by Pati Nagle
Jharan smiled back as the door closed behind them. Surani gave him an inquiring glance.
“A jest. Would you care to sit?”
“Thank you.”
Lorovon had already cleared away the used plates, and now fetched away the covered platters, leaving only the fruit bowl and an ewer of water. Jharan returned to his seat, and poured water for them both. Surani took the chair that had been Felisan’s, sipped from her goblet, then set it down.
“Shilonan has told you of the informal reception before your investiture?”
“Yes.”
“All of Turon’s circle will be there. You will of course be choosing your own counselors, but folk in certain positions should be retained as a courtesy. They are Shilonan, Lathranan, Mithrali, Giradon, and Kimoren—you will meet him this evening, he is the Warden of Learning—“
“And yourself.”
“Thank you, but my position is not of crucial importance to the realm.”
“I am not certain I agree.”
A slight flush came into her cheeks. Jharan could not help but smile, thinking she was prettier than he had recalled.
“There is also Aliari, who heads the Healing Hall. She is anxious to meet you.”
“And Kimoren, I gather, is not. Are the Warden of Learning and the Keeper of Lore close associates?”
She met his gaze. “Yes. Good friends as well.”
“So I have no hope of gaining Kimoren’s support.”
“He has pledged himself to aid Giradon.”
“I see. That is a pity. Learning is highly important to the health of the realm. I recall my own years of study with fondness and gratitude.”
Surani tilted her head. “Some consider it a matter of rote, a necessary part of child-rearing, but requiring little skill.”
“I disagree. Are not the halls of learning open to any who seek new interests?”
“Yes, but folk often go directly to a guild for such.”
“Guilds do not cover all subjects.”
A slight smile curved her lips. “Well, Kimoren may be glad to hear your position, but he has made a solemn pledge in support of Giradon.”
Jharan nodded. “Very well. He is lost to us, then. Who else?”
“Toshanan has also pledged to support Giradon. He heads the Scriveners’ Guild.”
“Another close associate.”
“Yes. Several others are undecided, and await the chance to meet you at the reception.”
Jharan turned his goblet by its stem, watching candlelight glint off the silver. “If I were Giradon, I would think such a gathering an excellent opportunity to make my bid for the governorship.”
Surani nodded. “So we hope. Better he should do so before the circle than before all Glenhallow.”
He raised his eyes to look at her. “Or the easier to effect a change, should that be desired.”
“It is not our desire. I speak for Shilonan and several others of the circle who consider you the rightful and best candidate for the governorship.”
“So Shilonan said.”
He held her gaze, seeking any trace of hesitation, but saw none. She returned his regard with steady patience. The warmth of her khi raised an answering tingle in his flesh. He glanced away and lifted his cup.
“Forgive me. I have been too long on the battlefield; it has made me wary.”
“Quite understandable. It is wise to be wary at court, also.”
“Perpetually wary? Is Hallowhall a home to deception?”
She smiled. “No. This is a rare situation. And I would not say that Lord Giradon is practicing deception. Nothing I have heard has gone quite so far. His suppositions have become broad, but they are not outright falsehoods. This ambition is not new, you see; he has long felt that his knowledge entitled him to a more important role.”
“More important than Keeper of Lore? I gather that is a vital duty.”
“But visible only to those in the court’s inner circles.”
“He craves fame.”
Surani nodded. “Turon was always able to keep him in check. I believe Giradon felt intimidated by him. He sees an opportunity in the misfortune of the governor’s death.”
Jharan fought against the frown this thought evoked. He wondered if Giradon truly would hesitate to violate the ælven creed, which called for honesty at all times, or if the temptation of seizing the governorship was too great.
Ironic, that Jharan should be fighting to retain an honor he had never desired. The creed was the cause of that, too. He had made a solemn vow, and it must be honored.
Surani folded her hands on the table. “Once you are invested you are far less likely to be challenged.”
“Has a governor-elect ever been challenged before? Or is that a question for the Keeper of Lore?”
She raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Fortunately, the Hall of Lore is open to any who wish to see the records. I visited there earlier today. There has not previously been such a challenge in Southfæld, but in Eastfæld three governors-elect have been challenged. In one case the new claimant was upheld.”
“On what grounds?”
“The previous governor had fallen out with her nextkin, but had not made a change before she died.”
“Died? In battle?”
“No, of shadow fever. It swept through Hollirued that winter and took many lives. The governor’s decline was so swift that her affairs were left unresolved.”
“Who was the successful challenger?”
“The head of the city’s guild council.”
He gazed at the candle on the hearth, thinking through all the officials he had met. Southfæld’s equivalent, the head of Glenhallow’s Guild Council, was Mithrali. With a grimace, he wondered if he should have accepted her offer of companionship after all, but as swiftly as the thought occurred he rejected it. Mixing his personal life with the governorship would be folly, and Mithrali did not appeal to him.
In any case, the comparison with Hollirued did not follow. The situation was different; there was no doubt about the succession in this case. Or was there?
He looked up at Surani. “How certain are you of my claim?”
She blinked. “It was verified at Skyruach.”
“But how many of the successors were recorded in writing? I know I was not, unless Maronin wrote of it to his kin. Would the Hall of Lore contain any records that might cast doubt upon who were Turon’s heirs?”
Her eyes widened. “I will inquire.”
She started to rise, but Jharan laid his hand over hers. “Send someone else. You have much to attend to, and you have already visited the Hall of Lore today.”
She was still for a long moment, gazing at him. He could feel her khi, quickened with alarm, through the back of her hand.
At last she nodded. Jharan withdrew his hand, surprised at his reluctance to do so. He was confident of Surani’s support, which made him inclined to depend upon her, but he must not lean on her too heavily.
“What more should I know before the reception?”
She glanced down, a slight frown of thought creasing her brow. “I believe we have covered everything.”
“Will you introduce me to those of Turon’s circle I have not met?”
“Shilonan will do so. He will lend you better credence.”
“But you will be there?”
She looked surprised. “Yes.”
“Good.”
He smiled, hoping she would sense his gratitude. She smiled back slightly, then rose and went to the door. Jharan followed.
“Is there some time before the reception begins?”
“A short while, yes.”
“I may walk in the fountain court, then.”
“Take Lorovon with you, please.”
An extraordinary request. It implied he was in some personal danger, here at Hallowhall. He frowned, speaking in a near whisper.
“You anticipate trouble?”
She shrugged. “You may wish to send for something, or have a mess
age carried. We prefer to be overcautious.”
She met his gaze, and the solemnity in her eyes belied the lightness of her words. If there was concern that Giradon might break the creed by deception, might he not also be willing to break it in more drastic ways? A sour taste filled Jharan’s mouth.
“I will be glad when this day is over.”
Surani gave a single nod. “So shall we all.”
He watched her out. Lorovon closed the door behind her, then met his gaze.
“In case you wondered, I would give my life to protect you.”
“You would die for a stranger?”
“For our governor-elect. I have more respect for customs of precedence than some who supposedly preserve them.”
Jharan had to smile. “Well, as a member of Southfæld’s Guard, I would do the same for you.”
Lorovon grinned. “Then if you care to walk among the fountains, we shall each defend the other.”
Jharan laughed. Lorovon reached for the door, but Jharan stayed him with a gesture and went back into the bedchamber, taking out a small dagger from his pack. He strapped its sheath to his forearm and pulled the sleeve down over it. Rising, he saw Lorovon watching from the doorway.
“A guardian is always prepared.”
Lorovon nodded, though his eyes were slightly wide. Together they went out, past the guardians and along the arcade to a stair that descended to the fountain court.
The sun was westering, but still well above the mountains. At the base of the stair a breeze wafted spray from the nearest fountain into Jharan’s face. He laughed softly, glad to be outdoors, though instinct made him glance along all the arcades of Hallowhall for hidden enemies. A kobalen’s dart was not likely to fly from there, but an arrow could.
That was the battle wariness. He did not really fear attack here, in the heart of Glenhallow. He did not think Giradon would go so far.
He smiled wryly as he strolled the pebbled path that wandered between the various fountains. Giradon did not think like a guardian. His attack would be one of manipulation.
Well, he would face that anon. For now, he sought solace in the beauty of Southfæld’s most celebrated garden.
The fountain court was the creation of many artisans, commissioned over the centuries by the governors to create works of wonder and ingenuity. Jharan did not know which governors had given which fountains to the court, save the most recent.
Turon’s contribution, the Whispering Walk, had taken a decade to create, and of the many wondrous fountains in the court it was the most striking: an arching corridor of water made up of hundreds of tiny fountains. Turon had conceived the idea and gone to the city’s guilds to implement it.
Jharan made his way to the center of the garden, where the Walk began, leading from there to a gateway that gave onto the orchards behind the palace. Even before he reached it, the hiss that had given the fountain its name tickled at his khi.
Water, especially moving water, disrupted khi and made it hard to read. Thus Jharan was two strides into the Walk before he realized it was occupied.
A handful of folk, plainly dressed, glanced up in surprise. Among them he recognized the Lady Nahali, Turon’s partner.
“Forgive me.” Dismayed at having intruded upon the grieving family, he hastened to back away.
“Wait.”
Lady Nahali, who had spoken, approached him as he paused in the entrance to the Walk. He bowed deeply as she came to stand before him.
“You are the governor-elect.”
He looked up at her, startled, as he straightened. Her stern eyes regarded him as though seeking to determine his worth.
“You were pointed out to me when you arrived. Jharan, yes?”
He nodded. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
Not knowing what else to say, he stood silent as she looked him over, observing her in turn. He had seen her at a distance many times; she was considered a beauty, and three centuries as a governor’s partner had left no mark upon her save a depth of wisdom in her gaze, and a slightly drawn look no doubt caused by her recent grief. The simplicity of her pale sage dress and veil—a token of grief, to wear no adornments—only accentuated her loveliness.
“You look forward to assuming the governorship.”
It was not phrased as a question, yet she held his gaze as if expecting an answer. Jharan replied in a low voice.
“Is that what you were told?”
Something shifted in her eyes, but he could not read her mood. The water flying over their heads distracted him.
“My lady, with all my heart I wish that Turon had not fallen. Or that one of the others between us had lived. Until yesterday I had no idea that this task could ever fall to me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You abhor it?”
He chose his words carefully. “It is my sworn duty, and in honor of Turon and all those who fell with him, I will do my utmost to serve Southfæld. I do not abhor it, my lady, but I did not seek it.”
She looked thoughtful, eyelids drooping slightly. “You know that there are others who desire it.”
“I know. I will hold to my duty. If I am judged the less fit to serve, so be it.”
“The loudest voices are not necessarily the best leaders.”
He could not help a small smile. “So I have learned in the Guard.”
Memories of his service arose unbidden—of the follies and quibbles of his fellow guardians, their grumblings, their loyalties. He knew the Guard better than any other part of Southfæld’s people. Lady Nahali must know far more than he of all the realm’s varied citizens.
“I would welcome your advice, my lady, but only if it would not add to your grief.”
A hint of surprise lightened her eyes, and her face softened. “I have no counsel for you. The challenges you face differ from my lord’s.”
“The first of them, certainly. Whatever follows I will do my best to meet. If I may be of service to you in any way—regardless of what passes this evening—I hope you will call upon me.”
He bowed with the words, and backed away. This time she did not attempt to keep him, though she watched him until the water wall of the Walk came between them.
He closed his eyes briefly, permitting himself a sigh. Though the fountains caused confusion in the air, he sensed one other’s khi nearby.
“Lorovon.”
“Yes, my lord?”
Jharan looked at him, but did not rebuke the formality. In the open, someone might hear; if not Lady Nahali, then some other. The fountain court was not a private place.
Jharan walked away, toward the north side of the gardens, and Lorovon followed. When they had put several trees and a hedge of holly between them and the Whispering Walk, Jharan paused.
“How badly did I err, just now?”
“I thought you expressed yourself well.”
“I mean intruding upon them. Will they be angry?”
Lorovon shook his head, and spoke quietly, so that Jharan had to step closer to hear him over the fountains. “Turon disliked political maneuverings, and his kindred shared his opinion. This challenge to your right is partly the result of the governor’s long holding Lord Giradon’s ambitions at bay.”
“That will remain a problem even if tonight goes well.”
Lorovon nodded. “Unless Giradon does something extremely foolish.”
“We can hope.”
Though Jharan had said it to himself, a smile of delight lit Lorovon’s face.
Jharan strolled on, following the nearest pathway, turning always away from the Whispering Walk. He scarcely glanced at the fountains, the statuary, the trees and beds of flowers so artfully kept. His thoughts were occupied anticipating the evening, wondering what Giradon might attempt.
If he could think of some honor to give the Keeper of Lore which would satisfy his need for fame, it might resolve the issue at least for a while. The difficulty was that he would not be in a position to bestow such honors
until he had bested Giradon’s attempt to supplant him.
Movement drew his gaze to the upper arcade of Hallowhall. Folk were gathering there, leaning on the balustrades, looking down into the fountain court. Awaiting the sunset perhaps? Though he himself had watched the sun set over the Ebons from that same arcade, he suspected another reason.
“Let us go inside, Lorovon. Lady Surani may be looking for us.”
The attendant nodded, and stepped slightly ahead of Jharan, leading him to the next turning and away down a small pathway that took them back toward the palace at once, rather than the meandering way Jharan would have gone if left to himself. Glancing back, he knew a sharp wish to be better acquainted with the gardens.
Lorovon led him up a winding interior stair and along a hallway that joined the arcade not far from the chambers Jharan was using. The guardians outside the door acknowledged him as they entered. Inside, Rinovon was laying out yet more clothing in the bedchamber. Jharan smiled, glad to see him.
“Your journey went smoothly, I see.”
Rinovon returned the smile briefly as he picked up a bundle of dark sage cloth and shook it out. “Yes, thank you. This robe has just arrived for you from the Weavers’ Hall. Appropriate for the reception, if it pleases you.”
Jharan gazed at the garment. It could be called plain only in relation to such attire as Giradon had displayed that day. The neckline, cuffs, and hem were trimmed with a narrow band of willow leaves in shades of green, glinting here and there with silver thread. The trim was woven, and could have been made long in advance, but the robe itself was cut to his measure, and when he allowed Rinovon to put it on him it fit as perfectly as the silver tunic and legs that now showed through at the cuffs and hem.
“And this is sent from the Metalworkers’ Hall.”
Rinovon picked up a slender fillet of silver from a shelf. It was scarcely larger than a heavy wire, but polished to a brightness that made Jharan suspect khi had gone into its making. He drew a sharp breath.
Rinovon glanced up at him. “It is—“
“New made.” Jharan nodded, humbled by the effort that was being put forth by complete strangers on his behalf. “Someone in the Metalworkers’ Guild spent all day creating this?”
