Winter of Ice and Iron

by Rachel Neumeier

  And now, seven years after Innisth’s assumption of the deep tie and the title, the king’s attention was far more dangerous than it might have been earlier. Because Eäneté had indeed prospered and grown strong.

  If Lord Laören suspected that Eänetaìsarè was on the verge of becoming a Great Power and told the king so . . . or if he, on some random whim, compelled Innisth to accompany him when he returned to Irekay . . . if Innisth was forced to come before Irekaì and look into the king’s eyes . . . Methmeir Irekaì was not precisely clever. But he had a cleverness for identifying men who might someday become rivals, and a delight in cutting such men down before they could challenge him. And he could not fail to realize how strong Innisth terè Maèr Eänetaì had grown in these seven years; he and the Immanent Power whose tie he bore.

  Yet Innisth dared not openly defy any command to appear before the king.

  Either to come before the king in Irekay or to refuse to come would lead to disaster, for the King of Pohorir desired vassals, not rivals. Methmeir Irekaì might break Eäneté’s prosperity for a generation, if he believed the province had grown too strong or its duke had become too arrogant.

  The king would not likely put Innisth Eänetaì to death. Certainly not before midwinter. Innisth had no recognized heir of appropriate age and trained strength of will. Killing him would cast Eänetaìsarè’s tie to some unknown by-blow of the Maèr line, or to some distant cousin of some other line whose connection to Maèr and Eänetaì everyone had forgotten. If that cousin failed to hold the tie and master Eänetaìsarè, then so violent and strong a Power might even tear free of the bonds that held it to the mortal earth. It might become a God. From that disaster, even if Eäneté’s Immanent Power became the most Fortunate of Gods, Eäneté would be a long, long time recovering.

  Or if the Power became an Unfortunate God—which seemed likely enough from the apotheosis of so harsh and grim a Power—then the province and surrounding lands might never recover. The desert in the north of Emmer was a warning to even the most reckless and brutal king. Innisth hardly fancied himself a scholar and would not have hazarded a guess as to the intentions or desires of either the Fortunate or the Unfortunate Gods, but he knew that was one belief: that the Unfortunate Gods hated themselves and hated the world. Perhaps they did. Certainly the notion accorded well enough with the violence and calamity brought by the apotheosis of a Great Power to an Unfortunate God. Though even kinder Immanences that eventually ascended to join the Fortunate Gods wreaked some degree of destruction upon the lands of their birth when they rose.

  Either way, it seemed unlikely a desert would form here in mountainous Eäneté. Probably this land would become a rugged, barren landscape of broken stone and ice, cut with streamers of molten rock where the violent heat below broke through into the chilly world above. Innisth could imagine just what that blasted land might be like. Then Pohorir would lose not merely its strong westernmost province, but also the goods that came and went from Harivir through Roh Pass. No, the king would not wish to go quite so far.

  But imprison the Duke of Eäneté away from the lands of Eäneté, hold him in some grim captivity far away in the east past the dark turning of the year, force him to name some unfortunate minor cousin his heir, then kill Innisth in the spring . . . that would break Eäneté’s strength far more safely. And Methmeir Heriduïn Irekaì would no doubt enjoy the cruelty of it.

  Innisth could not prevent the king from ruining Eäneté if that was his pleasure. For all Eänetaìsarè’s strength, the Immanent Power of Irekay was older and deeper, bound to wider lands and strengthened by its bonds to all the provinces of Pohorir. And the Heriduïn Irekaì kings had ruled in an unbroken line for many generations. Irekaìmaiäd must still be far stronger than Eänetaìsarè. There was no hope in defiance.

  Thus Innisth must placate or cajole or bribe or threaten Lord Laören, so that at length the court lord returned to Irekay with a good report of Eäneté and its duke. A safe report, of a lesser Power and a tame duke.

  The situation called not for violence, but for flattery and bribes, and perhaps a carefully designed distraction or two. Nothing broad, nothing overt. Subtlety was the key. Murdering the king’s pet, however satisfying, probably would not prove sufficiently subtle.

  Innisth opened his eyes and turned to look again upon the face of Methmeir Irekaì’s pet. He knew what Lord Laören saw: a provincial duke, feigning aristocratic tastes but woefully out of fashion, his spare face further removed from the current standard of beauty by yellow eyes: the eyes of a wolf, set in the face of a man with the wolf as his seal and his standard. Laören must not be allowed to guess what Innisth saw: a careless little dog too stupid to understand that he had trotted into the wolf’s den.

  The Irekaïn lord gazed back at Innisth with the smug complacency that only the king’s lapdogs could afford. It would have been very easy to strip that complacency away from him. But that would not be wise. No.

  Mastering the impulse, Innisth said gently, “Of course I am delighted at the notice of His Majesty. How generous of him, to deprive himself of your company, my lord; and how dedicated of you to endure the discomforts of such a journey. I trust that you will not find Eäneté too bleak, after the”—decadence—“luxuries of the capital. Alas, here on the border, we must make do without the amenities of Irekay.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Laören. “I assure you, Your Grace, I have come prepared to withstand privation. I have brought my own servants with me, that I need not impose upon your hospitality.”

  The insult was intentional, no doubt of it. And the servants would spy on Innisth’s staff, almost as dangerous and annoying as their master. “I shall order the upper level of the west wing dedicated to your use, my lord,” Innisth murmured with strict courtesy. “Two connected suites—rustic, no doubt, but I hope you will find them adequate. Perhaps you would be so gracious as to permit my seneschal to show you the way.” He glanced at Gereth Murrel, who immediately came forward and, murmuring polite nothingnesses, extracted the court lord, like a thorn, from the duke’s presence.

  Innisth looked down again into the inner yard, gazing at the activity below without seeing it. Brilliant sunshine just saved the afternoon from an unpleasant chill. There was a wind, as always, from off the mountains, but today it was merely a breeze. A pleasant autumn day, if not for the king’s little whims.

  Behind him, his seneschal, Gereth Murrel, coming back out onto the gallery, said with distaste, “A typical court lordling, that one. He thinks he holds the wolf on a short chain.”

  “He does, unfortunately,” Innisth answered, allowing a trace of humor to enter his voice.

  “I know you. You’ll send the king’s pet yipping back to his kennel, never knowing how close you’ve come to ripping out his throat.”

  “One must hope you are correct.” Innisth himself did not feel quite so assured, but Gereth’s confidence pleased him. He turned slowly to look at the older man, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the lowering sun. “Laören holds a stronger tie than most to the Irekaïn Power, I believe. All that family are of Irekaïn birth, are they not? And his grandfather married a Heriduïn cousin, is that not so? Yes, I thought I recalled that. No doubt that is why the king selected him for this . . . tour of the west.” Innisth paused. Then he went on. “I would not be surprised if Laören sees more than we might wish. I fear he will end by commanding me to accompany him to court.”

  Gereth nodded. “I know you cannot outright refuse any command he gives you, Your Grace. Far less any command His Majesty sees fit to give. But I trust you will find some means to evade anything that might harm Eäneté.”

  Innisth inclined his head. “I imagine Laören is clever, in a small and petty way. But such men can be distracted by their own cleverness. Perhaps he might discover some shameful plot to evade Irekaïn taxes. Not here, of course. I shall have to decide which of our neighbors might have engaged in so despicable a practice.”

  “I shall trust Your Gra
ce’s capability to devise something suitable.”

  “Indeed.” Innisth paused. “In the meantime, Laören’s servants will make themselves a nuisance, I am sure. They will be spies as well. This will take careful handling, I fear.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace. I will instruct the staff most carefully.”

  “See to it that some pleasure girls and boys are brought up from the city. They can pretend to be nervous young servants of the house. That will both distract Laören and protect our own people. Have our younger staff warned to keep out of their way. If some serving boy or girl is careless and must be rescued, I will not be amused.”

  “I will be very clear on that point, Your Grace.”

  Innisth nodded slightly and drew a long breath of the cold air. “I do not . . . The air within the house seems close today. I will take a small force and ride the bounds, I think. Laören may inquire after me. You may inform him I request the honor of his company at a late supper. He may be annoyed I am not here, waiting at his word. That will be as well. It may be useful to see that he is annoyed and impatient. Not, however, truly angry. Be sure he is entertained.”

  Gereth made a slight face. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “My old friend,” Innisth said, and laid a hand on his seneschal’s shoulder, lightly, in passing.

  So Innisth spent the day in the saddle, riding around to many of the garrisons guarding the roads that led through his province and around his city and the outlying villages. He spent little time at each, taking only a few moments to speak to the commanding officers. Most of his attention remained on the problem Lord Laören posed and on various stratagems that might suffice to send the man away prepared to make a useful report of the province’s docility.

  Eventually, however, Innisth noticed how little traffic they passed on the roads. Rather less than usual. What there was moved mostly toward the city of Eäneté. That was interesting. If it was part of a trend, it might indicate trouble in the neighboring provinces, the lesser folk, as always, feeling it first.

  Innisth kept an eye on his escorting guards, marking which seemed particularly nervous to be riding under the eye of their duke and which were calm, which took the long day in stride and which wearied and dragged. The officer, one Verè Deconniy, was young and not well known to the duke. Deconniy had only recently come to Eäneté from the neighboring province of Tisain, having gotten into some manner of difficulty there; Gereth had explained something about it, but Innisth had paid little attention. He knew Deconniy had been an officer of Lord Geif’s house guard. Beyond that, he knew only that he must have impressed Etar, for he had quickly been promoted to one of the lesser captaincies. Thus Innisth had requested Deconniy’s escort specifically.

  The officer knew he was being evaluated, of course. He was tense, but had the sense to keep his mouth mostly shut. His occasional comments were brief, to the point, and quiet. And, though this was not strictly required in an officer, he was a good-looking young man. Strong featured, not precisely attractive in any typical sense, yet he was the sort of man who drew a second look. Innisth thought he might approve of him.

  They had left the city riding south and made a quarter circle to return, at sunset, riding almost due west. The setting sun blazed behind the duke’s hall, poised to slide below the Takel Mountains. The late sunlight ran like honey across the walls and flagstones of the wide courtyard. Innisth tilted his face up to the lowering sun and fancied he could feel the subliminal purr of the Eänetén Power, like a low voice murmuring just outside the range of hearing.

  The duke rode through the eastern gate without glancing at the guards. In the yard, Innisth dismounted, tossed his reins to a waiting hostler, and dismissed the escort with a brief nod. He kept Deconniy back with a gesture, then crooked a finger for the young officer to walk aside with him into the relative privacy provided by the turn of the outer courtyard wall. Deconniy obeyed this silent command without a word, as sparing of speech now as he had been during the ride, but Innisth could see the tension in his back and shoulders.

  “You find yourself comfortable in Eäneté?” the duke asked him. “You do not find a lingering Tisain tie draws upon your heart? I know it can take some time for the tie to the land of one’s birth to lighten, for the new tie to set itself in one’s blood and bone.”

  “No, Your Grace,” Deconniy answered firmly, meeting his eyes. “I repudiated the tie to Tisain the moment I set foot on Eänetén soil. I repudiated Lord Geif Tisainiär, cast Tisain earth away, and gladly took the tie to Eänetaìsarè, as I swore to Senior Captain Etar and as I swear to you now, Your Grace.”

  A low purring of possessive satisfaction came from Eänetaìsarè at this declaration. Innisth smiled. “Bravely spoken. Very good. Etar thinks highly of you.”

  The young man answered steadily, “I am glad to think so, Your Grace.”

  Innisth reached out to touch the younger man’s cheek. Deconniy stood very still. Innisth slid his hand down the man’s jaw and rested his hand on his throat. The pulse under his fingers was light and rapid. He said, keeping his tone impersonal, “You are afraid of me, Verè Deconniy.” It was not a question.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the man said, his voice now not quite so steady.

  “What did Captain Etar tell you of me?” Innisth slid his hand up again, cupping the man’s jaw, thumb resting still on the pulse.

  The tiniest pause. Then Deconniy answered, “Senior Captain Etar told me you will not compel your own people. That Eäneté is not Tisain and you are not Lord Geif. That in matters of this kind, I can refuse without fear of punishment.” He met Innisth’s eyes across the little distance that separated them and added, “Whatever order you give, I will obey. But Senior Captain Etar told me this is an order you will not give.”

  Innisth almost smiled. “What else did he tell you?”

  Another very small pause. Then the answer came, in a low, even voice, “That you would press me and try to make me afraid, but that you like a man who will not back away even if he fears you.”

  “Yes. He would have said that. Do you believe him?”

  “I thought I believed him, Your Grace. I wish to believe him.” The beat of the young man’s pulse was still fast against Innisth’s thumb.

  “You should believe him. Etar knows me very well.” Innisth lifted his hand and took one step back. “You should fear me,” he added. “But not for this. I will not command this.” He looked the younger man up and down. “Unless you wish to be commanded?”

  Deconniy flushed, slowly but comprehensively. “No,” he said stiffly. “Your Grace.”

  “Pity,” said the duke, careful to keep his tone impersonal. He turned away, but added over his shoulder, “You did well today.” But he did not stay to observe the young officer’s response.

  4

  As the seventeenth day of Fire Maple Month dawned slowly silver, Kehera irinè Elin, no longer Raëhema—though she certainly didn’t intend to say so unless she had to—rode her gray mare down the ferry’s ramp and onto the northern bank of the wide Imhar River. Just as her mare’s hooves touched the beaten earth of Emmeran soil, the sun edged at last above the horizon and the river turned to gold behind her.

  It felt . . . very strange, to have set foot on land that was not connected through even the slightest bond to Raëhemaiëth. It felt . . . disturbing. Disturbingly wrong, as though she had made a terrible mistake to come here. More than anything, she wanted to turn and flee—not back onto the ferry; that would be too slow—straight into the river and back to Harivir. Hating her own cowardice, Kehera refused to even turn and look. She stared only ahead, at the Emmeran soldiers drawn up to meet her.

  She had feared that the Mad King might seize her the moment she descended from the ferry, gloat about his victory, parade her like a trophy before his soldiers. Or that he might meet her coldly, produce the twice-braided cords and candles necessary for even the most abbreviated wedding ceremony, and marry her right there on the riverbank. She had not been able to guess what h
e might do.

  But the man who stood at the forefront of the assembled Emmeran soldiers was not the king. She knew it right away. This man, whoever he was, was dressed too plainly, obviously a soldier; and he was not old enough; and he was not mad—or at least she could find no madness in his face or eyes or manner. She glanced beyond him, expecting the king to be waiting in the encampment, perhaps, if he was not here at the river’s edge. But she could see that nearly all the tents had already been rolled up and packed away. There was only the trampled ground, and away to the left, not far, the Emmeran town of Talisè. Perhaps that was where Hallieth Suriytaiän had gone to wait for her. She stared searchingly at Talisè. It was a handsome town, all its yellow sandstone gilded by the rising sun. But even from the riverbank, a disturbing silence echoed here, too: the absence of the Emmeran Power that should have inhabited every street and home, every alley and shop and all the surrounding lands where farmers lived. Even without the deep tie to Raëhemaiëth, she could feel the flatness here almost as vividly as she had felt it in Cemerè.

  The Immanent Power that had grown up out of Talisè should have inhabited all the land for miles in every direction. It should have within every man and woman and newborn child, every dog and goat, every tree and blade of grass. But there was nothing there. Quòn had been right. Talisè was empty, exactly as Cemerè was empty. The mare’s hooves thudded on the packed earth of the riverbank. The mare tossed her head uneasily as though she, too, felt the terrible emptiness of the land. Kehera bit her lip and turned her gaze from the hollow town to the face of the man who had come to the foot of the ramp to meet her.