Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  “Come to Glenhallow, and bring your village’s plight before me there. We will hear petitions—within a few days?” He looked to Shilonan, who nodded.

  A spark of hope lit Rashonen’s eyes, and he smiled as he clasped Jharan’s arm. “Thank you, my lord.”

  A handful of others had gathered; more of the villagers, Jharan assumed. They each came forward to thank him, and he clasped their arms. Others of their company followed, and soon Jharan found himself amid a crowd of guardians, all eager to greet him. It gave him heart, but he saw how quickly he might become overwhelmed if every guardian on the field sought a word from him. Nearby, Shilonan frowned in disapproval.

  Jharan spoke to the next guardian who approached. “Where is your captain?”

  The guardian glanced backward. A shifting occurred, then a female with a fresh scar down one cheek came forward.

  “I am Tahloni, captain of this company.”

  “Tahloni. Would that I could greet each of your warriors, but I cannot. Please, will you accept my good wishes on their behalf?”

  She raised an eyebrow, smiling. “If you will accept ours from me.”

  “Gladly.”

  They clasped arms, then Tahloni gathered her company and led them away. More guardians crowded near. Jharan saw Felisan and Shilonan with their heads bent together, talking. He turned to the hopeful faces before him.

  “Your captain?”

  He greeted that company’s captain, and the next. By then, the word had spread and the companies organized themselves, coming forward with their captains in advance. Jharan spoke with the captains, asked their names, gave each a few words of encouragement. A scant meeting, but even so, he knew he would be occupied a fair part of the evening if every company in the army came to see him.

  He continued, though. If spending a moment with each captain would give the Guard new hope, he was glad to do it.

  Dark was falling swiftly now. Jharan felt the heat from the pyres not far distant behind him, and saw spots of golden firelight begin to appear throughout the camp.

  Shilonan and Felisan had disappeared. What had they agreed upon? He pondered as he continued to greet the captains. One, a slender male who was taller than Jharan, eyes filled with sadness, shyly clasped his arm.

  “I was not a captain before today.”

  Jharan held his gaze. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  The captain’s face lit with a sudden smile and his grip tightened on Jharan’s arm. “Namion, my lord. Call upon us for any need.”

  “Thank you, Namion.”

  The parade of companies continued. Jharan’s arm began to ache, and his feet became weary. He carried on, however, greeting captain after captain, glancing across the faces in each company, wishing he had the strength for more.

  Bidding farewell to one captain, he was startled to see that the next had black hair. Ælvanen; from Eastfæld. Jharan summoned a smile despite his inner dismay; must he greet each company of Eastfælders as well?

  “My lord, I am Dhanalon, commander of Eastfæld’s forces.”

  Jharan nodded as they clasped arms. “Well met, Dhanalon. Southfæld shall ever be grateful to you and your warriors.”

  “We are preparing to return home, but first I would show my folk your city, if I may.”

  Jharan stifled a laugh at the thought of anyone asking his approval for visiting Glenhallow, and managed to reply with grace. “You would be welcome. If you are in the city tomorrow eve, come to Hallowhall.”

  Dhanalon bowed. “Thank you, Lord Jharan.”

  How odd it sounded, the title and his name. He returned the bow, hoping his rash invitation would not inconvenience anyone.

  Dhanalon yielded place to Belahri, who commanded the small force that Alpinon had sent to the battle, and who was known to Jharan. She had joined him and Felisan carousing on several occasions. Relieved that he need not greet all of the Eastfæld companies, Jharan smiled as he clasped her arm.

  “Our thanks to you and all the Alpinon Guard.”

  “We were glad to serve.”

  “Will you be coming to Glenhallow?”

  Belahri grinned. “Of course. A governor’s investiture is a rare thing. I would be a fool to pass it by.”

  Jharan raised an eyebrow. “I do not know how grand it will be—there is not much time to prepare—“

  “But Southfæld has the best wines in all the realms. That alone makes a visit to Glenhallow worthwhile.”

  Jharan glanced toward Dhanalon, who stood a short distance away, talking with Lathranan. “I think our ally from Eastfæld might disagree.”

  “Perhaps you can stage a competition. Southfæld’s vintages against Eastfæld’s.”

  “I shall keep it in mind for the future.”

  He smiled as he bade her farewell, though his thoughts of the future were far from merry. Southfæld would be in turmoil for some time, he thought, and like the guardian whose fellow villagers were slain, they would be coming to him for help.

  A wave of dread went through him as he thought of the magnitude of the task. He swallowed, looking to the next in line for his attention. It was another Southfæld captain, a male whose face was slightly familiar.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Wohiron, my lord. I am captain of the governor’s personal guard.”

  “Ah. I saw you in the camp earlier.”

  Wohiron nodded. As they clasped arms, Jharan sensed strength, pride, and fierceness in his khi. No doubt this captain was behind the sharp attitude of the guardians in the governor’s camp.

  My camp. Jharan’s mind stuttered on the thought.

  “We are here to escort you thither, my lord. Food and drink await you.”

  “Ah.” Jharan glanced around. “But I have not seen my own company—Kanaron—“

  “They insisted upon waiting to the last, my lord.”

  A hint of disapproval in Wohiron’s voice caught Jharan’s notice. He regarded the captain for a moment.

  “Did you suffer many casualties yesterday?”

  “Yes, my lord. Half our number were with the governor, and fell beside him.”

  Sudden grief stabbed at Jharan’s heart, and he closed his eyes briefly. “I am sorry. My own company fared little better. In fact, it is now made up of the remnants of two companies, mine and Maronin’s. I wonder . . . would you consider folding them into the governor’s guard?”

  Wohiron blinked. Jharan lowered his voice.

  “It would be a comfort to me, to have familiar faces nearby. I have already asked them to accompany me to Glenhallow tomorrow.”

  Wohiron stiffened. “We have strict requirements for admittance.”

  “I am glad to hear it. I should expect no less. Have you met Kanaron?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Let us send for him, to discuss it.”

  Wohiron’s brows drew together, but he made a small gesture and a guardian joined them at once. The captain turned to her.

  “Escort Captain Kanaron forward.”

  The guardian made a short, swift bow and left. Jharan watched her go, musing.

  “I am sure Kanaron would welcome a return to being a second. He did not relish taking my place.”

  Wohiron did not answer, and Jharan made no further attempt to converse with him. They awaited Kanaron in silence, and when Jharan saw him returning with the guardian who had been sent for him, the look of irony on his face was plain.

  “Kanaron, welcome.”

  Jharan extended his arm, telling his friend with the gesture that the situation was formal. Kanaron bowed before clasping Jharan’s arm.

  “This is Wohiron, captain of the governor’s personal guard. They will also be accompanying me to Glenhallow tomorrow.”

  Kanaron’s brows rose and he hesitated slightly, then bowed to Wohiron. “I am honored to meet you, Captain.”

  “I would like you both to discuss the possibility of combining companies.”

  Kanaron’s eyes narrowed slightly; a small sign, but Jhar
an knew it signaled his skepticism. Whether the companies would combine would have to be left to these two to work out—most likely over a pitcher of ale.

  The thought brought a stab of hunger to Jharan’s gut. “Walk with us to the camp, if you will, Kanaron.”

  Kanaron gave him a sharp glance. “Of course. My lord.”

  Smiling in amusement, Jharan started up the slope again. He did not see or hear a signal from Wohiron, but suddenly the three of them were surrounded by an escort of guardians. Jharan clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the sensation that he had done wrong and was being summoned before a council of adjudicants.

  He wanted supper, and a cup of ale, and his friend Felisan to make him laugh. He wanted to be free of worry for the nonce. Tomorrow was soon enough for worry. He was tired.

  Tired, and his task not even begun. How would he find the strength?

  Torches burned ahead, lighting the walls of the governor’s pavilion, which also glowed with inner light. Four guardians now stood before its entrance, and at Jharan’s approach two of them pulled aside the flap. Strains of music wafted forth.

  Surprised, Jharan paused. Wohiron and Kanaron stopped beside him. Jharan glanced at them, then stepped forward into the pavilion, and saw it greatly transformed, glowing with warm light from a hanging chandelier that he had not noticed previously.

  The brazier and scattered chairs had been moved to one side. The long table had been cleared of maps, draped in sage cloth, and set with a banquet. No one sat there; the governor’s advisors stood talking in small groups, and looked up at Jharan’s entrance. They seemed to have been milling, passing the time with conversation and goblets of wine.

  Glancing toward the tent door, Jharan saw that it was closed. Wohiron and Kanaron had not come in.

  Rinovon appeared at his side, offering with a gesture to take his cloak. Jharan unclasped it and handed it to him, then moved forward. All the advisors bowed deeply at his approach. Not knowing whether it was appropriate for him to return the courtesy, he made a slight bow in return.

  Shilonan smiled. “Lord Jharan. Welcome.”

  “You need not have waited for me.”

  “We have had much to discuss. You must be weary, my lord. Will you sit?”

  The steward gestured toward a chair at the center of the table, facing the entrance. Jharan walked around to it, catching sight of Felisan near the back of the pavilion, crouched and listening to the source of the music: four guardians playing upon the lute, flute, tambour and harp.

  “Felisan!”

  At Jharan’s call, Felisan stood and joined him, beaming. “Are they not splendid? They have never played together before.”

  Mindful that the others were waiting, Jharan took his place at the table and indicated that Felisan should sit beside him. He glanced at the musicians, frowning.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “Among the companies you so thoughtfully decided to review. While they were awaiting their turn to bask in the light of your presence—“

  “Stop it.”

  “—I had leisure to inquire after musical talent. There is quite a lot of it in the Southfæld Guard, it turns out, but only a handful brought their instruments here.”

  An attendant Jharan had not seen before approached with a platter of bundled cloths, and used tongs to offer him one. It was warm, damp, and mildly fragrant with the soothing scent of balmleaf. Jharan used it to clean his hands, and had to resist the temptation to wipe the cloth over his face. When the attendant returned from having given out all the cloths, Jharan laid his used cloth on the platter, then glanced at Shilonan, who had taken the seat to his left.

  “Turon did not sup like this in camp, I suspect.”

  Shilonan returned a mild smile. “Likely not. This is no ordinary evening, however.”

  Jharan refrained from saying that an ordinary evening had been his hope. Perhaps he would never know another.

  The meal that was served to him was the best he had tasted in days. Roasted fowl rubbed with herbs, baked roots, wilted greens, a dish of ripe apricots, and clear, crisp summer wine. He picked up an apricot and turned it in his hands, amazed at its delicate flesh and honeylike aroma, trying to remember the last time he had eaten fresh fruit.

  He could not help thinking of all the guardians who were still subsisting on hard camp bread supplemented with whatever they could scrounge. A day ago that had been his fare.

  No—two days ago. Yesterday he had not supped.

  He closed his eyes, his appetite suddenly gone. The battle rose in his memory, the horror of it making his stomach turn on the unaccustomed richness of his meal.

  “Jharan.”

  He turned his head to look at Felisan, whose whisper had roused him. His friend watched him with concerned eyes.

  “Be well a little longer, if you can.”

  Jharan blinked, not gathering Felisan’s meaning. Felisan glanced toward the far end of the table, and following his gaze, Jharan understood. Others glanced away; he noted Giradon among them. The advisors—his guests, though he had not bidden them—would leave the table if he did. He must allow them to eat, even if he wished for no more.

  He had bruised the apricot with his fingers. Sweet stickiness clung to his skin. He put the fruit on his plate, wishing for another damp cloth. Instead he wiped his fingers on his lap cloth and reached for his cup, draining it.

  Instantly an attendant was beside him, offering to fill it again. Jharan nodded, thinking that he must be careful. With such attention, he could easily drink too much wine.

  Shilonan leaned toward him slightly. “You did very well this evening. At first I did not understand why you wished to meet the captains—“

  “It happened spontaneously. I was trying to get out of greeting every single guardian.”

  “And your solution worked brilliantly. Further, it won you much admiration among the Guard. They are solidly behind you now.”

  “I am glad.” Jharan could think of nothing more to say. He reached for his cup, but instead of lifting it, turned it round by its base.

  “May we discuss tomorrow?”

  Jharan fought an impulse to frown. He knew that Shilonan meant well; like as not the steward had made his arrangements and only wanted approval. Summoning a smile, Jharan turned to him.

  “We are to leave early, I assume?”

  “Yes, as soon as you are ready.”

  “I will be ready at dawn.”

  Shilonan raised an eyebrow, but made no objection. “Do you prefer your own mount?”

  “To Turon’s? Yes. My company—my former company—has my horse in its care.”

  “It will be brought here and readied for you by dawn. May I ask that you not ride in too great haste to Glenhallow? There are those of us who must travel by chariot or coach, so your arriving there early would only necessitate your waiting on us.”

  This might mean only that some among the advisors did not ride, or it might be a means of asserting command over him. He considered ignoring the request, but decided to allow the advisors this point. It would cost him little, and perhaps placate them.

  “I see no need for great haste, though I hope to arrive by mid-afternoon.”

  “That is my expectation. Lady Surani will have organized your investiture, and will meet with you beforehand to to go over the details.”

  “I thought it was not going to be elaborate.”

  “No, but there is a degree of ritual involved. It is a matter of custom.”

  Jharan’s glance went to Giradon, who seemed to have been watching him. The Keeper of Lore looked away and addressed a remark to the female beside him. He would have a hand in the investiture, no doubt.

  “I see. I have not witnessed a governor’s investiture, so I will be glad to be apprised of the customs.”

  Shilonan smiled. “They are not onerous. Merely formal declarations of what everyone already knows.”

  A wry smile pulled at Jharan’s lips. He met Shilonan’s gaze. “And what is you
r role in them, my lord steward?”

  “To stand as a witness, to confirm the succession, and to pledge my service to you.”

  “To me? Not to the realm?”

  “Yes, to you. I am not only a servant to the realm, but also to the governor.”

  “And you are comfortable making such a promise to a stranger?”

  Shilonan gazed at him, seeming to approve. “In this peculiar circumstance, none of us is entirely comfortable, I think. I am confident in you, however, and that will have to suffice.”

  “I hope your confidence does not prove to be misplaced.”

  Felisan leaned forward, reaching for an apricot from the bowl in front of Jharan. “There, now, your modesty is flaring up again. You must stifle it for a day or so, Jharan. Everyone expects you to be grand.”

  Jharan shot him a sidelong glance, but said nothing. He touched the foot of his goblet, running his fingers over the ornate carving of vines around its stem. He felt Shilonan’s gaze a moment before the steward spoke.

  “Is there aught I can do for your comfort?”

  Jharan looked at him, seeking any sign of mockery, but saw none. Shilonan waited, his gaze steady, calm.

  Glancing down at his plate, Jharan lowered his voice. “Yes. Bring this evening to a close as soon as may be done without giving offense. Since this morning I have had no chance to think . . .”

  “Or to rest. I have been remiss; it is part of my duty to guard your privacy.”

  “You owe me no duty as yet.”

  “Not officially, perhaps.” Shilonan’s quiet smile fleeted across his face, strangely comforting. He reached for his cup and held it up to be filled. “Ask Rinovon for anything you desire. If he cannot obtain it, he will come to me.”

  With the words, Shilonan stood and raised his cup. “Gentles, a toast. To Southfæld, and its brighter future.”

  Felisan stood at once, goblet held high. “Southfæld!”

  The others rose, and Jharan joined them, lifting his own cup and taking a sip. Someone down the table called out another toast.

  “To the governor-elect! May the spirits watch over him and grant him wisdom!”

  “Lord Jharan!”

  “To our next governor!”

  Jharan was not certain who had said the last. It might be interpreted more than one way. He chose to ignore that, and instead nodded and smiled.