King's Shield

by Smith, Sherwood

  Evred so hated the idea of magical powers that could, at a mysterious word or two, spy, transform, even kill, he had not considered that aspect. I want magic to be difficult to perform.

  Inda smacked his hand against the table. “We better find out. I’m going to ask Signi.”

  “Vedrid?” Evred opened the door. “Please request the dag to join us here.”

  Signi’s color was high, as though she’d been out in the summer sun when Vedrid brought her into the hot, stuffy room. Her cast-off child’s smock and worn riding trousers were neat and fresh: she’d clearly had access to some kind of magic while in that archive. Well, they all knew the tower was full of some sort of Morvende magic.

  Signi’s earnest gaze sought Inda’s first, then moved swiftly to the king’s. Seeing no threat there, she glanced at the tabard hanging over his arm. Her sandy brows lifted, then met, puckering her brow.

  “What is it?” Inda asked.

  She stretched out a forefinger, but did not quite touch the crimson cloth so beautifully woven. “The tablet-pattern,” she whispered. “In the weave. It is the same as our formal house robes.”

  Inda’s indifference was mirrored in all the others’ faces. “Signi, if anything I ask trespasses on the truce we’ve had between us, you have only to say.”

  Evred’s muscles tightened against the now familiar resentment. Inda’s words were entirely just.

  “You have a question for me, then?” Signi asked, and made that peace sign—without the smugness of that young mage.

  “You know Dag Erkric, right?”

  “I do.”

  “Is he big and tall, maybe forty? Hair as yellow as Rat’s there? Carrot nose?”

  “No.” She pressed her hands together tightly, then dropped them to her sides. “He is very tall. Very lean. His hair is thin, but silver. He is old.”

  Evred turned to Rat. “You were right. It’s a ruse.” His mouth thinned. “Do we look like fools?”

  Signi made the peace gesture again. “You are all very young. And you know nothing of magic.”

  Evred said, “So the dag knows who we are.”

  She opened her hands. “I believe so.”

  “That means he’s been here spying on us.”

  Her color faded. “Yes. So I believe. I felt his traces on our arrival.”

  Evred’s gaze was unwavering. “Is he spying on us right now?”

  “No.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Because I just finished completing wards.”

  “To aid us?”

  “That was not my intent.”

  To the surprise of some there, Evred’s expression eased. “Because he has broken his vows not to interfere in military matters?”

  “Yes.”

  Evred turned away at last, his slow outward breath a hiss between his teeth. Then, “Hawkeye. Give that magic token to someone. Tell him to chuck it down the nearest steam vent.” He pointed out the window, toward the great square between the castle and the city, underneath which lay the massive cavern that served as the baths for everyone in Ala Larkadhe.

  Hawkeye, who as the castle commander had taken charge of the token, said, “I’ll do it.” Like his cousin, he hated magic and would take great pleasure in seeing to this order himself.

  There was a quiet double knock at the door. When Kened appeared, Evred handed off the tunic.

  “So what now?” Rat asked, shutting the door again.

  Inda said, “If they are stalling for time, there is a reason.” He thumped his fist on the table. “It’s those winds. I keep feeling we’re late. I don’t know if it’s—”

  His thoughts splintered, like they so often did, two and three separate ideas skittering away. The others looked at him. Waiting.

  He smacked his hands down, the sting in his palms oddly steadying. For two heartbeats. “Hawkeye. Noddy. Take your dragoons, start up the pass as soon as you can. Yes! We’ve got Cherry-Stripe and Cama heading for the cliffs above the top, that’s good. You go too, and between the four of you, hold it until the rest of us can get there.”

  Hawkeye twitched his brows up as Noddy held up three fingers. “We’ve got six wings. Against how many?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Inda said impatiently. “I need fast, not numbers, and six wings will move uphill faster than sixty wings. If we had ’em. You get there first is all I ask. Hold it. The moment we know we’ve got Buck and Ola-Vayir to guard our backs, the rest of us will be right on your heels.”

  Everyone began talking at once.

  Signi touched Inda’s hand. Distracted by too much going on at once, he cast her a quick, impatient glance—and her expression caught his attention entirely.

  “I must speak to you,” she murmured.

  Without a thought Inda opened the door, followed her out, and shut it, leaving the others all talking. Except for Evred, who watched after them in tight-lipped silence.

  The pair of would-be dags arrived at the Destination aboard the Cormorant. They looked hot, tired, weary as they surrendered their transfer tokens into Erkric’s out-held hand, and then shed the heavy blue robes gratefully into the arms of orderlies. Durasnir had ordered steamed milk for them, but a glance at those shiny crimson faces and he beckoned for the stone jug. They drank down the cold water in greedy gasps as an orderly ran to apprise the prince.

  While they’d waited for the parley to end, Dag Erkric had twice vanished from the ship, each time returning tense and curt. Whether from anger or worry, Durasnir could not tell, and Erkric did not give him a report. Instead, he restlessly studied the dispatches as they arrived and were brought in by the ensigns on duty.

  The prince’s quick step approached down the compan ionway. He flung the door open into the command cabin. “How went the ruse?”

  The two scouts made their royal obeisance.

  “We kept them there through the day. There were two redheads,” the shorter one reported. “Judging from the motions of the others, the one posing as scribe was the king, and the one dressed as king a lackey.”

  Rajnir spread his hands. “You were right,” he said to Erkric, whose smile held no vestige of humor. “He was stupid enough to fall for the ruse!” Back to the scouts, “Why didn’t you kill him?”

  Despite the balmy summer air, Durasnir sustained an inward chill as cold as the water in the stone jugs that were suspended on chains to drag deep in the low ocean currents.

  Erkric tutted. “The parley was made under a truce flag, my prince. They believed Coast Scout Greba to be me, remember. Consider how the Marlovans would react to their king being killed under truce by Prince Rajnir’s chief dag.” And when Rajnir scowled, Erkric said in a low, soothing voice, “Then consider this, my prince. How it would be if they came here under truce and killed you? Do you think Fleet Commander Durasnir here would ever stop until he had exacted retribution? Are we not enjoined to pacify their kingdom once we take it?”

  Rajnir’s lips parted, his light eyes widened. “Oh.” He whirled, walked to the open scuttle, and breathed deeply of the warm salt air. “Oh. I didn’t think! So much to think about—I can’t remember—”

  “So much depends upon our plans,” Erkric interjected smoothly, in the voice of a beloved tutor. “Scouts. Was Indevan Algara-Vayir among those at the parley?”

  The two turned to one another for a moment, and read uncertainty in each other’s countenance. “They denied him, of course,” Greba said. “But that room was so dark. They had the windows blocked. And everyone but the scribe and the false king wore those gray coats.”

  The taller scout spoke up. “We were told that the pirate is short, scar-faced, and wears golden hoops with rubies on them. I couldn’t see the face on the shortest one, but I heard him snoring on his feet. No earrings visible. It was too dark to see if his ears were pierced.”

  Rajnir waved his hands. “No matter, no matter. The snorer had to be a lackey, no commander would fall asleep in a parley. This is good, isn’t it?” His anxious blue eyes turned to Durasnir. “Is it not?”
/>
  “It seems we have gained a day for Hilda Commander Talkar,” Durasnir replied.

  “Good! I like good news. So far we haven’t had any. Are they still fighting those women in the castle?” Rajnir smacked the door open. “When he’s back, send Henga directly to me before you put him in the prison ship.” He slammed the cabin door behind him.

  Erkric stared after the prince, exasperated. But then no one knew, must not find out, that Ala Larkadhe had in a single night been warded. No dag could transfer in, and the tracers were deflected by what appeared to be Morvende magic.

  It was possible that he had inadvertently tripped an ancient protection ward. He hoped so. But the burden of not being able to see the enemy, of not knowing whose magic forced him out of the shaping battle, was thinning his hold on his temper. He could not lose his temper; a weary, sour glint of humor accompanied the thought, I cannot lose my temper because I am not a prince.

  Unworthy, unworthy.

  Erkric was irritated afresh at the narrow-eyed suspicion in Durasnir’s face. It must be because Durasnir’s favored Drenga captain, Byoren Henga, had been assigned to the invasion, which placed him under the Hilda chain of command, outside of the reach of the Oneli. “I will investigate the attack on the castle,” he said. “Since I must return to the camp to supervise the dags.”

  Durasnir signed acknowledgment.

  Erkric turned to the coast scouts. “You are restored to your regular duties until tomorrow. With the Fleet Commander’s permission, we will meet before you are to transfer to Ala Larkadhe, and we will discuss the details of tomorrow’s plan.”

  The scouts made their obeisances. Dag Erkric performed a respectful salute to Durasnir, who returned it with the particular care of a deeply angry man—a detail that escaped the customarily perceptive Erkric, who picked up his own papers, and walked out.

  Durasnir turned to his scouts. The rank Coast Scout had changed in meaning over the centuries. Once the title had been used by charters, but charting had developed into its own branch of service. Coast Scout was now a neutral rank meaning spy. Coast Scouts wore whatever costume would permit them to pass unnoticed, and they scouted people as well as places.

  Durasnir said, “You will have liberty for the remainder of the day. In addition to whatever orders Dag Erkric sees fit to give you tomorrow, I would like you to observe closely. I want to know if Indevan Algara-Vayir is there,” Durasnir said.

  Chapter Nine

  INDA shut the door and followed Signi into the office. Vedrid sat on a chair against the inner wall, sewing silver piping to the edge of rich crimson fabric. Inda paused, distracted. “Isn’t that the one I saw Tau working on?”

  Vedrid’s needle flashed. “Since he is under orders, I’m finishing it.”

  Awkwardly, Inda asked, “Is that for me?”

  Vedrid smiled. “As Harskialdna, you’ll wear Montrei-Vayir colors.”

  Inda waved impatiently. “I know that. I guess I thought I’d be making it myself.”

  “When?” Vedrid laughed soundlessly.

  Inda gave a rueful snort. “Don’t know. Don’t seem to have a masthead watch anymore.” He followed Signi from the office out onto the landing. She shut the office door with both hands, leaned over the stone balcony, touching the bunch of grapes carved into the edge before the rail started down the spiral stairway. No one below: the Runners had partitioned this area off from the crowded castle, reserving it for the commanders.

  She turned around. “I am going to leave, Inda. But there are things I must tell you first.”

  Inda’s eyes widened with dismay. His quick sorrow and hurt, so true, so unhidden, made her eyes sting. She leaned into him, bringing the scent of the fresh mountain herbs among which she’d been recently walking. He was damp from being overheated; his own scent was dear to her.

  “What have I done?” he mumbled into her hair. And drew back, his voice a low, unhappy rumble deep in his chest. “Or is it the war? Sure it is. I’m stupid.”

  “I will return to you when it is over. So lies my duty. Yours lies elsewhere,” she reminded him, and his unhappiness intensified. “Now, listen. I have been exploring, not just the archive, but it opens through an atan, from which I have been able to trace and dismantle those wards Erkric made that go directly against our oaths.”

  “Wards mean magic warfare?” Inda asked.

  “In part. Erkric also interfered with your king’s courting lockets. His wards were clumsy, necessarily because performed from a distance. That is why they ceased to transfer.”

  Inda wiped his hand across his brow, then fingered his scar. “Should I tell Evred?”

  “You must do what you believe best about that.” She made one of her hand gestures, slow and graceful, though her fingers trembled.

  Inda flicked his thumb up, and then the sense of what she had previously said penetrated. He knew she loved to share knowledge. “Atan?”

  “The archive in the white tower is a Morvende construct, as I believe you know.”

  Inda turned his palm up.

  “Well, what few know, unless they have studied old magic texts, is that long, long ago, the Morvende made what they called ‘atans’—you know this word in Sartoran?”

  “Sun,” Inda said, wondering. “Atan means sun.”

  “Atan was just a part of the whole term, but we’ve lost the rest. We call them platforms or terraces or any number of other terms. The important thing is, these were places of meditation and observation, made high on mountaintops, where the Morvende could watch the progress of sun and stars unhindered. You touch the sun symbol in the archive, carved there beside the door. Say the word atan. That door will open a magic gate to the atan platform in the mountains above the source of the Andahi River.”

  Inda was stunned. “The river—but that goes right by the top of the pass!”

  “The source of the river is far higher than the pass, and the atan is even above that. You would have to go down the young river to get to the ancient trail leading down into the highpoint of the pass. You will find an old plinth marking the trail head.” She paused, observing the change in his expression.

  “Can we—could someone come back the same way?”

  “Ordinarily, yes. One steps on the sun carvings on the platform. One pronounces the word atan and steps through the archway. I tell you this for the sake of learning, not because I believe you will be able to use it.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “But I believe your king will,” Signi said gently. “Forgive me if I mistake, but if you think to use this for military purposes . . . Inda, this is important. The Morvende have nothing to do with war. There is a risk, if you use this door. No, no, nothing will happen to you. As I said, they have nothing to do with war. The risk is that, if you use it, you will never be able to enter this archive again.”

  “But this entire war is the fault of the V—it’s not us attacking anybody! We’re defending—”

  She shook her head. “I have no communication with the Morvende, and so cannot for certain speak for them. They might be aware of the circumstances or they might just not be paying attention to the archive now. How they view time is very different from how we do, who are so bound to the sun’s cycle. But when that archive door is opened, they know it. And if you move armed men through—for whatever reason—they will know.” She lifted her hand toward the white tower, just visible through the open window on the landing. “It will be closed to you, probably forever.”

  Inda felt a brief spurt of regret, but far greater was his eagerness to tell Evred: the impossible had happened, and now they had a means to come down on the Venn from both sides.

  Signi cupped his dear, scarred face with her hands, a gesture of such tenderness that his galloping thoughts stumbled to a halt.

  He gazed into her green-brown eyes, distracted by his own tiny reflection twinned in the great black circles of her pupils; time stopped, or seemed to for a measure of ten breaths, as he groped for understanding of
her emotions.

  To Inda, Signi was like the great birds drifting so effortlessly overhead, who with one snap of their wings lift to speed and power far beyond his reach. Magic was just that kind of power. Her emotions were as subtle as those flicks and shivers of wide wings, but so far she had drifted alongside him as he galloped toward this war: her ardor matched his ardor, compassion enfolded his grief when he first arrived in his homeland and discovered who had lived and who had died. His laughter sparked her smile. There were other times he sensed emotional shifts in her, but could not define them, and as he looked into her eyes and felt the tremble in her fingers, he thought, I need Tdor to tell me what I’m seeing.

  That was it, he was ten years behind, because he hadn’t had Tdor to comb out the tangles of his thoughts, make them smooth again. Signi made sense of history, the world, and magic for him, but even when she did he always felt that divide between Marlovan and Venn, and he knew she did too, because of the way she would frame questions. Tau could make sense of other people, but Tdor had always made sense of him.

  “Fare well, Inda,” Signi said, and kissed him.

  And was gone before he could answer.

  When the weird, howling horns began blowing in terrifying echoes up the pass from Castle Andahi, most of the three-and four-year-olds still hiding in the robbers’ cave jerked awake. Most of them puckered up and began to whimper.

  “Shut it!” Han hissed. The cave mouth, now half blocked by stone, glowed faint blue. Not quite dawn. Why was it horrible things always started before sunup?

  Small bodies pressed up against Lnand. She twitched, wanting so badly to shove them all away. She kept the fret inside. Everyone would just call her a pug if she admitted the truth. The smalls climbing on her and demanding kissies and huggies were gratifying when Han and Gdir noticed, because everybody could see that Lnand was the favorite. But when the other two ten-year-olds were doing something else, Lnand wanted to smack the brats away. Those three-year-olds were always whining, and she was sick of snotty noses and pee in drawers that she had to dunk and spread to dry.