by Kari Cordis
He’d been sinking into a blacker and blacker mood the closer they got to Crossing, and when the already heavy traffic bunched up at a bottleneck ahead, he frowned ferociously. They could make out Imperial Police far up in the milling crowds in front of them, and Kai pushed through to investigate.
Ari, as light of mood as everyone else, dejection forgotten in the carnival air, turned to say something to Selah and was surprised to find her nervously urging her mare towards the edge of the crowd. He reached out a hand to her horse’s bridle, and started to ask lightly, “Where are you going?” when the expression on her face stopped him. Wary, alert, her eyes flitting repeatedly to the Police ahead, she barely even glanced at him. His heart sank as he rather thick-headedly put it all together. “It’s all right,” he said quietly, soothingly, pulling the mare over next to him as they moved forward. “There’s no way they can know anything about you.” He was sure, sure, she couldn’t have done anything too bad, but some day he’d have to get her to tell him why she’d been running from Imperial law.
It was almost an hour before they made it to the checkpoint.
“How many are you?” the first Police troopman asked, a harried, harassed, mussed version of the customs agent on the Kendrick.
Melkin cast a cursory glance over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes, then replied with curt impatience, “Seven.”
Eight, Ari thought, even as his heart dropped out of his chest. Dread gnawed at his belly as he unobtrusively looked around, scanning their group, then the crowd, then as far out as his eyes could see. She was gone. He felt like all the air had been drawn from his lungs, like someone had gut-punched him. Surely, she’d find them again. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she’d never leave, really leave, without a word, without saying goodbye. Well, maybe a very small doubt…
They were herded through to a second troopman, who looked over their party and immediately singled out Cerise, peremptorily beckoning her to dismount. Her eyes blazed and if anything her perfect posture straightened even more.
“I’m going to have to ask you to dismount and step aside for questioning, please,” he said insistently, rushed and impersonal. He pointed to where a line of young women stood in various attitudes of fear, anger, and defiance. It was a long line.
“I’ll do no such thing,” she announced, in icy outrage. “I am the Lady Cerise, here on Queen’s business!” She snapped open her Letter of Passage from Sable with an impressive flick of her wrist. It barely missed his nose and his hot, preoccupied face blanched. He took a hasty step back.
“My apologies, my Lady—”
“Let’s go,” Melkin barked, not bothering to wait for him to finish.
Bunched together as they were, Ari heard Banion even over the noise of the crowd. “What was THAT about?”
Melkin, almost savage, said, “Sable wanted to get some verified reports of the Whiteblades’ movements. I told her this was a fool plan—Imperial Police have all the subtlety of a horsefly bite.”
“Ari,” Loren said, low and urgent. “Selah’s gone.”
Ari swallowed hard. “Is she?” he managed in a normal voice.
“Good thing,” Rodge said airily from his other side. “Queen Sable’s Letter of Marque didn’t include her.”
Ari wanted to hit him.
The crowds picked up a little speed after the checkpoint, but not much. Just when Ari despaired of ever seeing Crossing (and how was Selah ever going to find them among this great crush of people?), the outlines of its buildings finally appeared on the horizon. The chatter around them grew louder with expectation and soon, still far outside city limits, tent cities could be seen.
Crossing itself had doubtless run out of lodgings weeks before, and hawkers stood by the roadside barraging the traffic with sales pitches for their high quality, temporary accommodations—no rats, no rain, no thieves, 10% discount for parties of six or more, children under five free.
Over them, the sound of festival music began to drift through the air. They were close now, and the scent of meat pies and fruit tarts and the bright flapping of pennants and house flags filled the air with promise. Even in the midst of the almost electric excitement, though, Ari found himself anxiously searching the face of every dark-haired young woman, looking for the one that had left him.
Crossing was in reality a good-sized town; it had just been dwarfed by the influx of three Realms and the Ramparts. Soon they were in its proper outskirts and Ari and Loren exchanged wondering glances, grins tugging at their faces. The big Harvest Festival at Harthunters was the largest, busiest affair they’d ever seen, and it had always seemed immense until now. Around them, vendors lined the packed streets, selling anything you could think of—necessities, luxuries, produce, hot foot, weapons, livestock. There were games of chance, games of wit, games of strength, games of skill, archery contests, lancing bouts, horsemanship trials, knife-throwing competitions. You could dogfight, cockfight, fistfight, race your horses, hawks, dogs, pigs, or your own two feet. And weaving in and around it all was the humming, laughing, shouting, squealing, bargaining flow of humanity; pale white Northern faces, huge Merranics, dark, exotic Rach and silk-swathed Cyrrhideans, they all swirled in a multi-colored blur past the travelers. The well-dressed, the ragged, the garish, the wealthy and poor, all rubbed shoulders equably, smiles and gaiety on every face. Even Northerners, never happier than when there was a steady stream of commerce going on, were in the mood, cheerfully raking in piles of tirna. Ari saw one man obligingly taking off his own belt, willingly exchanging it for coin from an animated customer.
The boys were almost whining with eagerness to be released when Melkin finally drew them all in together, the crowd jostling their horses as it parted around them. “You boys stay with Banion,” he said loudly, to be heard over the commotion. “He’ll get you back to our quarters.” That was a relief—Ari’d been afraid they’d have to go all the way back out to find lodging later, and then fight the crowds again tomorrow for the Kingsmeet.
“Cerise, you and Ari come with me.”
Ari’s mouth fell open. Rodge and Loren looked at him.
“You want to be in on the royal councils,” Melkin rasped out, ill-tempered, and turned the blue roan back into the crowd.
Not now. Not this particular one, right at this particular moment. Deflated, not even caring if it was a compliment, he turned the brown to follow. Suddenly, he missed Selah, like a lance of loneliness. She would have stayed with him. Where was she? It wasn’t like she couldn’t take care of herself, but the thought of her being all alone with the rough masses around Crossing left him fretting worriedly.
And what was she running from?
Sable, Queen of the Imperial North, was relieved to be out of the saddle. They’d been almost a month on the road, a journey originally suggested to be taken by carriage. It made her shudder just to think of all those leagues, those endless hours, locked up in the airless, jarring, garish prison of her carriage. She’d had to fight tooth and nail to convince her council that she was young, healthy, and perfectly capable of riding her parade horse, Sneed—a risk akin to taking a bath, as he had the approximate temperament of mop water—down to Crossing. Some very old-fashioned Councilmen had wanted her on a palanquin, so the people could see her. As if lolling about in languid exhibitionism so conveyed strength and purpose.
She’d done a lot of thinking about that these past long weeks. In between practicing the ceremony (twice daily, from start to finish) and flirting dutifully with Rorig, the Queensknight, her thoughts kept returning to how she was going to present herself at this Kingsmeet.
Strong, purposeful, concerned, capable—all that went without saying. But Kane’s outburst was still bothering her. She’d even toyed with the thought of showing up in leather trousers and thigh-high boots with a sword belted on her hip…but somehow she didn’t think it was going to escape the other sovereigns’ attention that she was a woman. So instead, it was understated Imperial dignity: a snowy skirt of stiff, fl
ared taffeta, a bold scarlet slash of velvet across her chest, the ceremonial diamond-decorated tiara in an upswept hairdo. Clothes…presentation…all-important concerns to the North. But would any of it make any difference to the Border Realms? The other rulers were men, not known in general for their extraordinary attention to fashion details, and on top of it, they were all from much more primitive cultures, probably impressed more by physical strength and steelskill than her selection of dress material or matching accessories. Words…words were the key. All leaders knew the power of speech, the stirring of men’s souls that eloquence could effect—she must convince them she was firmly resolved on a closer relationship between the Realms. Secondly, that she wasn’t a featherbrained fool for believing the Enemy might become a threat in the near future.
Her mind was pinging from all the gnawing doubts bouncing around inside it, but hours and hours of long, undemanding, undistracted riding had brought her to an unexpected solace. Clarent, who with all his self-righteous pride was traumatized at just the thought of a menace to his political power, would probably have been surprised to find his threats and tremendous charisma hadn’t had the effect he’d intended.
Partly in rebellion, partly because her interest had been piqued, she’d probed a little deeper into the Shepherd’s story. The Illians made vast claims, of course; that’s why they were still a cult. The Il they presented was too big, too—well, everything—to be real in any sense, but there was something about the concept that intrigued her, had a sort of resonant truth. The problem, really, was Karmine.
Karmine, last of the Royal Blood, last of the Imperial title, enveloped by the stark realities of the Ages of War, had given up everything: all responsibility and all ability to help, lead, or protect her people. This was an inexplicable act, literally an impossibility for any Northerner. But in the moldy remains of History in that little room in the Archives, Sable had found a few short, unbelievable sentences of corroboration.
And why? Why would she do this?
For love of Il.
Sable had not fully accepted the reasoning by any means, sure there was some essential element to understanding that girl’s brain that she’d probably be forever ignorant of…but she’d surprised herself by coming to a sort of truce with the ideology. Perhaps Il existed as the concept of love. Whatever the specifics, just accepting the strange idea of love being a power, a sort of force all of its own, had changed things. Her sterile life of duty and politics and service and ceaseless striving seemed suddenly lighter, brighter, undercut with meaning and oddly aglow with hope. So, now, the diamond-hard determination with which she faced this Kingsmeet was overlaid with a fine lacework…of peace.
This was the Royal mental state when Melkin was announced the afternoon before the Ceremony. She rose, smiling, and crossed the room to greet him, but he rebuffed her with such an irascible glare that she changed tactics and settled for a soothing murmur of welcome. Behind him walked a boy she hardly recognized. The flaming hair and brilliant eyes had to belong to the scared, speechless student Melkin had dragged into her sitting room months ago, but there the similarity faded. This was a confident young man, tall and broad of chest and shoulder. He met her eyes squarely and even managed a passable bow. Far from looking overwhelmed, he seemed…preoccupied.
“You’ve stirred up a snake pit with this,” Melkin accused her bluntly, in his chatty way.
“I thought it necessary.” She read wariness in the lined face. Of her? Of the Kingsmeet? Well, she hadn’t done it to earn popularity points.
“Cerise has been keeping you in touch?” He was terse to the point of rudeness, a pleasant change after all the fawning and manipulations of the past few weeks’ road trip.
“Mm,” she affirmed. “It doesn’t look like your discoveries have eased your mind any. Give me your report…I have a feeling your point of view may differ from Cerise’s.”
So he talked about the statue—Cerise had barely mentioned it, and very dismissively—and of Kane and Perraneus and Vangoth and the sudden friskiness in the Silver Hills. He told her about the suspiciously motive-less bandits and Selah and Rodge and Jaegor and the Whiteblade Adama.
Ari wasn’t paying much attention, rather busy with self-pity, but he perked up his ears at that. All the wonder, the thrill, the hunger for answers that Adama’s presence had stirred came back to mind, a searing longing across his life.
Finally, too late in the evening for any hope of seeing the festival outside, they took their leave. The only good part of the night was when the two decided that the boys and Cerise—Melkin seemed much more resigned this time—would accompany him on to Cyrrh. To pour salt in the wound, when Ari crawled into bed shortly after, dejected and resentful, he had to listen to Rodge and Loren go on and on and on, rehashing their entire glorious afternoon’s adventures.
CHAPTER 13
They hadn’t been asleep long when Banion was nudging them awake, saying something at an uncompromising noise level. They sat up blearily and sat staring for a moment before their sleep-fogged minds pieced together the clues around them—the Kingsmeet!
Banion had been through the wild pasturelands of their heads with the shears last night, so they didn’t have to worry about combs, and Sable had provided them—no surprise—with new breeches and doublets in the sturdy browns of the Northern commoner. They tumbled downstairs in an excited thunder of big boots and elbows to each other’s ribs, grabbed buns from the breakfast table and rushed into the common room where they were supposed to meet.
Cerise was there, and they came to a skidding halt when they saw her, eyes wide, buns halfway to their guts. She spun condescendingly for their benefit, pleased at their reaction.
“Do you like it? Real Cyrrhidean silk, at a price you could never get in Archemounte.”
The boys just stared, aghast. “It looks like someone’s been sick on it,” Rodge said.
It was an excellent time for Melkin to stride in, neither speaking nor pausing, and go right out the front door. Banion followed, long legs making up in ground what Melkin covered with pure energy. Ari looked around. No Selah. This just wasn’t going to be the same without her.
“Where’s Kai?” is what he asked, though, and Banion tossed over his shoulder, “With the Drae.” He was resplendent in formal dark blue and grey, with immense black highboots that probably could have held Selah…if she’d been there.
Drae. It took a moment for that to sink in, and Ari felt a tremor of anticipation ripple through him. Today was going to be the most exotic, exciting, wonder-filled day of his life—he could feel it to the toes!
They pushed out into the street, already alive with talk and vendors chanting and people in their bright good clothes starting to line the processional route. A juggler tossing three balls the colors of the Trieles sidled across the road in front of them on stilts.
“I don’t know why they call it a Kingsmeet, when there’ll only be one King,” Rodge said as they wound through the crowds behind Melkin and Banion. “We got a Queen, a Skylord, a Rach…”
“Hush up, Rodge,” Loren said happily. He and Rodge, amongst other adventures, had fallen in with a group of drunken Cyrrhideans last night. He was now convinced as if by augury that it was his destiny to love a Cyrrhidean princess. Privately, Ari thought the Daphenian wine their companions had shared with them had probably played a small role in this newest obsession. Ari scowled a little as Cerise regally moved up to the front of the group, her nose so high in the air he was surprised she didn’t trip. How was it she’d had a chance to get out last night and indulge her horrible taste in festwear while he was stuck in an endless recap of their last months’ adventures?
“Marek’s moneybelt,” Loren breathed. They were walking down the main Northern approach to the Compass—the central square where the ‘Kings,’ such as they were, actually ‘met’—and they could see clearly that for almost a hundred yards on each side of the road, stretching to the square, the street was lined with Drae. Dozens of immobile, leth
al, silent sentinels. The crowd was hushed here, hanging back behind the partition of killers a little uneasily. The lurid panoply of color inescapable along any other Crossing street seemed to fade, stilling into lines of unmoving bronze skin and black leathers. There were no weapons at a Kingsmeet—they’d left theirs back in the rooms—but every Dra wore double-hipped swords, tied down.
Melkin, not to be intimidated by a couple assassins, walked right down the center of the street, all the way to the Compass, where they found Kai in the northeast corner. Eyes roving the crowd, he almost absently stepped aside when they walked up, making room for them to pass into the spectator space right behind him.
The boys looked at each other in joyous disbelief—front row seats! The wealthy and probably high-born members of the crowd behind them grumbled and shot them nasty looks, but nobody was going to get too worked up with all the Drae around.
“Really,” Rodge mused, thinking along the same lines, “they’re perfect crowd control. Who’s going to start trouble with a Dra?”
“And they owe allegiance to no Realm,” Loren agreed breathily.
“Don’t swoon on us, Lor.”
“Rodge,” Loren almost begged, “Please keep your mouth shut. Just for today.” This was right out of his and Ari’s daydreams. They might as well have been reliving history from the Ages of War.
“Me?” Rodge asked innocently, then said, “Look: there’s that First Mage guy with all the prediction problems.” Across the road, the northwest corner was apparently reserved for Merranics, milling around behind the wall of lean Drae like a herd of turkeys hemmed in by hunting hawks. They could see Banion over there with Perraneus, still in his long blue robes, from the glimpses they got between his oversized countrymen.
The Drae lined the roads in from every direction, Ari noticed, and wondered with awe how the Realms could ever have been in danger with that kind of fighting force available. Their numbers must have been low, too, back then, worn thin by the attrition of war.
