The old soldier nodded, and his two sons trotted back to the packline. The prince continued, “You were the dead man’s friend. Make a pyre and do the honors for him and his family and the cows are yours, along with anything else you want from his house and farm. If you and your sons will tend and harvest his crops, I accept a single basket of grain as my tax on it this year. Of course,” the prince grinned, “the tax on your own fields remains the same.”
Despite his iron self-discipline, Djaimos Poorahbos could not repress a grin, but he quickly recovered and thanked the prince formally.
Giliahna wished at that moment that she could kiss Djylz. It was just such acts as this that had so endeared him to his people, the lowly as well as the high. Another lord might have taken those fine milch cows as his own and sent men to watch over and harvest the growing crops, bringing him all, instead of his customary half. But not so her beloved husband. She raised the beaver of her helm, that the others might not see her small, pointed chin quiver with the intensity of her emotion.
That night, Giliahna shamelessly seduced the prince in his bath. And they did not appear for the night meal, remaining rather behind the closed and barred doors of their chamber until Sacred Sun streamed through the window. Each savored the other, knowing without knowing that this would be the last such night they would have together.
Chapter VIII
Lying snuggled under the White Hawk coverlet as the crackling fire slowly began to warm her bedchamber in her dead father’s hall, Giliahna wept afresh and unashamedly for Djylz, for the loss—hers, the principate’s and the world’s—of the fine, strong, honorable, loving and much loved man that he had been.
At the very end, when the noble Sword Brothers had completed their secret and private rites and she was allowed back into the bedchamber, he had weakly signed her to sit beside him upon that big bed which had been theirs.
His voice was weak, but firm and precise as always. “Giliahna, love, promise me that you will remain in Kuhmbuhluhn long enough to set Gy on the proper path. A reign is molded, for good or for ill, at the ascension of a lord And see him wedded to a good wife of good stock, not simply for land or wealth—Steel knows, I leave him a surfeit of both.
“Nor are you forgotten, my sweet, young love. All the jewels save only the heirloom treasures are yours. By our law, a dowager princess is Land-Lady of the Duchy of Vaizburk, which holdings remain exempt of principate taxes throughout her lifetime.”
There had been more, much more. And then, suddenly, the old man had said, “My sword! Bring me my sword, quickly!”
Giliahna started to lift the pillow-sword from its place, but he shook his head. “No! My battlesword.”
With the worn, wire-wound hilt in his weak grip and the polished steel ball-pommel under his forearm, he smiled fleetingly and sighed. “An affectation, mayhap, but no man of my house has ever died without his steel in hand. Now, my last love please kiss me.”
Giliahna’s lips had but barely touched his, when she felt the life leave his body.
The state funeral was held only three days later, due to the unseasonable heat. Then Giliahna and the Principate Council ruled as regents until, a fortnight after his father’s entombment, Gy of Kuhmbuhluhn rode in from the north to claim his patrimony.
Standing upon the steps of the palace to greet her returning stepson, Giliahna and the other councilors were all but deafened by the cheering of the folk who packed the narrow streets, hung out of windows and even clung to eaves and rooftops to catch a first glimpse of their new, young lord. Smiling, silver-scaled troopers of the principate horseguards and footguards gently pushed the crowds back to make way for the cavalcade with nudges of long, limber poles—Djylz had always forbidden the use of whips or polearms against his folk.
Giliahna felt a cold chill course over every inch of her body when first her eyes took in the lead rider of the procession. The armor, though highly burnished, was plain and the helm concealed most of the face from her viewpoint, but that figure could be none other but Djylz—dead Djylz, whom she had seen buried beside his father in the great crypt beneath the Sword Altar. How he sat his horse, erect but relaxed, that was Djylz; the movements of the gloved hands, saluting the crowds and handling his reins, that was Djylz… it could be none other.
But, at the foot of the steps, the illusion was dispelled. After dismounting from his tall destrier, the rider removed his helm to reveal a smooth-shaven face and head, both already scarred. Moving lightly in his heavy half armor, the warrior first rendered to Giliahna the homage due her—for until he was formally approved by the Council of Nobles and crowned in public ceremony, she was the reigning Princess of Kuhmbuhluhn.
Kneeling on the step below her, Gy brought to his lips and kissed first the embroidered hem of her skirt, then that small hand on which the massive Ring of Kuhmbuhluhn fitted so loosely. That done, he arose and gathered her into his strong arms.
Though his voice was not so deep as had been his father’s, it was every bit as warm and gentle. “Mother mine. Little mother Giliahna. It has been so long and I have so missed you.”
Prince Gy II of Kuhmbuhluhn proved to need little of the guidance which Giliahna had promised. He slipped into his place and duties as easily as sword into sheath. The polish he had gained at the court of Pitzburk stood him in good stead. He knew and automatically assumed the proper procedures whether granting audience to ambassadors or sitting at judgment in the city court on a case of two merchants accusing each other of unfair competition.
A truculent western noble, who had openly declared that what with the dry summer and the resultant damage to crops in the west he and his peers could not and would not render the usual taxes, was seen by Gy alone. Within an hour, he emerged, all smiles and praises of the young prince.
When asked by Giliahna how he had so quickly wrought such a change, Gy had grinned. “The western harvest was poor, but not so poor as he would have had me believe. Even so, I agreed to accept a sixth, rather than a third, this year; then I appointed him my official surrogate to accept and forward the grain and silver.”
Giliahna wrinkled her brow. “But, Gy, how can you be certain that such a man will deal honestly?”
Gy’s grin widened. “Little mother, I’m sending some of my own clerks—to save him the trouble and expense of hiring such, of course—and if he tries to steal from my revenues, I’ll simply shorten him… by a head.”
And Giliahna knew that the young man was perfectly capable of carrying out that threat, for when an especially predatory and ruthless band of cashiered Freefighters and assorted outlaws began to pray upon the trade road between Kuhmbuhluhnburk and Getzburk, the new prince mustered his horseguards and every resident or visiting nobleman and fostering who was not too old or too young, and sent gallopers to bear word to both the High Lords in Kehnooryos Atheenahs and to Duke Randee of Getzburk-York that he was campaigning to crush and extirpate the robbers and that he did not mean for borders to stop him.
Old Count Looiz of Kohlzburk, who had soldiered for J nearly twenty years before succeeding to his own inheritance ‘ and titles and now was Duke Randee’s marshal, met Gy just north of the border with an escort of heavily armed nobles.
After polite greetings, the grizzled veteran got down to business. “Lord prince, Duke Randee is every bit as anxious to do in these scum as are you and he regrets that he cannot join you himself since he much valued the friendship of your late and much-lamented father. But the thrice-damned Iron King has been foraying in force across the northern border, and the duke is up there now with the bulk of our army.
“When your message reached him, however, he bade me come and assist you as best I can. Lord prince, my gentlemen and I are at your command.”
Mounted foresters and hunters of both realms quickly scouted out a large, sprawling forest camp, and after a long, cold, wet, supperless night, the force struck at dawn. More than twoscore bandits were slain or seriously wounded, which meant death too. A dozen and a half were captured more or less hale. A number of captives—mostly female and all much-abused—were freed, along with fourscore horses and mules and a fair quantity of assorted livestock. And there was considerable inanimate loot “liberated.”