“We are gathered,” Gorlaes began, standing beside the throne but two careful steps below it, “in a time of sorrow and need.”
They were in the Great Hall, Tomaz Lal’s masterpiece, and there were gathered that afternoon all the mighty of Brennin, save one. The two Dalrei, and Dave as well, so fortuitously arrived, had been greeted with honor and shown to their chambers, and even Brendel of Daniloth was absent from this assemblage, for what Brennin had now to do was matter for Brennin alone.
“In any normal time our loss would demand space for mourning. But this is no such time. It is needful for us now,” the Chancellor continued, seeing that Jaelle had not contested his right to speak first, “to take swift counsel amongst one another and go forth from this hall united, with a new King to lead us into—”
“Hold, Gorlaes. We will wait for Silvercloak. “ It was Teyrnon, the mage, and he had risen to stand, with Barak, his source, and Matt Sören. Trouble already, and they had not even begun.
“Surely,” Jaelle murmured, “it is rather his duty to be here when others are. We have waited long enough.”
“We will wait longer,” the Dwarf growled. “As we waited for you, yesterday.” There was something in his tone that made Gorlaes glad it was Jaelle who’d raised objection, and not himself.
“Where is he?” Niavin of Seresh asked.
“He is coming. He had to go slowly.”
“Why?” It was Diarmuid. He had stopped his feline pacing at the edges of the hall and come forward.
“Wait,” was all the Dwarf replied.
Gorlaes was about to remonstrate, but someone else came in first.
“No,” said Aileron. “For all the love I bear him, I will not wait on this. There is, in truth, little to discuss.”
Kim Ford, in that room as the newest, the only, Seer of Brennin, watched him stride to stand by Gorlaes.
And a step above him, directly before the throne. He will always be like this, she thought. There is only the force of him.
And with force, cold, unyielding force, Aileron looked over them all and spoke again. “In time of council Loren’s wisdom will be sorely needed, but this is not a time of council, whatever you may have thought.”
Diarmuid was no longer pacing. He had moved, at Aileron’s first words, to stand directly in front of his brother, an unruffled contrast to Aileron’s coiled intensity.
“I came here,” said Aileron dan Ailell flatly, “for the Crown, and to lead us into war. The Throne is mine”—he was looking directly at his brother—“and I will kill for it, or die for it before we leave this hall.”
The rigid silence that followed this was broken a moment later by the jarring sound of one man clapping.
“Elegantly put, my dear,” said Diarmuid as he continued to applaud. “So utterly succinct.” Then he lowered his hands. The sons of Ailell faced each other as if alone in the vast hall.
“Mockery,” said Aileron softly, “is easy. It was ever your retreat. Understand me, though, brother. This, for once, is no idle sport. I want your fealty this hour, in this place, or there are six archers in the musicians’ gallery who will kill you if I raise my hand.”
“No!” Kim exclaimed, shocked out of silence.
“This is preposterous!” Teyrnon shouted at the same time, striding forward. “I forbid—”
“You cannot forbid me!” Aileron rode over him. “Rakoth is free. What lies ahead is too large for me to trifle with.”
Diarmuid had cocked his head quizzically to one side, as if considering an abstract proposition. Then he spoke, his voice so soft they had to strain to hear. “You would truly do this thing?”
“I would,” Aileron replied. With no hesitation at all.
“Truly?” Diarmuid asked a second time.
“All I have to do is raise my arm,” Aileron said. “And I will if I must. Believe it.”
Diarmuid shook his head slowly back and forth; he sighed heavily. Then:
“Coll,” he said, and pitched it to carry.
“My lord Prince.” The big man’s voice boomed instantly from overhead. From the musicians’ gallery.
Diarmuid lifted his head, his expression tranquil, almost indifferent. “Report.”