P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

“I will miss you,” she breathed in his ear.

“And I, you.”

When she disengaged and drew back, not hands but paws rested on his shoulders. The wolver girl bared white teeth in a grin and licked his cheek. Then, dropping to all fours, she loped off into the downpour.

“She’s going to return to the Deep Weald to claim her father’s place,” said Grimly. “I’ll escort her—not that she needs it—and return as soon as I can.”

Then he too was gone.

Torisen became aware that the shattered ruins were surrounded by silent, watching Kencyr. His people had found him after all. Kin-Slayer tingled in his left hand, light rolling up and down its rain-washed length. He sheathed it, to a long sigh from the shadows.

“Has someone brought me a letter from the Southern Host?” he asked.

A bedraggled postrider approached, drawing a folder from her dripping leather pouch.

“Are you sure you want to read it here, now, my lord?”

Torisen wished no such thing, only that the long day be over at last, but that was impossible until he had finished every piece of business related to it.

He drew out Harn Grip-hard’s missal and unfolded it. Judging by the familiar, crabbed script, the Commandant hadn’t trusted his response to a clerk’s fair copy, which was just as well. Torisen read the message three times, memorizing it, before the rain washed it away. Then he tore up the sodden paper and let it drop into the mud. Those watching could make little of his expression except, perhaps, that they had never seen him look more like his father.

“Get something to eat and rest while you can,” he told the rider. “My answer will be ready by dawn at the latest.”

The Kendar was startled. “What, all the way back south?”

“Yes. To Kothifir.”

A ghostly gibbous moon had just risen above the eastern horizon, signaling midafternoon on the last day of winter. Most of the Southern Host was busy in the training fields south of the camp, as usual. Dust rose there, and steel glinted through it in mock battle.

So much practice, to what end? wondered Harn Grip-hard as he stood on his balcony, looking south over the inner ward and the red tiled roofs of the Host’s camp. The Kencyrath had many foes, but at that moment, the war he feared most brewed within it, between brother and sister.

Blackie’s latest message lay on his desk. It was written on a scrap of parchment with jerky, dark red letters that looked like dried blood. So, Harn expected, it was. The Ardeth cadet who had presented it to him three days ago with a bandaged hand had looked quite unwell.

“The Highlord asked Lady Kirien to send this to me to give to you, Ran,” he had said. “Torisen wasn’t previously aware that the Ardeth had a far-writer among the Southern Host.”

Harn hadn’t known that either. One tended to overlook the Shanir until they suddenly became indispensable. How much time might have been saved if he had known about this earlier—except it was a surprise that Blackie had stooped to using a Shanir at all. He must feel very strongly about this message.

Harn remembered when the first letter had arrived by the usual postrider fifteen days ago:

“Something is wrong with Brier Iron-thorn.”

He had summoned the Kendar, of course, and there she had stood before his desk, dark red hair aglow, green eyes cautious in an immobile, sun-darkened face. He had known her since she was a stocky, inscrutable child, and her mother before her.

“Well, Iron-thorn. You’ve done something to upset the Highlord. What?”

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “it’s because the bond between us broke.”

Harn was shocked. “Why? What did he do?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . .” She floundered for words. “He’s so gentle.”

Harn sat back, absorbing this. He knew how gingerly Torisen dealt with those bound to him, as if they were all at his mercy—which, of course, they were. Raised by Kendar, he had never really understood the Highborns’ sense of entitlement. Harn valued that freedom. Others, especially those like Brier raised under tight control, might mistake such care for weakness.

“Still,” he said, “that’s no reason to break from him.”

“It wouldn’t be, except . . .” She had paused, a frown gathering as she thought. “His sister . . . I don’t really understand it, especially in one who seems so fragile and, well, peculiar, but there’s an iron core to her. She can also be merciful. I was in great distress over the death of the seeker’s baby. Torisen wasn’t there. She was.”

“So she bound you.”

Brier raised somber eyes. “One might almost say that I bound her.”

Now, that had been a tricky message to convey. Torisen’s answer had come back virtually overnight. Harn wondered that the blood in which it was written didn’t smolder.

Below in the ward he saw eight figures emerge from the streets of the camp, some walking together like the Brendan and the Jaran, others aloof like the Randir. They crossed the grass. Soon they would be at his door. It was, of course, only a regular meeting with the barracks’ commanders.

“Huh,” he muttered, under his breath.

Some fifteen minutes later they were seated about the round table in Harn’s cramped conference room. Genjar had adopted the southern style of lounging on pillows. Harn and Torisen before him had preferred northern formality, although Harn frequently prowled around the room while the others sat, saying that it helped him to think.

“Where’s Coman?” he asked.

“He’s expecting a report from his outriders,” said the Edirr, with a grin.

The others smiled indulgently. The young Coman commander was responsible for gathering information on Kothifir’s external foes. Raids from Gemma aside, though, what enemies did the city possess? However, as one of the Kencyrath’s smallest houses, the Coman always made a fuss about whatever they did to inflate their own self-importance. The Coman commander had been hinting since late summer that Gemma was up to something.

“All right,” said Harn. “What news from the Overcliff?”

The Ardeth commander folded his thin, aristocratic hands, gathering his thoughts. “The Change hasn’t yet resolved itself,” he said. “Life goes on in the city, but in a bumpy fashion without the authority of king, guild lord, or grandmaster to steady it. More towers have fallen. Krothen remains in seclusion. Merchandy and Professionate are in hiding. Ruso, the former Lord Artifice, has taken up quarters with the former Master Iron Gauntlet, Gaudaric. Grandmasters like Needham are trying to gather followers . . . on what basis in his case I don’t know, given that the silk trade seems to have ended forever. Prince Ton and his mother Princess Amantine are also looking for supporters. Politics aside, I don’t know what natural laws are in operation here.”

“I’ve always said that we don’t adequately understand Rathillien religions,” said the Jaran commander, leaning forward.

The Caineron snorted. “You and your scholar’s obsession with native cultures. What is there to understand? We know the truth.”

“As we see it, yes. Our Three-Faced God is behind everything. Has it ever occurred to you, though, that his power is in short supply on this world?”

“Blasphemy,” growled the Caineron. “Our lords stand, do they not?”

“And our priests,” murmured the Randir, Frost.

“Oh, leave them out of this,” snapped the Danior. His home keep, after all, was across the river from the Priests’ College at Wilden, too close for comfort. “What good do they do any of us?”

“Here in Kothifir, they seem to benefit the natives more than us,” remarked the Jaran. “The current mess started when our temple disappeared. And if you can explain how that happened, you will have my full attention.”