The Consort (Tellaran Series) (26 page)

“I have been called to the Empire’s service, Regent,” he replied, his face impassive but his cheeks flushed.

“In what capacity?” she asked. “Will you serve in my forces?”

“It has not been determined, Regent,” Aylar said, his face still red.

There was another pause and then Sechon said, “Well, to be sure, the performance will begin again shortly.”

Kyndan offered a nod to them. Helia looked a bit disappointed but the kid looked absolutely crestfallen as they left.

“Did I miss something?” he asked.

Alari smiled a bit. “I think Aylar was hoping that you might have invited him to serve you.”

Kyndan blinked. “As what?”

She shrugged. “It is a great honor to be of the warlord’s inner circle. It is expected you will select warriors to become your trusted companions.”

Trusted companions? Hell, he knew exactly who he’d start with—Tedah and Aidar, maybe even Dael to mend fences a bit. He bet that as the Prince Consort’s friends they, too, would become very powerful men—

Kyndan looked the way Aylar had gone and his stomach sank. “This is just the start, isn’t it? People will be jostling to gain my friendship, to offer me flattery and gifts. Looking to me for favors and patronage and promotions. Begging me to have a word with the regent on their behalf.”

She didn’t answer. The music was starting again, the servants drawing back the curtains, but Kyndan’s glance took in the court, their dark gazes watching them, how they watched
him
.

He thought getting the empress to accept him would be hard, learning the sword work of an Az-kye warrior daunting and taking his place as warlord the most difficult task. Now he understood what Alari meant when she’d said that they’d constantly test him.

He’d won Alari and nearly gotten killed doing it, been welcomed into the Imperial family by an empress who hated him, but as far as being consort the challenges were just beginning.

To call it grueling would be kind. Not even during basic had Kyndan been pushed so hard physically. There was two hours of training with weighted balls, jumps, pull-ups—it seemed to go on and on. Then sprint work, then a minimum of ninety minutes of fight training.

Kyndan was trembling with fatigue at the end but it would have been a hell of a lot easier on his pride if Utar hadn’t been able to do it while scarcely breaking a sweat.

“You did this
every
,” Kyndan wheezed, “. . .day?”

Utar shook his head. “I do not wish to push you too hard. We will increase the difficulty when you are stronger.”

Kyndan gave a short, gasping laugh—all he could manage right then.

Utar began teaching him the most basic of self-defense moves of sword work. As Kyndan would need months of intensive training before he could risk another Circle challenge with any hope of surviving, Utar coached him instead on how to avoid giving offense and how to honorably deflect any offenses given to avoid a fight entirely.

He dispensed with the usual, traditional methods of training, much of which would require Kyndan to uncover the purpose of the lesson himself. Utar was a marvel at building on the skills and strengths Kyndan already had from Tellaran sports like darshball which required fast reflexes and eye-hand coordination.

“You are far more disciplined than I gave you credit for,” Utar said approvingly after Kyndan had completed an hour-long session with the target without protest.

“I was in the Fleet,” Kyndan reminded, pushing his hair back
again
. Warriors wore their hair long so he was growing his out. Now just shaggy enough to annoy him by getting in his eyes, it would be years before he could tie his hair back the way they did. “That gives you focus and man, you learn quick not to complain. As long as I have some idea what the purpose of what I’m doing is, I’m fine.”

“I think then you would not have lasted long with Nuhar as swordmaster,” he said with a rare smile.

Kyndan gave a laugh. “From the way you describe the traditional teaching forms, I think you might be the only one who
can
teach me.”

“I think this way better, quicker. I think it so for any student,” Utar said, his voice betraying his excitement. “I think if my s—” he broke off, his face clouding. He busied himself returning the equipment to its proper place. “I have lost myself in this work. I forgot what I have become.”

“You have a son?”

Utar’s grip tightened on the bar he was holding. “I did,” he said softly. “A daughter as well.”

“How old are they?”

“The girl is fourteen summers, the boy only sixteen now.”             

“Do you ever see them?”

“I have looked on them at every opportunity,” he said quietly. “Though they have not looked on me in nearly a year. They must not look on me.” A smile, loving and pained, touched his face. “He has grown so tall and she looks so like her mother.”

“Your mate, is she . . .?”

His dark eyes held a faraway look. “Paria died when Ulan was but ten summers, his sister eight. They had only me and I—”

“What happened?” Kyndan asked. “I mean, why were you sent away?”

Utar shut his eyes.

“Utar? What did you do?”

Utar turned away. “It is enough to say the thing cannot be undone. I will bear my shame forever but I am grateful my children have the clan to care for them.”

Kyndan shook his head. “I’ll never understand it. I’ll never be able to accept this whole clanless thing. The way they treated me was a nightmare and I knew all I had to do was get home and I’d be free again.” Kyndan faced him. “The
Dauntless
is still in orbit. I can send you to Rusco, to my father there. You’d be free.”

Utar’s dark eyes were sad. “You are kindly, Consort. A good man.”

“Let me send you to Tellaran space,” Kyndan urged. “You deserve better than this.”

“Nothing pleased my son more than to see the contests,” Utar murmured. “Ulan would talk of them for months before. He knew when I won, I won too his mother’s heart. He was already looking to see whom he might come to fight against among those his age. He is determined to win. And Hyari is so very like her mother, her wit, her smile . . .” He shook his head. “There is nothing for me in Tellaran space.” He forced a smile. “And I cannot deny you your teacher, Consort.”

“I understand,” Kyndan said quietly, lifting his sword for the next round. “You have to be where your heart is.”

Kyndan bolted down a welcome cup of caf between the sword training and the coming meeting with the war Leader. He and Alari discussed her attending this meeting too and ultimately he decided against it. If he was going to assert himself as warlord he was going to have to do it under his own power.

The mornings he spent training, Alari spent pouring over documents and petitions and reports. Of the two she certainly had the more exhausting task; at least he got to burn off some of his nervous energy. By custom the empress and Regent, if there was one, rarely left the palace grounds except to visit the temples but he was considering arranging a few days at Kinara’s house or maybe even somewhere on the other side of Az-kye. There were shadows under Alari’s eyes now and, although she would let herself sleep when held safely in his arms, she never seemed rested.

No one should have to shoulder the kind of demands Alari did and the constant attempts to curry favor by advisors and courtiers alike set his teeth on edge.  It made him doubly determined that she shouldn’t have to do it alone.

He had no trouble getting through the palace now; the courtiers, servants and messengers parted to make way, bowing as he passed.

Fucking hell, when did I get used to
that
?

“Consort,” the majordomo said, hurrying to catch up with him. Like him, Jelara was in her late twenties. She was prettily plump in that sensual way Az-kye women could be. Although Jelara always seemed rushed and a little out of breath, she possessed both boundless enthusiasm and seemingly inexhaustible energy. “Consort, a moment, please!”

He liked Jelara but he didn’t want to be late either. “I’m on my way to a meeting with the War Council,” Kyndan said, slowing his pace so she could walk beside him. “What can I do for you?”

“As you know the midsummer festival is just weeks away, Consort,” Jelara said worriedly. “Ordinarily, of course, it simply would not be a question of whether or not the festivities should take place but perhaps on what scale—”

“Honored Majordomo,” he broke in, not unkindly. “Your question?”

“Well, if we are to hold the midsummer festival, Consort,” she said, her pretty round face troubled.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Not that he knew anything about this festival. He wasn’t even sure what god or goddess it honored.

Yeah, I’m going to need to study up on that too. The High Priestess Celara seems to like me okay, maybe she could tutor me a bit on their religious practices.

Jelara’s voice dropped. “With Her Imperial Majesty so ill . . .”

Kyndan glanced at the majordomo. That Jelara broached this—that she was looking to
him
for guidance—was growing evidence that he was gaining acceptance, gaining respect, as warlord.

He knew there would be times that he wouldn’t want to speak for the empress or Alari but in this case, he knew exactly what they’d want without asking. “Empress Azara would insist on the festival going forward, as will the regent. You should absolutely make the arrangements.”

Jelara nodded, looking relieved. “I will begin the preparations.  On that note, do you think you will be challenging the contests’ winner this year?”

He almost missed a step. “Challenging—?”

“I just thought—” Her face flushed. “Well, it does sometimes happen that the warlord—”

“You know,” he said quickly. “The contest winner, uh . . .?”

“Behen of the Li’ru,” she supplied.

“Behen worked hard enough for that win,” Kyndan said, trying to keep his expression serious. “I don’t want to steal his thunder.”

She nodded. “I think that gracious, Your Highness. Especially since he was to be presented as mate for Princess Saria but now . . . ”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll meet some nice girl,” Kyndan said and couldn’t resist raising an eyebrow at her. “You’re still available, aren’t you, Jelara? I mean, the royal majordomo is a pretty good catch.”

She blushed and fluttered her hand in a weak, dismissive gesture. “He is years younger—”

“My mother was twelve years older than my father. She knocked him flat with one smile.”

It was cute how she blinked with interest and hope. That guy, Behen, would be lucky to get her and Kyndan turned his head so she wouldn’t misinterpret his amusement.

He stopped short when his gaze fell on the two women to his left bowing to him. They were dressed in court gowns, their hair and jewels done to the best advantage.

It had been nearly a year and a half since he’d seen them but he’d never forget either one.

“Your Highness,” the older woman murmured, her daughter beside her.

The hall was populated as usual with clan leaders, scribes, priests and priestesses, and dozens of servants who attended to the running of the Empire, all pausing at the approach of a member of the Imperial family. It didn’t take long for those present to glance up to observe that a clan leader and her heiress bowed before the Prince Consort but he did not acknowledge them.

“Narla,
Ti’antah
of the Az’quen,” the majordomo murmured. “Her daughter, Unata of the Az’quen.”

“I know who they are,” Kyndan growled.  “I know
very well
who they are.”

It was not quite an acknowledgment but looking uneasy, Narla and Unata straightened.

“Consort,” Unata said with a smile up at her former slave. “I trust you are well?”

Kyndan’s eyes narrowed.

Her face hadn’t been so warm, so welcoming when he’d been her property. He’d dropped a goblet once—it hadn’t even broken—and she’d had him dragged out to the courtyard of the clanhouse and beaten. When he was shaking, retching, and hurting everywhere, she’d directed he be left there in the dirt to live or die as he would.

Narla’s gaze flickered to those observing the exchange and Unata shifted uneasily.

“The warmer weather is most welcome, I find,” Narla said, her face flushing. “I hope you are enjoying it, Your Highness?”

Unata looked more unnerved with every passing moment under the Consort’s glare and those around them observed the exchange closely.

“There is talk that the rains will come early this year, I understand,” Unata ventured.

“I want both of you out of here,
now
,” he spat. “And, barring direct order of the empress, the regent, or myself, the Az’quen are never to set foot on the palace grounds again.”

The women’s faces went white and both cringed, seeing how many, high born and low, were present to witness their banishment.

“Jelara, make sure the Az’quen don’t get lost on the way out.” Kyndan gestured to two of his honor guards. “Jurar, Liat—you can help her.”

Kyndan didn’t look back. The majordomo and his guards would do their jobs and, while he was tempted to witness their further humiliation, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to stop there.