Joret handed the letter to Tdor, who glanced at Fareas in question, saw a slight nod, and moved so that Whipstick could read over her shoulder. In surprise they discovered two breaks with tradition: an invitation to Fareas-Iofre to see her daughter crowned and then stay—and an invitation to Joret to accompany Hadand and the former queen, among whose women she’d spent a year, to Anaeran-Adrani.
Fareas-Iofre studied her hands, noting with part of her attention how old they looked. No Iofre had ever left Tenthen Castle as far as she knew, but times had become so strange. Why this invitation from a queen she had never met? No clue in the letter, but Hadand would tell her if she went.
So should she go?
Peace had come to Choraed Elgaer at last, except for these troubles in the family. Whipstick and Tdor could be trusted to protect not only Choraed Elgaer but also Jarend-Adaluin. In an extreme emergency, Captain Noth at Fera-Vayir Harbor could ride to their aid.
Added to that was her strong wish, always, to see her daughter again. She felt almost as strong a desire to meet Evred, this young man who had sent her copies of precious historical manuscripts, she suspected written out in his own hand. Yes, it seemed good to go.
She lifted her head and studied each young face. Whipstick’s bony countenance did not express much; Tdor looked worried, then thoughtful. Joret stayed mute, her color heightened.
“Shall I wait outside?” the Runner asked.
“No. You are Hadand’s own Runner, are you not?” Fareas-Iofre said kindly. “You may hear our words, which will not take long; then I promise you food, drink, and rest, before you return.”
The runner struck her fist over her heart and retreated to stand next to Chelis, who knew her. The two exchanged brief smiles, knowing they would be able to talk later.
At last Tdor said, “Joret, Carleas Ndarga wrote to say that Honeytongue insisted on a bridal trip to attend the royal wedding because Hadand had invited Cama.” “Honey-tongue” had been the nickname for Starand Ola-Vayir when they were girls in the queen’s training: Starand had had a penchant for sweet-talking any new girl long enough to winnow out any secrets, later to be held against her, or spread all over just for fun.
Fareas said, “The Jarlan of Tya-Vayir probably agreed just to be rid of her for a time.”
Tdor looked unhappy, and Joret knew what she was thinking and did not want to say: Will it be too painful for Joret to see Cama again, especially if Starand is present to cause strife?
Joret said, “Honeytongue can do no worse to me than the trouble Branid gives me here.”
Tdor hesitated. Branid’s habit of spying on Joret every chance he could get, to the extent of attempting to bribe her women to let him by when Joret was in the baths or inventing excuses to visit her in her rooms, was personal. Starand’s craving to be the center of attention had grown since they were all girls.
Whipstick said, “Branid wants Joret more than he wants Choraed Elgaer, I believe.”
“Which means it might ease our problems here a little if you go,” the Iofre said. “But Joret, this is not only an invitation to the royal city. You would be taken over the mountains to a kingdom no Marlovan has ever seen.”
Tdor considered the idea for the first time. Joret to leave Iasca Leror? And Hadand as well? Marlovan queens never left the kingdom! Tdor felt strange, anxious at the idea, but she stayed silent. Hadand would want Joret’s company on such a journey. They had been close all their lives. What surprised her was that the queen, at least according to the letter, had issued the invitation herself.
Joret struggled with conflict. She tried not to remember the fire-bright attraction to Cama Tya-Vayir that, within a day’s talk and laughter shared, had flared into love.
Her eyes half closed and a soft, tender smile, utterly unlike what the family was used to seeing in steady, sober, capable Joret, made Whipstick catch his breath. His shoulders shook with inward laughter as he thought, If she did that on purpose she could kill at a hundred paces. I wonder if that old queen sees her as a weapon? Ah, the Iofre does. But this was women’s business. No one had asked his opinion, so he kept silent.
The lovely color faded along with the smile as Joret squared herself to face the truth that she and Cama had faced at the end of their glorious week together. They lived at opposite ends of Iasca Leror and Choraed Elgaer had enough problems without Horsebutt trying to use his brother’s relationship with a future princess to further his ambitions. Like trying to set aside Cama’s marriage to the hated Starand Ola-Vayir, who was quite capable of racing home and demanding a clan war—if she could be at the very center as the Wronged Bride. The Jarl of Ola-Vayir, far to the north, had his own ambitions: he and his family felt that Olara and the west end of Idayago would round out their territory nicely.
Joret had had enough of that kind of trouble, being stalked in her home then chased around the kingdom by the Sierlaef. She and Cama had sensibly chosen duty and honor—but their week of joy had nearly been destroyed by the intense pain of parting.
Joret’s voice had never been sharp, but it was now. “I will go.”
The others stared at her.
Joret took a deep breath and said, “I would like time away. Not from you. Branid will never leave me alone. And as long as I am here, he will make trouble. Let me go away for a time. See if that eases his . . . desire.” Her brows quirked, her faint smile was sad. “Who knows? Maybe I will like this far country. In which case, if Inda does come home Tdor must marry him, as was always intended. And Whipstick, you would be able to choose a wife, as you would have, had the king not sent you here instead of to the dragoons.”
Fareas was amazed to see Tdor’s eyes tear, and she wondered how many secrets she had managed to miss, she who prided herself on her vision.
She looked anew at these two girls, born of mothers she had never met, girls she had raised from their second year, while her own dear Hadand had been raised in the royal city, with all its dangers, except for those precious Name Day visits until she was fifteen. That was the Marlovan way, and the only recourse women had after the age of fifteen was the steady stream of letters carried back and forth across the kingdom by their Runners.
Girls.
She was wrong. They were no longer girls, and she could not choose for them. They were young women, already directing their own lives, making choices from circumstances she no longer oversaw. “Midsummer’s Day is less than a month away,” she said, rising. “And the fastest Runner with fresh horses along the way takes two weeks. We had better plan for four weeks’ journey. Which means we must leave by this week’s end.”
She turned to Whipstick and Tdor, standing side by side. “I shall leave you with the Adaluin to guard Choraed Elgaer. ” She smiled. “And we will invite Branid to lead the Honor Guard that accompanies us. If he wishes to strut about the royal city and call himself heir, he is welcome to. It will keep him from making trouble here. Now, everyone to work: we have a lot to do.”
Chapter Eight
THE puddles had begun to steam after a sudden, violent summer storm when the rain-washed west wind carried the sound of trumpets.
High in a tower above the royal castle’s garrison the conspirators paused in their last rehearsal, listening. Horns from the outer perimeter riders, faint but distinct—fast triplets in two separate chords. The fanfare for runners was a single set, for Jarls two sets of the same chord. Three chords for the royal family.
Two chords for princes.
The Algara-Vayirs are here. Cherry-Stripe Marlo-Vayir noticed that several covert, sympathetic looks were sent Cama’s way.
“I’d better go.” Cama strode out.
As his footsteps rapidly diminished the others exchanged looks, everyone reluctant to speak first.
As usual it was phlegmatic Noddy who broke the silence. “Better ride shield,” he said.
They caught up with Cama, who gave them one unreadable glance, but said nothing.
Cherry-Stripe followed Cama’s swinging black horsetail
down and around the tower’s worn stone steps. He wondered again how Horsebutt Tya-Vayir, Cama’s brother, could be so damned different from Cama. Usually easygoing, he felt a pang of angry resentment when he remembered the ride to the royal city. It should have been fun, but was ruined by Starand’s constant complaining and bickering: she had the smallest tent. Cama ought to sleep with her, since they were newly wed. The food was boring. The pennon-bearers didn’t give her proper precedence as new Randviar of Tya-Vayir. Even little Mran, Cherry-Stripe’s betrothed, could not distract her though everyone had given Mran credit for trying.
Cherry-Stripe snorted a sigh of impatience. You grew up knowing that Jarl families did not pick their wives or husbands. Most got along fine, some turned into love matches, like Cassad and his Carleas or Buck and Fnor. Then there were ones like Dannor and Starand—one Cama’s sister, the other his wife.
As they launched through the door and started across the huge garrison complex in the direction of the main gate, Cherry-Stripe dropped back, elbowing Noddy Toraca. “Didn’t Horsebutt once dally with Starand?” he asked.
Noddy glanced over, his long face, as usual, as expressive as a scout dog’s. “She’s not bad looking. Besides, there she was—and his wife sure never wanted him.” He grinned; his wife, the popular Imand, had been tight with her Runner since they were all here at training.
Cherry-Stripe snorted a laugh. “Idea of Starand in my bed is like, I dunno, picking at a saddle-gall.”
Noddy made his turtle-shrug, familiar from childhood. “She uses sex for intrigue.”
Cherry-Stripe grimaced. “Who cares?”
Noddy laughed. “Horsebutt. Probably that father of hers as well. But Imand will at least keep Horsebutt in rein. He never crosses her, despite all his strut before the Jarls, now that his father is dead and his mother went home to Sindan-An. It’s Imand who’s gonna run that land one day. You watch.”
The young men passed through a lichen-dotted archway, then Noddy lunged ahead and caught Cama’s arm. They stopped, and when Noddy jerked his chin toward the wall, they peered down through the crenellations into the passage to the stable.
Starand had planted herself at one end. Hadand, wearing a fine linen undergown, stood at the other, arms crossed. Flanking her were tall, strong Carleas Ndarga, married last autumn into the Cassads, and little Mran Cassad, who barely reached Hadand’s shoulder.
Hadand glanced up at the fellows, then ignored them.
Starand seemed to be unaware. She shook her golden braids back and said with dramatic disdain, “Stand aside, Hadand.” Then, as Starand’s Runner took up a defensive position at her left shoulder, “Or I’ll have to go through you.”
“Try,” Hadand invited.
She stood there in that white linen undergown, no queen’s over-robe yet. It was difficult to see if she wore her sheaths under the broad sleeves . . . but her stance had altered to Autumn Wind.
Starand glowered. From Autumn Wind a woman could launch at least four of the Winter attacks—all of them offensive—and two Ice defenses.
Starand slid a glance at the others. Well, they made as good an audience as any for the other line she’d thought up and practiced, and she hoped they would get it right for the future songs. “I know Joret Dei is your foster sister, but to ignore her treason is to commit treason yourself.” And when they didn’t react, she added nastily, “It was with your own husband, ahhh, that is, had he lived—” Starand cursed at the fumble, and pushed on louder and faster when Carleas snickered, “had Joret not betrayed him by luring him into dalliance, the kingdom would be whole. And now she seeks to lure mine, at the cost of—”
“Horseshit,” Hadand stated.
Mran turned away, shaking with silent laughter.
Carleas, tall, very strong, said in her mild voice, “Honey-tongue—that is, Stara,” she corrected herself, obviously.
But Starand saw as well as everyone else the quick grins indicating that everyone used the hated nickname instead of the Stara that she’d demanded.
Carleas crossed her arms. “Here’s the truth. We all pity you if you can’t catch the eye of your own husband.”
“And whose fault is that?” Starand began angrily.
Three women said at the same time, “Yours.”
Starand turned crimson with rage.
Hadand said, “Cama is as free to pick a favorite as you were when you crooked your finger at Cama’s own brother.”
Again Mran muffled snickers.
Starand gaped. Who’d been gossiping? Oh, yes—Dannor. Cama and Stalgrid’s Norsunder-cursed sister Dannor, now married to Hawkeye, was fifty times nastier than Joret Dei, but she would never dally with Cama. Starand flushed. “What I do at home affects no one. Joret Dei was committing treason when she tried to oust you! And she’s going to do the same to me!”
“You know as well as anyone here that Aldren-Sierlaef chased Joret clear around the kingdom, or if you don’t, then know it now,” Hadand cut in.
“Get out of my way!” Starand demanded. “She brought dishonor to your Choraed Elgaer, and now she’s going to dishonor my family. I shall demand justice before the throne—”
Carleas covered her face with her hands. “You idiot.”
Hadand shifted, and two black-hilted knives dropped into her palms.
No bluff, then.
Starand’s face contorted. “You wear your knives in your own castle, Hadand? With all these guards?” She waved her own blade at the silent women behind Carleas and Mran. “What are you afraid of?”
Mran’s lips whitened and Carleas frowned.
“I wear them all the time. Everywhere,” Hadand said, her tone slightly amused, her wide-set brown eyes mild. “Which is why I’m never afraid.”
It forced them all to remember the last time she’d used her blades—right there in the throne room, the entrance to which was not fifty paces away.
“Then what is she here for, if not to make trouble with Camarend?” Starand demanded, waving a hand in the direction of the castle gates.
“Joret Dei is here,” Hadand stated, “on personal invitation from Queen Wisthia.”
“That’s a lie! And I’ll proclaim it before the throne—”
Whispers from behind; people were coming.
And so Hadand said, “My first act as Gunvaer was meant to be far more benign. But necessity demands decision. You are not going to use your own jealousy as an excuse to stir up entire clans into feuds over imagined affronts. Because they are imagined. And every woman here knows the truth.”
She paused as Carleas and Mran turned their thumbs up.
“Therefore, Starand Ola-Vayir, you are herewith confined to Tya-Vayir for the extent of your life. You may guard its castle and its inhabitants as Randviar, and if your husband is selected by mine to serve somewhere else, you will go to guard that castle, but you will not stray from its bounds, and never again enter the royal city upon pain of death.”
Silence met these words. Starand, opening her mouth, saw no woman protest.
Nor did Cama, whom she saw standing above them on the wall, a row of men beside him.
Hadand added, “Tesar, appoint a suitable escort, and remand her to the custody of Imand Tlennen, Jarlan of Tya-Vayir. ”
Starand trembled, aghast. No one had defended her. No one. “Imand hates me!” she wailed.
“Everyone hates you,” Hadand said. “Because the only thing you have ever been consistent about since we were girls was making yourself hateful. Go.”
On the wall the young men backed away and approached the stairway more slowly. No one looked at Cama, though he could feel the sympathy of his friends.
The clatter of horse hooves echoed from the castle stable yard beyond the stone arch; Cama and the others dashed through the arch, where they found the women waiting.
Hadand led the way into the stable yard to greet the newcomers, pausing as the enormous cavalcade came to a halt on the rain-swept stones, hooves sending steaming puddles splashing.
> At once the stable hands ran to the horses’ heads.
Evred himself appeared a moment later, having heard the horns and run down from the study. Like his friends he was dressed in his old gray academy coat. Busy as he was, he would greet the Algara-Vayirs in person.
Cama and the others closed behind him in shield position, and Hadand deferred, the other women waiting behind her. It was Evred’s place to speak the formal words of welcome to her mother, who rode at the front with her Runner on one side and the Algara-Vayir pennon in the hands of a young Rider on the other.
As he spoke, she looked past her mother. Behind her rode Joret—next to Branid? Hadand stared in surprise at the big, arrogant yellow-haired young man dressed in a formal green-and-silver House tunic, despite the rain and the long ride.
The formal welcome now over, Joret leaped down from her saddle and grabbed Hadand in a damp, convulsive hug.
“Branid?” Hadand whispered as Branid loudly claimed precedence over someone from a minor House who had arrived at the same time as the Algara-Vayirs.
Joret swiped back her dripping hair. “Your mother asked his escort. Better than leaving him home to cause trouble.”
Hadand’s lips parted as they glanced at Fareas-Iofre, who had dismounted and was overseeing the disposition of their party.
Hadand comprehended it all at once. The other family having already deferred, Branid harassed the stable hands and their own Riders with unnecessary orders. “I just got done deflecting Starand, who seems to want a war in her name. I don’t want him sparking off clan wars with people who don’t know he’s only a horse fart, but I cannot ask Evred to exile him to Choraed Elgar for being stupid.”
Joret’s rare smile dimpled her cheeks. “Get somebody you trust to shuttle him between the pleasure houses and the wineries, and he’ll be little trouble.”
Hadand began to laugh, but it died when Joret’s blue gaze shuttered and every muscle in her body tightened. Hadand knew she’d found Cama in that waiting crowd.
Evred said, “Welcome, Joret. My mother is above. She awaits your pleasure.”
Hadand stepped away, leaving Joret facing Evred, and so she had a perfect view of the young men ranged alongside one-eyed Cama, who looked impossibly dashing in that black eye patch with his long curling black hair. Cherry-Stripe and Noddy gazed at Joret in silent appreciation of her beautiful body in its clinging wet clothing, her stunning complexion glowing with rain-washed color. All of them transfixed, that is, except for Evred, whose hazel eyes were kind as he chatted easily with Joret about the journey.