by Byron Preiss
“The caravan should have reached the Southland border by now,” Tolchin was saying. “I do not know what persuaded Hawkwind to send the troops to safeguard it, but I am glad that he did.”
“The hill brigands will not be so ready to rob us this time,” Alora agreed. “A very good thing, too. Our losses were adversely affecting the principal rate between our merchants and those of the Southland.”
Tolchin nodded slowly, as if troubled. “It was a helpful concession, those soldiers,” he said. “Our country cannot live without trade. It is time Hawkwind helped us. I had been worried since the confrontation we had over the hunting of rare birds in the Northweald. Now I am disposed to give the young man a chance, if for no other reason than out of respect for my cousin Ephrion. Do you agree, Alora?” His wife did not respond. She had noticed the familiar face of a banker in the crowd, and was speculating on a way to clear up the rumors of his illegitimate affairs.
The procession continued through the forest, which was filled with sounds of dancing, music, and singing. Those who did not walk with it crowded the streets and paths to watch, to wave, and to shout cheers, for, while the people might have mixed feelings about Hawkwind, they were of one mind about Kiorte. Word of the windship rescue had spread, added to other tales of the Prince’s bravery. He was a hero this day, and many ribbons and flowers were tossed in his direction.
Not all who watched the procession cheered. From a vantage point in a tree near the Dais of Beron, the Northwealdsman Willen watched the people of Overwood approach. It would not be long now, he told himself. Soon both he and the adoring populace would see just what sort of Monarch Hawkwind really was. The archer was still quite nervous about the imminent confrontation, but he put that in the back of his mind as much as he could. He had come to tell Monarch Hawkwind the message of the Northweald, and if his speech was too simple for the tastes of the Simbalese, it would still be good enough for his mission.
General Vora was not taking well to the walk. “I said from the start it was an error to pick a Monarch who enjoys exercise.” He groaned. “I’ve not seen so much of Simbala since I was a soldier in the troops, thirty years ago!”
Ephrion replied teasingly, “Think how you will fare when you reach my age, Vora! You will have to hire someone with a pushbarrow to take you about!”
“General,” Ceria added with a grin, “you must set an example to your troops!”
“I do,” the General said. “They’ve but to look at my well-fed form and fine clothes, and they’ll be inspired to work their way up through the ranks to a life of luxury as I did!”
At that Hawkwind laughed suddenly—a full-bodied, gusty laugh. Ceria glanced at him in surprise. In recent days she had not heard him laugh at all.
Hawkwind was an enigma to her; even, she knew, as she was to him. They did not purposely keep secrets from each other, but privacy was their nature. Yet they had so much to share, and there was so much to learn. These days there never seemed to be enough time.
When she had first met and loved him, he had been a dark-eyed miner, full of life and laughter. Now he was Monarch of Simbala, no less loving, but often serious and silent now, and much occupied with affairs of state. He had been the first to rise from the proud ranks of those who worked in the caves to join the Royal Family of Simbala. He seemed more at home with the Family than she did. He was, after all, from the Overwood, and she was not. She was Rayan; a Simbalese woman, yes, but a child of the Valian Plains and the wagons, not the central forest. She had the talents of the Rayan, talents alien to the people around her.
There were no words in the Overwood to describe her talents, but people were aware of them nevertheless. Ceria knew that she was envied, but more than envied, she felt that she was feared. This troubled her. Resentment did not have a home among her folk. Rayan people trusted each other; they had to, because nobody else did. There was good reason for this attitude, Ceria admitted; many of the Rayan found their food and lodging through scheming and thievery. Ceria’s family was honest, and she wished that she could cut herself from the Rayan thieves, but how could she? Rayan were Rayan. She had risen to the role of Minister of the Interior despite the Rayan outlaws, and she intended to keep the position. Neither the Royal Family nor the scoundrels of the Valian Plains would drive her from Overwood. She looked at Hawkwind again. They both had many years ahead of them in which things could be changed. Their blood was royal to each other, she told herself, and then laughed. It was a phrase as pompous as those she often heard around the palace.
A small girl heard her laughter and skipped up alongside Ceria and Hawkwind. “May I walk along with you?” she asked shyly. Ceria watched Hawkwind’s reaction. He smiled, reached down, and without breaking stride, swept the child up and set her on his shoulders. “Walk indeed!” Hawkwind said. “Why walk when you can ride?” He carried her, laughing and shouting with delight, for a few strides before setting her down. This proved to be an error in judgment, however. Other youngsters in the parade saw the indulgence, and in short order Hawkwind was surrounded by twenty of them, each of whom waved and clamored and demanded a turn upon the royal shoulders. Hawkwind turned to Ceria with a look of such comical helplessness that she added her laughter to that of the crowd. They proceeded, Hawkwind gamely scooping up one child after another for a pace or two. He was a strong man, but it was over a mile to the Dais of Beron, most of it uphill, and Ceria laughed again when they came at last into view of it and she saw the relief in Hawkwind’s eyes.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” she whispered. “A Monarch cannot be selective in his favors.”
Hawkwind smiled ruefully in acknowledgment.
The parade had now reached the Dais of Beron—a platform made from a gigantic tree stump fully a hundred feet across. Steps led up to it, and a railing surrounded it. In the center was a raised circular podium surrounded by a semicircle of chairs, all carved from the giant’s last sprouts. The entire surface had been heavily lacquered with jewel-inlaid resins; it sparkled and shone, giving off bursts of dim color as the leaves above let in shafts of sunlight.
The crowd filled the clearing. The musicians still played their lilting instruments, and children laughed as they tossed balls to one another or ran about the perimeter of the clearing with small kites in the shape of windship sails fluttering behind them. A contingent of Windriders stood in a group, slightly apart from the rest of the people, arms folded, looking very somber in their dark uniforms, as though they considered and spoke in soft tones of matters beyond the comprehension of those around them.
Monarch Hawkwind and Prince Kiorte mounted the steps to the dais, and the cheerful noise gave way to a respectful, expectant silence. Kiorte sat down, his pale face reposed and contrasting sharply with the midnight blue of his uniform. He did not look at any of the people, including the Windriders. He kept his eyes on the sky, more out of shyness and discomfort than concern with the sky. Hawkwind stepped within the raised circular podium. He turned slowly, surveying the faces in the crowd. Ceria smiled as she watched him, noting how noble he appeared—the elegant simplicity of his robes adding to the effect. The crowd cheered and applauded—unaware that the spotlight would suddenly turn to another intruder in this section of the forest.
Hawkwind spoke carefully. The Royal Family was watching, and he wished to show an improved facility for public speech. “We are here to honor Kiorte,” he said warmly, “Prince of Simbala. For five years, since the death of his father, Eilat, he has led the Brothers of the Wind, defenders of Simbala. The Brothers of the Wind patrol our shorelines and boundaries and convey vital messages the length and breadth of our land, as well as to the Southland nations. Without them, we would have no easy lines of communication. They also keep watch over our beloved forest, to warn of fires and floods and other disasters.”
Some members of the Circle did not feel obligated to be silent while Hawkwind spoke. “Look at Kiorte,” Baroness Alora whispered to her husband. “Even with all his self control, he is una
ble to keep the color from his face.” She smiled with amusement. “The dear boy is embarrassed by all the attention!”
Tolchin was less than amused. “I would not confuse anger with embarrassment. Did you hear Hawkwind’s words? He describes the Windriders as messengers and watchmen of the forest! It is no surprise that Kiorte looks as he does. I would too, were I head of the Windriders.”
General-Emeritus Jibron agreed. “Why does Hawkwind persist in emphasizing these attributes over the Windriders’ military effectiveness?”
Monarch Ephrion, standing in front of both Jibron and Tolchin, turned to them and explained. “There have been no battles for over a century. The Windriders are no longer fighters. We should be thankful for this, Jibron. I think Hawkwind wishes only to remind the people of the Windriders’ continued importance in other areas.”
Jibron and Tolchin nodded, but there was an air of condescension in their response. Lady Eselle, who had been listening to her brother’s words in earnest, turned to her daughter. “Although you and Hawkwind may have your disagreements, you must admit he is painting a glowing portrait of Kiorte.”
Evirae whispered softly to her mother, “He is merely attempting to ingratiate himself with the Circle—as if sycophantic words could make a miner acceptable as Monarch!”
“ ‘Sycophantic,’ is it, daughter? You take your words from Mesor’s mouth these days!” Lady Eselle frowned at Evirae. The Princess returned her attention to the stage.
“In awarding Prince Kiorte our recognition for his service,” Hawkwind was saying, “we recognize the continuous efforts of the valiant Brothers of the Wind in protecting the safety of Simbala.” There were cheers of approval at that.
Ceria, standing in the front of the crowd, looked to either side of the stage at the green depths of the forest. She had no solid reason for doing so—nothing but a feeling of unease that associated itself with the shielding trees. She did not say anything for a moment, and after that it was too late. Above the cheers a voice, slightly tremulous, but clear and strong nonetheless, cried out, “Simbala is not safe!”
All eyes turned toward the trees to the left of the platform. They saw a man dressed in green and brown crouching on the limb of a tree that overhung the dais. Before anyone could move, he hurled what appeared to be two small gray balls toward Hawkwind and Kiorte; they drew back reflexively as the first gray ball, which was a rock, hit the polished surface of the dais with a loud crack and skittered across it, drawing a large scratch in the flawless lacquer. There was a gasp from the crowd at this. The second gray ball bounced along behind the first, tethered to it by a bit of yithe rope. It was a leather sack.
Before the rock struck the glossy surface, several crossbow quarrels from guards at the edge of the dais were in flight toward the tree. Willen drew back into the foliage and changed his position, hiding behind the tree’s trunk.
Simultaneously, realizing her premonition to be correct, Ceria ran up the steps of the dais, putting herself between Hawkwind and the still-rolling rock. Had she thought about it, even for an instant, had she waited to see that the thing hurled was not a weapon, she would not have done it. But she did not wait.
She realized what she had done immediately; she did not need the collective gasp of the crowd and then the low tones of whispered conversation to tell her. The rumor that she was more than an adviser to Hawkwind was now confirmed. Not even Ephrion or the General had rushed to the Monarch’s protection with such alacrity—even the palace guards were only now firing their quarrels. She and Hawkwind shared glances for a moment, and in that moment communication flowed between them—regret and worry from her, and understanding from him.
Jibron turned to Baron Tolchin behind him and flashed a knowing smile. “I told you! They are lovers!”
Tolchin stared at the drama taking place on the dais. “Yes,” he murmured. “You were right. I am sorry to admit it.”
Evirae’s fingers closed on Mesor’s shoulder—he could feel the long nails pressing upon the fabric of his tunic. “Mesor . . .” she hissed. “I see it, milady,” he replied softly. “It is our . . . your chance.”
The guards were loading a second volley of arrows when Hawkwind turned to them. “Let be!” he shouted. “It is not an attack!” He turned to the General, who had moved his mighty bulk onto the dais and picked up the pouch. He opened it, his large fingers fumbling for a moment with the drawstrings, and then removed from it a crumpled garment wadded into a small mass. He did not unfold it, but handed it instead to Hawkwind. As Hawkwind took it, the General looked at his hand. There were flakes of dried blood on his fingers.
Hawkwind quickly examined the bunched cloth. It was the tunic of a small child, ripped and torn, and so covered with dried blood that it was hard to tell what color the cloth had originally been. Again there was silence, save for a sibilance in the back of the crowd, as those too far to see were informed of the pouch’s contents by those closer to the dais.
Hawkwind looked up slowly into the tree. “Show yourself!” he called. “No action will be taken. Show yourself in peace!”
Willen stepped out onto the branches again, this time completely free of the leaves. It was obvious to all that he was a Northwealdsman, and once again a low murmur of conversation began. “A Northwealdsman!” Jibron muttered to Eselle. “I should have guessed as much. Only they would be guilty of such crassness.”
“What do you want, Northdweller?” Hawkwind asked.
Willen held firmly to the branches with both hands and fervently hoped that the weakness in his legs and the trembling in his arms were not too evident. It had been an enormous effort just to throw the rock the necessary distance. His voice, he noted with relief, was steady.
“You know us, Monarch Hawkwind,” Willen said. “The Monarchs before you have known us. We have never asked for your help, but we ask now. We demand retribution! One of our children has been killed in an act of war!”
The crowd voiced its disbelief, then waited for the Monarch’s reaction.
“Do not speak to me of war. Who are the murderers?”
Willen leaned forward and raised his voice, that all might hear. “The Fandorans!” he shouted. “They have come to our shores and killed a child!”
This time, for the first time, there was laughter in the reaction of the crowd. Not much—only a few scattered bursts—but it was enough to make the Northwealdsman angry. “Hear me!” he shouted. “I speak the truth! A Fandoran fishing boat was seen off the coast of my land yesterday morn, and hours after that, the child was found dead—killed as only barbarians would have killed!”
Shouts of ridicule came from members of the gathering.
“Is their reaction yours as well, Monarch Hawkwind? You are of the people!” Willen shouted. “Unlike the Royal Family, you know the difference between simple truth and lies. What I say is true. If you choose to laugh it off, then the Fandorans may not be the only enemy of Simbala.”
This statement was tantamount to treason, and the General and Ephrion, together on the dais, looked at each other in dismay. “I had hoped that he was alone in this,” the General said, “but to risk such words must mean that it is a serious matter indeed.”
Ephrion shook his head sadly. “It is starting again,” he murmured. “The old antipathy between the Northweald and Overwood.”
“We know that the Fandoran farmers and fishers have always envied us,” Baron Tolchin said doubtfully to Alora, “but they couldn’t have taken their resentment to this extreme?”
“Foolishness,” Alora answered. “How could they possibly think that they could war with us and win?”
Willen paid no further attention to the crowd. “Understand me, Hawkwind,” he said. “We of the Northweald demand revenge against the Fandorans! We will hear your answer to the Northweald in three days’ time. If there is no word of justice, you will receive no additional shipments of meat or vegetables from the Northweald!”
Tolchin clenched his fists. “They would not!”
“I think they would,” his wife responded.
“We have heard your terms,” Hawkwind shouted. “Will you not stay and await our decision?”
“You underestimate us again,” said Willen. “We will give you no hostage. If I do not return to my companion by nightfall, he will go back to the Northweald and order the boycott to begin.”
“We shall see,” Hawkwind answered. Then he turned to his aides, who still stood with crossbows cocked. “Let him have safe passage back to the Northweald.” To Willen he continued, “You will hear from us.”
Willen nodded and disappeared quickly into the foliage, with scarcely a rustle to mark his passage.
There was silence for a moment following his departure, as everyone stared at the woods. Hawkwind still held the torn and bloody rag that had been a child’s dress. He stared at it, then laid it tenderly on the edge of the podium. He turned to Kiorte and spoke quietly with him.
Talk and movement suddenly exploded within the crowd. Ceria could hear fragments of excited conversation. “The Northwealdsfolk have always been mad. . . .” “Why would the Fandorans do such a thing?” Hawkwind raised his arms. When quiet was restored, he said, “In view of the circumstances, Prince Kiorte has agreed to a curtailment of the ceremonies. He is hereby proclaimed Commander of the Windshipmen.”
Kiorte quietly accepted the medal, a flawless emerald hanging from a peacock feather. Then they both left the dais, Kiorte by rope ladder from a windship that now hovered above the forest clearing.
The crowd quickly dispersed to carry the news to Simbala. Hawkwind joined the General, Ephrion, and Ceria.
“There were those who said that only woe would come of a miner’s son on the throne,” he said, more to himself than to them. The others were silent, not knowing what to answer. Then Hawkwind sighed, and shielded his eyes with his hand for a moment. “I will need your advice,” he said. “Let us return. There will be little sleep for us in the palace tonight.”
