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beside him, cleaning a spotless
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paw. Wryly, I smiled; my brother would say it was not his place to comment,
but it would not be necessary to say anything at all. By his very blankness I
knew what he was thinking-
He gestured down the corridor and we matched our strides as we walked even as
our lir trailed us. "I know little more than you," he told me. "Some word of
the bastard."
I swore. "With this war becoming more and more imminent, the last thing we
need is trouble with the bastard."
"Until he is dead, he will make it," lan shook his head as I looked at him
sharply. "No, I do not speak of assassination, but no doubt others do."
Assassination. It was a political reality, a tool kings and others used to
remove potential rivals as well as very real ones. Alaric himself had used it
against the House of
Erinn.
And for that very reason, I could not imagine myself condoning its use against
the bastard. Even to lessen the threat to me. Surely somewhere there would be
someone who grieved. His mother. His foster-father- Perhaps even a wife.
We descended spiraling staircases one behind the other;
the steps were too narrow to support more than one man at a time. Down and
down, around and around, with only a rope for a guide on the inner column. The
twisting staircase with its narrow confines was designed for ease of defense:
it was easier to defend the palace against the enemy one man at a time,
instead of one against many.
On the bottom floor we passed by guards in the corri-
dor and nodded greeting to those just outside the wooden door. One reached in,
unlatched, pushed the door open for us; we entered, had the door pulled closed
almost at once
 and walked into the eye of a storm.
No one took note of us. Where ordinarily men stopped speaking to acknowledge
me with bows and murmured greetings, now none even knew I was present. The
ranks of benches along the walls and just before us were filled;
more men, standing, lined the walls and filled the aisles.
Sitting, standing, they were shoulder to shoulder, block-
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its table where our father
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customarily sat. Over the low-voiced mumble of constant comments, I could hear
someone haranguing the Mujhar.
lan and I exchanged startled glances. Then he shrugged and began pushing a way
through the standing men, mumuring apologies even as the others swore,
shifted, glared. Many of them, as I followed, were unknown to me; no doubt
they were annoyed by the audacity of two much younger men.
I stepped upon a boot toe, apologized, nearly tripped over another. The
irritation was mutual as the owner of the toes and I exchanged scowls. Behind
me, Serri grum-
bled aloud; within the link I felt his disgust with manner-
less Homanans. But I also heard the murmuring arise in our wake; lan and I
were named by those who knew us, and by the time we reached the center of the
hall, where room was left for speakers and petitioners, the men moved aside
willingly. But by then we no longer needed the courtesy; our father, rising,
was summoning us to the dais.
We went at once, crossing the open space in the center of the hall- A man
stood before the dais in a posture that bordered on defiance. He turned as lan
and I approached;
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I saw his expression of outrage, as if he intensely re-
sented the interruption. But as he saw me, following in lan's wake, the
expression changed. He stared. And I
saw him murmur something silently to himself. A prayer.
Or a curse.
The men on the benches rose. The sudden silence was loud and very brief; I
heard the murmuring begin again almost at once. There was a note of
anticipation in most of the low-voiced comments. Apprehension in others.
And even hostility.
lan hesitated only a moment before he stepped up behind the table. Tasha was a
shadow behind him, tail whipping as she paced silently onto the dais. Like
Serri, she sensed the tension in the hall.
There were three chairs on the dais. The middle was obviously my father's: Taj
perched upon the back. Lom lay beside it, eyes slitted, lan went by him to the
left and waited behind it even as I took my place at the right.
Into the hush my father spoke quietly, presenting both of us to those
assembled. I saw faces I knew and faces I did not. The council members ringed
the floor in the curving
258
front row. I knew none of them well, save Rowan; I
looked to his face for some indication of the gravity of the session, but it
was a mask to me.
We sat down as my father did. Still there was silence.
The man in the middle of the floor continued to stare at
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"Be seated," my father announced, and the silence was replaced by the sound of
benches scraping, the ring of spurs, the clatter of sheaths and scabbards
striking wood.
The stranger in the center waited in tense silence.
"This is Eiek," my father said. "From the north, across the Bluetooth. He
represents that faction of Homanans who support the right of Carillon's son to
inherit the throne when I am dead."
Every man in the hall looked at me, to judge my reaction. No doubt they
expected shock, anger . . . per-
haps even hostility. And a few, probably, fear. But I
gave them none of those things. Instead, I looked at
Elek.
He did not look like a rebel, a fanatic, a madman. He looked like a man, and
not so much older than myself.
He was brown-haired, brown-eyed, clean-shaven with an open, earnest face. His
clothes were plain homespun:
tunic and breeches, without embellishment. His kneeboots were muddied, but
otherwise the leather was good. Not a nobleman, Elek, but neither was he a
poor man. No doubt his wealth lay in his convictions.
I rose, scraping my chair against the dais. Silently I
bade Serri stay by the chair; slowly 1 stepped off the dais and crossed the
open center of the floor. In silence I
stopped before Elek, marking how he wet his lips; how he had to look up to
meet my eyes. And marking also the faintest tang of perspiration. Elek was
nervous, now that I stood before him. And so I knew he had been exceedingly
eloquent, championing the bastard's right to usurp my place in the line of
succession.
"Why?" I asked. That only.
He swallowed. His gaze nicked between me and the
Mujhar. Clearly, he did not know how to answer.
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I waited. So did all the others.
After a moment, Elek cleared his throat- "He is Caril-
lon's son."
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"He is Carillon's bastard." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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