Bright Swords of Serena

Chapter 11

 Hollander, his ankle bathed and bandaged, was walking about camp visiting the other Marn companies late that night. Favoritism with Ellen Amory's squad wouldn't do, even if it was only a social matter. He was sharing wine with a squad from the First when one of Calvan's guards panted up along the horselines and said, "Count Hollander, sir, you're to come to His Highness right away."

Damn it, already tired and now... "What is it?"

"Dunno, sir. His Highness used the word 'immediately.' I brought a mount for you, sir."

Hollander put down his winecup, thanked the squad and mounted the gelding that the guard had in tow. Thank gods it was his right ankle that was twisted. "Thank you, sergeant, let's go."

Calvan's tent didn't appear the hotbed of activity he'd expected. Well guarded, to be sure, and lights showing within, but no messengers dashing in and out, so it wasn't military, and no conversation floating out through the open flap, so it wasn't social. The guard helped him down from the gelding and Hollander limped inside.

"Norean?"

She was the only person in the outer compartment. "Good, finally. Come on."

"I wasn't tardy on purpose," he snapped. "What's going on?"

"Inside," she said, and gave him her arm. They walked into the inner compartment. Counts and Calvan only were present—eight people, plus a dusty new arrival, sitting wearily in a corner.

"Quen? What in the world are you doing here?"

Quen Weaver it was, Deputy Coordinator of the Council, in full fighting leathers. He sat up straight, brandy in a glass in his hand, and said, "The world is precisely what we're concerned with. In a way. Oddly enough." He gulped brandy. "Sorry. I don't mean to babble. But I rode straight from Kerndean Head since this morning."

"Pretty early this morning."

"Do you mind if I get on with this, Anders?" He turned to Prince Calvan. "Pardon me for insisting on waiting, Your Highness, but I didn't want to have to tell this story more than once."

"I understand, Sier Deputy. You others, you may as well sit down. Count Hollander, here."

Informality, hah. But Hollander couldn't refuse the camp chair—his ankle was sore again—so he took it, with appropriate thanks, and Calvan said, "Now then, Sier Deputy. Enlighten us."

Weaver unbuckled his jacket and removed it. In just boots, trousers and shirt, he looked tired and worried.

"To begin with, Your Highness, I bring greetings from His Majesty, who is in very good health. Greetings also from the Coordinator and the rest of the Council and deputies.

"By now you'll have gotten the flyer about the Maruja being anchored off Strinto. I have an update on that situation. Captain Cherys found the notes of the Private Fleet agent who'd shipped on board from Ravenna. Your Highness, by His Majesty's orders this is to be kept close, you and the Council only. Not even the deputies know."

"So noted, Sier Deputy. But what's so important that couldn't be entrusted to written communications?"

"Aethir," Weaver said, "has sailed around the world, and found the Great Continent."

Dead silence. Then Devran said, "That's ridiculous. There's no such thing."

"Well, there is now," Weaver said. "It's out there, it's real, and it's very big."

"How big?" Hollander demanded, more afraid inside than he'd been since the March Council session in Miroen. "And where is it?"

"Two months' sail west of Ravenna. At least some part of it is. Some of it's got to be up by us. It's supposed to be seven thousand miles tip to tip—north to south, that is. The report doesn't give an east-west width in miles, but the general idea seems to be that it's not called 'Great' for nothing."