“Good.”
“He’s not happy.”
“I saw that on the docks.”
Nothing more was said as Alonse led the entire group into the manse. The first room, a huge, circular foyer with marbled flooring, contained three doors and two curved flights of stairs to a second floor. Alonse ascended the stairs to the left into a wide hall branching left and right with small tables, potted palms, and huge urns set against the walls. The first door to the left opened into a room with a four-posted bed draped in filmy cloth, a cushioned bench at its foot, a settee, a few chairs, a table with fruit and a pitcher, and wardrobes against the walls.
“Will this suffice?” Alonse asked.
“Yes.”
The four guardsmen carrying Erick’s pallet moved to the bed, Isaiah and Marielle hustling to help.
“Can you send word to Lord Sorrenti?” Alonse’s lips thinned and he drew breath to speak, but I cut him off in irritation. “Never mind. ‘Lord March requests,’ I’m certain.”
Alonse frowned, the first true expression he’d shown since we’d met him in front of the manse. “Was there anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“I could show you to your own rooms—”
He cut off as I turned.
“Leave.”
He bowed and left, the doors remaining open behind him. Keven immediately stationed the guardsmen that had remained with us around the door and in the corridor beyond. As he did so, Catrell arrived.
Avrell, Westen, Catrell, and Keven converged on me. Heddan and Gwenn had moved to Erick’s side with Ottul, helping Isaiah get him situated.
“This is not . . . encouraging,” Westen said.
Catrell practically shook with fury. “We are an official envoy from Amenkor, with the Mistress in our company and an escort from Venitte itself. We should not have been greeted in such a manner. And now we are essentially locked within the walls of this manse, prisoners of Venitte!”
Westen shared a glance with me. Both of us knew that any of the Seekers could escape the walls undetected if necessary. But Catrell was correct regarding the rest of the guardsmen.
“I’m not concerned about that at the moment,” I said. “We’ll deal with it later. Right now, we need to figure out some way to get word to Lord Sorrenti. Brandan Vard said he was the only one in Venitte who could break the spell on Erick. And Isaiah says Erick won’t survive the night.”
“That only leaves us a few hours,” Westen muttered, his voice calm although his brows creased in concern. “Should I . . . ?”
He trailed off. I knew what he was asking, thought about it a long moment.
But before I could come to a decision, Avrell said sharply, “No. You cannot allow the Seekers out of the manse. Look at what happened when you sent Seekers into Temall. Do you think Lord March will react any differently if he finds out that you allowed Seekers to roam the streets of Venitte without his knowledge? The repercussions to Amenkor would be devastating. Tristan has probably already informed him that you’ve brought them with you, and if not him, then General Daeriun. That in and of itself will not go over well.”
“He would never know that we’d left the grounds,” Westen said.
“No! No, I forbid it!”
I raised one eyebrow.
Avrell spluttered a moment, then added, “Mistress.”
But Avrell was right. Lord Pyre’s summary dismissal still stung. And I still didn’t understand his decision. I couldn’t afford to make the same mistake with Lord March.
“The Seekers will remain here,” I said regretfully. “Would you even know where to look for help, Westen?”
He shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. We’ll have to rely on General Daeriun or William.”
“Or Tristan,” Avrell said.
I didn’t answer, breaking away and moving to Erick’s side. I reached out and gripped his hand. His skin was soft and cold and dry, his pulse thready. His breath came in long, drawn-out wheezes.
Marielle touched my arm in comfort, then stepped away, taking the other two Servants with her, leaving me with Isaiah.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and began to wait.
Time passed slowly, night bleeding toward dawn. No one spoke, the room filled with Erick’s breathing, with the creak of a chair as someone shifted, the rustle of sheets as I moved from the bed to pace. The room had a window overlooking the front courtyard, the iron-vined gates. I watched the Protectorate guards in the torchlight at the gates until I couldn’t stand it anymore and moved back to the bed. I ignored the glances that passed between Westen and Avrell, between Avrell and Isaiah, ignored the downturned mouths, the lowered heads of the Servants, Heddan’s quiet sobbing.
And then, suddenly, William appeared at the door to the room.
Catrell leaped to his feet, hand on his sword. Avrell and Westen merely stood.
“He was the only one I could think of to turn to,” William gasped, his breath short, as if he’d sprinted, the words half an apology, half a grimace. “But it worked.”
Behind him stood Brandan Vard.
And Lord Zachari Sorrenti.
Part III:
Venitte
Chapter 10
"LORD SORRENTI?”
He nodded, his eyes falling on me. Blue eyes, not the usual dark browns, hazels, or greens of the coast. And he had the same slightly exotic look of Alonse, the Steward, his black eyebrows narrowing to points, the same thin beard, but his hair was not shorn close to his head. Instead, it fell in waves down to his shoulders. He wore a pale blue shirt with light brown breeches and a dark gray sash. I could see glints of gold on his fingers and around his neck.
“Mistress. I was informed that you had a problem only I could address,” he said, his voice smooth, no hint of anger in it or his expression.
But I could feel the anger on the river, and as I slid deeper, I straightened. Because I could feel his power, as weighted and predatory as the throne had first felt to me, but contained, controlled.
And because Lord Sorrenti was red.
His eyes narrowed as my stance shifted.
“Brandan has explained the situation. May I see the guardsman? ” he asked.
I suddenly wasn’t so certain, struck by the fact that Sorrenti was a Lord of Venitte, Avrell’s warning that politics in Venitte were so much more deadly than in Amenkor. But there was no other choice.
I nodded.
Lord Sorrenti approached the bed. As he moved, I motioned quietly to Westen, felt the Seeker stand and shift into a position behind Sorrenti as the Lord leaned over Erick’s prone form, as Sorrenti reached out and placed a hand over Erick’s chest and closed his eyes. Catrell caught the movement, the warning, and he shifted as well, to stand near Brandan, who’d moved to Sorrenti’s side.
Keven, William, and I joined Isaiah on the other side of the bed.
“The threads are secured near his heart,” Brandan said.
“I see them,” Sorrenti said, without opening his eyes.
“And can you sever them?” I asked. Beneath the river, I could sense his presence on the river, could see the currents shifting as he manipulated them.
He did not answer, frowning instead, his brow creasing, the anger I’d felt from him when he’d first arrived blunted, overtaken by curiosity. Everyone fidgeted as they waited except for Ottul, Marielle moving to touch Heddan’s shoulder.
Then, abruptly, Sorrenti’s eyes opened and he straightened, looked directly at me across the bed.
“The Chorl did this?” He did not turn, but I could feel his awareness of Ottul.
I nodded. “One of their priests. Their head priest, Haqtl.”
He grunted, gazed down at Erick, then back. “I can break it, but it will be costly. In strength, in power. Is this guardsman’s life worth that much to you?”
In Sorrenti’s eyes, in Avrell’s resultant frown, I saw that it would be costly in more ways than strength or power, but I did not hesitate. “Yes.�
�
He lowered his head slightly. “Very well.”
Then he placed his hand over Erick’s heart again, closed his eyes. Beneath the river, I could feel energy build, could feel that heavy, feral power shift, the river shuddering beneath its force as it gathered. Sorrenti’s face tightened, jaw clenching, lines of concentration appearing at the corners of his eyes, and still the power built, escalating, drawing tighter and tighter as he focused it. . . .
And then, it released.
I expected a shudder, a wave of reaction from the river that pulsed outward. But instead, I felt a narrow blade slice through the unseen threads of whatever spell had been placed over Erick, energy pouring through the blade as the incision was made, the river rippling, but nothing more.
Sorrenti hesitated a moment, the gathered energy releasing, flowing back into its usual currents.
Then he pulled back.
“It’s done.”
His voice trembled, and his hands shook. He folded them carefully before him, so that no one else would see.
On the bed, Erick’s ragged breathing softened. Tension released, muscles that had been held rigid against the pain relaxing. Subtle changes, but visible.
Tears stung my eyes, and I found myself trembling. But, like Sorrenti, I hid behind a calm mask, my hands resting on the edge of the bed to keep them stilled.
“Thank you,” I said, my own voice rough.
His eyebrow rose. “You’ve come at a dangerous time, Mistress. Proceed carefully.”
Then he turned and left, the Amenkor guardsmen at the door parting before him. Brandan nodded toward me with an apologetic grimace, toward William, the motion a little perfunctory, then trailed behind the Lord.
As soon as they left, I turned to Isaiah, who’d already leaned over Erick, had already begun to examine him.
“How is he?”
Isaiah’s bitter frown sharpened in irritation and I clamped my mouth shut, let him work.
When he stood back, he heaved a thin sigh. “He’s better. His pulse is not as weak, and his breathing has improved.” He caught my gaze and grimaced. “We’ll know for certain within a day or two. He’ll either wake up . . . or he won’t.”
I nodded.
“What about Sorrenti?” Avrell said.
“I don’t know. He was angry about something, and he was red.” I caught Avrell’s eyes, saw understanding there.
His lips pursed and he looked toward the door. “You owe him now.”
“I know,” I said. “But he came, he helped.”
Avrell said nothing.
Erick woke two days later.
I stood in his room looking out over the city of Venitte, over the gray-white buildings that seemed to stretch forever, smoke rising from the nearest streets that wound upwards to the summit of the hill, where the domed citadel that served as the heart of the city’s government stood, where the Seven had held their meetings when they had ruled, replaced now by the Lords and Ladies. And Lord March. But the citadel could not be seen from Erick’s windows. His view opened onto the south, onto the stretch of buildings and streets that led to the southern cliff edges of the port and the manses there. Mixed in with the buildings were occasional splashes of green—gardens and orchards and olive groves. Every courtyard, including ours, contained an arched trellis, grapes and wisteria and other climbing plants hanging down into the pathway that it covered. I could also see part of the harbor, the water a lighter blue than that of Amenkor, and ships. Many, many ships, of all sizes, with differing numbers of masts and sails, triangular and square, all skimming across the water in the breeze.
The city was at least twice the size of Amenkor, the buildings grander, the harbor more active. Because while Amenkor was a crossroads, a meeting place for those crossing the mountains to or from Kandish through the pass, and a stopover for those on the roads running north and south along the coast, Venitte was the hub of the sea trade. The true merchants’ guild resided here, controlling all of the trade to the southern islands, and all trade north, including the icy reaches of Taniece.
I glared out at it, at the “honor” guard of Protectors that surrounded the estate, allowing Alonse and his servants from inside the manse through the gates, at their winged helms and tabards with the golden wheat on a blood-red field. They no longer allowed William outside of the walls either, after he’d brought Lord Sorrenti that first night.
“Their houses are designated using birds,” Avrell said behind me, continuing a lesson that I’d already heard on the ship on the way here. “All except Lord March, of course. The Sorrenti crest is the heron, the Boradarn’s the crane. The Casari use the egret—”
“Why hasn’t he come?” I interrupted.
A momentary hesitation, then a sigh. “I don’t know.”
I turned from the window, from the warm breeze coming from the harbor. “We’ve been imprisoned in this manse for two days, without a word from Lord March. Or anyone else for that matter. Catrell is venting his frustration on the men, training them in the practice yard almost nonstop. Westen is doing the same with his Seekers, in a less conspicuous location. We’re all restless.
“So where is Lord March?”
Avrell shifted in his chair, but before he could answer, Erick gasped.
Isaiah leaped up from the desk he’d had moved into the room, reaching Erick a moment before I did. William was a step behind me.
The first thing I saw was that his eyes were open.
“Varis,” he rasped, his voice nothing more than a whisper, his eyes—those cold, calculating Seeker’s eyes—searching and fixing on me.
Relief crashed down with the weight of the ocean, the wave overwhelming, crushing me, so sudden and unexpected I had no time to prepare. Tears scorched my eyes, burned as they washed down my face, and as I reached for Erick’s hand, needing to touch him, I realized that I was sobbing harshly, my breath catching in my throat, hitching in and out even as I tried to control it. I tasted phlegm, wiped snot from my nose and tears from my eyes. But the months of worry, the weeks of dread, could not be controlled, and for a long moment there was nothing but Erick, his eyes, the scars on his face, his tremulous smile, and I was fourteen again, trapped on the Dredge, gutterscum, no longer the Mistress, and the fact that I was crying didn’t matter. I felt Avrell and Isaiah withdraw slightly, respectfully if grudgingly, felt William lean forward, touch my shoulder in comfort.
Slowly, the crushing wave receded, and the painful hitching in my chest withdrew, leaving behind an ache that hurt worse than anything I’d ever experienced before.
Holding Erick’s hand tight, I said, “I almost killed you.” The admission brought a fresh surge of tears, the ache in my chest doubling. But I held it in, held it tight, grateful for its warmth. Grateful to William, who’d shifted up to my side.
“Hush, Varis. I know.” He coughed, the sound painful to hear, but he smiled thinly. “I told you to, remember?”
I laughed, the sound half choked.
Isaiah now moved forward and coughed. “That’s enough exertion for now, I believe.” His tone was stern with disapproval.
I would have given Isaiah my darkest glare, threatened him with my dagger, but I could see the exhaustion in Erick’s eyes, could see him struggling to stay awake, struggling to smile.
I made to rise, but Erick gripped my hand, harder than I thought possible.
I leaned in close.
“Thank you,” Erick whispered.
And then his eyes closed and his grip relaxed.
I waited a moment, stared down at Erick’s face. His skin was still pale and drawn at the edges, but his lips were no longer bloodless and there was no longer a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
And he smelled of oranges, the scent tart and vibrant.
I smiled, then stood. I felt William behind me, felt his hand find my own, squeezing tightly.
When I turned, I saw Avrell at the main door to the rooms, speaking to a messenger. His eyes caught mine and he straightened, suddenl
y formal, the First of the Mistress.
“Mistress,” he said, “Lord March and the Lords and Ladies of Venitte are ready to greet you, if you desire.”
Carriages were waiting in the courtyard of the estate, enough so that I could bring an entourage. I left the majority of the choices up to Avrell, but gathered Marielle, Heddan, and Gwenn to escort Ottul, and William to escort me. Keven and a few handpicked guards accompanied us, all in their finest armor. The Servants wore dresses in various shades of yellow, green, and red.
I wore a crisp white shirt and breeches. And my dagger.
The carriages wound their way up the slope of the hill toward the council chambers. I could see the domed building through the window, the sun bright on the white stone, birds wheeling in the air above it, but then my attention was drawn downward, to the city, to the people.
Unlike the night when we’d arrived and been led to our estates, the streets were now crowded, the plazas thronged with women and children, the merchants’ shops open. Bells clanged and voices rose in conversation, punctuated by laughter, and cries of greeting. Hands were shaken, hugs given, and everywhere, everyone was dressed in fine clothing, no wear, no frayed edges or oily stains. Pouches and bundles were worn openly, not clutched protectively or hidden from prying eyes, from nimble fingers.
Not like the Dredge. More like the upper city of Amenkor, within the wards.
I shifted my attention, noted the guardsmen interspersed among the crowd. Not armored and stiff, like the Protectors. These were the general guardsmen of Venitte, with leather armor, the sigil of Lord March on their chest, carrying swords and watching the crowds with a sharp eye.
But there were no gutterscum, no pickpockets, no street rats.
“Where are the slums?” I asked.
“What?”
I turned from the window, faced Avrell. “Where are the slums in Venitte?”
“On the far side of the hill, to the south. It’s called the Gutter. Why?”
“Because I don’t see any gutterscum on the streets. No beggars, no street-talkers.”
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