bed.
On the edge of sleep, Jame mulled over Timmon’s words and came wide awake with a jolt. All the lordans . . . Kirien!
CHAPTER IV
Relics
Winter 80
Torisen Black Lord squinted at the parchment on the desk before him and damned its wriggly lettering. Why couldn’t the Edirr find a scribe who could write? Perhaps, though, it was just his own tired eyes. After all, he had been working at the foot-high stack of correspondence for days on end.
Stop whining, he told himself. This is what you get for letting things pile up .
Other Highborn had scrollsmen to help them. He could too, easily. Unlike the priests at Wilden, the scholars of Mount Alban didn’t have to be Shanir, and there were Knorth among them. As the commander of the Southern Host he had learned how to delegate responsibility. Why, as Highlord, was he finding it so hard?
Perhaps because some things are meant for your eyes alone.
That, no doubt, was true, but still he wished he had the support of his former commander and present war-leader, Harn Grip-hard.
Torisen wondered if Harn had yet reached Kothifir. After the randon’s rough time at Tentir that fall, it had seemed best to post him as far away from the college as possible for the time being, even though the one at fault had been his sister’s Southron servant Graykin, apparently possessed by Greshan in the form of the Lordan’s Coat. How in Perimal’s name did Jame get into such scrapes, much less attract such followers? Of all foul tricks, to drug someone with black forget-me-not . . . Torisen wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, except that the potion had forced Harn to relive his father’s suicide after Greshan’s death . . . or was that because of Greshan’s death? The Commandant had been vague about that, another reminder that Tentir held some secrets which he, never having been a cadet there, would never share.
Unlike your sister, whispered his father’s hoarse, mocking voice at the back of his soul image, behind the locked door. The randon may have raised you, boy, but she is their darling now .
Parchment crumpled in his grip. Only if she passes Tentir.
Ungenerous, unkind, unjust. After all, he had sent her to the college in the first place.
Trinity, look at all the papers left. He had let them pile up in the first place because he had been afraid that one of them would report that Jame had flayed that wretched cadet Vant alive. Of course, she hadn’t. Instead he had fallen into a pit in the fire timber hall, tried to drag Torisen in after him, and then burned to death.
Should he read another petition, or give up for the day?
Torisen rubbed a hand across his face. It felt strange to encounter a beard there; however, he was determined never to be mistaken for his sister again as he had been by both Timmon and Vant during the Winter War. Timmon had wanted to seduce Jame, which made some sort of sense. True, she wasn’t to every man’s taste, but he had glimpsed her in dreams that made him stir uneasily even now. Why, though, had Vant wanted to kill her?
“You think you’re so clever that you can get away with anything.”
Well, so far, she had.
As he hesitated, his mind on other things, his hand reached out as if with a life of its own to pick up the next paper.
Where had this sudden compulsion to finish come from? What was he looking for in this stubborn stack mostly of foolishness? The answer came as soon as the question framed itself: news. Information. A warning meant for him alone. About what? Torisen pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the start of a headache. He could even date the beginning of this obsession, some ten days ago, after that foul dream.
He had stopped staying awake for days, even weeks, trying to forestall certain nightmares. Even now, he told himself, when they came they meant nothing. He was no Shanir, dammit, to far-see. But the image of fire haunted him, pyre after pyre. Then a charred hand had reached out of the flames. Someone had
On the edge of sleep, Jame mulled over Timmon’s words and came wide awake with a jolt. All the lordans . . . Kirien!
CHAPTER IV
Relics
Winter 80
Torisen Black Lord squinted at the parchment on the desk before him and damned its wriggly lettering. Why couldn’t the Edirr find a scribe who could write? Perhaps, though, it was just his own tired eyes. After all, he had been working at the foot-high stack of correspondence for days on end.
Stop whining, he told himself. This is what you get for letting things pile up .
Other Highborn had scrollsmen to help them. He could too, easily. Unlike the priests at Wilden, the scholars of Mount Alban didn’t have to be Shanir, and there were Knorth among them. As the commander of the Southern Host he had learned how to delegate responsibility. Why, as Highlord, was he finding it so hard?
Perhaps because some things are meant for your eyes alone.
That, no doubt, was true, but still he wished he had the support of his former commander and present war-leader, Harn Grip-hard.
Torisen wondered if Harn had yet reached Kothifir. After the randon’s rough time at Tentir that fall, it had seemed best to post him as far away from the college as possible for the time being, even though the one at fault had been his sister’s Southron servant Graykin, apparently possessed by Greshan in the form of the Lordan’s Coat. How in Perimal’s name did Jame get into such scrapes, much less attract such followers? Of all foul tricks, to drug someone with black forget-me-not . . . Torisen wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, except that the potion had forced Harn to relive his father’s suicide after Greshan’s death . . . or was that because of Greshan’s death? The Commandant had been vague about that, another reminder that Tentir held some secrets which he, never having been a cadet there, would never share.
Unlike your sister, whispered his father’s hoarse, mocking voice at the back of his soul image, behind the locked door. The randon may have raised you, boy, but she is their darling now .
Parchment crumpled in his grip. Only if she passes Tentir.
Ungenerous, unkind, unjust. After all, he had sent her to the college in the first place.
Trinity, look at all the papers left. He had let them pile up in the first place because he had been afraid that one of them would report that Jame had flayed that wretched cadet Vant alive. Of course, she hadn’t. Instead he had fallen into a pit in the fire timber hall, tried to drag Torisen in after him, and then burned to death.
Should he read another petition, or give up for the day?
Torisen rubbed a hand across his face. It felt strange to encounter a beard there; however, he was determined never to be mistaken for his sister again as he had been by both Timmon and Vant during the Winter War. Timmon had wanted to seduce Jame, which made some sort of sense. True, she wasn’t to every man’s taste, but he had glimpsed her in dreams that made him stir uneasily even now. Why, though, had Vant wanted to kill her?
“You think you’re so clever that you can get away with anything.”
Well, so far, she had.
As he hesitated, his mind on other things, his hand reached out as if with a life of its own to pick up the next paper.
Where had this sudden compulsion to finish come from? What was he looking for in this stubborn stack mostly of foolishness? The answer came as soon as the question framed itself: news. Information. A warning meant for him alone. About what? Torisen pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the start of a headache. He could even date the beginning of this obsession, some ten days ago, after that foul dream.
He had stopped staying awake for days, even weeks, trying to forestall certain nightmares. Even now, he told himself, when they came they meant nothing. He was no Shanir, dammit, to far-see. But the image of fire haunted him, pyre after pyre. Then a charred hand had reached out of the flames. Someone had
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