The Lord-Protector's Daughter (28 page)

The night of her father's
death, Mykella was still numb all over. When Tridi dawned, she did not feel that much better, knowing that, at least overtly, she would have to go through the motions of being a dutiful daughter. She did not go to the Finance study. One way or another, what she had been doing with the accounts could have no effect, not any longer.

At the same time that she struggled with her grief, she knew that matters would not improve, not when both Treghyt and Joramyl had announced that her father had died of a brain seizure. She would have to act, but her actions would have to be dramatic and open, where they could not be hushed up or overlooked or excused as the efforts of an emotional and hysterical daughter.

So she planned…and forced herself to wait. Waiting was the hardest part, and that was the part of the role of a woman of Tempre that had always challenged her. The second hardest part was something that should have been easy for a “traditional” daughter, and that was altering the brilliant blue vest that had been her brother's. Mykella's needlework skills were not excessive, but the work in the seclusion of her own chamber—and practicing using her Talent to manipulate light and her voice—did pass the glasses on Tridi.

Then, late in the day, there was a knock on the door of Mykella's chamber. She walked to the door.

“Yes?”

“A missive for you, Mistress,” said Uleana.

Mykella opened the door, if warily.

“It's from Lord Joramyl, the guards said.” The maid handed Mykella a sheet of parchment, sealed shut in blue wax.

“Thank you.” Mykella eased the door shut and walked back to the window, where she broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet.

The salutation read, “My dearest niece,” and Mykella bridled at the words. “Dearest indeed,” she murmured, but she forced herself to read the remainder of the words that followed.

The signature was that of Joramyl.

Instead of crumpling the parchment, as she would have liked to do, she folded it and walked from her chamber to the parlor, hoping to find both her sisters there. Only Salyna was present, her eyes on the window, looking blankly beyond the courtyard to the trees of the Preserve beyond the gardens and the rear walls of the courtyard.

“Salyna,” Mykella began softly, “where's Rachylana?”

“She said she had to get out. She's somewhere being consoled by Berenyt, I'm sure. Why?”

Mykella held up the parchment. “Our dear Uncle Joramyl wants to meet with us tomorrow after breakfast.”

“For what?”

“To go over the arrangements for Father's memorial, it appears, and other matters of import to Lanachrona.”

“And those are how to get us out of Tempre as quickly as possible, and how soon he can officially take over as Lord-Protector, no doubt.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Mykella said.

“You sound so calm.”

“I only
sound
calm,” replied Mykella.

“Oh…Mykella…what can we do? I don't want to go to Southgate. Do you really want to go to Dereka?”

“No.” Mykella sat down across from her younger sister. “We do have some time. It will be at least another week before the Seltyr's reply—or his envoy—returns.”

“What about you?”

“There's no point in talking about it until something happens.”

“You're thinking about something, aren't you?” said Salyna.

Mykella offered a wry smile. “I wonder what would have happened if Mykel had died before Rachyla.”

Salyna frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Except she was a strong woman, and no matter what they say, most men don't care for strength in women—except in childbirth.”

“They do, too. Mother was strong, and Father loved her.”

Mykella laughed, ironically. “I'll phrase it another way. Men like strong women, provided they're stronger than the woman they marry.”

“That may be true, but that doesn't help us.”

“Not now.” Mykella glanced toward the window. “Will you tell Rachylana about the meeting with Joramyl?”

“I can. What are you doing?”

“I need to see if I can find something.” Mykella turned and walked from the family parlor, making her way back to her own chambers.

While she could have walked down to the lower levels of the palace, she didn't know which of the guards were loyal to Joramyl, and she did not want him to know what she was doing. Instead, she stepped over to the outer stone wall of her chamber, touching it with her left hand, and reaching out to the darkness beneath and then guiding herself down to the basement chamber that held the oldest archives.

The old wooden steps were where Mykella had left them on her last visit, and the dust had settled, to reveal that no one else had been there since. She clambered to the top of the steps, and once more, she could barely reach the topmost box. Just as she eased it out, she sneezed, and almost dropped it.

Then, she balanced the wooden box on one of the middle steps and, forcing herself to be even more careful than she had been in her earlier and more cursory searches about Mykel and his Talent, she paged through the documents, one at a time. There were proclamations for this, and for that. In the third box, she found a complete set of summary budgets for all the years of Mykel's time as Protector of Tempre.

In the end, when she finished, close to midnight, she had found nothing new about Rachyla's possible succession as Protector of Lanachrona in the ten boxes of papers that were all that remained of the records of Mykel's years ruling Lanachrona. The only reference remained the notation to the documents proclaiming his son Olent as Protector of Tempre, in which there was a single line noting that the contingent succession proclamation naming Rachyla as Mykel's successor had been rendered moot because she had predeceased her husband.

She slipped that complete set of documents inside her tunic before she reached out to the greenish darkness in order to make her way back up through the cold granite to her own chambers.

On Quattri, the three sisters
sat alone in the breakfast room, talking after they had eaten, not that any of them had partaken of all that much.

“Where were you last night?” Rachylana looked at Mykella. “We looked for you, but you weren't anywhere around.”

“Outside…in the gardens,” lied Mykella. “I wanted to think.”

“It was damp out there.” Rachylana shivered. “Why…?”

Salyna offered the slightest frown, but said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Do you think Uncle Joramyl wants to talk about more than the memorial?”

“It can't be about matching,” said Rachylana quickly. “The Midcoast envoy hasn't even arrived.”

“He's supposed to arrive later today,” Mykella pointed out.

“He wouldn't talk about matching,” insisted Rachylana. “It has to be about Father.”

“It might also be about his investiture as Lord-Protector,” suggested Salyna.

Mykella wanted to ask why everyone just accepted that Joramyl would be Lord-Protector. She did not raise the question, saying only, “That's possible. He's not the kind to tarry when it's…something like that.”

“That's unfair, Mykella,” protested Rachylana. “Father was terribly close to Uncle Joramyl.”

Unfortunately
. “He was, but that doesn't change anything.”

“Who else could be?” asked Rachylana. “The only men related to Father are Uncle Joramyl and Berenyt.”

“That's true,” Mykella said, “but Father's only been gone two days. Joramyl is already acting as Lord-Protector, and not one of us has been asked about anything.”

“Why would he ask us?” questioned Rachylana.

“Mykella knows more about the finances than anyone,” Salyna pointed out. “She knows more than Father or Uncle Joramyl did. She's the one who discovered the missing golds.”

“He probably should have asked you about that.” Rachylana's tone was grudging.

“We need to get ready to meet him.” Mykella rose from the table.

Once they had washed up, Mykella led the way down the wide western corridor on the upper level, past Jeraxylt's quarters, still sealed, and the Lord-Protector's private apartments, also sealed.

When they walked past Chalmyr and into the formal study, Mykella could not have said that she was in the slightest surprised to find Joramyl behind her father's table-desk, at least the desk she had thought of as her father's. Nor was she particularly amazed to see Berenyt there, although he was standing beside the desk.

“If all of you would be seated.” Joramyl gestured to the four chairs set in a semicircle before the desk.

Mykella recalled that there were usually only three chairs there.

After waiting until the four were seated, Joramyl went on. “Everything has been arranged for your father's funeral tomorrow. There will be a week of mourning following the ceremonies. The procession will be public, along the avenue and in front of the palace, the interment and final blessing private, in keeping with tradition. Do you have any questions?”

“Who will do the blessing?” asked Salyna.

“Would you like to, since you asked?” inquired Joramyl. “I had thought that Mykella might offer the statement of his life, since she is the eldest.”

Salyna nodded.

“Is that acceptable to you, Rachylana?” asked Joramyl.

“Yes.”

A silence descended on the study. Mykella waited, unwilling to be the one to speak and wanting Joramyl to be the one to commit himself.

Joramyl cleared his throat. “Now…uncomfortable as it may be, we need to talk about your future.” The Lord-Protector-select's words were mild.

Mykella could sense the calculation and the disdain behind the politeness. “Now? We have not even had Father's funeral.”

“By the end of the week after the funeral, of course, you will all retire to your father's hill villa for a half season of mourning. Before then, you will all have a chance to see and meet the envoy from Midcoast. If necessary, we can begin the negotiations for Rachylana's match and marriage. I understand that the Landarch's heir will be making an offer for your hand as well, Mykella, as will Seltyr Gheortyn for yours, Salyna.”

“Salyna isn't old enough to be married to anyone,” Mykella said quietly.

“She needs the protection of a strong consort, especially now,” suggested Berenyt. “So do you and Rachylana.”

“And you think that the princeling of Midcoast would be strong enough for Rachylana?” asked Mykella.

“There are other possibilities,” ventured Berenyt.

“What else do you suggest?”

“Cousins have married,” Berenyt said.

Joramyl merely offered the slightest of smiles.

“You and Rachylana?” asked Mykella, knowing full well that that was exactly what Berenyt had in mind.

“I would leave that decision to Rachylana, after she talks with you and Salyna.” Berenyt smiled.

“You three should discuss such matters,” added Joramyl, gazing pointedly at Mykella. “Your father did wish his successors to be of his blood.”

Mykella looked blankly out the window toward the public gardens beyond the avenue before the palace. If Berenyt married Rachylana, no one would ever complain, not loudly, that Joramyl had succeeded her father, because both bloodlines would be united in their children. But…it was wrong.

Yet, if she challenged Joramyl and Berenyt, she would be acting against her own sister's desires. And what could she really do? Could what she had learned sustain her against Joramyl and the leaders of the Southern Guards?

Still…now was not the time and place for confrontation. If she had to fight, it would be on her terms.

After a moment, she inclined her head politely. “That is true. He did wish his successor to be of his blood, and his successor will be.”

Berenyt relaxed ever so slightly. Joramyl did not, although he smiled broadly. “I'm sure he would have been glad to know that you intend to support his wishes.”

“I have always been a dutiful daughter,” Mykella replied, inclining her head, “and his wishes are and will be my command.”

“After you three talk and agree on what you wish, and until matters are formalized, of course,” Joramyl added, “we will entertain the envoy of Prince Skrelyn.”

“Of course,” Mykella said politely.

Joramyl stood. “You are all well-bred and most intelligent young women, and you know that I have your best interests at heart. As close as I was to your father, I want to see you all matched suitably and happily, and I know that you understand that.” He smiled warmly.

Mykella rose and inclined her head to her uncle. “You are most kind, and, as you suggested, we will talk over these things. It is difficult to try to be practical when we have lost both a brother and a father in such a short time, but we know your advice is meant for the best, and we thank you.”

“We do,” murmured Salyna.

Rachylana merely nodded politely before the three sisters took their leave.

None of the three spoke until they returned to the parlor.

Once the door was closed, Rachylana glared at Mykella. “Do you want me to have to wed that barbarian from Midcoast?” asked Rachylana. “Is that what you two want?”

“No,” Mykella said firmly. “What I want is for you not to be pushed into things. If we all agree right now, then Joramyl and Berenyt will push you around for the rest of your life. You have one thing they want, and that's the security of your being Father's daughter. You will write a note to Uncle Joramyl saying that you are extremely fond of Berenyt and that you know he is most fond of you, and that everyone has observed this. At the same time, you feel it is not seemly or respectful to make a commitment to marrying Berenyt until at least several weeks after Father's memorial.” Mykella looked hard at the redhead. “You do not wish to do anything disrespectful to Father or his memory, and you are certain that Uncle Joramyl would not wish that either, but you look forward to the time when it is seemly to make such a commitment.”

“That seems better,” suggested Salyna.

“What if he presses me?” Rachylana looked from Salyna to Mykella. “Then what?”

“Tell him that's what you want,” replied Mykella. “It is, isn't it?” After the briefest of pauses, she added, “But tell him that you just can't have it made public right now.”

Rachylana looked helplessly toward the window, then the floor. “I don't want to lose Berenyt and get married off to some Midcoast barbarian.”

“He won't press you, not until after he's invested formally as Lord-Protector,” Mykella said. “If he does it could become public, and that might raise the question of why he pressed, and that might suggest that his claim to being Lord-Protector isn't that strong. After all, a brother has never inherited yet.”

“That's because there have always been sons,” Salyna pointed out.

“That's true,” said Mykella, “but Uncle Joramyl wants things to go smoothly. He always has. But, if you want Berenyt to respect you, you have to hold fast on not making a commitment this moment.”

“What if he insists?”

“Tell him that, if he won't respect your respecting your father, how can he expect you or anyone to respect him? You can say it more politely than that,” Mykella said dryly.

“Mykella's right about that,” Salyna said.

“You're not the one who has to face him,” Rachylana said.

“No…we're the ones who'll end up in Dereka and Southgate,” snapped Salyna.

Rachylana sighed. “I know that…but I worry.”

Don't we all?
But Mykella only nodded.