Читать книгу Hidden Warrior - Lynn Flewelling - Страница 20

Tobin had only just gotten used to having Iya at the house when she announced that she was leaving. He and Ki watched glumly as she packed her few belongings.

“But the Festival of Sakor is only a few days away!” exclaimed Ki. “You want to stay for that, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” Iya muttered, stuffing a shawl into her bag.

Tobin knew something was troubling her. She’d spent a great deal of time down in the city and didn’t appear to approve of what she found there. Tobin knew it had something to do with the Harriers, but she wouldn’t even let him speak the word aloud anymore.

“Stay away from them,” she warned, reading his thoughts or his face. “Don’t think of them. Don’t speak of them. That goes for you, too, Kirothius. Even the magpie chatter of little boys doesn’t go unnoticed these days.”

“Little boys?” Ki sputtered.

Iya paused in her packing and gave him a fond look. “Perhaps you have grown just a bit since I found you. All the same, the pair of you added together are nothing but a blink of a wizard’s eye.”

“Are you going back to the keep?” asked Tobin.

“No.”

“Where, then?”

Her faded lips quirked into a strange little smile as she laid a finger to the side of her nose. “Less known, the better kept.”

She wouldn’t say more than that. They rode with her to the south gate and the last they saw of her was that thin braid bouncing against her back as she cantered into the crowd on Beggar’s Bridge.

The Festival of Sakor was celebrated with great fanfare, though everyone said that the king’s absence and the rumors of ill luck brought back by returning veterans put a damper on the usual glory of the three-day celebration. But to Tobin, who knew only the rude country observances in Alestun, it was impossibly grand and magical.

On Mourning Night the Companions and principal nobles of Ero stood with Korin in the city’s largest Sakor Temple, just down the hill from the Palatine gate. The square outside was jammed with people. Everyone cheered as Korin, standing in his father’s place, killed the Sakor bull with a single stroke. The priests frowned over the entrails and said little, but the people cheered again when the young prince raised his sword and pledged his family to the defense of Skala. The priests presented him with the sacred firepot, the temple horns sounded, and the city began to go dark, as if by magic. Beyond the walls, in the harbor and distant steadings, it was the same. On this longest night of the year, every flame in Skala was extinguished to symbolize the yearly death of Old Sakor.

The Companions stood the vigil with Korin all through that long, cold night and at dawn they helped carry the year’s new fire back to the city.

The next two days were a blur of balls and rides and midnight parties. Korin was the most sought-after guest in the city; Chancellor Hylus and his scribes had prepared a list of homes, temples, and guildhouses he and the Companions must appear at, many only long enough to pour the new year’s libation.

True winter soon set in after that. Rain turned to sleet, and the sleet to wet, heavy snow. Clouds sealed the sky from the sea to the mountains and soon Tobin felt like he’d never see the sun again.

Master Porion kept up with their mounted battle practice and the morning temple run, regardless of the weather, but sword fighting and archery were moved indoors. Their feasting hall was cleared and the bare floor chalked with archery lists and fighting circles. The clash of steel was deafening at times, and everyone had to be careful not to walk between archers and their targets, but otherwise it was not unpleasant. The other young bloods and girls of the court hung about as always, watching the Companions and sparring among themselves.

Una was there most days and Tobin noted with a guilty pang how she followed him with her eyes. His duties had kept him too busy to make good on his promise, or so he told himself. Every time he looked at her, he seemed to feel her lips on his again.

Ki twitted him about it and asked more than once if he was going to keep his word.

“I will,” Tobin always retorted. “I just haven’t found the time yet.”

Winter brought other changes in their daily routine. During the cold months all the noble boys had lessons with General Marnaryl, an elderly warrior who’d served King Erius and the two queens before him. His hoarse, croaking voice—the result of a blow to the throat in battle—had earned him the nickname “the Raven,” but it was said with great respect.

He taught by recounting famous battles, many of which he’d fought in himself. Despite his age, the Raven was a lively teacher and salted his stories with amusing asides about the habits and peculiarities of the people he’d fought with and against.

He also illustrated his lectures in a manner Tobin admired. When describing a battle, he would get down on the floor and sketch out the battleground with chalk, then use painted pebbles and bits of wood to represent the different forces, pushing them about with the ivory tip of his walking stick.

Some of the boys squirmed and yawned through these lessons, but Tobin enjoyed them. They reminded him of the hours he and his father had spent with the model of Ero. He also took secret delight whenever Raven talked of famous women generals and warriors. The old man made no distinction and had only cutting looks for those who snickered.

Tobin’s friend Arengil was among the noble youths who joined the Companions for lessons and his friendship with Tobin and Ki soon deepened. Quick-witted and humorous, the Aurënfaie had a great talent for acting and could mimic anyone at court. Gathered with the younger Companions in Tobin’s room at night, he’d reduce them all to helpless laughter with his haughty, mincing impression of Alben, then seem to transform into another body as he became hulking, sullen Zusthra or stooped old Raven.

Korin and Caliel sometimes joined them, but more often now the older boys slipped out on their own to the lower city. The morning after such excursions they’d turn up for the temple run with bloodshot eyes and superior smirks, and regaled the younger boys with their exploits when they thought Porion wasn’t listening.

The others listened with a mix of admiration and envy, but Ki soon grew concerned for Lynx. Everyone knew he was hopelessly smitten with Orneus, but his lord now thought of nothing but keeping up with the prince in drinking and carousing, something Orneus was remarkably ill suited for.

“I don’t know what poor Lynx sees in that wastrel anyway,” Ki would grumble, watching the sad-eyed squire clean up his friend’s sour vomit, or carrying Orneus back to their room when he was too drunk to walk.

“He wasn’t like that when they first came here,” Ruan confided as they sat toasting lumps of hard cheese over the hearth at Tobin’s house one night. Snow was falling and everyone was feeling cozy and grown-up without the older boys around.

“You’re right about that,” Lutha agreed around a mouthful of cheese. “My father’s estate is near his and we saw each other often at festivals and parties before we came to the Companions. He and Lynx were like brothers, but then—” He shrugged, blushing. “Well, you know how it goes with some. Anyway, Orneus is a good enough fellow, but I think the only reason he got chosen as a Companion was on account of his father’s influence at court. Duke Orneus the Elder has a holding almost as big as yours at Atyion.”

“If I’m ever allowed to go there, I’ll see what you mean,” Tobin grumbled. Even with Orun out of the way, bad weather had put an end to their travel plans for now and Korin seemed to have forgotten his promise.

“That’s how it goes,” Nikides said. “It’s not like I’d be sitting here if I wasn’t the Lord Chancellor’s only grandson.”

“But what you lack in fight, you make up for in brains,” Lutha replied, always quick to bolster his friend. “When the rest of us are getting bravely hacked to pieces on some battlefield, you’ll be here with your grandfather’s velvet ashcake on your head, running the country for Korin.”

“And poor Lynx will probably still be tying Orneus into the stirrups because he’s too drunk to ride,” Ki added with a laugh.

“It’s Lynx who should be the lord,” Barieus piped up hotly. “Orneus isn’t worthy to do up his boots.” When everyone turned to stare at him, he hastily busied himself with a toasting fork. The swarthy little squire usually said very little about anyone, and never against a Companion.

Ki shook his head. “For hell’s sake, doesn’t anyone like girls but me?”

Tobin kept quiet during Raven’s lessons for some weeks. He didn’t always understand what the old man was talking about, but listened intently and questioned the other boys afterward. He always made certain to ask Korin, but quickly discovered that Caliel and Nikides were more knowledgeable. Caliel, the son of a general, had a good mind for strategy. Nikides had the best head for history and had read more books than the rest of them put together. When Tobin and Ki both showed a genuine interest in the old stories, it was Nikides who introduced them to the royal library, located in the same wing as the abandoned throne room.

In fact, it took up nearly that entire wing, room upon room overlooking the eastern gardens. At first Tobin and Ki felt lost among the endless towering racks of scrolls and tomes, but Nik and the black-robed librarians showed them how to read the faded labels on each rack, and soon they were delving into treatises on arms and battle, as well as colorful books of poetry and stories.

Tobin soon learned his way around and discovered a whole room devoted to the history of his family. He asked the librarian about Queen Tamír, but there were only a few dusty scrolls, dry records of the few laws and taxes she’d passed. There was no history of her brief life or reign and the librarian knew of no other sources.

Tobin recalled Niryn’s strange reaction, that day at the Royal Tomb, when Tobin had mentioned what he’d been taught of her murder. The wizard had vehemently denied it, though both his father and Arkoniel had told him the same story. Her brother had killed her, and ruled briefly in her place before coming to a bad end himself.

Disappointed, Tobin slipped away from his friends and walked down to the sealed doors of the old throne room. Pressing his palms to the carved panels, he waited, hoping to feel the murdered queen’s spirit through the wood the way he’d sometimes felt his mother’s ghost at the tower door. The Old Palace was supposed to be haunted by all sorts of spirits. Everyone said so. According to Korin, their own grandmother’s bloody specter still wandered these halls on a regular basis; that was why his father had built the New Palace.

It seemed every chambermaid and door warder had some ghost story to tell, yet except for one glimpse of Tamír inside the throne room, Tobin had never seen anything. He supposed he shouldn’t complain—he’d had enough of ghosts already—but sometimes he wished Tamír would come back and make herself clearer. Given what he now knew about himself, he was certain she’d been trying to tell him something important when she’d offered him her sword. But Korin and the others had distracted him, and before he could speak to her, she’d vanished.

Was she trapped inside, unable to come out? he wondered.

Returning to the library, he found an unoccupied chamber not far from the throne room. Unlatching one of the windows, he pushed it open and climbed out onto the wide stone ledge that ran along the walls just below. Snow filled his shoes as he inched along to the broken window they’d entered by the night Korin and the others had played at being ghosts.

It had been too dark to see much then. Tobin squeezed through and found himself standing at one side of a huge, shadowy hall. Pale winter light filtered dimly through cracks in the tall, shuttered windows.

The worn marble floor still showed the marks where benches and fountains had been. Tobin got his bearings and hurried toward the center of the room, where the massive marble throne still stood on its raised dais.

He’d been too scared to examine it closely last time, but saw now that it was beautiful. The arms were carved like cresting waves, and symbols of the Four were inlaid in bands of red, black, and gold across the high back. There must have been cushions, but they were gone and mice had built a nest in one corner of the broad seat.

The chamber had a sad, neglected air about it. Sitting down on the throne, Tobin rested his hands on the carved armrests and looked around, imagining his ancestors hearing petitions and greeting dignitaries from far-off lands. He could feel the weight of years. The edges of the dais steps were worn smooth in places, where hundreds of people had knelt before the queens.

Just then he heard a sigh, so close to his ear it made him jump up and look around.

“Hello?” He should have been afraid, but he wasn’t. “Queen Tamír?”

He thought he felt the cool brush of fingertips against his cheek, though it could have been nothing more than an errant stir of breeze through one of the broken windows. He heard another sigh, clearer this time, and just off to his right.

Following the sound with his eyes, he noticed a long, rectangular stain on the floor beside the dais. It was about three feet long, and no wider than his palm. The rusted stumps of iron bolts and a few bits of broken stonework still marked where something had stood.

Something. Tobin’s heart leaped.

Restore …

The voice was faint but he could feel her now.

Feel them, he amended, for other voices joined in. Women’s voices. “Restore … Restore …” Sad and faint as the rustle of wind through distant leaves.

Even now Tobin wasn’t frightened. This felt nothing like Brother or his mother. He felt welcome here.

Kneeling, he touched the place where the golden tablet of the Oracle had stood.

So long as a daughter of Thelátimos—

From Ghërilain’s time, through all those years and queens, the tablet’s carved words had proclaimed to all who approached this throne that the woman who sat upon it did so by Illior’s will.

Restore.

“I don’t know how,” he whispered. “I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t know what to do. Help me!”

The ghostly hand caressed his cheek again, tender and unmistakable. “I’ll try, I promise. Somehow. I swear it by the Sword.”

Tobin said nothing of the experience to anyone, but spent more time that winter reading in the library. The history Arkoniel and his father had labored to teach him came to life as he read firsthand accounts of events written by the queens and warriors who’d lived them. Ki caught his enthusiasm and they sat up late into the night, taking turns reading aloud by candlelight.

Raven’s chalk drawing battlefields took on new meaning as well. Watching the old general push his pebble cavalry and wood chip archers about, Tobin began to see the logic of the formations. At times he could imagine the scenes as clearly as if he were reading Queen Ghërilain’s account, or the histories of General Mylia.

“Come on now, someone must have an opinion!” the old man snapped one day, tapping his stick impatiently on the diagram in question. It showed a large open field flanked on either side by curving belts of trees.

Without thinking, Tobin stood up to answer. Before he could change his mind everyone was looking at him.

“You have a strategy, Your Highness?” Raven asked, raising a bushy eyebrow doubtfully.

“I—I think I’d hide my horsemen in the grove of trees on the east flank under cover of night—”

“Yes? What else?” His wrinkled face gave nothing away.

Tobin pressed on. “And half or more of my archers over here in woods on the other side.” He paused, thinking of a battle he’d read about a few days earlier. “I’d have the rest set stakes here, with the men-at-arms in ranks behind them.” Warming to his subject, he squatted and pointed to the narrow strip of open ground between the copses, at the Skalan-held end of the field. “It would look like a thin front from the enemy’s side. I’d have my horsemen keep their mounts quiet, so the enemy would think it was only foot soldiers they were facing. They’d probably make the first charge at dawn. As soon as their horsemen were committed, I’d send mine out to cut them off and have the hidden archers shoot at the enemy’s foot soldiers to panic them.”

The general tugged thoughtfully at his beard, then rasped, “Divide their forces, eh? That’s your plan?”

Someone snickered, but Tobin nodded. “Yes, General Marnaryl, that’s what I’d do.”

“Well, as it happens, that’s very much like what your great-grandmother did at the Second Battle of Isil and it worked rather well.”

“Well done, Tobin!” Caliel cried.

“He’s my blood, isn’t he?” said Korin proudly. “I’ll be glad to have him as my general when I’m king, I can tell you.”

Tobin’s pleasure dissolved to panic at the words and he took his seat quickly, hardly able to breathe. For the rest of the day, his cousin’s praise haunted him.

When I’m king.

Skala could have only one ruler, and even Tobin couldn’t imagine his cousin simply stepping aside. When Ki was asleep that night, he rose and burned an owl feather in the night lamp flame, but he didn’t know what prayer to send with it. As he struggled for some words to say, all he could think of was his cousin’s smiling face.