remember that, at least until your brother gets back.” He fixed her with a level stare. “I didn’t want it, you know. The regent thing.”
The regent thing. As though his ascension to the most powerful post in the empire were nothing more than an irritating chore that kept him from drinking or whoring or whatever it was he did when he wasn’t leading armies.
“Then why did you take it?”
His insouciance stung, in part because, though she had known Annur would never accept a woman in the post, she had hoped secretly that the Council of Ministers might appoint her nonetheless, at least for the short months until Kaden returned. Whatever battles he had won, il Tornja struck her as ill-suited to political rule.
“Why did they choose you in the first place?”
If the man took offense at the question, he didn’t show it. “Well, they had to pick someone.”
“They could have picked someone else. ”
“Truth is,” he said with a wink, “I think they tried. There were votes and votes and votes. You know they lock you into that ’Shael-spawned hall until you come up with a name?” He blew out a long, irritated breath. “And there’s no ale. I’ll tell you that. Wouldn’t be so bad if there was ale.”
This man, the one who complains about a lack of ale during the conclave, is the one the ministers chose as regent?
“At any rate,” the kenarang continued, heedless of her dismay, “I don’t think many of them much wanted me. In the end, I think they picked me because I don’t have any plans for the governance of this fine empire.” He frowned apologetically. “I’m not saying I’m going to shirk my duty. I’ll see to what needs doing, but I know my limits. I’m a soldier, and a soldier shouldn’t overstep himself when he’s not on the battlefield.”
Adare nodded slowly. There was a certain perverse logic to the decision. The various ministries were always jockeying for position: Finance with Ethics, Agriculture with Trade. No regent would actually try to seize power for himself, but the months during which Kaden was away would provide plenty of time to tip some very delicate scales. Il Tornja, on the other hand—the man was affable, a war hero, and perhaps most crucially, indifferent to political maneuvering.
“Well,” she replied, “the delegation left for Kaden just after my father’s death. If they have good winds to the Bend, they could be back in a matter of months.”
“Months,” il Tornja groaned. “At least it’s not years. What’s Kaden like?”
“I barely know my brother. He’s been in Ashk’lan for half his life.”
“Learning to run all this?” il Tornja asked, gesturing vaguely, presumably at the vast empire stretching away outside the walls of the tomb.
“I certainly hope so. The boy I knew liked to run around the palace waving a wooden stick in place of a sword. Hopefully he will shine as brightly as my father.”
Il Tornja nodded, looked over at the body of Sanlitun, then back at Adare. “So,” he said, spreading his hands. “Uinian. You plan to hold the knife yourself?”
Adare raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“The priest murdered your father. Once you go through the show of the trial, he’ll be condemned. What I wonder is, will you kill him yourself?”
She shook her head. “I hadn’t considered the question. There is an executioner—”
“You ever kill a man?” he asked, cutting her off.
“I haven’t had much occasion.”
He nodded, then gestured to the bier. “Well, it’s your grief, and I don’t mean to tell you how to handle it. Ananshael has your father now, and Ananshael won’t give him back. Still, when the time comes, you may find it helps if you execute the bastard yourself.” He held her gaze a moment longer, as though to be sure she had understood, then turned on his heel and left.
Only then, when she was finally alone, did Adare allow herself to turn to her father’s bier. Sanlitun hui’Malkeenian’s body had
The regent thing. As though his ascension to the most powerful post in the empire were nothing more than an irritating chore that kept him from drinking or whoring or whatever it was he did when he wasn’t leading armies.
“Then why did you take it?”
His insouciance stung, in part because, though she had known Annur would never accept a woman in the post, she had hoped secretly that the Council of Ministers might appoint her nonetheless, at least for the short months until Kaden returned. Whatever battles he had won, il Tornja struck her as ill-suited to political rule.
“Why did they choose you in the first place?”
If the man took offense at the question, he didn’t show it. “Well, they had to pick someone.”
“They could have picked someone else. ”
“Truth is,” he said with a wink, “I think they tried. There were votes and votes and votes. You know they lock you into that ’Shael-spawned hall until you come up with a name?” He blew out a long, irritated breath. “And there’s no ale. I’ll tell you that. Wouldn’t be so bad if there was ale.”
This man, the one who complains about a lack of ale during the conclave, is the one the ministers chose as regent?
“At any rate,” the kenarang continued, heedless of her dismay, “I don’t think many of them much wanted me. In the end, I think they picked me because I don’t have any plans for the governance of this fine empire.” He frowned apologetically. “I’m not saying I’m going to shirk my duty. I’ll see to what needs doing, but I know my limits. I’m a soldier, and a soldier shouldn’t overstep himself when he’s not on the battlefield.”
Adare nodded slowly. There was a certain perverse logic to the decision. The various ministries were always jockeying for position: Finance with Ethics, Agriculture with Trade. No regent would actually try to seize power for himself, but the months during which Kaden was away would provide plenty of time to tip some very delicate scales. Il Tornja, on the other hand—the man was affable, a war hero, and perhaps most crucially, indifferent to political maneuvering.
“Well,” she replied, “the delegation left for Kaden just after my father’s death. If they have good winds to the Bend, they could be back in a matter of months.”
“Months,” il Tornja groaned. “At least it’s not years. What’s Kaden like?”
“I barely know my brother. He’s been in Ashk’lan for half his life.”
“Learning to run all this?” il Tornja asked, gesturing vaguely, presumably at the vast empire stretching away outside the walls of the tomb.
“I certainly hope so. The boy I knew liked to run around the palace waving a wooden stick in place of a sword. Hopefully he will shine as brightly as my father.”
Il Tornja nodded, looked over at the body of Sanlitun, then back at Adare. “So,” he said, spreading his hands. “Uinian. You plan to hold the knife yourself?”
Adare raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“The priest murdered your father. Once you go through the show of the trial, he’ll be condemned. What I wonder is, will you kill him yourself?”
She shook her head. “I hadn’t considered the question. There is an executioner—”
“You ever kill a man?” he asked, cutting her off.
“I haven’t had much occasion.”
He nodded, then gestured to the bier. “Well, it’s your grief, and I don’t mean to tell you how to handle it. Ananshael has your father now, and Ananshael won’t give him back. Still, when the time comes, you may find it helps if you execute the bastard yourself.” He held her gaze a moment longer, as though to be sure she had understood, then turned on his heel and left.
Only then, when she was finally alone, did Adare allow herself to turn to her father’s bier. Sanlitun hui’Malkeenian’s body had
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