by Helen Lowe
The knoll, Malian thought, would allow their whole company to be drawn up in formal array without blocking the road—while the rising ground, with the sweep of the hill behind, would give them the advantage over those approaching. She allowed herself a small, inward smile as their cavalcade circled onto the knoll, but noted that the Duke was frowning as he oversaw the disposition of their company. Audin was smiling at something the priestess had said to him, but Malian knew him well enough now to register a faint tightness to his expression and tension in the set of his shoulders. Ghiselaine remained as remotely grave as she had been since the hill fort, although she smiled her thanks when Ilaise brought out the embroidered mantle and helped place it about her shoulders.
Like everyone else, though, Ghiselaine must be wondering what this embassy really meant—especially given the forthcoming renewal of her betrothal vows that had sealed the Ormondian peace. A Great Year: Malian repeated the phrase that Raher had used, feeling its resonance. If what the Marcher youth had said was correct, then it must have something to do with this visit. She kept her expression neutral, but wished the Band’s information on Jhaine had not been so scanty. Then again, it was a long, weary road from Ar to Jhaine, almost as far as the proverbial route from Ij to Ishnapur, so why should the Band concern itself?
Except, she reflected wryly, that the Shadow Band concerns itself with everything that happens in Haarth, at some level. And likes to keep its secrets, even from those taken within the Shadow fold.
The lancer vanguard was drawn up on either side of the road now, in guard-of-honor format, while the rest of the armed escort grouped itself in crescent formation around the Duke and his retinue. The priestess of Imuln remained at the Duke’s right hand, but now Ghiselaine had taken Ser Ombrose’s place to his left, while Audin was on her left again. The Normarch company was placed on the far right of the Duke’s retinue, immediately adjoining the guards, where they had a good view of the Highvert road. The trumpeter unslung his silver instrument as the Duke moved his horse a few paces forward of the main group, his attention fixed on the dust plume ahead.
The noon sun was intense in the open, and sweat prickled down Malian’s back and beneath her arms as the plume crept closer and became a cloud, spreading across the fields to either side of the road. When she glanced around, she saw that both Kalan and Girvase had their eyes shaded, staring into the glare.
“I can see wagons,” Kalan told her, “all richly painted, mainly in burgundy and wheat, and drawn by horse teams, not mules. Plenty of guards,” he added after a moment. “And there’s seven riders out in front. No, eight. They’ve seen us now and are heading this way.” Another pause: “They can ride, too, as though they and their horses are one.”
Soon they could all see them, eight riders galloping out of the dust raised by the caravan behind them. The mounts at either end of the approaching line were a dun and a gray respectively, with two blacks, two bays, and a chestnut in between—and one milk-white steed in the central position. The horses seemed to float above the ground, their manes lifting on the wind of their speed; the riders’ hair, too, flowed out like banners. Sunlight flashed off the armor worn by seven of their number, while the central rider wore crimson beneath a pale mantle that curved against the sky.
“Seven warriors, all men,” Kalan said, confirming what Malian had not yet been sure of, because of their long hair. “The central rider is a damosel.”
The priestess-queen, Malian thought. The warriors’ armor, as they drew closer, looked similar to that of the Lathayrans, although she could see the hilts of the swallowtail swords that the Jhainarian auxiliaries in Ishnapur had made popular throughout the southern lands. The hooves of the approaching horses were a thunder on the Midsummer earth, the rush of their speed unchecked.
“Surely, they’ll stop?” Jarna’s frown matched the Duke’s. “I mean, the horses . . .”
Malian thought the guard of lancers had more cause for worry, although they remained stolidly in place. Audin’s horse tossed its head restlessly, but the Duke continued to sit like a statue. Malian could make out every detail of the oncoming riders now: the slight, graceful girl in the crimson gown, her hair, golden as wheat, streaming back above the mantle; the mail-clad riders, three to one side and four to the other of the milk-white steed, their armor flashing with semiprecious stones and gold inlay. The warriors all wore their hair as long as their queen’s, some in braids woven with jewels, the rest flowing free. Their faces were all young, and clear-eyed, and fierce.
No more than sixteen at most, Malian thought, the queen included. She glanced at the Duke, but his expression gave nothing away, not even when the oncoming wave-crest of horses slammed from full gallop to a sliding, mane-tossing halt immediately in front of the lancers’ honor line. A magnificent display of horsemanship—and they know it, too, Malian thought, taking in the Jhainarians’ carefully expressionless faces. The white horse took a step forward, ahead of the rest, shaking out the length of its silken mane while the young queen remained unmoving on its back.
She wore no crown; needed none, in fact, although a narrow gold fillet circled her brow. A border of goldwork edged the pale mantle, and the broad, linked belt around the queen’s waist was also gold. Like Ser Ombrose’s tunic, her crimson gown was slit for ease of riding, so that everyone could see the tanned legs extending into boots of honey leather, rolled to above the knee. Malian could sense the men around her, all trying not to stare. She would have smiled openly except for the proud lift of that wheat-gold head and the austere young stare—although the queen’s eyes, the shadowed gray of dawn skies, were fixed on the Duke.
The escort warrior on the chestnut horse moved forward, close on his queen’s right. His voice, when he spoke, was clear as the ring of sword on sword. “You are the Duke’s Grace, Caril Sondargent of Emer?”
“I am.” The Duke, too, was unmoving, his manner calm, although Malian thought his eyes had narrowed—but that might just have been the sun’s glare.
“I am Rastem, First of the Seven sworn to Queen Zhineve-An of Jhaine. I greet you, in the name of Jhaine and the Nine Queens.”
The Duke inclined his head. “Welcome, First Rastem,” he said. “I salute you and your brethren.” All seven warriors bowed from their saddles, although none lowered their eyes. “Through you, I salute the Nine Queens and the land of Jhaine.” This time, the young queen also bowed her head.
Slowly, the Duke walked his horse between the line of lancers, until he drew abreast of Zhineve-An on her white horse. His expression was hidden from those behind him as he looked into her face, but for an instant Malian thought the young queen’s austere mask wavered, like the riffle of wind across summer grass. But then she was pulling off her gold-worked glove and extending her hand; the Duke raised it to his lips, and the moment—if moment there had been—was in the past.
The Duke straightened and spoke formally, his hand still clasping the young queen’s: “I welcome you, Queen Zhineve-An, so long awaited, to Emer.”
Chapter 34
The Tourney Camp
“What did he mean, ‘so long awaited’?” Audin demanded, sounding more savage than Kalan had ever heard him. Sparks snapped from their cooking fire as the young lord poked at it hard with a branch of green wood. Audin might have played his part in the formalities that surrounded Queen Zhineve-An’s arrival, including the picnic lunch beneath the eave of Maraval wood—but he had barely spoken since they left the Duke’s party for the tourney ground, remaining withdrawn as they set up camp and ate their evening meal.
Raher grinned. “So that’s what you’re brooding about. You heard the same palaver the rest of us did—probably better, since you were at your uncle’s elbow when he talked about the invitation his grandfather extended to the Nine Queens.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Audin said impatiently. “Duke Caril’s grandfather was my great-grandfather, and every family story agrees that he was hard as nails. He wouldn’t have cared two clipped pennies fo
r it being a Great Year or whatever the pretext for this visit is.”
“The Imulni priestess did say that a Great Year’s auspicious,” Ado put in, “and even more so having a priestess-queen of Jhaine here for the Midsummer ceremony.”
“My great-grandfather wouldn’t have cared for that either.” Audin’s mouth thinned into a disparaging line—and then he grinned for the first time since they had farewelled the damosels at Argenthithe; an unusually sour expression for him, but a grin nonetheless. “I was close enough to see the queen’s eyes when our priestess called her ‘sister.’ ”
Kalan raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think she sees it that way?”
Audin snorted. “Not her. More like ‘scullery maid’ than ‘sister.’ I’m not sure the priestess picked up on it, though.”
Girvase, who had been reclining on one elbow, staring into the flames, sat up. “If you look at a map, you can see why an alliance with Jhaine would have seemed like a sound, long-term strategy in your great-grandfather’s time.”
“Because Jhaine borders Ormond as well as our Southern March?” Audin replied. “But what does it mean, if my uncle’s still pursuing it now that we have the Ormondian peace? And how convenient,” he added, savage again, “for the Jhainarian queen to arrive now, just in time to overshadow the formal ceremony for Ghiselaine and Hirluin.”
The others stirred, glancing at each other uneasily. Kalan shook his head. “Three generations of Emerian dukes have dedicated their lives to ending the war with Ormond. Your uncle would never throw that over for a chancy alliance with Jhaine.”
Ser Raven looked up from the tear he was mending in his saddlecloth. “The Ormondian peace need not preclude an alliance with Jhaine,” he pointed out. “Both countries have a border with Lathayra, which is always turbulent, so it makes sense to talk closer ties. They would have done so long before now, I’m sure, if Jhaine were not so closed.”
“And if Jhaine’s queens can only travel in a Great Year,” Girvase suggested, “maybe this is just their way of doing things?”
Audin continued to frown, before shaking his head. “Maybe,” he said reluctantly.
“Although why send so young a queen,” Kalan said, thinking out loud, “if it’s a serious embassy?”
“Maybe the rest are even younger,” Raher replied impatiently. He jumped to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this queen business anyway. Let’s look around the camp and see who else is here.”
Jarna surprised Kalan by springing up first, although the others were all getting to their feet as well. Only Ser Raven remained by the fire. “I’ve seen tourney camps before,” he said, so they left him there.
The horizon was primrose, the long Midsummer evening deepening to velvet overhead, as they strolled through the gathering of fighting men from throughout the southern realms. The tents varied from the patched to the sumptuous, but otherwise each campsite was much the same, with a fire pit at the front and men sitting or lying around it. Most of the knights were Emerian, with the colors of Ward, Mark, or march fluttering above the central tent. The knights’ personal arms were painted on their shields, which were either hung around the tents or stacked to either side of the entrance.
As well as knights and their squires, the Normarchers passed long- and crossbow archers, staff- and pikemen, all come to test their skill and compete for the rich prizes put up by the Duke and magnates of Emer. Not all the knights they saw were finely dressed, though. Many reminded Kalan of Ser Raven, their clothes and appearance shabby, although what he could see of their weapons looked keen and well oiled. The drunken disorder of tourney camps was a byword, but so far the contestants appeared to be mostly sober—and probably the true wildness would only begin once competitors began to be eliminated.
Most of the Emerians nodded as the Normarchers passed by, but few spoke. The Lathayrans were all camped close to each other, any homeland rivalries temporarily set aside, and they did not even look up, let alone nod. Kalan could feel their watchfulness, though, a twitch between his shoulder blades as he walked by.
“It’s very big,” Jarna said finally. They had worked their way along one arm of the camp and were standing in the shadow of the tourney stands, one of the boxes used by the high nobility soaring above them. The base had been painted crimson, Kalan noted idly, and wondered if the color choice was to honor Queen Zhineve-An.
“Still, we should go all the way around,” Ado said. “See everything at least once.”
But Jarna was staring away from the camp, toward a box on the opposite side of the ground. “That must be where the queen of the tourney sits,” she said. Kalan watched her brow pucker. “Serinna Sondcendre,” she said finally, “Ser Ombrose’s cousin. That’s who was crowned last year, so she’ll be this year’s queen.”
“Ombrose has chosen a different cousin each of the past three years,” Audin said. He paused. “But if he wins this year, it’ll have to be Ghiselaine.”
Because Ser Ombrose was the Duke’s champion and Ghiselaine was marrying the Duke’s heir. After five years, Kalan knew how these things worked in Emer.
“Although,” Jarna said to him, very quietly as the others began to move off, “did you see the way Ser Ombrose looked at Queen Zhineve-An, when they met at Argenthithe?”
Kalan shook his head, because he had not been paying much attention to all the formal exchanges by that stage.
“If he is champion again this year,” Jarna said slowly, “and if he feels he can choose, then I think he’ll offer the tourney crown to her.”
But there’s no point, Kalan thought, since she won’t be coming back here again if all they say of Jhaine is true. And Ser Ombrose isn’t free to choose—not unless he wants to direly offend his uncle and his cousin. Both his cousins, Kalan corrected himself, glancing at Audin, a few paces ahead. “It won’t happen,” he said out loud, and grinned at Jarna. “We all know Gir’s going to win and offer the crown to Alli.”
Girvase shook his head. “You could win just as easily as me.”
“Ser Raven says anyone over a certain skill level can win.” Ado flexed his fingers together, cracking the knuckles. “He says that tourneys are like battles and there’s always an element of luck involved. Even a top knight’s horse can go lame, or a sound weapon break under too much pressure.”
“ ‘Ser Raven says’,” Raher mocked him, then his eyes narrowed. “I wonder if he intends to compete?”
“I don’t think so,” Kalan said. The opening rounds in the tournament would begin the day after tomorrow, and unlike Ser Ombrose—who as last year’s champion would not have to begin competing until the quarterfinals—the Normarchers would have to fight all the elimination rounds. Kalan had heard that was as much a trial by exhaustion as skill. He glanced at Jarna, hoping that she would do all right in the sword ring. Horse archery and the horsemanship trials were her preferred events, but every knight had to enter at least one of the hand-to-hand weapon contests. And like all of them, she had chosen the sword.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, Kalan had to sidestep as Girvase stopped to study another series of tents. “I’ve never seen that style of armor before,” his friend said. “And where’s their insignia?”
The campsite immediately ahead was larger than most they had passed, with close to fifteen men gathered around the fire. Both their armor and faces shouted “Derai” to Kalan, although he didn’t think they were from either the House of Night or of Blood. Swords, then, he told himself: they have to be.
“What are you looking at, boy?” The man who addressed him was a hulking brute, almost as broad as he was tall, and used a heavily accented version of the River dialect. The other warriors said nothing, just watched, their eyes cool on Kalan and Girvase. But it was Audin who answered, shifting so that light from the fire illuminated the oak tree on his breast.
“We have just ridden in, sers, and are seeing the camp. We mean no offense.”
“Careful, Orth.” Another of the warriors, an older man with gray in his th
ick hair and a snarl of scarring around one eye, spoke quietly in Derai. He must have been lucky, Kalan thought, not to have lost the eye to whatever attack left him with the scars. “This one’s of their Blood, here in Emer. Kill him in the contests if you must, but right now you would be breaking the tourney truce we all swore to.”
“Always best to let Blood slay Blood,” another warrior put in, then switched to the River dialect. “No offense taken, young sers.”
“They’re all babes in any case,” the older man said, still in Derai, and the warriors around him grinned, not entirely pleasantly, as the Normarch group moved on. The warrior called Orth snorted.
“If they carry weapons and enter the contest then they must stand as the warriors they claim to be.” His laugh was harsh. “Even the wench if she faces me.”
The older man’s answering tone was indifferent. “I didn’t know they had women warriors here. But she’s not like one of our own. She’ll die quickly.”
“Quicker if she meets Orth,” the other man said, and all the Derai laughed. Kalan’s lips tightened, but hot words would only show that he understood Derai—and if violence followed, he would be just as much in breach of the truce as these Sword thugs.
“Even Ser Ombrose may have his work cut out against that giant,” Girvase observed quietly.
Kalan nodded, knowing Orth would have the advantage of height, reach, and the force he could put behind each blow. “Let’s hope he’s slow on his feet,” he replied. “Many bigger men are.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate my cousin either,” Audin said.
Raher nodded. “M’father fought with your cousin during the Lathayran incursions. He always calls him Ombrose Wolf and says that he was brutal in battle.”
“Ombrose Wolf?” Jarna echoed.
“Another nickname,” Audin explained. “Like the wolf of Sondargent.”
