“Indeed it is,” Prince Tuandre said. “Indeed it is.”
Estora insisted the talks continue. Zachary, Laren thought, would be proud of Estora for how she was carrying on despite the scare. She once more touched the minds of Prince Tuandre and his remaining counselor, but sensed no treachery from them.
Ben sidled over to her and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “How are you holding up?”
“Well enough,” she murmured.
He touched her shoulder and she felt a mild warming sensation. She glanced sharply at him and shook her head. He should not use his healing ability in a room with so many watching eyes.
He whispered, “It was not enough for anyone to see.” Then he backed away.
Her shoulder did feel easier, but her whole body ached, as it often did after using her own ability, and especially in addition to having been flung into a stone wall by the aureas slee just days ago. The meeting dragged on covering not just topics of alliance and security, but broaching trade once more. Estora, for all that her bed was her throne, presided with dignity and authority, speaking always in the realm’s best interest. Yes, Zachary would not only be proud, but well pleased. She made a fine queen.
For an odd moment, a vision of Karigan in Estora’s place came into her mind. Would Karigan do so well under such conditions? Laren was sure she would, but she had a hard time imagining her Rider confined to bed like this and not out in the world. It was not suited to her, but for all that Estora disliked the confinement, she was disposed to make the best of it.
It was to Laren’s great relief when the meeting came to a close. They all stood when the prince rose, she grimacing at her creaking joints. Tallman and Javien went immediately to speak informally with the prince, and Estora beckoned Laren over.
“Captain,” she said in a hushed voice, her eyes bright, “I think it went well.”
“Yes, I agree, and may I say that I don’t think Zachary could have done any better.”
A sadness shadowed Estora’s features. “I have no wish to dishonor his rule. I wish to reign in a manner that would honor his . . .”
His memory? Laren wondered when Estora did not finish her sentence. Now that they had admitted to Prince Tuandre that Zachary had disappeared, word would spread to the general population, and no doubt to their enemies. It would be a blow to morale, no matter they had Estora. There was much work to do on that end to bolster their people.
“If I may?” Ben stepped forward. “I am to check Her Majesty for strain, as Master Vanlynn has ordered. And Captain, I am ordering you back to quarters to rest.”
Laren scowled at him, but he was right. She’d had in mind to return to her quarters and put her feet up anyway. Maybe go over reports and—
“Rest,” Ben said sternly as if he could read her mind.
“I’ll send Anna with her to make sure she follows orders,” Estora said. “Now, now, Laren, do not frown. You are highly valued and I need you in good form for all that may come.”
Estora had called her “Laren” instead of “Captain” for the first time she could recall, as Zachary always had during times of informality. Was this another indication of Estora’s increasing confidence in her role as monarch?
“Anna,” Estora called. The girl came to her bedside and curtsied. “See that Captain Mapstone returns to her quarters. She is to go and rest.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Before Laren was dismissed, Estora said, “That was well done with the assassin. If you had not recognized his ill intent, he could have gone straight to Second Empire to report on all he heard here, or maybe even succeeded in assassinating the prince.”
Laren nodded. There was nothing more to say, so she and Anna left Estora’s bed chamber, Willis following closely behind. The outer rooms were crowded with Weapons, and the discussion between the prince, Javien, and Tallman had moved out there, the luin prime insinuating himself into the conversation. Les Tallman glanced at her as though to invite her to join them, but she shook her head and continued on her way.
In the corridor outside were more members of the prince’s retinue, blocked from entering the queen’s apartments by a line of forbidding Weapons. Among those who awaited their prince’s return were more counselors and aides, secretaries and body servants, the prince’s personal mender, and some military officers in red. There was also a pair of messengers. The entire retinue was male, for the women in Rhovanny played a much more limited role in their society. It had been heartening to Laren that Tuandre had responded so well to Estora, when not every Rhovan male would have. Of course, she was head of state and this was her realm, so it was required of him to show respect, but Laren also thought he had showed a natural respect.
One of the messengers stepped forward and said, “Green Rider?”
She halted, Anna stopping beside her. The man bore the rank of lieutenant on his shoulders. His gray uniform was ornamented with far more brass and piping than a Green Rider’s, the Rhovan messengers being more tied to the military. Fancier, perhaps, but not as practical. His mustache was also quite grand with curling ends. How did he keep it groomed while on an errand?
“Tell us,” he said in his thick Rhovan accent, his tone haughty, “what occurred within. Why was Counselor Garmell taken away?”
“I believe, Lieutenant, that is for your prince to tell you.” Not caring for his tone, she started to move on, but he stomped in front of her and blocked her.
“I asked you a question,” he snapped.
The other messenger, a corporal, murmured in Rhovan to the lieutenant. The lieutenant barked in Rhovan at him in what could easily be translated to: “Shut up!” The corporal shrugged. The lieutenant then muttered at Laren in Rhovan and she knew enough of the language to recognize that what he was saying about her was unflattering, and that he thought very little of women in uniform.
“I order you to tell me what transpired, woman.”
Order her, did he? She was not going to waste time on the fool, and was about to move on, when Prince Tuandre emerged into the corridor and made straight for her. The two Rhovan messengers straightened to attention.
“Captain!” Prince Tuandre said. The lieutenant glanced around trying to see who his prince addressed.
Laren bowed her head. “Your Highness.”
“I wish to thank you again, Captain, for saving us from disaster. I am going to go see the traitor now. We could use more like you in Randann.”
“Your Renhald is a good man,” she replied. The lieutenant, she saw, was looking dismayed. “I am sure he and the messengers he commands serve you and King Thergood to the utmost.” The lieutenant’s dismay increased. She was, of course, acquainted with her counterpart in Rhovanny, and he would not tolerate, she was sure, the lieutenant’s comportment, especially as a visitor in another realm.
“Yes, yes. Captain Renhald is excellent. But you are always welcome.” The prince actually shook her hand before turning away to speak with his aides.
The corporal spoke again to the lieutenant. She made out that he was explaining the gold knot on her shoulder and the rank it denoted. The corporal looked smug as he spoke, then he straightened and saluted her. The lieutenant, now looking both embarrassed and displeased, executed a precise salute, as well.
“As you were,” Laren said mildly in Rhovan.
Now the lieutenant paled realizing she had understood his unflattering remarks.
“Please give Captain Renhald my kindest regards,” she told him. She smiled inwardly. If the lieutenant worried that she was going to report him to his captain, it was well deserved. She would not, of course, waste her time. How that man had gotten the rank of lieutenant without knowing what her gold knot represented, and his poor behavior as a guest in a foreign kingdom, she could not guess. Renhald was indeed a good captain, and she couldn’t imagine him being pleased with such behavior from one of his officers,
but then, things were different in Rhovanny.
Before she could be forestalled by any further idiocy, she strode rapidly down the corridor, Anna hurrying to keep up with her. Once she was down the stairs into the main castle hall, she slowed down. Willis kept at a discreet distance.
“I heard you helped expel the aureas slee,” she said to her young companion. “That was very brave. You prevented it from taking our queen.”
Anna looked down at the floor as they walked. “He-it-didn’t like fire. And I fainted after.”
“Well,” Laren replied, “you remained conscious longer than I did.”
“But you didn’t faint.”
Laren looked at her in surprise. She appeared genuinely upset.
“You or Sir Karigan wouldn’t have fainted,” Anna said fiercely.
Laren halted in the middle of the busy hall and let people flow around her and Anna. “Young lady, most people would have run away and hidden rather than face the aureas slee, even if it meant sacrificing their queen. Do you know what that means? No? It means you are not most people. Look, Karigan and I have a few more years of experience. Be easy on yourself. You’ve done the realm a great service even when no one would have blamed you had you run and hidden instead.”
They set off again, Anna looking only slightly less downcast. Why, Laren wondered, couldn’t this girl, who was earnest, a good worker, and quick thinking, not come into an ability so she could be a Green Rider? But maybe it was for the best for her if she never heard the call and didn’t have to face all the dangers that being a king’s messenger entailed.
Yet, Anna had come to Laren wanting to join of her own free will. Wasn’t that, she wondered yet again, a calling of a sort?
TRADING FOR MEAT
Grandmother concentrated on her footing as she made her way through the twilight woods. The weather had turned the snow into a glaze of ice and was treacherous. Two of the men walked beside her to assist her so she would not fall. Despite nearing winter’s end, the air had a bite to it and was harsh to breathe. As always, she yearned for summer warmth to melt the ice in her old bones. She sighed thinking of gentle sunsets, not the cold light that dimmed in the woods now.
As they approached the edge of the guarded perimeter, several of her people had their arrows trained on a small group of groundmites.
Captain Terrik turned at her approach. “Grandmother, I am glad you are here.”
“It looks like Skarrl and his group. Have they come to trade again?”
“It appears so.”
When the groundmites had first been spotted near their perimeter months ago, she had ordered her people not to kill them outright unless directly threatened. Her experiences in Blackveil had taught her that the creatures could be useful. They were not without intelligence, and this group had managed to evade all their traps in the forest.
In time, the groundmites made plain their desire to trade for meat, though all they had to offer were bone necklaces, rotting hides, and rusted tools and weapons they had scavenged from who-knew-where. Grandmother carefully encouraged these encounters, trading a chicken or pig for whatever rubbish the groundmites had to offer. The creatures were skinny and flea-bitten, but not as badly off, she suspected, as other groups. It had been a hard winter.
The one known as Skarrl shambled forward. He was the most decorated of the groundmites she had seen, with bone jewelry and the best furs to cover his body. She took him to be the chief of his group, or tribe, or clan, or however they organized themselves. His necklaces of bones and teeth clicked around his neck as he approached.
He halted before Grandmother, seemingly oblivious to the arrows trained on him. He launched into an avalanche of groundmitish gibberish interspersed with grunts and occasionally recognizable words of the common tongue: trade, meat, want.
“What trade, Skarrl?” she asked. “What have you got?”
Skarrl grunted, then turned toward his companions. He issued a stream of more unintelligible chatter and gestured at them. They rose from crouched positions, the arrows of Terrik’s archers following every move they made. They dragged a litter behind them as they approached. When they halted before Grandmother, Skarrl pointed a crooked claw at the litter. “Trade. Meat, want.”
A lantern hissed to life and the groundmites leaped back in dismay, then calmed when they saw the light would not harm them. Grandmother peered down at the litter. The light revealed a man bound into it beneath a rough fur. She could tell little about him, except that his face was mottled by bruises and crusted with blood. Beneath the bruises he was pale. He looked dead. She removed her mitten and placed her hand on his forehead. He was warm, not yet a corpse.
“Who is he?” Captain Terrik asked. “If the ’mites are hungry, why didn’t they just eat him?”
“As for your first question, I do not know, but some lost soul to be out this far in the wilderness. As for your second question, perhaps they thought bringing us this man would please us and they could get better meat from us. I do believe they’ve developed a taste for mutton and chicken. Skarrl, where did you find this man?”
But Skarrl only answered in his groundmitish babble that seemed to simply signify that he did not understand the question.
“I guess we’ll not know,” Grandmother said. “At least not from the groundmites.”
“You aren’t going to trade our good food for this half-dead man, are you?” Captain Terrik asked.
“Captain, where is your curiosity? I am going to trade, and if this man regains consciousness, we might discover he’s perhaps a trapper, or a wayward wanderer, or maybe even a spy. If he is a spy, it would be good to know, yes?”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
She turned to the soldiers who had escorted her and said, “Bring the oldest ewe we have. There is the black-faced one that is lame and has little life left in her. Also, the sack of grain we discovered today that is moldering. Hmm, perhaps a couple loaves of bread to seal the transaction.”
She turned to the groundmite chief and said, “Yes, Skarrl, we trade.”
He grunted in understanding.
Grandmother sensed the captain’s disapproving gaze on her, but she ignored him. He was just concerned, and justifiably so, about the welfare of their people. She believed they would make it to spring. They’d set aside a healthy amount of stores for the winter, and her people had either brought their own livestock or acquired other animals from villages and farms Second Empire had raided.
After the soldiers returned and the trade was made, Captain Terrik said of the groundmites, “We can still kill them and get our ewe back.”
“No, Captain,” Grandmother replied. “It would serve little purpose. We traded in good faith. You never know where a positive relationship with our neighbors might lead.”
“Trouble, most like,” he grumbled.
She tsked. “There is no telling how many creatures belong with this small group that comes to us. Better to not invite trouble by killing their chief. After all, we already have an enemy to the south. We do not need another here in the north. Now if some of your men would help me back and drag this litter home . . .”
• • •
She trudged toward the overgrown ruins of the ancient keep that was home. A few of the walls still stood to a certain degree. One among them who was a mason had, with the help of others, spent the warm months making repairs and stabilizing what remained, while others rebuilt the roof to keep the weather off. The keep was surrounded by a crumbling curtain wall. The complex was situated upon a hillock within the forest. It must have once stood prominent over agricultural lands before they were deserted and the forest closed in.
Rough shacks and cabins had gone up against both the curtain wall and the keep proper, a shanty village erected by both soldiers and civilians of Second Empire, the refugees who had fled Sacoridia, her people. This far north in the Lone Forest, beyond the
boundaries of Sacoridia, the winter was especially harsh. Frigid winds rushed down from the arctic ice, and each day saw the loss of the weak and infirm. It meant fewer mouths to feed, but to Grandmother, it felt terribly unfair that her people should suffer while her enemy, King Zachary, stayed warm and well-fed in his grand castle.
The air smelled of smoke. Bonfires, torches, and lanterns offered a golden welcome as she approached the keep. Luckily, they did not lack for wood.
“Where do you want the litter to go?” one of the soldiers asked her.
“To the great hall,” she replied. “There we shall get a closer look at our trade.”
Dogs barked at their arrival, and people called out greetings to her as they warmed themselves by the fires. They cast curious glances at the litter.
Soldiers saluted as they passed through the gap in the curtain wall where there had once been a gate. Little remained of the original, but carpenters were working on a new one. Its utility would be questionable until other gaps in the wall were repaired. Currently, an army could swarm through at will.
Inside the wall were more shacks and pens for sheep, pigs, and a few cows. Chickens roamed where they wished. She crossed the courtyard, and a soldier pulled aside an old wool blanket that served as the keep’s door so she could enter.
Inside the keep it wasn’t much warmer, but the walls cut the wind. The air was dank and smoky. Roiling torch flames cast erratic shadows that slithered across stone. The great hall was the most repaired chamber in the keep with a roaring fire in the massive hearth. Some great clan chief of old would have feasted his vassals in this chamber. When they found it, it had been filled with the detritus of hundreds of years of neglect, and whatever had drifted through the broken roof from the forest. But for the new rafters and roof, one would have little idea the level of disrepair the place had been in. It had taken substantial effort to make it habitable for people rather than rodents. Luckily, they’d captives to do the hard labor.
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