Senrid

  Half-a-dozen kids started up then, when the fight was over. A lot of good that would do, or were they all hiding the fact that they were cowards? Not one of them even tried to stop that fight, she thought in disgust.

  It was Senrid’s antagonist who extended a hand and pulled Senrid up. He bent down and whispered something to Senrid, who grinned and shrugged. Then they both laughed—and Senrid coughed one last time, blew his nose, and sneezed, as they both tucked in their shirts and pulled their tunics back on.

  Kitty scanned the watching faces, saw approval, smiles, and furtive, uncertain glances, so she stated in her best princess manner, “Can we finally get something to eat?”

  They all looked at her—and laughed!

  Senrid felt the release of tension, and laughed as well, but in relief. The crowd parted, and Kitty marched, nose in the air, toward the cooks’ table to get her plate and load it. Senrid moved more slowly, hedged about with kids, all talking at once.

  That’s what Kyale should have been, he thought hazily. He was very near the last of his energy, but he knew there’d be no more tests that day. Kitty had a rare sense of timing—a player’s sense of timing. Certainly unconscious. She lived her life playing roles, without even knowing it.

  She should have been a play actor, he thought. Then he shook his head and dismissed the matter from his mind as questions and comments rained around him.

  THREE

  The first of the month dawned clear, cold, and frosty, snow glistening with a whiteness hard on the eyes.

  Senrid and Kitty were already up when the sun rose. Kitty kept her complaints to herself, thinking: This is the end. Soon I can go home. She was tired from so many late nights and early mornings, and from so many missed meals. But she didn’t complain about that either, because she had always gone off to sleep hearing the sound of Senrid’s voice as he talked, talked, talked, and when she woke up, it was inevitably to find him long since dressed and busy either talking some more, or inspecting horses, or some other idiot thing. The only time he seemed to notice meals was when she insisted on them, and so she began insisting more than once a day.

  But now—she hoped—this mess would soon be over.

  She wrapped her cloak more tightly about her, resolving when she got home to put it, and her gown, in the fire first thing. She was thoroughly sick of them both, and wanted no reminders of her miserable stay in Marloven Hess.

  At least she was alive.

  But that might change.

  Fear fluttered inside her as she peeked into the narrow hallway and saw Senrid talking to a tall man whose bearing reminded her of the warriors, though he was dressed like a farmer. Kitty paused, looking at the man’s profile: was he familiar? Then she shrugged. Most of these Marlovens were light-haired, with that short haircut that made them all look alike.

  Kitty stopped in the doorway of the inn where they’d spent the night, and watched people riding and walking by. Walking! Crunch, crunch, their steps cracked the ice from the night’s snowfall-and-freeze; soon the road was mushy and slushy brown.

  Still the people kept going, more of them than she’d have thought. They all seemed to be going southwards, toward Choreid Dhelerei.

  Absolutely amazing.

  She heard Senrid’s fast step. For a moment he stood next to her, his breath clouding as he looked out at the crowds. Though people surrounded them, for that moment they were alone. No one waiting to talk to Senrid, or to whisper a message to Kitty. Though it had long since been unneeded, the spies had stuck to the plan, and Kitty had been the one to name each new destination.

  Senrid said, “This is it. You want to go home? I’ll risk a transfer if you want to risk where you might end up transferred to.”

  Kitty thought of Tdanerend and his creepy mirror ward, and then she thought of being home and not knowing what would happen.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m going to a military camp,” Senrid said.

  Kitty’s mind reeled. Warriors! Didn’t Tdanerend command them? How could Senrid dare go among them?

  “If they turn out to be rotters, will you use your magic then?” she asked.

  Senrid gave her one of those obnoxious grins. “So you want to see the end?”

  “I’ve seen everything else,” she said. “And endured everything else.” She rubbed her backside. And besides… No, better not to even hint about what she’d done, she thought, surreptitiously touching her bodice. She wasn’t so sure it was right—but a person had to protect herself, hadn’t she?

  Senrid laughed—not at all a mean laugh. It made him cough, but the cough was no longer the terrible one of the month before, and he looked like his old self. “I didn’t think you’d stick it out.”

  She frowned, trying to find the insult, then realized that it was a sort of compliment—the only one she was ever likely to get. She folded her arms and snorted.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” she countered. “Or me! But here we are, and I do want to see Tdanerend’s sour face when you give him the boot.”

  Senrid grinned. “Then let’s go.” He jumped down the steps two at a time, and headed for the stable, his steps quick despite the ice.

  Kitty scrambled to keep up. Soon they were on horses yet again, really good horses. Of late, when they did manage to sleep, Senrid had gotten the best rooms offered, not just a rolled mattress in a corner. And those rare meals were all served on fine porcelain—better than that at home—with silver spoons and knives. They’d gotten the best horses. People’s attitudes had changed, though Kitty couldn’t precisely pin down when it had changed—or why.

  Thinking happily in anticipation of the next meal, she guided her mount behind his, and they rode not into the streets to join the marchers, but along a back route that was nearly empty of trades-people.

  Soon they passed the town walls, riding fast adjacent to the great stream of people heading for the capital. Fresh white snow stretched out like a quilt over the land, bright and glittery. The ice was too thin to make them slip; the horses’ hooves crunched as they cantered westward.

  As always, Senrid seemed to know exactly where he was going. Kitty was glad to follow.

  Senrid, meanwhile, searched constantly for landmarks. He’d never been able to tour the kingdom before. He’d mapped it several times, and that image of neatly drawn hills, forests, towns, villages, and rivers superimposed over his vision as they moved swiftly cross-country.

  Three times they crossed roads of people all heading southwards. None of them spared the two kids a glance. Senrid contemplated how so much of the perceived power of kingship was in trappings. Had he been riding decked out in military dress-tunic (or in full war gear), with banner-bearing outriders, and a column of personal guards at his back, everyone would have known: there rides a king.

  And he pictured them laughing at the undersized, baby-faced figure in the middle.

  Self-mockery was his mood when at last they topped the rise above a feeder to the river Zheirban: the Rheid. They were now directly north of the capital, though as yet it could not be seen. A half bell’s hard ride through the rolling hills, and he’d be there.

  They were spotted long before they reached the camp. Senrid hadn’t seen the scouting perimeter—as was right.

  The camp was huge to Kitty’s eyes, a city of bleached-canvas tents adjacent to what seemed to be endless horse picket-lines. The Marlovens stopped moving about when Kyale and Senrid rode in. Kitty shrank into her cloak, distrusting immediately the sight of so many Marloven warriors. Ugly memories of the invasion thundered through her head, and she wished she’d accepted Senrid’s offer to go home.

  But as they rode inside the tent-city she realized that this huge camp was not just for adults, there were kids all around too. Well, boys, at least. Lots and lots of them, from her own age to older than Leander, all dressed in gray, all of them busy with jobs. Some tended horses, others were oiling snapvine bowstrings, and many of them ran back and forth carrying messages.

&n
bsp; They all stopped and stared. Then, as Senrid rode by, they did that salute thing she’d seen so much of lately, hand to heart. A very few of the older boys smiled, or made subtle signs, which Senrid returned.

  They ignored Kitty. Fine. Better that than attack.

  All in all she decided that she was glad she’d had the foresight to come prepared, and she hugged tightly to her the secret she’d kept hidden under her bodice.

  But then they stopped right in the middle of the camp, before the central tent, and a plainly dressed warrior emerged. Kitty recognized his grayish dark hair as he laid hand to heart, a deliberate salute that made Senrid flush dull red.

  Kitty stared in surprise as Senrid flung himself off his horse and ran forward, yelling, “Keriam!”

  The man stepped back into the door of the tent, and Kitty almost missed his laugh, and the quiet voice—meant for only one person’s ears—saying, “Well done, Curly.”

  “Curly?” Kitty repeated from the opening into the tent.

  Senrid’s head jerked round, and Kitty gave a yelp of sheer joy when she saw the embarrassment in his face.

  Senrid groaned, wishing he’d hidden that reaction to the old nickname. Now he knew he’d be hearing it every time she opened her mouth.

  Oh well. It did bring back good memories from the days when his father was alive.

  Keriam had coffee waiting on a camp table, and a hot meal. Senrid ate ravenously; Kitty looked into the bowl, and was surprised to see the exact same sludgy soup that she’d been given as a prisoner in the tower back in Crestel what seemed a million years ago. Well, it made sense to cook this stuff for a lot of people who are under orders and so can’t complain about the food, she decided as she dug in.

  Keriam, meanwhile, leaned toward Senrid, eying him anxiously. “I’d heard that you were ill,” Keriam said. “I see that it was no exaggeration.”

  Senrid flicked his hands outward. “Fine now.” Joy rippled through him; only Kyale’s presence kept him from babbling like a fool. “What happened?”

  “Orders came down,” Keriam said, “to find and kill you. And so the time for decision had come, obey or be foresworn, and we left.”

  Senrid felt the joy dissipate, and the grip of reality squeeze his insides. “Gherdred?”

  “Out riding the perimeter round the city. The entire eastern wing. West is all down south at Darchelde Forest, under Jarl Waldevan’s command.”

  “Darchelde! Why?” Senrid exclaimed.

  “I don’t know that.”

  “No one’s set foot in it for centuries. Is it still blasted from magic? Is the old Montredaun-An castle even standing?”

  “Can’t answer any of it. All I can tell you is, that was their orders.”

  Senrid got up, feeling restless, realized the tent was too small to pace in, and he sat down again. “Something’s going on.”

  Keriam nodded soberly. “Something big enough that he’s sent half the foot down there as well.”

  “Then who’s protecting him in Choreid Dhelerei?”

  “His personal guard. They all know it’s stay with him or die, after the excesses they’ve enjoyed over the last few years.”

  “Not all,” Senrid said. “Not all of them.”

  Keriam looked grim. “They chose personal allegiance. The consequences are theirs.”

  Senrid said, “I have to talk to him. We can’t have a bloodbath.”

  Keriam’s face was difficult to read at any time, but Senrid thought he saw the approval he’d longed for his entire life. “Then we had better ride, hadn’t we?”

  Kitty groaned with artistic fervor. “Didn’t we just get off those horses?”

  If the Marlovens even heard her, it was more than she knew.

  Keriam stepped to the front of his tent and said something-or-other to someone-or-other, and shortly thereafter she heard a horn blaring a fall of notes that sounded kind of stirring. When she peeked out, she saw everyone scrambling about in orderly haste, belting on weapons, pulling on helms, collapsing tents that were swiftly rolled and stashed in wagons. The boys fetched horses from those enormous picket lines at the other end of the camp as other boys wanded the ground where they’d been; Kitty saw the brief glitter and flash of magic as the droppings vanished.

  Some of those boys she’d seen earlier surrounded Senrid, and they talked and laughed, Senrid looking like a little kid again, as he had last summer.

  Then they all mounted and lined up in less time than it took for Kitty to get her cats found and fed, at home.

  If anyone had asked her, she would have preferred to be with the kids. Even though they were only boys, and Marlovens at that, at least they were more or less her age. But nobody did ask, and instead there she was, riding next to Senrid, followed by Keriam, who had all those medals on again, a gold and black hilted dagger at his waist, and a curve-tipped sword in a saddle sheath—those were the visible weapons—and behind him adults with banners and enough steel to arm the entire kingdom of Vasande Leror, Kitty thought sourly: men, women, and children. Two weapons apiece.

  Senrid looked over once, his gaze distracted. Kitty said, “They don’t have enough extra swords for you to get one too, Curly?”

  He looked pained—but not angry-pained. It was the on-the-verge-of-laughter pained, which disappointed her. “Guess not,” he said. Then he grinned. “Why, you want one?”

  “Oh, of course,” Kitty said, trowelling on the sarcasm. “Tdanerend will take one look at me and run flapping and squawking back to the chicken roost. And afterwards I’ll give everyone lessons.”

  Senrid snorted, but it was an absent snort; his thoughts were already galloping ahead. As usual. She rolled her eyes and sighed.

  And so they came at last to the city. The gates were barred, the walls suspiciously empty.

  Keriam made some kind of motion to one of the young messengers riding near him, and the kid raised a trumpet and played one of those falls of triplets.

  The riders halted then reformed into two long lines, the horses dancing and whuffing and shaking combed and clean manes. The low hills all around the city were dotted with folk, some lined up in neat columns, others not.

  “Look there. Atop North Tower,” Keriam said, and handed a spyglass over to Senrid.

  “He’s spotted you and me,” Senrid said. “I can tell, just by the way he’s standing. Phew,” he added with a nervous laugh. “I’m glad I’m not there to hear what he’s got to be saying!”

  Senrid—nervous? Kitty decided it was time to take out her secret weapon. She slid her hand under the laced bodice, and pulled out one of Fern’s magic books. Borrowed only ° course. Kitty would never steal. But Hibern had gonesomewhere else, so it wasn’t as if she would be using this book, and anyway Kitty really had felt a lot better about riding in the midst of Marloven Hess with some of Fern’s magic with her—though it had turned out she couldn’t read any of it.

  But if Tdanerend saw her, he wouldn’t know that.

  She grinned, imagining Tdanerend watching her—in horror—as she flipped pages.

  “Did Hibern give you that?” Senrid asked, as though nothing else was happening.

  Kitty’s cheeks burned. “I planned on taking it back. It was to keep me safe. Just in case. I thought it might fool your uncle into thinking we had a bunch of wards and spells on our side.”

  Senrid’s mouth curled into that sarcastic look that made her want to kick him clean off his horse, but before she could say anything he turned back to scanning through the spyglass. Then he stiffened. “That has to be—” He smacked the spyglass closed. “He’s got one of those damned Norsundrians up there! Kyale. You can go right ahead and fool him now.”

  And without asking, he grabbed her wrist and did the transport spell.

  Kitty found herself moments later standing high above the city of Choreid Dhelerei, on the tallest tower of the royal castle. Her stomach lurched; a sharp, cold wind hit her face.

  The wind made tears sting her eyes, and she blinked, still holding
Fern’s book up, as if she were about to read a spell, as Senrid talked in a fast, low undervoice to his uncle, telling him who was where and what they were ready to do.

  The three were now alone, Kitty saw, but that was scant relief, for Tdanerend looked like a madman. His face was an ugly dark red, his eyes bloodshot with rage and probably with even worse lack of sleep than she and Senrid had experienced.

  Senrid, too, was shocked at the haggardness of his uncle’s face.

  Tdanerend gave vent to vicious expletives, ending with, “You betrayed me, you—”

  Senrid cut through the invective. “You betrayed yourself.” He felt stirrings of pity, but was not going to show any. Not after coming this far, after what he’d heard, after what he’d endured. “Uncle, it’s time for me to take my father’s place.” He indicated the people massed below. “They agree.”

  Senrid saw immediately that it was the wrong thing to say—but then to Tdanerend’s perspective anything Senrid said, except for I surrender, would have been wrong. The amassed people below, the cavalry riding round the city walls—not at his command, but despite it, all were effective enough proof that he’d lost.

  Thoughts streamed through Senrid’s mind, cold and clear as the harsh winter wind: what it must have been like to be raised as the replacement, the threat, the brother whose value would only be measured by Indevan’s disgrace. But Indevan had not made Kendred’s mistakes, had not been disgraced, and one day he turned his back when the two were alone, a gesture maybe not of trust, but of release.

  Of release. Senrid now saw why he couldn’t kill Leander that day during summer, because it was too much like what had happened in his own family.

  I would have become Tdanerend.

  While he was thinking, time passed, though he was unaware. Tdanerend stared down into his face, saw the marks of recovery from illness in the fine bones emerging from Senrid’s once round cheeks. The determination setting his jaw, the mouth and eyes that were so very much like Indevan’s.

  The boy had been alone after that confrontation in the Crestel castle—Tdanerend knew that. So how had he managed to raise all these people and send them against the rightful king? I am the rightful king—I am! I have done the work for years—