The Iofre smiled. “I don’t know that she’s ready to be acknowledged as haranviar with all the duties implied, but she’s ready to live in the royal city now. She loves it here. I can send her permanently after she turns eighteen, though I don’t know that she’ll be ready to marry even then. All her attention has been on acquiring skills.”
“The Olavayirs traditionally marry young—boys by twenty-five, girls eighteen to twenty—but that doesn’t mean we have to follow this tradition. Noddy isn’t even twenty yet, and he’s far from ready. She can be haranviar in all but name for a few years, if she and Noddy want. There’s no hurry for marriage, but I would like her to be here when I begin the queen’s training.”
“She’ll definitely want to train with the other girls before she can be expected to run it,” the Iofre said.
“Of course.” Danet laid her hand to her breast in unconscious salute, though she could never have said why she did it. “Thank you for talking to me. Enjoy your meal. The Convocation will resume at the double-bell.”
She walked out, to find an unfamiliar runner hovering in the hallway. Belatedly she recognized the wine-colored and yellow edging along the front and sleeves of the woman’s sun-faded blue runner’s robe: Marthdavan.
The woman said, “My jarlan asked me to petition for a private interview.”
Danet made an effort to mentally shift. Marthdavan, another fake daughter—a very troublesome one, about whom there had been minor complaints that reached first the ears of the Fath family to whom this fake daughter was betrothed, and from them to Tdor Fath. She’d sent the letters on to Danet, who’d decided to deal with it later since no one had come to her directly...aaaaand apparently “later” was now.
She was going to follow the runner, then remembered that she was the gunvaer, and this jarlan was in the wrong. And the faint throb behind her eyes was no doubt due to the fact that she had not eaten since last evening’s hunk of bread stuffed with cheese.
“Bring her to my chamber,” Danet said.
When she got there, her third-runner Sage had just brought a meal. Danet eyed the many dishes, and sent an inquiring glance at Sage.
“Loret thought someone might be sticking to your hem when you came back. And she said you haven’t eaten since last night.”
“Thanks,” Danet said with deep appreciation, and tried to get as much into her as she could.
Even so, she’d barely swallowed half a dozen bites before the runner returned with a short, dark-haired woman with wide-set, anxious eyes. She held hands tightly with another woman whose plain clothes offered no clue as to her calling. They stood hip to hip in a way that signaled to Danet that these two were close, maybe even lifemates, though they didn’t wear rings.
She waved them both in.
Danet recognized in the set of the jarlan’s chin that self-justification equaled guilt, and to cut short a conversation they both would find trying, she said, “I know that your daughter Chelis isn’t a daughter—”
“You know?”
“Yes. Did you think I was going to send a wing of lancers down to Marthdavan? I know what you feared, and why. What I require from you is a suitable bride for Anderle Fath, so that my entire betrothal plan doesn’t unravel. Send me the family name for the records, and we’ll be done.”
The Jarlan of Marthdavan saluted, a gesture conveying as much relief as respect. “It will be done as soon as I return home.”
“Sit. Have you eaten?” Danet asked, and indicated the extra dishes. “As you see, my runner brought extra.”
The jarlan dropped crosslegged onto the guest mat, scarcely hearing the dry tone of Danet’s voice. The other woman stepped back to stand behind her, but the jarlan whispered something under her breath and tugged on the woman’s robe.
With a quick, wary glance at Danet, the woman sat next to her jarlan, again hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder.
Sage uncovered the braised fish, bread, cheese, and darkberry compote. The jarlan and her companion shared the same plate.
“Tell me about your boy,” Danet said.
The pair exchanged glances. Then the jarlan sighed as she pulled out her belt knife to cut the fish. “At first we raised him as Chelis, so as not to make a liar of us. He was wild from the time he could speak. We think he would have been wild if we had not braided his hair. One of his uncles fought duels all down the coast until he finally met someone stronger, and his grandfather was…. Well. At ten, when Chelis understood what we had done, he insisted we call him Chana—for Chanrid, the same uncle I mentioned, whom our Chelis, that is, Chana, admired. Then he tried to run away to the royal city, for he thought that the academy meant he could fight all day without discipline or duty.”
“There are some who come here with that belief. After they’ve scrubbed enough stables, it passes,” Danet said.
The jarlan pressed her hands to her face as the silent woman’s arm slipped around her waist. “We finally sent him to sea. He did not get his first leave for two years, but when he came home, all he talked about was going back. He’s with the patrol ships, mostly south, off the Land Bridge. Been in three battles against pirates, so we hear….”
Danet listened patiently to the exploits of this once-troublesome son, who apparently had become an excellent sailor and pirate fighter. At least Danet got to finish her lunch before the two women finally left. She was alone at last, with a chance to reflect on these private conversations. For the most part, it seemed the jarlans were...she wouldn’t say with her so much as not against her, Lavais Nyidri of Feravayir excepted.
That one, Danet wouldn’t trust as far as she could spit into a wind.
The oaths (as per usual), king’s address (short), and commentary (very, very long) dragged on until well past sundown. They were in that frigid room so long it began to seem almost warm, and moisture glistened on the walls from all the exhalations.
Danet and Arrow both noted a different quality to the men’s voices with the women present, but each interpreted it differently: Arrow heard swagger, and Danet a tone of self-justification. The rambling repetitions ended only with the ringing of the watch bell announcing the Firstday banquet across the windy passage. Stomachs wringing with hunger forced an ending to the tedium, and the tone of the voices lightened, the usual buzz of men blending with the descant of female voices.
Hot spiced-wine had already been placed on the tables. As it circulated, the waiting line of kitchen staff and runners snaked in and dispersed on a signal, each carrying covered trays of baked spice-fish, cabbage, and cheese. They set these down at the same moment, a fact unnoticed by the hungry guests; even though the latter paid scant attention to anything but their dinner, Kitchen Steward Amreth Tam knew that when the jarls noticed something, it was invariably to complain. There had been bad blood at a Convocation during the first Olavayir’s reign because the tables were served one after another, those at the last table seeing insult in the arrival of frigid food when the king’s table was half finished eating.
The royal children were present for the first time at this banquet, which gave the jarls a chance to glimpse their future king. Most thought he wasn’t much to look at, but approved of those big shoulders. He looked strong enough to sit on that throne there across the hall.
Levais of Feravayir paid no attention to Noddy. Her attention shot straight to that homely daughter, and foundered on disgust. Unless that buck-toothed weed spoke Sartoran and knew something of civilized manners, she would never marry Levais’s brilliant Demeos.
Her gaze snagged on the second son. A shame he wasn’t a girl. That one would have been suitable for Demeos, at least in looks.
Early Thirdday morning, Sage came in to warn Danet that a jarlan had been standing in the hall before the morning watch bell.
“Who?”
“Wouldn’t say,” Sage whispered, eyes huge. “She is very old. Wearing Zheirban colors.”
“Let her in,” Danet sighed.
The white-haired Jarlan of Zheirban stood insi
de the door, her hands in her sleeves, as if gripping her wrists tight. As the woman drew a shaky breath Danet wondered if she had knives up her forearms, and her body tightened, the old defensive block trembling in her muscles.
But the woman began to sing in a cracked, quavering voice that once had been beautiful:
“When kings die, their quarrels with them
Who will remember
The sons and brothers whose blood they spilled
Whose bones lie scoured by winter’s wind?”
She paused for another shuddering breath, and Danet—though irritated and thirsty, prompted by impulse she could not name—sang,
“As the sun returns, it is we their beloveds
Who sing to remember
Spring rains bring new life, but never to us
Our tears shall drown the wind.”
“You still remember it,” the jarlan whispered.
“Of course.” Danet opened her hands. “My mother taught me that it’s one of our oldest ballads. The men sing of glory, the women’s chorus sings of its cost.”
“One of our earliest ballads. From the days before we took the Iascan castles,” the old jarlan stated, her unwinking gaze steady from pouched old eyes. “It was one of many grief songs, when woman unbound their hair and rent their robes.”
That was very long ago, Danet thought. Out loud, she said, “When I was a girl, I sometimes heard men sing it among themselves, but they left off the chorus.”
“Did you?”
“No. We sang the entire song.” If we sang it at all. Danet was not going to get into how impatient Mother had been of any ritual save the Andahi Lament, which was a family duty. In adulthood, it had occurred to Danet that her mother, honest, strong, and hard-working, was oblivious to beauty in any form.
The old jarlan clasped gnarled hands. “You sing it still? And yet we are told it was the royal city that suppressed Andahi Day, and no longer sings the Lament. Was that you?”
Danet sensed that this was not the problem, but she turned her palm up in a gesture of invitation. “Please. Come, sit. It was my husband who laid aside the Andahi Lament, but not for the reason you seem to think.”
The jarlan unbent enough to join Danet at her table. She explained the king’s feelings about the attack in the Andahi Pass followed by Lorgi Idego’s breaking away. The jarlan listened in silence, then out came her true question: “Why do you desire to put our daughters in the fields of blood?”
“I want to prevent fields of blood,” Danet retorted, trying not to sound sharp.
Once again, she explained her thinking, repeating the speech she had worked on so carefully since summer. How many people had ignored it that first day of Convocation? Or maybe they didn’t ignore it, but some word, some phrase, caused them to fall into their own thoughts, so they missed the following words. It had happened to her often enough.
When Danet came to a close, and fought the impulse to repeat herself into the still-tense silence, the jarlan slowly rose, one hand pressing against a bad knee. She sighed, touched a finger to a loose hair from her thin white braid loop, then said, “I will tell my grand-daughter not to hold our girls back if they wish to come. I believe in your good will.”
“I hear misgivings,” Danet said. “Share them freely. Please.”
The jarlan had started toward the door. Here she paused, looking back. “I’ve learned that the young are more likely to make our mistakes all over again than listen. So I will say only this: if you train an army, what else has it to do but fight?”
“My husband’s answer will be defense,” Danet said. “Mine is, I hope they’ll spend their lives enjoying their wargames, without ever having to raise a sword in earnest.”
The jarlan sighed heavily. “Thank you for talking to me,” she said, saluted and went out, wondering how much Danet-Gunvaer had truly heard.
TWENTY-ONE
On New Year’s Thirdday night, the first real blizzard of winter struck.
The sun came up next morning, weak and blue, as Lineas shoved her hands into the sleeves of her winter robe.
Bun had insisted on going with Lineas when she went upstairs to the third floor to check in for any new orders. So they ran side by side up to the tower room below the Harskialdna chamber, the command post for the castle watch commander and the runner chief during Convocation.
Bunny knew that Quill had been given the responsibility of overseeing the younger runners during Convocation, which included relaying the constant stream of demands on the kitchens from various servants brought by the guests. She looked around with interest as gray-blue coated and robed people came and went in the room, their voices soft. At Bun’s entrance, they stilled, touching two fingers to their hearts.
Bun eyed the slate against one wall, covered with cryptic marks. On a table sticks with colored notches lay lined up, surely conveying some sort of message.
Bun’s gaze flicked from these to Quill, tall and slim in his dark blue runner’s robe, modestly queued dark brown hair glinting reddish in the lamplight. He’d been standing in the center of the room in low-voiced conversation with two young runners in training.
“You know what to do.” He flicked his hand, and the two youngsters took off.
Then he turned to Bun and touched a finger to his chest in salute. “What may I do for you, Hadand-Edli?” His gaze flicked to Lineas, who had been reading the slate and the message wands.
It was no more than a glance, but Bunny saw it, and misread it. “I insisted she bring me,” she said, gazing round-eyed at Quill. This had gone very differently in her imagination.
Ever since her last Name Day, Quill had switched from calling her Bunny-Edli to using her given name, and she hated it. Even worse, she hated that polite, formal salute. Nobody saluted a person they wanted to kiss.
The entire room had gone silent, everyone staring at her. “I thought I could offer to help,” Bun said in a small voice. “There’s a blizzard, so no riding. And I haven’t anything else to do.”
“That is kind and thoughtful,” Quill said in a kind and thoughtful voice, but not the least romantic. “Might I trouble you to pass a message to Sage in the gunvaer’s chamber? It’s urgent.”
Bun brightened as he picked up one of the sticks lying to the left of the pile, and handed it to her. “I’d be glad to!” She took the stick, and turned it over in her hand. “Uh, what do these marks mean?”
“Sage will explain,” Quill said, and saluted again. “Thank you very much for your offer.”
Smiling. Waiting. Bun gave in to the unconscious pressure to get out the door. But a step from the doorway she resisted, turning. “Lineas?”
“She’ll be along in a moment, Hadand-Edli,” Quill said in that kindly, polite voice.
As Bun exited reluctantly, Quill whirled and threw one of the sticks directly at where Bun had been standing.
Lineas lunged, her fingertips knocking the stick into the wall with a clatter. There was no getting past the truth: She should have caught it. She’d let her reflexes slow.
She looked up. Quill’s timing had been perfect. Bun had vanished with her stick that signified Delay, or Keep the bearer busy. The only audience was their fellow runners, who turned back to their work, having recognized another one of their frequent tests.
Lineas’s timing had been a heartbeat late.
As Lineas placed the stick on the table, Quill said lightly, “Too much Convocation?”
He regretted the words as soon as they were out. Her face had already flamed with shame. He knew how quick, how sensitive she was.
Quill took a step closer, and said softly, so only she could hear, “What did you think of the Jarlan of Feravayir?”
Lineas’s first impulse was I didn’t like her. But she’d been trained out of that error. “Her smile is half-face,” Lineas said, meaning that it never reached the woman’s eyes. “She gives no information. When she first saw B—the princess, her quick expression was a sneer.”
“Yes, Mnar saw
it as well,” Quill said, and Lineas’s breath trickled out slowly as he went on, “Lineas, you know that the princess is betrothed to that jarlan’s eldest son. Now that Hadand-Edli is well past sixteen, it’s entirely possible that this jarlan will require her to ride back to Feravayir with her. Do you think she will be as safe there as she is here?”
Sick with dread, and disgust at herself for not thinking ahead to the obvious, Lineas put hand to heart.
Quill said, “I know that the princess stays up late, but recently you’ve been missing drill more often than you’ve attended. And it shows, as you saw just now.”
“I’ll be there in the morning,” Lineas whispered.
She walked out, shivering from a chill that had little to do with winter’s grip. Halfway down the tower stairs she stopped, pressing her forehead against the icy wall.
She, who tried so very hard to be normal, and let her awareness narrow to the immediate, without thinking past that.
No, be truthful.
Her focus narrowed through the day to each evening, when the Olavayir teens gathered. She had offered to serve, which they accepted without thought. It let her, for the first time, be in the same room with Connar for hours. She took care to station herself out of his line of sight so she could watch the edge of his cheekbones, the line of his shoulder down to narrow hips, his beautiful hands as he held his cup, or gestured. So she could listen to the liquid gold of his voice.
That meant her focus had narrowed—to him.
Fierce self-hatred seared through her, but she breathed hard to let it go. One thing she’d learned over the last few years was that anger was another, more dangerous limitation to focus. There was no use in denying herself those evenings. The boys might not notice, but Bun would ask why.
No, Lineas would still go, but she would watch everything else except for Connar. It would be good discipline: her job was to guard Bunny, not watch the second prince. And danger, if it happened, would happen suddenly. She could not relax while on duty, no matter how much she loved being around Connar-Laef.
She pushed away from the wall and ran down the stairs, unaware of Quill watching silently from above, fighting against his own guilt and remorse. When he saw her skinny shoulders straighten and her freckled chin lift, relief poured through him. He faded back into the constant stream of activity.
Time of Daughters I Page 52