Yanko left them debating the subject and headed inside to check on Jhali. He found Dak first, leaning against the wall outside the room she’d been taken to. Yanko sensed the two healers inside, using magic to mend her shoulder.
“Is this the start of the line for their services?” Yanko pointed to the floor at Dak’s feet.
“It is. You’ll have to wait behind me if you have a hangnail that needs attending.”
“That seems fair.” Yanko smiled and met Dak’s gaze, trying to think of a way to thank him for all of his help and support. And to say that he was relieved that they hadn’t ever had to fight each other. More than once, he’d worried that their different nationalities and loyalties would prompt them to engage in something far deadlier than sparring. He was relieved that had never come to pass.
Words eluded him for all that he wanted to say, so he stepped forward and hugged Dak. “Thank you,” he whispered, hoping it would convey enough.
He expected his gruff Turgonian friend to stand there, startled or horrified at the idea of hugging, but Dak returned the embrace and patted him on the back before releasing him.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“I hope your people will one day realize what a heroic man you are,” Yanko said, “but if they don’t, you can come work for me.”
Dak snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I plan to offer Tynlee a job here in town,” Yanko said. “Zirabo agrees that she would be a good advisor. I hope to entice her by bringing in a publisher that likes spy novels about Turgonians.”
“That might work.”
“If you two decide to get married, we can throw the ceremony here at the palace. Apparently, it comes with the position.”
“You’d rather have your log house by the lake, wouldn’t you?” Dak smiled.
Yanko didn’t think his Turgonian friend had ever been there, but he’d spoken of his home often. All of his comrades likely knew it well, if only from his descriptions.
“I would,” Yanko said, “but I’ve always known honor would dictate my actions, my life, and if this is what the people believe they need, I will live in the palace and study hard to try to become the best leader I can.”
“You’ll do fine, Yanko.” Dak patted him on the back again. “There’s a lot of ground around the palace and in the inner courtyards. You can probably put in all manner of gardens. And have bees. And hounds.”
“This is true. It would just be a long walk to take the hounds to the woods.”
“Walk? If you’re the Great Chief, I’m certain you warrant at least a moldy floating board for transportation.”
“Well, that’s heartening.”
“I should think so.”
Epilogue
The ceremony on the dais outside the palace was surreal. Though it lasted more than an hour, with thousands of people gathered on the lawn and spreading into the streets beyond, it was a blur to Yanko. He only vaguely remembered bowing his head to receive the symbolic Wreath of Chieftains from a holy mage in a black-and-silver-trimmed blue robe, ancient runes of the gods sewn into it.
Pey Lu and Gramon watched from the side of the dais, and onlookers kept glancing at them, but nobody objected to their presence. Yanko was surprised by every moment that passed that nobody objected to him.
How strange and fickle people were. One month, his family was dishonored and Pey Lu forbidden to ever step foot on Nurian soil again. Then, a soul construct and a dragon later, and here he was, the most honored one could be.
During the ceremony, Zirabo played a few songs on his magical flute, but Yanko didn’t sense him trying to sway the crowd. There was no need. The people agreed with this appointment.
The night before, Yanko’s father had given him a huge hug and said how proud he was. Yanko would have appreciated the gesture more if he could have offered it for some lesser achievement, but he’d come to accept that his father was the man that he was, and that wouldn’t change. Father, Falcon, and the rest of Yanko’s family watched from the front row below the dais, more than one set of eyes gleaming with moisture.
Lakeo, Arayevo, Tynlee, and Dak watched from the side opposite of Pey Lu. The other Turgonian agents had departed weeks earlier. Yanko wondered what report they had given their president. Not a suggestion that Yanko should be assassinated at the first opportunity, he hoped.
Yanko wondered when Dak would go home and how he would be received there. Tynlee stood next to him, her arm linked with his, and smiled supportively when Yanko met her eyes. It still mystified him how many people seemed to believe he belonged here.
Would he ever believe that? He couldn’t help but gaze out to sea, in the direction of the continent he’d helped raise. He ought to be able to visit it now and then, especially if he successfully staked out a portion of it for Nuria, but he wouldn’t live there. He wouldn’t personally oversee its development over the following decades. He would need to lead his people from here, but at least he had good company.
Yanko caught sight of Jhali standing behind the others and gazing fondly at him. She wore rich forest-green and silver silks, her hair swept back in an elaborate braid with a few wisps teasing her cheeks, the feminine garb making him realize how striking she was. Yanko lifted his chin and attempted to look regal. Not like the goofy kid who felt he didn’t belong, who’d been tending the plants on the patio earlier in the hope that he could distract his mind and keep from hyperventilating.
A familiar squawk came from overhead, and Yanko smiled. He’d done his best to suggest to the parrot that human political ceremonies were extremely boring and free of seeds, biscuits, and crackers, but he wasn’t surprised that curiosity had brought Kei out of the palace.
“Hurry things along, please, Honored Priest,” Yanko murmured to the robed mage, who’d been making a theatrical event of this. “The parrot has a foul mouth.”
“The what?”
Kei landed on Yanko’s shoulder with an enthusiastic cry of, “Puntak, puntak!”
“The parrot,” Yanko said mildly, hiding a grimace as talons sank into the tender flesh of his shoulder.
Kei plucked at the wreath. Fortunately, it was made from silver rather than any edible foliage that a parrot might have decimated.
The mage stared at Kei, appalled.
The crowd, probably too far away to hear the racial slur, clapped and cheered. Yanko heard a cry of, “The mighty mage’s loyal familiar!”
Kei leaned forward and swiveled his head to peer into Yanko’s eyes. “Crackers?”
“Yes, soon.” Yanko waved for the mage to finish.
He caught Jhali’s eye. To his surprise, she held up a throwing star and raised her eyes. She pointed, and for a moment, he thought some enemy was sneaking up on him from behind, but his senses told him nobody was back there. Then he realized she was pointing to the parrot.
Yanko gave her a scandalized glare. She grinned and hid the weapon away. Yanko felt his own face turn to a grin, for he was delighted to see the gesture from her, especially when he thought of the humorless killer she’d been when they first met.
“Please revere your new Great Chief,” the holy mage cried, raising his arms toward the crowd, “Yanko White Fox.”
Revere? Yanko would have gagged on the request, but the people roared their approval.
“Revere,” Kei squawked. “Revere!”
Yanko rubbed his face, not sure if that was a better word for Kei to parrot than the slurs.
As soon as the holy mage lowered his arms, Yanko hastened off the dais toward Jhali, Dak, Zirabo, and Tynlee. He already had a slew of appointments with various government heads that he was supposed to meet tomorrow, but he hoped he could spend the evening with his friends. His mother was already departing—something that would ease the faces of the numerous guards who’d been watching her with trepidation since she’d arrived. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again later, but it would be easier on one of her ships than on Nurian soil.
From the startled expression on Dak’s fac
e—he’d turned to peer toward someone in the crowd—Yanko doubted the rest of the day would go uneventfully. A large Turgonian man towered over the Nurians and even over the eight Turgonian soldiers who flanked him. His uniform and theirs were more ceremonial than the field uniforms Yanko had seen before.
“Dak?” Yanko asked, hoping for enlightenment.
The man was fit but older, with more white in his short hair than gray. A familiar wispy man stepped up to his side and murmured something. Professor Hawkcrest.
Dak drew to attention, his spine painfully rigid, as the Turgonians approached.
Jhali was the one to touch Yanko’s side and offer some enlightenment. “I believe that’s the Turgonian president.”
“I—” Yanko stared. “Shouldn’t I have known he was here?”
“One of your people must have invited him,” Jhali said. “He was in the back over there for the whole ceremony.”
The holy mage smiled serenely at Yanko and then at the Turgonians, his hands clasped behind his back.
The president—Rias Starcrest, Yanko’s numb brain filled in—stopped at the edge of the dais. Yanko hopped down, not wanting to look down upon the man. This startled Kei, who flew into the air and squawked in protest.
“Relax, Dak,” Starcrest said in a rich baritone, his accent thicker than Yanko expected. Dak’s Nurian was much smoother, but he’d been speaking little else for the last six months. “You’re not in trouble,” Starcrest added.
“Thank you, sir. I’m glad to hear it.” Dak also scrambled down from the dais and gripped arms with his uncle and also the professor.
Yanko wondered what information the professor had given to the president when he’d gotten home.
President Starcrest was as tall as Dak, and Yanko felt like a boy next to them. Maybe he should have stayed on the dais.
“Though you could have sent us more updates,” Starcrest said sternly.
“I thought your children were keeping you apprised of my movements.”
“Only your movements on Kyatt. The rest I’ve had to deduce from random reports filtering in from various parts of our Intelligence network.”
“I sent a report from Port Morgrant,” Dak offered.
“Three lines of nearly indecipherable penmanship signed ‘more to come later’ is not a report.”
Yanko watched their exchange with fascination, mostly because he’d never seen anyone effectively chastise Dak. Oh, that Admiral Ravencrest had locked him up in the brig and accused him of colluding with Nurians, but that had only pissed Dak off, as far as Yanko had observed. He looked uncharacteristically contrite under President Starcrest’s stern gaze.
Starcrest’s gaze shifted to Yanko.
“Honored President.” Yanko bowed politely. “I am pleased to meet you in person. I would have personally invited you to come, but, uh, I didn’t think you would. Also, the last Great Chief’s secretary fled the city in fear, I’m told, and he apparently took the special palace stationery with him. I only discovered this last night when I wished to write thank-you notes to the various officials who came. And visiting dignitaries. And the caterers.” His hand flexed in memory of the cramp all the writing had elicited.
Starcrest scrutinized him curiously, and Yanko feared he’d been babbling. Or maybe it was that world leaders were supposed to discuss only politics and events of international concern when they got together.
“Thank-you notes?” Starcrest looked at Dak.
“Don’t tell me you don’t write your own, sir,” Dak said. He’d recovered his usual stoic expression.
“I—”
A squawk from Kei interrupted him. Starcrest’s bodyguards drew pistols as the parrot descended toward the president.
“He’s friendly,” Yanko rushed to say, raising his hands—and preparing himself to create a barrier to protect the bird if necessary.
But Starcrest had also raised a staying hand toward his men. Kei landed on his shoulder, swatting him on the back of the head with a wing in the process.
“Banana shirt, banana shirt!” Kei cried with great enthusiasm.
This caused everyone within hearing to stare in puzzlement.
But Starcrest didn’t appear puzzled. “Hello, Kei. You’ve come up in my Intelligence reports almost as frequently as Great Chief White Fox here.”
By the bear god, it sounded so strange to hear that prefix added to his name. Yanko was surprised Starcrest had used it, even if it was technically appropriate now. Did a man in his sixties find it odd—or insane—to acknowledge an eighteen-year-old boy as a fellow leader of a nation?
“Banana shirt,” Kei replied. “Crackers?”
To Yanko’s surprise, President Starcrest pulled a waxed paper bag out of a uniform pocket, drew out what looked like a dehydrated apple chip, and offered it to the bird. Kei snatched it out of his hand and ate it with relish, beak chomping and crumbs falling on Starcrest’s black uniform.
“Uhm, Banana Shirt?” Yanko asked, realizing that had to be Kei’s name for the president. Before now, Zirabo had been the only one Kei had named, as far as Yanko had heard. He wasn’t surprised that Rias Starcrest was familiar to his wife’s family’s parrot, but that descriptor begged an explanation.
“Yes. When I first arrived on the Kyatt Islands and hadn’t yet married Tikaya, her people were extremely wary of Turgonians, especially the Turgonian admiral who’d been responsible for the invasion of their islands during the war. At the time, it was very recent history, you see. I took to wearing unassuming and even silly clothing, in the hope that they would find me innocuous.”
Yanko looked the six-and-a-half-foot-tall man up and down. “Did it work?”
Dak snorted.
“Not particularly well,” Starcrest admitted. “The yellow shirt was quite comfortable, though, and I did wear it often that first year. I might have worn it daily, but it horrified Tikaya.”
That first year?
“How old is Kei?” Yanko watched the bird bend over and pluck more apple chips out of the bag.
“Oh, thirty or forty. Which is middle-aged for a Kyattese parrot, I’m told.”
Kei almost fell off the president’s shoulder in his attempt to dig deeper into the bag. He flapped his wings for balance, swatting Starcrest in the head again. Then he plucked the bag itself out of his hand and flew away.
“He seems young for his age,” Yanko offered.
“Yes. But I’m told I shouldn’t hold that against a bird. Or person.” Starcrest met his eyes.
Yanko wondered who’d told him that. His wife? Or maybe his children who were Yanko’s age.
“That’s good. Uhm, do you want tea?” Yanko waved toward the palace, realizing a lot of the crowd lingered and were watching the exchange. He also realized this was his opportunity to discuss Kelnorean with the highest-ranking Turgonian of all. “Or apple brandy? If Prince Zirabo didn’t drink the rest of it, I know where there’s a bottle of some.”
“Ah?” President Starcrest’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds good. And, yes, we should have a private chat.” He patted his nephew on the shoulder. “You too, Dak.”
Yanko led them toward a doorway, glad when Jhali stuck close. He wanted moral support if he was going into a meeting with Turgonians. Nurian moral support.
“It’s too late to object to him as the leader of Nuria,” Dak said, walking beside his uncle. “He destroyed a dragon in front of thousands of people. That has a tendency to make a mage popular here.”
Starcrest snorted. “I destroyed ships in front of thousands of people. It had a similar effect. Turgonians and Nurians aren’t really that different.”
Yanko didn’t know what to say to that, but at least it didn’t sound like President Starcrest was angered by his appointment. Maybe he approved because he thought a young and inexperienced leader would be unlikely to urge his people to go to war anytime soon. That was, admittedly, true.
Yanko waved to Tynlee, hoping she would come and advise, or mind-snoop if needed. Had Admiral St
arcrest received the same mage-hunter-esque training that Colonel Starcrest had?
“It’s fortuitous that you’ve come, Honored President.” Yanko said as they stepped into the cool halls of the palace. “I’d intended to come visit you or the highest-ranking of your people that I could get to in regard to the newly raised continent of Kelnorean.”
“The highest-ranking of my people?” Starcrest’s eyes glinted with amusement.
“Well, at the time, I was merely Yanko White Fox, failed applicant to Stargrind and very unofficial assistant to Prince Zirabo, who was himself being hunted as his father’s last living son.” Yanko left out the part about how he’d been a criminal too. Nobody had brought that up, so he assumed all was forgiven. Or that Great Chiefs were above the law. That wasn’t an idea that pleased him though. A couple of days earlier, Yanko had mailed a letter to Senshoth in the Red Sky prison, asking him to send another copy of his book, if he had one, and also for the names of those guards who had died that night. He hoped he could at least make sure their families were well cared for.
“I see,” Starcrest said. “Well, you shouldn’t have trouble getting high-ranking officials to take meetings with you now. As far as the continent goes, I appreciate the assistance that you gave my research team there.”
“Research? It was very noisy research.”
“They were supposed to be collecting plant and animal samples as well as prospecting and performing geologic tests,” Starcrest said dryly. “Though it didn’t occur to me when I approved the mission that there probably wouldn’t be any plant or animal life.”
“There will be someday.” Yanko led the way into the office outside of his suite.
A startled servant saw their group, eyes widening at both Yanko’s and Starcrest’s approach, then scampered out hastily to retrieve beverages and snacks. Yanko felt guilty for how often his presence now prompted such a reaction, though the looming Turgonians had exacerbated it this time.
“I understand you’ve promised some of the land to people already,” Starcrest said.
“Yes. If it weren’t for my people, it would remain under the sea, so it seems that we have a legitimate claim on the continent.” Yanko threw that out there, watching Starcrest for a reaction. And also attempting to use his senses on him, but his mind was almost as guarded as Dak’s or Jhali’s. Yes, he’d received training to learn to block his thoughts from telepaths.
Great Chief (Chains of Honor, Book 4) Page 34