Son of Avonar (12 page)

By the time Martin had finished his tale, the sky was rosy and the birds twittering in the garden. Tomas would arrive by mid-morning, and the events of the night would make my departure no easier.

Despite his best efforts, Tanager fell asleep on the floor, while Julia and Martin went to the kitchen to hunt up something for us to eat. Martin had told his stewards to continue the servants' holiday through the coming day. Tennice paced the library, grumbling under his breath and casting such mournful glances over his spectacles at Karon and me that we decided to escape to the garden. We walked for a while, but there was nothing to say and everything to say, and we could not even begin. Eventually we gave up trying and joined Martin and Julia in the kitchen.

Just as Martin pushed a knife into my hand and told me to slice the oranges piled in a copper bowl, Tennice burst through the door. “Martin, do you have a copy of the Westover Codex? Surely you do. Don't tell me you don't.”

The Earl of Gault was up to his elbows in buttered toast. “You're going strange on us, Tennice. The Westover Codex at six in the morning? Here we've had a night such as friends seldom experience, and you're ready to get back to your books.”

“No jest, Martin.”

Martin shrugged. “In the vault, then. Black leather case.” Before too long a time had passed, Tennice's head reappeared in the kitchen doorway. “Seri, would you come, please? I need to speak with you.”

Wiping my hands on a towel and yielding my sticky knife to Karon, I joined Tennice in the library. He was poring over a fragile parchment spread out on the library table, and when I came in, he whirled about, snapping a pen in his thin hands. I had never seen him so agitated.

“Do you love him, Seri?”

I was taken aback.

“Tell me honestly. Karon—do you love him?”

He was not asking lightly. “Yes. Yes, I do, but—”

“You're not afraid?”

“Of Karon? No more than I'm afraid of you or Martin or the others.”

He nodded as if he had expected nothing else. “If, by taking a great risk, you could avoid what is to come with Evard, would you be willing?”

“I'd do almost anything.”

“I've found you a way.” He beckoned me to the table to look at his parchment. “Evard will likely be crowned this afternoon, no later than tomorrow. It's already been two months since Gevron's death. A thousand noble guests are getting restless at twiddling their thumbs here in Montevial, waiting for us to make up our mind who we're going to crown, while their tenants are harvesting crops and their less honored neighbors are lusting over their unguarded fields and horses. And, most importantly, the fall campaign against Kerotea can't begin until there's a king. So I started thinking about how there's no time for an extended celebration, only the necessary rituals—coronation rituals. And that reminded me of something I'd read.” Tennice never forgot anything he read, not even if it made no sense or had no relevance at the time. No one in all Martin's circle had ever been able to catch him up. “You'd risk Evard's wrath. He's not a forgiving man, as you well know.”

The three from the kitchen appeared, carrying trays loaded with toast, jam, oranges, and tea. “What's this about Evard's wrath?” asked Martin.

“I've found a way Seri can refuse him and choose”—he glanced up at me—“a life she might prefer.”

“Tell me, Tennice,” I said.

“There's a codicil buried in the Westover Codex about petitions put before the new king on Coronation Day—the Favored Ten. To violate the Westover Codex is to violate the very basis of his own power. Evard won't do it. Can't do it. The Council wouldn't stand for it, and he needs them to support his war. And if he accepts the Westover Codex, then he must grant the first ten petitions on the day of his coronation. If you're willing, Seri, you can petition him to marry whomever you will.”

 

When Tomas escorted me from Windham that morning, I told him that I wished to be presented to Evard as soon as he was crowned.

“He'll send for both of us soon enough,” said my brother.

“But I should be the first to acknowledge his authority, should I not?” Now I knew of the Codex codicil, there was no stopping. I would not let myself consider what the future might bring; all would depend on Evard's reaction. But, whatever the consequences, I could live with them. Evard, I could not.

 

Evard, Duke of Doncastre, was crowned King of Leire and Protector of Valleor that afternoon in the presence of the Leiran Council of Lords, every Leiran noble of importance, the high priests of Annadis and Jerrat, and every resident of Montevial who could bribe, wheedle, or sneak his way into the palace precincts. One sullen group of guests dressed in sober finery were noble hostages from Valleor and Kerotea, kept under house arrest in Leire and now forced to witness the succession of their conquerors.

Sharp angles of purple and green light from the stained-glass windows streaked the gray stone floor of the Great Hall of Leire. The carved capitals of the soaring columns were lost in the dim and smoky heights, as were the frescoed ceilings. I stood among the most favored guests to the right of the throne, trying to avoid having my eye put out by the women's stiff headdresses, my skirts snagged by the men's jeweled sword hilts, or my breath choked off by the cloying perfumes. But I squeezed and smiled and elbowed my way to the front where I could see.

The ceremony began with a priest's long-winded recounting of the War of the Beginnings, and most especially of the part where Arot had retired to his mythic palace of Cadore with his wife Mana. While his twin sons guarded the world against the fiends of air and sea, those of us on earth were commanded to defend our own lands and welfare by serving strong, faithful warrior kings. By the time the chancellor was halfway through a recounting of our new king's life, Martin had dozed off. Evard was only twenty-five. This part shouldn't take so long.

For my part, I was neither sleepy nor anxious. In truth I was more concerned with Tomas than Evard, for what I was about to do would be a grievous offense to my brother. We had been our parents' only children, close in age and interests, and forced into constant companionship by the remote situation of Comigor, our father's keep. I loved Tomas dearly, honored him as a warrior and a swordsman, and respected his authority as the head of our family. But he had never once asked me of my wishes, hearing my objections no more than he would hear a complaint from his horse that the flies were becoming a nuisance. To do so had never occurred to him, though I had been frank about my declining opinions of his friend. But Martin had taught me that my opinions were worthy of consideration.

When the chancellor's droning ended, the Council of Lords came forward one by one to swear fealty to Evard. Martin winked at me as he took his place in the queue. I nodded, unable, even in my own anxiety, to forget the pain which had led to his moment of desperation the previous night. If Annadis and Jerrat truly favored Leire as our priests assured us, then somehow Martin would have a say in our kingdom's future.

After the twelve nobles had kissed the new king's hand and sworn their oaths, Evard named Tomas Champion of Leire, the most coveted honor in the realm. The Champion answered any personal challenge made to the king. It was perhaps the only royal office awarded on merit alone. My heart swelled with pride. How I wished my father had lived to see him so honored.

Tomas, dressed in white and gold, quite looked the part. He was as tall and commanding a presence as our father had been, who had been considered the epitome of the gallant soldier. My brother's hair was the same deep red-brown color as my own, shining and thick as it framed his handsome features: straight nose, dark brown eyes, and a battle scar on his jaw just large enough to make court ladies sigh at his bravery. Maybe there was a little too much of the indulged boy-child in his curling lip, but he was intelligent. He would grow into his power and see Evard's flaws. Perhaps his influence with the new king would help moderate those flaws.

When Tomas took his place beside Evard, he leaned over and whispered in his friend and liege's ear. Evard smiled indulgently. He sprawled on the gilded throne as if it had been his from the moment of his birth instead of for a mere quarter of an hour. He waved his hand to get the attention of the assembly, then nodded in my direction. “This fair young lady has asked for public audience upon this occasion, and it is our delight to hear her.”

Now to me. There would be no turning back. I could be queen if I wanted. I could submit to the authority of my brother and the desires of his friend, and no one would ever take me to task for it. It was the singular expectation of a woman of privilege—to marry according to her family's wishes rather than her own. I would not be held responsible for Evard's character except in my own mind. After a few years I could most likely take a lover. Evard wasn't single-minded in that regard even now, and I knew how things worked in royal circles. But that was not the life I wanted. Martin had opened up the world to me, and I was not willing to abandon his gift.

So I stepped forward and curtsied, pulled a manuscript from my sleeve, and proclaimed to the assembly that I was making petition of His Most Gracious Majesty King Evard upon his Coronation Day, according to the provision of the Westover Codex known as the Grant of the Favored Ten. Because my parents who would guard the welfare of their only daughter were dead, and because my brother, whom I honored, was almost of an age with me, I petitioned that I be freed from the traditional duties of a subordinate female and be allowed to choose my life's partner for myself.

Evard had to grant my petition. No one at court could fail to know that I had been intended for him and that my petition was a product of my disdain. But for that very reason, he had to be magnanimous. Better to be thought spurned by a proud and willful female than to let anyone know he cared. Many a man in the same position would bully the woman he desired into marriage, but I knew how Evard's mind worked. He would get his revenge some subtler way.

With strained good humor, the king proclaimed, “It is difficult for us to imagine a determined young lady such as yourself ever entering into an arrangement counter to your desires. The unlucky gentleman would rue the day, we have no doubt.” The assembly laughed uneasily. “As an impartial observer and your longtime friend and well-wisher,” he continued, “we would caution you to heed the advice of your brother, who is perhaps wiser in the ways of the world than a sheltered young lady such as yourself. Whims such as this one can have consequences beyond a moment's gratification. But we can see no reason to deny your petition. Let it be so written.”

With a flick of his hand I was dismissed. It was a good thing I had no designs on any courtier. Evard had surely dampened my prospects with his remarks. I had a gracious response prepared, but someone else was already making his obeisance, speaking of dispatching messengers to the Leiran troops to pass on the joyous news of King Evard's ascension to the throne. The line of petitioners, grovelers, and well-wishers stretched all the way through the hall and into the outer ward.

My eyes cast down, I curtsied deeply and backed away into the murmuring crowd. I felt like flying to the ceiling with the pigeons, like leaping atop the long, curved Council tables and crowing like the gold and russet hawks who soared above the roofs at Comigor. I dared not look at Martin or Tennice, lest I burst out laughing or fling myself into their arms and bless them for their gifts. After a suitable time of humble attention to the proceedings—of which I heard not a single word—I worked my way to the back of the crowd and slipped out one of the many side doors to the hall. People were jammed up to every door, willing to suffer crushed toes and bruised elbows to provide themselves with a glimpse of history to carry though their lives—or at least through the next dinner party. I had scarcely made my way through the door when I felt a firm hand on my elbow. “Darzid!”

“Your brother requires your presence, my lady.” To my surprise, the dark, deep-set eyes of Tomas's aide glittered with amusement. Did Tomas know his aide took so light a view of my rebellion?

“I'd have thought Tomas would be too busy with his new duties to have time for family visits.”

“Oh, no. He's asked me especially to bring you to him. Need I say that he has a most ah . . . pressing . . . desire to have a word with you? Would this be a good time for us to run away together, do you think? You will reap his wrath for an hour, but I have to fight beside the man!”

Despite his smiles and mischievous humor, Darzid's gentlemanly touch brought me back to earth. My visions fled. My wings felt ripped away, my hawk's feathers plucked. I jerked loose from him and smoothed my gown, disheveled by the press of the crowd. “If Tomas thinks to change my mind, he's mistaken.”

“I make no estimates of his expectations, my lady. I'll confess that after this day's events, I would not set myself up to predict any action of yours. You're even more interesting than the young woman I've come to admire so deeply over the past years.” He swept his hand indicating a path down a broad corridor to the left, and then offered me his arm.

Somehow, I could not bear the thought of touching him again, and so I shoved past him. “Remember your place, Captain.”

Darzid bowed and led me to a small, luxuriously furnished sitting room. “I'd recommend you remain here until the duke is able to attend to you.” His expression did not register my rudeness. His smile did not change, nor the amused glint in his eyes. He bowed again and closed the door behind him.