“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Intelligence officer murmured. “The amount of information I just took in was extraordinary. Although I must admit, I’d prefer the next burst of data to come with a little less personal peril. I don’t suppose anyone thought to set the automatic defense wards around our bench?”
Brith Darma slid one hand carefully to press the stud under the lip of the table, just above his lap. “Oversight remedied.”
When Jathmar released his wife from the kiss, Brith Darma judged it safe enough to address the man directly.
“Mr. Nargra?”
The knives leapt back into the Sharonian’s eyes as he jerked his gaze up to meet the earl’s. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there in the open doorway, glaring at Brith Darma and gripping his wife tightly again.
“Mr. Nargra, I will say only this. I have the deepest respect for your wife, her courage, and her strength. I won’t even ask you to leave her side for the rest of this session. In fact, we would vastly prefer for you to stay with her.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
That single word was harsh with hatred and suspicion.
“Because I have no desire to see the results if we goad you into attacking us to defend her. I do not want to watch you die, sir.”
That caught him by surprise.
“Master of the Sword, please bring in a second chair.”
“No, Sir.”
He stayed right where he was, sword drawn and held in defensive posture between the threat and three of the highest-ranked-and currently unarmed-officers in the Arcanan military. Brith Darma didn’t swear aloud; nor did he say, “It’s all right, Sword Master, I’ve set the wards.” Instead, he said, “Quite right. My apologies. Hundred Olderhan?”
“Yes, Sir,” the younger officer said crisply, swinging up an empty chair from the waiting room and depositing it beside the one Shaylar had abandoned. When he stepped back into the waiting room, past Jathmar and his wife, he spoke quietly. “I gave you my word, Jathmar, that they weren’t hurting her in here.”
The prisoner’s gaze locked with Hundred Olderhan’s. “Physically, no. You’re in no position to judge anything else.”
“No. But I am in a position to guarantee your safety.”
Shaylar said something soft, too soft to hear, even if she’d been speaking in her astoundingly good Andaran. Whatever she’d said, Jathmar gave a stiff, reluctant nod.
“Very well,” the prisoner said in a low growl. “I’ll hold you to that guarantee.”
The young officer smiled. “I know you will.”
That smile and those words were exactly the right touch, at exactly the right moment. That, alone, told Brith Darma what he needed to know about Jasak Olderhan’s judgment under pressure. It was a damned shame, he thought bitterly, because there wasn’t a prayer that they could do anything but recommend a full and formal court-martial. Some days, Horvon Fosdark, Earl of Brith Darma, Commander of Wings, genuinely hated his job.
Chapter Twenty-Three
January 11
Gadrial peered at her reflection with critical eyes. The burgundy silk gown the duchess had ordered her private dressmaker to run up for her was a glorious confection, but she was in no fit state to truly appreciate it.
Yesterday, after the long day waiting on the Board of Inquiry, she’d finally accepted the duchess’s offer and taken a suite in the Portalis ducal apartments, which stood so much closer to the Commandery offices used by the Inquiry. This morning her hostess had provided everything she needed. Nor was Sathmin Olderhan alone in “looking after” her.
Many of the Olderhan staff might believe Shaylar and Jathmar were the villains the news painted, but not one believed the slanders whispered against Jasak Olderhan. They’d helped raise that boy into a man. And now they clearly very desperately wanted Gadrial to like them. It was almost overwhelming how well they were treating her. This dress wasn’t just from the duchess, and she knew it. Yet as much as she appreciated their remarkable welcome, it was impossible for her to respond the way she knew she ought to. However hard she tried, she simply couldn’t see past the horror of what the Union of Arcana’s Commandery might do to Jasak.
She gave her reflection a brave attempt at a smile. It failed miserably, so she gave up, closed her eyes, and covered her face with both hands. Help me get through this day, Rahil, she prayed. And please, I beg of you, help Jasak. He’s not Ransaran, but he needs your help.
Needed it desperately…
Gadrial slipped off the burgundy silk. She’d hoped it might cheer her up a little, but her eyes were so damp she was afraid of dripping on the dress and ruining it with water spots. Given what the duchess had paid for it, she didn’t want to ruin it the first time she took it out of the closet, and she’d forgotten to ask the designer if the silk had been treated to repel water. She wasn’t sure of the wording for spell that would accomplish it, either, which made her wary to experiment on so expensive an item.
So she dutifully stripped it off, hanging it carefully in the closet where a magic field kept garments floating at the perfect height for the wearer, kept any of them from touching and wrinkling any others, and served, as well, to repel dust, moths, and anything else that might nibble on them. She’d never seen a closet like it, ever.
Before the news had come, night before last, she’d vowed to build the spells necessary to replicate it in her own closet, at home. She still intended to do that. She really did. Just as soon as her life settled down enough to make going home again, possible. That threatened to start the faucet flowing again, and she drew a deep breath to calm herself, pulled out a suit to replace the burgundy silk, and dressed quickly.
She’d already planned a whirlwind of a week, meeting with her Academy staff, with the duke and several of his political supporters, and with Halathyn’s widow. When the summons for the Board of Inquiry came immediately, she’d canceled or delayed everything she possibly could-except for Mahritha vos Dulainah. Halathyn’s widow would actually have understood if she hadn’t come. The woman’s generosity of spirit overflowed even now, and she’d done her very best to comfort Gadrial. If Halathyn had been her second father, Mahritha had been her second mother, and she’d watched that second mother’s eyes fill with tears at last when Gadrial told her Halathyn had named the very last universe he would ever explore in her name. That was what had finally broken her composure, and Gadrial wished desperately that she’d had some miraculous piece of magic to wash away the pain of Halathyn’s death.
But today promised to be worse. So she dressed quickly, then spent a great deal of care over her face and hair, using cosmetic spells to tint eyelids and cheeks, to smooth over the dark smudges under her eyes, put there by sleeplessness and strain, and to repair her dry, bitten lips so they were moist and expertly shaded in her best, most flattering colors. For her hair, she wanted a simple, businesslike look and she murmured spells from the latest fashion crystals, grateful she could do the job, herself, rather than having to pay a Gifted hair and makeup artist to do it for her.
Of course, she could always borrow the Duchess’ in-house artist…
Gadrial sighed while her hair lifted itself into the upswept style from the crystal, tucking itself into the proper configuration. Once she had it smoothed to her satisfaction, she set the spell with a simple holding incantation and clipped her favorite bracelet around her wrist. She checked the results carefully in the mirror, then nodded, satisfied.
Sleek, simple, professional.
All signs of stress carefully obscured.
Except her hands, which shook. She dragged down another deep, desperate breath and told her eyes to stay dry. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not…Word had come at dinner, last night. Without waiting for the Board of Inquiry’s report, Parliament had announced War Hearings and the Commandery had declared sufficient grounds to begin court-martial proceedings.