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“That was well said, Milady,” Trisu said with the first completely ungrudging warmth he’d displayed. Then he drew a deep breath.
“As I’m sure Mayor Yalith told you, the original town of Quaysar has effectively been absorbed by the temple there. In the process, the office of the Voice of the temple has merged with the office of the mayor of Quaysar, as well. By tradition, the same person has held both of them for the past seventy-odd years. Which means the Voice isn’t simply the priestess of the temple, but also the secular head of the community. In that role, she’s one of my vassals, which has occasionally created uncomfortable strains between the various Voices and my own father and grandfather. Inevitably, I suppose, given the unavoidable difficulties the Voices must have faced in juggling their secular obligations to the Lord of Lorham with their spiritual obligations to his subjects. And, of course, to the war maids over whom my house has no actual jurisdiction.
“My father had seen to it that I would be aware such difficulties were only to be expected from time to time. I think he was afraid that without such an awareness I would be unwilling to consider the sorts of compromises which situations like that might require. He’d seen enough of that attitude from my Uncle Sareth, I suspect, and even as a child, I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly noted for cheerful compromises.” He snorted a sudden laugh of his own and shook his head when Kaeritha looked a question at him. “Your pardon, Milady. I was just thinking about how fervently my tutors and arms instructors would have endorsed that last statement of mine.”
Kaeritha nodded. At least he was able to laugh at himself sometimes, she thought.
“At any rate,” he continued, “I was prepared for the possibility that the new Voice and I might not exactly take to one another on sight. What I wasn’t prepared for was the … well, the wave of wrongness that poured off of her.”
“ ’Wrongness’?” Kaeritha repeated very carefully.
“I don’t know a better word for it,” Trisu said. “It was as if every word she said rang false. Every word, Milady. I’ve met other people I simply didn’t like, and I’m sure other people have had that reaction to me. But this was like a dog and a cat closed into the same cage—or perhaps a snake and a ferret. It was there between us from the instant she opened her mouth, and although it shames me to admit it, something about her frightened me.”
He looked squarely at Kaeritha, and his gray eyes were dark.
“If you want the full truth of it, Milady,” he said very quietly, “I wasn’t at all sure which of us was the ferret … and which the serpent.”
Kaeritha stared up at the heavens, recalling Trisu’s expression and tone, and a chill ran down her spine like the tip of an icicle. Trisu of Lorham might be a pain in the arse. He might be opinionated, and he was certainly stubborn. But one thing she did not believe he was was a coward. For that matter, no true coward would have been prepared to admit to a champion of Tomanak that he’d been frightened by anyone. Especially not if he was also a thorough-going conservative of Trisu’s stripe admitting he’d been frightened by a woman.
But Yalith had shown no sign of any similar feelings towards the Voice. It was tempting, dreadfully so, to put the difference down to all of the other differences between Kalatha and the Lord of Lorham. Yet tempting or not, Kaeritha knew that simple answer was insufficient.
Which was why she knew she had to travel to Quaysar herself. And why she felt an icy edge of fear of her own at the thought.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“I’d rather not go myself, dear heart,” Tellian said. He put an arm around Hanatha and hugged her gently. “What I wish I could do is stay here with you. If I can’t bring Leeana home to you—and I can’t—then if the gods were fair, I could at least be here with you while we adjust to the emptiness.”
“The gods are never unfair,” Hanatha said. She rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and smiled sadly at him. “We mortals make our own decisions, and we must live with their consequences.”
“I don’t remember deciding that an unmitigated bastard like Cassan, with the morals of a pimp and the mind of a weasel, had any right to propose a lecherous dog older than I am, who’s little better than a common rapist, as our only daughter’s husband!” Tellian replied, just a bit more warmly than he’d intended to.
“No,” she replied, and her own quiet tone was a gentle rebuke, “but I don’t remember saying we had to live only with the consequences of our own decisions. It wouldn’t be proper for me to agree with your description of Cassan or Blackhill,” she continued primly, “but since only a most undutiful wife would disagree with her husband, and I, of course, am far too beaten down and intimidated to be anything but dutiful, I’ll let that deplorable language pass. If, however, the opportunity to introduce Cassan’s parents to one another should ever come your way, I trust you will do so.”
Despite his own frustration and anger, Tellian felt his lips twitch as he tried to suppress a smile.
“But whatever we may think of the two of them,” Hanatha continued more seriously, “they, too, have power to make decisions, and their decisions carry consequences not simply for them, but for others. Including us. And however much it may pain us, Leeana’s decisions also carry consequences for all of us. It seems to me that it would be asking a bit much of the gods to sort out that incredible snake’s nest of mutually conflicting decisions just so they could make you and me happy. Mind you, I wouldn’t object if they decided to do exactly that, but I’m afraid the best any of us can do is cope with our own decisions—and responsibilities—as best we may.”
“There are times, love—many times—when I feel the wrong one of us was born male. You would have made a superb baron.”
“Perhaps. But as it is, I get to give my advice knowing the ultimate responsibility is yours, not mine.” She smiled. “That means I feel less pressure, so I suppose it’s only natural that it should be easier for me to take a long view.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, and turned, his arm still around her, to look down from the upper terrace at the armsmen waiting patiently for him to join them. Breastplates flashed under the morning sun, brass and leatherwork gleamed, and the blue-and-white gryphon ba
“I should be going to Warm Springs, as I’d intended,” he said, and Hanatha sighed. She was the one who had pointed out why he should change his mind, yet she knew he wasn’t really arguing against her. It was the inescapable fact that there was only one of him which he really hated.
“You can go to only one place at a time, Tellian,” she said patiently, in a we’ve-already-had-this-discussion sort of tone. “Prince Bahzell, Hurthang, Gharnal, Brandark, and Kelthys have all gone to Warm Springs. If they can’t be trusted to deal with whatever happened there, just who do you think can?”
“Yes, but—”
“Oh, no, Tellian!” She shook her head, then turned to wave a finger under his nose. “You are not going to double- and triple-think your way into belaboring yourself with a guilty conscience this time! You have responsibilities in Glanharrow, as well as in Warm Springs, and the most experienced, most competent people you could possibly have chosen have already gone to Warm Springs. Trianal, on the other hand, is probably your least experienced senior officer, and he’s all alone at Glanharrow as your direct representative.” She half-glared at him. “Now, given all of that, how can you possibly even doubt where you ought to be going?”