In the Caves of Exile Page 24

  “Hardly that!” he protested, but the smile he gave her was real and shorn of awe this time. “You are—well Nedao's Lady. Our Queen.”

  “All of that,” Erken broke in smoothly as the boy fumbled to an awkward halt. “The Narrans will be pleased, Lady. And all of us proud. You look quite as beautiful as your mother ever did.”

  “And you, my Duke,” she retorted, “speak sweet falsehoods so nicely, a woman might take them for troth. Thank you.” The Duke eyed her sidelong, gave a little snort of laughter and held out his arm. She rested her hand on it with grave precision, bit the corner's of her mouth to stifle a laugh, and let him lead her into the Grand Reception, Brelian at her other side, Lisabetha just behind her.

  Young Menfred, his face at least as solemn as her own, pushed the doors open and stood just inside to call out: “Ylia hra'da Brandt, Queen of Nedao and Aresada, Protector of the People and, Chief of its armies!” She swallowed hard. Father, guide me! She hoped that either she was not as red as she felt or that the lighting was still inadequate in the high-ceilinged Reception.

  A number of gaily clad men stood between her and the throne, and bowed as she passed. Erken led her—a fact for which she was suddenly grateful—handed her onto the high seat and took his place at her left shoulder. Brelian stood a step down, also on her left and a little aside, and Lisabetha stood at her right hand.

  A middle-aged man, his near-black hair beginning to grey at the temples, his face clean-shaven, stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Queen Ylia. I am Ber'Sordes of Nar, Chosen by the Lord Mayor as Ambassador to you and yours. With me, I have brought Ang'Har and H'Lod, two young lords attached to my household, and the captains whose, ships brought us up-river to you: Tr'Harsen and Kre'Darst.” He produced a packet of gold-sealed and red-ribboned papers, which Brelian came down to take.

  Her young Champion handed the papers to her with a bow of his own, returned to his place. His eyes, like Erken's, were all for the Narrans. For they were fashion-conscious, this wealthy class of Nar—they did not, as Nedaoans understood it, have nobility—and the fashion had apparently recently and radically changed. The Nedaoans had never seen anything like it.

  Ber'Sordes, despite his age, was as amazingly clad as any of them: His tunic was short, ending just below his hips, and over it he wore a short, brilliantly scarlet cape, lined in black. A stiff collar framed his face and the curled hair that barely covered his ears. His legs, still well muscled, were clad in smooth-fitting black hose. Crimson leather short boots, turned down across the toes to reveal a pale yellow lining, completed his garb, save-for the gold, silver and copper woven belt that held a ceremonial dagger to his waist.

  H'Lod might have been thirty, though it was difficult for her to guess age among these men. His face was lined like a sea-man's, and—unusual for a Narran—he wore a long beard. She learned later this was part of a vow he'd made, to not shave until he sank a Sea-Raider and sent its crew to the bottom. He, too, was clad in the new style, though plainly. His tunic was a rich brown, a thin line of gold trimming and an embroidered dolphin its only ornamentation. His hose and boots were brown also, his cloak a deeper brown lined in cream.

  Tr'Harsen and Kre'Darst she had not at first recognized, for she had seen them recently only in working clothing, often wet and muddy. Tonight, one dressed in four shades of green, the other in two shades of blue and gold, they shone nearly as brightly as Ber'Sordes.

  But Ang'Har was the one who drew the eye and held it: He was as bright as a tourney banner. The short cape of brilliant blue was made of at least a full circle of fabric, and lined in a rich green, its high collar covered with gold arabesques, its fastenings jeweled. The tunic was green like the cape lining, broidered with gold and silver thread. The full sleeves of the shirt were right blue, left pale green, and the cloth hung in long folds when he bent his arms, falling nearly to his knees. Even his hose were parti-colored: blue on the left leg, pale green on the right, and his low shoes were also reversed, blue and green. The face that topped this astonishment of color was smooth and almost as pretty as a girl's, and only the shrewd eyes gave away that this was a grown man and a Narran trader.

  Ylia stirred, hoped that she had not been staring, and brought out her prepared little speech. “We are pleased to welcome you to our halls and gratified that the Lord Mayor has chosen to send us a full embassy. In time, and when we are able, we will reciprocate, and look back upon this time with true pleasure, that it has brought about proper relations between our two peoples.

  “We press to you; my Lords, Erken, Duke of Anasela, and Brelian of the House of Bordron, our Champion.

  “It is a pleasure to us, that you have come to celebrate Midsummer Fest after the manner of our kind. And now, our door-warder will escort you to the dining hall, where others of our council await your arrival.” She stood, came down the stair and held out her hand. Ber'Sordes bowed gravely over the fingers and moved to follow Merreven. H'Lod tapped Ang'Har on the shoulder to rouse him, and they went out behind the Captains.

  Ylia waited until the doors shut behind them and let out a long sigh. Erken laughed. “Come, now, Lady Ylia, that was well and proudly done. All that fuss for no cause, eh? And the worst of it is behind you now!”

  She groaned. “Until tomorrow, when it comes around again. And beyond that—” She sighed again. “Forever.”

  “Bah. Look for no sympathy from me, you were born it.”

  “You like it,” she accused darkly.

  “You make it sound terrible,” Erken said, “and you managed quite well after all.”

  “I had no choice. Oh, well. Come, my Lord,” she added with a wry smile, “we would have an escort to our dining hall.” Brelian smothered a smile, stepped back to fall in behind them and take Lisabetha's hand.

  It was, actually, a very pleasant dinner. Ber'Sordes sat at her right hand, the rest scattered among her Council, with Tr'Harsen next to Lord Corlin at the other end of the table. The food, thanks to the Narrans and to redoubled efforts on the part of Golsat and his hunters, some of the fishers with new Narran nets, and the abilities of her staff, was varied, well prepared and pleasing to the eye.

  Of her council, only Marckl was absent, for he and his men were putting in long hours to get the road finished. Even Levren was here, carefully set down between Lady Lossana on the one side and Bnolon's Lady on the other, Lisabetha across from him. No one could possibly realize how carefully Ylia had planned her table, so that the Queen's Bowmaster and counciler could take meat with foreigners.

  By the time the venison was served, conversation was progressing smoothly: H'Lod was arguing good-naturedly with Ifney and Bnorn over the price of goats, Ang'Har discussing the weft and warp of his tunic with Lossana and offering to obtain the pattern for her if she could not work it out from the garment itself. Far down the table, Corlin and Kre'Darst spoke about the River and various means of making it more negotiable, and Tr'Harsen and Bnolon and Bnolon's Lady were deep in a discussion about ales and the various wines Nedao found most pleasant.

  The only jarring moment, to her mind, came when Ber'Sordes leaned near and said in a voice meant to carry no farther than her ear: “A good man, Ang'Har. I'm pleased I could bring him. Already he is an excellent trader and has second command of the Sea Spray. Being son to my brother, of course, he is marked for greater things, and could become Lord Mayor in his own right—certainly he might become an Ambassador.”

  “I am pleased he could be here also, then,” she replied with a smile, but inwardly she flinched. Here it begins, the Peopled Lands send their eligible high-born to seek the hand of the unwed Queen of Nedao. Ugh. Does Erken know this? If he did, it didn't show on his generally open countenance. Ang'Har, for his part, was deep in conversation with Ifney, but his gaze strayed in her direction all too often for her liking: particularly since he blushed like a boy and hastily turned away every time she caught his eye. Puppy. If they’ re all as green as this boy, I'll wed Erken! She had to bite the corners of her mouth, hard, t
o keep the smile back. Why not? He's noble, Nedaoan, certainly capable of fathering princes and princesses—she hastily abandoned the thought, afraid she'd never be able to look Erken in the eye again if she didn't.

  At least it put Ang'Har temporarily out of her mind, and the next time she caught him gawking she took it with a more tolerant humor.

  They'd reached the sweet—fresh berries and cream, a fruity Osneran wine to accompany it—when the inner sense caught her by the throat with its warning. ‘Damn. Nisana—?’

  'I sense him too. It's your beloved mountain-hunter, and he's near.’

  'Not mine, damn his thick hide! But it is him, isn't it? I swear, cat, if he's in trouble again, he can die of it before I go after him!’

  'No argument from me—it's not him, Ylia. Look.’

  'Nisana—!’ But the cat was no longer there. With deepest misgivings, she reached with the inner vision, and whatever Ber'Sordes was saying to her serving woman faded away as she saw. All the demons of the blackest hell at once, I knew this would happen! She stared at her wine-cup, thought as fast and hard as she could. That drawing was still pulling at her, making it difficult to concentrate; she severed use of the Power entirely.

  Mathkkra; they'd set upon Marckl's road crew, near one hundred of them, against twenty tired men and a handful of bored guard. There was chaos and fighting out there, and where was that cursed hunter? She hadn't seen him anywhere.

  But that was scarcely important at the moment. Speed was. “Erken, my Lord Duke, I must see you, outside. Immediately. Corlin, if you'd be so kind as to take my place?” She rose, motioned the Narrans and her council back into their seats and strode from the hall. Erken was at her side to hold the door and shut it behind them. “Marckl's attacked, Mathkkra.”

  “How many?” Thank all the Mothers at once, he didn't question her vision.

  “A hundred, or more. Gather what men you can, get to him.” She started as the door opened, but it was only Brelian, not the half-dozen curious Narrans she half expected.

  “They worry in there. What's to do?”

  “Mathkkra. They've beset the road.”

  “Gods and Mothers. Marckl?”

  “Tell the Narrans there's no danger here. We'll have more news for them shortly. Come right back, though, I need you.”

  Erken had started for the outer doors but he caught her last word and turned back as Brelian stepped back into the dining room. “You can't!”

  “Erken, by the Black Well, don't waste time arguing with me! Therea,” she shouted as one of her women appeared at the head of the stairs, her attention caught by the shouting, “get my sword, quickly! Go, Erken, it will take you time to get men and reach the end of the road. Brelian and I can get there at once.”

  “And do what, die with them? You can't—!”

  “Can't I? That's an order. Blast you, man, this once do as I say!” Erken flushed angrily, but he set his mouth in a tight line, turned on his heel and left the hall at a dead run. Brelian came back into the hall as Therea ran across the landing, but Malaeth was ahead of her. Ylia cast her eyes heavenward.

  “What is this?” Malaeth's voice was shrill with fury. “Have you lost your mind, girl? You are not going out like that!”

  “Malaeth, whom do you think you're arguing with? I don't have time for this stupidity! Every minute you waste is another man dead! Therea, throw me that sword!” The woman hesitated as Malaeth turned an awful glare in her direction. She moved then, leaned across the railing and dropped it into Brelian's waiting hands. Ylia buckled it at her waist, tore the crown from her hair, scattering pins across the tiled floor, and pressed it into Malaeth's hands. “Here, do something useful. Hold this for me! And don't look at me like that, I'll be back for it!” She held out a hand and caught Brelian's arm; he drew his sword as she closed her eyes and bridged them away.

  It had been few minutes, actual time, since the inner sense had wakened her to the danger, but matters were considerably worse: the ground was littered with the spidery grey-white bodies but several of Marckl's men were down, and she could not see Marckl among those still standing. She caught Brelian's shoulder. “Get among the men, get them bunched. Away from the creatures. I dare not use the Baelfyr if it may go against our own.” He nodded, slid behind an enormous fir bole and began working his way toward the River.

  It seemed forever; it took only the length of five deep breaths before she heard him cry: “Erken rides to your aid, to me! Get close together, the Lady Ylia brings her own weapons to the fight!” A ragged cheer went up. It was some moments before Brelian could group them, though, and several of the men were unable at first to fight free of Mathkkra.

  She stood where she'd bridged, irresolute. Still dangerous to use the Baelfyr, and the Sword—that terrified her. But Brelian was making headway, finally. She caught at the hilts, hesitated, pushed the blade back firmly into its sheath. The dress caught around her legs as she strode forward; with a blistering oath she reached to drag it free, tucked the loose fabric through her sword belt. She brought up her hands as small white shapes hurtled down the road for her: Baelfyr lit the trees, the road; five fell dead. Beyond them a man cried out in sudden fear.

  “Draw back, I told ye, get away from the foul creatures and stay together, that's your Lady with the fire, but it'll burn ye as well, if you're to hand!” Brelian's Northern accent, normally unnoticeable, came out under stress. Ylia turned as motion to her left caught her eye, and killed three more.

  There was a stretch of time, then, where she was moving continuously—now down the road, now across it and back again. Baelfyr flared and flared again. She was tiring. A harsh cry and a splash—Brelian's curse—another of Marckl's men was down.

  The filmy green stuff was slithering free of the belt again; she caught her heel on fabric and fell. Three Mathkkra, near enough to be ready for such a chance, leaped on her before she could rise, but not before she had the dagger out of its leg sheath and in her hand. Two died on it, the third turned to flee, vanished in a ball of flame before it had gone five paces. She rolled to her knees but another flung itself out of tree-shadow and onto her back. She parried the knife that sought her throat with her own blade, two-handed, fell over hard. It landed on the bottom, wind driven from its body; her dagger pinned it to the dirt.

  She eyed the area warily indeed this time before she attempted to stand, but for now she was alone. She stood, dropped flat half a breath later as an arrow whined past and buried itself with a nasty twang in the tree just behind her. “'Ware, you blasted archers, I'm over here!” she bellowed.

  “S-sorry!” someone shouted back.

  She dragged the dress from under her knees, rose again and this time made her feet. The Mathkkra had turned, suddenly as they always did, and were fleeing toward the Aresada. Brelian was exhorting those with him to follow, and behind, she could hear horses coming from the City. They passed her without seeing her and vanished down the road after Brelian and the Cave-folk.

  She sighed, wiped sweat from her forehead, ran the length of skirt through her fingers before tucking it back, more firmly this time, through the belt. Not torn, good: Malaeth wouldn't have forgiven her that. But it was gritty with dust. She made a wry face, anticipating the scene to follow. ‘Cat! Your aid here, we've wounded!’

  'Later.’ Nisana's touch was more distant than it should be, if she was in the Tower. ‘The herds were attacked, I went to aid. There are two guards dead, two hurt, and one of the children wounded. Three sheep are dead and three missing, and the girl Danila hysterical. Unfortunate I can't heal, but the others are doing what they can.’

  So that was where she'd gone. ‘I'll come as soon as I can. Is anyone in danger?’

  'Of dying? No. If you must have my aid, call. Otherwise, I'm needed here.’

  Gods and Mothers, what caused this? And why tonight? A moan nearby roused her. One of Marckl's boys sat just off the road. A knife lay in the dirt near his hand; blood soaked his shirt. Beyond him, three more she could see, and o
ne of them did not move. She healed the boy, and another—an older man she knew by sight though not by name. The third man was still unconscious, an ugly knot behind his ear where a thrown rock had caught him.

  Brush crackled behind her. She leaped to her feet, sword and dagger both out. “Who?” Foolish, for who but Mathkkra would sneak up on her like that? And they would not answer by fighting. But the sense of him was already strong: mountain-hunter.

  He came out from heavy tree-shade, stepped onto the road, arms well away from his sides. “Again you have the better of me. Though you'll get no insult this time, Lady.”

  “You. What are you doing here?”

  “You invited me, remember? Though I don't recall you asked me to such a fight as this. There are enough swordsmen down by the Aresada to deal with three times the enemy they've trapped. I thought you could use my aid.”

  “I'll be glad of it, just now, here.” She tore strips of cloth from her underskirts, “Help me find the wounded, bind any you find bleeding, and mark for me where they are.”

  “I'll do that.” He took the handful of soft fabric and started off.

  “Wait. Do you know the northern Lord Marckl by sight?”

  He started. “I know Marckl of Broad Heath, is he here?”

  “Somewhere. I fear he's dead. If you find him, call me.”

  “I will.” He turned and strode off down the road, turned toward the River and vanished among the trees. Ylia turned back to the wounded.

  After the brief battle was over (and the damage already done), I touched the child Danila's thought, so as to calm her, for that is my particular skill. And I found a thing there that was disquieting: revenge, anger, hatred, and so strong for such a baby. Or so I thought—I, who should have known better, having laid my thought against hers. But like the humans, who only saw her tears and heard her impassioned vows, I thought: “This is a human child, young in years, and such children forget quickly.” As though children felt less strongly because they are young! But it was that child, with her total devotion to duty, who succeeded where others one and all failed,, who set in motion events of great benefit to Nedao. And, of course, to her beloved—stupid—sheep.