King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three

by Jenna Rhodes

  She did not get a voice in return, but a feeling of great weariness swept her. Her hands began to tremble again, this time not from shock but from fatigue. She tightened her jaw. “It must go back. It must. I have no safe way to explain what happened.” She clutched Bistel’s journal in her left hand so tightly her knuckles went white.

  The wood grain under her touch began to grow chilled, so icy she snatched her hand back. She could see the surface roiling, a silvery brew that boiled within the frame, a storm of change that had none of the control from before. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, and slid down her temples, the bridge of her nose, the side of her face as though she stood in a wintery rain. The wood did not want to give way to the glass. The metamorphosis fought itself, wavering from one element to another, bubbling in and out as it warped, filling her small bedroom with the stink of molten metal and glass as well as the aroma of fresh sawed wood. The frame bowed out as though it might fly into a hundred pieces, shoving Nutmeg back a few steps in fear. Then, suddenly, it sank into itself, metal frame with glass and its silvery paint backing it, not quite the same as before but close enough, for this mirror looked fresh and new, not the fading and slightly spotted mirror that had reigned above her dresser for as long as she could remember.

  Her stomach cramped, hard, and Nutmeg let out a cry of pain. Her right leg gave out from under her as though it had suddenly gone boneless and she began to fall. Her cry rose in fear as she thought, “I’m going down.” She threw the leather journal as far under her bed as she could, as her body, traitor, gave way and another hard, long cramp ruled her, squeezing the breath from her and she thought she could feel her child’s body arch in pain and then go horribly still inside her.

  She hit the floor as the door was flung open, her vision filling with the sight of Verdayne’s tall form on the threshold. “Nutmeg!”

  “NO, YOU’RE NOT IN LABOR. For the fourth time.” Lily coaxed a white rag gently over Nutmeg’s pale face.

  “Although that day is not so far off,” the herbalist murmured, pouring clear water into her cup of mashed leaves and stirring it up to benefit her patient.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I think anyone could tell from the size of your stomach, my dear. If not soon, you’ll burst of that child.” She smiled, not ungently, sliding one hand under Nutmeg’s head and guiding the cup to her lips.

  “’S not funny,” Meg got out before the tea overwhelmed her words. She gulped down the brew, shuddering with every other swallow, finished, and gasped out, “Tree’s blood, that’s awful!”

  “It’s meant for th’ babe. It’s very weak inside of you, a shock to both of you. Whatever were you doing?”

  “Besides fainting?”

  Lily reached over and pinched her ear, hard.

  “Ow!”

  “Wretched child. I know it’s hard to get comfortable, but you need to settle now and then, for both your sakes.”

  “I’m not going to stay a-bed from now till I pop.”

  “And no one said you had to. After today.” The herbalist stood briskly, dusting her hands. “I’ve left enough leaf that she can have another cup this eve, and that should do them. If you need me for other matters”—and the two women traded a glance that Nutmeg knew they thought she wouldn’t catch but she did—“I’ll be about most of the day. I’ve some shopping to do now that the quarantine’s been lifted.”

  Lily bent to the dresser across the room and frowned a bit at the mirror, before picking up a generous fold of yard goods and passing it to the herbalist, along with a few sparkling coins. “Thank you, for everything.”

  The herbalist took both offerings, beaming. “And thank you, Mistress Farbranch! I’ll be seeing you soon, no doubt.”

  She pushed gently past Verdayne who stood in the doorway as if his feet had taken root there, neither in nor out, but steady. They exchanged a nod, but then his attention riveted back on Nutmeg. She tilted her head away so as not to look at him.

  “Nutmeg . . . has that mirror always been like that?” Lily turned back to the object, running her fingertips over the carved frame, apple wood, quite charming.

  Meg’s thoughts skittered. The plain metal frame had quite vanished. “Mother. Of course it has. Don’t you remember?”

  Lily tilted her head. “I suppose I do. This has been quite a year to fill my head, hasn’t it?” She pulled the light sheet up over Nutmeg. “Now rest. I’ll leave you to thank Verdayne for his timely rescue, and then I want you to nap. I have some matters at the shop to attend to, but I’ll be home in early afternoon to fix lunch and get supper going. Stay off your feet,” she finished firmly.

  Verdayne waited until her footsteps had quite faded and Nutmeg decided finally to look at him. “Are you better?”

  “A-course I am.”

  “You gave us a fright.”

  Her lips twitched as she nearly answered, “Not before I had a fright,” but did not. Instead, she tightened her mouth. This was not a man she wanted to be sharing things with. Even if he did look oddly handsome standing at the door to her bedroom. He was as different from Jeredon as he could be, and yet oddly the same. Her ears warmed and she tugged at her right one.

  “You fell.” Verdayne scanned the floorboards between them. “Not a rough place to stumble on.” He looked at her face again as if he could read it. “I thought I heard—” He shook his head.

  “Heard what?”

  “You’ll think me soft in the head like a rotten apple.”

  “Already do. What did you think you heard?”

  “I heard metal . . . well, metal makes a sound when it’s being tempered, placed in a saltwater bath, more than the sizzle, it . . . whines. And I heard wood creaking, like a tree does just before it cracks open and loses a limb or two in dry heat.”

  “Was that all?”

  His jaw worked, and then he shook his head. “Not all.” He shifted weight. “Thought I heard a baby cry. Not loud. Muffled, as if from a distance.”

  She hadn’t heard that. She’d been too busy with the roar of a river in her ears, and her eyesight darkening. She moved a little in her bed, trying to sit higher. One elbow stung like the devil had bitten it. She supposed she’d have a bruise the size of her head on it, soon. He stood, waiting for her response. “That proves it, then.”

  “Proves what?”

  “Rotten apples have a great imagination.”

  Verdayne laughed, a rich deep sound that shivered over her skin and sank where it tingled along her bones and made her smile back. “Still, then, you are better?”

  “I’m a’right. Just as shiny as a new leaf.”

  “You don’t mind being . . . different.”

  Her skin, which had been warming steadily, suddenly went chill. “What do you mean?”

  “Different.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  He took a deep breath. “If you’re not used to seeing, it’s difficult.”

  “Do try.”

  “Threads of being . . .” he beckoned about the room, the empty air, nothing, and everything. “They have a way of shining when they’ve recently been manipulated. I can see it. Some of Vaelinar blood can see it. Most can’t, although they can see the results quite well. Just not the aura of the making, which I can plainly see. As you said it, a shiny new leaf.” He looked at her squarely. “You glow, Nutmeg, and not with your health, your maternity, not like that, although you do, no doubt about it, but this aura— Even from across the room, I can see that your eyes have changed. A touch about the ears. Your hands.” He fell quiet.

  Nutmeg spread her hands upon her quilt. Sturdy Dweller hands, calluses from working at the loom, sewing, harvest, picking. A small white scar across one knuckle from—what was that from? One of the small battles she and Rivergrace had been in. Perhaps from a Raver cut. She inhaled deeply. Her fingers did seem more slender. A bit lon
ger. More like her mother’s hands now than her father’s though she had never thought so before. She knotted her hands up.

  “Your head is full of empty air.”

  “Perhaps, but I can see. Can you, Nutmeg?”

  She did not want to look at his face again, but she had the sense that Verdayne would stand in her doorway until the Gods and Tolby decided to move him. So she met his gaze again, solidly. The corner of his mouth quirked. “Your eyes are quite lovely. They were before, no question there, but now . . .”

  Her mouth twisted. “I don’t want to change.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I didn’t! He . . . he did it. And he can’t, not anymore.”

  “He?”

  She curved one hand over her stomach.

  “He.”

  “I think it’s a he, but whatever. As stubborn as I am. As capricious as Jeredon could be.” She took a deep breath, feeling suddenly as if she stopped breathing for too long a moment. “He wanted me to see as he does. Will. Should.”

  He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “I’ve not heard of such a thing before, but then, I haven’t been around long.”

  “Longer than I have.” The answer might be in Bistel’s journal, but she would have to crawl on her knees to retrieve it and certainly had no idea of doing that until she was entirely alone and undisturbed.

  “That may become different as well.”

  His words troubled her, down many different paths. To be around her child longer, that would be good. To see her parents and brothers diminish, and perhaps even their children as well, would be heartbreaking. She saw the expression on his face, concern and understanding, and knew what he had already faced. “I never thought I would feel sorry for the length of a Vaelinar life.”

  His lips curved slightly. “I know.”

  “You can’t say anything.”

  “I will not. But mothers are observant and Lily may already have noticed more than your mirror.” He craned his neck to look at it. “What happened there?”

  “I was distressed about my eyes. He changed it to wood so that I would not have a reflection.”

  Verdayne’s eyebrow lifted. “One element to another?”

  How quickly he’d picked up on that. She wished now she hadn’t said anything. “Yes.”

  “Unheard of. The energy and Talent involved—no wonder you fainted. He must have drawn on every reserve his tiny body had to do it, and yours as well.”

  Now fear crept deeply into her. “I could have lost him?”

  “I’m not a healer or midwife, but it might have gone badly. Don’t ask too much of him, even as a small child. He has to grow into a power like that.”

  “You promise you will not say anything.”

  Verdayne watched her face for a very long time, his now wearing a carefully schooled Vaelinar neutral expression.

  “You can’t. It’s going to be hard enough for him . . .”

  “Do you know why Jeredon was not made Warrior King after Sinok?”

  “No. Vaelinar politics, I assume, not that I pay more attention than I have to.”

  “You’d do well to study their history now, it will serve you and the child. Jeredon was not considered very Talented, and what Talent he did have was not extremely strong. It appears to have skipped a generation. Perhaps even two, considering his mother and father.”

  “Sinok was strong.”

  “Extremely. And so is Lariel although her Talents have never been entirely revealed. My father had faith in her but never told me why.”

  “His faith was enough for you?”

  He nodded. “Always. Bistel was an extremely good judge of people. It’s one of the things that make him, made him, the leader he was. A good judge of people and of soil.”

  The baby turned sluggishly inside of her, as if stretching, and she moved onto one hip to help him adjust. He watched carefully before asking, “Does it hurt?”

  “Hurt?”

  “When he moves.”

  “Sometimes. He likes to put his foot into my rib cage. His elbow sometimes makes it difficult to lie down just right, and he always, always, gets more active just when I’m ready to sleep.”

  “Huh.”

  “You’re a farmer.”

  “True, but it’s difficult to ask one of my horses why she’s stamping her feet and switching her tail in irritation. I can tell she’s bothered but not why.” He laughed again, very softly. “Not that I’m comparing you.”

  “Oh, well, why not? Tree’s blood, I’m as big as any mountain pony.” Nutmeg pfoofed stray hairs from her face in irritation.

  “I should leave you to rest.”

  And she should tell him about his father’s journal, but how could she? He had told her to hold onto it, and pass it on to her sons when she was ready. Sons . . . oh, rotten apples, could she be carrying twins?

  Something of her thought must have shown on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just thought of getting bigger.”

  He backed a step out. “You definitely need to nap. Lily will be boxing my ears if you’re still awake when she returns.” He bowed. “Call if you need me. I will be . . . listening.” He closed the door softly behind him.

  Nutmeg pushed back on her pillows. Bother. He would undoubtedly hear her if she got up and tried to retrieve the journal. Some business would best be left until the depths of the night. Again.

  She sighed. The baby turned again inside of her, a bit more lively, and she knew he was feeling stronger.

  You can see, she thought she heard.

  Nutmeg turned her cheek to her pillow. Yes, she could see. But did she want to? Was she strong enough to?

  There would be no knowing until she was on the other side, would there? Her glance fell on the strangely beguiling carriage Lord Tranta had sent them, a carriage that looked more like a ship sailing on restless seas than a baby’s cart. She hoped that he’d gotten the thank you letter she’d finally posted. He seemed a lonely man, that one, although she’d seen the way he looked at Lariel sometimes. It was a look she used to crave from Jeredon, although she didn’t know if she’d ever received one. Men tended to look when ladies could not see.

  She settled her shoulder into the mattress and told herself she did not regret a single moment with Jeredon, as over and done with as it all seemed now.

  And she found herself strangely sorry that Verdayne had left her doorway.

  He’d said she glowed. And had lovely eyes.

  SEA WINDS ROARED off the coast and up the cliff, with a sound more ferocious than a tempest through a forest, and they sounded in his dreams, calling him to ride tides from the known to the unknown.

  Tranta woke, one arm thrown over his chest, with the wind still tugging at his dreams, and the morning sun dragging them away from him. He rolled to his side and rested on his elbow, watching the waves below the cliff crest and fall, foam and ebb. Birds kited above the waves, diving vigorously now and then to pull a fish from the waters. He watched them use the wind, however strong, however contrary, to their advantage, wings outspread as they soared in place, eyes cast on the glittering ocean, seeing what even he could not from the cliff. He took the challenge, though, eyeing the waves as closely as the birds did, in hopes of seeing life darting below the surface.

  He looked for more than prey—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he had a different prey on his mind, and it wasn’t the Raymy either. Tranta shaded his eyes. He did not expect to see what had plagued his dreams for the last week: a floundering ship on the horizon, ragged sails attempting a tacking maneuver to close on the shore, against the tide, against the wind, against all common sense, in desperation. Why not try to ride the storm out in calmer seas? Why not wait for the tide to turn? He had the sense that whoever crewed that ship had run out of time, a
nd the urgency of their need drove deep into him, even in his sleep. Even looking for it in his dreams, Tranta hadn’t been able to see the ship easily: its wooden construction had all been painted a sea-gray and its sails were dyed the same, as if someone had deliberately wanted to make it difficult to delineate upon the ocean. He had spotted it because a lightning bolt had illuminated it on a storm-dark day—in his dream—and he wondered idly if he would have the same luck in real life.

  Because it was coming. He would bet every last shattered bit of his precious Jewel of Tomarq that the ship sailed toward its doom. He felt it down to his very bones that what he had dreamed sailed mercilessly toward him. Last night had been the eighth night of that dream. The only variation was if he got to it in time to save the passengers. Sometimes he did; more often he did not and could only watch, horrified, as they went down on their storm-tossed ship.

  But not today. Today the sky was impressively cloudless and calm. Only the wind spoke of weather brewing and yet to come. Only the wind.

  Tranta rolled to his back. The chill in the sea mist told him it was just after dawn, the sun behind him reinforced that, the wind nudged at him to awaken, but he felt like a bit more sleep. He’d been at his forge until late, and his muscles still ached and eyes still burned from the brightness of the fire he’d banked. He’d sent a bird off to Lariel two days ago when he knew he’d drawn close to the end of the task he’d set himself. It couldn’t hurt, surely, to rest a bit now he’d finished his task. His eyelids closed slowly and he slipped back into a dream where he searched for a sea-gray ship that fought to make shore before it sank.

  When he woke again, the sun was branding his cheek and forehead. He rolled with a muffled curse and got to one knee, searching for the waterskin and for an ointment. He’d been on the cliff for days and knew better. When he finished, he stood and went to get some food: smoked fish, bread and cheese, and a quinberry, still a little tart for being early in its harvest, but welcomingly juicy. He ate as he stood, overlooking his signposts and what he had salvaged from his Jewel of Tomarq.