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  “Good morrow, my lords.”

  Jharan glanced at a table attendant who stood nearby. The attendant returned a slightly startled look, then moved to bring forward one of the empty chairs that stood against the side of the pavilion, while Mithrali took the remaining place at the table. A second attendant poured tea for her.

  Jharan took a slice of cold venison and a piece of bread. He thought it unlikely that Mithrali had been among Turon’s chosen intimates, but he could be mistaken. He wondered if Rinovon would tell him.

  Felisan turned to Mithrali. “You oversee the guilds in Glenhallow, yes? How many stone carvers can be brought to work on the monuments for the battlefield?”

  Mithrali raised an eyebrow. “I would have to consult the master of their guild. I would say there are likely to be fifty or more.”

  “They will all be needed.” Lathranan turned a stern face toward her. “The name of every guardian who fell is to be carved in stone.”

  “That is a vast undertaking.”

  Jharan was silent. To defend his decision would only weaken his authority. He drained his cup, and an attendant filled it with more tea.

  Shilonan came in, looking harried. Jharan had never seen him so; the steward seemed always to be a pillar of calm.

  “Forgive my delay. A messenger arrived from Glenhallow.”

  Jharan gestured toward the new place that had been set. “Please join us. I hope the news was good.”

  Shilonan came to the table. “All is in train for your investiture this evening. There were some matters of precedence to address, and some questions. Nothing . . . extraordinary.”

  The slight hesitation made Jharan look at Shilonan. The steward returned his gaze steadily, with just a hint of intensity. There was more he wished to say, Jharan thought, but he chose not to say it in this company.

  Jharan nodded, and passed a dish of fruit to Shilonan. “Will you ride with me, or must you see to matters here before you depart?”

  “I would be honored to ride with you.”

  “Excellent. Felisan, I assume you will join me?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Lathranan?”

  The warden shook his head. “I have more to do here. I will be in the city by evening.”

  “Is there any way I can assist you before I leave?”

  “No, my lord, but thank you.”

  Mithrali reached for a piece of fruit, her long fingers flashing with rings. Jharan could not picture her riding, dressed as she was. He assumed that she was among those Shilonan had mentioned who would prefer to travel by coach. He turned to Lathranan.

  “I spoke to . . . Wohiron, is it?”

  “Captain of your guard? Yes.”

  “I hoped that my former company might join them.”

  Felisan grinned as he helped himself to more meat. “He was drilling them at first light. I think you will have your wish.”

  “Companies are combining throughout the Guard.” Lathranan met Jharan’s gaze, weary grief in his eyes. “We have lost so many that no one company has adequate strength remaining. I mean to complete the consolidation before we depart for Glenhallow.”

  “How many companies will we have when it is done?”

  “I expect to have seventeen, at full strength or better. Not including your guard.”

  Jharan drew a sharp breath. The Southfæld Guard had come to the battle with full thirty companies.

  “We must send out patrols at once. If there is another attack while our strength is low—“

  Lathranan nodded. “The first scouts are already riding. I doubt that the kobalen will attack again in such numbers, but if they do, we will have plenty of warning.”

  “You are ahead of me.”

  “I cannot express how glad I am that you are experienced as a guardian.”

  Jharan looked up at him, somewhat surprised. He was almost inclined to ask if Lathranan felt the realm was in danger, but did not wish to voice the question. Not only was he uncertain of Mithrali’s discretion, but there were the attendants, and possibly others outside the pavilion who could hear.

  “Come to see me when you arrive in Glenhallow, if you will.”

  Lathranan nodded. Jharan would question him when they were within stone walls.

  Impatience gripped him. He looked to Shilonan, who had arrived last. The steward’s plate was empty, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea as he leaned back in his chair. Glancing at the others, Jharan saw that they were finished. Mithrali nibbled at an apricot, watching him.

  He drank the last of his tea and set down the cup, then stood. “May you all have a pleasant journey. Felisan, Shilonan, I will see you shortly.”

  Accepting their farewells, Jharan went into his curtained alcove and found Rinovon waiting. Jharan’s leathers were laid out atop the chest. The attendant helped him out of the robe and set it aside, helped him don the leathers. He was more comfortable in them, if only because of their familiarity.

  “Thank you for lending me your robe.”

  “An honor and a pleasure.”

  Rinovon buckled Jharan’s sword belt about him, and stood back. His appraising glance made Jharan smile.

  “Too rustic for a governor?”

  “Not at all. I was thinking a circlet would give you the right air of authority, but you will want to commission your own, of course.”

  A circlet. Jharan had not even thought of it. He would have to wear them; Turon had always done so. He tried to recall if he had ever seen the governor without one, but his only glimpses of Turon had been on public occasions.

  Rinovon coughed slightly. “There is the circlet of state, of course, for this evening.”

  Jharan managed to turn a wince into a nod. “Thank you. Follow as swiftly as you can. I have a feeling I will want your help.”

  “You shall have it.”

  Said quietly, but with an intensity that Jharan found oddly reassuring. He smiled, and strode out through the pavilion into the morning light.

  The camp was in turmoil. Tents being struck, wagons loaded, animals harnessed. Farther out among the army’s camps there was also much movement. Jharan wanted to know everything that was happening, but there was no time to ask.

  His horse, saddled with his own equipment but with mane and tail braided with sage and silver ribbons, shook its head at his approach. Jharan hid a smile, stroked the horse’s neck, and mounted. The animal was sturdy and unfashionable, being commonplace brown instead of the golden coat that was most favored in Glenhallow. His company had often teased him about it. He doubted they would dare to, any longer.

  Felisan rode up, grinning as he glanced from Jharan to his mount. “Suitably adorned.”

  Ignoring him, Jharan looked about for Shilonan. Not seeing the steward, he rode slowly forward, seeking a better view of the camp.

  At his approach, a line of guardians waiting at the edge of the governor’s camp came to attention and mounted. Each carried a lance wound with ribbons in Southfæld’s colors. Jharan saw familiar faces among the riders; his old company, already integrated. He could not help smiling at them.

  Hearing trotting hooves behind him, he turned in the saddle. A grey gelding came up beside Felisan’s bay, bearing Shilonan, who bowed from the waist.

  “Forgive my delay, Lord Jharan.”

  Jharan waved a hand in dismissal. “I do not mean to rush you. Have you more to attend to before we depart?”

  “No, all is in train.” His brow was furrowed, but he said no more.

  Jharan glanced once more around the valley, and at the pavilion where he had spent the night. All around it tents were coming down, but the governor’s tent stood ready yet, on the slight chance that he might decide to return to it.

  The complexity of his inheritance awed him. Sighing, he faced forward.

  “Let us go, then.”

  Ten guardians rode out in advance, two more flanked him and his companions to either side, and the rest rode behind in a thundering of hooves. Rather too many for an
escort, but he did not regret asking for his own company. He needed every friendly face he could find. With the sun shining bright and a fresh breeze in his face, he felt his spirits rise.

  Not until they had passed the last of the army’s camps and left Skyruach well behind did any of them speak. Jharan’s heart was too full, and Shilonan seemed lost in frowning thought. It was Felisan who broke the silence.

  “Well, I hope Lady Surani has remembered to order us a luncheon. We shall be starved by the time we reach Hallowhall.”

  Jharan raised an eyebrow at him, recalling numerous occasions on which they had camped hungry, having failed in their hunting, high in the mountains on patrol. Felisan must be trying to lighten the mood. He answered in kind.

  “I may not have leisure for that. If I get a fistful of bread and cheese I will be grateful.”

  Shilonan seemed to rouse himself from contemplation, but not to add to the conversation. Instead he looked earnestly at Jharan.

  “May I have a word with you in private, when next we halt?”

  Jharan glanced at his friend. “I trust Felisan with my life.”

  “Of course, my lord. I did not mean to exclude Lord Felisan.”

  Felisan’s eyes sharpened. “There is trouble?”

  Shilonan glanced at the guardians riding nearby, and his frown deepened. He faced forward and gave a single nod, almost imperceptible.

  Wonderful. Jharan found himself frowning as well, and worked to smooth his features.

  Felisan began at once to talk of the last investiture he had witnessed—that of Highstone’s theyn, under Governor Hirion. Jharan asked a question now and then when he could think of one. When the topic was exhausted, Felisan turned to rhapsodizing over the minstrels he had gathered the previous evening, describing how he had found each one and persuaded them to play together.

  Jharan nodded as he listened, silently grateful for Felisan’s talent for inconsequential chatter. It lasted them until a halt was called to rest the horses.

  Jharan dismounted, and a guardian took the reins of his mount. He strolled a few paces away with Felisan and Shilonan, to the shade of a small grove of greenleaf trees overlooking the Silverwash. The river glinted in the sunlight: beautiful, peaceful, showing no sign of the horrors that had taken place just upstream.

  “All right, Shilonan. What have you heard from Glenhallow?”

  The steward looked reluctant, as if the task was distasteful. He spoke in a low voice.

  “Giradon is organizing an opposition. Please—” Shilonan’s eyes were anxious and he reached out a hand. “Do not let this deter you.”

  Surprised, Jharan drew breath, but could not think of what to say. Opposed before he was even invested? A poor beginning.

  Shilonan put his hand to his chest. “I believe in my heart that you are not only the rightful governor, but also our best hope.”

  Jharan felt his cheeks coloring, and realized he was frowning again. He made an effort to relax.

  “You honor me.”

  “I see what Southfæld faces. Giradon sees only what he desires. He has many gifts, but foresight is not among them.”

  “Yet his knowledge is so deep, I gather the realm would suffer without him.”

  “It would suffer without access to that knowledge, yes. He does not carry all our heritage in his head, however.”

  Jharan faced the steward squarely. “Are you advising his dismissal?”

  “No. He has strong connections to all the other realms. In some cases he is our main liaison with them.”

  Felisan huffed. “A mistake.”

  Shilonan glanced at him. “Perhaps. There are not many who are willing to travel great distances and be among strangers. Turon was glad to leave it to Giradon, and in truth, he has a gift for diplomacy.”

  “Hirion considers it the governor’s duty to know his peers. He has dragged me—pardon; he has taken me along on visits to every realm.”

  Jharan looked up at his friend. “Perhaps you will do me the same favor.”

  Felisan raised an eyebrow. “Honored to, but I doubt you will have leisure to travel for some while.”

  They fell silent, all thinking of Southfæld’s future, no doubt. Jharan already felt weary, but that was due to the battle and the subsequent shock of learning his fate. A fate that was even now being challenged.

  He turned to Shilonan. “What will Giradon do to oppose me?”

  The steward sighed. “He will claim that you are inexperienced at governing, that you are merely a guardian.”

  “I said as much myself.”

  “And he will turn your words against you. He is clever with words.”

  “If that is so, I cannot debate him.”

  Felisan glanced up. “You can state your case. Make your position clear, and refuse to be drawn into argument.”

  “Yes.” Shilonan nodded. “I will support you, as will Lathranan, I am sure.”

  “Hm.”

  Jharan gazed at the river, wishing to be free of these troubles. Bad enough that the burdens of Southfæld had been dropped upon his shoulders; now he must fight to keep them, little though he wanted them.

  Or should he yield them? How easy it would be, if not for the disappointment he would face from Shilonan, from Lathranan—and all the Guard.

  No, he could not let them down. He must face Giradon and defeat him. A battle of wits, following hard on that of the sword.

  “You know Giradon, Shilonan. What are his weaknesses?”

  “Besides ambition? A certain lack of perception when it comes to the wants of others. A lack of personal appeal. He will seek to bargain favors in exchange for support, but he has not the gift of inspiring his followers.”

  Felisan grinned. “There you are, Jharan. You need merely be charming. You can do that.”

  Jharan shot a wry glance at him. “Thank you. Would that charm were the only talent required of a governor.”

  “It is surprisingly important in Glenhallow.” Shilonan gazed at him frankly. “The court can be frivolous. They love gaiety, and beauty, and charm. I think you have the advantage of Giradon there; he is not particularly admired.”

  “But would the court decide who governs, in the case of a dispute?”

  “Not the whole court, but the governor’s circle, who are the core of the court. If they fail to agree, then a council of adjudication would be called, comprised of the governor’s circle and the theyns of the realm.”

  “Spirits! That could take a year!”

  “Or more. Which is why I will strive to lead the circle to a decision.”

  Jharan nodded, glad of the allies he had, wondering how many of the rest favored Giradon. He tried to recall the names of those he had met—only the night before? It seemed an eternity.

  He began naming them off as best he could remember. Shilonan helped, correcting slight errors, reminding him of each counselor’s duties and expertise.

  “Three others remained in Glenhallow; you will meet them today. Rephanin rarely leaves the Magehall. Ohlani is with child, and Varishan is mourning his partner, Thilani.”

  Jharan looked at him, dismayed. “Thilani? She was in the governor’s succession!”

  “Yes.”

  “How will he react to me?”

  “I cannot say. I have never been able to predict his moods, and now . . . Varishan is an artist, and was a good friend of Turon’s. His position in the governor’s circle was one of courtesy. I expect he feels vulnerable at the very least.”

  Jharan nodded. He understood why Varishan and Ohlani had not come to the battlefield. Both had good reasons for not wishing to visit there just now.

  Felisan laid a hand on his arm. “Do not let these uncertainties sway you. You must go in with confidence. Any show of weakness and Giradon will be upon you like a catamount on a hare, claiming you have no knowledge or experience.”

  “Yet you must also be deferential.” Shilonan glanced at Felisan, then looked back with a faint smile. “It is a narrow path you must walk.
”

  “A cliff’s edge.” Jharan tried to smile back, and shrugged. “All I can do is my best.”

  Movement nearby drew their attention; Wohiron approached, and made a slight bow. “The horses are rested, my lords.”

  They returned to the saddle and rode on, continuing to talk, though not so frankly, of the governor’s circle and the court at Glenhallow. Jharan asked many questions, and Shilonan answered with infinite patience. The next halt offered no opportunity for private speech, but it scarcely mattered. Jharan knew he must rely on his own wits. He was grateful for the support of his friends, new and old, but in the end it was he alone who would be judged.

  Glenhallow came into view as they crossed the last outthrust ridge of the Ebons, a gleam of pale gold against the blue-green mountains. Jharan’s heart surprised him with a hard thump. The city was his home—had been for centuries—but he could not help but see it anew. High roofs of the crafthalls rose above the other buildings; he must become acquainted with all of their masters. Highest of all was the Star Tower, a pale spire rising from the palace of Hallowhall.

  The palace. He was to dwell there now, he who had lived either in the Guard’s barracks or in a tent for the last century and more. Impossible to imagine. Would he be greeted with cheers, or suspicion?

  As the cavalcade turned from the river for the last leg of the journey, up the long, shallow slope to Glenhallow, he felt again the sorrow of the battlefield and realized he would have no jubilant welcome. Glenhallow was mourning the many hundreds who had perished. He was glad, in fact, to be entering the city in relative quiet. It better suited his temperament as well as the occasion.

  Felisan became animated, telling a foolish story of his visit to the Steppe Wilds with Hirion. Jharan only half listened. He was watching the city as they drew nearer, imagining what would have happened had the defense at Skyruach failed, and the kobalen overrun Glenhallow. The thought made his heart ache with dread.

  The city would have had no defense at all. Only a handful of the Guard had stayed behind, and there were no barriers protecting Glenhallow, save the little tributary river that wound its way down to join the Silverwash. None had ever been needed.