Free The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley Page A

to corner Jack when he came again to closet himself with Sir Charles for long mysterious hours. Harry had lurked in the breakfast room till Jack emerged, looking tired. His look lightened when he saw her, and he greeted her, “Good morning, my dear. I see a gleam in your eye; what bit of arcane Damarian lore do you wish to wrest from me today?”
    “What was it exactly that you said to Corlath that morning, just as he left?” replied Harry promptly.
    Jack laughed. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?” He sobered, looking at her quizzically. “I don’t know that I should tell you—”
    “But—”
    “But I will. In the days of Damar’s civil wars, a man pledged himself so, to his king, or to the particular claimant he wished to support. It was a particularly dangerous and unsettled time, and so the ritual swearing to one’s leader meant rather a lot—more, for example, than our Queen’s officers taking an oath to her, as we all must do. The phrase still carries weight in Hill tradition … but you see, my giving it to Corlath was a trifle, hmm, unprofessional of me, as Homelander protecting the Homelander Border from Corlath. A calculated risk on my part … ” He shrugged. “I hoped to indicate that not all Homelanders are … unsympathetic to the Free Hillfolk, whatever the official attitude is.”
    Harry lay down in her detestable bed after Lady Amelia left her, and dozed, after a fashion, till midnight; but then the darkness and peacefulness wakened her, and she came again to her window-seat to watch the night pass.
    Two-thirty. How black the sky was around the stars; nearer the horizon were longer flatter glints in the darkness, unsuitable for stars, and these were the mountains; and the desert was shades of grey. Without realizing it, she drifted into sleep.
     
    There was the Residency, stolid and black in the moonlight. Faran and Innath would stay here, with the horses; it was not safe to take them any nearer. He would go the rest of the way on foot. Safe! He grinned sourly behind the safety of the grey hood pulled over his face, and slid into the shadows. The adventure was upon them, for good or ill.
    “Sola, not an Outlander,” Faran had begged, almost tearfully; and Corlath had flushed under his sun-darkened skin. There had been certain romantic interludes in the past that had included galloping across the desert at night; but he had never abducted any woman whose enthusiastic support for such a plan had not been secured well in advance. Corlath’s father had been a notorious lover of women; unsuspected half-brothers and half-sisters of the present king still turned up occasionally, which kept the subject in everyone’s mind. Corlath sometimes thought that his own policy of discretion in such matters only made his people nervous because they didn’t know what was going on—or if anything was. For some time now there hadn’t been, but by the gods, did his own Riders really expect him to break out by making an ass of himself over an Outlander—and now of all times?
    But, on the other hand, he could not well explain his reasons—even to himself—although his determination was fixed, as he had unhappily realized the moment the words were out of his mouth. But he hated to see his people unhappy—because he was a good king, not because he was a nervous one—and so, while he could rightfully have told Faran to let it be, he had given as much of an answer as he could.
    “This is an affair of state,” he said slowly, because he could not quite bring himself to say that his
kelar
was concerning itself with an Outlander, even to his Riders, who were his dearest friends as well as his most trusted subjects. “The girl will be a prisoner of honor, treated with all honor, by me as well as by you.”
    No one had understood, but they were a little soothed; and they avoided thinking about the unwritten law of their land that said that a kidnapped woman has been ravished of her honor, whether she