Kelvren nodded, hissing agreement. “It will delay me. I will not rrrreturrn until nearrrrly ssssunssset.”
Snowfire waved that caution away. “That’s all right, if you can manage to accomplish it. We need those counts to make reasonable decisions.”
Kel snorted contemptuously. “If I can manage? I am not one of thossse elderrrly layaboutsss at k’Vala, you know! Fearrr not, I ssshall have yourrrr countsss, and they will be acurrrate in everrry detail!” He paused. “I will be sssseen, howeverrr. Fly high though I will, the sssize and body-ssshape will differrr frrrom a merrre eagle - asss it sssshould be.”
Darian’s lips twitched, and he watched Nightwind hide a smile. Oh, gryphons! How dull life would be without them!
“Now, just to change the subject briefly,” Starfall interjected, before anyone could laugh at Kel and hurt his feelings. “How is our trade balance with you, Lord Breon?”
“Dead even, with this load.” His face relaxed, but Val took on a look of boredom, rolling his eyes upward. It was obvious that Breon’s son and heir would much rather have been discussing possible battle plans. “Is there any way we could get some of that patterned silk from you?”
Starfall pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “We aren’t set up to make any here yet, but if we don’t have what you want in stores, I don’t doubt we can get it made up from k’Vala. What did you have in mind?”
“It isn’t me, it’s my lady.” He looked sheepish. “The wedding, you know. She’s got a notion that we should all have new wedding clothes in the same patterned silk, but different colors. I don’t think she cares what pattern, but I’d look damned silly in flowers.”
Val groaned, his attention recaptured. Darian didn’t blame him; it was his wedding, after all, but his mother was obviously arranging it to suit her liking, not his. Poor bride! It obviously didn’t matter what her taste was either, for Val’s mother was making all the decisions. “Not flowers! And not rabbits or cute little baby anything, or - ”
“How about a simple geometric?” Nightwind interjected before Val could wax eloquent on the subject of what he didn’t want. “Or water patterns? Or leaves? Feathers?”
“Feathers would be good, or leaves, or water patterns,” Val told her, relief suffusing his features. “As along as it doesn’t make a girl squeal, ‘Oh, that’s adorable,’ it’ll be all right.”
Oh, dear. Obviously some of the arrangements have been getting that response. After taking part in the joining-ceremony and vetoing a few such arrangements himself, Darian had sudden sympathy for poor Val.
Nightwind laughed. “I think we can manage,” she promised. She studied Breon and his son. “I think, a rich golden brown for your side of the wedding, and - what’s the bride’s coloring?”
Val started to get a love-struck look in his eyes, and Breon caught it. He interrupted swiftly before Val could go into a flowery description. “She’s brown-haired, fair. Pinkish fair.”
Val looked indignant at such a callously abbreviated depiction of his beloved, but Nightwind sailed on, settling the question of color for the benefit of trade.
“Blue, then, for the bridal party. We’ve got good silk dyes for both those colors, and both are popular with us. If we don’t have something here, k’Vala will have it in stores. Silk is light, especially silks for a warm-weather wedding; I can ask for a gryphon to fly them straight to Kelmskeep. It will be a good excuse for Kelvren’s lady-friend to fly in for a visit.” She cast a sly look at Kel, who contrived to look as if he hadn’t heard her, but twitched his tail and shifted his hips. “Tell your good lady she’ll have her fabrics in a week at the very most.”
No one mentioned that in a week they might be facing off against the barbarians.
Worry about that when we know what we’re facing; no point in getting ahead of ourselves. Besides, taking care of wedding arrangements will keep noncombatant minds off the barbarians.
“And you’ll want - what?” Breon asked.
“Same as the last time. Our needs don’t change much. Have your seneschal or factor negotiate with Ayshen for the price,” Starfall said offhandedly, and Breon nodded with satisfaction. Since k’Valdemar had already presented Breon with the Vale’s official wedding present (an exquisite set of colored glass goblets in sufficient quantity to allow the young couple to hold a reception for the Queen and her entire Council, brought for the purpose from k’Vala) he wasn’t looking for anything but a reasonable trade.
“Right. Now, barring a war with barbarians, we’ve got Harvest Festival coming up at the same time as the wedding. What had your people planned to bring to the Faire?” This was the signal for a far more mundane discussion, and Kel excused himself - and so did Val and Darian. Darian chose a direction at random, and Val followed him.
I think I’m about to hear more from the would-be warrior.
Val’s thoughts had obviously turned back to the barbarians, and he accosted Darian as soon as they were out of hearing of the adults. “Say, Darian - you’ve fought before, right?”
Darian made a sour face. “Fought the barbarians the first time around, and had some skirmishes with bandits in Valdemar. That’s fighting people - we took out some Changebeasts in Valdemar, too, but that isn’t what you meant, is it?” He continued walking, and Val kept right up with him.
“No, I meant combat. Real fighting. The clash of sword on sword, the thrill of meeting man to man, facing your enemy and bringing him down - ” The cliches poured from Val as his face grew more and more animated. He obviously suffered from a surfeit of heroic ballads and tales. Darian decided to quash him. It wasn’t that he disliked Val, that was far from the truth. If anything, he liked Breon’s heir too much to let him go down that particular path of delusion.
That path leads to an early grave, given bad odds.
“I’ve done that,” he said flatly. “You want to know what it’s like?”
Val nodded eagerly, his earnest face alight.
“All right. Here, sit down.” They’d come as far as the lake while talking, and Darian gestured to a boulder. He took his seat on another, and gave careful thought to exactly how he was going to say his say. “First off, this isn’t a duel, it’s a combat. No rules. Do you know what that means, at all?” When Val shook his head, he continued. “It means that the enemy is going to try to kill you before you can get close to him, so he’ll be flinging mucking great rocks at you, shooting at you, doing everything he can to keep you from getting close. He would much rather kill you from a distance, given the choice. If you get stuck with an arrow or knocked out by a rock, he’s going to rush at you and try and whack something off while you’re down and helpless, because it’s easier to kill you then. If you don’t get taken out by flying objects, every fellow on the other side is checking out the people coming at him, and he’s going to try to make sure that he is bigger than you. If you’ve got fancy armor or weapons, he’s going to want them, too, so his best bet is to cut a leg out from under you or whack off an arm and leave you lying there, screaming and bleeding to death. The other thing is that he’s a greedy bastard, and anyone who looks even slightly important is going to have a lot of people coming at him, all at once, all trying to be the one to get that fancy sword and armor. If he can’t manage to cut off a limb, or at least cut it half off, he’ll try to bash in your skull because that’s the second easiest way to kill you. There’s no fancy swordwork going on; there’s no room for it, you’re mashed in with a bunch of other people, all whacking away. Meanwhile, as you’re trying to keep him from doing awful things to you, and trying to do awful things to him, you’re stepping on and stumbling over all the poor beggars who didn’t manage to keep that from happening. They’re bleeding, screaming, and dying; if they don’t have fancy armor, their guts are spilling out and you’re stepping right in them. Some of them are people you know. Some of them are friends. Some might be relatives. And you’ll be seeing them as nothing more than things you don’t want to fall over.”
Val’s face had gone
rather sick, which Darian was extremely grateful for. Breon’s son - thank all the gods! - was intelligent, and had imagination. That was probably why he’d gotten all caught up in the idea of adventure in fighting in the first place. That imagination would save him from his misguided notions of honor and glory, if Darian had any say in the matter.
“When it’s all over, if you’re on the winning side, you’re absolutely sticky with blood, ready to drop with exhaustion, and every place on your body aches. Hopefully the blood you’re covered with is other people’s; if some of it’s yours, this is when you realize just how much even a little wound hurts. If you got a big wound, if you aren’t on the ground already, or you aren’t dying, you generally fall down when everything’s over, screaming with the pain. You could have broken bones sticking through your skin, and you’re seeing parts of the inside of yourself you never wanted to see. If you are really, really lucky, someone recognizes that you’re an important fellow and gets the Healer to you in a hurry. If not, you’ll be lucky to get yourself to the Healer’s tent somehow to wait for candlemarks while he works his way down to you. This is also when the excitement and fear and so forth that carried you through wears off, and you start to remember that you stepped in your cousin’s face, you saw your uncle’s head caved in, and you’re not sure if your best friend is still alive. There’s stuff besides blood on you that used to be parts of people. That’s when you look around, see all the dead, dying, and wounded, and you throw up. Practically everyone else who never fought before - and some who have - is doing the same thing. That’s what real combat is like.” He stopped for a moment. “Oh, and after a fight, Healing takes second place to wound closure, so you may wait days or weeks before that wound in your leg that was cauterized closed - burned closed with a red-hot poker - gets properly Healed up.” Val licked his lips, which were just a shade greenish.
“It’s not like that in - I mean, I’ve never heard anyone talk about it like that.” He seemed shaken, but not inclined to doubt Darian’s word. Darian was quite glad he’d made a point of never exaggerating in front of Val; this was turning out as he’d hoped.
Darian shrugged and tried to look weary and worldly-wise. “That’s because no one wants to remember those parts, but ask your Weaponsmaster, and let him know you want to know what it’s really like on a battlefield, before, during, and after the battle. If he’s honest, he’ll tell you the same things I did.” He thought of something else. “If you want, I can get one of the dyheli to give you the memory. They were in on the forest-battle four years ago.”
“Oh.” Val remained silent, looking out over the lake for a while. Darian let him stew things over; he needed some time to get his mind wrapped around Darian’s blunt description. But Val had, out of incredulity, gotten a dyheli to give him a memory of k’Vala Vale. He hadn’t believed the descriptions he’d heard of it, until he’d experienced Tyrsell’s memory, and he knew that Darian would never have offered him access to a memory of combat if it wasn’t as vivid - or more so - than Darian’s own description.
Actually, given that the dyheli aren’t predators, their memory is going to be a lot nastier than my description. Bloodletting offends every instinct they’ve got.
“I wondered why Father, and you - ” Val shook his head and looked mortified. “I came very close to making a serious mistake. I have to apologize to you.”
“Thought I was a coward?” To Val’s obvious surprise, Darian grinned. “I’m not offended! I used to think the same things that you did about fighting. Honor, glory, adventure, fame, all that stuff. Probably everybody does, until he does it himself. Maybe a mercenary’s children know better, and probably anyone who’s had a fight go over his land does, but unless you’ve seen it for yourself, how can you know?” His grin turned cynical. “Well, think about it, how could they get us bone-headed youngsters go out to get bits hacked off if they didn’t make it sound glorious?”
Val managed a sickly sort of smile himself. “You’ve got a point.” He blinked, as if something had just occurred to him. “Now that I think about it, battles almost never happen in empty land, do they?”
“Not unless somebody manages to force it that way, no,” Darian replied. The fellow was thinking, all right! “Obviously, we’re going to try to choose the ground ourselves, but we may not get to make that choice.”
“So Father isn’t going to want something like that rampaging through the village, or over the crops, ruining them - ”
Darian decided on a final ghoulish touch. “Imagine trying to eat crops that came up the next year in a field where people died! Crops fed on blood!”
Val shuddered. “I’d - rather not.”
“So we bluff them, or negotiate with them, or - well, Firesong, Snowfire, and your father have a lot of ideas, I expect. They’ve all fought before, and they’ve got all the reasons in the world to make peace first, if it can be done without making a bad bargain.” It was Darian’s turn to look pensively out over the lake. “Believe me, if it were up to me - These people, or ones like them, killed Justyn right in front of me. They hurt a lot of people I knew, and killed a couple. They tried to kill me, twice, and they nearly managed it. I’m the last person to want them to get off easy, but - ” He shook his head and looked back at Val. “If we force them to fight, things will almost certainly be bad, and more people I know will be dead or hurt. I don’t want revenge half badly enough for that.”
You know, I think Justyn would be very happy to hear me say that.
Val nodded, very slowly, and Darian decided to change the subject so that they could part on a good note. “So, tell me about this girl you’re marrying! When does she get here? What is she like? How did you meet her?”
Since Belinda was obviously a subject Val could wax eloquent on for hours, this was the best thing he could have done. Until Lord Breon came to fetch his son for the trip home, Darian heard so much about Belinda that he suspected he could write a book - or at least several pages - about her many virtues. Val was completely smitten.
When Breon did come to get Val, though, the handclasp Darian got from the younger man, coupled with the thoughtful look and the nod they shared, let him know that Val had not forgotten the earlier subject. As Breon and his son rode off on the trail back to Kelmskeep, Darian felt quite proud of himself.
Firesong came up beside him at that point. “You look like a cat that’s gotten into the cream,” he said. “What have you been up to?”
“Convincing Val that fighting in battle isn’t the way the Bards sing about it.” He glanced sideways at Firesong to see how the mage would react.
Firesong laughed aloud, crossing his arms over his chest. “Good for you! I knew you had more sense than he did about that particular subject, but I didn’t know you’d take it on yourself to talk to him.”
“Somebody had to. I’d as soon not see his bride become a widow, you know?” He turned to Firesong, and grinned. “I’d have felt responsible.”
“Good,” Firesong nodded. “You are responsible. It’s when we stop feeling responsible for each other, for the people we know we can affect, that we become the barbarians.”
Firesong waited, and Darian sensed that there was another Talk with his Teacher in the offing. On the whole, he didn’t mind those, except when Firesong seemed to expect an unreasonable level of magical expertise from him, given how short a time he’d been studying with good teachers. One of those had been just yesterday, in fact. Firesong had shouted impatiently at him, and he had left the lesson abruptly rather than lose his temper.
Firesong cleared his throat, and Darian put on an attentive look. If there was any chance his teacher would actually apologize, he wanted to encourage it.
“Silverfox gave me a bit of a lecture this morning, before the meeting,” Firesong finally said, actually sounding sheepish. “When you do something that is exceptionally mature, like taking on young Val and disabusing him of the notion that battle equals painless glory, I start thinking of you, not as a student, but as
a potential peer. I get both of us in trouble when I do that, because then I expect a similar level of skill in mage-craft. I expect that’s what happened last night.”
He glanced at Darian out of the corner of his eye, and Darian just nodded, warily. He didn’t quite trust himself to actually say anything yet, but this was certainly a promising start.
“I got very impatient with you last night, and that was wrong of me. Silverfox very properly reminded me that you are someone who has not had the benefit of working with unlimited energy, and that you are a real youngster, not an adult like the people I’m used to training. You act like them, but you simply haven’t got experience.” He tossed his hair back over his shoulder, a habit Darian noticed he had when he was nervous. “The Herald-Mages I’ve trained have almost all been in their twenties, or even older. I keep forgetting that you’re only eighteen, and at the same level of teaching I was when I was only twelve or fourteen.”
Now Darian gingerly cleared his throat. “One year with poor Justyn, and four years working with teachers who are not Healing Adepts doesn’t equal the kind of education you had, no. But you are right in that sometimes I just am not grasping what’s going on. You were wrong in thinking it was because I’m too stubborn to admit my way is wrong; what you expect me to do simply doesn’t occur to me.” He flushed, thinking about how angry he’d gotten; the accusations still stung because they were so unjust. “You’re supposed to be my teacher, and it isn’t fair to force me to guess answers I can’t possibly reach! I think it might be because I’m not really Tayledras, and I’m not used to thinking and seeing things as so intimately interconnected. Hellfires, your entire religion is built around that!” He scratched his head and managed a sheepish grin of his own. “Maybe that’s why I got so hot and walked out of the lesson. It wasn’t until I cooled down that I was able to figure out what you were saying, and put it to use.”
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