by Ellyn, Court
Despite his own attempt at humor, fear nipped at Alovi’s belly. She forced a smile. “Well, we can’t solve the world’s ills in one night, can we?” When he didn’t respond, she leant forward and tucked a stray lock behind his ear. When had his hair become more silver than black? “As wild as Kieryn’s,” she said affectionately.
Keth replaced her foot into the basin and took out the other. “I was surprised he made more of a presence tonight than Kelyn.”
“Kieryn has to prove himself with what he’s good at, just as Kelyn does. You’re only sorry Kieryn wouldn’t rather dance with a sword.”
At mention of the old argument, Keth pressed his thumb into the arch of Alovi’s foot. She sucked air through her teeth and kicked water into his face. He spared a chuckle for her spit-fire temper. Drying his face on his sleeve, he said, “Well, Rhorek adores him, that’s clear.”
“Rhorek isn’t a fool,” Alovi retorted. “He would rather dance with the ladies, too.”
Keth dropped her foot. “Are you calling me a fool, woman?”
Alovi pushed the basin away and smoothed her skirt to her ankles. “Am I?” At her wardrobe, she took out the white silk nightgown and tapped her shoulder, bidding Keth loosen her stays.
“When did I become dress-maid?” he asked, applying fingers to the sashes.
“Since you keep me up so late,” she replied. “Now don’t grumble.” The dress came loose, and she tugged her arms free of the sleeves. Her corset also loosened, and Keth slid his arms around her waist and buried his face in the torrent of her hair. Though they had been married for nearly twenty years, and though silver threaded the red-black tresses, Keth refused to see her hair coiled on her head like an old matron. The day he first saw her at Graynor, she had plaited her hair into two long braids, and that night she had loosened them; the glossy black waves had been a spellbinding river down her back. Keth insisted she wear it no other way.
At present, he was trying to distract her with a drastic change of subject, but Alovi was tired and uncomfortable and wasn’t about to let Keth have his way. He and Kieryn simply didn’t speak the same language. Alovi and Kelyn were too often compelled to play the role of mediator between them. It wasn’t that Keth loved Kieryn less than he loved Kelyn; he simply couldn’t understand how to show affection to a young man who preferred books to a blade. And now Keth found it odd that Rhorek should enjoy Kieryn’s company.
“You do him a great injustice,” Alovi snapped.
Keth released her and stomped away. “We are not doing this tonight, Alovi. We are both too tired and the matter too stale. It will accomplish nothing but a grudge between us. And with everything else on the table … I’ve tripled the watch, by the way. The men weren’t happy about it, but even a rat won’t be able to slip inside the gate unnoticed.”
“Fine,” she conceded angrily, pulled the nightgown over her head, and crawled into the tall bed. Laral had turned down the covers before he’d gone, good boy.
Tired and irascible, indeed, Keth grumbled as he hauled off his boots and flung his clothes far and wide. “If Ana sends rain tomorrow and drowns out my games, I’ll never forgive her.”
“Love, do you really think Ana will be hurt if she fails to stay in your good graces?”
He scowled at his wife, who was far too practiced at grounding his pride before it ballooned into arrogance. “I’ll never forgive her,” he insisted.
~~~~
4
Ilswythe castle reared up from a shallow hill north of the Avidan River. The massive walls and heavy square keep resembled a gray ship floating on the swell and fall of green meadows, where flocks of yellow sheep, naked of winter’s wool, grazed the waves of grass along the river banks. The Silver Mountains rose grandly to the north, and the sharp peaks of the vast Drakhans bit the eastern skyline. Flowing from a spring where these two ranges met, the Avidan River meandered southward in a series of cataracts before swinging in a wide arch to the west, where it slowed enough to allow the King’s Highway to cross at Ilswythe Ford. The villagers, in their best spring woolens, crossed the river early in the morning to witness the highborns’ games. They kept their distance as propriety and the Falcon Guard demanded, but they cheered the loudest.
Fortunately for Ana-Forah, the rain she sent in the night swept west of Ilswythe and fizzled out over Avidan Wood; Keth’s racetrack and archery range remained dry. The targets had been set up on a stretch of flat ground between the walls of the castle and the river. Ladies and their handmaids sunned themselves on the hillside after the dew dried, and from the slope they watched their lords, the castle garrison, and a few solemn Guardsmen compete for bull’s eyes. Between rounds, spectators shouted wagers, with the majority of the silver laid on the Evaronnans.
In ancient days before the Elf War, the golden people of the golden Evaronnan grasslands had been renowned as hunters, fierce and independent, scouring the hills between the Glacier and the Silver Mountains for the gilded deer and the tawny bear. Even today, the Evaronnans shaped their bows from the pliant wood of the thellnyth tree, and it was said that the elves had taught them the craft.
True to her heritage, Rhoslyn strung her bow and stepped onto the range, followed by the gracious applause of the lords and ladies. She chose the empty target between Kelyn and Captain Maegeth. The captain bowed as Rhoslyn took up position, and Kelyn looked at her once, twice, and grimaced. Rhoslyn’s legs seemed to have been poured into butter-soft elk-skin breeches.
“Well, well,” he said, none too amiably, “my luck just took a turn for the worse.”
“Your concentration, you mean,” countered Rhoslyn with a sly wink. Her quiver hung at her hip. She selected an arrow carefully and examined the shaft for imperfections. “The young sun presents a challenge,” she said.
“I doubt the sun will present you much of a problem, m’ lady.”
“You flatter me,” she said. “But it has been a while.” She notched the arrow, aimed, and despite the glaring sun, drove the head into the center of her target.
Cheers went up all around. King Rhorek called from the shade of an awning, “Good eye, cousin.”
“Good eye, indeed,” lauded a newcomer. In a white linen shirt and riding leathers, Kieryn entered the range and bowed toward Rhoslyn.
Kelyn exclaimed, “What the hell happened to the doublet I laid out for you?” He hoped his outburst would embarrass his brother into doing what he was told, but Kieryn glared instead of blushed.
“This is no banquet,” he snapped. “Besides, leathers seem to be the garment of choice this morning.” The blush came when Kieryn stared too long at Rhoslyn’s legs.
She smirked. “Beware. I’ve made designs on your luck as well. A lady must use every advantage when playing the games of lords.”
Extending his bow, Kelyn said, “Here, take my place. The Duchess is making me look bad.” Indeed, the two arrows Kelyn had loosed might as well have been on two different targets.
“Afraid of fair competition?” Kieryn asked.
“Only when I might lose,” Kelyn admitted.
“So you prefer I carry the disgrace?”
“Oh, don’t be so modest. I know what you can do.” The twins had been no older than twelve the first time their father took them hunting on the flanks of Mount Drenéleth. The elk had just put on its white coat for winter and bugled loudly in the morning light, hoping to draw a mate. Kelyn had aimed carefully and liked to think that his arrow would’ve struck its mark had not a cold gust barreled down from the peak. The arrow had thunked into a tree trunk, and the elk bolted, fleeing for the cover of a stand of red-leafed andyr. Da loosed, missed. The elk raced through dawn-dappled shadows. Kieryn loosed, caught the elk in the neck as it emerged between two trees. Da had called the shot beginner’s luck. A moment later, Kieryn fell ill; he’d vomited and whined that his head throbbed. Da had berated him for getting queasy at the sight of blood, but Kieryn had sworn that it wasn’t the blood or even the entrails that the hunters emptied to lighten the animal. Da hadn�
�t believed him. But Kelyn had. He had witnessed something unnatural about his twin that day. And he couldn’t quite express what he’d sensed.
He shoved the bow at Kieryn’s chest, forcing him to take it.
Kieryn growled a wordless protest. Rhoslyn’s golden eyebrows lifted in challenge. But on the slope, nobody paid him heed, neither Da nor the king nor anyone else. Kieryn’s jaw set. He raised an arm, summoning Laral. Happy to be needed, the squire darted from under the awning and came running. Kieryn put the quiver in his hands and positioned the boy about a foot from his side and said, “Do not move from that spot. And hold the quiver just this high.” Kieryn notched an arrow and barely raised his eyes before he loosed it, striking Kelyn’s target dead center. His arm moved in flash-fire motion from quiver to bow, releasing arrow after arrow with stunning precision. With the last arrow, he aimed, reconsidered, shifted slightly to the left and loosed, shearing Rhoslyn’s arrow clean through. The red fletching landed in the grass.
He lowered the bow and Kelyn sprang on him, praise taking the form of a headlock. No one ignored him now. Applause and murmurs mingled uneasily.
“By the Mother, m’ lord,” cried Captain Maegeth. “I never taught you that.”
“No one did,” Kelyn boasted, releasing his twin’s neck. “Bastard hardly practices either.”
Kieryn pressed the heel of a hand into his eye and squinted as if the morning light pained him.
“Then how did you do it?” demanded Rhoslyn. The glare she leveled on Kieryn might’ve melted steel.
“I … I used to practice … ,” he stammered. “But it gives me headaches. The strain, I guess.”
Rhoslyn didn’t buy the explanation. “I used to practice every morning, and I was never able to do that.”
“Afraid of fair competition?” Kelyn tossed back, angry at her disapproval. His brother didn’t deserve her self-centered tantrum.
Her voice rose louder still, “I’m afraid to know how many men wagered on me and lost!” Near the king’s pavilion a scuffle appeared to be spreading. Fat Lord Galt of Helwende must’ve wagered a quarter of his fortune, for he was shaking like a pudding and roaring incomprehensibly. Keth was waving his arms and pleading with his guests to calm themselves.
With cool aplomb Kieryn said, “Offending you was not my intent, Lady Rhoslyn. And I could hardly think on you in the same terms as a racehorse.” He bowed to her, then ascended the hill for the fortress gate. He took Rhoslyn’s luck with him; she failed to strike another bull’s eye, which suited Kelyn just fine.
~~~~
After luncheon, the first round of riders collected at one end of the race course. Spectators gathered beneath the expanse of the blue pavilion that Keth had fought so loudly to have set up against the north wall. The shade was cool and refreshing after the glare of the morning sun. Horns blared. Hooves thundered. In the opening race, Keth’s dapple-gray stallion finished second to Leshan of Tírandon, but Keth, sitting beside the king, looked pleased that his track was dry and dusty.
The second race belonged to the squires. Keth gestured to Kelyn. “You’re up, son.”
Kelyn hesitated. As always, Laral stood faithfully on hand. Kelyn asked him, “Does your father have an entry for this race?”
Laral craned his skinny neck and looked over the circling horses. The owners tied their colors to the saddles to distinguish their entries. The banner of Tírandon was a double chevron, one black, one silver, on a cerulean field. “I don’t think so, m’ lord.”
“Then ride for the War Commander.”
“Ride in your place?” Laral squeaked. “An honor, m’ lord!”
Kelyn cast a wink at his father, then whispered to the squire, “I’m not passing the honor to you because I happen to like you or anything. My reasons are practical. I’ve outgrown most of these squires. You’re lighter than I am.”
Ecstatic, Laral exclaimed, “I’ll not fail you, m’ lord.” Quick as a grasshopper, he descended the hill and joined the other squires. Girls and boys both, most were between twelve and sixteen. They milled about excitedly, taunting one another, bragging about their mount and insulting everyone else’s.
“He’ll win,” came a whisper in Kelyn’s ear. Kieryn stood at his side.
“Do you just appear out of nowhere?”
“You must have moles and bats for cousins. I’ve been standing here since the middle of the first race. You just had your eyes on other things. Luckily it was horseflesh this time.”
“You’re dragon shit.”
Kieryn wrapped a companionable arm around his twin and asked, “Need I reply?”
Hearing his other son’s voice, Keth turned in his chair and granted Kieryn a nod of approval. “Good aim this morning.”
Kieryn returned a wry half-smile, every bit as forced as his father’s compliment. “Thanks, Da.”
Kelyn suppressed a sigh. The tension between his father and brother was like that between two duelers pacing and measuring, swords poised. Once, Kieryn had complained, “I suppose it’s too much to ask for Da to take pride in accomplishments of a less martial variety.” Kelyn had refrained from asking, “And which are those?”
The horn blasted, and the squires urged their mounts to top gallop. Some lost heart and pulled back on the turns, but Laral gave Keth’s filly her head and crossed the finish line an entire length ahead of Lord Davhin’s entry.
Kelyn regarded his brother suspiciously. “How did you know?”
“What, you think I became a seer overnight?” Kieryn chortled. “You trained him, didn’t you? Are you telling me you have no faith in your own pupil?”
Laral came running back, beaming and breathless. He stopped before Rhorek and smeared a layer of dust off his face, then bowed with all the dignity his happiness allowed him. Rhorek extended his prize: an eight-inch dagger in a shining silver sheath studded with white Doreli diamonds. Laral tried to keep his jaw from sagging, and turned to present his prize to Keth.
The War Commander looked surprised by the humble gesture and placed a hand on his squire’s shoulder. “Keep it, lad. You’ve earned it.”
When the members of the Falcon Guard assembled for their race later in the afternoon, the Captain of the Guard joined Rhorek and Keth. The Lady Rhoslyn’s chair was empty, and the king invited the captain to fill it.
“You’re not taking part, Jareg?” Rhorek asked.
“I saw no need to steal the glory from the youngsters, sire,” he replied. Absently stroking his copper-red beard, he gave Keth a meaningful glance. “And with half the Falcons on the course, I thought it best to stay close.”
“Surrounded,” Rhorek groused. “I’m damn well surrounded.”
“For the best of reasons, sire,” Jareg replied.
The horn blared again, and the blue roans of the Falcon Guard darted past. This was to be a longer race than the previous ones, with seven times around the track. The riders paced themselves, and the spectators shouted their wagers.
Since time immemorial, the rulers of Aralorr had enforced a sumptuary code that distinguished a soldier’s position by the color of the horse he rode. The War Commander and his cavalry rode the pale dappled grays, while the Falcon Guard, numbering fifty, rode the storm-cloud grays, or blue roans. And in all the realm, only the king was permitted to ride the black stallion. The rare blacks, proud and swift, came all the way from the far eastern land of Roresha beyond the Drakhan Mountains, where the black foals learned to run upon the lushest of meadows.
On the seventh circuit, a pair of riders fought for the lead. The victor won by a nose. Entering the winner’s circle, the rider tugged off her helmet, shook out a mane of blond hair, and briskly patted her mount.
“Lieutenant Lissah, excellent,” Jareg exclaimed and prepared to meet her with her prize.
Kelyn felt himself grinning and bit his lower lip to quell it. Strange that a woman in armor should appeal to him. He usually preferred them soft and buxom. But the lieutenant’s guarded disdain and the ease with which she wore th
e sword and mail caused Kelyn’s heart to swell into his throat. Now, here was a challenge …
Lissah swiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and took the velvet bag clinking with silver coins. With a roguish smile she jested, “Maybe now I can afford a husband.”
Rhorek snorted. “Are you implying I pay my Guard too little, Lieutenant?”
Lissah’s dark eyes danced. “Of course not, sire, but will you admit that your half of our species makes less demands than my half? On second thought, I’ll keep this silver for myself and let the men gamble with their own money.”
Kelyn swallowed a chuckle; his tactics for snaring this one would have to be different than he was used to.
For the last race, the day’s victors were to run against the king’s Roreshan black. Laral, his brother Leshan, and Lieutenant Lissah gathered with the rest of the champions at the starting line.
Kelyn heard his name, saw the king rise, and glance his direction. He bowed, and Rhorek wrapped a heavy arm around his shoulders. In a secretive manner, he asked, “Do you remember this race last year?”
“Yes, sire, you won.”
“So I did. And not because my people let me win. But this year, I’ve been advised—by your father, for one—that it might be unwise of me to risk a broken neck. And they say I rule Aralorr. Be that as it may, I’m not feeling up to a race this year. Stiff shoulder, you know. Will you ride Brandrith to victory for me?”
Kelyn’s mouth moved soundlessly, grace slipping in light of the honor.
Rhorek added, “His name means ‘falcon’s wing’ in the old language. And believe me, he can fly. He just needs an able rider.”
“Thank you, sire,” Kelyn stammered and with a hasty bow departed for the track.
~~~~
Kieryn felt a little exposed without his twin at his elbow. He folded his arms over his chest and tried to look comfortable and invisible at the same time.
Rhorek wasn’t about to let him fade away, but slipped around behind his chair to stand alongside him. Kieryn dipped his head, but Rhorek flicked a hand, tired of formalities. “Just stretching my legs is all. Kings’ arses get numb, too, you know.”