But those empty lands in Emmer and in northern Harivir had no Immanences now. Those Immanences hadn’t been cast out. They had been destroyed. Even though the Iron Hinge of the year was fast approaching, it didn’t matter. No one now had to worry about those dispossessed Immanent Powers ascending. Irekay had seen to that.
And that should mean it would be perfectly safe to create new Immanences in each of those provinces.
“It would be perfectly safe,” Tiro said out loud.
“What would?” Gereth and Viy asked together, equally wary.
Tiro looked at them and shook his head and laughed, incredulous at the audacity of his idea. “It probably won’t work,” he said. “And Corvallis might not agree. Or I might be wrong; this might go completely wrong, and that would be even worse than anything the Irekaïn Power is doing. . . .”
“What?” demanded Lady Viy, sounding perfectly exasperated.
Tiro took her arm, and Gereth’s, and turned them both toward the tower door. “I’ll tell you. Come in with me, and we’ll find paper and ink, and I’ll tell you both.”
22
Innisth stepped quietly out of Kehera Raëhema’s tent and simply stood for a long moment, gathering the strained remnants of his self-control. Then he flicked a glance across the several men worriedly hovering in the immediate vicinity and said shortly, but very softly, “She is sleeping. No one is to wake her.”
“I—” began Riheir Coärin.
Innisth impaled the man with a cold stare that had nothing in it of tolerance, and Coärin stopped and swallowed. But he then said stubbornly, if very quietly, “I would only ask, my lord, is she well?”
“She will do.” Innisth strode away, requiring them all to follow.
His own tent was larger than Kehera’s, and furnished more plainly. Innisth gestured that Coärin should enter. There were no chairs in the tent other than his own. Innisth did not sit, but stood regarding the other man for a long moment, his head just brushing the ceiling of the tent. He said at last, “Coärin.”
A muscle in the other man’s cheek jumped, but he inclined his head in stiff courtesy. “My lord.”
“You did quite well with the last part of our battle. I am grateful for your immediate attention to necessity and your excellent handling of the aftermath of the battle.”
“My lord,” Coärin repeated, his tone flat.
Innisth went on, making no attempt to soften his words, aware that to draw this out was no kindness. “I regret to inform you that Pohorir engaged in another attack on Harivir simultaneously with its attack here. Torrolay Raëhema met the Pohorin force. However, he did not survive the battle. Kehe—Her Highness felt her father die.”
“Fortunate Gods,” Coärin breathed, clearly stricken. He made an abortive moment as though he meant to leave the tent, but then he changed his mind and only turned his face away.
Innisth had little sympathy to spare for the other man. He told him, his tone flat, “Tirovay Raëhema mastered the Immanent Power of Raëh, which held. I therefore presume Pohorir has been thrown back in the north as well as here. I shall write to the young king immediately. We must coordinate our efforts in order to consolidate today’s achievements.”
“Our achievements. Our achievements!” Riheir Coärin did not storm out, or turn and hit the side of the tent, but Innisth thought it was a near thing.
“Do not allow your grief to blind you to today’s victory,” he said coldly. “Pohorir has been thrown back twice in one day. I imagine Methmeir Irekaì is far from pleased. I will, as I say, write to Tirovay Elin. You may advise me. I value your knowledge of the young king and your understanding of Harivin expectations.”
“My lord,” the Harivin duke said, after a moment of obvious struggle.
“Methmeir Irekaì will surely not forget his ambition and retire meekly to Irekay. Nevertheless, I strongly suspect we will face a quiet few days as he reassesses his tactics. We will have leisure to consider possible strategies. We shall withdraw as far as Viär, where we may consider our next steps in relative comfort.”
“What of Kehera?”
Innisth said coldly, “You need not concern yourself for Her Highness, Coärin. I will guard her well-being with the greatest care. You may set your mind at rest on that account.”
Riheir Coärin flushed dark red, snapped off a sharp little bow that was almost an insult in itself, turned on his heel, and stalked out.
Innisth stared after him. He was very, very angry. He wanted to call Coärin back. That would not have been a good idea. It would, among other reasons, probably upset Kehera Raëhema.
He had already hurt her. Too late to make a different decision, too late to protect himself more carefully from Pohorin arrows. Too late to warn the girl that if she called on her tie to the Power of Raëh, it might find its attention lethally divided at exactly the wrong moment.
It was quite plain to him that Coärin had hoped for more than friendship from Kehera Elin Raëhema. But it was far too late now for Innisth to step backward through the years and court her properly himself, before she thought of other men. He had every hope of gaining great tactical advantage through marriage to her, but now—too late—he found himself wanting so much more than tactical advantage.
Kehera Raëhema possessed nothing like Eöté’s delicate beauty. Yet somehow Eöté’s fragile loveliness no longer seemed anything a man would want in a woman. Now Innisth found himself appreciating Kehera’s quieter, sturdier attractiveness. She would not make a man’s head turn when she stepped into a room. But she had an assurance that filled the eye, if a man had the sense to take a second look, or a third. Then it grew difficult to look away.
Kehera Raëhema was more than merely pretty. She possessed the steadiness and resilience and clear sense and calm nerve that Innisth had never known he valued. He was aware of his growing desire to see her happy. Worse, he was aware of his growing desire to make her happy. And he knew he had no hope of achieving that.
She was kind. Innisth might have assumed as much, if it had occurred to him to think of it at all. They were reliably kind, all the Elin Raëhema line. He had always appreciated that quality, though distantly, as one he did not possess himself. It had never occurred to him that he might ever discover in himself any desire for kindness. Now he made that uncomfortable discovery. Her Raëhemaiëth seemed by its very nature to soothe and settle the worst inclinations of his own Eänetaìsarè. For seven years he had been so tightly focused on his own lands and his own needs and his own desires. How stupid he had been not to realize what his own needs and desires actually comprised, until he found Kehera Raëhema in his hand. And now he had no hope of winning anything from her but reluctant obedience.
As her father’s heir, Kehera Raëhema would never have thought of marrying for other than political reasons. He had proposed the match for such reasons; he had set forth the benefits in those terms. Now he realized that political benefit was not enough. But now, through his carelessness, disaster had fallen on her. She would hate him for that, and he would not be able to say she was wrong. Too late, too late, too late, and he could not now allow himself to destroy Riheir Coärin, no matter that the other man had once proposed to marry her himself. No matter how much he longed to.
He paced instead, seven long strides one way and then back again, all that the dimensions of the tent could afford. Seven strides and back again, but he only grew angrier.
A servant put back the canvas door and came a tentative step into the tent. “Caèr asks—” he began.
“No,” snapped the duke, bitterly furious. He should say something reassuring. Nothing occurred to him. He ordered instead, “Bring me Her Highness’s man. Heris Tageiny.” Then he resumed pacing.
Waiting was difficult. He did not want to sit down; he did not think he would be able to get up again. Exhaustion should have smothered his anger, but he had learned long ago it didn’t. It couldn’t. It never could. He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. It did not really h
elp.
In not very long, there was a discreet tap at the door of his tent. Tageiny ducked through the flap and came in, to stand at careful attention. Innisth assumed he was afraid, but his manner showed only wary deference. “Your Grace?”
Innisth demanded without preamble, “What was Her Highness doing on the field of battle, with arrows still falling and the day undecided?”
Tageiny immediately dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “I have no excuse to offer, Your Grace.”
“I should hope you do not. What excuse could there possibly be? Her Highness’s safety is your responsibility.”
“Your Grace.”
“She has lost her father. Had you heard?”
There was the slightest pause. The man’s expression didn’t change, but he said even more quietly, “No, Your Grace. I am sorry to hear so.”
“Indeed. She is considerably distressed. You can perhaps imagine,” said Innisth, who personally could not. “I do not wish to distress her further. That is all that protects you in the face of your failure. This time. Fail again in such a manner, and I will grant the Falcon badge to someone more reliable. In that case, you will no longer have need of any badge. Do you understand me?”
“Your Grace is exceedingly clear.”
“Then go.”
Tageiny got to his feet. But he said without turning, “Your Grace cannot reproach me more severely than I reproach myself. I assure Your Grace, I would never willingly allow Her Highness to endanger herself merely to save Your Grace’s life.”
There was just a little bite on the last few words. Innisth stared at the man for a moment in astonishment.
Then he laughed because the savage relief of being presented with a target for his anger was so great. The other man blanched, and Innisth laughed again. “Kneel,” he ordered, and when Tageiny hesitated, snapped, “At once!”
The big man composed himself with an effort that was hardly visible and went down again, this time to both knees. Innisth stepped forward and lifted his hand.
Tageiny visibly braced himself for a blow. Innisth touched his face, instead, in a deliberate caress. Eänetaìsarè rose, fast and brutal. At the powerful surge, the man’s breath hissed out in shock.
“How confident are you of your lady’s protection?” Innisth asked him, allowing his voice to become husky. He brought his other hand up to cup the man’s face. Not a handsome face by any ordinary measure. But a face with character and strength.
“Will she forgive you this?” Tageiny asked. His voice was steady, but he could not quite conceal his reaction to the intensity of the Eänetén Power’s fury and passion.
Innisth laughed again, feeling the seductive pull of the man’s continued defiance. He felt Tageiny recoil, a flinch more felt than seen. “Will you tell her? How great is your loyalty to the lady who claimed you out of slavery and freed you, who took you into her own service and trusts you now with her life? What might such loyalty possibly encompass?”
Tageiny drew a breath that shuddered in his chest. “It encompasses anything you’re likely to do, Your Grace, since I don’t imagine you’ll want to leave marks.”
“Indeed.” Innisth gripped the man’s hair and pulled his head back sharply. Tageiny’s pulse beat in his taut throat. He half-lifted his hands and then lowered them again, effortfully, to rest open on his thighs in careful, deliberate submission.
“How shall I punish your impudence?” Innisth asked him softly.
Tageiny answered with difficulty, his head still back at that awkward, straining angle, “However you please, Your Grace.”
“Just so,” breathed Innisth. He was still for a long moment, savoring the possibilities inherent in the situation. Then he twisted his body and threw the larger man forward to the thick rugs, letting him go. Dismissing Eänetaìsarè was not so easily accomplished. The Eänetén Power was difficult to settle. But he rode it and mastered it and did not let it master him.
Tageiny remained as he was, on the floor of the tent, one hand flat on the rugs for balance, head lowered. His unsteady breathing was quite audible.
Innisth himself was breathing little more easily. But he had not come near to losing his control. Or not very near. When he spoke, his voice was almost as cool and expressionless as usual. “As you are Her Highness’s man, and as your loyalty to her pleases me, you may go.”
The other man looked up warily.
“Unless you would rather stay,” Innisth suggested, and smiled at him slowly, without warmth.
Tageiny stood up smoothly and bowed with perfect correctness. But he backed out of the tent, not to turn his back to the duke.
Innisth watched him go. Although it was not visible in the uncertain light of the lanterns, he knew the man was shaking. So was he. Eänetaìsarè’s presence still filled the tent—filled it and filled the world, until Innisth seemed to see everything only through a yellow curtain of anger and heat. Eänetaìsarè did not understand why he had let the man go. Innisth himself only barely remembered. He thought of summoning Caèr Reiöft, but he was far too angry.
It occurred to him at last that there might be other, more fitting options.
Kehera’s second waking was much better than the first. She felt, drowsily, that she had recently been very unhappy, but she could not immediately remember why and she was not eager to probe the question. Her head felt stuffed with wool, but not unpleasantly so.
She sat up. Her body was stiff, too, as though she had recently run up a mountain trail or fought against some enemy. . . . She thought about that hazily, and stumbled accidentally into memory after all. There had been a battle—an arrow. It came crashing back: the slick line of the descending arrow, the crumpling body of the duke—the other arrow, that had come out of the sky to strike her father. She made an inarticulate sound and pressed her hand over her mouth.
A hand put back the tent flap at once, and Luad leaned in to look in at her. “Lady,” he muttered. And withdrew, letting the tent flap fall closed again. Voices called outside.
Kehera rolled forward onto her knees, gathering the blankets over her lap, and brushed the curtains out of the way, the heavy cloth soft against her fingers. It was dark, and very cold. Cooking fires burned here and there, their light drowning all but the brightest stars. Wisps of clouds blew a narrow moon. The shapes of unfamiliar mountains showed dark against the sky. In the distance, a mountain cat screamed, high and thin. The sound seemed to pierce right through her. She shivered.
Morain Lochan came in, dropping down to kneel near Kehera. “Lady. You all right?”
“Of course,” Kehera assured her. My father is dead, she did not say. It was true, and she felt that emptiness in her mind. She still had her own tie to Raëhemaiëth; she could tell that, but it was not the deepest tie, the ruling tie, and she was glad. Because that meant Tiro must have it, and that meant her brother must be alive. But she had not regained the heir’s tie, even now. If anything happened to Tiro . . . Nothing had better happen to Tiro. He would be careful. Surely he would be careful. Maybe her brother would figure out how to set a clear heir’s tie in one or another Elin cousin, someone who might be able to master Raëhemaiëth, if worse came to worst.
But no matter how well Tiro handled things for Raëh and for Harivir, their father was still dead. She didn’t say it. She tried not to think it, as though if she pretended it were not true it might cease to be so.
From farther away came the sounds of people moving quietly about normal camp chores, familiar, comforting sounds. She was so tired. She wanted to lie down again and go to sleep. But voices arguing nearby made her rub her face and straighten her back. One of the voices was Riheir’s and one was Tageiny. She trusted Tageiny to handle almost anything. She didn’t care about the argument. But despite her lack of interest, she found herself trying to hear more clearly.
Outside, the voices grew more vehement, although no louder. So eventually she hauled herself to her feet and nodded for Morain to bring her a plain traveling dress rather than
simply lying down on the cot again.
Not a dozen feet from Kehera’s tent, a small group of men stood. They were still arguing, but as she watched, one and then others turned in her direction, and the argument died. Several men broke away from that group to come toward her: Riheir Coärin, Tageiny, a captain from Viär, Caèr Reiöft, a few others. For an instant Kehera was seized by an urge to duck back into her tent and let them go back about their own business, whatever it was.
Then Riheir came close, reached out, and took both her hands in his, looking searchingly into her face. “Kehy,” he said, so gently it brought tears to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, Riheir—”
“Shh. It’ll be all right, Kehy, you’ll see.”
It would never be all right, but this was still nice to hear. It was nice to hear from a friend, someone she’d known all her life, speaking to her so tenderly. Kehera wanted to put her arms around Riheir and let him hold her and tell her everything was all right, that she’d just had a bad dream, that everything was just fine.
Nothing was fine, but she didn’t want to care. She wanted to go to sleep and wake up in her own bed in Raëh, with Tiro bouncing on the foot of her bed and telling her she’d better wake up; their father was waiting breakfast for her.
It was all impossible. After a moment, she straightened, took a step away from Riheir, and turned to the others. She looked from Tageiny to Caèr Reiöft. “What’s wrong?” She knew something was wrong. Tageiny was scowling thunderously, and Caèr had a worried line between his eyes. She asked him, “Where is His Grace? Is he all right?”
Caèr took a step forward, but before he could speak, Riheir said crisply, “These men and I were just . . . having a discussion. But I’ve been worried about you, Kehy. You’ve got to be starving. Let me get you something to eat.”
Winter of Ice and Iron Page 45