Read Online Honor's Paradox-ARC by P C Hodgell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: P C Hodgell
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somehow failed to dominate its hue. Most of the glass for the Riverland keeps was also mixed with drops of the Highlord’s own blood, making those portions potential scrying portals, or so Marc believed. The Kendar had convinced Torisen to try, but all the glass had given him so far were bad dreams.
Like the one of the pyres. Where had he been staring then? At Tentir? At Shadow Rock?
“I’ve a strong desire to see how the whole looks against the light,” Marc said. “Ebony as a backing gives a poor feeling for color. Then too, starting at the top wasn’t the brightest idea, even if local materials are the easiest to come by.”
“When you’re ready with a section, we’ll get it into place somehow. As a favor, though, can you start next with Kothifir and as much of the Southern Wastes as you can manage?”
He could have ordered it as the Highlord, but Marc had declined to be bound to him even as Lord Knorth. That still rankled, although it did make conversation easier between them.
Waiting for you, lass.
Where had he heard that? Most likely in one of his accursed dreams, not that he believed any of them.
“I’ve unearthed a report from the randon I sent to guard the priests on their way to Tai-tastigon,” he said, changing the topic. “All arrived safely, but they report that the temple is a mess and the city is in turmoil. It apparently never settled down after the last Thieves’ Guild election. Moreover, some say that the dead are coming back, both divine and human, whatever that means.”
“Ah.” Marc looked thoughtful. “Now, that’s a city full to the rafters with power. Some of it comes from our own temple, but there’s more to it than that. Our god and the native forces of Rathillien have become intertwined. After all, we’ve never been on any world this long before or become more involved with it. As Tai-tastigon goes, so I suspect does Rathillien. Eventually.”
Torisen remembered his brief, nightmarish time there. Ancestors preserve them all if Marc was right. He knew that his sister and the Kendar shared a past in that city, but he hadn’t yet brought himself to ask about it.
Sooner or later you have to.
Then too, the thought of Jame thrust into those dire southern realms continued to haunt him. If only he could scry what she was likely to face . . . !
Weakling, jeered his father’s voice behind the bolted door in his mind. Afraid to look, afraid to ask, and you call yourself Highlord?
Think of something else.
“Have you had time for that other project I requested?” he asked.
“Oh, aye.” Marc picked up a leather sack which he handed to Torisen. “Here they are: the lordans’ tokens for the presentation ceremony.”
Torisen drew out one, a chunky disc of glass with a house emblem embossed on it—by chance, his own. With this, he would acknowledge for all to see that Jame was indeed his chosen heir.
“Have you had any word of the lass?”
“Only that the college hasn’t yet burned up or fallen down.”
Marc chuckled. “Well, yes, she does have an unfortunate effect on architecture, our young lady.”
“She would spit if she heard you call her that, and the Women’s World would have a collective seizure.”
Among the stack of neglected paperwork through which he was laboring was a request from the Ardeth Matriarch Adiraina that he allow the ladies to return to his halls in the spring. How had they ever come to establish their finishing school at Gothregor anyway? Some former highlord must have agreed in a weak moment. Now, when in residence, they and their guards almost outnumbered his garrison. Over the winter, he had enjoyed prowling that part of his fortress normally out of bounds to male visitors. If there was ever a disturbance there again, he wanted to know where, what, and why.
Still, it would be nice to have the Jaran Matriarch Trishien back. She, at least, he could talk to, even if their discussions sometimes left him feeling that more had been said
Like the one of the pyres. Where had he been staring then? At Tentir? At Shadow Rock?
“I’ve a strong desire to see how the whole looks against the light,” Marc said. “Ebony as a backing gives a poor feeling for color. Then too, starting at the top wasn’t the brightest idea, even if local materials are the easiest to come by.”
“When you’re ready with a section, we’ll get it into place somehow. As a favor, though, can you start next with Kothifir and as much of the Southern Wastes as you can manage?”
He could have ordered it as the Highlord, but Marc had declined to be bound to him even as Lord Knorth. That still rankled, although it did make conversation easier between them.
Waiting for you, lass.
Where had he heard that? Most likely in one of his accursed dreams, not that he believed any of them.
“I’ve unearthed a report from the randon I sent to guard the priests on their way to Tai-tastigon,” he said, changing the topic. “All arrived safely, but they report that the temple is a mess and the city is in turmoil. It apparently never settled down after the last Thieves’ Guild election. Moreover, some say that the dead are coming back, both divine and human, whatever that means.”
“Ah.” Marc looked thoughtful. “Now, that’s a city full to the rafters with power. Some of it comes from our own temple, but there’s more to it than that. Our god and the native forces of Rathillien have become intertwined. After all, we’ve never been on any world this long before or become more involved with it. As Tai-tastigon goes, so I suspect does Rathillien. Eventually.”
Torisen remembered his brief, nightmarish time there. Ancestors preserve them all if Marc was right. He knew that his sister and the Kendar shared a past in that city, but he hadn’t yet brought himself to ask about it.
Sooner or later you have to.
Then too, the thought of Jame thrust into those dire southern realms continued to haunt him. If only he could scry what she was likely to face . . . !
Weakling, jeered his father’s voice behind the bolted door in his mind. Afraid to look, afraid to ask, and you call yourself Highlord?
Think of something else.
“Have you had time for that other project I requested?” he asked.
“Oh, aye.” Marc picked up a leather sack which he handed to Torisen. “Here they are: the lordans’ tokens for the presentation ceremony.”
Torisen drew out one, a chunky disc of glass with a house emblem embossed on it—by chance, his own. With this, he would acknowledge for all to see that Jame was indeed his chosen heir.
“Have you had any word of the lass?”
“Only that the college hasn’t yet burned up or fallen down.”
Marc chuckled. “Well, yes, she does have an unfortunate effect on architecture, our young lady.”
“She would spit if she heard you call her that, and the Women’s World would have a collective seizure.”
Among the stack of neglected paperwork through which he was laboring was a request from the Ardeth Matriarch Adiraina that he allow the ladies to return to his halls in the spring. How had they ever come to establish their finishing school at Gothregor anyway? Some former highlord must have agreed in a weak moment. Now, when in residence, they and their guards almost outnumbered his garrison. Over the winter, he had enjoyed prowling that part of his fortress normally out of bounds to male visitors. If there was ever a disturbance there again, he wanted to know where, what, and why.
Still, it would be nice to have the Jaran Matriarch Trishien back. She, at least, he could talk to, even if their discussions sometimes left him feeling that more had been said
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