Hallowed Bond (Chronicles of Ylandre Book 2) (16 page)

Even Rohyr was not immune to the charm of his smile. The Ardan grinned back broadly.

“Very well, I accept your offer,
Dyhar
,” Dylen said. “And you’ll just have to give me time to adjust to the idea of calling my sovereign by name,” he added when Rohyr started to protest.

“You sound like Lassen did when he first came to me,” Rohyr grumbled good-naturedly with a fond glance at his leman.

Dylen followed his glance. “He’s exquisite. And so kind, too. You’re very fortunate to have found him. I hope you’ll always treat him well.” He hastily covered his mouth with a hand to conceal a huge yawn. Lassitude was fast overtaking him now that the immediacy of crisis was past. “Forgive me,” he mumbled. “The both of you may not need rest but I do!”

With that, he sat down again and slumped on the couch. He was asleep before either king or physician could respond.

Chapter Thirteen

“He looks quite hale, doesn’t he?” Lassen murmured as he and Dylen watched Tarqin take Hirlen for a turn in the royal gardens. Rohyr had gone back ahead into the keep after their morning walk.

Dylen nodded. Save for his confinement to a wheeled chair, Hirlen looked almost as he had before his illness. He had regained his normal weight, and his color was good. He had also not lost the use of his upper body as previously feared. His caregivers had seen to that, assiduously carrying out the program of exercises that went with the aggressive medication Eiren had prescribed for the elder Teris.

Deira kindly greeted him, responding to the former
hethar’
s warmth and infectious amicability. None treated him with scorn or snide amusement much to Dylen’s continued relief.

It was that prospect that had most worried him when Rohyr insisted that they reside in the Citadel. Not so much for himself as for his frail
adda
. Well, it turned out there was little to fear for Hirlen. Dylen, however, was another story.

Surprise was great to put it mildly when Rohyr brought them home to the royal keep.

Even more startling was Dylen’s appointment as one of Gilmael Calanthe’s aides. It puzzled all and sundry that a
hethar
with no previous connection to House Essendri should be so elevated, especially when he seemed to have come right out of the blue.

That was in large part due to the lack of information about Dylen’s background beyond what was known of his career as a
hethar
.

Rohyr had agreed to keep their kinship and Dylen’s position as Gilmael’s adjutant a secret until Dylen formally received his inheritance and the honors that went with it. This was at Dylen’s behest for he needed time to come to terms with the new course his life had taken. Naturally, the secrecy bred speculation about him.

Initially, some conjectured that perhaps the Ardan was tiring of his leman and the former
hethar
would be Lassen Idana’s replacement. But that was quickly disproved when Rohyr’s desire for Lassen’s company showed no sign of abating and, even more intriguing, Dylen and Lassen were seen to be on very good terms. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, Dylen’s demeanor toward Rohyr’s concubine was that of a protective older brother rather than a rival for the king’s favor.

With that theory debunked, talk then circulated that it was one of the Ardan’s relations who was Dylen’s patron and gained him his present lofty position. It even became something of a game to try and guess which of Rohyr’s cousins fit the role. Still others postulated that he had some hold over Rohyr or one of his close kin and the largesse bestowed on him was in exchange for his silence. What his silence was purportedly for was harder to imagine but that did not stop the notion’s promulgators from spreading it.

Regardless of which assumption they adhered to, the prevailing attitude of the upper crust toward Dylen did not vary overmuch. Though they concealed their feelings when in

his presence, Dylen easily sensed their suspicions and disdain for him not so much because of his former profession but for the dubious ease with which he had entered the circle of Rohyr’s intimates.

Had it been up to him, Rohyr would have set the record straight forthwith rather than expose his brother to such sordid talk. But Dylen convinced him to wait. Having anticipated just such behavior toward himself, he simply shrugged it off, thankful it was seldom applied to his father as well.

Because of his age and frailty, Hirlen was merely seen as a beneficiary of royal patronage and that was usually enough to mitigate any dismay the more straitlaced might feel about his son’s abrupt ascendancy. The only time perceptions about him wavered was when his kinship to Dylen became very apparent. For this reason did Dylen refrain from being seen with his father too often in public, opting to visit with him in the privacy of Hirlen’s apartment or joining him when there were few folk about.

“Thank you for standing up for me yestereve,” he said to Lassen, referring to a mild confrontation the previous night with a courtier whose courteousness had been somewhat reduced by too much ale.

Lassen smiled. “We Half Bloods should take care of each other. Though technically, you’re
enyr
now. And will be deemed thusly when Rohyr formalizes your position.”

Dylen snorted. “I may be deemed a True Blood because of that. But I’ll always be
sedyr
in heart and soul. Certainly Imcael thinks so.”

Lassen curled his lips in mild exasperation. Rohyr’s closest cousins had accepted Dylen with few reservations and readily conspired to suppress his true identity until such time they were given leave to reveal it. The king’s uncle however had all but gone apoplectic when Rohyr brought Dylen to the Citadel and introduced him to the rest of the clan.

“What in Aisen was Dyrael thinking when he sired a bastard on a
hethar
?” Imcael Essendri had roared, oblivious of Dylen’s presence.

“
Adda
didn’t know he had sired a child,” Rohyr tartly pointed out. “Nor had he intended to. But that doesn’t make Dylen any less my brother than if he’d been conceived with everyone’s full consent.”

“And how do you know he
is
your brother?” Imcael quizzed, eyeing Dylen suspiciously. “You should know better than to take some stranger’s word for it!”

“I felt our kinship at once, Uncle,” Rohyr riposted. “Even before he spoke of it.”

“Strange but I feel nothing!” Imcael huffed.

“Well, that’s hardly Dylen’s fault,” Rohyr curtly replied.

Imcael turned nigh purple with indignation over the subtle jab at his less sensitive faculties. Apart from what Rohyr had earlier intimated to him, it was the first inkling Dylen had of the inequality of the Essendri potential’s manifestation in the members of the royal family. He also noticed that, while there was a marked resemblance between Rohyr and his uncle, their coloring in particular, Imcael did not bear the rimmed irises of a royal scion. No wonder his own eyes had drawn attention that evening at the Seralye.

Rohyr ignored Imcael’s protestations and installed Dylen and Hirlen in the Citadel, giving them apartments in separate wings at Dylen’s request. Dylen asked this in the hope of sparing Hirlen any possible fallout from being his father. Thus Hirlen lived in a spacious and comfortable apartment on the ground level of the north wing where the senior household staff had their lodgings. Refurbished especially for his use, Hirlen’s

suite not only provided easy access to the gardens through an adjacent patio, it also adjoined his caretakers’ quarters and his bedroom was large enough to accommodate a cot for Tarqin who kept faithful watch over him. No longer required to do household chores, the elderly servant poured all his energy into helping care for his ailing master.

Dylen on the other hand was given an apartment in the wing reserved for members of the Ardan’s extended family and Deira he counted as good friends. He would be moved to a suite just two doors away from his brother’s when the truth of their kinship was revealed, Rohyr informed him. Of course, Imcael had not shied from voicing his objections once apprised of this plan either.

“Speak of the… Nay, never mind,” Dylen muttered when he spotted a familiar figure approaching Hirlen.

He took leave of Lassen and hastened across the wide lawn to his father’s side. He arrived almost at the same time as Imcael.

“Good morning,
Dyhar
,” Hirlen softly greeted the Herun.

Imcael grunted a reply. A nod of acknowledgement sufficed for his nephew. Not that he ever treated Dylen or addressed him as such. Indeed, he always showed his discomfort when in Dylen’s company. Initially offended, Dylen had started to take some pleasure in discomfiting his reluctant uncle instead.

“I trust you had a good night’s rest,” Dylen said pleasantly, noting the dark circles under Imcael’s eyes.

When Imcael looked at him uncomfortably, Dylen could not help a fleeting sense of malicious pleasure. Imcael was obviously aware that he knew of the Herun’s argument with Rohyr the night before over the Ardan’s intention to give Lassen his own personal zentyr, the horned warsteed reserved only for bluebloods and high-ranking military officers. Imcael made it a point to question just about every gift or privilege Rohyr bestowed on his leman. Nothing was too petty for Imcael to complain about if it had to do with Lassen Idana. Dylen oft wondered how his brother managed to endure their uncle’s tiresome and oft vociferous company.

“I slept well, thank you,” Imcael replied. He looked down at Hirlen, regarding the latter’s plain woolen jerkin with distaste. “I only wished to remind you that it’s considered unseemly to show one’s self in public improperly dressed.”

Hirlen flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize my attire was unsuitable,” he murmured.

“How is it unsuitable,
Adda
?” Dylen interrupted. He looked coldly at Imcael.

“Excuse me, Your Grace, but since when is it improper to wear a jerkin in public when it is the garment of choice for picnics and other outdoor functions?”

Imcael stiffened, taken aback by the younger Deir’s challenge. “A picnic is a casual activity,” he retorted. “One is not expected to dress up for it.”

“And a simple stroll is a formal exercise requiring court wear?” Dylen sarcastically asked.

“Dy…”

“Nay,
Adda
, I wish to be enlightened as to the necessity of dressing up for a morning out in the gardens.”

“Impertinent pup!” Imcael growled. “You have the manners of a peasant. I heartily rue the day Rohyr discovered your existence!”

“Better the manners of a peasant than the discourtesy of an ill-humored stuffed shirt,” Dylen shot back.

Hirlen groaned in resignation while Imcael stared at Dylen in shock and umbrage.

He opened his mouth to unleash a scathing rejoinder.

“Scrapping again?” They all turned to face a none too pleased Rohyr. The Ardan reproachfully remarked, “Really, must this fine morning be spoiled by rancor?”

Dylen bowed briefly to his brother while Imcael closed his mouth but stuck his jaw out pugnaciously. On the other hand, Hirlen murmured apologies. Rohyr smiled at him.

“You are the last person expected to apologize for anything, Teris-
tyar
,” he said.

“These two however…” He glanced at Dylen.

Dylen shrugged. “If defending my father is cause for censure then I beg your pardon,
Dyhar
.”

Rohyr frowned at Dylen’s use of the high honorific. He looked at Imcael. “Uncle?”

“I was only trying to teach them proper court dress,” Imcael testily declared.

“So I heard,” Rohyr dryly said. “But as Dy pointed out, Teris-
tyar’
s attire is perfectly suited for a turn in the gardens. You need not be so strict about these things, Uncle. It serves little purpose and only encourages unnecessary friction amongst us.”

Imcael humphed. He stiffly said, “It seems doing one’s duty is considered unfashionable nowadays. I bid you all good day.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off, ignoring the small groups of folk who had gathered nearby, drawn by yet another altercation between the Ardan’s mystery ward and ill-tempered uncle. After staring them into dispersing, Rohyr sighed with some irritation.

“I’m sorry,” Dylen softly said.

Rohyr shook his head. “Nay, it wasn’t your fault. His behavior was uncalled for.”

“It usually is,” a scowling Tarqin muttered behind them. He turned scarlet when Rohyr looked at him with a rueful grin.

“You didn’t come back by coincidence,” Dylen commented.

“Lassen fetched me.”

“There was no need to trouble you. I could have dealt with him myself.”

“I’m sure you could,” Rohyr easily agreed. “But neither as swiftly nor quietly. Uncle Imcael is proud as they come. He doesn’t like to back down even when he’s in the wrong.

And you don’t want to distress your
adda
with his incivility.”

Dylen looked guiltily at Hirlen. His father smiled and reached for his hand to squeeze it reassuringly.

Rohyr said to Hirlen, “If you will excuse us, Tenryon Hadrana is here, and we must confer with him.” When Dylen looked at him surprised, he added, “I asked him to come.

It’s time he assessed you.”

Dylen frowned. “For what?”

“Come with me and find out.”

Tenryon Hadrana was not only the lord of the wealthiest city-fief in Ylandre and a great friend of the Ardan, he was also the sole Deir in the kingdom openly known to be a templar, one of that secretive brotherhood of extraordinarily gifted True Bloods. It was he who identified prospective templars and initiated them into the rigorous training entry into the brotherhood entailed. Indeed, he was purported to be the chief of all the North

Continent templars.

He was handsome and well built, but there was a remote quality about him that could be intimidating to the less stout of heart. Dylen wondered if there were any who could withstand the Herun when he trained his cold piercing gaze on them. He looked at Rohyr questioningly when the two were done talking.