Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  By the time the procession had completed its tour of the city bounds and returned to the palace, the stallion had relaxed. Not so the peers, other than Kirgan Marrakai and Duke Serrostin; the others’ glances were brief and ranged from anxious to hostile. The palace servants, too, as they helped the peers change from riding boots to court shoes, avoided her gaze. The same tiring maid who had giggled while adjusting Dorrin’s court dress that morning now seemed terrified of her. No doubt the woman had heard that Dorrin was one of the dreaded magelords. Dorrin longed to get away, but law and custom decreed she must attend the coronation banquet.

  In the anteroom of the banquet hall, she was surprised to see Duke Marrakai slouched in a chair; she’d assumed he was still in bed, under a physician’s care. Dorrin, uneasily aware of the Marshal-General’s displeasure and the fears of some of the other peers, stepped aside to let the others talk to him first, but he gestured to her.

  “Come closer,” he said. “You were Phelan’s captain; I hold no grudge against you for your name.”

  “You are kind, my lord,” Dorrin said, wondering why he said nothing about the attack in the courtyard. “But how do you feel?”

  “They tell me I fell and hit my head—what a thing to happen on a coronation day, eh? But a head as hard as mine does not crack easily, whatever the physician says. I have a headache, that’s all. Anyone might.”

  Dorrin looked at him closely, concerned. Despite his words, he looked the color of new cheese, and his gaze wavered. She leaned close. “My lord duke, with no intent to argue, I have seen soldiers take such a blow, who wore helmets. They needed to lie quiet; our physicians insisted on it. By your leave, I would have you obey the physician; you are not yet well.”

  “It is the coronation banquet—my last, I am sure, for Mikeli is young and will long outlive me. I do not wish to miss it.” He gave her a crooked smile. “If I die now, no one will blame you. You had nothing to do with it.”

  So he remembered nothing of it; that in itself could be expected with a blow to the head, but as for the rest—if that were all, he should look better than he did. Dorrin looked around; the other peers, out of courtesy or nervousness, had left a little space for her and Duke Marrakai to talk, but the Marshal-General stood not far away, watching. Dorrin caught her gaze and nodded. The Marshal-General moved nearer.

  “My lords,” the Marshal-General said, her tone edged. “How may I serve you?”

  “Tell Verrakai you do not blame her,” Marrakai said. “She is worried about my health, but I am as hale as any man of my years. It was but a knock on the head from falling.”

  The Marshal-General looked closely at his face. This time her voice was gentler. “My lord duke, I understand her worry. Such blows are not always harmless; I believe yours did more damage than you know. Will you not retire?”

  “No!” Marrakai’s voice was loud enough to turn heads. More quietly he repeated what he had told Dorrin. “And I won’t go off to bed like some errant boy who’s displeased his tutor!”

  This vehemence convinced Dorrin—and, she saw, the Marshal-General as well—that his injury was still affecting him and perhaps worsening. “Marshals have healing powers, do they not?” Dorrin said to the Marshal-General.

  “So, it is said, did magelords once,” the Marshal-General said, looking Dorrin in the eye. “Are you unwilling to use your powers that way?”

  “Not unwilling but unskilled,” Dorrin said. “Healing was the rarest of the gifts, and there was no one to teach me. All I’ve healed so far is a well.”

  “A well?”

  Dorrin shook her head. “Too long a story for now. If you have the ability, Marshal-General, or know someone …”

  Marrakai slumped in his chair, his head falling forward; his eyes had not quite closed, but when the Marshal-General called his name, he mumbled something they could not understand. Now the other peers crowded in, including Kirgan Marrakai.

  “What did she do this time?” asked one of the barons; others shushed him.

  “She did nothing,” the Marshal-General said. “It is that blow to the head. Send for the physician and any Marshal in the palace. My lord Verrakai, I ask you to lend your aid, as a Falkian would.”

  “Certainly,” Dorrin said. Every instinct told her they had little time, that something was wrong inside Marrakai’s head. She had seen the same in battlefield wounds.

  “Help me lift him from the chair to the floor.” The other peers shuffled back as two palace servants came forward. Together with the Marshal-General and Dorrin, they lifted Marrakai—no easy task—and laid him on the floor; someone hastily handed them a folded cloak to put under his head. “Duke Verrakai, lay your hand on his shoulder—like that, yes—and one on his chest; I will hold his head. And now I ask all Girdsmen to pray with me for the healing of this peer of your realm, while I also pray and Duke Verrakai calls on Falk.”

  Dorrin felt hands on her own shoulders and glanced back to see Duke Mahieran and the king both standing there, as if guarding her back and joining her effort at the same time. Others, behind them, reached to form a human chain. She closed her eyes, calling on Falk and trying to feel what the Marshal-General was doing so she might aid. Power rose in her, as it had before without her bidding. She opened her eyes and looked at Marrakai’s face. He had gone pale again, almost gray around the mouth. It wasn’t fair—he had done nothing wrong—he had defended her; he must not die for that.

  Her power moved along her arms; they first itched, then tingled, a sensation she had not felt when healing the well. She felt she could see the power moving up to his head, joining with something the Marshal-General was doing, though she could not say what that was. Something urged her to shift the power a little this way, a little that. She was unaware of time passing, of anything at all, until her power cut off suddenly and Marrakai opened his eyes and blinked. His color was healthy again, his lips pink, his eyes clear.

  “What happened?” he asked in a more normal voice. “Did I faint?” He glanced from one to the other.

  “Somewhat more than that, my lord,” the Marshal-General said. “The blow to your head—”

  “Blow to my head?” He frowned, put a hand to it. “When? How?”

  Everyone started talking at once, telling what each had seen, a rising gabble of voices, until the king said, “Silence, my lords and ladies. This noise will not serve him.”

  Into the silence that followed, the king said, “You were attacked, my lord duke, and, when you fell, hit your head on the stones of the courtyard. You woke and were put to rest by the physician for a while but then lost consciousness again. You were healed by the Marshal-General and Duke Verrakai. You remember nothing?”

  “No,” Marrakai said. “Not clearly, at least, since—since the coronation ceremony. I feel well now.” He moved his head on the folded cloak beneath it. “No headache—if only I could remember.”

  “Juris can tell you about it later,” the king said with a warning look to the other peers. Kirgan Marrakai nodded to his father; the Duke shrugged and extended a hand; the Kirgan reached down, and Marrakai stood. He was steady on his feet, his gaze clear and focused. He, the Kirgan, the physician, and two Marshals both withdrew briefly.

  This time the physician and the Marshals all agreed that Marrakai was as fit as he said he felt. The banquet started. Dorrin took her seat as instructed, but it seemed unreal. Too much had happened too fast. Too many people—still strangers, but now her fellow nobles—eyed her with a mixture of awe and concern. Marrakai, apparently now in perfect health, sat across from her, chatting with Duke Serrostin; Duke Mahieran sat next to Dorrin. At the head of the table, the king and his younger brother Camwyn—the boy looking uncomfortable—sat alone and at first spoke only to each other.

  “It is clear, my lord,” Mahieran said to her as servants produced a fish course, “that having you among the Council will ensure no dull days.”

  Dorrin shook her head. “I shall hope to bring no more excitement, my lord.”

/>   “I suspect you and that paladin have something in common,” Mahieran said. “You cannot help what you are, and what you are is change.” He chuckled. “I daresay this Coronation Day will never be forgotten, and since it turned out well in the end, the celebration’s all the sweeter.”

  But was it the end? Dorrin kept waiting for something else to happen: a servant to leap at the king with a bolt of power or a carving knife, the taster to fall dead of poison, one of the peers to attack her. The banquet went on smoothly, servants bringing in course after course, pouring the different wines, offering warm damp towels at intervals. Musicians played, jugglers and acrobats performed, a chorus of Girdish yeomen in their formal blue and white sang a deafening “O King Below, O Gods Above” to the accompaniment of trumpets and drum. Dorrin recognized the tune as one her troops had marched to, with very different words, some of which ran through her mind.

  A stab of nostalgia smote her, but would she really be happier to be back in the field than here? She looked across and down the table draped in Tsaian white, rose, and crimson, glittering with crystal goblets, gold and silver plates, the peers in their many colors, their lace and jewels, the hovering servants in palace livery. Back there she’d had less luxury but the company of true friends. Here she might find new friends and clear her family’s reputation. After all, she’d saved the king’s life already, and that had to count for something.

  She wondered what Paks would think. Paks, she suspected, would tell her to follow what Falk wanted, as any Knight of Falk should. Falk—when she tried to ask—said nothing. This was more Falk’s world than Gird’s, this magnificence and luxury, and Falk probably expected her to be comfortable with it. The next course was roast venison spiced in a way she’d never tasted. She finished the meal laughing at herself and her internal dialogues while Duke Marrakai talked horse breeding with Duke Mahieran.

  “How did my horse carry you in the procession?” Marrakai asked her suddenly. “Did he give you any problems?

  “None at all,” Dorrin said.

  “Good. I’ve taken care that he’s ridden by others regularly, so he knows he’s to behave. But he will try things, even with me.”

  “We had them all prancing and showing off,” Duke Mahieran said. “I’m not sure if m’lord Verrakai asked for everything he did or if it was his idea.”

  “Both,” Dorrin said. “I thought it would keep him busy, and if he offered more, I made use of it.”

  “What concerns me now,” Duke Marrakai said, “is the security of the royal stables and stud.”

  Duke Mahieran nodded and turned to Dorrin. “Is it likely other grooms could have been taken over? Do you have any idea how long the transference has been going on?”

  “A very long time, my lord,” Dorrin said. “I looked only at the current family book, for those I thought would be alive now. When I glanced back, the same symbol was used as far as I looked. The worst of it is that some have been transferred more than once.”

  Duke Serrostin spoke up. “My lords, this is a matter of state; perhaps it should be deferred to Council.”

  “It is urgent,” Mahieran said.

  “Indeed. And this is a banquet hall with more ears than ours.” His gaze flicked briefly to the king’s table, where Prince Camwyn sat, cheeks flushed from unaccustomed wine. “Unless Duke Verrakai perceives another immediate threat, I suggest we confine our topics to those appropriate to a celebration.”

  Mahieran raised his glass. “And I salute your wisdom, my lord.” He turned back to Dorrin. “At the Council meeting tomorrow, you’ll be asked what you know.”

  “Council meeting?”

  Marrakai leaned across the table toward them. “Of course—Verrakai’s seat has been vacant since your uncle’s treason, but as Duke, you’re entitled to a Council seat unless the king changes his mind. You will have to spend hours—I was going to claim a headache, but you and the Marshal-General made that impossible.”

  Duke Serrostin, next to Marrakai, laughed. “You’re incorrigible, Selis. You could let Duke Verrakai decide for herself if Council meetings are boring. Besides, complaints or no, you always show up early and are the last to leave.”

  “It’s my duty,” Marrakai said, hand over his heart. His eyes twinkled. Dorrin smiled a little uncertainly.

  Serrostin smiled at her. “You’ll find, Duke Verrakai, that we three are sometimes considered difficult. Once there were eight dukes in Tsaia, but after the Girdish wars only five intact dukedoms remained. The new king—the one the Girdish allowed—chose to break up the others into counties or redistribute the land to those who were left. The Code of Gird recommends dissolution whenever there’s a break in inheritance—and for various crimes as well. Tsaian law doesn’t require it, but the Fellowship has pushed for fewer large estates. At any rate, the Escral title died out about a hundred years after the Girdish war—that was in the northwest, bordering Fintha. Dirga, perhaps a hundred years after that—they bordered Lyonya in the southeast, from the mountains north to your own domain.”

  “What Counts Konhalt and Clannaeth hold now?”

  “And others. There are some free towns. Brewersbridge is one, nominally in Clannaeth’s rule, but it has special status. Fiveway—well, actually that’s in Harbin’s, I think. Counts can propose barons to the Crown Council—so there are baronies within counties—or the Crown sometimes grants them independently, when it’s believed the baron will develop into someone who could manage a county.”

  “But very few dukes,” Dorrin said.

  “Yes. Well, that’s natural. King at the top of the mountain, dukes next. More counts than dukes, more barons than counts, more commoners than anyone else.”

  “But are there only we four?”

  “There’s Gerstad,” Marrakai said. “But he’s old and never leaves home. Had no children—well, he did, but they all died in a fever. Bitter as gall, and I can’t wonder at it, but he’s never at court and his domain’s in sad state. If it weren’t for Count Rundgren—and you, Serrostin—”

  Serrostin shrugged. “I do what I can,” he said. “It isn’t much; he won’t allow it.”

  “So it is mostly we four,” Mahieran said. “At this level, anyway. Which made it very difficult when your uncle was Duke, as we were not exactly close.”

  Next morning, all the nobles appeared for the Council meeting: the king named his new officers of the court, confirmed the new Marshal-Judicar officially as a royal appointment and Juris Kostvan as the new Knight-Commander of the Bells—a popular choice, Dorrin gathered, from the reaction. Then he named his Council. The others stood and applauded, then filed out, while the Council gathered around the table.

  “I welcome you all,” the king said, “both those who were on my Regency Council and those who are new to this gathering. As events this year have proved, threats loom over Tsaia, but together and with Gird’s aid we will prevail.” He looked around the table; Dorrin saw the others smile and nod. “Now,” the king said, “Duke Verrakai will report on the danger we face from Verrakaien magery.”

  Dorrin repeated what she had explained before about the transference of personality into unwilling victims. “And as I wrote the king, we found children—” she said.

  “Their own children?” asked Oktar, the new Marshal-Judicar.

  “I am not sure.” Dorrin explained what she suspected about the parentage of at least some of the children who had suffered the death-sickness and “recovered.”

  “I do not know how you found the courage to kill them,” Mahieran said softly, looking down. “I am not sure I could have, in your place.”

  Dorrin felt tears burning her eyes again. “My lord—I cannot say—only that the real children—the child they had been—had already died and this was a usurper. I fixed my mind on that, but it was not easy.”

  “I imagine not, even for a seasoned soldier like yourself.” Mahieran paused, then went on. “Do you know, I think you may have more military experience than any other peer—at least until Phelan’s o
ther captain, Arcolin, comes to be confirmed at the Autumn Court.”

  Dorrin’s heart rose. “Will he, then? I am glad to hear it. He’s a fine man, Jandelir Arcolin.”

  “Surely you knew—”

  “That he was given temporary authority, yes, but not that he would be confirmed in the grant.”

  “It is the king’s decision, with the Council’s advice—and we are now the Council.” A murmur of agreement from around the table. “I favor it myself, though whether he should be made duke at once—”

  “It’s a big step, from captain to duke,” one of the barons said, looking at Dorrin. Brenvor, she remembered after a moment. “What do you think?” His voice was challenging.

  “Me?” Dorrin had not expected to be asked. “Arcolin has more years with the Company than I, and he was Kieri’s senior captain all those years. He’s served as his agent with all his business; he knows it thoroughly. If not a duke, what would you?”

  “Count, perhaps,” Brenvor said. “Even I can see the domain—and the Pargunese danger—needs a higher rank than baron to head it. But I’d like to see proof he can meet the challenge, before we grant the higher title.”

  Dorrin wondered what challenges Baron Brenvor had ever met, but knew she was being unfair. They had seen Arcolin only as a loyal subordinate, not in command.

  “But as to the danger of those hidden Verrakaien,” the king said. “Duke Verrakai, do you know any way to identify them, other than your own powers?”

  “No, Sir King.”

  “Can you sense them from a distance without seeing them?”

  “No, Sir King, I cannot.”

  “Then I must ask you to stay in Vérella until you have examined the entire staff and all peers.” He held up his hand to still indignant murmurs. “My lords, I do not suspect any of you—I know you to have been loyal for years—but so was the groom whose body was taken over. Unless Duke Verrakai has some other way of detecting the threat, we must one by one pass examination.”