The Commandant had discontinued their lessons because he had deemed them too dangerous. Why had he changed his mind?
Here Bear came again. As she threw herself under the arc of his blow, she felt his claws rip open the lacing of her helmet and tangle in her hair. Now he was lifting her. Her feet left the floor.
With a swirl of black, the Commandant vaulted the railing and landed behind his brother. Jame pulled off her mask, keeping her eyes on Bear.
“S-senethari . . .”
“Huh.” He lifted her further still and held her inches from his face. “You.” He touched her blackening eye, the split lip. A tremor wracked him. He dropped her and retreated, shaking his head as if it hurt. “Ca . . . ca . . . can’t!”
The Commandant put a hand on his shoulder and escorted him from the room. Jame, left alone, thoughtfully stripped off what was left of her armor.
On the way back to her quarters, crossing the great hall, she encountered Timmon, his mother, and Ran Aden.
Lady Distan wore a damask travel cloak trimmed with pink fur over a rippling peach gown. Head to foot, she seemed all the hues and fragrances of a walking rose garden, yet so proud and sleek as to put that lovely flower to shame. Under her mask, no doubt she strongly resembled both her handsome son and his father, her consort and half-brother Pereden.
“So,” she said, regarding Jame down her exquisite nose, “this is your little friend.”
Jame raised an eyebrow. If the lady was taller than she, that was due to undoubtedly lovely hair piled up under her riding hood. In all her elegant assurance, though, she did make one feel small, especially with a bruised face and torn clothes.
So did Ran Aden, standing back and regarding her with cool, critical distain.
“Mother, Granduncle Aden, this is Jameth, the Knorth Lordan.”
Jame sketched a salute, thinking, Trinity, I hate that name; but she was in no mood to make the Ardeth a gift of her true identity.
For all that, she was acutely aware of how these two nobles must see her—a disheveled hoyden playing at soldier. Highborn girls sometimes went through such a phase, Brenwyr had told her, never mind that Brenwyr herself had never fully outgrown it. Mock berserker states sometimes accompanied it. Timmon knew that there was nothing feigned about Jame’s occasional flares.
“One can see the Knorth in her—barely,” said his mother, pulling on a pair of pale pink gloves. “How old are you, child?”
That was a good query. To say “as old as my brother” was to raise more questions than it answered, given that her twin was a good ten years older than she was. For that matter, she had no idea who had been born first.
“About Timmon’s age, lady.”
With a clatter of hooves, Distan’s mare was brought up from the subterranean stable. Jame felt that only by an oversight was the horse white rather than rose-tinted, until she saw the glow of pink, albino eyes.
“And who was your mother?”
To ask directly was a gross impertinence. Clearly, Lady Distan saw no reason to be polite with such a snippet as Jame.
Receiving no answer, she sniffed delicately and turned to her son.
“Has she told you?”
“No, Mother.” Poor Timmon looked embarrassed and uncomfortable up to the red tips of his ears. Clearly, he didn’t feel that his dam knew whom she was talking about, which was quite true. “We aren’t on those terms.”
“Then try harder. Adiraina swears that her bloodlines are pure, appearances notwithstanding. Someone has to bed her. It might as well be you.”
“Yes, Mother.” His whole face was burning now.
Curious. In the past, he might have laughed. Jame wondered if, despite his attempt last night at a cozy fire, he was finally beginning to take her seriously.
Lady Distan patted Timmon’s cheek. “Take care of yourself, my dear boy. Remember what I told you, also what you owe both to your blood and to your dear father’s memory.”
Other hooves resounded on the ramp: m’lady’s escort. She kissed Timmon, accepted Ran Aden’s assistance to mount, and rode out of the hall in stately grandeur, followed by her uncle.
Timmon deflated with a long, pent-up sigh. “If it’s any help,” he said, “I apologize. To her mind and Granduncle Aden’s, no blood is finer than their own, and you do look like a proper hobbledehoy. What happened to your face?”
“First a horse, then a cow, then her calf, and finally Bear. I feel as if I’ve been trampled by an entire menagerie.”
“The Commandant threw you back into the Pit? Why?”
“Be damned if I know, unless Lord Caineron is riding him again to have me torn to pieces, which nearly happened. Timmon, how long does it take a Kendar Shanir to heal?”
“You’re asking me? Eventually, I suppose most do, if they aren’t killed outright. Why?”
She told him.
“You’re dreaming,” he said. “Why now, after so long?”
“Maybe,” said Jame, “because he finally has someone to teach. A vacant mind rots. But as long as he’s locked up in that hellhole, how can he get better?”
Timmon shook his head. “More wishful thinking. Focus on the present, and the future. Did you know, by the way, that your lips are turning blue? Here. Take my coat.” He shrugged it over her shoulders.
“Following mother’s advice?”
“Mother knows best. Sometimes. You know that I want to bed you—I’ve certainly been trying hard enough—but not for Mother’s sake or for her precious bloodlines. Although mind you,” he added thoughtfully, “it couldn’t hurt right now.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
They had walked out onto the snowy boardwalk, where Timmon’s coat was indeed welcome. Now it was his turn to shiver, although not necessarily from the cold.
“You know that my grandfather Lord Ardeth has been in the Southern Wastes since last winter looking for my father’s bones. Well, in his absence Cousin Dari has been managing the house.”
“He with the breath of a rotten eel.”
“Well, yes, but that’s not entirely his fault. The poor man is allergic to his own teeth. They keep rotting, falling out, and growing back. Anyway, now he’s applied to the Highlord to be made lordan regent.”
“He can override you and dethrone his lord that easily?”
“Only if the entire house and the Highlord agree. So far, Dari doesn’t have enough support. Mother fears, though, that Grandfather is going soft. He’s certainly old enough and with this obsession of his . . .”
That, Jame could understand. Highborn lived a long time, but their ends tended to be abrupt, as if their brains suddenly crumbled under the weight of years. The strain of Adric’s grief might well hasten that decline, especially as his search continued to be futile.
. . . a ring, a blackened finger, broken off, pocketed . . . whose, and by whom?
“Wait a minute. These Ardeth randon who’ve been so hard on you recently—are they by any chance bound to Dari?”
He gaped at her for a moment, looking very young indeed. “I think you’re right. Nice to know that the change is in them, not in me. So now all I need to worry about is the Lordans’ Presentation.”
“The what?”
His face broke into a grin. “No one told you? Again?”
“Timmon, you know that I’m new to all of this.”
“It’s nothing all that frightful this time—usually. Toward the end of winter, the High Council meets to determine who’s hiring out mercenaries to whom, so that we don’t end up meeting each other in the field. The lords use the occasion to introduce their current heirs to each other.”