Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  Jharan ignored the jest, fearing there might be some truth in it, and replied formally. “These are Lord Giradon and Lady Surani, advisors to Governor Turon. Gentles, this is my friend Felisan.”

  Surani bowed. “We are honored to meet you, Lord Felisan.”

  “Indeed, though I fear we cannot stay. We have matters to discuss with Jharan.” Giradon accompanied these words with a slight bow.

  Felisan smiled, one eyebrow twitching upward. “May I join you?”

  “It is Southfæld business.”

  Jharan looked to Surani, who seemed sympathetic. “Felisan is my good friend. May I not have his counsel?”

  Surani glanced at Giradon. “We cannot call it inappropriate.”

  Giradon’s brows drew together. “Very well. But we must ask your discretion, Lord Felisan.”

  “Certainly.”

  The slight curve of his lips betrayed Felisan’s amusement as he stepped between Giradon and Jharan. Though he did not see the situation so lightly, Jharan was relieved to have Felisan with him. No doubt these important matters would prove to be trivial, and Felisan would laugh at him later on.

  Giradon led them to the governor’s pavilion The two guardians at its entrance cast curious glances at Jharan as they stepped aside. Several more officials were within, and they looked up sharply as Jharan and the others entered.

  “Refreshment.” Giradon raised a hand and an attendant hastened away.

  The walls of the pavilion muted the daylight. Inside was a large table spread with maps, a scatter of chairs and smaller camp tables, a brazier, and against the far wall a modest couch with a small trunk beside it. This was a point of organization for the army, not a lavish resting place for the governor as Jharan had thought, though none would have begrudged Governor Turon more comfort. His dedication to Southfæld was unquestioned, and now he had died in service to the realm. Jharan felt the loss as if the governor had been a friend.

  A tall male in formal robes stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowing. Jharan recognized him: Lord Shilonan, Steward of Glenhallow. He was the governor’s closest supporter, who aided him in managing all the affairs of the city and the realm.

  Several of the others looked familiar as well. They all moved toward Jharan, but it was Shilonan who spoke.

  “Maronin?”

  Surani answered. “Alas, my lord, Maronin was killed in the battle. This is his nextkin, Jharan.”

  All eyes turned toward Jharan with an intensity that was becoming oddly familiar. He bowed.

  Shilonan’s lips parted slightly, then he looked at Surani. “This has been confirmed?”

  Felisan spoke before Surani could answer. “I can confirm it. I was present when Maronin named Jharan his nextkin. So were a number of guardians from both of their companies.”

  Shilonan regarded Felisan for a moment, then bowed. “Lord Felisan. You honor us with your presence.”

  Smiling, Felisan returned the courtesy. Shilonan turned to Jharan and spoke in a quiet voice.

  “You know, of course, that not only Governor Turon but his brother and nextkin fell in battle yesterday.”

  Jharan nodded. Perhaps an expression of loss was expected, but he found he had no words for his own dismay.

  “What you may not know, for it has taken us all night and much of today to discover it, is that five others in Turon’s succession also fell. Late this morning we learned that the sixth was Maronin.”

  Jharan stared at the steward in the silence that followed. The words seemed to have little meaning at first; then they sank into his heart and he had trouble drawing breath.

  “Maronin . . . stood in succession to Turon?”

  Shilonan nodded, his dark eyes grave. “It is unsurprising that you did not know. Several others stood between them. Only a calamity such as this battle could have taken them all at once.”

  Jharan looked to Felisan, seeking help. Felisan looked as astonished as Jharan felt, then as was his wont, he suddenly laughed aloud.

  “So in one moment you surpass me! Governor of Southfæld! Ha!”

  Jharan felt none of his friend’s mirth. He gazed around the circle of Turon’s advisors.

  “But I am only a guardian. I have no experience of governance. Surely one of you would be a better choice.”

  Giradon gave him a sympathetic smile. “None would fault you if—“

  “Giradon.” Shilonan’s voice was soft but commanding.

  Giradon glanced at him, then seemed to become preoccupied with directing the attendant, who had returned with a tray of glasses and a decanter. The steward continued, his gaze never leaving Jharan.

  “Your modesty is commendable. It is true that this circle is well versed in the details of governing, and as most of us are not warriors, we were not involved in yesterday’s battle and remain able to continue serving the realm. What Southfæld stands most in need of now is not one experienced in governance. What the realm needs is a hero.”

  Jharan shook his head. “I have done nothing worthy of that name.”

  “You survived a horrendous battle, one that took our governor and seven successors.” Shilonan stepped closer, his gaze intent though his voice remained quiet. “Southfæld needs someone to restore its confidence after this terrible loss. Someone to look to for hope, as it did to Turon.”

  “I can never replace Turon!”

  “No, but you can follow him.”

  Jharan stared at the steward, his chest tight with dismay. The others were all watching. He swallowed.

  “M-may I have a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  Shilonan bowed, then stepped back and murmured to Surani. Jharan turned to Felisan with a speaking glance, and paced a few steps away toward the pavilion wall. His Stonereach friend followed him, grinning.

  “Felisan—I cannot do this!”

  Felisan lowered his voice to match Jharan’s whisper. “Yes, you can. You have everything you need! These advisors will no doubt give you more than you want of their wisdom.”

  “But I have no idea how to govern!”

  Felisan’s face softened, and though he still smiled, he spoke more soberly. “Your service in the Guard has taught you. All you need do is listen, and make decisions.”

  “Be serious!”

  “I am. Whenever I have sat with Hirion—on audience days, or in council—that is the majority of what he does. He listens to all sides, then makes decisions.”

  Jharan shook his head helplessly, knowing he was inadequate to the task. However simple Felisan made it seem, there must be more to governing.

  He was a captain in the Guard, he was not at all political. No doubt Turon’s advisors were glad of that; the more easily they might hope to control him. He glanced toward them, saw some look away. Shilonan did not flinch from his gaze, but returned it steadily. Jharan turned to Felisan.

  “One of them would be better. Help me convince them.”

  “Which one would you choose? Giradon would certainly like to be governor, but . . .”

  Jharan frowned. He had sensed the same, and felt the same reaction. Giradon hid his ambition behind a glaze of courtesy, but could not conceal it entirely.

  “Shilonan.”

  Felisan shook his head. “If Shilonan had been willing, Turon would have named him nextkin. I think he prefers his place as Steward.”

  Jharan ran a hand over his face. “I cannot believe this. How can they seriously think I am capable?”

  “Too modest, my friend. But look at the other side—what will you do if you refuse? Go back to your company?”

  Taken aback, Jharan stared at his friend. He tried to picture himself leaving the governor’s advisors to fight out who would succeed Turon, returning to his company, trying to explain to them why he had declined.

  Why he had turned from his duty.

  With a sinking heart, he remembered the night Maronin had named him nextkin, in a camp high in the mountains, with their companies gathered around a bonfire beneath a biting cold sky. They h
ad just driven a large band of kobalen across the Ebons, and were celebrating the victory.

  That night Jharan had agreed, before witnesses, to shoulder Maronin’s burdens should his friend perish. Maronin could not have imagined that the burdens would become so great, but it mattered not. He had died, and though the duty he passed on to Jharan seemed more than any ordinary soul could bear, it was still Jharan’s obligation to try. He had sworn to it.

  He drew a shaky breath and looked at Felisan. “Will you help me? Will you stay?”

  “Of course. As long as you wish.”

  “Unless Governor Hirion has need of you.”

  Felisan smiled. “He will spare me for this, I think.”

  Jharan closed his eyes briefly, silently entreating the Ældar who watched over his people to aid him. He heard a step behind him and turned to find Shilonan close by. The steward bowed.

  “Forgive me for pressing you. I fear we must act with all possible speed. Have you reached a decision?”

  Jharan nodded, his gaze shifting to the circle of advisors watching him. He walked forward to face them, Felisan and the steward following. Gazing at their expectant faces, he knew this was his first challenge. These were talented, experienced people, and in order to succeed he must win their support.

  “Good gentles, I will serve Southfæld to the best of my ability. I know I will need to call upon your wisdom and experience.”

  Surani’s smile beamed. “You shall have it, my lord.”

  The title sent a chill down his spine. No one had ever called him “lord,” but he would bear a grander title soon enough.

  A murmur of assent arose from the rest of the advisors; some more enthusiastic than others. Giradon said something to his neighbor, avoiding Jharan’s gaze.

  Possibly Giradon would be a problem, but not one that could be solved immediately. Jharan turned his attention to the others.

  “Tell me your names, please, and forgive me—I may not remember them all at once.” He looked at the advisor to his right. “You I know, Lord Lathranan.”

  Lathranan, Warden of the Southfæld Guard, smiled and clasped the arm that Jharan offered. Jharan knew him more by reputation than personally, though as a captain he had been summoned to council with Lathranan more than once. The warden’s grip was firm, his khi strong and open. His smile widened as their gazes met.

  “Call on me for anything you need.”

  “Thank you.” Jharan offered his arm to the next advisor, a female wearing ornately embroidered tunic and legs.

  “Mithrali, my lord. I am Mistress of Glenhallow’s Guild Council.”

  “Well met.”

  Jharan smiled, liking her khi, which was subtle and complex after Lathranan’s. The khi of each advisor was distinctive, and before he was halfway around the circle Jharan was silently grateful he had decided to clasp arms with each of them. As he learned their names and expertise, he also gained glimpses of their characters. Likewise they would be reassured, he hoped, by his own khi.

  “Lady Surani. What is your role?”

  She clasped his arm, her khi warm and welcoming. “I am—was—Governor Turon’s proctor at Hallowhall.”

  “I hope you will continue in that role.”

  A faint flush of color rose to her cheeks. “As long as you wish it, my lord.”

  Jharan proceeded around the circle until he reached Shilonan, who was talking with Felisan. Shilonan smiled as they clasped arms, and Jharan’s impression of him was confirmed: quietly competent, needing no display of his prowess or position, yet deep in experience. Jharan liked him.

  Glancing around the pavilion, where the others now stood talking in small groups, Jharan frowned. “Where is Giradon?”

  Felisan coughed. “He recalled an urgent matter requiring his attention . . .”

  Shilonan’s brow creased slightly as he looked toward the front of the pavilion “Giradon is Southfæld’s Keeper of Lore.”

  Jharan looked at him. “I have not heard of that post.”

  “It is one whose function is not obvious, but nevertheless vital. He maintains records of the realm’s history, its customs, its interactions with other realms.”

  Jharan nodded slowly. It would be well to gain Giradon’s support. An uncooperative person in such a post could hinder him.

  “He is extremely organized, and like most such persons, dislikes change.”

  “I see.” Jharan met Shilonan’s gaze and nodded. “I shall have to confer with him. He must know much that will help me.”

  “Yes. That is a good thought. He will no doubt be delighted to show you his work. Now, though, we should plan for the immediate future. Your investiture will take place in Glenhallow, two days hence.”

  “Why not tomorrow? Glenhallow is but a half day’s ride.”

  Shilonan blinked, then smiled. “We do not all travel as swiftly as guardians.”

  “Even so, it must be possible.” Jharan looked around at the other advisors. “We could have the investiture . . . at sundown tomorrow, yes? You did say we must act swiftly.”

  The steward raised an eyebrow. “So I did. Surani?”

  The proctor drew a long breath. “If I ride at once for Glenhallow, we can be ready by tomorrow evening.”

  Jharan glanced at her swiftly. “I do not mean to impose upon you.”

  She smiled. “We will manage. Shilonan is right, the sooner the realm has a governor, the more comfortable all will be.”

  Governor. The word made Jharan’s gut tighten.

  Surani cast him an apologetic glance. “It will not be elaborate . . .”

  “Elaborate is inappropriate to the circumstance, I believe.” Shilonan made a slight pause, as if allowing Jharan opportunity to object, then continued smoothly. “Meanwhile, it would be well to announce to the army at once that you are to be invested. There is a degree of unease among them . . .”

  Jharan nodded. He had himself wondered why no word of a new governor was forthcoming. “What do you recommend?”

  Lathranan answered. “A pyre has been prepared to release Turon’s flesh, and that of his fallen successors. We had planned to assemble the army to witness it.”

  “Excellent.” Shilonan nodded. “A perfect opportunity. Jharan is proclaimed governor-elect, and leads us in bidding farewell to his predecessors. Are you agreeable?”

  Jharan hesitated. “Is there a protocol for the situation? Would Giradon know?”

  Someone scoffed; he did not see who. Shilonan’s answer was meticulous, by which Jharan deduced that he disliked the question.

  “I think it safe to say that this situation is unprecedented.”

  Felisan coughed. “If I may comment?”

  The steward bowed slightly. “By all means.”

  “It was not our governor, but Theyn Voridon of Highstone and his nextkin, Finarlin, were both killed fighting kobalen a century since. The theyndom fell to Finarlin’s partner, who was also his nextkin. She was stunned as well as grieved, and asked the governor to light the pyre in her stead.”

  “Interesting. Our situation differs, though.”

  Jharan shook his head. “It is similar. Custom says I should preside over Maronin’s release, but to set Turon’s pyre alight as I inherit his position would be awkward. Thank you, Felisan. I think I should ask another to light the pyre.”

  Lathranan frowned. “But who would be appropriate?”

  Mithrali’s lip curved. “That is a question for Giradon.”

  “Perhaps Lord Felisan would honor us.” Surani glanced at Felisan, who looked surprised.

  “I am not a Greenglen.”

  “That is an advantage here. There would be no question of your being involved in the succession. Yet you are a governor-elect, and therefore well suited to give tribute to Turon.”

  Jharan looked at his friend, adding his silent entreaty. Laughter glinted in Felisan’s eyes.

  “Very well. Though I dread what you will ask of me next.”

  “Thank you, Felisan!” Jharan clasped his a
rm, trying to convey the depth of his gratitude. Felisan only grinned.

  Surani stepped back from the circle. “If you have no more need of me, I should be on my way.”

  “Yes.” Shilonan walked with her toward the entrance. “Give my greeting to Rhalion, if you will, and tell him—”

  His voice was lost beneath Felisan’s chuckling. “Next you will ask me to assume the governorship in your stead.”

  “Do not laugh. You are my nextkin.”

  Felisan looked startled. “By the spirits, so I am! That must be remedied at once. Hirion would be livid!”

  Jharan glanced at the remaining advisors. Shilonan would be his first choice, but he thought Felisan was right in thinking the steward had no wish to be governor. He turned to the person he trusted best among the rest.

  “Lathranan, would you be willing, for now. . . ?“

  The warden bowed. “You honor me. I will gladly serve as your nextkin until you can make a more permanent choice.” A wry smile turned his lip. “I do trust that you will remain living. I have enough on my hands.”

  “I have every intention of so doing.”

  Shilonan returned, and seemed pleased at Jharan’s decision. He and the other advisors stood witness to the naming of Lathranan as Jharan’s nextkin, a brief but rather more formal ceremony than Jharan had been part of in the past. Governors and their ilk must be officious about such things; when Maronin had named Jharan his nextkin, it had taken two sentences and been sealed with a toast.

  The thought of wine appealed to Jharan, but he did not dare dull his wits if he was to be hailed before the army shortly. Lathranan departed to summon the Guard and the visiting forces from Eastfæld to assemble. Shilonan left as well, and most of the others drifted away. Mithrali remained, joining Jharan and Felisan in chairs beside the brazier, which Jharan was surprised to see had been filled with fresh coals.

  “Whoever tends this pavilion is wonderfully unobtrusive.”

  The tray of wine had disappeared as well. Even as Jharan glanced toward the table where it had sat, a slender male in sage and silver placed a new tray thereon, bearing an ewer of hot tea, cups, and a plate of bread and cheese. Noticing Jharan’s regard, he bowed.

  “Thank you, my lord. I endeavor to avoid creating disruption.”