Kared's Children - Chapter 4

Raven paced outside the entry to the Council room. They’d been waiting for some time, just themselves, the torches, and the gray heavy stones in the wide, high hall for company. No one had entered the room beyond or even passed their area since they’d arrived; nor had the guards, who stood, two of them, impassively, on either side of the thick wooden doors, opened them or invited them in or even said a word.

Most likely the Taroc Council had agreed to see them out of fear of Shaerden or some debt they owed him. Raven suspected they wouldn’t be likely to appreciate what Shaerden or Gerald or Dox would say. The city had been in an uproar when they’d left the house. The news had reached the streets, and people everywhere were talking about what had happened in Rowan. They were terrified it would happen in Taroc.

"And why not?" he muttered, pacing. "What’s to stop it?"

"Sit down," Piskin said from a bench next to the door. "And quit talking to yourself."

Benjamin was seated next to Piskin; the others had passed the time by watching Raven or Nartho prowl restlessly-though, at the moment, Nartho had settled himself near the entrance to their hall, where he could lounge desultorily, unobtrusively; he was there, most likely he thought, to provide security.

"Sit down, will you?" Piskin repeated.

"Someone’s got to do the worrying for the lot of you," Raven said. He continued to pace.

"They’re brothers," Shaerden whispered to Benjamin.

"Ah," Benjamin said.

"I don’t claim him," Piskin said.

"You want me to smack you?" Raven said.

"Just try it."

Gerald and Dox, beside them, were quiet. Neither had said more than a few words since they’d left their home; no one had tried to encourage them to. In his face, Gerald showed fatigue. Dox as usual was merely silent and inscrutable. No one had suggested exactly what any of them would say to the Council.

For his part, Benjamin didn’t know, either. He’d had his entire journey to think about this, and he’d come up with nothing. He knew what he needed to communicate, but how to tell the city’s leaders in a way that would convince them was a difficult problem. The destruction of Rowan would have made them tense and wary. The lack of eyewitnesses and the plethora of rumors would heighten their suspicion. But somehow he’d have to convince them that the Kagatje were real, that one really had attacked, and that the threat to the entire kingdom and to the peace that had existed for centuries was imminent. That the people of the flatlands had let their knowledge of history slip so badly was appalling. He would have to remind them of it.

At last, one of the heavy doors opened, and a thick man, pale, balding, short, waddled out. Between the two guards he seemed short, but they were big men. He regarded the group with small, dark eyes. "The Council doesn’t have time to see you today."

Shaerden stood, the others stood. Shaerden only gave him a glance, murmuring instead toward the open Council door, "We don’t have time for this, Paird. Out of the way. We’re not in the mood."

Piskin slid his dagger ominously back and forth in its sheath. Neither of the guards moved.