The Door Into Shadow

Segnbora sat down and reached for an empty cup, glancing up and down the table. To her surprise and slight discomfort, she saw that around Lang's left arm, and Dritt's and Moris's and Harald's and Freelorn's, and even Herewiss's, was bound the white cord of mourning. All up and down the table, eyes rested on her with concern. She swallowed hard.
"Wine?" Lang said, reaching for her cup. Her head throbbed at the thought. "Dear Lady, no. Is there barley-water with mint in it, perhaps?" There was; Harald passed it up.
"Segnbora," Eftgan said, "you haven't met Torve, I think. He was raised here."
She turned to the man on her right. He was young, of middle height and build, with dark hair and beard and a slightly reticent smile. His downturned gray eyes, however, smiled even when his lips did not.
"Torve s'Keruer," Eftgan said as the two of them touched hands in greeting, "the Chastellain-major. He runs this place."
"You were raised here?" Segnbora said. Torve nodded. "My mother was the last Chastellain. But she got tired of the long winters and retired to the lowlands. The Queen was good enough to confirm me in her place."
"Anything you need, he'll give you,"Eftgan said. "Thankyou, Queen." "Pardon," Dritt said, and reached across the Queen for the butter.
Eftgan raised a tolerant eyebrow. "His manners haven't improved any," she said, looking with wry amusement at her former court musician. "He used to do that at court too. My father thought sending him to Arlen might put some polish on his manners. But then what does he do but leave his post there, and not send word for seven years…." There was mild chuckling over that. "Of course," Eftgan said, "his liege seems to have done the same thing, and taken the long way home as well."
The laughter was more subdued this time; Lorn shot Eftgan a quick look. Herewiss was suddenly very busy with his por-ridge. "Freelorn," the Queen said, helping herself to bread and holding out a hand for Dritt to return the butter plate, "we've already talked a great deal since last night, but I still have a few questions to ask you." "Ask,"Freelorn said, sounding unconcerned. "What on earth do you want to be a king for?" He looked at her in shock. He took brief refuge in his mulled wine, then said, "It's what I was raised to be."
"Rubbish," Eftgan said merrily but with force. "That's like saying that a slopman's child should spend his life carting slops because his father before him did."
Freelorn stared at Eftgan, his shock growing greater by the moment.
"Look at this," the Queen said, gesturing around the room. It was comfortable enough, on a bright summer morning, but definitely not luxurious. "If I'd had the sense to marry out of the royal line young, I could be spending my day sitting on silken cushions in some mansion in Darthis, eating roast orto-lan and botargoes on toast, taking lovers, going to the races in the daytime and to parties at night. But instead I let them make me Queen."
Segnbora took a long drink of her barley-water, to hide her rueful smile.
"I had to be Queen," Eftgan said again, "and now look what I've got for my troubles. Battlefield food and soldier's quarters, five days out of the ten. Back home in Darthis are three children I hardly ever see, because by the time I'm finished meeting with my ministers all morning, presiding over court-justice all afternoon, and receiving visits — I should say, 'complaints'—from the various members of the Forty Houses all evening, it's long past the children's bedtimes. I say nothing of my bedtime. My husband has to have a separate bedroom so that my reading won't keep him awake all night. In the daytime he has to throw people out of his wineshop because they don't want to buy his wine, they want to buy appointments with me. Even he aches at the end of the day." Freelorn had at this point just gotten around to closing his mouth.
"So do I," Eftgan said. "Sometimes I do more than ache. I get wounds, too. A Queen has to be first in every charge and ' last in every retreat. …" She pulled aside the shoulder of her surcoat, looking under it with a momentarily abstracted air. "I was knifed here, once— No, of course you remember that; you were there. Herewiss stopped the crossbow quarrel, but I got the knife of the Reaver before that one." She pulled the surcoat back in place and spent a moment looking around her plate to find the butterknife. "Bad enough to have to put up with that kind of thing from your enemies. But sooner or later it comes from your own people … in Darthen, at least. One , day when you're hammering out your crown in the Square,
somebody whose crops failed last year comes out of the crowd and runs you through. Or worse, the rains won't come, and all the wreakings and all the royal magics refuse to work. Then there's only one thing that will save the land from famine." She looked down and began slowly buttering her bread. "So you take the knife, and call the person who loves you best in the world to witness the ceremony; and pierce the sky's heart by piercing yours, and cause it to shed rain by shedding blood, and bring the breath of the stormwind by breathing out your last. . " Eftgan's tone all this while had been light, almost matter-of-fact. Now she looked up at Freelorn and, in the profound silence that had fallen around the table, said, "This is a stupid job to go hunting for, Lorn. You were smart to stay away from it as long as you have."
Segnbora listened hard and could have sworn that people were holding their breaths. Only Lorn looked at all normal. The amazement had worn off him; his face was set.
"Eftgan," he said, "I ran away from Arlen because I was afraid of being tortured to death. I still am. But I notice that I'm not running in the opposite direction."
At that Eftgan paused to bite into her bread. She chewed reflectively, and swallowed. "You've had a lot of help."
"I have," he said, with only the swiftest glance to one side at Herewiss. "What is it they always say about lovers? That they usually know your mind better than you do." It was Freelorn's turn to pause now, looking around the table for honey for his porridge. He pointed, and Lang passed it to him. "Herewiss always knew what I wanted — what I really wanted — better than I did. It's a good thing, too. If he had been one of those spineless anything-you-say-dear types, I'd probably be peacefully dead in a ditch somewhere now. In-stead I'm here, with Fyrd and Reavers on three sides and the Shadow on the fourth." That got a smile out of Eftgan.
"You're right to question my motives and intent." Freelorn ate a spoonful of porridge. "Yes, Herewiss called the tune. And yes, I followed his lead toward kingship because it was convenient, and I was confused. But the confusion isn't so
much of a problem now." He took another spoonful, throw-ing a quick glance out the window at the great silent mass of Adine. "Dusty will probably still be the strategist of this group's business, the brains. But I'm this group's heart. I've forgotten that, once or twice, I know. A prince gets used to
having things done for him. But in the past couple of weeks I've seen my loved almost die for me — for my cause, rather — three times. I suspect I'm done being a prince. It's my turn to be a king." Lorn took a long drink of mulled wine. "And as for you, Eftgan. . if you don't like your job, you should abdicate. Maybe afterward you could take up carting slops."
Eftgan, who was also drinking at that moment, spluttered and choked — then, when she had finished choking, began to whoop with laughter. "Oh Goddess!" was all she managed to say for a while. When she was calmer, she wiped tears of merriment out of her eyes. "I guess I left myself open for that. Freelorn, your hand! Keep this sort of thing up, and we'll do very well together."
They reached across the length of the table to touch hands. "Truth," Lorn said, sounding rueful, as if the speech had cost him something, "and beauty. A perfect match." "Flatterer."
"Now, what about that news about the Reavers that you promised us?"