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.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHIANAN KNOCKED AT the black-painted door and heard a muffled, “Come!” He entered and found Ariana stretching between her workbench and storage shelves, trying to push a half-fallen book back into place on a high shelf with one hand and cradling a bowl with the other.
“Oh, good!” she gasped. “You can help me.”
Shianan dashed across the room and reached for the bowl. “Here, I’ll take—”
“No!” she snapped, but without jerking back. “No, don’t touch that, it’s nearly pure phlogiston. Can you take the book?”
He reached over her and pressed the book into its place. “Got it.”
She relaxed but kept the bowl steady. “Thanks. I caught my foot on the table leg and threw myself against the cabinet to keep from falling with the phlogisto
n, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Then I was terrified of dropping the book into it or spilling on the whole shelf.” She grinned. “Thanks for saving me.”
Thanks for saving me.
Shianan stayed still, faintly smiling, as her flippant words lanced through him.
Ariana had already turned away toward the rear room. “I just stopped in to separate some of this for Mage Tadak. Give me one moment to put it safely away and I’ll be ready to go.”
Shianan shook free and moved away from the shelf. He took a folded report from his wallet and read it again, letting his mind fret over more familiar worries.
“What’s that?” asked Ariana, returning. “It’s making you frown.”
“Just a patrol that got into trouble.” Shianan folded and replaced the report. “Nothing to worry your fair head about.”
Ariana placed her hands on her hips. “Shianan! I’m a Mage of the Circle!”
“Don’t talk down to mages,” advised a new voice. “They can turn you into an alley rat if you annoy them.”
They turned toward the open door, where Mage Parma stood in her silver robes.
“I wasn’t speaking down to her,” Shianan said, a little defensive. He’d meant the comment to subtly carry his tentative compliment, but now he could hear and regret the dismissal in his clumsy attempt. “It’s a military concern, and the Circle wouldn’t ordinarily be involved.” He tried a grin. “Besides, I’m pretty sure she can’t really turn me into a rat.”
Ariana snorted. Mage Parma smiled. “That’s probably true. Ariana’s only the Black Mage, after all.” She raised an eyebrow significantly.
Shianan hesitated, uncertain how to respond.
Ariana laughed aloud. “I think we’ll be fine without any rats today, thank you. Was there something you wanted?”
Mage Parma stepped inside. “The larger treatise on Gehrn history is gone from the library, and I thought you might have borrowed it after recent events.”
Ariana shook her head. “Not at all. I’m happy to remain ignorant about them. What do you need a history of the Gehrn for?”
Mage Parma waved her hand in dismissal. “A question about the ongoing trial. Nasty, exhausting business all around. Perhaps your father has it. I’ll keep looking.”
“I’ll let you know if I happen across it,” Ariana said. “Shall we go, Shianan?”
He offered his arm, and she took it, and it was splendid.
“One moment,” Mage Parma said, and Shianan’s stomach tightened. But she only plucked a piece of string from Ariana’s dark shoulder. Then she took a step back to allow them through the door. “Have a good morning, wherever you’re going.”
“The paper market,” Ariana answered. “I need some new packet slips, and I want to introduce Shianan to a friend.”
Shianan hadn’t known they were meeting someone. The news that she wanted him to meet a friend warmed him.
The market crowd was swollen even so early, and they had to squeeze their way through past some of the more popular stalls. Ariana purchased a bundle of small sheets which could be folded into powder packets, and then she led Shianan to a bookbinding shop. “Hello, Ranne!”
“Ariana!”
The two women embraced as Shianan stood awkwardly, and then Ariana turned to him. “This is Ranne, and we’ve been friends for years and years. Ranne, this is my friend Shianan. Well, the Count of Bailaha, I’m sorry.”
“Shianan will be fine,” he said quickly. The bastard had no ground to parade status; his title was only armor to be used among the court. “I use my military title more than my noble one, and you’re exempt from soldiers’ discipline.”
Ranne laughed and put out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Shianan, then.”
The words hung pulsing warm in the air. Only a few months ago he had told Ariana there was no one to call him by his name, and now he was being introduced by it. “It’s good to meet you, too.”
“Military, eh?” Ranne smiled, and he saw she was working hard at not recognizing him as the bastard. “So what will you do, now that the war is over?”
The question struck him as if for the first time. What would he do now? He was a soldier, a commander, a defense against the Ryuven—but with the shield restored, what need was there of these?
Ranne must have seen the change in his eyes. “But of course you’ll be protecting us from bandits and the warlords to the south.” She glanced at Ariana.
“Oh, Shianan,” Ariana said, smiling, “with the war ended, you can be anything you want.”
He made his head move up and down, but it was not a nod. She did not understand. He had never been what he wanted, would never be.
Ariana and Ranne were already talking again, and they did not notice when Shianan turned to examine a stack of unbound books waiting for covers. He needed only a moment, and then he could face them again.
How quickly his mood could swing, when he was with her, from elation to despair. She weakened him, opened him anew to emotions he had long controlled, and he could not understand why he liked it.
CHAPTER NINE
SHIANAN KNOCKED AT the courtyard door to the prince’s office and jerked at his tunic. This time Soren would not turn him away. He would keep his promise.
“Commander!” came a voice behind him, and Shianan glanced over his shoulder as the door opened. The servant at the door looked from Shianan to the approaching soldier and waited. The soldier jogged toward them and then drew himself up to face Shianan. “Sir, there’s a messenger at your office asking for you. You’re summoned to the king’s presence.”
“Who’s keeping the door open?” came a voice from within.
The slave stepped backward and answered the voice. “It’s Bailaha, master.”
The soldier and Shianan executed twin bows as Soren came to the door. “Becknam! You’ve come. Please, come in.”
Shianan hesitated. “Your Highness, I’ve just received word the king has sent for me.” He gestured to the soldier beside him.
Soren looked sharply at the soldier. “The king?”
“He’s sent for the commander, Your Highness.”
Something shifted in Soren’s expression. “I see. Well, Becknam, last time I found myself unable to meet as promised. This time, it seems you have duties which call you.” He hesitated. “Will you come and see me when you are finished? This afternoon?”
Shianan was surprised and somewhat unsettled by the prince’s tone. “I will come to you when I can, Your Highness. As soon as I have answered the king.”
Soren nodded. “This afternoon,” he repeated, making Shianan wonder at the urgency. And then the door closed, leaving Shianan to blink at it.
He had little time to wonder, however; the king had called him. Had the queen complained of him last night? He swallowed against his unease and asked, “Where am I to attend the king?”
“In the old wing, sir,” came the answer.
Shianan’s stomach sank. She had complained of him. Protests that he had not meant to offend her, that he had not known she would even be present, all would be in vain. The king would be angry, and he would tell Shianan how unwelcome he was at royal events.
Shianan took a deep breath. Unkind words had not killed him yet. There would be nothing new in hearing the queen despised her husband’s bastard and Shianan should keep his offensive self out of sight.
There were few courtiers; the king was not holding other audiences or meetings here. Shianan was admitted and knelt inside the door as the king waved the servant outside.
“Rise, Bailaha, and come closer. We have business with you.”
The king was not alone. Prince Alasdair was seated at a table with him. Surely the young prince would not be involved in chastening Shianan’s attendance of the ball?
“Bailaha, you have served us for years.”
“From my childhood, Your Majesty. I surely was not much use as a boy, but I have been allowed to serve more in recent years.”
“In positions of aut
hority granted in reward for your loyalty,” agreed the king. “And you claim you are a loyal servant.”
Shianan bowed his head, partly in respect and partly to hide the sting of the words. “You know I am, my lord.”
“And are you loyal to our line? Will you serve the next king with equal fervor?”
“My lord, I am a faithful servant of the throne. I have fought beneath the royal banner for our people, not merely for one man, however deserving.”
“Hmm.” King Jerome rose from his chair and came around the table. “Then why do you show disrespect to our prince? How can you disdain your rightful lord?” He beckoned Alasdair to join them. “You shall honor and obey Prince Alasdair as you would any other royal.”
Shianan stared, feeling a treacherous expression of confused incredulity break over his face. “I—Your Majesty, what have I done to—”
“Be quiet.” King Jerome jerked his head toward the floor. “Kneel.”
Shianan obeyed, his mind spinning. He had not even seen Alasdair since the night of the search, and the next morning the king had seemed pleased. What could have happened? What story had reached him?
“You will apologize to your prince for your ill manners,” said Jerome flatly.
Shianan was stunned. “My lord, when did I show ill manners to the prince?”
“Denial will not serve you! You will apologize.”
Shianan blinked up at them, seeing the king’s stern face and Alasdair’s smug smile. He dropped his eyes to the floor, as much to block the view as to demonstrate respect, and fumbled for words. “My lord prince, if I have treated you out of accord with your station, I humbly apologize and beg your forgiveness.” It galled to abase himself further before Alasdair, but there could be no further protest to the king.
Alasdair made a tiny sound nearly like a giggle. Shianan shifted on his knee, hoping for permission to rise. Was this why he’d been called? To apologize for a slight to the spoiled young prince?
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