Inda (27 page)

Pavlan sent a curious look over his shoulder before opening the door, which was, like all the doors in these old, round sea cliff-hugging houses, located on the east. Doors on the east. Just like their Venn ancestors, those who were now their enemies.

Pavlan’s glance was easy enough to parse. Sindan’s Runners, carefully chosen, were never asked for family details; in entering this house, he was crossing from the king’s affairs into a private life. Hesti was obviously kin. Sindan, feeling a surge of compassion, hoped the child was not close kin.

Inside the single room a young woman waited, standing next to the clay fireplace in the center. Sindan cast a swift glance around, noting and dismissing the worn wooden furnishings, the brightly colored rugs on the stone floor, the ladder to the sleeping areas above. The woman wore an unbleached healer’s robe with the spring-green stripe down the front lacings.

Her face was pale, drawn with repressed emotion. She said directly to Sindan, “I have been giving him the green kinthus. Now I will give him the white. Everyone is there: if he talks, they want to hear, for half the village youth had hired onto one or another of those ships.”

Sindan said, “I understand.”

“You are to be a master healer, summoned to help, though nothing will really help,” she said, her voice trembling. “Hesti wants to die. Whenever I ask you a question, answer with yes.”

She thrust a bag at him, and pushed past, opening the door. Sindan took the unfamiliar weight and shape of a healer’s satchel, from which rose a faint whiff of some sweet herb, and followed the woman. Pavlan, silent, tight-lipped, fell in behind.

The first big spatters of rain stung the three as they wound down the steep pathway to a double cottage below.

The entire village appeared to be inside, all of them silent, gathered around a pallet laid next to the fireplace. Sindan repressed an inward wince when he saw the battered youth lying there, eyes sunken, mouth bleeding.

The villagers made way. With gentle fingers, the healer took the kettle from the slate atop the fireplace and poured steaming water into a red clay cup.

She looked up at the supposed master. “Is this the proper dose?”

Sindan did not look away from the boy’s face. “Yes.”

In went a pinch of fresh-smelling herbs, with the faint, uncanny not-quite-smell that seemed to brush the back of the eyes from inside.

It was Sindan who supported Hesti in his strong, steady arms as the boy sipped, and his breathing eased, and he even smiled. Sindan wiped gently at the obscene crimson bubbles that leaked from the side of the boy’s blue lips, but he did not speak. The healer spoke in a soft voice, asking questions, to which the boy responded in a restless, almost voiceless whisper.

“We sailed in a line, yes. We were to make fall at Novid. Some of us were to go on leave, before we sailed for Lindeth . . . but the lookout at dawn saw them just south of us, six sails all told, and they held the wind . . . captain said we could try to run, and if . . .they were larger, see. Fighting crew, sailing crew . . . we have to have both, captain said, but we could fight . . . no breakfast, the galley fires were doused . . .”

The account rambled as the boy’s mind wandered from memory to memory, not just of the attack, but farther back, through good memories, mostly centering around his twin brother, who had been on one of the other ships. He tried to smile as he muttered about old pranks, secrets, plans for the future they shared.

The mother wept, trying to be soundless, but her harsh breathing formed a counterpoint to the inexpertly guided rambles. Still, Sindan, who knew the intricacies of interrogation, did not speak, not even when it became clear that the binding between spirit and flesh was on the verge of becoming severed—not even the magic spells in the healer’s book lying useless at Sindan’s side could reknit it. The boy smiled, for in his sightless eyes his brother beckoned, unseen by those still dwelling on this side of the boundless divide.

Custom was quite clear on the subject of healers and kinthus: what was said by the sufferer must never be repeated. There was no conflict here. The boy’s memories were those of a youth, and would remain locked in the hearts of the silent family.

What Sindan could take away, and did, he wrote to the king by the light of a candle in the cow byre, and closed into his locket, as rain drummed on the roof:

Chapter Twenty

T
HE last bell before dawn rang, muffled by the roar of rain. Inda found his sister in the throne room instead of the arms mistress. He exclaimed in delight, “Hadand! But—my lesson?”

“She can’t come,” Hadand whispered, her breath frosting in the air. The bite of winter was near. “Other duty. Too many people in the castle. Oh, Inda, I am going to command the defense today. Me!”

He said in surprise, “I thought the older girls did that.”

“They all gave me the thumbs-up last night. Everyone. It wasn’t me who suggested it, I wouldn’t dare, because I’m too young. I never even had a drill command. Not until next year.”

Inda rubbed his hands up and down his arms. “I wish we could find Tanrid. Get some hints on the boys’ old tactics.”

“We.” Impulsively Hadand hugged her brother. “We.” As always, anyone’s problem was his problem. “It’s all right,” she said. And, added proudly, “I never went to bed last night. I was in the archive all night, looking through the records for tactics on defense against enemies storming walls, because the boys always seem to storm, from what I’ve seen in the last few games. So I drew out a map, and planned where every girl will stand, and what she will do. When we go down to get in place, I won’t dither, don’t you worry.”

Inda, thinking of his own games at home, grinned. “It’s after that you have to worry about. If the horsetails are half as smart as Joret and Tdor.”

She heard distant footsteps. “Look, Inda, sweet, I have to go, and you too. The castle is too full. If I don’t see you before you leave, promise me you’ll continue your lessons at home. And here again in the spring.”

The urgency in her voice made him nod fervently, feeling a wash of homesickness and excitement both. He would miss Hadand, and even more, he’d miss Sponge, and Dogpiss, and Noddy, and the others. But he’d see Tdor, he’d be home!

A swift, warm kiss pressed against his forehead, and he reached for his sister, felt her solid body against his. Then she was gone, flitting along the hall. He made out her smock in the weak light from the high eastern windows, then he ran back to the barracks.

Hadand continued on upstairs, hesitating outside of Ndara-Harandviar’s rooms. She knew her aunt was awake and busy.

Hadand pressed against the wall, fingers running back and forth along the painted head of a stooping hawk, dark gray against lighter gray, as she wrestled with the rare conflict between pride and doubt. It seemed a pretense, to be commander, when she stood here in the cold, empty hall of Sponge’s ancestors and thought about it. But she did know what to do, she did, she
did.
That careful map upstairs was proof.

Yet she knew Ndara would be concerned about what the Sierandael would think, about a hundred ways for possible disaster. Just once, Hadand decided, just once she would not worry about disaster.

Therefore the best use of her time would be to eat a good breakfast, and then visit the girls, and make sure each one knew her place for the coming attack. A strong Gunvaer must sound assured and be ready to lead with self-assurance and conviction.

 

 

 

Rain slashed indiscriminately at faces and bodies, and drummed on the wooden ramparts dismantled from the Guard practice fields and brought to the great parade court by an army of sweating servants the day before. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled, almost drowning the trumpet call that released the waiting horsetails.

While the horsetails splashed across the flagged court, Hadand took a moment to draw in a slow breath of anticipation and look around her. The wall, built roughly in a U shape, bristled with girls standing at the ready, willow knives in their sashes and hidden up their sleeves. A few of the older ones exchanged speculative comments about the senior boys.

Then the boys arrived. Out came the makeshift ladders, as expected. Rickety ladders, barely able to hold them. The boys gave cadenced shouts and raised the ladders, one to the middle of each wall, just as Hadand had predicted, and she repressed a grin of expectation.

The mass of boys pressed together, their faces upturned, as a few boys began laboriously crawling up those ladders. Hadand waited, jittery, feeling the weight of the girls’ expectant gazes.
Don’t push the ladders down until the boys almost reach the top. Wait for my signal,
she’d said.

When the first group nearly reached the third rung from the top, she whistled sharply, and the girls sprang into action. The ladders began to fall back, the boys on them jumping to safety. Hadand glanced at the girls hiding behind trapdoors and false windows where she’d predicted the ladders would be set up.

She whistled again. The girls streamed out below to attack the boys dealing with the falling ladders.

But as soon as her girls emerged, yelling shrill insults, someone among the boys kekked like a hawk about to stoop, and the crowd of boys who had been waiting in front of the wooden wall produced two hidden ladders! Big, sturdy ladders!

The ladders were hustled one to each outer wall, while the main portion of the girls were concentrated in the center!

The boys streaming upward, Hadand screaming, “Wait! Wait!”

Some of the girls looked her way, but all she was doing was waving her hands and yelling, “Wait!” so they threw themselves at the boys already topping those two big ladders onto the rampart wall, yelling, laughing, exchanging mock blows and insults.

Hadand saw her defense splinter with those feint ladders, and listened in despair to the yips and crows of triumph as two wings of boys swarmed up, unimpeded. In two heartbeats her well-organized defense disintegrated into a brawling, laughing melee.

At least,
Hadand thought as rain beat down on her face,
no one can see me weep.

Then she had no time to think as scrambling boys began chasing the girls in order to get prisoner points. They chased all except her. The big boys dodged around her as if she were invisible. She turned around and around, dismay and humiliation thick in her throat as she helplessly watched the chases and scuffles, heard curses, grunts, and sometimes laughter.

Without warning a hand seized her shoulder and she began to protest, but found herself flung facedown and her arms wrenched behind her. A knee thumped across the back of her legs. Her chin ground into the wood, lightning bolts of pain shot up her arms into her eyeballs, and all she could hear was breathing above her, and despite the rain she sniffed the wet-dog scent of sodden wool, the sharp odor of boy sweat.

Boots appeared near her face. Knees appeared next as the boots’ owner crouched down. Two big hands clapped onto the knees. She craned her neck to peer up sideways. There was Manther Jaya-Vayir, her own cousin. His long horsetail, hanging over his shoulder, dripped rain onto her face. “Yield?” He was grinning!

She grunted, and the hands holding her wrists let go. Someone grabbed the scruff of her tunic, catching some of her hair, and hauled her one-handed to her feet. She looked up into a rain-slick face: the Sierlaef. No one else would touch her.

“Bad job,” he said, as around them the boys called, with hoots of derision, “She yielded!”

And the girls made noises of resignation, disappointment, and even a few mutters; to one of them she heard Cassad Ain say, in no low voice, “Well, what do you expect? She’s just a baby. You were idiots to put her in command.”

And the senior girl’s indifferent answer, “Wasn’t my idea.”

Hadand’s eyes stung. It wasn’t? But just last night, the older girls had all smiled at her, praised her, and it was they, not she, who had brought up the idea of her commanding the siege. They’d all seemed to want her.

Then she remembered Honeytongue Ola-Vayir’s extra-sweet voice, “Oh, Hadand, you are
so
clever,
you
should be in command tomorrow!”

Hadand winced. Of course Honeytongue had been making fun of her. But Hadand hadn’t seen it then. She gripped her elbows, facing the truth: She hadn’t wanted to see it, even though she knew Honeytongue hated her, even though she knew Honeytongue’s compliments were always false, though there had been nothing false about the genuine cheer from the younger girls.

Maybe that was why Honeytongue had fawned over her so.
She knew I’d fail. I should have seen it, I should have stopped it,
Hadand realized, wincing.

Yes, she had seen what she wanted to see, despite all Ndara’s and Mother’s warnings about flatterers and how easy it was to believe them.

She stifled a sob, crossing her arms tightly to hide the shuddering of her chest. The tears kept coming as the boys all separated off to the academy side and the girls to the Guard side of the castle, past the stands that had begun emptying as soon as she lost control of the exercise. The rain wouldn’t have stopped them from watching if it had been a good siege. She’d sat up there with them, year after year, ever since she was little, in all kinds of weather, and had watched the crowds packed on the benches, yelling.

She wanted to be alone, but that wasn’t possible. She had to endure the well-meant reassurances of the oldest girls as she passed through the barracks on her way to the baths. There she had to endure the gazes of the younger girls she’d been jumped over in this disastrous command, the glances of contempt, compassion and sympathy just as awful as derision, and, worst of all, the false, sweet, gloating words of pity from Honeytongue Ola-Vayir, and pretend she did not care, that it was just another game.