The Divine Dove was locked, the panel unresponsive to her jabbing. She beat on the door and called up to the lighted window, “I must send a message. This is Vianne-Ava, Doyen of the Influencers’ Guild. I have an urgent message.”
A face appeared in the window, and the birdkeeper raised a finger to wait. Vianne paced, rubbing warmth into her arms until the door opened. “My regrets for disturbing you.” She flushed the woman with a dose of love and pleasure and a tiny taste of fear to ensure her compliance. “Paper for two doves, if you would.”
“No trouble in the least.” The woman beckoned. “Come in from the wind. Can I offer you tea?”
Vianne shook her head. “Paper, if you would.”
The woman produced two tiny slips and, Vianne scrawled her message, spattering ink on the corner.
Cull Tarr attack imminent. Catling compromised. Vianne
Nothing more required, she handed the messages to the birdkeeper. “Please, send them immediately.”
“They’ll be off in a moment.” The woman applied a pinch of sand to dry the ink, rolled the slips of paper into tiny scrolls, and slipped them into equally minute cylinders. Vianne threaded her fingers together and pressed them to her lips, eyes pinched with impatience.
“There,” the woman said, satisfied. “Now the birds.”
“Hurry please.” Vianne paced as the woman exited the back door.
No sooner had the rear door closed than the front slid open. Emer Tilkon and three Cull Tarr jacks strode in carrying wooden rappers. Vianne poured a deluge of influenced terror and pain over them, and nothing happened. She shoved harder, attempting to break through the purity that prevented them from crumbling beneath her power.
The jacks advanced on her. Tilkon stood in the doorway, issuing orders. “Someone kill the birdkeeper.”
“No!” Vianne shouted, endeavoring to block the way.
Tilkon jerked her chin toward the rear door, and a strapping man swung his club, striking Vianne’s raised wrist. Pain shot up her arm, and he thrust her to the wall. “Careful,” Tilkon warned. “She can’t influence, but she can slay you with a touch.” She waved the other two men on to the business of murder.
With a cry of frustration, Vianne lashed at the shipmaster, flung a blast of misery that would have landed an Ellegean on her knees. Influenced agony slid from Tilkon’s skin like oil or sweat. Vianne swatted aside the rapper pinning her to the wall and lunged for the man’s wrist, fingers extended to deliver a bolt of death. The rapper jabbed her in the stomach, and she doubled over, gasping for air. The rear door gaped as a second swing smashed into her head, and the birdkeeper screamed in her ear.
Chapter Two
Whitt trudged up from Guardian’s dining hall, bundled in his cloak, a swathed pot of steaming, honey-drizzled porridge beneath the folds. He cradled it against his belly, the one part of him that felt warm.
Winterchill in Guardian interred the world in pristine white. Snow gusted from the sky and peaks. It swirled across the stark land until drifts towered above heads, and walking paths carved deep furrows into the layered crust. The wind howled with the silver hounds of the frozen forests and flung shards of ice like shattered glass into raw cheeks.
He nodded to the citadel’s sentries, the poor frozen sods, and entered the stone tower. The warmth relaxed his hunched shoulders, and he stamped the snow from his boots. He, Sim, and Rose had reoccupied the guest quarters. With Guardian hunkered down, the way north treacherous and the route south impassable to all but the hardiest Farlanders, he didn’t expect any true guests to descend on the fortress until Springseed.
Taking Rose to Elan-Sia had been an error in judgment. When she’d influenced her minders and burst into the queen’s hall, a flame of recognition sparked in every eye. The Cull Tarr and doyen knew she was Catling’s daughter. She hadn’t drowned in the Slipsilver as her mother led them to believe. She wore Catling’s face and possessed the power to influence.
Sim’s reticence had proved prophetic. He should have heeded her warning and left her and Rose in Guardian. But then he would have missed the hours of sweet love and tenderness between mother and daughter. For Catling, those precious days mattered, and he couldn’t deny his pleasure in showing her that he’d not only kept Rose safe but built her a happy life.
He climbed the curling stairs and pushed through their door. Rose galloped toward him, dressed in nighttime woolens, her brown curls in a tangle. “Did you put honey on it?”
“And dried kolsberries.” He shrugged out of his cloak.
The three-year-old’s eyes bulged and her lips pinched. “I like those.” She scrambled up into her chair as he unwrapped their morning meal and scooped a bowlful with a generous portion of berries.
While Rose ate, he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots. Sim lounged under the blankets, one arm exposed to the chilly morning. The pale green prints patterning her shoulder and arm invited his caress.
“You are as cold as ice,” she said, tucking the wool covers under her chin. “And sweet as kolsberries.”
“You looked too comfortable to wake.” He leaned over, brushed aside her flaxen hair, and kissed her temple.
She shivered. “Even your nose is cold.”
“Time to rise, my love. Sanson will arrive soon, and your morning meal is rapidly cooling.”
“It’s still hot,” Rose informed them and blew on her full spoon.
Sim slid from bed while he served up two more bowls. He’d arranged for Rose to attend lessons with other tots and enlisted Sanson to continue teaching her to control her influence. Any pretense that Rose was an ordinary child raised eyebrows and wasn’t worth the bother. They’d scarcely scraped their bowls clean when Sanson knocked.
“My respects.” The influencer bowed to Rose, his long dangling beard catching her interest.
Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she reached out to touch the snowy whiskers. Sim cleared her throat, and Rose dropped her hand, lips in a pout.
“Bow,” Whitt whispered.
Rose bent farther than necessary, her forehead almost bumping her knees. “My Respects, Sanson… um. What’s your name?”
The influencer smiled. “You may simply call me Sanson.”
“I’m Rose,” she replied, squinting. “I’m a Farlander.”
“Ah.” Sanson nodded. “I can tell by the shape of your eyes. They remind me of Sim’s.”
“They are,” Rose smiled, her squint looking more like worry. Whitt glanced at Sim, the two of them holding their laughter between their lips.
Sanson squatted down beside the child. “Do you know what makes you Farlander more than your eyes?”
Rose shook her head.
“Your gift, your natural influence. And more than that, your great fortune to grow up in the Far Wolds.”
“We’re going back in Springseed,” she said, forgetting to squint though the crimps on her little forehead remained. “There won’t be any war.”
“Let’s hope that is all behind us,” he said. “Sometimes adults don’t act very grown up, do they?”
“I can make them happy,” she said, delight playing across her face.
Whitt sighed at her innocence and the bittersweet illusion that she could change the world. Sanson raised a hand before Whitt corrected her. “That is tempting, isn’t it?”
He collected his leather sack from the floor and sat at their round table, beckoning Rose to join him. From the sack, he pulled three small bundles, each containing a handful of treats he placed before her. They resembled tiny seed balls, commonly rolled with honey, dried fruit, and nut paste, each slightly different in color. He separated them into three tasty piles.
“Now, I’m going to influence you as you look at each treat and you must decide which is the sweetest.” His finger pointed to one tiny mound, the next, and then the last. Rose’s eyes turned to saucers at the last pile. “Now, do you know which ones are the best?”
“This one.” She pointed to the last batch.
He frowned. “Are you certain?”
She nodded.
“How do you know?”
“I do.” She smiled at him.
“Then help yourself.”
She popped a whole treat into her mouth and bit down. Her face twisted in horror and mouth gaped, the bitter sludge leaking from her lips. Sim held out her palm to catch the goo as Rose spat it out, tears watering her eyes.
“You didn’t like it?” Sanson asked, disbelief raising his downy eyebrows. He blinked at her. “Why that one is my favorite. A strong flavor, but one I thoroughly enjoy.” He popped three small balls into his mouth. Rose stared at him, her bottom lips quivering in distress. Sim offered her a cup of water.
“So, my little influencer,” Sanson asked, “what did you learn?”
Rose appeared to be suffering from shock, so Whitt answered for her “Influence isn’t always helpful. It’s better to learn things on our own.”
“Precisely,” Sanson said. “Influence isn’t real, Rose. I tricked you, didn’t I? Not very nice of me, and I imagine you are angry at this old influencer.”
She nodded.
He bent toward her. “My sincerest regrets. Fooling people is unkind, and influence is a way of doing just that. I promise not to trick you with influence, and I ask you not to trick anyone else. You can make people happy with your smiles and kindness.”
As he straightened up, he opened a palm to the remaining two clusters of treats. “To make amends, Rose. I leave the rest to you. I believe they will replace the awful taste in your mouth.” He winked at her. “This time, I recommend that you try a tiny bite of each and learn for yourself.”
***
Whitt followed Jagur’s page down the spiraling steps to the citadel’s first floor. He pried the last seeds from between his teeth with his tongue and chuckled to himself. He and Sim had happily eaten a few of Sanson’s sweet treats in an effort to convince Rose they were delicious. While Catling’s lessons had focused on control, the old influencer taught caution and restraint. His first lesson had left an impression.
The steps ended at the wide stone foyer. When the opportunity arose, Jagur called informal conferences in his office, a tighter and therefore warmer space higher in the citadel. A summons to the assembly hall meant a larger or more official audience. The pudgy-cheeked page opened the door to the hall and saluted. Whitt returned the formality, wondering if he’d come across half as serious during his time at the commander’s side.
The far end of the nearly vacant hall hosted less than ten men, all but two of them guardians. The exceptions were Farlanders, notable because of their height and cloud-white hair. They wore their customary thigh-high boots and had traded their short, cowled cloaks for fur-lined wraps that whisked their ankles. Fire danced in the hearth, and trays on a table offered food and spiked tea.
The clansmen’s presence concerned him, and he prayed the peace achieved with the signed treaty hadn’t gone awry. His heels echoed across the stone floor, and somewhere in the rafters overhead a bat squeaked. The conversation paused, and Jagur waved him over. Whitt recognized both Farlanders: Lian from the old rebel camp, and Kalis, the huge high chief who made Jagur look like a runt. Both had added new scars to the ritualistic patterns on their faces, lending them a more fearsome visage than they’d already possessed.
He gripped forearms with both men. “Welcome. I hope your presence in the middle of Winterchill isn’t an indication of trouble.”
“Ha!” Kalis’s chuckle rumbled like thunder. “Ellegeans are too fearful of the cold to leave the shelters of their homes.”
Lian smiled, his manner less dramatic. “Your guardians in Tor manage the sharing of food and fuel with your high ward. We keep our distance.”
A modest bag of Jagur’s favorite pipe leaf rested open on the table, and the commander happily tamped it into his bowl with a thumb. Whitt’s lips quirked up at the shrewd gift. Jagur eyed his page, and the boy delivered a thin stick he’d lit in the hearth. In moments, the fragrant smoke rolled over their heads. “Splendid,” Jagur said with a sigh.
“We have come to discuss the Ellegean settlements,” Lian said, catching Whitt up on the conversation. “The agreement is unclear about what occurs within the Ellegean boundaries.”
Whitt didn’t understand the concern. “That’s up to the high wards and the guilds. As long as they respect the boundaries, I don’t see a reason for worry.”
Kalis grunted. “Your Ellegeans wish to spread their cities across the land. Lodan says, when the thaw comes, they will construct new roads and buildings. Then where will they grow food?” He eyed Whitt as if he were an imbecile. “They will require more land from the clans, and the kari will suffer. Your Ellegeans say their queen will not allow them to starve.”
“They may need to purchase food from you.” Whitt exchanged a glance with Jagur, aware the solution would prove unsustainable over the long term.
“Our concern is the land,” Lian reminded him. “The land is our wealth. We can’t eat or drink or warm our bodies with Ellegean gold.”
The high chief browsed the trays of food. “Ellegeans don’t prize the dawn after the dusk.”
Whitt had heard those words before, a Farlander’s phrase for shortsightedness. “What do you recommend?”
“Ellegeans must live modestly and close together, so they leave land within their boundaries to cultivate food and forest,” Lian replied, his head canted as if questioning why Whitt didn’t know the answer to such a simple question.
“I’ll send a recommendation to the queen.” Jagur puffed on his pipe. “Guardian will endorse a rare dose of foresight and a limit on southern expansion within the Ellegean territory. We won’t tolerate another breach of the treaty.” He frowned at them. “The queen can expand north.”
Relief filtered through Whitt’s head and heart at the commander’s pledge. The recent conflict in the Far Wolds might not have qualified as full out war, but the brutality inflicted on the Farlanders was no less deadly. He faced the clansmen. “With the commander’s permission, I’ll head south with you.” He shifted his gaze to Jagur. “Sim and Rose would need to remain here until the thaw.”
The door to the hall opened, and a guardian strode in, rubbing his hands together. Ice clung to his moustache and beard. “A message, Commander.” He handed two tiny tubes to Jagur and waited for orders.
Jagur rested his pipe on the table and slipped his glasses from his pocket. He endured the laborious task of extracting and reading the tiny scrolls. It took mere moments for him to hand one to Whitt. “Take Sim and Rose south. I’m leaving for Elan-Sia with Nordin. Guardian is headed to war.”
Chapter Three
Catling chewed on a fingernail and shielded Lelaine from influence. The queen’s council chamber possessed the ponderous air of a tomb, the silence like syrup, clogging her thoughts. A third day ticked by, and the possibility that Vianne would appear faded with the sun. The heat vented from the pylons struggled to banish the chill. Lelaine wore the azure garb of her reign but had traded silks for wool, and her blond ringlets cascaded from beneath an embroidered headscarf. Dalcoran paced, hunched and looking older than his years. He withered before Catling’s eyes, worry etched across his face.
She rubbed an eyebrow, furtively covering her unmarked eye for a view of the true emotions swirling in the room. Dalcoran wore a stifling blanket of anger and fear, guilt and regret, and a layer of love that surprised her. The colors around Lelaine brimmed with worry and suspicion. Gannon’s emotion was a softer blend of irritation, concern, and satisfaction. Catling huffed at the hint of pleasure he took in Vianne’s disappearance but understood. More than a decade later, he still resented her for his torture and imprisonment.
Ambassador Linc and Shipmaster Tilkon sat at the table with Lelaine’s councilors, none of them stamped with overly strong emotions, and she supposed they didn’t know Vianne well enough to care. She lowered her hand, assessing her own emotional swill.
In some ways, Viann
e had been a mother to her, exacting and harsh, but consistent, their time together stippled with kindness. On the other hand, Vianne had destroyed her childhood, determined to mold her into something useful regardless of the cost. Though the possibility that Vianne would slay her had hovered over her youth like a storm cloud, in the end, she’d chosen differently. Catling wrestled with the notion that Vianne, more than once, might have saved her life.
“This isn’t like her to simply disappear,” Lelaine muttered. “I suppose she may have fallen from the tiers though that seems highly improbable.”
Gannon raked a hand through his curls. He poured a goblet of wine for Lelaine and one for himself. “Vianne has her own agenda and is quite capable of taking care of herself. Provided she's not dead.”
Dalcoran paused in his pacing and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I certainly pray that isn’t the case. As much as she and I disagreed on our methods and goals, she has served the realm honorably. As a friend and colleague, she is irreplaceable.” He rubbed his forehead, his crippled fingers like claws. “Have we learned anything more about the murdered birdkeeper? Witnesses or messages?”
“Nothing more.” Councilor Oaron picked at a bowl of dried kolsberries and terran cherries. “We have no evidence suggesting the incidents are related.”
A clerk slipped into the hall, one of a deluge of daily interruptions, often with missives for the councilors or queen, answers to inquiries, requests to plead cases or change laws or arbitrate disputes. Oaron collected them, read them, and arranged them in a stack with an eye for dates. Then he filtered them into his existing pile of paperwork that continued to thicken more than it thinned. He held out a plump hand for the latest message, but the clerk presented it to Gannon.
Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) Page 2