Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Of course,” Kieri said. “What shall I do to help?”

  “Let us have a sheet from your bed—”

  “Not the king’s bed,” the steward said. “Let me bring—”

  “From my bed,” Kieri said. “They died for me; they deserve far more than a sheet off my bed.” He went to his bed, pulled back the covers, stripped off the sheets, and carried the bundle to the Seneschal.

  “Half will do for each,” the Seneschal said. “And as their deaths were violent, your sword may divide them.”

  The sword whispered through the sheets Edrin and Lieth held taut, one after another; they helped the Seneschal straighten the bodies, ease them onto the sheets, and carry them to the passage. Kieri came to each, and knelt for a moment with a hand on each head.

  “Falk honor your service, for which you have a king’s thanks.” Then he bent and kissed each forehead. “Fare well in your afterhome. You honor the gods you served.”

  He went with the Seneschal and the Squires into the bathing room, where they laid Joriam in a winding sheet; Kieri felt tears sting his eyes. The old man had been a comfort to so many—sweet, thoughtful, gentle—serving Lyonya’s royal family all his life; he had been the one to recognize Kieri’s sword when Paks arrived with it. To die like this—so violently, so unfairly—it was wrong.

  The Seneschal finished with Joriam’s body after Kieri had given his thanks and farewell blessing. By then the burial guild had arrived. Kieri and the Seneschal stood aside as they lifted Joriam’s body onto a plank and carried it away. The Seneschal glanced around the room, then at the assassin’s body. “And that one?”

  “What do you with murderers’ corpses?”

  The Seneschal gave him a long look. “They were someone’s get and sometimes someone’s parent. We give their bodies back to the taig, but do not raise the bones.”

  “Do that, then, with this one.”

  “You broke his head,” the Seneschal said. “How?”

  “That ewer,” Kieri said. “It was all I could reach as I came out of the tub.”

  “You were in the tub when he—?”

  “Yes,” Kieri said. The aftermath of the day hit him then and a mental image of himself—a naked, wet, redheaded man throwing soap and then charging an armed man with only a ewer for a weapon—almost had him break out into a laugh. He tamed it to a single snort and an internal chuckle. He must have looked ridiculous, as silly as … as the Pargunese king in the stableyard. He had better not, he thought, share that with anyone else.

  When he came out into the passage, all the Squires in the palace were there, watching as the burial guild lifted the bodies of their comrades to carry them away. Some were weeping; some looked grim.

  The guilt he had always felt at the death of any of his soldiers smote him; who was he that others should die because of him?

  Because he was a king? Because he had been a duke? Because—

  Peace, came a voice. Because you honor them and they honor you. And you did not kill them. When you die, see that your death honors me.

  Kieri felt his knees loosen and stiffened them. That was clear enough, though he wasn’t sure which of them it was, Falk or Gird or the High Lord.

  Does it matter? asked a different voice.

  No, it didn’t matter. What mattered were his people and his land.

  His Squires crowded around him as he followed the bodies downstairs. The lower hall was full of people: servants, other Council members, a half-dozen elves. Two other bodies were there, already wrapped.

  “The usual place of initial rest is too small for so many,” the Seneschal said.

  “The dining room?” Kieri asked.

  “No place where food is served,” the Seneschal said. “What about the salle? It has a stone floor, for the washing, and could be consecrated for this use for the time needed.”

  “Take it, then,” Kieri said. He followed with the rest as the burial guild carried the five bodies to the salle; the armsmasters bowed to the Seneschal and formally released the salle for his use.

  Once the bodies were laid ready for the care before burial, Kieri went back to the main palace to see the other assassin.

  The man bound to a chair in Garris’s office wore Halveric uniform, and his skin bore evidence of time in the hot, sun-blazing south. His face seemed familiar. Kieri glanced at Garris. “What have you learned?”

  “He keeps saying he’s really a Halveric soldier and he doesn’t know anything about the other one.”

  “I am a Halveric,” the man said. “I mean, not a Halveric by family, but I’ve been in Halveric Company eleven years.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Kieri said. He hitched a hip onto Garris’s desk and looked into the man’s eyes. The man blinked, as most people did, and unlike the most egregious liars Kieri had known. “But let’s begin. Why didn’t you give your message to a courier at the relay station?”

  “Because there wasn’t a courier at the relay station,” the man said. “Nobody was there. Just horses in the stable. I thought they’d probably already been sent, but Captain Talgan said his message had to get through. So I left my horse, and a note, and took one of the others.”

  “Why did you think others had gone if horses were there?”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “Well … I guess I thought those were the horses they’d left—but they were fresh. Maybe they left enough earlier the horses had rested up—”

  “And maybe you’re lying. What happened at the next relay post? More missing couriers?”

  “No—but they let me have a horse when I told them I had to get through.”

  “You didn’t think to hand it over and go back to your captain?”

  “No, sir—my lord—because I was already too far to be back by when Captain Talgan said, and if I was going to be over my time, I thought it didn’t matter how much—and they said fine, because they were a courier short anyway.”

  That sounded almost reasonable. Kieri tried to think of something to ask that a Pargunese spy couldn’t have learned by lurking near the camp. “Did you come north with Talgan in the summer?”

  “Yes, sir—my lord.”

  “Where was your closest camp to Chaya?”

  The man stared, as if surprised. “Why, sir—my lord—you know—it was just down behind the palace, in the water meadows.”

  “And what did you eat—what were your trail rations?”

  “Trail rations! We didn’t eat trail rations. We had food sent out from the palace. Bread still hot from the oven, roast meat, even some of those funny little pastries with pointy tops—”

  The man must have been with the Halverics, then.

  “What’s Captain Talgan’s nickname among the troops?” Kieri asked. “The one you think he doesn’t know?”

  The man flushed. “It’s … not polite … sir.”

  “I know that. Most nicknames aren’t. Come now, tell me.”

  “You won’t tell him I said it?”

  “No,” Kieri said.

  The man knew the nickname and came out with it, still red in the face. “And it’s only because that time old Sergeant Manka, that’s been retired these five years, saw him in the—”

  “I know,” Kieri said. He sighed. “Beldan, I now believe you are in fact a Halveric soldier, but I am not certain you aren’t also a traitor. Why is your pouch wet?”

  “I told Sir Garris—it was the snow, falling off the trees and landing on the saddle. But the inside’s not wet; I opened it to check before I went to the jacks.”

  “Well, Beldan, we have a problem. You’re a Halveric veteran or someone who knows more about Halveric Company than anyone not in it should. You’ve got plausible answers to my questions. But I lost five men and women this evening to an assassin and was nearly killed myself, so you will understand why I am cautious.”

  “Yes, my lord, but—but can I have some water?”

  “Certainly.” Kieri glanced at Garris, who poured a mug of water. Kieri sniffed it carefully befo
re holding it to Beldan’s lips. The man sipped.

  Sier Halveric came to the door. “Sir King—oh—Beldan!”

  “You know him?” Kieri asked.

  “Of course,” Sier Halveric said. “Aliam uses him as a courier between Halveric Steading and Chaya. What has he done?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” Kieri said. “You can vouch that he’s been with Aliam a long time?”

  “Years,” Sier Halveric said. “And honest.” He beckoned Kieri nearer the door. “But not very smart,” he murmured.

  “Then it’s his misfortune that he arrived the same evening as an assassin,” Kieri said. He stood up. “Release him, Garris.” To Sier Halveric he said, “I grant this man to you as armsman, Sier Halveric. Keep him close with you, if you will, until Aliam’s troops arrive; he can accompany them to the north.”

  “Gladly, Sir King.”

  As Sier Halveric led the man away, Kieri heard him say, “That wasn’t the king—that was Duke Phelan! I’d know the Duke anywhere!”

  Kieri shook his head at Garris’s expression. “It doesn’t matter … if he’d seen me crowned, he wouldn’t have understood. We had a man in my company who called his new sergeant by the first one’s name for years.” He stretched. “And now I’m hungry, and we still have to read that message.”

  Garris pulled it out, sniffed it. “Just water, as he said.” He handed it to Kieri.

  The report was clear enough: Pargunese troops had come across in boats, under cover of darkness, and set fires. Talgan’s troops, rangers, and Royal Archers had fought them back to the river, but more were preparing to come over.

  “The fire seems natural,” Talgan wrote. “But the wind may not be. Prisoners speak of ‘scathefire’ that will burn all to the bare rock, but will not say what it is or when it will be used. In the dawn-light, as I write, I can see boats and fires along the far shore, but not how many soldiers the Pargunese have. One prisoner said the old king was disgraced and only fools followed him, that the weavers’ Lady was with his king—” Talgan had included a sketch of the boats and his best guess at the line of defense, which wavered inland in multiple places.

  “So the worst is yet to come,” Kieri said. More Pargunese would be coming across the river, and his troops had not been able to clear the riverside. At least one courier was missing completely, probably killed by the assassin, who had been ahead of Talgan’s messenger.

  “Our people are holding, at least,” Garris said.

  “I want the Pargunese back in Pargun,” Kieri said. “We can’t just hold—we must push them out.”

  “Sir King, there’s a meal ready—”

  “Good.”

  The Council members looked frightened again. Kieri exerted himself to reassure them: he had not been harmed, he was fine, and though Talgan was undoubtedly facing a difficult night, with more Pargunese coming across the river, the situation was far from hopeless.

  “But if they do break through—and this scathefire, whatever it is, can’t be quenched—”

  “And where is the Lady?” asked another; several nodded.

  Kieri wished he knew the answer to that; she had promised the land would not burn, but where was she?

  Harway, on the Tsaian-Lyonyan border

  A patrol of Girdish yeomen challenged the party from Verrakai Steading before they reached Thornhedge Grange. “There’s trouble in Lyonya,” a yeoman said. “It’s them Pargunese again. They’re not sneaking through our fields this time!”

  “I’m a Lyonyan ranger,” Arian said, showing her blackwood bow. “I had taken word to Verrakai—the new duke—about some Verrakaien the rangers killed awhile back, and now I must get back. What’s the best way?”

  “The border crossing on the road,” the man said. “Anywhere else you’re liable to be killed as a spy.”

  “I need to give Duke Verrakai’s message to the Marshal and the Royal Guard,” Gwenno said. “There’s a message to send to the king—”

  “He’ll have had word,” the man said. “Commander already sent a courier. But that won’t be the only one, I’ll be bound.”

  Harway buzzed like a kicked beehive when they reached it. They passed patrols in the streets as Gwenno led the way; the grange doors were open, and the Marshal stood in the light, giving orders to groups of yeomen. Gwenno paused and gave him Dorrin’s message, then rode on through the town. Torches edged the riverside.

  “I must go on,” Arian said, when Gwenno turned up a side street toward the inn Dorrin had specified.

  “Tonight? But shouldn’t you rest?”

  “I can’t rest now,” Arian said. “The taig would wake me; I need to be in Lyonya, with rangers or—or wherever I’m told to go.”

  “We’ll come with you to the border, then,” Gwenno said, and signaled her troop.

  Arian had no idea what the border crossing was usually like, but this night it was lit with torches, with troops of both kingdoms alert and determined to stop any spies. On the Tsaian side, only Gwenno’s insistence that Arian had been the guest of Duke Verrakai—that Gwenno knew her personally—got her through to the Lyonyans. There, the guards recognized her part-elven blood and the blackwood bow.

  “Yes, yes, you’re one of ours, but why were you in Tsaia?”

  “Ranger business,” Arian said. It had been, in a way.

  “But you’re a King’s Squire, aren’t you? We have a list—”

  “That, too, but this wasn’t Squire business. Where should I go, do you think?”

  “Riverwash. They have a regular courier service from Chaya, and someone there will know where you’re most needed. But watch out for Pargunese on the river road.”

  “Can you spare a change of horse? I’ve ridden this one all day.”

  “Of course. Take your pick.” He waved at the picket line in the wind shadow of a shed.

  Arian moved her gear to a sturdy dark bay with no white markings to show at night, gave her horse a quick rubdown, and put him in the shed. Then she mounted and rode away eastward, letting the taig flow through her. Despite the taig’s disturbance, it was a relief to have that connection back.

  A chill wind blew from the north, stronger than it had been as they rode toward Harway. This close to the disturbance, she could easily tell what it was. Men setting fires in the dry leaves … men sneaking through the woods. She was a few sandglasses’ ride from Riverwash.

  She met one patrol at a little less than half the distance, rangers who knew her name from old times. All they asked was of Tsaia: did the Tsaian king know, would Tsaia come to their aid? Arian told them what little she knew and rode on.

  Suddenly light bloomed in the sky ahead and riverward, first a yellow glow and then white. The north wind strengthened, as if in response. Arian’s skin drew up; the taig’s reaction was instant and violent—pain, terror, anger, all mixed. She legged her horse into a gallop and very soon heard the roar of flames that towered into the night sky. This was not ordinary fire … terrified deer ran toward her along the road; her horse swerved to avoid them.

  She felt first warmth, then heat, and reined in as the road angled north to Riverwash: the entire town was ablaze. What had once been buildings glowed and fell in like coals in a fireplace, white at the center. The wind now blew toward the fire, pulled in by its heat, but then came a stronger blast from the north, and the fire bent over and moved south, toward the road … toward her.

  Her horse squealed, jigged, tried to whirl. Arian held it firm long enough to be sure there was nothing she could do—the fire was coming fast and would cut her off from the east—she could not cross its path before it arrived. She turned back to the west, the horse in a panicky run.

  The taig beat at her, its pain her pain, until she almost felt her own skin crisping in an instant. Grief, too, as she thought of the lives in that town, all gone in a few instants of agony. Singer of worlds, help us. Adyan Namer … she rode between cold and fire, and met the patrol she’d seen before riding cautiously toward her.

  “What is tha
t?”

  “Scathefire,” Arian said. She looked back. The fire was roaring away south; where they stood they could see the trees silhouetted against it. “The king of Pargun—when he came and King Falkieri met him—warned of a fire weapon he called scathefire. It cannot be quenched with water, he said.”

  “What is it?” They sounded as frightened as she felt.

  “I don’t know. Riverwash is gone—the whole town—burned in a few moments, I would guess. I couldn’t—I can’t imagine how to stop it—and the taig—” She was shaking, hardly able to talk.

  “We must go across after it passes,” the patrol leader said. “As soon as it’s cool enough.”

  “But someone must warn Tsaia,” another said. “They must know what this fire can do. Harway’s built of wood as much as Riverwash.”

  “May it blow back upon those who set it,” said another.

  “It is aiming for our king,” Arian said. She imagined the fire as alive, sniffing out the way she and Kieri and the Pargunese king had gone from Riverwash to Chaya.

  “Fires do not aim,” the patrol leader said.

  “This one does,” Arian said. She could feel it through the taig, the eager questing nose of flame, the long sinuous body of it, spreading but slowly to either side … like a daskdraudigs of flame, almost.

  “Almost,” said the man at her side. He was afoot; she had not seen him before, but now saw him more clearly than the darkness should allow. Her mount snorted and backed away so fast, it almost sat on its hocks. A faint odor of hot metal came from him.

  “Who are you?” the patrol leader asked. “A Pargunese spy?” He drew his sword.

  “Pargun is of no interest to me,” the man said. “Nor is your sword a threat. That fire, however, is. Who set that fire?”

  “The Pargunese,” Arian said. “Or some of them. The King of Pargun would not, but his brother would.”

  The man looked at her; behind his eyes, flames danced.

  “You are a fire-setter,” she said. “Your eyes—”

  “But reflect the true fire,” he said. “See?” He moved so the flames were behind him, and his eyes merely glittered in the reflected light.