Lady Warhawk (11 page)

"Between Megassa and Markas, the boys have both been fitted out as princes," Mrillis
offered.

"Markas." Glyssani went pale, and Efrin reached across the table to catch hold of her
hand. "I completely forgot. Do they--do they like each other?"

"I believe Markas rather enjoyed playing older brother and rescuer, and Athrar was
suitably respectful to his elder. They did spend some private time on the voyage--as much
privacy as can be obtained on a ship. I think there was a little rivalry between Markas and Lycen,
one trying to establish himself as older brother, the other trying not to be displaced."

"I'd be worried if everyone got along, all sunlight and honey," Efrin said with a
snort.

Glyssani shook her head and chuckled softly. "This is going to be a very full day. Seeing
Markas and his family again, meeting Megassa's sons for the first time, then effectively being a
mother again, to a boy who's almost grown." She sighed, but she smiled. "I'm a mother again,
and suddenly I'm flooded with grandchildren. It's rather odd."

"I like odd when it's benign and amusing." Efrin caught up her hand and kissed it. "I'm
going to enjoy spoiling Megassa's boys and Lycen, just as much as we have spoiled Markas'
children."

"They were never spoiled."

"Not for want of trying." He laughed, and the two of them were still holding hands and
grinning at each other when Mrillis bade them good-bye and headed to his quarters to indulge in
a long, hot soak in his bath.

* * * *

Meghianna woke slowly, aware of her room, able for a few delicious moments to
pretend she was still a little girl, newly come to the Warhawk's fortress to visit her father. With
extra poignancy, she wondered what would have happened if she and Megassa hadn't met when
they did. What kind of a person would Megassa be? An enemy? Plotting with Lorkin to destroy
their half-brother and ensure Lok inherited the Warhawk's crown? Would there even be an
Athrar? Would they have teamed up to rescue Glyssani, or would she have been forced to marry
Timark after the death of her son? What kind of a Queen of Snows would she be, if she hadn't
met her sister and learned about such things as envy?

Her mind spun in too many directions, stealing the bliss of lying half-asleep. She
couldn't make herself lie still any longer. Meghianna groaned, the sound turning into a laugh.
Years of running an inn had ingrained in her the need to be awake and at work by the time the
sun rose.

"And today, my life changes again," she whispered, as she rolled out of bed. "Blessed
Estall, guard us on this last step of a very long journey. Guard my brother. Guard my son,
because of all of us, he is the least prepared."

Athrar would find this all a grand adventure. Lycen would enjoy the changes in their
lives, once he got used to calling his little brother by a new name, and adjusted to having
servants. She prayed Lycen would be strong enough to withstand the toadies and power-hungry
schemers who infested the Court like insects around a stagnant pond. They would curry his
friendship, to use his relationship as adopted brother of the Warhawk's heir for their own profit.
They would try to insinuate themselves in wherever they could, to gain power over Athrar, and
even try to destroy his relationship with Lycen to negate his influence.

How could she prepare and strengthen her son? Meghianna longed to snatch up Lycen
and take him away to the Stronghold, raise him in seclusion and never let him encounter the
cruel world of politics and nobility. But that wasn't any more healthy for him than abandoning
him to the Court--and she admitted she longed to flee the schemers and gossips herself. For
Athrar and Lycen's sake, she would have to stay here, visible, supporting them.

"This is what it means to be a mother," she whispered, looking out her window, over the
landscape of practice fields and gardens and outbuildings and the town that surrounded the
fortress. "It never ends, no matter how old the children grow."

She heard a tap on the outer door and flinched, bracing for an attack. Then a moment
later she shook her head and reached for a robe. All the clothes she had left here had been
magically preserved inside the same sort of time-denying bubble that guarded Graddon the Seer.
Meghianna found some comfort in putting on clothes she hadn't touched in fifteen years.
Sighing, she gave in to the inevitable and grasped a Thread, using its power to erase the dye from
her hair.

Lycen and Athrar were two mounds hidden under their blankets, mumbling and just
starting to stir when Meghianna crossed the front room to answer the door. She let out a little cry
of delight when the first face she saw was Selena, who had been a friend of Nalla's in her
childhood. Meghianna went to hug her, then both of them laughed softly when she was stopped
by the enormous tray of food in the woman's hands. She knew better than to take it from Selena,
and pulled the door wide open to let her in.

Two kitchen girls, who looked enough like Selena to be her granddaughters, carried
enormous buckets of steaming water on yokes braced on their shoulders. They nodded to
Meghianna, eyes wide, their mouths twisted in wonder and a little fear, and followed their
grandmother into the room.

"Lycen, Thrarin, breakfast is here," Meghianna said, and walked between the two
makeshift beds to nudge both boys. The two kitchen girls gawked at the stirring mounds of
blankets and hurried through the room to the bathing room, to leave their buckets by the
enormous copper tub and leave just as quickly. Selena lingered, stepping over to Meghianna's
side, unashamed of her curiosity as the boys grumbled and untangled themselves from their
blankets and sat up.

"Welcome, young princes," she said, nodding in satisfaction as her gaze skimmed over
their features. "So this is what you've been doing all this time you've been gone. I'm sure your
father is ready to burst with pride. Two finer lads, I've never seen." She patted Meghianna's
shoulder and nodded again as she turned to leave.

"I'm starving," Lycen announced before the door closed behind Selena. The old woman
chuckled and looked back once, to wink at Meghianna, before she pulled the door closed.

"Hmm, that's something we didn't think about, in all our other plans." Meghianna sat
down at the table and reached for the pitcher of hot spiced wine.

"It's true, isn't it?" Athrar said. "You've been raising your sons in hiding."

"Yes, but what about the other part of the story? Where have we been living? And who
is your father?" She filled their cups as the boys sat down at the table on either side of her. "Let
this be the first lesson in distraction and using court gossip and games against the game players.
We will keep people so busy speculating on who your father is, no one will ever guess at the
truth. Whatever questions people ask, try not to lie, but let them fill in the blanks with their own
speculations."

She laughed when Lycen gave her a confused frown. "I'm sorry. It's a game I hated
playing, but I'm afraid you will have to learn it quite well to survive in Court. For example,
people will ask if you grew up in the Stronghold. When they ask, don't give them a direct
answer. Say something like 'Where would you expect to find the Queen of Snows?' And always
remind them that I am Queen of Snows and you are my son. Use that connection, that power.
Don't entirely trust anyone who cares more about your relatives than you."

"Father has been telling me the same thing for years," Athrar said through a mouthful of
bread and honey.

"Those are sloppy manners," Meghianna scolded, with a smile and a light slap on his
bare arm. "Don't forget, right now you are the Warhawk's grandson, but by this afternoon, you
will be the acknowledged heir."

"What if Braenlicach doesn't sing when I pick it up?" he said, and swallowed hard.
Meghianna imagined the bread turned to a hard, sticky lump in his throat. "What if it won't even
let me pick it up?"

"It will. You are the third drop of blood of prophecy. The sword is made for your hand."
She grasped both of his hands, squeezing hard, trying to impress on him her certainty with just
her touch and the steadiness of her gaze.

Mrillis fought resentment over having his schedule for Athrar's training changed, and
tried to concentrate on Efrin and Glyssani's joy at having their son restored. He had planned to
take Athrar through Valor training under an assumed identity, have him prove himself to his
peers, and gather a group of friends and supporters whose loyalty would be unquestioned, before
his identity was revealed. The enemy hadn't won this campaign, but he had forced them to move
ahead of schedule.

He reached through the Threads to Meghianna, who waited in an anteroom outside the
throne room with Megassa and the six boys.
Ready, my dear?

I was ready years ago,
she retorted, earning a chuckle from him.

That chuckle startled into silence the dozen or so courtiers who stood closest to Mrillis
in the throne room. They whispered and nudged the people around them, and Mrillis felt the
pressure of more staring eyes focused on him. He nodded, pleased. Let them be uneasy, let them
focus on him. He had enjoyed indulging in sleight of hand when he was younger, to amuse
Emrillian and her friends as children. The fun of sleight of hand was the illusion of magic
without actually employing any magic, using deception and distraction to keep people from
seeing what was right in front of their noses. The more attention focused on him and the
pageantry of the full Court, the easier it would be to slip Athrar in under their noses.

Four trumpets announced the arrival of Efrin and Glyssani, through the large double
doors at the far end of the throne room. Mrillis stood at the front of the dais and watched them
approach. The joy of the last twenty hours or so had wiped away many wrinkles from sorrow and
waiting. Efrin's shoulders weren't as wide or as straight as they used to be, and Glyssani didn't
glow with the freshness that had won his attention, but they both were still strong and alert and
full of life.

He supposed the more devious, suspicious minds guessed at the reasons for the quiet joy
and assurance in the royal couple's faces and strides. Mrillis hoped those enemies choked on
frustration. The Valors on duty at the doors leading into the throne room were triply vigilant
today, seeking any forbidden weapons courtiers might try to sneak into the throne room.

We will be fine,
Meghianna said, startling Mrillis. He hadn't relaxed his hold on
his thoughts that much, that she could see what worried him, had he?
The Valors have
imbrose
strong enough to handle physical attacks, and you and I have woven enough
nets of Threads to strangle every Encindi living in the World. Athrar will take the sword today,
be acknowledged as heir, and his enemies will drown in frustration and fury and be paralyzed.
For a few days,
she added on a sigh.
The battle never ends, it only moves from the
shadows to the full light of day.

Then there was no time for conversation, as Efrin and Glyssani reached the dais and
took their seats, and the seneschal called for the attention of the Court. Mrillis held himself
perfectly still as Efrin announced his joy in welcoming his children back to the Court.

Mrillis wondered how many caught the fact that he said children, and not
daughters.

Megassa and Meghianna emerged from the anteroom arm-in-arm, with the boys walking
two-by-two behind them. The seneschal announced their names, and Mrillis bit his lip against
grinning when the boys flinched at hearing themselves named as princes. Hadn't it ever occurred
to Megassa's boys that as the grandsons of the Warhawk, they were princes? He wondered just
what, exactly, Megassa and Lorkin had been teaching their boys about their heritage.

"Welcome home, my beloved children," Efrin said, when the eight had assembled on the
dais. He sat down and rested Braenlicach, the blade bare of its scabbard, on his knees. The sword
glowed with a soft rainbow shimmer that traveled up and down the blade, just brightly enough
that people saw, and whispers spread in ripples through the Throne room.

Meghianna stepped forward, curtsied deeply to Efrin, and rested her hand on the handle
of the sword. The blade flashed silver and blue, casting sharp, black shadows across the room.
Mrillis nodded, pleased, when people gasped and put distance between themselves and the dais.
Good. Let them be reminded of the power of the Queen of Snows.

Megassa stepped forward next, and went down on both knees in front of Efrin's throne.
She raised her head and her lips trembled as she smiled, meeting Efrin's gaze. His eyes glistened
with barely repressed tears, and he nodded just slightly. Megassa's hand shook as she reached out
and rested her hand on the handle of the sword. The light that flared was gold and pale blue, just
touched with rose. Mrillis released a breath. After spending time with her on the journey, he had
been almost sure of Megassa's spirit and her loyalty, but not quite. What would he have done if
the light that flared from Braenlicach was streaked with black and the bloody red of betrayal? He
didn't know, and he was glad he wouldn't have to act.

Then Athrar stepped up, the movement partially hidden by the flutter of Megassa's robes
as she got to her feet and moved to the side of the dais. He knelt and put both hands on the
sword. The light that burst from the blade burned white and shot rainbows, with an audible
OOMPH
of displaced air that stirred dresses and coats and the banners hanging from
the ceiling and down the walls. The blade continued to blaze, sending streaks of gold and blue
and white in a shower over the boy as he took Braenlicach in both hands and raised it over his
head, like a torch. He stood and turned to face the silent court. Efrin stood behind him and rested
his hands on Athrar's shoulders.