Inda (67 page)

Fareas-Iofre poured out summery scented steeped leaf, all the more precious since the embargo. They talked of training games, of who would be sent to the capital to bring Tdor and Whipstick Noth back now that his last year as a horsetail was done and Tdor was finished with the queen’s training. He would take over as the Algara-Vayir Shield Arm, and his father would ride back north, to honorable retirement, unless the king required him again.

“My dear,” Fareas-Iofre said, after they had finished a cup. “You must speak to the heir, or his visit, I suspect, will stretch on for another half a year.”

Joret looked as if someone had taken a dagger to her heart. Fareas thought,
Is it possible she returns, in some way, the Sierlaef’s passion?
She studied the girl’s unhappy face and considered the tall, good-looking royal heir who sat in a horse so well, whose silences held him aloof and perhaps made him seem a mystery to the young.

But Joret was not thinking of the Sierlaef, she was thinking of ghosts. She looked into the pale green liquid in her cup and breathed the fresh scent as she considered how she’d seen Aunt Joret’s ghost three more times, all three when the heir was present. And no one else had seen it, for on all three occasions Jarend-Adaluin had been absent.

Once again she wished she could confide in Fareas-Iofre—except she knew the princess could have no insight to offer. Joret had been through all the Iofre’s books and scrolls, and so she knew whatever the princess knew about ghosts. Probably more.

What she really craved was comfort, but at what cost? Hadand had made her promise not to tell her mother when they were girls of ten and eleven.
She sometimes forgets I’m here when my home visits first begin, and I overheard her talking last year, saying how difficult it is to live with a ghost. But she doesn’t see ghosts. I asked her later. I figured it out; she means how everyone always talks about the old Iofre, your Aunt Joret. I don’t want Mama knowing she has her real ghost here as well.

And though Joret now knew she was not alone in seeing this ghost, that the Adaluin also saw it, it never would have occurred to her to talk to him. He had always been courteous but remote—she once thought he probably spoke a hundred words to her in as many days. Maybe in a year.

“My dear?” the Iofre said, and Joret wrenched her mind back to the wretched question.

“I don’t want to talk to the Sierlaef,” she said, turning her cup purposelessly in her fingers.

Fareas-Iofre said, “The royal heir does not appear to perceive your preference not to dally. After all, many would consider it an honor to be so noticed. Perhaps you need to make it clear.” And offered more steeped leaf.

Joret accepted a third cup, but she did not see the liquid or taste it. Instead she looked back most unwillingly over the past half a year, and how she always knew when the king’s son was there in a room, how he watched her. In truth, she did feel attraction, but she likened it to the attraction of fire, which was bright and strong and powerful, and had its own kind of grace. But get too close, and it would burn.

“I fear,” she said, low, “it will be difficult for me to send him away. I fear he will take it as hurt.”

“It is possible,” Fareas-Iofre said. “That family is known for its long-lived passions. But it has to be you, it cannot be any of us, because of who he is.”

Joret said, “I’ve never spoken to him, beyond polite necessity. That should be enough!”

Fareas said, “Not enough for obsession, it appears.”

Obsession. A spasm of disgust caused Joret to grimace slightly. The attraction she’d felt for the Sierlaef from time to time, and for one or two others, only flickered—and it was a pale flicker, not nearly what others called a spark—when watching them afar. With the Sierlaef, when he rode or performed the sword dances. But when he looked at her in that way of his she felt crowded and stuffy, like a room too long shut up in summer, with too many people in it. She did not want intimacy with him, or with anyone, really, though she’d settled it within herself that intimacy with Tanrid would be her duty one day. Life, she thought (perceiving herself as very wise at the advanced age of eighteen), would be far more tranquil without sex.

But wishing life was different did not solve the problem of the king’s heir—who was supposed to marry Hadand—and his obsession. Hadand! That gave her an idea. “Will it seem less of an affront if I say that honor and love cause me to regard Hadand as sister, and thus him as brother?”

“Nothing you say will be pleasant, but that does not offer insult to a hot-blooded young man. Honor is always a good reason,” Fareas-Iofre said, and shook her head, thinking,
It’s a good excuse, especially for the young
. “We endeavor to rely on the halter of custom, though no set of rules truly tames the human heart.”

Joret used those words later to the Sierlaef, when she finally agreed to meet him on the west wall. The sentries saw they wanted privacy and obliged with silently shortened patrols.

When Fareas-Iofre had said that, it sounded so wise, so right, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth she wished she could reach and catch them and clap them into nothingness, for she could see how wrong he heard them.

Nothing can tame the human heart.
His breathing changed, and his chin came up, so that moonlight shone in his eyes, startlingly green, and then he smiled, his hands trembling as they reached for hers.

She put her hands behind her back and stood, poised to run if he should touch her, but instead he fought his tongue, rehearsing his words over and over, for he would not bleat, not before the love of his life. “Find a way,” he managed, his voice low and rough, his body trembling.

“No, no,” she cried. She realized that any explanation was useless, for he would hear only what he wanted to hear. “Please. Go back to Hadand, who is my dearest sister.”

He opened his hands. Of course she would be loyal. It was part of her perfection. “Find. A way,” he said again, with more emphasis, and then he left, his self-control almost at an end. His entire body was on fire. Another moment—if she brought out her hands again, if her glorious blue gaze touched his—he would kiss her, and he sensed from the sound of her breathing that she would take fire too, but it would be the fire of anger as well as passion. Honor. She wanted everything honorable. It just made her more perfect.

He strode off to the tower door, his long pale hair swinging between his shoulder blades, leaving her there alone, sick with despair, thinking,
What have I done?

And so he ran downstairs, summoned his liveried men with a snap of the fingers, and made the flat-handed sweep they had all been waiting for: pack up. In scarcely repressed relief his Runners set about preparing for a morning ride. They’d been waiting every single day for the command to leave, while enduring the firmly closed world of Tenthen. Nothing ever impolite, not to those who served the future king, but bearable when people get on with their lives if it’s only for a few days. When the time lengthens to six months, and people still do not know your name, or move around you as if you were fragile furniture, you begin to wish you were as invisible as they pretended you were.

The Sierlaef was, of course, utterly unaware of this silent struggle going on belowstairs. All he could think about was bracing himself for his last glimpse of Joret.

 

 

 

Before dawn Tanrid was thumped awake by Cassad’s impatient hand. In the weak blue light Cassad’s sharp face altered from impatient to thoughtful as he glanced at the empty space on the bed beside Tanrid, and he plumped down unasked, mail faintly jingling. “We’re gone,” he said.

“What?” Tanrid realized Cassad was dressed for riding, his hair pulled up in its gold clasp, his House colors on.

“Your Joret finally turfed him out last night.”
And she’s not in here. Interesting.
Cassad thought of that beautiful face, the polite, honest, but stone-cold manner, and his guts warmed at the prospect of being reunited with Carleas Ndarga, who might be plain to look at, but they made one another laugh—while they shared the fun things they had learned at the royal city pleasure houses.

Tanrid didn’t waste time asking if it was truth or just rumor. Cassad always knew the gossip almost as soon as it happened. “Huh.” He flung out of bed, thinking: first day worth getting up for in almost two years.

He scrambled into his own colors, but without the mail, since he was home, and would be able to stay home.

The entire household turned out to see off the Sierlaef and his entourage, all of them saluting with hand over heart. The royal heir kept his gaze on the beautiful figure there between the Iofre and Captain Noth, her fine, glossy black hair ruffled in the cool breeze, her color bright, but not as bright as her eyes. She met his gaze unsmiling, her hand at her heart like the rest, the other hand straight at her side.

He raised his fist. His outriders gave vent to their feelings by galloping through the gates, banners held high. The Sierlaef’s mare, excited by the sudden departure, danced impatiently and so he loosened the reins and he too was gone at a gallop, his guard thundering after.

As they rode north the Sierlaef began to brood about his promise. For the first time he sent his thoughts ranging ahead of the present. Perhaps it was the prospect of being home again and all those duties closing in.

Honor.
He had no honorable reason to visit again, and even if he did, he knew a brief dalliance would never be enough. Tanrid would have her by his side his entire life.

Tanrid.
I wish he was dead,
the Sierlaef thought, feeling a jab of frustration-spiked jealousy. Because he’d never agree to give her up, he or his stiff-assed father. Even though it was clear as day Joret didn’t want Tanrid. But she would marry him and share his bed just the same, because she was honor-bound to do so.
If Tanrid was dead, she wouldn’t care.

He considered that, and yes, it seemed true. Then the sun rose inside his mind, full of the light of possibility—

Marry
her. For a time he did not see the bright summer sky, or feel the heat reflecting off the road as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Insects chirruped and dust hung suspended on the road and a warm breeze rustled through the broad green five-fingered oak leaves along the ridge above the river. He was oblivious to it all, dazzled by the sunlight of this new vision, Joret standing on the dais in the throne room, the Jarls crying out
Joret-Gunvaer,
her beautiful blue, straightforward, fearless gaze, her straight, strong body beside him, wearing his own crimson and gold, and later they would go together into the king’s rooms . . . her warm flesh under his hands, her lips raised to his. The sun inside flashed to intense heat, and his body tightened, causing his horse to sidle, which made the other horses prick their ears and swerve their heads, their riders as well.

He reined both mind and horse with an impatient jerk.
Think like a king!

But his mind promptly answered,
She deserves to be a queen
.

The thought was fine while it lasted, but as soon as he began to explore it, he came hard up against Hadand, and everything faltered. He liked Hadand. Everyone liked Hadand, but still she never strutted, unlike some of those females. He frowned at a memory: Hadand helping him with his reading, quietly, so no one ever knew. No one. She never told anyone, except maybe that little rabbit Kialen Cassad, who didn’t count for anything.

If Tanrid were gone, would she agree to let him marry Joret? Of course she would. She’d always done what he asked. But
her
honor required she be given a marriage just as good. She deserved one just as good. So, well, he could send Hadand off to marry some prince somewhere, just like his own mother had come to this kingdom. That was it! A peace treaty, honor all around. Might even be good policy! If Tanrid were dead—

But Tanrid wouldn’t die. Nobody as brave, as smart, as loyal, as good at command would trip over a rock and break his head, like that stupid Noth boy long ago when they were still horsetails.

The Sierlaef’s hands tightened on the reins. The mare tossed her head, snorting. His mind veered away from actively plotting treachery.
I always get what I want,
he thought.
Somehow. I do what I want, and my uncle makes it right. He’s of no other use. He certainly can’t command.

Chapter Twenty-two

T
HAT night, far to the north, Sponge flipped his hand up.

“Go!”

And with shrill yips of triumph an entire riding of scrubs burst from their hiding place in the hedgerow, charging toward the enemy. The two ponies spun around, torchlight revealing their dismay. A double trap!

They fought, of course, but the well-drilled scrubs divided into two groups and each took down one big boy. By the time Sponge crested the slight ridge and surveyed the field of battle, the two ponies were crushed flat in the tall summer grass, pinned by four small bodies each.

Was I ever that little?
Sponge thought.

“We won!” The fifth boy danced around, holding the red banner aloft. “We won, we won, we won!” And he yipped the fox yip, high, shrill, triumphant, joined instantly by the rest of the boys under Sponge’s command.

Sponge jerked his chin as a signal to the two boys behind him, they dipped their torches with conscientious care, and from a distance came the triumphant bugle calls signaling a captured flag.

Now that the banner game was decided both armies disintegrated into chattering groups, with bet payoffs, hoots of derision, scarcely heeded words of critique and would-be plans exchanged: everyone wanted to be talking.

Or almost everyone. Sponge did not listen. What he contemplated was the relief in the two older boys’ faces when they saw him approach. Nothing said—nothing was ever said—but it was clear that they had both, without speaking to one another, mentally surrendered to the king’s son and not to a litter of scrubs.