Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  Or so it had been thought. Jharan frowned, resolving to change this. Never again would Glenhallow be so near disaster. If he could achieve only one thing in his lifetime, it would be that.

  And he would do it whether he was governor or no. Glenhallow’s safety would be his goal from now on. He made the vow silently, in his heart, but it was no less a solemn vow.

  With it the shadow of worry lifted from his shoulders. It did not matter if the governor’s circle, or Glenhallow’s court, rejected him. He had found his life’s task.

  The road they were riding became the main avenue, flanked by the Guard’s two small barracks at the outskirts of the city. Passing between them, Jharan pledged to himself that no enemy would so easily enter Glenhallow.

  A handful of guardians stood round the barracks doorways, watching his escort ride by. Jharan saw one of them nudge another just as his horse passed.

  The people in the streets stopped what they were doing to turn and watch his progress. Some called their friends to come out and see the governor-elect. Tension gripped Jharan’s stomach, and he in turn gripped his reins, fighting not to show it. This was but the beginning.

  By the time he and his escort neared the public circle the avenue was lined with onlookers. They did not cheer; they whispered, and stared at Jharan with open curiosity. He tried to keep his gaze on the circle ahead, but a young male—a woodcrafter, by the looks of him—caught his eye and made a slight bow. Jharan nodded back, and saw a smile bloom on the crafter’s face.

  Would that the governor’s circle were so easily won. Jharan glanced down, reminding himself that what mattered was preserving Glenhallow. That was his goal. Being governor would help him attain it; not being governor would not deter him.

  Banners of Clan Greenglen’s colors were flying beside the silver falcon statue in the center of the public circle. His clan; and now he was to be the head of it.

  Wohiron led the cavalcade up to the statue, and Jharan saw that the dais that was used on festival days had been brought out and placed before the falcon. It stood empty, but in front of it were a handful of guardians and Lady Surani. Jharan’s heart lifted at the sight of her—she was one of whose support he was confident, and finding her awaiting him heartened him.

  The escort parted before the dais, riding to either side and taking up positions around the center of the circle. Jharan, Shilonan, and Felisan halted and dismounted before Surani, who smiled and stepped forward, then curtsied deeply.

  “Welcome, Lord Jharan. Hallowhall is at your service.”

  Jharan bowed in return. “I thank you, Lady Surani.”

  Rising, Surani led him into the palace. Shilonan and Felisan accompanied him, and some of the escort followed. Wohiron took no chances with his charge, it appeared, even in the heart of Glenhallow. Jharan resolved to discuss that with the captain, when opportunity allowed. Being constantly watched would drive him to distraction before long.

  He had been in Hallowhall many times. The palace was thrown open to the public on festival days, and he had always enjoyed visiting on such occasions. Never before had he felt intimidated by the grand spaces, the soaring dome over the rotunda, the elaborate mosaic of the floors, the wonders of artistry in the fountain court.

  Now he looked on them and thought of all the effort and resources that went into their creation, all the history that these halls had seen. It was too much to imagine himself in possession of this place; rather, he would be its caretaker for a time, if all went well. Hallowhall, like Glenhallow, belonged to the people of Southfæld.

  “Ah, here he is!”

  Jharan turned at the voice, and beheld a figure adorned with such splendor he almost failed to recognize that it was Giradon. The Keeper of Lore smiled as he bore down upon Jharan, his long formal robe of silverwoven cloth sweeping the polished floor behind him, gems glinting on its broad, embroidered borders. With him came another male; taller, slimmer, and dressed so plainly he almost seemed a rebuff to Giradon’s magnificence.

  “Lord Jharan.” Giradon seemed almost amused. “You arrive in good time. One hopes you did not exhaust your horse.”

  “We rode in easy stages. Well met again, Lord Giradon.”

  Returning the courtier’s smile with almost equal amusement, Jharan removed his riding gloves and offered to clasp arms. Giradon hesitated, but had little choice but to accept. He made the clasp brief, and turned to his companion.

  “Allow me to present Lord Varishan, Curator of Arts in Hallowhall.”

  Jharan bowed, growing sober. “I am sorry for your loss. Thilani fought gallantly.”

  Surprise flicked through Varishan’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  Jharan had in fact seen Thilani fall, but did not think mentioning this would comfort her partner. Varishan glanced away, brow furrowed with sudden pain, and Jharan doubted anything he said or did would be of comfort just now. He noted Giradon frowning as well, though likely for different reasons.

  Surani stepped forward. “A change of attire and a meal await your pleasure, Lord Jharan.”

  He nodded, glancing back at the others. “I shall look forward to knowing you better, Lord Varishan. Lord Giradon.”

  Surani led him up the sweeping stair to the gallery that overlooked the rotunda, and along it to the rear of the palace. He noticed belatedly that Shilonan and Felisan had gone another way, just catching sight of them over the balustrade as they walked down a corridor. Surani noticed his pause.

  “Lord Felisan has guest chambers here.”

  Jharan glanced at her, then nodded. He had known this. As a visiting dignitary, Felisan was often given rooms in the palace. Jharan had teased him about it in the past, claiming he was too important to carouse with mere guardians.

  Surani led him along an arcade of pillars, carved to resemble trees, that was open to the fountain court on one side. The hiss of the many fountains made Jharan long to go down and wander in the garden, but there was no leisure for it now.

  Wohiron and two of the governor’s guard followed them, the guardians taking up positions outside the door through which Surani led Jharan. Wohiron bowed in the doorway.

  “I will await your pleasure below, my lord.”

  Jharan wanted to dismiss him, but felt unsure of this instinct, so he merely nodded his thanks. He felt relief as the door closed, and walked over to a window. Pulling back the tapestry, he saw the arcade and a glimpse of the fountain court below. A guardian standing just outside the window glanced toward him at the movement. He let the tapestry fall.

  “This is not the governor’s chamber.”

  “No, my lord. I thought you would be more comfortable here, for now.”

  “Turon’s things must be cleared away and given to his kin.”

  Surani smiled. “Yes, that as well.”

  Even so, the room was more grand than any Jharan had occupied before. A table and ten chairs did not crowd the space. On the table stood three covered dishes and two ewers—one of water, one of wine—along with several silver goblets. Jharan poured water into one of the cups and drank deep.

  A vast fireplace stood clean of ash in this warm season, though a candle burned on the hearth. Two doors flanked this, and one of them now opened. Jharan looked up in surprise, thinking it was Rinovon who stepped out, but the voice differed.

  “The bath is ready.”

  “Good.” Surani turned to Jharan. “I will leave you to refresh yourself.”

  “Would you ask Felisan and Shilonan to join me in a short while?”

  She nodded. “Is there aught else I may bring you?”

  “Ah—my pack?”

  “It is within, my lord.” The male gestured toward the room he had come from.

  Jharan smiled at Surani. “You have everything in hand, I see.”

  She stepped toward the door. “I will return before evening to go over the schedule with you.”

  “Plans have not changed, then?” Jharan raised an eyebrow.

  Surani’s chin lifted, and a glint of defiance sh
one in her eyes before her lashes veiled them. “No. All is in train.”

  “I see. Thank you, Lady Surani.”

  She gazed steadily at him for a moment, then left. He wondered whether the plans for his investiture were as firmly in control as she implied. Giradon had not made his move yet, perhaps. Certainly he had intended to intimidate Jharan by greeting him in such grand state, before Jharan had the chance to brush away the journey’s dust. Jharan suspected his next attempt would be more subtle.

  He turned to the male awaiting him in the doorway to the inner chamber, and smiled. “Are you kin to Rinovon? I thought for a moment you were he.”

  “I am his son, Lorovon.”

  “Well met, then. Your father was a great comfort to me last night.”

  “I hope I may be as useful.” He stood aside, inviting Jharan into the chamber with a gesture, and Jharan saw that it was a bedchamber, sumptuously furnished. “May I assist you, my lord?”

  “Jharan, please.” Crossing to the copper tub half-filled with steaming water, Jharan tossed his gloves onto a chair, sat on another and began to pull off his boots. “You may tell me of Hallowhall. Do you serve here?”

  Lorovon hastened to help with the boots, and then with unbuckling Jharan’s leather armor. “I assist my father, and otherwise attend to the needs of the governor’s guests.”

  “That alone must keep you busy.”

  “Me and several others. Do you care for soap or oil?”

  “Soap. Something mild, please.”

  “I have balmleaf or winter sage.”

  “Balmleaf.”

  Jharan stripped, tossed his soiled undertunic and legs on top of his gloves, and stepped into the hot water with a hiss of pleasure. His head was aching; he had not noticed it before. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the tub. For a few moments he could relax, without worrying what anyone expected of him.

  The mild, green smell of balmleaf tickled his nostrils. Looking up, he saw Lorovon standing beside the tub with an open pottery jar in one hand and a scrub cloth in the other, gazing at him in surprise.

  “You are wounded!”

  Jharan glanced down at the gash along his ribs. “A scratch. The dart was almost spent when it reached me.”

  In truth, he had forgotten it, or rather become accustomed to the ache of it. The water now reawakened his discomfort. He had cleaned the wound as best he could in the field, then applied powdered dryleaf to it in lieu of bandages. The bath was softening the dryleaf, making the wound throb anew.

  Jharan sat up and took a fingerful of the soap from the jar Lorovon held. The attendant hastily offered the cloth. Jharan smeared the soap on it and began to wash himself.

  Odd, bathing in the company of a stranger. He had done so frequently while camping on patrol, but never within doors since his childhood.

  Fortunately, Lorovon was as unobtrusive as his parent. Jharan was able to ignore him for the most part, until somehow the cloth wound up in Lorovon’s hands—probably when Jharan set it aside to wash his hair—and he began scrubbing Jharan’s back, whereupon a thousand taut muscles made themselves known. Gripping the sides of the tub, Jharan leaned forward and stifled the urge to moan aloud as Lorovon’s deft hands rubbed away the tension. When he stopped, Jharan leaned back again, allowing himself a sigh.

  With eyes closed, he listened to the small sounds of Lorovon’s movements in the room. When the attendant spoke again it was from near the foot of the tub.

  “Some wine?”

  Jharan shook his head. “Not now. If I survive this evening.”

  Hot water poured into the tub, creating a pool of warmth that swirled up his legs. A moment later Lorovon began to rub his feet with the cloth. Jharan watched through slitted eyes, thinking of how easy it would be to become accustomed to such attentions. Distracted by them.

  “Do you find it fulfilling, serving here?”

  Lorovon glanced up with a slight smile, looking even more like his sire. “Father likes to say that to serve at Hallowhall is to serve the realm.”

  “I was thinking something rather like that myself, earlier today.”

  Lorovon’s smile widened. He scrubbed at the calluses on Jharan’s heels, then laid the cloth over the edge of the tub and turned away, tidying the chamber. Jharan saw that his soiled clothes, boots, and leathers were gone from where he had left them.

  The water was cooling, and the day was wearing on. He felt much more at ease, but knew he dared not remain idle. He sat up, cupping a handful of water and gingerly rinsing the last of the dryleaf from his wound.

  Lorovon returned with a large drying cloth. He held it up between them, and Jharan stood, allowing himself to be wrapped. The cloth was warm, as was the smaller cloth Lorovon handed him to dry his hair with.

  Jharan stepped out of the tub onto a small rug and rubbed himself down. Lorovon came forward with a narrow roll of clean cloth.

  “Shall I bandage that for you?”

  Jharan glanced down at the gash, now pink and red. “I suppose that would be wise.”

  The deftness with which Lorovon did so told Jharan this was not the first time he had bandaged a wound, and made him curious to know more of the attendant’s history. Lorovon tied off the bandage, then brought out an unfamiliar tunic and legs, of silver silk.

  “Those are not mine.”

  “They are new-made. My father sent your measure, and Lady Surani ordered a few things to be done up for you. We thought you should have some choices. Nothing elaborate, I fear.”

  “Good. Simple is good.”

  Jharan looked at the tunic and legs, thinking the cloth alone was richer than anything of his own, and doubly glad that he had accepted the bandage. Lorovon held the tunic up. It slid like a whisper over Jharan’s shoulders, settling perfectly.

  Rinovon must have measured his spare clothing the previous night, and given the information to Surani before she left the camp. These people thought well ahead. Jharan swallowed as he stepped into the silken legs that matched the tunic. He must learn to be as far-thinking.

  Lorovon handed him a comb and took away the drying cloths. As Jharan untangled his damp hair, he heard a knocking in the outer chamber. He turned toward the door, but Lorovon was already through it.

  The sound of Felisan’s voice brought him out into the front room. Shilonan was there as well, and both had changed their clothing. Lorovon returned to the bedchamber, taking the comb from Jharan’s hand as he passed.

  Felisan was already at the table, lifting the covers of the dishes. Jharan grinned as he joined his friend.

  “Hungry?”

  “Famished. The kitchens have done well by you, I see.”

  “Please, help yourself.”

  Felisan, who had already taken a leg of duck and bit into it, nodded. Jharan beckoned to Shilonan to join them, and they all made a hearty meal. None drank wine; the others seemed to share Jharan’s instinct to remain sharp-witted.

  When the edge was taken off their hunger, Shilonan chose a stonefruit from a bowl on the table and met Jharan’s gaze. “I have talked to most of the governor’s circle. Giradon arrived late last night, and has been busy since.”

  “Recruiting supporters?”

  “And attempting to discredit you. Two have promised to support him, five others are undecided. The rest seem inclined at least to offer you the chance to prove yourself.”

  “How am I to do that?”

  “Surani has arranged a gathering before sundown at which you can meet and talk informally with all the circle.”

  “I see. I am to stun them with my eloquence and brilliance.”

  “Showing them you are not straight out of the stable will suffice. Giradon has exaggerated too much, I think. He paints you as an inexperienced guardian.”

  “It is true.”

  “But not in the way he implies. To hear him talk, you have scarcely set foot among civilized folk.”

  Felisan smirked. “Well . . .”

  Jharan shot him a sidelong glare. “Tha
nk you, my friend. Hirion will be delighted to hear your opinion of him.”

  Shilonan’s brows rose. “Hirion?”

  Felisan broke into a grin. “Jharan has visited me often in Highstone, and supped at the governor’s table many times.”

  Jharan shook his head. “Not many times. Eight or ten, perhaps, in thrice as many years.“

  “Many times.” Felisan turned to Shilonan. “Is that useful?”

  “It could be, yes.” Shilonan nodded slowly. “A frequent guest at another governor’s table, even Alpinon’s—forgive me—“

  Felisan flapped an indifferent hand. “We are the unpolished younger realm. We are accustomed to it.”

  Shilonan smiled. “The realm that shields our heartlands from the kobalen. A useful reminder of Lord Jharan’s service. Yes, I think this association may well be helpful.”

  “If Felisan can guard his tongue for one evening.”

  Felisan glanced at Jharan, green eyes filled with mirth. Shilonan leaned back in his chair, watching them both.

  “You are long-time friends.”

  “Yes.”

  Jharan gazed at Felisan, remembering the past few harrowing days, and felt a swell of gratitude for his friendship. Felisan seemed to sense his mood, for one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile that was no longer foolish.

  At such times Jharan treasured his dearest friend. In younger days they had sought to communicate by mindspeech, and though they had never achieved that rare gift, moments like this seemed to bring them close to it.

  A soft knock on the door made Jharan turn his head. Lorovon was already at the door—where had he been waiting?—and opened it to admit Lady Surani.

  She smiled. “Forgive me, gentles, but the day wears on.”

  “Quite right.” Shilonan stood and turned to her. “We have just finished.”

  Jharan stood as well. “Thank you for an excellent repast, my lady.”

  Surani smiled. “I am glad you enjoyed it. May I go over our plans for the evening with you?”

  “Please do.”

  Shilonan moved toward the door. “We will leave you. My lord Felisan?”

  Felisan took a last stonefruit from the bowl and shot a grin at Jharan as he followed Shilonan out. “Off to scout the enemy’s position.”