Whitt shrugged. “Guardian’s primary oath is to Ellegeance.”
“As is the influencers’,” Kadan said.
Catling feigned shock. “And how nebulous those oaths are, how different might they appear between the two of you.” She finished her wine and extended her cup to Kadan for more.
“And your point?” Kadan asked.
“That I may one day break my oath to the queen, to Ellegeance, and certainly to my guild… if my heart and conscience tell me it’s the noble thing to do. My question is, will you?”
“I haven’t been much of a rule follower,” Kadan confessed.
Whitt looked at the man askance. “Do you abide by your rules now?”
“I’m… learning to be vigilant and thoughtful.” Kadan’s gaze dropped to his cup, and he swirled his wine. “I have Catling and Minessa to thank for that.”
“Have you broken your oath to Ellegeance?” Whitt asked.
Kadan glanced up at him and nodded. “When I obeyed my uncle, I broke my oath to the realm.”
“Hence, the gist of my argument,” Catling said over the sound of the waves. “I am beginning to think the only oaths we can keep are those to ourselves.”
Whitt sighed and tipped back his cup. “I haven’t had to make the choice yet. I trust my commander. I trust Guardian.”
“I hope your day of choosing doesn’t come.” Kadan filled Whitt’s cup and corked the bottle. “I would like to believe it’s possible.”
“Cull Tarr,” Catling said, looking over Kadan’s shoulder. A double-masted dragnet leaned almost broadside to the wind with a heading intended to intimidate if not intercept them. “I’m tacking; watch your heads.”
She pushed the tiller to port, and the boat veered into the wind. The sail luffed and then snapped taut, the boom swinging to starboard.
“You’re aiming for them,” Whitt pointed out.
“Only for a moment.” Catling inched the tiller. “They can’t turn as quickly. We’ll sail by them, tack, and aim for the harbor, I hope.” Her knowledge of ships and their capabilities was limited to Lelaine’s lessons.
“They’re arrogant,” Kadan remarked as the sleek fighting ship veered toward them.
Catling steered farther to starboard, slowing her speed but forcing the bigger ship into a tighter turn if they wished an encounter.
“Look!” Whitt pointed ahead. Kadan turned and Catling laughed. Four sleek shapes undulated through the sea toward them, each larger than the boat.
“Waterdragons!” Whitt stepped up to the mast and held on. “They’re gigantic.”
Kadan shook his head, his face pale. “Have you seen them on the sea before?”
“Never four,” Catling said. “Hang on. We’re going to get wet.”
No sooner had she said the words than the creatures divided, flanking the catboat, two to each side. The pleated fins soared out of the waves, fanning over the mast, first one, then another, streams of luminescence thrown to the sunlight. Cold sea drenched the boat. Whitt laughed and the waterdragons dove. Two horned heads burst from the swells, blowing spray from their long snouts. They sank when a third reared, opalescent scales slick with light. Then the four rolled, wings arcing through the air, spray glittering in diamond clouds.
Catling grabbed Kadan’s hand as the boat bucked and swayed. She smiled at his wide eyes. Whitt clung to the mast, laughing with fear or amazement. Then the waterdragons curled their tails, the wide flukes slapped the surface, and they sank below the foamy waves.
The catboat rocked and the sails luffed, the sheet forgotten. Catling grabbed the tiller, and the Cull Tarr ship sailed on. Her hair dripped into her eyes; she shivered and smiled. “Saved once again by waterdragons.”
Whitt stepped down from the mast, retrieved the line, and passed it to Catling. “My second time.”
“My first,” Kadan said. “And hopefully, my last.” He collected their cups from the boat’s floor and poured out the salty seawater. Shaking with cold, he unstopped the last of their wine. Whitt broke out the wool blankets, handed one to Kadan, and wrapped another around Catling’s quivering shoulders before donning his own.
Catling sailed into the delta and moored the boat. They ambled up to the second tier and joined fishermen, traders, and riverfolk at The Windhover Inn for a hearty meal. Still swaddled in blankets, they shared a second bottle of wine, satisfied with the tier-bound view of the moons gracing the glittering sea.
Chapter Thirty
Kadan bid farewell to Cale and Tavor on Ava-Grea’s piers. The hawk-nosed warrior and his curly-headed companion would continue south for Guardian, arriving on the cusp of Springseed, and with luck, at the tail end of the savage Fangwold storms.
The next steps hinged on Commander Jagur’s assessment of their plans, a detail the guardians insisted upon, and the queen acknowledged. Weeks ago, Tavor had sent a coded missive regarding the Warrior Guilds’ role, meant to spark the commander’s thoughts. With Jagur’s approval, Guardian would intervene in Bes-Strea and bring High Wardess Sianna to her knees.
Gannon and Tiler traveled to Lim-Mistral and Rho-Dania. They’d call on old supporters and work the warrens while delivering the queen’s mandate to the tiers. If Catling found success in Mur-Vallis, it was a mandate Kadan would need to carefully consider as the new high ward.
His immediate task posed the least risk though of vital importance, and his success with the guild’s doyen was far from assured. He left the floating docks to the riverfolk and rafters, the burgeoning markets, and miasma of swamp and fish. A steady wind curled down the Slipsilver, sullen skies threatening rain.
He rode the lift to his quarters and opened the vents to warm the neglected air. While waiting for the porter to deliver his trunk, he inked a message to the doyen, advising them of his arrival and a desire to address them. He would bathe, don clean clothes, and if fortune smiled on him, Minessa would join him for dinner.
The answer as to how Catling had learned of his feelings for Minessa eluded him, and he hadn’t pried. She’d accepted the knowledge with grace, and their friendship hadn’t suffered. It had helped to find Whitt’s affections indelibly clear. If Kadan had been an unwitting rival, he was no more.
The porter arrived, and Kadan swapped his trunk for the message and a whole copper. He’d finished his bath when he heard the wished-for knock on his door.
Minessa smiled, her head at a tilt, cloud-white hair brushing her forehead and curling up at her ears. She wore violet, the color of healing, her wool jacket trimmed with fur and her plum underdress of simple design.
He returned her smile, all the stress of the previous weeks shed like Harvest leaves. She was guileless, and to a man whose childhood was inflicted with fear and whose adult years reeked of intrigue, that quality proved hypnotic. He found her irresistible.
“When this is over, Nessa, if you will have me, I offer you my bond.”
Her slanted eyes widened, full of mirth. She threaded her fingers behind his neck and kissed him. “When this is over, Kadan, if you will have me, I will accept.”
***
The next morning Kadan and Nessa climbed the spiral stair to Ava-Grea’s topmost tier. Rain spattered on the budding gardens and drew rippling rings in the fountains’ pools. A green film shaded the heads and shoulders of stone statuary. Only Founder-made structures were impervious to the encroachment of damp growth.
He fingered aside the hood of his cloak to peer at her. She walked with her head down, hiding her face from the rain. “I’ve meant to ask you,” he said. “Tunvise taught us to take a life beyond the act of mercy. You chose to forgo that trial.”
“A statement or a question?” She glanced up at him.
“A statement, I think.” He smiled. “That’s what I believed, but now you’re a doyen. You teach the mercys.”
“And when did mercy ever equate to murder?” she asked. “I refused then, and I refuse now. I teach how to end a life with mercy, true mercy, Kadan. If the other doyen wish to teach aspirants
how to butcher, they are free to do so.”
“Did they attempt to coerce you?”
“Convince me, yes; coerce me, no. In the end, I believe Dalcoran’s pain decided them. My talent for healing outshone any requirement to kill.”
She tapped the entrance panel, and the door to the doyen’s hall slid aside. Luminescence circulating through the ceiling’s glass tubes shone brightly against the windows’ gloom, and the room felt warm. Cushioned seating formed a loose circle around a low table set with a selection of pastries, a fifth chair added for him. The other three doyen were already present.
“My respects.” He bowed. “It’s a pleasure to be back in Ava-Grea.”
“Welcome, Kadan.” Vianne looked up from her tatting with a gracious smile. “We’re eager for your report. Please help yourself to a cup of greenleaf.”
He shed his wet cloak and helped himself to a cup of tea. Minessa had done the same and taken a seat between Dalcoran and Brenna, the older woman offering her the plate of sweets.
Dalcoran leaned back in his seat, formal as always, impeccably dressed with his hair smoothed back. Yet, he smiled and crossed his legs, an elbow resting easily on the chair’s arm. Kadan couldn’t recall a time when his mentor wasn’t massaging swollen fingers and shifting to accommodate the stiffness in his back. Minessa had worked a miracle.
“How fares our queen?” Dalcoran asked.
“Besieged,” Kadan replied. “She had hoped for action prior to Winterchill, but the timing proved impossible. We were forced to wait for the thaw to move warriors from Guardian.”
The doyen stared at him, and Vianne forgot her lace. “Move warriors from Guardian? Was Jagur… the commander in Elan-Sia?”
“No, he is in Guardian,” Kadan said. “Forgive me, let me back up and explain.” He backtracked, reviewing Guardian’s efforts and Whitt’s report of activity in the rogue provinces. To that, he added information shared by Gannon, an account Vianne listened to with interest. He finished with an outline of the plan, including Catling’s role.
“Is that wise?” Vianne asked. “Catling is one of a kind.”
“She insisted,” Kadan said, “and the queen acknowledged an obligation.”
Vianne sighed. “A promise Lelaine no doubt regrets.”
“Perhaps.” Kadan leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “I’ve yet to explain your role.”
His teacup returned to the table, Dalcoran threaded his fingers. “They want our influencers to break their oaths to the provinces.” The doyen rarely disclosed his thoughts or feelings, and this instance was no different.
Kadan regarded the man’s placid expression. “In favor of our oath to Ellegeance. The queen wishes the guild to issue an edict to provincial influencers, ordering them to cease employing their skills in support of aggression against another city.”
“She wishes or she commands?” Vianne asked, her eyebrows forming delicate arches.
“She believes peace in the provinces is in the best interest of Ellegeance.”
“Either way,” Brenna said, “she continues in her attempt to curb our power. Her rose shield leaves her immune to the pull of influence. Now she desires the provinces to be free as well. Soon we’ll be commanded to limit our power to Ava-Grea.”
“She is not requesting that we curb all influence,” Kadan argued. “Only influence aimed at aggression.”
“Stepping on the high wards’ toes has consequences.” Vianne tapped her chin with a fingertip. “We’ve always allowed them autonomy, and oaths are routinely subject to interpretation.”
“The guild has manipulated the provinces before,” Kadan replied, the doyen’s hedging more irritating than a burr in his boot. “You can be quite specific regarding strictures, defiance, and penalties when you wish to be. Some of us bear the scars to prove it.”
Minessa gave him a warning glance, and he bit back the urge to continue. The doyen had nearly tortured him to death for using unsanctioned influence. And though his wounds weren’t physical, three very real scars crossed the woads on Vianne’s back.
“The queen has brought this on herself,” Brenna said. “If she’d bonded and produced a female heir, the matter of succession would be long resolved.”
Vianne huffed at the suggestion. “Your point has been dulled to death, Brenna-Dar. Until such a day arrives, she’s quite capable of ruling without relinquishing her power in a bond.”
“She expects sacrifices made for the realm.” Brenna folded her hands in her lap. “Here’s one she might make.”
“I’m unconvinced,” Vianne said. “It’s possible that the presence of a bond and heir is irrelevant to our conspirators.”
“A request for reduced belligerence isn’t unreasonable,” Minessa spoke up. “Under what circumstances is one tier’s hostility against another justified? Why wouldn’t we consider increasing constraints on our influence when enlisted for destruction?”
“On occasion, violence is necessary,” Dalcoran said. “Should Ellegeance one day come under attack, we may require violence as a tool.”
“Agreed,” Minessa said. “Yet, that’s not the question we’re debating.”
Vianne picked up her tatting. “Even if we agreed, Minessa, we would need a conclave to initiate such a broad change.”
“Or we could send birds.” Minessa snuck Kadan an exasperated glance.
Dalcoran held up a hand, stalling any further comments. “We face troubling times, and I am not opposed to change. However, I opt in favor of caution. Our power has always provided the provinces with autonomy. Sanctioning the assassination of Algar leapt far beyond our common bounds. You argued, Kadan, that your uncle’s death would serve as a warning to other high wards and forestall aggression in the other tiers. When we’ve taken that step, we may consider further action, but until the consequences are evident, the queen’s request is premature.”
With the matter settled, Kadan bowed. “I thank you for your judicious consideration. I will await word from Mur-Vallis before renewing my plea.”
He descended the stairs in the blustery rain and sent two doves from the seventh tier with his regrets, one to Commander Jagur in Guardian and one to the queen. At the door, he turned back and scribed a careful letter that he folded and sealed for delivery down the Slipsilver to Catling. He had nothing more to do but wait.
Chapter Thirty-One
Whitt marched up the ramp to the second tier of Ava-Grea and bared his forearm, displaying the inked dagger of Guardian. He wore his armor, steel-shielded boots, vambraces, and a baldric trimmed with fur on the shoulders. The tier guards waved him through with weapons intact.
The letter from his commander had approved the plan. Jagur and two thousand seasoned warriors descended from Guardian, headed for Bes-Strea, the first action inside Ellegeance since the Founders set foot on the world.
Jagur’s words growled across the page, his displeasure with the Influencers’ Guild as black as the ink with which he’d written. The doyen had resisted Kadan’s plea for intervention, and Jagur wasted no words in calling it a self-serving, unprincipled, and shameful act of cowardice that put his men at risk, not to mention those embroiled in the conflict, tiers and warrens alike.
After a half-page rant, the commander instructed Whitt to bring Vianne to Bes-Strea. If they desired a battle, one of them owed it to the realm to witness the impact of their decision. He also wanted Catling there to counter any influencers Sianna swayed to her side. That last order would go unfulfilled. Even if Lelaine agreed, Catling had already left for Mur-Vallis.
Whitt grimaced as he entered the lift and knuckled the panel. He’d refused to accept Catling’s decision and argued with her until she shoved him from her chambers, her skin smoking. Algar would kiss the mud, and in his opinion, it didn’t require her hand. The high ward’s death wouldn’t raise their family from the grave, while her death would destroy him. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Then, she’d gone, jaw clenched and huffing with fury.
> He exited on the twelfth tier and waited while a guard presented his request for an audience with Vianne. The gardens flowered with Springseed blooms and the fountains glittered with luminescence. How his life had changed since the first time he’d come seeking Catling. He’d been threadbare, hungry, and powerless, and Vianne had thwarted him like a bothersome fly.
“She’ll see you.” The guard gestured for him to follow.
Vianne’s salon was as elegant as he remembered, her statuesque bearing and white attire equally unchanged. He’d encountered her several times since those days, but not in her lair where her power felt absolute, as durable as steel.
“My respects, Vianne-Ava.” Whitt bowed.
“You’ve changed since your first visit.” Vianne sat in a cushioned chair and gestured to the seat across from her. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
“I’m well, thank you.” Whitt shook his head. “The last time I stood here I wanted to talk to Catling. You convinced me it was unwise.”
“Have you changed your mind?” She tilted her chin.
“Yes, in hindsight, I should have talked to her. If she couldn’t leave, I could have stayed and been a friend to her. She’s not happy, not as she was at the farm. For all I know, you have all sent her to her death.”
“She made it a condition of her vow,” Vianne said, “her demand of the queen in exchange for her shield.”
“Only because she had nothing left to lose.”
Vianne sighed, her eyes direct. “Perhaps you are right, Whitt. I’m undecided, and we all misjudge at times. How can we possibly anticipate how our actions will ripple into the future? I made a decision in the best interest of Ellegeance. I would make it again.
“Are you content, Vianne, with your choices?”
“Contentment isn't always the goal, is it? Sometimes we simply serve when and where we are needed. Because we swore an oath to something larger than our own happiness. Is your oath to Ellegeance any less stringent than mine?”
Whitt couldn’t argue. He would abide by his oath and serve Guardian. He had told Catling his vow mattered, and he trusted his commander’s leadership. If Jagur himself traveled toward Bes-Strea, Whitt believed in the necessity.
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