King's Shield (87 page)

Inda couldn’t answer that, but he could do this: “Since we’re alone, let me ask you. Is your promise good?”

“What?” Branid looked affronted, his voice echoing down the stairs to the alcove he’d shown Dannor the night before—the place you could hear everything said in the hall upstairs. Branid had just been showing off, but Dannor always remembered useful information like that.

She was there now, mostly out of idle interest. She had been debating whether she could tolerate being second woman to a pompous duty-stick like Tdor Marth-Davan, if she got this fool Branid to marry her, since he seemed to be free to choose. By the end of dinner the previous evening Dannor had figured out why the local women avoided Branid, who had only two subjects: bragging about himself, and whining about everyone else.

“When we were boys, you never kept promises,” Inda said. “But people change. I’ve changed. Have you?”

“I should hope so! Why, if it wasn’t for me—”

“Then listen. Evred-Harvaldar has given me orders to take my place as Harskialdna in the royal city.”

Below, Dannor was beginning to turn away in disgust—her weight actually shifted—when she heard Inda say, “He agreed that when my father dies, you are to become Adaluin.”

Dannor stilled. Oh, this was far better than she could have imagined. Far,
far.

On the landing, Branid’s eyes widened with shock, then pleasure. Then narrowedwariness. “But? I can’t believe you’re just going to give me the title. Just like that.”

“It’s the king’s order. Like it’s his order that my children will inherit. But I’m happy with the title going to you if you promise me two things. One, you will honor my father as yours until he dies. Second, when he does, you will permit my mother to stay as senior woman. That means if you marry, my mother has to approve. And if someday my mother chooses to leave, you will see that she is able to travel wherever she wants to go.”

“I promise,” Branid breathed, his face so painful to see—so much longing, fear, greed, even shame.

Inda pulled the owl clasp from his hair, which fell down his back. He held out the clasp, and Branid’s hand closed around it. “Then it’s done.”

Inda walked away before Branid could say anything. He thought about the things he’d say to Whipstick before he left, then forgot everything when he entered his room and saw the wedding shirt lying on his bed.

Tdor had made it; Inda knew it was customary for the wife to make the man’s wedding shirt, to embroider it with his House device, or with things from his life, whatever her skill and patience permitted.

This shirt was covered front and back with intricate designs: ships and suns and owls and the House symbols of all Inda’s Tvei friends, the lines somewhat crooked—Tdor was no needlewoman—the ships like nothing that had ever floated, but he knew as he ran his fingers over the bright lines and colors that every stitch was lovingly made.

 

 

 

An icy rain began to fall by midmorning.

Inda’s shoulder ached, as if often did when the weather changed. He found Tau downstairs in the kitchen, which was filled with good smells. “I need your hands.”

They went up to Inda’s room, where he plopped into a chair and leaned his head on his hands. Tau kneaded his bad shoulder.

“Thanks for everything you did,” Inda mumbled as little zings and shoots of pain, and then not-quite-pain, lessened the constant ache in his bones and shoulder socket. Maybe now he wouldn’t have to wear that stupid sling at his own wedding.

“I had fun here,” Tau said. “I was amazed to discover that the new cook has never made a feast for a family wedding. I find that sad.”

“As sad as everything being worn out?” Inda asked. “I didn’t see it yesterday. Then I was just glad that nothing had changed. But this morning, well, everything is worn through. The mats at the children’s table have to be the ones my father used. I’d thought I would get me some new boots, but mine are in better shape than anyone’s here. Mother’s have patched toes.”

“Signi has been renewing your magical spells. I came across her doing the buckets out behind the kitchen. It’s like she’s surrounded with the sun-glitter you see on water.”

Inda sighed as Tau’s strong hands moved to the muscles between his shoulder blades. “Thank you for taking on Dannor. Keeping her out of the way. She invited herself along, and I couldn’t figure out how to say no. Soon’s we were inside the gate, I could see that Tdor didn’t want her here.”

“I did my best, though it wasn’t long. You should have seen how fast she dropped me when she discovered I had no rank or relation to anyone with rank.” Tau shook his head. Dannor was the closest he’d ever met to the terrible Coco on Gaffer Walic’s pirate ship—not the taste for blood, but the utter lack of conscience. Well, at least Branid seemed to like her, which kept her out of Inda’s way.

“Tau. Are you coming to the royal city with me? You don’t have to be a Runner if you don’t want to. I can keep those two King’s Runners Vedrid assigned me. Turns out Fiam, who was supposed to be my Runner, didn’t like the knife training, and he’s going to be the house steward.”

“Yes, I taught him something about scent packets, and a few tricks for protecting old linens, like ribbon hems to make them last. It amuses me how many of my mother’s lessons—all deeply resented as worthless, you understand—I’ve been teaching people hither and yon.” Tau worked the muscle at the base of Inda’s skull as he considered what to say about the royal city.

“I think—I think you did Evred some good. Back in Ala Larkadhe. You’re right about him being taut as a bowstring.” Inda breathed deeply, half ready to fall asleep.

Tau smiled at the thought of Evred taut as a bowstring. Tau knew his response to Evred was complicated, and could be dangerous—but oh, the temptation to . . . civilize a king was devastatingly seductive.

He thumped Inda lightly. “There goes the summons bell.”

 

 

 

The wedding was held in the great hall, as rain was falling hard by noon. Below the family banners hung garlands made of ribbon-tied blossoms, all bound with ivy. Tau’s contribution was bunches of fragrant herbs.

The best beeswax candles—also dipped with herbs—glowed warmly over everyone’s House robes and tunics, hiding threadbare patches and striking highlights in silver embroidery. In that warm, golden, faintly glistening light everyone and everything looked its best.

Inda and Tdor stood side-by-side and made their vows before all their dependents, the chief men and women of the closest trade towns, and as many Fera-Vayir cousins as could make it in time. Standing just behind her supposed old friend Tdor was Dannor Tya-Vayir. It so happened that her place as guest put her next to Branid Algara-Vayir in his green-and-silver House tunic, the silver owl clasp binding up his hair. She smiled at him every time he happened to glance sideways.

He glanced a lot.

The vows were the solemn part. Tdor dug her nails into her palm once, trying to make a memory. She was afraid the entire day would vanish like a dream, it seemed so unreal.

That was until she reminded herself she had to leave. She would be taking up duties as defender of the royal castle. It was good work . . .

But it was not Castle Tenthen. It was not home.

She closed that acknowledgment away, keeping the hurt private. No one must ever know—to all, including Fareas-Iofre, she was full of pride and expectation. Any other woman would trade places with her in a heartbeat. She would now be the most important woman in the kingdom next to the queen, beside whom she’d been raised as a sister.

Inda also felt unreal. The last Marlovan wedding he’d attended had been when he was eleven, when their academy tutor, Master Gand, married and moved away as Randael to a northern castle. He remembered being aghast that a master would marry. He had known even less about politics than he had about sex in those days.

As the Runners carried the trays in, and the hand drums came out, Inda remembered himself and the other children running round the perimeter of the room, trying to pinch extra lemon cakes. Just as at that wedding, the adults passed from hand to hand the flat open-flower wine cups full of hot spiced wine. One after another they called out toasts and drank, most speaking the ancient witticisms that were pointless to children but carried double meaning so funny to the teens.

Then: “Dance, dance!”

Flushing—almost unrecognizable—Tdor moved out in her new green-and-silver over-robe, flowers bound on her head, and took her place in the center of the inner ring of married women, the outer ring of single girls and women.

Drums and cymbals started the thump and ching in counterpoint, and people sang “Green Grows the Ivy” as the women wound round and round, Tdor leading.

Then it was the men’s turn. Inda grinned stupidly, wondering why he’d forgotten to practice, but then the men’s circle dances were so easy, variations on the sword dance: Stamp stamp, whirl, kick, whirl, clap clap, leap. High smack of the opposite man’s hand against yours. And then onward, as the drums raced through the gallop, gradually picking up the tempo until men began to stumble, trip, or just bow out. Incomprehensible until just a few years ago was the old saying, “Married man who lasts out the Ivy Dance lasts out the night!” It was silly—everyone knew that—but Inda did his best, until only he and Tau and two of the younger Riders from the outer ring were dancing, and when Inda stumbled, Tau pretended to trip, and sat down with Inda, laughing.

Inda could see how popular Tau had become, but he could also see from Tau’s smile, his flow of witty jokes, that once again, Tau was playing a part. Tenthen wasn’t his home. It was another stage for his life’s play.

The unmarried girls danced a ring dance next, many eyeing the young fellows speculatively. And vice versa when the unmarried fellows took their turn.

The men brought out the swords next, to general acclaim, and this time the drums rumbled in the 5/4 rhythm as men leaped, clashed, posed, whirled. Leaped, and clash, clash, ring!

Signi watched it all from a corner seat. Fareas-Iofre had meant to look out for her, but she was far too busy acting as hostess, and because no one knew Signi, she was left to herself.

It was Tdor who noticed her sitting alone at the very end table where the children had been. At the other end of the room, Inda was deep in conversation with Whipstick and Branid.
I thought Inda’s ring was something he shared with her, and so I made myself jealous. The most unworthy, useless, and painful emotion there is. And totally unnecessary,
Tdor thought, and crossed the room to join Signi.

“I remember you were trained in dance,” Tdor said. “Are our dances pleasing to the eye, or just strange?”

“Ah, all dance is good.” Signi smiled up at her.

Tdor dropped down on the mat beside Signi and pulled off her flower garland, which had begun to itch her scalp mercilessly. She turned it around and around in her hands. “But Venn court dance is very different, is it not? Hadand looked it up and wrote to me about it. It’s a lot like a play, she said. Each gesture holds meaning. Levels of meaning, even. I’m afraid ours must seem fairly simple.”

“No, all dance tells a story.” Signi extended a hand toward the young girls. “See? They tell the story of courtship, of hope. They may not have great skill, but their youth gives them beauty.”

Tdor leaned back with her elbows on the low table, watching robes swirling against shapely young bodies, laughing looks cast backward, neatly booted feet tapping, flower-tucked braids swinging. “And the men?”

“Ah, theirs is so different. Some is courtship and desire, some—” She pursed her lips.

“The sword dances aren’t.”

“They are challenges, to one another. They play war. Sometimes they play sex and war.”

“And they don’t up north?”

“Yes, they do there too, though perhaps in different ways.” Signi looked troubled.

Across the room, Inda—flushed and laughing the way they saw so rarely—said, “Come on, Tau!”

“Not here—”

“Someone has to uphold sailors’ honor. Can’t be me. I always fumble the steps!”

Tdor had it on her lips to ask about the battlefield—-if Signi truly saw ghosts—but the melancholy quirk to the woman’s eyes, her pensive almost smile, made her hesitant.

The men shouted approval, and most of the women took it up. The drums tapped a new rhythm, and Signi smiled. “Ah! You must watch. Tau will dance a sailor dance. He is quite good. His dance story is to seduce every watcher by making them feel beautiful and desirable.”

Taumad moved out to the center, laughing back at Inda, and put one hand up, one at his waist, to begin an old Sartoran step-dance that had become popular on the decks of ships all over the south, mostly because you could do it in a small space. Many of the girls grabbed up drums and rumbled up a stirring counterpoint, trying to catch his eye. He managed to flirt with every single one of them before he twirled to a graceful finish amid laughter and clapping.

Signi chuckled. “He will not sleep alone tonight, that one.”

Tdor did not hear. Her ear, always sensitive to the atmosphere, caught Dannor’s light, cruel laugh. Liet—who could be bossy—and a couple of newly married Riders’ wives were flushed and uncertain, Dannor smirking in the way Tdor had hated ever since she was fifteen.

Tdor said, of a sudden, “Will you dance for me?”

Signi turned her head, searching Tdor’s face, and Tdor waited, holding her breath, afraid she had trespassed.

But whatever the mage saw did not affront her, and she said, “I will.”

Tdor got to her feet. “Silence,” she said, turning around, but her gaze rested on Dannor. “Our guest from foreign lands is going to dance for us. Dag Signi, do you need a beat?”

“No drums.” Signi moved to the center of the room.

For a short time she just stood in the center of the room, a small, compact figure with flyaway sandy hair, humming beneath her breath, and swaying gently, so that the hem of her blue robe brushed the tops of feet they saw were bare, her slippers placed neatly beside her mat.