Homecoming
937 A.O.P.
One
BLAINE
“Lord Westergard.”
Blaine withheld a sigh at the title, which had been reinserted into the nobility genealogies at Meleri’s insistence. He hadn’t been a lord in a very long time and much preferred being known as ajarl’s husband. Still, he turned to greet the man who’d called out to him, pasting on a polite smile.
Melvin Khaur, of the Khaur bloodline, and his husband, Ezra, strode down the hallway in the Ashion parliament toward him. The Marshal of the Clockwork Brigade wore trousers and a day jacket tailored in the Daijalan style. Blaine didn’t mind the bright colors and heavy embroidery, though he knew it made the pair stand out, which was likely the point.
“Mr. Khaur,” Blaine said politely.
“Please, Melvin is fine. I’m glad we caught you.”
Blaine glanced at the thick folio tucked under the other man’s arm, near bursting at the seams with its contents. “I was actually just leaving. I’m not overseeing the council today, but I had some documents to drop off for the queen. I believe Dureau has the gavel this session.”
Creating the Council of Reconstruction and Reunification had been one of the first things Caris had done as queen, days after the ink had dried on the treaty of surrender the ranking Daijalan general had signed. Eimarille’s heir was five years old, and High General Kote Akina had died in defense of Lisandro during the siege of the palace. No one had been certain at the time who had the authority to sign for Daijal, but an officer out of New Haven had been found once that city surrendered to Ashion forces, backed by Tovanian ship-cities at the shoreline.
Eimarille’s death had gone a long way toward breaking Daijal’s spirit, too many of the nobility and citizens tired of feeding their sons and daughters to war and the death-defying machines. Surrender had come more quickly than many had anticipated.
Winding down from war took time, though. Just because it was deemed over didn’t mean the fighting had stopped. Pockets of Daijalan resistance still cropped up, and Blaine knew further dissent was in their future once Caris formally rescinded Daijal’s right to debt slaves and dissolved that country in its entirety. Blaine was glad the Khaur bloodline had survived the nobility purge Eimarille had enacted, but he did hope Melvin didn’t stop looking for a knife in the back. The nobles who had immersed themselves in the now disbanded Daijalan court weren’t pleased with the demotion of their political power and would look for someone to blame.
“How is Lady Lore faring?” Ezra asked.
“Still more than capable of politicking with the best of them.”
Lore needed a cane to get around on her good days and a wheelchair on her bad ones. Her body still hadn’t fully recovered from her forced coma while a prisoner of the House of Kimathi. Physical therapy helped, as did medicinal potions concocted by Ksenia, but recovery was slow going. Still, she would recover, and while her body needed assistance sometimes, her mind was as clear and sharp as ever.
As a lady-in-waiting and close confidant to Caris, the duty of taking over their bloodline’s parliament seat had fallen to Dureau while Lore acted in their queen’s stead when necessary. Lady Brielle and her family had died during the occupation of Amari by Daijal forces. Blaine knew Meleri, Lore, and Dureau mourned the loss deeply.
“I’ll pass on your well-wishes,” Blaine said, politely finding an excuse to leave.
Melvin, ever keen on such subtle cues, inclined his head out of respect. “Please do.”
They parted ways, with Blaine heading toward the entrance to parliament, finally able to extract himself from the building’s illustrious halls. The day was overcast and gray, with a sharp wind that smelled of rain that had yet to fall. His kilt twisted around his legs, the heavy plaid wool keeping him warm as he hurried down the wide steps leading to the Ashion parliament.
A motor carriage waited on the street, engine still running. A familiar figure got out from the back seat and held the door open for him. Blaine paused only long enough to brush a kiss over Honovi’s cheek before sliding into the back seat.
“I thought you’d be longer,” Honovi said as he climbed in beside Blaine.
“I tried not to get waylaid.” He didn’t mind playing messenger between the palace and parliament, not when it was Caris’ personal instructions that needed to be delivered. Despite having control of the capital, they were all still wary of important information getting lost or mishandled. “The Marshal finally made it to Amari.”
Honovi reached for Blaine’s metal hand, curling his gloved fingers around the metal digits. “What’s the latest news out of Daijal?”
“I didn’t ask. The Marshal can provide it to Dureau, and he can report to Caris.”
Ashion wasn’t his country, and Blaine didn’t want anyone thinking he was responsible for its reconstruction. He and Honovi had plans to stay through winter to ensure Caris didn’t buckle under the weight of ruling as she got her feet under her, as well as to make sure Ashion kept its promises to E’ridia for the aid his country had given.
After that, they would return to E’ridia, where Honovi would focus on his role asjarlin preparation for taking over his father’s position on theComhairle nan Cinnidheannext year. Honovi would beceann-cinnidhfor Clan Storm, and Blaine was looking forward to maybe teaching again.
He and Honovi spoke little on the short drive to the heavily guarded palace, passing bombed-out buildings and patched-over cobblestone streets. War hadn’t been kind to the capital, and the scars it had left behind would take months, if not years, to erase. Priority was given to the outer walls, large sections of which had been destroyed from bombing runs by the E’ridian air force. Even with engineers returned to the city, it was a race against time to get the sections rebuilt before winter arrived.
The third week of Thirteenth Month was cold as autumn gave in to the oncoming winter, but it wasn’t yet cold enough to freeze the dead. Revenants roamed the continent, more than there had ever been, even after the civil war between Daijal and Ashion. The fall of Rixham had contributed to the hordes, and the trade roads were more dangerous now than ever before.
With the number of wardens less than they had been and many of the tithes killed during Eimarille’s attack on the Warden’s Island last year, hunting down revenants and cleansing the poison fields would be the work of generations of wardens yet to come. Already, cities and towns were begging the wardens’ governor for assistance, but there were only so many of her people that Delani could safely send out.
