King's Shield (26 page)

On land, his breakfast time would be given over to his wife and small son. This was time that he cherished because it had become so rare. But now that he was asail he sat alone, sipping steamed milk with honey as he scanned sky, sea, and sails, and contemplated this particular vagary of human nature.

Conclusions so far: people felt comforted at the notion that the commander was at watch while they slept. Second, people were orderly and efficient if they knew the commander was up and about before they were.

And finally—this would be the unspoken advantage—one really needed that quiet watch, because it was far too seldom that the rest of the day would permit the luxury of uninterrupted thought.

His aide had left fleet communications at his table. Durasnir did not touch his scroll-case until he’d eaten the last bite of vinegar-soaked cabbage. The first message—as well as the fifth and eighth—were from Erkric. The last also had Prince Rajnir’s sigil scrawled below it: a royal summons.

This was why Durasnir never opened his scroll-case until he had eaten his breakfast. If there was enough of a crisis, Erkric would come to him.

He acknowledged the order and sent it. He checked sky, wind, sea, then moved to the tiny Destination alcove off the outer cabin. He picked up the transfer token, braced himself, said the spell, and transferred.

As always, the spell nearly wrenched his breakfast away. Pain and nausea wrung through him in waves, then vanished with about the same speed, leaving him in the Destination square in the high tower at the Port of Jaro in Ymar. Here, the sun was nearly overhead, half the day gone.

When the blur cleared from Durasnir’s vision he found Prince Rajnir and Dag Erkric waiting.

Durasnir showed his palms to the white-dressed Erama Krona, the prince’s personal bodyguards, surveying the round tower room as they surveyed him. As always the room was almost bare, only one chair on the tile floor, and the prince was not in it. The only other furniture was a small table carved like ivy vines. On it rested a very old Ydrasal candle-tree.

The Erama Krona moved away, permitting the fleet commander to step off the Destination tile.

All three saw in the other two their own tensions. Rajnir always had to fight the urge to exclaim, “Uncle Fulla!” He had fostered with the Durasnirs when he was a Breseng candidate; of all the Houses he had stayed at, he had liked theirs best and had been often invited back. His best friend had been Vatta, Fulla’s son who had died in that damned useless sea battle against the Everoneth and the Chwahir.

Rajnir flushed, looking younger than his late twenties. He hated any reminder of that battle. Not just because he’d lost it, but because Lord Annold Limros, Count of Wafri, had so easily tricked both him and the Everoneth into that stupid clash that got so many of his own age-mates killed. Including Vatta.

“My prince,” Durasnir said, on a note of question.

“I am still angry with Wafri,” Rajnir admitted, in part to try to provoke a response from his mage.

Has he been talking about that again?
Durasnir thought. But Erkric just smiled from his place by the window, the light haloing around his silver hair. “We have greater concerns than a petty Ymaran traitor,” he said in a mild voice, and then turned to Durasnir. “Hyarl Commander.”

The dag was older than Durasnir by ten years, but until last summer he had seemed ageless.

“We have received news from our people in the western seas,” Dag Erkric said.

Durasnir remained silent, asking his question with gestures rather than words. He learned more if he did not provide the response that Erkric wished.

“Pirate Island’s scout reports that Elgar the Fox just retook that island from some of the pirates leftover from the Brotherhood.”

“I hope he got rid of them,” Durasnir replied, an indirect arrow at Erkric. Durasnir believed it had been dishonorable to ally with pirates, though tactically it had been masterly. Such a decision—practical but immoral—seemed only to lead to Rainorec, Venn-doom. Yet not just Rajnir but the king had approved, so nothing could be said. Directly.

“Yes,” Erkric responded. “He did, or someone did. This was an eyewitness report. The one everyone claimed was Elgar the Fox was not Wafri’s prisoner, Indevan Algara-Vayir, but the one we think came to rescue him: tall, red-haired. Green eyes, not brown. Wears black clothing.”

Durasnir had sent out his own scouts since that summer and was fairly certain he’d discovered the identity of the mystery redhead who sometimes shared the name Elgar the Fox but he did not yet know for certain.

So he just bowed. “Did you issue assassination orders?”

“Our scout could not get near him. He slept onboard his flagship and they sailed as soon as they had sorted the pirates, their ships, and their supplies, leaving the surviving pirates to the justice of the locals.” His lip lifted in distaste.

Prince Rajnir’s sky-blue eyes flicked between them, his broad brow tense. “Then he will attack us on the sea?”

Erkric said soothingly, “He sailed west, toward Toar, my prince. He will not interfere with our invasion. He is farther away every day. And even with the new ships he took on, his fleet is a mere handful against ours, and undisciplined at that.”

“So where is the real Elgar?” Rajnir asked.

“We think he might have landed along the coast of Iasca Leror,” Erkric replied. “But—”

“—someone is killing our observers, yes.” Rajnir gripped the windowsill. “If Elgar did land, he will soon be marching northward at the head of an army. Why haven’t we gotten word of it by magic?”

Erkric fought against an angry reaction. He had to remind himself that Rajnir and Durasnir were doing their duty. Still, Durasnir’s duty concerned the seaborne military, not the magical.

It’s tension,
he thought, slowing his breathing in an effort to restore calm. Durasnir was unswervingly true to his Drenskar oath, which he saw as the trunk of the Golden Tree. That must be remembered.

But Erkric knew that the true trunk was magic. The military, like all the other guilds, formed branches. He was going to change the traditional limitations of magic. Such change would only make the Venn stronger.

So what could he say?

“You must remember that many of our scouts have been murdered,” he said.

Rajnir’s brows lifted in an “Oh, that’s right!” expression, and Erkric was just drawing a breath of relief when Durasnir said, “But what about your dag scouts? Have they been murdered, too?”

Rajnir snapped round, eyes widening with surprise. “
Dags?
Murdered? Why did no one tell me?”

“Because we have found no bodies,” Erkric said. “I will make a full report as soon as I know where my dag scouts are. When the military scouts were murdered, the bodies were left for us to find, as you know.”

“Yes, I remember that.” Rajnir’s fretful tone subsided.
He did need further soothing,
Erkric thought. A king needs his mind serene and clear, and not cluttered with worry over what he cannot help.

Durasnir said, “Your dags have vanished in the way of our scouts, but you have found no evidence of their being killed?”

Anger flared in Erkric, to be fought against. Anger clouded the mind. This was not the time to reveal any weaknesses on the dags’ part, which would be so misconstrued.

This was not the first time dags had just vanished. No one had been able to discover yet if Dag Jazsha Signi Sofar, captured by none other than this Elgar the Fox, was alive or dead. Even worse, no one knew why Brit Valda, Chief of the Sea Dags, had vanished, as well as the dag scouts they’d had to replace with army scouts.

Finally, and most important of all: were these questions connected to his recent, shocking discovery that the warding magic over his own scroll-case had been compromised?

These matters, he reasoned, were magical affairs. And the strain was great enough for each in his own realm.

So he said only, “That is true. As yet we do not know why. Our magical communications need to be limited for the same reasons we have to be careful landing observers. It was your own wish, my prince, that the invasion remain a secret. It requires as much effort from us as from the military to keep the plans from becoming known. This was before we discovered our long-established scouts were being murdered.”

Durasnir signified agreement. “Someone definitely knew who and where they were, and permitted them to operate undisturbed for years before this sudden sweep. This long wait before action argues against that ‘someone’ being the Marlovans, handing us yet another line of inquiry to pursue.”

Again Erkric felt control of the conversation shifting. Since Rajnir had not yet asked the question that Erkric had encouraged him to summon Durasnir here to ask, he gave in to temptation and asked it himself: “When will you be ready to launch?”

“The plans have not altered since last year. As soon as the winds change.”

Rajnir flicked his gaze between them. “But the Dag just told us that secrecy is hard to maintain. The secret of the invasion might even be broken.”

“If you discover that there is a large army marching north across Iasca Leror,” Durasnir said, “then you will know that the truth got out. But I never planned on surprise anyway. Only a fool counts on a major invasion being secret.”

Rajnir’s brow cleared. “So you planned on them knowing.”

Durasnir compressed his lips against saying,
I told you that before.
Rajnir either did not remember or more likely, needed reassurance. Or . . . he frowned, remembering something Signi had hinted at, very obliquely, some time ago—

Later, later.

“The plan is unchanged. Whether or not the Marlovans find out, we must have the steady summer winds. We don’t need entire ships swamping, killing our people before we even sight an enemy.”

Erkric said, “I will leave you to review the details and return to my own investigations, then, my prince.”

Rajnir saluted Erkric, again addressing him as Dag. Very close to the title he so coveted:
The
Dag, or The Dag of the Venn. The King’s Dag.

Durasnir bowed. “Dag Erkric.” He gave the proper formal title.

The mage’s return bow was polite, his smile faint. “Hyarl Commander.” He vanished, not needing a Destination tile.

The window overlooking the harbor was open, so they did not feel the displacement of air. Rajnir breathed deeply.

Durasnir had not expected to be left alone with the prince. He had far too much to do on the other side of the strait; two long transfers in a day would leave him with a headache so he would be slower at accomplishing his work.

Yet, yet. Dag Signi had once hinted—unless he misunderstood—that some of the dags were trying to discover spells to guide minds. It was so hard to believe! Yet it had once happened, if the records were correct, and that magic had been forbidden for a long time.

He wished he could talk to her now, or to Valda. Only after months of thought had he recognized that her hint, given when it was, where it was, had not been a general comment, but was directed toward one person: the prince.

Rajnir whirled around. “It’s been two weeks since the Dag has come to see me.”

He whirled again and pressed his hands on the windowsill, leaning dangerously over the spectacular drop as he gazed down at the ships in the harbor. Durasnir was aware of the Erama Krona stiffening.

“Other than that all I get are couriers from you both, saying everything is fine, everything is fine. Fine, fine, fine. And yet someone is killing our scouts in Iasca Leror, just before our invasion. Elgar the Fox turns up in the south, and they are claiming he knows Norsunder magic, can rift time and place to thrust his enemies through. And now dags are popping away like bubbles. Yet everything is fine, fine, fine.” He leaned farther out of the window, glaring southwestward in the direction of Iasca Leror.

Durasnir knew what would happen to the Erama Krona if the prince came to harm. Yet they could not speak unless spoken to and had no authority over the prince.

“Please do not lean out like that,” Durasnir said, to spare them anxiousness. “I only know what Dag Erkric reports on.”

Prince Rajnir pulled his head in. He appeared sane enough. Surely that argued against some mysterious spell guiding his thoughts, if such a thing even existed.

Durasnir said with care, “He seems to be as limited as we are in gathering information. You will have to address him directly to find out why.”

“I do.” Rajnir breathed deeply of the cold wind. “He says I won’t understand, but it’s couched in words meant to comfort me. Uncle Fulla, I am not comforted. I
must
win this battle before the Breseng Menn.” He touched his neck, where the golden torc of kingship should rest, though he did not wear the silver torc of the heir. “Everything has gone wrong since I came here to Ymar.”

“We now know that a great deal of that was due to Count Wafri’s treachery,” Durasnir said.

“He was my friend.” Once again Rajnir sounded oddly young, and he prowled around the room, stopping at the table. “How could he turn on me? I gave him
everything.
”

“You gave him everything in his own kingdom,” Durasnir corrected gently. “And we all share the blame equally for not discovering that he was an enemy all along. I dismissed him as a fool to my regret. So, it appears, did Dag Erkric.”

“He won’t tell me what he did with Wafri.” Rajnir had lifted the ancient, gold-inlaid candle-tree. He turned it slowly around in his hands, frowning at the whorled wood-grain highlighted with threads of gold, the twined leaves around each holder, and each of the nine unlit candles, as he spoke. “Wafri was my friend. I told him every thought, and he smiled, and praised me. Shared his wine with me, his cymbal dancers.” He set the candle-tree back on the little table. “Some days I want him dead, others, I remember the fun we had—” He shook his head. “The Dag won’t tell me.”