Time of Daughters II

by Sherwood Smith

  Tanrid’s face broke into a real smile, the first real smile of the day, Connar recognized. “I grew up with Neit,” Tanrid said. “She’s like a sister. Should have been born a boy, if you ask me. Can’t you see her winning every competition?” Tanrid touched his sleeve, where the academy boys sewed their golds.

  “Ma says girls are going to be in the army,” Connar offered.

  “Really? I thought that was rumor, because she started the queen’s training again. Well, it’s a good idea. Very good idea. We could use the likes of Neit up here, captain of a company. She used to captain our ‘enemies’ in our wargames when we were all young, and she won her share.”

  The talk then veered into local affairs, but it was clear that Tanrid had something on his mind. When the bell rang for the watch change, calling them to supper, he said, “Why did you brand those Bar Regren prisoners?”

  “Because I don’t believe they won’t come back,” Connar said. “I told them if they do, they’ll be recognized immediately. We’ve given out orders they can be killed on sight, and get a dozen golds as a reward.”

  Tanrid whistled as he led the way out. “That’s a sizable reward. You can support a family on that at Lindeth. I trust if anyone shows up to claim it, you’ll want to see the body,” he remarked as they crossed to the family dining room off the mess hall.

  Connar frowned, hating to admit he hadn’t thought ahead to enterprising people lying to get the gold. He’d have to demand evidence, if it ever happened.

  There followed a dinner that included far too much talk about weddings and babies, as far as Connar was concerned, but Fala seemed to have such things on her mind. At least it was harmless.

  Afterward, Connar was free to roam the castle as he liked.

  Tarvan, he’d previously found out in casual conversation with Neit, was unsurprisingly Jarend’s chamber runner. The jarl’s suite was not far from the guest chambers. It was easy to watch for his moment, when Tarvan, a tall, slightly stooped man with a thin light brown queue, entered one of the side halls.

  No one else was around, so Connar stepped out from the side hall, and smiled. “Tarvan?”

  Tarvan halted, then laid two fingers to his breast. “Connar-Laef?”

  “I don’t want to keep you. I just have a couple questions. About the past. Maybe you can understand. I’m curious. Everybody gets curious about what happened before.”

  Tarvan’s voice was surprisingly low, and clear, though his long, thin nose would have suggested something high and nasal. “You want to know what I witnessed that day.”

  “Yes.”

  Tarvan smoothed a hand over his thinning hair, his gaze up, then down. “There is little to tell. Mard was training me to be a chamber runner. Like I am now. The commander came in, and said a lot of things, angry things. I don’t recollect any of it now. Most of it is a blur, except for the things I wish I could forget. Like the look on the commander’s face when he killed Evred-Sierlaef, and half cut off his head. I...I was hiding behind the door. Looking in the crack, above the lower hinge. Then he killed old Mard, who was near blind. And then the jarl—he wasn’t the jarl then, of course. Jarend-Jarl and Anred-Harvaldar came in, you understand, and Mathren said he’d kill them and the jarl punched him. Right here.”

  Tarvan touched the back of his head, behind his ear. “The commander went down, and the king—the king now, you understand—took up the sword, all bloody, and stabbed the commander. Then he sent me to get Chief Camerend. And he brought Captain Noth, and Chief Camerend kept me safe while everybody ran around. Then it was over. Except they hauled the old gunvaer down, and made me say what I’d seen before the entire castle.” He blinked slowly, and waited with habitual patience.

  “One punch, eh? That wasn’t just a story.”

  “Just one.” He drew a breath, then, “Is that all, Connar-Laef?”

  “One more question. I take it you were not a royal runner in training?”

  “Oh, no. Garrison. Those royal runner fledges, they had to learn a lot of languages and fast-writing, and the like. I was never good with my letters. But Chief Camerend was very kind to me, I remember that.”

  “He was kind to us boys, too.”

  Tarvan smiled briefly, his eyes crinkling.

  “Thanks for telling me the story,” Connar said, stepped aside, and when Tarvan had vanished around a corner, Connar backed away and ran back down the servants’ stairs. Having gotten what he wanted, he intended to issue orders to his escort to be ready to ride out at first light.

  He had done his best to cut out Tarvan without drawing attention. It wasn’t necessary to hold a secret conversation. If that was even possible, short of locking up the man afterward. It was just that he hated the idea of having to discuss his reasons for delving into the past, a hatred the more violent because of a vague sense of unease, even guilt, for which he blamed Hauth. By forcing that summer conversation on Connar, Hauth had in effect made any thoughts Connar had about the past, or kings, or his birth family, seem like betrayal and treason.

  And yet he hadn’t told anyone.

  Because when Hauth gets dealt with it will be by me, he thought as he reached the ground floor, turned left and right to orient himself, then remembered which way to the stable.

  When he opened the back door, he halted at the sight of half a dozen figures standing motionless in the tiny court between the tack room door and the door to the castle proper. In the flickering torchlight he made out gray hair on the front figure. All of them sizable men, most, but not all, older than he was by many years.

  Time seemed to suspend as the loyal remainder of Nighthawk Company faced their king, who stood there wary and still, outlined against the snowy courtyard. His height, the fine bones of his face, the easy strength in the contours of muscle shaped by the coat—he could be Mathren again, except for the black hair. A Mathren who had faced battle, who had charged straight into the enemy, killing at least a dozen, possibly more.

  This was the king Lanrid should have been.

  The foremost among them, tall, hard-boned, pale-haired, slowly raised his right hand, formed a fist, and struck it against his heart. The teenage boy at his side also struck fist to chest, his wide, unblinking gaze striking cold then heat to shock Connar’s nerves with its intensity.

  Thump, thump, the others followed suit. Then—before anyone could speak, the men melted away into the shadows in all directions, and were gone, leaving Connar stunned: that was the salute to a king.

  He shook off his reaction, crossed into the tack room, and then ran upstairs to where guest Riders were housed. Though his mind was still stuck back in that doorway, he issued his orders, and then found his way back up to the guest suite.

  And another sleepless night, all the more frustrating because what he’d heard that day was nothing new. Yet every time he tried to doze, he saw those men with their fists against their chests.

  Of course they were old Nighthawk Company men, paid for in secret by Mathren robbing the very kingdom he was supposed to protect. Plans knocked down by one blow, because Mathren the Murderer was too arrogant to consider Uncle Jarend a threat.

  The single clang of the hour before the morning watch finally reverberated through the stone. With relief, he gave up trying to sleep and went down to bathe and change.

  When he reached the stable, Cousin Tanrid was there, waiting beside Fish, who held the reins to Connar’s mount.

  As Connar approached, Tanrid met him. “Did you get everything you wanted from Tarvan?” he asked.

  Of course he knew about the conversation. “Yes.”

  “Good. He believes that the family has a right to hear his witness, but for his sake I wanted to tip you a hint that he really hates talking about that. So if Noddy needs to hear it as well, can you share what you heard with him?”

  “If he asks, I will,” Connar promised, and moved toward his horse.

  Tanrid followed and glanced around the courtyard, his expression reflective. “There are a lot of peop
le in the kingdom who think all of us Olavayirs are worthless, eagle or dolphin, no difference. But Uncle Anred has been a good king, all things considered. The more because he wasn’t raised to it. That’s one thing my da keeps repeating.”

  Connar shot him a glance, wondering if this blather was going to lead to that unnerving exhibition outside the stable. But surely those former Nighthawk men would have posted watch.

  Tanrid went on, “Tarvan—the old days—some might remember the old treaty, but as far as Da is concerned, there’s no need for it anymore.”

  The old treaty. That was on his mind?

  “...as for Noddy, he won’t be the type they sing ballads about, but he’ll be good, too. You know him better than anyone. Know he’s got a good heart, and he’s conscientious. Tell him, when I’m jarl and he’s king, nothing will change. No need for any more treaties. I’ll always back him.”

  “I will.” Connar swung himself into the saddle.

  Tanrid stepped back and Connar clucked to the animal, who danced a little. When I’m jarl and he’s king. Yeah, nothing ambiguous about that.

  Connar raised his hand in salute and rode out.

  TEN

  Midnight, in Yvanavayir’s great parade court.

  Torchlight gleamed on the tears streaking Eaglebeak’s face. He stepped forward to do the spell of Disappearance over the jarl, and began in a hoarse, grief-deep voice to sing the Hymn to the Fallen. Everyone joined in, full-throated and impassioned, for the old jarl had been well liked.

  Then villagers, runners, and servants left in silence. As the family stood around the now empty bier, watching the Jarl’s personal effects burn, Pony Yvanavayir was already thinking ahead.

  She had to. She was very sorry Da was gone, but at least it had been peaceful—he just didn’t wake up that morning. He was now beyond worry, leaving her facing a bleak future, all because of that stupid queen, Danet-Gunvaer.

  It was she who had sicced Chelis Cassad onto them, and it was she who had ignored the letter that Pony had worked on for a couple of days, carefully explaining that, as a jarl’s only daughter who had had to command the household in her mother’s place from a young age, she was best suited to marry the heir to a jarlate.

  But two months, three, five, a year had passed without even a return letter, much less notice of an appropriate betrothal. Then years. Maybe that stupid queen was spiteful enough to have listened to gossip. Manther and Eaglebeak had both pointed out how Pony had managed to make herself into a kingdom-wide jest after snatching her own brother’s lover.

  Pony stood between her brothers, staring into the flames as she thought over the past five years, which she’d spent riding the border as scout captain. When she wasn’t riding Yvanavayir’s borders, she worked on her archery, which kept her out of the castle and away from that swanking horseapple Chelis. It was funny, sort of, that she would probably win all the golds for shooting if she went to the royal city again, but she was too old for those stupid games.

  Now it was winter of a new year, and Da was gone. Dry-eyed, she watched the last of Da’s few belongings glow in embers, as Eaglebeak stood beside her, working Da’s battered old shield in his hands. Da had never gained any kind of accolade, but he had been loved by everyone, and the boys wanted to put that old shield in the family’s Hall of Ancestors. All very well—and watch Chelis’s future brats take it down to make space for their stupid academy awards, or something equally inane, Pony thought sourly.

  She swung her head, glaring in the direction of that needle-nosed snot, Chelis Cassad, now truly jarlan instead of merely acting.

  Life, Pony knew, was going to be horrible, stuck in the castle all winter with that obnoxious Cassad interloper changing everything just because she could. It would be months before Pony could take off to ride Yvanavayir’s borders, and not come back except to swap one set of clothes for another. She suspected Chelis would soon go on the attack, and Eaglebeak, though he was now jarl, would decamp rather than defend her against the enemy. Manther, home on leave for New Year’s Week, wouldn’t be any better.

  The embers dulled to ash, and Da’s old runners slowly began to sweep that up, to be carried to the kitchen garden. Those who’d chosen something of Da’s went inside with their keepsake. Pony stood there empty handed. She didn’t want any of his things. She wanted him back, already missing his gravelly voice, his fond smile.

  When the parade court stones were swept bare, and her toes numbed in her boots, she went inside and to bed. Tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. When dawn blued the windows at last, she rose, bathed, and went to breakfast, where she discovered The Enemy lying in wait.

  Chelis said, “Fareas, today we’re shifting all the furnishings out of the jarl suite.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Pony snapped.

  “Fareas is your name. Your brothers use it.”

  “I hate them for it,” Pony snapped back.

  “Pony is a nickname for a ten-year-old,” Chelis said unwisely, but she, too, had had little sleep, with Eaglebeak sobbing and restless beside her all night—the cap to five years of keeping her lips tight while the jarl’s daughter swanked about all winter under her father’s fond eye, as the place got shabbier and shabbier.

  “I don’t care,” Pony snapped, tossing her braids back in that habit of hers that made Chelis’s teeth clench to the aching point. “Da gave it to me.” To her horror, Pony felt tears constricting her throat, fought them back and let the anger loose. “You don’t even understand grief.”

  “I—” Chelis looked away, then back. “I’m not going to talk about who I might have lost. I know everyone deals with grief in their own way. Grieve as you will....” When you become jarlan you must start as you would carry on, her aunt had instructed her.

  Chelis stiffened her spine and firmed her voice. “But tomorrow at dawn, you’re going to take charge of the household linens.”

  Pony stared, aghast. “Me? I hate needlework.”

  “Everybody hates needlework,” Chelis retorted. “But it needs doing. Most of the household quilts are scarcely worth ripping apart for armor stuffing. Your father wouldn’t touch them because your mother brought them from Tlen, I know, but some of those were old when she came here forty-some years ago. Everything in this castle is threadbare, if not falling apart. That is going to change this winter, so it’s done before the riding season begins.”

  “Our linens are fine,” Pony said—though weakly. Her own winter quilt had thin spots that she had to cover with wool scarves now that winter had set in. But she was used to that. Moreover, she would set it aside when she chose, and not because the interloper decided to throw commands around.

  “Yours could use some reinforcing,” Chelis stated. “Before you say you don’t know the stitches, I’ll point out that anybody can learn, and by the way, why is it that a household this size is so short-staffed, without even a steward in charge of linens?”

  She crossed her arms, and when Pony didn’t answer—she’d gotten rid of that self-important old trouble-maker when she was sixteen, the first of a stream of impertinent and argumentative servants—Chelis said, “Exactly.”

  “She was a bonehead,” Pony muttered.

  “Once we finish the jarl suite, we’re tackling rebuilding the bakehouse, which has been put off too many years. If you don’t want to do the linens, then you can do stonework at the bakehouse. But starting tomorrow, everybody is going to work. Moping isn’t going to bring the jarl back.”

  “I’ll do what I want,” Pony declared. “When I want. I ran this household fine from the time I was a child, until you stuck your nose in. And I say, we need a time for proper mourning.”

  Chelis said, “I warned you.”

  “And I warn you.” Pony flipped her braids back. “See how stupid that sounds? Talk about ten-year-olds! What are you going to do, challenge me to a knife fight? Do it,” she added, knowing she would win.

  “No,” Chelis said, eyes narrowed. “There’s too much work, and no time for
either of us to waste recovering from knife wounds.” She got up and walked out.

  Hah, coward, Pony thought, sitting back and reaching for another honey-biscuit—as usual hard as a rock on the outside and doughy inside. She bit into it defiantly.

  The next morning, it was still dark when torchlight flared in Pony’s bedroom, working into her dreams. She opened her eyes, heard the clang of the watch bell in the distance, then turned over to bury her head under her pillow.

  A sudden crash and bang right overhead caused her to nearly catapult from the bed.

  She jerked upright, to discover three of the house runners standing in a row banging biscuit pans together. A fourth, with a grim smile, scraped the edge of a knife on a piece of metal, bringing forth a hideous metallic screech that caused Pony to clap her hands over her ears.

  Chelis appeared in the doorway. “Closer,” she said.

  The runners crowded around the bed, banging away within arm’s reach of Pony’s head.

  Pony tried to lie back, but the runners knelt on her bed, banging away with increased vigor. “All right,” she shouted. “Stop! I’ll get up.”

  Chelis held out a sandglass. “You have this long to get bathed and dressed. If you’re not down at linens by the time the last sand trickles through, Pan and Mlis will come into the baths and scrub you, then dress you.” She indicated the two biggest women in Yvanavayir’s castle.

  Pony didn’t have to look at those obdurate faces to know that they’d do it. She’d made no effort to hide how she despised them both—one a big, awkward stonemason’s brat, the other a mouthy village hire—ever since they quit as her runners after the Ghost Fath fiasco. Though Pony knew she was strong—much stronger than Chelis—she wouldn’t be able to stand against those two.

  After a long, hideous day of sorting through piles and piles of tattered linens, she longed for escape. Manther would soon escape. He had orders to report to the new garrison at Ku Halir. Of course. The boys always got out of every kind of scut work, riding around looking tough in the stupid army.