Shadowbred (13 page)

The men loyal to Mirabeta cheered upon her appearance—at the urging of Mirabeta’s own twenty men—and Elyril’s aunt smiled in response. Anything more would have been undignified. The men loyal to Endren scowled and a few even booed. Mirabeta only held her smile.

The pair of guardsmen at the nearest doorway of the Hall left their posts and marched down the flagstone walkway to Elyril and Mirabeta.

“Countess,” the middle-aged, bearded guardsman said, snapping to attention. “You are the final member to arrive. By order of the highspeaker, we shall escort you to the doors. The great hall has been cleared. None have been allowed within save the members and their wolmoners.”

Elyril blinked in surprise. She had not heard the archaic term, wolmoner, in many years. Most used the term “vigilman” or “wallman” instead. The custom dated back centuries, when leaders were allowed only one trusted aide, their wallman, in sensitive meetings. Wallmen were originally warriors who served as bodyguards, but as political maneuvering became more important than force of arms, the position shifted to be filled by political advisors like Elyril. The High Council invoked the wallman rule only when a session was politically charged or involved confidential matters.

“My niece is my wallman,” Mirabeta answered. “Lead on.”

The guardsmen nodded, flanked Elyril and Mirabeta, and escorted them up the walkway through the ring of guards. The two guardsmen resumed their stations at the doors and Mirabeta and Elyril left them behind as they entered the Council Hall.

Mirabeta quickened her stride. Elyril hurried to keep pace. Despite the countess’s advancing age—she had seen well over fifty winters, a few less than twice Elyril’s twenty-seven—she remained a trim woman, and her walking speed, when she had a purpose in mind, approached a jog.

Their footsteps echoed off the walls of the tower’s entry hall. Elyril had never before seen it empty. Usually petitioners, merchants, and minor nobles thronged the building, trying to catch the ear of this or that member of the High Council.

They continued into the long, soaring hall of monuments. Towering statues carved from marble, quarried in distant Yhaunn, lined the hall. The sculptures depicted every Overmaster of Sembia since the founding of the realm. Plaques on the bases displayed their names. Magically colored lighting accented the statues to good effect. The exaggerated, heroic proportions of the sculptures made Elyril think of Volumvax. She licked her lips and looked for him in the statues’ shadows.

Mirabeta did not look at any of the statues save the last, that of her dead cousin. There, she stopped. The statue had been completed only two months earlier. Kendrick Selkirk had served as overmaster for just over three years, long enough to get his image carved in stone before dying, but too brief to accomplish anything of note.

“There are no ovetmistresses in this hall,” Elyril observed, watering the seed of Mirabeta’s ambition.

“There will be,” Mirabeta said.

From the far side of the hall, in the direction of the rotunda, came a man’s voice. “Gloating ill becomes you, Countess.”

Elyril and Mirabeta turned to see Endren Corrinthal walking toward them. The tall nobleman wore a long, ermine-trimmed blue jacket over a collared silk shirt and black breeches. Thick gray hair topped a craggy, careworn face. His overlarge nose had been

broken at least once, and his beard and moustache only partially hid a ragged scar that marked his left cheek. A rapier hung from his belt and by all accounts, he knew how to use it.

Mirabeta affected a smile, though the hardness never left her eyes.

“And snide comments ill become you, Endren, who are already so… ill-becomed.”

Endren chuckled as he crossed the hall. He bowed before Mirabeta.

“It is unfortunate, Countess, that you have never turned that sharp intellect to the public good.”

“Quite the contrary, Endren. I have done exactly that for my entire life. And I plan to continue doing so. As overmistress.”

Endren’s eyes narrowed at Mirabeta’s naked statement of ambition but he managed a polite nod. “We shall see,” he said, and turned to Elyril and bowed. “Mistress Elyril. You are as lovely as ever. It is a pity you remain unmarried.”

Elyril curtsied, wondering as she did how Endren’s screams might sound as she offered him to Shar.

“It’s a pity your own wife is dead,” Elyril said, all innocence.

Endren started an angry retort but a man stepped out of the rotunda and called down the hall.

“Father! The highspeaker is calling for order.”

The younger Corrinthal stood a head taller than his father. He displayed a stronger jaw, thicker frame, shorter beard, and no gray hair, but his eyes and nose looked so much like Endren that he could not be missed as the nobleman’s son. He wore a heavy blade at his belt—its pommel was a stylized rose—and a holy symbol on a necklace around his throat—another rose, symbol of Lathander the Morninglord.

Elyril hated him instantly. This newcomer’s soul shone like the sun. She refused to look at his shadow as he approached them.

“My son,” Endren said. “Abelar Corrinthal.”

Mirabeta smiled and held out her hand, which Abelar took.

“He could be none other,” Mirabeta said. “A pleasure, young sir. I understand you were an adventurer in your youth.”

Elyril smiled at the contempt her aunt managed to load onto the word “adventurer.”

“A folly of my younger days, Countess. I serve Saerb and my father now.”

“And Lathander,” Elyril said, and could not quite keep the venom from her tone.

Abelar regarded her curiously. “Indeed. I call the Morninglord patron.”

Mirabeta gestured at Elyril. “My niece and wallman, Elyril Hraven.”

Abelar’s brown-eyed gaze made Elyril uncomfortable. She feared that he saw through her, that he knew her secrets.

“Mistress Elyril,” Abelar said, inclining his head. “I have … heard your name before.”

Elyril could not bring herself to curtsy or speak, though she did force a half-smile. She touched her invisible holy symbol and resolved to kill Abelar at the first opportunity. Abelar regarded her so intently that she wanted to scream, “Stop looking at me!”

Endren saved her by speaking. “Duty summons us, Countess.” He gestured for Mirabeta and Elyril to precede him and his son into the rotunda.

They did, though Elyril disliked having the Lathanderian dog her steps. She looked back at him frequently and changed direction as she walked to keep her shadow from falling on him. He answered with the expressionless, knowing gaze that Elyril already despised and feared. Her awkward gait eventually elicited a rebuke from her aunt. With nothing else to do,- she bit her lip and endured the Lathanderian’s presence.

The gilded doors of the circular chamber stood open. The low murmur of conversation floated from within. Ordinarily, city guards would have been posted at the doors.

“We shall see you inside,” Endren said. Father and son stopped short of entering.

Mirabeta and Elyril walked through the doors and entered the chamber. Five pairs of doors opened into the room, and statues of notable council members from the past flanked each doorway.

A grouping of polished wooden tables ringed the raised speaker’s dais, which occupied the center of the chamber. The dais was furnished only by an ornate wooden lectern. Glowballs lit the chamber brightly. Blue and silver pennons hung from the walls. Members of the High Council sat at tables and milled about. The Highspeaker, Dernim Lossit, stood on the speaker’s dais, his ceremonial baton in hand.

The members’ respective wallmen lined the outer edge of the room, away from the tables but near their patrons and patronesses.

All eyes turned at Elyril and Mirabeta’s entrance. Half of the assembled members—those loyal to Mirabeta—stood and applauded at her appearance. Mirabeta smiled politely. She gestured for Elyril to take her place along the wall while she greeted her colleagues and found her seat at one of the tables.

A moment later, Endren and Abelar Corrinthal entered from a doorway opposite the one Mirabeta had used. The symbolism was lost on no one.

Again, half the assembled council stood and applauded. Endren accepted their plaudits with a raised hand and took his place at a table, smiling insincerely at Mirabeta. Abelar took his station along the wall, directly across the chamber from Elyril. Elyril felt the young Corrinthal’s eyes on her, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

The highspeaker raised his ivory baton for silence and a hush fell. “A quorum being present, this emergency session of the High Council is called to order.”

Tension hung thick in the air. Elyril saw it on the faces of the assembled council members. She noticed that almost all of the members and wallmen bore blades—unusual for a session of the High Council.

“Word has come that Kendrick Selkirk has died in office,” Lossit said, obeying the formalities. “The realm is without a leader. It is therefore this council’s obligation to select a successor from among its members. The dais is open for nominations.”

Several members of the High Council stood to be recognized, though not Endren or Mirabeta. Custom demanded that candidates for overmaster not speak on their own behalf.

The highspeaker pointed his baton at Zarin Terb of Selgaunt and recognized him. Elyril knew Terb to be a supporter of Endren.

Terb straightened his long black coat and smoothed his full moustache before stepping from behind his table. He maneuvered his corpulent frame through the circle of tables and stepped atop the dais. The highspeaker surrendered his place and his baton.

“I will not waste time with pontification,” Terb said, bouncing the highspeaker’s baton on his palm. “The state is without a head, and without a head, the body will die. Now more than ever in our past, Sembia needs wise leadership, honorable leadership.” He looked pointedly at Mirabeta as he said the last, and several members stirred in their seats. “We all know who among us can best provide that. It is therefore my honor to formally nominate Endren Corrinthal for the office of Overmaster of Sembia.”

The hall remained silent and Endren remained still. Terb stepped down from the dais and returned the baton to the highspeaker. As Terb took his seat, Lossit stepped atop the dais and said, “Endren Corrinthal is nominated to the office of overmaster. A voice vote to second the nomination.”

Half the assembly shouted loudly enough to make Elyril wince. “Aye!”

“The nomination is formally entered,” said Lossit, and he banged his baton on the lectern. “Are there any other nominees to be put forth?”

Three council members stood, all of them loyal to Mirabeta, and the highspeaker recognized the stately, elderly Graffen Disteaf of Urmlaspyr, who stepped to the dais.

Graffen’s slow pace and clear diction lent his words gravity. “Sembia has endured many hardships recently and there are many more to come. The Rain of Fire and continuing drought have brought poor harvests in the upcountry and wildfires in the west. The dragon rage brought ruin in the north. The people crowd into the cities, now havens for disease. The winter will prove difficult for the realm.”

He took a deep breath and it turned to a cough. When it had passed, he continued. “And yet there is more for us to endure. We

know that the elves have returned to Cormanthyr and propose to retake what they think to be theirs. With our aid they have defeated the daemonfey, but who knows now where their ambitions will end? Cormyr, meanwhile, is ruled by an unseasoned girl queen whose nobles rebel in all but name. Now more than ever,” he looked at fat Zarin Terb pointedly, “stability is needed, steadiness, political wisdom. Kendrick Selkirk provided such, and so too will the cousin who shares his name and blood. I feel it is my duty, therefore, to nominate the Countess Mirabeta Selkirk to the office of Overmistress of Sembia.”

The highspeaker called for a voice vote to second the nomination and half the assembled members shouted, “Aye!”

“The nomination is formally entered,” the highspeaker said, and banged his baton on the lectern. “Will there be any other nominees?”

The chamber was silent. The battle would fall between Mirabeta and Endren.

“In accordance with custom,” the highspeaker said, “we will proceed with the Speaking. Who will advocate for these nominees?”

Almost everyone in the chamber except Mirabeta and Endren stood to be recognized. Lossit selected one member, then another. Elyril heard at least two bells sound from the great hall’s belfry while a procession of members rose and extolled the virtues of Mirabeta or Endren. Not all members spoke, but enough did to reinforce what they already knew—the vote would be close.

Throughout the Speaking, Elyril kept her eyes on the doorways, waiting for the priests of Tyr to arrive with Kendrick s body. She knew her aunt had arranged for the body to be brought forth, and Elyril knew that Kendrick would name his murderer. She grew increasingly frustrated when the priests did not arrive. Mirabeta showed no sign of expectation or uneasiness.

During a brief recess, the wallmen left their stations and hurried to their lords or ladies to give counsel and receive instructions.

“The vote will be close,” Mirabeta said to Elyril. “Inmin speaks not, nor Weerdon.”

“I have marked that,” Elyril said. She cleared her throat. “Aunt, when will the priests arrive with Kendrick s body?”

Mirabeta smiled and whispered, “They are now just outside. I arranged for street traffic to delay them.”

Elyril could not hide her surprise. “Why?”

Mirabeta tapped her magical earring. “I wanted the arrival appropriately timed for dramatic effect. Watch, niece.”

The highspeaker stepped to the dais and called the chamber back to order. Elyril and the rest of the wallmen retreated to their places.

“We will continue with the Speaking,” Lossit said.

Before anyone else could stand, Mirabeta broke with custom and rose to be recognized. A surprised murmur ran through the assembly. The highspeaker appeared momentarily discomfitted by Mirabeta’s unexpected action, but recovered himself.

“Countess Selkirk. You … wish to speak?”