The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  “I beg your pardon?” Lariel swung about to face her.

  Rivergrace paused, as if groping for words, although she sank back a little as if she’d said too much.

  “It’s all right,” Sevryn told her.

  She looked at him, then back to Lariel. “It’s only that. How can I say it? I sense a river about you. Deep and strong, with all the currents a free-flowing river has within it, spring flood and late fall ebbing, pools and torrents, a blessing and a caution. You are far more than a dancing gown, m’lady.” And she dropped into a curtsy at that, head down, as though afraid even as thunder and rain ceased and all became silent for a long, uncomfortable moment.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “A DERRO,” SAID JEREDON, with a snort. “Little one, indeed. Your lass is a bloody prophet.”

  “No. No, I don’t think so.” Sevryn watched the rain pelt past the apartment windows as they waited for Lariel to ready herself for her appearance. Every drop added to the heaviness of the moisture, a veritable steam, rising from the city. “She hardly knew what she said till it came out. And she is not my lass.”

  “I’ll argue that one later. She hasn’t been raised among us, she’s even more clumsy than you, and I’ll agree she surprised herself even more than she surprised Lariel, but that is the way of prophets, isn’t it?”

  “Nutmeg calls her sister.”

  “Nutmeg? The saucy one who tweaked my nose when I didn’t get the glass in place in time?”

  “Aye, that one.”

  Jeredon grinned. “Came up to my chin on that little stepladder of hers.”

  “And you nearly wore that ladder, except I think she fancied your parting pinch.”

  “Someone had to cheer up Lariel.”

  Their Warrior Queen had laughed at the sparring between Jeredon and the small but feisty bundle of Dweller, but Sevryn doubted the humor would carry far under the circumstances. “Mmmm. She’s going to stride into that meeting room looking for a fight.”

  “I’ll have to appeal to her diplomatic side.”

  “She does have one, doesn’t she?”

  Jeredon shrugged at Sevryn. “She tells me she does.” Putting his foot up on the seat of a chair, he leaned over with a soft cloth and buffed his boot. “So why isn’t this Rivergrace your lass?”

  “I’ve barely seen her.”

  “Makes no difference.”

  “What, no difference?”

  Jeredon stropped the leather briskly. “None. Do you know nothing about us? Have you not heard Bistane sing “Lost Trevilara”? We are fated, Sevryn, to have soul mates or no real love at all.”

  “Rubbish.” Although he could believe it with Tressandre. There was lust but no love in that one’s veins.

  “Amusing to hear my brother has a poetic streak,” Lariel added as she swept into the room, fastening a bracelet that was more bracer than delicate linkage. She wore one of the Dweller shop’s cunning belled trouser-and-shirt sets, her corset fastened over it, accenting the span of her trim waist. “I trust the two of you are washed, outfitted, and weaponed accordingly?” The weapons were to be cunningly hidden, as weapons were outlawed at the Conference. Nearly everyone would be wearing them, despite that, but discreetly, particularly as word got out about the attack on Azel d’Stanthe.

  Sevryn bowed. “We are. At least, I washed,” he added smugly. With a supple twist, he avoided the snap of Jeredon’s buffing rag.

  “The best I could hope for. All right, then. We are doomed to candlemarks of boring lectures and diplomacy.”

  “In that case,” Jeredon told her dryly, “I suggest you lead the way and shield us as best you can.”

  Lariel reached out and tweaked his nose before doing just that.

  Saying flatly, “Ow,” Jeredon caught up with her. “I think it’s still bruised by sturdy Dweller fingers.” He rubbed his countenance ruefully.

  “Serves you right. Even a peasant can hold a silvered glass straight.”

  “I shall count it among my many deficiencies.”

  Sevryn paced behind them, watching, as they stepped into corridors he could not count as safe. No place would be considered safe until they returned to Larandaril and even that small kingdom might be open to treachery as the ild Fallyn suggested.

  Times had begun to turn, as Gilgarran and Daravan had warned him they would. And turning quickly.

  Tranta met Lariel first inside the great hallway, a gray pallor still underlying the faint blue of his skin, and his hair had been braided over the shaved spot where his scalp had been gashed, then stitched. He leaned on a cane though not heavily. Jeredon chose to defuse his sister’s emotion as she embraced one of her dearest friends.

  “Going for that twin look with Bregan Oxfort, are you?” He toed the cane, not totally out from under Tranta but enough that Tranta straightened with a chuckle to right himself immediately.

  “Unfair!” Tranta protested. “I was saving the juicy gossip that he was to be my dance partner until later!” He hugged Jeredon anyway, directing a low inquiry toward Lariel. “Is it true that Azel lies on his deathbed?”

  “True, and yet we hope to cheat his Return.”

  “If anyone can, you can.” He released Jeredon, absent- mindedly striking him in the shin sharply with the cane as he did so. Jeredon winced, and Tranta winked toward him.

  “So how is it you fell from a cliff face you’ve been climbing since you were knee-high to your mother?” Jeredon leaned on him, pleased to see that Tranta returned the wince.

  Quietly, Tranta answered, “I did not fall, I was pushed.”

  “What? I was told you had no recollection.” Lariel’s chin went up.

  “I hadn’t. It’s come back, faintly, in the last handful of days or so. I asked Tiiva for an audience with you, but she told me your ear was being bent in so many different ways, it would be a wonder if you had one left.”

  Lariel frowned as she drew Tranta close to her. “My apologies, dear cousin.”

  “None needed. What is said here, hopefully, will not be overheard.” Tranta paused thoughtfully. “There is more.”

  Jeredon propelled them into a nearby corner, saying loudly, “Compare trousers, then, damn it all. I need a drink,” and he stomped off. Sevryn eased his body into place between them and the growing crowd.

  Lariel leaned close to Tranta to hear him speak as Sevryn buffered them.

  “The Jewel of Tomarq falters.”

  “Ill news. How badly? Your House is strong?”

  “As far as I know, we remain strong, but as to how badly, I can’t predict at this point, Lariel. It weakens, then regains itself. I’m researching everything I have at hand to learn how to charge it, but I’ve not found much yet. The making of a Way is kept secret, you know that.”

  Regret flickered through her eyes. “I do.”

  “As for who met or followed me up on that cliff, I can’t say either. Only that someone was there who intended I wouldn’t live through the encounter.”

  “I’ll mark your words.” Lara leaned forward and kissed his forehead with a merry laugh she did not feel. Tranta broke away with a grin and a wave, to limp himself across the meeting room hall, belying the somber news he’d given her.

  “At least we know it wasn’t the Kobrir,” Sevryn murmured as he rejoined her.

  “What? Why do you say that?”

  “He favors poison as insurance. He would have used that despite the fall.”

  She found a breath and took it, long and deep. “I don’t know if you’ve given me good news on that, or worse news.” She caught someone’s eye across the way, and with a wave, moved toward them, Sevryn a step or two behind her as he would stay until sent away or the Conference ended.

  As the attendees arrived and the room filled with Vaelinars in all their glory, their grace, their skin a rainbow of color, their flashing eyes and luxuriant hair, he felt a gaze tickle over him, a heat running down the back of his neck. Sevryn turned slightly and saw Tressandre ild Fallyn watching him from across t
he room. She pivoted away as if un-noticing, her dark honey hair glinting in the sunlight and lamplight, a jeweled riding crop hanging from her belt, her body wrapped in black and silver. Her beauty hit him hard until, after a long moment, breathing became natural again.

  “Don’t you think, Sevryn? Sevryn?”

  He faced Jeredon. “I often think.”

  “Not on this occasion, it seems. Her Highness wants you to make rounds, and hand her guarding off to me for a while.”

  He sketched a bow and retreated, almost backing into Bistane who also watched someone across the room, but the figure in his regard was Lariel. Nor did he notice that several women watched him watching her, talking to themselves as they did, their eyes narrowed in envy.

  Sevryn decided a drink would do him some good. He paused at the small tavern area, then decided the drink would still do him good.

  “I’ll have a light blush,” the woman in front of him told the tender.

  “I’ll wager you’ve never blushed in your life, Tressandre,” he said.

  She waited till she had drink in hand before turning round to him, so close they nearly touched. He’d already poured himself a hard cider and the goblet in his fist fought to stay chilled.

  “And would you care if I had?” She smiled at him over the rim of her drink.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  She leaned closer, and her free hand traced up his thigh, across the kedant-laced welt, and it responded instantly, burning, stirring him, and words left him. “Interesting. Your eyes darken when you lie.”

  He found a few. “Perhaps they darken when I finally tell the truth.”

  Tressandre considered him. She withdrew her hand, leaving him pressing against her, his voice deepening as desire swept him. He wanted to be in her hands again until his body freed itself from the constraints he and she put upon him, until the fire burned away. It had nothing to do with tenderness or passion. It went beyond and was far darker than that.

  “Perhaps,” she answered. “I shall remember that.”

  He did not stay for all of her answer, swiveling on his heels before she finished, knowing that if she looked at him now, it would be daggers at his back. No one left Tressandre before she was finished with them. But he had to move, or he would be enslaved at her side the entire evening, unable to order himself away. He gathered his willpower and kept moving, legs nearly numb, the cider shaking in his hand. He raised it finally and took a gulp, and the crisp, clear sweetness swept over his taste buds and woke his mouth up, and the rest of his senses began to follow. It was the kedant, nothing more. He sent his thoughts back to a simple tailoring shop and the one who worked there, and a cleansing coolness swept over him.

  It brought a semblance of sensibility back, and left him wanting, but it was not for Tressandre.

  A voice boomed over the crowd. “Seating time, kindred! The Conference opens.”

  He watched as the Vaelinars flowed toward the speaking hall, where it was rumored there were alcoves where whispered words from the other end of the building could be overheard, and he did not doubt that. He stayed in the back, on his feet, Lariel and her brother never out of his sight, and Tressandre never within it.

  Lily stood and stretched, cramped muscles at the back of her neck and shoulders telling her that she’d been hunched over her sewing too long. What had been a joy was now her livelihood, and one she pushed herself very hard at. Adeena looked up from her panel.

  “It’s later than I thought. The sky is still very gray.”

  “I thought you sent Shyna home.”

  “True, I have. I forgot.” Adeena rubbed her eyebrow.

  “Are you going to tell me why she has short hours?”

  “She drinks, Mistress. If you keep her longer, she’ll bring the drink here, and her work will suffer for it. Let her go, and she will eventually stumble her way home, happy, and be back at work the next morning as expected.” Adeena sighed. “It’s a way of living with her and her needs.”

  “I’ve no quibble with her work, as long as she is sober here.”

  “Good. I worried about bringing her in.” Adeena threw her a grateful look.

  “I could use more hours from her, but I’ll accept your judgment. And half a loaf is better than none.” Lily drew herself up. “I’m addled.” She grabbed her cape from its hook. “I’m off to settle that warehouse and carter!” With a wave, she was gone, leaving Adeena alone with Goodie who sat at the far table, stitching a gown panel pulled across a frame to make it easier and quicker to work on. She heard the bell at the front door tinkle a second time and wondered what her employer had forgotten. She rose to her feet.

  “Is anyone about—oh! There you are. I’ve heard such things about your shop!”

  Adeena looked at the excitable Kernan, her hands fluttering about. “Thom, dear man, said I could order a new dress and there’s no time for you to come to the mayoral manor, so I came to you, aren’t you pleased, and I absolutely adore the fabrics you have to work with!”

  The Dweller husband and Kernan wife couple were neither usual nor unusual in matches, although certainly an odd one. He rotund and short, and she willowy and tall, he quiet, though forceful, and this one bobbing up and down like a butterfly trying to ride out a steep wind every time Adeena had seen them though she’d certainly never thought she’d see either one up close.

  “Mistress Farbranch is out on a business appointment,” she offered. “Perhaps I can assist you?”

  “Of course. She oversees all the work.”

  “Definitely, madam.”

  “What a joy of a shop!” Before Adeena could assist or contain her, Madam Stonehand darted throughout the building and workrooms, crying out at the sight of the gowns and dresses being worked up, some laid out on the tables and others pinned upon forms. She stopped long enough to grab Adeena’s elbow.

  “That one. I simply must have that one.”

  She pointed at the gown Nutmeg had nearly finished for the Warrior Queen Lariel.

  “I’m so sorry, madam, but that’s been commissioned.”

  “Oh! Of course, of course it has. And the fabric, exquisite, although not my color. I prefer greens. However,” and the mayor’s wife dropped her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Surely you can tailor another gown?”

  They needed the coin. Adeena knew that from the raft of bills that came in, and from the pinched look on Lily’s face. The magnificent gown was not to be copied, but how would its wearer know? A different fabric . . .

  “Let me suggest some beautiful fine shattan we just received, and in a soft jade that would be most flattering to madam’s eyes and coloring . . .”

  “Perfect!” cried the woman, clapping her hands together.

  And the deal was done before Lily returned, and Adeena had gone back to her own panels, pleased at bringing in a nice sum to the shop’s coffers. She hadn’t the backbone to run the place by herself, but she knew how to be a good support to Lily Farbranch, and by all the Gods, she would!

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  “WE ARE MET TO CONSIDER Petitions set forth to the Four Kingdoms and to share our welfare and concerns with one another.” Bistel Vantane stood at the front of the assembly, shoulders slightly bowed but his wiry frame otherwise straight, his silvery-white hair cropped close to his skull, his eyes of dark, blazing blue watching his audience with piercing keenness. Only close enough to be struck by him could one see the rings of lighter blue around each iris, a distance few cared to approach with Bistel. Bistane was an echo of his father’s physical presence and only slightly less feared. Like the vantane, the Vaelinar falcons brought to Kerith, Bistel gauged those he watched for weakness. He let his gavel fall on the podium at his elbow. It rang with agonizing sharpness.

  “The Petitions have been gathered, and we shall weigh their merits. First, I will digress. Azel d’Stanthe of Ferstanthe had hoped to appear in a few days, when our own concerns will be presented, before misfortune struck him down. Queen Lariel Anderieon has asked
to speak on his behalf.”

  A murmur shot through the room. Rumors had sharpened the ears of everyone, and Lariel rose with slight trepidation and made her way to the podium. Acoustics of the room made it possible to be heard quite well from the front, and she paused to take a breath.

  “First, I will address the rumors. Yes, he has been struck by an assassin. As of this moment, he survives. We can’t predict beyond this moment. He has the best care we can give, but he will have no visitors. I’m sure you all understand why. When his condition changes, you’ll all be apprised as soon as possible.” Lariel stopped speaking to let the reaction sweep the others, listening to murmurs and protests and a few shouted questions at her, which she did not intend to answer even if she could. When the assembly quieted again, she continued. “Azel hoped to present as well as attend this year. Because he deserves a voice, I’ll give to you now, for your consideration in future days, what he proposes.” Lariel looked over them, saw them listening, a mix of expressions on faces familiar and unfamiliar. “He wished more libraries built, and the funds not only to construct them but to train new scribes and copyists and historians to maintain them. Libraries not only on this coast but to the east. Three, in all, across the continent.” She lifted a hand and placed it on the podium more to steady her voice than to steady her body. She eyed Sanfer, Azel’s nephew and only heir, who looked as shocked as anyone, before moving her gaze onward. The burly man carried the d’Stanthe looks and, she hoped, ambitions. “Moreover, he wished to have the libraries open to all on Kerith who wish to use them.”

  That brought outbursts. She knew it would. She waited for the furor to die down a bit, then raised her own voice. “A proposal set forth to you by the House d’Ferstanthe. Consideration, arguments, and judgment to be given, as customary.” She left the front then, returning to her place by Jeredon.

  “That went well,” he said dryly to her ear. “You’re still standing.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, then took her seat. “I wondered. Sanfer, from his reaction, knew nothing about any of this.”