by Ellyn, Court
“You’re as blind as the moons.” Athna lifted a black horse’s head. “To escape my rook, you moved directly into the path of my knight.”
“Ah-ha, I didn’t lose after all. My move was illegal, and we have to replay.”
Athna bared her teeth in a mock-predator’s grin. “You’ve never played by the rules, you don’t get to start now. You think an army can’t move a king into harm’s way and get him killed?’ you used to say.”
“By an elf’s bloody arse!” Allaran exclaimed, earning a gasp from Ni’avh. His middle daughter sat beneath a lamp, nimble fingers faltering in their needlework. Fair and prim, Ni’avh was an echo of their mother. She never offended anyone and was easily offended. Rocking the boat simply shouldn’t be done.
Islinn, the youngest, giggled over Father’s shoulder. She flipped a red ringlet and piped, “Lost again, Da.”
“Thank you for your keen observation, Issy,” Allaran growled.
Athna had little in common with her delicate, feminine younger sisters. She had always thought of herself as the son Lord Allaran never had. When she turned eleven, her father had secured her the position of cabin girl aboard King Bano’en’s flagship. At twenty-four, she was named first mate. And four years later, the king granted her command of the Pirate’s Bane, a war galleon in the Leanian pirate patrol.
Ni’avh was terrified of the sea; Islinn considered ships squalid and ruinous to a woman’s beauty. Indeed, Athna’s skin was weathered by long exposure to sun and salty wind, her left cheek scarred where a squall-blown stay had laid it open to the bone. But she would trade neither her squalid ship nor her scars for all the pretty red ringlets and silk gowns in Dwinóvia. Even now, surrounded by the gentle comforts of home, Athna was ready to return to Graynor where the Bane languished in dry dock. As soon as rumors of war began circulating at court, King Bano’en ordered every Leanian ship to return to port. Only a select fleet of merchanters and their escorts had been permitted to sail. Athna feared that by the time the conflict between Aralorr and Fiera was resolved, pirates would regain sovereignty over the seas. More, Athna’s crew might be in mutiny. Though the Bane was responsible for sinking or capturing half a dozen pirate vessels during her first months in action, Athna’s crew were still reluctant to cooperate with her. Most took issue with a female captain. Women on board ships were considered bad luck, likely for the lustful thoughts and competition they incited. When Athna served as cabin girl, she was merely cute; she couldn’t decide when she had crossed the line and become bad luck.
She refrained from speaking of the hostilities to her parents, however. Her father would go into a rage and insult the Admiralty for allowing such uncouth men to serve in the king’s navy; her mother would look shocked and urge her to resign her post. So she smiled and played chess and kept her struggles to herself.
“One day, Da,” she gloated, “you’ll remember not to challenge me when I come home.”
Allaran shook a finger at her. “No one can win forever, my child.”
“Hmm,” she teased, “is that the same as saying you can’t lose forever? I’m not certain I agree.”
Islinn squealed with laughter, and because Athna was too old to take to ground and tickle mercilessly, Allaran lavished his revenge upon his youngest. He hauled Islinn over the back of the chair and poked her ribs until her doll-like complexion turned tomato-red. She kicked her petticoats into a white froth, and her cries for mercy reached an ear-splitting note.
In the parlor’s dark corner, Lady Klari pried open her eyes and pressed fingers into her temples. “Allaran, please. Issy, that’s quite enough.”
Allaran released his daughter, and Islinn smoothed her skirts to her knees and patted her curls into place.
“My dear, why don’t you go to bed?” Allaran asked, none too pleased that his wife’s constant headache forced him to maintain a level of civilized behavior.
Ever since Athna had been forced to wear petticoats, her mother had suffered from headaches. Athna couldn’t remember Lady Klari having ever been active or happy or affectionate; she had always hurt too badly. When Athna had returned home on leave, she had been surprised by how drawn and pale her mother had become.
Ni’avh laid her needlepoint aside and asked, “Should I mix more silverthorn tea, Mother?”
“You don’t have to do that, dear,” Klari replied in a way that said ‘please do.’
At the sideboard, Ni’avh filled a porcelain cup with steaming tea, and sprinkled a teaspoon of silverthorn powder into it. The tea fizzed until the herb dissolved, and Ni’avh placed the cup in her mother’s hand. Klari sipped cautiously and ignored the steward at the parlor door. “M’ lord Allaran,” the man announced, “you’ve visitors.”
“At this hour?” Allaran asked. “Show them in.”
Athna sat back and swirled a glass of brandy while the rest of her family sat up straight and composed themselves for guests. The steward returned and bowed as two ladies in travel-worn cloaks entered the parlor. Allaran sprang from his chair. “By the Mother! Alovi!”
“Cousin!” Klari cried, lifting a thin white hand.
There was a flurry of embraces as Lady Ilswythe greeted her brother, cousin, and nieces. “This can’t be Islinn! Why, you could barely walk …”
“I lower my hemline next year,” Issy boasted.
“Ni’avh, there’s not an ounce of my brother in you, thank the goddess. And Athna, it’s ‘captain’ now, isn’t it? Allaran, perhaps you remember Etivva?”
The quiet woman on the threshold lowered her hood, revealing the shaved head of the Shaddra’hin.
“Yes, yes, of course, welcome, Holy One. Come rest yourself. Alovi, what are you doing here?” Allaran ushered them to fireside chairs, and Ni’avh poured two more cups of tea.
Aunt Alovi sank into the chair in the cautious manner of one bruised by travel. “I’m on a mission. And I need your help, Al.”
He maneuvered a chair closer to his sister and leaned forward attentively. “You’re here about this war business, aren’t you?”
Alovi breathed in the fragrant steam of her tea and confirmed with a lift of her eyebrows.
“Why should the Black Falcon send you to us?”
“Rhorek didn’t send me.”
“Keth, then …”
“Keth doesn’t know I’m here,” she admitted. “I came because of this.” From a purse hanging on her belt, she produced a crumpled bit of parchment and gave it to her brother. “Kelyn wrote to me and explained, almost as an afterthought, that Uncle Bano’en refuses to answer Rhorek’s plea for aid.”
Allaran tilted the parchment toward the firelight, read, then asked, “Kelyn was knighted?”
“Only this spring.”
“Goddess. And Kieryn?”
“He’s in Evaronna.”
From her shadowy pillows, Klari asked, “Why under the Mother would he go to Evaronna?”
Alovi hesitated, opened her mouth, closed it. “For studies,” she said. “Now, to the issue at hand. Are my husband and my son at war with my brother?”
“Wh—Alovi,” Allaran began, startled.
“Are they?” She aimed the question at her oldest niece.
Athna set aside her brandy, leant forward over her knees. “When I left Graynor, not a week ago, Bano’en was steadfastly proclaiming Leania’s neutrality. He wants no part in another war between the Brother Realms.”
Alovi nearly choked on her tea. “Brother Realms! No Aralorri has admitted to that tie in half a thousand years.” Weary, she lowered her forehead to her fingers. “Al, you can send men to augment Keth’s—”
“I cannot,” he interrupted, if gently. “However much I might like to. I cannot defy the wishes of my king. If I send men back with you, I alone invite the Fierans to retaliate against Leania.”
“Unless Bano’en complies,” Athna put in, “we can do nothing for Aralorr.”
“Or Fiera?” Alovi insisted, a flush of temper reddening her cheeks.
“Our ports a
re closed to every Fieran and Evaronnan vessel,” Athna answered. “Our merchants are ordered to give Fieran coasts a wide berth, and to sail west of the Pearl Islands, shunning the Straits. Neutrality, Aunt, in word and deed, I assure you.”
Taking his sister’s hand, Allaran said, “I would send Keth my militia and knights if I could, you know that, don’t you? I hate to think you’ve been wronged somehow and I can do nothing about it.”
“Of course, brother,” she replied.
“I’m sorry you came for nothing,” he said. “Holy One, you understand, don’t you?”
“Certainly,” Etivva said, and Allaran relaxed, as if the woman’s reply exonerated him of any responsibility. Until now, the shaddra woman had sipped her tea, unobtrusive. She seemed to have little care invested in the matter at hand, apparently only present to provide her lady ample company and an extra charm against highwaymen. One of the precepts accepted across Dwinovia was that a party traveling with a shaddra was to be allowed to pass unmolested through any realm; even highwaymen seemed to revere the holy ones of the Valley and avoided maligning them. Athna wondered if thieves of the sea followed the same code of conduct.
With renewed resolve, Alovi set aside her teacup. “Not for nothing. I am simply forced to appeal to a higher court. Tomorrow, Etivva and I continue on to Graynor. I will speak with dear Uncle Bano’en myself.”
~~~~
“Zellel?” asked Rhoslyn. “How long will you be gone?”
“You’ve never cared before,” the avedra replied, descending the front steps of the palace.
Rhoslyn dogged his heels. “I care now.”
“Why, my lady,” he said, pausing among a busy team of stablehands, “you don’t have to worry about me.” His grin was a warning. He knew full well she wasn’t asking after his welfare. Kieryn had descended before the sun rose to see to his horse himself. Diorval whickered a greeting as Rhoslyn and Zellel approached. Kieryn finished preparations feverishly, too eager, in Rhoslyn’s opinion, to be leaving.
Zellel flicked fingers at his pupil. “Leave off with that animal and come here.” Along with his saddlebags, Zellel carried a bundle wrapped in brown paper and twine. He shoved the bundle into Kieryn’s arms. “Set the duke’s own tailor to making it for you.”
Kieryn broke the twine, unwound the paper, and stared a long while at the dark blue velvet.
“The tailor said the color suited you. I told him the color wasn’t as important as a fay’s arse, but he didn’t listen. Got all fancy on us, he did.”
Rhoslyn had never seen that timid, uncertain expression break with such a smile as when Kieryn flung out his avedra robe. The velvet was the plushest that the Windhaven weavers had on hand. Silver brocade trim adorned the shoulder rolls, hem, and wide sleeves. Elaborate silver clasps secured the front.
Kieryn did not attempt to hide his astonishment.
“Aye, see what I mean?” Zellel groused. “Now I shall need a new robe, or the Lady will think me shabby.”
“Lady?” Rhoslyn asked.
The avedrin stared at her in reply. If either could be more close-mouthed, they’d shatter their teeth. Rhoslyn crossed her arms, fuming and envious. Why couldn’t she go along? What was so terrible or wonderful about this secret place that she was forbidden? She feared to leave her father for long, true, but was her future going to consist solely of tiresome audiences, economic amendments and treatises, tests of Evaronnan law, and worries over military might? Where was the adventure in that?
“Well, don’t just gawk at the thing,” Zellel said. “Try it on for size, and let’s be gone.”
With tedious reverence, Kieryn unlatched the clasps and slid his arms into the sleeves. Zellel produced a broad belt woven from black, blue, and silver cords; from the tasseled ends glinted three silver charms: a sunburst, a crescent moon, and a lightning bolt. As a king secured a knight’s sword belt, Zellel tied the cords into a knot around Kieryn’s waist.
“Quite the pair you two make,” Rhoslyn said, unable to disguise a hint of acid. The robe was a beautiful thing, indeed, and Rhoslyn felt as jealous as if Kieryn were admiring a soft silver-skinned woman rather than silver embroidery. She warned him, “Don’t let this old man get you into trouble.”
Zellel’s black eyes narrowed. “I’ll get him into far less trouble than someone else might.”
Kieryn made a guileless face, as if he hadn’t spent the previous evening holding her under the thellnyth tree. Rhoslyn decided it best to pretend the same. She mimicked Aunt Halayn’s dry, ridiculing glare. “You’re full of nonsense.”
“Hnh,” Zellel said and beckoned the stableboy to bring round his old brown mule.
Rhoslyn watched them go. At the gate, Kieryn waved farewell. He was smiling, curse him. Would he miss her? He hadn’t said he would. When she waved in return, she told herself he would be heartsick until he returned, but suddenly the world grew immense around her small fragile bones, and she didn’t believe it. She had only Kieryn’s vow. He would never abandon her. She held onto those words as fiercely as she had held him last night. But when she heard the metallic ding of the ferry bell, Rhoslyn felt the vow slipping through her fingers.
~~~~
Part Three:
MAGICS
17
Princess Ki’eva, lady of Nathrachan, sat at the head of her table and listened to her husband slurp soup from his silver spoon. Oversized lips on a small-boned face caused Lord Birél to look like a fish mouthing for sustenance. He lipped a leg of roast duck, then slurped the glaze off his fingers and the grease off the bone. Greasy fingers reached for his glass, and he slurped the white wine. Ki’eva was able to smile down the table at him only when she imagined a cutthroat slicing off his lips. On the other hand, if she had his lips removed, the fool would be grinning grotesquely at her even when they fought, and Birél’s teeth were crooked and horribly discolored from continuous childhood illness. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
Birél was all too aware of the disgust his eating habits instilled in his wife. He cultivated the habits for that very reason, slurping and belching and letting the juices drip unchecked into his beard. Though Ki’eva tried to mask her disgust and win the battle, as last she had to resort to other tactics. “Ferah,” she called, “take His Lordship’s dinner away. He’s quite finished.”
Birél dropped a duck’s wing and cried, “I’m not half finished!”
The princess smiled her triumph as the stewardess scooped up Birél’s dishes, including the wine glass, and hurried away with them. The Nathrachan household knew well who outranked whom—and who had more spine.
“How dare you, love!” Birél’s indignation had all the force of a beaten dog’s whine.
Ki’eva took up her spoon and sipped her soup in peace. After savoring the hint of cinnamon in the beef broth, she humored her husband. And why not? She had the victory; it was her right to grind him under her heel a bit. “How dare I what, love?”
He pounded his fist on the table. “You take too many liberties! You insult me without qualm—in my own house!”
“Aw,” Ki’eva crooned and pouted rouged lips. “You seem to forget. All things belong to my brother. He permits you to live here.” Her smile was silk.
“Now you threaten me? After five years, I deserve some measure of respect from you.”
Ki’eva threw back her head and laughed. “Why, love, I’d always heard it said that after five years of marriage the last of the respect is gone, and the insults start to get really nasty.” Upon her marriage, she had been prepared to give her husband the respect and devotion that the lord of an important holding deserved. But Birél had met none of her expectations. Five years later she spat at the thought of her brother for condemning her to this domestic hell. Marrying her off to a man at the far edge of his kingdom was Shadryk’s way of ensuring that the eastern lords remained dedicated to his goals. The presence of the king’s sister had certainly quelled attitudes of dissidence, and with the use of her charms and a few small favors, Ki
’eva had won herself a loyal following. Nathrachan’s halls often resembled Brynduvh’s during Assembly. She held court like a queen, and shouldering Birél aside had been easy. Her hand had fit comfortably into the glove of authority, and Birél seemed unable to recognize that he had lost his gloves long ago. Ki’eva often wondered, however, if the advantages she had gained outweighed the burden of this slurping fool.
Birél paced off his frustration. A heavy, fur-trimmed tunic swung loosely around his thighs. For some inexplicable reason, he believed that wearing oversized clothes made his small frame appear larger, but to Ki’eva he looked like a skeleton in Warlord Goryth’s surcoat. Muttering to himself, Birél paused at the window. Iron lattices secured the keep’s windows from assassins, thieves, and Aralorris. After some time of watching the obvious, he gasped and demanded, “Why are the guards walking in pairs? I didn’t order that.”
Ki’eva swilled her wine, then dabbed the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin and said, “I did.”
“Why didn’t you consult me first?”
Ki’eva snorted indelicately and fished for the letter tucked into her sleeve. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the parchment sailing over the remains of the duck. It spun to a stop near Birél’s greasy napkin. “I found this on your desk. It is addressed to both of us. Captain Raeg told me it arrived from Brynduvh two days ago. You told me nothing, Birél. I wonder, did you even read it?” Ki’eva tried to mimic her brother’s iciest glare.
“Of course, I read it,” Birél insisted, condemning himself with his best defense. Ki’eva would have been more reassured had he said he merely opened it and been distracted before he got the chance.
“My brother writes to inform us that Rhorek has declared war on Fiera and orders us to be ready for anything. Yet what precautions had you taken in response?”
Birél opened his mouth—
“Nothing!” Ki’eva shouted. “You did nothing, Birél, you simple-minded, short-sighted fool.” Before a page could assist her, she shoved her chair away from the table and stalked in on her husband. “Did you think of our defense at all, love?” She sneered the word like a curse.
