Durasnir’s attention turned to the tall, white-haired Dag of the Venn standing beside the throne.
Erkric certainly looked old and tired, but Durasnir had checked his own mirror before dressing in formal clothes to receive the order for departure. He felt, and looked, ten years aged since the shattered navy limped into Llyenthur Harbor the summer before.
Dag Erkric watched Durasnir approach, morosely pleased at the tension to be seen in the commander’s face. Erkric was too old to be constantly forced to cheat himself of sleep. He could win extra time by chewing roasted coffee beans from the islands, but his hands shook and his heart labored. More bitter than the taste of the beans was the silence from Norsunder. He was so close, so very close, to winning. He just needed one more spell, one that would get him rest beyond time. No, two spells. He needed the ability to place spy spells without physical proximity. Durasnir’s treacherous duplicity was evident in how diligently he guarded his scroll-case and how bland his conversations were within the reach of magical ears.
It was also evident in how, more and more frequently, he spoke directly to Erkric and not to the king on his throne, even when Rajnir had asked the question.
Erkric watched Durasnir narrowly. And yes, Durasnir’s gaze briefly touched the king, then went diffuse as he addressed the air somewhere between Rajnir and the Dag. “The Oneli is ready to depart, O my king. I request your consideration for my continuing Captain Seigmad as Battlegroup Chief.”
“But I am fully recovered,” Balandir protested, stepping forward. “Oneli Stalna Commander.” He sketched the obeisance impatiently to Durasnir, then turned to Rajnir. Erkric was aware, and bitterly so, that he was rewarding the man for his stupidity. But only for now, only until he gained control. “I admit the one eye is blurred.” Balandir touched the healed eye, which was marred across the surface by discernable lines. The healed scars gave his handsome face a wicked cast, one Balandir had secretly come to admire, now that the pain was gone. His own cronies certainly deferred to him.
He squared his shoulders and deepened his voice. “My good eye sees straight and far. Surely what I suffered in the service of Ydrasal and our Golden Path has earned me the right to resume my command.”
Rajnir twitched. Durasnir, facing him, was the only one who noticed, but he shifted his attention back to the circle of faces on either side of the king: Never before had he seen so clearly who had experience of battle at sea and who did not.
“Captain Hyarl Balandir,” Durasnir said. “Your survival is most welcome to all, but surviving wounds even as grievous as yours does not prepare you for command.” You should not have been taken in the first place. “Except for this one small engagement at Granthan, you do not have the experience I deem requisite.”
Balandir’s three cronies mirrored his anger and objection. The rest looked relieved and resigned.
Rajnir flinched, distracting Durasnir for just a heartbeat. “Captain Seigmad is experienced with the conditions and tactics we will find there. Moreso than I, in fact, which is why I am sending him to Nelsaiam while I deal with Bren.”
Dag Erkric began smoothly, “We all admire your reasoning, Oneli Stalna my Commander,” as at his side his fingers began to twist in one of the signs—
Rajnir spoke. “Make it so.” His voice was hoarse, strained. “O. Oneli. Stalna . . . my Commander. Make . . .”
Erkric’s fist tightened, his whispered a word, and Rajnir stiffened, his eyes going blind again.
Durasnir spoke swiftly, before Erkric could force the king into negative utterance. Judging from the chalky color of the dag’s face, he was as surprised as anyone.
“Then may we have permission to depart, O my king?”
This time it was the flat voice. “Make it so.”
Durasnir began his obeisance, but Erkric, angered and unsettled, hurried into speech. He’d meant to think this plan over a little longer, make certain all was secure. But now he needed a grip on Durasnir, because something was wrong with this cursed house. Treachery from within or old magic from previous tenants? Twice, now, the king had spoken unaccountably.
“The king was asking me just this morning, Stalna Commander Durasnir. Is not your son Halvir ten this year?”
Durasnir stilled, the only reaction the dilation of his pupils. “Yes, Dag Erkric.”
Erkric heard his breathing, now. Oh yes, you are afraid. Good. It was past time to make Durasnir’s suspicion work against himself and not the kingdom, for once. “Would it not be a gesture of gratitude toward our Oneli Stalna, O my king, if you were to bring Halvir Durasnir here to begin his training under royal auspices?” Erkric said to Rajnir, making the gesture for the agreement speech.
Rajnir stirred, and said, “Make it so, my Dag.”
Durasnir gripped himself hard, not even breathing as he bowed. “I thank you, my king.” The words were drier than the picked bones on Sinnaborc’s roof.
As Durasnir led the captains out, Erkric peered down at the king, examining him closely. His gaze was opaque, and he’d given the right responses. So . . . what had happened?
There were far too many anomalies. It was time for the king to shift to the safety of the ship Erkric had been preparing. No more Cormorant or access to Durasnir. This would be a magical command center, the king’s safety the given reason. If they launched soon, he could get Rajnir into the middle of the strait, and when Bren and Nelsaiam had fallen, the fleet would unite and sweep down the rest of the strait.
Meanwhile, since he had to return to Twelve Towers anyway, he might as well begin to collect Rajnir’s future companions and start preparing their minds for obedience.
Fox and Inda got used to handing off Inda’s scroll-case when either of them took a sleep watch. They overlapped their watches at drill time and otherwise divided running the ship.
Within a week, Inda had so regained the rhythm of ship life that sometimes it seemed his life in Iasca Leror had receded to a dream. But sudden reminders would catch him up again: a laugh that sounded like Hadand, the smell of toasted bread that reminded him of sharing a snack with Tdor after a late summer night doing the sentry walk rounds together.
Tdor’s face was no longer the child’s face he’d seen all his early years. Now he saw her grown up, her level gaze, her thin lips with just a hint of smile.
Evred and the Jarls at Convocation.
Evred’s orders. Thinking of those always drove him restlessly back into the stream of tasks awaiting his attention. And it always was a stream.
Then one day, just as the east wind was dying for the year, Inda felt the tap of the scroll-case.
He set down the spyglass and thumbed it open. In a crabbed hand, Barend had written:
I’ve got the Knife. Track the Venn for me.
Inda obediently went to the map, did the spell, then wrote back, No Venn near Ghost Islands. Nearest off Nathur.
When Fox appeared and Inda handed off the case, he told him about Barend’s note. Fox said, “He’s making sure no Venn see that prow on the horizon.”
They added Barend’s location to their various chalk marks building on the secondary chart.
Durasnir did not relax his rigid hold until he had been rowed back to the Cormorant. He climbed aboard, turned what he thought was an impassive face to the flag ensign, who stepped back, then flushed. Somewhere far in the back of his head, a nasty voice howled in manic laughter. Durasnir said, “Signal fleet. Make sail.”
The ensign sprang away, his relief plain.
Seigmad’s Petrel at the head of North and East broke out in sail first, the winds being so light that studding sails were raised low and high, creating great pyramids of taut curved beauty. Durasnir usually loved the sight of the fleet under way at last, especially in full sail, but now he was far too angry.
And afraid.
As distance grew between Llyenthur Harbor and Durasnir’s Battlegroups, he worked to regain control. He was not without allies and there was nothing he could do at this time. His scroll-case was compr
omised, his ship was covered with spiderwebs. But Dag Byarin was on his side. Brit Valda was still alive, working unseen. And back in Twelve Towers, Brun would be vigilant.
He stepped to the deck and looked around, testing the air, which was hazy, a fitful breeze mostly out of the south making small waves. The summer winds were nigh.
He watched the sails bloom above, studding sails fully extended to both sides. As the ship began sliding through the water at a genial, regular roll, he turned to the unending tasks, intending to keep himself so busy he would not think about Halvir or remember dead Vatta.
Chapter Sixteen
Evred: We’re nearing Danai. On the mirror chart V. Battlegroup crossing twd. Bren. No sign of Chim or Bren navy astern.
EVRED had bent over a lamp so closely to see Inda’s tiny letters, which had bled through to the other side of the paper, that his fingers began to singe. He snapped fingers and papers away from the lengthened flame. “Astern.” Didn’t that mean behind?
Kened’s quick knock at his inner chamber door brought him into the outer office. “Latest dispatch from Vedrid,” Kened said. “And Gand awaits you.”
Evred opened the window, though the air was still frosty, and read Vedrid’s report as a shrill “Yip-yip-yip!” rose from the distant field.
I reached Parayid. Spoke to the garrison commander. Traders all report trouble with Toaran pirates. They are not coming up The Narrows, but sailing along the Land Bridge. Some think there are pirate coves there.
Evred looked up. “I want my fastest Runners, one to each Jarl. They are to send two flights of Riders apiece in rotation to support my dragoons on the coast. Send Gand in.”
Kened struck fist to chest, and dashed through the door, mentally sorting the King’s Runners. He was shorthanded again—everyone in motion—maybe the seniors could be trusted with this run. Capn’n Han could make the long Lindeth run—she was fast, trustworthy, and hadn’t had any home leave. So she could be granted some time . . .
Gand entered, each year more grizzled, the hard lines in his face more furrowed, but otherwise as tough as ever. “Problem, Harvaldar-Dal?” He saluted, then with the same hand, jerked his thumb after Kened.
“Pirates. Maybe. Again. From the western seas, this time. The coastal Jarls will see to it. How was the first day muster?” Evred asked, tipping his head toward the window, and the sound of boys yipping enthusiastically.
“No trouble.” Gand’s tone said As expected. And because Evred waited, he added, “A few messages sent along with the Rider Captains bringing boys. You could name who would send them, and what they’d say, and be right: will there be the same rigor, will there be problems with Inda gone, and of course from Horsebutt, will things at last go back to traditional toughness, or will be boys be cosseted through another year? I can send the letters up if you like. I kept ’em in case.”
Evred turned out his palm. “No need.”
“Would you like to be at the shearing? We can hold it any time that suits you.”
Evred’s gesture was more emphatic, flat-handed negation. “No.” He frowned at the window, then said slowly, “I want to know if Inda’s absence will affect the academy.”
Gand regarded the king with surprise, wondering what lay behind the question. Evred was never easy to second-guess at any time—it had been that way even when he was a twelve-year-old scrub.
“Inda’s absence will not be a disaster, if that’s what you are thinking,” Gand said. “The academy has never been better in my lifetime. When I look carefully at the records, I suspect it has never reached the excellence of the present.”
“Better skills?”
“Partly that. Yes. Certainly that. But the spirit, or temper, has changed. Surely you have noticed?”
“Yes. But I did not know if that’s just the human conviction that whatever our generation does must be the best.”
“When I was a horsetail, public canings were so frequent we had a schedule, Firstday of every month. The year after your father came to the throne, there were two duels to the death. I was out in the field then, as you know. But we all heard. One of them was the only son of my captain. Ten years after your father came to the throne, there were three Jarls’ sons caned for drunkenness on duty, a hundred apiece, and you remember what it was like under your uncle. We haven’t had a public caning since your second year as king, when Haucvad was running the gambling circle out of the stable. Last year we did not have any caning. The masters still wear their canes in their belts as habit, but at year’s end four of them had never taken them out. No rules have changed. Yet without exerting himself in any perceivable way, Inda casts a very long shadow.”
“Thank you,” Evred said, his tone noncommittal.
Gand saluted and left, thinking the matter over. Everything he had said was true, yet he suspected the masters would be somewhat relieved to be free of Inda’s long shadow for a year. They didn’t resent Inda—they knew he hated the boys going behind the masters’ backs in their efforts to cajole him. What they resented was how the boys would do anything to gain Inda’s attention, and in Gand’s opinion, a year free of it would do boys and masters a world of good. Especially Lassad.
Gand was as protective of his masters as he was of the boys, weaknesses notwithstanding. He was not certain how much of Lassad’s little digs at Inda in front of the older boys were conscious. “Oh well if Inda-Harskialdna says so, far be it from the likes of me to disagree!” or “If Inda orders it, of course you’ll leap to obey, but in case you’ve forgotten the rest of the masters . . .” Maybe they were the result of Lassad’s anxious, relentless internal measure of himself against those he admired.
So Gand smiled as he returned to the academy, leaving Evred thoughtful, distracted, and as busy as he could contrive. He tried not to think about the locket shifting inside his clothing. He restrained himself from writing just to cause Inda to write back. The locket was a terrible vessel for communication; Evred wished now that he’d not been so adamant in holding out against the scroll-cases.
The weather was balmy when the horns played the triplet for a prince: Algara-Vayir. Surely that would not be Inda’s cousin Branid, whose business it soon would be to reinforce his harbors. Evred paused, pen in the air. Then he smiled inwardly when he remembered Hadand had invited her mother for a visit to meet one grandchild and attend the birth of another.
Tdor’s spirits lifted at the appearance of the woman she regarded as mother. Though she’d exchanged letters a couple of times a year with her own mother, they’d never been close. Fareas-Iofre looked smaller and grayer and thinner than Tdor had remembered, but calm as always, tender with little Hastred, and a welcome presence at the dinner table. She brought a stack of books her sister had sent from Sartor that she thought Evred might want to see, all about the changes in language in different areas of the world.
If only Inda could be there! Tdor was aware of herself as happy, but it was conditional happiness, because every time she sat down to eat, or lay down to sleep, or stepped into a room she had shared with Inda, she thought about him. If she could find a way to send him all the strength in her body, so that he could withstand whatever threatened him, she would have.
She’d left the sheet and quilt on the bed as long as she could, because they retained his smell, until her own had overborne it. Things . . . rooms . . . home. How much of “home” is bound up in people as well as places? With Fareas-Iofre in the royal city, she almost had all those who meant most to her. No, she didn’t have Whipstick, or her old friend Liet, now married to one of the Riders with a little daughter.
After a few days, Fareas-Iofre settled into their lives as if she’d always lived there.
As well. Hadand was ill in the mornings again, and Tdor had slowed so much that Fareas-Iofre took on the Gunvaer work, familiar from eight years before. On the third morning of Fareas-Iofre’s visit, Tdor oversaw the introduction of a new set of fifteen-year-old girls, but she was impatient with her own lumbering gait. Especially when t
winges and jabs made her gasp—the baby must be larger than a two-year-old to kick so hard!
As Tdor trudged up the stairs after an exceptionally long, trying day, her back aching at every step, she thought wistfully about Tenthen Castle, which was maybe a quarter the size of this castle. She still missed Tenthen, though she knew she would hate living there with Dannor and Branid. She’d become accustomed to the royal city, and she loved working with the girls and knew they responded to her just by the way that they quieted when she entered a crowded room. She saw respect in their faces, even these days when she waddled, as her hip bones had a disconcerting habit of shifting in and out of their sockets.
The prospect of dinner alone with Fareas buoyed her. What a relief, to be able to talk about such things again, without being afraid she’d hurt Hadand or Evred. Hadand had already gone to bed, and Evred was in a long meeting with the Guild Council and harbor representatives.
But when Tdor finally reached her suite, it was to discover that her stomach had closed. She hadn’t eaten all day, but the prospect of food was not appealing. She was overheated, uncomfortable, the suite was stuffy. Summer’s coming too soon, she thought as she trundled up into the alcoves to open the few west windows. Then she propped the doors open in hopes of getting air into the windowless middle chamber.
As she opened the door to the small room that Signi had lived in, she caught a faint whiff of Signi’s personal scent, which had always reminded her a little of clove wine. Tdor missed Signi. Not the deep and unending worry that wound about Inda through waking and sleeping, but it was strong enough to make Tdor’s throat tighten.
She leaned in the doorway and stared at the empty bed frame, knowing she would be glad if Inda returned and found Signi there. Life is so fragile, she thought. And so is happiness. Signi, I hope you are safe, wherever you are, and I hope you find your way back to us.