Wind Over Bone: The Estralony Cycle #2 (Young Adult Fantasy Romance)

by E D Ebeling

  “You’ll find,” said Leva behind them, “that anywhere I sit has two seats alongside it that will necessarily be filled. By whom, I don’t care. So if you feel sorry for me––”

  “I do,” said Rischa. “And you’re right. Anywhere I sit has two seats alongside it.” He took Leva’s arm as well as Sarid’s, and Mari stifled her laughter.

  “I wouldn’t be so pleased,” said Leva to Mari. “If we all must sit by our betrothed I hope you find a happy companion in Vanli.”

  Yelse appeared, arm in arm with Dame Haek––Count Pash’s sister and Mari and Leva’s mother. “Are my daughters frittering away the day in argument?” Dame Haek asked the countess.

  “Patience, Corsha,” said the countess. “Arguing grows less interesting with years. And how does my lady?” This was addressed to Yelse.

  “Very well,” said Yelse. A breeze ruffled her yellow gown. “Much recovered. The sun puts my heart at ease.”

  Rischa had some difficulty drawing his arms free of Sarid and Leva’s; both girls had tightened their grip. “I only wish I could have some part in easing your heart. I am largely to blame for my brother.”

  Yelse showed a shy dimple. “If you were to escort me to table and brave the company of a sad woman, my heart should be much eased.”

  “I wish I could be a dinner partner to all the prettiest ladies at Charevost,” he said, taking her hands, “but one of them would have to sit in my lap.”

  “For gods’ sake,” said Leva. “Don’t let me impede. You can have his ear, Lady Yelse. Besides, I won’t sit far off. I should like to hear what you three have to say to each other.” This last part seemed directed toward Sarid. Gryka whined and licked Sarid’s hand.

  ***

  “Cousin!” said Princess Selya. “You’ve been privy to many strange adventures. I’d love to hear about them.” She leaned in, her auburn curls hanging very close to the watercress salad. “And I’m scared to ask the Reglime girl.”

  “She’s right here,” said Rischa, pointing to Yelse, who sat at his left.

  “Oh,” said Selya, turning red. “I do beg your pardon. But such horrors you’ve lived through––I’m almost jealous!”

  “You needn’t be,” said Yelse. “And I won’t recount them.”

  “The day’s too pleasant,” said Rischa. “How’s your father, Selya?”

  “Laid up in Anturvy, surrounded by chamber pots. I left early”––she leaned in again––“because his aim’s getting worse, and he wants me always near him, and I can’t stand the smell.”

  “Selya,” exclaimed Edloiva, who sat next to Sarid. “Is that any way to describe your father?”

  “I know,” she said. “But it’s all so sordid and unfair, because Rochel’s left me all by myself, and Peveritz is always telling me if I had the gumption to take up my position I would be deciding matters of state instead of sopping up bloody urine.”

  “I can’t conceive of a more fitting arrangement, though,” said Leva from two seats down.

  Edloiva laughed into her glass.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rischa. “Shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “But you understand, Rischa” said Selya. “It’s so tedious, cleaning up after ill family members, putting on a sympathetic face––it’s altogether too hard. And I have been giving the country thought. I’m not so scared. I begin to think it’d be easy after all this horrible sickness. Do you suppose I would make a dreadful Ravinya?”

  ‘Yes’ was on the tip of everyone’s tongue, Sarid was sure.

  A thread of wind raised the flesh on her neck and she looked over at Yelse. Her eyelids were lowered, her tongue moving musingly over her lips.

  “I couldn’t say,” said Rischa. “It would be a momentous decision.”

  “You think I’m ridiculous,” said Selya. “That I can’t dress myself and I care only for ribbons and the shapes of clouds. But those who’re dressed like dolls are expected to act like them, and I was only ever trying to please people.”

  Then the talk ceased because a singer and a cittern player had stepped onto a dais in the front of the barge (which was now well off the shore) and together began a song. Though the singer was a lively Rileldine girl and the cittern player plied his instrument as though it were a dancing kite, a sadness settled on the listeners.

  “What’s she singing, Rischa?” said Selya. “I don’t understand these northern words, they mash them in their mouths so.”

  “Do you need to understand?” said Rischa. “You could just listen.”

  “You’ve heard the story, I’m sure,” said Leva. “Huoren and her brat are hunted up, down and sideways through the underground by vicious saebelen. Huoren reaches the surface, sees the stars, sings a little bit, then dies.”

  “I guess that’s most of it,” said Rischa. “Leva’s delicate touches aside.”

  When the song ended, people rang spoons on their wine glasses, and over the ting of crystal someone spoke:

  Magnificent! The little one sang like a bird with a thorn in its breast.

  A man sat on the railing at the side of the barge. His skin was like glowing charcoal: Daeheva, Svara’s son.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the Rileldine singer. Everyone aboard the boat looked confusedly at her. A few glanced behind them to see where she was looking, gasped, and soon the barge’s collective attention was trained on the saebel.

  We have a message for one of you. His voice crackled like leaves in a fire.

  “They’re human,” said the singer. “Speak in a language they understand.”

  “Very well,” said Daeheva. He spoke in Gireldine, making a slippery mess of the words. “We must speak a language for the humans.” He jumped to his feet and walked toward the tables, smoke blowing off his skin. Gryka, who’d been very well behaved up to that point, began barking. Sarid muzzled the dog with a hand.

  “We bring a message for a girl,” Daeheva said. “She has brown hair, thick like a horse’s tail––Layda, Laytha, Layva––”

  “You’re ruining our meal,” said Leva, standing up.

  “You,” said Daeheva, sparks flying from his teeth. “Thick like a horse’s tail, face like a hawk. Layva, Layva, Layva. Your name sounds like the sweet suck of penetration. Are you cold, Layva? Would you like to roll around? We could heat you up.” Daeheva sidled closer and stroked her arm with a finger, leaving a charcoal steak.

  Selya moved impatiently in her seat. “What’s it saying? I don’t understand, Rischa. What’s it saying?”

  “Shut up,” said Rischa.

  “You have a message for me?” said Leva, shrinking away. “What? From whom?”

  “Yes, Yes,” said Daeheva. “Our lady bade us bargain with you.”

  “For what?”

  “Give us your betrothal ring, Layva. Renounce your betrothal and we shall see that your life extends.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Live a short life.”

  A chair screeched back; Rischa rose from it. “A threat? Who sent you?”

  “Our lady,” said Daeheva. “Mother of Chaos.”

  “There is no Mother of Chaos,” said Rischa. “But there are people who begrudge Leva. Who sent you?”

  “Chaos,” Daeheva said again. “We are not sent, but pushed around like pieces on a game board.”

  “Was it Karyadrena Augor? Mari Keldanst?”

  “Is this him, Layva?” said Daeheva, and his laughter sounded like a log popping in a fire. “Is this the one? Give us your ring. We can satisfy you far more than he. Give us your ring!”

  “She will not,” said Rischa.

  “I can speak for myself,” said Leva. She said to Daeheva, “Tell Mother Chaos that her offer was presented so indelicately that I’m going to refuse it on principle.”

  “A short life it is, Layva, Layva, Layva,” said Daeheva. He turned to the rest of the barge and gave a mock bow. “The Mother of Chaos bids you all a very pleasant afternoon.”

  Just then Leva’s eyes grew wide. Sh
e shouted in pain, because Daeheva had closed his long fingers around her hair. He clambered over the table, knocking pitchers and tureens about, pulling Leva after. She struggled and tugged at the table legs; he wrenched her free and dragged her to the side of the boat, where he tied her long, brown hair to the railing in a neat, inextricable knot.

  Everyone watched in shocked silence. Gryka whined and growled, muzzle still clamped shut by Sarid. Leva’s hair was stretched tight behind her, and she knelt to loosen it. Daeheva laughed, puffs of flame coming from his mouth.

  His breath wormed into the garlands and they caught fire. The flames crawled through the leaves, curling and crisping them, and glowing bits of garland dropped to the floor. The breeze pushed the fire farther and farther; soon flames lapped at the tablecloths. People began shouting. Daeheva gave a final bow and dissolved like ash on the wind.

  Gryka wriggled out of Sarid’s grasp. Rischa was first to run over to Leva. “Can someone not help me?” he yelled, ripping at her hair, and Yelse strode through the throng and knelt next to him. But it seemed to Sarid she only made the knot tighter.

  Rischa thumped Leva’s smoking hair with his hands, and Yelse’s lips curved up; and the fire fed on the breeze, climbing the tables, turning them into beacons. Sarid grabbed a silver bowl from the table. She ran to the side of the barge, scooped water from the lake, and flung it over Leva’s hair.

  Soon many people were following suit, taking bowls and throwing water over the tables. Sarid passed a pitcher to Selya, who was standing and watching, eyes wide. She leaned over the railing to fill it, but her shaking hands dropped it into the lake and she started sobbing.

  “It won’t work. It’s spreading too fast.” She looked with dread into the water. “I can’t swim.” The fire was gasping up the air and growing to fiendish size, and people who could swim, mostly northerners, were already jumping into the lake.

  Leva screamed, pounding her singed skirts. Sarid stared at her. There was no time. Madness was all around her and she felt her power throbbing.

  She raised a hand, and the wind was suddenly tempest speed. Flames exploded like flares, and people grabbed hold of tables, the railing, chairs, each other, and Sarid moved her hand. The wind changed direction, plunging into the water. A great wave crashed over the barge.

  The water fled over the sides, around Sarid’s feet, and she let go of the railing and looked about her. The fire was gone. Everyone was dripping, wrapped around table legs and mashed against the railings. Selya was gone. Leva was taking deep, exhausted breaths, hair still tied fast. Gryka was in the lake, paddling toward the boat. Rischa was gone.

  Sarid ran over to where she had last seen him and gaped into the water. The sun penetrated only a little way. Beyond this was an opaque, unyielding dark blue.

  “Stupendously done.” Yelse stood beside her. “Your first murders?”

  Sarid shook her head, as if clearing a mist from it. Then she vaulted over the railing.

  There was a cold, shocking silence. She pulled herself lower into the lake, until the dark blue yawned all around. But a drop of sunlight must have slipped past the lowering shadows: she saw the glint of a ring. His hand was raised above him and she caught it, pulled him up, put an arm around his waist. He moved at her touch, and she swam with him toward the surface. At last the water became green. He opened his eyes, and the sun made them glow.

  When they broke the surface he took a rattling breath. Sarid pulled him by the shirt over to the barge’s side, where a hand reached down to help him up. Gryka barked hysterically from the boat’s edge. Sarid handed him off, then sucked air into her burning lungs, and dove back down.

  She searched for Selya until lights flashed behind her eyes, until her head was like to burst, until she had to reach for the surface, her heart screaming.

  She took a breath and then dove and searched again.

  Finally, her heart small and cold, she swam to the side of the barge and pulled herself over the railing. Gryka snuffled around her, but she pushed the dog away and bent over, fists on her throbbing temples, too tired to cry. Already men were punting and plying the pedals, and the big wheel churned slowly at the back, and the barge moved toward the shore.

  Someone had finally cut Leva free. She sat on the ground, fingering her frayed hair, petted by her mother and sister.

  Sarid got up to find Rischa. The tables were blackened and nothing was on them; everything had been washed overboard. Great parts of the boat were unrecognizably charred. It was a dismal thing to see, cast in perfect relief under the bright sun.

  Rischa was sitting on a bench, looking astoundingly invigorated. Yelse sat beside him, soaked through like everyone else, her cheeks flushed. Their hands were twined together, heads bent close, and Sarid, feeling a dreadful pang, stopped to listen.

  “I don’t know how you did it,” Rischa said. “Little thing like you.”

  “I don’t know, either.”

  “I think I’m done pitying you. You deserve more. I wouldn’t have believed it, but your hair––it was like sunlight.”

  Sarid caught her breath at the description of her hair. She trembled and an angry shriek rose in her throat.

  She didn’t let it out.

  Ten

  Evening fell and Sarid walked wearily to her room. She’d almost reached it when Gryka began to bark. There were two menservants in Charevost livery hanging around her fireplace.

  “You’re wanted for questioning,” one of them said awkwardly.

  The other took Sarid’s arm. “We’re to take you to the hearing room, my lady––”

  “Can’t I change?”

  “You’re to come immediately.”

  “Can’t I fetch a cloak at least?” Sarid said, and a low rumble came from Gryka. The man eyed the dog and let go of Sarid’s arm.

  “You can follow me in,” she said.

  They gaped as she went down on her hands and knees. The second man followed her through and stood by uncertainly while she wrapped a gray cloak around herself. She bade Gryka stay behind.

  After the two menservants had led her down many flights of stairs, they came to a long corridor with rows of closed doors. One of the men produced a lock. He opened one of the doors and bowed her through into what seemed a sort of antechamber.

  They locked her in. As the room had no furnishings she sat on the floor in her wet clothes and waited for half an hour.

  When the menservants came back they opened a door on the other side of the room, and ushered her into a much bigger room with a high ceiling painted with fiery Simarghs and winged hounds.

  On a dais in the front of the room were six lords and ladies, looking grim and stiff in their tall dark chairs. A group of people stood in the back of the room, murmuring. Sarid’s stomach fluttered––her clothes were the only ones still soaked and singed.

  The menservants led her before the dais. They bowed and left her there. Her skirts dripped on the flagstones and she stared at the fine purple robes in front of her.

  “Sarid Hyeda,” said Count Pash, who sat in the tallest chair, “you stand accused of bribery, endangerment, and attempted murder.”

  “She’s dealing in dangerous powers.” Vanli’s voice echoed from the back. “Mind control, maybe. Ought to be interrogated––”

  “Peace, Vanli,” said Pash. “Now, girl. How do you plead?”

  Sarid said nothing. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish’s.

  A small door opened behind the dais and Rischa came out. He had only a shirt and breeches on, and a wet cloth in his hand.

  “You’re questioning her?” he asked Pash.

  “Why not?” said Vanli.

  “You think she wanted to kill Leva?” Rischa smiled and shook his head, looking remarkably like his brother. “Who would’ve guessed her pretty head held such wicked thoughts.”

  “I thought it probable, for one,” said Vanli.

  “You didn’t let her change, either? Well, if you don’t kill her with a trial you’ll kill h
er with a cold,” said Rischa.

  “I wanted her safely in custody,” said Count Pash, and Sarid would’ve laughed if her stomach weren’t churning so. “Now wait your turn to speak––”

  “He can’t,” called Vanli. “Not allowed to interfere in provincial courts. It’s our right.”

  “Your right turned to a privilege,” said Rischa, “five years ago when a provincial court sentenced the Ravinya’s grandmother to death because she taught a serf her letters. I expect my uncle will disapprove, but I’m going to dissolve this––whatever this is.”

  “The impudence of him,” whispered Pash to the chamberlain, who sat next to him.

  “That’s right,” said Rischa. “Take it up with the Ravyir if you want. Maybe he’ll have me caned.”

  “Sarid’s said nothing yet.” Leva stood in the doorway Rischa had come out of. Her hair was wet and ragged, her gown damp as Sarid’s. “Let’s hear her.”

  “I had nothing to do with it,” said Sarid. “I didn’t even want to go to the banquet.”

  “I had to convince her,” said Rischa. “And nothing else needs doing––”

  “You had to convince her to board the boat?” said Pash.

  “As though,” murmured the chamberlain, “she knew how the thing would proceed.”

  “She didn’t seem surprised at the saebel,” said Vanli.

  “She looked terrifically angry to me,” said Leva. “Used her power to quench the fire. The wave didn’t fall from the sky.”

  “There. Why would she foil her own plan?” said Rischa.

  “Have you forgotten that your royal cousin drowned, boy?” said Pash.

  “It was an accident,” said Leva. “And she saved Rischa.”

  “That was Lady Yelse,” said Pash, waving his fat hand away. “You’ve mistaken women.”

  “I know what I saw––”

  “You were under extreme stress, Leva,” said Pash. “Your testimony in this matter is faulty. Which calls into question whether you saw her raise the wind.”

  “I can second her,” called Mari from the back. “I saw Sarid pulling at the wind. And don’t tell me I was stressed. We were all stressed.”