Elsa went ahead of me into the library. All of them started and looked up expectantly at us, the Rankins smiling, Eden's eyes flaring golden in the candle light, Jared yawning, Birdley's face a series of creased worries. The poor thing possessed a nervous temperament not even good news could calm. Then I found the eyes I was searching for.
"Happy birthday, Father," I said as I met his steady gray gaze, the same steady gaze as my son.
Chapter Seventeen - Mordric
Royal Palace, Corcin, Eastern Cormalen
February, 2 years ago
"Sheathe your blades," I ordered. The echo of my voice was lost in the sound of fifty blades being sheathed at once, dozens of metallic hisses ending with clangs as the hilts hit the rims of the scabbards. I scowled and wanted to clap my hands over my ears. Three months of drills, and these men still treated their weapons like plowshares.
"Damn you, Ned, you nicked me!" roared Kirkland at one of the men beside him. He tore off his helmet and tossed it on the floor with a deafening clatter as he touched the spot of blood rapidly growing at the juncture of his gambeson and upper sleeve.
I crossed over to him. "Let me see."
"I'm shocked that clumsy blackguard found his mother's teat without stabbing her first."
"Be still," I snapped, treating his red-faced glower with a cold stare.
"Yes, sir." He gave a sullen huff, then grimaced as I tore the sleeve open to examine the cut. Ned's sword tip had pierced Kirkland's arm--the wound was only two inches wide but deep. Blood spurted out.
"Go upstairs and get one of the women to stitch that."
Kirkland's eyes widened. "I don't want those witches touching me," he hissed. If the monks had taught him nothing else, they had taught him a terror of all things female.
"For God's sake, Kirkland, those women serve His Highness's own apothecary and physician. Do you realize you just accused the prince himself of employing witches? Watch your tongue before someone cuts it off. Now go upstairs. We need you stitched up and healed as soon as possible--you're one of the best archers we have."
His expression brightened, the compliment making him forget the evil witches--at least for the moment. "Thank you, sir." Then he glanced at Ned, his mouth curling in an ugly sneer. "You better watch out . . ."
"Now, there'll be none of that. I'll deal with him. You go upstairs--now. If I hear of you two giving each other any trouble, I'll toss you both out of the troop. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir." Kirkland's tone left much to be desired, and I shook my head as he tramped toward the salon door. Good archer he might be, but if he persisted with this carping, I'd have no choice but to cast him out. One man's nasty humor was a poison that could infect the whole troop if the commander didn't watch it.
"Sir," Ned said, his lower lip trembling--he was only sixteen, I recalled, here to earn coin for his younger orphaned siblings. "Sir, I never meant to . . ."
I held up my hand. "I know that. We never mean to be careless. But you need to learn that your carelessness can injure or kill someone, especially in close quarters." I raised my voice so all of them could hear. "All of you, listen. Do you know why we came to this closed space today to practice? It wasn't just because it's cold outside or so you could learn how to sharpen your swords." After all these months of practice, I had finally issued them their real swords. We had practiced with the dull-edged metal foils today, and then I had handed out their blades and shown them the proper way to care for them. Judging by what had just happened, these men weren't even ready for that lesson yet. God help us when the SerVerinese finally decided to declare war.
I started to pace in front of the men, my hands behind my back. "Do you remember what I said at the beginning? You may not always get to choose where the battle joins. The battle may come to you in a narrow place where arrows are more likely to hit your comrades than the enemy. We want you to use your bows first, your swords second--that's how we defeat armies, with bowmen, not swordsmen. Unless the battle closes in on you. Then you'll have to use your sword. Now, what lesson can be learned from what happened to Kirkland today? Ned?"
Ned flushed to the roots of his choppy thicket of brown hair. "To ke-keep an eye on our blade at all times, even when we're done drilling."
"Not quite. If you watch your blade all the time, you may not stab a comrade by accident, but you will end up dead. Remember, the sword should be an extension of your arm. Do you watch your arm all the time?" I said as gently as I could manage. "Try again."
"To keep . . . keep an eye on your surroundings at all times?" Ned said, wincing in preparation for my scorn.
"Very good, Ned," I said, hoping that would jar him into drawing breath again. "Did all of you hear Ned? You must always keep an eye on your surroundings. You want to be as comfortable with your sword as you are with your own limbs, conscious of its position but not so focused on it that you lose sight of your surroundings. You should know what your own arm is going to do next, but you have no idea what another man is going to do with his arm. Hence, you need to watch your enemies--and your comrades. Not yourself. All right, I want all of you down at the archery range for at least an hour. I'll come check your progress before four o'clock." There--if any of them were tempted to shirk practice, they wouldn't dare. Not with the possibility of me showing up any time in the next hour and a half to check on them.
They exited the salon with an orderly march. The first time we had trained together, some of them had scrambled to leave like overeager pups when I dismissed them. I had thrashed the impatient ones with three lashes apiece in front of the entire troop, and there had been no more scrambling.
Merius's voice rang from the corner of the salon, where he drilled separately with a couple of adolescent scribes from the lesser nobility. Both were too young to drill with the older men; besides they lacked the hard-working peasant background that might have toughened them up enough to render their age meaningless. All troops needed at least one or two scribes to write messages and keep a log of those killed or missing. Those scribes had to be trained in the use of weapons in the happenstance they had to defend themselves or even fill the ranks.
Merius brought his practice sword down across one stripling's blade. The boy dropped it and grabbed his wrist, his thin face contorted with pain. "I thought you would go easy on us," he gasped. "Sir," he added when he noticed Merius's taut expression.
"Do you think an enemy would let you drop your sword and whine, Fairfax?" Merius asked.
"No, sir." Fairfax hung his head.
"This isn't a game, and I am going easy on you. If I had used full force, I might have broken your wrist. Now, where are the vambraces I issued to you?"
"I, ah . . . I'm not certain, sir."
"You lost them?" Merius's tone went deadly low.
"Not exactly, sir."
"Then you find them before you come back here. If you can't, then you'll have to explain to your father what happened to them. It's not many scribes who get the privilege of being trained at arms as well. Now before I dismiss you, I want you both to work on strengthening your grips." Merius set aside his own blade and waited for Fairfax to pick up his sword. Then he directed Fairfax and the other boy to twist their hilts around between their palms and fingers. After they had mastered that, Merius told them to shift their swords from hand to hand over and over again. "All right," he said finally. "Go run ten laps around the courtyard. I'll be watching from the window. And don't come back here without your vambraces--if nothing else, wearing them will help support your wrists."
They marched out in an eerily similar fashion to the older men. "They've learned that at least," Merius said as he pulled off his gauntlets and threw them on the table beside his practice sword.
"Whelps," I said. "All of them--we're going to have to thrash Kirkland for insolence again, I just know it. I'm almost glad it was him who took the sword in his arm today."
"Father, he's the best archer we have in this batch."
"And the worst soldier."
Merius guffawed. "Remind me--how did Herrod talk you into doing this?"
I cuffed his shoulder, hard. "It's your fault. You're the one who had to go and take an oath as a king's guard. Now we're both working off the price of your commission in sweat and blood."
"You made the same oath, Father, which you saw fit to remind Herrod of at the time. Admit it--you enjoy training these men. It's better than sitting in the council chamber all day, I'll give it that."
"Ass," I muttered, straightening the practice swords on the table so they lay in neat lines, soldiers ready for a march. Merius, unperturbed, wandered over to the windows so he could ascertain if his charges were following orders. I drew my sword from its scabbard and pressed my thumb tip against the blade. I had just sharpened and oiled it the other day, but old habits died hard. When I had served as a king's guard, I had checked my blades more often than I went to chapel. If I encountered difficulties, I felt far more certain of my fighting than of my praying.
The door creaked open, and Prince Segar strolled in with his steward, a swarthy, mute fellow Merius had faced in a practice duel a few months ago at His Highness's request. Not a bad fighter, better than the prince actually.
"Your Highness," I said, inclining my head in a quick bow. Merius glanced away from the windows, his brows raised in a silent question. Then he shrugged and crossed over to stand at my side before he gave the same perfunctory bow I had. Then we both waited for the prince to speak. However, he just blinked at us, his mouth plastered with that toothy smirk of his. What was wrong with him? Usually he managed at least a semblance of eloquence, even occasional good sense. Had he gone mute like his steward?
"Here for practice, Your Highness?" I asked finally when the silence had become uncomfortable for even me. Merius had long since started shifting from foot to foot as if he wanted to bolt for the door.
Prince Segar chuckled. "I should be here for practice--God knows I need it--but I actually came here to find you."
"I'll excuse myself then, Your Highness," Merius said. "I'm certain you have some pressing matter to discuss with my father, and I should check on our trainees." I shot him what I hoped was a bristling look--he needed to start staying for these meetings unless expressly dismissed by either me or the prince. I wasn't going to be around forever.
"I appreciate the thought, Merius," I said between my teeth, "but there's no need. I left them with the impression that I could show up at any time in the next hour and a half. They won't dare shirk if they know what's good for them." And that includes you I added silently.
The prince gave that horsy chuckle again. "Are they ready for war yet?"
"None of us are ever ready for war, Your Highness, but I think they'll do all right when push comes to shove."
"Good." His Highness began to fidget as if looking for a place to sit. He headed over to one of the broad window sills and perched there, gesturing for us to follow. The emeralds and topazes on his sword hilt and chains of office glittered in the dusty sunbeams. A vision of Eden naked, her skin glowing like honey in the long afternoon light, lingered across the backs of my eyes. Hell, hell, hell. I blinked. Evil wench--she bothered me at the most inopportune times.
The prince dismissed his steward with a single wave, and the man nodded, vanishing with an eerie silence. Even the wooden soles of his boots made only a slight creak as he walked. He seemed too tall and brawny to move so lightly on his feet. I generally appreciated solemn men who kept their own counsel, but they shouldn't talk less than me. If one listened closely enough, another man's speech and tone revealed much about him, generally with little or no awareness on his part. With mute men, all I had to go on were facial expressions and actions. I wondered suddenly if Safire had seen the prince's steward and if she had, what she thought of his aura.
The prince turned to Merius and asked, "How's your wife?"
"Fine, Your Highness. Thank you for asking." That response was all right--it was polite and offered little information.
"When will the bishop bless your son then?" Segar leaned forward as if fascinated by Merius's answer--his acting skills had certainly grown in the last couple years.
"Actually, we plan to return to Landers Hall and have the parish priest bless him when the time comes." Merius tried to look stolid, but it was an expression that frayed at the edges on him except when he was angry. And he wasn't angry now--he was fearful. Fearful of the bishop being anywhere near Safire, a natural impulse considering what the bishop did to witches.
"Why?" Prince Segar looked puzzled. If he hadn't suspected that us Landers didn't care much for the bishop before, he likely had an inkling now.
"It's Landers tradition for firstborn sons to hold the blessing ceremony at the Hall." This was true--when the aforementioned sons were born at the Hall. It was a decent excuse for Merius to devise, but still not good enough. Only the bishop blessing Dominic would forestall any suspicions adequately.
"That's true," I agreed. "But it seems a shame for Dominic to miss a bishop's blessing when one is so readily at hand. He's a sturdy babe, certainly sturdy enough to survive two blessing ceremonies, one from His Grace the bishop and one from the priest at the Hall." I smiled, as if amused by my own weak jest.
Merius glanced at me, some awareness of his blunder flitting across his features. He looked as if he wanted to curse. Then he turned back to the prince with a bemused smile of his own. "Father's right. There's no reason we can't have two blessings. I don't know why I didn't think of it before." Merius knew very well the best way of disguising our animosity toward the bishop was making a show of attending chapel and confession and religious ceremonies at court--it just took me giving him a nudge to remember this fact now and then, particularly when it came to his witch. Eden said the prince didn't agree with burning witches and would likely do away with the practice when he ascended the throne, but I still didn't trust him. Such an opinion might only be a way of defying his father King Arian and nothing more, which meant it was an opinion that could change when Segar became king himself. Besides, who knew what influence Esme might have? Best for us to remain circumspect.
"Let me know when His Grace holds the blessing ceremony, and Her Highness Esme and I will attend," Segar said, his steady gaze on Merius.
"But Your Highness," Merius stammered, and I wanted to plug my ears so I couldn't hear what impolitic nonsense he might utter next. What had gotten into him? Ever since the prince had appeared, Merius acted as if a swarm of stinging ants had invaded his boots. I could perhaps understand it if the prince's manner had been curt or cold, but it was quite the opposite--he seemed most solicitous. Perhaps too solicitous--maybe that was why Merius was so nervous. But still, I had trained him too well for him to be this awkward, no matter what the prince's manner might be.
"Safire and I would be most honored," Merius added after a long pause, all my careful instruction finally rising to the occasion. I exhaled in a quiet sigh of relief.
"I'm glad, and I'm certain Her Highness Esme will be as well." Segar smiled. "Now, as much as I would like to while away the afternoon here, I know we all have other business to attend to before nightfall, so I'll make this brief." Good God, he took as long to say he wanted to keep something brief as he would have taken just saying whatever it was. He could be a pompous coxcomb when the mood took him.
"Yes, Your Highness?" I prompted.
Segar sighed. "Well, it's like this. Even though we could never catch him at it, we all know that Peregrine smuggled our cannon powder to the SerVerinese--he was their main source. Now that he's turned pirate, that source has dried up. If cannon powder was an item we normally exported, Peregrine and the other pirates could raid our ships for it."
"But we don't export cannon powder on a regular basis, not even to Sarneth," Merius said in a low voice. I noticed him glance furtively around and knew he was looking to see if an assassin lurked anywhere close by. One of the nicer aspects of the salon was how open it was--there were few places anyone could hide and
eavesdrop, particularly that big blackguard assassin who followed Merius.
"Since it's just us here, I'll be blunt," Merius continued. "Limiting the cannon powder is one of the primary ways we keep Sarneth and Marenna as our allies. They depend on us for it, as much as the SerVerin Empire depends on us and Sarneth for wheat." He leaned one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed, his eyes unblinking, his expression sharp. Suddenly, the awkwardness had vanished. He was completely engaged, comfortable now that the conversation had taken a turn toward plotting. He had always liked mental puzzles, and that was all intrigue was really--a series of mental puzzles. Thank God he had finally matured enough to admit he enjoyed plotting.
Prince Segar shifted, the tip of his sword scabbard scraping the wall in a metallic screech that set my teeth on edge. "Then you understand how important it is to keep the recipe for the cannon powder a secret."
I fixed him with an intent look. "Is there some question of that secret being compromised, Your Highness?"
Segar shrugged, as if nonchalant, but I noticed his jaw muscles twitch. "Not presently, but with Peregrine gone rogue, I fear his spies here will soon ferret out Renfrew's hiding place."
"Renfrew--he was our tutor at Landers Hall," Merius murmured. "Best tutor I've ever had. You're not saying he's the one who invented the recipe for cannon powder?"
"The same--how else do you think he ended up as your tutor?" I barked, not liking how Merius's alert expression softened to a pensive frown, the same look I saw on him when he doodled caricatures of courtiers and schemes for that damned glider all over his council notes.
"Father, that's not logical--why would Renfrew inventing the cannon powder have anything with him becoming our tutor?"
"Because we were hiding him for His Majesty Arian, Merius, and you needed a new tutor--your mother made me sack the first one. He was a dolt anyway."
"That first one--I didn't like him. He was dull and droned when he talked. And he tied me to my chair," Merius recalled.
Phoenix Ashes (The Landers Saga Book 3) Page 41