Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  If Welgray was surprised to see Arriola seated beside Lord Vasu Olistry, he was even more surprised to see the latter near Arriola. The old lord had many times voiced his opinion of the ruler of the Coastlands as vein and cruel, and Olistry despised him for it. Though Lord Vasu could hardly convince any of the other lords to see wrong in Arriola, it didn’t stop him from trying; he rumoured on and machinated against him endlessly, to no avail. Olistry was tall with thick, brown hair; he was unattached at middle age, but was rumoured to have fathered multiple bastards, not all consensually.

  Next to the so-called “Dictator of the Coastlands” (so named by Arriola) sat the ruler of the Foothills, Lady Noaelka Minore. With hair nearly white, the Lady of the Mountains was as much an enigma to Welgray as his order was to her in who’s realm it stood. Socially well-regarded, fair and even-handed, and a lover of art, she was well thought of by her subjects, but they also feared to oppose her for reasons he was unable to determine. She was single, supposedly, but there was a rumour that she was secretly connected to some mysterious king of a far-off northern realm. She had no children. She disappeared for moons at a time, usually in summer. All in all, a frustration for Welgray in attempting to learn about; he was tempted, now in her presence, to simply talk to her, though he doubted Llory would approve.

  The final member of the Council, excluding Lord Perrile, was the striking Lady Larine Jule-Salvas of the Eastern Plateau and Wellem’s Bluff. Average in height but nothing else, the 27-year-old Eastern Princess, as she was known to her people, was charming, kind, and generous, despite ruling the poorest province in the Lands. She had dazzlingly swirled light brown hair, emerald eyes, and a robust figure; her arms were larger than Welgray’s by half again, and her breasts appeared ever about to burst free. Somehow she maintained an angelic reputation, despite being well known to dally with multiple men at any one time. There were songs written about the woman, proclaiming her a goddess among mortals!

  Her only weak point seemed to be in relations with the other members of the Council. Other than Arriola, she was spoken of with neutrality at best by the men, and openly despised by both Lady Carissa—who called her a trollop and in turn was named a prude, suggesting a hidden conflict in their mutual past—and Lady Minore, to whom Larine simply didn’t speak at all. Welgray had dug for reasons for the latter apathy, but the mysterious nature of the northern lady, combined with the closed-mouth address of the eastern, made it impossible to uncover any information.

  Once all had taken their places and nodded their assent for her to proceed, the former Chamber Seat of the Spire of Rising stood and strolled slowly to the towering chamber’s hub, her brow furrowed in thought. The silence stretched over a hundred heartbeats, during which Llory cleared her throat twice and sighed three times. Intimidation was, of course, impossible when dealing with lords, who technically had authority over a Collector outside the grounds of the spire, but the air seemed so thick with her twisting that Welgray imagined he could almost see it. She had not revealed her plan to him; he would witness it as credulously as would the Lords’ Council.

  When she finally spoke her voice was, unexpectedly, meek.

  “Lords and ladies, protectors of this realm,” she began, a mixture of despair and fear displayed clearly upon her face, “I must—”

  She bit her lower lip then, squeezing her eyes shut, then dropped to her knees, to Welgray’s utter astonishment. He had never seen Llory embody anything but confidence, and the humility she now showed seemed completely out of place, as if she was an entirely different person.

  “I must beg your forgiveness, for I have misled you,” she finally finished, her voice shaking in abject misery at the apparent horror of what she had done. Welgray was impressed; her presentation of The Broken One was quite convincing. But what was she at?

  The room was silent for a long moment; Welgray’s eyes passed over each of the rulers, whose expressions varied from confusion to fury, before finally falling back upon Llory, who remained where she was, kneeling with her head down. Welgray could not help but wonder—had a Collector ever before kneeled in silence before the Lords’ Council? Would one ever again?

  It was old Lord Arriola who finally broke the spell; when he did so, it sounded almost apologetic. “Chamber Seat Llory, your posture unbecomes your station. Please, stand and address us as is your right, and explain yourself?”

  Llory waited a long five-count before raising her eyes to Arriola; when she did, they were red-lined. “This is precisely my crime, Lord Arriola. I no longer sit the Chamber of the Spire.”

  The room’s eruption matched the emotional explosion Welgray felt. Was she mad? The only edge she had was that of representing the Spire! If the Council of Lords had supported her motion, and it resulted in success of her plan, misrepresenting herself would be overlooked—she would be regarded a hero of the order for bringing back the secret of manifesting. Now she had thrown away any chance of support from the Lords’ Council, together with her freedom—hadn’t she? Or was it the first step in a complex array of manipulations she had planned?

  Lady Odvacar and Lord Olistry were both on their feet, the former in shock and the latter in outrage. Welgray’s gaze played across the lords; all were likewise showing a mixture of the two emotions—all except Lady Minore, who was eyeing Llory with a suspicious frown. He was in the process of making a mental note to consider the lady a more formidable opponent than he had thought, when her frown turned on him. There was no hope for it; he had no choice but to hold her eyes. He quickly conjured up The Inquisitor and placed it between them; Minore reacted, but not as much as he would have expected, or liked. She still stared at him long enough to perhaps dismiss him as a conspirator in whatever game she imagined Llory to be at, then shifted her view back to the former Chamber Seat.

  I take it back, Welgray thought to himself, it might not be Arriola that is the toughest nut to crack. He consoled himself, at least, that she had not been able to determine anything from him, if for no other reason than that he truly had no idea what the other Collector in the room was up to.

  Llory still kneeled there, her head sagged in apparent defeat. The Lady Odvacar became aware of herself standing, and looked to the other lords and ladies to gauge their reaction, but Lord Vasu had circled behind her seat and was advancing on Llory, cold rage in his eyes. Lord Arriola spoke his name sharply, but was ignored as the ruler of the Coastlands raised a hand to strike her.

  This sort of confrontation was a simply matter to dissolve; it was one of the first exercises a student of the order learned. It would not do, after all, for a Collector to be beaten by any man brave enough or foolish enough to challenge his authority.

  Llory would not stop him, however; it would undermine her posture. It fell to Welgray to intercept him. He did not stand, but he focused his intention into the The Executioner and projected his voice without raising it.

  “Perhaps,” he said coolly, then stopped. The pause caused Lord Vasu’s gaze to flicker for just a moment in his direction; once he had that, he continued. “the lord of the Coastlands has momentarily forgotten that Llory is still a Collector.”

  Olistry froze at that, his hand still raised. He glared at Welgray, anger still blazing behind his heavy eyes. “A Collector has not the right to call upon the Lords’ Council,” he said slowly through visible teeth.

  “True,” Welgray confirmed, adding no more, but holding the lord’s eyes calmly. The unspoken but lay your hand upon a Collector, and face all our wrath hovered in the air between them.

  Slowly, the fury faded from the Lord Olistry, and his hand lowered. He turned to the others of the Council. “We need not sit here. This one,” he motioned at Llory, her eyes still downcast, “has no right to bring us here, and no right to speak before us.” With the last word, he turned and strode proudly for the exit.

  There was some rustling amongst the others, and Lord Sigvri and Lady Larine both stood hesitantly. Welgray noted that neither Lord Arriola nor Lady Minore had move
d, and the latter was watching Arriola out of the corner of her eye.

  Her focus proved prophetic; Arriola spoke when Olistry was two steps from the archway in the Library wall. “I will be pleased to send you a missive outlining the basics of her confession, if you wish,” he muttered.

  Olistry stopped at the threshold, turned. “Confession?”

  “Of course,” Arriola nodded. “I, for one, would like to hear why the Collector would no longer be a Chamber Seat, in addition to the weighty motivation of why she would deceive us.”

  Several of the others exhibited agreement to that, and Lord Sigvri sat down. Lady Larine stroked her hair thoughtfully before following suit.

  Olistry chewed his lip for a few heartbeats, then strolled back into the chamber as if he had intended to all along. He did not sit, however, but moved to the front of the table he had sat behind, and leaned against the stone surface, folding his arms and stared at where Llory kneel on the tile floor.

  Arriola cleared his throat. “Collector Llory, you have offended this Council with your subterfuge. There should be a justification of exceptional validity. Share it with us,” he said, rolling two fingers before him in a gesture of encouragement.

  Llory’s head slowly came up. Then, glancing back at Welgray as if seeking support (in Welgray’s mind, a brilliant touch), she placed a hand on the ground to aid her in standing. Her legs, perhaps numb from kneeling upon the hard stone for so long (or perhaps not), wobbled slightly as she did so, and she smoothed her robes across her thighs in a gesture similar to that a handmaid might use before addressing her master.

  Welgray was careful not to sabotage her efforts by displaying approval; instead, he left his face flat with a trace of indignation. No Collector, after all, would be pleased to see another of his order so humbled!

  “Lords and ladies,” she began again slowly, seeming to struggle with each word, “I come before you, in . . . defiance of proper protocol, in . . . likely destruction of my own career . . . to warn you.” Gradually, her words seemed to gain confidence and momentum, as if they tumbled from a place outside of her own will. “My own order forbids interference in such matters, but I believe we cannot stand by idly, as our host nation is threatened. It is for this reason I withdrew as Chamber Seat, for the Chamber of the Spire of Rising may only act unanimously, and the other Seats will not support me.”

  Furrowed brows filled the room, but Llory had their attention, as effectively as an actress her audience. Welgray didn’t dare glance at Minore; she might be watching him. Instead, he followed their lead, frowning as if he didn’t know of what this warning might be, that she had surrendered her place as Chamber Seat to bring them. Which, of course, he didn’t.

  “Commander-General Sherzi, ruler of the North Province of Somria, has attacked the Southern Islands,” she said, her eyes wide as if she were shocked by her own words.

  “W’ know this, Collector,” the Lord Roxo replied in a thick accent, but speaking meticulously. No doubt he had been the first to know, his navies often passing back and forth between those islands and his own. “It is for this reason that ne Lord Perrile traveled t’ Somria, ta negotiate with Sherzi.” Others nodded.

  “It was a trap,” Llory said suddenly and earnestly, locking eyes with him. “It was Sherzi’s plan for him to go.”

  Welgray nearly raised an eyebrow, caught himself. His retained his mask, studying the lords and ladies, witnessing as a mixture of confusion and suspicion cross their faces.

  “Explain that statement,” Lord Vasu Olistry said, his voice still potent with hostility.

  “Your Graces,” Llory said slowly, taking a couple of steps toward the exit as if longing to escape their accusatory stares, then turning back to them after a moment. “I wonder if any of you follow the fighting contests at the stadium?”

  “Wrestling,” Lady Larine said. Then when every eye in the room turned on her, she elaborated; “She means wrestling. Of course,” she replied to Llory’s question with a shrug.

  Llory nodded slowly; then paused for a long moment. Drawing back their attention, Welgray realized.

  Finally she took a deep breath, held it for a long, uncomfortable moment, then released it. Welgray could almost swear he heard the lords and ladies exhale with her. “There was a young Somrian wrestler doing very well,” she went on, then she waited.

  “Arad the Somrian,” Lady Larine confirmed. “He was undefeated,” she added, with a hint of pride. Welgray wondered if she was a fan, or perhaps had won substantial sums on his victories. Sporting was a popular pastime among the wealthy elite, and the Lady of the East was a popular social figure. Welgray recalled that a rumour had existed, at one time, connecting her to the champion romantically. He wondered if any truth was attached to it.

  “Yes,” Llory agreed. “He left with Lord Perrile.”

  That drew a long silence. It was Minore who finally broke it. “Why?”

  Llory held her eyes for a long moment before answering. “He is Commander-General Sherzi’s son.”

  An even longer silence, as bewildered expressions appeared around the chamber. Even Welgray expected Llory to elaborate—she didn’t.

  Finally Arriola sighed, shaking his head, and spoke up. “Are you certain? How is this connected to Lord Perrile . . ?” Even as he said it, Welgray saw realization dawning across his face. “Are you suggesting that the wrestler was a spy?”

  Lord Vasu cleared his throat. “Why else would the son of a Somrian Commander-General come to Benn’s Harbour without revealing his identity?” he countered.

  Oh, well done, Welgray marvelled, carefully hiding a smile beneath a show of suspicion. Llory had successfully twisted the hostile Olistry into an ally by appealing to both his suspicious nature and his vanity. Well done, indeed.

  “A champion wrestler was an excellent cover,” Llory agreed. “He was seen entering the apartments of Lord Perrile a few days before the two departed for Somria.”

  “Seen by who?” Lord Vasu asked suspiciously.

  “By one of my contacts.”

  “Spies, you mean,” Olistry corrected, his tone hostile—but Welgray saw a trace of admiration curling his lip. Llory shrugged, but did not respond. The cagey lord would gain further satisfaction from revealing one of a Collector’s many secrets.

  “Why send his son ta get in n’ lord’s good graces?” Lord Sigvri Roxo interrupted. “Why entice Perrile to travel to Somria, if his intent was to conquer our lands?” The lord of the Northern Islands was deep in the exchange now; it not only affected him directly as the protector of the Northern Islands, but was also a point of former dispute between the two lords. When Perrile had claimed rule over the Southern Islands by establishing a formal colony there, Roxo had been noticeably put off; he had been planning to do the same for some time, or so he said. Negotiations between the two lords had been forthcoming, before Somria took action.

  “Precisely for that purpose, my lord,” Llory replied, with the slightest hint of a curtsey. “Once his son worked his way into a position of trust with Lord Perrile—the lord being a fan of sports, repeated meetings would not have been too difficult—Sherzi would launch his attack. Arad would then,” she went on, becoming more animated now as she allowed fervour in her words to be revealed, “be in a position to suggest to Lord Perrile that a misconception had occurred, one which could be resolved in a personal meeting. Perhaps he told the lord that a Somrian ship had been sunk, convincing his father that he was under attack.”

  Arriola bit his lip, released it. “Once Sherzi had Perrile, there would be no one to order a defense of the Southern Islands colony.”

  “He would not need to execute Lord Perrile, or hold him long,” Llory suggested.

  “No,” Lady Minore agreed. Welgray was pleased to see her finally taking the bait, and drawing her own conclusions. Without her support, the other less-confident members of the Council would never tender theirs. “He would be unwise to. Hold him only long enough to secure the island, then release him. It w
ould allow Sherzi to justify his actions as defensive, something he would need to do in order to gain the Overlord’s support.”

  “Or, at least, to have him turn a blind eye,” Llory added cautiously.

  “A blind eye!” Olistry exclaimed. “That would be the far worse of the two. The Overlord could be negotiated with. His lands are far larger than ours; he has little to gain in a direct conflict. But Sherzi, with free reign to—”

  “What do you mean a direct conflict?” asked Lady Carissa, on her feet again, horror etched into her features. “What are you suggesting? That Sherzi might plan to come here?”

  Welgray lowered his head quickly, covering his face with his hand in apparent shock; it was the only way he could cover his expression quickly enough. She has them, he thought, his lips mouthing the words in amazement. He imagined Llory’s next words: Why stop at the Southern Islands when his army outnumbers ours several to one.

  But Llory didn’t speak—she was looking around the room as the lords and ladies stood, one by one, their voices raised in alarm, lashing out as if they blamed each other for failing to see the danger in time.

  She didn’t need to speak. Her task was complete; she needed only watch the Council gather the unspoken details that supported her story. The Southern Islands had been subject to a slaughter. Perrile had been seized for crimes against the nation of Somria. They need only look, and they would find more proof of her tale, he had no doubt. Then they would formulate a response. There could be only one.

  Llory had done it. Welgray shook his head in disbelief and horror.

  She had twisted the Council of Lords, and started a war. All in the name of one girl—from the Lower Valley, of all places.

  31 ARAD

  Arad stood at the rail of the Dissolute, the flagship of his father’s fleet, and watched the Southern Island grow in his view as warm sea spray exploded from the prow and fell upon him in a light mist. The vessel carrying him was nearly fifty paces in length, with forty oarsmen at each rail, two to an oar, all slaves. When he first boarded, he had searched among the oarsmen for any Lordsguard he recognized, but they all seemed to be from west of Somria.