by Ryk E. Spoor
Kyri smiled and blinked the tears away. “I . . . thank you. Melni.”
“Besides,” Melni continued, with a deliberately light tone, “I have so many customers showing off here. Business, you know.”
If she wants things to be normal, I certainly won’t stop her. I suppose she’s already done a lot of the crying. “Of course I do,” Kyri said, and gave a little showoff spin of the long-sleeved green and aqua dress. “Look, your dresses makes even a mountain like me look good.”
The laugh was weak, but it wasn’t forced. “Oh, fishing for compliments, are we? Balance, child, you’re impossible to make look bad. I could put you in a pile of leaves and you’d make most of the others look as though they were wearing sacks.”
Kyri felt her cheeks go warm. I’m not nearly that pretty, and the way I tower over everyone . . . Fortunately, she saw movement at the far side of the room. “Oh! Here they come.”
The Justiciars emerged to renewed applause, which she joined enthusiastically. Thinking on it, she realized that she’d never seen any of the Justiciars without that mystical, ancient, ceremonial armor that was both their badge of office and, it was said, the source of much of their power and protection against many forms of harm. What was most surprising was Condor; he can’t be much older than Rion . . . well, four or five years older, I guess, she thought, which makes him no more than eight or ten years older than me. He and Rion were almost of identical height, six foot six inches, although Condor was considerably broader across the shoulders, past which fell brilliant red hair. Shrike, Condor’s constant companion, was a grizzled bear of a man, nearly a foot shorter than his friend but if anything slightly heavier, with none of it fat. She saw Condor glance at her and mutter something to Shrike, who grinned and said something back; she thought she caught the ancient word sirza.
Skyharrier was also startling; he was one of the Saelar, the Winged Folk, but the armor usually restrained the great white, bronze, and gold wings that now stretched wide as he bowed to the applause, hair of the same bronze-white-gold shades tumbling around his face as he did. Bolthawk, as compact and strong as his namesake, was one of the Odinsyrnen, Children of Odin, the shortest of the Justiciars by far but no less formidable, with a sharp, pointed little black beard, short-cut dark hair, and twinkling black eyes like polished onyx.
Everyone was seated mostly according to plan (there were always a few people who decided to switch seats), the huge ballroom filled with multiple tables to hold all the guests. The largest table, of course, was reserved for the Justiciars, the Watchland, and a few others, including of course the family of the newly chosen Silver Eagle. Kyri also kept an eye on the two large tables on either side; those were the traditional Server’s Tables—set aside for those who spent time serving the other people attending. Serving was hard work, but those doing the work were supposed to take shifts and had some of the best food set aside for them. Vanstell, the Master of House, saw her looking and gestured for her to pay attention to her own table. She smiled and nodded at the small, perfectly dressed pale-skinned man. Van will make sure everyone gets their share.
Rion was at the head of the table, of course, with the Watchland to one side and Aunt Victoria on the other. This put her next to the Watchland and across from Urelle, who sat beside their aunt, bracketed by Thornfalcon on the other side. Sasha Rithair, one of the Watchland’s Arms and also Evanwyl’s only summoner and trained mage, sat on Kyri’s left. The others ranged down the table, ending with Skyharrier at the foot of the table so that his wings would not crowd anyone else.
Thornfalcon smiled at her with green-brown twinkling eyes. “I am indeed blessed,” he said, with a comical exaggeration that made her laugh. “Here I am with a lady on one hand and two across from me; what other man at this table is so fortunate? Save, of course, you, my lord,” he added to the Watchland, “as is only proper.”
“Hmph,” Victoria sniffed, but she, too, had a spark of amusement in her eye. “Compliments are always welcome, but you’ll keep your wandering gaze from my younger niece, Thornfalcon. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Alas,” he replied, even as more chuckles rippled around the table and the first course—shaved raw pricklepine fish with mixed fruit jelly dip—was laid down, “my reputation also exceeds me, I am afraid; as with so many heroes, the deeds attributed to me overshadow the reality. But then I take your statement to mean I can extend my wandering gaze to your elder niece.” He leaned on his elbows and let his eyes go misty and worshipful, such a caricature of a lovestruck youth—even though he had to be at least thirty-five—that she almost choked with laughter.
“Oh, go ahead,” Rion said. “If she doesn’t like it, she can always break you in half.”
“With the legendary Vantage strength, yes, I suppose she could break a man.” A pause. “If he was lucky.”
Her brother was the one coughing out his last mouthful after that, accompanied as it had been with a leer so extremely exaggerated that she was at once blushing and giggling. And if he wasn’t so old, I might wonder if he’s serious.
The dinner continued, and she began to get a sense for the Justiciars as people; Shrike and Condor were, of course, like father and son. Oddly, Bolthawk—the squat, blunt-talking Child of Odin—and the quiet, almost ethereal Skyharrier seemed close. Thornfalcon sometimes fell quiet, and his serious gaze at those times made her suspect that the gangly-looking Justiciar played the clown and troubador because otherwise he would be too shy to speak.
Mist Owl was the oldest, and as an Artan he spoke most with Lythos, the Vantage Sho-ka-taida or Master of Arms, and the only other Artan she knew of in Evanwyl. Mist Owl was . . . not cold, exactly, but his eyes took in everything and his expression gave back nothing. She had the feeling that he could see through everyone and everything. Come to think of it, that may just be normal for Artan; Lythos always seems to see everything and he almost never smiles.
As though he was reading her mind, the Sho-ka-taida looked up and directly at her . . . and then, with no one else to see, gave her a tiny smile and the quick hands-grasping gesture that said together it is accomplished. Her own smile was not small, for what the taciturn and perfectionist Artan teacher had just told her was that he believed her assistance—being one of Rion’s main sparring partners—had helped Rion to this wonderful achievement.
Thornfalcon did show his more serious side as he discussed the dinner. “That first-taste was truly exquisite, Lady Victoria. I think I have only tasted such fine An-su-ni in Nya-Sharee-Hilya itself. And this with freshwater fish?”
“Why, thank you, Thornfalcon,” Victoria said. “But the compliments should go to Feszinal, our head chef. He devised this entire feast and that dish, in particular, I know he prepared himself.”
“I will certainly remember to convey my appreciation. I am also impressed with the roundcut of hill quillstrike—not the least because they’re not the easiest thing to catch!”
She listened as the discussions flowed around her like the food. Privately, Kyri preferred what Victoria called “Southland” cooking—complex delicate flavors that were supposedly popular in Zarathanton and other parts far south—but she knew that Aunt Vicky’s “stone and sea” approach was better received here, and she had a top-flight set of chefs. And I can’t complain unless I’m going to learn to do the cooking in between my religious disciplines and combat work, not to mention a little magical study, history . . .
She realized she’d drifted when the chiming bell-notes of a Winged Harp sounded. Oh no, the dances already? But who—
As Rion took her hand and led her out, she realized that question had already been answered. “All right, brother, I’ll dance with you. But no side balcony walks for you.”
He grinned, leading her in a leafwhirl dance appropriate for the music. “What, I’m not pretty enough for you?”
She laughed. “I don’t want the other girls getting jealous. We’ve had you to ourselves up until now, right?” It was pretty much true; Rion hadn’t
spent any time dancing, flirting, walking, or really even talking much with anyone outside of his training.
“Well, true, but now I’m a Justiciar. Have to be serious and devote myself to Justice and Vengeance.”
The words were not nearly as serious as they sounded, and she couldn’t keep an almost teary-eyed smile off her face. “Oh, Rion . . . you don’t know how good it is to see you like this.”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yeah. I . . . wasn’t very easy to get along with after Mother and Father . . .”
She still couldn’t quite keep the sadness from her face. “I wasn’t, either.”
He snorted wryly. “You weren’t the one that was about to go charging out into the forest, waving a sword around without knowing your target.”
Kyri remembered that. She also remembered how Aunt Victoria had responded to his determination to kill the people who had slain their parents and left their home a burning ruin: “An admirable plan, Rion Kervan Vantage. Such detail and attention to execution: ‘Bastards! I’ll kill them all!,’ indeed. I trust you have some idea as to who ‘they’ are and, by the way you are running with such decision, knowledge of where ‘they’ may be found?”
Apparently the same memory had just replayed in his memory, because their eyes met and they both burst into laughter, even while shifting to the one-two-three of a Railwind Cross dance. “I was really stupid then, wasn’t I, Kyri?”
“No,” she said. “We all felt the same. Urelle too,” she saw her little sister, now twelve, dancing and laughing, and remembered the eight-year-old Urelle staring, fury and emptiness and shock mingled in such a venomous brew that sometimes she wouldn’t speak to anyone for days at a time, wouldn’t eat . . . or would cry and cling to Kyri in the middle of the night, not letting her go. “Why do you think we’ve all been training every day with you, with Lythos?”
“I know.” He smiled at her, and gave her a quick hug in the middle of a spin. “But we’re better, now, I think. A lot better.”
“Risen from the ashes,” she agreed.
“Just like your favorite bird.” He looked around. “Justice’s Name, I think Victoria’s actually starting to line them up for me.”
Kyri giggled—a sound she tried not to allow to escape in public, but Rion could almost always get her to do it. “You know, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying yourself at your own party.”
He blushed. “Er . . . well, no, but it’s a party about becoming a Justiciar, the living weapons of Myrionar, embodiments of Justice and Vengeance—a high and noble calling and all that, you know.”
The two of them nearly stumbled—the fact that neither danced much was, unfortunately, too obvious—but she still managed a snort of laughter. “I hear that this doesn’t stop Thornfalcon.”
“True. I think he should’ve been a wandering entertainer if he wasn’t such a monster with that rapier of his.”
She glanced at the tall, melancholy-faced Justiciar with his slender wading-bird build. “He’s that good?”
“Hellish. I think he could manage a cut or three on Lythos with that speed. Oh, Lythos would then carve him into a wall ornament, but he’d have been touched. Shrike, he’s an Elemental. Not literally, but like living rock. You get a good swing at him and it just bounces off—Bolthawk’s like that too,” he performed a clumsy hand-around spin that almost tripped them both, then continued, “except that since he’s purely a hand-to-hand man he tries to get up and pound the justice right out of you. Condor—”
“Condor is asking for the privilege of your sister’s company to dance away the next song,” Condor said over her shoulder. “If you’d be interested, Kyri?”
She smiled, a little awkwardly. “Well . . .”
Rion grinned mischeviously at her and glanced around. “I’ll notice no one had to work at lining them up for you.” He bowed out and let Condor take over, even as she was staring at what did appear to be a . . . rather large group of young men that kept looking in her direction. That . . . many? She recognized Zant from Myss Timbers, and three sons of the various Arms—including Torokar Heimdalyn? Balance! We’d both look ridiculous, me over six feet and a Child of Odin barely over four!—and that was Rairlsey Yindar, from all the way over in Gharis . . . I think I’ll just concentrate on the Justiciar in front of me.
For a few moments she just tried to follow; the next song’s rhythm was different, and Condor was clearly not much more experienced than she was, but was trying hard. They settled on a dance her aunt would have called a jink, but she preferred to call a quad-step. “Um . . . Condor . . .”
“Aran,” he said quickly. “That’s my name. Aran.”
A nice name. “Aran. I like it. I wasn’t sure the Justiciars kept their names.”
“Well . . . yes and no. We’re our Justiciar names most of the time. You understand the idea; by keeping the same names and the armor we imply the immortality of our justice.”
“Well, yes, of course.” It was actually more fun dancing with Condor than most boys she’d had to dance with. For one thing, he was actually taller than her by three inches, which was something that almost no one except her brother matched. And Watchland Velion, of course, but he’d never ask her to dance.
“But when we do get the chance to be out of armor—as we do at our own Temple, and at the houses of our own people—we have names like everyone else. We just don’t say them much.” A four-step turn, a sidestep, another. “Would you mind if I asked you something?”
“You just did ask me something.” She grinned. “But no, go ahead.”
“I see I had best watch my words around you just like your terrifying aunt. I was wondering . . . well, actually, all of us were wondering why in the name of the Dragons themselves you chose to use a greatsword.”
She laughed, slightly embarrassed but pleased that the conversation wasn’t going in directions she didn’t have experience with. “I’m . . . not completely sure myself, I suppose. I mean,” the song ended, another began, but they continued without interruption, “. . . well . . . hmm . . . my brother went for the shorter blade because he felt the bigger blades would slow him up too much. I’ve always been a little faster than him, and I thought . . . well, I guess I wanted to prove I could handle a weapon that was too much for him.”
“Ha! That was what I thought.” He grinned to take the potential sting out of the words. “You aren’t letting him be first if he won’t fight for it. Ever.”
She felt her answering smile which felt more relaxed somehow. “That’s it. That’s exactly it, Co— Aran.”
He gestured to the other room. “And you remember my sword, so it’s not like I don’t have the same issue. Shrike uses that night-damned axe that looks big enough to cut down trees with a stroke, so I had to go get a weapon that looked even bigger.”
She laughed. “So we’re both competing with our older brothers?”
“Seems like.” Up close, his eyes were a startling green, contrasting with red hair that he kept trimmed to an almost reasonable length in front. He’s . . . really handsome, actually, and was startled to recognize that thought. It wasn’t that she hadn’t noticed anyone before, but the Justiciars were symbols, not people most of the time.
And at that moment, another voice spoke. “Condor, you cannot monopolize the time of the loveliest lady in the room.”
To her utter astonishment, it was the Watchland. Even more to her surprise, Condor seemed almost afraid as he yielded his place. “Certainly, sir. My apologies.”
From the Watchland’s expression, he wasn’t quite sure why Condor was so apologetic either. But he turned to her with measured grace and bowed. “I hope you do not object. If you do, of course, I will be off.”
“Object? Um, sir, oh, no, not at all . . .” This is why I hate these kind of things! I’m sounding like a stuttering ninny and I’m going to end up stepping on his feet. Unlike her prior partners, the Watchland was a master of the dance floor. Which, she realized as he led her gently in a round-round, mean
t that he was going to make her look as though she knew what she was doing.
“I have to say I am terribly pleased to see your brother—and you—recovered as you are,” Velion said quietly.
She blinked. “Recovered?” Then she remembered her prior conversation with Rion. “Oh. Thank you, sir.”
“Perhaps it was not evident to you; indeed, it surely was not. Yet the Vantage family are Eyes of the Watch, second only to the Watchland, and harm to them is harm to our country; but more, your mother and your father were much beloved and your family is—has always been—one of the hearts of Evanwyl. The grievous blow you suffered seemed, for a time, to have taken your own hearts away and left only grief and anger. Becoming a Justiciar is not Rion’s true achievement.”
I had no idea the Watchland . . . well, watched us so closely. “You’re right, sir.”
He laughed softly. “Sir? Dear me, I suppose I must be that old to you.”
“Old? I . . .” She didn’t want to say anything insulting, and really, he didn’t look old at all. “You . . . well, you’ve been around since I was a little girl.”
“Yes. Yes, I have. That must make me a bit old in your eyes, I cannot deny it. Still, could you call me Jeridan?”
It finally dawned on her that this was not simply a social dance. The Watchland did not dance casually, although he danced often. Me?
It had never occurred to her that she would even be noticed by the Watchland. Now that it seemed to have happened, she wasn’t sure what to think.
But he was waiting for a reply, so she pushed the considerations of future issues aside. “Of course, um, Jeridan.”
“Thank you.” He seemed aware of her discomfiture. “Is this too embarrassing for you?”
“That . . . would not be the right word. Confusing in a way.”
Another gentle laugh. “As straightforward as your father and mother. Good. I understand the confusion. You are not quite seventeen, and I barely on your side of thirty. In many ways it would seem we have little in common. Yet appearances may be deceiving.”