Disciple, Part I: For Want of a Piglet Read online

  Chapter 1

  “You couldn’t sleep either?”

  At the whisper, I looked up from struggling to lace my boots with trembling hands. My master stepped into my dormitory room, adding his lamp’s light to my candle.

  “Why must I dress as a boy?” I whispered back. Perhaps I was not so buxom, but I doubted I’d fool anyone. “This makes little sense.”

  “Patience.” Master Parselev placed his lamp on my writing-table and checked my packed bags. “They’re gathering at the chapel already. None of us got much sleep, it seems.”

  The straw mattress creaked when I stood, boots laced and the woolen hose sagging between my thighs. I ran my fingers around my waist, under my layered cotes, to check the drawstring. “Are these right, Master?” I’d strung the hose and braies together as best I could guess and as memory was my Blessing I had no excuse for failing. Men’s underthings weren’t much concern to me — if I saw such, or more, it was while the man lay bleeding on the surgery table.

  “If they stay up, it’s right. Good. This too.” He slung a heavy felt cloak across my shoulders and pinned it on. The hood buried my face in shadows; my blonde braid, even wrapped around my head, would give me away.

  I asked, “Master, this journey will be long, won’t it?” Parselev had given me more clothes than I’d ever owned to pack in those bags. All heavy winter woolens, too. “Shouldn’t you go, then?”

  He looked down at me, mouth quirking to one side. Master was a greybeard, said to be over a hundred years old, but his kir kept his eyes bright and his face lightly creased. I had only been his apprentice two years. Surely I could not be ready for this.

  “It must be you, Kate,” was all he said. He carried one of my bags, and I took the other.

  Wreathed in breath-clouds, we crossed the Order’s campus. Low on the horizon, the slim, waxing crescent of the Shepherd hung golden, all seven of his Flock scattered in the sky behind him. He gave the only hint that dawn was coming. The cloak kept me marvelously warm, even in the chilly breeze. No frost this morning, not yet, but it was only a few weeks off.

  Master un-bolted the side gate and led me to the door of the Grand Chapel. Horses waited on the grass, many horses chewing at their bits and shaking their heads, most of them with knights in the saddles. The knights’ black tabards, worn over suits of mail, had a white horse embroidered on the right shoulder and two gold stars on the left, marking them knights and Prince’s Guard as well. Kite shields and bucket helms hung on their saddles, in easy reach.

  Several of the horses stood with empty saddles, collectively held by a couple of pageboys, and that gave me pause. I’d never been on a horse; I was only a peasant girl. But it could not be so awful, I told myself, so I gripped my cloak a little tighter and followed Master Parselev inside.

  My new boots rang too loudly in the empty chapel, and when I slowed to lighten my step I fell behind. Only one lamp burned on the high table before the icons, and its light was mostly blocked by those gathered below the two steps. Faces were cast in shadow as they turned toward us — all looming in the dim light, some cloaked like me, others not — and I knew none of them. I kept my head down as I joined my master before them, glad the hood hid my face.

  “Not ready, Elect?” one asked, his voice low but strong. “Who’s this?”

  “My apprentice will safeguard the travelers,” my master answered. “She has —”

  “What?” The man stepped closer, his shoulders blocking out the light.

  “Majesty, she’s my finest student.” Parselev put up a hand when the stranger reached for my hood.

  My knees trembled as the word echoed in my head. Majesty. I stood before the king of Wodenberg. Wobbling a bit, I dropped to one knee in obeisance, fist pressed to my heart. The king yanked off my hood while I stared at the flagstone floor, pulse pounding.

  “This girl?” the king demanded. “You trust a mere disciple with this mission?”

  “Absolutely. Saint Qadeem and I have discussed it, and we agree. Do we not, Master?”

  “We are in agreement, Wilhelm.” I felt kir blossom nearby, like a candle flaring to life in a dark room, and my own kir stirred in my chest. He was here, no doubt, my master’s master. Our saints appeared and spoke to us on solstices, and I knew that silken, lilting voice. My saint, the one who’d Blessed me with perfect memory and marked me as his disciple. Kings and now saints in the chapel, and me just a peasant-born apprentice. I didn’t dare budge.

  “You know what rides on this mission,” King Wilhelm said.

  “And know well,” Saint Qadeem replied. “Accord her the proper rank of a physician and let her take her place. Kate?”

  I hesitated, even then. “M’lord?”

  Gently, “Stand up, Kate Carpenter.”

  Hands clenched on the felt cloak, I managed to rise and risked a glance at the high table before the icons of the Mother and the Father. All three saints were there, jolting cold terror through my veins. Qadeem sat in the middle, olive-skinned and exotic as his voice. His kir-lit eyes glittered black as midnight. I could see nothing else.

  He spoke with a faint, kind smile. “It’s not the Saint-day announcement and not the celebration feast that a new physician deserves. But once it’s done it’s done. I ask believing that you will not fail me, Kate. Do you accept the duties and the burdens of Physician as my disciple?”

  Even though my voice quavered, I raised my chin. “I am honored to.”

  King Wilhelm put a strong hand on my shoulder and charged me with the care of those assigned to this mission. It so stunned me that I stared up at him, forgetting myself, for a moment. Then he patted me, heavy as a brick, and stepped away.

  The three saints came down from the high table to lay hands on their disciples and say a few words. Saint Woden went to the two cloaked men who wore swords — they were surely his disciples. Saint Aleksandr the craftsman spoke to the two others briefly, clasping each by the hand. Qadeem went first to one of Aleksandr’s disciples.

  I stood alone for a moment; the king and an armed woman had drawn Master Parselev aside. Her black tabard, over the mail, bore four gold stars and captain’s brasses; someone had told me the captain of the King’s Guard was a woman. She studied me and I fidgeted with my cloak.

  I was a newly minted physician and an honorary knight as well. My master and saint thought me ready to serve the kingdom. Surely she’d been as eager, once. I would do my duty, whatever my saint asked.

  A light hand on my shoulder. Saint Qadeem was not so tall, I realized as I turned, and not so broad-shouldered. I’d never been so near to him. His hair was as inky black as his eyes and his hands deft when he straightened my cloak. They warmed my cheeks when he cupped my face briefly, and kir tingled into me through his touch. It swirled and settled in my chest, soothing and cheering.

  With a crisp nod, he pulled my hood back up.

  No more needed saying to me, it would seem. Though I wanted to ask him why.

  My new companions — those in the cloaks like me, I had to guess — strode out to where the horses waited. I followed, my eyes feeling dry but I still could not blink as I stood looking at the horses. They looked back, breath billowing around their heads. The four hooded men chose their mounts and swung up into the saddles, one of them pausing again to speak quietly with the king and the captain of the guard.

  “Kate, I put this together for you.” Master Parselev emerged last from the chapel with a bulging messenger bag in his hand. He passed it too me by the strap, and for all its bulk it wasn’t heavy. “Well stocked for first aid. Charms, too.”

  “Where are we going? How far? We’ll be home before the frost, won’t we?”

 
“Your leader will tell you soon enough. For now, keep your hood up.” My master smiled, but it thinned under his worry. “Onto the horse with you.” He turned and saw that one of my new companions waited with two horses’ reins in hand.

  “I’ve never been on a horse.”

  “Pal, then,” the man said, turning to the horse on his right. “I’m Ilya, m’lady. Ilya Rabskov.”

  “I’m Kate Carpenter.”

  “Dame Kate,” my master corrected. I must’ve looked bewildered, because he reminded me, “You’ve been knighted by the king. Dame Kate.”

  Ilya showed me how to wedge my foot in the stirrup and helped boost my rump up into the saddle. While he checked that my other foot was well in, he told me, “Just let Pal follow the others. He won’t give you any trouble.”

  I heard a whistle and twisted in the saddle to see the two knights — armed, mailed, though I didn’t catch the insignia on their tabards — tap their horses to a trot. Our third companion rode after. Pal’s ears pricked up and he seemed glad to follow. Ilya was quick to mount up and join me.

  I glanced back toward the chapel as the twenty-odd knights of the Prince’s Guard fell in behind. Master Parselev, the king, and the captain of the King’s Guard watched us go, hard to spot in the chilly shadows of dawn.

  Our two leaders took us out of the Order by the main gate and we rode down River Road at a quick walk.

  “Ther Boristan Tolstyev,” the third of our party introduced himself. “Glad to meet you, Dame Kate. Took you by surprise, did they?” He was Russe, like Ilya: thick-handed, barrel-chested, on the rusty side of blond. Honest, sober faces, and the Ther’s bearded as well.

  “Easy, easy,” Ilya said, reaching over to tug on Pal’s reins for me. “Don’t squeeze. He’ll think you want him to run.”

  From the height of a saddle, I wouldn’t want to go any faster down a slope like River Road’s. It was all I could do to cling to Pal. “Mother’s mercy, no,” I breathed. I already rocked far too much, it seemed.

  Pal slowed a bit, though we’d gotten closer to the pair in the lead. My pulse eased enough to answer Ther Boristan. “Yes, a surprise. Master Parselev brought me a whole wardrobe and Ter Holly helped me pack last night. That was the first I—”

  The tallest horse, the grey, slowed alongside me until the rider’s stirrup knocked against mine. The knight’s hood, pulled deep, shadowed his face completely. Pointing to the two men, our leader said, “Keep your voices down. We’re eastbound to reinforce Baron Eismann against the harriers Arcea’s sent across the Wall. That’s all you need say to anyone. And you.” The finger turned to me and his tone sharpened. “Not a word.” At a tap, the grey stepped ahead to the lead.

  His black tabard, under the cloak, bore the royal sigil, a full Shepherd moon silhouetting Mount Woden. Only the king and the prince wore it. Stung, I set my teeth on my lower lip. Kings, saints and princes. My mother would never believe this, if I lived to tell it.

  Ilya leaned over to put my hands on the saddle horn, which improved my stability without squeezing Pal with my knees. I was grateful for that much.

  Even so early, on a dew-laden morning, wagons and riders plied River Road. The Shepherd’s thin crescent faded into the strengthening dawn and the small Flock moons turned from ivory to gold. Wodenberg’s city gate stood open and we rode through with hardly a glance from the armsmen on duty. True to its name, River Road sloped onward through the grassy Spanne that ringed the city wall, and the foulburg below, to the Neva. The water rippled, languorous, as the early ferry crept its way along the guide-rope.

  We turned onto the Southbound Road and wove through a cluster of wagons stacked with sheaves of oats. The sliver of the Shepherd signaled the start of the Grain Moon and the harvest in earnest. The rumbling hooves of the Prince’s Guard held many eyes as we passed, but knights a-horse were not so uncommon, these days.

  Arcea’s harriers troubled the southlands; I’d heard the stories as much as anyone. There’d been little good news since the disaster at Ansehen a moon and a half ago. Master Parselev had taken me to assist him in the surgery — my first trial by fire, and the same for many young knights. It had been a terrible battle. Arcea had sent an elect, a kir-mage who ranked just below the saints themselves, and King Wilhelm spent many lives to break through the enemy line. With Saint Woden’s aid, the elect was killed.

  The earthquake called up in the final duel destroyed Ansehen. The castle and the gates that barred the Southbound Road cracked and tumbled. I had seen it myself.

  Without their elect, and suffering losses thanks to the prince’s cavalry charge, Arcea’s army withdrew. The word was that their general swore to return in the spring. Arcea was a huge empire, and had armies and elect to spare.

  Wodenberg’s knights and infantry had paid heavily, too, and ours was a far smaller kingdom.

  My thoughts trailed off, though, as we hurried past inns and taverns and wagon yards. Soon the buildings thinned out, spread by small pastures at first and then stone-walled oat fields. I’d been born in Wodenberg city and never been further than the river’s shore. But still our leader rode on, silent and cloaked.

  Pal’s easy walk and the warm sun lulled me, even in the saddle. Ilya had passed me a trail biscuit and a waterskin to wash it down. We’d picked up to a canter for some distance, and I’d nearly fallen for not knowing what to do, but Ilya caught me, Father bless him, and helped me get the rhythm. I caught sight of the earthwork fortress where the Felsherz met the Neva as we turned off the Southbound Road onto an eastbound branch. After the terror of cantering wore off, the sleep I’d missed put me in a doze until a sharp whistle jerked me awake.

  A column of black smoke marred the blue sky, freshly sprung from somewhere on the road ahead.

  A Guard with captain’s brasses on his epaulettes had joined the prince and the second knight of our company at the head of our party. The captain twisted in his saddle and shouted back, “Brauer, escort them!” while pointing at Ther Boristan, Ilya and me. Then they were off at a canter and the mass of Prince’s Guard flowed around me for a moment. Pal perked up and wanted to run too, but I pulled on the reins. Maybe too hard; he fretted a bit, tossed his head.

  “Easy on him,” Ilya told me.

  The horses kicked up dirt in pulling away from us. Sergeant Brauer and his squad of five stood with us on the road. The men shielded their eyes against the morning sun.

  “Is it Gabel?” one of the squad asked.

  “I’d bet it,” Brauer answered. “Got some stones on them, to raid this close to the city.”

  “M’lord’ll straighten them on that,” another knight said. After a few heartbeats of watching the smoke climb, he said, “Must be worse in the hills if we’re reinforcing Baron Eismann.”

  We rode in at a walk and when we reached Gabel there were only a handful of dead Arceal soldiers and a half dozen Prince’s Guard securing the town square after the fight. The smoke came from the fields south of the small town — a handful of houses, an inn, a tavern and an Orderhaus — and it thinned as we watched.

  I swung down from Pal’s saddle, slipped and fell on my butt in the dust. But I was up again, with a wince, and digging in my medicine bag as I trotted over to a pair of wounded peasant men. A shallow slash on one man’s arm had already clotted, so I only washed the wound and then held a cleansing charm over it.

  The carved bit of wood held a knot of kir; with my mind, I picked the bound charm loose and its kir unfolded. Warm glow poured down onto the wound, calling up the man’s own kir with its light. The injury had torn his kir’s colorful whorls, but not badly. Once the wound was cleansed, I bandaged him. His older companion had a sprained elbow; I felt the joint to be sure it was no worse than that, and told him to drink some willow tea if it hurt so much.

  By how he smirked, he’d only wanted an excuse to have my hands on him.

  A shadow fell over us and the peasant startled, then dropped to one knee with his fist against his chest. I stepped back, myself, from the
grey horse as it pranced close, mouthing its bit and puffing.

  “I thought I told you to keep quiet.”

  I squinted up at the crown prince. I’d seen him at a distance, riding beside the king, and with my memory Blessing that was all I needed. Wodenberg had only one prince, and it was well known that the queen had sworn she’d die before she let the king touch her again.

  A good thing that Prince Kiefan was so easy to look at, then, golden-haired and grey-eyed, Blessed as few were and still unwed at eighteen.

  Stern glares were his stock in trade, it seemed. Like his father.

  “These men were wounded,” I said, then wanted to take it back as he towered over me. But then I steadied, sure that I was right. “How can I treat patients without speaking?”

  M’lord leaned down from the saddle. “A squad of reinforcements doesn’t need a physician at all, let alone a young girl. Keep quiet.”

  Fear stiffened my spine, kept my eyes on his black, shiny-new riding boot in the stirrup. “M’lord,” I murmured, to accept the command. My mind whirled, though, flickering through Master Parselev’s every word; he’d said I must go, Saint Qadeem had agreed, surely there could be no mistake…

  The prince’s horse still fidgeted, full of energy from the charge. Prince Kiefan tapped him and trotted off toward Sergeant Brauer and the growing cluster of Guard. “Fire’s under control,” the prince announced. “We’re off.”

  I was quick to tie my medicine bag shut and climb back onto Pal as the party began to trot out of the little town. Tight muscles in my thighs protested, but with a hard heave and a boost on the rump from Ilya — bless him for not smirking — I was in the saddle.

  Chapter 2

  Some ways past Gabel, the prince whistled and turned his grey off the road. Pal followed the horses a few steps to stop near a well and a long trough dug into the ground. The stone walls lining the road made room for our party and even the two dozen Guard behind us. “Rest and water the horses,” our leader commanded, easily swinging down from his saddle.