“She said she’s found two more men you can send out, if you want them, but you’ll have to let her know right away.”
“Did anyone notice the first two?”
Tarilane shook her head. “No. I watched. And no one’s said anything since they left.”
“Good. Nobody saw you watching, I hope?”
“Of course not!” Tarilane looked faintly indignant. “I know how to be careful!”
“Not that I’d noticed,” Vandaris said dryly.
“What men?” Eltiron broke in.
Vandaris hesitated. “I suppose you might as well know. I sent a couple of messengers out after Trevannon; they left two days ago.”
“You did? Why didn’t you tell me? Where is he?”
“I don’t know where Trevannon is; that’s why I sent two men instead of one.”
“Then it could be months before one of them finds him.”
“Maybe, but I think I’m a better guesser than that. Trevannon knows about the Hoven-Thalar, and he won’t give up on stopping them just because Marreth threw him out of Sevairn. Knowing the way his mind works, I’d bet he’s already in Mournwal or Gramwood, getting ready to fight when the Hoven-Thalar come north.”
“What will you do if he isn’t?”
“The men I sent to look for him will come back, and I’ll think of something else. Trevannon’s a good strategist and he knows the Hoven-Thalar, but he doesn’t
have
to be around when the fight starts.”
Eltiron nodded without much conviction. He could hear the worry behind his aunt’s confident remarks, and it made his own preoccupation with Jermain seem childish and self-centered. Until Vandaris arrived, he had not really thought much about the impending invasion of the Hoven-Thalar. His reasons for wanting to see Jermain again were purely personal, and he had not even tried to send anyone to look for the man he called his friend. Eltiron began to feel foolish as well as childish; even if Terrel had been watching him constantly, he could have
tried
to do something.
“You going to stand there all day, cloud brain, or are we going to have a match?” said Vandaris, and Eltiron shook himself and stepped into the ring.
The match went well. Eltiron performed much better than he did when he practiced with Kaliarth. Then, too, Eltiron was more comfortable with Vandaris as an instructor. Her acid comments caught every mistake and sloppy move, but they were easier to accept than Kaliarth’s reluctant, deferential corrections, and when Vandaris complimented a maneuver, she meant it. When they finished, Vandaris announced that she would repeat the exercise every day, as long as she was in Leshiya.
“I need the practice as much as you do; at my age, it’s entirely too easy to go stale,” she told Eltiron. “I’ll settle it with Kaliarth.” She grinned. “And it’ll keep Lassond from trying any more of his tricks for a while.”
“What about me?” Tarilane demanded.
“That’s right; I promised you a turn in the ring, too, didn’t I? You can use one of the wooden swords, and . . .” Vandaris stopped and her head turned.
Eltiron glanced in the same direction, and saw a movement in the shadow of the entrance gate. A moment later, the shadow resolved into a man wearing a long cloak and a shapeless, dusty hat that hid most of his face. He seemed familiar, but Eltiron was not sure why. The man made a small circling gesture with his hand, and waited.
“You’ll have to wait a minute, Tari. This shouldn’t take long; you can get the ring ready for another match while I’m busy.” Vandaris started in the direction of the gate.
Eltiron hesitated, then started after her, but Vandaris waved him back and went on alone. He watched until Vandaris reached the cloaked man, then turned thoughtfully to help Tarilane rake the practice ring. He had caught a glimpse of cream-colored robes and a crimson sash beneath the cloak, and he knew now why the man seemed familiar. He was a Hoven-Thalar, the same one Eltiron had seen once before, talking to Jermain.
Vandaris returned a few moments later. Eltiron started to ask about the exchange, but Vandaris shot him such a fierce look that he changed subjects in midsentence and ended up with a confused tangle that seemed to have something to do with Terrel. He straightened it out by explaining that he’d noticed Terrel watching Vandaris at Marreth’s dinner and had nearly forgotten to mention it. Vandaris seemed unconcerned, and went on to her practice with Tarilane. Eltiron watched for a few moments, then went off to his next meeting, wishing as he did that he could ignore his obligations and go to the tower and think. He had too many things he wanted to sort out, and no time for any of them.
For the next four days, Eltiron’s every waking minute seemed occupied with preparations for either his wedding or a war with Mournwal. Vandaris’s interview with Marreth had gone just as she had expected, and Sevairn was arming at last, albeit to face the wrong enemy. Curiously, Terrel did not object to the resulting military activity; on the contrary, he seemed almost relieved. Eltiron added that to the growing list of things he wanted time to think about and went doggedly on with his duties. He stood for endless fittings of wedding clothes, attended Council meetings to discuss the war, entertained various minor diplomats and nobility, and had daily practice sessions with Vandaris, wishing all the time that he could get away.
When he finally did manage to slip up to the top of the Tower of Judgment, his first act was to check every inch of the parapet for odd-looking red patches. He found none, and with some relief he seated himself on the eastern side of the tower top, his back to the stone parapet, and tried to relax.
Too many things had happened in the last ten days. There was Terrel; who had he been talking to on the tower, and what were they trying to do? For some reason, Eltiron’s marriage seemed to be mixed up in it, unless he had imagined the whole conversation, and so was Jermain. And from the way Terrel had been eyeing Vandaris since Marreth’s dinner party, he had plans for her, too.
Then there was Vandaris. She refused to tell anyone whether she had gotten any results from her performance at the party; Eltiron had to take Tarilane’s word that there had, at least, been no assassination attempts. She likewise refused to discuss whatever she had learned in her conversation with the Hoven-Thalar at the first practice session. Still, she had promised to let Eltiron know if she hear any news of Jermain, and she was practically the only person in the castle who took Eltiron seriously.
Finally, there was the impending war with the Hoven-Thalar. If what Vandaris said was true, the war could make everything else unimportant by comparison. Eltiron shifted uncomfortably. In spite of Vandaris’s arguments and persuasion, he didn’t like leading Marreth to believe that Mournwal was planning to attack Sevairn.
At least the preparations for battle had kept Eltiron from brooding on his coming marriage, and that was something. On the other hand, he would have to think about it soon; the Princess of Barinash and her escort should be arriving tomorrow. Eltiron shifted again and realized suddenly that his back was tingling where it touched the tower stone.
In a single bound, he was on his feet and a sword’s length away from the parapet. He stood panting for a moment, more from fright than exertion. Nothing unusual seemed to be happening, so he moved cautiously forward, scanning the parapet as he came for red patches or anything else that might explain the odd sensation he had felt. He found nothing. Hesitantly, he put out his hand and touched the parapet just above where he had been leaning against it.
The stone was warm beneath his hand, but he felt no other strangeness. Eltiron sighed, wondering if it was all his imagination. A little gingerly, he leaned against the stone, looking out across Leshiya to the fields beyond. A small caravan was moving down the eastern road toward the city. Eltiron glanced at it, then stiffened abruptly as a brief gust of wind unfurled the banners at the head of the column. The banners were green and silver, the colors of Barinash.
Evidently, Eltiron’s prospective bride was arriving early.
CHAPTER 8
J
ermain blinked in surprise at Carachel’s announcement. The army was moving so soon? He looked around quickly to see how the others at the table were reacting. The brown-haired woman was looking thoughtfully at Jermain, while the rest of Carachel’s advisers sat staring with the carefully blank looks of those who have been trained not to let their thoughts show. The military commanders were frowning, and some were muttering angrily. Only Elsane seemed unaffected by the news; she continued eating with the same calm disinterest she had shown toward the rest of the conversation.
“My lord, I must object,” Commander Suris said after a moment. “Whoever has advised this course has not thought of all the problems it will cause.” He glanced at Jermain as he spoke.
“You are wrong again, Suris,” Carachel said. “This decision is mine; Lord Trevannon has heard nothing of it until now.”
“That may well be so, my lord. But no matter how skillful he is, your new commander-general will require time to become familiar with the men and what they can do, and prudence indicates that he should do so before he commands them in a battle.”
“Lord Trevannon must learn as we march. Our time is running out. The Hoven-Thalar have already begun to move from the southern plains.”
Jermain saw several of the military men and advisers exchange glances; apparently some of them had doubts about the threat of the nomads. He made a mental note of their faces as Suris said slowly, “Even so, we have time to reach the southern kingdoms before they do. A straight march should not take more than six weeks at most, and it has been done in less.”
“We do not make a straight march, however. We will go east, around the Morlonian Hills into Barinash, and then south to Gramwood.”
Suris frowned. “I do not wish to question you, my lord, but—”
“Enough.” Carachel’s voice was quiet and cold. “We go to Barinash because King Urhelds has agreed to send half his army south with us. We do not take the shorter route through Sevairn because King Marreth still refuses to consider my warnings seriously. Does that content you?”
“As you say, my lord.”
“Then all of you may go as soon as you have finished your meal. I think preparing for the march will give you tasks enough to keep you occupied.”
The councillors nodded, and several rose and took their leave at once. The others finished eating quickly and followed, leaving Jermain alone with Carachel and Elsane. Jermain cleared his throat.
“My lord, if you will tell me whom to see about quarters, I, too, will leave you.”
Carachel looked up, his expression unreadable. “I suppose you think I was too harsh with them.”
“You know your commanders better than I, my lord.” Privately, Jermain thought that the Wizard-King had been more abrupt than necessary, but he did not feel ready to criticize Carachel directly. There was too much he did not know about Carachel and his advisers, councillors, and commanders, and he had no desire to make a mistake in judgment through ignorance.
“Yes.” Carachel sighed. “They follow my orders because I am their king, but most of them do not really believe in me.”
“Why not?”
“For nearly ten years I have been trying to prepare Tar-Alem to meet the nomads and . . . what comes behind them, and for ten years they have wondered and doubted. It is not easy for them to change their thinking, even when the proof is here.”
Elsane rose abruptly. “My lord is correct, as always. If I may be excused?”
“My lady needs no permission from me.” Carachel watched Elsane intently as he spoke, but she avoided his eyes, curtsied formally, and went out. Carachel sat looking after her with an expression of mingled pain and frustration. Jermain took one brief glance at the wizard’s face, then became absorbed in the contemplation of a candle flame.
“You are discreet,” Carachel said after a moment.
“Discretion is frequently necessary in a King’s Adviser,” Jermain said without taking his eyes from the candle flame. He heard Carachel sigh.
“You had better know. My lady Elsane has . . . regrets. She gave Tar-Alem into my keeping, and now that it is years too late to change, she doubts the wisdom of that decision.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Elsane believes that I will beggar Tar-Alem in this war, and that Sevairn or Navren will destroy us once we have spent our army against the Hoven-Thalar. Do you wonder that she has come to resent me?”
“But surely you are not leaving Tar-Alem defenseless?”
“Very nearly.”
Jermain frowned in surprise. “Then perhaps the lady’s fears are justified.”
“Yet what else can I do?” Carachel said, half to himself. “Should I let the nomads make a ruin of the southern kingdoms? And even if it were possible, how could I allow the Matholych to suck the life and the magic from every kingdom except Tar-Alem? That would be as bad as what my lady fears; even if so many deaths meant nothing, Tar-Alem depends on trade with the other six kingdoms. No, I have no choice.”
Jermain pressed his lips together to avoid a too hasty reply. From what he had seen, he doubted that Elsane’s reserve was due solely to a disagreement with her husband over the disposition of the army. Furthermore, he was certain Carachel was not telling him everything; but whatever stood between Carachel and Elsane, investigating it was certainly no part of his duties. Jermain cleared his throat.
“Just what does the Matholych do, my lord?” he said.
Carachel’s head came around abruptly. “Why do you ask?”
“If it follows the Hoven-Thalar closely, it is possible that it will have some influence on the way I command your army,” Jermain said, trying to keep his voice from becoming sarcastic. What seemed obvious to him might not be to Carachel; a wizard was not likely to have the same outlook as a warrior.
There was a long pause. “We can discuss it tomorrow,” Carachel said at last.