by David Weber
Tellian's jaw had clenched as the mayor spoke. If there'd been any question about whether or not he was angry before, there was none now, and his right hand tightened ominously about the hilt of his dagger. But furious father or no, he was also a powerful noble who had learned from hard experience to control both his expression and his tongue. And so he swallowed the fast, furious retort which hovered just behind his teeth and made himself inhale deeply before he spoke once more.
"My daughter," he said then, still looking directly at Yalith, as if Kaeritha were not even present, "is young and, as I know only too well, stubborn. She is also, however, intelligent, whatever I may think of this current escapade of hers. She knows how badly her actions have hurt her mother and me. I cannot believe she would not wish to speak to me at this time. I don't say she would look forward to it, or be happy about it, but she is neither so heartless nor so unaware of how much we love her that she would refuse to see me."
"I didn't say she had refused, Milord. In fact, she was extremely distressed when she discovered it would be impossible for her to speak to you in person. Unfortunately, our laws permit me no latitude. Not out of arrogance or cruelty, but to protect applicants from being browbeaten or manipulated into changing their minds against their free choice. But I will say, if you'll permit me to, that I have seldom seen an applicant who more strongly desired to speak to her parents. Usually, by the time a young woman seeks the war maids, the last thing she wants is contact with the family she's fled. Leeana doesn't feel at all that way, and she would be here this moment, if it were her decision. But it isn't. Nor is it mine, I'm afraid."
Tellian's knuckles whitened on his dagger, and his nostrils flared. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
"I see." His tone was very, very cold, but for a man who'd just been told his beloved daughter would not even be permitted to speak to him, it was remarkably controlled, Kaeritha thought. Then his eyes swiveled to her, and she recognized the raging fury and desperate love—and loss—blazing within them.
"In that case," he continued in that same, icy voice, "I suppose I should hear whatever message my daughter has been permitted to leave me."
Yalith winced slightly before the pain in his voice, but she didn't flinch, and Kaeritha wondered how many interviews like this one she had experienced over the years.
"I think you should, Milord," the mayor agreed quietly. "Would you prefer for me to leave, so that you may speak to Dame Kaeritha frankly in order to confirm what I've said, and that Leeana came to us willingly and of her own accord?"
"I would appreciate privacy when I speak to Dame Kaeritha," Tellian said. "But not," he continued, "because I doubt for a moment that this was entirely Leeana's idea. Whatever some others might accuse the war maids of, I am fully aware that she came to you and that you did nothing to 'seduce' her into doing so. I won't pretend I'm not angry—very angry—or that I do not deeply resent your refusal to allow me to so much as speak to her. But I know my daughter too well to believe anyone else could have convinced or compelled her to come here against her will."
"Thank you for that, Milord." Yalith inclined her head in a small bow of acknowledgment. "I'm a mother myself, and I've spoken with Leeana. I know why she came to us, and that it wasn't because she didn't love you and her mother or because she doubted for a moment that you love her. In many ways, that's made this one of the saddest applications ever to pass through my office. I'm grateful that, despite the anger and grief I know you must feel, you understand this was her decision. And now, I'll leave you and Dame Kaeritha. If you wish to speak to me again afterward, I will, of course, be at your service."
She bowed again, more deeply, and left Tellian and Kaeritha alone in her office.
For several seconds, the baron stood wordlessly, his hand alternately tightening and loosening its grip on his dagger while he glared at Kaeritha.
"Some would call this poor repayment of my hospitality, Dame Kaeritha," he said at length, his voice harsh.
"No doubt some would, Milord," she replied, keeping her own voice level and as nonconfrontational as possible. "If it seems that way to you, I deeply regret it."
"I'm sure you do." Each word was carefully, precisely spoken, as if bitten clean-edged from a sheet of bronze. Then he closed his eyes and gave his head a little shake.
"I could wish," he said then, his voice much softer, its angry edges blurred by grief, "that you'd returned her to me. That when my daughter—my only child, Kaeritha—came to you in the dark, on the side of a lonely road, running away from the only home she's ever known and from Hanatha's and my love, you might have recognized the madness of what she was doing and stopped her." He opened his eyes and looked into her face, his own eyes wrung with pain and bright with unshed tears. "Don't tell me you couldn't have stopped her from casting away her life—throwing away everything and everyone she's ever known. Not if you'd really tried."
"I could have," she told him unflinchingly, refusing to look away from his pain and grief. "For all her determination and courage, I could have stopped her, Milord. And I almost did."
"Then why, Kaeritha?" he implored, no longer a baron, no longer the Lord Warden of the West Riding, but only an anguished father. "Why didn't you? This will break Hanatha's heart, as it has already broken mine."
"Because it was her decision," Kaeritha said gently. "I'm not a Sothōii, Tellian. I don't pretend to understand your people, or all of your ways and customs. But when your daughter rode up to my fire out of the rain and the night, all by herself, she wasn't running away from your heart, or your love, or from Hanatha's love. She was running to them."
The unshed tears broke free, running down Tellian's fatigue-lined cheeks into his beard, and her own eyes stung.
"That's her message to you," Kaeritha continued quietly. "That she can never tell you how sorry she is for the pain she knows her actions will cause you and her mother. But that she also knows this was only the first offer for her hand. There would have been more, if this one was refused, Tellian, and you know it. Just as you know that who she is and what she offers means almost all those offers would have been made for all the wrong reasons. But you also know you couldn't refuse them all—not without paying a disastrous political price. She may be only fourteen years old, but she sees that, and she understands it. So she made the only decision she thinks she can make. Not just for her, but for everyone she loves."
"But how could she leave us this way?" Tellian demanded, his voice raw with anguish. "The law will take us from her as surely as it takes her from us, Kaeritha! Everyone she's ever known, everything she ever had, will be taken from her. How could you let her pay that price, whatever she wanted?"
"Because of who she is," Kaeritha said quietly. "Not 'what'—not because she's the daughter of a baron—but because of who she is . . . and who you raised her to be. You made her too strong if you wanted someone who would meekly submit to a life sentence as no more than a high-born broodmare to someone like this Blackhill. And you made her too loving to allow someone like him or Baron Cassan to use her as a weapon against you. Between you, you and Hanatha raised a young woman strong enough and loving enough to give up all of the rank and all of the privileges of her birth, to suffer the pain of 'running away' from you and the even worse pain of knowing how much grief her decision would cause you. Not because she was foolish, or petulant, or spoiled—and certainly not because she was stupid. She did it because of how much she loves you both."
The father's tears spilled freely now, and she stepped closer, reaching out to rest her hands on his shoulders.
"What else could I do in the face of that much love, Tellian?" she asked very softly.
"Nothing," he whispered, and he bowed his head and his own right hand left the dagger hilt and rose to cover the hand on his left shoulder.
He stood that way for long, endless moments. Then he inhaled deeply, squeezed her hand lightly, raised his head, and brushed the tears from his eyes.
"I wish,
from the bottom of my heart, that she hadn't done this thing," he said, his voice less ragged but still soft. "I would never have consented to her marriage to anyone she didn't choose to marry, whatever the political cost. But I suppose she knew that, didn't she?"
"Yes, I think she did," Kaeritha agreed with a slight, sad smile.
"Yet as badly as I wish she hadn't done it, I know why she did. And you're right—whatever else it may have been, it wasn't the decision of a weakling or a coward. And so, despite all the grief and the heartache this will cause me and Hanatha—and Leeana—I'm proud of her."
He shook his head, as if he couldn't quite believe his own words. But then he stopped shaking it, and nodded slowly instead.
"I am proud of her," he said.
"And you should be," Kaeritha replied simply.
They gazed at one another for a few more seconds of silence, and then he nodded again, crisply this time, with an air of finality . . . and acceptance.
"Tell her —" He paused, as if searching for exactly the right words. Then he shrugged, as if he'd suddenly realized the search wasn't really difficult at all. "Tell her we love her. Tell her we understand why she's done this. That if she changes her mind during this 'probationary period' we will welcome her home and rejoice. But also tell her it is her decision, and that we will accept it—and continue to love her—whatever it may be in the end."
"I will," she promised, inclining her head in a half-bow.
"Thank you," he said, and then surprised her with a wry but genuine chuckle. One of her eyebrows arched, and he snorted.
"The last thing I expected for the last three days that I'd be doing when I finally caught up with you was thanking you, Dame Kaeritha. Champion of Tomanâk or not, I had something a bit more drastic in mind!"
"If I'd been in your position, Milord," she told him with a crooked smile, "I'd have been thinking of something having to do with headsmen and chopping blocks."
"I won't say the thought didn't cross my mind," he conceded, "although I'd probably have had a little difficulty explaining it to Bahzell and Brandark. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure that anything I was contemplating doing to you pales compared to what my armsmen think I ought to do. All of them are deeply devoted to Leeana, and some of them will never believe she ever would have thought of something like this without encouragement from someone. I suspect the someone they're going to blame for it will be you. And some of my other retainers—and vassals—are going to see her decision as a disgrace and an insult to my house. When they do, they're going to be looking for someone to blame for that, too."
"I anticipated something like that," Kaeritha said dryly.
"I'm sure you did, but the truth is that this isn't going to do your reputation any good with most Sothōii," he warned.
"Champions of Tomanâk frequently find themselves a bit unpopular, Milord," she said. "On the other hand, as Bahzell has said a time or two, 'a champion is one as does what needs doing.' " She shrugged. "This needed doing."
"Perhaps it did," he acknowledged. "But I hope one of the consequences won't be to undermine whatever it is you're here to do for Scale Balancer."
"As far as that goes, Milord," she said thoughtfully, "it's occurred to me that helping Leeana get here in the first place may have been a part of what I'm supposed to do. I'm not sure why it should have been, but it feels right, and I've learned it's best to trust my feelings in cases like this."
Tellian didn't look as if he found the thought that any god, much less the War God, should want one of his champions to help his only child run away to the war maids particularly encouraging. If so, she didn't blame him a bit . . . and at least he was courteous enough not to put his feelings into words.
"At any rate," she continued, "I will be most happy to deliver your message—all of your message—to Leeana."
"Thank you," he repeated, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with an edge of genuine humor as he looked around Yalith's office. "And now, I suppose, we ought to invite the Mayor back into her own office. It would be only courteous to reassure her that we haven't been carving one another up in here, after all!"
Chapter Twenty
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" the richly dressed nobleman asked sardonically as soon as the servant who had ushered Varnaythus into his study departed, closing the door silently behind him.
"I was merely in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by and compare notes with you, Milord Triahm," the wizard-priest said smoothly. He walked across to one of the comfortable chairs which faced the other man's desk and arched his eyebrows as he rested one hand atop the chair back. His host nodded brusque permission, and he seated himself, then leaned back and crossed his legs.
"It's possible things will be coming to a head sooner than we'd anticipated," he continued. "And a new wrinkle has been added—one I thought you should know about. I'm not certain how much effect it will have on your own concerns here in Lorham, but the possibilities it suggests are at least . . . intriguing."
"Indeed?"
The other man ignored his own chair and crossed to prop a shoulder against the frame of the window behind his desk, half-turning his back on his guest. He gazed out through the glass at the gathering dusk. Thalar Keep, the ancestral seat of the Pickaxes of Lorham, loomed against the darkening sky, dominating the view, and his mouth tightened ever so slightly. Varnaythus couldn't see his expression with his face turned away towards the window, but he read the other man's emotions clearly in the tight set of his shoulders.
"Indeed," the nondescript wizard confirmed. "Unless my sources are much less reliable than usual, a new war maid will be arriving in Kalatha sometime soon."
"How marvelous," the nobleman growled, then made a spitting sound. "And just why should the arrival of one more unnatural bitch concern me?"
"Ah, but this particular unnatural bitch is Lady Leeana Bowmaster," Varnaythus purred.
For a second or two, Triahm seemed not to have heard him at all. Then he whipped around from the window, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"You're joking!"
"Not in the least, Milord," Varnaythus said calmly. "It's remotely possible my information is in error," actually, he knew it wasn't; he'd been tracking Leeana in his gramerhain for the last several days and witnessed her arrival in Kalatha the day before, "but I have every reason to believe it's accurate. If she hasn't arrived in Kalatha already, it's only a matter of a day or so before she does."
"Well, well, well," the other man murmured. He moved away from the window and lowered himself slowly into his own chair, never taking his eyes from Varnaythus' face. "That does present some possibilities, doesn't it?"
"I believe you might reasonably say that, Milord," Varnaythus replied in the voice of a tomcat with cream-clotted whiskers.
"Tellian's always been overly soft where those bitches are concerned," Triahm growled. "Probably because his idiot of an ancestor provided them with the initial foothold to begin their pollution of the Kingdom. Personally, that connection would have been enough to make me feel ashamed, not turn me into some sort of lap cat for them. Maybe this humiliation will finally open his eyes!"
"It's certainly possible," Varnaythus agreed. For his part, he'd always found Triahm's blindly bigoted, unthinking hatred for the war maids and all they stood for as stupid as it was useful. He doubted that a man like Tellian would ever fall prey to its like, however.
On the other hand, Tellian was a Sothōii, and now that his daughter had succeeded in reaching the war maids before he overtook her, it was at least possible he would react exactly as Triahm anticipated. Which, after all, was one of the reasons Varnaythus had decided against attempting to intercept and assassinate the girl. Kaeritha's presence was the other reason, he admitted frankly to himself. Champions of Tomanâk were hard to kill, even—or especially—by arcane means. Still, he'd felt sufficiently confident of managing it to have justified the risk of a few proxies, at least.
But however badly her death might have hurt an
d weakened her parents, the Dark Gods would weaken the kingdom far more seriously if their servants could set the Lord Warden of the West Riding openly against the war maids. Even if Tellian managed to avoid that particular trap, having his only child run away to become a despised war maid was going to cost him dearly in political support from the more conservative members of the Royal Council. Not to mention all of the delicious possibilities for destabilizing the war maids' charter when the question of the Balthar succession was thrown into the mix.
The wizard-priest rubbed mental hands together in gleeful contemplation of the possibilities, but he kept his expression composed and attentive.
"Even if it doesn't," Triahm went on, thinking aloud and unaware of his guest's own thoughts, "this is bound to have a major impact. It's going to drag Tellian right into the middle of Trisu's little difficulties." He smiled nastily. "It should be interesting to see which way that pushes my dear, irritating cousin."
"If Tellian does end up at odds with the war maids himself, it's likely to embolden Trisu considerably," Varnaythus pointed out. "I imagine he'll become even more persistent in pressing his claims if he thinks Tellian will openly support him. And I'd be surprised if those claims didn't harden and become more extensive, as well."
"But even if Tellian is gutless enough to swallow the shame, the fact that his precious daughter has seen fit to join one side of the dispute will compel him to be very careful about his own position," Triahm said. "If he supports the war maids, he'll be accused of favoritism."
"Perhaps so," Varnaythus said. "On the other hand, if he openly supports Trisu, at least some people will accuse him of doing so because he's angry with the war maids and wants to punish them."
"Either outcome could be useful to us," Triahm observed, beginning to play with a crystal paperweight from his desk. "His neutrality has worked against us from the start. It throws everything back to the local level and prevents Trisu from acting decisively."