The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

“Then I went through; that’s when I was made a slave. And then a shaman’s apprentice, because I had the talent. But not for healing, it turned out, so they made a militiaman out of me, and then a soldier in their Company of Heroes.

“I intend to get Varia back. My wife. Commanding an armed force is a beginning.” He shrugged. “Sounds impossible, but I’ve made a start.”

Wollerda’s lips had pursed as if to whistle or blow. Now he frowned. “All of that! But your goal has nothing to do with ours—with the aspirations of the Kullvordi.”

Macurdy’s answer was not quick. He chose his words. “A hundred armed men won’t get Varia back,” he said. “A thousand won’t. Dishonesty won’t. But position might. Elevation. Meanwhile I was raised to honor my responsibilities, to be loyal and respect the loyalty of others. When I accepted command of Orthal’s Company, I committed myself to them. At least as much as they did to me.”

Wollerda turned thoughtful a moment, then a smile quirked his lips, and he grunted. “The Sisterhood! Hmh! Would you like to know who sits on the throne next to Gurtho? He’s got a new queen; a Sister. Something new in the world—the Dynast marrying Sisters to kings. They say she’s quite beautiful.”

By noon the next day, the two commanders had agreed in principle and writing on the coordination of military actions. Blue Wing agreed to be the courier between them; he was experiencing things his tribe would take great interest in. And after lunch, Macurdy and his party started back to his own company.

PART 4: Strange Alliances

25: Embassy

Entering it for the first time, the capital of Tekalos made a drab impression on Liiset, nor did the raw freezing wind of Three-Month help. Teklapori was large, as towns went in the Rude Lands, with main streets less narrow than some, but it lacked aesthetics. In the section they’d just entered, the buildings, built one against another, were two-storied, of wattle daubed with clay, and its whitewash was grimed with dust and soot. Daub repairs formed dirty brownish patches, small and large, unwhitewashed; its thatched roofs were gray from weather and mold. Outlying sections had included buildings made of lumber, bricks, or squared stone, some with tiled or shingled roofs, but wattle and thatch prevailed there too. Regardless, the smell was of slops: human and cooking wastes, primarily. On Farside, she told herself, Evansville’s worse slum didn’t begin to smell as bad.

She could have bypassed the town and ridden directly to the palace, a mile outside it, but she’d arranged it this way. She wanted people—lots of people—to see them and be impressed.

And she was in charge! Given the purpose of the mission, Idri had at least to seem subordinate, and at any rate wasn’t entirely back in Sarkia’s good graces. But the two of them worked well together, and had discussed this project thoroughly in advance. For some unknown reason, Idri had always liked her, different though they were. While Idri’s abrasiveness, troublesome to many Sisters, seldom bothered Liiset. When it did, she told Idri, and Idri handled it reasonably. Liiset credited their compatibility to some close past-life friendship.

Sad, she thought, that Idri hated Varia so. Varia in a Tiger barracks! What a cruel situation! Hopefully she’d get pregnant soon and be out of there.

The street was lined with spectators, out to see the fabled Sisters. She wouldn’t disappoint them. Even her guard section was marvelously outfitted, its tailored uniforms black, its polished, silver helmets and cuirasses blinking in the late winter sunlight. Its horses, individually handsome, were beautifully matched, their coats glossy black, with white blazes and socks.

In the past, the travel costumes worn by Sister diplomats had been elegant but subdued, and typically the Sisters had numbered three. This time . . . As the Dynast’s special envoy, she wore a silver coronet that sparkled with jewels—diamonds and zircons—and her thoroughly brushed red hair was plaited with gold threads. Her riding breeches and tunic were shamrock satin, reinforced with kidskin where practicality required. The cape that protected her from the chill pre‑equinoctial wind was of rich and glossy fur, nearly black: Martes pennanti, the pekan, from the Eastern Empire of the ylver. It had reached the Sisterhood via the lords in the mountain, who traded freely with ylvin merchants. Idri’s clothing was similar, but her tunic and breeches were glossy blue and her cape merely mink, while the jewels in her coronet were less precious. Each had two attendants of her own clone, similarly dressed but uncrowned, their capes of bulkier, less expensive furs. All six rode matched, red-gold geldings, glossy with good grain and much brushing, these too with nearly identical socks and blazes.

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