Senrid

by Sherwood Smith

  Tdanerend also wore the medal one of their many great grandmothers had won in a terrific battle against an earlier incarnation of the Brotherhood of Blood, the pirate confederacy whose leader at that time had had a hankering to carve out a kingdom and try his skills as a king. The princess Sharend Montredaun-An, serving then as a captain in the light cavalry, had led the expedition, a battle that every child in Marloven Hess had heard about through famous ballads.

  I represent the crown, and therefore our ancestors’ majesty, his uncle had said, but what Senrid had heard was: I’m really king, and their glory is mine. Except not in a kingdom where respect was supposed to come from skill and leadership, and not just tradition and force.

  The talk veered almost at once to academy games of the past few years, and who had won under what circumstances. Senrid let it wash past him. He needed to concentrate his strength for when it would be required. Cooking odors wafted from the other side of the camp. He was desperately hungry, but wouldn’t admit to it. He was afraid that would be taken as a sign of weakness. He knew nothing of woodcraft—and had only been able to eat when he could steal food in and around Crestel, once he’d gone through the meager store of supplies at Leander’s old camp. At least he’d been able to find the camp! But though he knew nothing of woodcraft, he had a very good memory and a sense for geographic space…

  “—don’t you think?”

  Someone had addressed him. Why was his mind wandering so badly? He looked up, ignored the pangs through his head, saw everyone’s posture expecting agreement. He recovered a few words—academy—skills—games and opened his hand in agreement.

  Smiles, flicks of hands. That was all right, then. Sit up straight. If only he could eat, surely he’d feel better.

  The sun set, and the meal call finally rang out. Tharend himself returned to ask Senrid to join them. He got in line with the rest, claiming no precedence that wasn’t offered. No one deferred, so he waited, and got his share when it was his turn. He felt himself being watched. They were judging him as he was judging them.

  As he ate the talk became general—horses first, almost always, weapons next, and gossip about local events last. Senrid let it ride past him, and gauged his success so far. It seemed Promising. But there were wary glances, and someone had to be on the way to report his presence to Uncle Tdanerend, if he hadn’t already arrived there. It was inevitable that the Regent had long had his own spies planted among them.

  But he’d worry about that later.

  Right now, it was a relief to eat hot food, and drink down some strong coffee. It would help keep him awake, maybe through another night, if he drank more, and it might banish the soreness at the back of his throat, and the band of pain round his head.

  When he was done he forced himself to his feet, dropped his dishes in the cleaning barrel, and poured more coffee. It was late; the early morning patrols had all retired. With the warm mug between his hands, Senrid sat down again, his back to a rock, his knees up, and put his forehead down on his knees to rest it, just for a moment—

  —and woke up abruptly to the cold blue light of dawn, smelling fire.

  His hand clapped to the dagger at his side, found it there. The fire was nearby, ringed with stones giving off warmth.

  Someone had built a fire not two arm’s length’s away, and he hadn’t even stirred. He stared at it stupidly, felt cold on one side of his face, realized he’d been drooling, and wiped his face on the grimy cloak he’d stolen from the garrison in Crestel.

  He’d fallen asleep! He’d fallen asleep after admonishing himself not to show weakness. He nearly groaned out loud, but old habit held in the reaction, and instead he looked away from the fire to see two guards standing like sentinels at either side, their spears grounded. They were facing out, watching the camp, which was breaking; as yet no one knew he was awake.

  So was this an honor guard—or was he a prisoner?

  He touched the dagger—still there. He flexed his wrist. That one was also untouched. Same with the one in his boot. A quick look: his bow leaned against the rock, almost within reach.

  If they’d decided to hold him as a prisoner for his uncle, he would have been stripped of his weapons. An honor guard, then?

  Dangerous to act on guesses. Time to stir.

  He stood up, slung his bow, and said, “Is there anywhere to wash? Or at least get something hot to drink?”

  Both guards’ heads jerked round, and he felt a tiny spurt of gratification that he wasn’t the only one to be taken flat by surprise.

  Both smacked their palms to their hearts in salute, and one said, “Commander wants to talk to you. In his tent.”

  Senrid flicked his fingers up, his heartbeat going from walk to gallop.

  “Cook tent’s right on the way,” the other volunteered.

  Senrid acknowledged with another gesture and started off with as much energy as he could muster. He loathed the feel of his grubby clothing and clammy body. He’d sweated hard during his sleep. His head ached. He smelled coffee, and wished that it was listerblossom leaf and not this hard stuff. His gut lurched but he controlled the reaction, accepted a cup, and continued on between his two sentinels to the big tent.

  On their arrival everyone inside except the commander found business elsewhere. Senrid watched old Gherdred bend over a map. He’d mentally marked the commander down as one of Tdanerend’s men—though he wasn’t a toady. Gherdred had headed the cavalry academy under the old king, and Senrid’s father had promoted him to commander of the light cavalry, the most coveted of all commands—except commander in chief. That position Tdanerend had kept for himself.

  Gherdred straightened up.

  Senrid waited in silence.

  The old man’s light blue eyes narrowed as he looked Senrid up and down. “The Regent will be wanting you in the castle,” he said.

  “Very well,” Senrid responded.

  That was to be expected. But it didn’t mean he’d go.

  “I’ll tell you this, my boy,” the man said. “I obey the Regent because he was strong enough to take the crown. I’ve listened to the meanings behind the heroic words in the songs. I know what happens to a kingdom if the ruler isn’t strong, or if there is no ruler. My private convictions about a man’s worth are nothing, if he’s strong enough to command. On the other hand, if he leads us to war within our own borders, against our own people, then he has lost my allegiance.”

  Senrid wished his head didn’t ache so much. “So,” he said, aware that no one else was within hearing. “What you’re telling me is, if I can take back my father’s crown without causing civil war, then you won’t oppose me.”

  Gherdred said, “What I am telling you is that I will heed no order to attack our own people. Defend, yes.”

  Senrid thought rapidly. “Have you told my uncle what you told me?”

  “No.”

  Senrid touched fingers to heart. Nothing more needed to be spoken. The man had made it as plain as honor permitted that he disliked Tdanerend, and would be glad to see him defeated.

  Senrid left the tent to find in the strengthened light that the camp was clear, and most were ready to ride. Hearing Gherdred’s voice behind him—the sound, not the words—he stayed where he was. If Ghedred had wanted him to hear orders, he would have summoned the captains while Senrid was still in the tent.

  “We will ride ahead,” Senelac said, and stepped up on Senrid’s right.

  And Senrid felt the puzzle pieces fall into place. The light cavalry had been given orders from Tdanerend that none of them wanted to obey. Probably to converge on the city and start some local slaughter in order to bolster Tdanerend’s crumbling prestige.

  Gherdred had to obey that order and the ‘capture on sight and send to me’ that no doubt had been issued over Senrid’s own name, but he could wait as long as possible.

  Senrid had to get to Crestel first; the cavalry would be riding as slowly as possible. Between his own arrival and the cavalry’s, Senrid had better prevail.<
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  Or die.

  TWO

  Kitty could not tell one horse from another, so she did not recognize Portan’s favorite gray. She did not know that Arel had brought two extra horses to Tannantaun once he’d found tucked under his horse’s harness the mysterious note telling him where Leander was.

  When he and Leander departed Mara Jinea’s old home, the gray had been left behind as a fresh mount for a messenger sent to the house to carry news to Kitty, since poor Portan would no longer need it. It had never occurred to any of them that she would climb onto an unsaddled horse.

  So while Leander and Arel rode, under cover of snowfall, round the outskirts of Crestel and into the town, Leander did not worry about Kitty. He figured she’d hide in her old home, and rest, and if she tired of the soup they’d provided for her, she could always walk to the town and find some old friends to feed her.

  He had no idea when he woke that next morning after a long night of activity and far too brief a rest that the gray was now racing for home—with Kitty clinging precariously to its back.

  Leander sank with relief into a stuffed chair. Alaxandar and the others who had collapsed the mine had drifted in ones and twos into the town just before the bleak dawn. They were now gathered at the home of Veria, a cobbler who lived on the eastern edge of Crestel. The house was small, so it took some doing to fit two dozen persons inside of the two rooms.

  Exhaustion dragged at Leander’s body, and his wounds ached. He drank the steeped listerblossom that Veria’s grandmother put into his hands. It helped—some. He’d been drinking it all the night before, and each time it helped less. What he needed was sleep, but he wasn’t going to get any.

  The last couple of people slunk in just after the midday bells. They were greeted, squeezed in, then everyone faced Leander expectantly.

  He said, “The border wards are gone, so I transferred down to Firel last night. The Besanan family is willing to cede all their hill land to Marloven Hess if he’ll go away and leave us be.”

  “Those south facing slopes are all prime grape country,” someone protested.

  Leander shook his head. “Tdanerend wants mines. Maybe he’ll leave if we give him ore. If not…”

  “But he wants everything.” Alaxandar smacked his fist into his palm. “Not only the entire border, but workers to dig. Rather go down with a sword through my gut than sweat my life away shoveling ore under the sights of their crossbows.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes!”

  “Well said.”

  The murmurs made Leander sigh. Would his be the shortest rule on the entire world? Probably. What a claim to fame!

  “Let us enjoy one last meal together, then march on the castle. I feel I have to try this one attempt at negotiation. He has found that we’re not so easy to defeat as he’d thought, and maybe he’ll listen. If he won’t—then, I guess, it’s our steel against theirs, until the last of us is gone.”

  Grim nods of agreement all around.

  “How about magic?” Veria asked, and several others nodded or made murmurs of agreement.

  Leander said, “Magic isn’t much good for war. Especially that which I’ve been learning. But I will do my best to protect us as I can, if he employs his own magic to do something treacherous.”

  “When,” Veria said, her face grim.

  And so, while the people crowded there in the cobbler’s home shared a meal of fishcakes and roasted potatoes-and-cabbage, Kitty’s gray plodded through the snowdrifts northward toward Crestel.

  Senrid reached it first.

  Someone had gone on ahead, as he’d expected; Senrid tipped back his head, and even though the lowering winter sun had just begun to bend westward, casting the figures along the wall into silhouette, he easily recognized his uncle surrounded by taller guards. Moments later magic seized him right off his horse, and he transported to the wall next to Tdanerend.

  He heard his uncle’s voice, felt someone take his bow, and his dagger from the side-sheath. Senrid didn’t try to fight it, or even react.

  When the transfer reaction diminished, he looked up into an ill-tempered frown. His unceremonial arrival was due to the fact that he’d been riding free and unbound.

  “You are a traitor,” Tdanerend began.

  Senrid glanced right and left. Surrounding them was the Regent’s own personal guard—of course. One stood a spear’s length behind, holding Senrid’s bow and dagger.

  He interrupted, knowing that he had to get his uncle mad, and keep him there. “Yes, we’ve all heard—a million times—how I’m a traitor, and a coward, hoola-loola. Why did you run our people into this stupidity? I’d rather be everything you call me than stupid. Your plan is ridiculous, Uncle, and you can be sure the Lerorans will be ridiculing us while you waste good warriors.”

  “Waste! You—”

  “Forcing them to spend the rest of their lives doing guard duty on these worthless Lerorans is nothing more than waste.”

  “Yes, because of your interference,” Tdanerend snarled, his face dark red with ready anger.

  Below, someone had run out from the stable to collect the loose horse, Senrid was glad to see.

  He shifted his attention to his uncle, bracing against the pang of headache. “No. That was to buy you time to think—that, and tweak you for deposing me. You could have waited! I got sent off-world, and when I finally got back, it was to find you marching here, and everyone at home was talking about your planned coronation at New Year’s Convocation.”

  “That’s because I thought you were dead. And you may as well be dead. You are weak, Senrid,” Tdanerend said. “I did my best, but you’ll never be strong enough to sit on the throne of our great-fathers—”

  “Uhn,” Senrid groaned. “Not another long, dull speech! I—uh oh.”

  He’d turned away, feigning nausea, as a sentinel on the tower wall blew the signal for Enemy approaching!

  Senrid, Tdanerend, and his guards all looked down at the group of people who’d rounded a bend in the northeast road, from the direction of the tiny market town they called their capital city. At the front was a skinny kid with dark hair who leaned on a stick.

  Senrid sighed. He had to admit that Leander, puzzling as he was, showed plenty of courage. Even from a distance he looked bad, but there he walked, at the head what was left of his gang, all of them bearing some sort of weapon, though they had to know they were outnumbered many times over. No form, no discipline—no training or skill—but they did look determined.

  Senrid snickered loudly.

  Tdanerend flushed even darker. “What are you laughing at? Unless it’s the sight of that fool down there—”

  “I’m thinking of how he’s going to make you look in about ten heartbeats.” Senrid lifted a shoulder. “My guess is he’s going to try a negotiation on you. And if you turn it down, they’ll fight, to the very last weakling. Look at ‘em! They know they cannot possibly win. But how many people are watching from windows in this castle, maybe from behind those trees on that hill yonder? If you make martyrs of ‘em you might as well get busy hanging the entire country, because you’ll never settle ‘em, as long as the last one lives.”

  During this speech Tdanerend cursed under his breath. At the end he scowled, a vein beating in his neck, then motioned the waiting messenger over—but before he could issue an order, the bugle sounded again. And from the other direction came a lone rider.

  Leander’s group stopped. Senrid stared down in surprise at the sight of a small girl clinging to the back of a very handsome, and tired, pure-bred Nelkereth gray.

  The girl lifted her head and shrieked, “Leander!” From atop the castle wall her voice sounded like a bird’s cry.

  The gray, startled, sidled—and Kyale promptly tumbled off into the snow. She stood up, gowned in black and silver, with a gleaming black crown fitted round her brow.

  She was in the midst of brushing snow off her gown when Tdanerend once more made summoning magic—and moments later Kyale appeared wi
th them on the wall. She blinked, nausea contracting her features, then she saw whom she was with and her expression was such a peculiar combination of outrage and fear that Senrid laughed again.

  Tdanerend said to his messenger in Marloven, “When Gherdred gets here, he can get rid of those fools.” He pointed downward.

  Senrid saw immediately that Kyale understood their home-language. How could Tdanerend miss it? He glared at Kyale and began a threat, but Senrid—thinking of Gherdred’s orders—decided the time had come to take the initiative.

  “Kyale,” he said, “Go ask Leander if he wants to fight with steel or with magic. If magic, he’ll have help.”

  Tdanerend jerked his head round, and while he assimilated Senrid’s words—his face suffusing even more—Senrid braced himself against the wall and performed the transfer spell, sending Kyale down to Leander. It was important that magic seem to come easily to Senrid, if there was to be a battle ahead.

  Poor Kitty felt all the effects of two black magic transfers. While she stood in the snow and fought against vertigo and nausea, Leander gazed at her in dismay.

  What all these new clues seemed to add up to was that—at best—she had broken her promise and got into his magic books, figuring out various spells. And at worst, she’d made some kind of bargain with… With whom? The clothes suggested that Mara Jinea had come back. Kitty was loyal—fiercely loyal—but she had only begun to learn anything about ethics in the last year, despite Llhei’s covert attempts to teach her during her early childhood.

  He was afraid she had done something terrible in an effort to help—and to seem a hero in the process.

  As he watched, Kitty swallowed convulsively, then she said, “Magic battle. Someone might help you. Or do you want to fight.”

  “White magic help, or black?” Leander asked, trying not to sound accusing, or threatening.

  Kitty looked down at her shoes in the muddy snow.

  Leander sighed. “I can’t have black magic aid, Kitty. It’ll turn on us. We’ll have to fight, then.”

  She heard the intense regret in his voice, and winced, not knowing what to say. Avoiding his gaze, she turned her head up toward those on the wall. Tdanerend was visible, of course, but Senrid was out of sight. Drat! If Leander could just see him, surely he’d guess who it was doing all that magic!