But what to do about Mathren? Of course. Send him to the Nob. Everyone was always complaining about the Nob, what a miserable post it was, a waste of tax money, and how the people there gave Marlovan Iasca the back of the hand, except when they wanted defense against pirates. Mathren would scare them into behaving, oh yes he would—and he could stay there for the rest of his life, fighting pirates.
Evred sank into the hot water, staring broodily at the midday light slanting in from the north window slit, and striking green-blue lights in the water. What if Mathren didn’t obey? What if Evred told the guards to put him in the dungeon, would they do it? His gut writhed with uncertainty. Everything depended on the oaths tomorrow. Now he wished he’d dared to have the coronation right after Kendred’s memorial, instead of sticking to New Year’s just because he’d already said he would do it then.
When he came upstairs after his bath, Mard was there, laying out his breakfast dishes on the table, the bed tidied and all the sour wine smell gone along with the cup and bottles.
Evred said, “Mard, send Tarvan to find out how far along in preparation they are for the feast tomorrow. I have some more orders.”
Mard laid his gnarled fist on his chest. “Right away, Evred-Harvaldar.” And he went out of the room, hand outstretched, fingers lightly touching the door frame.
That was one of his orders. The runners were to call him “Evred-Harvaldar” instead of “Evred-Sierlaef.” He had to get used to it, he’d said, or he thought he’d said, but really he couldn’t wait to hear himself addressed as king—for it to be real.
He toyed with his breakfast until Tarvan returned, his cheeks red from bounding up the stairs, his bony fist thumping his scrawny chest. He piped in his squeaky voice, “The bake-ovens are all full, and every prep table had people preparing food, Evred-Harvaldar.”
Gratified, Evred sat back, dug into his oatcakes with better appetite, then said, “Where’s the wine?” Yes, it was early, but he was king! He could do what he wanted!
Mard and Tarvan retreated to the side chamber to work on his new tunic—that was another order he recollected, more gold stitching around the dolphin and on the sleeve cuffs. He was a king, and kings wore lots of gold with their Olavayir royal blue.
Happiness flooded through him, expanding outward as he imagined the entire castle as his. But it wasn’t pure happiness, because he still did not know if Mathren would really obey....
While he bolstered his mood with a second and then a third glass of wine, at the opposite end of the castle, over the garrison command center, Mathren had bathed, changed, and eaten a quick breakfast with his senior captains, during which they’d sketched out the general plan for the exhibition riding that Evred had demanded as entertainment on the morrow—assuming the weather didn’t worsen.
When that was finished, he went into his office to check with the duty scribe on the night’s and morning’s reports. The efficient scribe was reciting the list in his nasal honk when someone gave the quick triple tap on his door that meant a new arrival with an urgent message.
Irritated, Mathren waved to halt the scribe, then yanked open his door. The waiting runners leaped obediently to their feet, as Mathren’s gaze lit on the second messenger to arrive that day. The big man leaned on a crutch, with one leg missing from the knee down. His cold-mottled face had purpled with healing scar tissue across one sewn-shut eye, down to his jaw.
Mathren stared at that ruined eye, the blonde hair escaping from under a knit cap, then said cautiously, “Retren?”
Retren Hauth, a second-cousin five years younger than Mathren, had had strict orders to stick with Lanrid.
At the distraught expression lengthening Hauth’s face, Mathren snapped his fingers and waved at the scribe. “Out.”
The scribe clutched his slate against his chest and slipped out to sit with the runners, who waited for the door to shut before speculating in whispers.
Inside, at a gesture from Mathren, Hauth eased himself onto the bench, his clothes dripping, his hands a-tremble as he laid the crutch across his lap.
“Lanrid is dead. So is Sindan,” he mumbled through cold-numb lips, his voice hoarse with grief and exhaustion, his right hand pressed to his left shoulder where an arrow had lodged. Like the wound that had cut his face open, it had healed very slowly on his long journey south.
His words struck Mathren with lightning-bright, searing pain. Mathern recoiled, gasping, as if real lightning had crackled in the room. It took him several harsh breaths to comprehend that the reaction was entirely internal, that the castle stood undisturbed, and he caught the tail end of words, “...both of them. Sinna fell beside his brother.”
“What? Who?” Mathren shouted, and outside the door, conversation ended abruptly.
“Massacre. Led by Hadand Arvandais,” Hauth said.
Mathren scowled in disbelief, refusing to credit it. “You could have smashed a rabble of brats all on your own, Ret.”
Hauth’s head bowed between powerful shoulders. “Lanrid had me riding rear guard. He wanted his cousins and the boys up front. They only had four lances, all with banners attached. No one expected an attack in the Pass....”
And, in broken words, he gave a brief but sufficiently vivid eyewitness report.
“I will kill them,” Mathren whispered when Hauth finished. “I will kill them with my own hands.”
Hauth stiffened, eyes stark. “She’s dead. Someone shot her—maybe one of us. Before he died. Because it wasn’t any of us who survived.”
“I’ll kill all of them.” Mathren drew in a breath and held it, exerting himself to regain control, to think, but the sense had gone out of the world. His purpose had gone. Lanrid was to be king by next year—he was not even twenty-five! Sindan to take Olavayir, and preside over the northern shore...little Sinna dead?
Mathren held his breath again, then murmured, “Go. Report to the lazaretto. You look terrible.”
“Commander, there’s also news from eagle-clan. Indevan-Jarl is dead.”
A faint pulse of pleasure soured to irony. What matter, with Lanrid and Sindan gone? “Just go. And say nothing to anyone.”
Mathren held his breath a third time, eyes closed: when he opened them, the room was empty.
He let out his breath, and rage overwhelmed him. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing. All his work, his careful planning, a fortune spent in building a private army to carry Lanrid to the throne...and it was all for nothing?
That drunken sot wallowing in his tower was not going to inherit it all. He should have died twenty years ago, but for Fnor’s stupid sentimentality. He’s just a baby, and four years later, He’s just a boy.
Boys grow up, he’d said. Except little Sinna would never grow up. He lay somewhere beneath the soil in that damned desolate Andahi Pass, forever silenced.
Mathren pinched his fingers to his brow. He still missed gallant, laughing, singing Fnor, but she’d been too smart, too quick. And far too sentimental.
He whirled around and glared at his map: Algaravayir, dead center in the kingdom, the most famous name in the last century. He could still send Nighthawk Company to take it, but now, for himself. No jarl would lift a hand against an Olavayir matched with a descendant of Inda Algaravayir, once Fareas-Iofre was made to see the wisdom of a treaty marriage. And with that name he could raise the kingdom to go north and obliterate those conniving traitors, down to the last child and dog. Yes.
But first, the loose end swigging wine on the far side of the castle. There was no longer any use in letting Evred play at being king until next year. He would act now.
Mathren threw himself down on the bench and propped his forehead on his fists. He wished he could reach into the distance to pull back Thad and the new Nighthawk Company recruits, to send orders with them. But he needed to think out those orders first…. Oh, Lanrid.
Another spurt of fury that he forced down. It was time to act. Right now, everyone in the castle was busy, the guard rehearsing their riding and weapons exhibit
ion, the staff cleaning and preparing, everyone else running about.
He opened his door. Six shocked faces met his eyes. He forced a smile, and controlled his voice. “I’m going to consult with Evred-Sierlaef—let us say, Evred-Harvaldar—about tomorrow’s schedule. Tlen.”
Tlen snapped palm to chest. That will be a fist by midnight.
“See if the Olavayir boys are at liberty, and can meet in the new king’s tower. They ought to be consulted as well.”
Tlen fled, instant obedience as always—kingship in all but name. The prospect of purpose, of action, tamped down the fire of rage. Mathren believed himself cool and calm, but anger revealed itself in his enormous pupils, rendering his light eyes black, in the taut skin around them, and in the hard line of his mouth. That barely controlled anger was palpable to his subordinates from ten paces away.
The runner named Tlen encountered Arrow just leaving the guest suite, having brought Jarend in. Arrow couldn’t bear Jarend’s sobbing—he had to leave, to do something, or he’d be in there crying with him. And things were too...weird, too tense. He wanted to jump on a horse and just ride, until he could get his head straight.
But here was one of Mathren’s runners.
Tlen said urgently, “The commander requests both of you to meet him up at the king’s tower.”
“Did he say what it’s about?” Arrow asked, the back of his neck prickling at the strain in the runner’s demeanor.
“He said, consultation.”
“I’ll get my brother,” Arrow said, turning back.
The runner tapped a finger to his chest, and ran off.
Arrow took two steps and stopped short, leaning one hand on the rough stone of the wall. Consultation about what? Mathren had never, in their entire stay, so much as asked them what they might like to eat. It might be real, but Gdan’s revelation, and her horror, made everything about Mathren suspicious.
Something was wrong; every instinct jangled. Arrow faced the wall, leaning both palms against it until the grit dug into his skin. He longed for a drink, but all the good stuff was up in Evred’s chamber. Where Arrow was supposed to be heading right now.
He drew in another breath, trying to identify that sense of threat. The news about his father made his head hurt—but there was Gdan and what she’d said about Mathren. Though that was over twenty years ago, somehow it loomed large, an immediate threat.
If it felt like a threat, then why not take some steps? Quietly, like it was a ruse. If he turned out to be wrong, then no outsider would have to know.
Arrow straightened up. The hall was empty. He ran downstairs and out to the guest barracks, where his Riders gazed in surprise to see him back so soon. He was about to tell them about his da, then decided it would have to wait. “Snag some runner coats, all of you. But I want every weapon you can carry under those coats. Go to every landing below Evred’s tower. Every place there’s one of them, there should be two of you. Two of them, three of you. Make up any story you want, be lost, or lurk if you can. Think of this as drill, and I hope it will be, but if you hear me yell for help, come running. Take out the guards if you have to.”
Those words stilled everyone. Then the Riders, with shuffling feet and exchanged looks, selected Arrow’s second-cousin Sneeze Ventdor, who said, “Arrow? There’s only three ridings of us. And three battalions of them.”
Arrow jerked palm up. “I know. If something bad happens, what I need you to do is cover our retreat to the stable.”
He wiped his hands down his coat skirt. “We can’t fight them all, but maybe we can buy enough time to make a run for it.” He felt control slipping away with every word, and grimaced. “I know it’s a stupid plan, and I might be jumping at shadows. But....” He remembered what Gdan had told them—and there was still that question about Mathren’s secret army.
He jerked his chin up. “But this is as good as I can figure, and if they do come for us, it’s not like a retreat is going to make anything worse than it already is. I’d rather die fighting.”
At that, Sneeze and the others murmured agreement, some shifting from foot to foot, others looking around at the windows for attackers.
“So pack your saddlebags fast. You four, get the horses saddled, and be ready to ride like thunder.”
They saluted him, thumb to chest. He ran out.
The Riders exchanged looks of tension, question, even disbelief, then Sneeze said, “Me and Keth can fetch the coats.” And they broke into action.
Arrow found Jarend slumped on the edge of his bed, Tdor holding one hand and Nunka the other. Jarend wept silently, his face so unhappy that Arrow’s throat ached and his eyes stung all over again.
Arrow turned his gaze away, to where Rabbit played on the floor nearby, a toy horse in hand, his little round face with its buck teeth puzzled as he regarded his father with tears dripping down his long cheeks. Arrow jerked his gaze desperately away to where Danet stood inside the door, swaying and jiggling Noddy, who fretted and drooled.
She caught Arrow’s eye, and whispered, “Nunka said he’s teething.”
Arrow grimaced, feeling the pressure of those orders. The last thing he wanted was Mathren sending a riding of armed guards to see what was keeping them.
He knelt at his brother’s feet. “Jarend. Right now we have to go to Evred’s. Mathren wants us, and I think there might be some kind of trouble.”
“Trouble?” Jarend said, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “What kind?”
“I don’t know, and I might be wrong. I might be seeing what isn’t there, because of what we heard today. But we should be ready.” Arrow turned to Danet. “That means all of you. If you hear anything out there—more than one person coming—get everybody down that old stairwell. Did you check it?”
“Yes.” Danet jerked up her palm. “Left-hand turn leads to the old baths, and the straight-way to the barrel court between the kitchen and the bakehouse. There’s another turn to the right that I didn’t explore, but that's the direction of the stable.”
“Makes sense,” Arrow said. “So servants can haul out gear without getting in everyone’s way. That’s the route you’ll take. Bring extra weapons so you can fight if you have to.”
Danet clutched the hiccoughing baby against her, jiggling and swaying as she pressed her lips together in agreement. Guilt formed a rock in her gut. Now she wished she’d kept up with her drills. But this was not the time to bring that up.
Arrow turned to his brother. “Time to go.”
As always, Jarend said, “All right.”
TWENTY
Upstairs in the tower, Evred was on his second bottle, his mood expansive as he admired Mard’s sewing. The man was so skilled even though he was mostly blind.
Scrawny Tarvan sat on the floor, carefully twisting the gold silk lengths for Mard, who sewed entirely by feel.
Mard worked in a rhythm, humming so softly only Tarvan could hear him. Evred kept talking about his plans for the kingdom. From long habit Mard listened to the tone, not the words, for he had had care of Evred since those terrible days after he was orphaned.
Tromp, tromp, tromp. Over Evred’s continual mutter, the sound of approach. Though Mard’s vision had worsened with the years, his hearing had always been sharp: the fast tread was Mathren’s, the breathing harsh. Mard stiffened, tethered by the drumbeat of his heart.
In his experience, you didn’t hear Mathren’s step unless he was angry. If he went quiet, that’s when he was most dangerous. Instinctively he turned toward where little Tarvan always sat. “Get out of sight.” A quiet rustle was all he heard from Tarvan, as from the bedroom door, Evred muttered, “What was that?”
“Evred-Harvaldar,” Mard said on a rising note, “I believe someone is coming.”
Evred set the bottle down on the floor, and wandered to the outer chamber, where he heard footsteps coming up the stone stairs. “Hah, I thought Arrow-head and Beaver-teeth would sleep all day, after being up last night. Well, we can start celebrating now—” On Mathre
n’s appearance, “Uncle Mathren? What are you doing here? I thought you were at lance practice.”
“You would have to say my name.” Mathren’s haggard face contrasted with his red-rimmed, angry eyes as he advanced on Evred, his whisper guttural. “You’ve just condemned that old stick over there.”
“What?”
“You useless, worthless sack of shit, I should have strangled you at birth.”
Evred backed up a step, and tripped over the bottle. Mathren ripped his sword free. Evred flung his wine cup at him. It clanged off the wall, splashing the stone with dark red wine—and a heartbeat later, blood mixed with the wine in a spraying arc as Mathren struck so hard he half-beheaded the uncrowned king.
Mard tottered forward, hands outstretched. “Evred? Evred?”
From the open door, Arrow’s voice merged with Mard’s, “Evred?”
He and Jarend ran inside, then halted in shock.
Mathren faced them them, red-stained sword at the ready, his face haggard. “And there you two are, in time to see my tragic reaction in self-defense against you two assassins.”
Mard turned his head from side to side, his voice querulous and high, “You murdered him—he has no weapon.”
Mathren whirled the sword upward and slashed it across Mard’s scrawny, defenseless neck, so fast the old runner’s eyes and mouth had a heartbeat to round in surprise before he crumpled to the floor in his own blood.
Jarend stared in shock. Arrow took in Mathren’s rictus grin, just like Lanrid’s before he ambushed him. Arrow kept his gaze on Mathren’s face as he flexed his hand once, in the old signal, hoping that Jarend saw, and remembered. Then he backed up a step toward the doorway, forcing himself not to glance at Jarend. Mathren turned to keep Arrow in view.
Arrow said, “You’re a lying liar.”
“The truth—” Mathren’s teeth flashed “—is whatever I say it is. I believe I’ve established that, haven’t I?” He uttered a soft, bone-chilling laugh, and hefted the slippery sword in his grip. “What a tragedy, jealousy among cousins strikes again.” He turned his shoulder to Jarend, as the latter hunched just inside the doorway, empty-handed and hangdog, and faced Arrow, holding out the sword between him and the open door. “It’ll go like this. I couldn’t stop your bonehead brother from assassinating the next king, but I was able—at great cost to myself—to execute justice. Unfortunately, you died in the process.”
Time of Daughters I Page 19