by J. L. Doty
“. . . And so, my lords,” Olivia finished. “Tomorrow will be the last day of the Council. We have come to many agreements, and we have come to many disagreements, but we have not lost our unity, and I believe we all agree that the unity of the Lesser Council is the only thing that keeps the jackals off our backs. So let those jackals be warned.” She looked down the table at Valso and Illalla. “If our enemies seek contest with us, they will again face the shadows of Elhiyne.”
Someone in the back of the Hall—Morgin suspected it was one of Olivia’s lackeys—shouted, “ShadowLord!” Several Elhiyne clansmen took up the cry, and a few Inetkas as well, but Morgin didn’t encourage it, and none of the Pendas or Tosks joined in, so it died quickly.
“Enjoy the hospitality of Elhiyne,” Olivia cried, and sat down.
The servants moved quickly, filling the tables with food while the Hall filled with the buzz of laughter and idle conversation. Morgin wanted to talk to Rhianne, but while ErrinCastle seemed to monopolize her interest, Olivia was determined to monopolize Morgin’s.
“Lord BlakeDown was speaking to you,” Olivia chided him, forcing his attention away from Rhianne.
“I’m sorry,” Morgin said politely. Olivia’s eyes narrowed angrily, reminding him that she’d told him time and again that he must never apologize in public. The ShadowLord, the Warmaster of Elhiyne, should never appear to debase himself before another. Morgin tried to sound less apologetic as he asked, “What were you saying?”
BlakeDown smiled insincerely. “I was wondering what ransom you will demand for the Decouixs.”
Morgin looked at Valso and wondered how the Decouix lord could maintain such an air of unconcern in captivity. “I don’t know,” Morgin said flatly. “I think if I really took what I wanted, it would be their heads. But I’m afraid I’ll have to be content with something less.”
ErrinCastle suddenly demanded, “And why is that? Why don’t you just kill them?”
Morgin shrugged. “They’re more valuable alive.”
“Is it because of the story I heard about you?” ErrinCastle demanded loudly, glancing about the table at several of his friends with a sly grin. “Is it because of these gods I’m told you speak with? I’ve heard they told you not to kill the Decouixs. But then perhaps I heard the story wrong. Please. Tell me about it.” One of ErrinCastle’s friends smirked into his handkerchief.
Morgin reached for a piece of roast pheasant and said flatly, “Maybe I’m just tired of killing in general.”
Rhianne tried to rescue him. “Well now, in my opinion, that’s a very good thing to be tired of.”
“I believe it’s your power,” Olivia said, knowing full well his power was dead. “I believe it’s giving you wise council, though it’s quite common for one to be unaware of such a subtle manifestation.”
“You know it’s the oddest thing!” ErrinCastle observed to no one in particular. “I’ve heard so much about your power, Lord AethonLaw, and yet I’ve never seen the slightest hint of it.”
Morgin wanted to show him the power of his fist, but had to be satisfied with a simple comment. “I see no reason to flaunt my abilities.”
Most of the evening went that way, with ErrinCastle baiting him, BlakeDown looking on as if he were an observer at a cock fight, Rhianne trying to rescue him, and Olivia always trying to gain some advantage from even the slightest tension. Morgin was relieved when he finally got away. He wanted to find JohnEngine and France and have a little fun, but they’d disappeared somewhere so he drifted toward the stables where Mortiss, at least, would not talk back to him.
He didn’t scratch her between the ears as he’d done with poor old SarahGirl. Mortiss had no need of such comforting. “What a rotten evening this has been!” he said to her.
She snorted, as if saying she didn’t really feel like listening to his troubles.
“I know,” he said, “I know. But I have to talk to someone.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“I wish you could tell me what happened to my power,” he said. “And I wish I knew what to do with Rhianne. Ellowyn was right. I do still love her, even if I don’t want to admit it.”
“And why don’t you want to admit it?”
For an instant Morgin thought Mortiss had actually spoken, but then Rhianne stepped out of the shadows. “Why don’t you want to admit it? Tell me. I do want to know. And who is this Ellowyn you speak of? And what did you mean when you said you wished the horse could tell you what happened to your power. What did happen to your power?”
Morgin shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s just gone. It died some place; I think at Csairne Glen.”
Rhianne stepped closer and frowned. “What do you mean died?”
He wondered for a moment if he should be telling her this, but he knew that if he ever hoped to trust her at all, he must trust her now. “Just that. My power is dead. It’s as if I’ve lost an arm, or a leg. No! It’s as if I’ve lost my sight along with both arms and legs. I’m almost helpless.”
She reached up and touched his cheek gently. “I’m so sorry.”
“That makes two of us.”
She looked into his eyes for a long moment, as if trying to understand him better, then she withdrew her hand from his cheek. “And why don’t you want to admit that you still love me?”
He didn’t try to answer that question, but instead asked one of his own. “Aren’t you getting a little tired of ErrinCastle?”
“Of course I’m getting tired of him,” she said. “I don’t like it when he baits you, and he’s mooning over me like a puppy. His advances are getting downright embarrassing.”
“Then why don’t you get rid of him?”
“I would if I could,” she said, becoming suddenly defensive. “If he were at least discreet I could turn him down discreetly, but he’s become so blatant I’d have to openly insult him in public to discourage him. And your grandmother has specifically forbidden me to do that. So I’m doing the best I can.”
Morgin shook his head. “I do know what it’s like to be caught between my grandmother’s desires and my own.”
“It’s maddening,” she said, frustration dripping from every word.
This was the first time in years they’d actually spoken more than a few words in a private setting. More frightened than he’d ever been in any battle, more fearful of this moment than he’d ever feared death, he took a chance. She stood within arm’s reach, so, looking into her eyes, he reached out carefully and put his hand behind her, pressed it into the small of her back and pulled her toward him. He did so carefully, gently and tentatively, ready to yield if she showed the slightest bit of resistance. But she came to him almost gladly, and as he drowned in her eyes he saw that twinkle appear, the twinkle he hadn’t seen in so long a time. She pressed her body lightly against him and stopped with her lips almost brushing his, her arms still at her sides, the soft scent of her skin washing over him.
He hesitated, not sure where he was going with this, and in that instant she smiled coyly and said, “Well husband, are you going to kiss me or not?”
He said, “I wasn’t sure if—”
She didn’t let him finish, but wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. As their tongues danced together, he pulled her tightly against him, and he realized suddenly they had never kissed before, not like this, not hot and passionate, both of them sensing each other’s desperate need. When the kiss ended and their lips parted she rested her chin on his shoulder, and they held each other tightly for a long moment. Then she leaned back, looked at him carefully and smiled.
He suddenly blurted out, “I’m sorry I was stupid enough to believe you went to Valso’s bed. I was a fool.”
Her eyes narrowed, though the twinkle remained. “Yes, you are.” She stepped out of his arms, turned and walked out of the stables.
He was alone again, with only Mortiss to keep him company. She snorted and shook her head, as if telling him she agreed with Rhianne.
&nb
sp; ~~~
“You promised me you’d discredit him,” DaNoel growled angrily. Then, thinking of the enspelled guard dozing in the corridor, he lowered his voice. “You promised.”
Valso took a deep breath, sat down on the cot in his cell and spoke as if he were lecturing a child. “And I fully intend to keep that promise. My methods are effective, but they cannot be rushed. Take, for instance, the Penda whelp ErrinCastle.”
“What does he have to do with discrediting my bro—the whoreson? He’s a fool who can’t keep his head about women. That’s all.”
Valso shook his head carefully. “You don’t actually believe he’s that much of a fool, do you? He’s making a complete ass of himself over Rhianne. His father has told him more than once to stop being such an idiot, and each night he resolves to maintain his dignity the next time he sees her. But the next morning, when he does see her, my spell takes over, and he loses all control.”
“So you’re responsible for that?” DaNoel laughed and looked at Valso with new respect. “That’s driving the whoreson crazy.”
Valso nodded happily. “Yes, it is. ErrinCastle’s advances are putting him under a great deal of stress right now, and tomorrow that will be very important.”
“Why?” DaNoel demanded. “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
Valso intertwined the fingers of his hands, cupped them behind his head and leaned back comfortably on his cot. “I really can’t tell you that, though I will tell you that the whoreson has two very carefully kept secrets, both of which will be revealed tomorrow and create quite a bit of excitement. Don’t miss the final session of the Council in the Hall of Wills, or you’ll miss all the fun.”
“Listen to me, Decouix,” DaNoel spat angrily. “I told you I want to know what’s going to happen, and you’re not going to evade the answer.”
Valso sat up and his eyes narrowed. “I’m not, am I?” he asked through a very unpleasant smile, and DaNoel’s eyes grew suddenly heavy. In seconds he was asleep standing on his feet. Valso stood, approached him, and spoke very softly. “You can’t even conceive of the power I command, you ignorant fool. I’ve a mind to kill you where you stand, but traitors can be a valuable commodity so I’ll let you live, for the time being.
“Now you’ll remember nothing of this. You’ll leave here, return to your room and go to sleep. And tomorrow you’ll not remember coming to me, nor leaving, nor anything that happened between. But you’ll instruct the stable boy to saddle and provision a horse for you, and to hold it ready. And when the excitement begins in the Hall of Wills you’ll come to me immediately. Is that clear?”
DaNoel’s eyes opened and his head straightened. There was no hint in his features that he was not fully in control of himself, but Valso knew better. “Is that clear?” Valso repeated.
“Yes, my lord. Will that be all?”
“Yes. You may go.”
DaNoel bowed. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, then turned and left.
Valso laughed openly. It was so easy to control that one, and some day it would be just as easy to control them all.
~~~
Morgin had trouble getting up the next morning. He’d had a fitful night’s sleep, filled with dreams he couldn’t remember and a struggle he couldn’t name. He awoke late, groggy and slowwitted, and found it impossible to move with any degree of haste. His sword filled him with unease, and couldn’t put it out of his thoughts. But he pulled himself together, headed for the kitchens, wolfed down some food, then made his way to the Hall of Wills.
The central floor of the Hall was recessed three steps below the periphery, with a high vaulted ceiling overhead. With everyone packed around the edges of the Hall the difference in elevation gave the central floor the air of a stage, while the three steps that raised the surrounding periphery above it formed a boundary beyond which those who were merely observers dare not pass.
The last session of the Council was well under way when Morgin arrived. The twelve council members—three chosen from each of the Lesser Clans—were seated at a large table placed in the center of the main floor. Everyone else stood along the outer periphery, and anyone who wished to address the council would step forth and do so from that floor.
As was customary, though not required, none of the clan Leaders had chosen to place themselves on the Council, perhaps feeling they could be more effective addressing the Council from the floor. To address the Council all one needed to do was walk down the three steps to the central floor and wait patiently to be recognized. At any given moment there were usually two or three clansmen or clanswomen, already recognized, standing in the middle of the floor before the Council, discussing or arguing the topic of the moment, while a half dozen more waited quietly to be recognized at the bottom of the steps along the periphery. Morgin had observed that the speed with which one was recognized was quite dependent upon one’s status within the Lesser Clans, status through rank, money, power, birth—it really didn’t matter. And if one weren’t highly placed, it would be foolish to speak without proper recognition.
He slipped quietly through the observers standing on the periphery and headed toward the back of the Hall. There were more than a few eyebrows raised at his tardiness, though Olivia showed no reaction whatsoever. But Morgin knew that steel-gray stare too well to be fooled by her apparent impassivity, and there was no doubt in his mind she would have words with him later.
It was customary to come armed to the Council, but to place one’s weapons aside once there. At the back of the Hall Morgin unbuckled his sheathed sword and placed it on a rack among a great number of weapons against the wall. But just as he put it down his fingers refused to release it, and it took a decided effort of will to let it go, though doing so heightened his unease. He turned back toward the crowd feeling almost ill, spotted JohnEngine not too far away and moved quietly to his brother’s side.
JohnEngine looked worse than Morgin felt. “What’s the trouble?” Morgin whispered.
JohnEngine took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “Too much wine last night. Or not enough. I’m not sure which.”
“Be silent!” someone hissed at them.
At the moment a Penda lord named Tarare was carrying on an argument with Alcoa, marchlord of the western Elhiyne lands that bordered Penda. Morgin knew Alcoa only vaguely, for the man kept to his own lands. Nor did he personally know Tarare, but it was common knowledge that the Penda lord was simply a mouthpiece for BlakeDown.
“They are always a threat,” Alcoa said loudly, “And until they are taught the proper lesson, they will always be a threat.”
“And what lesson would you teach them?” Tarare demanded. “That you can take our hands from the fields and turn them into soldiers? That you can march them off to a war in a distant land while our crops wither without care? That you can—”
“Enough of this,” Alcoa shouted.
AnnaRail stepped onto the edge of the central floor. It was a measure of the respect she commanded that she was recognized instantly, and by a Penda councilman at that. “My lords,” she said carefully. “We speak of war, and we speak of peace, as if our lives are carried on in either one or the other state. But that is rarely the case, for most often we live in a gray limbo between the two . . .”
While AnnaRail debated with Tarare, Olivia ambled her way through the crowd at the periphery. She hesitated here and there, to have a whispered word with this lord or that, but she worked her way slowly, purposefully, toward Morgin, and when she reached him she took him by the arm and pulled him to an empty corner of the Hall. He was careful not to make a scene by resisting her.
“That wife of yours,” she hissed at him, trying to keep her voice to a whisper. “You need to control her better. She’s allowing ErrinCastle to make a fool of himself.”
For the first time Morgin realized that he now towered over the old woman. He had spent so many years as a young boy looking up at her, but now she had to look up at him. He stepped in close to her to emphasize the differenc
e in their heights. “My wife has done nothing untoward or inappropriate. But ErrinCastle has come very close to crossing the line. Tell BlakeDown that ErrinCastle needs to control himself, because if he doesn’t I’ll kill him.”
Morgin yanked his arm out of Olivia’s hand and turned away from her. But she stepped quickly around him, stepped in front of him. “Oh Lord of Shadow,” she hissed quietly. “Lord without power. You can no longer even claim the rights of a clansman, can you?”
Morgin ignored her, stepped around her and elbowed his way back into the crowd on the periphery. She’d have to make a scene if she wanted to stop him, or drag him back to that corner for more of her threats.
The debate had grown even more heated during his conversation with Olivia, and Tarare was snarling something at AnnaRail. Morgin’s unease grew, his stomach churned, and Rhianne suddenly seemed very distant.
Olivia stepped down to the floor, didn’t wait to be recognized by the Council. “If Lord Tarare ye Penda feels so strongly about peace, we of Elhiyne will not fault him if he chooses to lay his arms aside when his enemies plunder his lands.”
The crowd buzzed momentarily at the open insult in her words, but the old witch outclassed the Penda lord and he knew it, so he wisely chose not to strike back with an insult of his own. “But my enemies have not plundered my lands, most gracious lady. It is your lands that have suffered. It is your fight, and a wise man does not champion another without careful consideration.”
Olivia smiled that stone-hard, straight-lipped smile of hers. “Be careful, Tarare, that you are not too careful, for you might find that your lands have already been plundered before you finish your consideration.”
BlakeDown appeared suddenly out of the periphery and moved to join his kinsman. “Is that a threat, Olivia?”
AnnaRail started to speak, but BlakeDown cut her off. “Silence, woman,” he shouted. His magic flared for an instant, but he brought it under control quickly.
