Vianne crawled to Jagur, a hand over her mouth. She pulsed calm determination into the air as if she could end the strife through sheer force of will. “Jagur?”
Pain magnified his frown, and he shook his head. “Your kind ought to be outlawed.” He sucked in a breath and reached for her hand. Her emotions whirled in her head, a muddled mix of irritation, love, and fear all her own. She pulled from his grip and inspected the damage to his leg. The arrowhead had burst through his flesh at the back of his thigh. “Break the shaft,” she ordered one of the guardians who’d remained behind.
The man glanced at Jagur, and when the commander nodded, he slid the shaft back as far as he could and snapped it. Vianne countered the pain with an infusion of pleasure and comfort that gnarled Jagur’s face into a knot. She braced herself. “We need to remove the arrow.”
The guardian helped her rolled him to his side and then pulled the arrow through. Jagur growled like a trapped bear. Vianne laid her hands on both sides of the wound and scalded the passageway. The flesh began to knit, blood vessels renewing connections, muscle ruptured but mending. She withdrew her hands. “Take him back. He requires rest.”
“Where in blazes do you think you’re going?” he barked at her.
“To do my duty.” She wiped her hands on her jacket. “Take him back.”
“Founders’ Hell, they will.” Jagur sat up, grimacing at the bloody hole in his trousers.
“You can’t hobble after me.” She squatted, her head low. “And you’re no help in your greens. You complicate everything. I’ll find my way closer and blend in. I’ll reach Sianna’s influencers; I have to try.” Before he could grumble another word, she leaned over him and kissed his sweaty forehead. “Take him back.” When the guardian nodded, she bent over and darted into the tall grass.
Jagur’s aggravated threats trailed her like an underlord debt, and she glanced back to see two guardians hauling him away, the other men retreating in a protective ring. The man no longer a burden, she crossed the meadow. The far side appeared empty of life, the battle moved on toward the river or hills. She clambered over a stone wall and slid into a ditch, her feet and bottom soaked in the shallow slime. For a count of twenty, she leaned on the stone, catching her breath, then crossed a dirt track and raced into a shallow woods of talprin and terran oak.
A distant voice and the clash of steel pealed through the branches from the east. She veered west, creeping ever nearer the city. The sounds of a camp grew louder, horns and shouted orders, horses and a thousand other noises melding into a growing drone. A collage of green leaves stippled the ground with filtered light, and the trees thinned. She hid behind a wide bole, gray bark beneath her fingers.
A crack above her head released a shower of bark. She spun, ready to whip a defense of terror and pain at whoever threatened her. As quickly as the impulse struck, she harnessed it. Four archers fanned out, cocked crossbows aimed at her chest. She raised her hands and doused them with love, anything else too risky. “I’m Vianne-Ava, doyen of the Influencers’ Guild.”
“I know who you are.”
She glanced to her left. Two men in russet half-cloaks trod the soft ground toward her. One of them she knew too well, Captain Paulin-Bes. Her hands remained at her shoulders. She straightened her back and lifted her chin, summoning up all the dignity that had drained to her feet, plying him with enough affection to melt a granite heart. Asking to speak with Sianna’s influencers made as much sense as trying to capture the sun by leaping from the tiers. She had one choice. “I need your help, Paulin. You must take me to Sianna-Bes.”
Paulin ambled toward her, a curious tilt to his head, the sweet smile on his lips at odds with the blade in his hand. “Whose side are you on now, darling? It was difficult to tell the last we met.”
“You misunderstood my—” The hilt of his knife rapped her on her temple. She sank to her knees, and he shoved her face down in the dirt, her ability to influence confined behind closed eyes. His knee pressed on her back.
“Wrap her head in a cloak,” he shouted. “Quickly.”
One of them lifted her head and shoved the blind over her face, binding it around her neck to prevent it from slipping. She gasped, spat dirt and bits of leaves into the fabric. They bound her hands and hoisted her to her feet by her arms. She swayed, the stuffy air trapped in her hood leaving her breathless. Someone pushed on her back. “Walk.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Influence roared over the barges like a tidal wave. Waterdragons spooled through the current with liquid grace. They keened and dove, winged fins slapping the water in plumes of light. Guardians howled and crumpled to the weathered deck. Panic punched Whitt in the chest, and his skin flared in white flameless fire. He dove behind the wheelhouse, clutching his chest, breathing like a bellows. Men screamed, dragging themselves to the rail and rolling into the Fargrove. Whitt pitched to the stern and dove. Frigid water shocked him and a genuine blast of terror juddered up his limbs as he fought for the surface against the weight of his mail. His head breached, and he gulped air. Other men flailed, mouths gaping as a renewed wave of influence swept the river.
Whitt grabbed the barge’s stern, the craft protecting him from the influencer’s shore-based barrage. “This way!” he shouted at the men. A pair of guardians swam his way, Boden and Victar, two of the four ordered to work the warrens at his side. He reached out and hauled Boden to the rim, then dragged Victar between them.
Crossbow bolts stung the surface, besieging those men thrashing in the open or clinging to the barge’s exposed sides. Iron tips thudded into the hull and speared the liquid luminescence, soundless unless they hit their mark. The ship drifted, spinning and rudderless. “Move,” he ordered, shaking with the cold. “Keep the boat between us and the tiers.”
The men nodded and shifted right, hand over hand, as the barge whirled past the city. “We have to swim.” He jerked his chin toward the shipyard and its clutter of winches and crates, towering booms and rigging. Long piers stretched from the jumbled mesh of industry into the river, partitioning the killing field of open water. He let go and swam, his teeth rattling with cold, his mail trying to sink him.
The current swept him past the first two piers. An absence of influence buoyed his determination if not his body. He caught sight of men sprinting through the shipyard, their plain clothes offering no hint as to which side they fought for. Bolts hissed over his head, and one skidded into the water an arm’s length to his left. He dove and swam under a pier, smacking his head on the framework supporting the planks. Stars glittered in his eyes, and he blinked them out.
Boden surfaced at his side, cracking his head before Whitt could spit a warning. They clamped their stiff fingers on the crossbars. “Victar?” he breathed.
The guardian shook his head, slapping aside the brown hair dripping in his eyes. “Hit.”
“We need to get to shore before we freeze.”
“After you.” Boden jerked his head into the darkness under the pier. Whitt released the crossbar and swam toward shore, ducking under the haphazard bracework. Boden coughed softly behind him. Whitt’s boots touched the bottom, sinking into the muck, and he slogged forward until he stood at a crouch. He raised a finger to his lips and waited for the sloshing water to quiet. After a long count of silence, he glanced back and nodded.
“I’ll go first.” Boden ducked under the water. His body glided out from beneath the pier like a giant fish. A hand poked back into the shadows, beckoning Whitt to the other side.
Whitt ducked, pushed off the mud, and slipped through the cold into the light. He rose to the surface. Boden crept toward shore in a crouch. Guardians had wreaked havoc through the yards, seizing anything useful that floated, cutting free and sinking the rest. Whitt followed, sliding along the hull of a half-constructed skudder, now resting in the murk at an unhealthy cant. He caught up with Boden, the two of them squatting in ankle-deep water.
“Which way?” Boden asked. “Left into battle or right into b
attle?”
“Left, toward the warrens.” Whitt checked his belt for his knives, both there. He’d scoop up something to use as a staff or spear on the way.
The riverside plazas and alleyways, workshops, slums, and yards marked the boundaries of the battleground for Nor-Bis. If nothing had turned on its head since the morning’s briefing, Sianna’s army bordered three sides of the city. High Ward Jullien defended his tiers, and the warrens were a quagmire. Whitt slinked into the shipyard, avoiding the arena of battle until he and Boden could recover their bearings and loosen cold muscles. Whitt’s feet slurped in this boots, but he couldn’t spare the time and effort to deal with the laces.
A thunder of voices rumbled nearby, the roar of two armed sides meeting to bash each other into oblivion. Whitt hefted up an iron rod and darted toward the racket, Boden a step behind him. He bent the corner and influence slammed him. Not pain, which would drop both sides to their kneecaps, but anger fueled by fear and pleasure, an invincible righteousness. He charged into the melee, swinging the end of his metal staff. The end cracked into a man’s jaw, snapping the bone and scattering teeth. The other end swept behind a set of knees and a woman crashed onto her back. Fury ripped through his skin, and he fell on the downed woman with a knife.
“Nor-Bis,” she screamed, punching him in the face.
He gritted his teeth, fighting for control of the urge to pummel her. They fought on the same side. Blood hammered in his skull and his fist shook. He bolted up and spun to the shadow of stacked crates broken against a wall. Out of sight of the tiers, he panted, the anger vanishing like the dark before a fiery flare. Combatants shouted the names of their cities, the only way to tell them apart, though it hardly seemed to matter.
The mob broke in two, one group running past Whitt, the other on their heels. “Boden!” Whitt shouted as the man jogged by in pursuit.
The guardian staggered and spun, his teeth clenched, face crimson. Blood trickled from a gash on his ear, and Whitt questioned whether the man could stop himself from making another kill. Boden ducked down by the wall and winced, his face softening. “Bloody insanity,” he muttered, drawing a breath.
Whitt nodded. “We need to stay out of the influencers’ sights.” He looked up at the late-day sky. The sun arced behind the tier city, casting long shadows. “We can wait for dusk if we’re trapped.”
“And run if it strikes.” Boden blew out a breath. “Let’s go.”
His feet under him, Whitt loped into the open and crossed the intersection they’d just fled. Two bodies lay twisted in the dirt. The influence he expected to burn his rage didn’t come, and he winged around a corner into a bank of shadow. They stuck to the wall and ducked into another alley, headed ever closer to the tiers.
“Guardians!” a voice shouted at their backs. “Kill them.”
“Balls,” Boden grunted. Whitt glanced back at the scruffy mob and sprinted ahead. He swung around a corner and rammed into the back of one of Sianna’s russet-cloaked guards. The man stumbled with a shout. Whitt leapt sideways and bounced off a wall, fighting for balance. Four stunned guards burst into action, advancing on him, two with long-bladed spears. Out of nowhere, Boden drove a knife into one man’s back and ducked a backhanded swipe. With his pipe, Whitt pounded a spear aside and reversed, clonking the guard on the temple. He kicked a knee and shuddered at the pop while swaying from a swing at his head. His elbow rammed into the offender’s throat, and Boden finished the man off.
Fear slammed him like a Fangwold avalanche, tossing him to the wall. Boden grabbed his arm, and they ran as the hounding mob scraped the corner, threatening to catch up. Whitt bolted, terror nipping at his heels. Eyes bulging, Boden uttered incoherent prayers to the Founders, boots hammering the pavers of a vacant market.
“This way!” Whitt yelled, reeling into a narrow lane of painted shops. Boden followed. The panic collapsed, but the score of men squatted against the shadowed walls jumped to their feet.
“Nor-Bis!” one of them shouted, and held up his hands, both bearing weapons.
“We’re followed,” Whitt warned, scarcely slowing his pace. He joined the group and spun to face the charge, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Boden panted beside him.
The pursuing throng hooked the corner, a roar for blood on their lips. Between the walls, the false emotions driving them broke. The influence dissipated like a blinding fog before the Summertide sun. The heat of the chase unwound and faltered until it stopped.
“Sianna-Bes,” a woman shouted from the amassing mob.
“Nor-Bis!” The man behind Whitt returned the challenge.
“The warrens,” Whitt bellowed, earning him a breath of silence. “Guardian has captured Bes-Strea. Three weeks ago, they began discussing terms. Mostin is representing the warrens in the negotiations.” He sucked in a breath. “Go home to your families.”
The men and women at the lane’s end shifted. Several looked to their neighbors, but they didn’t retreat. Behind Whitt, the same murmuring questions found voice. Whitt took a step back, whispering, “We’ll leave them with something to contemplate. Let’s go.”
***
Vianne sat on a slatted chair, hands bound at her back. The cloak that Sianna’s soldiers had secured over her head remained in place, suffocating in its heat. Sweat wormed down her face, and she fought for consciousness, breathing through her mouth. They were smart to leave her hooded, for the moment they removed it, she would feed them such terror and pain they would slash their own throats to escape. And remove the blind they would. She needed to drink and eat, to relieve herself, to negotiate. She would have her chance.
Unless Sianna simply planned to kill her.
The ground beneath her boots gritted like loose dirt. Muffled sounds of conversation and orders shouted at a distance led her to believe they’d imprisoned her in a tent. She worked the bindings constricting her wrists until her skin turned raw. Someone sighed and shifted nearby.
Time passed slower than the seasons, leaving her far too many moments to think. This war was a travesty, a waste, and beyond anyone’s control. Lelaine hadn’t been strong enough, and yet Vianne couldn’t rightly blame the young queen. Fault lay with the Influencers’ Guild. They’d mishandled every turn, failed to protect Ellegeance from itself. Vulnerable, the realm frayed at the edges, the cloth so fragile and tattered that the threads pulled apart and snapped under pressure.
Blatant flaws crystalized behind her eyes: the hesitancy to rule, the cautious approach to control, neutrality bordering on indifference. If the guild had led rather than slinking behind the drapes, none of this would have happened. Influencers should have managed the provinces. She wheezed in a hot breath, her stomach queasy. When this conflict ended, the doyen would need to rescript the oaths, rewrite the codes. Vows would be reordered: the first to the guild, the second to Ellegeance. Any further oaths would be controlled and subject to stringent rules.
None of that would happen if Sianna murdered her. She swallowed, quelling a surge of dizziness.
She would offer Sianna terms, reasonable terms as if her guild had discussed and approved them, as if the queen were in agreement, offering mercy for a swift peace. Whitt’s river rat fiasco was the only hitch she had no inkling how to explain away.
A cool draft circulated with the sounds of chafing canvas, feet shuffling, the clinking and rustling of bodies and murmuring voices. Someone cleared his throat, and the movement churned to a halt.
“Vianne-Ava.” A female voice, most likely Sianna’s. “How unfortunate to find you here. I thought the doyen knew better than to take sides. How does this serve Ellegeance? What will I do with your guild when this is over?”
“I haven’t taken sides,” Vianne said, her voice muffled by the cloth around her head. “This hood is stifling, Sianna-Bes, and I’m thirsty. I give my word not to use my influence if you remove it.”
“Hmm. I don’t think so. You see, I’ve lost my faith in your vows. One is always overriding another. And they’re ter
ribly subjective, don’t you think?”
Vianne sighed, disinclined to beg. “The guild hasn’t taken sides. We are interested in preserving the realm and maintaining peace in the provinces. Bes-Strea will succumb to pressure while you are here battling for a tier which will give you no greater power.”
“Bes-Strea stands firm,” Sianna scoffed.
“They’re under siege.” Vianne closed her eyes to the trickle of sweat running over the bridge of her nose. “Your son, Rordan, will be forced to negotiate terms.”
“You attempted to sabotage my ships,” Sianna said, “with river rats. Hardly a neutral act and certainly ineffective, comical if it weren’t so irritating.”
“A lone guardian instigated the deception. The guild didn’t condone it; the warrior pushed me into an action I resisted taking. You had commenced your aggression against Nor-Bis, so clearly it did nothing to slow you. My concern now is for your future.”
“Ah, how sweet of you.” Sianna paused to sip something. “Now, before I decide what to do with you, I intend to learn why you are here.”
“Terms.”
“Who sent you?”
“Elan-Sia.” Vianne didn’t flinch at the lie. “If you give up this aggression, we will support Rordan’s rise to High Ward of Bes-Strea. The queen will permit you to return, and your family will retain its position. Sianna-Bes, please hear me. You cannot win this war.”
“The queen is a rose waving her thorns, thinking she’s impervious to my shears. I desire the west. Give me Dar-Callin. And I want a bond for one of my sons to Her Highness. She may choose. Grant me my due, or I will create such havoc, you’ll wish the Founders never abandoned us on this rock.”
Vianne flexed her stiff hands, twisting them in their bonds. Sianna’s demands were irrational, her ambition bristled with iron spikes. She would bring the entire west into chaos if they didn’t appease her. “I’m in no position to guarantee all your demands, but I shall bring your bidding to the queen’s council.”
Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Page 30