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Rikara, in the 2981st year of the Common Age
Thirty-three years ago
Yovan stared at the flames as they consumed Keldon’s earthly remains. A part of him still reeled in shock that he should bear witness so soon to the passing of yet another Deir dear to his heart. Tears trickled down his cheeks as it dawned on him all over again that he had lost three loved ones in just five years.
He thought back to his Aba Laval’s passing. His sire had been out on a stroll when an unexpected downpour drenched him to the bone. Consequently, he came down with lung fever which was difficult to heal even if one was young and hale. Laval had been neither. The fever weakened him considerably and he succumbed to another infection within the year.
Evran never truly recovered from this loss and had retreated into a nigh reclusive existence albeit a very comfortable one. Yovan had seen to that and visited his widowed father in Ilmaren as often as possible.
Dyrael’s death two years ago was completely unforeseen. To this day Yovan could not fully accept that Ylandre’s beloved Ardis was gone. Red fever had broken out in the seedy south district. Dyrael had just visited one of his patronages when the warning came to stay away from the area. Too late. He’d come down with the dreaded disease which left the heart so damaged those who survived a bout very rarely lived many years afterward. Dyrael was gone within a week.
His passing left Keldon awash in grief and disbelief. Not only had he lost his dearly loved mate, he’d also been blindsided by his much younger spouse predeceasing him. He’d been so secure in the knowledge he would be leaving Rohyr in Dyrael’s care should he pass on before his heir was of the age to rule without guidance. He’d never imagined he would outlive his Ardis.
Perhaps it was this grievous loss that clouded Keldon’s judgment or overcame his common sense. Else why did he ignore the pleas of his son and the Citadel grooms not to try and ride an unbroken zentyr that had already badly injured two Deira? He was thrown, fractured his skull and never regained consciousness. His death forced upon Rohyr the unwelcome distinction of becoming the youngest prince to ascend to the throne in Ylandre’s long history
Yovan glanced at his nephew where he stood by himself before the pyre. Rohyr’s sorrow and sense of loss went deeper than anyone else’s yet no tear tracks marked his pale cheeks. His reddened eyes and pinched mouth told another tale. Yovan’s eyes alighted on the Deir who’d likely instructed Rohyr to keep a stiff upper lip in public.
Imcael, his mate, Naral, and two sons from his first marriage, Mahael and Ronuin, had gathered a short distance to Rohyr’s right. Yovan wondered why Imcael’s son with Naral was absent. If he recalled correctly, the boy was close to Rysander in age. He quickly dismissed his curiosity as irrelevant and continued to observe Imcael’s family.
The Herun was as shattered by Keldon’s death as Rohyr and Yovan, but unlike them he’d been spared witnessing his brother’s fatal fall. He grieved deeply while Keldon lay in state, for once uncaring if any saw him thusly. And when Keldon was laid on the pyre, he looked utterly stricken. As if he was finally realizing his brother was truly gone.
But now his grief was not in evidence. Yovan recalled how he suddenly stiffened and his face had become stern when Rohyr stepped forward to light the pyre. He’d scowled and seemed to avoid looking at his nephew even when Rohyr stayed close to the fire, unable to move away from his sire’s body.
None of the family approached Rohyr though Yovan noted how Ronuin occasionally glanced at his cousin with concern. At one point, he took a step toward Rohyr but halted when Imcael dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder.
Yovan’s anger flared that Imcael should put decorum ahead of comforting a bereaved nephew. Unfortunately, the other scions of House Essendri were constrained to follow the Herun’s lead now that he was the preeminent member of the family after Rohyr.
“Aba?” Yovan turned to his son. Rysander was also gazing at Rohyr. “He needs them. Why don’t they go to him?”
Yovan scowled, upset Rysander had witnessed Imcael’s indifference to Rohyr’s pain. He glanced at Mered who nodded his acquiescence to whatever Yovan decided to do.
“We will go to him,” Yovan said. “Come.”
He led the way to Rohyr, ignoring the whispers and murmurs that accompanied his family’s passage. It was considered a breach of propriety to preempt Imcael. Well, propriety and its close-minded upholders can bugger themselves, he thought as he curled an arm around his nephew’s shoulders and gently drew him a safe distance from the flames. Almost at once, Rohyr leaned into him though he still tried to keep his composure. But then Rysander came to his other side and slipped his hand into Rohyr’s.
Rohyr gazed down at his cousin in surprise. His face crumpled and he turned and wept on Yovan’s shoulder while holding on tightly to Rysander’s hand.
Others of their House finally chose to disregard protocol as they too approached Rohyr to convey their sympathies and assure him of their support in the days and years to come. Yovan smiled in relief when he saw his nephew relax amid his cousins and find some peace and comfort in the outpouring of affection shown him.
Mered touched his arm and cocked his head in Imcael’s direction. Yovan turned to see Ronuin say something to Mahael before he came over to join the group of kinsfolk around Rohyr. After a moment’s hesitation, Mahael followed him leaving their sire and stepfather by themselves in awkward isolation. Not to mention called more attention to the lack of closeness between Ylandre’s new Ardan and his late sire’s only brother.
The reason for Imcael’s behavior at the funeral emerged three days later during the first Ardan’s Council meeting of Rohyr’s reign.
Yovan listened in some shock when Rohyr named him and Imcael joint heads of the advisory council that would guide him in his rulership of Ylandre until he reached his majority seven years hence. Also appointed to the council were the Herune of Sidona and Glanthar, Emris Deilen and Olriq Mithani, Alvare Hadrana, consort and second spouse of the Herun of Ziana, and Mylan Sarvan whose law-sire was Valre Sarvan, the royal family’s personal physician.
It was the custom in Aisen to appoint a regent to rule in an underaged sovereign’s name. However, history had proved time and again that overly long regencies often resulted in the reluctance or even outright refusal of a regent to return power to its rightful holder. Thus far, Ylandre was fortunate not to have come under a regent’s rule.
But the Ardan Edhraer had often enough witnessed the turmoil in other lands that had followed in the wake of such political upheavals. Like Keldon, Edhraer had married late and begotten his only son in his later years. Apprehensive of the consequences if he passed away while his heir was still in his minority, Edhraer made it law that a regency ended when the sovereign reached his twenty-second year. An advisory council would then be convened to help the young ruler govern while still in his minority.
It was public knowledge that Keldon had appointed Dyrael regent in the event he died before Rohyr turned twenty-two. It was also known Keldon had formed an advisory council when Rohyr passed regency age and also named his late Ardis its head.
What was not known to most was that when Dyrael predeceased him, Keldon had declined to name Imcael head of the council and elected to leave the choice to Rohyr instead. It was a mark of how much he believed in his heir’s intelligence and perspicacity and how little he trusted his brother to fill the position without sparking friction with the other members of the council or Rohyr himself.
To those who were aware of the state of affairs between Rohyr and Imcael, it came as no surprise when the new king named his two closest-degree uncles joint council heads. It was Rohyr’s intention that Yovan would counterbalance Imcael’s propensity for extreme views. He’d courteously informed the Herun of this beforehand, but Imcael took the news as proof of Rohyr’s lack of trust in his ability to lead the council alone.
Imcael expressed his displeasure in his distant demeanor toward Rohyr at the funeral. And indeed so resentful was the Herun that he would refuse to take up his position in the council for a whole year.
It was a mistake and a missed opportunity. By the time he relented, the Ardan had come to rely foremost on Yovan. Much to Imcael’s chagrin, Rohyr also made Yovan his Chief Counsellor in the second year of his reign. Further ruffling the Herun’s feathers was the openness with which Rohyr proffered his trust and affection on Yovan. It was clear Ylandre’s ruler saw his chief advisor almost as a surrogate parent rather than an uncle.
Small wonder that within a few years of Rohyr’s accession, Yovan rose so high at court he was deemed the best person to approach if one desired to gain the attention or support of his royal nephew.
––––––––
“Are you certain?” Yovan asked when Rohyr informed him of his decision. “Imcael will take exception to this.”
Rohyr rolled his eyes. “Uncle Imcael takes exception to just about everything.” He sighed and took off his signet ring while Yovan lit the purple candle by the ink pot. “I oft wonder why he’s so different from Aba. It isn’t as if they had different fathers who taught them their own ideas about how to run a kingdom. And in any case Opa Joren had the greater part in training them both.”
“Neither can one say that Uncle Joren was remiss else Keldon would have been just like Imcael,” Yovan remarked.
“It’s a mystery and one I have no patience to unravel,” Rohyr said.
He picked up the candle and dripped melted wax onto the parchment letter that confirmed Yovan’s appointment. He then pressed the ring into the small blob, leaving an impression of the royal seal.
Yovan appreciated his nephew’s gesture. In drawing up a document stamped with his seal, Rohyr had made Yovan’s appointment not only official but also unassailable and virtually permanent. The position would be his until he retired or Rohyr wished to appoint another Chief Counsellor. Yovan would remind himself thereafter never to give his nephew reason to desire his ouster.
Rohyr leaned back in his chair. “Besides, he has no cause for complaint,” he pointed out. “He’s hardly around for me to consult, now is he? If he made himself scarce out of pique and thereby painted himself as unreliable, that’s his doing. I’m not going to pander to his whims the way Aba occasionally did.” He lifted solemn eyes to Yovan. “I haven’t the luxury of time or opportunity in any case.”
Yovan reached across the desk and gripped Rohyr’s hand. Barely a year and a half on the throne and already his nephew was facing armed conflict within the kingdom’s borders. The insurrectionists in Tenerith almost always took advantage of the uncertain period of transition between reigns. It was a blessing they’d held off thus far due to various internal troubles that had afflicted the province toward the end of Keldon’s reign. But now the rebels were coming out of their hiding holes once more. It would be Rohyr’s first experience of “cleaning house” as his sire had been wont to say.
Not that the Ardan would be riding with the kingdom’s forces to the north. Yovan was certain Rohyr would grow into a formidable warrior if his performance in the training yard was any indication. But while ordinary Deira were sometimes sent off to war with minimal skills and next to no experience, the same could not be asked of an underaged sovereign newly come to the throne. Nevertheless, Rohyr was acutely aware of the lives he would be risking when he deployed Ylandrin soldiers to the front.
Yovan knew his nephew well and was already bracing himself to deal with the guilt Rohyr would flay himself with. It would not do for a king to carry such a burden all his life. Yovan would have to continue Rohyr’s lessons in rulership, taking up from where Keldon and Dyrael had perforce left off. Besides, he was fairly certain Rohyr would experience his first blooding before his majority should conflict arise once more ahead of his thirty-fifth summer. Yovan and Imcael would see him through the ordeal and ensure he came out of it unscathed.
“It will be dealt with quickly,” he said. “This is the perfect time to strike. The rebels have not yet completely organized their forces and there are tales of rivalries among their present crop of leaders. Our casualties will be minimal, that much I can promise you.”
“Would that there were no casualties to fear,” Rohyr muttered. “Would that there was no conflict in Tenerith.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I shouldn’t be indulging in maudlin thoughts when there’s so much to tend to before the army sets forth.”
“It isn’t maudlin to be concerned about the welfare of your subjects, Roh-min,” Yovan gently chided. “Once you forget to care about them is when I’ll worry about your priorities.”
Rohyr shot him a crooked smile that made him look younger than he was which was already young to begin with. Yovan sadly thought he would give anything to allow his nephew several more years to bask in his parents’ love and care and enjoy the relatively carefree life of a prince not yet come of age.
Those thoughts recurred at Rohyr’s coronation a month later. As he watched the Prelate of Rikara lower the heavy white-silver adamant-studded Ardan’s crown upon Rohyr’s dark head, he considered the even weightier duties and responsibilities that would be his nephew’s lot from thereon.
He was seated on the enthronement chair in the Rikara Temple where every Ardan of Ylandre was anointed and crowned. He was garbed in a white coronation tunic embroidered with gold and silver purl, his shoulders covered by the purple floor-length fur-lined mantle of his royal office. Gripping Ylandre’s ivory scepter tipped with a white-silver falcon in one hand and a gem-encrusted ceremonial sword in the other, Rohyr looked solemn, regal and far more mature than expected of one so young. It was almost as if in donning the accoutrements of his station, he’d shed the good humor and lightness of his youth. Yovan knew better.
Rohyr had perforce taken on the comportment of the sovereign ruler of Ylandre but he would never fully lose those qualities. He would merely conceal them as necessary in order to be an effective ruler. Still, Yovan could see the sadness lurking in the depths of his grey eyes. Could tell how deeply his nephew missed the presence and guidance of his parents. Could discern his yearning to still be part of a family. Yovan silently reaffirmed his personal promise to be as much kin to the youth as mentor.
From his place where he stood to Rohyr’s left, he scanned the frontmost pews. Seated here were the children and spouses of the selected witnesses ranged on the altar behind the throne. The majority of these witnesses were scions of House Essendri which made their sons cousins to the Ardan. Most of them were Rohyr’s age or close to it. Many had grown up alongside him, running or playing in the corridors of the Citadel much to Imcael’s annoyance. Yovan remembered how much more irritated his straitlaced cousin had been when play had inevitably turned into sport. What more when it evolved into the carousing of emerging adults?
He laid speculative glances on some of the cousins. Fair-haired Keosqe Deilen of Sidona. The Calanthe twins of Losshen, Zykriel and Gilmael. Tenryon Hadrana’s younger half-brother Jareth. The venerable Valre Sarvan’s grandson, Eiren. Ranael Mesare and his two brothers who of the Herun of Edessa’s seven children were blood-kin to Rohyr. Glanthar’s heir Aeldan Mithani and his younger brother Ashrian. Yovan narrowed his eyes at the Arthanna brothers Keiran and Reijir. He hoped his suspicions about their relationship with their far from admirable sire would not turn out correct. His gaze softened as it landed on his son where he sat beside Mered. Rysander’s eyes were round with awe and wonder.
A number of these young kinsfolk had attended the Rikara Academy with Rohyr and would stay by him through his years at university. Rohyr was determined to complete his education even if it took away what free time he had from governing the land. His cousins were equally determined to smooth his way as much as possible. They always formed a tight protective cordon around him whenever they were in his company. They were the brothers Rohyr did not have and for that Yovan was profoundly grateful.
––––––––
Mered hastened down the stairs to the ground floor of Bank Cordona. He stifled a huff of annoyance when Asrael’s secretary intercepted him.
“Seydon-dyhar, your parents wish to speak with you before you leave,” the Deir said. “They’re in your sire’s office.”
Mered frowned. He had dropped by Remir’s office less than an hour ago to submit some documents. Why had his father not mentioned anything then?
“Very well,” he told the secretary.
With a put-upon sigh, he headed for his sire’s ground-floor office in the back of the building. He hoped they would not keep him overlong. Yovan would be disappointed if he was not home when he arrived. Not after he’d been away for a sennight seeing to an issue in the south of the kingdom.
Mered smiled as he thought of the reason his mate would want him waiting for his arrival. His mood much lightened, he hastened to meet his parents and get whatever it was they wanted to speak with him about over with soonest.
When he walked into the spacious office, Asrael looked up from the sheaves of documents on his desk, the surface polished so well it almost reflected his image. The corners of his mouth curved upward in welcome, but Mered could tell it was no genuine expression of warmth or joy. He glanced at his father who stood by the window looking out on the street behind the bank. Remir cast him a tight barely there smile while his eyes remained veiled.
“Sit,” Asrael peremptorily said. “We have much to discuss.”
Mered frowned as he sank down into one of the chairs before Asrael’s desk. There had been no hint of anything important on the horizon. He glanced once more at Remir, wondering why his father appeared tense and aloof. He looked back at Asrael when the latter called his attention.
“I met with Isron today. He asked after you again,” Asrael said.
Mered raised an eyebrow at his sire. “What of it?”
“He bids fair to be one of the biggest investors in the Khitaira bank.” Asrael tapped a finger against his lips. “To my mind, it will be best if we can persuade him to put out a bit more.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“If you recall Davre was instrumental in gaining us the support of our most generous investor to date.”
“Are you asking that I follow his example?” When Asrael merely pursed his lips speculatively, Mered pointed out, “His indiscretion cost him his marriage.”
“His indiscretion increased our wealth threefold. Wait, I didn’t say do as he did. But consider what your father and brothers have won us and how they accomplished it.”
Asrael regarded Remir who looked away and said nothing. “I held off due to Rem’s concern that with Yovan frequently away any, shall we say, improprieties on your part would attract interest and get back to him forthwith. We daren’t imagine what he would have done to you. To all of us.”
“But he’s been oft at home these past few years,” Asrael continued, ignoring his son’s grimace of shock and distaste. “Folk will assume that he’s keeping an eye on you himself and will turn their attention elsewhere. And since you’ve fortuitously gained his complete trust, he won’t consider the possibility of you putting your considerable charms to work for the good of the family.”
Mered stared at his sire, a ball of apprehension forming in his belly. “Isn’t it time we changed our way of attracting investors and partners?” he asked. “We cannot continue this into the next generation. I won’t allow anyone to use Rysander thusly.”
Asrael held up a hand. “Only a fool would attempt such a thing on one of Essendri blood. And of course, you’re right about changing our practices,” he said placatingly. “But we’re in the middle of this venture. You know it won’t serve us to change tactics midway particularly when not a few of our investors are already looking forward to being tended to as we have done before. Isron certainly does. I imagine he would be delighted to spend more time in your company.”
“I don’t see why he’s interested in me,” Mered said. “I’m no youth any longer.”
“As if that has anything to do with his fascination with you. You’re still very handsome. Perhaps the most beautiful Cordona ever born.” Asrael smiled, but Mered noticed it did not reach his eyes. “Come now, this will be my last venture. I mayn’t even see it to fruition; that will fall to you and your brothers. At least let me be at peace knowing all will be in good hands when I pass on.”
“Aba, I... I’m not comfortable with what you’re asking of me.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get over it. You got over your bashfulness with Yovan quickly enough. Do this for me, Mered. In thanks for what I did for you and your father.”
Asrael turned his eyes on Remir, his brows rising mockingly and his mouth curving into a sneer. Remir scowled and grudgingly looked at Mered.
“Yes, Mered, you and I should repay our debt to Asrael.”
Mered stared from one to the other. What in Aisen?