Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Is it true?” Engraham brought Connor his bitterbeer and leaned across the bar, lowering his voice.

  “Is what true?”

  “That Donderath is losing the war. Folks around here are afraid Meroven troops will be marching in any day now.”

  Connor drank a long draught of his beer and wiped his mouth. “Not to my knowledge. The war isn’t going well—I don’t think that’s much of a secret. Meroven’s put up more of a fight than I think anyone—including King Merrill—expected. But if we’re on the verge of being overrun, I haven’t heard about it… and I do have pretty good sources.”

  Engraham nodded. “Aye, that you do. That you do indeed.” He poured Connor another bitterbeer before the first was empty, the price of information.

  “What do you know about the convict ships?”

  Connor took another swallow and let the dark ale slide down his throat. “Nothing I didn’t learn from a peddler on the roadside.”

  “Has the king abandoned Velant?” Engraham’s blue eyes glinted with uncharacteristic anger. In Connor’s experience, Engraham was one of the most easygoing men he knew. Where many tavern keepers would wade into a brawl, fists flying, to restore order, Engraham usually called for a free round on the house, which was equally effective without a loss of anyone’s teeth.

  “He hasn’t said as much, but I see the ships in the harbor,” Connor replied.

  Engraham swore. “It’s not right to send people away and then cut off supplies,” he growled. “They’re likely to starve without those ships, with winter coming on.”

  Connor sipped his beer and nodded. Engraham was the result of a dalliance between Lord Forden and a ladies’ maid, and while Forden had admitted his paternity of the child, he had wanted nothing more to do with the child’s mother. Disgraced and forced by scandal from her position at the castle, the desperate young woman had been reduced to petty theft to get by. She had been caught and sentenced to exile in Velant, and it was only Forden’s belated intervention that spared Engraham from going with his mother when he was a half-grown boy. The funds for the tavern were most likely conscience money.

  “Have you had any word?” Connor asked, dropping his voice.

  The look in Engraham’s eyes darkened. “None in several months. Last I heard from my mum was at the beginning of the summer. She has a place as a shopgirl in one of the stores in Bay-town.”

  “Is there any chance that your father—”

  Engraham shook his head. “M’lord was rather clear on that. He may not love his wife, but he’s dependent on her wealth. He’d own up to me, but he was just as glad, I think, to have my mum far away.” He sighed. “I send her money and warm clothing when I can get Captain Olaf to take it for me. His drinks here are free.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the universal gesture for bribery. “No one comes back from Velant. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  Connor finished the first tankard of bitterbeer and set it down with a thunk. “On that note—is Alsibeth about?”

  Engraham jerked his head to the right. “Yonder, in the far corner. It’s packed like fish in a barrel in here tonight. Been this way since the magic blinked.”

  “Worried that most of your patrons will leave the city?”

  Engraham shrugged. “Not really. If the worst happens, where can they run that will be better?”

  “How about the ones down at the dock haggling with the trawler captains?”

  Another shrug. “Assuming they don’t capsize and drown, the best they can hope for is to get to the Lesser Kingdoms, to the south. And what will they do once they get there? I wonder.” He shook his head. “And before you ask, I’m not going anywhere, either, least not until fire rains down from the sky or some such sign. After all, where could I get better ale than right here?” He grinned.

  “Where indeed?” Connor gripped the handle of the second tankard. “Save me those two buckets of bitterbeer, my friend. I need to talk with Alsibeth.”

  Crossing the crowded tavern common room was no easy feat. By the time Connor reached the far corner, his toes had been trod upon several times and a third of his beer had been sloshed on the floor as he fended off clumsy patrons. Finally, he made it to the far corner where Alsibeth held court.

  Connor and Engraham had often speculated about Alsibeth’s age when the seer was out of hearing range. Cascades of dark, wavy hair fell nearly to her trim waist, and a shimmering chain of small gold bells hung from each ear and chimed softly when she moved. She had luminous eyes that were nearly violet, and delicate, long-fingered hands. Connor had never seen Alsibeth dressed in anything except the vibrantly colored silks that draped from her shoulders and swathed her narrow hips. He had as little clue to her birthplace as to her age, but he thought it likely that she could trace her lineage to the Far Shores, beyond Donderath’s borders and the Continent itself.

  “You’re late, Connor. I’d have thought to see you a candlemark ago.” Alsibeth did not look up.

  “Delayed by a peddler on the road, m’lady,” Connor replied. He’d grown used to Alsibeth’s uncanny knowledge, and took comments like these as reassurance that other, more important prognostications were also correct.

  “Wait a moment.” With that, Alsibeth returned her attention to the items spread before her. She had claimed one of the tavern’s tables for her own, and with the number of people who came to ask for her to read their fortune, Connor had no doubt that Engraham made his money back several times over in spite of the loss of a table. Alsibeth had spread the table with a silk covering in blue like the color of the deepest ocean. In a semicircle around her were the tools of her divination: burning candles in a variety of colors and heights, a wide bowl of clear water, a small bundle of sage that smoldered in its pewter holder, and a small wooden “tree” hung with dainty bells.

  Alsibeth passed her hand through the sage smoke. Without touching it, the bell tree trembled. Alsibeth listened carefully to the sound of the chimes and raised her face to the anxious woman who stood next to the table, awaiting the prediction.

  “The one you trust is not telling the full truth. He does not lie, but he withholds information. You would find this information to be important. Until you are told everything, resist the urge to put your trust in this person.”

  The patron’s eyes widened, and she nodded, clearly taking the meaning of Alsibeth’s reading. She gave a shallow bow. “Thank you, m’lady, thank you. I’ll do as you say.” She placed several coins into a basket that sat on the edge of the table and hurried away.

  “I must rest,” Alsibeth said to the group of watchers who clustered around her. “Leave me for a while, and come back later.”

  Her audience drifted away into the tavern crowd, and Alsibeth motioned for Connor to have a seat next to her. Her violet eyes watched him intently for a moment, and then she nodded. “Yes, I felt it.” Alsibeth gave him a faint smile. “Your master sent you to find out why the magic flickered.”

  Connor set out the two gold coins between them. “Yes. He wanted to know how widespread it was, and what caused it.”

  Alsibeth drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. Her dark hair pooled around her, and her earrings chimed softly with the movement. “Everywhere. It was felt everywhere. In Donderath, in Meroven, in Tarrant and Vellanaj, and in the Lesser Kingdoms.”

  “What caused it?”

  Alsibeth opened her eyes and leaned forward. She reached toward the semicircle of burning candles that surrounded her and chose the indigo one. Carefully, she lifted it and held it above the wide, shallow bowl of water, then tipped it until liquid wax puddled around the wick and dripped into the water. The hot wax cooled instantly into fragile, twisted threads that hung suspended in the clear water. Alsibeth inhaled deeply, breathing in the candle smoke and the scent of burning sage and then replaced the indigo candle with a murmured incantation and focused her attention on the bowl.

  “The flicker was not natural,” Alsibeth said, studying the tracery of
the hot wax. “It was caused by the hand of men, but not by their design.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Powerful magic is at work. Men seek to affect the course of the war. They toy with power they cannot fully control. Such unintended consequences will grow more unstable—and more dangerous. They risk far more than they can hope to gain.”

  “What of the war itself? Can you see the outcome? Will Donderath win?”

  Alsibeth stared at the candles. Connor could see the flicker of the flames reflected in her eyes. For a moment, she said nothing, but it seemed to Connor that she listened intently to something he could not hear. “I’m sorry,” she said after another pause. “I see nothing but fire.” She frowned. “But I hear a name. Valtyr.”

  Connor startled. Alsibeth smiled. “The name is known to you.”

  “Yes. But only recently so. It’s not a name many would recognize.”

  “I have heard it before, but not in many years.” Alsibeth’s voice was soft, pitched only for Connor’s ears. Again, he wondered about her age and whether her knowledge was of a name or the man himself.

  “Did you know him?”

  Alsibeth’s laugh was as beautiful as the sound of her bells. “No. Only the stories. Heed the warning you’ve received. Valtyr’s map was created for such times as these. There is no time to waste. You must find what has been hidden.” She frowned and tilted her head as if listening to something only she could hear.

  “Look to the exiled man.”

  “M’lady?”

  “When the fires come and night falls, look to the exiled man.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Alsibeth seemed to come back to herself. Her smile was sad. “I’m sorry. I often don’t know the full meaning of the messages I receive.”

  “Will you read the smoke for me?”

  Alsibeth nodded. Her hands gestured gracefully, stirring the smoke from the sage smudge and the scented candle. Connor kept his eye on the bell tree. No part of Alsibeth’s body touched the table, and yet the delicate bells that hung from the tree began to quiver although the water in the bowl remained utterly still. He had scarcely taken a breath when the entire bell tree had begun to shake. Suddenly, Connor heard a dull ringing, and realized that the patron’s goblets and even the half-filled bottles behind the bar had begun to vibrate. The tavern grew silent. Alsibeth’s eyes remained closed. Outside, the city bells began to ring, clanging and clattering as if pulled by a madman. Connor glanced up at the marked candle on the mantle to assure himself it was not yet the hour, not the time for the bells to ring.

  As suddenly as the ringing began, it stopped. Everyone in the tavern was staring at them. Alsibeth opened her eyes and met Connor’s gaze, paying no attention to the onlookers.

  “Don’t delay your search. Find the map and keep it with you, no matter what happens.” She reached out to take his hand. “I’ve never feared my own readings, but right now… hurry back to Garnoc, and tell him what you’ve learned. Time is running out.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BLAINE SHUFFLED TO THE FIREPLACE AND FILLED a bowl with gruel. He poured some hot water into a cup to make the weak tea that was all there was to be had in Edgeland, a brew of native leaves and dried berries that tasted nothing like the tea from home. “Where’s Dawe?”

  “He went down to the Bay to do a little more shopping,” Kestel said, looking up from where she was plucking a chicken. “Don’t be shy eating the gruel. I need that pot to stew the chicken and I don’t like to waste.”

  Blaine grinned. “As you wish, m’lady. But you’ll be chipping it out of the pot. It’s thick as tar.”

  Kestel shrugged. “Convicts can’t be choosy.”

  Blaine sighed. “Maybe someday colonists can be.” He sipped the tea and made a face at its bitter aftertaste. “If we didn’t have Prokief’s guards at the gates, do you think anyone would choose to stay in Edgeland?”

  Kestel set aside the cleaned chicken and wiped off her hands. She picked up her own cup and wandered back toward the table. “Good question. Maybe. There are a lot of folks up here who might not have liked being forced to come, but the truth is, they didn’t leave much behind. Fresh start up here. Land, a decent house if you put your back into building it, enough food to get by.” She shrugged again. “Dunno. The weather’s not to my liking, but it doesn’t seem to bother some people.”

  “Would you go home, if you could?”

  Kestel thought for a moment, staring down at her tea. “I understood the role I played back in Donderath. Power, money, and secrets were my trade. There’s not a market for those things on the same scale up here.” She gave a bitter smile. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but the sex was only ever a small part of it. My patrons wanted me to listen to them, to adore them, to absolve them. They unburdened themselves to me. That was as much of a release.”

  “And there’s nobody as interesting up here?” Blaine replied with a grin.

  “Just you, m’lord, and you’ve only got one secret,” Kestel teased. She grew serious. “Would you go back?”

  Blaine studied his empty bowl for a while without speaking. “I can’t go back to Donderath, not with Merrill on the throne. And even if he pardoned me, I’ve lost everything. Perhaps if I were willing to go somewhere besides Donderath, but where would that be, and for what end? If I’m to be a beggar, better at least in my own kingdom than in a strange land.” He let out a long breath.

  “There’s no such thing as a fresh start in Donderath. No one would hire a murderer to learn a trade. I can starve here just as well as there. At least here, I’ve got a way to earn a living and a roof over my head that’s partly mine. So long as Prokief keeps his distance, it’s tolerable.”

  Kestel nodded. “I won’t say I don’t miss the luxuries of court, or the food, or the social life. On the other hand, I haven’t had to kill anyone for a long time. That’s restful.”

  “Restful?”

  She grinned. “I always found it… distasteful. More so than any of the sex. Messier, too,” she said, her grin widening as color stole into Blaine’s cheeks. “On the other hand, it’s so much less complicated here. Minding the sheep and the rabbits and the chickens. I actually like weaving and spinning—who’d have guessed? It’s satisfying to see a skein of yarn I’ve made myself.”

  The front door slammed open and Verran stood panting in the entrance. His face was red and his hair clung sweat-soaked to his scalp. “They’ve taken Dawe to Velant.”

  “Why?” Blaine motioned for Verran to take the seat he had just vacated, while Kestel went to pour him a cup of tea. Verran paused as he caught his breath, and sipped the tea to steady himself.

  “Prokief’s got soldiers all over the Bay. Warden-mages, too. The soothsayers in town have been claiming all kinds of omens, from the shape of the clouds to rumblings from Estendall, that volcano out off the fishing waters. Predicting fire and death and blood and darkness.”

  Blaine grimaced. “Predicting darkness doesn’t take much skill. The long dark is about to start. Happens every year.”

  “Why did they take Dawe?” Kestel pressed.

  Verran drained his cup and set it aside. “We were on our way to the cooper to pick up some barrels. Dawe was also going to check to see if the cooper had any more work for him. Two of Prokief’s guards stopped us and demanded our papers.”

  “Dawe hates that,” Kestel murmured.

  “We would have been all right, except that the guards decided to search us for weapons.”

  “Prokief’s got to be on edge if he doesn’t have anything better for his soldiers to do,” Blaine muttered.

  “We didn’t have anything on us larger than hunting knives, but the guard found Dawe’s bag of coins. He started making noises about how Dawe must have stolen it, and he and his friend started to push us around, trying to make Dawe confess.”

  “Because the bastards wanted his money,” Kestel said.

  “Right.” Verran wiped his mouth with the back
of his hand, and Blaine saw that one cheekbone was beginning to purple from a fresh bruise. “Now, when I’d seen the guards coming our way, I dropped my share of the coins behind a barrel, so they didn’t find anything when they searched me. Dawe wasn’t close to anything, so they got his. But you know how that kind of thing sets him off.”

  Blaine grimaced. Dawe Killick was one of the most even-tempered men Blaine had ever met. He seemed to accept nearly everything—bad weather, lost bets, even his own reversal of fortune that landed him at Velant—with unusual calm, but one thing raised his ire. The bullying of the Velant guards could send him into a rage. He’d had a couple of run-ins with the guards while they were both inside Velant, and a few near-misses since gaining his Ticket of Leave. “Yeah, I know.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me when the guards try to shake me down for some coins,” Verran said. “I always have a couple in my pocket for them to find, and use my magic fingers to hide the rest,” he said, sliding his thumb along his fingertips, alluding to the pickpocket skills that had helped earn him his conviction. “But when Dawe realized they meant to steal his money outright, he started yelling at the guards. They yelled back, and next thing I knew, there were more guards coming.”

  He fidgeted nervously. “I’m better at running than fighting, Blaine, you know that. So I gave one of the guards a good shove, and hoped I could drag Dawe free, but the other one had too tight a grip. Before I knew it, four of them were all over him, punching and kicking until Dawe stopped fighting back. I couldn’t get him away from them, so I ran before they thought to grab me.” He reached beneath his jacket and dropped a pouch on the table.