by Peter Fane
“And the High Commander’s heir?” a strong, low voice growled.
“That’s Carole,” Garen said, looking up at Kyla.
Carole’s voice continued. “Eh, Jon? Your brother, the Lord Jannon? The Crown Prince of Rigel? You claim to speak for your brother, yet I don’t see him here. He agrees with this course of action? These plans of yours?”
“Of course, he does,” Jon said. “These plans are his plan, General Carole. They are my father’s plans, as well.” A long pause. “There’s not one man in this tent who wants to be here, my Lords. My brother Jannon shares this view, as does my father. But for the High Laws to live, for the Realm to endure, we must act with vigor and with conscience. If we must fight today, then we fight without restraint, for all our sakes, and for the Remain.”
Murmurs of agreement.
“Very well.” Lessip’s voice came. “You have your orders. General Krodan, you may pick your detail of Guardsmen for the barbican and consult with Lord Marden as to his own troop selection for the High Commander’s entourage. General Carole, your cannon will be ready?”
“Of course, my Lord,” Carole’s low voice growled.
“And our other cannon?”
No answer came that Kyla could hear.
“Good luck to all of you, then,” Jon said.
The shuffle of men moving, the low humming of many voices.
Then Lessip’s voice came, like a whisper. “The Silver Throne is proud of you, Lord Marden. Rest assured, the High King will hear of your service.”
Marden mumbled something, but it wasn’t clear, his mutter turning into a soft blur of low whistles and song, the little silver bird swaying on its perch, its sound fading in a trill of high notes, far and lonesome. Garen took the little bird and set it in its nest. The little thing moved only to tuck its head beneath its wing. Garen shut the box softly, returned it to its place, and sat down.
“They plan for the worst,” Kyla said.
“So must we.”
“They plan to capture you,” Kyla said.
“Or to kill him,” a voice said softly.
Kyla turned.
Michael stood there, filling the doorway, wearing a vest of black cloth, that peculiar Labbárkean velvet that seemed to absorb all light. His hair was dark, his neck thick, a body built for war. The perfect soldier. His eyes were tired, yet he himself seemed to radiate a kind of indefatigable force, as if a star had exploded in his center, its energy barely contained. He walked to the worktable and sat, his movements liquid, perfectly balanced, glancing at his brother’s neatly stacked piles of books and artifacts, his dark eyes flickering over the High Cup and its blue cushion before coming to rest upon her.
“We must be ready, Ky,” Michael said. “For whatever comes.”
His charisma was nearly impossible to resist, and it took a moment before Kyla realized that she was already nodding in agreement, her head moving on its own accord, all her training—much of it specifically geared to defend herself from Michael’s kind of power—nearly useless.
“You want this to fail.” Kyla lifted her chin at the High Cup. “Whatever has motivated this move to parley, whatever that Cup contains, you’re against it. You say you support the King’s wishes—and you’ll obey the letter of his commands, of course—but this is an opportunity for you. It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for. You want the war. You want Grandpa to unleash you. And if Garen is in danger, you’ll have the excuse you need.”
Michael laughed. It was a gentle, potent sound, soft and clear and honest. And slightly mad, she realized. And once again, that strange feeling, that feeling that something was horribly wrong, grabbed at her heart.
“You’re right, of course,” he said quietly. He glanced at the stained-glass window, his dark eyes shining. “For years, these traitors have ravaged our lands, our peoples, our homes. I would bring our full force against them. I’ve never counseled otherwise.”
“At what risk, Michael?” Kyla asked.
Michael’s tired eyes went dark. “They’ve already taken my brother, Ky. And my sister-in-law.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Kyla looked away.
“And now,” Michael continued, “they’ve—.” He stopped short, looked at Garen.
Garen frowned and shook his head.
Michael cleared his throat. “And now, they’ve gone too far. So, yes. It’s a risk. But it’s also the High King’s command.”
“How convenient,” Kyla said.
Michael inclined his head. “Garen will be protected. And if the Pretender and his minions breech the terms of parley, then they will be met with all just force.”
“They say the same thing, Michael,” Kyla kept her hands firmly in her lap. “The very same thing. Surely you see that? Jon, Lessip, Carole, Taverly, the others—you’ve heard the golem’s words.” She inclined her head toward the box where the silver bird lay. “They don’t want this to work, either. They don’t want peace.”
“And in that,” Michael said, dark eyes glowing, “we’re in perfect accord.”
Kyla turned to Garen. “You can’t go out there. Send me instead.”
Garen nodded absently, fiddling now with the elixirs on his worktable and the tiny star tree in its bright blue burlap sack. “Vymon and his sons will stand across from me, Kyla. Both families will share the risk. The friendship between our two families is strong. It always has been.”
“That may be so,” Kyla said. “Yet it seems to me that half a dozen generals stand ready to assume Vymon’s role as Lord of the Siege, Jon Ruge first among them.”
Garen looked up and gave a crooked smile. “Astute observation.”
“And an obvious one,” Michael said.
Kyla ignored him. “So, we’re in agreement. They don’t want this to work. But Vymon does, perhaps? Maybe Jannon does, too? We don’t know. We don’t really know what Jon is about, either. But we do know that killing the Lord of the Siege provides an excuse for retaliation and an opening at the top of their leadership—.”
“We’re not killing anyone.” Michael cut her off. “Listen to me, Kyla. We will not attack. If the terms of parley are broken, then they will be the ones to do it. And if they do, then we shall respond.”
Kyla looked to Garen, to gauge his reaction, but Garen was still absorbed with his tinkering and his little star tree. She turned and looked at Michael directly, doing her best to hold his gaze. “They already plan for it. Just as you do. They say the same words. Just like you.”
Michael laughed. “Shall we disobey the High King’s command?”
“No.” Kyla shook her head. “We send someone else, as I said. Simple. Send me. I’ll do it. I know the rules, and I can read. I wouldn’t be a threat or a target.”
“You can’t be serious.” Michael grinned. “Other than Kate, you’re the most valuable asset we have, as you well know. You or Kate in Dorómy’s possession would bolster his claim almost beyond defiance. You saw what happened when Kate left.” He looked at the High Cup.
“Ah.” Kyla nodded. “So, the uproar about Kate’s departure and ‘betrayal’ has little to do with the deceit of a beloved sister and everything to do with succession.”
“They’re one and the same. As for parley, Garen has been chosen.”
“By whom?” Kyla asked. “Where are Nana and Grandpa? Have they heard what you showed me?” She gestured at the little golem’s box. “Do they know what Dorómy and Jon and Lessip and the others plan out there?” She waved outside, in the direction of the Long Bridge. “I want to see them.”
“The High King and High Queen are occupied,” Michael said quietly. But the sudden fury she sensed behind his words cut cold down her spine.
Garen glanced up from his little star tree. The brothers looked at each other for half a moment—but it might as well have been an eternity. Garen looked back down at his work.
“What’s happened?” Kyla asked softly.
Michael answered, “The High King will tell you soon enough
.”
Kyla made to speak, but he cut her off. “Parley council will be convened later today,” Michael said. “In three bells or so. I have news that couriers have at last come from Lord Jor; he arrives to our relief, finally. There are more details to discuss. I’d like you be present.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
The arrival of Lord Jor’s army would be the first piece of good news they’d had in over a year. Indeed, Jor’s presence would force both parties to reconsider the possibility of real compromise. The presence of a massive, loyal army at the enemy’s rear could not help but adjust the state of negotiations.
“You should be there, Ky,” Garen added absently, repeating Michael’s direction, not looking up from his work. “It is important that you’re present and seen at these meetings, now more than ever.”
“I understand.” She stood and turned to go. There was nothing left to say. She would never convince them.
“Also.” Michael looked at her, steepling his fingers to his chin. “Watch your tongue around the dragon riders. Think before you speak. And I don’t want you spending any more time with the Toller lad. He’s a good scout, no doubt, one of our best. You’re creating the wrong impression.”
She looked him in the eye. “My friends are my own.”
Michael smiled, but the air between them seemed to hum with tension, so much so that Garen looked up from his work, peering over his spectacles.
“Get some breakfast, Ky,” Garen said. “It’s going to be a long day. And tomorrow longer yet. Go down with the others. See Kate. See how she’s doing. Eat something.”
Kyla looked at Michael. He stared at her. His eyes were dark and exhausted, but still that black energy sung at the edges of his pupils.
Michael nodded, then looked away to the stained-glass window. The blue light made his eyes seem blacker still. “Good idea, Ky,” he said absently. “Eat something.”
She turned and left.
She’d never been less hungry in her life.
16
BUT, AS IT turned out, that wasn’t true.
Kyla could be less hungry.
On her way down to breakfast, right outside the grand mess hall, her appetite coming on at last—the smell of fresh boar bacon and syrup and quail eggs and pancakes nearly driving her crazy—Kyla saw Filip Toller and his squad, fresh from the field, snow on their furry shoulders, faces red with the cold, mittens caked with ice.
She raised her hand in greeting, happy to see him, her entire body unclenching.
“How was it out?” she asked as they approached.
Filip stopped—and then he looked right through her, as if she didn’t exist.
Then he seemed to realize what he was doing, blinked, glanced at her, then looked away, distracted.
“How was it?” Kyla asked again, lamely. She could feel people looking at them as they passed, their eyes barely averted. She stood straight, hands held together before her, composed, waiting for his answer.
He cleared his throat. “Brought in a prisoner for Lord Michael. Looks important, my Lady.”
“I’m sure he is.” Kyla swallowed. Then she smiled winningly, trying to find his eyes.
Filip looked at her, almost as if he was going to say something else, then looked away. His squad had stopped behind him, waiting. She knew all their names, of course. Jordun Sledder, Delen Quine, and Brode Tellerman. Sledder had a fresh cut on his chin. Quine had a new black eye and looked at her in an appraising sort of way that bordered on impertinence. Tellerman, also looking a little worse for wear, just rubbed his belly, looking toward the mess hall. Young guys and loyal, dedicated scouts. Filip’s crew; his best friends.
Kyla lifted her chin. Her smile felt like it weighed twenty stone. “Maybe you could tell me about it next time we shoot. After parley, of course. You’ve been assigned to me. We’ll be on the Pinnacle.”
“Nice!” Sledder laughed and backhanded Quine on the chest. “Best seats in the house!”
Filip nodded and gave a slight frown. “Of course, my Lady.”
“Very well,” Kyla said, her stomach folding into itself. She kept her back straight. She took a breath, focused on her training—and kept smiling.
Filip seemed to notice something in her face, because he shook his head, and said, “Would, uh . . . would you like to come with us for breakfast? They sent us up here. Both the lower messes are full.”
Kyla knew that Filip asked knowing she had to say no. He knew she could never be seen sitting unattended at the table with him and his lowborn scouts.
“I’m sorry.” She clasped her hands in front of her heart and lied. “I have plans to dine upstairs with the High Queen this morning.”
“My Lady.” He bowed.
She thought her words would wake him up, snap him out of whatever it was, but he looked even more distracted than ever.
So, she turned on her heel and walked calmly away, away from him, away from Susan’s delighted laughter in the mess hall, away from her family, away from the delicious smells of breakfast.
She’d grab something small in the family quarters upstairs.
She needed time to think.
And she couldn’t have eaten a thing, even if she tried.
17
FELLEN COLJ PLACED his jadá cushion on the ground in front of his ancestral shrine and knelt on it. He bowed his head, said a few words, and willed himself to peace. Parley council would begin soon. But Colj had felt the need to commune. So he had finished his morning meal with Lady Katherine, Ponj, and the Dallanar children, met with his ogres, and had then returned to his quarters and his shrine.
Colj had brought the ancestral shrine to Kon many years ago, when he had first come to the Tarn. On the outside, the shrine was a simple wooden box, hinged so it could open outward. Its only decoration was a rough carving of the Fellen family sigil on its side and a plain iron ring on its top. The ring was for transport during campaigns.
Colj opened the shrine. A clay lamp, set in the base of the box, waited for flame. Colj lit it. The orange light flickered, illuminating an array of his clan’s memorabilia, tokens, and relics. There was the grey stone taken from Terótan by Colj’s great-great-grandfather, Fellen Nonj, during the fourth campaign of Tomas the Second. There was the small painting of a white flower in a delicate silver frame, given to Colj’s great-uncle, Fellen Gorj, by Bellános’s father, Balmás, after the Battle of Sherrod’s Plume. There was the broken dagger hilt that Colj himself had taken from Yor, where he had received his first wound in battle. Dozens of similar items, each with its own story. It had been the Great Sister Aaryn, millennia past, who first had taught the ogres of Jallow the true value of history, the true value of memory. Before her, they had been lost—.
THUMP. THUMP.
A heavy rap on the door.
“Come.” Colj did not move to rise.
The door opened. Ponj entered.
Fellen Ponj. Colj’s youngest son. His last and only son.
“Father.” Ponj nodded, speaking in the ancient tongue of Jallow.
Colj returned the gesture. “Son.” Colj took a jadá cushion from beside the shrine, placed it beside him, gestured to it. “Join me.”
Ponj knelt beside Colj. Then he bowed, said a few words, and looked into the shrine.
They were quiet together for a time.
After many moments, Ponj said, “Lord Garen summons you, Father. He seeks your words before council.”
Colj inclined his head. “We will see battle tomorrow.”
Ponj listened, considered, then nodded.
Colj was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I would speak to you now, Ponj, should death find me.”
Ponj nodded but said nothing.
Colj inclined his head, respecting his son’s silence. Then he spoke, “You are the last of the Fellen clan, the last of our line of warriors.” Colj inclined his head toward the shrine. “We have served the Dallanar since the beginning. Hundreds of generations. But you, Ponj, you are the
last. With my death, our clan will be released from our oath, and you will be free to follow your own path. ‘Until one remains,’ thus it is written and recorded. To the Great Lady Aaryn, we swore a blood oath during the Founding. And for millennia, we have held true. If death should find me, you will be the last and the first. The last of our line, the first free of our clan since the most ancient days. Do you understand?”
Ponj was quiet for a long time, considering. Then he said, “I understand, Father. What are your wishes?”
Colj did not answer for a long moment. To speak without thought was the curse of a fool, such was well-known. But his son’s question was of singular import. Colj wanted to answer correctly. It took him some time before he was ready. Then he said, “I wish you to be your own man, my son. I wish you to find a mate, if you so choose. I wish you to find a home, if you so choose. I wish you to walk free, under the stars of Jallow, if you so choose. For thousands of years, our clan has honored its word, honored its history, and honored its promise. When death finds me, we are born anew—in you. I say this not to burden you with expectation, son, but to release you. With my death, you are free. All of us are free. I wish you to feel the truth of that freedom—and to live and to be as you will.”
18
THE PARLEY COUNCIL had been going on for a full bell and a half, but nothing about parley itself had been said—nothing real, at least.
And Kyla Dallanar knew why.
Tomorrow’s negotiations weren’t about peace.
She frowned.
That much was clear.
Everyone—the Tarn’s commanders and generals, the colonels and artillery captains, the intelligence officers, the loyal adept liaisons from the Eressan and Alean Orders, the ambassadors and other dignitaries—all of them had been summoned by Michael to the council hall with the alleged purpose of discussing tomorrow’s ceasefire.
