by Jenna Rhodes
“We’ve no reading on that yet,” Alton agreed with Farlen, “although a hale babe would be a blessing under any gender, would it not?” His mild green gaze alighted on Lariel and lingered.
“Of course it would.” Lariel lifted her chin almost imperceptibly. “Tell Tressandre that we welcome her news, and look forward to the day when we can see my brother’s child born and healthy. I can hardly wait to recognize the stamp of his features on the child.”
“And so I will.” Alton got lazily to his feet, returning to the threshold and then pausing as if he’d almost forgotten something. “Shall I tell her you are preparing a Writ of Succession?”
“There is already a Writ in place, for the issue of Jeredon Eladar and Nutmeg Farbranch.”
Alton canted an eyebrow. “My sister told me you would speak thusly, but I disagreed with her. Never, I said, would Lariel Anderieon replace a pureblood Vaelinar with a half-breed.”
“Then you are both wrong. It is not the fullness of the blood that will decide me on my heir.”
Tranta and Farlen grew very still. The look between Lara and Alton held, and strengthened.
“You doubt, then, that she carries a child?”
“Oh, I am most certain she does. I think higher of Tressandre than that. What doubting I would have, if any, would be the paternity of it. If I had such a reservation. And, if I did, I would hold onto it until after the birth when things might be . . . clearer.”
“Sometimes when we hesitate until we can see clearer, we end up blinded entirely by our delay.”
“That is possible. But hardly probable.” Lariel’s hand twitched by her side. “The ild Fallyn must have forgotten that I have Talents as well as they.”
“We would never be that hasty as to forget. Tressandre has bid me, then, to leave you with this information. In lieu of support from the family of her child’s father, she may be forced to look elsewhere. Perhaps among those who seek to return and reestablish our lost roots. She is not threatening action but only telling you that it must be among her considerations.” Alton gave a half-salute and retreated from the room, his boots telling of his movement down the hallway, quick and decisive but not quick enough to be call a full-fledged run.
Farlen let out a growl when the steps grew dim.
“She means to go to the Restorationists. How do you intend to deal with them?”
“Is that what they call themselves now? How can they hope to return to a . . . a rift which cannot be opened by their command and which holds only the unknown before them? We were exiled. Do they think to return and find welcome arms? They are idiots.”
Farlen and Tranta nodded. She considered both of them a moment before answering slowly, distinctly, spelling out her judgment. “We’ve a war to finish, first. Then we shall deal with our countrymen who wish to attempt to return. The portal which the Ferryman left in his wake is both unstable and very weak, and I doubt their gateway is usable. If it were, we would know for a certainty that is where the Ferryman will return. For all the dreams of those who’d go back, I don’t believe the way home is there. There has been no traffic through it, be it as slight as a gnat or formidable as the Ferryman and his tide of Raymy.” Not in the weeks since those in battle had seen a glimpse of their home world, lost Trevilara, through the Way the Ferryman had opened. Home. Thought lost forever, and banished from their memory, and yet seen once more in the direst of circumstances. But it had been glimpsed, undeniably, and Daravan, the Ferryman, and the army of Raymy had gone there, indisputably, before the portal all but shut. That moment, to those who had seen, stayed emblazoned in their memory. It had happened once. Surely it could happen again, and there were bound to be those who wished to try going back even though Kerith had been the world for Vaelinars for centuries.
“There are those who wish to return now.”
“Leaving our allies on their own to fight the reptiles?”
“Even so.”
“They think they can force the gate.”
Farlen shifted his weight. “Their actions tell us they do. I haven’t the reports to give us details yet, however. Other than that they will be manipulated, if not headed by, the ild Fallyn.”
Lariel sat down. “Madmen will always want more than they should expect.” She traced a design on the tabletop. “I have other, more immediate problems. It can’t be true,” she remarked quietly.
“Of course not.” Tranta moved a step closer to her. “Tressandre doesn’t know the meaning of truth. Why didn’t you reject her out of hand?” He gestured. “The sheer politics of it.”
“I can’t blatantly call her a liar to her face. There are too many who already mutter under their breath that I might favor Nutmeg and we can’t even be certain who called for her death, not yet. I can’t, without definitive proof, reject Tressandre’s claim. You must know that, both of you.” She rubbed an eyebrow thoughtfully before continuing.
“She is too late. My brother Jeredon did not marry Nutmeg Farbranch, but he knew she was with child, and he acknowledged this to me before witnesses and before we parted.” She stopped, the sound of her lies drumming in her ears. Nothing on the expressions before her denied her words. Then she plunged ahead with what she did know. “He also said he would contrive a dalliance with Tressandre to distract her and her brother from Nutmeg, to protect her from any possible ill reaction from Vaelinars, since she is a Dweller.” Farlen canted an eyebrow, but Lariel charged on. “As Lariel Anderieon, I will consider Tressandre’s claim and the child will be welcomed into our line, but it won’t displace Jeredon’s legitimately recognized heir. If it . . . if it appears to be Jeredon’s, I have to consider a joint rule. If she wishes to be so foolish as to take her child with her when they secede, then I will have no choice but to remove the child as an heir of House Anderieon. What she does beyond the Ways of Kerith, I can’t condone or support if she’s foolish enough to try to go back. As a Restorationist, she must make that judgment on her own whether ’tis better to take her baby into an unknown or remain here and raise it within our House, braiding an alliance between our two lines. I pray that she will see fit to conduct herself as benefits all Vaelinars.” She paused, out of breath.
“Will you acknowledge it as Jeredon’s?”
“How can I? We know it can’t possibly be, but I will not start another war by openly denying it. By putting the child into our line, I can possibly keep Tressandre from both corrupting and manipulating yet another innocent life. Yet I can, and will, secretly make a determination that will hold all the proof we need of the paternity. The Anderieons mark their own, have no doubt of it, gentlemen.”
Her last words fell into their silence. Finally, Tranta stirred. “Sometimes I forget you were tutored occasionally by Gilgarran as well as your grandfather.”
“Let me bring Sevryn back to the fold and we can discuss it,” Lariel answered wryly. “If we can find him first. I am told he has escaped the quarantine at Calcort, which means he is likely on his way here.”
Both men smiled at that. Born on the streets, Sevryn could disappear into the villages or cities at will, and not be seen or heard of for seasons at a time. His elusiveness had always been on the queen’s behalf and often her behest as well, but now he was much more accountable. His lady Rivergrace had tamed him. He never went far or long now, without her knowing of it. All Lariel had to do was reach out and tap into that source, and she would find her retainer. But the loyalties of Rivergrace still bothered Lariel. Not raised Vaelinar or perhaps not even full-blooded Vaelinar, her abilities and her mindset remained paradoxical, and in these times, when Lara had to be dead certain of those she depended upon, she could not. Where did her passions lie, where did she intend to journey, and how did the touch of the Gods affect her, if at all? No, she could not use Grace to keep her pledged man in hand, and Sevryn had made it clear that he would honor until death his pledge to Lariel. She had no evidence to make herself wary
of him. Still, he had a mind and means of his own. He was up to something, of that Lariel could be certain.
She had to know what it was.
THERE WAS NOT A DAY when Sevryn did not think of revenge. He did not seek the thought out, not anymore, but it invariably found him. When it did, he would weave a web in his mind of the how and the way and the when, although never the why because the why of it had sunk into his very bones and never allowed him to forget. The threads of his thoughts trapped him as much as it caught his prey. Sevryn could say, now, that Rivergrace had freed him from most of those thoughts. She gave him the freedom to breathe, as it were, as long as she was close and safe, and when they reached Larandaril, a great stone left his chest and he breathed more easily.
He had a duty to report to his queen, as Queen’s Hand, but he wanted to settle Rivergrace in first . . .
He lifted her down from her mount and whirled her, until her breathless laughter filled his ears and soul, and then he set her down on her feet, and backed away just enough to give her room to fill her lungs. She reached up and tweaked his ear as she tucked his hair behind it. He fixed his gaze upon her face as if he could drink her in. He touched her nose. “You’ve gained a freckle or two.”
“Trips on the road will do that.”
“You could take a covered carriage.”
“Me? In a carriage? Never.” She smiled wider. “How could I feel the rain in the air or trail my fingers across the river waters?”
He did not add that their travels had given him thought, the barest of hints, the thinnest of threads, of another plot beginning to be spun, but it didn’t involve Nutmeg or Jeredon’s unborn child. What, exactly, Sevryn could not yet be certain, only that as Gilgarran’s apprentice, he’d been taught that any conspiracy should be at least threefold to be successful. The attack at Calcort had only been the first layer. He knew he would have to discuss matters with Lariel and leave yet again. That knowledge made him hold Rivergrace even tighter.
She had caught her breath, and the humor danced still in her eyes until he said, “She’ll send me out again.”
“Now?”
“She has to. I can hear things no one else can.”
“I know.” She touched his chin. “Would you tell me if you had?”
“I keep my queen’s secrets,” he said, a slight warning in his voice.
“I’ve always wondered if there’d been any sighting of my father.”
“He fell. We both know that.”
“And we both know he carried Cerat within him.”
Souldrinker. He cupped her face. “Grace, if we were going to talk about this, it was best done under open skies coming here, where other ears couldn’t hear.”
“I know, I know.” She turned her face away from him. Her auburn hair caught the muzzled sunlight in the manor stairwell and burned gold among the strands. Subdued, she said, “I think Narskap would have crawled away, if he could have.”
“There are more important questions to be asked first. But I will always try to find you an answer.”
She reached back then, to take his hand and squeeze it. “Thank you.” She hesitated. “There’s a gathering here.”
“Ah. We’ll take the back stairs up, then.” He turned out the horses, then came back and laced his fingers through hers. “Quiet as mice, all right?”
Grace blushed faintly. He knew her abhorrence of politics and arguments, not that the down-to-earth Dwellers she sprang from didn’t appreciate a good talk, but they were a frank people and the machinations of the Vaelinar drew their scorn. “You should join them.”
“I should, but I won’t.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs to her rooms.
There, laughing, she tugged off his riding leathers and he freed her from her clothes, and she welcomed him home as passionately and tenderly as he had dreamed she would. After, she pillowed her head on his chest, listening, he knew, to the beat of his heart.
“She’ll be calling for you.”
“If she can find me.”
Rivergrace let out a snort, then covered her face in chagrin, and laughed harder. She managed, “How could she not?”
Sevryn raised an eyebrow. “She might not look here.”
“Never here.”
“She might not know I’m back yet.”
“The stable boys don’t know?”
“Of course they do, but they don’t always tell everything they know.” He flicked his hand toward his nearby pile of clothing, and a silver coin flashed between his fingers. “The lads have always appreciated me.” He tucked the coin behind her ear.
She smothered another laugh on his chest, her breath warm and moist and fresh. He buried his other hand in her hair. “Stay, then.”
“As long as I can.”
She slid her arms about him and burrowed even closer.
The thunder of steps down the hallway from the floor above caught them standing at the doors to Rivergrace’s small flat of rooms, his hands holding hers, readying to sneak down the back stairs for breakfast in the morning.
Lariel leaned over the railing, her hair tumbling unbrushed down about her shoulders, and faint bruises of unrest and unhappiness staining her eyes. “Sevryn! Tree’s blood, no one told me you were back! I saw Aymaran grazing in the pastures.”
He smiled wryly at the presence of his beloved stallion betraying them. He bowed slightly. He was her man, and this was her war, and she did not waste time.
“Forgive me. I have need of you, Sevryn.”
Sevryn, his hand dropping away from its caress, met the gaze of his Warrior Queen and friend as she looked down from the railing above.
“It’s always nice to be wanted.”
“I don’t doubt that. Have you been here long?”
“Not long enough.” He let his gaze slide over Rivergrace’s face. “We got in last night.”
Lariel paused. “Have the replacement guards arrived at Calcort?”
“Not when we’d left.”
“And the Raymy?”
“They dropped like bloated frogs, here and there, from the sky according to reports, and nothing like the army we expect. At this rate, and from the size of the force that disappeared, I’d say the sky could rain the enemy for a century or two before they’re all accounted for.” He frowned. “It’s the disease that threatens us.”
“One or two at a time, we can easily handle that but why do I doubt we’d be that lucky?” She tilted her head. “War is nothing I’d leave to chance. Nor plague. What other news?”
“Abayan Diort returns from his lands in the east to Ashenbrook, purportedly to lend assistance on the field.”
Lara bared her teeth and absently tapped a fingernail on them. It was a gesture that, he realized in a moment of shock, Jeredon used to do, which was why it was utterly foreign and startling to see her do it. She dropped her hand. “The Galdarkan leader presumes too much. He hasn’t been invited this time.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t think he needs an invitation?”
“We’ll see about that. In the meantime, there’s this need I have of you.” She turned on heel on the landing above, ready to walk away.
“I presume now?” Sevryn remarked.
Lara smiled wryly over her shoulder. “As always.”
“My time is yours.” He touched a kiss to his fingertips, let them graze Rivergrace’s forehead before turning away and following Lara up the stairwell. The upper floors of the manor were, as always these days, quiet. Many of those who had been housed in this home of the Anderieon family were now off encamped at the Ashenbrook.
Lara took a deep breath on the steps ahead of him and rolled one shoulder slightly, as if shrugging off tension. “My apologies.”
Sevryn kept his tone as light and formal as hers. “None needed.”
Lara shook her head, her own sil
very and blonde hair cascading about her. The light chain mail, her leisure wear for days now, caught at the metallic glints of her hair, hardening it. Her soft leather boots made little noise now climbing the stairs while his hard riding boots made considerably more. Despite her lead, he’d caught up with her by the next flight and they climbed to the final floor in silence.
She seemed still in a mood to apologize, pausing at the door to her official apartment. “Usually I would ask this of Jeredon—” A sadness passed through her eyes.
“I understand. How can I help you?”
She stood in the doorway, weight balanced at a slight tilt, her hesitance evident in every fiber of her posture, expression, and speech. After a long pause, she said, “You are my Hand.”
“And have served you well, I hope.” They both knew he served more in his capacity as her Voice because his most major Talent lay in his own voice, in his ability to persuade, cajole, and command through his words. He seldom had to raise a weapon in her service although he was more than capable of doing so, and had. Publicly as well as privately.
“You have. What I ask now is your silence and trust.”
His eyebrow ticked slightly as if it wished to rise on its own and he fought it. “Lara?”
“I have, for most of my life, kept my Talents quiet and undefined. I was taught to do so by my grandfather.”
“Doubtless old Anderieon had a good reason.”
“There is no doubt of it. Jeredon, as close to me as any could get, was really the only one who had any idea of what I can do.” She added softly, in an under voice, not to him but to herself, “I miss my brother.”
Sevryn made the slightest movement forward. “I’ll do what I can to replace him.”
She nodded and threw the door open wide to allow him in. He followed her to the far end of her apartment where a windowed turret held a spectacular view of the valley of Larandaril, across its pastures to its forests and hills, with the River Andredia ribboning through it. He saw a great carved chair sitting, turned to the window. Its arms were scarred where nails . . . or perhaps knives . . . had scored it over the years.