by Dave Duncan
“Of course my niece is kept very busy with her music lessons.”
“But my time here is so short!” Andor lamented. “Surely a week or two's delay in her musical career would not prejudice her future irreparably? The water caves will take a couple of days' preparation, but tomorrow . . .”
Eventually some of the other ladies decided that he had been monopolized too long, and he was delicately removed to make conversation elsewhere. Inos sighed deeply and smiled down at her neglected embroidery.
Suddenly Kinvale no longer seemed quite so much of a prison. If that stunning young Andor man was going to deliver on a fraction of what he had promised in the way of entertainment, Kinvale was going to be fun. There had been no one in Krasnegar who could even approach him for charm. Or looks. There was an excitement about him that Inos had never met, or even known existed.
She realized that the silence was becoming too expressive. “What a . . . pleasant person.”
“It is nice to see something well done,” Aunt Kade agreed complacently.
Inos wondered what exactly that remark implied. “Perhaps something is going to happen at last!”
“Perhaps, dear.” Aunt Kade held her knitting away from her again and squinted at it. “But it's my job to see that it doesn't.”
2
The moon was a silver boat floating above the sunset as a sodden punt drifted down the river, bearing Inos and Andor . . . and some others.
“You did not scream, Highness.” Andor's eyes twinkled like the first stars wakening in the east. “All the other ladies screamed.”
“Did you wish me to scream, sir?”
“Of course! We brutish men gain savage pleasure from hearing you ladies scream.”
“I must ask my aunt to arrange for me to take screaming lessons.”
“Do so! And what did you think of the water caves?”
“They are ugly and dull. They cannot be viewed without getting soaked to the skin.”
“This is true, ma'am.”
“Which is why my aunt declined to come.”
“And several other aunts.”
“Do you think we can go back there—often?”
He laughed, leaning on his pole, bright eyes and white teeth gleaming in the dusk. “I think the water caves only work once. But there are other possibilities.”
The moon was a giant pumpkin, flooding the midnight world with golden light, as the revelers in the hay wain returned from the berry pickers' ball . . .
The moon was a thin grin in the east as the astonished occupants of Kinvale were awakened at dawn by the strains of a small private orchestra performing on the terrace below their windows, being conducted by Sir Andor in a serenade to honor the birthday of Princess Inosolan . . .
There was no moon as Andor led Inos out on the balcony. The heavy drapes closed behind them, muffling the tuneful sounds of the ballroom. Stars had been poured liberally across the deep black sky, but there was a taste of fall in the wind, and the air was cool on her flushed skin.
Very gently Andor slid his hands around her and turned her to face him. At once her heart began dancing far faster than all those prancing couples they had just left.
“Inos . . .”
He paused. She wondered if he would dare try to kiss her, and how she would react. It was rare indeed for the two of them to have a moment alone, but she sensed that this was for more than idle chat. How long until Aunt Kade tracked them down? Then she noticed the concern in his face.
“Andor?”
He seemed to be having trouble finding words, and that was rare indeed for him. Suddenly he broke away from her and pounded his fist on the balustrade. “I should never have come here!”
“What? But—”
“Inos . . . your Highness, I . . . I told you the first time we met! I said then that I could not stay long. A month, I said. I have been here five weeks.”
How her heart stopped dancing. Indeed it seemed to stop altogether. “You are leaving?”
He spread his palms on the marble and stared out over the dark-shrouded trees. “I must! It tears me to ribbons, but I must leave. I have given my word.”
Happiness cracked, shattered, crashed down in a million shards like breaking ice. And a brainless little princess could find nothing better to say than: “When?”
“Now! At once! My horse is to be ready at midnight. I have stolen every minute I could. I must be in Shaldokan by dawn.”
Inos took several deep breaths and forced herself to consider the matter rationally. She was only a child, after all. Andor was a man of the world—charming, learned, cultivated, experienced . . .
“There is an elderly friend . . .” Andor paused.
“Please! The details do not concern me.”
It had been inevitable. She should have known. She had known, but she had not admitted it to herself. While visiting friends, as the gentry of the Impire so often did, Andor had taken pity on a lonely youngster. He had amused himself by passing the time in her company. It had been light entertainment for him. He probably did not even realize that for her it had been life itself, that he had saved her sanity in the boredom of Kinvale, that he had shown her what life was really for, that if she lived to be a hundred—
“Yes, they do concern you. To this man I owe a great debt. He is frail and he needs make a long journey. I promised to escort him, and the time is come.”
After all, Inos should be grateful that she had enjoyed five whole weeks of such a man's company. The fact that the rest of her life was going to be a barren desert . . .
Andor turned to her again. He took her in his arms again. “But I swear to you, my darling, that I will return! I vow by the Powers and by the Gods that only my solemn word already pledged would drag me from you now.”
Her heart went mad. Darling?
“I have asked you for no commitment.” His voice was taut, his manner intense. “And I ask none now. I beg you only to believe two things—that nothing in this world but honor itself would drag me from your side, and that nothing save death will keep me from returning as fast as I am able.”
“Andor . . . Oh, Andor! There is danger?”
He laughed, as if to dismiss such childish fancies. He paused. Then he sighed. “Yes! There may be danger. I could deceive most women, but you would see through my lies if I denied it. And I owe you the truth. If this task were something—anything at all!—that I could delegate to others, my love, then I would never hesitate. But there is some risk.”
Oh, Andor! Danger? And had he said LOVE?
“I will return! And when I do return, my most adored princess, then I shall kneel and beg you to accept my service—” He pulled her against him, and the whole world seemed to whirl away into nothing. There was only Andor, Andor's so-powerful arms clutching her tighter than she had ever been held, Andor's superb male body hard against her, as she had often dreamed that one day it might be, Andor looking down at her with starlight shining in his big dark eyes—eyes that should be full of joy, and instead were haunted by the agony of parting.
“My service,” he repeated softly. “My life. I came to Kinvale to while away a few days until I must go to aid an old family friend. You lost a brooch; I returned it and lost my heart. Even that first day, I knew. You are like no other woman I have ever met. If you want a knight to slay your foes, then my arm is at your command, and my blood is yours to spill. If you want a stableboy, then I will be your stableboy. Kennelmaster, poet, boatman . . . I will be for you whatsoever you want, your Most Wonderful Highness, Forever. And if, once in a while, you might condescend to smile in my direction, then that would be all the recompense my soul would ever seek.”
She could not answer. It was unbelievable. She had not dared to hope. She raised her lips to be kissed—
Light flamed across the balcony as Aunt Kade pushed aside the drape. “Inos, my dear, they need another couple for the quadrille.”
3
Summer aged gracefully.
As the first
blush of fall was tastefully tinting the leaves at Kinvale, the legions of winter marched in triumph into the hills of Krasnegar. Like a defeated army in retreat, the workers fell back on the shore cottages, there to regroup and make a last defiant stand. The hilltops were white, the skies dark, and even the salt tide pools showed ice in the mornings. Wild-winged geese, wiser than men, fled southward overhead, honking sad warnings.
Now the nights were as long as the days. The causeway could be crossed in darkness only if the moon was full and the clouds scanty, but one tide in two did not give enough work time to clear the backlog. Every year these last two weeks were critical. In some years the moon was helpful; in others it was not. The wagons splashed out onto the causeway as soon as the tide ebbed, and the last crossing was made in the teeth of the flow. Often on the island side they did not waste time climbing to the castle—urgent hands threw out their loads on the dock and sent them back for another. Men and horses worked and rested, the wagons themselves rolled unceasingly, and when the tide was high they brought their cargoes to the landward end of the causeway and went back at once for more. The piles were still growing larger instead of smaller.
To the ephemeral settlement by the shore cottages came the herdboy Rap, driving in the charges the herders had guarded jealously all summer so that they might die now. He arrived just after sunset. Flakes of snow drifted aimless in the air—a warning from the God of Winter, but not yet a serious assault.
Rap fastened the corral gate, threw his tack on the heap, and headed off through the gathering darkness in search of food. He was bone-weary and grubby inside his furs, and he had a gratifying stubble on his lip, but his most urgent problem was hunger.
The shingle beach was an inferno of controlled confusion. Here the excess cattle were being slaughtered and butchered, their flesh salted into casks, bones boiled, hides cleaned and bundled for later curing. Blood and entrails were being collected and made into sausage. It was only here and at this time that fresh meat was freely available to the common folk of Krasnegar, and his mouth watered at the thought of it.
The flickering flames of the driftwood fires danced sideways below the wind, throwing unearthly glows on the high stacks of hides and peat and hay. Curls of snowflakes swirled over the hard dark ground, seeking sheltered places in the shadows to make small drifts. The wind brought smoke—tainted first with delicious cooking odors and then with the unbearable stench of the abbatoir. It brought the sound of cattle bellowing in the corrals and the rush of waves on the shingle. Men and woman hurried by, swathed in the anonymity of fur, stooped and huddled against the cold like bulky misshapen bears.
As he picked his way between the grotesque mountains of produce, Rap wondered how many wagonloads they represented. He wondered also how many days were left before the road would close. But those were Foronod's problems, not his. The king's factor must be a literate man, so however Rap might serve the crown of Krasnegar in his coming manhood, it would not be in the post of factor. He found the grub line and joined on the end, noting that most of the men and women there looked just as listless and filthy as he did.
“Hi, Rap! You've grown!” the woman in front of him said.
Her name was Ufio, Verantor's wife, and she was pretty. Rap grinned and said he was sorry, he hadn't meant to, and how was the baby. It seemed weeks since he had even seen a woman, let alone had a chance to talk with one.
Men he knew arrived and exchanged greetings; old friends, people he had not seen in months. They told him he had grown.
The line grew shorter before him, longer behind. He shivered and he shifted from one aching leg to the other. He pondered what task he might be given next. He was very much in between now: too old for the best of the kids' jobs, not old enough to be trusted with men's. Whatever it was, he would do his best. That had been another of his mother's principles.
Then he was trudging off over the shingle bearing a mug of something hot and a platter heaped with steaming beef. Seeking shelter from the cold, he edged into one of the cottages. It was packed like a fish barrel. The single bench was crammed with people, and the floor also was covered with bodies, eating or talking or snoring. The air was as thick as whale oil, reeking of men and food, but at least he was out of the wind. One lamp guttered on a littered table in the center. He found a space, sank down on the ground, and prepared to gorge.
“You've grown!” a man behind him said.
Rap peered, shifting his head to let light fall on the face.
“Lin? You've got a new voice!”
“About time, too!” Lin spoke with deep satisfaction.
“How's the arm?” Rap asked, with his mouth full.
Lin looked down at his arm in surprise, as if he had already forgotten his summer accident. “Fine.”
Rap gestured with his head toward the door. “The work?” he mumbled, still eating.
Lin shrugged. “They say it'll be all right if the weather holds.” At sunset the sky to the north had been blacker than the castle walls, but neither of them mentioned that. A wagon rumbled by outside, making the dirt floor throb.
“What's the news?” Rap asked. “I've been stuck up in the hills like a boulder all summer.”
“Not much,” Lin squeaked. He scowled at Rap's chuckle and managed to find his lower register again. He listed a few births and marriages and deaths. “They say . .” His voice sank to a husky whisper. “They say the king is not well.”
Rap frowned and chewed at a rib and wondered about Inos, far away in Kinvale. She would not know, of course, so she would not be worried. But what happened if the king died when she was not here to succeed him? The thought of young Inos suddenly being elevated to queen was staggering. Still, being unwell did not necessarily lead to dying.
Then, feeling bearish, as if he would never need to eat again and could cheerfully sleep from now until spring, Rap added his platter and tankard to a nearby pile. He wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand. Lin had found room to stretch out and was already into the droopy-eyelid stage. Probably he ought to do the same, Rap thought. There would be work enough in the morning and all the others in the cottage had been here longer than he had, so they should be called first.
A tall man stooped through the door and stood for a moment. He pushed back his hood and silence fell at the sight of the silver hair. His face was gaunt and pale as driftwood, with blue shadows under the eyes and a white stubble that was almost a beard—the factor. From the way he stood, he might have been inspecting his workers, or perhaps he was letting the troops inspect him, their leader. He was their symbol of defiance against the coming onslaught, his obvious exhaustion both a challenge and a comfort.
All eyes not closed by sleep fastened on his.
“Any wagon drivers in here?” Foronod demanded.
Rap scrambled to his feet as a voice from across the room said, “Yes, sir.”
It was Ollo, and he was the best. Rap was already sitting down again as Foronod nodded to Ollo, but he did acknowledge Rap with a faint smile that probably meant next year. The two men departed and the cottage sank back into weary apathy again.
“He said drivers, not sailors,” Lin muttered sleepily.
“Was it you who started that garbage?”
“No, it was you.” Lin rolled over and put his head on one arm.
Pity about Ollo . . . Rap very much wanted to drive a wagon again. Once was not enough. He could hardly sit at the drivers' table when he'd only run a team once, and never up the hill, only down.
The bodies around him had shifted and penned him in. He had no room to stretch out. He was too weary to go look for somewhere else. He leaned his arms on his knees and yawned. They were not going to start breaking in new drivers at this point in the year, not in the final sprint.
His head dropped forward and jerked him awake again. It was good to have more company—he had grown very tired of the same few herder faces. He wondered what Inos was doing. He told himself not to be foolish. He thought of the castle and t
he stablehands' quarters and the men and boys and girls he would meet again. Only one would be missing.
His head fell over once more, waking him again. He would have to find somewhere to stretch out . . . unless he could lie on his side and stay curled up . . .
Someone shook his shoulder. “Rap? You're wanted.”
He sat up, confused and muzzy, uncertain where he was, then scrambled to his feet and lumbered after his guide, stumbling over bodies to the door. The air outside hit him like a bucketful of ice water; he gasped and pulled up his hood. The world was filled with streaming snow, a yellow glare in the light from the cottage. He hurried into the darkness after a rapidly disappearing back. The snow settled in his eyes and on his eyelashes and began plastering his parka.
He was led to a group planted around one of the fires, which was shooting flashes of light between their legs. The circle opened to admit him and he looked around the humped, anonymous figures, most holding hands out toward the blaze. A cauldron bubbled there, and steamed. Shivering and blinking, Rap recognized the tall Foronod at the far side and waited to hear why he was needed.
“Rap?” The factor was staring at him. They all were. “Could you follow the trail in this? On a horse?”
Rap turned and looked out into the night—nothing! Nothing at all. The snow had turned the night black, not white. He'd seen guiding done in other years—men with lanterns leading a wagon—but tonight a lantern would show nothing but endless snow rushing past. The air was solid with it, streaming insanely southward. Without a lantern there was nothing to be seen at all. Nothing!
Scared now, he turned back to face Foronod. “On foot, maybe.”
Foronod shook his head. “Too late. Tide's coming.”
So that was it? Rap wanted to be a driver, or a man-at-arms. They wanted a sorcerer, a seer. A freak. A damnable freak! He'd pulled that fool stunt with the wagon, and now they thought he could work miracles. Once could be denied. Twice would be proof. And what they were asking him to do was much more than driving through water. In this weather a man would barely see the ground from horseback. His mother, they thought, had been a seer, so he must be. He opened his mouth to say “Why me?” and what he said was “Why?”
