Treason's Shore

  But all Yeres of Norsunder did was stand there in the gateway to the Garden of the Twelve and laugh and laugh, her laughter still ringing in Erkric’s head when he woke from the resulting faint, with blood crusted in his ears. And nothing to show for his effort.

  He stirred impatiently. Though he had access to the king’s chambers at last, how could he get the old magic dismantled, and his own spells put in place? He had not counted on having to constantly mind Rajnir, and keep him away from everyone else, plus see to the enormous load of king’s duties—not to mention the queen’s duties—as he’d fended off the Houses’ offers of royal partners. Who would have thought the damned people would have so many civil cases built against one another waiting for a queen to judge?

  A buzz against his hip: scroll-case. A warning shot through him. He never let the thing out of his sight or physical contact anymore. He still did not know how much that damned Valda had learned . . .

  Leaning back to keep Rajnir between himself and any prying eyes among the Hyarls in the first tier, he eased the scroll-case out of his pocket. He thumbed the catch and stared down at the paper lying in it.

  Jaro fleet lost. Durasnir sent order to retreat, fall back to Nathur to await further orders.

  Pain again. Erkric unclenched his teeth. Another disaster. And Durasnir issuing orders! Of course it was within his realm of duty, but those “further orders”?

  Those must come from the king. Not from Durasnir, whom everyone watched. He spoke the right words, but were they empty? Yes, they were empty, Erkric thought in disgust. The more people gabbled about Drenskar and Honor and Ydrasal, the more they meant for everyone else to be observant. Or to hear them being observant.

  There were two threats to Rajnir’s kingship: Valda and Durasnir.

  Erkric knew with a liar’s conviction that the southern fleet commander’s oaths and promises were empty. You say what you have to say and watch for weakness.

  Unfortunately, dig as he might, Erkric had not found a scrap of evidence of Durasnir taking part in any treasonous talk or he’d be picked bones up on Sinnaborc by now. Durasnir was so powerful there had to be not only treason spoken, but believable witnesses to hear it. There could be no more disasters like Signi Sofar’s trial.

  Durasnir was suspicious. Erkric was certain of that from the stiff manner in which Durasnir handled himself around the new king, an astonishing contrast to his avuncular, even paternal, fondness for Rajnir in days of old. Erkric was also certain that, just as much as he needed proof against Durasnir’s treason that would be strong enough to convince the Houses so did Durasnir seek proof that Rajnir was not himself.

  Erkric turned his attention back to the stage, but he did not see the black-clad men and women symbolizing the drakan ships crossing worlds. Irritation made him long to be alone. So much to do! He needed to be three people: one to guard Rajnir and provide the signs for suitable responses, one to be alert to the machinations of Durasnir and his like, and the third to remove the old wards over the king’s rooms and replace them with Erkric’s own. If only he could get Rajnir away . . .

  Away. Out of the Twelve Towers. But it could not seem a retreat because a young king desiring isolation right after his coronation would be seen by all as an act of weakness, of hiding. His leaving the Twelve Towers had to be perceived as an act of power.

  If only Goerael would contrive another uprising! But things there were disgustingly quiet—

  As Erkric gazed impatiently at the fluttering ribbons symbolizing the Golden Tree, an idea bloomed. Oh, what could be more perfect? Just as the first king crossed the world under the banner of Ydrasal, so the new king would restore his empire under the Royal Banner.

  The king shall go a-viking, just as in days of old.

  No one could fault that, not even Durasnir!

  Erkric could shift back and secure the king’s suite (which would supposedly be sealed) while he was thought to be in Rajnir’s shipboard cabins. It had worked quite well during the attempted invasion—about the only thing that had worked.

  With a pleasure inverse to the irritation of the past three months—the past three years—Erkric envisioned the throne room, Rajnir seated on the throne in white and silver beneath the banner of kingship, the Golden Tree. And Stalna Hyarl Fulla Durasnir kneeling on the stone of the dais, bending his stiff neck before the invisible torc of the king’s will as he became Oneli Stalna, commander of the entire fleet.

  How long did it take to ready the southern fleet when they went south the first time? Erkric thought back to the chief shipwright saying to the old king, “It will take three years to properly equip ships and men ...”

  I’ll give him one year to raise the entire navy.

  That would keep the troublemaking Houses busy, and in a year’s time—a quiet year for Erkric, so he could concentrate on what must be done—there would be a magnificent launch under the Golden Tree banner. Then the Oneli could spend another year—or two or three—regaining what they never should have lost in the first place.

  Erkric chuckled.

  And if a fleet commander couldn’t somewhere along the way suffer a heroic death in battle, what good was a glorious war?

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  FNOR saw herself in a dream.

  She was a child again, looking out the window of her small bedchamber at the deep blue of twilight, yet the sunlight poured in golden shafts through the window, warm as milk, glistening like a beeswax candle flame.

  “I am dreaming,” she thought, and in the dream she wept.

  The sunbeam brought a stream of memories charged with wonder: the cool water steeped with herbs poured through her hair after a good scrubbing, drenching her with the scent of rain-fresh leaves; the warmth of the sun on her cheeks and neck while she crawled determinedly through chin-high young summer grass; the pleasant buzz of her skin while quiet, patient hands rubbed rough toweling over her.

  “I am a babe again.” But she was not a babe. Instead she saw a babe, heard its kitten noises, smelled the sweet scent of a baby’s head . . .

  “Fnor.”

  The image broke, and she drifted upward through layers of blue cloud, up and up until she broke the surface, and opened eyes that stung with tears.

  Buck looked down at her, his sun-streaked yellow hair hanging tousled around his shoulders, his one hand gripping the rope they’d rigged over the bed. “Fnor?”

  Question without question. “Did you dream of a babe?” she asked, a chill prickling the backs of her arms.

  Buck’s eyes widened, his pupils dark. “I can hear it,” he whispered. “The spell.”

  Fnor closed her eyes, and there were the words, just beyond hearing, but she knew, she knew, if she put tongue to them, they would come.

  “Let’s tell the others.” She laughed, and sat up. “You or I?”

  “Tell Cherry-Stripe. He’ll rouse the house.” With practiced, unthinking habit Buck swung himself to the side of the bed, where his crutch rested against the bedstead.

  “Good idea.” Fnor ran barefoot toward the door leading to the bath stairway, then paused and looked back. “Put on your House tunic.”

  Buck’s head canted in question, then he flashed a quick, rare grin. “Are you going to put on your House robe?”

  She laughed to see him happy. Resignation he’d achieved, after a long and determined battle. Sometimes moments of contentment, after a small victory, such as crossing the castle with no help but his crutch. Staying on horseback with the aid of the saddle the Runners had spent an entire season making and remaking.

  She said, “I shall indeed put on my House robe, since I won’t be lying in that bed in nightgear.” She paused, afraid that daylight and sanity would take away the dream, as always happened to dreams, and indeed, the scraps of image vanished, but the joy remained. “You and me—we’re going to . . .”

  She groped toward her stomach, then turned her hands out helplessly, not sure how to express it.

  Buck said, “
Get ourselves a baby.” And shook his head in wonder. “I know it happens. But I can’t understand it.” Clack-hop, clack-hop, off to the men’s bath.

  She took the fastest bath of her life, but when she strode into the hall, still braiding her wet hair, she discovered everyone nearly ready, some still running about. Even the oldsters were in festival moods. Women brought out herb-stored baby clothing, and old Hasta Marlo-Vayir—who had ridden over to the castle two days before to help Buck look over the yearlings—proudly helped carry from storage the wooden cradle his sons had slept in.

  The sun was strengthening over the castle, the air warming to summer heat as everyone gathered in the hall before the dais.

  “What do we do? Where do we do it?” Buck asked, hitching himself up the steps.

  “You take hands.” The stonemason’s wife motioned Buck and Fnor together. “You take hands, and you’ll feel the baby come when you finish the words.”

  “Come?” Cherry-Stripe asked, pausing on a step just behind his brother. “From where?”

  “The air.”

  “Ohhhhh,” everyone breathed out the word, and Mran grinned, her thin, triangular Cassad face catlike with happiness.

  Fnor closed her fingers tightly around Buck’s single hand, and Uncle Scrapper set the cradle below, for added good measure. Cherry-Stripe stood so close to Buck he breathed on his shoulder, just in case Buck needed balance, though he seldom did anymore; after a quick look around, Buck cleared his throat, his eyes on his wife. He, too, had had a strange dream, mostly memories from boyhood, then false memories of Fnor with a great belly. He’d known even inside the dream that that was false, that Fnor had never been pregnant.

  Whoever made this babe, he’s welcome, Buck thought, because he was so certain it would be a he—girls were rare in his family. He had no Marlo-Vayir aunts back three generations. If Fnor had taken a lover and chewed gerda—and Buck had once tried to talk her into it—that babe would not have been his blood. But it would have been his boy or girl just the same. And so would this one, wherever it came from.

  The words whispered inside his head and he repeated them, Fnor’s voice higher than his, echoing the words. And then the air over their hands snapped with light shimmers, just like the ensorcelled buckets when you dipped something into them, and Fnor gasped, her body feeling just for a moment as if someone had pushed her through a window, but there was no pain.

  Buck almost fell forward, he was so surprised to feel weight on his hand.

  He was not aware of Cherry-Stripe’s steel-band fingers gripping his arm as he stared down at the naked baby boy wriggling in Fnor’s stiff hands. Fnor stared, mouth agape.

  “Don’t drop him, now,” Mran said briskly.

  Fnor clasped the babe to her bosom, and shook with a sudden, deep sob.

  Buck’s stare was as stark with fear and wonder as his wife’s. “He’s got Uncle Scrapper’s ears.” He pointed to the tiny earlobes, miniatures of his uncle’s.

  “What do I do?” Fnor asked, looking around wildly. “I don’t have milk!”

  “You will, if you suckle,” the stonemason’s wife said. “Or you can use a wet nurse.”

  “Mran asked me to come inside,” came a voice from behind the crowd of servants, Riders, and Runners.

  People parted, and there was a farm wife, her new babe cradled against her hip.

  Fnor had refused to ask about these things because it hurt too much. Now she looked around bewildered, amazed, so full of joy she laughed, and then sobbed again, wiping her eyes impatiently on her shoulder. The unfamiliar little weight resting against her breast moved, and her hands tightened.

  “Name Day dinner tonight,” Hasta roared, still plenty strong in voice, if raspy. “What’re ye going to name him?”

  “Hasta, of course,” Buck said, and his father reddened in pleasure. “That is, Hastred.”

  “You better show me what to do,” Fnor said to the farm wife. She nicked her head toward Buck, his brother, and Mran. “Show us all.”

  “Let’s get him dressed first,” said the guide.

  “Where’d he come from?” whispered Cherry-Stripe. “How is it possible?”

  Buck just shook his head. He stared at those familiar earlobes, and the straight brows so much like Fnor’s, until tears blinded him.

  He was unaware of the slight, acrid stink of burning drifting in the air, but the kitchen people weren’t. “My biscuits!” the baker cried and whirled around.

  But her son appeared through the back entrance. “Burned,” he said, in his slow, precise way. “Burned to hot rocks.”

  Which was how the new baby got the nickname that stuck to him all his life: Hot Rock Marlo-Vayir.

  Hadand did not get the news of the new Marlo-Vayir laef until the end of summer; Fnor was afraid to write letters until she was sure the baby would not vanish the way he had come, even though she could see that the stonemason’s sturdy boy was still very much extant, especially when he chased the hens in the yard.

  Hadand told Tdor, after some time alone to get control of the sharpness of yearning and jealousy. Fnor had described everything, including the strange dream. Hadand forced herself to concentrate on each word, though the hurt was profound. She had no child, and no dreams of a child, though she was again grimly downing gerda each day.

  Evred continued to come to her, though intermittently; there were still the nights he fell asleep at his desk or he closed himself in his suite. Just not the right time, Tesar, Hadand’s First Runner, said recently to Hadand after she woke up to discover she needed to use the Waste Spell for her monthly courses. Another missed chance.

  But she was young, strong, and very busy, she told herself briskly. In the past, clan chieftains (then kings) didn’t even think about heirs until their forties to prevent young strong sons from wanting their fathers’ place before their fathers were ready to give it up. She had plenty of years ahead, and the later the better.

  Then she went out to tell Tdor.

  Tdor listened while getting ready to join Mistress Gand in monitoring the progress of teams of girls trying to sneak into the castle. They sat in the highest tower watching the girls’ progress through glasses. Tdor had declared all tunnels off-limits, an order whose reception she had observed closely. Some girls were surprised. Most heard it indifferently or semaphored question around, What tunnels? But a few had revealed sharp disappointment and Lies Ola-Vayir, young cousin to Starand, had looked around shiftily, encountered Tdor’s gaze, and studied her fingertips. Something to remember, Tdor thought. If there’s ever trouble in this city, it won’t come from an army trying to batter down the thick walls. It will come from inside.

  Out loud, she said, “Fnor Marlo-Vayir has a son.”

  “Huh.” Mistress Gand swung her glass the other way. “There’s Len dan, coming across the roof. Just as I thought. Fnor, eh? Hope she has a girl next. I’d like to see Fnor’s girl here.”

  No one says that about the Ola-Vayirs, Tdor thought. How much of personality is in blood and how much in how we are raised?

  At watch’s end Tdor made her way to the Harskialdna suite, where she found Inda hunched over a book. Before she could speak the bell high above them clanged, echoed soon by all the city bells. Two clangs, and then Inda said, jerking his thumb at the western window, “Look. Sun’s already setting at Lastwatch bell. I can’t believe summer’s near done and it’s time for the Banner Game.” He set aside the book. “Summer Games! They’ll go home, and before we know it, time for Convocation. This year has gone so fast! I wasn’t there for Convocation last year. This year Buck will come,” he added with satisfaction. Then he paused, gaze distant.

  He moved toward the door, as he often did just after sunset if he didn’t have duty. Tdor knew where he was going and why, and usually left him to his tour alone, especially as half the time Evred encountered him somewhere along the long sentry walk in order to converse privately.

  But the tilt of Inda’s head, the pucker of the scar across his forehead, cause
d her to say, “Want company?”

  His smile was enough of an answer. They left by their private tower entrance. Inda’s way of dealing with all those doors had been to have some of them taken off so they didn’t bang into one another. Since it was just the two of them living in the front part of the suite right now, it worked all right.

  As always, that reminded Tdor of Signi. She stole a quick look at Inda, who walked with his head down. There was no logical connection, but the heart makes its own logic: she sensed in Inda’s pensive mood that Signi was on his mind, though the Venn mage had been gone a year and a half.

  Maybe his mood was because she’d been gone a year and a half. “Inda? Are you unhappy?”

  “I’ve never been happier,” he said, hands flicking outward. “Not since we were . . . little.” The words “at home” had been consciously excised from speech by them both, but they had yet to stop them from forming inside the head. Though they’d nearly vanquished the habit. Home is where your heart lives, so said the songs, and they knew they were very happy. “The worst problem I have in the academy is Honeyboy. Maybe the fault is mine, not his, because Gand says ‘Begin every problem as if it’s new,’ and I do. No dragging in all the stupid stuff he did last year, or last time. But it doesn’t work. And I keep trying to find the . . . the Cama in him, and he just stares at me like I’m yapping Dock Talk. Maybe Fox would do better—”

  “Except he can get rid of the Honeyboys,” Tdor put in. She tried not to resent Shendan’s mysterious brother. She knew it was not Fox’s fault that Inda made these comparisons and found himself wanting.

  “I know, you keep saying that. True, too. Maybe that’s it? Our marines were there because they wanted to be. Academy, so many are there because they’re sent.”