by Ellyn, Court
Aye, it was time. To move on? Or just to move?
~~~~
Debates degenerated quickly at Bramoran. Two days in, and voices thundered against the ceiling of the Audience Chamber. The airless room seethed with the heat of bodies, the heat of insult. Laral sweated in the corner reserved for Fieran guests and listened, disbelieving, as these men and women who only months before had relied on one another for survival, turned into backbiting enemies.
Factions rallied around candidates, loyalties shifted, factions shattered, rallied around someone else. Spokesmen derided the faults, the weaknesses, the scandals, the illicit behavior of their candidate’s opponents. Real or imagined or vastly exaggerated, didn’t matter.
The insulted party struck back, flinging accusations like mud.
Laral’s ears rang. His heart hurt. He cringed.
Sitting beside him, his sister gazed longingly toward the windows, which had been recently freed of brick and set with shining new panes. It was Ruthan’s first trip to Bramoran in twenty years, when Leshan brought her to keep her safe from rampaging Fierans. She flinched away from the crowds, rabbit-eyed and inundated.
In truth, Laral was surprised she had endured so many tedious hours of the debates. She chose to sit with the Fierans, because Laral was there. Sitting among the Aralorris would have put her in the center of the boiling pot.
Laral was tempted to ask her to See how it would all turn out, but that would be cruel.
The factions agreed on one stipulation only. The candidates must be descendants of Tallon the Unifier. Two centuries ago, Tallon had ended the war between Aralorr and Evaronna, brought them together, made them one. His legacy was worth preserving, and who better to carry on than someone of Tallon’s line?
The obvious choice was Maeret, Lady Vonmora, Lady Lunélion, granddaughter of King Rhorek’s paternal aunt, the Princess Mazél. She was young, but no younger than Valryk when he took the crown. Impressionable? Easily swayed by poor council? Her stony glower caused that accusation to fade quickly.
Rorin, Lord Westport, put himself forward. Bold, vain. Laral was hardly surprised. “You all know me,” he cried over the dissenters. He assumed an orator’s stance. Laral wondered how long he had practiced in front of a mirror to get it right. “Since I was sixteen—sixteen!—I managed a trading empire. Under my father, our ships sailed only as far as the Pearl Islands. But in my care, Evaronna saw trade expand to Mosegi, Ravat, Zimra, and every port between. What our realm needs is someone who can rebuild it from the ashes.”
Seated among the Evaronnans, Kethlyn remained carefully neutral. Aloof. Supporting none, decrying none. Yet, as Rorin sang his own praises, there was a tension in Kethlyn’s face, a thinly masked desire to order his mother’s vassal to sit down and shut up.
Rorin held out a hand. A squire set a thick packet of papers on his palm. “Here I have the papers proving my propinquity to King Tallon.”
Someone on Laral’s left snorted. “He pedigrees himself like a stud horse?” It was Tarsyn poking fun. He and Jaedren sidled into the aisle to sit next to him. The people shuffling aside for them chuckled at the comment. A grin even tempted Ruthan’s mouth.
“Sorry, my lord,” Tarsyn said, realizing others had overheard. “What would I know of pedigrees?”
Laral jostled his shoulder. “Plenty. Mainly that breeding does not guarantee a noble character.”
Across the chamber, Kalla decried Rorin’s claim less discreetly, “Aye, no doubt you do, my lord. And weren’t Tallon’s loins fruitful! To hear us talk, the man populated the whole of the Northwest.” Laughter reverberated. “I know for a fact that my great-grandfather paid some fortunate scribe an exorbitant fee for his ink and his silence. My propinquity as you call it, Rorin, isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. And if most of you are honest, my lords and ladies, you will admit the same.”
Drys alone cheered the candor of his friend. The rest tossed scorn.
Laral turned to his sons. “Why enter the lion’s den?”
“We were bored,” Jaedren said. “All Mum wants to do is play dice or make me sing while that stupid bard plays his lute. And Lesha wants to walk around stupid gardens all day.”
Laral looked to Tarsyn for a less exaggerated version of the torture inflicted on them, but he only nodded in agreement.
“When do we get to vote?” Jaedren asked.
Tarsyn tousled the boy’s all-too-tidy hair. “I told you. You’re Fieran. You don’t get to vote.”
“I’m half Aralorri. I ought to get half a vote.”
“If you stay,” Laral warned, “be silent, and learn how not to behave among your peers.”
The argument galloped ahead. “Forgive me, Rorin.” Maeret stood from her seat. This was the first time she had spoken openly. Scars from an ogre’s claws marred her cheek. Her heavy-lidded eyes pinned the man in his gaudy velvet hat. Indignation flushed her sun-darkened face. Even from here, Laral saw her shaking. Was it nerves or anger? “I for one am loathe to follow a man who shields himself behind his own son.”
Rorin’s haughtiness drained.
“Yes, I witnessed it,” Maeret added. “While the rest of us fought for our lives, right there in that burnt-out hall, you hid. Did you think those mercenaries would stay their hand for a boy? And when we took the field, you, an able-bodied man tended ledgers in the kitchen. Did you accompany us to the Barren Heights? No, you stayed behind, safe inside Tírandon’s walls. And you ask us to seat you on a throne? Blood of Tallon be damned! It is not honorable in you.”
Could he really have done such a thing? Rorin could be a conniving leech, but such actions were beyond Laral’s ability to comprehend.
Maeret’s accusation did not cause ripples among the lower tables alone. Seated in a place of honor near the dais, Lord Éndaran leaned aside to consult with Queen Da’era’s foreign minister. Nearby, in the seating reserved for Leanian guests, Aisley whispered vigorously with Lady Endhal whose girlish face registered shock and horror. Aisley must’ve witnessed Rorin’s cowardice as well.
He would not let his candidacy perish easily. He spat in rage, “Not all of us are as savagely muscled as you, lady. Do not forget! I kept you all fed! I counted our meagre stores. I doled out rations. I listened to your complaints of hunger. And what’s happening out there now?” His finger jabbed toward the windows bright with autumn sun. “Famine. Granaries are empty. Fields, bare. Flocks, decimated. We stand on winter’s threshold. Soon as the snows come, people will begin dying. And what follows famine? Plague. I have the means, the expertise, to ship food and medicine from the sea to the mountains if need be.”
“Aye, and when that crisis is remedied? What then?” asked Eliad. “We can’t exactly un-elect you as it suits us.”
“What other disaster will an opportunist like you use to fatten your coffers?” Kalla’s incredulity was plain.
Drys eased from his chair and climbed up the dais until his head rose above the crowd. “Come, come, my lords. Rhorek had more than one son. What of Eliad?”
“Aye, what of him?” Rorin crowed. “He is his father’s son all right. Two mistresses, no wife, and a bastard to boot. He’d rather drink and brawl with the local goat-herders than govern responsibly.”
“Stop maligning me, you prancing pansy!” Eliad surged to his feet. “As for the rest of you, go fuck yourselves. The law hasn’t changed since yesterday, or haven’t you heard?”
“Laws might be changed,” Drys insisted. “An amendment is all that’s needed, and the appropriate signature.”
“Not your signature, Drys. Keep it up, and those fists of yours won’t make a lick of difference. This bastard refuses to accept any honor that yesterday most of you would’ve scoffed at. Put me on that throne, my father’s throne, yes, and watch me spit on the lot of you.” He stormed from the Audience Chamber before his presence tempted the highborns to embrace hypocrisy.
~~~~
42
Six more unbearable days passed. The weather turned foul. Rai
n streaming down the Audience Chamber’s new windows soon began tapping, clicking, as the temperature plummeted and rain turned to sleet. Elaborate frost sculptures encrusted the glass every morning; it melted quickly as the heat inside the Chamber escalated.
Rorin had been discarded as a possibility. His cries for support clanged like brass bells until he received one cold shoulder too many. Now, he sat and sulked in silence.
Maeret mustered courage enough to put her foot down. She stood before the assembly, wringing her calloused hands. “I’ve given it much thought, and if a better candidate can be found, I’d rather pass. I am young, with much to learn. My hands are full. I hope only to govern well the holdings my parents left me. Thank you. That is all I have to say.”
And so, one by one, every faction surrounding the descendants of Tallon the Unifier had been discounted. A tone of despair, of hopelessness crept into the Chamber. Who to consider now? Would a decision be made before the snows surrendered to another spring? The highborns outside Tallon’s bloodline began to smirk and whisper and conspire.
On this particular day, Laral’s entire family had accompanied him. The sleet made walks in gardens impossible, and the games, music, and libraries had lost their charm. Lesha listened with half an ear as she skimmed a book of poems and pointed out ones she liked to Tarsyn. Ruthan discreetly showed Jaedren how to make a cat’s cradle of red yarn.
Bethyn leaned close to Laral. “Must we stay for months? We have our own people to see to.”
He hated to admit it, but she was right. Almost daily he had received dispatches from Brengarra detailing the disputes between displaced migrants desperate to claim empty houses, shortages of craftsmen to repair the town and the fortress, the successful election of a new mayor, the hiring of new household staff, and on and on. Bethyn had poured over the correspondence, anxious to handle the problems in person but making do with letters.
Besides, Fiera had her own election to undergo. Best get something done at home before that hell ensued.
The Fieran people had clamored for the election to take place weeks ago, but the Lord Regent had not acknowledged the pleas. Deaf to all criticism, Raed was following Arryk’s final orders. The Lord Regent had invited only a handful of royal councilors to witness the letter Arryk had written to him. Laral had not been included; he fought the urge to feel hurt by it. While Arryk’s dying wishes unarguably named Raed Fiera’s temporary ruler, he stoically refused to broadcast the rest.
Laral partly feared that Raed and his councilors weren’t interested in handing over their rule.
There was a second letter waiting to be read. Laral had secured that sealed parchment in a small iron box with two padlocks. He and Drona each possessed a key. With no end of the debates in sight, he doubted that letter would be read any time soon. Staying was pointless. “We’ll pack tonight.”
A spark of excitement brightened Bethyn’s eyes. A rare thing anymore. The sight of it stole Laral’s breath.
He heard his name, a whispered undercurrent, and spied surreptitious glances darting his direction. Drys climbed the dais and opened his big mouth again. “I propose we consider the merits of my dear friend Laral.”
The cat’s cradle was instantly forgotten. Jaedren bounced in his chair and tossed up a hand.
Bethyn gasped, clasped his wrist, and lowered his exuberant vote into her lap.
Laral chuckled dryly and stood. “My lords and ladies, discuss my merits, whatever they may be. But I refuse.”
“Aw, Da.” Jaedren’s whine elicited a round of laughter.
“Sorry, son.” Laral spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m Fieran.”
Heads shook. Hands waved down the excuse. His loudmouth friend most strident of all.
Laral leveled a truculent glare. “Drys, I’ll deal with you later.”
More laughter as Drys’s face flushed tomato red.
“Yes, I’ve thrown my lot in with the good people south of the river. When I found myself banished from my father’s threshold, Fiera was kind enough to take me in. Therefore, no. No, no, no, for my family’s sake, no.”
He glanced at Ruthan, raised eyebrows conveying a query. She understood what he was asking and nodded him to continue. Each night after supper, Laral and his family had discussed the matter. Only, he never expected the opportunity to lay it before the council, and was astonished no one else had mentioned it first. “While I have the floor, Lady Tírandon would like to make a proposal of her own.”
A rustle of curiosity.
“There is only one man who fits the bill,” Laral said, speaking for his sister. “Were he present, he would likely shut my mouth for me.”
“I’ll shut it for you,” Kethlyn snarled.
Laral raised a hand, making a show of ignoring the outburst. “You fought beside him, taking his orders on faith, and you were rewarded with victory. With grace and tolerance, he secured alliances between former enemies—not just between Aralorri and Fieran, but between human and Elari.”
A young man wearing Helwende’s gaudy yellow X across his surcoat countered, “Is that not something to give concern? I like Kelyn, sure, but he’s the War Commander. Can he be effective as a peacetime ruler?”
“Lord, er…?”
“Gheryn,” the youth said.
“You like Kelyn?” Laral asked him. “Then you must know him as a reluctant warrior. As was his father. As was King Rhorek. These men of outstanding character reared him. You all know his virtues, I need not name them. And, if it matters so much to you, remember that with Kelyn, Tallon’s dynasty continues.”
Kethlyn slunk down in his chair, as if he longed to melt away into the floor.
Rorin could no longer be silent. “No, no, no. Kelyn is not of Tallon’s line. As far as I know, his family has never made such a claim.”
“Kelyn is not, true, but through Her Grace, his children are.”
“And what of those children?” Rorin cried. “Would we put a criminal on the throne? Or a mind-reading, fire-flinging avedra?”
“That avedra waded into our blood and guts,” Laral retorted, “selflessly mending our wounds, keeping us alive, and you dare speak ill of her now? And what of Kethlyn? You think a man cannot learn from his mistakes and be the wiser for it?”
“Do not forget why we call Her Grace’s son ‘Revenant’,” Rorin persisted. “It is not a name of honor, as is Swiftblade.” Had Lord Westport no fear, no foresight, no wisdom that he would sing so spitefully of his future duke’s past?
Kethlyn glared at Rorin until the man subsided. Then with forced calm he addressed Laral, “You were generous to speak up for me during my trial and see me pardoned, but—”
“It was not men who pardoned you, but the Goddess herself.” Laral let that hang in the stifling air.
Rorin damn near choked.
~~~~
With the first snow came hunger. Ilswythe’s granaries were woefully bare. In town, the mill’s cellars and cottages’ larders had been emptied, too, if not torched. Complaints about robberies and highwaymen made their way up the hill to Kelyn’s doorstep. He might’ve convened the hearings in the Great Hall, but he was desperate for fresh air.
The man ushered into the courtyard was hardly a highwayman. He wore a thin summer coat, a ragged cap, no gloves, though snow sifted down around them. He hung his head, ashamed. Behind him, a woman looked between him and Kelyn with terrified liquid eyes. The babe on her hip wailed, bundled in a ratty woolen blanket.
Nearby the plaintiff glared accusation. His hand clutched a rope, and on the end of the rope a sheep chewed cud sleepily.
“Them dwarves what took us in,” the defendant said, a jut of his chin indicating the mountains to the north, “they sent us away with nothing, no food, no woolens.”
“You blame Thyrvael’s dwarves for your actions?” Kelyn asked.
“N-no, m’ lord.”
“We was hungry!” his wife cried.
Her husband waved her to silence. “I thought … I thought I co
uld butcher the beast before anyone found out. I offered to buy the little’n, the runt, but this miser wouldn’t sell it.”
“So you stole my best ewe?” shouted the shepherd.
The thief fell to his knees. “Goddess, please, m’ lord, don’t hang me. My wife, my kids.”
Kelyn turned to the shepherd. “How many sheep do you still have?”
“Only seven, my lord. Them ogres hauled off my flock. Ate, most like.”
“A ram among the ewes?”
“Aye, thank the Mother.”
Kelyn consulted the young footman he’d brought along to record the testimonies. Difficult finding anyone among the new household educated enough to scribe adequately. At Kelyn’s order, the youth ran up the steps and into the keep. When he returned, he carried a small coin purse. Kelyn counted out a handful of silver and gave it to the shepherd. “That should more than compensate you until your flocks recover.” To the thief, he said, “Take the sheep, but tomorrow report to garrison duty.”
The man looked both relieved and stricken at once. “But I ain’t no soldier.”
Kelyn restrained the urge to snarl. The man was a soldier, all right. There wasn’t an able-bodied man who wasn’t required to fill a place among the militia when his lord summoned them. But this cottar had fled with the women and children. “Do you prefer an honest wage or a noose?”
The thief gulped.
His wife grabbed the sheep’s leash from the shepherd and tugged her husband’s sleeve. “He’ll be here. Prompt as you ever seen.”
Don’t force me to hang you, Kelyn thought, watching them rush out the gate with their second chance. If he was any judge, this was merely the first such case he’d oversee in the coming months. The idea exhausted him.
He tugged the fox-fur collar of his cloak tighter about his shoulders. Good Goddess, he felt like hell. He was sure the shepherd had seen his hand shaking as he passed off the coin. Only four days since Rhoslyn has smashed the sintha bottle and hidden the keys to the wine cellar. He’d spent two of those days in bed, wishing he could die. But yesterday he’d forced himself to get dressed and prove to Rhoslyn that he could function throughout winter without her. Today he felt halfway human again.