B00CH3ARG0 EBOK (19 page)

Marianne let out an exasperated sigh. “You know what I
mean.”

“Do I?”

“Pfft.”

He chuckled and applied himself to a large vegetable. “Laura,”
he said between bites, “to travel here they must pass through Vedelar, whose
ruler is opposed to the Parania. While it is likely the Vedeli have a low
regard for Paranians, they will do nothing to harm the artisans, the laborers
traveling with them, or the art treasures they carry.”

Laura nodded. “I see. That’s good then.”

“Won’t the Parania’s heir have to be careful?” Marianne
asked.

“Yes,” the Sural said. “He must take a longer route and
avoid Vedelar. He will be safe enough if he travels only through provinces
allied with his.”

“Who?” Laura nudged Marianne’s arm with an elbow. “What are
you talking about?”

“There’s a provincial heir coming,” Marianne said. “He’s the
Tolari equivalent of a prince.”

“A prince? This is going to be quite a conference.”

“It definitely won’t be like anything I’ve seen the Sural
put on before.”

“I had—” The Sural stopped when a purple-clad artisan with
an air of authority came into the room. “Ah. The leader of Suralia’s artisan
caste.” He beckoned to the man and motioned him to the chair next to Thela.

“My greetings,” the man said – in Suralian.

Marianne shot a glance at the Sural. A slight twitch of his
jaw confirmed what she suspected: the artisan leader spoke no English.
Lovely,
she thought.

* * *

Later, when the day was done, the hubbub on the top floor
continued. Marianne slipped away to snuggle under the Sural’s arm while he read
the few last reports of the day in her sitting room. When he closed one, she
took the opportunity to ask, “Do Tolari draw with ... hmm. I don’t know the
word. Charred wood.”

“Charcoal,” he murmured. He scanned another file and eyed
her with open curiosity. “Was there a purpose to your question?”

“Apparently, Laura’s an artist.”

He lowered his tablet and gave her his full attention. “Is she
indeed? What are you thinking?”

She shrugged. “I hope there’s a – what did you call it? Art
session? I hope there’s one she’ll like, but she was pretty ambivalent when I
suggested we get her some art supplies.”

“If the conference rejuvenates her interest in her art, it
is a simple matter to provide her with suitable media, beloved.”

“But not so simple to find men who might interest her and
also speak English.”

“I admit to overlooking the language difficulty.”

“I’m still glad you’re doing this for her,” she said,
leaning her head on his shoulder. “She seems a little happier.”

* * *

Early the next morning, the day before the conference, the artisans
from Parania began to arrive. The Sural collected Marianne after her morning
exam and brought her to the audience room for the formal arrival of the Paranian
heir. Storaas and Cena met them there, along with the rest of the Sural’s
advisors. Marianne sat on one hip next to him on the dais, while the advisors
arranged themselves in loose arcs on each side. They stopped talking when the
guards near the doorway flickered to indicate that the Parania’s heir was about
to enter the room.

His robe was pale green and loose, unlike the fitted style
worn by Suralians. Tailored for a warm climate, Marianne thought. He was tall
and, surprisingly, grey-haired, and he moved with a deadly grace. His face was interesting
rather than handsome, with wing-like black brows over dark, dancing eyes, a
slightly hooked nose and ... She cast the Sural a glance. They both had the
same mouth, but the set of the Paranian’s lips had a slight upward curve,
suggesting he smiled frequently. She looked forward to getting to know him.

As he drew near to the dais, the Sural stiffened beside her
and slammed shut his barriers. Shock raced through their bond. She shot him a
quick glance; he was still as a stone, his face an impassive mask. Beyond him,
on the floor beside the dais, Storaas also looked stony. Puzzled, she turned
her attention back to the man in front of them. He bowed respectfully to the Sural
and lowered himself to sit on his heels, waiting for permission to speak.

The Sural stared for several long moments. “Speak, dear
one,” he said, using the familiar term of address between high ones. He
swallowed.

Marianne fought to control her expression. The Sural was struggling
to remain calm.
He’s 290 years old
, she thought. Nothing
rattles him.
What is going on?

“You honor me, dear one,” the Paranian heir said. “I am
Kazryth—” Marianne felt another shock shoot through him, beginning to mingle
with anger “—legal heir to Parania. My mother greets you with warm regard and
extends her gratitude for this opportunity to show Suralia the best of what
Parania’s artisans have to offer.”

“You honor us with your talent, Parania,” the Sural replied
more firmly, his control returning. “Enjoy the hospitality of my stronghold.”

Kazryth rose and bowed. “You honor us, Suralia.”

“Are you yourself an artisan, Kazryth?” the Sural asked,
before the Paranian could turn away.

“No, dear one. I am a poet.”

Marianne felt such a strong shock flood their bond that the
room spun, and she collapsed onto her elbow. The Sural was immediately
attentive, gesturing for Cena, who, as one of his medical advisors, had been
sitting near Storaas.

“Is your bond-partner well?” Kazryth asked. Genuine concern
colored his voice.

Cena had her scanner and medical tablet out, hovering over
Marianne. She glanced at Kazryth with a curt nod before turning her full attention
back to her patient.

“Enjoy the hospitality of Suralia, Kazryth,” the Sural said,
politely dismissing him. He watched the Paranian heir leave the room, and then
dismissed his advisors. As they left, he turned to the apothecary. “Tell me.”

“The Marann is well,” Cena answered. “Merely overwhelmed. She
should rest.”

Marianne reached for the Sural. “What was that about?” she
asked.

He put an arm around her as Storaas, who had remained in the
room when the other advisors departed, sat heavily on the edge of the dais. “She
should have warned us,” he said in a weak voice. “What have we done to deserve
such inconsideration?”

“I spared her life,” the Sural said, his voice low and quiet.
He didn’t look away from Marianne. “Yet I sensed no duplicity in him.”

“He was hiding nothing. He does not seem to know who he is.”

Marianne broke in again. “What’s going on?”

“The heir of the Parania,” Storaas said, still sounding
weak, “had to be fathered by Kazryn.”

She drew a quick breath. “The Sural’s father?”

The Sural turned. Suddenly, he radiated alarm. “You are not
well, Storaas,” he said, his voice sharp.

Cena turned her scanner on the old tutor, whose face had
taken on an unhealthy color, pale to the point of being tinged with grey. Her
lips compressed into a thin line. “A litter!” she called. “Storaas, you must
rest.
Now.
” She fished vials out of her pockets and chose one, removing
the stopper and handing it to Storaas. “Drink this.
Immediately.
”

He took it from her. “Yes, apothecary,” he replied, swallowing
the contents of the vial with a grimace.

Cena kept her scanner on him, intent on the readout on her
tablet.

“Apothecary,” said the Sural.

“It is his heart, high one.”

Aides bearing a litter entered the room.

“Cena, I can walk,” Storaas said, staggering to his feet.

“Get on the litter.
Now
.”

With a sigh, he obeyed her, allowing the aides to help him.

“Take him to my treatment room,” she said, following the litter
out.

The Sural helped Marianne to stand. She gazed out the
doorway, worry making a knot in her stomach. The Sural put an arm around her,
supporting her as she walked.

“There is nothing we can do, beloved,” he told her. “My
apothecary will do all she can for him. You must rest.”

She nodded and let him escort her to her own quarters. She pursed
her lips as they entered her sitting room. “Laura and I were going to watch the
Paranians setting up their exhibits.”

“Better to be disappointed than to do harm to your
daughter,” he replied, as he settled her in a divan.

“And I wanted to practice Paranian.”

The Sural’s lips thinned.

“Tell me?” She took his hand and pulled him down onto the divan
beside her. “
What
is going on with this?”

He wrapped his arms around her and laid his cheek on her
hair.

“Many years ago, in the final days of the Suralia my
grandmother’s rule, the Parania came to Suralia as ambassador for her province.
She and my father had only just met, but they were ... drawn to each other, and
she shared her blanket with him that night. The next day, her father invaded.
When all was done, the Paran was dead at my hand, and I chose not to execute
her for being present with invading guards. Only I, Storaas, and a portion of
the guard survived.”

“No wonder you are so attached to Storaas,” Marianne said
quietly. “So … that one night was fruitful for the Paran’s daughter.”

He nodded against her hair. “Her son looks like my father,
walks like him, sounds like him, is even a poet as was my father. His apparent
age is what I would expect for one born the year my father died and who had
never received the Jorann’s blessing. I cannot believe anyone but Kazryn could
have fathered him.”

“He looks like your father, but you don’t look like each
other.”

“I resemble my grandmother. Strongly.”

“Oh.” Marianne was silent for a long moment. “No one knew his
mother wanted an heir from your father?”

“In ancient practice, a woman did not have to inform a man
that she wanted him to father her heir. She could take his seed by seduction if
she was able, though it is difficult to conceal such an intent. It is no longer
permitted in the ruling caste, but it appears the Parania conceived Kazryth in
this manner. How she would know if the child met the requirements of the ruling
caste…” He trailed off.

Marianne sensed a shadow of suspicion in him. “You think she
didn’t really care about your father? That she only seduced him for a child?”

The Sural was quiet. After a long moment, he shook his head.
“No,” he decided. “I saw them together.
Storaas
saw them together. He
would have detected it if her affection was feigned. But since then … perhaps
she has grown bitter over the years of her tenure as Parania. One hundred
thirty years is a very long time to rule, especially for one who is not a
grandchild of the Jorann. Most rulers lose interest in ruling after fifty years
or so. She is, in fact, the last left of those who ruled when I first took
power.”

“If she knew her father was going to destroy your bloodline
the next day, maybe she acted on impulse, to save it.”

“Perhaps.”

“You know,” she said softly, “in human terms, he’s your
brother
.”
She used the human word.

“He is of Parania.” His voice dripped acid. “I am Suralia.”

“Beloved, he doesn’t even know.”

The Sural sighed and nodded. That would have to suffice to
soothe his outrage.

* * *

He stayed with Marianne through the rest of the morning,
more to calm himself than to ensure that his bond-partner rested. When they
emerged from her quarters, heading for the refectory for the midday meal, he felt
confident that he would no longer be caught off-guard by buried griefs while
interacting with the Paranian heir. His beloved was, he thought, correct.
Kazryth did not seem to know who he was, and it was not seemly – nor was it
what his beloved called
fair
– to direct anger at him for the
circumstances of his conception.

“We should see how Storaas is doing,” Marianne said.

He nodded and made his way toward the head apothecary’s
quarters. There, an aide informed them that Storaas was asleep.

“It was necessary to sedate your chief advisor,” Cena said, coming
out of her study. Her voice was full of provoked undertones. “He would not
rest.”

“How is he?” Marianne asked.

“He has been neglecting his health. Several of his internal
organs are damaged or diseased, in addition to the damage to his heart.”

“Repair the damage,” the Sural said, “and heal the disease.”

He sensed his apothecary struggling with his command – she
would be concerned for the ethics of treating Storaas against his will, he
realized, but her own relief at his orders was also clear. The relief and obedience
prevailed. “He will be angry when he awakens and realizes what I have done.”

“Then tell him I ordered it, so he may direct his anger at
me. And keep me informed.”

“Yes, high one.”

* * *

The refectory was full, except for the high table, where only
Kyza and Thela sat near the heavy chair at its head. Marianne stifled a chuckle
at the satisfaction running through the Sural as he looked around the room and
invited all those with enough rank or status to sit with him. He accorded
Kazryth the place next to Kyza, who sat in her usual place at the Sural’s right,
which displaced Thela. Marianne seated herself at the Sural’s left, Laura by her
side. Thela, who understood little English but was very fond of the
grandmotherly Laura all the same, squeezed a chair in next to her. The rest of
the table crowded with high-ranking artisans and musicians.

Kazryth, directly across the high table from Laura, caught
her eye and gave her a warm smile. “Do you also come from Earth?” he asked in
polite Suralian. “Or are you from one of the human colonies?”

Laura ventured an uncertain smile and gamely attempted to
respond in the same language. “My greetings, yes?”

Marianne came to her rescue. “Laura is still learning the
Sural’s language,” she told him. “I don’t think she understood you.”