As for now, because the seniors are still in Norsunder, there were no celebrations here except in the barracks. Instead, everywhere there is the noise of leave-taking, of winter-plans and resolves against next spring, as the majority of them prepare to go home. The rest of us will apparently be moved—
Through the tapestry Russav Savona heard voices. Alarm tightened his neck when he picked out among them the familiar low, angry rumble of the king’s voice. The king never scratched or tapped outside tapestries, despite that being one of the first rules of etiquette any child learns, from low to high degree. Savona had heard the older people whispering about how Galdran reserved as royal right unwarned entry because he looked everywhere for signs of conspiracy.
And here I am reading a secret letter that could get Danric’s entire family killed.
Regret, bitter and heated, surged through Savona as he pitched Danric’s half-read letter into the heart of the fire. It flared instantly, the black letters for an instant red and then golden, as Savona glanced in relief at the open windows; the breeze from the ocean was steady and cool. Just as the king laughed directly outside Savona’s tapestry-door, the letter curled away into ashes and vanished beneath the steady flames of the Fire Stick.
Savona whirled away from the fire, desperate to find something else to be doing. Relief! The old mirror his mother had had placed into the wall. When the king lifted the tapestry and stepped in, Savona postured at the mirror, turning this way and that as he admired himself from head to toe. Well aware of the king at the door, though pretending to be absorbed in his own image, he stared complacently at his long, curling black hair and the fit of his tunic. Savona was the handsomest of all the younger generation: at sixteen he looked twenty, so splendidly was he made.
His black eyes were keen and observant above that slashing smile.
“Boy.” The king called them all that, as often as not.
Savona mimed well-bred surprise, but if the king took it as a hint that he ought to have used good manners and scratched outside the tapestry, he ignored it.
Savona bowed, the low formal bow that Galdran Merindar liked not only in the throne room, but at all times.
Galdran’s restless gaze moved from the fireplace to the table, where no pen and ink lay ready, to the walls, the windows, and finally the furnishings, which had not been altered since the days of the dead duke and duchess—Galdran had whiffed the scent of burning paper, or thought he did, but nothing was to be seen in the fireplace beside the Fire Stick, and the table was bare of ink or paper or courier wallet.
Savona seemed to have been entirely involved with studying his own face in one of the framed looking glasses that had been built into each wall. Savona’s mother had loved to see herself reflected wherever she turned: when she sat on the big velvet cushions along the platforms, and at the low tables on which one could still find fresh flowers, hot-house flowers in winter and early spring. Savona seemed to have inherited her habits.
“My nephew has an idea,” Galdran said, grinning. “How would you like to ride under his command, and teach some of this rabble to behave?”
“Rabble?” Savona remembered what Princess Elestra had told him: Look past the smile to the eyes. He saw anger. Judgment. Question, even. Certainly no humor, despite the toothy grin.
“Cursed populace, disobedient. My sister hints I’m too lenient. She thinks my nobles all sit around at their ease eating and drinking at my expense, and taking advantage of my good will and hospitality.”
What could be said to that? Savona bowed, hand at his heart in the mode of rue.
Galdran sighed. “My nobles got their titles by governing their territories. It’s time for you to do that again, under my nephew’s command. But first you have to learn to follow orders.”
Savona’s very first reaction was joy—not at the prospect of riding under the command of Nenthar Debegri, but at the prospect of getting away from the deadly atmosphere of court. Maybe he’d even get the sort of training that Danric was, only without the canings and beatings by Marloven bullies.
Was he showing too much eagerness? The King still grinned, but his eyes had tightened to suspicion.
“Of course, your majesty,” Savona said, bowing low. “As long as I get to wear my good clothes.” He dusted his sleeves. “Commanding would be fun. But not if we have to get dirty.”
“If Nenthar tells you to get dirty, you will get dirty,” the king retorted, but that narrow look of suspicion had eased. “Command must start at the top, and it’s not effective unless the lower ranking commanders know how to obey orders.”
Savona felt like a liar and a cheat, but he remembered his promise to Danric’s father and mother. Play a role, they’d said. You don’t have to be a coward, or a villain. Be a clown. Even suspicious kings do not feel threatened by clowns. “I do so hate to get dirty. Can’t I stay on horseback? I like riding, and I’d like commanding, but a duke shouldn’t have to do sweaty, dirty work. And I so loathe torn clothes!”
The king was already bored, but that was far better than wariness and suspicion. He waved a hand. “We’ll see, we’ll see. There’s time enough to discover what Nenthar has in mind for drills and the like. Remember, you are not here to be decorative.”
Savona bowed again.
“I told Nenthar if he does well with command I will give him a barony, and all the rest of you will have suitable military ranks besides your birth rank. You would like that, would you not?”
Savona bowed again; he stiffened his fingers against any betraying flourish that might hint of irony.
“Good. We will discuss this matter further when I have seen what you all look like out in the field.”
The king strode away down the hall, followed by the two honor guards he always took with him. That left Savona feeling angry, disgusted with himself, with the king, with the world.
That feeling persisted until early evening, when they all attended a card party held at Lord Grumareth’s rooms. Lightning flickered in the distance right before they were going to cross the Residence court to supper and music.
Princess Elestra gave a faint shriek. “My hair,” she wailed. “I cannot abide rain. What will it do to my hair? Send for a canopy!”
A bustle of servants brought rain canopies and they all began to progress, Savona with the boys behind Arthal, the Marquise of Merindar, who always insisted on rank precedence.
The marquise, a large red-haired woman with a high brow and a smooth, serene demeanor, stepped next to her brother, who said something in a low voice. The marquise laughed, and answered mockingly, “. . . as empty as her skull. Just contemplate someone that old and wrinkled actually thinking any of us have the least concern with her looks? ‘My hair!’ The rallying cry of fools.”
Savona thought, It worked.
His bad mood was gone. Deception was a weapon, all the more effective for not being perceived. He resolved that he would use “My hair!” as a cry at least once that week, if the rain cooperated.
When Nenthar Debegri gathered the boys in the court to see what they could do by way of military drill, Savona kept up a running stream of sulky complaints about his clothes, the dirt, the boredom, and he managed to drop his sword four times.
At the end of a month, as summer vanished at last into the first cold rains of autumn, Savona realized most of the smarter boys were following his lead. On a bitter, rainy morning the king appeared on the balcony overlooking their court, and watched.
The drill was spectacularly dismal. Savona got his horse to thump into every single one of the others at least once, upsetting the entire exercise. His quick, black-eyed third-cousin Deric and their friend Geral complained, called out conflicting orders to which no one listened, as Savona exclaimed in horror that his gloves were getting grimy from the dirt, and wet. Nenthar Debegri lost his temper and screamed invective instead of orders. He only shut up when King Galdran shouted “Hold!” from the balcony.
“You boys practice at home,” the king roared, as
everyone bowed from horseback. Savona let his hat fall off. “You’ll take it up again in group next spring. Go on, take horse. Go home. It’s harvest-time. You all have land to oversee.”
That meant taxes and tithes in food and supplies to pay for the king’s new garrisons.
The next morning Russav Savona was riding home to his duchy amid the spies the king had set about him. He kept a pout on his face, but inside he laughed in triumph. Before his departure he had slipped a letter into Princess Elestra’s hands.
o0o
. . . and you should have seen us. Besides me there were Geral and Alcanad and even Olervec, though with him it might have been real, all whining, dropping swords, exclaiming in horror if dust got on their clothes. Deric fell off his horse more times than I did—I had to pay him a staggering sum as we’d had a wager going. Your Marloven barbarians would have died laughing.
The result was, the king ordered us all home for the winter, and so between tonight and the morning I shall contrive a way to slip this letter into your mother’s hands. If I don’t, I guess you won’t be seeing these words, hmm?
Anyway, I’ve tried to decide how excruciating a winter to give Galdran’s spies, and have discovered the perfect ruse. I am going to take up painting fans. Want a wager? By the time you come home, no fashionable young lord will be seen without his fans to match his outfit. I will get the girls to start teaching me more of the fan-flirtation modes. My master plan is to have all of us chattering about the new fashions in shoes while our fans semaphore the latest news from the borders, and all of it directly under Galdran’s suspicious eyes.
Noises outside. Probably one of the spies. I must not be seen writing, except orders for fans and paints. Russav.
SEVENTEEN
My darling boy. We have agreed that we shall restrict ourselves to once a week for letters. This is partly to protect you, for we remember what you said about the fact that you were not supposed to be exchanging letters from home.
But I will admit, this once, that were I to write to you daily, I would fall into a melancholy tendency to ask what kind acts have you done of late? Before I leave the subject, know only that the same rule applies for each of us when we are in court, and no challenge could be more difficult.
I will not bore you with the tedium of my visit to court. I will leave it at the word ‘parties,’ and you will probably remember that one of the very first lessons in etiquette that I taught you was that it is bad manners to bore on about parties you have been to, but which your auditors have not.
At home, there will be no parties, not a one, for an entire quiet winter. Instead, I will begin a course of reading, and discuss it with you, and your father joins me in hoping that you will commence a similar course of reading, and discuss with us what you have read.
And now to fold into this missive the letter that Russav slipped into my hand before his departure, as he kissed my fingers most properly.
I shall await impatiently yours by the end of the week.
All my love,
Mother
Shevraeth read the letter through twice, and then stooped to lay it on the flames. He stood watching the paper curl, sending up the sharp smell of burning rag, and wondered what in his letters had so worried her that she would think it necessary to remind him of his promise.
He walked to the window of the senior rec room and leaned his arms on the stone window sill, looking out at the softly falling snow. Shall I enumerate my acts of kindness? he thought. No, it’s petty. What I have to do is think over what I wrote, and try to discover what must have alarmed her.
The ring of heels on warped wooden flooring caused him to glance at the fire. The others were returning from breakfast to get ready for the day. His letter had been reduced to ash, and so he went back to staring out the window onto the spacious courtyard outside the senior barracks—their winter home.
Shevraeth had seen why at once. The buildings were the oldest, mostly stone, more spacious than any, and with the pleasant addition of this recreation room adjacent to the dormitory, something none of lower school barracks had. Once he got accustomed to the faint tang of centuries of mildew and sweat (despite ritual cleanings by generations of boy hands) he decided the place was comfortable: they had a good fireplace, the mess hall was nearby, and so were the practice courts.
He’d returned from breakfast early, partly to check his magical letter box, but also because he’d wanted to read before the day’s drills.
Most of the others passed on by, some with casual flicks of the hand. Boys of all ages stayed over, for various reasons. They all wore sturdy cotton-wool tunics, from scrubs to seniors. Shevraeth had discovered within a day that former rivalries were entirely suspended over the winter, and so were the privileges of age. Best of all, the notorious bullies were all gone.
Shevraeth had not been surprised to find himself assigned to sword, archery, and riding practice. Not two weeks had gone by and he was already used to the rhythm of the days.
He was mildly curious to be approached by a tall, familiar figure with light brown hair and a sober expression in his light eyes: Retren Forthan.
Forthan spoke as if they had known one another for years, though they had never exchanged a single word. “King sent me to you.”
Shevraeth opened his hand in invitation to speak.
Forthan looked around the room, and then said in a low voice, “He said to ask. If you’d tutor me.”
“In?” Shevraeth asked, mentally running over impossible-sounding topics: Fashion? Sartoran ballads? Dancing?
“Reading,” Forthan said in that same low voice, his gaze on his weapon-roughened hands.
Surprise bloomed behind Shevraeth’s eyes but he was far too experienced to show it. “When and where you like.”
“King wants me really reading before we begin the next season,” Forthan said, still to his hands. “I reckon, every day. In case it, well, takes time.”
Shevraeth considered his schedule, and then figured Forthan’s had to be far busier, as he was not only serving as a trainer for some of the younger boys, he was also in charge of organizing the exhibition drills and games that the older boys would perform to entertain the Jarls when they arrived for the Marloven New Year ritual called Convocation.
Well, sleeping in of a morning did not seem to be part of the Marloven habit of life, Shevraeth thought wryly, bidding good-bye his briefly enjoyed luxury of rising before breakfast mess.
“We’ll meet at first morning bell, then? Library, up at the palace? The king did give me permission to use it, and no one ever seems to be there. Certainly not at that time.”
Forthan’s relief was obvious. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
The next day, early as Shevraeth was, Forthan had preceded him, and Shevraeth found him prowling along the shelves of books and scrolls. When he saw Shevraeth, he turned around, and indicated a table with a lamp already lit, and paper and pens waiting.
They each took a seat, and Shevraeth said, “You do not have to answer, but I assumed that there was already some reading required for the seniors.”
“Not until Senrid-Harvaldar came to the throne,” Forthan said in a low, embarrassed voice. “No need before. No need at home.” His gaze shifted. “I got by. I can parse out my name, and other names. I do know most of the alphabet. But Jan Senelac has been doing my reading for me, and writing my reports for me, on the sneak. I hate sneaking, and the king wants me reading.” He turned his palm up, the Marloven equivalent of a shrug. “So he sent me to you.”
Because I won’t talk, Shevraeth thought. Or because it’s some kind of test. Maybe both.
Out loud he said, “Then we’ll get started. Your knowing some of the alphabet already puts you in the saddle, so to speak. We’ll get you familiar with the rest, and start on consonant groupings. You’ll find words a lot easier to read when you learn these, and it’s like drill...”
Shevraeth did not know if the Marlovens had a specific order for groupin
gs, the way they were taught in his own language at home—first consonant then vowel clusters, based on Sartoran roots. He decided it didn’t really matter.
And as the weeks sped by, New Year’s drawing ever closer, he knew he’d hit on the right method. They met every day, the famous senior commander and the visitor from a faraway land, working through simple texts at first and then more complicated ones, historical texts written in small, sometimes crabbed handwritings, by the kings and real war commanders actually involved in major events.
Forthan’s interests were narrow in range, confined to battles, strategy, tactics, logistics. He was quiet, serious, focused, indistinguishable from other Marloven boys on the verge of manhood when sitting in his chair with a pen gripped in his big hand. There was no sign of the formidable warrior until he was outside, in the field, or standing in the fighting salle with a sword in hand, then his demeanor changed to the mode of command.
They never discussed anything but their readings. Forthan was diffident about all subjects outside of war, perplexed by social customs not his own, by history that did not impinge on the Marlovens. Shevraeth learned not to refer to it. Forthan didn’t care, unless it related to the matters at hand. His life lay before him, a clear path. Unless he disgraced himself or died in some other manner he would command a Marloven army. That was the summit of his ambition. Yet he never talked of conquering, of killing, he never bragged or scoffed. He was, Shevraeth thought one day as he trudged to the senior barracks through a thick snow fall, both easy and difficult to understand. The difficulty comes in me not being able to figure out the warrior habit of mind. I can’t imagine ever wanting to lead an army.
o0o
At the same time he was walking to the barracks, from above Retren Forthan and Senrid-Harvaldar watched his solitary figure tracking blue prints through the fresh-fallen snow.