She bent over and cried, face cupped in her hands. He shifted to sit beside her, settling the wooden bowl in his lap. He scooped water and dribbled it on the stones. The steam colored the air, and she sat up, her eyes closed as she breathed it in.
“We should go outside,” he said.
“I’m purifying.” She studied him, her face drawn, flaxen hair lank and plastered to her head with sweat.
“I think you’re pure enough.” He smiled and poured them each another cup of the green liquid. She accepted it, hesitated, and drank it down. Whitt tipped his cup back, emptying it, and gently took her hand.
Outside, the daylight world radiated color and light, the sharp edges soft as the auras melded. Mighty timbers blazed like brands, and the veins in the serrated leaves of saplings and tangled underbrush pulsed with life. Cylas waved his staff like a wand, and the pond, a mirror of curling hues, burst upward in a fountain, each droplet a rainbow prism, casting beams of sunlight across the ridge. All around them, the forest swayed toward Sim, threaded its tendrils across the ground and through the air, gathering up all that was dead and transforming it into something alive. Sim raised a glowing hand, her gift steaming color and light, and the green world grew at her feet.
Chapter Sixteen
Whitt entered Tor beneath a canopy of stars, slinking through the Farlanders’ compound to the outer city’s roads. Misanda’s full face shone in the sky’s black vault like a blue pool while her elder sisters waned. Darkest Night and the peak of Summertide idled less than two weeks away. In the south, the season’s warmth scarcely arrived before it bid farewell.
Within the city’s boundaries, he traveled at a brisk pace. Yet, at every corner, he paused to listen, back-stepping into sharp shadows or darting along a new route if he heard voices. He slipped past the guardians’ stable, left his weapons in full view in the dirt yard, and approached the door of the brick quarters. Blowing out a sigh, he knocked and backed up, his hands empty and palms open.
A face appeared in the upper window, and a moment later, the door opened. Lodan narrowed his eyes and pointed at Whitt with a long blade. “Leave the weapons and get your puny ass in here.”
When Lodan stepped aside, Whitt jogged forward vaulting the stone steps in one stride. Movement flashed in the corner of his eye. He cursed as his arm twisted, and his chest and cheek slammed against the wall. His nose stung, watering his eyes. “You’re under arrest,” Tavor growled over his shoulder. “For aiding the enemy, for damage to person and property, for murder, and for anything else the high ward feels like adding to the list.”
“I didn’t murder anyone.” Whitt saw Cale at the hall’s end, her arms crossed. “I confess to the rest.”
“Oh, that’s got my stone’s jingling,” Tavor said. “I can watch High Ward Antoris hang you three times instead of four.”
“The influencer killed the guards.” Whitt didn’t resist as Lodan tied his wrists behind his back.
“Why doesn’t that shock me?” Tavor asked. “Where’s Sim?”
“Nowhere.”
“Good.” Tavor gave Whitt a yank off the wall and shoved him down the corridor toward Cale. “She’s as good as dead the minute they find her.”
“Apparently, so am I,” Whitt said, the threat sobering.
“Not yet.” Tavor sat him in a chair. “You sit there and rest because, before the next bell, we’re riding for Guardian.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.” Tavor wiped his palms on his trousers and shifted his attention to Cale. “Get your gear together and then pack us enough mess for three days. Lodan?”
The big guardian raised a bushy eyebrow.
“Mind saddling our horses?”
“I’ll saddle four and see you to the gap. In case you have company.”
Whitt exhaled, helpless to do anything but sit. He’d hoped for a return to Guardian, and if he considered Tavor’s urgency, it was the only way he’d survive. “Does Commander Jagur know what happened?”
“He knows.” Tavor scraped a hand over his bald head, the shadows under his eyes adding years. “He wants to hang you first.”
***
Jagur paced in his citadel office, puffing on his pipe and ornery as a mule. For the past five years—fifteen years, if he cared to count—he’d worn his tongue out yammering about the trouble in the Wolds to a cotillion of deaf ears. In response, he’d received glassy-eyed stares, inane recommendations, and a stew of excuses that could fill his belly for a lifetime.
Now, suddenly, everyone in Ellegeance wanted to share an opinion, suggestion, and story of outrage. What they didn’t intend to share was the blame; that, he assumed, he would shoulder and stomach himself. Whitt stood smack in the midst of the recent uproar. “Founders be damned, Tavor. This is going to give me hives.”
The bald sergeant sat in front of Jagur’s desk, uttering not a peep, which Jagur considered a wise choice, one the man wouldn’t get away with. He’d just heard a second account of what happened in Tor, the first from Cale. He sympathized with Whitt, but a warrior couldn’t trample the law even if he felt justified, even if it was the morally sound and righteous thing to do. “That’s the extent of it?”
“Whitt says he didn’t kill the guards.”
“You believe him?”
“I don’t think he’s killed anyone anywhere. And he never learned to lie.”
Jagur grunted. He hadn’t talked to his prisoner yet, too furious to keep his head from exploding. “But the other dead?”
“He doesn’t know. A fight is a fight.”
“Not when you’re breaking an enemy from prison.” Jagur slumped behind his desk. “This won’t go well for him.”
“His chance is better here than there.”
“I concede the point.” Jagur stabbed the air with his pipe-stem. “But that’s not the point.”
Tavor had the good sense to tamp down his opinion, though it deepened the ravines in his forehead. Cale hadn’t fared as well, spewing some choice words from her rather florid vocabulary, and she now enjoyed a week of extra detail at the pits.
“I suppose I can’t keep the queen twiddling her fingers any longer.” He weighed the merits of bringing his pipe merely to annoy his visitors and decided against it, sliding his spectacles into his pocket instead. “Who do we face from Tor?”
“High Ward Antoris’s influencer, a man named Ardal, and one Justice Narl with a dozen guards.”
“The queen brought her influencer?”
“The woman Catling.”
“Whitt’s adopted sister. That will go over well. Does she know?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“The Tor contingent?”
Tavor cocked an eyebrow. “If they didn’t know Guardian was involved, they wouldn’t be here.”
“We’ll bring Sanson. If they all brought influencers, we’ll bring one too for what’s it’s worth.” If he got his way, Catling would block them all, an advantage he’d try to negotiate. He eyed the guardian. “Send word that we’ll meet at the second bell in the assembly hall. See if you can rustle up something regal for the queen to sit on, and then arrange for wine.”
Tavor hoisted himself out of his seat. “I’ll send in your page.”
Jagur frowned. “Didn’t last. The boy complained I was grouchy, and he wanted to go home. Until I get another one, you’ll have to do.”
When the second bell rang, Jagur entered the hall, not a moment too early or late. The Tor contingent would force him to wait, but out of respect, they would arrive ahead of the queen. This whole affair followed the steps of a waltz, and he’d never considered himself a talented dancer. Too old to learn.
The hall appeared in respectable order, banners free of cobwebs, tables wiped down, seats pushed in, and someone had thought to prop open the windows, an admirable idea since most of the season the place reeked of sweaty bodies. Two recruits had lugged his chair down from his office for the queen, and the table displayed an assembly of goblets, wine carafes,
and platters of bread, cheese, and cured Fangwold goat.
Several guardians, including Tavor, arrived early. They saluted, slapping the daggers etched on their forearms. They wore a full complement of armor for the occasion, sashed in queen’s azure, and their spears sported three polished points. His influencer, Sanson, not a bad fellow once he adjusted to life at the fort, stood by a window, looking out over the practice fields. He turned to face Jagur, his white beard trimmed for the occasion. “The usual?”
“In other words, not at all.” Jagur chuckled. “No need to influence unless our guests get heated.”
“My primary vow is no longer to Ellegeance,” Sanson reminded him, “but to the guild, and the doyen swore oaths to the queen.”
“The significance?” Jagur kicked himself for not expressing more of an interest in the conclave’s results.
“I mustn’t influence counter to her wishes. Commander, you must convince her of the right course of action; then I will gladly soften any resistance.”
“Including her resistance?”
Sanson nodded. “If broadly interpreted. Any resistance except that of my fellow influencers. I am still forbidden from influencing another guild member.”
“How do you keep it all straight?”
The influencer smiled. “Carefully.”
Jagur looked up when footsteps tapped across the stone floor. Four guardians accompanied the representatives from Tor, and both men raised the hackles on Jagur’s neck. Justice Narl waddled like a goose, though not particularly squat or goose-shaped, and his thin eyebrows matched the sparse hair combed back from his forehead. He strode in with lips pursed, a facial gesture Jagur found silly and annoying.
The dark-haired influencer, the man who according to Tavor countered Whitt’s claims, carried himself like a high ward, straight-backed and sniffing the air, hands clasped behind his back as if he were conducting an inspection. Impeccably dressed and clean-shaven, he wore a silk jacket with a subtle shimmer, the muted color in contrast to the vibrant woads peeking from his neck and wrists.
Jagur offered a curt bow. “My respects. I’m Commander Jagur. Welcome to Guardian.”
“Sanson-Nor, Influencer of Guardian.” Sanson offered his own bow from the window, and Jagur wondered at the lack of warmth between the two guildsmen.
The men from Tor introduced themselves, their bows equally shallow. The plump justice helped himself to a slice of cheese while the influencer scanned an array of banners depicting the tier cities. “High Ward Antoris sends his regards,” Ardal-Mur said, “and his appreciation to Guardian for your continued support.”
Jagur doubted it. “We serve Ellegeance.”
“He hopes the season’s unpleasantness is quickly resolved and put behind us.”
“I’m gratified to hear it. My reports indicate that abuses have gone unchecked for years.”
The influencer paused in his study. Jagur had left the target of his comment intentionally vague.
A Queen’s Guardsman strode into the room and halted. “Her Grace Lelaine-Elan, Queen of Ellegeance. He stepped aside, clearing a path for the procession. Colton led, the tall guard surveying the room before continuing forward. A protective layer of Queen’s Guardsmen fanned to the walls, and Lelaine entered, swathed in lustrous azure brocade, chin high, her hand resting lightly on Gannon’s arm. The man of the warrens had risen far, and Jagur liked his sense of fairness. His presence boded well for the Far Wolds.
Behind Lelaine and Gannon, another two guards strode in followed by a Cull Tarr man with long oiled hair, swarthy features, and an amiable smile. Beside him, and looking none too happy about it, walked Catling. Jagur stared at her eye, the rendering around it altered and utterly stunning. He bowed to the queen along with the other men and swung an open palm toward his chair at the head of the table. “My respects, Your Grace. Welcome to Guardian. Please forgive our warriors’ lack of finery.”
“I would expect no more or less of a fortress.” She accepted the offered seat, smoothing her blue jacket. Silver embroidery decorated the hem, and a circlet of gold perched atop the expected cascade of ringlets.
“Your accommodations are satisfactory?” he asked.
“Quite.” She smiled. “You are more cordial than your ordinary self, Commander. Do men soften within their own walls?”
“A mere attempt at a good impression.” He nodded to Gannon and avoided Catling’s eye as she assumed her position with Colton behind the queen’s chair. The men from Tor introduced themselves with a smattering of niceties. That left the Cull Tarr.
The man bent at the waist. “Falco Linc, Cull Tarr Ambassador to the Influencers’ Guild, for the moment. I await further instructions from the Shiplord.”
Jagur arched an eyebrow, and Linc acknowledged the confusion. “Varon Kest, the ambassador to the queen, is deceased.”
“A bad patch of godswell,” Lelaine said, a delicate smile belying her sober tone. “The doyen eagerly loaned me their ambassador for this trip.”
“The Shiplord wishes merely to serve,” Linc said impervious to the subtle slight.
The Cull Tarr’s presence made little sense, but Jagur had other concerns pushing to the pile’s top. They took their seats and two servants poured wine. “Might I suggest, Your Grace, that we conduct our discussions without the distraction of influence?”
“Infinitely agreeable,” she said with a wink and sipped her wine. “We have subdued the tier uprisings and quelled the subsequent rebelliousness. The time has arrived to turn my attention south. I understand that long-standing animosities continue to cause disruptions, and tensions escalate in Tor. Please begin.”
Narl finished chewing while he and the influencer stared at Catling’s eye. The justice refocused his attention on the queen and began with an outline of High Ward Antoris’s vision of the Far Wolds as a lucrative extension of Ellegeance dominance and Tor as its center of governance and commerce. “A gateway city to the realm proper. We are rich in natural resources, land, fortitude, and ambition.”
“And the Farlanders stand in our way,” the queen stated.
“Precisely.” Narl smiled, clearly interpreting the queen’s comment as sympathetic if not wholly aligned. “The treaty after the South War lacked foresight, ceding far too much autonomy and control to the natives. They occupy land which Tor requires for growth, not only within the city proper, but timberland, agricultural tracts, and water resources.”
Jagur grunted, and the queen cast him a sharp eye before addressing the Justice. “Are you implying that the Farlanders occupy land within the city gates?”
“Good Founders, no!” The man blinked at her. “By city proper, I mean… outside the wall but within a stone’s throw, perhaps. Land we require for an expansion of commerce and dwellings for our citizens.”
Lelaine sipped her wine. “I’ve read the reports, Justice. If you attempt to mislead me, I shall send you back to the high ward with a split copper for your trouble.”
The pudgy man bowed. “Far from my intention, Your Grace. According to our treaty, the territory is available to all, a stipulation the Farlanders choose to disavow. They claim land, threaten our attempts to manage and harvest resources, and recently have resorted to violence.”
“Commander Jagur,” the queen said. “Might you choose to offer another perspective?”
“Sergeant Tavor.” Jagur beckoned to the bald guardian.
Tavor strode forward and bowed to the queen. “The high ward has authorized his guards and citizens to forcibly evict Farlanders from their homes and businesses. Under Captain Pike’s command, they demolish the structures along with the sacred trees where the Farlanders… hang the bones of their ancestors.”
“A barbaric custom.” The justice grimaced at the queen.
“Not ours to judge,” she replied, frowning at him.
Narl cleared his throat. “The structures are derelict and infested with vermin, Your Grace. We were within the law.”
“Sergeant Tavor?” Lelaine asked
. “Is this true?”
The Justice pursed his lips, and Jagur chuckled to himself. Ardal-Mur raised an eyebrow at the queen’s willpower, his influence, apparently, failing to achieve the desired effect.
“We beg your forgiveness,” Ardal said, “for a few instances of overzealousness in that regard. Errors we’ve corrected. The greater challenge is in the countryside where boundaries are nonexistent and therefore subject to interpretation. Farlanders are free to roam the territory, but they’ve begun constructing settlements that interfere with Ellegean plans. The high ward believes they intentionally select sites of strategic importance and then resist us when we attempt to move them along. Recent incidents resulted in deaths, and we expect further escalation.”
“Can you speak to this, Sergeant?” Lelaine asked.
“Not personally, Your Grace,” Tavor stated. “Only to the violence on the part of Ellegean lawbreakers.”
Narl, his composure regained, puffed out his chest. “Your Grace, High Ward Antoris requests your help in securing our safety and prosperity in the Far Wolds. We are an Ellegean city besieged.”
The queen sat forward, her eyes on the justice. “And what sort of assistance does the high ward require?”
“An official expansion of our territory. Guardian’s forces for the removal of the natives and protection of our interests.”
Jagur harrumphed and scowled. The audacity and arrogance tempted him to throw the justice out the window. “What you suggest is against Ellegean law.”
“Laws must be changed,” the justice replied.
“We negotiated treaties,” Jagur frowned at the queen. “And abiding by the terms is testament to our word. Your father’s honor, Your Grace, your honor, and mine.”
Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 13