Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

  Now everyone looked at Dia, who pursed her lips. “Keira, did you drop any hints that you were coming here?”

  She shook her head. “The only reason I knew about the Queen’s Handmaidens is because Cousin Jerrold’s daughter came flying back after the Princess’s Court full of how she wanted Cousin Jerrold to get her a place in them. She and her mother and father got into a full-scale fight over it, with Cousin Jerrold absolutely incensed over the very idea. He doesn’t want Tiayada catching the eye of any man, period. He fully intends for her to go into a temple so he can save the money he’d otherwise spend on a dower. I doubt any of them knew I was listening to them. I just grabbed my cloak and began walking up to the top of the Hill, hoping Lady Dia would give me an audience and hear me out.”

  “We didn’t let her go back, and we haven’t sent for her things yet,” Dia put in.

  “Don’t,” Mags advised. “For all they know, she went for a walk an’ didn’t come back. Hasn’t been a hue and cry raised, neither. My guess is, there ain’t—isn’t—gonna be.” He raised an eyebrow at Keira. “Likely you know best the reason for that.”

  “They’d be completely relieved if I fell off the face of the world,” Keira replied. “I certainly got told as much three and four times a day.”

  Mags paused, and thought a little more. “Best let sleeping dogs lie,” he said finally. “If they do decide to let the Watch an’ the Guard know you’re missing, I’ll see about plantin’ some stories of you bein’ seen ridin’ out of town with a good-looking fellow. I guess that wouldn’t grieve them any?”

  Keira shook her head. “Not in the least. I’m of no consequence and nothing but a burden. The gods know they’ve all, at one time or another, said I’d be better off dead.”

  “There you go. Forget the disguises,” Mags said. “Lord Jorthun, you know.”

  “Indeed I do,” his lordship said, much amused. “Disguises are three parts acting to one part appearance, and you, my dear, are no actress. You will be when we are done training you, but you are not, yet.”

  “Oh aye,” Mags said with a grin. “You will be.”

  Keira looked from Mags, to Lord Jorthun and back again. “Is that a promise?” she asked, a little apprehensively. “Or a threat?”

  “Both,” they answered in chorus, causing Amily, Dia and Miana to break out into laughter.

  Keira only shook her head. “Bring on your lessons,” she said, bravely. “As many as you like. I already told Lady Dia; I’ll do whatever is needed, and master it.”

  Mags smiled. Because he had no doubt she would.

  Mags awoke to find Amily curled up in his arms; he thought he must have turned over in his sleep and was holding her for his own comfort. He couldn’t remember his dreams, but they had been uneasy, full of vague premonitions and unsettling visions.

  “What’s wrong?” Amily murmured. It was quite dark, so he knew it was far too early to be up. The bed, and Amily, would have felt delicious, warm and comforting, and it should have soothed him back to sleep immediately. But it didn’t. This was going to be one of those nights.

  At least I ain’t waking up screaming, dreaming of the mine falling in on me, or faceless spirit-things in the mine hunting me.

  But he knew he had to explain himself to Amily so at least she could go back to sleep. “Thins are goin’ too well,” he said without thinking. “Ever’thin’s just tickin’ over too nice. Somethin’s gonna go wrong.”

  “Thank you, my Lord Optimist,” she replied, touched his cheek, and was back to sleep within a few moments. Which was entirely sensible of her, since she already knew that when this sort of mood came on him, there was nothing to do but wait it out and see if his pessimism bore fruit. The first few times this had happened, she’d stayed awake with him, but he had finally persuaded her that the best thing she could do for both of them was to go back to sleep herself.

  Dallen could usually talk him out of this mood, but Dallen was asleep, and he didn’t want to disturb his Companion in the middle of the night when he already knew there were things he could do for himself. So he gently disengaged himself from Amily when he was sure she was quite asleep again, and went to make himself some warm honey-milk. Sitting down in front of the fire in their common room, he set to work breaking the hold of his anxiety over his mind.

  You’re not a Foreseer, he reminded himself, as he sat staring into the coals of their fire, watching the colors come and go. And as you know good and well, even they can be mistaken. They always see things that are going to happen, all right, but sometimes their interpretation is miles off.

  He himself was proof of that. The Foreseers had thought he was going to kill the King. In fact, what happened was that he had prevented the Companions from being burned to death in their stable, had nearly died at the hands of the hired killer doing the arson. It was the King had saved his life, which is why the Foreseers had Seen him, the King, and a great deal of blood. What they remembered from their visions was often fragmentary, and subject to interpretation.

  Still . . . he shook his head as he sipped his drink, because his instincts were that this anxiety of his was not faulty. His own experience was that you could never trust it when matters were going too well. Bad luck tended to average out. It was always better to have lots of little things go wrong, so you weren’t blindsided by one big thing.

  And things were going too well. He and Amily had managed to sideslip problems by getting married quietly. The Queen’s Handmaidens had two more recruits, young ladies Miana knew, plus Keira, who was working just as hard as she had promised. No one had reported Keira missing, which meant her relations were just as glad she was gone. Tuck was hard at work, making some truly ingenious gadgets for climbing, suggested by Mags’ memories of similar instruments the Sleepgivers used. No one was harassing him. Lord Jorthun’s man of business had acquired the building where Tuck’s “shed” was—but for Lady Dia, rather than Lord Jorthun, and using her money. There were six of Mags’ orphans installed as hallboys in various homes. The Seneschal absolutely loved the idea of sending personal handmaidens packing, and was planning how to rearrange the Palace to allow for a Queen’s Handmaidens dormitory.

  Even the arrangements for the now-unnecessary wedding were going swimmingly. Everyone involved was quietly excited about it and enjoying the work they were doing on it. Now that Lady Dia had three sets of hands to help her with the planning, she was down to planning details rather than painting the broad strokes.

  Yes, things were going entirely too well. He sat and stared at the coals, wondering when Fate or the Universe was going to drop a mountain on him. And what it could possibly be. He stared, and stared until he noticed his hands were aching where they were clenched around the mug.

  He looked down at his mug, and realized he had finished the milk. At least now he felt worn out, and his brain was tired, tired enough to let go of the problem for now. Time to go to bed again. Maybe his dreams would turn pleasant.

  He still wasn’t going to stop looking over his shoulder, however. Not when things were going this well.

  • • •

  This was a full Formal Court day; a day when the King took only the most urgent petitioners, and received important visitors. Amily was at her usual position, behind the King’s throne and to his right. The Greater Audience Chamber was not the most comfortable room in the Palace, except for ideal days in spring, fall, and a bit in summer, when the windows could be thrown open and a good breeze came through. In winter, the size made it almost impossible to heat properly, and the people farthest from the fireplace behind the throne had better be wearing their cloaks. This was one reason why Lady Dia’s little muff-spaniels were so popular; at least a lady who had one would have warm hands during the long Court sessions. In summer, when there wasn’t a breeze, the air was close and faintly stifling, and the various perfumes the courtiers wore mingled in a way that was not quite pleasant.
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br />   Today it was cold, although there were some hardy bulb-flowers out in the gardens that were making a brave attempt to bloom. The snowdrops were particularly thick, and some of the ladies were wearing some in their hair. The attendance was thin today; those who had estates to oversee had packed up and taken their families back to them, not to return until after the Harvest was over. By the time the pleasant days of Spring arrived, there would only be the people attending who never left Haven. There were those like Lord Jorthun, who left their estates to the management of trusted others, and only rode out to them once or twice a year to inspect them. There were those whose fortunes were linked to things other than crops and land. And there were those whose duty was to represent their vast, noble families while other members of the family spent their time happily far away from the Court.

  For those who resided here year-round, Formal Courts were a must; with the attendance lower, it was easier to maneuver for status or power, and much easier to get the ear of someone in the Royal Family. Amily looked out over the courtiers and noted that the braver—or hardier—of them had put away their winter things and were displaying new spring outfits. Or trying, at least. The effect was rather spoiled by wintery shawls and capes. . . .

  Still, it was, like the first bold songbirds to appear after the winter snows, the harbinger of better days to come, this timid display of fluttery sleeves, trailing ribbons, light colors, and lace replacing velvets in jewel tones, wools in more somber colors, and fur.

  The King, well aware of how cold the Greater Audience Hall was, wore the winter version of his Royal Herald’s Whites—which differed from Formal Whites in that all the trim and decoration was in gold and blue, not silver and blue. Like the King, Amily was in winter Whites and she was very glad for the extra lining to the tunic and sleeves.

  The King was a handsome man, square-faced, brown hair faintly showing a bit of silver, with a ready smile and kind eyes. Prince Sedric was the image of his father; though Sedric’s face was longer and his hair was a bit lighter, there was absolutely no doubt whose son he was.

  As she was musing over this, there was a stir at the door to the Greater Audience Chamber. The heavy wooden doors opened, and a Court Crier stepped in and took two steps to the side. “My Lord Aurebic Lemanthiel, Ambassador of His Most Royal Majesty, King Klerence of Menmellith, and his delegation!”

  What?

  Well, that caused a stir. Even Amily was startled. So far as she was aware, the Ambassador was not expected. The invitation to Menmellith to send a delegation to the wedding was not due to be sent out until next week at the earliest. As the group entered the Audience Chamber and strode down toward the King, she was further startled to note they were all still in sober traveling gear, and had barely paused to brush the worst of the road-dirt from themselves before coming here.

  That . . . was not good.

  Maybe Mags’ fretting last night wasn’t just over-thinking.

  :Rolan, we didn’t hear anything from Heralds between the Border and here about them coming, did we?: she asked her Companion urgently.

  Rolan was baffled. :No. Nothing. And they must have traveled fast enough to nearly ruin their horses. The grooms in the stable are having to administer emergency aid to the poor things—and these are animals that were otherwise carefully cared for.:

  All that Amily could think was what Mags had said last night. Things are going too well. . . .

  The Ambassador and his entourage reached the throne. Kyril stood up to greet them. “I see you have come in haste, my friends,” the King said, quietly, before they could even greet him, keeping his voice pitched low enough that it reached only the Ambassador and perhaps the two men nearest him. “Is your business urgent enough that I need close the Court?”

  A flicker of gratitude passed over the Ambassador’s weary face. “Yes, your Majesty,” he said, in a voice that sounded a bit rough, probably from fatigue. “It is.”

  That was Amily’s cue. She stepped forward a pace or two, and nodded at one of the Guardsmen, who rapped the butt of his spear on the floor of the dais three times, loud enough to silence the murmurs going all through the Court.

  “His Majesty, King Kyril of Valdemar, declares that this Formal Court is closed!” Amily cried, making sure her voice carried to the back of the room. “Should any have business to be brought before the King, let it be known to the Seneschal and it will be addressed.”

  Not that it looked as if there had been much business left anyway, today. And what there had been was probably driven into the farthest corners of their minds. Ambassadors from other kingdoms didn’t just show up, fresh from the road and fatigued to death, unless there was something seriously wrong. Right now, what’s gone wrong was in the mind of everyone here. Some would linger to try and find out. Some would seek other sources of information. There would even be some who would pack up and flee to presumably “safe” or at least “safer” places in the country. No one had forgotten that assassins had penetrated right onto the grounds of the Palace not that long ago, and no one wanted to be the “unintended victim” if they managed again.

  Within moments, the Guard had ushered the uneasy and wildly curious courtiers out, canceled all further business, and shut the doors on everyone but the King, his Guards, and Amily. The Ambassador began to speak, but the King held up his hand.

  “Wait a moment. You are clearly exhausted, and surely nothing you must say is so terrible that it cannot wait a quarter candlemark while I have seats and wine fetched,” the King said, and this time it was more than a flicker of gratitude that passed over the Ambassador’s face. “You would not have come here to speak with me directly if whatever brought you here cannot be mended, either. So wait a moment.”

  The King sent servants running, and when they returned with a chair for the Ambassador and stools for everyone else, the Ambassador saved himself from collapsing into the chair by an act of pure will, though he did sit down heavily into it. The rest of his entourage hesitated before taking a seat, however. The Ambassador had been given specific leave, but . . . except when eating, or attending some festivity or performance, protocol dictated that one did not sit in the presence of a reigning monarch.

  “Sit!” ordered Kyril. “You are all exhausted. We will not stand on ceremony with you in such condition.”

  Now Amily wished she had Mags’ Gift of Mindspeech. She would have given a great deal to be able to pick up their surface thoughts. The best she could do was employ the skill she had acquired over the years of reading hints of expression and body language.

  As the rest of the entourage sorted themselves out and gratefully sank down onto the stools, servants with wine and food arrived, and the Ambassador wearily accepted a cup poured for him. As he drank, Amily got a chance to study him further.

  If he and his men were anything to judge by, the people of Menmellith were as mixed as those of Valdemar. The Ambassador was swarthy, with black hair shot through with silver; his face was round, but in no way soft. His eyes were a dark gray, and at the moment, stormy with suppressed emotion under heavy brows. But he had among his entourage men who were fair-haired and dark, and even one who was so blond his hair looked like fine gold thread. He and his men wore clothing that looked exotic to Amily’s eyes; heavy lambswool robes, divided for riding, with baggy trews beneath. The robes fastened up along one shoulder, and were trimmed with bands woven in colorful patterns; the Ambassador’s had a background of gold threads. Amily was not a judge of fabric the way Princess Lydia was, but the garments looked very costly. They all had what she assumed were familial badges on the left breasts of their robes, embroidered in colors that matched the trim.

  “Now,” the King said, when they had somewhat caught their breaths and looked as if they were beginning to recover. “What in the names of all the gods brought you posthaste to us?”

  The Ambassador took a deep breath, and looked up at the King, soberly.
/>   “War, your Majesty,” he said.

  It was a good thing that the Court had been cleared, because that would almost certainly have caused a panic, and sent rumor flying out the door with some of the courtiers. The King merely furrowed his brows. “Explain, please.”

  “You know that our King is only ten years of age, Majesty,” the Ambassador said. “There are those who are taking advantage of this, raising rebellion in the north of our land.” He nodded at one of his men, who brought up a bundle. It looked heavy. The man laid it down on the floor before the King, untied it and opened it, showing that it was a bundle of weapons; bows, arrows, two or three swords. “These weapons were captured from the rebels, Majesty,” the Ambassador said heavily. “They were supplied by persons unknown from outside of our Kingdom. But as you can see for yourself if you examine them . . .” He paused. “. . . they were made in Valdemar. They all bear makers’ marks, and all those marks are from well known armories within the borders of your land. And this is no fluke. There are thousands more like them, not just arms, but armor. If Valdemar does not put a stop to this . . . it will mean war.”

  • • •

  The Ambassador had been escorted to his quarters, and now, presumably was sleeping as well as a man in his current situation could. The King had called together an emergency Council. It consisted only of his Inner Council, his most trusted advisors—about half the size of the full Council.

  Unlike the full Council, the only merchant or Guild Master here was Lydia’s uncle, Master Soren. Amily was not certain why Soren would be useful in a session where the discussion was imminent war and perhaps how to prevent it, but the King wanted him here, so here he sat. Prince Sedric and Princess Lydia were at the King’s right, as was Amily. As the rest of the Council members took their seats, the King leaned over to Amily. “I know you don’t have that sort of Gift,” he whispered, “But what do you think is the Ambassador’s state of mind?”

  “I don’t think that he personally believes that the Valdemaran Throne is behind funneling the weapons to the rebels,” Amily whispered back. “But the Menmellith Council, or at least enough of it to make up a majority, does.”