Green branches waved across his vision and the clamor of lutes and tambourines and singing rose above the cheers and cries of the people of Corus as Lord Emry rode down the Royal Way towards the palace. He squinted into the sun as he watched the celebrations, allowing himself a small, amused smile. He doubted that these people would be so joyous if they had been in the front lines of the battle a few days ago in the hill country to the East--but for now, it pleased them to call Emry of Haryse a hero, and the man in question was not especially inclined to disabuse them of their notions. No women threw flowers or tokens down at him though, he noticed, but instead saved their trinkets for the two young knights behind him, Roald of Conté and Gareth the Younger of Naxen. Although he was still a handsome man, at 45 years Emry was too old to be winning hearts. Not that he was much disposed to such romantic ideas anyway--six months away at war had made him all the more eager for the company of his wife and children. Emry gave a low chuckle, smiling broadly as his faithful gelding plodded patiently through the crowded way to the palace.
"Glad to be home, sir?" The general looked over to see a reserved smile crossing the face of Prince Roald, who had drawn abreast of him.
"Indeed, Highness," Emry replied. "As glad as you and Gareth are, no doubt."
The Prince nodded slowly. "We shall all enjoy a respite from the war, however brief," he said, deftly catching a wreath of field flowers that someone had thrown down to him.
"And your father will be glad to know that the Hill Country is now legitimately a part of Tortall."
Roald did not miss the barb in the general's words; his dark brows furled for a moment over his vivid eyes, then smoothed. "You're right--every new territory you conquer adds to both his kingdom and his pleasure." Emry nodded. He and Roald always knew where they stood. "There's something inherently disappointing about success," the general remarked after a moment with a faint sigh. "Every time the front moves, you wonder, 'How much suffering is this dirt worth? How many lives will this bit of land cost?' And every time, it's too much."
"Somehow, you and father always manage to live with the price."
Emry winced inwardly--he had deserved that. "Yes. There's little else we can do." He turned a sharp glance upon the prince. "Don't forget--all your father and I have conquered today you will rule tomorrow."
Roald cast his glance downward, dusky color rising to his face. "I won't forget."
*****
Jasson the king delicately spat out a pomegranate seed into a dish in his cupped hand, and watched the soft plume of the fountain catch the slanted light of late morning. He brushed his disheveled auburn hair back from his face, and looked down again at the scrap of vellum he held in his lap: a map of Tortall and the surrounding lands, wrinkled and stained from much handling. He ran his finger down the right half of the paper, tracing the borders of Fief Tirragen and small, spidery, browning words, "Hill Country." The words filled him with an intense need, a desire he could not put words to.
"Do you hear it?" His wife, Noira, swept up behind him and leaned over to plant a kiss on the crown of his head. "Lord Emry has returned, and our son with him."
Jasson's patrician face beamed with joy. "He has won!" he shouted, impulsively catching the queen up in his arms and spinning her around once. "Emry has won me the Hill Country!" He released her his somewhat bewildered wife, snatched up the map from the table where he had dropped it, and walked with long strides into his study, where he took up a quill and drew a thick line along the Tusaine border with great satisfaction.
"Sewell!" he called to attendant. "Go tell the Head Cook that the feast for tonight will commence just past sundown!" Sewell bowed politely and slipped out of the room, thankful that the Head Cook had planned ahead for Lord Emry's arrival and for the king's caprices.
*****
"Papa!" Lord Emry's mail coif chimed faintly as he wrenched his head around, a little smile on his lips. His youngest daughter, Marian, a lively girl of six with her mother's tumbling, oak-gold hair, came flying through the clusters of startled court ladies and lords, and threw herself at her father with the wild energy of bird. Emry caught her up in his arms, grinning broadly, and carried her back to his daughters' red-faced and panting nurse. "Here's your little fugitive," he told the woman with a laugh.
"Father, you're back," came a little voice from behind the nurse's skirts. His other daughter, the wide-eyed, solemn Irena, stepped forward, more reserved than her sister. "I am indeed," he said absently, setting the giggling Marian down. "Here, now go with your nurse…I shall be back by-and-by, but I must go speak with the King now."
Irena nodded gravely. "Come on Marian," she said, taking her younger sister firmly in hand. Emry watched them retreat down the corridors with their nurse, then set out for the king's quarters.
*****
Jasson had just finished belting his soft gray surcoat over a white tunic when he heard a polite rap at the door. "Enter," he said, adjusting a thin circlet of gold around his forehead, the object he had substituted for a formal crown. The door opened, and Emry of Haryse, austere and dignified even in his battered chain mail, entered the room, bowing his head respectfully as he drew near. Although the knight was two years younger than his friend and king, Emry's hair had already faded to the color of frost, and gleamed like silver in the light that came through the windows. Clean-shaven and with shrewd gray-green eyes, Emry had an altogether wintry appearance that belied his thoughtful and compassionate nature.
"You may mark off everything to the west of Lake Tirragen if you'd like, your Majesty," he said quietly, easing the leather gauntlets from his arms and pulling them off slowly. "The hillmen and their allies should not give us trouble for some time to come, by my reckoning."
Jasson grinned broadly, and swept his general into a bear-hug. "Well done, Emry! Truly you are one of the greatest generals of all time!" he exclaimed, not noticing the other man's somewhat pinched expression. With great delicacy, Emry removed himself from the king's embrace, and began untangling his mail coif from his hair. "The Hill Country is yours, Majesty--it is the last territory I can offer you."
"The last territory? You underestimate yourself, old friend!" Jasson was leaning over the map, so he missed the look of dread that crossed his general's face. "Neither of us are old yet, and we still have the whole of the Southern Desert before us!" He turned to his friend. "I know you were never one to rest on your laurels, Emry," he said, "but you must allow us to hold a feast in your honor this evening."
"I could scarcely refuse you, Majesty," the silver-haired man said wryly. The king chuckled. "Very good. You shall be seated at my right hand--now go make yourself presentable."
"Glad to be home, sir?" The general looked over to see a reserved smile crossing the face of Prince Roald, who had drawn abreast of him.
"Indeed, Highness," Emry replied. "As glad as you and Gareth are, no doubt."
The Prince nodded slowly. "We shall all enjoy a respite from the war, however brief," he said, deftly catching a wreath of field flowers that someone had thrown down to him.
"And your father will be glad to know that the Hill Country is now legitimately a part of Tortall."
Roald did not miss the barb in the general's words; his dark brows furled for a moment over his vivid eyes, then smoothed. "You're right--every new territory you conquer adds to both his kingdom and his pleasure." Emry nodded. He and Roald always knew where they stood. "There's something inherently disappointing about success," the general remarked after a moment with a faint sigh. "Every time the front moves, you wonder, 'How much suffering is this dirt worth? How many lives will this bit of land cost?' And every time, it's too much."
"Somehow, you and father always manage to live with the price."
Emry winced inwardly--he had deserved that. "Yes. There's little else we can do." He turned a sharp glance upon the prince. "Don't forget--all your father and I have conquered today you will rule tomorrow."
Roald cast his glance downward, dusky color rising to his face. "I won't forget."
*****
Jasson the king delicately spat out a pomegranate seed into a dish in his cupped hand, and watched the soft plume of the fountain catch the slanted light of late morning. He brushed his disheveled auburn hair back from his face, and looked down again at the scrap of vellum he held in his lap: a map of Tortall and the surrounding lands, wrinkled and stained from much handling. He ran his finger down the right half of the paper, tracing the borders of Fief Tirragen and small, spidery, browning words, "Hill Country." The words filled him with an intense need, a desire he could not put words to.
"Do you hear it?" His wife, Noira, swept up behind him and leaned over to plant a kiss on the crown of his head. "Lord Emry has returned, and our son with him."
Jasson's patrician face beamed with joy. "He has won!" he shouted, impulsively catching the queen up in his arms and spinning her around once. "Emry has won me the Hill Country!" He released her his somewhat bewildered wife, snatched up the map from the table where he had dropped it, and walked with long strides into his study, where he took up a quill and drew a thick line along the Tusaine border with great satisfaction.
"Sewell!" he called to attendant. "Go tell the Head Cook that the feast for tonight will commence just past sundown!" Sewell bowed politely and slipped out of the room, thankful that the Head Cook had planned ahead for Lord Emry's arrival and for the king's caprices.
*****
"Papa!" Lord Emry's mail coif chimed faintly as he wrenched his head around, a little smile on his lips. His youngest daughter, Marian, a lively girl of six with her mother's tumbling, oak-gold hair, came flying through the clusters of startled court ladies and lords, and threw herself at her father with the wild energy of bird. Emry caught her up in his arms, grinning broadly, and carried her back to his daughters' red-faced and panting nurse. "Here's your little fugitive," he told the woman with a laugh.
"Father, you're back," came a little voice from behind the nurse's skirts. His other daughter, the wide-eyed, solemn Irena, stepped forward, more reserved than her sister. "I am indeed," he said absently, setting the giggling Marian down. "Here, now go with your nurse…I shall be back by-and-by, but I must go speak with the King now."
Irena nodded gravely. "Come on Marian," she said, taking her younger sister firmly in hand. Emry watched them retreat down the corridors with their nurse, then set out for the king's quarters.
*****
Jasson had just finished belting his soft gray surcoat over a white tunic when he heard a polite rap at the door. "Enter," he said, adjusting a thin circlet of gold around his forehead, the object he had substituted for a formal crown. The door opened, and Emry of Haryse, austere and dignified even in his battered chain mail, entered the room, bowing his head respectfully as he drew near. Although the knight was two years younger than his friend and king, Emry's hair had already faded to the color of frost, and gleamed like silver in the light that came through the windows. Clean-shaven and with shrewd gray-green eyes, Emry had an altogether wintry appearance that belied his thoughtful and compassionate nature.
"You may mark off everything to the west of Lake Tirragen if you'd like, your Majesty," he said quietly, easing the leather gauntlets from his arms and pulling them off slowly. "The hillmen and their allies should not give us trouble for some time to come, by my reckoning."
Jasson grinned broadly, and swept his general into a bear-hug. "Well done, Emry! Truly you are one of the greatest generals of all time!" he exclaimed, not noticing the other man's somewhat pinched expression. With great delicacy, Emry removed himself from the king's embrace, and began untangling his mail coif from his hair. "The Hill Country is yours, Majesty--it is the last territory I can offer you."
"The last territory? You underestimate yourself, old friend!" Jasson was leaning over the map, so he missed the look of dread that crossed his general's face. "Neither of us are old yet, and we still have the whole of the Southern Desert before us!" He turned to his friend. "I know you were never one to rest on your laurels, Emry," he said, "but you must allow us to hold a feast in your honor this evening."
"I could scarcely refuse you, Majesty," the silver-haired man said wryly. The king chuckled. "Very good. You shall be seated at my right hand--now go make yourself presentable."
