by G. H. Duval
No doubt, he had expected to hold the high ground, envisioning that she and Shavare would receive them in the Audience Hall, as was customary on these rare occasions. He was counting on convention, wanting word of the summons to spread. Even with the end of the official Audience Calendar—when hundreds of petitioners poured into the Steading from across Coerdom seeking justice from the Firsts—the typical traffic of the lesser nobility and the scores of bureaucrats who kept Coerdom functioning would have proven sufficient for the Duke’s purposes. He would have the citizenry know that the Council was holding the Firsts accountable, taking them to task—a reminder to all of the ever-present, pervasive power of the Great Houses, even if it was less flamboyant than that of the Firsts and the legion of Shepherds at their backs.
“Of course,” he added smoothly, “we would not dream of missing this opportunity for parley for any reason.” His smile was curated—perfect and cold.
Siare returned his smile in kind, not allowing herself to react to his impertinence.
The butler returned with his company of servants, now laden with trays of food and drink. The first course was a cold soup served with an almost transparent wine.
“Parley?” she repeated, affecting a surprised tone, as if puzzled. “Are we at odds, then, Lord Hevlin?”
She allowed the question to hang in the stillness that followed, the Dukes shifting uncomfortably and attempting to mask it by seeing to their dishes, shifting silverware, and opening napkins. All except Hevlin, who reached for his glass and cleared his throat.
“Never, Your Grace,” he lied easily—so well in fact, that were she not of Spirit, she would be tempted to believe him. “A toast!” he declared before she could respond.
Hevlin raised his glass—the wine swirled and caught the warm yellow of candlelight, creating fleeting reflections as he held it aloft. The men around her followed suit, but Siare did not move to join them. With a demure smile, she rested her hands in her lap and accepted the honor the Hevlin paid her, no matter how false the gesture.
“To our First Seer! For her obedience to the Great Shepherd and her tireless perseverance of truth,” he intoned, his eyes—dark and bright at once—locked on hers.
“To Siare!” the others responded in unison, the interlaced baritones almost a chant.
“To the strength she employs in guiding our great nation,” he continued.
“To Siare!” Her ears easily picked out Shavare’s voice among the chorus—deep, rumbling, and amused.
“And for her God-given wisdom! As she relies on her Formynder for force, so does she rely on her Council for sustenance.” He paused, smiling. “To Siare!” he finished, moving his glass toward the center of the table.
Sustenance. As if she served at the Council’s pleasure. Her pride rippled, but she resisted it. That reaction is precisely what he wanted…for her to lose control.
“To Siare!” the others rejoined, almost shouting in their exuberance, for they were not nearly so cynical as their leader, and she sensed they were actually moved by Hevlin’s performance.
She allowed delicate tendrils of her power to play at the back of Hevlin’s mind as she smiled in return. Finally, she raised her own glass to clink against those gathered. As they all drank to her, she tightened her grasp on the core of his mind, the part that would hold an Aspect node were he a Shepherd.
Hevlin blinked and nearly spluttered the wine he’d drawn. Just as briefly as she’d touched him, she released him. She held his gaze for a moment more, just to be certain he made the connection before turning from him, as if bored, to scan the table.
“I hope you’ll enjoy this course, friends,” she offered in a light, unconcerned voice. “It is a chilled fish soup enjoyed in Kirin. Ambassador Kerg was kind enough to share the recipe. He tells me it is typically eaten as a light morning repast. But I find the combination of sweet, sour, and spice delicious and thought it a fine start to our meal. Do you not agree?”
A murmur of assent mingled with the sounds of silver spoons against porcelain bowls, shortly followed by the oh-so-careful slurping of impeccably groomed men.
Duke Rafe Korlan, a man whom Siare knew to be related to Hevlin by marriage, put aside his spoon after only a few polite sips.
“It is a happy coincidence that you mention Kirin, Your Grace,” he said. She gave him credit for looking only to her and not at Hevlin, who was his true master. “For our cousins to the west are at the heart of what brings us to your delightful table this evening.”
“Is that so, Rafe?” Siare asked. “Here I thought that I brought you to my table this evening.” She raised one brow at him, held him fast until he shifted and smiled ruefully, looking for all the world like a chastened youngster.
She had deliberately used the familiar in addressing him, for he had been just that when she’d first lain eyes on him—a lanky, awkward youth—and she had always felt a genuine affection for him since. He had grown into a measured man—open and kind. So open, in fact, that he’d been pressed to follow his heart and marry a woman from Senechal. That Matas had ultimately proven the mastermind behind the endearment saddened her. It had hurt Rafe to learn that his wife had not come to him on his own charms and merits. But much of that hurt had been mended as the newest Lady Korlan had come to appreciate Rafe on his own terms, just as Siare did. She was saddened anew that he would once more find himself a pawn, a tool for those at play beyond his capacity for such maneuvering.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, nodding his head deferentially. “I would never presume-”
“Do you not?” she asked, cutting him off. Though her tone remained light, her posture did not. She left her spoon in the bowl as she signaled that the course was to be removed. She sat straight and rigid as she looked about the table, ensuring she had all eyes upon her. “Do you not all presume?” Her voice was flat and cold.
Shavare said nothing, but his eyes flared amber once more.
“You, my trusted Council of Stewards…you men who have served the Firsts, personally, generation after generation. An unbroken line for over four hundred years…sworn to protect the Stewards and all of Coerdom. Did you not presume to question me? Did you not presume to summon me?”
She let the accusation swell in the silence that followed, waiting until each man recalled how precarious his position and showed the proper attitude of submission she expected. She had allowed them far too long a leash for far too long.
“You are all aware the Candidate was late in coming to us. We do not question the Great Shepherd. We serve Him! In patience and in faith. And it is during this time of trials that you seek to add to my burdens? Rather than offer to shoulder them, as you have sworn?”
“Your Grace, if you will?” The voice was beseeching, pained. She was surprised to find that it was Matas Hevlin who had broken first. It seemed her little pinch had proved more effective than she’d hoped. “Will you hear us, Your Grace?”
She lashed herself to him, quickly and without shield, eyes flaring violet. He gasped, but she held him fast. Yes, he was truly repentant—the sincerest form of repentance, that born from bone-deep terror.
She withdrew abruptly, allowing him to stagger. He coughed and clenched the edge of the table, reeling as he attempted to regroup. The others shifted, knowing something had passed between them, but unable to decipher what—worse, they wondered if they were next. She glanced at each of them before releasing her Aspect and allowing her eyes to return to their usual green.
“Aye, Matas,” she said, calm and clear now. “I shall hear you.”
Wisely, and she had to admit, quite bravely, it was Duke Korlan who spoke next.
“I cannot speak for the Council,” he said, leaning in and holding her gaze.
Blessed, sweet Rafe.
“But I will speak for myself. I voted to Summon, I’ll admit it.” His voice trembled slightly at this admission, but he lifted his chin, secure in his honesty. “And I did so in hopes that you would recall that we, your Dukes, a
re yet here to serve.”
His sincerity broke through her anger—that satisfying fire coiled in her belly. With an effort, she contained it and tried to hear what Rafe was telling her. “Go on.”
“It seemed to us, Your Grace, that you had forgotten us. Forgotten our role, as ordained, in coming alongside you and in shouldering your burdens.” He paused, and when she said nothing, forged ahead.
“It has been over a decade since the last Seek. We knew naught but that it had failed. You offered us no other details. No word that you suspected our next First had been born. No solace for us to rely on. What were we to think?”
“You were to think that your First knows best, Rafe,” Shavare said, but not unkindly.
Rafe nodded, encouraged. “Precisely so. And we did. For over a decade, we’ve held our questions and done nothing. We’ve waited. But now…”
“You know of Mori,” Siare muttered. She leaned forward and interlaced her fingers, elbows propped on the table. The butler began to enter the room with the second course, but she nodded him off.
“What have you heard? I would much prefer you simply tell me.” The anger was gone, replaced with resignation. She did not wish to take what she needed. Not again. They took her meaning.
Duke Chelling, the oldest and portliest of the group, cleared his throat. He had thick tufts of curly grey hair that framed a round, plump face. His eyes twinkled in the candlelight and his cheeks were flushed with drink and emotion. Suddenly, she felt awful for her handling of these men. Chelling was not a threat. None of them were! How could they be? They were simply mortal men trying in vain to keep pace with gods.
“There is talk, Your Grace, of a Kirin Shepherd. That he has been hidden within the Steading.”
“I see,” Siare said. “You assumed I was keeping secrets.”
It was not a question.
“Well, my Dukes, here is the truth you so desperately desire.”
Siare sat back, drawing then releasing a deep breath. As she did so, she brushed the butler’s mind and he immediately entered, leading the servants with the next course of roasted fish and radish slaw.
She looked to Shavare and once more laid her hand atop his. “This should be a time of rest for us. Our successors should have long since been named and our instruction of those two completed. Shavare and I should be happily entering retirement, awaiting in peace that moment when Hirute calls us home to His timeless halls.”
Without appetite, she took a forkful of fish, only to signal that her guests should feel free to eat than from any desire to do so herself. Her words seemed to have cast a spell over the table, recalling to each a time of simplicity—of easy faith as their nation plodded along a well-worn path.
“But we have been denied such an end to our reign. And whether we understand it or not, we must accept it. If this is a test of faith—a test of our endurance—we will prevail. Will you?” she asked, an open challenge to them all.
“Aye, my First,” Matas Hevlin offered solemnly. “We shall.”
“Good,” she said briskly. She took a sip of the amber-colored wine that had been served with the fish and let the warmth spread through her body. “Then let us work in earnest, yes?”
She looked at Rafe. “You were correct. We withdrew when we should have sought your aid. We…I…believed you could not bear the truth of what the Formynder and I have borne. Matas,” she turned to the man. “Let us be forthright. You know our troubles are somehow rooted in Kirin, hence your belief in the rumor of the Kirin Shepherd. Yes?”
He held his tongue for a moment, seemed to recall her earlier touch on his mind, and clearly thought better of whatever he was about to say. “Aye, I do.”
“You may very well be correct,” she told him, and he started, surprised at their sudden alignment.
“Do not misunderstand me, Matas,” she added gravely. “I do not promise you that we will go to war with our cousins. But I cannot say they are innocent in what is afoot. I have had concerns of my own. And I see the hand of Hirute in the timing of Ambassador Kerg’s arrival. While I do not yet know the heart of his Emperor, I can tell you without hesitation that Kerg is true. He will help us solve this mystery.”
“Pardon me, my First,” Chelling reentered the conversation. “But how can you be so certain? I understand the last Ambassador used that disgusting sorcery of theirs to hide his thoughts.”
“We have learned much since,” she assured him. “Kerg cannot hide his mind from me, nor would he want to. For the rumors are true. Kerg’s son, Mori, is au Ciele.”
She was greeted by the silence of unabated shock and disbelief—clearly, they’d hoped she would dispel the rumors they’d brought to her table. The only sound besides the initial gasps was that of a fork falling from Chelling’s fingers.
“I will give you a moment to gather yourselves, my Lords. But know this. The Formynder has Mori in hand and has been personally teaching him. He is a good boy and true. However, we have to assume that he is not unique and that others like him exist within Kirin. In fact, that would explain much of what we’ve been dealing with.”
She paused, allowing them to absorb the implications of what she’d shared. Welcome to the new world…
“We must be of one mind, my Dukes, for if I am correct, we must find these others. Of Coerdan heritage or not, if they’ve been granted an Aspect, they are ours. We must find them and bring them home for proper instruction and guidance.”
When she spoke next, her voice was hard. “And, if Kirin thinks to find Coerdom vulnerable, soft, and open to meddling…well, we will recall to them their histories, won’t we? We will remind them how our nation was founded, that we began as warriors. Will you help me in teaching this lesson, my lords?”
She smiled as their silence was replaced by cheers.
Twenty-Three
“One falsehood spoils a thousand truths.”
– Helig Ra’d, Teachings of the Great Shepherd
Mina sat stiffly, back ramrod straight in the opulent chair provided for the morning’s audience. Beyond her wildest expectations, Mother and Siare had offered Mina and Spring the use of the Firsts’ private receiving chamber. So it was that she sat in Siare’s own embellished chair with Spring seated in the Formynder’s chair beside her. She knew the sight of the two of them surrounded in the trappings of the Firsts—seated in their very places—would unnerve the woman who would be joining them presently. She welcomed the discomfort it would cause, for it was just for one who’d committed such betrayal to feel a measure of what she had done. She suspected that Siare felt much the same, hence the morning’s arrangements.
Mina had asked for the meeting—demanded it, in truth—but now she scarcely felt ready to face the woman whom she’d called mother until so recently. The woman who was now no more than just another Shepherd serving in Shavare’s army. A woman who’d barely escaped being executed as a traitor. Mina’s old mother, but her mother no more.
Her real mother, Wilha, had initially resisted this meeting, but she had come to agree with Mina and Spring that Mina’s healing could not be complete until she could confront Lena directly. Wilha relented, coming to understand both Mina’s need for the meeting and her misgivings. So she had agreed to this, but on the condition that she’d keep vigil at the back of Mina’s mind, monitoring the encounter to come.
The door to the lavish chamber opened and one of the guards at the door stepped inside.
“Your Eminence,” he intoned, clanging a fist to his chest before bowing. “A Lena au Terre begs audience, mum.”
Mina trembled and clasped her hands together tightly to hide it. Assuming a serene mask, she simply nodded and murmured, “Please send her in.”
As Lena was led into the room, Spring rose and moved to her. They embraced briefly, and Mina felt a surge of jealousy at the display. Unlike Mina, Spring had visited with Lena many times since coming to Coer. As she considered her quick, seething reaction to the sight of them together, Mina could not parse what she resen
ted more: Spring’s too-ready forgiveness of Lena’s actions or the bond they clearly still shared?
Lena allowed herself to be led to one of the vacant chairs opposite Mina, but she did not look at Mina while Spring moved to retake her seat. It was not until both daughters sat still and quiet that Lena dared meet Mina’s eyes.
When their eyes met—Lena’s eyes so similar to Mina’s own—a pain she’d not expected to feel flared in Mina’s gut. The anger she had first felt at learning the truth returned as if it had never abated. In her mind, Mother whispered calm and fed a measure of her great love for Mina into their shared Aspect tether, reminding Mina that she did not need this woman’s love. Did Mina not already have all she needed in Mother and Siare?
Mina took a deep breath, held it for two beats, then released it. As she did, she brought her Aspect forward, knowing the burn of that light would grant her control over her emotions. It also burned in her eyes, a soft lavender pulse that caused intense discomfort to Lena and which brought her, Mina, great pleasure.
“Have you nothing to say, then?” Mina asked, ensuring her tone revealed nothing of the pain she kept at bay.
Lena’s lips trembled, as did the hands clutching at armrests.
“I simply await your leave, mum,” she said, the picture of compliance and deference to the girl who would one day rule the nation.
Mina snorted, uncaring of appearances now.
“Oh? You’ve a mind for obedience to the Firsts of a sudden? Now that we’ve spared your life. Is that it?”
Mina hungrily watched Lena’s face for the effect of her use of the word ‘we.’ Let her think that even I considered her life forfeit. Mina was not disappointed. Lena blanched, looking quickly to Spring before forcing her attention back to her youngest daughter, whom she no longer seemed to recognize.
“No,” Lena began when she realized that Mina awaited a reply. “I never expected mercy. When I realized what I’d done…what I’d truly done, Mina-”
Mina’s eyes flared an instant angry violet, and Lena gasped, recoiling where she sat.
