“His fate was met. My concern is yours. You have suffered the loss of friend and family, and are under much pressure, and face many dangers. All have been difficult to bear. For this, I offer my support and service.”
The right side of Derrick’s nose wrinkled. “Despite my poor manners?”
“I understand the reasons behind your feelings,” Ashincor replied.
“How very gracious of you.” Derrick’s smile held no mirth.
With a deep exhale, Ashincor’s voice lost its earlier force. “Derrick, I am sorry. What you have endured would embitter the most stalwart of men. I confess my failure to anticipate the extent to which your father made you hate me.”
“I did not need him for that,” Derrick spat, though his gaze was unsteady.
“Your father deceived you in many ways,” Ashincor said, shaking his head. “Forgive me my foolish assumption that after the revelations stemming from his trial, you would hold much of what he told you with at least some suspicion.” Dismiss this misguided sentiment for who you thought your father was, Derrick, Ashincor thought, lest this blind spot of yours grows.
“So now that my father is gone,” Derrick began, filling the momentary silence, “you have decided to patch things up with me?”
“I decided to see if there was anything between us that was worth an attempt,” Ashincor replied wearily. “I knew it would take time, but I also knew there had to be a starting point. Absent that, there is nothing.”
“You should be careful,” Derrick warned, distrustful of the old man’s change in tone. “Attracting the notice of a ruler, and then alienating him, can be unwise.”
“I have done it before,” Ashincor replied calmly. “My Order could have sent me anywhere in the Imperium. You and your mother were why I stayed on Legan. If I have indeed lost you as well, there is no reason for me to stay here now.”
Derrick stood up and looked his grandfather straight in the eyes. “Then I suggest you start packing.” His voice was faint, but firm.
“As you wish,” Ashincor replied. Turning, he made his way to the door and stopped. “I do not know if you are aware, but Patér Orqué is on leave, visiting family. My official reason for being here is to temporarily assume his House Security duties. If the knowledge of my presence causes you discomfort, you can free me of the burden of this service.”
“I do not care enough to intervene in such matters,” Derrick said in dismissal. “Go through your own channels if you do not like your assignments.”
Ashincor nodded. “Just remember, Derrick,” he said, “you are not the only one your father caused pain.” He withdrew without waiting for a reply.
Alone again, Derrick put out his hand and leaned against his chair. Slowly, on their own volition, the images of an old memory replayed in his thoughts.
“There is Grandpa!” Derrick’s father whispered, crouching next to him and pointing his finger. Derrick turned, thinking his father’s mock excitement was real, and smiling with a young boy’s enthusiasm that needed no prompting. Upon seeing his grandfather, Derrick was ready to run to him, but stopped short in confusion. Ashincor stood as if made of stone, looking beyond his grandson with an expression Derrick could not read at the time. Now, with the benefit of age, Derrick knew what his grandfather’s face had contained: Bridled anger.
“Go on,” Seffan Possór encouraged, keeping a light tone to his voice. The young Derrick looked back at him. Seffan’s smile was broad, if close-lipped. Despite the odd lift of his father’s right brow, Derrick thought he was happy. At that point, Derrick’s mother appeared and whispered something to her husband. Derrick’s father, the newly installed Count-Grandee of Legan, cut her off with an angry silencing gesture. Powerless, his mother lowered her eyes.
“Go see Grandpa!” his father repeated. Derrick turned to his grandfather, who remained standing motionless. Warily, Derrick took two steps forward, catching his grandfather’s attention. Ashincor looked down at him and, after the briefest moment, his expression melted. Still he said nothing.
“Give Grandpa a hug, Derrick!” Seffan laughed before Derrick ran across the courtyard. Ashincor smiled softly at his approach, crouching and extending his arms to receive his grandson’s hug. Derrick did not remember how long he stood there, holding his grandfather as tightly as he could. He released his grip as his grandfather began to stand. Looking up at his grandfather once more, Derrick saw his eyes glisten. It was only as Ashincor bent to kiss the top of his head however that Derrick truly sensed his sorrow.
“Remember me, Derrick,” Ashincor said with his thoughts. “And know that I love you.” With that, Ashincor withdrew and turned away, leaving his grandson in surprise and disbelief. Watching him walk away was Derrick’s last memory of his grandfather. In time, he learned never to expect to see him again. As more time passed, his desire to do so had all but faded.
“Derrick?” the soft voice came from behind him.
His thoughts disrupted, Derrick spun, not immediately registering the sound as emanating from his cousiné, Vialette Carland.
“You were talking, so I waited outside.” Despite having the freedom of the Palace, Vialette cautiously stepped forward. “If you still want to be alone—”
“No, Via,” Derrick said, gentling his voice. “Come in.” He smiled as she entered. He had needed his cousiné’s support following his father’s trial, and she was now one of the few people he felt secure in sharing his thoughts. Her being family only made it better. Despite his duties, and the pain of past tragedies, at that moment, Derrick became determined to end his comparative separation from his more distant relatives, and to make time for what true family he had left.
“So that was your grandfather?” Vialette asked watchfully. Derrick nodded and sat back in his chair. “I haven’t heard about him in years. What did he want?”
“He probably wants his old family lands back,” Derrick mumbled.
“What?” Vialette gasped. Derrick shook his head.
“He no longer matters,” he said. “He chose his path a long time ago.”
- - -
Lilth Morays sat in her audience hall with muted apprehension. The time had come for her and her brother to tip their hand on their plans to overthrow their royal cousiné, Derrick. This meeting had to be played exactly right. Still, Lilth showed nothing of her feelings. To those watching, this was but another audience.
Shifting her large frame within her throne, Lilth held out an empty chalice. Instantly a servant rushed to fill it, allowing the sixty-one-year-old Viscountess to gaze along the young man’s thinly clad body as he poured. Catching her eyes, he looked away bashfully. Glad for the distraction, Lilth looked at him indulgently, noticing the man’s resemblance to her cousiné, Legan’s temporary ruler.
The hair is too short over the eyes, she thought, forgiving the youth’s small defect. Tonight, I suppose, we will see how far that lovely tinge to his skin extends.
“Your Ladyship,” cried the courtmaster, “the embassy from the Church of the New Dawn Believers, Allenford Biam and Lancet Gardet.”
The two men entered with their gaze focused forward. Knowing former Advisor Biam already, the Viscountess noted Lancet Gardet’s confident manner as they stopped before her throne. He was a half-step beyond the recognized point of deference, enough to offend, but still in the bounds of an “inadvertent mistake.” Further, while Biam looked up at her, Gardet lowered his eyes from a point above her head, his head cocked so that he could look down his nose at her. At least he bowed along with Biam, with the Viscountess recognizing her guests with a slow bat of her eyelashes. Still they had to wait until she spoke to them.
“Why do you not use your formal religious titles?” Lilth asked, breaking the silence. Noting her tone, the group of advisors, courtiers and servitors standing about her looked down upon the two NDB messengers with cool indifference.
“We are not as preoccupied with titles as other religious groups are, Your Ladyship,” Gardet replied, flashing her a kn
owing smile. Although not practicing, Lilth, like all of House Possór, was officially a member of the Holy Miran Church.
“As it should be, I suppose,” she commented dryly, “given that every man and manling in your church has one.”
Sensing his companion about to answer the Viscountess’ retort, Biam spoke quickly. “Perhaps, my Lady,” the older man began, in full conciliatory fashion, “you refer to our lack of official credentials for presentation?”
Idly, Lady Morays wondered how long Biam had served as an Advisor before Derrick dismissed him. Frankly, she would have executed him. Not that Biam should be grateful to Derrick. “Then you have no documents from those you represent?” she asked, knowing the answer. Their mission was far from official.
“We do not,” Gardet replied, with a touch of defiance. “But we have full sanction to speak for the One True Church!”
The Viscountess laughed. “You delightfully arrogant little man! I do not doubt your claim. I hear you NDB only shit with the blessing of some general authority from above.” The room laughed at the Viscountess’ joke, the combined ridicule of all echoing within the great hall.
Biam tightly grasped his companion’s arm. “My Lady,” he said, “we do not wish to overtax your time. With your permission, we do have matters to discuss.” He glanced at the servants in the room before adding, “Of a sensitive nature.”
Lilth wondered if Biam’s submissiveness and Gardet’s hostility was meant to confuse her. Was the NDB leadership divided in its regard for her? “Very well,” she breathed, tiring of the exchange. “Proceed.”
Biam cleared his throat. If she did not care what her servants heard, he would not care either. “Visions of a plot to depose the present Lord Legan have come to the True Church, my Lady,” he began. “We of course cannot see the conspirators, but viewing many possible futures, we know them to be highly-placed, and we believe their plan will succeed. More,” the old advisor’s mouth tightened as he said the last, “succeed with the blessing of a branch of House Possór itself.”
Carefully said, Lady Voxny thought. She would have complimented Biam on his speechwriter, but the time had passed for petty sarcasm. They all knew why they were meeting. Biam’s opening was just part of the diplomatic dance.
“You need not impress me with your Church’s ‘all-seeing’ powers,” Lilth replied. “You would not tell me this unless you were sure. But you are not telling me everything. How do you connect the plot to someone within our House?”
“We have spoken to no one about this, my Lady,” said Biam, “if that is your question. But surely at least one well-ranked member of House Possór is a party to this, since someone must sit on the throne.”
“But why come here with this news?” Lilth asked, saying her lines, but not bothering to make her expression convincing. “If there is a threat to Derrick’s crown, should you not go to Pablen Palace?”
“Lord Derrick rejects our embassies,” Biam replied, refusing Derrick his title.
True enough. “But could your conspirators not be the same rebels causing the ongoing unrest in Galleston?” Lilth asked, flavoring her tone with caution, as if she believed this was a possibility. Now she was just playing. How far did the NDB intend to take this first meeting?
“It is our expectation that the coup will be relatively bloodless,” Biam replied, ignoring Lilth’s misdirection. Once again quiet settled over the room.
The NDB wanted more from this meeting than she thought. Lilth glanced at her servants. It was too late to send them away now. “Is that all, Advisor Biam?”
“We also note the emergence of Lord Jordan, including his public effort to raise funds for House Possór’s Imperial fines, his sightings at church services, and media speculation over whether his bachelor days might soon be over. Odd, as he has always been more of a behind-the-scenes player in planetary affairs.”
“You do admit,” the Viscountess began, “that with the loss of so many high-profiled members of House Possór, its public face has—”
“Come off it!” Gardet interrupted. “We know of Jordan’s Consortium deals and his secret membership with the DuCideons. He is your choice for the throne.”
“You should take care in making criminal accusations against my brother,” Lady Voxny warned, “for I know of your church’s dealings.”
“Your Ladyship,” Biam soothed, shooting a sharp glance at his companion, “if I might mention to you the legal bar under the Rule of Falinor—”
“I know the rules of succession within our House!” she snapped. According to some legal scholars, the criminal conviction of Derrick’s father should have precluded Derrick from inheriting any noble titles from him.
“Then with a respect for tradition which Your Ladyship surely shares,” Biam continued, “coupled with a desire for the just administration of the planet Legan, please know that our Church would support any lawful heir to the throne.”
Any lawful, Lilth repeated silently, not the lawful. She stirred in her chair. Biam’s hotheaded partner had moved the conversation just where it needed to go. And she had walked right into it. She would have her chance at the little snot-nosed arrogant bastard later. “The legal precedent you cite was written twelve hundred years ago, and has not been raised since,” she began. “To some it is dead letter, and this sort of talk, tantamount to treason.”
“To others the claim is colorable, as Derrick is yet uncrowned,” Biam replied.
“Your newly beloved church forbids gambling, Biam,” she smiled. “Do you contemplate a Parliamentary election to resolve this matter?” At the risk of Derrick winning and knowing that you had a hand in a conspiracy to unseat him?
“Not if Derrick were still in the running, my Lady,” Biam replied.
“Are you out of your—?” Biam’s companion stopped at a silencing gesture from the former advisor. Lilth’s brow narrowed at the well-played move.
While Biam spoke plainly, his associate’s negative outburst provided the NDB Church political cover. Biam’s desire for a return to power was great for him to risk being denounced and cut loose if this meeting went awry.
“If Jordan is to be your candidate,” Lady Voxny said, “again, why did you come to me? My official position within House Possór is a modest one.”
“But we greatly appreciate your position, my Lady,” Biam replied, “and know that your counsel is generously bestowed upon your brother.”
Lilth almost resumed fencing with Biam when a realization rippled through her psychic awareness. She was at a nexus, a point where her decision could shift the future from one major branch of possibility to another. All would depend on her response, and upon whether she trusted Biam’s words or not. Lilth slowed her breathing as she opened herself to the vision. How should she decide? Down what path lay her best chance for success? Shifting through the possible futures did not take long, but when Lilth returned to herself, she saw Biam and his associate Gardet merely waiting. They had expected this of her.
“You mentioned a plot,” Lilth began, her course clear. “What role in it would you seek? And what promises would you require?”
“A purely subordinate role, Your Ladyship,” Biam replied, openly relieved. “The NDB Church’s only desire is be granted a respected status on Legan.”
“And do you have any specific ideas for Derrick?” she asked.
“We want him kept alive,” said the former advisor, “and hidden away.”
Of course you bastards do, Lilth cursed to herself. You want something to dangle over our heads in case we get out of line. “Why?” she pressed.
“Let us just say, my superiors have an aversion to the spilling of noble blood.”
Sligshit, Lilth thought, her eyes conveying her sentiment. Were they back to dancing again? Lilth was not one to second-guess her vision, especially when it was so clear. It annoyed her though that Biam would still play games, even after it was understood that they had crossed a threshold in their negotiations.
Lilth saw Gardet
shift his weight to his right. The impatient one.
“My Lady,” Biam prompted, sensing his companion’s restlessness.
Lilth gave Gardet a tight smile before turning back to Biam.
“I dare say that you’ll find Lord Derrick’s continued existence a common demand among those of the Brotherhood and the Consortium,” Biam resumed. “They don’t want him killed either.”
Lilth’s anger rose again. Both Biam and Gardet straightened, but remained where they stood. Slowly Lilth eased back in her throne. “Return to me one week whence,” the Viscountess commanded. “You will then have your answer.”
“So long a wait, my Lady?” Biam lifted an eyebrow.
“As you indicated, Advisor Biam, others yet need to be contacted. Everyone in this venture should be in accord.” Though you have clearly already conferred with them. Lilth signaled for the hall’s great doors to be opened, an indication that the audience was over.
“As you wish, my Lady,” Biam replied, bowing deeply. Gardet’s bow was curt. Both men took three steps back, turned and departed.
Lilth scoffed at the impudent way Biam’s junior associate walked. She might have psychically blasted him had she not more pressing matters to consider.
We will need to move quicker than we planned, she thought as the two men neared the doors. The last thing she wanted was for them to have control of Derrick, even if they did end up keeping him comatose for the rest of his life.
When the great doors finally closed, the Viscountess emptied her cup with one draught and held it out to be refilled. All that talk had made her thirsty. As her young server performed his pouring duty, Lilth smiled warmly. This time the youth took her regard cheerfully.
You are such a pretty thing, Lilth commented silently, still holding her pleasant expression. Pity you had to hear of such an ugly plot. When the young man was done, the Viscountess pushed some of his hair back behind his ears and gently patted his face. Such a pity.
- - -
III
Patér Linse walked Pablen’s halls with an air of regal authority, a formidable presence accentuated by the traditional black robe of his Order. Despite his confident look however, his thoughts assailed him with memories and reflections, all darkened with the poison of regret.
Blood of Jackals (Lords of Legan Book 2) Page 3