Time of Daughters I

by Sherwood Smith

  It seemed to last forever, until it was done. No one seemed to breathe as Connar was freed. No one heard the low mutter, “Don’t. Touch me.”

  All they saw was the headmaster’s two runners stepping back as Connar swayed rockily away from the post, hands stiff at his sides, head thrown back. He made it maybe five steps on his own before pitching forward onto his face, too quick for them to catch him, utterly unaware of the murmur running through the upper school at his bravery.

  Connar was borne off, leaving a trail of dark red drips, and the seniors were dismissed first. When Noddy stepped abreast of the gate, he struck the support post with all his considerable strength. The wood cracked like a lightning bolt hitting a tree. He stood there blinking as his hand dripped blood onto the stone, then he wheeled and walked off to the lazaretto.

  Connar was floating on a cloud of green kinthus when Noddy walked into his line of sight, his hand bandaged. Connar drew a slow breath. The pain was at bay, a fierce but distant heat, like a bonfire twenty paces away. That distance would vanish, he knew: green kinthus could be dangerous, and so he’d only have it for a short time.

  “Why are you here?” he breathed.

  Noddy held up his hand.

  “Gannan again?”

  “I hit the gate.”

  “Why?”

  Noddy crouched down beside Connar’s bed, his red-rimmed eyes on a level with Connar’s own, his upper lip long with sorrow. “I didn’t want to go. If you couldn’t.”

  Oh, Noddy, Connar wanted to say, fondness and even laughter pulsing through him, then gone again, smothered by the foggy blanket between him and that river of pain. Talking took too much strength. His eyes closed.

  “You should’ve told me.” Noddy’s voice was husky with regret. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve helped you.”

  But Connar had sunk beneath the waves.

  When he resurfaced, his back had ignited into fire again, the rest of him shivering uncontrollably. A face swam into view, sidelit by a single candle. Noddy was gone. Instead—

  “Da,” he whispered, the word a question.

  “Drink this.” Arrow held out a cup.

  “Don’t touch me,” Connar managed to utter. If anyone moved him the pain would kill him.

  Arrow’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Connar could see his own agony mirrored in Da’s face. Hear it in his voice.

  He sucked in tiny sips of air, careful not to breathe too deeply lest his ribs expand and bring another surge of fire down his back. “If it was...?” He stopped there—he didn’t even know where that question came from. But it was enough.

  Arrow recoiled as if someone had struck him. Then the tears did fall, tracking down his lean cheeks in which the familiar lines had begun to furrow. “It would be just the same, Connar. Just the same. I couldn’t stop it. The rules have to be the same for everybody. Here. Your mother thought of this, so you don’t have to try to sit, or even raise your head.” He held out a sponge, ruddy as all sponges are, dug up from the sea between Halia and Toar. “See, I dipped it in the medicine. You can suck it out of the sponge.”

  Connar opened his mouth. Warm bitterness spread over his tongue—green kinthus. Arrow dipped the sponge again, and already the fire began to recede, recede, recede, allowing Connar deeper breaths. With the pain sinking, his consciousness faded into sleep.

  When Connar woke again, it was daylight, and Ma was there. This time he wasn’t shivering, but on fire. Danet laid a cool, damp cloth on the side of his face turned up, and then came the blessed relief of medicine by sponge.

  When the pain woke him again, night had fallen, and there was Da. “I begged them for one more day with green kinthus. Then it has to be listerblossom and willow-bark.” He held out the sponge.

  Connar knew that too much kinthus was dangerous in some way, though not nearly as much as the legendary white stuff. Listerblossom was only good for fevers (and then they added willow bark) and mild aches. But he would take anything he could get.

  Unnoticed by either Arrow or Connar, Hauth stood in the doorway, after two days of fierce internal debate. On seeing the king kneeling next to Connar’s bed, he backed away, and when he found the healer, asked. “How long has the king been there?”

  “Tonight? Since the watch change. Sat there all last night. Queen all day.”

  Hauth retreated.

  Connar did not want to be in the lazaretto when the academy returned, and so he endured being carried up to the castle, where he collapsed in his room, and was given a last half-dose of green kinthus before the pain of the bandage being taken off and fresh keem leaves laid on before another bandaging.

  When he woke, Noddy was there. “Ma has to run the girls,” Noddy said quickly, a little nervously.

  It was those bloodshot eyes, and the tight corners of Connar’s mouth. Anger or pain, he couldn’t tell, but both grieved him, and he wanted—so very badly—to say, Why did you do it? But the answer wouldn’t really matter, because the true question was, Why didn’t you tell me?

  It was that bloody trail in the parade court, scrubbed away by nightfall, that had caused a yawning divide between them. Bewildered, deeply hurt, he tried to bridge that chasm with a rush of words, “Lineas will be here at night. She knows how to do bandages and medicine, since me and you don’t have runners yet. But if you want Ma, or Da, they said, send for them and they’ll come.”

  Connar tested his breath. He could draw in a bit more before the pain threatened. “Is Da ready. To ride out? King’s Army?”

  “Day after the competitions, same as before.”

  Connar braced inwardly. “Who’s going with him?”

  “No one. I mean, from us. Seniors go on liberty till New Year’s, same as always. Then get an assignment at some garrison. Da said, you and me, we’ll be sent to different garrisons. Transfer around. We should know them all.”

  “Great Game?”

  “Ghost’s army won.”

  “Good.”

  Not that Connar really cared, except that it shouldn’t be someone from the class beneath them, an insult. Corrosive fury surged: he shouldn’t have gotten caught. That was carelessness. He still didn’t know who snitched, and if Noddy knew, he wasn’t telling.

  “Before they left. What did they saying about me?”

  Noddy understood that to mean the senior barracks. “Divided. How you’d expect. Gannan, some, go on about cheating. Stick, Ghost, and some think you were smart, and yeah, it was against the rules, but there won’t be that kind of rule if we go in the field, and the headmaster should have locked up the board.” He looked down. “They’ll be back tomorrow,” Noddy said. “I told Da I’d sit with him and Ma for the Victory Day competitions. Bun did, too. Neither of us want to be in if you can’t be.”

  Connar said, “You can tell me who wins.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  A larger number of girls arrived to compete in the Victory Day competitions than previously, but Noren Totha of the Algaravayirs was not one of them. When Noren came next, it would be permanently.

  Some secretly rejoiced, Pony Yvanavayir among them. Her father, unexpectedly firm, had said that this was Pony’s last year playing around with these games. It was time for her to learn some discipline, as her betrothed would be out of the academy the following year, and the Feravayirs might very well expect her to move down south.

  Pony was determined to win on this, her last visit to the Victory Day Game. She practiced hard all year. She loved riding the borders. As a child, she had escaped lessons and boring chores in order to ride, causing the entire castle to laugh and look on indulgently—everyone told her she was going to grow up to be a hero like her mother.

  But as the years passed, only her father still laughed, and looked at her fondly when she escaped tedious chores or lessons she saw no point in. Being the only female in the Yvanavayir family had given her a taste for leadership—which was fine on patrols, but not so fine during winters, when she
continued to ignore, or dump onto others, the chores she found tedious.

  The jarl’s fondness for his daughter kept the castle staff from saying much—but all that had changed last winter when Eaglebeak brought Chelis Cassad to Yvanavayir. As wife to the heir, Chelis was looked to for castle matters, and as she proved to be an excellent manager, the staff hailed her arrival with growing respect.

  All except Pony.

  By the time Pony rode out with her carefully chosen riding of fast riders and good shots, the castle breathed a collective sigh of relief. Nobody knew what to do about the strain between Pony and Chelis.

  As for Pony, it was a relief to get away from Chelis and Eaglebeak and their tedious moral superiority.

  And she had plans.

  The first part of her plans paid out—she won second place behind Braids Selelaec in the ride and shoot, and she came in tied for third on the obstacle run, her girls placing close behind her, all to Yvanavayir’s credit.

  After the awards were handed out, Pony pinned her silver eagles on her robe and set out into the city, determined to celebrate her victory in spite of the weird tension still gripping many of the older academy boys, resulting in a wild atmosphere after the competitions.

  Night had fallen as Ghost Fath, sitting in a row in the main square with Rat, Basna, Braids Senelaec, two of Rat’s Noth kin, and Stick, was thinking that it had been a weird Great Game. But no one was talking about what had happened to Connar, though that first night in their tent out on the plains, they’d talked about nothing else.

  “Three wins, Braids,” Basna was saying. “Next year you’ll be a swell.”

  “Swelled head,” Frog Noth cracked.

  Everybody laughed at this subtle wit, then Braids put his palms out. “I’m humble. I’m humble! Just make sure you remember to salute my shadow every—”

  A figure cut in front of Braids, and presented herself before Ghost. His heart sank: it was Manther’s sister, persistent as a fly over honey. “Come watch us dance,” Pony said, flipping her braids and sticking her chest out. “And then we can get a cold drink. Whatever you like. My treat.”

  Ghost tried to find a polite excuse, then fell back on postponement. He held up the tankard he’d been sipping from. “How about when I finish this?”

  Pony looked down the row, waiting for someone to make space so she could join them. She liked the idea of being the only girl in a row of pretty boys who were all winners, but they just sat there like typically oblivious boy lumps. She hated to think that Ghost was as dull as Rat Noth—but at least he was good-looking. In fact, except for the second prince, he was the best-looking boy in the entire academy.

  “All right,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’ll come back after the next dance!”

  Ghost let out a sigh. He didn’t want to move. They’d been on strict discipline ever since Connar vanished, and all he longed for was his bed, now that everything was over.

  “Does someone else want to go watch her dance?” Ghost asked hopefully.

  No one spoke, though Frog sent a sympathetic glance Rat’s way, and they all recollected that Rat was supposed to marry her. Rat just sat there looking stolid, as he always did.

  While no one would have spared a glance if a younger boy had yelled Look at this!, a mighty snort of contempt caused all heads to turn toward whatever might be snort-worthy.

  Then Rat launched himself off the bench and darted between knots of teens turning to watch a fight, no, a drunken brawl between a half dozen fifteen and sixteen-year-old boys. Rat hauled his brother out of the midst of the pack with one hand, with the other blocked a wild punch, then he sent three assailants sprawling and bawling imprecations.

  A heartbeat later the sentry-alerted city patrol arrived, and the belligerents retained enough wit to hold up their hands in surrender. As the patrol captain issued terse warnings, Ghost became aware of a huge shadow at his side, and here was Noddy.

  “Thought I’d come down, say my farewells.” A few days apart, and Ghost realized how deep Noddy’s voice was. You didn’t notice things like that when you heard someone every day.

  “How’s your hand?” Frog asked.

  Noddy blinked at his right hand, still wrapped at knuckles and wrist. “Fine.” He shrugged. “Wanted to stay behind with Connar.”

  “How is he?” Ghost asked.

  “Wants me to say he’s fine. Sitting up now. Started to eat again,” Noddy reported, and the others shifted uncomfortably, murmuring variations on That’s good.

  Noddy stayed a little longer, cheery as always, but his presence was a reminder of events no one wanted to think about. But of course everyone was thinking it—reseeing images much too fresh in memory. Between that and the wildness around them, which probably had the same cause, Ghost was glad when the last bell rang, giving them all an excuse to cross back over to the academy, and rest up before departure the following day.

  When morning came, he found himself reluctant to pack his kit and leave the others he’d shared his life with for nearly ten years.

  An elbow nudged him. “Will ya miss me?” Vandas Noth cracked.

  “I won’t miss the reek of your socks.”

  Rooster collapsed back on his bed, fake-gagging. Then he crossed his arms behind his head.

  Silence fell on the somnolent air, all of them more or less aware that their lives were about to change. Boyhood was gone. They’d be effectively scrubs again when they began their rotation among the garrisons, but as men. With the responsibilities of men—command for many. Connar and Noddy at the top, because of who they were. It was the way of things.

  Ghost said reflectively, “Ten summers.”

  Vandas cracked a laugh. “Only ten? Seems like fifty. Was there any class of squeakers more useless than we were?”

  “Not a chance,” Hana Jevayir said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Gannan retorted. “Of course, some thought they were ready for a crown and throne now.”

  And Rooster muttered, his gaze on the unvarnished beam overhead, “Why did he cheat?”

  Sickness boiled inside Ghost—here they were, back to the same conversation they’d gone over and over that night in the tent, as thunder rumbled in the distance. “We heard all that. He thought of it as scouting.”

  “I can see that,” Frog said slowly. “A ruse. I can see it....”

  Ghost sensed opinion swinging toward Connar, and then Gannan—of course it was Gannan—said corrosively, “He cheated us.”

  And there it was, the same tension right back again.

  Gannan went on, looking around for approval the way he always did, which irked Ghost to no end, as Gannan went on, “I like a ruse same as anyone. Especially against the beaks. But he let us think—”

  Frog shot him a sour look. “And let someone rat him out?”

  Now they were ready for yet another fight. Gannan flushed with anger, and slammed his hand on the wall, a sharp crack. “We’ve heard it all. Same yap. It’s over. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Way ahead of you,” Frog said. “I’ve got just enough for a night at the Sword, and I intend to get my money’s worth.”

  That got them all moving.

  Ghost was ambivalent about not saying farewell to Olavayir Tvei. Connar was...like a fast-moving stream, fun for a tumble, but you might hit the rocks suddenly. He’d hated losing, and he was like a sharpened sword with sarcasm, especially with Cabbage over there, yapping at Lefty Poseid to carry both their bags, when anyone could see that one decent word from Connar and Gannan would have fallen all over to please him.

  It wasn’t what the boys called a heat, Ghost reflected as he hefted his gear bag and walked off to the stable to fetch his horse. Gannan only liked the girls at the Sword. What did you call a heat when you didn’t want to kiss and tumble? Cabbage Gannan craved attention and admiration, but so did most. It was just that Cabbage was hungriest for it from Connar, but for some reason Connar hated Gannan more than anyone in the entire academy.

  Well, it was
over. One thing Ghost wouldn’t miss, those early mornings, smash out of bed, drill before breakfast, even when it was raining. He wouldn’t miss that at all, though he was probably in for ten more years of it in the King’s Riders. At least, after the two years as a garrison scrub, he’d be a captain, and giving the orders instead of getting them.

  Lost in reverie, Ghost shuffled behind a pack of lower school boys lined up at the mess hall to get a hunk of nut-and-berry-thickened travel bread and a slab of cheese, which would suffice to get him to a cross-roads inn. Then there was the line at the stable.

  Stick, with whom Ghost ordinarily rode, was already gone, along with Braids and the pack of Sindans, Tlens, and Sindan-Ans, all hoping to get in on whatever action the King’s Riders would see on their eastward sweep. Stick had been invited to visit by the Sindans, with whom his betrothed was close. The visit was an excuse everyone said out loud might get them assigned as runners or stable hands, but secretly they hoped to get orders as scouts or even skirmishers.

  If the Senelaecs were there, that might even happen, Ghost thought as he got in line at the stable. He found Rooster and a couple of the Noth cousins ahead in line, which meant more joking back and forth, until at last they rode out the city gates then parted in their several directions, Ghost heading along the north road.

  He sat back in the saddle and let his horse plod through the heat of the day. A canter could come later, when the air chilled.

  He’d left the city far behind when he camped alongside a tributary of the river.

  The next morning he rose with the sun and continued on, noting occasionally that his horse behaved as if hearing, or sensing, the presence of other horses. He looked back from time to time, but saw nothing beyond the low hills and patches of scrubby trees.

  At noon, he reached the next river, and dismounted to lead the horse down to drink. Her ears flicked, and she tossed her head, as if seeing or sensing something. Ghost cast a quick glance around for snakes or animals that might spook the mare, and saw nothing out of the ordinary: The hedgerow to the left was still, and birds sang above a copse of trees off to the right, where a streamlet had carved out a small island in the flow. Nothing. The mare bent her head to the water at last, and he leaned against her side, thinking that a mere week ago, he had commanded half the school in a wargame maybe a day’s ride to the west.