King's Shield

by Sherwood Smith

  Nightingale had shoved aside papers and dropped his head onto his folded arms. He turned his head and croaked, “True. Had us ringed. No one could get out. We half choked on the smoke.”

  “Do you not see,” Signi said, her gaze wide and intent. “How terrible it is, when all fight? War is terrible, it turns everyone into murderers.”

  “But you yourself told us that your Dag Erkric was going to ensorcel us all, to take our minds and make us fight to his will.”

  “Not everyone,” she said. “Even Norsunder has not such magic, or you can be sure it would have long been used. Just you, the king.”

  “So you believe it is wrong for people to defend the king?” Evred’s voice flattened. “Would that include your king, your prince, who ordered you against us in the first place?”

  “The people in the city would not have been put to death had your people surrendered. Life would have gone on much as it does under you. Perhaps with a greater wargild, I do not know and cannot answer. The warriors would then have gone up the pass, and yes, probably more men would have died there. I don’t have easy answers, I only ask a question that I believe must be asked. Asked again and again. Is it right for everyone to make war without rules? What happens when war is something everyone expects, from baby to grandmother?” She turned away, hands toward Nightingale. “I have been helping Hatha-Runner, I have been teaching him some healer magics, since the Magic Council will not let healers come here.”

  Evred said, “I thought you could not do magic. They would find you.”

  Signi’s smile was painful. “I have done magic all along. Restoring your lockets’ magic most recently, and longer ago your castle spells. I did the same at the Marlo-Vayir castle. But no, those are not the major magics that would have drawn Erkric’s eye. When I washed this city clean, I drew his eye. He now knows I am here, that I stand against him. This does not increase your danger from Erkric. Only mine.”

  Nightingale had gotten to his feet. Signi helped him out.

  Inda fell in step beside Evred. “Tdiran-Randviar’s putting on a dinner for all the captains and the city guild chiefs,” he said. “Here’s a surprise. The new guild master from Lindeth Harbor is coming, as well as the harbormaster. She says that’s something new.”

  “It’s more likely something prudent,” Evred said, in the flat, soft voice he’d used ever since the battle. There had always been a small space of personal reserve between Sponge and the world, back when they were first year scrubs at the academy. Gradually—except for that one moment, just after Noddy died—that space had become a gulf.

  “Prudent?” Inda asked, sliding his right arm out of his grimy sling and flexing his hand.

  Evred gestured, palm up. “I’m certain the impulse is less a truce with us than making certain that they aren’t overlooked when it comes time to rebuild. And I’m morally certain we will be hearing, underneath stirring speeches about heroism, that that time should be as soon as possible.”

  Inda grimaced. He’d thought the news of Lindeth’s harbormaster coming, a first, would be a good sign. “We can deal with that later. Thing is, Tdiran-Randviar says that hoarded stuff is coming out right and left, now that they’re beginning to believe they aren’t in for a summer’s siege. So we’ll have a hot meal, our first in what? I don’t remember, do you?” He didn’t pause for Evred to answer, but ran right on. “I set the loose Runners to work on putting together a report on what supplies we’ve got, what the city’s got. Told them to prepare for the ride.”

  “I’d like to leave at dawn,” Evred said.

  You’d do better with a night’s sleep, Inda thought, but he didn’t say it. Evred had not asked for personal advice, and even when he was small he’d hated to get it. Inda sighed, wondering how to broach the subject without offense. He didn’t think Evred had slept more than half a night, if that, since the battle. Maybe work it in with the last bit of good news? One he’d been saving for the right moment.

  Evred led the way along the back end of the castle, which was full of a jumble of furnishings rescued from below during the flood. Runners, women, servants dashed about, most distracted, some catching themselves short to let them pass, hands snapping to chests.

  Evred, usually so observant, did not appear to see any of them; he walked with his head bent, hands clasped behind him. Inda recognized where they were heading, and grimaced again when they reached the white tower. So he filled the silence with a running list of the logistical chores he foresaw needing attention once they were on the road again, in hopes Evred would himself suggest a day’s wait. Better, a week. They could scrounge food from somewhere.

  No response. They mounted the last round of stairs in silence. The reserve had become a gulf vast as a sea, isolating Evred on an island of his own making.

  “. . . and Rat gave me permission to send the rest of those Cassad dragoons north over the pass for Cama to use, as soon as they’ve gotten a watch or two of rest. Cama had the training of ’em, and Rat admits they’re devoted to Cama. But I was thinking it would be right, wouldn’t it, to send the Khani-Vayir men home? Or do we take them along with Hawkeye’s people to the triumph, so they can hear their leaders sung?”

  “We can give them the choice,” Evred said. “I’d like to keep a few of them as an honor guard for Nightingale. After the triumph they can take him back home.”

  They stepped onto the tower landing. After the days of summer storms and the constant jingle and creak and rumble of men on horses and in wagons, they had reached so still a place all Inda heard was Evred’s breathing.

  Evred walked to the closed archive door and laid his hand against the latch, which was immoveable as stone. His hand slid up the door, then he rested his forehead on his arm.

  Just for a moment. He straightened up, turned, dropped his hand. “We were warned.”

  Inda tried to bridge the gulf. He’d saved what he’d thought the best news, but now he wasn’t sure even this would make a difference. Feeling oddly diffident, he said, “Evred, Kened told me those tunics of ours made it into the bucket in time, and the rips are all sewed. And he has a section of the baths set aside for us. Right now! We can go soak! I don’t know about you, but I really, really want to get rid of this stink. I’m surprised people don’t run out of a room soon’s I walk into it.”

  Evred opened his mouth, his gaze lifting to the smooth white stone ceiling, then to the stairs. He started toward Hawkeye’s old office, saying over his shoulder, “You go along. As you said, there’s much to do. I’ll be there as soon as I see to things here.”

  Inda gave up, and galloped downstairs. He had a plan formulating in his mind. He was so involved with his own thoughts it was his turn not to notice others. He was not aware that his path was clear despite the crowds of people wandering about, either packing, unpacking, rebuilding, carrying, or just recovering. He never saw the stares in his wake.

  He was Indevan-Harskialdna, winner of the battle of Andahi Pass—some said he’d even fought the wing-helmed commander of the Venn into surrender, there on the cliff. He’d hand-picked Hawkeye Yvana-Vayir and Noddy Toraca, who held the Pass with six wings against the entire Venn army, though only two out of each riding survived. But they’d held it for Inda-Harskialdna, who brought them triumph, and glory. Who couldn’t be beaten.

  As yet, only Signi was aware that Hened Dunrend, Inda’s faithful ghost, was gone.

  The children of Castle Andahi were settling into a new cave when Hal and Dvar arrived at the same time from different directions. Over the days after they’d spent coming down off the heights toward the pass in a zigzag, Hal and Dvar had devolved into the forward scouts, as both were fast and observant.

  Han had been sending Dvar out because Dvar hadn’t spoken since that terrible day on the landslide. Instinct prompted Han to give Dvar responsibility, but also something to keep her away from the little ones’ crying. Most of the threes cried a lot now, they wanted their parents, they pushed away Lnand and Han when they tried to hug and kiss
them. Everybody had snot noses, and there weren’t any ensorcelled handkerchiefs. There was listerblossom—Lnand had kept that wrapped in closeweave cloth—but most days they did not dare light fires. Once again they’d heard dogs.

  Dvar and Hal arrived, panting, and Hal said, “The Venn are coming back!”

  And they were. Like before, what looked like a full wing in every line, too many lines to count. Their marching feet sent thrump thrump thrump echoes up the cliff walls.

  The children huddled in their latest cave, the smalls asleep, the older ones silent until at long last the enemy vanished once again.

  That meant one thing: the king had won, just like the Jarlan promised.

  Hal said, “What now?”

  Han smiled for the first time in days. Her lips cracked, but that was all right. She took her forefinger away from her teeth, which had been worrying at the nail. Strange, how she kind of liked crunching grit, when it used to make her shudder.

  “Now,” she said, “we wait for the king.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Evred, do you not see? You’ve already put everyone in place for the perfect solution. If you keep Cama in the north, create another jarlate and if you hold Castle Andahi for Flash’s brother, then the problem is solved. And it seems to me, looking at your map here, that there is easily enough work for two Jarls in that area. In addition, if the Jarl of Ola-Vayir presses you to rescind the exile order I passed on Starand, well, if she is elevated to Jarlan far in the north, she thus regains her honor, yet she cannot possibly make trouble down here. If we give Cama a good pair as Randael and Randviar, they can be trusted for castle guardianship and good relations with the north, and to overrule Starand when necessary.

  Hadand, once again I thank you for your wisdom. It shall be as you say. Now I can go to this dinner with a quiet mind. And tomorrow early we will begin the ride home.

  Evred smiled as he slid the folded note inside the gold case. He’d had far too much business for the locket, and perforce had to trust the golden case. So far there had been no evidence of tampering or of untoward effects.

  “There you are!” Barend entered, scratching his scalp vigorously. “Come on, they’ve been holding one of the hot baths for us. None o’ the Runners’ve had any, and it’s empty, which makes it really unfair to the others waiting.”

  “I did not realize. I will come at once,” Evred said.

  “I did the round of the wounded with Ola-Vayir like you asked,” Barend reported as they rapidly descended the stairs to the basement level.

  “Who needs my attention?”

  “I think those who lasted this long are going to make it. Hatha says the dag gave him some of the healer spells. Nothing is going to put a limb back—Buck’s lost an arm as well as a leg, and he’s not the only one. But she taught him how to seal internal wounds. Those are the worst.” He whistled on a low note. “Like Nightingale’s lung. We didn’t know how bad it was. Hatha said he was a day or so from falling down into a coma. You know what happens then.”

  Evred swore under his breath. He’d not lose another Toraca, that he vowed.

  They reached the enormous natural caverns that formed the baths, a hot spring having long ago been diverted to mix with the water of the underground river. Here they discovered that “complete ruin” meant a spectacular hole in the ceiling, and the men’s side was pretty much unusable, enormous slabs of solid rock having been tossed around like toys. Evred contemplated the power behind such an act.

  The women’s side was nearly intact, the rubble shoved to one side, neat curtains marking off a couple of private bath chambers. The open baths had once accommodated several hundred at either side, now reduced to maybe a hundred. One of the private, curtained alcoves was vigilantly guarded for the Marlovan high command.

  The clean scent of running water caused Barend to suck in a deep breath. “Ah,” he exclaimed, flinging aside the curtain then tearing at his clothes. He hopped and writhed toward the bubbling, steaming pool, throwing coat, shirt, pants, socks, drawers in every direction.

  The Runners had done their best for them all during the descent down the pass. Evred had endured the lack of amenities in silence because his men did, because Barend, Inda, and Cherry-Stripe had appeared to be cheerfully indifferent to grime and smell. But now, with the prospect of being clean at last, his body seemed to protest in every pore, becoming one vast itch. Evred was right behind his cousin, impatiently flinging off his clothes until he sank into stinging hot water.

  His body relaxed into the ruffling motion of the hot spring bubbles. He used the herb-soap from scalp to heels, and then lay back—

  —and the burn of water in his nose caused him to surge up, coughing and sneezing.

  Barend splashed over, eyes wide. “You all right?”

  “Fine. I almost fell asleep,” Evred admitted, scooping a handful of soap and applying it vigorously.

  Barend snorted, ducking down until just his face was above water, his hair floating like weed around him. “How much have you slept in the last week? One watch all told?”

  Evred ducked his head under one more time to make sure the soap had rinsed from his scalp, and then forced himself to rise, though his body felt as heavy as stone.

  Sleep. Sometime he would have to sleep. He dreaded it, for every single attempt had brought those images back—

  “You getting out already?” Barend said, surprised.

  “As you point out, the Runners have not bathed yet. And we’ve a dinner to get ready for.”

  “Not this moment.” Barend floated, torpid with bliss.

  Evred waved a hand to keep him there, and stepped out to where his Runners had laid out fresh clothes, including his House tunic. The sight of that crimson tunic with its gleaming embroidered eagle brought back the images of the battle, more powerful than ever.

  He held his breath, wrenching his mind to his immediate surroundings. He stared at Vedrid, waiting patiently for orders, and noticed the darn in his sleeve, and another along the bottom of his coat. When did that happen? Kened walked toward the curtain with an armload of dirty clothes, a bandage just visible at his wrist and a nick in his ear. Which battle was that? The sound of voices rising and falling: a local song in women’s voices echoing off the stone, and on the other side of the baths, perhaps a hundred paces distant, male voices joined in the slow cadences of “Yvana Ride Thunder.”

  “Valiant, loyal men, ride the five hundred

  Ancestors watching them, cheering the charge

  Hawkeye Yvana-Vayir. Noddy Toraca

  Lead the five hundred . . .”

  The voices broke up, one protesting, “No, no, the next verse has to name the captains!”

  “Try this—wait—listen! Lancers united, three lines to charge—”

  “What about the second charge, eh?”

  “I’ll get to them, but Houndface, he was there, said the first charge was three lines, and—”

  “Here, stop yapping, listen to me! Before the battle part, you have to say things about Hawkeye. And Toraca, too. Garid says it should sound like the same hero deeds in the first verses of the old ballad, when Fleetfoot Yvana issues the challenge to Nickblade Montrei-Hauc—”

  “Yes! Yes! Like this.” A cleared throat, and a young man began to chant,

  “Surrounded at Ghael Hills, vastly outnumbered;

  Fire and pirates, Prick Point defending—”

  “Not bad, not bad. Only you can’t say prick in a war poem—”

  “Evred?” That was Barend. Close by.

  “Why not? We say it in life—”

  “But in the songs you use the right name, see!”

  “In that case, why are we saying Hawkeye? I don’t even know what his real name is. Wasn’t he named for one of the kings?”

  Evred met a searching gaze, then Barend’s eyes narrowed to their customary squint. “You just stopped, like one of those mages froze you. Something wrong?”

  “They’re adding verses to ‘Yvana Ride Thun
der.’ ” Evred jerked a thumb toward the distant baths on the other side of their privacy curtain. “Was it always this way, arguing about what to put in those old ballads? I always thought bards stood up and spun those songs from the air, the glory of the event somehow turning into gold. Glory.” He breathed the word out like an obscenity, then straightened up. “I thought you were going to stay in the baths.”

  “I did. Quite a while, while you took root there like some tree. I thought the Venn snuck in and put a spell on you. Sponge, you really need some sleep.”

  “Do you think any songs we make up will take?”

  Barend flicked out a hand. “If people like ’em they’ll sing ’em. Let’s go. Sooner we eat, sooner you hit your hammock.”

  They fixed up their wet hair, checked to see that their clothes were straight (Barend’s newly-assigned Runners had seen to it that he was in proper clothes, not a haphazard collection of old pirate wear under his House tunic), then walked together to the main hall, which hitherto had been converted to an extra barracks.

  Evred did not know where the men were housed now. It did not really matter, since he intended Ola-Vayir’s as well as his army to be on the march by morning.

  Tables had been brought from all over the castle—probably from all over the city. Certainly dishes had been donated. Evred noticed sets of fine old porcelain mixed in with good Marlovan dishes. The Marlovan dishes were plain, shallow bowls, the Olaran and Idayagan varying shapes that the Marlovans eyed with misgiving.

  A dais had been erected at one end, with a tapestry-covered table set on it. Inda was already there, laughing at something Cherry-Stripe was saying, Buck next to his brother, head bandaged, one arm in a sling, his face pale with long-endured pain. He blinked slowly: he was full of green kinthus. Inda was using his right hand more, Evred saw; Taumad had been working on it earlier, as he had from time to time during the journey back down the pass. There actually seemed to be some utility in whatever it was he did.