“I did. I told him what we had learned. He had fled the meeting, fearing we might attack them. As I said, I nearly did, Ser Rodrigo. If the queen had died . . .”
“I believe I can understand that, my lord.”
“Sanchez wrote back. They had unmasked the Cartadan spy and found arrows in his home with the same poison. My brother was grateful.”
“Of course. Insofar as he can be.” The tone was dry.
“It went far enough. He agreed to come south at the same time I did. He is riding for Salos even now.”
This was news. Alvar could see Rodrigo absorbing it.
“And Jaloña?” he asked softly. “Your uncle?”
“Is driving towards Ragosa and Fibaz. It is happening. The clerics have their holy war, after all, Ser Rodrigo.”
Rodrigo shook his head. “Three wars of conquest, it would seem to me.”
“Of course.” The king’s turn to sound wry. “But the clergy ride with us, and so far as I trust my uncle and brother not to turn back and attack Valledo, it is because of them.”
“And because of them my son was brought here?”
“He was summoned because in my anger I allowed an offered weapon to be brought to me.”
“He is a child, not a weapon, my lord.”
“He is both, Ser Rodrigo. With respect. And our country is at war. How old were you when you first rode in my father’s army beside Raimundo?”
No answer. Wind in the tall grass.
“That is my tale. Am I still to be punished?” King Ramiro asked softly. “I hope not so. I need you, Ser Rodrigo. Valledo has no constable tonight, no war leader, and we stand in Al-Rassan.”
Alvar sucked in his breath sharply. Neither of the other men so much as glanced at him. He might not even have been here in the darkness with them.
“You mentioned the name,” said Rodrigo, his voice suddenly no more than a whisper, “of your late brother.”
Alvar shivered suddenly. He was very tired, and the night breeze was growing colder, and he had begun to feel the places where he’d been wounded, but none of these were the reason.
“I always thought,” said King Ramiro, “that we would have to arrive here eventually, you and I.”
He stopped, and after a moment Alvar realized that the king was looking at him, evaluating. It was for this, Alvar understood, that the Captain had wanted him here.
The king spoke again, finally, in a very different tone. “You genuinely loved him, didn’t you? I could not . . . I could never understand why everyone loved Raimundo so much. Even our father. Obviously. Even he was seduced by my brother. He gave him Valledo. Tell me, Ser Rodrigo, answer a question for me this time: do you truly think Raimundo would have been a better king, had he lived, than I have been?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rodrigo said, in that same stiff, difficult whisper.
“It does matter. Answer me.”
Silence. Wind, and swift clouds overhead. Alvar heard an animal cry out far off on the plain. He looked at the Captain in the moonlight. He is afraid, he thought.
Rodrigo said, “I can’t answer that question. He died too young. We can’t know what he would have grown into. I know what you want me to say. That he had more charm than strength. That he was selfish and reckless and even cruel. He was. All of these things, at times. But, as Jad will judge my life when I make my end, I have only known one other man, ever, who came even close to making . . . the act of living through days and nights so full of richness and delight. You have been a far-sighted and a strong king, my lord. I grant you that freely. But I did love your brother, yes. We were young—exiled together and then home together in triumph—and I have always believed he was killed.”
“He was,” said King Ramiro.
Alvar swallowed, hard.
Rodrigo brought one hand up, involuntarily, and touched his forehead. He stayed thus a moment, then lowered his arm. “And who was it who killed him?” His voice actually cracked on the question.
“Garcia de Rada.” The king’s words were flat, uninflected. “You always thought so, didn’t you?”
Alvar had another memory then, torchlit. This same hamlet. Rod-rigo’s whip lashing out, catching Garcia de Rada on the face, ripping his cheek open. Laín Nunez struggling to control the Captain’s black rage. The cold, ferocious words spoken—accusation of a king’s murder.
He heard Rodrigo slowly release his breath. He couldn’t make out his features clearly but he saw the Captain cross his arms on his breast, as if holding tightly to something there.
“Garcia was—what?—seventeen, eighteen that year?” Rodrigo said. “He acted on his brother’s orders?”
Ramiro hesitated. “I am speaking truth, Ser Rodrigo, believe it. The answer is, I do not know. Even tonight, with Gonzalez dead, I do not know for certain. My thought has always been, he did not. I believe Count Gonzalez innocent of my brother’s blood.”
“I do not share your belief, I fear. Would an eighteen-year-old have killed his king, unprompted?”
“I don’t know,” said King Ramiro again. He paused. “Should I point out that Gonzalez de Rada died terribly tonight because he would not leave Diego’s side from the time your boys joined this army?”
Rodrigo was unmoved. “He swore an oath to me last year. He valued his family honor.”
“Then would he have murdered his king?”
“He valued many other things, my lord. Power and wealth among them. He, too, was younger then. He might have done so, yes. I thought you could tell me.”
“I have given you my belief.”
“You have. Which leaves us with only the last question, doesn’t it? You know what it is, my lord.”
Alvar knew it as well, by now. The last question. What followed the last question? He wished he were somewhere else.
The king said, quietly, “I had no love for Raimundo. Or Sanchez, for that matter. Nor they for me. It was no secret, Jad knows. Our father chose a certain way to raise his three sons. But I knew I could do more for Valledo and perhaps all of Esperaña one day, than either of my brothers ever could. I knew it. In my own time of exile here in Al-Rassan, when men came south to speak with me, I will not deny that I voiced anger that Valledo was probably going to be given to Raimundo when our father died. Which is what happened, of course.”
The king stopped. Alvar heard the animal call out again, far off in darkness. King Ramiro said, “It is . . . very possible . . . that someone listening to me in a tavern or wine shop here might have concluded that were Raimundo to die . . . unexpectedly, I would not be displeased.”
Clouds slid from the white moon. Alvar saw the king look at Rod-rigo in the doubled moonlight. “I would not have been displeased. I was not, in the event. I will not lie about this. But before Jad, and on the life of my queen, and by whatever else you would wish me to swear, I did not command his murder, nor do I know how it was achieved.”
“Then how,” Rodrigo asked, implacable, “do you know it was Garcia?”
“He told me. He wanted to tell me more. I stopped him.”
Rodrigo’s hands were fists at his sides. “And that is all you did? Stop him from telling you? Shall I believe this? No punishment, no exposure? For the killing of a king? You made his brother constable of Valledo. You let Garcia live as he chose, doing what he wished all these years, until he nearly killed my wife and my boys?”
“I did,” said Ramiro quietly. “I let him live his life. Gonzalez de Rada became constable because he was worthy of the post—do not deny that—and because you would not serve me after Raimundo died.”
“After he was murdered!”
The king made a small movement of hands and shoulders. “After he was murdered. Garcia was never given rank, status, office, power . . . none of these things. You might consider that a moment, given what he could have expected from his birth. I thought of having him killed, frankly, because he was a risk and an embarrassment, and because I loathed the man. But I was . . . aware that Raimundo had been kil
led by him because he thought I would approve and because he had . . . enough reason to think so. I would not kill a man for that. Yes, I let him live. I kept the secret. I allowed Gonzalez to serve me and Valledo. Honorably. You had been my brother’s man. I would not beg you for aid or approval, Ser Rodrigo, at my ascension, or after. I will not do so now. I think you were one of those blind to what Raimundo really was, and that your youth excused this, then.”
Alvar heard the king’s voice change. “It is no excuse now. Not any more. We are no longer young, Rodrigo Belmonte, and all these events are done with, in the past. Though I will not beg, I will ask. What I have told you tonight is truth. It is all truth. Will you be my constable? Will you command this army for me?”
Rodrigo Belmonte had a quality, Alvar had long ago observed, of being able to hold himself utterly, disconcertingly still. He was like that now, for what seemed a very long time.
“I don’t think,” he murmured finally, “that the past is ever really done with us.” But then, in a firmer voice he asked, “Command the army to achieve what end, my lord king?”
“To take Fezana. And Cartada. And Silvenes. Lonza. Aljais. Elvira. Everything I can.” The answer was decisive.
Alvar discovered that he was shivering again.
“And then?”
“And then,” said King Ramiro, as bluntly as before, “I intend to occupy my uncle’s kingdom of Jaloña. And then my brother’s Ruenda. As you said, this campaign is a holy war in name alone. I want Esperaña back, Ser Rodrigo, and not only the land my father ruled under the khalifs’ sufferance. I want all of this peninsula. Before I die, I intend to ride my horse into the seas to south and west and north, and up into the mountains to look down upon Ferrieres—and know that all the lands through which I rode were Esperaña.”
“And then?” An odd question, in a way.
“And then,” said King Ramiro, more softly, almost amused, “I will probably rest. And try to make a belated peace with Jad for all my transgressions beneath his light.”
Alvar de Pellino, having struggled through a long year and a terrible day and night towards a new awareness of himself, realized that he was thrilled by this—beyond words or clear thought. His skin was tingling, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing up.
It was the sheer grandeur of the vision. Lost and conquered Esperaña made whole again, one Jaddite kingdom in all the wide peninsula, with Valledo and its Horsemen at the heart of it. Alvar longed to be a part of this, to see it come to be, to ride his own horse into those oceans and up that mountain with his king. Yet, even as his heart heard this call to glory, he was aware of slaughter embedded in the sweep of the king’s dream, or swooping above it like the carrion birds that followed the battlefields of men.
Will I ever, he thought, with a knifing of despair, be at peace between these things?
He heard Rodrigo Belmonte say then, very calmly, “You might have told me about Garcia a long time ago, my lord. I think I should have believed you. I do believe you now. I am your man, since you want me.”
And he knelt before the king and held up his hands together, palms touching. Ramiro looked down upon him, unspeaking for a moment.
“You would not have believed,” he said. “You would always have doubted. We needed to grow older, you and I, for me to say this and you to hear it. I wonder if your young soldier can possibly understand that.”
Alvar flushed in the darkness, then heard the Captain say, “You might be surprised, my lord. He’s more than a soldier, though I will tell you later what he did in Fezana this evening. If I am to be your constable I have my first request: I would ask that Alvar de Pellino be named my herald, to bear Valledo’s staff and carry our words to the Star-born.”
“It is an honor,” the king said. “He is very young. It is also a dangerous post in this war.” He motioned towards the hamlet behind them. “The Asharites may not observe the laws of heralds and their codes.”
Rodrigo shook his head. “They will. That much I know. They value their own honor as much as we do ours. Even the Muwardis. In a way, especially the Muwardis. And Alvar will acquit himself.”
Ramiro looked at Alvar, that appraising glance in the moonlight. “You wish this for yourself?” he asked. “There is less glory than might be found in battle by a courageous young man.”
Alvar knelt beside Rodrigo Belmonte and lifted his joined palms. “I wish for this,” he replied, discovering as he spoke that he did; that it was exactly what he wanted. “I, too, am your sworn man if you will have me, my lord.”
The king placed his hands around those of Rodrigo, and then he touched Alvar’s the same way. He said, “Let us go forward from this place and begin to reclaim our lost land.”
He looked as if he would say more, but did not. They rose then, and began walking back to Orvilla. But Alvar, unable to stop the thought from coming—even now—found himself saying, inwardly, And whose land will be broken and lost in that claiming?
He knew the answer. It wasn’t a real question. In the newest royal herald of Valledo, pride and bone-cold apprehension came together and warred for dominion.
Then, nearing the hamlet, he saw Jehane. She was standing by the northern gate waiting for them with Ammar ibn Khairan beside her. And looking at her small, straight-backed figure in the mingled light of the moons, Alvar felt love come back, too, bittersweet among the weapons and shed blood, tonight and yet to come.
She saw them both kneel: Rodrigo first, and then Alvar.
Beside her, Ammar said softly, “He is being made constable now.” And then, as she looked quickly up at him, “It is best for both of them, Rodrigo and the king. He ought to have been, all these years.”
She took his hand. Smoke drifted behind them, though the fires were mostly out. Husari was with her parents and the two children they had saved from the Kindath Quarter. The queen of Valledo had come to them. She had said that Ishak and his family were her guests and would be, for so long as they desired. She had been gracious and well-spoken, but it was evident—to Jehane, at least—that Queen Ines had never met or talked with a Kindath before and didn’t quite know how to deal with that.
That shouldn’t have bothered her, perhaps, but tonight it did. She had almost wanted to ask Ines of Valledo if there were any plump babies around, to cook for a proper Kindath breakfast, but too many children had died that evening, and Jehane had nothing left in her for the force of real anger. She was very tired.
It was Bernart d’Iñigo, the doctor from the tagra forts, who had readied this welcome for them, she understood. It seemed he had saved the life of the queen using knowledge gained from reading Ishak’s writings. He had taught himself Asharic and Kindath years ago, he confided to Jehane. The lanky, sad-faced man was a good physician, there was no denying it.
Why shouldn’t he be? Jehane had thought. If he’s bothered to learn from us . . .
Not a fair thought, really, but tonight she wasn’t putting much stress on trying to be fair. D’Iñigo had volunteered to take the first watch beside Rodrigo’s son. Diego’s mother and brother were with him as well. Jehane wasn’t needed. Valledan doctors were tending to the handful of people who had survived the assault. Only a handful; the rest were dead, butchered hideously.
They come from the desert, Jehane remembered, seeing the chopped-up bodies, smelling charred human flesh. Her father’s words, from so long ago. If you would understand the Star-born of Ashar . . .
“Who are my enemies?” Jehane had said then, aloud, looking around the hamlet.
There must have been something in her voice; a hint of vanishing control. Ammar, without speaking, had placed an arm about her shoulders and guided her away. They had walked around the perimeter of Orvilla but Jehane, unable to be eased, had found herself both looking back at dying fires and remembering them.
Who are my enemies? The citizens of Fezana? The Muwardis here? The soldiers of a Jaddite holy army who had run wild through Sorenica? The Valledans who burned this hamlet last summer? She
wanted to weep, but was afraid to let herself.
Ammar had a gash on one arm, which she examined by torchlight; it wasn’t serious. He’d told her that, but she’d needed to look. She led him down to the river and cleaned the cut and bandaged it. A thing to do. On her knees, she dipped a cloth in the cold water and washed her face, looking down at the rippling lines of moonlight in the Tavares. She took a deep breath of the night air.
They had walked again, following the perimeter fence to the north. And there they saw King Ramiro with Rodrigo and Alvar out among the grasses, the dark, wide emptiness beyond them. At one point, watching, Jehane saw Rodrigo cross his arms tightly over his breast. It was very late. A wind was blowing in the night.
Whichever way the wind blows.
Then they saw Rodrigo and Alvar kneel before the king and then rise.
“Who are my enemies?” Jehane asked, at length.
“Mine, I hope,” said Ammar.
“And yours are?”
“We’ll know more of that soon enough, my love. Watch and listen. I will likely be made a handsome offer soon.”
His tone had a coolness now, but that was as much a defense as anything else, she knew. More than anyone in the world, perhaps, she had a sense of what had come, however improbably, to bind Ammar ibn Khairan and Rodrigo Belmonte, each to the other.
There was an anticipation of partings in her now, Jehane realized: endings had come upon them tonight. As much as anything else, that was what made her want to weep.
They waited. The three men came over the dark grass and approached them by the gate. She saw that Alvar, too, was wounded. There was blood on his shoulder. Without speaking she went over to him and began carefully tearing at his loose shirt to expose the gash below. He looked at her and then away, standing quietly as she examined the cut.
“Ammar. I was hoping to find you,” Rodrigo said quietly. “Have you a moment to speak?” He spoke in Esperañan.
“With you, always,” ibn Khairan said gravely, in the same tongue.
“The king of Valledo has done me the honor of asking me to be his constable.”