by Cara Witter
Kenton kept his face carefully neutral, despite the tension suddenly straining his every nerve. “Sevairn?”
“Yeah, came from somewhere in the mountains. She’s been working with a traveling circus for a while, does all sorts of tricks with water, but my source says they look like more than tricks.” Colm gave Kenton a pointed look, obviously pleased with this revelation.
Kenton was less pleased. A girl wandering the mountains of godless Sevairn was unlikely enough to be the bearer of the goddess Mirilina, but working with a traveling circus? If she was alive long enough to do her water-tricks after the first public display, then she wasn’t one of the four prophesied bearers. As with the man who set himself on fire, Kenton wasn’t the only one looking for them. And now that Perchaya had put on the ring to call them together, Kenton feared someone else might notice them assembling and find them before he could.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“A man in Unlath who they say can turn acorns to pearls and pearls to acorns.”
One of the reasons he’d picked Colm was that, as an assistant to a Vorgalian, he was likelier than Kenton’s other sources to be able to rule out rumors of feats that could easily be done with Vorgalian magic. So it was unlikely this was done with a charm. It sounded either like a total fabrication or a clever sleight-of-hand. Either way, not what he was looking for.
“This is useless,” he said. “I need magic with an obvious link to the Four. Fire for Nerendal, stone or earth for Kotali, water for Mirilina, something with the moon for Arkista.”
“There’s one more,” Colm said quickly. “A local one. But I don’t think it’s what you’re looking for. It’s just resistance trickery, nothing real.”
Kenton narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”
“The rebels here hit Tehlran’s army a few weeks ago,” he said. “And one of the guards was incapacitated. He claimed a woman climbed into a window and used the moonlight to blind him.” Colm shrugged. “I’ve seen that trick. It’s done with fire and metal shavings and mirrors.”
Kenton’s pulse quickened, but he merely nodded. It could very well be such a trick. And yet . . .
Moonlight.
A woman working with the resistance and using her powers in secret was a better lead than a performer in the circus or a trickster with some charmed Vorgalian trinket—though Colm could be right that it was a simple trick of chemistry. Still, a godbearer who evaded Diamis’ notice after using their powers in public would have to have some kind of cover, some kind of explanation that would cast doubt on whether their powers were real.
It was a good lead, if Kenton could contact the resistance and find her. That would have been easier two days ago—for all he knew the fool had gone and gotten herself killed in the riots. “I’ll pass this along to my master,” Kenton said. “And I trust, as usual, that you won’t discuss this with anyone else. Unless you want your creditors to hear that you’ve been spending your evenings losing more of their money at cards.”
Colm’s face paled. Another thing Kenton liked in his informants was leverage, and a gambling habit combined with a penchant for borrowing money from less-than-reputable sources was a particularly good enticement for Colm to keep silent.
The man wet his lips and nodded. Kenton paid him a few coins, and Colm left, winding his way back in the direction of the magic shop.
As Kenton made his way to Perchaya’s house, he reached into his coat pocket for the gloves he’d bought—a pair of fur-lined ones for cold weather and lacy opaque ones for indoors. The gloves were nice—and expensive—but it was a pittance compared to what he’d done to her. A thin bandage for the gaping wound he’d inflicted.
It was something, though, as was the lead about the woman who could channel moonlight. He would find her and determine whether she was one of the bearers he’d sought for so long. Now that he’d found Perchaya and she’d activated the ring, one bearer should be able to help them find the others. They should be drawn together, like metal to a lodestone. If he could just keep Perchaya safe in the meantime, he might be able to gather them all, to help them find their godstones, help them stop Diamis’ plans to loose the God of Blood on the world. Kenton knew what it felt like to have everyone you loved killed. He might not have a soul left that he cared about, but that wasn’t going to happen to the rest of the world. Not as long as he stood in Diamis’ way.
And then, when it was over, Kenton would kill the Lord General for the things that he’d done to Kenton’s family, or, at long last, die trying.
Six
Lord Jaemeson of Grisham stood in the courtyard gardens in the middle of Lord Governor Tehlran’s palace, running his hands through his hair, smoothing out his doublet, making sure everything was in place for his accidental run-in with Lady Daniella. Jaeme strolled through the garden at a relaxed pace, concealing his nerves. He reached down into one of the planters, picked up a small rock, and tucked it into his pocket. The stone was hard to the touch, but as Jaeme rolled it between his fingers, it became pliable, and he worked it evenly until the surface was smooth as glass, the ball as round as a marble.
The familiar feeling calmed him.
Ostensibly Jaeme was here to discuss trade between Sevairn and Mortiche along the Trace river—a dubious gesture of good-will on even more dubiously neutral ground, given Diamis’ hold over Andronim—though the other knights who’d accompanied him were far more qualified for that task. Which was good, because he had another, more urgent task to attend to.
As he’d tailed Daniella these last few days, he’d learned that in her free time she liked to frequent this garden, safe within the walls of the palace. Jaeme could hardly fault her for that. If he’d arrived in Drepaine to the shouts of a crowd who wanted him dead and had watched another fall in front of his eyes when it should have been him, he’d have also been looking for a safe, peaceful escape. As it was, Jaeme had felt oddly restless over the last few days in Drepaine, unable to leave the palace. He’d itched to venture into the city, to travel south, to look for something, though he didn’t know what. It was irrational, of course—a mere wish to avoid his mission—and Jaeme remained dutifully confined to the palace, though he’d waited several days before approaching Daniella, hoping the time would calm her nerves.
Daniella seemed especially fond of a particular bubbling fountain; Jaeme had seen her pass hours there in the afternoon light. He almost wished that one of the rebels would sneak into the gardens to attack her there. A flash of sword fighting never hurt a good seduction, and an opportunity to protect Daniella would certainly get him on her good side.
Jaeme walked down the garden path toward the fountain, passing under a trellis woven through with vines that dangled fragrant purple and red blooms, as the fountain itself came into view. It was large, surrounded by a circular pool whose wide lip rested two feet off the ground, made of cream marble with veins of dark bronze. The matching tiles that formed a pathway around the base shimmered in the sunlight.
And there, kneeling at the very edge of the marble lip of the pool, was Daniella. She had shed the heavy, ornate surcoat she’d worn for the day’s meetings—black velvet embroidered in Sevairnese gold—and left it lying behind her on the tile. Beneath it she wore a plain burgundy tunic dress, which seemed like it should clash with her fiery red hair, but instead complimented it nicely.
Jaeme paused by a meticulously-trimmed lilac bush, observing the way she stared down into the pool as if something about it displeased her. She reached up and, one by one, pulled out the pins that held her hair, letting it fall attractively down her back.
Daniella pulled out the last of the pins, and as she brought it around to collect it in her palm with the others, it slipped through her fingers, dropping into the water with a soft plunk. Jaeme stepped up behind her. If he couldn’t save her from murderous rebels, he could at least fetch her hairpin.
“Let me get that,” he
said.
Daniella startled and spun around too quickly. The fabric under her knees slid on the marble and with an unceremonious yelp, she pitched backwards into the pool, water splashing out over the edge.
A few droplets hit Jaeme’s face as he gaped at her. He supposed maybe her nerves hadn’t calmed as much as he’d hoped. He hadn’t meant to necessitate her rescue from the fountain, but if his experience with women had taught him anything, it was that one took full advantage of the opportunities that arose.
He stepped forward and offered her his hand. Thankfully the pool wasn’t deep; Daniella pushed herself up on her palms and knelt in the fountain, sputtering, water dripping from every soaking inch of her. She looked up at him and then recoiled toward the center of the fountain, regarding his extended hand with suspicion.
Jaeme paused. Her fearful expression led him to believe she was wary of something beyond the rebels who wanted her dead. He softened his voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you, my lady,” he said. “I only wanted to help. Will you allow me?”
Daniella’s cheeks pinkened, and Jaeme doubted that was solely a result of the cold water. She ignored his hand and proceeded to climb out of the fountain herself, her sodden calfskin shoes squishing against the ground, water pooling on the tile at her feet.
So much for his daring rescue, though Jaeme supposed it was his fault that she’d ended up in the fountain. Daniella squished a few steps further, still eyeing him as if she already suspected he wasn’t what he seemed. He worried that she was going to run off before he managed to turn this into a charming encounter, one she might expect to laugh about someday. He couldn’t help but notice how her dress—already cut close to flatter her figure—clung in all the right places. If he was going to have to seduce her under the orders of a council of old men, at least she was quite stunning in her own right. Though at this moment, she looked as if she might be sick.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, pulling the curtain of red hair back from her face. Her eyes were a deep forest green that reminded him of the grove behind his castle back home.
Until that moment he hadn’t noticed the large scab on her forehead—it had been expertly disguised by the swoop of her hair, probably the cause for all those pins that he always imagined must jab women painfully in the skull. One of the many perks of having been born a man.
He pointed to the wound. “I certainly hope I wasn’t the cause of that.”
She brought her fingers up to it gingerly, wincing at even that light touch, though she did appear to relax somewhat. “No, I hit my head in the attack. As you can tell, I’m having a spectacular week.”
He returned to his charming smile, always a staple. “My lady, I have to tell you that your dive into that fountain was so gracefully executed, so breathtaking in its form and elegance that I believe this will inspire a new form of sport among the genteel women of Andronim.”
“You’re mocking me,” she said flatly. She wrung out her hair, splashing water onto the tile.
That was true, but he’d hoped to do it endearingly. “My lady, I would not dream of mocking Sevairn’s finest jewel.”
She gritted her teeth. “Maybe not, but I’m obviously the one who fell into the fountain in her place.”
He paused for a moment, then tried again. “I don’t think you give your exquisite beauty enough credit, my lady. Especially now. You resemble a portrait I’ve seen of one of the Derdonian Water Maidens.”
She gave him a dubious look, which Jaeme granted was warranted, as the only thing exquisite about her right now was her level of humiliation—and, well, the clinging of that dress—and she currently resembled a drowned rat, though a very pretty one. After a space of a few heartbeats, he cleared his throat.
“I’m well aware when I’m being ridiculed,” she said. “Even if you disguise it in flowery language.”
Jaeme paused. The charge from the Dukes Council to seduce her shouldn’t have been this difficult. Yes, Daniella was a princess, but most women—at least those around her age, a few years younger than his own—swooned when he looked at them, and spent most of the conversation eagerly trying to keep it going. Daniella seemed content to squash all further contact with him under her shoe. Back home in Mortiche, he might have let her alone, content to move on to easier targets, of which there were always plenty.
Today, he didn’t have a choice, though he wondered if the Dukes Council had known that Daniella would be difficult to bed; if this was part of the test. With his left hand positioned behind his back—a ridiculous courtly stance the Andronish noblemen favored—he massaged the stone he still held in his palm. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Lord Jaemeson of Grisham, very humbly at your service.” He bowed himself slightly and then straightened.
She pursed her lips. “Really? I wasn’t aware that overblown flattery was considered a service in Mortiche. Or were you referring to the service of frightening women into fountains?”
Behind his back, Jaeme squished his stone flat. He was still casting about for a new angle when Daniella crossed her arms over her chest. “I won’t be requiring your services of any type,” she added. “Thank you.”
Ugh. This was going even worse than he had thought. Perhaps she was on edge for fear he was a blood puppet, sent to spy on her. There’d been numerous noblemen from all over Mortiche who’d discovered recently that servants of theirs were being controlled by blood magic. Jaeme didn’t know where that particular blight was coming from, but he supposed it might also be getting worse outside of Mortiche.
It was time to call on the knighthood. That usually got women talking, even if they only wanted to hear of his brave deeds, when Jaeme’s experience erred more on the side of wooing women. “As a knight of Mortiche, aiding women in distress is second to my nature.”
“Hmm,” Daniella said, as if considering. “I did always love to read the old knighthood ballads. ‘The Grey Knight Who Speared the Woltrecht’ is a favorite of mine. But I have to admit, I’ve not found many similarities between the knights in those tales and the reputations of actual knights. The integrity, the loyalty, the respect for women . . .”
She was right, of course, and though Jaeme liked to think he was a bit more honorable than the average knight, it wasn’t a high standard. “We all make our own contributions,” he said.
“From the rumors I’ve heard, I imagine your main contribution is to induce other knights to keep a tight rein on their wives.”
Now it was Jaeme’s turn to take a step back. His reputation had apparently preceded him, though it was only that—a reputation. He wasn’t in the business of seducing other men’s wives, not in the least because he couldn’t be bothered by the complications. He’d been with a lot of women, but not married ones.
At least not ones he knew were married beforehand.
“I’m sorry—” he began. But Daniella sighed and held up a hand.
“No, I apologize. I’m being terribly rude. Apparently being both embarrassed and soaking wet doesn’t bring out my better qualities.”
He smiled, biting back a more suggestive comment. At last, her guard was dropping, if only a bit. “I would have to disagree.”
Daniella took another step away. “Well, it’s been a . . . pleasure to meet you, Lord Jaemeson, but I really should be—”
“Please,” he said. “Call me Jaeme.” He brought his left hand forward, slipping into a more casual pose, and skipped the stone across the fountain. It was now perfectly shaped for the purpose and bounced three times before clinking off the marble on the far side.
Daniella blinked at it, and Jaeme couldn’t help but hope that she’d be impressed—if not by his station or his reputation—at least by his prowess at skipping stones. Which, he had to admit, was a true sign of desperation. Daniella, unfortunately, didn’t look even a little bit impressed, and Jaeme’s hand now
felt empty without the rock.
He wondered half-heartedly if showing her what he could do with the stone would catch her interest, but abandoned the idea. He hid his talent, knowing that since he’d never studied at Vorgale, others would find it alarming. Whether they suspected it was Drim or blood magic, no one would look kindly on it. Besides which, Jaeme was certain it was neither. Just a fluke, a tick. He didn’t relish the idea of it making him the subject of scrutiny.
Daniella gathered her skirts and looked as if she would turn to go again, when a woman’s voice filtered down the garden path. “Daniella? Daniella, are you back here?”
Daniella rolled her eyes up at the sky.
Jaeme hoped this might be his second chance. “Who is it?”
Daniella wrung out her hair again and flapped her hands toward her dress, as if she could fan herself instantly dry. “Adiante.”
“Daniella!” A diminutive woman wearing an elegant blue dress with a low-draped golden mantle came suddenly into sight, her eyes wide with surprise at Daniella’s sopping condition. She was pretty, though in a way that seemed to require great effort, a contrast to Daniella’s easy beauty. “What have you been . . .” She stopped as her eyes landed on Jaeme. She froze for a second, then flashed a practiced smile. “Lord Jaemeson, what an unexpected surprise!”
Jaeme turned on his charming smile, if only to salvage the conversation. This, he gathered, must be the source of the rumors Daniella had heard about him, though Adiante seemed significantly more enthusiastic about them. “Hopefully not an unpleasant one, my lady.”
Adiante giggled, bringing her fingertips to her lips as if she had to hold in further laughter. “Oh, certainly not! And though I’ve heard much of you and your fellow countrymen, I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to be properly introduced.” She shot a quick look at Daniella, as if she expected her to extend an introduction when Adiante clearly had a tongue and could speak for herself.