“Oh,” Lelldorin said, a bit abashed, “I didn’t think of that.” A slow flush rose in his cheeks.
“Lelldorin,” Ce’Nedra said, hoping to help him cover his embarrassment, “I think I’d like to go out and visit with the troops for a bit. Would you accompany me?”
“Of course, your Majesty,” the young Asturian agreed, quickly rising to his feet.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Rhodar agreed. “Encourage them a bit, Ce’Nedra. They’ve walked a long way, and their spirits may be sagging.”
Lelldorin’s cousin Torasin, dressed in his customary black doublet and hose, also rose to his feet. “I’ll go along, if I may,” he said. He grinned rather impudently at King Korodullin. “Asturians are good plotters, but rather poor strategists, so I probably wouldn’t be able to add much to the discussions.”
The King of Arendia smiled at the young man’s remark. “Thou art pert, young Torasin, but methinks thou art not so fervent an enemy of the crown of Arendia as thou dost pretend.”
Torasin bowed extravagantly, still grinning. Once they were outside the tent, he turned to Lelldorin. “I could almost learn to like that man – if it weren’t for all those thees and thous,” he declared.
“It’s not so bad – once you get used to it,” Lelldorin replied. Torasin laughed. “If I had someone as pretty as Lady Ariana for a friend, she could thee me and thou me all she wanted,” he said. He looked archly at Ce’Nedra. “Which troops did you wish to encourage, your Majesty?” he bantered.
“Let’s visit your Asturian countrymen,” she decided. “I don’t think I’d care to take you two into the Mimbrate camp – unless your swords had been taken away from you and your mouths had been bricked up.”
“Don’t you trust us?” Lelldorin asked.
“I know you,” she replied with a little toss of her head. “Where are the Asturians encamped?”
“That way,” Torasin answered, pointing toward the south end of the supply dump.
Smells of cooking were carried by the breeze from the Sendarian field kitchens, and those smells reminded the princess of something. Instead of randomly circulating among the Asturian tents, she found herself quite deliberately searching for some specific people.
She found Lammer and Detton, the two serfs who had joined her army on the outskirts of Vo Wacune, finishing their afternoon meal in front of a patched tent. They both looked better fed than they had when she had first seen them, and they were no longer dressed in rags. When they saw her approaching, they scrambled awkwardly to their feet.
“Well, my friends,” she asked, trying to put them at ease, “how do you find army life?”
“We don’t have anything to complain about, your Ladyship,” Detton replied respectfully.
“Except for all the walking,” Lammer added. “I hadn’t realized that the world was this big.”
“They gave us boots,” Detton told her, holding up one foot so that she could see his boot. “They were a bit stiff at first, but the blisters have all healed now.”
“Are you getting enough to eat?” Ce’Nedra asked them.
“Plenty,” Lammer said. “The Sendars even cook it for us. Did you know that there aren’t any serfs in the kingdom of the Sendars, my Lady? Isn’t that astonishing? It gives a man something to think about.”
“It does indeed,” Detton agreed. “They grow all that food, and everybody always has plenty to eat and clothes to wear and a house to sleep in, and there’s not a single serf in the whole kingdom.”
“I see that they’ve given you equipment, too,” the princess said, noting that the two now wore conical leather helmets and stiff leather vests.
Lammer nodded and pulled off his helmet. “It’s got steel plates in it to keep a man from getting his brains knocked out,” he told her. “They lined us all up as soon as we got here and gave every man a helmet and these hard leather tunics.”
“They gave each of us a spear and a dagger, too,” Detton said.
“Have they showed you how to use them?” Ce’Nedra asked.
“Not yet, your Ladyship,” Detton replied. “We’ve been concentrating on learning how to shoot arrows.”
Ce’Nedra turned to her two companions. “Could you see that somebody takes care of that?” she said. “I want to e sure that everybody knows how to defend himself, at least.”
“We’ll see to it, your Majesty,” Lelldorin answered.
Not far away, a young serf was seated cross-legged in front of another tent. He lifted a handmade flute to his lips and began to play. Ce’Nedra had heard some of the finest musicians in the world performing at the palace in Tol Honeth, but the serf boy’s flute caught at her heart and brought tears to her eyes. His melody soared toward the azure sky like an unfettered lark.
“How exquisite,” she exclaimed.
Lammer nodded. “I don’t know much about music,” he said, “but the boy seems to play well. It’s a shame he’s not right in the head.”
Ce’Nedra looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“He comes from a village in the southern part of the forest of Arendia. I’m told it’s a very poor village and that the lord of the region is very harsh with his serfs. The boy’s an orphan, and he was put to watching the cows when he was young. One time one of the cows strayed, and the boy was beaten half to death. He can’t talk any more.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Nobody seems to know it,” Detton replied. “We take turns looking out for him – making sure he’s fed and has a place to sleep. There’s not much else you can do for him.”
A small sound came from Lelldorin, and Ce’Nedra was startled to see tears streaming openly down the earnest young man’s face.
The boy continued his playing, his melody heartbreakingly true, and his eyes sought out Ce’Nedra’s and met them with a kind of grave recognition.
They did not stay much longer. The princess knew that her rank and position made the two serfs uncomfortable. She had made sure that they were all right and that her promise to them was being kept, and that was all that really mattered.
As Ce’Nedra, Lelldorin, and Torasin walked toward the camp of the Sendars, they suddenly heard the sound of squabbling on the other side of a large tent.
“I’ll pile it any place I want to,” one man was saying belligerently.
“You’re blocking the street,” another man replied.
“Street?” the first snorted. “What are you talking about? This isn’t a town. There aren’t any streets.”
“Friend,” the second man explained with exaggerated patience, “we have to bring the wagons through here to get to the main supply dump. Now please move your equipment so I can get through. I still have a lot to do today.”
“I’m not going to take orders from a Sendarian teamster who’s found an easy way to avoid fighting. I’m a soldier.”
“Really?” the Sendar replied dryly. “How much fighting have you seen?”
“I’ll fight when the time comes.”
“It may come quicker than you’d expected if you don’t get your gear out of my way. If I have to get down off this wagon to move it myself, it’s likely to make me irritable.”
“I’m all weak with fright,” the soldier retorted sarcastically.
“Are you going to move it?”
“No.”
“I tried to warn you, friend,” the teamster said in a resigned tone.
“If you touch my gear, I’ll break your head.”
“No. You’ll try to break my head.”
There was a sudden sound of scuffling and several heavy blows. “Now get up and move your gear like I told you to,” the teamster said. “I don’t have all day to stand around and argue with you.”
“You hit me when I wasn’t looking,” the soldier complained.
“Do you want to watch the next one coming?”
“All right, don’t get excited. I’m moving it.”
“I’m glad we understand each other.”
“Does that sort of thing happen very often?” Ce’Nedra asked quietly.
Torasin, grinning broadly, nodded. “Some of your troops feel the need to bluster, your Majesty,” he replied, “and the Sendarian wagoneers usually don’t have the time to listen. Fistfights and streetbrawling are second nature to those fellows, so their squabbles with the soldiers almost always end up the same way. It’s very educational, really.”
“Men!” Ce’Nedra said.
In the camp of the Sendars they met Durnik. With him there was an oddly matched pair of young men.
“A couple of old friends,” Durnik said as he introduced them. “Just arrived on the supply barges. I think you’ve met Rundorig, Princess. He was at Faldor’s farm when we visited there last winter.”
Ce’Nedra did in fact remember Rundorig. The tall, hulking young man, she recalled, was the one who was going to marry Garion’s childhood sweetheart, Zubrette. She greeted him warmly and gently reminded him that they had met before. Rundorig’s Arendish background made his mind move rather slowly. His companion, however, was anything but slow. Durnik introduced him as Doroon, another of Garion’s boyhood friends. Doroon was a small, wiry young man with a protruding Adam’s apple and slightly bulging eyes. After a few moments of shyness, his tongue began to run away with him. It was a bit hard to follow Doroon. His mind flitted from idea to idea, and his mouth raced along breathlessly, trying to keep up.