Of Absence, Darkness, page 17
There was a soft handclap outside the door of the dining room, and everyone jumped and looked up. Well, everyone except Tenai. “That will be a servant of Taranah Berangilan-sa come to summon you, my child. I believe you will find that Inaseh Suaneni wishes to escort you. Emelan, you will also attend Nola Jenna through the evening.”
Emelan bowed, his expression determinedly blank. Jenna looked startled, but nodded after a moment.
But in fact, when the door opened, it was not on any servant of the king’s aunt. It was Sandakan Gutai-e.
Jenna, surprised but no doubt positive this was some kind of romantic moment, looked from Sandakan to Tenai and back again, plainly ready to smile and be pleased for them both. Daniel, after the first moment’s startlement, found that he was not surprised at all by the man's appearance at Tenai's door. But he did not expect an easy reconciliation. Laying a hand on his daughter's arm, he drew her quietly aside, out of the way.
Tenai herself might have been surprised. Or not. It was hard to tell. Her face had gone still, her eyes opaque and secretive. Her posture suggested challenge or even repudiation more than welcome. But Sandakan stepped through the door without hesitation. Although his eyes flicked across the others in the room, his manner dismissed them all. All his attention was for Tenai.
They were much of a height: Tenai was tall for a woman and Sandakan not especially tall for a man. They also shared a similar cast of features, though more angular and almost harsh in the man. His coloring was darker than hers. Sandakan’s eyes were true black, darker than Tenai’s. His hair was very dark, but not quite black. Up close, he looked older than Daniel had first guessed.
“Tenai Chaisa-e,” he said, calling Tenai by name, as so few people here ever seemed to. His voice was rather harsh. He sounded somehow tense and neutral at the same time, as though he was trying not to show what he felt but not quite able to hide everything. He came forward one more step, eyes on Tenai’s face, and stopped.
Tenai stood, her arms folded over her chest. Her expression was calm, but to Daniel her pose looked less forbidding or closed than self-protective. She inclined her head just the smallest degree and answered, “Gutai-e.”
Sandakan said, eyes searching her face, “I serve the king, now.”
“Indeed.”
There was a little silence.
Tenai broke it, her tone hard, even curt. “Ask me, Gutai, if you will ask.”
“And you, Chaisa? Whom do you serve?” His harsh voice made the question sound almost like an accusation, but his eyes were not accusing. They met hers with what seemed a plea, behind the mask of formality.
Tenai answered with a formality that came across as cold. “I have no intention to strike at the king, Gutai. It is he whom I serve. I have no thoughts of fire or of blood. I have no desire to bring an army forth from the land. I have no designs to bring men back to my service. I have said all this to one man and another since my return. Now I tell you the same. If these fears have been in your mind, then be at ease.”
The man bowed, hands at his sides, and straightened. “I am glad to take your word, Chaisa.”
Again there was a pause, somewhat fraught. There was a lot going on, Daniel knew, that he wasn’t catching. This was something with history behind it, more history than Tenai had ever revealed even to him: something long and private that didn’t need an audience. He thought about signaling his daughter and Emelan and retreating. But any movement anyone else made now would probably only make their intrusion worse.
“Well?” said Tenai impatiently.
Sandakan took a breath. He came forward a step, hesitated for just an instant, and dropped to one knee with the grace people here often seemed to give such showy gestures. He said, pain audible in his harsh voice, “I betrayed you.”
For once, Tenai was visibly nonplused. She started to speak, stopped; started again, and just shook her head instead, a tiny motion. She put out her hand as though she would touch the man’s cheek or shoulder; but then did not complete the motion.
“I had to do it,” Sandakan said, eyes on her face. This time there was no mistaking the plea. “I still consider so. But it was betrayal still, and sometimes that is the hardest sin of them all. I do not ask for forgiveness, but for ...” he hesitated, searching for words. “I ask for forbearance, if any plea of mine can move you to offer that much. It would serve neither the king nor Talasayan for us to be at odds. As we are both servants of the king, can we not be at least tolerant of one another? Or, if you cannot bear my presence near you, I ask you to be plain in this regard. I will offer Mitereh my resignation and retire to Patananir. Or farther, to Pitatan, if that will satisfy you. Or only tell me what you will accept, and I will do it, Chaisa, whatever you would have of me.”
When Sandakan stopped speaking, the quiet seemed profound. Nobody rushed to fill it. Daniel found himself holding his breath, and let it out covertly.
After that brief moment, Tenai came forward the necessary step. She laid her hand on the general’s shoulder, close by his neck. “Gutai,” she said, and stopped, and began again. “Sandakan.”
The man closed his eyes, looking shaken.
“It was I who betrayed you,” said Tenai. She lifted her hand, but did not move back. “I have had years to remember those last days. Years to remember your words when you tried to persuade me to turn aside. Years to remember your face, when you lifted your sword against mine at Antiatan. Years in which I have wished to meet you, so that I might say that I was wrong: wrong at Antiatan and wrong before that at Nerinesir, when you told me the war was over. It was not over for me. But it should have been. I should have listened to you when you told me to put away my sword and let the living tend to the grim harvest we had reaped for them.”
Sandakan looked up at her. “Chaisa—” he stopped. And began again: “Tenai Chaisa-e. Do you mean what you say?”
Tenai met his eyes. “Should I mean other than what I say? Sandakan Gutai-e, the king is fortunate in your service. I have no claim and no complaint. I swear by Lord Death and by the Gate: I mean everything I say.”
The man drew a hard breath. He looked, to Daniel, like a man who had expected to die, and been reprieved at the very last second. Beside Daniel, Jenna swallowed and looked away, embarrassed to witness what she had no right to see. He touched her arm, and his daughter leaned against him. He hoped she drew comfort from the contact. He did.
“I feared—I thought—I was afraid to face you, Tenai,” Sandakan was saying. “Even when I saw you had come in company with Mitereh. Even when I saw that it would not be across a battlefield that I would face you, this time. Even then. I came here in fear, because I thought—I thought—”
“You thought I would hate you,” said Tenai, her own voice quiet. “Even though you knew you had been right. Even though it was I who had forged the dark knife of bitter rage and thrust it into my own heart.”
Sandakan met her eyes wordlessly.
“I remember you only kindly, Sandakan, and that, too, I swear by Lord Death and by the Gate. You turned against me. I am grateful. You stopped me when I did not know how to stop myself. Mitereh gained a great prize when he took you into his service, as who should know better than I? It is least of all my desire to deprive him of your service now, or you of the place you have gained in his hand. Will you ask now for my forgiveness?”
“Now I will ask,” the man said, his rough voice sinking almost to a whisper.
“It is yours, given gladly. Please, rise.”
Sandakan got to his feet. He began to speak, but then plainly did not know what to say.
Tenai spoke instead, softly. “I have more hope than you. I will ask for your pardon, as you were always more generous than I, for Antiatan and for what came before, and I hope you will give it.”
“You have it.” Sandakan seemed at last to draw a full breath. “Indeed, you have it.”
“And in time, perhaps, your trust, which is not so easily repaired.” Tenai moved a hand when he would have spoken, and said herself, in a low tone that seemed dark with memory, “It has been sixteen years, but I have not been here, Sandakan. For you it is still Antiatan. For you, I am still Nolas-Kuomon, who tried to burn all this land to ash, a pyre for Encormio. How else could it be? In sixteen more years, perhaps, you will have learned to see past those memories.”
The man looked at her, his black eyes unreadable, shadowed with memory. “It will not take sixteen years. Even at Antiatan, I think I waited only for some paltry shadow of a reason to trust you. And found one, when you chose to run and leave me still living behind you.”
Tenai turned her face aside, not answering.
After a moment, when she did not speak, Sandakan bowed his head. “With your leave?”
“You do not need leave from me to come and go in this house, Gutai.”
“But I still ask it,” Sandakan said, his tone harsh.
Tenai turned back to him, meeting his eyes once more. “Then I give it.”
Sandakan bowed again, turned, and went out. The silence he left behind him was profound. No one, it was clear, wanted to be the one to break it.
It was Jenna who did, in the end. Brave and empathic and trusting: of course it would be Jenna. She crossed the room to Tenai’s side and put a hand on her arm, looking into her face.
Tenai did not like to be touched. But she had always made an exception to this rule for Jenna. Now awareness of the present, of this room and her companions, seeped back into her face. She touched Jenna’s hand with just the tips of her fingertips and moved away. But she stepped away with a back-to-business attitude.
The next handclap, thankfully, was nothing more alarming than the woman from Taranah’s household. Jenna, looking pleased and excited and a touch nervous, went out. Inaseh Suaneni and Emelan went with her.
Daniel turned back at Tenai after the door closed behind his daughter. He tipped his head after everyone who had just left them. “You’re sure that’s a good idea.”
Now, in private, with only Daniel to see her, Tenai permitted herself to look tired. “I know Taranah Berangilan-sa only very little. I know nothing about the queen’s sister to alarm either of us. But she is royal, and thus one is wise to be cautious.”
Daniel had meant sending Emelan with Jenna. He paused now. “Does she outrank you? Does anyone? Keitah Terusai-e, I gather.”
A tiny quirk of one eyebrow. “Let us say, I would not attempt to issue a command to Taranah Berangilan-sa or Keitah Terusai-e. Nor, despite their higher rank, would either of them be comfortable to command me. We shall walk carefully with one another in the coming days, you may be certain. So we see how useful a man God or the Martyr has set into my hand: Emelan will know very well how to understand everything that passes at the table of the king’s aunt. He will advise Jenna, if advice would serve her.”
Daniel pulled a chair away from the table for himself, and one for Tenai. “I gather a supper invitation from the king’s aunt is a command performance.”
“No less than from the king, whom I expect to send for you in a very little. Thus he will signal his favor. I will remain attentive to both you and Jenna, I do assure you. In the unlikely event you find it necessary to call my name, I shall hear you. That has not changed. A good many miles would have to lie between us before your voice would fail to carry to me.” Tenai seated herself and leaned back in her chair, resting her hands on the table and gazing between them at the polished wood. She looked up after a moment. “And are you well, Daniel? I have hardly seen you to speak to these past days.”
Daniel shook his head, then held up a hand when she tilted her head in concern. “I’m fine. As fine as can be expected, I suppose. I admit, I can’t help but be nervous. I do actually like Mitereh. I think I do. Not that I actually know him well, obviously, but he seems ...” he thought about that and said finally, “He seems an earnest young man. I’m less worried than I was at first, I can tell you that.” He paused, thinking over the past days. “Your world certainly seems a good deal more real now that we’ve ridden through part of it. Your history seems far more real now. I’d really like to dig into that a little, if there’s a library around here somewhere, and if I could read.”
“The library is no difficulty. There are two within the palace. Or there were.” Tenai tapped her fingertips restlessly on the table. “The enchantment to open your eyes to our writing ... that may be more difficult. Mitereh will not wish me to work any true sorcery without his leave, which he may prefer not to give. Or not yet. I know you will not wish to wait. I will ask him. Or you may do so, Daniel. He would not be offended by the request. He may ask you to permit someone else to work this spell upon you. Some among his personal guard must be at least minor sorcerers. Taranah Berangilan-sa certainly is.”
Daniel nodded. “All right.” He might have been a little uncomfortable at the idea of anyone but Tenai working any sort of magic around him, or on him, but maybe he wouldn’t mind if the king’s aunt did it. He was also thinking about history, and how much more real it seemed when one met figures who might as well have stepped directly out of the pages of dusty history. He said, “And how about you, Tenai? Are you all right? That might have been ... a little too much history this evening.”
She knew what he meant. She gazed down at her hands where they rested on the table. “Sandakan remembers the ferocity of those last years. How could he not? That dark fury eclipsed the sky for us both.”
Daniel nodded. “In Chaisa, you seemed to me to be regaining your balance. Even on the ride here, I don’t know, we didn’t have much chance to talk, but I thought you seemed ... if not comfortable, at least still maintaining your balance. This has been a tough day for you, I know that. But ... I’m glad you had a chance to make a peace with Sandakan. I know he’s important to you.”
She did not deny it.
“It seems to me, though maybe I’m not the best person to judge, that you handled Keitah Terusai-e with some skill in a difficult situation. And Emelan with restraint, even with kindness. And Sandakan Gutai-e with grace and honesty. I think you left something there that will have room to grow. Is that not how it seems to you?”
Tenai rose and moved across the room, to the window, as she always tended to move toward windows when disturbed. The rich light of the low sun silhouetted her, cast her face into shadow when she turned back toward him, struck dark bronze highlights from her hair and skin. She looked foreign in that light. Almost unrecognizable.
Then she shifted out of the sunlight and became at once herself. Familiar. She said quietly, “I have long wished to say to Gutai-e the things I said. But I ...” Her voice trailed off.
Thought that it would feel different? That giving, and asking, forgiveness would give a different, or greater, sense of closure? That Sandakan would somehow be able to offer her a kind of absolution she could not give herself? Daniel could imagine all those reactions.
“I am a fool,” said Tenai. “It was not Gutai-e who accompanied me through the veil.”
Daniel waited, but she did not elaborate. He suspected he knew what she’d meant. He was fairly certain she meant Lord Death had accompanied her. That was a fraught idea. But ... he could think of one or two things that really made him think she must mean that.
There was a handclap outside the door before he could decide whether to ask.
It was, this time, a servant of Mitereh’s, summoning Daniel back to the king’s apartment for the long-promised supper. Because he was part of the king’s household now, and not Tenai’s. Probably Keitah Terusai-e would be there, too. Wonderful.
He gave Tenai a last look, trying to communicate—what? Trust, he decided, because that was what each of them needed from the other, now. Then he followed the king’s attendant.
*
In the event, Daniel found, when he’d made his way once more through the somewhat complicated hallways between Tenai’s apartment and the king’s, that Keitah had gone. To re-write his will or the Talasayan equivalent, possibly, one way or the other. Daniel could hardly guess whether the man might decide to reconcile with his brother or disinherit him or what. Regardless, his absence probably lowered the tension level in the king's apartments by, oh, a thousand percent or so.
The king, alone except for a couple of his guards and various attendants, welcomed Daniel with a little nod. “Join me, Danyel. We shall have a quiet evening, I hope,” he said kindly. “Come; sit with me. I trust you have not been too much discommoded by all these events.” Then, as he guided Daniel into a different room, he added with more focused intent, “Nor has Chaisa found herself discommoded, I hope.”
The other room proved to be a surprisingly casual space; a comfortable room with couches and low tables arranged in small groupings, and, more to the point, a large balcony where a small table had been laid for supper. Only two chairs had been set at this table. Daniel was fairly certain he was being offered a significant honor. He wished again for a handy etiquette guide, but also assumed the king did not intend to take offense at anything but truly egregious blunders.
Declining to answer leading questions hopefully wouldn't count. Saying anything like Actually, whatever's going on between Tenai and Keitah and Emelan, that's not as important as her working things out with Sandakan would be a definite breach of Tenai's privacy.
He decided finally on a mere statement of observable fact that therefore definitely could not constitute a breach of privacy. “Tenai appointed Emelan as Jenna's bodyguard. I think that may have been ...” a bit optimistic? Just what the man needed? “A reasonable option,” he concluded. He hoped. He took the chair toward which the king nodded and added, a cautious probe of his own, “I hope, ah, Nolas-ai Keitah finds that acceptable.”
“He will become accustomed,” murmured the king. “He was surprised, of course. Who would not be?” He sat down himself, not facing Daniel across the table, but at an offset angle. An etiquette book would probably explain that choice. He went on, “That appointment should serve, so long as this man has recovered any measure of honor in Chaisa's service. By making such an appointment, she declares that he has. By declaring so, she makes it true—unless the man she takes up should prove cur enough to bite the hand that she has held out to him.”
