by Julia Knight
Something about her stare was difficult to resist. “Yes, true enough. They’ve offered alliance, and enough food and grain to see us right.”
She cocked her head like a little bird after a morsel of bread. “Don’t like it though, do you? Don’t want to see him get married to some woman he don’t even know. Know all about arranged marriages, don’t you?”
The pit of his stomach dropped. No one knew. He would have sworn no one—bar Hilde and Ilfayne, and Amariah’s maid who would never say anything—he would have sworn no one knew. No one knew his shame but him. That he’d loved his king’s wife, and would have broken oath for her, if she had let him. He gathered his scattered wits, and somehow knew that nothing but the truth would do here. Not with this woman. But his mouth refused to work so he only nodded dumbly.
She nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, reckon you do. So what you plan on doing about it?”
“Do about it? Nothing. We need the grain, simple as that. And there’s no other way to get it. Besides, Aran’s happy enough with the idea, and a continued alliance with one of our oldest enemies can be nothing but good.” All the arguments he had told himself, over and over. And still he couldn’t quite convince himself.
“He ain’t met her yet. Neither have you.” The woman laid her hand on his bad arm. “I’d keep an open mind, if I were you. There’s always other choices.”
Hunter shifted so her hand fell from his arm. She was unsettling him in ways he didn’t much care for. “Not now. The preliminary agreement’s been made in the Court, the oath made—it only needs the formal seal, and I can see no way that won’t be reached. We can’t break it now, not without very good reason. The grain’s as good as ours, and Nerinna as good as our queen.”
The woman laughed and patted his hand kindly. “You mean so well, bless your heart.” Then she turned away to listen to the bard with rapt attention.
Only then did Hunter realise what he should have heard before. The uncomfortable-looking bard was in the midst of telling his captive audience all about Hilde and her dreaded “magi ways”, the dreams she had that saw the future. Valguard sat bolt upright at that, as though some sudden thought had struck him. The bard went on, to the night she’d killed one of their own, the reason Valguard had wanted her in his noose. And told it as though the drunken bully she had stabbed in self-defence was some noble hero who had died to rid them of some unspeakable evil.
Hunter got to his feet and took a step towards the bard, unconsciously gripping the hilt of his sword. The bard stammered to a stop and looked ready to faint with fear. Then Valguard was in Hunter’s way, smiling at him, as smug as a well-fed cat. He’d put the bard up to it, no doubt. Hunter held on to his temper, only barely, kept his hand from his sword hilt and turned for the door. He couldn’t tell the right of it, and not only because he had no proof. If he started, then it would end with the right tale of the war’s end. Of how it was Hilde who killed the sorcerer, not Regin. That Hunter had lied to everyone to save a half-kyrbodan who gossiping rumour said should be nothing but despised if not hung from the gibbet for her father’s race.
Instead he made his way out of the inn. Some fresh air would be good right now. The wind swept frigid rain into his face, the first hint of autumn, and Hunter welcomed it. He leant back against the wall of the inn and let the rain drip cold reason on him.
He would be stupid beyond belief to go against Valguard, at least openly. The man was the word of the gods in Ganheim. Of the god, Oku. Hunter’s stomach shrivelled at the thought of ever crossing him again.
Across the muddy open space that passed for a square, a light caught his attention, a lamp in the window of the only stone building other than the inn. The rain had begun to chill him so he stepped across the mud to see. From the pointed arch at the front he assumed this would be the local temple. He hesitated a moment, unsure whether to go in. Gods and their servants, or one in particular right now, were not his favourite people. But something drew him in and he reacted on impulse.
The temple was small and unkempt. A village such as this would only have the one, dedicated to all the gods, but he was still shocked by its shabbiness. The statues were poor plaster affairs in dire need of repair. Herjan’s face was chipped and worn, Kyr’s eyes mere blanks where they needed repainting, and Oku’s banner had been broken and badly patched up.
One statue shone out in the lamplight, brightly painted and perfectly kept, and it was not the statue of a god at all. Regin stood there, plaster sword raised, with a grim, expectant sort of smile. Valguard would be incensed, and that brought a smile to Hunter’s lips. Briefly. Valguard’s voice behind him made the smile freeze on his face.
“I see your blasphemy has reached here. Pleases you, I’m sure. But not for long. Ganheim and Armand need someone who can lead them against their enemies. Who can take the grain they need. Someone to subjugate the Reethan to us, and defeat the nomads.”
“Subjugate? With what? Men we can’t feed? That’s not the intent of this alliance. There was no mention of the Reethan being ruled by anyone other than Nerinna. And I wouldn’t wish it anyway. We have enough land, enough food, or will, once the alliance is settled. We’ve seen too much death already.”
Valguard curled his lip. “You think so small, my lord. Your arm is not all that’s withered. Ganheim needs someone to lead them on the field. Someone to summon their courage and their bloodlust. Someone to take what is theirs. A Champion.”
Hunter stared at him in numb shock. This was not the Valguard he knew, not even the jealous, scheming man that Hunter thought him. He’d never been so openly hostile.
Valguard sneered at him. “You were Champion, in your day. We have none now, and there is a need. A need to defend ourselves, to protect our countries.”
“There is no need for—”
“Of course there is need! Oku has spoken to me this night and I know now what I must do. The nomads know we’re weak, they know we’ve lost most of the harvest. They’re harrying the borders even now. We’ve men enough, barely, but no food to give them. And the Reethan cannot be trusted.”
“They lost even more men than we did in the war. They aren’t much of a threat.”
“Stronger than you think. We need a Champion. One fully able, one who can defend us. Not a half-able cripple like you.”
Hunter held back a flinch at the words, but they pierced him nonetheless. Struck him in the softest part of his heart, the more so because he worried that they were true. “Is that a challenge, Valguard? Because if it is, I’m not so crippled I couldn’t take your head in an instant. Now, if you like.”
“No challenge, yet, my lord. Not yet. But you should never have become regent. What is a Ganheim man’s greatest worth? To be able to defend his country on the field. Without that he is nothing. You are nothing. Without your guards you’re weak, and they’re not here.”
“Neither are yours.” Hunter’s hand slid down to his sword. No man should have to take that. His anger, kept in check till now, bubbled through him uncontrollably. A hot ache started behind his eyes and he set his jaw against it.
Valguard smiled as though this was the reaction he had hoped for. As though all this had just been a goad for Hunter’s temper.
Hunter gripped the hilt of his sword but hesitated to draw. If he went against Valguard now he was a lost man; even through the hot fog in his mind he knew that.
Valguard’s hand snaked out to grab at his bad arm, to grasp the muscle and twist. Hunter almost sank to the floor as pain lanced through him. Too much, too much to bear. It had never been this bad before. He pushed out at Valguard, thrust him away and fell against the wall.
The agony that raced up his arm was followed by the blurred realisation that it hadn’t hurt since the old woman had laid her hand on it. That he hadn’t even thought of the duria. But now he did; now all he wanted was to get to the vial in his pack and take some, take anything to make the pain fade. His skin shook at the thought. He craved the blessed relief it would bring. The pain
had never been even half as bad before, even when he kept up his sword practice. An aggravation, a nagging hindrance, but nothing that stopped him from taking the field, doing his duty. Until a few weeks ago. How had that changed? Now even Valguard paled into insignificance. Only the hot string of pain in his arm held any meaning. Only the duria held any hope of relief.
A murmur of voices outside stopped Valguard and he assumed his normal visage, his patient and wise one. One that Hunter had long suspected was not real. And now he knew for sure.
Kadara
Kadara
Sweat trickled down to stick Hunter’s shirt to his back under his mail. Gods knew he hated having to wear it here but wear it he must, until the formal introductions were over. Armour was not tolerated in the Reethan palace, for which he gave thanks. At least the heat soothed his arm, made the pain fade, just a little. Yet not back to the levels it had been before.
He shifted carefully against the chafing and blinked his eyes against a salty drip that threatened to blind him. Everything was brown and dry as dust from the sun, not the lush, cool green of home. He tried not to notice he was surrounded by dark-haired, jet-eyed and dusky-skinned people who reminded him at every turn of Ilfayne. Hunter shuddered in the heat. At least he didn’t have to deal with him.
Beside him Aran fidgeted in the saddle, Valguard a pace behind on the other side. They nudged the horses forward under the scalding sun ahead of the contingent of soldiers, advisors, nobles and assorted servants. The cavalcade passed through the streets of Kadara, chief city of the Reethan lands, towards the palace that sprawled lazily across the top of a low hill in the centre with all the understated grace of a cat sunbathing.
Hunter had never seen a city like it, so teeming with life and poverty in the narrow dusty streets and shaded alleys that seemed to beckon him in to find all their secrets. It even smelled strange, an odd mix of spices, donkey and the ever-prevalent whiff of the tannery mingling together and pervading everything.
People stopped and stared as they passed, and one or two barefoot children ran alongside, jabbering away in their odd tongue. Women hung out of windows or shrank back to let them pass in the narrow streets but there were very few men, and those were old or infirm in some way. They passed shabby temples and a multitude of little shrines along the road, all covered in flowers or offerings of fruit. More than one was dedicated to Regin, and they were among the most favoured by the looks of it.
Valguard sniffed and muttered at each one. “Heathens.”
Hunter suppressed a bitter smile. Valguard had kept his tongue the last few days, but he couldn’t keep quiet about this. Hunter took the opportunity for a little dig of his own. “They worship the same gods we do, just in other ways.”
“They don’t hold Oku above all.” Valguard’s pursed lips showed what he thought of that.
“As I recall, Oku is not chief of the gods.”
Valguard sneered. “In Ganheim he is, as it should be in any right-thinking man’s eyes, if not in yours. But I spoke of the shrines, the worship of those that are not gods.”
“You don’t consider them gods, maybe.”
“I most certainly do not! It’s heretical.”
Hunter adopted an innocent look. “Wasn’t Oku a man once?” Aran choked back a laugh as Valguard’s hands tightened on the reins hard enough to make his horse jig under him in protest. “People worship what they believe in, you can’t change that, and it’s not for me to say where that belief should be stowed. And Regin’s shrine is staying in Ganberg, you can’t change that either, not while I’ve a say in the matter.”
Valguard looked vaguely sick. “They worship Regin because you do, not for any other reason. You take them from their true faith.”
“I don’t worship him, I revere my ancestor, that’s all. There’s never been any law against that.” It was common practice for a family to have a shrine dedicated to their most illustrious forebears, and Hunter had many of those, though none greater than Regin the Wolf.
“A fine line, and an easy one to cross. ’Ware you don’t.” Valguard glared at the next shrine they passed and Hunter made a show of bowing his head.
They reached the gates of the palace, and a phalanx of guards dressed in bronze and silver lifted their spears smartly to let them enter. None of them looked a day over sixteen, and not a one had more than a single tattoo to record his bravery in battle. The Reethan must be very short of men. But of course, that was why they were here.
Hunter urged his horse through the gates a half pace ahead of Aran and Valguard, onto a long winding road between well-watered, alien-looking trees. A wooden framework stretched over the way, planted with sweet-smelling climbing plants so that at least they rode in the shade. Thank Kyr for small mercies. Hunter would swear his skin sizzled from the heat and his undershirt would surely never recover from the sweat ground into it.
They emerged from the shade and approached a wide, gracefully proportioned terrace where a large group awaited them. Hunter drew up his horse at the base of a shallow flight of steps and dismounted, swiftly followed by Aran, Valguard and the other nobles. The movement made pain grip his left arm and he clenched his teeth against it. It was apparent enough that he was crippled in that arm; he couldn’t show the pain too. Not now. Not when any sign of weakness would be pounced on. The Reethan could be cruel and unforgiving of any failing, from all he’d heard.
A woman came down the first step, dressed in a filmy bronze gown that all but matched her skin so that in the glare of the sun she looked nearly naked. Fine gold bangles snaked their way up her arms, and the floating fabric around her neck moved to show an intricate gold necklace studded with precious gems. Every item dripped with little charms that chimed when she moved, and for a moment Hunter was sure Ilfayne was there with them. She slid a slim leg forward, so that her honeyed skin peeked through a slit in the dress, and bowed her head in greeting.
Nerinna, Chieftain of the Tribes of the Reethan, whose timely offer might well save the lives of many in Ganheim and Armand. A woman of twenty-two who had taken up the role at seventeen when her father had died in the war that had decimated all the Three Kingdoms, who had astutely managed the warring tribes and kept them together in the wanting aftermath. Nerinna had kept her tribes from starvation, kept them from asking anything of anyone to rebuild themselves. The people he’d seen were poor but not starved and there had been a joyful attitude in the streets. The Reethan were on the road to recovery. As Ganheim and Armand had been.
And now she wanted an alliance. Why now? What exactly was it she wanted? Men, soldiers her ambassador had said, but for what purpose? According to reputation she had a shrewd and subtle mind; this could be a cover for almost anything. But still, Ganheim and Armand needed this alliance too.
He bowed a little, just enough, and looked up at Nerinna. Sloe eyes studied him from under languorous lids. She was more glorious than even rumour had made her. Black hair slid artfully across an eye and she allowed her lips the hint of a smile. Allowed was right; Hunter knew what she did to gain political advantage among her tribesmen. She used her looks as a tool, a bait to trap the unwary, and she used them whenever she could. If only half the reports were true then her shrewd choices made her a formidable woman, even if she was only twenty-two. No regent for her these last five years.
He looked up into dark, cool eyes that appraised every inch of him in a flickering glance. “My lords.” Her melodic accent sent a delicious shiver down Hunter’s spine. “You are welcome in my house.”
Hunter wished he were not so much older, wished that he were not half-crippled. Wished she were not the woman she was, with the reputation she had. That he was not the man he was, with an oath to uphold.
Regin help him, he was here to finalise the marriage of Nerinna to Aran, and he was not at all sure he wanted to, because he wanted her for himself.
***
Nerinna stood back and bade them enter into the palace. It amused her to see how they kept their armour on ev
en in the baking midday sun. Men were such vain animals, especially when it came to pride.
The first three came into the blessed coolness of the interior, and maybe a dozen other nobles followed them. The head of her personal guard trotted down the steps to arrange the quartering of the soldiers they had brought with them. They all looked so strange to her eyes. Too big, too blond, too brutal, too ugly. Ugly or not, she needed this alliance and she wouldn’t let personal preference get in the way of that. She never had before.
The younger one of the leading three must be Aran, the man, or boy rather, she intended to marry. He stared around with a wide-eyed look that showed his young age before his glance fell on her. He seemed to have to force his mouth shut as he looked her up and down. She was well used to that look and the effect she had on men. It made them so easy to tame to her will.
The other two might make it more difficult. They were older and wilier, especially the one who must be the regent, Lord Hunter, with a sword at his waist and another, larger one at his back. The family braid by his ear was red and black with a firestone hung at the end. A scar wrinkled the skin at one eye. Yes, that would be Hunter of Mimirin. A broad-shouldered, powerful man with one arm that was all but useless. He tried to hide the fact that it wouldn’t move to his command, the pain it gave him, but it was obvious to her.
This was the man she had to convince, a man clever enough to hold on to the regency even though he was not fully able-bodied in a land of warriors. That he was Regin’s heir no doubt had helped, but he’d led his people well through the lean years and they loved him for it. From what she already knew of him and what she saw now, he would be a hard man to sway.
So different to the men she knew, he was maybe not as ugly as she’d first thought. His brown eyes softened his face, made it not brutal but expressive. He watched her steadily, his face set, with no hint that he might fall prey to her charms. She would have a difficult time with this one. A thrill of excitement ran up her arms. Pitting her wits against his would be enormous fun. So few men could match her there, it would be a challenge.
