I Read What?!

So last time, we met Sorcha! Sorcha has some issues! We also met Bronwyn! Who also has issues! And we saw Alix again! Actually, Alix seems to be doing okay. As is Meghan! So yay!



So Chapter Twelve takes us back to Homana-Mujhar. Donal is in his quarters and of course he must whine about the luxury:

Donal’s personal chambers were, perhaps, a bit ostentatious for a Cheysuli warrior better accustomed to the Keep—and preferring it—but he could not deny that the luxuries conferred a comfort he occasionally appreciated. Thick woven carpets of rich muted tones softened the hard stone floor; woolen tapestries of every hue hid the blank rock walls. A single fat white beeswax candle set in each of four shadowed casement ledges turned the stained glass into jewel-toned panoramas of Homanan history.

The chamber was warm as well; Donal’s body-servant had lighted a fire that tinged the air with the smell of oak and ash. Donal did not doubt Torvald had also set warming pans beneath the bedclothes of his draped tester bed, but he had no intention of seeking his rest so soon. The sun had barely gone down. Aislinn had been delivered. It was early yet, and a task was left to do.

I am crying on the inside for you, man. So he invites Sef to drink with him, and toasts his new daughter. Sef is all "Shouldn't this be shared with someone other than me, a literal thirteen year old?" But Donal points out that he can hardly ask Carillon to toast his bastard daughter.

I feel like you have more choices than just those two.

Oh god. More.

Watching the boy, Donal was glad of his companionship. He felt flat, empty, as if he yearned for a fulfillment he could not quite comprehend. He only knew he felt cheated of time with his meijha, his son and his daughter, and all in the name of Homana.

Sorcha has the right of it. Fearing me for a shapechanger, the Homanans will do what they can to strip my Cheysuli habits from me and put Homanan in their place.

You're going to be the fucking KING. I'm sorry that this is an inconvenience to you and the family you intentionally created with FULL KNOWLEDGE that you'd be marrying a princess and becoming king.

Taj and Lorn are here too of course:

Instinctively he looked for Taj and Lorn, knowing no Homanan in all the world could strip him of those habits. Because if he were, there would be no Prince of Homana. There would be no Donal at all.

Lorn lay curled upon the tester bed, half hidden behind gauzy draperies. Like Donal, the wolf did not ignore luxury when it was offered. Taj had settled upon his perch in a corner of the chamber, setting beak to wing to smooth the shining feathers.

There is a symbolism here, I think. Donal's symbol of his Cheysuli nature and austerity is happily indulging in the luxury of his rank. I wish I thought it was on purpose.

So Sef has a piercing question. He asks why Donal hates his sister. He'd observed how Donal reacted to the game. He explains that he hadn't wanted to draw the runes but Bronwyn said it was magic. He says that Bronwyn frightens him. Donal thinks that Bronwyn frightens him too.

Their moment is interrupted by Rowan: Carillon wants Donal now. Donal invites him to a drink, but Rowan spills the big news: Electra had escaped.

“We do not, as yet, have all the information we need. A messenger came—” Rowan shrugged. “The news was simply that the Queen had disappeared.”

“From the Crystal Isle?” Donal shook his head. “There were Cheysuli with her!”

“They are dead,” Rowan said. “Simply—dead. It appears they were poisoned. As for the Homanan guards…once the Cheysuli were dead, Electra was free to use her magic.”

Gosh, it's almost like Electra's palace was not a safe place for the princess of Homana after all.

Anyway, Donal tries to figure out how this happens and we get a Roberson incoherency:

He could not conceive of how it had been accomplished. Cheysuli warriors with attentive lir did not succumb to poison, not when they guarded a known witch. Not when they guarded the woman Tynstar called his own.

“Poison,” he said intently, recalling his bout with the same. “Could she have grown it, or had it grown?”

“All food was brought in from Hondarth. All food,” Rowan said. “The Cheysuli inspected it.”

Is it just me or does that entire bit of dialogue not make a lick of sense?

Anyway, they theorize that Electra and Tynstar must have been linked somehow, after all, how else could Electra have fucked with Aislinn's mind.

Rowan has his priorities straight: it doesn't matter why, so much as the fact that she's free.

“Then—it is war.” Donal felt the breath leave his chest. “By the gods—it is—”

“Did you think it would never come?” Rowan said grimly. “Did you believe the Mujhar spoke of the possibility out of boredom, having nothing else to do?”

Donal heard the faint undertone of scorn. Aye, he was due that from Rowan. Too often the general had watched Carillon’s heir seek escape from princely duties. Too often that heir had turned his back on Homana-Mujhar to spend his time at the Keep.

The gods know Rowan has sacrificed enough for his lord. He would expect me to do the same.

Well, you are going to be KING.

Look, it's not that Donal doesn't have legitimate problems. And the fact that he can't spend time with the woman he loves and his children does suck. But he's ALWAYS whining about it.

It's like Jaxom with the egg. Jaxom's act was legitimately heroic, but we KEPT hearing about it, over and over and it loses all impact.

Donal impresses Rowan with some deduction. Tynstar will probably be in Solinde and rouse the nobles in the name of Bellam and Electra. Rowan is just happy to hear that Donal has some idea what's going on. The army will be going to Solinde soon. Sef asks Donal to take him with him, if he goes to war. Donal promises to do that.

--

So in the great hall, Carillon is posing.

He sat sunken into the ancient wooden throne carved in the shape of a lion. It crouched on curling paws with claws extended, gilded with golden paint. The headpiece was a snarling face, rearing up over Carillon’s head. The lion seemed almost to spring out of the darkness as if it sought prey.

The torch cast flickering light across the wood, glinting on the gold. Illumination painted Carillon’s bearded face and crept down to silver the knife at his belt. A Cheysuli long-knife with a wolf-shaped hilt, made and once owned by Finn.

...I feel like it isn't a coincidence that Carillon is holding Finn's knife right now.

Anyway, Carillon is weary but not shocked. He'd expected war eventually. Electra teamed with Tynstar is a potential disaster, of course.

...so why didn't you execute her. Look, I'm #TeamElectra of course. But you would have been justified since she's an attempted regicide. Solinde probably wouldn't have reacted well, but you're at war now anyway. Then, you were stronger, and Solinde wouldn't have a figurehead to rally behind.

Ugh, Carillon thinks fondly of marital rape:

The hands dropped from the face. Carillon actually smiled. “Do you seek to teach me what war is about?” But before Donal could answer, he waved a twisted hand. “No, no, say nothing. The mood, for the moment, has passed. It is only that I recalled what she did to me so many years ago—how she nearly castrated me, without even touching a blade. Ah, no—her weapon was merely herself. Gods—but what a woman she was.”

Imagine, if you'd left her alone she might have still rose up against you, but you'd have your youth and strength and possibly additional heirs.

Anyway, Carillon's called Donal here for a reason. He wants to take him to the Womb of the Earth. That's that pit where Carillon had his Cheysuli vision quest and never shut up about it since. Donal is shocked:

“You!” Donal turned to stare after the Mujhar. “You have been to the Womb of the Earth?”

“A Homanan.” Carillon’s tone was scored with caustic irony. “Aye, I have. I thought Finn might have told you.”

“There are secret things in every man’s life.” Donal belatedly followed in Carillon’s wake. “My su’fali does not tell me everything…nor, apparently, do you.” He stopped short as Carillon halted at the edge of the firepit.

...I'd imagine there's a lot Finn didn't tell you about his and Carillon's relationship.

Carillon is weirdly judgy about the fact that Donal can't see the entrance:

“Blind,” Carillon muttered in disgust. “A Cheysuli warrior—and blind.” He thrust the torch into Donal’s hands and stepped over the rim of the firepit. Before Donal could blurt out his surprise, the Mujhar kicked aside unlighted wood and pushed away the residue of former fires.

We know no one can measure up to Finn, dude. Lay off. Donal isn't being annoying right now.

So anyway, Carillon is too weak to open the damn thing so he makes Donal do it. Donal starts to balk at the stale air and general grossness, but Carillon points out that he'd gone down there to be tested, and Donal realizes his manliness won't allow him to back down now. Donal HAS to do it.

They go down the steps. A hundred and two, Carillon says. He'd counted them once. I remember that. It was when he sent Finn away. Carillon always misses the point where it counts. They make it to the Womb, with the lir shapes and runes.

“Firstborn runes.” Carillon did not smile. “It was your father who brought me here, Donal. With no explanation, he brought me here to show me the Womb of the Earth, so I would know what it was to be Cheysuli.”

Quick resentment flared in Donal’s chest. “You are Homanan. No man save a warrior can know what it is to be Cheysuli.”

“For four days, I did. It was—necessary.” Carillon put out a hand to the wall, seeking the proper stone. He found it, pressed, and a portion of the wall turned on edge.

a) Team Donal here. You don't know what it means, Carillon. You got a taste of shapechanging and Earth Magic, sure. But you didn't get a taste of being hunted for your race, seeing your camp burned and your people slaughtered. You also didn't see your wife refused medical care because they see her as a whore who sleeps with demons.

You don't know what it's like to be Cheysuli.

b) Do Cheysuli women understand? Donal does specify "no man but a warrior" but so often I feel like Cheysuli women are afterthoughts in this series.

c) Does Rowan understand? That's a food for thought question, not a complaint. He lacks a lir, but it's an open question as to how much earth magic he retained.

He drew in a careful breath. “Are you not a little premature?”

“Because I ask the gods to accept you?” Carillon smiled. “No. Acceptance may be requested at any time; only occasionally is it given when one asks it.” For a moment, he said nothing. When he spoke again, his voice was eloquently gentle, as if he spoke to a simple child. “Donal—you will be Mujhar. But it is up to you to make your peace with it if the gods are to accept you.”

Resentment flared; he thought of Sorcha, begging him not to leave his heritage behind. And here was Homanan Carillon admonishing him the same. “My tahlmorra is quite clear, my lord Mujhar,” he said with a deadly pointedness. “I accepted it long ago, since neither you nor the gods—nor my jehan—ever gave me a choice.”

If you accepted it, why do you still whine about it?

Also, the petulance about choice is interesting. What royal gets a choice? Carillon was chosen by his uncle the same way that Donal was chosen by Carillon. But also, shut the fuck up dude. Your tahlmorra is to be a fucking king. Compare that to Alix's, which was to get raped. Or hell, even Duncan, much as I hate him, who died.

I complain a lot, so here's a beautiful bit:

Slowly Donal glanced around the vault. Gold and ivory gleamed. Momentarily he thought he saw a falcon’s wingtip move; then he saw the patch of blackness in the floor. It was a hole. A perfectly round hole, extending into the depths.

“Oubliette,” he breathed. Swiftly he looked at Carillon as the implications came very clear. “You do not mean—”

Carillon’s voice was perfectly steady. “For me, it was required. For you—I cannot say. It is a thing between you and the gods.”

Donal moved closer to the oubliette. The torchlight was swallowed up, and he could see nothing past the perfectly rounded rim. Nothing at all.

And yet he saw everything.

He closed his eyes. The iron collar of comprehension was locked around his throat. “When will the marriage be made?”

“Within the month.” Carillon sounded neither surprised nor pleased, as if he had expected the comprehension. “It gives us time to gather guests so it can all be done quite properly. I cannot have Tynstar believing he has frightened me into this move merely to secure the throne.”

Look at this lovely layered symbolism. And here:

“And the march into Solinde?”

“Within two months after the wedding.” Carillon did not smile. “It gives you time to beget an heir.”

The flames roared in the marble vault with its ivory menagerie. “Do you take the torch with you?”

“Of course. It is a part of the thing.”

I could wish more for poor Aislinn than to be compared to a deep dark hole in the ground, but well, Carillon was molded and forged there, so maybe it, and she, can do the same for Donal.

Or maybe not. The chapter ends here.