by Jenna Rhodes
The beard indicated they should sit. They all folded their legs and came to ground, bows and short swords still at the ready. He could have taken most of them out, but at least one would have fired an arrow, and with deadly consequence. If their temperaments had not improved with word that the pond had indeed been cleansed, he would have to find a way to ingratiate themselves or extricate. Since he was fairly sure this was the clan he hoped to winter with, he would do best trying to find a common ground. The thought nagged at him to use his Talent, but these people were shrewd and he couldn’t sustain a manipulation for days on end. The time would inevitably come when someone would wonder why they’d been thinking what they had and realize what he’d done. The backlash would not be worth the initial response. He’d get them thrown out on their asses, neck-deep in the snow.
Rivergrace reached over and put her hand on his knee as if she sensed his tumble of thoughts. Beard immediately went to one knee, the bow at alert. She snatched her hand back, and he nodded as if she’d obeyed a direct order.
She let out a breathy sigh. “Might I pick up my blanket and move a bit closer to the fire?”
He nodded, beard waggling, silver threads of age among the sable hair, a floppy leather hat covering his head. Calluses marked his fingers as he held the bow, a testament to his expertise with the weapon. Sevryn would not want to draw down against him, although if the man’s feet were swept out from under him, he could be toppled before he could send an arrow straight.
Beard turned his head slowly to meet his eyes, as if he could hear the thoughts racing through Sevryn’s mind. A tight smile curved the man’s lips ever so slightly. Sevryn put his palm up again. When he dropped his hand, he rolled his shoulders forward and let his chin drop to his shoulder and his eyes close. He would not sleep, but he could keep his thoughts from showing so easily, a lesson he thought he had learned well from the Kobrir, and obviously forgotten.
They heard Rimple’s return downslope as he shouted, “The stone is clear! Cort, the stone is clear!”
The beard shot to his feet and yelled back, “But not the woods, you idiot! Hold your tongue!” Birds and other small animals fled their shouts with cries and hoots and the sound of beating wings and scampering feet. Cort looked down at his booted feet and shook his head. He finally took his arrow off the string and returned it to his quiver. “It seems you tell the truth.”
“Whenever I can.” Rivergrace’s eyes smiled although her mouth did not. “And what of you?”
“Truth is a gift that cannot be taken lightly. Now. We know the pond is cleared, but we don’t know that you did it, as you claim or if you merely discovered the water is sweet and clean there.”
“May I stand?”
He gave a brief incline.
Rivergrace got up. She put her hands out a little way from her body, and her face went pure and clear of expression except for one of simple tranquility. In moments, dew drops formed on her skin and about her clothes, cloaking her, sparkling, gems of water that covered her from head to foot. The droplets began to coalesce and drip gently to the ground, like the finest of drizzles. In a moment she would be drenched, and Sevryn grabbed at her wrist.
“That’s enough!”
“Only if they’re convinced.”
“And me having to burn half the forest to dry you out and warm you again? Grace, don’t harm yourself for this. We’ll find another way.”
Cort slung his bow over his shoulder. “Be done with your weeping, girl. You’ve another problem now.”
Grace shook herself gracefully, like a cat which has gotten sprinkled. “And that problem would be . . .”
“You ride on the backs of souls you’ve gathered, to have a Talent like that.” Behind the beard, Cort’s lips curled in a contempt more clearly heard in his words. “You will free them or die here on the spot,” as he unslung his bow from his back.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
“WHAT DO YOU ACCUSE US OF?” Sevryn moved to defend Rivergrace, but she put her hand out to catch his sleeve.
“Can you see soul threads?”
Sevryn muttered something but she did not catch it, purposely, as she looked about the trappers. An isolated people, yes, but wary and with probable good reason to be wary. She would not think them afraid of anything but the mountains they lived on and the Gods themselves.
Cort shifted, his beard twitching as it muddled the expression on his face but could not muffle the scorn in his voice. “High elven with ambition made it their life’s pursuit to ride on the backs of those who would carry them. I can’t claim to see the vows of those who pray to such Gods, but I am not one who will bend a knee so that someone unworthy can vault over me and mine.”
“Nor should you.” She motioned between herself and Sevryn. “We don’t either. We have Gods, yes, but we did not give our souls up so that they might exist.”
“Faugh.” Rimple, the stout one, juggled his weight from one foot to another. “Why are we listening here? Leave them to their own devices. The mountains and the storms will see to them if the death master does not.”
“I am tempted, Rimple. I am.” Cort scratched the side of his jaw, burying his fingers in the wiry hairs of his growth. “But if she did cleanse the pond, we owe her somewhat for that, eh?”
“There’s no way to know what they did or not. I found sign someone had been there, and the inscription stone had been rubbed clean, but that doesn’t mean they did it.”
She felt the stares on her. “How could I know it was dirtied? Cursed? Am I one of you, that I know these mountains? Is he?” She glanced at Sevryn who stood with shoulders tensed, and she knew his hand rested very near one of his throwing knives.
A young man with old eyes near the back of the trappers said, “I’ve never heard anyone speak the way you do.” She had a little trouble understanding his accent, and knew that he had the same with hers. “I am Lukarn.”
She wasn’t sure if he indicated a name or a geography. “Your words bring a different song to my hearing, as well. If you think we have come to your lands to hide, you’re right. Does the queen search for us? No. Does she search for you? I can’t say and I would not care if I knew. You all have your rights to freedom.”
Boots shuffled in the dirt and dried leaves and needles. The pungent smell of the evergreens rose from the ground.
Sevryn twitched his sleeve loose from her pinch. “What does Rimple mean by the death master?”
“Nothing, he knows nothing.”
Rivergrace couldn’t see his face as he blocked her, but from the tone of his words, she knew his brow arched. “Nothing? But he fears the being more than the weather, the winter, in these woods.”
“If you haven’t seen ’em, best you stay clear of ’em. It’s not a sight you want,” young Lukarn offered.
“I’ve seen him, and lived to tell about it.” Rimple planted his feet proudly, squaring his shoulders and putting his chin up.
“Only because you ran like a moss fox away.”
Amidst the laughter, Rimple added, “Nothing wrong with running quick and clear like a moss fox. Saved my life.” The laughs rose louder. “I saw him on the great road; none of you lot did. He strides ahead of his army like he was the God of War Himself, but he’s not . . . yet. His skin is silver and he leads a ragged army that nothing can stop. Lop an arm off and they don’t even bleed! Nothing stops ’em but taking their head off or a bit of fire. I saw them take on the trading caravan of Mestreth himself, with all his guards and all his goods, and there was nothing left of ’em but scraps. Scraps on the bleedin’ ground, I tell you. ’Course I ran.”
“The great road?”
That drew the attention back to Sevryn who grunted. “You already know we’re not from hereabouts. So what is this road or crossroad and is it far from here?”
“It’s one of Trevilara’s trade roads. She’s queen to the west, b
ut the alliance is an uneasy one. She’s garrisons along the road to make sure the allies keep their words. Damned Gortish can’t be trusted,” and Cort wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as if saying the word had filled him with a bad taste. “No one trusts a Gort. Anyway, bandits don’t harry the great road, they wouldn’t dare. But this one shows up, and it’s true his followers are a bit off—”
“Off? Off!” interrupted Rimple. “They’re dead men walking!”
“Told you before, can’t be, but anyway, nothing stops ’em easy. This death master tells them to take a garrison or caravan, and they do. He’ll be knocking heads with Trevilara soon enough. She’s got spies along the great road, and there’s a garrison down slope from here, which is why we’re so cautious about you two. You could be spies. You could be part of his crew or come to join him.”
“Or we could be refugees.”
“Hmmph. Possible, but not likely. You don’t look desperate enough.” Cort turned on heels. “I’m minded to leave you here on your own.”
“What would it take to change your mind?” Rivergrace asked gently. “I’ve herb knowledge, some skill as a healer. I’m certain you already have such a one, but it never hurts to have two.”
“Winter’s gonna be harsh this year. Two more mouths to feed? I don’t think so.” Cort shook his shaggy head.
A twig cracked. Sevryn moved so quickly she didn’t see him, but a truncated squeal and a thump in the nearby brush stopped whatever she might have said. The trappers sprang to attention as he put his hand up, and strode through them, and cleared the brush aside to show the fallen body. Cort ran an assessing gaze over Sevryn, as if noting where more knives might be secreted on his body, his thoughts hidden. Sevryn retrieved his throwing knife and cleaned it before stowing it away.
“I hunt well enough to account for two mouths. Likely a good many more.”
The trappers looked at the fallen beast, long legs akimbo and blood pooling beneath it. “Not much of a mark on the hide,” noted Lukarn. “Besides the meat.”
“He makes a good point for himself.”
“She did clean the water.”
Cort took a deep breath. His beard wagged as his chest rose and fell. His dark eyes gleamed a bit. “All right then.” He put his forearm out. “Allies for the winter.”
“Done.” Sevryn returned the forearm grasp.
Cort pointed about. “Dress the kill. I don’t want to linger here longer than necessary.” He looked downslope through evergreens thick and wind-twisted, and forest trees slowly but steadily shedding their colorful leaves. “Blood calls the death master, that I know.”
“The guild master for Mestreth awaits audience, Your Majesty.”
Trevilara pushed back from her desk and rose, and as she did, her wall of flames rose with her, their crowns licking about her knees. She dropped a missive as she did, a minuscule piece of paper that had reached her by wings, its contents troubling and reminding her that she wanted a change of pace. Always trouble. She felt like a gardener. Kill one weed and have another spring up in its place the moment it rained and the sun shone. She dusted off her fingers. “Good. I will see him now. No sign of Mestreth himself?”
“None, but it is possible that he was accompanying the caravan.”
“He does not travel the open road often.”
“No, Majesty, but gossip on the street says that he was promised a young bride in the west and thought to have a look at her, if not to finalize the arrangements.”
“Really. Who’d have thought the old goat would want another troublesome female.”
“Her family owns mining rights.”
“Ah. Of course.” Trevilara moved past her secretary. “If he died going after this nubile chit, it serves him right. All those negotiations are supposed to come through me. If he isn’t dead, put out a writ of treason on him. He thought to keep me out of the deal.” Her face tightened. “He made a mistake.”
“Majesty, his guild is powerful.”
“This means that there are at least two ambitious men below him, looking to move upward. Find out their names.”
“Yes.” The secretary bowed low as she passed by him, even though it brought him very near the heated flames, enough that the starch on his collar smelled of smoke when he straightened again, his skin flushed as if heavily sunburned. Her skirts swept along the marble floors, fire trailing in her wake. She would keep it in check during her interview, as she often did, but she wore the odor of burning like most women wore perfume. It kept everyone at greater than arm’s length except those few she welcomed near. It had kept her alive at least two centuries longer than her enemies.
The secretary mopped his face with a handkerchief dampened with mint water, one of several he kept in a discreet, waterproof pouch hanging from his belt. It amused her to singe him, and it distressed him to run out of handkerchiefs.
The guild master dressed as befit the prosperous accountant of a successful guild. He wore deep purple pantaloons tucked into butter-soft leather boots, a wide-collared shirt under a flamboyant violet vest, and a cloak thrown almost carelessly over the outfit. He would have been dashing if he’d been a few decades younger, a few hands taller, and a good-deal less smug looking. His eyebrows were fluffed out as was the style in the inner cities, and his eyelids rimmed with liner to make him seem wide-eyed and attentive. Both were styles Trevilara despised but as she was not a man, she could hardly lead that fashion in another direction. Unless she passed a law against it. She considered that briefly, before tucking it away as a not-likely-to-ever-happen thought that would be fun to bring out and regard every now and then. Gods knew there was never enough humor in the world.
“Guild Master Nitron, how nice of you to come.”
“My queen,” and the man bowed as deeply as his pantaloons would allow which, to her mind, was not quite far enough, but there she was, up against men’s fashions again. She came to a halt a few strides away from him, her fires quelled to a mere smolder about her hemline. This stage of her protection was as subdued as she ever let it get, even when locked in an embrace. She thought of her secretary Rohri and his handkerchiefs. She really ought to let Rohri lecture her next lover on what to expect and how to make the best of it. That she would remember.
“You have news for me?”
“Our caravan has been sacked upon the Great Road, just east of the Tantonin Mountains.”
“Sacked.”
“Raided. Not a parcel or crate or barrel left of the acquisitions.”
“Men? Wagons? Horses?”
“Men and horses slaughtered. Most of the wagons were burned; a few were taken for the cargo.”
“And who would be so bold?”
“Bandits do not run there, Your Majesty. We cleared them out long ago.”
“So we did.” She sat down, crossing one shapely leg over the other. “What of the garrison?”
“M-majesty?”
“The garrison. There should be one along a certain distance of the Great Road. Were any of the soldiers involved? Who discovered the wreckage? Was Mestreth there, as rumored, or did he escape? Have you had word from him?” She leaned forward intently. “Did he make his negotiations with the Gortish?”
“No Gortish.” Nitron drew a sigil on his chest, one for protection. Against the Gorts or herself? “As for Mestreth, he was rumored to have been with the caravan, but I know that was an idle gossip he let run, as his path took him down the coast south.”
“Did it?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“A new bride from the southern regions?”
“No bride, but a niece with some difficulties needing a guardian. Family estates. Messy business, one he did not wish to trouble you with or have bandied about the trade papers and such.”
“I see.” She did, more than Nitron knew. Mestreth was absconding with a share of the family business from
a less able family member and taking the man’s daughter hostage, to boot. The raiding of his caravan had little to do with his other affairs, and remained an unfortunate incident. With perhaps one troubling fact.
“Did you have any survivors at all? Any word brought back on the attackers and their methods? None?” That last in response to Nitron’s wobbly shake of the head. She sat back in her chair. “And you said the garrison did not get involved.”
“Oh, they were involved, Majesty. Just not in the defense of the caravan—there was no defense, it was taken apart rather quickly and devastatingly from the evidence. A troop from the garrison came out in response to smoke seen along the road, but by the time they reached the objective, the caravan had been gutted and no one remained alive.”
“Pity.”
“Quite, Your Majesty, and I will tell the families you expressed your regret.”
Her hemline began to smolder hotter. “You misunderstand me, Guild Master Nitron. It is a pitiful happenstance that no one survived to bring the details to the garrison or to my staff. It is a matter of near unforgivable negligence that such a thing could have happened, no matter how strong the opposition. Every single one of the survivors of the dead is to be stripped of guild benefits, for that negligence. Am I clear?”
“W-widow and orphan benefits, gone?”
“Entirely. No caravan should be so ill-organized and planned that, under any eventuality, reports cannot be made due to any disaster or deviance in their objective. In other words, someone should have gotten out to tell the tale. Otherwise, how else are we to prepare ourselves? The negligence is unforgivable. I want examples made of anyone who stands to benefit from the deaths. Am I clear?”
“M-majesty, of course.” Nitron bowed, this time so low that his nose nearly swept the floor, the heels of his shoes creaking and the seams on his pantaloons straining mightily.
“I want another caravan organized and sent out, immediately. There were items in shipment that I require—” Here, her hemline flared up entirely and she took a breath to soothe the flames down. “There are items on that shipment that are a matter of life and death, and it will be yours if delivery fails again.”