Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  Many days on the road had confirmed Jeddrin Count Andressat’s opinion that he did not like travel. He took no pleasure in novelty of place or person, and he was all too aware of duties he was not performing while he was gone. A ruler should stay at home, with his own people.

  His thoughts ran on familiar lines. Foreigners were ill-bred; travel obliged one to mingle with such people, even traveling with one’s own servants and guards. He had never, in his entire life, been over the mountains to the north, a place of barbarians and those who gave themselves ridiculous titles. Only a few in the north held titles for which he had any regard; he knew their lineage as he knew his own. The new king of Tsaia—well enough, the best they could do, all things considered. But Fintha, with no nobility—ridiculous. Three of the Eight Kingdoms—Pargun and Kostandan and Dzordanya—had kings, but of no lineage that meant anything. He found no trace of ancient blood in them, no indication that their authority came from Old Aare.

  He could respect, he had told himself, an honest merchant, if such existed, or a mercenary captain like Aliam Halveric or Jandelir Arcolin. Such men had expertise, and if they did not presume to consider themselves equals of their betters, he gave them the respect they deserved. That was the duty and responsibility of a noble, after all: to recognize worth and reward it.

  But necessity demanded that he travel, and travel incognito at that. He must seek aid from someone he had misjudged as—to be honest—he had misjudged himself. He had bowed and scraped like any commoner—which, he reminded himself yet again, he was. He had slept in ordinary inns—hideous places in which he’d been forced to show coin before every mug of ale, let alone a bed for the night. Even in Valdaire, where, had he used his own name, the bowing and scraping would have gone the other way.

  He huddled in his cloak as another autumn rain blew down from the mountains, roaring in the trees overhead. A horrible country, worse even than the pass over the mountains. Too many trees, blocking the view in every direction, closing him in. Mud and not rock under his horse’s hooves, storms in the air that could not be seen until they were upon him. Only a few villages and fields—unfamiliar crops in the fields, unfamiliar fruit trees instead of the neat terraces of vines and oilberries on his own land. Green everywhere, too much green.

  If not for the vision of his own land and its fields and vineyards, his own people toiling there, the smell of the herbs strong under the sun, the clatter of goats’ hooves on the rocks … if not to save them, who had done no wrong and deserved no harm … he would not have stirred from Andressat, from those golden hills, those rocky bastions, summer’s heat that dried the creeks, winter rain that filled them. He ached in every bone and cursed the day he’d first heard the name of Duke Kieri Phelan.

  Aliam Halveric listened to the rain drumming on the stable roof, breathed in the fragrance of horses, good hay, oiled leather, and a hint of ripening fruit from the trees trained along the inner court wall, and wondered when it was he’d become an old man. Estil insisted he wasn’t old, and she didn’t seem old—barring the silver strands in her dark hair—but he felt old, joints aching, responsibilities almost too heavy to bear. His grandchildren sprouted day by day, it seemed, rising up around him like saplings around an old storm-blasted tree.

  And now he had to deal with the Count of Andressat, whose envoy had announced the count’s intention to visit on his way to Chaya to see the king. The king. Kieri. Once his servant, his squire, dear to him as a son or brother. His rival, at times, but always that bond of friendship. And now king, but king so much later than he should have been, because of Aliam. That still hurt, hurt enough that he sagged onto a chest, leaning on the wall and staring out at the water streaming on the courtyard stones. Kieri had forgiven him; he knew Kieri bore no grudge. But he could not forgive himself. He had known, and he had done nothing. Oh, he’d had reason enough to do nothing, but no reasons seemed enough now, when Aliam laid out for the thousandth time the consequences of old decisions.

  He shivered, as a chill breeze blew damply into the barn, and rubbed hands no longer as callused and hard as the summer before, the summer he had still trained daily with his soldiers. He could not sit here all day. He had work to do; Andressat would be here today or tomorrow.

  Across the courtyard, where rain now fell more gently, a girl peeked from the main keep door and then, apron flung over her head, dashed to the stables. “Grandfather! Grandmother wants you!” Aliam sighed and pushed himself up. He remembered the birth of this child’s mother, and now the child of that child ran light-footed to his side, throwing her wet arms around him, grinning up with Estil’s grin. Pain stabbed him. He was old, too old, and what would he leave this child?

  In the main hall, tables had been laid. Estil smiled at his expression. “You said he was proud, Aliam. And he’s been traveling incognito; his pride will be rubbed raw. We shall guest him as he feels he deserves, and he will reach Kieri in a better mood.”

  Aliam had to smile. “You always thought a little humility was good for proud men.”

  “I did. I do. But he’s old, you said. And he’s a guest.”

  “I’m old,” Aliam said. The weight fell back on his spirit again; he could feel himself sagging.

  Estil looked at him, a long considering look. “Do you miss the summer campaigns? Does it seem dull here?”

  “No, it’s not that.” The years when he had taken his soldiers south each spring, the raw excitement of campaigning mixed with the drudgery of it, seemed long ago, little bright images from a different person’s memory. “It’s not dull here,” he went on, forcing a smile. “Not with the children and their mischief; not with you …”

  “It’s not like you to brood, Aliam. You were never a brooder, but you are not happy now.”

  “I’m old.”

  “You’re no older than I am,” she said. “You’ve been … strange … ever since last winter, when the … the paladin came.” When the Lady of the Ladysforest had come, but they could not speak those words, for the Lady had locked their tongues on that.

  “It’s my fault,” Aliam said. Tears stung his eyes. “If I had—”

  “You couldn’t know,” Estil said, a hand on his arm. “You couldn’t be sure. You had reasons …”

  “Reasons!” Aliam said. The bitterness in his voice shocked him, and two of the servants passing through the hall turned to look at him and then hurried on. “Tammarion died because of me,” he said more softly. “I’m the one who tutored Kieri in the courtesy of warriors and taught him how women fighters should be respected; it’s not just the sword, but … if not for me he would surely have drawn it sometime or other. Their children would be alive, she would be alive, he would be whole.”

  “He is whole,” Estil said. “You are the one who’s not.” Then her hand flew to her mouth, as if to take the words back, and her face paled.

  Aliam looked at her. “I know. I know I’m not. I can’t live with it, Estil, what I’ve done and not done. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it, and that it can’t be changed, and that I … can’t go on.”

  “Aliam—”

  He shook his head and moved past her. Up the stairs, each one harder to climb than the next, and into his study, where a bowl still held a sprig of undying apple blossom, a gift of the Lady. The scent should have refreshed him, but now … now it was another wound. He sat down heavily.

  Estil could manage without him; she’d done it summer after summer, all those years. The steading was more hers than his; she had managed it for him with all the skill and grace a man could ask for. His sons were all alive, barring Seliam—more tears came when he thought of Seliam, killed in Aarenis. Cal had heirs of the body; his eldest son was as old now as Aliam had been when he hired his first soldier. Kieri certainly didn’t need him; he would be only a constant reminder of what could have been, if Aliam had had the courage to say what he knew. He could trust Kieri to treat his family well, in matters of inheritance; that was all he could ask for.

  All he had to do
was make it through the Count of Andressat’s visit, play the host as he’d done for so many others, and then … his imagination failed. Old men died so many ways. Their eyesight dimmed; they tripped down stairs and stumbled off walls. Their hearing dimmed; they did not hear stampeding herds, shouted warnings of danger. They fell off horses and broke their necks; they fell into rivers and drowned. He had to be sure it was not seen as anyone’s fault; he wanted no more guilt carried by his family than they already bore.

  On that resolution, he stood, feeling a little stronger now, breathed in the scent of apple blossom, and went out to find Estil striding along the hall looking angry. “There you are—”

  “Is he come?” Aliam said. “I just remembered, he has a fondness for cakes sprinkled with that southern spice, the yellow one. I can’t think of the name—”

  “Figan,” Estil said, diverted by a cookery problem. “We have some, yes. Cooked in or sprinkled on after, do you know?”

  “I don’t,” Aliam said. “At his own house, he gave us such cakes. The flavor was more on the top, but baked in or added after, I can’t say.” He pushed away the memory of that day, when the count had made it so obvious how little he respected Kieri and he himself had done nothing about it.

  “Mercan just came; the rain’s stopped, and the count’s just a few hours’ ride away. I have just time if I start now … but Aliam, please—please don’t—”

  The smile came easier now, and must have looked natural, for Estil seemed to relax even as he spoke. “I’ll get over it,” he said. “Maybe you’re right, and I am missing summers in Aarenis—all that heat, sweating and stinking in my armor—” He tried for a mocking tone and she chuckled. But he thought … all those ways to die. Old men slowed down; old men were easier to kill. Maybe he should go south again.

  “I love you,” she said. “And now I must get to the kitchen. Just check the guest chambers, will you? I’ve tried to make them as southern as I could, with things you brought back, but I don’t know …” Her voice trailed away as she set off back downstairs.

  Aliam looked into the guest chambers she’d set aside for Andressat, with hangings in Andressat’s colors, piles of pillows re-covered in blue and gold, southern carpets spread on the floors. The rooms smelled of fresh herbs and a hint of rose essence. But out the windows, instead of Andressat’s open plains and rocky slopes under the burning blue of the southern sky in summer, he saw the rich green of northern grass, summer pasture ending in a wall of forest, a forest so different from those in the south. He himself had found the south exotic, exciting, but he still loved this best; he still loved the cool deep shade under trees the size of houses, the creatures that lived in those woods. He suspected Andressat would find the north oppressive, that he had traveled unwillingly and thus with no intention of enjoying what he found. He would be stiff and difficult, as he had always been.

  Estil Halveric and one of her daughters-in-law mixed the dough for sweetcakes in a flurry of activity that did nothing to ease Estil’s mind about Aliam. Less than a year ago he had been the same vigorous, joyful companion she’d known for so many years. Balder, grayer, a little more stooped, perhaps, but by no means old, nor had he thought himself old. Just as she could outwork most of her daughters and her sons’ wives, Aliam could outwork his sons and his daughters’ husbands.

  But lately … not just lately, but since that visit, and more since Kieri’s coronation, Aliam had changed. He had less energy, spent more time resting by the fireside or sitting under a tree. She’d worried that he was sick, but he showed no signs of illness, just a strange lassitude. She’d thought perhaps he missed campaigning, missed the yearly trip to the south. For years he’d gone south every summer with his company to fight, and then, with no explanation, he’d stayed north the summer before, and this one.

  She’d had no idea he blamed himself so harshly, so unfairly, for the deaths of Kieri’s wife and children, for the delay in Kieri’s restoration. And yet, day by day he did less, ate less, grew more and more remote …

  It wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. Estil pinched off bits of dough, shaped them with practiced hands, sprinkled them with figan, and set them to bake, still thinking hard. It had started with that paladin, or with the Lady, and it had been about Kieri. One of them, surely, would help her. People could grieve to death; she knew that, but it was not going to happen to Aliam. Not while she lived.

  The cakes were just out of the oven when she heard the sentry’s warning call. “I must go,” she said.

  “Your apron! Your head scarf!” her daughter-in-law said. Estil looked and saw that more than her apron had smudges and streaks of flour from baking.

  She dashed for the stairs; Aliam was on his way down. “I have to change,” she said. “I’ll be quick.”

  The rain had finally stopped, and late-afternoon light pierced the forest canopy. Somewhere ahead, more light suggested an opening. The Count of Andressat booted his tired horse onward. Probably some peasant’s hut, or another miserable village, though if he were lucky …

  Beyond the trees, a swath of green, vivid in the golden light, and a sizable stone keep, not a village … the count looked at it appraisingly. More than a bowshot from the forest wall, neat fences divided grazing land from plow. Cattle in this enclosure, horses in that. An orchard of what must be fruit trees. The keep itself looked nothing like his … but it was stone-built, to its credit, and the roofs were slate, not straw thatch.

  A horn call rang out; he had been seen. Not recognized, of course; they would not know who he was until he announced himself. A small troop of men on horseback rode out the gates, keeping a disciplined order he approved. A pennant flew from a pole one of them carried—Halveric’s colors.

  As they neared, he saw that the man in the lead was Halveric himself. “My lord Count!” Halveric said. “Be welcome here!”

  “You expected me today?” Jeddrin’s brows rose. He had not seen anyone all day, or heard any horn signals.

  “Your envoy gave us warning days ago, and one of my outguards sent word more than a glass since.”

  Andressat relaxed. A properly managed estate, then, and secure enough that he need not fear, as he had feared every day after leaving home, attack by brigands or other enemies.

  “You will be tired from your journey,” Halveric went on. “And I see the rain caught you this afternoon.”

  “It has rained every day since I came over the mountains,” Andressat said. “It’s a wonder the whole land isn’t a sea.” He looked more closely at Halveric. The man seemed much older than a few years would account for; he sat his horse stiffly, as if in pain. What had happened? Halveric was younger than he himself … he had always seemed so vigorous. “Your country house looks very comfortable.”

  An odd expression crossed Halveric’s face. “Thank you,” he said. “Come on in; Estil’s ready to welcome you.”

  Estil. A brother? Surely not his wife … but in a few minutes he saw an outrageously tall woman, dark hair streaked silver, poised at the entrance to the hall. Halveric called her over, even as a servant held the count’s horse. Northerners. Even Halveric, who had seemed so urbane and civilized in Andressat.

  The count smoothed his mustaches and bowed over the lady’s hand. “The honor is mine,” he said. She had powdered her hand with something like flour; he wondered why.

  After a hot bath and shave and haircut from Halveric’s barber, Jeddrin Count of Andressat felt much better. Everyone here knew his name, though he didn’t know all of them, and Halveric had welcomed him with appropriate ceremony. His assigned suite was large, graciously furnished, items from the south laid out to lend familiarity. Even, when he came out from his bath, a basket of warm spiced cakes—dusted with his favorite figan—waiting on the table in his bedchamber. True, out the window were northern fields and that forbidding forest, but his host had done his best.

  And his host’s wife. He had no way to address women who bore no title and yet were not servants … he could not just use
her name, no matter that Halveric had suggested it. Traveling as he had been,

  he’d not met any lords’ wives; the townswomen he’d seen had looked, to his eye, like ordinary people, just dressed differently.

  Estil Halveric was taller than her husband, straight-backed where he was stooped, with an easy smile that yet had no hint of flirtatiousness. She looked strong, as if she instead of her husband could captain a troop. She moved briskly, yet with grace … he was used to women of position moving more slowly, languidly, yet perhaps that was the difference in climate.

  He had already seen the hall where they would dine, the tables set in the same pattern they might have been at home, had it been a formal banquet. Halveric had asked if he preferred a quiet meal alone, but his curiosity was aroused. How would a northern lordling set out a banquet? How would they come in? Halveric had eaten with him, but only informally.

  At the high table, he and Halveric and Halveric’s wife and the two eldest sons and their wives … down the side tables, the other sons and daughters and spouses.

  “It is the growing season,” Halveric said. “We do not travel much then—and I was not sure you wished many to know of your errand, so I did not try to gather a large party. It was in no disrespect of your honor, my lord Count.”

  Andressat relaxed. No insult intended; a family meal merely. That was comfortable, and for a family meal, nicely laid out. Solid, good-quality dishes, southern ware, painted with flowers and birds, heavy silver, fine blown goblets and flagons, all laid on sun-bleached linen cloths. Herbs and flowers strewn the length of the tables. And the fare … he could hardly believe the northern lands produced such bounty. Platters of sliced meats, small birds spitted between unfamiliar vegetables on thin rods, roast fowl, fish, tureens of soup, bowls of vegetables, baskets of bread in three colors, small dishes of oilberries … all served at once, instead of discrete courses. Southern wines, white and red. Halveric had explained that as a courtesy to a guest who had traveled all day.