Repurcussions
937 A.O.P.
One
HONOVI
Honovi left theComhairle nan Cinnidheanchambers at the center of the government building with an aching fury he dared not show on his face after the session ended for the day. Despite his effort, he knew his father could read the seething truth in him better than anyone.
“TheComhairle nan Cinnidheanhasn’t changed its stance since the last time you stood before them. This alliance you seek with Ashion is not viable, and you paint our clan in a bad light by repeatedly bringing it to the table. You must have known the session would have gone this way,” Alrickson said with a heavy sigh as they walked through the curved hallways of the capital’s governing building, leaving their fellows behind. The gardens situated in the space between the circular buildings were in summer bloom, but Honovi barely spared them a glance.
Honovi clenched his hands into fists and matched his stride with his father’s, the hem of his kilt brushing against his knees. “It’s my right asjarlto request a vote.”
“Perhaps, but it is also theComhairle nan Cinnidhean’s right to refrain from bringing it up. I told you that your latest motion would be tabled.”
“You could have voted yes to hear it.”
“I have before, several times, and always the vote is the same. I couldn’t in good conscience proceed when there are other pressing needs to be dealt with. There will be no vote for alliance, now or in the future. You are not Ashion’s ambassador, so stop trying to be.”
That wasn’t an unexpected result of Honovi’s continuous lobbying since last year, but it was disheartening, to say the least. “But you agree with me that Eimarille is a threat. That this war she persists in fighting will not end at the Eastern Spine.”
“She has made no moves beyond her own borders?—”
“What do you think this war with Ashionis? And what of therionetkasfound in our government?” Honovi all but hissed to keep his voice low as they passed by clerks and political aides. “What of our former Seneschal?”
Alrickson slanted him a look, hair ornaments depicting his rank glinting in his long graying braid with the motion of his head. “There isn’t any proof of Daijal interference there.”
Honovi snorted his opinion on that and stared straight ahead as they walked to his father’s office. “Pretending it’s not there doesn’t negate the threat, and you know it.”
Gregor of Clan Wind, once their country’s Seneschal, had been found to be arionetkalast year, bearing the vivisection scars on his body of someone else’s control. The wardens had been reluctant to advertise their ability to rework the control as they had done with Nathaniel, but they’d eventually sent Ksenia to Glencoe over the winter to handle the operation. They hadn’t had Caris to write out the notes the clarion crystals sang or find the dips in his mind, so it had taken much longer.
In the end, Ksenia’s efforts had given Gregor back his mind but not his memories or his position. The clans had been forced to vote on an interim Seneschal until the next round of elections arrived to fill it permanently.
It had also made E’ridians wary of giving more aid to the wardens after their initial rush to help in the wake of the attack on the Warden’s Island. Rumors were persisting and building that the wardens had a hand in creating therionetkas, despite their sworn duty to protect Maricol under the Poison Accords. Honovi knew the truth would be devastating—that a wardenwasresponsible for the horror ofrionetkas. That the warden in question had been thought dead at the time would not negate the public’s opinion on the matter.
Delani, the wardens’ governor, had remained silent in the face of such pointed questions, refusing to confirm or deny such a fact. E’ridia would still tithe, as was required by the Poison Accords, but Honovi could see how this might build resentment in the clans. So, too, could he see how the clans’ insistence on noninterference would be their undoing if Eimarille had her way.
Honovi held his tongue until they were ensconced in his father’s office, the space familiar after years of standing in his father’s shadow and learning how to lead a clan as much as how to help govern a nation.
“Father, you know I am right,” Honovi said once the door was closed behind them. The whir of the mechanical fan in the corner was white noise, moving the sluggish air, as there wasn’t a window for a breeze. Summer was only two weeks away, Seventh Month half over already.
Alrickson went behind his desk and started sorting through the folios left there by a clerk. “I am not in a position to agree with you. You haven’t brought us any proof beyond what Blaine insists is the truth.”
“The Dusk Star wouldn’t have left him with us if we weren’t supposed to support his duty.”
“His road is not enough to dictate policy.”
Honovi bit back the first and second retort that came to his lips. “Will theComhairle nan Cinnidheanwait until Daijal is at our border? Is that our policy now?”
“Ashion’s war is not ours.”
“Does the attack on the Warden’s Island mean nothing, then? Is Solaria’s alliance not evidence enough they see Daijal for the threat it is?”
News of that alliance had come out of Calhames nearly two weeks ago. Honovi had left for Glencoe soon after Caris had confirmed it, along with Lore’s and Soren’s frightening disappearance. The alliance was all the broadsheets were reporting on, even in E’ridia, though Soren’s absence had yet to be truly questioned. There’d been no demand sent to either Caris or the Imperial emperor that he knew of, and Honovi knew faith in finding the pair alive was flickering.
But that was information Blaine had sworn him to secrecy about, and Honovi, for all that he wasjarl, was a husband first these days. He believed in Blaine’s road, in his duty to stand as witness for Caris, because in doing so, it would keep Maricol safe and whole, not subjugated by one country determined to assimilate everyone under one crown.
“The Imperial emperor’s alliance was dictated by a debt. The Legion is marching north, but it remains to be seen how long the Houses will support such an endeavor,” Alrickson said before sitting. He gestured pointedly at the chairs in front of his desk.
