Senrid

  Leander laughed softly.

  Arel grinned. “Thought you’d enjoy that. Was the only thing we could think of, for we were at an impasse: that soul-eater Marloven had ordered everyone from the region up to the mine by today, or else he’d send his murderers among ‘em. So anyway, they’re setting up traps against the Marlovens forcing people up there regardless.”

  Leander frowned. The roar of heating water changed to the quiet steam-cloud of boil. He stood slowly up, but Arel was quicker. He shoved Leander firmly down again, poured the steaming water into the pot Leander had found, and within moments the dusty air no longer smelled of chopped vegetables and fire, but like summer.

  Leander breathed—and found he could take in a bit more air each time. The pain seemed easier from the mere steam. He sighed. “Then who did the magic last night? Why is a black magic wielder aiding us?”

  Arel said, “It’s not just magic. Unless you can shoot an arrow with magic?”

  “Not that I ever heard of.” Leander looked up, hoping for a clue to the mystery. “What shooting? When?”

  “Second day or so. Tdanerend was in the town, with bully-boys at his back. Gathering in market-square. Told the people that he had you, and the princess, and that the countries were reunited, hoola-loola. Mind you, I wasn’t there, but Monale was, and you know she always tells the exact truth.”

  “So she does. Go on.”

  “Well, he had old Fanuther up there—as Mayor—and a noose. Hangman got the rope round his scrawny neck, all nice and tight, and was about to drop the trapdoor and hang the old geezer as an example of what would happen to guild leaders and then heads of families unless he had instant obedience. And then a steel-tipped arrow split the rope. Next one nailed the hangman’s right arm in the act of reaching for the rope, third one hit one of Tdanerend’s commanders in the knee.”

  “Split the rope!” Leander whistled.

  “Yes. Fine piece of work. Even the Marlovens were impressed, Monale reported. Wish we knew who it was—Alaxandar’s hoppin’ to find him. Or her.”

  “No idea who it was?”

  “Whoever it was shot from the rooftops, but by the time the Marlovens could get through the crowd to give chase—no one was exactly cooperating, mind you—he, or she, was long gone.”

  “Might be one of the deserters from Mara Jinea’s day,” Leander said slowly. “Since the effort was for us, not against, and nothing else untoward happened, I guess we can let that mystery go unsolved. But this magic, I can’t.”

  He thought of Kitty, her eyes gray with fear—and effort. He remembered the illusion spell on her, and the returned vision, and the other evidences of magic. Of dark magic, which meant someone trained to spend magic in order to gain an end.

  He would have to find out who it was and what they wanted.

  He drank down his brew, ignoring the scald, then walked painfully back up to find Kitty.

  When he entered her room, he stopped in blank-minded shock.

  She stood in the middle of her room, dressed in one of her old black gowns. On her head was a thin, glittering black obsidian crown.

  PART FOUR

  ONE

  Senrid Montredaun-An, deposed king of Marloven Hess, slung his bow over his back and sauntered out from the trees where he’d been waiting to see if anyone showed up at his offered rendezvous.

  He’d left a message, with one of his arrows to pin it down, in the light cavalry riding-captain’s tent, after a great deal of thought: the commander couldn’t receive it as it would put him in a difficult position. But his captains were not under direct orders from Tdanerend.

  In the note he’d said: If you want to talk, meet me here. And he described the rendezvous. Then signed his initials. He figured that, and the arrow, and the fact that he knew where their camp was but had done nothing about it, might bring them. Of course, it might bring them with orders to kill him on sight, but that was the risk he had to take.

  Before him, the four cavalry captains had ranged themselves in a row, helms in left arms, right hands down—no one taking precedence, their aspect neutral. Helms on heads and hands on sword hilts would have meant trouble; at least they were willing to hear him out. Their freedom from the strict obedience of the foot warriors was a jealously guarded privilege, something he’d realized when he was small, so he made certain that he approached them straight on, favoring neither end.

  As he closed the distance, his feet crunching the snow, he scanned the four faces. Three youngish, one old, all male. Tdaanerend had permitted no females in the academy during the recent years—fool that he was.

  Senrid would use that, too.

  He saw respect in one face, blankness in two, and caution in the old one. He knew that the young ones would probably defer to the oldest, because he had a distinguished rep. Though it would be a mistake to talk to him only.

  These are my people, Senrid thought. If I don’t know how they think, then I deserve what I’ll get.

  It was his place to speak first.

  He met each gaze, then: “I want your allegiance.”

  The old one—Tharend—spoke. “It was you who shot Darid Ndermand in the knee.”

  Senrid acknowledged with a hand-flick, palm up. “Warning,” he said.

  None of them mentioned the hangman, who had been one of Tdanerend’s pet torturers; Senrid knew how the warriors despised that type. Torture debased the arts of war, the test of skills against the worthy opponent. There was no possibility of winning honor in torturing helpless people. They wouldn’t care if he lived or died.

  Tharend said, “Nice shot with the rope.”

  “That too was a warning,” Senrid said, struggling to keep his voice flat and not give away his relief, or how hard his heart was galloping. “Tdanerend will know I could have potted him just as easily. But I want a duel on home ground. No interference from outsiders.”

  The one on the end spoke. “Why not aid us here first?”

  “Because this is a stupid plan,” Senrid said. “It’s a fool ploy to hide his incompetence at home. We don’t have the magicians to stay here and renew Tdanerend’s wards, and wasting half the army to guard one or two mines is stupidity so great that we’ll be laughed at in every kingdom on the subcontinent. He may as well assign warriors to dig, because otherwise they’ll have to stand over every one of these locals with a sword to force them to do it.”

  Two of the captains stirred at the mention of warriors digging.

  Tharend rubbed a callused thumb on the rim of his helmet. “Not if he had the boy besorcelled. He says you sprang him.”

  “I did.” Senrid’s heart-beat drummed in his ears. This his weakest action—so he had to make it sound like his strongest. “Because the Regent’s plan won’t work. He doesn’t know how these people over here view things. They got rid of their last ruler, and if we turn Leander Tlennen-Hess into a puppet spouting Tdanerend’s orders, they’ll get rid of him just as fast.”

  “But if he does the magic,” Tharend said doubtfully.

  “Another piece of stupidity. You don’t have to use white magic to study what it can do and can’t do. I’ve studied its strengths and its limitations—it’s cautious and slow. Digging a new mine by magic will take years to set up. By then, if they’re left alone, they’ll have ready and willing workers who know what to do and how to do it. This is why,” Senrid decided it was now time for the mantle of his ancestors to cloak his short, skinny body. “This is why my grandfather wrote, The better part of wisdom is to wait until the Lerorans decide on their own they can make their fortune in mining and forging steel. When they make it possible, if they won’t treat or trade then we take them back. Until then, no matter how loudly you threaten a frozen egg it will not grow into a chicken.”

  Two shifted position. Tharend smiled slightly, and said, “You had a look of the old king, there. I recall him well.”

  Senrid’s heart still thumped. Had he won?

  Tharend looked at his companions. One turned his palm out towa
rd the others. The other two no longer kept their hands near their weapons; one scratched his head, the other had hooked his thumb into his sash.

  Tharend said, “Will you accompany us to our camp? We can talk further.”

  And he struck palm to heart: the salute of captain to heir.

  Relief flooded through Senrid, so strong it almost made giddy. Almost washed away the headache that had been nagging for the past couple of days.

  They began the long walk.

  Kitty stared at Leander. The expression on his face stunned her He looked like he’d been hit.

  She remembered what she’d put on when she’d wakened “This is a joke,” she said, pointing to the dress, which was black with silver trimmings, and then the crown. “I put on this old dress because it’s warm, and I found this thing—” She pulled the crown off and looked at it, then put it back on. Leander hated metal on his head, and thought the whole concept of crowns was absurd. Kitty thought they were lovely—and a princess had a right to wear them! “I was having fun putting on all the old stuff and thinking how much things had changed. Because I was reading my old exercise books, see?”

  She pointed to the bed, where several battered books lay. One was open, and on it Kitty’s childish scrawl had been corrected by Llhei’s neat hand.

  Leander sighed, leaning against the door. He said, “I have to know who did that magic, Kyale.”

  Kyale. Not Kitty.

  She resorted to annoyance. “Oh, so now you think I’m suddenly this mighty sorcerer?”

  “No,” he said gently. “But you could have made…some kind of bargain with one.” He spread his hands. “Kitty, what am I supposed to believe, since you won’t tell me?”

  She winced, unable to meet his eyes. A bargain—like her mother—with Norsunder. That’s what he thought. And what else could he think?

  Kitty felt sick inside. She knew this tension was her own fault—that she should have thought it all through. Senrid had said, You’ll be the great hero and she hadn’t looked past that. The image of Alaxandar, and Arel, and all the rest of them admiring her instead of thinking her a useless princess had been so wonderful!

  But now everything had fallen apart—and the worst thing of all was that Leander didn’t trust her. But she’d promised, and she knew that Leander would think worse of her if she broke a promise even to a rotter like Senrid.

  After a long, painful silence he said, “I’m going to have to find the rest of my group.”

  He hesitated. Her expression was usually a mirror to her thoughts, and he could see her unhappiness, uncertainty, the wince of regret at the corner of her eyes and turning her mouth down. Whatever had happened, whatever her reasoning, he knew she did not intend to betray him.

  That’s all that matters now, he thought. If she cannot confide in me, well, that can wait.

  When she didn’t speak—she couldn’t think of anything to say—he left.

  She listened to his footsteps recede, then groaned and flung herself on her bed. Maybe things had been rotten in the old days, but they’d been much easier!

  She pulled one of her old workbooks over and leafed through it, looking with interest at her old drawings. Sour faces and monsters lined the edges of the pages, bringing back memories of bad moods.

  She rolled over, the book slipping off the bed, and stared at the ceiling, watching the hypnotic shadows of winter-bare twigs on the ceiling, gently swaying in the wind, the same vision that had engrossed her each winter when she was small. Images, questions, emotions flowed through her tired mind, until she slipped back into slumber.

  She woke at sunup—she’d slept through the latter part of a day and the night. Her mouth was dry, her dress clammy.

  Her head felt strange when she got up. She walked through the cleaning frame, put on her old winter shoes, then she tripped downstairs. The house felt empty.

  She reached the kitchen and found the warm remains of a fire, and some congealed soup. “Eugh!” she exclaimed, glaring at the mess in the pot. The house seemed less empty if she talked out loud. “Peasant food!”

  Next to that pot someone had put a plate of vegetables. Hungry, she picked up a somewhat withered carrot, and ate it without any enthusiasm as she walked outside. No one there, either. Leander had left.

  She realized what his last words about finding the group meant: Leander had left her.

  Indignation crackled through her. How could he do that?

  She marched through the house, stomped outside, then stopped when she reached the stable. She heard a noise.

  Tiptoeing with care, she peeked inside, to discover that someone had left a horse behind. It stood in the last stall, munching slowly on some hay.

  There was no saddle on its back, but it was standing conveniently close to a wooden fence. Anger made her brave; she climbed the fence, pausing only when the horse swung its head over and looked at her.

  She looked back into that great brown eye, fascinated, repelled, hopeful.

  The horse swung its head down, and lipped more hay.

  Kitty reached the top slat, touched the horse’s back. The skin twitched, and she snatched her hand away. But the horse only shifted its weight from one leg to another, and so she eased herself over, until she sat astride its broad back.

  It lifted its head again, swung it so that she caught sight of one of those eyes.

  “Where’s Leander?” she asked, wishing she knew how you commanded a horse. It wasn’t like riding on Meta, who always understood her.

  “Move?” she said, thumping her knees against its broad sides. Yuck, how nasty these beasts smelled!

  The horse snorted, and began to walk. Kyale clutched desperately at the rough, stiff hair growing down its bony neck.

  When it left the stable, it picked up its pace to a scary up-and-down sort of movement that made Kitty hang onto the mane with both hands.

  The up-and-down increased, until it seemed to be flying.

  Whimpering, her eyes closed, her head pressed against the horse where its neck joined its shoulder, she held on.

  Off and on that day Senrid talked, though his head ached and his gut growled. He sat on a rock near the cavalry commander’s tent, for though he had a right to, he wouldn’t go in unless invited—and the commander was still in Leander’s castle, waiting on Tdanerend.

  Senrid had thought it all out during the days he’d ridden about, sabotaging Tdanerend’s efforts. He had to begin as he would go on. He would not make Tdanerend’s mistakes. As soon as you have to remind someone to salute, you have lost that warrior’s respect for ever, one of his ancestors had written.

  Tdanerend had never bothered with history, except when he stumbled onto some custom, or story of an old battle, that justified either his plans or his insistence on the outward marks of prestige. He’d thought the study of history suitable for children or lackeys like scribes—and his motivation for assigning it to Senrid had been to keep him from learning anything about current affairs. Senrid knew that now. Despite the motivation, he was glad he had buried himself in his kingdom’s past. He’d read everything written by the Montredaun-Ans—and those they’d deposed—because he’d figured out by the time he was ten that history was in fact a weapon, one his uncle would never recognize. So was map-making, again an activity Tdanerend thought belonged to lackeys.

  Knowledge was a weapon.

  And his uncle was too ignorant to realize it.

  So he sat on a rock, ignoring the cold, and his own hunger, and watched covertly as the camp moved about its business—noting how the warriors covertly watched him. The camp aromas of horse and hay were familiar from early childhood, when his father had taken him to the academy. A vague memory of a strong hand holding him in place on a broad shoulder, and a voice saying, You’ll be here some day, my son made him shake his head.

  The days of the harmless little boy were over, but he knew his limits. He had to rely on brains, because he had no brawn, not against trained men. If he had to use a sword, he’d lose them
forever—if they didn’t laugh themselves to death first. In the other skills—the ones Tdanerend couldn’t forbid—he could take his place unafraid. And they’d all seen the evidence.

  When the guard changed, new arrivals came to him. Accompanying them were two of the captains who’d first met him. As time wore on and most of the others rode away, or were called to duty, these two stayed, and he learned their names. The dark-haired one’s last name was Senelac, and the blond’s Abreran.

  “… saw the old king. I was about five,” Senelac was saying reminiscently. He was silent during all the previous talk; Senrid was sure he had something on his mind, but had waited until almost everyone was gone. “He always used to judge the cavalry games. Never missed them, I’m told.”

  “True,” Senrid said. “The academy was strong in his day.”

  “That’s what the oldsters say,” Senelac commented.

  “That’s probably what oldsters have said ever since the academy was first begun,” Abreran put in, laughing.

  Senelac shrugged. “Maybe.” Senrid caught a flickering look from his black eyes. “But my grandmother, who won two firsts her senior year, maintains that standards are lower now.”

  “They are,” Senrid said—knowing now what Senelac was after. In a casual voice he added, “Have to be, when half the talent in the kingdom can’t compete because they happen to wear skirts when dressed as civs.”

  And the slight lift of the head, the narrowing of the black eyes, let Senrid know he had indeed got it: a sister, or a female cousin, well-qualified and kept out.

  Abreran gave a soft snort. “A consistency evidenced every banner day.”

  Senrid drew in a slow breath of sheer delight. This was only two out of countless others, but so far again he’d been right: Tdanerend had insisted on wearing their ancestors’ medals. Most everyone knew those medals, and who’d won them, for Tdanerend had won none during his brief stint in the academy. Indevan had won several, and now his younger brother wore those too.