Sword

by Amy Bai

  Kyali grinned. "Proper it was. I've been dreaming of your damned spiders ever since I left." Devin gave her a more sober smile and she frowned, remembering his letter. "Why are you here? You were in Orin, terrorizing harmless old men—"

  "—And scores of farmgirls, yes, yes." He rubbed his brow, looking puzzled; the gesture was their father's, and it fit him so well it rendered her speechless. "I don't know, exactly. It just… seemed I should be here." He darted a shrewd look at her. "You returned a bit earlier than expected yourself."

  "I grew bored." Devin gave her the disgusted stare that deserved. "Well. I thought I ought to be here."

  That answer sounded silly even to her. She wondered if Devin had felt the same undeniable pull to come home, but that seemed impossible. They might be Gifted and of the same House, but Gifts didn't tie people together like that. And the pulling had faded as she had entered Faestan; it eased to almost nothing in her brother’s presence. So perhaps it was just a—a warning.

  She wished, wearily, that Saraid and Arlen could have come with her. She was already certain she was going to regret not reading that book.

  "To do what?" her brother demanded and Kyali blinked, trying to gather up the thread of the conversation.

  "Whatever needs doing?"

  Devin's Corwynall-brown eyes narrowed, reading more of her than she liked. "Perhaps you can frighten the Western barons into an early move. Or was that your plan all along?" he asked. "No, then," he judged from whatever expression made it onto her face, folding his arms. "Don’t you have a plan at all, sister swordmistress?"

  "Don't call me that."

  The chair on the floor flipped suddenly onto its side. Devin twitched away, wide-eyed.

  Kyali drew a calming breath, and found nothing else to say. Two years of hard study, and her brother still found his way past her guard and under her skin in a matter of minutes.

  At least she hadn't set the room on fire.

  Devin cleared his throat after a moment. "Well—" He cleared his throat again. “Well. One question answered. Is it my turn to tell you to be prudent? I hesitate to provoke you further, but I should point out that will in no way reassure the court that you are harmless."

  "When have they ever thought so? I doubt I could manage to be well-mannered long enough to make them think so."

  "Well, wight, at least you know it."

  Her heart was pounding.

  Down here, her choices seemed even more limited than among the Clans. She clung to the certainty she'd had not a day ago, to the decisions she'd made for herself, and hoped she'd lose nothing else of her time in the mountains. Already the Fraonir seemed like a dream. What she had now was the maneuverings and endless little betrayals of the court, and that seemed, still, like a nightmare.

  But she also had her House, and—she hoped—Taireasa. She could keep Taireasa safe, and that was what mattered.

  "I don’t want them to think me harmless," Kyali said slowly.

  Devin’s eyes locked on hers. He opened his mouth, then shut it again with a considering look. "Good," he said finally. "As harmless is one thing you're not, sister. Neither are the Western barons, though I doubt you need reminding of that fact. They've been busy. You can hardly challenge them all to duels at sunrise."

  It was an appealing notion. She tipped her head and contemplated it for a moment, smiling faintly, and her brother grinned. "All right, perhaps you can," he amended, and Kyali snorted.

  "Wouldn't that be lovely. King Farrell would have my head."

  "He'd just marry you off to some moon-eyed poet in revenge."

  "I'd rather lose my head." She grimaced and plucked her sword off the floor, gripping the leather-wrapped hilt, wondering if she'd still be holding it the same way and for the same reasons a decade from now. It was a lonely thought. "Perhaps I shall try to appear meek and harmless after all."

  Devin confounded her expectations and declined to ask what looked to be a spate of questions darkening his eyes. "Fools aplenty there are in the court, little sister," he said instead; the words immediately made her feel childlike and small. "But few have made the mistake of believing you meek and mild. You've done too much to convince them otherwise." He got to his feet. "Hells, I learned better before you were eight."

  Gods help her, that was almost a compliment.

  Devin was worried. She couldn't remember seeing that pinched look around his eyes before. He had grown, and knew things she didn't, and thought things she hadn't. He had always been first, being older, if not necessarily wiser. But still: years passed, and they were more separate than they had been. Kyali curled under the blankets, feeling smaller than ever, and wondered in a quiet panic if the same had happened with Taireasa.

  "I‘ve done my morning duty, have I not? You're awake."

  The level stare Devin aimed at her gave the words too much weight. She could only nod, and try to reckon where this older and cleverer brother fit in the pattern she was only beginning to perceive.

  * * *

  The morning hearings were done. Taireasa sat stiffly next to her lady mother on the dais, wishing for perhaps the thousandth time that there were some way to place a cushion on her throne without compromising royal dignity. Since she'd begun to take part in these judgments, she'd learned far more about the tensions within the city and also, to her dismay, about the precise contours of this wretched chair. She gripped its arms gently.

  Her heart was in her throat, and the sharp angles of her throne had nothing to do with it.

  In the hall, footmen swept the lesser earls and ladies out the doors. They lingered at the edges of the room in hope of catching some piece of gossip to take with them. Today was a day for barons and duchesses and lords, for great affairs of state, where her people would choose, once and for all, who would one day sit on the throne after her father.

  She wasn't altogether sure she wanted it to be her. She was far surer that it wouldn't be Kyali or Devin. But it remained to be seen what the barons of the West had in mind.

  For as long as there had been a kingdom, this had been the way of things: nine provinces, two royal Houses, and a single throne on which any one of the heirs might one day sit… as long as he or she was chosen by at least six of the nine provinces. There were whole books detailing the process. Taireasa had been required to read most of them. There were, so far as she could tell, no books that detailed why it must be so: it was so old a tradition nobody questioned it. Every generation a vote was held, a new heir was chosen, and the world continued on its slow, calm course.

  Every generation for the last ten, a Marsadron had sat where her father did. It didn't seem likely that was going to change today—the Western barons had something planned, but voting one of House Corwynall's notorious children into the rule of the kingdom would hardly serve them well. Nevertheless, the way they had always eyed Kyali and Devin made her nervous. Unhappy with their more arid lands, their desert-covered coasts, and especially their taxes, the Western provinces had been a problem during her great-grandmother's rule, and to nobody's surprise, they were the biggest problem in her father's. It was an unlovely inheritance to look forward to.

  A movement drew her out of her reverie. Baron Walderan stalked the corners of the room, his son by his side. His false smile made her want to fling something at him. Taireasa smiled back, watching his eyes narrow. He'd left his pompously large escort of guards outside the city walls this morning, as had his fellow barons. They'd done it with no objection at all. Her father took this as a sign of improving relations. Taireasa took it as a sign that they had something else planned.

  She couldn't shake the feeling that something somewhere was badly out of joint.

  The king stood, and all talk fell to silence. "Well," he said, loud enough to carry. "We have the matter of the succession before us. The heirs of House Corwynall are both present for this gathering. We will hold the vote this morning."

  There was no shock at the announcement of the vote, but Kyali's presence today was not comm
on knowledge. There was a rising murmur of interest from the lords. In the midst of it, before anyone had time to form a question, the doors opened and three figures strode through. The Lord General wore his armor, an appropriate choice. Devin, on his right, flashed her half a grin. And on the general's left swung that long red braid that was in her earliest memories.

  Kyali walked with soft-footed, wary grace—and wore the trousers and tunic of the Fraonir Clans instead of a court dress.

  The murmur grew into a roar of surprise. Kyali's face was as smooth and indifferent as stone, but Taireasa could see the pulse jumping in her throat and ached for her. Court had never been very kind to her strange friend. It would be far less kind today.

  House Corwynall came to the foot of the dais. Kyali carried a bundle, which must be her sword—surely she had earned it. She couldn't imagine Kyali failing. Taireasa held herself utterly still. Kyali looked up, her face both familiar and changed—with time and sun and any number of events she knew nothing of—and a telltale fleck of gold flashed in that gaze as their eyes met.

  Suddenly none of it mattered. Not the barons, not the prophecy, not the eyes on them, weighing and speculating. Not the years that separated them, or the dreadful tension of this moment. Only the growing pressure in her belly mattered, only the sparks of gold rising faster in Kyali's eyes, saying that she was just as glad, just as frightened.

  Her hands were probably holding the arms of her chair too tightly, but she couldn't find room in herself to care for that. She could barely keep her seat. She felt an impossibly strong urge to descend the short steps of the dais, to take Kyali's hands. She wanted to learn what would happen when she did that.

  Devin stumbled, recovering with a clumsy half-caught step that broke the spell. He had a hand pressed to his stomach.

  What is this? What's happening to us?

  "Welcome," her father said. "Devin and Kyali Corwynall. Do you stand for your House?"

  "Yes, my Lord King," Kyali and Devin replied in unison.

  "And do you stand before this court ready to accept the path chosen for you?"

  The pulling sensation grew stronger. Taireasa clutched at the chair arms.

  "No, my Lord King," Kyali said, and the room filled with cries of shock.

  In the rising din Taireasa saw clearly the path her childhood friend had chosen for herself, for them all… but most of all for her, heir to a kingdom split in two. There was a lump in her throat. Devin was wide-eyed. Kyali stood with her feet planted like tree roots, braced for storm.

  King Farrell gestured for her to continue. Kyali bowed deeply. She had to wait another few moments before she could be heard above the noise. "Lord King," she said, then had to clear her throat and say it louder. "I wish to remove myself from candidacy for the throne."

  "Explain," the king demanded. But before Kyali could do more than open her mouth, Devin stepped forward to match his sister.

  "My Lord King," he said, "I too wish to remove myself from consideration."

  The roar this time was enough to make the high windows rattle in their frames.

  "Silence," her father bellowed. It was so rare to hear his voice raised that there was an immediate hush. "We will hear this! Heirs Corwynall," he continued, dropping back to a normal tone. "I trust you can explain yourselves. Do you mean to leave my daughter unopposed? Niall, did you arrange this madness?"

  "No, my Lord King," the general said. "I did not. But I do agree. My daughter is now a swordmistress of the Clans. And my son is a Bard, which profession precludes any other title. They are not suited to the throne. The Lady Taireasa, we have every confidence… is."

  "We agree," King Farrell said.

  The Lord General blinked once. The queen stared at her husband. Baron Cyrnic stood silent and furious, and Barons Brisham and Walderan were clustered together, whispering. The five Eastern barons ranged the room, murmuring to one another and to their lords. Taireasa met Kyali's eyes, then Devin's. The queasy pulling in her middle grew.

  "Hear me!" her father said. "In order to preserve your right of choice, we shall postpone the vote until a fortnight from now. You may discuss possible candidates with House Corwynall, who will put two names forth for consideration. Obviously they must be of the blood." King Farrell sat, this time with a faint smile.

  It was clear, now, what her father and the Lord General suspected the Western barons had intended for this day: a candidate of their own. It would never pass a vote, but it would gain them days of maneuvering room, and trade privileges as a sop when that candidate was voted down.

  Or, a small, calculating part of Taireasa thought, a candidate of their own who, when he is cast aside, will be put forth as a husband for the princess.

  She buried a shudder.

  "And how are we to know the truth of House Corwynall's declarations?" Cyrnic shouted. "I would prefer to see some proof of their claim."

  "Poorly said," the king observed, and waved a hand when Cyrnic tried to object. "But a valid question. Niall, how will you answer?"

  "I believe my children can speak for themselves, my Lord King."

  Devin, smiling grimly, slipped a hand into a pocket and produced his bone flute.

  As he brought it to his lips, the guards, who had all drilled and served at the Corwynall estates, set their feet. Many of the lords retreated in alarm. Taireasa braced. But instead of the crack of glass, the sweet, mournful tune Devin played caused the sunlight streaming in from the colored-glass panes high above to shift in some indescribable way, and then to move in great, wheeling patterns on the floor. Taireasa stared. Kyali had turned to watch her brother. Devin let the melody fade into echoes and then, when no one spoke for several moments afterward, put the flute away and gave a foolishly extravagant bow.

  "Transformative teas," the Lord General snorted, just loud enough to hear from the dais.

  The queen stood and gave the briefest of curtseys. "Young Devin Corwynall," she said quietly. "Young Bard. Well done."

  "Yes," the king added, clearing his throat. "You've left us in no doubt. Unless anyone would like to argue it now?" He too stood and bowed, forcing everyone in the room to do the same, and then pushed on, so quickly Taireasa was left blinking. "We confer upon you the title of Bard, with all the rights and privileges thereof, including freedom of all the kingdom and the support of the royal treasury. No man shall harm or hinder you, no lord shall order you, and you shall be welcomed in every hall. We expect all here to abide by this."

  Baron Walderan stepped forward, his face an unhealthy purple. "And what of the sister, Majesty? What proof there? Shall we have a duel?"

  "Are you offering, my lord?" Taireasa asked, and felt herself flush. Every face in the room turned her way. Her own father cast her a startled look.

  "A fair question," her father said then, as though it had all been planned.

  Walderan stood frozen. Kyali, Taireasa saw, had lost all her carefully maintained indifference: her chin was up, her eyes flashing as she stared down the man whose nephew she had killed two years ago.

  "No, my lord," Walderan growled at last.

  "Then you would like to suggest an opponent? Remote kin, perhaps?"

  "I… had no suggestions, Majesty." Most of the court seemed confused by this exchange, but Taireasa could see comprehension on a few faces. It had not been the misguided plot of a single House, then. How far did it go? And what else would they be willing to do?

  "Oh?" King Farrell said, his eyes hard. "Tharst? Sevassis? Canellys? You seem displeased. Have you thoughts on this matter?"

  Silence.

  "Don your sword, Kyali," King Farrell said then, ice in his voice. Kyali unwrapped the bundle and slid a tangle of dark leather straps over her shoulders, around her waist. She sheathed a set of large daggers at her hips and a long, shining sword over her shoulder. Then she knelt before the dais. Taireasa held her breath. The hush in the hall was profound.

  When King Farrell drew the sword from over her shoulder, Maldyn came forward, holding
a parchment in unsteady hands, and murmured the words for her to repeat.

  "I, Kyali of House Corwynall, do swear my allegiance to the sovereign of the Kingdom of Lardan. I shall defend your life as my own and abide by your judgments in all things. To this I pledge my blade, my hand, and my heart."

  For a moment the pressure in her middle was agonizing. Taireasa pressed a hand there, unable to help herself—and then, just as suddenly, it was gone. She met Devin's uneasy gaze.

  Her father spoke the reply. Then he raised the blade, passing his hand over it in blessing. He pulled her to her feet. Kyali sheathed her sword, that faint frown still on her face, and went to stand with her family. The three of them looked very alone in the crowded hall.

  A Bard and a Fraonir swordmistress.

  Nobody said it. She was quite sure she wasn't the only one thinking it. Even Ky, with her impatience for all things fanciful, would have a difficult time calling the old rhyme nothing but a thing for children to skip to now. But the king made no mention of prophecy.

  "The vote in a fortnight," King Farrell said then, before any in the hall had a chance to speak. Even the Eastern lords seemed affronted, and Taireasa could hardly blame them, but in the shock of the decisions and changes that had happened, nobody said a word. Her father stood.

  "Good day, lords, ladies."

  Good day, indeed.

  * * *

  The dining room was pleasantly cool this time of day. Taireasa leaned against the wall to look down at the bustle of the square, where merchants called their wares and market wives haggled over turnips and tapestries alike. The scent of pasty pies and roasting meat drifted up through the windowpanes. Her father came to stand near her, setting a hand on her shoulder as he pried the crown from his head.

  "It gives me a headache," he said wryly, holding it up to the light so the single ruby embedded in the gold band glimmered. It was a favorite complaint of his. "You'll probably cushion it better with all that hair."