Arian tried. “How will that help? I thought knowing more about him—”
“The problem is not Kieri,” the Duke said. “He did nothing dishonorable in loving you, did he?”
“No.”
“Nor, by your words, had you done anything wrong in loving him. The Lady accused you, but were you guilty of anything she accused?”
“No …”
“If the Lady’s duty includes ministering to the taig, is it not she who should refrain from anger, put aside her own feelings for the health of the taig? It cannot be your duty alone.”
“She’s—she’s the queen …”
“And what did we learn in Falk’s Hall? High rank never excuses wrong behavior.”
“No … of course … but …”
“Kieri is the king, her co-ruler: how has she performed her own duties, this past half-year?”
Arian felt a deep reluctance to reveal what she knew about that, but the Duke’s dark gaze insisted. “The king has not been pleased,” she admitted. “She has not come when he asked, when he wanted her counsel and aid. And yet other times she has come, as she did in that battle before he even arrived.”
“Were you there?”
“No, my lord.”
The Duke nodded. “I was. I saw her; I heard her. A being of great beauty and power—and yet, Arian, not flawless. She came late, and many died because she had not come earlier. Though we needed that help, she is not someone I would depend on. And now she’s shown herself unreliable when the king needed her help, and hostile to you—creating a problem for the taig. If this were anyone else, what would you think? Imagine if it were another Squire or one of your Siers.”
“It would be … wrong. Very wrong.” Arian felt as if she had one foot hovering over a precipice.
“She seems inviolate to you because you are half-elven, I’ll warrant,” the Duke said. “Perhaps she has special power over you … elven mageries to cloud your mind? It is said the elves can maze humans with their glamours—can they maze one another?”
“I … I am not sure …” It was hard to think, hard even to hear what the Duke said. Could the Lady have cast a glamour on her? Or on the taig? Was that why it was closed to her in Lyonya but open here?
“If it was the Lady’s anger that disturbed the taig—and if you and Kieri had done nothing wrong in loving each other, a love the taig recognized—then who is really responsible for the taig’s distress?” Before Arian could answer, the Duke had gone on. “Remember what we were taught: though others thought Falk dishonored by the work he had to do, the gods did not agree. Your honor is your own: the Lady’s honor is her own. She chose anger.”
“You are saying it is her fault,” Arian said.
“I am not part-elf,” the Duke said. “So I have no loyalty of blood. I neither like nor dislike elves, except as they show themselves to me. Those I have met have been no more perfect than humans. The Lady, I will venture, may be mistaken, and moved by her own desires rather than wisdom.”
Arian’s father had hinted at this, but she had not believed him … could not, with what she now discerned in her own mind. As if a physical veil were ripped and blown away on a clean wind, Arian’s mind cleared. “She put an enchantment on me,” she said. “She locked my taig-sense—she wanted me to think it was my doing.”
“Do you think she also enchanted Kieri?”
“I do not know,” Arian said. “But he was angry with her—he did not act as if he believed her.” Joy rose in her heart, along with shame that she had been fooled. If indeed the taig had not withdrawn from her—if it had been the Lady’s doing—she could return, and pray that Kieri would understand.
“Will you return?” the Duke asked.
“Of course,” Arian said.
“And if the Lady lays another enchantment on you? Because I think she will try. Have you the strength to hold her off?”
The joy faded. “I … I do not know.”
“Do not go into battle without a plan,” the Duke said. “Even though such plans are never perfect, it is better to have one. Tell me, how much experience have you had in battles?”
“Little,” Arian said. “A few skirmishes with poachers, a daskdraudigs or two.”
The Duke shook her head. “Forgive me for presumption, as I am younger in years than you—though not much—but I have experience you might find useful. Let’s start again: call me Dorrin, Arian, and we will be sword-sisters, two Knights of Falk on campaign, shall we?”
“I … yes, my lord—Dorrin; I would be glad of your advice.”
“As I see it, this is your situation. You and your king want to marry; his co-ruler opposes it for some reason—do you know the reason?”
“She doesn’t like my father,” Arian said. “She says he’s disobedient to her and has fathered too many half-elf children.”
The Duke—no, Dorrin, Arian thought—snorted. “That’s not reason enough to oppose your marriage. Any intelligent being—let alone an immortal of such power—would know that. Either she has other reasons she has not told you, or … or something is wrong with her. Since she has been a problem for your king even before, you and Kieri must find out what it is. That’s one goal.” She held up one finger. “Then there’s Pargun.” She held up another. “If there’s an invasion, how many troops has Kieri? The Pargunese? Do you know—does he know—whether the Pargunese king is still alive? And what are the elven resources?”
Arian answered as best she could as the questions went on and on. She had learned much from Kieri—all the Squires had—but she had also spent much time on the road, carrying messages, or with the princesses; she had only begun to learn how complex war and politics could be.
“I feel like a child,” Arian said when Dorrin sat back and called for more sib. “Ignorant—”
“We know different things,” Dorrin said. “I know nothing of your taig, or your elven relatives. When I was at the Hall, the part-elves would hardly speak to me. A foreigner, from a hated family …”
“Magelords.”
“Yes. The kind of magelords who caused the Girdish Revolt with their cruelty.” Dorrin gave her a lopsided grin. “But you, Arian … you are more like Tamar than I first thought. You think like her when you have the facts. And there are no cruel shadows in your past.”
Arian thought about that. Her mother, strict though she had been, was not unkind, nor her elven father until—as she grew older—he went back into the elvenhome, emerging only rarely. “Like what happened to Kieri—the king,” she said. “His captivity.”
“That, and what happened to me, in this very house,” Dorrin said. “You have none of that in you. Though I have no elven blood, and thus no taig-sense, I can sense old evil in humans well enough. Tammarion, like you, was all light, without shadows—Kieri had enough shadows for both. You will be good for him.”
“If—”
Dorrin made a sound close to a growl. “Do not fall back into that, Arian. You want to be Kieri’s queen—well, then, act like one.”
“I would like to do something for you, Dorrin,” Arian said. “No need,” Dorrin began, but Arian held up her hand. “You are a magelord; you are sensitive to good and evil in people. I believe you do have taig-sense or could develop it.”
Dorrin looked as if she wanted to ask why, but instead said, “Do any pure humans have taig-sense?”
“Yes. And it is not just about trees; there is the water—”
“Water?” Now Dorrin looked a little frightened.
“All that live need water; to us springs are sacred. Taig-sense lets you find water and know if it is good.”
“Magelords had water magery,” Dorrin said. “When I first came here—”
“What?”
“There was a cursed well. I … the gods helped me take the curse off, and water came.”
Arian waited, but Dorrin did not say more. “Let me show you,” Arian said finally.
For a moment, Arian thought Dorrin would refuse, then she shrugged and push
ed back her chair. “If you can do it and Kieri can do it, I suppose I can at least try,” she said.
“We need to go outside,” Arian said.
“At night? In this cold?” But Dorrin kept moving. “We’ll go through the house to the garden,” she said. “I want a wall to break this wind.” She picked up a candle lantern on the way, and led Arian down a long straight passage that turned suddenly, went down three steps, then led to a door Arian thought might be under her own bedroom windows. “Here we go,” Dorrin said. She pushed the door open and went out, waiting for Arian and then pulling the door closed.
Across the garden, in the lee of the wall, the wind bit less. Dorrin put the candle lantern on the ground.
“Now what?” she said.
Arian extended her own taig-sense, feeling for the tree with the strongest flavor of life. An apple tree, the oldest in the little orchard, gnarled but unafraid and still looking toward its next flowering. “Here,” she said, laying her hand on one of the limbs. “Put your hand here, next to mine.” Dorrin did so. “Do you feel the life in the tree at all?”
“I can tell it’s alive,” Dorrin said. “It feels different than a dead limb. Is that all it is?”
“No,” Arian said. “Only the beginning. Now feel down the trunk, to the roots … there in the ground, the roots spread away into the soil … they are as alive as the tree. Can you feel them?” As she spoke, the taig spoke clearly to her, tree to tree all the way back to Lyonya. She pushed that aside for the moment.
“Something,” Dorrin said. “I’m not sure … it’s like a thread of … of light or warmth or something …”
“Follow it,” Arian said. “There will be a spreading again; that is another tree.”
“It feels—I can’t say how it feels—oh!” Dorrin pulled her hand away.
“What?” Arian felt the tree’s reaction, as sudden as Dorrin’s.
“Something touched me!”
“Put your hand back,” Arian said. “The taig wants to meet you.”
Dorrin put her hand down and for a long moment was silent, still. Arian felt the taig reach again, and this time Dorrin did not pull away.
“It’s all alive,” Dorrin said. Her hand trembled. “All of it—I can feel it—”
“Can you feel anything of its mood?”
“Mood?”
“The taig is tender,” Arian said, reciting her first lessons. “Like the freshest petal on a plum blossom. That is why it cannot be healthy around those who dwell in anger or hatred.”
“How did it ever survive here?” Dorrin asked. “I would think my family’s habits would’ve destroyed it.”
“They needed this garden for food,” Arian said. “They must have had a gardener who worked here at peace, as much as was allowed. They had to, for the trees to grow.”
“Is the taig only about trees?” Dorrin asked.
“No,” Arian said. “The taig is the life of all things that do not depend on cultivation. Trees, because they live longest, form the connection, year to year. The little things, that die back, partake of the taig while alive, but the trees persist.” She wanted to say more, but Dorrin stood up just then, and pulled her hand back.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I felt it, I’m fairly sure, but I’m also tired and cold … it happens as we get older; I’m sure you could stay out here another turn of the glass.”
“Then let’s go in,” Arian said. She gave the tree a gentle caress, and they went back inside. It felt almost too warm and stuffy to Arian, but Dorrin sighed with relief.
“I miss Aarenis,” she said. “Others complained, but at least I was never cold down there.” Then she laughed. “You’d think I’d just come from Old Aare’s sand mountains. Tell me more about what I can do with this taig-sense.”
“There are places in your domain,” Arian said, “where the taig was sore wounded. I passed by some—deformed trees, barren ground. Using the taig-sense, you can find them.”
“What can I do then?” Dorrin asked.
“Love them,” Arian said. “Though that may sound too simple.”
“No,” Dorrin said. “I know better than that.” She asked nothing more about the taig, however, and Arian said nothing more about Kieri. Instead, they talked of the Pargunese, Dorrin asking the questions she thought her king would ask. Arian answered as best she could. Soon Dorrin, yawning, suggested bed, and Arian went up to her room already thinking how soon she could return to Lyonya … to Chaya. The thought of the Lady’s anger daunted her briefly—and what if she were bespelled again?—but even indoors she could feel the taig … weaker here, where it had been wounded and not nurtured, but connecting, root to root, with the taig she knew, that knew her. It called her, wanted her. She fell asleep easily, only to wake in the dark of night.
Taig—danger—a call almost panicky, as strong as she had ever felt. She reached out to the apple tree in the garden below, felt it strain to carry a message so far to one it barely knew, and soothed it. I am here. I understand. Thank you. Rest now. The tree relaxed into its winter doze, but she could not sleep, not without knowing what was wrong. Kieri? Something else?
Morning brought snow, fat flakes out of the sky with only a little wind. Arian startled the servant who was bringing up her clean clothes when she opened her door to carry her pack downstairs.
“You’re not leaving, lady? Not so early? My lord will want to breakfast with you, at the least. And I have your things—”
“Thank you,” Arian said. “When will breakfast be? I have far to go, and must start early—”
“Not long,” the servant said. “My lord breaks fast early, and Cook’s at work. Let me pack this for you—” She reached for Arian’s pack.
“Well, then, if you’ll bring it down when you’re done, I’ll just go see about my mount.”
Downstairs, she heard voices in the kitchen. Dorrin had said the kitchen opened to the stableyard; Arian looked in. Cook—no doubt about which of the cooks working there bore the title—braced meaty fists in the pile of dough she was kneading and gave her a challenging stare.
“You’re that ranger, I’ll be bound. It’s not ready yet—”
“Dorrin—my lord Duke—said this was the short way to the stableyard,” Arian said. “I want to see my horse.”
“Ah. Yes, it is. That side of the table, please, and out that door—” Cook pointed with her elbow and went back to kneading. Arian edged around the opposite side of the table, and out the door she found snow falling more heavily, covering the pave stones of the stableyard. Arian made her way across to where horses were stamping and whinnying for morning hay.
She found Gwenno and several of the militia inside, feeding and watering the horses, including her own. “I gave him only hay,” Gwenno said. “I didn’t know if you’d be leaving today or not, and—”
“Good thoughts, Squire Gwenno,” Arian said. “But yes, I’m leaving; he should have a bait of grain. I hope he behaved while you groomed. He’s somewhat ticklish—”
“About that off hind. I noticed,” Gwenno said. “But he stood at a word. He’s a bit stiff in the back, too.”
“I came with only one mount,” Arian said. “Two would have been better, but—” She shook her head. “Thank you for grooming him,” she said, laying a hand on the horse’s haunch.
“It was nothing,” Gwenno said, flushing. “I like horses. All the Marrakai do.”
“Will you breakfast with us?”
“No, lady. I am on duty; I will breakfast with my squad.” She looked down the stable aisle at the men. “My lord Duke says it is always good to see what the troops are eating and let them know you can eat the same.”
“That’s true,” Arian said. “Good day to you, then. I don’t know if I’ll see you again before I leave, and if not, thank you for all your courtesy, both in the woods and on the way. Should you visit Lyonya, I will be pleased to greet you.”
“Thank you!” Gwenno said. “Will you want your horse saddled? I can do that—”
She made her way back across the stableyard. The snow would fall heavily for another glass or two, she thought, but then end … she should be able to make good progress. Inside, she found the kitchen crowded with children—the last thing she expected—all lined up along the table with cloths tied around their necks, Cook supervising as they kneaded little lumps of dough. Arian edged past them; Cook gave her a nod, and paused long enough to say, “Small dining room. My lord’s down now.”
The small dining room had a fire lit and a great covered tureen that smelled of porridge in the middle of the table. Dorrin looked up as Arian came in. Today she was dressed in dark woolen trousers, a gray woolen shirt, and a well-worn leather doublet, marked with obvious signs of a sword and dagger. “Your horse all right?” She pointed to a place set with plate, bowl, and eating utensils.
“Your squire Gwenno had already groomed him; he was eating hay. I must leave—”
“In this snow? Surely you can wait a day—I judge it will end later but be deep in places.”
“I’m used to winter travel,” Arian said. “The taig woke me; there’s something wrong in Lyonya.” She uncovered the tureen and served Dorrin a bowl of porridge, then one for herself. “Your cook is—”
“A tyrant in the kitchen. I know. Are the children in there yet?”
“Yes. I think she’s teaching them to make bread.”
“We all think—their tutor and I and the Marshal-General of Gird—that learning practical, useful things will be good for these children. I do not want to dwell on the life they had before. I’m trying to make it different in every way. How did they seem?”
“Energetic. Busy. I did see one of them throw a lump of frozen mud at another yesterday afternoon, from my window.”
Dorrin shrugged. “We can’t make them adult in a day—or even in a year, I suspect. A little mischief—it’s much less than it was—doesn’t worry me as much as cringing fear or sullenness. That’s disappeared since about the Autumn Evener. We keep them busy, active, and learning. If you can believe it, there were eight-winters children who had never learned to read. Not even started.”
Kings of the North Page 45
