The humid swelter
had penetrated far into the marble depths of the palace, but here, in the throne
room and the accompanying quarters of the Last Steward of the Dolphin Throne, it
was still the perpetual cool that ignored the seasons. Rikharal was somewhat nervous; he had
been in the Presence before, but only on ceremonial occasions where his behavior
was well defined by custom. Now
that he finally had the audience he had sought for a Simaar, he was uncertain
how to act when alone with the oldest living being on the planet, the last
representative of the Old Blood, the builders of Altahan.
She beckoned him from
the door, where his
confusion had halted him, and he approached to the ritual three spans before
dropping to one knee. His left hand
on the pommel of his sword, his right hand touched briefly the sigil embroidered
over his heart, a snowy owl in hunting flight. He said,
"Mother, I thank you
for seeing me."
With a smile touched by
the same wintry frost as her hair, Sethria Amris beckoned him
again.
"Do get up,
Rikharal! I have been friend to
fifty-odd generations of your family, and you are all the stubbornest about
ritual of any Namen I know. Come
and sit with me." She waved a
graceful arm at the cushions next to her.
Rikharal took one, sitting in the cross-legged posture customary to his
brotherhood, his left hand guiding his sword to lie across behind him.
Sethria smiled again
with gentle irony. She knew he
could rise and draw that sword from that, or nearly any other position, with
blinding speed, and knew also that it would leave that scabbard only in her
defense. Indeed, she knew that he,
or indeed any Naman wearing The Owl in Winter, would lay down his life in her
defense, or at her request, without hesitation. It was a continual trial to her
humility.
"I'm surprised that you
took so long in requesting this audience, Rikharal," she said, when he was
seated. "Your sword-brother has
been missing for nearly twenty years.
That is what this
is about, is it not?"
"Yes, Mother. I have waited long, but my aides can
manage well enough, now, without me.
The Northlands and the Owl are in good hands, and the need is become far
too great to be ignored. I must go
to search for him. He surely still lives; he is a
warrior born, and has the gifts in full measure in his genes, though
untrained."
"You know he has passed
into the next world," she reminded him.
"The Stone was very clear on that.
Rikharal, he was only a boy when he was lost to us." Sethria leaned toward him, and he was
suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the differences in her: the eyes that looked
more sideways than forward, the opalescent sheen of her skin on her six-fingered
hands, the sinuous grace of her long form, supported on a frame more cartilage
than bone.
"Nonetheless, I would
know if he were dead. I would know
it! Our need for him is desperate
since the theft. Only he has
sufficient rapport with the Arrym to locate it before Korta destroys us. Mother of us all, let me look for my
sword-brother! Give me leave to
pass through the Portal!" Rikharal,
fevered by his concern, stopped short.
He had leaned forward on the knuckles of his right hand, and found
himself speaking in tones that left him aghast! This was the Amris, the Mother of his
race! That he should be wheedling
for his desire like a common rug merchant was unthinkable. He straightened back into his
cross-legged posture, saying, "Your pardon, Mother. I forget myself."
"No, Rikharal, you
reveal yourself." Her chuckle was
dry and throaty. "It is your care
for your young Lord that speaks, and it does you credit. But you know the rule of the
Balance. No more of us may cross
through until at least one has returned.
I am sorry, but you must wait until Sunea finds passage home. She has been called, and should arrive
within the year. I know," she held
up a hand, forestalling him, "but you have waited this long. Be patient a while longer. As of now, you are detached from your
unit and assigned to my personal guard.
You may take your leave as soon as Sunea or another should return." She laid a hand, so much warmer, on his
own. "Be content with this, my
child. It is truly the best I can
do for you."
Rikharal nodded,
accepting the inevitable.
"Thank you,
Mother. I will wait."
"Good. Then stay with me here, and talk with me
awhile. I will send for wine, and
you can tell me how Korta managed to steal the Arrym Stone." She sank back, recumbent. "And then there are things I have wanted
to tell you about your father."