“No.” She lowered her voice. “If you hurt him, I will hunt you down and kill you myself.”
Jaden’s eyes opened wide, and he matched the pitch of her voice. “Oren?” His face hardened before her eyes until it appeared made of stone. “I wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Good, then we understand each other.”
“I think I understand you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“We speak the same language. I mean exactly what I said.”
She met his stony, topaz gaze, irritated at the flush creeping up her cheeks. He was Svistra, for the Trickster’s sake. A child killer. Then why did you rescue and nurse him back to health? Anger replaced the shame. That was it. Why had she? Through her mind flashed the glimpse of gentleness she’d seen in the Svistra’s eyes. Gentle? Like a Svistra worried about a momma cat?
“Oren. We’re done here. It’s time to lock up.” She turned and left the barn.
Standing inside the flap of his tent, Keldar waited for the horse carrying the human messenger to enter the camp. The acrid stench of fear assailed his nostrils even before the man slumped from his mount and walked slowly toward him, a sealed missive in his outstretched hand. Keldar stepped into the sunlight, knowing he looked impressive in his full body armor. The smaller human seemed to shrink further.
“A message?” Keldar held out his hand just short of the letter. A brief surge of nerves twisted his stomach. What if the king didn’t cooperate? He fought it down.
“Yes, your…um, er, Commander.” The man must have realized he’d have to take a step closer to Keldar to deliver the message because he visibly swallowed before approaching. His hand shook so badly, he almost dropped the letter before Keldar snatched it away.
Curiosity won out over irritation. He would let the human’s clumsiness go unpunished in the spirit of cooperation. Of course, he could reconsider his decision depending on what the message contained.
He waved his hand to two of his men. “Make sure the king’s messenger is fed and rested before he returns.”
The messenger trundled off between the two taller Svistra, looking more like he was on his way to the gallows instead of a tent filled with food and wine.
Stepping back into his tent, Keldar broke the seal and read the words with growing exaltation.
After the usual greetings, consolation for the loss of his father and assurances that the treaty would continue, King Josiam of Darmis conceded that a meeting was necessary to renew the bonds of friendship. Friendship? Keldar snorted. He felt nothing but contempt for the southern king who would so easily turn on his brethren. Traitors deserved to die the seven deaths in every layer of hell. But he would use this man to his advantage, just as Tinlor had.
A moment of regret soured his thoughts. Keldar had admired his father and longed for his acceptance all his life. Tinlor’s one great weakness, his love for his traitorous elder-born son, had been his downfall.
Even after Jaden abandoned them again, Keldar knew Tinlor would take him back without hesitation. That’s why Keldar ordered his men to track Jaden and kill him. Obviously, they’d failed. How the attention and patience Tinlor had shown Jaden had chafed. His elder half-brother excelled in the fighting arts—so, what of it? He’d had the best tutors and the best weapons. He had been forced to practice with those things Jaden had outgrown or no longer wanted. But when it came down to it, Jaden had refused to lead an army against the humans. Not once, but twice. He’d betrayed the hope and love Tinlor had showered upon him for years.
Keldar unsheathed his sword and held it to the light, the day his father bestowed it upon him with the title of second so vivid in his memory. He also remembered the sadness in Tinlor’s eyes and the bitter gall in his own throat, knowing he was not the one his father had wished to name. Second choice.
The image in his mind’s eye changed from his naming day to the evening he’d discovered Tinlor wounded and raving about Jaden. He shut the image out. Tinlor had grown sentimental in his old age. He was no longer effectual. No one but Keldar’s closest men knew he had sped Tinlor into the land beyond the sun. Of course, a carefully placed rumor that Tinlor had died in a human ambush had spread quickly throughout the Svistra ranks. The commander had been much loved by his people as a demanding but fair leader, and Keldar agreed. With one obvious exception.
The effect of Tinlor’s death was better than he could have hoped. The messages from the Telige had spoken of a general outrage against the humans. Even those reluctant to wage war had shifted their support to him. Keldar’s ranks swelled and with it, the knowledge that he had been chosen by the gods to lead the Svistra, and his family’s name, into glory.
And now King Josiam of the humans’ southern realm had confirmed it.
He held the letter up to the candle, watching the flames consume the words penned by the king’s own hand. His father had been too cautious, too soft.
With the increased numbers, the Svistra no longer needed to strike at the smaller villages and run like dogs. Keldar would recover their ancestral territory, and more. He would be known throughout the land, revered by all. He only needed to complete the journey back into the Telige with his father’s body to set Tinlor’s spirit free, and then he would come back to these lands and take what was rightfully his.
Chapter Four
Selia picked up the bucket holding the bowl of stew and then retrieved the lantern. When she reached for the door, the bowl clinked hard against the side of the bucket. Damn it. All she needed was to spill the bowl’s contents. There was only a little stew left, and she was hungry. Besides, both her hands were full. That wouldn’t do. Though the Svistra hadn’t tried anything with Oren, she wasn’t taking any chances.
Looping the bucket over her left arm, she transferred the lantern to that hand and reached for the door again. Taking dinner to the barn shouldn’t be so complicated.
Cold, drizzling rain misted her face and dampened her hair. Every year in late spring, as the land warmed, waves of sickness spread through the Outskirts. During the day, the steady rain turned the air as grey as the sky and muted the green of the surrounding forest. At night, the shadows deepened without the light of the stars or moon. It was a forbidding landscape.
Selia didn’t know if she was immune or if the Trickster was up to his games, but she never fell ill; this spring was no exception. Oren wasn’t so lucky. He’d woken with a hacking cough. When she climbed down the stairs that morning, she found him fevered and shivering under his blankets.
Many of the locals were sick or, after planting the spring crops, without the energy to journey to the tavern. But that didn’t stop the travelers. The day had been filled with muddy men with muddier boots in foul moods, steaming themselves dry before her fire.
The day before, a regiment of soldiers thundered up to her door. Selia repeated the mantra that her horse had taken ill and she didn’t know what was wrong with it, implying heavily that it could be contagious. A good horse meant life or death to a soldier.
The ruse worked. The soldiers let their horses huddle under the tavern’s overhang instead of insisting on the barn, and thank the gods the field behind the tavern was a sodden mess from the spring rains. The soldiers bunked down on the tavern floor and Oren had been able to sneak out to the barn.
Every day the inevitable drew closer, stretching her nerves to the breaking point. When Oberl had trudged in the tavern with a scowl, claiming his traps were all empty, the soldiers sent meaningful glances to one another. One of them spat, “Svistra.”
Another chimed, “Critters don’t like ’em any more than we do. Only they’re smarter. They leave.”
Selia glanced toward the forest. She hadn’t checked her traps to see if they suffered a similar fate, and she needed to. Martha frequently complained now about the scarcity of meat for their stew. Her steps slowed. She lowered the lantern and blinked the mist out of her eyes. She could just make out the darker shapes of the towering pine trees beyond the field. Could
the scent of the Svistra in her barn be keeping food from her neighbors’ tables, or were there really other Svistra out there?
The desire to close her eyes overwhelmed her. I’m tired. In no condition to face a Svistra.
The barn loomed before her. She felt a stab of guilt. Jaden hadn’t eaten since Oren took him supper the night before. With Oren sick and overnight guests, she hadn’t been able to risk leaving the tavern long enough to bring him food until now.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the barn door, one hand hovering over the knives strapped to her waist. The familiar scent of fresh hay, manure and horse washed over her as she lingered in the doorway, waiting.
After Jemima’s muffled greeting, the silence of the night continued into the barn except for the vague mewing of newborn kittens.
“Selia,” Jaden whispered from the darkness of the stall.
From the direction of his voice, the Svistra was still lying down. Not a question. How did he know it was me and not Oren? She remembered the hunting cat as she shut the barn door. Were all of his senses more acute than hers? “I’ve brought your food.”
“Is Oren well?”
“He’s caught a bit of a cold. Nothing serious, but I didn’t want him out in the rain.” She set the bucket on the floor outside the stall, then entered, and hung the lantern from a hook without taking her eyes from the Svistra. The bruises on his face had faded into a sickly yellow, a dull echo of his eyes.
“Wise. Have you tried eucalyptus? It’s quite good for the lungs.”
“I don’t need advice on how to take care of Oren.” Selia retrieved the stew from the bucket and re-entered the stall. She hadn’t tried it, actually. She used her mother’s mustard paste remedy, but perhaps eucalyptus would work.
Jaden took the bowl. “And I suppose it’s useless to repeat myself, but I’ve very little else to do these days.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Upon my honor, I won’t hurt Oren, or you. I owe you my life. That is a sacred debt.”
“I didn’t know the Svistra had any honor.”
“Of a sort.”
Damn it, he’d taken her by surprise again. Why couldn’t he just behave the way she expected? Like an arrogant, bloodthirsty monster? Would that really make things easier? She ignored the thought. “I suppose we’ll both be repeating ourselves then. I don’t need, or want, your advice or your debt.”
The Svistra inclined his head.
She took a deep breath. If he could play at being polite, so could she. “How are your ribs?”
“Healing, thank you.”
“Are you still in pain?”
His eyes smiled. “Only when I move.”
“When do you think you’ll—”
“A few days at most. I’ve been walking the length of the barn from time to time to build my strength.”
Selia involuntarily took a step back, bumping into the stall door.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone see or hear me. I’ve no desire to commit suicide, and I assure you, as soon as I can make it past the river, I’ll be gone. As I said, there’s not much to do in between waiting for Oren to bring my food.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to criticize him for being ungrateful but to her surprise she asked, “Do you read?”
“Yes.” His head tilted.
Had she surprised him? She reveled in an odd feeling of satisfaction to be on the giving end for a change. The Svistra had a knack for making her feel off-balance. “I have a few books.”
A gleam entered the Svistra’s eye. “Do you? That is a treasure. You read then?”
“My mother taught me.”
The Svistra’s smile unnerved her.
She needlessly adjusted the lantern. “I’ll bring you one if you like.”
“Very much.”
“I won’t let you have a lantern or a candle but…”
“No, it’s okay. I understand. Wouldn’t want to attract attention.”
She moved toward the stall door.
“There are more and more soldiers around, aren’t there?” he said softly.
“Yes.” How did he know?
A half smile turned his mouth. “I’ve heard their horses.”
She took a step closer. He heard horses? What did that have to do…?
His smile matured. “A soldier’s horse sounds different than your average farmer’s horse. For one thing, it is usually carrying a heavier load and underneath, there is always the sound of leather and metal that a farmer’s mount lacks.” He pointed his chin toward the last stall, where a lone horse stood staring at them with large brown eyes. “Besides, she perks up her ears at the local horses and ignores the rest.”
Selia almost smiled. “Chances are the local horses are her descendants. Jemima’s been around a long time. Are you part of the group of Svistra the soldiers were following?”
He shook his head. “I am part of no group.”
“But you know of them?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Then what are you doing here? The Svistra live farther north. They don’t journey south for no reason.”
“You seem to know a lot about Svistra habits.”
“Not enough, apparently.”
The silence stretched for several heartbeats. “I was and, as soon as I am able, will again attempt to track a particular band of Svistra.”
“Why?”
“Personal reasons that do not involve you or your safety.”
Personal reasons? Selia backed out of the stall and shut the door behind her. She felt the Svistra’s gaze.
“How are you keeping the soldiers from putting their horses in the barn?”
“I told them Jemima was sick with something that may be contagious,” she answered.
“And that worked?”
“So far. Inlanders are skittish this close to the Wastes.” She met the golden gaze. “Several days ago an emissary from Newhaven gave me a little trouble but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Oren told me about him.”
She nodded. “I’ll bring you a book in the morning. Good night.”
“Good night. And Selia…”
She halted her step but didn’t turn around.
“Thank you for talking to me. It’s been pleasant.”
Selia hurried into the moist night air.
“Commander?”
“Yes?” Nathan looked up from the document he’d been reading to find a soldier waiting by the door. The man was so young Nathan doubted he’d sprouted his first chin hairs. He laid the paper on the desk in frustration and relief, letting the letters blur before his tired eyes. When he was promoted from captain to commander, no one had warned him how much reading and writing would be involved, or that his charges would be young enough to be his sons—if he’d taken another route and married. It was a good thing too; he might have reconsidered accepting.
The soldier fidgeted.
“You need to be elsewhere?” Nathan snapped.
“No. But sir, the king’s emissary waits.”
That’s right. Somewhere on his desk was a message to expect a viscount something or other. Nathan glanced once again at the parchments on his desk, and, next to them, to a map of the area. “Show him in.”
The soldier nodded and disappeared. Nathan didn’t think the viscount would like the news but if he was in a hurry for it, so be it.
The man who entered was nothing like Nathan expected. Portly, with an excess of three chins hanging over a stiff collar with far too many ruffles and laces to be practical, he took small mincing steps, the heels of his boots clicking against the wooden floor.
Nathan reached for the viscount’s hand, to squeeze soft flesh further cementing his opinion that the man had never worked a day in his life. He’d ridden a horse here from Newhaven? “I trust you had a pleasant journey.” He gestured for the man to sit and made a mental note to instruct the head groom to give the gallant horse an extra measure of oats.
The
viscount glanced at the offered chair before sitting, as if he’d like to dust it first. Then he settled in such a way that Nathan feared for the integrity of the chair.
“Far from it. The weather is dismal, the lodging horrid. These lands are uncivilized. I even stopped at a tavern along the way, and the owner wouldn’t let me put my horse up in her barn. I had to sleep on the floor!”
And what the hell did you expect? This is Calud. By an extreme act of will, Nathan held his tongue.
The viscount scanned Nathan’s office then sniffed. Nathan followed his gaze. The stone walls were bare of decoration and there was scarcely room for his desk and the two chairs facing it. The only change he’d made when he took the room as his office was to have the men lay down wood over the stone floor. He didn’t mind the walls, but if he had to spend so much time behind a godsdamned desk, it wouldn’t be with cold seeping through the soles of his boots.
Still, the small office was nothing to sniff at. His irritation mounted. He really wasn’t cut out to be a diplomat.
“Commander, I pray things are going well in our defense of these northern lands.” The viscount touched his nose with a lace-trimmed cloth.
No, they’re not, you pussyfooted, ignorant…“Your Excellency, the Svistra have attacked and burned three more villages since the thaw.”
The emissary actually blushed. His small, porcine eyes gleamed. “Please, call me Fergus. Yes, yes, we’ve received that report but as there hasn’t been any news since, we’d hoped that it meant you’d chased these savages back north where they belong.”
Fergus? Didn’t that mean “strength”? The viscount’s parents had been wishful thinkers. Nathan ran one hand through his hair. Did they read the part of the report stating he hadn’t caught a single Svistra associated with those or any other atrocities?
Nathan tapped one of his letters. “There have been no further attacks in the last eighteen days and counting.”
Fergus’s smile stretched his chins until it looked like four smiles on his face. “We knew it! That is excellent news.”
“No. I don’t think so. You see, though they haven’t attacked, there have been reports of large bands in our lands.”
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