She indicated the tapestry with her fan. “Is that supposed to be Indevan Algaravayir?”
The other women deferred to a short, graying figure in green and silver. Lavais belatedly realized this had to be Linden-Fareas Algaravayir, descendant of this same hero, as the Iofre said, “It is actually a fairly good representation, we are told, though overlarge, of course. It was sketched from life, and the tapestry given to Indevan’s wife Tdor Marthdavan.”
Lavais hated having to defer to a princess when she knew herself to be a queen. Especially a princess who had been too stupid to understand her overtures when she had written to suggest that one of the Algaravayir daughters might marry her darling second son, Ryu—the first step in an alliance that could retake the entire southern half of Halia.
Face to face, this woman did not look stupid at all. “Thank you.” Lavais forced a diplomatic smile.
Her first glimpse of Danet-Gunvaer, though Danet was ten years younger than she, reinforced her decision to tread lightly and observe. Danet was as plain as a fence slat, her forgettable face dominated by a narrowed, observant gaze. She wore a robe of the purest of blues, hanging in rich folds of unexpectedly exquisite linen. Within the first few moments of greeting, it was clear that this gunvaer knew absolutely nothing of courtly finesse, but she was also dangerous; she not only said what she thought, but appeared to be capable of carrying it out.
As for Danet, one look at Lavais Nyidri, and she knew the woman was trouble. It remained to be seen what kind of trouble.
Calamity Senelaec (though living closer than anyone but the Gannans) was the last to arrive, approaching slowly as she appreciated the massive royal castle and the bustling city surrounding it. When they reached the stable, she helped her runners see to the animals, then begged the closest runner to request an interview with the gunvaer.
Danet had been sitting with Tdor Fath, the Iofre, and the jarlans of Tlennen and Sindan-An. As soon as she heard who had made the request, she excused herself and sent Sage to bring Calamity to her private chamber.
There she waited, aware of her thumping heart, until Calamity dashed impetuously in.
Danet, whose life had not provided much in the way of friends, and Calamity, who had to be loved, searched each other’s faces for signs of resentment or anger, and saw only their own expressions mirrored, in faces no longer young, but at nearly forty, far from old.
Calamity yanked off her gloves and knit hat, her braids tumbling out as she said, “I’ve been thinking about you ever since the Victory Day games, and my son’s rash idea to ride here. But it’s all right, isn’t it?”
Danet understood the real question, which had little to do with that boy’s typical Senelaec dash headlong at a ruse, and everything to do with Calamity’s typical Senelaec snap decision to lie about his birth.
“It’s all right.” Danet turned her palm up.
“Truly? I feel stupid,” Calamity said.
Danet hesitated, mulling over what to say. Calamity looked and sounded exactly like the girl who’d helped her birth Noddy, and who had made her welcome in the barn attic at Senelaec, yet the first comment to mind was You feel stupid because you got caught lying.
Calamity had, in short, broken her trust.
And that was such a hard thing to get back. But here Calamity was, waiting with a slightly hopeful air, and Danet realized that nothing could be the same. They weren’t newlyweds married to second sons, there was too much that had changed. But she also remembered something she’d read in Hadand-Gunvaer’s letters from a century ago, how trust and liking didn’t always match, even if you wished they did.
She still liked Calamity, so she would go on as if she still trusted her. So, though she felt the pressure of all the things waiting to be done, she asked after everyone at Senelaec, chatted about children, and finally flicked a glance at Loret, who came forward to open the door. “Go ahead and get settled. We’ll have plenty of time for chat later.”
Calamity accepted that, her emotions tumbling. It could have gone worse, but it also could have gone better, though she couldn’t define how.
She simply had to keep trying.
TWENTY
The army of royal and castle runners had prepared for weeks.
Hliss had worked even longer, making certain that every guest bedroom had new linens, so that when Lavais of Feravayir retired to the bedchamber in her suite, she found herself looking down at fine-hackled, double-bucked bed linens, woven in a complicated honeycomb pattern. Her cotton-silk sheets from Sartor weren’t as fine as these. As she slid into the bed and felt the rich whisper of the fabric over her skin, she contemplated the silent message: Danet had, without words, defined the difference between ignorant barbarians and the house of a war king.
It was a sober set of women who gathered back in the interview room on Firstday Morning.
Danet stood before them in her beautiful House robe. “I expect that many of you would rather be in the throne room with the jarls, as this is likely the only time you will ever attend Convocation. But I’ve sat through every Convocation since Anred-Harvaldar first presided Midsummer of Year Sixty.”
She paused, four fingers in the air to indicate the number of Convocations. Numbers, she believed, were solid ground. No one could argue with them. “I can assure you that you will miss nothing,” she said abruptly. “They always begin Firstday with unfinished business, which is going to gallop down the endless side trail of arguing about the Nob. Those who like the sounds of their own voices will repeat what they’ve been arguing about for the past ten years, and certain others will restate what they just heard but in their own words.”
Danet paused, and seeing question in some faces, waited, but every woman, from the young to old, remained silent and stiff.
Danet said, “Here’s the short version of what will keep them from deciding anything. While Lindeth Harbor pays for itself, the Nob is nothing but a drain; the people of the peninsula don’t want us there, but we pay their costs—that is, your taxes pay their costs—according to a century-old treaty. I doubt very much that is going to be resolved now, or even in ten years.”
She paused again, assessing the silence. They were still listening. “What I want is to talk to you all face to face, rather than spend five years exchanging letters. My intent is this, to offer your girls the chance to serve in the King’s Army.”
And that broke the silence.
Danet let them exclaim and ask each other questions they couldn’t answer, then said when at last they quieted, “We all know that men are generally bigger and stronger, but we also know that women can be faster—sometimes as riders, definitely in reaction. And in hand to hand, a trained woman isn’t necessarily outmatched even if the man is twice her size. You all have grown up hearing how Hadand-Deheldegarthe defended the throne against the Jarl of Yvanavayir, knives against a sword.”
A few whispers met this, and a dry laugh from the Jarlan of Tlennen, whose daughters had been riding with the Sindan-Ans against the horse thieves for some time now.
Danet said, “What I really want is to mix girls in with the army in hopes that they might be able to mitigate men’s tendency toward fighting for fighting’s sake.”
The Jarlan of Tyavayir crossed her arms, her dark, thick brows meeting over her thin nose. “As exampled by Hadand Arvandais?”
“I figured her name would come up sooner than later.” Danet opened her hand. “To that I’ll say the obvious, the fact that it’s always her name makes her the exception.”
“I realize that.” The jarlan tipped her head. “But she was also trained in war. How many Hadand Arvandaises will we create if add girls to the army requirement?”
A short burst of commentary rose. Danet waited until the noise died down and they turned from one another to her again. She said, “First, I’m not proposing your girls be required to join. This is volunteer only, while we see how it goes. Second. Did you really think I hadn’t thought of investigating my cousin’s training?”
>
The words “my cousin” caused a short burst of whispers, as quickly silenced.
Danet went on. “This is what I learned from my own brother, and from my father’s first runner, who came back down the Pass with the news when my father died defending the jarl. Hadand Arvandais got the same training all your foremothers did, and many of you still get now—odni knife fighting, and horseback archery—but that training was savage. Whoever lost a scrap, or a wargame, got beaten. Punishments were severe. She was raised to further her father’s purpose, and she was to be the spearhead. Hadand Arvandais’s first move was the assassination of her father.”
Rustles and widened eyes met this news.
“I thought he was assassinated by the loyalists,” spoke a woman from the back—Danet couldn’t make her out.
“So did we. Until a witness reached us, a year later. This was my father’s first runner—who died defending the jarl. My father’s last act was to send his runner to carry witness, for he’d recognized his daughter’s followers, though they wore face masks and dressed like brigands.”
Another whisper rose, then subsided as Danet cleared her throat and continued. “Hadand was an exception, not a rule. From everything else I can discover in every written record I can find, most women don’t fight because we like to fight, we fight because we must. And when we do, we can be as bloodthirsty as vicious as any man. But when the quarrel is resolved, most of us stop. We don’t carry on across borders as far as we can slaughter.”
That raised another buzz.
Then Lavais Nyidri said in her smooth, Sartoran-accented voice, “Whom do you fear? Your sons, or the son of the king’s brother? The Olavayirs historically do seem to favor fighting one another.”
Danet suppressed a sharp spurt of anger. It was a fair question, if rudely worded. “It’s true that the Olavayirs have a rough history. I knew that before I married into the family. All I can say is, we’ve taught our boys that that family history is a warning, and I will also note that my sons are quite loyal to one another.”
“They’re boys,” that same woman called from the back, voice flat with disillusionment. She shifted, and Danet caught sight of her shoulder and arm, recognizing Gannan colors in her robe. “Boys don’t usually lead civil wars. Give them five, ten years, then we shall see.”
Danet knew it was unfair to judge a woman by an unwelcome stay years ago, so she decided not to respond.
She turned her gaze to those in the front row. “My husband’s brother, who by treaty should have been king, begged Ar, ah, Anred to take the throne. I feel confident in predicting that Jarend-Jarl of Olavayir will not change his mind. If you doubt me, you may address his wife, the Jarlan of Olavayir, third from the right, second row.”
Tdor Fath rose, unsmiling, and turned in a circle so that everyone could see her face. “Everything she said about Jarend is true.” No one missed the air of challenge in her straight shoulders, and the way her gaze snagged unblinking on every pair of eyes raised her way.
More whispers rose, but sudden silence fell when Fareas-Iofre raised her hand up, palm out. “Would you put our daughters in the academy, then?”
“Not right away,” Danet said. “I believe the summer games have been a success—you can ask your daughters if I am right. My thought was to restart the queen’s training again, for at least a couple of years. Then let them go on the overnight wargames with the boys. See how it goes. If it goes well, try the next step. If it doesn’t, then no harm—the girls will have benefitted from sharing training.”
“What does the king say?” an old jarlan quavered.
“He says the decision is ours,” Danet replied. “It will be your daughters and nieces coming here to train. So talk among yourselves. Talk to me. Let me know what you think before you ride home again. This is an idea, not an edict, at present.”
Female voices rose in a high hum.
The Iofre stayed silent, an island in a sea of chatter. Danet noticed, and so was not surprised when the Iofre waited at the door for her when they broke up for the midday meal, after which the jarlans expected to go to the throne room for the jarls’ Firstday oaths and Arrow’s address.
Danet waved off the hovering runners, and fell in step beside the Iofre, who said, “Ambitious. I can’t say I don’t follow your thinking.”
Danet glanced down at the shorter, older woman, who had gone grayer in the few years since they had seen one another. “But?”
“I did not want to raise this point, because I suspect it might weigh more than it ought, but after your visit I went through Tdor’s letters. I wish I’d known about this plan of yours, as I would have reread the pertinent letter, perhaps brought it, but anyway, it seems that Inda did intend at one point to bring girls into the academy. It has to be remembered he was used to serving with women at sea. He said that at ten, boys and girls pay little heed to such distinctions, and if they grow up together in training, by the time they reach the age where the distinction begins to matter, they are so used to one another it is no more a problem than an army with all boys or all girls.”
“And?” Danet prompted.
The Iofre looked up, her eyes reflecting the torchlight. “And Hadand wrote back forbidding any such thing. She said, and this much I remember, Someone has to be trusted to do the real work of the kingdom.”
They walked together as Danet said, “Interesting. I saw no reference to that exchange in her papers here. Did she elaborate?”
“Not that I recollect—that is, I only have Tdor’s end of the correspondence, and since her next letters didn’t mention it, I assume the matter was dropped.”
They walked a little farther, Danet thinking that though she lived, ate, and slept in the same rooms Hadand had lived in for all those years, though she’d read and reread Hadand’s papers, there was still no knowing her mind. Perhaps an ordinary person could never comprehend the mind of brilliance any more than one could define the substance of fire.
A stray thought: did the famous contemplate their own brilliance?
But that sort of pondering was for later. She said, “Hadand was far greater than I could ever hope to be. But her time was different. I wish I knew what happened to her end of that exchange—which makes me wonder how much else we’re missing without knowing it.”
Danet and Fareas reached the royal guest chamber, where the Iofre turned in the open door, paused, and said, “Hadand’s time was different in what sense? You don’t just mean the Venn threat.”
Danet stood outside the door. “This is another thing I’ve discovered while delving in the records, that what we consider traditional has never been one thing. Ever.”
“True. Very true.” The Iofre beckoned Danet in, appreciating how the gunvaer waited on the threshold, though this was her domain. “Before we lived in castles, women guarded the camps while the men rode out raiding. The tradition that Hadand-Deheldegarthe was raised to was women guarding castles instead of camps, though the Iascans never tried to retake the kingdom.”
Danet said, “Yes. Other than fighting off coastal piracy, and our taking of the north coast, the worst fighting until the Venn invasion was among us Marlovans. Starting with the first Montreivayir king stabbing the first, and only, Montredavan-An king in the back. And after Hadand-Deheldegarthe used the odni against Mad Gallop Yvanavayir when he tried to take the throne, things began to change again, until we became border scouts, as now.”
“Knowing this history, do you believe that bringing women into the army will be an improvement?”
Danet stood just inside the doorway, aware of the press of obligations. People were waiting for her, but this conversation, with this particular woman, at this moment, felt important. “Improvement,” she repeated. “This word is...like water, to me. Can’t quite be shaped to the circumstances. Do I think warfare will improve? I have no idea how to define improvement within the context of warfare. Do I think that women will be better warriors than men? Not necessarily. Better defenders, maybe.”
&nb
sp; The Iofre said soberly, “As you said, we can be just as bloody-minded as men when sufficiently roused.”
“Yes. But I can’t find a single record, and I’ve looked, that mentioned female captains or chieftains who successfully defended then rode out a-conquering for the sake of glory. They seemed to turn to rebuilding.”
“As have men.” The Iofre opened her palm. “That’s one credit I will grant my ancestor, Inda-Harskialdna. After he brought back the treaty settling the strait, he didn’t sweep eastward, creating an even larger Marlovan empire. He went home, and tried his hand at farming until they made him a teacher. We can’t resolve the debates about female or male natures, much less establish that there is any such thing. As warriors for millennia have discovered after they break skulls, our brains all look the same. So. To what matters now.”
The Iofre dropped cross-legged on the guest-mat that Danet herself had chosen, and glanced at the rapidly cooling meal waiting. “I must discuss your plan with Noren, who might be expected to carry on your designs.”
“There’s time,” Danet said. “If the others agree, I’ll call for the queen’s training to begin spring a year from now, to once again establish a single standard for female training. There’s considerable variation in training, I’ve seen at the Victory Day competitions. If nothing else, I believe it will be beneficial to regularize it.”
Fareas-Iofre said, “Am I to understand that you will teach the old odni, or do you intend to introduce Fox’s drills?”
Danet said, “I thought about it. For now, I think we’re better off with the odni, which I learned as a girl. If events in the kingdom change, that can change as well. We’ve only one more thing to talk about: when Noren is to come to us as haranviar.”
Time of Daughters I Page 51