Disciple, Part I: For Want of a Piglet

by L. Blankenship

  I wished I’d had a nicer dress to wear, not my old yellow thing with the ragged hem. A margrave was between a baron and duke in rank — far too polite a company for a peasant girl. I sidled closer to Ulf, who looked nearly as uncomfortable. Ilya and Ther Boristan knew more of such folk, and waited unruffled.

  “No need to hide,” Ilya whispered, nudging me closer to Kiefan and Anders. “His Majesty knighted you.”

  I nodded, as it was true, and took that step. But I clenched my hands together behind my back.

  The ladies arrived and the Captain introduced them as Margraves Leix and Lorcana Gwatcyn of Tadhlon. At a glance, they were twins and dressed alike as well in full-length gowns of pale blue. M’lady Leix Gwatcyn served as a captain-general in the Crowns’ army and had a square-shouldered air about her. M’lady Lorcana smiled more. Both ladies wore their grey-streaked hair and faint crow’s-feet with dignity and grace, and kindly acknowledged my attempt at a curtsy and the menfolk’s bows.

  It was when the daughters arrived, Aifric and Esgwen, that gave me pause. They came running down the hall outside chattering until a man’s voice sharply stopped them. Half composed, they stepped into the drawing room door, pink-cheeked and fighting down giggles. They were twins as well, dark hair cut short like Mohra’s, short-skirted and looking to be twelve or thirteen.

  “’Tis well we could have one meal together ere the elect rides in,” m’lady Leix said, in Arceal, as a maid handed out teacups. “Please, Captain, introduce our guests.”

  She began with our prince, then his guardsman and then, to my surprise, his physician. Lorcana said with a smile, “Healing is a lofty art in Caercoed. Is it so in Wodenberg?”

  I curtsied again. “The highest calling of Saint Qadeem’s disciples, m’lady.”

  “Surely it made your mother proud.”

  I could say, honestly, “My mother was proud, yes.”

  M’lady Lorcana’s blue eyes narrowed, catching me. “But who was not proud?”

  Everyone who understood Arceal watched me now, with curiosity. Especially Kiefan. I felt a blush creeping into my cheeks, but there was no helping the truth. “My father did not want me —” I began, but didn’t know the word in Arceal. “Taught? By my master, in an agreement?”

  Mohra supplied the word. “Apprenticed.”

  “’Twas your father who opposed?” M’lady Lorcana weighed that. “But did not prevent, else you would not be here.”

  “The piglet died,” I said.

  “A piglet?” Leix chuckled when she said it. “How did a piglet sway your father?”

  “Father brought me home from the Order after my first two years of study, even though the Elect wanted me for his apprentice. An apprentice is for five years, so when I finish I will be nineteen. To be unwed at nineteen, even as a physician…” From the faint lines in their brows, the margraves didn’t quite see why that troubled my father. I risked a glance at Kiefan, but he studied his tea. Anders and Boristan were translating for Ulf and Ilya. “I am only an Englic peasant girl, m’ladies. Father arranged my betrothal to a blacksmith and clinched it with a sow piglet for my dowry. But she took ill and died when the snows came early. For want of a piglet, my Father signed the apprentice papers and I went back to the Elect.”

  M’lady Lorcana smiled. “How far along?”

  “Two years, m’lady.”

  “You must be a bright star, to be trusted with such so young.”

  My blush deepened. Thankfully, attention passed from me to continue the introductions. Ther Boristan of the Order, woodsman Ulf and manservant Ilya were presented in turn. “Be welcome at our table, no matter how humble your roots,” Lorcana told them and Kiefan translated. “You’ve crossed dire mountains and there will be no offense taken tonight. ’Tis a saga to tell, surely, Prince Kiefan?”

  “It was a difficult journey, and we were glad to see trees again after so many days of snow and ice. And to hear wolves howl rather than lamia singing.”

  Aifric and Esgwen perked up at that. “’Tis lamia across the mountains?” one asked.

  “Do you have them here too?”

  “In the northern lands. A wonder your little ponies outran such beasts.” The girl jabbed that at Anders, who only smiled.

  “Our ponies are as valiant as ten horses,” he replied. “They didn’t even trouble themselves to run.”

  In the drawing room door, the margraves’ husband Aed — whose husband? both? — cleared his throat and offered a slight bow. “Dinner is prepared,” he announced. “’Tis an honor for my son Tiarnan and I to serve.”

  I wondered, for a moment, if the son had a twin too but no, only one boy about my age was in evidence in the dining room. Pale, delicate, and his hair was so dark it was nearly black. Tiarnan saw the guests to the table, and his father escorted the margraves and the daughters. The former were seated at the head of the broad table, the latter at the foot, and we guests in between. We each had a fine-glazed porcelain plate waiting for us, a matching cup, and a wooden spoon besides. The table was well lit by candelabras and evening light through the windows.

  In our Alemannic, Kiefan asked, “What was that about the ponies?”

  Anders sat across the table. “I checked on them, to be sure of their treatment. And I may have been looking at the other horses when the twins discovered me.” He grinned. “I nearly had a chance to see their swordsmanship. They’re fierce defenders of their favorite horses.”

  Kiefan stood and caught both girls’ eyes with a shallow bow. “If my guardsman troubled you or your horses, m’ladies, I apologize.”

  I believe it was Aifric who fought down a laugh and Esgwen who stood and answered. “’Twas only a startle, sir. Though your guardsman was nosy as a horse-trader.”

  “Perhaps because I am a horse-trader, now and then. Most often a trainer of warhorses,” Anders said.

  That got them off and talking about horses, particularly with m’lady Leix who rode warhorses herself in the Crowns’ army. As they talked, I ate by turns a bowl of potato soup and a plate-full of roasted chicken with greens. The dagger I had carried and eaten with through the trip suddenly seemed far too large and awkward. I tried to copy Kiefan’s table manners by watching him sidelong.

  The conversation subsided a few minutes when the apple-and-raisin tarts arrived and cups of brandy were poured. “Needs must ask,” m’lady Leix said while Tiarnan cut and served slices of tart, “of the obvious, dear guests. Stories told by far-ranging caravans of horned men tend to put one in a mind of a man’s natural horn.” She chuckled at that along with my companions; I turned some shade of pink. “But I see ’tis not a mere turn of phrase. What ’tis that does such violence to your profile, Prince Kiefan? To look at it, I’d think ’twas painful.”

  “Blessings are bestowed without pain, m’lady. Once Blessed and claimed by a saint, we know our purpose in the kingdom. Some for war, some for wisdom, some for building,” Kiefan said, reciting what we were all told as children.

  “An alliance of three saints — a rare thing. Qadeem was one, you said?”

  “Qadeem for wisdom, Aleksandr for craft, and Woden for war.”

  M’lady Leix paused in taking a bite of apple tart. “Saint Woden? Of Wodenberg.”

  “And the city of the same name, on the slopes of Mount Woden.”

  “Puts his mark on everything, does he? Aught else?”

  “He is my grandfather, some times over,” Kiefan said.

  That was well known, that the royal family was descended from Saint Woden, but when Kiefan said it I happened to be watching Anders splash a little of the brandy onto his apple tart. And I remembered what Baron Eismann had said about sending both… claimants to the crown? Now that Anders was cleaned up and out of that deep-hooded cloak, I suddenly saw a bit of the resemblance. He was a little older, lighter in the hair and bluer-eyed, but he and Kiefan shared a jawline and cheekbones.

  Everyone said that the queen hated the king because of the bastard son that’d come after her two princes
died. Before Kiefan.

  Anders leaned back in his chair with his doctored slice of tart. He wore his uniform, a black tabard embroidered with the cavalry sigil, for knighthood, two golden stars for the Prince’s Guard, and a brass ring knotted on each epaulette to indicate a sergeant’s rank. Jousting champions were always promoted to the Guard, and he’d won it twice.

  Kiefan had said the saints assigned Anders to the mission, and he hardly knew him. Why?

  I had lost track of the conversation with the margraves, but m’lady Leix managed to catch my ear. “You mean to say that all your people are Blessed? There are no laypeople, no disciples?”

  Ther Boristan answered. “We are all disciples, m’lady. We are all part of the kingdom, we are all bound to the cause of the Trinity.”

  Lorcana said, “But not all have the gift of kir. In Caercoed, as in many places, only those who prove sensitive are discipled by saints. Of those, the stronger rise to the rank of blessed and perhaps on to elect.”

  “Some Blessings are greater than others,” Boristan offered. “I have only a minor Blessing, myself, but I receive my due share of kir and use it to serve the saints.”

  That seemed to be a new point. “Your due share?”

  “Yes, daily, for my Blessing. And if I don’t require it, I can use it in a charm.”

  The margraves’ eyes tracked across each of us, newly wary. “’Tis quite an arrangement your Trinity has, dear guests,” m’lady Lorcana said, in low tones. “If you are all so blessed, there must be so many elect that you could hardly need the aid of Caercoed.”

  That deepened the silence. The answer itched in my mouth, but I didn’t think it my place to speak. It was Kiefan who said, quietly, “Wodenberg has only one elect for the moment. Elect Parselev, Dame Kate’s master.”

  Another long moment passed, and Leix broke the silence. “I do apologize, dear guests, for I promised no questions of weight tonight. ’Twould seem that we should arrange for sparring, for I’ve heard from my guards that they’re eager to see how such knights handle a sword. And if the woodsman is willing, ’twill be archery as well.”

  “Tomorrow is Saint-day,” Boristan said, “and there’ll be training for certain. We missed a Saint-day, up in the pass, so we’ll all be following instruction this week.” With a stern look, he repeated that for Ulf and Ilya. “Washing, disciple’s dance, and all.” They muttered a bit for having to wash again so soon, but it was half-hearted.

  “Fortunate, then, Elect Tannait will be here tomorrow,” Lady Leix said. “She’ll wish to see these war Blessings at use.”

  I, for one, was glad for the chance to stretch in the disciple’s dance.

  We drew an audience in the gate-yard. M’lady Leix and her daughters watched, as did several squads of guards from the barracks and as many housemaids as could sneak away from their duties. Caercoed had no Blessings, no Saint-day and no disciple’s dance — when Captain Mohra told me as much, I had to wonder just what the Caer saints gave their people.

  After the dance ended, wooden swords and round shields were brought. I sat on a bench outside the kitchen with the captain to watch the audience as they watched the knights. Aifric and Esgwen wore their own wooden training swords and stared, rapt. Two littler sisters had come out to watch, too, a pair of six-year-old girls. Twins.

  I had to ask. “Mohra, I noticed that… oh, your pardon,” I began to apologize; I had been in the wrong language.

  She only smiled. “’Tis long enough now that I’ve picked up your tongue,” she said in Alemannic. “We have Blessed of our own, in Caercoed.”

  “How many do you speak?”

  “Arceal, Suevi, Ryu and now — what do you call this?”

  “Alemannic.”

  “Ah. Not so different from Suevi. I speak Englic, too,” Mohra said, switching again. “Could have a truly private conversation. You’re Englic, yes? By your name, I thought you were.”

  “Yes, but I only speak Englic at home,” I said, lowering my voice. Ther Boristan and Ilya weren’t far away. “It’s not used in Wodenberg.”

  Mohra nodded. “Few Englic ships make the north crossing, the old timers say, since Wodenberg took you.” But she returned to Alemannic. “What ’tis you meant to ask?”

  I indicated the margrave and her daughters. “The ladies are twins. As are Aifric and Esgwen. The two little ones as well? Are twins so common, here?”

  A laugh escaped her. “All girls are twins in Caercoed. Saint Conbarre and Saint Sabh bestowed it on us.”

  “Twins as well.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Is your twin a captain also? Blessed with languages?”

  She shook her head. “She’s a disciple and sees to her market stall. Our husband keeps house and raises our girls.”

  I wanted to ask about that too, but Kiefan and Anders finished their training forms and began their sparring. M’lady Leix and some of the officers shouted out requests in specific swordsman’s terms. The two men stripped off their surcotes, as the afternoon was growing warm, and faced off in their closer-fit, plain wool cotes. At first, neither used his speed Blessing and they merely showed off their swings and jabs and blocks. But then they shifted into a true blur and held it longer than I’d seen before. Wood cracked on wood, on flesh, and when they slipped out of speed both their chests heaved. They circled, guards high, and Anders lunged in to set them off again.

  Leix leaned to the nearest of her officers to ask something; the woman only shook her head. The skirmish lapsed out of Blessing speed when Kiefan stumbled back from a hard jab to the shoulder, gritting his teeth. I didn’t see the counter-strike, nobody did, but Anders’ sword skittered away on the packed dirt and he shook his arm with a grimace.

  “No need to truly disarm me,” he said, loud enough to carry.

  “M’lady, Captain?”

  Tiarnan Gwatcyn stood in the kitchen door. He took a few steps toward us, fidgeting with his hands until he clasped them behind his back. The knee-length surcote he wore looked old-fashioned, to me, and the apron over it was streaked with flour. “Think you that they’ll want some tea? Or perhaps ale? Once they end their… swordplay?” he asked.

  “Mayhaps you should take a sword and try it yourself, m’lord. You’re sure to know what they’ll want then.” Captain Mohra smiled, teasing.

  Even the lightest touch of pink showed, on Tiarnan’s pale face. But he was handsome enough, in his quiet way. “’Twould be foolishness, Captain. M’lady, would you care for tea?” That with a smile that had to fight its way out.

  “Tea would be very kind of you,” I said, managing a smile back. First knights and princes, now a margrave’s son offering me tea. Stranger and stranger.

  “Oh, ’tis no trouble. Not for a master of the healing arts.”

  “I’m hardly a master.”

  Tiarnan was quick to shake his head. “On such a journey through the Iawyr? When you faced lamia? I’ve mended but a few fevers, splinted a broken bone — I cannot imagine, m’lady. I would tremble in my boots.”

  “I did some of that myself.”

  “Surely you…” Tiarnan trailed off when he looked in the direction the captain jerked her chin. He closed his mouth, pressed it in a thin line.

  Kiefan had the practice sword across his shoulders and gripped in both hands, using it to casually massage a muscle or two as he crossed the yard toward us. He didn’t say a word, he merely took an extra step closer to Tiarnan to make it clear the margrave’s son had to look up to meet the prince’s gaze. Not a glare, not a twitch in Kiefan’s face, but Tiarnan looked away quickly and retreated into the kitchen.

  I didn’t notice that until he was half gone, and felt a twinge of sympathy. “He was asking if we’d like some tea.”

  Kiefan stretched both arms up and back, sword for a spacer between his hands, and his joints crackled a bit when he let go, swung the wooden blade down. “Tea? Water would be enough.”

  Mohra chuckled and leaned close to my ear to whisper, in Englic, “Luc
ky girl, to draw that one’s jealousy.”

  My mind stumbled over that. Kiefan said, “Pardon, Captain?”

  “How does one train at such speeds?” she asked him, instead of answering. “And how long does a day’s kir last, spending it on speed?”

  “One trains at ordinary speeds and the mastery carries over. The second’s for me to know and my enemies to fear.”

  I felt a tickle, a faint shiver in my kir, and I would have thought little of it if Kiefan and Captain Mohra had not both looked toward the gate with me. “Do you feel that?” I asked.

  “Must be the Elect,” Kiefan said.

  “Yes, ’tis.” The captain stood and called to m’lady Leix, then at an order trotted toward the gatehouse.

  Anders wandered over to my bench as well. “What chance of getting a drink of water while they prepare, do you think?”

  I chuckled as I got up. “If he hadn’t been frightened off, we might’ve had some.” I went to the kitchen door and leaned in.

  Tiarnan looked up as he turned out a lump of dough from its rising bowl. The mass deflated as it landed. “M’lady?”

  “Might we have some water, rather than tea?” The words were strange in my mouth, asking a gentle-born man for something so plain. But he obliged, and still had time to knead down his dough, return it to its rising, and join us in the gate-yard before the Elect arrived.

  Four riders trotted in, but my eyes went to Elect Tannait the moment she was in view. She was a small woman, when she alit from the saddle, but she let her kir draw eyes and hold them. It was nothing so obvious, not the kir fount’s glittering or glow, merely a warmth under my breastbone and an inability to overlook her. Master Parselev usually wrapped his kir away, and said it was a good trick to know when you wanted to go unnoticed.