Path of Honor

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  At last the whirling tumult of Saljane’s mind began to order itself. Gradually she began to quiet, her wings contracting to her sides.

  ~?

  ~I am here. You have been under a spell. We are prisoners in the wizards’ stronghold. But all is well now. We are together.

  She reached out and Saljane stepped gingerly onto her fist. Reisil pulled her close, snuggling the goshawk against her chest. She felt no pain from her ahalad-kaaslane, though Saljane’s mind remained ragged and inarticulate. Reisil sniffed, taking a shuddering breath and turning back to her captors.

  “She is well?”

  This from the speaker. Reisil bit back the scalding answer. “She returns to herself.”

  He nodded, and Reisil was surprised to see a pleased expression settle over his sharp features.

  “She hungers.”

  Kvepi Kaisivas nodded and pulled a cord in the corner. “Let us adjourn to the dining room.”

  The dining room contained a long table covered with a lace cloth. The chairs were upholstered with leather, and a perch stood near the corner of the table. Reisil took the seat beside the perch, and the Kvepi sat opposite her. He motioned for the speaker to sit. The other wizard had disappeared.

  As soon as they had seated themselves, a parade of servants entered carrying trays of food, including a trencher of raw fish, rabbit and venison, chopped into chunks. This was set on the table in front of Saljane. The servant then filled the feeding tray. Saljane began bolting the food with single-minded intensity.

  The Kvepi motioned for Reisil to serve herself. But as she reached for a spoon, he ejaculated and leaped to his feet. She stiffened.

  “Oh, dear. I’d forgotten that. Allow me, please.”

  And then he came around the table, calling for a basin of warm water and bandages. Reisil followed his gaze and made a face. Blood welled from her forearm where Saljane had clawed her. With unexpected gentleness, the Kvepi peeled back her sleeve, tsking. He washed the wound and bound it. It hurt, but Reisil held still under his ministrations.

  “We’ll do better later,” he declared. “Uldegas will have a look at it.”

  Reisil took her arm back as he handed the basin to a waiting servant. “It’s well enough,” she said, knowing she had what was needed, if her saddlebags were returned to her.

  The food was delicious. Crusty white bread still hot from the oven, roasted meats and cheeses, young greens, custards, compotes, stuffed fish, thick soups and flaky pies. The Kvepi filled her glass with cool crisp white wine tasting of apricots and snow and another with red wine tasting of smoky oak.

  When she was sated, she leaned back in her chair. Saljane hopped down from her perch, nestling in Reisil’s lap.

  ~Better?

  ~Better.

  A knot rose in Reisil’s throat. It was only one word, but she’d never heard anything so wonderful in her life.

  “And now we must get down to business,” Kvepi Kaisivas said. “Let us retire to the library and discuss matters, shall we?”

  Reisil found herself sitting opposite him in a wing-back chair, her feet propped on an ottoman at his insistence. She eyed him askance, but obeyed. The speaker stirred up the fire and then pulled around another seat as Kvepi Kaisivas settled himself comfortably.

  “None of this was necessary, you know,” Reisil said suddenly. “I was on my way to find you.”

  “Oh?” The two men exchanged startled looks.

  “Mmm. The plague. You caused it. And the nokulas. I want to know how to stop them both.”

  “Ah, of course. Certainly we did, though, you understand, not intentionally. We have no cure for either.”

  Reisil stared. She had expected denials. And this certainly was one. But the Kvepi was so matter of fact that his words had the ring of truth. She opened her mouth, but could not find anything to say.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you. However, I cannot be sorry that it brought you to us,” he said. “I believe Kvepi Tapit would agree.”

  “Who?”

  He gestured at the speaker. “Kvepi Tapit.” He frowned at the other Kvepi. “You did not give her your name?”

  The other man gave a slight shrug. “There was little opportunity for conversation. We rode quickly.”

  “Ah, my friend. Will you never learn?” He turned back to Reisil. “Please forgive Tapit. He grew up in the hinterlands of Patverseme and has never appreciated the need for manners. He does better in the company of rocks and trees, but he is one of our best. If anyone could bring you here safely, it was him.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “To bring you home.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “To bring you home. You are a wizard, after all. Otherwise, you could not have come through the maze. We are your family, and it’s time you came home.”

  Chapter 35

  Metyein slouched in a chair, watching his father’s valet tug his coat straight and buff a dull spot on his boots. “I wish you’d attend. The Regent has asked about you,” his father said, sipping a glass of wine and setting it back on a tray.

  “Has he? And what have you told him?”

  “That you’ve been sulking, having discovered what a spineless ganyik your friend Soka is. Running away. Has cost him the honor of his house. No doubt Bro-heyek has begun to invade his neighbors, just when Kodu Riik needs it least.”

  “When would Kodu Riik need it?” Metyein needled.

  His father shook his head. “By the Lady, Metyein, have you no sense of duty in you?”

  “And you, father. What about your sense of duty?”

  This was too much for the Lord Marshal. He ordered his valet out, shutting the door firmly behind him. Then he whirled around, his face taut with anger.

  “How dare you. I have served this land since I was a boy. I have put down revolts. I have led men into battle. I have always served this country and her Iisand with all my honor and heart. And what have you done? Sulked and caviled. Yes, I enjoy women. Yes, your mother and I have never had a close bond. But I have treated her according to her station and status as my wife. She has never wanted for anything, nor has she had to tolerate my attentions more than necessary to produce heirs.

  “It’s time for you to grow up. Have a look at yourself. Have a look at Kodu Riik. We’re a dying land. If the plague doesn’t get us, we’ll starve. The nokulas have chased the farmers out of their fields, and we’re completely cut off from outside supplies. We are on our own, and our enemies would just as soon watch us shrivel up and die. And now that stripling has taken the Regency. Still, all you do is fight petty duels with spoiled lordlings and whine about whom I take to my bed. As if that were your business. You have the balls to question my duty, but I ask you, how are you serving your country? What about your duty to this house, and if not to your father, then your Lord Marshal?”

  “Oh, I know my duty well enough, father,” Metyein said.

  “And I’ve time enough for duty, and to watch over my mother’s honor, since her husband does not.” This last was said with a sneer.

  “Her husband also overlooks her lovers.”

  “Mother doesn’t have lovers. Do you sully her name to justify your rutting?”

  “I require no justification. However, since you are intent on having the truth, you shall have it. Then we shall be done with your adolescent posturings once and for all. Though she is discreet, your mother has had a variety of lovers over the years.”

  Metyein shook his head. “Never. There have been no men in her home. Or are you suggesting she bedded servants?”

  “Oh, no. Your mother is quite blue in her blood and would never stoop so low. Nor would she ever tarnish the Vare name. She is the second Dajam of the land, after all. But she has never appreciated the hairy, brutish nature of men. She prefers softer, more delicate companions.”

  Metyein could only stare. He wanted to protest, to argue. But his father’s voice had the ring of truth. And his own memories corroborated them. Many visitors, mostly
noblewomen without their husbands. He always thought those visits came from pity for his mother’s loneliness and isolation. But now he saw them through a man’s eyes. The lovers’ meals with delicious wines and sumptuous foods. The long evenings spent alone, speaking of “women’s things” and no children needed. Long, languorous mornings in bed. No one thought it strange that two women would choose to sleep together, to warm each other’s feet in the night.

  Metyein’s lips pinched together. He gazed at his father belligerantly. “Even if it is true, that does not excuse you.”

  “Boy, I require no excuses. But I am tired of your carping. If I must order your good behavior, I will do so.”

  Metyein came to his feet in a fluid movement. He bent in a flourishing bow. “I am at your command, Lord Marshal.”

  “Would that it were so,” his father muttered.

  Metyein straightened. “What would you have of me?”

  “Your mind. Your heart. Your loyalty.”

  Metyein turned his head away, bitterness burning in his throat. “You don’t ask much.”

  “I ask my due as your Lord Marshal.”

  “Tell me, father, what will you do when our Regent is made Iisand? Will you give him your mind, your heart, your loyalty? Knowing how much you oppose him, knowing he’s in bed with the Scallacians who want nothing more than to suck our marrow dry? Or will you return to Doneviik and mother and allow him to grind Kodu Riik into dust, destroying the ahalad-kaaslane and abandoning the Blessed Lady?”

  His father reached for his wineglass, drinking it down in one gulp, his knuckles white. “Careful how you go, son. You border on treason. The Regent would have you in chains for less.”

  “That is as may be, but it does not answer my question.”

  “I serve the crown. I have taken oaths. Now you answer my question. Will you give your due to me as Lord Marshal, if not your father?”

  “Mother raised me well, father. I love this land, and I love the Blessed Amiya. In all things I serve both. So long as you do the same, I expect you may have what you wish of me.”

  It wasn’t the answer his father wanted. “You’ve learned better than I thought, Metyein. You speak as obliquely as any seasoned Kijal. But you are a subject of the crown, and you do not get to choose whom or how you will serve. Agree with him or not, when Aare cas Varakamber is named Iisand, then he becomes the Lady’s annointed and he speaks in Her voice. You are in no position to judge his decisions. Only the Lady may. You must obey.”

  “I speak as plainly as I can, father,” Metyein said seriously. “I will continue to answer for my mother’s honor as is necessary to oafs whose mouths are larger than their brains. But I will dun you no more. I have always respected you otherwise. Henceforth you will find me as deferential, respectful and courteous a son as a father has a right to expect.” He paused, searching for words. “I dearly hope we don’t end up on opposite sides of what is to come. That would be painful to me. But in plain terms, I have grave doubts that our Regent still serves the Blessed Amiya, and I believe we shall soon see proof enough of this. And then our paths will likely diverge. There is no choice. I am my father’s son. I must do as honor and duty require.”

  His father closed his eyes, a pained look on his face. And for the first time since he could remember, Metyein saw in his father the man, torn between loyalties and uncertainties. A man who stood alone, his family far away and estranged, his son and heir little more than a viper in the nest. He had no friends anymore, not since the Iisand’s transformation. No wonder he sought solace in the arms of women. But never just one, and never for very long. He couldn’t afford that kind of trust. A rush of feeling swept Metyein.

  Impulsively Metyein reached out and grasped his father’s shoulder. “You are a great man indeed, and I shall ever hold you in high esteem. I hope that I will earn your regard in the days to come. But no matter what, father, I will always be proud to be your son.”

  His father stood a moment, walnut eyes boring into Metyein. Then he pulled him close, hugging him tightly.

  Kebonsat gazed out the window at nothing. He still could hardly credit what he’d seen. The Iisand had become a demonspawned beast. He shuddered and dragged his fingers through his hair. Patverseme had sent men to Mysane Kosk, spies to discern the situation. Whether they’d been tainted, he didn’t know. And worse, he had no way to warn anyone!

  His fist thumped the desk, and he shoved away, striding to the window. It was a bleak view. The Verit—the Regent, Kebonsat corrected himself sardonically—had taken a firm grip on the city. A pall of smoke hung over everything from the new plague pyres outside the walls. Soldiers patrolled the city in innumerable squads. The city itself had been broken into manageable sections called bureaus, and within those, smaller precincts. Business still limped on as workers were shuffled into housing within their employer’s precinct. Every morning and every night they were examined for symptoms of the plague, then they were checked off on lists and escorted to and from work.

  Thus far the system was working. At least there had not yet been riots beyond those initial hours when the Regent had sealed the city. The Jarrah Gardens had been converted into a prison camp and a garrison. Many of the new Regent’s conscripts were thieves and thugs and had little compunction in using force to keep the peace.

  Kebonsat tapped his finger against the windowpane. He couldn’t disagree with any of the Regent’s decisions, though his methods were a bit too bloody for Kebonsat’s tastes. The speed and efficiency of implementation were breathtaking and ruthless. If he hadn’t already known how dangerous an enemy the Verit was, Kebonsat certainly knew it now.

  So what does he have in store for me? The Regent certainly didn’t intend for Emelovi to marry a Patverseme ganyik . And Kebonsat wasn’t worth much as a hostage. But then the Regent was the kind to hedge his bets and plan for contingencies. Maybe he thought the son of the Dure Vadonis would be useful down the line.

  Kebonsat swung around, pacing across the room and back. He worried about Emelovi. She was terrified of her brother. But despite her fear, she’d resisted his machinations, particularly against the ahalad-kaaslane. What would she do if she knew the truth about her father? A pang of guilt thrust through his chest. Everything she did was against the assumption that sooner or later her father would wake from his grief and resume the throne. She loved him dearly and hated her brother’s plots to usurp the crown. If she knew what had really happened to her father, would she cede those loyalties to her brother? Did he dare tell her the truth about her father?

  But no. She wouldn’t be able to conceal her grief. The Regent would insist on knowing, and even if she resisted, he’d get it out of her. One way or another. And once he discovered her secret, he’d want to know how she knew. Her spying, her confidences to Kebonsat, everything would come out. What Aare would do to her then, Kebonsat feared to guess. But it would release a dam. He and all his people would be taken in for questioning. Given the young Regent’s hatred of anything Patversemese, Kebonsat doubted any would come out whole, if they survived at all. And Juhrnus, Metyein, Sodur, even the Lord Marshal—none would be safe. Worse, Aare would have the excuse he needed to assume the throne and destroy the ahalad-kaaslane once and for all.

  Kebonsat sighed, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t tell Emelovi. It was too dangerous. And when she did finally find out, she’d never forgive him for his silence.

  “Better than dying,” he muttered. But in the short time he’d been allowed to court her, he’d discovered a woman he could love. A woman he’d begun to love. And she had just as quickly sped as far out of his reach as Reisil.

  “AmIamasochist? To fall in love with women I can never have?”

  At first he’d thought Emelovi fragile and weak, a tool for her brother’s hand. But she soon disabused him of such notions. During that first morning’s breakfast, she’d baldly confided her brother’s scheme to kidnap Ceriba. He’d sent Rocis after her as soon as Emelovi had revealed her brother’s plan. He prayed Roci
s had made it in time, but even if he had, there was no way for Rocis to inform him of that.

  How was it that he could do so little to protect the women he held most dear? Aare could be doing anything to Emelovi, Ceriba might already be captured, and Reisil—There was no knowing if she’d escaped Koduteel or not, or if she’d been killed in one of the gate riots. Juhrnus didn’t know, though it had been four days since the city had been sealed and he’d been to consult with Kebonsat. He might know something more now.

  Helplessness ate at Kebonsat’s gut, and he continued pacing, formulating plans and discarding them. He had to get Emelovi away; he had to get them both away. And then he had to find Ceriba—

  He started at the knock at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, will you be wishing your supper now?” It was Quillers. Imprisonment seemed to have steadied the steward. He had kept his composure, reassuring the other servants and allowing Kebonsat his privacy, only occasionally intruding, mostly to subtly remind Kebonsat to maintain appearances for the other members of his party. Both Dumen and Ledus had lost their titles and holdings as soon as Patverseme had severed diplomatic ties. Though both men remained stoic, imprisonment grated on their nerves. Both had wives and families. Or at least, they had. Their children would have swiftly been adopted by the heirs of their titles, their wives encouraged to remarry within days. If they thought Kebonsat had fallen apart, holing up in his study and bewailing fate, they would soon follow suit.

  “I’ll be there shortly,” he replied, glancing toward the paneling behind his desk. The entrance to the passageway was hidden behind a narrow wall cabinet and a painting of some ancient Iisand in battle. It remained steadfastly closed. He scowled. If Juhrnus did not come by the end of supper, Kebonsat would go in search of him.

  Soka crouched between a newly leafed hedge and a wall. Beyond it soldiers paraded by, dragging the struggling body of a middle-aged man. They’d tied ropes around his ankles and were hauling him across the cobbles. The man held his arms around his head, begging and crying, but to no avail. The soldiers marched on without taking the slightest notice of him.