181
" And after?”
“As we discussed. Honor the Covenant. No more forced levies; tax reform; trade reestablished with the outside, minus the tariffs that went into the Merindar personal fortune. That’s to start.”
Bran shrugged, rubbed his hands from his jaw to through his hair, then he turned to me. “Mel?”
“I would prefer to discuss it later,” I said.
“What’s to discuss?” Bran said, spreading his hands.
“The little matter of the crown,” Shevraeth said dryly. “If we are finished, I propose we withdraw for the evening. We are all tired and would do the better for a night’s sleep.”
I turned to him. “You said to Bran we can leave, whatever we decide.”
He bowed.
“Good. We’ll leave in the morning. First light.”
Bran’s jaw dropped.
“I want to go home,” I said fiercely.
The Prince must have given some signal undiscernible to me, for suddenly a servant stood behind my chair, to whom Prince Alaerec said, “Please conduct the Countess to the chamber prepared for her.”
I got up, said to Bran, “I’ll need something to wear on the ride home.”
He slewed around in his chair. “But--“
I said even more fiercely than before, “Do you really think I ought to wear this home--even if it were mine, which it isn’t?”
“All right.” Branaric rubbed his eyes. “Curse it, I can’t think for this headache on me. Maybe I’d better turn in myself.”
He fell in step beside me and we were led out. I walked with as much dignity as I could muster, holding that dratted skirt out away from my feet. My shoulder blades itched; I imagined the two Renselaeuses staring, and I listened for the sound of their laughter long after we’d traversed the hall and gone up a flight of stairs. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
182
" What can I possibly do besides serve as a figure of fun for the Court to laugh at again? I don’t know anything--besides how to lose a war; and I don’t think anyone is requiring that particular bit of knowledge.” I tried to sound reasonable, but even I could hear the bitterness in my own voice.
My brother sighed. “I don’t know what I’ll do, either, except I’ll put my hand to anything I’m asked. That’s what our planning session is to be about, soon’s they return. So save your questions for then, and I don’t want any more of this talk of prisoners and grudges and suchlike. Vidanric saved your life--he’s been a true ally, can’t you see it now?”
“He saved it twice,” I corrected without thinking.
“He what?” My brother straightened up.
“In Chovilun dungeon. Didn’t I tell you?” Then I remembered I hadn’t gotten that far before Debegri’s trap had closed about us.
Bran pursed his lips, starting at me with an uncharacteristic expression. “Interesting. I didn’t know that.”
“Well, you got in the way of an arrow before I got a chance to finish the story,” I explained.
“Except, Vidanric didn’t tell me, either.” Branaric opened his mouth, hesitated, then shook his head. “Well, it seems we all have some talking to do. I’m going to lie down first. You drink your tea.” He went out, and I heard the door to his room shut and his cot creak.
I looked away, staring at the merry fire, my thoughts ranging back over the headlong pace of the recent days. Suddenly I knew that Shevraeth had recognized me outside that town, and I knew why he hadn’t done anything about it: because Debegri was with him then. The Marquis and his people had searched day and night in order to find me before Debegri did--searched not to kill me, but in order to save me from certain death at Debegri’s hands.
Why hadn’t he told me? Because I’d called him a liar and untrustworthy, and had made it plain I wasn’t going to change my opinion, no matter what. Then why hadn’t he told my brother, who did trust him?
That I couldn’t answer. And in a sense it didn’t matter. What did matter was that I had been wrong about Shevraeth. I had been so wrong I had nearly gotten a lot of people killed for no reason.
Just thinking it made me grit my teeth, and in a way it felt almost as bad as cleaning the fester from my wounded foot. Which was right, because I had to clean out from my mind the fester caused by anger and hatred. I remembered suddenly that horrible day in Galdran’s dungeon when the Marquis had come to me himself and offered me a choice between death and surrender. “It might buy you time,” he’d said.
At that moment I’d seen surrender as dishonor, and it had taken courage to refuse. He’d seen that and had acknowledged it in many different ways, including his words two days before about my being a heroine. Generous words, meant to brace me up. What I saw now was the grim courage it had taken to act his part in Galdran’s Court, all the time planning to change things with the least amount of damage to innocent people. And when Branaric and I had come crashing into his plans, he’d included us as much as he could in his net of safety. My subsequent brushes with death were, I saw miserably now, my own fault.
I had to respect what he’d done. He’d come to respect us for our ideals, that much was clear. What he might think of me personally… "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
183
" Our plan depended on the Renselaeus warriors being fast and accurate and brave, for they were as outnumbered as Bran and I had been up in the mountains.
I was also, therefore, intensely aware that my life was now in the hands of people I had considered enemies not two dawns ago. Did they still consider me one?
I tried to calm my nerves by laughing at myself; for someone who so recently had tried her best to ride to her death, my innards were a pit of snakes, and my palms were sweaty despite the rain. Bran was alive, I was alive, and suddenly I wanted to stay that way. I wanted to go home and clean out the castle and replant Mama’s garden. I wanted to see Oria and Julen and Khesot again, and I wanted to walk on the high peaks and dance with the Hill Folk on long summer nights, miming age-old stories to the windborne music…
I blinked. Had I just heard a reed pipe?
I lifted my head and listened, heard nothing but the thud of hooves and clatter of our accoutrements, and the soft rain in the leaves overhead. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
184
" Why hadn’t he told me? Because I’d called him a liar and untrustworthy, and had made it plain I wasn’t going to change my opinion, no matter what. Then why hadn’t he told my brother, who did trust him?
That I couldn’t answer. And in a sense it didn’t matter. What did matter was that I had been wrong about Shevraeth. I had been so wrong I had nearly gotten a lot of people killed for no reason.
Just thinking it made me grit my teeth, and in a way it felt almost as bad as cleaning the fester from my wounded foot. Which was right, because I had to clean out from my mind the fester caused by anger and hatred. I remembered suddenly that horrible day in Galdran’s dungeon when the Marquis had come to me himself and offered me a choice between death and surrender. “It might buy you time,” he’d said.
At that moment I’d seen surrender as dishonor, and it had taken courage to refuse. He’d seen that and had acknowledged it in many different ways, including his words two days before about my being a heroine. Generous words, meant to brace me up. What I saw now was the grim courage it had taken to act his part in Galdran’s Court, all the time planning to change things with the least amount of damage to innocent people. And when Branaric and I had come crashing into his plans, he’d included us as much as he could in his net of safety. My subsequent brushes with death were, I saw miserably now, my own fault.
I had to respect what he’d done. He’d come to respect us for our ideals, that much was clear. What he might think of me personally…
Suddenly I felt an overwhelming desire to be home. I wanted badly to clean out our castle, and replant Mama’s garden, and walk in the sunny glades, and think, and read, and learn. I no longer wanted to face the world in ignorance, wearing castoff clothing and old horse blankets.
But first there was something I had to do.
I slipped out the door; paused, listening. From Branaric’s room came the sound of slow, deep breathing. I stepped inside the room Shevraeth had been using, saw a half-folded map on the table, a neat pile of papers, a pen and inkwell, and a folded pair of gloves.
Pulling out the wallet from my clothes, I opened it and extracted Debegri’s letter. This I laid on the table beside the papers. Then I knelt down and picked up the pen. Finding a blank sheet of paper, I wrote in slow, careful letters: You’ll probably need this to convince Galdran’s old allies.
Then I retreated to my room, pulled the borrowed tunic over my head, bound up my ratty braid, settled the overlarge hat onto my head, and slipped out the door.
At the end of the little hall was another door, which opened onto a clearing. Under a dilapidated roof waited a string of fine horses, and a few Renselaeus stable hands sat about.
When they saw me, they sprang to their feet.
“My lady?” One bowed.
“I should like a ride,” I said, my heart thumping.
But they didn’t argue, or refuse, or send someone to warn someone else. Working together, in a trice they had a fine, fresh mare saddled and ready.
And in another trice I was on her back and riding out, on my way home. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
185
" There were no shouts, no trumpets, nothing but the ringing of iron-shod boots on the stones of the bridge, and the clank of ready weaponry.
Could we rescue them? I could not see Khesot’s face, but in the utter stillness with which they stood, I read hopelessness.
I readied myself once again--
Then from the center of their forces stepped a single equerry, with a white scarf tied to a pole. He started up the path that we meant to descend. As he walked the light strengthened, now illuminating details. Still with that weird detachment I looked at his curly hair, the freckles on his face, his small nose. We could cut him down in moments, I thought, and then winced the thought away. We were not Galdran. I waited.
He stopped not twenty-five paces from me and said loudly, “Countess, we request a parley.”
Which made it obvious they knew we were there.
Questions skittered through my mind. Had Khesot talked? How otherwise could the enemy have seen us? The only noise now was the rain, pattering softly with the magnificent indifference of nature for the tangled passions of humans.
I stood up. “Here. State your message.”
“A choice. You surrender, and your people can then disperse to their homes. Otherwise, we start with them.” He pointed to the bridge. “Then everyone else.” He lifted his hand, indicating the ridge up behind us.
I turned, and shock burned through me when I saw an uncountable host lined along the rocks we’d descended from half a night ago.
They had us boxed.
Which meant that we had walked right into a waiting trap.
I looked down at the bridge again. Through the curtain of rain the figures were clearer now. Khesot, in the center, stood next to a tall slim man with pale yellow hair.
I closed my eyes, fought for control, then opened my eyes again. “Everyone goes to their homes? Including Khesot and the four down there?”
“Everyone,” the boy said flatly, “except you, Countess.”
Which meant I was staking my life against everyone else’s. And of course there was no answer but one to be made to that.
With black murder in my heart, I flung my sword down rather than hand it over. Stepping across it, I walked past the equerry, whose footfalls I then heard crunching behind me.
Wild vows of death and destruction flowed through my mind as I walked down the trail. No one moved. Only the incessant rain came down, a silver veil, as I slipped down the pathway, then reached the bridge, then crossed it, stalking angrily between the lines of waiting warriors.
When I neared the other end of the bridge, the Marquis turned his back and walked inside the fortress, and the others followed, Khesot and the four scouts still some distance from me. I could not see their faces, could not speak to them.
I walked through the big gates, which closed. Across the courtyard the south gates stood open, and before them mounted warriors waited.
With them were two saddled, riderless horses, one a familiar gray.
In silence the entourage moved toward them, and the Marquis mounted the gray, who sidled nervously, newly shod hooves ringing on the stones.
Khesot and the others were now behind me, invisible behind the crowd of warriors in Renselaeus colors, all of whom watched and waited in silence.
It was weird, dreamlike, the only reality the burning rage in my heart.
Someone motioned me toward the single riderless horse, and I climbed up. For a moment the ground seemed to heave under the animal’s feet, but I shook my head and the world righted itself, and I glared through the softly falling rain to the cold gray gaze of the Marquis of Shevraeth, heir to Renselaeus.
His horse danced a few steps. He looked over his shoulder at me, the low brim of his hat now hiding his eyes.
“Ride,” he said. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
186
" Khesot was looking not at the map but at us, his old eyes sad.
I winced, knowing what he’d say if asked: that he had not been trained for his position any more than nature had suited Bran and me for war.
But there was no other choice.
“So if Hrani takes her riding up here on Mount Elios, mayhap they can spy out Galdran’s numbers better,” Branaric said slowly. “Then we send out someone to lure ‘em to the Ghost Fall Ravine.”
I forced my attention back to the map. “Even if the Marquis fails to see so obvious a trap,” I said, finally, smoothing a wrinkle with my fingers, “they’re necessarily all strung out going through that bottleneck. I don’t see how we can account for many of them before they figure out what we’re at, and retreat. I say we strike fast, in total surprise. We could set fire to their tents and steal all their mounts. That’d set ‘em back a little.”
Bran frowned. “None of our attempts to scare ‘em off have worked, though--even with Debegri. He just sent for more reinforcements, and now there’s this new commander. Attacking their camp sounds more risky to us than to them.”
Khesot still said nothing, leaning over only to tap out and reload his pipe. I followed the direction of his gaze to my brother’s face. Had Branaric been born without title or parental plans, he probably would have found his way into a band of traveling players and there enjoyed a life’s contentment. Did one not know him by sight, there was no sign in his worn dress or in his manner that he was a count--and this was even more true for me. I looked at Khesot and wondered if he felt sad that though today was my Flower Day there would be no dancing--no music, or laughter, or family to celebrate the leaving of childhood behind. Among the aristocrats in the lowlands, Flower Day was celebrated with fine dresses and satin slippers and expensive gifts. Did he pity us?
He couldn’t understand that I had no regrets for something I’d never known--and believed I never would know. But I controlled my impatience, and my tongue, because I knew from long experience that he was again seeing our mother in us--in our wide, dark-lashed eyes and auburn hair--and she had dearly loved pretty clothing, music, her rose garden.
And Galdran had had her killed.
“What do you think?” Bran addressed Khesot, who smiled ruefully.
“You’ll pardon an old man, my lord, my lady. I’m more tired than I thought. My mind wandered and I did not hear what you asked.”
“Can you second-guess this Shevraeth?” Branaric asked. “He seems to be driving us back into our hills--to what purpose? Why hasn’t he taken over any of our villages? He knows where they lie--and he has the forces. If he does that, traps or no traps, arrows or no arrows, we’re lost. We won’t be able to retake them.”
Khesot puffed again, watching smoke curl lazily toward the tent roof.
In my mind I saw, clearly, that straight-backed figure on the dapple-gray horse, his long black cloak slung back over the animal’s haunches, his plumed helm of command on his head. With either phenomenal courage or outright arrogance he had ignored the possibility of our arrows, the crowned sun stitched on his tunic gleaming in the noonday light as he directed the day’s battle. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
187
" Can you second-guess this Shevraeth?” Branaric asked. “He seems to be driving us back into our hills--to what purpose? Why hasn’t he taken over any of our villages? He knows where they lie--and he has the forces. If he does that, traps or no traps, arrows or no arrows, we’re lost. We won’t be able to retake them.”
Khesot puffed again, watching smoke curl lazily toward the tent roof.
In my mind I saw, clearly, that straight-backed figure on the dapple-gray horse, his long black cloak slung back over the animal’s haunches, his plumed helm of command on his head. With either phenomenal courage or outright arrogance he had ignored the possibility of our arrows, the crowned sun stitched on his tunic gleaming in the noonday light as he directed the day’s battle.
“I do not know,” Khesot said slowly. “But judging from our constant retreats of the last week, I confess freely, I do not believe him to be stupid.”
I said, “I find it impossible to believe that a Court fop--really, Azmus reported gossip in Remalna claiming him to be the most brainless dandy of them all--could suddenly become so great a leader.”
Khesot tapped his pipe again. “Hard to say. Certainly Galdran’s famed army did poorly enough against us until he came. But maybe he has good captains, and unlike Debegri, he may listen to them. They cannot all be stupid,” Khesot said. “They’ve been guarding the coast and keeping peace in the cities all these years. It could also be they learned from those first weeks’ losses to us. They certainly respect us a deal more than they did at the outset.” He closed his eyes.
“Which is why I say we ought to attack them at their camp.” I jabbed a finger at the map. “There are too many of them to carry their own water. They’ll have to camp by a stream, right? Oh, I suppose it isn’t realistic, but how I love the image of us setting fire to their tents, and them swarming about like angry ants while we laugh our way back into the hills.”
Branaric’s ready grin lightened his somber expression. He started to say something, then was taken by a sudden, fierce yawn. Almost immediately my own mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn that made my eyes sting.
“We can discuss our alternatives with the riding leaders after we eat, if I may suggest, my lord, my lady,” Khesot said, looking anxiously from one of us to the other. “Let me send Saluen to the cook tent for something hot.”
Khesot rose and moved to the flap of the tent to look out. He made a sign to the young man standing guard under the rain canopy a short distance away. Saluen came, Khesot gave his order, and we all watched Saluen lope down the trail to the cook tent.
Khesot stayed on his feet, beckoning to my brother. With careful fingers I rolled up our map. I was peripherally aware of the other two talking in low voices, until Branaric confronted me with surprise and consternation plain on his face.
Branaric waited until I had stowed the map away, then he grabbed me in a sudden, fierce hug. “Next year,” he said in a husky voice. “Can’t make much of your Flower Day, but next year I promise you’ll have a Name Day celebration to be remembered forever--and it’ll be in the capital!”
“With us as winners, right?” I said, laughing. “It’s all right, Bran. I don’t think I’m ready for Flower Day yet, anyway. Maybe being so short has made me age slower, or something. I’ll be just as happy dancing with the children another year.”
Bran smiled back, then turned away and resumed his quiet conversation with Khesot. I listened for a moment to the murmur of their voices and looked at but didn’t really notice the steady rain, or the faintly glowing tents.
Instead my inner eye kept returning to the memory of our people running before a mass of orderly brown-and-green-clad soldiers, overseen by a straight figure in a black cloak riding back and forth along a high ridge. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
188
" It was a relief when we reached the village of Lumm. We did not go into it but rode on the outskirts. When the great mage-built bridge came into view I felt Shevraeth’s arm tighten as he looked this way and that.
On a grassy sward directly opposite the approach to the bridge a plain carriage waited with no markings on its sides, the wheels and lower portions muddy. The only sign that this might not be some inn’s rental equipment were the five high-bred horses waiting nearby, long lines attached to their bits. A boy wearing the garb of a stable hand sat on a large rock holding the horses’ lines; nearby a footman and a driver, both in unmarked clothing but wearing servants’ hats, stood conversing in between sips from hip flagons. Steady traffic, mostly merchants, passed by, but no one gave them more than a cursory glance.
The gray threaded through a caravan of laden carts. As soon as the waiting servants saw us, the flagons were hastily stowed, the horse boy leaped to his feet, and all three bowed low.
“Hitch them up,” said the Marquis.
The boy sprang to the horses’ mouths and the driver to the waiting harnesses as the footman moved to the stirrup of the gray.
No one spoke. With a minimum of fuss the Marquis dismounted, pulled me down himself, and deposited me in the carriage on a seat strewn with pillows. Then he shut the door and walked away.
By then the driver was on her box, and the horse boy was finishing the last of the harnesses, helped by the footman. Levering myself up on the seat, I watched through the window as the footman hastily transferred all the gear on the gray to the last waiting horse, and then the Marquis swung into the saddle, leaning down to address a few words to the footman. Then the gray was led out of sight, and without any warning the carriage gave a great jolt and we started off.
Not one of the passerby showed the least interest in the proceedings. I wondered if I had missed yet another chance at escape, but if I did yell for help, who knew what the partisanship of the Lumm merchants was? I might very well have gotten my mouth gagged for my pains.
This did not help my spirits any, for now that the immediate discomforts had eased, I realized again that I was sick. How could I effect an escape when I had as much spunk as a pot of overboiled noodles?
I lay back down on the pillows, and before long the warmth and swaying of the carriage sent me off to sleep. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
189
" Curse it,” Bran said the next morning, standing before the fire in shirt and trousers with his shoulder stiffy bandaged. “You think this necessary?”
He pointed at the mail coats lying on the table, their linked steel rings gleaming coldly in the light of two glowglobes. It was well before dawn. The Marquis had woken us himself, with the news that Galdran’s forces were nigh. And his messengers had brought from Renselaeus the mail coats, newly made and expensive.
“Treachery--” Shevraeth paused to cough and to catch his breath. He, too, stood there in only shirt and trousers and boots, and I looked away quickly, embarrassed. “We should be prepared for treachery. It was his idea to send archers against you in the mountains. He will have them with him now.” He coughed again, the rattling cough of a heavy cold.
I sighed. My own fever and aches had all settled into my throat, and my voice was gone.
Bran was the worst off. Besides the wound in his shoulder, he coughed, sneezed, and sounded hoarse. His eyes and nose watered constantly. Luckily the Renselaeus munificence extended to a besorceled handkerchief that stayed dry and clean despite its heavy use.
Groaning and wincing, Bran lifted his arm just high enough for a couple of equerries to slip the chain mail over his head. As it settled onto him, chinging softly, he winced and said, “Feels like I’ve got a horse lying athwart my shoulders.”
I picked up the one set aside for me and retreated to my room to put it on, and then the tunic they’d given me. Branaric’s wallet containing Debegri’s letter lay safe and snug in my waistband.
When I came back, Branaric started laughing. “A mouse in mail!” he said, pointing. He and Shevraeth both had battle tunics on, and swords belted at their sides; they looked formidable, whereas I felt I looked ridiculous. My mail shirt was the smallest of the three, but it was still much too large, and it bunched and folded beneath my already outsized tunic, making me feel like an overstuffed cushion.
But the Marquis said nothing at all as he indicated a table where a choice of weapons lay, with belts and baldrics of various sizes and styles. In silence I belted on a short sword similar to the one I’d thrown down in surrender above the Vesingrui fortress. I found a helm that fit pretty well over my braid coronet, and then I was ready.
Within a short time we were mounted on fresh chargers that were also armored. Despite the chill outside I started warm, for we’d each drunk an infusion of listerblossoms against illness.
Our way was lit by torches as we raced over the ancient road, under trees that had been old before my family first came to Tlanth. Except for the rhythm of hooves there was no sound, but I sensed that forest life was watching us. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
190
" I saw an open door at the other end of the little hall, and yellow light pouring from it.
The light drew me more than anything. Straightening up, I crossed the hall. Inside the room Shevraeth sat at a rough stone table near a fireplace, in which a crackling fire roared. At one end of the table was spread a map, at the other a tray of food, as yet untouched. Against an adjacent wall was a narrow bed, with more papers and another map spread over its neatly smoothed blanket. Three or four warriors in the familiar livery sat on mats around the table, all talking in quiet voices, but when the Marquis saw me, they fell silent and rose to their feet.
In silence, they filed past me, and I was left alone with the person who, the day before, I’d wanted to kill even more than Galdran Merindar.
“Take a swig.” Shevraeth held out a flagon. “You’re going to need it, I’m afraid.”
I crossed the room, sank cross-legged onto the nearest mat. With one numb hand I took the flagon, squeezed a share of its contents into my mouth; and gasped as the fire of distilled bristic burned its way inside me. I took a second sip and with stinging eyes handed the flagon back.
“Blue lips,” he said, with that faint smile. “You’re going to have a whopping cold.”
I looked up at the color burning along his cheekbones, and the faint lines of strain in his forehead, and made a discovery. “So are you,” I said. “Hah!” I added, obscurely pleased. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
191
" I sat up, fought against dizziness. Somewhere in the distance a single bell rang out the pattern for gold-candles and the beginning of another day.
“Drink.”
The cup was near to hand. I rose on one elbow and reached for it. Some sips later I felt immeasurably better. My eyesight cleared, and so did my thoughts.
I remembered the interlude during the night, and frowned across the fire at my companion. He looked exactly the same as ever--as if he’d sat up for a single time measure and not for an entire night. The plain hat, simply tied hair, ordinary clothing unmarked by any device; I squinted, trying to equate this slight figure with that arrogant plume-helmed commander riding on the ridge above the last battle. But if he is who I think he is, they’re used to being up all night at their stupid Court parties, I thought grimly.
“You seem to know who I am,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Does it matter?”
His use of my own words the night before surprised me a little. Did he expect flattery? Supposedly those so-refined Court aristocrats lived on it as anyone else lives on bread and drink. I considered my answer, wanting to make certain it was not even remotely complimentary. “I’m exactly as unlikely to blab our secrets to an anonymous flunky as I am to a Court decoration with a reputation as a gambler and a fop,” I said finally.
“’Court decoration’?” he repeated, with a faint smile. The strengthening light of dawn revealed telltale marks under his eyes. So he was tired. I was obscurely glad.
“Yes,” I said, pleased to expand on my insult. “My father’s term.”
“You’ve never wished to meet a…Court decoration for yourself?”
“No.” Then I added cheerily, “Well, maybe when I was a child.”
The Marquis of Shevraeth, Galdran’s commander-in-chief, grinned. It was the first real grin I’d seen on his face, as if he were struggling to hold in laughter. Setting his cup down, he made a graceful half-bow from his seat on the other side of the fire and said, “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Meliara.”
I sniffed.
“And now that I’ve been thoroughly put in my place,” he said, “let us leave my way of life and proceed to yours. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
192
" In silence, they filed past me, and I was left alone with the person who, the day before, I’d wanted to kill even more than Galdran Merindar.
“Take a swig.” Shevraeth held out a flagon. “You’re going to need it, I’m afraid.”
I crossed the room, sank cross-legged onto the nearest mat. With one numb hand I took the flagon, squeezed a share of its contents into my mouth; and gasped as the fire of distilled bristic burned its way inside me. I took a second sip and with stinging eyes handed the flagon back.
“Blue lips,” he said, with that faint smile. “You’re going to have a whopping cold.”
I looked up at the color burning along his cheekbones, and the faint lines of strain in his forehead, and made a discovery. “So are you,” I said. “Hah!” I added, obscurely pleased.
His mouth quirked. “Do you have any questions?”
“Yes.” My voice came out hoarse, and I cleared my throat. “Bran said Galdran is coming after us. Why? I thought it had been made abundantly clear that--thanks to you--we were defeated, and that was after he’d already decided we were of no account.”
“Here. Eat something.” He pulled the tray over and pointed to the bread-and-cheese on it, and at the half of some kind of fruit tart.
I picked up the bread and bit into it as he said, “But his cousin did not encompass your defeat, despite the fact that you were outnumbered and outmaneuvered. This is the more galling for Galdran, you must understand, when you consider the enormous loss of prestige he has suffered of late.”
“Loss of prestige? In what way?” I asked.
He sat back, his eyes glinting with amusement. “First there was the matter of a--very--public announcement of a pending execution, following which the intended victim escapes. Then…didn’t you stop to consider that the countryside folk who endured many long days of constant martial interference in the form of searches, curfews, and threats might have a few questions about the justice of said threats--or the efficacy of all these armed and mounted soldiery tramping through their fields and farms unsuccessfully trying to flush a single unarmed, rather unprepossessing individual? Especially when said individual took great care not to endanger anyone beyond the first--anonymous--family to give her succor, to whom she promised there would be no civil war?”
I gasped. “I never promised that. How could I? I promised that Bran and I wouldn’t carry our fight into their territory.”
Shevraeth’s smile was wry. “But you must know how gossip gets distorted when it burns across the countryside, faster than a summer hayfire. And you had given the word of a countess. You have to remember that a good part of our…influence…is vouchsafed in our status, after the manner of centuries of habit. It is a strength and a weakness, a good and an evil.”
I winced, thinking of Ara, who knew more about history than I did. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
193
" And you really are the Countess of Tlanth?”
I nodded.
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Emis over on Nikaru Farm is going to be soooo jealous when she finds out. She thinks she’s so very fine a lady, just because she has a cousin in service at Athanarel and her brother in the Guard. There is no news from Athanarel if she doesn’t know it first, or more of it than anyone.”
“What is the news?” I asked, feeling the old fear close round me.
She pursed her lips. “Maybe Mama is right about my tongue running like a fox in the wild. Are you certain you want all this now?”
“Very much,” I said.
“It comes to this: The Duke of Savona and the Marquis of Shevraeth have another wager, on which one can find you first. The King thinks it great sport, and they have people on all the main roads leading west to the mountains.”
“Did they say anything about my escape?”
She shook her head. “Luz overheard some merchants at the Harvest--that’s the inn down the road at Garval--saying they thought it was wizard work or a big conspiracy. I went with Papa when he returned to the Three Rings in Remalna-city, and everyone was talking about it.” She grinned. “Elun Kepruid--he’s the innkeeper’s son at Three Rings, and he likes me plenty--was telling me all the real gossip from the palace. The King was very angry, and at first wanted to execute all the guards who had duty the night you got out, except the ones he really wanted had disappeared, and everyone at Court thought there was a conspiracy, and they were afraid of attack. But then the lords started the wagers and turned it all into a game. Savona swore he’d fling you at the King’s feet inside of two weeks. Baron Debegri, who was just returned from the mountains, said he’d bring your head--then take it and fling it at your brother’s feet. He’s a hard one, the Baron, Emis’s brother said.” She grimaced. “Is this too terrible to hear?”
“No…No. I just need…to think.”
She put her chin on her hands. “Did you see the Duke?”
“Which duke?”
“Savona.” She sighed. “Emis has seen him--twice. She gets to visit her cousin at Winter Festival. She says he’s even more handsome than I can imagine. Four duels…Did you?”
I shook my head. “All I saw was the inside of my cell. And the King. And that Shevraeth,” I added somewhat bitterly.
“He’s supposed to have a head for nothing but clothes. And gambling.” Ara shrugged dismissively. “Everybody thinks it’s really Debegri who--well, got you.”
“What got me was a trap. And it was my own fault.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Mama says I ought not to ask much about what happened. She says the less I know, the less danger there is to my family. You think that’s true?”
Danger to her family. It was a warning. I nodded firmly. “Just forget it, and I’ll make you a promise. If I live through this mess, and things settle down, I’ll tell you everything. How’s that?”
Ara clapped her hands and laughed. “That’s nacky! Especially if you tell me all about your palace in Tlanth. How Emis’s nose will turn purple from envy--when I can tell her, that is!”
I thought of our old castle, with its broken windows and walls, the worn, shabby furnishings and overgrown garden, and sighed. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
194
" After a time Ara had to do her chores, leaving me on the porch with a fresh infusion of tea to drink, her garden to look at, and her words to consider.
Not that I got very far. There were too many questions. Like: Where did those guards go? Azmus had overcome one, but I didn’t remember having seen any more. Then there were the unlocked doors. The one to my cell could be explained away, but not the outside one. If there was a conspiracy, was Azmus behind it? Or someone else--and if so, who; and more importantly, to what end?
It was just possible that those dashing aristos had contrived my escape for a game, just as a cruel cat will play with a mouse before the kill. Their well-publicized bet could certainly account for that. The wager would also serve very nicely as a warning to ordinary people not to interfere with their prey, I thought narrowly.
Which meant that if I’d left any clue to my trail, I had better move on. Soon. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
195
" I’m exactly as unlikely to blab our secrets to an anonymous flunky as I am to a Court decoration with a reputation as a gambler and a fop,” I said finally.
“’Court decoration’?” he repeated, with a faint smile. The strengthening light of dawn revealed telltale marks under his eyes. So he was tired. I was obscurely glad.
“Yes,” I said, pleased to expand on my insult. “My father’s term.”
“You’ve never wished to meet a…Court decoration for yourself?”
“No.” Then I added cheerily, “Well, maybe when I was a child.”
The Marquis of Shevraeth, Galdran’s commander-in-chief, grinned. It was the first real grin I’d seen on his face, as if he were struggling to hold in laughter. Setting his cup down, he made a graceful half-bow from his seat on the other side of the fire and said, “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Meliara.”
I sniffed.
“And now that I’ve been thoroughly put in my place,” he said, “let us leave my way of life and proceed to yours. I take it your revolt is not engineered for the benefit of your fellow-nobles, or as an attempt to reestablish your mother’s blood claim through the Calahanras family. Wherefore is it, then?”
I looked up in surprise. “There ought to be no mystery obscuring our reasons. Did you not trouble to read the letter we sent to Galdran Merindar before he sent Debegri against us? It was addressed to the entire Court, and our reasons were stated as plainly as we could write them--and all our names signed to it.”
“Assume that the letter was somehow suppressed,” he said dryly. “Can you summarize its message?”
“Easy,” I said promptly. “We went to war on behalf of the Hill Folk, whose Covenant Galdran wants to break. But not just for them. We also want to better the lives of the people of Remalna: the ordinary folk who’ve been taxed into poverty, or driven from their farms, or sent into hastily constructed mines, all for Galdran’s personal glory. And I guess for the rest of yours as well, for whose money are you spending on those fabulous Court clothes you never wear twice? Your father still holds the Renselaeus principality--or has he ceded it to Galdran at last? Isn’t it, too, taxed and farmed to the bone so that you can outshine all the rest of those fools at Court?”
All the humor had gone out of his face, leaving it impossible to read. He said, “Since the kind of rumor about Court life that you seem to regard as truth also depicts us as inveterate liars, I will not waste time attempting to defend or deny. Let us instead discuss your eventual goal. Supposing,” he said, reaching to pour more tea into my cup--as if we were in a drawing room, and not sitting outside in the chill dawn, in grimy clothes, on either side of a fire just as we were on either side of a war--“Supposing you were to defeat the King. What then? Kill all the nobles in Athanarel and set yourselves up as rustic King and Queen?”
I remembered father’s whisper as he lay dying: You can take Remalna, and you will be better rulers than any Merindar ever was.
It had sounded fine then, but the thought of giving any hint of that to this blank-faced Court idler made me uncomfortable. I shook my head. “We didn’t want to kill anyone. Not even Galdran, until he sent Debegri to break the Covenant and take our lands. As for ruling, yes we would, if no one else better came along. We were doing it not for ourselves but for the kingdom. Disbelieve it all you want, but there’s the truth of it. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
196
" And as for Vidanric, well, you’re safe there. I’ve never met anyone as closemouthed, when he wants to be. He won’t ask your reasons. What?”
“I said, ‘Hah.’”
“What is it, do you mislike him?” Again she was studying me, her fingers playing with the pretty fan hanging at her waist.
“Yes. No. Not mislike, but more…mistrust. Not what he’ll do, but what he might say,” I babbled. “Oh, never mind. It’s all foolishness. Suffice it to say I feel better when we’re at opposite ends of the country, but I’ll settle for opposite ends of the castle.”
Her eyes widened. If she hadn’t been a lady, I would have said she was on the verge of whistling. "
― Sherwood Smith , Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2)
197
" My spirits were so glum I almost overlooked the two letters waiting on my writing table.
When I did see them, my heart gave one of those painful thumps, and I wondered if these were letters of rejection. The top one had my name written out in a bold, slanting hand, with flourishing letter-ends and underlining. I pulled it open.
My Dear Meliara:
You cannot deny me the pleasure of your company on a picnic this afternoon. I will arrange everything. All you need to do is appear and grace the day with your beautiful smile. To meet you will be some of our mutual friends…
Named were several people, all of whom I knew, and it ended with a promise of undying admiration. It was signed Russav.
Could it be an elaborate joke, with me as the butt, as a kind of revenge for my social lapse? I reread the note several times, dismissing automatically the caressing tone--I knew it for more of his flirtatious style. Finally I realized that I did not see Tamara’s name among the guests, though just about all of the others had been at the party the night before.
A cold sensation washed through me. I had the feeling that if anyone was being made a butt, it was not Meliara Astiar, social lapse notwithstanding.
I turned to the next letter and was glad to see the plain script of my Unknown:
Meliara--
In keeping faith with your stated desire to have the truth of my observations, permit me to observe that you have a remarkable ability to win partisans. If you choose to dismiss this gift and believe yourself powerless, then of course you are powerless; but the potential is still there--you are merely pushing it away with both hands.
Ignorance, if you will honor me with permission to take issue with your words, is a matter of definition--or possibly of degree. To be aware of one’s lack of knowledge is to be merely untutored, a state that you seem to be aggressively attempting to change. A true ignorant is unaware of this lack.
To bring our discourse from the general to the specific, I offer my congratulation to you on your triumph in the Affair Tamara. She intended to do you ill. You apparently didn’t see it, or appeared not to see it. It was the most effective--perhaps the only effective--means of scouting her plans for your undoing. Now her reputation is in your hands.
This is not evidence of lack of influence.
And it ended there.
Two utterly unexpected communications. The only facts that seemed certain were that the Unknown had been at that party and like Savona (maybe it was he?) had sat up very late penning this letter. Or both letters.
I needed very much to think these things out. "
― Sherwood Smith , Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2)
198
" For those first days it had taken all my energy just to keep up and not embarrass myself. But the regular food, and the rest, had restored a lot of my energy, and with it came curiosity.
I said tentatively, “You know, I have one or two questions…”
Amol’s eyelids lifted like he was thinking, Just one or two? and Snap took her underlip firmly between her teeth. She seemed to have the quickest temper, but she was also the first to laugh. Both of them turned expectantly to their captain, who said calmly, “Please feel free to ask, Lady Meliara. I’ll answer what I can.”
“Well, first, there’s that dungeon. Now, don’t think I’m complaining, but the last thing I remember is Shevraeth’s knife coming between me and a hot poker, you might say. I wake up with you, and we’re on the road, going north. Remalna-city is south. I take it I’m not on my way back to being a guest of Greedy Galdran?”
Snap’s head dropped quickly at the nickname for the King, as if to hide her laughter, but Amol snickered openly.
“No, my lady,” Nessaren said.
“Well, then, it seems to me we’re just about to the border. If we’re going to Tlanth, we ought to be turning west.”
“We are not going to Tlanth, my lady.”
I said with a deep feeling of foreboding, “Can you tell me where we are going?”
“Yes, my lady. Home. To Renselaeus.”
Not home to me, I thought, but because they had been so decent, I bit the comment back and just shook my head. “Why?”
“I do not know that. My orders were to bring you as quickly as was comfortable for you to travel.”
“I’d like to go home,” I said, polite as it was possible for me to be.
Nessaren’s expression blanked, and I knew she was about to tell me I couldn’t.
I said quickly, “It’s not far. I just want to see my brother, and let him know what has happened to me. He must be worried--he might even think me dead.”
At the words my brother her eyes flickered, but otherwise there was no change in her expression. When I was done speaking she said quietly, with a hint of regret, “I am sorry, my lady. I have my orders.”
I tried once again. “A message to Branaric, then? Please. You can read it--you can write it--“
She shook her head once, her gaze not on me, but somewhere beyond the trees. We’d ceased to be companions, even in pretense--which left only enemies. “We’re to have no communication with anyone outside of our own people,” she said.
My first reaction was disbelief. Then I thought of that letter of thanks I’d planned on writing, and even though I had not told anyone, humiliation burned through me, followed by anger all the more bright for the sense of betrayal that underlay it all. Why betrayal? Shevraeth had never pretended to be on my side. Therefore he had saved my life purely for his own ends. Worse, my brother was somehow involved with his plans; I remembered Nessaren’s subtle reaction to his mention, and I wondered if there had been some sort of reference to Bran in that letter Nessaren had just received. What else could this mean but that I was again to be used to force my brother to surrender?
Fury had withered all my good feelings, but I was determined not to show any of it, and I sat with my gaze on my hands, which were gripped in my lap, until I felt that I had my emotions under control again. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
199
" I take it your revolt is not engineered for the benefit of your fellow-nobles, or as an attempt to reestablish your mother’s blood claim through the Calahanras family. Wherefore is it, then?”
I looked up in surprise. “There ought to be no mystery obscuring our reasons. Did you not trouble to read the letter we sent to Galdran Merindar before he sent Debegri against us? It was addressed to the entire Court, and our reasons were stated as plainly as we could write them--and all our names signed to it.”
“Assume that the letter was somehow suppressed,” he said dryly. “Can you summarize its message?”
“Easy,” I said promptly. “We went to war on behalf of the Hill Folk, whose Covenant Galdran wants to break. But not just for them. We also want to better the lives of the people of Remalna: the ordinary folk who’ve been taxed into poverty, or driven from their farms, or sent into hastily constructed mines, all for Galdran’s personal glory. And I guess for the rest of yours as well, for whose money are you spending on those fabulous Court clothes you never wear twice? Your father still holds the Renselaeus principality--or has he ceded it to Galdran at last? Isn’t it, too, taxed and farmed to the bone so that you can outshine all the rest of those fools at Court?”
All the humor had gone out of his face, leaving it impossible to read. He said, “Since the kind of rumor about Court life that you seem to regard as truth also depicts us as inveterate liars, I will not waste time attempting to defend or deny. Let us instead discuss your eventual goal. Supposing,” he said, reaching to pour more tea into my cup--as if we were in a drawing room, and not sitting outside in the chill dawn, in grimy clothes, on either side of a fire just as we were on either side of a war--“Supposing you were to defeat the King. What then? Kill all the nobles in Athanarel and set yourselves up as rustic King and Queen?”
I remembered father’s whisper as he lay dying: You can take Remalna, and you will be better rulers than any Merindar ever was.
It had sounded fine then, but the thought of giving any hint of that to this blank-faced Court idler made me uncomfortable. I shook my head. “We didn’t want to kill anyone. Not even Galdran, until he sent Debegri to break the Covenant and take our lands. As for ruling, yes we would, if no one else better came along. We were doing it not for ourselves but for the kingdom. Disbelieve it all you want, but there’s the truth of it.”
“Finish your tea,” he said. “Before we find our way to a more comfortable conveyance, I am very much afraid we’re both in for a distasteful interlude. "
― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)
