Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Another bridle,” Cal said. “I wish we’d find the rolls of strapping.”

  “I wish we’d find a whole saddle,” Aliam said. “My backside’s too old to ride bareback on that ridgepole backbone our horses have.”

  “You should buy Marrakai blood,” Kieri said. It was an old argument. “They’re double-backed and easy to sit on.”

  “And expensive,” Aliam said. “Cheaper to buy new saddles. Gods above, what this is going to cost!”

  “You’ll have to take the Company south again, Father,” Cal said.

  “I might let you take it,” Aliam said. “There’ll be enough work here to keep me busy.”

  Cal glanced at him and went back to turning over rubble. “You feel up to it?”

  “King’s touch, Cal. I’m healed. And Kieri has no one in Lyonya who knows war the way I do. He should have someone here to depend on. Though he hasn’t said yes yet.” He looked at Kieri.

  Kieri mopped the sweat off his brow. “If war comes, you are the commander I’d want in the field, Aliam. But I’m hoping it doesn’t come. And it might be good for you to go back to Aarenis, recover—”

  “I’m recovered enough to think clearly, Kieri. Look it in the face. Is the king of Pargun happy that his daughter did not return and is not your wife? Or the king of Kostandan?”

  “It’s not my job to send wild girls back to fathers who treated them badly.”

  Aliam put down the iron bar he’d been using to shift rocks. “Just what did their fathers do, but send them to the best man I know?”

  “They didn’t know that. Elis at least had sisters who wanted to come. I wouldn’t have married them, either, but at least I would have felt better sending them home.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “Sent them to the Knights of Falk. Where Elis really belongs, I think, is with a Kuakgan. She reminds me a lot of Kolya Ministierra.”

  Aliam snorted. “The Lady would like that—I think not.”

  “Not like what?” the Lady asked, appearing beside them. “Your pardon, Sir King, but Estil asks for Aliam. She thinks they’ve found the token of the Halveric founder.”

  “The wardskull!” Aliam said, eyes alight.

  “A head-bone, yes,” the Lady said, with obvious distaste. Before Kieri could say anything, she spread her hands. “It is a human thing, I know, but it is alien to me. Kieri, grandson, let Aliam go and tell me what you were speaking of.”

  “He asked about the Pargunese and Kostandanyan princesses,” Kieri said. “I did not want to marry them—”

  “Wise,” she said. “Neither one is right for you. And you sent them away, did you not?”

  “Yes, but not home, since neither wished to return. I sent them to train as Knights of Falk.”

  “And you think one should be with a Kuakgan, and not with elves?”

  “She is Pargunese,” Kieri said. “She wants to live amid forests and breed horses, she says, but mostly she wants not to marry.”

  “There are other ways not to marry than cutting off an arm and grafting a tree onto your shoulder,” the Lady said, her expression grim.

  “What?”

  “Did you not know that is what they do? Every Kuakgan, red blood with green, a tree with a limb once human, and the Kuakgan with an arm once tree. They thrive and die together.”

  “I did not. How—?”

  “We know, because the trees tell us. If some men knew, they would cut down every tree, to kill the Kuakkgannir.” She stalked off. Kieri looked after her; her abrupt changes of mood bothered him the same way her disappearances bothered him. All his experience told him rule required self-control, steadiness of purpose. He glanced around to see Amrothlin also watching the Lady, his expression guarded.

  “Is she all right?” Kieri asked.

  “She is … the Lady,” Amrothlin said. “What were you speaking of?”

  Kieri did not want to talk about tree-shepherds, or even princesses; he went back to Aliam. “I have another good word. You must decide how good.”

  “Yes?”

  “Andressat told me he met Arcolin in Aarenis, and Arcolin had recovered Cal’s sword. He’s sending it to me, to give to you. There should be no more relics of Cal’s ordeal down there.”

  Aliam blinked. “I had almost forgotten. We never found it, and we searched. Where did Arcolin get it?”

  “Andressat didn’t say. Arcolin will tell us, I’m sure. The bad news is that Stammel’s been blinded—I don’t know how, as I’ve had no word from Arcolin since early in the summer.”

  “That’s bad. He was a good man.”

  “He’s still a good man, but … I know Arcolin will take care of him.”

  “Kieri, I want to take your offer—Estil would rather I stayed this side of the mountains, I can tell, and you already have a cohort of mine—but I can’t leave here until we have a roof over our heads and at least beds to sleep on and a table to eat from.”

  “I know. Come when you can. The elves will help; it will not be as long as you think. I must get back—we’ll leave in the morning, unless you need us.”

  “Do you never get tired?” Aliam asked.

  “What did you tell me when I was a boy?” Kieri said. “Tired is a feeling, but duty is a fact, wasn’t that it?”

  “I knew from the moment I saw you, you would be nothing but trouble,” Aliam said, rolling his eyes.

  When Kieri reached Chaya again, more leaves had fallen and frosts had nipped the last roses in his mother’s garden. The comfort of the palace had never seemed more welcoming: hot bath, soft carpets under his bare feet, soft clean clothes to put on. He came down to find a mug of sib steaming on his desk and Garris waiting for him with reports—and questions.

  “It was a daskdraudigs,” Kieri said. “And Aliam’s fine now. The elves are there. I’ll tell you the rest later—what about Andressat?”

  “He rested two days, but would not stay longer. I couldn’t tell if he was angry with you for leaving, or simply impatient to get on his way home. I sent him off with six Squires as escort. He won’t have reached Verrakai’s estate yet.”

  “The Pargunese?”

  “They’re definitely doing something, but we don’t know what. You have letters from Arcolin. Apparently they were held up somewhere.”

  “I’ll read them later,” Kieri said. He took a swallow of sib. “Aliam’s agreed to take command of our defenses, when they’ve rebuilt the house.”

  “Rebuilt—”

  “I said it was a daskdraudigs. The house is mostly gone, the barns entirely.”

  “Holy Falk and Gird!”

  “Yes. It was quite dramatic. Anyway, if the Pargunese are up to something, we’ll have an experienced commander. With luck, they won’t do anything until he gets here.”

  “With luck, they won’t do anything at all,” Garris said. “I should warn you, the Siers are trickling back in for full Council meetings, and they’re all ready to remind you that you promised to marry.”

  “Will they never let up?”

  “Not until you do. You know that. Is it because of Tammarion? Remembering her?”

  “No,” Kieri said. “I haven’t found the right woman.”

  His Siers, the next morning, were as insistent as Garris had warned. He had run off without warning, into danger. The daskdraudigs could have killed him, and they needed an heir if they were to lose a king to rashness.

  Verrakai House, Tsaia

  On her return from the Autumn Court, Dorrin planned to tell Selfer at once that Arcolin wanted that cohort to return to the Company. Instead, she found that the Count of Andressat had arrived the day before, accompanied by two King’s Squires.

  “He’s not best pleased you weren’t here,” her steward murmured. “He’s come from Lyonya, where he went to see the king, and he feels the king brushed him off, sent him here to get rid of him.”

  Andressat, touchy and proud—Dorrin was sure Kieri hadn’t been disrespectful, but she could not imagine why he would h
ave sent Andressat here. Not only had Andressat considered himself Kieri’s superior in birth, he’d had a particular dislike of female soldiers, including Dorrin. Kieri must have had some good reason … but what? Dorrin braced herself for a difficult evening, when she’d hoped for a relaxing one, and asked where he was.

  “He has the suite at the back of the house, my lord. I thought it best—”

  “Excellent,” Dorrin said. “I’ll go at once. Send a servant to say I’m coming, and ask Cook to send up sib and cakes.”

  “My lord Count,” Dorrin said, as she entered. “You are welcome here; my apologies for being from home and unable to greet you myself. My king bade me stay a few days after Autumn Court.” Andressat had been reading, she saw; a litter of scrolls lay on the table.

  “My lady—lord—Duke,” Andressat said. “I—I took no offense; I have no right—”

  He seemed older, much older, than he had when last she saw him, and it had been only those few years.

  “I am but now arrived,” Dorrin said, “and I have called for refreshment before changing for dinner.” A timely knock came on the door; a kitchen maid entered with a tray. “You will join me?” Dorrin asked.

  “Er … yes … thank you.”

  The girl poured sib into wide cups of delicate southern ware and set them on the table. Dorrin settled herself gingerly in the chair across from the one he’d been in. The last two days on the way, the weather had turned cold and wet; she was longing for a soft chair and a warm fire.

  Andressat did not sit until she gestured to him, and then perched on the edge of his chair, obviously nervous. She had never seen him anything but confident, even arrogant; she could not believe that her own rank impressed him, having heard before his opinion of northern titles. Curiosity overcame her fatigue as the room’s warmth and a few swallows of sib eased her bone-deep chill.

  She waited until he, too, had drunk half his cup of sib and nibbled a pastry while she ate two. “My lord Count,” she said then, “I am happy to have you here as my guest, but I do wonder that you have come so far, in this season. Surely it is some matter of importance that brings you here.”

  “Yes, my lady—lord—” He blinked, flushed, looked down. “I’m sorry; I’m not used to your form of address.”

  “No matter,” Dorrin said. “Everyone stumbled over it at first. Tsaia has not had a woman duke for generations.”

  He took another gulp of sib, nearly choked, then put the cup down. “My lord Duke, what I have to say—what I wanted to say to the king—is a grave matter—a dangerous matter—but I must explain—”

  “Go ahead,” Dorrin said.

  “It began when that man Alured—who now calls himself Visla Vaskronin—claimed the duchy of Immer,” Andressat said.

  Dorrin listened with growing interest—and alarm—as Andressat told her about Alured/Vaskronin’s demands: that he be recognized as the legitimate heir of Immer from ancestry in Old Aare, that Andressat send his archives to Cortes Immer for Alured’s scribes to examine.

  “And that I would not,” Andressat said, with some of the spirit she remembered. “My forefathers gathered all they could of old records—it is the greatest library in Aarenis. I would not lose it to that—person.”

  “How did he take your refusal?” Dorrin asked, though she was sure she knew.

  “He threatened me,” Andressat said. “Threatened me, and sent an envoy, with soldiers, to demand that I let his scribes examine every document in my archives. He was sure I had proof of his royal ancestry and was denying him out of my own ambition.” Andressat met Dorrin’s gaze. “I swear to you, Duke Verrakai, that I have no ambition of ruling Aarenis. It is enough for me to rule my own land well, even if …” He paused. Dorrin waited, but he seemed unlikely to continue, his gaze now fixed on his sib.

  “This is certainly enough for me,” Dorrin said, trying for common ground. “Though I had commanded a cohort, I had no idea how much work there is in a domain, even of this size.”

  “Yes,” Andressat said. He sighed; Dorrin wondered if he longed for his much warmer homeland. “What you must know is … in my archives, I did find much of interest. Of interest to Alured, certainly, but also to everyone—everyone in Aarenis and also you folk in the north. I wanted to talk to the king about it, and apologize—”

  “Apologize?”

  “For my past rudeness.” Andressat had flushed now, continuing to stare at the half-empty cup. “I—I always thought our claim to nobility was best, you see. The northern titles mongrel, born of nothing but ambitious pride. That we of Andressat, and the Duke of Fall, were the last and only to have direct descent from those who had ruled in Aare.” He paused again, then gulped and went on. “I was wrong. I treated him—the king—and you yourself as if you were baseborn, persons of no lineage, when it is I who have no claim beyond that of … of convenience.”

  Dorrin stared; he looked up, and she saw his eyes glittering with tears he quickly blinked back.

  “My pardon, my lord,” he said, his voice a little thick. “It is still hard to admit.”

  She felt a rush of compassion for this old man, annoying as he had been before. “My lord Count,” she said, “whatever you think of your lineage, you yourself have served your realm well. If my opinion counts for anything, you deserve your title.”

  “That may be,” he said, “but the fact is that my ancestors who came to Aarenis from Aare were craftsmen, not nobles. The title was given because too few nobles escaped the final disaster to govern the land … Commoners were elevated, and my family, my lord, were one of them. I did not know this until this past summer.” He went on, more fluently now that the worst of his shame had been told, to describe the flood that had caused his father and grandfather to reorder the archives and begin sorting and copying those damaged and how he himself had been trained as a scribe and scholar initially, before he came to rule.

  By then it was dark, and despite the pastries and the fire, Dorrin was both stiff and hungry. She held up a hand when it seemed he was about to embark on another part of his tale.

  “By your leave, my lord, I will go refresh myself before dinner, and after dinner we can resume.”

  He flushed again. “Of course. I’m sorry, my lord, I forget time … and you have journeyed today … perhaps tomorrow?”

  “After dinner will be well enough,” Dorrin said. “I am eager to hear more.”

  Dinner passed quickly; Dorrin and her squires were hungry and talked little. Andressat and the King’s Squires who had accompanied him made their own inroads into the roast meats and other foods. The King’s Squires asked leave to ready themselves for departure the next morning, now that Dorrin was in residence.

  “I have an urgent message for your king,” Dorrin said, “that I thought to send by one of my people—are you allowed to carry messages for others?”

  “Certainly, my lord,” the woman said. “If it will not delay us.”

  “No,” Dorrin said. “My lord Count, if you will excuse me briefly, I will be back with you shortly in the sitting room.” He bowed, and she led the King’s Squires to her office. “I have a letter for the king from his former captain, Jandelir Arcolin, and a sword found in Aarenis, cleansed and blessed by a Captain of Falk, which the letter concerns.”

  She handed over the familiar message-case Arcolin had given her, the same kind they’d used for years in the Company, brown leather stamped with the fox-head and tied with maroon laces. “And here’s the sword.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “That’s a Halveric sword! What was it doing in Aarenis? Halveric Company’s been quartered in Lyonya the last two years.”

  “I know,” Dorrin said. “It’s a family sword; Arcolin thought Kieri—your king—should give it back to the Halverics rather than have Andressat take it, as it closely involved a matter of honor for both the king and the Halveric. Will you do this?”

  “Of course,” the man said. The others nodded.

  “And give the king my heartiest good wishes,�
�� Dorrin said. “I will write him at length, with much that Arcolin told me, but tonight I must hear more from Andressat, and you want to leave early tomorrow, do you not?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then order what you will, in hall and stable, and Falk’s Honor go with you, if you leave before I rise.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” They bowed and withdrew; Dorrin rejoined Andressat in the sitting room, where he had built up the fire.

  He resumed without delay.

  “It was a shock to find out we were not of pure blood,” he said. “I did not want Alured to find out, lest he insist on removing my family from the rule of Andressat. We do not have the resources to resist him for long, should he invade—and yes, I think that a possibility. He is more like Siniava than any of us guessed. He wants to rule the south—all of it.”

  “Surely he doesn’t think he can—” Dorrin began.

  “Indeed he does,” Andressat said. “Aarenis and more than Aarenis. He has heard rumors of a crown—of royal regalia that once belonged in Aare—”

  Dorrin stiffened. “How—what made him think—”

  “Rumors of such came through Valdaire after Midsummer,” Andressat said. “I myself heard nothing of it until later, but apparently Alured’s spies in the north—yes, my lord, that is what I said, in the north—told him of some excitement at court when your king was crowned. I could not determine if this was the sight of the Tsaian crown, or something else. It is widely known that the northern rulers came from Aare to Aarenis, and then went over the mountains.”

  Dorrin felt her tongue cleaving to the roof of her now-dry mouth. Just as she and the king feared: Alured knew of the crown. Alured—ambitious and ruthless Alured—would want it.

  Andressat went on. “He is more dangerous than Siniava … He wants it all: Aarenis, the Eight Kingdoms, and then—by what his scribe told me—he wants to mount an invasion of Old Aare and restore it to glory and himself to its rule.”