Inda (74 page)

Now he watched with a sickening sense of just how vast his error had been to keep Evred-Varlaef upstairs an extra two years in order to send him down to be the oldest, the most awkward of the scrubs, to be laughed at with contempt by his brother and the heirs, while the Harskialdna firmly bound all those future Randaels to his own command against need in the coming war. The heirs had gone on, leaving the academy to the boy who had somehow learned not just competence but a fast, deadly sort of grace.

Oh, but even that wasn’t the worst miscalculation.

No, that came in the afternoon, during the mock war on horseback. Sponge had learned how to command.

The Harskialdna, who had been gnawed all his life by the worry that without rank he would never have earned command, that he couldn’t command, recognized the flair when he saw it. He’d seen the natural flair in that Algara-Vayir brat and had gotten rid of him, though exactly how still troubled him from time to time. But as long as he was gone, so was the problem. Except that now he was seeing a far more potent version, for this was the king’s own son, who could hardly be made to mysteriously vanish, dead or alive.

The Harskialdna leaned forward. The game did not matter. He concentrated on that slim figure in the center, watching in all directions, guiding his horse with trained expertise. Evred did not snap and point in the manner of his brother, the Sier-Danas obeying with the scarcely hidden resentment and then resignation that came from a realistic view of rank and its privileges. No.

Tlennen, with hidden pride, and Hadand, with hidden pleasure, watched the evolutions through the rising dust as the ponies all turned to Sponge, and Sponge signaled with glances, with minute relaxations of his mouth, and finally just by attitude, what he wanted.

The Harskialdna watched, watched so closely he scarcely breathed, but he still could not characterize what he saw. That oblique communication of his will, it was so different from what they taught, so subtle, almost too subtle to discern, built as it was on . . .

Trust? The word “trust” had lost any meaning for Anderle-Varlaef his very first day as an academy scrub. In those days, the only younger brother permitted in the academy was the royal second son. It ceased to be a privilege when four dragoon captains’ boys jumped him to see just how tough the future Sirandael was and Tlennen-Sierlaef—seventeen, strong, admired by all, who had promised to watch out for him—wasn’t there to help, and didn’t come, because he was watching Jarend Algara-Vayir in the archery court.

A shout! The memory was gone.

Evred-Varlaef’s band won, amid echoing cheers, drumming of hands, and yells. And they were all—just as the wretched Algara-Vayir boy had been years ago, and why hadn’t he seen the danger then?—they were all loyal to
him
.

“I’ll kill Brath.”

“What’s that?”

Tlennen’s voice jolted the Harskialdna. He’d spoken out loud! “What? Nothing. I’m astounded.”

Tlennen’s austere mouth relaxed, that mouth exactly like his son’s below.

Anger boiled in the Harskialdna’s guts. He clenched his hands, refusing to raise them, though he knew he would have to. Why had Brath not told him? Because he’d consider Evred’s improvement and the boy’s grasp of command testament to the success of the academy teachings; it was more effective displayed. No one could fault Brath for doing his job.

He wouldn’t see that the true future king rode down there. One day the Sierlaef would be Aldren-Harvaldar, who would ride around seeking little instances of glory, while his brother gripped the true reins of power—not his uncle, with age and experience, who should be by his side, as guide.

He
had
to be there as guide. He’d spent his whole life preparing to be there. But the Sierlaef was getting harder to control; perhaps another long inspection tour. To the south.

More important: for the good of the kingdom, if he did not guide one brother, he must find a way to guide the other.

He shifted his gaze to those boys below.

Now all of the remaining first group of Tveis were there, ranged on either side of Evred-Varlaef: Marlo-Vayir, Cassad, Arveas, Basna, Fijirad, and Fera-Vayir ... one-eyed Camarend Tya-Vayir . . . Toraca . . . and the Tvei of the most powerful of all the eastern families, Kethadrend “Tuft” Sindan-An! All loyal to
him
.

It didn’t matter any longer how it had happened, it was done, and must be mended.

The crowd still shouted for the accolade, and he looked up to see not just Tlennen looking at him in question but Hadand as well. He raised his fist, thinking:
Strut now, boys. This is your last game. When winter is over, it’s time for real life.

Chapter Twenty-six

H
ALF a year later, on the first day of spring, Sponge was checking his gear for yet another academy year when he was surprised by a summons to his father.

Inside the interview chamber his father and uncle both waited. He turned his gaze to his father, who said, with his faint smile, “Your uncle feels that it is time for you to taste command. You will go north this season, and protect the shorelands, and see to the rebuilding of the harbors from which we will eventually have to launch our defense.”

Sponge was stunned. On the walk he’d been considering what window might be best to bunk under in the horsetail barracks. He shifted his gaze to his uncle, just to see the usual white grin, false as a summer wind midwinter. His uncle said, “You’ll have not just a wing or two, but an entire army, and your captain will be Tanrid Algara-Vayir, who has distinguished himself up north. Runners will be sent ahead to our holding forces that they are to report to you, and you will personally visit all the Jarls to oversee civilian matters.”

Sponge swallowed. He wanted to protest, but he couldn’t. They’d decided. A protest would sound merely cowardly, not sensible, since it wouldn’t make any difference.

The king, seeing the doubt furrowing his son’s brow, felt a pang of remorse. If the Harskialdna judged Evred ready, he was ready, yet he well remembered the uneasiness that came with the weight of command before one thought oneself ready.

“We are stretched somewhat thin this year,” he said. “I need your uncle here in case there is trouble with the east.”

“The Adranis march to war?” Sponge asked, eyes widening.

Tlennen shook his head. “I don’t think it’s them. The king will stick to his treaty, but some of his ambitious nobles appear to see the Venn embargo as an excuse to try us.”

The Harskialdna said, “Your brother remains in the south, reporting that we must send more detachments west to protect our own harbors against attack. Your brother was your age when he rode to Ghael Hills and victory.”

The king, watching his son, knew that it had been a mistake to surprise him.
Don’t tell him,
the Harskialdna had said weeks ago, when the plan was first broached.
We’ll wait until the first day of spring, and instead of playing at command with the horsetail boys he will have his own real command! Who would not love such a surprise?

He said, “You will have Captain Sindan’s eyes and ears at your command.” And because he was watching his son (and saw the relief there, which eased his mind) he did not see the spasm of irritation that tightened his brother’s features.

But Sponge saw. His uncle added, “You will also have Tanrid Algara-Vayir and your dragoon captains, to give you wise advice.” And, on Sponge’s nod, he said in a voice of dismissal, “You depart tomorrow, while the weather holds.”

Tanrid already here? Of course. On orders given long ago. Everything was done without consulting him: he was a boy being given a man’s command. If he actually held any authority. That was not a question he could put to his father; what was said could mean less than what was not said.

“Your mother wishes to see you before you leave,” the king murmured.

Sponge saluted and left, feeling as if someone had put his head inside a bell and struck the metal.

The first sound to break that strange ringing was his mother’s convulsive grip on his arms, her soft kiss, her whispered, “Remember, my child, every man is someone’s son.”

Then he crossed back to his own rooms, acknowledging the salute of the duty captain. Strange. Though he himself had just been given the surprising orders, it seemed that everyone knew. The salute was not a flat hand to the heart, but a fist: the salute to a commander under royal orders.

He ran up the back way, through an archway mossy on its south side, old Iascan carvings worn to random bumps. Color caught his eye and he stopped, head lifting as he watched young linnets braiding upward into the sky in a mating dance, their song faint on the spring-scented wind.

He stood in his outer room, his gaze wandering from chair to table to the door to the bedchamber as if to find some meaning hidden there while his brain labored to disengage from the predicted path of his future. There would be no academy for him today. This spring, this year. Maybe never again.

No Noddy, no Cama, no Cherry-Stripe or Tuft or Flash—

Pain burned through him. Then he heard a noise, and Hadand and Kialen emerged from his inner room, Kialen pale, thin as a reed, her large eyes dark with the fear that seemed to shadow her through all the seasons. She didn’t speak; she almost never spoke anymore.

Hadand turned her head to give a last quiet command, and when the servants were gone she paused, her hands hidden in her robe, aghast at the unhappiness she saw in Sponge’s eyes.

He said, “I’m to go north.”

Color highlighted Hadand’s cheeks and then leached away again. Her brown eyes—the warm, intelligent, sometimes relentless eyes he’d known all his life—lowered, hiding their expression. How often she brought Inda unexpectedly to mind! But this expression, a new one, had never been Inda’s. Inda had been absent from time to time, when his mind was racing the winds of possibility, Sponge had learned, but never secretive. “I know,” she said to the floor. “My brother told me this morning.”

“You’ve seen Tanrid, then? What does he say?”

“The Harskialdna has been keeping him busy since his arrival yesterday, and of course wants to oversee all the details himself. I breakfasted with him before dawn, and he showed me his map and outlined his orders.” A brief smile, more wistful than warm. “Your father invited him once before—a gesture of kindness that was a disaster. Did I tell you about that?”

“I don’t think you ever have.”

“It was when you were, oh, three or so. I was about six, I forget now, but it was when Tanrid first came as a scrub to the academy. The king invited him to a Restday meal in the nursery. It was horrible—your brother wouldn’t speak at all. In those days, I found out later, he never spoke at the academy because he didn’t want anybody to hear the stutter. Tanrid didn’t say a word, either. Just sat there shoveling the food into his mouth. He never talked much then, still doesn’t now, but he was far too intimidated to try. So we endured an entire meal in silence, and the king took pity on us all and it never happened again.”

“Did he sit in silence today?”

Hadand smiled, but again the smile was poignant, not happy. She was picturing her brother on the other side of the table, so unfamiliar, despite their being in the same family. He’d grown quite tall, and broad through the chest, and though he obviously was out riding in all weather, his hair had gone dark. “He spoke mostly about his preparations. He thinks the command a great honor.”

“So it was explained to me,” Sponge said, but Hadand’s smile was gone, and though her hands were still hidden inside the sleeves of her robe, he could see that her shoulders were tight.

She turned to Kialen, whose face was pale and stricken, the same expression she’d worn in the old days when Sponge or Barend had been beaten. They’d all comforted Kialen, who was so terrified it was as if someone had taken a stick to her instead.

Hadand said in same the light, tender voice she’d used ever since they were all little, “Will you tell the queen we will be there in a few moments?”

Kialen, one day to stand by Sponge as his wife, glided noiselessly away. He watched, feeling helpless as he always did around her, then he forced his mind back to his new command. “I should have seen it, or something like it, when my uncle so suddenly required me to drill all winter in the Guard, where I was all but forbidden before.” He did not talk about the strange conversations with his uncle, always one sided, full of empty laughter and meaningless jokes at others’ expense. He had known his uncle was testing him, but for what? He’d thought loyalty. Now, all his old speculations were blown. “You think it a plot to disgrace me? Or something worse?”

“You are capable,” she retorted. “You know that.”

Sponge shook his head. “I don’t trust what I know any more. Not after this morning. But this, it’s no secret my uncle has wanted to bind the Marlo-Vayirs more tightly to him, and one of his longest plans was to replace me with Buck Marlo-Vayir.” She inclined her head, and he went on, “I think he expected me to dishonor myself in action or by accident by now. It hasn’t happened. My first thought on receiving these orders was he sends me ill-prepared for command, meaning for me never to return.”

Hadand made a tense gesture. “But you’ve trained for years for command. You’re only a year or so off the time when your brother left. And you will have not just Tanrid, but Uncle Sindan. He will not let anything happen to you.”

“True.”

“I do know this. You must be vigilant, Sponge. No.” She shook her head. “I think—I really think I ought to call you Evred, now. They have decided you are to take a man’s place. It might help if you—if we all—begin to think of you with a man’s name.” Hadand’s face was tense as she turned away.