“Lyonyan King’s Squire,” Mikeli said to Camwyn as they rode back through the town toward the inn where they would stay that night. “King Kieri uses them as couriers.”
Camwyn had his own room in the inn, solid wooden walls between him and any watching eyes. As if such a place were no challenge, his hand did not light up all night.
The next morning they started early for Verrakai Domain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Verrakai Steading
Dorrin could not help considering the irony that although girls were considered more vulnerable, and thus rarely had a chance to serve as squires, her one female squire had caused no problems at all, while both Beclan and Daryan had—well, it wasn’t fair to say that Daryan had gotten himself in trouble—but say rather both had fallen into trouble. Gwenno Marrakai appeared to have no problems other than those any lively girl would generate at her age. Gwenno, who had grown up with a houseful of other younglings, including a full suite of brothers, handled the attention she received with ease.
Dorrin could have envied her—did envy her, she admitted—the kind of family life Gwenno had as a child. The girl seemed highly intelligent, energetic, good-natured, and uncomplicated, which made it easy to spend her time and thought on Daryan and Beclan, especially Beclan. And yet—even if Gwenno could learn by herself—that wasn’t what her family had intended when they asked Dorrin to accept her as a squire.
She had planned this afternoon’s meeting for that reason, and when she heard Gwenno’s cheery greeting to the cooks on her way through the kitchen, she could not help smiling. Gwenno appeared in the office door with a plate of pastries, one already in her mouth.
“Sorry, my lord,” she said after setting the plate on Dorrin’s desk and removing the pastry from her mouth. “I just couldn’t resist the smell.”
The pastries did smell good. Farin had reported ample supplies of butter and honey for the king’s visit to come. Dorrin picked one up and left Gwenno to pour the sib, then gestured for her to sit down. “When you’re through with that one,” Dorrin said, “tell me about your patrol.” She bit into the pastry. A warm soft-cheese filling, lightly spiced.
Gwenno ate quickly, took two swallows of sib, and plunged in. She had noticed everything, it seemed: the land, the woods, the crops, the livestock. Though Daryan had been better at patrol reports early on, with his more methodical way of approaching things, Gwenno had learned. Now Dorrin got a vivid picture of conditions along her patrol route—conditions that continued to improve with time.
“And I met Marshal Daltor in Nin’s Well—that’s near Lower Hedgy; we both talked to the people, and I think they’re not so afraid of Gird now.” She picked up another pastry.
“Excellent,” Dorrin said. “Now—the courier came with word that the king would soon leave Vérella. You will stay here through the visit, as will Daryan. By the king’s command, Beclan will remain until the king arrives. We will have a day’s warning; I’m sending someone to Harway to ride here at speed.”
“I could do that,” Gwenno said, as energetic as if she were not just in from patrol.
“No, I need you here,” Dorrin said. “One of the militia will do well enough. How are you coming with your weapons training when on patrol?”
“First thing every morning,” Gwenno said promptly. “Well—those assigned to camp chores do that first, but the rest of us have a half-glass of exercises. And then again in the afternoon after making camp.” She looked at the last pastry on the platter, and Dorrin nodded permission.
Beclan knocked at the door. “My lord?”
“Yes, Beclan.”
“Looks like there’s a storm moving up the river—big enough to reach us, maybe. Should I send to have the home herds brought up?”
“Is there much rain in it?”
“I think so, my lord.”
“I’ll look. Come along, Gwenno.”
Out the front entrance, Dorrin could see the great cloud, dark beneath and snow-white on top—and not just one cloud but a mountain range of them. In the strange light such storms produced, the household cattle, down in the water meadow, glowed as if carved from colored wax. If all that rain fell, the river would rise fast.
“Yes, Beclan. Get some men and bring them up behind the house.”
He saluted and jogged off. Gwenno made a move to follow, but Dorrin stopped her. “Do you know where the children are? I don’t hear them—”
“I passed them coming in,” Gwenno said. “They’re berrying in the woods—” She gestured.
“Well, find them and start them home.”
“At once, my lord.”
With Gwenno off to find the children and Beclan after the cattle, Dorrin thought of Daryan—out on patrol to the northwest—and hoped he’d find shelter in the woods. He was due back the next day or the day after. She met her steward coming briskly down the main passage.
“Laundry’s in, my lord. There’s a storm—”
“Yes, I saw it.” She ducked into her office, picked up the empty platter the pastries had been on, and went into the kitchen. “Storm coming,” she said to Farin.
“I thought so,” Farin said. “The fire’s not drawing well. Thank you for bringing the dish back, my lord.”
A crash of thunder startled Dorrin even as she sat down at her desk, shaking the house and then rumbling away into the distance as if giants were rolling barrels on stone across the sky. Dorrin looked out the office window in time to see the first drops of rain. Then a curtain of water smashed down onto the courtyard. A dank current of air ran through the house.
Shrill squeals came from the back entrance, and the sound of feet running and high excited voices meant the children were back—but probably wet. “Wait!” cried an adult voice, but as Dorrin reached the door of her office, several children pelted past her and ran into the kitchen. Down the passage she saw Gwenno leap over another child and bar the passage, arms and legs outspread.
“You don’t run like that in the house,” she said to the children as Dorrin came nearer. “And you don’t dirty up the floor with muddy feet. There’s a scullery passage back here for a reason.”
Now Dorrin could see the whole bedraggled group, nursery-maids in the rear and excited children jumping up and down. “Thank you, Gwenno,” she said. “If you get the mud off their feet, they may walk upstairs to change.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gwenno said. “It’s my fault, really. I saw the curtain of rain coming and said we should go through the garden to beat it, but we weren’t fast enough. If we’d gone through the stables, they could have shed all the dirt there.”
“No matter,” Dorrin said. “While you younglings get your feet cleaned, I’ll fetch the runaways.”
Farin was already dragging them back down the passage when Dorrin turned.
Once the children were upstairs, Gwenno came padding back down the passage in her sock feet, holding her boots in one hand. “We almost made it,” she said.
“So you did—and a good job, too.” The rain still pounded on the roof, falling so hard it made a mist on the stable court. “This will bring the river up…”
“And make the grass grow, my da always says. Never mind the rain; it’s the dry you have to fear.”
“The dry…” The words caught Dorrin’s mind, and she had a sudden vision of barren rocks and waves of sand as vast as the sea. Old Aare … Ibbirun’s curse, the Sandlord’s domain now and forever.
No. Not forever. Come to us. Take us …
She shivered.
“Are you all right, my lord? Are you taking a chill?”
“No,” Dorrin said. “I just thought of Old Aare, and the thought of that desert here, in this green land … horrible.”
“It wouldn’t happen here,” Gwenno said with the confidence of youth. “Tsaia has always been forest and field. The Honnorgat has flowed from the memory of men.”
“There are older beings than men,” Dorrin said, and wondered where that thought had come from. “And it’s
said Old Aare was green once.”
“But not as green as this, I would wager,” Gwenno said. “And besides—if Ibbirun’s curse has not gone beyond Old Aare in all this time, why would it now?”
“You know the legends,” Dorrin said. “Some great evil was done that set Ibbirun free. Are we so free of evil these days and in this place? Consider my relatives, who cursed trees and wells. Could such as they not have invited Ibbirun here?”
Now Gwenno shuddered. “My lord—that’s horrible. How could anyone—”
“How could anyone torment and cripple a lad like Daryan, or kill children to take over their bodies? Evil lives, Gwenno Marrakai, whether we see its reasons or not. The iynisin who killed the Lady of the Ladysforest … I do not understand them, but I cannot deny they exist.”
“But you killed one. And you healed the well and brought water again—”
As you should. As you must. Come, free us!
Dorrin tried to calm the voice in her head, the voice that could be only the crown in Vérella. To Gwenno she said, “I know my magery cleared the well, Gwenno, but the water—that, I truly believe, was the gods’ grace.”
No. Your own magery. Take your gift. Use your gift.
“My lord, I have heard … that the crown speaks to you. The one you gave the king.”
“How did you hear that?”
“It’s … it’s talked of, at court. The crown talks to you, and it cannot be moved unless you move it. Even the box it was in…”
“So much for keeping secrets,” Dorrin said. She wondered which of them had told it and to whom—the king, the Marshal-Judicar, Duke Mahieran? Did all the peerage know by now? It was almost laughable that she had kept the secret so close and they—who bade her keep it close—had blabbed.
“Your people here know about the well,” Gwenno said. “Kindle people told the neighboring vills—of course they did. And everyone noticed the change in the water of the stable well and the one down in the meadow after you spoke to the merin for them. Everyone thinks you have the water magery like the Sier of Grahlin in Gird’s time.”
The Sier of Grahlin, who had driven a river’s water underground and then forced it all out a well to break the fort Gird’s forces held in besieging his city.
“The water lifting you up in that well in Kindle was just like the water in Sier Grahlin’s well…”
“I hope not,” Dorrin said. “I certainly don’t aspire to be Sier Grahlin. He used that power to kill—”
“And you used it to bring clear water to people who had none. I know, my lord, you don’t like to talk about your magery, and you are teaching Beclan in secret, but—but I cannot help seeing what I see and thinking what I think.”
She couldn’t, Dorrin knew. Gwenno Marrakai was Marrakaien through and through, and for all her good traits of sanity, generosity, intelligence … she was also, still, enthusiastic and impulsive, traits with as much tendency to trouble as to peace. Best not to encourage that … or squash it, either. A difficult balance, given all the other elements in the current situation.
“Independence of vision is a good thing,” Dorrin said. “So is thinking. But speaking and acting well require reflection—consideration.”
“Yes, my lord.” Gwenno looked worried now.
Dorrin relented, hoping that was the right choice. “Squires learn by doing, just like the rest of us,” she said. “You can tell me what you see and what you think. I’m not angry. Only we still have a lot of work to do before the king comes.”
“Yes, my lord! What should I start on?”
What could she start the girl on in the midst of a rainstorm? “Your house has hosted important guests,” Dorrin said. “Come with me to the rooms where the king and other nobles will stay; I depend on you to tell me what furnishings may need to be moved.” They started for the stairs. “And you can talk while we work.”
Gwenno’s suggestions sent housemaids scurrying to the attics for items Dorrin had thought useless fripperies. “Pillows,” Gwenno said. “And my mother always put a tapestry screen in front of fireplaces in summer.”
Dorrin nodded, privately thinking that a well-cleaned fireplace with polished hardware was adequate. But now she thought of it, the palace in Vérella had screens over its fireplaces. By supper, all the fireplaces had been blocked by screens and dozens of decorative vases, pots, and boxes awaited cleaning in the upper hall. Meanwhile, Gwenno had proposed a double handful of ideas about the regalia, its origin, the motives of previous Verrakaien dukes, and what she would do if she were Dorrin. Dorrin struggled not to show that the crown answered some of those ideas with enthusiasm. The supper bell came as a welcome reprieve.
Conversation at the meal stayed firmly on weather, crops, livestock, and other estate-related matters, and Dorrin sent her squires off after Gwenno had cleared the table. “I have other work to do,” she said. Once in her office, Dorrin leaned back in her chair and looked down the length of the room, now free of all its magical protections.
Anyone—even the king—could sit safely in any of the chairs. The books on the shelves were just books, not traps. No evil spirits emerged from walls or floors except her own bitter memories, and she did not let them command her. Her people did not live in constant fear, in the certainty of hunger, suffering, punishment, that had held them down so long. She had not done so badly.
Though—she could not let herself rest in that moment of self-praise—she had managed to alienate a large portion of the peerage and get one of her squires cast out of the royal family. “I still make mistakes,” she said to the steady beat of the rain outside.
You are still my Knight.
That was clear enough. Cheered, she went all the way up to the children’s rooms to check the nursery. Three of the younglings were still awake when she peeked in.
“Auntie Dorrin?”
“Sleep in peace,” she said, and stepped back. Tears blinded her for a moment. Peace. Here. In this place. While out in the orchard, under the last row of trees, the ones she herself had killed lay buried. And yet it was peace for these. Maybe someday for all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The king’s progress
Mikeli rode through the forest that lay between Harway and Duke Verrakai’s residence, glad of the cool shade and the lack of crowds along the way. The discovery of Camwyn’s magery had ended all hope that this royal progress would be a pleasant break from his duties in Vérella and a chance to know his realm better. With another mage in the family—his own brother—nothing would ever be simple again. So far, High Marshal Seklis had not seemed to notice anything, but the older man was not a fool. He would have to be told, and soon. Mikeli hoped to talk to Dorrin first; perhaps she could reassure him that he had none of his younger brother’s magery.
Here, with no reason to insist on the king’s precedence, he called Camwyn up to ride beside him, stirrup to stirrup. Lost in his thoughts, he rode on. When he glanced toward his brother again, Cam was sitting facing backward like some farmer’s brat on a plough horse headed home. Anger swelled.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mikeli said in the exact tone he remembered from his father. He reached over, took the reins Cam had dropped, and moved his leg away from his own mount.
“It’s easier to talk to Aris this way, and the horses haven’t spooked for—” At the touch of Mikeli’s spur, Camwyn’s horse shied, rump swinging wide; Cam grabbed for the cantle of his saddle and then looked at Mikeli. “You did that!” he said.
“Yes. Because if there is anyone in these woods with evil intent, a foolish prince sitting backward with the reins loose would be too tempting to miss. Turn around.”
Cam turned around again; Mikeli handed him the reins. Camwyn said nothing, but the flush on his cheeks wasn’t from the sun. Good. Maybe Cam wouldn’t do anything else dangerous or annoying until they reached Verrakai House. He hoped the duke had allowed Beclan to stay for the official arrival.
Camwyn ignored the grins passed between the nearest Roy
al Guard troopers at Mikeli’s scolding. At least he hadn’t fallen off, and so far Mikeli hadn’t told High Marshal Seklis about his magery. He looked ahead, catching a glimpse of open meadow and a great stone house in the distance; then the forest ended at the edge of a water meadow where the Duke was waiting for them.
Camwyn glanced at Duke Verrakai, then looked at her squires. The girl must be Aris’s sister Gwennothlin, her face browned by sun; she grinned past him at Aris. The other was Daryan Serrostin. Camwyn looked at his hand, hoping to see the twig-thumb of rumor, but Daryan wore gloves.
After the greeting, they rode on toward the house, set on a low rise beyond the stream that trickled through stones of the ford. Camwyn saw rows of children holding flowers and repressed a grin with an effort. He, prince of Tsaia, was going to ride through another rain of flower petals. A perfect day!
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dorrin Verrakai waited with her escort at the forest edge. She heard the king’s party already—the thud of hooves, the jingle of tack and harness, the voices.
The king’s party appeared shortly: his standard-bearers in front, great banners drooping in the still air, then the king and the prince, flanked by Royal Guard troops, including two trumpeters. Behind them High Marshal Seklis in Girdish blue and white, Duke Marrakai in red and green, Count Konhalt in yellow with blue trim, and Baron Nunaver, one of Konhalt’s vassals. At a little distance, Dorrin heard the noise of the royal baggage train. They stopped; the trumpeters blew a fanfare, and the standard-bearers hailed Dorrin.
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