The Price Of Command

She didn’t recognize half of what was served, and even though she did no more than nibble at what she did recognize, she was ready to end the meal when it was only half over.

Probably that was as much reaction as anything else, though. As always, she got her battle-nerves after the fact, when everything was over and done with. If I was standing, my knees would be knocking together. And I never, ever would have been able to pull that one off without Hellsbane.

The sow had burst cover at the boar’s death-squeal; Kero happened to be looking right at the spot, and watched in horror as she savaged the huntsman before Kero or anyone else realized that she was going to attack. She had known that pigs were notoriously short-sighted; she’d spurred Hellsbane straight for the sow, inspired by the thought that only a horse was going to be big enough to distract the pig or make her pause. The lance in the eye had been a purely lucky—or gods-sent—hit; she’d hoped only to score the sow’s tender snout and distract her.

Then, as she’d passed, she’d signaled Hellsbane to kick, hoping to keep the pig’s teeth away from the mare’s hamstrings. She’d forgotten that Hellsbane had been taught a low kick as well as a high, meant to take out men on the ground who might have strength enough to hurt her. Hellsbane had made her own judgment, and had used the low kick, connecting solidly, and sending the sow flying before she could charge.

Then Hellsbane had wheeled, allowing Kero to launch another lance. And that, too, had connected solidly, as had the third.

It had been as close a call as any she had ever had on the battlefield, and she hadn’t been entirely sure her legs would hold her when she dismounted. She’d said as much to Daren, who had been just as shaken as she was.

As soon as this feast is over, she promised herself, I’m going to have a nice hot bath, in my room, with a good fire going, and only one candle for light. And tea, not wine.

The noise and the mingled odors of food and perfume were beginning to give her a headache. Though it was no bad thing to have the King’s gratitude demonstrated so openly, she rather wished she’d be able to get away from the crowd some time soon. She wasn’t used to people like this; undisciplined, so wildly different, and yet so much the same, with such—to her, at least—trivial interests.

She blinked to clear her eyes as the glitter and color swam before them for a moment. Thousands of jewels winked at her in the light from hundreds of candles; fabrics she couldn’t even name made pools of rich color all down the tables. The candles were scented, the people were scented, the drink perfumed with flower petals, the food spiced. On one side of the room, the Court Bard held forth; on the other, a consort of recorders, and near the low table, an acrobat. It was too much, a surfeit of luxury.

The door at the far end of the room opened, and a man in a black tabard embroidered with Faram’s arms slipped inside. He rapped three times on the floor with his staff, and somehow the sound penetrated the babble. A hush descended for a moment; the King’s herald rapped on the floor with his staff again to ensure the silence. Heads turned toward him with surprise, including the King’s; Faram had been so deep in conversation that he had not noticed the herald’s entrance.

“Your majesty,” the herald said, in a rich, baritone voice that was nothing like Kero’s own parade-ground bellow, but seemed to carry as well and as far, “An envoy from Queen Selenay of Valdemar asks permission to approach.”

Kero sat up straighter, suddenly much more alert. From Valdemar? But what are they doing here now? Why don’t they wait until formal Court in the morning? She looked back at Daren and his brother, only to see from their expressions that they were just as baffled as she was.

“Let them approach,” the King said, after a whispered conference with Daren and his Seneschal. The herald turned and left, to return into expectant silence, escorting two people.

One was a tall, raw-boned, blond man, with an attractively homely face; a man who looked like a farmboy and moved like an assassin. The other was a small, slightly built woman, with a sweet, heart-shaped face, who limped slightly. That was what they looked like, but even Kero recognized them for what they were; Heralds out of Valdemar, in the white uniform of their calling. And the sight of that uniform sent a pang through her heart that she hadn’t expected. For a moment she couldn’t even think.

“Queen’s Own Herald Talia, and Herald Dirk,” the King’s herald announced. And did Kero only imagine it, or did even he seem to feel the portent hanging heavy in his words? One thing she did know—this Talia was no ordinary Herald, and no ordinary envoy, either. The “Queen’s Own” was the most important Herald in the Kingdom, second only to the Monarch, and often exercising the power of the Monarch when needed. That was what Eldan had explained, anyway, ten years ago.

The two approached the head table, and bowed slightly. The man stayed about a half pace behind the woman; interesting positioning. No doubt that’s partially because she’s the ranking officer—but it’s also partially because he’s guarding her back. Wonder if anyone else will notice that.

The young woman began to speak; she had a wonderful, musical contralto, and she knew how to use it to gain her listener’s attention. Kero listened closely and carefully as Talia explained what had brought them. The girl’s Rethwellan wasn’t bad, but her accent and occasional odd turn of phrase made it very clear that she didn’t have complete mastery of the language yet.

“... and so my Queen has sent me here, directly, rather than to speak through her embassy. You will have heard, your majesty, of the events in Hardorn these past two years?” the young woman asked. Faram nodded, and