by Court Ellyn
“Of course, ma’am.” Lura pressed on a brittle smile and glanced away from the mirror.
Rhoslyn planted a fist on her hip. “She’s not still working, is she? I sent for her an hour ago.”
“No, ma’am, I saw Lady Carah and Lady Mithlan returning from the infirmary.”
“Then what is it you’re not telling me?” Lura had served as Rhoslyn’s companion and handmaid since they were twelve years old. They knew each other better than sisters.
Lura avoided her eye and shaped a curl at Rhoslyn’s temple. Silver hair was more recalcitrant than gold, and there was more silver than Rhoslyn cared to acknowledge. “I’m not one to say, ma’am. Lady Mithlan confided in me as I was helping her dress. She’s the one to ask, if you’ll forgive me.”
“Oh, really?”
Rhoslyn knocked with authority, and Aisley answered the door. The girl’s dark eyes grew large. Throwing an arm into the door, Rhoslyn pushed her way into the suite.
The girl bustled about, straightening furniture, collecting embroidery panels and bundles of thread strewn in chairs. There was a conspicuous lack of anything belonging to Carah.
“Don’t trouble yourself, dear.” Rhoslyn’s outstretched hand brought Aisley to a halt. “My handmaid seems to think there’s some trouble with my daughter. She said you’re the one to know. I’d rather ask Carah myself. Would you fetch her?” She waved the girl toward the dressing room.
Aisley stood shielded behind an armchair, rigid and colorless, an unwilling witness called into court. “She … she isn’t here, your grace.”
“I knew it. She returned to the infirmary, didn’t she? Queen Briéllyn told me she found Carah passed out on the floor.” In truth, Rhoslyn suspected something else entirely.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s it.” Aisley attempted a smile. Rhoslyn might’ve been convinced if the girl hadn’t been wringing her hands, hadn’t found her bundle of thread more important to look at.
“Now, how about you tell me what’s really going on?”
Aisley went as still as a rabbit under a hawk’s gaze. “I … I might’ve seen her … once or twice … go into Rhian’s room? Your grace.”
“Damn,” Rhoslyn muttered through her teeth. She paced, slammed her hand upon a tabletop, and rounded on Aisley. “This is an ugly rumor, and no more than that. You will not utter it to anyone, not Lura, not Maeret, no one. If you do, I’ll deny it, and pronounce you a liar. Do I make myself clear?”
Aisley’s whimper trembled in her throat. “Yes, your grace.”
Rhoslyn stormed out, but stopped in the corridor to compose herself. Maybe he’s only training her. Training her in what? Thorn, I will kill you. After all the trouble she and Kelyn had gone to… I should’ve paid closer attention. Stupid, stupid girl! Didn’t Carah understand that a lady’s purity was everything? Rhoslyn had understood only too well, but had that stopped her from committing youthful improprieties? Stupid, stupid girl. And now she was paying for them: her son, her precious son had turned on her. She thought she had escaped the consequences, but she had fooled herself. Maybe it wasn’t too late for Carah.
When Rhoslyn could breathe without hurling fire from her nostrils, she tiptoed to the door of Rhian’s chambers. Each of the suites was furnished with a vestibule, so that messengers never needed to enter the rooms and dirty the floors or change the air. Rhoslyn slipped into Rhian’s vestibule and found the inner door cracked open.
One peek through the crack was enough to confirm her fears. Carah sat in an armchair wearing only her camisole and Elaran suede trousers. Her corset, her suede shirt, stockings and boots were strewn on the floor. Her hair was wet, and she held a comb idly in one hand. The scent of soap drifted from the room. Rhian sat at her feet, fiddling absently with her naked toes. He looked none too happy.
“But you will be careful?” Carah asked.
He shrugged. “We’ll post scouts, keep our eyes open. What more can we do?”
Carah slapped the comb on the arm of the chair. “I’m being left out again. I should be going too. I’m avedra first, remember, Da’s daughter second.”
Rhoslyn grit her teeth, restraining herself from barging in and slapping Carah’s pert little mouth. She wouldn’t be avedra if her father wasn’t who he was. Curse Thorn’s arrogance for putting that thought into his niece’s head.
“You’ll look after Da for me?”
“I’ll let nothing happen to him. Promise.”
Carah raised a hand, touched Rhian’s face. “I’ll be watching for you from the wall.”
He barked laughter and flicked her hand away. “Ach, you will not. You’re more like to be focused on some highlander’s innards.”
The comb slapped his wrist. “Could you make it sound more disgusting?”
“Or some Fieran’s, for that matter.”
“That’s not funny. Stop being jealous over nothing.”
“If it’s nothing, prove it.”
“Again?” Carah giggled and leaned toward him.
Rhoslyn looked down at her own hands; they held not a single solution she liked. Far too late, she thought, backing out of the vestibule. The only way to tear them apart now was to inflict irreparable pain. She shut the outer door and knocked loudly.
After much rustling around, Rhian cracked open the door. His expression fell flat when he saw the duchess.
Rhoslyn schooled her face into a blank mask. “Inform my daughter she’s expected at table in half an hour. You, however, should avoid my presence for the time being.” Strange, her voice didn’t sound like her own. It sounded breathless, strained, as if she’d been punched in the gut.
Rhian’s mouth opened, then clamped shut. Wise, to reserve his words. Anything he said would only make it worse, or make him sound ridiculously childish.
Rhoslyn about-faced and started toward the stairwell that descended toward the dining hall. She hadn’t made it far when Carah’s bare feet came pummeling after her.
“Mum! Mum, wait.”
Rhoslyn paused, turned, and looked at her daughter’s naked toes on the tiles. Were things so different now, propriety so unimportant, that a lady would enter public with bare feet? Carah tried to grab her hand; Rhoslyn withdrew it and clenched both hands behind her back. Better that than beat her daughter bloody in front of anyone who might happen by.
“Please, Mum, don’t tell Da.”
Rhoslyn pinched her mouth tight against her rage. Large blue eyes pleaded with her, a tear spilled, but Rhoslyn was not moved. “Dry your hair, get dressed, and get down stairs.”
~~~~
It had taken Thorn all afternoon to convince Laniel of his plan. While they waited for the scouts to return from Bexby Field, he was supposed to be helping his oath-brother practice the Spell of Unraveling, but Thorn’s condition had proved a distraction. “Are you ill?” Laniel had asked him, and Thorn reluctantly told him the truth.
Laniel’s reaction was as explosive as Thorn feared it would be. “You’re tampering with what? By Ana, you’ve done questionable things before—mutilated their corpses by taking their tusks, for one—but you want to experiment on them? With something you’ve made with … with the Abyss?”
“I didn’t know you had such affection for naenion,” Thorn scoffed. “Your sister supported me, even lied to get me in to see the smith. What’s your problem?”
“Lyrienn doesn’t count. You can charm her into anything, you always could.”
“I don’t charm—”
“And these gloves?”
Snug satin gloves, darker blue than his robe, hid his fingers. He had raided Lander’s dressing room for something suitable, something that would hide his hands, yet allow him to use a fork and spoon. In truth, they were too fine for anything but balls and banquets; Kelyn had cast him questioning looks but had refrained from asking about them, for which Thorn was grateful. “The process makes my hands cold, of course. The gloves keep them warm.”
“You’re shit for a liar. Let me see.”
Thorn sta
ggered back a step, secured his hands inside his wide sleeves. “No.”
“Then I won’t help you.”
“Damn it. I’ll talk to Sha’hadýn myself.”
By the time Danellys and Dannevir returned and delivered their report, Laniel had mulled over the idea. Though he was still averse to the plan, he agreed to accompany Thorn into the Miraji camp.
Tents as colorful and varied as those in a bizarre spread around the western curve of the wall. The hot south wind ruffled awnings and banners. A squire bathed rows of golden warhorses; others polished golden trappings, golden bridles, and slapped dust from silk saddle blankets blazoned with the golden sun. The spotted pack animals—a children’s book in Tírandon’s library had identified them as ‘kudakari’—grunted docilely in rope paddocks and flicked tufted tails at biting flies.
The commander’s pavilion was a grand affair in silk the color of the summer sky. The golden banner rustled on stands near the flaps. Guards informed Thorn and Laniel that Sha’hadýn was taking a sand bath and would not be disturbed. She kept them waiting for only a short while, however, before she emerged from her pavilion naked to the waist. Her bronze skin was buffed to a clean shine; without her armor she looked almost delicate, though her arms and shoulders exhibited a sinewy strength. She frowned uncomprehending at her guests’ embarrassment, then waved for a squire who brought a long robe into which she tucked her arms and tied loosely about her waist. “Better?”
Laniel plunged in. “Sahani, my oath-brother has a request that he hopes you will kindly consider.”
“A sensitive request,” Thorn added. “One I wish kept private.” He glanced at the guards flanking them.
Sha’hadýn stared wide-eyed in response. It took a helpless gesture from Laniel for Thorn to realize why. He had spoken Elaran without thinking. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said, “I didn’t tell my brother what you really said.” He concluded with a show of teeth that wasn’t meant to be friendly.
She jerked her head in brusque invitation. “Come inside.”
Thorn wondered if all Miraji traveled in such luxury or if it was the Sahani’s special privilege. Thick rugs blanketed the hard, ogre-packed ground; not one inch of earth showed, not one tuft of grass. Silver lampstands blazed brightly in the corners. Lanterns with intricate latticework and stained glass hung from the tent poles. A folding table of pale thelnyth wood was set with fine dining ware. In the center, a silver wine bucket was so cold that the summer humidity condensed and ran in rivulets down its fluted sides.
Her squire, a youth who watched the strangers from the corners of his eyes, brought her a goblet of the wine. Ice floated and clinked. Odd, a culture that valued ice highly enough to ruin a glass of wine with it. She handed the goblet off to Thorn, another to Laniel, and sipped from a third herself. Then she made herself comfortable in a camp chair behind a desk of sorts. She did not offer her guests a chair. “What would the avadri have of me?”
“Well, it might sound mad, but I need someone willing and able to capture an ogre for me.”
Sha’hadýn laced her fingers under her chin. “Capture?”
“Any ogre will do, even a small one. I don’t need the biggest, strongest bull, in other words. Would a handful of your warriors be interested in such an endeavor?”
Laniel stood with arms crossed and shook his head.
“This request makes you uncomfortable?” Sha’hadýn asked him. “Yes, or your oath-brother would ask you to do this for him.” She turned to Thorn. “We have our nets, our stealth. Yes, I will see this done.”
Laniel regarded her in surprise. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“You mean to hurt it?” she asked.
Would she refuse him if he told her the truth? Thorn scratched his nape. “Perhaps. I hope it won’t hurt, but it probably will.”
Sha’hadýn looked at Laniel and shrugged. Seemed she had less than no sympathy for the creatures.
With a growl of disgust, Laniel stomped from the pavilion.
“The treewalker is civilized,” Sha’hadýn said with a grin. “When it comes to the Sons of Naena, I am not. How soon do you want it?”
Once the plan was laid, Thorn returned to his rooms, giddy. There were only two empty bottles left on his table and a quart of lamp oil. Yesterday, he had paid a visit to the potter. His order was almost ready. One of the man’s daughters had given him a square of dark glass to peer through, and opened a small window in the kiln. Glowing hot as the sun, row upon row of grapefruit-sized globes baked. He would need corks soon and sealing wax. On the table in the middle of his suite, the great glass jug that contained the abyssal fluid drank the daylight slanting through the windows. It looked more like a hole in the middle of the room than a jar filled with oil.
He locked his door, took off the gloves and laid them aside. Satin and glass didn’t mingle well. He separated the two empty bottles and divided the last of the lamp oil between them. His fingers protested. The skin at the tips was black and cracked. Once he finished fusing oil each night, he spent precious energy trying to heal his fingers, or at least to stave off the inevitable. If his plan didn’t work, if the substance didn’t affect the ogres, he had sacrificed his fingertips for nothing.
As he worked, a name kept whispering in his mind: Blackhand, Jevaerien Blackhand. Two hundred years ago, in the days of Tallon the Unifier, the avedra had been tossed out of Avidan Wood for dabbling in dark magics. The history books never defined what those magics had been, but Thorn had a good guess.
He picked up the spindle and chanted the opening lines of the spell. A high-pitched whistling crack registered on the edge of hearing as the pinhole opened. He touched the sharp tip of the spindle to the tiny hole and drew out a black thread. Chanting, chanting, cold sweat trickling down his face, he rolled the spindle between cracked fingers and collected the substance. Gossamer-thin it was, as sticky and flighty as spiderweb, and greedy for light, for heat, for life. His fingers ached with cold.
A sound like a hiss emerged from the pinhole, a sound like dry autumn leaves skittering over stone. Thorn’s chant died in his mouth. Laughter. It was laughter, and it awakened a memory of running, running in horror. He watched the pinhole widen of its own accord. A shadow-black protuberance, like a worm, like a finger, punched through. Voiceless words rattled, “We—rememmmmber—you.”
~~~~
Downstairs, Kelyn accepted a glass of brandy from Ruthan. The lady of the house and her many guests gathered in Tírandon’s largest parlor after dinner. Mellow notes rose from the bard’s lute. Daxon and Johf rolled dice. King Arryk conquered a corner for himself and read silently from a book of poetry, while Queen Briéllyn chatted with Aisley about the work they’d done that day in the infirmary. It was a valiant attempt at normality.
While Kelyn warmed the brandy in his fingers, he attributed a sudden sense of unease to the events tomorrow would bring. That, or the mutton hadn’t agreed with him. He had hoped the meeting with Tullyk would remain a secret known only to those he’d asked to go. But everyone at table had asked about it. Eliad owned up to the slip. “When I informed Lady Drona that you’d like her to represent Fiera, well, Daxon overheard.” And Daxon, out of spite, had run straight to the White Falcon.
Arryk questioned Kelyn during the soup course.
“No, it isn’t safe, sire,” he’d replied. “That’s why I’m taking a very select delegation, and a well-armed one.—Yes, sire, I know the man we’ll be meeting. No, I won’t turn my back on him.—Yes, sire, I’m sure the terms will apply to both Aralorr and Fiera.”
Queen Briéllyn chimed in.
“No, ma’am, we’ll not forget Leania,” Kelyn assured. No mention was made of Evaronna. By unspoken consensus, everyone considered Evaronna enemy territory.
During the meat course, talk turned to silliness, to dreams about what everyone wanted to do as soon as peace was established. None of these dreams accounted for the presence of ogres or Elarion, nor their probable lack of desire to melt into ob
scurity again. Kelyn ate in silence, knowing that things could never return to the way they were.
Neither Rhoslyn nor Carah said much either. His daughter’s eyes were red and puffy, and Rhoslyn’s mouth was tight, her remarks curt. Kelyn knew better than to ask why she was angry. Even after dinner, mother and daughter steered clear of one another, occupying opposite corners of the parlor. And both avoided him. What the hell had he done? Hnh, women.
“Know what I’d like to see?” Maeret asked. Her left arm gained more strength every day. Her right clutched the snifter like a sword haft. “Celebrate with horse races. I bet our racers can outrun those golden beasts the Miraji ride.”
Eliad accepted that bet, much good would it do him. There wouldn’t be races for a good long while, Kelyn felt sure of that. He dreaded to learn Lothiar’s terms. The Elari had thought nothing of annihilating an entire class of human society. Was he open to negotiation at all?
Kelyn’s case of nerves bordered on fear, and he couldn’t say why. He turned his back to the room and tossed down the glass of brandy in one gulp. The fumes made his eyes water.
Over his shoulder he heard Rhoslyn ask, “Etivva? What’s wrong?”
The shaddra had retired upstairs immediately after supper. Now she bee-lined through the crowded parlor, making straight for Kelyn. There was urgency in her uneven step, worry in her eyes. She tugged his sleeve, and he lowered his ear. “My lord, please check on your brother. I was in the library when I heard a shout next door, something crashing. Thorn’s door is locked. I knocked three times but received no answer.”