Just as well you don’t have to wear heels anymore, she told herself. Mother! You’d tower over everyone then, wouldn’t you? Or over everyone who wasn’t a hradani, at any rate!
“I never much cared for them myself, either, Milady,” she said out loud. “And I avoided wearing them whenever I could get away with it.”
“So do I,” Sharlassa said with feeling. “But they keep catching me and making me put them back on. Personally, I think Mama told Tahlmah to make sure I wear them. Which is pretty unfair, when you come down to it, since she doesn’t wear them at home!”
“Part of the training, I suppose,” Leeana commiserated, and Sharlassa sighed in heartfelt agreement.
It was odd how her and Sharlassa’s lives had moved in opposite directions, Leeana thought, and felt a strong surge of affection, as well as sympathy, for the younger woman. She’d given up the sort of life most young women could only have envied when she became a war maid, and that had been even harder than she’d expected it to be, yet she suspected Sharlassa was finding the transition in her own life equally difficult. In fact, she was probably finding it even more difficult, when it came down to it.
They’d crossed the forecourt while they were speaking, and Leeana followed Sharlassa down the awning-shaded, stone-slab walk fronting the neatly kept barracks as they headed for the gate into the inner bailey. Sharlassa seemed a little uncomfortable at having Leeana drop back to follow a half-pace behind her, but it was only proper, just as Leeana’s use of “Milady” was only proper. Whatever she might once have been, Leeana Hanathafressa was a guest in Hill Guard Castle...and a guest of House Bowmaster, not its daughter.
Nobody actually stopped and stared as they passed, but Leeana was aware of scores of watching eyes, and she wondered what sorts of comparisons some of those eyes’ owners were making between her and Sharlassa when they saw her striding along in her supple leather trousers, plain linen shirt, and sleeveless leather doublet at the younger woman’s elbow, an identical short sword riding at each hip and a dagger sheathed horizontally at the back of her belt. At least she wasn’t in chari and yathu, and she tried not to feel too much like a coward for having avoided that traditional garb for this visit...so far, at least, she reminded herself wryly. She’d have plenty of time to outrage everyone before she left.
And it’s not as if you don’t genuinely prefer trousers when you ride, she scolded herself. You only wear the chari—and the yathu—to Thalar to make a point to Trisu and his idiots. No need to rub anyone’s nose in it here.
They ascended the steps up into the great keep with Leeana following one stairstep below Sharlassa. Which, given the difference in their heights, meant the top of her head was only a few inches higher than Sharlassa’s all the way up. Then they stepped through the great double doors and crossed the vast, cool entry hall where the banners of Bowmaster and Balthar hung from the beams far overhead, with servants bowing to Sharlassa as they passed, and started up the inner stair towards the family’s private quarters. Sharlassa waited until they’d climbed halfway to the first landing, then stopped and looked at Leeana.
“And now that we’re inside,” she said, pitching her voice to reach only Leeana’s ears, “I’d better not hear another ‘Milady’ pass your lips.” Leeana started to smile, but the smile faded as Sharlassa glared at her with what looked like true anger. “I understand the rules,” the younger woman said, “and I suppose I actually appreciate them. But I’m not your lady and this is your home and I’m a visitor in it, not you!” Her eyes softened and she shook her head, reaching out to lay one hand on Leeana’s elbow. “I’m sure I can’t really imagine how difficult it is for you to come home on a visit, Leeana. I know it has to be hard, though. Please don’t make it any harder on yourself—or on me—than it has to be.”
She may not have gotten any taller, but she has grown, Leeana thought, reflecting on the confidence and assurance in that scold. Of course, she’s wrong...but she’s right, too.
“All right, Sharlassa,” she said. “At least when we’re in private.”
“Good.” Sharlassa gave her elbow a little shake, then smiled. “In that case, I believe your mother is waiting in the solarium.”
* * *
“Look who I found, Milady!” Sharlassa announced as she opened the solarium door and waved Leeana through it.
Hanatha Bowmaster was tall, although not remotely as tall as her daughter, and her back was straight as she leaned on her cane, despite the right leg which had been crippled so many years before. But there were streaks of silver in her long, black hair, Leeana realized. Streaks which hadn’t been there before, still tiny enough she might not have noticed if their flicker hadn’t caught the sunlight pouring in through the solarium’s windows. And there were lines in her face which hadn’t been there before Leeana ran away from home. But her eyes—those green eyes, exactly like her daughter’s—lit with delight as she saw Leeana at Sharlassa’s shoulder.
“Leeana!” Hanatha started towards her, but Leeana dropped her saddle bags and blanket and crossed the solarium in three long strides before her mother could move. Her arms went around Hanatha in a crushing hug, and she felt a pang as she realized how much taller she’d become. Her cheek pressed the top of her mother’s head, exactly as Hanatha’s cheek had once pressed hers, and she felt those pesky tears burning in her eyes once more.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you, love!” her mother half-whispered, and then gasped as Leeana’s arms tightened even further. “Mind the ribs!” she scolded. “Your father already broke them once!”
“Sorry.” Leeana’s voice was husky, and she cleared her throat as she released her mother and stood back. She held Hanatha’s at arms length, hands on her upper arms, and smiled a bit mistily into her eyes. “Did he really?” she asked after a moment. “Break them, I mean?”
“Yes, he did, love.” Her mother reached up to touch her cheek. “The morning you were born.”
Leeana swallowed hard, looking back into her mother’s face for a moment, and then nodded.
“Well,” she said in a more normal voice, “I’ll try not to follow in his footsteps—in that regard, at least. But it’s wonderful to see you, too.” She gave Hanatha’s arms a brief squeeze, then stepped back. “Your letters are wonderful, but it’s just—”
She broke off and shrugged, and it was Hanatha’s turn to nod.
“I know,” she agreed. “I know. But you’re here now, and that’s what really matters.” She looked past Leeana to where Sharlassa stood just inside the door, smiling at them both. “Somehow I have the feeling someone is playing truant again,” the baroness observed, raising one forefinger in an admonishing gesture. “Under the circumstances, however, I’m inclined to let it pass...this time.”
“Thank you, Milady,” Sharlassa replied meekly...and dimpled.
“Well, since you are playing truant, and since we have a guest, why don’t you ask someone to send up a light tea for the three of us?”
“Of course, Milady,” Sharlassa agreed, turning back towards the door, and Hanatha waved her daughter towards the window seat along the solarium’s western wall.
Leeana started to stoop and pick up her saddle bags, but Hanatha shook her head.
“Time enough for that later,” she said, shooing her daughter towards the window seat. “I don’t doubt that war maid code of yours is going to demand you carry them to your chamber yourself instead of relying upon the labor of some hapless servant like a properly decadent aristocrat, but there’s no rush. Besides, much as I’ve come to love Sharlassa, the girl is unnaturally neat.” She shook her head. “You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed having a proper teenager’s clutter around the place!”
“Was I really that bad?” Leeana smiled. “I tried to keep it out of your sight in my room, you know.”
“Yes, you were that bad,” Hanatha said firmly.
She settled into a comfortable chair, facing the window seat, and studied her daughter intently for several seconds. Then
she nodded.
“It suits you,” she said simply.
“I beg your pardon?” Leeana arched an eyebrow, and her mother snorted.
“Leeana, I practically had to rope and tie you to get you into a gown before you ran off to the war maids. And while it’s probably highly improper of me to say this, I always actually sympathized with you a lot more than you knew. But this”—a wave of her hand gestured at Leeana’s trousers, shirt, and doublet—“suits you far better. And at least it’s not as scandalous as that chari and yathu—if I got it right—of yours!”
The words could have been biting, but instead they were almost teasing, and Hanatha’s eyes flickered with what certainly looked like genuine amusement.
“I hope they aren’t too scandalous for you, Mother,” Leeana said after a moment in a rather more serious tone, and Hanatha shrugged.
“I won’t pretend I wouldn’t really rather not have you showing your belly button to all the world, my dear,” she said dryly. “And it would probably be as well for me to keep my opinion of other aspects of traditional war maid attire to myself, as well. For that matter, I strongly suspect you never want to hear your father’s reaction to the first time he ever saw you in it.”
She rolled her eyes, but then her expression sobered.
“Nonetheless, Leeana, it’s part of who you are and who you’ve become, and I expect you to wear those scandalous, overly revealing, appalling garments with style, grace, and composure.” She squared her shoulders, resting her folded hands atop the cane braced upright before her. “I doubt you can truly understand, even now, how terribly it hurt when you ran away to the war maids, but most of that hurt of mine was about what I knew it was going to cost you. No mother wants to see her daughter pay that kind of price, especially for something which was never her fault in the first place. But what it’s taken me quite a long time to fully understand from your letters and those fleeting visits of yours is how much you’ve gained from it. You were always a falcon fighting its jesses, even when you didn’t know it yourself. Now you’re free to fly, and I want you to fly high, love. Stretch those wings and soar.”
Leeana looked back at her, then swallowed hard.
“Thank you, Mother,” she half-whispered.
“You’re welcome. Although, judging from your track record, you probably really don’t need a great deal of encouragement. I wouldn’t precisely want to call you headstrong, of course—although, now that I think about it, I can’t come up with a more appropriate adjective—but I have this strange suspicion that a young woman who ran away to become a war maid at fourteen isn’t very likely to start settling for anyone else’s foolish restrictions at this late date. In fact, you’re extraordinarily like your father in that respect. Although it’s to be hoped you’re at least a little smarter.”
Hanatha’s last sentence came out with a certain tartness, and Leeana’s eyebrows rose.
“I know that tone, Mother,” she said, settling back in the window seat as Sharlassa came back from her errand and sat facing her and Hanatha both. “I admit it’s been a while since I’ve heard it, but I do know it. So what is it that Father’s been up to that you didn’t include in your letters?”
Chapter Sixteen
Chemalka wasn’t cooperating, Sir Trianal Bowmaster reflected. Or not yet, at least, he amended. There was still time for Her to straighten this mess out, and he sent an urgent mental appeal to Her to get on with it. Who knew? It might even do some good, despite Her well-earned reputation for completely ignoring the requests of mere mortals.
The thought was rather less amusing than it might have been, and the night-black stallion under him stamped one rear hoof as it caught its rider’s mood. The warhorse blew heavily, tossing its head, and Trianal shook his own head mentally. Anyone who knew Windy (otherwise known as Nightwind Blowing) well wouldn’t have any problem reading his rider’s mood from the stallion’s body language. Not that it was very likely Trianal was the only one thinking what he was thinking at the moment.
“Never did like fog, Milord,” Sir Yarran Battlecrow said conversationally. Trianal turned his head, and the older knight smiled crookedly at him. “Seems like you and I have been here before, doesn’t it, Milord?”
“I was just thinking that myself,” Trianal admitted, remembering the very first battle he’d ever commanded...and how comforting Sir Yarran had been to him that time, too. Windy had been under his saddle that time, as well, now that he thought about it. “But at least there’s no damned swamp for them to be hiding in!”
“Don’t know as how fog’s that much of an improvement,” Sir Yarran said philosophically, easing himself in the saddle and glancing back over his shoulder at the waiting light cavalry. “Leastwise, it wouldn’t be if we were the ones who had to go in after the bastards.”
“I’d just as soon no one had to go in after them blind,” Trianal said a bit testily. “And in visibility like this, we are going to have to go in amongst them if everything goes according to plan. Won’t that be fun?”
Sir Yarran made a sound of unhappy agreement and craned his neck, peering up in hopes of discovering that the sun had suddenly decided to rise in the heavens and burn away the ground fog. Instead, all he saw was more fog—cold, damp, thick...and thoroughly unseasonable.
He lowered his gaze to the dripping branches of the scrub trees among which the members of Trianal’s command group had parked themselves. They were farther out in front of the main body than Sir Yarran really liked. In fact, it made his spine itch uncomfortably, although his concern was far more about something happening to Trianal than it was about anything happening to him personally. And, under normal circumstances and against another foe, he wouldn’t have been worried as much about Trianal as he was, either. But ghouls were blindingly, incredibly fast, and despite their size, the damned things moved like ghosts. Then there was that keen sense of smell of theirs. It was said a ghoul could sniff out spilled blood more than a league away. Yarrow found that difficult to believe, yet he was prepared to admit their sense of smell matched that of the finest hunting hound he’d ever seen. Which meant it was entirely possible one of them had already scented the Sothōii’s presence, in which case the gods only knew how many of them might be flitting around in the mist just out of sight right this moment. And if one of them took it into whatever passed for a ghoul’s mind to launch an attack on the cavalry force’s youthful commander...
Stop that, he told himself firmly. It’s not going to happen. And even if it does, there isn’t much you can do about it unless you want the lad to go hide somewhere in the rear ranks, and you know how well that suggestion would work!
“’Fraid you’re probably right about the bows in this stuff, Milord,” he said glumly, after a moment. “Still and all, it’ll take their javelins out of it, too.”
“You are determined to find a bright side, aren’t you?” Trianal’s tone was sour, but he gave Sir Yarran a smile to go with it. Then he sobered and turned to one of his aides. “Head back along the column, Garthian. Tell them it’s going to be lance and saber, not bows. And”—he held up a restraining hand as the courier started to turn his horse’s head back towards the rear—“tell them anyone I see charging ahead without somebody to cover his flanks is going to wish he’d never been born...assuming he survives long enough for me to rip his head off, at any rate. Clear?”
“As crystal, Milord!” Garthian replied with a broad smile.
“Then go. And keep your voice down while you’re passing the word.”
“Aye, Sir!” Garthian slapped his chest in acknowledgment, turned his horse, and went briskly cantering back along the mounted column.
“Think Yurgazh and Sir Vaijon will hold to the schedule, Milord?” Yarran asked more quietly as the spattering thud of muddy hoof beats faded.
“I’m sure they will,” Tellian replied. “Trust me, Yarran,” he turned and looked into his henchman’s eyes levelly, “one thing they aren’t going to do is leave us hanging out here in the fog
by ourselves.”
* * *
“Don’t suppose you could have a word with Scale Balancer about this fog, Sir Vaijon?” Yurgazh Charkson grumbled, waving one hand in front of his face like a man trying to brush away a fly. It made him look a little silly, Vaijon thought, not that he intended to say anything about it.
“I’m afraid weather is Chemalka’s jurisdiction, not Tomanāk’s,” he replied.
“Pity,” the Bloody Sword general half-grunted. He started to add something more—probably something fairly biting, Vaijon thought—but he stopped himself, and the champion smiled crookedly.
Yurgazh was one of the hradani who still had remarkably little use for any gods, Light or Dark, Vaijon reflected. From what he’d learned of the hradani’s struggle to survive for the last twelve centuries, Vaijon couldn’t really blame them for holding to the opinion that no gods had done them any favors during the process. Tomanāk had always had a certain grudging acceptance among them as the one God of Light a warrior could truly respect, although (much as it dismayed him to admit it) Krashnark had enjoyed almost as much respect. The balance had tipped in Tomanāk’s favor when He revealed the truth about the Rage to all hradani through Bahzell, but it probably would have been demanding a bit too much to have expected all hradani everywhere to immediately embrace the Gods of Light after so many centuries.
Not that he could disagree with Yurgazh’s fervent desire that some god would take it upon himself or herself to dispel the unexpected fog. If there’d been some way to get word to Trianal, Vaijon would have been tempted to suggest they call off the attack entirely until the weather had cleared. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any way to get word to the Sothōii—not without risking having any courier go astray and probably ride smack into the enemy, in this fog—which meant they were committed.