Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (33 page)

“Yes, my lord,” Beclan said.

The adults led the children across the creek and helped Dorrin settle them on the horses. The oldest boy refused a ride, so each carried two, one child in the saddle and one behind, holding on tightly. Dorrin set off leading her mount, Tamis coming up alongside the horse in case one of the children grew unsteady.

“They never been on a horse before,” he said.

Once they reached the road builders, Tamis and his brother volunteered to help the rest of the day, and the women said they’d cook supper that night for the whole crew.

“I must take Beclan back with me,” Dorrin told Niart. “I will need him on the way back to let the nearest vill know someone is coming. They have five cottages empty; they can ready two of them.”

“Very well, my lord,” Niart said.

As she left, she saw Tamis driving an oxcart with an empty water barrel back down the hill to fetch water from the creek and Derstan cutting brush with two of the road builders halfway down the slope toward home.

“How many new folk will you accept?” Beclan asked when they were well away.

“We could use three times what we have now,” Dorrin said. “But I don’t want to bring in that many at once. For one thing, they’ll multiply, and for another, those native here need to know they’re valued, too. If we had time, it would be better to site the newcomers in new vills, but for this group—can’t be done. They can’t build homes, clear fields, plant, and harvest all starting this late in the year.”

Beclan nodded. “I see that. My father said—I mean, Duke Mahieran said—that Duke Elorran was … was strange. Do you trust the letter?”

“Very straightforward and signed by his man of business and his steward both. I’ve never met Duke Elorran, but I heard he was unwell.”

“Crazy, my mother—Lady Mahieran—said.”

“Beclan, you need not use formal titles for your parents here, you know.”

“Thank you, my lord, but … if I do not, it will be the old habit. Like a child’s shoe on a man’s foot.”

“Wisdom indeed, Kirgan. You are right.”

They picked up the pace where they could, and Dorrin left Beclan explaining to the first vill what they would need to do as she rode on to the house to arrange for more supplies. There she found a very grumpy royal courier stalking back and forth in the stableyard.

“Duke Verrakai! I have a summons from the king!”

“Just a moment,” Dorrin said as a groom came forward to take her horse. To the groom, she said, “Squire Beclan will be coming in tonight, probably very late; be sure someone is ready to meet him.”

“Yes, my lord,” the groom said. She dismounted, ignoring the fuming courier as she untied the strings and lifted off her saddlebags, slinging them over her shoulder. The groom led the horse away; she turned to the courier. “You have a message?”

“It is of the utmost urgency; I was supposed to give it into your hands as soon as I arrived—”

“The king knows I am not always in the house,” Dorrin said. She held out her hand. “The message?”

“It is in the house.”

“You left a royal courier bag unguarded?” Dorrin aimed her haughtiest look at him and had the wicked satisfaction of seeing his own hauteur dissolve into panic. “I’m sure you won’t want the king to hear about that.” She stalked past him toward the scullery, then turned and headed for the front of the house. He scuttled along behind, spouting apologies and excuses. Dorrin ignored them.

The velvet bag lay—untouched she was sure—on the table in the front hall, and Grekkan, her steward, sat at another with account books open in front of him, busy but within sight of the courier bag.

“You didn’t—” began the courier, but Dorrin held up her hand, and he stopped short.

Grekkan looked up and pushed back his chair, bowing slightly. “My lord.”

“Squire Beclan may be in late tonight with information about our new tenants,” Dorrin said.

“We have new tenants?”

“Duke Elorran sent them. Here is the letter from his man of business.” He took the message tube. “Two related families, five children in all. Met them on the new road. They’ll stay the night with the road crew, and Beclan’s arranging housing in the nearest vill. As we discussed, they’ll take the oath when they’ve been here a quarter and we see how they do. But I’m sure these will work out; the men were already at work with the road crew as I left, and the women were taking over the cooking. They’re Girdish; we should send word to the Marshal nearest that vill.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll add them to the rolls at once. Do you think there’ll be more coming that way?”

“Almost certainly, and equally certainly, some will be problems. But we knew the risk when we chose to start the road at the other end. I’ll change the militia patrols to give better coverage there.”

“My lord—the king’s message—” The courier now stood by the table with the bag.

“Whatever it is,” Dorrin said, “I’m not riding more tonight.” She picked up the bag. “Grekkan, find quarters for tonight for—” She looked at the courier, whose insignia did not indicate any family connection, just that he was a courier.

“Jostin Hamilson, my lord,” he said almost meekly.

“Thank you,” she said. “For Jostin, then, and see that he has whatever he needs. I’ll be in my office with this—” She lifted the pouch. “We’re expecting the headmen of Kindle, Rushmarsh, and New Quarry this evening, are we not?”

“They’re here already, my lord. I suggested they walk in the garden.”

“Very well. When you’ve arranged Jostin’s situation, send them to me in the office, please, and bring your notation book.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Dorrin nodded to both of them and headed for her office; on the way she passed the kitchen, and Farin waved. “Supper late, my lord?”

“Yes—but a snack now. Pastry and sib, please.”

In her office, she emptied the courier’s pouch onto her desk, finding the expected scroll case tied with ribbons in the royal colors. By the time she’d picked apart the elaborate knot and settled into her chair, a kitchen maid had brought a pot of sib and two pastries.

The letter Mikeli had sent was startling—Prince Camwyn, attacked by what everyone had decided must be kuaknomi trying to steal the regalia, had nearly died, only to be whisked away by the same mysterious dragon as the only way of saving his life.

Dorrin shuddered, imagining the prince—scapegrace as he was—facing those kuaknomi and their poisoned blades. The king was right. She must take the regalia away—

Home. Go home
.

She could bring it here. If done in secrecy, who would know? She considered how that might be done … It could not travel in the large chest she’d put it in when she gave it to the king. At that moment she remembered the jewel found earlier in the day and pulled it from the pocket of her doublet. It flashed in the lamplight. How many such, she wondered, were lost under a rock or in the soft remains of a rotted hollow tree? As she closed her hand around it, she felt a pulse of something like joy, but a knock on the door interrupted her.

“My lord—the villagers to see you.”

Dorrin slipped the jewel into her pocket. She had begun the meetings with villagers before the end of her first year as duke. The former duke had never conferred with village councils, but after the first few meetings, the villagers had become used to the routine. The meeting did not last long, and when it was over, Dorrin began packing for her journey to Vérella, considering what to tell her heir, her squires, and her staff.

The king wanted her to take the regalia away … and the crown wanted her to go to Aare. She knew only one way to go—through Valdaire, down to the south coast of Aarenis—but that was madness in the face of Alured’s army. She could not go west even had she known a way over the Dwarfmounts and west of the Westmounts, with Fintha in turmoil over magery. North—going to Arcolin’s domain might make Vérella safer but got her no closer to Aare. East—she had never been deeper in Lyonya than Chaya, let alone to Prealíth. How long would it take to cross Lyonya and Prealíth? She would have to take ship from Prealíth—they had ports; she knew that. She would have to sail—and she had never been on a ship—all the way around the Eastbight, down the coast of Aarenis, and then—what? Alured held the Immer river ports. Pirates infested the whole Immerhoft Sea.

She tried to estimate the time it might take. Ships traded from the Immerhoft to the north, but she had paid no attention to their schedules the one time she’d been in the Immer ports. Did they make one voyage a year? Two? And did any of them go to Aare itself? All legends claimed it was barren, uninhabited. Could she just land there, set the regalia down, and walk away?

No. Find the home
. Another vision rose in her mind: three white towers, all broken but still taller than the dunes of red sand, and a cliff above a vast chasm. Not a tree or bush or blade of grass showed in the vision, only wind-sculpted sand and the empty towers.

Dorrin paused in her packing to look around her bedroom with its bed, its chairs, the inlaid table, the sword rack and stand for her mail—mail she had not worn for a quarter-year now—the fireplace, the window open to the garden and orchard below. Here in this room was the most comfort she had ever had; here she had allowed herself to enjoy the beauty, even some of the luxury, she had inherited.

Would she ever come back? A lifetime spent traveling back and forth from Aarenis to northern Tsaia, from place to place in Aarenis … a count of days rose in her mind as she estimated the distance across Lyonya, across Prealíth … She had no idea how long a trip by sea would be, but surely the distance was longer than from Vérella to Valdaire. A quarter-year, perhaps, to reach the south coast of Aarenis. How long to sail across the Immerhoft? She had no idea. Hands
of days, certainly. And then, once in Aare—without a guide, without a map—she must go some undetermined distance inland to find a place that matched the vision. If she could do that—without being robbed or killed on the way—then she must find her way back. Twice the time, if no ill befell her, but traveling alone—with a treasure—she could not expect to escape danger.

She would be gone at least a year. Perhaps more. Perhaps never—but she pushed the thought of death away.

She walked to the window, breathing in the cool night air. She did not want to go. She was through with adventure, with travel; this was her place; these were her people.

Mikeli was her king, to whom she had sworn her oath. If he told her to go, she must go. If he told her to go forever, give up her rank, her holdings … Would he? He wanted her to take the regalia away from Vérella. She could keep it here for a time—perhaps. But in the end—and she could not hide this from herself—she must take it where its destiny—and hers—lay. She turned away from the window, back to her packing.

Beclan arrived just as she finished; she went downstairs to meet him. Farin Cook had left dinner in the warming oven for him, and they sat at the kitchen table while he ate. “I’m leaving you here,” she said after telling Beclan about the king’s letter. “I’m not risking my heir’s life on this journey, and besides, you’re my legal representative.”

He frowned. “I won’t abuse the power.”

“I know that. You’ve matured a lot, Beclan; I trust you for everything but the experience you cannot yet have. Should anything befall me, I know you will have the sense to make use of the experience of others.”

“You really think it’s dangerous? I mean—so soon after the attack on Prince Camwyn?”

“Yes. I don’t know whether the kuaknomi are allied with Alured—hard to believe they’d bother—but they held the entire palace in a glamour except for the prince and Aris Marrakai. They want the regalia; Alured wants the regalia. And worst, I have no idea how to hide it again other than blood magery, which I will not use.”

“Of course not,” he said in a tone that revealed the very lack of experience she’d mentioned.

“I expect—and hope—to return here, though only briefly, using speed to foil enemies. But if something happens …”

“What about the new settlers? If more come, I mean. Where do you want them put?”

Dorrin stared; she had forgotten them and the strong possibility that more were already on the road, headed to Verrakai holdings. “Most important is that they have written permission from their lords to come here. If they’re farmers, we want them in vills with more tillable land than they’re using. Though if some are foresters, we’ll settle them near useful forest land. Stoneworkers—doubt we’ll get many, but if we do, New Quarry has room for more families. New settlers don’t give oaths for a full quarter after they come; we want to know if they’re the kind of tenants we want.”

“What about Gwenno and Daryan? What if something delays you and you can’t make it back?”

“Send word to their families and suggest an escort be sent for them. Their contracts cannot transfer to you. I will confer with the dukes when I reach Vérella; they may prefer to terminate those contracts at once.”

Beclan looked stricken.

“I know,” Dorrin said, softening her tone. “It will be a hardship on you if—when—they must go. You will have no companion your age here. But you will soon be of age to begin your knight’s training, anyway. Grekkan can manage for a time; that’s what stewards do.” And a guardian—how could that be arranged if she had to leave the kingdom? She left that for the moment and went back to the other squires’ situations. “They should not travel alone, and you should not disperse Verrakai armsmen. I suppose I must write something—” She was tired; her head hurt from trying to think of everything at once, but Beclan was right. At the end of squires’ terms, their families were due a formal report, including, if warranted, a recommendation that the squire was now ready for knight’s training.

“My lord—
must
you leave tomorrow? It’s late; you were riding most of today …”