“Who are they?” Tob asked. “Where do they live?”
She bit her lip and looked worried. “They live in Edian,” she eventually answered. “Their father’s a goldsmith, but they’re both in the king’s guard.”
Tob remembered seeing guards in Edian. He especially remembered seeing them, and being nervous because of them, the day of the Remembering for Princess Emlie. His first summer of traveling with Jordy had been an eventful one. He remembered the guards they’d met on the road, and the smell from the burning bodies of the Abstainers they’d killed. There had been a Dael and a Nocca in that patrol, escorting the goldsmith Loras—surely the same family. He thought about the guards who’d taken Pross away from the village when he didn’t want to go. He doubted that he would like this Dael, or his big little brother.
“Why would anyone be a guard?” he asked.
Iris’s face, already blotched with crying, reddened further. “Why wouldn’t they? Dael’s Captain of the Guard, and I—”
She broke off and, as Tob watched with interest, swallowed her anger. When she spoke again, her voice was cool and deliberate. “My—someone I knew once told me that Dael was born to kill people. He didn’t want to be a guard. He wanted to make jewelry and beautiful things like the rest of his family.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
“He killed a man. It wasn’t his fault,” she added, before Tob could react. “He was young, seventeen or eighteen, I think. A burglar broke into his family’s shop. His sister was there, cutting a stone. She was a wonderful gem cutter. The man struck and killed her. Dael heard her scream and ran to help. There was a fight, and Dael killed the burglar. He was arrested for it. He was only trying to protect himself, but there were no witnesses. He would have been sentenced to the work crews for years, or strangled, but Prince Damon witnessed his trial and invoked an old law. Another criminal had been condemned to death the same morning. The prince gave the two prisoners the choice of combat, the winner’s sentence to be commuted to life service in the guards. Dael won.”
A shadow of sorrow passed over her face, and she seemed to shrink in on herself. “He probably doesn’t even remember me. Better if he doesn’t,” she added in a very low whisper that Tob just barely caught.
Tob thought that it might be better for Iris if she didn’t remember this guard who was good at killing people. He tentatively rested his hand on her thin arm. “I’ll be your friend. “We all will.”
Tears filled her eyes again. “You should hate me.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to have to face your father again. I just did as the Greenmother told me. I didn’t know she was bringing me here. But now that I am here—I don’t want your father to send me away.”
“He won’t,” Tob assured her, and patted her arm. “Dad wouldn’t turn anyone away. None of us would. Really. Just don’t cry. Please.”
“I can’t help it. I should have more control. I’m sorry.” Tears spilled out. She dropped her head and hugged the kitten close again. It happily tried to burrow under the collar of the ugly black robe. Iris absently scratched at her shoulder, then whimpered when she realized what she was doing. “We’d better go back.”
Tob nodded and helped her to her feet, wishing that she didn’t look and sound so defeated and scared. The closer they got to the house, the more drawn and apprehensive she became. Tob eventually turned his eyes toward the ground and kept them there, not wanting to witness her misery anymore.
* * *
Sene remembered the road, though it had been many years since he had been in this part of his kingdom. It had been spring the last time he had made his way to Telina. The little village of pastel-painted stucco, garden plots bright with the first blooms of early flowers, and lemon groves scenting the air for miles around, had been too pleasant a setting for the horrors it had contained. All of the bodies had been indoors. Most had already been dismembered and partially devoured by the hungry village dogs. Gavea had been a substantial black pillar in the center of the road, blocking the passage of the wagon he drove. Her, “Don’t bother, they’ve died, the brave dears. All except this one,” was his formal introduction to Filanora. The name was far bigger than she was. Gavea’s warning had not prevented him from going to see for himself. That duty fulfilled, he had returned to lift the fragile orphan from Gavea’s arms.
“Light as a feather,” he’d murmured, surprised when the little girl immediately clung to him and nestled her head against his neck. There had never been a question that he’d take her home.
The lemon groves had deteriorated greatly. None of the houses retained their roofs. The bright colors had long ago faded from the walls. The piebald horse he’d sent to Garden Vale was grazing along the edge of the road near what might once have been a pasture fence.
Corporal Felistinon stood with his back against a lone fence post, his own horse nibbling at the long grass around his feet. He nodded silently as Sene rode up. The corporal, his straight black hair knotted at the back of his neck, was a head taller than Sene, who was by no means a small man. According to popular opinion all horse people were tall. Of course, another commonly held belief was that they never involved themselves with the Children of the Rock except to quarrel over grazing lands, yet Felistinon and his clan had been living in eastern Sitrine for many years in perfect harmony with their neighbors.
“Where is she?” Sene asked.
Felistinon gestured south with a tilt of his head. Beyond the overgrown pasture, in yet another stand of lemon trees, the girl’s black robe was visible behind a cascading fall of blossoms.
Sene tethered his horse to the fence and made his way through the tall grass. He had a moment’s uncertainty that the child could really be his foster daughter. She was so small. He hadn’t seen her since she was ten, but she didn’t seem to have grown. As he drew closer he realized he was mistaken. Of course she’d grown. Two inches in six years? His paternal side wondered critically what the Brownmothers fed people in Garden Vale. It wasn’t as if she’d been abandoned at Soza. Well, she had been a delicate child. He’d give Jenil the benefit of the doubt.
Bees hummed in the pasture’s wild flowers, a soothing drone beneath the varied noises of rustling branches and bird song. Butterflies floated in the air along with falling petals, spots of blue and yellow amidst the white and green of the grove. Sene came to a halt a few feet behind the girl. She was staring at the remains of the farmhouse at the end of the grove, oblivious to his presence.
“No one lives here anymore,” he quietly informed the back of her head.
She jumped, just a little, and answered. “I’ve noticed that.” The girl turned to face him. “I was told there was plague here.”
“A few years ago.”
“And everyone died. I see it’s true. At least, they’re gone.”
“They’re gone,” he agreed. “A minstrel named Ivey made a song of it.”
“Minstrels do that sort of thing.” She seemed more wistful than sad. Sene wanted to pick her up and give her a hug. That had worked when she was four. It had worked for a while afterward. “I suppose Jenil sent you.”
“No.”
She made a point of looking past him and carefully scanning the road. “Just passing through, are you? I don’t see a merchant’s wagon.”
“I’m on my way to Raisal. For the festival. People should be with their families during the festivals.”
Feather gestured toward the gray, weathered walls of the collapsing house. “I think my family is there.”
“Ancestors don’t count,” he told her gently. “I was speaking of living family and friends.”
“It’s a long ride to Garden Vale. I don’t think I’ll make it back by festival day.” The practical consideration seemed to distract her from her brooding. She cocked her head slightly to one side, regarding him with increased interest. “Actually, I’m not certain I’d be welcome if I did go back.”
“Nonsense. A pleasant young woman like yourself? I’m sure you’re sore
ly missed.”
The compliment won him the smile he’d hoped for. “You presume a lot on first meeting, don’t you?”
He smiled back. “I’m considered an excellent judge of character.”
Her cheeks colored slightly. “Thank you.” She rubbed her hands uncertainly on the fabric of her brown-embroidered robe. With another glance at the empty house, she said, more to herself than to him, “I can’t stay here. I don’t want to stay here. I just needed to know it was true.”
“Then come with me,” Sene suggested. “I’ve a daughter and son your age. Twins.”
His suggestion finally succeeded in capturing her complete attention. “Where did you say you lived?”
“Outside Raisal.”
“Jenil keeps telling me I’d like Raisal. It’s on the sea. I’ve never seen the ocean. It’s hard to imagine so much water could exist in one place.”
“You find it difficult to believe in things you haven’t seen for yourself, don’t you?”
She shrugged. “I’ve always believed my Redmother tales, but some things are different. Some things are more personal.”
He suddenly understood part of her melancholy. “Not to be able to rely on your memory must be very difficult.”
Her frown was extremely suspicious. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve met, yes.”
She glared past him toward the patiently waiting Felistinon. “I suppose he knows you, too.”
“He wouldn’t have allowed me to come over and talk to you if he didn’t.”
She considered that, then stated, “Jenil did send you.”
“Send? No. She just told me where to find you. You can’t get lost from a Dreamer, you know.”
She stomped past him in the direction of her horse. “I could lose you.”
He followed behind her. “You could try. But I’m very good at tracking. Now, are we going home together or not? You don’t want to miss the Festival. Dancing, fresh sea food, a pretty new dress, horse races, sailing competitions—”
“I’ve been to festivals,” she cut off his enthusiastic recital.
“In Raisal?” he challenged her.
She stopped with her hand on her piebald’s saddle. “My legs hurt,” she announced.
“It takes practice to ride with a saddle.”
She rounded on him. “Do you have an answer for everything?”
He smiled again. “Yes.”
“I thought so.”
“Come home with me, Feather.”
Clumsily and with some effort, she pulled herself the long distance up onto the horse. Out of the corner of his eye, Sene saw that Felistinon had mounted and was keeping a watchful eye on the girl. Except for the brief flicker of annoyance that crossed her face, Feather did an excellent job of pretending the guard wasn’t there. Once in the saddle, she looked down at Sene, her angry expression turning to puzzlement. “Didn’t you used to have more hair?”
He ran a hand ruefully over the undeniably smooth top of his head. All right, he told himself, you wanted to jog her memory. If that means being reminded of your mortality, it’s worth it. I’m not really that old. Just vain. Besides, look around you. No one lives forever. “Yes, I did. In a few more years I’ll probably have none at all.”
She made a face. “I wouldn’t like that.”
“Neither will I.” He untied the reins of his horse. “We can at least ride together. That is, if you’re going north.”
“I might as well. The ocean is supposed to be in the north.”
“And the Festival in Raisal? Music? Almond pastries?”
“Are you always hungry?”
“Yes.”
“You always have answers, and you’re always hungry. What else are you always?”
He mounted his stallion. When he turned the animal’s head toward the north, Feather urged her own horse up beside his. As they started along the dirt track, he answered casually, “King of Sitrine.”
“Ah. That’s what I thought.”
Chapter 18
Damon leaned back in his heavily padded, carved oaken chair. It was not a throne. Not quite. The room that he used for meetings would never be mistaken for the great hall of the king. There was no dais, no wall-length hearth, none of the generous space required for a royal banquet. He didn’t need all that. Damon preferred to give people his personal attention.
He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the stubborn old woman before him. “I won’t have it, Vissa.”
“I don’t see that it’s your decision, Highness,” the Redmother countered.
“Everything relevant to the smooth functioning of my father’s kingdom is my concern.”
“The spring festival—”
“The spring festival,” Damon interrupted her, “is an important ceremony of reunion and rededication after the hardships and loneliness of a long winter. There is no need to mar such a pleasant celebration with religious nonsense.”
The woman’s careworn face darkened. “You think the gods are nonsense, Highness?”
“I said nothing of the kind. I have no opinion on the subject one way or another. My objection is to the public repetition of childish fables. The Story of Beginnings will not be told this year.”
“Your Highness cannot ask such a thing!”
“I do not ask it. I command it.”
“The story gives us our identity, as individuals and as Children of the Rock.” Vissa’s thin hands, folded in front of her, tensed.
“It perpetuates an unnecessary division of the populace. It ties people to hereditary vows, hereditary roles.”
“They have to be hereditary. Heredity determines our capabilities.”
Damon crossed one leg over the other. “Capabilities are a matter of training. You’d see that, if you hadn’t been blinded by your own myths.”
“Training? Are the gifts of a Dreamer the results of training?”
“Dreamers are aberrations,” he told her. “More dangerous than Abstainers. Don’t look so shocked, Redmother. I’m not alone in holding that opinion. They’ve never been more than a tiny fraction of the population, wielding power over the rest of us on the basis of old legends and a few magic tricks. It’s past time we stopped dignifying outdated myths with repetition. Have I made myself clear?”
A log sputtered in the small fireplace as Damon watched Vissa struggle for words. He’d never spoken quite so bluntly to her before. She had an important place in the king’s court. Not all of the knowledge she retained in her vast memory was as useless to him as ancient folk beliefs in the Firstmother. However, accepting her value as a tool was one thing. Humoring her superstitions was quite another.
With an obvious effort, she found her voice. “Quite clear, Highness.”
“Good. You may go.” He lifted one hand to the bell pull suspended beside his chair, signaling the end of the interview to the guard outside, who swung the door open just before Vissa reached it. As soon as she was gone, the dependable figure of his captain filled the doorway.
“You wished to see me, Highness?”
“Have you implemented my plans for the festival?”
Dael nodded once, his thick gold hair sliding over his shoulders. “The guards are pleased at the chance to display their skills, Highness. There will be maneuvers by patrols and squads in the market pasture, followed by the march round the castle, as you suggested. It will take several hours. I only hope we attract enough of a crowd to give us the attention we deserve.”
“Oh, I expect the entire town will be present,” Damon said. Doubt clashed with his captain’s usual unquestioning acceptance of orders, providing an interesting display of confusion across the man’s features.
“The entire town, Highness?”
“They’ll have nothing better to do. I’ve just arranged it with Vissa. Neither she or any other Redmother will be filling people’s ears with old tales at this festival. I expect my subjects to consider the lessons of the present, not the past.”
Dael’s perplexed frow
n gave way to an expression of cautious concern. “That’s a significant change in tradition, Highness.”
Damon had encouraged his father to choose this particular captain for the king’s guards because he was the best—the best swordsman, the best strategist, the best leader, the best thinker—of any Keeper Damon had ever met. In addition, Dael’s reactions to Damon’s plans provided a reliable indication of how the populace as a whole would respond. Damon found such foreknowledge invaluable. It enabled him to refine his strategies and counter the arguments of those who might disagree with him. At times, by anticipating an area of concern, he could invalidate objections even before they were raised.
“It’s an elimination of a complete waste of time,” Damon said. “Vows of service should go to the king, not to the mythical founders of a dead society.”
“People do cling to their traditions.”
“They’ll have to be encouraged toward greater flexibility.” Damon leaned forward in his enthusiasm. “I suggest you reserve two squads from the maneuvers. Instruct them to pass through Edian after the noon feast and guide any stragglers to the market pasture.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“You may return to your duties.”
Dael inclined his head respectfully before departing. After the captain let himself out, the door guard stepped into view.
“No one else is waiting, sir. Orders?”
“Send to the stables for Second Groom Palim.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alone, Damon got up, stretched, and sauntered over to the fire. So many plans to put into motion. They’d lost too much during the long plague years to be able to afford to continue as they had for centuries. Admittedly, there had been a few benefits from the loss of population. For one thing, the Dreamers were all but extinct. For another, the plague had eliminated entire Shaper families. The centralization of control in the three largest remaining population centers had occurred out of necessity and over the course of several decades.
What was needed now was even greater centralization, greater efficiency, useful innovations—such as the entire population in the service of one king.
Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock) Page 19