by Ru Emerson
“If it's what you want. Just don't die with him.”
“I wouldn't; that would be letting him win.”
Galdan knelt beside her and kneaded her shoulders. She subsided with a happy little sigh. “Nice deep drift?”
“Not deep enough,” she mumbled. “Wretched colt, I'll wring his neck when I get hold of him next.”
Galdan laughed. “Not with those tiny paws you won't!” Her sword hand caught hold of his wrist. “Not so hard, please, I fight with that. I didn't say they weren't strong!”
“Lucky for you they are, they saved your hide.”
“All by themselves, did they?” he retorted.
“All right, you helped a little. When you weren't tripping over your sword, that is.”
Galdan laughed. “That was you, tripping over your sword. I used mine to swat my horse.”
“Liar,” she said sweetly. “It wasn't nice to lie to me like that.” Galdan tugged her plait.
“It's not polite to call Nedao's King a liar.”
“No one ever accused me of having manners? not even Malaeth,” Ylia said with a complacent smile. “Besides, I'm Nedao's Queen. Gives me certain rights.” The smile vanished. “Looks bad for us, doesn't it?”
“Lyiadd?” he asked. She nodded. “It always has looked bad. We don't know what he's up to, that's not pleasant. Not knowing when the blow is coming, just knowing it will. But I think it's him sending Mathkkra again. I think it's nice of him to warn us.”
Ylia closed her eyes: She didn't need such warnings, not with Marrita sending her nightmares at least once a five-day. The dream varied, the warning was always the same: You will lose everything, husband, children, friends. Country and people. Your own life last of all. Death and terror held her in a cloying, sticky grasp until Galdan woke her, or Nisana did.
Nedao's allies in Nar believed in the threat of Sea-Raiders but not all of them believed the Three to be allied with their ancient enemy; Yls would not believe at all. When the blow came, how would they fare? And what of Nedao?
“I'm sorry.” Marrita's whisper reached him on several levels. Lyiadd forced his head up from the small inlaid table; it took all the physical strength left in him. She held out one slender hand as though to touch his face, withdrew it as if afraid he might strike it away. He found his balance—even seated it wasn't easy—and took her hand, held it against his face, touched the chilled fingers with his lips. “I thought we could it quickly,” she went on. “Quickly and without fuss. I knew there were twins in the near village.” So like Marrita, he thought; she'd never bother to remember the names of the Sea-Raiders’ villages, however long they remained here.
“It's not your fault.” His voice was breathy, thin with exhaustion.
“It is my fault!” she flared. “I wanted to avoid argument between myself and this bastard of a Lord Captain! Imagine if I had asked him for not merely one boy-child, but two!”
Lyiadd shook his head. He'd never seen her so angry, but he remembered a time when she would never have made the spells, gathered things for them; a time when she'd never bothered to be strong. She'd changed, since his near death; his Marrita was often a stranger these days. The compliant, golden beauty with no ambition or thought beyond pleasing him, she was gone, transformed by the Lammior's Power, filled with it—the Power he'd sought so long and still could not have! He could have slammed his fists into the small table until it shattered, could have slapped the concern and pity from the lovely face so near his. She treats me like a child! one corner of his mind railed. But even if he'd really wanted to hurt her, his Marrita—even if he'd been fool enough to dare alienate her, now his only hope for the thing that must be his—he hadn't the strength. This attempt at transfer had taken too much from him.
Marrita sank to the floor and rested her cheek against his knee. “By now, they would be too old anyway. We need two babies, though. No more than a five-day-old. Male.”
“We'll send a ship to raid Ragnol, or one of the near southern ports, By the time they return, we will be ready for another attempt.”
Marrita nodded. “We must. I must. I'm worn with carrying this Power. It should have been yours from the first. I never wanted It.”
“But you have It, and you've done well with It.”
“Because I had to. For your sake.” She closed her eyes briefly. “That's all, all it ever was. I'd give It all to you this moment, if I could. If It would let me,” she added unhappily.
“I know,” he whispered. “But we will need all that strength, yours as well as mine.” He patted her hair. It was flecked with blood; he was, the whole room was. The business with the child had been messy.
Marrita sighed again. “I will send word to Brit Arren to have a ship sent at once. Suddenly I fear to leave this matter. I fear she may be near finding the way to bind herself, those weapons and that man with his wild Power, sometimes I can feel it moving in her at night. If she does become Catalyst—”
“Then we have a stronger enemy,” Lyiadd said as she hesitated. “Nothing more.” He didn't sound as assured as he normally would; that, Marrita was certain, was exhaustion. It didn't mean anything. Couldn't. But he was staring, grey-faced and haggard into the brazier, and she knew that he did not see it.
Sometimes it takes little indeed to let one forget impending trouble: like sun and warmth, dust to stir under one's feet instead of packed snow or mud, or ice. Particularly when such things come full two months early and out of season.
3
There was still snow, of course: in all the north-facing dells, between buildings and under trees, anywhere the sun seldom touched. Three warm days could scarcely melt it all. And likely there'd be more snow soon; after all, it was barely the end of Lambing Month—and in the three winters they'd had here, no one had yet seen flowers in the month of First Flowers.
So it was respite only, but more than welcome. Malaeth gathered together a merry party of Ylia's women, an ecstatic three-year-old Lady Princess Selverra and baby Berdwyn for a walk through the City and down the road. All across the City and out through the valley, shutters were flung back, doors opened to let the crisp breeze chase stale smells and smoke; several of the crafters were working from half-assembled stalls in the market-place.
From the top step of the Tower, Ylia could see one of Marckl's road crews using a six-horse drag down near the woods where runoff across the road had made it dangerous for light carts. Marckl's Road: They all called it that, even though it was originally just the Dock Road. Marckl'd all but lost his life building that road. He laughed about the name, but he took the road itself most seriously.
There were two wide, flat barges on the river, one clearing snags and deadfalls from the base of the bridge, the other checking for drowned snags and logs. No one else was out there, not just now: The river was pale green with snow runoff, bone-chillingly cold.
Everyone who wasn't cleaning seemed to be wandering the broad avenue that connected barracks to houses to market to main square to Tower. The City was crowded and there was almost a festival feeling to the air. Ylia shoved the long, red-gold plait back over her shoulder, gave her breeches a hitch and went down to the street. The pants were still loose and Malaeth was fussing at her about it: She'd lost weight after Berdwyn's birth, and it was slow coming back. A workout, that's what I need. A workout and sun. She tipped her face back to catch warm, glorious sun and strode across to the square.
Eveya, captain of the Queen's Elite Guard, was working with the upper novices. She nodded a greeting, set her pupils to ten sets of full pattern and walked over to meet Ylia. “Coming along nicely, aren't they?”
“You're doing a good job, Ev.”
“Working on it,” the young woman allowed. She ran a square hand through her hair, smoothing loose bits back from a dark, freckled face. “Be glad when ‘Betha and my sister are back to help me though; with Merreh nursing the twins and ‘Betha pregnant and bed-bound—there's not enough of me to go around.” She cast an eye over her earnest young
charges. “Nelia, get that elbow in, I warned you about that! Adden, you're sluffing again!”
“I'm not sluffing!”
“Got enough air left to argue with, haven't you?” Eveya bellowed, silencing her. “Come on, work it!”
“Looks like they need your attention more than I do,” Ylia laughed. “Want help?”
“You? You mean it?” Eveya was more subtle about it than Malaeth, but she also fussed. Ylia nodded. “Good. I want to work the second and third-year women today; we're getting out of shape.”
“Everyone does in winter, look at the boys. Barracks practice just can't do it all. When?”
Eveya glanced up at the sun. “Second hour? After noon-meal anyway.”
“I'll be here. Have you seen Erken?”
“Barracks.” Eveya waved an arm in that general direction, turned back to her novices. “Adden, are you sure you want this? Well, then, damn ye, work for it!”
Ylia smothered a grin as she left the square. Eveya sounded more like old Marhan every year, and it was getting hard to remember the shy, gawky herder girl whose village headman father had wanted to forbid her sword-use. Eveya had gained more than just weapons-skill that first summer: She had developed confidence, a gift for leadership, a voice that could be heard half-way across the City, and a proud father who let no one forget his daughter led the Queen's Guard.
Ber'Sordes was perched on a hard wooden bench next to the grounds, intent upon the exercises. It didn't surprise her to find the Narran Ambassador there: Ber'Sordes never tired of watching Nedaoan sword and dagger play, even dull practice. He smiled as he caught her eye. “Did you get the message packet from Tr'Harsen's man this morning?”
“A fat one, I suppose because it's been so long since he got through last. I wager Tr'Harsen sleeps most of today after that journey.” The River Aresada was four times normal size with runoff, chill and treacherously swift; snags and whirlpools were everywhere. She could hear it at night from the Tower. She couldn't imagine floundering up that churning, raging river in one of the small Narran inland boats.
“We'll have Kre-Darst at the docks in a day or so if the weather holds.”
“It's nasty out there, I wouldn't come.”
Ber'Sordes laughed. “Unpleasant conditions never slow those lads, though. And I know Kre'Darst wants to finalize the contract for the dark yellow wool. He sent a message for me by Tr'Harsen; says they have a buyer Oversea that will pay just about any price for it.” He snapped his fingers. “I'm reminded: Tr'Harsen has a gift for Lady Lossana—because she's done much to bring the wool trade between us to what it is. That won't offend Lord Corlin, will it?”
Ylia laughed. “You know Corlin, I don't believe Tr'Harsen could ever offend him! The wool trade hasn't hurt Lord Corry's pocket any, that I've noticed, and he'd never object to a gift to his Lady for such a fine reason.”
“I thought as much.” Two of the Ambassador's household came up with cushions for his bench; Ylia waved and went on down the street.
The market was crowded and there was a pleasant smell on the light breeze: Someone was selling warmed cider, hot spiced wine and venison yushas. She bought a tart green apple—it was still difficult for her to persuade the vendors to take her coin instead of giving her things—and walked on toward the barracks.
Beyond the market were houses of noble proportion and look. Corlin, Duke of Teshmor, lived here with his Lady; Duke Erken did, and so did several of the Main Council. Past them were smaller houses such as Brelian's and Lisabetha's, those of some of the younger councilors and most of the crafters whose numbers swelled the market in warm weather. Further along the avenue was the inn that housed increasingly frequent visitors from Yls and Oversea, and more houses of the prosperous merchant class.
Behind them, separated from the houses by a wide meadow and hard against the hills, was Lossana's enormous clothbarn. Most of the City's weavers and spinners worked here, and it was seldom indeed one could not see clouds of steam rising from the open back of the building where the dye vats simmered.
“Wait up!” came a familiar voice. Ylia turned in surprise.
“Lisabetha, you're not supposed to be on your feet!”
“I am.” Lisabetha patted her stomach fondly. “My jailers gave me leave to walk, once down the street, once back. Don't fuss.”
It was hard not to fuss: Lisabetha had already miscarried twice. “Too young,” Lossana had said. “I did the same, conceiving at sixteen, and I wasn't as small as ‘Betha!” Unlike Lossana, Lisabetha couldn't be convinced to delay babies a few years, so when she became pregnant again, Malaeth sent for an Ylsan Healer. She and Fiyorona, the Healer, had put Lisabetha to bed and were keeping her there. So far, it was working.
Lisabetha laughed. “I'll be glad to have this baby born, just so you and Brel will quit looking at me like that! I've kept it for eight months, haven't I?”
“All right.” Ylia hugged her young friend and Lady's thin shoulders. Lisabetha was much more like a sister than the formal attendant she'd once been, and a far cry from the sullen, terrified child who'd fled Koderra three years before. She'd had cause for all of it, though: The mountains had been as dangerous as Lisabetha had feared. If ‘Betha ever thought about any of it anymore, no one could tell. Until this pregnancy, she'd been one of Nedao's three best swordswomen, Eveya and the Bowmaster's daughter Lennet being the other two. Ylia smiled at her; Lisabetha was strong and strong-willed both. She would be fine. “Going any further, or are you going home?”
“I had better not. I was going to the barracks to look for Brelian, but if I do he'll just worry.” She grinned. “Don't tell him I was out, will you?”
“If you say.”
“I'll go back; Fiyorona will have the bedding changed by now.” She sighed. “It's pleasant out here; I need a larger window by the bed if I'm to live in there.”
Ylia watched her go. She smiled at the two young boys who came running past her, skidded to a halt to sketch a bow in her direction, and were gone in a clatter of boots. She pushed her sleeves above her elbows. It wasn't really warm, but compared to what it had been just days before, the sun felt wonderful. Her arms were pale from the long winter, making the scars even more than usually visible. She scowled as she turned them palms up: that thin line running from wrist nearly to elbow along the inside of her right arm. Three years, nearly four, and it still hadn't faded. Lyiadd's work, and not the only. She resisted the impulse to finger the one that ran down her face from temple to chin. Even Galdan bullied her when he caught her touching that, though thanks to her own healing and to Malaeth's poultices, it was even less visible than the others.
Not that it particularly bothered her. She had never thought of herself as beautiful, certainly not perfect of face, that a thin white line from temple to chin should ruin her life. Galdan hadn't liked that scar, though, not at first, and it still upset Erken.
She was nearing the barracks; even blind she'd have known that by the unholy din. Nedao's armed were taking advantage of the temporary break in weather. Men and boys were scattered over the sword-field, working diligently. There was Erken, and beyond him she could hear Marhan's bellow rising above the clash of steel on steel. He was working the youngest and greenest lads of all, the first-year novices. Marhan had them in a double line and he walked up and down behind them, shouting changes in a voice that had lost none of its volume since she'd cringed under it.
“Count of four, are ye deaf?” The boy in question jumped as the old man shouted into his ear. “Not four and something, count of four! Do it again! You!" The boy next to him nearly fell as the old Swordmaster turned on him. “You're supposed to be watching him! Watch!”
“Sir,” the boy stammered. Marhan gave him a shove.
“Ignore me! I'm not here! You pay attention to him!" He turned away, shaking his head. “Well?” he demanded. Ylia grinned at him. “Distracting ’em, are ye?”
“You have them in line, old man,” she retorted. Her Swordmaster snorted, stepped back a few
paces.
“Huh. They come clumsier every year. How a man's to turn that into swordsmen is beyond me!”
“You say that every year, Marhan.” He had said it every year for forty at the very least, since Brandt her father had made his awkward novice crossings under the then black-haired Swordmaster's gimlet eye. “I spoiled you, learning as fast as I did.”
Marhan fixed her with a glittering eye that was still formidable. “Did ye, boy?” Ylia ground her teeth, and Marhan grinned at her evilly, knowing he'd scored. He'd refused to teach her at first, he'd never tutored a girl. But she was Brandt's heir. Marhan had finally decided to take his King's order to treat her like any of the novice lads literally. “Ye weren't bad at that, I suppose.” She goggled at him in mock astonishment—Marhan never gave compliments. “Never said ye were good, did I?”
“You did!”
“I never did. Wouldn't!”
“You did, once,” she laughed. “Just once.”
“Oh. That.” He had, the last day of their journey from Koderra to the Caves; it had been unexpected and touching. “Huh,” he chuckled wickedly. “Ye haven't a witness, tell anyone and I'd deny it.”
“You'll never have to, old man; no one would believe it anyway.” He merely chuckled again and clapped her soundly on the back; somehow, she managed not to stagger under the weight of the blow.
“You, there, Jassen! Count of four, get your mind to it!” He shook his head, watched them closely for several more passes. “All right, change!”
“You'd better get back to them,” Ylia remarked as the boys shifted. Someone's sword hit the dirt; Marhan rolled his eyes imploringly upward.
“Looking for Galdan? He's down below.” Marhan pointed.
“Just looking.” She almost ran as Marhan began bellowing the changes with exaggerated patience: Her ears were beginning to hurt.
Erken waved as she passed him, then yelled his boys back to attention when several of them turned to stare: Unlike Marhan's, his hadn't quite learned proper concentration yet.
