Time of Daughters I

by Sherwood Smith

  The mare’s head came up. She shifted, tail lashing.

  Ghost turned, one hand scrabbling for his belt knife, to meet a heavy cloth thrown over his head. Instinct forced his hands up, his fingers hooking to claw the thing away from his face. He cursed as he fought, aware that he’d dropped his knife. A force hit the back of his knees, and he buckled, coming down on top of something warm and squirmy. He jabbed viciously with his elbow, causing a yelp of pain, and punched wildly with his other hand as he fought to get the smothering cloth off his head.

  His fist connected with another solid form. He rolled, punching and kicking.

  “Get him down,” someone muttered—a high voice. A girl? A scrub running some kind of prank?

  He checked for half a breath, as bodies piled on top of him. His fingers fumbled, reaching, and closed around a skinny arm. He yanked with all his strength, then heard a crack.

  “Owww!”

  That was definitely a girl’s voice. Another body landed on his right arm, pinning it flat. He used all his strength to pull back, dragging the weight with him. Another girl, or a squeaker. Definitely not the size of Gannan or Noddy. He wouldn’t have been able to move.

  He forced himself to relax, and waited to see what would happen while he assessed the situation.

  Harsh breathing, a hissing whisper, then hands closed on his wrists and hauled him upright. Now he let himself go limp, slipped out of their grip, and fell back to the ground. The shrouding cloth stretched tight over his face. It smelled like a winter cloak.

  A whisper. “Get him on his horse.”

  “He’s heavy.”

  “Do it.”

  Ghost grimly enjoyed the struggle as several pairs of hands did their best to tug him to his feet, but he stayed loose, a deadweight.

  “He’s unconscious,” someone finally whispered—as if the stifling cloak prevented him from hearing.

  “How? Did anyone brain him?”

  “Have we smothered him?”

  “He’s breathing,” someone else said, after laying a hand over his chest. A small hand. And a girl’s voice.

  So far, it seemed he’d been brought down by a pack of girls. Ghost hovered between irritation and amusement. He decided to keep on being passive since they were obviously not out to gut him.

  “You and you and you, get that half. We’ll get this half, and put him over his saddle.”

  Working together, the girls got him into the air, and flipped him over his horse. And then, with efficient speed, a rope wrapped around his wrists, tying them to the stirrup. He checked at that, but found his wrists bound fast.

  “I think he’s waking,” someone said.

  “Just make sure he’s secure. I want to get well away from this road,” came a familiar voice, no longer whispering: brisk, self-assured, but without the sugary smile tone he’d heard from Manther Yvanavayir’s tenacious sister.

  This is what I get for being polite to her, he thought in disgust.

  The horse began to walk, and immediately Ghost regretted his decision. He’d spent years in the saddle—there were some weeks he was more in the saddle than out of it—but never had he spent time thrown over the saddle like a bag. It was the most uncomfortable ride of his life.

  The girls rode mostly in silence, except for two whispering in back, too low for him to hear over the noise of the horse's hooves not far below his head. Someone else was talking in front; at one point, he heard Pony Yvanavayir state, “No, it’s an excellent plan. The worst is over.”

  “But what about when he wakes up? He’s not going to be happy.”

  “Leave that to me, Fenis, and do as you’re told.”

  It seemed centuries later when they finally halted. Ghost’s head ached from hanging over the horse’s side, and he was drenched with sweat from the cloak that had been tied about him.

  Enough playing around, he decided. Hands unbound his wrists, the shroud loosened, and he slid down and landed on his feet, rubbing at his wrists as the cloak was bundled away by a girl who avoided his gaze.

  He stamped his feet, which were painful with pins and needles, and turned to face a half-circle of girls in the fading twilight. Pony stood at the center, looking quite pleased with herself.

  “Why did you attack me?” he asked.

  “We snatched you,” she said briskly.

  He felt at his belt. His knife was gone. Not that that mattered. He wasn’t going to knife a bunch of girls bent on...what, exactly? “Why?”

  “I thought it all out,” Pony stated with a toss of her golden braids. “You can claim you had no choice. As for me, if I have to marry, I’d much rather have you than that ugly Rat Noth, the most boring dullard in the world.”

  Irritation flashed through Ghost at this casual slander of someone he’d lived with, worked with, and striven against, sharing pain and laughter.

  “As for you, you can’t possibly want to marry that scrawny rat, Leaf Dorthad. Let her marry Rat Noth. Two ugly rats. Perfect for each other.”

  Ghost studied the circle of girls, who studied him in return.

  Fenis was not the only uneasy one. This Ghost Fath towered over them all, solid muscle. While all were good with their blades, or Pony would not have brought them, they’d discovered that contact fighting without weapons, especially when you weren’t supposed to hurt your opponent, but he could hurt you, wasn’t easy. And for what? Pony had promised them that this Ghost Fath had flirted with her, but it was plain to everyone that he wasn’t the least bit happy.

  As for him, he had to look at the damage he’d done. One girl held an arm close to her side, her face creased in pain; another had a purpling bruise on the side of her head. Those were what he could see; he remembered dishing out some nasty kicks and punches, while no one had kicked, punched, or stabbed him back.

  Annoyance mixed with regret as he gave his reddened wrists a last rub, then reached up to reset his hair into its clip.

  “I’ll do that,” Pony cooed, wanting to get her fingers into that pale cornsilk.

  He ignored her request. “Let me understand. You’re jumping two betrothal treaties, and without asking me?”

  “See, you don’t have to do anything,” Pony said in a reasoning tone. “The gunvaer won’t send warriors after me, once she finds out you had no choice.”

  “What if I’d rather go home, and marry Leaf Dorthad?”

  “Of course you’ll want to marry me, once you get used to the idea,” Pony stated with the easy conviction of one who has always gotten what she wanted. “You can adopt in. The Yvanavayirs are an ancient family, much older than the Dorthads. Or the Faths. We vayirs all have royal connections going back to the first king, and everyone knows my grandfather died saving the kingdom from the tyrant Jasid-Harvaldar in ‘33.”

  “They were traitors a century ago.”

  Pony flushed, pressed her lips together, tossed her hair, and said airily, “Then stay a Fath. I know they have a fine reputation up north. But if I have my way, you might even end up Captain of Riders, which won’t happen up in Tyavayir. I asked.” Pony crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “And you’ll be married to me. Far, far better than Leaf Dorthad, with a face like a bullfrog. And sounds like one.”

  Ghost didn’t say anything about Leaf, who had been a friend since childhood. He said slowly, “So my choices are to give in, or tangle with your posse here?”

  Pony’s eyes shifted, a flush of irritation on her cheeks. “Aren’t you listening?”

  Ghost dropped his hands, and a tense moment ensued, everyone silent except for some distant birds. Finally he glanced around the circle, his expression smoothed into unreadability. “You say we’re going to Yvanavayir?”

  “Yes,” Pony stated, lips curving upward. “My father will do anything for me. You’ll see. Once we’re married, we can write to the gunvaer, and suggest she pair Leaf with Rat Noth, so she won’t even have to find another betrothal for either of them.”

  “How about this.” Ghost raised his palm. “You have m
y parole until we reach Yvanavayir.”

  Pony’s smile widened with complacent triumph. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

  “We’ll reach Yvanavayir today,” Pony said three weeks later—as if Ghost couldn’t guess why the girls paid special attention to their braids and robes, even taking the time to groom their horses.

  He returned a polite answer, as he had all through the journey. Pony had done her best to flirt with him, repeatedly inviting him to share her tent. He’d steadfastly insisted he liked sleeping out in the open, even the night a thunderstorm threatened. And when it roared through, he ignored the warm rain and went to stand with his horse on the picket line, soothing and patting it until the lights and noise had faded away to distant rumbles.

  Pony, who had flirted her way through the young and attractive Yvanavayir Riders, could not conceive that any man she wanted would turn her down, and assumed he was playing hard to get. Maybe he was even saving their first night for marriage, which she knew some people did. That was all right. She could wait for her reward if she had to.

  When the towers of Yvanavayir’s magnificent castle jutted above the distant hill, Pony swelled with pride. The girls galloped the rest of the way, dashing down the main street of the town instead of taking the lakeside loop. Pony loved scattering carts, dogs, cats, chickens, and people in the marketplace, all deferring as they stared (she was certain) in admiration.

  She, Ghost, and her posse cantered through the gates, banners snapping in the breeze, and reined up before both her brothers and the steward, who had been busy discussing the planting of winter wheat and peas.

  The three looked up. Pony turned her hand in triumph toward Ghost, then froze as Ghost—for the very first time—grinned.

  Pony’s head turned sharply to discover what he was grinning at. There stood both her brothers, Manther home for his first liberty as a riding captain in the army. His eyes widened, and he yelled, “Ghost?”

  Ghost leaped off his horse, tossed the reins to a stable hand just coming up, and then to Pony’s astonishment, the two ran into each other’s arms—and kissed breathlessly, as Eaglebeak laughed and yelled, “Woo-la!”

  “How did you end up here?” Manther demanded when they broke for air.

  Ghost said, “Ask your sister.”

  Manther smiled past Ghost’s shoulder at Pony, kissed Ghost again, and said, “Thank you for the surprise!”

  Later on that evening, Pony, feeling utterly betrayed, stood before her father after sulking in her room through the midday meal. When she refused to join them for supper, the jarl summoned her.

  “Fareas,” the jarl said with a pained expression, using the name she loathed.

  Fareas was dowdy, an old woman name. She had been called Pony since she was a cute little horse-mad girl with golden ringlets all around her head, everybody’s darling. She believed she still was—but not when he said Fareas like that. “What.”

  “Did you really think that capturing and beating up that boy was going to want to make him marry you?”

  “We didn’t beat him up,” she retorted.

  The jarl put his hand over his eyes. “Half your girls got injured.”

  “They should have been faster.”

  “Maybe. But the fact is, all but two of those girls have gone separately to Chelis to ask if they can be assigned to her. The other two, I suspect, we haven’t heard from only because they’re at home in the village.”

  “It’s not my fault they’re stupid. I told them what to do. As for him, he offered parole.” She added with an angry flip of a braid, “Now I know why. He could have told me he and Manther were two-ing.”

  “He could,” the jarl said seriously, dropping his hand to a fist on his knee, “have made all kinds of trouble. Pony, Eaglebeak is probably right in saying this is my fault for indulging you all these years. But there could be serious consequences from this sort of thing. Have been.”

  “Before anyone is actually married?” She tossed her braids, mouth sulky, gaze skeptical. “It’s not as if anyone made vows. Or even treaties. Except the gunvaer passing down orders. We already know people who’ve broken those, and nothing happened.”

  “But it could have. And might, who knows?” He looked through the window, then said, “The fact is, there are some ugly stories about just this sort of thing, not often talked about.”

  “Like what?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Well, there’s Dannor Tyavayir, who was married to our own Hawkeye of Yvana Ride Thunder fame. After he died at the Pass, you know she married into the Olavayirs. It was her son who broke off into the dolphin branch, and then took the jarlate. Everyone said she was behind it. Caused a blood feud that might have wiped out two generations, but she’d made enemies of the servants, who lost brothers, cousins, lovers, in the family battles. They got justice their own way. It’s said she took a long time to die.”

  Pony grimaced. “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” she said with another flip of her braids. “It’s not romantic at all. And it’s not as if I’d ever kill anybody. I thought he liked me, and—”

  “Daughter. My point is, she worsened cracks in the family, which brought about generations of bad blood.”

  “My point is, my situation now is all the gunvaer’s fault. If she wanted the betrothals again, she should have made us go to the new family when we were two.”

  “Maybe she will,” the jarl said. “One thing I know, people will be talking. Probably already are, as half the town saw you galloping up with that tow-haired Fath boy. I’m going to have to send a runner to the royal city, before the gunvaer hears a garbled account.”

  “Do what you want.” Pony hissed a sharp, put-upon sigh. “But two things. One, I refuse to marry Rat Noth. He’s stupid, and more to the point, he won’t inherit anything. I won’t be a third daughter by marriage, stuck with all the chores and none of the command. Second, as for picking and getting the person you want to marry, I’m sure I’m not the only one making plans of my own.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  During those first, early days, it grieved Lineas whenever she caught herself reveling in watching over Connar. It was despicable to let herself find the smallest iota of pleasure in his pain, so she fought her own emotions through pages and pages of journalized inner turmoil. No detail was ever too irrelevant, such as the quiver of his eyelashes when she strove to remove the bandages without hurting him. Each spasm of pain lacerated her spirits, countered by his unconscious sighs of relief when the herbs took effect.

  At first, she and Bun sat together through those summer nights, and Noddy spent as much of each day as he could, around demands by his father to attend guild and governing meetings.

  When Danet—satisfied that Connar’s recovery was progressing well—pulled Bun aside to aid her in entertaining the girls come for the Victory Day competition, Lineas was left alone with him. She strained every nerve to spare him what pain she could; frequently, especially in those early days, tears ran silently down her face.

  During the day, elderly Nath, Arrow’s runner of the chamber, took care of Connar. When Connar recovered enough to take notice of his surroundings, he felt awkward waking up to this grandfather-aged, wiry old man during the daylight hours, and Bun’s freckled runner by night.

  But as the pain began to recede, leaving room for the simplest thoughts outside of it, he found Lineas’s touch light, and patient when she untangled the sweaty knots of his hair. She asked no questions, and though he had no interest in whatever went on in her mind, one morning as the shadows began to lift, he caught her heavy-lidded gaze moving slowly across the room.

  “A spider?” he asked, his voice husky from disuse.

  The sleepiness vanished from her startled gaze, and her face flooded with color. Her lips parted as she hesitated, then she looked away, always resolute in keeping the ghosts to herself, especially now. Evred was so bright and so clear as he walked through the room and vanished into the shadows of the far wall, except for the shadowed p
its of his eyes; the hairs rose on the back of her neck. “My apology if I disturbed you,” she whispered.

  Connar turned away, closing his eyes.

  Lineas always bathed twice a day, the second time before she went to Connar’s room. She put on fresh clothes that had been laid in sweetgrass. As the days slowly began to wane a little earlier each evening, he found he preferred her ministrations when changing the bandages: Nath was skilled, but her touch was tender (though he did not know the word), and she smelled nice.

  Then one evening, as the shadows closed in, Lineas arrived with his supper to discover him sitting upright, wearing only a pair of trousers as he looked out at the twilight sky.

  Odd, how seeing him flat on his stomach had only sparked concern, but when he sat facing her, she had to hide the heat of her reaction.

  She halted, tray in hand. “If you’re feeling much better, I can leave you in peace.”

  Connar raised a hand. “Tell me what’s going on. I’m bored out of my mind. First of all, where’s Noddy? I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

  Lineas remembered that Noddy had come in one morning to tell Connar where he was going, but the prince clearly didn’t remember. With her back to the door, she said only, “He was sent by the gunvaer to aid the King’s Riders’ supply chief. To teach him about logistics.”

  “Poor Noddy.” He gave a soundless laugh, then winced, one long hand brushing the bandage at his side

  As Lineas set out the covered dishes on his table, she struggled to find things to report in a castle that was mostly empty, and waiting on news from the east. Connar ate sitting cross-legged at his table for the first time. Lineas changed his bandage for the night, and by then he was ready for listerblossom and sleep.