by Jenna Rhodes
Bregan looked up at him slyly. “As if you could fence me in.”
“I could. Have no doubts. The Gods work as strongly through me as they do through you.” He held the other’s gaze until Bregan looked away. “Give me a direction, and I will move the camp that way if you indeed have a destination in mind.”
Another scuffle in the bent grasses and trampled ground. Bregan’s lips moved as though he held a conversation with himself. After a moment in which he fidgeted and fussed with his own body as if at odds with it, he lifted his head and straightened.
“To the west, half a day’s ride.”
“What accompaniment do you need?”
“You. Water. Food.”
Diort raised his voice so that his first officer who worked at grooming his horse nearby would hear. “A brace of guards and supplies for a day’s ride out, ready tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.” Diort nodded to Bregan and watched his eyes glitter. “Pleased?”
“We are very pleased!” He did a little jump in the air and spun about.
Diort’s officer merely shook his head, returning his attention to the hoof he held in his hand, and his trimming knife. “We’ll be ready, Your Highness.”
“Good.” Diort put his hand on Bregan’s shoulder and felt energy running through him as wildfire runs through a dried grass gorge. “Rest for the day. Eat and sleep well. You’ll need your strength for this task set upon you.”
Bregan nodded his head up and down several times. “I will. I will, indeed.” And he walked away, mumbling to himself, his hands gesturing as he explained something to a companion no one else could see.
His officer’s horse relaxed as the man set his hoof down. He eyed the trimming knife in his hand. “How can you be certain whether he is God-touched or merely simple? We have both seen the afflicted who talk and dance in contortions to beings we cannot see.”
“This one sees what we can’t although I grant it’s driven him nearly off the edge. But that is my concern. As his guardian, I am meant to help him define what is real and honest against what is merely his madness. I wonder if I am capable of the position.”
The officer patted his restive mount on the shoulder as the horse rolled an eye at the knife he had not yet put away. He did so, folding it in two and tucking it back into his kit. “If anyone is, sir, you are.” He gathered up the lead shank. “I’ll have your detail ready at first light.”
“Good.” As he walked back to his canopied tent, the hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He glanced over his shoulder but saw no one watching. He thought of Ceyla and her words. For whom did he watch and wait?
The visitor did not come until after the dinner hour, when all had been consumed and cleaned away, and he lay back on his chaise full of food and drink but hollow with a vague discontent as the sun lowered in the sky. He felt uncertain that Bregan had been truthful with him about the task given him, and certainly not about how he hoped to accomplish it. He wanted to do with the man what he had been doing most of the last two years: give him a regimen of meditation and exercise, with very little flexing of his Mageborn muscles. Abayan Diort would not even be in the lands of the First Home except for Ceyla’s visions that had brought him here, and then Bregan had bolted, necessitating a chase. Not that he would not have come sometime this spring anyway, to pay his respects to the sleeping queen. Did she still slumber? He’d had no word, although Ceyla had murmured to him that the Kobrir were effecting a cure and her time would be near.
His mood lightened immediately when his guards came to him and said that a woman, a Vaelinar woman who wished her name held secret, asked for entrance to the camp and his tent. He stood and watched as she crossed the grounds, swathed in shadows and a dark cloak, yet with her grace and sensuous curves clearly suggested. His heart leaped for a moment, thinking that the Warrior Queen came to him, foolish heart knowing that Bistane had kept her close these many months, and as she neared, he could see that his heart was more than reckless, it was wrong. As she paused at the edge of the light flung soft into the night by the lantern poles outside his tent, he could plainly see Tressandre ild Fallyn as she stopped and pushed back the hood of her cloak. Her hair, a smoky dark and streaked blonde, tumbled about her shoulders as she did.
His heart wanted to refuse her immediately and send her away, upset by the pretense it might have been Lariel. His inner voice, that one that ruled him as a Guardian King, told him to be circumspect. He pushed aside the tent flap.
She smiled. “Fair eve to you, Guardian King Diort. Shall we wager who is more surprised—myself at your return to these lands or you at seeing me?”
“I doubt that would be a good wager for either of us. I’ve made no secret of my traveling here and imagine your scouts informed you days and days ago.”
“Come as an ally once again?”
“No, actually. I’ve come at the request of my Mageborn, here to tend to some arcane matter. But since your people are lately come to Kerith, after the Mageborn, perhaps you are not fully aware of their history.”
“I know as much as you do, I think.” Her smile widened, lips glistened a bit. “I have ridden a long way to meet with you, given that the Ferryman no longer exists on the shores of the Nylara with his Way of shortening distances, and my journey was not what it should have been.”
“Forgive me. Come in and be seated. Wine? Chilled or warmed?”
“Wine, chilled, would be fine.” She inclined her head as she stepped inside, and a cloud of fragrance hit him, the smell of horse and leather, but also of her skin’s own natural perfume, and an infusion of florals and fruits that she had applied. She paused by the weapons rack to the side which held his war hammer. Even without its reputation, it stood on end, a massive, deadly tool. She ran her fingers over it.
“I remember when Rakka dropped, the very stone spoke back to it as the earth shook.”
“As do I. But its voice is dead now, the demon which imbued it gone. Mountains no longer fall when I strike it.”
“But its wielder stands as mighty as ever.” She looked up at him through her lashes, dark honeyed blonde like her hair. “I wager it is still nearly as potent, if you intend it to be.”
“It’s effective.” He watched her closely, weighing her movements against her words.
She dropped her cloak beside her chair as she sat. “When my people squabbled about who would reign over your people and raise them up from the backward slump forced upon them by the Mageborn Wars, my House lost advantages it might have held.” She paused as he summoned a guard and ordered their wine. She continued only when the two of them were alone again. “Our fortress has a few advantages but also many disadvantages, being bordered on the east by badlands, for one. The old, toxic magics which washed up have rendered much of our land unusable.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware.”
She raised and dropped a comely shoulder, not clothed in the usual sturdy travel garb but in fine, translucent fabrics that seemed to breathe along with her, a gown that clung in many intriguing ways. “We don’t make it widely known. Long before your father, or even your grandfather, was a twinkle in anyone’s eyes, one of my bloodline was perfecting a method of cleaning up the magical sludges, of gathering them as one would mud in a bucket, and transferring them elsewhere.”
His mind hurried to keep up with his racing thoughts. “You developed them as weapons, those ‘buckets.’ To be used in catapults, perhaps, or dumped in strategic water sources. The Vaelinar stopped the Bolgers with catapults.”
“I cannot confirm or deny that. After all, it was your toxic waste. Who knows where it might have come from originally?” She paused again as his man brought in a tray, bowed, and left, and Diort handed her a glass of golden-white wine. “As for its effectiveness, my ancestor blew himself to bits quite early in his trials, and we abandoned his techniques short
ly after. One war won, and all the others . . . lost.” She swirled and then took an appreciative sniff before sipping.
He sat down across from her, his familiar old leather campaign chair creaking a bit with his weight. “I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that.”
“The way of progress, is it not? Ideas. Failure, success. Now and then a person comes along who makes a difference despite the trials faced.” She took another sip. “Such as your oracle Ceyla.”
The slight cold from his goblet of wine grew icier and spread from his fingers to his chest, even as he realized that fear chilled him. Tressandre smiled over the rim of her cup.
“If she is the person I suspect her to be, she is a runaway, one of my many wards. We lost her not long before the great return of the Raymy and the attack upon Larandaril.” Tressandre gave him a close, detailed verbal depiction of Ceyla before concluding. “Would you say that description matched your oracle?”
He wouldn’t give Ceyla up to the ild Fallyn. He forced himself to take a drink of wine and appear to savor it. “I cannot say one way or another. There are certainly many about with a mix of Kerith blood and Vaelinar lines. Your forefathers were a lusty sort. It would be difficult to single out such a person, although I can try if you insist. However, if any live under my protection, then that is where they would stay.”
Tressandre waved a hand negligently through the air. “And that has nothing to do with the business that brings me here.”
Diort’s heartbeat steadied a touch. Mentioning Ceyla had just been a preliminary to the détente, informing Abayan that she was more familiar with the inner workings of his rule than he might have thought. Of course he knew she had spies; what Vaelinar would not have a spy?
She held her glass up to the lantern light as if appraising its color. “I came to bring you news, and an offer.” She lowered her glass.
“And you have my full attention, Lady Tressandre.”
“Warrior Queen Lariel has awakened and is regaining her strength and vigor.” She paused. “And she has announced her engagement to Warlord Bistane Vantane.”
The first he heard rumors about on the wind, though he’d not been formally informed; the second bit of news hit him like a hard blow to the gut. Aware that she watched him closely, he kept his expression smoothed but inside, he seethed. To dismiss him, Abayan Diort, out of hand, despite what Bistane had done for her over the years, she ought to have been more of a diplomat than that. His army had come to her aid at crucial moments more than once. Their alliance would have extended the influence of the western lands eastward to the inner part of the old lands, which had lain fallow for centuries, even though his Galdarkan nomads crossed them back and forth. He had much to offer her had he been allowed to court her. Instead, she had given her hand to the first man available, regardless of the consequences. His stomach twisted a bit, his wine going sour.
“Of course, she would make him her selection, being unaware of the many contributions of the rest of us to maintain Larandaril while she recovered. Bistane marshaled her information closely, unfortunately.” She put her glass aside. “I don’t think we will receive the gratitude deserved.”
He fought for his thoughts and frowned, slightly, in memory as he collected them. “I arrived at the battle a little late, but I thought I heard that it was you and your brother who brought her down. For that treason, I don’t think you want to collect what she owes you.”
“Those rumors! They will plague me the rest of my life, and no way to put them to rest. Her own man attacked her, parrying off our attempts to block him, and her magical armor backfired on all of us, destroying Alton. When Lara collapsed, Sevryn then followed his master Quendius across the bridge to safety, leaving the rest of us behind in ruins.” Tressandre’s face crumpled in distress for the briefest of moments. “I lost everything to that maggot’s actions. My brother. My child with Jeredon. The trust and respect of Lariel’s allies. But in spite of that, I helped regain and keep the peace of her lands. My people reside there still, making what repairs they can to the Andredia and its corruption.”
“Your people are called squatters.”
Her lip curled. “Bistane controls many perceptions. I have been healing and in mourning.”
“You seem to be recovered and lovely as ever.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Thank you. You are a self-made man, made without the conniving and corruption of the likes of Bistane, and are well aware of the sacrifices one must make to rule.”
He felt the corner of his mouth twitch and tried to hide it behind his goblet by pretending to take a sip, though—his stomach still soured by her words—he would not partake.
“We both have debts and considerations we are owed, and ambitions which should be followed to the benefit of our people. I propose, Abayan Diort, that we ally against our injustices.”
“You wish a wedding.”
She tilted one shoulder down provocatively and twisted a curl between her slender fingers. “That is exactly what I propose.”
Ceyla came to him late in the evening long after the guest had left, after even the restless horses had fallen to sleep, and the third-shift guards had only just gone on duty. Someone sang softly at the camp’s edge, his voice true, and others joined him in a quiet song meant to gentle unsettled horses and livestock. She paused at the door flap for a very long moment, likely telling herself what she would say to him, as was her habit. He heard her slipping through the tent, canvas whispering about her body. She knelt by his cot.
“You sent her away.”
“I did.”
“She will add you to her enemies.”
“Yes, but I have added her first to mine.” He put his hand out to entangle it in her hair at the back of her head, drawing her closer to him. “She knows who you are.”
Ceyla stilled.
“I told her I won’t let you go. You have my full protection.”
She trembled next to him, the tiniest of tremors, relief and . . . did he dare hope, another emotion? She turned her head, whispering against his palm, “Thank you, my lord.”
Her reflected breath smelled sweet to him. “My thanks are to you.”
“What else did she want?”
“She wanted me to marry her.”
“What?” Ceyla sat bolt upright, almost knocking him under the jaw with the top of her skull as she swung about. Her shock amused him.
“Did you not foretell that?”
“Well . . . no. Not in so many words. She must be furious.”
“She was. She brought news of Lariel’s pending marriage to Lord Bistane, and thought we would commiserate by allying with each other.”
“And you refused her?”
“Naturally.”
Ceyla took his hand in both of hers. “May I ask why? It might have been a good move, politically. I know that you had considered, perhaps, that Lara would give you her hand. Tressandre might have been a decent second choice.”
“Firstly, I don’t like her. Secondly, Galdarkan and Vaelinar cannot have children together, so such a match cannot extend my legacy. Thirdly, if I were to join with any Vaelinar despite that . . .” He paused for a long moment.
“Yes, my lord?”
“It would be you, my oracle.”
He could feel the brilliance of her smile even in the twilight of the tent.
“And did you foresee that?”
“No, Diort,” she whispered. “I just hoped for it.”
Chapter
Thirty-Five
WHEN TOLBY REACHED THE CIDER BARN, Dayne was already about, shuffling through the new batch of books sent down by Azel from the library of Ferstanthe. Although the tincture they’d been sending up worked, it seemed to work far better at the hands of Dayne and Tolby than when administered by Azel or any of his staff. It made the work longer and more frustrating, for the black mange that attack
ed the pages made them incredibly fragile during treatment and somewhat brittle after, the mange being neither fungus nor animal but magical. Tolby thought perhaps that even his efforts were not the turning point but the skill of Verdayne who had, after all, aryn sap running in his veins in addition to blood. Not that he actually thought the lad had real sap in him, although where it concerned the Vaelinar, he’d heard odder things. But it was indisputable that it was his father, the late Warlord Bistel, who had brought and planted the aryn wood staff which sprouted miraculously into a tree, which could then be propagated both by graft and seed. The properties of the aryn trees were nothing less than magical.
Tolby gripped his teeth a bit harder about his pipe stem. He would love to experiment with the wood, given the opportunity, but he hadn’t approached this idea yet with the lad, things being as they were. Verdayne was practically a member of his family—but had not yet become one officially. He had only himself to blame; he was as stubborn as the summer day was long, and his darling Lily had plenty of backbone herself. Dwellers, they were, through and through, and Nutmeg herself an apple which had not fallen far from the tree. He puffed out a fragrant cloud of smoke as he reached Verdayne.
“How goes it?”
“Well enough. I wish they didn’t have to cart the books down. The infestation increases even on the journey, try as we can to stunt it. I was thinking—and call me on this, Tolby, if I’m too far-fetched on it—I was thinking of trying a bit of aryn powder. I know it’s dear, but since I’m a supplier, I can get us a discount.”
“I’d say you were a mind reader, lad. Think it might work?”
“I would say it can’t hurt.”
“Then let’s do it. Have we any spare aryn wood?”
“Not about. Just your staff, and I wouldn’t be asking you to use that.”
“What I propose would take nothing more from it than a light sanding and wouldn’t be missed. It won’t weaken my staff. I’ll send for more aryn wood, of course, but that will take a handful of weeks. And we can start today, if . . .”