Troubled Waters

by Sharon Shinn

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” the girl said in a raw voice barely above a whisper. Zoe wondered if she had screamed herself hoarse two days ago as she careened down the river. “I was certain I was going to die. I was so afraid. I could not imagine how anyone could save me. And then when the river stopped flowing—I didn’t understand. I didn’t know how it had happened. But you did it. You took the water into your own hands. For me. I can’t—I have no words. Except thank you.”

  Zoe was so touched that she wanted to take the girl in a comforting embrace, but she wasn’t sure the extremely breakable Josetta would welcome the gesture. Instead she said solemnly, “I was glad to discover that I had the power to still the Marisi. But others worked to rescue you from the river—three brave men who went into the water to snatch you back from the falls.”

  “I have thanked them and will thank them again,” Josetta said, still in that half whisper. “But it was you who gave them the chance to save my life.” The princess extended her arms, thin and shaking. “Please allow me to express my gratitude, once more, with all my heart.”

  “And with all my heart, I can only say, again, I was glad to be able to play a part,” Zoe said. She reached out and took both of Josetta’s hands in hers.

  Then stood there, stunned immobile, as Josetta bent her head to press her lips to Zoe’s fingers.

  It wasn’t that humble kiss that unnerved her, that sent flame, then shock, then fury through her veins. It wasn’t Josetta’s mumbled repeat of her thanks that left her completely speechless. It wasn’t the princess’s quick glance over her shoulder toward some noise in the hallway, her low exclamation of “I must go!” that made Zoe nod dumbly and pull her hands free and stare after the girl as Josetta dashed for the door and vanished.

  No—it was the fact that Zoe recognized the blood in Josetta’s body. Sweela blood, fiery and familiar. Ardelay blood, even closer to Zoe’s own than that of Rhan or Kurtis.

  Josetta was Navarr Ardelay’s daughter.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was barely light when Zoe headed down the mountain in a horse-drawn cart that Calvin had coaxed from a royal groom by the payment of a couple quint-golds. She had wanted to leave last night, but it was full dark, she was exhausted, and Annova flatly refused to let her out of the room “no matter what that girl told you that’s got you so upset.” Zoe didn’t confide in her friends; she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words out loud. She did consent to eat the meal and stay the night, since Annova made it clear she had no choice, but Zoe made it equally clear that she was leaving the palace the minute she could get free in the morning.

  Calvin drove her toward the city down the well-used track that saw a surprising amount of traffic at this unholy hour of the day. Most of it, of course, was headed toward the palace instead of away from it. He didn’t bother attempting to make conversation. He merely took her directly to the high-priced hotel she had patronized before she had taken up residence at the palace.

  “When do you want me to come back for you?” he asked. He hauled down the single well-stuffed bag she had filled with a few changes of clothes and set it down on the street. She stood beside him, shivering in the cold.

  “I don’t know. I might not want you to ever come back for me.”

  His wide grin displayed the gap between his front teeth. He had been, on the whole, less anxious than Annova at her sudden and mysterious distress; obviously he believed whatever had unnerved her would eventually be set to rights. “Well, I don’t know how long they’ll let Annova and me stay in your suite without you, but we’ll enjoy it while they do. Then it’s back to the river for us!”

  “I might—I don’t know—it could be time for me to find my own place—here in the city,” Zoe said, her speech jerky. “Of course, I will need you both to help me—set up my own household.”

  He tilted his head, considering her. “I don’t think you have any idea what you want,” he said, his voice so genial it was impossible to take offense. “But we’ll be ready when you figure it out.”

  The excellent hotel servants had already stepped out of the wide glass door to welcome Zoe, bowing low, snatching up her luggage, gesturing for her to come inside. She turned to follow them and then pivoted back to Calvin. “Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone,” she ordered. “Unless—I mean—if someone were to interrogate you about my whereabouts, you should not put yourself at risk—”

  He gave her a real hug, holding her tightly against his thin chest for long enough that her racing thoughts started, just a little, to slow down. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “Whatever it is, worse things have happened.”

  He made her laugh, and that gave her the strength to draw back and somewhat pull herself together. “Perhaps they have,” she said. “I’ll have to think that over.”

  She followed the servants to the kierten, a huge echoing space of icy marble and luscious malachite. Twenty minutes later, she was ensconced in a luxurious room decorated all in white. She flung herself onto the bed, which was so plush that she thought she might suffocate. She had lain awake most of last night; a nap now might help her develop perspective on her new reality.

  But, of course, she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking. She couldn’t stop picturing her father’s smiling face, hearing his deep laugh. He had been so alive, so overflowing with vitality; the few times he had been confined to a place for too long, by illness or winter or unavoidable circumstance, he had become so restless he had seemed capable of bringing down the walls by his sheer longing to be free. “Do you know why people dislike you sometimes?” Alieta had said to him once, very dryly. “Because you’re uncontainable.”

  Oh, but there had been other reasons Alieta had disliked her husband—or, at least, had been so furious with him she didn’t care if a child could overhear their arguments. Another one, Navarr? Another lovely sweela girl with flashing eyes and racing blood? Why didn’t you marry a girl of fire and mind, then, if you were going to spend the rest of your life chasing after them, panting with infatuation?

  Her father’s reply: No sweela girl can satisfy me like my beautiful coru bride. They mean nothing to me. They are moments of passion and desire. It is you I live for, you I love, you I cannot exist without . . .

  Of course, he had existed without her for twelve long years. It had been hard to tell, because so many other factors might have broken his spirit during his decade of exile, but Zoe had always believed that her mother’s death had struck her father to the core. He still laughed at the slightest provocation, talked whether or not anyone was listening, ate heartily, read voraciously, argued enthusiastically, and entertained lovers with little attempt at discretion. But some of that sweela fire had gone out of him. He was not entirely whole once his coru wife was gone.

  Zoe lay on the white bed, practically buried in its dense lushness, and stared at the smooth, featureless ivory ceiling.

  It was clear to her now exactly why her grandmother had worked to have Navarr Ardelay banished from the royal court. Sarone had described Christara’s fury at learning about one of Navarr’s past infidelities. At the time, Zoe had wondered how Christara could have discovered such a thing and why she would have cared once Alieta was dead. But now she understood. At some point, Christara must have touched Josetta’s hand or brushed her fingers across the princess’s face. Like Zoe, Christara would have automatically assessed and identified the components of Josetta’s blood. Like Zoe, Christara would have instantly realized what that blood betrayed.

  How long had Seterre been her father’s lover?

  That was probably not the right question, Zoe realized. More important to know was: Had Alieta still been alive when Navarr took the queen to his bed? Zoe closed her eyes and tried to work out the math. If Josetta was fourteen, going on fifteen, and Alieta had died twelve years ago—no, almost thirteen years by now—

  Zoe opened her eyes again. Yes. Her mother had been alive when Josetta was conceived.

  And yet, she might not
have known the princess was her husband’s child. She might not even have known about the affair. Christara, at least, seemed not to have learned of it for nearly three years, though it was possible Alieta wouldn’t have confided in her mother anyway, guessing how angry Christara would become. But whether or not Alieta had discovered the affair didn’t change the fact that Navarr had betrayed her.

  Who else knew the truth?

  Seterre, of course, unless she had taken more than one lover during that period of time. Zoe supposed that Seterre might think it just as likely that the king had sired Josetta.

  Unless she had not had conjugal relations with her husband at the right time to conceive the child. Unless the king was impotent, and Seterre knew it.

  Zoe’s mind went back to that first sweet, almost rueful conversation she had had with the king shortly after she arrived at the palace. They had talked, toward the end, about Navarr Ardelay, and Vernon had made that odd comment. I always wish I’d been able to tell him that I forgave him. I always wanted to know if he’d forgiven me. It seemed obvious he hoped Navarr had forgiven him for the banishment, but for what act had Vernon forgiven Narvarr? Taking his wife as a lover and getting her with child?

  “Vernon knows,” Zoe whispered.

  It would be awfully hard for a king to forgive the man who had made him a cuckold—unless the king desperately wanted an heir and could not sire one himself.

  Zoe turned on her side and sank into the thick, pillowy folds of the comforter. She stuffed the material under her cheek and strained to think this through. If the king needed another man to impregnate his queen, he might have explicitly invited Navarr into Seterre’s bedroom. But if that was the case, why had he allowed himself to be turned against Navarr, who had, by a certain kind of reasoning, done the king a tremendous favor?

  If the king was impotent, who had Alys and Romelle taken as lovers to produce Corene and Natalie?

  And who else knew?

  “Darien Serlast,” Zoe said aloud.

  She considered that for a moment. Darien had claimed he had no idea what the king meant by his obscure talk about forgiveness, but Darien was as likely to speak a falsehood as the truth, so Zoe brushed that aside. Darien was constantly at the king’s side; he provided counsel on matters as unimportant as which buckle the king should choose for his boots. Darien almost certainly was aware of the king’s problems in the bedroom—perhaps he even helped orchestrate the queens’ visitors in the middle of the night. It could not be an entirely easy thing to slip men into and out of the women’s wing—or arrange for the queens to make nocturnal visits to other bedrooms.

  Zoe closed her eyes again. She didn’t want to think about the king’s difficulties in the bedroom and what his closest advisors might do to alleviate them. She didn’t want to picture her father as Seterre’s lover. She didn’t want to know that shy, uneasy, anxious Josetta was her half sister. She didn’t want any of this in her head. She wanted to sleep, and she wanted to wake up with her mind completely empty.

  But she didn’t sleep and her mind kept filling and refilling with the images she could not keep away.

  Sighing, she finally pushed herself to a sitting position and then struggled to stand, barely able to fight free of the deep mattress. It was a crisp, cold Quinnelay day. She would distract herself with a visit to the Plaza of Women.

  Accordingly she dressed in some of her heaviest garments and her sturdiest shoes, wrapping a scarf around her head and draping a wool overrobe around her shoulders. She felt better almost as soon as she stepped outside into the breezy sunshine. The walk to the Plaza of Women was longer from this direction than from the riverfront, but Zoe didn’t mind. It felt good to move her body toward a productive end; living in the palace, she had lost all incentive to exercise. When the wind blew, she drew her scarf more tightly around her face to keep out the chill, and she strode a little faster.

  The blind sisters were not particularly busy this morning. Zoe had to wait only a few moments until one of them was free, and then she settled herself in front of the large, serene woman.

  “I have a question,” she said and handed over a gold piece.

  The seer fingered it to verify its authenticity, and even her composed face showed astonishment. “Something worth this much to you is something I might not know.”

  “I realize that,” Zoe said. “But I will pose the question anyway.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Even so, she hesitated a moment, uncertain of what to ask or how to phrase it. Finally she said, the words halting, “King Vernon has four wives and only three children. Is there some thought—has anyone ever said—might it be possible that those daughters are not his own?”

  The blind sister held out her hand and Zoe dropped another gold coin in the palm. A ridiculous sum to pay for a question she could answer for herself, but she was curious to learn if anyone else in the city knew the truth. “Now and then, over the past fifteen years, there have been whispers,” the seer said, speaking so quietly that her own voice might have been a whisper. “Questions. Why aren’t there dozens of royal heirs running through the palace? Is the king unable to sire children? If so, who fathered those three girls?” She shook her head. “Nobody knows for certain.”

  Zoe frowned. “Not much information for my two gold pieces.”

  The seer leaned forward. “Eleven years ago—almost twelve years by now. A man came to me. He was drunk. He was giddy. He claimed that his daughter had just been born, and that she had been endowed with the blessings of imagination, intelligence, and courage.” The blind sister paused to let this information sink in, but it was not hard to put those pieces together. Those were the blessings claimed by Corene. “He said that the girl’s mother was married to another man—a powerful man—and that he would never be able to claim his daughter as his own.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “No. But he had the shape and scent of an elay man.”

  “Was he telling the truth?”

  The seer shrugged. “Insofar as I could determine, he was telling me something that he believed. That might not mean that it was true.”

  Zoe nodded. “And the king’s other two daughters? Has anyone else claimed to be their fathers?”

  “No,” the sister replied. “There have been questions raised about them, but never any answers.”

  It was paltry, insufficient, and frustrating information, but Zoe spoke her thanks anyway and rose to her feet. Well, she hardly knew more than she had before, but she thought her suspicions had been corroborated. The king probably had not fathered any of his daughters, and a few of his subjects guessed as much, but there was no proof and no absolute knowledge. Therefore, the world went on as it had before. Only Zoe’s world had changed—again.

  She wandered around the Plaza for another hour, merely to give her mind something to focus on, trying on shoes and robes and bracelets and deciding none of them suited her. She ate the entire contents of a bag of lemon candy, which unfortunately neither improved her mood nor settled her mind. Neither did the purchase of a bright red scarf or a pair of brown leather gloves. She was out of balance; she needed a calm place where she could think.

  Or not think.

  This realization reached, she wandered with a little more purpose, searching for the elegant temple located in this district, though she tried three wrong cross streets before she found it. The instant she stepped into its scented warmth, out of the nasty wind, she felt a tranquility settle across her like a shawl draped over her shoulders. She paid the tithe at the door and then moved as quietly as possible to sit on the blue bench before the coru glyph.

  About ten other people were inside the temple at this hour, three of them grouped on the white elay bench, three of them pulling blessings from the central barrel, and the rest scattered about on the other seats. An acolyte moved soundlessly around the perimeter, extinguishing guttering candles and lighting new ones, radiating an air of contentment and peace.

  Gradually Zo
e felt her muscles relax, her hurt and confusion start to drain away. In the temple, this was the gift of coru; it washed you clean of worries. Your troubles were carried away in the river’s insistent hands.

  She passed next to the elay bench, now conveniently deserted as the other congregants moved on. This was always the element that spoke to Zoe the least, conveying as it did a sense of spirituality, occasionally even visions; she did not seem prone to such things. But elay also equated with hope, a renewed belief that the world could be restructured or at least comprehended, and Zoe let these thoughts rise to the forefront of her mind while she sat perfectly still, inhaling the spiced air. Yes—of course—she was puzzled now, a little lost, but eventually the world would make sense again. She had been lost a time or two before in her life, and she had always found her way.

  The hunti pew, which she chose next, was painted a handsome ebony and seemed to be so solidly bolted to the floor that no catastrophe could budge it by so much as an inch. Zoe felt herself grow stronger, surer, as she sat before the sigil for wood and bone. Her spine stiffened; she drew herself up taller. She had survived so much already. How could she allow herself to be knocked askew by a piece of old knowledge, a fact that scarcely mattered, and that certainly changed nothing? She would not.

  Four other congregants were sitting on the green torz bench when Zoe made her way across the temple floor, but they slid aside to give her room. It was always the way when you sat and contemplated the symbol for flesh and earth, her father would say, heartily complaining. You were squashed up against a half dozen other visitors, begging each other’s pardon, trying to hold your arms tightly to your body so you didn’t brush against anyone else. But that was the torz gift—connection to humanity, connection to the world. You might apologize for bumping into your neighbor, but then you would smile, you would whisper a comment about the weather. You would feel human again, part of the great, messy pageant of life. You would cease to feel so alone.