Bili had been two weeks in the duchy, ere he was allowed to see his father for even a few minutes. Dutifully-for the old Thoheeks’ rank alone deserved deference -the young man knelt by the couch and took his sire’s soft, pudgy hand between his own hard ones, speaking in the hushed tones one uses to the gravely ill. “My Lord-Father, can you hear me?”
Both the stricken man’s lids twitched, but only the left one opened. Mumbling broken phrases from the left side of his mouth, he asked, “Who is . . . ? Mahrnee? Who is … man?”
Mother Mahrnee knelt beside Bili where Hwahruhn could see her, while Mother Behrnees gently opened the lid of his right eye. Placing her firm, freckled arm on the son’s shoulders, Mahrnee said, “This is Bili, Hwahruhn. This is your oldest son, husband mine. Do you not remember Bili?”
After kissing his hand, Bili laid it back on the coverlet, saying stiffly, formally, “My Lord Father, I grieve to see you ill.” Then he bowed his head, indicating homage, the morning sunlight glinting from his freshly shaven scalp.
Featherlight, trembling fingers brushed his head, then wandered down over cheeks callused by his helmet’s face guards. Finding his scarred chin, they tugged weakly and Bili raised his face.
“Bili . . . ?” His father mumbled chokedly. “Bili, my . . . poor little lad . . . what have . . . they done … to you?” Then his brimming black eyes spilled over and tears coursed down his pale cheeks.
The whiterobed physician signed them to leave the room, and Bili was much relieved to do so. For tutored as he had been, he considered open display of emotion unmanly and was acutely embarrassed by and for his father.
Afterward, the three sat about the winetable in the sisters’ sitting room. Mother Behrnees laid her slender fingers on Bili’s arm. “Son, do not judge your father by the standards of Harzburk, for the court of cousin Gilbuht is far from Morguhn in many ways. Here, life is different, slower and softer, like the speech. Though I doubt me Hwahruhn has lifted a sword in fifteen years, still is he worthy of your love and respect. For judged by the standards of his realm, he is no less manly than are you.
“Your father’s Kindred love and respect him, feel him to be good and just and merciful. Until he is more fully recovered of his illness, if ever he is, you will necessarily rule here in his stead. You could do far worse than to emulate those qualities his people so admire.”
After blotting watered wine from her pink lips, Mother Mahrnee spoke. “Son, since your return, Behrnees and I have painfully pondered the wisdom of sending you and your brothers-but especially you, the chief and Thoheeks-to-be-for so long a sojourn in the land of our birth. True, those years made of you a full man and warrior. Our hearts were swelled with pride when first we saw you, as you are now so like to the father and brothers we love and remember.
“But as Mother Behrnees just said, this is not Harzburk, and the ways of the Iron Palace are not those of Morguhn Hall. You are certainly aware that King Gilbuht is but the second of his House to rule Harzburk. The grandsire of Gilbuht’s grandsire was born heir to only the County of Getzburk, but he died an archduke, having conquered the County of Yorkburk, the Duchy of Tchaimbuhzburk, and the Mark of Tuhseezburk. Archduke Mahrtuhn, Gilbuht’s father, secretly financed by the Undying High Lord Milo, hired enough swords to conquer the Kingdom of Harzburk, slay most of the House of Blawmuh, and settle himself upon the Iron Throne.
“Consequently, Gilbuht’s capital is an armed camp and he rules harshly, hating his subjects as fully as they hate him. Had old Mahrtuhn been so stupid as to leave any of the Blawmuhs alive, the rebellions would be more frequent and more stubborn than they presently are.
“So Gilbuht considers his most unwilling subjects cattle and constantly milks them of the monies necessary to pay the troops he must maintain if he is to retain his lands and life.”