Honor's Paradox-ARC (7 page)

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.”

“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!

CHAPTER IV
Relics

Winter 80

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.

“It’s all an experiment, lad, like everything else I do.”

He had done remarkably well, thought Torisen, given only a handful of clues from a Tai-tastigon glass-master who had made the common mistake of underestimating the big man’s intelligence. Marc had always wanted to be a craftsman, an ambition thwarted by his size and general usefulness as a warrior despite his dislike for bloodshed. Now that late middle age had crept up on him, it seemed only just that he should be free to explore his other talents.