The Dark Ferryman

by Jenna Rhodes

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Kerith Timeline

  Glossary

  JENNA RHODES

  THE ELVEN WAYS:

  THE FOUR FORGES (Book One)

  THE DARK FERRYMAN (Book Two)

  Copyright © 2008 by Rhondi Vilott Salsitz.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1443.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  First Printing, June 2008

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  Dedicated to:

  James, Jessica, Maureen and Aaron

  You are my heroes.

  Prologue

  A Tale of Desperate Times

  As told through the smoke haze of a Toback Shop

  "THOSE OF YOU who aren’t wanting t’ hear the story of our own Rivergrace and her love Sevryn and how they came to their deaths at the hands of a Demon and a Goddess, I give my blessing for you to shove over or leave, because th’ shop is nigh filled and other folks are wantin’ to come in and listen.”

  Murmurs greeted the voice of their much-anticipated tale-teller, one of their own, a good ranch and orchard man. A willowy young woman by the door gave a fleeting smile and took the hand of the tall elven man by her side. With a nod of her head, she bid a silent good-bye to the speaker and withdrew into the bitter cold of the outside. He watched her go, the tale-spinner. A Dweller still in his prime, with his face weathered and his hair tinged with gray, a man of good stock, Tolby Farbranch studied his callused hands a moment.

  Outside, the man chided his companion. “Not staying?”

  Grace smiled again before kissing his cheek gently. “I know how the tale ends.”

  He put his hand on her wrists and drew her close to his chest, guarding her from the wind and the winter and the inevitable. “It’s only the beginning. It’s not done,” he whispered to her temple, “but I promise to stay with you until it is.”

  She leaned into him, saying, “The queen calls us to her.”

  “And we’ll go,” Sevryn told her. “Together.”

  From the shelter of his embrace, she looked upon the Dweller town, and the shop, and the people of her beginning as if she might never see them again once they left Stonesend. After all, she had already died once.

  Small clouds of fragrant pipe smoke floated out of the shop after bouncing about the rough wooden beams of the ceiling, as the audience tamped pipes themselves or squirmed to find a squidge more room for perching comfortably. Dwellers filled the room, mostly men, for the toback shop was one of their sanctuaries, but a few of other races sprawled with long legs and gangly arms, winter cloaks pulled about their bodies, as drawn in for a pouch full of savory leaf and news as the next man be he Dweller, Kernan, Galdarkan, or even Vaelinar. Women and children sat on the walkway outside and watched Rivergrace and Sevryn leave before turning their ears keenly to the speaker and spinner.

  “I have in mind,” Tolby said deliberately, “to be tellin’ a tale of my own today, with your indulgence, a true telling, of the Demon sword Cerat, and the corrupting of the sacred river Andredia, and how they came to be undone,” and the lines in his face deepened. “These are grim times, my friends and fellows, not a doubt of that. Raiders and such driving us from our holdings, taking from us our good sons and daughters, talk of war on the horizon.” His eyes glanced toward the Barrels at that, his mouth turning in a grimace. “Aye, a true tale, but one I cannot say will illuminate the fates awaiting all of us, for like a weaving, there are many threads tangled in the pattern afore its true appearance can be known. So, like many things in our lives, this tale is not quite finished.”

  Tolby began to speak of the Warrior Queen of the Vaelinars and the shadowy weaponsmith known as Quendius, and the prophecy which knotted them together, a prophecy hidden in a child’s gaming rhyme.“Four forges dire

  Earth, Wind, Water, and Fire,

  You skip low

  And I’ll jump higher.

  One for thunder

  By lands torn asunder

  Two for blood

  By mountains over flood.

  Three for soul

  With no place to go.

  You skip low

  And I’ll skip higher

  Four on air

  With war to bear.”

  A solemn tone fell over Tolby Farbranch’s voice as he related the dire workings of Quendius and the smith who worked under him in forges which poisoned the river Andredia and their own swift-flowing Silverwing. He told them of how Narskap, the slave to Quendius, captured the Demon Souldrinker into a mortal-made sword and caged the River Goddess of the Silverwing in the same. He spoke to them of Queen Lariel and her brother Jeredon and the Hand of the Queen, Sevryn the half-breed. He reminded his audience of the vow of her House to protect the Andredia and its river valleys. In astonishment they listened as Vaelinars and Kernans and Dwellers, even arrogant Galdarkans and rough Bolgers were plaited together in the pattern of assassins and raiders and Demon-ridden swords. They gasped as they heard of their own Rivergrace taking up Cerat after the attempted murder of Lariel and Sevryn who put his own body in front
of Cerat to save his queen and was killed, then swallowed by the Souldrinker. Then Tolby swiftly led them on Rivergrace’s own journey to the font of the sacred river Andredia with her companions who fell one by one till only she faced the foul altar which made the sword and damned the river with its poisons to break one upon the other, ending the curse. There was more to the story than he told, for he did not know of all the moments within the tale and he knew better than to reveal all that he did. Still, his words were enough to send shivers down the spine of every man listening. And, as difficult as it was to speak of the deaths and hardships of friends and family, and of even more troubled times to come, he held a purpose beyond that of telling the story and its truth to those gathered there. He had a mission, as it were, to smoke out the old enemy. To warn that enemy that they knew a great deal of what had been secret, and what he planned, and that they stood together, the intruder Vaelinars, and the Kernans and Dwellers of the First Home.

  He finished as the toback shop owner shuffled softly about the room, lighting candles and oil lamps, as the afternoon grew rain-cloud dark. Finally, one muttered, “Our thanks for the telling of that, Farbranch. It proves what my grand-da oft used to say.”

  “And what is that?” Tolby asked not unkindly of him.

  “It is better to have Death knock on your door than a Vaelinar.”

  Chapter One

  "WHO WOULD YOU DIE FOR?” A blade bit into his neck, awaiting his answer.

  "My lady and my queen,” Sevryn said before a rough hand stilled further words. He lay with a thin campaign blanket tangled over his knees and counted the daggers he could get into his hands quickly: four, one at each ankle and each forearm. No longer slave, no longer an unfettered street brat, he was the Queen’s Hand amid a troop of her finest. What would his odds be against besting an intruder who’d crept into a military camp without warning? He sank into his Vaelinar senses. They flared out to identify the good steel made by one of their own, the edge so keen that it drew blood just brushing his neck.

  Horses tied at the night lines stayed quiet. He could no longer feel warmth against his side where Rivergrace had lain curved against his body. She must have rolled away, curled into her own blankets. Sevryn, and Sevryn alone, dealt with the intruder.

  “I need you to come with me. Take your gear and horse.” A firm voice tickled his ear, and the knife withdrew. Then and only then, he recognized the one man he knew who could have gotten into the guarded and warded camp without attracting attention. “I am chasing matters of dire import.”

  He would have asked questions, but Daravan moved away with silken speed, so he got silently to his feet and followed, taking up those bits of his life the other had told him to retrieve and leaving Rivergrace, the largest part of his life and the only one that mattered, curled in sleep. He drew on his Talent of Voice, pitched in words barely audible even to himself as he walked between his friends and allies, telling them they did not feel him, hear him, or see him move among them. His Voice quieted the horse line as he took his mount out and saddled it quickly, already checking the girth when a hand tugged on his sleeve.

  He turned to see Rivergrace just behind him, standing cloaked in night shadows, her body filled with that serenity and sadness that was the current of the soul that ran deep in her. Damp and chill though the air was, she hadn’t brought a blanket or her cloak with her, and her breasts budded against the fabric of her blouse. He could not see her eyes or the lustrous auburn cast to her hair in the dark, but he knew them well, especially her eyes of aquamarine, of river water and sea tide, and how they would be watching him, searching his face.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve gotten other orders.”

  Her gaze narrowed a bit and she looked beyond him. “Where is the lord of shadows taking you?”

  Her nickname for the rogue Daravan, but an apt one.

  “I don’t know.” He combed her heavy hair from her brow, burying his fingers in it for a long moment, smelling the aroma of her skin and tresses, feeling her warmth. “But I’ll come back.”

  “Why you? Why not Osten or one of the captains here or someone else. She used to send Jeredon when Daravan came calling.” Her voice quavered over naming the queen’s brother.

  “Jeredon is crippled.”

  “Why is it always you, then? Someone else until Jeredon is ready.” She shivered a bit, as if throwing off the chill. “He heals. He’ll walk again someday, the healers have predicted it.”

  “If they’re right, and that someday is not tonight, and Daravan’s need is now. Osten serves the queen best at her shoulder, and I am probably better than any of the captains who are still snoring in their blankets.”

  “She sends you here and me there, and even when we’re together, she keeps us apart. I have no work to do but follow her whims.” Rivergrace took a quick breath before stilling. She closed her eyes a long moment, and he could feel her power awaken, a power that lay deeply in her as water sinks deeply into earth and stone and lies silently, pooled, waiting. He wondered if she knew she had that much strength within her. “Are you going after Quendius?”

  Anger knotted in his throat at the name, but he swallowed it down and kept it there. “I don’t know.”

  “You have to bring him back alive if you find him.”

  “Now you ask the impossible of me. If we do find him, he won’t be taken easily, and I won’t vouch for Daravan’s plans. We can’t tell if he’s still allied with Abayan Diort or if he’s splintered off with his own mercenaries, and even if we knew, it would take a great deal to get to him.”

  “He made slaves of my family and you.”

  “All the more reason I’d rather see him dead.”

  “I can’t talk to him if he’s dead. I can’t find out who my mother and father were and why they sold themselves to him. What price could possibly have been worth what happened to them, what they gave up?”

  She had her mother’s name, but Sevryn knew she wanted more than that, she wanted to know their essence, and he couldn’t help her with that. “You’d have better luck getting a Bolger to dance than having Quendius ever tell you the truth.”

  That brought a slight smile to her face as she must have pictured one of the bestial Bolgers capering about. He touched the upturned corner of her mouth. He would rather kiss it, but knew if he did, he would want to linger, and he could feel Daravan’s impatient stare on the back of his shoulders from somewhere out of the shadows where he waited. “I promise you, I shall get answers for you someday.” Sevryn leaned forward and kissed her forehead instead. “I will come back,” he repeated.

  She put her hand on his chest, and he could feel her strength filling him as if he’d taken a long, deep drink of her. “Tell him that.” She turned and slipped away, and he watched her walk among the sleeping figures, her tall and slender body still a bit awkward as though she had not quite come to grips with herself after having been raised by compact and sturdy Dwellers. She turned once more to raise her hand in farewell, before kneeling onto her blankets, and then curling down to sleep, and he found himself with a bittersweet taste on his lips before he gathered the reins of his mount.

  He led his horse away, hoofbeats muffled by grass heavy with dew, and found Daravan waiting for him downslope. Wrapped in his long gray cloak, the other looked as if he were made of fog, as still and unsubstantial on the evening air.

  “She told me to tell you that I will return to her.”

  “I should have told her I was taking you. Not that she’d have forgiven me any more easily.” Daravan rubbed his forehead. “How many blades do you have on you?”

  “Seven.” They considered one another.

  “That should be enough,” Daravan noted, finally. “We ride far and hard.” He looped his reins about his hand. “What is the first rule of war?”

  Sevryn studied him but found no answer on the man’s stern face. He thought of Gilgarran. Like his dead mentor, this man moved along paths he shared with few, for reasons he s
eldom revealed, yet Sevryn found himself trusting Daravan. He brought forth one of Gilgarran’s lessons. “No regrets,” he answered.

  Daravan dropped his chin in agreement. “And no prisoners. We shall be lucky to stay alive ourselves.”

  Sevryn nodded as a stillness settled in his chest.

  She thought she heard a horse being led quietly away as she lay with her cheek to the ground, feeling the dampness of the night draped around her. She waited until the soft thud of its muted hoofbeats faded entirely away before rousing slightly, peering out from under her blanket at the sleeping camp. Raised in mining caverns for the first, near-forgotten years of her life, no night held the darkness it might for others. She could see in hues of gray and sepia, brown and muted blues, reds, greens, all the colors that would lie sparkling before her at dawn’s first turning. And because she was who she was, who she had been, a vessel for a being much greater than herself, she could feel the hand of the River Goddess upon them all, in every drop of dew that touched them. Perhaps that touch even ran in her blood, in the bodily fluids of her existence; she could not be sure.

  The only surety she held was that the Goddess bent very close to her this night, an oppressive weight in her thoughts and her heart. She rose, even more quietly than before, disturbing no one but the blanket which fell from her shoulders to the ground in a soundless ripple of cloth. Her steps took her to the small runnel of fresh water that bordered the field camp, no bold river or even a stream, but a brooklet, if that. By the time she reached it, dewdrops covered her like fine, gossamer clothing, tiny diamonds catching the barest illumination of the night and its stars, cloaking her from head to toe. She knelt at the edge and dipped her hand down to touch the running water. Since her earliest memories, that was how she’d found her comfort. A mother’s hug she could not remember, but the play of water upon her fingers, encircling her hand, that she could remember and often sought. Icy, cold, or tepid, the temperature of the river did not matter; it brought her cleansing. It filled her with strength. It washed away disquiet and fear and left serenity pooling behind it.