by Cara Witter
Jaeme waited for Adiante to face the same dry lashing that Daniella had aimed at Jaeme, but to his surprise, she only sighed again and gestured between them. “Lord Jaemeson, this is Lady Adiante of Tilderet. She accompanied me from Peldenar, and I have been grateful for her companionship on the journey.”
Daniella didn’t sound particularly grateful, but he supposed it was probably difficult to feel so when you were the only one in the conversation sopping wet. Adiante curtsied gracefully, her long mantle and blue brocaded skirt swishing against the tiles, soaking up some of the water that ran in rivulets away from Daniella.
Adiante thrust a hand out at Jaeme while he was still searching for a way to turn Adiante into a private joke he and Daniella could bond over without alerting the girl. He reached to take it and placed a light kiss on the back, eliciting another giggle. “It is quite an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Adiante,” he said.
Adiante batted her eyes demurely.
If he’d been trying to seduce Adiante, he would have succeeded immediately. A pity it wasn’t her the Council wanted him to use to get into Diamis’ good graces.
Adiante eyed Daniella, looking her wet gown up and down with distaste. “I see that you’ve met Lady Daniella. Dear girl, you look a fright! Surely you don’t intend to return to your meeting?” Without waiting for an answer, Adiante quickly faced Jaeme again. “She’s always mucking about like this, you know. We find it quite charming.”
Jaeme blinked at her. He knew Sevairn was less traditional than Mortiche, but even there, surely, a mere lady shouldn’t speak to a princess that way. “Actually,” Jaeme said. “I was the one who caused—”
“I should really be going now,” Daniella said tersely. Then she gave him a look that he could only describe as a glare, before turning down the path.
“Wait,” Jaeme said.
Daniella turned around, though she didn’t look any happier about it.
Gods. Never in his life had he been so bad at this. But at the very least, he didn’t want to be left here to be flirted with by Daniella’s close friend, if that’s what they were. He’d been claimed by the wrong girl in a group of giggling noblewomen before, and it never ended well. And this time the dukes might take it as an intentional failure—a slight which proved that he and his uncle truly did sympathize with Sevairn over Mortiche.
It was clearly time to retreat and regroup. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Jaeme said. “Allow me to be the one to take my leave.” He nodded once to Adiante and more deeply to Daniella, then made his way down the path, wincing only once he’d fully turned his back to them.
He’d have to try again, of course. The dukes were already suspicious of Jaeme’s uncle’s desire to raise up a standing army like Sevairn’s—one composed of well-trained commoners rather than knights and the peasants they would conscript just before the fighting. The dukes feared giving any kind of power away from the knighthood.
With his uncle already on shaky ground, it wouldn’t take much to convince them that Jaeme was a traitor to his vows, like his father. Giving up after only one attempt would seal their opinion of Jaeme and give them the impetus they needed to strip him of his birthright, one his uncle had only narrowly convinced them to restore.
Ironic that in their quest to prove Jaeme’s loyalty, they chose this morally dubious task instead of one that required actual valor. Jaeme was at once grateful for that—being short on virtuous tendencies or a knightly taste for glory—and suspicious that most of the Council wanted him to fail. If he succeeded, they could then suggest that only a traitor’s son could succeed at so distasteful a task.
But Jaeme would continue to pursue Daniella, if that’s what the Council wanted. He would do whatever it took to prove that he was no traitor, to redeem himself, his dead father, and his family name. The Dukes Council might be a bunch of stubborn old fools with barely a shred of decency between them, but they held his birthright in their hands.
And Jaeme wouldn’t let them dismiss him. He might not be the best knight, but neither was he the worst. He would do right by his people, like his father and his uncle before him.
Even if the only way to get there was beneath Daniella’s sopping wet skirt.
Seven
Perchaya stood at the window of Reisa’s kitchen, shutters open the barest crack, straining to see out while her fingers worked the dirt off of a pile of potatoes in the water basin.
She wanted to believe that she was watching out of vigilance, taking stock of the number of guards in the street, checking on the neighbors to make sure they were safe. Not that Perchaya herself could do much about it if they weren’t.
But instead she was waiting for Kenton to return. She wanted to see him again and not just in hopes that he’d found a way to remove the ring.
The gods knew nothing she’d done had worked. She’d pulled on it, twisted it, tried cold water and lard, but it clung to her as if part of her hand. Even now, as she removed the potatoes from the now-dark water and laid them on the board to be cut, the ring gleamed up at her. She pinched it gently between her fingers, but even against her wet skin, it refused to move.
Perchaya brought her blade through the first potato, wincing as she nicked the knuckle of her left hand. She sucked briefly on the cut and reached for one of the clean scraps of cloth Reisa kept above the washbasin. Perchaya soaked up the blood with the cloth, and when she was certain the bleeding had stopped, moved to the fire and burned it.
Out of habit, Perchaya watched until the cloth was reduced to ash. Not that she expected a blood mage to steal into the kitchen and collect her blood as a means to control her. But she hadn’t expected a fellow Drim to appear and stick a ring to her hand, so she supposed one never knew.
Perchaya chopped the potatoes, more carefully this time, and dumped them into the stock pot above the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, though there weren’t enough vegetables or meats in the kitchen to make much more than a broth. Reisa’s husband Iadan came and went often enough. But wherever it was that was so important he go while the city was locked down tight, it wasn’t to the market to get food for his family.
Her sister Reisa waddled into the room, unbound chestnut hair curling around her shoulders, one hand draped absently over her growing belly. “He hasn’t returned?”
Perchaya knew she wasn’t talking about Iadan. Reisa had given up on tracking her husband’s whereabouts long before Perchaya arrived.
Reisa had noticed the ring immediately, of course. Perchaya had been unable to hide it from her, so she’d told Reisa the truth, leaving out only the bit about how the ring was supposed to call the godbearers—a bit that Perchaya herself still had a hard time believing. She tried to return an easy smile. “When he stops by again, you’ll be the first to know. Unless you think I plan to hide him away in a cupboard.”
“It’s not too late, you know,” Reisa said. “Iadan can get you out of the city before he comes back. This man put your life in danger—”
“He’s in danger, too,” Perchaya said. “We all are. And I can’t leave until he returns. It’s not as if I’ll be safer anywhere else in Andronim, and if the soldiers catch me, they’ll hang you all.” Perchaya was somewhat concerned that her sister might suggest they all move to Mortiche, or perhaps even as far away as Tirostaar. “I remember a time, not too long ago, when you were the one waiting anxiously by the window for Iadan to arrive.”
Reisa shook her head and peeked through the crack in the shutters. “Sister,” she said, “that’s my life every day.”
Perchaya’s heart sank. She hadn’t meant to return her sister’s thoughts to her husband’s inattention. Iadan had grown different from the young man who searched every copse of trees in Dov to find Reisa’s favorite wildflower. He was focused on something else, though Perchaya didn’t know what.
“I think I’m going to go lie down,” Reisa said, rubbi
ng at her belly. She moved from the kitchen, and Perchaya heard her settle on the bed in the far room. She’d meant to be a help to Reisa when she’d traveled down from Dov, but now she couldn’t help but feel that she only added to her sister’s burden—not that Reisa would ever say so.
Perchaya rinsed her knife in the wash basin and returned it to the cupboard. On a higher shelf, she noted Reisa and Iadan’s soul vessel mixed in among the spices. No more than a simple flask, it held their blood mixed together, binding them in this life and the next. It used to have a place on the mantle, but with all the rumors about blood puppet spies, even Reisa, who was usually quick to question what a blood mage could possibly want with her, was taking precautions.
Perchaya wished she knew what to say to ease Reisa’s pain. Her fingers worried at the ring, as if she could wear it down by fretting alone.
She resumed her place at the window. There were no guards on the street now, though there had been several government criers pacing the neighborhood an hour ago, accusing any who worked with the resistance of being blood puppets controlled by the Drim. Perchaya was beginning to wonder why it had never occurred to her that Lord General Diamis did seem fixated on that particular accusation.
A knock came at the back door.
Reisa was on her feet before Perchaya could insist that she remain where she was, and she pulled open the door, standing fully in the doorway to block it from view. Perchaya heard a throat clear on the other side. “I’m here to speak with Perchaya,” Kenton said.
He’d no sooner gotten the words out than Reisa was pulling him into the house. “Have you figured out a way to remove the ring?” she asked. “Because if you do any further damage to my sister, I’ll have the guards on you in a flash.”
Kenton looked a bit stunned, and Perchaya stepped forward to save him, shooing Reisa away. “For the gods’ sakes,” she said, “let him breathe a little. Go get that rest you need and let me talk to him.”
Reisa didn’t seem to like that idea, but she did slink back to her room, leaving the door wide open.
Perchaya supposed that was the best she could hope for. Kenton gave her a weary look and waved a hand in greeting. Perchaya instantly felt self-conscious of her messy braided hair, of the stained apron tied tightly around her waist. She supposed, though, that she looked better than she had after nearly being trampled in the marketplace.
“Sorry about Reisa,” she said. “She makes all kinds of . . . assumptions.”
“It’s fine. Are you all right? You’ve stayed inside.” The last part was a statement more than a question, and Perchaya couldn’t help but feel like he’d been watching. Had he seen her at the window, waiting for him? If he had and thought ill of her for it, he didn’t show it.
“Have you had any luck with the ring?” he asked.
Perchaya shook her head. “I’ve tried everything I can think of.” She held up her hand so he could see the silver band—and the rings of red, angry skin on either side of it, aggravated from all her twisting and scrubbing. “What about you?”
“I’ve looked into it, but I’ve found nothing.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
The stilted way those last words emerged made her question whether he said them very often, but he looked sincere. “It’s all right,” she found herself saying, although in truth there was no reason why she should be comforting him. And in fact, the situation was not right at all.
Kenton cleared his throat again and reached into a pouch at his belt, producing two pairs of gloves and thrusting them at her without a word. Perchaya took the gloves and ran her hands over the soft leather of one and the fine lace of the other. They were more expensive than anything else she wore—anything she owned for that matter. “These are for me?” she asked.
“To cover your hands, so no one sees the runes. At least until I can find a solution.”
Perchaya nodded quickly and slipped the lacy ones onto her hands. They were lined with thin silk, so the ring didn’t show through the holes in the tatting. She’d never had a gift like this from a man before, though she supposed he more or less owed them to her. “Thank you.”
Kenton shrugged, looking vaguely uncomfortable.
She could hear the thin soup boiling rapidly now, and so she gestured for him to come into the kitchen with her. Then Perchaya slipped off one of the gloves to stir the soup, so she wouldn’t get broth on the lace.
Gods, how was she going to keep them clean if she was expected to wear them always?
Kenton shut the kitchen door—no doubt a safeguard against Reisa’s listening ears—and sat down at the table, one hand resting on its surface. His fingers drummed lightly against the wood.
“I have something you might want to see,” he said. Reaching into his coat’s inside pocket, he produced a piece of paper and handed it to her. It was yellowed with age and crinkled as she unfolded it. The words were written in spidery Drimmish, a script she had only ever seen etched on temple walls.
“You should have warned me,” she said. “It might have adhered itself to my skin and never allowed me to set it down.”
Kenton smiled. “I suppose I shouldn’t make promises, but I highly doubt that will happen again. Unless you’ve been endowed with a power akin to some sort of magical glue.”
Perchaya looked at him in alarm. She didn’t know enough about the endowments of power in Drim women to know if that was possible, but she hoped by the wry smile on his face that he was only teasing.
“I can’t read it,” she said. “I don’t know the language.”
“There are few who do anymore. It’s a letter from the Dant family to your Drim father, telling him where to meet them after they escaped from the scourge. Vendan made it out with you and was supposed to bring you back to them, but Diamis found them first. The letter is what led me to you. It took me a long while to find it and even longer to decipher it. There’s a shortage of Drimmish teachers of late.”
“I imagine so,” she said.
“It took some searching to find you. Vendan hid you well.”
She hoped that was true and that this was the only evidence that existed of her heritage. But now that one person had found her, she couldn’t depend on it. “I suppose that’s why I’m still alive.”
Kenton looked guilty. She hadn’t meant it to come off as a pointed comment, when he’d so clearly not meant for this to happen, but she supposed it applied. He eyed the broth over the fire. “Is your family hungry? Have you had a hard time getting food?”
Perchaya wobbled a hand at him. “It’s not easy of late. Might be easier if my brother-in-law took any mind for us.”
“What do you mean? Has he deserted you?”
“No,” she said. “Not entirely, anyway.” She hesitated. She shouldn’t share the personal details of her sister’s life with him, but living in this house, she had no one else to tell. “I think Iadan is having an affair,” she said quietly.
“What makes you think so?”
She worried at her lip. She wouldn’t have thought Kenton would concern himself with her family matters, but he seemed earnest. “He’s never home. Every night there is some excuse for why he missed supper, or why he had to go out again after we eat. Some nights we don’t even see him. He always says he’s working . . . but how often can there really be a shipment at the docks so late? He never used to be this way. When he was courting Reisa, he was sweet and attentive. He’d bring little presents to her or write her poems. I know things change when you get married, but it’s almost like he doesn’t even want to be in the same room with her. She doesn’t say much, but I know she’s hurting.”
Kenton’s eyes narrowed. “Have you actually seen him with another woman?”
“No,” she replied. “Not any one particular woman, but last week when we all went to temple services, someone slipped a note into his pocket. I couldn’t see who it was—it was crowded, and the p
erson was cloaked. But I was standing right next to him and saw the person’s hand. Then Iadan reached into the same pocket, as if he were verifying it was there.”
“Did Reisa see this?”
“No, she was busy talking to a friend. But it’s suspicious, isn’t it?”
He paused, considering. “Would you like me to look into it?”
Perchaya sat back in her chair. She hadn’t meant to suggest that Kenton should spy for her, and surely he had other things to do. Besides, what would she do with the information if she had it for certain? Telling Reisa would only hurt her further.
But maybe Iadan could be persuaded to stop if he knew he was found out. Maybe he would think of his unborn child and see everything he had to lose.
Perchaya nodded.
Kenton stood, leaving the letter in her hands. “I’ll be back when I have news. And hide that thing. I doubt anyone can read it, but the runes are damning enough.”
The intense way he was watching her should have frightened her, but she remembered the way he’d saved her from the guards who would have harmed her, and looked at her with that loneliness in his dark eyes.
She didn’t feel frightened.
“I will,” she said.
And she watched as he stepped through the back door and out into the shadows beyond.
Eight
It didn’t take long for Kenton to locate Iadan at the shipping yard, nor much effort to keep tabs on him as he finished his workday. Kenton had been following everyone in Perchaya’s household a little over the last week, so he knew exactly where to look.
As he waited for Iadan to get off work so he could observe the man’s evening activities, he hoped that Iadan wasn’t, as Perchaya expected, having an affair. Not because Kenton cared particularly about his marriage, though he didn’t love seeing Perchaya worry about it. Something about her drew his concern more than he would have expected.
A man spending his nights elsewhere might be stepping out on his wife. But a man in the middle of a city rife with rebellion might be part of something much bigger. And now that he had a lead on a godbearer working with the resistance, Kenton hoped it was the latter.