Time of Daughters I

by Sherwood Smith

  As yet you were not caught within this the web, or cut by these proliferating crystals, but they are passing close, carried on the air as light as whispers.

  You are in danger.

  There is little, or no, time, before you must be caught. I beg you to heed me when I say the web is strong, the edges of glass sharper than knives.

  I called you thrice before my spirit winged upward toward the realm of the invisible, where eternal harmony sings eternal bliss. There, where spirits blend forever in exaltation, I strive for its cerulean intensity, where forever I shall fall and fall.

  EIGHTEEN

  As often happens when storms are severe enough to drive living things to shelter, the messengers ordinarily strung out by weeks in good weather arrived within a day or two of one another.

  The first to arrive, late the next afternoon, was a runner bearing the East Garrison pennon. He was passed straight up to Commander Mathren’s chamber, business as usual. But shortly thereafter everyone in the castle paused, looking upward as the slow tolling of the great bells announced an important death.

  “What does that mean?” Danet asked Arrow.

  He spread his hands. “Should hear something soon enough.”

  He was correct. Evred sent a runner summoning the eagle-clan Olavayirs to his suite. No sooner had that runner dashed out than Tdor Fath’s first runner dashed in, eyes wide. “The news is all over. The regent is dead.”

  “We’d better get upstairs,” Arrow said to Jarend and their wives.

  They walked in silence, aware of the alert guards at the landings, and runners rushing to and fro. Whispers echoed along the stone walls, though no one spoke as their party drew nigh. Danet’s heart beat near her throat. She had no idea what to expect from Evred—real grief? False grief?

  The last thing she expected was nervous, badly suppressed triumph. But then she reminded herself that Evred had been impatient to take the throne at last. With his eldest uncle gone, it seemed likely to occur, maybe before she and Arrow and Jarend could leave for Olavayir.

  She suppressed a sigh as her gaze shifted from Evred to Mathren Olavayir, standing behind and to Evred’s left in shield position.

  Evred said to Arrow and Jarend, “We’ve discovered that my uncle died in the service of Marlovan Iasca.” His fingers flexed at the sides of his blue House tunic with the leaping dolphin embroidered across the chest in real gold.

  He went on without any hint of grief, “Uncle Kendred and his runners were caught in the snowstorm. Their horses were found loose, and by the time the storm had passed enough to search, they were frozen, and somebody Disappeared them, we don’t know who. But we’ll have the memorial tomorrow at midnight just the same. So I summoned you all to tell you that I’ve decided to assume the crown on New Year’s Firstday—two days from now.”

  He cast a wary glance over his shoulder at Mathren Olavayir’s impassive face, then added in a stronger voice, “When I got the news, I sent out my own personal runners to tell the jarls. My first orders as king.”

  Mathren’s expression remained blank, but jutting cheekbones so like Lanrid’s showed a blotch of color. Arrow had been watching Mathren as Evred spoke. The commander’s weight shifted, and the back of Arrow’s neck gripped.

  But Mathren didn’t speak, so Arrow turned his attention to Evred, who hadn’t stopped talking. “...and we’ll have a proper coronation, with the jarls giving oaths, by Midsummer. By then I hope I’ll have Hard Ride Hadand Arvandais here, and we can have a wedding, too. Then you can go home,” he said to Jarend and Arrow, “because by then we should have an heir on the way.”

  He cast another look over his shoulder at Mathren, his fingers turning the shallow, beaten-gold wine cup in his hands as he said, “By New Year’s Second-Day, I’ll begin with how I want the castle to be run, and by the new year, the kingdom.”

  Everyone stared at him.

  He said, “Aren’t you going to salute the new king?” His voice was petulant, but Danet could see nerves, even fear, in the way Evred’s eyes shifted between them all, as he kept flexing his fingers.

  Mathren smiled, and struck his fist to his heart. Belatedly the others did as well. Evred broke into a grin that made him look almost appealing, and very much younger, and then they all had to drink, Danet forcing herself to sip as she loathed the smell of wine during the day. At last Evred seemed to remember that there had been a recent death, and tried to assume an aspect of sorrow.

  Mathren set down his goblet and said, “I had better return to duty.”

  Three steps and he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him. Evred’s brow furrowed. He forced out a strangled laugh. “Uncle Mathren forgot who is the new king!”

  And so began a long, tedious evening of drinking, bragging, and speculation about how long it might take to get an answer from the north—and what kind of wedding would impress Hard Ride.

  The next morning, while the Olavayirs slept in after their wearying, wine-sodden celebratory night with the new king, above them on the third floor, Camerend and Mnar sat across from each other on their mats pulled up by the fireplace, as far from the tall windows rattling with storm winds as they could get, as Mnar read Isa’s letter.

  Finally she handed it back, her expression pained. “A glass spider? What does Isa mean by that? Camerend, you know I’ve never understood her. She was the best of us at scribe training and magic, but sometimes I found her half-mad—and I say that with all respect and admiration.”

  “...Isa being Cassad twice over. I know.” Camerend spoke in the tone of one who had heard that, and said that, many times. They’d all grown up excusing Isa’s vagaries on this entirely justifiable ground. For though most of the Cassads were like anyone else, every so often that family was known to produce oddities, and Isa’s particular family tree had two of these oddities in branches directly above her.

  “Anyone who doesn’t take Cassads seriously might not be half-mad, but they are generally all fool,” Mnar commented. “We always take her seriously, but I can’t make out what that spider of glass and the cutting crystal spiderweb...thing...means.” She groped in the air. “I understand that symbols are different for different people. They’re shaped by moods, and what we’ve done during the day, and even by time.”

  Camerend stroked his thumb along the line of his jaw, an absent, familiar gesture that had disturbed Mar’s equanimity as a teen, until her intense passion for charming, easy Vandareth obliterated all her other crushes.

  “You know Isa means only to help us,” Camerend said.

  “I know. I know! She was always so scrupulously truthful, and lies hurt her as much as touching things by accident did. And yet I don’t see any utility in her warning at all, except that there’s danger, which we know, and to be careful, which we always are, and to worry more, which isn’t—”

  A young runner gave a perfunctory knock and bounded in.

  “—helpful,” Mnar finished, and gestured the boy forward.

  “Ivandred’s back,” the runner said. “He slipped in through the old bath tunnel, so no one saw him. He’s on his way up.”

  Camerend and Mnar exchanged startled looks. With the news about Kendred’s death all over the castle, nobody would think twice about royal runners dashing in and out, so Ivandred’s needing to sneak struck them as sinister.

  Ivandred entered almost on the runner’s heels, the tips of his ears dark red from the cold, his queue a beaver-tail of frizz from the wet weather.

  “Is Branid with you?” Mnar asked before Ivandred could open his mouth.

  Ivandred ran his hands up over his high forehead and through his thick brown hair, sending water droplets hissing into fire as he said, “We were caught by the tail end of a snowstorm, passing north. Bad one. Raced back. Bran stayed behind for more evidence.” Ivandred drew a breath, his scrawny chest expanding. “I wanted to make certain you heard my report first: Kendred Olavayir is dead,” he whispered.

  “We know,” Camerend said. “East Garrison re
ported in yesterday. Foundered and froze in the snow below one of the mines. Memorial tonight.”

  Ivandred snapped away his words with a flat hand. “Murdered. He, his first runner, and Hlar Dei, who’d gone along to see to his meals as a favor.”

  “What?” Mnar exclaimed. “Hlar is a better fighter than Spindle!”

  They all knew that; Spindle was a castle runner, but Hlar was a royal runner. She’d been temporarily helping at the bakehouse, which was close to the garrison housing for families, as she and Spindle had had a daughter just a few months ago.

  Mnar’s stomach churned.

  “By?” Camerend prompted.

  “The honor guard sent to meet them.”

  Mnar had started up, but she sank back again, as Camerend thought grimly that he was never going to be able to touch his wife again. Every horror he experienced was a fresh, invisible stain on his spirit that somehow she felt as strongly as he when she so much as laid a finger on his wrist. Only time muted the intensity of her mysterious ability to lift memories and emotions from physical contact, but it seemed of late there would never be enough time to render himself safe enough for the briefest touch of hands or lips.

  Ivandred hunkered down by the fire, the other two moving back to give him space. His sodden clothes pulled over his thin ribs as he held his hands out, fingers spread as if to grip warmth. He mumbled over his shoulder through numb lips, “The second runner survived the attack, though he was left for dead. This was in up in the wooded slope of the mountains, outside Askan and Sindan Mines. We caught up with him four days ago.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was found last week by some wood-scavengers. They Disappeared the dead. Had no idea who any of them were. Took Brana to their home. He didn’t tell them who he was. Told them they were attacked by brigands. He was afraid that if Evred knew he’d survived, he would send more.”

  “Evred?” Mnar repeated in disbelief.

  “Evred cannot assign an honor guard,” Camerend said slowly.

  “I know, but that's what the runner told us.” Ivandred opened his hands. “Evred sent them to meet the regent and his runners to escort them to the capital. They took them to a dell in the wood and....” He gestured a sword slash.

  Mnar sighed. “Someone’s lying.”

  No one argued. They knew how tight a control Mathren Olavayir kept over his Royal Riders. No one gave them orders but him.

  Camerend said slowly, “What if this supposed honor guard...weren’t our guards at all?”

  “Hirelings?” Mnar asked. “Who would dare to impersonate the royal guard? Who would dare to set up such a thing? It’s a capital matter!”

  “Let’s assume that Evred really did send them. Neither royal guard nor Royal Riders take orders from him without approval from the regent or Mathren. But hirelings wouldn’t necessarily know that.”

  “Hirelings?”

  “If you have enough gold, anyone can be hired to do anything,” Camerend said.

  Ivandred turned up his hand. “True. Evred could easily hire some of those roisterers at the Captain’s Drum he admires so much. I know at least two who were booted out of the guard, and there’s rumor that that place is a safehouse for thieves.”

  Mnar scowled. “Thieves sound like just the sort that could be bribed to try anything. Especially if they know they have a prince in their pocket.”

  “Ripe for blackmail,” Ivandred added sourly.

  Mnar got up and walked in a slow, sightless circle. “All this is guesswork, but it makes so much sense.” She stopped and faced the others. “But wouldn’t someone report missing horses and gear to Mathren?”

  Ivandred, the eldest of them, said dourly, “Unless he knew what was going on and chose not to see.”

  Camerend gazed into the fire. “One thing that never changed, all the years I lived as a hostage in this castle: Garid and Kendred played together, and Garid and Mathren drilled together, but Mathren and Kendred never got along.”

  They thought back to their fledgling days as student royal runners, observing the three princes from afar: laughing, dashing Garid, equally dashing Mathren who never laughed, and whose self-discipline ran counter to Kendred’s lazy love of luxury. Since Garid’s assassination by those still at-large brigands, Mathren and Kendred had lived separate lives, strictly dividing the kingdom’s affairs. Clearly they hadn’t liked one another, but in twenty years there had been no threats or signs of violence.

  Ivandred said, “Of the two, I think Mathren the most capable, except why would he kill Kendred, especially now? It doesn’t bring anything to him.”

  Mnar added in a dry voice, “Evred is the least capable of anything, but has the most to gain, as it’s chiefly been Kendred standing in the way of him becoming king.”

  Camerend threw his hands wide. “If we investigate, what do we do with the result? Where is the right, here?”

  “There is no right here.”

  They turned to where Shendan Montredavan-An stood in the inner doorway. No one could have entered unless by magic transfer. They waited as Shendan recovered from the wrench of transfer and walked slowly in, the firelight gilding her silver-white hair to gold.

  Mnar leaped to lock the door; if Mathren sent a surprise inspection, at least they’d have a few moments in unlocking the door for Shendan to transfer away again.

  She looked aged and worn, as she had on the cliff above the massacre. “You know that Mathren will never tolerate an investigation he did not order. We had better take the time to consider the consequences before we take action. Until then, do your regular duty as if you were oath-sworn to someone you could respect. Let your choices follow the right road, even if the road seems to be invisible to the world around you.”

  That sounded excellent, Camerend thought wearily, and he would always do his best to follow it, but the older he got, the more he wondered if anyone saw the same right road. “What about the baby?” He sighed, and answered his own question. “I’ll go over to the garrison and talk to Captain Noth. Spindle was one of his Noth connections.”

  “Hlar was sister to Carleas Cassad,” Mnar reminded him. “I expect he’ll send the child to her.”

  Mushy snow was falling so heavily by the time the bell tolled midway between sunset and sunrise that Kendred Olavayir’s memorial was perhaps more brief than it would have been. The singing of the Hymn to the Fallen was perfunctory at best.

  As the former gunvaer had died not long after her favorite son’s assassination, the only people who seemed to genuinely mourn the regent were his personal runners, who’d had easy lives, and perhaps those at his favorite pleasure houses—the sharpest regret perhaps felt by the owners, as the steady flow of silver from Kendred’s carelessly generous hand had come to an abrupt end.

  Half the leddas-oil torches hissed and spat, and some went out entirely. The singing was ragged, and only Evred made a testimony to the dead—the same words he’d spoken the day previous.

  Then it was over, and everyone retired to warmth and dryness, the Royal Riders knowing that if the weather abated they’d have drill at sunup as always.

  The storm passed on to the west with the darkness, and the Royal Riders roused themselves irritably. This was the day for weekly lance drill, which would be a real toil in the snow, but that never stopped Commander Mathren.

  Sure enough, anyone who’d hoped the Commander had gotten uncharacteristically drunk after the memorial was disappointed, and they rode out as usual as soon as the gates opened for the day.

  Mid-morning, shortly before the Royal Riders were due back, Ranor-Jarlan’s personal runner, hawk-nosed Gdan—bedraggled after a long, wearying ride—rode alone into the stable that she remembered so well from her childhood.

  She slid tiredly off her mud-caked horse, and approached the stable chief. “Gdan from the Jarlan of Olavayir, here to speak to Jarend-Laef or Anred-Dal.”

  She looked so exhausted that the chief motioned to one of the young stable hands, and tipped his he
ad toward the castle. The boy took off, and Gdan was handed a scraper to get the worst of the spatters off her robe and boots before she could enter the castle.

  Danet’s runner Tesar happened to be right inside the guest suite, having just returned from taking a tray of dishes downstairs. She intercepted the stable boy, and when she heard who the arrival was, she debated internally for a heartbeat or two, then impulsively broke the rules and ran down to the stable herself.

  Tesar found Gdan alone, beating the last of the mud off the back of her coat. “Auntie,” Tesar cried, and halted, peering around the empty stable yard.

  Gdan gave Tesar a speculative glance as she began on her boots a second time. “You look lost. They treating you bad?”

  Tesar sighed. “I’ve been stuck with baby-minding, and I hate it. I don’t buck meal fetching or laundry, but I was trained for the ride.”

  Gdan’s heavy brows knit over her hawk nose. “Where’s Nunka? He raised both Arrow and Jarend from the time they were weaned—”

  “He and the carts just barely got here—”

  Gdan cut her niece off. “Then stop whining and do what you’re told,” she said unsympathetically, for she hated being back in the royal city. But the randviar had said privately that it would be a mercy to offer to go, since she knew the way, and the jarlan’s other runners were all over-burdened, the jarlan dealing with grief as well as the memorial for Indevan-Jarl. “Be glad you’re alive,” Gdan added shortly, her news boiling painfully inside her. But family-feeling prompted her to add, “Unless Danet treats you badly.”

  “She’s not unfair.” Tesar jerked a shoulder up. “Or mean. Just works on her papers a lot. We haven’t touched halter or horse for weeks.”

  Gdan sighed. “We raised you better than that. If you’re unhappy, you talk to Danet....” And she began to unlimber a lecture that Tesar had heard before.

  The clatter of iron-shod horse hooves on stone caused them both to turn toward the gate as Mathren Olavayir, returning from the weekly lancers’ drill, led the Royal Riders in at a gallop.