“I will take Kimsè as well,” the duke added. “That tie may go where it will, and if it discards the line that has held it, that is very well.” He added thoughtfully, “Perhaps in time I will be able to take Enchar as well.”
Kehera Raëhema said quietly, “You are trying to carve out a fifth kingdom, aren’t you? You don’t have any choice now. You intend to make yourself into a king. But—” She hesitated. “You can’t extend your Immanent’s grip far enough to the east. As you reach toward Irekay . . . your Power isn’t quite Great, is it? You can’t actually tear the Irekaïn Power out of any provinces where it’s had a strong hold for a long time.”
“I have no hope of that,” Innisth agreed quietly. “No. I fear that will be impossible. Yet to acquire sufficient land and strength to block Methmeir Irekaì . . . for that I must take more than a handful of these minor provinces of western Pohorir.” It was ironic that he should, for once, wish to ease the pressure of his hand and find himself unable to do so. Ironic, and not pleasant. He found in himself a profound reluctance to break the Raëhema girl’s hard-held calm. Yet the opportunity, once it appeared, must be grasped firmly with both hands. In this one moment, all he had ever desired lay within his reach. It could never be so again if he did not take it now.
But he regretted the distress he must inevitably cause his . . . prisoner. Yes, his prisoner. She had never been truly a guest.
He said, “You will recall that I said, from the first day of your—captivity—here, that I would find some use to make of you.”
The gray eyes had widened. But she would not ask. That was the measure of her pride.
Innisth paused. Then, unable to think how to soften the blow, he said, “Tomorrow I will send a message to Coär and to your father. I will hold Roh Pass in return for Coär. Your father will recognize the necessity. He will have no choice. The Immanent of Coär is old and deep and strong. I could not take it by force. But it will yield to Eänetaìsarè if the Duke of Coär yields to me. Riheir Coärin will yield to me, and when I move to establish a bond between Eäneté and Coär, your father will release the bond between Coär and Raëh. Your Raëhemaiëth will release the Immanent of Coär—we have both seen that Raëhemaiëth supports Eänetaìsarè.”
“It does,” she said reluctantly. “On this side of the mountains. On the other side, it may be different—”
“Your Raëhemaiëth fears the Immanent Power of Irekay more than it fears Eänetaìsarè. It does not fear Eänetaìsarè at all. How else would you explain anything that we have seen between them?”
Kehera Raëhema said nothing. He knew from her silence that she must know what he said was true. He said gently, “I will claim Coär and establish Eäneté as the ruling province on both sides of the mountains. Thus will I acquire the strength I must have to defy my—the King of Pohorir.” He paused and then went on. “One cannot, of course, expect the people of Coär to yield themselves willingly to my rule. I will therefore make you my wife. Thus the folk of Coär will see that you accept me, and so they will accept my hand over them.”
There was a small, heavy pause. Then Kehera Raëhema said with careful steadiness, “Your Grace, my father will not surrender Coär to your hand. Nor will he surrender me. Even if he would, you cannot think I will accept any such . . . stratagem.”
“Your Highness, neither he nor you will have any choice. Your father cannot hold the south against me, not when he must also face enemies from the north. You heard what Gheroïn said—what the King of Pohorir said through him. The strength of the Irekaïn Power is clearly greater than anyone could have expected. Taking up the dead of Irekay, that’s one thing. But setting a deep tie into a dead man, raising him up so that Methmeir Irekaì can speak through him, as we see must be the case . . . that is something quite other, and the King of Pohorir commensurately dangerous. Your father must ally with me or lose everything. As I must extend Eäneté’s sway, or inevitably fall. But with this alliance, I will hold. We may both hold. You must see this is true. So you will accept this . . . proposal. You have no practical alternative.”
The girl said nothing.
Innisth continued relentlessly. “In every age, a king takes what he can hold. Or gives up what he cannot hold. Yet we shall be allies. Coär will ally with Eäneté, and the alliance will hold. Our two provinces have long been familiar to each other, sharing Roh Pass as we do. Our Immanences are familiar to each other. Our lands are similar. Both provinces lie in the shadow of the mountains, though Eäneté lies to the east and Coär the west. There are ties of blood: some Harivin folk of Coär dwell here—not many, but some. And a scattering of Eänetén people have made lives in Coär. We are natural allies, as Eäneté has never been with Irekay. And when the Duke of Coär yields a ruling tie to Eäneté, I shall have the strength to defend my borders against Methmeir Irekaì. I give you my word, I shall hold this side of Roh Pass. No enemy shall pass into Harivir through it. But your father must yield Coär to me, and you must accept marriage to me so that he may do so. Once I hold it, I will defend it. Your father cannot defend it himself. Coär—and you—are the price of alliance. Your father will yield both Coär and you to me because he has no choice.”
Everything he said was true. He already knew Kehera Raëhema had no talent for denying to herself what was true. He did not expect her to shout or storm, having taken in the past days some measure of her quiet strength. He could see she understood at once that it was all true. He said, almost gently, “I would therefore trouble Your Highness to write a brief note to your father confirming this plan. I will send a man of mine to bear it through the pass to Coär, along with my message. It would be kind, I think, to suggest to your father that you are not entirely overwhelmed with personal revulsion at the match.”
He watched her consider refusing. He could trace, in the minute shifts of her face, the exact path of her thoughts. She was thinking that she might refuse what he intended. Except she knew he would not permit her to refuse. And even if she did, Methmeir Irekaì was still there, with his Power that consumed other Immanents and made tools out of dead men. Whatever she thought of Innisth personally, she knew the King of Pohorir would surely make a far worse conqueror. Innisth watched her face and saw her form the conclusion, the necessary conclusion, and waited in silence for the answer she must make.
She made it. She said, quite tonelessly, “I’ll write the letter.”
“Thank you,” said the duke, very softly. He considered her pale, set face and added, still softly, “I will take as many of the provinces beyond Coär as I can. But I will protect them. All the lands that I take will prosper under my rule. I will teach your people no fear of me. With you by my side, they will accept what they must. And the people of Eäneté will bless your name forever, as the key to their freedom from Irekay and from Pohorir entire. In this, you are the foundation of all my hope, and the tomb of all my fear.”
She made no answer. He did not insist on one. He rose instead, and realized for the first time that the pain in his leg had become much less. The Immanent of Raëh had also done that, he surmised, or showed Eänetaìsarè the way of it, for healing was not something to which savage Eänetaìsarè easily bent itself. Probably Kehera Raëhema encouraged her Immanent toward such gentleness as easily as breathing. And he would return her kindness with cruelty.
But he had no choice. So he said nothing, but gave only the small bow that granted her leave to retire from his presence. Out of the surprising impulse to mercy that inhabited him in her presence, he chose to deliver the final blow as well, so that she should not have to wait for it. He told her, “Whatever response your father sends, the wedding will take place in eight days’ time, on the sixteenth day of the Iron Hinge Month. That will give my people time to make ready, so that immediately afterward we may ride into the pass.” For a moment he hoped he might find something else to say as well, to soften the blow; as though he might find in himself some sufficient apology. But there was nothing, of course, that could be said, and no ap
ology that could be anything but an insult.
15
The shocking events that had forced the Wolf Duke into open rebellion against the King of Pohorir also left Kehera struggling to find a proper response. Should she submit to the duke’s plan? Or should she make one last effort to break away, to get back to Harivir, to Raëh, to her father? What could she actually do, if she were at home? She had renounced the heir’s tie; that was gone.
But she still held a thinner tie to Raëhemaiëth. And Raëhemaiëth had clearly allied somehow with the Eänetén Power, foreign though the two Immanences must be to each other. Perhaps the Eänetén duke was right to want her here.
The tomb of all my fear. She wondered whether he believed that. Whether he truly believed that her Raëhema blood and her tie to Raëhemaiëth would be enough to let him resist the Pohorin king and the terrible Power of Irekay. Whether he truly thought that Raëhemaiëth would support him in that effort, even if that involved breaking the bond between Coär and Raëh and establishing a new bond to Eäneté in its place.
She thought perhaps he was right about that. If he was, it might be her fault. Or to her credit. One or the other. She had carried Raëhemaiëth into Emmer. Through her, it had seen exactly what had happened in Suriytè . . . seen it as Immanent Powers saw, which was not as human people saw, but even what she had seen had been so frightening. Now she thought Raëhemaiëth had been even more frightened than she. Not that fear was exactly what it had felt, probably.
Powers did not feel or think as human people did. If Immanent Powers formed intentions or took actions, it wasn’t the way human people did such things. But that Raëhemaiëth preferred the Immanent of Eäneté to the Great Immanent of Irekay . . . that much, she couldn’t doubt. She agreed, vehemently. Maybe Raëhemaiëth had decided that allying itself with Eänetaìsarè was the key to protecting itself and its land and all its creatures from the Pohorin king. She could almost believe Raëhemaiëth had meant all along for her to be here. It seemed incredible. But it did not seem impossible.
The Wolf Duke believed he might be able to carve out a new kingdom, make himself a king. He thought he was that strong. Or he thought he could make himself that strong if he could take part of Harivir, break it away from Raëh and bind it to Eäneté.
She wished she might tell Tiro everything that had happened. Here she was, with her thin tie to Raëhemaiëth not quite so thin as it was supposed to be, and she was becoming more and more certain her presence in Eäneté reflected Raëhemaiëth’s maneuvering. Maybe—it seemed likely now—the maneuvering of the Fortunate Gods as well. As the Unfortunate Gods presumably influenced the decisions and actions of the Pohorin king. The idea that events in the world had become so important that the Gods were moved to touch the world . . . that frightened her.
Did her father know that Methmeir Irekaì was the architect of all these disasters, in Emmer and Harivir and now Kosir? Did he understand what kind of threat he faced, in the Pohorin king and the Irekaïn Power?
What would her father do, what would Riheir Coärin do, if the Wolf Duke demanded Coär as the price of an alliance? If he demanded as well the provinces that were Coär’s neighbors?
There were too many questions, and she held none of the answers.
She had known Riheir fairly well, once. When she had been a girl, he’d visited the court in Raëh nearly every year; less often after he took the deep tie. It had come to him young. He’d been, what? That must have been seven or eight years ago, so he’d been twenty-three, twenty-four. Only a little older than she was now. She’d been sorry for it when she heard. She knew what it was, to lose your mother. And taking the deep tie cost a man, cost him years of his life, unless he used the tie the other way, which Riheir certainly would not.
She had always liked Riheir Coärin, even before he’d sent her a poem this spring. She remembered the kites fondly. She’d been sixteen that year, and she’d thought she was too old for such toys, but he must have seen how much she loved the beauty of the kites darting like living things in the sky. So he’d made her one, from paper colored orange and red and gold. She hadn’t wanted to fly it for fear it would be damaged, but he’d told her kites were for flying and fire was meant to burn against the sky. She’d flown it a dozen times, and given it to a real fire when it was finally too badly battered to fly again.
Now the Wolf Duke of Eäneté was going to ride through Roh Pass and take Coär, and he was going to use her to make Riheir Coärin accept whatever he did. Because he was going to marry her. He would make her marry him. She didn’t doubt he could do it. He couldn’t make her say the words. But he could tie the cords and light the candles, and even if she didn’t tie any of the cords herself, the marriage would still stand.
He would send someone to tell Riheir and her father what he intended, but he wasn’t asking permission and he wouldn’t change his mind, no matter what they said or did. Or what she said or did. She knew that. And she didn’t even know whether she should fight him or accede. She just didn’t know.
How long would it take an army from Irekay to march west to punish a disobedient provincial duke? With, presumably, Gheroïn Nomoris, who had no doubt stepped from this house right back to Irekay, she didn’t doubt that the King of Pohorir now knew everything—well, not that the Eänetén duke meant to make himself a new kingdom; probably not that. But that she was here with Innisth Eänetaì and that they were both set against him. Certainly Methmeir Irekaì knew that.
Raëhemaiëth would be able to support Eänetaìsarè more effectively if she married the duke. She knew that. Faced with a choice between the Wolf Duke of Eäneté who wanted to marry her and ally himself with her father and her country, and the hollow King of Pohorir who wanted to tear Raëhemaiëth out of her by the roots and destroy first it and then her whole country . . . It wasn’t even a choice.
The duke left her alone while they waited for his man to return from Coär. Kehera thought she was glad about that, but she wasn’t sure. She had too much time to think, and found herself unable to think at all. Though she didn’t believe in divination, she cast her tiahel rods nine times. The King’s Rod came to rest with the double-headed Winter Dragon faceup every time. She wished she thought that meant nothing. She was afraid it meant everything.
Luad turned out to be deadly with ordinary play, though. When Kehera found herself afraid to try further divination, he borrowed her set and won first all the slices of crystallized ginger from Tageiny and then quite a lot of copper coins from the Eänetén guards set outside her suite. If Tiro hadn’t made the tiahel set for her, Kehera would have just given it to him.
She wished fervently that everything was back the way it should be: her father safe in Raëh and Methmeir Irekaì keeping to himself in Pohorir. . . . Well, maybe they could do without Hallieth Theraön Suriytaiän in Emmer. She supposed now that the Emmeran king’s madness might have been the first sign that everything was crashing down. He had been mad for years. Now she wondered if the Pohorin king had been behind even that, somehow.
On the tenth day of the Iron Hinge Month, a tap on her door broke into her thoughts, and she looked up.
“Your Highness,” Gereth Murrel murmured, stepping into her view, his look grave. “The duke’s man has returned from Coär. His Grace asks you attend him.”
This was rather before anyone had expected, so she knew the man must have turned right around and come straight back, riding hard. Kehera stood up slowly, trepidation running through her.
The duke had sent his young captain, Verè Deconniy, the one who, it turned out, was engaged to marry timid little Eöté. They were both from Tisain, which was perhaps a bond of sorts; Kehera wasn’t sure. But she was ready to like him. He had seemed kind when she’d first met him, and she suspected it had taken a special man to win Eöté’s trust. Now, as she came into the duke’s study, she looked at the captain with wistful hope, because he brought her news from Coär.
But Captain Deconniy looked back at her with something like pity u
nderlying his professional reserve, and the Wolf Duke had a particularly chilly and impenetrable look in his eyes. An intimation of disaster prickled across her skin and down her spine. She found she had taken several steps forward without noticing and made herself stand still. “What?” she asked the young captain. “Tell me.”
The Wolf Duke inclined his head in silent permission, and Deconniy told her, “Duke Riheir Coärin has not precisely agreed to surrender Coär to Eäneté.” Every word was clipped and flat. “But he will. Because Leiör’s Immanent has been lost, and the Irekaïn Power—‘some cold Power carried by the hollow dead’ is what Coärin told me—it’s pressing Raëh hard. You know how a Power will take up its folk when they die. This one is stealing anyone’s dead, using the revenants as its hands and eyes.” His steady recital faltered on this horrifying detail. Then he went on. “It tried to break Raëh. It failed; they’d anchored the Power of Raëh right into southern Emmer, so their enemies had to break those Immanences first, and that cost it and kept it away from Raëh. Even so, Torrolay Raëhema was unconscious for two days and—” He hesitated, then finished quietly. “That was on the first day of Iron Hinge Month, and your brother, Tirovay Raëhema, still had not woken, so far as the Duke of Coär knew. His Grace could hardly bear to tell me that. Because he knew I would tell you, Your Highness.”
Kehera was only tangentially aware of the captain’s obvious sympathy. She was too horrified. “I didn’t feel anything,” she whispered. This seemed almost too much to bear: that her father and her little brother had been stricken and she had not even known. She didn’t understand how such a disaster could have struck and yet she feel nothing through Raëhemaiëth. Had Raëhemaiëth deliberately kept it from her, protected her from it? Or, no—the Eänetén Power. Perhaps its presence had protected her.
But it didn’t matter.
She turned to the duke. “I have to go home. Tiro—my father—they need me. Tiro wasn’t supposed to be heir; that must be why he hasn’t woken. He wasn’t supposed to have the heir’s tie. It’s my fault, making Raëhemaiëth sink the deep tie into Tiro when it should have been in me.” It was her fault. She hadn’t been there to support her father, and Raëhemaiëth hadn’t been able to protect Tiro. She said, still more urgently, speaking straight to the duke, “You must see, I have to go home.”
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