The Queen of Storm and Shadow

by Jenna Rhodes

  “Who is as much you as anyone.”

  “True. She had an affinity for the fishers, I know, and they for me. Nutmeg and I used to chase them up and down the riverbanks and leave bits of cloth from Lily’s weavings for them, and they’d leave bits of herbs and berries and an occasional bright object like a lost button for us.” She soothed the back of her finger down one breast and listened to the bird murmur in soft pleasure. “Anyway, these seem to be edible.” She fanned her other hand over the pile.

  “On whose authority?”

  “Well, they eat them,” Grace amended. “We can try a bit. If they’re disgusting, spit them out, so that if they’re pernicious, we should survive.”

  Sevryn did not answer for a moment, thinking of the herbs the Kobrir had introduced to him that were quite deadly even by a bare pinch of quantity. But having been through their tutelage, he thought he could discern what he needed to about these food items. He crossed his legs to watch the flock of six or seven birds preen and jockey among themselves to get closer to her. The one plucking her hair flew off, to be replaced by another content to sit on the second shoulder. She reached up to repair her braid, scattering both birds off her with the movement, their blue-and-green wings flashing brilliantly in the sun as she did. They landed a bit away and watched her, slightly aggrieved, with bright, dark eyes circled by feathered rings of sable.

  “Time is not on our side,” he remarked, finally.

  “But it might be. We know that the queen still lives and that time here is not what time is at home.”

  “We still can’t afford to tarry. While we pass time here, time gallops at home, if my perception is correct. You risk losing Nutmeg and the rest of your family to the ages.”

  Her hands paused in gathering up the bounty the birds had brought to her. “I wouldn’t mind that, I guess, if I knew they lived to a ripe old, deserved age. But it’s not likely.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “What do we need?”

  “A water source. Steady food. A shelter out of the elements, and a home base to strike from that is not encumbered by distance and circumstance. Mounts. Allies.”

  “I’m used to being on a march. I’ll count myself well-rested by tomorrow. You?”

  “Yes, and ready.”

  She reached out to rest her hand over his knee. “You set off to dispatch Tressandre and Alton.”

  “A destination I didn’t reach for quite a long time.” He swept a hand over himself. “This intervened.”

  “The Kobrir captured you?”

  “Eventually, yes, but I blame that on Bregan. He led me into an ambush.”

  “Bregan?” She sat back, a little astonished at his mention of the Master Trader. “Bregan has been more than eccentric these past few years. However did he get past your defenses?”

  “You can blame that on my old mentor Gilgarran. The trader seemed to have an inkling of plots behind the plots and distracted me enough that I decided to follow his lead.” He cradled his fingers back over her hand. “He didn’t do it by himself. The old Gods of Kerith have begun to awaken, and they decided to bedevil him.”

  Rivergrace raised an eyebrow. He nodded. “Almost beyond belief, but I decided to believe him. He offered a way through the old Mageborn tunnels that would save me days and days of travel, and I was in a hurry.” He paused as if to gather words. “Grace, he hears them. He does. It has driven him crazy, but it’s also awakened powers in him that none of us have. Kerith is beginning to rise, I think. Whatever we do here will have a terrible impact there.”

  “What kind of powers?”

  “He can manipulate travel through those tunnels. And, it seems, time.”

  She shook her head in disbelief and he tightened his hand over hers, as if to restrain her reaction. “He took me back centuries. Unintentionally, but he did it, through those tunnels. I witnessed the choosing of the Warrior Queen.”

  “Lariel?”

  “Yes. Coming into her own, and with the help of powers that most Vaelinar consider forbidden.”

  She frowned. “But Lara had labeled you traitor before that . . . before you witnessed that day.”

  “Because she let me into her thoughts, and I read the possibilities long before I actually witnessed them.”

  “We do not mind read.”

  “We are not supposed to. Neither are we supposed to possess.”

  Rivergrace took in a breath that hissed a little through her curved lips. “No wonder she fears you. And me.”

  “She uses her power with great restraint.”

  “And yet.” She looked away for a long moment. “That she uses them at all means her life is forfeit, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Sinok protected her from that.”

  “He was the old Warrior King and her grandfather, and he had no doubt about his successor. Gilgarran, too. I think, from what I’ve seen of his journals, that he had a fairly good idea of what her Talents were, and deflected the criticisms of her detractors who felt she had little enough Talent to earn and keep her title.”

  “The family of ild Fallyn among the foremost opposition.”

  “In a way, I can understand that, but once the title had been contested for, and won, they should have retreated. They should have become the ally that would have strengthened all of us, rather than divide us, but they have never had that mindset.”

  “They coveted what they felt should have been theirs.”

  “And they will not stop. That’s why you decided you had to remove them, for all our safety.”

  “They’ve earned it.” He paused. “Alton died an ugly death. Tressandre will never let that go, not until she is gone herself.”

  “You killed him?”

  “I had a part in it. The other—” He paused. “You didn’t see it?”

  “No.” She waited a long moment before he continued.

  “Lara wore armor, light mail, that Tranta had made and interwoven with shards from the Jewel of Tomarq.”

  “The destroyed Way?”

  He nodded. “Tranta refused to believe the Way was gone, that her protective powers no longer existed. He had an affinity for the Jewel and couldn’t, wouldn’t, let it go. The gems still fired for him.”

  “A fiery blast for enemies.”

  “Yes.” He rubbed his thumb along the silhouette of her hand. “Lara wore a pectoral, bracers, and girdle of chain mail set with the gems. Alton got to her before I could stop the blow or parry him back. The . . . protection . . . reacted to his attack. He sliced her, but the gems—it was like watching a bonfire explode into a thousand sparks and flames. I cut him again, more out of mercy than anything.” He cleared his throat. The man had been screaming, he remembered. He’d had to attack Tressandre as well, the woman driving in to administer the killing blow Alton had failed to deliver. He knew he’d hurt her, how badly he could not guess. “I left a Kobrir dagger in Lariel, and Lariel in Bistane’s hands.”

  “You struck her?”

  “I had to. The blade was coated with a potion that would simulate death by slowing the body down into a deep sleep. It was the only way she’d survive, and the Kobrir can revive her when her body heals. She will heal, slowly. I believe.”

  “Her body is torn in a race between healing and dying?”

  He nodded. “And healing should prevail.” He knotted a fist. “It has to. We need Lara.”

  Rivergrace crossed her boots at the ankle. “I wonder about the babies.”

  “Whose?”

  “Nutmeg. And Tressandre.”

  He made a noise of disdain. “Tress will have a great deal of trouble proving she carries Jeredon’s heir. If Nutmeg is fortunate, her child will be clearly stamped as Jeredon’s, Dweller blood mingled or not. Plus, she should have months before Tressandre gives birth. She is bold to claim her child is Jeredon
’s, the very nature of maternity is against her.”

  “But the ild Fallyn have a loyal following, plus they’re not afraid to strong-arm the weak-minded.” She gave a little sigh. “It won’t be easy. It’s never easy.” She went silent.

  “Was it ever?”

  The corner of her mouth tilted upward. “When I was young, and Nutmeg was the only sister I knew, and our brothers the only menace—besides bad weather and tree rot in the orchards. Yes, there were easy times, long before I thought of myself as Vaelinar.”

  “I’m sorry we had to ruin it for you.”

  “Oh, you didn’t ruin my world. You Vaelinar expanded it, and I grew up. Lily always told me the world would be a different place as I grew into it.”

  Lily Farbranch had been, to his mind, as much a weaver of fate as of fabrics. She’d woven good values for her children to grow into. And, Rivergrace’s foster father, Tolby was as shrewd and stout a man as he could ever hope to have on his side, notwithstanding his stature as a Dweller.

  Rivergrace uncrossed her ankles and stood up smoothly. “You’re right. Time isn’t on our side. I don’t want to cross that bridge again and find them gone. To find that the life they lived could have been better if only I’d been there.”

  “First, we have to stop a queen and kill a master of death.”

  She put her finger up. “First, we have to make dinner. Then, we make plans.”

  Chapter

  Five

  “IT’S OUR FIRST VILLAGE.”

  “Hardly big enough to be called one, but yes.”

  “And you think we should approach it.”

  Sevryn put aside the throwing dagger he’d been sharpening with a promising rock and answered, “Yes, I think we should consider it. I’ve been observing it—”

  “I know that.”

  He continued smoothly, “Observing it and it’s underpopulated, if anything. They’re fishermen, primarily, but in the mornings, there is a regular exodus of the young and able-bodied. For what or why, I can’t determine from our perch up here, but it appears to be voluntary, if necessary. No matter. With the men out to sea and the others gone, it leaves us a handful of people to make contact with. Easily manageable.”

  “The lame and the feeble.”

  “No. There are bakers and wisewomen aplenty down there.” He looked over the sea cliff toward the scattering of huts. “Most importantly, Quendius has not come through.”

  “That,” Rivergrace conceded, “is a winning argument. So we go in tomorrow to test the waters?”

  “I think so. The weather is changing; I’m thinking we’re not at the end of winter here but at the beginning of it, even though the leaves are still green. It’s getting damp and chilly enough that autumn may be closing in.”

  “You’re thinking of better shelter.”

  “And you should be, too.” He found a sheath for his weapon. “We also need to get an idea of communication and what they do or don’t know about the current state of affairs.”

  “They look isolated.”

  “Perhaps all the better for us if they offer shelter.”

  Her chin jutted out with a touch of stubbornness he recognized. “What are your thoughts?” he added.

  “I don’t want to be hunkered down all winter. I think we need to move, and move now. Trevilara may not know of us, or Quendius where we are, but the Vaelinar Gods know and they will not tolerate us.”

  “You feel this.”

  “I feel it deeply.” Rivergrace brushed a stray bit of hair from her forehead. “They’re watching. Evaluating. And when they decide what to do, they will strike. I don’t know what we hope we can do against a God.”

  He settled back against a thumb of rock that jutted up from the sea cliff. Lichen flaked from its surface as he did so. “We’ve been moving well these past two weeks, but we don’t know where we’re going, and we’ve no way to orient ourselves. Those fisher folk down there know exactly how isolated they are.”

  She relented. “All right. But I’m going with you.”

  “I intended for that.”

  “Oh.” And she leaned the side of her face against his shoulder.

  “I expect a great deal of talk between women.”

  She laughed. “Ah. Now I see.” Rivergrace punched his arm lightly. “I should have realized.”

  “Yes, you should.” He rolled flat to the ground, taking her with him, and said to her neck as he buried his face in it. “You really should have thought of that.”

  • • •

  Crouched by the scruffy ring of brush that had possibly been coaxed into a hedge to fence off a more vulnerable side of the village, Rivergrace held her breath lightly and watched the line of people begin to leave. She poked Sevryn. “They’re carrying jugs. Sevryn, they’re going for water.”

  “But they have a well and a freshwater source running into the salt bay.”

  “They trust neither of them, and I’d say with good reason. Illness or poison, and most likely illness.”

  “You think they would have abandoned this bay.”

  “Fishing might be good, in spite of that. Illness fades.” She stood carefully, stretching her knees and lower back as she did.

  Sevryn pinched a corner of her tunic. “Wait until everyone is gone. If it is illness, like the plague, it could be what infected the Raymy. We saw that at Calcort. It’s deadly.”

  “They believe it’s in their water.”

  “And they may very well be right.”

  “We need allies. If it is the water, I might be able to restore it. That would mean a great deal to them. As it is now, they can’t grow even small vegetable patches or crops. Rain must be dear here, too.” She brushed her hand against his hold. “I need to see what it is.” She marched out of the brush and toward the villagers.

  Her words were ignored by most of them, but one or two dropped out of line and hung back. The youngest, a girl of silvery skin and dark, dark hair and eyes that flashed gold sparks among the rings of deep brown, eyed her in suspicion. When she spoke, Grace realized why she was mostly ignored: their Vaelinar barely resembled the language she’d been taught. She answered slowly in an effort to be as clear as possible. “Why do you gather water?”

  The girl cut the air in disdain. “It kills. Who are you to ask?”

  That stopped everyone in their tracks to turn and look. The walkers drifted back, slowly, their arms full of clay pots or leather pouches, their faces etched with resignation.

  “The running water or the well?”

  “Both. What does it matter?”

  Rivergrace looked among the scattered huts for the well and found it, well placed, and marked by a tall pole with several skulls hanging from it. Mortal skulls. Her eyelids fluttered in surprise at that. Sevryn stepped in place behind her. “How did you think they would mark danger?”

  “I just—it seems—I don’t know.”

  “The last skull is recent enough that it hasn’t even weathered yet. Some brave soul must have decided that the water surely must be clean by now.”

  Rivergrace lifted a hand. “May I examine your water?”

  Scoffs at her strangely accented words and someone, a boy with voice breaking on the threshold of manhood said, “Go ahead, but we won’t be burying you.”

  She skirted the growing crowd to cross the pathways leading to the well. Weeds, twisted and contorted, sprang up from ground not often trod, but even those growths did not prosper. Their stems went limp and brown and curled in upon themselves. Bad water. And as she grew closer and closer, she could feel it.

  Water had no scent, she’d been told. She disagreed with that, knowing that animals could find water, so it must be her nose that was deficient. But this well carried, if not a scent, a miasma of things most foul. Of ill-will. And a power, a dark and suffocating power. She stumbled as she drew near and Sevry
n caught her by the elbow to steady her.

  “What is it?”

  “The well deserves its reputation. Can you feel it?”

  “I feel a certain repulsion, that’s about it. Not enough to force me away if I were thirsty enough.”

  “It’s all I can do to keep from bolting,” she told him, her words low so they did not carry to the curious villagers shadowing their steps.

  She leaned over the lip, an effort that took a great deal of nerve, and looked into the still waters below. Dark water greeted her. Like a quiet, waiting eye of evil far below, it looked back at her and made the skin on her body prickle in answer. She thought she had met this evil before, although not in such a quantity, such a concentrated entity. She couldn’t remember where or when, but that didn’t matter now. Now, all that mattered was how she might deal with it. Like oil, it lay upon and infused the sweet water seeping up from the ground below, swirled into its depths. She would have to immerse her hands in it.

  She reached for a dangling bucket, but Sevryn took it from her hands and ran the pulley himself, bringing it up full, its sides damp and running. She put her hand out and dipped it into the chill water.

  Like ice, it burned and numbed her senses before going cold. If ice was what it wanted to imitate, she could deal with that. She called on her Fire and burned the cold away. She took the bucket from Sevryn’s hands and put it aside, on the ground.

  “This water is clean.”

  Murmurs grew loud. Arguments broke out, words hurled at her like spears or arrows of denial. She turned to look at the villagers. “One bucket will do you no good. I intend to cleanse the well.” She turned back to Sevryn. “Lower me down.”

  “It can overwhelm you.”

  “It will try, but I don’t believe it can. It is only a well, and there is something down there—a token, a talisman, a plant, a pouch—something dropped to its depths to spread its poison, something that has to be removed, like a growth. In this form, it’s effective and long-lasting but it can’t concentrate itself. I’m not likely to meet a greater infusion, no matter how deep I can go, if you understand.”