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Rikara, in the 3009th year of the Common Age
There were certain opportunities available to people in direct contact with the Crown that the general populace did not enjoy. Of course, with such opportunities often came responsibilities and risks the general populace also would prefer to eschew. For instance, learning highly personal details about the domestic affairs of one’s sovereign. But more, answering the call to action when crisis rocked said affairs and threatened to escalate a family feud into an internecine conflict the likes of which the kingdom had not known since the Interregnum.
Thank Veres that was averted, Yandro thought as he considered the events of the past year that had culminated in the invitation in his hand. He was still in a daze over its contents.
He’d been asked to attend the fane nuptial rites of his Ardan and said Ardan’s long time leman and birthing father of his infant son and heir. But it was expected, given his position as aide to Ylandre’s most-renowned diplomat, who happened to belong to House Essendri as well. And of course, there was the matter of his involvement in the retrieval of Lassen Idana, Rohyr’s beloved concubine, from self-imposed exile.
Only a scant handful knew about the incident or that it had been brought about by the machinations of Rohyr’s first consort. This was the late and largely unlamented Tyrde Kardova of Anju, youngest son of His Grace Imcael Essendri, Herun of Qimaras, Rohyr’s immediate uncle and until recently member of the Ardan’s Council.
Yes, Yandro’s part in that whole escapade warranted an invitation to the royal wedding.
But he had not merely been asked to attend. He’d also been instructed to seat himself in the front of the Temple of Rikara, in the section of pews reserved for those so close to Rohyr and Lassen’s hearts as to be deemed family even if they were not kin by blood. Furthermore, he’d been commanded to join these select few when they gathered on either side of the altar to stand as witnesses to Lassen’s coronation as royal spouse and Ardis of the land.
It was this part of the invitation—just two extra lines written in the gold ink used for such formal documents—that left him gobsmacked. Never in his most impossible dreams had Yandro ever expected himself to be bestowed with such an honor.
Despite Rohyr’s kindness and generosity in sponsoring him through his collegiate years and eventual entry into the diplomatic profession, Yandro had never lost sight of the fact that theirs was an association between benefactor and protégé. He had never expected more than the esteem and approval of a patron. So to be counted a friend was beyond anything he’d imagined or hoped for.
He wondered if it was Jareth’s doing. But even if it were he who’d suggested Yandro be given one of the coveted seats, it did not automatically guarantee the Ardan’s acquiescence.
This said something about Rohyr’s character. After all, Yandro’s former benefactor had taken on the mantle upon a recommendation, social and blood status be damned. It would have lain well within his rights as monarch to decline the patronage of a baseborn Half Blood of unknown antecedents.
So it came back to Rohyr and his sense of fairness and lack of prejudices. Small wonder Yandro’s loyalty to the Crown knew no bounds. And now his loyalty had been rewarded yet again. Yandro clasped the thick parchment to his chest in reverence. And truth be told, it also made him feel a little more equal to the Deir of his dreams. Even if only Yandro thought so.
At length, he slipped the invitation into the topmost side drawer of his writing table. He rose to his feet and crossed to his wardrobe. Honored wedding guest or not, he still had a profession that required his presence. A profession that allowed him the luxury of a small but comfortably appointed bachelor’s apartment in the east district in the figurative shadow of the Citadel.
He selected a tawny-hued summer tunic. Cut in the enyran style, the knee-length garment had asymmetrical sleeves. The sword-arm sleeve was cut just above the elbow, whereas the other sleeve snugly covered the limb to the wrist. Thigh-high slits in the side of the tunic as well as the front where it was laced closed or buttoned up permitted freedom of leg movement. He donned the tunic over his long-sleeved, close-fitting white silk shirt, dark brown cotton jerkin, and buff long breeches and cinched a fine leather belt around his slim waist. Finally he pulled on a pair of low boots.
It was a far cry from his days at the orphanage when he’d counted himself lucky if the castoff clothes given him were less than twice the size of his diminutive frame. Or his hand-me-down shoes did not sport worn down soles and frayed seams.
He checked himself in the mirror before heading out of his bedchamber, making sure his shoulder-length locks were neatly plaited with no wayward strands sticking out. He could have shortened his hair in enyran fashion, but everyone in the corps knew he was not a True Blood. So while he was constrained by decorum to dress as one, he did not attempt to alter other aspects of his appearance that marked him as a sedyr. The recently acquired teardrop-shaped ley-silver earring hanging from his left ear lobe did identify him as a person of means even if he was an ordinary commoner.
As he exited his cozy home, Yandro reminded himself again how very fortunate he was for a formerly penniless orphan of unknown ancestry. The crowded dormitories, unsanitary conditions, indifferent food, and inadequate heating frequently exacerbated by negligent caregivers and abusive older wards—all these were things of the past and he intended it to stay that way.
Of course, he also hoped to improve his lot further. It would just take more effort to achieve given his origins.
There were many drawbacks in the diplomatic corps if one was a sedyr. Because of the nature of the profession, diplomats had to be adequately trained in the mind-arts, a requirement that almost always excluded Half Bloods and their lesser capabilities. In such cases, one’s standing in society or connections to individuals in positions of authority were the only ways sedyra could become more than mere papers-pusher or archivists.
Half Blood members of the gentry and the rare sedyran aristocrat had recourse through the former. Ordinary commoners like Yandro had to depend on the latter. Yet even with Rohyr’s sponsorship, Yandro had to constantly prove himself worthy of the privileges and elevation within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that was readily granted True Bloods of lesser abilities but higher heritage.
He harbored no illusions that Essendri backing had naught to do with his rise through the ranks, but he also knew Rohyr well enough to expect the Ardan not to throw his support behind someone undeserving of it. He really was lucky to have been born with that rarest of mind gifts. Empaths were highly unusual even among the strongest adepts. Yandro was a living, breathing exception to that rule and he was always mindful of this fact.
Focusing his thoughts on the day ahead and all the duties and problems it would entail, he left the apartment building and boarded a public carriage. The conveyance rumbled down the east district’s principal road, turned into the main avenue, and finally headed southward for the central district.
For all intents and purposes, the central district was the governmental and financial hub of the kingdom. The various Ministry headquarters and other government buildings were located here, as well as the major banks of the nation. The Citadel was the only official edifice that lay outside of this small but important area and this was because the royal keep was built before Rikara was demarcated into its present five districts.
Yandro alighted at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and entered the building. He made his way to a double-paneled side door which opened on a covered walkway lined with fragrant herbaceous borders. The walkway cut through the Ministry garden and led to the spacious annex that housed the offices of Ylandre’s diplomats. As he crossed the entrance hall of the annex toward the stairs, he fortified the walls he’d erected around his heart the day he was appointed an ambassadorial aide.
It was something he did each and every day he faced, working in close proximity with Jareth Hadrana.
––––––––
“It’s so good to be back,” said Valin as he handed Yandro a stack of missives and other paperwork. “There’s nothing like home after so long abroad.” He also gave him a warm meat pasty wrapped in a freshly laundered napkin. “Here, Ama made this just this morn. He prefers to leave the cooking to our servants nowadays. But he remembered how much you enjoyed his savory pies, so he took over the baking of these. He said it was the only way he could ensure they would come out perfect.”
The head of Jareth’s administrative staff, Valin was one of the Deira in the Ministry who Yandro personally liked and counted a friend. Aside from being hardworking, resourceful, and almost terrifyingly efficient, Valin was of a cheerful disposition and did not harbor social or racial prejudices, though he was a True Blood of means from the upper gentry.
Yandro smiled. “It’s always good to come home. And extend my thanks to your father, Val. There’s no one who makes pasties like he does.”
“He’ll be pleased to hear that,” Valin responded with a grin. He headed back to his desk while Yandro sat down behind his.
As Jareth’s aide, Yandro’s desk was positioned at the entrance to the short corridor leading to the ambassador’s office. Situated thusly, he could easily see any and all Deira in the vicinity and still be in close proximity and therefore readily accessible to Jareth should his services be needed.
He sifted through the letters and documents, separating those he deemed urgent, while setting aside the less important ones for later scrutiny. It was one of his duties to screen all of Jareth’s paperwork before passing them on the ambassador. This way, Jareth was not weighed down by inconsequential items and he could tend to those that needed his attention soonest.
Yandro paused when he came upon a personal letter.
It was from Jareth’s birthing father, Alvare Hadrana, the second Heris and widower of the previous Herun of the wealthy city-fief of Ziana. The current fief-lord Tenryon Hadrana was Jareth’s half-brother.
The correspondence of diplomatic personnel on assignment abroad was always coursed through the Ministry for security reasons. One never knew when a foreign posting might turn sensitive or even perilous. When this occurred, it became paramount that information about the pertinent embassy or consulate and the movements of its staff be kept as secret as possible. Personal communications could reveal as much as official ones and thus were sent through Ministry couriers to keep letter theft to a minimum.
For Lord Alvare to have sent the letter to the Ministry instead of his son’s town house meant Jareth had not informed his father of his return to Ylandre. Yandro wondered why.
He had met Jareth’s ama on a few occasions when he’d traveled with Jareth to Ziana. Thus far, he thought Lord Alvare warm and welcoming with none of the hauteur he’d expected of one who bore royal blood in his veins. The Heris was of Essendri descent and it was through him the ambassador claimed kinship to the Ardan.
As the second son, Jareth had not expected anything more in terms of inheritance than his share of the Hadrana wealth and properties. The power he wielded in Ziana stemmed solely from his being brother to Tenryon. Had he been a mere cousin for instance, he would have had all the trappings and none of the authority of a scion of House Hadrana. So like a good many younger sons of affluent, noble families, Jareth had sought a profession with which to occupy his time.
He did not need the income; he was wealthy in his own right. But neither did he care to be a layabout whose only claim to fame was being related to a fief-lord and Ylandre’s ruler. While in university, he’d discovered an affinity for the intrigues and intricacies of international relations. Thus, as soon as he was able, he’d applied for employment at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
His acceptance had much to do with his kinship to a Herun and the Ardan. But his rapid rise was due entirely to his ability to navigate foreign statecraft and secure Ylandre’s best interests in negotiations almost without fail. It did not take long for him to be named Ylandre’s youngest ambassador and just six years later, one of the kingdom’s scant handful of plenipotentiaries. Not even fifty years of age then, he’d stood out among his peers. It was uncommon for a diplomat to be appointed to so coveted a position long before his middle years. And now, he had done it again, sweeping past more veteran envoys to attain the highest diplomatic honor—Ambassador-at-large.
It was said there was nothing Jareth could not do if he set his mind to it. Personally, Yandro thought that applied to most of the Royal House. A more tenacious family he’d never encountered before. Some might even say obstinate.
The Heris’s letter was sealed and his insignia stamped into the wax daub on the envelope flap. This meant the letter had to be forwarded to Jareth unopened and unread. It was not seemly for anyone to read personal missives if they were expressly intended for their recipient’s eyes alone. Not at all like professional correspondence where it was expected staff would first read and analyze messages and then decide which ones merited quick response and in what order.
Yandro placed the letter on top of the stack that in his estimation warranted Jareth’s immediate attention. He stood up, paperwork in hand, and traversed the short corridor to Jareth’s office. He knocked twice on the heavy wooden door and waited for permission to enter.
When it came, he opened the door and strode into the spacious chamber.
As Ylandre’s preeminent diplomat, Jareth had been given one of only eight permanent offices in the annex. The majority of the kingdom’s envoys made do with temporary offices when they came back from foreign postings.
He’d also been allotted more than ample space for the Deira who served under him. While the other ambassadorial staffs shared their working areas, Jareth’s people had the entire north wing on the second floor to themselves with wide windows that overlooked the Ministry gardens rather than the busy street beside the annex.
Such were the perks of working for a highborn Deir of international renown and royal blood flowing in his veins.
Jareth’s eyebrows rose when he spotted his father’s letter. He sighed, reached for it and drew out two sheets of parchment.
“Better to get it over with,” he muttered, quickly reading the missive.
Yandro regarded him curiously. “Are you in conflict with His Grace?” he murmured. “Had I known I would have held back his letter for now.”
“Nay,” Jareth said with a shake of his head. “Ama is only being too persistent lately regarding my marital state. Or rather lack of it.” He grimaced as he went on to the second sheet. “He says between Tenryon and me, the line of Hadranas may well come to an end and he doesn’t want to face our sire in the afterlife and have to explain how two supposedly potent sons couldn’t produce a passel of heirs between them.”
He sighed again when he finished reading and slapped the sheets on the table. “Why he worries so about that when he married Aba quite late himself is a mystery I haven’t the patience to solve.”
Yandro looked at him curiously. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old was he when they wed?”
“Hmm, old enough that he could carry only one child to term, but still young enough to give the gossipmongers much to talk about. They were rather noisy, Aba and Ama both, and not as mindful of where they trysted as one might expect of a Herun and his consort. Tenryon and I had the misfortune to stumble upon them a couple of times, much to our embarrassment. They were quite shameless about it and unrepentant to boot. Tenryon says it was no quieter during his father’s time, but he claims mine is definitely the more libidinous. Which of course suited Aba just fine. Then again, the Hadranas were never known to be staid about such matters and the Essendris even less so.”
His cheeks suddenly warm from the imagery Jareth conjured with his highly suggestive description, Yandro said, “That may be the reason for his worry. He could only have one child because of his age when he married your sire. Perhaps he just wishes you and Lord Hadrana would wed early enough to produce sufficient grandchildren to guarantee the continuation of your line.”
Jareth looked up at him in some surprise. He tapped the letter and asked, “Are you certain you didn’t read this beforehand? That’s precisely what he wrote me.”
Yandro slightly bristled in indignation. “You know I would never do that, Your Excellency. And the unbroken seal on the letter attests to it. I mean, really, surely you don’t think me capable of-of snooping around your personal affairs.”
“And you know I don’t believe you would,” Jareth drawled. “But it’s always a delight to ruffle your feathers. They ruffle so very prettily.”
Yandro slowly counted to ten. Veres give me patience, he prayed.
“I received an invitation to the Ardan’s nuptials,” he ventured. “And instructions to seat myself in front with you. And also to stand at the altar at Idana-dyhar’s crowning.”
“Did you now?” Jareth broke into a wide grin. “That’s splendid of Rohyr. I knew he would do the right thing.”
“So you had something to do with it?”
“Only after the fact.” At Yandro’s frown of confusion, Jareth explained, “He and Lassen had already decided to include you when I broached the idea to him. There, does that confirm your high opinion of my cousin?”
Yandro shyly smiled. He started to arrange the papers on Jareth’s desk, as was his habit when he felt the urge to fidget.
“I suspected as much so, yes, it does. Indeed, it raised it even further. But thank you nonetheless for deeming me worthy enough that you thought to suggest it at all.”
“Do you still question your worth?” Jareth frowned. “Why do you when you know how highly Rohyr and Lassen think of you?” He leaned forward and caught Yandro’s hand. “As I do,” he softly added, rubbing his thumb over Yandro’s palm.
The stroke of Jareth’s finger across his flesh was enough to send sparks of pleasurable anticipation racing through Yandro’s body. He closed his eyes and strove for control. Damn it all! How could such a tame caress wreak such havoc on him?
Yandro gritted his teeth and managed to withdraw his hand without rudely snatching it away. He waited a few seconds for his breathing to even and then he laid a reproachful gaze on Jareth.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do that, Dyhar,” he said. “It isn’t proper and will only tarnish your reputation.”
Jareth snorted. “My reputation couldn’t be more tarnished than it is already,” he pointed out. He leaned back in his chair. “That is if you’re referring to my personal affairs.”
“I am,” Yandro replied. “And, nay, it isn’t. Not completely in any case.”
“Listening to gossip, Yan? I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Yandro rolled his eyes. “Considering our profession requires knowing virtually every bit of news about everybody whether fact or rumor, it’s rather disingenuous of you to say that. Please, my lord, must you make it so hard for me to do my duty?”
Jareth’s lips slowly curved into a smile the sight of which had the power to set Yandro’s heart racing and his libido mounting.
“And how do I make it hard for you?” Jareth asked. “Do I demand too much?”
“Of course not—”
“Or not enough?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Or is it you think me too forward with you?”
“You know full well you are!”
Jareth softly laughed, sending shivers up and down Yandro’s spine. If only they were unpleasant shivers, he grumbled to himself.
“Do accept my apologies, Yandro-min. And know that I appreciate how well you’ve borne working under me these past years. I can say with all sincerity that you’re the best aide I’ve ever had in all my years in the corps. Verily, I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you.”
Yandro did not know whether he should be flattered by Jareth’s complimentary and rather flowery speech or wary of it. When Jareth spoke thusly, he was usually planning to engage in something dubious. Yandro smiled uncertainly and wondered how to escape to the relative safety of his desk.
“Oh for Veres’s sake, can’t I praise you without being suspected of harboring ulterior motives?” Jareth remarked, looking rather pained.
Struck with guilt and not a little disconcerted Jareth had discerned his thoughts, Yandro hastened to say, “Nay, I don’t suspect anything of the sort!”
“Liar,” Jareth retorted, but with such obvious fondness, Yandro could not take offense. “I’ve never known anyone as distrustful as you.”
Yandro went still. “Yes, well, I have my reasons,” he quietly said. “Which I divulged to you at the very start.”
Almost immediately, Jareth’s demeanor changed. His expression sobered and his brow furrowed into a deep frown.
“Forgive me, that was uncalled for,” he murmured ruefully. “I hope you know me well enough not to take my thoughtless sally seriously.”
Yandro shook his head. “I didn’t. And verily, I see it as confirmation of your trust in my judgment that you can speak thusly to me. A roundabout compliment if you will.”
Jareth regarded him in silence for several heartbeats. Yandro started to wonder whether he’d offended the ambassador or if his response had been inappropriate. But then Jareth’s lips curled into that slow smile of his, which left Yandro breathless once more with anticipation.
“You do know me well,” Jareth drawled, his voice just this side of husky. “Would that you’d give me the chance to know you just as thoroughly.” He paused and his smile turned into a smirk. “All of you.”
Yandro sighed even as his cheeks warmed considerably. “If I may speak freely?” he muttered.
“You may.”
“You, my lord, are incorrigible.”
Jareth chuckled. “And you wouldn’t have me any other way, now would you?” He winked roguishly at Yandro. “But I would be delighted to have you... in any way you desire.”
By the time Yandro returned to his desk, he was flushed and flustered and uttering every imprecation he could think of. A pox on the ambassador for putting him in such a state yet again. And he was so blissfully unaware of what he had wrought too!
Yandro ceased his cursing when he suddenly recalled Jareth’s last positively wicked grin.
Or maybe not.