Not even Selenay was proof against their sheer exuberance at being here, a place that they seemed to consider an earthly paradise, and before long she had "adopted" a half dozen (or they adopted her), making them her pages and promising that they would be allowed to join her Royal Household in that capacity once they all reached Haven. Nor was she the only one; every wagon going north seemed to hold a handful of children going to a new home. Fighters, teamsters, Heralds—servants and highborn—everyone who could take in two, three, or four children did so.
"I never would have believed it, no matter who had told me, if anyone had claimed that bringing these children here was the best thing we could have done," Selenay told him on the third afternoon of the return, watching a child dash away with a message to be given to the next dispatch rider going out of the camp. Her eyes were still shadowed with sorrow, but her lips curved in a faint, fond smile. "I thought that it was something that had to be done, but truth to tell, I was dreading the mess they'd make for us."
They'd taken down the black felt linings for the tents, and the painted canvas glowed with afternoon light. That, too, was a mixed blessing. More light raised the spirit a little—but the black felt had gone for use as shrouds....
"And I," he agreed. "Most unnaturally helpful, they seem."
She had to smile at that, just a little. "You don't see them at their worst. They're still children, they still fight, and get into things they shouldn't and have tantrums. But for all of that, I'm afraid that in years to come, they're going to be held up as the good examples that every naughty child in Valdemar should behave like."
"Or perhaps, as children being, a year from now and they will no better nor worse than others become," Alberich suggested.
She flicked a fly away with the feather end of her quill. "Perhaps." She put pen to paper, and signed another order. "Who knows? I'm no ForeSeer."
"And I—See not that far, when I See at all," he admitted ruefully. If I had been, could I have changed any of this? Or was it all too big for any one man to change?
"Speaking of the children, I've given some thought to what to do with them, the ones that haven't managed to get themselves adopted already, that is," she said, looking up at him. "And I wanted to ask you what you think."
"Keeping them to their own—ah—'families,' you are?" he asked, a little anxiously, because he had seen, just as Laika had told him, how they sorted themselves out into their own little "families," and stayed together. It had been the smallest of those groups of two, three, or four children that were the ones that found homes first.
"Of course," she replied. "It doesn't take an Empath to realize we shouldn't tear apart what few bonds they have! But that's where the problem lies, you see; there aren't too many families or even childless couples prepared to take in six or a dozen children at once, much less ones that don't even speak our language. So my first thought was to—well—send them to school." She folded both hands over the papers on her little desk and looked anxiously at him to see what his reply would be.
He nodded; that made perfect sense. "Like—the Academy?" he hazarded.
She nodded. "Or the Collegia. Oh, obviously, they can't actually go to the Collegia, we haven't nearly enough room for them, but something like the Collegia. And there are a lot of Valdemaran orphans to deal with, too—though those are having to go to the Houses of Healing, I'm afraid; they need Mind-Healers right now, not schooling...."
Her face darkened for a moment, but she took a deep breath and went on. "So I've written to all of the major temples, the ones with both day- and boarding-schools, and asked if they would take in some of the 'families' for a year, teach them Valdemaran and some basic reading and writing, until I've got these orphan collegia built." She waited for his response. He pondered what she had told him. "Your project, this is?"
She nodded. "If I have to," she said, with some of the same mulish stubbornness of her father, "I'll pay for it out of my own household budget—"
He raised an eyebrow. "Doubt do I, with the current mood of the Council, you will have to."
And now she had the good grace to blush. "Then better to push it through now than wait," she said, raising her chin. "Given that the booty from the Tedrels has furnished the means to restore all the damage they did down here, there isn't a great deal for the Council to complain about."
That was certainly true. Laika had been correct about that, as well.
"So build housing for these children—but homes?" he prompted.
"I'm going to look for childless couples, and ask them to serve as surrogate parents," she said, warming to her subject. "More than one couple, of course, for each house! It will probably take a year to get that all sorted out, find couples that like each other enough to share that kind of responsibility, get the houses built. But then we can keep them all together, we can probably even put Valdemaran children in with them—"
"That," he interjected, "a most good idea is. Help each other, they can. And good it would be, for Valdemaran children to know, Tedrel children are no different than they."
She sighed deeply. "I was hoping you would say that. Then it's settled; I'll put it up to the Council, first thing. Maybe they won't think it's as important as some of their other business, but I do."
So the "prophecy" is going to come true after all, that the children of the Tedrels were going to have real homes, though they would share "mothers and fathers." Once again, he wondered about that mysterious child called Kantis; since arriving back in camp, he'd been too busy to look any further for him.
And by now, he could begone.
"Well, this will be the last one of these that I sign here," Selenay said, signing the last of the papers waiting for her signature and seal, and putting it in the pile of completed work. She closed her eyes for a moment, and it cost him to see how worn and tired she looked. "I won't miss this place."
"Nor I." He could not wait to be gone, truth to tell. If this had been Karse, rather than Valdemar, the aftermath would have been left for the locals to clean up. But it wasn't. So now there was a neat cemetery with rows of wooden markers out there where the churned-up ground had been—and a pit full of ashes where everything that wasn't Valdemaran had been disposed of. There had been too many burials for single ceremonies; each day at sunset had ended with a mass ceremony at which the names of the interred fallen for that day had been read. He had come to hate sunset, as each sunset brought fresh pain or the renewal of old, as names of those he hadn't known were gone, and those he had known were dead, were read out. He woke each morning, it seemed, with the scent of death in his nostrils, and went to sleep at night with a heart too heavy for tears.
Only Sendar and a few of the highborn were going north to find burial. It was too bad, but there were not many who could afford the expense to bring their loved ones home—and the horror of transporting that many bodies, stacked in the beds of wagons like so much cargo—and in the heat of summer—did not bear thinking about. There wasn't a teamster in the country who could be induced to use his wagon and team for that. But that was always the case in war....
The highborn had already been taken north in their expensive, sealed coffins, by the family retainers, in black-felt-draped wagons bedecked with family crests. Only the King was left, to make his final journey in the company of his daughter and those who had known him best.
It would be an honor guard, and it was an honor to be included in it. And here was the one factor that leavened, just a little, the sadness of the journey for Alberich. No one, not one person, had objected to his presence at Selenay's side. Talamir had already been sent north with the wounded, and there was no Queen's Own to ride with her. But she wouldn't need the Queen's Own on the journey, only bodyguards. The Council had gone on ahead, and now that the most urgent needs had been answered, all decisions were being held until Selenay reached Haven. So when it came down to it, Selenay only needed her bodyguards, not Alberich.
Yet no one said a word when she posted the final list
of who was to accompany her, and chief on the list was "Herald Alberich, acting Queen's Own."
"Are we on schedule?" she asked, packing up her writing case with greater care than the simple task warranted.
"Ahead, a little," he told her. "In readiness, all will be, for leaving at dawn."
She closed and locked the case, then sighed. "I suppose I'll be expected to make a speech."
"Yes." He did not elaborate on that; he felt horribly sorry for her, but it was her duty, and she knew it. But there was another aspect to this journey of grief that he didn't think she ad considered. Not only the army mourned its King, but the country. "It is wondered, Majesty, if pausing you will be at each village?" They'd left it to him to ask that delicate question, that and any others that might come up. He was acting Queen's Own, after all; delicate questions, it seemed, were a art of the job.
"At each village?" she asked, looking blank.
"A speech to make?" he elaborated.
She frowned, and looked as if she had suddenly developed headache. "Oh, gods. I don't want to... but people are going to want to pay their respects, aren't they? But each time we stop, it's just going to make this whole thing drag out longer, and—" The frown turned into a look of despair, and he sensed that if he told her she should make all those stops, she'd do it, but it might break her.
He racked his brain for an answer, and finally thought he had a compromise. "Majesty—perhaps not a stop, and not a speech. But—spectacle. Something for memory and showing honor. A Herald sent ahead to warn each place that we come, then... drop pace to a slow walk? With—ah—muffled drums? Lowered banners? Through each place's center, though a detour we make? No speech, but—" he sought for the word, desperately, "—on your part, to be the icon of grief? You need speak not, only mourn, publicly—"
She looked as if he had taken a huge burden off of her shoulders. "The very thing—would you go see to it for me, get it all organized?"
She must be near the breaking point, or she wouldn't delegate that to me. "At once, Majesty," he promised. "Please—be eating would you? Little have you had since morning."
That got a thin ghost of a smile from her. "Except for the accent, you sound like Talamir. Or my old nurse. All right, Nanny Alberich, I'll go get something to eat, and I promise I'll get some sleep, too. Maybe I'll have Crathach give me something to make me sleep, and go to bed early."
"That, most wise would be," he said. "And eat you must. Too thin, you are. How are you to get a husband, so thin you are?"
She stared at him for a moment in utter silence as he kept his face completely expressionless. Then, weakly, she began to laugh.
He allowed himself a smile.
She wiped away a tear, but he could see that some of the lines of grief and worry around her eyes had eased. "And they say you have no sense of humor," she said.
"Nor do I. All know this," he assured her. "Go now, and something impossible demand of the cooks."
"Impossible?" That caught her off guard. "Why?"
"First, that a reason they will have, at last to complain. Cooks must complain; in their nature, it is. Second, that injured their pride has been, that you have asked for nothing. Their pride is in that their masters demand much of them. Third, concerned they have been, that you have asked for nothing. They fear you need them not. Fourth, they worry for you." He raised an eyebrow. "But be certain, though impossible, it is something you want. Suspect I do, that they will create it."
"Ah." She blinked. "Do you know everything that is going on around here?"
He shook his head at that. "Not I. But Kantor I have, as Caryo you have. Our Companions know much, and what they know not, generally, they can discover. Sendar made use of that, often and often."
"I'd better get used to doing the same, then." This time her smile was a little stronger, as she picked up her writing case and stood up. "And I'll think about impossible things to eat on the way to my tent. Can you find Crathach and send him to me, while you're doing all the other things I've asked you to?"
"Without difficulty." He returned her smile. "Ask Rantor, I shall."
They left the tent together. She picked up her escort of Ylsa and Keren at the door of the command tent, and went her own way in the golden light of another perfect evening, while Alberich started off on the last of the errands she had set him.
The last turned out to be the first; Crathach was nearby, and heartily approved of Selenay's wish to sleep early. Most of the rest were trivial and easily discharged. That left the organization of what were essentially funeral corteges through every hamlet, village, and town on the road to Haven. But rather than solve that one himself, he asked Kantor to have all the Heralds that were left in camp—save only Selenay's bodyguards—meet him back at the command tent, and bring with them the remaining highborn, officers, and Bards. The latter because Bards tended to be very good at concocting ceremonies, and he suspected they would have some ideas.
They did. And it didn't take very long either, since this was only going to be a procession. The greatest amount of time was spent in deciding what the order of precedence was going to be, and then, what places in the procession would belong to whom. He left them at it, after about a mark; his place would be with Selenay, and if they settled their differences without any interference from him, even if not everyone was happy, they couldn't attach any blame to him or the Queen.
And nothing would be required of her except to follow the wagon carrying the coffin on foot, with Caryo walking beside her. Certainly no speeches. The focus of attention wouldn't be on her, but rightfully, on the King's remains, which should be something of a relief. So he hoped, anyway. If she wept, all the better. He hoped she would weep; she hadn't done nearly enough.
By this time, it was full dark, and the camp was quiet; with an early start planned for the morrow, most people had, if their duties allowed, made an early night. He moved down the now-familiar lanes of tents in the light of the torches stuck on either side of his path, thinking that this place would look very odd when all of the canvas had been struck and there was no sign of what had stood here but trampled grass.
:I'm glad to be leaving,: Kantor said.
:So am I.: At least in Haven, there would not be the ever-present reminders that this was the place where they had lost a King.
His tent had been moved inside what had been the royal enclosure to adjoin Selenay's, and out of habit, he glanced at hers to see if there was any light showing.
There wasn't, and with a feeling of relief, he nodded to the guards at the tent door, and entered his own. They didn't trouble to leave guards inside the tent anymore; Selenay's little pages all slept in bedrolls spread out across the floor, and anyone trying to get in would probably step on one of them. He certainly wouldn't get in quietly; those children slept lightly and the least little sound sent half a dozen heads shooting up. Any intruder would set off more noise than disturbing a flock of geese.
A lantern had been lit for him, and hung from the center pole, showing that most of his baggage had already been packed up and presumably put on the wagon. There wasn't much left; only a bedroll, a set of clean linen and the towels and soap he'd need in the morning, and Kantor.
Most Heralds' tents were big enough for their Companion, Myste's being an exception, but she had obviously gotten last choice on accommodations. Somewhat to his surprise, it wasn't at all unusual for Heralds to share their tents with their Companions, rather than using the canvas shelters. Kantor took up roughly half the space; that first night in his own tent again, bowed down by grief, he had craved Kantor's company with a need that was almost physical, and Kantor had obliged by leaving the canvas shelter at the side and moving into the tent proper. And at first, despite that craving, it had still seemed unnatural in a way to have a—horse—in his tent. Now it was just as in the old days when he had shared tent space with another Sunsguard; it no longer seemed at all odd to see him there.
:Excuse me. I believe I am far better company than any of the
Sunsguard you ever shared tent space with,: Kantor said indignantly.
He felt instantly contrite. :I beg your pardon. Indeed you are. Did anyone leave anything here for me to eat?:
Selenay's swarm of little ones had adopted him as well, and lately had taken to fetching food for him at the same time that they got meals for her, leaving them in his tent, well-covered and protected against the depredations of insects and other pests.
:As a matter of fact, they did, and—I don't suppose you'll share?: Kantor asked hopefully.
Since his appetite had suffered as much lately as Selenay's, Kantor's hope was well-founded. :I don't know why not.: He sat down on the bedroll and saw that the usual covered platter and cup had been left for him, cleverly balanced on two more cups in a pan of water, which prevented insects from crawling into it.
He took them out, and shoved the pan of water over to Kantor's side of the tent. Taking the cover off the platter explained why Kantor had hoped he'd share.
Selenay had asked for the impossible, gotten it, and had seen to it that he got some of the cook's largesse. Perfect for the heavy weather and a failing appetite were two sallats, a savory one and a sweet, the former a bed of greens with cheese, bits of chicken, fragrant herbs and spiced vinegar, the latter of chopped fresh fruit and nuts, with honey-sweetened cream. How had she known he'd like such things, too?
:Piff. She asked me via Caryo, of course; she doesn't need being told something twice. I'd like some of that cress, please, and some spinach.:
With the empty platter and cup left outside his tent door, he stretched out along his bedroll, and listened to the sounds of the camp. He had been a soldier for too long not to be able to sleep when he needed to, but he had also been a soldier for too long not to be able to assess the mood of the camp just from the night noises.
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