Clardill’s daughters were good women, unlike that tramp had been. They knew their place, even when it meant bedding a wrinkled old man like Garadin. Vesperi Sellwyn had never learned hers. At her mother’s teat, she’d been thirsty for more, sucking Lady Sellwyn dry. In time, when it became clear Lady Sellwyn’s womb had shriveled, Jahnas considered making Vesperi his heir. He admired her pluck. Garadin had valiantly dissuaded him. A female heir will bring contesters to her claim, he had whispered in Jahnas’s ear. Then that miserable wife of his bore a son after all, a sickly whelp who was no miracle. If Uzziel had died, as Garadin had thought certain, Jahnas may have tried again to position Vesperi as his heir. Garadin arranged for a transfer then—he did not want to be present when that failure of the social order attracted the Guj’s attention.
Yet Uzziel had lived. And somehow, the brat Vesperi had wrangled herself a position far better than that of Jahnas Sellwyn’s heir. She would become Ralion’s queen, an empty post but one that should sate her ambition. Bah. She was too smart, that girl. She would see through the farce of royalty and work her way into the Guj’s bed. Romer would think he controlled her, but nobody controlled Vesperi Sellwyn. If she was the weapon, it would be their doom. Better to smite women like her as soon as they showed a spark.
The carriage lurched to a stop, and the driver offered Garadin a hand, a courtesy Garadin let stand uncorrected because of his hip. Manners should not be allowed to propagate, but if Garadin jumped down with no help, there would be groaning, exposing his weakness. He landed with a splash. There were puddles. Curious, though it could be the damned humidity. It had been so much drier in Qiltyn.
The driver dragged Garadin’s trunk up the stairs. Garadin sounded the knocker, a bronze-cast viper coiled in sleep, and the entry door creaked open.
“Who goes there?”
Garadin recognized the proud, clear voice instantly. “Bellick!” He instilled his own with a disarming merriment. “It is I, Adver Garadin, and I need a drink!”
The guard laughed and swung the door open. Normally, an adver would be greeted with deference, downcast eyes and elbows raised higher than their greeter’s head, but Garadin did not insist on tradition. To be loved, even in Medua, was a powerful tool.
“What brings you here? I thought we had rid ourselves of your ilk years ago!”
That is a bit too far. Garadin considered correcting the joke, but it was late. Instead, he instructed the driver that two days hence they would return to Qiltyn, a passenger in tow. The Guj had almost sent a battery of fighters to collect Vesperi, but Garadin persuaded him not to. Better to have her within the walls of the palace before her identity was known, and soldiers were prone to violent quarrels. “No harm should come to her before the presentation to Ralion,” he had advised. In truth, Garadin had not wanted to deal with the entourage, but he did not hint at that.
“Lord Sellwyn is in his bedroom.” Bellick led the way, stopping to yank a servant by the tie of her robe and demand a torch be lit. “You must give me a moment to prepare him.”
Garadin dipped his elbows in acquiescence. A few seconds later, he heard shouting—the familiar sound of Jahnas’s anger—and Bellick came back out with a wink.
“Lord Sellwyn will see you now.”
Garadin walked through the door and stifled a gasp. Clothing was strewn across the floor, and the bed looked as though a drasmo slept there, sharp claws making merry with the silk cloth. He did not see Jahnas at first, huddled in a dark corner with a cask of Yarowen milk wine opened before him. It smelled sour and likely was.
“Jahnas!” Garadin held his elbows up in greeting despite the shock. He had never seen the man this shaken, not in the ten years he’d spent whispering in his ear. “How are you, my old friend?”
“They have sent you here because of her, haven’t they?” Jahnas sounded like a spiteful child about to receive a whipping, not a lord receiving a wedding proposal, which meant he still kept no spies at Mandat Hall. This … this chaos had to be from something else.
“If you mean Vesperi, then yes.” Garadin answered cautiously.
“Go ahead, then. Is it to be my head?” Jahnas took a swig from the fouled cask.
His behavior confused Garadin. “King Ralion sends this letter to you.” He unclenched the fist that held it. “He wishes to make Vesperi his queen.”
Jahnas laughed, a frenzied sound. “You joke, Garadin? Has it been so many years that you would poke fun at my expense?” His voice quavered as though near tears. Garadin had never seen Jahnas cry, not even when his long-awaited son had been born withered and weak.
“No, you have mistaken my intent. I am sent from the Guj. Vesperi is expected for the betrothal ceremony six days hence. Your payment, as you can read, is quite generous for such a wild one as she. I am certain you will be satisfied with the offer.”
Jahnas grabbed the letter. His eyes showed no glint of ambition as he read. “It cannot be.” He sounded defeated, a servant caught trying to escape his own walls. “This is … this is impossible!”
“I know it may seem that way, but I assure you, the offer is genuine. For some reason”—Garadin was not crazy enough to point out why—“the king has taken a shining to her. Perhaps they met during her time with the Sisters?”
“You mistake my meaning. Vesperi is not here. She has run away.” Garadin’s blood ran cold. Jahnas spoke the truth, he knew it. The man’s anguish, his desperation—only losing Vesperi could do this to him. The hanging tree flashed before Garadin’s eyes, and he swore he could see it reflected in Jahnas’s as well. If only the Guj would show them such mercy.
CHAPTER 26
JANTO
Janto woke in a sweat, but not one born of fear. The pit in his stomach and his fast-fading arousal meant only one thing. Another dream. Of her.
Disgust washed over him, as it had done nearly every morning since departing Braven with Lord Xantas’s foraging party. The nightmares were a distraction and made him feel guilty of a betrayal he had not committed. Serra. Think of Serra.
“Won’t be much longer now”—Lord Xantas sat near their morning fire pit—“and you can do much more than that.”
Janto was horrified he had spoken aloud. The members of their team roared with laughter.
“I–I can’t believe you heard that.” He covered his face with his hands.
“And we thought you were too proper to think it!” Xantas handed him a sloshing mug of water while his people moved to break down camp. “A man thinking of his woman in that way is natural, you know. Your wedding is very soon. By Madel’s hand, I would worry about the future of the Albrecht line if you did not wake with Serra’s name on your lips.”
Janto wished the blush deepening on his face was from embarrassment and not shame. But he was relieved the trip would soon be over. They had been descending from the foothills for two days after examining the root vegetables and berries at higher elevations. There had not been many, though the newly wet ground might flourish again in time, if the rains kept up. That area had been in drought for years, per the reports of the few Lanserim who lived within it. Most had moved farther into the valleys, wanting to put as much space as possible between them and the Meduans. Who could blame them? Many people had not believed it would be that bad when the orders came to evacuate or try their fates with the rebels, but emigrants from the new Meduan lands had come over the mountains in droves once the reality sank in. With them came tales of constant raids and brutal overthrows, knocking down new lineages as fast as they could be claimed. The later ones brought accounts of a false god called Saeth and said his priests, the advers, took tribute from the execution of anyone who resisted the Suma family’s might. Qiltyn’s old ruling family had always held illusions of grandeur, and living among the rebels had only strengthened them.
The foraging party made their way through the countryside as the early morning passed, stopping every few miles for the surveyors to take measurements and the herbalists to search for plants they did not recog
nize. It had been the same every day since parting ways with the other Muraters at Jost. Rall and Flivio had teased Janto mercilessly about the feasting they would partake in on his behalf. Festivals had been arranged in villages on the ways to each of their hometowns. Nap had expressed how much he respected Janto’s decision to leave with Lord Xantas and his team instead, choosing responsibility over celebration. The slight upward curve of the Wasylim’s mouth conveyed his pride, which delighted Janto. It was another lesson learned: the respect of his people was the reward of leadership. Now if he could earn Ser Allyn’s someday …
Not today.
“Stop staring, Your Horse-assed Highness, and come investigate this with us.” Marabil, the only woman in the group, called to him with her typical vulgarity. Everyone had gathered at the edge of a pine-covered foothill, and Janto had apparently let the steady panting of his horse soothe him too much as he’d leaned against him after dismounting.
They gestured excitedly toward patches of valley below when Janto caught up to the group. Dozens of rows of a plant with many thick-fingered, jade leaves grew within them. A burst of shocking violet was at each of their centers, as though the plants were giant flower buds and not some form of bush.
“What are they?” He had never seen such vibrant flora before.
“No one knows.” Lord Xantas gestured toward the herbalists who were hugging each other in their excitement. “And you know how they get when they don’t know.”
Janto laughed with Lord Xantas. “I guess we are going down.”
The farmer—a slender, older man—invited them in after Janto, Lord Xantas, and the surveyors had spent an hour watching the herbalists work. Two plants even odder than the bushes grew on either side of the man’s thatched hut. They had thin stems the color of ground mustard and multitudes of tiny black seeds hanging from the sprouted tendrils at their tops.
“What are those plants outside?” Janto asked as he entered, remembering Hamsyn’s sister’s seeds that first morning on Braven.
“I thought your herbalists were determining that.” The farmer offered them mugs filled with lukewarm tea. This royal visit and the interest in his plants obviously thrilled him.
“Not those, but the ones outside your door with the black seeds. I have a friend who may be interested in them.” They had to be the same plant as Hamsyn’s sister’s. Perhaps he could send her word about their origins.
“Oh, you mean the fallowent!” The man waved a hand away. “Presents from our neighbors—if you can call a half day’s ride neighbors—when we settled here. All the houses in this valley have a pair of them at their entries.”
His wife laid a platter on the table holding crackers and some sort of paste made from the soft, round discs that grew beneath the thistly purple blooms of the bushes. “They say the fallowent wards off pests, at least according to the locals. Honestly, I don’t know what good they do. We’ve had many flies after these rains. It’s as though a bell was rung, calling them to dinner.” Her frizzy brown hair shifted as she shook her head.
“Lord Xantas,” Velak, one of the surveyors, interrupted after trying out the food with a grimace, “may we have your leave to take measurements near the hillside? The light is perfect right now, and I don’t think the herbalists will be finished anytime soon.”
Xantas laughed and took another cracker. “Not likely indeed. Just wait until they try this paste! Go ahead.”
The surveyors raised their elbows in exit, and Lord Xantas and Janto were left alone with their hosts.
“So you are the prince, an Albrecht?” The farmer’s tone and the way he kept clasping and unclasping his hands conveyed his delight. “A prince in my house! Who would have ever thought it when we came over the mountains.”
Over the mountains? Janto straightened up. They were not old enough to have moved right after the war. So they had been Meduans, this affable man and his charming wife. How is that possible?
“When was that?” Janto hoped his shock was not too obvious.
“Oh, twenty years ago now,” the wife answered. “Seems like yesterday. We were both so young … we had never known other ways to live. My stepfather shunted me and my mam off to the new women’s house in town when I was—oh, I think I was ten or so then. We had thoughts of escaping, but the other women who tried … well, they weren’t quite the same when they came back. So it was darkness but for the kitchen fires and cutting and boiling parsnips for years until this man came in and swept me away.” She kissed the farmer’s cheek then ruffled his remaining patch of white hair.
The farmer did not pause before continuing his wife’s story, one they must have told often. “I wanted a wife. Taking one was discouraged for the working men, but I wanted one anyhow. I had dug ore out of the mines for at least a decade by then. The others swore I’d gone blind when I brought Lileh here home to our cabins, but well, it weren’t right sleeping with so many women as they had done. They teased me for my Lanserim streak but gave me my own hut all the same—I was very good at finding a new lode, you see. But I could never force Lileh to stay inside like I should have, not once I got to know her. She never strayed far, but she kept a garden and hung our laundry to dry outside. The men in their cups never let me hear the end of it. But Lileh was worth it.”
Janto struggled to suppress the outrage he felt at what these people had considered normal, but a stern look from Xantas quieted him. This was obviously nothing new to the Ertion liege’s ears. To Janto, it stirred the embers of a fire he hadn’t felt blazing for a while, distracted by the Murat from Agler’s murder and all the Meduans had done.
The farmer stared at his wife with adoration. She rested against his chair, wiping her hands on a towel nestled in her apron.
“It had become too much, the other men’s taunts, so we ran. You understand.” He winked knowingly at Janto. “You’re a man in love, too. Aren’t you newly married?”
If only. Then maybe his dreams of that woman sprawled on the forest floor would stop. He wondered how easy it would be to take that innate attraction between a man and woman and twist it into the oppression and subjugation these people had experienced. A pain throbbed at his temple.
“I need some air.” He made for the door.
The herbalists did not halt their note-taking when he stepped outside. Nothing could distract them from their work. He watched as they broke off a few tightly rolled leaves that protected the soft flesh beneath the plant’s buds. The herbalists swabbed their broken edges with cloth. Then they held the cloth up to the sunlight to inspect it.
Something on the breeze drew Janto’s attention. Yelling. Someone’s yelling. The herbalists heard it too. One jumped up, reaching for his sword. The surveyors were alone in the woods.
“I’ll go.” Janto did not want them to abandon their work. “It is probably nothing, maybe a barool’s nest.”
The man nodded, relieved, and Janto mounted his horse, taking off in the direction of the sounds. He braced his knees against the animal. “Heeya!” The horse reached a gallop in a few strides. Janto’s head throbbed, but he had to find the surveyors, and fast. It could be a bear or a koparin, and the surveyors were not equipped with bows. They would be forced into foot combat with a wild animal.
The rows of violet-topped plants disappeared fast as Janto reached the forest line. He pointed the horse in the direction the last yells had come from, hoping the wind played no tricks today. They could not be far, in any case, or he would not have heard them at all.
“Janto!” Velak spotted him, sounding relieved, though he only turned his head from whatever the surveyors had flanked, backs exposed to him and not it. “We are glad to see you. None of us know the protocol for this.”
“Is it a gorgon? I heard yells and came as fast as I could.”
Marabil laughed. “No, no gorgon. We know what to do with one of those. This here throws rocks, not claws.”
“And it’ll be a mite more trouble than a gorgon, I suspect,” Velak said. “Come see.”
Janto dismounted and looped his reins around a pine. The surveyors parted to let him see. But he closed his eyes, willing the sight away as soon as he had looked. Silver stars danced beneath his eyelids while he counted to ten, calming his breathing though no exercise could calm the increased pain in his temple.
He opened his eyes on a pulled net of drapian rope held in place by arrowheads embedded into the tree trunk. A human-sized trap, likely the farmer’s design. Twenty years in Lansera had not cured him of Meduan distrust.
But it was not the net that had Janto feeling panic and a compelling fascination. It was the woman held within it, her black curls caught in its fibers. They writhed as she struggled to escape, tossing out angry grunts as she thrashed. Her eyes were brown when they glanced on Janto’s, and for a moment, he felt relief. But as she raised her hand as high as she could within the net, her irises became twin pools of molten silver.
CHAPTER 27
VESPERI
Aconstant sensation moved under the skin of her hands, but not in the way she wanted. No surge of energy, no rushing electricity—only pins and needles. Her fingers were bound so securely, she could not wiggle them. And it was all the fault of the red-haired one. She hated him, hated them all, but him most because he knew about her talent. Some way, somehow, he knew, and the first thing he did was restrain her, just like a man.
The moment she raised her pointer finger, he was on her, trapping her hands beneath him. “Rope! We need to bind her hands!” The others had quickly complied. Vesperi fought violently, trying to get out from underneath him and the net, straining to reach for Esye. It had been no use.
So she waited. They asked questions but did nothing else to her. At some farmer’s house, the burly one introduced himself as Lord Cino Xantas then asked her name, but she was not so stupid as to give it. Who knew what they did to Meduans in Lansera? If she could not get away, then it was in her best interests to be quiet and listen, to observe as she had as a child, learning which of her father’s guards grew meaner after milk wine and which went to the kitchens to leave with a woman following meekly behind. But these people were strange. No one leered or grabbed at her. Maybe they waited until their work was done for the day. Yet the women they kept were far too energetic to have spent all night on their backs. And they smiled. They smiled all the time.
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