Gannon perked up, pinched the tiny scroll with his fingernails, and pulled it from the tube. He read it with no change in expression and slipped it into his pocket, ignoring all the curious and concerned eyes staring at him. He smiled at Lelaine and bobbed his eyebrows. “Private.”
***
Lelaine mused over what could possibly put Gannon is such a mood. For the rest of the afternoon, he relaxed as though every trouble circling overhead had melted into a pool at his feet. He limited his drink and limited hers, the deprivation annoying her no less than his ogling. She trusted he had a tantalizing reason and expected a revelation of treasure, or luxury, or an intimate gift commemorating his love.
Rather than indulge her curiosity, he moved them on to new business, declaring that they might as well be productive while the city guards searched the tiers and delta for Vianne. He attacked Oaron’s heap of paperwork like a southern hound with a bone, and she had to admit it was an effective distraction from constant speculation and worry.
“I say.” Oaron’s round cheeks bulged with a smile. “I believe we accomplished more in two bells than we do in a whole week.”
“Enough for one day.” Lelaine had no intention of remaining at the table all night. She faced Dalcoran, softening her voice, “My regrets regarding Vianne. I had hoped today would bring comforting news. You are welcome to stay in Elan-Sia as my guest as long as you wish.”
Dalcoran glanced at her, the council, and the Cull Tarr. Dark circles of sleeplessness hollowed his eyes. He bowed, wincing with the effort. “I shall depart for Ava-Grea in two days. If we haven’t found her by then, the doyen and I shall wait there for further news. Perhaps they’ve heard word even now.”
“As you wish.” Lelaine dipped her chin. “We shall reconvene in the morning at nine bells.”
Gannon offered his arm and escorted her to her chambers, Colton and Catling falling in behind them. She could scarcely wait to burrow into his pocket. “Did you know,” he asked, “in the south, you can smell the snow in the wind?”
The trivial comment seemed out of place, and she gave him a quizzical look. He grinned back at her. “I wonder if it could ever compete with the smell of the sea in the north. What do you think?”
“I smelled snow in Mur-Vallis.” Catling eyed him, accommodating the random chatter. “When the clouds are thick and heavy. I’ve smelled rain too.”
“Excellent observation,” he said. “Interesting how each province has a particular odor.”
“So I’ve observed,” Catling chirped. “Ava-Grea’s swampy stench takes some years to get used to, especially during Summertide.”
“I won’t argue that.” He chuckled and tapped the panel to Lelaine’s door, stepped aside, and beckoned all three of them in. “Catling, Colton, inside.”
Lelaine entered and turned, questioning his determination to invite company. His smile slid from his face, and he gestured to Colton to conduct his usual search of the quarters. “We’re giving the servants a night off.”
“What did it say?” Catling asked.
Lelaine stared at him, the urgency in his expression disconcerting. He’d set her expectations for gifts or entertainment, an evening of delight and pleasure. She smiled sweetly at her departing ladies as Colton cleared the rooms.
When the last servant left, Gannon tugged her to the salon’s plush seating and forced her to sit. Catling and Colton followed, assuming positions by the doors to the promenade. Gannon sat beside her, dug in his pocket, unrolled the tiny scroll, and read it aloud.
Confirm Cull Tarr attack imminent. Marching on Balance unless otherwise advised. Jagur.
“I don’t understand,” Lelaine said, the message not at all what she expected. A ripple of panic coursed up her back. “An imminent attack?”
Gannon grasped her hand. “Jagur has information regarding a Cull Tarr attack that we don’t. He expects it soon, and I imagine the target is Elan-Sia.”
“He’s confirming.” Colton beckoned for the note, and Gannon handed it over. “Someone sent him a message.”
“Vianne.” The color drained from Catling’s face. “That’s why the birdkeeper lost her life.”
Lelaine clamped her jaw shut, fury rising to her cheeks in a pink flush. She wanted to knock Gannon’s teeth out for neglecting to inform her the moment he read the missive. She wanted to strangle Linc and Tilkon and behead the Shiplord. “Let Jagur march. We must not speak a word to anyone, certainly not to our Cull Tarr guests.”
“Dalcoran?” Catling asked.
“No,” Gannon replied. “My regrets, Catling, but I don’t trust your guild. If Vianne had any faith in him, she would have disclosed her suspicions. We wouldn’t be dependent on a bird from the realm’s opposite end. She left him in the dark for a reason.”
“I agree,” Lelaine said. “Unless Vianne reappears, we don’t know whom to trust.” She turned to Colton. “Can you prepare the guard without causing a stir? If the Cull Tarr plan an attack, let’s avoid provoking a strike before Guardian arrives.”
He rested a hand on the hilt at his belt, the perfect hero. “I’ll see it done.”
Her shoulders sagged as she gazed at the darkening window. The Cull Sea gleamed, a sheet of light studded with scores of black-sailed silhouettes. “We’re surrounded by Cull Tarr ships. We need to call in our fleet, as scant as it is, from Rho-Dania and Nor-Bis.”
“Colton and I will notify the fleet,” Gannon assured her.
“Your Grace,” Colton said, and by his tone, Lelaine suspected she wouldn’t care for the balance of his words. “I’ll prepare an escort to accompany you to Ava-Grea.”
“No.” Her back straightened. “I’m the queen. I won’t flee my city, and I refuse to allow the Shiplord a foothold in Ellegeance.”
“Your Grace,” he argued, his formality scarcely hiding his concern. “You are the realm. If the Shiplord attacks and conquers Elan-Sia, he won’t have won the war. He can only claim Ellegeance if he claims you.”
If it weren’t completely inappropriate to embrace one’s guard, she would have done so. Instead, she stood and squared her shoulders. “I understand the risk, and however true your warning, I won’t leave until I absolutely must. We shall pretend today is as predictable as any other and hold out hope.”
Chapter Four
Jagur thumped his fist on this desk, deviled by the weather. Ellegean masterminds had situated Guardian below the Fangwold’s jagged pass to prevent a Farlander invasion. A shortsighted response to tier hysteria, in his mind. A Cull Tarr attack left the queen’s defending force across the realm, up a frozen river, an ice-encrusted track, and entombed in snow.
Captain Nordin thawed by the hearth, his scarred hands extended toward the flames. He and Tavor delivered the bad news, and considering Jagur’s mood, it was perilous duty. Nordin rotated to warm his backside. “The waystation floats enough ferries to transport two hundred warriors downriver with the current. Our problem is that until the thaw, none of them can make the return trip for more men. The waterdragons can’t breathe below the ice.”
“Founders’ hell.” Jagur squeezed his forehead between his thumb and fingers as if the added pressure would pop out one damned idea worth mentioning. Marching an army down an untamed mountain, neck deep in snow, would take them until Harvest. “Remind me who decided we don’t require a road out of here?”
Neither of them replied, correctly assuming he knew the answer. He waved away the question. “Never mind. Work with Parso. Prepare two hundred veterans to march within the week.”
Tavor scratched his beaked nose and crossed his arms. The bald sergeant clearly had something to add.
“Cough it up,” Jagur ordered.
“Just wondering if you’re planning to lead us?”
“You’d rather I send Parso?” Jagur thumbed through the papers at the corner of his desk. Major Parso worked his magic with logistics, not men. His two subordinates grimaced. “I didn’t think so. That means you’re stuck with me. Dismissed.”
Jagur sank into his chair. He knew exactly what Tavor hinted at: he shouldn’t be in the thick of this. Two hundred guardians amounted to a warm breath in a blizzard. If the Cull Tarr launched an invasion, his warriors would look death in the face. Guardian would need a commander to decide the next step.
His fingers drummed on the desktop. He eyed the slip of curled paper, its end held down by his lantern. Appalling odds wasn’t his main reason for leading. The other excuse was Vianne. Somehow, she’d stumbled into the thick of this, uncovered something she wasn’t supposed to know, and found a chance to wing off a message. The hurried script and spattered ink alone relayed a desperate tale.
The woman was a burr that got its barbs in his heart a quarter century ago, and despite the ongoing irritation, he’d never pried her out. She’d chosen her guild above him and claimed that a bond with an influencer would suffer a paucity of trust. Probably true, but excuses didn’t rub out affection. Over the past decade, they’d made amends, and she’d forced him to settle for what he could get.
He edged the message from under the glass and tucked it in his pocket as a reminder. Someone had betrayed Catling’s secret, which meant someone had betrayed Vianne and the queen. He couldn’t remain in Guardian even if it was the only logical thing to do.
***
The march out of the Fangwold to the frozen lake required four days in the driving snow. They’d rigged sleds and harnessed men behind the runners to keep the loads from barreling downhill and smashing those slogging through the drifts ahead. Above the waystation, a horse slipped on an escarpment and fractured a foreleg. Tavor opened its veins, turning the snow scarlet.
Except for the darker flow of water beneath the fall’s frozen splendor, the high lake appeared plated in silver. Ice locked in the ferries except where the rivermen ruptured it to prevent the pressure from crushing the hulls. Jagur sucked on his pipe, watching the wind snatch the smoke away and calming the nagging worry that riddled his every thought.
As soon as the last man reached the waystation, they loaded the ferries. Rivermen broke the solid surface ahead of the bows, inching the vessels toward the gap where the South River continued its tumultuous descent.
A week later, his ferry spilled into the ice-laced waters of the restive swamp surrounding Ava-Grea, the first to do so. Shed of their leaves, the dense border of reptilian trees unveiled a desolate sight. Three Cull Tarr skudders floated in the bright current on taut anchor lines, the sleek ships overshadowing the smaller, squatter Ellegean fleet of barges, ferries, carvirs, and fishing boats. Their looming presence narrowed Jagur’s eyes, and he raked a hand through his graying hair. “Thoughts?”
Tavor leaned on the rail. “They’re in position.”
“Why only three?”
Tavor spat into the river. “More would raise suspicions.”
The ferry glided by the Cull Tarr ships and found a berth in the piers between fenfolk rafts. The Farlanders’ northern cousins unloaded woven baskets of fish and eels, skinned snakes, and bottles of rich luminescence.
In full greens and leather armor, Jagur jumped to the pier before the ferry’s lines were fast. “Tavor, with me. Nordin, you’re in charge until I return.”
They strode down the pier and along the girding dock with a handful of guardians on their heels. In the thick of Winterchill, commerce continued, but the dock’s market lacked the bustle of his previous visits. Cloaked against the cold, vendors and traders peddled supplies, and merchants still hawked their wares bound for distant provinces. Twitchers picked their scabs and begged, and Cull Tarr preachers expounded on the prophecies of the Founders.
“Prophesies?” Jagur muttered. “Since when did the Founders issue prophesies?”
Tavor shrugged. “Since the Shiplord coughed them up.”
They hiked to the second tier and rode the lift to the twelfth, in no mood to send a request for an audience and await a reply. When the doors slid aside on the top tier, four guards greeted them with weapons drawn.
Tavor took a sharp step forward. “Commander Jagur of Guardian to see Doyen Vianne-Ava.”
The guards paused. Two exchanged glances, and a third dipped his chin in respect, sheathing his weapon. “Vianne-Ava isn’t available, Commander. May we let Dalcoran-Elan know you wish to speak with him?”
The tenuous dread that had dogged Jagur for the past two weeks solidified into dire certainty. “How long has she been missing?”
The guard inhaled, reluctance edging across his face. “My regrets, Commander, she disappeared in Elan-Sia on Darkest Night.”
The night she sent her message.
“Dalcoran will do.” He followed the guard to the doyen’s quarters where a servant escorted them into a private salon, the elegant yet unadorned room empty of occupants. An unfinished puzzle covered a table by the window, the one personal item reflecting the man who resided there. Tavor slouched in a cushioned chair and closed his eyes for an impromptu nap, while Jagur paced, fury bloating beneath his skin.
That she may be dead left him feeling old and reckless at the same time. Years of regret pressed on his shoulders, the should-haves and what-ifs clenching his teeth. He should have fought a fiercer battle, argued harder, demanded more. What if he’d told her, when he last saw her, that he loved her and always had.
The door slid into the wall, and Tavor bolted to his feet. Dalcoran and the two other doyen entered. Dalcoran had changed, his back racked, face marked by fatigue. Jagur mulled over the level of pain the man endured, and his irritation made room for a smear of sympathy.
Dalcoran bowed. “My respects, Commander, welcome. You know Brenna-Dar, I believe. And this is Neven-Kar.”
The pair of doyen bent at the waist. “Our respects.”
Jagur repaid the courtesy. “I’m here seeking Vianne, and the guards informed me that she’s disappeared.”
“Please,” Dalcoran waved him to a seat as the rest of the gathering found chairs. “She vanished in Elan-Sia on Darkest Night. We searched for days, and I finally returned here. I had hoped she might surface by now, but with each passing day, that hope dims.”
“She sent me a bird.” Jagur studied them, alert for a glimmer of fear. All three startled.
“Was that unusual?” Brenna asked, the tenderness in her voice easing his suspicion. Despite the guild’s internal squabbles, Vianne had confidence in these people, believed in their work. She’d left him for this life; he needed to trust them.
Dalcoran massaged his swollen knuckles, “Something brought you here, Commander. If not of a private nature, are you willing to share the gist of her message?”
“She warned of war, imminent war with the Cull Tarr.” As he said the words, they struck him as excessively dramatic, and he cleared his throat to curb the twinge of embarrassment.
“War?” Neven’s face blanched.
“The ships.” Brenna rose from her seat and marched to the window.
Dalcoran looked up, his face pained. “This news may explain her disappearance. If she’d overheard… Could she have misinterpreted?”
Now that Jagur thought about it, he yielded to the possibility. When Vianne got her teeth deep into an idea, she didn’t let go. She’d never cared for the Cull Tarr. Why hadn’t he considered the possibility? Dalcoran knew her, respected her. If the threat had amounted to anything more than a suspicion, she would have shared her concerns with her peers. “You may be right. Vianne has been known to overreact.”
“Yet, she’s missing,” Neven reminded them. “If nothing else, that lends credence to her warning.”
Jagur stiffened, the man’s disquiet challenging the indecision he hadn’t experienced until he encountered the doyen. Influence? He glanced at Tavor, and the sergeant shrugged as if the whole journey north had amounted to one inconvenient misadventure. Was it? Jagur didn’t know, didn’t trust himself.
“Your recommendation, Commander?” Dalcoran focused on him with a keenness for direction that broke through his mistrust.
“I�
�ll leave fifty men here,” he said. “I’ve come this far. I’m continuing on to Elan-Sia with the rest of the force.”
“How many warriors?” Dalcoran asked.
“A hundred and a half.”
Dalcoran sighed. “Keep us informed, and if there is a way we may assist, do not hesitate to ask.”
Hauling in a breath, Jagur got his feet under him. The door slid open, and a dark-haired man entered, uninvited. The familiarity made Jagur’s neck itch. Dalcoran rose and gestured to the Cull Tarr ambassador. “You’ve met Ambassador Falco Linc.”
Jagur nodded. “Ambassador.”
“Commander, may the Founders bless you.” Linc smiled and bowed. “What brings you north?”
“He received a bird from Vianne,” Dalcoran replied and swung his gaze to Jagur. “I hope you find her, Commander.”
Jagur bowed and strode from the room, Tavor a step behind him. He marched across the potted garden, numb to the cold wind blowing his cloak open and lashing his face. His mind raced through the conversation, the information he’d shared, their reactions…
And the certainty of his stupidity.
He slammed a hand to the lift’s panel. When they stepped inside, Tavor leaned on the wall and crossed his arms. “They influenced us, Commander. They’re hiding something.”
Jagur grunted. “And I just told them everything I know.”
Chapter Five
A feral gale ripped in from the sea and thundered against the breakwater. The sky snarled, and curtains of freezing rain blew sideways, blasting Jagur’s face and glossing the ferry in ice. The floating dock girding Elan-Sia undulated with the waves. Finding berths for ten additional vessels and maneuvering into the crowded piers was a task he didn’t envy, and he stayed out of rivermen’s way.
The ferry rocked, thumped, and clanked against its neighbors. Riverfolk hunkered down on their crafts, the markets abandoned, the sea and Slipsilver too reckless for travel. The Cull Tarr ships surrounding Elan-Sia raised the hackles on his neck. Two massive three-masted galleasses strained on their ropes in the delta; two more flew on full-bellied storm-sails beyond the breakwater. He counted five dragnets, three times as many skudders. Elan-Sia stood days away from falling under siege.
Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) Page 3