While the court at Corus bustled about with preparations for the Midwinter festivities, Lord Emry bowed out of the general commotion and enjoyed a well-deserved respite from war. While he was respected--and at time nearly revered--for his accomplishments to the West, he found that he had returned as something of a stranger. In his few days of quiet here, he had learned from the King that many of his old comrades-in-arms were away fighting, or had been killed; it made Emry keenly aware of his own mortality and vulnerability--having finished with them, would the war claim his life next?
"Sir Emry," came a small, respectful voice. A fair-haired page bowed gracefully, then flung himself into the general's arms. Emry felt something stinging in the corners of his eyes as he embraced his son and eldest child. "Galen," he said quietly, "I'm glad to see you." He held the boy at arm's length to get a good look at him. Jasson had often remarked that Galen was like a small, youthful version of his father, and Emry could see what he meant: the searching brown eyes and golden hair were Abella's, but the angles and planes of the face, the build of the young body, were all inherited from the Lord of Haryse.
"Have you been minding your mother and teachers?" he asked, at a loss for what else to say. The boy nodded eagerly. "Our archery teacher says I'm a good shot with a short bow--and after Midwinter I'm to start practicing with a staff."
Emry nodded approvingly, and listened to what his son had to say about his masters. Jasson has said that father and son looked alike, but in terms of interests, they had little in common. Galen's soliloquy was interrupted by a loud bell that Emry remembered all too well. "Off you go," he said to Galen affectionately, and watched as the boy disappeared down one of the corridors.
"Catching up on what you've missed?" came an amused voice from behind him. Emry smiled, and moved over to make room for the prince. "As you have as well, I imagine." Roald nodded. "Father has seen to it that I'm informed of everything that's taken place in my absence, right down to the food and provisions that have been ordered for Midwinter."
The Lord of Haryse winced sympathetically--he too was familiar with how exacting the King could be. "And for all of that," Roald continued darkly, "he didn't even seem particularly happy to see me."
"Don't think too much of it," Emry advised gently. "Your father's got a lot on his mind." Roald sighed, and the knight could tell that his young protégé was brooding about it still. Roald had always been sensitive; Jasson's inattentiveness and distracted ambition had made their mark upon his son. It was the delicate position that nearly every prince or heir found themselves in at some point. "Norwin and Timandra have a son now, did you hear?" Roald asked, coming out of his reverie. "My nephew, Roger." The prince smiled slightly seeing Emry's moue of distaste. Although Norwin of Conté, Jasson's second son, was only two years younger than Roald, he had married at a young age to the ingenuous and--Emry thought--somewhat air-headed Timandra of Hollyrose. Norwin enjoyed nothing more than the sensation he had created with his storybook romance, and cared more about maintaining the story of his marriage than he ever had for his young and girlish wife.
"No doubt all I shall hear from father while I'm here is 'Why haven't you found a wife yet?' and 'It's high time you started courting someone!' Especially since it's the winter social season." Roald fidgeted with the him of his tunic. "I almost wish the battle in the Hill Country had kept up longer, if only so that I could be there instead of here."
Emry frowned, somewhat annoyed by the prince's petulance. "I hate to say it, but your father most probably has a point," he said. Roald scowled, and turned away. "No, listen to me," Emry continued. "These are dangerous times we live in--if something happens to you, then what?"
The prince shrugged. "Norwin becomes the heir, and Roger after him."
The Lord of Haryse nodded. "Exactly. I say this as a friend and teacher Roald: It would be a terrible day for Tortall if Norwin came to power. You know this as well as I do." He could see Roald's inner struggle mirrored on his face: a wish to not speak ill of his brother warring with his own intense dislike of Norwin. Emry sighed. "I won't say anything more of it, Roald--but I don't want to see you come to grief."
"What do you think of Lianne of Naxen?"
The question caught Emry completely off guard. "What?"
"Lianne--Gary's sister. She's __, and arrived here the other day."
"I could hardly say, I haven't been introduced to her yet," the older knight answered cautiously. "What do you think of her?"
Roald blinked, not expecting a question in return. "I haven't seen her in so long," he fumbled. "But I remember her well from when we were young together. Perhaps with time..." He shrugged. "She has grown into quite a pretty thing--and her lineage is good enough to please Father..."
"That's not what I was asking, Roald."
The prince smiled, chastised. "I'm sorry, Emry--I should know better than to try to dissemble with you. I don't know what I think of her, though; it's been a long time, and we've both changed."
Emry nodded. "Well, there's no need to hurry right no. We're home and, Gods willing, not returning to the battlefield any time soon. And," he added with a sly look, "I believe the Midwinter festivities will be upon us soon?
*****
Far to the south, in the squat wilderness citadel of Persopolis, Khalid ibn Yasim watched the sun sink into the desert sands--appropriately enough, from the abandoned Sunset Room--and pondered the fate of the Bazhir people. It had been decided by the many tribal elders gathered in the city that Rahim ibn Yunis had to die; that his son, Majid, should take his place; and that Khalid was the only person trustworthy enough to do the deed. He would be reviled for it, of course--the Bazhir tribesman could never understand why their acknowledged leader and defender must be gotten out of the way and replaced with someone more eager to submit to the Northern interlopers who would come some day soon. The truth would only scatter the tribes further. Now word had come of the Northern victory in the Hill Country, and Khalid had run out of time. His life and his people both tottered at the edge of a precipice. The desert would surely be the next prize the Northern king set his sights upon--but was killing Rahim that only way to preserve the Bazhir? The elders who had called for this dark act argued that the leader's arrogance and tenacity would be there undoing: if the Bazhir resisted tooth and nail, the Northerners would crush every last vestige of their people to ensure compliance. But if a more amenable and biddable leader--Majid, for example--offered them control over the desert, the Northerners would take a more lenient stance in order to preserve the goodwill of the contract.
One way or another, the desert would fall to the Northern armies; but Khalid had trouble believing that the path to preservation lay in getting one stubborn leader out of the way. There was no way to guarantee Majid's cooperation, either. For ten years, Khalid had been the boy's tutor and confidante, and he knew better than anyone that Majid liked to have his own way with things; if too much pressure were put on him, he might balk at the elders' wishes and refuse to sign a peace treaty out of spite. Khalid sighed; he had devoted the last decade of his life to the boy, cultivating him and teaching him to be the sort of just and moral person his father was not; but ultimately he had the feeling that Majid had slipped from his clutches, had gone wrong somehow. His father's pride and ambition ran too strongly in his veins.
And so it comes to me, Khalid thought, watching the last rays of the sun. The dying light gleamed off of something black, far away. The Black City...oh Gods. I had forgotten. A new worry made his stomach turn over. What will the Northerners do if they find it? What could they unleash, all unknowing? He cast his gaze downward, at the tiled floor. Night-One, Brightly-Burning One, where are you? You could take at least one fear from my mind. The Black City settled it, though--the Bazhir must win the right to guard the Black City from the Northerners, and; that duty, at least, should not fall into foreign hands--and the only way to win that right would be to help the Northerners when they came.
Gods, I pray to you that I am right in what I am about to do, and that you have not led my thoughts astray. Khalid sent the thought skyward as the last light of day winked below the sand, and went to find his weapon.
"Sir Emry," came a small, respectful voice. A fair-haired page bowed gracefully, then flung himself into the general's arms. Emry felt something stinging in the corners of his eyes as he embraced his son and eldest child. "Galen," he said quietly, "I'm glad to see you." He held the boy at arm's length to get a good look at him. Jasson had often remarked that Galen was like a small, youthful version of his father, and Emry could see what he meant: the searching brown eyes and golden hair were Abella's, but the angles and planes of the face, the build of the young body, were all inherited from the Lord of Haryse.
"Have you been minding your mother and teachers?" he asked, at a loss for what else to say. The boy nodded eagerly. "Our archery teacher says I'm a good shot with a short bow--and after Midwinter I'm to start practicing with a staff."
Emry nodded approvingly, and listened to what his son had to say about his masters. Jasson has said that father and son looked alike, but in terms of interests, they had little in common. Galen's soliloquy was interrupted by a loud bell that Emry remembered all too well. "Off you go," he said to Galen affectionately, and watched as the boy disappeared down one of the corridors.
"Catching up on what you've missed?" came an amused voice from behind him. Emry smiled, and moved over to make room for the prince. "As you have as well, I imagine." Roald nodded. "Father has seen to it that I'm informed of everything that's taken place in my absence, right down to the food and provisions that have been ordered for Midwinter."
The Lord of Haryse winced sympathetically--he too was familiar with how exacting the King could be. "And for all of that," Roald continued darkly, "he didn't even seem particularly happy to see me."
"Don't think too much of it," Emry advised gently. "Your father's got a lot on his mind." Roald sighed, and the knight could tell that his young protégé was brooding about it still. Roald had always been sensitive; Jasson's inattentiveness and distracted ambition had made their mark upon his son. It was the delicate position that nearly every prince or heir found themselves in at some point. "Norwin and Timandra have a son now, did you hear?" Roald asked, coming out of his reverie. "My nephew, Roger." The prince smiled slightly seeing Emry's moue of distaste. Although Norwin of Conté, Jasson's second son, was only two years younger than Roald, he had married at a young age to the ingenuous and--Emry thought--somewhat air-headed Timandra of Hollyrose. Norwin enjoyed nothing more than the sensation he had created with his storybook romance, and cared more about maintaining the story of his marriage than he ever had for his young and girlish wife.
"No doubt all I shall hear from father while I'm here is 'Why haven't you found a wife yet?' and 'It's high time you started courting someone!' Especially since it's the winter social season." Roald fidgeted with the him of his tunic. "I almost wish the battle in the Hill Country had kept up longer, if only so that I could be there instead of here."
Emry frowned, somewhat annoyed by the prince's petulance. "I hate to say it, but your father most probably has a point," he said. Roald scowled, and turned away. "No, listen to me," Emry continued. "These are dangerous times we live in--if something happens to you, then what?"
The prince shrugged. "Norwin becomes the heir, and Roger after him."
The Lord of Haryse nodded. "Exactly. I say this as a friend and teacher Roald: It would be a terrible day for Tortall if Norwin came to power. You know this as well as I do." He could see Roald's inner struggle mirrored on his face: a wish to not speak ill of his brother warring with his own intense dislike of Norwin. Emry sighed. "I won't say anything more of it, Roald--but I don't want to see you come to grief."
"What do you think of Lianne of Naxen?"
The question caught Emry completely off guard. "What?"
"Lianne--Gary's sister. She's __, and arrived here the other day."
"I could hardly say, I haven't been introduced to her yet," the older knight answered cautiously. "What do you think of her?"
Roald blinked, not expecting a question in return. "I haven't seen her in so long," he fumbled. "But I remember her well from when we were young together. Perhaps with time..." He shrugged. "She has grown into quite a pretty thing--and her lineage is good enough to please Father..."
"That's not what I was asking, Roald."
The prince smiled, chastised. "I'm sorry, Emry--I should know better than to try to dissemble with you. I don't know what I think of her, though; it's been a long time, and we've both changed."
Emry nodded. "Well, there's no need to hurry right no. We're home and, Gods willing, not returning to the battlefield any time soon. And," he added with a sly look, "I believe the Midwinter festivities will be upon us soon?
*****
Far to the south, in the squat wilderness citadel of Persopolis, Khalid ibn Yasim watched the sun sink into the desert sands--appropriately enough, from the abandoned Sunset Room--and pondered the fate of the Bazhir people. It had been decided by the many tribal elders gathered in the city that Rahim ibn Yunis had to die; that his son, Majid, should take his place; and that Khalid was the only person trustworthy enough to do the deed. He would be reviled for it, of course--the Bazhir tribesman could never understand why their acknowledged leader and defender must be gotten out of the way and replaced with someone more eager to submit to the Northern interlopers who would come some day soon. The truth would only scatter the tribes further. Now word had come of the Northern victory in the Hill Country, and Khalid had run out of time. His life and his people both tottered at the edge of a precipice. The desert would surely be the next prize the Northern king set his sights upon--but was killing Rahim that only way to preserve the Bazhir? The elders who had called for this dark act argued that the leader's arrogance and tenacity would be there undoing: if the Bazhir resisted tooth and nail, the Northerners would crush every last vestige of their people to ensure compliance. But if a more amenable and biddable leader--Majid, for example--offered them control over the desert, the Northerners would take a more lenient stance in order to preserve the goodwill of the contract.
One way or another, the desert would fall to the Northern armies; but Khalid had trouble believing that the path to preservation lay in getting one stubborn leader out of the way. There was no way to guarantee Majid's cooperation, either. For ten years, Khalid had been the boy's tutor and confidante, and he knew better than anyone that Majid liked to have his own way with things; if too much pressure were put on him, he might balk at the elders' wishes and refuse to sign a peace treaty out of spite. Khalid sighed; he had devoted the last decade of his life to the boy, cultivating him and teaching him to be the sort of just and moral person his father was not; but ultimately he had the feeling that Majid had slipped from his clutches, had gone wrong somehow. His father's pride and ambition ran too strongly in his veins.
And so it comes to me, Khalid thought, watching the last rays of the sun. The dying light gleamed off of something black, far away. The Black City...oh Gods. I had forgotten. A new worry made his stomach turn over. What will the Northerners do if they find it? What could they unleash, all unknowing? He cast his gaze downward, at the tiled floor. Night-One, Brightly-Burning One, where are you? You could take at least one fear from my mind. The Black City settled it, though--the Bazhir must win the right to guard the Black City from the Northerners, and; that duty, at least, should not fall into foreign hands--and the only way to win that right would be to help the Northerners when they came.
Gods, I pray to you that I am right in what I am about to do, and that you have not led my thoughts astray. Khalid sent the thought skyward as the last light of day winked below the sand, and went to find his weapon.
