agrees. Tuft wears two, since he led. Hawkeye and Noddy would have as well.” Inda tipped his head. “Though I can’t see Noddy wearing earrings.” He sighed.
They paced the length of the entire east wall before Inda finally said, “They were on the strut without actually being on the strut. Everyone else acted like they were, d’you see?”
“Moral ascendance.”
“That’s it. I’d forgotten the term, though I used to know it even in Old Sartoran. Sponge, sometimes I think my brains are leaking out. Saw moral ascendance in Tuft’s dad, and Tlen. Cassad. Everyone who was at the Venn battle or had a son there.”
Evred dismissed Inda’s comment about brains as a joke. He watched as Inda lifted a hand in salute to the sentries who had backed to the battlements to let them pass.
Mentally Inda named them, and a fact or two about each. He just about had them all by memory now. Good fellows. Now that Convocation was over, he could go back to hoisting an occasional ale with them on a watch change. “So?” he prompted, when Evred hadn’t spoken. “Your turn.”
“Here’s what I saw,” Evred said. “Horsebutt held his tongue because he was aware that the older Jarls resented his brother’s promotion. In their eyes, Tya-Vayir got boosted ahead of everyone else, though officially they are now two families. Why weren’t their sons given a command?”
“But the younger fellows didn’t hold promotion against Cama,” Inda protested. “I think I would have seen that.”
“No, they all thought Cama’s promotion was his just due, because he was a Sier Danas returned in triumph from battle. Because of all he did in the north. None of them resented Nightingale becoming Randael for Khani-Vayir, same reason. Horsebutt saw this division between young and old as a division between possible allies. He also stepped back when I announced after the oaths that there was a mage circling the kingdom to do the renewal spells. I hadn’t realized until I said it just how much Dag Signi’s generous offer would enhance my prestige.” Evred finished with that rare tone of self-mockery that always brought Fox to mind. Fox and—
Signi. Inda grimaced at the surge of longing every mention of her name, every reminder, caused. He glanced down into the torchlit courtyard where the evening watch perimeter patrol was just riding in, snow clinging to boots, horse gear. The night patrol’s hooves diminished on the clean-swept stones of the silent main street as they rode toward the main gate, then out. “That surprised ’em,” Inda agreed, forcing his mind back to Evred’s words. “So what are you expecting next? From the Jarls, I mean. Not the Sier Danas.”
“That they will wait. There was a lot of ‘Sigun’ this year. Whether it lasts or not . . . I think Horsebutt is going to be the weathervane. ‘Sigun’ gave me a summer wind this year. Maybe next Convocation will bring the east wind, especially if Barend cannot get us trade. I have to be ready. You don’t see it yet, but all that about pasturage and who gets the foals is testing the battleground. If Tya-Vayir wins next year over Marlo-Vayir, then they can all start elbowing for more concessions.”
“Why does Horsebutt need more of anything?” Inda stopped, smacking the wall with impatience. Snow flurried up into the air, and began to drift down; he turned away from that to search Evred’s face. “He’s got a good home. No money needs. None of the inland Jarls have coastal cities to rebuild, and you’re doing all that anyway, right?”
Evred had turned away and began to walk, head down, torchlight flickering over his absorbed profile. When they reached the shadow of the bell tower, he said, “The Tya-Vayirs have hated the Montrei-Vayirs since the very beginning. That they have the smallest Jarlate was deliberate, I think, though no one set so direct a thought down in words. This I do know. Horsebutt will teach his son to hate mine.” His breath hissed in. “And his young second-cousin who will join the scrubs this year to become his future Randael, since Cama is now promoted, will probably bring that hatred to the academy. The trouble will never end, and it’s all because of a long-ago grudge.”
He dashed through the tower entry and out the opposite door, speaking in a running undertone. “When we were boys I had no power. How I hated seeing injustice that I could not fix! Now I have power. Responsibility, too. I’m not afraid of hard work, it keeps me from—” He flexed his hands, then flung them behind his back.
From? Inda thought, jogging to keep pace.
“The truth is, I like power. I like walking into a room and seeing Horsebutt and that snake Hali-Vayir shut up and salute. And I really like knowing that I could order a full wing to scrag Horsebutt and they’d do it. But sometimes . . . I find myself looking for excuses . . .” He sighed sharply, his breath a faintly glowing cloud that vanished in the wind.
Evred stopped, and Inda caught himself against the wall, his boot heels almost skidding out from under him.
Evred stared westward over the academy rooftops, then said in a low voice, just audible above the icy wind, “There are two kinds of power. There’s the obvious one of force, when you use your guards’ swords to enforce your will on people. But the other kind is the power that people give you. It happened to me when I came home after my father and brother were assassinated. I did not try to take it, Inda. I rode home, I walked into the castle. The people were all gathered, and they gave it to me. With eyes, with fists here.” He struck his own fist lightly against his heart. “They waited for orders, and when I spoke the orders, they obeyed. I did not have to use force.”
The wind moaned, and Evred said, “You have to help me to remember that difference.”
Chapter Ten
JEJE had been in a sour mood ever since she’d left Anaeran-Adrani, but this particular day made her previous gloom seem positively summery.
She hated this journey she’d set herself on. She could have stayed in Anaeran-Adrani, but wouldn’t, nor would she tell anyone why. She’d been met with such kindness it just made everything worse. She couldn’t even accept the magical transport token she’d been offered so generously because the only Destination near Freedom Island was in Khanerenth, and Jeje was sure she was doubly notorious there by now.
So here she was, trudging through mud, which she hated, in mountains, which she hated. The horse she’d been given had been stolen during a night she’d slept in the woods beside a road to spare money, though she loathed dripping trees. Great savings that turned out to be.
Now she was on the long winding road between Anaeran-Adrani and Bren, forced to hurry because some stupid outriders had galloped ahead to warn people that the hostel up at the top of the next plateau was going to be all taken up by a traveling royal.
Jeje had been ready to deliver her opinion of royals to the outriders when she remembered from hard experience that merchants could be even sniffier. It was rich people she hated, especially when they slung around gold pieces in order to boot hapless travelers out of an inn or hostel just so they wouldn’t have to listen to strangers slurp their soup.
“I suppose this royal would drop dead if a single female traveler asked for a bed,” Jeje retorted in what she considered an attempt at compromise.
The first outrider was a skinny fellow barely of age. “Not drop dead, maybe. But we need forty-one beds, and the hostel says they can only make up thirty.”
“So the rest of us are forced to sleep in the mud,” Jeje snarled.
“You can ride on—”
“Do you see a horse?”
The second outrider just laughed, clicked to his mount and rode back down the muddy trail, but the first one gave Jeje a not-unsympathetic smile. “Been like this ever since the ships stopped going round. People have to travel with us.” He slapped his sword. “Hostelries don’t have enough beds, so we take our tents along. My advice? Get a job as an outrider. You get your horses free, and all you do is ride around wearing livery. You might have to sleep in a tent during the winter, but you get paid for it. And bandits don’t dare attack big parties anymore. Not since the two biggest gangs took each other on and most of ’em either died or ran.”
Jeje gritted her teeth. She knew she was being unfair—the fellow was just being friendly while carrying out orders—so she just lifted a hand in salute. The outrider returned a casual wave and galloped back down the road.
Jeje trudged grimly onward. Fog was another hate, she thought sourly as swirls of vapor lowered slowly from the blank gray sky, obscuring the red-soil hills and patches of dense forest on either side of the road.
She toiled up the hill, head bowed, debating whether she should just give up and write to someone via the golden case. Only what would she write? Inda didn’t have magic. He couldn’t do anything from wherever he was. Fox . . . She shuddered.
Tau?
She grimaced, her spirits now about as low as her icy, mud-caked winter mocs. It had seemed such a wonderful idea, to find his mother for him. The idea had come after she’d heard what seemed to be a clue in what Inda’s betrothed, Tdor Marth-Davan, had observed.
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