by Ellyn, Court
He leant forward, crossed his arms on the table. “What has this to do with me?”
In the yellow light slanting through the windows, Rhoslyn saw that his eyes, too, were hazel. “Cutting to the quick, then. His Grace has need of ships. You have ships and able crews to sail them—”
“Avast there, lady!” Rehaan exclaimed. “My ship takes orders from nobody but me, and I take orders from nobody at all. If I see rightly where the duke’s words are leading, sure I’d be taking orders from the likes of the admiral, aye?”
“The admiral,” she defended, “is worthy of commanding any man.”
“I know the admiral’s worth,” Rehaan insisted. “If Harac died tomorrow, I know just how long Beryr would abide by his wishes.”
“My father grows stronger every day,” Rhoslyn assured him.
Rehaan couldn’t keep to his chair. He paced the length of the cabin, dark head merely an inch from striking the ceiling beams. “It’s addled he is to be making an offer like this. Why, in all the Great Fire Sea … ?”
“Because he needs your help.”
“Harac has never needed my help,” Rehaan declared. “He has more than enough ships moored at Windhaven, Westport, and Brimlad. I know that he’s in the process of building more. I also know that once this war is over, those same ships will join the pirate patrol and try to blast us off the sea.”
“He sent out an order for all building to stop. The Evaronnan pirate patrol will be no larger than before—if you volunteer your ship and convince your comrades to help.”
“So it’s comrades we are now, I and others like me.” Fists on hips, he said, “Now, you listen well, lady cousin of mine. No pirate-king would take orders from me, any more than I would from them. I’d as soon plunder another pirate’s ship as I would an Ixakan merchanter. There’s no loyalty among us. None but among captain and crew, and that changes all too often. It’s not our ships your father needs, but better ships of his own. My Aurion can sail circles around this galleon. Sure, Harac’s ships will sail to Fiera, and he and Shadryk will pound each other with blazing ballistae until not one of their ships is left, while our brigs would slip in and out without so much as a tear in our canvas.”
Rhoslyn smiled. “You’ve made my father’s argument for him, Captain.”
“No,” he insisted. “Tell him to build his own ships.”
Rhoslyn would’ve liked nothing more than to do just that, but neither did she relish the idea of retreating back to Windhaven having failed in her mission. “You refuse, then, without seeing what His Grace offers in return?” She rose, balanced herself against an unexpected drop in the floor, and made for a weighted side-table under the windows. Removing a red silk cloth, she uncovered a black lockbox. She flipped open the latch and lifted the lid. Coins glistened unblemished in the sunlight.
“Kingsilver,” Rehaan observed, avarice undisguised. “A lot of it.”
“Straight from the Thyrvael mint.”
“Your father could build many a ship with that.”
“But not borrow yours?”
Hazel eyes appraised her boldly. “It’s young you are to be dealing in war and bribery with men like me.”
“It’s not a bribe, Captain,” she said. “It’s payment, plain and legal.”
“To my men, it’s a bribe. And if I agree to this, I’d have to be able to convince them to follow me, or they’ll cut my throat for a turncoat.” He put his hand into the chest, pulled out a fistful of coins and let them cascade through his fingers. “In other words, this is enough to tempt me. But not enough to satisfy all of them.”
“What would satisfy them?”
“Certain assurances.”
“Such as?”
Rehaan made a pretense of thinking long and hard. “Say, assurances like taking orders from me and me alone. Having free rein with the cargo of any Fieran ship we capture. Being allowed to sail away once this war is over, unfettered as the sea herself—with full pardons from His Grace.” He grinned and shrugged. “With assurances like that, well, sure I’d be able to convince a pirate to do just about anything. And in return, I might feel generous enough to return to Windy Coves and help the duke’s wrights design those better ships. For your father’s sake. Because I like him. Because I assure you, I cannot, will not, attempt to convince another pirate-king to join His Grace’s esteemed navy—and you don’t want me to.”
Rhoslyn’s belly leapt with its first pleasurable sensation in days. “You agree, then?”
Rehaan glanced from her to the silver and sucked his teeth like a predator savoring fresh meat. “One more thing. You must agree to return to Windhaven aboard my boat.”
~~~~
29
Kieryn was sorry to leave Avidanyth. As a parting gift, Lady Aerdria granted him a new bow to replace the one cut in half by the ogre’s axe. In the pale thellnyth wood on the bow’s outer curve, a darker inlay depicted a pair of hounds chasing a stag. On the inner, the words Natarië h’er Dorreah—Tir, natarilë h’oän, or “Fail not the Goddess—Arrow, fail not me.”
More, Laniel let him keep the sword he’d wielded against the ogres. The hilt, shaped like andyr leaves, twined gracefully about his hand. It looked foreign on his belt. Someone was sure to take notice. When Kieryn protested, Laniel laughed but refused to rescind the gift. “Warrior or not,” he said, “you’ve been blooded and branded, so it’s yours. Just say you won it in a fight with a brutish outlander. And you never know when you’ll cross paths with an ogre.”
It wasn’t ogres the avedrin encountered. Helwende’s crowds and noise seemed to offend Zellel more than ever after enjoying the sanctity of the Wood. Wrapping his pupil and himself in a Veil, he insisted they skirt the crowds of traders and take a path through the back alleys. Though Kieryn would’ve liked to peruse the wares for gifts for his mother and for Rhoslyn, he decided arguing would be a waste of breath.
They rode at a trot around the trading grounds; entering town they aimed for a narrow alley between a tavern and a potter’s workshop. Kieryn laughed at Zellel’s zeal. “You’ve used this route often, I take it.”
The old avedra grunted and crossed the street with the eagerness of a frothing horse making for a water trough.
At the alley’s entrance, a man cast the avedrin a grin and nodded a greeting. Kieryn was well inside the alley before he realized the problem. “He saw me,” he said, hauling back on the reins.
“Eh? Who?”
“That man under the tavern sign.”
“He coulda been looking at anyone in the street, boy.” Zellel navigated the mule around a stack of old ale barrels.
“He looked me right in the eye,” Kieryn argued, keeping up. “Do you think he was avedra? Or one of the trader elves?” The man had been tall, after all, and wore a hood that hid most of his face. Nondescript clothes, a belt with a dagger, nothing special. Yes, someone trying to blend in, but someone who could sense the Veil and peer through it. Kieryn wondered what goods the man would take back to Linndun. Woolen fabric, perhaps, or more of those delectable peaches? No matter. Zellel wasn’t interested in backtracking so Kieryn could ask. He might’ve thought no more of the encounter, but when he emerged from the alley, he saw the same man again. This time, he hurried ahead of the avedrin into the alley across the street.
“There he goes!”
Zellel reined in the mule and said, “Aye, he was Elari, all right. No human moves like that. And he seems to know our path.”
“Should we speak to him?”
“I’m of half a mind to find another route.”
Kieryn was disappointed. But after some consideration—or perhaps just giving the Elari time to move on—Zellel urged the mule across the street and into the alley.
The Elari was leaning in a casual manner against the crumbling plaster wall. Waiting for them. “Slanta, Zellel,” he said.
“Dravaen, is that you?”
“Aye, avedra.” The Elari pushed back the hood. Silver-gold hair shimmered in the wan light
between the buildings.
“I wasn’t aware you ever left Linndun, Dravaen, much less the Wood.” Zellel cast Kieryn half a glance over his shoulder. A scoundrel. He once belonged to the Dardra. Now even the regulars won’t take him. He has no love for us. Keep a close eye …
“Rarely in two hundred years, in fact,” Dravaen was saying. “But I have business in Helwende.”
Kieryn opened a thin channel into the Elari’s mind and caught a stray wisp of thought: … flank them, that’s the only way …
“Zellel, we should be moving on,” he said. “It’ll be late by the time we reach the top of the pass.”
“Aye, the boy’s right,” Zellel said. “We’ll not keep you, Dravaen.”
The Elari bowed his head and stepped aside so they could get past. But Zellel didn’t cluck to his mule, nor did he turn her around. He’d caught the Elari’s thoughts as well. To go forward or back was to turn their backs to the elf.
Dravaen was no fool. He recognized the stalemate, chuckled, and edged past the animals and left the alley.
“He’ll trail us until he finds another opportunity,” Zellel said. “Hurry now.”
“Another opportunity for what?” Kieryn suspected an answer but hoped he was wrong. He imagined this Elari was one who had spat as he and Zellel entered Linndun’s wall. But why wait to accost them in Helwende instead of back in the Wood? “Whatever did you do to him?”
“Me? Hell, nothing, boy. Well, not exactly nothing, but that was a long time ago.” The mule trotted to the end of the alley, and Diorval hurried along behind. Peering into the street, Zellel announced the all-clear and urged the mule into the next alleyway, then the next. Helwende was a maze of narrow backstreets, and Zellel appeared to know his way through all of them. Rats, scrawny cats, and the occasional half-starved mongrel prowled through piles of refuse. No matter how many winding paths they took, the feeling of being followed pricked at Kieryn’s nape. The buildings pressed closer overhead as the dwellings and shops grew poorer; tiers of upper windows squeezed out the light. In the middle of each alley, Kieryn peered over his shoulder but saw no sign of the Elari.
The attack came from overhead.
Tiny blades, no longer than his finger and half as wide, sprouted from the top of Diorval’s neck; another sent shards of pain through Kieryn’s shoulder. The mare reared and bolted. Kieryn landed on a pile of rotten crates. Zellel leapt from the saddle, staff poised at his defense. The Elari somersaulted down from a sloping roof, landing as lithe as a cat, and swept a hand. Half a dozen more blades raced for Zellel. A quick jab with the staff’s orb and a wave of air sent the blades spinning in every direction.
Dravaen leapt onto a trash barrel, vaulted to a window ledge, and somersaulted over Zellel’s head, landing behind him, but the old avedra swung the staff like a maul. A fist of air struck the Elari in the chest. Bones cracked. Dravaen grunted once, but was unable to draw another breath and collapsed. Another handful of blades skittered into the gutter.
So fast. Kieryn hadn’t time enough to gather his wits, much less dive to Zellel’s aid. He experienced a moment’s shame before he realized he couldn’t stand up. His legs tingled; his hands had gone numb. The tingling started in his lips, and the alley began to tilt. “Zellel,” he began, but he couldn’t breathe. Was it merely panic that made the blood thud in his ears?
Zellel hurried to his side, plucked the small blade from his shoulder, sniffed it and grimaced. “Ghost Root, damn.” He secured Kieryn’s arm around his neck and dragged him along the alley. “There’s an inn in the next street. Don’t let yourself sleep, boy.” Each breath was harder to take, and darkness shrank his vision until he could see only one cobblestone at a time, the sweep of Zellel’s hem across that stone. Oh, to close his eyes and sleep! But he kept them open as his teacher commanded and concentrated on one short agonizing breath at a time. His chest ached, and the hammer in his ears made him fear his heart would burst. Glass seemed to have sprouted in his legs and arms and along his spine and was cutting his muscles to shreds. The narrow spot of vision shrank further still, and he was sure he’d gone blind.
He must’ve passed out, for the next he knew he was lying in a bed soaked in sweat. A low wooden ceiling spread overhead, and Zellel leaned close, a hand on Kieryn’s shoulder, another pressed over his heart.
“Close call, there, boy,” Zellel muttered. His eyes were closed, his brow knotted in concentration. “You’re not safe yet, so lie still.”
Kieryn tried to speak, but his mouth was numb. The glass sawed at his limbs. His chest felt as if it were banded in iron like a wine barrel, but at least he could breathe.
“Pay attention, now,” Zellel went on. “You’ll want to learn this skill in time. Infection, even poison, can be broken up in the blood, sometimes drawn out.” He lifted his palm from the tiny puncture in Kieryn’s shoulder and examined a drop of yellowish liquid. It slid like a tear along the lines in his hand. He dabbed it onto a blanket and gripped the wound again, going back for more.
Kieryn wanted to shout that now was not the time for lessons, but he didn’t have the strength.
“I knew the Elarion were familiar with Ghost Root, but I never expected… Sorry about that, boy. Dravaen, now. Aerdria told me she ousted him from the Dardrion some centuries ago, but she never told me why. When I first came to the Wood, he challenged me to a duel of spells. Perhaps he thought my knowledge of spell-magic would be limited compared to my skill of workings, but we didn’t only learn avedra skills in the society beneath the mountains. He was a fool to underestimate me, that was easily proven. I didn’t just win, I made a show of it and humiliated him. So maybe he decided he better get his revenge before I got too much older, eh? In any case, the Elarion didn’t seem too keen on challenging me after that.”
Odd, Kieryn thought, to hear Zellel rattling on. He had never spoken much of his past. Perhaps this was his way of distracting his pupil from the pain and the fear.
“What … did you do with him?” Kieryn panted through clenched teeth.
“Dravaen? Left him lying where he fell. But I’ll have to do something with the body come nightfall. Won’t do for a drunk or a beggar to find a dead elf in an alley.”
Even now, he was true to his vow; protecting the Elarion was paramount.
Over the course of the afternoon, the pain in Kieryn’s limbs lessened. The muscles relaxed, and Zellel felt it safe enough to remove his hand from Kieryn’s chest. “Scared me when your heart stopped beating,” he said, sitting back in a rickety chair. He looked exhausted and older than he had that morning.
“Stopped?”
“Aye, you’re lucky I’ve got willpower enough to keep it going for you, eh?” Zellel swiped his brow with his sleeve, rose stiffly, and made for the pile of saddlebags where he took a long swig from a water-skin. Pushing the stopper in tight again, he added, “So you just lie still and sleep and I’ll see to that other problem. What to do with a body, for the Goddess sake? Can’t burn it, might draw a crowd. I could just cut off the ears and let the mongrels have the rest. Aye. Poor Dravaen.” With that, he left Kieryn to fitful sleep.
He dreamt he was suffocating. Behind him a golden light shone like the dawn. He was terrified to turn and look. If he did, he was sure he would die.
~~~~
In the morning, he found he could sit up on his own, but anything more than that made him nauseous. He laid in bed, shivering and fighting the urge to throw up all day. Zellel brought him water and wine to help him sleep and checked his fever every couple of hours, but assured him the poison was out of his blood. Healing would just take time. Kieryn tried to thank him for lingering in a place he hated more than an ogre’s den, but couldn’t find the words.
By the next day, Zellel was anxious to be gone, and not for hate of Helwende. He watched the street and the rooftops from the window, peering through the threadbare drape with one eye as if he didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t really believe Dravaen’s attack had been a belated act of revenge. No, thi
s was something else. He was waiting for another assassin to show himself.
Kieryn was determined to please the old man and get over the pass today if it killed him. When Zellel went downstairs to find something for breakfast, Kieryn crawled out of bed, fighting waves of dizziness, and got dressed. In a small, cracked mirror that hung on the wall, he saw how pale and gaunt he was. Rings like bruises darkened his eyes. Ironic, he thought, that someone thought he merited assassination by Ghost Root. Just like King Rhorek. What would Kelyn say to that? Don’t let it go to your head, elf spawn.
Zellel returned with a tray of stiff black bread and boiled eggs. Kieryn’s stomach turned, but he managed to swallow a bite of bread.
“We oughta wait one more day,” Zellel said, looking him over.
Kieryn shook his head.
“All right, then. Wait here while I find us a ride.”
In an hour or so, he came back, pleased to announce that he’d found a silk-and-wool trader bound for Vonmora. The driver had agreed to let Kieryn ride in the back of his wagon. “You’ll be able to lie down going over the mountain,” he added.
“Thanks, Zellel,” Kieryn muttered.
“Bah! C’mon.” He helped his pupil down the stairs and along the street. The trading grounds were enveloped in a cloud of dust from the bustle of feet. The shuffle of the crowd and the stink of livestock made Kieryn woozy. The driver took one look at him and barked, “You can ride back there, but I’m dumping you if you vomit on the wool.”
In guard against rain and other things, each bolt of fabric was protected in a covering of waxed paper. Kieryn climbed in among them, grateful to get off his feet. In a soft voice, Zellel said, “Here,” and hefted a saddle and bridle into the wagon beside him. Kieryn’s heart sank. Diorval. Two, maybe three of those tiny knives had landed in her neck.
“Where did you find her?”
“Only half a block away. She didn’t suffer long.” Offering nothing more, Zellel climbed onto the mule and gave the driver a nod.