by Court Ellyn
A young woman wearing an apron reserved for upstairs maids rushed down the back stairs and beckoned frantically with both hands. Her eyes were bright with the astonished delight that only the juiciest gossip produces. Cooks and scullery maids gathered round her. Carah sipped her tea and watched them from the corner of her eye. Their whispers grew more excited. “…no, Her Grace’s son.”
“Whisht now,” hissed another and jerked a thumb in Carah’s direction. The women broke up hastily.
After that, rumor wouldn’t do. Hurrying upstairs, Carah found the Great Hall abandoned, the map lying askew on the high table. In the corridor she overheard Eliad arguing with one of his mistresses. “You don’t understand the situation,” he was saying. “No one needs your opinion.”
Narra stuck her nose into the air. “Too base, am I?”
“Too stupid to know when to keep your mouth shut. He’s their son, Narra. Don’t try to talk to the duchess again. You’ll get us both kicked out on our arses, and Lyana too.”
“Even a duchess wouldn’t kick out a pregnant woman.”
Eliad saw Carah approaching and turned his back on his woman.
“Is my brother dead?”
His dark eyebrows pinched into a hard grimace. “No, it’s worse, damn him.”
“What could be worse?”
“He betrayed us, Carah.”
“What? How dare you? He’s like your little brother. How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true. Ask Thorn.”
She ran for the stairs. “No, no, no,” she muttered as she climbed. Yet she knew it was true. All these weeks, she knew. Kethlyn should’ve been at Bramoran. Once the bodies stopped falling, she was glad he had stayed at Windhaven, and yet his absence had struck the wrong chord.
Her parents’ parlor was dark but for a splash of yellow morning light on the wall. Kelyn was shutting the door to Rhoslyn’s room and turned at Carah’s abrupt entrance. He held up a silencing hand. She flung her arms around him. “My darling girl,” he said, holding her tight. “What would I do without you?”
She broke into sobs, even though she told herself not to. “Da, I’m so sorry.”
“Hush, now. We saw it coming, didn’t we?”
She nodded and sniffled and stood away. “Is Mum asleep?”
Da glanced helplessly at the door to her boudoir. “I poured her a sedative, but she wasn’t interested. Later, she said. If you go in, mind what you say. It won’t do any good to argue with her, she’s made up her mind.”
“About what?”
He laid a hand on her shoulder, brushed a curl from her brow, eyes intently taking in her face, treasuring her. “She’s disowned him. She’ll draw up the papers…”
“Oh, Da, no.”
His finger pressed the argument from her mouth. “Just comfort her.”
Carah took a breath, then slid warily into her mother’s room. Rhoslyn sat against her headboard, her knees drawn up, her hands knotted around a kerchief. She dabbed her eyes when she saw Carah enter and beckoned her closer. “Aren’t you supposed to be halfway to Avidan Wood by now?” Mum’s voice cracked, but she attempted a smile. Carah wished she wouldn’t. She wasn’t a child who required protection from pain.
Easing herself onto the edge of the bed, she said, “Don’t give up hope, Mum.”
She squeezed Carah’s hand and shook her head. “There’s no hope left for him.”
Don’t argue with her. Carah clamped her lips between her teeth. “I want to hear Kethlyn’s side before I condemn him. Mum, please—”
Rhoslyn handed her the letter. Carah read the single line and her breath caught in her throat. When she could manage a steady voice she said, “This only indicates that Kethlyn is following orders.”
Mum nodded. “Yes, and his orders make him a traitor to me. A usurper. My own…” The words snagged on her tongue. “Do you know what this means, dearheart?”
She feared she did, but she shook her head anyway, forcing her mother to spell it out.
“If we survive this war, when all this ogre business is settled, I will have to arrest my own son.”
“Oh, Mum!”
“I will have to try him as a traitor, Carah, and the law demands he be sentenced…” She couldn’t finish. She smashed the kerchief over her mouth, and her eyes clamped shut. “The Goddess is punishing me, I’m sure of it.”
“But what could you have ever done?”
She replied with a groan.
Carah rolled up against her, nestled against her shoulder, and wrapped an arm around her. “Should I stay with you, Mum? I don’t have to go.”
“Nonsense. I want you to go. Look at me.”
Carah propped herself on an elbow.
Rhoslyn pinched her chin. “You’ll see new things, wonderful things, and meet new people. You can tell me all about it. I’d like to know what elves are like. Your uncle won’t tell me a thing.”
“Oh, Mum, it isn’t important.”
“No, it’s more important than you know. You must make us proud.”
Her mother’s hopes landed atop her like the weight of a mountain. In so many ways, she was an unworthy daughter. She was vain and selfish. She wanted to be avedra for all the wrong reasons. And there was a pearl fisher downstairs who made her head spin. Didn’t Mum see these things? Didn’t she understand that her daughter was too small to pin such large expectations on her?
“Go on now,” Rhoslyn urged, nudging her toward the door. “You’ll make everyone late.”
Carah rolled off the bed in leaden fashion.
Her mother’s voice trailed her to the door, “Obey your uncle, and don’t give him any grief. Much is riding on his shoulders.”
His shoulders? Carah had only the honor, the pride, and the future of her family resting on hers. Still, Mum was right. She saw the burden creasing her uncle’s face when she joined him in the stable yard. “About time,” he snapped.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she grumbled in return.
“Extenuating circumstances saved your arse this morning, young lady. Mount up.” He managed to say it with tenderness. “Ride Záradel, just in case.” Same routine as the morning they left for Bramoran. It gave Carah an eerie chill. Thorn gave her a hand up, then climbed into the saddle of one of Eliad’s grays.
Rhian and Duíndor waited for them at the gatehouse. Both he and Thorn looked the part in their fine velvet robes. Carah winced at her own attire. She’d thrown away her silver robe; sewer water and arrow holes had ruined it. She couldn’t even manage a new blouse. Somebody’s blood—maybe Lord Helwende’s, maybe Cousin Ni’ahv’s—stained the sleeves. “I’ll be an embarrassment to you, I’m afraid.”
Her uncle smiled. “We’ll get you a new robe.”
“Elaran tailors?”
“The finest. Are you wearing your necklace?”
Carah lifted the fairy pendant from inside her blouse. Tiny silver hands raised a blue seed pearl heavenward, like an offering.
“Aerdria will be pleased.” Apparently, the Lady of the Elarion had blessed the pendant with a charm of protection.
The portcullis rose, the repaired chains so well-oiled they were nearly silent. Beyond, shaggy highland cattle, instead of sheep, grazed the hillside. Between the base of the hill and the banks of the Avidan, women cooked and washed at campfires among cow-hide tents that were as shaggy as their living counterparts. Their men trained on the archery range under Laral’s direction. His squire, a big, broad youth named Haldred, carried a stack of bows on his shoulder. The militia from Brengarra, in matching gray uniforms, looked a little more disciplined than the highlanders, but what did Carah know? She had only ever seen soldiers march in parades and play at peacetime drills in the bailey. There had always been much laughter, much squandering of time. She detected a different mood today, an urgency, a hard-mouthed sternness to the drills.
“Now listen,” Thorn warned his niece, “headache or no, you’re not riding from these walls without using Veil Sight. Am I clear?”
Carah nodded.
“And you two aren’t to go racing off and leave me behind, or I’ll send an army of fairies after you.”
“What,” Rhian said, smirking defiantly, “don’t you trust us?”
“Not as far as I can blast you.”
Carah gulped. He saw us. Her face grew unbearably warm.
“Threats are unnecessary, Dathiel,” assured Rhian.
“Glad to hear it. Let’s get this over with. I don’t relish our task. It’ll be good to see the trees, though. I’ve been away from the Wood too long. And I’ll bet Elliona is missing you by now.”
Rhian’s smirk fell flat. His eyes flicked toward Carah, then landed with the fury of a storm on Thorn. “K’sant ola, Dathiel.” He jerked the reins around, and he and Duíndor raced through the highland camp and down the hill.
“That was cruel,” Carah said.
With profound sadness, Thorn watched his apprentice splash across the ford. “I’ve been the bearer of much bad news today. I’m sorry, love. He’s not for you.”
Carah raised her chin, daring the tears to fall. “Don’t be absurd. He’s just a stupid pearl fisher.”
~~~~
6
Kethlyn suffered through supper with his Aunt Halayn. She sat near the middle of the long dining table, managing to glare at him without even looking at him. They hadn’t spoken since the first course was served, but she was anything but silent. Each clink of crystal and scrape of cutlery was a statement of disapproval.
Despite the fact that the ducal palace employed Evaronna’s finest chefs, the roast piglet tasted like boot soles, the wine like copper. Kethlyn pushed his plate away in disgust.
Seeing his gesture, Halayn grinned. The expression made Kethlyn think of a cat’s claws emerging. Her high-buttoned collar of black taffeta was as rigid as a beetle’s carapace. Her white hair, piled in a coif atop her head, gave her the look of having been crowned by a cloud, but there was nothing soft about her. This small, craggy old woman had been sister to a duke, sister to a queen, and she thought far too highly of herself. How had Mum put up with her all these years? “You know why you can’t enjoy this fine fare?” she deigned to inquire.
Kethlyn humored her. “Because of your intolerable disdain?”
She set down her fork. The click was as sharp as an exclamation mark. “No, it’s because you have a guilty conscience. Your Grace.”
“I have nothing of the kind.” He added a shrug to prove it. “We all do as we’re told, and that’s takes away the burden of conscience.”
“Does it? That’s one of the more interesting lies I’ve ever heard.”
“Aunt, please.”
“It’s not too late to recall them, you know.” She referred to the troops he had deployed at Valryk’s command.
“Of course it is. Vonmora’s men will have crossed Windgate Pass by now. And Admiral Gregorin launches Westport’s fleet tomorrow. I couldn’t get a message to them in time, even if I wanted to.” Kethlyn had responded promptly to the Black Falcon’s letter. Because the Convention of Kings had failed, archers from Vonmora and infantry from Brimlad were to spread out along the Avidan River, to guard Evaronna’s border with Leania. And despite the unsettled tides, Westport’s galleons had orders to patrol the Leanian coast. “I won’t discuss these things with you, Aunt. You can’t possibly understand.”
Halayn’s thinning silver eyebrows jumped for her hairline, pulling the skin around her eyes into sharp peaks and crannies. “My, my, the War Commander’s son speaks with such experience. I’ve aided two dukes through two wars. How many have you?”
Kethlyn slapped the table, hoping to startle her into silence. She just looked at him, oh, so calmly with those raised eyebrows, waiting for a response. Did nothing deter her? “Look, the way it sounds, Leania has declared herself our enemy. If the Leanians forge an alliance with Fiera, we will be in dire straits. The land is full of traitors, Valryk said so himself. We must protect our border and our sea lanes.”
“Wouldn’t it be wise to make sure? Your Grace.”
“The king gave me explicit orders. I’m following them to the best of my ability. Give me some credit.”
“Oh, I do.” Why was there only blame in the way she said it?
“And worse, I … I think my mother really is dead, and no one has the courage to tell me.” He had shown her the document that Valryk had written declaring Kethlyn Duke of Liraness, and that’s when Halayn had begun waging her own little private war against him.
“Why, yes, that would be convenient.”
Kethlyn couldn’t bear her another instant. He wadded up his napkin and threw it onto the table. The footman didn’t reach his chair in time. Kethlyn shoved it back and made for the corridor.
“I must admit,” Halayn said, a jab at his back, “His Grace has a vivid imagination.”
Kethlyn’s feet attacked the stairs as if they were his aunt’s bones. How had he ever been fond of her? He tried to confide in her and she mocked him. Why shouldn’t his assumption have merit? Valryk’s letter hadn’t mentioned his mother, nor had any of the rumormongers he’d spoken with, nor the falcon Uncle Thorn had sent. If Mum were alive and well, she would’ve written to him herself.
His rooms were cool and dark and blessedly silent. He dug a half-empty wine bottle from his sideboard and poured himself a glass. The vintage was turning to vinegar. He drank it anyway. A handful of half-finished letters littered his writing desk, his demands for answers about the rumors he kept hearing. He was under the impression that none of his vassals had returned from Bramoran. Not Davhin of Vonmora, nor Rorin of Westport, nor Princess Rilyth and her son. He picked up the letter from Valryk. King Arryk and King Ha’el are dead, and hundreds more with them, it read. The implications were too terrible to imagine. They couldn’t all be dead, could they?
He threw his stack of unfinished letters into the fireplace and wrote three copies of a new one, each addressed to his principle vassals: As soon as you return home, attend me at Windhaven. He melted a stick of dark red wax over a lamp and sealed the envelopes with it, then set the letters on the corner where he had scratched his name into the cream-colored paint. He choked on a laugh. A duke writing official correspondence at the desk he’d received when he turned seven. His mother had gifted him with a new, wide bed when he was knighted two years ago, but the chairs, the wardrobes, even the art hanging on the walls were more suited to a child, and they screamed of his mother’s taste in furnishings.
He tugged the bell rope, and when his chamberlain arrived, he ordered the letters sent off to Vonmora, Brimlad, and Westport. More softly he added, “Farns, tomorrow have my clothes and toiletries moved into my grandfather’s suite.”
The man’s eyebrow twitched. “Your … grandfather’s? Even though His Grace’s mother occupies those rooms?”
“She’s probably dead, Farns, and these rooms aren’t fitting. Start moving her things out tonight. I don’t want to see it happening. I couldn’t bear it, you understand.”
The chamberlain bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.” He swept off with the letters in hand.
Kethlyn flung back the pale blue drapes—he suddenly despised the drapes—and found the sky dulling toward dusk. Shouts of men rose from the training yard. He’d told Captain Drael that he wanted the palace garrison hardened up. Peace, in his opinion, had made them fat and lazy. They were still thwacking each other with training swords and emptying quivers into targets. Good. Maybe he should head down and drill with them. A little light remained, so why not? He needed to pound something besides his sweet old aunt.
His fencing leathers were soft as butter. The jerkin was dyed the dark red of Evaronna’s banner. He was halfway into them when he heard a voice burbling, as if through a tube made of tin: “Cousin. There you are.”
He whirled, looking for the intruder, and saw a hole hovering in the middle of his bedchamber. The edges pulsed and glowed and swirled like smoke; in the middle was his cousin’s face, as still and stern as a p
ortrait.
“Can you hear me?” Valryk asked.
Kethlyn dropped the jerkin and backed for the door.
“No, wait, I need to speak with you.” The glowing window pursued him. “Don’t be afraid.”
The bell rope hung only feet away.
“You’re not in danger, Kethlyn. Heed me. I have orders for you.”
“But how are you able…?”
“Our allies can work magic!” Valryk declared. “Isn’t it wonderful?” The laugh that followed carried a quivering, manic note. “Faster than couriers, eh?” His hazel eyes darted nervously.
Peering closer, Kethlyn saw that the king looked downright ill. The slender bones of his face stood out starkly. His freckled complexion was ghost-pale and shiny with sweat. Auburn hair clung to his forehead, and dark rings bruised his eyes. The room behind him was dark, lit only by a dim lamp that Kethlyn couldn’t see. For all he could tell, Valryk might be sitting in the throne room or a privy.
Kethlyn raised a hand and reached for his cousin’s face, but his fingers encountered a vibrating barrier that rippled like water at his touch. “Fascinating.”
“Yes, isn’t it? Now, cousin, listen. Did you deploy the troops and the ships?”
“Yes, sire, they’re on their way to Brimlad.”
“Good. You’re to join them.”
Finally, something to do. If he had to sit in this palace one more day listening to his aunt’s derision, he’d stab out his ears with a blunt instrument. “Join the ships or the troops, sire?”