“Enough. I do not know that the seat will be Lord Vellen’s to offer for much longer, and it is of this that I wish to speak.”
How surprising, Lord Valens thought. He straightened himself up in his chair and a wave of nausea dimmed the room’s lamps. Damn Vellen.
“The Lord of the Empire cannot be pleased with Lord Vellen’s leadership of the seat of the Greater Cabal. There is no other explanation for the south wing. We cannot afford to antagonize him further—what would be next? The east? The temple? Our position is already too tenuous among the nobles—they know well that the edicts most recently given out do not come from our hand, or from our choice.”
Silence greeted the words, but there were many nuances to it. Agreement. Fear. Boredom. Contempt. Only the first two held any hope for Torvallen’s position.
“We do not know what occurred when the High Priest Vellen left Malakar.”
“Members of the Greater Cabal were assassinated.”
“Thank you, Sorval.” His words were tight. “Please. Your silence.” The pause that followed was heavy with significance. “But I have been able to uncover his destination.”
Dramathan raised an eyebrow. “This would be news,” he said softly. He himself had no sources that could be moved to divulge this information, if indeed they did have it.
“He journeyed in secrecy and swiftness, to Mordantari.”
Mordantari.
The word hung in the middle of the table like an unwelcome beacon.
Marek met Dramathan’s eyes with a slight raising of brow, which was returned in kind. Both men were cursing silently, but only one was in any position to reconsider his options.
If this is true, Vellen, Dramathan thought, you will rue it. This is not peripheral information. “You have proof, of course,” he said mildly.
“Of course.”
A number of comments came to mind, but he uttered none of them; he knew that Benataan did not lie.
Morden cleared his throat and leaned slightly forward. “This is news.” Not, apparently, to him; not by his reaction. “Mordantari is the Lord’s domain.”
“Indeed. Vellen returned in seclusion. He answered no questions. I believe we can draw our own conclusions from this.” He straightened out his shoulders and stood quite tall.
“I believe we will need some time to think on this,” Dramathan said.
“What time?” Benataan’s voice was cold. “A few hours, perhaps? Long enough for more reprisals to take place?”
“What would you have us do?” Morden again.
Tirvale of Wintare moved his large girth in his chair and cleared his throat. It was a long affair. “I believe that we are presented with only one option.”
“And that?”
“Vote,” he replied. His hands were covered by a sheen of sweat, but it was hardly likely to be nerves; he sweated often. “The evidence stands as too great a warning.”
“Seconded,” Morden said.
Benataan’s smile was almost beatific. For the first time since commencing his speech, he took his seat.
“Come, come, Benataan. This is too great a matter to be rushed into.” But Dramathan’s words sounded hollow even to himself.
“It was not my motion.”
Very quietly, Dramathan rose and left his seat. “I will not vote,” he said quietly. He looked around the table. Quorum here was seven members. Benataan had ten now.
“Nor I,” Marek said, rising also. Nine.
Corvair rose quietly and pushed his chair in. Eight.
“I’m afraid I too must decline.” Telemach nevertheless gave a graceful bow. There were seven.
Benataan smiled softly.
As one, he and Dramathan turned to look at Jael of Tirassus. The man had not moved. His dark eyes looked steadfastly down at the sheen of the table, and his hands did not rise above his lap. He was the color of mourning; deathly white against the pitch black of his robes.
“Jael?”
“I—will not vote against High Priest Vellen,” the man replied. His voice was strained. “But I will vote.”
“Gentlemen.” Benataan nodded. “We are sorry to see you leave the Greater Cabal.” He smiled maliciously. “But we have a quorum, and we will see the motion through.”
The four men who had stood looked at each other. To sit now was too much of an indication of weakness, but each considered the option.
Dramathan’s smile was brittle indeed. He made no move to resume his seat at the council table.
The doors swung open with a bang, and a pillar of fire came up through the ground, eating away at the wood in the table’s center. Ash floated in the air, light specks of black dust.
Benataan’s face lost its smile.
“Gentlemen.” The leader of the Greater Cabal strode into the room. He had not dressed in formal attire, as had his rival, but the power of the flames that still crackled lent him all of the aura of majesty that he required.
“High Priest.” Marek bowed.
“You have not yet taken your seats?”
“Indeed we had. But the meeting was almost ... finished.”
“I am sorry to have been delayed. There was a carriage accident.” His eyes met Benataan’s coldly. “And also, other business I had to attend to.”
At this, he turned to look at Jael.
Jael could not have paled further, but his face seemed more of a marble relief than living flesh. He met the high priest’s eyes.
“As council is not in session,” Vellen nodded to the seated members, “I will take a few moments to speak of private house matters.”
“That is not entirely appropriate,” Benataan snapped. “And council is in session.”
Vellen ignored him, still watching Jael’s face. “Lord Damion wishes to pass a message on to Lord Tirassus.”
“It can wait,” the lord of Torvallen said, this time more forcibly. “There is the matter of your small trip to discuss further.”
“The message is simple enough,” Vellen continued. “He wishes Lord Tirassus to know that Lord Evannen of Tirassus has requested leave to study in House Damion’s libraries; he imagines the stay should last no more than a week.”
“Evannen is at House Damion?”
“As we speak, old friend.”
Jael rose quietly from his chair. “Then I believe the vote cannot take place this eve.” The look that he sent to Benataan was anything but gracious; his eyes, even at Vellen’s distance, were flashing red. “You do not have a quorum.” The chair that he’d occupied scraped against the stone of the floor. The stone was smooth, but the chair screeched nonetheless.
“He’s lying,” Benataan said, his voice quite cold.
Jael paused briefly as the possibility was evaluated.
At another time, it might have amused Vellen to play this out and make a game of his ally’s uncertainty. This eve was not that time.
“Am I?” he asked quietly. He slid his hand into his robes and drew it out again; his fingers were curled against something. “Lord Evannen requested that I give this to his father’s keeping.”
Jael stepped quickly forward, palm up.
Everyone in the room could see the glint of gold and platinum that Vellen placed into Jael’s hand: the crest ring of the sole heir to Tirassus.
Only Jael could see that it had not been cleaned; brown specks of dried blood still nestled in the inverse relief of his house. His brows drew together, and his face took on its first color of the evening—a red that was almost purple.
“It is,” Vellen said mildly, “as we found it. Evannen is resting.”
“My thanks to Lord Damion,” Jael replied.
Benataan rose again, his face steady and composed. He had taken a risk; he had lost. Somehow, information of his foray had filtered into the hands of his rival. Tirassus was now an active enemy, and not a passive one.
“Perhaps,” he nodded to the Karnari that had remained seated, “we will allow this to be raised at our next meeting.”
Velle
n frowned. There was no hint of defeat in Lord Torvallen’s voice. He looked around the room and noticed, for the first time, that Michaelas was missing.
He did, however, incline his head.
At that signal, the remaining members of the Greater Cabal rose, and following in the wake of Benataan, began to leave the chamber.
Vellen was left alone with those who had stood behind his position. It had been, judging from the looks on their faces and the way they comported themselves, a closely called thing.
“My son?”
“Injured,” Vellen replied curtly. “Our doctors are with him, but they do not fear for his life.”
“Then I thank you.”
“Do more. Where is Michaelas?”
Jael shook his head.
“High Priest,” Dramathan said, interrupting their conversation with force of will where strength of voice alone would not serve.
Vellen’s face was set and grim.
“Perhaps there are other questions that might be better answered. Why did you venture into Mordantari?”
Long years of practice kept the shock off Vellen’s face.
Dramathan of Valens wore a look that he seldom did; there was danger in it, and it was worse for the quietness with which it was shown.
Vellen had seconds to decide, but experience helped here, too. “I will not deny it, but its nature is secret.”
Marek snorted.
“Let me say just this: There is more than one Servant among us, and if my plans—our plans—hold to their course, there will soon be none.”
“We cannot fight—”
“I am not Benataan, to even suggest so suicidal a course.” He let anger edge his words—it was genuine.
“Then what?”
“You will have to trust me; the fight is not between us and the Lord of the Empire, but between the Lord and another Servant. I aid the other; he has no interest in our Empire.”
There was silence as each man pondered Vellen’s words.
Then Dramathan nodded mildly. “You are speaking the truth.” At his words, his eyes lost their red tinge, and his shoulders curled inward as if he were exhausted. “It is enough. For now. But be warned; this will be raised in the next council meeting, and you had better have a good reply; Benataan is not so incompetent as he once was.”
Vellen knew it well.
chapter sixteen
The dress was red, lighter in color than new blood, but just as rich and nearly as liquid. Great folds of silk caught the light as it fell to the ground well below Lady Amalayna’s feet. The sheen of the cloth looked bright and polished, but that was illusion; it caught none of her reflection as she gazed down.
“Hold still, Lady,” the head seamstress said, crossing her arms and standing far enough back to survey her handiwork.
Amalayna smiled brittlely, well aware that she hadn’t moved anything but her chin. The seamstress spoke from years of habit and wasn’t likely to change her tune. Although she wasn’t a noble, she was a free tradesman, and her services were enough in demand that she didn’t have to force her matronly personality into meek subservience.
It was just as well; at this time it would serve as more of an annoyance than anything else. The lady sighed heavily and this did move the fall of the dress.
“Please, Lady Amalayna. The shoulders here must hang correctly. Lucida—pin the left now.”
Lucida was young, but her face and the older woman’s had a common heritage. The other girl, small and quite fair, began to hand out pins from the strap she wore around her neck.
“Cut it long, just to be sure.”
“Yes, Mother,” Lucida replied. Hers was the meeker voice, but it was meek more because of the force of her mother’s personality than because she was in the company of nobility.
“When will this be finished?” Amalayna asked. It was perhaps the fourth time she’d done so, as it was the only relevant thing she could say.
“The ceremony’s what? Two weeks away?”
“Yes.”
“Ten days. The black velvet for the sash should arrive in two.”
Ten days. Amalayna looked up into the long oval mirror. She was high enough off the ground, balanced on a sturdy stool, that she could not see her own eyes.
Her father’s health was failing, perhaps a little too rapidly. She cursed silently, which added a few lines to her already dour expression. On top of that, she had had word that Benataan of Torvallen had almost succeeded in his move to unseat the leader of the Greater Cabal.
At another time she might have quietly wished him success. But no unseated leader in the last eighty years had been spared the grace of the altars—and that was not the death that she envisioned for Lord Vellen.
Nor did she wish Benataan to be so unsuccessful that he lost his own seat. If her plan went awry, she wanted some danger to remain to Vellen after her death.
“Right. You can come down now, Lady.”
Her hands lifted folds of silk as carefully as possible. Little silver pins glinted up at the edges of the newly imposed hem, and she avoided pulling at them.
“Will that be all?”
“Yes. We’ll be back in three days for the next fitting. The major work of the dress should be finished by then, and the beading for the crest as well.”
Pieces of the dress slowly fell away, to be caught in the arms of seamstresses that cared much more for its fate than she.
Dinner was a solitary affair. She ate in the dining hall, as had become her habit, but did so alone. No place had been set for her father. He was not feeling well, she had been told, and would dine in his quarters alone.
Slaves came and went, bearing silver dishes and crystal glasses to and from her side. They were not much company at all, and she was surprised to find that she missed her father.
She set her fork down and picked up her wine goblet, staring into its burgundy depths.
Has it come to this? she thought bitterly, lifting it slowly to her lips. Am I grown so used to House Valens, that I miss even your company? She drank some of the wine to dispel the dryness that suddenly took her throat. Crystal shivered between her lips.
She did not want him to die too soon, that was all. Should he pass away before the ceremony, she knew well that it would not take place. Lord Vellen would have nothing to gain, and all chance of her vengeance would be lost.
A ghost of a thought flickered by. Why was it that the corner of the eye could oft catch things that a fuller view missed? She shivered, and for a moment the years fell away. She was young again, and her parents were the only two people in the world who could perfectly grant all.
She had loved him, then. She had forgotten.
I acted too quickly; he will die too soon. That was it. But it was not all.
She set the goblet down and stared at the closed doors beyond the table. Her throat tightened further, and she rose, putting the glass aside.
The doors opened quietly as she made her way into the hall. One slave tended the lamps that ranged across the wall in their neat, precise order. His shadow was twisted and distorted as it crept up the wall opposite his back.
She shook her head and found the grand stairs, taking care to ,walk slowly and in a manner that befitted her station. No one must conceive of the burden that pressed too heavily upon her.
The hall of the upper level opened before her, and she followed it past her rooms before she was aware that they were gone.
The double doors of Lord Valens’ personal rooms waited in silence as she approached. Two house guards flanked them, swords drawn and pointed up toward the ceiling. They did not bar her as she knocked gently.
The door swung open, and Matteus, the house physician, peered out.
She met his eyes, and any question she had died on her lips.
“Ah, Lady. I believe your father will see you.”
Nodding, she entered and closed the doors firmly behind her. Her head touched the back of the doors a moment.
“Come. He’s in be
d, but he’s resting well.”
“Is he awake?”
“Yes. He’s eaten as well.”
She walked across the sitting room and entered the left door.
Lord Dramathan of Valens sat up in bed, pillows propping his back into a semblance of normality. His face was a peculiar shade of green and gray, but his eyes were bright and open.
“Amalayna.” He nodded, and she approached the bed. “Do you have news?”
“Some,” she answered quietly. “Lord Michaelas did not preside at the Greater Cabal’s meeting.”
“Of that,” her father said wryly, “I am well aware.”
“No children of the house are missing, but Michaelas has not left the house proper for a week. I do not believe that he was forced to miss the meeting, but I also do not believe that he desired to vote against Lord Vellen. Yet if the choice comes to it, I would not count on him.”
“Reasons?”
“None yet.”
Her father nodded tiredly, and she drew closer still, as if pulled. “Father?”
“Yes.” His smile was weak. “I am not well. It’s age, I think.” He shifted on the pillows. “And I do not know how easily I will be able to attend the next session of the cabal.”
“There is another session?”
“Yes.” His breathing was labored. “Within the week. But come; you yourself look rather pale.”
She bit her lip and caught his hand. Both shook.
“Amalayna, stop this nonsense.”
“Why?” she countered, as her eyes began to grow brilliant. “Who is there to see it?”
“Lord Valens,” he answered quietly. “And he does not appreciate this sign of weakness from a foolish older daughter.” But he did not speak with his usual force, and he did not draw his hand away. “What is it, child?”
“I—I don’t want you to die.”
At this, his eyes drew up in genuine surprise. “Then I believe you will have your wish. I have no intention of dying.”
She nodded quietly, and the tears remained trapped in the prison of her near unblinking eyes.
“Go, Lady. The ceremonies are taking their toll, and you look as if you need the rest.”
Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light (The Sundered, Book 4) Page 28
