Here were no cupboard beds, and she could hear the sound of no one else’s breathing. The horsehair mattress felt hard and awkward to someone who had slept for years on rye straw. Her pillow was small, not the large pillow stuffed with goose down she had plucked herself. Though one wall of the room backed up to the fireplace in the royal chamber, she had no fire, no coals to wink at her in the dark.
She thought over what Queen Arane had said that afternoon, and as she considered it King Hadros’s castle seemed simple, comfortable, even welcoming. The faeys, she remembered, had told her that queens had to deal with upsetting things every day.
And without the fogged perception through which she had gone the last ten days, she could also think about Roric clearly. She had not been able to ask him-and now perhaps never would-if he knew why the Wanderers wanted him. Hadros had spoken truly that the Wanderers did not appear to mortals except in the oldest tales. Even if the faeys were right, the housecarls’ story-which had taken on additional wild embellishments each time it was told-was not the story of a Wanderer.
What could a mortal do against beings like that, armed only with his own strength and a little bone charm? And where could he possibly be now? But Roric was indubitably gone, and since he had been gone for days already without a word, he might well be gone forever.
Suppose she was carrying his child? She had not really considered the matter before-first they had assumed they would soon be wed, and then she had been too worried for his safety, even before her life had passed into a fevered dream. But she had thought of it when Hadros told her father she was coming home a pure maiden. Would her father reopen the war himself if her waist began to thicken?
She put her hands on her stomach. It felt the same as it always did, except perhaps a little uneasy. But even worse might be to lose Roric and not even have his child.
And in the meantime, what could she possibly do with herself tomorrow morning? She could not relieve her tension with weaving, would not have the milking and churning and brewing and sewing to keep her stepping. She put an arm across her eyes and gritted her teeth, homesick as she had not been since she left this very castle.
3
Valmar slipped away from the All-Gemot.
He had often attended the royal Gemot back home, held four times a year, but he had expected the conclave of the Fifty Kings to be different. To his disappointment, the proceedings within the cords that marked the Gemot- field were very similar, whether accusations were made, sworn testimony given, or evidence-a bloodstained cloak or a sealed agreement-handed around.
The only markedly different aspect had come at the very beginning, when the two kings new since the last All-Gemot stood forward and announced their rule, and those kings who had brought their heirs with them for the first time introduced them to the rest. King Hadros introduced Valmar, and Karin’s father showed her to all the other kings. Several of the younger ones, and several of the older ones whose heirs were reaching marriageable age, made low and appreciative comments that made Valmar frown as though they had been insults. She wore a heavy gold brocade gown slightly too big for her, and she seemed not to see him or anyone else. Once introduced, she returned to the castle with the maids and warriors who accompanied her.
But after that the All-Gemot was very much like the quarterly Gemots Valmar knew. Karin’s father, King Kardan, presided, as Valmar’s father presided at home. Even though the Gemot began at dawn, when everyone was sober and most men still sluggish, there was the normal arguing and shouting. Men leaped at each other, reaching where their swords should be except that no one was allowed weapons within the cords, and were pulled back by their friends. The most exciting part was when the conclave voted to outlaw a king who had not even attended, for killing a man secretly in a fit of jealousy according to the testimony, and then hiding the body.
Any man could kill an outlaw with no bloodguilt falling on him. Valmar drummed his fingers on his belt and wondered if it would be hard to kill him, if the outlawed king would fight with desperate, inhuman strength. But he would not even know him if he met him.
When Valmar finally slipped away, he noticed that many of the attendants who had accompanied the kings had also left the proceedings, and even two men he was fairly sure were kings themselves stood some distance off, talking to each other. No one paid him any attention as he went up to the castle.
It was a castle like none he had ever seen, its smooth walls reaching high above his head, towers on every corner. Pennants snapped from the towers, and all the stones were whitewashed. There was a moat where swans glided, seeming to ignore him pointedly. A guard in livery as elegant as his own best clothing stopped him at the bridge.
“I would like to see the Princess Karin. Tell her- Tell her it’s her little brother.”
When he was escorted a few minutes later across the bridge and into the courtyard, he was amazed to see that everything here seemed built of stone, and built connecting with everything else. There was nothing like the cluster of weathered oak buildings that surrounded the stone hall at home. He was led up a long stair, through a narrow room, back outside, and up another set of stairs before reaching the great hall.
Karin was sitting in a window seat, reading a book he recognized, a book she had made herself by sewing together sheets of parchment. In it were written, in a firm though childish hand, the favorite tales she had heard as a little girl. She had told him once that she had made it before coming to Hadros’s kingdom, not realizing that many of the same old tales would be told there as well-and also not yet realizing, she said, how much different tales, or even different versions of the same tale, might contradict each other. She read it now with a frown and her full concentration, as though hoping in it to find certainty.
Valmar had not been sure of his welcome, but at the sound of his step Karin sprang up to meet him and took his hands as though she had last spoken with him much longer ago than yesterday. She sat him beside her in the window, from which they could look out at the tents spread across the fields between the castle and the river. He looked at her carefully, expecting to see her somehow different inside the elaborate gold dress. But she was still his big sister.
“I’ve wanted to talk to you for days,” he said. “Everyone heard about the-the man Roric went with, and you know Roric told me it was a Wanderer. But he said something else too.”
Karin bent closer, her gray eyes so intense he had to look away.
Now that it came to it he found it unexpectedly hard to say. “I should have told you this before, but, I don’t know, I didn’t like to say it before Father and my brothers. Roric said to tell you he would always love you.”
Karin sat back slowly, her hands folded and her eyes closed. “Thank you, Valmar,” she said after a moment.
He had expected more reaction from her. “Did you already know he loved you?”
She opened her eyes and smiled with just the corners of her mouth. “Yes. I already knew.”
“Well, I did not,” said Valmar, then stopped himself when he realized he was sounding petulant. After a brief pause he went on, “I know he is not really our brother, but I was still very surprised-we’ll probably all marry someone someday, but I think I had assumed it was someone we had not yet even met. I don’t want to say it’s not right, but…”
Karin was still smiling, this time at him rather than at her thoughts, as though pleased with him. Valmar remembered what else Roric had said, that he should take care of Karin if he himself married her, but decided this could not have been part of the message.
“Did he say anything else?” she asked.
“That was all his message-no, he also said to tell you that he had at last found a place for a man without a family.”
“Did he seem-happy to go?”
Valmar hesitated. “Not happy. But also not entirely grim. It was almost like-this may not make sense-like a fierce joy.” He fell silent a moment, remembering his own wild yearning, the ache akin to homesickness for something he had never seen, which had sent him galloping fruitlessly after them. “But, Karin! I can’t believe it really was a Wanderer. And why would he want to leave home anyway?”
“He has chosen honor over love,” said Karin, staring fixedly out the window. Every now and then, distant voices from the Gemot reached them.
