The Dark Ferryman

by Jenna Rhodes

  Nutmeg gasped as Jeredon thrust his hands out to steady himself, inadvertently thrusting her away from him unnoticed as Tressandre brought him effortlessly to his feet without laying a hand upon him. He let out a low groan as he straightened. Rivergrace caught Nutmeg by the arm to steady her as they watched Jeredon stand. It seemed effortless from the Vaelinar, but Grace saw the cords of Tressandre’s neck tighten and the edges of her eyes narrow in concentration. The finest of lines flawed her beautiful face. Nutmeg put her fist to her mouth as Jeredon’s face lightened, and an expression of hope passed over his features before he cleared his throat and his eyes went neutral.

  Lariel Anderieon’s voice cut through the sudden quiet. “Well done, Tressandre ild Fallyn, but as Lord Bistane noted, perhaps the queen does have plans. Those plans might include a man who can think whether on his feet or not. While the handful of you greet each other in the stable yards, Tranta Istlanthir has come in by my front door, and he brings dire news which I would wish all of you to know.”

  Tranta Istlanthir came from a family which held perhaps the most distinctive marking of any Vaelinar who had come to Kerith, his hair of dark, brillantine blue unchanged down through generations, eyes of dark green upon light green, and skin so fair it held a faint blue reflection of his hair. Rivergrace liked him for his self-deprecating way, sure of himself but not displaying it as many of the Vaelinars did. Although his family’s and his own skills were strong and varied, one still could not imagine him far from his roots, and it was true that one would find him mostly near the cliffs of Tomarq and on the great bay where the city of Hawthorne reigned, overlooking the vast western ocean. While it was true that he held an indisputable affinity for salt water and its shores, he did not often sail. They plied a small fleet for coastal fishing only, and some minor trade from port to port, but the Istlanthirs did not wander far, it being an unspoken law that the salted waters held mysteries which the Vaelinars were loath to explore, and enemies whose attention had strayed for the moment and whom they did not wish to attract. It was also equally true that he was smitten by his Warrior Queen, and that he would do anything for her although she seldom even looked upon him, something Rivergrace could not understand. Tranta was intelligent and held a good sense of humor, his tone usually light unlike the fate-weighted sensibilities of the Stronghold of the ild Fallyn or the House Vantane. Perhaps Lara did not take him seriously, as he did not seem to take himself. He remained one of Grace’s favorite people since their first meetings, and as he saw her approach through the manor’s main hallway, his eyes lit as well, and he made a half bow toward her. He’d given up the cane he’d been using when she saw him last, which meant that his injuries from his great fall off the cliffs of Tomarq while attending the Jewel had healed. The ocean had cradled him when she could have smashed him asunder, but still his injuries had been considerable for a fall from that height.

  Or perhaps he had merely decided a cane was too cumbersome, and a limp would be merely an acceptable character trait. Rivergrace found her face lighting up as she dipped a curtsy to him, Nutmeg on her heels. He had offered once to trade secrets with her on the vagaries of salted water versus fresh and the Goddesses and Gods thereof, but they’d never had the opportunity. She’d thought him half-joking anyway, as his Talent lay in the fire of the great Jewel which shielded the coast with its fierce eye which reflected the heat and fire of the heavens to scour the oceans of any offenders as they tried to close upon the shore. Still, she thought he held a love for the sea. With hair and eyes like that, how could he not?

  “Mistresses Farbranch,” he noted, as Nutmeg joined Rivergrace in a quick bob. “It takes the weariness from my labors away to see you both. Nutmeg, I hear you have tamed our Warrior Prince and that he is healing admirably under your touch.”

  Nutmeg’s face warmed into a blush, but she pinched her full lips shut and would not say a word as Jeredon wheeled past her, Tressandre at his right arm. Tranta watched them go by, and raised an eyebrow. Then he inclined his head to the girls. “Whoever said that man’s nature was as inconstant as the sea and tide, certainly knew what he was talking about. Sit with me, so that I can swear I have never had a pair of prettier guards?”

  Lara stopped by them. “They will not be attending, Tranta, as sorry as I am to disappoint you. I’m certain Nutmeg has duties elsewhere, and I need Grace to find Sevryn as it seems that he is the only one not here yet.”

  Dismissed, Rivergrace could only let Tranta press his hand upon her forearm as she gathered up Nutmeg and left the conference room. Un-characteristically quiet, Nutmeg let herself be shepherded down the hall and into the downstairs wing before she took a great, long sobbing breath and stopped, putting her back to the wall. Rivergrace bent down to her sister and saw her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  “Meg. What is it?”

  “He pushed me away. He never looked back. Grace.” And Nutmeg tilted her face up, sorrow beginning to cascade down her cheeks. She put her hands out and lifted them slowly. “I can’t do that for him.”

  “You know, and I know, and Lara knows . . . there’s isn’t an arrow let fly that won’t fall to earth sooner or later. He can’t depend upon her.”

  “But he will.”

  “The queen won’t let him. Not for long, anyway.”

  “He’s headstrong as an old billy goat, and he wants to go with the men. He has no intention of staying if he can help it, legs or no legs, cart or no cart.”

  “And can you blame him?”

  Nutmeg took the square of linen Grace fished out of her skirt pocket and noisily blew her nose before answering, “No.” She inhaled, hiccuped, then swallowed tightly. “It’s what we’ve been working for.”

  “Then his intentions have little to do with Tressandre. He means to go, one way or another, don’t you see? And when his eyes clear a bit, he’ll see, too.”

  “D’you think?”

  Rivergrace put her hands on Nutmeg’s shoulders and shook her, just a little. “We’ve brothers. We know what idiotic and wonderful beasts they are.”

  “And we can run circles about any one of them.” Nutmeg tried to make a smile, it came out crooked and damp. “The trouble is . . . the trouble is, I love him.”

  It struck her then, the implication of Meg’s words, and what Grace had brought to their family. It was her fault, all of it, the terrible disruption of their lives. Losing their home to raiders and Ravers who came looking for her strange blood, to their forced migration to the city of Calcort where her father ran a winery and cider house. Even beyond that to the very Silverwing River where Nutmeg had pulled her from the waters. It was she who’d brought the Vaelinars to her Dweller family doorstep, and there was nowhere that this love would not be difficult and frowned upon. Yet she knew Nutmeg’s heart and that she had not planned or schemed for this, and that her sister could no more deny it than she could deny bringing breath into her body. It was her fault and how could she undo it without damaging Meg?

  “I know you do. I know.” She drew Nutmeg to her and held her very close and tight for long moments. She had no powers of foretelling, no magical talent for seeing the future, nor did Nutmeg, but both of them knew that it could come to no good end. Yet, here it was, and couldn’t be changed, and they’d have to deal with it. She wondered only if her love for Sevryn could be as misled.

  Nutmeg said fiercely, “She would not have dismissed me like that if I’d been somebody.”

  “You are somebody.”

  “A nursemaid. If I had more familiarity with being a queen and having a household, I could figure how low that was, but I think it might be lower than a rotten apple in a barrel.” Nutmeg’s mouth twisted.

  Grace smoothed her hair back from her face. Nutmeg’s rosy cheeks had gotten even rosier, but the pinch lines about her mouth grew pale. “Don’t say such things.”

  “How can you not? How can you not think them? Grace, she sent you away, too. Any one of th’ guards could have gone to find Sevryn. She didn’t want you
there either. I’m just a nursemaid, but . . . what are you?” Nutmeg’s gaze searched Rivergrace’s face. “Lariel hasn’t let Sevryn declare for you.”

  “Sssssh.” Grace steadied her, afraid that even here in this alcove, the walls might have ears, and she had already heard much in an alcove herself. “War changes everything.”

  “Not friendships. Does it?”

  “I don’t know. But it won’t change mine, and it won’t change yours, and that’s what counts, isn’t it? We have deep roots, remember? And we don’t forget them.”

  Nutmeg sucked in a quavering breath. “Never.”

  She pulled back and kissed Nutmeg on the top of her head. “I’ve got to go fetch Sevryn. Will you be all right?”

  “I will be. Upstairs, cleaning and tidying up, and maybe working on a new pattern for Mother. I’ve been neglecting things and need to put a hand to them again. Mayhap I might even find time to short sheet the bed of a certain unwelcome guest.” Nutmeg put her chin up. She spun around in a cloud of amber hair and fled down the hallway before Grace could give her another hug.

  Outside, a gentle rain had begun to fall, its patter so tentative it could scarcely be felt or heard. It would have to rain like this for a handful of days to make its presence felt by the earth, she thought, hardly more than a mist yet the storm brewing overhead and upon the hills foretold a more substantial rainfall. Would it come? Or did the River Goddess meddle in waters that were not of her domain, and withhold what she could as punishment? Or was it only that these lands were in cycle for a drought, as simple and unwanted as that? She moved through it without even bothering to put a cloak on, headed for the arena, hearing by shouts and the clash of wood upon wood that the men drilled and fought regardless of the impending weather. Clusters of men let her through, their bodies dusty and muddy and bloodied, their scent strong upon the damp air, their eyes lingering on her briefly as she came around the wooden structure whose high walls seemed to shake with unseen but heard blows.

  She went through one of the gateways and stood in the shadow, watching men as they struggled against one another and wondered how this could be compared to war. It was brutal and yet, she knew, not as brutal as what Queen Lariel planned. There were no war machines here. No trenches to be lined with tar and dried tinder. No pits with stakes. No catapults that could throw smashing boulders. Here, you saw the face of your enemy. Saw the sweat slick his body. Saw the blood when you split his skin. Heard the grunt when you bruised flesh or bone. Felt an echo of his pain in your own body. This was worse and yet . . . and yet, it was not, because it was accountable. It was not senseless violence where victory would be counted in numbers of the faceless fallen.

  She knotted her hands in her skirt.

  Sevryn stood as the solo in the middle of a two-on-one melee. The odds, even then, might not have been fair. A third man rolled on the ground, groaning, and a fourth stood with his back to the other side of the arena wall, his hand to his nose which bled copiously. Sevryn turned suddenly, lashing with his foot out and high, catching one of his opponents to the jaw that snapped his head back and dropped the soldier. He took a blow to his exposed flank, but rolled from it and came up with his fist to the other’s gut. The man doubled over with a groan and went to his knees. Sevryn merely reached out and pushed him over, saying, “Enough.”

  He looked past Grace as though she were not there, beckoning to another group of four who had been watching with their elbows hooked over a side railing. She called out, “The queen commands your presence.”

  Sevryn stopped in mid-gesture, and blinked. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead as though just now realizing she stood there. Everyone milled to a stop, a few of them looking to the sky overhead, where rain began to solidify a little and tumble down, wetting their heads.

  “Another time,” he said, and grabbed a rag from the rails to scrub his face as he crossed the arena to Rivergrace. He stopped there for a long moment, his sides heaving as he caught his breath, and cleaned his face, and in all that time he did not look into her eyes once until finally he dropped the rag into the dust.

  When he did, she took a half step back. A light gleamed in his gray eyes, a witch light, like one off a swamp at night, a greenish glow that her brothers Garner and Hosmer used to tease them about with scary tales. A Demon light, they’d said.

  They had been teasing her and Nutmeg, but as she looked up into Sevryn’s battered face, she realized that their old wives’ tale had been based, once, upon truth.

  He passed his hand over his eyes as if he could clear them that way. It helped a bit, the light dimming until she could almost tell herself she hadn’t seen it, but it lingered in the darkness of his pupils as though it watched her from that depth. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Then tell me where I should be.”

  “Not here. Not now. I wouldn’t have you see . . . this.”

  She examined the arena and the men helping each other stand, as they took stock of their injuries, and spoke to one another in low, wary tones. “You don’t fight them. You fight yourself.”

  He considered her face. “Yes.” He gave a dry, mocking laugh.

  “Can’t Lariel help you? Or Jeredon?”

  He closed the ground between them. “They can’t know.”

  “They’re your friends.”

  “This part of me has no friends. If I cannot control it, if I cannot excise it, then I’m dangerous to everyone. She will exile me.”

  “Do you wish to control it?”

  He did not quite look at her, but at someplace beyond her when he answered quietly, “It gives me power. It fills me with a passion, a heat, that makes me able to do things I can’t do otherwise. It might keep me alive if I can learn to use it.”

  “What if it uses you?”

  He lowered his voice. “There is no such thing as being Demon touched. One touch, and it wants nothing less than possession. And nothing comes without a price.”

  “Do you think you’re the only one who would be paying it? Is that how you make the bargain with yourself, that Cerat touches no one but you? It’s not a matter of control if you would trade yourself, bits of yourself, moment by moment. It will betray you. I carried Cerat, too. I know the echo of its voice.”

  “But he didn’t stay with you.” Sevryn’s gray gaze flickered over her face.

  “No.”

  “If I can’t excise it, then I must control it. Trust me, Grace, to do what I can do.” He touched a tangle of her hair to smooth it back behind her ear. He traced the curve of her cheekbone, and it felt like both fire and ice upon her skin. She wanted to grab his hand and press her face to his palm but did not. “I can’t be near you like this until I do.” He took a deep breath. “Where is she?”

  “In the conference room.”

  “I take it the ild Fallyn is here, then.”

  “And Tranta as well.”

  “Him, too?” Sevryn frowned. A bit of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, and he rubbed at the fleck with the ball of his thumb. “Tell her I’ll be up as soon as I clean myself.”

  “She’ll wait impatiently. I’m not to be there.”

  “No?” He looked as though he might be searching for something and could not quite grasp it. Finally, he tilted his head back and said, “It’s drizzling.”

  “Only a little. It will pass.” She gathered her skirt slightly to step away from him, adding, “Only it will pass too soon and too easily. This storm is one we need.” She felt his stare as she left, crossing the yards which had begun to muddy slightly, his stare which held a heat and an intensity that made the hair rise at the nape of her neck, a frisson that ran through her entire body before she moved out of his sight and reached the safety of the back kitchen doors.

  Quendius watched Narskap as he crouched to the ground, one hand stirring the marks of many hoofprints, the dirt and leaves stirred up, as the wind held the smell of rain growing near. There were those who said water had no smell, but he thought it only a defe
ct on the part of human flesh to be unable to scent it. Animals certainly could. He’d seen them migrate across continents in search of it, dig in the ground in hopes of finding it in sandy bottoms, and race in front of pounding storms in search of shelter. This would be no pounding storm when it hit. Barely enough, perhaps, to satisfy the earth. Larandaril suffered as the rest of the provinces of First Home did. A dry winter did no one any good except those like himself who trafficked in misery and ill times.

  Narskap finally stood. “Too far ahead of us for the border to still be open.”

  “Pity. Still, I should be able to get us through.”

  Narskap unbound the horses’ reins from a small shrub where he’d tied them, saying only, “It isn’t far in front of us.”

  “I want you ahead of me. No sense in alerting them that we are here if I blunder into it.”

  Narskap nodded and moved past him, his ragged, spare body looking as though a strong wind might cut him down, but it would not. He was steel under his skin, not sinew like others but steel and bone. Nor did he say what both of the two knew was obvious: Narskap would see and sense the border while Quendius could not, not until he had triggered its alarm and its repellent ward which might be strong enough to drop him on his ass. Narskap could see, well, Quendius was not sure what Narskap could see. The man had never tried to explain it to him nor had Quendius asked. Others had. One he had tortured until the explanation came gushing out like the blood and vomit he was spewing, but it had made no sense. He was blind when it came to seeing the threads and elements that wove the world together. What he did see was the abyss which hung through those threads, a complete and total darkness which he found quite absolute and threatening. He did not think, from the few Vaelinar magic workers who had talked with him that they saw it. There was a bleakness to the world, yes, there was always balance. Night for day, evil for good, disease for health, and so on. Quendius had never met anyone who had seen the fathomless, the null, the absolute absence of the universe as he did between all those brightly promising threads others observed. It was more than death. It was nothingness. Death gave rise to life all the time. One only had to look at the natural world to see it. This took everything and returned nothing. He feared it as little else he had ever experienced. It was not a flaw in himself. It was a reality he used.