The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  He pulled his punch back. “What be happening?”

  “You’re wanted. Needed.”

  The commotion had awakened Lily and she sat up in bed, with the covers pulled up to her neck. “Grace and Nutmeg! Have they come home?”

  “Everyone’s all right, Mom. But you’ve been sent for. I can’t tell you any more. Hurry up and dress, we’ve a coach waiting outside.” Hosmer bent over to help his guard mates off the floor, further conversation overridden by groans and grunts of the downed getting back to their feet, holding bruised jaws and brows.

  Tolby wasted no time jamming his nightshirt into a pair of trousers and his feet into his well-worn and most comfortable boots. Lily waited until the door closed behind her son before dressing herself, with quick, neat movements, and twisting her hair into some semblance of order.

  Hosmer sat on a horse cart, reins in hand.

  “You’re certain the girls are all right?”

  “They’re fine, last I saw them. Warrior Queen Lariel sent for you.”

  Lily laced her fingers together. Compliments would have waited till dawn, only trouble came in the middle of the night, and she pressed her lips together in worry. Tolby’s shoulder bumped close to hers and stayed in support although the two did not exchange words until Hosmer drove to the Great Hall itself, got down, and put his hand up to Lily.

  “Here?”

  “Here is where I was told to bring you. I was on duty at the front doors.” Hosmer’s expression changed quickly as if he wished to say something else, and did not. Lily took his hand to step down, worried now about what he was not saying even more than what he had said.

  Crews moved slowly about the quad, bent over brooms and barrels, whisking and clearing away the last of the outside celebration, as the night faded into its last, deepest hours. A drunken shout here and there sounded far away from the circle of light cast by the lampposts at the hall. Tolby jumped down with a grunt. He ran a hand through his thinning, grizzled hair.

  A Vaelinar noble awaited them inside the grand entryway. He looked irritated, and that did not help Lily’s fluttering pulse any. Something unspeakable had stained his pristine white leathers, although she had a sinking feeling that was not what irritated him. She took a deep breath to compose herself and followed after as he waved. “Come with me. Be quick about it. Do not linger to ask or answer questions.”

  Within, the music played on for couples twirling slowly about the ballroom, and heads turned curiously as they came through. She had to nearly run to stay close to the Vaelinar noble whose every passing stride seemed to lengthen in irritation. They passed through two arches, and by guards, and then into a room designated as the Sun Alcove, although Lily thought it could encompass most of her new house. Her daughters sat within.

  She dropped, kneeling at Queen Lariel’s feet, certain only that trouble had awakened them from a deep, worry-free sleep. The finery all wore did not hide the steel they could be made of, nor the reputations of the veiled ones from years and years ago.

  “Master and Mistress Farbranch. Thank you for coming to me.” She leaned forward and said, “Please rise. And please put yourself at ease. No one is on trial here.”

  “Yet.”

  She shot Bistane a look of pure annoyance before looking kindly on Lily. “It seemed necessary to talk with you.”

  “They’re good lasses,” Tolby said. “Whatever has been done, was done with good intentions.”

  “We saved her from poison!” Nutmeg blurted out. She swallowed. “Rivergrace did, anyway.”

  “For which we are exceedingly grateful,” Jeredon told him. “Still, the curiosity of a Vaelinar blooded one raised by Dwellers struck us. How did you find her?”

  Tolby took his cold pipe out of his pants pocket and clamped his teeth on the stem. “I’ll let my wife tell you that tale, but I demand respect for her from all of you.” He glared about the alcove and leaned back against the wall.

  “Agreed,” said Lariel smoothly. “I need to deal with another matter first. Bistane. I think you may have news from home which you’ll need to deal with. You may leave us now.”

  “Of what do you speak?”

  “I speak of your moving to abandon the Accords, and of the army your father has led to the east.”

  He did not respond or hesitate, merely turned abruptly and did as she told him, the draperies ruffling at his exit. Daravan inhaled with a sharp hiss.

  “Is that true?”

  “The Accords? Yes. More than true, it seems to have been prophetic.” She watched him go before she crooked a finger at Lily. “Please sit and tell me.”

  Lily eased herself in between Rivergrace and Nutmeg. “There isn’t much to tell, Your Highness. It was spring and flood tide, and we were working our orchards, tending to the blossoms and trimming of dead wood and such, and Meg here played by the river. She found Grace on a bit of a raft barely more than kindling wood and a handful of it at that, and pulled her ashore. We’ve a bit of a cove there, and the water turns back on itself,” she added as Jeredon made a tiny mutter of disbelief. “Grace was as big as Meg, but half-starved—”

  “More than half,” put in Tolby. “I’m still not seein’ how a parent can let their child go like that.” He hushed at Lily’s next words.

  “We don’t know what happened or why. Only that the Silverwing carried her down to us, and she was nearly dead from it.”

  “Did she remember anything?”

  Lily shook her head. “Little but sadness and loss.”

  “And the scars?”

  “Fresh,” Lily said to Sevryn. “We could tell she’d been in chains. Or worse. The gashes, the burning.” She twisted her hands together. “We made a decision to keep her secret, to keep her safe, she but a weakling child.”

  “Her speech?”

  “Seldom. It seemed as though she knew little of any kind of speech at all.”

  Rivergrace lifted a few fingers. “I remember a little when I hear Vaelinar now. It seems both familiar and very far away. I remember being cold and the sound of water in my ears, and not being able to see, and Stinkers that came and went.” She paused to draw a shallow breath. “I remember the earth pressing down on us. On me. No. On us.” She came to a halting stop, and Sevryn squeezed his hand about hers, his own thoughts tumbling back to dark times.

  Jeredon shifted his folded legs, nodding to Lily. “Did anyone come after her? Were any warrants put out for runaway slaves or the like?”

  “No. Of course, we lived out in the hills and valleys, and might not have known right away, but word travels. We had Bolger raids and those were nothing new, before and after her coming.”

  “And then the Raver raids began,” Tolby said, bitterness edging his voice. “Burned us out.”

  Sevryn took a deep breath. “Bolger mercenaries with Ravers, aye?”

  “Yes. The lands have been plagued with them this last handful of years. My son Hosmer lost most of his militia to the last one that drove us away.”

  “We haven’t been able to find out what drives them, but they have gotten bold.” The corner of Sevryn’s mouth worked, but he fell silent then as if more words failed him.

  “I kept,” Lily said hesitantly, “a few of her things.” She did not return the gaze of her daughters, but looked at Lariel steadfastly.

  “What sort of things?”

  “She had little in the way of clothing that survived the river, but there was a scarf or blanket scrap, handwoven, of beautiful thread. I put it away, thinking that someday I might, she might . . . she might want it, and I could give it to her.” Lily swallowed. “It’s still buried at the old house, in the root cellar. I didn’t bring it with us. I should have. It had runes worked through it. I . . . I feared it might harm more than help her. We saw little love or care in her, m’lady. She had been worn to a shadow.”

  “It should be retrieved. It might tell us much.”

  “Or,” stated Jeredon, “nothing.”

  “When death comes after me, I demand
to know who made me the target. I would know who I can trust.”

  Rivergrace stirred as if unaware she moved, but she pointed around the alcove. First to Sevryn, then to Jeredon, then after a long hesitation to Daravan. “Find trust and honor in these,” she said, and grew quiet again.

  Sevryn felt Daravan’s eyes on him yet could not still his thoughts. He’d escaped as had she. Dare he ask her to go back to that? Would it break her if she did? Or had she already been broken, to be used as a tool? She’d taken down a Raver and yet seemingly had no memory of it that she allowed. What else had she buried deep within her?

  Lariel leaned intently toward Rivergrace. “Not a prophet, I think. She is my avandara.”

  It was the second time that night Grace had heard Lara say that word.

  “Improbable,” Daravan responded. “We no longer carry that Talent in our lines, Highness.”

  “We did once. Truth-seekers, verifiers. I think it may have returned.” Lariel made a restless movement. “Thinking that is better than thinking she was used as part of a conspiracy. Which would you have?”

  Rivergrace stood in her flowing gown. “I want to know what I am, where I came from. I’m going back.”

  “Not alone. Not to Raver-burned ground. I’ll come with you.” Sevryn pulled himself straight.

  Tolby removed his cold pipe and jabbed it in the air. “I’ll take her back. She deserves that much from me.”

  “No.” Lariel spoke firmly but quietly. She eyed all of them, but her regard fell on Sevryn and stayed. “It’s not what you say, but what you don’t.”

  “I know the mountains from which the Silverwing flows.”

  “As do we. The Silverwing flows from one crest of the mountains, and the Andredia from the western slopes. You ask to leave my side at a time when I’ve great need of you. Why?”

  “Because, m’lady queen, her broken memories echo my own.”

  Silence fell and stayed. Would she trust him without further explanation, or dare he use his Voice, not upon Lariel—for that would break every vow he’d made to himself and to her—but to her, to whisper to her his fears, his hope that Rivergrace might lead him to answers of his own. She saved him the decision.

  “So be it.”

  “Grace isn’t going anywhere without me,” declared Nutmeg.

  “I imagine not.” Lariel managed a smile. “Sevryn will accompany you. Leave as soon as is possible and return the quicker.”

  “A day’s rest and we’ll be off.” He took Rivergrace’s hand and pressed it into her father’s. “I’ll call for you the next morrow. You can ride, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then, I’ll bring a mount for you. Nutmeg?”

  “I’ll be taking my own pony.”

  “Master Tolby?”

  “I expect I can manage a horse.” Tolby gathered his family about him, tucking his pipe into his pants pocket. “We’ll see you at dawn tomorrow.”

  Daravan watched them leave, and the two of them stood alone, before commenting, “Is that well done?”

  “I don’t know.” Lariel picked up the hem of her skirt and stood. “That’s the damn trouble with life, isn’t it? You don’t know until too late.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  HE BOUGHT A HORSE from the guard, a half-tashya breed, a nice little mare with a red-brown coat and dark ebony socks, mane, and tail. She had a good eye to her, long legs, and the tashya speed and intelligence without being so fiery that an inexperienced rider couldn’t control her. The guard officer who sold her patted her on the neck with a tear in the corner of his eye in farewell, saying, “Take care of Black Ribbon.” Sevryn promised he would.

  He also found a mountain pony with some tashya blood in him, stout and longer-legged but fast enough to keep up with the other horses. The temptation to buy a second pony crossed him, but he doubted Nutmeg would ride it. He procured one of the long-necked pack goats from the queen’s own herd stabled in Calcort at the traders’ guild. It stood nearly as tall as Rivergrace’s mare, stubborn and able to carry a good weight in packs. It rolled an eye at him, and he tried to make friends with it by giving it a honey cake. It gobbled the cake down quickly enough and glared at him with suspicion when he didn’t produce any more.

  He brought the string with him to the Farbranch holding in the northeast quarter. Walther had popped up to give him instructions for a good tip, as well as a message from Daravan. As the boy bounded off, he had read and pocketed it. Now it lay scalding in his pocket like a heated rock refusing to be ignored.

  The Farbranches awaited him, Nutmeg already up and mounted on a fat, burly little chocolate-brown gelding who arched his neck and whinnied a challenge at him as he rode up. Tolby handed Rivergrace up, her long legs clad in farmers’ pants, her hair knotted up under a broadbrim hat. She beamed down at her mare. “Who is this?”

  “That, I’m told, is Ribbon. Tolby’s on Neatfoot and the goat is Daisy. He doesn’t answer to Daisy, and I can’t say as I blame him.”

  Tolby took Lily in his arms for a resounding kiss before mounting his horse. He pointed a thumb at Garner and Keldan who jostled each other to grab his boot foot to shake him good-bye. “You watch the business like the sons I taught you to be!”

  “No worries, Da.” Garner smiled solemnly at him. Tolby looked up and down the lane as if hoping to see Hosmer, but his watch had been that morning, and he did not appear. Lily stood blushing in the street and waved at them for as long as they could see each other, framed by both their grown boys. The girls turned about often to look back, until the lane curved enough that they were carried out of sight. The goat trotted along behind reluctantly until it let out a bleat of farewell and resigned itself to keeping pace as they moved outside the western city gates.

  “How long a trip?” Sevryn ask of Tolby.

  “A good two to three weeks,” Tolby answered. “Depends on summer rain, and whatnot. Mounts should be faster than wagon and cart, so it mightn’t be quite that long.” He gave Sevryn a sidelong look. By whatnot, Sevryn gathered he meant road bandits and other hazards best not discussed in front of the others. He had no intention of leaving the main roads until he had to, so the whatnot should be down to a minimum, as any bandit was more of a coward and opportunist than anything else.

  By the third day, Sevryn was impressed with his company. Both Rivergrace and Nutmeg rode well and tirelessly, which he hadn’t expected. Bumblebee, the stout Dweller pony, had a lot of bottom to him, keeping up well although he whuffed and grumbled in the late afternoon when staked out to graze and rest. Older yet determined to keep up, Bumblebee had a good, smooth gait and Nutmeg never let him stumble. The two riders bathed and rubbed and anointed his legs with a smelly salve that they swore kept the stiffness away, and by added advantage, kept almost any flying bug away from the camp as well. What insect wasn’t deterred by the odor of the salve undoubtedly was cut down by the pungent toback that Tolby put in his pipe and puffed away at each evening.

  The girls seemed immune to the smoke as well, although Nutmeg wrinkled her nose the first night, noting, “Mom doesna let you smoke that at home.”

  “A man has to take his little pleasures when he can.” Tolby winked at her. As the pipe seemed well broken in and used, Sevryn figured it was the toback and not the pipe that seldom got smoked at home.

  Third night, he took the early watch, sitting on a hillock before the sun set, a small freshet bubbling away by the camp, Tolby telling a story of some kind to his daughters, his voice barely drifting up to Sevryn. Sevryn pulled Daravan’s note from his pocket, the note that had remained so hot, he wondered it hadn’t set him on fire.

  ~ You’ll be followed. ~

  That was it. Nothing more, not a jot of explanation, yet it had raised the hair on the back of his neck like a hound on a scent trail both hot and feared, and he hadn’t calmed down yet. He did not think he could let this fall into Tolby’s “whatnot” category.

  Not, I’ll be following. Not, Be wary of pursuers. Just
. . . this.

  Sevryn refolded the note and returned it to his pocket, musing. He didn’t think that Daravan stooped to manipulating him in an attempt to keep him on his toes. If Kobrir or Vaelinar, Daravan would have told him, so it struck him that Daravan knew as little of the being on their trail as he did, only that they were likely to have one. He mulled that over. Neither friend nor foe. He would have to watch and wait and see if it revealed itself. He hadn’t seen it coming out of Calcort or the low farmlands surrounding the city, when a tail would have been most visible, so it had guile enough to not be seen.

  He put his back to a stump, set his heels in, and surveyed his watch. Tolby’s voice fell off and silence came from below, until a basso snoring drifted up, and Sevryn grinned in spite of himself. The snoring would keep him awake until his watch ended, when Tolby would stroll up and relieve him. He could hear the whicker and stamp of one of the horses as it moved about on the tie-line.

  Something splashed downstream in the small brook, a night fisher perhaps. He listened to the deepening dusk.

  Another splash. If a night fisher, it seemed a trifle big to be making enough noise for Sevryn to hear it so clearly upstream. He tensed but heard no other untoward sound, even as he thought he would go investigate if he did. The noise never sounded again, as if knowing his thoughts.

  As the moon’s quarter face hung high in the sky, the snoring stopped and Tolby eventually made his way up to the hillock. He had a cup in his hand, which he offered to Sevryn, a Dweller brew of leaves with a faint hint of peppermint and a tart-sweet kick to it.

  “The lasses sleep well.” Tolby hunkered down next to him as he drank.

  “Good. Do you expect any trouble at the old place?”

  “I’ve heard no one has been able to settle out there yet. ’Tis good land no one wants to leave fallow, so, aye, I expect trouble.”

  “Bolgers don’t usually ride with Ravers.”

  “But they have been, aye? I expect that one of us with the knowing of which clans are which could make sense of it, but there are few of us who take note of Bolger doings.”