The first day of Winter's Ending, 992 KY
To Temmin's surprise, Amma's Day comforted him. He watched the farmhands herd the Estate's cattle, sheep and goats between the two sacred bonfires and helped the stablehands do the same with the horses, leading his own Jebby through himself; Alvo worked beside him but said no more than "A blessed Amma's Day to you, Your Highness." Temmin wanted to shake him.
As Duke of Whithorse it was also Temmin's duty to walk with the Reggiston Temple's Senior Mother through the cleaned and shining stables, poultry yards, goat sheds and pig pens blessing the animals. Every barn cat that could be found, every sheep dog at its master's heels received the Mother's Blessing.
They ended at the shearing shed, where the most beautiful of last year's lambs waited. It was too cold, really, for the poor thing to lose its fleece—Temmin could see his own breath—but tradition must be upheld. The expert shearer clipped the fine, creamy wool into a single unbroken sheet, and the little ewe bounded away. She would be kept in the shed wearing a wool blanket until the weather warmed, a detail that had delighted Temmin as a child. "A sheep in a wool blanket!" he'd crow to his mother every year. It still made him smile even as it reminded him Mama wasn't there to share the joke. The Mothers carefully rolled the fleece in a blue ceremonial cloth to be borne away to the Mother's Temple in Reggiston; the Mothers and Sisters would scour it, spin it and make it into clothing for the newborns in the Mother's House.
For the first time since they'd arrived, Ellika left the house. Though she wore black and dark circles still lingered under her eyes, a little of her old sparkle shone whenever she looked at her baby sister Anneya. Nurse had swaddled the poor infant in layer upon layer of white wool sacques, undercaps, bonnets, mitts, shawls and blankets until she looked more like a gigantic cocoon than a baby. Second Nurse had to carry her about; the entire bundle was too much for Nurse, though she hovered beside them, tugging the coverings up and down in open disapproval of the new addition to the nursery's staff. The baby herself, now exactly three weeks old, slept through the whole thing.
Lady Donnis, who unofficially ran the household, insisted that however things had gone on so far at the Estate no one was to dine in his room on a holiday, or indeed from now on. All attended in evening dress to eat their Amma's Day pork and lamb. Standfast Jenks, resplendent in full Tremontine red and gold uniform with a wide black ribbon round his left arm, stood out against the rows of black crape. Never in Temmin's memory had Jenks eaten in the dining room.
More remarkable than Jenks's presence was his mother's absence. Temmin sat at the table's head; Dowager Duchess Markellis came from Meadow House and sat at its foot. Temmin kept looking down the table expecting to see Mama there and finding his grandmother instead. He kept his composure during the meal and quiet conversation in the drawing room after, but he excused himself not long after the tea was brought in, and went to bed.
Temmin stared up into the canopy while scenes from his childhood played over and over in his head. He would never again give his mother an Amma's Day gift. He thought of every time he'd made her unhappy, and wished he could tell her he was sorry.
Temmin came back from the stables the next day vexed at best. Alvo showed no signs of softening, and Temmin began to wonder if he could win his friend back. What had he done that was so bad, anyway? His father had said an Heir could not be friends with a groom, but he'd beaten his father once to become a Supplicant. Compared to that, insisting on friendship with Alvo was trivial. How could Alvo have so little faith in him? Alvo was his best friend. Possibly something more—time would tell—but after his mother's death no one, not even the Gods, would ever keep him from the people he loved again, not Alvo nor…
…nor Allis.
Temmin threw himself down on his well-broken-in, faded gold sofa; behind his head, he stuffed a down pillow he'd compressed into the perfect shape over the course of his boyhood and that his mother had loathed. He missed Allis. He knew his leave had been her doing, though she'd never said so. He needed her. Maybe she'd sensed it and sent him away to keep him from doing something stupid—again. Home was safer, and frankly more comforting, but now that they'd been apart more than a week he felt her absence keenly. He needed home and Allis at the same time, and it rankled that he couldn't have them both. He should get used to it; when his time at the Temple ended at Nerr's Day, three spokes from now, they would rarely see each other until her time as Embodiment was over.
And then what? Could he make her his mistress? Not if she chose to stay at the Temple. No, he couldn't let her do that, he'd have to find a way to make her leave. Issak might stay, but not Allis. He loved Issak, but not as he loved Allis. He and Issak would always be friends; with luck they'd remain bedmates. The particular way Issak bit his neck came to mind; he shivered at the tug in his groin. No, he didn't have to worry about Issak, or Anda. Though he wouldn't see them often at the Temple, when he did it would be a reunion with a good friend.
Allis was more than a good friend. He ached for her.
A gentle throat-clearing came from the doorway to his bedchamber. "Not feeling sneaky today?" said Temmin, keeping his head on the pillow.
Teacher came into the room. "I am never 'sneaky.' I am circumspect."
"To be sure," said Temmin in a flat voice. A long silence fell. "Well?" he finally said.
"I am here to resume the story, if you wish it."
"I should burn that Pagg-damned book," growled Temmin.
"It will not burn, but you are welcome to try if you think that might alleviate your pain. You may not believe me, but I am here to help you."
Temmin put a forearm across his aching eyes. "Some help."
"I believe experiencing the grief of an ancestor who faced his mother's murder may help you cope with your own grief more than destroying a book, sir. May we at least try?"
"Just go away," Temmin said from under his arm.
The room had been silent for several minutes before Temmin sat up and looked around to find Teacher gone. Part of him was angry Teacher gave up so easily; the rest of him was just angry. "I need to hit something," he muttered.
The training salon was in its own building, low-slung and utilitarian. The Estate's Own sparred here, in a complex containing a parade grounds, the main armory, the military stables and the Guards' barracks. Temmin changed into sparring clothes—loose trousers, no shirt, boots never worn outside the salon—and found Jenks waiting for him. "Where's Fen? I expected him," said Temmin in irritation.
"He's busy elsewhere. We've never sparred, sir, and now my secret's out I thought we'd enjoy a round or two."
Temmin hesitated; Jenks stood with his hands in his pockets. He had to be at least as old as Temmin's father, but apart from countless scars his body didn't show it. His arms were corded and thick, his shoulders broad, and his chest reminded Temmin of Jebby's. "Come on, then, boy," Jenks said more loudly, taking his hands from his pockets.
"I can't hit you," exclaimed Temmin, dismayed and surly at the same time.
"Why not?"
"You're too old!"
Jenks grinned and took his stance. "There's your trouble, for I have no problem hitting you, sir. But please, royalty first."
Temmin took his stance, feinted with his left and threw a strong punch with his right. Jenks stepped to one side, moving so fast Temmin could hardly track him. He flicked aside the blow, hooked a leg around Temmin's, and pushed him over with the flat of his right. Temmin thudded to the floor. "Again," said Jenks.
Temmin got up and came at him again with a flurry of kicks and punches that Jenks either sidestepped or blocked. Temmin found an opening in Jenks's guard; they grappled. Jenks chuckled, picked him up and threw him to the floor. "Again."
Temmin threw everything he had at Jenks, but every time he ended up on the floor. The last time, Jenks had his foot on the back of Temmin's neck and one of the Prince's arms in a twist. "Tsk, sir," said Jenks, pressing down until Temmin wheezed, "you're grossly out of form, if you ever were in form." He lifted his foot and helped Temmin up. Jenks had barely broken a sweat, while Temmin's hair was dripping. Jenks handed him a towel. "D'you feel better, Your Highness?"
"Yes," he huffed, "I think I do. Thank you."
Once cleaned up and fed, Temmin did feel much better, but now he paced in his room with nothing to do. He might take a nap, but he wasn't sleepy. Books did not appeal, until the old red-bound book caught his eye. He regretted sending Teacher away and was just wishing he could use a reflection to apologize when a cool voice broke his revery. "You were wise to work out some of your frustrations with Mr Jenks."
"I'm sorry for snapping at you," said Temmin, looking up to find his advisor in the doorway again. "I'm just miserable, is all— wait, how did you know about me sparring with Jenks?"
Teacher smiled. "A shield was propped at such an angle that I could see you but you could not see me. I doubt you were looking for me in the first place."
"I wish you wouldn't do that." Temmin sat down on the couch and rubbed the heels of his palms on his forehead. "In truth, I'm glad you're here. I'm going out of my mind with nothing to do but ride and—and remember."
"Would returning to the Temple be preferable? There is no barrier to an early return, I am sure."
"No, I'm no use to anyone there. I can't keep my mind on most things longer than a few minutes."
"Shall I leave you alone, then?"
"No, no," said Temmin, leaning back. "I'm willing to take your advice. Go on." He opened the book, Teacher began to read, and the drawing room faded away.
Inside the catacombs, Tennoc stared at the two bricked-in niches. In the lefthand one, his father King Andrin the First moldered; to the right, the heads of his mother and his best friend lay, sewn into clean linen and left to rot away to bone, with Tennoc's heart beside them.
Lassanna died Queen of Kellen; Whitehorse would also lay claim to her remains, but Tennoc would keep Mama here, in the Tremontine royal chapel beside Andrin's bones—and some day, his own. Kenver's spirit would not fully rest until he lay in Gwyrfal's Hill with his ancestors; somehow Tennoc would return his stepbrother's skull to Kellish soil.
Thoughts of Gwyrfal brought thoughts of his Gwynna. She must be alone and friendless now, for Dunnoc had clearly lost his mind. Even so, madness wouldn't stop Tennoc from caving his stepfather's head in.
Tennoc thanked the Friends for their care, called for Hanni and stalked from Harla's Hill. "What now, sire?" said the servant.
"Now we go to Cariodas and find out who I'm to kill besides Dunnoc."
At the Healer's House they found Cariodas sound asleep. "Let her be, sire," said the Sister in charge. "She is fair done up. We will send a messenger when she awakes."
Cariodas slept for the better part of two days. The Sisters took Sian ar Lifris's left leg off above the knee the first night, but Harla still hovered over him; the amputation had come too late, and the putrescence was spreading throughout his body. Cariodas had just enough time to say goodbye before her father sank into a sleep everyone knew would be his last.
When Tennoc found her, she was sitting on the bed in the little room the Sisters had given her, holding a pillow to her chest and staring off into space. She'd been washed and dressed in a gray wool gown that hung from her now-thin shoulders. Tennoc wondered for a moment if she'd lost her senses, but she looked up and smiled at him from a far-away place. She dropped the pillow, rose to her feet and made her curtsey. "Lady, please don't bow to me," he said, lifting her up. "I am to blame for this." He guided her gently back to the bed, the only real seat in the room, and sat her down.
"You to blame?" exclaimed Cariodas. "You didn't spread lies. You didn't beat my father and drive me from Kellen. You didn't—didn't…" She left the sentence dangling. "You are not to blame," she finished in despair.
Tennoc sat on a stool at her feet. "Who did?"
"The King, though Daevys ar Ulvyn all but rules Kellen now."
"I cannot believe Dunnoc would listen to such a man."
Cariodas all but spat. "Who do you think urged your exile? Who do you think convinced Dunnoc to have you killed? He boasts of it outside the King's hearing. Not that it matters now."
"Tell me what happened."
Cariodas took a deep breath, her fingers flexing in the pillow's stuffing. "When they discovered the bodies of the Guards at the crossroads, the King ordered the traitor who'd warned you found. Ulvyn followed the trail back to my father. I confess…I confess I was surprised Father did it. He was never the bravest of men, but he worried for the kingdom and he saw Dunnoc's weakness. The King is far worse than when you left. He shakes openly now, and his mind is clouded. Some began to whisper he was being poisoned, and Ulvyn took advantage of it. He accused the Queen."
"That's why he killed her? With what proof? And why kill Kenver? Amma's heart, he is truly mad!"
Cariodas shook her head. "That's the least of it. You know how jealous the King's become. When it was discovered Father betrayed the plot against you to Kenver, Ulvyn convinced His Majesty Kenver and the Queen were—were lovers conspiring against him in your favor...and the King did as you have seen."
"I will kill him!" choked Tennoc. He sprang from the footstool, tipping it over, and paced the room as he tore at his hair. "I will kill them both, I swear I will kill them all for this." Cariodas huddled on the bed; in the clutches of an unseen hand, the footstool was beating itself to flinders against the opposite wall. I'm frightening her. She should be frightened of me. Everyone should be. He regained control over himself; the remains of the footstool dropped meekly to the floor, and he turned back to the bed. "What of Gwynna?"
"I'm sorry, Tennoc. I know you…" She faltered, and Tennoc fought down panic; was Gwynna dead as well? "King Dunnoc made Ulvyn his heir and gave Gwynna to him the very day of the execution. She fought, you should know. Ulvyn had to drag her to the marriage bed. She may still be tied to it for aught I know—he exiled us before he let her out."
Tennoc began assembling his army in his head. "And then? What happened to you and your father?"
Cariodas flinched, gripping the pillow in both hands. "They beat my father in open court the next day. They surrounded him, called him traitor. Broke his sword. Beat him before my eyes until he stopped screaming and the blood poured from him. You could—you could see the bones sticking from his leg, though I did the best I could later on to set it. They drove us from Gwyrfal with little food, no clothing but what we had on our backs, a cloak for me and a blanket for him, no escort, no way to defend ourselves, just a horse and the branch sled. And that vile, vile chest! Oh, that was almost the worst, Tennoc, knowing what it contained! They even sent riders ahead, warning people not to help us. So many times I thought Father had died in the night."
Tennoc sat down next to her and took her hand. "What did you do?"
"Ulvyn bid us to come to Tremont Keep and show you 'what Kellen does to its enemies.' The Mother's Temples gave us food and the Sisters helped me with Father—when they could. Most towns refused us entrance for fear of angering the King. There was nothing for it but to keep moving. By the time we crossed the River Cobb I was so tired and frightened I didn't even try to get help in a town—I don't speak Tremontine, and I didn't think to find anyone who spoke Old Sairish. I just tried to stay out of sight and get to you." She squeezed his hands and blinked rapidly, clearing away tears. "So. I am in your hands, sire."
"You needn't call me 'sire.' I'm not your king."
Her eyes flashed to his. "Tennoc, you've always been my king." She hung her head, blushing at her own impulsiveness. "That is, I cannot return to Kellen, Your Majesty. I would become Tremontine if you would have me as your subject."
"Lady Cariodas, any king would be proud to have you as his subject. You will always have an honored place in my court, as will your father."
"Thank you, sire, but he's dying. He won't last the night."
Tennoc left instructions that Cariodas and Lifris be given the best of everything. He sent fine clothes, rich food and a girl to serve Cariodas as maid, but Lifris never regained consciousness and died two days later. Cariodas saw him into Tremont City's Hill and came to live at the Keep.
Late Fall's Ending, 62 KY
Gwyrfal, Kellen
Six spokes after her wedding, Princess Gwynna was still kept to her rooms; armed guards stood beside her door, and she could trust none of her attendants. Her husband visited her every few days, but she saw no one else.
During his latest visit, Ulvyn once again denied her request to leave her rooms. "I am five spokes with child," she said in disgust. "How am I supposed to manage an escape? Who would help me?"
"You are impetuous, my dear," said her husband. "I would not wish anything to happen to the baby."
"I don't care what happens to it!"
"And that's why you cannot leave your rooms," he chuckled.
Gwynna tried another tack. "Can I at least see my father? He can no longer come to me."
"I might allow it," said Ulvyn, "but he won't recognize you. He spends much time talking to your late brother and stepmother."
Lassanna and Kenver on the executioner's block filled her mind's eye. Lassanna had gone first; did Kenver stare into his stepmother's eyes before his head fell into the basket beside hers? "You dare mention them to me?"
Ulvyn smirked. "I may dare anything with my wife."
That night, Ulvyn and five guards came to Gwynna's chambers and took her to see her father. King Dunnoc rarely left his rooms now, though his shaking had subsided. The Sisters said that in palsies like his, this signaled his final decline, though how long it would last no one could say.
The King sat swaddled in furs and blankets in a chair. No fire burned in the hearth nor candles in holders; Ulvyn carried a lantern so that they might see, but kept it out of Dunnoc's line of sight. The sole furnishing was a bed firmly attached to the wall. "How can you keep him like this?" cried Gwynna, pulling her cloak around her swelling belly against the chill. "Are you trying to kill him with cold and dark?"
"He can no longer control his magic, Lady," apologized one of his attendants. "If we have open flame in the room he'll set fire to the castle unless Prince Daevys is here to confine it, and if we leave things lying about, the King's magic will throw them at us. Sometimes the very air hardens," he added, pointing to the ugly bruise on his right cheek.
"We keep him covered in furs, as you see," hastened the other, "and there are hot stones always at his feet. Unless he throws them." A pillow from the bed flew up, bounced off the ceiling and fell in a heap before her. The first attendant shrugged ruefully and placed it back on the bed.
Gwynna squatted down beside him, her heavy belly between her knees. "It's me, Papa, it's Gwynna." Dunnoc mumbled something. "What? I can't hear you."
"Faithless woman," quavered Dunnoc. "I kill you and now you come back to me. Now you and Hallia both reproach me, so 'tis? You killed Hallia too, I wager, so you could get your hooks into me. Oh, Kenver, don't look at me like that, I did try to stop them from stealing all the cheese."
Gwynna's heart sank. "Do you know me, Papa? I'm Gwynna."
"Gwynna?" Dunnoc focused bloodshot eyes on her and poked a once-thick hand out from among the furs to prod her cheek as if to prove she was real. "Gwynna. I had a grandmother named Gwynna."
"I am her namesake, sir."
"She had black hair not red. You're not her."
"No, sir," she said with increasing effort, "I am your daughter."
"I have no children," he crooned, "none a-tall. No wife, no children, none a-tall…" He closed his eyes, still mumbling to himself in a soft voice. Gwynna sat back on the bare floor, biting her lip.
"I told you not to come," said her husband.
The next day, Daevys ar Ulvyn met with his cronies. "Do I have your support, then?" he said.
Bryth ar Brennow warmed his hands on his cup of hot wine. "You've had our support all through this, Ulvyn, though I'm left wondering what I'll gain in the end."
"Once I've taken the throne, I'll give you Brunsial, how will that be? Williard ar Sial can't hold out under siege forever. Then we shall march on Whitehorse—our armies are almost ready, and we've seen no movement yet from the Tremontine bastard. He's likely fighting his own lords over the succession. Besides, when he does move it's certain to be against Trefhallyn. He'll take Maalig by sea—he's well-loved there even now, they'll open the gates to him—and then he'll march to the relief of his uncle. But we can't do anything while Dunnoc lives."
"Dunnoc is dying already," complained a lord, frowning into his thick black beard. "Why not wait until he's dead? Is it necessary to kill him?" A murmur went up around the room.
Ulvyn smacked his fist on the trestle table before him; the men jumped. "Because most of the kingdom's magic is tied up in his crumbling bulk, and it might take him another turn of the wheel to die—perhaps more! If we are to move against Tremont it must be now, before Tennoc can consolidate his power. We must have Dunnoc's magic."
"I don't see how it matters," said the bearded lord. "Magic is defensive. We can't use it outside of Kellen, that whelp Tennoc can't use his outside of Tremont. If he can use it at all."
"That's the point," said Brennow impatiently. "If Tremont moves before us, we will be unable to defend ourselves!"
"I have Kenver's magic now as Dunnoc's heir," continued Ulvyn, "and you all have your paltry bits of power, but all of us together could not defeat Tremont in battle even on our own soil. No, we must take territory from him before he can gather his forces—win the land's allegiance, take its magic for ourselves and use it to build defenses in Whitehorse—and with Dunnoc's magic I can do that. Perhaps I'll give you a goodly chunk of Whitehorse instead of Brunsial, Bryth."
"Perhaps both?" smiled Brennow hopefully.
"Help me kill Dunnoc, and we'll see. If we succeed, there will be enough for all of us."
New Year's Day, 63 KY
King Dunnoc did not appear at the Eddin's Day celebrations for the new year: too ill, said Ulvyn, to leave his rooms. Gwynna sat at her husband's side, hugely pregnant. It was for the best that Dunnoc had not been brought down. He'd begun drooling, and his private conversations with ghosts had become even more incoherent. The Sisters said he might go on like this for spokes—perhaps years.
Her father's condition oppressed her spirits as much as the infant within her did. In the last days its squirming and kicking had subsided. Perhaps it had died. She would not cry if it was stillborn. Nevertheless, she loved children and she feared that one look at a tiny, helpless baby of her own, even one fathered by Ulvyn, would be her undoing. She had resolved not to look at it and to leave it to a wet nurse until she recovered her equilibrium.
All of this came to Gwynna's mind in an urgent rush when her water broke there on the dais, soaking the heavy brocade of her dress.
When the contractions, the fear, the pain, the pushing was over, a tiny boy nursed in Gwynna's arms just as she'd feared; his wispy white-blond hair let off the most delicious scent. "Little bit," she murmured, "you can't help what you are."
Ulvyn came to see his heir. He looked the baby over in delight, counting its fingers and toes and dandling it a while before handing it back to the birth attendant. "A strapping boy, my love! You've done well. I will name him for my father: Ennys." But Gwynna had already whispered the child's name in his tiny ear: Ardunn, a variation on "of Dunnoc," for her own father. Kellish tradition said his heart would then answer to that name and no other, despite what the world might call him.
"There is more news, lady wife," said Ulvyn. He sat down beside the bed and tried to take her hand, but she frowned and tucked it under the blankets. Ulvyn cleared his throat and composed his face. "Your father is dead. He died while you were giving birth. They tell me it was peaceful. He just stopped breathing and was gone."
A sharp pain hit her heart like the kick of a horse, and she gulped for air. She recovered her breath. "Leave me now." For once, he obliged her. Alone, she let her attendants see to the sleeping baby and turned her face to the wall. Her breasts ached—her whole body ached.
He'd been so sick. He hadn't been himself for two years at the least—since before he'd banished Tennoc—and if he'd understood what had happened to him she knew he would have wanted to die. He was still her father, and she grieved that he had not seen his grandson. Now he would be with her mother Hallia, and perhaps he might even be reconciled with Kenver and Lassanna in Harla's embrace.
More than three hundred miles to the south and east, Winter's Beginning brought a new wooden bridge on the River Cobb at Riverbend. It spanned the Cobb not far from where Tennoc and Hanni first crossed into Whitehorse more than a year before, within sight of Castle Crymavon. The Tremontines took only ten days to build it, and on Eddin's Day Tennoc led his armies across in broken cadence to the river's western shore. They marched without Tremont's contingent of Brothers; Farr's priests declined battle between kingdoms. A pity, but it meant he would not be facing Kellish Brothers in return.
Tennoc's magic drained away as soon as he'd crossed halfway over the bridge, but he paid it little mind; he'd fought every battle in the past without magic, and no battle would be fought today. They found but a small contingent of soldiers at Riverbend who surrendered after a half-hearted rattling of swords.
Tennoc met with the town's leaders to assure them there would be no looting; the army would take only its forage and no plunder. If farmers and merchants tried to resist, the Tremontines would regrettably kill them and their families, and seize everything they owned rather than the customary tenth. When he spoke to them gently but firmly in Kellish the Riverbenders smiled and bowed as if they accepted his supremacy already; Tennoc was a Kell as far as they were concerned.
Flickers of power licked at his skin again as he rode his horse among his men; he'd gained the land's allegiance here. Teacher said no one really understood how, but the land always knew whose blood line ruled it. Sometimes it seemed to choose a blood line based on brute force, sometimes based on stewardship. Thinking of Teacher made Tennoc wish the counselor was nearby; he needed good advice. Tennoc once loved Kellen, but now his instincts told him to kill every noble, wipe out every soldier he captured. Vengeance tugged at him, begging to be unleashed.
Fallik of Whitehorse reined in his horse beside Tennoc. "Mean you to besiege Crymavon, sire?"
Tennoc looked down the River Cobb to Castle Crymavon. "Not if I don't have to," he answered. "My mother's cousin Flaryn is the lady of the castle, or was—I hear Dunnoc has been busy trying to purge my relations. I recall Lady Flaryn's husband as quite devoted, but I wonder if he's done away with her to avoid trouble. My great-uncle at Brunsial has been under siege for the better part of a year."
"It'll take a few weeks to march a division down to his aid, if you intend it."
"Uncle Williard's a canny old man. He'll hang on until we get there—or more likely, until the besieging army is called back to defend Gwyrfal. Now let's go talk to my cousin, shall we?" Tennoc tapped his horse, and the armies advanced on Castle Crymavon.
When Tennoc arrived at the castle's gates, Lady Flaryn's husband had already thrown them open. "I saw your forces long before you got here, Tennoc ar Sial," said Cror ar Crymavon, "and I couldn't have defended against your war machines had I wished to."
Tennoc smiled, but he drew his lips flat. "You're wise, cousin. In my current humor I am not countenancing resistance."
Lady Flaryn ar Crymavon still lived. In her own court, the cousin Tennoc's mother had remembered as painfully shy had blossomed into an assured woman, still beautiful and like enough to Lassanna that Tennoc's heart ached at the sight of her. "Why did you not stop here in your flight from Gwyrfal, cousin?" she asked him in Kellish at dinner that night.
"I was unsure of my welcome, Lady."
"You are Clan Sial. Never doubt your welcome among your kinsmen, King of Tremont or no—especially now, after what Dunnoc has done to my dear cousin Lassa." Flaryn squeezed his hand, and her eyes welled. "I loved her, Tennoc."
"We all did," added her husband.
"What are they saying?" murmured Fallik in Tremontine.
Tennoc swallowed hard and stuffed his grief down harder. "Lady Flaryn tells us we are welcome here," he answered in pointed Old Sairish.
Cror cleared his throat and apologetically switched tongues to Old Sairish so that the Tremontines might understand him. "The King is quite ill, Tennoc. Some say he will not last out the year, but I know from sad experience that the shaking sickness can take years to kill someone. One of my liegemen died of it. It took ten years from start to finish, and Dunnoc started shaking no more than four years ago. Were you to take Kellen, now would be the time, while the country's magic is tied up in a debilitated body. Cousin, I will be blunt—I'm a plain-spoken man. Is this a simple raid? I cannot believe it is, seeing the armies at your back. You are here to take the country, yes?"
Tennoc paused. He'd turned the question over in his own mind for some time. His other lords and generals believed they were to conquer the whole country, but he wanted Gwynna and revenge, and he chafed at proving the slanders against him. He would be revenged upon Daevys ar Ulvyn and his allies, and Dunnoc himself, but who would succeed to the throne? No Kellish lord seemed strong enough to hold the country together.
The Corrish might sweep down from the north. The Ulav Mountains stood between Corland and the Duchy of Whitehorse, but only the Bay of Kellen separated them from Kellen itself; were the Corrish to take northern Kellen, they would then have a western border with Tremont as well. They'd find the River Cobb far easier to cross than the Ulavs. For that matter, the Sairish might come back to Maalig and take back all of Trefhallyn.
Tennoc wasn't altogether sure he wanted an independent Kellen. More and more, Kellen seemed rightfully his, payment for the deaths of Lassanna and Kenver. His hold on the violence within him slipped.
Tennoc examined the lord of the castle. Cror ar Crymavon was an open-faced older man with little gray in his blond hair: vigorous, with strong, shrewd blue eyes. "If I took the country, would you support me?" said Tennoc.
"Would you leave Clan Crymavon be?"
"Have you no desire for the throne yourself?"
Lord Cror waved away the thought. "Never have I wanted more than what I have, and to pass on what I have to my sons."
"So I might count on you to bend your knee to Tremont and come with me on campaign against Dunnoc."
"Not bend my knee to Tremont," said Crymavon, pointing at him. He spoke again in Kellish. "To you, as king of Kellen as well as Tremont. We are kinsmen through my wife, and you are more fit to rule Kellen than Dunnoc or any who might succeed him—especially Ulvyn. I would want two things: assurances Clan Crymavon would remain unmolested…and that our, uh, tradition of tax-free trading across the border into Whitehorse would remain unmolested as well," he grinned.
"O ho, my smuggling kinsman," said Tennoc, answering his grin.
"What does he say?" murmured Fallik in Tremontine again.
"He says he will follow me," answered Tennoc.
"That's good," said Fallik. "I like him."
"I like you too," smiled Cror in barely accented Tremontine. Tennoc burst out laughing. Fallik scowled, but Cror kept refilling the Whitehorser's cup until the scowl disappeared.
Tennoc took his armies north along the River Cobb toward Gwyrfal, Crymavon's men joining the expedition. The Kellish towns and castles along the way were caught unawares and lightly defended. Some surrendered outright to the Hero of Maalig, others after a brief skirmish; a few chose to fight to the last. The fierce battles at the coal mines of Baltha ended in the fortress's taking, and the slaughter of Clan Baltha's men. The women and girls would be taken back into Tremont to be indentured with the other noblewomen whose clans had refused to surrender; the prices they fetched would pay for the war. Tennoc showed mercy; they would not be sold to brothels or as menials, and their terms would be kept short. When he returned he would marry them off to his own nobles to secure them in their new Kellish holdings. After indenture, the women would be grateful when they might have resisted before. They should consider themselves lucky to be alive; his mother was dead.
Tennoc's power was returning, sometimes in tiny lappings, sometimes in thick white waves; it advanced and retreated in rhythm with his victories. Gradually, Kellen was giving itself to him. Tennoc was not surprised when a scouting expedition came pelting back from the north: The Kellish armies were on the move, under Daevys ar Ulvyn and Bryth ar Brennow.
"Why would they come out from Gwyrfal?" said Fallik of Whitehorse, stabbing a hard finger at the map spread atop a camp table before Tennoc. "It's a well-defended city, thick-walled, supplied with water and open to re-supply from its harbor. It would take us spokes to outfit ships to blockade Gwyrfal, if even we could. They could hold out for years."
"Not against magic," said Tennoc.
"Magic?" chuckled Crymavon. "Dunnoc has the magic here, not that he's able to use it. You're not in Tremont. You're in Kellen, cousin."
"And Kellen is in me, cousin." Tennoc flicked his finger. The map lifted into the air, rolled into a tube and stuffed itself back into its case. Tennoc smiled at Crymavon's blank face. "The land knows me. The ground we have taken has added itself to Tremont. When we move on to land that still recognizes the old Kellish bloodline I will lose my magic again, but here, now, at Balta I have my full power. If Dunnoc cannot fight, we will have an advantage in more than numbers."
"I still don't understand why he'd send his armies from Gwyrfal," said Fallik.
"Dunnoc and Ulvyn must feel Kellen's magic draining away. They'll want to meet me out here, before I take more land. He'll be wanting to lure me away from here to a place he still holds. I'll be wanting to stay put."
"So we stay put?"
"More or less."
Tennoc re-established contact with Teacher, who came by reflection to hold council. "You cannot rely upon me, for the magic will ebb and flow," said Teacher. "If the land leaves Tremontine control, I will be taken back to the Keep."
Tennoc sat back in the former Duke of Baltha's heavy throne, dragged from its dais to the table's head. "You would leave me?"
"It would be involuntary, I assure you. I will simply vanish, and it will take time for me to return even after you re-establish control. I must stay on Tremontine soil. Wherever you have magic, I may be. Wherever you do not have magic, I may not be. Just be prepared to fight without me and without your magic."
"Every battle I've ever fought has been with my hands, not magic," said Tennoc. "I don't trust it yet."
"Oh, you must use it at some point. Dunnoc will, and Ulvyn will use what little he has as well," said Fallik of Whitehorse.
As they spoke, Tennoc practiced delicate magical work, sending an apple zipping through the air around various obstacles. "If ground is in dispute, certainly we will both be without our magic at some point?" he said, keeping Teacher in the corner of his eye.
Teacher nodded. "And then do kings rely on their armies."
Crymavon motioned for his goblet to be refilled and took a long drink. "Shall we force them into siege?"
"No," said Tennoc. "Baltha is not easily defended against magic, and Ulvyn would surely retake the surrounding land's allegiance for Dunnoc if we retreated to the castle. We will go out to meet him, but not over-far. The valley just to the north, probably."
Fallik scratched his beard. "Do we know what forces Ulvyn is fielding?"
"Infantry and longbowmen," said Crymavon, nervously watching the apple careen through the room.
"We haven't faced Kellish longbowmen yet. What do we know of their skill?" said Fallik.
Hanni spoke from his position behind Tennoc's chair. "I, Hanni der Geelt, trained many."
"Meaning what?" said Fallik.
"Meaning they're deadly," answered Tennoc. "With apologies to my old friend, it matters only so much. We have numbers on our side across the field, and heavy cavalry as well. The advantage is ours." He brought the apple flying across the room in a blur of red and green to his hand.
The Tremontines met the Kells at Forchyll Valley, where Tennoc discovered his enemy had fielded far more men than expected; they now outnumbered the Tremontines almost two to one. Dunnoc—or Ulvyn, there was no more pretending that Dunnoc ruled any more—had obviously been preparing for war and had already called in mercenaries from the Western Isles and even Kellen's enemy Corland; mercenaries considered gold their only allegiance.
While Kellen fielded longbowmen, Tremont relied on a newer technology: the crossbow. Its range was almost as great as a longbow, but at longer distances its accuracy was not as good. On the other hand, if a crossbowman fell a spearman could take his place; anyone could fire a crossbow, but it took strength and skill to use a longbow. Ulvyn's advantage in numbers would in part be taken up protecting those archers. Tennoc knew from his own days fighting for Kellen that a shield wall would protect the vulnerable archers the entire battle; he had to breach it.
Tennoc stood on a slight prominence watching the Kells approach the wide expanse of the triangular Forchyll Valley. Snow lay in plentiful white caps on low mountains extending to the west in a double rank, making a wide pocket. A smaller mountain stood alone to the east as if guarding the valley. The trick would be to force the Kells into that pocket, stopper the entrance—and keep from getting trapped themselves.
Tennoc blew on his cold fingers, willing his magic to let the warmth penetrate his gloves; with a little more skill he could have risked heating his gauntlets, but now the chances of burning himself were still too high. Steam rose from his horse's nostrils; he could almost imagine the steam coming off the horses at the mouth of the pocket, where Fallik lay in wait with the main force of cavalry.
He should have deferred the campaign until spring. Tennoc's anger had gotten the better of him. He'd always thought of himself as peaceable. He laughed bitterly to himself: When presented with the severed heads of those he loves, apparently a man is driven to anger.
Tennoc breathed on his gloved hands again, but this time his magic didn't work; it flickered like a candle flame in a drafty hall. Teacher had already vanished back to Tremont Keep. Tennoc wondered if Ulvyn's magic was as unreliable. In any event, a Kellish prince's magic could not compare to a Tremontine King's. No matter. Magic wouldn't have to play into it. His battle plan avoided magic entirely.
The plan broke, as plans do and as Tennoc expected it would. Fallik's cavalry waited too long to charge the Kells, giving them time to set up the shield wall so familiar to Tennoc. The Tremontines had no such reliable protection. He gritted his teeth in frustration; he'd warned his cousin, but Fallik was both headstrong and unconvinced Tennoc knew his business despite their previous victories. Magic could puncture the shield wall, but Tennoc's power had deserted him again.
The Kellish archers launched flight after flight into his spearmen, cutting them down in their ranks. His crossbowmen's bolts rained down on the enemy, but they bounced off the wall of shields protecting the longbows. He cursed himself for using a weapon he knew little about himself, but crossbows were what the Tremontines had. It took years to train a longbowman. Tennoc swore the Tremontines would become longbowmen; he would kidnap babies from their cradles to train them up from childhood if he had to.
He sent word to Fallik not to move, but in vain: his cousin struck before the message reached him. Fallik had expected the bolts to soften the Kellish shield wall and so charged his men straight into a deadly barrage of arrows. The Tremontine cavalry, the pride of Whitehorse and the nation, fell back in disarray, some toward the protection of Tennoc's men in the south but a far larger contingent back the way they'd come to the west—straight into the pocket valley's mouth. A great cry arose from the Kells, and the shield wall broke. The Kellish sergeants urged their men to stay in formation, but the infantry behind the archers surged through in pursuit of the fleeing Tremontines, hoping to trap them in the pocket.
Tennoc cursed Fallik's impetuousness but blessed that of the Kells; he spurred his own cavalry detachment forward toward the opening. The reinforcements turned the retreating remnants of Fallik's men, who joined the foot soldiers behind the horses. Tennoc's cavalry cut straight into the Kellish infantry's open lines, killing vulnerable archers and foot soldiers alike. Fallik's men rallied and turned back from the pocket, trapping a mass of Kells between the Whitehorsers and the Tremontine infantry; Fallik was in the middle of the melee, still on his horse though he'd lost his lance.
An arrow struck Tennoc's horse and he went down—another cheer from the Kells. His men faltered until he rose, battle axe in hand, and charged into combat on foot. At times his magic surged, and he'd scatter enemies with a great burst of wind or batter them with a lethal barrage of stones. No flame burned on the field, or he would have thrown fire into the Kellish ranks. At times his magic failed him entirely, leaving him with just his axe.
So it went for nearly two grueling hours, Tennoc's magic rising and falling with the battle's flow, each pulse rejuvenating him, until a strong wind sent men bowling past him. Before him stood Daevys ar Ulvyn, its source. "All hail Temmin, Bastard of Tremont," he mocked.
Ulvyn shouldn't have been able to raise a wind that strong. Tennoc took in the device on his enemy's shield; a king's crown had been added to the Ulvyn coat of arms. Dunnoc was dead. He faced a King, not a Prince. His own magic was gone again, and he trembled on the edge of exhaustion.
"You look tired, Your Majesty," said Ulvyn.
"Comes of fighting instead of lounging about in the rear," answered Tennoc. Magic surged up through his feet, easing his fatigue; he held sway over the land on which he stood. Ulvyn raised his hands to his mouth again to summon the wind, but this time Tennoc expected the attack and raised a shield; the wind buffeted the solid air before him but could not break through. "King of Kellen you may be, but I am King of Tremont!" he bellowed. He blew through his hands and threw them outward; a shrieking wind flattened everything and everyone in its path. Ulvyn threw up a shield of his own, but it wavered under Tennoc's assault. Ulvyn's shock radiated back to him, and he bared his teeth.
Just then, victory cries rose from a Kellish battalion nearby; the banner of Whitehorse had fallen, and Fallik with it. He disappeared under an onslaught of Kells, each trying to get in a blow against the hated Tremontine Lord. Tennoc's own men held firm around him, though the Kells pushed fiercely in on them. Tennoc's magic vanished. He took a step back to find his dominance, and another, but his power did not return.
With each step back, Ulvyn advanced. "Have you heard? I have an heir now. Gwynna gave me a son on Eddin's Day. Propitious, don't you think, brother king?"
Tennoc stopped, as stunned as if Ulvyn had struck him. A son—a child that should have been his. A small boulder flew through the air; distracted, he ducked but it glanced his right shoulder. Numbness ghosted down his arm. He switched his battle axe to his left hand, flexing his right. "Eddin is sly, a trickster God. Don't rely on Him for your son's fortune."
"Which God rides with you today? Amma takes in by-blows, pray to Her for strength!"
"Pagg rides with me, to give me justice!" Tennoc roared. He charged; Ulvyn threw up a shield of air. Though his right arm still tingled, Tennoc took his axe in both hands and battered away. The shield shook with each blow, and Ulvyn turned pale with effort. He was older than Tennoc, just past his prime, and while he had more experience using magic he'd come into the bulk of it only in the last spoke. Magic began trickling into Tennoc's body again as he pounded at Ulvyn's shield. Rocks flew at him but dropped to the ground as they reached some invisible border. Ulvyn was losing his grip on the land's allegiance.
Power sang in Tennoc's blood now. He chose not to use it and kept hammering at the solid air surrounding his enemy like a bell, pushing Ulyvn back and back. "Do you feel your loss?" he yelled.
"Where's your gain?" panted Ulvyn; the air inside his shield was running low.
"I don't need magic to kill you!" The shield broke. Tennoc swung his axe once and sank it screaming into Ulvyn's skull.
Tennoc wrenched out his axe with a sickening, sucking sound and stood over the body. Gore and brains dripped from the axe, and exhaustion overtook him. With the last of his magic, he raised Ulvyn's corpse over the battlefield and amplified his voice. "Daevys ar Ulvyn, the murderer of Prince Kenver, is dead!" he boomed in Kellish, so loudly a faint echo from the mountains reached him; men nearby shrieked and fell to the ground, covering their ears. "Kells, lay down your arms or die! Tremontines," he added in their language, "obey your King and spare any Kell who surrenders!"
Ulvyn's body crashed to the ground as Tennoc dropped his axe and fell to his knees. He held his shield before him in both hands, seeing his own battered reflection in the equally battered metal. It wavered, as he'd hoped it would; a pale, intent face filled it, and Teacher swirled from the shield. "I need you," said Tennoc. He passed out.
What Temmin hated most about leaving the book's spell was its lingering after-effects; the wounds, fear, hatred, even love and desire took time to dissipate and always left him confused and disoriented. "I'd wondered how magic worked in battles. I mean, if it were me, I'd just stand out front with you and let 'em have it. I guess it doesn't work that way."
"No," said Teacher, "otherwise we would own more of Inchar than we do. Your father has no magic in any event, and my magic has been greatly eroded over the centuries."
"Eroded? Eroded how?"
Teacher sighed. "The kings of Tremont are not always wise in their use of magic. There are magical defenses at Mallik—what was once Maalig—and the other major harbors such as Ouve and Esta. The Armor of the Tremontine Kings is enchanted to make it impenetrable. There are thousands of similar enchantments, some great and some small—and some quite petty. The stones of Marsury Field, for example, where Marsury Castle once stood."
"I knew that had to be magic!" exclaimed Temmin. "You can't stack one atop the other and that's hardly natural, is it?"
"It is my doing," Teacher nodded.
"Why is the enchantment still there?"
"Every time I suggest removing it I am told it is tradition, a monument to a dead king. Some day perhaps I shall tell you how it came to happen. So much of my magic is bound up in your family's pride—the Antremonts are a stiff-necked race. Pride is responsible for so many of your family's problems. I would not care but for the drain on my resources. Marsury is a small spell, but the small ones add up just as the big ones do. Every time I place such an enchantment the magic needed to create it stays tied to it. It is the same for any magic user. The magic is unavailable until it is either released or the magic user loses his magic. Or dies."
"So if you die…"
"The defenses at the harbors fall, the King's Armor can be breached, and men may once again stack the stones of Marsury one atop the other."
"But you can't die."
"Not yet. More I may not say, and do not ask further. 'May as well build with Marsury stone.'" The old saying raised a pale smile on Teacher's oddly sensual mouth.
Temmin returned the smile. "You still seem powerful—at least as powerful as you were in the stories I've seen."
"Remember, Tremont was much smaller then. Why do you think Tremont always seems to be at war?"
Temmin's mind turned to the battle he'd just experienced; Tennoc's power grew with every chunk of Kellen he wrested from Dunnoc. "To increase our access to magic."
"The quest for power drives most of the wars of this world, but our wars in particular. It is your dynasty's very basis, this lust for magic, and it is why Tremont is rarely if ever at peace."
Temmin scratched at the stubble of his mourning braid before he remembered his stitches. "But Tennoc went to war to avenge his mother and stepbrother, and to save Gwynna."
"Did he," said Teacher, replacing the book atop the study's lectern. "We will resume tomorrow."
Even with the book's dubious distraction, Temmin chafed at inactivity. "I think we'll return to the City sooner than later," he said to Jenks the next morning.
Jenks paused in the arrangement of Temmin's cravats in a wardrobe drawer; in the sitting room, a little crash announced Fen Wallek, clearing up the early tea. Jenks winced. "I thought we might stay a little longer, surely."
"No, I want to depart on the eleventh. That gives everyone a week to prepare. I'm sure Elly and Cousin Donnis will remain for the present, so I will be returning with you, Wallek, his wife if I can wrest her from Elly's clutches, Jebby and Alvo Nollson."
"You will, will you?" said Jenks, finishing with his fussing. "And how do you intend to get Alvo to come along? What happened between you and Alvo anyway? He's bordering rude these days."
Temmin grimaced and turned away, hoping Jenks didn't see his telltale cheeks. No amount of Lovers' Temple training so far had conquered his propensity to blush when it came to his personal business. "We…had a fight the night before I left two years ago, and apparently he's chosen not to forgive me."
"How do you intend to coax him into coming with you?"
He was Heir of Tremont and a Supplicant of the Lovers' Temple, that's how, he said to himself. "I'll figure it out, one way or another."
Suddenly Jenks strode into the bedchamber; a manly squeak and an "Oi!" followed, and Temmin hurried out to find Jenks in the doorway to the sitting room, his thumb and forefinger pinching Fen Wallek's freckled ear. Temmin folded his arms. "Oh?"
"Oh," growled Jenks. "An eavesdropper."
"I wasn' eavesdroppin!" said the outraged valet-in-training. "I was only…I needed to tell you…all right, I was eavesdroppin!" Jenks gave his ear a last pinch and let go; Fen rubbed at it. "And I dunno if I want to go back to the Keep if it's all the same, sir."
"It isn't, and you will. Jenks is coming with me, and he tells me you're tethered to him. Therefore, you're coming. See if you can get Arta away from the nursery."
"She won' go, sir, I can tell you that now. She's stuck on the little Princess as much as she's stuck on our own babe. You'll never shift 'er, not without a team of oxen."
"Then you'll have to come alone and she'll join you when she's through," said Temmin. Jenks frowned, and Fen's face drooped, but Temmin would not relent; he wanted—no, needed—his people around him. "See to it, Jenks. Get things in motion." As he stalked away Jenks said, "Eavesdropping is part of the job! Get better at it, you spotted oaf!"
Temmin headed toward the stables for his morning ride. He'd been trying the gentle approach, encouraging Alvo to come to him rather than forcing the issue, but it had been almost two weeks. Temmin didn't have time to wait for Alvo to come around. He had to get behind him and push.
He found the stocky young man in Jebby's stall. "How fortuitous. My horse and my best friend, just the two I want. Fetch a horse, Alvy, we're going riding."
Alvo froze midway through taking off his cap. "Your Highness, I have work to do."
"Balls to that. Saddle up. This is not a request." Alvo stomped off. Sometimes, thought Temmin, a man must use the tools at his disposal, and rank was such a tool.
Soon they were trotting from the yards, Temmin on Jebby and Alvo on a stubborn-faced but obedient gray. Frost covered the ground this morning; it crackled under the horses' hooves. Neither man spoke as they broke into a canter and left the road, flying over the familiar pastures and meadows surrounding the Estate and its farms.
Temmin let their course set itself as he thought over what to say and soon discovered he'd pointed them at the old hill fortress rising up from the flattest part of the lands around the Estate. The lords of Whithorse had abandoned the Freehold long ago, though he remembered it from Tennoc's story as it was in its prime. Sheep grazed where its defenses once stood, the ramparts and ditches reduced to steeply rolling ridges around the great hill. The Freehold's enclosing walls had crumbled away; on the broad, flat hilltop could still be seen the stone fortress's faint remains. After a long gallop he reined in, and Alvo did the same.
A strained silence descended, as sharp and clear as the cold air. Temmin had been taught a dozen ways to breach such a silence, but none came to him now as they began the long circumnavigation of the great rise. He settled on pointed scrutiny—often a winner—and turned a steady gaze on his old friend.
Alvo could not be called handsome; compared to Senik and Issak he was coarse, lumpy and common. His broad face had lost the childish roundness still clinging to it just two years ago, his solid cheekbones and clean-shaven jaw sharp and his neck corded with muscle. His wide, round-tipped nose had grown a bit red in the chill. The dark hair under its habitual tweed cap had more the texture of hay than silk. His best feature—expressive, honest eyes the color of freshly turned earth—stayed focused on the horizon framed by the stubborn-faced gray's ears. Coarse and common it may have been, but Temmin loved Alvo's face beyond measure.
He pressed his lips together in frustration and abandoned his tactic. "Damn it, Alvy, I deserve better than this!"
"I didn't have to come, sir," rasped Alvo.
"The Hill you didn't. I have been waiting out your sulk since I got here. I have been patient and approachable, and now I'm done. You will talk to me, Alvo Nollson."
"Very well, sir," Alvo answered in an even, servile voice. "My sister's husband tells me the lambing is going well, sir—"
Temmin dug his heels into Jebby's sides, rode ahead and cut Alvo off. "Hang the lambs, damn you!"
Alvo stopped, though he could have easily walked around the big chestnut blocking his way. His obstinate mouth gave a tell-tale quiver. "I shouldn't think hanging 'em is good for 'em, would you, sir?" he said, suppressed laughter in his tone.
A great grin spread over Temmin's face. "Hang whether it's good for 'em!" The two men broke out in boyish guffaws, tension driving laughter greater than the small joke was worth until tears streamed from their eyes. Temmin brought himself close facing the other direction and reached out his hand. "Oh, Alvy, how I've missed you."
"And I you, Tem," said Alvo, quietly taking it.
"I'm leaving for the City on the eleventh. I want you to come back with me."
Alvo dropped his hand. "To the Keep? What for? You're at the Temple still."
"For three more spokes. You can find something to do there for three more spokes."
"And then what? Oh, no. If I'm going to be currying horses I'd rather do it here, where I'm known and respected, instead of in a stable where I'll get treated like a rustic stooge."
"No one would dare treat you like a rustic stooge. Alvy, you're the closest thing I have to a brother." Tennoc and Kenver came to mind. "You are my brother. With things the way they are and me leaving the Temple soon I have no one and nothing but you."
"You have your sisters."
"Sedra's engagement will be announced as soon as mourning for Mama is over. And you've seen Elly. I don't think she's quite right in the head at present, and besides, she intends to stay here with the baby."
"What about Jenks? And that Wallek character?"
Temmin grimaced. "Jenks…that's complicated, and Fen's a good sort of fellow but he's not you."
"There's your father—"
"We hardly know one another!"
"Then start!" said Alvo. "You're lucky to have a father." He tapped the gray's sides and started off again around the Freehold at a slow walk.
Temmin followed after him. "I need you. No one else knows me as well as you do. I need you to help me stay myself. You were right, the City is changing me—and not all in bad ways—but you were wrong, too. I'll never forget my best friend and they can never keep us apart. Alvo, please." He rode far enough ahead to seize the gray's bridle, bringing them both to a halt. "My last night here before I moved away, you begged me. Now I'm begging you. Come back to the Keep with me. Be my rock."
Alvo stared at Temmin's stirrup. "I don't know if I can be near you knowing you like...that's it's not just women you like," he murmured.
"I honestly don't know about sex with me and you," said Temmin, releasing the gray's bridle. "I need more than that from you. Sex—I can get that anywhere. I can't get brothers anywhere."
"The Heir can't be brothers with a groom anyway."
Temmin smirked. "You won't be a groom. I'm making you my Master of Horse."
Alvo met his eyes in astonishment. "The Heir's Master of Horse? At the Keep?" he cried, pleased in spite of himself. He recovered his equilibrium. "You can't be brothers with your Master of Horse, either."
"Alvo Nollson, are you angling for a knighthood?"
Alvo's face dropped in horror. "No!"
"Because I can't give you one for at least thirty years if Amma blesses the King with long life—and here's hoping. I'm in no hurry to rule." Even the notion of his father's death brought his mother's to mind and his eyes welled, but now was not the time to indulge in grief. He laughed and dashed the tears away with the back of his glove. "The cold makes my eyes water. Listen, one thing I've learned about being the Heir is that despite all the official nonsense I can mostly do as I please. Especially compared with Temple life. Good Gods, I'll never complain again. So if I want to be best friends with my Master of Horse I'm bloody well going to be."
Pain colored Alvo's face. "You're asking something very selfish, Tem, do you even know that? You're asking me to go with you, with no hope for the future—to love you with nothing in return—"
"Will you love me if you stay here?"
"I'll always love you," Alvo said with a simplicity that drew Temmin's heart from his body.
"Then love me at the Keep. I can't give you the answer you want about more than brotherhood right now. Love and sex—you'd think my time at the Temple would have helped me understand the ways in which they're different and the same, but Gods help me if it has. I need you. Please come back with me."
Alvo contemplated the chalk horse carved into the hill rising far across the flat fields around the ruined fortress, his thoughts clear on his broad countenance as he weighed life at Whithorse—achingly far from the man he loved—versus life at the Keep—close by, but possibly filled with its own suffering. Temmin's heart tumbled as the winner became clear: "No." Alvo wheeled his horse around and uttered a curt "Gidyap!" The gray shot off across the wide plains toward the hillocks surrounding the Estate.
Temmin let him go. The wind grew colder, though the strengthening sun stood higher in the sky.
Pagg's balls.