On the far side of the yard, an archway large enough to permit two carriages abreast tunneled into the hill. Above it rose the sprawling courts and halls of Solath Mahnus. Each roof showed crenellated abutments more decorative than useful. The stone of the outer walls had been carved with various crests denoting houses and families. The crests formed pyramids, each successive level holding fewer as if showing the genealogy of the seats housed within.
Their steward ushered Wendra, Seanbea, and Penit into a tunnel lit brightly with oil lamps. Several intersecting passages ran at perfect angles to the one they traversed before finally they came to a wide stair guarded by four men bearing halberds. The fastidious baton wielder did not even bother to acknowledge the guards, fussing past them and up the stairs at a sturdy clip. Gates hung from the ceiling above them. A short stroke would bring them swinging down to block their ascent. Wendra saw strange clips bolted to the outer edges of the stair, where it looked as though the gate locked home once it fell.
Wendra’s legs had started to burn by the time they stepped into a wide, vaulted chamber, appointed with suits of armor and weapons resting on oiled wood stands, and pedestals bearing glass cases where sepia parchments sat atop easels, many of them singed around the edges or burned through in places as if with a hot stick. Murals hung painted on canvases several strides to a side, and long drapes in solid, dignified colors descended from brass rods fastened in the heights of the room’s great ceiling. All around, charcoal-colored marble set in feathered patterns announced the dignity of court, and the refinement of artistry.
Seemingly inured to his surroundings, their guide led them through the hall into a second chamber bordered by doors and dominated by a narrow stair that began in the middle of the room and ascended past the second and third floors, issuing them directly to the fourth story. Marble balustrades ran along the edges of each level, though Wendra had no idea how people found their way to those floors.
At the top, several soldiers stepped into their path in a practiced manner, and waited until the race coordinator said something to them before they would withdraw. They pushed through a large set of double doors and saw a number of maps and long scrolls on tables where men and women sat, harried looks upon their faces, some gesticulating, others with heads cradled in their hands. There were deliberations going on.
Soldiers numbered half the room’s occupants, most in unsullied uniforms and looking ill at ease to be so clean and tailored. Sun streamed through long, high windows, bathing the room in light; looking through those windows, Wendra could see the breadth of Recityv even from the doorway. It made her woozy; she reaffixed her attention onto following the bustling little gentleman.
Some of the room’s occupants looked up as they passed, a few appearing to understand who they were and forgetting whatever concern currently occupied them. Behind them, men with pitchers of water stood at the ready to refill glasses on the table. Wendra found her mouth dry and wanted to ask for something to drink. The hush that followed them into the room dissuaded her from making any requests.
At the back of this room stood another set of double doors guarded by eight men. The race coordinator impatiently waved them away as he approached. The soldiers gave way and the doors were drawn back to admit them. Through the doors stretched another hall, more doors at long intervals on either side and engraved with words from a tongue Wendra did not know. Past these, a final set of stairs led to doors that stood unattended. To these, their trenchant guide took them. Wendra’s stomach churned. She took Penit’s hand and as an afterthought, took Seanbea’s hand as well, just as they came to the end of the hall.
Their guide stopped at the door and turned to face them.
“I’ve sent ahead for an audience.” He looked them over one by one, pointing at each person with a crooked finger as though taking count. “This is an interruption the regent will permit because it bears on the completion of her High Table, but it is not an invitation to speak. If you are asked something, you may answer. ‘My Lady’ is quite appropriate when addressing the regent. Otherwise, keep quiet.”
The fellow did not wait on questions or protests, and with a small grunt pushed open the heavy doors to the regent’s High Office.
Every surface shone in alabaster marble. Only the slightest variant of color showed it to be anything but pure white. Arched windows running from floor to ceiling in broad stripes let light into the chamber. Wendra did not remember seeing any windows from the courtyard. Each corner housed a hearth attended by a cluster of high-back chairs and flat benches. A table set before the each fireplace held books, some open as though left while being used. At the back of the High Chamber, a brass tableau had been set into the wall. It showed a king in full regalia removing his crown. Upon it, inscriptions gleamed in the light. Beneath it, on a raised stone dais, sat an elegant elderly woman in a large, upholstered chair—the regent, Wendra guessed.
At the sight of her, Wendra felt the sudden urge to kneel. The woman had a commanding gaze, and gave Wendra the feeling that she stood in the presence of real power. She would never have thought she’d be in the same room with such a woman. Her heart beat stronger as though in a kind of sisterhood.
At the center of the High Office stood a great circular table. Across from Wendra, the table showed a gap where one might enter the area inside the ring it created. Around the outer edge sat men and women at odd intervals, separated by empty chairs. As the doors closed behind them, Wendra’s attention fell on a gaunt gentleman adorned all in black and pacing the area inside the ring of the table. He walked casually in a smaller circle, alternately facing those seated around him as he spoke in relaxed, confident tones.
“Our regent’s call for the Lesher Roon is a worthy one, even if the rumors that shift opinion in the streets are the fancy of empty bellies eager for a scapegoat to sacrifice to their malcontent.” He opened his hands, palms up, to emphasize the image he described. “There, neither she nor the people are to blame, my fellows. It is proper to find consensus as the reunification of the High Council could. And when men and women move listlessly in their markets and homes, leadership is what is needed.
“But as to the naming of Quiet in the land”—he shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands—“have any of you seen it? What evidence of these things do we have? Our respected friend Artixan champions this belief,” the man said, pointing to a white-bearded gentleman who sat in stately fashion though his age drew his shoulders forward in the slump of his advanced age. “But his people take it upon themselves to violate the law.”
Artixan half rose. “To save one of your own men’s children, Ascendant Staned. Let us not forget who benefited by such generosity.”
Wendra looked at this man, Artixan. He was Sheason, she could feel it.
“It is no matter who was saved, my fellow. None at all. It might have been the regent herself, and still the law was broken. I held out for no favor in the League’s defense when one of my own was brought under condemnation. And I will address it now as I have before: the Archer is no member of the League. He may be sympathetic to that which elevates our cause, but he acted independently. I’ll swear on it.”
“Your words are vile enough, Roth, without such oaths,” Artixan said, drawing polite laughter from the others seated at the table.
Brief indignation crossed the Ascendant’s face before diplomacy resettled his features. “It is no wonder the regent keeps you on, Artixan; a better scop no regent could ever hope to have.”
“And you are my rightful heir, Your Leadership … your prattle is an endless joke,” Artixan riposted. The Sheason’s smile fell. “And yet I’ll have an end to our dispute. Rumor or none, many despair over their condition, and in their dismay is a fiend. Let us pluck it out, whatever the cause.”
“Truly said,” Roth replied. “And have courage should that thorn be called Sheason.”
“Or Exigent,” Artixan finished.
Ascendant Staned sat with a forced smile, holding his composure wit
h some difficulty.
When all were seated, the race coordinator cleared his throat and stepped forward. “My Lady, I present you the winner of the Lesher Roon and his father.”
The woman seated in the chair on the raised step now stood. Her mantle fell to the floor in flowing folds. She, too, stood hunched from age. Deep creases told of a life of fret and laughter. Brown spots on her brow and neck and hands came in the same color of her close earth. Yet her eyes sparkled with fire and clarity. She seemed not to miss anything in its detail, reserving speech until she’d looked and considered those she addressed. She spared a glance at the table, and at an unspoken command, each of those seated there stood as well, and turned to face Wendra and her companions.
“I’m told the winner of the Child’s Seat isn’t as evident as you suggest.” The regent indicated both boys.
“The boy who crossed the ribbon first isn’t in dispute, my Lady,” the race coordinator replied. “But the winner may be.”
“Don’t draw it out, Jonel,” she urged. “Bring us to your purpose.”
“This child,” he began, motioning Dwayne to stand beside him, “crossed the ribbon ahead of the rest.” He looked at Penit and brought him forward with a glance. “But this child led the race to within a house-length of the finish before stopping and letting the ribbon-taker pass him by.”
The regent held up a hand. “Is this true?” she said, looking directly at Penit.
He nodded. The race coordinator gently pressed a knuckle in his back. “Yes, Anais, I mean, my Lady.”
Penit immediately looked up to see what danger he had caused for himself in referring to the regent in such a way. Helaina surprised them all by smiling graciously.
“A long time since anyone honored me so,” she said, sharing a look with the Sheason. “Wouldn’t you agree, Artixan?”
“I would,” the old man stated.
“We are concerned that the children may have conspired to thwart the natural delegation of the Lesher Roon, my Lady,” the coordinator said. “And I put the matter before you to decide whether another race must be run, or the results of this Roon should stand. I’ll have the records reflect my diligence in selecting the appropriate Child’s Voice.”
The regent nodded once. “So noted, and wisely so, Jonel. Thank you.” She then descended her single stair and walked around the table, making her way with a slow, deliberate step, aided by a pearl white cane formed of two intertwined pieces of wood. No one moved or spoke while she came to Penit. The sound of her shuffling steps and the tick of her cane upon the marble floor filled the silent chamber.
At last she stood before them. “Come to me,” she said, propping her cane against her hip and proffering her hands to Penit and Dwayne.
With a gentle shove from Jonel on each boy’s back, they did as they were asked, stepping up and each taking one of the regent’s hands.
“Your names?” she asked.
Each boy gave it.
She looked down at Dwayne, her eyes gripping him in a solemn stare. “Did you conspire with Penit to win the Roon?”
Dwayne shook his head. “No, my Lady. I ran my hardest. I didn’t expect Penit to stop, but when he did I just ran past him.”
The regent gave a nod of satisfaction before turning to Penit with her iron stare. “And you, son, if you were sure to take the race, why did you stop?”
Penit looked back at Wendra. His eyes pleaded, but she could do nothing but nod for him to answer. The gesture seemed to reassure him, and he turned back to the regent.
“Dwayne is much smarter than me, my Lady, much smarter.” He tried to look at his feet, but the regent took his chin and lifted it again.
“And what has this to do with deliberately losing the Roon?”
Penit shrugged. “I wanted to win. Wendra and I have come all the way from Myrr, and I thought if I won I could get us out of trouble with the Quietgiven and Vendanj and everybody.” Wendra caught a start in the regent, who tightened her gaze on Penit. “But after we got close to the ribbon, something kind of hit me. Whoever wins the race gets to make important decisions for the whole city. Dwayne will do a better job of it than I could. He knows more; he figures things out better than I do. If the children are going to have one to speak for them, it should be Dwayne before me.”
The regent gave Dwayne another look. He stood dumbfounded.
“How do you know this of Dwayne if you are from Myrr? I was informed that our new Child’s Voice is a resident here of Recityv.”
“I don’t know about that,” Penit shook his head. “We met at Galadell, that’s where—”
“Hold,” the regent stopped him.
Wendra watched as Dwayne’s father began to look backward toward the door, perspiration gathering at his temples.
“We will adjourn,” the regent called. “At first hour the table will reconvene.” The tone of command in her voice belied her age, and those sitting at the round table silently filed past them and through the only doors to the High Office. The league leader hesitated near them to make a close observation of each boy. Then the Sheason came, his step slower and less steady. “Attend me, Artixan,” the regent said. “I could use your counsel, I think.”
“As you say,” Artixan answered.
When the hall was cleared, the regent gestured for them each to take a seat at the table. She slowly retook her own, resting her aged body in the cushioned seat and gathering a breath before speaking.
“Go on now, Penit. And mind you speak the truth. We’ve no leniency for lies.” The regent rested her cane against an armrest and settled her keen eyes on the boy again.
“Wendra and I got taken by a highwayman to Galadell. First he took me because Wendra got sick and I went out looking for help.” Penit rushed ahead with his story. “Wendra came and rescued me, but before she got there, I met Dwayne. He was being held for sale, too. They made us run a lot, the faster kids separated from the slower ones. Dwayne and I got put together, and food was better after that.
“Dwayne is very smart. He doesn’t know as many of the stories as I do, because I had to learn them for the wagon-plays. But he had a whole plan for escape, and I saw how he helped the younger kids when they got scared. He even helped the men and ladies, teaching them how to deal with the traders. I’m just glad he finally got out.” Penit shot a look at Dwayne’s father.
The regent held a finger to her lips as she listened. Her sharp gaze did not vary as she assessed Penit’s words. “But you must know the Roon selects its own. It is not for you to decide who takes the Child’s Seat.” Helaina spoke with a dignified calm, but certain sternness.
“Yes, my Lady,” Penit said. “But maybe the Roon is what made me stop. That’s what I think.” Penit ran his arms across the gloss of the table. “The race doesn’t have a brain, it can’t think. I decided that what the Roon meant was a race where all the children run and do their best to select one to sit at this table. I might be the fastest, my Lady, but the best thing I can do is be sure you get the smartest one to help you do your ruling. That’s Dwayne, no doubt.”
The regent smiled around her finger.
“And anyway, now maybe I don’t have to worry about the Bar’dyn and Vendanj and the rest. You can help them.”
Helaina’s smile faded from her aged lips. “You’ve seen the Bar’dyn, boy? And Vendanj, you’ve spoken with him?”
“Yes. Vendanj helped us get away from the Bar’dyn. So did Seanbea.” Penit turned and smiled at the Ta’Opin. “But we got separated from Tahn and Sutter and Braethen and Mira. And we haven’t seen them since.”
“We will speak of these things later,” the regent declared in an authoritative voice. “For now, I am left with an unprecedented event in the Lesher Roon, and the trouble of who shall claim a seat at my table.” She scrutinized each boy’s face. “The rightful winner should have been Penit, who shows more wisdom and humility yet in forfeiting the race as he believes it is in the highest interest of the council.
“Still, the
people have witnessed the ribbon falling to Dwayne, and will claim him as the rightful voice.” She sat back into her chair, straightening her hunched shoulders. Wendra thought that she glimpsed a moment of the regent’s former beauty and majesty as Helaina raised her voice from a head held royally aloft. “More than this,” the regent spoke forcibly, “young Penit reminds us of the spirit of the Roon, the spirit of the table. We dishonor ourselves to question his sacrifice.” She looked at Penit. “Besides, son, though I would be glad to have you take a permanent seat here, I trust your judgment of the young Dwayne. I hope to benefit from the wisdom you ascribe to him.”
The regent then looked at Artixan, who’d remained quiet the entire time. The Sheason nodded with a look of satisfaction. Just then, the door opened and a page bowed deeply in apology.
“Excuse me, regent,” the page said. “But the Court of Judicature has been convened on a moment’s notice to hear the defense of the Archer.”
“What is this?” the regent said, standing and taking up her cane. Fire burned in her eyes. “We cannot open this to law, there’ll be riots.”
“Pardon, my Lady,” the page went on. “Against the protest of our magistrate, the right to Preserved Will has been claimed, and the law still holds in the annals. I’ve been asked to convey you there to hear the entreaty and pronounce upon it. Lord Hiliard of the Court of Judicature does not wish to rule on the dissent without your endorsement.”
The regent looked around, the ire clear and bright in her face. On her wrinkled cheeks color rose. She did not speak, her mouth a thin, tight line. Finally, she tapped her cane once and descended the stair to the chamber floor.
“Follow me, Artixan,” she said. “The rest of you, too. I won’t ascend these steps again today. We’ll talk over the rest of your revelations at our day’s last meal.”
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