Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  “Thank you all. I look forward to better knowing you, and to working together for the good of the realm.”

  Shilonan nodded, smiling, then turned to Lathranan at his left and engaged the warden in conversation. Jharan felt a tugging at his elbow.

  “Come and meet the minstrels. You might take them along with you to Glenhallow. I rather think you should.”

  Though his mind was too full for such trivialities, Jharan followed Felisan away from the table, realizing a moment later that this must have been his friend’s true intent. The advisors remained on their feet, some talking, some beginning to drift toward the entrance. Relieved, Jharan managed to express interest in the music as he thanked the impromptu ensemble.

  The harper, who had stood at his approach, bowed. “Twas our honor, indeed, my lord.”

  Jharan frowned, thinking his face familiar. “Dirion’s company?”

  A smile bloomed on the harper’s face. “Aye, my lord. We patrolled with your company last summer. Good of you to remember.”

  “I did not remember your playing.”

  “Well, I had no harp with me then. I only brought it here because we were not venturing so far from the city.”

  The guardian’s voice fell and his smile faded. Jharan knew he was thinking of the battle; they all were.

  “I am glad you and your harp both survived.”

  He asked the names of all the musicians, and at Felisan’s urging said he would like them to come to Glenhallow and play at Hallowhall. Their delight chased away his concerns; he would explain to Lady Surani, and make certain the addition of four minstrels did not interfere with her plans. They could always play for him privately.

  “Excellent, excellent!” Felisan rubbed his hands together as they strolled away. “Shall I inform Lathranan of your wishes? Yes, I see that he is trapped, and in need of a rescue. Your pardon.”

  Without waiting for approval Felisan strode away toward Lathranan, who was standing near the entrance, goblet in hand, listening to an earnest-looking Giradon. Attendants were already clearing the table; Jharan paused to ask one of them to give some of the leftover food to the minstrels, then wandered over to the brazier.

  The coals were covered with grey ash, but still yielded some warmth. Jharan pulled a chair close to the brazier and sat, permitting himself a weary sigh.

  A part of him still could not believe what was happening. The shift was too sudden; it did not feel real.

  He sensed the khi of someone approaching, straightened in his chair, then relaxed when he saw that it was Mithrali. The Mistress of Guilds had found time to change her attire; she wore a formal robe of silver-woven cloth, glimmering in the light of candles and torches. Her pale hair was loose over her shoulders, held back from her brow by a narrow circlet of silver.

  Jharan stood. “My lady. May I offer you a chair?”

  “Thank you.” She disposed herself gracefully in the chair he set for her, and looked up, smiling, as he resumed his seat. “Congratulations on your success. I have heard nothing but praises for you.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “The Guard were naturally inclined to approve of you, but they are now quite enthusiastic. Glenhallow will have to take notice.”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “Glenhallow will also approve me, I hope.”

  “We have every reason to expect it.” She smiled, leaning forward in her chair. “I will speak to my circle, of course. They will be glad to know that you have already shown such promise.”

  Unsure of what response she sought, he countered with a question. “How many are in your circle? I confess, I have not previously followed the doings of the city’s guilds.”

  “Of course not. There is no reason why a guardian would need to know of them. There are twenty-three major guilds, and quite a few lesser ones. Most of those are overseen by the Open Crafthall. Lemian is its master.”

  “Is Lemian in your circle?”

  “Yes, and you will wish to meet him soon. He is rather influential.”

  “I would like to meet all of your circle, though I do not know when I shall have the chance to confer with them.”

  Mithrali waved a languid hand. “All of that will be seen to in the coming days. I will tell the Guild leaders of your interest. It will please them.”

  Jharan gazed at the brazier, wondering how a meeting with the Guild leaders would fit into the next several days. Shilonan would help him arrange it, no doubt.

  Rinovon came forward to empty a small bucket of coals into the brazier. Orange sparks danced up from it, tiny stars fleeting skyward.

  “Is there aught I can bring you my lord? My lady?”

  Jharan glanced at Mithrali, who shook her head. He smiled. “No, thank you, Rinovon.”

  The attendant bowed and was gone. Glancing after him, Jharan realized that the pavilion was almost empty. The advisors had left. One attendant remained, laying a fresh cloth to the table, which had been emptied of all signs of the feast.

  “Would you care for company tonight?”

  The words were softly spoken, Mithrali’s voice almost a whisper. A tingle went through Jharan as he realized what she was offering.

  And why. A person of her standing would not propose a liaison lightly. She must wish to influence him.

  Cynical, Jharan.

  He disliked the suspicions that arose in his heart, but he could no more avoid them than cease to breathe. Until he gained his bearings in this strange new life, he must evaluate everyone who approached him with a view to what they wanted from him.

  Suddenly he wished for Felisan, or even Shilonan. Company of a different sort, and safety.

  He met Mithrali’s gaze. She was smiling softly, eyelids half-closed over her dark eyes. Confident, and well she might be; she was certainly attractive.

  “You are generous.” He pitched his voice equally low. “I had best decline, however. I have much to contemplate before tomorrow.”

  She nodded, lifting one shoulder slightly. “Very well. If you should change your mind, I will be close by.”

  She rose and moved gracefully away, nodding thanks to Rinovon who hastened to open the entrance flap for her. With her departure Jharan was alone, save for the attendant.

  He had enjoyed the company of many females, some almost as stunning as Mithrali, but none so sophisticated. While he found her attractive, he did not feel any stirrings of desire. She was . . . not dangerous, perhaps, but certainly one whom he must watch.

  He did not enjoy feeling this way.

  Sighing, he stood and went to the back of the pavilion, to the couch that had been Turon’s. His clothing had been set aside, and the couch made up with his own blanket. A smaller brazier stood near its foot, and a basin and pitcher graced a table nearby, with a jar of soap and a stack of clean cloths beside them.

  The water steamed as Jharan poured it. With a small moan of relief he splashed it onto his face, trying to scrub away the weariness and worry. He dried his face and hands, then rubbed the damp cloth across the back of his neck.

  “Do you care to bathe, my lord?”

  Startled, he glanced up and saw Rinovon drawing a curtain he had not previously noticed, creating a small alcove of privacy around the couch and furnishings. He noted that what he had thought was the outside wall of the pavilion was in fact another such curtain. A light glowed softly through the heavy cloth.

  “Thank you, no. I will be riding tomorrow, so I may as well wait.”

  A private smile crossed Rinovon’s lips as he bowed. “If you have need of anything, call.”

  He stepped beyond the rear curtain. A moment later the light went out.

  Jharan sat on the couch and began to unstrap his leathers, wondering if his decision not to bathe made him appear naive. He was thinking like a guardian, still. Should he instead make a show of his arrival in Glenhallow?

  No, for the real show would be his investiture, no doubt. Also, to take the comfort of bathing when those who rode with him had not had the
opportunity felt disloyal.

  Such politics for such a simple question. Would this be his life from now on?

  He pulled off his leathers and began to lay them on the chest at the foot of the couch, then paused. Were Turon’s belongings still in it? If so, he would not disturb them, but what he had seen of Rinovon’s efficiency made him lift the lid.

  His pack lay inside, along with his spare tunic and legs and his cloak, neatly folded. At the back lay his sword, which just fit within the length of the chest. Moving his pack aside, he stacked his leathers beside it and closed the chest.

  As he removed his boots, he took assessment of his resources. His physical possessions—or lack of them, more precisely—were not an issue. Everything he needed or desired was being provided to him. Of greater concern were his friends and associates, those whom he would need to trust.

  Felisan would eventually leave. Jharan had friends in Southfæld, but none so close, or whom he felt would be comfortable in the governor’s palace, or able to advise him there. He knew that Kanaron and the others of his company would be loyal, but sensed that they might not be able to help him as Felisan could. Felisan had knowledge of governance beyond that of any other among Jharan’s friends.

  Lathranan seemed to support him, but Jharan did not know him well. The same was true of Shilonan. His instinct was to trust them, for neither appeared interested in the governorship, but he felt inclined also to watch them. They might have other aspirations of which he was unaware, but which could come into play in their interactions.

  The rest of the advisors were unknown to him. He must learn more of them, and soon. He must also find opportunity to talk with Giradon, whose avoidance of him was troubling.

  Jharan rubbed his hands over his face. This was a game of influence, one that he must learn quickly. His only means of influencing those who kept the government running was the authority of his new position. If he showed any weakness or hesitation, that authority would quickly be undermined.

  Felisan had said he must be grand. He was beginning to see the truth behind that jest. Perhaps that was the reason for Rinovon’s smile; a governor-elect who chose not to bathe might unintentionally forego the respect of those who looked up to him.

  Sighing, Jharan stretched himself on the bed to rest and meditate. With some difficulty he put aside the questions that troubled him, and sought to clear his mind. Whatever spirits watched over him, he hoped they would send him guidance. He thought of his mother—long since crossed into spirit—and at last slid into a state of peace.

  Morning came all too quickly. His guardian’s habits made Jharan rise as the early light began to glow through the pavilion’s walls.

  Though he had sensed no movement, the basin had been emptied and the water in the pitcher was steaming gently. Jharan poured some out, then with one of the cloths proceeded to wash himself as thoroughly as he could. He fetched his comb from his pack and worked it through his hair, then dressed in his spare clothes.

  A quiet cough alerted him to Rinovon’s entrance. The attendant held a pair of ribbons—sage and silver.

  “May I braid your hair, my lord? These are new.”

  Jharan gazed at him a moment. He had not counted Rinovon among his assets, but the attendant had so far been helpful and knew a great deal about the life Jharan was stepping into.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He sat on the couch, and Rinovon stepped behind him. The attendant had brought a comb and drew it through Jharan’s hair. This small attention was surprisingly soothing. Jharan closed his eyes as Rinovon caught strands of his hair, weaving the ribbons into them.

  “Do you come with us to Glenhallow, Rinovon?”

  “I will follow you there, my lord.”

  “Are you willing to continue assisting me? If not, perhaps you could recommend another—“

  “I would be honored to attend you.”

  Jharan wished he could see Rinovon’s face. “How long were you Turon’s attendant?”

  “Not quite three centuries.”

  So he had known the governor as well as Jharan had known Maronin. Better, perhaps. He must be grieving.

  “I would understand if you wished for a respite.”

  “To be honest, my lord, it is best for me to keep busy. I have more than enough opportunity for reflection.”

  “I see. Well, you are most welcome. Turon must have found you a great comfort.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Would you be willing, when we are in private, to call me Jharan?”

  There was a pause while Rinovon tied off the ribbons and let the braid lie against Jharan’s back. Jharan turned to look at him, and found that Rinovon was holding up a small mirror.

  “You honor me.”

  Jharan glanced at his reflection. Rinovon had left two strands of hair loose at the sides of his face. The rest was pulled into the braid, out of sight.

  Jharan nodded and Rinovon set aside the mirror. “Was Turon more formal?”

  Rinovon’s face softened into the familiar slight smile. “No. He asked the same in private.”

  Jharan stood, and offered his arm. “Thank you. I hope you do not mind my asking you about Turon.”

  The attendant hesitated, then clasped his arm. “Not at all. If I can help you in any way, I am glad to do it.”

  Rinovon’s khi was steady and quiet, with an underlying warmth that confirmed his innate generosity. Jharan began to feel that he was fortunate indeed to have this unassuming ally.

  A small sound drew Jharan’s notice toward the curtain. Someone was moving about inside the pavilion He looked at Rinovon.

  “Turon’s custom was to break fast with Shilonan and a friend or two.”

  “Ah. I would like to see Felisan, if he is not otherwise engaged.”

  Rinovon nodded. “He has been invited. Also Lord Lathranan.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.”

  “If I may suggest . . . if you do not object, a robe would be appropriate.”

  “I have none with me.”

  Jharan possessed only one formal robe, and rarely wore it. He suspected it would be too plain for Rinovon’s liking in any case. If Rinovon meant to suggest that he wear Turon’s clothing, however, he was about to be disappointed.

  “May I show you one of mine? I would be honored to lend it to you.”

  Jharan gazed at him, marveling that Rinovon had come to the battlefield with not only Turon’s formal attire, but his own. Their worlds were different.

  “Very well.”

  The attendant slipped behind his curtain and returned a moment later with a robe of pale green, touched with embroidery at the neck and cuffs. Jharan nodded, and Rinovon helped him don the robe, which fell to just short of his ankles. Rinovon frowned, but Jharan sat down to pull on his boots.

  “It will do for a morning in camp, think you not? Thank you, Rinovon.”

  “We will see you better attired at Hallowhall.”

  “No doubt, but not in anything of Turon’s, please.”

  “No. His personal belongings will be given to his kindred. There are robes of state, however . . .”

  Jharan stood, not wanting to think about robes of state. “I will be wanting my horse as soon as we are finished. I believe it is to be brought here . . .”

  “It is outside, my lord.” Rinovon glanced up. “Jharan.”

  Jharan smiled. “Thank you, Rinovon.”

  The attendant bowed slightly, smiling back. Jharan turned toward the inner curtain, drew a deep breath, and went out.

  A smaller feast lay upon the table. Four chairs stood along its center, with platters of meat, bread, cheeses and fruit arrayed before them. Jharan peered into an ewer and saw a wisp of steam curled inside. He started to reach for a cup, but was forestalled by an attendant.

  “May I pour for you, my lord?”

  Jharan thanked him, though he would rather have poured for himself. The tea was fragrant and warm, however, and soothed his impatience.

  The
entrance flap was pulled open, admitting the pre-dawn light along with Felisan and Lathranan. The warden hesitated, then bowed.

  “Good morrow, my lord.”

  “Good morrow. Please join me.”

  Jharan moved to the table. Despite Rinovon’s urging for formality, he chose to begin without waiting for Shilonan. He had warned the steward that he meant to depart early.

  “I hope you both rested well.”

  Felisan grinned, looking sidelong at the warden. “I did. I do not believe Lathranan rested at all.”

  Lathranan raised an eyebrow. “There were matters to be dealt with. We have many more pyres to make before we quit this field, and the names of the fallen must be recorded, their possessions returned to their families—“

  Jharan nodded. “We will have to set conces for them.”

  “I fear there are too many for that.”

  “Too many to be honored?”

  Lathranan hesitated, meeting his gaze. “It is simply not practical. The valley would be filled with conces.”

  “If you had fallen, would your kindred be satisfied with that excuse?”

  Lathranan was silent. Felisan watched, a smile hovering about his lips.

  “I know it will be a vast effort, but I want the name of every soul who fell on this field carved in stone. In the stone of the Skyruach, if need be.”

  Lathranan stared at him. Felisan took a piece of bread.

  “Carved into Skyruach. A good notion, that.”

  Lathranan nodded slowly. “Turon’s name, and those of his successors.”

  “And all those who fell defending the rock. Also the fallen from Eastfæld and Alpinon.” Jharan took a swallow of tea. “Then in the valley, a conce for each company of the Southfæld Guard, with the names of its fallen thereon.”

  “This can be done.”

  “Good.”

  The entrance flap opened. Looking up, Jharan saw not Shilonan, but Mithrali. The Mistress of Guilds wore a tunic and legs this morning; less formal than a robe, but they were heavily embroidered, and the sash about her hips was ornate, its ends adorned with long, beaded fringe that glistened against her thigh. A tassel of similar fringe hung from her braided hair.