Court Duel (7 page)

"I promise you I've no intention of trying again for a
crown."

"Thank you. What concerns me are the individuals who seem to
wish to taste the ambrosia of power—"

"—without the bitter herb of responsibility. I read
that one, too," I said, grinning despite myself.

He smiled faintly in response, and said, "These individuals
might seek you out—"

My humor vanished. I realized then that he knew about the
letter. He
had
to. Coincidence his arrival might be,
but this conversation on our last day in Tlanth was not. It
could only mean that he'd had someone up in our mountains
spying on me, for how else could he know?

My temper flared brightly, like a summer fire. "So you think
I'm stupid enough to lend myself to the schemes of
troublemakers just for the sake of making trouble, is that what
you think?" I demanded.

"I don't believe you'd swallow their blandishments, but
you'll still be approached if you seem even passively my enemy.
There are those who will exert themselves to inspire you to a
more active role."

I struggled to get control of my emotions. "I know," I said
stiffly. "I don't want to be involved in any more wars. All I
want is the good of Remalna. Bran and I promised Papa when he
died."
Even if my brother has forgotten,
I almost
added, but I knew it wasn't true. In Bran's view, he had kept
his promise. Galdran was gone, and Tlanth was enjoying peace
and prosperity. Bran had never pretended he wanted to get
involved in the affairs of kings beyond that.

As if his thoughts had paralleled mine, Shevraeth said, "And
do you agree that your brother—estimable as he
is—would not have made a successful replacement for
Galdran Merindar?"

The parallel was unsettling. I said with less concealed
hostility, "What's your point?"

"No ... point," he said, his tone making the word curiously
ambiguous. "Only a question."

He paused, and I realized he was waiting for my answer to
his.

"Yes," I said. "Bran would make a terrible king. So what's
your next question?"

"Can you tell me," he said slowly, "why you seem still to
harbor your original resentment against me?"

Several images—spies, lying courtiers—flowed
into my mind, to be instantly dismissed. I had no proof of any
of it. So I looked out the window as I struggled for an answer.
After the silence grew protracted, I glanced back to see if he
was still there. He hadn't moved. His attitude was not
impatient, and his gaze was on my hands, which were tightly
laced in my lap. His expression was again reflective.

"I don't know," I said finally. "I don't know."

There was a pause, then he said, "I appreciate your
honesty." He gave me a polite bow, a brief smile, and left.

That night I retreated for the last time to the mountain
peaks behind the castle and roamed along moonlit paths in the
cool end-of-winter air. In the distance I heard the harpwinds,
but this time I saw no one. The harps thrummed their weird
threnodies, and from peak to peak reed pipes sounded, clear as
winged creatures riding on the air, until the night was filled
with the songs of approaching spring, and life, and
freedom.

The music quieted my restlessness and buoyed me up with joy.
I climbed the white stone peak at Elios and looked down at the
castle, silhouetted silvery against the darker peaks in the
distance. The air was clear, and I could see on the highest
tower a tiny human figure, hatless, his long dark cloak belling
and waving, and star-touched pale hair tangling in the
wind.

In silence I watched the still figure as music filled the
valley between us and drifted into eternity on the night
air.

The big moon was high overhead when, one by one, the pipes
played a last melody, and at last the music stopped, leaving
only the sound of the wind in the trees.

It was time to return, for we would depart early in order to
get off the mountain before nightfall. When at last I reached
the courtyard and looked up at the tower, no one was there.

"Here's a hamper of good things," Julen said the next day,
handing a covered basket into the coach where Nee and I were
just settling.

Everyone in the village had turned out to see us off. We
made a brave-looking cavalcade, with the baggage coaches and
the outriders in their livery, and Branaric and the Marquis on
the backs of fresh, mettlesome mounts, who danced and sidled
and tossed their heads, their new-shod hooves striking sparks
from the stones of the courtyard.

"Thank you," I said, pulling on my new-made traveling
gloves. "Be well! 'Ria, keep us posted on Tlanth's
business."

"I'll write often," Oria promised, bowed to Nee, and backed
away.

"Let's go, then," Bran called, raising his hand. He flashed
a grin at us then dropped his hand, and his impatient horse
dashed forward.

Our carriage rolled more slowly through the gates; workers
paused in their renovations and waved their caps at us. The
trees closed in overhead, and we were on the road. I looked
back until I had lost sight of the castle, then straightened
round, to find Nee watching me, her face wistful within the
flattering curve of her carriage hat.

"Regrets about leaving your home?" she asked.

"No," I said—making my first Court white lie.

Her relief was unmistakable as she sat back against the
satin pillows, and I was glad I'd lied. "I hope we make it to
Carad-on-Whitewater by nightfall," she said. "I really think
you'll like the inn there."

"Why?" I asked.

She smiled. "You'll see."

I made a face. "You can't tell me? I think I've already had
a lifetime's worth of surprises."

She laughed. "Dancing."

I rubbed my hands together. "Great. Strangers to practice
on."

Still smiling, she shook her head. "I confess I find your
attitude difficult to comprehend. When I learned, it was a
relief to practice with my cousins before I tried dancing with
people I didn't know."

"Not me," I said. "Like I told you, if I have to tread on
someone's toes, better some poor fellow I'll never see
again—and who'll never see me—than someone who'll
be afraid whenever he sees me coming. And as for practicing
with Bran..."

She tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh. "Well, he was
just as outspoken about his own mistakes when he was learning,"
she said. "Frequently had a roomful of people in stitches. Not
so bad a thing, in those early days," she added
reflectively.

I shook my head. "I find it impossible to believe that
anyone could regret Galdran's defeat. Besides his family." And,
seeing a perfect opportunity to introduce the subject of the
Marquise of Merindar, I said, "Even then, didn't they all hate
one another?"

"They are ... a complicated family," she said with care.
"But of course they must regret the loss of the perquisites
from being related to royalty. All that is gone now. They have
only the family holdings."

"And we have his private fortune," I said, wondering if this
related to the letter in some way.

She glanced out the window, then said, "Do not feel you have
to speak of it, but it distressed me to realize that it is I
who has been talking the most over the last days. Now I would
very much like to listen."

"To what?" I asked in surprise. "I told you my history, and
I don't
know
anything else."

"You know what the Hill Folk are like," she said with
undisguised awe.

I laughed. "Nobody really knows what they're like. Except
themselves," I said. "But it's true I've seen them. We all
have, we who live high enough in the mountains. We do as
children, anyway. I still do because I like to go up to them.
Most of the others have lost interest."

"What are they like?"

I closed my eyes, drawing forth the green-lit images.
"Unlike us," I said slowly. "Hard to describe. Human in shape,
of course, but taller, and though they don't move at all like
us, I think them very graceful. They can also be very
still.
You could walk right by them and not notice
their presence, unless they move."

"Strange," she said. "I think that would frighten me."

I shook my head. "They don't frighten me—but I think I
could see how they might be frightening. I don't know. Anyway,
they are all brown and green and they don't really wear
clothes, but you wouldn't think them naked any more than a tree
is naked. They do have a kind of mossy lace they wear... and
flowers and bud garlands—lots of those—and when
they are done, they replant the buds and blossoms, which grow
and thrive."

"Are they mortal?"

"Oh, yes, though so long-lived they don't seem it—like
trees. But they can be killed. I guess there's some grim stuff
in our history, though I haven't found it. One thing, though,
that's immediate is their sensitivity to herbs, particularly
those brought here from other worlds. Like kinthus."

"Oh yes! I remember Bran talking about kinthus-rooting. The
berries surely can't hurt them, can they? I mean, we use them
for painkillers!"

"We never use kinthus in the mountains," I said.
"Lister-blossom is good enough. As for the Hill Folk, I don't
know if the berries hurt them. The danger is if there's a
fire."

"I know burned kinthus is supposed to cause a dream state,"
Nee said.

"Maybe in us. The Hill Folk also drop into sleep, only they
don't wake up. Anyway, every generation or so there's a great
fire somewhere, and so we make certain there's no kinthus that
can burn and carry its smoke up-mountain."

"A fair enough bargain," she said. "Tell me about their
faces."

"Their faces are hard to remember," I said, "like the exact
pattern of bark on a tree. But their eyes are, well, like
looking into the eyes of the animals we live among, the ones
who make milk. Have you ever noticed that the eyes of the ones
we eat—fowl and fish—don't look at yours; they
don't seem to see us? But a milk animal will see you, just as
you see it, though you can't meet minds. The Hill Folk's eyes
are like that, brown and aware. I cannot tell you what I see
there, except if I look one in the face, I always want to have
a clean heart."

"Very strange," she said, hugging her elbows close. "Yet I
think you are lucky."

"Sometimes," I said, thinking of the night before, after my
conversation with Shevraeth, when I'd had an angry heart. I was
glad I hadn't seen any Hill Folk face-to-face.

But I didn't tell Nee that.

We conversed a little more, on different matters, then I
asked her to practice fan language with me again. We made a
game of it, and so the time passed agreeably as we progressed
steadily down the mountain, sometimes slowly over icy places or
snowdrifts. As we got closer to the lowlands the air turned
warmer; spring, still a distant promise in the mountains,
seemed imminent. The roads were less icy than muddy, but our
progress was just as slow.

We stopped only to change horses. Nee and I didn't even get
out of the carriage but ate the food that Julen had packed.

It was quite dark, and a sleety rain was just starting to
fall when our cavalcade rolled impressively into the courtyard
of the Riverside Inn at Carad-on-Whitewater.

What seemed to be the entire staff of the place turned out,
all bowing and scurrying, to make our debarkation as easy as
possible. As I watched this—from beneath the rain canopy
that two eager young inn-helpers held over our heads—I
couldn't help remembering last spring's sojourn at various
innyards, as either a prisoner or a fugitive, and it was hard
not to laugh at the comparison.

We had a splendid dinner in a private room overlooking the
river. From below came the merry sounds of music, about as
different from the haunting rhythms of the Hill Folk's music as
can be, yet I loved it too.

When we had finished, Nee said, "Come! Let's go dance."

"Not me," Bran said. He lolled back on his cushions and
grabbed for his mulled wine. "In the saddle all day. I'll
finish this, then I'm for bed."

"I'll go with you," I said to Nee, rising to my feet.

Nee turned to Shevraeth, who sat with both hands round his
goblet. "Lord Vidanric? Will you come with us?"

I looked out the window, determined to say nothing. But I
was still angry, convinced as I was that he had been spying on
me.

"Keep me company," Bran said. "Don't want to drink by
myself."

The Marquis said to Nee, "Another time."

I kept my face turned away to hide the relief I was sure was
plain to see, and Nee and I went downstairs to the common room,
which smelled of spicy drinks and braised meats and fruit
tarts.

In one corner four musicians played, and the center of the
room was clear save for a group of dancers, the tables and
cushions having been pushed back to make space. Nee and I went
to join, for we had come in on a circle dance. These were not
the formal Court dances with their intricate steps, where each
gesture has to be just so, right down to who asks for a partner
and how the response is made. These were what Nee called town
dances, which were based on the old country dances—line
dances for couples, and circles either for men or for
women—that people had stamped and twirled and clapped to
for generations.

Never lacking for partners, we danced until we were hot and
tired, and then went up to the spacious bedrooms. I left my
windows wide open and fell asleep listening to the sound of the
river.

"I'll go in the rattler with you," Bran said the next
morning, to Nee. Grinning at her, he added, "Probably will
rain, and I hate riding horseback in the wet. And we never get
enough time together as it is."

I looked out at the heavy clouds and the soft mist, thought
of that close coach, and said, "I'll ride, then. I don't mind
rain—" I looked up, realized who else was riding, and
fought a hot tide of embarrassment. "You can go in the coach in
my place," I said to Shevraeth, striving to sound polite.