Sherwood Smith QUOTES

141 " Where are we going?” I asked as he helped me down the stairs.
“Stable. One chance of getting out is there--if we’re fast.”
Neither of us wasted any more breath. He had to look around constantly while bearing my weight. I concentrated on walking.
At the stable, servants were running back and forth on errands, but we made our way slowly along the wall of a long, low building toward a row of elegant town carriages.
I murmured, “Don’t tell me…I’m to steal one of these?”
Azmus gave a breathless laugh. “You’ll steal a ride--if we can get you in. Your best chance is the one that belongs to the Princess of Renselaeus--if we can, by some miracle, get near it. The guards will never stop it, even if the hue and cry is raised. And she doesn’t live within Athanarel, but at the family palace in the city.”
“Renselaeus…” I repeated, then grinned. The Princess was the mother of the Marquis. The Prince, her husband, who was rumored to have been badly wounded in the Pirate Wars, never left their land. I loved the idea of making my escape under the nose of Shevraeth’s mother. Next thing to snapping my fingers under his nose.
Suddenly there was an increase in noise from the direction of the palace. A young girl came running toward us, torch hissing and streaming in the rain. “Savona!” she yelled. “Savona!”
A carriage near the front of the line was maneuvered out, rolling out of the courtyard toward the distant great hall.
Keeping close to the walls, we moved along the line until we were near a handsome equipage that looked comfortable and well sprung, even in the dark and rain. All around it stood a cluster of servants dressed in sky blue, black, and white.
Two more names were called out by runners, and then came, “Renselaeus!”
But before the carriage could roll, the runner dashed up and said, “Wait! Wait! Get canopies! She won’t come out without canopies--says her gown will be ruined.”
One of the servants groaned; they all, except the driver, dashed inside the stable.
Next to me, Azmus drew in his breath in a sharp hiss. “Come,” he said. “This is it.”
And we crossed the few steps to the carriage. A quick look. Everyone else was seeing to their own horses, or wiping rain from windows, or trying to stay out of the worst of the wet. At the back of the coach was a long trunk; Azmus lifted the lid and helped me climb up and inside. “I do not know if I can get to the Renselaeus palace to aid you,” he warned as he lowered the lid.
“I’ll make it,” I promised. “Thanks. You’ll be remembered for this.”
“Down with Merindar,” he murmured. “Farewell, my lady.”
And the lid closed.
Lying flat was a relief, though the thick-woven hemp flooring scraped at my cheek. Around me muffled voices arrived. The carriage rocked as the foot servants grabbed hold. Then we moved, slowly, smoothly. Then stopped.
Faintly, beckoning and lovely, I heard two melodic lines traded back and forth between sweet wind instruments, and the thrumming of metallic harp strings.
A high, imperious voice drowned the music: “Come, come! Closer together! Step as one, now. I mustn’t ruin this gown…The King himself spoke in praise of it…I can only wear it again if it is not ruined…Step lively there, and have a care for puddles. There!”
I could envision a crowd of foot servants holding rain canopies over her head, like a moving tent, as the old lady bustled across the mud. She arrived safely in the carriage, and when she was closed in, once again we started to roll.
“Ware, gate!” the driver called presently. “Ware for Renselaeus!” The carriage scarcely slowed. I heard the creak of the great iron gates--the ones that were supposed to be sporting my head within a day. They swung shut with a graunching of protesting metal, and the carriage rolled out of Athanarel and into the city. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)

143 " The riders fanned out, but my immediate escort rode straight to the overhanging rusty roof that formed a rudimentary barn. The Marquis dismounted and stretched out his hand to grip the bridle of my horse.
“Inside,” he said to me.
I dismounted. Again the ground seemed to heave beneath my feet, but I leaned against the shoulders of my mount until the world steadied, and then I straightened up.
The Marquis walked toward the open doorway.
In a kind of blank daze, I followed the sweeping black cloak inside and down a tiny hall, to a door made of old, rickety twigs bound together. The Marquis opened this and waved me into a little room. I took two steps inside it, looked--
And there, lying on a narrow bed, with books and papers strewn about him, was my brother, Branaric.
“Mel!” he exclaimed. “Burn it, you were right,” he said past me. “Ran her to ground at Vesingrui, eh?”
A voice spoke behind me. “They were just about to drop on us.”
I turned, saw the Marquis leaning in the doorway, a growing puddle of rainwater at his feet.
For a long moment I could do nothing except stand as if rooted. The world seemed about to dissolve for a sickening moment, but I sucked in a ragged breath and it righted again, and I threw myself down on my knees next to the bed, knocking my soggy, shapeless hat off, and hugged Branaric fiercely.
“Mel, Mel,” Bran said, laughing, then he groaned and fell back on his pillows. “Softly, girl. Curse it! I’m weak as a newborn kitten.”
“And will be for a time,” came the voice from the doorway. “Once your explanations have been made, I exhort you to remember Mistress Kylar’s warning.”
“Aye, I’ve it well in mine,” Bran said. And as the door closed, he looked up at me from fever-bright eyes. “He was right! Said you’d go straight after ‘em, sword and knife. What’s with you?”
“You said, ‘A trap.’ I thought it was them,” I muttered through suddenly numb lips. “Wasn’t it?”
“Didn’t you see the riding of greeners?” Bran retorted. “It was Debegri, right enough. He had paid informants in those inns, for he was on the watch for your return. Why d’you think Vidanric sent the escort?”
“Vidanric?”
“His name,” Branaric said, still staring at me with that odd gaze. “You could try to use it--only polite. After all, Shevraeth is just a title, and he doesn’t go about calling either of us Tlanth.”
I’d rather cut out my tongue, I thought, but I said nothing. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)

145 " He was right! Said you’d go straight after ‘em, sword and knife. What’s with you?”
“You said, ‘A trap.’ I thought it was them,” I muttered through suddenly numb lips. “Wasn’t it?”
“Didn’t you see the riding of greeners?” Bran retorted. “It was Debegri, right enough. He had paid informants in those inns, for he was on the watch for your return. Why d’you think Vidanric sent the escort?”
“Vidanric?”
“His name,” Branaric said, still staring at me with that odd gaze. “You could try to use it--only polite. After all, Shevraeth is just a title, and he doesn’t go about calling either of us Tlanth.”
I’d rather cut out my tongue, I thought, but I said nothing.
“Anyway--life, sister--if he’d wanted me dead, why not in the comfort of his own home, where he could do a better job?”
I shook my head. “It made sense to me.”
“It makes sense when you have a castle-sized grudge.” He sighed. “It was the Renselaeus escort, hard on their heels, that attacked Debegri’s gang and saved my life. Our friend the Marquis wasn’t far behind--he’d just found out about the spies, he said. Between us we pieced together what happened, and what I said, and what you’d likely do. I thought you’d stay home. He said you’d ride back down the mountain breathing fire and hunting his blood. He was right.” He stared to laugh, but it came out a groan, and he closed his eyes for a long breath. Then, “Arrow clipped me on the right, or I’d be finished. But I can’t talk long--I’m already feeling sick. Galdran is just behind Debegri. He’s coming up to make an example of Tlanth himself. Talk all over the country-side…” He stopped, taking several slow breaths, then he squinted at me. “Ask Vidanric. He’s the one explained it to me.”
“First tell me, are we prisoners, or not?”
“No,” Bran said. “But mark my words: The end is nigh. And we’re either for Renselaeus or for Galdran.”
“You mean Shevraeth is coming into the open?”
“Yes.”
“Then--he’s going to face the whole army?”
Bran breathed deeply again. “Galdran has very few friends,” he murmured, then closed his eyes. “Go change. Eat.”
I nodded, the numbness spreading from my lips to my brain, and to my heart. “Get your rest. We’ll talk when you feel better. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)

147 " I closed my eyes, feeling sleep steal over me; but the pleasant lassitude fled when the tent flap opened again, this time pulled by a rough hand. Cold air swirled in. I blinked up at a burly helmeted soldier. He held the tent flap aside for a much lighter-boned man, who walked in wearing an anonymous black cloak. The guard let the flap fall, and I heard the gravel crunch under his boots as he took up position outside the tent.
The new arrival sank down onto the camp stool the healer had used, but he didn’t say anything, so for a short time we studied one another’s faces in the dim light. Large gray eyes surveyed me from my filthy scalp to my bandaged leg. I could read nothing in the man’s face beyond that leisurely assessment, so I just stared back, trying to gather my wits as I catalogued his features: a straight nose, the chiseled bones of someone at least Bran’s age, a long mouth with the deep corners of someone on the verge of a laugh. All this framed by long pale blond hair tied simply back, under a broad-brimmed but undecorated black hat. His rank was impossible to guess, but his job wasn’t--he had to be an interrogator.
So I braced myself for interrogation.
And watched his eyes register this fact, and those mouth corners deepen for just a moment. Then his face blanked again, his gaze resting on mine with mild interest as he said, “What is your name?”
It took a moment for the words to register--for me to realize he did not know who I was! His eyes narrowed; he had seen my reaction, then--and I stirred, which effectively turned my surprise into a wince of pain.
“Name?” he said again. His voice was vaguely familiar, but the vagueness remained when I tried to identify it.
“I am very much afraid,” he said presently, “that your probable future is not the kind to excite general envy, but I promise I can make it much easier if you cooperate.”
“Eat mud,” I croaked.
He smiled slightly, both mouth and eyes. The reaction of angerless humor was unexpected, but before I could try to assess it, he said, “You’ll have to permit me to be more explicit. If you do not willingly discourse with me, I expect the King will send some of his experts, who will exert themselves to get the information we require, with your cooperation or without it.” He leaned one hand across his knee, watching still with that air of mild interest--as if he had all the time in the world. His hand was long fingered, slim in form; he might have been taken for some minor Court scribe except for the callused palm of one who has trained all his life with the sword.
The import of his words hit me then, and with them came more fear--and more anger. “What is it you want to know?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Where the Astiars’ camp lies, and their immediate plans, will do for a start.”
“Their camp lies in their land…on which you are the trespasser…and their plans are to…rid the kingdom of…a rotten tyrant.” It took effort to get that out. But I was reasonably proud of my nasty tone.
His brows lifted. They were long and winged, which contributed to that air of faint question. “Well,” he said, laying his hands flat on his knees for a moment, then he swung to his feet with leisurely grace. “We have a fire-eater on our hands, I see. But then one doesn’t expect to find abject cowardice in spies.” He stepped toward the flap, then paused and said over his shoulder, “You should probably rest while you can. I fear you have an unpleasant set of interviews ahead of you.”
With that he lifted the flap and went out.
Leaving me to some very bleak thoughts. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)

149 " Flauvic was standing by the middle window, one slim hand resting on a golden latch. I realized that one window panel was, in fact, a door, and that a person could step through onto the rocks that just bordered the pool. Flauvic was looking down, the silvery light reflecting off rain clouds overhead, and water below throwing glints in his long golden hair.
He had to know I was there.
I said, “You do like being near to water, don’t you?”
He looked up quickly. “Forgive me for not coming to the door,” he said directly--for him. “I must reluctantly admit that I have been somewhat preoccupied with the necessity of regaining my tranquility.”
I was surprised that he would admit to any such thing. “Not caused by me, I hope?” I walked across the fine tiled floor.
He lifted a hand in a gesture of airy dismissal. “Family argument,” he said. Smiling a little, he added, “Forbearance is not, alas, a hallmark of the Merindar habit of mind.”
Again I was surprised, for he seemed about as forbearing as anyone I’d ever met--but I was chary of appearing to be a flatterer, and so I said only, “I’m sorry for it, then. Ought I to go? If the family’s peace has been cut up, I suppose a visitor won’t be welcome.”
Flauvic turned away from the window and crossed the rest of the floor to join me. “If you mean you’d rather not walk into my honored parent’s temper--or more to the point, my sister’s--fear not. They departed early this morning to our family’s estates. I am quite alone here.” He smiled slightly. “Would you like to lay aside your hat and gloves?”
“Not necessary,” I said, stunned by this unexpected turn of events. Had the Marquise given up her claim to the crown, or was there some other--secret--reason for her sudden withdrawal? If they had argued, I was sure it had not been about missing social events.
I looked up--for he was half a head taller than I--into his gold-colored eyes, and though their expression was merely contemplative, and his manner mild, I felt my neck go hot. Turning away from that direct, steady gaze, I just couldn’t find the words to ask him about his mother’s political plans. So I said, “I came to ask a favor of you.”
“Speak, then,” he said, his voice just a shade deeper than usual.
I looked over my shoulder and realized then that he was laughing. Not out loud, but internally. All the signs were there; the shadows at the corners of his mouth, the sudden brightness of his gaze. He was laughing at me--at my reaction.
I sighed. “It concerns the party I must give for my brother’s coming marriage,” I said shortly, and stole another quick look.
His amusement was gone--superficially, anyway.
“You must forgive my obtuseness,” he murmured. “But you could have requested your assistance by letter.”
“I did. Oh.” I realized what he meant, and then remembered belatedly one of Nee’s more delicate hints about pursuit--and pursuers. “Oh!” So he hadn’t guessed why I’d come; he thought I’d come courting. And, well, here we were alone.
My first reaction was alarm. I did find him attractive--I realized it just as I was standing there--but in the way I’d admire a beautifully cut diamond or a sunset above sheer cliffs. Another person, finding herself in my place, could probably embark happily into dalliance and thus speed along her true purpose. But the prospect simply terrified me. "

― Sherwood Smith , Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2)

151 " The coach slowed. A moment later the door opened.
“Countess,” someone unfamiliar said.
Feeling hot and cold at once, I slid from my pillow seat to the floor of the carriage and pushed my left leg carefully out, followed by my right. Then, sitting in the doorway, I looked up at two enormous soldiers, who reached down and took hold of my arms, one each. Positioned between them in a tight grip, I could make a pretense of walking.
They fell in the midst of two rows of guards, all of whom seemed to have been selected for their height and breadth. To make me look ridiculous? I thought, and forced my chin up proudly.
Remember, you are Meliara Astiar of Tlanth, your mother was descended from the greatest of Remalna’s royal families, and you’re about to face a tyrant and a thief, I told myself firmly. Whatever happened, whatever I said, might very well get carried back to Branaric. I owed it to the people at home not to rug-crawl to this villain.
So I exhorted myself as we progressed up a broad, sweeping marble stair. Two magnificent doors were flung open by flunkies in livery more fabulous than anything anyone in Tlanth--of high degree or low--had ever worn in my lifetime, and klunk-klunk-klunk, the rhythmic thud of boot heels impacted the marble floor of a great hall. High carved beams supported a distant ceiling. Windows filled with colored glass were set just under the roof, and beneath them hung flags--some new, some ancient. Under the flags, scattered along the perimeter of the marble floor, stood an uncountable number of people bedecked in silks and jewels. They stared at me in silence.
At some unseen signal the long line of guards around me stopped and their spears thudded to the floor with a noise that sounded like doom. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)

153 " At some unseen signal the long line of guards around me stopped and their spears thudded to the floor with a noise that sounded like doom.
Then a tall figure with a long black cloak walked past us, plumed and coroneted helm carried in his gloved right hand. For a moment I didn’t recognize the Marquis; somewhere along the way he’d gotten rid of his anonymous clothing and was now clad in a long black battle tunic, Remalna’s crowned sun stitched on its breast. At his side hung his sword; his hair was braided back. He passed by without so much as a glance at me. His eyes were slack lidded, his expression bored.
He stopped before a dais, on which was a throne made of carved wood--a piece of goldwood so beautifully veined with golds and reds and umbers it looked like fire--and bowed low.
I was tempted to try hopping on my one good foot in order to get a glimpse of the enemy on the throne, but I didn’t--and a moment later was glad I hadn’t, for I saw the flash of a ring as Galdran waved carelessly at the guards. The four in front promptly stepped to each side, affording a clear field of vision between the King and me. I saw a tall, massively built man whose girth was running to portliness. Long red hair with gems braided into it, large nose, large ears, high forehead, pale blue eyes. He wore a long, carefully cultivated mustache. His mouth stretched in a cruel smile.
“So you won your wager, Shevraeth, eh?” he said. The tone was jovial, but there was an ugly edge to the voice that scared me.
“As well, Your Majesty,” the Marquis drawled. “The dirt, the stretches of boredom…really, had it taken two days more, I could not have supported it, much as I’d regret the damage to my reputation for reneging on a bet.”
Galdran fingered his mustache, then waved at me. “Are you certain someone hasn’t been making a game of you? That looks like a scullery wench.”
“I assure you, Your Majesty, this is Lady Meliara Astiar, Countess of Tlanth.”
Galdran stepped down from his dais and came within about five paces of me, and looked me over from head to heels. The cruel smile widened. “I never expected much of that half-mad old man, but this is really rich!” He threw back his head and laughed.
And from all sides of the room laughter resounded up the walls, echoing from the rafters.
When it had died, Galdran said, “Cheer up, wench. You’ll have your brother soon for company, and your heads will make a nice matched set over the palace gates.” Once again he went off into laughter, and he gestured to the guards to take me away.
I opened my mouth to yell a parting insult but I was jerked to one side, which hurt my leg so much all I could do was gasp for breath. The echoes of the Court’s laughter followed into the plain-walled corridor that the soldiers took me down, and then a heavy steel door slammed shut, and there was no sound beyond the marching of the guard and my own harsh breathing. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)

155 " Who is it from?” Savona asked.
I looked up at him, trying to divine whether the secret knowledge lay behind his expression of interest.
“Of course she cannot tell,” Tamara said, her tone mock chiding--a masterpiece of innuendo, I realized. “But…perhaps a hint, Countess?”
“I can’t, because it’s a secret to me, too.” I looked around. Nothing but interest in all the faces, from Savona’s friendly skepticism to Shevraeth’s polite indifference. Shevraeth looked more tired than ever. “The best kind, because I get the ring and don’t have to do anything about it!”
Everyone laughed.
“Now that,” Savona said, taking my arm, “is a direct challenge, is it not? Geral? Danric? I take you to witness.” We started strolling along the pathway. “But first, to rid myself of this mysterious rival. Have you kissed anyone since yesterday? Winked? Sent a posy-of-promise?” He went on with so many ridiculous questions I couldn’t stop laughing.
The others had fallen in behind. Conversations crossed the group, preventing it from breaking into smaller groups. Before too long Tamara brought us all together again. She was now the center of attention as she summoned Savona to her side to admire a new bracelet.
This was fine with me. I did not like being the center, and I felt jangled and uneasy. Had I betrayed myself in any important way? Had I been properly polite to Shevraeth? The few times he spoke I was careful to listen and to smile just like the others.
When I found myself on the edge of the group, I slipped away and hastened back to the Residence. In my room, I found Mora sewing. She looked at me in surprise, and hastily got to her feet to curtsy.
“Never mind that,” I said. “Tell me, who brings letters and things?”
“The runners, my lady,” she said.
“Can you find out who sent a runner?” When she hesitated, I said, “Look, I just want to find out who gave me these gifts. I know under the old king, people could be bribed. Is that true now? Please, speak plain. I won’t tell anyone what you tell me, and I won’t make trouble.”
Mora pursed her lips. “There are times when the runners can be bribed, my lady,” she said carefully. “But not all of them. Were it to get out, they could lose their position.”
“So everyone belowstairs doesn’t know everything?”
“No, my lady. Many people use personal runners to deliver things to the palace runners; and the loyal ones don’t talk.”
“Ah hah!” I exclaimed. “Then, tell me this: Can something be returned along the same route, even though I don’t know to whom it’s going?”
She thought a bit, then nodded. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Good. Then let me pen a message, and please see that it gets sent right away.” I dived down onto the cushions beside the desk, rummaged about, and came up with pen and writing paper. On the paper I wrote: The gifts are beautiful, and I thank you, but what do they mean?
I signed my name, sealed the letter, and handed it to Mora.
She left at once, and I was severely tempted to try to follow her, except I’d promised not to make trouble. And if I were caught at it, I suspected that the servants involved might get into trouble. I decided to look at this whole matter as a kind of challenge. I’d find some clever way of solving the mystery without involving anyone innocent. "

― Sherwood Smith , Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2)

157 " I looked up--for he was half a head taller than I--into his gold-colored eyes, and though their expression was merely contemplative, and his manner mild, I felt my neck go hot. Turning away from that direct, steady gaze, I just couldn’t find the words to ask him about his mother’s political plans. So I said, “I came to ask a favor of you.”
“Speak, then,” he said, his voice just a shade deeper than usual.
I looked over my shoulder and realized then that he was laughing. Not out loud, but internally. All the signs were there; the shadows at the corners of his mouth, the sudden brightness of his gaze. He was laughing at me--at my reaction.
I sighed. “It concerns the party I must give for my brother’s coming marriage,” I said shortly, and stole another quick look.
His amusement was gone--superficially, anyway.
“You must forgive my obtuseness,” he murmured. “But you could have requested your assistance by letter.”
“I did. Oh.” I realized what he meant, and then remembered belatedly one of Nee’s more delicate hints about pursuit--and pursuers. “Oh!” So he hadn’t guessed why I’d come; he thought I’d come courting. And, well, here we were alone.
My first reaction was alarm. I did find him attractive--I realized it just as I was standing there--but in the way I’d admire a beautifully cut diamond or a sunset above sheer cliffs. Another person, finding herself in my place, could probably embark happily into dalliance and thus speed along her true purpose. But the prospect simply terrified me.
He touched my arm, lightly, just enough to guide us back to his window. “It is not merely the sight of water that I find salubrious,” he said. “Its function as a metaphor for study is as…as adaptable--”
“You were going to say fluid,” I cut in, almost giddy with relief at the deft change of subject.
Once again I saw that brightness in his eyes that indicated internal laughter. “I wasn’t,” he insisted. “I would never be so maladroit.”
Forgive my maladroitness… For an instant I was back in that corner room in the State Wing, with Shevraeth standing opposite me.
I dismissed the memory as Flauvic went on, “As adaptable, to resume our discourse, as its inherent properties. The clarity, the swift change and movement, the ability to fill the boundaries it encounters, all these accommodating characteristics blind those who take its utility and artistry for granted and overlook its inexorable power.”
As if to underline his words--it really was uncanny--the threatening downpour chose that moment to strike, and for a long moment we stood side by side as rain thundered on the glass, running down in rivulets that blurred the scene beyond.
Then he turned his back to it. “How may I be of service?”
“My brother’s party. I want it to be special,” I said. “I should have been planning it long before. I just found out that it’s a custom, and to cover my ignorance I would like to make it seem I’ve been planning it a long time, so I need some kind of new idea. I want to know what the latest fashion for parties in the Empire’s Court is, and I thought the best thing I could do would be to come to you.”
“So you do not, in fact, regard me as an arbiter of taste?” He placed a hand over his heart, mock-solemn. “You wound me.” His tone said, You wound me again.
Once again I blushed, and hated it. “You know you’re an arbiter of taste, Flauvic,” I said with some asperity. “If you think I’m here just to get you to parrot out Erev-li-Erval’s latest fad, then you’re--well, I know you don’t believe it. And I didn’t think you fished for compliments.”
He laughed out loud, a musical sound that suddenly rendered him very much more like the age we shared. It also made him, just for that moment, devastatingly attractive. I realized that I had to get out of there before I got myself into trouble that it would take a lifetime to get out of. "

― Sherwood Smith , Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2)

159 " It took one long, desperate week to prove just how wrong was my prophecy.
“The revolution is not over,” Branaric said seriously some ten days later.
But even this--after a long, horrible day of real fighting, a desperate run back into the familiar hills of Tlanth, and the advent of rain beating on the tent over our heads--failed to keep Branaric serious for long. His mouth curved wryly as he added, “And today’s action was not a rout, it was a retreat.”
“So we will say outside this tent.” Khesot paused to tap his pipeweed more deeply into the worn bowl of his pipe, then he looked up, his white eyebrows quirked. “But it was a rout.”
I said indignantly, “Our people fought well!”
Khesot gave a stately, measured nod in my direction, without moving from his cushion. “Valiantly, Lady Meliara, valiantly. But courage is not enough when we are so grossly outnumbered. More so now that they have an equally able commander.”
Bran sighed. “Why haven’t we heard anything from Gharivar of Mnend, or Chamadis from Turlee, on the border? I know they both hate Galdran as much as we do, and they as much as promised to help.”
“Perhaps they have been cut off from joining us, Lord Branaric,” Khesot said, nodding politely this time to Bran.
“Cut off by cowardice,” I muttered. My clothes were clammy, my skin cold; I longed to change into my one other outfit, but we had to finish our own war council before facing the riding leaders. So I perched on the hard camp cushion, arms clasped tightly around my legs.
Bran turned to me, frowning. “You think they lied to me, then?”
“I just think you’re better off not counting on those Court fools. Remember, Papa always said they are experts at lying with a smile, and their treaties don’t last as long as the wine haze after the signing.”
Bran’s eyes went serious again under his straight brows. “I know, Mel,” he said, plainly unhappy as he picked absently at a threadbare patch on his cushion. “But if we don’t get help…Well, we’re just not enough.”
Leaving us staring at the grinning skull of defeat. I shook my head, shivering when my wet clothes shifted on my back and sent a chill down my flesh. Now Bran looked worn, tired--and defeated--and I was angry with myself for having spoken. “Khesot has the right of it,” I said. “Perhaps they really were cut off.”
I looked up, caught a glance of approval in Khesot’s mild brown eyes. Heartened, I said, “Look. We aren’t lying to our people when we say this is a retreat. Because even if we have been routed, we’re still in our own territory, hills we know better than anyone. Meanwhile we’ve evaded Greedy Galdran’s mighty army nearly all winter. A long time! Didn’t Azmus say Galdran promised the Court our heads on poles after two days?”
“So Debegri swore,” Bran said, smiling a little.
“That means we’ve held out all these weeks despite the enormous odds against us, and word of this has to be reaching the rest of the kingdom. Maybe those eastern Counts will decide to join us--and some of the other grass-backed vacillators as well,” I finished stoutly.
Bran grinned. “Maybe so,” he said. "

― Sherwood Smith , Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1)