Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  She went into the front room and returned with a small plate of the dainties that had been on the feast tables; meat pies, fanciful cakes, glistening honeyed fruits. Jharan sat up as she handed the plate to him.

  “I will send something more substantial for you, but this will break your fast.”

  “Leave the tray, there is plenty there.”

  “No, it has all gone cold. Never fear, it will not be wasted.”

  He glanced up at her, grinning. “The minstrels.”

  Surani’s cheeks dimpled. “Eat.”

  He picked up a meat pie and bit into it. His hunger roared awake as the crust disintegrated in his mouth, a buttery prelude to the savory filling. He gobbled the pie and picked up another before he recalled that he was in a palace, not in camp. He swallowed to clear his mouth, and smiled.

  “Marvelous.”

  “Thank you. I will tell the cooks you approve.”

  Jharan nodded, already chewing another bite. His stomach growled, demanding more.

  Surani picked up her robe and donned it, combing her fingers through her hair. Mouth full of fruit, Jharan pointed to a table against the wall where a brush and comb lay beside a basin and pitcher. Surani ran the comb through her hair, then found the narrow fillet she had worn the previous evening, and set it on her brow.

  Venturing near the bed, she bent to kiss Jharan’s cheek and gave a small squeak as he caught her around the thighs. He buried his face in her robe, filling his senses with the smell of her, the hum of her khi. She pulled away gently, smiling.

  He wanted to leap after her and pull all her clothes off again. Instead he watched her go through the doorway, listened as she picked up the tray from the table in the outer room and departed.

  Sighing, he set aside the plate. The edge was off his hunger, and he knew he needed to spend what little time remained to him in rest. He lay back, pulling a sheet over himself, and sank into meditation.

  His last rest had been in Turon’s tent, after that first long day. This day had been even longer and, if not quite as unnerving, equally stressful. He let the day’s occurrences slide through his mind, dismissing them to memory, choosing those on which he felt he should act.

  Giradon. Jharan pictured his face, and recalled all he knew of his character. The loremaster’s taste for the grandiose indicated his wish for attention. In his long service at Hallowhall, had he had not realized that the governor’s role was much more than accepting the adulation of the citizenry?

  Even as a mere captain, Jharan knew that being the head of anything—a company, a clan, a realm—was mostly a matter of dealing with tedious problems and details. Giradon was head of the Hall of Lore, which might involve overseeing a handful of clerks, but Jharan doubted there was more authority to it than that. Recording and preserving the details of Southfæld’s history was important work, but would win little admiration.

  Admiration for Giradon, then. How to bring it about?

  It was the smallest spark of an idea, but perhaps it would grow. He let it go for the nonce, sinking deeper into meditation, seeking the stillness that would replenish his khi.

  Surani’s face came to him then. Suddenly he was awash in memory: the smell, the taste of her; the silken smoothness of her skin; the heat of their joining. His pulse quickened and his flesh woke anew with longing.

  Letting her go was harder. By promising himself he would think of her anon, would see her shortly, would take her to his bed again this very night if not sooner, he was able with some effort to clear his thoughts and calm his pulse.

  A deep, wide coolness filled him. He relaxed into it, thinking nothing. No movement, no images to distract. Only peace.

  And a glow. Soft at first, like the gentle wakening of day. Something new; he waited to see what it would be, alert to danger as only a guardian could be, but sensing none.

  The glow rose all around him, then moved before him and took shape, gradually resolving into a form. An ælven. Male. Still glowing, it took on clarity until Jharan recognized the face, and with that recognition felt a shiver of awe.

  Turon.

  The governor stood in his battle-worn leathers, the last garb he had worn in life. The glow of khi surrounded him, radiating from his form. He gazed at Jharan with a face both stern and gentle.

  You have done well.

  Stunned, Jharan stared. You honor me. I cannot approach your accomplishments.

  Turon smiled. You have scarce begun, and you have time.

  I am unprepared. It will take me time just to learn my role.

  You know it better than you think. In flesh, we cannot remember the plan of our lives. Trust that you are on the right path, and know that we in spirit support you.

  Jharan felt a lump rise in his throat, and by it became aware once more of his flesh. He swallowed.

  I shall strive to merit your faith in me.

  Remember to nurture your soul as well as the realm. That which gives you the most joy will lead to your greatest achievements.

  Turon’s form began to lose clarity, returning to the shapeless glow whence it had come. Jharan’s heart sank, feeling the loss of him anew. He should ask questions—there were many, but he could not grasp hold of one—and the opportunity was fading.

  Giradon!

  Trust.

  Gone.

  Jharan inhaled sharply, then sat up, his limbs still heavy. He rubbed at his face, trying to set Turon’s words in his memory.

  Visits from spirit were rare, and communication even rarer; each word could hold deep importance. Only once before had he been visited thus, by a comrade recently slain, who had come to warn his patrol of danger from the kobalen pack who had killed her. He owed his life to that visit.

  A sound in the outer chamber startled him. With a stab of panic he realized he was unarmed—his dagger was on the table in that room—then Rinovon stepped through the doorway, carrying a pitcher and fresh silks draped over his arm.

  “Good morning. Forgive my disturbing you so early.”

  Jharan sighed. He was in Hallowhall, not in a camp surrounded by kobalen. He managed a smile.

  “I am sure a long list of duties awaits me.”

  Rinovon smiled back as he set the pitcher by the basin. “That will be so most days.”

  The attendant laid out the silk undertunic and legs on the foot of Jharan’s rather tousled bed, then picked up the discarded clothing from the floor. Jharan felt a pang for the elegant robe, which he had tossed aside without thought. Remembering why brought heat to his loins, and he hastily arose and went to the basin to splash water on his face.

  “Your breakfast should arrive shortly. May I bring you anything in the meantime? Tea?”

  “Tea.” Jharan nodded vigorously, then rubbed his face with the drying cloth Rinovon handed him. “Thank you. Will Shilonan be joining me?”

  “Unless you prefer him to wait.”

  “No, no. No reason to delay.”

  Rinovon picked up the pitcher from the previous evening and carried it away along with the clothes. Jharan soaked the cloth in hot water from the new pitcher, and used it to wash where he most needed it. He found another dry cloth on a shelf beneath the basin. By the time he had donned the fresh silks, Rinovon had returned with a new robe.

  This was of fleececod, soft and light, palest sage with embroidery of darker sage and silver. Jharan let Rinovon help him into it and smoothed the sleeves over the silk.

  “Comfortable. This is also from the Weavers’ Hall?”

  “Yes. I am asked to convey with it Lady Ohlani’s thanks for your quick action yestereve.”

  “Ah, yes. I must visit her, when she is ready.”

  Jharan reached for the comb, but Rinovon had already picked it up. Biting back impatience, he let the attendant comb out his hair and braid it, then set the fillet given him by the Metalworkers’ Guild upon his brow.

  Remembering that gift and the swiftness with which it had been made for him, he was humbled, and grateful anew. Also relieved that h
e would not be expected to wear anything heavier.

  He went out to the front room, where Lorovon was placing a tray bearing a small ewer and one cup on the table. The attendant looked up and smiled.

  “Good morning. Shall I pour for you?”

  “Thank you.”

  Jharan sat beside the hearth, where a single candle burned, and sighed. He was not weary, exactly, but his heart was full and he needed to reflect further on Turon’s visit. He sipped the tea Lorovon gave him, ignoring the attendants as they moved quietly about the rooms.

  They must know that Surani had stayed the night. Perhaps all of Hallowhall knew. Did it matter? For his part he cared little, but he did not want Surani to suffer any embarrassment.

  So strange, to have so many people interested in his private habits. He had nothing to regret, but he might tire of being an object of curiosity. He would endure it for now, for the sake of his duties. Turon’s visit had made him more determined than ever to see Southfæld recovered from this war, and to follow through on the pledge he had made to himself. Glenhallow would never again stand in danger of a kobalen invasion.

  Shilonan arrived as he was musing, followed almost at once by two attendants bearing trays of food and a third with a larger ewer of tea and cups. As the food was being laid out, Jharan drew Shilonan toward the hearth.

  “Lathranan. I want to see him.”

  “I believe he intended to return to Skyruach today, but I can send to see if he has left.”

  Jharan shook his head. “No, it is not urgent. I will make a note of what I wish to say to him.”

  Lorovon stepped up and handed him a small writing board with several sheets of parchment bound to it, and a stylus. Jharan glanced up in surprise.

  “Thank you.”

  Lorovon smiled as he withdrew. Beyond him, Jharan saw that the table was laid. The food was more sensible than sumptuous: baked eggs, good bread and butter, mushrooms and peppers still simmering in an iron pot, and a bowl of fresh fruit. Sending silent thanks to Surani, Jharan invited Shilonan to partake while he paused to make notes to himself on the writing board.

  He wished to ask Lathranan’s opinion on how best to strengthen Glenhallow’s defenses. The mountains to the west were steep, without passes nearby, so kobalen were unlikely to attack from that direction, but from the east the city was vulnerable. Jharan was considering surrounding it with a wall too high for kobalen to climb, that could be guarded by archers at need. He might also build something at Skyruach—an outpost, to be held by the Guard—as an early obstacle to any enemy approaching from the north.

  He looked at his scrawled notes, realizing that to put them into effect would require the work of hundreds. He would not have dreamed of making such plans a few days since.

  Setting aside the writing board, he accepted more tea and filled a plate for himself. Shilonan held out his cup to Lorovon and smiled at Jharan.

  “I hope you rested well.”

  Jharan kept his eyes on the table as he selected a mushroom. “Quite well, thank you, though a bit longer would have been pleasant.” He ate the mushroom, hot and savory with thyme and pepper.

  “You were late at the feast, which was my doing. I apologize.”

  “No, you were right. Important to meet as many as possible. What are your plans for me today?”

  Shilonan took a rolled page from his sleeve and laid it on the table, weighting it with his cup. “An audience to accept gifts from the city’s guilds and clans—”

  “Oh, spirits!”

  “It is a formality. You will receive a great many gifts from well-wishers; in fact they are already accumulating. But the guilds and clans will make formal presentations. It is customary.”

  Jharan nodded. “This afternoon, perhaps?”

  “Very well. You should also meet with your circle of advisors—yesterday you met with Turon’s, but henceforth you choose your own.”

  “They will be many of the same, for now. In fact, for today, let them be all the same.”

  Shilonan’s brow creased in a slight frown. Jharan took a plum from the bowl.

  “Before I meet with the circle, I would like to meet privately with Giradon.”

  The steward’s silence made him look up. Shilonan gazed at him as if convinced he was suddenly mad. Jharan swallowed a bite of plum and licked the juice from his lips.

  “I think our Keeper of Lore might be better content with his post if a little more acclaim attached to it. I would invite you to join us, but I think he will be more comfortable seeing me alone.”

  “What do you intend to say to him?”

  “Ask him to remain in the circle, and to prepare a brief history of recent events.”

  “And you think this will make him content?”

  Jharan smiled. “Let me try. If he refuses, so be it.”

  Shilonan raised his brows, but made no further comment. He continued with his list, and as Jharan listened he realized it would not be possible to do everything in one day.

  “Which of these tasks do you consider most important? Beyond the audience and the circle—those are certain for today.”

  Shilonan perused the list. “The formal ceremony honoring the dead from Skyruach.”

  “Not until we have their names. Let us begin planning it, but before we hold it I want Lathranan’s report. Every name of the fallen should be read aloud at the ceremony.”

  “That would take most of a day!”

  “So be it.” Jharan sipped his tea, watching the steward. “For today, I will post banners of mourning in the public circle.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Shilonan nodded. “That will do.”

  He made a note on his list. Jharan drained his tea and Lorovon was at his elbow at once, filling the cup again.

  “I would like to visit Lady Ohlani, if she is sufficiently recovered.”

  Shilonan wrote, nodding. “I will inquire.”

  “The receiving of gifts—that need not be another feast, need it?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then I would like to dine privately with the close kindred of Turon and his successors who fell at Skyruach.”

  Shilonan looked up at him, setting down his pen. “There will be twenty or more.”

  “I know. I have met some of them, but not all. Perfectly understandable that they did not wish to brave the crowds last night, but I would like the chance to speak with them. I want them to know I have taken this role in honor of their kin—of all seven successors—as well as Turon.”

  Shilonan nodded slowly. “A gracious intention. I think a dinner can be arranged.”

  “The burden will fall largely upon Surani. I will speak to her if you wish.”

  A corner of the steward’s mouth rose as he made another notation. “I doubt she will find it a burden. What else?”

  “I would like an hour in the Fountain Court, alone or with Felisan.”

  Shilonan smiled. “Turon walked there most afternoons.”

  “I can see why. Beyond that, you may fill my day as you see fit.”

  “I will summon the circle for midmorning. Do you wish to see Giradon right away?”

  Jharan looked at his plate, which he had emptied save for a crust of bread. He ate it, nodding.

  “Where will you receive him?”

  Jharan frowned. He did not wish to bring Giradon here, to these rooms, which were his only haven at the moment. Nor did he wish to seek out the Keeper of Lore in his own domain.

  “May I suggest the summer parlor? It is part of the governor’s public chambers, but is itself a small and private room.”

  Jharan nodded, relieved. “That sounds perfect, if it is available.”

  “The public chambers are ready for your use. The furnishings there were gifts to the realm, not to the governor himself. Shall I take you there?”

  A soft sound drew Jharan’s attention; Lorovon, stepping forward. Jharan smiled.

  “I think I can find the way. Please ask Giradon to join me there.”

  “
Very well.” Shilonan stood. “I will first speak to Surani about the dinner. That should allow you to settle yourself in the summer parlor.”

  Jharan rose, offering his arm. “Thank you, Shilonan.”

  Looking mildly amused, the steward clasped his arm. “You need not thank me.”

  “Ah, but I am grateful. Enjoy it, before I become accustomed and begin to take you for granted.”

  Smile widening, Shilonan departed. Jharan paused, feeling suddenly alone. He missed Felisan, who was no doubt still at rest. He missed Surani. He wanted the comfort of friends, instead of the meeting he had requested with the one soul in Glenhallow who was possibly his worst enemy.

  He glanced at Lorovon, who waited patiently, watching. Jharan picked up the writing board with his notes—his dreams.

  “To the summer parlor, then.”

  Lorovon led him out past the ever-present guardians, and down to the lower arcade. The mist from the fountains smelled of cool water and greenery, reminding him of patrolling in the mountains. Birds arguing in the garden added to the impression. With his thoughts in the mountains, Jharan followed Lorovon into a vast, open chamber that looked over the arcade.

  “This is the waiting hall. It is usually filled with those requesting audience; you will not often see it thus.”

  The attendant led him through the hall and down a short corridor, then turned right into a much longer passage. Doors at intervals in the walls all stood closed. Daylight glowed at the corridor’s end, and as they drew nearer Jharan saw that it came from a tall window overlooking a garden. He was curious to admire the view, but Lorovon opened a door to the left and invited Jharan with a gesture to go in.

  The room was small enough to be intimate, though still larger than Jharan was accustomed to. It was airy and light, with daylight coming in through a wall of south-facing windows. These gave Jharan a chance to see what had caught his interest in the corridor: a small garden, walled, with three fountains dancing in the morning breeze and a stand of greenleaf trees and flowering bushes beyond them.

  “This is lovely. I never knew this was here.”