Elcarth hadn’t known where to obtain such a thing, but Herald Jadus had. In fact, Jadus had pointed him to the particular glassworks involved in creating most of the stained- and etched-glass windows for the various Temples in and around Haven, whenever a generous patron was moved to donate such a thing.
Until he went to the workshop and saw some of the designs, Alberich hadn’t been entirely certain of the exact shape and image of the design, only that it should have some link, somehow, to the Temples that he had felt most comfortable in. As soon as he realized what Cuelin specialized in, heraldic (rather than Heraldic) designs, he had realized what his window surely must show.
The Sun-In-Glory of the God of Karse, of course; Vkandis Sunlord in a form that few in Valdemar would recognize as such, and no one who mattered would likely take offense to. Particularly as this Sun-In-Glory would be laid out, not on the usual field of reds as in a similar window in Karse, but on a field of Heraldic blue.
If Master Cuelin realized just what the pattern was, he hadn’t said anything. Alberich would not have wagered on his being ignorant, though. He had been doing religious glass-work for far too long not to have learned virtually every symbol of every deity worshiped in Haven, and every possible variation and nuance of each symbol. Vkandis was worshiped here, and by Karsite exiles—just not under that name. The “Lord of Light” was what He was called here; all things considered, a title and a name less likely to evoke hostility from the good neighbors of those exiles.
Alberich would not have taken it much amiss had Master Cuelin delegated the work to his apprentices either—but he hadn’t. He’d attended to it all himself. And the result was glorious, well worth the cost of the one indulgence that Alberich had permitted himself since he’d been made Weaponsmaster.
:Very nice for us, too,: his Companion Kantor commented, as Alberich sat down and allowed himself to drink in the color and composition. :We get the best view of it at night, when the light is coming from inside. Clever of you to station lanterns with reflectors shining outward at the bottom corners. Gives us a lovely piece to look at.:
:And prevents any shadows falling upon it and telling people what goes on in my sitting room,: he pointed out. :After paying no small fortune for such a piece, I’ve no mind to have it shattered by an ill-considered crossbow bolt from outside, because I was foolish enough to show a target.:
Since there was no graceful reply to that, Kantor wisely declined to make one.
The leaded glass was thicker and heavier than the window it had been mounted against, and Alberich realized after a moment of sitting there that the drafts he’d become accustomed to were gone. Well! An unforeseen advantage!
And a third—as he bathed in the golden light from the Sun-In-Glory, despite the fact that on the other side of the glass, there was a bleak winter landscape under overcast skies, he understood why Master Cuelin had insisted that the Sun dominate the panel. No matter what the weather outside, the light coming in would be warm and welcoming. Already Alberich felt his spirits become a little lighter.
:For which my gratitude to Master Cuelin knows no bounds,: Kantor observed dryly. :Anything that sweetens your temper makes me grateful:
:Indeed?: Alberich countered. :Alas, that he cannot do me the return favor of creating such a thing for you, since you spend your days out of doors. Perhaps I should query Bardic Collegium about the possibility of serenading you on a thrice-weekly basis to sweeten your temper?:
:Then who would chastise the greenlings properly?: Kantor asked airily. :Disciplining the youngsters requires a certain acidity of temper to deliver correction with the appropriate degree of sting.:
Alberich shook his head. He should learn never to try and exchange barbs with his Companion; Kantor would always win. Kantor was at least as old as his Chosen, probably a few years Alberich’s senior, and twice as witty.
Not that there wasn’t some truth in what Kantor said; Kantor was to the young Companions what Alberich was to the Heraldic Trainees, in a way. Not so much the trainer in fighting technique, for a great deal of that was in the hands of the riding instructors, but as the disciplinarian of the Companion herd. Normally that would be in the hands—or rather, authority, backed by speech, and occasionally hooves and teeth—of the Companion to the Queen’s Own Herald, the Grove-Born Rolan. But Rolan’s Herald was Queen’s Own Talamir, who had very nearly died in the last battle with the Tedrels on the Border with Karse; Talamir’s original Companion Taver had died, and one never spent much time in Talamir’s presence without realizing that in many ways it had been no great service to Talamir that he had been brought back to life again. Though Kantor had never said as much in so many words, Alberich got the distinct impression that most of Rolan’s time was taken up in making sure that Talamir remained—well—sane. So a good portion of Rolan’s duties to the herd had been delegated to those best suited to the task.
Not all of those duties had gone to Kantor either. Some were the provenance of some very wise old Companion mares, thus ironically echoing the hierarchy in a real horse herd, where the leaders were the oldest mares, not the stallion, as Alberich very well knew.
:Hmm. And human herds, though ye know it not.:
:Your point being—?: Alberich replied. :Though you’d best not let Queen Selenay discover you think of her as an old mare, wise or not.:
He sensed Kantor’s snort of derision. :Selenay should be perfectly happy to be compared to a Companion mare.:
Alberich let that one go. There was no use trying to explain to Kantor that no nubile young woman was going to appreciate being compared to a mare, ever, under any circumstances.
Particularly not when her Councilors—some of them, anyway—were very diligently trying to make her into one. Of the brood-stock variety. . . .
Which was one reason why he had welcomed Master Cuelin’s arrival this afternoon to install the window, as the perfect excuse to avoid the afternoon Council meeting. That particular item was on the table for discussion, and it was a subject that Alberich was particularly anxious not to get embroiled in. For one thing, no matter how publicly he’d been lauded and laden with honors after the Tedrel Wars, no matter how trusted he was by most—by no means all—Valdemarans of note, he was still the outsider. He was, and always would be so. It could not be otherwise. And for another, well—
—well, it was a subject where nothing he said or did was “safe.” Someone would take exception, whether he urged that Selenay remain single, or weighed in on the side of those who wanted her to wed, and at this point, he didn’t need to add any enemies to a list that was already long enough.
***
The atmosphere of the Council Chamber this afternoon was unwontedly subdued. Usually there had been at least three arguments by this time, and the kinds of icy, polite catcalling that made people who were not used to Council debates blanch and wonder if a duel was about to break out. Today, however, was different. The atmosphere hadn’t been so edgily cordial since the first, tentative sessions after Selenay’s coronation. Around the horseshoe-shaped, heavy wooden table not a voice had been raised. The representatives of the Bardic, Heraldic, and Healer Circles, in their red, white, and green uniforms respectively, had been extremely quiet, as had the Lord Marshal’s Herald and the Seneschal’s Herald, and of course, her own, the Queen’s Own Herald, Talamir.
As for the rest—well, they had been nervous. They didn’t really know her, although she had been in their midst all of her life. They were her father’s Council, really, not hers. They were his friends, advisers, and peers, and none of them had expected to serve her at all, much less so quickly. So they often argued and battled among themselves, as if she wasn’t even there, or was no more than a token place holder.
Except on the rare occasions when what they wished to do was going to have to involve her. Then they generally acted as they did today; becoming very quiet, and rather nervous. These elder statesmen and women were apparently unaware that they gave themselves away, acting as they did.
Queen Selenay knew why they were nervous, of course. They didn’t know she knew, which might have been funny under other circumstances. In the throne that had been her father’s, with the chair at her right hand empty, Selenay watched her Councilors behaving as if they were good little schoolchildren debating beneath the strict disciplinarian eye of their teacher.
This was, of course, because they were shortly going to unite in a totally uncharacteristic burst of single-mindedness and do their level best to force their Queen to do something she had no intention of doing whatsoever.
Marry. Worse than that, to marry someone they, not she, had chosen. The potential candidates were as sad a collection as nightmare could have conjured. The youngest was ten, the oldest ninety. Among them were a number of young men, but even these were impossible. Some she had heartily detested from the moment she’d met them, others she didn’t even know, and from their reputations, had no desire to know. A very few might be reasonable fellows, some were pleasant enough company on a casual basis, but that was no reason to marry any of them. Some were even Heralds, or at least, Trainees—but the Heralds all had lives of their own that she was not a part of, and as for Trainees—well, they seemed like mere infants to her now.
Her Councilors, however, did not see it that way.
It hadn’t been like this when her father had sat in this throne, but Sendar had ruled as well as reigned. She reigned, but only the backing of the Heralds made it possible for her to command much of anything. She knew that; she had expected it from the moment she took the Crown. She was much too young to be a Queen, much too young to command the respect of men and women old enough to be her parents. Not even the white uniform proclaiming her a full Herald managed to gain her that respect.
Well, there were ways around that. But she was getting weary of the artful dodges, of setting her words in the mouths of others, and she had not even reigned a year. And these marriage plans were more than a mere inconvenience; they were an attack on her autonomy. Her good Councilors would not be happy with a mere Prince Consort. They wanted a King.
She tapped her index finger idly on the stack of papers just under her right hand, and smiled a grim little smile. Her Councilors—the non-Heraldic ones, anyway—were not aware that she had come prepared for this afternoon’s meeting. She knew what every man and woman around the table was about to put forward, for not all of them had been close-mouthed about it, and Talamir had gotten wind of it and let her know what was planned. That had given her ample time to prepare for what they were about to unleash on her. They had no idea that she had come forewarned and forearmed.
For that matter, other than Talamir and Elcarth, she wasn’t sure the other Heralds at the Council table were aware that she’d been engaged in laying the groundwork to defend her freedom.
It was nothing less that she had done, for her Councilors were determined that she should not reign alone—and each and every one of them had a particular candidate to place in the running, sometimes more than one. All of them, of course, with the best interests of the Kingdom foremost in their minds, or so, at least, they would tell themselves. Of course, every candidate would have blood ties or ties of obligation to the Councilor who put him forward, but never mind that. They would put such things out of their minds, telling themselves that they were doing this for Valdemar, and not for any selfish reasons. There was no Heir! Selenay had been an only child, and the Crown now rested on her fragile head alone! She must marry, and produce children, quickly!
Of course, if the chosen spouse happened to be helpful to friends and families, well. . . .
Every one of them had given over whatever disputes they had to settle on that list of potential Consorts, arguing and trading without any consideration for what she wanted, until they had mutually agreed on enough men that if they couldn’t bully her into taking one, they could wear her down until she agreed out of exhaustion.
When Talamir told her what the plans were, Selenay had gone straight to Herald-Chronicler-Second Myste, who was surely the only person in Haven who had the esoteric knowledge to help her out of the trap. And although she had not really expected a great deal of sympathy from Myste, the Herald had amazed her by reacting with indignation to the plans.
“By Keronos!” Myste had exclaimed, her eyes behind the thick lenses of her spectacles going narrow with speculation. “That’s obscene! You haven’t been Queen a year, girl! Shouldn’t they at least wait until you’ve settled, and gotten comfortable with your place?”
“Apparently not,” Selenay had replied, seething with anger. “And apparently none of them want to see a foreigner brought in as Consort either—or at least, they don’t seem to have taken much thought about that particular possibility. Insane, I’d call it. Not that I particularly want a foreign Consort, but Father used to have serious talks with me about the possibility of needing to cement a foreign alliance with a marriage.”
“Idiots,” Myste had muttered under her breath, pushing her lenses up on her nose. “The hand of a Queen’s too damned valuable to waste. What if, as your father said, we need an alliance?”
“What if we just need to keep five or six princes dangling on promises?” Selenay had countered. “And besides—”
She didn’t add the “besides,” which was that she wanted to be able to love her husband, not merely tolerate being in the same room with him. Myste probably guessed it, for she’d given Selenay a shrewd look, but she hadn’t said anything, except: “Well, if they haven’t got the sense to see past their own interests, it’s up to some of the rest of us to see to it that they can’t meddle.”
And Myste had outdone herself on the Queen’s behalf, spending every spare moment locked away with dusty law and record books going back generations. The result was the pile of neatly-written papers under Selenay’s hand.
Aside from the two exceptions of Talamir and Elcarth, there wasn’t a single person around the Council table that had the slightest inkling that they were about to see what Selenay could do when she was not in a mood of sweet cooperation. In point of fact, no matter who was brought up, the various candidates for potential spouse were going to be mown down like so many stands of ripened grain. . . .
Myste had not even told Alberich; she had sworn herself to secrecy before Selenay had even asked. There was no tighter-lipped creature in Valdemar than Myste when she opted to take that particular path.
It’s too bad Alberich isn’t here, Selenay thought, still tapping. He might enjoy watching me dispose of this idiocy. She missed his craggy, scarred face at the table today; although he did not have an official position on the Council, as Talamir’s right-hand man (and in no small part, hers as well), he could and did sit in on it whenever he chose. When he did, he usually took Elcarth’s seat as the representative of the Heraldic Circle. The Weaponsmaster knew of the plans, of course, though not how she intended to counter them. And she thought that he would take great pleasure in how she was going to discomfit them all.
Or maybe not. In Selenay’s limited experience, a confirmed bachelor like Alberich had a tendency to panic when confronted by the question of potential matrimony, regardless of whether it was his or someone else’s.
Besides, he’s probably concerned that if I flatten every other possible consort, someone will suggest him as an alternative. The mere thought made her stifle a smile. While the Heralds would welcome the idea, and possibly even the Bard and Healer would as well, the rest of her Councilors would have apoplexy. They’d suggest she take an illiterate fisherman from Lake Evendim before they suggested Alberich. Not that she’d mind an illiterate fisherman from Lake Evendim half so much as she disliked some of the so-called “candidates” for her hand her Councilors were going to suggest.
The Councilors had been well aware from the moment they started their plotting that this was a subject their Queen was not going to entertain gladly, which was why they were intending to surprise her with it, in hopes of taking her off guard.
As they disposed
of some final trivial business, they kept glancing at her out of the corners of their eyes, and there was a certain nervous tone to their voices that would have been amusing if she had not been so very angry with them. Her father had not been dead a year, and already they were at her to marry! As if she could not rule by herself, or at the very least, rule with the true counsel of those who were loyal to her (and not merely devoted to their own interests), and rule well and wisely!
:You can rule with more wisdom than some of their choices,: her Companion Caryo said into her mind. :Not that some of their choices would be allowed to rule at all. They wouldn’t be Chosen by a Companion if every living male in Valdemar were to drop dead this moment.:
A stinging indictment indeed, coming from Caryo.
And there was the real rub. What some of her Councilors seemed to keep forgetting was that any husband she took would be nothing more than Prince Consort unless he was also a Herald. Only then could he be a co-ruler.
Of course, they probably assumed that a young woman would be easily led by her husband to give him whatever he wanted, which would certainly make him the power behind the throne, if not an actual monarch. Some of them probably assumed that she could make a Companion Choose him, if she wanted it badly enough.
:The more fools they,: said Caryo.
:Well, they have a poor opinion of how strong a woman’s will can be.: Selenay reflected, as she gathered her nerve, that it was a very good thing that Caryo was of a mind with her. It would be great deal easier to resist both bullying and blandishment with Caryo behind her.
:And don’t forget, you have Myste, too,: Caryo reminded her.
Yes, indeed. Myste, her secret weapon, who not only had supplied her with this vast and intricate report, but was currently mewed up in the library with every book of Valdemaran genealogy in Haven at her fingertips, and a page to bring her whatever she needed for as long as this meeting lasted. No, her Councilors surely could never have reckoned on Myste.
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