No longer limited to the techniques of campfire cuisine, the manor's full kitchen yielded the equivalent of a masterpiece to Kir's palate. The dish would have been the showcase at any Empyrean table. The garnishes and detailed presentations were too fine for the little bed trays the dishes were delivered
on—it was unnecessarily falutin. Once the tanadas hit Kir's tongue with her first bite, she didn't care how gussied and fussied it was. She could almost taste Corban's genius like it was an honest ingredient stirred in.
Lyndal, savoring his temporary freedom from the alterlet, provided his usual goofy antics. He had been withholding it for days, and his true spirit had been aching for release. They laughed as they ate, lightened by Lyndal's infectious charm and the atmosphere of triumph in Inagor's reclamation.
Kir had to chuckle at the sight: here they were, hunkered over their kingly epicurean dishes, slurping and chowing with no more finesse than a wolf pack on a cow carcass. Meals were vibrant, talky social events in Hili. This inelegant little feast represented to Kir what it felt like to be surrounded by family. She had never really had that before.
Vittie marched in just as Kir was slurping through a smile. Hands on hips, she scanned over the crowd of chowers, looking seven shades of furious.
“Uncouth, unfit, unbecoming, inexcusable,” Vittie barked. “Where are we, in Her Highness' bedchamber or a hyena pit?”
Everyone seemed frozen in time, glancing up at the menacing warhorse towering over them. Kir wiped her mouth on the back of her bandage, handed her tray to Malacar for holding, then bolted to Vittie's side.
“Taskmistress. Follow me,” Kir said boldly, ignoring the cowering warriors at her feet. She led Vittie to an empty spot beside Ulivall and pointed to the rug. “Sit.”
“I beg your pardon...?” Vittie was appalled.
“Here. Like this. Bend your knees and down you go.” Kir demonstrated a bobbing squat then guided the disagreeable taskmistress down by the shoulders. The attack to Vittie's tender proprieties left her discombobulated. She didn't seem to know which way was up. When she was seated on the floor, Kir fetched one of the remaining trays from Corban's cart. She plopped it in Vittie's empty lap. “Eat with us.”
“Highness! How— This—”
Kir interrupted the protest by shoving a dinner roll into the woman's mouth. Someone gasped, probably envisioning Kir's demise at Vittie's hand.
“This is how we do it under my roof. Formality's past and done, at least in my private company. It's an order, understand? Any objections must be submitted in writing,” Kir said, then thought better of it and added, “to Ulivall.”
She snickered as she traipsed back to her tray. Authority sure was mighty fine when it meant Kir could get her way about things.
Ulivall handed Vittie a pair of tanadas and their hands brushed in the exchange. Vittie was still flustered, but the insult to her sense of propriety seemed to flush away with the redness of her cheeks. Ulivall whispered something that Kir couldn't make out. Vittie nodded firmly in answer. He removed the lid of her tray and she hesitantly began to pick at the meal, as though suspecting it was poisoned. Every eye was parked on her. When the tanadas found Vittie's first bite, the room erupted into chatter and chowing again, like the permission to resume had been given. Ulivall engaged Vittie in a hushed conversation as she ate. Although she never looked comfortable, at least she had loosened her stodginess a trifle.
“You raised His Majesty from boyhood?” Lyndal asked Inagor conversationally.
“I adopted him,” Inagor confirmed. “Vann was always a son to me, in every way that mattered.”
It was a notion that was more than a little familiar to Dimishuans. As slaves, they had a clan system to form familial structure. The Dimishuan idea of family was much more rooted in soul-bonds than in blood-bonds.
“Then, that makes you Kir's waiboshabo-lanaha. Her father-in-law,” Lyndal explained.
“I suppose it does at that. What was the word, again?”
“Waishabo, for short,” Lyndal said. “Less formal, easier to remember.”
Inagor repeated it for commitment to memory.
Kir hadn't really had time to think about it all. As a fellow Guardian, Inagor had been something of an elder brother before, or a much-older cousin, really. Now, his role in her life would be more than a colleague. Ulivall, as Kir's clan patron, also filled a paternal role for her. Corban, even, had felt a bit like a father, perhaps in a different way. Months before, Kir had made the observation that Vann was rolling in fathers. She couldn't help but snort at the realization that she was the one rolling in them now.
By the time she had finished eating, Vittie seemed much more at ease, thanks to Ulivall's engaging conversation, whatever it was about. Vittie seemed anxious to rebuke Kir, but when she approached, she withheld the vitriol that seemed to want to spew. She simply offered humble thanks for the meal. Kir had never seen the woman so unsettled. If their ignoble informality here bothered Vittie, Kir almost couldn't wait to see how the Taskmistress would react to what Hilihar had in store for her.
With bellies and souls tended, everyone dispersed to their duties and Kir and Inagor dressed. Malacar loaned Inagor some of his extras, since they were about the same size. After the fussing and fluffing were done, they made their way out of the suite. The Karmines and Hilians were occupying the manor's apartments and the battalions had set up camp around the perimeter of the grounds for security.
The entire manor was alive with energy as Kir and Inagor made their way through it. The encampment had effectively moved in. No corner was left unpolished. The cobwebs were cleared. The debris and rodent dirt was gone. The new inhabitants had shaken out the dust of abandonment and scrubbed away the fireprint that had soiled the cobbles to soot. The manor's ancient stone backbone and the Arshenholm oak that beamed the rafters cared little for the comings and goings of modern trend. They abided in their grandeur, unconcerned with what expensive Drabackian tapestries should decorate the walls and what exquisite Mercarian rugs should blanket the marble. Superficially, the manor bore no more resemblance to the opulent resort of luxuries that had once attracted wealth and newlywed couples. It may have been dethroned as the King of its lonely mountain, but in its bones, it remembered.
It would be a total and utter shame to leave the manor unmanned again. Kir could not bear to let it fall to ruin in abandonment. She ordered Shanwehl to leave a detachment behind. They were commanded to continue repairs and maintenance, in preparation for the manor's conversion into a central headquarters. The proximity to the river and major central road made it the perfect location to organize communions between the two armies of Aquiline, and it seemed like an appropriate kaiyo-fighting station.
But more, the manor had played a small part in the history of the kingdom. Here a Queen had died and rested in interim interment. Here should be a monument to her memory. Kir made an addendum to the order, requesting the landscaping be tended, and the yellow garden be named Palinora's.
-40-
Betrayal Erased
“Do not judge that poor man too harshly, Toma. Addiction is not the mark of a weak soul. It is the mark of a soul that has endeavored to be strong for too long, and seeks an aid to bolster it. We are all in danger of losing ourselves to our addictions, which come in many forms. Some are obvious, and some we struggle with unawares. Beware passing judgment on shoes you've never worn, little brother. Someday, someone may likewise be judging yours.”
- Lord Sterigen Scilio, Armigal of Hasterfal
Yorlie scratched the stubble that shadowed his chin. He yawned. He scratched again. The thick oak door to his apartment was annoyingly stuck. He had been so caught up in his research work with Shiriah, the Guardian and that Shelfern fellow that it had been weeks since the rusty hinges had groaned a squeaking. They were probably protesting their disuse.
Yorlie preferred his office in the tower over his apartment on Swift Circle. His work was there. His purpose. He rare
ly came home, often choosing to sleep in his robes. The corner behind the bookshelf in his office hid a futon that was quite sufficient when sleeping upright at the desk cricked his neck too much. He had lived in the apartment with his mother until her death some years before, and for her memory, he couldn't bring himself to part with the place, even though it went unoccupied most of the time.
The empty apartment was a reminder of what was lacking in his life. A wife being that. Yorlie had never married, not for lack of want or pursuit. He supposed he was just too intimidating for most women. His brains and looks were so superior that he could not find their match. His standards were probably too high, and women somehow knew that they would not be good enough. It would explain why none of them stayed around for very long. Many of them were two-faced. They lied to end the relationship, proving how little they could be trusted. Yorlie had never once lied to any of them. He was always candid and perfectly honest. What a shame they could not learn from his example. He had dated many times over the years and spent a great deal of money on catalog courtships, to no avail. Scammers. Cons. Greedy opportunists. Yorlie had come to suspect that deceit was natural in all wenches.
All except Shiriah, of course. With Cressiel gone, Shiriah might have been that perfect one. She was still in mourning, which must have accounted for her lack of interest in Yorlie's advances. Time would ease the burden of Cressiel's passing. Shiriah would come around. The Guardian was a kink in that plan, but he was so young. Shiriah had no need of the arms of an infant. Being a child of the Creatives, Scilio's ample charms could provide Shiriah with distraction from her tears. When their tumbling between the sheets became too trite for satisfaction, Shiriah would cast the Guardian aside and return to Yorlie. He was a better match. Her ailing heart would recognize that when the grief had subsided.
The past days had kept Yorlie away from his apartment. Shiriah and the Guardian had employed his aid. They spent most of their waking moments scouring the stacks for any hint of nousect research. The new gent, a Mercarian Master Lawyus named Gavin Shelfern had joined them on the first afternoon. So far the search had been fruitless. After a week of exhaustive combing with only periodic breaks, they had decided to return to their domiciles and take a day to refresh and recuperate. They could start with crisp eyes in the morning.
Yorlie examined the disagreeable hinge and almost gave up before bothering. It would take more effort to walk back to the tower office than to fix the door, so he found the building's custodian to replace the faulty bolt. Yorlie had no gift for mechanology, himself. He was a man of the books, scrolls, prophecies and antiquities. At a young age, he had been recruited by the priesthood to hone his Prophetics, but his calling had been to teach rather than preach. They were two sides of the same coin, really. Yorlie had been more interested in archiving the past than in saving souls.
His affiliation with the Underground might not have been considered typical for one with his gifts. Mechanology and abolition tended to be terms quick to the lips of a more progressive man than one who tottered through dusty bookshelves and taught the History of Ancient Prophetic Texts. Yorlie could not help but admit that it was largely Shiriah's influence in the movement that had conscripted his involvement. He had been a core member of the Underground for many years, maintaining even after he and Cressiel had fallen out.
His initial attraction to the Underground had been largely due to the organization's public front of abolition. The Dimishuan situation had been the main irreconcilable issue that led to Yorlie's parting with the priesthood. The more he had studied and read the old texts, the more he uncovered the secrets being harbored by the priests. Dimishuans were kept under the collar by a ruse. Collaring of slaves was never something Yorlie had been keen about, but until the evidence began to unfold before his research, he had never had the will to openly stand against the institution. Still, he had learned how to keep his mouth shut for his own safety. Even in the classroom, open calls for abolition could land him in a heap of trouble. The Underground was so secretive for just such a reason. The purge had been the result of a carelessness they had gone to so many lengths to avoid.
The Underground's secondary objective, advancement and encouragement of mechanology, was not as dear to Yorlie's heart as abolition. It did seem that mechanology was a positive thing for Septauria. He had seen it do things that magic could not. They could both coexist, bolstering the benefit of the other. And why not? Yorlie was not convinced, as the Keepers were, that mechanology was a threat to magic. He couldn't embrace it as completely as Cressiel did, but then, Cressiel was a bit of a nutter in his obsessions. What Shiriah had seen in the man was completely beyond Yorlie. Women were mysteries that not even the ancient texts could solve.
When the door hinge was fixed and the custodian went on his way, Yorlie made his way into the apartment. It smelled a bit musty and abandoned, as it always did. The dim light didn't bother him. He navigated his way through the sparsely furnished room, tossed his satchel to the table and lit a small Inferno lamp on the wall. The fatigue of nonstop work sagged the skin under his eyes, which he could tell were bloodshot by the sting. He had caught rest here and there as he needed it, but the constant searching was still a strain.
It had been a few days since his last good scrub. He suspected he was beginning to curdle. Yorlie opened the copper mechtech pipes that fed water to the basin. He could never really relax without something in his hand, so when the tub was full, he returned to the parlor to fetch a book. As he reached for one on the top of a stack in the corner, the room took a chill and breeze. The Inferno lamp extinguished on its own, as if blown out by the breath of a specter. The room was dim again, with only a thin stream of light bleeding through the crack of the curtains.
“That's odd. Why is everything breaking on me today?” Yorlie muttered aloud. He moved to inspect the lamp. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it.
“You've been busy lately.”
Yorlie startled and dropped the book at the unexpected voice. He spun on his heel and was met at eye level by the folds of a plum-colored overcloak.
“Blackhood. You scared the sails out of me! What do you mean by this? Barging into my private apartments without invite,” Yorlie barked sourly.
He walked his eyes upward to take in the sight of the unannounced visitor. The man called Blackhood (most certainly a street name, as was commonly used by those in his profession) was tall and narrow like a streetlamp, with angular cheekbones that made triangles of his sharp face.
Blackhood's narrow eyes creased in amusement. He eased backward to allow room between them. “You startle easily, prof. Almost like you have something to hide. Oh, that's right. You do.”
“I don't know what you mean,” Yorlie grumbled.
“Of course not. As it should be.” Blackhood reached into his cloak and pulled a pouch from within. “Your monthly supply.”
Yorlie reached for the pouch. Blackhood's hand pulled back before he could snatch it.
“Payment first.”
“Fine.” Yorlie retrieved a string of lorans from the table and handed it over. The price was steep. He didn't care.
Yorlie couldn't help his addiction. Cashnettar was the most commonly used substance by the prophets because it allowed for much easier access to the beyond. Many a prophecy was delivered in the grip of a cashnettar plunge. The fact that it was rare and expensive made it a treasure to the priesthood, but it also came with a higher price than lorans. Yorlie had developed an addiction some years back that was difficult to appease. He had found a steady supplier in Blackhood for his uncomfortable and costly habit. The one time he had tried to wean from his addiction, the withdrawals were so bad he almost jumped out the tower window to end it.
Blackhood pocketed the string without bothering to count it. He handed over the pouch, followed by a jigger, which he topped off with a thin wine poured from a flask. “To good prophecy.”
Yorlie knocked it back, just as he did every month.
It was a sealing of the deal, of sorts. He had no idea why the dealer insisted on it, but Yorlie rather enjoyed the sweet vintage, so he didn't complain.
Something blurred Yorlie's vision as soon as the liquid trickled down his throat. The room twisted and groaned like thin paints were being swirled around on a canvas of his mind. He was tweaked with a giddiness that was very uncharacteristic of him.
“Now then,” Blackhood began. “Let us commence with the second part of your payment.”
“What was that I drank? It tickles the nose,” Yorlie said.
“You ask it every month, and every month the answer remains the same. Sepsikan potion, to make you a complaisant slave to my every whim. Shall we continue?”
“I like seps. It makes you a funny man,” Yorlie chortled for a reason he had no grasp on.
“If you say so,” Blackhood said indulgently. “Now, onto our work. I witnessed the Magister in your company last week, with a purple-eyed pretty boy. Who is he?”
The urge to respond tugged the answer right out of Yorlie's mouth. “Guardian Scilio. He's Shiriah's new pet.” Yorlie couldn't wait for the next question. Answering was pure bliss! It tweaked something stirring and satisfying in a way that even cashnettar could not provide.
“Guardian? Of what?”
“The Crown Prince. He's right here in White Tower! I wonder if he'll sign my Royal Lineages from the Houses of Loran to Ellesainia book? If he ever comes to his senses, that is.”
Blackhood started like he'd been stung by a wasp. Yorlie couldn't keep the laughter from bursting forth.
“You mean, the kidnapped Crown Prince that King Soventine is seeking? There's a handsome reward out for his rescue.”
“That's the one,” Yorlie agreed.
“Where is he?”
“Shiriah has him under lock and key at Chalice House. We've been wading the stacks, looking for ways to fish his mind back from oblivion. He's in some manner of coma because of the Chaos Bringer. The Guardian's vambrace has been black since the moonless night.”
Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace Page 48