It was an ugly business, a king annexing foreign provinces not just for ordinary human ambition, but to fatten his own land at the expense of the conquered province. Entirely the reverse of a king spending his own strength so that his Immanent Power could support the outlying provinces . . . But that was Pohorir, and had been for many generations.
Tiro’s grandmother, ruler of Harivir before his father, had moved swiftly to fortify the Anha Narrows, the summer pass just south of Anha Pass itself. The Narrows led from Enchar to Harivir’s town of Eilin. But so far Methmeir Heriduïn Irekaì seemed content to leave the borders as they stood.
Tiro could see one boat that was making its way up the river, carrying goods or passengers from somewhere in Emmer into Kosir. The boat was moving a little more quickly than some; its owner had not hired one of the ox teams that generally did such work, but a relatively fast team of heavy horses, a big hitch that was hauling the boat upstream at an impressive pace.
Perhaps the urgency implied by that pace caught Tiro’s eye; he found himself lingering on the river wall, watching that boat glide past. Small, as such boats were always small; sharp-bowed and broad in the stern, with a shallow draft and a cabin taking up a good part of the deck . . . not meant for cargo, he guessed, but for passengers who wished an easier or quieter or more private passage upriver than afforded by riding along the road. For a moment Tiro let himself imagine that Kehera might be on that boat herself, having made her way somehow from Suriytè to the river and bribed or bought her passage. It was not impossible. The timing would be just about right, from everything they knew about when some mysterious crisis had struck Suriytè. If Kehera had somehow precipitated that crisis and then gotten away . . . Tiro was almost sure about the former—nothing else made sense—but he could only pray for the latter. But he counted days in his head and watched that boat and wished that it would put in at the Harivin landing, that he would be standing here watching and actually see his sister step off that boat’s deck and set her foot back on Harivin soil. . . .
It didn’t happen, of course. The boat went on up the river, and a quiet sound behind him made him straighten and turn. Then long training made him smile and nod. “Lady Taraä.”
Lady Taraä inan Seine Leiörian, Lady of Leiör, nodded back, but she did not smile. These recent days had been difficult for her, as everyone waited to see what the Mad King of Emmer might do. Specifically, whether he might try to do to Leiör what he had done to Cemerè.
The Lady of Leiör was young, though older than Tiro—practically everyone was older than Tiro. She was a solidly built woman, pleasant rather than pretty, with the steady temper and good sense of all the Seine line. Tiro knew his father had been thoroughly satisfied when Leiör’s tie had come to Seine from a line of flightier cousins. He knew as well that his father, wishing to encourage the Leiör tie to follow the Seine line, had considered Lady Taraä a possible match for Tiro. Tiro would not have objected. He liked Taraä. She was not very pretty—she was too big-boned and sturdy to be pretty—but her steadiness reminded him of Kehera. Anybody could guess that her Seine line would cross well with his Elin. But the awareness made him awkward around her. Whenever he had to talk to her, he felt young and not very clever.
Lady Taraä was in her midtwenties, but she looked years older, as happened to those who took a ruling tie in hard days. Taraä’s grandmother had died several years ago, her death no doubt hastened by the long drought, and unfortunately her mother had died many years ago, and so the ruling tie had come to Taraä early. Now the Mad King became less and less predictable, and so she had Emmer’s ambition to worry about as well as the continuing drought.
That was why Tiro had come to Leiör: His father had to stay in Cemerè, to anchor Raëhemaiëth into that newly hollow town and province because now the Immanent of Raëh was all the protection that whole central part of the border possessed. But when the Mad King’s standard had moved east, someone had needed to bring Raëhemaiëth’s attention here so it could better support Leiör. So Tiro’s father had sent him, hastily.
It should have been Kehera. Tiro knew it should have been Kehera. His sister should have held the heir’s tie; she should have been the one here in Leiör, ready to raise up Raëhemaiëth and support the town’s Immanent against any attack or incursion. No matter what happened, she would have known what to do, because she always did; and she wouldn’t have given up even if Hallieth Suriytaiän had struck against Leiör, because she never did give up. Tiro had lost enough tiahel games to his sister to know she would give the Mad King a harder game than Tiro himself could.
But Kehera had gone north eighteen days ago, and Tiro had had no choice but to take the heir’s part. Then, just six days ago, word had made its way south to the Harivin border; news of some sort of trouble in northern Emmer. Tiro couldn’t be sure Kehera had caused that trouble. But he was sure of it. He only waited for word from his father, about what was going on in Emmer and whether Tiro himself should stay in Leiör or return to Cemerè, or go back to Raëh, or . . . he didn’t know. He had to just trust that his father would know what would be best to do now, while they all waited for . . . whatever would come next.
Now, seeing Lady Taraä’s unsmiling face and tense-set lips, he thought perhaps the waiting had ended. Or at least changed shape.
She nodded toward the river, still unsmiling, and said, “The river’s wide there, but not wide enough.”
Tiro had to agree. What had happened at Cemerè had made it quite clear that the river ought to be much wider—a real barrier to armies and, more importantly, to Immanent Powers anchored by mad kings. He wished the whole river were as wide as Imhar Bay on the western coast, with miles of water between Harivir and Emmer. He wished Emmer were an island kingdom, with a wide and wild ocean between its ambitious Great Power and all the rest of the world.
But the world was as it was, and no use wishing. “Someone’s crossed it,” he said, not quite a question. “A Suriytaiän messenger?”
“Probably,” said Lady Taraä. “But he’s not raised up the White Horse standard, nor any other. A senior Emmeran officer, but come in a small boat with a small escort, asking for Torrolay Elin Raëhema—expecting to find your father here, evidently. I suppose he’s had word that a Raëhema is here in Leiör and expects His Majesty would have come here to support me.”
Tiro nodded. “I’ll see him,” he said at once. Maybe the man brought news about what had happened in Suriytè. Or maybe he could be made to yield such news, even if he’d come with some sort of demands from his king.
Tiro glanced around. The ferry was well out across the Diöllay now, the other ferry nearing the landing; the riverboat was nearly out of sight upstream. Everything looked so . . . ordinary. To a first glance. “Not here,” he said, though he had no idea what other place might be better.
A senior Emmeran officer. The man would probably try to overawe a seventeen-year-old prince. Whatever further concessions Hallieth Suriytaiän wanted, this officer would surely be pleased to try to get them from Tiro rather than his father. Tiro had no doubt of that at all. He made sure his expression was untroubled. He was not going to give any concessions; he fixed his mind on that. He would put this man off, whatever he demanded, and send word to his father, and hope that nothing too dire happened before his father could decide what to do. . . .
“Under Leiör’s banner,” Taraä said, her intelligent glance suggesting she knew just what Tiro had been thinking. “That’s where my grandmother used to see people when she wanted to keep them off-balance. I’ll show you.”
The place Lady Taraä showed him was perfect. Leiör’s standard was the graceful willow, such as stood close by the banks of the rivers—not an intimidating standard, except the tree in the rear courtyard of the lady’s house was vast, with a girth four men couldn’t have compassed and branches that swayed so far overhead they seemed to catch at the passing winds. The leaves were yellow now, the draperies of twigs half naked with the approaching winter, but it w
as still an impressive tree. More importantly, there was a heavy table of willow-wood under that tree, and embedded too deeply in that table for any man to withdraw, a great ax that looked old enough to have been slammed down into the wood of the table at the very dawn of the world. The streaks of rust that ran down the blade were unsettlingly close to the color of blood.
“Ah,” said Tiro, studying this tableau. “I remember the story.”
“Not many do,” murmured Lady Taraä. “But you would, wouldn’t you? It was your . . . what, great-great-grandfather who put it there.” She gave him a smile at last.
“One more great,” said Tiro. “And if a Seine had been Lady of Leiör at the time, I doubt he would have found it necessary.” Then he blushed, realizing how this might sound. Lady Taraä probably knew his father had been considering a possible match between Seine and Elin. He felt younger and clumsier than ever. “It’s a memorable story,” he muttered.
“Yes.” Lady Taraä ran a hand across the oiled wood of the table. “My grandmother told me it didn’t matter whether a petitioner knew the tale or not. That blade’s unsettling either way.”
Tiro nodded. “Yes, it’s perfect.”
“Then I’ll send for the Emmeran officer. With your permission, Your Highness.”
Tiro gave it with another nod and added impulsively, “You’ll stay by me to receive this man, of course, Lady Taraä. As he’s seen fit to seek out a Raëhema here at Leiör.”
His invitation pleased her, he saw, though she’d no doubt meant to be present in any case.
The Emmeran, when he was escorted into the courtyard, proved to be a big man: tall and broad, with powerful shoulders. Not a young man, but not yet old, with a dark-grizzled beard and deep-set eyes in a hard face. He came into the courtyard alone except for his Harivin escort, moving with quick, impatient strides, but he checked—rather satisfyingly—at his first sight of the table and the ax. It took him a second to look past the ax to Tiro, seated behind the table, and Lady Taraä standing behind Tiro. Though his expression didn’t change, his eyes widened just perceptibly.
Tiro rose politely—Always be polite to your enemies, his father had told him. Courtesy leaves you with more options, and besides, it disconcerts them. This Emmeran officer didn’t look very easy to disconcert. Tiro nodded to him and waited.
The Emmeran walked forward, more slowly now, and made his bow. “Prince Tirovay,” he said. He didn’t say I expected your father, though that was obvious. He glanced at Lady Taraä and offered her a slighter bow. “I’m Enmon Corvallis,” he told them both, obviously expecting them to recognize his name, as of course Tiro did, and he was sure Lady Taraä as well. “Eighteen days ago, I met Her Highness Kehera Elin Raëhema on the other side of the river and escorted her to Suriytè.”
Tiro tried to hide his sudden eagerness behind a polite court smile, but wasn’t entirely sure he succeeded. “Go on,” he said, trying to brace himself against whatever news, good or otherwise, this man might have brought.
“On the twenty-eighth, Hallieth Suriytaiän tried to use Her Highness to take the Power of Raëh,” General Corvallis said bluntly, and went on at once. “He overstepped his ambition at last; he failed and lost his own Power, and I got Her Highness away—my man was to get her away. I had hoped to find her here, or news of her.” He stopped, tilting his head interrogatively.
“Go on,” said Tiro. He sat down again, closing his hands into loose fists to stop them from shaking. He couldn’t stop himself from listening for a messenger’s rapid footfalls—someone bringing word that Kehera had come back across the river—but he knew she hadn’t. He would have felt it. He would have known it. Raëhemaiëth would have felt it. She was not in Harivir, or he would have known.
The twenty-eighth. And it was now the fifth of the Month of Frost. Seven days. The weather had been mostly good. She could have made it this far by now. At least, a man on a fast horse, a man with no need to evade enemies or fear pursuit, could very well ride from Suriytè to the Imhar River in less time than that. For Kehera, even with help, it might have been different. He shouldn’t count her overdue. Not yet. But his heart clenched in fear even so.
“She’s not come here, then,” Corvallis surmised, though Tiro hadn’t said as much. “I’d hoped she had. I won’t hide from Your Highness that I should have had word long since, from my man and from others posted along their route. Her Highness was to be brought to a certain place in Suriytè and go on from there, but she never came there. Getting off the route’s one thing, but whatever’s happened, my man should have found a way to send me word, and I’ve heard nothing. I’ve people searching, of course, in Suriytè and along the roads south.”
“So you rode at a hard pace all the way from Suriytè to inform His Highness that you’d gotten Her Highness away from the Mad King and then immediately lost her somewhere in Suriytè, and despite all your efforts haven’t found her again,” observed Lady Taraä while Tiro was still trying to catch his breath. “This seems an uncommon enthusiasm for delivering bad news, General Corvallis.”
“I confess I’d hoped to find her here,” the general repeated without heat. “Or news of her. Seven days’ hard pace, as the lady says, and I pray to the Fortunate Gods you’ll see her safe in another day or two. Without that, I’m in a bad position. I don’t deny it. Worse than you know. I’d meant my men to deliver her safely back to your doorstep long before I had any need to speak to Torrolay Raëhema on my own account. But matters in Suriytè are a good deal more complicated than I’d expected, and I couldn’t delay. Hallieth Suriytaiän’s lost his rightful Power, which you’ll say is all well and good. I certainly said so. But he’s got a tie yet, and that, I will confess, I didn’t expect at all. It’s a deep tie and no mistake. Someone more ambitious and less mad than he has forced a tie on him—that’s what I think.”
“How very unusual,” said Tiro, startled into attentiveness despite his fear for his sister. “How very strange. What Power is it?”
“I don’t know,” said the general, impatient and angry. Then, collecting himself, he went on more calmly. “Irekay, I think. He made a fool’s alliance there, or so I believe. I felt the king would overreach when he set himself against the Immanent of Raëh, yes. I wanted that. I was waiting for that. Then I felt the Suriytaiän Immanent disappear from the city and the land—I’d felt that before, at Cemerè and Talisè. So I thought I’d been right. I’d meant to take Suriytè myself the moment it became hollow, you understand.”
Tiro actually did. He guessed now that General Corvallis had actively maneuvered his king to take Kehera, betting that Raëhemaiëth had the strength to pull down the Immanent Power of Suriytè and not much troubled at the danger this plan posed to Raëhemaiëth. Corvallis could not have expected much interference from so far away as Irekay in Pohorir. He had meant to take Suriytè, hold the city and the province until a new Immanent Power grew up from the land and the city and the people. Then he would be in position to take the ruling tie to that new-forming Immanent. He—or his heir, if it took so long—would master the new Immanent of Suriytè, bind it to their line, and become a true king. No one would be in a position to interfere, given how many of the lesser Emmeran Powers Hallieth Suriytaiän had destroyed.
It was ambitious. But it was exactly such ambition that let a man—or a woman—take a new tie and shape a developing Immanent Power. If Corvallis could have done that, he could have guided the new Immanent in almost any direction he wished; it was human intention and determination that set human priorities and achieved human ends. The Immanent itself was a thing of being and becoming, not a thing of doing or deciding—unless a man were foolish enough to reach through the deep tie and, striving for greater and greater influence over his Immanent, force into it too much of himself. Then, taking on human ambition, the Immanent might in turn master whoever had tried to rule it. There were certainly stories about that—vivid, exciting stories about terrible events that no one would want to actually live through.
Cor
vallis would not have let anything of the kind happen, and anyway, there was almost no chance of it from a newly formed Immanent. He would have been king of a weaker and probably smaller Emmer, but his kingdom would still have had the wealth of her wide, fertile lands. No doubt General Corvallis had intended for his eventual heirs to rule a kingdom that would become stronger and stronger, until its borders were back where they had been—or pressed out even farther than that.
Except now, whatever had happened, Suriytè had proved not to be empty after all. Someone else, someone holding a deep tie to the Great Power of Irekay, perhaps, had reached across those miles . . . somehow. Tiro couldn’t quite imagine Raëhemaiëth managing anything of the kind. That was more terrifying still, a Power that ambitious and that strong and that much more aggressive than Raëhemaiëth.
He said, “This is certainly all very disturbing, General Corvallis. And you believe it was the Irekaïn Power that reached across the miles to anchor itself into Suriytè?” The Pohorin king was, in fact, the most ambitious man Tiro could think of who also held a ruling tie to a Great Power. Tiro glanced at Lady Taraä, whose province was a good deal closer to Pohorir and Irekay than Suriytè. “If Methmeir Irekaì can reach so far, that’s . . . not good.”
Winter of Ice and Iron Page 13