by David Weber
"And why do you think it, Milord?"
"First and foremost, I'm sure, is the fact that I don't much care for this particular Voice. In fact, the day I first met her, when she arrived to take up her post at Quaysar, she and I took one another in immediate and intense dislike."
"Took one another in immediate dislike?" Kaeritha repeated, and Trisu chuckled sourly.
"Milady, I couldn't possibly dislike her as much as I do without her disliking me right back! I don't care how saintly a Voice of Lillinara is supposed to be."
Despite herself, Kaeritha laughed, and he shrugged and continued.
"It's not unusual, I imagine, for the lord of any domain to have differences of opinion with the priests and priestesses whose spheres of authority and responsibility overlap with his. Each of us would like to be master in his own house, and when we have conflicting views or objectives, that natural resentment can only grow stronger.
"But in this case, it went further than that."
He paused, and Kaeritha watched his face. It was as hard, as uncompromising, as ever, yet there was something else behind his expression now. She didn't know quite what the emotion was, but she knew it was there.
"How so, Milord?" she asked after the silence had stretched out for several breaths.
"I don't —" he began, then stopped. "No, Dame Kaeritha," he said, "that's not true. I started to say that I don't really know how to answer your question, but I do. I suppose I hesitated because I was afraid honesty might alienate you."
"Honesty may anger me, Milord," she said with the seriousness his tone and manner deserved. "It shouldn't, but I'm only the champion of a god, not a god myself. But this much I will promise you, on my sword and His. So long as you give me honesty, I will give you an open ear and an open mind." She smiled without humor. "As you've been honest with me, I'll be honest with you. You hold certain beliefs and opinions with which I am as uncomfortable as I'm sure you are with the war maids. No doubt you'd already realized that. But whether or not I agree with you in those matters has nothing to do with whether or not I trust your honesty."
"That was well said, Milady," Trisu said with the first completely ungrudging warmth he'd displayed. Then he drew a deep breath.
"As I'm sure Mayor Yalith told you, the original town of Quaysar has effectively been absorbed by the temple there. In the process, the office of the Voice of the temple has merged with the office of the mayor of Quaysar, as well. By tradition, the same person has held both of them for the past seventy-odd years. Which means the Voice isn't simply the priestess of the temple, but also the secular head of the community. In that role, she's one of my vassals, which has occasionally created uncomfortable strains between the various Voices and my own father and grandfather. Inevitably, I suppose, given the unavoidable difficulties the Voices must have faced in juggling their secular obligations to the Lord of Lorham with their spiritual obligations to his subjects. And, of course, to the war maids over whom my house has no actual jurisdiction.
"My father had seen to it that I would be aware such difficulties were only to be expected from time to time. I think he was afraid that without such an awareness I would be unwilling to consider the sorts of compromises which situations like that might require. He'd seen enough of that attitude from my Uncle Sareth, I suspect, and even as a child, I'm afraid I wasn't exactly noted for cheerful compromises." He snorted a sudden laugh of his own and shook his head when Kaeritha looked a question at him. "Your pardon, Milady. I was just thinking about how fervently my tutors and arms instructors would have endorsed that last statement of mine."
Kaeritha nodded. At least he was able to laugh at himself sometimes, she thought.
"At any rate," he continued, "I was prepared for the possibility that the new Voice and I might not exactly take to one another on sight. What I wasn't prepared for was the . . . well, the wave of wrongness that poured off of her."
" 'Wrongness'?" Kaeritha repeated very carefully.
"I don't know a better word for it," Trisu said. "It was as if every word she said rang false. Every word, Milady. I've met other people I simply didn't like, and I'm sure other people have had that reaction to me. But this was like a dog and a cat closed into the same cage—or perhaps a snake and a ferret. It was there between us from the instant she opened her mouth, and although it shames me to admit it, something about her frightened me."
He looked squarely at Kaeritha, and his gray eyes were dark.
"If you want the full truth of it, Milady," he said very quietly, "I wasn't at all sure which of us was the ferret . . . and which the serpent."
* * *
Kaeritha stared up at the heavens, recalling Trisu's expression and tone, and a chill ran down her spine like the tip of an icicle. Trisu of Lorham might be a pain in the arse. He might be opinionated, and he was certainly stubborn. But one thing she did not believe he was was a coward. For that matter, no true coward would have been prepared to admit to a champion of Tomanâk that he'd been frightened by anyone. Especially not if he was also a thorough-going conservative of Trisu's stripe admitting he'd been frightened by a woman.
But Yalith had shown no sign of any similar feelings towards the Voice. It was tempting, dreadfully so, to put the difference down to all of the other differences between Kalatha and the Lord of Lorham. Yet tempting or not, Kaeritha knew that simple answer was insufficient.
Which was why she knew she had to travel to Quaysar herself. And why she felt an icy edge of fear of her own at the thought.
Chapter Thirty-Three
"I wish you didn't have to go."
"I'd rather not go myself, dear heart," Tellian said. He put an arm around Hanatha and hugged her gently. "What I wish I could do is stay here with you. If I can't bring Leeana home to you—and I can't—then if the gods were fair, I could at least be here with you while we adjust to the emptiness."
"The gods are never unfair," Hanatha said. She rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and smiled sadly at him. "We mortals make our own decisions, and we must live with their consequences."
"I don't remember deciding that an unmitigated bastard like Cassan, with the morals of a pimp and the mind of a weasel, had any right to propose a lecherous dog older than I am, who's little better than a common rapist, as our only daughter's husband!" Tellian replied, just a bit more warmly than he'd intended to.
"No," she replied, and her own quiet tone was a gentle rebuke, "but I don't remember saying we had to live only with the consequences of our own decisions. It wouldn't be proper for me to agree with your description of Cassan or Blackhill," she continued primly, "but since only a most undutiful wife would disagree with her husband, and I, of course, am far too beaten down and intimidated to be anything but dutiful, I'll let that deplorable language pass. If, however, the opportunity to introduce Cassan's parents to one another should ever come your way, I trust you will do so."
Despite his own frustration and anger, Tellian felt his lips twitch as he tried to suppress a smile.
"But whatever we may think of the two of them," Hanatha continued more seriously, "they, too, have power to make decisions, and their decisions carry consequences not simply for them, but for others. Including us. And however much it may pain us, Leeana's decisions also carry consequences for all of us. It seems to me that it would be asking a bit much of the gods to sort out that incredible snake's nest of mutually conflicting decisions just so they could make you and me happy. Mind you, I wouldn't object if they decided to do exactly that, but I'm afraid the best any of us can do is cope with our own decisions—and responsibilities—as best we may."
"There are times, love—many times—when I feel the wrong one of us was born male. You would have made a superb baron."
"Perhaps. But as it is, I get to give my advice knowing the ultimate responsibility is yours, not mine." She smiled. "That means I feel less pressure, so I suppose it's only natural that it should be easier for me to take a long view."
"Perhaps," he agreed, and turned
, his arm still around her, to look down from the upper terrace at the armsmen waiting patiently for him to join them. Breastplates flashed under the morning sun, brass and leatherwork gleamed, and the blue-and-white gryphon banner of Balthar and the personal standard of its Baron stirred in the gentle breeze. His eyes rested on the gryphon—the ancient emblem of Ottovar's vanished empire in Kontovar, carried only by the Sothōii here in Norfressa—and his mouth tightened.
"I should be going to Warm Springs, as I'd intended," he said, and Hanatha sighed. She was the one who had pointed out why he should change his mind, yet she knew he wasn't really arguing against her. It was the inescapable fact that there was only one of him which he really hated.
"You can go to only one place at a time, Tellian," she said patiently, in a we've-already-had-this-discussion sort of tone. "Prince Bahzell, Hurthang, Gharnal, Brandark, and Kelthys have all gone to Warm Springs. If they can't be trusted to deal with whatever happened there, just who do you think can?"
"Yes, but—"
"Oh, no, Tellian!" She shook her head, then turned to wave a finger under his nose. "You are not going to double- and triple-think your way into belaboring yourself with a guilty conscience this time! You have responsibilities in Glanharrow, as well as in Warm Springs, and the most experienced, most competent people you could possibly have chosen have already gone to Warm Springs. Trianal, on the other hand, is probably your least experienced senior officer, and he's all alone at Glanharrow as your direct representative." She half-glared at him. "Now, given all of that, how can you possibly even doubt where you ought to be going?"
He started to open his mouth again, then thought better of it and simply shook his head, instead.
"Better," she said, a twinkle lurking in the eyes which had been so shadowed with sorrow ever since his return from Kalatha without Leeana. Those eyes narrowed for just an instant as she wondered how much of his apparent indecisiveness was no more than a ploy to distract her from their shared grief by inciting her to take him to task.
"Yes, dear," he said meekly. Then he drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
"Speaking of Trianal," he began. "I've been thinking—"
"Yes," she said, and he blinked in surprise at the interruption.
" 'Yes,' what?" he asked.
"Yes, you should go ahead and write Gayarla and His Majesty about our formal adoption of Trianal."
He looked down at her, his eyes suddenly soft, and she gazed back up at him with a serenity she was surprised to discover was almost entirely genuine.
"Of course it hurts to think that in some way we would be 'replacing' Leeana with such indecent haste," she went on. "But after her, he's the only logical heir, anyway. The Royal Council would certainly name him as your heir if you died tomorrow! So the sooner it's done and the matter is officially settled, the sooner people like Cassan will be unable to meddle in the succession. And that was the entire reason Leeana . . . left us. Besides, Trianal is a wonderful boy. I couldn't love him more if he'd been our son from birth. And—I know you won't take this wrongly—despite everything your sister-in-law did wrong raising him, he's grown into a fairly wonderful young man, as well. One who will make an excellent baron and lord warden after you."
"I feel sure Gayarla would point out that it was you and I who lost a daughter to those unnatural, depraved war maids, which clearly proves who was the superior parent. As it happens, however, I agree with you that Trianal represents a special miracle, under the circumstances. But are you certain, love, that you're ready to do this so quickly?"
"Tellian, is there some reason your softening brain is causing you to forget who my father and grandfather were? The Whitesaddles aren't exactly strangers to politics or the responsibilities of rulers. It's not as if we have a great deal of choice about it . . . which is why I'm so glad Trianal is someone we already love." She shook her head. "Write the letters, Tellian. But do it from Glanharrow! You've wasted enough time dithering about leaving me behind already!"
"Yes, Milady," he said. But then he took her in his arms, standing high on the terrace where every one of his waiting armsmen could see them, and kissed her long, lingeringly, and passionately. He took his time to do it properly, and he left her panting for breath when they finally straightened.
"Lout!" She smacked him on the breastplate with a balled-up fist, her eyes shining. "How dare you insult my dignity so publicly! My husband will know how to deal with your familiarities, Sirrah!"
"I don't know about that," he said, his eyes devouring her face with bright, passionate tenderness, "but I know how eager I'll be to get back home to you. And," his eyes twinkled, and he brushed her lips lightly with his own once more, "whether your husband will know how to deal with me or not, Milady, I will most assuredly know how to deal with you!"
Chapter Thirty-Four
"You're walking better than I expected," Brandark said with a smile as Bahzell stepped out onto the manor house's veranda in the gathering dusk.
"And aren't you after being just the most humorous little man in the world?" Bahzell rumbled, easing himself down to sit—gingerly—on the veranda's wide rail.
"If I'm not, it's not because of lack of effort or native talent," Brandark replied, his smile slipping over into a grin as Bahzell grimaced in evident discomfort. "Is your backside very sore, Milord Champion?"
"Well, as to that, it's not so much my arse as my legs." Bahzell snorted, and then rotated his left shoulder with obvious caution. "And I'll not deny as how that last tumble wasn't after being the very most pleasant experience a man might have enjoyed."
"No, I could see that,"Brandark said, gazing at him judiciously. "On the other hand, I don't believe I've ever seen anyone attempt to pack a six-month course of riding lessons into less than a week before, either. Especially not a Horse Stealer." He tilted his prominent nose upward and sniffed audibly. "Unlike us compact and skilled Bloody Swords, you poor, oversized amateurs look like sacks of dried horse dung in the saddle. You don't think you and Walsharno might be overdoing things just a bit, given your native disadvantages, do you?"
"It's not as if we were after having much choice about it," Bahzell pointed out, his tone far more serious than Brandark's had been. "If we're to be honest about it, we've spent too long on it already."
"You promised Kelthys," Brandark riposted.
"Aye, that I did," Bahzell acknowledged, his subterranean bass voice heavy. He rose and walked across to the outer edge of the veranda, his footsteps heavier than usual in the new riding boots Lord Edinghas' cobbler had finished only the day before. He gazed up at the stars, and they gleamed back down at him with distant, emotionless beauty while the thin crescent of the Maiden's fragile new moon hung low on the horizon.
"I did promise," he said, his eyes on the stars, "yet I'm thinking it might have been best if I'd not listened to him. There's a foulness here, Brandark—one such as you and I have never faced yet, not even in Sharnā 's temple. I've no least business taking others into such a stench of evil as this. There's death in it, and worse than death could ever be."
"I know," Brandark said very quietly, his voice for once untouched by any hint of levity.
Bahzell turned to look at him, ears cocked and eyebrows arched, and the Bloody Sword shrugged.
"Chesmirsa may have told me I'll never be a bard, Bahzell, but I spent all those years studying every ballad, every lay, every epic poem I could get my hands on. And, with all due modesty, I think I've demonstrated that I'm a fair hand as a researcher. As soon as Tomanâk warned you—warned all of us, really—about what's out there, I knew what he was talking about. Did you think I didn't?"
"No," Bahzell admitted, and shook his head. "No, little man. I might be after wishing you hadn't, but there was never the least tiniest chance you wouldn't. But that's not to say as how I'm eager to be seeing you in the midst of such as this."
"I suppose that sort of thing happens to people foolish enough to hang about with champions of Tomanâk," Brandark replied l
ightly. Then he cocked his head, ears half-forward curiously. "All the same, I have to admit that I'm just a bit surprised that if it is Krahana—" a chill breeze seemed to blow across the verandah as the name was spoken at last "—she hasn't already put in an appearance here. I'd think that for someone like her, this whole place—" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the manor house's lamplit windows "— would be like one huge cookie jar she could hardly wait to get her claws into.
"Well, as to that," Bahzell said, "it's in my mind that it's not so very likely she's after being here herself. Or, at least, not that she'll be feeling all that eager to draw himself into meeting her personally." He smiled, a thin smile, remarkably devoid of humor. "Krahana isn't after being the very smartest of the Dark Gods. She's nowhere near the brain of Carnadosa, for example. But she's not so stupid as some, and she's seen what was after happening to Sharnā when he crossed swords, in a manner of speaking, with Himself.
"I'll not say she's not after being willing to risk a bit of a confrontation, but it will be in her mind as how it will be on her terms, not Himself's. So I'm thinking as how what we're most likely to be after seeing will be her Servants. What you might be calling her 'champions.' And they're not so very likely to be attacking us here."
"And just why aren't they?" Brandark asked.
"Because I've asked Himself to see to it that they can't," Bahzell said simply, and Brandark blinked at him.
"You can do that?" he asked.
"Aye," Bahzell said dryly. "It's after being called prayer, I'm thinking."
"Prayer!" Brandark snorted. "Bahzell, even Kaeritha has to admit that you have your own, thankfully unique way of speaking to Tomanâk. For that matter, I've seen—and heard—it myself, you know. And I'm not so sure that anyone except you would ever describe it as 'prayer.' "
"It's good enough for Himself and me to be going on with," Bahzell informed him. "And after I'd seen what Gayrfressa and her folk had been after enduring, I asked Himself if He'd be so very kind as to see to it as how those as attacked them wouldn't be doing it again here. And after I'd asked, He showed me how to be seeing to it myself."