Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  “No. It isn’t new, and perhaps it doesn’t bear reiteration, but understanding is another matter. And compassion.”

  She looked up at him intently, a gentle smile making shadows at the corners of her mouth.

  “Tell Ser Richard for me, please, that I’m only sorry my small act of courtesy was necessary.” Then her smile turned pensive and finally faded. “Your brother seems a very extraordinary person. There’s a light about him. Lectris would call it a Beyond Light. Will he . . . always have to use crutches?”

  Alexand tried not to think about the real answer to that.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “I’m sorry. But if that’s the case, he’s fortunate in having you as his brother.”

  It wasn’t flattery; it was a simple statement of opinion; an observation.

  “No more fortunate than I in having him as my brother.”

  She looked up as they passed under an arched bower heavy with climbing roses. “Is Ser Richard well this morning?”

  “No, he isn’t.” He answered without thinking, then felt it necessary to qualify the answers perhaps because of the flash of alarm in her eyes. “He’ll be all right. It’s just that yesterday was a very tiring day, and an unhappy one for him, even without the incident at Grandser’s. We lost our tutor. He . . . had to retire.”

  “Lector Rovere?”

  “Yes, but how did you know—”

  “He’s a friend of my tutor’s. Corinth has spoken of him often and insisted on my reading some of his theses. I can understand Ser Richard’s distress. I’d be devastated if I should lose Corinth.”

  “It was especially painful for Rich; his studies are very important to him.”

  She paused, then, “And it wasn’t painful for you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But you consider yourself more capable of bearing it.”

  He looked at her sharply, but she only smiled.

  “Ser Alexand, we’ve been brought up in the same school.” Then she turned away, as if to spare him the necessity of meeting her gaze directly.

  After a moment, he said a little stiffly, “It’s just that Rich is more vulnerable in some areas. But all he needs is some rest. Mother’s taking him to our Barrier Reef estate tomorrow. He loves the sea.”

  “The universal balm, so they say.” Then she added with a short laugh, “At least, so Terrans and Polluxians say. I’ll envy you your holiday at the beach.”

  “Envy Rich this time. I’m going to Montril with Father tomorrow.”

  “Montril. Oh—Canadia. Lord Fallor’s Home Estate is there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and DeKoven Woolf has a factory site there.”

  “Ah. A tour of inspection, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.” He smiled, noting the ironic laughter in her eyes, noting irrelevantly the reflection of the pink of her gown in her cheeks. “There’s also the problem of negotiating a new lease on the factory site; Fallor owns the land.” And, he thought, the problem of Julia. Another potential bride, one he wasn’t looking forward to meeting again.

  Adrien was frowning thoughtfully. “I’ve caught a few unguarded remarks from my father about Charles Fallor. I suppose he exacts a high price for that site, and I’m sure he wouldn’t consider selling it to your father outright.”

  “Not when he can pocket a nice profit on the lease.”

  “And it makes a good lever.”

  Alexand studied her curiously. “Yes, it does.”

  She nodded. “Fallor can use any extra profit now, with D’Ord Hamid cutting into his grain markets, and any levers. But levers tilt both ways. Your father always has the option of giving up the factory site, which would put Fallor—you’re laughing at me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, immediately regretting the laughter than came so unconsciously. “I was only surprised to hear you speak of these business matters so casually.”

  “Why? Because proper Ladylings aren’t supposed to know about such things?”

  “I’m not sure what proper Ladylings are supposed to know, but I’ve yet to meet one who is aware of such things. Even among the Ladies, I know of only two who show any cognizance of business or politics: Honoria Ivanoi and my mother.”

  “You put me in impressive company, Ser Alexand.”

  “I think you’ll belong there one day.”

  “Now, that does flatter me.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know you do.” She studied him and seemed to be weighing his words, then pushed her hair, caught in a light gust of wind, back from her face. The wind had the scent of rain in it.

  “This is an error,” she said softly.

  Alexand stopped, wondering if he’d misunderstood her. But he hadn’t, and he didn’t have to wonder what was an error. He’d said it himself: One could love a young woman like this. And if she understood that, too . . .

  It could only be a double error.

  She smiled wistfully and continued down the path.

  “Ser Alexand, you’re a rare young man,” she said lightly, “but I won’t test your patience with further discussion of business and politics; they can be very tiresome.”

  He laughed with her, or perhaps out of relief that had nothing to do with business or politics.

  “All right, but please spare me the ‘Ser Alexands.’ You’ll find ‘Alex’ easier.”

  “If you’ll spare me the ‘Serras.’ ”

  “Gladly. Ah—” He stopped at a bloom-laden bush and broke off a blossom and offered it to her as they walked on. “I knew there was a rose of that particular shade somewhere in this garden.”

  She took the rose, smiling as she breathed in its sweet scent. It was exactly the color of her gown.

  “Thank you, Alex. Mm—what an exquisite fragrance!”

  “That variety is one of Mother’s favorites. But be careful, it has thorns.”

  “Malaki says the best roses always have thorns. He’s Elder Shepherd in our Estate compound. He’s also a practitioner of herbal medicine. Malaki says the fruits of roses have magical properties for curing illnesses. I’ve never had the heart to tell him about mundane matters like vitamins.”

  Alexand smiled, wondering at her casual attitude toward her apparently close relationship with a Bond Shepherd. They had reached the edge of the garden terrace, and beyond the factory complex and the compounds, Concordia lay resplendent even on this sunless day. To the southeast Mount Torbrek, still wearing patches of winter white, hid its head in cloudy veils. Adrien crossed to the bench against the stone balustrade and gazed up at the grayed ceiling of cloud.

  “Adrien, I’d like to ask you a question.”

  She looked around at him. “Is it so serious?”

  “I don’t know. I wondered . . .” He sighed, frowning. “Perhaps it’s not even a question. I was only thinking about last night. Of you and Karlis and Rich. Karlis could make a great deal of trouble for you.”

  “And couldn’t I make trouble for him?” Her eyes seemed blacker and more oblique, then she laughed briefly and seated herself on the bench, watching Alexand as he sat down beside her. “No, I couldn’t, really. I know that. For one thing, I can’t antagonize Karlis too much for my father’s sake; it’s to his advantage to stay on Lord Orin’s good side—if he has one. For another, I might find myself . . .” She stopped and looked out toward the city.

  But Alexand saw her eyes rest on the bandage on her wrist, and saw a hint of something close to dread before she turned away.

  “Adrien, you might find yourself what?”

  She shrugged and laughed. “In trouble myself.”

  That wasn’t the real answer, but he didn’t ask again. His father had told him Orin Selasis was courting Eliseer—and Karlis was courting Adrien.

  The sudden a
nger he felt at that brought him up short. An error. She was right. He didn’t realize a silence was growing until she spoke.

  “Do you know Karlis well, Alex?”

  “Well enough. My father has to deal with Lord Orin on Directorate business all too often, and Karlis and I were born on the same day, by some sardonic quirk of fate. Supposedly that gives us something in common.”

  “Then that’s the only thing you have in common. Karlis’s mother died when he was born, didn’t she?”

  “The Lady Idris? Yes. After five daughters, the Seladis finally had a son, Lord Orin’s pride and joy, and it killed his mother.”

  “I’m sure there’s a moral in that. Or perhaps it was just expediency.”

  Alexand’s eyes narrowed. There was a cynical irony in that, revealing an awareness again atypical of “proper Ladylings.” Idris Svynhel Selasis had been as famous for her strong will and caustic tongue as for her beauty, and rumor had it that she had despised her husband and made no effort to conceal it from him or anyone else. Rumor also had it that once Idris had borne him a son, Orin Selasis had decided to rid himself of his intractable spouse in the only way possible in Elite marriages.

  Adrien didn’t pursue that, instead commenting, “They say Lord Orin lost his eye in a point-of-honor duel with your father.”

  “Not with my father. It was my grandfather Kiron. That was a few years before his death.”

  “Oh, yes.” Then she added, with a sidelong glance, “His very untimely death.”

  “Yes, it was untimely. A hunting accident. He was thrown from his horse.” He didn’t add that Lord Orin, then first born and not yet First Lord of Badir Selasis, was also present on that hunt.

  His restraint, however, proved bootless.

  She asked, “Do you think Lord Orin had a hand in that accident?”

  He laughed. “Yes.” Then he added, “But I have no reason to think that.”

  “No proof, you mean,” she countered.

  He only shrugged for an answer, then, keeping his tone light, “Tell me, how long have you known Karlis?”

  “Only one day. Lord Orin invited the family to his Estate yesterday afternoon, and you know how these things work out. The men head in one direction to talk about affairs of state, the women head in another to talk about affairs—period—and the children are supposed to go out and play, or entertain each other one way or another.”

  She was omitting, he noted, the real reason for the visit to the Selasid Estate and for the “children” being brought together.

  “Being entertained by Karlis isn’t the best way to spend an afternoon.”

  Her laugh was cold and brief. “No, and I can’t say I like his idea of entertainment.”

  Alexand stiffened. “Adrien, did Karlis offend you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Does that surprise you?”

  “No. May I ask the nature of his offense?”

  “You certainly may ask, but you needn’t be concerned—” She stopped, eyeing him curiously. “What would you do if it were a grievous offense, Alex? Call a point of honor?”

  She was joking, but Alexand didn’t laugh. “I might.”

  His seriousness seemed to embarrass her.

  “Well, it wasn’t all that important. Besides, I took care of Ser Karlis myself. He tried to kiss me, which I thought rather presumptuous of him.” She smiled, more to herself than to Alexand. “I doubt you noticed last night, and I’m sure he used cosmetics to hide it. I gave him a black eye.”

  Alexand stared at her. Then the thought of this petite girl giving Karlis a black eye brought the laughter, heady and irrepressible, and she joined him, the laughter creating a wordless fountain of warmth in the gray day.

  “Adrien,” he said at last, catching his breath, “that’s beautiful; absolutely amazing. Did anyone see you?”

  “Lectris was there. If Karlis knew how close he came to getting himself killed—but fortunately I got Lectris under control in time, and Karlis left the salon in something of a rush. I don’t know what he told his father about his eye, but I doubt it was the truth. It was quite satisfying, except I sprained my wrist in the process. Karlis has a very hard head.”

  Alexand was divided between amusement at that and concern for her injury, and finally the concern won out.

  “I’m sorry for that. Is it painful?”

  “Not really. But this bandage wasn’t exactly an elegant accessory for the Concord Day balls.”

  “A badge of honor, Serra; wear it with pride.”

  She nodded, but her smile faded. “It was a foolish thing to do, really.”

  Foolish. It was astounding. And interesting that, except for the Bond, she and Karlis had apparently been alone at the time. Karlis had no doubt led her into that compromising position.

  “Adrien, you can be sure Karlis won’t divulge your secret. Did you tell your parents?”

  “Holy God, no. I—ah, fell on some steps.”

  Yet she showed no hint of concern that Alexand might betray her secret. He looked down at her wrist because he couldn’t meet her unmasked gaze. Why was it unmasked? Not because she was incapable of it; not this steel-boned Selaneen. It was a matter of choice.

  “That wrist won’t make for pleasant memories of your holiday in Concordia.”

  “Alex, I’m tough as a belnong. A little thing like this won’t color my memories.”

  He glanced up at her questioningly. “A belnong?”

  “A Castorian triped; a symbiont with the Marching Forests. It’s a colloquialism—tough as a belnong. They’re viturally indestructible, since they can regenerate themselves from ten percent of their bodies.”

  “Well, that’s something I didn’t come across in my study of Castorian flora and fauna, but if you can compare yourself to a belnong, it must be a delightful creature.”

  He kept his tone light, shaded with studied irony, and she responded with equal levity, “If you’d ever seen a belnong, Ser, you’d know I wasn’t comparing myself to one; only to one of its more admirable characteristics. I’m surprised you didn’t encounter the belnong in your studies. It’s one of Castor’s most interesting life forms.”

  “And how did you come to find it of interest?”

  She laughed, her shoulders rising in a shrug. “Well, when I was a child I had quite a penchant for animals. I used to plague Dr. Lile—that is, Dr. Perralt, our House physician—with wounded and sick creatures. In those days my ambition was to be a veterinarian.”

  “I’m sure you’d have been a fine veterinarian.”

  “Perhaps.” She studied him a moment. “Did you ever harbor such ambitions? I mean, haven’t you wondered what you might do if you were born Independent Fesh, for instance?”

  “I’m afraid the training for my future occupation began too early for me to consider even in imagination any other alternative.” He gave a short, uneasy laugh. “But perhaps it won’t be a total waste. I might be able to accomplish something worthwhile somewhere along the line.”

  “What is it you want to accomplish, Alex?”

  He considered the question, searching for words, for true words, but none seemed apt. Finally, he sighed.

  “I want to accomplish everything, of course. Find all the answers, solve all the problems, right all the wrongs, stop all the . . . senseless suffering.”

  “An ambitious program,” she said softly.

  “Yes. Well, I’ve learned to temper my ambitions out of necessity, or recognition of some of the basic facts of life and human nature.”

  “But you haven’t given them up.”

  “I was fortunate enough—or damned, depending on your point of view—to be born into a position of some power. Perhaps I can put that power to good use. Otherwise I’ll simply find it difficult to justify my existence.”

&nb
sp; She nodded, as if he’d answered all her questions, but her reaction seemed equivocal, both satisfaction and regret.

  “You are, indeed, an ambitious young man, Alex, and you aren’t damned by your birth; you’re damned with open eyes and a conscience. Perhaps it’s fortunate you were born to power. They call you a replicate of your father, you know; the Black Eagle. Perhaps you’ll be called that too, one day.”

  He looked at her, trying to understand the sadness shadowing her eyes.

  “That comes with the House Crest. It’s an ambiguous term; it evokes both admiration and fear.” He paused, then asked, “What does it evoke in you?”

  “Admiration,” she replied without hesitation, “but I don’t happen to find myself at odds with the Lord Woolf.” She looked down, eyes fixed on the rose in her hand. “You aren’t like your father. You’ll be a greater man than he or a total failure as First Lord. If you fail, it will be because you’re too much a human being.”

  He was silenced, and in that moment she seemed a seeress reading the future in the velvet petals of the rose. Then he looked away, toward the terrace.

  “My apprenticeship isn’t finished yet, Adrien. I may not be a greater man than my father, but I won’t fail.”

  “And the price of success?”

  “It’s the price of failure I must consider.”

  She looked up at him now, and he was thinking of choices and turning points.

  He could love this Selaneen, and knew her capable of loving him. And it was an error. It was also all but inevitable, once they met.

  And he met her as a potential bride.

  There was an element of cruelty in that. Alexand knew his father would do everything in his power to see his son as happy—“blessed,” as he put it with total sincerity in spite of his agnosticism—in his bride as he had been with Elise Galinin. But the decision, the choice, would be Phillip Woolf’s, not Alexand’s or Adrien’s.

  Her thoughts were turning on the same choices. That was evident when she finally spoke; evident in the quick glance toward the terrace before she turned to look out over the city.

  “You know why we’re here, don’t you, Alex?”