Gallel's Heir

Chapter 11.3: A Mother's Decision

Time flees from us like a rabbit from a pursuer, and we are left wan and listless with no nourishment. Let us grab the rabbit by the ears before it flees beyond reach, let us tame it, or cook it, and make good use of what the Ancestors set before us. This is the way to happiness.
---The Writings of Seffloyer shen Bitter Albindor of Ellingsvale, Chapter Four, "Time," 2320 AE.

Dylin sought within herself the calmness, the emptiness she craved whenever she faced Tutang. Only with this calmness could she take one step after another. She expanded her lungs steadily. Tamil wanted to befriend her, that's why they summoned Dylin. Hoping didn't make reality, though, and Dylin's throat parched. Only Canúden's presence, next to her and in her mind, sustained her. She breathed his presence deeply.

Their footsteps echoed as the three proceeded down corridors and three flights of stairs. Servants they passed whispered, probably not about her, still she felt their eyes on her back. She kept her head down to avoid meeting anyone's eyes, fingers gripping the blanket and Canúden's arm.

The Conference Room lay at ground level within Gallel, to the left of Tutang's office.

"Only the San is welcome," said Boreck.

Canúden kissed her. "I'll wait for you."

She nodded, and straightened her back.

The guard knocked on the dark, intricately­ carved door; a grunt sounded from the inside and Boreck opened. She followed him in. It was normally a pleasant room, with its high ceiling and broad windows. Dylin periodically spent time studying its murals of the Ancestors, especially that of Lady Anath and her Ball. Now she trembled and focused on the two individuals, Tutang and the larger Tamil, who sat facing each other at the long conference table in two of the dozen chairs.

The stocky youth she'd seen that morning in the Turbian procession slouched at Tamil's elbow on a third chair, gripping his hands together and glaring out a window. He was probably sixteen years old, and chunky with muscles. His hair hung in the Turbian style, with rows of braids covering his broad scalp and extending to his shoulders in the back. He seemed to be ignoring the others, fists pulsating angrily, and teeth grinding. He looked... mean. If she could touch him, feel his wari, she would know for sure. He also felt familiar, as though she'd met him before.

The wood floor and the rug covering it appeared freshly swept. The smell of wood polish and sweat filled the air. An inkwell and papers cluttered the space between the royals, some blank, others with lines of script. A palm­sized, spherical paperweight, darker than onyx, stood in front of Tamil on a document. Sunlight from the double-arched windows shimmered onto the table, except where the Kel's and San's sticky hands had touched. The beam somehow missed the black ball, which reflected none of the light and obscured everything around it.

Tutang's lips spasmed intermittent smiles, and his fingers twitched, as with attempt to keep from fidgeting. Sweat trickled down his cheeks and neck, darkening his green robe. Rather than the angry, broad­shouldered kel, he was a child caught in some mischief, perhaps trying to convince himself it wasn't mischief at all. She had never seen him so... disturbed, so cowed. Yes, the war, even the hunger of her people almost made up for that glimpse of Tutang. She looked at Tamil with gratitude for providing her this sight.

The boy turned and scowled at her like she was a filthy servant, then returned to staring out the windows.

Sunlight glistened on Tamil's face, but her perspiration likely resulted from mass, not nerves. Her smile was one of serenity, if not sincerity. She drummed her ring­covered fingers on the table she only just reached as she leaned back in the chair. Her silk robe rolled over her bulk; dark patches under her arms emitted a sweaty odor. Gold and jewels circled her neck, and whenever she moved, metal tinkled.