Kel smiled as a multitude of horsemen in the white robes of the Bazhir crested the hills. On they came, their tack and the colors in the cords that fastened their burnooses telling their tribe. She counted six tribes among the riders who came over the eastern hills; falling back to look between wagons, she counted three more tribes coming from the west.
“It’s the Bazhir,” she told Cleon. “They’re greeting the king. Cheer up—they’ll feed us.” She grinned. “I can’t dislike people who welcome guests like the Bazhir do!”
For a week the tribes enveloped the progress, treating their guests lavishly. On the eighth day the train reached a fortress city, a granite monument that sheltered eleven springs and wells inside its walls. “Persopolis,” Raoul told Kel. “The only city the Bazhir ever constructed.” He shook his head with a sigh. “I don’t like it.”
“That’s because you’re a tent boy,” Captain Flyndan, riding beside them, commented in his dour way. “Me, I like the real beds in Persopolis just fine.”
They were joined at supper that night by Lady Alanna and her husband, Baron George Cooper, who had just arrived with Neal in tow. They were still relating news from the western coast when a man at the table asked, “Did you hear about Lord Wyldon’s resignation?”
Alanna’s face hardened; she drummed her fingers beside her plate. The baron covered her hand with his and smiled at the questioner. “The world knows, surely. It’s good for the lads to change teachers—gives them a broad training base. Don’t you agree, squire?” he asked Kel. She, Neal, and Merric were not servants at these Bazhir-hosted gatherings, but guests, seated with their knight-masters. The Bazhir took care of serving.
Kel looked at Raoul. “It’s very educational, my lord Baron,” she told George Cooper gravely.
Alanna grinned at her own squire, seated beside Kel. “So, Neal, do you feel educated?”
“Incredibly,” Neal replied in his wry drawl. “Why, words simply fail me about how educated I’m getting.”
Everyone laughed. The possibility of a famed Lioness explosion over Lord Wyldon faded. The talk turned to the news from Scanra and Carthak. The new Scanran warlord troubled the knights. Everyone was praying that the northern clans, notoriously difficult when it came to working together, would arrange his downfall. “Preferably during the winter,” Baron George said, “so they’ll be accusing and killing each other come spring.”
Kel woke at her usual hour the next morning. First she had glaive practice, then sword practice with her fellow squires. She had to clean Raoul’s weapons and her own afterward, then go riding with her friends.
“Jump, Crown, Freckle,” she said quietly. “Time to get up.” Chances were that she wouldn’t wake Raoul in the next room, but with no door to close between them, she didn’t want to chance it. He and Buri had been out late. “Jump.” Kel nudged her dog, who slept draped over her feet. He grunted and flopped over, freeing her. She turned to the sparrows, who slept between her and the wall. They were already awake and looking at her.
All but one. Crown lay on Kel’s pillow on her side, eyes closed, tiny feet curled up tight. Kel touched the bird with a gentle fingertip. Crown didn’t move. When Kel picked her up, she found the sparrow was cold.
She took the small body to Daine. With the griffin restored to his family, the Wildmage was now a permanent member of the progress, and easier to find.
“I’m sorry,” Daine said, tears in her eyes. “But Kel, understand, she was eight or so. For a sparrow, that’s old. Some that are pets last longer, but the wild ones have six or seven years, that’s all.” She put a hand over the small body. “Do you want me to take care of her?”
Kel shook her head and bore Crown away. She rode to a public garden in the city, attended by Jump, the other sparrows, and Peachblossom, and buried Crown under an olive tree. Olives symbolized healing and peace. Crown had earned both.
Kel stayed away from people for the rest of the day. She didn’t weep after she buried her fierce sparrow, but she wanted to be quiet with her animals. And she wanted to remember Crown’s bravery in the safety of silence.
Around sunset Cleon found her. He held her, then took her to supper. Kel hadn’t eaten all day. Neal joined them; so did Yuki, Roald, Shinkokami, and Merric. The group was leaving the feasting hall when a man approached Kel and slapped her with his glove: Sir Hildrec of Meron. Kel throttled the urge to pick the man up and throw him at a tree. “I’m sick of this,” she snapped. “Call me what you like, say I’m without honor, I don’t care. I’m not getting on any more horses to whack you people with a stick.”
She walked away.
Two mornings later she found Freckle’s body on her pillow. She had not expected him to outlive his mate for long. In a way Kel was grateful that he’d died in Persopolis so she could place him beside Crown. This time Cleon went with her. Once she had scooped earth over the sparrows, Kel blew her nose. “It’s the only bad thing about animals,” she told Cleon. “Most don’t live as long as we do.”
“I know, sweet,” Cleon said, kissing first one of her eyelids, then the other. “But think how bleak life would be without them.”
In the 19th and 20th years of the reign of Jonathan IV and Thayet, his Queen, Spring 458-Spring 459
fifteen
TILT-SILLY
The progress left Persopolis, turning east into the hill country, then south. The succession of events and meetings with people from Tusaine and Tyra blurred together, along with the names of those who held large and small fiefdoms along the way. Fed up, Kel still refused all challenges and matches, no matter how many insults her would-be foes paid her. Instead she practiced her weapons with her own circle.
Kel did enjoy some new things they encountered, like dishes of rice studded with raisins, almonds, and peas, or balls of chickpea batter fried and served with a creamy sauce. But it seemed to her that grape leaves stuffed with ground lamb, and hot mud baths for the skin, were jokes the locals played on gullible northerners. The markets of Pearlmouth, just across the border from Tyra, were interesting, particularly those that showed the work of Carthaki smiths. Kel wanted one of those blades. She loved the rippled tempering that made art out of steel, art that helped it hold on to its edge longer. Someday, she told herself, if she did so great a service that the Crown gave her a purse of gold, she would buy such a blade for herself.
They were camped outside Port Legann when Kel, bored, decided to use some of her bounty of griffin feathers. Raoul found her working behind their tents so the wind would blow away the smell of the glue she used.
“This is good,” he said with approval, inspecting a finished arrow. “If you give up this mad knighthood thing, you’ll do well as a fletcher.”
Kel grinned at his joke. “Some of these are for you, sir,” she pointed out.
“I accept them happily. In the meantime, do you remember Bay Cove?”
Kel had to think. It seemed as though she’d been there ages past, but in truth it had been less than a year. “Smugglers,” she said at last.
“They might be glad we captured them. The place was struck with an earthquake last night—their mage reached the king through his crystal. The town’s about to slide into the ocean.” He glanced at the sun’s position. “Grab supper as you pack. We have a serious ride to make.”
Group Askew and Thayet’s Dogs joined them. Raoul only took six squads that night; the other four would come at a slower pace with wagons of supplies. They would have a bad time of it, Kel realized as they rode on roads turned to mud by winter rains. It was a wet, cold, windy trek north along the coast, but their thanks came from Bay Cove’s people, driven into the open in winter. The town, perched on a rocky slope to the sea, was a shambles. The few buildings that stood looked like collapses waiting to happen.
The locals needed all they had brought in their saddlebags and more. The Riders and Raoul’s men scoured the countryside for miles to find households that could take refugees or donate supplies, a hard choice with at least a month o
f winter to go. Men of the Own, whose big horses didn’t tire as quickly as Rider ponies in icy mud, found the bogged-down wagons, filled their packs, and brought emergency supplies to the town. Once the wagons finally came in, they bore away whole families to any town or castle that could take them.
Eight days after their arrival Kel and Raoul joined a crew that pulled down buildings too unstable to leave standing. Peachblossom and Raoul’s warhorse, Drum, were hitched to heavy ropes; these in turn were tied to support beams inside a two-story house.
“The glory of knighthood is lovely, isn’t it?” Raoul asked as they urged the indignant Peachblossom and the calm Drum to pull. “The brilliance and fury of battle, the sound of trumpets in the air, the flowers, and the pretty girls—or pretty boys, in your case—climbing all over us.”
Kel, every bit as muddy and weary as her knight-master, grinned. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, my lord. You are a bad man.”
The progress moved inland while they continued to labor in Bay Cove. Kel missed Cleon desperately, but duty meant helping those in need as winter faded and spring arrived. If the town were to survive the next winter, its people needed help. Kel was better at some kinds than others. For one thing, she had no talent for carpentry.
“This is silly,” Dom told her one night, inspecting blood blisters under three of Kel’s nails. “My lord, this is silly,” he told Raoul, who came to see why one of his sergeants held his squire’s hand. “She hits the nail half the time and herself the other half. Let Kel hunt. She’s a fine shot, and she won’t kill herself with a hammer.”
“I’m fine,” Kel said, pulling her hand away. She was almost immune to Dom by now. When her attraction to him surfaced, she made herself think of Cleon. “And I’m learning carpentry.”
“Peachblossom is a better plough horse than you are a carpenter,” Raoul said with cheerful brutality. “We’ve been selfish, having fun while others suffer on progress. Besides, we’re out of work.” He beckoned to Emmit of Fenrigh, one of their healers. “Tend those fingers, will you?” he asked Emmit. “She’ll need them if she jousts again. I’ll tell the lads to pack. We’ll relax in Corus a week, and catch up with their majesties by the River Tellerun.”
Kel’s Yamani calm evaporated. She’d see Cleon soon! She jumped up, hugged her knight-master fiercely, and ran to her tent to pack. Emmit had to follow her to work a healing on her fingers.
Corus was a delight, particularly the palace baths, but it was better still to ride north after the progress. Kel fidgeted every inch of the way. What if Cleon had found someone new, someone small and lovely? What if he’d found someone with dimples? Dimpled girls were her worst daymare: men were supposed to be unable to defend themselves against them. She had decided years before that she was no prize on the romance market. Being away from Cleon for so long, she forgot the things about herself that made him like her.
After hard riding they caught up with the rear of the train late one spring afternoon. The progress had already stopped for the day. Its camp sprawled over the lands on either side of the road. Raoul went on alone to learn where they were supposed to go. As he returned, he looked at the western sky. It was growing dark. Kel’s heart sank.
“Well?” Buri asked when he reached them. “I was right, wasn’t I? Barely room to swing a stunted cat, let alone camp, until we get to Arenaver.”
Raoul nodded, with a rueful look at Kel. She hadn’t mentioned Cleon, but she wasn’t surprised that Raoul knew she’d like to see him. Raising his hand, the knight signed for the double column of Riders and Third Company to turn. “That pond a mile back had plenty of room,” he told Flyndan. “And we have enough no-bugs potion with us.”
Flyn turned and galloped down the columns, telling them where they were bound.
“Sorry, Kel,” Raoul said quietly.
“No, sir, you’re right,” Kel replied cheerfully. “Better to stop now, while there’s room.”
Once she had pitched her tent and cared for her animals, Kel sat on her cot, dejected. It was silly to fall into gloom when she would see Cleon tomorrow, the day after at the most. They couldn’t have gone on today, not when ground fit to camp on would be so jammed over the next ten miles that they’d have to sleep standing up.
Kel was about to leave for supper when the flap blew open. She was yanked into a hug against a body as hard as a tree. Strong arms clutched her tightly as Cleon whispered, “My sunrise!” His lips met Kel’s and they clung to each other. When he drew his mouth away, he brought it back instantly, as if he couldn’t bear to stop. Kel felt the same. He was wonderfully solid in her arms, and she wanted to keep him there.
At last she got a chance to breathe. Calmly she asked, “You missed me, then?”
That got her another round of very warm kisses. They had each other’s tunics off and were fumbling with shirt lacings when Raoul called outside, “Kel? Suppertime.”
“Festering tree stumps,” Cleon whispered.
“That’s mild,” protested Kel.
“I don’t feel mild,” Cleon told her, and kissed her so sweetly that she half-hoped she might faint.
“Whose horse is that?” asked Buri. She sounded close enough to make the pair jump apart. Hurriedly they untangled their discarded tunics and put them on.
“We’re all right,” Kel called to Raoul and Buri, then grimaced for that slip of the tongue.
“We?” asked Raoul. He opened the tent flap.
By then Kel sat cross-legged on the ground, roughhousing with Jump. Cleon stood peering into the mirror attached to a tent pole, straightening his red curls. He bowed courteously to Raoul and Buri as they looked in.
“Hullo,” he said cheerfully. “Have you enough food for a hungry knight who’s been riding sweeps all day?”
Later Kel would wonder about those discarded tunics and half-opened shirts. Did they almost make love? Ought she to look into a mage-charm against pregnancy? She didn’t want a child she couldn’t look after, not after seeing how well her own parents had done the job. Any child Kel had, in the very distant future, would be born into a family, not dragged hither and yon by a knight-mother. In the meantime she was nearly seventeen and not planning to marry. Why shouldn’t they go to bed?
Quietly she found a midwife-healer traveling with the progress and purchased the charm against pregnancy. It hung around her neck on a fine gold chain, tucked under her clothes. If she and Cleon got carried away without interruptions, she would be prepared.
As they rode north, the progress dictated their time alone. This meant that she and Cleon returned to kisses and an occasional embrace. Kel wore the charm anyway, as a declaration that she could decide some things for herself.
Northern roads were narrower than southern ones. Rocky hills and dense forests made them so, forcing the progress to slow down until the pace that had annoyed Kel the year before now seemed lightning-like. She had not jousted since Persopolis, but these days, frustrated with dawdling and having so little time alone with Cleon, pounding an opponent in the lists began to look attractive.
Blue Harbor was the last big port on the northern coast. Since it was also the largest colony for merfolk in Tortall, the monarchs would stay longer than usual. There would be more celebrations and more serving duties. Reading the schedule, Kel could bear it no longer. She put her name on the boards for matches.
“Frustrated?” Neal asked as she wrote.
“You’ll be too, with all the banquets they mean to stage,” she retorted.
Neal shrugged. “I won’t be here. Lady Alanna, seeing the floating pavilion built for these affairs, tells me we are riding ahead.” His smugness made Kel long to beat him with a loaf of bread, as she had when they were pages. “Simply viewing the gentle slap of wavelets on anything makes her seasick.”
“You’re joking,” Kel said. How could the Lioness, the King’s Champion, be prey to something that inglorious?
“Ask Lord Raoul. He had a sea voyage with her, when she brought the Dominion Jewel
home.”
Kel asked Raoul that night when she returned his cleaned armor to his tent. “Gods,” he said with a laugh. He was shaving. “Green the whole trip, I swear.”
“Well, she’s riding ahead, since she gets seasick, ” Kel said glumly. “She and Neal are going tomorrow.”
Raoul wiped lather away from his ear. “His majesty tells me I have no excuses. He believes I took advantage of our efforts in Bay Cove to stay away. He won’t admit I’m right and all this mummery is not the best use of Third Company. Instead he’s decided that, like a dog, I have to be retrained to remember who is king and who is not.”
“He wouldn’t take the Own away, would he?” Kel asked, horrified. The king could be unfair, but surely not that unfair.
“Worse.” Raoul patted his face with a cloth. “He said if I take more time away from his bootheels for my own pleasure, he’ll seat me with the greediest matchmaking mother in each district.”
Kel winced. Surely there ought to be laws against that kind of punishment. She had to compliment the king on underhandedness, though. He’d picked the penalty Raoul dreaded more than fines or the loss of noble privileges.
That night after supper, Kel took a long walk with Cleon, Neal, and Esmond of Nicoline. Owen joined them: he had arrived with Lord Wyldon the day before, stopping for a few days before they headed to Northwatch Fortress and the Scanran border. The squires wandered in the city, then headed back to camp. On the way Kel asked to stop at the challenge boards. She wanted to see who she would face the next day.
Neal, Esmond, and Owen left them at the tournament grounds. Neal had to pack, he said. Esmond had a letter to write. Owen, after his arms were tugged by the other two, decided he had stockings to mend. Cleon smiled at Kel as their friends left, trailing weak excuses.
“Apart from Raoul and Buri, we must be the worst-kept secret in this traveling gossip show,” he remarked as they read the lists of matches. “Have you—Mithros, guide us. We’re back to this. Do you really want to die a virgin? I keep telling you, we can fix that.”