King's Shield (76 page)

They stepped onto the tower landing. After the days of summer storms and the constant jingle and creak and rumble of men on horses and in wagons, they had reached so still a place all Inda heard was Evred’s breathing.

Evred walked to the closed archive door and laid his hand against the latch, which was immoveable as stone. His hand slid up the door, then he rested his forehead on his arm.

Just for a moment. He straightened up, turned, dropped his hand. “We were warned.”

Inda tried to bridge the gulf. He’d saved what he’d thought the best news, but now he wasn’t sure even this would make a difference. Feeling oddly diffident, he said, “Evred, Kened told me those tunics of ours made it into the bucket in time, and the rips are all sewed. And he has a section of the baths set aside for us. Right now! We can go soak! I don’t know about you, but I really, really want to get rid of this stink. I’m surprised people don’t run out of a room soon’s I walk into it.”

Evred opened his mouth, his gaze lifting to the smooth white stone ceiling, then to the stairs. He started toward Hawkeye’s old office, saying over his shoulder, “You go along. As you said, there’s much to do. I’ll be there as soon as I see to things here.”

Inda gave up, and galloped downstairs. He had a plan formulating in his mind. He was so involved with his own thoughts it was his turn not to notice others. He was not aware that his path was clear despite the crowds of people wandering about, either packing, unpacking, rebuilding, carrying, or just recovering. He never saw the stares in his wake.

He was Indevan-Harskialdna, winner of the battle of Andahi Pass—some said he’d even fought the wing-helmed commander of the Venn into surrender, there on the cliff. He’d hand-picked Hawkeye Yvana-Vayir and Noddy Toraca, who held the Pass with six wings against the entire Venn army, though only two out of each riding survived. But they’d held it for Inda-Harskialdna, who brought them triumph, and glory. Who couldn’t be beaten.

As yet, only Signi was aware that Hened Dunrend, Inda’s faithful ghost, was gone.

The children of Castle Andahi were settling into a new cave when Hal and Dvar arrived at the same time from different directions. Over the days after they’d spent coming down off the heights toward the pass in a zigzag, Hal and Dvar had devolved into the forward scouts, as both were fast and observant.

Han had been sending Dvar out because Dvar hadn’t spoken since that terrible day on the landslide. Instinct prompted Han to give Dvar responsibility, but also something to keep her away from the little ones’ crying. Most of the threes cried a lot now, they wanted their parents, they pushed away Lnand and Han when they tried to hug and kiss them. Everybody had snot noses, and there weren’t any ensorcelled handkerchiefs. There was listerblossom—Lnand had kept that wrapped in closeweave cloth—but most days they did not dare light fires. Once again they’d heard dogs.

Dvar and Hal arrived, panting, and Hal said, “The Venn are coming back!”

And they were. Like before, what looked like a full wing in every line, too many lines to count. Their marching feet sent
thrump thrump thrump
echoes up the cliff walls.

The children huddled in their latest cave, the smalls asleep, the older ones silent until at long last the enemy vanished once again.

That meant one thing: the king had won, just like the Jarlan promised.

Hal said, “What now?”

Han smiled for the first time in days. Her lips cracked, but that was all right. She took her forefinger away from her teeth, which had been worrying at the nail. Strange, how she kind of liked crunching grit, when it used to make her shudder.

“Now,” she said, “we wait for the king.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Evred smiled as he slid the folded note inside the gold case. He’d had far too much business for the locket, and perforce had to trust the golden case. So far there had been no evidence of tampering or of untoward effects.

“There you are!” Barend entered, scratching his scalp vigorously. “Come on, they’ve been holding one of the hot baths for us. None o’ the Runners’ve had any, and it’s empty, which makes it really unfair to the others waiting.”

“I did not realize. I will come at once,” Evred said.

“I did the round of the wounded with Ola-Vayir like you asked,” Barend reported as they rapidly descended the stairs to the basement level.

“Who needs my attention?”

“I think those who lasted this long are going to make it. Hatha says the dag gave him some of the healer spells. Nothing is going to put a limb back—Buck’s lost an arm as well as a leg, and he’s not the only one. But she taught him how to seal internal wounds. Those are the worst.” He whistled on a low note. “Like Nightingale’s lung. We didn’t know how bad it was. Hatha said he was a day or so from falling down into a coma. You know what happens then.”

Evred swore under his breath. He’d not lose another Toraca, that he vowed.

They reached the enormous natural caverns that formed the baths, a hot spring having long ago been diverted to mix with the water of the underground river. Here they discovered that “complete ruin” meant a spectacular hole in the ceiling, and the men’s side was pretty much unusable, enormous slabs of solid rock having been tossed around like toys. Evred contemplated the power behind such an act.

The women’s side was nearly intact, the rubble shoved to one side, neat curtains marking off a couple of private bath chambers. The open baths had once accommodated several hundred at either side, now reduced to maybe a hundred. One of the private, curtained alcoves was vigilantly guarded for the Marlovan high command.

The clean scent of running water caused Barend to suck in a deep breath. “Ah,” he exclaimed, flinging aside the curtain then tearing at his clothes. He hopped and writhed toward the bubbling, steaming pool, throwing coat, shirt, pants, socks, drawers in every direction.

The Runners had done their best for them all during the descent down the pass. Evred had endured the lack of amenities in silence because his men did, because Barend, Inda, and Cherry-Stripe had appeared to be cheerfully indifferent to grime and smell. But now, with the prospect of being clean at last, his body seemed to protest in every pore, becoming one vast itch. Evred was right behind his cousin, impatiently flinging off his clothes until he sank into stinging hot water.

His body relaxed into the ruffling motion of the hot spring bubbles. He used the herb-soap from scalp to heels, and then lay back—

—and the burn of water in his nose caused him to surge up, coughing and sneezing.

Barend splashed over, eyes wide. “You all right?”

“Fine. I almost fell asleep,” Evred admitted, scooping a handful of soap and applying it vigorously.

Barend snorted, ducking down until just his face was above water, his hair floating like weed around him. “How much have you slept in the last week? One watch all told?”

Evred ducked his head under one more time to make sure the soap had rinsed from his scalp, and then forced himself to rise, though his body felt as heavy as stone.

Sleep. Sometime he would have to sleep. He dreaded it, for every single attempt had brought those images back—

“You getting out already?” Barend said, surprised.

“As you point out, the Runners have not bathed yet. And we’ve a dinner to get ready for.”

“Not this moment.” Barend floated, torpid with bliss.

Evred waved a hand to keep him there, and stepped out to where his Runners had laid out fresh clothes, including his House tunic. The sight of that crimson tunic with its gleaming embroidered eagle brought back the images of the battle, more powerful than ever.

He held his breath, wrenching his mind to his immediate surroundings. He stared at Vedrid, waiting patiently for orders, and noticed the darn in his sleeve, and another along the bottom of his coat. When did that happen? Kened walked toward the curtain with an armload of dirty clothes, a bandage just visible at his wrist and a nick in his ear. Which battle was that? The sound of voices rising and falling: a local song in women’s voices echoing off the stone, and on the other side of the baths, perhaps a hundred paces distant, male voices joined in the slow cadences of “Yvana Ride Thunder.”

The voices broke up, one protesting, “No, no, the next verse has to name the captains!”

“Try this—wait—listen!
Lancers united, three lines to charge
—”

“What about the second charge, eh?”

“I’ll get to them, but Houndface, he was
there,
said the first charge was three lines, and—”

“Here, stop yapping,
listen
to me! Before the battle part, you have to say things about Hawkeye. And Toraca, too. Garid says it should sound like the same hero deeds in the first verses of the old ballad, when Fleetfoot Yvana issues the challenge to Nickblade Montrei-Hauc—”

“Yes! Yes! Like this.” A cleared throat, and a young man began to chant,

“Not bad, not bad. Only you can’t say prick in a war poem—”

“Evred?” That was Barend. Close by.

“Why not? We say it in life—”

“But in the songs you use the right name, see!”

“In that case, why are we saying Hawkeye? I don’t even know what his real name is. Wasn’t he named for one of the kings?”

Evred met a searching gaze, then Barend’s eyes narrowed to their customary squint. “You just stopped, like one of those mages froze you. Something wrong?”

“They’re adding verses to ‘Yvana Ride Thunder.’ ” Evred jerked a thumb toward the distant baths on the other side of their privacy curtain. “Was it always this way, arguing about what to put in those old ballads? I always thought bards stood up and spun those songs from the air, the glory of the event somehow turning into gold. Glory.” He breathed the word out like an obscenity, then straightened up. “I thought you were going to stay in the baths.”

“I did. Quite a while, while you took root there like some tree. I thought the Venn snuck in and put a spell on you. Sponge, you really need some sleep.”

“Do you think any songs we make up will take?”

Barend flicked out a hand. “If people like ’em they’ll sing ’em. Let’s go. Sooner we eat, sooner you hit your hammock.”

They fixed up their wet hair, checked to see that their clothes were straight (Barend’s newly-assigned Runners had seen to it that he was in proper clothes, not a haphazard collection of old pirate wear under his House tunic), then walked together to the main hall, which hitherto had been converted to an extra barracks.

Evred did not know where the men were housed now. It did not really matter, since he intended Ola-Vayir’s as well as his army to be on the march by morning.

Tables had been brought from all over the castle—probably from all over the city. Certainly dishes had been donated. Evred noticed sets of fine old porcelain mixed in with good Marlovan dishes. The Marlovan dishes were plain, shallow bowls, the Olaran and Idayagan varying shapes that the Marlovans eyed with misgiving.

A dais had been erected at one end, with a tapestry-covered table set on it. Inda was already there, laughing at something Cherry-Stripe was saying, Buck next to his brother, head bandaged, one arm in a sling, his face pale with long-endured pain. He blinked slowly: he was full of green kinthus. Inda was using his right hand more, Evred saw; Taumad had been working on it earlier, as he had from time to time during the journey back down the pass. There actually seemed to be some utility in whatever it was he did.

The Jarl of Ola-Vayir had claimed the seat of honor, which irritated Evred. But if Inda had already ceded it, then it was better not to take notice. A glow of angry triumph warmed him briefly when he recalled that Ola-Vayir was not likely to get his way in much beyond that.