“Don’t take offense at what I’m about to say, Dal,” Parno finally said. “But I want you to remember that I didn’t leave the House. Do you understand? It was taken from me. I was Cast out.” Karlyn-Tan’s head came up, and he looked sharply at Parno. “I have another House now, one that I can never lose. And I have a Partner. Not even death will release me from that bond.” He looked down at Dhulyn and touched her cheek with his fingertips. “In Battle,” he said.
“And in Death,” she answered, forcing her voice through the barrier in her throat.
“I understand.” Dal-eDal swallowed. “But I will consider you my cousin. A Tenebro.” He looked at Dhulyn. “Both of you. The task of being Tenebroso will be difficult enough without you.”
“Want my advice?”
“Always.”
“Just ask yourself, what would Lok do? And do the opposite.”
Dal-eDal joined the laugh, but Dhulyn thought his eyes were not smiling.
Dhulyn was quiet as Parno followed her to the baths in the Tarkina’s wing. She had neither spoken nor answered any greeting since they’d left the courtyard. The corridor to the baths was deserted, and as she reached for the door latch, Parno put his hand on top of hers.
“All’s well, my soul?” Was it possible that the woman was still worrying about Dal-eDal and the lure of House Tenebro? Would this uncertainty haunt her forever?
His heart froze as she looked up the short distance between them, frowning, her blood-red brows drawn down in a sharp vee.
“I don’t like Tek-aKet’s behavior,” she said. “I don’t like our being excluded.”
Parno let out his breath slowly. After all this time, he still expected her to react like a civilized woman-as his mother or sisters might have done, wanting to talk it over, reassuring themselves again and again. Was he ever going to know her well enough to know what she was thinking? Did he want to?
“Tek’s position is logical, politically speaking.”
“There is no such thing as logic, politically speaking.”
“Ah, so young to be so cynical.”
She shook her head, lips pursed. “There’s something off. Something wrong.”
Parno pushed the door open and let Dhulyn precede him into the baths before he answered. “Let me see if I understand. We’ve killed Lok-iKol, restored the rightful Tarkin to the Carnelian Throne, we’re valued guests of the Tarkinate…” He imitated Dhulyn, shaking his head, pursing his lips. “No, I can’t say that I see a problem.”
Parno doubled over, gasping, as Dhulyn poked him in the solar plexis with stiffened fingers, and stepped around him to shut the door against the cooler air of the corridor. “You’ve forgotten the Green Shadow.”
“Well, I was trying to, yes.” Parno dragged in a ragged breath, fully aware that he didn’t sound as lighthearted as he was pretending to be. “Unlike some overeducated Outlanders of my acquaintance, I don’t like to dwell excessively on the negative. As I said before, evil defeated, Tarkin restored, Mercenaries luxuriating in well-appointed baths of Carnelian Dome-no, I see no difficulties here.”
Dhulyn sat down on the cedar wood bench just inside the door and pulled up her right foot, but made no other attempt to remove her boot. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “But, somehow, I’m not so sure about evil’s being defeated.” After a moment she looked up, her eyes still focused inward. “Zelianora tells me that other than the bump on his head, Tek-aKet has no injuries.”
“And so?”
Dhulyn sighed, shutting her eyes. “Why are you being so stubborn? If his arm was not broken, why did the man scream when I touched him?”
“What are you saying?”
“Has anyone noted the color of his eyes?”
From his vantage point three steps down from the Carnelian Throne, Telian-Han watched the select group of Houses, which included all the High Nobles and quite a few of the Lower, mill about the throne room, noting who spoke to whom, and which House courteously ignored which. His post today, as on many an audience day, was Tarkin’s Runner. He was here to fetch anything that the Tarkin might want from elsewhere in the Dome, or to run with any message. It was always his favorite post, to stand almost on a level with the Tarkin himself, with strict orders to listen to any discussion Tek-aKet might have with any of his guests-the Tarkin would sometimes quiz him on the talks he’d overheard, using it as part of Tel’s training. Tel once again thanked the Caids that he hadn’t, after all, sent to his father asking to come home.
He knew there were some among the staff and Carnelian Guard who hadn’t thought that well of Tek-aKet Tarkin, who’d maybe been a bit pleased when he was gone. But there were few-very few-who had found they actually preferred Lok-iKol Tenebro. For the last three days the halls and corridors had been filled with smiling faces, Rab-iRab, the Tarkina’s lady page, was practically dancing in her work, and altogether everything, Tel thought with satisfaction, was once again as it should be.
Today he was so happy that he wasn’t really listening very hard to the conversations behind him. After the first few they were pretty much the same. The first House into the room had been Fen-oNef Penrado, no surprise there. His support for Tek-aKet Tarkin had been unwavering. The second was unexpected. It was Jor-iRoj Esmolo’s daughter whom rumor had promised to Lok-iKol. Either the rumor had been false, or the Esmoloso was anxious that Tek-aKet believe it so. After that bit of excitement, the conversations had been boringly repetitious. If everyone was so glad to see Tek-aKet in what they all referred to as his “rightful place,” how had it been so easy for Lok-iKol Tenebro to sit in it?
Tel stood straighter to attention and pricked up his ears. Old Fen-oNef was approaching the throne again, and since he’d already paid his respects, this meant that he had some other business with the Tarkin, business that might require the Tarkin’s Runner.
“My lord Tarkin,” the old man was saying. “I see there are no Jaldeans present this afternoon.”
A little surprised, Tel glanced around the room. No, there weren’t any of the recognizable dark brown robes. How had he missed that?
“They are saying, my lord, that the Jaldean Shrines are shut, and petitioners are being turned away.”
“Is this so?” The Tarkin sounded tired. Tel hoped the audience would be over soon.
“My men tell me that one of the shrines has been broken open by discontented believers, and found empty, not a priest or acolyte in sight.”
Tel carefully kept his face from showing his surprise. He knew that Lok-iKol had stopped supporting the New Believers as soon as his particular friend the priest Beslyn-Tor had become ill, but he hadn’t been aware just how far the fortunes of the Jaldeans had fallen.
“My lord.” Old Fen-oNef was still speaking. “If you would take the frank advice of an old ally, let me remind you what your father would have done in these circumstances.” Fen-oNef waited for the Tarkin’s nod before proceeding. Old family friend he might be, fool he was not. “Once or twice it seemed that the Houses had lost confidence in Nyl-aLyn Tarkin.” Here the old man smiled, brushing back his long mustaches with the back of his hand, but Tel managed to keep his face straight. He knew that with his “once or twice” Fen-oNef referred to the near-rebellions that Tek-aKet’s fierce father had suppressed. “At those times, you may remember,” the old man continued, “your father held a Ceremony of Dedication, where each House reaffirmed its loyalty and support. Why not do the same? If nothing else, it is a marvelous excuse for a banquet.”
At this Tel did smile, almost squirming at his post in excitement. He’d been too young to be a page when Tek-aKet became Tarkin, but a Dedication was almost as good as an Anointing.