The only marks of bright color were the ceiling of blue stippled with ancient stars, and the banner of the golden Great Tree of Ydrasal hanging over the empty throne, nine and ninety handsbreadths tall. More subtle were the great blocks of marble building the dais in three steps.
Whispers ran round the room, quick as fire through tinder, when behind the dais the massive doors, carved into a semblance of a tree uncounted centuries before, began to swing open. The few whispers ceased.
Through the doors marched a row of Erama Krona dressed in neutral gray. White indicated duty to a king, black was reserved for a Blood Hunt. When they wore gray, they would answer only to the oldest king alive, who would speak for the Council of Elders.
And the previous king was alive, just short of ninety years old. Helped by gray Erama Krona, he walked out where he had last ruled thirty years previously, but he did not sit in the throne. There was a low curule chair after the old formal mode, cushioned for fragile bones.
The cold ring of iron-reinforced heels on stone brought everyone’s eyes to the door. As the Erama Krona took up guard positions around the dais, out strode Prince Rajnir, dressed in silver armor over white, the only color the gold of the Tree on his chest plate. Flanking him to left and right were the equally tall forms of Stalna Hyarl Durasnir (also dressed in his battle armor, which glinted in the candlelight) and Dag Erkric, who wore the blue-on-white of the Dag of all the Venn.
The king said, his voice reedy with his effort to be heard, “Prince Rajnir, Breseng-chosen candidate for king. The council has convened the Frasadeng. In this chamber you are answerable to all, and all will be granted the chance to speak. It is for you to begin.”
Prince Rajnir stepped forward, bringing his hands together and then outward in the sign of peace. He was tall and even at a distance the deep blue of his eyes was remarkable. His hair had darkened to the color of ripened corn, and the bones of his face had hardened, but otherwise he seemed the same young prince who had taken ship for the south years before.
“O king-father of us all,” he said, his voice clear and strong; he used the respectful old mode. “Skalts and Houses, Oneli and Hilda. Dags, artisans, and people. Last the thrall. You have heard only that we return with empty hands instead of bringing the rich grains and the fine steel of the Marlovans. We would have succeeded. We nearly did succeed, so my commanders assure me.”
He paused as whispers susurrated through the hall, amplified by the curved stone.
“But.” Silence fell. “But we were betrayed by one of our own, in a traitorous action that broke all law and custom. Because of the actions of this traitor, many of our people died, and we reached an impasse. It was then that the news came of the death of the king, and I deemed it best to return.”
Again a hissing of whispers.
Prince Rajnir lifted his chin. “The homeland must always come first. I made a vow to the Tree: once the Land of the Venn is again at peace, I shall sail to the south again to strengthen our force at Ymar, and from there we shall prevail.”
The king bowed his head, then lifted it.
“Can you name this traitor who acts against the king’s will?”
“I can.” Prince Rajnir faced the Hall. “Born as Jazsha Signi Sofar, she was a family outcast before becoming a Sea Dag, known as Dag Signi.”
Voices rose in exclaimations; the king lifted a hand, and one of the silent guards struck his spear on the stone three times, the sound cutting through the hubbub.
“I further call for a formal Blood Hunt, that this traitor may be brought before the seat of judgment.”
The king said, “Prince Rajnir, have you witnesses to attest to the truth of what you say?”
“I so attest,” Dag Erkric said, hands open, head bowed. “Though this dag was one of my own. I witnessed countless acts of magic.” His voice sounded tired, filled with sorrow. “You will hear them all when the time comes.”
“I so attest,” said a young dag favored by Erkric. “She interfered with our protective wards when we attacked the castle at Sala Varadhe.”
His presence barely caused a stir; all knew he would speak at the command of his master.
But then Stalna Hyarl Fulla Durasnir spoke. “I so attest. I witnessed a single act of magic, one that lies outside of the duties of a sea dag.”
This time the reaction was louder, and again the spear struck the marble.
The king raised his hands, palm out in the mode of it-shall-be. “Then with the concurrence of the Council of Elders, I will enjoin the Erama Krona to oath-bind a team to the Blood Hunt, and we shall reconvene when we have secured the accused.”
The council spoke, one at a time, each saying, “Aye.”
The old king put his hands together. “So be it.”
Chapter Four
INDA, Tdor, and Signi set out from Tenthen Castle two days after the wedding. Everyone at Tenthen gathered outside in the cold to cheer and drum as the outriders blew the trumpet calls for a Harskialdna and Harandviar. Even the horses seemed excited, tossing their heads, flicking their tails, ready for the charge through the gate.
Inda raised his fist the way his father used to. It thrilled him with pride, but hard on that suffusion of pride was a strong pang of regret, even guilt. Tanrid should be sitting here, fist raised in the signal. Inda looked back, and his breath caught at the sudden, sharp longing to be standing between the gates, right where Whipstick was.
Tdor missed it. She even missed the silent pain to be seen in three faces, Whipstick’s, Noren’s, and in that of Inda’s mother. She felt enough pain of her own as her moist eyes blurred the outlines of the women she’d grown up with, all standing along the sentry walk above the gate.
Signi’s empathetic gaze observed Inda’s and Tdor’s expressions of yearning.
Then Inda opened his hand and pointed. He dropped the rein and his horse leaped into the gallop, freshly shod hooves clattering.
The rest followed. They raced through the gates, horns blowing, shouts carrying almost to the lakeside.
The ride in strict rank order barely lasted until the castle’s towers were out of sight. With a long journey ahead, the first thought must be of the animals. Inda slowed up to talk to the Riders so he could catch up on their family news and share local war stories, as he’d had little time to do so during their frenzied preparations. He was relieved to discover that his pair of King’s Runners, young men who looked absolutely nothing alike but happened to share the same first name (Ramond), had fit in with the Riders enough to be called by their nicknames, Twin Ain and Twin Tvei.
Tenthen Castle’s concerns fell behind with the castle itself, except in Noren’s heart.
Tdor thought ahead. From what she’d seen in the two days Inda had been home, people accepted that Signi was not an enemy because Inda willed it so. But that just made her a nonenemy, a Venn to be stared at when she wasn’t looking, speculated about, and walked around when she happened to come near.
When it came time to camp, Inda and Signi sat down together in the unconsciousness of long habit. Well, that was better than Signi sitting all alone in her tent. As they ate and talked about the next day’s journey, Tdor wondered what to expect in sleeping arrangements. Tdor had her own tent. Was that second tent the King’s Runners set up for Signi or Inda? With Inda’s return after exile her lifelong love for him had flared from the steady warmth of childhood into adult heat. When camp broke up, Tdor rose, hoping to have Inda to herself in her bedroll.
She had to fight the anger-burn of jealousy when Inda absently followed Signi into the other tent. Tdor heard the Venn’s soft voice, “No, Inda. Tomorrow, maybe, but you should go in with Tdor first.”
Inda came right out, grinning when he spotted Tdor. He took her hand when she held hers out. So Tdor knew she was not rejected, disliked, or despised.
Yet Signi was no mere habit. Over the stretch of days that followed, Tdor observed the tender, absent twinings of fingers, the way Inda unconsciously leaned against Signi when shari
ng a mat at campfire time. Those, like Signi’s drifting gaze wherever Inda happened to be, those were signs of love. Since—so far, Tdor always resolutely reminded herself—she didn’t want a favorite of her own, she was just going to have to learn to share.
As the journey progressed Signi made it her business to see that Inda shared his nights equally. And because Tdor noticed that the Marlovans tended to move around Signi as if she were a rock in the path, she made it her business to set the tone and topics of campfire talk so that subjects were not exclusive of the Venn dag. Most of the time these were successful, except for once.
“Fareas Iofre once brought us an Old Sartoran taeran. You know this word, right?” Tdor asked as the Runners collected the bowls to be washed and stashed.
Signi leaned forward. “It is the word for scrolls written in the ancient form of Sartoran.” Her fingers gestured gracefully from high to low, indicating vertical script.
Tdor smiled. “Well, it turned out to have been translated by the Venn centuries ago, and we’ve always wondered if they changed a couple of words: ‘dena Yeresbeth.’ ”
Signi’s eyes widened. “That is Old Sartoran,” she murmured. “There was no change by us. But we do not truly comprehend that phrase, except as a reference to the Blessed Three.”
It was Tdor’s turn for surprise. “Blessed Three?” Blessed by who? “Blessing” was an ill-understood formality also dating back before records were kept. Tdor had been taught that the meaning was akin to a formal approval from authorities beyond family or even government. Possibly beyond time and space, bestowed by beings such as angels. “Blessings are ineffable beneficence,” Fareas-Iofre had said once, causing Tdor and Joret to go up on the castle roof on the first clear night in order to speculate which of the stars might be home to such beings.
Signi gazed into the fire, then looked up. “We understand ‘dena Yeresbeth’ be indicative of a Seer—the ‘shape of clouds of light’ is how the Sartorans described one who sees beyond the confines of the physical world.” Firelight beat unsteadily on her face, the shadows shifting her contours to young and old, old and young.
Yet another surprise, more like astonishment. “You mean ghosts?” Tdor’s mind jolted back to her wedding day, when Inda had said something about Signi and ghosts.
“Ghosts.” Signi whispered the word, then gave a quick, stricken look Inda’s way, the first time Tdor had ever seen her move inadvertently.
Inda stirred, his hand coming up to rub over his head in the gesture Tdor had learned meant discomfort, even distress. Tdor’s lips were just shaping the words “I’ve always wanted to know about ghosts” but she quashed the impulse.
Signi made a quick gesture, half appeal, half aversion, as she said in a low voice, “Seers witness beyond the confines of the world. Some only See once, others are born Seeing a world we cannot perceive.”
Inda chuckled, deep in his chest. “We call them madmen—or Cassads.”
A couple of the listening Riders and Runners laughed, and someone swatted one of the Twins, who was connected to the Cassads.
Signi smiled. “Some of our people also regard Seers as mad. But most respect them, when the Seeing sheds light on the mysteries. You must remember that within our living history, as we call it—we have actual records, though few—the Venn crossed in their ships from one world to another. How can such a thing be possible? The questions are so vast!”
From there the talk ventured to perception, meaning, words shared across languages. Tdor schooled the riot of questions in her head, and introduced the topic of translation, and how words can appear to share meanings, but actually signify different things. Thus the bad moment passed.
Despite the unspoken cooperation of the two women, Inda was still troubled. His dreams had been uneasy for years; numbering among his familiar nightmares was a new one in which his canoe, running faster and faster over a widening river, pitched out into the air above a cataract. He’d wake up gasping and bathed in sweat, his body still tingling from the sensation of falling.
Two weeks into the journey, they camped early one afternoon as pounding rain washed across the countryside. Inda helped with the horse pickets, leaving Signi and Tdor alone in the tent the Runners had just set up.
Tdor spread out the sitting mats as Signi laid the Fire Sticks and made the sign to start the flame. When she straightened up, she discovered Tdor watching her with an uneasy hesitance.
“What is wrong?” Signi asked. “Have I done aught amiss?”
Her own quick dismay forced Tdor into speech. “I—no. I, well, as it happens I don’t have a lot of experience. With men. Never wanted it, really, though I had my chances, same as anyone. The thing is this. Inda has nightmares—we’ve all heard them. But more with me than with you.” Her face burned. “Am I—”
“No, no! He has them with me, too, it’s just that I know a trick for warding them when he first begins to stir. Let me show you,” Signi exclaimed. “It is a healers’ trick, taught me when I was a sea dag. If he becomes restless and wakens you, soothe him like this.” She demonstrated in the air in front of her own chest, a stroking motion over the breastbone. “If you can catch him before the nightmare turns violent, you can sometimes send him back to sleep.” Her expression was humorous and rueful. “It is also said to be effective in the comfort of babes.”
The tent flap lifted, sending in cold, wet air to swirl and hiss in the fire. Inda entered, beads of rain on his head and coat. He smiled from one to the other, then plopped down on his mat. “What babe are you comforting?”
“You,” Signi said, smiling. “Nightmares.”
Inda grimaced. “I can’t stop yelling out when I sleep. I finally figured out that’s why no one wanted me down in the crew’s quarters on the Death, when we had you as a prisoner. The fellows yapped about me ruining their sleep just before the battle. Camping in the mountains.” He scratched his head, and raindrops flew off, hissing in the fire. “At least my memory is coming back. D’you know, I’m not mad at Dannor for sticking herself on us when we left Tya-Vayir, because I remember being angry at her. Otherwise I don’t think I’d remember a single day of that journey. I can’t remember the half of this year. Am I going mad?”
His joking tone did not hide his anxiety.
Tdor had slid her hands into the sleeves of her robe, and she gripped her knife handles. “In the Old Sartoran texts, it was often said that the truly mad often think they are the only sane ones.”
Signi made a sign of agreement, her small fingers graceful in the ruddy firelight. “To that I will add that war leaves wounds that are not visible, as well as those in flesh and bone. You are still recovering.”
“I hope I recover fast. I have to be learning politics. Me! Isn’t that a joke?”
“It will be if you don’t review your history,” Tdor said, hiding her fears for Inda. She knew from his childhood that Inda would hate smothering. He wanted a solution. If there was one. If there wasn’t, well, better pretend there was. “So let’s begin. We’ll review some history.”
That set the tone for the remainder of the journey. Inda was troubled by the gaps in his memory. He could not recover a single day from the long ride between Ala Larkadhe and Tya-Vayir, where they held the triumph, so he set himself to notice everything around him.
He was thankful when he recognized landmarks he’d seen as a boy traveling this road. During the evenings, after they’d named kings and battles, heroes and villains of history, the talk ranged freely over languages, ships, travel, and other kingdoms and customs.
Despite the steadily worsening weather, it was a calm, friendly journey, characterized by active good will. By its end, as expectations gradually fell into patterns, less often did Tdor have to make herself enumerate the reasons to be grateful, especially when Signi’s trick of massage often calmed Inda back into sleep without him being aware.
At last the outriders came galloping back on a late afternoon under a lowering sky that, from the smell of the air, promised a pos
sible first snow.
Inda turned to the others, grinning like a boy. “We can make it to the royal city if we take the remounts.”
So they divided up. Inda, Signi, Tdor, their Runners and half the Riders galloped ahead, leaving the other half to accompany the servants with the camping gear and horses.
The sun made a brief, pale appearance just above the western horizon as they topped the hill before the royal city. The light was strange, the undersides of the clouds dramatically lit. They’d waved to the perimeter Riders, so it wasn’t as if they expected to surprise anyone. A trumpet call at the main gate was their due, and the Marlovans straightened up in expectation.
To their astonishment, not one but all the towers rippled with brassy intensity the racing chords heralding a Harskialdna.
Inda flushed to the tips of his ears. The Marlovans all grinned in shared pride. Signi’s emotions swooped. She could not blame them for martial ardor. She knew the very same was felt in her homeland.
Tdor and Inda guided their mounts into position behind the standard bearers, and everyone else assumed rank order. Signi dropped to the back as they galloped the last distance down the road and through the open gates.
People lined the walls to catch a glimpse of the famous Harskialdna, once a pirate and an exile, returned just in time to lead the Marlovans to victory. At his side rode his new wife, who would help the queen command the castle women. On the walls, on the streets, from the backs of head-tossing horses, men and women thumped fists to chests. The women were saluting Tdor, whose face flushed with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.
In all those cheering faces, in the trumpet calls and the salutes, Tdor saw herself reflected back as a Harandviar. This new rank, like her status as a wife, had become real. Had Inda felt real only after others believed he was real when he became a ship captain and then a commander? She could ask. Inda was home again, riding at her side, and they could talk to each other, instead of imagining conversations—something he’d admitted he’d done, too! Oh, could anyone be happier?