“I think . . . on the whole . . . that you are right.” Mercer gasped from the bed.
Dani returned hastily to his side. “But can you make the journey?”
He dragged himself upright. “With help. I must.”
Dani took one arm and Jame the other. He rose between them like an injured stork and tottered, panting, out of the room.
XV
Winter’s Tales
Torisen arranged the fur robe over his outstretched legs and snuggled back into its folds. A cup of hot spiced wine gave welcome warmth to his hands, assuaging the scars’ ache. It was a cold night, full of drifting snow, but Marc’s two glass furnaces kept the great hall at Gothregor pleasantly warm, even with wind whistling in through holes in the as yet uncompleted stained glass window. At least, it was much better here than in his tower study above.
The wolver curled up before one tower kiln, Yce before the other. Marc ground ingredients at the head of the table nearest the window which he had appropriated as his work space. To one side, Burr was teaching Kindrie how to darn his well-worn socks using a wooden egg.
“You catch up an edge of the hole, see? Then draw the thread across the bulge of the egg to the other side. Stitch into that side. Back and forth, back and forth. Then change direction. Now weave the thread over and under the original warp . . . good. Keep going.”
Grimly stretched and yawned. Paws in the air and furry belly exposed to the furnace’s heat, he shifted his mouth for human speech.
“You look as if you should be purring.”
Torisen sipped his wine. “I had a good day.”
Grimly wrinkled his nose. “What, helping muck out the stables?”
They had been snowed in for a fortnight and the walls were starting to clamp down on them all. With little to do except keep the fires going, eat, and sleep, tempers had grown short. However, nothing stops a horse’s digestive tract except starvation, and provisions for both man and beast were still excellent. Moreover, the entire remount herd was currently lodged in subterranean stalls, all faithfully producing manure that must be shoveled out at least once a day.
“What did your Kendar think of you lending a hand?”
“They didn’t like it, of course. What, their precious Highlord to waste his time on so menial a chore? But I had to do something.”
“Better than catching up with paperwork,” Kindrie murmured to Burr, who snorted.
Torisen cocked an eyebrow at them. “What’s more depressing than being left with the last thing that you want to do? Anyway, afterward there was the race.”
Kendar had shoveled a path around the edge of the inner ward and cartloads of manure had been emptied into it to cover the ice. Every day, the horses were brought up fifty at a time and given the run of the course for exercise. Today had been Storm’s turn. The black, quarter-bred Whinno-hir had burst off the ramp with head high, eyes bright, and nostrils jetting steam like a dragon. He had pawed at the snow, then looked at Torisen askance and whickered.
The invitation was clear.
Torisen hadn’t ridden in what felt like forever. He grabbed Storm’s mane, up he swung bareback, and off they went, thundering down the northern straightaway with snow flying from the black’s hooves. Someone whooped behind them. More horses acquired riders and it became a race. Around the northwest corner, down parallel to the western walls, up the southern side . . . Storm’s ribs heaved between Torisen’s knees. A bitter wind laced with snow blew in his face while Storm’s mane whipped against his hands. A crash behind them on the southeast turn: one of the horses had slipped and fallen, bringing down several in his wake. Now they were pounding home with the towers of the old keep swinging overhead. Kendar lining the way cheered. Torisen pulled Storm to a stop just short of the slippery ramp down into the stables and let out his breath: Ah . . .
He didn’t think that the Kendar had let him win on purpose.
“How is Cron?” he now asked Kindrie.
“The fall fractured his leg, but he should be up again soon. Meanwhile, he can tend to their new baby while his mate Merry handles his chores as well as her own. That shouldn’t be hard, just now. I didn’t know that male Kendar could breast-feed if necessary.”
“Oh, the Kendar are full of surprises. We Highborn don’t take their talents half as seriously as we should.”
Ever since Cron and Merry’s young son had broken his neck and Torisen had administered the White Knife to him, he had been interested in the pair. Somehow, they seemed to represent the health of his Kendar garrison. A new child was good, and it had been born under his protection, guaranteed a place in the Knorth. That couldn’t be said of every Kendar who wanted to join, not because Torisen didn’t wish it but because he was only able to bind so many and no more without weakening his hold on all. He had learned that the hard way with the suicide of Mullen, whose death banner now hung in a place of honor in the Knorth hall. Cron had come to him at an opportune moment to request a new child. Just the same, he was sorry that the Kendar had injured his leg.
Chunks of limestone rasped in an ironwood mortar as Marc ground them into dust. To this he added dried spice-bush and sand from the Wastes. The sound and the tang of the bush reminded Torisen of the last postrider before the snows to bring news from the south and, incidentally, a score of small bags containing raw material for Marc’s window.
Grimly noted his change of expression and rolled over on his side with a thump. “What?”
“You heard that Kothifir is undergoing a particularly rough Change at the moment. I was just hoping that Harn would restrict Jame to the camp for the duration.”
“Did he say that he would?”
“No.”
“Wise Harn. If something interesting is going on, there’ll be no keeping your sister away from it.”
Torisen sighed, remembering Jame’s bright, curious eyes and her talent for finding herself in absurd situations. Even as a child, she had had that knack.
“True,” he said.
“D’you remember the first time we met?” asked the wolver, perhaps to distract him. “That was during the big Change when King Kruin died and Krothen came to the throne.”
“I remember.” Torisen eased into a laugh. “It surprises me that you do, given how drunk you were at the time.”
Kindrie looked up, intrigued. “What happened?”
Grimly untangled limbs grown long, lanky, and human. “If you like, I will tell you.”
“From the beginning, please,” Torisen said. He and Burr knew the story. The others didn’t.
“Very well. One day long ago when I was just a pup, King Kruin came to the Grimly Holt to hunt wolver. We hid and watched while he set up camp in the ruined keep that was our den. A poet sang to the king in Rendish that night, but the king was too drunk to listen. I did, though, from the cover of a nearby bush. The poet saw me but said nothing. That was his revenge against his inattentive master.
“Well, come the dawn Kruin set off into the forest, but the deep wood is dangerous and the Deep Weald wolvers are ingenious. We watched Kruin’s men die in clever ways all day. Finally we offered to lead him out. He wasn’t exactly pleased by our assistance, but he accepted. In return, he offered a place in his court to any wolver who cared to present himself there.”
“What,” said Marc, with a smile through his graying beard, “on his trophy wall?”
“That was our first thought. We didn’t know it then, but a Deep Weald wolver had followed us out and was also listening. He took up the king’s offer first.”
Yce’s ears twitched. She rolled over and regarded Grimly with unblinking frost-blue eyes.
“When I came of age,” he continued, “I went south and found the poet whom I had heard sing. He was old by then, out of favor and fashion, but I didn’t know that. When he offered to present me at court, I was overjoyed.”