Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

He rose slowly now from his seat as Griswold approached.

“This—this was an inexplicable act,” he said, resting his hand on the table beside him for balance. “Sorbold—the Crown, that is—knows nothing of this, I’m certain.” He anxiously fingered the holy amulet around his neck, its talisman shaped like the earth.

Griswold crossed his arms over his chest, causing the amulet he wore, with its talisman shaped like a drop of water, to clink soundly. “It would certainly seem that an action involving an entire column of royal soldiers might have at least a suggestion of permission from the prince or the empress,” he said haughtily. “Particularly one that violates peace treaties and commits atrocities upon the citizens of a neighboring land—a formerly allied nation.” He came to a halt in front of his nemesis as the Blesser of Sorbold drew himself up to his full height and turned to face the others.

“I can assure you that this heinous attack was not sanctioned by the government of Sorbold,” Mousa said, his voice betraying none of the anxiety apparent in his features. “Let me state emphatically that Sorbold wishes no hostility with Roland, nor with any of its other neighbors. And even if it did, the Crown Prince has been keeping vigil at the sickbed of his mother, Her Serenity, the Dowager Empress, and would certainly not have chosen this time to attack.”

“How can you say that for certain?” sneered Griswold.

“I am here , for the love of the All-God!” Mousa growled. “Do you think they would risk the life of their only benison this way?”

“Perhaps the Crown Prince is trying to tell you something,” Griswold suggested.

Mousa’s dusky face flushed with dark anger. “Void take you, Griswold! If you don’t choose to believe in my worth to my See, let me at least assure you that if Sorbold had decided to attack Roland, we would have done so with one hundred times the force you saw today! You fool! Our own people were here at the festival! You have excused away all of the assaults that have been perpetrated on citizens of Tyrian and other Orlandan provinces by your own people as ‘random’ or ‘inexplicable’—you’ve never taken responsibility for any of that violence! Yet you cannot accept that this is exactly the same?”

“It’s not the same,” said Stephen Navarne quietly. The others turned to see the master of Haguefort standing in the open doorway. He had entered so silently that none had heard him come in.

The Duke of Navarne crossed the enormous room and came to stand directly in front of Nielash Mousa, who had gone pale again at his words. Stephen brought his hand awkwardly to rest on the benison’s upper arm and found it to be trembling.

“It’s not the same, because hithertofore there have been no incursions from Sorbold—this is the first I know of. The fact that whatever madness has been causing these attacks has spread to Sorbold is most disturbing, though not altogether unexpected. Up until now it limited itself to Tyrian and Roland.”

“And Ylorc,” said Tristan Steward firmly. “I told you last summer that the Bolg had attacked my citizens, and you all chose to disregard me.”

“King Achmed denied it,” said Quentin Baldasarre. Tristan’s eyes blazed. He reached into his boot and pulled forth a small, three-bladed throwing knife, and threw it at Baldasarre’s feet, where it clanged against the stone floor.

“He also denied selling weapons to Sorbold. See how much his word is worth.” The Lord Roland regarded Baldasarre coldly. “In your case, Quentin, you purchased that worthless word at the cost of your brother’s life.”

Baldasarre was off the leather couch and halfway across the room as the last words came from Tristan’s mouth, his muscles coiled in fury. Lanacan Orlando had managed to grasp the duke’s arm and was pulled along with the force of his stride, and now interposed himself between Tristan and Quentin. “Please,” the benison whispered. “No more violence; please. Do not desecrate your brother’s memory in your anger, my son.”

“He is in the warmth of the Afterlife, having saved us all,” said Ian Steward.

“Dunstin Baldasarre died a hero’s death,” Philabet Griswold intoned. “As did Andrew Canderre,” Ian Steward added quickly. Cedric Canderre opened his mouth to speak, but his words were stifled by the creak of the double doors as they opened, admitting Llauron, the Invoker of the Filids. The Invoker’s chiefs had been lending aid to Stephen’s forces, Khaddyr tending to the wounded alongside the healers of Navarne, while Gavin led the reconnaissance that was assessing the Sorbold attack. Llauron nodded to Stephen, then made his way quietly to the sideboard beside Ihrman Karsrick and poured himself a last finger of brandy, emptying the decanter.

When Cedric Canderre found his voice, it was steady, belying the pain in his eyes.

“I don’t wish to debate this further,” he said flatly. “Madeleine and I need to return to my lands, to prepare for Andrew’s interment, and to comfort the Lady Jecelyn.” He cleared his throat, and cast a pointed glance at his fellow dukes, then looked to Ian Steward, the benison of Canderre-Yarim. “She is going to need much support and consolation, Your Grace. She expects Andrew’s child in autumn.”

A heavy silence fell, echoing through the library, as the holy men and regents looked at each other. Finally Tristan Steward spoke.

“Have no fear, Cedric. Madeleine and I will see to the child’s needs and education as if it were Andrew’s right-born heir.”

Canderre’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. Stephen Navarne felt his fists unconsciously clench in anger at Tristan’s words; the Lord Roland had just named the child as Andrew’s bastard. The implication was lost on none of the men present: by right of succession Madeleine, and by extension, upon their marriage, Tristan, was now heir to Canderre, not Andrew’s unborn child.

Quentin Baldasarre, Andrew’s cousin, already furious at Tristan, stepped forward angrily again, only to have his arm caught by Lanacan Orlando, his benison.

“The child will be Sir Andrew’s right-born heir, my son,” Orlando said calmly to Tristan, his voice no longer quaking as it had the moment before. He turned to the clergy and the provincial leaders. “I presided over the marriage of Sir Andrew and Lady Jecelyn in secret last summer. Their union was blessed; the Unification ritual was performed. As result, any child of their union is legitimate, and the right-born heir of Cedric Canderre.” The firelight glinted off the chain around his neck, which bore no talisman in representation of the wind.

Stephen glanced at Llauron, but the Invoker showed no sign of surprise, or even interest; rather, he inhaled the bouquet of his brandy and took a sip from the snifter. Andrew had said nothing of his marriage to Stephen.

Tristan seemed shocked, while his brother, Ian, normally placid, grew red in the face. The spiral of red jewels in the sun-shaped talisman around his neck flashed angrily in the firelight as well.

“Why did he come to you, Your Grace?” Ian Steward demanded. “He is a member of my See, not yours.”

The benison of Bethe Corbair opened his hands mildly in a gesture of reconciliation. “And Lady Jecelyn is a member of mine. It was a romantic impulse, no doubt. It seemed too long for them to wait to be together, though they both looked forward to the more important, formal ceremony over which you would have presided next month, Your Grace. I imagine they did not wish to impose on you twice.”

The dukes exchanged a glance. It was apparent to them that Lanacan Orlando was probably offering a gracious cover for Andrew Canderre’s difficult situation, though the benison maintained a steady gaze. Tristan Steward exhaled deeply, but otherwise betrayed no annoyance that his attempt to place himself in Canderre’s line of succession had been thwarted. Finally Cedric spoke.