by Helen Lowe
Craning further out again, Carick saw figures wheeling and maneuvering on horseback beneath the castle walls. He spotted archery butts as well, and guessed that these must be the garrison’s training fields. A working stronghold, he thought, and remembered what had been written in a cramped hand on one of the few maps of Emer to be found in Ar. Normarch, the notation had said, and then, in even smaller letters: the Duke’s bridgehead in the north.
“Do you like what you see?” Malisande had entered so quietly that Carick was taken by surprise and hit his head on the window arch. She laughed and then apologized as she came to stand beside him.
Carick rubbed his head. “I’m glad you weren’t with the outlaws or they’d have caught me on the first day.”
She shrugged a little, as if to say she doubted that. “So what do you think of Normarch, after your River cities?”
He hesitated, then decided it was best to be honest. “It does seem a little small.”
“All River visitors think that,” Malisande said, but without rancor. “Not that we have many of them. And even our own people, those who have been to Caer Argent, say that Normarch is nothing by comparison.” She smiled. “We had some Ishnapuri travelers through a while back, and you could see they thought it was like nothing on earth.”
“They would, of course,” Carick agreed. “River merchants who travel there say that the Perfumed City is larger than Ij, Ar, and Terebanth put together.”
“All the same,” the dark-haired girl replied, “it is Normarch that holds the north of Emer for the Duke. Most of the outlying settlements would be lost inside a year without the garrison here to protect them from renegades.” Carick tried to keep his expression neutral, but she shook her head. “You are thinking that you didn’t see much of that protection as you came through the pass, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes,” he said. “Or in the adjoining lands, for that matter.”
Malisande sighed. “Audin says you are a cartographer?” She paused as Carick nodded. “You must look, then, at the Castellan’s maps of the Northern March and see how vast it is. Normarch is stretched protecting even the established settlements, so we rely on travelers and merchants going through the pass in large, well-armed companies. Even those Ishnapuri merchants had Jhainarian mercenaries with them.”
Young women in Ar, thought Carick, never talked about things like this—or the young men either, he reflected after a moment. “Surely, you must be safe here, though?”
She shrugged again. “You only have to see the aftermath of one raid to know how fragile our security is. But you have already learned that for yourself.”
Carick shivered. “Yes. It’s not at all like the River, where it’s quite safe to travel the Main Road, even on your own, because of the Patrol.”
“Ah. Yes. Your Patrol. I’ve heard of them.” Malisande was thoughtful. “Sadly, there’s nothing like that in Emer, perhaps because we are not so rich as your River.”
Carick had not thought of it in terms of wealth before, but he supposed that someone must pay the Patrol and that their hire would not come cheap.
“Is it true though,” Malisande went on, “that the Patrol are really demons bound to the River’s service and that is why they never show their faces to anyone?”
“What?” Carick stared. “Is that what people say here?”
“Some do,” she replied. “Is it not true, then? Have you seen their faces?”
“Well, not exactly. They do always keep their visors lowered and no one is allowed inside their forts, but—” Carick shook his head. “You can see their mouths and chins below the visors, and they speak just like everyone else. You look disappointed,” he finished, starting to grin.
“The demon story has always sounded exciting,” Malisande admitted. “Still, I suppose the thousand or so years the Patrol has served in the River lands would be a long time to suppress their demon natures. And it’s probably just as well they aren’t demons, since I think Raher and Girvase are planning to go over there one day and find out. Challenge them, if need be.”
Carick rolled his eyes, because it sounded exactly like what he could remember of Raher and Girvase from his night ride.
Malisande laughed. “They’re true Emerians, always wanting to challenge someone—and terribly disappointed to miss the chance of action against the outlaws pursuing you.” She sobered quickly. “Mind you, normally we wouldn’t send out a party that was all squires and newer recruits. But Ser Rannart’s dealing with a major renegade insurgency further west, and the Castellan was just about to lead a routine patrol south and escort our new maister back from Bonamark on his return, so he had no choice. Not once he decided that you were overdue.”
Carick was frowning. “How did the Castellan know that, though?” he asked.
Malisande looked surprised. “The Duke sent him word to expect you, of course. We’ve had a lot of heralds coming through lately, too, not just going to Caer Argent, but on into Aralorn, Lathayra, maybe even as far as Ishnapur. One pair bore a message from your university in Ar, saying that you were about to set out.”
She seemed to know a great deal about it, Carick thought, for a girl who worked in an inn. Although—and here he took in details such as her smooth hands and confident manner—he was suddenly less sure that was her role, even when she picked up his breakfast tray. “Do you live here at the inn?” he asked, testing the waters.
Malisande shook her head. “I am one of the Countess Ghiselaine’s companions, from the Girls’ Dorter. But we are all here to learn, and Manan has the greatest knowledge of herbs and healing north of Caer Argent, maybe even in all Emer—as well as being the finest cook. So we all take our turn working with her.”
“I’m surprised she doesn’t live in the castle itself, then,” Carick said. In Ar, someone that learned would almost certainly be at the university or living in the palace.
“Oh, she’s much too independent for that. They all are, Erron and Herun and the others.” Malisande moved toward the door, her smile sly. “The rumor is that she was the Castellan’s lover once, when they were young, and that’s why he lets her do pretty much as she pleases.” She paused before letting herself out. “You should come down now.”
I suppose I should, Carick thought. By the time he made his slow, stiff way down the stairs, Malisande and the tray had disappeared, so he walked out into the sunlit yard. The cobbled area was still empty, although he could hear voices from both kitchen and buttery. He hesitated, then moved toward the stable and the sound of hammer blows from the smithy beyond. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior and make out a heavily muscled man in a sleeveless jerkin shoeing a horse, while a lad held the animal’s head. When the man put the horse’s hoof down, Carick recognized the squire called Hamar. He understood, too, seeing the strength in those arms and shoulders, why the young man had been able to clear the stone barrier from the croft doorway so easily.
Hamar came forward when he saw Carick standing in the entrance, while the lad stroked the horse’s nose and whispered in its ear. “So you’re awake at last,” the squire said. “Even knowing what you’d been through, we were all starting to worry.”
Carick smiled ruefully. “We’re not used, on the River, to dodging outlaws through wild country.”
“You did well,” Hamar said. He made a gesture toward the horse. “I don’t suppose you have to shoe your own horses either, on the River?”
“Not if you’re a scholar,” Carick admitted. “A knight in such wild country would have to, though. I can see that.”
“And make and mend armor as well,” Hamar agreed. “But I enjoy the work and the inn forge is less busy than the castle’s, which is why I come down here.”
Carick nodded, looking around the forge and then back to the horse, which was a tall, red roan destrier, bred to carry the weight of its own armor, as well as that of a knight, into battle. “Is this a great horse? The breed for which Emer is famous?”
“The finest in all
Emer,” said Hamar. “But that’s because Jarna trained him.” He grinned at the lad holding the horse, and Carick, looking more closely, realized that the boy was in fact the girl squire who had formed part of his escort to Normarch.
“Hello,” he said, and the girl nodded back. “Did you really train him? What’s his name?”
For a long moment, Carick thought Jarna was not going to answer, but then she met his eyes, a quick shy look. “Madder,” she said finally. “It’s another way of saying ‘red.’ ” Her voice was low-pitched, almost husky, and with a cap over her thick plait, she was broad shouldered and flat chested enough to pass as a boy. She smiled now and stroked the horse’s nose again. “We all have a gift for horses, in my family. That’s what my grandfather says. Although Hamar has the gift, too,” she added.
Hamar shook his head. “No. I’m good with horses, but you are something more, Jarn.”
This time Jarna did just shrug and look away, but Carick noticed that she flushed as well. “Ser Bartrand and the others,” he said. “Did they return safely?”
“Ay,” Hamar nodded. “The wolfpack tried to slip away but there was no chance of that with Erron on their trail. Outlaws never stand and fight against numbers,” he added, “not if they can avoid it.”
“A true wolfpack, then,” Carick said, “going after the straggler.”
Hamar hesitated. “It was not wise of you, venturing the Long Pass alone.” Then he grinned. “But we’re all keen to hear your story in detail, especially what happened before you met Ser Raven.”
For the adventure of it? Carick wondered, remembering Raher. Or to learn more about those who preyed on this wild country, or perhaps both? He returned a noncommittal answer, but accepted Hamar’s invitation to visit the squires’ practice yards once Madder was shod.
The yards turned out to be the training field he had seen from the inn, broken up into distinct areas by brushwood and stiles. Squires using swords and shields were training by the castle gates, while others practiced archery at the butts. Beyond the butts lay the horse field where squires in full armor—Carick saw, amazed—were practicing vaulting onto and off their horses. Other riders were charging up and down long rows of brush hedges, ditches, and hurdles, clearing the obstacles and hacking at straw-bale and wooden targets set up on poles. The targets were constructed to swing around and buffet any rider who missed a stroke, unhorsing more than one.
Carick soon realized that the skill of the horse was as crucial as that of the rider—and that some horses stood out from the rest. Audin’s black was one, and Hamar’s bay another, but the big roan called Madder was outstanding. He said as much to Raven, when the hedge knight came to stand beside him.
Raven nodded, still studying the riders. “You’ve a good eye,” he said finally. “In two days, I haven’t seen the roan put a foot wrong. Long, long hours have been put into training him and this is where it shows.”
“Jarna rides well, too,” said Carick, “as though she and the horse were one.”
“Ay,” said Raven. He continued to follow Jarna’s progress along the field. “She’s no sluggard with her weapons either, but there are others who’re better. Hamar and Girvase, in particular.”
They continued to watch for some time, and Carick wondered what it would be like to grow up in a world where every man lived by the sword and the rule of law was uncertain. “I take it,” he said eventually, “that the Lord Castellan is still not back?”
Raven shook his head. “And Ser Bartrand says that we are both to remain at Normarch until he returns—although I get a bunk in the barracks, rather than a fine room at the inn.” He grinned when Carick opened his mouth to disclaim. “I’ve had far worse quarters, including bivouacs in the wild.”
They both moved aside as more riders clattered past, before Raven left to watch the ground fighting. Carick, fascinated, stayed to watch the squires gallop along the field and shoot at targets with recurved bows, their chargers’ hooves a drum roll across the hard-packed earth. Heavy cavalry, he reflected, was the essence of what the River meant when it spoke of Emerian knights—as well as contributing much of the glamor inherent in their fame.
Over the following days, Carick found that many aspects of the life were far from glamorous. The squires were always well up before he opened his shutters, and spent their mornings on the training ground. The training was hard and relentless, with most squires always sporting bruises, and several at any one time asking Manan to treat cuts or sprains. When they were not training, or making or mending armor and weapons, the squires had what they called “book lessons.” These sounded fairly rudimentary to Carick, but many of the squires seemed baffled as to why the Duke should consider it necessary for them to read, write, and figure numbers at all. The damosels, he learned, joined the squires for these lessons, but practiced their own weaponry in separate classes.
He was surprised, the first afternoon he climbed the hill to watch the girls ride up and down the long field, shooting and hacking at the dummies, to find Raven there before him. Occasionally the hedge knight would point out some finer technical point for his benefit, but he said little until half the young women dismounted to train on foot. “Now,” said Raven, “you will see something unknown on the River, the Emerian lady’s pike—although most people just say ladyspike.”
Carick had to admit that the weapon, a wickedly curved blade on a long staff, was impressive. He watched, fascinated, as the girls attacked and counterattacked under the instruction of a short, dark woman with a spiral of blue tattoos across chin and cheeks. The instructor’s name, Carick learned, was Solaan, and she was as cool and businesslike as Raven, although considerably older. Her cropped hair was gray as iron, and there were deep tracks around both eyes and mouth in her weather-beaten face.
“The tattooing?” Carick murmured to Raven. “Is that usual here?”
“She is of the Hills,” Raven replied, as though that explained everything. “More importantly, she is a master of this weapon.”
“Yes,” agreed Carick. He could see that both blade and staff were equally a part of the weapon, and guessed that the length would give considerable advantage against a sword, whether wielded from the ground or horseback.
“It will gut a horse as easily as a man,” said Raven, when he voiced this thought. “Numbers will always tell in the end, but skilled users can hold a defensible position for some time. We’ve attracted attention,” he added, and Carick saw that several damosels had broken off and were riding over. The young women rode as lightly as the squires, most with long braids trailing from beneath caps of leather or steel. Only the central rider was bare headed, sitting straight and slender in the saddle while the bell of her red-gold hair lifted in the breeze.
“Ghiselaine, Countess of Ormond,” Raven murmured, although Carick had already guessed: she sat amongst the other riders like a queen among her knights. He also knew that the youthful countess was famous for her beauty—and this girl was undoubtedly beautiful, with clear, apricot-tinted skin, a perfect oval face, and fine gold-brown eyes beneath arched brows. Like a painting of beauty, Carick thought, as he sketched a bow. He felt out of his element, awkward as a boy rather than a graduate of the university in Ar, and was amazed and a little resentful at the grace of Raven’s bow. “Countess,” the hedge knight said.
“Ser Raven,” the countess replied. She leaned down, holding out a gloved hand to each of them in turn. “Maister Carick. I am Ghiselaine of Ormond. Welcome, both of you, to Normarch.” She straightened, smiling. “We are honored, sers, that you watch our training.”
“It never pays to overlook any potential opponent.” Raven glanced at Carick. “As the outlaws found when they underestimated the maister here.”
“So we hear,” said the young woman on Ghiselaine’s right. At first, seeing her slight build and the black hair below her cap, Carick had thought she was Malisande, but realized his mistake when she drew near. This girl had smoke-gray eyes in a dark face and spoke with a lilt to every
word. “Girvase says that you did remarkably well, to outwit the wolfpack for so long.” The smoky eyes studied him, as though trying to assess the substance behind his story.
“Well, if Girvase says it,” murmured the young woman beside her, then held up a hand as if to ward off a blow. “A jest, that is all, Alianor.” Her speech was languorous, almost a drawl, and her gaze a little sleepy. Carick thought she looked a lot like Ghiselaine, although her hair was fairer and the sleepy eyes blue. “We are all longing to hear the tale firsthand, both your part, Maister Carick, and Ser Raven’s, too, of course.” She glanced at them from beneath downcast lashes, smiling when Carick flushed. He thought Raven looked amused, but his rescue came from another quarter.
“No games, Linnet,” said Ghiselaine, and a yellow-haired damosel giggled. “It was I who wished to introduce myself, Maister Carick, because we have heard so much of the great university in Ar. I am honored to meet one of its scholars.” Her smile included Ser Raven. “Knights are not so rare in Emer, alas, but I am grateful that you were able to help the maister reach us safely.”
“It was not the easiest welcome to our country,” Alianor said, her gaze still measuring Carick.
“No,” said Carick. He was wondering why Malisande was not there, since she had said that she was one of Ghiselaine’s companions. “Although,” he added boldly, “it may have been an accurate one.”
Alianor nodded. “Perhaps, for these border lands. Things are different in Caer Argent and the inner wards, and even the Marks are more settled these days.”
Solaan shouted, calling the damosels back to their training, and they wheeled away, waving their farewells. “So now you’ve seen her,” Raven said. “The Lily of Ormond.”
“She’s betrothed to the Duke’s son, isn’t she?” Carick asked. “Lord Hirluin?”
