The captive lifted one wry eyebrow at her.
“Who marked you?” Kehera asked him. “Was it Verè Deconniy? What cause did you give him? Did you kill anyone there to get away?”
“Captain Deconniy, yes. Little enough cause, in fact. He didn’t trust me.” There was neither resentment nor even much interest in the man’s voice.
“I can’t imagine why not.” Kehera hesitated. “You didn’t find me, you didn’t come after me in Enchar, and I thought—but we understand you killed Nomoris at the border of Eäneté? For the third time. And now you’ve found me after all, but I don’t understand why.”
Quòn smiled crookedly. “They do say the third time pays for all.” She could see, above the open collar of his shirt, the end of the mark Tageiny had mentioned; it was red and vivid against his pale skin. It had been, indeed, one bastard of a whip cut that had made that savage mark. She wouldn’t have thought it of Verè Deconniy. But this man made her uneasy now, in a way he hadn’t before, and she could imagine how he might have spooked Verè.
Quòn’s gaze traveled from her to Eöté to Luad, seeming to assess every person and piece of furniture in the room. Then he nodded to Kehera and said smoothly, “Forgive my tardiness, Your Highness. I made a slight error of judgment with Nomoris that occasioned a regrettable delay.” He spoke calmly, not seeming disturbed to be held on his knees with a knife at his throat. “By the time I dealt with that matter, you were well ahead of me. Then you proved difficult to approach. Did you know that the Eänetén duke and Lord Toren of Viär have each established independent guard over you? But I gather these are your own men.” He glanced at Eöté and added, “Your own people.” He paused for just a heartbeat, studying the girl curiously, which seemed odd, as he hardly seemed the sort to be distracted by a woman, even one as delicately beautiful as Eöté. But he turned back to Kehera before she could frame an answer, continuing. “Your Highness, can you trust all these people? I have created a hole in this house’s defenses, but it will not last.”
“Oh, you haven’t killed anyone. . . .”
“Not here,” Quòn said impatiently. “Not yet. I will try to avoid doing so if you prefer, though all men die in the normal course of the world. The Fortunate Gods are not concerned with natural death, but with the appropriation of mortal souls by the Unfortunate. Or by their servants.” He paused, shrugged, and added, “But that is beside the point. I meant to say: if your people will be quiet for the night, I could take you out of this town by morning and have you in Raëh in a week.” He glanced once more at Eöté and added, “You and your woman, if you wish. Less than a week. Much less, if the Fortunate Gods are kind, as I think they would be. You would find it easier to support Raëhemaiëth from the heart of its land, and it would find it much easier to support you.” His tone was completely matter-of-fact. He sounded perfectly certain of himself.
Tageiny had gone quite blank. Luad glanced warily from one of them to the next, his face trying to settle on one expression and failing. Morain Lochan looked placidly unmoved by the proposal. Eöté took a small step forward, toward Quòn; then she hesitated, glancing at Kehera, and said in a small voice, “I would go, my lady. I would go with you.”
Surprised at the girl’s uncharacteristic bravery, Kehera said, “Thank you, Eöté, but I can’t possibly leave this house.”
Tageiny and Luad visibly relaxed, but Quòn said briskly, “Of course you can. If the Fortunate Gods wish you to be secure in Raëh, I assure you, I can conduct you there. I’m a very competent person.” He flicked a glance around the room and added, “Present appearances notwithstanding.”
“You didn’t get to your knife very fast,” Tageiny commented in a neutral tone.
“I wasn’t fighting. I was preventing you from killing me.”
“Maybe,” the big man admitted. He moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “All right. That could be true.”
“It is true.” Quòn turned back to Kehera. “If Your Highness will trust me, I assure you, it is entirely possible for you to leave this house.”
Kehera nodded. “I’m afraid I expressed myself badly. It may be possible for me to leave the Eänetén duke, but it’s unthinkable. He needs me too much. He needs my tie to Raëhemaiëth. Without me . . .” She wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence, and said instead, “I can’t leave.”
“But—” began Eöté, then stopped, blushing.
Kehera glanced at her curiously, and Quòn raised an eyebrow. But Quòn only said to Kehera, “You believe your Immanent supports the Immanent of Eäneté? Interesting. Perhaps it does. One might imagine that Raëh’s influence could be useful in several exigencies. Eänetaìsarè is precisely the sort of Immanent Power that might rise in either direction.” He considered for another moment and then concluded, “If you are quite certain you wish to stay in the keeping of your . . . husband, then that might indeed serve the needs of the Fortunate Gods.”
Kehera studied Quòn for a long moment. She couldn’t read him at all. She said carefully, “So . . . . may I trust that the Fortunate Gods don’t demand I go to Raëh immediately?”
“I don’t believe so. No. Yet I am somewhat surprised that I should have come here for no purpose.” The man flicked a glance at Eöté, who blushed again and then paled. But the girl said nothing, and Quòn asked merely, “As I am here, perhaps I might do some other service for Your Highness?”
Kehera didn’t understand the interaction between Quòn and Eöté at all. But she said, “I do have something else you might do for me, if you would. You see, I want His Grace to—to get the Eänetén Power to share a deep tie with my brother. To let Tiro take a ruling tie to Eänetaìsarè, through Raëhemaiëth. Only if he did that, my brother would hold Eänetaìsarè himself, in a way that even His Grace couldn’t break, so you see why His Grace is . . . reluctant.” She hesitated at this extreme understatement. But then she said firmly, “I think it’s very important that Innisth should do this. I think it may be the only chance we have to truly defeat the Power of Irekay.”
Quòn tilted his head to one side. “A most interesting suggestion. And a goal devoutly to be wished. Yes. I see. I do see. One rather suspects the Fortunate Gods also find this notion compelling. Yet His Grace has proven recalcitrant?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t persuade him. But there is one man who might.”
“Indeed. Who?”
“He’s in Raëh now, I hope. An old man, in his fifties, I think. Gereth Murrel. I think he’s with my brother. I hope he is. You wouldn’t have any trouble finding him, if he’s with Tiro.”
Quòn said calmly, “If this is to the purpose of the Fortunate Gods, I won’t have any trouble finding him wherever he may be.”
Kehera nodded, though uneasily. She said nevertheless, keeping to the important point, “If he were here. If he could explain to Innisth. He—if anyone can make Innisth understand, Gereth can.” She opened her hands. “I can’t. I . . . can’t.”
Quòn bent his head politely and said, “Very well. I will do it, provided the Fortunate Gods do not set a different task in my way. Have you a token for me? To show this man he should come with me?”
Kehera hesitated. Then she quickly found her tiahel set, the set Tiro had made for her. She paused over the pieces before selecting the King Rod and offering it to Quòn. “I don’t think Gereth will recognize this. But show it to my brother, and he’ll know you came from me.”
Quòn inclined his head, took the rod, and rose to his feet, neat as a cat. He said to Tageiny, “May I have my knife back?”
At Kehera’s nod, Tageiny shrugged and handed it over, and Quòn nodded, glanced once more at Eöté, and went out. There was no sound of footsteps, or of the door to her suite opening or closing. There was certainly no outcry from a sentry.
“That,” said Tageiny after a moment, “was very strange.” He shrugged, let his breath out, shook his head, and added, “Granted, it’s the strange ones you sometimes need.” He looked at Kehera. “His Grace may not . . . be very h
appy to see the seneschal here.”
“No,” Kehera answered slowly. “No. I think . . . he will be very happy to see Gereth again.”
“Well, then,” Tageiny said. Now that the alarm was past, his discomfort at her dishabille was visible. He kept his eyes strictly on her face.
Luad, watching him, grinned, much less concerned with propriety.
“Go back to bed, both of you,” Kehera said, rescuing Tageiny. “I sincerely hope the rest of the night will be less eventful.” She added, “Thank you. Both of you. You were both very impressive tonight.”
Her praise embarrassed Luad as her robe had not. He bowed quickly and backed out of the room, muttering inaudibly.
Tageiny bowed more properly and also left her.
“Eöté . . .” Kehera began, but then did not know what to say. The girl was staring at her in mute appeal, but she looked frightened again, and Kehera couldn’t tell what frightened her. She said gently, “You know, if you are unhappy in my service, or unhappy with Verè Deconniy . . . I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t ask me for leave to go to him tonight. If you are unhappy at all, I hope you would tell me, and I will try to—”
“No!” Eöté said quickly. “No, my lady.” Her eyes had gone wide in what seemed genuine astonishment.
“So Captain Deconniy—”
“No! No, Verè is always good to me.” But her tone lacked conviction, and she glanced away in the direction Quòn had gone.
It wasn’t exactly a question, which was good, because Kehera certainly had no idea what to answer. She said, “Verè is good to you?”
“Of course,” Eöté said. She now sounded faintly dismissive, but at least not nervous. Or not nervous of her husband. “I’ll fetch you mulled wine, my lady.” She ducked away, into the women’s room, presumably to light the brazier and warm wine.
Alone, Kehera slowly tucked herself back into the bed, hugging a pillow and staring at the ceiling, not quite ready to blow out the remaining lanterns. She felt rather as though something else might leap out of the darkness at her. It had, indeed, been an eventful evening.
27
Tiro had believed he’d been afraid when he’d been forced to take the heir’s tie and watch Kehera ride away to marry the Mad King of Emmer. Then he’d thought he’d been afraid when they’d first understood that their actual enemy was Methmeir Irekaì of Pohorir and that he had found a way to let his Immanent Power of Irekay consume other Powers. Then, worst of all, he’d understood the Irekaïn Power had mastered its fool of a king and acted now on its own behalf. Then he’d been terrified of what might happen when he tried to answer this threat by creating a new Immanent in Talisè, and by binding all the Immanences he could reach into Raëhemaiëth.
But after they’d all survived that, he’d actually believed that at last they had a chance to stop the Immanent of Irekay from its insane ambition to become a God. He’d believed they might pivot around the dangerous days and come to a safer time of year. They didn’t even have to win, exactly, just hold back the Irekaïn Immanence from its ambition until the Iron Hinge had passed. If it missed its chance at midwinter, they’d have a whole year to figure out what to do before it had a chance to try again for apotheosis. Only during the days of the Iron Hinge were the boundaries thin enough between the mortal realm of Immanents and the realm of black storm-ridden chaos where dragons tore at the edges of the earth and the Fortunate Gods strove eternally against the Unfortunate.
Or at least that was one scholarly notion. There were others. But Tiro at least believed, or was fairly certain he believed, that the Irekaïn Power would achieve its apotheosis during the Iron Hinge days or miss its chance for the winter and the year. Certainly every child knew the Unfortunate Gods were always strongest during the Iron Hinge days.
So he’d written to Kehera to explain everything he’d done and everything he’d figured out about Immanences and about the Irekaïn Immanence in particular, and he’d really believed she might get the Eänetén duke to ally with the rest of them. Or he’d told himself he believed that. He wanted to smile now at his belief that they might have gotten past the worst. Except it was nothing to smile at.
Now Tiro held ties not only to Raëh but to all the lesser Powers of northern Harivir and some of those Immanent of southern Emmer. He’d created new Powers in as many hollow provinces as he could, and if Raëhemaiëth wound up destroying all of them and becoming a God itself, it would be his fault. Even if he meant to balance the bonds between all the different Immanent Powers, even if he had every intention of making sure all those bonds remained Fortunate . . . that only gave him a chance to fail more spectacularly. If the terrible Irekaïn Power poured its winter over Raëh and became a God and consumed the whole world, that would be his fault too.
And he’d never even wanted to be heir.
It wasn’t fair. If he’d had time for it, he would have dwelt at great length on how entirely unfair it was. He’d never even had a moment for that. That really wasn’t fair.
But Raëhemaiëth was holding; and so they held all of Harivir and bits of Emmer and even a little bit of Kosir. For the moment.
It was close to midnight on the twenty-ninth day of the least fortunate month of the year. If this had been a normal month, the sun would rise tomorrow on the thirtieth day. Instead, they would enter the days of the Iron Hinge. Tiro stood in the dark and the wind, at the top of the highest tower of the king’s palace in Raëh, and listened to his kingdom. He was so very tired. But he couldn’t rest. He needed to stand in the open air and feel that everything he had held at dusk was still safe as they came to the turn of night that led into the dark hinge of the year.
The coming dawn would be late and reluctant, and the obsidian winds would descend toward the earth. Many-headed winter dragons would ride those winds, carrying storms in the shadow of their wings and misfortune on their breath, and the world would pass into the Iron Hinge of winter. Four uncounted days after that, it would come out the other side and the new year would dawn. Tiro just hoped they would all see that dawn. Midnight was a hard time for optimism. Especially as midwinter approached, when one could already see the black winds streaking the face of the moon.
It was cold. That was why Tiro shuddered and pulled his coat close around himself.
“You’re cold,” Gereth Murrel said behind him. “Your servants are worried about you. You should come in where it’s warm, have some spiced wine or cider . . . deal with Rosaën Tinìenas, who rode through half the night to get here and, it seems, is very upset at having my duke on his border.”
Tiro rolled his eyes, though actually he felt the distraction of Lord Rosaën’s upset would be welcome.
He hadn’t heard Gereth come up the tower steps nor out onto the balcony, but he didn’t mind. The Eänetén was an accustomed presence these days, and a reassuring one. A link to Tiro’s sister, maybe. Or maybe Tiro felt he was welcome because Raëhemaiëth approved of him. That was reassuring, in a number of ways. And, though Tiro already had a seneschal taking care of things in Raëh, Gereth seemed to slip naturally into that kind of supportive role.
He knew that Gereth was doing a great deal of the work involved in handling the various lords of other provinces, many of whom Tiro had summoned to Raëh in the hope that their presence here would help broaden the bonds between Raëhemaiëth and their own Immanences and in the end better protect all their lands. He wasn’t sure his reasoning was sound in that, but he also thought he might actually not be acting on his own, but according to Raëhemaiëth’s urging. It was important to trust Raëhemaiëth. His father had said that. So had Kehera. But he would have known that was true anyway.
“I’m not really cold,” Tiro said. “I’m mostly scared.” He was glad of Gereth’s presence partly because there was no one else he could admit that to. Gereth wasn’t his. The man was still Eänetén to the bone. So it was all right for Tiro to say to him, I’m scared. He said now, “There are more black winds in the heights than last year, I think.”
<
br /> Glancing upward, Gereth said judiciously, “That looks about the same as always to me. Of course, Eäneté is a good deal farther south and hard against the mountains.”
“Raëhemaiëth will protect us.”
“Irekaìmaiäd brought a dragon with it through the Anha Narrows eight days ago, well before the black winds were supposed to spin off the Wall of Eternal Storms.”
Tiro gave Gereth a look. “Aren’t you supposed to reassure me?”
The Eänetén came over and leaned on the tower wall beside him. The moonlight bleached the color out of the older man’s graying hair and turned the bricks of the parapet to a color darker than blood. “Better to expect the worst. Then any surprises will be good ones.”
“Ha,” Tiro said skeptically. “You think it’s possible to expect the worst, do you? Whatever I think of, I’m sure the Power of Irekay will come up with something even worse than that.” He knew Gereth was right, though: He should go in out of the wind. But he somehow felt that something terrible would happen the moment he turned his back.
That was foolish, of course. He could hardly stay awake right through the Iron Hinge, and if he tried, he’d be too exhausted to deal with . . . whatever terrible thing eventually did happen. He was certain that something terrible would happen.
The city was still well enough tonight, though. Raëhemaiëth was deeply rooted in Raëh; in the city and the dark, rich earth beyond the city walls, the broad fields, the wooded copses, the many streams that wandered out of the hills and the lakes that were fragrant with waterlilies in spring. It was rooted in the souls of the folk who made their homes within its precincts, the brick-paved streets and orderly homes and the pots of brilliant flowers that lined the edges of its roofs in the summer and graced the indoor rooms during the long winter months.
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