“Me? But—”
“If he is of the mind to undermine your authority, this is one way of it,” Alberich added quietly, hands clasped thoughtfully over one knee. “To chip away at those supporting you until they are so entangled in their own misfortune that they can spare no time for helping you.”
“I see what you’re getting at, now. He’s removing my support in such a way that I’m set off-balance. Then, when I’m in a particularly delicate position, give me a little shove—” Talia flicked out a finger, “—and with no one to advise me or give me backing, I vacillate, or start making mistakes. And all the things he’s been whispering about my not being quite up to the job look like something more than an old man’s mistrust of the young. I thought you didn’t deal with Court politics…” She smiled wanly at her instructor.
“I said I do not play the game; I never said I did not know how the game was played.” His mouth turned up a little at one corner. “Be advised, however, that I have never told anyone of my suspicions because I seemed to be alone in them—and I did not intend to give Lord Orthallen a reason to gaze in my direction. It is difficult enough being from Karse—without earning high-placed enemies.”
Talia nodded with sympathy. It had been hard enough on her during her first years at the Collegium. She could hardly imagine what it had been like for someone hailing from the land that was Valdemar’s traditional enemy.
“Now I do think he has miscalculated, perhaps to his eventual grief. It is that he has badly underestimated the unity of the Circle, I think, or it is that he cannot understand it. Among the courtiers, such a falling out as is between Kris and Dirk would be permanent—and woe betide she caught between them!”
Talia sighed. “I know they’ll make up eventually—Lord of Lights, though, I’m not sure I can deal with the emotional lightnings and thunders till they do! Why couldn’t Ahrodie and Tantris get their hooves into this and straighten it out?”
“Why do you not?” Alberich retorted. “They are our Companions and friends, delinda, not our overseers. They leave our personal lives to ourselves, nor would any of us thank them for interfering. Yes, they will most probably be whispering sensible things into their Chosen’s minds, but you know well they will not force either of the two into anything.”
She sighed wistfully. “If I were a little less ethical, I’d fix both of them.”
“If you were a little less ethical, you would not have been Chosen,” Alberich pointed out. “Now, since the anger is gone, shall we return to the exercise of the body in place of the tongue?”
“Do I have a choice?” Talia asked, as she rose from her place on the bench.
“No, delinda, you do not—so guard yourself!”
* * *
Elspeth had encountered Orthallen during one of her rare moments of leisure; she was dawdling a bit on her way back to her suite in the Palace to dress for dinner with the Court. She took dinner with the Court once a week—”to remind everyone” (in her own wry words) “that they still have a Heir.”
She was standing before an open second-story window; some of the gardens were directly below her. She was wearing a rather wistful expression and hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the corridor with her until Orthallen touched her elbow.
She jumped and started back (one hand brushing a hidden dagger) when she realized who it was and relaxed.
“Havens, Lord-Un—Lord Orthallen, you startled me out of a year’s life!”
“I most sincerely hope not,” he replied, “But I do wish you would continue to call me ‘Lord-Uncle’ as you started to. Surely now that you’re nearly through your studies you aren’t going to become formal with me!”
“All right, Lord-Uncle, since you ask it. Just remember to defend me for my impudence when Mother takes me to task for it!” Elspeth grinned, and leaned back on the window-frame a little.
“Now what is it that you were watching with such a long face?” he asked lightly, coming close enough to look out of the window himself.
Below the window were some of the Palace gardens; in the gardens a half-dozen couples—children of courtiers or courtiers themselves—ranging from Elspeth’s age upward to twenty or so. They were involved in the usual sorts of activities that might be expected from a group of adolescents in a sunny garden in the spring. One couple was engaged in a mock-game of “tag,” one girl was embroidering while her gallant read to her, two maids were giggling and gasping at the antics of two lads balancing on the basin of a fountain, one young gentleman was peacefully asleep with his head in the lap of his chosen lady, two couples were simply strolling hand in hand.
Elspeth sighed.
“And why aren’t you down there, my lady?” Orthallen asked quietly.
“Havens, Lord-Uncle, where would I get the time?” Elspeth’s reply was impatient and a touch self-pitying. “Between my classes and everything else—besides, I don’t know any boys, at least not well. Well, there’s Skif, but he’s busy chasing Nerrissa. Besides, he’s even older than Talia.”
“You don’t know any young men—when half the swains of the Court are near dying just to speak to you?” Orthallen’s expression of incredulity held as much of bitter as playful mockery, though Elspeth was so used to his manners that she hardly noted it.
“Well, if they’re near-dying, nobody told me about it, and nobody’s bothered to introduce us.”
“If that’s all that’s lacking, I will be happy to make the introductions. Seriously, Elspeth, you are spending far too much of your time among the Heralds and Heraldic Students. Heralds make up only a very small part of Valdemar, my dear. You need to get to know your courtiers better, particularly those of your own age. Who knows? You may one day wish to choose a consort from among them. You can hardly do that if you don’t know any of them.”
“You have a point, Lord-Uncle,” Elspeth mused, taking another wistful glance out the window, “But when am I going to find the time?”
“Surely you have an hour or two in the evenings?”
“Well, yes, usually.”
“There’s your answer.”
Elspeth smiled. “Lord-Uncle, you’re almost as good at solving problems as Talia!”
Her face fell a trifle then, and Orthallen’s right eyebrow rose as he took note of her expression.
“Is there some problem with Talia?”
“Only—only that there’s only one of her. Mother needs her more than I do, I know that—but—I wish I could talk to her the way I used to when she was still a student. She doesn’t have the time anymore.”
“You could talk to me,” Orthallen pointed out. “Besides, Talia’s first loyalty is to your mother; she might feel obliged to tell her what you confided in her.”
Elspeth did not reply to this, but his words made her very thoughtful.
“At any rate, we were speaking of those young gentlemen who are perishing to make your acquaintance. Would you care to meet some of them tonight, after dinner? In the garden by the fountain, for instance?”
Elspeth blushed and her eyes sparkled. “I’d love to!”
“Then,” Orthallen made her a sweeping bow, “it shall be as my lady commands.”
* * *
Elspeth thought a great deal about that conversation as she sat through dinner. On the one hand, she trusted Talia; on the other, if there were a conflict of loyalties there was no doubt who her first allegiance was due. She hadn’t thought about it before—but the idea of her mother knowing everything about her wasn’t a comfortable one.
Especially since Selenay didn’t appear to be taking Elspeth’s maturity very seriously.
But Elspeth had gained inches since Talia had gone—and with the inches, a woman’s curves. She was taking more care with her appearance; she’d seen the glances given some of her older friends by the young males of the Collegium and recently those glances had seemed very desirable things to collect. She found that lately she was looking to the young men of Collegium and Court with an eye less bemused and more
calculating. And to the eyes of a stranger—
She’d looked at herself in her mirror before dinner, trying to appraise what she saw there. Lithe, taller than Talia by half a head, wavy sable hair and velvety brown eyes—the body of a young goddess, if certain people were to be believed, and the look of one more than ready to know more of life—yes. There was no doubt that to a stranger, she looked more than ready to be thinking about wedding or bedding, certainly old enough by the standards of the Court.
Or so Elspeth thought, setting her chin stubbornly. Well, if her mother wouldn’t see on her own that Elspeth was quite fully grown now, perhaps there were ways to bring that knowledge home to her.
And, she thought, catching sight of Lord Orthallen among a group of quite fascinating-looking young men, it just might be rather exciting as well…
5
The weather, which had briefly taken a turn for the better, soured again. Talia’s mood was none too sweet either.
The rains returned, and with them, spoiled tempers among the Councilors. Again Talia found herself spending as much time intervening in personal quarrels as helping to make decisions. Orthallen, strangely enough, seemed content now to let her alone. He brooded down at his end of the Council table like some huge white owl, face blank and inscrutable, pondering mysterious thoughts of his own. This alarmed her more than it reassured her. She took to examining every word she intended to say, and weighing it against all the possible ways Orthallen might be able to use what she said against her at some later date.
Dirk split his free time either lurking in her vicinity or hiding out in the wet. The one was as frustrating as the other. Either she didn’t see him at all, or she saw him but couldn’t get near him. For whenever she tried to approach him, he turned pale, looked around—wearing a frantic expression—for the nearest exit, and escaped with whatever haste was seemly. He seemed to have a sixth sense for when she was trying to catch him; she couldn’t even trap him in his rooms. Either that, or he somehow knew when she was at the door, and pretended he wasn’t there.
Kris all but hibernated in his room. And Talia was determined not to see him until he apologized for what he’d said to her. While their quarrel of itself was of no great moment, she was tired to death of having to justify her feelings about his uncle. After her little talk with Alberich, she was certain—with a surety that came all too seldom—that in the case of Orthallen she was entirely in the right, and he was entirely in the wrong. And this time she was going to hold out until he acknowledged the fact!
Meanwhile she made up for the absence of both of them by trying to be everywhere at once.
She was shorting herself of sleep to do so, and still felt there was much she wasn’t doing. But there was just so much work; Selenay had asked her to take on the interviews of petitioners from the flooded areas, Devan needed her with three profoundly depressed patients, and there were all those quarrels among the Councilors.
It was with heartfelt gratitude that she found the sessions with Destria going well; Vostel’s arrival put the cap on their success. It was plain to Talia that his reaction to Destria’s appearance comforted her immensely. It helped that he regarded her scars as badges of honor and told her so in as many words. And as Rynee had thought, he was of tremendous aid when they began Destria’s rehabilitative therapy—for he had gone through all this himself. He coaxed her when she faltered, bolstered her courage when it ran out, goaded her when she turned sulky, and held her when she wept with pain. He was doing so much for her that she needed Talia’s Gift less with every day.
Which was just as well, for Selenay needed it the more. As soon as one crisis was solved, another sprang up like a noxious weed, and Selenay’s resources were wearing thin. And when some of the choices she made turned out to be the wrong ones—as, soon or late, happened—Talia found herself exercising her good sense and Gift to the utmost.
* * *
A drenched and mud-splattered messenger from Herald Patris stood before the Council; when the door-Guard had learned his news, he’d interrupted the session to bring him there himself.
“Majesty,” the man said, with a blank expression that Talia found very disconcerting, and which made her very uneasy, “Herald Patris sends this to tell you that the outlaws are no more.”
He held out a sealed message pouch as those at the Council board erupted in cheers and congratulations. Only the Queen, Kyril, and Selenay did not join in the rejoicing. There was something about the messenger’s expression that told them there was much he had not said.
Selenay opened the message and scanned it, the blood draining from her face as she did so.
“Goddess—” the parchment sheet fell from her nerveless fingers, and Talia caught it. The Queen covered her face with trembling hands, as the tumult around the Council table died into absolute silence.
Her Councilors stared at their monarch, and at an equally pale Queen’s Own, as Talia read Patris’ grim words in a voice that shook.
“‘We ran the brigands to earth, but by the time they were brought to bay, the temper of the Guard was fully aroused. We cornered them at their own camp, a valley overlooked by Darkfell Peak. It was then that they made the mistake of killing the envoy sent to parley. At that point the Guard declared “no quarter.” They went mad—that is the only way I can describe it. They were no longer rational men; they were blood-mad berserkers. Perhaps it was being out here too long, chasing phantoms—perhaps the foul weather—I do not know. It was hideous. Nothing I or anyone else could say or do was able to curb them. They fell on the encampment—and the outlaws were slaughtered to the last man.’”
Talia took a deep breath, and continued. “ ‘It was not just the outlaws themselves; the Guard slew every living thing in their bolt-hole, be it man, woman, or beast. But that was not the worst of the horrors, though that was horror enough. Among the dead—’”
Talia’s voice failed, then, and Kyril took the message from her, and continued in a hoarse half-whisper.
“‘Among the dead were the very children we had hoped to save. All—all of them, dead. Slain by their captors when it became obvious that they would get no mercy from the Guard.’”
The Councilors stared in dumb shock, as Selenay wept without shame.
* * *
Selenay blamed herself for not replacing the Guard companies with fresher troops or for not sending someone who could have controlled the weary Guardsmen no matter what strain the troops were under.
Nor was the murder of the children the only tragedy, although it was the greatest. Vital intelligence had been lost in that slaughter—who their leader had been, and whether or not he had been acting under orders from outside the Kingdom.
It took days before Selenay was anything like her normal self.
The one blessing, so far as Talia was concerned, was that Orthallen exercised a little good sense and chose to back down on his militant stance for more local autonomy; just as well, for Lady Kester’s people began having the expected troubles with pirates and coastal raiders, and the promised troops had to be shifted to the West. But before they could reach their deployments, Herald Nathen was seriously hurt leading the fisherfolk in beating off a slaving raid.
And that opened up another wonder-chest of troubles.
* * *
Nathen himself came before them, although the Healers protested that he was not yet well enough to do so. He was a sharp-featured man, not old, but no longer young; brown-haired, brown-eyed—quite unremarkable except for the intensity in those eyes, and an anger that kept him going when nothing else was left to him. He sat, rather than stood, facing the entire Council. He was heavily bandaged, with his arm bound against his side, and still physically so weak he could scarcely speak above a whisper.
“My ladies, my lords—” he coughed, “—I did not dare trust this to anyone but myself. Messengers can be waylaid, documents purloined—”
“My lord Herald,” Gartheser said smoothly, “I think you may be overreacting. Your injur
ies…”
“Did not cause me to hallucinate what I heard,” Nathan snapped, his anger giving him a burst of strength. “We captured a prisoner, Councilors; I interrogated him myself under Truth Spell before I was hurt. The brigands are serving those slavers we thought banished!”
“What?” Lady Cathan choked out, as she half-stood, then collapsed back into her seat.
“There is worse. The slave-traders are not working unaided. I have it by my prisoner’s confession and by written proofs that they have been aided and abetted by Lord Geoffery of Helmscarp, Lord Nestor of Laverin, Lord Tavis of Brengard, and TradeGuildsmen Osten Deveral, Jerard Stonesmith, Petar Ringwright, and Igan Horstfel.”
He sank back into his own chair, eyes still burning with controlled rage, as the Council erupted into accusation and counter-accusation.
“How could this have occurred without your knowledge, Cathan?” Gartheser demanded. “By the gods, I begin to wonder just how assiduous you were in rooting out the last lot—”
“You were right up there in the front ranks to accuse me the last time, Gartheser,” Cathan sneered, “but I seem to remember you were also the one who insisted I do all the dirty work. I am only one woman; I can’t be everywhere at once.”
“But Cathan, I cannot see how this could have escaped your knowledge,” Hyron protested. “Those four named are of first-rank.”
“And the other three are Kester’s liegemen,” added Wyrist, suspiciously. “I’d like to know how they managed to operate a slaving ring under Kester’s nose.”
“And so would I,” Lady Kester snapped. “More than you, I reckon.”
And so it went, as Selenay mediated the strife among her Councilors. Talia had her hands full seeing that she remained sane during all of it.
* * *
All this, of course, meant that she had no time to pay heed to her own problems—most particularly that of the rift between Dirk and Kris, Kris and herself, and Dirk and herself.
It was bad enough that the quarrel existed—but to add yet another pine-bough to the conflagrations, Rolan was causing her considerable discomfort.
Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus) Page 67
