The final week of Winter's Beginning, 992 KY
With the family in mourning all royal celebrations and parties were canceled for the next year, and the City's leading lights of course followed suit; the social season thus ended two spokes early, to the despair of more than a few mothers looking to marry off daughters who were aging by the minute. Ellika, who would normally never hide herself at the Estate at this time of year, didn't care a bit. She spent her time in the Great House's cozy nursery fussing over Anneya with Lady Donnis.
The wet nurse brought from Tremont City lost her milk, to general alarm. "How does one find a wet nurse, Cousin Donnie?" fretted Ellika.
"One looks among your Estatesmen for a mother who's still nursing a babe, or better, one who's just lost one, as sad as that is. Are there any such?"
There were several nursing mothers, none mourning a dead child. Ellika could not stand forcing a babe off its mother's breast, and luck was with her. An especially devoted mother had enough milk for two: Arta Wallek. "Anythin, miss, anythin your family asks! Fen an I owe you the world!" Her own freckled cherub Jaddun joined the nursery by day, and keeping both babies fed often kept the poor girl tied to the rocker.
Ellika read to her to help pass the time. It embarrassed the former housemaid to have a Princess "amusin me, it ain'—beggin pardon, it isn't necessary, miss, or proper," until Ellika burst out, "Do please let me read to you, Mistress Wallek! My mother read these stories to me—see, this book is hers." She showed Arta the frontispiece of the book of Kellish folktales she held; inscribed on the bookplate in a childish hand was, Given to Ansella of Whithorse by her Grandmother, Eddin's Day, 958.
"Doesn't it make you sad, miss?" whispered Arta, squinting sympathically.
Ellika put the book down and took her sleeping sister from Arta's arms. "Nothing of my mother's makes me sad."
A new baby to raise greatly revived the grieving Nurse, who did not welcome an intruder into her affairs. "We don't need this Wallek woman. I raised your mam, I raised you three, and there's still enough in me to raise one more!" the old woman grumbled.
"There's no question: you are the authority to which we will bow on all matters," soothed Ellika, "but you can't actually feed her, dear." Even Nurse had to acknowledge the truth in this. She kept a dyspeptic eye on the curly-haired young mother in the rocker all the same, though the baby boy who accompanied her in time was allowed to be "quite the charmer in spite of those dots a-comin' out." Soon Jaddun was elevated to "a dear sweet little thing," and in the end, the old lady lost her heart to his toothless grin and wispy red curls. No more was said about either Wallek's temporary presence in her nursery. Ellika and Lady Donnis breathed a sigh of relief and began looking for a nanny to "assist" Nurse.
Temmin had no such distraction. While Fen Wallek welcomed him with all the enthusiasm of a big red puppy, his childhood friend Alvo Nollson did not. The young groom had grown in the time Temmin had been away; he was taller, and his already-stocky frame had lost the last of its boyish roundness and turned to solid muscle. The thatch of dark brown hair had been tamed, and his ratty old tweed cap exchanged for a new one that already showed signs of following in the last one's disreputable footsteps. He kept himself aloof, always managing to find ways to avoid being alone with the Prince—indeed, finding ways to avoid being near him at all.
Temmin finally came upon Alvo alone as he mended a saddle pad in the tack room. Alvo looked up as he came in; just before he took on feigned indifference, a flash of pure pain radiated from him that cut Temmin to the heart. Nothing had changed, though they'd been separated for two years; Alvo still loved him. "Hullo, Alvy."
Alvo pressed a knuckle to his broad forehead, one end of the double-needled thread still in his hand and a leather thimble on his middle finger. "Afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for not standing." He returned to his stitching, pushing first one needle and then the other through the stubborn, thick wool felt before pulling the stitch tight.
Never had silence hung this thick between them. "Have you no good word for me, then, Alvy, none at all?" Temmin finally said.
Alvo paused. "I'm sorry about the Queen, sir, awfully, awfully sorry. You know we all loved her. She was always good to me." He dared a sober, sympathetic glance of real grief at Temmin.
"She loved you too," said Temmin.
Alvo blinked hard and returned to his work. "Jebby has done very well these spokes, sir. I've exercised him regularly. Even given him a sugar cube now and again as you used to. He's—" Alvo cleared his throat. "He's missed you pretty badly, sir. He will be happy to see you."
Temmin sank down on the bench beside him. "And you? Have you missed me?"
"I've kept myself busy, sir," mumbled Alvo.
"Don't I know it. You never wrote."
"That's not true, Tem," protested Alvo, stung into raising his head from his task. He met Temmin's eyes and bent down again. "That's not true."
"You wrote me twice in two years and each time you called me 'Your Highness' and acted like you were writing to my father, not me."
Alvo back-tacked over his stitching and clipped the ends short. "Some of us haven't forgotten our station in life." He gathered his tools into his workbox and stood to put the saddle pad away.
"Alvo—"
"With respect, sir, I'm working." He walked away, his broad back stiff and angry.
"Pagg's balls," said Temmin to the empty tack room.
He scratched at the scabbed-over stitches at his temple and then at his nape under the long, nagging queue he'd grown at the Temple. He'd had time to think and still hadn't figured the Alvo dilemma out. The last time they'd been together for any real length of time was almost two years ago, when he'd gotten roaring drunk and pawed Mattie in the hedge. Nausea and guilt shuddered through him, worry chasing close behind. He wished he knew where she was now so he might set things right.
Temmin turned his mind back to Alvo. The occasional sexual play between them as boys—play Temmin always assumed was practice for girls—had turned into something different that night: Alvo's declaration of love, and Temmin's first climax at another's hands. At the Temple he'd learned how pleasurable sex with men could be, but that wasn't the issue. Did he want Alvo as a lover?
He loved Alvo, certainly; Alvy was the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother. What did he want from Alvo now, and how did he want it—by choice, or by coercion? He knew at least a dozen different ways to bring Alvo round his thumb, but none he wanted to use. Some ways he now realized he'd used in their childhood; he'd always been able to coax Alvo into doing anything he wanted. As Heir, he could make anyone do anything he wanted by simple fiat, but he never pulled rank, especially with Alvo. At least, he liked to think so. Mama had drummed it into his head that relying on rank was the resort of bullies and cowards.
Temmin stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets. In the right-hand one, his fingers brushed the familiar rasp of sugar cubes. He smiled and walked to into the stables, where a big chestnut gelding stood peering over the stall door. Above the stall, an impeccably shined brass plaque read "Jebby"; an Heir's coronet crowned the plaque. The horse whickered and bobbed his head. Temmin almost ran to the stall, but once there stood relaxed and calm, letting the horse nudge and nuzzle him. "Hey, Jeb, hey, boy," he murmured.
Jebby had his fill of whuffling his master and turned away slightly, presenting his mane to be scratched. Temmin obliged and put his arms around the thick, muscular neck when he'd finished. He hugged the great horse close, breathing in hay, carrots, apples, oats, molasses, dung and clean horse—the smells of a well-run stable that said "home" deep in his bones. Mama had helped him pick out and train Jebby. Temmin hugged the horse tighter and released him.
The chestnut eyed him sideways and dipped his head several times. "Oh, all right," smiled Temmin, producing one sugar cube and then another; Jebby lipped each one from his hand, the velvety muzzle and its paradoxical whiskers both tickling his palm. They stood leaning into one another, Jebby careful not to lean into his master so much the fragile human toppled over.
Temmin let his eyes wander around the quiet stable. This is what he would do. He would simply stay near. He would let Alvo know the approach was his to make. He would place no barrier between them. He would offer himself to be leaned upon, even as he wished he could lean upon Alvo himself. Perhaps when they were comfortable again as friends and brothers, he might make up his mind whether they could be lovers.
Every morning Temmin and Jebby rode out over the rolling grasslands. Every vista reminded him of Mama; they squeezed his heart dry and filled it with her love over and over. Each time he was that much more as one with the enormous animal, and that much more reconciled with his mother's loss, however minutely. But even he could spend just so much time in the stables. He was unused to working with his hands after nearly two years in the Temple, and Alvo's attitude was so provoking Temmin thanked Nerr for his training in patience. "Alvo Nollson," the stable master scolded one morning just before Temmin turned the corner, "what has come over you? His Highness has never stood much on ceremony, but I'll thank you to at least treat 'im with respect, else I'll show you the business end of a riding crop!"
Temmin halted, listening for Alvo's answer. "How exactly have I been disrespectful, sir? Show me where I'm wrong and I'll correct it." The stable master grumbled that Alvo knew very well what he meant and stumped off. Temmin let himself round the corner; Alvo's guilty expression hardened into dull servitude. Temmin gave him a small smile and left him alone.
Walking back up to the Great House, he wondered what to do with himself for the day. Ellika had Anneya, and Lady Donnis was consoling his grandmother the Dowager Duchess at Meadow House. He considered visiting there, but discarded the notion. Grandmama had taken Mama's death hard, very hard indeed; she had outlived all her children and her husband, and Donnis fretted that the old lady mightn't survive her grief. Temmin wished he could be more supportive, but at times he wondered if he'd survive his own grief; he had nothing to offer.
Once he arrived in his sitting room, Temmin called, "Hullo, Jenks, are you here?" No answer. His mother's influence extended to his rooms at the Estate, more to his taste than his grand apartments at the Keep: brighter and more open, the furnishings nimble—lighter and less formal. Few books graced the shelves here, and those that did contained the finer points of equine management, exciting Cavalry stories, or both. Ranged among them were his schoolbooks—most with near-pristine bindings, some with uncut pages.
Luncheon wasn't for at least two hours. Temmin didn't want to go see Ellika, Arta and the baby. He guessed that Jenks was somewhere watching Fen fall off his horse. Temmin preferred being busy; this inactivity made him restless. He walked to the bookcase and fingered the spines in meditation. Books interested him more since Teacher's reading to him from the Intimate History, though its magical immersion of listeners in the story intrigued him far more than the dusty recitations his tutors had offered him. Perhaps he'd go through the books in the Estate's library. There had to be something worth reading to pass the time. He picked out a book of old war stories he remembered from his boyhood.
"Are you interested perhaps in some study?" came a cool voice.
Temmin dropped the book on his foot. "Gah! Ow! Pagg's balls! Teacher, I swear you wait to come through mirrors until people aren't looking on purpose!"
"What purpose would that serve?" said the slim black and white figure standing in the door to Temmin's bedchamber.
"Your own amusement."
Teacher's mouth curved in a shallow bow. "Forgive me. The only mirrors in your suite are in your wardrobe and bedchamber. I did not mean to startle you."
"The Bloody One you didn't." Temmin picked up the book on the floor, hobbled back to his sofa and settled on its red chintz cushions. "You may have broken my foot," he added, stretching his legs out on the sofa.
"I doubt it, and do not blame me for your own clumsiness." Teacher took an ancient red book from under one arm and placed it on the table before the sofa. "His Majesty thought perhaps study might be a good diversion."
"He did? I am understandably surprised."
"To be honest, his exact reply to my suggestion was, 'Do as you please, I do not care.'"
"He's taking Mama's death harder than I expected he would."
Teacher leaned against the mantel corner closest to Temmin. "Whatever you may think, His Majesty loved your mother and always did."
Temmin curled his lip. "I suppose that's why he's so excited about his mistress's child. He really means to make the Shelstone a countess?"
"For the child's sake, yes. He has no interest in the woman herself any more. I have never seen him less interested in women."
"You amaze me." Temmin put his feet back on the floor. "The whole thing is amazing. I had no idea all it took to become a countess was to whore yourself out to a king."
"I thought you were sympathetic to the plight of illegitimate offspring."
"Not their mothers."
Teacher gestured toward the book. "Do you remember the daughter of this very House I began to tell you about last year?"
"Lassanna of Whitehorse? Yes." Temmin's scowl held on stubbornly. "She ended up Queen of Kellen, though!"
"Not through 'whoring herself out to a king.' Dunnoc of Kellen had to woo her and win her. Her earlier dalliance with Andrin of Tremont almost cost her her life and that of her unborn son."
"I don't see how it's the same."
"It is not the same, at all. My point is this: The attention of kings is not always favorable, even when one is the wife of a king and not his mistress."
Temmin sat up straighter, elbows on his knees. "Why? Did Dunnoc prove to be a bad husband?"
"Shall we find out?"
Temmin touched the book's old Tremontine red cover; the soft, smooth leather seemed warm, as if it were alive. He opened it. The pages were still blank to him.
"Tennoc grew to manhood in King Dunnoc's court at Gwyrfal, and remained the only living son of King Andrin of Tremont."
The words blossomed on the pages as they used to do and changed to images; the images moved and swallowed Temmin up.
Spring's Beginning, 60 KY
Eighteen-year-old Tennoc ar Sial took the stairs to his mother's bower two at a time, bearing a parchment in his hand. "Mother!" he called. "I—oh!" The young man skidded to a halt. Ladies-in-waiting surrounded his mother, at work on their embroideries and sewing; they smiled at him, especially Cariodas. Any other young man would welcome her soft brown eyes gazing at him in worship, but Tennoc blushed and looked away. "Ah, something has come for you, Mother. The messenger said it was for your eyes only, but that it concerned me."
Queen Lassanna set her tambour aside. "Perhaps we should be alone." Her ladies curtsied and filed from the room; one whispered, "Gently, Cariodas—Princess Gwynna will scratch your eyes out!" Cariodas looked back at him anyway and smiled. With the ladies gone, he handed the parchment to his mother and sat at her feet. "The messenger said it's from Lord Grandfather," he said, switching to the Tremontine they often spoke when alone.
"I'm surprised the messenger dared come to court, with things the way they are between the kingdoms," said Lassanna. She slowly broke the seal, read the scroll's contents, read them again, and put the parchment down on her lap. "It's from your grandfather, all right, but it's really from your father."
"King Andrin?"
Lassanna looked down on her son in grave amazement. "We are restored to grace. The King has given you his name and is calling for you to come to Tremont Keep. You're still his only son. I am once again Lady Lassanna of Whitehorse—oh, my name is long enough now without adding that back on." She rattled the parchment in dismissal, but Tennoc caught notes of suppressed pride and something akin to grief in her voice. "And you are now Prince Tennoc, though here—" she rattled the parchment—"they insist on calling you by your Tremontine name."
"Which is what?"
"Temmin Antremont, styled Temmin of Tremont."
Tennoc wrinkled his nose. "Feh. I have no wish to be Temmin of Tremont, or know either His Grace or His Majesty. They've had no use for us these nineteen years—I have no use for them, especially Lord Grandfather. I'm Tennoc ar Sial, and that's all I want to be."
"That's fine," murmured his mother, stroking his fawn-brown curls. "I don't want you going to Tremont Keep either, my Tennoc, not with all this tension at the border."
Word of the Queen's letter from the Duke of Whitehorse reached King Dunnoc's ears before she could tell him. "A secret message from Tremont, Your Majesty," said Bryth ar Brennow, "and she's told you none of what it says."
Daevys ar Ulvyn nodded and poured more wine for the men in Dunnoc's council chamber. "She's Tremontine, sir, and the King was once her lover—the boy's his only Heir! You should send him away—send them both away. What if Tennoc should turn his hand against Kenver?"
"Then you'd be Dunnoc's heir," snorted Sian ar Lifris. Ulvyn glared at him. "Besides," continued Lifris, "Tennoc would sooner cut off his own hand than cut a hair from Kenver's head. Never were there closer friends."
"Too close if you ask me," said Bryth ar Brennow. "He's Tremontine. You know they take after those filthy Sairish in the bedchamber."
Shame-fueled outrage swelled Dunnoc's neck. Magic sparked in his fingers unbidden; of late he'd had moments where he lost control of his power, strange flickerings as disturbing to him as the tremors creeping into his limbs. "Are you accusing my son of being a man-lover?"
"That Tremontine boy might lead the Prince into iniquity in his innocence," hastened Brennow.
"It's past time Kenver married, Your Majesty," said Lifris. "He's almost twenty-two, and there are several suitable ladies here in court—why, my own Cariodas—"
"I have not changed my mind, Lifris. I am giving Cariodas to Tennoc." The lord's face fell.
"Tennoc of Tremont is more dangerous to the Princess Gwynna's chastity than to Prince Kenver's," said Ulvyn. "I've seen the way he looks at her."
And she at him, thought Dunnoc. "I will never allow that match."
"Then send him away," urged Ulvyn. "Send the boy and his mother back to their clan at Brunsial—or lock them up for fear they will betray us!"
Dunnoc stood, drained his cup and smacked it down on the conference room's long table. "You speak of my Queen. She is loyal to Kellen, and why shouldn't she be? The Tremontines turned their backs on her and she's a Kell now, a good woman of Clan Sial, and what's more, I love her. No more of this talk, my lords."
But the seed had been planted. Though Lassanna gave her husband the letter, he wondered if she knew he'd been told and would have withheld it otherwise. She'd said many times she had no love for Tremont, but she missed her mother and sometimes yearned for Whitehorse.
Perhaps the boy should go to his father. He loved Tennoc almost as much as he did his own children, but he never forgot the boy's origin and subtly reminded Tennoc of it now and again. He would have to remind the boy more openly. His daughter's heart belonged to the blue-eyed bastard of the Tremontine King, but both children seemed to accept their futures apart; Tennoc had already informally consented to marrying Cariodas. Dunnoc had never before considered that perhaps Tennoc and Kenver were more than brothers.
As the weeks went on, the King thought he saw knowing sniggers aimed at his son and stepson, and leers directed at his younger wife; he'd taken to sleeping alone, for despite visits to the Sisters and the Lovers' Temple, Dunnoc's potency in bed had left him. Lassa was a passionate woman, and a tiny voice in his mind said one day she must betray him.
For now, Dunnoc turned away from all that. The best cure for his troubles was always battle, though he himself could no longer fight; his neck and shoulders were stiff, and he trembled unless he stood and moved around, though so far no one seemed to notice.
Tremont was testing the eastern border, but his lords there had things well in hand. He would move against the Sairish fortress at Maalig, on Kellen's southern tip in Trefhallyn. Maalig was Sairland's last foothold in the far west. Tremont tried repeatedly to move against the fortress, but Kellen had a strong presence along the southern River Cobb; the Tremontines had to approach Maalig by boat and brave the fort's impenetrable seaward defenses.
Maalig-based raiders swooped down on Kellish merchant vessels far too often for Dunnoc's taste, and he intended to stop them once and for all. Time to push them into the Gulf of Inchar.
"Pirrun, you should have been there!" cried Tennoc, clapping a young man on the shoulder. Music, endless wine and drunken laughter filled Gwyrfal's great hall; Kellen's warriors were home after a long, successful campaign.
"I would've if I hadn't broken my leg," winced Pirrun. "You've been gone so long it's healed! Why did you two not come home on the Royal Road, as the King did? Why come home with your soldiers? You could've been back weeks ago!"
"I don't ask anything of the men I'm not willing to do myself," declared Kenver. "Besides," he added in mock confidentiality, "Tennoc gets nauseous when I take him through a reflection!" The crowd hooted.
Tennoc took the dig with a slight flush and a grin. "Be that as it may, my lords, Kenver took the day! Had his magic not blocked the spring feeding Maalig we'd still be laying siege to it. He just reached down, so—" Tennoc dropped to one knee and put his hand on the floor— "and those Sairish bastards lost their water. They gave up within two weeks!"
Kenver laughed and took a long drink from his goblet. "Not entirely, brother! A few guardsmen surrendered a gate—they were half-dead from thirst. We still had to fight our way through the rest. I couldn't keep the spring plugged and use my magic to fight at the same time. If it weren't for you, I'd've been gutted more than once. D'ye hear, my lords?" he shouted over the music, "Tennoc saved my life ten times ten, and took the fort's commander single-handed!" Kenver put his arm around Tennoc's neck and hugged him close to his side. "Tennoc ar Sial!" he shouted, hoisting his goblet.
"Tennoc ar Sial!" roared the hall in return.
"I did my duty as a Kell," said Tennoc. He glanced to one side; the King was frowning at them both. Beside Dunnoc sat Lassanna, who nodded reassuringly. Tennoc grinned and turned back to his friends. "It's our pleasure and duty to serve good King Dunnoc—all of us!" he cried, raising his own goblet. "The King!"
"The King!" roared the hall even louder. Every cup was emptied, every cup refilled.
The musicians struck up their best dancing tunes. Servants cleared the benches and tables from the floor, and the dancers formed into lines: men in one, women in the other. Tennoc found himself facing Cariodas ar Lifris, Lord Lifris's daughter and one of the maidens who served his mother. She blushed and held out her soft, warm hand to begin the form.
He gave her his most gentle smile. He had no wish to hurt Cariodas. She was a court favorite, a sweet girl, pretty—hair and shining eyes so dark they approached black, unusual among the fairer Kells. She was kind, intelligent, obedient, accomplished in every way a young lady should be. He was expected to take her to wife, and he would. She already loved him, and he could never love her. Further up the line of women was Gwynna, and his heart.
Among the dancers Dunnoc saw his wife and brooded. She was so much younger than he was, still as merry at thirty-eight as she'd been when she'd first come to court. She refused a matronly role and still loved to dance, though he could not. Now a handsome young man bowed to her, took her hand and paraded her laughing up the gauntlet of lords and ladies. Had they danced together before? Dunnoc must watch him. Neya's Day approached, and while Lassa always insisted on sharing the Blessing with him, perhaps this would be the year she slipped off into the dark to bless the fields and forests with another.
Ulvyn approached, bowed and took a place beside Dunnoc. "The lords are calling Tennoc the Hero of Trefhallyn," he murmured. "Some say you should give it to him—let him found a new clan and become Tennoc ar Trefhallyn."
Dunnoc looked for his stepson among the crowd. There he was, dancing with Gwynna. Wine might explain the flush on his daughter's face, but Dunnoc doubted it. Where was Cariodas? There, dancing with Kenver. It was past time and past to marry Tennoc to Lifris's daughter and pack them off to a holding somewhere away from Gwyrfal until he'd found Gwynna the right husband; Trefhallyn lay some 1400 miles from Gwyrfal. "Perhaps I should," he muttered.
"And hand over the southern tip of Kellen to Tremont?" said Ulvyn. "Your Majesty, all that separates Trefhallyn from Tremont is the River Cobb. We've had the Sairish to thank—in a twisted way—for keeping the Tremontines out of Trefhallyn thus far. With them gone it will take a strong hand there to keep the border safe, and whether the bastard son and Heir of the Tremontine King will wish to keep that border safe…"
Dunnoc's left hand trembled. "I must give him some holding, but not that one."
Ulvyn jerked his head; Tennoc's arm encircled Gwynna's waist as the two whirled around one another in a circle of dancers clapping in time to the sprightly music. "You must also give him a wife."
"Not that one either," grunted Dunnoc.
Gwynna darted among the apple trees so quickly Tennoc couldn't get a bead on her; his missile bounced off a tree trunk. She was luckier. The hard little green apple flew from her hand and hit Tennoc square above the heart. "Ow!"
"A fair hit! A fair hit!" she cried, jumping up and down and clapping her hands until her flowing sleeves flapped. "You're dead, sir!" Tennoc clasped his chest, let out a melodramatic shriek and fell down obligingly.
A few yards away, Kenver said, "Can I get up now?" His sister went to both her fallen enemies and helped them to their feet in gracious victory. "How did you become such a good shot?" grumbled Kenver as he dusted off the dirt and picked twigs from his once nearly white hair, now a dark brown.
"It just comes easy to me."
"It's unnatural. You're far too strong for a girl."
"You'd be strong, too if you had to run in heavy skirts. Blame Hanni. He taught me to 'shoot as Leutan.' He says you 'shoot as Tremontine girl.'"
"You're strong but you're not that strong—you still can't send an arrow as far as I can."
"What's the use of strength when you can't hit the target half the time!"
"Gwynna's just got better aim, Ken, and that's all there is to it," said Tennoc, smiling at her. Running had brought a flush to her face, and her red-gold braids had tumbled down. The gray eyes so like her brother's sparkled like the sun striking the waves in the bay. "Are you hungry? I am!" They ran laughing toward the castle; Tennoc wished for the courage to take Gwynna's hand, but even here, in no one but Kenver's presence, he didn't dare.
In the courtyard, Dunnoc awaited them; was it Tennoc's imagination, or was he developing a stoop? "You're getting too old for this, all of you. Gwynna, it doesn't become a young lady to run riot with men unaccompanied."
Gwynna gasped. "Papa, I was with my brothers!"
"No more of this. You are done with childish romping. Go to your rooms and arrange yourself." Gwynna's mouth dropped in betrayal, and she walked into the castle as if she were going to the dungeons. "Kenver," the King continued, "you will end this sort of play. If you wish for activity, go to the training ground and spar."
"But sir, we only—" began Tennoc.
"I am not speaking to you, I am speaking to my son. Take your presumption to your rooms and stay there." Tennoc exchanged shocked looks with Kenver and did as he was told.
In the archway leading inside stood Daevys ar Ulvyn and Bryth ar Brennow. Tennoc politely made his leg. "Lord Ulvyn, Lord Brennow, how do you do today?"
The older men did not return the bow. "Do as your father King Andrin wishes and go home, Temmin of Tremont," said Ulvyn.
Tennoc drew himself up in angry surprise. "I am Tennoc ar Sial, and Gwyrfal is my home until the King tells me it's not. Good day, my lords."
Ulvyn made no effort to move, and Tennoc brushed past him as politely as he could. "Bastards have no home, Tremontine whelp," the lord called after him.
Brennow watched him up the stairs and turned to Ulvyn. "Why do you hate the boy so much, Daevys?"
"Hate him?" said Ulvyn in surprise. "I don't hate him. I don't hate anyone. Kenver stands between me and the throne, and Tennoc is his right hand. Therefore, I will strike off his right hand."
"What does that gain us?"
"It weakens Kenver and Dunnoc both—it gives the King reason to doubt his Queen, and his own son's loyalties. Andrin's recognition of the boy as his heir is the most perfect weapon we could have been given. Tennoc has turned from a beloved stepson to an enemy with too much influence, and all it took was a few words written on parchment."
Tennoc wanted to go to his mother, but, obedient to the King, he went to his rooms. "Plagues you something, my lord?" asked Hanni, looking up from examining Tennoc's boots.
"It's all right, Hanni, go get your dinner." The Leutan set down the boots, bowed cheerfully and fled the room.
The King's demeanor had changed markedly of late. Dunnoc was all the father Tennoc had, and he loved him as one. Now Tennoc's place at table had been moved a chair away from Kenver, then another; his once-easy association with Gwynna and Kenver had just been ended. What had he done to deserve it? Gwynna was always to be taken from him, but Kenver taken from him as well would be like losing his wind.
Gwynna's father must be preparing a marriage for her. She was almost eighteen, after all, and everyone knew they loved one another. But everyone also knew he was respectful. He would marry the Lady Cariodas, as the King and his mother wished, but he would carry his love for Gwynna to his death bed.
Tennoc stayed in his rooms through dinner, starved as he was. His mother came to him with a tray. "Why did you not come down, sweetheart? Were you not hungry? Are you feeling unwell? Shall I call a Sister?"
"I feel fine, Mama, and I am very hungry," answered Tennoc, eagerly surveying the tray's contents. He took out his dagger and speared at a cold roast pigeon.
"Then why did you not come down?"
"The King told me to stay in my rooms," he said between swallows.
His mother's brows knit in consternation. "He did? He asked where you were. I said I didn't know, and he said you must be sulking again, that you sulked far too much, and that he wouldn't be surprised if you were beginning to think more highly of yourself than you should. I answered that you never sulk and he told me not to contradict him at table." She puckered her pale brows. "He is ill—you must have seen it—but he refuses to see the Sisters."
Tennoc took a quick swig of wine and wiped his mouth. "He's planning a marriage for Gwynna and wants me out of the way."
"But you've never been in the way, and Dunnoc's said nothing to me about marrying Gwynna to anyone. He's always planned to marry you to Cariodas—now, don't look like that, I know she's quiet and a bit insipid, but she's a pretty girl, a kind girl, and she's devoted to you. You could do much worse."
"I don't love her."
"You don't have to," retorted his mother. "She will be a good wife to you. She will guarantee you and your children a place in this world, and love will grow, given time."
Tennoc listened to the sounds rising from the courtyard far below. "Should I go to Uncle Williard at Brunsial, Mama?" His heart sank even as he spoke the words. "Just for a time, until he's reassured I intend no disrespect? Perhaps until Gwynna's…married? I would miss you and Ken—and Dunnoc, too, but if he wants me gone…"
Lassanna stood and circled behind his chair to hug him round the neck. "It might be best, as much as I don't want you far from me. He is beginning to worry me. I've stopped dancing—he frowns so when I do, and his shaking gets worse—and he asks me questions about… But that's not for you to worry over. I'll send word to Brunsial and see if they'll have you for a few spokes. Yellow Hanni will go with you."
By the time Dunnoc demanded Tennoc leave court, the plans had already been made; Lassanna told him with some hauteur that her son had been invited to stay at Brunsial, for Williard ar Sial had use for him even if his King did not. The news left Dunnoc in a grimmer mood than he expected. He thought he'd be more at ease, the danger to his children banished, but he hadn't reckoned on driving a wedge between himself and Lassa. Everywhere he began to see signs she grew bored with him, of her flirting and encouraging younger men.
When he told his lords at council the next day that Tennoc would go to Brunsial, the response surprised him: they urged him to kill Tennoc on the way.
"No, keep him here!" urged Lifris, the lone voice against the plan. "Hold him for ransom, Your Majesty. Hold him hostage until the Tremontines pay a ransom and leave the border, but kill him—sire, that's a step too far, you're inviting a Tremontine attack! If nothing else, think of your wife!"
Ulvyn stared down the smaller Lifris. "The Queen will never know. Tennoc will die on the road to Brunsial, ambushed by Tremontine raiders at the Whitehorse crossroads."
Dunnoc placed a small silver mirror before him. "Show me Tennoc ar Sial." The mirror shimmered to display a distorted image of Tennoc, tending to his weapons in the armory, or at least that's what he thought the boy was doing; the reflection must be something convex on the bench beside him—a shield, or perhaps a chest plate. Tennoc pushed his sandy hair from his good-natured face and sighted down the length of his sword. Kenver appeared in the reflection and said something to his stepbrother that made him laugh so hard he had to put the sword down.
Shame at what he contemplated squeezed at Dunnoc's throat. He'd treated Tennoc almost as his own son. He remembered the shimmering day he'd asked Lassa if he might court her, while the children played in the long grass by the sea. How he'd loved her then, and how happy the children had been. He told himself things were different now. Lassanna had schemed to send her son to Brunsial, without consulting him. Perhaps Tennoc wasn't going to Brunsial at all. Perhaps he really was crossing the border into Whitehorse, and thence to Tremont Keep.
As if reading his thoughts, Bryth ar Brennow said, "As things stand now, Tremont will fall into chaos and turn inward when Andrin dies. He has three cousins. Each has as good a claim to the throne as the others. Chances are the Black Man won't know which to choose—who knows how he chooses! But if Tennoc becomes Heir, the succession will become clear. With his knowledge of Kellen, Tennoc will turn Tremont's attention here first as soon as he is recognized as Heir at their Keep—and he'll start at Trefhallyn, where he is known and loved. If you don't kill Tennoc now, you risk losing Kenver his kingdom. You must choose, sire: your wife, or your son!"
"Tennoc loves your daughter, a good reason to invade Kellen and carry her off as his grandfather did his grandmother," said Ulvyn. "Kenver thinks so highly of him that when he becomes King, he may give the bastard Gwynna and bend his knee to boot, unless the cord between them is severed completely."
"Then there are the increasing rumors about Kenver and Tennoc, Your Majesty," added Brennow. "If Tennoc is dead, those rumors die."
A tiny flame leaped from a candle into Dunnoc's fingers, unbidden. He rolled it between his index finger and thumb, round and round as if he were rolling a pill. This wasn't the first time it had happened. He always tried to stop it, but never could. Dunnoc let the flame burn him though he could keep himself safe from it if he chose. As the pain increased so did his control; he banished the flame back to where it belonged as if he'd intended it all along. "Let it be so. Kill him on the road to Brunsial where it divides into the road to Whitehorse."
The decision sat badly with Lifris. Holding the Tremontine Heir hostage was brilliant; killing him gave the Tremontines cause for war. If the choice was Tremont or death he favored letting Tennoc go to his father; it either got Cariodas out of marrying a bastard, however nobly sired, or it would make her Queen of Tremont if Tennoc honored his informal commitment. He considered spiriting Tennoc away to his own holding in the southeast, but abandoned the idea. May as well declare open rebellion against Dunnoc, and that he would not do though Ulvyn and Brennow seemed to be planning it. But he would not stand by while Dunnoc endangered the kingdom. After much agonizing he made his way the next day to Kenver. He found the young Prince in the gardens teasing the ladies, Cariodas among them. Good and good; this favor to Kenver might also make that alliance more likely should marriage to Tennoc prove unwise. No Tennoc in sight, either. Even better. "Walk with me, Your Highness."
"Willingly," said Kenver, taking Lifris's arm.
Once out of earshot, Lifris told him Dunnoc's plans. Kenver dropped his arm to stand stiffly beside him. "Gently, Your Highness, pretend we are doing nothing more than passing the time."
Kenver made a visible effort to relax; he smiled and took up their walk again. "Where is this to take place?"
"Where the road to Whitehorse diverges from the road to Brunsial. They will claim Tremontine soldiers killed him."
Kenver crushed the smaller lord's arm in his grip. "Why are you telling me?"
"Because this is a mistake," grimaced Lifris; he decided to say nothing about the rest of Ulvyn's plans. "I would take him to my holding if you wish it, my Prince."
"No, but I thank you, Lifris, and I will remember your friendship."
Kenver told Tennoc the moment they were alone. He fell on his stepbrother's shoulder and cried. "How could Father turn on you, knowing how Gwynna and I love you!"
Tennoc held Kenver close. "That's why he wants me dead. He was as my father—no more, but you will always be my brother, Ken, always!"
They parted, and Kenver wiped his eyes. "Shall we tell your mother?"
"No, no," said Tennoc, "I want her held blameless."
"I could take you by reflection to Brunsial."
"Then your father will be angry with you, and I'll look guilty. I've done nothing wrong."
Kenver worried the corner of his mouth. "What will you do?"
"I don't know. Let's see if he really means to do this first—I will give him every chance to repent. I'm bringing Hanni, and you know how skillful is his bow, even if he's not allowed to carry heavier arms."
"You must have another. My sworn man Mycal can hold his own in a fight, and he can keep a secret."
"Well then, we'll be prepared, but perhaps your father will have a change of heart and no attack will come."
"Live or die, we may never see one another again in this life," said Kenver.
And I may never see Gwynna again, thought Tennoc, but perhaps that is a mercy. "No distance will ever be able to break our friendship, Ken. Not even when I'm in the Hill. I'll love you always, my brother."
The next day Tennoc kissed his mother goodbye in the courtyard; he carried Lord Grandfather's letter hidden in his breast. Yellow Hanni and Mycal were to travel with him, along with three guards—six riders in all to Brunsial. Kenver came to him and kissed him as well, and the two friends clung together. "Mycal is a fine swordsman, and you may trust him as you do me. He would die for you as I would," whispered Kenver. "The guards are my father's, heart and soul—show no mercy if it comes to it. Gwynna says to tell you she loves you." Tennoc tightened his grip on his stepbrother's arms. Aloud Kenver said, "I will miss you, brother. Safe journey to Brunsial." Dunnoc clasped Tennoc's arms but no more and refused to meet his eyes. Gwynna was kept from goodbyes, but she and Cariodas watched from the high tower until the little company disappeared over the green horizon.
Tennoc, Hanni and Mycal kept a close watch on the guards; though equal in number, the guards were better armed. Each carried a shield, sword, long dagger and lance, and they wore light armor. Tennoc carried the same kit, but Hanni and Mycal wore leather armor and carried only a sword, dagger and buckler. Hanni had his bow, too; he exclaimed "Is good for shoot hare for pot!" whenever a guard looked at him. Everyone knew Yellow Hanni was a fool—a talented archer but a fool all the same.
Tennoc kept his eyes open. They could not afford to be caught out. The moment it appeared the guards might attack, they must strike.
Two days' ride from Gwyrfal, they approached the Whitehorse crossroads, riding three abreast. Here the road narrowed just enough that two might comfortably ride together. Two of the guards declared they'd take up the rear, but they exchanged too long a look among themselves. Tennoc braced himself; the time had come. The guard on point pulled his sword, but Hanni nocked an arrow, drew his bow and fired before the man could turn around; the arrow pierced his throat. He fell and lay choking in the road under the horses' hooves.
Tennoc and Mycal wheeled their horses round. Though he couldn't work up a good gallop, Tennoc lowered his lance. They charged before the surprised guards could finish withdrawing their lances from their holsters. Tennoc's lance knocked his opponent from the saddle; it cracked in two from the blow, and he threw the remaining haft from him. Mycal suffered a glancing lance blow that brought him down beside Tennoc's opponent. The dazed, dismounted men got to their feet and faced one another down.
The remaining lanceman, finally in possession if not full charge of his weapon, bore down on Tennoc. He raised his shield and hoped for the best, but the lance found his horse's neck. The animal screamed; he threw himself clear and rolled just before it hit the ground and lay kicking in the air. Hanni's arrow flew past the lanceman; a string of Leutish curses followed. Steel shrieked on steel; Mycal grunted and cried out in agony, but Tennoc couldn't afford to take his eyes off the rider before him. He staggered to his feet as the rider swung his sword down at him. Tennoc raised his shield and took a numbing blow to his arm. He slashed at the horse's legs and missed.
An arrow hissed again; armor clattered as the guardsman who felled Mycal fell to the ground himself, the arrow through his eye. Tennoc struggled to raise his shield as the remaining guardsman slashed down at him, but the rider was too close; the swing went wide. Tennoc thrust into the horse's belly. The beast fell, taking his sword with it; a flailing hoof grazed his side. He collapsed, the wind knocked out of him and at least one rib broken. To one side he saw Mycal sprawled in the road; to the other the dying horse pinned its screaming rider beneath it. Hanni strode up, slit the horse's throat and then the guard's. Their blood spattered into the dirt as they died.
Hanni helped Tennoc to his feet. "You saved the day," Tennoc gasped.
"For you, my job it is to be saving days."
The broken rib stabbed at the younger man's side, and he leaned on the Leutan servant until he could stand. Hanni helped him to a nearby rock, where he sat as the man checked on Mycal. "Dead, sir."
"I'm heartily sorry for it," said Tennoc. "Some day I hope to tell Kenver his man died bravely."
Hanni bound Tennoc's ribs, and the two gathered equipment and food from the fallen men and horses as fast as Tennoc's injury would allow. They made sure to take the false Tremontine banners the guards had carried to "prove" treachery, and while they didn't have time to bury Mycal, they laid him out in dignity, his arms folded over his sword and his cloak over his body. They left the guards where they died for the crows to pick at them.
Hanni caught an uninjured horse to replace Tennoc's dead mount. "Riding it is time to, sir. Think you to stay in the saddle?"
"I have to," grunted Tennoc as he swung himself up. Pain barbed each breath, and he winced.
"Where to, sir?"
The dead men and horses lay behind them; the fork in the road lay before them. The straight track led to Brunsial. The other led east to the River Cobb—the border with Whitehorse, and so Tremont. "Dunnoc will move openly against me now, and I would not bring him down on Clan Sial and Uncle Williard for the world. As it is I expect Dunnoc will search Brunsial down to the last mousehole. We ride inland, old friend." Tennoc turned his horse's nose to the east, put the sun behind him, and rode at a gallop toward his unknown grandfather's holding.
They approached the Whitehorse border and the River Cobb. Tennoc paused, considering their options. "We'll avoid Crymavon Castle."
"Your mother's cousin is Lady there, no?"
Tennoc nodded, but said, "For all we know, Dunnoc's sent word ahead. If he hasn't, I won't put Lady Flaryn in danger should the King follow us here."
"Cross we at Riverbend Ferry? Supplies at the village we might buy."
"I'd rather not risk the ferry, and we can always forage. A little upstream there's a ford. We'll cross there."
The ford ran deeper than they'd expected, and soon they were soaked to the waist, their horses snorting and holding their heads high. They climbed the bank and entered Whitehorse.
A searing light flooded Tennoc's body. A thousand doors opened at once within him, a terrifying elation rushing through them into his body and mind. His skin tingled and sparked, as if static crawled across it in all directions. He slumped in his saddle.
"Plagues you the rib?" said Hanni. "Stopping for the night, I am thinking."
"No, no, it's not my rib," Tennoc gasped. "It's something else. I can't…I don't know what it is. I'm all right. Give me a moment." The crawling power reached his scalp, and his hair stood on end. Confusing strength filled him—a fiery power beneath his skin. "We can keep going."
"You may, but I, Hanni, cannot." The servant bullied his master into a copse a decent distance from the river, where they made camp.
Hanni unsaddled the horses and collected green wood. "Is best I can do with no leaving you." He got it sputtering and smoking as best he could, and advanced on Tennoc. "Time it is for rib bandage."
"Please don't fuss over me," said Tennoc, wearily sinking down to sit on his saddle before the fire. "I'm all right, I just want to be let alone for a while."
"Nay, nay, flay me alive your mother would, and I since your boyhood have tended to you." Hanni got Tennoc to his feet again and made to remove his wet tunic.
"I said stop," yelled Tennoc, wincing as pain crackled in his side.
The little sputtering fire roared up, flames licking high into the sky; the two men leaped back. Tennoc's strange feeling of power diminished and sang at the same time. The fire sank back into its ring of stones to spit smoke at them. They stared. "Did any of those branches have pitch on them?"
"Nay, sir," said Hanni, eyes so wide the crow's feet around them disappeared. "King Dunnoc I have seen do something like, and Prince Kenver."
"That's magic, Hanni. Are you saying Dunnoc's near?" said Tennoc, hand on his sword hilt.
Hanni stared hard. "Nay, sir. I say, we are in Whitehorse."
"What does that have to do with any—" Tennoc broke off. Power had surged into him as soon as they'd crossed the ford onto dry land.
"Tremont is bigger than Kellen. Lots bigger, sir," said Hanni soberly. "More powerful here than King Dunnoc you are even as Heir."
Tennoc dropped back down onto his saddle in shock. "I'm really the Heir."
Hanni eyed the sputtering fire. "Think you to do it again, sir? I, Hanni, damp clothes hate."
"I'm not sure I can do it without setting us both aflame."
"Eh," sighed Hanni, "it is not to rely on magic, then. You I think will be fine. I go find drier wood."
Left alone before the smoky fire, Tennoc rubbed his eyes and steepled his fingers over his mouth. He bore Tremontine magic. Would that he could keep it from killing them both before someone taught him how to use it.
Tennoc's new power crackled in Temmin's hair and skin as he left the story; shadow pain stabbed at his side. "It never occurred to me Tennoc would get magic when he crossed the border."
"It never occurred to him, either. He knew both Dunnoc and Kenver had magic, but Kenver's was limited—blocking the spring at the siege of Maalig took all of it. Dunnoc was stronger, but men's magic is tied to the lands they control. Just the Heirs of Tremont held more even then than the kings of Kellen ever did. Were Dunnoc to ride into Whitehorse, his magic would vanish in any event, just as Tennoc had none in Kellen."
Temmin stood and stretched as Tennoc's pain faded along with his power's disturbing, exhilarating onslaught. "I bruised a rib once, but breaking one feels infinitely worse. Why did Dunnoc turn so quickly against Tennoc? He loved him like a son."
"In politics, there is no such thing as love," said Teacher, still leaning on the mantel. "Dunnoc's fear was not unreasonable—Tennoc was the Heir to a neighboring kingdom that dwarfed his own—but his response was. Had Dunnoc left things alone, fostering the boy would have forged strong bonds between Kellen and Tremont. Had he married Gwynna to Tennoc, or taken one of Tennoc's half-sisters as wife for Kenver, things would have gone much differently. Dunnoc was fifty-nine, not an ancient man but of an age when his strength was failing—and he was falling ill to the shaking sickness. Sick men often grow fearful, especially men who pride themselves on their physical prowess. As their bodies begin to fail, so their belief in their own power begins to fail, and they blame their women, yes, and others around them. Dunnoc was one such. He feared Tennoc, and he feared losing his wife's affection. The two were intertwined in his mind."
"I see impotent men at the Temple all the time," said Temmin. "It's a chore to teach some of them anything—they can't get past the anger. The Lovers say it's shame. We see many women with scars from such men." Temmin looked out the window. Beyond the courtyard he could just see the hedge alley leading to Meadow House, and the outskirts of the stable yard. "I could never treat someone I loved like a thing."
"Never is a long time, Your Highness."
Temmin turned back and smiled over his shoulder. "And I suppose you'd know."
"I suppose I would," said Teacher, but Temmin got no answering smile in return.