Storm Rising v(ms-2

by Mercedes Lackey

  Maybe he just resents the fact that An'desha, Darkwind, Talia, Elspeth, and the gryphons like me and they don't much care for him. Or maybe he's just a fanatic.

  And despite the fact that Karal made it a point never to speak up in the Grand Council sessions unless he had something of substance to contribute, no one ever paid any attention to what he said except Jarim, and Jarim paid attention only so he could immediately belittle it. In fact, Talia had taken to repeating what he said almost verbatim so that it would at least be brought up for serious consideration.

  Was it just that he was so young? He'd tried everything save cosmetics and coloring his hair gray to make himself look older. He'd tried a dignified manner and cultivating a deep and booming voice; he'd tried wearing a stark black set of full formal Sun-priest robes. A more elaborate costume had been suggested to him, but he'd felt so ridiculous in it that he hadn't dared try it in public.

  I felt like a walking shrine. Or an actor done up for a miracle-play.

  He was grateful to Talia for her assistance, but this was no way for him to conduct his office. Before long, this kind of situation would affect not only how he was treated in this room, but how he was treated outside it. What little authority he had with his own people, the Karsites here in Valdemar, would soon be eroded by the fact that no one respected him in the Grand Council meetings.

  He didn't know what else he could do. If an enemy, either of him personally or of Karse, had wanted to undermine his authority, they could not have organized anything more effective than what his own youth and perceived inexperience was doing.

  Could it be Jarim's doing? I can't see how. The only reason anyone listens to him is because he shouts louder than I do.

  His insides were nothing but one twisted, snarled knot and had been that way for days. He had been living on herb tea and plain bread, for nothing else would stay in his stomach for long. I'd be drinking myself to sleep, if I didn't know that the liquor would only come right back up after I drank it, he thought glumly. He'd tried sending word of his difficulties back to Karse, but all he got in return were reassuring messages full of platitudes. It was as if Solaris or her advisers weren't even reading the pleas he'd been sending—or were ignoring the content as the vaporings of an inexperienced and homesick boy.

  I am homesick, but only because I can't get anything done here. I'd happily go back to being a secretary, even under an unpleasant and unfriendly master.

  If he couldn't even get his own people to listen to what he was saying, what hope did he have of convincing anyone here?

  He needed authority, and not even his own countrymen were going to exert themselves to see that he got it.

  I want to go home. I want to bury myself in books. I'm not important; I've done everything I needed to here. Anyone Solaris could assign here would be better than me.

  He closed his eyes as his stomach cramped, grimacing and quickly covering it. Karse would have been better off if Altra had protected Ulrich instead of me, he thought, clenching his jaw to control his expression. Before long, I will be doing my land great harm by remaining in this office, because disregard for me will become disregard for Karse.

  He had begged, pleaded for someone to be sent to relieve him, citing that very thing, but his pleas had been ignored. Why? He had no idea.

  If it had not been for Florian, Natoli, and An'desha, he would have thrown himself into the river days ago. All three of them kept encouraging him—though the one creature who might have been able to help him was conspicuous by his absence. Altra had not put in a single appearance in all that time. Karal was beginning to wonder if he had somehow offended the Firecat. Or worse, offended Vkandis Sunlord.

  Perhaps he has deserted me. Perhaps Vkandis no longer favors me. Perhaps He has abandoned me for the same reason that Jarim hates me—because I see no reason to waste time, resources, and lives in persecuting the Imperials. Aren't the mage-storms punishment enough? Must vengeance go on forever? Perhaps He thinks so.

  That only depressed him further, and his stomach and throat knotted more tightly.

  Why was he continuing in this farce? The only reason why he didn't get up and walk out now was that he was just too tired. Perhaps tomorrow I simply won't get out of bed. I'll cancel everything. I'll tell the servants I'm too ill to get up. The results of the day will be exactly the same....

  But he knew he wouldn't do that. It wasn't in his nature. I wish I really was ill; I wish I could break a leg or an arm or something, so I'd have an excuse not to get up. I wish I was really, seriously ill, perhaps with pneumonia, so they'd give me drugs to make me sleep, and I wouldn't have to think about any of this.

  What a fine pass he'd come to when he would rather be seriously injured or sick than have to face his duty and his work!

  He was supposed to join An'desha and Natoli and go to the Compass Rose as soon as the meeting was over, but he didn't have the heart for it now. I can't face the others tonight. I'm no kind of company. I'll just crawl off to my room and see if I can't catch up on some of my correspondence. I can try one more letter to Solaris....

  Maybe this was his punishment for not taking care of Ulrich as he had promised. Perhaps Solaris had decided that he should suffer for not keeping his promise. If so, it was certainly working.

  Finally the debate wound down to a close, concluding as he had hoped, that there was nothing to be gained by harassing the Imperials, and that the innocent civilians of Shonar could be harmed in the process. The group was split equally on the subject of opening negotiations, with himself, Talia, and Darkwind conspicuously on the side of negotiating and Jarim, Kerowyn, and Elspeth the leaders against. Finally, the session came to an end, and he was free to stand up with the others and trail out. He waited for everyone except the most junior of secretaries to precede him, hoping that no one would notice whether or not he had left the room; right now, he didn't want to talk to anyone, not even for idle small talk. His robes seemed to weigh down his shoulders like slabs of stone as he finally stood and collected his notes and his gear. He stowed them all in the leather pouch he had carried as Ulrich's secretary. His neck ached, and there were places beneath both shoulder blades that were so knotted it felt as if he was being stabbed there with a dull pick.

  At that moment, he was perfectly well aware that he would have exchanged his lot in life for that of the lowest servant in Vkandis' temple. He'd gladly be a horse boy in the Temple stables. He'd cheerfully tend the Temple pigsty. He'd scrub the floors for the most ill-tempered priest in Karse....

  But it seemed that his misery had not yet reached its nadir, for Jarim was waiting for him just outside the door of the Council Chamber, and there were several other members of the Grand Council loitering conspicuously in the hallway. It was very clear to him at that moment that Jarim wanted a confrontation, and these jackals were waiting avidly for some entertainment.

  The best way to avoid that is to avoid the confrontation. It takes two to argue, and I'm not going to give him the opportunity. He tried to ignore Jarim, keeping his eyes down and his face without expression as he attempted to ease past the Shin'a'in, but Jarim reached out and seized his arm before he could get out of the way.

  "And where do you think you are going, traitor?" Jarim asked loudly, as he tried to pull loose without turning it into a physical fight. "Can't wait to get back to your kennel, dog, and howl to your Imperial masters? So eager to let them know the good news? And what bone will they toss to you for ensuring their safety? Land? Gold? Some of their magics, maybe? Not content with what your God can give you anymore? Is it so easy to betray your old master?" Jarim spat—not into his face, but at his feet. "Did you serve him only to get a chance to betray him, dog?"

  Karal had expected an attack, but not this one—and not so vehemently. He froze, half paralyzed and quite unable to form anything coherent; he had no reply at all to Jarim's accusations. His head came up and he stared into Jarim's angry face, thunderstruck, and cold all over. He couldn't speak, he couldn't even t
hink clearly. What demon possessed the man to make him so obsessed and so certain that Karal was a traitor, that Karal would have betrayed the one man in the world he had thought of as his second father?

  Jarim snarled angrily at his silence; but when Karal didn't move, his grip loosened just enough that Karal was able to pull himself free. Karal's paralysis lifted, and he jerked his sleeve and arm out of Jarim's hand so violently that he staggered half a dozen paces down the hallway.

  Then he stood there for a moment, chilled to the bone, staring back at Jarim and the Council members gathered beside him. Karal's mouth worked, but not his voice. Not even a whisper emerged—which might have been just as well since whatever he might have said would have been incomprehensible babbling.

  He backed up a pace instead, then another—then turned abruptly and fled, robes flying, back to his suite.

  He knew that his silence in the face of Jarim's incredible accusation had only confirmed his guilt in the onlookers. He was certain that by day's end, the rumor would spread everywhere that he had been working all along for the Empire, that he had survived the attack on Ulrich because he had been meant to by his Imperial masters. And he had no way, none whatsoever, to prove that the accusation was false.

  Florian found him in the dead and deserted gardens, long past sunset. His suite had not been the refuge he had thought it, for the moment he reached its doors, it had occurred to him that Jarim knew where it was, and could very easily find him here. And if the Shin'a'in was as fanatical as he seemed to be, Jarim might well decide to deal with a traitor in Shin'a'in fashion; quickly and decisively, at the point of a hunting knife. Granted the murder of another envoy would cause him a certain amount of difficulty—unless he managed to convince everyone that he had proof of Karal's guilt. He just might manufacture that "proof," knowing that with Karal dead there would be no way to refute it.

  So he had paused just long enough to snatch up his warmest cloak, a hat and long scarf, and a pair of mittens. Then he had fled to the gardens, in the hope of finding some peace there until Jarim's temper should cool. And in the somewhat desperate hope that something, anything, would occur to him to help him defend himself against his accuser. He found a secluded bench and sagged down on it, an anonymous form in a dark, hooded cloak, huddled in such a way as to discourage anyone thinking of approaching him.

  It had been late afternoon when he went down; it was after dark when Florian found him, looming up out of the thick gloom silently as a ghost. Karal saw Florian out of the corner of his eye, but he was so sunk in misery at that point that it didn't seem worthwhile to do anything about the Companion's presence. :Karal?: the Companion said hesitantly when Karal didn't even move to greet him. :Karal, you're in trouble.:

  "Tell me something I don't already know," Karal replied bitterly without raising his head, speaking down at the ground between his feet.

  :No, I mean real, serious trouble,: the companion said, unhappily. :Jarim has been going around the Court telling everyone—:

  "That I'm an Imperial agent. I know." Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he wondered if he was going to be sick right then and there.

  :Worse than that, people believed him. Even Heralds. There were a great many people who couldn't believe that a foolish artist was the real agent at Court.: Florian shifted his weight, and a few pebbles rolled out from under his hooves as he scuffed them against the gravel. :It is worse that Heralds believe him. Nothing I have said will convince them that you are not what Jarim says you are.:

  That surprised him in a dull way. "But—you're a Companion—"

  :And you are not my Chosen. They won't believe even me since you aren't my Chosen. They believe that you have deceived me.: Florian sounded depressed, which certainly didn't help Karal's mood at all. :I don't know what to do, Karal.:

  "Neither do I, except to saddle my horse and go home." Or fling myself into the river, but that wouldn't accomplish very much either, although it would probably make Jarim very pleased with himself. Well, riding off would make him very pleased, too. I've certainly made a mess of this entire situation. I don't know how anyone could salvage it now.

  Florian couldn't seem to stop talking, although Karal would rather have been left alone with his own thoughts. :I don't know who is on his side, precisely, nor how many there are. I only know for certain about the Heralds....:

  "I suppose I might as well go back into the Palace and see how many people believe him," Karal said finally. "We might be pleasantly surprised, I suppose."

  :You don't sound very optimistic.:

  "Neither do you," Karal replied. "But before I saddle up and go home in utter disgrace, I might as well find out just how bad things are. I'd have to report just how much of a disaster I've created, no matter what."

  He rose slowly and stiffly and wrapped his cloak closely about him, walking back to the beckoning lights of the Palace on leaden feet.

  As he discovered the moment he entered the Palace, things were very bad indeed.

  Conversations stopped the moment he entered the hallway; as he passed through one of the reception chambers, he was surrounded by an aura of silence. People would turn to stare at him, then deliberately turn their backs on him. Once he passed, though, conversations resumed, loud enough to make certain that he heard them.

  "It's bad enough being a traitor, but being a coward as well...."

  "He must be some sort of mage, disguising himself. No one could be that vile and look that young."

  "I'm surprised his own god hasn't struck him down dead before this."

  Those were the personal comments; he was fairly certain he wasn't hearing the others—the speculations on how everything vile that was ever said about Karse must be true. How Solaris must have known he was a traitor—and had set that poor fellow Ulrich up as a sacrificial lamb to eliminate suspicion against Karse.

  Servants pointedly ignored him as he passed, and once he reached his suite, he found it precisely as he had left it. Which meant, of course, that no servant had set foot in here to clean it, and quite probably no servant would from this moment on. They would "forget," or leave the rooms until last, then "fall ill" just as they reached his door. If he had thought things were uncomfortable when he and Ulrich had arrived, well... the hostility now was more than double. All the old prejudices were springing back to life, with redoubled vigor for having been suppressed for so long.

  He stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to make up his mind about what he should do. Should he start packing and leave this very moment? He thought he had just about enough money to get to the border, if he stayed in very modest inns. He would have to be circumspect when he talked, but his Valdemaran was fairly good now; he might be able to pass for a foreign priest from anywhere but Karse.

  Maybe I could talk Florian into coming with me? I might be able to purloin some Herald's Whites from the Palace laundry and pass as a Herald until I got home—or better yet, it would be a lot easier to get hold of one of the gray uniforms the trainees wear. For once it wouldn't be so bad to look young.

  Would Florian be willing to go along with the scheme?

  He heard footsteps down the hall, and moved inside, quickly, closing the door behind him. Maybe he couldn't get Florian to help, but the idea of purloining a uniform gave him another notion. I can get Natoli to find someone to loan me one of the unaffiliated students' blue uniforms. Then no one will bother me. I can just say I'm going home if anyone asks, and it won't be a lie.

  He started to turn toward his bedroom, planning to start packing immediately, but a knock on his door startled him into immobility.

  Who could it be? He could think of any number of possibilities, and few of them made him want to answer the door.

  The knock came again. "Karal?" said a soft female voice. "I know you're in there; I can sense you, and I know you aren't more than two steps from the door. It's Herald Talia, and you might as well open up."

  Talia? She was one of the few people he had not thought of. He ha
d to obey her, actually; in the hierarchy of Vkandis she was senior to him. He reversed his turn and let her in. She blinked at the darkness, for he had not had time to light more than the single candle beside the door.

  "I see the shunning has begun already," she said dryly, and moved past him so he could close the door again. He nodded; both the Karsites and the Holderkin used the ritual of "shunning," where someone who had been cast out of the community was ignored and avoided from that moment on by all the faithful. It had driven sensitive people in Karse to suicide before this; presumably it had the same effect on Holderkin.

  "I'm dealing with the Heralds on your behalf," she told him, taking the candle from the holder beside the door and moving with it to the other side of the room to light the lamps for him. "I am sorry that idiot Jarim started all this; it's going to take some time to untangle it and more time to undo all the damage from his foolish fanaticism."