The Fox (91 page)

“Then we’ll go home.” The Master of the Mint sighed. “Maybe it’ll be good news for once.”

While they made their way into the slushy stable yard, high in a tower room on the other side of the castle, Evred-Harvaldar shut a heavy iron-studded door with his own hands and turned to face Vedrid. “I thought you were dead,” he said. “You have been gone a year.”

Vedrid forced himself to stay upright by locking his knees. “I . . .” His brain clouded strangely, and he could not find the words, or form them.

Next thing he knew he was sitting in an armchair, something hot in his hands. The near faint passed, and he tried to drink, but the rim of the metal cup clattered unpleasantly against his teeth.

A shifting of cloth, breathing, and the king’s hand, rough from years of daily sword work, guided the mulled wine to his mouth, where the welcome warmth flooded. Pungent spices and a sweet taste fired along his nerves.

“I should get used to you arriving half frozen,” Evred said with a rare smile. “But never again will you be asked to leave the kingdom. You are restored to your rightful place in Marlovan life as my first Runner; you will choose the ones for those months-long missions.”

Vedrid flushed with emotion, though he was too numb to express it.

But what Evred saw in his face was enough, though he looked grave. “How many horses since you slept last?”

“Six.” Another sip. Protocol was gone in this new dreamworld. Vedrid leaned his head back against the king’s chair, and his eyes closed of their own accord. “Six horses. I was desperate to get through the passes before the snows closed everything off until summer.” He was drifting into exhausted sleep, and forced himself to speak. “And then . . . with home a day or so’s ride away, if I pushed myself . . .”

“Talk. Just the gist, then you may rest.”

Vedrid made an effort and opened his eyes, to find the king on one knee beside him, his face now grim. Alarm dissipated the shroud of exhaustion.

“He will never again come to the west,” Vedrid said. “When I reached Bren last summer everything had changed, in ways I could not define. When I first went to Bren at your order, the Guild was open enough. But this time—” The man shook his head. “Nowhere would anyone talk about Elgar the Fox, unless it was to ask me questions about why I was asking. I know there are secrets, but I fear I am not trained enough to winnow them out. You need spies, Evred-Harvaldar, not Runners. The old man they call the Fleet Master followed me out and questioned me himself. I lied, said I was seeking a cousin. He told me to leave, he said he knew I’d been asking questions in the harbor. I stayed another week, trying to be more discreet . . .” He turned the warm cup around in his cold hands as he tried to ward that memory. “And it was a ship captain, one of the Guild Fleet captains, who set his sailors to ambush me. They dragged me into a cellar and they might have kicked me to death, but someone else intervened. I don’t remember much. I had a broken elbow, broken jaw, smashed bones in both feet. Some of the memory might be mere dream. The one who stopped them was very much like a dream image of the golden angels of the old Sartoran New Year’s songs. I think someone even called him Angel.” At a sudden movement, a quick frown from the king, he raised a tired hand. “I know how it must sound. All I can tell you is what I experienced, wrong as it might be. In the dream this Angel gave me some drink to ease the pain, and spoke Iascan to me, and I answered—and then he told me, in Iascan, to leave and never come back.”

The king’s face hardened. “What did you tell this person? ”

“I can’t remember the exact words. And I have tried! Hearing Iascan, and that pain—”

“Was it white kinthus he gave you?”

“No. I know what that feels like,” Vedrid stated, endeavoring to smile. “Lister-leaf, willow, maybe some green kinthus. In any case he said clearly—this I remember— ’Tell your king that Elgar the Fox will never return to the west.’ When I healed enough to travel I left Bren.”

Evred did not hear the last words. He remembered, quite clearly, the golden-haired, golden-eyed fellow at Inda’s side that day in Lindeth Harbor. The same one? Surely not.

Never again return to the west
.

Someone who knew Inda, apparently. To gain a little time he poured more wine and offered it to Vedrid, who sipped once, then held it in both hands for the warmth.

By then Evred had mastered his emotions. “Go on.”

“The northern mountain passes to Idayago are full of hired bravos, some say forced on the Djedani by the Venn. I don’t know if it is true, but I do know it was impossible to pass safely. I had to make my way south into Anaeran-Adrani. That was very late in the harvest season. At once I started hearing murmurs against us, even against their own king, all about magic.”

Evred opened his hand. “Go on.”

Vedrid sighed. “It’s easier to talk now. Thank you.” He set aside the cup. “Though I might sleep a week when I do lie down.”

“You will have that week. What did you discover?”

“The gossip about our coming over to make war with magic aid I discounted as garbled repeats of some real news. Thought I’d better find out what it was. For that I had to make my way east, toward the capital, where I chanced to fall in with vendors carrying Fire Sticks to sell for winter. They were angry at having to charge double prices, incurring the anger of the locals.”

Evred-Harvaldar threw the cooled wine into the fire and poured more from the pitcher on the hob. “Drink.”

Another sip and warmth flooded the exhausted man. “Winnowing out truth from rumor was not hard. The Mage Council in Sartor decreed the Adranis won’t get their own spells of renewal except under supervision because of this treaty of alliance they made with the evil empire to the west.”

"Evil...”

“Empire. That being us here.”

“Whom do they see as the evil emperor of this evil empire? Ah, that would be me,” Evred said dryly.

Vedrid grimaced. “I cannot tell you how angry that made me. But I revealed nothing.”

Evred laughed softly as he moved to the window. “So I am the evil emperor now. A place I never thought to fill in the annals of our time.” He turned around, making an effort to lighten the atmosphere. “Such news inspires me to regard the evil emperors of history with more sympathy.” The tension he sensed was entirely his; Vedrid was trying valiantly to repress a yawn. So he said, “No matter. Continue with your journey.”

“So then I started back. It took this long to get through the passes.”

“I wondered why Valdon-Prince had not kept his word.” Evred walked away, now thinking of the emptying treasury; Barend’s bleak report; of the unrest among people worried about taxes, dwindling food supplies, fading bridge and fire spells, and who were exhorted to prepare for a war that always seemed to be coming but never arrived.

The embargo was an effective weapon, if you had the power and the will to maintain it. Another five years, and the kingdom would be too weak to resist a massive landing.

He swung around again. “Valdon is my cousin, and he will have had private conversations with my mother. Yet he, too, believes me to be an evil emperor?”

“No,” Vedrid said. “There was nothing directly said, but he apparently campaigned strongly on your behalf, aided by Joret-Edli, until the king, pressured by these same mages, ordered him on an inspection tour of their coastal harbors to get him away from court. And Hadand-Gunvaer is being escorted to the border.”

“By warriors?”

“Yes, that’s what I was told. An Honor Guard, they called it.”

“But they want to see that she gets to the border and doesn’t go back? So that’s why she’s not here—if they let her ride alone, she’d be faster,” Evred said. “I hope she doesn’t get caught by the mountain snows.”

“I suspect they will send a mage along. They seem to have spells for road clearing.”

“Ah.” Evred thought of Hadand on her way home, and some of the weight on his thoughts eased. Just for a moment. “Then there will be no help from my cousin, despite Valdon’s goodwill.” Evred’s thoughts returned to the previous interview and Barend standing where Vedrid was now, equally cold and numb, his eyes weary and pained as he said, “Spongie, the Venn themselves have struck twice, scouting forays, against Olara and the north coast of Idayago. I think I’d better go all the way north and see what I can do.”

Barend had been gone a week when, for the very first time, the trumpets on the city walls played the “Queen’s Charge,” which was the same as the “King’s Charge,” only the triplets were a cascade down instead of up the scales.

Hadand, tired and weary and cold, felt her heart lift at the sound and at the sight of home. Because for her, Tenthen had ceased to be home when she was a child: the royal city was home.

And to greet her there was not only her beloved, but her mother.

Evred was plainly glad to see her, though he deferred to Fareas-Iofre, who gripped her daughter in a long hug. Tired as she was, Hadand was aware of the women in their places, everyone looking alert and strong and focused, such a contrast to the decorative women of the Adrani court. She said two or three times, unaware of doing so, “It’s good to be back. It’s
good
to be back. Ah, it
is
good to be back.”

She handed the treaty to her husband, who looked down at it wryly, then said, “We will consider it a gesture of amity on Valdon’s part.”

“Yes,” Hadand said. “Do. He promised me in private that he would keep striving with the Mage Council. And as soon as he can, he will take a more active interest.”

“What does that mean? When his father is dead?” Evred asked. And with a mordant humor she had once thought unlike him, “I don’t know whether to approve or—”

“There will not be any palace massacres,” she said, trying to match his tone. And then, more seriously, “The king is giving over most of his powers of governing, one by one. He thinks them tedious beyond bearing. Val might see that they become more tedious and protracted, but I assure you that is the extent of his plotting.” Hadand gave a tired laugh, thinking of Val’s last surprise as he conducted her to the huge closed carriage she was expected to ride in to the border, surrounded by guards in their very finest armor and weaponry.

Hadand had been protesting that, no, really, despite the weather she would just as soon ride, when she climbed in and found Lord Randon waiting, finger to his lips, a picnic basket at his feet.

She chuckled at the memory, her gaze distant, her mouth tender. Evred hoped that she’d found some romance to liven her long, exasperating diplomatic mission.

Later on, Hadand and Fareas-Iofre dined together. The Iofre would leave for Choraed Elgaer on the morrow, so Evred excused himself, leaving mother and daughter alone. He sat instead in his study, writing letters about the treaty, a row of waiting Runners having readied their travel gear.

“It has been a good summer,” Fareas said. “I have gotten to know your young man as much as he permits anyone to know him.”

“He does hide himself, doesn’t he?” Hadand said. “I was afraid it might just be from me.”

“No, he has closed his emotions off from the world. He seems to regard that as part of his duty.” Fareas slid her hands into her sleeves. “We sat together most nights— when he did not feel that duty required him to work from dawn to midnight without a single halt. When we were together, it was always in the archive, by his desire. I must say, he is the best student I have ever taught. He shares with Inda such a thirst for historical knowledge, only his is the far-sighted interest of the man, and not the boy’s wish for battles, excitement, and curiosities.”

“Which would be Inda’s too, no doubt,” Hadand said. “Now that he too is grown.”

“Of course. The thing is, though we touched on the lives and manners of countless monarchs, poets, and other famous names through history, he never once strayed into the personal. Courteous, scrupulous, ferocious in concentration, yes. It’s hard to remember he is as young as he is; I felt myself talking to him as if he were his father, with decades of experience behind him.”

“He’s had plenty of experience.” Hadand was upset, uneasy. “Maybe too much.”

“Perhaps. But as far as I can see there is no true love in his life. Favorites, yes, occasionally; Chelis oversees the women on guard, which includes the list of those who may pass unchallenged down the halls. Including from your own pleasure house. Almost never the same man. And none of them are in his heart—it’s seldom the same one twice in a row, and he never lets them spend the night.”

Hadand sighed.

Fareas touched her daughter’s hand. “You are in love— remember the Old Sartoran
thorned rose,
the passion that is not returned—but you must also love. Because he does love you, in all the ways except passion, and that is a love that must be encouraged, for his own well-being as well as yours. Remember.”

And Hadand said, “I promise.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

WHEN the spring melt began, Sea Dag Signi came at last before the Chief Sea Dag Valda and said, "We are ordered to sea, and I have found a berth on the
Bluewing Seeker
, scout for the
Bluewing
raider, attached to warship
Petrel
. This patrol group is assigned the mid-strait. As all warships sail west, this is the closest I could come to Sartor.”

Chief Sea Dag Valda gazed through the western window. Soon the army would march toward that warm sun that set so slowly; lives and more lives would be sped from the light.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples, as though that would ease the hammer of tension inside her skull. She faced one of the most difficult decisions in centuries. It would be enough of a bramble for one lifetime, but a second terrible discovery had sent up its thorny shoots to block the golden path—both connected to the same secret, ramifying root of iniquity.

She made a gesture of command to Signi. “What I feared has come true. Witness.”