“What, all of them?”
“Well, as many as are free to come. Some are with the Southern Host or off on diplomatic missions. With Dari on the prowl, I have to go to uphold my status as lordan. Gorbel probably will too, unless that fickle father of his pulls a sudden switch on him. As for you, out of sight, out of mind—or will your brother force the Council to gaze on your naked if battered splendor?”
He meant her refusal to wear a mask like a proper Highborn lady. Be damned if she would, thought Jame, fingering her split lip. Anyway, there would be time to heal, barring any further stampedes.
But Timmon had also reminded her of that old, nagging question: would Tori really let her finish her training at Tentir, much less let her go on (assuming she passed) to join the Southern Host? She knew that he had doubts. Like Chingetai, he had been trapped by his own impulsive choice to make her his heir. The other lords would prey on that uncertainty if he let them.
“I think I’ll go too,” she said, “invited or not.”
Supper followed, an evening of going over Brier’s arrangements for the coming week, and finally bed.
On the edge of sleep, Jame mulled over Timmon’s words and came wide awake with a jolt. All the lordans . . . Kirien!
IV
Relics
Torisen Black Lord squinted at the parchment on the desk before him and damned its wriggly lettering. Why couldn’t the Edirr find a scribe who could write? Perhaps, though, it was just his own tired eyes. After all, he had been working at the foot-high stack of correspondence for days on end.
Stop whining, he told himself. This is what you get for letting things pile up.
Other Highborn had scrollsmen to help them. He could too, easily. Unlike the priests at Wilden, the scholars of Mount Alban didn’t have to be Shanir, and there were Knorth among them. As the commander of the Southern Host he had learned how to delegate responsibility. Why, as Highlord, was he finding it so hard?
Perhaps because some things are meant for your eyes alone.
That, no doubt, was true, but still he wished he had the support of his former commander and present war-leader, Harn Grip-hard.
Torisen wondered if Harn had yet reached Kothifir. After the randon’s rough time at Tentir that fall, it had seemed best to post him as far away from the college as possible for the time being, even though the one at fault had been his sister’s Southron servant Graykin, apparently possessed by Greshan in the form of the Lordan’s Coat. How in Perimal’s name did Jame get into such scrapes, much less attract such followers? Of all foul tricks, to drug someone with black forget-me-not . . . Torisen wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, except that the potion had forced Harn to relive his father’s suicide after Greshan’s death . . . or was that because of Greshan’s death? The Commandant had been vague about that, another reminder that Tentir held some secrets which he, never having been a cadet there, would never share.
Unlike your sister, whispered his father’s hoarse, mocking voice at the back of his soul image, behind the locked door. The randon may have raised you, boy, but she is their darling now.
Parchment crumpled in his grip. Only if she passes Tentir.
Ungenerous, unkind, unjust. After all, he had sent her to the college in the first place.
Trinity, look at all the papers left. He had let them pile up in the first place because he had been afraid that one of them would report that Jame had flayed that wretched cadet Vant alive. Of course, she hadn’t. Instead he had fallen into a pit in the fire timber hall, tried to drag Torisen in after him, and then burned to death.
Should he read another petition, or give up for the day?
Torisen rubbed a hand across his face. It felt strange to encounter a beard there; however, he was determined never to be mistaken for his sister again as he had been by both Timmon and Vant during the Winter War. Timmon had wanted to seduce Jame, which made some sort of sense. True, she wasn’t to every man’s taste, but he had glimpsed her in dreams that made him stir uneasily even now. Why, though, had Vant wanted to kill her?
“You think you’re so clever that you can get away with anything.”
Well, so far, she had.
As he hesitated, his mind on other things, his hand reached out as if with a life of its own to pick up the next paper.
Where had this sudden compulsion to finish come from? What was he looking for in this stubborn stack mostly of foolishness? The answer came as soon as the question framed itself: news. Information. A warning meant for him alone. About what? Torisen pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the start of a headache. He could even date the beginning of this obsession, some ten days ago, after that foul dream.
He had stopped staying awake for days, even weeks, trying to forestall certain nightmares. Even now, he told himself, when they came they meant nothing. He was no Shanir, dammit, to far-see. But the image of fire haunted him, pyre after pyre. Then a charred hand had reached out of the flames. Someone had snapped off one of its beringed fingers. Who, and whose? Ah, it made no sense, like all dreams, no more than did this futile quest for a clue.
It would come as writing on a page.
He should be focusing on reports less than ten days old, not pigheadedly working his way from back to front.
A knock on the door heralded the appearance of his servant Burr, with an armload of fresh logs for the fireplace behind him. The wolver pup Yce, who had been curled up asleep on the hearth, growled at being disturbed. However, it was about time: the tower room was growing chill, and dark. How dark, Torisen hadn’t realized until Burr lit the branched candles at his elbow. The sun had set. Shadows were seeping into the valley below like dark waters rising and cold air flowed over the windowsill.
“You didn’t come down at noon,” said Burr, glowering.
“I was busy. Just look at this.” He held up the document he had been straining to read. “The Edirr suggest that there be a special award at the Lordans’ Presentation for the best dressed heir.”
“For stuff like this you forget meals?”
There, Burr had a point: the petition was clearly just Lords Essien and Essiar teasing the Coman and Caineron, who tended to dress for every occasion as if for their coronation.
He let the paper drop, then grabbed as the entire stack began to slide. “I promise I’ll eat something for dinner. Just stop pestering me.”
Burr grunted and turned to leave. “Oh,” he said on the threshold, “I almost forgot. Steward Rowan says that a messenger from Lord Danior has arrived.”
Torisen scrabbled for falling papers. Dammit, now they would all be out of order. What could Cousin Holly have to say, anyway, that was too important to wait until the High Council meeting?
“Tell Rowan that I’ll meet Holly’s messenger below.”
Burr left.
On the stair down, following him, Torisen paused to watch Marc work at the eastern end of the High Council chamber.
The furnace built into the northeast turret glowed as the big Kendar reached into it and loaded his blowpipe with a gather of molten glass. Then he began to swing it slowly, blowing, careful not to inhale the searing fumes. A lambent cylinder formed. This he detached, cut open with a hot knife, spread out on a pallet, and inserted into the annealing oven in the opposite southeastern tower.
“D’you think this system will work better than your old one?” Torisen asked, descending the rest of the way into the warm hall.
Yce ghosted around his legs and made a dart at the leather apron that Marc was untying. For a moment Kendar and wolver played tug-o’-war with the braided cord that had secured it. Then Marc let the belt go. The pup dragged it under the ebony council table and set about “killing” it with noisy, slobbering glee. Marc removed his smoked glass goggles and wiped a forearm across his sweaty face, smearing it black.