Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  Arvid sighed. Apparently fear had driven the boy back into his narrow faith. He made another attempt to inject some realism into the discussion. “Gird punished you for trying to stop a thief?”

  “No … it was a test …”

  The Marshal-General gave Arvid a warning glance. “Baris, do you remember anything more about the man. Young, old, bearded, clean-shaven, dark hair or light?”

  “There wasn’t much light. He was about as tall as you, Marshal-General, and his hair was … not black, and not really light. Brown, I guess. He had a short beard, like a lot of Marshals. Hair to here—” Baris touched his shoulder.

  “Would he look like a Marshal out of that tabard, Baris?” Arvid asked. “Would you recognize him in ordinary garb, say, if he cut his hair?” The boy merely looked confused.

  Once back in her office, Arianya summoned the Archivist to see what more had been learned from Luap’s scrolls while she was away.

  “Quite a bit, Marshal-General, but the most important things may be these: that cloth we found was an altar cloth for the High Lord’s Hall made by a mageborn woman named Dorhaniya. That’s in both Luap’s writings and the records here. Gird himself gave permission for her to show it to a mageborn Sunlord priest named Aranha, and it was dedicated at the altar.”

  “In Gird’s time?” Arianya asked. “I thought the rituals of Esea Sunlord were forbidden, as being tainted by blood magic.”

  “It’s clear, Marshal-General, that our records of the period deviate from Luap’s and from the writings of his followers as we found them in Kolobia. Another thing—not all the scrolls Paks brought us are Luap’s. Some are even older than that, relating to events in Aarenis so distant in time, our only referents for the names and places are legendary. The language, too, is difficult.”

  “But the altar-cloth,” Arianya said. “You’re sure it was made for the High Lord’s Hall and there was an actual priest of Esea Sunlord present?”

  “According to Luap and the archives, Marshal-General.”

  “I need to see it again,” Arianya said. “I believe I have seen a duplicate in Tsaia.” She described the cloth that wrapped a crown now hidden from view, a crown from magelord times. “And,” she said, “a magelord lives now, magery unlocked, to whom that crown answers.”

  “Answers?”

  Arianya nodded. “I must talk to the Council about all this, but ask you to hold it close until I convene a Council meeting—but you scholars must know what to look for. That regalia is surely royal, from kings of old, and it speaks to Duke Dorrin Verrakai. Paksenarrion—whom I met again, and more must be told of that—helped unlock Dorrin Verrakai’s mage-powers and was there when the regalia first showed power. Dorrin Verrakai gave it to Tsaia’s king, as a coronation gift, and it lies presently in the king’s treasury, but only Dorrin Verrakai can move it. The crown is wrapped in a cloth that, to my memory and Paks’s, is the same design and style of embroidery as the cloth found in Kolobia. Moreover, that necklace Paks brought us—the sapphires and diamonds—is much the same design as the other regalia. Paks thinks it’s part of the set.” Arianya sighed. “I need all these threads untangled and the pattern laid clear, to know how best to proceed. Two years ago, I thought I understood all—now I know nothing, or so it seems.”

  “Here’s the cloth, Marshal-General,” said one of the scholars, who had gone to fetch it. She unfolded its wrappings and laid it out.

  “It’s the same,” Arianya said, leaning over it. The scholar hovered, as if to be sure Arianya didn’t touch those tiny stitches. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. An altar-cloth would be made to an older design … at least, I’m assuming the regalia are from before Luap’s time.”

  “We haven’t started on the priest’s journal,” another scholar said.

  “Another question,” Arianya said. “Have you found anything from Luap’s Stronghold to indicate that elves ever lived there?”

  “Elves? No. Their holy symbol is carved there, and Luap said one appeared, along with a dwarf and a gnome, but no sign of their living understone. Why?”

  “We never asked Paksenarrion, when she was a student here, about what she saw in the banast taig that became the elfane taig. And more—we never asked any of the elves visiting here, though some were of the Ladysforest.”

  One of the scholars looked startled. “That’s true—we didn’t.”

  “Glamour,” Arianya said, slapping her thigh. “They cozened us with a glamour, not to ask. Those patterns—in Kolobia and the High Lord’s Hall and that cave Gird found—they must be elven.”

  “Or dwarven?”

  “No. The rockfolk need no patterns to move in stone. We do. Elves do.” Arianya shook her head. “I don’t understand. But I will. And we must still record everything Arvid Semminson can remember about his encounters with Paksenarrion … any detail might be important, not just as a record of her deeds.”

  Vonja outbounds

  The cohort had just moved to a camp south and east of their first area, where the ruins of another village and its overgrown fields gave them a defensible position along an old east-west market road, now barely more than a track. Arcolin planned to stay there a hand of days to map the trails found in this section of forest before heading back to Cortes Vonja; sixty days past Midsummer was the end of their contract. He had the camp fortified as if for a longer stay: a ditch, staked in the bottom, a dirt parapet topped with brambles pushed down over upright stakes. On the fourth day, he called for a contest.

  “If we just counted hits from the first day of practice, the sergeant would win by a double-fist—but to be fair to the rest of you, the bet will be decided in one contest. Fifty shots, twenty at two distances, ten at the nearest. A point for the nearest, two for the middle, three for the farthest.” He looked at Stammel, who seemed not at all daunted. Well—Stammel never minded being bested by someone who was actually better. “Some of you didn’t take the original bet, but you’ve all had the practice, so I’m telling you—for a jug of ale in Valdaire, you’re all in it. If Stammel wins, I hope he can drink that much …” Laughter. No one complained that Stammel’s guides—the two who gave him the direction and distance by calling from near the target—gave him unfair advantage.

  All of them placed all ten shots in the near target, as he’d expected. In the middle distance, Stammel and two others—Coben and Suli—placed all twenty; the rest missed one to three each. In the long, no one hit with all twenty shots; Stammel and Coben both got nineteen, Suli eighteen.

  Before Arcolin could decide what to do about the tie, scouts called a warning. Out of the tree line on two sides, the enemy appeared—in daylight as they had not before—a troop of horse and another of infantry. Fifty—sixty—his cohort was already falling back behind their defenses. The soldiers who had, a moment before, been laughing and cheering on their favorites were now already armed and positioning themselves. Another ten horse appeared, on another side. Arcolin had no time to wonder why the warning came so late or where such a small army had come from—he was back inside their barricade, glancing to see where Burek was—where he should be, taking command of the south side of the camp—when he saw Stammel still standing outside, crossbow raised.

  “Stammel!” he yelled. Stammel didn’t answer or move. Arcolin’s heart lurched. Who had left him there? Who would—well, he had, thinking Stammel would follow his usual guide. “Stammel,” he yelled again. “Back! This way!” Beside him now, Suli started to climb the parapet. He grabbed her arm. “No—not you, Eyes.”

  “I have to—”

  One of the enemy yelled, then others. Stammel turned a little and released the bolt; immediately he bent, spanned the bow, placed another bolt, and again stood poised, waiting. Arcolin stared as the first bolt struck; a man went down. Another yell; another shot; another man went down. The enemy advance slowed. In the golden afternoon light, the bandage on Stammel’s eyes showed clearly, its ends fluttering in the breeze.

  One of the horsemen yelled, spurring hi
s horse forward. Stammel turned and shot. This time the bolt pierced the horse’s chest; it stumbled, went down; the rider fell and lay still. The other horsemen reined in.

  Then Stammel’s voice: “I am the Blind Archer!”

  The hair stood up on Arcolin’s body. “Holy Gird and Falk!” he muttered. Beside him, around him, others were muttering, too.

  “You are one; we are many!” one of the horsemen yelled.

  “I am the Blind Archer,” Stammel said again, releasing that bolt. The man who had yelled fell from his horse.

  At the rear of the enemy, Arcolin could see a few men back away—not turning to run, but easing back from the others. One in the front rank leveled a crossbow at Stammel; Arcolin yelled—but the bolt missed Stammel by an arm’s length, and his return bolt dropped the man.

  “Archers,” Stammel said, this time in his usual voice. “Volley fire.”

  Suli pulled away from Arcolin’s grip and with the other archers stepped up on the parapet and on Arcolin’s count fired, some at the horsemen and some at the infantry. A few in each group went down. Return fire was ragged and ineffective, as Stammel—standing calmly alone and re-spanning his bow quickly between shots—hit one after another. Each time he called loudly, “I am the Blind Archer.” Arcolin called for volley after volley; the small group of horse on the far side, charging in as a distraction, could not get through the ditch and up the parapet. The less able at archery, those not formally in the archery group, had grabbed spare crossbows and picked off almost half the ten horsemen on that side as they tried to dismount and charge the barrier.

  The enemy wavered, foot and horse both, and finally some charged forward while others turned away. The cohort sallied to meet those still coming, surrounding Stammel where he stood with a fixed smile on his face.

  “Are they gone?”

  “No. But they will be.” Those charging forward had not yet noticed that their formations were half the size they had been; a mere thirty crashed into almost three times that many Phelani, and in half a glass they were all dead.

  “Stammel, what was that?” Arcolin asked, watching the others strip the brigands—or whoever they were—of weapons. More curved blades, some straight, crossbows, half a dozen Vonjan pikes with the Cortes Vonja mark stamped on the blade.

  “Burek told me more of the legend, Captain,” Stammel said. Now that it was over, he wiped the sweat off his forehead. “You know that tavern in Fossnir, the Blind Archer?”

  “Yes—”

  “There’s another tavern named that, in Cortes Vonja, and one in Cortes Cilwan. All named for a story old as Torre’s Necklace. A man blinded by a usurper, for loyalty to the old king. He comes back, a beggar everyone thinks, and because he’s blind and harmless, the usurper has no fear of him—but he kills him, an arrow to the throat.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Arcolin said.

  “Nor I, Captain. But down here, many do, Burek said.”

  “Did he tell you to stand out there?”

  “Of course not,” Stammel said. “I just thought—what if I can scare some of them, and anyway …” He flushed a little. “Something came over me,” he said. “I felt—I felt it was right.”

  “Well, it worked,” Arcolin said. “But the next time you don’t follow orders, Sergeant, I’m docking your pay.” He put a hand on Stammel’s shoulder and shook it. Under his hand, Stammel’s shoulder felt like oak: all that muscle regained, all that strength. “Dammit, man,” he said, fighting back tears. “I don’t want to lose you now.”

  “I’m not lost, Captain,” Stammel said. “Not while I’m with the cohort.”

  They moved on the next morning. Though they had killed more than half the attacking force, Arcolin was sure now the brigands outnumbered the cohort, and he was three days from easy communication with Cortes Vonja. The Blind Archer legend wouldn’t deter them all, or any for long.

  Back on the west side of the forest belt, Arcolin considered how best to finish the season’s work. The maps he and Burek had made showed multiple trails in the forest and the tracks of old farm and village lanes where wagons might go. The Vonjans, if they had the will, could use those with their own militia, especially in the fall when the leaves fell, to locate and defeat the brigands. They had more forces at their command. He suspected they would not, but in their various skirmishes they’d killed over a hundred; even with regular supply, that must have cut back the brigand strength considerably.

  The villages along their original route south were now fully involved in harvest; Arcolin spread his force out to ensure that market traffic moved safely. He paid city market price for fresh fruits and vegetables, to the delight of local farmers.

  Chaya

  The two northern princesses and their guardians seemed to take up more space and time than any other six people. Kieri had to fit in visits of courtesy with them and their guardians around his other duties. Count and Countess Settik were particularly scornful of his lessons with Orlith, which had resumed without further discussion of the Lady. The Squires assigned to the princesses reported that both had been extremely guarded at first.

  “We think neither is here willingly,” Arian said. Along with Aulin, Lieth, and Binir, she had been assigned to Elis. Kaelith, one of those caring for Ganlin, nodded. “Aulin says Elis seemed glad to wear trousers but was afraid her guardians would see her. She has the right calluses for sword training—we all agree on that—and she walked in the garden like someone used to walking in trousers and not skirts. But she had no blade at all, not even a lady’s dagger to cut her own food. Binir got her talking about horses—she knows a lot, and said she always wanted to breed Pargunese Blacks, but then blushed and took it back.”

  “They don’t like our baths,” Kaelith said, wrinkling her nose. “They say they have bigger ones at home, with hot water that comes from a pipe. They call ours barbaric. Ganlin says it’s hard to climb in and out—but she’s got that sore hip. There’s certainly more between the two of them, Elis and Ganlin, than they’ve yet told us. Ganlin wanted me to carry a message secretly to Elis, so I gave it to Aulin—and then Arian gave Suriya one from Elis to Ganlin.”

  “How does Ganlin feel about her guardians?” Kieri asked.

  “She doesn’t like them,” Kaelith said. “But I don’t think it’s more than being made to do something she doesn’t want to.”

  “Elis is frightened of hers,” Arian said. “I’m not sure why. I also sense a deep anger in her, but she’s so young—they both are, really—that it could be any little slight.”

  Kieri almost chuckled—it seemed an odd thing for Arian to say—she could scarcely be that much older than Elis—but instead he said, “Perhaps we should offer them something they’re sure to like—if they’re sword-trained, a chance to work out in the salle?”

  Kaelith shook her head. “I don’t think her guardian would allow it; we’ve all heard her scold Ganlin and remind her to be ladylike and demure. ‘None of your wild ways,’ she says.”

  “The same with Elis,” Arian said. “Her guardians stick close as ticks to a hound, and everything we’ve offered—suggestions to go for a ride or a walk in the forest—even to walk in the gardens alone—they refuse for her. Her eyes light up sometimes, but it’s no use.”

  Kieri considered. It was well past Midsummer now; the princesses had settled in as if they meant to stay until he married them, which he was not going to do. Their guardians had become increasingly insistent—when would he decide?

  “I must see them alone,” he said. “Despite their guardians. I must know more about them before I can refuse them without insult—I do not want to hurt the girls, however much I am willing to risk angering their families.”

  “Refusing them won’t hurt their feelings,” Kaelith said. “Neither one has shown that kind of interest in you, Sir King. But what about their guardians? They are so protective—or that’s what they call it.”

  “A walk in the rose garden in the afternoon,” Kieri said. “With you Squires f
or chaperons. It is an insult to me if they think that dishonorable. As Elis’s guardians are more likely to be difficult, we will ask her first. Arian, please convey to Elis my earnest wish that she spend a short time walking with me in the rose garden this afternoon. Who’s with her now?”

  “Binir, Sir King.”

  “Do you have night duty tonight?”

  “No, Sir King.”

  “Then you also attend us, and we will see if I can learn more from her. Tomorrow, Kaelith, I will walk with Ganlin.”

  At the appointed hour, Kieri waited in the rose garden, now a fragrant glowing haven of color. Elis appeared with Arian and Binir. Her expression was, as always, guarded and cool; she curtsied gracefully. “Sir King, I am honored that you wished to see me.”

  “I am honored that you wish to be my queen,” Kieri said, and noted the instant withdrawal and stiffening. She was no more eager for a marriage than he was. “Let us walk.”

  She moved with him down the path between the roses and other flowers, silent and pale.

  “My mother planted this garden,” he said. “She loved roses above all flowers, I am told. Does your mother?”

  “She did,” Elis said, in a choked voice. “She had some in a pot. She … died. My father threw them away.”

  Kieri felt a jolt of sympathy. “My mother died, too,” he said. “But luckily, my father also loved roses and chose to remember her by preserving her garden.” He did not know if that was true, but it seemed reasonable.

  “My father says they are weak southern flowers, not worth the trouble.”

  “They do not seem weak to me,” Kieri said. “But I never grew them in the north.”

  Her hands, clasped at her waist, relaxed a little. “If—if I were to—to marry—would I have to stay here?”

  “Stay here?”

  “Inside the walls.” Her voice rose a little. She stopped and resumed very quietly. “If—would it ever be possible to—to walk abroad. Even—ride?”