“I wish only peace for your family,” Hugh the Elder offered. “War is always a tragedy.”
“In this case it might better be called a travesty, my lord.” Helaena tried to keep her voice light, suppressing the anger she suddenly felt. “Tragedy is an act of God or nature. A child taken by pox or a ship lost at sea. But God is not burning peaceful folk out of their homes and putting them to the sword. Priest-King Leax is.”
For a moment the Reds looked chagrined, but then a voice cut through the noise of the room, as beautiful and cold as platinum. “Peaceful folk?”
Princess Clarice Baldricson stood an arm’s length away, the hagia and a Zealot not far behind. Up close, Helaena could see a white scar marring her smooth forehead, no doubt a riding injury. Helaena ran a hand unconsciously over the battle scars crisscrossing her own forearms and concealed beneath the gloves. She doubted Clarice had callouses from releasing a thousand thousand arrows.
“A peaceful folk?” the princess asked again. “I thought the Jandari were an indomitable race of warriors, civilization’s shield against the grassland hordes? Odd to hear of them as victims.” Helaena opened her mouth to retort, but the princess turned to Gustin Swan. “I believe you mentioned at breakfast that you fought the Jandari in the Herring War. Is that how you remember them, Gustin?”
The withered nobleman chuckled, exposing black gums. “Hardly! We held our own at sea and during the fighting in Almsport. Their blasted ponies weren’t much use, you see. But in the field it was different. They moved so bloody fast! A bit like wrestling an eight-armed man.” He paused and added ruefully, “An eight-armed man covered in pig grease. Just like that.”
Flinching at the eights, which struck her ears like blasphemies, Helaena managed to keep smiling.
Hugh the Elder nodded agreement, but his expression held none of the old man’s nostalgia. “Gustin’s right. Every time we tried to close, they would melt away. Then when your back was turned, a troop of light cavalry or bowmaids would swoop in. Lost a brother to those bitches.”
Helaena opened her mouth to speak, but Princess Clarice interjected.
“Lord Hugh, I think you owe Lady Helaena an apology. She is a bowmaid.” The princess laid a hand on Helaena’s shoulder. “A century leader, I believe your grandfather said?”
Stone-faced, Hugh glared a moment before giving a curt bow. “My son and I should join our wives.”
“Some wounds never heal,” Princess Clarice observed sympathetically. “I have a few more friends to see before the dancing.” She leaned in closely to Helaena. “We brought a Zangatic dancing master with us. He’s been a brilliant success with the Swans this past fortnight!”
Then she was gone, leaving Helaena with a sense of dread and the unsatisfied need to choke her with the hagia’s silver rope chain. “I know little of Zangatic dances.”
Gustin nodded. “Couples dancing alone, right? Doesn’t seem decent. Unless they were married, I suppose.”
“The Old Dowager wrote from Trenoweth last year when the dances arrived. She expects a rash of quick weddings and seven-month babies to result,” Helaena said. Truth be told, she was worried. Peasants might have their goat dance, but well-bred girls only danced in groups, so she had no experience. This could be humiliating. “I just hope I can learn the steps.”
“I might be some help with that.”
Helaena turned to see a comely knight in the blue and gold cassock of the Order. “Brother Addison! I thought you were on the wrong side of the border.”
Bending a knee, Addison gave the courtliest of bows and brushed lips across her glove. “I was. Once I took stock of the force heading for Jandaria, I sent birds to Selwyn and that worthless king of yours.”
“I knew the Order had warned us, but never learned the source. Thank you. From what I heard, it saved us from civil war.”
“I was glad to do it. If Jandaria falls, it’ll destroy the balance between Imperial and free lands. That could embolden the emperor to war. Besides, your brother is a good man – and one of the few Restorationists of any rank.”
“Hidden depths! I took you for a simple knight, but you’re political.”
Addison grinned. “I believe in a centuries-dead Commonwealth. If that doesn’t make me simple-minded, I don’t know what could.”
Belatedly, Helaena remembered Gustin Swan. “Baron, I apologize for my manners. This is Brother Addison.”
“I’ve heard others from your Order speak of bringing back the Commonwealth.” Gustin wiped the corners of his mouth with a linen square. “It’s dangerous talk. Relations are improving with the Empire, and they won’t appreciate it. The Swans aren’t likely to approve, either. Giving people ideas! You’ll make few friends here with that.”
Watching Gustin toddle off, Helaena shook her head. “Three out of three walked away in a strop. My brother clearly picked the right emissary.”
“You’re here to win over the Swans?”
“Aye. Lyle and I did quite well today, but that princess has thrown me off my gait.” She motioned to the dancing floor. “You know steps for the Zangato?”
“I’ve traveled the Sand Road a few times to the Sky Folk. They might hate the Zangato kingdom, but they love the dances.” He offered a hand. “I could show you?”
Before Helaena could answer, Grandfather emerged from his solar, accompanied by the first Zangatic she had seen outside of books. The Swan King took a seat on the bare throne at the head of the room – it was said the Swans left it without cushions so the occupant never became too comfortable with the position. The dancing master walked to the center of the dais and surveyed the hall. He was as black as a flycatcher’s wing and wore a glittering breastplate over crimson robes. It took Helaena a moment to recognize the image forged into the breastplate, realizing with astonishment it was six-teated Neptha, a dark outer faie they worshiped as a goddess. A pagan priest would never be welcome in Jandaria, but the Swans held their faith loosely.
“I thought we begin tonight with Otienda Sefu – Leaping the Moon.” This brought excited claps from some of the women. A few men jumped in place, as if warming up. His accent was like none she had heard, with the emphasis on the beginning of a word and the end left to trail off. “If I can have the partner?”
Several ladies indecorously pushed to the fore. One of Helaena’s aunts won the day, joining him on the dais. “Musicians!” the Zangatic called to the balcony. “Play quickly, as I told you!”
Addison took her hands. “Just follow me. Smile and keep your back straight. This first one is just five cross-kicks and a leap.” He glanced down. “You aren’t wearing a frame.”
“Not much use for them beyond the Sanguine Cliffs.”
“That will make some of the lifts and turns rather more intimate than we might like.” Even in torchlight, she could see his cheeks turn ruddy. Hers felt warm as well.
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
The other couples had already begun to swirl and they raced to catch up. The pace of the dance left no time for thought, but Addison proved a reliable leader, whispering encouragement along the way and adjusting quickly to cover her mistakes. The leaps were the best part; her legs were strengthened by years of training and only a few of the men could match her. She was happy to see Addison was one of them.
The music changed and she heard the dancing master call out, “Tendaji ti Adanna - courtship of the crane!”
“This one is challenging,” Addison said. “When I release you, kick-step in place, then follow my lead.”
The next hour was a breathless dream, with all her worries dissolved in the joy of movement and the guilty thrill of Addison’s hands on her hips. They twirled and leapt so quickly that none of her cares could keep pace, not her dead father, nor the Belgorshans, nor Clarice, not even the Vyr. She felt beautiful and graceful and free.
By the time the dancing master called a rest, most of the couples had retreated to the sides, out of wind and probably sore of foot. Only when the dancing
stopped did Helaena realize how stifling the room had become. “Breeze. Air. I need some air.”
“This is your family’s castle, I believe? Lead on.”
Helaena led him out the doors and to the nearest stair. Up they went past five floors, to the roof of the keep. A sleepy watchman unbolted the trap door after several hard knocks. “This way,” she said, leading Addison to a tall, thin watch turret growing from the center of the keep.
“Grand,” Addison gasped. “More climbing.”
“The view rewards the effort.” Besides, it was abandoned at night. Addison might even kiss her, if he chose. Helaena flushed contritely, thinking in no particular order of Mother, Grandmother, and the Third and Seventh Augurs.
They ascended the winding stair, ending in a cupola barely large enough for two. Swanthorpe spread to the south, its streets and roofs glowing in the blue light of Hikmet, which also gave the fields to the north an undulating, velvet quality. Helaena felt a thousand leagues from all her worries. “I told you the view was worth it.”
“Entirely so.”
She turned to find his eyes upon her. It was just like one of the ballads, she thought, a lady and a celibate knight. And why shouldn’t she give in? Before long she would be married – why not a bit of fun before then? What could be safer than a kiss with a man of the Order?
As he took her hand and leaned in close, she wondered if his mind were as full of thoughts as hers. Then reason liquefied into pure sensation as his lips traced her left brow and the rise of her cheek. She was radiantly aware of everything at once: the wonderful contrast of his soft lips and rough stubble, the strength of the hand at the small her back, and every inch of distance that closed between their mouths.
Their lips met, gently at first, and then intensely. Her mouth opened in response to his. She felt her body respond, and not just in the quickening of her heart.
There was nothing safe in that kiss.
Helaena turned her face from his, feeling an ache as their lips broke apart. “I can’t…”
It took a moment, but then Addison’s hand slipped away and he gave her as much space as the cupola allowed. “My apologies. I thought—”
“As did I. But it was a mistake.”
“Can I walk with you in the gardens tomorrow?”
Helaena backed away and started down the ladder. “Yes. In the company of witnesses.” She flashed a guilty smile and then escaped with her honor intact, at least outwardly.
CHAPTER 40
S elwyn crept through the waving grass outside Harlowe Ford, keeping low to avoid Belgorshan pickets while dragging a burlap sack crammed with giltwort. Reyhan trailed just behind, giggling like a madman. It is entertaining, Selwyn thought. Like a children’s game. They surmounted a short bluff and he took stock; to either side he could barely see disturbances in the foliage marking the others in their group, Bone Riders with their own bags of poison leaves. They would fan out to other areas around the siege lines.
Then all happiness drained from him as he got a first view of Harlowe Ford. The town was a blackened ruin. The homes of his people, those he was honor-bound to protect, were burned to ash, and the families living in exile in another duchy. The enemy army sprawled like a mob of drunkards to the south of town, tents and lean-tos arranged with no hint of military discipline, except among a few of the free sword companies.
Across the river, he saw the mounds of his ancestors. Soldiers encamped around them, and laundry hung from the burial stones.
“Tengra-Nu’s bollocks!”
Selwyn shushed him, and then followed Reyhan’s eyes southward, starting in surprise at the dam stretching almost halfway across the Green Lady. Only dweorgs could have accomplished so much so quickly. Tengra-Nu’s balls was right. Once the riverbed drained, Leax would have a reasonable chance at storming the walls.
“Let’s get this done.” He stole silently down the bluff, and approached Harlowe Ford in a crouch, stopping once they came to an area with signs of grazing. He pulled out some giltwort and spread it among the grass. A few blades would kill a horse – let the enemy know the pain of losing a loved one. What began in enjoyment now felt like an act of vengeance.
Movement from town caught his eye. “Reyhan, a patrol,” he whispered, crouching lower. A pair of mercenaries marched into view, and two prisoners shuffled between them, apparently bound together by a chain. One prisoner wore a loose tunic embroidered in Belgorshan patterns. The other had a brown warrior’s gambeson. From their demeanor, they seemed to be taking in fresh air after a long confinement.
Selwyn gasped, seizing Reyhan by the arm. “That’s Wicke!”
“By damn, you’re right.”
Selwyn’s mind raced. Only two guards. He scanned for other soldiers, but the nearest were inside the town and looked to be fletching arrows. Leax was using the town as his perimeter. With surprise and a little luck, they could free Wicke and be gone before the Belgorshans could react.
“Reyhan, go get the horses.”
Silence. He glanced over sharply, and found his hearthguard staring back with a mix of regret and incredulity. “Don’t even think it.”
“He’s seventy paces away.” Selwyn fought down the urge to cut things short and just charge to Wicke’s rescue. He needed Reyhan. “I can take down the guards while you bring up the mounts. Now hurry, before they go back inside!”
“I can’t.”
Selwyn kept one eye on Wicke. He was so close. The guards were joking about something, their laughter carrying on the breeze. He whispered through gritted teeth. “I’ve never been more serious about anything. Do this, or I’ll take your bloody head.”
“Better my head than my honor.” Reyhan rested a hand on his shoulder.
Brushing it off angrily, Selwyn started forward. “I’ll do it myself.”
Adder-quick, Reyhan twisted Selwyn’s wrist behind his back, shoved him face down in the red dust, and put a knee on his spine. “Can’t allow that either.”
After useless seconds of struggle, Selwyn tried reason. “He’s my bannerman. We owe it to him.”
“Wicke would be the first to say no. And think – two guards and Wicke outside the camp? Leax knows you tried a rescue before. It could be a trap.”
So much for reason. Selwyn bucked at the weight on his back. “Let me go.”
“Did you forget every damned thing you learned at his keep?”
“It’ll work this time.”
“A lord doesn’t get to be selfish. You belong to the March now.”
Shameful tears burned his eyes. “I can’t lose him.”
“And your people can’t lose you.” Reyhan let him up but kept a firm grip on the collar of his hauberk.
Selwyn peered urgently through the grass, just in time to see Wicke and the others turn back to town. All too soon, they disappeared inside a charred storefront. To be so close, and abandon him… It felt as if an invisible hand were pulling Selwyn forward, so desperate was the need to follow his mentor. “Bastard.” He turned away from Reyhan and tramped back to the horses, listlessly spreading giltwort along the way.
They returned to the army and neither spoke of the confrontation again. Reyhan kept his head and Selwyn mutely apologized with a bottle of brandywine.
He encamped the army at a fortified manse outside Leax’s area of control and sent the women and children who had aided his gambit at Wicke’s Keep south to Killyngton lands. Then he retreated into prayer and books. Perhaps one of them would show the way.
On a rainy evening two weeks later, he and Reyhan sat by the fire, playing a game of oyun. The set dated from before his great-grandsire, the rug playing mat stained and faded and pieces worn by countless fingertips. Its object was for the horselord to seize the townsman’s lady, while the town player tried to kill him.
“You can’t stall forever,” Reyhan goaded. “Push that horse a little further so I can snatch it.”
Selwyn took a sip of bitter ale and reviewed his position. Those in the center had driven d
eep but were in danger of encirclement. His upcoming moves were critical. Taking up the carved bone horse, Selwyn pushed it forward to the next circle, but kept a finger between its ears.
Since the incident at Harlowe Ford, he’d barely stirred from camp, not trusting his judgment if he strayed close to Wicke’s prison. It was humiliating how quickly emotion could topple his reason.
He wasn’t a child. He knew the dangers of boldness without wisdom. After returning the horseman to its place, he slid a bowmaid along the diagonal instead, placing Reyhan’s left flank under threat.
Reyhan chuckled and shifted his lantern-bearer to counter the bowmaid. It was a good maneuver. The hearthguard was much better than Selwyn at the individual gambit, but still lost nine games in ten, because he could rarely grasp the larger picture. He also lost money, refusing to play without a wager to make it interesting.
For his part, Selwyn often made small mistakes but still managed to win. He could see the game in its entirety, the interplay of lines and diagonals, the balance of forces. All the possibilities for several moves ahead were clear to him in an intuitive way. They played often. It was better than the world outside. Manageable. Winnable.
“Thinking about what to do next?” Reyhan asked.
“Aye.”
“Batuhan Switt is getting impatient. He’s talking. Dangerous talk.”
So we’re no longer discussing the game. “If I rush in, it’s wrong. If I sit, it’s wrong. What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m just the hearthguard,” Reyhan drawled. “You bled the Belgorshans on the way south, but since then we’ve kept to raiding their pickets. What are your options?”
“You know what I want to do — rescue Wicke and lift the siege. But I won’t be a damned fool twice in a row.”
“Can’t argue with that. If you can’t assault, what’s the next best choice?” Reyhan poured them each another mug of bitter.
Selwyn swirled the ale, examining its depths for answers. After several moments, he cleared the play rug and set the townsman and his soldiers in the middle and a single horseman off to the side. “It’s like a leopard stalking a herd of buffalo. We’re too swift for Leax to catch, but too weak to take him.”
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 27