by Amy Raby
Traveling among the soldiers, Vitala began to realize how badly she’d damaged Lucien’s reputation. The men watched them closely. Time and again, she saw them whisper to one another and look at her with pity, or at Lucien with revulsion. Lucien bore it well, but was not blind to it. While they rested the horses at a walk, he stared straight ahead, his mouth a thin, hard line.
What could she do to fix this? She couldn’t explain to the soldiers what had happened in the bedroom that night; it was too intimate, and it wasn’t anyone else’s business. She didn’t owe them an explanation. And if she told the truth, would they believe it? The rumors probably sounded more plausible than the reality. By now any explanation she or Lucien tried to make would have cover-up written all over it.
Let them figure this one out. She kneed her horse close enough to Lucien’s that her leg brushed against his, then leaned over in the saddle and kissed him on the lips. His eyes opened wide, but he lost no time in returning the kiss and slipping a hand behind her neck to deepen it. The murmurs of idle conversation behind them suddenly ceased, leaving behind only the rhythmic thudding of hoofbeats. Oh yes, she and Lucien were being watched very closely indeed.
• • •
Two days of hard travel brought them to the coastal village of Tovar. Long before the village came into view, they saw the masts of the Mosari ships peeking above the cliffs. Then they rounded the hillside and the harbor came into view. The ships towered over the Riorcan fishing boats like antlered stags among field mice. Their hulls were broader and their bows rounder than Kjallan ships. Carved wooden animals decorated the rails. Though under assault by the unruly waves of the Great Northern Sea, they bobbed in a stately, dignified manner.
While Lucien and his men inquired as to whether the Mosari royals were ready to receive them, Vitala went out on the pier. The little Riorcan fishing boats were delightful to watch. Navigated by oars and a single sail, these tiny vessels, carrying four to six men each, ventured out into waves twice their height, braving rock-strewn passageways as they headed out to sea. Only the incredible skill of the sailors kept them from capsizing. One man in the front of each boat seemed to be in charge. He kept watch for rocks and currents and yelled orders to his crew, who hastened to obey. Watching their frenetic movements, Vitala’s heart surged, full of love for her brave, capable countrymen.
Someone called her name, and she turned to see Lucien beckoning. After a last, longing look at the fishing boats, she left the pier and joined him.
“They’re ready for us,” he said.
“Did you say the king was sick?”
“He was,” said Lucien. “Seasick—these waters would do it to anyone. Rhianne says he’s feeling better now. Is that Flavia?”
Vitala turned to the shoreline. Last she’d seen, Flavia had been running up and down the beach, tugging bits of driftwood out of the sand.
“No, in the water.” Lucien pointed.
“That little brown dot?” She could hardly believe it. Flavia was so far out in the ocean, swimming against the waves, that she could barely make her out. “She’s way out there, and the water’s so cold!”
“Look at her handle those waves. She’s absolutely fearless.”
“She has no idea of the danger. What if she drowns?” Vitala whistled, but Flavia didn’t seem to hear her.
“I don’t think she’ll drown,” said Lucien, but he grabbed a stick and hurled it with magically enhanced strength all the way out to where Flavia was swimming. It landed with a splash, and Flavia’s ears went up. She swam for the stick, seized it, and headed for shore. When she emerged from the water, she shook herself off and paraded about, looking pleased. “What a swimmer!” said Lucien. “She’s a natural.”
Vitala held her tongue. She was more convinced than ever that Flavia was Riorcan bred. What Kjallan dog, bred for the balmy lakes of the south, would, on a lark, brave the frigid waters of the Great Northern Sea?
Lucien took her hand. “Let’s go in. Don’t mention to Rhianne that you once tried to assassinate me. It’s not something she would understand.”
“All right,” Vitala said, bemused.
Lucien led her into the decrepit town hall, which needed a paint job and a new roof. Vitala spotted a large dog prowling the open space within. No, not a dog—it was a great cat, dark brown in color and brindled with black stripes. The creature bared its huge yellow teeth, and Vitala stopped short. A rumbling at her side alerted her to Flavia, whose muzzle had wrinkled into an unaccustomed growl.
“Quiet,” snapped Lucien.
Flavia fell silent. The cat eyed them briefly, then turned away. A second cat, slightly smaller but with the same coloration, slept on the floor.
Three men and a woman awaited them. Vitala picked out King Jan-Torres by the four-strand gold necklace he wore around his neck. Though not a large man, Jan-Torres had a calm confidence about him that made it clear he was the one in charge. He was colorfully dressed in the Mosari style, but with a Riorcan cloak thrown about him for warmth. Most astonishingly, there was an animal perched on his shoulder, a sleek, furry, weasel-like creature with rust-and-white fur and intelligent black eyes.
The two other men, both physically imposing and well armed, she took for bodyguards or military officers. A brindlecat sidled up to one of them and rubbed against him. The woman had to be Rhianne. Though paler-skinned than the others, she was darker than the typical Kjallan, no doubt an effect of the tropical Mosari sun. Strands of gold streaked her walnut-brown hair. Her syrtos was Kjallan in its cut and style, but gauzy and multicolored, an apparent compromise between Kjallan and Mosari modes of dress.
“Lucien!” cried the woman. “Are you walking? Without a crutch?”
Lucien glanced down at the artificial leg and scowled. “It pinches like a gods-cursed—”
“Three gods. I can’t believe it!” Rhianne flung herself into his arms with enough impact to knock the wind out of him. “The things you don’t mention in your letters!”
Vitala swallowed the lump in her throat and told herself, I am not jealous of Lucien’s cousin. She caught the King of Mosar watching her calmly but intently.
“Three gods,” murmured Lucien. His hand was on Rhianne’s belly, and Vitala realized with a start that the woman was pregnant. “Speaking of things not mentioned in letters . . .”
“I wanted to surprise you,” said Rhianne.
“How far along?” asked Lucien.
“Five months.”
“What are you doing sailing halfway around the world?” cried Lucien. “You should be at home! Send your husband on errands like this.”
With a tight-lipped smile, Jan-Torres stepped between Lucien and Rhianne. “We decided it would be better for her to come along.” Vitala was surprised to hear him speak the Kjallan language fluently.
“Jan-Torres. Your Majesty,” said Lucien, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”
The two men clasped wrists, their movements stiff and guarded. They circled each other like a pair of wolves with their hackles up.
“Lucien,” said Rhianne. “You haven’t made introductions.” She turned to Vitala, her eyes bright and friendly. “Who is this lovely young lady?”
Lucien hurried back to Vitala, grabbed her hand, and pulled her towards the Mosari royals. “This is my wife, Vitala, the Empress of Kjall.”
Rhianne’s mouth fell open.
“Before you say anything about leaving that out of the letters,” Lucien added hurriedly, “the wedding was three days ago.”
Rhianne beamed at Vitala with a smile so wide it forced tears out of the corners of her eyes. “Lucien’s wife. Three gods.” She reached for Vitala’s hand. They clasped wrists, and then Rhianne, apparently unable to resist, pulled her into a full-body hug. “I’m so glad to meet you, Empress. Please take good care of my cousin. He’s a good man, but if he gets carried away with anything, talk to me. I know a few tricks for dealing with him.” She winked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Vitala choked out, half-c
rushed by the hug and aching with guilt. Rhianne didn’t know, of course, that she was Lucien’s wife in name only, that she had asked for a divorce and would soon flee to the Obsidian Circle. No point bringing it up now.
“Emperor.” Jan-Torres had a rich, powerful voice, one that instantly commanded the attention of everyone in the room. “You seem to have landed yourself in a bit of trouble.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Shall we discuss it?”
“Absolutely, Your Majesty.”
Rhianne released Vitala from the hug but clung to her hand. “While they talk business, why don’t you and I go for a walk? We have much to discuss.”
Vitala hesitated, wondering what she could have to say to this woman.
“Stories about Lucien,” Rhianne confided in a mock whisper. “Would you like to hear about the time he learned how to make explosives and blew up the door to his brother’s room?”
“Rhianne, you are not telling her that!” cried Lucien.
Vitala smiled. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’d like that very much.”
27
Not since he’d last seen his father had Lucien felt so inadequate. He and King Jan-Torres were roughly the same height and weight, but as they strode down the hallway together, Lucien felt like the other man was twice his size. Jan-Torres was the man who, under attack by vastly superior Kjallan forces, had boldly invaded the city of Riat, held the empire in a choke hold, and deposed Lucien’s father, granting Lucien the throne. He’d also run off with Rhianne, though Lucien didn’t hold that against him, since his cousin had gone enthusiastically.
And three gods, she’s pregnant. A smile played about his lips, disappearing as he thought back to his own depressing situation—a wife who’d rejected him after a single night in the marriage bed. Yet another way in which he compared unfavorably. There were no children in his future.
“We can talk in the bedroom,” said Jan-Torres beside him. “Best place for privacy.”
“I knew you were fond of me, but not that fond,” said Lucien.
Jan-Torres did not respond. What did Rhianne see in him, anyway? He was so serious, so somber. Lucien found himself wanting to provoke the man just to see if he could get a rise out of him.
Jan-Torres’s bodyguard opened the bedroom door and allowed the two of them inside. Lucien was instantly embarrassed. The room was small and the furniture shabby. Some country he was running. “I’m sorry about the accommodations,” he said. “If I had the means, I’d put you up in the style you deserve.”
“Don’t worry about it.” A corner of the king’s mouth quirked upward. “I’m no stranger to hardship.”
Lucien snorted. He had no doubt of that; before ascending his throne, Jan-Torres had once posed as a slave in the Imperial Palace to spy on Kjall. Spreading a map out on the bed, Lucien placed markers showing the location of his and the usurper’s troops.
Jan-Torres set his ferret on the floor and smiled as the creature scampered gaily about, sniffing along the walls and corners. “First things first,” he said. “I cannot provide you with ground troops. My own armies are depleted after the last war.”
“I understand,” said Lucien, though it was a crushing disappointment. Mosari ground troops would have been a huge asset. The brindlecats that accompanied their war mages would have struck terror into Cassian’s soldiers.
Jan-Torres leaned over the map. “Aren’t you outnumbered?”
“A bit,” said Lucien.
“More than a bit!” said Jan-Torres. “Look, I don’t give two tomtits who rules your country. Coming here was Rhianne’s idea. She’s concerned about you and Celeste.”
“Has she heard from Celeste at all?”
“She has.”
“What did she—”
“It’s family business, so I’ll let Rhianne speak to you about it.”
“You should care who rules my country, Jan-Torres. Have you considered what it will mean if something happens to Celeste?”
“Rhianne will be distraught,” said Jan-Torres. “She loves the two of you.”
“It’s bigger than that. Imagine for a moment that I am killed in battle, and Celeste dies without producing an heir for the usurper. This is not an unlikely scenario, especially if Celeste takes her own life. Who in these circumstances is the legitimate heir to the throne?”
Jan-Torres blinked in surprise. “Three gods. The baby.”
Lucien nodded. “If male, the child Rhianne carries, your son, will be heir to the Kjallan throne. As such, the usurper will perceive him as a threat, and you’ve seen what that man does to people who stand between him and what he wants. “
Jan-Torres smiled wanly. “Then I shall pray for a daughter. I despise Kjallan politics, Emperor. Your court is a pit of snakes.”
Lucien snorted. “And I have fangs of my own.”
Jan-Torres scanned the map. “What are your plans, Emperor? You cannot fight the usurper from your current position. He will flank you.”
“If you are not providing me with ground troops, Jan-Torres, what are you offering?”
“Support by sea,” said Jan-Torres. “Ten warships that outclass anything of Kjall’s.”
“Very well.” Lucien took the markers representing his six battalions and moved them all to Blackscar Gulch. “Here’s what I propose: I shelter my forces within the gulch. The mouth is narrow. We can hold the usurper’s forces at the mouth and prevent him from using the full advantage of his numbers.”
“There’s more than one entryway. He will come through here and flank you.” Jan-Torres pointed to Stonemaw Pass.
“He will try,” said Lucien, “and the war will be won or lost at Stonemaw. I’ll station two battalions at the mouth of Blackscar Gulch and three at Stonemaw Pass. Meanwhile, I’ll split the last battalion into small groups and send it behind the Usurper to destroy his supply lines. If we can hold them at the gulch until the soldiers lose the will to fight, we’ll win. But if the Usurper’s forces break through . . .”
“What about your own supply lines?” asked Jan-Torres. “You’ll be cut off in the gulch. No way in or out.”
“That’s where your fleet comes in,” said Lucien. “I had considered and rejected this plan earlier because of the supply line problem. But do you see this?” His finger traced the blue line of the Ember River from the ocean to Blackscar Gulch. “We don’t need overland supply routes. We can ship everything by water.”
Jan-Torres raised an eyebrow. “You want my warships to act as shipping barges?”
“One or two of them, yes, to ferry supplies from coastal villages to the river mouth,” said Lucien, growing excited as the possibilities of the plan took hold. “The rest will guard the river mouth. Then we’ll have a system of barges going up and down the Ember. It’s perfect, do you see? The Usurper cannot sabotage it! But we can sabotage his supply lines all we want.”
Jan-Torres smiled. “It’s not a bad plan. I’ll speak to my ship captains, and we’ll discuss details at dinner.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
The King of Mosar sat in a wobbly chair and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Tell me about your wife. Is she a Kjallan like yourself?”
“Half Kjallan, half Riorcan. She’s from the Obsidian Circle.”
“Obsidian Circle? What’s that?”
“A Riorcan resistance movement. A network of spies and assassins.”
Jan-Torres blinked. “You married a spy?”
“An assassin.”
He laughed. “I wish you every happiness.”
“Thanks,” said Lucien, annoyed.
“Emperor,” said Jan-Torres. “Say nothing further to Rhianne about how she should have stayed home because of the pregnancy.”
“As you wish. Obviously, she’s here now, and there’s no going back until your fleet leaves. But you should have said something at the time. I know she loves to travel—”
“Lucien,” Jan-Torres broke in. “It’s her second pregnancy.”
“Her second?” Lucien’s eyes widened as he imagined a baby already at home in Mosar—and then he realized that if a child had been born, Rhianne would have said something in her letters. Something fluttered briefly in his chest and turned to pain.
“She miscarried,” said Jan-Torres. “When we learned of her pregnancy, we were on the verge of leaving on a trip for Inya. I talked her into staying home, and while I was gone, she lost the baby.”
“Not because she stayed home!”
“Of course not. It was the Vagabond’s will, nothing more. But I told myself that if she got pregnant again, I wouldn’t ask her to stay home. Whether the baby lives or dies, she will be with me. She will not be alone in her grief. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lucien lowered his eyes. He might not be fond of Jan-Torres, but there was no question that the man loved his wife. And with Rhianne pregnant for the second time . . . well, it was clear they weren’t having any difficulties in the bedroom. Why couldn’t he have that with Vitala?
• • •
Lucien’s troubles faded the moment he saw Rhianne. Once again he marveled at the bulge in her belly. He was going to be an uncle! Or something. What did children call their mother’s cousin, anyway?
“Lucien.” She folded him into a hug.
Her touch drained away his tension, turned him to butter. No one could calm him the way Rhianne did. Vitala, he hoped, would eventually be the woman whose presence made his muscles unknot, but they didn’t fully trust each other yet. They needed more time.
Rhianne pulled back and studied his face. “Will you go walking with me, cousin? There are some things we should discuss.”
“Of course.”
Trailed by a handful of discreet guards, they took a trail of switchbacks leading up the hill and found themselves on the high cliffs overlooking the sea. Rhianne walked right up to the edge, watching the waves break against shards of black rock. She sighed. “This is my first visit to Riorca. I had no idea it was this beautiful.”
“It’s an awful country,” said Lucien. “Underpopulated, run-down, poor as dirt.”