Winter of Ice and Iron

by Rachel Neumeier

  Gereth said clearly, “Yes, Your Grace.” His eyes searched his new duke’s face. “Mastering Eänetaìsarè cannot have been easy. No one will challenge your right or your tie. There’s no need for you to reorder the entire province tonight.”

  Innisth gave him another thin smile. “I have one or two more tasks before I rest. But you may certainly assign factors and stewards as you please. You will need an adequate staff, and I do not suppose you will find many of my father’s factors suitable.” He turned his hand palm-up: permission to rise.

  Then he turned to his father’s . . . special servants. He looked them over, one and then the next and then the third, and then raised his hand to signal to Captain Etar and said briefly, “Hang them all.”

  “But—!” protested one of the men, taking an involuntary step backward before stopping himself. Men-at-arms were already moving swiftly to seize them; Etar had plainly anticipated this order or one like it, and there would be no escape. The man flung himself to his knees instead, pleading. “But, Your Grace! We served your father well—we would gladly serve you—we only obeyed your father’s commands, Your Grace—we had no personal animosity—I’m sure none of us ever wished—”

  Innisth cut the man off with a lift of his hand. He said softly, “Yet I seem to remember a quite personal relationship between us. I advise you, do not protest overmuch. There are far more unpleasant fates than mere hanging. As you of all men are certainly aware.”

  The man closed his mouth.

  “Be quick,” Innisth said to his new captain, careful that his tone was merely impatient and held no trace of unease—though to himself he acknowledged that he would not truly be able to believe himself secure until these three servants, among all others, were dead. On that thought, he added to Etar, “And assemble a punishment detail. I do not care what failings the men have shown, but there should be at least half a dozen of them. I will see them, and you, downstairs. In half an hour.”

  There was the slightest stiffening of Etar’s expression. But the captain only asked, “Tonight, Your Grace?” But he added immediately, “Of course it will be as Your Grace commands. Six men in half an hour.”

  Innisth had actually forgotten the time. If he had thought, he might have ordered Etar to bring his men downstairs in the morning, but he did not wish to seem indecisive, so he only gave a curt nod and turned to watch as the third of his father’s torturers joined the other two in strangling death. It was not the death the man deserved, but it would do. It would do. He glanced across the courtyard toward the assembled staff. They were very quiet now. If anything, the silence had deepened. He met Gereth Murrel’s wide gaze and said to him in a low voice, “I will speak to you further on matters of law and custom. Both will change now. You may advise me. Tomorrow. Late tomorrow.”

  Gereth bowed acknowledgment. “Your Grace.”

  “You are dismissed. You are all dismissed,” added Innisth to the gathering, raising his voice. “Save for male servants of my household between the ages of twenty and thirty. The rest of you may all go.” He paused, and then added flatly, “Go.”

  There was a general movement, not precisely a retreat, but nearly everyone was clearly glad to be permitted to escape without being singled out in any way. A few of the staff lingered, however, braver or more curious than the rest, or perhaps having friends among the young men whom Innisth had commanded to stay. Innisth pretended not to notice this minor disobedience. He said to the young men—there were fourteen of them, from a young groom to a senior huntsman—“I require a personal body servant. If any of you are not content with your current position, you may inform my seneschal of your interest. Your duties as my personal servant would be light, but various.”

  Only the stupidest of men could fail to understand, and even those would assuredly be enlightened by their fellows. Even now, a few of the sharper or more daring of them were exchanging significant glances. Innisth said, “This position will remain open until it is filled,” and gestured dismissal.

  The young men all edged away toward the staff entrance or toward the stable—none of them daring to speak, not yet, not while Innisth might overhear. But when Innisth turned to go into the house, he found the librarian’s scribe in his way. He stopped, startled and prepared to be offended.

  The youth clasped his hands in front of his belt, glanced down nervously, but then raised his gaze to meet Innisth’s eyes. “Your Grace. I’m—I—if it pleases you, Your Grace, I would be glad to—to ask for the transfer of which you spoke.”

  Innisth looked the scribe up and down. He had the bony look of a boy who has not yet grown into himself. His clothing was plain but of good quality, as befit a young man who earned his bread with a quill rather than with the labor of his hands or a hunting bow. But he did not look delicate. His wrists were too big for his hands; his shoulders promised eventual strength. He was plain, with a rather ordinary face and untidy brown hair, but his gaze was sharp enough—though nervous, at the moment.

  “Caèr Reiöft,” Innisth said, pulling the name from his memory after a moment. “How old are you? Am I to understand that you have been dissatisfied with your place as a scribe?”

  “Nineteen, Your Grace,” the young man answered immediately. “But near enough twenty, if it pleases you. I don’t mind the scribing, Your Grace, and if you wished me to—to write letters for you, or anything you wish, I would be glad to do that. But I would be glad—that is, I believe I understand the duties you will expect of a personal servant, and I would be very glad to serve Your Grace in any capacity that pleases you.”

  Innisth’s eyes narrowed. “You mean: instead of the librarian. Is that what you mean?”

  Reiöft took a quick breath. “I’ve no complaint of him, Your Grace. But I would—I’ve lived all my life in this house, Your Grace, and I would be glad to serve you, if you will have me. I know I’m not—I don’t want to be presumptuous, Your Grace—”

  Innisth lifted one hand a fraction, and Reiöft stopped. “We may at least try the arrangement,” he said. “Inform Gereth of the matter. I am going downstairs for a little while. Then I will come up to my rooms. I will wish to bathe and rest. I will expect you to have everything ready for me.”

  Reiöft nodded swiftly. “Your Grace.” He looked slightly stunned now that it was settled. His eyes were wide and vulnerable. Innisth liked that. He had never much noticed the young man before, but now he thought he might like him well enough. He gave him a brief nod of dismissal and walked away, for the black door and the narrow steps that led downstairs.

  A long table, scarred by iron and knife, dominated the large antechamber of the old duke’s dungeons. Beyond it stood an ornate chair with a high, carved back and carved arms and a cushion of black leather. The chair was a handsome piece, out of place in this room. Save for the space directly around the chair, the floor was matted with straw and sweet rushes, originally laid down to absorb blood and other matter, but left far too long. The stench of moldy straw and rotted blood and filth hung in the room; even the torches seemed to burn low and flicker unevenly in the close air. A vast fireplace took up most of the wall to the left, though at the moment no wood was arranged there. Tools of all sorts occupied racks and shelves along the wall to the right. In the far wall, an iron door stood open, leading to the small cells where the old duke’s less fortunate prisoners might linger for . . . some time. There was no sound from beyond the iron door. Innisth could not remember whether his father currently held any prisoners in those cells, but if any were there, they were too cowed to make a sound when they heard men come into this antechamber.

  Drawn up in an uneasy row waited the men-at-arms Innisth had ordered be brought to this place, and their new captain. The men were afraid, Innisth saw, but not terrified. That was Etar’s influence. He met the new duke’s gaze with level fortitude before inclining his head. “Your Grace.”

  Innisth gave him a small nod. He glanced around, his gaze catching on the chair. He nodded toward it. “Burn that.”
r />   “Your Grace?”

  “Burn it.” Innisth scuffed the toe of one boot through the filthy straw. “Clean away this mess. Clear the air. Burn cedar—burn incense, if necessary.” He didn’t actually care for incense, but better that than this current stench. “Scrub the floor. Clean and polish the table. Replace those torches with clean-burning lanterns and clean the soot off the walls.”

  The men were exchanging glances in which dismay and relief mingled. Even Captain Etar let his breath out. He gave Innisth a crisp nod. “Those?” He nodded toward the racks of whips and knives, irons and needles and clamps. “Shall we dispose of all of that as well?”

  Innisth hesitated, wanting to say, Yes, burn it all. But Eänetaìsarè pressed him, drawn by this place with a force he had not entirely expected. The Immanent wanted blood and screaming; already he could tell he would eventually need to give it something of that kind. Already he could tell he would eventually want to.

  “No,” he said at last. “Clean away the old blood and rust. Sharpen the blades; replace anything worn or damaged and leave everything in good order.”

  Some of the relief faded. But Etar met his eyes and said quietly, “Of course it will be as Your Grace commands. But as your captain, I must ask that Your Grace leave the discipline of your men-at-arms in my hands.”

  That was brave. Of course, Innisth had known Etar was brave. It took a moment of effort to appreciate that courage, to set down offense. There was a tiny stir among the men as they waited for his response, a general catch of breath. Their fear was . . . seductive, in a way Innisth had only half expected.

  Nevertheless, at last he managed a thin smile. “So long as they respect my law and my commands, my own people will have nothing to fear from me, my captain. Neither your men nor my staff nor any of my folk.” He made this a promise, flat and uncompromising, and swore to himself that he would keep that vow.

  Captain Etar bowed his head briefly, accepting this assurance. If he let out a covert breath, Innisth couldn’t tell it.

  Setting aside the pressure of the Immanent as well as he could, Innisth made himself look around with careful consideration. “The cells,” he told the captain. “Clean them all. If there are prisoners, inform me. If any could benefit from the attentions of a physicker, summon one. If any would best be granted a swift knife, then supply that need and, again, inform me.” The men were once more looking faintly dismayed. He ignored them. He had, after all, told Etar to assemble a punishment detail.

  “Your Grace,” Etar acknowledged. “I think this will take more than one night’s work, if I may say so.”

  “In this, I prefer thoroughness to speed.”

  Etar gave a nod. “I shall inform you when the task is completed, Your Grace.”

  Innisth returned the nod and left the men to their labor, turning back toward the narrow stairway. The stench of this place clung to him even after so brief a time, following at his heels as he mounted the steps and returned to the clean air above. He did want a bath now. Though . . . that was not all he wanted. But the bath, certainly, first. And then he would discover whether Caèr Reiöft did indeed understand the duties Innisth expected of his personal body servant. And then . . . and then, Innisth thought, he might at last be able to rest.

  The old duke’s body was returned to the house, where it lay in state for a day and a night. The Immanent Power of Eäneté did not take it up, and thus the body was finally interred in the duke’s garden of remembrance. Innisth did not attend the ceremony.

  There were quiet celebrations all through Eäneté as the season eased from the Month of Wolves into the new spring. Nothing obtrusive. No one wanted to risk offending their new young duke. But on the twenty-eighth day of the Month of Bright Rains and then again on the twenty-eighth day of Apple Blossom Month, townspeople made cakes with brandy and berry preserves, then broke the cakes to share with strangers on the street. The wealthy bought lambs and young calves, took them up to the pine forests, slaughtered them there, and left them for the wolves. This might have been the old custom of propitiation, to turn wolf and misfortune aside, save that the month was wrong and the day was wrong. Innisth knew, though no one would say so, that it was a gesture of homage to the new Wolf Duke. Those who could not afford lambs bought larks and other songbirds in the market and set them free in a new custom that had, Innisth gathered, already become quite widespread.

  “I believe some of the larks have been caught and released a dozen times by now,” Gereth told Innisth, who lifted one shoulder in a deliberately disinterested shrug. But he was pleased. So he also rode down to the town on the twenty-eighth day of the next month, which was the Golden Hinge Month.

  As the month ended, the world would enter the uncounted four days of the Golden Hinge, the days of good fortune and celebration during which spring turned to summer. Already the town was fragrant with baking and decorated with streamers of flowers. Delicate strands of blown robins’ eggs had been draped over the lintels of doorways where marriages would take place during those golden days. Innisth strolled through the Open Market. No one had the temerity to offer him a bit of cake. But folk caught his eye and smiled as they bowed, tentative and hopeful, and though Innisth did not smile in return, he offered no rebuke to this familiarity. And he bought a lark from the first woman he encountered offering them for sale.

  Innisth took the little bird out of its cage and held it in his hands for a moment, feeling its heartbeat rapid and delicate against his fingers. And then, in the middle of the market square, in full view of all his people, he opened his hands and let it fly.

  2

  SEVEN YEARS LATER

  The sixteenth day of Fire Maple Month offered a bright and pleasant autumn morning, here at the edge of the kingdom of Harivir, in the province of Cemerè, in the town of Cemerè from which the province took its name. The season gave a particularly pleasant aspect to the garden wrapped around the house of Liyè Cemeraiän, Lord of Cemerè.

  Kehera irinè Elin Raëhema, daughter and heir of the King of Harivir, found both the morning and the garden disconcertingly pleasant. It seemed to her a starker season and a bitter wind would have been more in accordance with the exigencies of the day.

  Kehera was keeping company with Liyè’s wife, Soë Cemeraiän, while they both pretended confidence and waited for day’s end. The breeze was soft and warm, wisps of cloud chased one another through the brilliant sky, and from the garden, the fighting along the river was only barely audible.

  Kehera sat gracefully poised across from Soë by the courtyard’s central fountain. They were surrounded by their women, who were supposed to be a comfort. They even were, in a way. At least, the need to present a serene face to the women was useful. Kehera slipped a needle back and forth through a panel of fine cloth and hoped that her pretense of unworried calm was a little more difficult to penetrate than Soë’s tense smile.

  The women spoke of everyday things, of cheerful things. But Soë, a comfortably rounded woman of fifty or so, in Kehera’s experience placid to the point of stolidity, was this morning as silent as Kehera, and for much the same reason, though Soë feared for her husband and her sons rather than her father or brother. And for Cemerè, of course. They both, they all, had reason to fear for the town and province of Cemerè. And for Harivir itself, if Cemerè fell today to the Mad King of Emmer.

  It might. Mad Hallieth Suriytaiän might be, but Emmer had long been the wealthiest and strongest of the Four Kingdoms and not even the maddest of kings could ruin Emmer’s prosperity or break its strength in a day. Not in a year, nor even in five years, nor eight. As Hallieth Suriytaiän seemed determined to prove, judging from his efforts over that entire span to seize first the nearest provinces of Kosir, which bordered Emmer to the east, and now those of Harivir, to Emmer’s south.

  Starting, in Harivir’s case, with Cemerè.

  Dark blue cloth and dull gold embroidery thread fell in disorderly waves across Kehera’s lap, along with a fine strand of pale hair that had escape
d the careful nine-stranded coil Eilisè had put it in that morning. Nurses and ladies-in-waiting had instructed Kehera in needlecraft since almost before she could talk. Now, after years of practice, her fingers knew the skill. Embroidery gave Kehera a way to seem occupied and busy while in fact lost in her private thoughts. This was a valuable talent for any lady, especially for her father’s heir: heir to Raëh and its Immanent Power of Raëhemaiëth and the throne of all Harivir. Especially in times like these.

  Kehera’s eyes might have followed the needle, but only the smallest part of her mind needed to be concerned with the abstract pattern of stars and waves that her hands were creating with blue and silver thread. She might have heard the murmuring voices of the women, but she did not listen to them. Her bodily ear was tuned to the distant battle and her inner ear to the angry tension humming through the Immanent Power of Cemerè. She felt guiltily relieved that she perceived the Cemeran Power only through her tie to Raëhemaiëth. That swelling anger was frightening enough, even though she was only the heir. For her father it must be worse. She could hardly imagine how Liyè Cemeraiän endured it.

  No one had actually expected this war. The threat of war, yes. There was always that threat. Even before he had gone mad, Hallieth Theraön Suriytaiän, King of Emmer, had pressed now and again to expand his borders. Sometimes he threatened Kosir and sometimes Harivir—sometimes both at once. Particularly when withering spring frosts or long summer droughts or any such misfortune drew the strength and attention of Immanent Powers from the affairs of men and into the long, slow dreams of field and river, forest and mountain. That was the time for an ambitious king to see whether his strength might be enough to overwhelm some border lord’s territory, to force a lesser Immanence to accept a bond to his own.

  Thus had kings been made since the beginning of the world: through the deep, slow strength of the Immanent Powers that arose naturally from their lands and were then channeled by the focused will of ambitious men—or occasionally women; one of Kosir’s earliest rulers had been a queen, though at the time Kosir had lain more to the west and had not extended as far south. That had been before the apotheosis of first Emmeran Great Power, an Immanent that had once dwelt in the far north of Emmer. It had risen during one particularly ill-omened midwinter, when the Unfortunate Gods were closest to the world. It had become an Unfortunate God itself, as Immanent Powers did when they rose at midwinter, thus creating the northern desert.