When the blur cleared from Durasnir’s vision he found Prince Rajnir and Dag Erkric waiting.
Durasnir showed his palms to the white-dressed Erama Krona, the prince’s personal bodyguards, surveying the round tower room as they surveyed him. As always the room was almost bare, only one chair on the tile floor, and the prince was not in it. The only other furniture was a small table carved like ivy vines. On it rested a very old Ydrasal candle-tree.
The Erama Krona moved away, permitting the fleet commander to step off the Destination tile.
All three saw in the other two their own tensions. Rajnir always had to fight the urge to exclaim, “Uncle Fulla!” He had fostered with the Durasnirs when he was a Breseng candidate; of all the Houses he had stayed at, he had liked theirs best and had been often invited back. His best friend had been Vatta, Fulla’s son who had died in that damned useless sea battle against the Everoneth and the Chwahir.
Rajnir flushed, looking younger than his late twenties. He hated any reminder of that battle. Not just because he’d lost it, but because Lord Annold Limros, Count of Wafri, had so easily tricked both him and the Everoneth into that stupid clash that got so many of his own age-mates killed. Including Vatta.
“My prince,” Durasnir said, on a note of question.
“I am still angry with Wafri,” Rajnir admitted, in part to try to provoke a response from his mage.
Has he been talking about that again? Durasnir thought. But Erkric just smiled from his place by the window, the light haloing around his silver hair. “We have greater concerns than a petty Ymaran traitor,” he said in a mild voice, and then turned to Durasnir. “Hyarl Commander.”
The dag was older than Durasnir by ten years, but until last summer he had seemed ageless.
“We have received news from our people in the western seas,” Dag Erkric said.
Durasnir remained silent, asking his question with gestures rather than words. He learned more if he did not provide the response that Erkric wished.
“Pirate Island’s scout reports that Elgar the Fox just retook that island from some of the pirates leftover from the Brotherhood.”
“I hope he got rid of them,” Durasnir replied, an indirect arrow at Erkric. Durasnir believed it had been dishonorable to ally with pirates, though tactically it had been masterly. Such a decision—practical but immoral—seemed only to lead to Rainorec, Venn-doom. Yet not just Rajnir but the king had approved, so nothing could be said. Directly.
“Yes,” Erkric responded. “He did, or someone did. This was an eyewitness report. The one everyone claimed was Elgar the Fox was not Wafri’s prisoner, Indevan Algara-Vayir, but the one we think came to rescue him: tall, red-haired. Green eyes, not brown. Wears black clothing.”
Durasnir had sent out his own scouts since that summer and was fairly certain he’d discovered the identity of the mystery redhead who sometimes shared the name Elgar the Fox but he did not yet know for certain.
So he just bowed. “Did you issue assassination orders?”
“Our scout could not get near him. He slept onboard his flagship and they sailed as soon as they had sorted the pirates, their ships, and their supplies, leaving the surviving pirates to the justice of the locals.” His lip lifted in distaste.
Prince Rajnir’s sky-blue eyes flicked between them, his broad brow tense. “Then he will attack us on the sea?”
Erkric said soothingly, “He sailed west, toward Toar, my prince. He will not interfere with our invasion. He is farther away every day. And even with the new ships he took on, his fleet is a mere handful against ours, and undisciplined at that.”
“So where is the real Elgar?” Rajnir asked.
“We think he might have landed along the coast of Iasca Leror,” Erkric replied. “But—”
“—someone is killing our observers, yes.” Rajnir gripped the windowsill. “If Elgar did land, he will soon be marching northward at the head of an army. Why haven’t we gotten word of it by magic?”
Erkric fought against an angry reaction. He had to remind himself that Rajnir and Durasnir were doing their duty. Still, Durasnir’s duty concerned the seaborne military, not the magical.
It’s tension, he thought, slowing his breathing in an effort to restore calm. Durasnir was unswervingly true to his Drenskar oath, which he saw as the trunk of the Golden Tree. That must be remembered.
But Erkric knew that the true trunk was magic. The military, like all the other guilds, formed branches. He was going to change the traditional limitations of magic. Such change would only make the Venn stronger.
So what could he say?
“You must remember that many of our scouts have been murdered,” he said.
Rajnir’s brows lifted in an “Oh, that’s right!” expression, and Erkric was just drawing a breath of relief when Durasnir said, “But what about your dag scouts? Have they been murdered, too?”
Rajnir snapped round, eyes widening with surprise. “Dags? Murdered? Why did no one tell me?”
“Because we have found no bodies,” Erkric said. “I will make a full report as soon as I know where my dag scouts are. When the military scouts were murdered, the bodies were left for us to find, as you know.”
“Yes, I remember that.” Rajnir’s fretful tone subsided. He did need further soothing, Erkric thought. A king needs his mind serene and clear, and not cluttered with worry over what he cannot help.
Durasnir said, “Your dags have vanished in the way of our scouts, but you have found no evidence of their being killed?”
Anger flared in Erkric, to be fought against. Anger clouded the mind. This was not the time to reveal any weaknesses on the dags’ part, which would be so misconstrued.
This was not the first time dags had just vanished. No one had been able to discover yet if Dag Jazsha Signi Sofar, captured by none other than this Elgar the Fox, was alive or dead. Even worse, no one knew why Brit Valda, Chief of the Sea Dags, had vanished, as well as the dag scouts they’d had to replace with army scouts.
Finally, and most important of all: were these questions connected to his recent, shocking discovery that the warding magic over his own scroll-case had been compromised?
These matters, he reasoned, were magical affairs. And the strain was great enough for each in his own realm.
So he said only, “That is true. As yet we do not know why. Our magical communications need to be limited for the same reasons we have to be careful landing observers. It was your own wish, my prince, that the invasion remain a secret. It requires as much effort from us as from the military to keep the plans from becoming known. This was before we discovered our long-established scouts were being murdered.”
Durasnir signified agreement. “Someone definitely knew who and where they were, and permitted them to operate undisturbed for years before this sudden sweep. This long wait before action argues against that ‘someone’ being the Marlovans, handing us yet another line of inquiry to pursue.”
Again Erkric felt control of the conversation shifting. Since Rajnir had not yet asked the question that Erkric had encouraged him to summon Durasnir here to ask, he gave in to temptation and asked it himself: “When will you be ready to launch?”
“The plans have not altered since last year. As soon as the winds change.”
Rajnir flicked his gaze between them. “But the Dag just told us that secrecy is hard to maintain. The secret of the invasion might even be broken.”
“If you discover that there is a large army marching north across Iasca Leror,” Durasnir said, “then you will know that the truth got out. But I never planned on surprise anyway. Only a fool counts on a major invasion being secret.”
Rajnir’s brow cleared. “So you planned on them knowing.”
Durasnir compressed his lips against saying, I told you that before. Rajnir either did not remember or more likely, needed reassurance. Or . . . he frowned, remembering something Signi had hinted at, very obliquely, some time ago—
Later, later.
&nbs
p; “The plan is unchanged. Whether or not the Marlovans find out, we must have the steady summer winds. We don’t need entire ships swamping, killing our people before we even sight an enemy.”
Erkric said, “I will leave you to review the details and return to my own investigations, then, my prince.”
Rajnir saluted Erkric, again addressing him as Dag. Very close to the title he so coveted: The Dag, or The Dag of the Venn. The King’s Dag.
Durasnir bowed. “Dag Erkric.” He gave the proper formal title.
The mage’s return bow was polite, his smile faint. “Hyarl Commander.” He vanished, not needing a Destination tile.
The window overlooking the harbor was open, so they did not feel the displacement of air. Rajnir breathed deeply.
Durasnir had not expected to be left alone with the prince. He had far too much to do on the other side of the strait; two long transfers in a day would leave him with a headache so he would be slower at accomplishing his work.
Yet, yet. Dag Signi had once hinted—unless he misunderstood—that some of the dags were trying to discover spells to guide minds. It was so hard to believe! Yet it had once happened, if the records were correct, and that magic had been forbidden for a long time.
He wished he could talk to her now, or to Valda. Only after months of thought had he recognized that her hint, given when it was, where it was, had not been a general comment, but was directed toward one person: the prince.
If that is true, how will I know for certain?
Rajnir whirled around. “It’s been two weeks since the Dag has come to see me.”
He whirled again and pressed his hands on the windowsill, leaning dangerously over the spectacular drop as he gazed down at the ships in the harbor. Durasnir was aware of the Erama Krona stiffening.
“Other than that all I get are couriers from you both, saying everything is fine, everything is fine. Fine, fine, fine. And yet someone is killing our scouts in Iasca Leror, just before our invasion. Elgar the Fox turns up in the south, and they are claiming he knows Norsunder magic, can rift time and place to thrust his enemies through. And now dags are popping away like bubbles. Yet everything is fine, fine, fine.” He leaned farther out of the window, glaring southwestward in the direction of Iasca Leror.
Durasnir knew what would happen to the Erama Krona if the prince came to harm. Yet they could not speak unless spoken to and had no authority over the prince.
“Please do not lean out like that,” Durasnir said, to spare them anxiousness. “I only know what Dag Erkric reports on.”
Prince Rajnir pulled his head in. He appeared sane enough. Surely that argued against some mysterious spell guiding his thoughts, if such a thing even existed.
Durasnir said with care, “He seems to be as limited as we are in gathering information. You will have to address him directly to find out why.”
“I do.” Rajnir breathed deeply of the cold wind. “He says I won’t understand, but it’s couched in words meant to comfort me. Uncle Fulla, I am not comforted. I must win this battle before the Breseng Menn.” He touched his neck, where the golden torc of kingship should rest, though he did not wear the silver torc of the heir. “Everything has gone wrong since I came here to Ymar.”
“We now know that a great deal of that was due to Count Wafri’s treachery,” Durasnir said.
“He was my friend.” Once again Rajnir sounded oddly young, and he prowled around the room, stopping at the table. “How could he turn on me? I gave him everything.”
“You gave him everything in his own kingdom,” Durasnir corrected gently. “And we all share the blame equally for not discovering that he was an enemy all along. I dismissed him as a fool to my regret. So, it appears, did Dag Erkric.”
“He won’t tell me what he did with Wafri.” Rajnir had lifted the ancient, gold-inlaid candle-tree. He turned it slowly around in his hands, frowning at the whorled wood-grain highlighted with threads of gold, the twined leaves around each holder, and each of the nine unlit candles, as he spoke. “Wafri was my friend. I told him every thought, and he smiled, and praised me. Shared his wine with me, his cymbal dancers.” He set the candle-tree back on the little table. “Some days I want him dead, others, I remember the fun we had—” He shook his head. “The Dag won’t tell me.”
“Maybe he deems it better for you not to know. But you must ask him, my prince. I know nothing either. You’ll remember I was dispatched to sea soon after that wretched business.”
Rajnir sighed. “And you have much to do, yes, I hear it in your voice. Just tell me this. Am I a coward to be so concerned? I find my mind full of questions during the day, and confusing dreams at night.”
Durasnir said, “In my experience, the only people who use such words as cowardice are those who do not understand the weight of time, and anticipation, before battle. It is like the advent of thunder, only in the soul. We all feel it, from commander to the smallest horse boy. Yet we will all be in our place, though our heartbeats drum in our ears, when the time comes to face the enemy. I believe that the most fearful man is the bravest because his struggle to be faithful to his Drenskar oaths is the hardest. On him shines the golden light of the Tree.”
“The golden light of the Tree,” Rajnir repeated, his eyes wide as he rested his hand on the candle-tree. “Ydrasal. I must remember Ydrasal,” he whispered, and Durasnir’s neck prickled. These words were not for him, they carried the undertone of a private oath. But then Rajnir looked his way, and his gaze was sane. He smiled and gestured in peace mode. “Go prepare, then, Uncle Fulla. Bring us victory. The Venn need it. I need it.”
Durasnir stared into Rajnir’s young, troubled face. Was this young man he had loved like a son what good kings were made of? The thought made Durasnir uneasy. The question it seemed to be leading to was far too close to treason.
So he would not give it time to form. He had sworn his own oath. Behind all the sonorous words was a simple idea: you are trusted to be where you are ordered to be, doing what you are ordered to do. That was Drenskar. To disobey that oath was to betray the trust of the king, and therefore the trust of the entire kingdom. The good of the kingdom was Ydrasal.
Someday—if he lived—if he were to be called home at last—as a Hyarl he would be choosing a king. That would be the proper time to contemplate the question of what makes a good king.
He saluted, stepped onto the Destination tile, and vanished.
Chapter Twenty-four
IN Lindeth Harbor, five people cursed the sudden spring downpour as they eased along the otherwise mostly empty early morning streets.
Lindeth Harbor was in the process of being rebuilt. Sheets of rain rumbled over raw-planed boards and plin kled against new glass as two of the five splashed from opposite ends up the narrow alley between the dark shells of River’s Edge, the part of town that dealt with the inland river trade.
In many parts of Lindeth people lived crammed in what once were their basements, or stables, or storage sheds as their houses went back up, stone by stone, and then room by room inside. River’s Edge had twice been the entry point for pirate attack (its unofficial name was Pirates’ Bunghole, which the locals, who wanted their new streets and buildings to be stylish, unsuccessfully tried to stamp out) so no one lived there until it was finished, lit, and patrolled.
Occasionally lights were seen, mostly at the old cartographer’s. As the wind sheered, moaning along new roof poles and under bare eaves and around corners of fine stone, one of the two figures surged through the puddles with angry determination, her gaunt body bent into the wind, arms pressed close.
She looked around only twice, each time getting a face full of cold rain. She cursed the rain, cold, her old bones, and the necessity that forced her out into this weather.
She edged closer to the stone wall of what would be the cartographer’s drawing chamber, with its bank of high arched west windows. This cartographer was the best sky-liner—that is, mapmaker who drew in skylines for the traveler to recognize—o
n the northwest coast.
She slipped into the newly built stable behind the cartographer’s. Justly famed as well as rich, the cartographer had made certain that his house was going up first. Well, she was earning extra money, too. And her house (though small and unpretentious) was done. Meetings had been held there when they did not want the harbormaster interfering in guild business.
But this meeting was no one’s business.
The stable was just boards inside with a tile roof overhead. No new wood had come for two seasons, so a lot of building had come to a halt.
She shook herself off, staring through the open stable door at the back wall of the house, complete to Sartoran sun-circles under the gabled roof-trees. All Lindeth was going to have Sartoran-style architecture—and at the expense of those damn Marlovans.
The doorway darkened. “Guild mistress,” came a familiar voice from inside a shrouding cloak.
The young man she only knew as Rider shook out his cloak, laid it over a beam, then lowered his lanky form to the edge of the new trough, fists on his knees, elbows out.
She did not like him. He reminded her of a human stork with mud-splashed legs and a nest on its head. Even soaked with rain, his short pale hair stuck out in shocks. But there was nothing comical about his steady blue gaze nor, for that matter, was there anything comical about her own tall, meager form, her thin braid of gray hair wound tightly on her head, the grooves in her face worn by decades of pursing her lips.
She had preferred her old contact, a very young woman whose understanding and sympathy had been beyond her years. Rider despised this spy duty, forced on the army since the mage spies had begun vanishing, and he despised this miserly old woman who sold out her own people for a handful of gold pieces. He did little to hide his contempt.
But they needed each other, so they got right to business. “What have you for me?” he asked.
“Two pieces of news,” she said, thinking of her new parlor floor and the fine etched glass she would have upstairs in her own Sartoran sun-circle. “Brought yesterday with a caravan out of the south. One, that Elgar the Fox is a Marlovan, and two, that he not only landed in Iasca Leror, but was seen at one of their Jarl castles. It was called Marlo-Vayir. I remember that because it sounds so much like Marlovan.”