As Khitajrah headed toward the center and the jutting spires of Béarn’s castle, even hovering fatigue could not keep her from staring. The predominant motif appeared to be bears. She discovered them rearing, pacing in pairs, or roaring in fierce defiance. One stylized creation merely gave the impression of “bear,” though Khitajrah felt uncertain whether the bold swirls and lines made her think of a bear for some artistic reason or only because of the town’s major theme.
Oddly, Khitajrah found her eyes glued to the artwork, though the Béarnides posed more danger. She noticed their movement and bustle through the king’s city only indistinctly, from peripheral vision. She guessed her own tiredness as well as the captivating stonework made her reckless. The swarthy Béarnides, with their black hair and dark eyes, reminded her more of Easterners than any humans she had met since crossing the Great Frenum Mountains, and that also put her at ease.
However, there the resemblance ended. To a man, the Béarnides stood as tall as the largest Eastern warrior and as broad as a bear. Even the women seemed as massive as any Eastern man, and the children showed promise of their parents’ bulk. Long black beards predominated, joining with sideburns and mustaches into manes that seemed to surround the men’s stout, coarsely-featured faces; Eastern men usually remained clean-shaven. When they did grow beards, they tended to keep them short and well-groomed, always accompanied by a mustache. Their sparser hair patterns rarely allowed head and facial growth to link. The Béarnides spoke a rapid language that seemed delicate compared with the Easterners’ harsh gutturals, and it did not seem to fit their size. Their population seemed as sparse in daylight as Stalmize’s did moments before curfew. Obviously, the plagues and power struggles Lirtensa mentioned had taken their toll on the populace where the Great War had not. Eastern King Siderin had bought off the previous Béarnian king, and the city had not joined its fellow Westerners in battle.
Khitajrah forced her attention to other sights in the city of Béarn. In addition to the citizenry, the architecture, and the myriad statues, she discovered tall, unrecognizable contraptions composed of pulleys, logs, and ropes. The wind stirred clamps that thunked musically against wood, and ratcheting noises filled the streets as men yanked at the ropes. From what Khitajrah could see without gawking, these apparently hauled blocks of stone from place to place, mostly from the farm valleys to the crags. Wagons waited at the sites, presumably to carry the rescued granite to the mason. Clearly, even the nuisance stones that dulled farmers’ plows did not go to waste here.
As Khitajrah neared the castle of Béarn, fatigue seemed to vanish, replaced by nervousness. In Stalmize, had a woman insisted on coming before the king, the guards would have laughed her down. Then, perhaps, they would have attacked and raped or killed her just for the practice. In the West, she knew, laws forbade the latter actions. Lirtensa’s matter-of-factness only confirmed the impression. Yet Khitajrah did not know if she would have the words to obtain an audience. She rode directly to the castle, reining up before the iron gates.
A half-dozen men in mail glanced down at Khitajrah from the ramparts. Each wore a blue tabard decorated with a tan figure of a bear, and a blue feather arched delicately from one man’s helmet. Another man perched in a semi-oval window. Though also dressed in Béarn’s blue and tan, nothing about his garb seemed official. He wore a tunic and cape, and one breek-covered leg dangled from the ledge. Though he wore a longsword at his hip, a mandolin occupied his hands. Through the bars of the gate, Khitajrah could see two more guards standing at attention just inside the entryway. These had swords at their hips and halberds in their hands. Her position had not allowed her to assess the weaponry of the others. Beyond the sentries on the ground, a courtyard filled with stone benches, statues, and flowers beckoned; and a lowered plankway led into the interior over a moat filled with brackish water.
While Khitajrah studied the castle and its sentries, the guards watched her in the same, thoughtful silence. At length, she flushed beneath the intensity of their stares.
The paint pawed the ground with a forehoof, flinging gravel, as if impatient to enter the gates.
Khitajrah spoke hesitantly, in the trading tongue. “Hello.”
No one replied in words, but one of the gate sentries gave a single nod of acknowledgment.
Encouraged by this simple gesture, Khitajrah addressed this man specifically. “I’d like an audience with the king.” She pulled the paint around, and it pranced, snorting, legs continuing to move long after it came into position.
“No one without hostile intentions is denied an audience with King Sterrane.” He passed his halberd to his companion, who took the shaft but remained rigidly at attention. The speaking man pulled parchment and a stylus from his pocket. “Your name, please.”
“Khitajrah Harrsha’s-widow.”
The man penned the first letter or two, then stopped, frowning. He scratched out what he had written and restarted, again quitting after only a few marks. “Kay-tahj-i-what?”
Khitajrah cursed herself for not taking Lirtensa’s hint. “Kayt will do fine.”
“Kayt.” The guard studied Khitajrah more carefully for a time, then returned to his parchment and wrote. “You’re not a citizen.” It was a statement, not a question. He went on. “What village, tribe, town, or city do you represent?”
“I represent only myself.” The mare began pawing again, wearing a trench with its forehoof. Khitajrah jerked the horse’s head up. “Stop that,” she said to the animal.
“Mmm.” The guard did not bother to write anything. “And what is this audience in regard to?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“And that personal matter is?”
“Personal,” Khitajrah repeated with finality. She dismounted, allowing the horse to paw as it would.
“Personal.” The sentry frowned. “Very well. You may see his majesty, King Sterrane of Béarn, high king of the Westlands in the afternoon, exactly one week from today. Thank you for—”
“A week!” Khitajrah shouted, caught off-guard by the pronouncement.
“Yes, lady. The king’s a busy man.”
“I haven’t got a week.”
“Others have been waiting longer.”
“I need to speak with him today.”
The sentry’s brows arched over his flinty eyes. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. The day is scheduled.”
Chaos added its opinion. *Use guile, Khita.*
Upset, Khitajrah did not mince words. *Easy for you to say. You’re not two days shy on sleep.*
The sentry returned parchment and stylus to his pocket, collecting his weapon. “Merchants and nobility often send a servant ahead to set up the meeting for when their master arrives.”
Khitajrah transferred her rage to the guard. “Do I look like a princess to you?”
*Easy,* chaos cautioned. *He’s just doing his job.*
“That’s not for me to determine,” the Béarnide said carefully.
Chaos prodded further. *Tell him it’s important. It concerns one of the king’s friends.*
*But . . .* Khitajrah started, immediately recognizing the flaw in her own argument. *That’s not guile. That’s the truth.*
*Sometimes it works.*
It seemed worth a try. “But this is too important to wait. It concerns a friend of the king.”
The sentry seemed appropriately serious, but he had not seemed any less so in the past. He exchanged a glance with his companion. “What’s the matter?”
“I’d prefer to discuss it directly with his majesty.”
“I’m sure you would,” the sentry said. “But I need to have adequate knowledge for the king to decide if the matter is urgent enough to require interrupting scheduled audiences. It would disrupt more than just routine, you understand.”
Khitajrah lowered her head, defeated. “I understand.”
*You’re giving up so easily?*
*What choice do I have? I can hardly call my wish for information an emergency
. Lying to the guards won’t earn me any goodwill from the king. When he finds out I called a bunch of irrelevant questions urgent, he’ll probably throw me in the dungeon. I’m not going through that again. Better to just see what Lirtensa found.*
Chaos saw the logic in Khitajrah’s words. It did not push further, though she could still sense disappointment and a certainty of triumph if they played the situation well. Exhaustion pressed Khitajrah, and she dared not attempt cunning with her mind blunted and so much at stake. The time lost hurt; but, on horseback, she could still regain most of it.
“Lieutenant, you’ll forgive my intrusion for a moment?” The voice came from over Khitajrah’s head. She glanced up in time to see the sentry with the plume make a friendly gesture of dismissal toward the man in the window.
Khitajrah naturally turned her head in his direction.
The musician no longer held his mandolin; apparently, he had replaced it in his room to free his hands. Now that he held her full attention, Khitajrah noticed things she had missed on first inspection. Though he sported dark hair, it bore a hue lighter than the Béarnides’, with a touch of red. He was clean-shaven, more slender and delicate in build, though he did not lack for muscles. There was a calmness about him that seemed genuine and permanent. Clearly, though not one of them, he had earned the Béarnides’ respect. He called down to her. “Hello, Khitajrah Harrsha’s-widow.” He gave the name a passable Eastern pronunciation, his own accent similar to Lirtensa’s. “My name is Mar Lon. I’m King Sterrane’s personal bodyguard.”
Mar Lon had said nothing that required a reply, but Khitajrah felt as if he expected one. “Quite an honor.”
“The greatest of my life,” Mar Lon agreed.
The guards remained in position, silent. Their furrowed brows made it clear they had no more understanding than she did of why the king’s personal bodyguard had chosen to spend his off-duty time supervising a standard exchange between a stranger and castle sentries.
Mar Lon seemed oblivious to the intensity of the guardsmen’s silence. “That’s a nice-looking horse you have there.”
Khitajrah blinked. Though he still had not questioned, she again believed he wanted an answer or comment. “Yes, I . . .” Chaos buzzed an incoherent warning, and Khitajrah trailed off.
*Careful. Either he knows something he shouldn’t, or he’s interested in your mount. In either case, if you answer right, you may get your audience.*
*What’s “right”?*
Chaos gave no answer, as uncertain as its host.
Mar Lon did not seem to notice that Khitajrah had not finished. “Where’d you get such a fine steed?”
The question seemed harmless, free of accusation, yet Khitajrah felt cold sweat cling to her back. Though she knew less guilt than she expected for the theft, she had hoped to trade the paint mare in Béarn. She had told Arduwyn her destination, and he could surely track her to the high kingdom. The idea of a man as cautious and silent as Arduwyn hunting her tightened every muscle with dread. His bow could end her life before she saw him coming, and horse stealing might prove enough motive to allow him to do so within the law. In the Eastlands, a woman who took a horse from a man could be tortured and slaughtered in any manner of the victim’s choosing, and death in the Eastlands was rarely painless. Here, she suspected, a verdict would come slower and punishment swifter; but the end result would be the same. However, if Arduwyn got his horse back here, he might not hold a grudge. “I . . .” she started.
*Careful,* chaos warned unnecessarily.
“I found it in the woods.” Khitajrah skirted the truth, not quite lying either. “I thought someone here might know its master.”
Mar Lon said nothing, just waited for Khitajrah to continue.
She rambled on. “If not, well, since this is the closest town, I figured its master might come here. I hoped I could sell it or trade it. I’m in a hurry. I really do need a mount, but I wouldn’t want to leave someone else without a favored horse.” She looked at the paint, which was pawing and stomping more than ever.
Mar Lon crouched gracefully in the window, as if tensed to leap to the ground. Khitajrah estimated he could make the jump, but not without the near certainty of broken bones. But Mar Lon remained in place, studying the mare in the sunlight. “Well, the king likes a good horse as well as any man. I’m certain he’d want to see this one.” He drew back, then made a wide gesture to the officer on the ramparts. “Viridis, I’ll make the arrangements. Please have your men escort Khitajrah to the king’s court.”
The trading tongue term for “court” came dangerously close to “courtroom,” and Khitajrah barely suppressed a shiver. She felt chilled and excited at once, alternately joyful that she had achieved her goal and cautious about the way the opportunity seemed to have fallen, unexpectedly, into her hands. She guessed either curiosity or attraction had goaded Mar Lon to take her side, but she wondered whether it was herself or the horse that he found appealing. After a full night and day of travel through woodlands, the odds seemed on the side of the mare.
Mar Lon ducked inside the tower. The sentry who had addressed Khitajrah made no move to open the gates. Instead, he stood at attention, waiting.
The lieutenant called down to his men. “Escort her to the king’s court. Procedure standard.”
As one, the sentries leaned their halberds against the wall. The one who had remained silent throughout the exchange, the shorter of the two, worked the latches and bars. He gestured for Khitajrah to move out of the way, and she retreated several steps, drawing the horse with her. The mare paced backward with short, excited steps. Neck arched, it kept its head low, chin tucked.
The gate swung outward. The instant an opening appeared, the horse bolted for the courtyard. The sudden movement ripped the bridle from Khitajrah’s hands, drawing a burning line across her palm. Jerked abruptly forward, she dropped to one knee to keep from falling on her face.
The guard caught the reins as the horse thundered by, jerking its head. Spun by its own momentum, the paint staggered, and its hooves skidded furrows through the rock-speckled mud. Pulled to a sudden stop, it snorted its dissatisfaction; but it did calm.
The sentry who had done the speaking took Khitajrah’s arms gently and assisted her to her feet. Wind flicked the soft fabric of his tabard across her wrist. Though slight, the touch brought memories of strong hands and casual nearness, and the odors of leather, oil, steel, and sweat enhanced a sorrow that exhaustion would not allow logic to displace. The eleven years since her husband’s death seemed more like eleven hundred. She missed rolling over at night, arm flopping across the warrior largeness that was the man she loved. Without awakening, he would draw her convulsively closer, his massive hands making her feel fragile yet, at the same time, warm and secure. For all of her driving need to protect the women of Stalmize from ancient laws desperately in need of change, there were times when she had enjoyed feeling safe herself. In Harrsha’s arms, she could say anything, tell any secret, knowing he shared her deepest concerns; and he could do the same.
Khitajrah met the sentry’s dark eyes, and the emotion disappeared in an instant. A single glance told her that she shared nothing with this Béarnide and never could. Yet just the fact that she had considered the possibility made her realize what she had long resisted. Somewhere in the world lived another man, perhaps more than one, who could replace what she had lost.
Oblivious to Khitajrah’s thoughts, the sentry released her and stepped aside. “Horse stays. Pack stays. Weapons?” He looked at her, awaiting a response.
“None.” Khitajrah still carried a knife, but most people did so routinely. If they wanted it, too, she felt certain they would ask. She had secured Arduwyn’s pack to the horse, carrying nothing that did not fit easily into a pocket.
“You’ll get everything back when your audience is finished. Come with me.”
Khitajrah walked through the gates, and the sentry pulled them closed behind her. Seeing his companion had taken charge of the hors
e, he replaced the latches and locks. Then he gestured her into the courtyard.
Khitajrah stared at the tended flower gardens and the intricate statues and benches interspersed between them. Women in gowns and men dressed in satiny garments perched regally on benches while children chased one another along the winding pathways. Here, too, Khitajrah noticed bears as the predominant theme of the statues. Before she could stare too long, the sentry led her across the sturdy planking that bridged the moat and through great iron doors decorated with a crest that included a rearing bear.
It took a moment for Khitajrah’s eyes to adjust to the sudden absence of the sun, though lines of torches lit the corridors almost as brightly. Brackets carved into animal shapes held the burning torches, tan and blue brocade dangling from their undersides. The guard’s armor clinked as he walked, and the decorative bands swayed in the breeze of his passage. As she became less concerned with light, Khitajrah noticed old carvings scrawled over part of the wall. Stories unfolded on what seemed like leagues of corridor, interrupted by cross-corridors and doors. The portion she saw showed a vast army in armor of leather and chain engaged in battle with a sparse band of savage, blond reavers who wore no protection and wielded only swords. Before she could see how the battle ended, the sentry stopped before a set of teak doors. The royal crest, surrounded by fire opals, filled a fist-sized space on each door, at eye level. A pair of sentries dressed like the ones at the gate stood rigidly before the portals, their halberds crossed before it.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 33