Crown Duel by Sherwood Smith
“Very strange,” she said, hugging her elbows close. “Yet I think you are favored to have met them.”
“Sometimes,” I said, thinking of the night before, after my conversation with Shevraeth, when I’d had an angry heart. I was glad I hadn’t seen any Hill Folk face-to-face.
But I didn’t tell Nee that.
We conversed a little more on different matters, then I asked her to practice fan language with me again. We made a game of it, and so the time passed agreeably as we progressed steadily down the mountain, sometimes slowly over icy places or snowdrifts. As we got closer to the lowlands the air turned warmer; spring, still a distant promise in the mountains, seemed imminent. The roads were less icy than muddy, but our progress was as slow.
We stopped only to change horses. Nee and I didn’t even get out of the carriage but ate the food that Julen had packed.
It was quite dark, and a sleety rain was starting to fall when our cavalcade rolled impressively into the courtyard of the Riverside Inn at Carad-on-Whitewater.
What seemed to be the entire staff of the place turned out, all bowing and scurrying, to make our debarkation as easy as possible. As I watched this—from beneath the rain canopy that two eager young inn-helpers held over our heads—I couldn’t help remembering last spring’s sojourn at various innyards, as either a prisoner or a fugitive, and it was hard not to laugh at the comparison.
We had a splendid dinner in a private room overlooking the river. From below came the merry sounds of music, about as different from the haunting rhythms of the Hill Folk’s music as can be, yet I loved it too.
When we had finished, Nee said, “Come! Let’s go dance.”
“Not me.” Bran lolled on his cushions and grabbed for his mulled wine. “In the saddle all day. I’ll finish this, then I’m for bed.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said to Nee, rising to my feet.
Nee turned to Shevraeth, who sat with both hands round his goblet. “Lord Vidanric? Will you come with us?”
I looked out the window, determined to say nothing. But I was still angry, convinced as I was that he had been spying on me.
“Keep me company,” Bran said. “Don’t want to drink by myself.”
The marquis said to Nee, “Another time.”
I kept my face turned away to hide the relief I was sure was plain to see, and Nee and I went downstairs to the common room, which smelled of spicy drinks and braised meats and fruit tarts.
In one corner four musicians played, and the center of the room was clear save for a group of dancers, the tables and cushions having been pushed away to make space. Nee and I went to join, for we had come in on a circle dance. These were not the formal Court dances with their intricate steps, where each gesture has to be just so, right down to who asks for a partner and how the response is made. These were what Nee called town dances, which were based on the old country dances—line dances for couples, and circles either for men or for women—that people had stamped and twirled and clapped to for generations.
Never lacking for partners, we danced until we were hot and tired, and then went up to the spacious bedrooms. I left my windows wide open and fell asleep listening to the sound of the river.
“I’ll go in the rattler with you,” Bran said the next morning, to Nee. Grinning at her, he added, “Probably will rain, and I hate riding horseback in the wet. And we never get enough time together as it is.”
I looked out at the heavy clouds and the soft mist, thought of that closed-in coach, and said, “I’ll ride, then. I don’t mind rain—” I remembered who else was riding, and fought a hot tide of embarrassment. “You can go in the coach in my place,” I said to Shevraeth, striving to sound polite.
He gave his head a shake. “Never ride in coaches. If you want to know the truth, they make me sick. How about a wager?”
“A wager?” I repeated.
“Yes.” He gave me a slow smile, bright with challenge. “Who reaches Jeriab’s Broken Shield in Lumm first.”
“Stake?” I asked cautiously.
He was still smiling, an odd sort of smile, hard to define. “A kiss.”
My first reaction was outrage, but then I remembered that I was on my way to Court, and that had to be the kind of thing they did at Court. And if I win I don’t have to collect. I hesitated only a moment longer, lured by the thought of open sky, and speed, and winning.
“Done,” I said.
CHAPTER SIX
I dashed to my room, surprising Mora and one of her staff in the act of packing up my trunk. Apologizing, I hastily unlaced the traveling gown and reached for my riding gear.
Mora gave me a slight smile as she curtsied. “That’s my job, my lady,” she said. “You needn’t apologize.”
I grinned at her as I pulled on the tunic. “Maybe it’s not very courtly, but I feel bad when I make someone do a job twice.”
Mora only smiled as she made a sign to the other servant, who reached for the traveling gown and began folding it up. I thrust my feet into my riding boots, smashed my fancy new riding hat onto my head, and dashed out again.
Shevraeth waited in the courtyard with two fresh mares. I was relieved that he did not have that fleet-footed gray I remembered from the year before. On his offering me my pick, I grabbed the reins of the nearest mount and swung up into the saddle. The animal danced and sidled as Bran and Nimiar came out of the inn hand in hand. They climbed into the coach, solicitously seen to by the innkeeper himself.
Shevraeth looked across at me. “Let’s go.”
And he was off, with me right on his heels.
At first all I was aware of was the cold rain on my chin and the exhilaration of speed. The road was paved, enabling the horses to dash along at the gallop, sending mud and water splashing.
Before long I was soaked to the skin everywhere except my head, which was hot under my riding hat, and when we bolted down the road toward the Akaeriki, I had to laugh aloud at how strange life is! Last year at this very time I was running rain-sodden for my life in the opposite direction, chased by the very same man now racing neck and neck beside me.
The thought caused me to look at him, though there was little to see beyond flying light hair under the broad-brimmed black hat and that long black cloak. He glanced over, saw me laughing, and I shifted my gaze, urging my mount to greater efforts.
At the same pace still, we reached the first staging point. Together we clattered into the innyard and swung down from the saddle. At once two plain-dressed young men came out of the inn, bowed, and handed Shevraeth a blackweave bag. It was obvious from their bearing that they were trained warriors, probably from Renselaeus. Shevraeth stood conversing with them, a tall mud-splashed and anonymously dressed figure. Did anyone else know who he was? Or who I was? Or that we’d been enemies last year?
Again laughter welled up inside me. When I saw stablehands bring forth two fresh mounts, I sprang forward, taking the reins of one, and mounted up. Then I waited until Shevraeth turned my way, stuck my tongue out at him, and rode out at the gallop, laughing all the way.
I had the road to myself for quite a while.
Though I’d been to Lumm only that once, I couldn’t miss the way, for the road to Lumm ran alongside the river—that much I remembered. Since it was the only road, I did not gallop long but pulled the horse into a slower gait in order to keep it fresh. If I saw pursuit behind me, then would be the time to race again, to keep my lead.
So I reasoned. The road climbed gradually, until the area looked familiar again. Now I rode along the top of a palisade on the other side of the river; I kept scanning ahead for that rickety sheep bridge, without knowing then that I was actually a least a couple days’ ride too far east.
As I topped the highest hill, I reined in to scan around me over the long valley, with the river winding lazily through it. There was no familiar landmark after all—and in trying to find one, I almost missed the fast-moving dot half obscured by the fine, silvery curtain of rain.
Turning my eyes to the road, I saw Lumm in the distance, with a couple of loops of river between me and it.
Hesitating only a moment, I plunged down the hillside. The horse stumbled once in the deep mud, sending me flying face first. But I climbed into the saddle, and we raced across the fields.
I reached Lumm late, under a relentless downpour. My horse splashed slowly up the main street until I saw swinging in the wind a sign with a cracked shield. The wood was ancient, and I couldn’t make out the device as my tired horse walked under it. I wondered who Jeriab was, then forgot him when a stable hand ran out to take my horse’s bridle.
“Are you Countess of Tlanth?” she asked as I dismounted.
I nodded, and she bustled over to a friend, handed off the horse, then beckoned me inside. “I’m to show you to the south parlor, my lady.”
Muddy to the eyebrows, I squelched after her up a broad stair into a warm hallway smelling of baking bread. Genial noise rose as people came and went. But my guide threaded her way through, then indicated a stairway with a fine mosaic rail, and pointed. “Top, right, all across the back is where your party will be,” she said. “Parlor’s through the double door.”
I trod up the stairs, making wet footprints on the patterned carpet at each step. The landing opened onto a spacious hallway.
I turned to the double doors, which were of foreign plainwood, and paused to admire the carving round the latch, and the painted pattern of leaves and blossoms worked into it. Then I opened one, and there in the middle of a lovely parlor was Shevraeth. He knelt at a writing table with his back to a fire, his pen scratching rapidly across a paper.
He glanced up inquiringly. His hair seemed damp, but it wasn’t muddy, and his clothing appeared miraculously dry.
I gritted my teeth, crossed my arms, and advanced on him, my cold-numbed lips poonched out below what I knew was a ferocious glare.
Obviously on the verge of laughter, he raised his quill to stop me. “As the winner,” he murmured, “I choose the time and place.”
“You cheated,” I accused, though relieved to have the embarrassment postponed.
“If you had waited, I would have shown you that shortcut,” he retorted humorously.
“It was a trick,” I snarled. “And as for your wager, I might as well get it over now.”
He sat back, eyeing me. “Wet as you are—and you have to be cold—it’d feel like kissing a fish. We will address this another time. Sit down and have some cider. It’s hot, recently brought in. May I request your opinion of that?” He picked up a folded paper and tossed it in my direction. He added, with a faint smile, “Next time you’ll have to remember to bring extra gear.”
“How come you’re not all soggy?” I asked as I set aside my sodden hat and waterlogged riding gloves.
He indicated the black cloak, which was slung over a candle sconce on the wall, and the hat and gloves resting on a side table. “Water-resistant spells. Expensive, but eminently worthwhile.”
“That’s what we need in Remalna.” I knelt on the cushions opposite him and poured out spicy-smelling cider into a porcelain cup painted with that same leaf-and-blossom theme. “A magic-worker.”
Shevraeth laid his pen down. “I don’t know,” he said. “They are not like trees that bear fruit for all who want it and demand nothing in return. A magic-worker is human and will have his or her own goals.”
“And a way of getting them that we couldn’t very well stand against,” I said. “All right. No magic-worker. But I shall get me one of those cloaks.” I drank some of the cider, which was delicious, and while its warmth worked its way down my innards, I turned to the letter he’d handed me.
The exquisite handwriting was immediately familiar—a letter from the Marquise of Merindar. Under my sodden clothing my heart thumped in alarm. Addressed to their Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Renselaeus, the letter went on at length, thanking them for their generous hospitality during her period of grief, and then, in the most polite language, stating that its writer must reluctantly return to her home and family, and take up the threads of her life once again. And it was signed, in a very elaborate script, Arthal Merindar.
I found Shevraeth’s gaze on me. “What do you think?”
“What am I supposed to think?” I asked slowly, wondering if his question was some kind of a trap. “The Marquise is going back to Merindar, and blather blather blather about her nice year at Athanarel.”
“Wants to go back,” he said, still mildly. “Do you see a message there?”
“It’s not addressed to me,” I muttered, hunching up in defense.
“Ostensibly it’s addressed to my parents,” he said. “Look closely.”
I bent over the letter again. At first my conflicting emotions made the letters swim before my eyes, but I forced myself to concentrate—and to remember my own letter, now hidden in one of my trunks. Then I made a discovery.
“The signature is different from the rest of the writing, which means she must have used a scribe—” I thought rapidly. “Ah. She didn’t write this herself. Is that a kind of oblique insult?”
“Well, one may assume she intended this to be read by other eyes.”
Like my letter.
And that meant…
“And since the signature is so different, she wanted it obvious. Yes, I see that,” I said, my words slow in spite of my headlong thoughts. Did this mean that Shevraeth hadn’t spied on me after all—that the Marquise of Merindar had sent that letter knowing he’d find out?
My gaze was still on the fine scribal hand, but my thoughts ranged through winter. Of course Bran would have told all his Court friends that he was going home at last, and probably with whom.
“But unless there’s a kind of threat in that last bit about taking up the threads of her life, I don’t see any real problem here.”
He picked up the quill again and ran the feathered part through his fingers. “One of the reasons my parents are in Remalna-city is to establish someone of royal rank there until the question of rulership is settled.”
“You think Arthal Merindar wants to be queen, then?” I asked, and again thought of my letter and why she might have written it.
I recalled Shevraeth’s words from the day before our departure, but you’ll still be approached if you seem even passively my enemy. A jolt of chill made me shiver when I realized that the Marquise of Merindar might have attributed my refusal to come to Court to unspoken problems between Shevraeth and myself—which would mean her letter was meant either to capitalize on my purported enmity or to make him distrust me.
So did he?
“What is she like?” I asked.
“Like her brother, except much better controlled. She’s the only one of the family who is still a danger, but she very definitely is a danger.”
“She might be saying the same of you,” I said, resolutely trying to be fair. As before, I had no proof, and last year I had gotten myself into trouble for making quick judgments based merely on emotions, not facts. “Not that I think all that much of the Merindars I’ve met so far, but they do have a claim on the throne. And their marquisate, like Renselaeus, takes its name from the family even if it isn’t nearly as old.”
It was impossible to read his expression. “You think, then, that I ought to cede to her the crown?”
“Will she be a good ruler?” I countered, as the chill turned to the old heat of embarrassment and uneasiness and anger. “I don’t know. Why are you asking me? Why does my answer make any difference at all, unless showing me this letter and asking me these questions is your own way of making a threat?” I got up and paced the length of the room, fighting the urge to grab something and smash it.
“No,” he said, dropping his gaze to the papers on the desk. “I merely thought you’d find it interesting.” H
The argument so suddenly sprung up was over. As I stood there watching that pen move steadily across the paper, I felt all the pent-up anger drain out of me as quickly as it had come, leaving me feeling tired, and cold, and very, very confused.
oOo
Shevraeth and I did not speak again; he kept working through his mail, and I curled up on a cushion and slipped into uncomfortable sleep.
Bran’s cheery voice woke me. Bewildered by the bustle and rustling of many people, I remembered where I was, and discovered I was stiff and damp. Though I’d tried to stay with exercise through sword practice, I hadn’t ridden that hard all winter, and every muscle protested. Naturally Shevraeth moved about with perfect ease. Resolving that I’d stay in the coach the rest of the way, crowded or not, I greeted Bran and Nee. We dispersed to change, and I was soon reunited with dry clothing.
The four of us ate dinner together. Shevraeth was exactly as polite as always, making no reference to our earlier conversation. This unsettled me, and I began to look forward to our arrival at Athanarel, when he would surely disappear into Court life and we’d seldom see one another.
As for the wager, I decided to forget about what had obviously been some kind of aristocratic joke.
CHAPTER SEVEN
So once again on an early spring day, I was ensconced in a coach rolling down the middle of the Street of the Sun. Again people lined the street, but this time they waved and cheered. And as before, outriders joined us, but this time they wore our colors as well as the Renselaeuses’.
This had all been arranged beforehand, I found out through Nimiar. People expected power to be expressed through visible symbols, such as columns of armed outriders, and fancy carriages drawn by three matched pairs of fast horses, and so forth. Apparently Shevraeth loathed traveling about with such huge entourages—at least as much as Galdran used to love traveling with them—so he arranged for the trappings to be assumed at the last moment.