Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  That jogged his memory. “Cal Halveric’s sword,” he said. “We recovered it, found it with other blades being transported illegally. I had it blessed by a Captain of Falk. The scabbard was lost; the Captain had a new one made, to make it easier to carry.”

  Stammel opened his eyes. “Where am I this time? And when?”

  “It has not even been a half-glass,” Arcolin said. “You’re with me, and you’re in Dorrin Verrakai’s house in Vérella.”

  “I need to get up,” Stammel said. Arcolin stood and took his hand. “I thought it was the burning again.”

  “It almost was,” Dorrin said. “But my relatives, even the worst, are obedient to one they believe has the right to rule them. Unfortunately, that’s not the king, but for now—they obey me.” She turned to Stammel. “Sergeant, I expect you’ll be tired and need extra sleep. You’ve endured a great ordeal, and such things leave no one untouched. Let me have someone guide you to the bathing rooms so you can clean up and then rest.”

  Stammel did indeed look worn out, Arcolin thought. “I can guide him.”

  “Certainly,” Dorrin said. “Follow me, then.” She led the way through the house. “This place was full of traps when I first came; it’s safer now, but I’m still using the scullery for a bathing room. I had water put on to heat this afternoon, anticipating your arrival.” As they passed through the kitchen, she said, “Jaim, go find their packs in the stable and bring them in, then run to the grange and ask Marshal Tamis to come. Efla, we’ll need a supper for the sergeant.”

  “A Marshal?” Arcolin said.

  Beclan came in the back door before Dorrin could answer; he had their packs and quickly took down a bath basin from the wall rack.

  “Warm water,” Dorrin said to Beclan, then turned to Arcolin. “A precaution merely,” she said. “This house was steeped in Verrakai evil for generations; the Marshals and I have cleansed it, but in Stammel’s present condition, if there is any lingering evil, it might try to invade again. I want the Marshal’s advice; it might be better for him to stay at the grange.”

  “I’d rather stay here,” Stammel said. “With the captain and you.”

  “I understand,” Dorrin said. “And if the Marshal thinks it’s safe, you’ll be welcome. At least, you will bathe and eat here, and I will have a room prepared.”

  By the time Stammel and Arcolin had bathed and dressed in clean uniforms, Marshal Tamis had arrived. Dorrin told the story with additions from Stammel and Arcolin. Tamis nodded at the end.

  “I think he will be safe here, my lord Duke, though I would not put him in a room alone. Let one of your servants or squires stay with him, if you and the captain need to be elsewhere. As for his sight, I cannot answer whether anything can be done. If the Marshal-General were in Vérella, we could ask her, but she’s gone back to Fin Panir.”

  “It’s early,” Dorrin said, “but I think you should rest, Stammel, if you can.”

  “I agree,” Tamis said. “He’s the only one who’s survived an invasion, isn’t he?”

  “One small boy,” Dorrin said. “I was able to intervene before the transfer was complete. But holding down, controlling an invader for so long …”

  Stammel yawned. “Sorry, my lord, Marshal.”

  “Let’s get you to bed, then. I need to talk to Jandelir, Stammel, but I’ll have someone in the room with you, if you need anything.”

  Arcolin watched as Stammel lay down, falling into what looked like normal sleep within a few breaths.

  “Extraordinary,” Marshal Tamis said. He turned to Arcolin. “And congratulations to you—I understand you’re to be confirmed as lord of the north to replace Kieri Phelan.”

  “Yes,” Arcolin said.

  “I hope you’ll visit my grange—with your sergeant—while you’re still in the city. Both of you have stories to tell that would do my yeomen good to hear. Not before the ceremony, of course, but after.”

  “We’ll come,” Arcolin said. “But I don’t know when—”

  “Any time—give me a day’s warning if you can.” With a bow to Dorrin, he left.

  “Come upstairs, Jandelir,” Dorrin said. “The old duke’s study’s safe enough now.” She led the way, and he followed up the broad stairs into a large room furnished with a few simple chairs and a plain table half-covered with neat stacks of scrolls and books. It didn’t look the way he’d imagined an old family’s study. “It was more impressive when I first saw it,” Dorrin said. “But everything was full of traps. Here—have a seat. These chairs may be plain, but they’re safe.”

  Arcolin stared at her. A thousand questions raced through his mind, along with a rush of fear; even when she seemed the old Dorrin, she wasn’t. He cleared his throat and said the first ordinary thing that came to mind.

  “I don’t know anything about court ceremony. All I had to do was take and receive messages.”

  “You’re still ahead of where I was,” Dorrin said, chuckling. She had taken a chair across the table from him. “Remember how I avoided any contact with the court, lest I meet my relatives?” Arcolin nodded. “Then I had to come to the coronation and be confirmed there, as a duke no less. I knew nothing: the protocol, the people, the dress.”

  “I’m sure you did well,” Arcolin said, still struggling with his mixture of relief in Stammel’s recovery and fear of her power.

  “Like a puppet,” Dorrin said. “I wore what they told me, went where they told me, said what the others said. Falk’s honor—it was terrifying at first, but then I realized more than half of them were scared of me. A Verrakai. Born magelord, using magery—they had to know that, just as I’d had the prince’s permission to use it. And then the aftermath—” She explained about the attack she had foiled and the king’s pardon. It did not make Arcolin any more comfortable. “It’s better now,” she said, “You’ve noticed my senior squire; he’s the king’s cousin. The king’s pressured them to accept me, but most are still so formal. I’ve missed you, Jandelir. The way we could talk, back north or in camp. I have no one like that now.”

  “I’ve missed you and Cracolnya both—and at least I’ve still got Cracolnya. It’s not good, your being so alone. Will you marry?”

  “Marry! Falk’s Oath, no! Why would I? I’m too old to bear a child, and don’t want to anyway. Ganarrion—distant cousin, cleared of treason and now back with the Royal Guard—will be my heir. I don’t want more complications, but I’d like someone—someone I can trust absolutely, who was never under Verrakai control—just to talk with. My people are improving, but they were ruled by blood magic for years. I have Selfer and my squires, but …”

  “And I wanted to talk to you about that,” Arcolin said. “Selfer and that cohort. It’s rightly mine now, you know.”

  She stared. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right; if you’ve got the Company, then that cohort is yours. I’ve been paying—could I just hire them?”

  Arcolin shook his head. “I need more force in the south, Dorrin. The way things are down there, one cohort is too weak, and gives me too little flexibility. There’s plenty of work, but for larger units. Trying to find and replace a whole cohort this winter? No. I need them back … unless it’s critical for you.”

  “No—though I trust them more than my own militia, my militia’s improved by having their example. I’ll miss … it’s my last connection to my whole life, Arcolin.”

  “If a veteran wants to stay with you, I won’t argue,” Arcolin said. “Except Selfer—I can’t afford to lose a captain.”

  “He wants to get back to the Company,” Dorrin said. “He asked for leave to spend Midwinter Feast up north. You have lost Siger already, though. Once we got to Chaya, he told Kieri he wanted to stay. He came from Lyonya originally.”

  “I knew that but hadn’t thought of it in years. I’ll miss him,” Arcolin said. “He was with Kieri before I was. But there’s still Hofrin. And Stammel’s success with crossbows suggests to me that we could expand the archery units into the regular infantry.”


  “Well, back to your court appearance,” Dorrin said. “Let’s see how well Kieri’s things fit you, while I explain the ritual.”

  “Do I have to bow to you because you’re a duke?”

  “No. But you do have to defer. And you do have to understand the argument that’s ended with you being made a count instead of a duke.”

  “A count? I thought I’d start as baron.”

  “The North Marches are too big and too important to be a baron’s grant. In fact, by size and position, it should be a dukedom, as it was. But because you’re still an unknown quantity to most of these people, and the population’s small, they’re unwilling to go that far. Count’s the middle choice. That means you won’t have to take the sleeves off Kieri’s count’s robe. Be glad it’s the Autumn Court, not Midsummer—I nearly suffocated in a ducal robe.”

  “But—ribbons at the knee?”

  “Kieri did it. You can too.”

  The thought of Kieri Phelan in court dress with short breeches, ribbons at his knees, and those ridiculous court shoes … Arcolin wished he’d seen it.

  His own appearance in court went more smoothly than he’d feared. As a “count-nominate,” not yet confirmed in rank, he waited behind the others, as the nobles—herded like errant sheep by the Master of Ceremonies—were urged into the right order in the procession. Dukes in front, then counts, then barons, the more senior titles in front of the more recent. He would be the lowest-ranking count, after his investiture.

  Bells rang; trumpets blared; ahead of him the line edged forward. Another count-nominate—for the established county of Konhalt, whose count had been attainted as a Verrakai supporter—and two barons-nominate, both heirs of men who had died in the past year, waited with Arcolin. Behind each, a servant carried the court robe, carefully folded, and another held the staff with the nominate’s pennant showing the mark and colors.

  When the nobles were all in place, ranged on either side of the hall, the nominates were led in by the Lord Herald in order of seniority. Duke Mahieran presented count-nominate Konhalt to the king and Council; when he had made his oath of fealty to the king, the king put on him the chain of office, kissed his forehead. When he stood again, the servant helped him into his robe, and Mahieran led him to his place in the row of counts, who moved aside for him.

  Arcolin came next. Dorrin, as his sponsor, proclaimed him to the king and led him forward. He knelt, made his vows, received the chain of office and the kiss, and then felt the weight of the court robe on his shoulders. As he was the lowest-ranking count, only barons had to shift position to give him room.

  The barons-nominate went through their investitures without incident, and when the king declared the ceremony over, they all moved on to the reception rooms. Arcolin had expected to find himself isolated among the other counts, but the dukes he’d met while carrying messages from Kieri all came to congratulate him.

  “We need someone strong in the North Marches,” Duke Marrakai said. “Someone who knows the territory, who has troops already there. Of course we all have sons who might like a grant of their own, but you’re far more qualified than any of my brood.” From the emphasis, it was clear Marrakai thought his own brood more qualified than anyone else’s.

  Arcolin felt out of place at first, but by the end of the day, being addressed as “my lord Count” and chatting with other counts and dukes as if he were, in truth, a noble of Tsaia, felt normal. He sensed no real hostility. For all the opportunity the North Marches offered, the dangers of its position next to Pargun, the history of orc attacks and invasions, meant that second thoughts had cooled the interest of many of the lords and their sons.

  He could not help but notice another factor: barons, counts, and even dukes introducing their families to him, particularly those families including daughters of marriageable age and sons who might benefit from a few years as someone else’s squire. He was careful to give no immediate encouragement, but thinking ahead—Kieri had had squires, and they had been helpful. Dorrin had squires now, all dukes’ children. He would need squires. A wife, though … he was not ready to consider that. Though the girls, in their best court dress, were certainly lovely, he could not imagine any of them being content in the north while he was away in the south every year. As well, he did not yet grasp the undercurrents within the court; a hasty alliance could be disastrous for him and for his land.

  His land. He thought that now without hesitation, automatically. His land, his people, his Company … his king, in that palace. He wondered when Kieri had felt it normal for the first time … Kieri had been younger and perhaps had imagined it before, as he himself had not. And how was Kieri coming to grips with a change every bit as great as his own? Had Kieri chosen a wife?

  In the next few days, Arcolin dealt with the necessary business: the banker, the judicar, a courier to ride south and tell Burek what had happened and where he was going, another to ride north at least as far as the Duke’s—no, his—south border and let his people know he was on the way. He and Stammel paid their visit to Tamis’s grange; it was packed full that evening, and Stammel’s story brought gasps and tears to many.

  Finally, Arcolin and Stammel rode north, carrying with them the royal warrants of Arcolin’s title. At Burningmeed, his subjects gathered to hear the proclamation of his title in the grange; they cheered him loudly. Vestin paraded the southern cohort for his inspection. The veterans stared at Stammel, but said nothing, and cheered Arcolin after the inspection.

  The next day the two rode on into lowering clouds, a miserable cold drizzle sifting through the trees. Sodden leaves quieted the horses’ hooves, and the bare fields of farmsteads, with cattle huddled together but still steadily grazing, suggested endurance more than abundance. Arcolin looked at each, noting the soundness of the buildings, the condition of fences, the apparent management of fields and orchards, the condition of the road itself. Here and there it was clear the cohort had done roadwork; and in some places he could see where work needed to be done. He let himself imagine how it could be in two hands of years … four … as he continued the work Kieri had begun. Sound roads, passable in all seasons. Sturdy houses, ample barns filled with grain and fodder, fat cattle, heavy-fleeced sheep, trees loaded with fruit or nuts … his horse stumbled a little and jolted him back to the present.

  “Sir?” Stammel asked. He had heard the horse stumble, no doubt. He was sitting his horse upright as always and had no doubt felt the downward slope Arcolin had missed by daydreaming.

  “I was thinking,” Arcolin said, “when I should have been watching the road. We should reach Duke’s East later today.”

  As he came in sight of Duke’s East, he reined in. A sharp wind blew from the north through trees bare but for a few stubborn leaves. They had ridden through heavier cold rain earlier, but those clouds were behind them now. Ahead was the hard blue of a winter sky.

  “We’re close, aren’t we?” Stammel asked.

  “Yes. Looking down at Duke’s East—I can see Kolya’s orchard—leafless now—her cottage—the bridge over the stream—” He glanced over at Stammel, who looked gray and pinched. “Are you all right?”

  “I can see it in my mind,” Stammel said. “But what I see is not what other men see.” He cleared his throat. “Does it look different, now that it’s yours?”

  “I was thinking how familiar it was,” Arcolin said. “A comfort to come back and see this shape of land, those trees, the village … but yes, in a way it does look different.” It had been Kieri’s worry, and now it was his.

  “It will always look the same to me, if … sorry, sir. Let’s get on.”

  They rode down the slope. Kolya’s cottage had a plume of smoke out the chimney, and several people gleaning late apples in her orchard turned to look at the riders. Waving, they ran toward the lane; Arcolin reined in.

  Kolya was first to speak. “Sir, we heard you were the new duke—is it true?”

  “Not duke,” Arcolin said. “Count only, at this time.”<
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  “Did you see—” She stopped abruptly, staring at Stammel. He sat his horse with the same composure he had shown from the beginning. Someone else started to speak; Kolya’s gesture was emphatic and hushed them all.

  “We need to get out to the stronghold,” Arcolin said. “I’ll want to meet with the Councils of both Duke’s East and Duke’s West tomorrow; you need to see the new warrants, and we’ll talk then. If you could let Mayor Fontaine know, and send a messenger to Duke’s West. Right now—we’re still damp from the past few days and could use a hot fire and dry clothes.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.” Her eyes never left Stammel’s face; his expression never changed. “Welcome home, both of you.”

  Stammel nodded at that, then legged his horse into a quick walk. Arcolin caught up with him and led the way over the bridge, through the village—waving at those who waved, but not slowing.

  He heard the trumpet’s call borne on the north wind when they were in sight of the stronghold; he could just see the sun glinting from helmets. He was home … his home now. He looked around at the wide, windswept fields, the distant line of scrubby trees, the hills to the north and west. He would ride in, and someone would take his horse, and when he walked into the inner court … it was all his now. For one last instant, panic swept over him—he could not do it all, he could never be as good a lord as Kieri had been. Then it blew away on the crisp winter wind, on the memory of that summer’s campaign, when he had done what he thought right. He was Count of the North Marches. It was enough. He was enough.

  Lyonya, near Halveric Steading