Path of Honor (23 page)

Bolstered, Reisil returned her attention to Kebonsat, aware that he was waiting for a response.

“Pragmatism seems like a good choice right now,” she said, pleased with the steadiness of her voice. “However, if you’d like, I can attempt hysterics.” Not that she’d have to try very hard.

Kebonsat crossed his arms, shifting back on his heels to scrutinize her. Reisil flushed. She glanced down, realizing she still held the table leg. Jerkily she retreated to the fireplace and set it on the coals. Kebonsat’s next words took her off guard.

“You look . . . ,” Kebonsat began and then paused, sighing. He collected himself. “Nice. Striking.” He paused again, as if considering saying more, but then changed subjects again, his tone shifting suddenly to courtly formality. “We are both overdue, though I need a shave and a change of clothes. All the same, I shall walk you down before I return to my chambers.”

Reisil nodded, relief and disappointment washing through her.

They proceeded down through the corridors of smooth stone and dark paneling, their footsteps silent on the woven rugs. Reisil had been assigned rooms in the north tower of the western wing. The Scallacian sorcerers were housed in the south tower—within easy reach, yet far enough away to lend Reisil privacy and seclusion.

Kebonsat paced in silence. He radiated tension, his eyes darting down cross-passages and up stairways.

“Have you heard from Ceriba?” Reisil asked, feeling the silence straining.

His answering smile was unfettered. “She is well. I visited her on my way here. She tells me Elutark is a hard taskmaster , but she has regained her color and her spark.” He paused. “She’ll never forget what they did to her—” He broke off, looking as if he wanted to spit. After a moment he continued, his voice like gravel. “But she has purpose now, and she is thriving. I am glad she did not remain home. I think that might have killed her.”

Reisil nodded, remembering the future Ceriba had described for herself. A life of snubbing and ostracization, of being the family scandal—a permanent, immutable disgrace. Another kind of rape to add to the first. Ceriba would certainly not have survived, and her family would have suffered greatly to watch their once vibrant daughter dwindling, her former friends avoiding her, her former haunts barred from her. And they would have been able to do nothing for her against the might of social judgment.

Reisil had learned firsthand what gossip and intrigue could do—how snubbing and whispers could humiliate and degrade, and make a person want to hide in shame. Ceriba had expected it, had expected to withdraw into seclusion, to become a ghost in her own home until she died in fact. Had Reisil not done the same? Retreating into the lighthouse, scurrying around in the shadows, snatching scraps of food when no one was looking, running at the slightest hint of discovery? Rats in the walls indeed.

~They aren’t going to like this. Are you ready
?

Kek-kek-kek-kek!
Saljane’s cry echoed down the corridor, accompanied by a flash of fierce pride.

“What’s that about?” Kebonsat asked, brows arched.

“Fair warning.”

The look he cast her was as sharp as his lohar.

The corridor they followed emptied into a gallery overlooking the Grand Foyer. Reisil and Kebonsat gazed down at the brilliant spectacle. The floor was a vividly colored mural of inlaid stone, polished to a high sheen. It depicted the Blessed Amiya in her glade, surrounded by gryphons and a host of animal
ahalad-kaaslane
. In one crystal-taloned hand she held a crimson pomegranate. In the other, the hereditary crown of the Iisands. Her face wore a smile, but her unworldly eyes, filled from corner to corner with polished opals, spoke a solemn warning. A wide skirt of trees and vines bordered the oval, and from its edges sprouted an imposing white marble staircase ascending into the Great Hall, and several smaller flights of steps leading into various salons and galleries. Seven crystal chandeliers dangled in a descending circle over the Foyer.

“Magnificent,” Kebonsat said in a low voice that held none of the awe Reisil felt. But then, he was used to such sights. He pulled back, gesturing for her to accompany him.

“I must return to my rooms to dress. However, before we part, I must ask a boon of you.” His tone was once again formal. Reisil gave a hesitant nod for him to continue. “I count you as a friend, and as such, I cannot accept that you have no weapons skills, especially given tonight’s attack. I ask that you meet me in the morning, every morning, at first light in the copse behind the barracks. I shall instruct you.”

“Is that wise? There will be rumors; it could make things difficult for you.”

“I’ll worry about that.”

Reisil hesitated another moment. She could not argue that she didn’t need instruction, and more, she did not want to. She had felt entirely silly and useless holding the table leg. She nodded. “I will.”

A pleased grin lit his face, and he bowed with a fluid, courtly flourish. “Your whim is my fondest wish, Dajam Reisiltark.”

The answering merriment bled from Reisil’s face, and she stepped back. “Don’t mock me. That’s what
they
do.”

Kebonsat scowled. “I cannot imagine how my words could be considered mocking. Nor how you could have so little opinion of me that you accuse me of doing so.”

Reisil looked away. He was right to be insulted. He wasn’t one of the lords like those gathered downstairs. They called her Dajam and bowed to her, all the while hating her, even plotting her death.

But even though he was nothing like them, he was nonetheless one of them. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Everything about him—his carriage, his expression, his clothing—spoke of gentility and breeding. Though he called her friend, he was not. He could never truly be one, for his interests and those of his country did not coincide with hers as
ahalad-kaaslane
.

This is not news,
she told herself, her fists clenched until her knuckles whitened.

“Reisil?” Kebonsat reached out his hand. She flinched. If she let him touch her, she wouldn’t be able to keep herself together. She drew a deep breath.

“I hadn’t realized until just now.”

“What?”

“Who you are.”

“And who am I?”

“You’re—” How to say it? How to put it into words? “You’re the next Dure Vadonis.”

He thrust out an impatient hand, waving her words away. “It’s hardly a revelation. That cannot be what has made you goggle at me.”

“You always seemed so . . . ordinary.” That wasn’t true. He’d never been
ordinary
. He’d been generous and courageous and kind. “I had forgotten you were in line to become Karalis.”

“A very long line, and one that I don’t anticipate ever reaching the head of,” he said dismissively. “Is that what is suddenly troubling you?”

“Here, those who use such language with me are most certainly
not
my friends. But then . . . neither are you. It isn’t possible.”

Fury kindled in his expression. He stalked to the balustrade, staring down into the milling crowd, his fingers tapping the buttery marble.

Almost too low for Reisil to hear, he muttered, “In prosperity our friends know us; in adversity we know our friends.” After a long moment, he spun around and stalked back, standing so close, she could feel his breath on her cheeks.

“You must understand this, Reisil. Courts are battle-grounds. One makes alliances; one advances and retreats, ambushes and sacrifices. Rules of manners have to be obeyed—otherwise, it would be madness and slaughter. That is the first lesson my father taught me. To believe a court is merely a place of social congregation is suicide.” To emphasize his warning, Kebonsat grasped her upper arms and gave her a little shake. Saljane hissed at him, swaying on Reisil’s shoulder as her talons gouged the leather of the gauntlet. Kebonsat gentled his grip but did not let go.

“It is a hard fact, never to be forgotten without fatal consequences. One cannot afford friendships at court. One cannot count on them to survive in this toxic atmosphere.” He paused, his brown eyes grave as he stared down at her. “But hear me well. I vow this on my honor: You may count me among your true friends. I will never betray you.”

Reisil’s heart stopped and her breath froze in her chest. She put up her hand as if to block the words. “Don’t say that. You can’t. What about Vertina Emelovi?”

He captured her hand in his. “That’s not your concern.”

Reisil’s hand tightened on his, urgency coloring her voice. “It is an astounding gesture, and I thank you. It means more than I can say. But surely you must see that you cannot do this. It will endanger all you have come here to do.”

“It is done. I will hear no more about it,” he said, withdrawing his hand. Reisil caught his arm.

“At least sleep on it. I won’t think anything less of you for changing your mind.”

Kebonsat hesitated, and then gave a short nod. “I will not change my mind. But if it will please you, I will obey.” With that he bowed again, kissing her hand as he would that of any noblewoman. “I must go. If I do not see you downstairs, I shall see you at first light. Do not be late.”

Then he spun on his heel and was gone. Reisil gaped after him. What had just happened? Even if he changed his mind, she would cherish that gesture forever.

Reisil reached up and scratched Saljane’s chest.

Saljane’s answer was to raise her head with a piercing cry, hot with pride and defiance.

Every head below shot up like a herd of startled deer. Reisil’s face settled into a chiseled mask, green eyes glittering. She had Saljane and Kebonsat and Juhrnus. Whatever happened next, she need not face it alone.

“If it’s a fight they want, then it’s a fight they’ll get. I’m done sitting on my hands.”

With that, Reisil began her descent onto the battleground.

K
ebonsat stalked through the corridors to his quarters in the east wing, his mind tracing methodically over his encounter with Reisil. She was too thin by far, like a dagger honed too fine and equally brittle.

He paused at the turning to his apartments, stopping in the shadows. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.
What have I done, making such an oath?

With a groan, Kebonsat scraped his fingers along his scalp, yanking his hair clasp free and several strands of hair with it. She’d opened her door, and desire had slammed into him like a battering ram. Had it blinded him? To commit himself that way—had he fatally damaged his suit to marry the Vertina before he even entered the running? Kebonsat had been here hardly a day before he discovered the depth of hostility, jealousy and distrust Reisil generated in nearly every soul at court. The Verit and Lord Marshal would likely see him thrown out of Kodu Riik for having anything to do with her.

And yet, would he do it differently? There was something about Reisil—and it was more than his desire, more than an urge to protect her from her enemies. Events were about to transpire. The plague was already moving into Patverseme, and those demon beasts the Kodu Riikians called
nokulas
. They were harbingers of something worse, something that would destroy his country. Kebonsat could feel the danger swelling like a summer storm. At the heart of it would be Reisil. And he was certain she would stand on the side of right and honor. Not even his innate wariness and cynicism raised a single doubt about that. By her side is where she would need him, and where he would need to be if he was to protect Patverseme and his family.

He straightened, giving himself a shake. His decision was made. He didn’t need to sleep on it. When she needed him, he would support her. He sighed. But that didn’t mean abandoning his mission to win the hand of the Vertina. Not yet, anyhow. And he was late, an unacceptable quality in a lover.

He set off up the corridor in a brisk walk, unable to stifle his groan upon seeing his steward hovering outside the entry.

“My lord, I do say, you are quite late! Punctuality, sir, is a virtue not to be carelessly disregarded.”

“Yes, Quillers. I had an appointment.”

Quillers followed him inside, wringing his hands, his pursed lips too small beneath his softly formed nose and jiggling white cheeks. Kebonsat retreated into his dressing room, where Palig, his whipcord-lean valet, added steaming water to that cooling in the copper tub. Kebonsat stripped off his clothing and settled into the bath, relaxing under Palig’s deft ministrations. Quillers paced outside, flashing back and forth in the doorway.

“Sir, I would be quite pleased to keep your calendar updated so that you did not run late, if you would just make me aware of your appointments. I should not wish to inconvenience you with a conflict.” His voice was breathy and high-pitched. Kebonsat hunched forward, dangling his head and letting Palig massage his neck and shoulder muscles with sweet-almond oil.

A sudden memory made him smile. The Dume Griste Mountains. Reisil, sitting by a fire, combing tangles from her wet hair, teasing him about his life of leisure with valets and housekeepers. A sharp ache flared in his chest and his smile faded. That had been the night Upsakes and Glevs had sprung their ambush. Glevs. Maybe that was why he had felt so driven to make his oath to Reisil. Glevs had been closer than a brother, and he had betrayed Ceriba, betrayed Kebonsat, betrayed Patverseme.

Kebonsat scooped water in his hands and splashed it over his face. He and Reisil had learned together how little professed friendship meant. His vow to her had been as much for his sake as hers. He had needed for her to believe in him: to be certain his friendship was solid, irrevocable and immutable.