Everyone started asking questions and putting demands across one another, with many anxious glances sent toward the king.
Jehan sat down again, affecting boredom as his father sighed loudly. Couldn’t he see how anxious people were for reassurance? Couldn’t he understand how much they longed to hear the king promise that their way of life would be protected?
Canardan rose to his feet, the guard moving to flank him. The crowd fell silent, everyone there hot and tired, and despite his dismissive words, not there for pleasure. Canardan began to speak, using his humorous voice. He cracked a couple of jokes about the heat and heated comment, and then set out to soothe them.
But underneath every sentence his father uttered, Jehan heard the promise of the invasion. The kingdom would “soon” have land and wealth. There “would be” prestige “soon” for the warriors, the crown, the nobles. And that meant “prosperity” for every single artisan.
As for the promised trial, he assured them that there was no hurry, he granted more time for negotiation, and yes, the conspirators would be kept perfectly safe.
As he spoke, Jehan saw glances returning his way. Thoughtful glances. Jehan suspected his remarks would be repeated in private, maybe discussed, passed along. The quickest ones had recognized what he had done.
It would have to be enough for now. He knew that this would be his last appearance in public, and not just because his father was annoyed at what he seemed to be choosing to regard as a typically cloud-minded blunder.
The time for all guises to be ripped away was nigh. Damedran Randart was hot on Sasharia Zhavalieshin’s trail, and if he caught up with her, the final confrontation would be forced on them all.
“Let’s go.” Canardan sat back in the carriage, arms crossed, his profile disgusted.
Once again Jehan had slipped just ahead of disaster. Not because of his own ability, he thought as the carriage rattled along the brick-patterned main street, but because his father did not want to see disaster.
As for Jehan himself, his own sense of honor required one last attempt to reach his father. Jehan was not loyal to his father’s politics, and never would be, but he remained loyal to the good memories of childhood, the interest, care and kindness exhibited in their private moments, when matters of state had not divided them. He believed in the possibility of good intention underneath all the vagaries, the series of ambivalent decisions that had slowly led to worse ones.
And he would exert himself to try, even at the risk of his own life, to bridge that chasm of lies between them: to get his father to admit that he was about to break a treaty and throw the kingdom into war.
As the days dragged on, full of noisy parties with too much food, too many people and far too many empty words chattered in his ears, he became aware that his father was increasingly restless.
Though Randart reported daily via magic to the king, as far as Jehan could determine, there was no mention whatsoever of Damedran’s secret mission.
Meanwhile, Atanial was gone, leaving a confusing number of rumors about where she was. At last count, she’d been seen in thirty-eight different villages around the kingdom, including a town five weeks’ journey away.
Chapter Twenty-One
The unseasonable autumn heat broke at last.
On a bleak, rainy morning, Jehan stared sightlessly out at the rainwater gushing from a waterspout beyond his window and vowed that whatever the result, if his father was honest with him, he’d drop all pretense and speak the truth in return. And take the consequences either way—but his instinct was that Canardan, once he got past his anger, would try to find a way to meet him.
That was, if Randart stayed out of it.
Not half a bell later, Jehan felt the tingle of magic. He’d taken to wearing his gold box next to his skin, waking and sleeping.
He had been about to go down to breakfast. He signaled to Kazdi to watch the other servants and took out Owl’s note.
Damedran’s got her. I’m following. Orders?
Jehan flicked the note into the fire, watched it curl and burn away, snapped the box closed, stowed it in his tunic.
Kazdi’s young face was serious, his brow puckered in question.
Jehan flicked his hand out, palm down. Wait here.
He ran downstairs to meet his father.
This is it. He wasn’t ready—too soon—such thoughts flitted through his mind, faster than he could move, leaving him tense and filled with regret.
And so the two Merindars sat down at the table in the winter breakfast room for the first time this year. The room had been recently cleaned by the servants, potted plants moved in all around the edge of the room, tall ferny ones before the row of north-facing windows.
To the son’s eye, the king was, as ever, big, bluff, handsome, his manner that of a king. The weak light filtering in behind the departing rain clouds shone on his long red hair, on the sides of his jaw, where jowls gradually growing more marked over the years blurred the strength there.
To the father’s eye the son—so difficult to understand and so exasperating to control—appeared thinner than he remembered, his slim body tense. Not only that, but his entire manner was present, his blue gaze uncharacteristically acute.
Neither spoke as the servants brought in the steaming silver dishes, and so for a time the only sounds were those of clinking metal against porcelain, the whisper of feet on the floor and beyond the windows the soft, occasional hiss of diminishing bands of rain.
Finally the king lifted his chin. The servants, alert to royal gestures, filed out, and Chas took up station inside the door.
“You have something on your mind, son?” Canardan asked.
“Several things,” Jehan replied, toying with a piece of hot biscuit. “Here is the first. I am tired of parties. I want to do something with purpose.”
The king tapped his knife lightly against his plate, not really hearing the restless, musical clink clink clink. “But the parties are to a purpose.”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “Wait on what?”
“You tell me, Father. They all talk, but around me. Past me. Knots of people of high degree and low. Innuendo, questions, secrets.”
Canardan started eating in a mechanical fashion, frowning at the windows.
Jehan sensed ambivalence and tried again. “What is Randart doing, Father?”
The king set down his cup. “Presiding over the war game. You know that.”
“Why does a war commander need to spend weeks at a war game?” Jehan countered. “Why am I not there instead, if my place is over him?”
Canardan laughed, a forced sound. “No one is really over Dannath, you know that. To the people the king must be seen to command, and that extends to the heir as well. But Randart is far better at military matters than either of us. His eyes are the most discerning, and his report on our readiness for trouble would be more valuable than either of us riding out to camp in the mud to observe a lot of young men and women scrambling around shouting and waving wooden swords, and pretending they aren’t watching us to see where we’re looking. I’d sit there in boredom, no doubt thinking of all the work lying here undone, and as for your own boredom, you’d inevitably solve that by riding off in the middle of the night with the prettiest patrol leader who had gotten some liberty.” Another forced laugh.
“And destroy someone’s career? Acquit me of that much stupidity. We know anyone in the army I flirted with would be broken down to the bottom rank as soon as Randart heard of it.”
The king lifted his shoulders. “Probably true, but if so, it does attest to his high standards for officer behavior.”
Jehan let that pass. “I don’t think his eyes are the most discerning. The recent fiasco with the fleet is proof enough of that. Another proof is how late the orders to ride were given, as if no one was aware of the advance of the season. A war game so close to winter? Let me ride out and observe. I promise I will have an assessment as good a
s anything Randart can give. And I can have them all back in their garrisons before the first snow.”
The king set down his knife and fork and regarded his son, who gazed back with unblinking intensity.
Finally Canardan said, slowly, “I want them where they are.”
“Why?”
The king’s brows furrowed, a quick, irritated reaction. “Because Dannath wants them there. Because—we can move them in any direction if need arises.”
“What need do you foresee?”
The king hesitated, then shook his head. “I think we are better discussing this matter when Dannath returns. With his report. We can make decisions much easier when we hear his evaluation.”
And Jehan knew he’d lost. It was not a surprise. Dannath Randart and Canardan Merindar had been friends since their teens, their ambitions marching in parallel. Too far in parallel—Randart having his eye on kingship, if not for himself, for his family. But it was clear that only events would convince Canardan of that. Certainly not his son’s talk. Until now Canardan saw only unstinting hard work and unswerving loyalty in his oldest friend, plus a conveniently unflinching ability to make problems go away.
Sharp regret tightened Jehan. He made one more attempt to part on terms of mutual good will. “Let me ride to the academy, then, and consult with Orthan Randart about reorganizing the cadet lessons next spring.”
“That, too, can wait on Dannath’s return. I know you want to put in some of what you were taught out west, and I do like the idea of some of it. But we cannot plan without Dannath’s assessment of their skills. The games were a fluke, we decided. Our cadets got too complacent. Dannath is convinced our training is not at fault.”
“Let me ride to the coast, then, and inspect the harbors before winter sets in.”
The king shook his head. “Despite the defeat of the fleet, you know as well as I that Randart is familiar with shore defense. And he has adequate captains in place.” The king gave an easy laugh. He was back on familiar ground. “You have enough flirts right here, you don’t need to be riding around your old haunts, and I don’t want to risk any gossip about possible princesses.”
“I won’t meet any women.”
His father shrugged, his brow furrowing impatiently. “Stay here.” Under my eye. “Those potential princesses are right here in Vadnais.”
Jehan laid down his knife and fork. “There is only one princess for me. Permit me to ride out and find Sasharia Zhavalieshin.”
This time Canardan’s laugh was genuine. “If I thought you could do that, you could go with my good will.”
Jehan was about to say But I can. Risk everything on a throw and gamble that he could meet his father halfway, as he so badly wanted to do, despite experience, despite reason.
Then the king leaned forward. “You did. Didn’t you? Randart boarded the Dolphin a few weeks ago. Before he went out to hunt that pirate. He thought you had that girl, for some reason. Did you?”
Jehan’s heartbeat raced. “Yes.”
Canardan shook his head slowly. “I didn’t believe it. I still half don’t. Randart was so sure you were plotting treason. But I figured even if you had her—and I didn’t believe it—you were going to bring her to me. A surprise. Show me you were doing your job. Which was it?”
Images flitted through Jehan’s mind, faster than words. Between one thump of his heart and the next he remembered Randart’s disappointment—and heard the import behind his father’s question. He was not asking Jehan’s reason. He was saying Are you for me or against me? There was no compromise.
Taking Sasha to free Prince Math would be seen as treason, because there was no compromise.
The shadow of Randart stood squarely between father and son. As always, as always.
And so, hating himself, sick with regret, Jehan said, “Bringing her to you as a surprise.”
His father relaxed. “Knew it. I don’t mind saying Randart was disappointed. She slipped away, eh?”
“Yes.”
The king’s amusement was back. “And you think you could get her now? No, no, let Randart do the dirty work. He’s good at it. He likes it. Let him bring her here, and you can soothe her ruffled feathers and be the hero. You two marry in spring, everyone smiles, the problems are all solved.”
Jehan bowed, low, and left.
He ran back up to his rooms and changed out of his embroidered velvet, pulling on his sturdiest riding gear. He paused and stared down at the gold case in his hand, knowing the next communication in it would be from his father. The temptation to leave it behind was severe. But his road had been laid down as well, the first time he put on a disguise and attacked one of Randart’s strongholds.
He opened the case, took out his last transfer token, tossed it up in the air, caught it with his fingers. Looked across the room at Kazdi, who stood with his shoulders against the closed door.
“Ride out as fast as you can to the resistance mages. Tell Magister Wesec it’s time to move her mages into place. There’s no more hiding. And if Nadathan and Devli Eban want to help, they’re in.”
Kazdi bowed, his scrawny neck-knuckle bobbing as he swallowed. His bony teenage face was the last thing Jehan saw before the transfer magic wrenched him out of time and space.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The sudden jingle of gear and clatter of many boot steps caused Mirnic Kender to straighten up from the row of buckets she was checking for diminishment of the cleaning spell.
From the siege-camp command tent an arrow shot away, a stampede of aides and cadets hustled through the opening, dispersing in all directions. She watched them shrug, make gestures of helplessness, shake heads at the flood of questions. She waited.
Moments later the cadet on duty to run food and drink to and from the command tent showed up, whistling softly. Mirnic bent over her buckets, making motions with her hands as the boy was met by one of his friends, also on cook detail for the day.
“What was that all about?” the cadet next to her asked the other boy.
“War Commander got one of those magical messages. Told us to wait, opened it, read it, then sent us out on the double. Said something about the king, and he had to answer at once, and he’d be out in a moment, but he did not want distractions.”
“Huh. Was he angry?”
“No. Here’s what’s weird. Most were standing around the map, see, chattering about the siege, and I was collecting the coffee cups. So really I was the only one watching him—couldn’t decide if I should touch his cup or not. I mean, if he was done. You know how he gets—”
“Never mind his coffee!”
“Well, so I was watching, see? He grinned. Like this.”
Mirnic forced herself not to look. Sure enough the other boy let out his breath in a long whoosh. “I’ve only seen that grin once. Pret-ty nasty.”
“Yeah. If you want to know what I think…”
No, Mirnic thought. I don’t.
She slipped away without either boy paying her the least attention, and sped to the tent she shared with the single other mage student permitted on the run. Her tent mate was asleep—they traded day and night duty—so Mirnic made sure she made no sound as she knelt at her bunk and wrote:
R. received note, said from king. Sent everyone out of tent right after.
She folded it, put it into her case, sent it to Magister Zhavic, and then sped back to her duty at the cook tent. As she’d expected, no one noticed she’d been gone.
And far away at the harbor, Magister Zhavic read the note, and checked the log of message reports from Vadnais. No messages had been logged either way between the king and the war commander at all that morning. Unless there was an emergency, they always communicated at night, messages duly reported by the journeymages on duty at the royal castle.
Zhavic smiled his own nasty smile.
Time for a talk with the king.
So there I was, no breakfast in me, riding on my mare with my hands tied behind me, surrounded by a bunch of teenage boys
who either rode in sulky, nervous or gloomy silence, or else clumped together, arguing in fierce whispers.
At least three times I heard Damedran growl versions of “His orders are to take her there and meet him. Shut up! Just shut up! Or if he doesn’t kill you, I will!”
Red shifted his bad mood from Damedran to their lack of food. He got into a short argument with one of the other boys, which made it clear that he’d expected better planning from the others while he and Ban nipped those tunics off someone’s clothesline and scouted around my former place of employment.
I think they might have gotten into another fight had not one of the servants spoken up to say that he had a loaf of journey bread that he’d gotten the morning before, just in case.
When we reached a chuckling stream with a fall rushing over a grass-covered rocky hillock, Ban said, “If we don’t stop here for at least some water, you’ll have to shoot me for mutiny. Your bow is right there at your saddle. Here’s my back,” he added, quite unfairly.
Damedran jerked the reins of his horse, who tossed his head up and almost sat down on his haunches. Damedran flung himself out of the saddle, and the horse stood shivering.
My head panged from hunger and thirst, my shoulders and arms ached, and the sight of that frightened horse snapped my temper. “Someone”—I swung my leg over and jumped from my horse—“has anger-management issues.”
“Huh?” Red exclaimed.
Ban mouthed the words anger management?
I glanced meaningfully at Damedran’s horse, and some of my irritation faded when I saw him soothing the animal, stroking its nose and murmuring, his forehead leaning against the long, sweaty neck.
He wasn’t a complete stinker. But there was the matter of my growling stomach and my aching arms and oh yes. His uncle.
I said kind of generally, to the air, “Every world is different. And places on a single world are different. Where I have been living there are what we call people skills.”
Damedran leaned against his horse, but from the stiffness of his shoulders I sensed he was listening. Red made no pretense. He stared at me, mouth open.