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TAMARYL CONSCIOUSLY flattened his wings, worried their restless tension would betray him, and looked down the line. Mostly nim, one or two che per group. It should be enough. He hoped it was enough.
He hoped this was the right choice.
To his right, Edeiya’rika landed gracefully and walked to stand beside him, her eyes on the gathered nim. “You came to watch them?”
He nodded. His chest was too tight to speak.
“I know what this must cost you,” she said softly, her eyes just darting to him and then moving quickly back to the others.
He wasn’t sure that was true, but he appreciated her effort. He clasped his hands behind his back, attempting a more open posture. “I heard about the raid last night.”
“A Hentu attack on our westernmost repository. They came in force, but we were able to drive them away. They suffered significant casualties; I hope they will not return soon.”
“Thank you for your service.”
She nodded once. “Two days ago the Lian made a probe to leap the between-worlds, testing the shield, but of course that was unsuccessful. We did not even bother to shoo them away, letting them carry back word that it would be futile to try again.”
Tamaryl nodded. “And the storehouse protest this morning?”
Her face was somber, her eyes directly ahead. She’d known he was working toward the question. “I handled that myself. It was unpleasant for all. But we distributed enough to calm the panic and buy time.”
Tamaryl drew a slow breath, exhaled it, unclasped his aching fingers. “I hope it is enough.”
SOREN YAWNED AND SHIFTED beneath the heavy blankets, already sensing the tingle of cold outside the bed. He heard the subtle creak of his door and the soft sound of someone crossing to the fire, stirring and fueling it. Soren said nothing; he did not want to admit to being awake yet. The ball had finally dissipated sometime around dawn, and he had only then made his way back to his rooms, dropping his formal clothes to the floor and falling into bed. If he remained still, he might slip back into sleep...
How did Ethan do it? He’d dismissed the slave sometime before dawn, but surely Ethan had seen to other duties before going to his own bed.
A hand caught the edge of the hanging curtains and drew them back. Soren squinted against the light and turned his face into the downy pillow. “Not yet,” he mumbled into it. “Go away.”
“I’m sorry,” answered Ethan, “but you’re called.”
Soren groaned. “I specifically told the commander not to come early.”
“No, master. It’s His Majesty.”
Soren twisted, cool air shocking his bare chest as the blankets fell away. “Find me something to wear.”
He stumbled out of his room with his doublet over one shoulder, Ethan doing up the sleeve lacing while Soren ran fingers through his uncombed hair. By the time he reached the private sitting room, the doublet was over both shoulders, fashionably unlaced at the collar, and his leggings were tucked securely into his boots. He glanced to Ethan, who nodded to confirm no escaping shirttail betrayed him, and then he raised a hand to signal the page beside the door.
King Jerome was seated at a table set for a meal, but without any food. He had a sheaf of papers before him, several in one hand, others scattered about the place settings. “Soren, good morning, come in,” he said, barely looking up. “I thought you could join us for brunch.”
“Us?”
“Your mother and brother will be coming shortly. We can take care of some state business before they arrive.”
“Certainly.” Soren waited for his father’s gesture and then took a seat.
Jerome raised a handful of paper. “I see the embargo situation has not been dealt with. How is that?”
“My lord, you know I’ve been bending on that task for—”
“Too long, far too long. We are losing revenue, the merchants are losing trade, and I am losing patience.”
Soren took a breath. “Sire, the route in question has been in dispute for over thirty years. I cannot arbitrarily order a resolution, and I must be seen giving consideration to—”
“Are you fretting about your image?” demanded the king. “Worried what the courtiers might think of you?” He shook his head and deposited the papers in another stack before rising from the table to pace. “You have two lords locked in disagreement, and you cannot let them wallow in their past contentions. Speak with them, understand them, and then do what must be done.”
Soren stood as well. “I will review our work with an eye toward more immediate resolution.”
The king paused, and something changed subtly in his expression. “Bailaha dedicated himself entirely to retrieving the Shard.”
Soren was cut. “As I am working toward this end.”
“Our trade routes are critical to our thriving despite Ryuven predation. See that it’s resolved.”
Soren bowed, stung. “Yes, sire.”
“Good morning,” said Queen Azalie as she entered. She eyed their respective positions on opposite sides of the table. “Let’s sit down together, shall we?”
The king and queen took seats sharing a corner, a little distance apart but facing one another amiably. Azalie lifted her cheek for Soren. “It’s not too early for you, is it?”
Soren grinned. “I stayed with the last of the guests, I’m afraid.” He moved toward her and kissed the cheek she offered.
“What did I interrupt?”
“Nothing much,” the king said. “We were talking about Shianan Becknam. I had not expected him last night. I am sorry.”
“It wasn’t so bad as that,” Azalie answered. “I had not seen him since he was a small child. But I was surprised he appeared so boldly at an event to celebrate that which he was accused of destroying.”
“He was acquitted,” Soren said quickly.
His mother smiled, a personal smile of acknowledgment; he had revealed something to her in those few words. She did not play him like his father, but she could always ferret out what he hadn’t meant to say aloud.
But he had no time to think on it before the king continued, “I won’t have him inserting himself. The queen has long troubled herself to be rid of him, and then he, without invitation, took our royal hospitality while the touch of the High Star was still on him. His wings must be clipped.”
Soren’s heart quickened. “Father, I said last night it was good he’d come, that it demonstrated your faith in him after the trial and acquittal. I complimented you on his inclusion. Don’t you remember—"
“We did not invite him!” snapped Jerome. “And when I find who did, there will be dire consequences, even if it is Alasdair who did it.” He frowned and looked at Azalie. “You don’t suppose it was Alasdair, do you?”
Soren had never dreamed his mother would come, that there might be any trouble with his sending Shianan’s invitation.
“Most likely he came of his own initiative,” the king muttered. “Without an invitation. The fools at the door neglected to confirm his entry, and he sought to appear a member of the court again.”
Soren shifted. “Er...”
“Is he so presumptuous?” The queen rang for food to be brought. “But then he was certainly alarmed to see me. Perhaps he’d gambled on attending—”
“He’s not presumptuous,” Jerome interrupted gruffly. “Bailaha sacrificed himself to recover the Shard—sacrificed his standing with the public, the guards, his men, even with me. He should have told me his plan, but he was wholly dedicated to his project.”
The familiar jealousy stabbed through Soren. I am sorry that my work does not permit me such glorious triumphs.
For a moment he wanted to shout that Shianan had lied, that he had indeed stolen the Shard—but it would do great harm and, he saw now, mean little. Now that he had seen the trick of it, he could recognize the manipulations, if he did not allow himself to believe them.
He must not allow himself to believe them.
“The man would have been killed if his plan had not succeeded,” the king continued. “That is confidence. And his dedication—’soats, did you see him when they brought him to the Court?”
“I saw him,” Soren answered.
“Then you saw what he suffered for his work.”
“The king does not attend the Court of the High Star,” Soren ventured. “How did you see him?”
“I observed when they first brought him back to Alham—as was only natural, being curious about potentially so great a treason.” The king’s answer was quick, his voice pitched too casually, his eyes darting to the queen who was carefully folding her napkin.
Slow suspicion formed in Soren’s mind. The king had been truly grieved but had not dared to show his concern for the bastard. He took a breath but hesitated, unsure how to broach the question. “Father—”
“He wants to earn his place. That’s his best characteristic, his willingness to please. Makes him useful. But he’ll do anything to catch one’s eye, even risk offending my queen.”
Willingness to please! Soren pressed his lips together.
“Maybe that’s his crime,” Jerome continued. “He was uncertain of his place after the trial, and he came to the ball to show he’d lost no position. No, he’s not presumptuous, but he is ambitious—”
The door opened and Alasdair came inside, one hand on his swaggering hip as he swayed to show off a new doublet. “Good morning, everyone,” he greeted, making a brief bow toward his royal parents.
“Good morning, dear.” Azalie glanced back at Jerome. “What will you do with Bailaha, then?”
Alasdair made a face. “Bailaha.”
“You don’t like him?”
“He’s a sniffy soldier who thinks he’s one of us. He walks around and calls himself a count, but he’s nothing but a bastard.”
“Alasdair!” snapped Soren, nearly in unison with their father. Even aside from his cruel disparagement, to mention Shianan’s birth before the king and queen together—!
Alasdair frowned, sulky but unabashed. “He thinks he’s better than he is. He’s annoying.”
“Rather like some little turd who barges into other people’s conversations?” muttered Soren.
Alasdair started to turn, half-hearing and sensing insult, but his mother spoke first. “Let it be, Soren. Why do you say so, Alasdair?”
He faced her, eager for an audience. “He was rude to me! He criticized me for coming home without Clemb and losing the deer when I fell in the ravine.”
Soren sighed. “I doubt Shianan Becknam is so foolhardy as to insult you directly. And if he did criticize your decision to abandon your guide during a night storm, then I suppose he had the right, as he was the one to find your soggy hide.”
“He was the one?” Azalie asked Alasdair, surprised.
Jerome cleared his throat. “If not for Bailaha, we might have lost our younger son.” He frowned, watching for the effect of this statement which simultaneously justified his siring of the bastard and criticized Soren for not finding Alasdair himself.
“He was so rude to me!” Alasdair protested. “He actually turned his back on me!” He delivered this with an air of finality.
“If you mean that he led the way to—”
“No, no, it was deliberate. He made me help a slave, pull him up, I mean, and then he deliberately turned his back on me while we were speaking and walked away.” Alasdair jutted his chin toward Soren.
Azalie exhaled sharply, her brief forbearance toward the bastard overturned. “Even if we allow that Alasdair might have been somewhat...shrill, perhaps, in his distress, he is still a prince and he is to be treated as one—most especially by those who might sometime consider themselves deserving of the same rights. This is intolerable, Jerome.”
Soren rarely heard his mother address his father by name. The king nodded in agreement. “He can’t be suffered to presume upon the princes’ rights and privileges. I’ll see he understands his place.”
Soren fumbled for words. “But, my lord, consider what censure at this time would mean in the court. If you want your soldiers to have faith in their leaders—”
“Confound it, Soren, I am not a fool! I can manage my own well enough. I will see him privately.”
Privately... Soren’s unease grew. There was something about his father’s dealings with Shianan Becknam which shamed the commander, rather than honoring him as a private audience should. Becknam had deflected questions with a poor jest, and his slave had begged not to answer. The commander is merely a slave to the king.
Azalie nodded, frowning toward Alasdair. “As you say.”
Soren remembered Becknam’s discomfort and stiff conversation in the cleft that stormy night. He had no doubt Becknam had been equally distant with Alasdair, but not openly rude. But he could not disprove Alasdair’s report, and he was helpless to defend his friend.
“Oh, Soren.” Azalie held out something which barely filled her palm. “This is for you.”
It was a miniature portrait of a young woman. Soren’s stomach twisted; he did not recognize her, but he knew who it must be. He accepted it slowly, almost reluctantly, and studied the dark-haired beauty, all careful brush strokes on catobelpas ivory.
“What do you think of her?” his mother asked.
It was hardly a fair question. “She’s very pretty,” he replied neutrally. “Though I wouldn’t expect anything else from a court painter.”
She chuckled. “True enough. Well, keep it for now. Lord Adoniram left it with me when he came to Kalifi.”
Soren nodded. “Thank you, madam.”
He looked at the face in his hand—flat, empty, a false smile on a false face. The painter had given her beauty without expression, a face without a soul. Perhaps there was little soul to portray.
He looked at his mother, smiling expectantly, and nodded again. “Valetta is a lovely name,” he offered gamely. “I shall wait for further word.”