The Queen of Storm and Shadow

by Jenna Rhodes

  “And it was your world that made him.”

  He had no answer for that. The crown horn dropped his head and snagged another thatch of grass, chewed and swallowed.

  “You will go to him,” the beast told him.

  “It seems inevitable. I’m not quite an Undead myself, having failed to take him down when we met.”

  The stag’s head dipped twice. “You will go to him. You’ll have but one last chance to meet and stop this Master of Death, I think, and your Goddess will feel much grief.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “You don’t wish to hear that? Then you’re not as far from feeling as you hope you are.” The buck reared up a little and pushed his muzzle against Sevryn’s branch, rocking it vigorously. “She holds your hope and his demise. She’s as chained as you are, but she wears it better. But know this—she needs to spend you, as if you were nothing but useless coin. She cannot hesitate to use you however she must.

  “When the time comes, call me and I will come to help as I can.”

  Sevryn sprang to his feet, both hands on the branch above to steady himself, but the beast didn’t bring him down yet. “Why do you tell me this now?”

  “Because you’re too late to prevent Quendius and Trevilara from meeting and forming an alliance. Because what your River Goddess and you came to this world to do, must still be done. And because the two of you cannot do it alone, I offer my aid.”

  He blinked down at the creature. “You’ll come?”

  “I will. Trevilara has poisoned the roots of my country. We may not survive her, but we can’t even begin to heal as long as she still walks this earth. I can’t promise that any of my fellows will assist. Most of them are bound to her, shades of themselves, just as you are. But then, Sevryn Dardanon, that gives you an advantage.”

  “What?”

  “Only you will know how to truly reach them.”

  He did not feel as he knew he probably should have, gratitude at the offer and despair at the news. He felt only a faint tug on the strings that enslaved his soul and he knew the touch to be that of the death master. But even if it had been Rivergrace, he would feel little different because his life in the shade left him little to feel with. He wondered if he should thank the Trevalkan God, but his hesitation stretched awkwardly. The buck snorted then and rattled his antlers against the branch, forcing Sevryn into dancing for his balance as the beast lowered his head to the ground and sprang away with a clatter of hooves among the stones and ice.

  Chapter

  Fifty-Four

  Kerith

  THE LETTER MAY HAVE BEEN part of the impetus, but Tressandre knew as soon as she hit the sweet, fragrant air on the ridge above Larandaril, that she could not have stayed away long. Her being craved this valley, the hills that sloped about it, the river rushing through it, the lush grasses that grew in its pastures, the quilting of its farms downstream, the ripening of its orchards upstream. She ought to appreciate her Fort, for all the hard work her people had done to place it, to build the vast bridge that led to it, the ocean salt mist that rose in spray and fog about it. But she didn’t. She hated her toehold at the edge of a vast shining sea that did not care that she occupied a niche on its shore. Her family had been herded into her tiny empire like vermin into a trap, and the longer she stayed there, the more she hated it. Those she’d just given her name to thought that living in its rooms instead of hovels meant something. She knew better.

  She put her heels to her roan tashya, reining him down off the ridge, her guards trailing in a brace behind her, and hit Larandaril’s wards. She recoiled in her saddle at the mental hit. For a moment, she couldn’t think at all, the ability smacked away, and she almost lost her seating as her horse danced back under her. She threw up a hand to halt her guards as she recovered, with a shake of her head and a low curse. Her ears buzzed as if surrounded by a nest of stingers, and her stomach made one last flip-flop.

  Tressandre rested her hands casually on her mount’s shoulders. “Why it appears our little queen feels well enough to have put up wards again.” She tilted her head. “They’re not as robust as they have been.” If they had been, she’d have been lying unconscious on the ground. The boundaries of Larandaril were never crossed lightly when the wards were up in full. They might even take one’s life, if Lariel intended it. Of course, that would not happen under an extended breach, but who wanted to be the first or second to die while the rest got through? She caught the glances her guards passed now as they waited for her orders. Waryn gave her a meaningful look, as if he could lecture her on marshaling her troops. The two packhorses in the back sidled against one another with their ears back, as sensitive to the magic as any of them.

  “Take a breath,” she told them. “No one will die here today.” A nosebleed perhaps or a persistent, ringing headache if one insisted on passing into the valley. Usually the prudent stopped their trespass and waited for one of the Warrior Queen’s border guards to ride out and send them off or grant them passage. Or run them down.

  She didn’t think Lariel would be that forceful today. Her fingers fiddled with a tuft of silken mane, as she decided how to react. The choice was taken from her, however when a vantane came winging in from downslope, circled about them, and came to a stop on a nearby tree stump.

  “Fetch the message.”

  The raptor folded its wings and watched her man closely as he dismounted and approached it, putting out his gloved hand to take the big bird up and unfasten the message tube. In moments he had it in her hands.

  These lands are not yours to hold, nor is this border yours to cross. If you proceed, be prepared to meet me in combat.

  Tressandre smiled widely. “My lads, we have been challenged. The Warrior Queen forbids me to visit my countrymen encamped on the River Andredia, even though they have sent to me in distress over her treatment of them. I think I shall take up that challenge!”

  The guardsman holding the vantane asked, “Shall I send back an answer?”

  “No. Shake the bird loose. I give my answer as I cross her border.” Tressandre put her heels forcefully to her tashya’s flank and set it into a run into the valley. With her shoulders set, she barely reeled in the saddle as the ward hit her again, and she didn’t look back.

  • • •

  The encampment greeted her with little regard as she swung down. She signaled at Waryn to greet the pudgy little man who came running to meet them, and looked for some sign that her hand of soldiers had arrived ahead of them. The little man bowed again and again, panting as he spoke hurriedly to Waryn.

  Her seneschal straightened. “There’s been no sign of the children and their escort.”

  “No sign?”

  He shook his head after trading a look at the mayoral personage whose jowls swung as he gave the negative.

  “What do you mean, you don’t have the children? My men were ordered to retrieve them and drop them here. I want them found, at all costs. I’ll dispose of them myself after I finish the business at hand.” Tressandre’s attention snapped to the speaker whose face had already been pale and went gray at her look. Hurriedly, he pressed papers into Waryn’s hand and fled back behind the encampment gates. She stretched her back and then her legs. The hard riding sank into her bones, and she disliked it. She straightened. “And why does this . . . village . . . smell like swill? Set me up outside, on the pasture. Even fresh manure smells better than what these squatters have built.” With a snap of her fingers, she stayed her men outside the warped and unsteady gates the Returnists had built to protect themselves.

  The mayoral figure bowed low again. “I only report what the messengers give me.”

  “Hmm.” Tressandre crossed her arms over her chest as she watched her entourage scurry to set up her canopy, rug, and chairs. “I have the advantage. Although—” And she raised her voice. “It would help if I. Had. The. Children. What in the cold hells happ
ened?”

  Waryn put a hand in the air palm up, as he scanned the information passed to him. “Valek was killed at the ranch, my lady. He put up quite a battle, according to reports, but the children were taken from him.”

  “Is no one competent but you and I?” She rubbed at her temple. Bloody wards and bloody headache.

  “You have trained quite a number of competent men. While it’s true Valek lost the children, the force manned by Hywat found them, with some losses to the troop, and they’re not far from here.”

  “Good news at last, although it felt like I needed to pull teeth to receive it.” She assessed Waryn with a faintly raised eyebrow. “What other good news need I pry from your jaws?”

  Waryn allowed a small smile at her words, and gave a slight bow. “Mistress Nutmeg is just across the river, waiting to ford it.”

  “Ah. That was almost worth waiting for.” Tressandre brought her hands together as she turned to survey the work progressing. Her men tightened down the canopy poles and ties as she watched. “This might be fun. I intend that it shall certainly be satisfying, if she stands by her trade.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “She offers a Writ of Parentage. She’s willing to wager the lives of the children that it will satisfy me. I won’t know until I have it in my hands if it’s worth losing the leverage I have over Lariel.” She scanned the encampment. “Although, there is nothing that says I can’t just take her statement and keep the children. She offers me an official lie, but Lara knows better. Writ or not, she wants the two, and I think she’ll keep her distance if I have them. The little Dweller is banking on her association with Lariel and Bistane to keep her untouchable. She’s wrong.”

  “Your word . . .”

  “I’m willing to sacrifice the honor of my word to gain these lands. My brother gave his life to this goal; why should I not surrender the value of my word? His is an uneasy spirit waiting for vengeance, and I’ll have that for him.” Tressandre put the tip of a finger to her full lips, thinking. “I want the children kept back, from both Nutmeg and Lara, until I give the word.”

  “Done. Once they get here. Our scouts signal me that our riders are on the ridge.”

  “A candlemark before Mistress Farbranch then, if that. I shall have to put up a front.”

  Voices hailed from behind her, alerting them the shelter was in place and ready. Waryn bowed. “I’ll prepare a hot drink.”

  “Do that. I wouldn’t want to seem inhospitable.” Tressandre took a seat in her leather sling chair and crossed her boots at the ankle. “I only require that my guest arrives before the duel. It shouldn’t be too much to ask.” She stilled as Waryn rattled around in the field kitchen, preparing a draft to be heated. Wine with spices, she thought she smelled, as he uncorked a bottle and brought out a few tins. She would not drink much, expecting that Lariel would return with a challenge at hand, and that business she took far more seriously than bartering with a Dweller woman for her half-breed children. That supposed connection interested Lariel far more than it bothered Tressandre, save for the preservation of Jeredon’s lineage. She could wait, she supposed, for the next generation to grow old enough to be dueled, because Tressandre in no way intended to let Lara Anderieon continue living. She would be cut down in atonement for the horrendous death inflicted on Alton. An exceedingly slow and painful vengeance awaited.

  Tressandre mentally reviewed the gear she wore, appropriate for her expectations of combat later in the day, and decided that she was most adequately equipped and more than a match for her opponent. Lara was neither strong enough nor fit enough to duel, not after her imposed sleep of two years. She should have taken the woman down last time they met, but surprise had frankly made Tressandre hesitate, and by the time she’d recovered, she found herself being forced from the field. And Bistane had been there, more than ready to come to Lara’s aid.

  “Remind me to have a brace of men on Bistane if he shows, as well.”

  “Prudent,” answered Waryn as he handled something that sizzled faintly.

  “And necessary. He won’t refrain from coming to Lara’s aid if he thinks she needs it. That is devotion when what she needs is leadership from strength. When she’s gone and I acquire the title, the world will take notice of what a Warrior Queen should be. I won’t tolerate Galdarkans on our borders or tribal fiefdoms. Kerith should be prepared to fall to its knees before our superiority. That’s what we’ve done wrong from the very start, trying to uplift these peoples who were so far behind us that they couldn’t even walk in our shadows. Instead, we meddled, and look where it’s gotten us? Reviled by most of Kerith instead of respected and feared.” She held her hand out and took the goblet that Waryn offered. “We all thinned our blood out because our ancestors couldn’t keep it in their pants. My father had the right of it, breeding back to repair the line, and threatening to excommunicate the dissenting Houses from the Council. But they chose not to listen and now the Council meets every so many years and all we do is discuss our grievances. Discuss? They should be settled in blood, like we should have drawn the line in blood, and dared the others to trespass!”

  She took a cautious sip, enjoying the sweet and spicy echo of the wine down her throat. Her tone quieted. “A good vintage, if not aged quite enough. I do hope we stole it from someone who’s going to miss it a great deal.”

  “That, I couldn’t tell you, my lady. I don’t keep tabs on all our contraband.”

  “Pity. I was beginning to be impressed with your mind. I shall take solace in that you have room for me to improve it.” She took a second, shallow sip, appreciating the flavors both subtle and bold, making a note to find out who the vintner was for future reference. She had a number of things to plan.

  Nutmeg reached the sloping valley floor and considered the River Andredia’s waters. She yawned a bit to shake off the effect of the last ward which had passed her through reluctantly. Her horse shifted under her, for the river could and often did run deep, throughout Larandaril, but she knew this spot to be one generally favorable for fording. Lara had never gotten around to building a bridge, using the river itself as a protective barrier for the manor and outbuildings.

  Nutmeg found herself a little surprised that no one had met her on the slopes, but now she saw a handful of riders, wearing black and silver, as they pulled up across the river from her. She searched their faces, finding arrogant expressions and the high cheek-boned beauty of the Vaelinars but nothing other than their clothing to readily separate them from the other Vaelinars she’d known and befriended all her life. What was it buried inside of them, the ild Fallyn, that made the high elven war upon each other with such fury and cold dedication? Had it all started, centuries ago, with a situation like the one she faced now—beloved children taken hostage against another’s future? She could imagine that, she thought, blood feuds that would last her lifetime, although the thought that blood pays for blood did not sit well with her. The earth abides. That was the truth she and her family held to, love nourishes the balance while the earth abides.

  She could see they had no intention of putting their mounts into the river to escort her, but waited impatiently upon her action. If any of them had been full-blooded ild Fallyn, they could have crossed the river in a single bound, but Alton and Tressandre’s relentless press for power had greatly diminished their ranks. In fighting for their line’s heritage, they had nearly extinguished it.

  The page might kindle it anew. Should she give it to Tressandre in hopes Evarton and Merri would be returned to her, if the Writ did not prove sufficient. The resolve she’d had days ago before she started on this quest began to evaporate. Nutmeg set her jaw. She would not relinquish anything without seeing her children first, without getting assurances that a trade would be made. The fact that Tressandre waited, here and now, implied the deal had been accepted. She took a deep breath, lifted the reins, and put her heels into her tired horse’s
flanks to cross the river. The chill spray of the water made both of them toss their heads back as they breasted the crossing and climbed the steep bank on the other side.

  Her horse shook itself like a wet dog, catching the guard of ild Fallyn who had immediately closed in about them, taking the bridle under the horse’s jaw to control it, but not soon enough to prevent the spray. Nutmeg pressed her lips firmly together to stifle her amusement and ducked her head down a bit.

  She slid a hand inside her coat, to feel the paper secreted inside her corset. Warmed by her body, it released a heat to her fingers she could feel even through her gloves. Under her breath, like a silent prayer, she asked a favor of it. If it comes to this, Lord Bistel, let me see through Vaelinar eyes, Gods of Kerith forgive me. She thought she could feel a flare of assent from it, a warmth across her skin. She then patted the long knife in its thigh quiver, strapped to her leg inside her pants, divided riding skirt over that for warmth and disguise. Dwellers did not war as Vaelinar did, did not spar with dagger and sword, did not scheme for revenge. But her father had not been a renowned caravan guard before he returned to farming for nothing, nor Verdayne a son of a Warlord for ill, nor did she have trouble holding her own in a family full of boys. Tressandre ild Fallyn had no idea of her measure. Reassured, Nutmeg sat back in her saddle to let her enemy close its trap about her. They rode her across the trampled fields which just this spring, she noted, had finally begun to recover from the battle waged across it. A golden canopied tent awaited them, with a seated occupant in front.

  Tressandre rose from her chair and watched her as she dismounted, a matter of kicking her feet free and then making a collected fall to the ground, her Dweller legs too short to make the maneuver a graceful one. As she straightened, she saw the expression of disdainful amusement cross the ild Fallyn features before being hidden, and tucked her chin down to hide her own thoughts in return. Of all the peoples on Kerith—Kernans, Galdarkans, even Bolgers—the Vaelinars underestimated the Dwellers the most. Did they think all the Dwellers could do well was brew ale, grow pipe weed, and tell tall tales? Nutmeg counted on that being Tressandre’s undoing and set her face to show no expression. A quick sweep of the surroundings quickly undid her confidence. She saw no sign of her children anywhere.