The Protector was seated in a broad carved chair, a woolen blanket across his lap. He rose slightly in greeting, then sat again. “Istram. This is a surprise. Sit down.” He waved toward a chair opposite his own. “Can I get you something? Coffee, perhaps? Or a drink? Name it.”
“Iced water will be fine,” he said. Somewhat surprised that his old friend had forgotten that preference of his. “With a sour rind, if you have it.”
Protector Kierstaad passed on the order to his dismal-looking servant, who withdrew to fulfill it. It gave Istram a chance to study his long-time neighbor. It seemed there were more lines on his face than before, or perhaps the old lines were harsher. Little wonder. The last six years had been rough on him, and if not for the responsibility of his Protectorate he probably would have called it quits long ago. The strain of the forced endurance was showing.
We’ll have to find a replacement, he thought. Can’t have this part of the coast unprotected, not even for a day.
“So,” Kierstaad said, rearranging his blanket. “It’s been a long time, Istram. How’s the wife?”
“Shopping up north. Her yearly trip.”
“Mercia, this time? Felicida?”
“Paza Nova, I believe.”
“Ah.” He chuckled. “That’ll cost you.”
“It already has.” He hesitated. “And you? Are you well?”
A shadow passed over the other man’s face. “As well as can be expected,” he said quietly. “I don’t ask much any more, you know that. God’s strength to keep this land secure, and enough memories to make life worth living.”
“And is it secure?” he asked. Hearing the edge in his own voice.
“Why do you ask?”
He sighed. He had meant to bring up the matter gradually, gently, but the words had just come out. Now it was too late to take them back. “Your men were on my land, Leman. Skulking about like a band of nightborn. It’s a miracle they weren’t killed when my own guards found them.” Kierstaad frowned. “You captured them?”
Istrarn spread his hands helplessly. “I didn’t have much choice, did I? Half a dozen uknown men, prowling the borders of my Protectorate like stelves in search of prey . . . that’s how my men described it, Lee. Even allowing for the exaggeration of the moment, it’s still rather odd.”
He waited. When Kierstaad said nothing he pressed, “I thought you might like to tell me about it.”
“About what?”
“What do you think?” he said irritably. “I’ve got my land to protect, just like you do. Something strange happens, I need to figure out what it is. Even if it comes from you.” He shrugged. “That’s my job, you know. Same as yours.”
The servant was back again, a tall glass in hand. Istram took it from him and drank deeply.
“They were hunting,” Kierstaad told him. “Some large beast attacked the villages. Mauled a child in Nester, just two days past. I sent them out to find it.”
“They weren’t armed like hunters.”
He shrugged. “They took what they thought was necessary. I didn’t supervise their choices.”
“At night?”
“Istram. Please.” He spread his hands wide; it was the kind of gesture a man might make to show that he had no weapons. “They were hunters. I’m not. They said the beast would be holed up for the night, would be well-fed and slow to respond then. It was their job, not mine. I trusted them to do it. All right?”
For a moment he just stared at the man, wishing he could read what was in his eyes. At last he sighed. “All right, Lee. If that’s all it was. But let me know next time, all right? God knows, if there’s a maneater at large I should be mobilizing, too.” Especially when we have warning of a possible invasion fleet, he almost added. Especially when 1 have to account for everything that moves and breathes within my territory.
“I’m sorry, Istram. I really am. No insult meant. Really.”
He forced himself to relax. “All right. None taken, I guess. I’ll have them released in the morning.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“I guess I’m just a little jumpy, what with the invasion warning and all. It’s the first one since I became Protector, you know.”
Kierstaad smiled faintly. “It’ll pass without incident, I’m sure. They all do.”
“And now this with the westerners. I guess nothing’s wrong, it’s just . . . it seems extreme. I . . . what’s wrong?”
“What with the westerners?” Kierstaad demanded. Suddenly tense. “What are you talking about?”
“The message that came from Mercia. You were sent one, weren’t you?” He reached into his jacket and pulled the tiny scrap of paper out. “Here it is.” He scanned it for the part he wanted, then nodded. “She wrote that all the Protectorates would be contacted. You should have gotten something by now.”
“Let me see.” He leaned forward to take the paper from him. It rolled up slightly in his hand, still set from its hours in the bird’s harness. His lips pressed together as he read it, and his eyes narrowed.
“No,” he said at last. “No, I haven’t gotten anything.”
Istram hesitated. “Doesn’t it seem a little . . . well, extreme to you? Immediate death upon capture? Not even a questioning?”
“The last pagans from the west were dealt with mercifully. And some of them escaped, to found the very nation that now threatens us. Isn’t this a safer course?”
“But these aren’t pagans. These are two of our own. A priest and a Sanctified woman, the letter says. I don’t—”
“Are you questioning a Matria’s judgment?”
Istram blinked. “No. It’s just that I . . . no. Good God. Of course not.”
“Well, then.” Kierstaad reached down to the table at his side, a fine piece with slender legs and tiled top. There was a cup sitting on it, with some pale brown liquid inside. Tee? As Istram watched his old friend sip from the fragile china cup, he remembered that the man had never cared for hot drinks. But perhaps his tastes had changed when Miranda Kierstaad died; so much about him had. “It seems that’s settled, then. I’m glad you came to me. I hear stories of other Protectors, you know, as suspicious of each other as they are of the enemy I’d hate for that to happen to us.”
Despite himself he smiled. “I can’t imagine that it would.”
The china cup was replaced; it made a faint ting on the hand-painted tiles as he set it down. There seemed to be something tense about the Protector, something that belied the warmth of his tone and the casual grace of his gestures. Was he hiding something? The thought was not a welcome one, but it worried at the edges of Istram’s brain as he watched the older man rise from his chair. Was it possible there was something to hide? Or was Istram just seeing the first clear signs of a breakdown that had been six long years in the making? The death of a man who had lost his love of life six years ago, when his wife had gone to sleep one winter night and never awakened?
If not for the Protectorate, he wouldn’t have lasted this long, Istram thought. What else is left that matters to him?
Kierstaad cleared his throat noisily. “You’re welcome for dinner, of course. And to stay the night if you want. If your people won’t worry . . .”
“I was on a tour of the border,” he told him. “They don’t expect me back for days.”
The clear gray eyes fixed on him then, with a suddenness and an intensity that were unnerving. Uncomfortable, he looked away. “Indeed? Then we must make doubly sure you’re safe.”
He called out a man’s name; not loudly, but the clear voice carried. A moment later the same servant returned.
“Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Istram?” His tone was apologetic. “I had some duties this evening which I can cancel, but I’ll need to sit down with Sems here and discuss a few things before dinner.”
“Of course.” He gestured toward the outer door. “I’ll wait outside if you like.”