A limited number of prescreened questions from the press were submitted and read out to the room by Toh. Ayt was asked what measures she would take within her clan to ensure that “financial oversights” would not occur again. The Pillar of the Mountain replied that she took the concerns of the Royal Council and the public very seriously. Ree Tura had resigned from his post and a new Weather Man would be appointed within the month. Hilo was unsurprised at this; Ree himself did not react in the slightest. He was near retirement anyway, and had no doubt expected to figuratively fall on his sword for the clan.
A question was posed to Hilo. “Kaul-jen, with today’s agreement, are you hereby declaring that you will no longer seek personal vengeance for the death of your brother?”
“There’s been death on both sides,” Hilo answered. “My grief isn’t any less, but I know that vengeance is not what my brother or my grandfather—let the gods recognize them—would want the clan to be focused on. We have to move on.”
It was not, strictly, an answer to the question, and this was noticed by the Fists in the room who knew Hilo well. But Shae and her people had prepared extensively for this event, and it was perhaps a sign of experience gained on both their parts that the Pillar was staying so unerringly on script.
The final question asked if the Pillars had anything to say about the current crisis in Oortoko and whether they felt the geopolitical tension between Espenia and Ygutan put Kekon in danger. “The interference of foreign powers in Shotar is deeply concerning,” Ayt said. “Although we stand by our long alliance with the Republic of Espenia, we must make it clear that we will not be taken advantage of by any nation.”
“Kekon is an island surrounded by bigger countries, and we’re the only place in the world with jade,” Hilo said. “We’ve always been in danger. But we’ve always had Green Bones.”
On the face of it, the Pillars sounded very much in accord as Toh brought the press conference to a conclusion. Onstage and in view of all the spectators and cameras, Kaul Hilo and Ayt Mada stood at the same time and, facing each other, touched clasped hands to their foreheads, saluting each other with all respect. As Hilo met the other Pillar’s steady stare, a moment of almost amiable congratulations passed between them: They’d both played their parts well. Their jade auras burned against each other like hot coals and molten steel.
Tar and Woon were waiting to escort them away from the stage. Woon put a steady hand on Shae’s back and guided her toward the rear exit where their cars were waiting, but Hilo paused along the way to speak to Chancellor Son Tomarho. The corpulent politician looked pale and overworked these days; he appeared to have gained even more weight and he wheezed a little as he caught up to the Pillar. Son’s time as head of the Royal Council had been plagued by clan violence, economic concerns, and now international military escalation and foreign pressure. While ostensibly representing the interests of the common people, the overwhelming majority of councilmen were affiliated with one of the major clans; for two years, open war between No Peak and the Mountain had bred a tense and factional political environment in which the tide of political fortune might be swayed by the outcome of street battles between Green Bones. Trying to lead such a divided political body was surely not good for one’s health. Son had less than two years left in his six-year term, and Hilo suspected the man was already looking forward to leaving office.
“Chancellor,” Hilo said, forcing a smile and putting a hand on the man’s large shoulder. “Peace between the clans, like you wanted. And both of us still alive.”
Son cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Ah, yes, well. It’s true that was not always a foregone conclusion. I speak gladly for the Royal Council in commending you and your Weather Man on this achievement; the entire country is thankful and relieved.” Son touched his hands to his forehead and bent into a salute. “A great day, Kaul-jen.”
“What a miserable day, to end a miserable month,” Hilo grumbled after dinner. He spooned coconut rice custard into small bowls and passed them down the table as Kyanla cleared away the used plates. “At least I got Teije back.”
“An accomplishment that was surely worth getting yourself and everyone in No Peak banned for life from the Uwiwa Islands,” Shae said drily. “Zapunyo’s made sure that scenes of dead Uwiwan policemen are all over his country’s news programs and some international ones.”
“Shae,” Hilo admonished, glancing at their mother.
To everyone’s surprise, Kaul Wan Ria spoke up and said, “Everyone knows the Uwiwans are all crooks; even their police are crooks. To think what might’ve happened to poor Mrs. Teije’s son if you hadn’t rescued him. You saved your auntie’s life, Hilo-se; she would’ve died of a broken heart if her son had come to harm, and so far away from home. I hope he learns his lesson and stays in Kekon from now on.” She began to push back from the table.
Wen got up to help her. “Don’t you want dessert, Ma?” she asked.
“No, you should eat it. You need it for the baby.”
After dinner was a time for the Green Bones in the family to discuss clan issues. Hilo recalled that as a child, he would be shooed away to play, while Grandda, Doru, and their inner circle remained in the dining room, smoking and drinking hoji, and his mother retired to her room to read or watch television.
Hilo walked around the table behind Kehn’s and Tar’s chairs to give his mother a hug before she left. Full family dinners were rare in the Kaul home these days. “Everything okay with the guesthouse? It’ll be a lot nicer once we fix it up; we’re going to put in new floors and appliances. I know you like it in Marenia, but you should live closer once the baby arrives.” Since Lan’s death, it seemed to Hilo that his mother had aged and shrunken; he’d hired help to take care of the family’s beach house, bring her groceries, and check in on her, but it would be safer to have her behind estate walls, and a grandchild might give her some purpose.
His mother patted him on the arm. Hilo didn’t press his argument. She might be reluctant to give up the peaceful solitude she’d grown used to on the coast, but he was her eldest son now, and she was sure to obey him; he simply needed to be gentle about it.
Once his mother had departed, Hilo sat back down and ate his dessert, giving Shae another remonstrative look for her deliberate tactlessness. Securing the peace agreement between the clans had been a significant public victory for the Weather Man’s office; Hilo knew his sister had been working long hours for weeks, spearheading the detailed negotiations. But that didn’t excuse her talking down to him, in front of his own men and his wife, no less.
“You want to know what Ayt Mada said to me in Gohei?” Hilo looked around the table before settling his gaze back on Shae. “She told me to give up now. To kneel and take oaths to the Mountain, because I’m not Grandda, and I’m not Lan, so No Peak’s fucked.”
“Hilo-jen,” Kehn said, scowling, “she’s trying to make you doubt yourself. Just because you’re not the Torch, or because you’re different from Lan-jen—let the gods recognize them—doesn’t mean you can’t be a strong Pillar, or an even better one. For myself, I can’t be the Horn that you were; I can only be my own sort.” Everyone looked at Kehn, a little surprised by his honesty and thoughtfulness.
“I wouldn’t have made you Horn if I didn’t think you could do a good job,” Hilo said. “So there’s a difference. I never had either Grandda’s or Lan’s blessing.”
Wen placed her hand on Hilo’s leg. “You have us.”
Hilo nodded. “That’s true, and maybe that’s the one thing I have that Ayt doesn’t. We’re all family at this table, so I’m not ashamed to admit that I need the help of every one of you. For my part, I promise to listen to what you have to say, even when I don’t agree or if I make a different decision. And when I do, it’s the word of the Pillar, and you have to respect that.” This last part was directed at his Weather Man, who glanced at him sideways with an appropriate amount of grudging guilt for the sarcastic way she’d spoken earlier.