King's Shield

by Sherwood Smith

  Inda’s hand jerked; Signi started, fingertips pressed to her mouth. Evred’s tension sharpened in question as Inda murmured under his breath to her, the tone comforting, as she shook her head, her manner remorseful.

  Signi said to Evred, “Prince Rajnir means to take your kingdom for the good of the Venn, and to prove himself. The king has desired that the Marolo-Venn, the lost ones, be brought back to us, and their lands, too.”

  Evred’s mouth tightened but he only inclined his head.

  “Hyarl Durasnir will do his best to implement the plan from the sea and Commander Talkar the land, with the sea-trained Drenga, marines, joining the Hilda for the landing.” Signi leaned forward. “Dag Erkric serves the prince, but his own plans are different, and that is part of what brought me away from my people.”

  Was it mention of this Prince Rajnir that had made Inda recoil? It wasn’t Durasnir, Evred had watched closely. He leaned forward, the firelight reflected in his eyes. “Erkric’s your chief magician, is he not? Yet you assured me that magicians are not concerned with war, that magic is confined to making and mending.”

  Inda said, “Erkric is trying to get around that by dealing directly with Norsunder.”

  Signi pressed her hands together again. “It is so.”

  Inda pointed at Evred. “Everything is to benefit the Venn. He wants our land to feed the Venn, wants our army to fight their enemies—and he wants you as his puppet to see to it all, so that he can help Rajnir reclaim his position back in Land of the Venn.”

  “Me as puppet,” Evred repeated. So it was true, then.

  “Magic spells from Norsunder, to ensnare your mind.”

  Now it was Evred’s turn to recoil. He snapped a gaze of cold fury at Signi. “Is that possible?”

  “It is not for me.” She touched the front of her smock. “Or for anyone I know. But this is what he seeks from Norsunder. We do not know if such spells actually exist.”

  The fire crackled. From outside their camp circle came normal sounds: the racket of spoons against travel dishes, the fart of a horse on the picket, followed by the snickers and chortles of young runners-in-training working their way down the line with feed bags. From another direction, the crunch of footsteps in the gravel. Men’s voices, talking quietly, an occasional laugh, and in the distance the muted thump of hand drums as voices rose in an old war ballad. Normal, familiar sounds, but not comforting.

  Evred said, “There is a question about Prince Rajnir inheriting his father’s throne?”

  “The king is not his father,” Signi corrected gently.

  Evred opened his hand, a quick gesture. “Thank you, I remember now. They cannot choose their own sons as heirs.”

  “Kings do not have children at all,” Signi said. “It is part of the agreement. The Houses choose the heir. Or have. When the sons of the Great Houses born in a Breseng year—a king year—reach fifteen, the most promising of the youths is chosen by the Houses after examination. He who is chosen trains for fifteen years. When he is thirty, and the king is sixty, he becomes the new king, the old king retires honorably to head the Council of Elders. Queens are chosen separately: the marriages are entirely symbolic.”

  Inda thumped his bowl down and played absently with the edge of Signi’s scarf. “So the Oneli Houses all try to have their babies born that specific year, is that it?”

  “If they wish a son to be a possible king. But the Breseng youths cannot inherit at home,” Signi said.

  “So what happens to the ones not chosen?”

  “They go into service, usually to the sea. They are Oneli, and the honor of a captaincy is much sought.”

  “Is Durasnir one of those?” Inda asked.

  Signi’s face took on a ruddy hue, but her voice was even. “He was. He became the heir on his brother’s death. But the king required him to remain at sea to guard the prince. Some say for his military prowess, some say for his loyalty—and some say so that the king could keep him at a distance during the troubles. All would be equally true,” Signi said.

  Evred’s gaze was intent. “Bringing us to the present situation. Rajnir was chosen, right? And disinherited a year afterward?”

  “Well, you might say two years. You must remember, in the south you all use the Sartoran calendar. In the north we do not. That is, our year is the same 441 days, but when you have the dark time, we have light, and so our new year begins at a different time.” She paused.

  Inda said, “Go on.”

  “So Rajnir was chosen in what you call your year two.”

  “Two years before we started at the academy.” Inda grinned, causing Evred to smile briefly back.

  Signi studied the pair before her, back and forth, back and forth. “There was trouble the year he was chosen. There was another chosen first, you see, but he died that week. No one knew how it happened. The second went mad and attacked someone, who killed him in self defense. There were witnesses, but no one understood the cause of the madness. When Rajnir was chosen, the king sent him to the south to acquire more land for the empire’s needs, and to learn governing at a safe distance, while the troubles at home were investigated.”

  “So Rajnir ran the defense against the Chwahir and Everon, lost, and was disinherited.” Evred held up three fingers. “And there is a new heir?”

  “No.” Signi’s voice was so soft it was difficult to hear her over the crackle of the fire. She was silent for a long moment, as if inwardly struggling, her brow tense, eyes somber. “That is, there was. But he drowned—no one knows why he sought to swim during winter. There has been no heir since. The king feels the old ways can be set aside until it is discovered why these boys did not survive heirship for even a year, and it is whispered he would like to rule past sixty.”

  There was another, longer silence. Inda, who knew these things, was recalling the war games he’d viewed on the Ymaran fields; Evred contemplated kingship, and how difficult it was for kingdoms to guarantee continuity, whatever rules they imposed. There were the Venn, with a chosen king changing their ancient tradition. Ymar’s long-lived queen was killed by her own kin—as Evred’s father was by one of his own Jarls. Idayago and Olara conquered. Their kingships abolished by his own family . . . “So your kingship is supposed to change in three years, according to our calendar.”

  “It is true.”

  “Thank you for explaining.” Evred rose and gestured for Inda to follow.

  The two walked beyond the firelight, and when Evred felt he was safely beyond earshot, he said, “I’ve sent orders to Barend.” His hand slid within his coat to clench on the locket; again he fought distrust and hatred of mages. A Venn mage, yet!

  He did not want Inda mentioning the locket to Signi, which Evred had made the mistake of showing her. If she knew he was using it now for military communication, would she somehow magically extricate his latest note to Nightingale? She’d said that both lockets had to be present for their messages to be tampered with. Was that true, or a spoken convenience because he wanted it to be true?

  “The north end of the pass is a narrow river valley spanned by a formidable castle, very old. The North Road runs directly underneath the outer walls. Flash discovered that the locals know how to destroy the road by bringing the mountain down on it.”

  Inda jerked around. “Collapse a mountain? I take it you’ll need to get a couple thousand men digging?”

  “No. Magic will supposedly bring the cliffside down so thoroughly nothing can get through, except through the castle. Some long-ago mage designed it.”

  Inda whistled softly.

  “If we don’t get to the north coast before the Venn do, we can at least destroy the road leading southward. It won’t stop them, Flash told Barend, but it might slow them up.”

  “Why didn’t the Idayagans use it against us when your brother and uncle went up there?”

  “Flash found out that the Idayagans were arguing with the Olarans about who had to pay for restoring the road. Before they knew it, my brother and uncle were
already through.”

  “So the pass road won’t be usable at all?” Inda asked.

  “It will be blocked only at the north end, with access through a narrow tunnel that opens a short way farther up the pass. That goes through the castle, like I said, which is why the castle must be held.”

  Though Inda could calculate rough estimates of sea journeys with only a glance at a map, he still had trouble figuring out how long a ride would take, especially through the mountains. On the map, the pass seemed the size of a footpath, its length an afternoon’s stroll. No doubt that would be different when he reached it. “Flash and his dad hold this castle?”

  “Yes.”

  “If he’s as fast as he was when we were boys, that’s good.”

  “Fast, trustworthy, and popular. The Idayagans still hate us, but they seem to exempt Flash and his family from that hatred.” Evred flexed his fingers once, then clasped them behind his back again. “This is not for any ears but yours. Barend and Flash have arranged a beacon system over the mountains. When the Venn land on the north coast, Flash will light the beacons, and we’ll know within a night at the southern end.”

  Inda was about to say, “How did you find that out?” But he remembered the talk about magic at their dinner in the royal city, specifically that little locket. He guessed that one of Evred’s Runners, if not Barend, had another locket. But it was also clear why Evred wouldn’t say: he still didn’t trust Signi.

  Inda looked away, grimacing. He knew you can’t just trust someone on command. Trust isn’t something you order, or not in his experience. It only comes over time.

  Inda let out his breath in a hiss between his teeth. So far, the winds were yet in Marlovan favor, though the weather had been against them.

  Evred waited, but Inda’s gaze had gone distant.

  “Inda.”

  Inda started.

  “I require you to keep knowledge of the beacons to yourself. It is only for you, and eventually the Sier Danas, to know. Not even the riding captains will be told.”

  Evred clenched his hands behind his back. Insects chirred and buzzed. Far in the distance a fox barked, causing the scout hounds to whimper and fret.

  Inda said at last, “I understand.”

  While they were gone, Signi stared into the fire, wishing she had not brought up Wafri’s name. Inda had not cried out in his sleep since that first night of travel; she hoped the stirred memories would not bring another nightmare.

  She dared a glance at the two figures silhouetted against the glitter of the night sky. Even obscured by darkness their bodies spoke with intensity, Evred at war with his own emotions, Inda seeing in Evred’s intensity only boyhood loyalty and the stress of impending battle.

  Tau sat just outside the circle of firelight in order to observe the others. He had less interest in the Venn—especially in a bald recitation from which motivation had been stripped—than in his companions’ reactions.

  Not that Signi the Venn revealed much. Her training was a magnitude above what his mother had taught him about masking emotion. Most intelligent people can control the expressions of their mouths, Sarias Elend had taught Tau. It is the skin around their eyes, and their hands, that betray them. If you cannot see their faces or hands, watch the entire body. Signi didn’t move so much as flow—and she was about as outwardly expressive as water.

  Evred and Inda returned, the king beckoning to his Runners on duty, and Inda rolling toward his tent in his distinctive sailor’s gait. Signi followed, her step composed, her head slightly bowed, her hands together in the mode of peace.

  Inda flung open his and Signi’s tent, letting the stuffy air change for fresh as he unfastened the carved-wood buttons of his coat. He folded it, laid it on the mat, then brushed his fingers over the smooth, cool golden case lying half out of his saddlebag, the campfire light twenty paces away reflected in a ruddy gleam along the edge. He felt an unexpected tingle.

  The end of that first day’s ride away from the royal city, he’d sat here on his mat, his feet bound up to protect the new blisters he’d given himself after dancing so wildly with Evred, and had written:Fox: I’m staying. Evred is now the king, and he needs me to run defense against the Venn.

  There was no immediate answer, or even one the next day. Inda hadn’t expected one. It was possible that Fox had chucked his gold case overboard as soon as Inda sailed from the fleet, but Inda didn’t think so. During their long journey together across Ymar, Inda had learned a lot about Fox. He could so clearly see how angry Fox could be—angry, then cynical. But he would answer, it was just a matter of when.

  And so it seemed he had.

  Inda picked up the case, aware of the little rustling noises Signi made as she readied the bedding. “Fox wrote back to me.”

  “Ah.”

  He clicked the case open and took out the folded paper. He had never seen Fox’s writing before. His letters were a long, slanting dash.

  You will no doubt be delighted to discover that you just retook Pirate Island. Oh, yes, and you’re also responsible for the rift to Norsunder that rid the world of Marshig the Murderer.

  Inda smothered a laugh, looking out of the tent for someone to share the news with. Evred had remained at the campfire, a tall silhouette surrounded by Runners, giving them their orders from the look of things. Inda remembered Evred’s sudden reaction to mention of Fox, as quickly hidden, that day at Daggers Drawn. No, maybe best not to share this joke with Evred.

  “Inda?” Signi asked gently. “Something bad?”

  “Nah. Fox just retook Pirate Island. Has to be from some of Marshig’s gang who slithered away when the fighting got hot. Says that rumors are going that I made Ramis’ rift. How could they think I did it?”

  The firelight reflected in Signi’s wide eyes. The rest of her face was in shadow. “What did they see?”

  “Everyone at that battle saw the rift. It reached right up to the clouds.”

  “But did everyone see who made it?”

  Inda closed his eyes, trying to recall the jumble of images from that night. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I think only those of us in the northern part of the battle actually saw Ramis and the Knife. He sailed in from the northwest. Made the rift. From the south, all they probably saw was the rift, because there were burning ships surrounding the Death, there at the center of things.”

  Signi dipped her head. “They attacked the Death thinking that you were upon it, is that not right?”

  “Yes. And that was our plan. Anyway, Ramis hauled round, came directly to me before sailing away again, like I told you before. Tau told me that people in Bren didn’t even believe Ramis had been there, but I thought that was the usual garble of distance.”

  Signi bowed her head. She suspected who had set it about that Elgar the Fox was dealing with Norsunder, and why. But because she had no proof, she said nothing.

  Inda bent over the rest of the letter.

  As for you. Before you get yourself killed in useless causes, you really ought to marry your Marth-Davan and have a daughter to marry my hypothetical son. I’ve decided that the best revenge against the Montrei-Vayirs is for your blood to mingle with ours.

  Tdor, Inda thought. Saying her name in his mind used to evoke her childhood face: during his long exile he used to talk to that image in his mind. He pictured the steady gaze of the Tdor who had met him in the tunnel to the academy, her eyes brown with little flecks of green, her face long and clean-boned, tiny wisps of hair around her ears. Her smile, though, it was just the same.

  “What is it?” Signi asked as he snuggled in next to her warmth.

  “Tdor. If—when—we return, I’m supposed to marry her.”

  “Was it not always arranged so?”

  “Yes. Tanrid was the heir, Joret would be Iofre. I . . .” He lay back, his breath slowly easing out. “Until a few weeks ago I’d gotten used to the idea that I’d never see Tdor again. That I had no home. No future but what I made.”

  No you hadn’t, Sign
i thought, pulling him to her. Nor, I believe, had she.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  FIFTY years of rising before dawn for meditational sword drill had brought the Venn’s southern Fleet Commander Hyarl Fulla Durasnir to this realization: his ancestors had been aware of the moral advantage of meeting the day alert, dressed, muscles warm when everyone else was stiff and half asleep.

  On land, his breakfast time would be given over to his wife and small son. This was time that he cherished because it had become so rare. But now that he was asail he sat alone, sipping steamed milk with honey as he scanned sky, sea, and sails, and contemplated this particular vagary of human nature.

  Conclusions so far: people felt comforted at the notion that the commander was at watch while they slept. Second, people were orderly and efficient if they knew the commander was up and about before they were.

  And finally—this would be the unspoken advantage—one really needed that quiet watch, because it was far too seldom that the rest of the day would permit the luxury of uninterrupted thought.

  His aide had left fleet communications at his table. Durasnir did not touch his scroll-case until he’d eaten the last bite of vinegar-soaked cabbage. The first message—as well as the fifth and eighth—were from Erkric. The last also had Prince Rajnir’s sigil scrawled below it: a royal summons.

  This was why Durasnir never opened his scroll-case until he had eaten his breakfast. If there was enough of a crisis, Erkric would come to him.

  He acknowledged the order and sent it. He checked sky, wind, sea, then moved to the tiny Destination alcove off the outer cabin. He picked up the transfer token, braced himself, said the spell, and transferred.

  As always, the spell nearly wrenched his breakfast away. Pain and nausea wrung through him in waves, then vanished with about the same speed, leaving him in the Destination square in the high tower at the Port of Jaro in Ymar. Here, the sun was nearly overhead, half the day gone.