A double gate opened into the courtyard below and a small patrol marched in through the sunny gap.
… Nor had the High Guard marched through the streets except for ceremonial parades, while these Guards seemed to thrive on it: making people move out of their relentless way. Why? It was so unnecessary. But, she knew, Dan-Tor did nothing unnecessarily.
An answer came to her even as she watched the arriving patrol.
The narrow twisting streets that surrounded the Palace were invariably crowded and hectic, and the frequent patrols by the Mathidrin often provoked outbursts from citizens angry at their arrogant attitude. Outbursts that were always put down with some degree of violence. The Mathidrin were beginning to spread fear before them. Again, why?
And Dan-Tor had appointed her their Honorary Commander-in-Chief! She wrinkled her face in distaste at the memory of this unwanted and unrefusable honour.
The leader of the patrol below swung down from his horse. I’ve seen pigs ride better, Sylvriss thought, then she leaned forward and cast an expert eye over the animal. It was good enough. Certainly good enough for the graceless oaf who had been riding it, but it was no Muster horse; few could match the Muster horses for stamina, strength, speed or intelligence. The thought gave her a twinge of homesickness.
Although she still communicated with her father, she had not seen him for many years and from time to time she missed him deeply. At such times she would recall a childhood memory of riding a fine strong horse by her father’s side, mile after tireless mile across the broad open meadows of Riddin, the wind in her face, the rhythmic pounding of hooves and that exhilarating unity, not only with her steed but with her father and his steed, and all the others riding with them. The memory sustained her powerfully.
The rider had left his mount to the attentions of an underling and was engaged in conversation with one of the other officers. A rider should tend his own, she thought angrily, but at least they’re caring for them a little more now. The anger within her faded into satisfaction as she remembered her outburst when she had caught one of them beating a horse.
Drawn to the scene by the cries of both man and horse she had arrived to find an officer laying into the animal with a leather crop. All sense of queenly decorum had fallen away from her in a haze of fury and, striding forward, she had seized the crop as it swung back and delivered a mighty whack with it across the man’s rump. As he spun round, she had back-handed the crop across his face. The man drew his clenched fist back automatically before he had identified his attacker, and thereby made his second mistake that day. Not that he raised his fist to his Queen, but that he raised it to a Muster-trained woman.
His apparent intention had triggered an old reflex in Sylvriss from her training days and, without a pause, she drove the first two knuckles of her tightly clenched fist into the space between his nose and his upper lip, her entire body behind the blow.
Sitting on the windowsill, Sylvriss smiled one of her rare smiles and flexed her right hand. It had been bruised and sore for several days, but she had found the pain almost delightful. She wished all her other problems could be solved as easily.
The man had staggered back several paces before his legs buckled and left him sitting incongruously in the dust, his eyes wide with shock and his mouth gaping. He placed his hands to the sides of his head and shook it to try to stop the din inside. It was only later that someone told him what had happened. The watching men stood frozen to attention by Sylvriss’s icy gaze.
‘In future,’ she said slowly, ‘you will treat your horses correctly. Is that clear?’
Her soft voice had more menace than the loudest Drill Sirshiant’s and, while no official mention was ever made of the incident, the word had spread like fire through bracken into barracks and staterooms alike, and thereafter there had been a perceptible improve-ment in the treatment of the Mathidrin’s horses.
But everything seemed to be like that these days. Almost every aspect of policy was determined by some unspoken command. Where there had once been clear and open discourse, currents and undercurrents of gossip and intrigue now ran muddy and deep and, she suspected, for less high than herself, dangerous.
It was alien to her nature to dabble in such water, but it was of Dan-Tor’s making, and she had no alternative if she were not to be left isolated and ignorant, which, she sensed, was his desire. She knew full well that the affection she was held in by so many had always been a thorn in Dan-Tor’s side, but now she had begun using it as a weapon.
Ironically, felling one of the Mathidrin officers aided in this in that it raised her in the esteem of friend and foe alike. More significantly, it delivered a death-blow to Dan-Tor’s plans to train the Mathidrin as cavalry.
Traditionally, the High Guards were trained to act as both cavalry and infantry, as well as being competent as individual fighters. High Guards at their best, such as those of Lord Eldric, thus formed a formidable fighting force. Dan-Tor had tried to emulate this in the Mathidrin, but early attempts at co-ordinated horse-manship had indicated a rocky path ahead and no certainty of reaching the destination. He had persisted in a half-hearted fashion, but the Queen’s actions had reminded him of the Riddin Muster and the comparison had tilted the final balance.
The loss of a cavalry force did not irk him too much, as the Mandrocs could be developed into a massive and powerful infantry but, although his rejection of the plan had been logical and sound, there niggled a tiny burrowing worm of doubt that he might have been prompted by fear of what would undoubtedly have been the Queen’s withering, if unspoken, scorn at such a venture. Didn’t she after all twit even the High Guards themselves about their ‘gawky horsemanship’? The possibility that such a human trait might still flicker within him sufficiently to influence so serious a decision angered him profoundly.
Sylvriss turned from the window and walked over to the chair in which her husband was sleeping. It was upholstered with tapestries showing scenes from Fyorlund’s history and the King’s sleeping head was ringed by iron-clad warriors battling the seething hordes of Sumeral’s army-men and Mandrocs. The weave was old and skilful, but the pattern had been worn away by the heads of many Kings and much of the finer detail was lost. Even so, the force of the original design was undiminished. The grim resolution of Ethriss’s Guards holding back the desperate unfettered savagery of their enemy. The awful, if unseen, presence of Sumeral himself, and the equally awful presence of Ethriss, committing his knowledge and wisdom, his hope and faith, his entire being, to this last terrible battle.
Sylvriss leaned forward and examined the chair carefully, delicately fingering the material. Was it her imagination, or was the pattern fading even more quickly? One or two small areas seemed to have a strained, worn look which she did not recall seeing before.
The King woke suddenly, though without the fearful start that so frequently followed his waking. He looked up into his wife’s face and smiled. She kissed him gently and, placing his hand around her head, he held her cheek against his in a soft embrace for a long silent moment.
‘I’m sorry I woke you,’ she said.
Rgoric smiled. ‘It was a nice awakening,’ he said. ‘Full of quiet and calm. Like when I was a boy and I’d wake up and remember that it was a holiday. No instruction, no regal duties requiring my princely presence.’ He was gently ironic. ‘Nothing to do. Secure in the arms of a bright summer morning, and the love of my parents, and a world in which everything was right. Perfection. A day ahead in which to play with my friends, or ride with my father, or walk alone in the parks and forests and just daydream.’