A few days later, she came around a corner of the house and found two of her squires red-faced and angry, and Beclan leaning on the wall looking coolly amused.
“What’s this?” Dorrin asked.
“I am not a child, just because I’m younger,” Daryan said.
“I never said you were,” Gwenno said. “I was only trying to help—”
“I didn’t need your help.”
“I’m sorry!” Gwenno flung out an arm, whirling half around and glaring at Dorrin instead of Daryan. “I just thought—that’s the tallest horse in the stable—”
“Stop this,” Dorrin said. They fell silent. “Now, I will hear what you did, one at a time, no interruptions. Beclan, you first, if you please.”
“We were to ride out and inspect the progress on the new road, as the Duke knows,” Beclan said. “It was Daryan’s turn to saddle the horses, and as he is … shorter … Gwenno offered to help, and Daryan took it amiss.”
“You were the one—” Daryan began; Dorrin quelled him with a glance.
“Go on,” Dorrin said.
“Well, I may have—I did—suggest that maybe he would need help with my horse, as he is the tallest and fidgets when being tacked up.”
“And you have not trained him out of it?” Dorrin asked.
“Well … no … I’m not a horse trainer.”
“And yet you have horses,” Dorrin said, as mildly as she could. “I perceive you have had stable servants available your whole life to deal with the bad manners of your mounts. A wise knight makes sure his mount is reliable, Beclan. I will give you extra time to train yours.”
“Me? The Marrakaien are the horse-lovers.” Beclan shot a glance at Gwenno, who bit her lip but said nothing.
“Those who depend on horses must learn to manage them well,” Dorrin said. “It is part of a squire’s training that I will not neglect; I have seen squires die for lack of it—riding well is not enough.”
“Die?” Gwenno said, before she folded her lips again.
“Yes,” Dorrin said. “Unhorsed in battle, with a mount too skittish to stand, and thus easily surrounded and struck down.” She looked from one to another. “Whatever else this is about—and I will ask more in a moment—you must all see that your mounts improve in training, and that starts with handling on the ground. From this day, you will each, every day, groom, tack up, and ride. You will rotate through all the horses, mine included.”
“But—” Beclan began; Dorrin held up a hand.
“They are all up to your weight, Beclan, even if not as pretty as yours. You may someday have to use an enemy’s horse when your own has been killed or run off. This is another essential skill.”
“Yes, my lord,” Beclan said. He dipped his head, but Dorrin could feel his resistance.
“You may tack up your own horse today, but tomorrow you will switch. I will write up a rotation.” In all her spare time—but she foresaw considerable good out of this. “Stay and be quiet,” she said to Beclan. “I will hear the others. Now, Daryan, tell me your story.”
“Beclan said I might need help with his horse because it was so tall and I’m the shortest. He told Gwenno to help me. He’s always telling us what to do.” Beside him, Gwenno fizzed with impatience, but Dorrin ignored that; the girl needed to learn self-control. “I said I didn’t need any help, and he laughed, and Gwenno said besides she was better with horses—and just because she’s a Marrakai, and they think they know everything about horses. It wasn’t her brother who saved the king’s life; it was Roly. I said that, and all Juris did was sit there like a stone—”
“He was spelled!” Gwenno burst out. “He couldn’t—”
“Not now, Gwenno,” Dorrin said. “Go on, Daryan.”
“Well, then you came. My lord.”
“I see.” Dorrin folded her arms and gave him a hard stare. “It was ill-done to taunt Gwenno with her brother’s having been spelled by the same magery that held the Marshal-Judicar, the Knight-Commander of the Bells, and the king himself in thrall, Daryan. Your brother, I understand, was not in the room when that happened, and absence left him free. Do you think Rolyan would approve your criticism of Juris Marrakai?”
Daryan reddened even more. “Um … no, my lord.”
“Or your using it to anger Juris’s sister?”
“No, my lord.”
“Courtesy to all is one of the main duties of a squire. That includes courtesy to one another. When you are grown and knighted, and especially if you come to your father’s estate and rank by the deaths of your siblings—”
“No!” Daryan cried, paling.
“You will many times face slights and insults better left unanswered,” Dorrin said. “I am glad to see you unambitious for that place, and like you I pray that your elder brothers and sisters live long and thrive, but even so, you are a Duke’s son and must learn to master your temper.” She turned to Gwenno. “And now you, Gwenno. What is your tale?”
“My lord, much the same, and I, too, let my temper master my tongue. Beclan bade me help; I am used to helping my younger sibs, and I own I have thought of Daryan—because he is younger, not merely because he is shorter—as I might a younger brother, not as a squire the equal of myself, which he surely is.”
“Fine words,” Dorrin said. “But I heard you quarreling.”
“Yes, my lord, you did,” she said, looking Dorrin in the eye. “I said, when he demurred and said he needed no help, that he should not fuss, that the horse was likely too tall and too difficult for him and I was glad to help. Then he said what he said about Juris—”
“Which was?”
“As he told you,” Gwenno said. Her eyes shifted; Dorrin suspected it had been worse, but approved Gwenno’s willingness to let it pass. “And so I grew angry and said Roly might be good enough with a map-stick but Serrostins sat their horses like sacks of redroots.”
Dorrin bit her lip not to laugh. “I find you all at fault,” she said. “You are bred of dukes; you inherit wealth and power. You all hope to be knights someday and do great deeds, but now you quarrel over whether someone helps tack up a horse? That is ridiculous.” She let them wait in silence a long moment, then went on. “Beclan, you are the eldest, born to a royal house, and yet I find you setting up the cause of the quarrel and smirking against the wall as if it pleased you.”
Beclan reddened. “My lord—”
“I did not give you leave to speak,” Dorrin said, using command voice; he went still and silent. “You are the eldest, I say again, and it is to you that younger squires—and the children of this house—look for behavior to guide them. Consider the paladin Paksenarrion—is your behavior anything like hers? Do you think she takes pleasure in quarrels or creates them for her own amusement? You may answer.”
“No, my lord,” Beclan said. He looked sheepish now. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t—I didn’t think—”
“You will think hereafter,” Dorrin said. “You want, it is clear, to be seen as the wealthy son of power that you are, to be seen as knowledgeable, capable, skilled, a leader. You must become so, in truth … must be what you would seem. Be an example, be a true friend to your colleagues, your fellow squires.”
“Yes, my lord. I will try.”
“You will do more than try, Beclan—you will do, or I will send you home.” She turned quickly to the others. “And the same is true of you, Daryan, and you, Gwenno. You were all reared in dukes’ houses; you were taught courtesy, as I know, for I know your fathers. So there will be no trying—there will be courtesy, kindness, fairness among you all and to all you encounter. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lord,” they said.
“You will find me understanding of honest mistakes,” Dorrin said, “but I will not tolerate squires claiming precedence they have not earned or making mischief with one another. Now: each of you go, tack up your own mount, and do the work I had assigned you today.”
“Yes, my lord.”
She watched them cross the yard to t
he stable. Would her rebuke hold them even a day? Maybe. And here came her new steward, no doubt with something else for her to solve. Well, she had accepted the king’s commission; she had been confirmed as duke; she had better, as she had advised Beclan, be what she seemed.
Chaya, shortly after Midsummer Feast
Even with the Midsummer Festival over, Kieri could not return to the ossuary immediately. He presided at the King’s Court; he had more meetings with his Council. In addition, he had already planned his next assault on human-elf rivalry: a joint hunt. Both races enjoyed the sport and surely—he hoped—could forget their animosity in the pleasure of a day in the field. He had found an auspicious day, according to advice from both Siers and Orlith; he could not change that now. His grandmother did not deign to answer his invitation, nor could he compel her, but his declaration of a Royal Hunt meant all others he invited must attend. The human and elven huntsmen did not quite glare at one another when he called them into his office together—a good sign, he hoped.
The night before the hunt, he was awakened by noises outside but went back to sleep when the Squires at his door did not alert him.
“What was that kerfluffle in the courtyard last night?” Kieri said as the breakfast dishes were removed and the little rolled pastries brought in.
“It is the Pargunese again, Sir King,” Sier Halveric said. “You would not believe—”
“What have they done this time?” Kieri asked, reaching out to the taig. No disturbance enough to signal danger to the realm … a few ripples here and there, travelers, but certainly not an army. Reports from traders on the river road and fisherfolk in Lyonya’s few river-side towns included mention of Pargunese troops seen across the river, but nothing too ominous. Yet.
“Sent a pledge of peace,” Halveric said, with the air of a man with a good tale he wants to tell. Around the table, growls of disbelief. “Indeed they have, though: she arrived last night, or rather hours before dawn this morning, on a lathered horse with only two exhausted attendants chasing after her. Their king’s daughter, they said. They want a wedding.”
They all looked at him; Kieri knew exactly what they were thinking. The King must marry, must get an heir. But not, Kieri thought bitterly, an enemy’s daughter, no doubt a pale frightened child forced to this—the King of Pargun had a certain reputation.
“I’m not marrying a Pargunese,” Kieri said. They looked at him. No one said anything, but it might as well have been scribed on their foreheads in silver and gold: the King must marry … someone. Perhaps marrying a traditional enemy would bring peace between the realms.
“And there is word,” Sier Halveric said, “that a delegation from Kostandan is within a day’s ride with the daughter of their king.”
Kieri felt his brows rise, wrinkling an old scar. “I thought they were allies, Pargun and Kostandan.”
“Against Tsaia, certainly. But in hope of influence here, perhaps rivals. We do not know whether Kostandan knew of Pargun’s plan, or vice versa.”
“The Pargunese knew,” Kieri said. “Or their princess would have made a grand entrance, not come hurrying along the road to throw herself at the gate in the dark.”
Two princesses! He felt a headache coming on. What was he supposed to do with two princesses, but bow over their hands and be polite? He had already met all those daughters of noble Lyonyan families, and one of Prince Mikeli’s letters revealed that Tsaian nobles would be more than willing to have the King of Lyonya consider their daughters, too. All the women had been beautiful; no doubt these princesses were beautiful. Those he had spoken to were all intelligent, or seemed so. All courteous, as pleasant to the ear as to the eye. But beauty and fine manners were not enough. He wanted a woman whose character he could trust.
Not the daughter of a devious, cruel king, whom he had long suspected of collusion with those who had killed Tammarion and their children, a king who had sent troops into Lyonya to kill him before he could even be crowned.
Before his Council could say anything, he went on. “Sier Belvarin, I trust you will locate suitable accommodation for the visitors. It would be discourteous to house the princesses anywhere but here, and their escorts or chaperons of rank, of course, but with the delegation from Prealíth—” diplomatic, not accompanied by any more marriageable girls, he hoped “—we must be sure we don’t end up with no room to move.” Dzordanya, that mysterious land, had as yet sent no one.
“Sire.” As he stood, they all stood.
“And don’t forget, we ride to hunt this morning. With so many visitors, we must have game.” He saw the looks they gave one another. Huntsmen could provide game—did, during the closed season—but could not accomplish his larger aim: reconciling humans and elves to one another. Even at informal breakfasts, and more in the formal councils, elves and humans were proving a difficult team to harness. The euphoria of finding a suitable king and crowning him had evaporated since his coronation, and years of distrust and bickering had formed habits he must, somehow, break.
By noon, Kieri was ready to smack heads together. His hope that good sport would overcome prejudice had proven too optimistic. The two groups of nobles, elves and men, mingled only when his eye was on them, and then only formally. When the red-and-black hounds scented game, the pale hounds were called off by the elven huntsman on the grounds that it was not the proper day for scenting: this was a day for gaze hunting only. They had said nothing about that upon setting out, and from their expressions were looking for an excuse to resent any questions he might ask. He did not ask.
When the pale hounds took off shortly after that, the red-and-black hounds lay down instead of following. Kieri whirled to see the repeated signal by their huntsman.
“Whyfor?” Humans might resent his questions, but not so lethally as the elves.
“The pale hounds riot, my lord. My Cherry gave no tongue. I would not have them taught bad manners.”
“They saw something …”
“So they say.” The look the huntsman flashed toward the elf nobles who waited politely for the king to lead the chase was poisonous. “No proper hound can both scent and gaze.”
“Bide here, then, until I return,” Kieri said. The huntsman opened his mouth, but the look Kieri gave him shut it again. Kieri lifted his reins. “Come, gentlefolk,” he said in the pleasantest tone he could manage, and Oak broke to a gallop. Behind him, the soft thunder of hooves indicated that they’d all followed. They’d better, he thought. He would deal with the huntsman later.
Still, after the first stag fell to his arrow and the hunt settled to business, he felt it had not been a useless endeavor. Both packs of hounds ended up working together; some of the men and elves exchanged near-friendly banter along with compliments on a good shot or a handsome mount. The hunting party returned in late afternoon, followed by the pack ponies laden with enough game for what he was already calling—in his own mind only—“A Feast of Princesses.”
What mattered more than princesses were the two packs of hounds now trotting along side by side, the set of their ears and tails suggesting the kind of cooperation he’d hoped for. He glanced around. Though the bulk of the elves still rode to the left, the heart-side, and the bulk of the men still rode to the right, the sword-side, he saw man and elf chatting peaceably in the middle, both individuals and small groups. He hoped his father and sister would have approved.
Once back at the palace, he was immediately besieged by the Pargunese princess’s guardian, a sour-faced woman who declared herself Countess Settik. Complaint after complaint, starting with the baths.
“Barbaric,” she said. “Tubs, as if we were piles of dirty clothes! And so small. And dirty bits of weed thrown in!”
“Herbs,” Kieri said. “To scent the water.”
“At home,” she said, “we have proper baths. We don’t have to climb up steps and into cramped little tubs—we step down into heated pools where the water moves and is always fresh. It is an insult to guests to make them use what is nothing mor
e than an oversized bucket. You must grant us the use of your bath. If you are ashamed to be seen as the gods made you, we can bathe at a different time, but I will not—not, I tell you—fold myself into that—that article again.”
“I use one,” Kieri said.
She sniffed. “I don’t believe you. No king would.”
“I do not know what your baths are like,” Kieri said firmly, “but everyone here uses a tub. If you insist, you may inspect my bathing room—”
He had not believed she would be so rude, but she did insist, complaining all the way to and from it of other indignities: being lodged across the hall from the princess instead of in an adjoining room, having no separate kitchen where food could be prepared under her own eyes. Kieri declined to inflict her on his own cooks. Nor did she approve of the King’s Squires Kieri had assigned to the princess Elis—all, he insisted, honorable women.
“They wear trousers,” the woman said. “And they bow instead of curtsy. It is unnatural.”
“It is required, when they are on duty,” Kieri said. The last of his patience vanished. “You must excuse me; I have urgent business.” She glared but let him go. He wondered if her husband was as difficult and suspected he was. It would take a difficult man to survive her.
Two princesses would take up the time of at least four King’s Squires each, day and night: two-thirds of the women on the list of Squires. He’d have to pull some in from other tasks—riding courier, for instance. He went into Garris’s office and found him scowling at the chart he’d made of King’s Squires and their assignments.
“It’s going to take eight King’s Squires, minimum, to keep a guard on both princesses.”
“I know,” Kieri said. “Plus mine—you’re sure you can’t cut that back?”
“You may be one of the two best blades in the kingdom, Kieri, but I’m not risking your life. Not until you’re married and your heir is shoulder-high.”
Kieri shook his head but didn’t argue. “So we’re tying up half the King’s Squires on palace duty … well, maybe the princesses won’t stay long once they figure out I’m not going to marry them. Her. Either one.”
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