Andre Norton - The Duke's Ballad

“Is that all?”

His tone was hungry. “No, I want to see Kirion and Shastro pay. I want to see a decent ruler on the throne of Kars, I want all these stupid little wars amongst the nobles and clans of Karsten, to stop. We’re bleeding the whole country dry. In a few more generations we won’t have to worry about Estcarp. We’ll have killed ourselves off without their aid.” He swore. “It was that damned fool Pagar and his ‘let’s invade Estcarp.’ So he did, and what did it get him but a really impressive grave.”

Aisling shook her head. “It goes back further, to the Horning, and much of that was Kolder doing. You might as well say we should close our borders to everyone else. Let nothing and no one new in; they bring trouble always. But that’s no solution either.”

“No, it isn’t. Isolate and when the world breaks in, and it will sooner or later, you’re that much less able to deal with what it brings. A static society breaks more easily.” Aisling was listening with some amusement. His face twisted into a sudden grin. “I think I’ve heard my father on the subject once too often. Let’s change the subject. Who are you exactly?”

“Aisling. I’m Kirion and Keelan’s sister. Kirion is nine years older than me, and Keelan’s six. And before you ask, I loathe Kirion and his way of living as much as you do. I was only a child when he tried to kill me. He tormented Kee half of his life and almost destroyed him. Grandfather made Kee Aiskeep’s heir, and Kirion hates us all for that.

“Grandmother Ciara says that Kirion’s like his father Kirin. Both think that whatever they want, they have a divine right to take. The difference is that our father was also weak. Kirion isn’t. He’s convinced that the world owes him whatever he demands. But he’s very fond of his skin. He doesn’t take chances, and that’s why he’s sorcerer to Shastro. The duke is propped up in front as a target. Getting rid of him wouldn’t make any difference to Karsten. Kirion would have another puppet standing up in a few months. Both of them have to go—permanently.”

As she spoke they were descending the last slope into the cultivated lands of Aiskeep valley. Rann eyed her with amusement and interest. She saw things with clarity. The duke of Karsten and his black sorcerer must go. She knew they wouldn’t walk away. So they’d have to be killed. He eyed her face, eager with the discussion, and felt a quiet warmth. She’d suffered at Kirion’s hands too. She understood how Rann felt about losing his brother.

From the lower portion of their trail there came a clatter of hooves and the sound of voices. The two riders broke out of the narrow trail onto the broader valley and found half the inhabitants there waiting. Aisling hooked Wind Dancer’s carrysack with its sleeping occupant over the saddle horn and was off her horse in seconds, running from one to another, hugging, chattering, being whirled by one elderly man as she laughed in delight. Rann caught snatches of talk and was quietly impressed.

This was how it should be with keeps and garths. It was this way in Aranskeep, but such affection and trust were all too rare in other places. The more so the farther north toward Kars one went. In many ways the situation in Karsten had always been unstable. Kars and the immediate lands surrounding the city were a duchy within which the duke was absolute ruler. Beyond the duchy were the keeps of Karsten, also ruled absolutely by their lords. Towns and villages, single garths—all were just as safe as their fortifications and fighters within.

He sighed as he watched Aisling welcomed home. There was so much to do and to change—if they ever could. He could foresee his grandchildren complaining about how far they had yet to go. But that was for the future. He shrugged and allowed himself to be pulled into the welcome. He was handed beer and cold meat on bread, as the horses were taken off to be fed and watered. After an hour of this he fought his way to Aisling’s side.

“Shouldn’t we be heading for the keep?”

She was flushed with the excitement and pleasure of homecoming but she nodded. “Yes, Keelan will have just about reached the keep by now. My grandparents will start riding to meet us but more slowly.” She turned to ask the crowd about their horses.

The old man who’d whirled her first in greeting replied, “Your horses were weary. Let them rest. I have had others brought. They wait now.” The crowd parted, and Rann gasped.

“Torgians? Surely that one is a pureblood?”

“Yes.” Aisling hugged the stallion, checking that Wind Dancer’s carrysack was hooked onto the saddle. The cat was gone but she knew he would return before she left the garths. The part-bred mare beside the stallion nudged for attention. Rann laughed and obligingly scratched her neck up under the mane. Torgians didn’t look like much, but they were valued for their other qualities. A pure-blood could outlast any other breed, could survive on far less, climb like a cat in rough land or over mountains, and find a safe passage through bog. They bonded to their rider and would fight for him even before being trained.

The mare wasn’t a pureblood but she was of the line. He admired her, scratching where she indicated and stroking her inquiring nose. Aisling turned to smile at the pair of them.

“We should move on as you said. Oh, and that’s Shira. She knows her name.” Wind Dancer had leaped for his carrysack again and was making small impatient sounds. “If we don’t go this awful cat here will tear holes in me.” Wind Dancer made a rude noise, and everyone within earshot chuckled.

Rann swung up, took the cat-filled carrysack, and handed it back once Aisling was ready. She settled the straps over her shoulders, cinched the waistband, and moved her mount off along the road. Sudden eagerness overtook her. If it had not been for Wind Dancer, she’d have had her mount racing up the valley to the keep. Ciara and Trovagh would be on their way to meet her by now. How she longed to see them both. It had been three years; even another minute was too long.

She held her horse to a steady walk. On the smoother stretches she allowed them to canter briefly. Soon her horse was infected with her desire to run. He sidled when held back, passaging sideways with hooves held high and hind legs flicking out in the occasional kick. Aisling was firm until after an hour of increasing tension Hadrann spoke.

“Why are we moving so slowly anyhow? I’m sure you have a reason, but you’ve been gone awhile. Are you sure the reason is that good?”

Aisling stared vaguely at him. Why had she demanded this slow pace? Well, because she’d gone away a child still and now she was returning as an adult. In Escore she’d sometimes ridden as a soldier. She wanted her family to see she could control herself, a reason that was starting to seem silly. It was natural to be excited, to want to run her mount. But what of Wind Dancer, who ended up shaken like a pea in a drum when she ran a horse full out?

From over her shoulder a nose was thrust against her neck and she received a message. Wind Dancer was as eager as she to arrive back. Stop all this foolish human indecision and move. He’d rather endure a brief shaking than this slow progress over the final few miles. Aisling smiled, then she flung back her head and laughed. She looked over to her companion.

“I’m a fool,” she confessed. “Wind Dancer’s just said so. Let’s go!” She gave a whoop as she loosed rein, and her stallion exploded into full speed. Shira was right behind him as Rann in turn allowed the mare to follow. They tore down the road, a plume of dust indicating their whereabouts. Ahead sharp eyes pointed it out. A party had already left the keep, and now the pace of those coming from the keep also accelerated.