by Jenna Rhodes
“You’re not a coward!”
“Oh, I am. Just never in the ways I thought I would be.” Someone high up on deck yelled something incomprehensible down at them, but Roanne knew it must be an exhortation to hurry. Her father beckoned to the driver who set the handbrake and climbed down, pulling a shroud-covered chest from under the seat. The driver carried it to the plague bonfire, showed it to the priestess standing there who inspected it, ordered the shroud off and burned, and gave permission for a loader to take it aboard. Roanne watched her even as her voice threatened to freeze in her throat.
“Father, please . . .”
He looked into her eyes, the only way he would come close to her. “Our heritage and history rests in there. It’s the best we can give you, Roanne. Daughter. The chest is air- and watertight, within another chest that is also airtight and watertight. The handles on either end are sturdy. It will act as a float, and can hold you up, if need be.”
If the ship came to grief. But she was already held fast in grief’s grip, her eyes tight upon her father’s face. The House Marant, one of the queen’s oldest and most loyal families, had fallen to this, their death and despair as the queen became inexorably a thing too awful to bear. If her mother did not have the plague, if her father did not sicken as well, could they withstand much longer that thing of darkness that ruled their country? They faced death, and worse, by staying. Her fleeing would endanger them, and she’d no doubt her father knew that well.
“Have you . . . other plans?”
“We do, but I won’t speak of them here.” His steady gaze flinched. He touched a gloved finger to her cheek. “Gods willing, there will come a day when we . . . when we meet again.”
“Lady Marant!” First Mate Nethan called hoarsely. “We are weighing anchor! We cannot wait longer.”
Her eyes brimmed. She knew she couldn’t dissuade him, and she didn’t have the courage inside her to stay and face with him what she knew they would face. “Please. Don’t hate me for leaving, Father.”
“Never. And you must not pity us for staying. You go for all of us. Carry our love and pride, always!” He choked. “Now . . . go,” he said, his voice coarsening, and she heard the tears checked within it.
Roanne leaned to kiss him, and he flinched backward, fastening a scarf over his face quickly. He grabbed her hand and put it to his chest in the only salute of farewell he dared allow. “Live well and long and in love and honor,” he told her. Then he took her hand, steering her to the bonfire where the cleansing priestess awaited.
Smoke and cinders puffed in her face, stinging her eyes, and when she had blinked them away, her father’s hand had left hers, and the carriage itself was pulling away in haste, before either of them could change their minds.
The priestess looked her over. She could feel the woman peeling away the layers of her skin, searching, digging, for signs of plague. The dowager had never liked her and had scorned all her clumsy attempts at learning in her apprenticeship, but they knew each other well. She had other teachers she valued and revered, but fate had made it this one who would see her take her good-byes. The woman’s thin lips peeled back from her teeth in distaste as she bit off her words. “Burn the cloak,” the woman said. “Then board.”
As reviled as her former teacher was, Roanne knew that the priestess had been born to be a healer and now all that was left to her was the scourging, the purging against the plague that ravaged all of their people. Her natural Talents had been honed, sharpened, to do one thing: identify and then burn away the disease. She could not heal. She could only destroy the source, help stand against the contagion. And when this ship pulled away from the dock, the priestess would be the one woman left in the small village who knew exactly who had boarded and what their intent had been. They would not let her live with that knowledge. She felt an unbidden surge of sympathy for the woman. They had knocked heads because Roanne had refused to sharpen her skills for cleansing only—repudiating the course the priestess had been forced to take. Yes, the scourging might prevent the plague but to relinquish the hope of healing it . . . that had been a possibility Roanne could not sacrifice. Did the two women hate each other because of their choices? Once. But not today. She saw an expression pass over the dowager’s face and knew that she would not be betrayed even as the consequences frightened the priestess.
Roanne began to shrug out of her cloak, her sleeve covering her face and said quietly, “Leave. Cut your tongue out and run as fast as you can. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.” She dropped a handful of coins into the hand held out for the offending garment before draping the cloak in place.
The priestess’ eyes widened as the color drained from her face. She answered with the barest nod of her head.
The tongue would grow back, in time, for she was a healer yet, of sorts. But it was the only way those who would kill her would tire of trailing her and let her slip away, thinking their job was done anyway. Tongue gone and fled, she would not, could not, betray them.
Roanne kicked off her outer gown for good measure, dropping it as well onto the bonfire. She had dressed in layers, new clothes, untouched, under the old, for just such a measure. Smoke puffed up, rank and thick, obscuring the priestess from her view and trailing upward to a canopy strung over it, protection from the dreary skies. What must burn would burn. As she ran for the boardwalk, it began to rain in earnest, hard, sleeting drops that stung her skin like fiery ice. It did not taste at all like the salty tears already wetting her face. Two sailors handed her on board, helping her up the last few steps, throwing the ramp off behind her, the ship groaning as it prepared to shove off. She shook them off and clambered her way to the upper deck. The coldness stiffening her began to thaw a little. First Mate Nethen held her elbow to steady her as she stood at the railing and watched the ship being towed out upon the tide. All ties loosed. All ropes cut or thrown aside. All hatches for boarding and loading battened shut. All land and family and kingdom and alliance abandoned.
Roanne knotted her hands upon the railing. She tried to find a word or two of hope to throw into the wind and rain and felt them leave her throat but could not hear them over the creak of wood and rope and the cries of the sailors.
Through a thin veil of smoke, she saw the priestess move away from the fire and lift one hand in a sign of benediction.
So be it.
Rivergrace sat with her hand to her mouth, jolted back to the reality of cold stone and broken sunlight filtering through the escarpment. Tears dried on her cheek. She blinked upward, even as a small rivulet of sand and grit began to trickle down from above. She swallowed, feeling the movement of her tongue between her teeth. Had this other girl truly suggested that it would be better to have a tongue cut out than be forced to speak?
She dropped her hand and touched the lip of the pool. Dark water licked at her fingers like a hungry pup and she drew her hand back hastily. No water for thirst here. It would consume her long before she could take a drink. The feeling of it, almost like slime, dripped off her hand in thick plops. She wanted to wipe it off on her clothes but feared spreading the contamination. Thoughts tumbled through her head. The plague had come from Trevilara with the Raymy, a weapon of war. The Tide Caller could be none other than Daravan or his phantom brother Ferryman. The rift, on one side at least, was opening wide enough and often enough that people sailed to it, hoping for escape. She closed her eyes tightly. She knew of no refugees being taken in, but the First Home had a vast coastline. She had much to think about, and pushed back on her heels to stand.
“I am done here.”
“Ahhhh.” The water sighed against her thoughts. “But I am not.”
She stood, an agonizing effort against a gravity that would flatten her to the ground that would keep her fixed in place against her will. Bones trembled, sinews tightened and then crackled with the effort, but stand she did, drops of sweat running over her face like raindrops or tea
rs, and her mouth went even drier. She placed the palms of her hands carefully against the rock wall, feeling its texture cut into her skin: rough, gritty, solid, unthinking. She turned her face away from the pool even as it cajoled her.
“I am water, but I bridge. I know what I am from what has touched me, from what will touch me, what will cross me. But because I am water, I can be shaped by a vessel. You are such a vessel.”
“Anyone who tries the shaping of such as you are plays with darkness. You infiltrate.”
“A vessel cannot hold water without becoming damp, that is true. Still. Listen. I have more to show you.”
“No.” Grace pressed herself tighter against the wall, grounding herself in the solid feel of the stone, the minerals trapped inside it, the quiet depths of its existence. With a clarity she wished she didn’t have, she knew she had begun to understand most of what the pool had shown her, the blurred images, the shadowy specters, the barest silhouettes of truth cast across the waters. Her knowledge would lead her to a course that would change her forever. She longed for Sevryn. But this course would make that impossible. She’d put a gap between them. Pain pierced her. He was already angry with her for making a decision to protect him; she’d heard the outrage in his voice. But this was different, far different, and there would be no going back from the path she intended to take, a Way of sorts, as another Vaelinar might view it, into a future she could only hope she could manipulate.
She had choices. A myriad of them. But, as it often was with choices, she had no method of telling which would be the best, in the end. All she could do was weigh them now and make the best judgment she could, and she had done that.
Rivergrace pushed herself away from the tunnel wall, headed back the way she had come in, knowing it now whether in thready light or pitch-black darkness.
“AN OPEN ACT OF TREASON,” Lara said stubbornly, her jaw set as the words left her mouth.
“You can’t treat it as such.”
“And why not?” She swung on Bistane.
“Because we are at war and because, within our own ranks, we have enemies.”
“I count him as one of them.”
With a faint sigh, Bistane sat on the corner of her desk. “You don’t know that. Despite your anger, despite what you think he might have done, I see no evidence of any wrongdoing, Lara, and if you have secrets you fear his revealing, there’s no word on the wind of any such betrayal.” The other two men in the office kept their silence.
Her mouth twisted bitterly. “You doubt me? Who do you think tied me to my chair?”
He considered her face. “Under the right circumstances, almost any lover might have,” he answered lightly.
“He’s not my lover!” Her blue eyes reflected icily at him.
“I found you in no harm except for nightmares.”
Lara looked away from him, but not before giving him an expression of contempt.
“He is your Hand, Lara. He’s done more for you than perhaps anyone save Jeredon, and your brother is gone. You’ve kept him close and he’s kept your commands, odious as they have been from time to time. You’ve asked much from him and, as far as I know, he’s delivered it.”
“He fled.”
“It would appear from your actions now that he had reason to.”
“Don’t try to lecture me further, Bistane. You’ve haven’t your father’s experience or authority to do so.” She looked back to him, her brows drawn tightly in disdain.
It hurt him to meet her expression, but he did, saying quietly, “I have the experience even if you won’t credit me for it. But you misunderstand me. This is not a lecture, this is a discussion, and I won’t be left out of your council. I deserve it; I have earned it.” His voice tightened. “Since you dismiss me, I’ll leave you with the information I came to tell you, and it’s not good news.”
Lara put her hand up, taking in a breath with a sound as if it must have cut like a knife into her lungs. “Forgive me, Bis. It’s not just Sevryn. I would hold Rivergrace as a surety against his actions, but I don’t know if I can trust her as I want to. She has abilities; you saw them at the Andredia. My river, but she commanded it. What else could she wrest away from me?”
The other two men in the room, had remained quiet, but Tranta stirred now. “M’lady, Rivergrace has never done you malicious harm.”
“No. No, but she hasn’t been raised as we were, trained as we were, and she has ties to this world that none of us has, ties to Kerith Gods which seemed to both aid and war with her Vaelinar Talents. I don’t fear her, but I do hold her with great . . .” Lara paused, as if picking out a word after deliberation, “concern.”
“She’s aided you with those same abilities.”
After another long moment, she continued, “At Ashenbrook, true, but upon that battlefield, with others in hand—Daravan and the Ferryman—I can’t swear as to whose power it might have been or who initiated it, and what we saw then we are unlikely to ever see again, a braiding of Talents. She might be able, but does she have the heart to do it?”
“We all fear the unknown, Lara.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’ve seen her turn a river into fire, Bistane, and if she did not use that power tonight, but held it in reserve in case she needed to, then she is even more dangerous. To all of us and to herself. I love her, but I can’t trust her.”
“You don’t trust because you have doubt. You haven’t condemned her because of that same doubt. We all know her. She’s good and loving, but with a core of stone, like that which lies in the riverbeds, solid and polished and all the more beautiful for the wear of the water. Dweller-raised, she has her . . . eccentricities, but I wouldn’t even fault those.”
“But is she one of us? Truly?”
“If you count on blood alone to be one of us, what have you to say for the likes of Quendius?”
She took in a slight hiss through her teeth. “It wasn’t our blood that made him thus.”
“Perhaps. Or lack of it doesn’t make her what she is.”
“In another time, perhaps, I might be able to give her the time she needs. I haven’t got that liberty now, Bistane.”
“You would punish her for being unpolished?”
“I can’t afford to have a tool whose temper cannot be judged, whose use is unknown and uncertain and whose attraction is a distraction among those I do know well.” Lara moved back, put her hand to the nape of her neck, and rubbed gently. “Nor a prisoner.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. The only sure remedy is one I can’t face right now.”
Bistane put his hand on her shoulder. “Then don’t.”
“One life against many? You know what I have to choose.”
“What I know, Lara,” Tranta murmured, “is that Bistane is right in that we have many enemies and few enough friends. We don’t have the experience among us that we used to: Osten is gone, Bistel is gone, Gilgarran and Daravan, gone, Jeredon and my brother.”
Bistane smiled and gripped her shoulder gently, feeling the heat of her body through fabric, the smell of her subtle perfume in the strands of her hair. “If being a pawn were treasonous, there would be many of us condemned. We don’t always know who uses it.” He leaned forward and took a subtle inhalation, breathing her in. She turned slightly, so that their cheeks almost brushed.
“Which should I take comfort in? Your advice . . . or your presence?”
Clearing his throat, Bistane moved away from her. “Whichever you need most from me.” The prick of her contempt had faded away until all that he felt now was being moved by her, as he always did, his body hardening to her closeness and his own feelings for her. She knew that of him, surely, not quite but almost lovers. He ached for her to allow him to close that gap between them, but he would not let it happen because she felt weak and helpless. He would wait. As he had fo
r a long time, and could a while longer. Either of them might succumb to a momentary weakness, but neither of them would respect that, and if any relationship lay in their future, respect had to be partnered with the passion. She deserved and he demanded nothing less.
Farlen shifted his massive shoulders, an oft-seen habit of Osten Drebukar. He stated, “I have men searching downstream on the Andredia, to see if Sevryn survived the flash flood and where he might have washed ashore.”
“Oh, he’s gone. Where, I don’t know, but I’ve no doubt Grace had the river carry him free, far beyond where I could have reached out for him.” Lara made a tiny sound that might have been a sigh before turning about, twisting her fingers together. “What’s done is done. Tranta has a long way to get back to the shore, and Farlen has a day of plotting logistics ahead of him yet. You’ve ridden a long way, and in the night, to find me. Give us your news. I’ll have mulled wine brought up and the first of the breakfast bread.”
“That would be appreciated. Who stands watch on your door?”
“Tranta, if you do not mind.”
He did, slightly, and there was a small hitch in his stride as he filled the threshold and said, “Of course not.”
Laughing Tranta, lord of the sea and his only true rival, if he really had any, for Lara’s attention. But he would not gain Lariel’s regard by disliking Tranta. And who could dislike the man anyway? He couldn’t, if it were not for her.
“Nothing you could messenger?”
“Not reliably.” He slid his coat off his fighting leathers. “It is a rather long story.” He waited until Lara seated herself as a maid came in with a tray quickly brought in and left, while Tranta took up a stoic stance at the door of the apartment facing into the hall, a goblet of wine in one hand and a pull of butter-soaked bread in the other, the back of his gleaming head of sea-blue hair to them. Bistane knew he would listen, but his words were not meant for Lariel alone. He took his chair to relate his visit. He spoke as if it were only a tale to be told, much as he had shared his experience with his brother, and when he finished, the room sat in quiet for a moment until Lara took a deep breath.