pleas did not seem to move you, I wrote to court to ask those to whom you will listen to add their voices, and their more august authority, to my own. Old dy Ferrej indeed has no right to thwart you, save for whatever forbearance he may be owed—no, that you may bestow upon him in charity—for his years of service—”
Ista’s lips thinned at his words. I cry a foul.
“But Royina Iselle and Royse Bergon are your liege lords now, as well as having concern for your safety as their mother, and I believe Chancellor dy Cazaril is a man whose opinion you do somewhat regard. If I’m not mistaken, some calming advice arrives with these messengers.” He nodded in satisfaction and moved off.
Ista clenched her teeth. She declined to call down curses on Iselle, Bergon, or Cazaril. Or, in truth, on Old dy Ferrej, as he was pleased to style himself—a disputant’s ploy, he was scarcely more than a decade older than Ista. But the tension in her body seemed almost to constrict her breathing. She half believed that in their urgency to guard her from old madness, her earnest protectors would drive her mad anew.
The clack of horses’ hooves, voices, and the calls of grooms floated around the curve of the keep. Abruptly, Ista rose and paced after dy Ferrej. Her lady attendant disentangled herself from her embroidery, scrambled to her feet, and pattered after her, making little protesting noises through sheer habit, Ista decided.
In the cobbled entry court, two riders in the garb of the Daughter’s Order were dismounting under dy Ferrej’s benevolent and welcoming eye. They were certainly not local men from the temple at Valenda—nothing about their clothing or gear was mismatched, crude, or rustic. From their polished boots up through neat blue trousers and tunics, clean embroidered white wool vest cloaks, and the gray hooded cloaks of their order, their clothing shouted of Cardegoss tailoring. Weapons and their housings were clean and meticulously cared for, the brightwork polished and the leather oil-rubbed—but not new. One officer-dedicat was a little above middle height, light and wiry. The shorter fellow was deeply muscled, and the heavy broadsword that hung from his baldric was clearly no courtier’s toy.
As dy Ferrej finished speaking a welcome and directing the servants, Ista stepped up beside him. She narrowed her eyes. “Gentlemen. Do I not know you?”
Smiling, they handed off their reins to the cluster of castle grooms and swept her courtly bows. “Royina,” the taller murmured. “A pleasure to see you again.” Not giving her a chance to be discomfited with shaky memory, he added, “Ferda dy Gura; my brother Foix.”
“Ah, yes. You are those young men who rode with Chancellor dy Cazaril on his great Ibran mission, three years ago. I met you at Bergon’s investiture. The chancellor and Royse Bergon praised you highly.”
“Kind of ‘em,” murmured the stout one, Foix.
“Honored to serve you, lady.” The elder dy Gura came to a species of attention before her, and recited, “Chancellor dy Cazaril presents us to you with his compliments, to escort you upon your journey, Royina. He begs you will regard us as your right hand. Hands.” Ferda faltered and extemporized, “Or right and left hand, as the case may be.”
His brother raised an impenitent eyebrow at him, and murmured, “But which is which?”
Dy Ferrej’s satisfied look gave way to a startled one. “The chancellor approves this, this . . . venture?”
Ista wondered what less flattering word he had just swallowed.
Ferda and Foix looked at each other. Foix shrugged and turned to dig in his saddlebag. “M’lord dy Cazaril gave me this note to give into your hand, lady.” With a cheerful flourish, he presented a paper folded with both a large red chancellery seal and dy Cazaril’s personal stamp, a crow perched on the letters CAZ pressed in blue wax.
Ista took it with thanks, and considerable mystification. Dy Ferrej craned his neck as she broke it open on the spot, scattering wax on the cobbles. She turned a little away from him to read it.
It was brief, and written in a fine chancellery script, addressing her with all her full formal titles; the heading was longer than the body of the letter. It read: I give you these two good brothers, Ferda and Foix dy Gura, to attend you as captains and companions upon your road, wherever it may take you. I trust they may serve you as well as they have served me. Five gods