by Robin Hardy
“I am not their wives. I’m your wife, and the Surchataine, and I want to go with you.”
“No. That’s final.” He fell on top of her and she did not argue more.
As the dinner guests were leaving the banquet hall that evening, Nihl waited in the corridor, watching Troyce talk with the undersecretary. The two were standing directly under one of the many banners that covered the stone walls, displaying the coats of arms of the great houses of Lystra. The one they stood under, the largest, bore a lion and a cross, and a narrow black line from the upper right to the lower left corner. This was the coat of arms of the present Surchatain.
When Troyce ended his conversation, he departed the hall into the foyer and turned to the right, not seeing Nihl. The Commander followed him up the wide stone stairway leading to the living quarters on the second floor.
Nihl stalked the administrator with catlike strides. There was no one else in the corridor. When Troyce stopped at the door to his chambers, Nihl put a hand on his shoulder.
Troyce turned quickly. “Commander! You startled me.”
“I have something to tell you before we leave for Corona, Troyce.”
“Oh?” The administrator raised an eyebrow in a manner dangerously close to condescension.
“I will have men watching you while we are gone. Do not antagonize the Counselor, and keep your distance from the Surchataine,” Nihl warned.
Troyce eyed him. “It still rankles you that you were a slave at Sheva’s palace when I was a lord there, doesn’t it?” Troyce judiciously avoided using the epithet drud which had been attached to all Polonti in slavery at Diamond’s Head.
“No, but I think it rankles you to be merely administrator here and not a lord. I think you always watch to make a step up by means of someone’s bloody back.”
“Nonsense,” Troyce replied, surprisingly calm at such an accusation. “I have gained my position here by doing my job well. You must admit the treasury is bulging. If I do things that seem bold to you, why, it is only to further Lystra’s interests. And as for you,” his face took on an aspect of benediction, “I will pray that one day you will be free of the chains of the past, my friend.”
Nihl took a moment to answer. “The past does not trouble me. But you do. I know what you are behind all your smooth talk and the cover of the Surchataine’s kindness. You are a snake.”
“Such jealousy!” murmured Troyce, forehead furrowing in astonishment. “I had thought such rancor beneath you.”
“Whatever you think, just remember what I have told you, Troyce.” Nihl’s hard eyes bored this closing statement deep, then he turned away.
At the open audience the following morning, Coran, the Polonti emissary, stood before Roman as the Surchatain said, “I have decided that we will further investigate this problem in Corona, and deal with it ourselves. You may go tell Bruc we will disarm any threat to Polontis or Lystra from there. And tell Bruc to stay apart from it unless I summon him.”
Coran stood speechless at this unhoped-for success, then came to himself to bow. “May your wealth and power increase to match your abundant graciousness, Surchatain,” he said, able only to recite an old blessing.
Roman nodded slightly, saying, “You are dismissed.” The emissary bowed again and left.
Roman immediately waved Kam forward and whispered, “Tag a scout on his heels to see that he leaves Lystra without lingering.” Kam nodded, but his eyes held a question. Roman added, “We will leave tomorrow morning, after he is well away. I don’t think he needs to know I am going.” Kam nodded again with conviction and turned on his heel.
There were only a few other items of business that demanded the Surchatain’s personal attention this morning. As the palace and city of Westford were functioning with an efficiency never before achieved, Roman had been able to delegate most of the routine official duties to Basil and his staff.
But the oft-complaining silversmith of Westford, DuCange, had asked to see him personally, so Roman motioned him up to the throne and inquired, “DuCange, what is your problem today?”
“Surchatain, I must protest the arbitrary and unjust suppression of trade that your Counselor engages in,” complained DuCange, bowing briefly.
“Basil? What has he done to hurt your business?” Roman asked skeptically.
“I have had a large demand for these silver toys,” DuCange said, holding up a gimmal. He set it spinning to show its intriguing motion. “They are simply for amusement, but your Counselor has forbidden me to make or sell them.”
Roman watched the silver rings spin, frowning. Then with a brief shake of his head, he directed a soldier, “Summon the Counselor.” Basil normally attended these morning audiences, but at this moment was sending off the Polonti emissary with a formal written reply to Bruc.
When Basil appeared in the hall Roman asked, “Counselor, have you really enjoined DuCange from making these things?”
Basil stiffened slightly, glancing at DuCange. “Yes, Surchatain.”
“Why?”
“Surchatain, I feel it is not a good use of the silver we have acquired so much of. These ‘toys,’ as DuCange calls them, are used by magicians and sorcerers in their rituals, and—”
Roman swung back to DuCange. “You are not only forbidden to make them, but you are to buy back and destroy every one of those things you have sold. If after today I see even one of them around, I will banish you from Lystra.”
“Surchatain—!” DuCange gasped at the extremity of this stricture.
“You are dismissed,” Roman instructed curtly, rising from the throne to leave the hall himself. Passing Basil, he nodded, and the Counselor bowed low.
As Roman strode from the audience hall, he saw something that caused him to stop and smile. Toddling toward him was Ariel, clutching a miniature bow, with a quiver of half-sized arrows slung on his back. “Lesson, Fada! Haf a lesson!” he gurgled.
Roman picked him up, grunting, “Your mother must be close by. Well . . . for a moment.” Ariel gave a throaty laugh of victory.
The father carried his son to the archery range, where a special target, set low to the ground, was placed away from the others. The soldiers taking practice smiled, but were careful not to slacken in front of the Surchatain.
Roman helped Ariel nock the bow, then guided his arms as he drew back and released. The arrow struck the target and fell. “Good, Ariel. Now again.”
During the practice, he grew dimly aware of shrill voices from the palace, but ignored them. When someone nearby called, “He is here!” Roman turned to look.
Deirdre came running out of the palace, her voluminous skirts billowing around her. When she saw Roman and Ariel, she stopped, putting a hand to her chest in relief. “Roman,” she gasped, “when you bring him out here, please send word to me. I became frantic when I could not find him.”
Roman straightened in surprise. “You didn’t send him to me?”
“No,” she frowned. “I knew you were holding audience.”
“But—he came to me with his bow and quiver—” he grinned suddenly and grabbed up the squealing Ariel. “Rascal! You came of your own to me!” He shook the sturdy child with pride.
Deirdre exhaled and smiled. Roman shifted Ariel to his left arm and placed his right hand at her back to walk with her to the palace. His mind turning to other things, he said thoughtfully, “Deirdre, I wish you would sit at audience with me. You need to learn to make judgments, especially when I am gone.”
She lowered her head, sighing, “As you wish, my lord. But when you are gone, Basil is to make judgments. That you have already said.”
“Yes, for the time being. But I want you to listen and learn, for the day when you sit alone on the throne.”
Her stomach wrenched at his calm forecast of a cruel eventuality. “I don’t know . . . that I can ever learn to—to make judgments as you do—I’ve never had the head for sorting out problems—” she gained momentum in her difficulty, for the tears were coming against her wi
ll.
Roman turned in dismay and held her close with his free arm. “Deirdre. . . .”
Ariel patted her shoulder and cooed, “Poor ting.”
“Deirdre, you must learn, for the day that I—”
“Don’t say it again,” she pleaded, putting her fingers to his lips. “I can’t bear to hear it. Please don’t say it again.”
He hesitated, not wishing to hurt her, but convinced it must be said. “I will not always be with you, my love.”
She gazed at him, tears tracking her face. They had stopped under one of the pentices of the courtyard; others there went about their business while keeping a discreet distance. “You think you will not return from Corona,” she said.
“I may not,” he replied softly. “I’ve no idea what awaits me there, and I want you to be prepared.”
“Do you know how wretched it is to sit waiting, not knowing if your beloved will ever return, and unable to do anything to help?” she demanded. “Do you realize what you are asking of me, to stay here and wait?” His eyes flicked downward in response. As a matter of fact, he did. When she disappeared from the lake without explanation, the Lord and Galapos both told him to sit and wait, but he could not. He knew even then that he should have, but he did not.
“If you love me, let me go with you,” she whispered. “If you must die, let me see what it’s for and know it isn’t futile.”
He looked at her, unable to answer. Commander Nihl stepped to within a few paces of them and said, “Surchatain.” Roman turned his head. “Our horses are being shod for the trip. We need to know which one you wish to take.”
Roman gave Ariel to Deirdre and silently left her in the archway. “I had not noticed your showing preference for any particular horse since the bay died,” Nihl continued as they walked to the stables.
They stopped at a sturdy fence which enclosed a dozen milling horses. “These are the best of our proven animals, according to Olynn,” said Nihl. “The black gelding is calm and sure-footed. The sorrel is particularly fast. The piebald has been trained to run smoothly with an archer.”
Roman looked them over. “What of the white?” he asked, nodding toward a sleek Andalusian with a delicate head and finely curved neck. It stood on the far side of the pen, head up, nostrils flared, observing the men.
Nihl arched a brow. “I don’t know why that one is in here. He has not been gelded, and he’s hot-tempered. But most intelligent and unmatched for courage.”
“What is he called?” Roman asked, rounding the pen to have a closer look at him. The horse’s eyes followed warily.
Nihl paused. “He has been tagged Bastard.”
Roman glanced at Nihl with a wry smile. “I’ll need a fighter—have him shod. But the old name won’t do, since he’s the Surchatain’s horse. From now on he is Fidelis.” As he left the pen he added, “And have shod the black gelding.”
Nihl hesitated in mild confusion. “Surchatain, everyone else has selected his horse.” Roman only looked back and nodded.
Deirdre sat by the window in a sitting room of soft, pleasant colors, working on her stitchery. This was something she could do without thinking, and all thoughts were painful now. She dropped her work to take in the horizon, set aflame by the setting sun, and let its beauty comfort her.
A housemaid entered with a bow. “Surchataine, dinner waits.”
Deirdre passed a hand over her tired eyes. She could not face him at the table tonight. She could not bear to dine with him while thinking it the last time, and pretending all was well. “Please tell the Surchatain I am not well enough to attend. Please—give him my deepest regrets.” The maid bowed and left.
Deirdre rested her elbows on the windowsill, bowing her head to pray. “Dear Lord in heaven . . .” but all that would come out was a wave of sorrow and longing. So she abandoned the attempt and merely watched the glowing horizon darken.
The maid appeared at the door again. “Lady,” she said, wringing her hands, “please forgive me, but the Surchatain says you shall come down for dinner.”
Deirdre stood a little abruptly. “We shall obey him, then, shall we not?” she said with a touch of bitterness.
With the maid at her heels, Deirdre swept into the banquet hall and bowed to Roman, already seated. He nodded tightly. The guests stood until she had taken her chair and Roman waved for the serving to begin.
The maids placed steamed red snapper before them, but Deirdre ignored it. “Eat, Deirdre,” Roman said as he delved into his dinner. She picked up her fork and poked at the fish.
“You need to eat, Deirdre,” Roman said in a lower tone, “for our fare on this trip will be much less substantial.”
Deirdre looked up with a gasp. “You mean—?”
“You may come with me.” He meant to look disgusted, but the joy on her face softened his expression to wry resignation.
“Roman!” She threw herself on him with such force that his great chair creaked ominously. “You won’t regret it, Roman, I promise!” she cried, covering him with kisses. Kam glanced questioningly at Nihl, who shrugged. The other guests smiled discreetly.
“Before you overly excite yourself, listen a moment,” Roman said severely. She sat back down in her chair with her best student posture. “This trip is likely to be not only dangerous, but uncomfortable. We’ll be riding all day and sleeping on the ground and eating what little we can pack. And once we get to Corona, we may find ourselves fighting or captured. It won’t be a pleasure trip, Deirdre!”
She waited before answering, pretending to consider the gravity of her choice. “That doesn’t matter. I must be with you.”
“Then you shall.” The way he said it was almost a threat, but Deirdre resumed her dinner with gusto.
“Surchatain.” The holy man near the end of the table stood.
“Brother Avelon?” Roman nodded toward him with gentle respect.
He raised his goblet. “As you leave on this undertaking, I have this to say to you: ‘The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.’”
Twenty chairs scraped back and twenty people stood, lifting their goblets. “Hear, hear!” And they drank their goblets empty.
Looking around the table, Roman quietly responded, “Thank you.”
Chapter 3
In the morning Deirdre awoke feeling something was amiss—Roman was gone. She leapt from bed, muttering, “Surely—!” Throwing open the door to the outer room, she saw a housemaid sitting and stitching. The Surchataine’s sudden appearance caused her to bolt up, cruelly pricking her finger.
“Ow! Surchataine—” The finger went to her mouth as she dropped in a bow.
“Has Roman left?” Deirdre demanded.
“No, Surchataine; he is seeing to the gear. I am almost finished with your clothes, my lady.” She held up a pair of brown trousers, like those the soldiers wore.
“My clothes?” Deirdre lifted the trouser leg in interest.
“Yes, my lady. Surchatain Roman instructed that you be outfitted with functional clothes.” She pointed to a lightweight shirt, a doeskin shortcoat, and a standard army cloak lying nearby.
“How clever!” laughed Deirdre. “And how necessary.” She gulped down a hasty breakfast and shed her nightdress, taking the underlinens the maid handed her.
Then she pulled on the trousers. They were unaccountably tight around her waist, and the maid frowned. “My lady . . . I’m sorry, I thought I had the correct measurements.” She fumbled with the drawstring waist as she muttered apologies.
“No, never mind, they’re adequate,” Deirdre insisted, brushing her away. “The shirt?” The maid helped her put on the rest of the clothes.
Deirdre swept from the room in her uniform, feeling competent to face anything. Her long blond hair was gathered back from her face in a simple band. In a moment of excitement, she had even considered chopping her hair short. But she knew such a drastic move w
ould send Roman into a fit—the aggravation of which he did not need right now.
She arrived in the courtyard to see the horses being saddled and packed. Roman held Olynn by the shoulder, speaking confidentially to the big, blond, smooth-faced Captain. When Roman saw Deirdre, he paused in mid-sentence. Olynn turned to look, then bowed his head to avoid an unmannerly smirk.
Deirdre bounced up to Roman, announcing, “I’m ready.”
“So I see,” he answered, smiling.
“Where is Lady Grey?” she asked, scanning the animals.
Roman shook his head. “Lady Grey is too old to carry you on this trip, Deirdre. I’ve selected a younger, stronger horse for you.”
“Oh?” She felt a twinge of guilt at this imaginary betrayal.
Roman walked up to the black gelding to stroke his shiny neck. “This one is yours today.”
She patted the animal’s fine head and he nosed her hand for a treat. “What is his name?”
“You’ll have to name him,” he said, then turned as someone questioned him about the water bags.
Deirdre smiled at this privilege. The soldiers, the Polonti in particular, took their horses’ names seriously, believing that a name contributed something very real to a horse’s temperament and performance. She silently began sifting through prospective names. However, the bustle of preparation distracted her so that she could not think of an acceptable name immediately. Instead, she threw herself into helping pack the gear.
Due to the patience of those who knew what they were doing, the animals were soon loaded and ready to ride. They jangled their bits impatiently, sensing excitement.
Roman scanned the group of well-wishers standing by, then turned to the Counselor. “Basil, I leave you charge of Westford. I know she rests in good hands. If you have any difficulties, I have left written directives with Brother Avelon.”
“Surchatain,” Basil bowed. Roman extended his hand and Basil took it as if reluctant to let him go. In like manner, Roman bid farewell to Reuel and Olynn. “Remember,” Roman told Sevter when he took his hand, “I have left sealed instructions with Avelon in the event of a crisis—or a confrontation.” He glanced at Troyce, who stood at a distance from the party.