Time of Daughters I

by Sherwood Smith

  Arrow tapped the breakfast table. “I have to say, I like the self-discipline you two boys are beginning to show. So, Connar, today is your day. What do you want to do?”

  “I’ve got some ideas,” Noddy began, and grinned.

  “Go on,” Arrow said. “Have fun.”

  As soon as they hit the hallway, Connar said, “I guess you got the conversation about royal runners on your Name Day?”

  “Heh, I remember.” Noddy smiled, as he invariably did. “Told ‘em, why? Even if they give us one, what would he do? Sit around on his thumbs all spring and summer? We can’t have ‘em in the barracks.”

  “Right,” Connar said. “Right, right!”

  “And in winter, I’m so used to seeing to my own tack, there’s no real work for a royal runner anyway. It’ll be different, I guess, when we finish out, and get orders.”

  “I feel the same,” Connar stated, immensely relieved. By the time they were seniors, the secret training would be over and he would be the best of the lancers.

  The next morning Arrow told them it was time to dig out their academy togs to see if they fit.

  Connar ran to his room and shut the door. Then, shivering in the frigid air, he opened his summer trunk and pulled out last season’s academy clothes. He pulled the tunic-shirt on, and sharp disappointment roiled in him when it fell to the same spot mid-thigh as it had during summer. He already knew that he still had no body hair. As he pulled his winter clothes back on, he reminded himself that most boys didn’t get body hair until they’d reached their full height. Tall as Noddy was, he still hadn’t a single pit or prick hair. Which meant he was still growing.

  Connar heard voices and laughing from Noddy’s inner chamber next door. He opened the joining door as Noddy held his tunic shirt up against himself. He’d grown half a palm over winter.

  “As I thought,” their mother said with a sigh. “If you boys still don’t want a royal runner taking charge of your clothes, then get down to the stringer to be measured. I don’t want the staff being harassed to make up new clothes in a day.”

  “They only need to make them for him. I guess I don’t need new,” Connar muttered bitterly.

  Danet could see his deep chagrin, prompting an unwanted, vivid memory of Lanrid towering over her right after her wedding.

  She smiled at Connar’s flushed face, the bone structure so like Lanrid’s, the pout forcing up a vivid memory of Fi.

  But he was not them.

  She smiled wider, consciously banishing the images. “We’ll have new made up for you as well as Noddy, with plenty of growing room. When you do get your growth, it’ll probably be suddenly. It certainly was for my brother. One New Year’s Week he was exactly my height, then at Midsummer he was a full hand taller. As I recall we had to summon the boot-maker four times that year.”

  Connar flashed his own dimpled grin that was nothing like either Lanrid’s well-remembered leer or Fi’s smirk as he ran off with his brother to the tailor to be stringed. Danet reveled in this proof that he was indeed his own self.

  The boys waited impatiently for the rest of the week to pass. Suddenly all their winter pursuits were stale. Their minds were already down in the academy as they repeated the same conversations: speculation about what their bunkmates had done over winter, which end of the barracks would be best, what the year would be like.

  Finally one morning Arrow sat back after breakfast to say, “It’s time to head over academy-side, boys.”

  Letting out joyful yips, they went to their rooms to get their gear bags full of new clothes, then raced each other downstairs and through the short, mossy-smelling tunnel through the castle wall into the academy, where the balmy weather had brought some early arrivals.

  Noddy, as always, looked forward to the year with sunny good will. Connar’s joy was mixed with apprehension: would he be the shortest boy in their class by now? And would Hauth have forgotten about him? Or worse, had Hauth been transferred to the army altogether?

  Their new digs were on the north side, closer to the stable. One more year put them closer to lancers, but they could easily be given an extra year. It had happened to the previous sixth year class. At the thought of lance training, Connar grimaced. Over winter he’d worked, but now he doubted it was enough.

  “Two windows left,” Noddy said with quiet satisfaction, then his tone altered. “Hey, got a gut ache?”

  Connar looked up to find Noddy regarding him with a puzzled air.

  He forced a grin. “Nah. Just griping to myself about how window bunks will be runny shits until the weather warms up.”

  “It’ll warm fast enough,” Noddy said, with his usual easy confidence.

  Someone had already claimed the prime bunks under the windows and closest to the storage shelves, so Connar and Noddy each took the next window over, across from each other.

  As he tidied his clothes into the trunk, Connar wished again that being a prince meant something here. It seemed senseless for it not to, when everybody knew who they were. But if he said anything he’d get howled down for swank, and probably find mud in his bunk, if not worse. And if he said it over castle-side, he’d get lectured at, the best way to get and keep their respect is to earn it, lally-lally-loo. If only he could be certain that Hauth was here, and that they’d be meeting!

  Finished, they went outside seeking others, everyone exchanging wisecracks and insults while either covertly or openly checking each other out. By nightfall about a third of the barracks had filled. Connar noted with disgust that Ghost Fath was not only half a hand taller, but bigger across the shoulders. He was already one of the best in class. He sure didn’t need extra size. At least no one else looked much different.

  When the mess bell clanged at last, Connar’s eyes searched the place on entry. Among the masters lining the wall...there was Hauth! His one squinty eye, cold as ice, glared right at him. What did that mean?

  A sharp jab in his side, and an impatient, “Going to stand there all night?” from Cabbage Gannan (of course he was one of the first to arrive, with a family probably glad to get rid of him) jolted Connar into awareness that a huge space had opened between him and the boys forward in line.

  He grabbed one of the waiting trays and hustled to catch up, snatching randomly at whatever was in the serving dishes. His mind was on Hauth, full of anxious questions.

  Which was what Hauth saw from across the room, and smiled inwardly. He had him, no doubt about it. That mutinous mouth so like Lanrid’s. If Lanrid’s boy hadn’t inherited his grandfather’s self-discipline any more than Lanrid had, it was Hauth’s duty to train it into him.

  He maintained the façade of ignoring Connar through the loud, noisy meal—as the season had not yet officially begun, certain rules were relaxed. He waited until the general scrum on the way out, and when Connar’s eyes turned his way for the hundredth time, Hauth twitched his fingers of his free hand down by his side, flashed Tomorrow, same place, and watched the revealing flush of triumph in Connar’s face.

  Connar ran behind the others, almost blind with the joy that he could not reveal. He wouldn’t; he recognized that some of this ferocious joy was the secrecy.

  After a night of almost no sleep, because he was so afraid of missing the muffled single clang that served as signal for those who had to rise and report for duty before the dawn watch bell, he slid out of bed, the stone floor icy on his stockinged feet. He yanked on his clothes, fingered his hair up into its clasp, carried his boots outside before putting them on, and ran all the way to the appointed spot, relishing his strength.

  When he arrived, words spilled out of him. “I worked all winter! Even when we couldn’t go outside, I ran up and down the steps in the south tower. And look!”

  He glanced about for a spot that wasn’t muddy, then did a handstand there in the mud, steadying himself in the slippery mess, and then bent his elbows and lowered his head almost to the ground. His horsetail draggled in the slime as he straightened his arms, then repeated. His face was
purple by the time he finished ten.

  When he flipped upright again, Hauth caught his horsetail painfully. “Don’t let that mud dirty your clothes. How will you explain that?”

  Connar stilled, wincing against the yank on his scalp. As Hauth roughly combed the worst of the mud out with the fingers of his free hand, he scolded Connar. “I see you worked hard. That’s good. But we’ve any number of muscle-bound rockheads in the army. Turning yourself into another will never make you into the commander Lanrid would have been proud of. You need to start using some mental discipline, beginning with being aware of your terrain, and then considering the consequences of every action.”

  Hauth had decided to substitute Lanrid for Mathren, until he could clean out the prejudice with which Anred, living example of mediocrity, had poisoned the boys.

  Connar gulped and stood still for Hauth’s ungentle ministrations. When at last Hauth stepped back, his fingers now muddy, he added, “Stop by the stable on your way back, and clean those hands in the horse trough.”

  Connar jerked his head up, and there was the tight-lipped mutiny again. “That’s all?”

  “It will be all for good if you start whining like a scrub,” Hauth retorted.

  Connar flushed and belatedly tapped his chest in salute.

  “This is going to be a year for strength, yes, but before you get on a horse and pick up a lance, you’re going to need the wits to command lancers. I keep telling you, a commander doesn’t just give out orders, he lives a life that others want to follow—”

  “I know, I know,” Connar muttered.

  Hauth sensed that he was losing Connar by repeating himself. Annoyed, he tried again. “Watch the leaders among the seniors. You’ll never see them lazing around. They work hardest and longest. As for your wits, because the king doesn’t see fit to educate your brain, we’ll work on that, too.” As soon as the words were out, he knew they were a mistake.

  Sure enough, Connar’s brows met in an angry line parallel to his mouth. “Da makes sure I get the same tutors my brother does.”

  “Oh, yes, the king always treats the two of you very strictly the same. The trouble is, most people are unaware that no one is exactly the same as anyone else, so though it might be considered fair by some, it’s never just.”

  “What do you mean by just?” Connar asked warily.

  “Let’s take your winter training, for example. It’s too easy. That’s because Olavayir-Ain is not nearly as smart as you are. Yes, he’s brave, and honest, and strong as a horse. But who’s the real commander in your private games? I’ll wager anything it’s you.”

  “Noddy isn’t stupid,” Connar said, eyes narrowing.

  “I never said he was. I said that he’s not as smart as you. If I were in charge of your tutoring, I’d have you working with the guild masters, and learning affairs of state, while he works on his reading. But no doubt that will come in time,” Hauth amended, seeing the resentment tightening Connar’s shoulders. “I know the king counts on you to help the Sierlaef when he inherits the crown.”

  And if that didn’t provoke the boy to start thinking, Why shouldn’t I inherit it, then Hauth would have to knock some sense into him. Connar was stubborn, clinging to those sentimental prejudices so convenient to the king and queen, but then Lanrid had been stubborn in his own way, too.

  Hauth said, “So there will be other exercises. And as before, a missed day without real cause—any sign of whining or slacking—and we’re done.”

  Connar jerked his fingers up in another salute.

  “Then go.” Hauth lifted his cane toward the path leading around the back barn. “I’ll see you here tomorrow, ready to work.”

  Hauth watched him run off, and let the smile come as he headed over to the nearest rain barrel to wash his hand.

  And that set the tone for the rest of spring.

  Connar mastered the urge to tell Noddy; though he knew Noddy would be thrilled on his behalf, he also couldn’t keep a secret.

  Connar always took defeat hard, the more because Noddy won every single competition that tested strength or endurance, not only among their own class, but against many of the older boys. And they weren’t letting him win.

  Connar felt that a prince should always win, or how could he really lead? But as training matches came and went through days that steadily grew longer and warmer, the sharpness of defeat was undercut by his secret training, the kind of training a prince should have.

  One gratifying thing happened when spring’s mild afternoons began to promise the heat of summer. Connar leaped down from his horse, by habit ignoring the pinch of his toes in his boots, when Noddy signed, You all right?

  “Of course I am,” Connar exclaimed, surprised and impatient—then he looked down at his feet. Then up. “Oh.”

  “Outgrown your boots, have you?” Noddy asked with ready sympathy. He was very familiar with the sensation.

  “I have,” Connar said, and exulted inwardly. New boots had to mean he was finally growing, didn’t it?

  It’s human nature to expand wherever space permits.

  In anticipation of the girls coming, Hliss had to clear her people and supplies out of the old queen’s training barracks that three, five, eight years ago they had slowly taken over as temporary solutions, now that the castle population had grown, and showed every sign of expanding with the king’s plans. The new young captains in the fledgling King’s Riders had already filled all the old barracks on guard-side, as Arrow wanted them serving with Noth’s guard for a year before he posted them elsewhere.

  Not that Hliss asked. Part of her quiet campaign to keep Andas—now toddling from puddle to puddle in the nearby kitchen gardens and helping the younger kitchen children chase seed-raiding spring birds—from the military world was to never ask Arrow about academy or army subjects.

  If he talked about them, she listened, but never offered a comment. And so there was always a firm but gentle wall between her wishes and his desire to coax her into letting Andas attend the academy when he turned ten. Often when they parted, she believed that time would firm her wishes, while he was thinking, There’s still time to convince her.

  Mild as she was, Hliss was still Mother’s daughter. When Connar, Noddy, and Bun brought toys for little Andas, the dolls and toy horses and dogs and cats all stayed, but the toy swords vanished as soon as the boys’ footsteps diminished. That is, if Danet didn’t spot and confiscate them first.

  As spring ripened into summer, those old barracks were swept out, repaired, and furnishings brought out of storage. Right before Andahi Day, carefully selected older runners were installed at either end of that wing, and the soberest of younger runners, including Lineas, squeezed into the tiny chambers across from each other at midpoint.

  As Hliss and one of her older weavers stood watching the runners cart their gear to the girls’ barracks, the weaver said, “What is the gunvaer expecting out of these girls?”

  Hliss said, “She wants to give the girls a chance to meet their future husbands, the way she never did.”

  The old weaver grunted, stealing a glance at Hliss’s serene conviction. Much as she respected the stories she’d heard about Mother Farendavan, she thought that neither of her daughters had any conception of what might motivate girls not raised in that strict atmosphere.

  Time would tell.

  And so the day arrived when those stone walls rang for the first time in over a century with shrill, excited female voices: three parties had met on the road, and decided to ride in together.

  Runners led the girls’ escorts one way, and the girls themselves finally quieted long enough to be heard: “The gunvaer will address all your questions.”

  The word gunvaer diminished the noise to a susurrus of whispered words. The senior royal runner said, “I’ll explain the layout of the castle as we go.”

  Pony Yvanavayir paid little attention, as she had grown up in an exact replica of this castle, built by one of her more ambitious and infamous ancestors, who w
as executed after leading an attack on this very castle.

  Most of the girls had grown up hearing stories handed down through their families about great-mothers during the queen’s training days; it was the beloved Hadand-Gunvaer Deheldegarthe who had, in fact, stopped Pony’s ancestor in a duel before the throne. Not that Pony had much interest in history.

  Her interest was entirely bound up in meeting the other jarls’ daughters—and demonstrating her skills with the bow, which she was quite proud of. Of course she would be the best. Hadn’t her father said she was the best, as good as her heroic mother?

  She also wanted to meet the academy boys.

  She wasn’t the only one.

  Soon gunvaer and girls faced one another, Danet seeing a crowd of young faces wearing a variety of expressions, and they a tall, brown, straight-backed woman, her unmemorable face dominated by a pair of very sharp eyes.

  Is that something they taught gunvaers, Genis Fath, sister to Ghost Fath, was wondering, as Danet spoke her carefully planned short speech of welcome. Except that hadn’t this one come to her rank by accident? Even so, she had a stare on her as pointed as a sword.

  Short as her planned speech was, Danet saw within three sentences that their attention was already drifting. So she got right to it. “The academy is out of bounds for you,” she said abruptly, and sure enough all those wandering gazes snapped right back to her. “Once the boys return from the Great Game, this area will be out of bounds for them, a caning offense,” she went on.

  Caning—that caught their attention. Side-eyes of consternation flickered between some of the girls. Pony, who was the spoiled darling of a household of men, asked with barely concealed impatience, “Then how are we supposed to meet the boys?” She ignored the flicked looks from others, with the confidence of one who had grown up the undisputed leader of the girls at home.

  “Once they return, those who get rec time will meet you in the city,” Danet said. “They’ll show you all their recreation lairs, and you can whoop it up as much as you want. But that’s when you have earned recreation time.”