This is especially true when, as was the case in the Marthdavan family—for whom this Noth cousin served as a runner—the family faced the same dilemma. And why not swap a he for a she? After all, the niece of the gunvaer assassinated by Mathren Olavayir reasoned, everybody in the world knows that Uncle Tanrid was born Aunt Tdan, but had grown up insisting she was really a boy, one of the fastest scouts in the Riders, with the best double-stick skills.
“But what about that order from the new gunvaer, about the old royal betrothals starting up?”
“So?” A shrug. “It’s not the old two-year-old exchange, I’m glad to say. We’ll have twenty, twenty-five years to figure something out, if the Olavayirs don’t wipe themselves out first. As usual.” A stern look. “But one thing for sure, no Marthdavan ever again is going to be murdered by any Olavayir in their soul-sucking fights, as has happened twice in four generations. Twice! That’s what you get for loyalty to any Olavayir!”
And so, the Marthdavans decided as a family that their new son would be a daughter to the rest of the world, named Chelis, a well-respected and traditional female name.
Autumnal winds blew leaves skipping and dancing along the streets of the royal city when a lone rider approached the royal castle.
The wall sentries recognized the dusty, rumpled, sun-faded blue coat of the Olavayir Riders, and waved him through.
But when he got to the inner gate leading to the courtyard of the royal castle, one of the wall guards scowled at that eyepatch below blond hair, and spoke to the watch captain, who yelled down, “Retren Hauth?”
The tone was not particularly inviting.
“Sent by the Jarl of Olavayir, message for the king,” Hauth called up.
It was not the job of the gate guards to sort people claiming to be messengers, and those who recognized him knew that he would have no easy time of it.
So it was.
But Retren Hauth was sober, and determined in the way of someone who had nearly drunk himself to death before discovering a new purpose in life. It had happened the night the nephew of a second cousin shook him out of his stupor to tell him that Lanrid had had a son. And that that son was now in the royal city.
He bore himself patiently, soberly, even apologetically as he was passed up the garrison chain of command until, at last, he faced an impatient king.
“Jarend really sent you?” Arrow asked skeptically.
“Yes.”
Arrow knew his brother would not write a letter if he didn’t absolutely have to. “What was the message?”
Hauth turned his one-eyed gaze skyward and repeated flatly, “‘Brother, I am sending Lanrid’s lance master back to you for your academy.’”
Arrow scowled. It was true that before Arrow left Nevree, Hauth had been good at teaching lance charge and mounted fighting, which had been Lanrid’s obsession. And that did sound like Jarend. Arrow didn’t know if this was Jarend’s idea. But even if it wasn’t, what harm could come of it? Mathren and Lanrid were gone.
“All right,” he said with obvious reluctance. “We’ll give it a try.” Then added trenchantly, “But the first time you get soused and don’t turn up for duty, out you go.”
Hauth saluted, his expression serious and grateful, no sign of the old surliness.
Arrow sighed. “Report to Commander Noth.”
Hauth saluted again, still grateful, until he was alone in the hallway. He’d become adept with a cane, moving almost as fast as before, except when he faced stairs. He permitted himself a glance upward as he wondered where the nursery was.
Well, he’d find out. There was plenty of time.
PART TWO
ONE
Spring 4072 AF
In the twelve years since Danet and Arrow found themselves thrust onto a throne neither had wanted, there had been gradual changes inside the royal city and through the kingdom.
The royal runners had been restored to their original purpose—a purpose shaped as well as guided by the Montredavan-An family.
To help furnish us insight into the twelve years since Anred-Harvaldar and Danet-Gunvaer were crowned, I shall introduce twelve-year-old Lineas, who happened to be born the first year of the new king and queen’s rule. Lineas was one of the generation’s most indefatigable journal writers, furnishing those with the wherewithal to find her to slip into her thoughts.
Let’s join her the morning she first arrived at Choreid Dhelerei as a new runner-in-training.
When at last the towers of the royal city jutted up in the eastern haze, Lineas seethed with such excitement she shivered, though the spring day was quite warm. The pair of military runners passing through Darchelde from the south, who’d accompanied her at Shendan Montredavan-An’s request, talked in low voices, paying her no attention.
It had been like that since they’d left Darchelde. That was all right. Lineas worked hard at being the sort of child people ignored. There was safety in being unnoticed, all the more remarkable an achievement for a child born with a wild shock of bright red hair and the freckles that usually went with it. Her head swiveled on her scrawny neck as she tried to take everything in at once. There were the much described three low hills, the divided river flowing on either side of the middle one, which meant that those towers over there on the north side must be the royal castle, her future home.
The muddy road was rutted from wagon wheels as carters drove through the mighty gates toward market. Her guides nudged their horses in line behind a wagon filled with barrels, talking as usual in voices too low for Lineas to hear everything. That was all right, too. Lineas found them as boring as they found her. She sniffed, trying to discover what might be in those barrels, until they neared enough for her to make out the sigil for brown ale on one.
The wagon was very slow. It was a relief when the runners turned off toward the left, toward another gate. That had to be the royal castle. Senrid Montredavan-An was inside! Her innards shivered at the thought of seeing him again.
He wasn’t her first beloved, but he was the longest—three whole years. He must be almost fifteen now, getting tall. She was so excited her stomach churned, and she had to breathe slowly as they approached the royal castle gate.
The sentries waved them in, one calling down to grizzled, gray-haired Telna, who called something back up in some slang Lineas didn’t know.
Then they were through, and riding into a busy courtyard. Stable hands took their mounts. Lineas slipped off, shaking her legs out of habit, though they’d camped not far from the royal city for the night, and had only been riding a few hours.
As her guides strode toward a tower with an archway at its base, Lineas noticed a young man lounging in the open door, blocking their way. He wore a fine House tunic of blue edged in gold, though it wasn’t even Restday, much less a festival day. She was surprised to make out a dolphin on the front of his tunic, instead of an eagle.
His face didn’t change as her escort chatted about whether to go straight to the garrison or to stop at the castle duty station to deliver Lineas. She watched in growing worry as they headed straight toward that blond young man who obviously had rank, but they didn’t pause or salute.
Lineas held back, wondering if she ought to say something, when from inside the tower a young runner dashed right through the young man in the royal house tunic, and ran off toward the stable.
Oh. He was one of them. Well, that made sense, as he didn’t match the description of the bucktoothed king at all, and he was too old to be either of the princes, who were supposed to be only a little older than she was. Glad that she’d said nothing, she held her bag tighter against herself and followed her guides into the tower.
Of course they’d noticed nothing. She’d learned before she could even read that most people didn’t see them, any more than they saw ribbons of colored flame in the air, though some cats did.
They were halfway up the first flight of stairs when they heard the patter of footsteps from the landing above, and two young runners-in-training a
ppeared, wearing midnight blue sashed smocks and riding trousers. One was tall and weedy, with swinging lemon-yellow braids, and the other....
Lineas stared at the familiar boy, his flyaway dark hair escaping from its queue. She shivered with delight in recognizing Savarend-Senrid Montredavan-An, Camerend’s son and heir.
“Senrid?” she whispered.
“‘Senrid,’” the tall girl mimicked, snickering. “Better corral your fuzz, Senrid. See you later, Senrid.” Laughing, she ducked around the two riders, leaped down the stairs, and vanished out the door.
“Lineas?” At the sound of her name in his voice, the butterflies inside her turned into sparks whizzing around inside her like happy fireflies.
“Yes,” she squeaked. Of course he wouldn’t recognize her. Why should he? He was the heir of all Darchelde, and she wasn’t anything, except a failure at magic, which was why she was here.
“I came to meet you,” he said with a welcoming smile.
“Then she is given into your care,” said the older runner, and the two of them promptly left, as if she were a burden dumped at last.
Lineas let a small sigh escape, then turned to Senrid, to find his eyes narrowed in laughter. “You might as well get used to calling me Quill. Everyone does.”
“Why?”
“Got it when I was small. I don’t even remember how. But I’m used to it, and anyway, nobody knows my first name here, and there are three Senrids that I know of, between us and the academy. The only one who gets his name is two years from the lancers. Those two runners sure galloped off fast. Are you that much trouble?”
Lineas’s mouth rounded in surprise. She had spent her entire short life striving to be good, to be unnoticed. For a painful moment his humor didn’t reach her. But his tone—laughing, warm—tipped her off, then she saw it, and laughed on an exhaled breath, blushing hotly.
He’d made a joke! Like she was a person you made jokes with! But he was waiting, so she guessed at what would be the best answer, and said, “Worse.”
Her reward was a gust of laughter, then she said, “I think I was a duty they didn’t want.”
Senrid—Quill, she reminded herself—said, “You don’t have to explain. It’s happened to me, nearly much every time I went to Darchelde to visit my mothers. Since nobody can leave Darchelde except runners like us—”
She thrilled at that us.
“—perforce any runners carrying messages through got stuck with me, either going or coming.”
Quill looked at his wispy distant cousin who stood there on the step, long, spider-thin fingers clutching her bag against her ribs, the mud of a morning ride dotting her trousers and robe, and said, “I’ll take you upstairs to our lair. You can change, and I’ll show you around.”
She followed on his heels as he raced up to the third floor and along a torchlit hall that whiffed of old meals—unlike Darchelde, which was also large, but had been built by someone who understood how air moved.
When she sniffed, Quill said over his shoulder, “I know it stinks. Can’t be helped. We’ll get a bit more air when the warmer weather comes, and we can take out the window-glass and stuffing, and open up the doors to spring air.”
“I wasn’t going to complain,” she whispered.
“No.” Quill grinned. “But you noticed. Everyone does. You’ll get used to it.”
His lack of affront eased her dread of doing wrong, and she shook with silent laughter that was mainly relief as he led her through a door into a warren of interconnected rooms.
They moved too quickly for her to impress any of the spaces into memory, until he opened a door into a small chamber with a narrow bed, a trunk at the foot of it, and a desk on the opposite wall, and said, “This is yours. If you want hangings, talk to Mnar, but you won’t be in here except to study and sleep. In the trunk you’ll find clothes.”
He whacked his chest. “The basket in the corner is for dirty clothes. If you want a bath, follow the stairs all the way to the left, and when you’re ready, I’ll be in our study. That’s down to the right—the first open door.”
He left her there, and she stood clutching her travel bag as she looked around uncertainly. She was actually here, in the royal city! And Quill himself had been sent to welcome her! Excited—apprehensive—curious, she wavered, then looked down at herself. Mud! And she probably stank of horse.
In dread of keeping Quill waiting, she dropped to her knees and opened the trunk to find two neatly folded sets of clothes—dark blue smocks, gray riding trousers—heavier winter wear beneath the lighter cotton-linen for spring.
She opened her travel bag, and hauled out her old, worn clothes, which were wrapped around her precious journal, two much-mended pens, and the ink she’d made herself. The journal, she stashed beneath everything else in the trunk.
Then she snatched up an undyed cotton-linen singlet from the neat, folded pile. It looked newly woven and sewn. She held it up, admiring a piece of clothing that nobody else had ever worn. She would begin its story, unlike everything she’d always worn, which had stories before they came to her hands: a mended tear here, from when and where? Worn elbows, from doing what? Sometimes she’d been able to guess at bits of the story, though not the entirety. Only Auntie Isa, Quill’s mother, could touch a thing and tell you its stories.
Lineas pulled out a dark blue tunic, this one soft, with worn edges, so it had a history. She sniffed, but it just smelled like sunshine, as did anything that had dried outside. Trousers, new and sturdily stitched. She upended her bag to pull out her last, wrinkled pair of drawers, and flung the rest of her underthings and socks into the laundry basket in the corner.
Then she fled down the many stairs to the baths. No one was there, as everyone was busy with the day watch. She took the fastest bath of her life, then dressed, sashing her smock with more care than she customarily gave her clothes.
She raced back up, counting the doors. She opened the correct one, tossed her old clothes into the basket on top of the rest of her dirty laundry, shoved her feet into her boots—glanced in despair at their dirty state—then rubbed her old smock over them, wondering when and where she would deal with her laundry. She had no new underthings for tomorrow. She had to remember to ask.
She raced down the hall and stopped outside the open door, assessing the tone of the voices inside, then stepped in. All conversation ceased, and Lineas’s gaze found Quill, who sat at a table on which were spread several books, a stack of chalk slates, chalks, and an open box containing paper, with inkwells and quills beside it.
“You must have flown,” Quill said, hopping off his stool. “Come on!”
He charged toward the door where she still stood, halted, then whirled around. “Oh. Everyone, this is Lineas, the new fuzz. This is...no, better to meet ‘em one at a time,” he said, and shot out the door, pulling her after him by sheer speed.
“Middle stair, right over here, takes you to the royal chambers on the second floor,” he said rapidly. “So don’t use it unless you’re serving them. That stair to the left goes down to the mess hall and the kitchen gardens. You’ll learn the gardens well,” he added, with a speculative glance.
“We do gardening at Darchelde, too,” she said, lest he think her lacking in some way. “Weeds. I know all the kinds. And pulp and rag shredding and pounding for paper-making.”
“Good. Far end stair goes to the stable, as you saw, and over that is the state wing....”
And so it went, Lineas running beside Quill down one stairway and up another, with quick glimpses into various rooms. She sniffed as well as looked, trying impress each space into her memory. It was both thrilling and unnerving to be with him, after those brief glimpses in the past, which had been followed by imagined conversations, and thoughts of what he would say when she showed him her favorite places in and around Darchelde, because of course he would have loved everything she loved.
Only why was he hurrying so fast? Perhaps he was in some way testing her, though she didn’t see ch
allenge in his face, or hear it in his voice, and she knew all the signs from her life in Darchelde.
When they hustled back from a fast glance at the garrison side, a bell clanged—not the tower bells, but one at the back end of one of the stone buildings, and Quill let out a whoop. “We did it! And we’ll be first in line.”
They shot through the door ahead of a stampede of runners in training, servants, and stable hands.
“This time of year, there’s never enough fizz,” he explained as he led her past the food to the far end, where a big wooden tureen sat, with a ladle next to it. They each filled a clay mug with purple liquid. Lineas smelled fermented citrus and tartberries. “When they get to the last tier of barrels, they only put out one bowl a day,” Quill said. “To make it last until the berries ripen in early summer. We’ll be helping with the picking.”
So this was why he’d hurried her along!
He led her back around to the food tables, where she found offerings little different from what she was used to: rye biscuits, cheese to stuff into them, pickled cabbage, and apple-nut rolls that were more nut and raisin than apple, as usual in spring, with more honey than usual to hide how dried the nuts were.
When they sat down across from each other, he hunched forward, gaze earnest. “I don’t know where to start first. What’s your interest?”
“I like studying everything,” she began, and when he rolled his eyes at the conventionality of the answer (though it happened to be true) she said, “Will I meet the princes and princess?” She cared little about meeting boys, especially older ones, though she was curious to see them. But she was really curious to meet the princess, who was exactly her age.
Quill turned his palm down. “The princes aren’t around much since they were sent to the academy, except in winter, and then they have tutoring. You might see them on festival days, and once in a while at the stable. We see more of the princess, as she studies with the fledges, though she spends all the time she can at the stable, and the barns.”
Time of Daughters I Page 28