Kings of the North (58 page)

“No.” He felt refreshed, though the ache of losing Arian—he
hoped for only a time—still hurt, and the warnings his sister had given him rang in his mind like trumpets. “It was time to wake. I don’t understand it all, but it’s something I needed to do.” The Seneschal, he knew, would ask no more questions and might even understand more than he did himself.

“There have been things said,” the Seneschal said. “About the king’s choice and some disturbance …” It was not quite a question, but permitted an answer.

“What did you hear?” Kieri asked.

“I hear many things,” the Seneschal said. “I repeat none of them.” Then his expression softened. “Although, for the king, I will say that many rejoiced when it seemed the king had found a mate. And were shocked and alarmed when the King’s Squire rode away, and the king returned in a passion. Only later did anyone hear, from the other Squires, something of what happened, though the details were uncertain. It was thought perhaps the taig had forbidden it—”

“The taig rejoiced with us,” Kieri said. “The Lady my grandmother objected. I was angry at the reasons she gave, and she was angry at my choice and my defense of Arian. That disturbed the taig, as you can well imagine. Arian—left.”

“I have no dislike of the Lady,” the Seneschal said, frowning, “but she is not beyond error. To go against the taig’s joy … that is not wise. Arian will return.”

“So I hope,” Kieri said. “I trust her courage, but her sense of duty to the taig is as strong. She will not damage it.”

“It is not she who damages it, if you and the Lady quarrel,” the Seneschal said. “Arian was not angry, was she?”

“No,” Kieri said.

“Then the taig’s disturbance was not her fault.”

“There is more,” Kieri said. “You remember what I told you of the bones’ messages?”

“Yes.”

“And that I spoke to others?”

“Yes, that too.”

“I was never able to ask the elves, or the Lady—they evaded me again and again—even Arian’s father,” Kieri said. “I still find it hard to believe, even after what the Lady has done this past year. She acts so—so strangely. Coming to my aid before I even arrived, cordial at
my coronation, then cold at Midsummer … refusing to come when I asked … then coming to my aid and the Halverics’ … then disappearing again, only to come and show anger to the Pargunese king. If she were human and not elf, I would fear madness.”

The Seneschal shook his head. “I do not know or understand elves, Sir King. In my life, I have had few conversations with an elf; they dislike the ossuary and do not make friends with palace staff. I cannot judge the Lady’s character. But she is said to be great in power and wisdom. When she appears not to be, can we be sure we understand?”

“I understand my mother and sister are dead, and I spent years as a captive,” Kieri said. He walked out of the ossuary and sat on the bench to put his socks and boots back on. “Should she not have known the taig’s reaction?”

“That the taig rejoiced when you and Arian found each other? She must have, if she summoned you—why else?”

“Could I have been mistaken? Could it have been only my own joy?”

“No, Sir King. From all accounts your ability to read the taig is more than adequate to tell joy from distress. And so is Arian’s. The Lady must have known, and yet she chose to ignore it … though none of us know why, and I am not asking what you do not choose to share.”

“I will share it with you, who are guardian of the dead and can keep secrets,” Kieri said. “I will burst if I do not. The Lady likes not Arian’s father, a full elf, because she says he has fathered too many half-elf children against her will. She thinks—she said—that Arian must have inherited his irresponsible ways.”

The Seneschal pursed his lips, then shook his head. “That is not what I heard of Arian after she came here, Sir King. As you must know, having had her as your Squire, by all accounts she is as bound to duty as you yourself. Yet the Lady has power with those of elven blood, even a little, and she may have planted doubt in Arian’s heart by enchantment.”

“The Lady lies … that is what my sister’s bones tell me. Could she have lied to Arian?”

The Seneschal sighed, looking down. “It is not for me to say, Sir King. I am of old human stock, as you know—not even much
magelord blood in me, and that is why I am guardian to the bones. We lived at peace with the elves long before the magelords came, and in our tales the Lady was always beauty and power combined. But not always what humans would call fair. It is that gift of enchantment, Sir King, by which they entangle our minds and hearts. Is that truth? Is it lies? We cannot tell.”

Kieri had his socks and boots on by then; the Seneschal offered an arm, and he accepted it. “I thank you for your wisdom,” he said. “I must go back to work now, but I will come again.”

“And you are always welcome here, Sir King,” the Seneschal said.

His Squires looked grave, but Kieri managed a smile. “It will be well,” he said. “I cannot say what will happen, or exactly when, but it will be well in the end. I am certain of it.”

He said the same to the Council.

“But will you marry her? And if not her, who?” Hammarrin again.

“You must trust me,” Kieri said. “We have more than one thing to worry about—remember the Pargunese? One thing at a time, please.” He looked at Orlith, sitting as usual in the far corner. “We must
all
consider the taig in our decisions.” He saw from Orlith’s face that the elf had taken that subtle warning.

With that, he insisted on the Council dealing with the other issues.

T
he day finally ended. Kieri lay long awake, staring into the darkness and wishing for some helpful vision, but none came. He was left to his own thoughts: his memory of joy, of anger, of grief … and where was Arian this night? Was she safe? Was she as unhappy as he was?

He finally slept, and woke with a headache that seemed to express all his frustration and confusion at once. In the salle that morning, no one referred to the day before, nor did Carlion say anything about his having missed an afternoon session. Kieri kept his attention firmly on the matter at hand, and no one withstood his blade.

A
rian raced past Garris without even seeing him, running and leaping over roots and stones as if once more the girl she had been. She knew when Kieri turned to follow; she knew she had enough lead to get away if she did not stop for anything.

Her own horse, the mount she had brought with her back in the spring, had the end stall in the west-most wing of the stable, where the Squires’ horses were kept. She slowed to a jog as she entered the stableyard, waved to the Master of Horse as she went by—a Squire on an errand, he would think. The tack room held travel packs as well as tack; she grabbed hers and went to her horse. As always, one mount was saddled for each Squire, in case of need; she laid her tabard over the stall door, lashed the travel pack to the saddle, tightened the girth, and bridled the long-legged bay, then led him through the yard to the narrow west gate, out of sight of the gate Kieri would enter.

The guard there waved. “Going far?” he asked.

“Later,” Arian said. She mounted and legged the horse into a strong canter. Kieri would know which way she had gone, if he had her followed, but she hoped—she hoped he would not, and she hoped he would.

The bay, frisky in the cold weather after two days in the stall, kept her busy for the first half-glass—he shied at everything, buck-jumped
twice, and tried to bolt. After that he settled, and Arian had all too much time to think as the forest closed around her.

Her father. The Lady. Kieri. Most of all, Kieri.
I am not a child. I am not an adolescent. The realm matters more
. Her father could be—had been, her mother always said—self-indulgent and irresponsible, but she was not. For the sake of the taig she had served as ranger, for the sake of the king she had served as Squire, for the honor of Falk … she reached out to the taig, as she had so often, but it did not answer. Well. It was still upset because the king and the Lady quarreled. They would get over it. The taig would get over it.

Blackwood, fireoak, pickoak and holm, yellowwood, holly, ash and hornbeam … she recognized every tree by its bark, its pattern of branches; she knew every leafless bush, every fern’s brown fronds, now winter-marked. She rode one of the ranger trails, heading west, not thinking yet whether to turn south toward her home vill or north toward the river. For now it was enough to be back in the forest … she slowed, since her mount was willing, and opened herself to the taig once more. Nothing. She told herself winter had not yet turned; they were resting and not minded to bestir themselves without a good reason. One half-elf ranger was not reason enough.

Down at the root level, where tree touched tree, Arian tried to feel along them, back toward Chaya, but could reach nothing … only cold reluctance. That bad, then. She listened: a little wind, the rattle of a falling leaf here and there, no birds nearby. The ground lifted into one of the low ridges of western Lyonya. Up, up … rock outcrops, splashed with brilliant lichens. Through the bare trees she saw only sky, clouds moving in, one shelf above another.

She was hungry but did not want to stop for a meal; cold finally forced a stop so she could pull a heavy cloak from the travel pack. If only for the warmth, she wished she’d not left her tabard back in Chaya. And it would be stupid to ignore hunger; she took one of the wedges of travel bread to eat in the saddle and rode on.

As clouds thickened, the day darkened and visibility drew in. On this trail, she should reach a ranger camp by dark or shortly after. There might be no one there, but she could use the shelter and whatever food and fuel they’d left. She smelled the woodsmoke before she saw the flames, bright against the darkening forest, and rode in to
find rangers she knew: Forlin, Mards, and Cuvis, all half-elves like herself, all former comrades.

“Arian! Well met, King’s Squire. Perhaps you know what sent the taig into dismay this morning—is that why you are here?”

“I can tell only part of what I know,” Arian said, “being King’s Squire.”

“I’ll take care of your mount,” Mards said. “I’ve done nothing much today but tend the fire.”

“He was sick for two days,” Forlin said. “We didn’t want to have to carry him back.”

“But I’m much better,” Mards said. He was younger than the others, always eager to prove himself the equal of his elders. He took the bay’s rein as Arian dismounted, stiffer than she wanted to be. “And I cooked today, so there’s hot bread, soup—”

“And plenty for all,” Forlin said. “You look like you could use a hot meal.”

“That I can,” Arian said. “Though something soft to sit on would be a mercy as well. I’m just back last night from a hard ride south from the river, and then—”

“Could they not find another to send?” Cuvis asked. He handed her a moss-stuffed cushion, the kind they used for sleeping, and she eased herself down onto it.

“No,” Arian said. They asked no more; King’s Squires were not required to account for themselves to anyone. “But if you have not heard about the king of Pargun and the situation in the north—”

“Nothing.”

“Then I will tell you about that.” While Mards unsaddled her horse and rubbed it down, Forlin handed her a mug of sib. Arian took a long swallow and said, “Had you heard about the king of Pargun coming across the river to kill our king?”

“That was true? I thought it was just a rumor.”

“It was true. The Pargunese king was captured when he landed, and our king went to meet him and had him brought to Chaya. The Pargunese were told that our king had dishonored the princess Elis, and sent her to a brothel.”

“What?!”

Arian explained as best she could, though Forlin, also a Knight of Falk, was outraged that anyone would suggest Falk’s Hall was a
brothel. She hurried through the rest: the conference in Chaya, finally convincing the Pargunese king he’d been lied to, manipulated by his brother and his brother’s friends, the hasty plot to get him back to Pargun alive, the message sent to the king’s friends in Pargun, and then the ride north, the confrontation, the traitor and his death.