by Helen Lowe
The woman on the Duke’s right wore the deep blue robe and veiled headdress of a priestess of Imuln, while the man to his left was younger and richly dressed in a wide-sleeved tunic of mulberry silk. The sleeves were turned back to show their embroidered black lining, and the full tunic was slit from thigh to ankle, revealing the fashionable hose beneath, with one leg mulberry like the robe, the other black.
A peacock, Malian thought, amused to find a style favored by the great nobility and merchant princes of the River here. She wondered if this was Lord Hirluin—although the Tenneward steward had said that he was still on the Eastern March. The mulberry-clad rider looked taller than the Duke and was fairer of face. More like Audin, Malian decided, with the same mouse-brown hair and clean-cut features, although she could see that one cheekbone was curiously flattened. By a blow, she supposed. Unusually, though, for an Emerian, this man wore his hair long, and flowing loose down his back.
“Ombrose Sondargent,” said Kalan. “It has to be.”
“With that hair,” Girvase agreed. He and Kalan had come down the stairs together, and despite having washed and tidied, both still looked like young men who had spent three weeks on a dusty road.
“He’s the Duke’s champion, as well as his nephew,” Kalan told Malian privately. “He’s won the tourney crown for the past three years,” he added aloud, “ever since he returned from campaigning in Lathayra.”
“The Sondargent wolf.” Malian heard Elite Cairon’s voice in memory, as he handed her the Shadow Band’s reports on Emer. “He gained the epithet in the border confrontation with Lathayra six years ago, where he rose to command the Emerian troops. Although the wolf is also the symbol of his mother’s house, the Sondcendre.”
“Somehow, though,” Malian said, as Ser Amain spoke to the Duke, “I don’t think they’re here because of us. We may even be in the nature of an unwelcome surprise.”
If they were unwelcome, you would not have thought so from the Duke’s manner when he came into the house to greet Ghiselaine and Lady Bonamark. Both he and Ser Ombrose embraced Audin, calling him kinsman, and the Duke listened to the account of the welcome cup incident with a heavy frown. “No messenger reached me,” he said. “Who did you send?”
“Two of my knights-at-arms, Your Grace,” Lady Bonamark replied. The morning sunlight highlighted her harried expression. “Both reliable men.”
The Duke looked at Ser Ombrose. “You had better set an investigation in train. And send for Lord Tenneward so he can put his house to rights.” He turned back to Ghiselaine as his champion saluted and went outside. “I am very glad to find you well, Countess, even if we did not know of your situation before arriving here.”
Ghiselaine bowed, acknowledging the courtesy. “I am well,” she replied formally, “and we shall all be glad to complete our journey. But if I may ask, Duke Caril, what has brought you and so large a company into the Tenneward, so early in the day?”
Just for a moment, Malian—who was watching from the side of the hall with all the Normarch knights except Audin—thought the Duke looked as harassed as Lady Bonamark. But the expression, if she had read it correctly, was gone in an instant and Caril of Emer smiled, apparently completely at his ease. “We ride to meet an embassy,” he said, “guests who have come to enjoy our Midsummer fair and the tourney.”
“An embassy, sire?” Audin asked. Malian wondered if they were all thinking the same thing: that it must be a great embassy indeed for the Duke to ride out and meet it himself. And why, she wondered, include a high ranking priestess of Imuln in the party, when it was more customary for the priests of Serrut to participate in affairs of the world?
The Duke nodded. “Emer has been greatly honored,” he replied smoothly. “For the first time, a queen of Jhaine is attending our Midsummer festival.”
“Jhaine!” exclaimed Audin. Lady Bonamark and Ghiselaine looked equally startled. “But why, sire? And surely they’d come from the south, not via the Tenneward?”
The Duke’s expression, resting on his nephew, was affectionate. “They are coming from the south, but using quiet routes: first north through the southern March, then east across Wymark and Vert. Because the main roads are choked at this season, Ombrose suggested that they detour through Maraval wood and enter the city by river barge—the same route as the Lady Countess.” He nodded to Ghiselaine. “As for why—” The powerful shoulders shrugged. “The world is changing, even in Jhaine it seems. Lathayra’s a morass of warring entities, and Jhaine’s relationship with Aralorn has always been uneasy, so it’s not surprising they’d look to us. They seem as interested in expanding trade as anyone else, and say they want to strengthen the bloodlines amongst their horse herds. And with Imuln’s worship so strong in Jhaine, Midsummer’s the logical time to send their embassy.”
“A queen of Jhaine.” Audin still looked bemused, but visibly pulled himself together. “I do see why you’re riding to greet her yourself, sire.”
The Duke nodded. “Under the circumstances, it may be best if you join us. The queen has rested a day at Highvert, but we’re to meet her on the far side of Maraval wood at noon. If we ride together, those of us entering Caer Argent by water will form one party—while the contestants can swell our escort and still make their way to the tourney camp later today.”
Lady Bonamark looked as though she would much prefer to bypass the honor of another long ride to welcome the Queen of Jhaine, although she did not say so. Ghiselaine glanced quickly at Alianor. “I would gladly join Your Grace,” she said, “but Alianor Sondazur has been ill and needs to rest.”
“Sondazur, eh? Well, we’ll see what Ombrose can contrive.” The Duke’s gaze switched from Alianor to the rest of the company. “Who else is in your Normarch party?”
Audin glanced at Lady Bonamark, but she gave him a little nod, so he made the introductions: this was Lady Ilaise Sondlyon; this Ser Raven, Lord Falk’s captain. The Duke’s gaze lingered on Raven, his scrutiny keen, before he moved on to speak briefly with each of the new-made Normarch knights in turn. “And this,” Audin said finally, “is Maister Carick, the cartographer from Ar.”
Malian bowed, managing scholarly competence but no more than that, and the Duke surveyed her, the keenness back in his expression, before extending his hand. “Maister Carick. I am very glad to have you with us here in Caer Argent at last—and hope there will be no more of the adventures we have been throwing at you.”
“From what Ser Amain tells me,” Ser Ombrose said, reentering the hall, “it was more a case of the maister throwing himself into the thick of yesterday’s events.” He looked brutally strong beneath the mulberry silk, Malian thought, with a barrel chest and powerful breadth of shoulder. His cool, blue-gray gaze rested on her briefly before he turned to the Duke. “A serious business, sir, which warrants my staying here—if you can spare me?” He nodded when the Duke agreed, and then a second time when the plan to merge the two companies was set out.
“That would make things easier to manage, at least until Tenneward and more of our own arrive from Caer. But if Lady Bonamark were prepared to stay and lend her knights to my own handpicked few, there’s no reason why the damosel Sondazur could not rest here. Not the Countess, though.” The champion did not so much as glance at Ghiselaine. “Best if she rides with you.”
“In which case,” the Duke said briskly, “if we’re going to make the Maraval rendezvous and avoid insulting our royal guest, we had better get on the road.”
They did not leave straight away, of course. The Duke’s retinue was still eating breakfast, while the Normarch company had to saddle their horses and change into apparel suitable for riding to meet a visiting sovereign. Malian clambered into the Normarch wagon and rummaged amongst her gear, pulling on a clean linen shirt and the cartographer’s best black coat and short, River-style cape. The coat was fine wool and the cape black velvet. Both would be hot once the early morning coolness burned away, and Malian could almost feel the sweat trickling in anticipation. She though
t briefly about wearing Nhenir, which she had retrieved from Ghiselaine’s rooms, but chose a wide, flat-crowned hat to keep off the sun.
“Besides,” she told the helm, “I need you to keep an eye on things here.”
“I don’t think any enemies will return now,” Nhenir replied. “Not after last night.”
“Maybe, but I don’t want anything happening to Alli. And,” Malian added, closing the wagon flap behind her, “think on to this and listen for any whisper: what is one of the nine priestess-queens of Jhaine doing in Emer at all? Because every record the Band has, few as such reports are, indicates that the priestess-queens are not only forbidden to leave Jhaine, but also their own temple complexes, under penalty of death.”
Chapter 33
Maraval
“Except in a Great Year,” Raher put in, surprising everybody. “Or to make a Great Marriage, whatever that is.”
He and the rest of the Normarch company were waiting in the shade of the lodge as Malian crossed the stable yard to rejoin them, dodging the groups of chattering, strolling courtiers and tall horses being walked up and down. Audin, his brows knitted into a frown, had just echoed Malian’s observation to Nhenir—that he hadn’t thought the priestess-queens could leave Jhaine.
Now the others all stared at Raher, while Jarna handed Mallow’s rein to Malian.
“Raher—” Kalan broke off, shaking his head. “How do you know anything at all about Jhaine?”
Raher shrugged. “M’father’s Lord Castellan of Westermarch.”
“Which is not,” Audin pointed out, “located anywhere near Jhaine.”
“But it’s got a border with Lathayra,” Raher said. He finished the last of his breakfast bread and cheese and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “And the Lathayrans have a long border with Jhaine. They like to raid across it, too, although the horsemen of Jhaine make that a risky proposition. Anyway, that’s what the Lathayrans say about Jhaine: it has to be either a Great Year or a Great Marriage—otherwise no one leaves, from the queens down to the commoners.”
“Except for the Jhainairian auxiliaries we spoke of yesterday,” Girvase said
“So what in Serrut’s name,” Ado asked plaintively, “is a Great Year? Or a Great Marriage either, for that matter?”
A series of shrugs was his only answer. Malian patted Mallow’s neck as the Duke emerged onto the lodge steps, with Ser Ombrose flanking him on one side and Ghiselaine on the other. “Ghiselaine looks beautiful,” Jarna said softly.
Both Kalan and Audin glanced around as though surprised by her comment, or perhaps they were just surprised that Jarna had made it. Although it was clearly true: Ghiselaine looked every inch the hereditary ruler of Ormond and the future Duchess of Emer. Her traveling dress was a plain dark blue, but the color set off the red-gold sheen of her hair and brilliance of her complexion. Behind her, Ilaise was carrying a folded silk mantle, its sapphire ground worked with flowers in silver and gold and green, which Malian guessed would only be donned for the actual meeting with the Queen of Jhaine.
“Daisies for Imuln,” Audin said, almost as softly as Jarna, but was summoned forward to join the Duke as the cavalcade bustled to mount. A trumpeter blew a merry note and the lancer vanguard moved off down the drive. Duke Caril saluted Ser Ombrose, who remained behind on the steps, then followed the lancers, with the whole colorful, richly clad gathering falling in behind him. Once out the gate, a holiday mood took over and everyone was talking and laughing as they clattered onto the Argenthithe bridge. The horses’ hooves rumbled on the timber span while the waters of the Argent flashed and glittered a long way below—and then they were across and weaving their way through narrow country lanes, with Maraval wood a distant smudge along the horizon.
Vertward proper lay on the far side of that wood, Malian knew, with Wymark and the Southern March beyond. And beyond that again, Lathayra and the plains of Jhaine—and finally, Ishnapur. She felt the old magic of the names, luring her, and wondered if she would go there yet, on her quest for the Derai Lost. But no flicker of foreknowledge answered the thought, not like the flare that had burned through her when the Shadow Band received word of the strange conflagration in Aeris.
Mostly, Malian let the others talk as the miles fell behind them and Maraval forest rose up ahead like a green cloud. The Normarchers conversation was much the same as on the road south, discussing the tournament and the events they should all enter. The Caer Argent courtiers spoke of the tourney, too, although their speculation was centered around whether there would be any serious challengers to Ombrose Sondargent for the champion’s crown, and who the champion might crown as tourney queen. The formal betrothal of Lord Hirluin and Countess Ghiselaine at Midsummer was touched on briefly—or rebetrothal since the original vows had been made for them as children—but every conversation soon returned to the state visit by the Jhainarian queen.
No one, Malian decided, appeared willing to accept the embassy at face value. Almost all the courtiers seemed convinced that Jhaine was opening up some diplomatic game, although none expressed any clear idea as to what the game might be. On the fringe of the woods, bored with their chatter, Malian began to whistle a bargee’s song from the River beneath her breath. Raven, who was riding beside her at that point, glanced sideways, and Malian shrugged, answering the look. “I used to work on the River during the summer. Lots of students do. It’s a fine way to see the other cities—and you get paid for the work.”
“Hard work,” was all Raven said, and she nodded, pushing back her hat as the road took them deeper into the woods. Gradually the cavalcade fell silent, and the only sound was the clip of their horses’ hooves, the song of birds, and the deep susurration of the myriad leaves overhead. The canopy was more open here than in the forest surrounding the Rindle and the hill fort, with sunlight slanting across the road. Malian turned her head from side to side, aware of the same stirring of power that Maister Carick had encountered on the Northern March.
Here the sensation was light-edged, like the leaves overhead, but Malian could feel the dark peace of roots reaching deep beneath the sun-warmed earth. As though Emer itself is aware, she thought, trying to catch the elusive music that comprised light, and shifting leaves, and earth, all woven together. A magpie screeched, startled by their passage, and the sound scraped across her awareness, splintering the green murmur. Sunlight lanced down between two trees and she blinked, seeing a figure outlined against the afterdazzle: a tall figure in supple white leather with a bow across one shoulder.
But you’re dead, Malian thought, staring: they told me you were dead—and the same ache that had closed her throat when she knelt beside Falath in her dream made it difficult to swallow. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again the image had become a woman in battle-rent armor, with a crown of stars in her dark hair.
You’re definitely dead, Malian told the apparition, at least on this plane of existence. Yet the armring of Yorindesarinen burned, cold beneath her sleeve. And this time Malian was sure it was the trees that shifted, shutting out both the apparition and the shaft of sun. The magpie jabbered again and her head swam as memories flooded in, not just of the Oakward and the Northern March, but of Jaransor five years before, and Rowan Birchmoon calling winter into its power.
What if it isn’t just Jaransor? Malian asked herself, fighting to stay upright in the saddle. What if it’s all of it—if the whole of Haarth is aware at some level, in a way the Derai have never encountered before?
She wanted to remain stock-still, listening for the turning of the world that she had first heard clearly on a long-ago night in Jaransor. But Mallow kept moving forward and she could see the flank of Raven’s horse, keeping pace. Slowly, the sounds of the road intruded again: the clip of hooves, the jingle of metal, and the murmur as one courtier said something to another about lunch. Behind her, Ado made a joke, and Malian smiled automatically as the others laughed. Even Raven smiled slightly, although he shrugged at the same time. “An old joke,” he said, �
��but a Midsummer favorite.”
And everything is new at Midsummer. Malian knew both the saying and the joke from the River. Except here in Emer the saying was made new, although she supposed it meant the same thing. A time of making—which was why so many marriages were celebrated as part of the festival, as well as treaties signed, binding lordly houses, and contracts made between merchants. She glanced around and saw that Kalan, riding beside Ado, was watching her with a slight frown. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Does he know about this possible aspect of Emer and of Haarth? she wondered. How much of their lore have the Oakward revealed to him? Or is the land’s awareness—if it is aware—so fundamental that they would no more speak of it than they do of breathing? Malian shook her head, resolving to put her questions to him later. “It’s very warm now,” she said, as if answering his query, “even here beneath the trees.” She used her hat to fan her face, emphasizing the warmth, and guessed that Kalan would sense her evasion but not press further.
In the end, they rode for nearly three hours before the road finally ran out of Maraval wood into blazing sunshine, on the crest of the Vertward down country. The landscape ahead was a patchwork of wheat and barley fields, interspersed with orchards, hop gardens, and neat rows of vines. The late morning air was languid, almost sleepy with heat, and dust rose in a long plume above the road to the south.
“It must be time for lunch,” Ado said, and Malian felt her own stomach grumble in agreement as she thought longingly of shaded inn yards and cool beer. The Duke, though, had drawn rein and shaded his eyes, watching the approaching dust plume. After a moment he pointed to a knoll several hundred yards ahead, lying just clear of the road, and the horses started down the hill.
