The Door Into Shadow

(Mdaha,) she said, (I'm sorry. But you and I, we're an exper-iment, it seems. If it'll make you feel better, I intend to put off my death as long as possible.)
His low rumbling sigh of agreement mingled with the sound of steps on stone. Segnbora looked southward along
the wall. Eftgan was coming, not in country clothes, this morning, but dressed for battle: boots and britches, jerkin and mailshirt, and the Darthene midnight blue surcoat bla-zoned with the undifferenced royal arms — the White Eagle in trian aspect, wings spread, striking. Eftgan's sheathed Rod still bumped at her side, but she was carrying another weapon over her shoulder. It was F6rlennh BrokenBlade, Earn's sword, without which no Darthene ruler went to war.
Eftgan was a fair sight, and even a little funny, bumping down the parapet toward Segnbora with a sword over her shoulder that was almost as long as she was. Segnbora remembered the days when Eftgan had been her wreaking-partner in the Precincts. Back then she had refused to wear any gear more complicated than a belt for her tunic, or maybe a ribbon in her hair. Evidently queenship had brought some changes. Segnbora smiled, and wiped her nose as Eftgan came up and leaned on the parapet beside her. "Fair morn, your grace."
"Oh, don't be formal," Eftgan said, making a sour face. "I have enough problems today. Your friends are looking for you, 'Berend." "I dare say. I needed to get away from their watchful eyes for a while."
Eftgan looked somber. "I didn't say it last night — you were getting drunk and I didn't want to interfere — but I share your grief, dear." "May our pain soon be healed," Segnbora said. They were words she had thought she wouldn't have to say for years yet. She sighed and gazed down at Barachael town with its moat and ditches and star fortifications. "Where are you off to?"
"Orsvier, as soon as I'm finished here. A force of Reavers and mercenaries is forming there to raid the granaries. There will be a thousand
or more gathered by nightfall. They'll attack tonight, or tomorrow morning perhaps."
"Goddess," said Segnbora, disturbed. "More mercenaries. . Where is Cillmod getting them all?"
"Most of them are Steldenes. Some are even Steldene regu-lars; evidently King Dariw sold their services to Cillmod at a discount to make up for letting Freelorn get away."
Segnbora went cold at the thought of what might have happened had she not stepped into a certain alley in Madeil one night. She shook her head. "How do you stand?" "A thousand foot, five hundred horse, thirty sorcerers, and the right is on our side. Whether that'll be enough, I don't know." Eftgan let out a tired breath and fell silent.
Segnbora thought of Herewiss standing on the Morrow-fane, an open challenge to the Shadow. Obviously It had taken up the challenge. These latest incursions by the Reavers were too well timed, and too well organized, to be coinci-dence.
"Have any suggestions for me?" Eftgan said. Segnbora put an eyebrow up. "The Queen's grace hardly needs to discuss battle tactics with an outlaw." "With an outlaw, no. But with the head of one of the Forty Houses—" Segnbora winced.
" 'Berend, I'm sorry," Eftgan said, "but you had better face up to it. You're now the tai-Enraesi, and I have the right to require your advice as such." "For what it's worth."
"Your present position makes it worth more than old Arian's, say, sitting up north on his moneybags. Stop thinking of yourself as 'landless' and 'poverty-stricken,' and tell me what I should do about Freelorn." "You should ask him that," said Segnbora. "Or Herewiss."
"I have. And they've been very cautious and polite. But that doesn't tell me what to do, really. Consider my position. . even if we put down the present incursion, Darthen is still suffering worse and worse harvests, things are coming over the borders of the Waste that shouldn't be, Arlen is yapping at my western border, the Oath that made those borders safe is in pieces, and the Reavers are coming out of every bolt hole like rats out of a burning granary." Eftgan sighed.
"Arlen needs someone on that throne who'll enact the royal rites again, and restore one of the Two Lands to normal. And, lo, here's the Lion's Child, sitting right in my lap, want-ing his throne back. The question is, if I spend Darthene blood to put him on his throne, will he fulfill his responsibilities as King, or just sit there collecting taxes and parading around in silks and furs, looking royal?" Segnbora looked her old loved in the eye, reluctant. "I've known him for all of a month—"
"You have underhearing. Better underhearing than mine, if things are the same as they used to be. You know them." She poked Segnbora in the ribs, not entirely out of humor. "The Queen requires your advice, tai-Enraesi. Stop stalling."
She wanted no responsibility for advising Eftgan on such a decision. But she had no choice. "I think Lorn will make a good king," she said. "Better than some who've had long quiet reigns and never been in trouble. He loves his land, and he loves his people. . perhaps too much." "What do you mean?"
"If you made him King one week and halfway through the next told him that the royal sacrifice was necessary, he'd tie himself up in the fivefold bond and tell you to hurry with the knife. He has an unfortunate fondness for death and glory stands, you see. Luckily, he's got Herewiss to advise him. He's as conservative as they come."
Eftgan looked at her squarely. "Does 'Berend, the 'swift-rusher,' say this?" she said. "Or does the tai-Enraesi?"
Segnbora shook her head. "Tegane, after just a month I could tell you endless stories of the noble things he's done. But they'd be just
that — stories. What I know about Lorn is that although I could have hired my sword to any number of high-paying rulers in the Four
Kingdoms, he has something that moved me to swear liege-oath to him."
Eftgan simply kept looking at her. "Loyalty can be blind," she said.
"So can love," Segnbora said, "or so I hear. Tegane, what else can I tell you? I'm fresh out of proofs. But the truth is that he's my liege, and my friend, and once or twice a bit more. And if I go to my death in his service, that's as good a death as any other I'm likely to find." She swallowed. "Segnbora says that, Queen. The standard-bearer. His standard-bearer, for the moment. Will that answer your question?" Eftgan looked away from her, gazing down the vale, north-ward toward the rest of Darthen. She let out a quiet breath of
decision. "Yes," she said. "So be it. And we'll hope that the famous tai-Enraesi luck will stick to him too, just this once. Now, shall we have breakfast?" "Absolutely."
They went together from the wall to the great inner court. Halfway down the stairs, Segnbora suddenly lost her footing and brought up hard against the wall to the left. "Sorry!" she said, and then realized that the wall itself was jittering, and all around them a low mutter of vibration ran through the for-tress. It subsided after a few seconds.
Eftgan let go of the wall, which she also had been holding for support. "Just a little shake," she said. Segnbora gulped as they continued down the rest of the stairs.
"Does it do that often?"
"Two or three times a week, they tell me. Better a lot of little quakes, though, than a big one that would bring the mountains down on the valley. …" They went across the huge paved court, where men and women in Darthene blue were grooming horses and practic-ing at the sword or bow or lance. The court, like the walls that surrounded it, lay in a square around khas-Barachael's central tower. Eftgan led the way in, through a high— roofed hall and up a stair that climbed along one wall. In a smaller room on the next story a table was set under the south-facing windows. Freelorn, Herewiss, Lang, and the others sat there breaking their fast with several of Eftgan's officers. "Sit here," Eftgan said, and pulled out a chair for her be-tween Lang and a Darthene officer.