Janto had never heard Nap speak so much. Perhaps the air had been too thin at the peak. Something had to explain his hallucination, but did it matter what, when the effects were so joyous? “That sounds amazing. Now you must come and rest awhile. You are the second to finish but the last down.”
“How so?”
“The others were disqualified,” Janto said, and Nap’s jaw dropped. Janto assured him, “For good reasons. Flivio hurt his leg sliding down one of the faces, and the others carried him. They returned over an hour ago.”
“How disheartening it would be to not only lose but be unable to finish and see those sights!” Nap wondered.
“I would not say the same to them,” Janto considered. “It would be sticking a leech into a fresh wound.”
Nap agreed, though he appeared more saddened over their inability to finish than his second-place ranking.
The feast that night was memorable, mainly because Sielban stayed with them through the whole meal. There was, of course, much backslapping for the two men who finished the Feat, but Hamsyn, Flivio, and Tonim hardly complained. Sielban, right after pouring the first round of ale, lit on the edge of the table and announced, “Tonight, we have our first champion.”
The cheers erupted immediately but did not last. Everyone was completely worn out, even Jerusho and Janto, who had spent most of their time on the ground. The intense sun over the meadows had affected them, too, as did all that hopping between platforms.
“The name of Rall Basilo will go forth on the lips of our provisioners tonight and be recorded forever in the records of the Murat.” Sielban had been watching Tansic and Oro, the two moons so close they appeared in the shape of an eight rather than a pair of circles. But he lowered his gaze to scan the faces of each man at the table. “Do you know what it means to be recorded in history, for Lanserim to know your names?”
Rall shook his head, a buttered clover roll in hand. None of them ventured a guess. They had not grown up with constant reminders of family legacies, Janto realized. It was an easy answer for him, having spent his life surrounded by tapestries depicting the founding of his kingdom by a woman pulling a cart and the splitting of it in a briar patch.
Janto stood. “It means you are now bonded to those who know your name. You have achieved glory, and they will expect glorious things from you.”
“Very good.” Sielban raised his elbows in recognition. As he did, a powerful silver light flashed far away, visible just above Sielban’s right shoulder. It was gone fast, though Janto thought he saw a residual haze left in its wake. He raised his hand to point it out but remembered the day they had chased feathers and Rall and Hamsyn had laughed away his creature in the woods. His hand went back down.
Sielban did not note his averted gaze. “Rall Basilo will always now be known as a great climber, a man who can accomplish great things. Now, child”—he gestured to Rall—“what sort of things will you do with that standing?”
“I—I do not know. But if it makes my wife and children proud, then I will do whatever I need to.”
Sielban raised his elbows in acknowledgment and addressed the group. “Think of this, as you continue your Murat. You have spent months in physical training, but you must also be men with actions that speak a different language than fists and weapons. The Murat is not about Feats but about preparing you to be the men Lansera needs, the men Madel knows will best serve Her purposes.”
Janto nodded along with the others, pushing silver flashes out of mind as he reached for a clover roll.
Jerusho rose from his chair, a wooden mug in hand. “To Rall, our first champion, and to becoming who Madel wants us to be.”
“Here! Here!” They agreed in rounds about the table. The ale differed from the thick brew they had had on other evenings. This one was blond and went down tasting of apricots.
Sielban did not disappear as usual but leapt from the corner of the table to the ground and wedged himself between Jerusho and Nap. The men hid their amazement at dining with Sielban in their midst and dug in heartily.
CHAPTER 17
VESPERI
The horse huffed as the cherry-sized ball of silver energy buzzed through its mane like a jocal fly. Vesperi focused on channeling the talent in her palm into the faint stream connected to that ball. It was so indistinct no one would notice it but her, and her control over it was thrilling. Besides, if her concentration faltered, no one would blame a dead horse on her. Vesperi rarely deigned to enter the stables—the servants cared for the animals, and she would never let herself be considered one of them.
Smells of tobacco, sour ale, and sweat alerted her she was not alone. She lowered her hand, and the ball of energy dissipated. The guard Lokas, the least appealing of the lot, wore a faded green tunic embroidered with House Sellwyn’s viper, though the garment’s tattered threads obscured its raised head. Father ought to dress his men better.
The guard cleared his throat, yellow spit hitting the ground. “Your father wants to see you, Vespy.”
“Don’t call me that.” She had always hated the nickname. It had not suited a four-year-old child, much less a woman of nineteen. But Lokas was one of her father’s personal guards, the only ones who dared chastise her when her father or Uzziel were out of sight. The others had learned not to trifle with her.
“I will call you what I want, whore.” His voice was gruffer than usual, and his breath reeked of the stale brew the guards kept in their quarters. The barrels sat in direct sunlight most of the day, making the ale hot and rancid. Lord Sellwyn probably had to pull Lokas out of one to come get her. She nearly giggled at the image of her slender father struggling with an ogre of a man like him, dripping with ale.
“I have never been your whore, Lokas.” She said his name with disdain. “Is that what has you in such a displeasing mood?” She had bedded most of the guards by the time she left for the convent—it was the easiest way to control them and sometimes fun. Lokas, however, repulsed her with his constant drunkenness.
Lokas spat at her. “I wouldn’t take you if you lay down in front of me, legs spread wide. The smell of your used-up cunt makes me ill.”
She wiped the spit from her face with the loose velvet at the end of her sleeve. Then she made to soothe him with warm tones, making sure to brush up against him. “Oh, Lokas. There is no need for such venom. I refused you out of love—I did not want your ego bruised when you couldn’t perform. Liquor can have that effect, you know.”
“Shut your mouth, harlot.” He prodded her side with a dagger always kept in hand. He was not fast enough to pull it from his belt if attacked, so he held it instead. “Let’s go.”
She complied. He did not have enough wits left to make this game of insults a challenge. They walked on the cobblestone path back toward the manor house and over the bridge that crossed the dry riverbed of the Sell. It had not rained in western Medua for as long as Vesperi had been at the convent, though the air had felt heavy of late. They reached the main door, and it creaked opened as three guards pushed it from inside. She was tempted to see if her talent could push it faster. Perhaps it wouldn’t sear if she let it out as a wave rather than focusing it into a stream. If it worked, the guards would be spared a lot of effort, but what reason did she have to make their lives easier? Her father often said tired guards were loyal guards. Maybe someday she could burn through a wooden door without destroying what lay beyond it. She had already lit a couple of incense sticks when practicing and nothing else had flamed.
And of course, she had done the same to two people. The burning was completely unexpected that first time, when she charred Sister Vandely to a crisp. The woman had ordered Vesperi to stay behind after a training session. She had rambled on about submission and duty, and Vesperi was not in the mood to listen. The moon Esye had been especially clear that night, and Vesperi stared at it through the window as the woman had droned on. As her anger built, Vesperi had fixated more on the moon, noting how the others formed a ring around it. Sister Vandely
rapped her with a stick to get her attention, and Vesperi had raised a hand to slap the old crone. But she did not hit flesh. Instead, a blazing silver shaft nearly blinded her, and her palm sliced through a sheet of falling black ashes. The smell had made her gag, the same as when her father burned runaways outside the gates of Sellwyn. Vesperi hoped to do the burning for her father someday without using wood at all. When she mastered her talent, he would see how invaluable she was to him. Better a wizard as an asset than an enemy.
“Lokas, you can leave me now. I will be safe inside.” She did not wait for his reply but went through the doorway and up the stone steps to the open-air walkway, happy not to hear his plodding gait follow. She did not stop to touch the carving but kept on toward the manor—Father was waiting. As she walked down the hall, servants with brooms in hand darted away. One weaver was too slow getting back to his loom. She noted his balding head of black hair in case he should dare look her way again. If she had to endure the guards’ fists and lashes, then so did everyone else. That her father allowed her that power was dignifying. Perhaps she’d have the weaver’s cloak trampled. But destroying a good cloak with the guards so shabbily dressed would be a waste. She would have to mention their lack of repair to Father.
Bellick, another of his guards, stood in front of the door to Lord Sellwyn’s chamber. She gave her hips a bit of a swish and tugged down her chemise enough to reveal the white trim of her bodice. He gave her a complete top-to-bottom inspection. He had been one of her first lovers, the comeliest man in the manor with those dimples and sage-green eyes. She would not mind another tussle if she got him alone.
Placing her hand on his chest and tracing her fingers downward but not too far, she greeted him. He shuddered with pleasure but hastily straightened up. “Your father is waiting inside.”
“I know that. He can wait a little longer,” she whispered in his ear, giving full breath to each syllable.
Bellick pushed her away reluctantly. “He’s in a foul mood. I would not try him if I was you.”
“I know how to handle my father.”
Bellick laughed in her face as he pushed open the door. Lord Sellwyn hunched over his desk, scribbling with his favorite pen made from the hide and taxidermied head of a forest viper, complete with fangs. Its venom could kill, should her father decide to pierce someone’s skin with it rather than merely lace it into his words.
She took a deep breath and walked in, closing the door behind her. Lord Sellwyn did not acknowledge her.
“Father? Lokas said you wanted to see me?”
He did not shift as he spoke. “I searched for you in Uzziel’s room. Then I went to the kitchen, to see if you had joined the other women, but you were not there—again.”
“You know I hate the kitchen.”
“What you hate does not affect me. It is your place to be there whenever your brother does not need you.” He barely spoke above a whisper. “Since you are so content to stay at Sellwyn Manor, then you need to learn to stay where you belong.”
“So that’s why you called for me.” She had thought it might be about the suitors. It was always about the suitors. There had been one more this past week, Lord Dusen Rolang, a man so old his feather-thin frame had to be supported by two of his servants. She should have put him out of his misery, but instead she refused to see him at all. Lord Sellwyn’s daughter would not wed a decrepit old man. Her father should realize it would portray him as weak.
“I called you here because I do not know what to do with you.” Jahnas Sellwyn laid down his pen. His green-eyed gaze licked its way toward where she leaned against the wall, not having been asked to sit. “You reject every man I allow here.” He strained his lips into a thin line. “Scare them away or insult them until they demand I have you beat for insolence. Saeth only knows what happened to Lord Agler.”
“Agler was an idiot. An affront. I thought you meant him as a joke.”
“A joke? Do you not know how desperate I am to be rid of you? I don’t care if a slime-sucking frogman offered to take you away. If one hopped here with a bag full of souzers clutched in his webbed feet, I would throw you at him. I want your dowry, darling daughter. And I want you out of my hands.” He held her in a narrowed gaze for a moment then returned to his parchments. “What happened to Agler?”
The lie leapt to her lips easily—she told it to anyone who asked. Why, I asked Agler for time to consider his offer, she would say, one more night. Agler left the room, and I watched as he exited the manor through the door to the walkway, watched the light brighten the dark hallway for a moment then dim again as the door closed. Then I never saw him again, and what could I do about that? I cannot force a man to wait for me. Such a simple tale, and her reputation was such that everyone believed she had scared him off. Everyone but her father. He knew her better, knew she would not meekly agree to consider a suitor’s offer. She was her father’s daughter, and by Saeth’s fist, no one else would ever know her as well.
Her heart pounded, and she felt as though a child again, peeking at him from the kitchen doorway, hoping he would ask her to join him at the table one night, if she could prove how worthy she was. This was that moment, time to show him, show him everything. She had not singed one horse’s hair.
“I killed him.”
He was at her side faster than she had ever seen him move before and yanked her by the shoulders. She did not flinch.
“You killed him? Is that what you said?” His voice was a hiss.
Vesperi stood firm. “Yes. He was a spy, Father, a spy from Lansera. One of those bloody Ravens.” She did not blink. Now was not the time for submission. He must hear her.
“You are telling me I let a spy into my household and only you noticed it?”
Oh no. Vesperi had not considered him taking it as an insult, a grave misstep. His pride was too quick to bruise.
“You could not have known,” she placated him. “Only when we were alone did he make mistakes. He called me Lady several times.” She spoke fast, trying to pacify him before he really grew angry. “I killed him for you, Father, to protect the Sellwyns.”
He loosened his grip a little, and her heart leapt. She strengthened her plea. “Don’t you see how much use I can be to you? I can get closer to your enemies than your spies because I am a woman. They will not suspect me. And that’s not all I can do.” She raised her pointer finger toward the high window and willed the energy to come slowly so as not to alarm him.
“When are you going to give this up.” He groaned and pulled away from her to pace the rug on the floor, sending cockroaches scurrying like servants. “You are a woman, Vesperi, a woman. Uzziel will inherit Sellwyn Manor, not you. He is my son.”
“He is a blight on us!” The yell escaped her. It always came back to Uzziel, that pathetic whelp. Her talent churned rapidly, caution forgotten, and she did not care, did not want to control it. She forged on.
“Uzziel has been in his sick bed for all of his eleven worthless years. He should have been put to death at birth like the offal he is. The advers proclaimed it so.”
“Do not speak of your betters, Vesperi. You are the mistake.”
“Fine.” She spat out the word. “Fine. I’m a mistake. I’m an embarrassment. Uzziel is your heir, the light of your life. But what happens when he dies? Do you think he is going to outlive you? Truly?”
He stopped pacing and bent over at the waist, chortling at her words. Vesperi shrank against the wall. This is not good. She had never heard him laugh before—never. Her father was a serious man intent on amassing and maintaining his power. That left no time for laughter.
The talent ceased within her instantly, and its absence left her cold. Thank Saeth it had not built up enough for her to demonstrate it. She thought he would be proud of it, thrilled he could use her to further his reach, but she could not know how he would react now. Not when he was laughing.
When he caught his breath, Lord Sellwyn said, “What will I do? What will I do? If Uzziel does not live
, I will disown you and your mother and take a new wife.”
“What?” She could barely speak. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. “You, you would do that?” Disowned females were outlaws, tainted, untouchable. Only one option remained for them, one place they could find shelter, if it could be called that. “You would send me to Thokketh?” Saying the name gave her chills. It was a place of exile, a fortress built of ice on the edge of the desolate Giants’ Pathway. Females unclaimed by liege or nobleman ended their lives there in bitter cold and banishment. No one came back from Thokketh. The sheven in the moat waters and their always-opened mouths tore them to shreds if they tried to escape.
He could not mean it. He wouldn’t send her away. She was a Sellwyn, she was his. Jahnas Sellwyn did not give up his property. He burned his deserters rather than let them escape, destroyed what betrayed him. He did not abandon it. This was—this was not right.
“My doors would be locked to you faster than Uzziel’s blood ran cold.” The laughter again, mocking her. She wanted to cry, to wail, to beg, but only her instinct worked and it screamed to run, to leave his presence before he could shame her anymore.
She flung open the door, slamming it into Bellick. His curses mixed in with more of her father’s horrible cackling amusement. It sounded louder than it should have, echoing through the hall and her head. She ran toward her room at the far end of the manor. As far from Father’s room as possible, she realized as she flew. How could she have been so stupid to believe he would ever give her what she wanted, that she meant anything to him? She was more afraid than she could ever remember.
The kitchen doorway loomed up ahead. She stopped running, thinking to warn her mother, too. The room had no door; the heat from the kitchen’s five stone-encased ovens warmed the corridors, and the women would sweat to death if enclosed within it. It reeked of bloodworms roasting in the central oven, their putrid scent akin to the fumes that rose from Durn’s swamps. With the river dried up, no game came to graze outside Sellwyn manor, and everyone had to make do with insects. Plenty of those crept around in dark corners.
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