by G. H. Duval
Tenderly, he lay Palin’s broken, unrecognizable form upon the Earth that had loved him so. Shavare gave himself completely to his Earth Aspect then, his impotence in that moment paralyzing him, and bellowed his own rage. His Aspect grieved with him, and a ripple of power poured outward from him—the ground and the surrounding buildings shuddered with it.
The Kirin who’d been pinned by Palin broke, at last, and ran from the area. Their need to flee these terrible men finally overtaking their fear. Shavare watched them go, knowing that to them, he was every bit the monster Palin had been.
They will not remember, Siare assured him, and through their connection he felt her grief as well—a pain as sharp and wide and aching as his own. Bring him home, my Formynder. Bring them all home.
Shavare wiped his tears and wrapped his arms around Palin. As he stood, Palin cradled in his arms, Falmouth joined him. He heard the sharp intake of breath as his Guard took in the impossible sight of what Palin had become, followed immediately by sobs of his own.
“How?” he asked.
Shavare considered before answering, and he decided on the unvarnished truth.
“We don’t know, Fal,” he admitted. “It could be as canon tells us. The use of Hirute’s gift outside the guidance of the First Seer leads to madness. Or…it could be something interfering with us…”
He thought of the presence Siare had sensed touching his au Terre tether.
“Either way, our duty is clear.”
He held Falmouth’s eyes for a moment, ensuring he had the man’s attention—and his discretion. Falmouth stared back steadily, as Shavare expected, then nodded once.
“May I carry him?” Falmouth asked, his eyes once more searching the face of the creature in Shavare’s arms, desperate for a final moment with his fallen comrade.
Shavare placed Palin in Falmouth’s arms. He turned from him then, allowing Falmouth a private moment for his own grief, and sought his ruby node. In a moment, he’d latched on to Chama, who was bent over the charred form of Cenia, crying softly.
“Stay here,” he told Falmouth as he rose into the air.
As he flew, he saw Nika being torn from the air by Ilmani, and though he couldn’t see Kastel, he could feel his Guard’s powerful draw on their Water Aspect, and he knew that Kas, too, was fully engaged.
Your work is almost complete, love, Siare soothed him. My children have already begun their work.
He glanced up to the clouds secreting the au L’espris and found to his surprise that a faint lavender glow was now visible through the clouds. Though he could not see the Shepherds themselves, he could feel them. Whispers of their power brushed against his awareness, like a soft breeze, as they turned their attention to the Kirin below. What calamity they would invent to explain the state of Chen-yei, he could not imagine. Such things were in the hands of his wife and the Headmistress. He was happy to abdicate such things to them. He had enough of his own responsibilities to shoulder.
He turned towards Kastel, who was still struggling with his assignment. Resigned and resolute, he went to do that which needed to be done.
Twenty-Two
“Forget not your true nature, which resides in Me. Recall that you were made in My image!”
–Helig Ra’d, Teachings of the Great Shepherd
“What of the war room?” Shavare asked from the balcony. He stood at the threshold, facing into the room, but the currents swirling at his behest reached her, nonetheless. He was enjoying the weather—a bright winter morning, cold and invigorating. Siare shook her head just as Wilha responded.
“Too formal,” she muttered. More clearly, she added, “Convincing you and Siare to go to war is precisely what they’re after, don’t forget. They seek to distract you from their political maneuvering, and a war would fill their coffers to boot. While we may very well need to apply a firm hand to our Kirin cousins, it must be clear that you—the Firsts, alone—are behind the decision. Not the Stewards Council.”
Shavare huffed in frustration. “Well, where then? Did you not just state that having them here, in our private chambers, would be too informal? You want them to remember their place, do you not?”
“Why yes, Formynder, that is an accurate summary of my statements,” Wilha replied, using the exaggeratedly patient Headmistress tone that Siare knew Shavare detested.
“But to take the opposite extreme would be just as fruitless. We need a middle ground.”
Shavare huffed again but remained silent. He crossed his arms and floated several inches above the floor. It was his version of the average person’s pursed lips or tapping foot.
Siare smiled; he was at his most endearing when flustered.
“We are overthinking this, Mother,” Siare offered. “We already have the room you’ve described. The dining hall can be made to work. We’ll arrange for a smaller table near one of the hearths…invite the Stewards Council to an intimate meal and encourage them to share their concerns.”
Wilha considered this for a moment before nodding. “Yes. Yes, I think that would do nicely.”
“Excellent.” Siare breathed the word into a sigh, one that elaborated better than speech her utter exhaustion with politics. “Thank you, Mother,” she added, turning to the older woman and holding her gaze just so. Wilha took her meaning.
“I’d best get back to my day, then.” Wilha slipped back into her Headmistress persona, gathered her robes, and moved toward the door. “Formynder,” she said respectfully, nodding to him before leaving the chamber.
Shavare settled back down and held Siare’s eyes for one long beat before turning on his heel and striding to the balcony’s edge, his elbows resting on the wrought-iron railing. With his height, he had to bend to accomplish the pose, and she knew he was irked, indeed.
Her Aspect manifested in two main forms. The first was her ability to enter the minds of others—to experience thoughts and even manipulate them. This ability was one that required proactive engagement. Except in the most gifted au L’espris, the hearing of another’s thoughts had to be deliberately sought. What had occurred with Mina was a rare exception—the joining of an exceptionally gifted Shepherd and a total lack of guidance.
The second was the innate ability to sense the emotions of others. This ability was a passive one—a sensation she kept at bay—and repressing that ability was one of the very first things Mother had taught her. Siare must keep herself separate in order to lead…in order to live. But, right now, with her husband’s troubled posture boring into her already disturbed mind, she dropped her guards and allowed his emotions in.
Relief moved through her, not because he was out of sorts—annoyed, confused, and even angry—for she did not wish such emotions on him. She was relieved because he felt precisely as she did, and some measure of her loneliness eased.
Since the Kirin Ambassador had arrived and shaken their very understanding of the world, they’d shared too many terse silences, uncomfortable nights, and avoided glances. The days when non-Coerdans possessed anything similar to Aspect nodes belonged to the Age of Elders, before the Ascension. Since then, only Coerdans sworn to Hirute, and, through him, to Mother Nature, were called to carry His gifts of power. Or so she had been led to believe. Had there been occasions when those born of Coerdan marriages with their Farkoasian, Kirin, and Senechali cousins became Shepherds? Yes, of course. But they were still of Coerdan heritage and of Coerdan faith.
But Kerg’s boy was a Kirin, through and through, with no Coerdan heritage and a passing knowledge at best of Hirute. That he carried Hirute’s gift was beyond her ability to understand. What it meant for their world, for the fate of Coerdom and all of humanity, she could not fathom.
But she suspected much. It could not be a coincidence that this anomaly had occurred when so many other pillars of their existence had begun to crumble. Moving to join her husband outside, she mentally ticked off all that had occurred in the last year.
First, Mother could not see Siare’s successor, and both Seeks
in the last two decades had returned empty. Normally, this would signal that it was time to name the next Headmistress. However, Siare had also been unable to find Mother’s successor. Both of these were failures of their essential duties; that which established the line of succession within Coerdom. For that to fail would open them to the absurdity of the past, of succession by blood line and inheritance. The threat of which had led to open dissention and Verrider’s official resignation from Service, believing he was no longer serving those anointed by Hirute. As their issues persisted, others inevitably followed him. Thus, the corruption of the Aspect nodes in those who broke from her, interrupting her connection with them and their tethers to Hirute. This she had hoped to remedy, but even that scant hope had shriveled in the face of the corpses Shavare had brought home…the four whom she could not yet face but that she would send to their final resting places on the morrow.
Then Mina had been found, blazing with a power Siare could scarcely accept. Siare, herself, had never possessed such power. There should be no doubt that Mina was their next First. Yet…Siare did doubt.
Mina’s Formynder had not yet been discovered, and he, too, should have expressed by now. In fact, the Formynder was traditionally found first, and his recognition of his God-ordained mate was to mesh with Mother’s own convictions in naming the next First Seer. Another anomaly…another moment of her world tilting on its end.
Then, worst of all, Mykal had emerged, a mess of grief and shock with a mind full of images of what appeared to be her children attacking the very flock they had been born to protect. But she’d been forced to accept it and move into this new world where none of the old rules applied any longer.
She reached Shavare and snaked an arm around one of his, propping her arm at the elbow. She leaned as much against him as she did the railing, needing his strength. Immediately, a jolt of vitality moved through her, straightening her spine as if she’d rested for hours or enjoyed several cups of brightleaf tea.
“Thank you, my love,” she murmured. Their very beings often communicated without their conscious direction after so many years together. Still, he must allow it, and so she thanked him when he shared himself thus. Always.
“Of course.” His voice was clipped, agitated.
“I share your troubles, love. Your frustrations. Let us discuss them now, openly, so that we can prepare for this evening. We can no longer behave as if these troubles will pass if we simply ignore them. Or ignore each other. Before the Dukes, we must be resolved. We must be united.”
She turned to face him, allowing her power to flare between them, their emotions swirling until any distinction of Shavare or Siare was lost.
He twisted, pulling her against him, and took her mouth. The kiss was rough—hunger and anger and need. It was a yearning for times past, for when they had been young and powerful and unassailable. It was a wish for their old world to return. Siare returned the kiss, pouring all that she was and all that she wished she could be into their connection.
She did not know how long they clung to each other, but when they broke, they were once more the united front they needed to be. Shavare raised her, cushioned on air, until their eyes were level. Dimly, she was aware of the railing that was now beneath her and of her position, precarious, high above the ground. She did not question that he would keep her safe. He held her gaze, the wisp of a sad smile on his lips, and gently, so gently, he wiped the tears that streaked her face. She returned the gesture.
“We will weep no more, wife.” Shavare’s voice was strong but kind. It was not resignation, but acceptance.
“Our time is over. So be it. We will serve with all we have left until Hirute sees fit to take us.” His smile broadened, turning feral. “We have yet much to give.”
Siare stilled as the force of his essence firmed within her mind, mingling with her own convictions. She returned the smile. “Husband,” she whispered. “You’ve no idea.”
*
As they walked through the corridors on their way to the dining hall, Siare and Shavare pulled their titles about them as firmly as they did their robes of office. They strode, heads high and shoulders back, not as man and wife but as the all-knowing First Seer and her fearsome Formynder. That is what the Dukes would find when they arrived: those to whom they had sworn fealty—out of love, out of faith, but mostly…out of fear. This evening, they would be reminded of their oaths, forcefully if need be.
Yes, she and Shavare had grown old—old enough to have witnessed the deaths of the sires of the very men who would shortly break bread at their table. Old enough to have seen the sons inherit the work of their fathers. Old enough to see even their sons born. And while she and Shavare did not outwardly appear as aged as they should, they most certainly felt the weight of their years.
But these men, these aristocrats whose progenitors had so grudgingly ceded authority to the First Stewards over four centuries ago, would not know of her pain or her doubts. Certainly, they’d have no glimpse of her weariness. She and Shavare had dealt with that. Entangled and swirling in the cold air, they had put the old, tired versions of themselves to death.
Tonight, they were once more, in every conceivable way, the First Stewards of Coerdom. Anyone who failed to acknowledge that would do so at their peril. Judging from the reaction of the guards who trailed them and every passerby they encountered, she expected no such failures to occur. There were times when even a peace-loving leader required pure and simple obedience. It had been some time since she had allowed herself to fully embody that which she was. She was a knower of thoughts and emotions…a taker of hearts, of bodies, and of souls. She was life and she was death. How had she allowed herself to forget?
When they entered the dining hall, she found all arranged as she’d instructed. The hearths to either side of the cavernous hall were lit and crackling with heavy, weaving flames. But the torches spaced along the walls were not yet burning. Perfect. The scores of larger tables used to entertain hundreds were nowhere to be found. Instead, one round table, set for seven, was placed before the hearth to her left. Beneath it was a deep wool rug, dyed black and rimmed in silver; in its center was the amethyst ring onto which the four Aspect rings attached: the symbol of the Firsts.
The five ruling Dukes from the most senior Houses milled about before the hearth. They chatted in low tones, sipping and swirling the sherry she’d arranged to be served while they waited in the cozy corner she’d created. The alcohol was already softening their urgency while loosening their tongues. She allowed a crack in her guard and found them as she’d intended: at ease and malleable.
With one last sidelong glance at Shavare, she turned in lockstep with her husband and they glided, not quite levitating, toward the small group of men. Without prompting, Shavare channeled Fire and set the torches alight—all of them, at once. He allowed his eyes to continue to burn, pulsing amber, as they closed the final distance.
The Dukes’ conversation ended abruptly as the torches flared to life. They straightened, turning to face their Firsts, and immediately dropped into deep bows.
“Now, now, my lords,” Siare said, a broad smile on her lips as she waved a hand before her guests. “We are all friends here, are we not? Enough of that.”
She exuded warmth and companionship—the welcome of family. The Dukes rose and returned her smile, but several of them shared brief, wary glances. Certainly, the last thing they expected when they’d invoked a formal summons of the Firsts was a welcoming and even cheerful Siare.
“Let us sit,” she invited.
The small cluster of servants had witnessed this sort of dance before, remaining in position against the nearest wall as Shavare flicked a wrist: a gesture so small, one could easily miss it. But none of the Dukes did. Each of the chairs around the table pulled themselves out. Siare sat first, and as the party joined her, the chairs tucked themselves beneath their occupants. The Dukes mumbled their thanks, placing their glasses on the table with seeming calm, but Siare knew better—the
ir discomfort was palpable, pulsing against her mental barrier.
The Firsts these men were accustomed to did not flaunt their abilities. Instead, they accommodated their aristocratic counterparts, valuing the important role they played in Coerdan culture, and, frankly, in sustaining the nation’s infrastructure. She and Shavare had always been careful to make them feel vital, respected, and as close to peers as the First Stewards could have. She did not belittle them. She did not dictate to them.
But the world had changed in so many ways. Her method of dealing with these men would also have to change.
“Thank you, all, for joining us this evening,” Siare said by way of opening the discussion.
She touched the top of Shavare’s hand briefly as she’d said “us”—the barest reminder that the Formynder was hers, a gift from Hirute to His First Seer, and not simply a weapon for the protection of Coerdom. Though he was often employed thus, he was hers to command…hers alone. Let the Dukes remember that.
She locked eyes with Duke Matas Hevlin for a moment before sparing a glance for the butler, who stood erect and proud at the head of the line of servants. With a slight bow, he led the group from the room.
“I understand that several of you rearranged your travel plans in order to accept my invitation,” she continued, and while she spoke to all those gathered, she kept her attention firmly trained on Matas. As Lord Chancellor of the Steward’s Council, it was his place to speak for his peers, particularly as he was the one moving the pieces across the board, whether the other Dukes realized they were his pawns or no.
“We were delighted to receive your…invitation, your Grace,” Hevlin responded on cue, but his eyes were still wary. His slight hesitation pleased her. As she and Mother had hoped, responding to his formal summons by couching the meeting in the guise of a social engagement—one she controlled and one to which they should count themselves honored to be invited—had thrown him.
