P. Hodgell - Honor's Paradox

“Who, pray tell, is ‘us’?”

Kindrie heard the warning in his voice like steel half unsheathed. Who knew what, and why hadn’t he been told?

“Kirien, Ashe, I, and . . . and your sister’s sneak Graykin. I told Jame myself what we had learned and was going to tell you when I got to Gothregor. As you see, I never made it.”

“Then tell me now.”

Kindrie gulped, tried to organize his thoughts, and began again, adding as many details as he knew. When he was done, he anxiously regarded the Highlord who sat before him frowning.

“Let’s see if I understand this correctly,” said Torisen. “Kinzi writes, no, stitches a letter to her lover Adiraina but is interrupted by Bashtiri shadow assassins. Both the letter and the contract proving your legitimacy are sewn onto the back of Tieri’s death banner.”

He shot Kindrie an unreadable look. “Congratulations, by the way, on not being a bastard and welcome to our small but interestingly inbred family.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“Condolences on your paternity, though.”

“To continue, the banner disintegrates, dropping its secret into Jame’s hands. She turns both the fragmentary letter and the contract over to you, and you seek a translation of the former from Lady Trishien. She reports as follows: Kinzi saw Rawneth and Greshan together in the Moon Garden several days after the latter’s death. They made love, in the midst of which Greshan’s face changed, presumably into Gerridon’s. Jame now reveals that last Autumn’s Eve she had a series of visions of that night in which she recognized Rawneth’s ‘servant’ as the infamous and apparently immortal changer Keral. She assumes, therefore, that Keral was Rawneth’s lover and the father of Kenan. When Kinzi summoned Randir mother and son to Gothregor for Adiraina to test the bloodlines of the latter, Rawneth forestalled her by taking out a contract with the shadow assassins on all the Knorth women. Hence the Massacre. But it doesn’t end there. To bring us up to date, I have just been attacked in the vicinity of Wilden by a changer. According to the above reasoning, Lord Randir has changer blood. Therefore, I have been attacked by Lord Randir, who has since run away.”

Kindrie sagged in his chair, feeling the emptiness of defeat.

This time when he had first come into Torisen’s presence, he had felt a subtle change in the other’s attitude toward him—not quite acceptance, but something close, and he had wondered: could the Highlord really be changing his attitude toward the Shanir? To know for sure, he would have to touch Torisen’s soul-image, but he had specifically been warned not to do that. Perhaps that harsh voice behind the locked door only waited like a snake in a hole for the provocation to strike. He thought, now, that he heard it stir.

“You don’t believe me,” he said numbly.

“On the contrary,” said Torisen, dropping his sarcastic tone, “I do. But will anyone else?”

“Your sister does. So do Kirien, Ashe, and Trishien.”

“Three at least of whom are sensible women. However, I have to deal with the High Council, and that will require solid proof.”

“Jame said the same thing.”

“Four sensible women, then. The attack on me is nothing. A farce, as it turned out, thanks to whatever it was that you blew into that changer’s face. The slaughter of the Knorth women, though . . .”

Torisen ran a hand through his hair, ruffling white streaks in the black. “We seem to have fallen into an old song:

“Do we really now have the answers to those questions and, more dangerous still, a name? If so, what do we do with them? What happened here today is confusing at best. Someone who appeared to be Holly tried to stick a knife in me. No one but you and I saw his contortions after you spread that powder. It’s a long reach from there back to the slaughter of the Knorth ladies. Even with proof, we’re talking about one of the most powerful houses in the Kencyrath, an ally of the Caineron. To challenge it could lead to civil war.”

“So all of those blood prices will go unpaid?”

“I didn’t say that. My instinct is that today’s assassination attempt and the previous one were clumsy crimes of opportunity, instigated by Kenan, with Rawneth no more prepared to follow them up than I am to pursue her. The time isn’t ripe.”

“And when it is?”

“Oh, then we’ll see.” Torisen’s expression made Kindrie shiver. “Sooner or later, there will be a reckoning.”

The horse eyed Jame warily, no less so than she did him. He was a chestnut gelding with a white star and white legs, tall enough so that she could hardly see over his withers. As she saddled him, he shifted restlessly in the crossties. When she slipped off his halter and attempted to bridle him, he backed up in the box stall and raised his head out of her reach.

“Here.” The horse-master entered, clouted the horse on the jaw to settle him, then forced the bit between his clenched teeth.

“This one had a wildcat land on his back once. See the scars? Mind you, it didn’t exactly attack, more like fell out of a tree on top of him. Try telling a horse that there’s a difference, though. He’s hardly a mount that I would have chosen for you.”

“It was the instructor’s idea.” Jame glowered at the Caineron randon watching from outside the stall.

“Huh,” said the officer and moved on, shouting, “Get a move on, you bed of slugs!”

The horse-master tightened the chestnut’s girth.

“Remember,” he said under his breath, “you may be able to ride a rathorn and a Whinno-hir, but to the average horse you’re a predator, to be gotten away from as fast as possible. If you’re scared—and I can see that you are—try not to show it.”

Fine for him to say, thought Jame as she led the horse up the ramp with her ten-command and their Caineron counterparts clopping around her. The rathorn Death’s-head obeyed her, if unwillingly, but she was only able to ride him because the bond between them allowed her to feel his shifts an instant before he made them. As for Bel-tairi, anyone could ride that sweet-tempered mare if they had her consent, never mind that only Jame did. All other horses to her were large, powerful, unpredictable creatures—and to them she was a thing with claws.

Outside the northern gate, the cadets swung into the saddle. They were paired this time with Gorbel’s ten-command. Gorbel himself sat on his dun gelding to one side, not meeting Jame’s eyes. He still hadn’t spoken to her since his return from Restormir nor attended the Falconer’s class. She wondered what his father had said to him.

“To begin with, once around the college,” said the instructor. “Walk, trot, canter, gallop. Keep in formation. Off you go.”

The others walked off. Jame’s mount backed up, shaking his head.

The randon slapped it on the haunch and it bolted to catch up, barging between Fash and Higbert at the far end of the line from her own ten. Their horses snapped at hers. Fash, laughing, gave her a not-so-playful shove.

The instructor caught up on the far right next to Brier.

They rounded the front of Old Tentir and began to trot. Jame could sense the pent-up energy in her mount, or was it his terror? Whichever, it felt like bestriding something on the verge of explosion. She tried to relax. The chestnut lurched sideways into its neighbor and began to buck, throwing Jame forward on his neck. She rapped it on the head. Instead of quieting, it bolted ahead of the line to a shouted curse from the instructor. Her own ten picked up the canter to keep pace.