Richard Baker - Avenger

“A Cyricist priestess hired sellswords and conjured devils to attack Lasparhall,” he answered. He recounted the awful events of the evening, making an effort to downplay the exact amount of danger he’d been in-Serise Hulmaster was no shrinking violet, but there was no point in giving her more cause to worry than she doubtless already had. “When we searched her body, we found correspondence from Valdarsel, the high prelate in Hulburg,” he concluded. Of course, that could have been planted, but Geran doubted it; he’d seen the hateful fanaticism in the woman’s eyes. “It seems that he directed the priestess to strike at us.”

“I haven’t heard much of this Valdarsel. Who is he?”

“A priest of Cyric. A few months earlier Mirya discovered that he was leading the Cinderfists-gangs of poor foreign folk who’ve fetched up in Hulburg over the last few years. Many of those are decent people simply trying to get by, but there are all too many criminals and slavers mixed up with them.” He made a sour face. “Valdarsel’s been stirring up the foreign folk and their gangs for months, although we didn’t know it at the time. They backed Marstel when he overthrew Uncle Grigor. Marstel rewarded him by giving him a seat on the Harmach’s Council.”

Serise glanced toward the window, painted white by the heavy frost. “It’s been six days now,” she murmured, thinking aloud. “Counting three days to Hulburg for the hard weather, it seems likely that this Valdarsel-and Marstel, too, I suppose-knows by now that poor Grigor is dead, but he also knows that his attack was not completely successful. You’ll have to be careful, Geran. They very well may try again.”

“I know it. Kara and I have done everything we can think of to safeguard the house and protect the rest of the family.”

“Good.” Serise sipped at her cider. “Your uncle was a gentle soul, perhaps too gentle to rule a realm like Hulburg. He didn’t deserve such an end.”

Geran stood up to pace in front of the hearth. “It’s my fault,” he said bitterly. “Marstel never could have seized Griffonwatch without Rhovann’s magic or his guile, and the only reason Rhovann came to Hulburg was to cause harm to me and those dear to me. And when I might have put a stop to it all by staying in Hulburg after the Black Moon raid, I took Seadrake and sailed off to rescue Mirya. I was warned about what would happen if I left Hulburg, but I chose not to listen. I’ve brought ruin on our House.”

“Nonsense, Geran,” Serise said sharply. “Perhaps Marstel’s wizard followed you from Myth Drannor-you would know better than I. But I recall that last spring Sergen attempted to kill Grigor and all the rest of the family, and it was you who prevented him from succeeding. If you hadn’t come back to Hulburg at all, none of the Hulmasters would be left today.” She fixed a stern look on him. “You didn’t murder your uncle, by action or inaction. The enemies of House Hulmaster did. All you did was to make the best choices you could at the time, and no one-not even the gods-can foresee all outcomes. To think you should have done so is simply indulging in self-pity.”

He winced. His mother was far from stupid, and she’d never been one to mince words. He knew she was right, but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t have been more vigilant. Of course the harmach’s blood was on the hands of their enemies … but Geran could imagine many things he might have done differently to safeguard his family against an attack. Grigor’s death might not have been his fault, but it was something that he might have stopped, and he sorely regretted that he hadn’t. “I understand,” he finally admitted. “I can’t even say that I truly regret my choice, because the Black Moon Brotherhood is no more, and Mirya and her daughter are alive and safe. But I wish the cost of my choices wasn’t so dear.”

“As do we all from time to time, although it’s true that few people see consequences such as you’ve seen.” Serise sipped again at her warm cider, and set down the cup. “I feel somewhat recovered now, and I’d dearly love to see young Natali and Kirr. Children have a way of raising spirits, you know.”

“Is that a hint, Mother?”

“I wouldn’t dream of wondering aloud when my son of thirty-one years might finally find a wife and present me with grandchildren.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind these days!” he protested. But he smiled and offered his arm again, escorting her to the family’s living quarters.

They found Geran’s Aunt Terena in the family’s great room, assisting Erna as she tried to keep Natali and Kirr at the day’s lessons, a task that was soon abandoned. Geran’s mother hadn’t seen the young Hulmasters in several years, and they were eager to make the acquaintance of a relation they’d all but forgotten. Geran passed an hour keeping them company and listening to Serise and Terena recall old stories about a younger, haler Grigor and the misadventures of their own departed husbands-in Terena’s case, not Kamoth Kastelmar but instead her first husband, Kara’s father Arvhun-in years when Geran was not much older than Kirr. He would have thought that the stories of happier days would have been too sad to bear with Grigor’s funeral drawing near, but to his surprise he found himself laughing aloud more than once at stories he’d heard a dozen times as a young man.

After a midday meal of venison stew and fresh-baked bread, Geran excused himself with an idea of riding to Thentia to make some inquiries about the sellswords who’d been hired for the attack. But before he could don his riding furs against the weather, he was intercepted by Master Quillon-a halfling scribe who’d served as the harmach’s private secretary for the better part of two decades-and his cousin Kara. “A moment, Geran,” Kara called. “Master Quillon’s brought something to my attention.”

Geran paused and regarded the halfling. Quillon was a balding fellow with long sideburns and a thick pair of spectacles balanced on the end of his nose; he wore a tabard in the blue and white colors of the family Hulmaster with a matching cap. “Go on,” he said.

Quillon held up a sheaf of letters in one inkstained hand. “We’re beginning to receive correspondence addressed to the Harmach of Hulburg,” he said. “Mostly, they’re condolences, letters that simply express sympathy for our loss and outrage at Harmach Grigor’s murder. This sort of thing is commonplace after the passing of a head of state, even a small state such as Hulburg. They come from various nobles and realms around the Moonsea. We’ve only received a handful so far, but there will be more over the next few tendays.”

Geran glanced at Kara, and back to Quillon. “If it’s typical correspondence, I’m not sure I understand what the problem is. How would we normally answer them?”

“Oh, I can see to that , Lord Geran. Answering them is not the difficulty-although there are some that should be read by a member of the family, and not just myself. The difficulty is that, well, I am not exactly certain who should sign them.” The halfling pushed at his spectacles uncomfortably. “You see … well, ah … I am not certain who is to become harmach. I brought these letters to Lady Kara since she assisted Harmach Grigor with such things over the last few years, but she told me that no decision has been made yet.”

“It’s not just the correspondence,” Kara added. “With the funeral tomorrow, there are questions of protocol too. We’ve avoided this discussion as long as we can.”

He stood in silence, looking at the letters in Quillon’s hand. Between the two of them, he and Kara had overseen the household for the last few days. But that was clearly a temporary arrangement. “Is there any decision to be made?” he finally asked. “I assume that Harmach Grigor left instructions for this. Or do the laws of succession simply dictate the answer?”