In his case, more than a few benefits, in that long-ago year when they'd escaped the savagery that was consuming Esperana and Al-Rassan, tearing the peninsula apart the way wild beasts shred a carcass.
Ben Pellino was well-known and well-loved in Sorenica. Hasten as he might, his progress towards the harbor was slow. Every few steps he was forced to stop and exchange pleasantries with someone or another. A surprising number of men and women wished him the moons' blessing on his fortieth birth day. The Kindath, with their charts of birth, paid more attention to such days than his own people had: a small adjustment among larger ones.
It was his daughters, Alvar gradually understood, who had been busily informing everyone. Ruefully smiling, he acknowledged all the good wishes, agreeing with cheerful suggestions that his youth was now behind him.
He'd had a highly dramatic life in his early years and people knew something of that. He'd been a Horseman and even a royal herald in Valledo, before coming away from that peninsula, adopting the Kindath faith and beginning his training in medicine.
He was much sought after and trusted as a physician: calm, learned, reassuring. A steady hand and eye in surgery. His services had once been in demand among the mercenary armies of Batiara but he had never gone with the soldiers, ever. A season's summons to a princely court he would accept—to deliver children, attend to gout, couch cataracts—but never a position with an army in the field. Had he wanted to tread or ride a battlefield, ben Pellino said calmly to all who asked, he would still be a Horseman in the army of Ramiro the Great of Esperana.
He was a doctor, he said, and his labor was preserving and easing life. He would not, given a choice, freely venture into death's own domain of war.
His wife did so, however. Also a physician—an even better one in the view of some, since she'd been trained from childhood by her celebrated father—she was not averse to a campaign or two among the armies. One saw injuries and ailments in the field that could only serve to broaden and deepen a doctor's knowledge. Her father had done the same thing in his day.
Alvar, disengaging from yet another well-wisher, made a mental note to chastise his daughters when he returned home. They'd no business proclaiming his advancing years to the whole community! He didn't look forty; everyone said as much. He wasn't ready to be venerable and sage; unless it helped in disciplining two girls hovering precariously on the brink of womanhood. In the case of his daughters Alvar rather doubted anything would greatly help.
On the other hand, they were the ones who had decided to have a celebration today, and who'd been busy all week preparing it. They'd ordered the cook out of the kitchen. They had been making the confections themselves. His wife, more sympathetic to his desire to pass the day quietly, had tried to deter them—to no avail. When the two girls acted in tandem, the idea of deterrence was naive.
Knowing he was expected home by now for the celebration, Alvar hurried along the slip where ships from all over the world were loading or off-loading cargoes. He looked for and found the one with an Esperanan flag: yellow sun on a pale blue field, Queen Vasca's crown above it.
A boy from the docks had run a message to their treatment rooms. A letter was waiting for them, entrusted to the captain. Alvar had finished with his patients first and had come to collect it.
He didn't recognize the captain who granted him permission to board the ship. They exchanged pleasantries.
He did know the writing and the seal, and he took a deep breath when he accepted the salt-stained packet from the man. It was addressed to him and Jehane both, so after offering his thanks and a silver coin and striding back down to the wooden planks of the wharf, Alvar opened it. Normally he let Jehane read their mail from Esperana first, but today was his birth day, after all, and he allowed himself this much luxury. He was immediately sorry.
My dear Jehane, my dear Alvar, he read, may the god and his sisters guard and preserve you and all your loved ones. We are well, though events, as you will have heard from others by now, have been turbulent this summer ...
Alvar stopped reading, his heart thudding. They hadn't heard anything from others. He turned back to the ship. He called out. The captain turned at the rail to look down at him.
"What's happened in the peninsula?" Alvar shouted up. He spoke in Esperanan. Heads turned towards him.
"You don't know?" the captain cried.
"You're the first Esperanan ship here in a month."
"Then I can be tale teller!" the captain said, visibly pleased. He brought his two hands together above his eyes, making the sign of the god's disk. "Belmonte took Cartada and Aljais this summer, and then Tudesca surrendered to him! Ramiro the Great has ridden his black horse into the sea at the mouth of the Guadiara. Jad has reconquered Al-Rassan! The peninsula belongs to Esperana again!"
There was a babble of noise along the harbor. The news would be all over Sorenica by the time Alvar got home if he didn't hurry.
He began moving quickly, almost running, barely pausing to throw a thank you over his shoulder. He didn't want this news to come from the street. There were those at his house today who would need a warning, some shelter from this.
He needed that himself, in truth.
Even as he hurried back through the market, Alvar was remembering a long-ago night north of Fezana, when King Ramiro had told him and Ser Rodrigo of his firm intent to ride into the seas surrounding Al-Rassan and claim all the lands that touched them for his own.
He'd done it now. Ramiro the Great. Nearly twenty years after, but he'd done it. He was king of Esperana. Of Valledo, Ruenda, Jalofia. Of Al-Rassan, though that name would be gone now. From this summer forward, that name was a word for poets and historians.
Clutching the letter, Alvar broke into a run. People looked at him curiously, but there were other running figures in the street now, carrying the same tidings. He cut along a laneway and past their treatment rooms. Closed. Everyone would be at his house by now. For the party. His happy celebration.
Alvar was aware that he would need to weep before this day was done. He wouldn't be the only one.
The outer doors of the house were open. He walked in. No one to be seen. They would all be in the courtyard, waiting for him. He paused before the looking glass, startled by his reflection. A brown-haired man, unfashionably bearded, beginning to grey. White-faced, just now. So much so that were he his own patient, Alvar would have ordered immediate rest. He'd had a blow. An extreme one.
He heard sounds from the kitchen and turned that way. In the doorway he stopped. His wife was there, still dressed for work, checking on the small cakes and pies the girls had been making. Even now, even with what had just happened to him, Alvar offered his prayer of thanksgiving to the god and the moons that he had been vouchsafed this gift of love, so unexpectedly, so profoundly undeserved.
He cleared his throat. She turned to look at him.
"You're late," she said lightly. "Dina, your darling little girl, has been threatening to—" She stopped. "What has happened?"
How did one say this?
"Al-Rassan has fallen." He heard himself speaking the words as in a place that echoed, like the valley of the Emin ha'Nazar. "This summer. All of the peninsula is Jaddite now."
His wife leaned back, her hands behind her, against the table by the hearth. Then, pushing herself forward, she took three steps across the stone floor and wrapped her arms around him, her head against his chest.