Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  Giradon raised a sharp voice. “Varishan?”

  The artist looked up at him, then stepped to Jharan’s side of the circle. Giradon glowered.

  “This is your gratitude?”

  Varishan returned his gaze. “I made you no promise. Our realm has sustained enough damage of late. We do not need the turmoil of a political struggle as well.”

  Jharan glanced at him, grateful. With Varishan behind him, the numbers were even.

  “Rephanin?”

  The magelord, who had held aloof, stood looking mildly amused. “I am not a member of Clan Greenglen. This is not my quarrel.”

  “You are a member of the governor’s council.”

  “Which I believe gives me the right to abstain.” Rephanin glanced at Jharan, then stepped backward.

  For a brief moment Jharan considered yielding his claim, ending the conflict by giving Giradon his wish, but his heart told him that would be the wrong choice. Too many folk were already depending on him, looking to him for the future.

  Giradon now turned his gaze upon Jharan, glaring. Jharan’s muscles tensed, and he had to stop himself from reaching for his knife. Giradon’s posture and the hint of his khi that Jharan could sense told him of an imminent attack, but it would be verbal, not physical.

  “No guardian has ever become governor of Southfæld.”

  Jharan raised his chin. “Turon was a guardian.”

  “Turon had a guardian’s training, but he was also a member of the court for half a century before he became governor. No one who has not had decades of experience at court has ever done so.” Giradon’s face betrayed his contempt, as did the cold tenor of his voice. “You wish for the benefit of the doubt, but that is not something Southfæld can afford. We need a governor who can respond swiftly and expertly. It is not a skill that can be learned in the doing.”

  Jharan was about to reply when a small, strangled sound drew his notice. He glanced to his left and among the faces of the advisors saw Lady Ohlani pale and wide-eyed.

  In two strides he was at her side, catching her as she crumpled. Her face contorted with pain.

  “Aliari!”

  The healer hastened to him as he gently lowered Ohlani to the floor, supporting her. She clutched his hand.

  Excited murmurs surrounded them; Jharan ignored them. He looked to Aliari.

  “Her child?”

  Aliari held her hands over Ohlani’s belly, nodding. Her brows drew together in a frown.

  “What do you need?”

  “A quiet place.”

  Jharan looked up and found Surani standing near. “Is there a smaller chamber nearby?”

  Surani nodded. Jharan gathered Ohlani gently in his arms and stood. She made a small, unhappy sound that tore his heart.

  “I have you. Do not fear.”

  Surani led him out of the hall, through a door into a smaller room that contained a couch as well as a number of chairs. Jharan carefully laid Ohlani on the couch, then yielded place to Aliari. He turned to Surani, speaking quietly.

  “Her kin should be summoned. Is her partner in Hallowhall?”

  “In the city. I will send for him.”

  “And give Aliari anything she needs.” He paused, suddenly aware that he was giving orders as if he were in command. He met Surani’s gaze. “Forgive me. Perhaps it is not my place to make such demands.”

  A small smile curved her lips. “It is as far as I am concerned.”

  The door opened and Felisan looked in. “Do you need help?”

  Aliari glanced up impatiently. “What we need most is privacy.”

  Jharan started toward the door, pausing to speak softly to Surani. “What is her partner’s name? I will ask Shilonan to send for him.”

  Surani nodded approval. “Regolan.”

  “Please stay and assist Lady Aliari.”

  He joined Felisan, glancing back to see Surani watching him. He smiled briefly, then went out.

  As he closed the door behind him, conversation in the hall ceased and all its occupants turned to stare at him. He drew himself up.

  “Lady Aliari is tending to Lady Ohlani. Lord Shilonan, would you please send for her partner, Regolan?”

  Shilonan bowed. “At once, my lord.”

  Jharan watched him leave the hall, wondering if his words had been intended to remind the others of Jharan’s claim. At this point, he cared less for that than for the well-being of Lady Ohlani.

  Felisan looked around the chamber, his expression mild. “Where were we? Something about responding swiftly . . . ?”

  One or two of the advisors stifled laughter. Eyes turned toward Giradon, who stood reddening.

  Jharan spoke quietly. “I think we should postpone further discussion until Lady Ohlani is recovered.”

  “Your pardon, Lord Jharan, but I disagree.”

  Jharan looked at Kimoren, the Warden of Learning, and felt a jolt of dismay. With Surani, Aliari, Ohlani and Shilonan all absent, his supporters were in the minority. Even if Lathranan arrived, it would be so. He glanced at Felisan, heart sinking.

  Kimoren continued. “I have seen all I need to see. You have my support, Lord Jharan.”

  Giradon took an angry step toward him. “You pledged your support to me!”

  “I pledged to put forward your name, and I did so. Now that I know more of Lord Jharan, I think him well-suited to govern.”

  Kimoren stepped beside Jharan and turned to face Giradon. Phimori crossed to join him, not troubling to pronounce her defiance. Davion, with one apprehensive glance toward Giradon, followed. Rephanin, who had been lounging near a table of wine, strolled forward and with a wry smile joined Jharan’s supporters.

  The Keeper of Lore fumed, no longer hiding his rage. “I will not forget this betrayal!”

  He turned and swept out of the hall, the beads on his robe clattering against the polished stone of the floor with his heavy strides. Toshanan cast a glance of loathing toward Jharan and followed, leaving Mithrali alone where Giradon’s line of supporters had stood. She gazed after them, then stepped to the table nearby and picked up a goblet of wine, raising her eyebrows along with the cup.

  “Hail to the governor-elect.”

  She nodded to Jharan. He nodded back as the others repeated the salute, though he was glad he had been wary of her. His stomach was churning; the challenge might be over for now, but Giradon had not given up.

  A commotion from the far end of the hall brought him alert. He could not see the source of the noise, and for a moment thought Giradon had returned, but then Lathranan came round the curve of the wall. Still in riding leathers, he strode forward accompanied by the commanders from Eastfæld and Alpinon.

  “Forgive my coming so late. There was much to be done at Skyruach before I could depart.”

  Relieved, Jharan smiled a welcome as Lathranan walked up to him and clasped his arm. “I am glad to see you.”

  Shilonan returned, taking in the gathering in one glance, and apparently deducing what had occurred. With a gracious smile, he addressed the company.

  “Gentles, the sun has set, and the populace awaits their new governor. Let us proceed to the public circle.”

  Jharan glanced at the steward and spoke quietly. “Did not the Keeper of Lore have a role to play in the investiture?”

  “A role that may be performed by another if need be. Kimoren, would you be willing?”

  “I would be honored.”

  They reached the doors of the hall, and two attendants threw them open. A distant, rhythmic cheering came in. As they passed into the rotunda, all the denizens of Hallowhall standing there—and it seemed to Jharan that there were many more of them than previously—applauded.

  Shilonan guided him toward the palace doors, which stood open. The cheering came from beyond, and Jharan now discerned what the folk were repeating: his name.

  His mouth went dry of a sudden. He glanced past Kimoren to Felisan, who smiled, eyes glinting with amusement.

  Beside the doors, Rinovon an
d Lorovon were waiting, in their hands an elaborate robe and sash of silver-woven cloth adorned with embroidery, crystals, and stones; more ornate even than Giradon’s. Shilonan paused beside the attendants, turning to look expectantly at Jharan. Wincing, Jharan leaned toward him and whispered.

  “Must I?”

  “These are the governor’s robes of state, my lord.”

  Felisan stepped close and murmured so that only he could hear. “You must be grand for tonight, my friend.”

  Feeling overwhelmed, Jharan allowed himself to be dressed in the amazing garments, which were less heavy than they looked. When Rinovon nodded his approval and stepped back, Jharan drew a breath, then proceeded out to the pubic circle.

  A wild cheer broke out as he passed through the palace doors. He walked to the center of the circle along a pathway held open by the Guard—his Guard; his former company and the others of Wohiron’s, swords drawn and held before them. The path ended at the dais, where Wohiron and Kanaron stood side by side. At Jharan’s approach, they raised their swords in salute and stepped aside. Kanaron grinned as Jharan stepped past him.

  On the dais, more guardians flanked a table draped with sage and silver. Upon it rested a large book bound in ornately worked leather, a writing board covered with a blank parchment, and a coronet that Jharan had last seen on Turon’s brow.

  Shilonan picked up the book and opened it to a page marked by a silver ribbon. With a small gesture he indicated Jharan should stand before him.

  Jharan paused to glance around the public circle at the citizens of Glenhallow, a sea of mostly fair-haired folk, all cheering and calling his name. What would have happened to them had the kobalen triumphed at Skyruach? Swallowing, he recalled his pledge to better protect the city, and silently renewed it.

  Shilonan raised his voice to address the populace, and the crowd fell quiet. The Steward began by recalling the events at Skyruach that had brought them here. His words seemed to flow over Jharan, though he tried to pay attention. All the noise and movement, all the khi focused toward him seemed to keep him from thinking, as if he stood beneath a pounding waterfall.

  Turon’s advisors—save for Giradon and Toshanan—had followed him, and now stood ranged upon on the dais, along with Felisan and the commanders from Eastfæld and Alpinon. Jharan glanced up and saw Surani watching him. As their gazes met a tone rang within him, calming him, as if all the distractions no longer mattered. Heartened, he smiled slightly, then returned his attention to Shilonan.

  “Therefore, as Steward of Glenhallow, I recognize Jharan, lately Captain of the Southfæld Guard, by right of nextkin as the head of Clan Greenglen and governor-elect of Southfæld. Lord Jharan, come you here to claim your place?”

  Jharan nodded, then answered in his strongest voice. “I do.”

  “Do you swear to govern justly and wisely, and always to preserve the interests of Southfæld and its people?”

  “I so swear.”

  “Have you a nextkin who is capable and willing to fulfill the duties of governor should you become unable to do so?”

  Jharan glanced toward Lathranan, who nodded. “I have.”

  “Then in the name of Clan Greenglen and all the people of this realm, I proclaim you Governor of Southfæld.”

  Deafening cheers burst forth from the crowd. Jharan felt his heart beating as sharply as it had in the recent battle. Shilonan laid the book on the table and took up the coronet of state, a wide band of silver set with pale green stones, the largest of them the size of a dove’s egg, set in the center.

  Felisan stepped up beside Jharan, holding out his hands. “Your fillet.”

  Jharan started, then carefully removed the fillet made for him by the Metalworkers’ Guild and gave it to his friend. Shilonan brought forward the governor’s coronet and set it upon Jharan’s brow.

  As it settled there, Jharan felt the shiver of khi through the metal and stone—the khi of all who had governed before him—and knew he was not alone. Turon and his predecessors watched over him, as they watched over all Southfæld. He closed his eyes briefly, offering silent thanks, then turned to face the people crowding the public circle.

  Hundreds of them, thousands perhaps, spilling out into the avenues and streets surrounding the circle. His people, and now his responsibility. He no longer dreaded the prospect, though he still stood in awe.

  He raised his hands and they quietened. He called out in the voice he had used on the battlefield.

  “In the name of Turon and all who fell with him, I shall do my best for you, people of Southfæld!”

  The crowd roared approval. Suddenly the air was filled with flowers, flying toward the dais, a rain of fragrance and color.

  Wohiron appeared at Jharan’s side, glaring at the sky-borne tribute. Jharan laughed and caught a bloom that fell toward him—a bright golden honeycup. Feeling a hand on his elbow, he turned to see Shilonan. The steward had to shout to be heard above the cheering.

  “Two last formalities, my lord governor.”

  Jharan’s heart jumped at the use of the title. He nodded and went with Shilonan to the table, where Kimoren stood holding a quill and a pot of ink.

  The blank parchment had been set aside and Jharan now saw that it had been merely a covering, protecting the document beneath. This was a page lightly ornamented with scrollwork, and so imbued with khi that Jharan felt it from two paces away.

  He gazed at it, amazed at what he saw. Beneath a line proclaiming that the signature of Southfæld’s governor lay below were the names of every governor since the founding of the realm.

  The page must be thousands of years old. No wonder it radiated khi! It must require constant work to preserve the ancient parchment.

  Kimoren offered the quill, raising his voice to be heard over the cheering. “Your signature, my lord governor.”

  More than anything that had come to pass so far, this made Jharan feel unworthy. He swallowed, and gestured toward the blank page, indicating he wished to practice upon it. Kimoren nodded and set the ink on the table, holding it in place with his hands.

  Jharan dipped the quill and scribbled on the parchment. The pen skipped and sputtered and he bit back a curse.

  A few more tries and his hand ceased to shake quite so badly. He dipped the pen once more, drew one line to make sure it did not hold too much ink, and moved to the ancient document.

  Perhaps the khi that protected the scroll also steadied his hand. He wrote his name below Turon’s without error, and set down the quill, relieved.

  Shilonan stepped up beside him. The cheering had dissolved into a general noise as some of the crowd began to disperse, though many remained watching as Shilonan gestured to the advisors and raised his voice so that they might hear.

  “Governor Turon’s advisors have now fulfilled all their duty and are free. In Turon’s name I thank them for their service. As Steward of Glenhallow, I pledge my service now to you, Governor Jharan, for the city and for the realm.”

  Jharan felt a flush of pride at hearing himself so named. He nodded. “I accept with gratitude.”

  Smiling, Shilonan gestured toward Hallowhall. “The feast awaits, my lord governor.”

  Feast? Jharan recalled no mention of it, but of course such an occasion would merit a feast. A vague recollection of a conversation about simplicity drifted through his mind, but it did not surprise him that Hallowhall’s notion of simplicity was far more grand than he expected.

  He accompanied Shilonan back along the pathway to the palace, with Felisan at his other side and Wohiron and Kanaron preceding them. As he entered the rotunda he saw that in his brief absence it had been transformed: tables of food stood all around its walls, with a gigantic fountain of flowing wine beneath the center of the dome.

  He had seen such displays before, on public feast days. Indeed, as Shilonan whisked him through the rotunda toward the grand audience hall beyond, people were already crowding in behind them.

  The grand audience chamber, which was nearly as large a
s the rotunda, was also filled with tables of food and wine. As a citizen enjoying such bounty on feast days, Jharan had never given a thought to the enormous effort such preparations must take, but now he was stunned. Surani had organized all this in only one day.

  He glanced around, seeking her, but was interrupted by Shilonan who wished to introduce him to the heads of some of Glenhallow’s lesser guilds. These were followed by other prominent citizens. As he clasped arms again and again, Jharan found himself recalling the previous evening, except that instead of war-weary guardians he was now surrounded by all the folk of Glenhallow who wished for a closer look at him.

  One after another they came, and as he greeted them he gradually became aware that this was no random crowd. Shilonan chose whom he introduced, and a few paces away Kimoren, with the aid of two attendants, was organizing those who came forward to meet the new governor. The space around Jharan, while it seemed crowded, was highly controlled.

  He quickly gave up trying to commit names to memory. Shilonan would help him with those he might need to recall later. For now, his task was much the same as it had been at Skyruach: to meet as many as he could, and reassure them with a smile or a word that Southfæld indeed had a governor.

  Just as he was beginning to feel numb with fatigue, Shilonan turned away to converse with the next person waiting, and Surani came up to Jharan offering a goblet. A heady smell of honey rose from the cup.

  He glanced up at her. “Wine?”

  “A light mead. If you prefer water—“

  “No, no. Thank you, this is just what I need.” Jharan took a swallow and felt it ease his throat, which he now realized had become parched. With a grateful sigh he looked at Surani. “I cannot begin to praise you enough for all this.”

  She smiled a bit wistfully. “We had been preparing for a public celebration, though the event is not what we expected.”

  As she glanced down, Jharan wondered how fond she had been of Turon. Close friends? Mere acquaintances? Regardless, Turon had been of immense importance in her life. Like all of Turon’s advisors, she must feel unsettled.