Time of Daughters I

by Sherwood Smith

  “Why?” Danet asked.

  “Because it’s traditional!” He flung his arms out wide. “The answer to every question that makes no sense! The Montredavan-Ans have no army. Their jarlan is a woman who fixes magic on buckets and bridges. My first order was to stop patrolling the Darchelde border, as I think we can trust them not to come out. After seven generations of internal exile, she even told me it’s traditional for them to keep themselves to themselves. But relieving us from Darchelde patrol duty is merely a start, a strip of bandage over a broken leg.”

  Under his tone of frustrated complaint, he seemed to be asking a question without asking. Danet understood that by now.

  She said with as much conviction as she could muster, “I know nothing about army needs, but I do know we need those ships, and what they will bring. The treasury is a disaster. The northern garrisons got cheated because Mathren wanted the eagle-clan bearing the burden of supporting them. You grew up hearing your father complain that if he didn’t pay for the most needed repairs and so forth, they seemed never to get done.”

  “Right,” Arrow said. “That was one of his orders to me, once I got some of the Royal Riders to talk to me. To discover where that tax money was going. But—”

  “Further, Kendred seems to have bought off, or overlooked, what was due to us from at least half the jarls, and what came in, Mathren used for the garrisons at which he rotated the Royal Riders.”

  Arrow cursed under his breath. Danet ignored it. “And. If we’re forced to bring in cotton all the way from the east through Land’s End below Parayid Harbor, it will double, maybe triple, in price. This is something I grew up knowing. So my advice is, if you can, protect that trade. So many in the north, not just the Farendavans, depend on it. Whereas a war up there, from what everyone says, would cost everything to win.”

  Arrow had endured enough nightmares concerning the truth of that. Idego, he had learned, had not liked being taken a century and a half ago. Now that Marlovans had mixed with them, there would never be a single battle like Ghael Hills deciding everything. It would be vicious, and protracted, facing their own training and terrain they didn’t know. He muttered, “I guess that’s that, then. Peace it is. Lorgi Idego. It sounds stupid.”

  “I’m told,” she said wryly, “Lorgi means old.”

  Danet received two letters.

  There was one from her sister, full of Farendavan gossip of no interest to anyone but Danet and Hliss, and one from Calamity Senelaec:

  Danet: How is the royal city? By now you’ve been there more than a few days. Is it as horrible as everyone says? We’ve often talked about you—you must, must, must come to Senelaec when you return to Olavayir, and stay longer, even if the others return to Olavayir. The Jarlan and Fuss both agree!

  There is little to report here. I am so bad with letters. That is, I love getting them but hate writing them. Everything I write seems so dull when I put it on paper, even though it isn’t dull when I’m doing it, that I end up throwing good paper into the fire, and the steward glares when I go to get more. I am determined to finish this one.

  I read yours three times, and shared it with Wolf, Yipyip, and Fuss, and they said to carry their greetings. But what is this rumor that came not a day before your letter—I hope it is not true about all Olavayir being slaughtered by Hard Ride leading an army of bloodthirsty Venn-damn Idegans!

  Fuss wants to know if Evred is bearable since she is going to have to marry him. Her first order will be to send an order north with the army to bring Wolf’s little girl back.

  If you can, send by Camerend, who often rides this way, and tell us everything.

  She did, in a letter carried by Tesar.

  Winter closed in again, but the next melt brought Camerend back, after four months away.

  It also brought another wave of messages, some carried by Danet’s sister Hliss, who had bloomed into her eighteenth year.

  The sisters threw themselves into each other’s arms, a gesture that would have caused Mother’s brows to rise, then Hliss sniffed, and let go. “I’m to tell you that Mother is pleased you stepped up to your duty, and that she’s sending me to offer my services in clothing, linens, and household managing.”

  “Oh, that is exactly what I wanted most,” Danet exclaimed fervently, as Hliss’s bright blue gaze lifted past Danet to Camerend and Arrow, who had just entered, Camerend with a message from the chief scribe, and Arrow to see what was behind all the noise coming from the gunvaer suite's open door.

  Inevitably her sister’s gaze caught first on Camerend, who touched his finger to his chest politely, his expression mild and detached as he delivered the note.

  Danet had only seen Camerend twice since his return. Though he looked exactly as he always had, except maybe thinner, she still remembered that grieved face and his bare finger where once he’d worn a ring. She had to suppress an instinct to treat him carefully, as if he were a spooked wild horse.

  Danet said to both, “This is my sister Hliss, who was to marry Sindan Olavayir. Hliss, this is Arrow. And Camerend, chief of the royal runners.”

  Camerend said, “Welcome,” and excused himself, leaving Arrow staring at Hliss with a look Danet knew well.

  Danet smothered a laugh. It was inevitable that Arrow’s roving eye would catch on Hliss. So very much preferable to him turning up with another Fi!

  Danet grabbed her letters and went to her desk, leaving them to get to know one another.

  Ranor-Jarlan to Danet-Gunvaer of Marlovan Iasca

  Danet: Jarend and Hesar-Gunvaer have reached us safely. While the household is busy moving Jarend into the jarl rooms, I am instantly sitting down to write to you, as I try to comprehend all they have to tell.

  After hearing the news we could scarcely believe, Hesar talked to me half the night.

  I trust that by now you have found and catalogued Hadand-Gunvaer's papers tracing marriage alliances.

  When Midsummer brings the jarls to the Royal City, I advise you to restore the betrothal system, and make it plain that it will be established within the year. Though I think the days of sending daughters to betrothal families at age two are past—the great Hadand Deheldegarthe broke that tradition herself—still, betrothals at birth will go a long way toward reknitting the kingdom. If a girl grows up knowing where she is to go, and that family knows she is coming, then everyone is prepared.

  Enclosed you will find the marriage lines since Hadand Deheldegarthe’s day. Hesar had sent my husband’s mother a copy to keep in secret since the day Bloody Tanrid officially ended the system, allowing jarls to choose spouses for their own children. It is not surprising that clans have confined their marriages to their allies, further splintering the kingdom.

  We have tried to keep the copy updated, but it’s really only complete for the jarlates here in the north.

  You will see treaty-designated heirs in black ink, younger brothers in green, children by consort or favorite not adopted directly into the family in blue, and daughters in red. Below, Hesar’s and my suggestions for possible alliances, should the families bring forth suitable children, and my reasons....

  [There followed ten pages of detailed genealogical notes]

  Danet looked up from reading, to find herself alone. She turned to the chief scribe’s note last, looked around for paper to write a note—then decided it would be faster to go talk to the scribes.

  She returned as the bells rang the watch change.

  She was about to call for a runner when Arrow charged into her study and dropped onto a mat, smelling of wine fumes—but she knew he was trying to limit himself to one or at most two cups of wine during the day watch. It’s the only way I can keep myself sane, he’d told her.

  He scowled as he threw a sheet of paper onto the neat archival piles on her desk.

  “So what if I’m the ninth Olavayir king in sixty years? Does that somehow make us worse than the damned Montreivayirs, who had how many?”

  “Actually—”

  “Ne
ver mind the history lesson,” he snapped, a vein beating in his forehead. “It’s actually ten of us, if you count Evred—and there are jarls who still think he’s king, as his runners ought to be reaching them right about now. Supposedly we don’t know how to keep order—but that’s just an excuse to set themselves up as kings. I gave in to Hal up north, because I didn’t have anything to march up there with even if I’d....” Been able to command a real battle. “Even if I wanted to. So now Feravayir is saying they’re independent, and there’s rumors about the Jevayirs down there in Jayad Hesea. Apparently the Jevayirs think themselves separate from us, too!”

  When he paused to draw breath, Danet said, “You’re yelling at me. I didn’t cause any of that.”

  “I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  He stalked to the window and back. “You’re declaring your betrothal edict at Midsummer, when the jarls come for Convocation, right?”

  “Yes. Only it’ll take at least a year to send out the treaties and have both families accept—I discovered in Hadand Deheldegarthe’s letters that it took that long back when she was sending them out, and it was expected then. Also, I just now returned from interviewing the scribes I sent to scour the archives. I’ve got some records, but I still have to fill in all the births, marriages, and deaths since Evred was born, take note of betrothal treaties already made, then work out the assignments. For instance, I’ll wager you didn’t know that Jarend’s little Rabbit is already betrothed to the daughter of that new Commander Nermand up there in Lindeth. Treaty signed and sealed the month before you and I got married, right after your father put Nermand's name forward for promotion.”

  “That reminds me, I guess I’ll have to confirm him,” Arrow said. “He wasn’t one of Mathren’s men, which right now is my first requirement.”

  Danet eyed Arrow. “I don’t mean to be defending Mathren Olavayir, but I thought he was very good at military training and planning. Why would you get rid of his people, if they didn’t have anything to do with that secret army?”

  “There’s training for skill, and there’s training for blood,” Arrow said, a frown between his brows, which made him look unexpectedly like his father. “When Bloody Tanrid ran the academy, it was training for blood, under a savage named Vaskad, my da told us. Vaskad escaped the slaughter in the royal city when Tanrid died—that’s who taught Mathren, who was thirteen when Tanrid was assassinated. Mathren and Hasta Arvandais were both taught by that soulsucker Vaskad—in fact, the next year, when Tanrid’s son Haldren clashed with the Eastern Alliance, and Jasid came in as king, Vaskad ran up the pass to the north to run the training for the Arvandais.”

  Danet remembered the harsh drills her cousin Hard Ride had been so proud of, and suppressed a grimace.

  “There I go, galloping down a side trail.” Arrow smacked his thigh. “But it’s related. In a manner of speaking. We’ll have your betrothal edict—it’s a good idea, and I know my mother has wanted it for years—but I’m adding another that’ll start right away. It’s the academy.”

  “You’re starting that again? Even I heard horror stories.”

  “That was Vaskad, like I told you,” Arrow said impatiently. “If we’re to be a single kingdom again, and not a lot of squabbling little kingdoms, then we have to start the academy. Train our commanders to be loyal to Marlovan Iasca, not to this or that jarlate.”

  “I can see that,” Danet said cautiously.

  “We’ll begin with second sons. Leave heirs at home, to keep the jarls from getting up on their hind legs and barking at me. This new academy, it’ll be second sons and cousins, like Inda-Harskialdna was. I’ll yap about the great days of old, and require the king’s fifth—the royal tax—to include men as well as coin and kind, men who’ll make up the King’s Riders. They’ll circulate between the garrisons. Keep ‘em mixed. And their purpose will be to patrol the borders, like they used to. And of course they’ll be there if we do need an army.”

  “You’re starting it right away?”

  “Well, I’ll start small. I gave orders this morning to clean the buildings up. Fix what needs fixing. I’m going to pick the masters myself.” He frowned again. “Da was right when he said half the troubles in the kingdom come from those private armies. I’m going to break those little kingdoms up.” He smacked the dispatch on his desk. “‘Perideth.’ What kind of name is that? What’s wrong with Feravayir? I don’t even know what language it is they are claiming to speak down there.”

  Danet spread her hands.

  “So once you get the royal tax straightened out, get the jarls and the guilds all paying their fifth again, no special—” He looked up at the runner standing in the open door. “Oh, what now?”

  The runner saluted fist to heart and stepped aside as a soberly clad woman entered, still dusty from travel.

  This courier hid her fear at the ferocious scowl the Marlovan king turned on her. She had expected no less. She regripped the handle of the basket she bore.

  “What’s this?” Arrow said, fists on hips.

  The woman faced him, shoulders braced as she set the basket on the low table between king and queen. “This is Connar, the son of Lanrid Olavayir and Fini Daughter of Vaka. Fini Daughter of Buno, Chief of Lindeth-Hije Shipping, sent me to deliver this child, as the family has no use for boys. Those are her words,” the woman added hastily in her heavily accented Marlovan, seeing the doubt in one face and the gathering wrath in the other.

  “Where’s Fi?” Arrow rapped out the question, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

  “She left Lindeth,” was the reply. “Fini Daughter of Buno dispatched me to bring the babe to you.”

  “Why did you come all the way here?” Danet asked with extreme skepticism. “Why not go to the jarlan, right there in Nevree?”

  “We did,” the courier stated stonily. “The jarlan told me to go away, and take the child to an orphanage in Lindeth,” leaving out what the jarlan had said afterward: He will have a much better life growing up without knowing who either of his parents might have been—making it clear that she didn’t believe Lanrid was the father. Even he wouldn’t have been that stupid, she’d said in her blunt way, when everyone knew Lanrid was hot after that murdering Hard Ride Hadand Arvandais. Whereas we never trusted anything that snake Fi said.

  Fini Senior had found that both insulting and incomprehensible. Whatever she thought of her granddaughter, if Fini said the father was Lanrid Olavayir, then the father was Lanrid Olavayir.

  She’d said to the courier, Just because my household has no man to take him out to sea and train him to captainship of our vessels doesn’t mean a child of our blood ought to be thrown away to be raised as a street wander. Those Marlovans do nothing but ride around swinging their swords. Surely they will need an extra chieftain.

  The courier firmed her voice. “So Fini sa Buno sent me here, as you are blood-kin to the father.”

  Arrow said slowly, “There was no marriage that I was aware of. Lanrid died going north to fetch a wife.”

  The courier stated in that flat voice that hid her fear, “I am given to understand that Fini sa Vaka expected marriage on his return.”

  Danet grimaced. “There’s something missing there. Is this really Lanrid’s child? And what kind of name is ‘Cnor’? It sounds like a girl’s name.”

  “It is Connar, a name common among Sartoran kings,” was the flat reply.

  “Of course she’d name the brat after some outlander king,” Arrow exclaimed in disgust. “But Lanrid wouldn’t. I can’t say much for him, but I will say this: he would not have agreed to have a child with one woman when he wanted another as wife.” He stepped up and peered down into the sleeping infant’s face. “Huh! Have to admit he does look like Lanrid, all right. Except for that black fuzz. That’s Fi’s.”

  He turned his head to address Danet. “I’ll wager my right arm Fi tricked Lanrid somehow. It’s something she’d do, and she was hot after a title—damn,
how she squalled when I told her that nobody I married would ever have a title, outlander style. As if I’d done it on purpose.” He flashed a grin at Danet. “Who knew I’d end up as king?” Then his face lengthened in comical horror. “Can you imagine her as gunvaer?”

  Danet thought sourly to herself that half the men in the kingdom would love it, and for exactly the wrong reasons, but all she said was, “My guess is she’s off chasing princes in some other land.”

  “Good riddance.” Arrow peered into the little face, noting the feathery eyebrows with Fi’s arch, the tiny, curved lips so like hers. But that was Lanrid’s chin, and his broad brow: except for the hair color, this baby looked disturbingly like Sindan Olavayir had when he first arrived in Nevree, not long after his mother was assassinated.

  No. Killed by Mathren, Arrow corrected himself. Another of those witnessed truths kept hidden out of fear.

  Arrow’s heart constricted. Much as he’d loathed Lanrid, he’d liked Sinna. Loved him, even. Everybody had. He would have made a little brother of Sinna had Lanrid not warded him off, making it plain that Sinna’s loyalty solely belonged to him.

  Maybe this baby, without Lanrid’s poisonous influence, would be like Sinna. He looked up at Danet and said coaxingly, “We both feel the same way about Lanrid. And Fi. But Lanrid is dead, and this Cnor, Connar, is a baby, as well as a blood connection. He’s not to blame for having a couple of road apples as parents.”

  The courier pointed to the nearest window. “I can leave the nanny-goat here, if you haven’t a wet-nurse. He’s used to goat’s milk now.”

  Danet, still feeding Noddy mornings and evenings while already struggling against the upset of early pregnancy, looked at that small face, her heart wrung at the flatness of the courier’s words, hearing it as heartlessness. As the babe shifted, making small noises, she felt the internal squeeze of let-down. Women who had twins produced enough for two—why shouldn’t she?