By the Sword (60 page)

The sow had burst cover at the boar's death-squeal; Kero happened to be looking right at the spot, and watched in horror as she savaged the huntsman before Kero or anyone else realized that she was going to attack. She had known that pigs were notoriously short-sighted; she'd spurred Hellsbane straight for the sow, inspired by the thought that only a horse was going to be big enough to distract the pig or make her pause. The lance in the eye had been a purely lucky—or gods-sent—hit; she'd hoped only to score the sow's tender snout and distract her.

Then, as she'd passed, she'd signaled Hellsbane to kick, hoping to keep the pig's teeth away from the mare's hamstrings. She'd forgotten that Hellsbane had been taught a low kick as well as a high, meant to take out men on the ground who might have strength enough to hurt her. Hellsbane had made her own judgment, and had used the low kick, connecting solidly, and sending the sow flying
before
she could charge.

Then Hellsbane had wheeled, allowing Kero to launch another lance. And that, too, had connected solidly, as had the third.

It had been as close a call as any she had ever had on the battlefield, and she hadn't been entirely sure her legs would hold her when she dismounted. She'd said as much to Daren, who had been just as shaken as she was.

The noise and the mingled odors of food and perfume were beginning to give her a headache. Though it was no bad thing to have the King's gratitude demonstrated so openly, she rather wished she'd be able to get away from the crowd some time soon. She wasn't used to people like this; undisciplined, so wildly different, and yet so much the same, with such—to her, at least—trivial interests.

She blinked to clear her eyes as the glitter and color swam before them for a moment. Thousands of jewels winked at her in the light from hundreds of candles; fabrics she couldn't even name made pools of rich color all down the tables. The candles were scented, the people were scented, the drink perfumed with flower petals, the food spiced. On one side of the room, the Court Bard held forth; on the other, a consort of recorders, and near the low table, an acrobat. It was too much, a surfeit of luxury.

The door at the far end of the room opened, and a man in a black tabard embroidered with Faram's arms slipped inside. He rapped three times on the floor with his staff, and somehow the sound penetrated the babble. A hush descended for a moment; the King's herald rapped on the floor with his staff again to ensure the silence. Heads turned toward him with surprise, including the King's; Faram had been so deep in conversation that he had not noticed the herald's entrance.

“Your majesty,” the herald said, in a rich, baritone voice that was nothing like Kero's own parade-ground bellow, but seemed to carry as well and as far, “An envoy from Queen Selenay of Valdemar asks permission to approach.”

Kero sat up straighter, suddenly much more alert.
From Valdemar? But what are they doing here now? Why don't they wait until formal Court in the morning?
She looked back at Daren and his brother, only to see from their expressions that they were just as baffled as she was.

“Let them approach,” the King said, after a whispered conference with Daren and his Seneschal. The herald turned and left, to return into expectant silence, escorting two people.

One was a tall, raw-boned, blond man, with an attractively homely face; a man who looked like a farmboy and moved like an assassin. The other was a small, slightly built woman, with a sweet, heart-shaped face, who limped slightly. That was what they looked like, but even Kero recognized them for what they were; Heralds out of Valdemar, in the white uniform of their calling. And the sight of that uniform sent a pang through her heart that she hadn't expected. For a moment she couldn't even think.

“Queen's Own Herald Talia, and Herald Dirk,” the King's herald announced. And did Kero only imagine it, or did even he seem to feel the portent hanging heavy in his words? One thing she did know—this Talia was no ordinary Herald, and no ordinary envoy, either. The “Queen's Own” was the most important Herald in the Kingdom, second only to the Monarch, and often exercising the power of the Monarch when needed. That was what Eldan had explained, anyway, ten years ago.

The two approached the head table, and bowed slightly. The man stayed about a half pace behind the woman; interesting positioning.
No doubt that's partially because she's the ranking officer—but it's also partially because he's guarding her back. Wonder if anyone else will notice that.

The young woman began to speak; she had a wonderful, musical contralto, and she knew how to use it to gain her listener's attention. Kero listened closely and carefully as Talia explained what had brought them. The girl's Rethwellan wasn't bad, but her accent and occasional odd turn of phrase made it very clear that she didn't have complete mastery of the language yet.

“... and so my Queen has sent me here, directly, rather than to speak through her embassy. You will have heard, your majesty, of the events in Hardorn these past two years?” the young woman asked. Faram nodded, and she clasped her hands behind her. Only Kero was near enough to see that those hands were white-knuckled with tension.
She's scared to death,
Kero realized with surprise.
She's nowhere near as casual as she seems about this; it's a life-and-death situation, and she knows it. But she's not going to give that away.
She felt herself warming to the young woman, for no apparent reason other than a feeling that she was going to like this Talia.

“Ancar of Hardorn is friend to no man, and no nation,” Talia continued flatly, and there was something in her lack of expression that sent off vague feelings of alarm in Kero. After a moment she realized what it was. Severely traumatized veterans would speak in that flat, expressionless tone, about the battle experiences that had broken them.

What on earth could King Ancar have done to the Queen's Own Herald? And how did he happen to get hold of her? And why?
Something terrible had happened to this young woman at Ancar's hands, she was as certain of that as she was of her own name.

And so was Need. For the first time in years, Kero felt the blade stirring.

“Ancar is guilty of regicide and patricide,” Talia continued. “He has visited terrors that no sane man would countenance on his own people, and he has turned to dark powers to grant him his desires. I have proofs of this with me, if you would care to see them.”

Faram shook his head, and indicated that she should go on.

“We stopped him once, we of Valdemar,” she said. “We held him at our Border and turned him back. Now he amasses a new army, one of men and steel rather than magic, and he marches again on our Border.”

“So what is it you want?” Faram asked, leaning back in his chair so that his face was in shadow and could not be read.

“Your aid,” Talia said simply. “We simply don't have enough armed men to hold him back this time.”

As the Queen's Own Herald continued to speak, Kero grew more and more puzzled.
I don't understand this. Grandmother must have told me the story of the way she and Tarma got rid of Leslac the Bard a dozen times—and every single time she told it, she mentioned the pledge King Stefansen gave to Herald-Prince Roald; that Rethwellan owed Valdemar a favor equal to that of putting a King on his rightful throne. And how Valdemar had never redeemed that favor.
She watched as Talia's hands clenched tighter and tighter behind her back, the only outward sign of the young woman's increasing desperation.
I know for a fact that Valdemar hasn't cashed in the pledge since Grandmother told me the story. So why is she pleading for help when she could demand it?

She glanced back at King Faram—and saw that
he
was just as tense as the Herald, and a swift appraisal of Daren, whom she knew better than she knew his brother, convinced her that they were mentally torn—

For some reason,
she decided at last,
Queen Selenay purely and simply does not know about the pledge. Faram knows about it, though, and Daren—they've figured out that Selenay doesn't know of the pledge, and as people, they want to help. But as the King, Faram has to be reluctant to get Rethwellan involved in a war with someone who isn't even on his border, who isn't any kind of a threat to him.

So he is
not
going to remind anyone about the pledge, if it's been forgotten.

In a way, Kero could understand that kind of attitude—except that it was ruinously short-sighted.
Half of their trade is with Valdemar, and that trade is going to vanish if Valdemar's involved in a losing war. And if Ancar wins—he will be on the border, and he doesn't sound to me like the kind of neighbor I'd welcome. And if Faram can 't see that—

Thanks to Eldan, Kero knew a bit about Heralds and their country, and what she knew—even if only half of it were true—she liked.

And besides that, all through the young woman's speech, Need had been rousing, putting a slowly increasing pressure on the back of her mind. It was pretty nebulous, confined to a vague feeling of
help her!,
but it was certainly getting stronger. By the time this Talia had come to the end of her speech, the sword was all but screaming in Kero's ear.

She waited for a moment to see what Faram would do; it was always possible that he'd surprise her and offer Talia his help. But he didn't; he spoke of the necessity of remaining neutral, of the problems with Karse and the need to guard his own border. He temporized, and said in polite, diplomatic terms that he wasn't
going
to help, as the man's face fell and the woman grew as rigid as a statue of ice. Kero felt their anguish as if it was her own. Clearly, this had been their last hope.

I can't take this anymore.
Kero sighed, hoped Daren would forgive her, and stood up.

All eyes in the room swung toward her, and even the King stopped in mid-sentence as her chair scraped across the amber marble of the floor.

“Majesty,” she said, slowly and distinctly, with every ounce of dignity and authority she could muster. “You said in this very hall as the feast began, that I could crave a boon of you in return for my actions at the hunt this afternoon.”

She saw Daren clutch the table just out of the comer of her eye, his expression pleading with her not to say what he was sure she intended to say. She ignored him. Even if Need hadn't been goading her, the nagging of her own conscience would have forced this on her.

“This is what I ask, Majesty,” she told him, fixing her gaze directly into his eyes. “And I think it is no more than what all our honor demands. As not only the one who is owed a boon, but as my Grandmother Kethry's granddaughter, I ask:
hold to the pledge your grandfather Stefansen made to Selenay's grandfather Roald in the library of this very castle. ”

The Heralds' faces were equally comic studies in baf flement. Daren buried his face in his hands. She waited for the King's anger to break out.

But although he winced, he gave no sign of anger. Instead, he only sighed, and shook his head, then looked back into her eyes and spoke softly, directly to her. “I never thought that it would be a mercenary Captain that would act as my conscience,” he said ruefully. “Well, since the cat is well and truly escaped from the bag—”

He raised his voice. “My lords, my ladies, we have some private business to attend to—but let the feast continue. We shall return to you when we may.”

A hum of conversation rose when he had finished and stood up. “Daren, Captain—come with me, if you will. I have need of both of you.” He gestured, and Kero took her place at his side, though not without a certain trepidation. She could only remember the old saying: be careful what you ask for, you might get it.

He directed the two Heralds to follow him, and led the little procession out a small door behind the head table, down a warmly lit hallway, and into a room Kero had not seen before.

And there was no doubt
what
room this was, either, not when it was lined in books, floor to ceiling. This was the famous library. The King waved at the various chairs available, all of them worn shabby and comfortable-looking, and Kero sat gingerly on the edge of one, not entirely certain that she wanted to be here.

The King waited until all four of them were seated, before speaking. “You,” he said, pointing at Kero in a way that made her want to sink into the chair and hide, “are both a most welcome and a most inconvenient guest, Captain. I am extremely grateful that you were with us on this afternoon's hunt, but I could wish your excellent memory to the Shin‘a'in hell. Perhaps it is not to my credit, but I would have preferred not to have my country involved in a war that poses us no danger.”

She stayed silent, since she couldn't think of any way to respond to his words that wasn't undiplomatic at best. He dropped his hand, and shrugged. “But you reminded me of an unredeemed pledge and saved my honor, if not my country. I suppose I should be grateful for that, even if, like medicine, this is not what I would have chosen.”

The man—Herald Dirk—raised his hand tentatively. “Your pardon, Majesty,” he said, when Faram responded to the movement by pivoting to face him, “but we haven't got the faintest idea of what you have been talking about. Just what is this pledge?”

Faram turned back to Kero. “Well, Captain,” he said smiling a little crookedly. “It
began
with your grandmother and your Clanmother. Would you care to start?”