by Ellyn, Court
She stood from the table and extended the book she’d been reading. “D shelf,” she said, and Kieryn put it away for her. “You should take care. One day you will be a ruling lord of Ilswythe, and the impression you make on others will matter. As unfortunate as it may be, that impression depends much on outward appearance, as well as how punctual you are.”
“All the more reason for me to show up late today in my riding leathers.”
“There is also your procrastination, absent-mindedness, timidity, self-consciousness. . .”
Kieryn felt himself gaping. “How can you love me at all? You think me an utter misfit.”
Etivva’s smile was tender. “Not a misfit, my lord.”
“I’ve always said Kelyn was more suited to lordship. Why should I try to be something I’m not?”
“You and he still holding to the agreement then?”
Kieryn blew the dust off a book that may well have been lying on the floor since last year’s Assembly and slid it into its proper place. “Absolutely. Kelyn inherits Ilswythe. I get the library. It’s all I want.”
Etivva shook her bald head. “You two, Goddess bless you. Most brothers—twins especially—would be mad at each other’s throats for a holding like this, yet one gives it to the other willingly.”
“I don’t want it. I don’t care,” he insisted, shifting a row of books upright and planting another among them. How he loved the feel of the pages, the binds, leather and silk, under his fingers and the smell of the parchment and ink and dust.
“You expect just to read your life away then?” Etivva sounded disappointed, even angry. The question blindsided him. Her praise of his dedication to studies had helped forged their relationship.
“What is this? You take Da’s side now?”
“Maybe I have, for a while now. Your father wants you to do something, Kieryn. So do I. What do you plan to do with all this knowledge?”
He chewed his lip. He had to convince her, so he admitted, “I plan to write a history of the world.”
Etivva drew back, her black eyes as liquid as spilled ink. “A history of Aralorr or a history of the entire world?”
“I said of the world, didn’t I?”
“Well, yes, but …” She ducked her eyes at his biting retort, an old habit she had brought with her from the Desert. The women of the Damarri people were permitted to meet the eyes of their fathers and husbands only. Even brothers’ eyes were taboo among some tribes. Etivva had once admitted that when she first arrived in the Valley, many months had passed before she could look the men of the Shaddra’hin in the eye. Now she looked at Kieryn’s hands, clenched about another book.
He felt wretched for intimidating her, so he made his tone pleading. “The history of Aralorr has been written many times. The history of Leania, of Fiera, of the Desert, it’s all been done, but no one has tried to compile a history of the entire world. How it all fits together.”
“It is a fairly big world, Kieryn,” she stated mildly. “And you have never been beyond Aralorr.”
“I was in Leania once, at Wyramor visiting Uncle Allaran.”
“Leania is not the world, Kieryn. Hardly enough to give you experience—”
“I’ll get there,” he insisted. “Someday, I’ll travel beyond Aralorr and see great things and many peoples, and I’ll record everything I learn. You’ll see.”
“Do not think you must prove yourself to me. I know you are special.” She avoided his eyes again and picked up a stack of loose-leaf parchments to sort.
Wounded by Etivva’s reaction to his secret ambition, Kieryn felt more useless and inept than special. He spent his anger on the books, smashing them into place until he felt wretched about his tantrum, too. He paused and breathed and made a fatal error—he opened the book in his hand:
… and Tallon went into the lands of the Avidan and befriended the Elves and won the allegiance of the moonbright Lady and brought them out from their shining city and defeated the tyrannical Falcon, King Mathónryk.
Doubtful, Kieryn thought. Tallon had won his great victory only two hundred years ago, but no one had reported seeing a living elf in twice that long. Even Tallon failed to mention elves in his writings. When Kieryn wrote his history of the world, he would make certain it was factual. On the other hand, how would he know he wrote only fact? ‘Fact,’ it seemed, was too often twisted and obscured by myth. People seemed to prefer myth, for the telling was prettier.
“Etivva,” he asked, “do they still exist? Elves, I mean.”
She was silent a long while, reshuffling manuscripts on a low shelf beneath a window. Kieryn was about to repeat his question when she answered, “The Triangle of Being would hardly be a Triangle without the elves. They must still be out there, or the world would be in unbalance.”
“But no one has seen sign of them in so long, or ogres or fairies or dragons for that matter.”
“Must you see Ana to believe she is there? I taught you better than that, I hope.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Not that I would ever speak against your father,” she interrupted, “but can you really wonder at the absence of the Beings of Magic after the manner in which men such as he speak of them?”
Kieryn remembered his father’s profanities shouted from the battlement yesterday. Keth’s loathing of all things elven was legendary. He spat at the mention of elves and used the word ‘elf’ exclusively as a curse, and to call someone ‘elven’ was the worst insult Keth could imagine. How old was his hatred? How many ages of sons had inherited it from their fathers? And why? What purpose did it serve? No one Kieryn knew had ever encountered an elf, much less been given reason to loathe the race. But yesterday, he and Kelyn had cursed one another with the word without a second thought. Kieryn cringed and asked, “We ran them off, do you think?”
“It was we humans who won the Elf War, after all.”
“Yes, but that was almost a millennium ago. This book and countless bard-songs claim that Tallon had the help of the elves, and his rebellion took place only two hundred years ago.”
“Then why doubt it? What other conclusion can you reach?”
“But there are too many variables.”
“Variables?” Etivva stood straight and met his eye. “Maybe I taught you too well. You disregard simple faith.” She gave him such a piercing look that he almost ducked his eyes.
“I used to dream of …” Golden light fluttering. A perfume of flowers in thawing ice. Hair of spring sunshine swirling, lavender eyes weeping, a child’s hand reaching out, reaching, empty. “No!” Kieryn dropped the book, nausea draining the blood from his head. It was an evil dream, and memory of it made him feel alone—abandoned—even with Etivva standing near. She steadied him, put a brown hand to his blanched face and helped him to a chair.
“What was it?”
“Nothing.” Evil. So beautiful. “No breakfast,” he said.
Etivva pressed her lips into a tight smile and left him to recover. Kieryn inhaled a shuddering breath and knelt to retrieve the book. The pages had fallen open to a rendering of Tallon wearing the Aralorri crown with its halo of onyx falcons. King Rhorek would ride through Ilswythe’s gates today wearing the same crown. Tallon had been the first of his dynasty, a champion of honor, justice, virtue, a legend exalted in song. An ancestor to boast of. And nearly every highborn in Aralorr boasted of a blood-link to Tallon the Unifier, however distant. But Rhorek had no need to boast of it.
“By the Mother, Kieryn!”
He glanced up from Tallon’s face to find his brother standing in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a tunic of cerulean silk velvet, dark hair brushed and shined and tied back perfectly.
“When you weren’t in your chamber, I knew you’d be here. And you’re a lying bastard, too! This place is still a mess.” Kelyn kicked at a column of books on the floor. “If you’d put a book away when you’re done with it, you wouldn’t have this mess to start with.”
“What would you know about compa
rative studies anyway?” Kieryn retorted.
“Oh, shut up, will you, it’s too late to argue. They’re here.”
Kieryn glanced at the skylight. The shaft of dusty sunlight fell almost vertical. He shoved Tallon back onto the shelf, any shelf, and bolted for the door.
Kelyn hurried alongside him. “Laral laid out your clothes. You took a bath yesterday, I hope.”
“Of course.”
“And make certain you comb your hair, all right? You look like a dune lion. Isn’t that what Mother calls you?” Kelyn left his brother at his chamber door and strode off for the stairs; he would join his mother and father at the Front Gatehouse, where he would make excuses for his twin. Again.
~~~~
Kieryn toppled and bruised his knee in his rush to pull on the white elk-skin breeches; he strained a shoulder trying to shove his arms into the white silk sleeves of his shirt; he smote his elbow when sliding the cerulean velvet tunic over his head; he pinched a finger when securing the wide black belt at his waist, and when he bent to pull on his shined black boots, his hair fell into his face. He tried to run an antler-ivory comb through the mess, decided it was hopeless, and tied it back with a black silk ribbon and rushed out the door. Idiot, scatterbrained idiot! he scolded, racing along the corridor. He stumbled down the stairs, and at the bottom, collided with a solid body. An arm in a wide Aralorri-blue sleeve swept around to steady him. Kieryn opened his mouth to upbraid the servant impeding his way, but found himself face to face with King Rhorek, the Black Falcon himself.
“Oh, ssssshit!” Kieryn exclaimed through his teeth, remembered his courtesy and stammered, “M-maj … sire … forgive me.’
Behind a dark beard lightly salted with silver, Rhorek’s face was stiff and pale, eyes closed, and for a terrifying moment he neither moved nor spoke. His left hand clenched his right arm.
“Goddess, you are injured,” Kieryn said.
Crowding the Great Corridor, the highborns and their kin, heirs, and squires bustled into line for the formal entrance procession. Fine velvets were dusty from the road, despite their care of looking their best upon arrival. Now the guests stopped and stared and whispered. Knights of the Falcon Guard, positioned along the length of the Corridor, advanced to apprehend the vile youth who had assaulted the king. Rhorek waved them down, breathed, and color crept back into his face. Upon his brow, the wide golden crown with the onyx falcons glistened with the colors of the stained-glass lamps. “Injured? Nonsense,” he said, but ever so subtly his hazel eyes shifted to indicate the mass of curious highborns.
Kieryn’s mouth worked soundlessly. He was being called upon to accept blame for the king’s pain. Grace, he reminded himself, thinking of Kelyn. “Ah, yes, I’m glad I didn’t hurt you, sire. I’m sorry I knocked the wind out of you. Pray, pardon me.”
Rhorek applauded him with a pat on the back. “No harm done,” he said, louder than necessary. “And you are most certainly Kieryn. I can never tell you two apart until you’re late.”
Kieryn grimaced. “It’s my shame, sire, and my father’s bane.”
Rhorek threw his head back and howled with laughter. How ever weary his entourage might be after three days of travel, Rhorek seemed not to mind making them wait longer for the culinary comforts of Keth’s table. He hooked Kieryn’s neck with his left arm, brought him close in conspiratorial fashion, until Kieryn’s forehead nearly touched the Falcon Crown. “Your father takes boyish mischief too seriously. What wouldn’t I give for sons like you and Kelyn. Harmless mischief should always be laughed at, for there is far too much serious mischief lurking about to steal our laughter. Hmm?”
“Yes, sire.”
“I shall ask your father to pardon you.” At the far end of the Great Hall, Kieryn’s family stood behind the high table to welcome their guests. Keth’s fists perched on his hips and he glared into the Corridor. Rhorek grinned with a hint of that harmless mischief. “I’ll even make it a royal decree if you think it’s necessary.”
“It may be this time, Your Majesty.”
Rhorek chuckled and released him. The highborns had begun milling about impatiently. “Keep the masses happy,” the king muttered.
“I’ll follow them in, sire,” said Kieryn, “and give you time to present your decree to my father?”
“That I will. Good luck.” He departed with a wink and resumed his march at the head of the highborns.
Kieryn bowed as they passed; he would rather not see their eyes accusing him of holding up their progress. Flocking to Bramoran Royal for the king’s procession, most of these lords and ladies had traveled great distances from their own holdings. A single rider could make the journey between Bramoran and Ilswythe in a day, but keeping together this many people of varying riding skill, age, and health slowed the journey considerably. Scouts had to be sent out as well, to ascertain the safety of the road. But highwaymen were a rare breed these days. Rhorek’s institution of large militias and building projects ensured that every man who needed work could find it. If his reign continued its present course, Rhorek might well be remembered as favorably as Tallon the Unifier. After seventeen years, he had not only brought about a decrease in petty thievery, but also avoided the outbreak of a major war with the Fierans. Indeed, he had brought peace to both his borders and his interior, and was loved as few kings before him had been loved.
Following Rhorek’s royal standard—the black falcon on a cerulean field—fluttered the banner of the Duchy of Liraness. Old Duke Harac, maternal uncle to the king, governed the northern land of Evaronna, and answered to none but the king himself. Evaronna had once been an independent kingdom in its own right, but Tallon, a child of Windhaven, had joined his lands to Aralorr when he won the Aralorri throne. By the blessing of Ana, the relations between Evaronnans and Aralorris had remained congenial. The line of kings they shared descended from the blood of both lands. Aralorr was a landlocked realm, making Evaronna’s ports vital; Aralorr provided Evaronna with andyr timber from the flanks of the Drakhan Mountains, and Evaronna paid for it with the finest silk.
The Duke’s banner was blood-rich maroon trimmed in Aralorri blue; the silver-arrow blazon boasted of Evaronna’s renown for archers. Beneath the arrow, Kieryn expected to find the old duke, but found his daughter instead. Kieryn remembered hearing that Harac had fallen ill last summer. Did he remain so ill that his daughter was compelled to take his place at the Assembly? Young enough to be the duke’s granddaughter, Lady Rhoslyn walked formally behind her cousin Rhorek, shoulders straight, chin lifted. Her dark red state gown swirled at her ankles, and a silver coronet topped her golden hair. But she looked terrified, hands were balled into fists at her sides, mouth tight, eyes round and searching.
Kieryn hadn’t seen Rhoslyn since they were twelve or thirteen. In those days, when Rhorek had demanded the presence of Keth and Harac, they had found it fitting to tote their heirs along. How many afternoons had the twins spent in the gardens at Bramoran harassing young Rhoslyn, the future Duchess of Liraness? Gradually, studies or hunting with Captain Maegeth had become far more interesting to the twins than hanging around the royal castle, stiff and clean in spotless silk.
Would Rhoslyn remember? Did Kieryn want her to remember?
Her searching eyes pinned him. Her fists relaxed and her lips curled in an impish grin. She remembered.
Kieryn ducked his eyes. Rhoslyn’s silk slippers winked at him in turns from under the hem of her gown. Oh, Goddess, what she must think of me! Late and clumsy, and feeling nowhere near as grown up as she looks. He scarcely noticed the passing of the other highborns: Rhorek’s handsome sister, the Princess Rilyth and her consort, Lord Erum of Brimlad; Princess Mazél, Lady of Lunélion, Rhorek’s paternal aunt, with her warrior daughters Maeret and Genna; Lord Kassen of Thyrvael, Aralorr’s Minister of Finance; corpulent Lord Galt of Helwende; Lander, Lord of Tírandon, with his lovely lady Andett and their oldest son Leshan, eager to be knighted; Athlem, Lord of Locmar and his wife Bysana, Andett’s grave-faced sister; Lord D
avhin from Vonmora, warden of Evaronna’s silk production; and young Rorin, Lord of Westport, who looked as if being last in line was the worst place in the world.
As they filed into the Great Hall, Master Yorin introduced them formally in a far-reaching, sonorous voice. They made a slow circuit around the tables before the dais in their dusty finery, and at last stood behind their proper places. Rhorek joined Keth at the center of the high table. Princess Rilyth, Erum, and Rhoslyn followed to stand at the king’s left hand, while Alovi and Kelyn stood on Keth’s right. They awaited the king’s order to be seated. But Rhorek remained standing. Eventually, every highborn, squire, and servant noted the empty place beside Kelyn.
At the door, Kieryn cringed under the steward’s scalding glance. He had hoped that amid the commotion of everyone rustling into their chairs, he could enter unnoticed, but when Rhorek stared his direction, Kieryn groaned and decided he could call the day a complete loss, and it was barely past noon. His walk from the doors to the high table was the longest and most agonizing he’d ever endured. That Rhorek waited to sit until Kieryn joined them was a gesture of great respect, but it also singled out Kieryn’s negligence. Passing the ranks of gawking highborns, Kieryn vowed he would never be late again. Lifting his chin to hide his humiliation, he risked a glance at his father, noted Keth’s tight jaw, his forehead’s bulging vein, and wanted nothing more than to retreat and hide under a mound of parchment. Rhorek bent close to Keth’s ear, and whispered something that seemed to assuage some of the War Commander’s rage.
Kieryn mounted the dais and stood beside his brother, whose face remained as blank as stone. Finally, Rhorek bade his people sit and enjoy the Opening Day Feast.