by Pati Nagle
Jharan smiled. “You are Turon’s attendant?”
The male lowered his gaze to the ewer and picked it up. “I had that honor.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Rinovon, my lord.” He poured tea and handed it to Jharan.
“Rinovon. Thank you, this is just what I needed.”
A slight smile curved the attendant’s lips, and his gaze met Jharan’s briefly, hope and sorrow blended in the large eyes. “I thought it might be.”
Jharan watched Rinovon serve the others as he sipped the tea, feeling strange at being the subject of such attentions, particularly from those who had been close to Turon. He would have to adjust to them, he supposed. Had Turon taken them for granted?
Warmth spread through him, from the tea and the brazier, and with it a sense of some relief. He had been taut with tension since coming here. He sighed and looked at the food, but was not yet relaxed enough to eat.
Mithrali raised her cup to her lips, catching his notice. She was long-boned and elegant, more striking than beautiful, her fair hair braided in an elaborate style more suited to the court than to the Guard’s camp. Her glance flicked to the plate of food, then away.
Jharan picked it up, offering it to her. “Please, have some.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She took a slice of cheese with graceful fingers.
“Call me Jharan, at least in private. The title sounds strange to me.”
Her eyes widened slightly, then she smiled. “If you wish it.”
“Eh, you will grow accustomed to it.” Felisan helped himself to cheese and bread. “Soon you will cease to notice it at all.”
Jharan put down the plate and swallowed more tea. “You are all placing a great deal of faith in me.”
Mithrali’s eyebrow arched delicately. “Well, we must.”
“I hope I can meet expectations.”
“We all wish you to succeed. Our tasks will be much easier if you do, therefore it is in our best interests to help you.”
Jharan gazed at her, wondering whether Giradon would agree. “I am glad to hear that. No doubt I shall need help.”
Felisan glanced at him slyly. “You are doing well enough so far. You have them scrambling to arrange your investiture a day ahead of their plans.”
“That really was not my intent—“
“But it was brilliantly done.” Felisan grinned, then his voice and face went serious. “Never let others make decisions for you.”
Jharan nodded his understanding. It would be all too easy, in this lofty environment where he was suddenly the center of attention, to allow himself to be guided. He glanced at Mithrali, who was regarding Felisan with an appraising look.
A commotion at the pavilion’s entrance distracted him. Though the flap was closed, he gathered that the guardians there were forbidding someone to enter. A voice rang out clear and sharp.
“He left it in my care, I will place it in his own hands!”
“Kanaron!” Jharan set down his cup and stood. “Pray excuse me.”
He strode to the entrance with Felisan close behind. Pulling aside the flap, he saw his second standing with feet planted, a pack slung over his shoulder, and a bedroll under his arm. Kanaron’s defiant expression changed to relief as he caught sight of Jharan.
“You are here! Is all well?”
“Yes, yes. Come in.” Jharan glanced at the guardians who still barred the way. “This is the second in command of my company. He is trusted.”
With some reluctance, the guardians stepped aside. Kanaron came into the pavilion, and Jharan let the flap fall behind him, noting the weave of the blanket he carried.
“Are those mine?”
“Yes.” Kanaron unslung the pack, set it on the ground, and placed the bedroll atop it. “When I returned to your camp, you were gone. Then we received word to pack up your things and bring them here. We feared something was amiss—“
“No. Well . . . no. Come in, I will explain.”
Felisan grinned and offered an arm to Kanaron. “You will never believe it. Congratulations, by the way!”
“Congratulations?”
“You are captain, now. Or soon will be.”
Frowning at Felisan, Jharan led them both toward the brazier and away from the hearing of the guardians outside. Mithrali stood at their approach, her attention on Jharan.
“I have matters to attend to, my lord. Thank you for the tea.”
“Thank you, my lady, for your company and your advice.”
He watched her go, noting the grace of her long stride, wondering what urgent matters awaited the head of Glenhallow’s Council of Guilds in this camp. When she had left, he looked at Kanaron, who was watching him with a puzzled frown.
“‘My lord’?”
Jharan gestured toward the chairs. “Please, sit. Some tea?”
“No. Jharan, what is this about?” Kanaron glanced around as he sank into a chair. “Why are you in the governor’s pavilion?”
Felisan sat next to him, chuckling. “Quick, this one. You chose well, Jharan.”
“Hush.” Turning to his second, Jharan drew a deep breath. “It appears I am the governor-elect.”
Kanaron blinked, then cast a suspicious glance at Felisan. The Stonereach threw his hands into the air.
“Truth! It may seem like a jest, but it is not. Though, the Ældar are said to enjoy irony. . . .”
Feeling color rise to his cheeks, Jharan explained how the succession had come to him. It did seem fantastic that seven successors had fallen along with Turon. Only one who had been on the battlefield the previous day would understand.
As he saw acceptance come into Kanaron’s face, he realized how crucial it was that they were to announce his status to the Guard this day. If the Guard—who understood what a horror the battle had been—accepted him, the citizenry of Southfæld would be more likely to do so as well.
“Felisan was not jesting, I fear. I must turn command of the company over to you, effective at once.”
Kanaron grimaced. “Very well.”
“It cannot be helped. Find another who is willing if you prefer not to command. Meanwhile I would like you all to accompany me to Glenhallow tomorrow. I will ask Lathranan if he will allow it.”
Felisan raised a hand, one finger pointing toward the pavilion’s roof. “No, you will tell Lathranan that you wish it.”
“But—“
“Never let others make your decisions.”
“I have no wish to be arrogant. Lathranan is—”
“Soon to be subordinate to you. It is not arrogance to set the right tone for your tenure.”
Jharan sat back, regarding his friend. “I have never seen you like this.”
“You have never sat with Hirion through a full day of giving audience. I described his service as uncomplicated, and that is so. I did not say that it was easy.”
Felisan’s face was empty of his usual mirth. His green eyes were sober, concerned. He leaned forward in his chair, speaking in a low, earnest voice.
“I said I would help you. This is all I know to do. I have had slightly more experience than you at the chaos that is governing, and there is a vital difference between us: I agreed to take on the responsibility, and I have been preparing for it. Yet I know that the task that awaits me whenever Hirion chooses to step down is nowhere as large or complex as the task that you have had thrust upon you. Alpinon is not half the size of Southfæld. I will stay and help you think things through until you are reasonably comfortable with it, but Jharan—it will never be easy.”
Jharan sensed the truth of this. It troubled him to see his friend so altered. He nodded, drawing a breath.
A horn rang out nearby. Its note was taken up by others, farther off; a chorus ringing through the valley.
“The call to assemble.”
Jharan’s stomach sank. He was not ready. He had meant to compose a few words to address to the army—
The entrance flap opened and Shilonan came in, accompanied
by two of the other advisors, whose names had flown from Jharan’s memory. They crossed the pavilion toward him, paused and bowed.
Shilonan glanced briefly at Kanaron, then looked at Jharan and Felisan. “It is time, my lords.”
Jharan stood. “You had best return to the company, Kanaron. I will send you word.”
Kanaron nodded. Turning to go, he encountered a disapproving look from Shilonan, and made a hasty bow in Jharan’s direction before leaving.
A quiet cough from behind him made Jharan turn his head. Turon’s attendant—Rinovon—stood nearby.
“Do you wish to change your attire, my lord? I have laid out fresh clothing.”
Beyond him Jharan saw his pack and bedroll beside Turon’s couch, and his spare tunic and legs lying atop it. The attendant had moved his belongings without his noticing. He felt a flash of annoyance, coupled with amazement.
“Thank you, no. I would have my cloak, though.”
Rinovon lifted the folded cloak from his arm and shook it out. A Southfæld Guardian’s cloak, sage lined with silver, somewhat the worse for yesterday’s activities, though evidently it had been brushed. Jharan let the attendant drape it over his shoulders and fasten the silver falcon’s head clasp at his throat.
“Thank you, Rinovon.”
“Spirits go with you, my lord.”
He looked at the attendant, but Rinovon’s gaze was lowered. Grieving? Regretful? With a quiet word of thanks, Jharan turned to where Felisan stood waiting for him. Together they followed Shilonan outside.
Jharan caught his breath at the sight of the gathered armies, not because he had not seen such before, but because they all looked toward him. A murmur arose at his emergence, not quite swelling to a cheer.
They knew, then. Word must have flown through the camp. He tried to find it reassuring that they were not shouting objections.
Shilonan strode forward, leading the way down the slope into the valley, between ranks of guardians silently watching. Skyruach rose from the plain before them, causing Jharan’s heart to lurch with remembering the fighting.
Near the foot of the massive rock stood a long row of pyres: eight of them, side by side, not quite touching. As they reached the nearest, Jharan recognized the body upon it. He had stood this close to Turon perhaps three times before in his lifetime.
The face was pale, stone still, devoid of life. Turon’s khi had long since fled this husk; the soul was in spirit, the flesh awaited return to the light. Yet great care had been taken, by Rinovon, no doubt, to lay out the remains in grace.
Turon’s raiment was not fine, but it was elegant, probably the best he had brought with him to the battlefield. His hair was swept back from sharp cheekbones, braided hunter-style and draped across one shoulder and down his chest. His guardian’s cloak enfolded him in the colors of his clan.
Shilonan stood before Turon’s pyre and raised his arms high, demanding the attention of the gathered armies. Their murmuring subsided, and the steward’s voice rang across the valley, echoing back from Skyruach.
“This day we mourn our governor, Turon, fallen in battle on this ground but yesterday. Beside him fell not one, not two, but seven successors to the governorship of Southfæld. I name them now, that each may be remembered in our hearts, and honored for their service and their sacrifice.”
He paused, and Jharan heard the voices of heralds echoing Shilonan’s words to the more distant companies. Beneath them a whisper sifted through the ranks.
Shilonan stepped to the second pyre, with Jharan and Felisan following. “Raethan, brother to Turon.”
He said a few words about the governor’s nextkin, then moved to the next pyre, and the next, naming each successor and praising their merits. Jharan stared at their faces, most unknown to him. He sought to fix them in his memory, to set this moment in his heart, never to be forgotten.
Delesan. Thilani. Virshan. Torithan. Rhivhari. Maronin.
Jharan paused by the last pyre, his eyes stinging. Maronin’s flesh lay in silent stillness, groomed to perfection. The tears Jharan had been unable to afford the previous day now sprang unchecked, flooding down his cheeks. They were mostly of grief for his friend and shield-brother, some small part relief that the battle was ended, and a tiny portion terror for what lay before him.
A warm hand clasped the back of his shoulder. Felisan, offering silent comfort. He, too, had laughed and drunk with Maronin, and fought beside him, but only occasionally. Jharan and Maronin had served together for the better part of two centuries.
“These valiant souls gave their lives on this field to protect Southfæld from the ravages of the kobalen hordes. You who stood with them know their courage, and saw them fall, along with the hundreds of others whom we mourn this day.”
Shilonan looked to Jharan, frowning slightly. Jharan wiped at his face, then found a kerchief pressed into his hand by Felisan. He used it to compose himself, conscious of the hundreds of guardians watching, and at last stepped forward to join Shilonan.
A faint smell of fire wafted on the evening breeze. Jharan saw torch bearers a short distance away, ready to come forward. The sun was almost touching the Ebons, its light all golden, setting the pyres aglow.
Shilonan raised his voice once more. “We honor the dead, and turn to the living for the future. Know all that Maronin’s nextkin, Jharan, survived the battle and stands here with us. Tomorrow evening in Glenhallow he will be invested as Governor of Southfæld.”
Shilonan caught Jharan’s eye and spoke gently. “Have you a few words to add?”
Jharan nodded, then swallowed, stepping forward. Having no plan, he must reach into his heart for what to say to his fellow guardians.
They were watchful. Waiting.
Jharan drew a deep breath, summoning his captain’s voice, the better to be heard. “Yesterday was a dark day for Southfæld, perhaps its darkest. All of us lost comrades on this field. We lost our kindred. We lost our friends.”
He glanced at Maronin’s pyre, his throat tightening. Angrily, he paused to brush away the threat of more tears. “We lost our governor, whose name will now be fixed in legend. Turon . . .”
He stopped, at a loss for words with which to praise his predecessor. A long moment passed as he sought for the right thing to say. Felisan shifted beside him. Panicked, Jharan spoke what was in his heart.
“Turon can never be replaced.”
He watched for the army’s reaction as he heard his words repeated by the heralds. They were listening; they had not yet decided.
“I have been called to follow him, and I shall serve Southfæld as best I am able. I ask your aid, your support, and your patience.”
Pausing again, he saw the guardians now talking quietly together. A ripple of motion ran through the ranks, accompanied by echoed cries of “patience.” In his own mind, his last words sounded like a plea. That was wrong; weak. He was here to show strength and confidence, not weakness. Turning to the creed that was the guide for his life, he tried again.
“Our creed tells us to walk many paths. This new path has been given me, and I shall follow it knowing that those who have gone before me have built a great foundation for this realm. Southfæld will recover!”
His shout quietened the guardians, who gazed at him once more. He could feel their anticipation, could almost see it glowing in the air.
“We have survived, thanks to the aid of our friends and kindred from Eastfæld and from Alpinon. We are gathered now to honor those who left us yesterday—warriors from both those realms as well as from Southfæld—before we move on to rebuild the land they gave their lives to defend. May their souls be welcome in the spirit realm, and may they suffer never more.”
A cheer arose, ragged at first, then swelling as the heralds repeated his words. Glancing at Shilonan, who gave a small nod, Jharan stepped back beside the steward.
When the noise had subsided, Shilonan gestured toward Felisan. “Our ally from Alpinon, Lord Felisan, governor-elect, has agreed to light the pyre.�
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Felisan stepped forward, accepting a lit torch. He stood gazing at Turon’s pyre for a moment, then spoke the formal words of release.
“O Ældar who watch over all ælvenkind, we ask that you welcome these our kindred as they rejoin the realm of spirit. Their lives will be remembered with honor and affection. What remains of their flesh, let it return now to light.”
He touched the torch to the pyre, and flames leapt up at once. Along the row the other torch bearers set the rest of the pyres alight, so that soon all were burning. Jharan felt a wave of heat and stepped back, even as Shilonan and Felisan did likewise.
The only sound was the battering of the flames against the evening air. Looking west, Jharan saw the last, curving gleam of the sun sinking behind the mountains. Cold filled his limbs despite the heat of the fire. This time tomorrow, he would be in Glenhallow, in the governor’s palace.
When all eight of the pyres were fully engulfed in flame, Shilonan signaled that they might depart. He led Jharan and Felisan away, toward the governor’s camp.
The slope seemed steeper now, or perhaps it was just weariness that weighed upon Jharan. His thoughts strayed, so that he was startled when his way was blocked by a guardian who stepped from the ranks.
“My lord governor?”
The guardian was female, her leather armor stained and dusty from the battle, her voice tight with anxiety. Jharan raised a hand to stay Shilonan, who was poised to intervene.
“Governor-elect.”
“You said we would rebuild. Better than half my village came to fight in this battle, and no more than a handful are left. We have not lost houses or holdings, but we are so few now that I fear we may be unable to sustain the village. Can you help us?”
Jharan drew a breath, about to tell her he could not say, but he hesitated. She needed reassurance. She was asking for an end to doubt. He rephrased his answer.
“No town or village in Southfæld will be allowed to suffer if its needs can possibly be met. Do you speak for your theyn?”
She shook her head, then glanced toward one of her comrades. “Rashonen is the theyn’s son.”
Rashonen took a shy step forward. On impulse, Jharan offered him an arm.
