King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three

by Jenna Rhodes

  “And what was your first warning? The dairyman who had two dozen Raymy drop into his pastures from out of the sky? Or mayhap it was the lace makers’ guild up the coast that suddenly found a handful of odd lace makers armed to the teeth within their circles? Indeed, I am told their guests were all teeth. Or did you not pay attention until they attacked at Calcort?” Tranta bit his caustic words off crisply. Only two of station occupied the vast room, the other two, scribes, sat with their pens busily scratching. Tranta ran fingers through his sea-blue hair. “I daresay it’s not the Ferryman we need to fear but Daravan.”

  They spoke bitterly of the savior who had stepped into a war, a war they had been losing, and swept up their enemy in a tidal wave of river water, and carried them into a breach of time and place which only he and his brother, the Ferryman who tamed the most untamable rivers, could make. Daravan had warned them that he would lose his hold and they had better be prepared for the return. That had been two seasons ago, and the Vaelinars and their allies had no idea when the portal would shatter, when the Ferryman and his Way would collapse, the enemy spilling once more onto the lands they hoped to desecrate and conquer.

  “We are like an archer with his bow long raised and string pulled tautly back, and praying only to be able to finally loose the arrow. We need an end to this.”

  Lariel ran her fingertips across the mail she wore still, as she had been doing every day since deciding a war was coming which must be fought, frowned, and said, “Do either of you know if it will rain the week after next?”

  Farlen knotted his lips and then his brow, pondering, before giving up and saying, “Highness, it is spring, and the rainy season, but I can’t foretell the patterns of the clouds more than common sense and a day or two will give you. I could send out and see if we can find a Kernan witch who reads the weather, but there’s no answer I could give you.”

  Lariel looked to Tranta who shrugged, saying, “You ask if either of us is a diviner, and the answer is: no. Not with regard to the weather or to the collapse of the Ferryman. Such power in a Way has never been heard of or seen before, and none of us can duplicate a magic like that. Kerith seems to be shrugging off our weavings on this world. When will Daravan’s hold shatter?” Tranta shrugged. “We only know that it will.”

  Farlen, looking every bit as forbidding as his uncle had looked in his heyday, merely growled a retort back in his teeth and slumped down in his immense chair. He flexed a large hand. “Has it occurred to you that these Raymy are hardly our concern? They were savaging these lands long before we arrived, and will likely do so after we return to our lawful home.”

  Something flashed across Lara’s face so quickly that it was scarcely traceable, but Tranta saw it. His eyebrow rose ever so slightly at her as she put one hand, knuckled, onto the table. Underneath her chain mail, her dress of a soft but luxuriant green rustled, a sound faintly reminiscent of a rising storm wind through forest treetops. “No. What occurred to me,” she answered slowly, “is that it took the race of the Mageborn to subdue them before, and there are no Mageborn who exist now. What powers they might have held and used were not recorded precisely enough for us to know what they were. The peoples who depended on them have no one now. No one except us, the invaders of Kerith, the intruders, the exiled. Should we care? Did we take their lands from them? Enslave some of them for decades? Yes, we taught them more than they might have known through the normal course of learning, but we took more than we gave. And, Farlen, it is our lands and our people who are threatened.”

  Tranta decided to wave a hand in conciliation. “I was fond of that dairyman,” Tranta added. “Estate money is barely enough to replenish the herd and keep the farm going. If the son is able to step into his father’s boots.”

  “They will manage,” Lariel told him firmly. “As we all will. I know the camps in the valley of the Ashenbrook are logistically difficult to keep, but we must. The valley is where the Ferryman made his stand and the Nylara is the river to which he was anchored for centuries. I have to maintain a lookout there as well. Common sense—and hope—tell us this is likely where the Raymy will flood our land when his hold is relinquished. The Ashenbrook first, but possibly the Nylara. When he can no longer hold the thousands he swept up, when the dam breaks, it should be here or here.” She tapped her hand on the table. “We have to hope it is, because we cannot protect every small farm, village, and holding if it is not. The East remains in Galdarkan hands, and Gods know that Diort has his own burdens there to carry. We might call on him again or we might not.” Her words faltered as her own indecision in that matter echoed.

  “It may predict where the Ferryman feels he can make his last stand when his strength to hold the army of Raymy fails . . . but it tells us nothing of what Daravan will make of the situation. The brothers may have disappeared as one, but it is Daravan who manipulated us for centuries, to keep us from learning of our true origins and our path home. His strategy nearly divided us even as we moved against the Raymy. And that, my queen,” Tranta Istlanthir said as he turned to face her squarely, “that was what nearly lost us the first battle and may well undo us for the final.”

  Scribes wrote furiously.

  “I can’t wage a strike against an enemy which hasn’t yet appeared. And I think all of you forget that Quendius had no small hand in this.” Lariel raised a hand, rubbed her eyes, remembering the tiny fret lines she saw every day now in the mirror. Her blonde hair had always been shot with platinum, as light and gold and silvery as early morning light, so if the platinum strands had become more abundant, it was plain only to her. She fought to keep the strain of her emotions showing through her face and hands. “The weaponmaster gathered those troops and brought them down on us.”

  “He killed my brother and destroyed the Shield of Tomarq. That, we also know.”

  Lariel read the expression on his face.

  Tranta lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “I am close to admitting defeat in restoring the Shield of Tomarq.”

  Lariel gave a slight tilt of her head. The fiery Jewel which rode the cliffs above the only natural harbor on the coast, and a considerable harbor it was, had been destroyed by Quendius and although she knew that the Istlanthir felt its loss deeply as part of their foundation, she had never held much hope for its restoration. It was a Way, the making of which gave the Istlanthir the foundation for their House, but those who had made it had passed, the secrets of their great working dying with them. That the Jewel had stood at all, taking the fire of the sun into its heart, and burning to cinders whoever trespassed on the waters below, had been nothing less than miraculous. Should one expect miracles to last forever? She said gently, “The Jewel was shattered. How could you hope to fuse it back together?”

  “Because it always was, and is, more than a gemstone. I had hoped that the Way which ran through it might be instrumental . . .” His words trailed off, unwilling to surrender to a certain truth that he could not remake the shield. Yet Tranta had taken it upon himself to do just that, knowing that the great red stone, which moved in its cliff top cradle to eye the sea, had been one of the most significant and conspicuous of the elven Ways upon the lands. It knew those who trespassed against its watch over the shores and bays. It called down the fire of the sun and moon and stars to burn away those who did so, and it had been unfailing in its trust in the centuries it had stood. Tranta had spent a lifetime climbing the sheer stone peaks above the harbor to reach it and make what minor repairs of the cradle were required from time to time. The stone itself had been immutable. He had first seen the spidery flaw in it to his great dismay, and it had been his brother who had died defending it when Quendius fired a Demon arrow into its depths, shattering gem and flesh.

  Farlen cleared his throat. “Even if Drebukar could find another such gem in our mines, the size of a horse that one was, we could not say if it would replace the old one. And it was your parents who worked the magic within it. You know that
, Tranta.”

  Tranta inclined his head for a moment, his throat pulsing as he swallowed. Then he looked up. “We have many fronts to protect and sitting on our asses in one place, the Ashenbrook, does not address our problems.”

  Farlen turned his big broad face toward Lariel. “On part of that, Istlanthir is correct,” he said grudgingly. “But we dare not strike camps. We need to be in place, for when that wave breaks upon our shores, it will be nothing less than a tsunami. We know this. We’ve talked of little else for weeks.”

  “If it comes as a wave. What if it comes as fitful rains instead, drops here and drops there, until we’re flooded? What if we are faced with hundreds of simple farmers who open their barns, walk to their pastures, visit their wells, only to find a company of the enemy ready to spring upon their throats? Pockets of them holed up in our countryside? A battalion ranging the streets of any of our cities?”

  “What if, what if,” Lariel answered bitterly. “What would you have me do?”

  “Be flexible,” both men answered in unison and then stared at each other a moment before looking back to her.

  “I have Bistane traversing the northern portions. He guides his father’s—” she paused to correct herself tersely, “his cavalries at will. That’s all the flexibility we can afford and Bistane is only one warlord.”

  “The ild Fallyn have cavalries, too.”

  She raised her eyebrow at Farlen.

  He muttered sulkily, “Well, they do.”

  “I’ll never give an ild Fallyn command. They will go to war and ride at my request, and only then. That’s the only way they can be contained because they only act when it suits them.”

  “You can’t let old grudges keep you from a victory.”

  Lariel leaned over her forearm, staring down Farlen. “The old grudge you speak of freshened less than a breath before the Raymy attack, and if she had had her way, Tressandre ild Fallyn would be sitting here today in my place. I blame her or Alton for Jeredon’s death, though I can’t prove it. Yet I would trust Tressandre before Quendius and it seems she’s already tried to kill my heir.”

  “Harsh.”

  “But necessary.”

  Tranta pushed himself from the window and came to the table next to Lariel, sharing her space without touching her, his lamp-thrown shadow falling across her momentarily before he leaned over the map. “You have another choice.”

  “What?”

  “Let Abayan Diort in, and give him territory to protect.”

  She gave a dry laugh. “And he is the reason I gathered my armies in the first place. Without an inkling that the Raymy were returning, I set myself against a dictator forcing clans of his people to unite under his banner, wanted or not. The only good he’s done was to mobilize us, in defense against him.”

  “He is one of those wheels Daravan set to spinning, and he showed other colors when he found out the truth and honor that were needed. He has proven himself.”

  “Not to me,” Farlen grumbled. His voice, not nearly as deep and basso profundo as his predecessor, still rattled comfortingly about the war room. The corner of Lariel’s mouth twitched in fond remembrance. “I will, however, grudgingly admit to Tranta’s point.”

  “He has to me.” Tranta reached inside the cuff of his sleeve, withdrawing a small scroll of paper tied with a cord. “And Bistane agrees with me.”

  “I am ambushed.”

  He smiled softly at Lariel. “No, my lady Warrior Queen. You are merely being persuaded.” He reached out, took her hand and turned it over, dropping the scroll into her open palm. If his touch upon her lingered more than necessary, both she and Farlen seemed to ignore it.

  Tranta moved away then and tapped his chest. “Would I blame a companion who was not here to defend himself? Never.”

  Lariel opened the scroll and read it, a faint furrow between her eyes remaining as she did so. She let the paper snap back into place as she released it. “I’ll think on this, gentlemen. Perhaps you forget that these lands are not mine to give away, none of them but Larandaril. At least you aren’t pushing to have him court me.” Both murmured, and she shushed them, slicing a finger through the air. “But before I do, I will ask my Hand what he thinks of this proposal.” She stood. “When he returns. Any other news we should stew over?”

  “Perhaps,” he offered tentatively, “the Jewel can yet be of service. It still has certain protective qualities.”

  “I’ll leave that to you. Then we are adjourned here for the moment. We speak of little new, but we all knew that. I . . .” her voice caught slightly. “I am not one to plot a war without the help of good friends and good advice. Stay the night and get a fresh start in the morning. Bistane has been delayed, but he should be here then, and I’ll let him know what we’ve discussed. Sevryn carries more details that we should know.” Her words sounded more hopeful than the tone of her voice.

  Footfalls sounded in the hallway. Boots with studded heels, from the noise of them, resounding upon wooden planks where carpet had once lain and had been pulled up ever since an attack on this room had come with little warning and Osten Drebukar had been assassinated, his great bulk thrown across the doorway to protect the queen and others within. The scribes stopped scratching ink over paper and looked to the doorway in consternation.

  Tranta raised an eyebrow. Lariel’s chin went up in answer as she shrugged. She was not surprised at the late guest, for the border of Larandaril, though now open, still had wards that identified who passed it. She knew who crossed her boundaries, although she also knew the act might have been transitory and purposeless. She braced herself as talk stilled and the interloper paused in the doorway to lean upon the threshold.

  Alton ild Fallyn, faint amusement in his smoky green eyes and the lamplight giving his hair more gold than it normally held, he being a subdued shadow of his brilliantly green-eyed and wild-honey-haired sister, looked disinclined to enter without suitable recognition. If he resented being an echo of Tressandre, he had never shown it, wrapping himself in his own brand of arrogance. Indeed, his devotion to his sister often made others uncomfortable. He traced a slight bow to Lariel from the doorway. Trail dust lay upon his black-and-silver clothes and field mail, giving them a sooty and indistinctive look. “A council of war and I or my sister not invited?”

  “A briefing is hardly a council, and for that I would not have wished to pull you from the lines. We are only dogs worrying at an old bone without meat. Though here you are, and it’s fortunate. I will have fewer notes to send out. And yet, because you are here and not at your post, I have cause to worry. You have news? Shall I ring for supper?”

  “Supper, I have eaten, but I do carry news. May I sit and share?”

  “Always, my lord Alton, are you welcome at Larandaril.”

  A glint flashed in his eyes as he entered the room fully. “And so much more pleasant it is to visit Larandaril these days, with its borders open.”

  “As they should be during times of war to our friends and allies. Luckily, I can always close them if necessary.”

  “Still, it is nice not to have the threat of imminent death lingering against the back of one’s neck like a sharp, cold chill.”

  “Oh, the threat is still there, Alton ild Fallyn. Just not as swift and without explanation as it might have once been. The borders of Larandaril have been lowered but not eliminated.” And Lariel smiled slowly as she spoke. “Our enemies are still recognized. Your business must be important, to have brought you from the lines without my knowledge or leave.”

  Tranta muttered something no one else in the room caught although Lara leveled her sharp gaze on him for a moment, and he fell silent. The lines of his body, however, took on a defensive stance, for there was no love between the House of Istlanthir and the Hold of ild Fallyn. The corner of Alton’s mouth quirked as he strode to a place at the far end of the table and sprawled into a chair, a
crust of dirt falling off the toe of his boot as he ignored the import of Lariel’s statement. “News, then, as the hour grows late, and I presume we’re all wearied. M’lady Lariel, Warrior Queen of the Vaelinar and princess of Larandaril, greetings from my sister Tressandre ild Fallyn, heir of the Fortress of ild Fallyn.”

  “And greetings returned,” replied Lara, her tone deliberate and heavy as if the formal words offended her somewhat. Farlen twitched as if thinking to move himself between them, yet failing to do so.

  Alton’s teeth showed faintly through his smile. “I bring you news of joy. Tressandre ild Fallyn is with child, carrying your brother Jeredon’s progeny.”

  A long silence fell upon his words, broken finally by Lariel taking a slow, deep breath.

  Farlen did move then, saying, “It is probable she is pregnant. How is it possible it is Jeredon’s? The man is dead.”

  Both of the other men stared at him, and Drebukar’s ears reddened a touch. “Don’t,” Tranta told him, “make me explain sex to you.”

  Lariel’s fingers sliced through the air. “My brother has been dead these many months, and it hurts me to think Tressandre withheld this from us.”

  “She delayed to make certain that she would be able to carry it, not wishing to raise anyone’s hopes for a pureblooded heir. The rigors of the battlefield and training for further warfare do mark a woman’s body more than a man’s, though I own she has, and always will, hold her own among any. She does, however, now celebrate the pregnancy and offers the realization that a pure Vaelinar would be a far better heir than the Dweller crossbred Nutmeg Farbranch is carrying.”

  “How noble of her. Has anyone confirmed it yet?”

  “Two healers and a priest who swears he can read the soul blossoming within.”

  “I seldom believe a Kernan priest,” Farlen muttered. “If a priest was to be of any use, he would tell us what sex the child is, boy or girl.”