Mercedes Lackey - The Price Of Command

Furthermore, right now, living here at the Fortress was—painful. She kept looking for faces that wouldn’t be here anymore. It happened every year, certainly, and it took her a couple of months to get over it—but they’d never made it home this early before, and she kept seeing the backs of head that looked familiar—until the owner turned, and it was a new recruit. It would be a relief to get away until the pain faded with time, the pain that always came when she sent someone out who didn’t come back again.

It will be a relief to sleep in a strange bed. Maybe the dreams won’t find me there.

And yet, part of her wanted them so badly—

No.

Before she realized it, she’d made up her mind to leave. And that trip to Rethwellan seemed a bit more important than it had before.

Lord Baron Dudlyn had plainly just begun his diatribe. Daren jabbed his heel into the side of his hunter, making the gelding jump and dance in surprise, and giving him an excuse to concentrate on the horse.

Because if he didn’t, he was going to laugh in Lord Baron Dudlyn’s face. The hunt’s hardly started, and already he’s complaining. Too bad we’re at a walk. I wish the dogs would scent something besides rabbits; once we take off, he’ll be left behind.

The old man moved his fat old palfrey out of the way of the gelding’s path, and actually shook his finger up at Daren. “I tell you, I don’t know what this Court is coming to!” he shouted querulously. “It’s a disgrace, I tell you! You brother is King of this land, and he can’t go accepting barbarian mercenaries that are no better than bandits as equals to members of his Court and ambassadors from other realms! That mercenary female, that so-called Captain, is making a mockery of all of us! I haven’t seen such a disgraceful display since that wild Shin’a’in female showed up, back in your blessed father’s day—”

Daren decided to end the lecture by dancing his gelding out of the Lord Baron’s vocal range. Not that the Lord Baron didn’t try to increase his volume—

But aged lungs can only produce so much wind.

He grinned as he spurred his gelding to catch up with the front of the hunting party. His brother was up there, as the King had to be, which had left Daren to be polite to the old dotards, show-offs, and those with more bravado than sense in the rear. For a while, anyway. Depending on what the hounds turned up next, at least half of the party might well be left behind or turn back voluntarily, as they had during the morning hunt.

I haven’t had so much fun in a year, he thought with glee, as the gelding spotted his stable mate and put on an extra burst of speed to catch up with him. It’s a good thing that Kero and Faram hit it off so well, though. Otherwise the Lord Baron might not be the only one complaining. And it would be damned hard to keep the peace around here.

Just as he reached the two of them, Kero on her ugly gray warsteed, and Faram on his pure Shin’a’in-bred chestnut, one of the hounds flushed a pheasant. Two bows came up at the same time; two bowstrings hummed at once—but when the retrievers brought the bird back, and the huntsman took it from the dog’s gentle mouth to present it to the King, it was obvious that Faram’s arrow had gone wide of the mark, and Kero had outshot him once again.

And for at least the twentieth time this morning, the courtiers were scandalized. There was a hum of comment behind Daren, and he heard the Lord Baron’s voice rising unpleasantly above the rest, though he couldn’t make out the words.

“You’ve beaten me again, Captain,” Faram said ruefully, handing the bird to the gamekeepers to stow with the rest. “I’m not exactly a bad shot, but I find myself very glad now that you turned down my offer to wager on the outcome of this contest.” He looked back over his shoulder, past Daren, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he suppressed a grin. “I am afraid that my courtiers don’t approve of your manner, however. No subject is supposed to outshoot the King.”

Kero chuckled as Daren pulled up next to Kero, putting her in between himself and his brother. “My Lord,” she replied, “I may live in your Kingdom, but I’ve seen the Mercenary Guild Charter for Rethwellan. I’m a Freeholder by that Charter, and no subject of anyone’s.”

“An excellent point, and it seems that you are as much lawyer as fighter.” The King looked across Kero at his brother. “You did warn me, didn’t you, Daren?”

“I did. About her scholarship and her skills. I said that Tarma called her a ‘natural’ when we were learning together. I said I didn’t think she’d let any of her skills slip just because she was a Captain. And you kept saying I was exaggerating.” Daren shrugged expansively. “Will you believe me when I tell you something now?”

“I suppose I’ll have to. You keep telling me ‘I told you so’ at every opportunity.” Faram turned his attention back to Kero, as his horse shook his head. “What I would really like to know is how you learned to shoot so well—we both had the same teacher, but you never seem to miss. I’d suspect you of magic if you weren’t so entirely unmagical.”

Kero bit her lip as if she was trying to keep from laughing, and replied, “My lord, the fact is that you have never been either on the front line or dependent entirely on your own skill to keep your belly full. I think you’d find that the two harshest teachers in the world are survival and hunger. I’ve had both, and trust me, they make a difference.”

“On the whole,” Faram admitted, “I think I’d prefer to skip that sort of lessoning. I’m too old for those teachers.”

“You’re too fond of your comforts, brother,” Daren jibed. Faram was about to retort—but at exactly that moment, the head of the boar-pack belled, and the entire pack started off. Daren’s mount lurched from a walk into a gallop, and as he passed the huntsmen who were whistling in the retrievers, he grinned.

This was a hunt meant to supply the Court with meat for the Sovvan Feast tonight. If Sovvan hunt-luck meant luck for the rest of the winter, as the old folks said it did, the winter would be a prosperous and easy one. Already they’d brought down a half-dozen deer this morning—several bachelor bucks and a couple of does that everyone agreed were past their bearing prime. That was enough venison that Faram had sent back the deerhounds and brought up the boar-hounds. The Queen and her ladies were coursing the woods and meadows nearer the Palace, taking their hawks out after birds and hare.

Most of the ladies, that is—

He looked back over his shoulder, to see that the handful of women who’d ridden out with the King’s party were still there, keeping up valiantly, and already outdistancing the likes of the Lord Baron.

Last year there hadn’t been any women with the King’s party, but since Kero’s arrival—and example—there were a respectable number of ladies exchanging their skirts for full-cut breeches, and riding neck-and-knee with the men. And some of those ladies were not young; Lady Sarnedelia, who had a formidable reputation as a rider on her own estate, had hailed Kero’s “innovation” with relief and enthusiasm. She was right up there beside the best of the riders, proving rumor to be truth—and she was fifty if she was a day.

I can’t help but wonder how many others would have joined us, but weren’t willing to risk losing suitors or enraging husbands. I know the Lord Baron’s daughter looked as if she’d rather have been with us. His granddaughter is, and I’ll bet that’s what kicked off that tirade about “disgrace.” Of course, she’s safely wedded to young Randel, and she can snap her fingers at what her grandfather thinks, since her loving spouse thinks that everything she does is wonderful. And if I could find a lady that suited me as well as she suits him, I’d probably think the same. Huh. Wonder whatever happened to that little prig Daren, who was horrified at the notion of “Lady Kerowyn” riding to hunt exactly like this? Maybe he grew up.