The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  “Why?”

  She looked at Nutmeg. “The blood, that’s why. We can’t leave a trail into the house.”

  Nutmeg shuddered. Turning to the tired pony, she grabbed a fist of his mane to lead him away from the cart and toward the back pasture. Grace fetched out the strong apple vinegar and began wiping down the floorboards, erasing all trace of Hosmer’s being carried into the house, through the pantry, and down into the hidden cellar. She sprinkled the vinegar about in the farmyard, and kicked dust over the wet patches. Then she corked the bottle, handing it to Nutmeg. “Take that down with you. They might be needing it to dress his wounds.”

  “Take it yourself.” Nutmeg scrubbed her hands on her apron, smelling of pony sweat.

  “I’m not going. I can’t.” Rivergrace looked toward the river, and as if alerted by her gaze, a silver-winged alna rose on the horizon to circle lazily, belying the urgency of the moment.

  “You have to.”

  “I can’t. You don’t understand, but it chokes me down there. It falls on me like a . . . a huge boulder, and I can’t breathe, and I can’t think . . . I’ll climb the highest tree on the border I can find. They’ll not look for me there.”

  “Hounds won’t need to look. They’ll smell your fear sweat, and there you’ll be, treed and easy pickings. Get inside!” Nutmeg put her hands on her hips.

  “No.” Grace shook her head. “I can’t go to a hole in the ground! I can’t.”

  Nutmeg’s eyes narrowed, then she bent over to grab up one of the water buckets on its side. “You just stand there like a bump on a log!” she shouted, before running off.

  Stunned, Grace froze in place for a moment as Nutmeg’s figure disappeared beyond the gate and shrubbery in a flurry that even her sharp gaze could not track. Her thoughts stumbled. She opened her mouth to yell after her sister, then she heard the faint calling of hounds on the wind, far away yet carried on storm-laden clouds. A chill wind swept around her. Not Nutmeg, no. She followed after her sister.

  Jeredon came into the study, leather straps slung over his shoulder, his hands working as he braided the ends into something remotely resembling a lead rope, although it could have been almost any project that preoccupied his fancy. Sevryn looked up from his reading. Jeredon stopped and rocked back on one heel.

  “I should have known,” he remarked. “Feels like an angry nest of hornets round here.” He plopped down into a chair, crossed his ankles, and kept braiding.

  “It’s not me, I swear.” Sevryn signed through the air. Jeredon snorted.

  “What news, then?”

  “Little. Tressandre is as ever, as are all the ild Fallyns.” Jeredon took his attention from his braiding to run a keen eye over Sevryn. The corner of his mouth drew up. “I see she marked you.”

  “She tends to do that.” Sevryn put a finger to his collar and shifted the material slightly, his fingertip tracing the new scar delicately as he did so, and a faint heat rising in his face.

  “My only question would be if you like it as much as she does.”

  Sevryn only smiled then as he dropped his hand back to his book. “That would be telling. But no. I took it as an emissary, and she took it as a trial of my mettle. I could hardly run.”

  “Indeed.” Jeredon’s chin lowered as he began braiding again, fingers flying. His project took on, more and more, the aspect of a quiver strap, with an ivy pattern in the weaving itself. What had seemed haphazard to Sevryn at first became clearly the work of a master as Jeredon continued to labor. He put that realization at the back of his mind. Things were seldom what they seemed about the Vaelinars.

  He returned to his book, a treatise which mentioned Gilgarran more than once, and tugged at the nostalgic edge of his state of mind. His mentor’s training had been much like Jeredon’s weaving, he thought, sinking into the text. He did not rouse himself until the click of Lariel’s boots entering drew his attention. Closing the book on his finger, he looked up to see that Jeredon had fallen into a light doze and his sister stood over him with a look on her face that seemed to indicate she was torn between letting him sleep and waking him with a fright.

  She felt his gaze on her and winked at him, still torn in consideration. Jeredon broke the moment himself, his right booted foot twitching slightly and then he awoke, with a lazy yawn, looking up into his sister’s face. “No wonder I dreamed of a vantane’s sharp gaze on me,” he remarked.

  Lariel smiled at being compared to a war falcon. She leaned one hip against the study table. “And you its prey?”

  “Always. Although your amusements are not so sharp as those of the ild Fallyn.”

  Sevryn made a noise at that, and smiled innocently when both Lariel and Jeredon focused their attention on him. He put his book aside and stood. “I am at your service, as always, Queen Lariel.”

  “I need Talent, not good intentions.”

  He made a mocking little bow, in deference to his half blood. “I apologize again for my shortcomings. I can at least throw myself between you and a sharp object.”

  “There is that.” She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. Jeredon looked from one to the other, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes lit with curiosity. “I can only be thankful that, unlike the ild Fallyn Stronghold, I can speak securely within my own walls.”

  “Praise be,” Sevryn answered, “and so may that continue, my queen.” He straightened his tunic, picking at a bit of unseen lint as Lariel gazed hard into her brother’s face.

  Jeredon rattled his leatherwork in his hand. “Nothing on my mind is as important as the length of this quiver strap, at the moment. Anyone care to go hunting and bring in some fresh game for dinner? You should step away from your paperwork, Lariel, it’s made you cranky.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve too much work to prepare.”

  Sevryn wrinkled his nose. “I spent time in the kitchens today, and Cook could definitely use a bit of game to inspire her. I’ll go, Jeredon.”

  “You? You chase more than you bring down.”

  “I resent that.”

  “How can you resent the truth? Any more than one should revile the sun in the sky and the moons at night?”

  “Show me a truth first, then I shall banter with you whether I resent it or not.”

  “Gentlemen,” began Lariel firmly, but the two continued as if she had not said a word.

  “You would not know a truth if I rubbed your half-Vaelinar nose in it.”

  “And you think there is no truth unless a Vaelinar birthed it first, and that, Jeredon, is more wrong than saying the ocean drowns the sun every night.”

  “Gentlemen!”

  They stopped and looked at her. Lariel took a breath. “A hunt,” she said, “sounds appealing. Or it did.”

  Jeredon beamed, while Sevryn looked aggrieved. “I shall not argue further,” he answered. “But Jeredon is wrong.”

  “He frequently is. But, as his sister, only I am allowed to know that.” Lariel linked her elbow to Sevryn. “You’ll need a fresh horse. Yours is played out.”

  Jeredon grinned ear to ear. “I know just the animal.” He trailed out of the study after them, to hear Sevryn pleading, “Please, my lady queen, do not ask me to ride a beast that Jeredon has picked out.”

  Her laughter rang back up the stairwell. “I’ll ask no such thing. Just be wary of any mount I may assign you!”

  Sevryn groaned.

  Jeredon nocked his arrow. Keeping his eyes on a brace of field-fattened birds, he traced their line of flight before letting the string snap and arrow fly. Without watching to see if he hit or not, he turned back to Lariel.

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later. You’ve commanded a loyalty, sister, that few have, but spies are inevitable.”

  “If I knew who it was, I’d cut their ears off and send them out in a box by courier.” Lariel crossed her wrists as she sat her horse, and the tall gelding moved restively under her as if sensing her cross attitude.

  “I’ll get the bird,” Sevry
n offered. He put his horse into a lope, crossing the newly greened field even as Jeredon pulled another arrow from his shoulder quiver and put it to his bow.

  “You will use this spy to your advantage.”

  “Of course,” she answered shortly, her eyes on Sevryn. “And if there is one, there is likely another.” She sighed heavily.

  “The Accords have been in effect long enough to chafe at some of us. You know that.”

  “It’s more than that, I think. Some of the Houses are gathering up the half-breeds that they’ve disdained for centuries. Crossing those with purebloods, building the strain back up again. Discarding those who do not measure up, indenturing those who do.”

  “Breeding back a Vaelinar line?”

  “I think so. Or at least true-blooded enough to be finding Talent where they can. It could be a good thing, or it could be disaster. Talent built our Ways, but it did not lead us home.”

  “That doesn’t mean it will never do so.”

  Sevryn approached, the game bird tied off and hung over the pommel of his saddle, and handed the arrow back to Jeredon. “Convinced her to lead our spies a merry chase?”

  Lariel gave him an ill-disguised look of “How did you know?” while Jeredon barked a laugh.

  “We can do no less.” He shrugged at her mild irritation that he’d guessed her words while he was out of earshot.

  “Spoken like Gilgarran, if he could be found.” She twitched a rein in even more annoyance. “Years and years since I’ve heard from him. I’ve tired of waiting for him to come to me. I should put a bounty on his head.”

  Sevryn made a move, or perhaps it was his sudden stillness, that drew her attention, and she eyed his neutral expression. She and Jeredon traded glances then.

  “Perhaps,” Jeredon said quietly, “a direct question would be best.”

  “Perhaps.” Lariel brushed a strand of hair from her brow. “Sevryn, what do you know of Gilgarran?”

  Sevryn rubbed the back of his neck before meeting her eyes. “Gilgarran found me,” he answered. “And is dead, these past nearly three decades.”

  She reeled back in her saddle, Jeredon stabbing an arm out to steady her. “All these years,” she breathed, “and the answer in front of me all this time.”

  “I never knew you sought him. Even if I had known, I might not have said much, until necessary.” Sevryn shrugged, without apology. “It’s the way he trained me.”

  “None of us here can fault the way you were trained, and we should have recognized such discretion.” Jeredon kept his grip on his sister. “ ’Tis true, we never asked.”

  “I never had such a need of him before.” Lariel took a breath, sounding shaken. “He would know why there are Vaelinar eyes looking to the east. What lies there but the ruins of the past? What do I need to fear?”

  “Perhaps I should tell you how he died.”

  She nodded, color coming slowly back into her face, and Sevryn began to tell his tale, pausing only when Jeredon found a clear shot, and they brought down enough game to justify the hunt. His tale offered only a few answers, leaving far more questions. His words left her unresolved, for she had not only a spy to deal with, she had Tressandre’s challenge.

  Some prey, it seemed, would be more elusive than others.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  GARNER STRUGGLED UPWARD from darkness. He felt sucked down in a black pool of water and fought for the surface. He swam upward, forcing himself toward the light, and broke through, arms thrashing. And went nowhere, a weight holding him down and leaden sky meeting his eyes.

  With a grunt, he managed to roll out from under the dead weight of the thing squashing him. As he wrenched to one side, its pincers pulled free from his chest with a sucking sound and his back arched with the pain of it, a scream trying to tear from his throat but not getting out. He expected a gush of blood, but none came, just a seeping from a wound that closed even as he rolled to his side and tried to press it shut. Garner got to his knees. He looked at the Raver, dead and even more grotesque than before, sodden with Tolby’s home brew, his sprayer smashed, his short sword sunk to the hilt in the fraying crimson rags of the thing’s cloak. The shroud had slipped aside a bit, exposing a helmetlike head, and he twitched it back in place, not wanting to see more of the freakish thing than he had. He must have hit a vital spot, even as the thing had been digging for his. Thank the Gods and Goddesses for ribs. He got up on one foot but had to pause in a kneeling position, neither up nor down.

  He stared at the corpse of the thing. He ought to search it and see if there was anything about it worth anything, but the thought of touching it again raised gooseflesh on him. Garner clenched his jaw and prodded it with his free hand. Something fell from the cloak with a thunk into the crushed grass and bracken. He fished it out.

  It dangled on a wire chain. Garner tried to focus on it, but he could not tell if the chunk of metal was a seal or an amulet or just a twisted bit of jewelry. Whatever it was, it carried the same greasy feel to it that the Raver did. With a grimace of distaste he pocketed it, knowing that he wouldn’t pick anything else off the body. Whatever secrets it had, it would keep. He was alive and would have to concentrate on staying that way, and from the black edges closing in on his vision, it would take all his effort.

  It occurred to him that the beacon had probably been lit for good reason. An avalanche of thoughts followed that first one. Where there was one Raver, there were bound to be more, and that there could be trouble at home, and that home was where he needed to be. He labored to stand up, made it, and stood swaying. Then he put one foot ahead of the other. It was rather like walking home after a big night drinking with the militia volunteers, just as unsteady and his head throbbed just as much. He’d made it then. He’d make it now.

  Rivergrace dashed over the uneven rough pasture after Nutmeg, yet even with her long stride she came no closer to spotting her sister anywhere. Nutmeg could never beat her in a footrace, but Grace had no idea which way the other girl had gone. She paused to listen, her blood pulsing through her ears, the sound of faraway baying growing stronger, but not a leaf crunch to tell her of Nutmeg’s flight. Then, from the riverbanks, four or five alna took to the air, silver-tipped wings beating frantically as they gained height, and Grace veered toward the disturbance. Parting the reeds, she found Nutmeg struggling up the cove’s bank, heavy bucket in her arms.

  “What are you doing?”

  Nutmeg spun around, water splashing. “This,” she said, and swung the bucket at Grace, dousing her from head to toe in a wave of icy water. Nutmeg stood there grinning. “That’s river water,” she said emphatically. “So you come down to the cellar with me, and you sit down in the corner and close your eyes and you listen to the river sing. And, as long as you do that, you can bear it down there.”

  Grace blinked. Soaked, her long hair dripping about her, even her shoes squelched as she took a step in surprise. But, she could feel it. She could feel the arms of the Silverwing about her. Her mouth opened.

  “And I’ve half a bucket left!” Nutmeg finished in triumph, hooking her arm through Grace’s. “So come with me and no dillydallying.”

  Tolby met them at the front door. He looked from one to the other, then shook his head, no time for questions. He beckoned. “Garner?”

  Both shook their heads in answer.

  Tolby shifted unhappily, running his calloused hand over his thin hair. “There’s no way around it. He’ll make it back or hole up on his own. I have to trust that I did not raise stupid children. Get on with you now, your mother’s worried and needs your help.” With a cluck, he herded them into the kitchen and down the trapdoor into the main cellar, and then from the cramped passageway into the even deeper second cellar, where he dropped the heavy door into place overhead, and barred it.

  Grace closed her eyes a moment, standing with her back and shoulders bent, and tried not to think of it. Nutmeg dropped her half a bucket of water as she went to her mother’s side by Hosmer’s still, pale fig
ure. Lily reached out and stroked her daughter’s hair. “I’ve done all I can. The bleeding is stopped. I’ve never seen such a tear as that, but he should mend all right if there’s no infection.”

  Nutmeg tucked covers in around Hosmer, her motions an unconscious echo of her mother’s own fussing. “He lit the beacon,” she said.

  “That he did.” Tolby pulled out a small item from his vest pocket. “And brought this back for the Barrel family. Two sons died up there, the whole patrol ambushed. If they hadn’t gone to light it out without him, we’d have lost him, too.” His gaze went over Hosmer’s silent form, and his lips closed tightly.

  Unsaid but thought, and we still might.

  Grace crossed her arms in front of her as if to shield herself from the thought.

  Nutmeg sat down next to her, putting an arm about her shoulders, yet another echo of Lily Farbranch. “What do they want?”

  Tolby sat down and pulled out his cold pipe, and put the stem in his mouth anyway, as if it would help to chew on it. “No knowing, yet. Let’s hope we won’t be knowing too much later either.” He gazed up, at the dirt roof, broken only by the heavy drop door he’d barred into place, his eyes going dark with thought.

  “I heard hounds,” Grace offered.

  “We used vinegar,” Nutmeg added. “No blood trail down to the cellars.”

  “Good thinking,” Lily said briskly. “Now, all we can do is wait.” She began to attend to all the candles but the one near Hosmer, its light reflecting from its hood, pallid but seeming all the stronger as the others got pinched out one by one. Tolby drew her by him. Keldan sat at his brother’s feet, leaned his head against the corner of the cot, and drifted off into sleep almost immediately.