Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  Lorovon glanced up from the hearth, where he had crouched to light a candle. “It is not shown on public days. This area is private to the governor.”

  Jharan nodded. They were at the southern end of Hallowhall, it appeared. Sunlight would fall across the garden later in the day, but would never come in these windows, so the room would always be cool and filled with gentle light. No wonder it was called the summer parlor.

  He turned away from the enchanting view and examined the chamber. In its center stood a round table with four chairs around it. Two other chairs, more comfortable with deep cushions and slung backs, stood beside the hearth, but Jharan chose to sit at the table. He set his writing board down at a seat from which he could see both the door and the windows.

  “Shall I bring you some refreshment?”

  Jharan glanced up at Lorovon. “Yes. Something Giradon enjoys, if the kitchen knows his tastes.”

  Lorovon gave a knowing smile and went out, leaving Jharan alone. He sighed with pleasure at the momentary solitude. No guardians had followed him, nor had any been present in the public chambers.

  Oddly, though he had been frustrated by their presence more than once in the last day, he now began to wish they were here. He had not put on his wrist knife again. His hand went to where he had worn it, even as a tingle of dread moved up his spine.

  Ælven did not attack one another. The Creed forbade such violence. He did not think Giradon was so lost to honor and decency as to make an attempt on his life, but even if he did, Jharan did not doubt his ability to overpower the loremaster.

  He gazed at the fountains, then glanced at his notes. Walls and defense; not a topic he planned to discuss with Giradon. He moved the page beneath the others.

  Giradon would be hostile, yes. Suspicious. But Jharan did not think he would stoop to treachery.

  He heard a sound from out in the corridor; a footstep. Waiting, he listened, but heard no more. No knock came at the door.

  With swift, silent steps he went to the door and opened it. Two guardians now stood outside; they looked at him with startled faces. One was from his old company, which reassured him.

  “Shilonan sent you here?”

  Jharan’s former subordinate grinned. The other bowed.

  “Yes, my lord governor.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  Jharan glanced down the empty corridor, then closed the door and returned to his chair. He picked up the stylus and made a few notes, but in fact he had no sound strategy for appeasing Giradon. Just instinct.

  He put down the stylus and covered his face with his hands. In this palace, which was now to be his home, he did not trust his instincts as well as he had done on the battlefield. Despite the support and assurances of many of Turon’s advisors—indeed, of Turon himself—he still doubted his judgment.

  A quiet knock preceded the opening of the door. Jharan looked up, and his spirits lifted as Surani came in, carrying a tray with tea and a covered plate. He stood and went to greet her.

  “You could have sent someone with this.”

  She set the tray on the table and glanced over her shoulder as the door closed. “I wanted to see you.”

  Joy filled his heart and he took her in his arms, kissing her. After a moment she pulled away. Her cheeks bloomed with color as she uncovered a plate of tiny, elaborate tarts and an array of cheeses.

  “Giradon is partial to these. The tea is a scented blend he also enjoys.”

  “Thank you.”

  She looked up at him. “Shilonan is concerned.”

  “At my meeting with Giradon?”

  “He thinks he should be allowed to recover his temper.”

  Jharan shook his head. “One thing I learned as a captain—grudges do not heal with time. They must be cleared, or they will fester.”

  She gazed at him, searching his face. “He is proud . . .”

  “Yes, and his pride has been wounded. I mean to apply a balm.”

  Her face lit with amusement. “Do you always speak in metaphors of battle?”

  “It has been my life, these two centuries.”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I never thought I would love a guardian.”

  Jharan’s heart skipped, and he had to resist the urge to catch her in his arms again. Instead he dropped a slow and gentle kiss on her brow.

  “Did Shilonan speak to you about the dinner?”

  “Yes. Invitations have been sent out.”

  “I hope you will join me there.”

  She smiled up at him. “Thank you, I would be honored.”

  He gazed into her eyes—glints of honey warmth lighting the brown—and felt a deep contentment rise within him. She made him feel at home, in every way, here in the strangeness of Hallowhall.

  Voices out in the corridor drew his notice. As he glanced toward the door, Surani stepped away to arrange the tea things on the table, then picked up the tray and its cover. A knock at the door was followed by its opening. The guardian less well known to Jharan stepped in.

  “Lord Giradon, Keeper of Lore, awaits your pleasure, my lord governor.”

  “Show him in.”

  Giradon entered, dressed almost as elaborately as he had been the previous evening, and swept a stately bow. Surani slipped out behind him, casting a glance back at Jharan. He watched the door close behind her, then gestured toward the table.

  “Welcome, Lord Giradon. Please join me.”

  Giradon remained where he was, chin rising, voice haughty. “Your pardon, my lord governor, but may I be direct? Do you mean to remove me from my post?”

  Jharan blinked. He had expected defiance, even arrogance, from Giradon, but not the hint of fear he now sensed. Triumph swelled in his bosom, but he resisted it—too early to claim victory. He answered quietly.

  “No. I see no reason to deprive Southfæld of the services of its most knowledgeable historian.” He stepped to the table and lifted the ewer. “Will you not make yourself comfortable? There is tea here.”

  Giradon hesitated, then came and sat opposite Jharan’s chair. Jharan poured tea for them both, the scent of clove and sunfruit rising from the cups. He nudged the plate of savories toward Giradon and took his seat, regarding the loremaster, whose face now wore a mask of neutrality.

  “I asked you here to request a favor of you. No doubt you are in contact with Lathranan regarding the recording of names of those who fell in the battle?”

  Giradon straightened stiffly in his chair. “Lord Lathranan has not yet had time to see me.”

  “Well, he soon will. I want each name to be recorded carefully. They are to be commemorated at the battlefield. I want also something that will require your skill: a history of the battle itself.”

  “It will be entered into the lore of the realm.”

  “I want it told aloud as well.”

  Giradon frowned. “Told aloud?”

  Jharan sipped his tea. “Many in Glenhallow will soon be grieving the loss of their kindred. News from the battlefield is likely to be scant. I want the battle described in a way that will help those who grieve to understand what their loved ones fought and died for—why it was worth the sacrifice. You, with your broader knowledge of our history, can put this battle into perspective for us.”

  Giradon shifted in his chair. “Perhaps so, but I was not present at the battle. I cannot give an accurate description of the fighting.”

  “But you can talk to those who were there, and weave their impressions together into an overall view that our people will understand. Your skill with words will make the picture whole.”

  Giradon took a tart and ate it. Though he did not meet Jharan’s gaze, Jharan sensed he was intrigued.

  Jharan wrapped his hands around his tea cup, warmth seeping into his fingers. “When you are ready, an assembly will be called here in the grand hall. All who wish to hear your account of the battle will be welcome.”

  Giradon looked up in surprise. “A grand assembly?”

  “Yes. If you are
willing to speak before such a crowd.”

  The loremaster waved a hand as if to dismiss such concerns. “I care not for crowds. Besides, not all will choose to attend.”

  “I think a great many will attend, but for those who do not or cannot, perhaps the Scriveners’ Guild can create bound copies of your history. In fact, I would like to commission copies for a number of folk.”

  Giradon gazed at him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “To ensure that this battle is never forgotten—“

  “Why do you offer me this? Yesterday I tried to—“

  “Yesterday is past.”

  Jharan winced inwardly at the harshness of his tone. Captain’s voice, creeping into his demeanor. He must not allow that to happen, not in this world of persuasions and subtle allegiances.

  He spoke again, more gently. “The realm needs your knowledge and your talents, some of which I think have gone underused.”

  “And you trust me not to undermine you?”

  Jharan held Giradon’s gaze. “I do. I have confidence in your honor. You of all folk know the value of honor to the realm.”

  Giradon looked away, down at the table between his hands. Jharan had intended no irony, but he saw belatedly how his words could be interpreted as such. He lifted the ewer and filled Giradon’s cup.

  “Think about this, if you will. You need not decide right away, though I would like the assembly to be held soon, if you choose to do it. You will have a little while to consider before the meeting.”

  “Meeting?”

  “Of my advisors. Oh, perhaps Shilonan did not inform you—the circle is to meet midmorning. You will continue to advise me, I hope?”

  Giradon stared at him, openly astonished. Jharan set down the ewer.

  “Turon valued your advice. That is recommendation enough for me. If you find it too uncomfortable to remain in the circle that is your decision, though I will regret your absence.”

  Giradon looked out the window. All his bluster and grandiloquence had vanished; he seemed confused, and weary. Jharan suddenly recalled their first meeting, in the battle-scarred camp at Skyruach. It had been Giradon and Surani who had come seeking Maronin, and found him instead. Two days and an eternity ago.

  The loremaster stood and bowed. “You have—given me much to think on. If you will pardon me, I will withdraw to consider.”

  “Of course. Thank you for hearing me.”

  Giradon met his gaze, his expression unreadable. He bowed again and left the room. Before the door could close, Felisan strolled in.

  “You are busy early. Least pleasant tasks first?”

  Jharan glanced after Giradon, but the guardians had closed the door. “Have some tea.”

  “Thank you, no. I came only to see if you wanted me today—I may go out riding, if not.”

  “I wish I could join you. Perhaps tomorrow.” Jharan stood and flexed his shoulders, which were stiff. “All I want of you is to be at this morning’s meeting of the circle, assuming you are willing to be named officially among my advisors.”

  “Well, if it is the only way to see you, I must consent.” Felisan picked up a tiny cheese and ate it. “Most excellent. I shall have to visit you often.”

  Jharan smiled, then went to the windows and stood gazing out at the fountains. A sharp breeze caught the spray and buffeted it into the trees, leaving glints of water on their leaves.

  Felisan joined him. “Have you won him over?”

  “Giradon? I cannot tell. I did my best. He has gone away to ponder.”

  “His choice being to accept your very gracious offer of conciliation—what was it, by the way?—or to take a stance of opposition.”

  Jharan shrugged. “I offered him a chance to be widely praised and admired. I could not think of a better approach.”

  “Praised and admired for what?”

  “For recounting the battle of Skyruach with all the art he can bring to it, before a grand assembly.”

  Felisan raised his brows. “It may serve. He does seem to wish for adulation.”

  “I think that is all his wish. I suspect he would find the daily tasks of governing an annoyance.”

  A knocking at the door made them both look up. Felisan grinned.

  “Speaking of which...”

  Jharan returned to the table. “Come.”

  Shilonan entered, eyes rather wide. He closed the door behind him and came forward.

  “What did you say to Giradon? I passed him in the corridor just now. He looked crushed.”

  “Crushed? I hope not.”

  Felisan laughed. “Utterly defeated by your graciousness. He expected brutality from a guardian.”

  “You did not dismiss him as Keeper of Lore?”

  “Far from it. I asked a favor of him in that role.”

  Shilonan glanced toward the corridor. “Well, I do not pretend to understand it, but you seem to have put an end to his ambitions.”

  Jharan smiled. “I doubt that. With luck, I have succeeded in redirecting them.”

  The steward gazed speculatively at him. “I should like to hear more about it anon, but now I have some matters requiring your attention.”

  Felisan strode toward the door, catching up a tartlet as he passed the table. “In that case, I am off to claim a horse for the afternoon. Your circle meeting will not last all day, I trust?”

  Jharan shook his head. “Spirits, I hope not! Will you join me at dinner? I am entertaining the kin of Turon’s unfortunate successors.”

  “I shall have to forego that pleasure. I have already accepted a dinner invitation elsewhere.” Felisan grinned. “The Mistress of Guilds sets a lavish table.”

  “How do you?—oh.” Jharan raised an eyebrow. “Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.”

  “I am certain I shall. A lady of many talents, Mistress Mithrali.”

  Felisan went out, humming a tune that reminded Jharan of the guardian minstrels. He looked to Shilonan, who was gazing after Felisan with a bemused expression.

  “The musicians Felisan brought from Skyruach. I would like them to play at tonight’s dinner. Soothing music rather than boisterous—I believe they can manage that.”

  Shilonan nodded and drew a page from his sleeve. He borrowed Jharan’s stylus to make a note on it, then glanced up. “Acceptances are already arriving. It seems this dinner was a good notion, though I would have thought it too soon.”

  Jharan shook his head. “Never too soon to acknowledge pain. Best to clear it and move on. That reminds me—I hate to be a burden on the Weavers’ Hall, but I will need an unadorned robe for the dinner.”

  “A gracious gesture.” Shilonan made another note.

  “It is no gesture. I am mourning as well, for Maronin.”

  The steward looked up at him sharply. “Forgive me.”

  Jharan dismissed it with a smile and a shake of his head. “You did not know Maronin. I doubt if any here did.”

  “It is all too easy to forget that the governor has also a personal life. My apologies.”

  Jharan felt a shade of warmth creep into his cheeks. “Thank you. Now, what else do you have for me?”

  They sat down together and discussed various matters of governance until an attendant came to summon them to the meeting of the advisors. The folk they passed along the way all bowed; Jharan nodded in return, hoping they would adopt a less formal attitude once they were used to him.

  The council chamber was smaller than the other assembly rooms, its walls curved in a graceful arc which was mirrored by the curved table of whitewood that dominated the room. A large chair, plainly intended for the governor, stood at the center of the outer curve.

  Several of the advisors were already present, and they looked up at Jharan with curious faces. He turned to thank the attendant, but she had already slipped away. Catching sight of Lady Aliari, he moved to join her.

  “How is Lady Ohlani?”

  “Quite well. You did not come to the Healers Hall this morning. Do you mean to come in the after
noon?”

  “Oh—I will have to ask Shilonan if I have time.”

  Aliari smiled. “This is very different from a guardian’s life, I imagine.”

  “Yes, but I shall adjust.”

  He moved among the advisors, greeting them and talking of the investiture and the feast. Those who had at first supported Giradon were hesitant, until he made a point of clasping arms and thanking them for being present.

  The room fell suddenly silent, and Jharan looked up. Giradon had come in, accompanied by Toshanan. The head of the Scriveners wore a frown.

  Summoning a smile, Jharan strode across the chamber, arm extended. “Lord Giradon, Lord Toshanan. Welcome.”

  Neither took his arm. A flutter of foreboding rose in his chest. He turned to Toshanan.

  “Has Giradon told you of my interest in a history of Skyruach?”

  Toshanan stared at him in wrathful silence for a moment, then spoke in a low, trembling voice. “I came only to announce my resignation. I will no longer serve as head of the Scriveners’ Guild.”

  Toshanan turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber. Jharan watched him go.

  “Nor as one of my advisors, I gather.” He looked to Giradon. “And you, Lord Giradon? Are you also dissatisfied?”

  Giradon appeared to choose his words carefully. “Not so dissatisfied as Torashan. I will remain in my post.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps you can recommend another master for the Scriveners’ Guild. I imagine it is important that you work closely with them.”

  Giradon gave a stiff nod. Jharan took a step closer and spoke in a lowered voice.

  “What caused his discontent?”

  Giradon glanced sidelong around the chamber, but the other advisors had kept their distance. “I had promised I would make him my Steward.”

  He looked up warily. Jharan raised his brows.

  “I see. I trust your own disappointment is less acute.”

  “There is much for me to do as Keeper of Lore. Besides, having reflected upon the state of the realm, I do not think I would enjoy the work of recovery that lies before you.”

  Jharan chuckled and held out his arm once more. Still the loremaster hesitated.

  “Meet me halfway, Giradon. I pledge to hear all your concerns.”

  With a small sigh of resignation, Giradon clasped arms. As if this signaled a victory, the other advisors broke into chatter once more.