Inda (5 page)

It was harder to say good-bye to Tdor, but his parting pangs eased once he rode through the gates into the cold wind.

There was no galloping toward adventure for Inda. They had to camp in the lee of a hill while a bitter, sleeting storm from the coast battered them, their glorious coats hidden by thick gray cloaks and hoods. And when they resumed their ride, the road was filled with puddles the size of ponds.

Their slow pace became a full stop when they reached the river that marked the northeast border of Choraed Elgaer, a river that looked to Inda’s eyes impossibly wide with rushing brown water surging over logs and swirling up onto the banks to shake the trees that grew there. The road leading up to the bridge had two logs laid across it, reinforced by stones.

“You’ll have to halt,” came a voice from the hillock next to the bridge, where they saw a small round house with a pointy, conical roof of sandy-colored tiles.

As rain pelted down a short, squat man emerged, holding a rain-canopy over his head.

“We ride with Jarend-Adaluin’s son to the royal city,” responded Captain Vranid. He indicated the rain-sodden green banner with its owl in flight. “We must not be stopped.”

The man shook his head. “The bridge isn’t safe, not with the water runnin’ past the mage-mark.”

“Mage-mark?” Fiam muttered.

Captain Vranid said, “We will retire to the guardhouse. Send a Runner when we may pass.”

They rode back to the walled fort on a hill, and as the Guard saw to the horses, Fiam said to Inda, “I thought spells protected bridges for at least ten years. Or is the spell gone?”

“No, or we’d have heard about Mages being brought in to renew all the water and mine spells,” Inda answered, watching as an aide spoke familiar words over a waiting Fire Stick. That was everyday, boring magic. The kind one grew up with, not great spells of the sort only read about in the history scrolls.

Flames shot up obediently in the fireplace, over which was set some water to boil. Inda slung off his wet cloak and plopped down next to Fiam on the hearth.

Fiam was still looking perplexed, so Inda added, “A ‘mage-mark’ is a safe-measure mark. I guess on that bridge even magic won’t hold the water if it goes too high. Back in the old days your ancestors might have brought a Mage from the royal city to do it, Mages being common enough, but now it would take months to contact one and bring him here, always under guard.”

Fiam nodded, more interested in warming his hands than in considering the old days, before his ancestors were ruled by Marlovans. “Glad we don’t have that big river near us,” he said. “If it bursts its banks.”

“If that stupid rain doesn’t stop all of Choraed Elgaer will turn into a river,” Inda grumped, sitting back in disgust as the tapping overhead solidified to a roar.

But they crossed the bridge at last, and two days later adventure seemed to beckon, in the form of the brigands that were seen riding parallel to them, like shadows, on the eastern side of the even larger river that formed the border of Faral-Thad. The shadows paced them as they rode up the river valley that bisected the mountains.

Inda assumed that his seeing them meant they were fools, until Captain Vranid said, without once taking his sideways gaze from those distant green, clover-covered hills dotted with swarms of roaming, peaceful sheep, and the occasional glint of steel helms behind, “They’re letting us see them to gauge our reaction.”

Inda asked, “Can’t we attack ’em anyway?”

“If you were not along, we might,” was the smiling reply.

Inda flushed. He knew that, even despite his brother’s rough training, he would not be useful as a fighter, not until he got some size and muscle—and far more drill.

“No one doubts your courage,” the captain said, knowing at a glance what Inda was thinking. “But we don’t know how many there are. They don’t know if we have anything worth attacking us for. And if they do attack, and we lose, and they find out who you are, at best it means death for us and a terrible ransom for your parents, Indevan-Dal.” He hesitated, wondering how much of the truth to tell young Inda, whom he liked. He reflected on where the boy was going—and who might call him to question—then said only, “They know the King’s Guard patrol the border of Montredavan-An land, directly north and west. I have sent a Runner ahead, by covert route. We should have aid soon.”

So they did not gallop, but looked expectantly north-westward. That night the inner perimeter was paced ceaselessly and the outer ridden by armed guards, though the brigands seemed to have vanished.

By the next morning there was the expected relief party—not one but two sets of armed Riders, half in crimson and gold, the royal colors, and half in old gray coats much like those the Algara-Vayir Riders usually wore, but their banner was a golden eagle, wings outspread, against black.

Inda realized what he was seeing: the Montredavan-An Riders, who were permitted to patrol just inside their border, but they could not ride beyond, and the King’s Guard, who rode just outside the same borders, making sure no one else entered or exited the forbidden land.

Inda watched as the Montredavan-An Riders lined up at one side of the road, the only sound the clopping of horse hooves and the snapping of their black and gold banner in the wind as they deferred to the King’s Guard.

The captain of the King’s Guard indicated the silver and green banner as he said, “Algara-Vayir?”

Captain Vranid saluted. “I am Riders’ Captain Nollan Vranid, charged with the safety of Indevan-Dal Algara-Vayir, who is summoned to the king’s training.”

The Guard captain said, “Your road lies east.”

“So it would. We rode westward to avoid brigands. I sent my Runner to report to you.” A wave of the hand toward the Runner who’d rejoined them that morning. On the nod of acknowledgment from the Guard captain, he continued. “We counted a dozen, all well-mounted, just over the Faral-Thad frontier. If they ride true to form there are at least treble that number hidden in the hills.”

The Guard captain said, “Yesterday I dispatched half a wing to investigate. They have not yet returned to report.”

Vranid saluted again.

“Captains,” the Montredavan-An leader said. “We will patrol and watch for these brigands. But first I feel obliged to offer this truth: the Jarlan, herself granddaughter to Tdanar-Gunvaer, would take it amiss if a party from Algara-Vayir, from her kin-sister, in finding itself so near our border, did not pass through Montredavan-An lands for a single night.”

The Guard captain considered. Treaty forbade any war parties entering Montredavan-An land. But this was no war party, it was an escort to a boy summoned by the king’s brother.

He looked at the leaders. The Montredavan-An captain studied the horizon; the other frowned between his horse’s ears as though something of import lay there. They awaited his decision, without plea, argument, or persuasion. There was no suggestion of conspiracy here. More to the point, there seemed little to conspire about in a second son being conveyed on order from the royal city. And there was that reminder that the Montredavan-An Jarlan was related to the king and the Shield Arm through old Queen Tdanar. Occasionally parties were allowed in—and of course the border was crossed all the time by women’s Runners as they wrote letters back and forth, like women everywhere. The captain himself had to spend many weary evenings dutifully reading long letters about home affairs that the women always seemed to be writing: letters about children, horses, dogs, crops, even gardens, punctuated with all kinds of historical references, as the girls always seemed to get more training that way. Never about kingdom affairs, at least. He wondered what he’d do—that is, how he’d feel—if he ever did have to confiscate a letter, then arrest one of the tired, patient female Runners—

—and shook his head. That was irrelevant right now.

So. His decision? In his experience, men would hide their true thoughts, but boys did not. Therefore the Algara-Vayir boy’s reaction would decide the matter.

He turned his attention to Inda, looking for either a smirk or anxiety, and saw only faint question and mostly boredom.

Inda stared back, idly wondering what the granddaughter of so fierce a Marlovan queen would be like to meet. He knew that his mother had been intended to marry the Jarl of Montredavan-An, but was sent instead to his father through a complicated treaty, and the king’s cousin brought here to marry the Jarl. He was curious to see where his mother had grown up.

The Guard captain finally sat back, and his mount shifted beneath him. Even she was bored. “Bad weather on the west. It would seem ill, I believe, to deny the Jarlan’s hospitality for a soggy camp bed.” He smiled faintly, saw no response in either the Montredavan-An or Algara-Vayir parties beyond polite acquiescence, and so he raised his fist and his men trotted past, around a green hillock, and out of sight.

The Montredavan-An captain handed off the patrol to his next in command, taking three men with him as the Algara-Vayirs reassembled into columns. At their head, the captains rode side by side north toward Darchelde. Vranid said, “It was far too easy to lure those brigands after us.”

The other nodded. “There will be trouble. But it will happen in your lands, not here. You must have been sent so far west by the Iofre for a purpose, then?”

“Yes. She wanted to make certain the Jarlan found out about this new arrangement with the second sons.” They paused, both reflecting on how difficult it was to get communication across the Montredavan-An borderland. Vranid glanced back at the road where the King’s Guard had vanished, their dust still hanging in the air. “Your watchdog does not seem a bad sort.”

“Could be far worse,” the captain replied as he motioned his own Runner ahead to report to the castle. “We nearly had one sent by the Sierandael.” They both paused, thinking of the king’s brother. “And so we take care that his reports will never betray the slightest sign of friendship on our part.”

Vranid laughed.

 

 

 

No one spoke to Inda during the winding ride up into increasingly forested hills. After the road descended into a cool, dark green-lit valley they rode upward again, and when the forest cleared they saw before them a magnificent castle, built of the familiar sand-colored stone in a very old style, with columned archways. Built across the broadest hill, it conveyed the impression of widespread wings, overlooking the river valley below. Inda, gazing up at that vast edifice, remembered that it had once been the royal castle. Black-and-gold banners at all eight towers lifted in the wind; bow women stood on each tower, composite bows strung but held, no arrows nocked. There were women at the sentry stations where Inda would have expected to see men with their long bows. These women—big, strong women all—held long bows. There were few men in sight.

The gates opened. The Riders entered the court.

What drew the eye first were the two massive iron-studded doors at the top of two stairways sweeping in impressive curves to either side—curves, Inda realized, impossible to get a battering ram up.

One of those doors opened and a short woman bustled through.

She ran lightly down one of those broad curves, and Inda saw a wide, youthful smile and prominent eyes the color of spring grass. She was followed by several women, bows at the ready, their robes and riding trousers probably hiding several knives. Skimming down the staircase last of all was a short girl with a merry face and golden curls escaping her braids.

“Welcome to Darchelde,” the woman sang out in Iascan.

“Jarlan-Edli.” Vranid struck his palm over his heart. “Fareas-Iofre would wish her greetings to be given you.”

“When you return,” the Jarlan said in her clear voice for the two spies that the king’s brother had placed among her servants, “you are to convey my best greetings to her. Do come within. Accept our hospitality before you resume your journey.”

Inda wasn’t listening. He saw the girl studying him from behind her mother. She laughed soundlessly when her eyes met Inda’s. Then she stuck out her tongue.

Inda would have stuck his out right back, but he was aware of everyone turned his way. At a sign from Captain Vranid, Inda dismounted, and stable hands led his horse away.

The Jarlan gestured to the girl. “My dear, take Indevan-Dal in charge. When time permits, introduce him to your brother.”

“When time permits.” Inda heard the faint emphasis the Jarlan put on those words, an emphasis that reminded him of his mother when she spoke to Joret or Hadand or sometimes Tdor, and he knew instinctively the words carried extra meaning.

He kept silent as the girl stepped forward, and saluted with palm to heart. She looked more or less like the children at Castle Tenthen: bare feet, smock, baggy riding trousers—but her smock was embroidered, and clean. “Come along, Indevan-Dal,” she said, and when they were away from the slow-moving adults, who were still exchanging stiff and formal politenesses, “I’m Shendan Montredavan-An, but you can call me Shen. Everyone here does, and we aren’t allowed to see anyone else.”

Once again she laughed soundlessly, eyes crinkled.

“I’m Inda,” said he, following her up the stairs.

At the top Shen paused before the huge carved door that stood open, and gave him a mocking smile. “Know you the ‘Hymn to the Beginning?”

Inda shrugged, instantly wary. Was this Shendan about to test him on
history?
“Since we’ve been singing it at New Year’s Firstday, oh, since I was able to talk, I guess I do.”

Shendan just crossed her arms as she led the way into an enormous hall built between the huge fireplaces from before there were the magical Fire Sticks. “So let’s hear it.”

Inda glanced around, hiding his surprise. This castle was obviously far older than his own home, yet all the joins in the stone had been smoothed with plaster, and the paintings of stylized eagles, of riders and old legends on the walls were fresh. It really did look like a castle for kings—but then it was really the first Savarend Montredavan-An who had conquered Iasca Leror, despite all the songs about Bederian Montrei-Hauc and his prowess. He had made the peace, formed the kingdom, and then lost the throne by a knife in the night, right in this very castle.