by Jenna Rhodes
“Ready?”
“As we will ever be.” He smoothed her arched eyebrows with his hand, found it shaking, and stopped. “Forgive me, Lara, if this doesn’t work. But I don’t think you’d want to linger until the poison has wasted every bit of you to nothing. Nutmeg’s child, Jeredon’s, thrives if we can’t save you, but I think this is your best chance. You’re a fighter. Meet me halfway on this, and we’ll win through. We’ll take this chance.” He took the scissors and cut away the wrap about her thigh, exposing the carved handle of the dagger buried in her flesh.
Carefully, the Kobrir arranged the tiny pillow under Lara’s head. Her healers had cut her hair to shoulder length, its platinum-and-honey-blonde strands curling down her neck. A few hairs fell loose as he pillowed her head, another sign that the poison had begun to work its more deadly traits on her body. “When I say begin . . .”
“Pull the dagger swiftly.”
“As you can, and pressure on the wound.”
“I have it,” Bistane told the Kobrir. He steadied his hand. “Does the poison work on contact?”
“It can. I suggest you wrap and secure the blade as soon as you can.”
“Ready.”
“We begin.” The Kobrir uncorked his vial, put his hand behind Lariel’s neck, arching it slightly, bringing her mouth slightly open, and began to tip the potion over her lips. As he did, he started to speak.
Bistane barely caught the sound and sense of it before he realized the Kobrir chanted. Slow-paced and deliberate, it no doubt helped him calculate the dosage. The chant buzzed at his ears a bit. Did this Kobrir have the Vaelinar Talent of Voice? If he did, what he said might be as important as what he poured. The fact that he thought the Kobrirs might have Vaelinar blood in them, he tucked away to be considered later. That he might well bring before a council.
He could see a ripple down her throat as she swallowed. Once. Twice. A third time. The pallor of her skin took on a faint blush. Bistane thought he could feel a delicate heat in the leg near his hand. The antidote burning out the poison? Or the poison rising to fight its cure? Either way, a battle waged inside Lariel’s pale body, bringing heat and color to her skin.
The chant rose a little louder. Bistane could feel his pulse slow to match its cadence.
“Begin.”
He put his hand to the dagger to pull it quickly, cleanly—and could not. The blade burned into his hand, searing his palm and curled fingers. Bistane spat out a curse but did not let go. It refused to budge under his grip.
The chanting stopped. “What is it?”
“It burns. It won’t come free.”
“It has to come free. Don’t let go of it!”
The heat seared through him. He could feel unshed tears of pain pool in his eyes, but he kept his grip. He could feel the blade in his mind as if it held a consciousness. It held on stubbornly, relentlessly, to its victim. Sevryn wielded you. Now I free you from your destiny. Surrender to me.
“Get that dagger out of her or we’ll lose her.”
Agony seared to his bones, through flesh, nerve and muscle. Bistane could feel sweat dripping from his forehead and leaned into it. He would lose his hand before he failed Lara. It began to slide from her thigh, crimson welling up in its path as it relinquished its hold. Its last act of defense was to jump and twist in the air, biting at him, but he had the wrappings up and ready for it. Captured, he threw it to the floor and stomped a boot over it. He grabbed the fresh, clean gauze and covered her wound as the Kobrir quickly poured the last of his vial down her throat.
His bandage soaked. He tossed it to one side and grabbed a second handful, swapping one for the other. It soaked the gauze as well, but more slowly.
Lara’s eyelids fluttered rapidly.
The Kobrir stepped back, his voice dropped into his chant once more.
The blush that had colored her face now lit her throat, the hollow of her bosom began to glow. She moved her free leg and shifted as if to move the one he held tightly. Her hand swept across his. He heard her take a deep breath.
Awakening or in a death throe?
His palm grew damp. He applied more clean gauze. The incision still welled with blood, but it did not fountain as it had. Nor did his hand show burn marks, though he still felt the pain of the dagger throughout, from the palm to the back of his hands. He thought he could even feel heat through the tough leather sole of his boot. He would have to take the dagger to the forge and have it disposed of properly, because it seemed to have a life of its own. He wondered just what sort of man Sevryn had become, to carry and use such a weapon. The thigh tensed under his hold, as if she tested her body now.
Lara raised her head. She choked out an inaudible word and swallowed tightly. Then she put one slender arm behind her and levered herself upright in her bed. Her arm trembled and her body swayed with the effort. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and tried again.
“How long? How long has it been?”
Chapter
Sixteen
LARIEL SAT UP, shaking in every limb, her legs hanging over the edge of her bed, the sheets rumpled under her, bracing herself with her arms. Bistane bent over to help, but she stayed him. “Don’t.”
“You’re weak.”
“I’m . . . awake. Finally.” Her multihued blue eyes focused and then narrowed. “With a Kobrir in my rooms.”
The cult member bowed from the waist. “Your Grace.”
“You brought the antidote.”
He must have smiled, for the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, though his mask hid most of his expression. “I did.”
“Thank the Gods.” Her efforts to hold her head high failed, and her chin dropped down. Bistane placed a goblet of water into her nearest hand. She grasped it and then brought it to her lips, water spilling out of the quaking vessel, sprinkling her in dampness, but she got most of it down. Took a very deep breath. Her hoarseness had nearly faded when she began to speak again. “What of my brother’s child? Nutmeg? That damned ild Fallyn? The Raymy?”
“The Raymy are dead and burned. Nutmeg is well and you have an heir. They were staying here at the manor, but—” Bistane paused. “You remember some of this?”
“It was like falling asleep. I remember being sliced by Alton ild Fallyn and then Tressandre. Sevryn caught me falling from the horse. Drove a dagger into my leg, but that didn’t hurt. And he told you what it meant when you caught me up. I couldn’t keep from slipping, I could hear the trumpets and fighting about me, but no more could I wake than I could have run. I was so weary. A kind of darkness took me. There were times when I could hear voices speaking. I understood them for a few moments and then lost it. I knew I’d been moved. That the war was behind me, but whether we’d won or not, I couldn’t tell. I thought I heard children playing by my bedside once or twice. I knew when the healers came, sometimes. They moved me about. I knew when you were about, often.” Lara realized water dappled her chin and shoulders, and tried to shake it off a bit and rearrange her robe about her.
“The children,” and Bistane smiled in remembrance. “Little Merri, and Evarton, the son of a wet nurse Nutmeg hired. They had an attacker as well, early on, and the wet nurse died. Nutmeg kept both children and has a nanny, an auntie, to help her raise them. Nutmeg would sit in the corner and do some stitchwork and let the toddlers play here. She said you knew they were here, for you’d laugh in your sleep from time to time. Evarton took his first steps holding onto your bed linens as he staggered from your side to Nutmeg’s knee. He prefers to be called Evar. Merri has a Dweller temperament, but she has Vaelinar eyes and Jeredon’s pointed chin. There’s no doubt, Lara. She is an Anderieon.”
“Is she here?”
“Not presently. Sometimes I think the boy—who is also of mixed blood—resembles your brother as well. You can see a bit of the Dweller in him, particularly in his stubbornness, but he has the eyes, the
ears, and the hair color. I can understand why Nutmeg fosters him as well.”
She sagged suddenly. Both men moved to brace her against the backboard of her bed, with pillows behind her so that she could remain sitting up, and she gave them a trembling, fleeting look of gratitude. “Does she have Talent?”
“She has the eyes, Lara, so she must have the Talent. And she’s a bit fey, but what the main ability will be, we can’t say yet although I’ve had some inklings. She’s grown fast and matured, so much so that people say she is like an old soul. She is not taking her time as most Vaelinars do.”
“Born to the pace of Kerith?”
“Healers have examined her. They deem that she’ll have most of our longevity. She is just growing fast, perhaps due to Nutmeg’s blood. And Nutmeg is a good mother. Excellent. Both children thrive under her, and I think Evar is good for Merri. He is more Vaelinar, so she is already learning to deal with our inborn ways. She copes well. I think, although as I said we cannot be sure, that she might be a natural-born healer.” He paused. “Both children show a remarkable maturity within. You can see it in their eyes.”
“And you find that disturbing?”
He tilted his head slightly before answering. “I always thought children should be children. There’s no doubt, however, that Nutmeg does well by them.”
“I never thought Meg would be other than an excellent mother.” Lara straightened herself out as she began to list to her right. She plumped up a pillow with a fist. “Tressandre’s child?”
“No sight of it. Rumor has it she miscarried after the battle. We can’t get confirmation of it, but there’s been no word in the last two years. She’s rebuilding. She lost Alton, half her army, but she’s like a snake coiling, readying to strike again. Her breeding program,” and he cleared his throat on that as if ridding himself of an unpleasantry, “is filling in her troops.”
Lara touched her throat thoughtfully. “I don’t doubt she readies. She has always done so. What of Sevryn and Rivergrace?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? Dead? Or where?”
“After Quendius, through the eye, the tear, the thing that Daravan wrought to take the Raymy from here and then bring them back.”
“To Trevilara? To our beginnings?”
“So we believe.”
She stifled a yawn, her eyes far livelier than the rest of her expression. “So they follow the death master. That begs the questions: What would Quendius want with Trevilara? And what would Sevryn and Grace want of him?”
“In that time he fled from you, he was taken in by the Kobrir. He trained as an assassin. I think he went after Quendius with the hope of bringing him down. The death master, true to his name, had a small army of Undead with him.”
“My Gods. And he slipped through our hands?”
Bistane sat down on the edge of the bed. “We were a little preoccupied at the time.”
“You called them Undead. Are you certain of this?”
“We captured one of them which had fallen on a dead body to eat. They need blood and meat, as fresh as they can get it, to slow the corruption of their own flesh. They are cold. They think, but little beyond survival. The one we held had been a mercenary and fighting was braided into his being, his muscles, his memories. He lived on the brink of dying and knew it, and fought for the next breath, the next heartbeat. He had a trace of the demon Cerat buried inside him. We think that’s what kept him as an Undead. They seem bound spiritually to Quendius and, as such, are slaves to whatever he wishes.”
Lariel looked away from Bistane and the very quiet Kobrir, her gaze seeking her window which, though barred, let the sun and spring inward. “Always Quendius, somewhere in the shadows, always lurking. Gilgarran had been hunting him diligently, but he’s the only one who seemed to worry about Quendius. Even when the weaponmaker fouled the Andredia and broke the pact my family had with the sacred river, even when he drove the first armies of the Raymy out of the mountains to Ashenbrook, we discounted his place in the scheme of things. What does he want, I wonder? Do you think he goes to meet the queen on the other side?”
“We can’t know.” Bistane fisted his hand and then uncurled his fingers slowly. “You ask questions to which none of us can divine an answer.”
“She could cut him down or could ally with him on the other side.”
“She could. Or Sevryn and Rivergrace could seek to put an end to it all.”
The Kobrir stirred a bit to say quietly, “He seeks power.”
“But to what end? What would he do with it when he has it? Who will he seek to rule? Who will he crush?”
The Kobrir shrugged. “He is a spirit. Always there yet one we are unable to grasp. He and Daravan pulled at our strings for many a decade, but we still exist, as do they.” He put a hand out to Bistane. “I have done what I was sent to do. May you and your queen unknot the future.” And he was at the threshold before Bistane could blink.
“Wait!”
Framed in black, much like the shadow he’d condemned Quendius to be, the man turned.
“Name your reward.”
The Kobrir stilled. Thought ran through him like floodwater through a spillway. Bistane could see it plainly. Then the Kobrir shook his head. “We give death freely. It’s enough, for once, to give life.”
Lariel had lifted her chin and now kept it high. “We don’t know you as a people. Perhaps we shouldn’t. But I rather like thinking my life has a certain value, and I would like to thank you for saving it. Name a reward, not just for yourself, but for your clan.”
He shuffled his foot. That odd felt sole of his shoe made little noise, as befitted a person who lived and died by stealth. “We have a . . . bit of land to ourselves.”
Lara nodded.
“It is a difficult place to live, but it suits us.”
“And . . .”
“It would help us, as a people, to be able to have a grove or two. At the far south end of Larandaril, away from the sacred river, there are sloping hills and small pockets of runoff to keep it green. . . .”
“Done,” Lara told him. “That section will be yours as long as I reign. Plant what you will. I’ll set it down in writing and post the edict at Hawthorne and Calcort and anywhere else you might deem necessary, and put posts at the boundaries. Three hundred acres, with the water rights to the two artisan wells there and watershed, and mineral rights below. Does that answer your question?”
The Kobrir’s jaw had dropped while she spoke, and he fell to one knee. He put his hands to his head and held them there a moment while Lara waited for his answer. He choked out, “Thank you, my queen. Thank you.”
“I ask only that you not draw blood on this land or train your skills. It is farmland.”
“Understood.” He looked down and seemed to realize he’d fallen to his knee, and rose swiftly. Disappearing through the doorway, his words trailed after him. “Let it be done.”
Bistane waited a few heartbeats to be certain the hallway had cleared. “Well. That’s a bit of diplomacy.”
She reached for his hand and held it a moment. “It won’t stop them from accepting contracts, probably. It’s what they do.”
“They could train for caravan guards. There’s demand enough for their skills there. We’ve been having a run of banditry.”
“Indeed.” She pulled him slightly toward her. “What else has happened?”
Bistane scratched at an eyebrow. “Abayan Diort is raising a Mageborn.”
“What?” Her voice rose sharply enough to make her cough, and he hurriedly fetched another goblet of water for her.
He watched her drink, her face animated and her slender throat swallowing, remembering that her hand on his had felt warm, unlike the chill of months past. She lived, and he realized with a knot in his own throat, how wondrous that was to him.
“We have a fledgling Magebor
n among us, and Diort has found him and is now his guardian,” he repeated slowly.
“Some Kernan waif?”
“Not exactly.”
She held the goblet and, for a split-second, looked as if she might toss it at him, in the way the old Lariel would have. He grinned at the realization and held his palm up in surrender. “It’s Bregan Oxfort.”
“Bregan?” She paused. “Why am I not surprised anymore? The man has always been a bit peculiar since his run-in with the Ferryman Way. He nearly killed himself and I’ve always thought it possible the forces he tangled with fried his nerves. He ran that scam with the pottery shrines for the Gods to speak and listen, if you recall.”
“No longer a scam,” Bistane told her quietly.
“My . . . Gods.” She blinked off whatever thoughts now seemed to race through her eyes.
“Indeed.”
She put a hand to her throat. “It hurts to speak. I should probably rest a while. Then you’ll have to get the staff together, and Farlen—wherever he is—and I should make an appearance.”
“You should.” He left her side and crossed the room to her dresser and picked up a mirror. He gave it to her, positioning it so that she could see the thin scar across her jugular.
Her hand shook and the mirror fell from it, dropping to the bed linens. “The other scars I expect from the attack I remember, but this? What happened?”
“An assassination attempt while you slept. We got the fool.”
“Anyone we know?”
He shook his head. “No, but we know his House well. Ild Fallyn. No one else could have accessed these windows. That’s why I had them barred.”
“I was going to ask.” She ran her fingers over her skin, tracing the small line of the scar. “It’s still tender. When?”
“Two moons ago. It would have been worse, was planned to be worse, but Tolby Farbranch had moved his family out of the manor, and so they were not here to meet the blade as well. The Returnists squatting just west of here unnerved him. Said he was safer among his own folk than Vaelinars.”