Firewalk

by Anne Logston

  Randon led Kayli past Terralt as if the latter did not exist, giving Kayli an apologetic shrug as he motioned her to the smaller chair.

  “It’s my shame to agree that until Father died I had no preparation for rulership.” He turned back to Terralt. “But our own grandfather was a common mercenary until his brother’s death forced him to take the seat. At least I can read and write, however clumsily.”

  Randon sat back in the chair, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the arms of the chair.

  “You’re not pleased, Terralt, with the way I’ve spent my youth—Bright Ones know you’ve made your views known to everyone—but my father was the only one entitled to judge my suitability as Heir.

  “And you don’t like my politics. Strange that you made no complaint when they were our father’s politics. But a declared Heir can’t be set aside simply because his subjects”—he emphasized the word slightly—“aren’t happy with his position on foreign affairs. So on what grounds, brother, do you believe that Father’s advisory council should—or have the right to, for that matter—set me aside in defiance of Father’s choice?”

  Kayli could see Randon’s white hand begin to tremble; she laid her hand over his to cover it. Startled as if he’d forgotten she was there, Randon glanced at her, and Kayli smiled at him. She felt him relax just a little.

  Terralt scowled at Randon blankly for a long moment, and Kayli thought that he had been doubly surprised: first, that Randon had appeared at all to defend his claim; and second, that he had been prepared to speak so strongly on his own behalf.

  “You argue well for your claim, brother,” Terralt said at last. “If you could rule this land with pretty speech, we’d be better off. But it doesn’t surprise me that you speak only of your rights, your power. Those matters were always first with you, before the welfare of the people of this country, and they remain so now, as the council can plainly see.”

  Randon exploded to his feet, slamming his fist on the table.

  “I had everything I wanted!” he shouted. “I had my freedom, all the money I could spend, all the wenches I could bed, my horses and dogs and the open sky, and gods, how you hated and envied me for it, while you set yourself the task of reading Father’s papers, writing his proclamations as any scribe could’ve done, all the while hoping he’d see what a dutiful little son you were and hand you the country like a bone to a favorite dog. It’s you who has always wanted the damned power, not me! The Bright Ones know I’d be glad enough to be rid of it!”

  Terralt leaned over the table, his face only inches from Randon’s.

  “Then,” he said icily, “give it to me.”

  Silence. Kayli felt her own hands trembling, stilled them.

  Randon returned Terralt’s gaze squarely.

  “Swear before me and the council that you’ll continue with the alliance and all other matters as Father wished,” Randon said quietly, “and the seat is yours.”

  This time the silence was longer. Kayli sat still, scarcely breathing. Randon was playing a dangerous game for high stakes indeed; he was wagering that Terralt’s honor was stronger than his ambition. Then Kayli realized that Randon already knew; he’d made that same wager when he’d sent Terralt to fetch his bride.

  “You know I can’t swear that,” Terralt growled at last, slamming his fist on the table as Randon had. “What this country needs isn’t an alliance with a herd of backward nomads, it needs a mercenary force strong enough to—”

  “Enough.” The unfamiliar voice startled them all; the tension in the room broke like a string pulled too taut. Kayli saw Lord Kereg standing. “Enough, the both of you. Sit down and be still.”

  The brothers glared a moment longer, then Randon nodded slightly and sat down. There was nowhere for Terralt to sit but on the edge of the table; he glowered, but sat.

  “Terralt brought before us the suggestion that High Lord Terendal was dying and his thoughts were confused when he named you as his Heir, Lord Randon,” Kereg said. He turned to Terralt. “The council discussed that idea long before you broached it—in fact, on the day of High Lord Terendal’s death, before we confirmed his choice. High Lord Terendal was weak and in great pain, but his thoughts were whole. He spoke clearly until his death.” Kereg glanced apologetically at Randon, then turned back to Terralt. “Most of us expected and favored you to become our High Lord. If ever, even once, High Lord Terendal had previously named you his Heir—even indicated that he might one day choose you—that might have been excuse enough for us to question his choice of Lord Randon. But the High Lord always hoped for an alliance between Agrond and Bregond, and in the last months of his life he worked single-mindedly toward that cause. His choice of Heir was made after great deliberation. We decided that there was no challenging his choice.”

  Lord Kereg sat back down.

  “So long as Lord Randon proves that he can provide his country with an heir, and doesn’t show himself grossly unfit to hold the seat,” he said, “we have neither authority nor reason to sustain a challenge to his claim to the throne of Agrond.” He shrugged. “That being said, I suggest that any further business of this council be postponed until our next sitting.”

  “No.” Randon rose again. “There is one more item I wish to place before the council. And my brother.” He laid his hand on Kayli’s shoulder.

  “This council is appointed to serve the High Lord and Lady of Agrond,” he said. “As High Lord presumptive, that’s myself and Kayli. The council sits at our order, and ours alone. My brother has no authority to convene this council; you have no authority to convene it yourselves. From now on, the council will sit when and only when I or Kayli has ordered it. And my brother has no right to attend or speak at any session of council except at our invitation. Is that quite clear?”

  There was a gasp from someone in the council, and the rage on Terralt’s face grew to thundercloud proportions.

  Lady Aville was the first to stand.

  “Your order is clear, High Lord presumptive,” she said calmly. “And I shall honor it without fail.”

  One by one, the other ministers stood and acknowledged Randon’s order; Kayli noted carefully the voice and mannerisms of each as they spoke. By the time the ministers had finished, the rage was gone from Terralt’s face, and he shrugged.

  “Have it your way,” he said. “And may the Bright Ones have mercy on our country. But remember, brother, you’re not yet confirmed the High Lord of Agrond. Remember that.”

  Randon frowned, and Kayli thought wildly that another argument would undo all that Randon had accomplished here. She stood, startling Randon once more.

  “I will spare Terralt the trouble of telling you that I have had perhaps less preparation for rulership than my husband, and I am hampered additionally by small knowledge of your people and your customs,” she said. “Like Randon, I can offer only my best effort. But by the trust and admiration that Randon has expressed to me for each of you, I know that I may rely upon you to help me learn, to correct my ignorance, and to forgive any inadvertent offense I may give.”

  She turned to Terralt.

  “And before my husband and this council, I am pleased to have the opportunity to give my deepest thanks to Terralt for his great courage and honor. By marriage he has become my brother, and like Randon, I could not wish for better.” She extended her hand, gazing into Terralt’s eyes.

  A rueful smile twitched at the corner of Terralt’s mouth; then he relented, taking Kayli’s hand.

  “You speak as eloquently as my brother,” he said. “Between the two of you, I’m doomed to appear the blackguard.” He bowed a trifle too deeply. “I wish the two of you happiness, if not fertility.” Releasing Kayli’s hand, he turned and walked from the room.

  A little awkwardly, the ministers excused themselves also. When they had gone, Randon sat down, then slumped forward, his elbows on the table and his head in his shaking hands.

  “Bright Ones,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d have done if�
�for a moment I thought—”

  “You thought they would side with Terralt against you?” Kayli asked gently. “No. They lack the courage for such an action. And some of them, I believe, prefer you to Terralt as High Lord, though their reasons may be suspect.”

  Randon raised his head and glanced at her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are many reasons they might favor you,” Kayli told him. “Terralt’s ambitions are too strong, as you observed, and now that the treaty has been signed, Terralt, given freedom of action, might offend Bregond to the point of war. Perhaps some of them favor the alliance, as your father did. But some may believe you more malleable, easier to influence, and therefore more desirable a High Lord.” She shook her head. “I know none of them well enough to judge their motives.”

  “You judged Terralt shrewdly enough,” Randon told her, smiling faintly. “After the scene he made, I thought the best I could hope for was open hostility instead of quiet treachery. Bright Ones, what I’d give to have the man as my ally! With his help and his influence with the nobility, there’s no limit to what I could do with this country.”

  Kayli smiled, but inwardly she found Randon’s vision unlikely. Terralt was too ambitious, too inflexible in his thinking to be content with a subordinate’s role. As Randon had implied, likely Terralt had served at his father’s side only in the hope that the High Lord would one day name him Heir. How onerous such service must have been to the proud lord!

  “Well, after that, I don’t think I could go back to our rooms and play at being newlyweds again, could you?” Randon said ruefully. “What if we change our clothes instead, and you can show me the wonderful horses you brought, and choose a new hawk for you, and tomorrow we’ll ride in the country. And when we’re done in the stables and the mews, I’ll show you the forge.”

  “That would be most pleasant,” Kayli said with relief. She was indeed far too agitated now to return to idleness, and she very much wanted to finish dressing. When she considered her wardrobe, she realized that she had nothing fit for stable wear except the riding clothes she’d worn on the journey to Agrond. Was such clothing offensive by Agrondish standards? Well, she thought at last, better to find out now while there was nobody but Randon to see.

  She need not have worried.

  “What a marvelous outfit,” Randon said when he saw her. “Perfect for hunting. Terralt told me about the leather leggings, but you’re not wearing them now, are you?”

  Kayli pulled her jaffs out of the chest and held them up for Randon to see.

  “They are not necessary here,” she said. “They are only for protection from the high grass.”

  “Well, you look marvelous. I wonder if Ynea—” Randon sighed. “No. She’s never been well enough to ride.”

  “Childbearing seemed to disagree with her,” Kayli said, glancing at Randon as they walked through the corridors. “Endra is a very skilled midwife, trained in one of the healing Orders. I had thought to offer her services to the Lady Ynea.”

  “Mmm.” Randon was silent for a moment as they walked. “Best say nothing to Terralt, or he’ll forbid it. Stevann suggested bringing in a midwife after Ynea nearly died bearing her first child. My mother died bearing me, you know.”

  “No, I did not know.” Kayli was silent. Because most novices in the healing Orders not gifted enough to continue in the Orders became midwives, it was rare that any Bregondish childbearing woman or her infant died for lack of skilled care. Kayli knew that mages were less common in Agrond than Bregond, and that Agrondish mages did not specialize in one area of magic and so concentrate their talents, but surely there were midwives of some sort, be it only village wisewomen. What excuse could there be for a nobleman to deny his wife such care? After a moment’s worry that she might offend some Agrondish custom, she voiced her thoughts to Randon.

  “Most noble households have healers like Stevann, not midwives,” Randon told her. “And as you say, our mages don’t specialize in healing. My mother had both a midwife and a healer present at my birth, and she died anyway. Father had both the healer and the midwife banished, and it was years before he hired Stevann. Terralt has no faith in midwives, and little enough in mages at all. At least he lets Stevann attend Ynea.”

  They were at the front entry now. Randon nodded briefly to the two guards flanking the heavy wooden door, and they opened it. Kayli was not too lost in her thoughts to be grateful that no guards followed Randon and herself outside.

  The bricked courtyard felt strange under the soles of her boots, but the fresh air and the wind and sun on her face was wonderful. Even the smell from the stables was almost pleasant in its familiarity. Kayli was pleased to see that despite the unavoidable stink of manure, the stable was clean, the horses well-groomed and healthy. She was concerned, however, to see the small boxes Agrondish horses were kept in. To her confusion, Randon led her through the stables and out the other side.

  “Your string have given our grooms a little difficulty,” Randon admitted. “As long as the weather’s been good, we’ve kept them in the outdoor pen.”

  That sounded reassuring, but Kayli was less pleased when she saw the wood-fenced enclosure. It was large enough, but the ground was wet and soiled. Her horses, too, had not been groomed as well as those in the stables—or perhaps they had simply been rolling in the muck.

  “As I said, the grooms have had a little trouble with them,” Randon said apologetically. “They’re not used to horses with so much spirit.”

  Kayli whistled and Maja trotted over to the fence, the rest of the string following.

  “They are spirited, but not mean,” Kayli said slowly. “One of my maids can assist your grooms until my parents can send a groom. But this wet ground will ruin the horses’ hooves and legs. They are accustomed to drier footing.”

  Randon nodded.

  “I’ll have it taken care of,” he said. “That’s your mare, isn’t it?”

  “Her name is Maja.” The mare snorted in pleasure as Randon’s fingers unerringly found her favorite scratching spot behind her ears.

  Seeing that Randon was confident with Maja, Kayli coaxed the mare around to the gate so she could bring her out for him to examine. Despite the reputed intimidation of the grooms, Randon handled Maja confidently, admiring her deep, broad chest and muscular hindquarters. Agrondish horses seemed tall and weak and knobby to her; surely Maja looked squat and round to Randon, but he said only, “How powerful she is. I imagine she could run forever on open ground,” shaking his head admiringly as Kayli returned Maja to the pen.

  Randon agreed with Kayli’s suggestion that Carada, a swift but patient mare, would serve best as his own mount. Judging from Randon’s bride gift and Terralt’s remarks, Kayli had anticipated some common ground between herself and Randon in hunting and riding, and she was glad to have a topic on which they could converse easily and comfortably, their discussion carrying no more import than simple chat. Although Kayli usually hunted with her bow, she knew enough of falconry to talk knowledgeably with Randon when he took her to the mews, although she insisted that he choose her new hawk.

  “It was your bride-gift, after all,” she excused herself. “I would prefer to fly a hawk that you chose for me.”

  Any further casual chatter fled Kayli’s mind, however, when Randon showed her the palace forge deep in the cellars.

  “My great-great-grandfather used to have dungeons here,” he said. “That was when Tarkesh was so small that the few cells here could actually hold all the criminals. When the new dungeons were built in the city, Great-Grandfather hired a master smith—he had a passion for fine swords—and had the forges built to the smith’s order. There are clever conduits at the walls with levers to open and close them, to let the smoke out. Of course, we don’t use the place anymore now; Father thought it was wasteful for smiths to be sitting around the castle idle most of the time. What do you think?”

  Kayli gazed around her with awe. The forge had been designed by a master sm
ith indeed. Why, the great inner forge at the Order was no finer than this—and imagine designing a forge inside the castle cellars, with no windows, but still being rid of the smoke! There was a small forge built into the wall, likely for the making of swords, as Randon had said, and that would be of no use to Kayli, but there was also a good old-fashioned open firepit for larger meltings. The stones of the floor, walls, and ceiling were, of course, grimed with a heavy coating of soot, and that, coupled the room’s size, meant that Kayli would spend a great deal of time cleaning it properly before consecrating it, but if she had been given her every wish, she could have asked for nothing better than what she saw.

  “You needn’t say a word.” Randon laughed, startling her out of her meditation. “I’m answered by your expression. I’ll hire some sturdy lads from the city to scrub the place down and arrange things to your liking. Meantime we’d best go back before Terralt finds a way to have us barred from my own home.”

  There was, of course, no such difficulty, but a maid was lurking just inside the door, wondering whether the lord and lady would take their dinner in their rooms or the dining hall. Randon glanced at Kayli for confirmation, then told the maid they’d dine in the hall today.

  To Kayli’s relief, Terralt was not there, nor was the Lady Ynea, and no places had been set for them. Randon told her that Ynea seldom felt strong enough to leave her rooms, and Terralt was sorting through some of their father’s papers.

  “I really should help him,” Randon said hesitantly. “If you’d pardon my absence, that is.”

  “Of course, you must not neglect your duties on my account,” Kayli said immediately. “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t see how you could,” he told her. “It’s mostly a matter of sorting out old documents which can be discarded, those to be filed in the archives, and those that contain current business to be reviewed. I’d leave the job to Terralt entirely—it’s miserably hard for me to read Father’s writing—but I don’t think it’s wise to let him make too many decisions without me. Again, if you don’t object.”