She glanced up to see the Vidor staring, looked to Kestrel and back at him, and lifted her eyebrows in turn. Arna saw the resemblance then. The hair, gathered at the nape of her neck and left to tumble down her back, was of a similar tint to Kestrel’s chignon but with more chestnut and fewer red highlights. Her eyes were of a similar shape, although a different color. The curve of the cheek was also similar to Kestrel’s, as was the way she held her shoulders. Arna narrowed his eyes, recalling the Jadaren records room and the innumerable rolled parchments that recorded the families and genealogies of all the merchant families his own had dealings with. This must be Ciari, Kestrel’s elder sister.
She noticed him looking at her then, and he swallowed, thankful she didn’t know he’d mistaken her for a servant. One corner of her mouth quirked up into a wry smile, and she winked at him. Perhaps she did know at that. He shrugged in apology.
He wondered if she was herself betrothed. She and Kestrel were the only Beguine daughters, he recalled, their only sibling an elder brother of an adventurous mind who had elected to look after the family interests in Imaskar.
“Twenty delivered to the House the day after tomorrow—fresh that morning, mind. I won’t serve the stale leavings of your storehouse to my guests or family, good-widow, especially not at the price you demand. And you’ll give me one to take home now, for goodwill.”
She took a length of clean linen from her basket and slapped it on the counter.
“Waukeen forgive you for abusing a poor woman at the end of her life,” replied Mistress Bejuer-Vaud, with perfect good cheer, as she took the cloth and wrapped a pie in it, deftly tying the ends into a neat knot before she slipped it into Kestrel’s basket. “Soon I’ll be dead, and you may burn candles to light my passing to temper your many sins,” she added, looking more than ever like an elderly gnome.
Kestrel grinned. “Never change, Mother Bejuer-Vaud,” she said, sweeping her basket up and turning to go, her sister beside her. The old woman beamed, having made a profitable sale this day.
Vidor had been looking for his chance. As the Beguine girls left the stall, he stepped before them with a polite bow. Arna hastened to stay beside him.
“Your pardon, goodlady Beguine,” Vidor began, bending toward Ciari. He must have deduced that the girl in autumn brown must be Kestrel’s sister, Arna noted. Both girls halted, Ciari holding her leather packet to her breast and Kestrel starting to frown.
Perhaps she wasn’t frowning, thought Arna. Perhaps she was just preoccupied. No, she was frowning. Arna tried not to think of how it would be to wake up next to that frown every day for the rest of his life.
“Pardon my intrusion, but I’ve come at the behest of your good father,” continued Vidor, offering Ciari the coil of the paper from Nicol Beguine. “My family has been developing portable cantrips, suitable for anyone to use at his convenience. Perhaps you received our gift of a box of samples.”
Ciari took it between her long, slim fingers, one of which, Arna noticed, had a blot of ink at the knuckle. He stifled a smile, thinking of how often he’d missed a similar blot until he spotted it out in public. Ciari must do the accounting after all.
Kestrel exhaled impatiently and snatched the paper from her sister’s hand. She glanced at it and thrust it back at Vidor, who took it, startled.
“Vidor Druit, is it?” she snapped. Arna saw she had fine eyes, so brown they were almost black.
“Well, is it? Speak up, man,” she continued, as Vidor only stared up at her, nonplussed.
“So I am, goodlady,” he stammered. “It’s my honor—”
“I’ll have you know two of your so-called fire starters fizzled out with nary a spark,” Kestrel interrupted. “You can hardly expect us to put our good name to shoddy goods, can you?”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” returned Vidor with some of his accustomed spirit. “Yet two failing meant eighteen worked, correct? For I’m sure you tried them all.”
She only frowned in answer. It was a pretty enough frown, Arna conceded. Still, he hoped she didn’t make it a habit, although he feared she did.
“How often must one strike a flint until the fire catches?” Vidor pressed on. “Many times, and if the flint is wet or worn, one might never get warm.”
“Ten percent is not acceptable,” she said with such finality that Arna felt he must defend his friend’s venture.
“But it is, for something that can be sold so cheaply and is not convenient in the main,” he interjected, then blinked as Kestrel turned the full force of her gaze on him. His argument, so clear before he spoke, became muddled in his head, and he grasped at what Vidor had told him at Jadaren Hold.
“We’ve all had a basket of bad plums that must be disposed of,” he continued, struggling for coherency, “and no one complains if each customer has no more than one.”
“Bad plums?” said Kestrel. Arna glanced at Ciari, who was shaking her head with a slight smile. Kestrel drew a deep breath, as if she were about to plunge deep into a cold pool, and proceeded to tell him and Vidor exactly what she thought of bad plums. It took a long time, and was very skillfully done, and both men felt fairly bruised when it was over.
When Kestrel ended her diatribe, or perhaps was just drawing breath for another go, Vidor jumped in.
“We’ll get the failure rate below one in twenty, goodlady. We can do it more quickly with backing from House Beguine, however.”
She only stared at him as if he were a particularly unattractive slime mold, tossed her head, and turned away.
“Bad plums, indeed,” she muttered.
Ciari was looking at Arna with an expression of amused sympathy, and he made bold to lean in close to her.
“What do you do with your bad plums?” he whispered.
“We cook them down into plum butter to sell in wintertime,” she whispered back, with a glance at her sister, who was tapping her foot impatiently. “Enough brandy, and a little overripeness is easily forgiven.”
She looked a trifle distracted, as if something were bothering her, and her hazel eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were in pain.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She smiled at him and touched the side of her head briefly. “It’s nothing. A slight headache, which is passing.”
“Come,” called Kestrel. “I want to get home and see to your head.”
With a final glare for Vidor and Arna she hastened away.
“I’ll send word to your House, then, when the shipments are ready,” called Vidor after her, but she only stiffened her shoulders.
So now he knew for sure.
There was nothing but pale ash in the green bowl now, and the smell of burned hair hung like a miasma in the room. But there was no doubt about it; the green flame, though short-lived, was unmistakable. Kestrel, Vorsha’s youngest, was Sanwar’s daughter.
He drummed his broad-tipped fingers on the side of the desk and contemplated that information, what it meant and, most importantly, what to do with it.
Some use must be made of the fact that the Beguine maiden Nicol so blithely proposed throwing to the enemy was Sanwar’s child.
Arna and Vidor watched as the sisters walked away, Kestrel clutching the market basket to her side, Ciari with her ledger book tucked under her arm. Once Ciari glanced back at Arna with a rueful smile on her lips and sympathy in her hazel eyes. Arna felt his heart thump against his ribs. Kestrel put her hand firmly on her sister’s shoulder, and the older girl turned away, looking forward obediently. The swirl of their long skirts beat the dry dust of the market street into a small cloud at their feet, and as the clamor of dozens of sellers rose about them, they looked neither right nor left, their backs straight, strong, graceful, and uncompromising as they vanished into the morass of carts, people, and trade goods.
Vidor drew a long, shuddering breath and grasped Arna’s elbow.
“Arna Jadaren,” he said, his voice tinged by wonder.
Arna snorted. “Yes, I know. Come, let’s get out
of the thoroughfare.”
But Vidor, like a man under a spell, didn’t move, still gazing, at the spot where the girls had disappeared between a glassblower and a booth hawking many colors of thread. His fingers tightened over Arna’s flesh and bone, and the youth winced.
“Arna Jadaren,” he said again, slowly, as if puzzling out the words. “You bastard.”
“No need to break my elbow,” said Arna, pulling his friend from the path of a pair of inebriated-looking mercenaries and a pack of giggling children. Vidor complied passively, continuing to look past the thread merchant as if he had a hope of bending his vision around the booth and seeing where the Beguine daughters had gone.
That would be a useful spell to package and sell, thought Arna incongruously as he pushed Vidor between the stall where apples were piled red, yellow, and green on the counter and the secondhand armor merchant. The dwarf looked up at them, shook her head, and bent back to her hammering.
“You lucky, lucky bastard,” said Vidor.
“You needn’t make fun,” said Arna. “She can’t be as bad as that all the time.”
“As bad as …” Vidor turned to him, and Arna saw he still held Nicol Beguine’s note curled between his fingers like a talisman. “You lucky piece of …” He gestured in the air as if tasked with explaining advanced accounting to an idiot. “That creature,” he continued. “That magnificent, gorgeous creature. That’s the kind of bride a man could search the world over for, and kill for, and die for. And, you lucky bastard, she’s yours for a handshake.”
“You mean Kestrel Beguine?” said Arna, nonplussed.
“No, I mean the Queen of the Goblins! Who else could I mean? I wish my family had an age-old feud with House Beguine, if such a thing meant marrying Kestrel.”
“The woman who just scolded you in a public street for having shoddy goods?”
Vidor smiled as if remembering his first kiss. “Oh, she never meant all that,” he said. “She’s just setting the scene for bargaining advantage.”
“Didn’t sound like that to me,” said Arna. “Sounded more like she never wanted to see your face again. Or mine, for that matter.” It occurred to him, at this belated moment, that Kestrel was likely to remember his face when they were formally introduced—and she didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. Ciari would certainly recognize him. Not much escaped her observant gaze. He could tell that much. Would she be offended on behalf of her sister?
Suddenly it seemed important that Ciari not despise him, and he wondered why.
“You’re dense as a post,” said Vidor. “And it’s not fair, because you still get to marry her. Don’t tell me you regret the bargain, because I won’t believe you for a moment.”
By Waukeen’s purse, Vidor seemed ready to fight him over the matter. Arna lifted a placating hand.
“She’s a magnificent woman, of course,” he said. “I am very fortunate. Let’s get back to our rooms, and contemplate my good fortune and your stock of cantrips. I still don’t feel entirely safe in Beguine territory.” He tugged at Vidor’s sleeve.
With a final longing glance down the market, Vidor complied, following Arna blindly and muttering beneath his breath. Arna was glad he’d taken special note of the street turnings that would take them back to the inn.
“Vidor,” he said as he nudged his friend around a corner. “Vidor, are you reciting poetry?”
“I wish I could recall more,” Vidor said. “What’s that verse in Tomas of Meryton’s poem about the eladrin princess who married a mortal man? ‘Child of night and starlight, her beauty as a crown …’ and then I can’t remember. ‘Something something something down …’ or was it ‘town’? I know you’ve read it.”
“What will I do with you?” said Arna, amused. He had a wild idea of switching identities with Vidor, of trying his hand at furthering the Druit cantrip venture and letting his friend wed his promised bride, since he seemed to have fallen violently in love with her. No, it couldn’t be love, not so soon. Let it be infatuation, then.
“Did you mark her sister?” he said innocently. “Very pretty, wasn’t she? A sweet face and manner.”
Vidor shook his head impatiently. “Yes, yes, she looked well enough. But a pale shadow, my friend, to your promised bride. If you had hopes of my aligning myself with the Beguines, that is not the path to it. If Kestrel refuses you, however, at the altar or before … that’s a path I’ll gladly tread. ‘Down roads of man, to mortal town …’ No, that’s not it.”
He suspected Vidor would agree to a switch of identities, but it would never do. He’d hurt his family and House Beguine in the end. It would be best to go through with the bargain, for the sake of peace and the business.
There were worse fates, after all, than marrying a beautiful woman, however hard her tongue.
There were two more coppers in the lava-rock shrine beneath Jandi’s Oak, one knotted with green thread; another with blue. The small doll figure was gone, and in its place, topped with his scarlet string with the square knot, was a box, intricately woven of tiny strips of bark. It fit easily in the hollow of his hand.
Carefully he opened it. The close-fitted lid lifted away to reveal another box inside. He laughed to himself when the second box proved to contain another, no bigger than his thumbnail.
He managed to pry off the tiny lid without destroying it. Inside was not, as he half expected, another box but a rough white crystal, such as one might find in the streambed below. He shook it into his palm and rubbed his thumb over it. It was just a small fragment of quartz, smaller than a pebble, with no special quality about it.
Smiling, he restored the stone to the smallest box and nestled them all inside one another as he had found them. He was at a loss to decide how to interpret the Jandi’s gift—or the craft of the forest folk—as an augury of his future. Could it mean he was to look past his bride’s brash exterior? That was an uncomfortable thought; it could mean she had a heart of stone. Or the bit of quartz could indicate a hidden jewel when it came from the people of the woods.
He slipped the box into his pocket. It was well made, even if it told him nothing, and he didn’t intend to drive himself mad trying to guess the future.
NEAR SHADRUN-OF-THE-SNOWS
1585 DR—THE YEAR OF THE BLOODIED MANACLES
At the lip of the ridge two figures crouched. One was so close to the edge, she seemed almost suspended at the crux of falling, but she was rooted at the crest, still as the statue of an archer on the turrets of Belcaine Castle. Not a strand of her silver-marked hair, bound back in braids, stirred, and her face, which was marked with a wide pale band across her eyes like a mask, was impassive. Her hands were empty, and a greatsword was slung across her back.
At her shoulder a taller figure was poised, a golden image on one knee. His hair, steely in the late-afternoon sun that slanted through the pines clustered on the crest, hung free about his shoulders, and his face was also marked, with four thin stripes slanted and branched like a tiger’s over each cheek. He held a longbow gripped loosely in one hand.
Below them, in the fern-choked gully that bordered the road, there was a stir of hunched, muscular figures, and a clatter of weapons. Then all again was still.
Lakini felt Lusk tap her shoulder: once, twice, thrice, seven times. Seven brigands were hidden below. She nodded once. It matched her count. He withdrew his hand, and she heard a faint twang as he nocked an arrow to the string.
Down the road came the clatter of horses’ hooves and the sound of people calling to one another—a merchant caravan, about to venture into a trap. Lakini wondered at the rogues that lay in wait, about to ambush the caravan so close to the Sanctuary of Shadrun-of-the-Snows, but risky as it was, it might be a clever plan. In more hostile territory the guard would be on the alert, but here they were so close, they were probably relaxing and eager for a rest, a meal, and a soak in the mineral springs. And the thieves might not know two devas patrolled the slopes around the sanctuary.
The company ca
me into view around a distant bend. Her sharp eyes saw that the four riders in front were clustered together, instead of spaced out so they could watch for attack from the side as well as in front. She wondered if the rear guard was slackly organized.
Internally, Lakini shook her head at their folly. If they had any experience at all, they should know to be vigilant always, even when they thought they’d reached the heart of safety. If they didn’t have experience, their employers were foolish to put their lives and goods in their hands.
Some would say they deserved their fate. Lakini wouldn’t. She reached back for her greatsword and drew it, slowly so the metal wouldn’t ring out against the scabbard. At the same time, Lusk nocked a second arrow to his string.
The jingle of reins could be heard clearly in the cool air, and there was the faint but unmistakable sound of a woman’s laughter. Five horsemen in blue-gray livery led the group, still ranged in their sloppy formation. A wagon drawn by a matched pair, heavy-boned draft horses by the look of them, brought up the rear, flanked by two more guards. Several riders, men and women both, clustered between the wagon and the foreguard, and one, a slight figure in a long, dull red dress, had dismounted and led her bay by the reins. Lakini watched while she bent and plucked some stalks of lupine by the side of the road.
Yes, she would make it a point to have a word with those guards—if they survived the experience. It was foolishness to allow a traveler under one’s protection to stray by the side of the road in unknown territory.
She flexed her hands around the worn leather of the grip, waiting. The birdsong stilled and each second stretched impossibly long. Each step the horses took seemed interminable, and she entered that state of perfect awareness of everything around her: the rough bark of the twig that pressed into the leather of her legging against her knee; the smell of the leaves the heavy feet of the brigands below had crushed; the body heat of her companion behind her. If she concentrated, she could hear the raspy breathing of one of the rogues. Either he was very nervous or had a head cold.
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