Victory Of The Hawk Part 17

The she-elf Tembriel scowled but offered a grudging nod, and the others who'd followed the princess out to the hedge maze lawn voiced their cautious acceptances as well. Only Kestar Vaa.r.s.en, still standing there with the gun dangling in his hand and a faraway look upon his face, said nothing. He met no one's eyes, and only when the voices around him fell silent did he finally turn to face Margaine.

He had a pale and stricken cast to his face, the look of a man who'd just been dealt a terrible blow-or perhaps had suffered a profound loss. Vaa.r.s.en was or at least had been a Hawk, the princess remembered. If she herself was badly shaken by what had just occurred, how much more so must a Knight of the Hawk be, especially a Hawk who'd just raised a weapon against his own patron avatar? His words were polite, but his tone was hoa.r.s.e, and from the sound of him he might have been responding to being issued a death sentence.

"Yes, Your Highness, we'll accept your hospitality with grat.i.tude."

The royal palace, Dareli, Jeuchar 28, AC 1876 Three days pa.s.sed while they waited for those they'd left behind in the d.u.c.h.ess Khamsin's army to catch up with them in Dareli, three days in which Faanshi found herself in a position she could not have possibly imagined. Never mind that she was a guest of a princess. Never mind that the doctor Tamber Corrinides hesitantly accepted her a.s.sistance in treating the large number of wounded men, women and children who still suffered at the palace, at St. Merrodrie's Cathedral, and at many other locations all over the city, though many reacted with fear at the sight of her elven features. Only when she began to heal the bravest and most desperate of the injured was she able to make true progress against the seemingly insurmountable cloud of agony that dogged her senses everywhere she went. None of that was as astonishing to her as the notion that, for the first time in her life, she was able to move about freely and without danger.

Three times a day, when Semai joined her to pray to Almighty Djashtet, she thanked the Dawnmaiden, Noonmother and Crone of Night for the Princess Margaine. Faanshi knew nothing of royalty or of the governing of a country, but she was thankful beyond measure that the woman had a compa.s.sionate heart. The akresha saw them all given rooms to stay, food to eat and finer clothes to wear than Faanshi had ever laid eyes on. She even had her servants provide clothing of Tantiu make for Faanshi and Semai, though Faanshi kept to a young man's modest attire, with a korfi to hide her face when she needed to and to cover her hair. A woman's choli and silwar and veil, even in rich hues and of n.o.ble quality, were the garments of her abandoned slavery. She would not return to them.

And at any rate, the lessons she'd learned in the days of fleeing and hiding and fighting to win her freedom were still too strong for her to feel comfortable in a woman's clothes. Run when I tell you. Hide when I tell you. The lessons still echoed through her thoughts, and at last, when she hadn't seen him once in those three days, they sent her in search of the Rook.

Nine-fingered Rab, outfitted in the finery that Princess Margaine had provided, spent his hours cutting a swath through the palace. Now that she had the luxury to do so, Faanshi could appreciate Rab's considerable charm. His silver tongue, with its edge as keen as his knives, was far less intimidating when it wasn't directed at her. And since he was safely occupied with socializing with n.o.blemen and n.o.blewomen struggling to regain a normal rhythm to their lives, he could not distract her from finding his partner. Julian, in contrast to the younger a.s.sa.s.sin, might as well have been a shadow for what little impact he made on the activity in the palace.

But Faanshi knew him. Her magic still remembered the pulse of his living flesh, and with its guidance, she tracked him at last to the palace's library.

The room was a wonder, with shelves three times as tall as Faanshi herself, each by itself filled with more books than she'd ever comprehended existed. Several palace servants were tasked to attend to the vast chamber and the collection it held, men and women who handled the books with care, and one such young woman met Faanshi at the door. "Mr. Nemeides is here, yes, ma'am," she promptly informed her. "Right this way, if you please."

Mr. Nemeides sounded as strange to Faanshi's ears as ma'am, and she could only manage to nod to the other girl by way of thanks as she led her through the library to a chair in a far corner of the room. A lamp on the wall cast a warm golden glow down upon the chair and its occupant-Julian, with a book in his hands, scowling intently at the pages as if they'd offered him personal insult. "Excuse me, Mr. Nemeides," the servant announced shyly, "but Miss Faanshi has come to speak with you."

His head snapped up, and for an instant Faanshi thought he might be angry at the intrusion. But he inclined his head once, slowly, with his gaze on her rather than the servant. "Thank you," he answered gruffly. "Leave us, please."

The servant girl curtsied and withdrew on quiet feet, and Faanshi took in the sight of him.

Julian in black was not an astonishing sight-but what he wore now was as far removed from what she was accustomed to seeing him wear as her own clothes were from the travel-worn ones she'd been able to set aside. His shirt was the familiar black, though along with it he wore a waistcoat of midnight blue and dark silver, and trousers of a shadowy gray. His hair had changed, too, and it took her a moment to realize that someone had trimmed and styled it. Most surprisingly there was no trace of a beard on his jaw, and that, more than anything else, dumbfounded her. He looked elegant. He looked like a lord.

"Good evening, Julian," she ventured, tamping down the instinct to call him akreshi when he was dressed like this. "I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you, but I haven't seen you in days and I was worried. Where have you been?"

To speak forthrightly to this man was another lesson Faanshi had had to struggle to learn, for slaves did not freely converse with their masters. Later, once her magic had reshaped the very structure of his flesh, it had grown much easier to sense the ebb and flow of his moods. But now Julian's face, unshielded by eye patch or korfi or even a beard, was as unreadable as she had ever seen it. He took several seconds to answer her. "I've been investigating what options may present themselves for Rab and me when this little idyll is over. Rab's good behavior isn't going to hold out long, and I'd rather he didn't lose any more fingers when he gets a little too interested in helping himself to unattended baubles in this place."

She couldn't argue with the wisdom of that; Julian and Rab were, after all, a.s.sa.s.sins and thieves. Yet she felt a pang in her chest nonetheless at the words Rab and me. "So you'll be leaving?"

Her words came out smaller than she liked, and Julian's gaze offered no insights in its twilight blue. "We don't exactly belong here. Princess Margaine is going to be Bhandreid, by default if nothing else, but she's going to have a fight on her hands to keep the throne. And even if she's willing to look the other way on Rab's and my prior activities-" he smirked, just a little, "-the a.s.sembly of Lords may not be so magnanimous. Or what's left of the Hawks. I'd just as soon be gone from here before someone decides to press charges."

"I thought..." Faanshi heard her voice roughen, drew in a breath, and sternly ordered herself keep speaking nonetheless. "I thought perhaps now that things are quieter, you and I...that we could talk again about what we talked about before. In Dolmerrath, before the Anreulag came. When we..."

Lady of Time! She was blushing, and each word seemed more difficult to utter than the last. On the final few she managed, Faanshi couldn't quite keep her gaze on Julian's no matter how much she wanted to. Yet his hand lifted to her cheek, a touch that drew her attention back to him. Only then, finally, did she see subtle tension in the lines of his face, hinting at turmoil beneath his calm control.

"When I kissed you," he said simply.

It took all of Faanshi's resolve to answer him steadily and without nervousness, and that left her nothing to keep from quivering slightly at his touch. Like a bowstring, she thought wildly, or the strings of the fine violins she'd seen palace musicians playing at the princess's command the past two nights. "Julian, I don't want you to go. I don't want to be apart from you."

With that, the facade of his control cracked further-and his arms reached out to draw her near and hold her close to him. "d.a.m.n it, dove, I've been hiding from those words for the last three days," he said against the korfi that covered her hair, in a voice as raw as her own churning thoughts.

Dove. That he was willing to embrace her made her heart leap, but that single word was a blessing and a gift of Djashtet. "The ridah of truth is one of the most holy," she murmured, "and I am not that scary."

"Like h.e.l.ls you're not." Laughter he wasn't quite letting free resounded through Julian's chest. "You're the most fearsome thing in this entire country-countries, if the army of Nirrivy gets its way. You're an eagle, girl." Then he reached for her chin once more so that he could look down into her face. "I can't ask you to stay on the ground with me. You deserve a better man, if a man is what you want to help you fly. Vaa.r.s.en, or somebody like him."

Understanding began to blossom, as many things she'd not comprehended even as she'd gleaned them from his healing meshed together into a coherent whole. How many times had she insisted in Julian's hearing that Kestar Vaa.r.s.en was a good man? How often had she spoken of the connection that had formed between her and Kestar, fueled by her magic and their shared elven blood? Often enough that Faanshi knew now that her words had stung the Rook's pride-and she knew him well enough to know that his pride was not quite as unshakable as it often appeared.

She knew him well enough, furthermore, to understand what she had to say next.

"I know Kestar very well now because of what happened between us-that too is truth. Because of what I saw in him when I healed him, I know what it's like to love someone as a brother, because he is so very like me that he might as well have been born to the same mother. That's how I feel about him, and it is not how I feel about you." Faanshi lifted her hands to Julian's face, and the last small distance before her fingertips brushed each of his temples felt like the widest, most dangerous distance she had ever crossed-yet she could not think of any distance she'd ever traversed with such joy. "Julian. Horolle. You are a far better man than you let yourself believe, and I love you."

His expression began to change at the Elvish word, the one she'd been delighted to learn from Alarrah as meaning beloved. At the words that came after, a light kindled in his eyes. The smile that came with it, the largest she'd ever seen on his face, was a sunburst breaking through the clouds.

"Horolle," he echoed, testing the word. His accent wasn't perfect. But a peace she'd never seen before entered his face as he said it, and that alone made the gruffly murmured word the sweetest of music. "May I?"

Yes welled through her mind in Adalonic, Tantiu and Elisiyanne, a bright chiming chord of a.s.sent-but she didn't need to speak it. Not when her own brilliant smile and a single gentle nod was enough to prompt his kiss, and to fill her blood, breath and soul with sunlight.

The royal palace, Dareli, Annesdal 6, AC 1876 If he'd had a choice in the matter, Kestar would have gone straight home from Dareli the instant it was all over, stopping just long enough at the camp of the Army of Nirrivy to fetch his mother and to return her to their estate where she belonged, safe and sound.

It was inevitable, he supposed, that he had no real choice in the matter. The Voice of the G.o.ds was dead, and every survivor in the city, n.o.ble or commoner, rich or poor, seemed to need to lay eyes on the man who'd done it-particularly once Princess Margaine, confirmed as Bhandreid Regent until her daughter Padraiga was of age, issued a royal proclamation ordering the immediate liberation of every slave of elven blood in Adalonia and its protectorates, and the pardon of elven rebels still at large. He, along with Tembriel and Faanshi, stood in as symbolic recipients of that pardon, in St. Merrodrie's Cathedral. Days after the fact, Kestar could remember little of the entire ceremony, save that Tembriel had looked as if she'd wanted to set the entire place on fire with the power of her gaze, and Faanshi, despite the brave lift of her chin, kept wringing her hands in nervous restlessness whenever she thought no one was looking.

Only Julian-himself pardoned along with Rab, their past illicit deeds pointedly dismissed and kept quiet by Margaine's orders-had kept Faanshi from bolting right out of the place, Kestar was sure. Something had changed between them, something that needed no explanation when it had them looking at each other with radiance in their faces, and Kes surrept.i.tiously made a bet with Celoren as to how long it'd be before Julian Nemeides, long-lost scion of House Nemea, reemerged into society with a half-Tantiu, half-elven bride.

"Two weeks, tops," Celoren proclaimed. Kestar wasn't so sure. He'd glimpsed Faanshi's innermost heart. She was too much an elf to feel at home in a human city, no matter how much she loved her Rook. And through her, he'd gleaned a reasonable suspicion that Julian wasn't the sort to play at being a respectable n.o.bleman for long. They wouldn't stay in Dareli. Whether they'd return to Dolmerrath to help the elves rebuild their stronghold, or whether they'd go to Tantiulo so that Faanshi could explore that side of her heritage, he didn't know.

Whatever they'd decide, he envied them both sorely, for he had no such escape. Not when the princess entered several straight days of stern negotiations with the a.s.sembly of Lords as to the fate of the western provinces-for along with the emanc.i.p.ation of the elves, the topic of Nirrivan independence promised to ignite tempers already frayed by Merawen's rampage through the realm. Until some accord was reached, and until the d.u.c.h.ess and her representatives arrived in the capital to partic.i.p.ate in the diplomatic talks, Kestar wasn't at all sure he'd have a home to return to. No matter how much he wished to make his retreat.

And so he haunted the less heavily frequented parts of the palace estate, where it was far less likely that he'd run into gossipmongers of any station. He even avoided Celoren, though it pained him to do so when Cel was perhaps the only person who had a chance of understanding his current frame of mind. Semai was a seasoned soldier, and Julian and Rab doubtless knew far more than he wanted to consider about what it felt like to kill anyone for the first time. But only Celoren, who'd grown up with him in the Order of the Hawk, could begin to grasp what this death meant.

One afternoon he went back to the stretch of lawn where he and Merawen had fought, though he couldn't make himself linger in the spot for long. Instead he took to prowling the nearby hedge maze. It got him out into the open air, and for all that his own elven blood wasn't nearly so strong as Faanshi's, something in him craved the breath of the wind through green leaves, and the melody of a stream's running water.

When he finally reached the heart of the maze, Kestar found a secluded garden flanked on all sides by lush rosebushes, with a gurgling fountain in its center. Not a stream, and the statues of the Daughter and Son in the fountain's heart, despite their playful stances and the peaceful trickle of the water from the urns they bore in hands of uplifted stone, were not exactly a welcome to elven eyes or elven ears.

Gerren, steward of Dolmerrath, was therefore the last person Kestar would have expected to find in such a place. Yet the elf was there, staring broodingly at the statues, and he turned without surprise at the sounds of Kestar's footfalls. "Good afternoon, valann," he said. "I thought perhaps I'd find you here."

"I can't say the same," Kestar blurted. "How are you here? When did you arrive?"

"An hour and a half ago. The d.u.c.h.ess Khamsin leads our party, and along with her we've brought her seconds as well as my own. The army remains behind in Kilmerry, but we've brought enough of Khamsin's people and my own to look after our safety. And we've brought the Lady Ganniwer, who sent me in search of you." Gerren paused, studying him. "Though in truth, I wanted to find you myself. Word came to us of what you did, and I should thank you for that-my people can walk free in this country for the first time in two hundred years. But thanks are not what you need to hear, I think."

The observation, calmly spoken though it was, stopped Kestar in his tracks. "No," he whispered. "You know the Hawk prayer, don't you? Ani a bhota Anreulag, arach shae. I can't say those words anymore, but they won't leave my mind. I was Her eyes to see, Her sword to strike, but I struck Her down instead."

"And now you grieve, and you don't know if your former Order will allow you to grieve with them for what they've lost, or whether you will continue to be a pariah among them. Do not be surprised if they make the latter choice."

Gerren didn't sound precisely cynical, but Kestar could hardly argue with him, particularly when he was right. Jekke Yerredes had gone straight into St. Merrodrie's to seek the counsel of the priestesses of the Mother, and had been welcomed with open arms. Kestar hadn't been able to bring himself to try to join her. "I... I grieve," he admitted. "And I don't know anymore who to pray to for forgiveness."

"If it helps, I think perhaps the Mother of Stars might be willing to listen if you called on Her. We will be, Tembriel and Alarrah and I, now that we're together again. Merawen was the greatest of us, and she suffered more greatly than any of the rest of our people can begin to comprehend. We'll grieve for her. I came to ask you and Faanshi to join us."

What spread through Kestar at those words wasn't quite pain, though it sent a pang through his chest where he'd been stabbed, the beginnings of a piercing relief that felt akin to the heart of Faanshi's healing. "I'd be honored." Then he paused and added, pulling aside the flap of the coat he was wearing despite the warmth of summer, "I have Amathilaen. I should give it back to you. I... I may be Dalrannen's heir, but I'm barely an elf. Amathilaen is an elven weapon. It belongs to you and your people."

The gun was holstered at his hip, quiescent now, all its enchanted bullets spent. Margaine had given him no royal commands to return it to the palace armory, and not a single guard or Hawk had seen fit to challenge his right to carry it. Part of him hadn't quite borne the idea of setting it aside, either, though he was acutely conscious of its weight. Part of him couldn't quite bear the idea of giving it up now. He still sensed glimpses of visions when he touched the handle, lovely ancient faces. Sometimes he could hear his great-grandfather singing.

"Amathilaen has a will of its own, and I am not about to contest it. And I'm not here to take anything from you. In fact, I want to give you this." The steward smiled, more openly than Kestar could remember seeing any elf do in his presence before, and turned away briefly to retrieve something leaning against the low stone wall of the fountain's rim. "I saved it when we had to evacuate Dolmerrath. We can debate your right to keep the gun later if you wish, but surely you'll agree with me that you've earned this."

It was an instrument case. Not immediately familiar of design to Kestar's eyes, too long and slender to contain something as small as his mandolin-but from the size of it, he knew instantly what it had to contain. His heart in his throat, he accepted and opened the case, and fought to keep his hands from shaking as he took out the ten-stringed instrument within.

"In Adalonic, I believe you'd call it a cittern," Gerren said. "In Elisiyanne, we'd say sedderen."

"What did Riniel call it?" There was a long strap of finely interwoven leathern strips secured to either end of the instrument, and as he slung it over his shoulder, Kestar didn't doubt for an instant that his great-grandfather had given it a name. When he struck a soft chord on the strings, the note hummed straight through its body and into his own.

"Introduce yourself to it. It may tell you." The elf inclined his head then. "I'll leave you with it for now. Alarrah and I will find you when it's time to sing the laments."

"Thank you," Kestar rasped, the very words Gerren had avoided giving him, and the steward smiled once more. When he stepped away into the hedge maze Kestar never knew, for the call of strings beneath his hands was too potent to resist. It wasn't magical, but music had a healing power all its own. The cittern didn't tug at his awareness the way Amathilaen did, but it didn't need to. It was a musical instrument, and in its own way, it was alive.

His heart lightening for the first time in days, Kestar tested each string, looking for the tones they made and what chords he might a.s.semble from them. The G.o.ds themselves only knew-or perhaps Gerren himself did-how old the strings were. Yet each one chimed sweetly at his touch, stirring as if rousing from far too long a slumber, eager to sing.

When he thought he knew what the cittern had to offer, he began to play.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

St. Merrodrie's Cathedral, Dareli, Annesdal 7, AC 1876.

It hadn't been so very long ago that Jekke would have given a limb to set foot in St. Merrodrie's, the heart of the Church of the Four G.o.ds in Adalonia. Now she had the freedom to visit it as she willed. Yet for days after the fall of the Anreulag, she had no idea what she might do there.

The grand nave, hundreds of years old and decorated with more opulence than most people from Marriham ever saw in their lifetimes, would have dazzled her eyes before. Now it hurt her heart to see the damage the place had sustained, or at least, what glimpses she could glean by peeking in through the doors as royally appointed workers applied themselves to rebuilding it. It took a full week before the Church proclaimed it fit for the public's entrance again, and in that time, Jekke found that many of the folk of Dareli gathered outside to wait for the nave to be open again, keeping a solemn vigil. Everywhere she looked she saw women, men and children whose expressions matched the numb shock still lingering in her heart. Some priests and priestesses moved among them, offering aid and comfort, though in truth she could see the same doubt in their eyes. The priests and priestesses, like their charges, were haunted by the same question that had nagged at Jekke for a full week.

If the Anreulag's entire existence had been a lie, what did that mean about the Four G.o.ds? Could they still rely on the Father's protection, the Mother's mercy, or the easing of the spirit that was the province of the Son and the Daughter?

None of the priests and priestesses seemed to know for sure. They fumbled through replies when the people of Dareli challenged them. More than once, they cast their holy robes aside, tearing them into bandages for the sake of the wounded, cutting them into sc.r.a.ps to patch ragged blankets, or simply burning them. A dozen different Hawks tore off their amulets and thrust them into the hands of hungry elders, so that they might sell the silver to buy bread. But even as she saw all these things outside the cathedral, she couldn't quite bring herself to abandon her own amulet. Its light had died in the battle at Dolmerrath, but it was still the symbol of the Hawk she'd been.

She couldn't part with it until she could discover what kind of Hawk she'd be, moving forward-or if she'd still be a Knight of the Hawk at all.

The day the delegation from the army of Nirrivy finally arrived in the city, word of their coming had already spread like wildfire through the streets. Most of the broadsheets Jekke could find offered only rumor rather than news, warning hysterically that Nirrivan-blooded westerners would not stop at the secession of their own provinces. They'd sweep into the east to take the entire country. They'd take their vengeance for the punishment of heretics. They'd overthrow the palace-that the princess would die as the Bhandreid had died before her, and as the Anreulag herself had fallen. Jekke believed none of it, not after Vaa.r.s.en, Valleford and their compatriots had treated her with unexpected kindness.

But she couldn't rid herself of nagging doubt, any more than she could her amulet. They might have let her listen to the negotiations in the palace, but somehow that didn't seem proper. And so she waited at St. Merrodrie's instead, until the following day when the princess and the remaining First Priests and Priestesses of the Four G.o.ds reopened the cathedral to the public. Nor were they alone. The Nirrivan delegation was with them. It was odd indeed to see the Tantiu-born d.u.c.h.ess flanked by the priest and priestess of the Allmother-and odder still to see a dozen fully armed elves beside them, with Gerren, the steward of Dolmerrath, at their fore.

"People of Dareli," the princess called, standing on the highest of the steps leading up to the cathedral's front doors, "I come before you today to declare St. Merrodrie's, the bastion of our hearts and our faiths, once more open to you all. Workers have been toiling inside around the clock to make it safe for you all to enter once again, and now that this has been done, I am proud to welcome you all back within its walls.

"Many of you are doubtless wondering what sort of welcome you will find within it. You have probably all heard the stories, and so I will state plainly: yes, the Anreulag is dead. I can tell you all now that the Voice of the G.o.ds rose up in righteous anger against great wrong that was done to her, and that that wrong has been set right. She has returned to the arms of the G.o.ds, leaving us lessened by her pa.s.sing-and asking ourselves how and even if we can continue to serve the Four G.o.ds."

Jekke edged closer to the steps, all her attention riveted on the princess's words, for the woman was giving voice to the turmoil in her own heart. Margaine didn't pause in her speaking, but her golden-brown gaze momentarily flickered in Jekke's direction, and brightened with acknowledgement. Though her attention regularly swept across the faces of the entire crowd, Jekke blushed to see it come back repeatedly to her. It made her wonder what the others had told the princess about her, though she could hardly dare to hope that the woman could have anything specific to say to her now.

"I cannot tell you what you should and should not believe, ladies and gentlemen. But I'd like to tell you what I believe now, after the days of fire and destruction that have rained down on us all. I believe the time of dictating the faith of others has come to an end. I believe that the measure of an honorable heart lies not with what G.o.ds it follows, but by the actions of the man or woman who possesses it. I believe that my first and foremost responsibility is to see to your safety, to your livelihoods, and to the rebuilding of the country in the aftermath of a crisis that could have destroyed us all. To accomplish these goals, however, I will need every able body and willing heart to aid me and to aid the realm.

"With this in mind, I proclaim to you now three things. One, effective immediately, the Crown hereby acknowledges the declaration of independence by the provinces of Kilmerry, Carrowdaw and Gallister, who wish to reclaim their heritage as the nation of Nirrivy. Two, effective immediately, all persons of full or partial elven blood within the remaining provinces of the realm are granted unconditional liberation from the bonds of servitude. Steward Gerren, in the name of the elves of Dolmerrath, issues his personal invitation to all of elven descent to join him in the reclamation of lost Elisiya to the east. And three, effective immediately, the Crown hereby repeals all standing heresy laws. Never again will citizens of Adalonia be thrown into the Barrows or driven into exile or slavery because of what they believe-or because of what blood flows in their veins. St. Merrodrie's Cathedral will be open to all, no matter their creed, for it must stand again as the protector of all our hearts.

"People of Dareli, will you join me in making this so, and in building a new era of freedom and peace?"

At first, for one brief moment, stunned silence was Princess Margaine's reply. But then a wave of cheers began to surge around the cathedral square-and Jekke, her heart abruptly lighter, pushed even farther forward through the crowd. She didn't know whether she still believed in the Four G.o.ds. But she did believe in service to her people, and all at once it gladdened her to see a royal who thought the same now taking the throne.

In Princess Margaine, perhaps, she could place her faith.

"Your Highness," she called out, "I volunteer. Tell me how I can serve you."

Margaine's attention came back to her again, and to her abrupt elation, the other woman graciously inclined her head. "As long as you're asking, Lieutenant Yerredes, I could use a new High Priestess."

When everyone else went out see the princess speak on the steps of St. Merrodrie's, Kestar opted to stay behind at the palace-but to his chagrin, his plan of hiding once again in the solitude of the gardens, with Riniel's cittern in his hands, was thwarted by nothing less than royal decree. A solemn young palace page brought him a note on fine cream-white paper, written in Margaine's own hand and stamped with the Araeldes family seal.

Lord Vaa.r.s.en, it read, please attend to me in the auxiliary audience chamber at the hour of three o'clock upon my return from St. Merrodrie's. We have business to discuss.

He had no choice then but to show up as bidden, feeling strangely underdressed for all that he'd put on clothes in far better condition than the Hawk uniform he'd abandoned. Nothing he owned seemed entirely proper for an audience with a princess, and it seemed more improper still to appear before Margaine in clothes the palace staff had tailored for him at her decree. Kestar put one of those tailored suits on nevertheless, eschewing only the jacket that matched the trousers, for he didn't want its bra.s.s b.u.t.tons to scratch the body of his great-grandfather's cittern as he brought it with him to the audience chamber.

If he had to wait for the princess's coming, he would at least be able to play.

No one stopped him, to his relief. His hand and mind both had something to do as long as he held the instrument, and indeed, it kept him distracted and out of the way of the stoic-faced guards who watched over the audience chamber's entrance. He settled himself on a bench along one wall, ignoring the throne, which was a less ornate cousin of the one in the palace's main throne room, and never heard the door open when Margaine finally arrived. The cittern consoled him with minor chords and the measures of a slow waltz trying to take shape beneath his fingers, while the echoes of its harmonies resonated around the room.

"You play beautifully, Lord Vaa.r.s.en. That instrument you're holding almost makes me think I should reconsider what I'm about to ask you."

Kestar's head shot up, and the rest of him hastily followed, though he took care to set the cittern aside as he stood to make his bow. "Thank you, Your Highness. How may I be of service?"

She'd come across the room to meet him, and she stopped now a few paces away, looking up at him thoughtfully. "To begin, you might tell me why you avoided the ceremony at St. Merrodrie's today, as well as everything else that has taken place in the palace since your arrival. I have my suspicions. But I would prefer to hear directly from you."

Oh G.o.ds was all Kestar could think for a moment, until he forced himself to rally his wits. He barely knew this woman, and he was not entirely sure he was still her subject, though she now claimed the throne of Adalonia-yet he could offer her nothing less than honesty. Faanshi would have called it upholding the ridah of truth, but to him, it was duty still ingrained in him as deeply as his love of music or his elven blood.

"I've been hiding because I don't know what to do with myself, my lady. What I've had to do has changed my entire world, and I'm honestly not sure what place I have in it now. My home is suddenly in another country. My Order kicked me out, and I couldn't begrudge them if they've been avoiding inviting me back in. And I killed Merawen. I know what she was in the end, but part of me still can't stand the knowledge that the Voice of the G.o.ds is dead because of me. I don't know how I'm supposed to hear the G.o.ds now, or even if they want me to."

The princess listened to him without interruption, her gaze on his face, and Kestar found himself flushing under her direct regard. He couldn't tell what she thought; Margaine was both less and more reserved of expression than he'd expected, and he'd grown accustomed to judging the expressions of Faanshi, Alarrah and Tembriel. A human woman was almost a shock by comparison.

Then all at once she smiled, and that too was a shock-for it came to him that severe as she seemed in her black mourning gown, Margaine Araeldes was beautiful.

"I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to hear someone willing to speak to me so plainly," she said. "Which brings me to my purpose in asking you to speak with me today. I know how adrift you must feel, Lord Vaa.r.s.en. It's been evident these last few days-and if I may be so bold, a man who makes a cittern speak as you do is a man with a weight upon his mind. I'd like to alleviate some of that weight. I have a position for you in my court if you choose to accept it. I am in dire need of your counsel."

Yet another shock, one at which he could not conceal his amazement. "Highness, I can't begin to imagine how I might advise you. My connection to the elves notwithstanding, I'm nothing but a disgraced Hawk."

"With blood ties to the elves-to their last known prince, in fact. They know you, or at least the elves of Dolmerrath do. They trust you. And if I'm to make them believe we're not going to round them all up and make slaves of them again, I must have someone who can guide me. Will you be that advisor, Lord Vaa.r.s.en? Anything you ask of me will be yours, if you'll do the Crown this honor."

Protests chased themselves back and forth across Kestar's mind-his lack of court experience, his relative youth, and how dubious his status with Gerren's people still seemed, even if they'd been willing to let him mourn Merawen's pa.s.sing with them. One finally made its way to the fore, and he grimaced even as he voiced it. "I'm from Kilmerry. That makes me Nirrivan, if you and the a.s.sembly of Lords are indeed moving forward with the independence negotiations. Can you even make me such an offer?"

"A very long time ago, Nirrivy and Adalonia were allies," Margaine replied, undeterred. "I'd like to see those days return. I'm prepared to offer you and your mother permanent welcome on Adalonian soil, or even Adalonian citizenship as well as Nirrivan. I'll send stipends to your estate, or have your father canonized by the Church-or for that matter, reinstate you in the Order if that's what you want. Name your compensation, my lord, and it is yours."

Her tone remained brisk for all of those words, but then, a hint of rose stole across her cheeks-just enough color to let Kestar realize that she had freckles, small ones, just the slightest dusting of brown across one cheek. They didn't match the demeanor of a princess. But they were a sudden detail that made her abruptly less Margaine Araeldes, Bhandreid-Regent, and more simply Margaine.

A woman who, Kestar thought in a burst of wonder, he could be honored to know.

"I accept, Your Highness," he said, and as her smile brightened, he felt as if the G.o.ds had chosen to speak to him again, to let him know he'd made the right choice. "Let's get to work."

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