The female guard didn’t move, but Aloran felt his arm seized again by another Arissen, and his heart dropped.
Tamelera whirled on Grobal Garr, eyes blazing.
No, no . . . Tamelera’s courage out on the surface had been frightening, but this was worse. She knew the consequences of defiance as well as he!
Mercifully, she stopped short of direct accusation. “Then find him,” she said. “Send guards to the Academy this instant.”
Grobal Garr clenched his fists. “Whatever you choose to do, Arissen, this Imbati is guilty of assault and should be held until the Ninth Family has a chance to seek redress for his actions.”
“I’ll go with him, then.”
“Nonsense, Tamelera. You don’t belong in the Cohort’s station. You’re coming home with me.”
Aloran found himself gaze-gesturing stop, stop out of pure desperation. She had to stop before she made this any worse.
Lady Tamelera broke off halfway through a breath with her mouth slightly open.
Bless her for realizing what she was doing. Aloran forced himself into a breathing pattern. He shared that urge—wanted to argue, for her, and for himself—but anything he said now would be perceived as presumption. It could only delay his return to his rightful place at her side. Her intense blue eyes, staring at him full of fear, were enough to tear him apart; he sent her a gaze-gesture of apology because it was the only thing he had left to offer.
Tamelera’s eyes moved to one side, then up, then back to meet his—a message delivered slowly but unmistakably: It’s all right.
He shivered from head to foot. She knew the code. Did that mean she’d stopped at his request? But how could she know the code? It had to be Eyli; Eyli must have taught her the gaze-gestures, in the same way that she’d taught her how to request a touch, when not even Serjer had known.
Somehow, it made the sense of loss that much worse when the guards led him away.
The two Arissen men took him to the headquarters of the Eminence’s Cohort, a stone building behind the east wing of the Residence, directly across the gardens from the Conveyor’s Hall. Soon after, more Arissen arrived, roughly escorting a Kartunnen in a medical coat. Aloran stayed away from them and kept silent until a lawyer came to his defense. The lawyer was chosen of Mai, sober and distinguished with a bronze medallion at the shoulder of one’s black silk robes, bearing between one’s brows the diamond-within-diamond Mark of servants of the Courts. Aloran kept alert to the unspoken instructions in one’s eyes, all the while wishing helplessly they could have been his Lady’s. He kept his head low, gave the Arissen the respect they demanded, sat when they told him to, stood when they told him to, and answered every question in as few words as possible—that is, every question except one.
Thank all the gods he’d seen only the weapon, and not the man holding it. He didn’t have to lie. To give Sorn’s name, while there was no evidence to bring him under arrest and while he remained under Grobal Garr’s protection, would be tantamount to suicide. Sorn would certainly suspect how much he knew; he must not be allowed to confirm it.
At last, a delegation from the Ninth Family Council appeared to question him—four men who, fortunately, seemed more baffled than angered by his actions. Here, at least, he could divulge his feelings truly. He bowed his head to the floor at their feet, apologized for the necessity, and wished young Grobal Gowan long life, health, and success. He also offered them his last rounder, which they took and discussed with their heads together. Was it enough? Would they accept his apology, or would they insist on prosecution?
They left without a word, and still the Arissen would not release him.
He clung to his Lady’s promise: It’s all right. It’s all right—oh, gods—let it be all right.
At six afternoon, to his surprise, Master Tagaret’s young cousin Grobal Pyaras walked in with his father the Administrator, alongside the Arissen woman who had first seized him. They went directly to the office of the Cohort Commander. Moments later, the Commander herself emerged from her office—
Carrying the crossbow.
Aloran bowed his head. Holy Mai, I thank you for extending your hand to me.
“Can you tell me what this is?” the Commander asked in her silky voice. She held it with disdain, as if she considered it an object of curiosity rather than a real weapon.
“The heart that is valiant triumphs over all, sir,” Aloran answered. “It is a Venorai hunting crossbow. It is the weapon that I saw aimed from the Academy roof toward Grobal Gowan of the Ninth Family.”
The Commander nodded. “It is also the same type of weapon used to assassinate Grobal Dest of the Eleventh Family, when Herin was selected Heir.”
Aloran did not reply, but his heart beat faster.
His lawyer stepped forward. “I hereby petition for the release, upon oath of future cooperation as witness, of Tamelera’s Aloran of the Household of the First Family.”
The Commander nodded again. “Swear, Imbati, and you shall be returned to your duties.”
He would have sworn to anything that won his release. The moment he was free, he ran diagonally across the gardens of imported surface plants, into the west wing of the Residence. Once in the public halls he took more care, but at last he reached his home service entrance, slapped his hand to the glass panel, and slipped inside.
Familiar sounds issued from the kitchen: Premel and Serjer were preparing dinner, but their talk sounded subdued and worried. He had to assume Sorn had escaped capture and returned home—but as he passed the senior servant’s room, he could see no light beneath the door.
No need to doubt this time whether his Lady wanted him; he should have been her shadow. He gave a soft knock and opened the door with the crescent-moon handle.
“Aloran!” Tamelera shrieked. “Help me!”
No—Garr had her backed against the far wall; her hair was torn down, her face contorted in pain. Garr limped toward her, his fist raised to strike again, while Sorn blocked any escape through the public door, watching with a faint smile.
Aloran didn’t think.
He leapt past the lounge chairs into the space between his Lady and her attacker, spinning to face Garr just as the nobleman’s meaty fist swung forward. It was so simple to turn the blow aside—just a gentle nudge, and Garr lurched off-balance, forcing Sorn to jump to stop him falling. Aloran spun and lifted Tamelera into his arms. She flung her arms around his neck.
“You have violated my Master’s person,” Sorn hissed, readying himself for combat—but he had to keep one arm outstretched toward his Master. Grobal Garr was swaying on his feet; his disarranged clothes showed glimpses of his pasty skin, and he bore livid scratch marks from his hairline down to his upper lip.
Crown of Mai, she was brave! Aloran filled with terrifying, presumptuous pride. He set his teeth and held Tamelera tighter. “Look to your Master, then,” he said. “You will not touch my Lady.”
Sorn did not attack.
Aloran carried Tamelera into the bathroom, shutting the door and setting his back against it. He wished he knew how to scream or cry. Instead, he let training take over. He set his Lady’s feet gently on the floor, locked the door, and guided her to sit on the brass chair to one side of the marble bath. Then he pressed the service call button.
“Aloran, don’t,” she pleaded. “I can’t see anyone else—not now.”
Aloran breathed cautiously for a moment until his voice seemed ready to behave. “Lady, I won’t let anyone in, I promise. But you’re injured. Please, let me take care of you.”
Tamelera curled on the chair, pulling her heels up to the seat and wrapping her left arm around her knees. The beautiful sunset gown draped lopsidedly toward the floor. She leaned her head forward and her ruined hair fell over her face. After some seconds she said softly, “Yes.”
Thank Heile. When Serjer came, Aloran spoke to him under
the door, requesting ice and his medical kit. His Lady’s motions said clearly she’d been hit in the stomach, and punched or grabbed on the right arm. That surely wasn’t all, but it did tell him that bruising and pain had to be handled now. When Serjer returned, he opened the door a hand’s breadth to take the kit and ice bucket, then locked it again.
Aloran brought his Lady a painkilling tablet from his kit, with a glass of water from beside the marble basin. When she held out her hand for it, he stopped breathless. Touch me, the hand whispered. But it shouldn’t have—it wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t known her eyes could speak! He ignored the whisper, dropped the tablet carefully into her palm, and turned away.
Making ice packs in the available towels was simple. Applying them was far harder, because he had to look at what Garr had done. He unfastened his Lady’s gown and lifted it over her head. Her back was unharmed, and despite what had happened to her hair, so were her neck and face—perhaps an advantage of her greater height. But angry red fingermarks ringed her left upper arm, with purple stains underneath betraying deeper damage. Above her ankle, he found a bruise crossed by a red scoreline—a kick from the sole of her partner’s shoe. Aloran gave her an ice pack to hold against her stomach, wrapped and iced her arm, then knelt to apply the same treatment to her leg. But he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.
“It was my fault,” Tamelera whispered.
He flushed hot. “No.”
She sat silent a moment. “I told him—what you told me,” she said. “Thinking . . . maybe, that he would appreciate it if I cared enough to save his life? But he went crazy.”
The heat crept into his eyes. “It’s my fault, then.”
“It can’t be, Aloran. You had to tell me; it was your duty as my servant.”
“So was it your duty, as his partner.” His fingers stopped on the bandages. “But I made it worse. I resisted when he tried to take you away, and that’s why I wasn’t here—” The image of violence crashed over him again. He struggled not to hyperventilate. “I vowed to protect you—and I wasn’t here—”
“Aloran, look at me.”
He did, straight into her eyes, unable to resist a reckless wish that they might speak to him again.
“You saved Gowan’s life,” she said. “I’m grateful, and not only because of the Selection. He and Tagaret are very close. I don’t know how Tagaret could have coped if he lost another of his friends.” Her gaze flicked down, and she blinked before raising it again—the gesture for gratitude, performed with the grace of long practice.
His skin prickled in curiosity and fear. Was this the intimacy that she had known with Eyli? Such privilege was almost more than he could bear.
“Lady,” he said, trying to tear his gaze away. “May I be excused? I can fetch you fresh clothes—perhaps, something to eat?”
“No—” Panic seeped into her voice. “Aloran, you can’t—please, don’t leave me.”
Aloran bowed his head. As a compromise, he walked as far as the service call button, and summoned Serjer, who brought her nightdress. While she rested from the ice, he called again, for a drink of milk. Then for a second application of ice. A bowl of soup. He took the pins out of her hair and brushed out all signs of the afternoon’s fight, watching the tension slowly leave her neck and shoulders. After a time, he no longer wanted relief from her presence. Here was safety, and the comfort of his selfless duty, while outside this room was only danger, and questioning.
“Aloran?” she asked.
“Yes, Lady?”
“Would you ring for Serjer?”
“Of course.”
This time, his Lady allowed the First Houseman entry. Serjer maintained admirable control, but his calm was not so perfect that Aloran couldn’t read the horror in his eyes.
“Thank you for everything, Serjer,” Tamelera said. “Where is Garr now?”
Serjer bowed. “In his office, Mistress. With Sorn, and young Master Nekantor.”
“Lock the door of my room, then. And bring a day mattress; set it up next to my side of the bed.”
“Mistress.” Serjer’s eyes flicked over to Aloran’s, but perhaps out of a new caution, they gestured nothing. The First Houseman bowed out of the room.
In spite of Serjer’s preparations, coaxing Tamelera to leave the bathroom proved to be difficult. In the end, Aloran convinced her to allow him out long enough so he could block Sorn’s entry door with the chair from her writing table and lock the door from his own room into the Maze. No sooner had she emerged than she went straight to bed, and asked him to close the curtain at the bed’s foot—no doubt, to block her view of the wall where she’d been cornered. He only wished he could have thought of it first.
She didn’t ask him to sleep on the day mattress. She didn’t need to. Aloran took off his boots and his suit jacket and lay down, staring up at the lights in the vaulted ceiling.
“Aloran,” she said. “Are you there?”
“I’m here, Lady.”
Her answering sigh of relief lightened his heart, and she fell quiet for a time, but just when he thought she might be sleeping, she gasped.
“Aloran!”
“I’m here, Lady.”
She continued to call his name far into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Closed Doors
Something terrible had happened—Tagaret knew that much. The scare at the Round of Eight had been awful, with everyone hustled away by the Eminence’s Cohort, and he’d had no chance to talk to Gowan, no chance to formulate any kind of plan before he found himself trapped at home again. If he could only have spoken with Mother, they might have found some solace in their memories of sun and courage, but a whole night had passed with no sign of her at all.
This morning, a wysp had been drifting through the suite walls, taunting him with its evident harmlessness. He envied its ability to pass through walls—except, if he really could overhear Father with Nek in his office, or Mother in her rooms, he feared what he might find out.
One thing was beyond question: Aloran would never have attacked Gowan without good reason. When Aloran attacked him, it had saved his life! But what could be so bad that Mother wouldn’t even show her face?
Soft Imbati footfalls came behind him. “Young Master,” said Serjer. “The Arbiter of the First Family Council has come to see you.”
Tagaret straightened in surprise. “Me, Serjer? You’re certain he didn’t ask for my brother?”
Serjer bowed. “I’m certain, sir.”
Why would Erex have come to see him? Tagaret peered between the double doors into the sitting room. Erex stood with face downcast, pinched in worry. How far had he fallen under Nekantor’s influence?
Tagaret took a deep breath, then pushed through the doors. “Erex! What a lovely surprise. Thank you for coming to see me.”
Erex instantly lost his pinched expression. “Of course. I was thrilled to see you looking so well at the Round of Eight—I’m glad you didn’t come to harm.”
“Same to you.”
Erex nodded. “I don’t wish to be impolite, but we have important business to discuss.”
“My future, now that I have one?”
Erex shot him a pointed look. “In fact, your brother.”
“Oh.” That could be just what he needed—but he glanced involuntarily toward the closed door of Father’s office. No; surely after all his years of guidance, Erex was still a man to be trusted. “Let’s talk further in.”
They pushed through into the private drawing room, and the wysp swirled on the breeze of their arrival. Tagaret chose a seat on the sofa where he could keep an eye on the double doors, just in case. Erex allowed his Kuarmei to guide him into a facing seat, whereupon she moved into protective stance near the arm of the sofa, between the Arbiter and the doors.
“I’m very sorry about my brother,” Tagaret said. How
many times had he said the same, over caretaker troubles or school discipline? It was deadly serious this time. “You know, he’s always been—difficult.”
Erex gave a tight smile. “I’m well aware of that. The First Family Council is quite enthusiastic about his candidacy—but, if you’ll forgive me, the others don’t know him as well as I do. In fact, if he were less, ah, resourceful, he wouldn’t be where he is now.”
So he was right: Nek had done something. Tagaret sat forward, gripping the arm of the couch. “What did he do to you, Erex?”
Erex shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry. If I told you, it would hurt someone whom I love.”
Gnash Nekantor. Tagaret took a deep breath and blew it out. “Well, so we both have people to protect. If you’re looking to disqualify Nekantor as a candidate for Heir, I can give you something that will do it.”
The Arbiter looked at him sharply. “Really?”
“But, sir—first you have to promise that it won’t affect your behavior toward my mother.”
Erex nodded. “I promise.”
Tagaret wiped one hand across his mouth, watching the wysp in the corner of his eye. It felt harder to say this to Erex than it had been to Mother or even Father—hopefully it wasn’t a mistake. “Nekantor is weak in his blood.”
Erex frowned. “That’s strange. His health tests have always been satisfactory.”
“Not his body, sir. His mind.” He should stick to the obvious, where he had evidence; the rest, Erex no doubt already suspected. “He suffers compulsive obsessions.”
At that, Erex paled, and looked away toward the stone wall. “Tagaret, it can’t be. I’ve known him as long as you have. Everyone has—habits.”
“Habits like counting buttons?” Tagaret asked. “Like walking in circles touching things? You haven’t lived with him, sir. It’s not normal. And—and think of what he’s done to you.”
Erex was panting now, his chest heaving.
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