by Pati Nagle
“I believe it was begun yestereve.”
He held it out to Jharan, who accepted it with a degree of reverence. A fillet was a symbol of rank, worn only by those considered lords and ladies of the realm. Such an honor was most often earned by means of service in positions of high responsibility. Jharan had inherited the honor; in his case, the responsibility lay ahead.
As the band of silver lay across his palms, he felt a slight tingle in them. Yes, there was khi embedded into the fillet by its maker. Such workings were often called blessings. He closed his eyes, seeking to understand the nature of the gift. A sense of calm filled him. Blessing enough.
“Put the thing on, Jharan. The reception is about to begin.”
Jharan glanced toward the doorway where Felisan stood watching him with a wry smile. His friend had donned better clothing as well, and a fillet.
Jharan turned to Rinovon. “Please convey my thanks to the Metalworkers’ Hall and the Weavers’ Hall.”
The attendant nodded. Jharan lifted the fillet, paused while Lorovon ran a comb through his hair, and settled the silver around his head. It fit perfectly, tingling slightly where it crossed his brow.
Shilonan came in, slipping past Felisan in the doorway. “Is he ready? Ah, yes. That will do very well.”
The steward’s robe seemed white at a glance, but when he moved it glistened, and Jharan saw that it was woven in pale shades of sage and silver. Hints of silverweave accentuated the subtle patterns of the cloth. Quiet in its elaborateness, Jharan found it the more impressive.
Shilonan gestured for Jharan to join him. Jharan followed him into the front room, with Felisan close behind.
“Where is Surani?”
“In the lesser audience chamber, greeting the arrivals. Have you seen the room?”
Jharan shook his head. “I have only walked through Hallowhall on feast days.”
Shilonan took his arm, guiding him toward the door. “You will have seen the grand audience chamber, then. The lesser is used more for intimate events.”
Strangely uncomforted by this, Jharan looked over his shoulder at Felisan, who grinned. They left the room, and two of the guardians standing outside preceded them to the arcade.
The sun slanted in golden beams across the tops of the Ebons. The fountain court below was already in shadow. Evening had arrived; the investiture was near. Jharan felt unready, but he pushed the thought away. He could not afford to show hesitation. Even if he had known he stood in line for the governorship, he would not have been ready.
He glanced at the light on the mountaintops, thinking of Turon, newly returned to the light, to the spirit realm. Jharan silently wished him well.
The guardians turned along the arcade toward the center of Hallowhall, and as Jharan followed with Shilonan, he saw that the passage was lined with people, finely dressed, watching. He glanced at Shilonan, then spoke in a whisper.
“Who are they all? Has the palace been thrown open?”
Shilonan gave a slight shake of his head. “They all have reason to be here; most have duties at Hallowhall.” He nodded to one of the bystanders.
Jharan’s glance fell across a female, tall and lithe, who dipped a curtsy as he came near. He smiled back, and heard a ripple of whispering behind him, like the restless murmur of the fountains below. What speculations had he created with a simple smile? He kept his gaze forward thereafter.
The arcade gave into a short passage to Hallowhall’s central rotunda. More folk were gathered here, along the balustrade and on the floor below. Felisan came abreast with Jharan and Shilonan as they followed the guardians down the broad staircase, and shot a sly glance at Jharan.
“They are already captivated, and you have not uttered a word!”
Jharan glanced back, maintaining his silence, and Felisan laughed. As they reached the rotunda’s floor, the folk crowding it fell back, giving them room to cross. The guardians led them into a passage on the far side and followed it to a double doorway on the left, which was thrown open by two waiting attendants.
Music flowed forth, but the musicians were hidden by the wall of the room, which curved away in a long, graceful arc, adorned with tapestries. Jharan wished he had leisure to study them, for the work was magnificent, but Shilonan led him at once to a small cluster of folk standing beside a table laid with platters of food—morsels so elaborate that each was a tiny work of art.
Conversation ceased, and faces turned toward him, speculative and curious. All of the advisors were dressed more elaborately than Jharan. He recognized two of them from the previous evening, and nodded to both, grasping for their names. Shilonan stepped forward with a formal gesture.
“Lord Jharan, allow me to present to you these members of Governor Turon’s circle. Lady Phimori, of the Growers’ Guild, Lord Toshanan of the Scriveners’ Guild, Lord Davian and Lord Rosaran you have met—“
Jharan clasped their arms in turn and nodded, smiling, to the two he had recognized. He recited the other names to himself, striving to pin them to the faces in his memory. Rephanin’s name he knew, though he had never met the magelord. For one with such a colorful reputation, the magelord was surprisingly subdued. His black hair and blue eyes proclaimed his origin in Eastfæld’s Clan Ælvanen, to which he still claimed allegiance. He bowed to Jharan but said nothing.
“—and Lady Ohlani, of the Weavers’ Guild.”
Ohlani, radiant in a gown of deep sage, was so heavy with child that Jharan was surprised she had attended the gathering. He smiled as he nodded to her, and brushed a hand along the cuff of his sleeve.
“I much admire the work of the Weavers’ Hall.”
She smiled back, lowering her eyelids as she accepted his offer to clasp arms. Her khi was vibrant, warm and attractive. Jharan released her and turned to the others.
“Well met, all of you. I look forward to learning more of your work.”
Toshanan’s gaze narrowed and his lips thinned in a mirthless smile. Jharan wondered if the scrivener had read ignorance into his words. He had no chance to prove otherwise, for Shilonan led him on to the next group of folk, near a table that bore a fountain flowing with wine. Jharan smelled it, wanted it, and did his best to ignore it as he listened to Shilonan’s introductions.
This group included Varishan, whom he had met upon his arrival—again dressed in the severity of mourning—and Kimoren, the Warden of Learning. Jharan took an instant liking to Kimoren, who was slight of stature and spoke so quietly he almost seemed afraid. It was not fear, though; Jharan could tell that from his khi as they clasped arms. Kimoren reminded him of a cousin of his who disliked drawing attention to herself. Shyness and fear were different.
“I am glad to meet the Warden of Learning. I shall want your help, I imagine.”
A flash of alarm went through Kimoren’s eyes, and he glanced past Jharan. Jharan sensed the khi of someone approaching. He leaned closer to Kimoren and whispered.
“One way or another.”
Kimoren’s brows flew upward and his face contorted as he struggled against a smile. He kept his countenance, but the smile lit his eyes before he glanced away.
Jharan turned. “Ah, Giradon! Another familiar face. Well met.”
He offered his arm, wondering if Giradon would choose that moment to challenge him. Apparently the Keeper of Lore thought it better to delay; he clasped Jharan’s arm as briefly as possible, then greeted Varishan, all solicitude.
“How tedious for you to be called out for formalities at this sad time.”
Varishan regarded him coolly. “I consider it important.”
Jharan felt a nudge at his elbow and turned to see Felisan beside him, holding two goblets. He handed one to Jharan, who raised it to his nose. Tiny, sweet-smelling flowers floated on the surface. Jharan tasted the liquid, found it to be water, and gave Felisan a grateful glance. Felisan smiled and lifted his own cup in silent salutation.
Shilonan beckoned, and Jharan followed him farther into the room. As they rounded the curve th
e minstrels came into view, playing in a far corner, and Jharan saw that it was Felisan’s group of musical guardians. He smiled, glad of their presence, pleased by the quality of their play. He had no notion whether it was good enough for the denizens of Hallowhall, but it was good enough for him.
“Lord Jharan, permit me to introduce Lady Aliari, Mistress of our Healing Hall here in Glenhallow.”
Jharan turned to behold a female of striking beauty, rather stern, dressed more simply than anyone in the chamber save Varishan. Her pale hair was braided and bound around her head in a coronet. Jharan bowed and offered his arm.
“Allow me to thank you on behalf of the Guard. We are deeply grateful to the Healing Hall for the aid they sent to Skyruach.”
Aliari nodded, clasping arms. “Five more healers traveled there today.”
“They will no doubt be busy for a while.”
“I hear the battle was terrible.”
Jharan fought down the memories that threatened to rise. He answered through a tightened throat.
“The worst I have seen, certainly.”
“How fortunate that you were untouched.”
Aliari glanced in surprise at Giradon, who had spoken as he sidled up beside her. He smiled at Jharan, lids low over his eyes.
Anger at what he was sure was intended to insult him froze Jharan’s tongue. Before he could think of a fitting reply Shilonan appeared at his side, raising his brows.
“But he was not untouched. The attendant who bathed him informs me he bears a recent wound.” Shilonan turned to Jharan. “I wish you had told me; you must have been uncomfortable, riding here so quickly.”
Jharan felt his cheeks reddening. “It is not so serious.”
Aliari raised her hands, palms toward him, and swept them downward from his head, bringing them to rest directly over his wound. He drew a sharp breath at the strong tingle of her khi. She held her hands there for a moment, gazing into some unseen distance, then looked up at him.
“A light wound, but I doubt it is comfortable. Come to the Healing Hall tomorrow and I will see to it.”
Jharan bit back a protest and bowed instead. “That is kind of you. Thank you.”
“You are wounded?”
“How did it happen?”
“Was it at Skyruach?”
Jharan gazed at the advisors who had crowded near, their faces curious. Felisan spoke before he had the chance.
“Yes, at Skyruach. We were atop the rock with fifty guardians—or what remained of fifty—and the kobalen were flinging darts up at us on all sides. Jharan caught one in the ribs.”
“A glance from a spent dart. Nothing for concern.” Jharan looked sidelong at Felisan, wishing he would change the subject.
Felisan grinned and turned to Giradon. “I am the one you should congratulate, Lord Giradon. I came down from the rock unscathed.”
“The spirits have blessed you.” Giradon’s smile soured a little as he turned away.
“So you were in the thick of the battle. What was it like?”
Jharan tried to recall the name of the advisor who asked—a female, head of one of the Guilds, he could not remember which—but her eager eyes urged an answer.
“Terrifying. We were badly outnumbered and fully expected to be killed.”
“How did you survive?”
“Eastfæld’s arrival turned the battle. If not for them . . .”
He left unsaid the thoughts that followed: the entire Guard slain, kobalen overrunning Glenhallow. These folk had no notion what they had escaped so narrowly.
“We owe deep gratitude to Eastfæld for coming to our aid.” Jharan turned to Shilonan. “Was their commander invited here?”
“I believe so. Lady Surani would know.”
Jharan glanced around the room, looking for Surani. He spied her beside another table of food, talking to two advisors. He would have gone to her, but between them and coming toward him was Mithrali.
The Mistress of Glenhallow’s Guilds was adorned with great splendor, her robe glistening with beads of crystal, a fillet of braided silver set with polished stones about her brow. Her eyes gleamed as she came up to Jharan.
“Lady Mithrali. Well met.”
“Good evening, Lord Jharan.” The careful emphasis she placed on his title made him wary. Did she stand with him, or with Giradon?
“I have had the pleasure of meeting many of your circle.” He nodded toward the nearest advisor.
Mithrali smiled. “All very confusing, no doubt, but never mind. We are glad you are here.”
He bowed, noting the ambiguity of the remark. “I am glad to be here.”
“Yes, the alternative is most depressing. Battlefields are ugly places.” Felisan offered his arm to Mithrali, who clasped it lightly. “No doubt you are glad to be away from it yourself.”
Her smile was unenthusiastic. Felisan seemed not to notice; his gaze shifted as he continued.
“As must be many of the governor’s circle. I was surprised how many came to Skyruach. It must have been very uncomfortable for you.”
Giradon, whom he had addressed, narrowed his eyes. “As strange for us as Hallowhall must be for Lord Jharan.”
“Oh, it is not so strange to him. He has supped with me at Governor Hirion’s table many a time.”
Aware that more of the advisors were gathering around him, Jharan made himself smile. How he hated this posturing! He saw that Surani had joined the group and strove to catch her eye.
“Hirion’s table is excellent, but it cannot compare with the artistry of this repast. Lady Surani, you have created a delightful event in a very short time. I thank you.”
She smiled and bowed slightly, averting her gaze. Jharan wondered if he had somehow offended her, but with all of Turon’s advisors watching he dared not press her. He looked to them instead.
“And my thanks to all of you, for greeting me in advance of this evening’s formalities. I look forward to a better acquaintance with each of you. As governor, I know I will want advice, and I shall come to many of you for your learning and experience.”
He met Giradon’s gaze as he said this. He was weary of the game and wished for the challenge to come. Giradon gazed back, his expression bland.
“Perhaps what Southfæld needs is a governor who has learning and experience of his own.”
It was Mithrali who spoke. Jharan faced her as a murmur went through the gathering. Felisan dropped her arm and stepped away. She glanced at Giradon, and Jharan saw the Keeper of Lore’s slight smile.
So. Mithrali had cast her influence behind Giradon. He showed more receptivity to her charms, perhaps. Had she pledged her support in his bed?
Jharan discarded these speculations as unworthy and irrelevant. He saw Shilonan about to speak and stayed him with a small gesture.
“Any governor would be wise to draw upon the talents of these good folk. No one soul can know everything necessary to govern a realm such as Southfæld. If it were possible, Turon would not have made you all part of his circle.”
Giradon seemed to draw himself up. Toshanan stepped forward.
“That may be, but in this troubled time we need a leader who is familiar with the mores of governance. Giradon has served at Hallowhall these five centuries.”
Mithrali nodded. “Since before Turon’s tenure.”
Shilonan turned to her. “What Toshanan called this troubled time seems to me to require a leader who understands our enemies. Lord Jharan was at Skyruach from the start of the battle.”
“And if there is another battle, will we again lose our governor on the field?”
“Spirits grant that we do not.”
Jharan, watching Giradon, saw him direct a heavy glance toward Kimoren. The Warden of Leaning looked at Jharan with regret, then spoke.
“I propose Lord Giradon as governor.”
His voice lacked enthusiasm, but Giradon appeared unconcerned. He stepped forward, standing exactly across from Jharan, though ignoring him. A ring of space had opened
between them, with Mithrali, Shilonan, and Toshanan around it. Giradon made a grand gesture.
“You honor me. I would endeavor to serve well.”
Shilonan raised a haughty brow. “Lord Jharan is governor-elect by right. His claim was proved on the field at Skyruach.”
Giradon donned a mournful face. “That tragedy took too many claimants from us. Half of them had no idea of their standing; Jharan certainly had none.”
Jharan took a deep breath, keeping his rising anger in check. “That is true, but it does not change my duty as nextkin to Maronin.”
He glanced at Surani, wondering if she had sent someone to the Hall of Lore, and whether they had found anything. She gave a slight shake of her head.
Toshanan persisted. “Jharan is unprepared for the burdens of governing. In Eastfæld ill-suited governors-elect have been challenged, and the task given to more appropriate candidates. There is no reason why this circle may not choose to recommend whom they see most fit for the governorship.”
Surani raised her voice. “The circle may certainly recommend another—though Lord Toshanan may have forgotten that only once has Eastfæld accepted such a change—but the final decision would fall to all of Clan Greenglen. We would have to send couriers to every town and village, to learn their choices. It would take at least a season, more likely a year.”
Jharan thought of the guardians from the village—had they told him its name?—who had asked his help. They needed it now, not a season hence.
“This is an ill time for such delay. Too many pressing problems lie before us. Give me my rightful place, and if I am found wanting—”
“Yes, we have the rightful governor here.” Shilonan laid a hand on Jharan’s shoulder. “Let him show his worth.”
Giradon’s face darkened, and he looked toward Varishan, plainly expecting support. Jharan pressed his lips together. How many of the circle had Giradon recruited?
Davion walked to Giradon’s side of the circle, declaring his allegiance. In dismay, Jharan watched Phimori do the same. The circle was shifting, becoming two opposing lines, and they were nearly even. Jharan looked over their faces and realized Lathranan was not present. The commander had stayed late at Skyruach, coping with the aftermath of the battle. Though he had promised to come to Glenhallow, Jharan knew that he could not rely upon Lathranan’s arriving in time. He would have to do without his support.
