“We shall have to open the queen’s chambers for you,” he said.
“As long as the king’s bed is open to me, I am content,” Arian said, wrapping the robe around her. “And we have weapons practice, do we not?”
“We do,” Kieri said.
More quickly than he wanted, they were both dressed. Outside the door, Kieri found Garris … Garris alone.
“That was tactful,” he said.
“Some of them were thinking things up,” Garris said. “I cleared them out. You’ll find them in the salle.”
Drill in the salle followed its usual routine; the armsmasters kept everyone too busy for comment on the king’s new situation, for which Kieri was grateful. Everyone was breathless by the time the glass had turned again, and Kieri went up to bathe and dress for a day he hoped would be equally routine. Breakfast included leftovers from the previous day’s feast.
“Did all this come from our kitchen?” he asked the steward when yet another tray came in. Sweet and savory stuffed pastries, candied fruits, little round spice cakes.
“No, sir king. Guests brought some already made to save our cooks the work.”
Kieri took a handful of honey-flavored pastries and toasted nuts along to his office. Garris met him there with the first of the day’s chores, the schedule for testing the new applicants for King’s Squires. Then he had meetings with his Council and a review of the damages of the war with a group of merchants, headed by Geraint Chalvers, who wondered if the scathefire path might become a useful road to the river port they wanted to build. He needed to write dispatches to Tsaia, Pargun, Prealíth, Kostandan, as well as to his own troops. He had no time to talk—really talk—to Arian or to the Halverics, to tell the Seneschal all that had happened in the ossuary, or to ask the elves what really lay under the mound in the King’s Grove. He jotted down some of the things he felt he must do—questions he must ask, issues he must solve—but other issues stood before him as live persons, demanding immediate attention.
The next day was the same—urgent matters, all made more urgent by the recent war, by the season, by the short time (so claimed those involved) in which to plan the state wedding. Kieri wanted to resettle those whose steadings had been destroyed by scathefire, but that required negotiation with the elves, new grants of land to replace the old, and so did the proposed river port.
And the elves had vanished again.
A hand of days later, a royal courier from Tsaia arrived. The man wore a Serrostin knot on his heart-shoulder—a nigan, then, nephew or cousin of Duke Serrostin, not one of his sons, as the colors were reversed—and the insignia of a Knight of the Bells.
“Sir king, an urgent message from King Mikeli on a matter of great import.” He bowed.
“I receive it, Sir nigan-Serrostin,” Kieri said formally as he took the velvet pouch embroidered with the Tsaian royal crest. “Be welcome here. Have a seat near the fire.” Two servants came in with trays: one with a tall pot of sib and mugs, the other with an array of pastries. They set these on a table near the fire and pulled two chairs into position. Kieri sat in one, then the man sat; the servants poured sib for both of them and then, at Kieri’s nod, left the room.
Kieri took the message tube out of the pouch, untied the rose and silver ribbons, and slid out the rolled message. “Do you know what this is about?”
“Yes, sir … or partly. I have not read it, of course.”
“No, of course not.” Kieri unrolled the message and began reading. Beyond the flowery formal greetings, thanks for Kieri’s timely messages about the situation with Pargun, and wishes for Kieri’s good health, the first sentence took his breath:
We are concerned that Our choice of Dorrin Duke Verrakai as Constable was an error, due to the serious harm done two of her squires while under her care, including Our cousin Beclan Mahieran, fourth in succession.
“Harm to squires? Do you know about this?”
“Indeed yes, sir king. And King Mikeli bade me tell you what I know.” The courier launched into a tale that made Kieri’s neck hairs rise.
He saw at once how a squire’s capture and maiming by Verrakaien renegades would be taken by the king and other peers in Tsaia. Injury—even death—in war was one thing, any hint of magery quite another. And a Verrakaien attack on another squire—especially a member of the royal family—would complete the ruin of Dorrin’s reputation, even though it was clearly not her fault.
“She had been made Constable, is that not right?” Kieri asked. “So once she knew of war, she would have to leave home to take command.”
“Yes, but she didn’t protect her squires. Sending the Marrakai girl off alone—and then Daryan’s capture. She said she tried to heal him, but—”
“Do you doubt she tried?”
“Sir king … I don’t know. She’s a magelord. How can we know if she really tried or merely said so?” The courier’s doubt showed clearly. “And then—letting a Kuakgan heal him. I see by your ruby you’re Falkian, but our family’s been Girdish for generations. Kuakkgani are … strange. Uncanny. Maybe not evil—”
“Not evil at all,” Kieri said. “Unless you count trees evil.”
“Of course not. But—but they deal with the green blood, mingle it with theirs … Did you know that?”
“Yes,” Kieri said. “Although I do not understand how it could work.”
“So now,” the courier went on, “Daryan has a—a twig where his sword-thumb was. I’ve seen it myself. It has what looks like bark, but Daryan can move it. It’s … disgusting.”
“Only one thumb?”
“Only one thumb now. There’s a chance another may … may bud, the Kuakgan told Daryan.”
“That’s good news, isn’t it? He’s not crippled now?”
“No, but … he has the green blood in him, you see. It’s not … not natural. And he’s defied his father the Duke. He says he’s not crippled, can still do his duties, and there’s no reason for him to go home like a naughty child. He won’t see that it’s the Duke’s fault.”
“I don’t see that either,” Kieri said. “If I had been there and an enemy was between me and a young squire, I’d have sent the squire away for his safety. It wasn’t her fault—”
“She should have anticipated more of them, not just one.”
“Perhaps. No one knows all. I could have assumed that the message from a former soldier was false … but I didn’t, and because of that I was captured and the paladin Paksenarrion suffered five days and nights of torment. Was that all my fault, or would you blame those who tortured her, the Liartians?”
“Liart, of course … but …” His brow furrowed. “I suppose she could have intended no harm.”
“She was trying to do her duty to her king and to her youngest squire,” Kieri said. “And he is alive by her effort to find and save him. If she proved unable to heal wounds most consider beyond healing, and if healing came from a Kuakgan, what matter?” He glanced down at the letter. “And as for Beclan—”
“That’s even worse,” Serrostin said. “She did not wait for him to come back from patrol before she left.”
“How far out was he?”
“He was not expected back for six or seven days, weather depending.”
Kieri snorted. “Of course she could not wait that long before taking up her responsibilities as Constable,” Kieri said. “Duty required her to leave. No one knew, those first days, what the Pargunese intended—they’d invaded Tsaia before.”
“Yes, but—” Serrostin went on to detail what he had been told. Kieri noticed that he seemed honest, unaware of the interpretation he put on things. At the end he looked at Kieri as if expecting him to agree that Dorrin had done something wrong.
Kieri tried again. “From what you tell me, Duke Verrakai made the best decisions she could: she had to respond to the news of war by the king’s own order. Delay could have cost Tsaia dearly had the Pargunese invaded.”
“Yes, sir king, but—”
Kieri ignored th
e interruption and went on, ticking off his points on his fingers. “That Verrakaien renegades existed, she knew and had warned the king about—and also me, because our borders adjoin. She sent a troop of Royal Guard cavalry to find and protect Beclan. They would have been in time to do so had Beclan himself not disobeyed her orders and put himself and his escort in danger. She could not have known about the Kuakgan’s trap.”
Serrostin squirmed a bit in his chair. He stared into the fire, lips clamped tight, the very picture of someone who does not intend to be swayed from his opinion. And yet … Dorrin deserved the attempt to persuade the man, even if it didn’t work.
“I say this not because she was one of my captains,” Kieri said. “I would say the same of anyone.”
“I understand, sir king,” Serrostin said, in the tone of one who did not. He didn’t argue, at least; Kieri had to be content with that.
Kieri read the rest of the letter to the accompaniment of silence from the other chair, a silence radiating disagreement. He ignored it. Mikeli, obviously, had not ignored similar sentiments. He was concerned, as any king must be, about threats to his realm, and despite all that Dorrin had done since the previous spring, he was concerned about her.
“Well,” Kieri said, setting the letter aside on the table. “This demands an answer, and quickly.”
“I am ready at your command,” Serrostin said.
“Tomorrow, then. I cannot have an answer ready before dark. The steward will show you to guest quarters. If you are not too fatigued, join us at dinner.”
“Thank you, sir king.”
Kieri called Arian in to read the letter and asked her what Dorrin’s squires were like, how she thought Dorrin was doing with the domain, anything she had observed.
“I met only one squire,” Arian said. “A girl—Gwenno Marrakai. Black hair, green eyes, lively and intelligent. I met her on the last day of her patrol and rode with her and her escort back to the Verrakai house.”
“Her father is a friend of mine,” Kieri said. “A long story, but the Marrakaien were the first nobles of Tsaia to accept me. I remember meeting her as a child—bright and lively, but all the Marrakai children are. I gather she rode with you to Harway?”
“Yes. And we had no trouble. When we left, she said she would follow as soon as the youngest squire returned—he was due to arrive that day or the next. She had them on some kind of rotation. She was concerned about the king’s cousin, the eldest, both because he was in the succession and because he was brash, as young men that age are. But he had the largest of the escorts, under the most experienced sergeant.”
“I know the other two dukes well,” Kieri said. “Sonder Mahieran is the king’s uncle. Very aware of being in the royal family, a man of high temper, but I found him fair enough, as long as he received what he considered due deference. Serrostin’s quieter, slower to judge, but again, I’ve found his judgment sound before. We did not always agree—any two of us—but I respected them and felt they respected me. We were united in our distrust of Verrakai and proved justified in that distrust last spring.”
“But their sons were injured,” Arian said. “They would react to that.”
“Indeed yes. I understand their anger and concern. Still, Dorrin did nothing wrong. To blame her makes no sense.” He remembered his own rage after his wife and children were killed, his struggle not to blame the soldiers at the stronghold—how he had not blamed the man really responsible, not seeing for decades the truth of that ambush.
“Verrakai has long had a bad name, has it not?” Arian asked, breaking into his memories.
“Yes … for generations, at least, with the other dukes.”
“Then perhaps it is hard for those who did not know her to accept that Dorrin Verrakai is truly different. Perhaps every time they say ‘Duke Verrakai,’ it brings up memories of the former dukes, including the one who tried to kill the king. If she had taken another name—”
“Another name?”
“Elves do, you know.”
“They—no, I didn’t know. Why?”
“They live so long—I think they get tired of being who they were, so they take another name and live into it. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. Even you, Kieri. You were named Falkieri at birth, and called Falki first; then you became Kieri and lived into that name—”
“And changed its meaning,” Kieri said. He did not realize how his voice had hardened until her expression changed to alarm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But the Kieri who suffered those years had to change or could not have lived, and I changed again with Aliam Halveric, and once again when I moved out on my own.”
“And you did not change your name, but yourself. I do understand. It’s just—other people do change their names and their lives.”
“Usually for a bad reason,” Kieri said. “At least in my experience.”
“I do not know all the reasons of elves,” Arian said. “Perhaps they are bad reasons. But when I try to imagine living a thousand years … I think I would not be the same person throughout.”
“Um. But the reality is that Dorrin did not take another name, though she did not use the Verrakai name openly. I think you may be right, though: the Verrakai reputation has affected hers. I had not thought of that; I cannot really think of her and the former duke as related.”
“Do you think any of it’s because she’s a woman?” Arian asked.
“In Tsaia? Why? They’re Girdish; the Marshal-General’s a woman. It’s true that most titles are held by men, but with her background, she’s clearly qualified to hold a domain in her own right.”
“But do they think so?”
“From what I heard, the king and the other dukes did, and they’re the ones who count.” Even as he said it, he had a moment’s doubt. More counts than dukes, more barons than counts—and all of them peers.
“Except that now … it’s the dukes’ sons who were hurt.”
“Yes. I know. I know that makes a difference.” He wished it didn’t. He wished Tsaian peers had more experience in war—then they might understand.
“What are you going to tell Tsaia’s king?”
“What I told him before. She’s honest, she’s loyal, and this is not her fault.” He sighed. “And I don’t know if it will do the least bit of good. I wonder if I wrote the dukes myself, in addition to the king—”
“I had hoped to have her at our wedding,” Arian said. “But if she’s under suspicion there—”
“We must invite her. And the king. Perhaps on neutral ground, here, it will work out.” Kieri shook his head. He hoped Mikeli wouldn’t do anything rash or remove Dorrin as Constable. The Pargunese threat might have ended, but it wasn’t the only one, not with Alured in the South. Tsaia would need Dorrin if Alured came north; none of the other peers but Arcolin had recent military experience. Some now holding titles had been children in that last Pargunese incursion.
Kieri thought about Arcolin: could he function as Constable if the king removed Dorrin? Solid, reliable, loyal, honest … but Dorrin had always been the better tactician of the pair. Arcolin was competent enough; Dorrin was brilliant. And Arcolin was, at this time, only a count, not a duke. Would dukes obey him? At the moment, perhaps, angry as they were with Dorrin, but when it counted, in a future invasion? He tried to imagine Arcolin chivvying all those household troops into one coherent army in a time of crisis, choosing the best strategy.
He wrote his letter to Mikeli, laying out his reasons for considering Dorrin to have done the best she could and reminding him that he, Kieri, had lost squires to death in combat in Aarenis, a risk that parents knew they took when they sent their boys to him.
I myself lost children to violent death; I know how it wrings a parent’s mind and heart to have any harm come to their son or daughter. I know the temptation to blame anyone who can possibly be held responsible. But from what you wrote and Sir nigan-Serrostin said, I do not see that Duke Verrakai was negligent with her squires.
He rolled it, sea
led it, and put it back in the message tube, tied now with ribbons in Lyonya’s colors. A final drop of wax sealed the ties. Into the velvet pouch, and it was ready for Serrostin when he came to dinner. The next morning, Serrostin rode away.
Tsaia: North Marches Stronghold
At Midwinter, the gnomes declined to come up and celebrate with the others; Arcolin felt bad about that but not bad enough to make it an order. For himself, that Midwinter Feast completed the process of becoming comfortable with his new role. The newest recruit cohort, smaller than usual, included youngsters who had never known any other commander or the stronghold without a Marshal near. Having a Marshal to light the fire of Sunreturn made him as happy as having the title himself. Or almost.
Immediately after Midwinter, he sent a courier south to Vérella, informing the king of the gnomes’ arrival and what they had said. He had no idea what the king would do. The secondhand report of a dragon might seem—would seem, Arcolin was sure—highly suspect, though the arrival of visible, recognizable gnomes would certainly carry weight. Though he himself was convinced the gnomes were telling the truth—the truth as they knew it—no king, he thought, would want to give up territory on the word of beings he had never met.
Yet the gnomes refused to go to Vérella unless he himself did, and he was reluctant to give them hard orders, they were so obviously distraught.
A few nights after Midwinter, Arcolin sat busy with the year’s account rolls, considering what he should budget for equipment replacement in the coming year, when one of the gnomes—the estvin, he thought, though they still looked all alike to him—came to his door.
“Master, Dragon comes.”
“Dragon? Here? Why?” In the lamplight and firelight, the estvin seemed to waver; Arcolin realized the gnome was trembling so hard he could barely stand.
“It is—it is not to know. It is—it might—to burn us—”