“Effective against brigands and poachers,” Kieri said. “Paks, you’ve seen them—how would they do against a few cohorts of infantry—mine or Halveric’s?”
“In pitched battle—their longbows have more range than you’d think. But they don’t fight in formation at all, as far as I know. On open ground, the cohorts would win, but rangers would hide in the forest and it would be hard to keep a camp safe from them.”
“And if an attacker cut down or burned the forest? How many are there, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Paks said. “They work in small groups—even singly sometimes—moving every few days.”
“Someone will know,” Dorrin said. “Cutting down the forest—that would be a task. I wouldn’t want to try it, not unless I had more than two or three cohorts. Would the elves intervene, do you think?”
“I’m not sure,” Kieri said. “I saw what you saw—the kingdom’s practically unguarded—there may be elven magery I don’t know about, but as it is … with Verrakai and Konhalt on the west, and Pargun and Kostandan on the north, it’s not safe. The palace walls are for privacy, not defense. The Council, though, acts as if having even one cohort of real soldiers here means I want war. And you, Paks, told me the elves feared me because I had been a soldier and might bring war upon them.” He stared at the map. “I swear to you, to the gods themselves, though I have fought in one war after another, I do not want it. And yet the first duty of a king is to protect his realm. And this—” He laid his heart-hand on the map, thumb on the Tsaian border, small finger on Prealíth. “This is not safe. Not yet. But I will make it so.”
Paks cocked her head. “Sir King, I understand you, but consider—these are as sheep who do not yet know you as their shepherd. If you push them too fast toward the sheepfold, they may break and run in panic, as sheep do. Go gently with them.”
He glanced at Dorrin, who nodded. “With respect, I would say the same. You have commanded veteran soldiers before, used to both danger and taking orders; these are not, and will flinch away from roughness.”
“I hear you,” Kieri said. “And yet I worry.”
That night, only his second in Chaya, Garris—oldest of the King’s Squires—and Lieth stood beside his door when he came to his chambers.
“So you pulled night guard, Garris? Don’t they respect your gray hairs?”
Garris grinned. “They think you’re safe enough at night, Kier—Sir King. And Lieth’s young; she stays awake half the night anyway, if I should doze off. What time will you wake? I hear you surprised them this morning … I slept until almost noon.”
“Cock-crow,” Kieri said. “And you slept late back at Aliam’s; don’t blame that on age.”
Garris laughed. “So I did, and many’s the morning you tumbled me out of my bunk in the squires’ room and then shoved my head under a pump. I hope you won’t do that now you’re king.”
Kieri clapped him on the shoulder and Garris opened the door for him. In his chamber, he found the bed already turned back, with the handle of a warming pan sticking out. He pulled it from between the sheets and shook the coals into the fireplace. Sleep came slowly; his mind raced with questions and ideas.
He woke in the dark again, but this time he knew exactly how to find the fire and light his own candles. He felt stiff; he needed the exercise that had always started his day. Surely they had a salle somewhere … or, if not, he could practice in the forecourt. He pulled on trousers he’d left on a chair, and fumbled at the paneling to find the touchlock that would open to reveal his clothes.
The chamber door opened and Garris looked in. “Aha! I thought I heard you stirring. What can I do for you?”
“I need a shirt,” Kieri said. “Something I can get dirty, not one of these elegant kingly ones.”
Garris touched a panel and it slid aside. “It’s that ivy leaf,” he said, pointing it out. “And what are you planning to do, dig in the garden?”
“Loosen my muscles,” Kieri said. “Is there a salle?”
Garris grinned. “Is there a salle? You’ve never seen anything like it, Kier—Sir King.”
“Quit that,” Kieri said, pulling on one of his old shirts. “I know you have to be formal some of the time, but I told you in Vérella—call me Kieri, at least when we’re alone—and where is Lieth, by the way?” He unrolled a pair of socks and put them on, then pulled on his boots.
“I sent her to the kitchen to fetch sib.”
“So—where is this miraculous salle?”
“Kieri—can’t you wait until the sib comes?”
“I could—but I’d rather not.” He went to the bed and lifted down the great sword. As always, the jewel flashed as he touched it.
“Well, then. I’ll take you.”
As they came into the passage, they met Lieth, carrying a tray with a steaming pot and several mugs. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the salle,” Garris said. “Our king is not only awake, he’s ready to poke holes in us.”
“Sir King—?”
“Lieth, it is my habit: swords before breakfast. I would like to do that here, as well. I understand this is a change for you—”
“It is no matter, Sir King,” Lieth said. “Do you want sib before, or should I bring it—?”
“Let’s each have a mug,” Kieri said.
She set the tray on a table in the passage and poured; Kieri noticed she took only a half cup, but Garris drank a full one. Then they walked together down the passage, down stairs to the main level, back the length of the main passage there, right into a narrower passage that turned sharply twice, to an outside door that opened onto a small paved court. Facing them was another wall, with a taller door; Garris opened it wide and gestured Kieri in.
He sensed a large empty space—dark at first, but slowly brightening, the pale pearly glow he associated with elf-light. Nearest the door, a smooth wooden floor covered perhaps a quarter of the length. Beyond was stone—uneven, like an old paved street—and beyond that more stone, even rougher.
“Have you ever seen one like this?” Garris asked.
“No, but it’s what I always wanted,” Kieri said. “A salle for serious fighters.” He looked around. To the heart-hand side of the door stood a weapons-rack, beautifully carved.
“The King’s Stand,” Garris said. “You’re the only one can use that.”
“Practice blades?” Kieri asked, hanging his sword on the stand.
“Here,” Lieth said, opening a chest full of wooden blades. “And bandas.” Kieri put on a banda and took one of the wooden blades.
“So—shall we go a round?” Kieri asked Garris.
“Lieth will stand guard,” Garris said. “One of us always does, when the king practices.” She took up a position in the doorway, sword drawn, while Garris took one of the wooden swords and faced Kieri.
They had scarcely exchanged five blows of a standard training sequence when a clatter of boots and an angry voice brought them to a hold.
“Who do you think you are, coming to the salle without an armsmaster present! It’s not your time to spar, Squires! You’ll wake the king with this racket!”
“No,” Kieri said, coming to the door. “They will not wake the king, for the king was already awake.” He smiled down at the wiry little man who now gaped up at him.
“Sir … King.”
“Yes,” Kieri said. “And you must be an armsmaster.”
“Carlion, my lord king. Senior armsmaster of the Royal Salle. I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—it’s just, Sir King, the young ones come sometimes when they shouldn’t, and there’s been accidents—”
“I’m not angry,” Kieri said. “And I should, in courtesy, have spoken to you first. But I am used to training early in the morning—before affairs of the day take over. I would like to continue that training, under your guidance.”
“My guidance—” Carlion looked sharply at Kieri. “Sir King, you have been a soldier; you are not ignorant of arms, but I do not know what guidance you think I can give.”