Ordermaster

XLV

Threeday morning was cloudy, and a fine warm drizzle drifted from the low gray clouds that hung over Valmurl. Kharl glanced around his new quarters in the Great House, larger than the ones he had used before, still on the second level, but on the north wing, not far from the staircase to the tower. The sitting room was set in the northwest corner of the building and had windows on both sides. The evening before, Kharl had seen how that arrangement had provided a cooling breeze for both the sitting room and bedchamber.

He had not seen Lord Ghrant, but on the short voyage back from Cantyl to Valmurl, Hagen had warned Kharl that such meetings would be infrequent.

“He’s heard all the old stories about how his great-grandsire fell under the spell of a mage,” Hagen had said. “He’s more afraid of others believing that of him than of it actually happening. Much of the rebellion was stirred up by tales of his weakness and indecisiveness. He doesn’t want to feed such stories.”

Kharl could understand the young ruler’s concerns, but he also worried that Ghrant might worry too much about what his people thought and not enough about what needed to be done. Still, Kharl reflected, the rebellion had proved that a ruler could not ignore what people thought.

The mage and lord stepped up to the tall mirror in its stand beside the single chest in the bedchamber. He took in his own reflection-broad shoulders, squarish chin, dark hair thinning in front, dark green eyes …

He paused. Had his eyes always been that dark? He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t really looked at himself in the mirror that much.

After several moments, he turned from the mirror, with its faded gilt frame, and walked into the sitting room. There, he looked out through the window, down at the lawns and fountains. With the misty drizzle falling he could not see westward much beyond the stables and barracks, and the long sloping lawn that extended from the terraces.

Well beyond the fine warm rain, across the breadth of the land, and across the Gulf of Austra, lay Nordia-and Brysta. In some ways, his life in Brysta felt as though it had happened to someone else-and long ago. Until he thought about Arthal … and Warrl … and even Jeka. Yet, even if he’d had no sons, he needed to go back, if only to see the city once more. Would it look different after all he had been through?

Why did he now feel so impelled to return to Brysta? Had Charee still lived, she would have settled into Cantyl, and she would have called him a fool for ever going close to Lord West again. Maybe he was a fool to agree to be an envoy. But there was Hagen … who would far rather have been upon the Seastag, than standing behind Ghrant, advising and maneuvering, and risking displeasure day after day. And the image of Tyrbel remained in Kharl’s mind. The scrivener had in effect given his life for Kharl when no one would have been the wiser if he had not. Kharl would not even have blamed the scrivener had the older man not chosen to speak up. But Tyrbel had, and he had been murdered by Egen’s assassin. It didn’t matter that Kharl had killed the assassin. Tyrbel was dead.

He half turned from the window, his eyes falling to The Basis of Order. There wasn’t anything in the book about envoys, nor about serving a ruler, not directly, anyway.

On fourday, he was to present himself to the lord justicer’s chief clerk in Valmurl to begin his hurried study of law. He had to wonder whether it would be of that much use. But then, Hagen felt so, and the lord-chancellorhad seen far more of the world-and those who controlled it-than had Kharl.

Kharl looked back out through the window. The rain was beginning to fall more heavily.