Shadow of the Father (5 page)

Despite his flippant words, Sinch’s comment bothered him, bringing up again the nagging worry that he really might be in some danger. He watched the mouse walk through the long shadows created by the sun across the garden. The familiar setting had never felt so sinister. He imagined an arrow flying out of nowhere towards his heart, a rat stepping out of the shadows with a knife…

He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until Sinch was out of sight, when he let it out in a slow exhale, relaxing. He’d no sooner turned back to the main hall than a paw landed on his shoulder.

He jumped. A raspy voice said, “Ah, Yilon, just who I’ve been looking for.”

The familiar voice reassured him. Jinna, the porcupine who currently served as palace Steward, always looked harried; her paws rarely stopped fidgeting, and the small decorative beads that weighted down her long quills always seemed to have been scrambled from some basic pattern into randomness. “I’ve had a busy day,” he said.

She clacked her front teeth at him, a habit he was happy Sinch hadn’t developed. “
You’ve
had a busy day? Let me tell you, between trying to arrange the king’s dinner for the visiting Ferrenian nobles next week and issuing new papers and preparing for the annual winter retreat and on top of all that I’m told I have to prepare your papers to be sworn in before tomorrow morning…”

“I have to be sworn in tonight?” Yilon yelped.

“No, no, I had to prepare the
papers
tonight, because you’re leaving in the morning.” She clacked her teeth again. “Come on, come on, I need to give them to you.”

He followed her up to her office and took the papers, a bundle sealed with the king’s seal. “Now, you’ll need to have them re-sealed, of course. Maxon will take care of that. And I will see you again when you come back. Now. Maxon has your maps, and your father has the crown.”

Yilon stopped nodding automatically. “The what?”

“Crown, the crown of Dewanne, you need it to be confirmed, didn’t Maxon tell you that?”

“No.” Yilon touched the top of his head, between his ears. “I need a crown?”

“Maxon will explain all that. He has all the papers you’ll need between here and Dewanne, and he knows the way. Is there anything else you need from me?”

Yilon’s ears folded down. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

She patted him on the shoulder, bustling him out the door. “I hope not, too, because you won’t want to turn around and come back for it. Have a good trip and I’ll see you back here in a few months.”

She’d already turned to go back inside when he had an idea. “Wait!” He ran back into the office after her.

Her beads rattled as she sat down at her desk. The smile on her short muzzle was tired but warm. “What is it, dear?”

“Well…” He hesitated. It had seemed perfect, a second ago, that he would ask sensible, efficient Jinna about the arrow and the rat, but now that he had to make the words come out, he felt as if he were trying to tell her about a dream he’d had, something ridiculous and childish. When he’d first arrived at the palace two years ago, he’d asked several stupid questions about life there, to the delight of his brother, and now he prided himself on knowing everything about his world.

Jinna picked up a piece of paper from the desk. “I’m fairly busy,” she said softly.

“Could someone shoot an arrow onto the roof?” he blurted out.

She looked up from the paper and laughed, shortly. “You would know that better than I would, wouldn’t you?”

“I mean,” he said, “I was on the roof and an arrow landed there. Sinch thinks someone was shooting at me, but that’s silly. It was just a regular arrow, not a longbow one.”

Jinna’s smile faded. “Did the arrow just land there? Or did it come in,” she moved her broad paw horizontally across the desk, “at you?”

“More at me,” he said. “I think. I didn’t really see it. Sinch knocked me down. So he must have been able to see it coming.”

Beads rattled as Jinna shook her shoulders. “It’s troublesome,” she said. “Back in the time of King Halloran, a merchant scaled the wall outside and hit a lord with a stone from a sling. Broke his arm. And in the fourth year of King Calinon’s reign, someone killed a lord with an arrow shot from the top of the Knight’s Rest.”

“Is that a tavern?”

She nodded. “It was. King Calinon ordered it torn down. But both those nobles were in the garden at the time. I don’t know of anyone being shot at on the roof.” She peered at him. “That might be because nobody ever goes up there. Why were you on the roof?”

“It’s nice up there.” Yilon rubbed one hind paw along the floor. “Quiet. Nobody told me I couldn’t go up there.”

Jinna chuckled. “You can. Most people don’t. Hm. It’s certainly odd that, the timing coming the day after we received the news of Lord Dewanne’s passing.”

“You mean…” Yilon furrowed his brow, his ears flattening. “But how could anyone know? Why would someone attack me?”

“That’s the question. It could be your bloodline, if there’s some distant relative with a claim to the title. Nobody’s had time to build up a grudge against you, have they?”

Yilon shook his head. “Is anyone else from Dewanne even here?”

Jinna clacked her teeth. “I suspect it is merely a coincidence and an accident, but I will do some research. If I find anything that seems important, I will send a messenger to find you in Dewanne.”

Out in the hall, Yilon clutched the bundle of paper, his head spinning. He walked down to his father’s chambers, hurrying as he got closer and smelled the food, the aroma so fresh it must have been brought down just a few minutes before. His stomach was growling by the time he opened the door.

His father, Streak, Volyan, and Maxon were already seated around a table that had been brought into the parlor. His father’s servant, a quiet grey fox named Vinnix, pulled out the last empty chair as Yilon walked in.

Yilon swept his tail back and sat down, setting the papers on the table, where they were immediately removed to the desk by Vinnix. “Finally,” Volyan grumbled. “I’m starving.”

“I had to go see Jinna,” Yilon explained.

His father waved a paw. “We haven’t been waiting for long.”

Vinnix lifted the lid from the serving dish and filled each of their plates from it, with roasted fowl in a honey glaze, an assortment of roasted vegetables, candied sweet potatoes, and a freshly-baked wheat bun. Yilon had to wait until their guest was served, then his father and Streak, and finally Volyan before he got his plate.

“It feels like you only just arrived here,” Volle said to Yilon. “And now you’re leaving already.”

“All grown up,” Streak said. Maxon coughed into his paw.

Yilon shrugged, taking a bite of his roll. It wasn’t as good as Chiona’s.

Volle looked over at Volyan. “You’re both leaving,” he said. “Off to be official heirs.”

His voice sounded funny. When Yilon looked up, he saw his father’s ears splayed, his muzzle resting on both paws. He wasn’t touching his food. Yilon looked at Volyan, who met his gaze with a serious expression and then looked back at Volle. “We’ll be back soon,” he said. “And we’ll be staying in the same places.”

Their father nodded, smiling. “I know.” He lifted his fork and took a bite of the fowl. “It’s all just happening so quickly.”

“Tell me about it.” Yilon had managed to avoid thinking about the fact that he was leaving home for most of the day, busying himself with errands and packing. Now, looking around the parlor he’d thought he be glad to leave, he found himself nervous at the prospect of a journey. Don’t be silly, he told himself. Sinch will be with you, and besides, you’ve left home to go live in a new place before.

Yes, he reminded himself, and look how well that went. He speared a vegetable and chewed on it, looking down at his plate.

His father said his name and Volyan’s, and when they lifted their heads, went on, “I want you both to know how very proud I am of you. You are both quick learners and quick on your paws.” The first, Yilon knew, was more true of him, while the second was more fitting for his brother. “I wish we’d had more time to spend together.”

“We’ll have plenty of time, Father,” Volyan said.

Yilon pushed around the food on his plate, his stomach suddenly churning with worry. He wished Sinch were eating with him, so he could turn to his friend and see someone else who was taking the trip with them. That reminded him that he needed to tell Maxon, so he turned to the thin fox. “Maxon,” he said, “I do have someone coming with me after all.”

The three adults stared at him. Maxon cleared his throat. “Er, your father informed me that you do not have a personal servant.”

“I don’t. The one who’s coming with me is my friend, Sinch. Sinchon. He’s the mouse who was practicing with me yesterday when you saw us.”

Streak put a paw on Volle’s shoulder, but Yilon paid them little attention. He couldn’t quite figure out why Maxon’s muzzle curved down as if his last bite of fowl had been spoiled. “I see,” Maxon said. “I must advise you that I would consider that decision unwise.”

“Unwise?” Yilon echoed. “Why? He’s my friend.”

“I am not in a position to criticize your lordship’s choice of friends here in Divalia, but I must point out that a ruling Lord of Dewanne is expected to associate with a certain class of people.” Maxon coughed, and took a bite of fowl, apparently considering that the last word on the matter.

“He’s got noble blood,” Yilon said with some heat. “He’s not just common. He’s as good as you or me. Maybe even better than you.”

Maxon put his fork down and turned his full attention on Yilon. “I
beg
your pardon?”

“What my son meant to say,” Volle put in, “is that his friend is certainly in his class. For all that matters.”

“I said what I meant,” Yilon muttered, but his ears came up.

Maxon coughed. “I meant no offense,” he said. “I did not intend to cast doubt upon the bloodline of Master Sinchon. I merely meant that…” He looked around the table. “The nobility of Dewanne are all of good vulpine lineage. No offense, sir.”

Streak nodded in return. “None taken.”

“Think of how it would look to have the future Lord of Dewanne arrive in town in the company of…”

Yilon took a certain amount of pleasure from seeing the rest of the table staring at Maxon with the same mix of bewilderment and irritation he felt. “Of what?” Volle said. “His best friend?”

Maxon’s ears folded back. He appeared to be searching for something to say. Volle went on. “Listen to me, Steward. My son is your future lord. He has told you that his best friend will be accompanying him. Your advice has been heard. I expect to hear no more on the matter.”

“Of course, sir,” Maxon said, his voice low. He lifted a paw and rubbed his whiskers. “My apologies.”

Volle pointed across the table. “Apologize to him.”

Maxon turned to Yilon. “My deepest apologies, my lord. Please understand that I had only your well-being in mind.”

Yilon glanced at his father, who nodded. “I accept your apology,” he said. “But don’t let it happen again.”

“Of course not, my lord.”

The grin came unbidden to his muzzle, though he tried to restrain it. He snuck a sideways glance at Volyan, who was similarly grinning, and who gave him and encouraging head-bob and flick of the ears. Next to him, his father’s russet still held a warm smile, giving Yilon an unexpected sympathetic warmth in his chest. Then his gaze slid over to the white wolf at his father’s side, and his grin became a scowl. He stabbed at his vegetables and filled his muzzle, chewing hard.

For the rest of the meal, his father didn’t attempt any more speeches about his children. Maxon cleared his throat several times, but didn’t speak. Though Yilon preferred small talk to emotionally-charged tearful good-byes, he still couldn’t believe they were calmly discussing the weather and the quality of the food when he and Volyan were going to be leaving the next day. For his last dinner in Vinton, his mother had prepared his favorite meal, barbecued mountain sheep with the local sour sunberries, and she’d brought him his first taste of wine. They’d eaten on the large patio of the small mountainside palace under the stars, and she’d talked about all the challenges he was going to face in Divalia. He hadn’t cried until the next day, alone in the carriage.

After dinner, Streak and Volyan went to walk in the gardens and talk together, as they often did. Yilon tried to retire to his room, but his father asked him to wait, with a gesture to Maxon. The thin fox nodded, coughed, and reached for a satchel slung over the back of his chair. It was a plain leather traveling bag of the sort Yilon had used to bring his personal effects from Vinton, patched and worn, but Maxon opened the laces as carefully as if they were the finest silk.

He reached inside and drew out a polished wooden box as large as Yilon’s head. The top of the box was inlaid with a gleaming pattern, intricate copper with gold highlights, of a fox’s head in the frontal view of a star of Canis, the points of the ears touching the back corners, the nose positioned just above the clasp that Maxon undid with gentle precision. He lifted the hinged lid slowly. Yilon noticed that he was not coughing nor clearing his throat, and in fact had done neither since Volle had gestured to him to begin.