by Ru Emerson
“So Lord Corry cheated the Tehlatt of his hair! Hah! I wonder how many women he widowed in his escape?”
“You'd better ask Corlin. He and I haven't talked about that.” Silence. Outside there was a clatter of horses, a loud cheer as the horse race finished just outside the Tower. “Well. If you were a guardsman once, you can be a guardsman again. We haven't enough men with your abilities.”
“You haven't—”
“I fought with you, remember? So there's only one small matter remaining. Your name. I don't know it. I need it before I can give you the oath.”
“I—oh.” He considered this gravely and silently for some moments. Finally shrugged. “It's no great matter, I suppose. It's just that—” His voice trailed off; he roused himself with a visible effort. “I just haven't—Well. No great matter, is it?”
“Not much.” she retorted, “Spit it out, man! How awful can it be?”
“I—well. It's Galdan.”
She stared. “Galdan? Galdan?”
He sighed. “Of course you'd know it, wouldn't you?”
“I would? All Nedao knows it! It's not exactly a common name; you know. Just Erken's only son, no wonder you've been so shy of naming yourself!” Silence. “I'd never have guessed by looking at you. You don't look at all like him.”
“Father? No.” He shrugged. “My looks were more Mother's than his, I got his temper instead.” He eyed her resignedly. “Well. Now you know. Speak the words, will you? Before,” he smiled weakly, “before I lose my nerve.”
“Impossible. You haven't any,” she said. “Kneel, then, Galdan Erkenson, of the Third House, and speak the oath after me.” If I remember it!
His face was grave as he repeated the words that re-bound him to Nedao: “I, Galden, son of Erken, son of Irdann, swear by my good sword arm and by my dagger, by the strength that is in me and by the Mothers who gave me life and so shaped it that I walk in this place and time, and by that of me which lives after this life, that I shall uphold the House of Ettel, its Queen and its Honor, to do well the deeds commanded me and to protect the folk of Nedao. All this do I swear.” He kissed the copper-hilted dagger she held out to him, the fingers that held it and, holding to them, rose as she drew him up.
“Rise, Galdan. Your service do we take and cherish, and in return for it, your care and protection we take upon ourselves.” He started, gazed at her blankly, wide-eyed, for the words she now spoke were the House-oath, used in creating a knight of Queen's personal guard. He stood dazed as she finished. She tugged at his arm; he inclined his head so she could place the kiss on his brow that sealed the oath—she could not reach his forehead at all otherwise. “Be then Lord Galdan, Baron of the Third House, and armsman to Nedao's Lady.”
“I—I shall.” He shook his head. “You didn't have to—I didn't give you my name so you'd—”
“Don't be foolish. Did you think I thought that? Or did you hope to stay unknown behind that beard for long? Keep if you like, by the way,” she added, “but for appearance sake, I'd trim it.”
“And so I shall,” he replied faintly. The fight had momentarily gone out of him. “But that you'd name me House knight—I hadn't thought—”
“Well, what did you think? I've seen you fight, you're good. And now knowing who you are, I know where you're needed. You can help us teach new swordsmen. I've fenced with men who learned from you.”
“Brendan. Bren, wasn't it? That is his dagger then!” She nodded, momentarily unable to speak as it again caught her by the throat and held her hard. He reached with sudden concern at the look on her face, pulled his hand back again as she closed her eyes. Her face had gone carefully expressionless. “He didn't make it, did he?”
“No.”
“I'm sorry. He was a good friend of mine. But I didn't know—”
“I—it's all right.”
It wasn't. Black hell, what have I said? But a man can see it, her and Bren. Handsome together: they'd be that. Gods and Mothers, the look of her. Say something. He opened his mouth, closed it again. What could he say?
She swallowed hard and shook free of the mood with a hard effort. “It's all right, nevermind. We all lost.” And, with an even greater effort: “Who did you think would have your service? Marckl of Broad Heath? If you like, I'll send you to him. You can help watch the sheep, late at night.” He laughed, and the laugh broke the stiffness that had risen between them. “Good, that's settled. I'll have someone escort you to the barracks. I can't even provide you with a change of clothing, let alone my household colors. But you'll have a roof overhead and decent food.”
“More than I've been able to count on in a long time.” He knelt. “Thank you, Lady.”
“First thing you'd better learn, is that none of those around me do that. I'm Lady or Lady Ylia, and if you do more than bend your head, I'll have your ears for mocking me. This isn't Koderra, I'm not Father, and we haven't time for such things just now. And you'd better save that, anyway, until you've been here awhile! You may wish yourself gone again.”
“Make a wager on that?” He stood, grinned at her cheerfully. She laughed.
“No, you're rock-headed enough to hold out from sheer stubbornness. If you ask me—”
“Which I didn't—” he began. He started, turned to look over his shoulder as the outer doors swung open with a crash and Erken strode into the hall. He turned back, gazed across her shoulder and up the staircase with fierce concentration.
Erken stopped just short of them. “Lady Ylia, we need your aid. One of Ifney's boys was baiting Corlin's daughter and she jumped him. I'm afraid she's going to be hurt!”
With a great effort, Ylia wrenched her gaze from Galdan, who was staring past her as though his life depended on it. He'd gone pale, and his hands were trembling. The sense of the Duke's words penetrated, then, and she laughed. “One of Ifney's boys? Erken, if anyone's hurt, it won't be Lisabetha!”
The Duke sighed and cast his eyes up. “This is not the time to—great Inniva.” He was suddenly aware they were not alone, That back, the set of those shoulders. His heart hammered hard against his ribs, the blood sang in his ears; he took one hesitant step forward. “Galdan?” My son's face, under all that beard.
Galdan turned. “Father?” His voice had gone husky. “Oh, Gods and Mothers, is it you?” He moved then, caught at the older man's hands and buried his face in Erken's shoulder.
“Son.” Erken's voice was a scarcely audible whisper. There might never have been a quarrel; he wrapped long arms around Galdan's shoulders and gripped him hard.
“Father. I thought you dead, I thought—everything I said to you that night, and no chance to take it back—”
“Everything we both said,” Erken corrected him. Galdan stepped back a pace, dashed a hand across his eyes and laughed, rather shakily.
“Still arguing with me, aren't you?”
Erken shook his head. “Starting already, are you?”
“Not just yet, I swear it.” But the smile widened. “So the old man cheated the Tehlatt of his hair, too! How did you—?”
“Where,” Erken asked at the same time, “did you come from?” They both stopped, laughed. “Corlin wanted the best of the glory for himself. He chased me and mine out just as the gates fell. I can tell you that later, where were you?”
“Oh, about,” Galdan replied with a grin. “Learning to stand on my own feet. By the way,” he added with a sudden mock gravity belied by the gleam in his eyes, “it is my duty, my solemn duty, to present you to my Lady. Queen Ylia, my revered and honored father, Lord Erken, the thrice-worthy, Duke of Anasela and—”
“Irreverent monster,” Erken laughed and cuffed his ear affectionately. “How did you come by this ragamuffin, Lady Ylia?”
“We found each other, once or twice,” she laughed. “You yourself might have said who you were, Galdan of the Third House,” she added pointedly.
“Why?” he demanded. “Besides,” he grinned cheerfully, “it isn't the kind of information you pass on in the m
iddle of hot battle, is it?”
“Or argument,” she said. “Which reminds me, Erken, I'll take care of this small war on the fencing ground. If Lisabetha hasn't already spitted the boy, that is. Find this son of yours something to wear. He's one of my household now; he needs my arms on his shirt.”
“Speaking of things one isn't told,” Erken began indignantly, but he broke off laughing. “I'll see what I can do.”
The crowd was thick around the square but people stepped back to let her through. The fight was over anyway; Brelian and two of Ifney's older men had stepped between Lisabetha and Molver, but it was as Ylia had thought: Molver was on the ground, his sword a full length away, and Lisabetha, both blades still in her hands, glared at him. “You take back the insult you gave the Lady, or by the Black Well, we'll finish this!” she snapped.
Molver shrugged sullenly. “I meant no insult to the Lady, you know that. And I take back what I said, that you'd falter in a real fight. Is that enough?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Molver's companions aided him to his feet, handed him his blade and the three of them vanished into the crowd. Lisabetha's hands were trembling; she stuffed them under the edges of her tunic. “Brelian, was I wrong? He insulted me—all us swordswomen, saying we were pretending to be men but that we had no real nerve or skill, and that we'd flee like children if a real enemy came against us.”
“Well—no, you weren't wrong.” Brelian shook his head. “I suppose it's hard enough for you women, just now. I'd not have backed down from such words, so it's as well you didn't. And he's a good boy, Molver. When he's done feeling the sting to his pride, he'll be an ally. But I hope this kind of thing doesn't arise again,” he added gravely. “I'd greatly rather, if my wife chooses to use sword, that she not carry it to blood.”
Lisabetha laughed and drew his arm around her shoulder. Ylia slipped unnoticed back into the crowd.
25
The black ship rode dark waves, her bow turning to cut through them as the Fury encountered a fierce and unseasonably late storm. The decks, the men who swore and fought sails, rigging, tiller and wheel, were one and all thoroughly soaked. Down in the Captain's cabin, water pooled at the edge of the door, slid down from an imperfectly fitted port shutter. The air was cool, unpleasantly damp.
Neither Captain Mai Brit Arren nor his young companion paid much heed to the moist chill, the occasional shudder as even the Fury met waves she could not conquer: Brit Arren was well on his way to properly drunk; Jon Bri Madden, his youngest crew and cabin boy, was sipping gingerly at his first mug. Brit Arren had asked him to sit, ordered him to drink, and Jon was much too nervous at this sudden change in his usually brusque and abusive master to notice anything, storm and chill alike, just now. Anything, that is, that wasn't Mai Brit Arren. Rumor had it he'd killed the boy, three before Jon. So one or two of the younger men said: it was possible they ragged him. But word also had it Mal Brit Arren was no man to cross when he'd been drinking, and that Jon knew for absolute, painful truth.
“What did ye think of her?” the Captain demanded abruptly. Young Bri Madden started, nearly overturning his cup. Brit Arren made an impatient gesture, then checked it. For whatever reason, he was practicing patience at the moment.
“Her? That—the Lady?” Jon fumbled finally.
“Lady. Hah.” Brit Arren laughed into his empty mug; the sound echoed. He set it down silently, shoved it across the table. Jon filled it, shoved it back. Brit Arren's eyes brooded on the large, unadorned pewter goblet. “Like the Sea-serpent's mother is a Lady, so she is!” He grumbled to himself, picked up the cup and drank down half its contents. “Witch, that's what. You mark that, Jon, and never forget it, she's AEldra witch and then some. Something even worse, I don't know what. But I'll tell you, Jon, if they were all like her, I'd never board another Ylsan ship, Jon, and that's fact!”
“Sir.” Jon could only agree with him, nothing else was safe or conducive to long life. Privately, he'd thought her beautiful, used as he was to women of his own kind, who always smelled of the sea and had harsh, shrill voices like gulls. Or Ragnolan dock-women: dark, oddly scented, falling out of their brightly colored gowns, most of them. This one: She was almost as tall as he, her eyes were a blue you could get lost in, her hair golden, her whole look chaste and sweet, her dress demure—but he remembered the look in those gloriously blue eyes as she'd stood on the shore, challenging them to take her out to the ships. Not just the ships, either; she'd pointed out Bri H'Larn's Vitra with absolutely no hesitation at all. Witch. Not what she seemed, how she looked: She'd eat a man's soul out, like the cicalea were said to, they who lived at the southernmost edge of the sea, uttering their sweet, wailing cries to lure ships near—and destroy them on the waiting rocks.
“Witch,” Mai Brit Arren still brooded. “What does Nod Bri H'Larn think he plans? That woman is death, death on tiny slippered feet. And the man with her—"He shuddered, drained his cup. “Gods!”
“Captain, your leave, he's not likely to live, not on the Isles. Did you see him? There's no mind left there, just a great hulk of swordsman and a child's thought!”
“So he seems." Brit Arren shuddered again. “So he appears. I saw him; I saw his eyes, too. There's a thing about him, a thing deep in his eyes, where he himself may have forgotten it but it conjures up smoke and fog and blood, all mixed. Death. I was glad, Jon, glad I tell you, when Vitra set them ashore, when Bri H'Lod went south and let us come back north, for my sleep has been undisturbed since we parted company!”
The boy's breath hissed in between clenched teeth. He could face anything, anything! Storm, armsmen, beasts and sea-beasts were nothing. But this that his Captain mumbled sent shivers running up and down his back and he became aware of the Fury slipping up and down under his feet, all reality going from under them. Caution was forgotten: he took down the contents of his cup in two deep swallows and poured himself more. Brit Arren shook himself, smiled at the boy.
“That's good, isn't it?”
“Sir.” Jon nodded.
“Bah, all this sir business! Here, this cabin, these walls—I'm Mal to you. Same as you're Jon.”
“I—Mal,” the boy whispered.
Brit Arren laughed, a low chuckle that shook his shoulders and brought tears to his eyes. “Bless the lad, it's not at all what you think! They don't tell tales of that sort about me, do they?” Silence. Jon eyed him in confusion. “That I warm my sheets with cabin boys? Don't look like that. I don't. No.” He emptied his cup again, set it aside. “I need someone to speak to. The crew is a good one. They'd never split on the old man, not to Bri H'Larn or that woman or anyone else. But there's no need to speak my thoughts around, until it's time. One man, that's all I need.”
Silence. Jon Bri Madden stirred, fingered the faint, soft bit of moustache that touched the corners of his mouth. “S—Mal, I don't know things, not to help you. I mean,” he added desperately as Brit Arren slumped back in his chair to gaze flatly across the table at him, “if you need someone to set plans with you, if you—” He faltered to an uncertain stop.
“I don't. I need someone to back me, someone loyal. You're that, or so you seem to me, and I know men, if nothing else. You're a good fighter, any weapon I've seen you use. You're even-tempered. I need that, too. And once you come from under the surprise of my asking, I think you'll be the man I truly need: someone to hold me back when the time's not yet right. You've caution and sense, Jon. That's two things I've never had.” His blue eyes, near black in the uncertain, wavering lantern, brooded on a spot midway between them.
“I'll try, if that's what you want.” The gods curse me for a wet fool, refuse him and I might die. This way I'm certain to!
“Good.” Mal Brit Arren shifted his weight, traced a line along the scarred tabletop. “I challenge Nod Bri H'Larn when we come to port, tomorrow. You'll be my back-guard.” He looked up sharply. “You'll do that for me, Jon?”
“I can do that, Mal.” The moment had passed; he found himself surp
risingly calm, as though death had touched his face and moved on without him.
“And then,” Brit Arren said grimly, “we'll feed that golden witch to the fishes.”
I would have it known before all that I liked and admired the old Chosen, Grewl. I am not as set in the ways of my beliefs as their kind generally are, and he was not only open in his thought, and intelligent, but willing to accept the unusual—such as myself—and that at his age, too. But many of the others were not so open, and there were a few I most carefully avoided, lest I find the need to choose between harm to a Chosen or to myself at Chosen hands.
And this Jets: There was something the first time I saw him. He could have been a wielder of Power, had it been in him, for he had the strength of will for it, and something else—how to name it?—that spark that must be present for Power to take root. Since that was closed to him, by his blood and his religion, he found another way to another kind of power, or so he thought. Political manipulations, plots and plans within plots and plans. And such allies as he had! Easy to see how he might have thought the matter in his hands, the way he wished it to be.
Perhaps he was half mad to begin, and it was that I sensed that made me uneasy in his presence. Perhaps being thwarted in his desires pushed him down the path of madness.
I was not greatly surprised, then, when the matter came to a head and Ylia told me how it fell out.
26
The Fest drew to a close on the hottest day yet: Fortunately for the participants in the final sword-crossings, there were few of those and early in the day. As Ylia had expected, Lisabetha took the coin and ribbon for the women, though she barely beat out her nearest competitor, and one of Erken's men—not yet of age to grow a beard—won the men's competition. There were half a dozen prizes to be distributed among the archers, since there had been so many. When young Danila received the coin and ribbon for her age group, from the Bowmaster, she smiled for the first time in days: the matter of the sheep still weighed heavily on her.
